2- 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From the Times. 
 
 May the summer morning be fair as the spring dawn is bright ! 
 We consider these verses, the circumstances of their birth and educa- 
 tion being remembered, to be most remarkable and interesting. The 
 love-poems, in particular, are unusually sweet and elegant. 
 
 But the poem that calls for our warmest praise, is the one which 
 gives its name to the volume, and opens it, " The Ballad of Babe 
 Christabel." It is the story, as the title implies, of an infant taken 
 away in the bloom of childhood. The rhythm and the treatment 
 seem to have been suggested by the " In Memoriam " of Mr. Tenny- 
 son, of whose rich pencil we are frequently reminded. But the 
 copy is done with spirit. Here and there an affected expression 
 injures the thought, but the merit of the writing is unquestionable. 
 The end of this " thing " ought to be better than the " beginning." 
 The Muse will be true to her votary, if he be true to himself. We 
 rejoice to find the author not overblown by that gust of panegyric, 
 which friends, more zealous than skilful, have been pouring on his 
 sails. " Some of the critics," he writes, "have called me a 'poet;' 
 but that word is much too lightly spoken, much too freely bandied 
 about. I know what a poet is too well to fancy that I am one yet. 
 I have only entered the lists, and inscribed my name ; the race has 
 yet to be run." These are brave words on the lips of a young man. 
 If the race be run iu this temper of humbleness and faith, the victory 
 will be won, and the conqueror be crowned. 
 
 From the Athenceum. 
 
 The name of Mr. Gerald Massey will be new, we think, to many of 
 our readers. The poet has been singing, like a bird in the night, with 
 but few listeners to his strain, and these few of a class not always 
 boasting of cultivated ears. He is a workman, and he writes to his 
 class. His notes have been uttered on the confines of literature : 
 no doubt they have sometimes made eloquent music, as bugles do in 
 far-off mountain wilds, but their echoes have hitherto died in the 
 obscure corners where they first arose. At length the songster has 
 been able to collect his scattered melodies, and bring them home to 
 
 l!
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 other readers in the pregnant and interesting little volume now 
 before us. It is low in price — slight iii appearance. Let not the 
 reader pass it by on that account. The oyster is not over fair to 
 look upon ; yet may it contain the pearl of price. 
 
 We have read these lyrics of love and these lays of freedom wit Ii 
 the deepest interest. ^Ye would introduce the author to our readers 
 as a young poet — and as something more. As an artist he is not to 
 be despised. The faculty divine is there. In him we have a genuine 
 songster; a man whose ear — though not yet tuned to the complete 
 and glorious harmonies of our English tongue — is sensitive to 
 rhythm, whose pulse and brain throb musically, whose imagination 
 throws out images in sonorous words, each full and fitting to the 
 other perfectly, so that sound and image seem identical. His cata- 
 logue of faults is large and various, yet, with all, he has the true 
 faculty of creative life. The author of such lines — the producer of 
 snch images as these — is certainly a poet Here we have illus- 
 trations won from Nature, — images which are sound, beautiful, and 
 fresh. Vie could easily multiply such extracts, were tiny needed; 
 but we have quoted quite enough to indicate the presence, in our new 
 workman-poet, of that fecund and creative quality of imagination, 
 
 without which art is barren, and labour lost Our workman-poet 
 
 has become a teacher to his class. He speaks to them in passion, — 
 counsels, exhorts, inspires them with his own vehement and vigorous 
 spirit. Of the power of his appeal to their human sympathy all 
 
 readers can now judge; of its success we have no doubt The 
 
 appeal is not, however, at all times in the form of invective. II i 
 there is always light on his path — lurid light it may be now and then 
 
 — but, always light It would seem as if the poetic passion — the 
 
 love of Beauty— the humanizing influence of the elder poetry — had 
 kept our minstrel right. If Society had been neglectful, Nature had 
 been bountiful. The harsh tone is nearly always softened by a gentler 
 note in its immediate neighbourhood. If there be much of hate in 
 this gathering of strong lines, there is yet more of love. Tew poems 
 in our recent outgrowth of poetic literature are finer than some of 
 
 these love-verses Vie have quoted enough to show that here is 
 
 another poet, — and one whose story and position as a teacher and 
 preacher clothe him with unusual interest. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, in the Morning Advertiser. 
 
 I propose to review the works of no ordinary poet, — Gerald ilas- 
 sey. It appears that his station in life is obscure, and his fortunes 
 far from prosperous. Such, also, was the condition of Keats, to 
 whom he bears, in many features of his genius, a marvellous resem-
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 blauce. Keats has found patrons now he is in his grave: may 
 Massey find them on this side of it ! I have not the honour (for 
 honour I should think it) to know him personally ; therefore, if I 
 should err in my judgment of his merits, the cause of my blindness 
 will not be attributed to an over-heated partiality. Here are two 
 
 stanzas of exquisite and almost unrivalled beauty There are 
 
 thoughts and expressions here, and in many other places, which 
 remind us of Shakespeare in the best of his sonnets. In these there 
 
 is nothing comparable to the four lines here below I am thought 
 
 to be more addicted to the ancients than to the moderns — wrong- 
 fully; for I never, since I was able to compare, preferred the best of 
 them to Shakespeare and Milton. And at the present time I am 
 trying to recollect any ode, Latin or Greek, more graceful than one 
 
 iu p. 24 There is something oriental in these ideas: something 
 
 of Hafiz, but chastened aud controlled. In many pieces the flowers 
 are crowded, and pressed together, and overhang, aud almost over- 
 throw, the vase containing them. In the lines on Hood — how 
 august an exordium ! and how rich and radiant the exhibition of 
 Hood's wit! In the first thirty-seven pages there are all these pas- 
 sages, and many more, perhaps, of equal beauty. Here is such poetry 
 as the generous Laureate will read with approbation ; such poetry as 
 Jeffrey wotdd have tossed aside with derision, and as Gilford would 
 have torn to pieces with despair. Can any thing more or better be 
 said for it ? 
 
 From the Morning Post. 
 
 The poems of Mr. Gerald Massey have great and distinctive 
 merits. They display taste, imagination, and sensibility; and are 
 eminent, in a high degree, for energy of thought, and "boldness of 
 imagery. He is a striking illustration of the nascitur non fit prin- 
 ciple in poetry. He now comes before the world with a duodecimo, 
 of which Mr. Savage Landor confidently predicates that it contains 
 "a larger quantity of good poetry, than three-score ostentatious 
 volumes by eminent hands." Mr. Massey is, undoubtedly, a man of 
 genius ; and, if he fail to accomplish great things hereafter, he cer- 
 tainly cannot plead Benedict's excuse of not having been born under a 
 " rhyming planet." He is still very young ; and, if he will be natural, 
 and not put his muse in a pair of stays, we will hope a glorious future 
 for him. 
 
 From the New Quarterly Review. 
 
 Gerald Massey is now an established Poet of the People ; and, 
 strange to say, the people's poets have a great deal more poetry in 
 them than those who find favour in the drawing-room. 
 
 a 2
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From Tait's Magazine. 
 
 God has given him genius united with a moral courage not to be 
 cowed. He sings heart-stirring and melodious songs — songs of 
 Liberty and of Love, and of man's inalienable rights. I'm try it is, 
 coming warmly from the heart, and appealing as warmly to the heart 
 of the reader. He is like a wanton child in a rich museum, gi 
 ing and scattering right and left brilliant and glorious things. He 
 mingles sad truths with his poetic fancies. 
 
 From the Critic. 
 
 Our good and promising young poets are now very numerous. 
 But there are some three or four on whom public expectation is fixed 
 with peculiar intensity Vnd now, like "another morn upon mid- 
 noon," fresh, dewy, full of birds, breezes, and blowing health, has the 
 genius of Gerald Massey burst upon the admiring and rejoicing world. 
 Probably since Burns there has been no such instance of a strong un- 
 taught poet rising up from the ranks by a few strides, grasping emi- 
 nence by the very mane, and vaulting into a seat so commanding, with 
 such ease and perfect mastery. 
 
 From Chambers's Journal. 
 
 If the extracts we have already riven do not suffice to show the 
 promise with which Gerald Massey's little volume abounds, we must 
 plead guilty to a misapprehension of what constitutes poetry of a 
 high order; lacking, to a considerable degree, the artistic clement, it 
 is true, but full of originality and freshness of feeling. It only re- 
 mains for us to notice the principal poem, "The Ballad of Babe 
 Christabel," into which, as it seems to us, the poet has poured the 
 whole wealth of his fancy, and in some parts of which he has been 
 more successful than in any of his other productions. Pathos, often 
 of the deepest and tenderest kind, is its chief characteristic ; but, in 
 the evolution of the story, — if we can apply that term to the mere 
 expression of the feelings awakened by the birth and death of a little 
 child, — fancy is manifested in great exuberance. Nor are there want- 
 ing occasional glimpses into the secret springs of sorrow, which 
 evince a still higher quality. 
 
 From Eliza Cook's Journal. 
 
 He unquestionably possesses the integral qualities of the real poet, 
 and has that within him which defies all petty carping, and which 
 ought to give him position and fame. 

 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From the Nonconformist. 
 
 We might go much further in quotation from these poems, with 
 delight both to ourselves and our readers. We might also turn to 
 others wholly different in character, — the " fiery -tongued " political 
 verses, or the noble lines to Thomas Hood, or the more cheerful and 
 hopeful " Worship of Beauty," " It will End in the Right," and " No 
 Dearth of Kindness," — and every where we should find pleasant proof 
 that Gerald Massey is a poet of fine imagination and deep feeling, 
 who may be expected, as he gathers materials for poetry in deeper 
 thought and wider experience, to do something more and better than 
 these ballads and lyrics. 
 
 From the Britannia. 
 
 A very remarkable volume. He is a poet, — a true poet, rich in 
 idea, imagery, and originality. We cannot too heartily recommend 
 this little collection of poems to our readers, feeling sure that they 
 will sympathize with all that is noble and good in the productions of 
 this poet of the people. 
 
 From the Lady's Newspaper. 
 
 It does one good to read such lines as these ; and there are many 
 such in the volume. There can be no doubt that the author of these 
 poems is a true poet, with sensitiveness enough, imagination enough, 
 and heart enough. He starts, too, frorn the right point,— froni his 
 own observations and his own feelings. He loves sunny days and 
 starry nights ; he has a warm and overflowing heart, and trusts its 
 instincts ; and a richness and force of expression which arrests our 
 sympathies. 
 
 From the London Quarterly Review. 
 
 The poetry of Gerald Massey is all instinct with individual power ; 
 and much of it is strongly tinctured with popidar and cm-rent ten- 
 dencies. His love-poetry is very pure and sweet, and frequently 
 rivals the most genuine strains of Burns. But this "poet of the 
 people " evinces a degree of culture, both of the imagination and ex- 
 pression, perhaps never equally exhibited by one so recently emerging 
 from his bitter lot. The Ballad which gives title to this volume, is 
 a tissue of poetic beauties, of which the Laureate himself might be 
 proud ; it is at once so elaborate and so simple. We make room for 
 a few verses of this charming poem.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From the Sunday Times. 
 
 We question if there is any poet of his class who can compete 
 with Gerald Massey. lie has already put forth lyrics which far 
 excel the effusions of many cultivated minds in their poetic prime. 
 The volume is full of passages of beauty, tenderness, power, lire, and 
 energy. " The Ballad of Babe Christabel" is tenderly told. The 
 Song, " All glorious as a Rainbow's Birth," reminds us of the best 
 of Burns' love-lyrics. 
 
 From the Church and State Gazette. 
 
 Heartily do we congratulate the age that sees the advent of such 
 a poet as the author of "Babe Christabel;" and earnestly do we 
 hope that his lyre may henceforth be devoted only to songs such as 
 may stir the hearts of all, and arouse the fierce passions of none ; 
 for he is essentially and nobly gifted to be the poet of the affections. 
 His poems devoted to the subject of pure and all-refining love are 
 splendid tributes to the virtues, the truth, and the heroism of woman. 
 
 From the Atlas. 
 
 The author has many of the qualities of the true poet, — imagi- 
 nation, passion, and tenderness. We hope this will prove a distin- 
 guished success as a " Poet of the Poor." 
 
 From the Dispatch. 
 
 Gerald Massey is working his way up to fame aud honour. 
 Many of these poems are lovely, — redolent of voluptuous beauty. 
 
 From Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper. 
 
 We heartily welcome this little book, — a book that is a part of 
 "the red-leaved tablet of the heart" of a true man. Gerald Massey 
 is a born poet. The divine spirit is with him. And we earnestly 
 hope, alike for his class as for himself, that a great future is destined 
 for the poet. "Babe Christabel" is wholly a "thing of beauty," 
 steeped and glowing in the spirit and with the hues of poetry, — 
 tender, delicate, and touchingly eloquent.
 
 POEMS.

 
 THE BALLAD 
 
 OP 
 
 BABE CHRISTABEL 
 
 WITH 
 
 OTHER LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 (fiftjj (£bition, 
 
 REVISED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 DAVID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STREET. 
 
 MDCCCLV.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 THE THIED EDITION. 
 
 I do not like to write a Preface. I do not think a 
 volume of verse should need one. But, as my Book has 
 reached a Third Edition, and as almost as much has been 
 said about myself as about my Book, perhaps I may be 
 excused, even by the Preface-hater, if I do take this oppor- 
 tunity of saying a few words. I have been considerably 
 censured for the political opinions which it contains, — as 
 I expected to be. Before printing, I was advised not to 
 include the pobtical pieces, as, it was urged, they would 
 prove an obstacle to the success of my Poetry, and close 
 the drawing-room door against me. And if I had looked 
 on the success of my Book in a poetical light alone, I 
 should not have printed the greater portion of the political 
 verses. But that was not the sole point of view. Those 
 verses do not adequately express what I think and feel 
 now, since they were written some five or six years ago : 
 yet they express what I thought and felt then, and what 
 thousands beside me have thought and felt, and what
 
 VI PREFACE r< > CHE rillKD EDITION. 
 
 thousands still think and feel. They were the outcome 
 of a peculiar and marked experience. 1 printed the 
 "Memoir," so that they might be read in the li'-dit, or 
 gloom, of that experience, and the Book contain its own 
 excuse. They have not read me aright, who have no1 thus 
 interpreted it. I have been blamed for the rebellious feel- 
 ings to which the political pieces give utterance; but 
 they were perfectly natural under the circumstances. 
 Indeed, I look upon those same rebellious feelings as my 
 very deliverance from a fatal slough. There are condi- 
 tions in which many of the poor exist, where humanity 
 must be cither rebel or slave. For the slave, degradation 
 and moral death are certain; but for the rebel there i- 
 always a chance of becoming conqueror; and the fori 
 resist is far better than the facultj to BUCCUmb. 
 
 It is not that I seek to sow dissension between ci 
 and class, or fling firebrands among the combustibles of 
 society; for when I smite the hearts of my fellows, I 
 would rather they should gush with the healing wnters of 
 love, than with the fearful fires of hatred. I yearn to raise 
 them into loveable beings. I would kindle in the heart- 
 of the masses a sense of the beauty and grandeur of the 
 universe, call forth the lineaments of Divinity in their 
 poor worn faces, give them glimpses of the grace and 
 glory of Love and the marvellous significance of Life, and 
 elevate the standard of Humanity for all. But strange 
 wrongs are daily done in the land, bitter feelings are felt, 
 and wild words will be spoken. It was not for myself
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. vn 
 
 alone that I wrote these things : it was always the con- 
 dition of others that so often made the mist rise up and 
 cloud my vision. Nor was it for myself that I have un- 
 curtained some scenes of my life to the public gaze, but 
 as an illustration of the lives of others, who surfer and toil 
 on, " die, and make no sign ;" and because one's own per- 
 sonal experience is of more value than that of others taken 
 upon hearsay. 
 
 So I keep my political verses as memorials of my past, 
 as one might keep some worn-out garment because he had 
 passed through the furnace in it, nothing doubting that in 
 the future they will often prove my passport to the hearts 
 and homes of thousands of the poor, when the minstrel 
 comes to their door with something better to bring them. 
 They will know that I have suffered their sufferings, wept 
 their tears, thought their thoughts, and felt their feelings ; 
 and they will trust me. 
 
 1 have been congratulated by some correspondents on 
 the uses of suffering, and the riches I have wrung from 
 Poverty : as though it were a blessed thing to be bom 
 in the condition in which I was, and surrounded with 
 untoward circumstances as I have been. My experience 
 tells me that Poverty is inimical to the developement of 
 Humanity's noblest attributes. Poverty is a never-ceasing 
 struggle for the means of living, and it makes one hard 
 and selfish. To be sure, noble lives have been wrought 
 out in the sternest poverty. Many such are being 
 wrought out now, by the unknown heroes and martyrs of
 
 viii PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 the Poor. I have known men and women in the very 
 worst circumstances, to whom heroism seemed a heritage, 
 and to be noble a natural way of living. But they were 
 so in spite of their poverty, and not because of it. What 
 they might have been if the world had done better by 
 them, I cannot tell ; but if their minds had been enriched 
 by culture, the world had been the gainer. When Christ 
 said, "Blessed are they who suffer," he did not speak of 
 those who suffer from want and hunger, and who always 
 see the Bastille looming up and blotting out the sky of 
 their future. Such suffering brutabzes. True, — natures 
 ripen and strengthen in suffering ; but it is that suffering 
 which chastens and ennobles, — that which clears the spi- 
 ritual sight, — not the anxiety lest work should fail, and 
 the want of daily bread. The beauty of Suffering is not to 
 l)e read in the face of Hunger. 
 
 Above all, Poverty is a cold place to write Poetry in. 
 It is not attractive to poetical influences. The Muses do 
 not bke entertainment which is not fit for man or beast. 
 Nor do the best fruits of Poetry ripen in the rain and 
 shade and wind alone : they want sunshine, warmth, and 
 the open sky. And should the heart of a poor man break 
 into song, it is likely that his poverty may turn into hail- 
 stones that which might have fallen on the world in fruc- 
 tifying rain. A poor man, fighting his battle of life, has 
 little time for the rapture of repose which Poetry demands. 
 He cannot take Poetry like a Bride to his heart and home, 
 and devote a life to her service. He can only keep some
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. IX 
 
 innermost chamber of his heart sacred for her, from whence 
 he gets occasional glimpses of her wondrous beauty, when 
 he can steal away from the outward strife, like some child 
 who has found a treasure, and steals aside to look on it in 
 secret and alone, lest rude and importunate companions 
 should snatch it from the possessor's hands. Considering 
 all things, it may appear madness for a poor man to 
 attempt Poetry in the face of the barriers that surround 
 him. So many hearts have been broken, so many lives 
 have been wasted, so many lions are in the way of the 
 Gate Beautiful, and so many wrecks lie by the path ! 
 And so it is, — a diseased madness, or a divine one. If 
 the disease, then there is no help for a man : if the divine, 
 then there is no hinderance for him. 
 
 Who would not pity the poor versifier at the outset of 
 his career ? But who would not also rejoice with him in 
 the end, when the world crowns him a Poet with paeans of 
 acclaim ? And, in spite of all things, there will be Poetry 
 in the midst of poverty. Even as there is scarcely a space 
 in the world so barren but some plot of natural richness 
 will be running all to flowers, — some type of loveliness 
 will be starting up from Earth's inner Sea of Beauty, 
 even in waste and wilderness, on rock and ruin, in Alpine 
 snows and sandy solitudes, — so is it with Poetry, the 
 Flower of Humanity. It will continually be springing, 
 in its own natural way, in the most bleak and barren bye- 
 ways of the world, as well as in the richest and most 
 cultivated pastures. The winds of heaven, or the birds
 
 X PEEFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 of God, will drop the seed, and the (lower will follow, 
 even though sown amid the bushes and brambles of the 
 obscurest hamlet, or in the crevices of the citj pavement. 
 Not that the wilderness, or the rock, or the snows, arc 
 the fittest places to rear flowers of most exquisite fra- 
 grance and beauty ; neither are Poverty and Penury, with 
 their hell of torture, and daily wrestle with grim Death, 
 the fittest soil to grow and perfect the flower of Poetry. 
 The greatest original Genius can only develope itself 
 according to the circumstances which environ it. It needs 
 food to nourish it, and time and opportunity to unfold it. 
 If it lack these, it must remain dwarfed and stunted, and 
 perhaps wither and die. 
 
 Besides, it is not while the fight is raging, and the 
 struggle is sore, that the Poet can sing, lie must first 
 do battle and overcome, climb from the >tir and strife, 
 and be able to watch from his mountain where he dwells 
 apart. The fullest and rarest streams of Poetry only flow 
 through a mind at peace. The mirror of the Poet's soid 
 must be calm and clear: else it will give forth distorted 
 reflections and false imagings. 
 
 Had I known, when I began to write verses, what 1 
 know r now, I think I should have been intimidated, and 
 not have begun at all. So many and so glorious are the 
 luminaries ah-eady up and shining, that one would pause 
 before hoisting a rushlight. But I was ignorant of these 
 things. And as I have begun, and conquered some pre- 
 liminary difficulties, — as I have been sweated down to the
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. XI 
 
 proper jockey-weight at which I can ride Pegasus with 
 little danger of spraining his wings, — and as a purpose 
 has gradually and unconsciously grown upon me, — I dare 
 say I shall go on, making the best of my limited materials, 
 with the view of writing some songs that may become 
 dear to the hearts of the people, cheering them in their 
 sorrows, voicing their aspirations, lighting them on the 
 way up which they are groping darkly after better things, 
 and saluting their triumphs with hymns of victory ! 
 
 I cannot conclude without thanking those Critics who 
 have given me so generous a welcome. And I would also 
 thank those who have not spared my faidts, or dwelt ten- 
 derly on my failings. They, also, have done me good, 
 and I am grateful for it. Friendly praise is somewhat 
 like a warm bath, — apt to enervate, especially if we stay 
 in too long ; but friendly censure is Kke a cold bath, 
 bracing and healthful, though we are always glad to get 
 out of it. Some of the Critics have called me a " Poet ;" 
 but that word is much too lightly spoken, much too freely 
 bandied about. I know what a Poet is too well to fancy 
 that I am one yet. It is a high standard that I set up 
 myself, and I do not ask it to be lowered to reach my 
 stature ; nor woidd I have the Poet's awful crown dimi- 
 nished to mete my lesser brow. I may have that some- 
 thing witliin which kindles flame-like at the breath of 
 Love, or mounts into song in the presence of Beauty ; but, 
 alas! mine is a "jarring lyre." If I were a Critic, I 
 should be savagely severe on this subject. The dearth of
 
 Xll PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 Poetry should be great in a country where we hail as 
 Poets such as have been crowned of late. 
 
 For myself, I have only entered the lists, and inscribed 
 my name: the race has yet to be run. Whether I shall 
 run it, and win the Poet's crown, or not, time alone will 
 prove, and not the prediction of friend or foe. The 
 crowns of Poetry are not in the keeping of Critics. There 
 have been many who have given some sign of promise, — 
 just set a rainbow of hope in the dark cloud of their bfe, 
 — and never fulfilled their promise; and the world has 
 wondered why. But it might not have been matter of 
 wonder if the world coidd have read whal was written 
 behind the cloud. Others, again, are songful in youth, 
 like the nightingales in Spring, who soon cease to sing, 
 because they have to build nests, rear their young, and 
 provide for them; and so the songs grow silent, — the 
 heart is full of cares, and the dreamer has no time to 
 dream. I hope that my future holds some happier fate. 
 I think there is a work for me to do, and 1 trust to 
 accomplish it. 
 
 GERALD MASSEY. 
 
 April, 1854.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 TO MY WIFE 1 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL .... 9 
 
 LONG EXPECTED 27 
 
 WOOED AND WON 31 
 
 THE BRIDAL 34 
 
 AVEDDED LOVE ......... 40 
 
 THE THREE SPIRITS 48 
 
 HOOD, WHO SANG THE SONG OF THE SHIRT . . .53 
 
 LOVE LYRICS. 
 THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY 
 LITTLE LILYBELL 
 TO A BELOVED ONE 
 WHEN I COME HOME 
 ICHABOD . 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 A SONG OF HAPPY LOVE 
 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE 
 NO JEWELL'D BEAUTY IS MY LOVE 
 LOVE ME . 
 LOVE'S FAIRY RING 
 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS 
 A LOVER'S FANCY 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING-RING 
 SONG . 
 
 A POOR MAN'S WIFE 
 LOVE . 
 
 A maiden's SONG 
 
 UNBELOVED 
 
 A LYRIC OF LOVE 
 
 57 
 
 58 
 61 
 63 
 65 
 68 
 70 
 72 
 73 
 75 
 76 
 79 
 81 
 82 
 84 
 85 
 87 
 88 
 89 
 91
 
 XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 EDEN 
 
 THE THREE VOICES . 
 
 THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY 
 
 > i:l I) ROSE 
 
 KISSES .... 
 
 SWEET-AND-TWEMY . 
 in S] 1 ! ID .... 
 BW1 11 BPTB] 1 "I HI I."\"E. 
 HIE PATRIOT K) HIS I'.RIM 
 A NK. 11 1 SONG . 
 
 LAY THY H \M> IN KIN] . D] IB 
 
 1 LOVE MY LO\ 1 . \M» MY l.oVE I 
 
 BRIDAL SONG 
 
 A W WI 
 
 AS THE Will IE SNOW 1 K11WNS IMF HILLS 
 
 VOICES OP nil; own time 
 M u n le's eve in bulk. 
 
 OLD ENGLAND .... 
 
 ENGLAND OoF.S TO BATTLE . 
 
 down IN AUSTRALIA . 
 
 THE LILIES (IF Fli VN( E, AND OLD KN GLAND 
 
 I Ml I I 1 1 I BE1 OBI -EBASTOroi. . 
 
 llllM.s wil 1. GO i-l mi; V II . 
 
 W i:\11 1 '8 SONG I" III- 
 
 THE CHIVALRY of LABOUR. 
 
 THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR EXHORTED TO THE WORSHir OF 
 
 I'.l \' IY 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW 
 
 THE. KINGLTEST KINGS. 
 
 TO WALTEB SAVAGE LANDOB 
 
 GOD'S WORLD IS WORTHY BETTER MEN 
 
 NEBRASKA: OR. THE SLAVEBY-ABOLITIONIST 
 
 IT WILL END IN THE RIGHT 
 
 A WELCOME TO LOUIS KOSSUTH . 
 
 ONWARD AND SUNWARD 
 
 THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS 
 
 TO HIS BRIDE 
 
 92 
 
 93 
 95 
 98 
 99 
 
 100 
 102 
 Ki:5 
 105 
 106 
 108 
 
 116 
 117 
 120 
 122 
 125 
 127 
 128 
 130 
 
 132 
 135 
 137 
 139 
 
 140 
 142 
 146 
 147 
 150 
 152 
 154 
 155 
 158
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XV 
 
 POLITICAL LYRICS. 
 
 THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT .... 
 
 THE PATRIOT 
 
 OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAI PER-PAY 
 
 THEY AUK BUT SLANTS WHILE WE KNEEL . 
 
 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT 
 
 THEY WHO FELL FOR HUNGARY AND ROME. 1850. 
 
 A CRY OF THE PEOPLES 
 
 HOPE ON, HOPE EVER 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT 
 
 OUR LAND .... 
 
 THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED 
 
 SONG OF THE RED REPUBLICAN 
 
 PRESS ON . 
 
 ANATHEMA MARANATHA 
 
 THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY 
 
 THE DESERTER FROM THE C A I SE 
 
 ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD . 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 THE WORKER .... 
 
 Page. 
 
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 -MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 LINES INSCRIBED TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 
 
 A SONG IN THE CITY . 
 
 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN . 
 
 PEACE .... 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE , 
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 THE SINGER 
 
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 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH 
 
 225
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Like those Ambassadors of old, that went 
 
 To the far Orient land, with kingly gifts 
 
 Of Gold, so royal-rare, and wondrous fine ; 
 
 And gems — from which a subtle spirit lookt — 
 
 To nestle richly between Beauty's breasts, 
 
 And crown her gorgeous brows with winking flame, 
 
 Or clothe her starrily as Queenly Night ; 
 
 And found that land a garden where they grew, 
 
 Lavish, as all the dews were turn'd to gems ; 
 
 So bring I thee, Sweet Lady of my love, 
 
 My jewels, I have garner' d up, to find 
 
 How poor they are beside thy peerless wealth. 
 
 Th' Elysium where thy tender spirit dwells 
 
 Is written o'er with thoughts of beauty, thick 
 
 As starry mysteries written on the night. 
 
 Thy realm is rich in Memory's golden mines, 
 
 And flashing out with harvest-fields of Hope. 
 
 B
 
 2 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 My Muse ! that movcth swathed with holier li 
 
 Throned on the regnant heights of Womanhood 
 
 In all thy summer beauty, warm as when 
 
 I lookt out on the sunny side of Life, 
 
 And saw thee summering like a blooming Vine, 
 
 That rcaeheth globes of wine in at the lattice 
 
 By the ripe armful, with ambrosial smile. 
 
 The flying Cares but touch thy Life's fair face, 
 
 Lightly as swimming shadows dusk the Lake. 
 
 Come sit thee down, dear, by my side, To-night ; 
 
 The world shut out, our little world shut in ! 
 
 Where we are happy as the Bird whose nest 
 
 Is heaven'd in the heart of purple Hills, 
 
 Or region'd in the palmy top of life, 
 
 Where sleep is darkly strong as leaves in June : 
 
 Now shut thine eyes, and see a pageant bloom 
 
 Upon the dark, — a Vision sweeping by. 
 
 I was a dweller amid shadows grim : 
 
 Till Freedom toucht my yearning eyes, and lo ! 
 
 Life in a shining circle, rounding rose, 
 
 As heaven on heaven goes up the Jewell' d night. 
 
 New floods of passionate life swirl'd at my heart, 
 
 Like Ocean-surges rolling round the world : 
 
 And Freedom was my glittering Bride. For me 
 
 She walkt the world as a Divinity, 
 
 Sang like a Spirit in Life's darken'd ways, 
 
 I' the Rainbow reacht forth girdling arms of love, 
 
 To clasp the Unapparent to the Earth, —
 
 TO MY WIFE. 3 
 
 Tum'cl common things to beauty : as the sun 
 Doth kindle glory in the grass and dust, — 
 Went forth flame-plumed, in Chariot sublime, 
 And rode the winds, like him who walks the worlds, 
 When the roused Storm-God strode his War-Horse, Ocean, 
 That sloughs the foam, with flying mane of fire. 
 And when the fresh Morn flower'd like a Bose, 
 Birds sang of her, and all their happy hearts 
 Kang out in music, Leaves clapt faery hands, 
 The flowers for joy stood tearful in her glory, 
 And World went singing, unto World, of Freedom. 
 And I would blazon her melodious name, 
 Sing some wild paean should touch the world to tears, 
 Or chariot it to battle in her Cause : 
 For ! her softest breath, that might not stir 
 The summer gossamer tremidous on its throne, 
 Makes the crown' d Tyrants start with realmless looks ! 
 I would have given the lustre of my life 
 To add one jewel to her Diadem ! 
 And then thou cam'st, and Love grew lord of all. 
 Look how the Sun puts out the eyes of fire ! 
 So when Love's royal glance my lattice lit, 
 The fires of Freedom whiten' d on my hearth. 
 The sleeping Beauty in my heart's charm'd Palace 
 Woke at Love's kiss. My life was set aflush, 
 As Koses redden when the Spring moves by, 
 And the green buds peer out like eyes, to see 
 The delicate spirit whose sweet presence stirr'd them. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 How my heart ripen'd in its flooding spring ; 
 
 As when the sap runs up the tingling trees, 
 
 Till all the sunny life laughs out in leaves, 
 
 And lifts its fluttering wings ! So my heart felt 
 
 With such brave shoots of glory bursting up, 
 
 As it had flower'd for Immortality. 
 
 The heights of Being came out from their cloud, 
 
 As the cliffs kindle when the Morning comes 
 
 Swimming the utmost Sea in ruddy haste, 
 
 With foam of glory ; and the flood of light, 
 
 Like mellow wine, runs down remotest hills. 
 
 Thou cam'st, my sparkling Bird of Paradise ! 
 
 With a soft murmuring as of winnowing wings 
 
 That fold the nest so Dove-like tenderly ! 
 
 With brows that parted lovely waves of hair, 
 
 And took the gazer's eye like some white Grace ! 
 
 Eyes, loving large ! Lips Houri-like, that light 
 
 A soul to glory with their kiss of fire ; 
 
 And cheeks fresh-misted with the bloom of Mom. 
 
 And thou didst move, a Splendour mid Life's Shadows, 
 
 Making a Rembrandt Picture. So the Stars 
 
 In all their glory pass the shrinking Dark. 
 
 O, I was stirr'd as though a Spirit went by ; 
 
 Or I had met some awful Loveliness, 
 
 That haunts the realm of Dreams, or duskly floats 
 
 Across the wondering solitudes of Thought. 
 
 So Love was lord of all. I touch my lyre, 
 
 And love o'erilows my heart, and floods my hand.
 
 TO MY W! 
 
 - all dear delights bo soothh 
 Life pants heart-stifled 'math its luscious load, 
 
 young Earth clasp! in June's voluptuous amis, 
 Faint with her fragrance, flooded up in flowers. 
 Love's life divine, and Beauty is its smile. 
 O, Love will make the killing crown of thorn 
 Burst into blossom on the Martyr's brow ! 
 Upon Love's bosom Garth floats like an Ark 
 Through all the Deluge of tin- solemn dark. 
 Love rays us round as glory Bwathes a star, 
 And, from the mystic touch of lips and pab 
 Streams rosy warmth enough to light a world: 
 And Spirit-eyes, from out the purpling glooms, 
 
 . how we feed this human Altar-flame, 
 How speeds this ripening into Deitj ! 
 What glittering robes for immortality 
 
 I -tain radiance through our d Earth! 
 
 And in our home thy presence maketh Love 
 A Mortal, who hath died 10 rise again, 
 Immortal, in it> nobler life with if 
 
 L iblime me unto loftier thin. 
 Boll uj) my < >rb from Passion's misting 
 
 To climb the heights of Thought's eternal Heaven ; 
 And though it shine nut mid the Suns ofSoi 
 To Bel a World sweet-murmuring in it- light, 
 Like Memnon al the radiant touch of Dawn, 
 
 1 know each Mar bath its ow a i" rfi cl place 
 Above, though it may have do nam rth.
 
 6 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 I hope my hope, and dream my dream, that life 
 With me shall yet ring out melodious, 'twixt 
 The silences of heaven and the grave. 
 
 Labour ! blind and feeling for the day ! 
 Might I go forth to peer with eagle ken 
 Into the blessed land of promise, where 
 The Future like a fraitfnller Summer sits 
 Ripening Her Eden silently, to bear 
 
 'The crowning flower of consummated Life, — 
 
 Where Freedom's Song-Birds fly, to build their nests, 
 
 And warm to life their brood of darling dreams : 
 
 Then see thy dark face lighten at my news, 
 
 And hearten thee to lift up grander brows 
 
 With light o'erflowing like a shining Sea. 
 
 1 see a shape behind a mist 3 that burns 
 
 I' the flushing distance of some unseen Goal ; 
 That arrows with gazing on, like Lovers' beauty. 
 With beckoning smiles the Glory draws me on ; 
 One hand points up, one holds a glittering crown, 
 "For me to climb and wear with lordlier growth, 
 And airy Voices call me, bid me leap 
 In Victory's Car as it goes bickering by. 
 And Thou, dear Wife ! Avith exultation lit, 
 Wilt weep proud tears to' enrich my wine of joy, — 
 A costlier cup than ever Anthony's Queen 
 Magnificent ! drank in her voluptuous vein !
 
 THE 
 
 BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL.
 
 THE 
 
 BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 When Danae-Earth bares all her charms, 
 And gives the God her perfect flower, 
 Who, in the sunshine's golden shower, 
 
 Leaps warm into her amorous arms ! 
 
 When buds are bursting on the brier, 
 And all the kindled greenery glows, 
 And life hath richest overflows, 
 
 And morning fields are fringed with fire : 
 
 When young Maids feel Love stir i' the blood, 
 And wanton with the kissing leaves 
 And branches, and the quick sap heaves, 
 
 And dances to a ripen' d flood ;
 
 10 THE BALLAD OF BABE CIIRISTABEL. 
 
 Till, blown to its hidden heart with sighs, 
 
 Love's red rose burns i' the cheek so dear, 
 And, as sea-jewels upward peer, 
 
 Love-thoughts melt through their swimming eyes : 
 
 When Beauty walks in bravest dress, 
 
 And, fed with April's mellow showers, 
 
 The earth laughs out with sweet May-flowers, 
 
 That flush for very happiness : 
 
 And Spider-Puck sucli wonder weaves 
 
 O' nights, and nooks of greening gloom 
 Are rich with violets that bloom 
 
 In the cool dark of dewy leaves : 
 
 When Rose-buds chink the fiery wine 
 
 Of Dawn, with crimson stains i' the mouth, 
 All thirstily as yearning Youth 
 
 From Love's hand drinks the draught divine ; 
 
 And honey'd plots are drowsed with Bees : 
 And Larks rain music by the shower, 
 While singing, singing horn - by hour, 
 
 Song like a Spirit sits i' the Trees !
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 11 
 
 When fainting hearts forget their fears, 
 And in the poorest Life's salt cup 
 Some rare wine runs, and Hope builds up 
 
 Her rainbow over Memory's tears ! 
 
 It fell upon a merry May morn, 
 
 I' the perfect prime of that sweet time 
 When daisies whiten, woodbines climb, — 
 
 The dear Babe Christabel was born. 
 
 All night the Stars bright watches kept, 
 Like Gods that look a golden calm ; 
 The Silence dropt its precious bahn, 
 
 And the tired world serenely slept. 
 
 The birds were darkHng in the nest, 
 Or bosom'd in voluptuous trees : 
 On beds of flowers the panting breeze 
 
 Had kist its fill and sank to rest.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CIIRISTABEL. 
 
 All night beneath the Cottage eavi 
 
 A lonely light, with tremulous Arc, 
 Surged back a space the sea of dark, 
 
 And glanced among the glimmering leavi 
 
 Without ! the quiet heavens above 
 
 Thi f lite, did lean and brood ! 
 
 Within ! the .Mother's tears of blood 
 
 Wet the Gethsemane of her love ! 
 
 And when the Mom with frolic zi 
 
 Lookt through the curtains of the night, 
 There WBS a dearer dawn of light, 
 
 A tenderer life the Mother's prest! 
 
 Ah ! bli-s to make the brain reel wild ! 
 The Star new-kindled in the dark — 
 Life that had tlutter'd like a Lark — 
 
 Lay in her bosom a sweet Chdd ! 
 
 How r she had felt it drawing down 
 
 Her nesting heart more close and close,— 
 Her rose-bud ripening to a Eose, 
 
 That she should one day see full-blown !
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 13 
 
 How she had throbb'd with hopes and fears, 
 
 And strain 5 d her inner eyes till dim, 
 
 To see the coming glory swim 
 Through the rich mist of happy tears ; 
 
 For it, her woman's heart drank up, 
 
 And smiled at, Sorrow's darkest dole: 
 And now Delight's most dainty soul 
 
 Was crusht for her in one rich cup ! 
 
 And then delicious languors crept, 
 
 Like nectar, on her pain's hot drouth, 
 And feeling fingers — kissing mouth — 
 
 Being faint with joy, the Mother slept. 
 
 Babe Christabel was royally born ! 
 
 For when the earth was flusht with flowers, 
 And drencht with beauty in rainbow showers, 
 
 She came through golden gates of Morn.
 
 14 TIIE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Xo chamber arras-pictured round, 
 
 "Where sunbeams golden gorgeous gloom, 
 And touch its glories into bloom, 
 
 And footsteps fall withouten sound, 
 
 Was her Birth-place that merry .May -morn ; 
 Xo gifts were heapt, no bells were rung, 
 No healths were crown'd, no songs were sung, 
 
 Whin dear Babe Christabel was born : 
 
 But Nature on the darling smiled, 
 
 And with her beauty's blessing crown'd: 
 Love brooded o'er the hallowed ground, 
 
 And there wire Angels with the Child! 
 
 And May her kisses of love did blow 
 On amorous airs, that came to her 
 With gifts of Frankincense and Myrrh, 
 
 As came the Magi long ago 
 
 To worship Bethlehem's baby-King : 
 
 Spring-Birds made welcoming merriment, 
 And all the Blowers for welcome sent 
 
 The secret sweetness of the Spring.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. IS 
 
 With glancing lights and shimmering shade, 
 
 And cheeks that toucht and ripelier bum'd, 
 May-Koses in at the lattice yearn' d 
 
 A-tiptoe, and Good Morrow bade. 
 
 No purple and fine linen might 
 
 Be hoarded up for her sweet sake : 
 But Mother's love shall clothe and make 
 
 The little wearer richly dight ! 
 
 Wide worlds of worship are their eyes, 
 Their loyal hearts are worlds of love, 
 Who fondly clasp the stranger Dove, 
 
 And read its news from Paradise. 
 
 Their looks praise God — souls sing for glee : 
 They think if this old world had toil'd 
 Through ages to bring forth their child, 
 
 It hath a glorious destiny.
 
 10 T1IE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 happy Husband ! happy Wife ! 
 
 The rarest blessing Heaven drops down, 
 The sweetest blossom in Spring's crown, 
 
 Starts in the furrows of your life ! 
 
 God! what a lowering height ye win, 
 Who cry, " Lo my beloved Child ! " 
 And, bfe on life sublimely piled, 
 
 Ye touch the heavens and peep within ! 
 
 Look how a star of glory swims 
 Down aching silences of space, 
 Flushing the Darkness till its face 
 
 With beating heart of light o'crbrims ! 
 
 So brightening came Babe Christabel, 
 
 To touch the earth with fresh romance, 
 And bght a Mother's countenance 
 
 With looking on her miracle. 
 
 With hands so flower-hke soft, and fair, 
 
 She caught at life, with words as sweet 
 As first spring violets, and feet 
 
 As faery-light as feet of air.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 17 
 
 The Father, down in Toil's mirk mine, 
 
 Turns to his wealthy world above, 
 
 Its radiance, and its home of love ; 
 And lights his life like sun-struck wine. 
 
 The Mother moves with queenlier tread : 
 Proud swell the globes of ripe delight 
 Above her heart, so warm and white 
 
 A pillow for the baby-head ! 
 
 Their natures deepen, well-like, clear, 
 
 Till God's eternal stars are seen, 
 
 For ever shining and serene, 
 By eyes anointed Beauty's seer. 
 
 A sense of glory all things took, — 
 
 The red Eose-Heart of Dawn would blow, 
 And Sundown's sumptuous pictures show 
 
 Babe-Cherubs wearing then Babe's look ! 
 
 And round their peerless one they clung, 
 
 Like bees about a flower's wine-cup ; 
 
 New thoughts and feelings blossom'd up, 
 And hearts for very fulness sung 
 
 c
 
 13 TIIE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Of what their budding Babe should grow, 
 When the Maid crimson'd into "Wife, 
 And crown'd the summit of some life, 
 
 Like Phosphor, with mora on its brow ! 
 
 And they should bless her for a Bride, 
 Who, Uke a splendid saint aht 
 In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit, 
 
 As now in theirs, all glorified ! 
 
 But ! 't was all too white a brow 
 
 To flush with Passion that doth fire 
 
 With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre, — 
 
 So pure her heart was beating now ! 
 
 And thus they budt their Castles brave 
 In faery lands of gorgeous cloud ; 
 Thev never saw a Little white shroud, 
 
 jSor guess'd how flowers may mask the grave.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. ]9 
 
 She grew, a sweet and sinless Child, 
 
 In shine and shower, — calm and strife ; 
 A Kainbow on our dark of Life, 
 
 From Love's own radiant heaven down-smiled ! 
 
 In lonely loveliness she grew, — 
 
 A shape all music, light, and love, 
 
 With startling looks, so eloquent of 
 The spirit burning into view. 
 
 At Childhood she could seldom play 
 
 With merry heart, whose flashings rise 
 Like splendour-winged butterflies 
 
 Prom honey 'd hearts of flowers in May : 
 
 The fields with bloom flamed out and flusht, 
 The Boses into crimson yearn'd, 
 With cloudy fire the wall-flowers burn'd, 
 
 And blood-red Sunsets bloom' d and blusht — 
 
 And still her cheek was pale as pearl, — 
 It took no tint of Summer's wealth 
 Of colour, warmth, and wine of Health : — 
 
 Death's hand so whitely pressed the Girl ! 
 
 c 2
 
 20 TIIE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 No blushes swarm'd to the Sun's kiss 
 Where violet-veins ran purple light, 
 So tenderly thro' Parian white, 
 
 Touching you into tenderness. 
 
 A spirit-look was in her face, 
 
 That shadow'd a miraculous range 
 Of meanings, ever rich and strange, 
 
 Or lighten'd glory in the place. 
 
 Such mystic lore was in her eyes, 
 
 And light of other worlds than ours, 
 She lookt as she had fed on flowers, 
 
 And drunk the dews of Paradise. 
 
 Her brow — fit home for daintiest dreams — 
 With such a dawn of light was crown'd, 
 And reeling ringlets shower'd round, 
 
 Like sunny sheaves of golden beams : 
 
 And she would talk so weirdly-wild, 
 And grow upon your wonderings, 
 As tho' her stature rose on wings ! 
 
 And you forgot she was a Child.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 21 
 
 All ! she was one of those who come 
 
 With pledged promise not to stay 
 
 Long, ere the Angels let them stray 
 To nestle down in earthly home : 
 
 And, thro' the windows of her eyes, 
 
 We often saw her saintly soul, 
 
 Serene, and sad, and beautiful, 
 Go sorrowing for lost Paradise. 
 
 Our Lamb in mystic meadows play'd : 
 In some celestial sleep she walkt 
 Her dream of life, and low we talkt, 
 
 As of her waking heart-afraid. 
 
 In Earth she took no lusty root, 
 
 Her beauty of promise to disclose, 
 
 And round into the Woman-Eose, 
 And climb into Life's crowning fruit. 
 
 She came — like music in the night 
 Floating as heaven in the brain, 
 A moment oped, and shut again, 
 
 And all is dark where all was light. 
 
 'd 1
 
 22 TITE BALLAD OF BABE CIIItlSTABEL. 
 
 She came, — as comes the light of smiles 
 O'er earth, and every budding thing 
 Makes quick with beauty — alive with Spring ; 
 
 Then goeth to Hesperian Isles. 
 
 Midnight was tranced solemnly 
 
 Thinking of dawn : Her Star-thoughts burn'd ! 
 
 The Trees bke burden' d Prophets yearn'd, 
 Eapt in a wind of prophecy : 
 
 When, like the Night, the shadow of Woe 
 On all things laid its hand death-dark, 
 Our last hope went ont like a spark, 
 
 And a cry smote heaven like a blow ! 
 
 We sat and watcht by Life's dark stream, 
 Our love-lamp blown about the night, 
 With hearts that Hved as lived its light, 
 
 And died as died its precious gleam. 
 
 In Death's face hers flasht up and smiled, 
 
 As smile the young flowers in their prime, 
 F the face of their grey murderer Time, 
 
 And Death for true love kist our child.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHBJSTABEL. 23 
 
 She thought our good-night kiss was given, 
 
 And like a lily her life did close ; 
 
 Angels uncurtain'd that repose, 
 And the next waking dawn'd in heaven. 
 
 With her white hands claspt she sleepeth ; heart is husht, 
 and lips are cold ; 
 Death shrouds up her heaven of beauty, and a weary 
 way I go, 
 Like the sheep without a Shepherd on the wintry norland 
 wold, 
 With the face of Day shut out by blinding snow. 
 
 O'er its widow'd nest my heart sits moaning for its young 
 that 's fled 
 From this world of wail and weeping, gone to join her 
 starry peers ; 
 And my light of life 's o'ershadow'd where the dear one 
 lieth dead, 
 And I 'm crying in the dark with many fears.
 
 24 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. 
 
 All last night-tide she seemed near me, like a lost beloved 
 Bird, 
 Beating at the lattice loader than the sobbing wind and 
 rain ; 
 And I call'd across the night with tender name and fond- 
 ling word ; 
 And I yearn'd out thro' the darkness, all in vain. 
 
 Heart will plead, " Eyes cannot see her : they are bbnd 
 with tears of pain ;" 
 And it climbeth up and strainrth, for dear life to look 
 and hark 
 While I call her once again : but there cometh no refrain, 
 And it droppeth down, and dieth in the dark. 
 
 In this dim world of clouding cares, 
 We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
 See white wings lessening up the skies, 
 
 The Angels with us unawares. 
 
 'T 
 
 And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death ! 
 Shall light thy dark up like a Star, 
 A Beacon kindling from afar 
 
 Out bght of love, and fainting faith.
 
 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL. i 
 
 Thro' tears it gleams perpehially, 
 
 And glitters thro' the thickest glooms, 
 Till the eternal morning comes 
 
 To light us o'er the Jasper Sea. 
 
 With our best branch in tenderest leaf, 
 
 We 've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; 
 And, ready for the harvest-home, 
 
 His Eeapers bind our ripest sheaf. 
 
 Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled : 
 
 Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
 
 Sang round us a few hoverings — 
 Theu straightway into glory sped. 
 
 And white-wing'd Angels nurture her ; 
 
 With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd, 
 
 And all Love's purple glory round, 
 She summers on the Hills of Myrrh. 
 
 Thro' Childhood's morning-land, serene 
 
 She walkt betwixt us twain, bke Love ; 
 While, in a robe of light above, 
 
 Her better Angel walkt unseen, 
 
 Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild ; 
 Then, lest her starry garments trail 
 In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 
 
 The Angel's arms caught up the child.
 
 26 THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL, 
 
 Her wave of life hath backward roll'd 
 To the great ocean ; on whose shore 
 We wander np and down, to store 
 
 Some treasures of the times of old : 
 
 And aye we seek and hunger on 
 
 For precious pearls and relics rare, 
 Strewn on the sands for us to wear 
 
 At heart, for love of her that 's gone. 
 
 weep no more ! there yet is balm 
 In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed 
 Piich healing where it nestles, — spread 
 
 O'er desert pillows, some green Palm! 
 
 Strange glory streams thro' Life's wild rent*, 
 And thro' the open door of Death 
 A\ c see the heaven that beckoneth 
 
 To the Beloved going hence. 
 
 God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 
 
 The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 
 
 And in the wounds our sufferings plough, 
 Immortal Love sows sovereign seed.
 
 27 
 
 LONG EXPECTED. 
 
 many and many a day before we met, 
 
 1 knew some spirit walkt the world alone, 
 Awaiting the Beloved from afar ; 
 
 And I was the anointed chosen one 
 
 Of all the world to crown her queenly brows 
 
 With the imperial crown of human love, 
 
 And light its glory in her happy look. 
 
 I saw not with mine eyes so full of tears, 
 
 But heard Faith's low sweet singing in the night, 
 
 And, groping thro' the darkness, toucht God's hand. 
 
 I knew my sunshine somewhere warm'd the world, 
 
 Tho' I trode darkling in a perilous way ; 
 
 And I should reach it in His own good time 
 
 Who sendeth sun, and dew, and love for all : 
 
 My heart might toil on blindly, but, Hke earth, 
 
 It kept sure footing thro' the thickest gloom. 
 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, talkt of thee ! — 
 
 Sweet winds, and whispering leaves, and piping birds ; 
 
 The amorous sunlight, and the virgin dews ;
 
 23 LONG EXPECTED. 
 
 Eve's crimson air and light of twinkling gold; 
 
 Spring's kindled greenery, and her breath of balm; 
 
 The hum of happiness in summer woods, 
 
 And the light dropping of the silver rain. 
 
 Thine eyes oped with their rainy lights, and laughters, 
 
 In Aprd's tearful heaven of tender blue, 
 
 With all the changeful beauty uniting thro' them, 
 
 And Dawn and Sunset ended in thy face. 
 
 And standing as in God's own presence-chamber, 
 
 When silence lay like sleep upon the world, 
 
 And it seem'd rich to die, alone with Night, 
 
 Like Moses 'neath the kisses of God's lips ! 
 
 The Stars have trembled thro' the holy hush, 
 
 And smiled down tenderly, and read to me 
 
 The love hid for me in a budding breast, 
 
 Like incense folded in a young flower's heart. 
 
 Strong as a sea-swell came the wave of wings, 
 
 Strange trouble trembled thro' my inner depths, 
 
 And answering wings have sprung within my soul : 
 
 And from the dumb waste places of the dark, 
 
 A voice has breathed, " She comes !" and ebb'd again ; 
 
 Whde all my life stood listening for thy coming. 
 
 O, I have guess'd thy presence out of sight, 
 
 And felt it in the beating of mv heart. 
 
 When all was dark within, sweet thoughts would come, 
 
 As starry guests come golden down the gloom, 
 
 And thro' Night's lattice smile a rare delight : 
 
 'While, lifted for the dear and distant Dawn,
 
 LONG EXPECTED. 29 
 
 The face of all things wore a happy light, 
 
 Like those dream-smiles which are the speech of Sleep. 
 
 Thus Love lived on, and strengthen'd with the days, 
 
 Lit by its own true light within my heart, 
 
 Like a live diamond burning in the dark. 
 
 Then came there One, a mirage of the Dawn : 
 
 She swam on towards me in her sumptuous triumph, 
 
 Voluptuously upborne, like Aphrodite 
 
 Upon a meadowy swell of emerald sea. 
 
 A ripe, serene, smile-affluent graciousness 
 
 Hung like a shifting radiance on her motion, 
 
 As bickering hues upon the Dove's neck burn. 
 
 Her lip might flush a wrinkled life in bloom ! 
 
 Her eyes were an omnipotence of love ! 
 
 " eyes !" I said, " if such your glories be, 
 
 Sure 'tis a warm heart feedeth ye with light !" 
 
 The silver throbbing of her laughter pulst 
 
 The air with music rich and resonant, — 
 
 As, from the deep heart of a summer night, 
 
 Some bbd in sudden sparklings of fine sound 
 
 Hurries its startled being; into sons. 
 
 And from her sumptuous wealth of golden hair 
 
 Unto the delicate pearly finger-tip, 
 
 Fresh beauty trembled from its thousand springs : 
 
 And standing in the outer porch of life, 
 
 All eager for the templed mysteries, 
 
 With a rich heart as full of fragrant love 
 
 As May's musk-roses are of morning's wine,
 
 30 LONG EXPECTED. 
 
 What marvel if I questional not her brow, 
 
 For the flame-signet of the Hand divine, 
 
 Or ganged it for the crown of my large love ? 
 
 I plunged to clutch the pearl of her babbling beauty, 
 
 Like some swift diver in a shallow stream, 
 
 That smites his life out on its heart of stone. 
 
 Ah ! how my life did run with fire and tears ! 
 
 With what a Titan-pulse my love did beat ! 
 
 But she, rose-lined without, — God pity her! — 
 
 Was cold .it heart as snow in last year's nest, 
 
 And struck like death into my burning brain. 
 
 My tears, that rain'd out life, she froze in falling, 
 
 And wore them, jewel-like, to deck her triumph ! 
 
 But love is never lost, tho' hearts run waste ; 
 
 Its tides may gush 'mid swirling, swathing deserts, 
 
 Where no green leaf drinks up the precious life : 
 
 Yet love doth evermore enrich itself, — 
 
 Its bitterest waters rim some golden sands ! 
 
 No star goes down but climbs in other skies; 
 
 The rose of Sunset folds its glory up, 
 
 To burst again from out the heart of Pawn ; 
 
 And love is never lost, tho' hearts run waste, 
 
 And sorrow makes the chasten'd heart a seer ; 
 
 The deepest dark reveals the starriest hope, 
 
 And Faith can trust her heaven behind the veil.
 
 31 
 
 WOOED AND WON. 
 
 The plough of Time breaks up our Eden-laud, 
 And tramples down its flowery virgin prime. 
 Yet thro' the dust of ages living shoots 
 0' the old immortal seed start in the furrows ; 
 And, where Love looketh on with glorious eye, 
 These quicken'd germs of everlastingness 
 Flower lusty, as of old in Paradise ! 
 And blessings on the starry chance of love ! — 
 And blessings on the morn of merry May ! 
 That led my footsteps to your beechen bower. 
 Thus hangs the picture in my mind, sweet Wife ! 
 Rick as a Millais in its tint and tone. 
 Nature flasht by me with her glorious shows. 
 The birds were singing on the blossoming boughs, 
 With Love's sweet mystery stirring at their hearts, 
 Like first spring-motions in the veins o' the flowers. 
 A light of green laught up the shining hills, 
 Which rounded through the mellowing, gloating air, 
 As their big hearts heaved to some heart beyond, 
 Or strove with inner yearnings for the crown
 
 32 WOOED AND WON. 
 
 Of purple rondure smiling there in heaven ! 
 
 The Flowers were forth in all their conquering beauty, 
 
 And, winking in their Mother Earth's old face, 
 
 Said, all her children should have happy hearts. 
 
 Deeper and deeper in the wood's green gloom 
 
 I nestled for the fever at life's core : 
 
 And thirstily my heart was drinking in 
 
 Kich overflowings of some Cushat's low ; 
 
 When, flash ! the air instinct with glory grew, 
 
 As if the world, while on her starry journey, 
 
 Found sudden harbour in the clime of heaven. 
 
 Upon a primrose hank you sat, — a sight 
 
 To couch the old blind sorrow of my soul ! 
 
 A sweet new blossom of Humanity, 
 
 I ish fallen from God's own home to flower on earth. 
 
 A golden burst of sunbeams glinted through 
 
 The verdurous roof's lush-leavy greenery, 
 
 And on you dropt its crown of living light. 
 
 Your eyes — half-shut, while through their silken eaves 
 
 Trembled the secret sweetness hid at heart — 
 
 Oped sudden at full, and wide with wonderment ! 
 
 The sweetest eyes that ever drank sun for soul : 
 
 As subtly tender as a summer heaven, 
 
 Brimni'd with the beauty of a starry night ! 
 
 Your face, so dewy fresh and wondrous fair, 
 
 Kindled and bghten'd as the coming God 
 
 Were labouring upward through its birth of fire ! 
 
 The fleetest swallow-dip of a tender smile
 
 WOOED AND WON. 33 
 
 Ean round your mouth in thrillings ; while your cheek 
 
 Dimpled, as from the arch Love's finger-print, 
 
 Out flew his signal, fluttering in a blush ! 
 
 And when your voice broke up the air for music, 
 
 It smote upon my startled heart as smites 
 
 The new-born babe's first cry a mother's ear, 
 
 Yet strangely toucht some mystic memory, 
 
 And dimly seem'd some old familiar sound. 
 
 That day, with an immortabzing kiss, 
 
 You crown'd me monarch of your rich heart-world, 
 
 Which heaved a boundless sea of love, whose tides 
 
 Kan radiant pulsings thro' your rosy Hmbs. 
 
 How the love-Ughts did float up in your eyes, 
 
 Like virgin stars from violet depths of night ! 
 
 Dear eyes ! all craving with Love's ache and hunger ! 
 
 And all the spirit stood in your face athirst ! 
 
 And from the rose-cup of your murmuring mouth 
 
 Sweetness o'erflow'd, as from a fragrant fount. 
 
 kiss of Hfe ! that oped our Eden-world ! 
 
 The harvest of an age's wealth of bliss 
 
 In that first kiss was reapt in one rich minute ! 
 
 The wanton airs came breathing like the touch 
 
 Of fragrant Hps that feed the blood with flame ! 
 
 The very earth seem'd bursting up, and heaven 
 
 Clung round and claspt us as in glowing arms, 
 
 To crush the wine of all your ripen'd beauty, 
 
 Which were a fitting sacrament for death — 
 
 Into a costly cup of life for me. 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 She comes t the blushing Bridal Dawn, 
 "With her Auroral splendours on ! 
 And green Earth never lovelier shone : 
 
 She danceth on her golden way, 
 In dainty dalliance with the May, 
 Jubdant o'er the happy day ! 
 
 Earth weareth heaven for bridal-ring, 
 And the best garland of glory, Spring 
 Erom out old Winter's world can bring. 
 
 The green blood reddens in the Rose ; 
 And underneath white-budding boughs 
 The violets purple in rich rows. 
 
 High up in air the Chestnuts blow, 
 The hive-green Apple-tree's flush bough 
 Eloateth, a cloud of rosy snow !
 
 THE BRIDAL. 35 
 
 Cloud-shadow-ships swim faerily 
 Over the greenery's sunny sea, 
 Whose warm tides ripple down the lea. 
 
 The Birds, a-brooding, strive to sing, 
 Feeling the life warm 'neath the wing : 
 Their love, too, burgeons with the Spring ! 
 
 The winds that make the flowers blow, 
 Heavy with balm, breathe soft and low, 
 A budding warmth, an amorous glow ! 
 
 They kiss like some endearing mouth, 
 
 More sweet than the Sabean South, 
 
 And balm the splendour's drooping drouth : 
 
 Such a delicious feel doth flood 
 The eyes, as laves the burning bud 
 When June-rains feed ambrosial blood. 
 
 0, merrily Life cloth revel and reign ! 
 Light in heart, and blithe in brain ; 
 Running Hke wine in every vein. 
 
 Alive with eyes, the Village sees 
 The Bridal dawning from the trees, 
 And Housewives swarm i' the sun like Bees. 
 d 2
 
 THE BKIDAL. 
 
 Silence sits i' the Belfry-Choir ! 
 Up in the twinkling air the spire 
 Throbs, golden in the bickering fire. 
 
 The winking windows burn and blush 
 With colours rare as flow and flush 
 Thro' summer sunsets bloom'd and hush. 
 
 But, enter : subtler splendours brim, 
 Such mists of gold and purple swim, 
 And the light falls so rich and dim. 
 
 Even so doth Love Life's doors unbar, 
 Where all the hidden glories are, 
 That from the windows shone afar. 
 
 Love 's lovely to the passers-by, 
 But they who love are region'd.high 
 On hills of Bliss, with heaven nigh. 
 
 Sumptuous as Iris, when she swims 
 With rainbow robe on dainty limbs, 
 The Bride's rare loveliness o'erbrims ! 
 
 The gazers drink rich overflows, 
 Her cheek a Hvelier damask glows, 
 And on his arm she leans more close.
 
 THE BRIDAL. 37 
 
 A drunken joy reels in his blood, 
 He wanders an enchanted wood, 
 He ranges realms of perfect good. 
 
 Dear God ! that he alone hath grace 
 To light such splendour in her face, 
 And win the blessing of embrace ! 
 
 She wears her maiden modesty 
 With tearful grace toucht tenderly, 
 Yet with a ripe Expectancy ! 
 
 Her virgin veil reveals a form, 
 
 Flowering from the bud so warm, 
 
 It needs must break the Cestus -charm. 
 
 Last night, with weddable, white arms, 
 
 And thoughts that throng'd with quaint alarms, 
 
 She trembled o'er her mirror'd charms, 
 
 Like Eve first-glassing her new hfe ; 
 And the Maid startled at the Wife, 
 Heart-pained with a sweet, warm strife. 
 
 The unknown sea moans on her shore 
 Of life : she hears the breakers roar ; 
 But, trusting Him, she '11 fear no more ;
 
 THE BHIDAL. 
 
 For, o'er tlie deep seas there is calm, 
 Full as the hush of all-heaven's psalm : 
 The golden goal, — the Victor's palm ! 
 
 And at her heart Love sits and sings, 
 And broodeth warmth, begetting wings 
 Shall lift her Life to higher tilings. 
 
 The Blessing given, the ring is on ; 
 And at God's Altar radiant run 
 The currents of two lives in one ! 
 
 Husht with happiness, every sense 
 Is crowded at the heart intense; 
 And silence hath such eloquence ! 
 
 Down to his feet her meek eyes stoop, 
 As there her love should pour its cup ; 
 But, like a King, he lifts them up. # 
 
 Her flashing face to heaven up-turns, 
 As for God's gracious kiss it yearns : 
 Through all her life Hope's sunrise burns ! 
 
 And now she trembles to his breast, 
 To make it aye her happy nest, 
 And proudly crown his loving quest :
 
 THE BRIDAL. 39 
 
 His arms her hyacinth head caress, 
 And fold her fragrant slenderness, 
 With all its touching tenderness. 
 
 x & 
 
 Now, on heaven's coast of crystal, crown'd 
 Hesper lights life's outward-bound : 
 And Evening folds her purple round. 
 
 A palace rich with glorious shows 
 She maketh his life's narrow house 
 To-night : but there he keeps no rouse ! 
 
 Alone they hold their marriage-feast : 
 Fresh from the Chrism of the Priest, 
 He would not have the happiest jest 
 
 To storm her brows with a crimson fine ; 
 And, sooth, they need no wings of wine 
 To waft them into Love's divine. 
 
 So Strength and Beauty, hand-in-hand, 
 Go forth into the honey'd land, 
 Lit by the love-moon golden-grand, 
 
 Where God hath built their Bridal-bower ; 
 And on the top of life they tower, 
 And taste of Eden's perfect hour.
 
 40 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 No lewd eyes o'er my shoulder look ! 
 They do but ope the blessed book 
 Of Marriage, in their hallowed nook. 
 
 0, flowery be the paths they press, 
 And ruddiest human fruitage bless 
 Them, with a lavish loveliness ! 
 
 Melodious move their wedded life 
 
 Thro' shocks of time, and storms of strife,- 
 
 Husband true, and perfect wife ! 
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 The summer Xischt comes broodinsr down on Earth, 
 As Love comes brooding down on human hearts, 
 With bliss that hath no utterance save rich tears. 
 She floats in fragrance down the smiling dark, 
 Foldeth a kiss upon the lips of Life, 
 Curtaineth into rest the weary world, 
 And shuts us in with all our hid delights.
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 41 
 
 The stars come sparkling thro' the gorgeous gloom, 
 
 Like dew-drops in the fields of heaven ; or tears 
 
 That hang rich jewels on the cheeks of Night. 
 
 A spirit-feel is in the solemn air. 
 
 The Flowers fold their cups like praying hands, 
 
 And with droopt heads await the blessing, Night 
 
 Gives with her Motherly magnanimity. 
 
 'T is evening with the world ; but, in my soul 
 
 The light of wedded love is still at dawn ! 
 
 And skies my world, an everlasting Dawn. 
 
 My heart rings out in music, like a Lark 
 
 Hung in the charmed palace of the Morn, 
 
 That circles singing to its mate i' the nest, 
 
 With luminous being running o'er with song : 
 
 So my life nutters round its mate at home ! 
 
 There, with her eyes turn'd to her heart, she reads 
 
 The golden secrets written on its heaven, 
 
 And broodeth o'er its panting wealth of love, 
 
 As Night i' the hush and halo of her beauty 
 
 Bares throbbing heaven to its most tremulous depths, 
 
 And broods in silence o'er her starry wealth. 
 
 And, fingering in her bosom's soft, white nest, 
 
 A fair babe, beautiful as Dawn in heaven, 
 
 Made of a Mother's richest thoughts of love, — 
 
 Lies like a smile of sunshine among lilies, 
 
 That giveth glory — drinketh fragrant life. 
 
 Sweet bud upon a Eose ! our plot of spring, 
 
 That bursts in bloom amid a wintry world !
 
 42 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 How dear it is to mark the look of life 
 
 Deepen, and darken, in her large, round eyes, — 
 
 To watch Life's rose of dawn put forth its leaves, 
 
 And guess the perfumed secret of its heart ; 
 
 And catch the silver words that come to break 
 
 The golden silence hung like heaven around ! 
 
 But soft ! Elysium opens in my brain ! 
 
 Dear Wife ! with sweet, low voice, she syllables 
 
 Some precious music balm'd in her heart's book, 
 
 And I am flooded with melodious rain, 
 
 Like Nature standing crown'd with sunbt showers. 
 
 " As the surging heart o' the Sea hungers everlastingly 
 For the Moon, heaven-charmed by her influence: 
 
 And as Star to Star with love palpitateth bke a dove, 
 So my heart yearns up to his bright eminence. 
 
 " my Love, he seems to stand where Heaven leans so 
 "near at hand, 
 That from other worlds his lineaments take light : 
 And he fills my cup of wonder, flooding all my life with 
 splendour, 
 As a glorious, golden Moon fills all the night. 
 
 " At his violet-sweet words my heart carols Uke a bird's, 
 And rich instincts burst from out it bke heaven- 
 flowers ; 
 
 Wings bud in me at his kiss, and my being brims wath bliss, 
 As a valley brims with life in sprmg-tide hours.
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 43 
 
 " my life was dark and cold as the night-dews on the 
 wold, 
 Waiting to be made alive with fire of dawn ; 
 Till his presence on me lighten' d, and his blessing on me 
 brighten'd, 
 And my life like dews lit np for heaven shone." 
 
 Nay, Sweet Heart ! that should be my song, who search 
 
 Love's lore in vain for meet simibtudes 
 
 To symbol what thy love hath been to me. 
 
 The God bes prison'd in the mountain stone, 
 
 The muffled Music slumbers in the strings, 
 
 Awaiting the Deliverer's magic touch ! 
 
 So, thou beloved ! did I wait for Thee, 
 
 To waken at thy touch. My Tree of being 
 
 But made blind gropings in the dark, cold earth, 
 
 And moan'd and trembled, in the wintry air, 
 
 Stretching out naked hands to pluck at life : 
 
 Until you came, with all your light, and warmth, 
 
 Encncbng round it like a summer heaven, 
 
 And fed, and clad it with your fragrant beauty, 
 
 Till budding branches burst on fire with bloom, 
 
 And into ripe fruits mellow'd goldenly. 
 
 My life lay barren as a desolate moor 
 
 That breaks, and burns, in twinkling green and gold, 
 
 When Spring doth greet it with her kiss of bfe.
 
 44 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 As weary earth goes darkling thro' the night, 
 So my heart toil'd on, tearful with its burthen : 
 No beacon buni'd thro' all the gloom, to break 
 The surging sea of dark, with piers of light : 
 Then on a sudden rose the blessed Morn, 
 Sun-crown'd my life, made all things beautifid, 
 And gave the world its Eden-robes again. 
 My soul up-sprang full-statured, in the light, 
 Thy presence caught my heart up at the leap, 
 "Wing'd like a young world from the hands of God ! 
 Mcthought a thousand graves of buried hopes 
 Could crush it not from its proud eminence. 
 The Future's dim cloud-curtain rent in twain, 
 And lighten'd radiant revelation : All 
 Life's purpose dawn'd, as unto dying eyes 
 The dark of Death doth blossom into stars. 
 And since w r e met, thy life-long thought hath been 
 To be cup-bearer of the wdne of joy 
 To one leal heart, and to make rich one life. 
 Pulse after pidse, thy life has surged in mine, 
 Like sea-waves hurrying up the beach to crown 
 Their shore, and break in starry showers of light. 
 Thou hast brought radiant sunrise every morn, 
 Renewing all the glory past away. 
 Thy lavish love hath twined about my life, 
 Like the lush Woodbine wedded to the Thorn ; 
 Hiding its harshness with her wealth of flowers ! 
 My heart drinks inspiration at thine eyes,
 
 "WEDDED LOVE. 45 
 
 A.nd lights my brain up as with, fragrant flame : 
 Sweet eyes of starry tenderness, thro' which 
 The soul of some immortal sorrow looks ! 
 Sorrow that addeth grace to loveliness, 
 As its sad bloom enricheth blushing fruit. 
 Dear Eyes ! they have a radiant Alchemy, 
 And pierce my being with such quickening light 
 As makes my heart a jewel-mine of love ; 
 Even as the Sun strikes thro' the dark cold Earth, 
 And fires her million veins with golden life. 
 My Life ran like a river in rocky ways, 
 And downward dasht, a sounding cataract ! 
 But thine was Mke a quiet lake of beauty, 
 Soft-shadow'd round by gracious influences, 
 That gathers silently the wealth of earth, 
 And woos heaven till it melts down into it. 
 They mingled : and the glory, and the calm, 
 And royal-rich magnificence of thy love, 
 Closed round me, brooding into perfect rest, 
 And made my heart rejoice in all thy joy. 
 blessings on thy true and tender heart ! 
 How it hath gone forth Hke the Dove of old, 
 To bring some leaf of promise in Life's deluge ! 
 Thou hast a strong up-soaring tendency, 
 That bears me god-ward, as the stalwart oak 
 Uplifts the clinging vine, and gives it growth. 
 Thy reverent heart familiarly doth take 
 Unconscious clasp of high and holy things,
 
 46 WEDDED LOVE. 
 
 Like little children playing of old with Christ ; 
 
 And trusteth where it may not understand. 
 
 We have had sorrows, love ! and wept the tears 
 
 That run the rose-hue from the cheeks of Life ; 
 
 But Grief hath jewels as Night hath her stars, 
 
 And she revealeth what we ne'er had known, 
 
 With Joy's wreath tumbled o'er our blinded eyes. 
 
 The heart is like an instrument whose strings 
 
 Steal magic music from Life's mystic frets : 
 
 The golden threads are spun thro' Suffering's fire, 
 
 Wherewith the marriage-robes for heaven are woven : 
 
 And all the rarest hues of human life 
 
 Take radiance, and are rainbow'd out in tears, 
 
 As water'd marble blooms a richer grain. 
 
 Thou 'rt little changed, dear love ! since first was wed 
 
 To mine, the blossom of thy crimson lips ; 
 
 Thy beauty hath cliuiaxt like a crescent Moon, 
 
 With glory great'ning to the golden full. 
 
 Thy flowers of spring are crown'd with summer fruits, 
 
 And thou hast put a queenlier presence on 
 
 With thy regality of Womanhood ! 
 
 Yet Time but toucheth thee with mellowing shades 
 
 That set thy graces in a wealthier light. 
 
 Thy soul still looks with its rare smile of light, 
 
 Prom the Gate Beautiful of its palace-home, 
 
 Pair as the spirit of the evening Star, 
 
 That lights its glory as a radiant porch 
 
 To beacon earth with a brief glimpse of heaven.
 
 WEDDED LOVE. 47 
 
 We are poor in this world's wealth, but rich in love ; 
 
 And they who love feel rich in every thing. 
 
 The heart of Ocean — thick with gems, as earth 
 
 With blooms — is jewell'd Uke a Bride o' the East : 
 
 The heart of Heaven swarms with golden worlds : 
 
 A subtle heart of wealth hath our old world, 
 
 And darks of diamonds, grand as nights of stars : 
 
 But richer is the human heart that shrines 
 
 God's peerless wealth — th' immortal jewel Love ! 
 
 So let us live our life : and let our love, 
 
 Our large twin-love, bend o'er our little Babe, 
 
 As the calm grand old heavens bend over earth, 
 
 Beveabng God's own starry thoughts and things ! 
 
 So shall the image of our hearts' Ideal — 
 
 The angel nestling in her bud of life — 
 
 Smile upward in the mirror of her face 
 
 A daily beauty in our darken'd ways, 
 
 And a perpetual feast of holy things. 
 
 let us walk the world, so that our love 
 
 Burn like a blessed beacon, beautiful ! 
 
 Upon the walls of Life's surrounding dark. 
 
 Ah ! what a world 't woidd be if love like ours 
 
 Made heaven in human hearts, and clothed with smiles 
 
 The sweet sad face of our Humanity ! 
 
 What Hves should quicken into sudden spring ! 
 
 What flowers of glory burst their frozen soil ! 
 
 Like the red pulse of Dawn thro' cold grey skies, 
 
 New life should flush up in the darken'd face
 
 43 THE THIiEE SPIRITS. 
 
 That rcadetli as a written epitaph 
 Above the grave of beauty and of soul ! 
 Love-light should glimmer on the Helot's brow, 
 As mellow moonlight silvers thro' a cloud ; 
 And God should come into the mirkest being, 
 As Stars new-kindled, splendour nights of space. 
 
 THE THREE SPIRITS. 
 
 They were three Spirits fresh from God's own hand, 
 
 And beautifuller ne'er took mortal mould. 
 
 They had worn vestures of the undefiled, 
 
 At spirit-spousals sang the nuptial song, 
 
 Sat down with Gods and Heroes, held high converse 
 
 With Milton and the mighty men of old, 
 
 Divine old Socrates and deathless sages, 
 
 The martyr' d Prophets and the warrior-saints, 
 
 "Who fought as we do now, and wrestled down 
 
 Doubt's grim despairs, with pangs and quenchless faith. 
 
 Glory tiara'd their immortal brows, 
 
 Their lips were yet alive with seraph-fire, 
 
 And locks bedropt rich dews of Paradise :
 
 THE THREE SPIRITS. 49 
 
 Tliey lookt a fore-taste and fore-feel of heaven. 
 
 Christ-like they came to wear old Earth's life-harness, 
 
 And yoke their fiery sun-steeds in her furrows. 
 
 They came to battle, toil in tears, and pray, 
 
 " Our Father," with the family of Men. 
 
 'T was midnight in the husht and moonlit land, 
 
 The heavens had on their silver robe of stars, 
 
 And earth had on her silver robe of dew, 
 
 When they first lookt like smiles of God, through eyes 
 
 Where struggling heaven-light shone half-drown'd in tears, 
 
 As rainy sunbeams strike a watery world. 
 
 They grew sweet babes, where fond hearts set Love's throne, 
 
 Heaven breathed about them, Angels sang to them, 
 
 And joy was with them in their innocence. 
 
 Then* dawn of being broaden' d into day, 
 
 And they had sprung to Manhood unawares. 
 
 The lusty blood ran brave fire in their veins, 
 
 Life's surging waves, with them, were at mad-plunge, 
 
 And plough' d the passionate heart with tempest-beat. 
 
 Then high thoughts burst like battle on their souls, 
 
 Rousing and stern as in the noon of night 
 
 The clarion's clangour smites a sleeping host ! 
 
 And gorgeous Visions, glory-clad, swept by. 
 
 Sinew and thew were strung to win at least 
 
 The table-land that girds the mount of Fame. 
 
 And one went down to moil in Mammon's mine, 
 
 For love of Gold ; thenceforth in his warpt heart, 
 
 The Devil at death-grips set himself to God, 
 
 E
 
 50 THE THREE SPIRITS. 
 
 And day by day worm'd out some trace divine ! 
 
 Day unto day, Gold rotted out the soid. 
 
 Still he toil'd on for Gold, sweet ! damning Gold ! 
 
 The poor man's sweat, and tears, and blood, congeal'd ; 
 
 And he w.i\t wealthy! all around him rose 
 
 The hoarded heaps, like trophies after battle, 
 
 Or tribute-treasure flung at Monarchs' feet. 
 
 lit" turn'd to what he fed on, dust to dust; 
 
 The angel-plumes once moulted, grew no more ! 
 
 The God dwarffc in him, and his heart was hoary 
 
 Before Time's silver mark had blancht his brow. 
 
 And one up-rear' d a fame which stood apart 
 
 In the world's gaze, as 'mid old Tadmor's ruins 
 
 Some column loometh in the eye of sunset. 
 
 He crown'd with a beacon-fire the reef which wreckt 
 
 The mighty of all time. His marvellous name 
 
 Moved men's tongues regally as Euroclydon, 
 
 The storm-wind ! wakes the voices of old ocean. 
 
 Leviathan of blood ! what crimson seas 
 
 He spilt to revel in; his path to empire 
 
 Was wasted hearts and desolated lands. 
 
 The other trode the world's face poor as Christ, 
 
 Drank gall and wormwood ; lived Gethsemane, 
 
 In many a midnight solitude of heart ! 
 
 Loved, hoped, and nurst large faith in human-kind, 
 
 Wept glorious tears that telescope the soid, 
 
 And bring heaven nearer to the eyes of Faith ! 
 
 The hounds of hell bay'd at him, hoary Evd
 
 THE THREE SPIRITS. 51 
 
 Breathed blighting influences on his heart, 
 To turn it to a Upas-tree, and kill 
 All nestling birds of love. With tears and travail 
 He walkt the furnace, trode Earth's stony ways, 
 And beat his rugged path with bleeding feet. 
 Yet nought bore down his heart, or blencht his faith, 
 And many a cloud-rift radiantly rent, 
 Dropt blessing dear as parted lips of Love. 
 From suffering he won strength to throw the world ; 
 And when the fight ran sorest, his roused spirit 
 Went forth a Conqueror ! wrapt in victory's robes. 
 Amid the mirk and mire, he kept his heart 
 A temple for the Beautiful ! all warm 
 And bright, with blessed light of Love, that window 
 Of our dim life, which ever opes on God ! 
 He trimmed Love's lamp in poor men's hearts and homes, 
 And in the world's waste places his life blossom'd. 
 So each built up a life. Time's scaffolding 
 Fell from them, and they stood in God's eye bare ! 
 Into the silent land, they pass'd the Grave, 
 Which Spring had made a beautiful gate of flowers ; 
 On wings of wonder won the starry threshold 
 Of God, where like to like is gauged and garnered. 
 They stood where Paradise uprear'd its portals, 
 And shook down splendours, palpitated bliss, 
 Like a town full of triumph,- — heart of love. 
 in that hour how shook the rich man's soid ! 
 He stood there beggar'd, poorest of the poor ! 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE THREE SPIRITS. 
 
 Gold would not purchase heaven ; and if it might, 
 
 Eternity ran 'twixt him and his riches ; 
 
 And he went wailing with his world of woe. 
 
 The other had gambled for a life, and lost ; 
 
 Let slip his chance for an Eternity ! 
 
 For fame, had barter' d an immortal birthright; 
 
 For name on Earth had sold Heaven's heritage; 
 
 And there the gates of glory on him closed. 
 
 The poor man came, and his meek tearful eyes 
 
 Grew luminous, as lit with sudden sun. 
 
 Divinity leapt up fnll-statured, when 
 
 His life burst its worn manacle of clay, 
 
 And wore God's splendour round it as a raiment. 
 
 Throbbing with glory like a midnight star, 
 
 All heaven was husht to hear the Lord's "Well done." 
 
 Then shining hosts and quiring orbs sang "Welcome," 
 
 And angels crown'd him in their Capitol. 
 
 For in his heart he kept God's image bright. 
 
 Love was his life-blood. Thro' the long work-day — 
 
 The dark and terrible night-time — aye, to death, 
 
 He nurst his love : and God himself is love. 
 
 And there be none of all the poorest poor 
 
 That walk the world, worn heart-bare, none so poor 
 
 But they may bring a little human love 
 
 To mend the world. And God himself is love.
 
 53 
 
 HOOD, 
 
 WHO SANG THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 'T is the old story ! — ever the blind world 
 
 Knows not its Angels of Deliverance 
 
 Till they stand glorified 'twixt earth and heaven. 
 
 It stones the Martyr ; then, with praying hands, 
 
 Sees the God mount his chariot of fire, 
 
 And calls sweet names, and worships what it spurn' d. 
 
 It slays the Man to deify the Christ : 
 
 And then how lovingly 't will bind the brows 
 
 Where late its thorn-crown laught with bloody Hps — 
 
 Eed, and rejoicing from grim Murder's kiss ! 
 
 To those who walk beside them, great men seem 
 
 Mere common earth ; but distance makes them stars. 
 
 As dying limbs do lengthen out in death, 
 
 So grows the stature of their after-fame ; 
 
 And then we gather up their glorious words, 
 
 And treasure up their names with loving care. 
 
 So Hood, our Poet, lived his martyr-life : 
 
 With a swift soul that travel!' d at such speed,
 
 54 HOOD. 
 
 And struck such flashes from its flinty road, 
 
 That by its trail of radiance through the dark, 
 
 We almost see th' unfeatured Future's face, — 
 
 And went uncrown'd to his untimely tomb. 
 
 Certes, the "World did praise his glorious Wit — 
 
 The merry Jester with his cap and bells ! 
 
 And sooth, his wit was like Ithuriel's spear : 
 
 But 't was mere lightning from the cloud of his life, 
 
 Which held at heart most rich and blessed rain 
 
 Of tears melodious, that are worlds of love ; 
 
 And Rainbows, that would bridge from earth to heaven ; 
 
 And Light, that would have shone like Joshua's sun 
 
 Above our long death-grapple with the Wrong ; 
 
 And thunder-voices, with their Words of fire, 
 
 To melt the Slave's chain, and the Tyrant's crown. 
 
 His wit ? — a kind smile just to hearten us ! — 
 
 Rich foam-wreaths on the waves of lavish life, 
 
 That flasht o'er precious pearls and golden sands. 
 
 But, there was that beneath surpassing show ! 
 
 The starry sold, that shines when all is dark ! — 
 
 Endurance, that can suffer and grow strong — 
 
 Walk through the world with bleeding feet, and smile ! — 
 
 Love's inner light, that kindles Life's rare colours, 
 
 Bright wine of Beauty for the panting soid ; 
 
 And thoughts that swathe Humanity with such glory 
 
 As limns the outline of the coming God. 
 
 In him were gleams of such heroic splendours 
 
 As light this cold, dark world up as a star
 
 HOOD. 55 
 
 Array' d in glory for the eyes of heaven : 
 
 And a great heart that beat according music 
 
 With theirs of old, — God-likest, royallest men ! 
 
 A conquering heart ! which Circumstance, that frights 
 
 The Many down from Love's transfiguring height, 
 
 Aye mettled into martial attitude. 
 
 He might have clutcht the palm of Victory 
 
 In the world's wrestling-ring of mightiest deeds ; 
 
 But he went down like a rich Argosy 
 
 At sea, just glimmering into sight of home, 
 
 With its rare freightage from diviner climes. 
 
 The world may never know the wealth it lost, 
 
 When Hood went darkling to his tearful tomb, 
 
 So mighty in his undevelopt force ! 
 
 With all his crowding unaccomplished hopes ! 
 
 Th' unuttered wealth and glory of his soid ! 
 
 And all the music ringing round his life, 
 
 And poems stirring in his dying brain. 
 
 O ! blessings on him for the songs he sang — 
 
 Which yearn'd about the world till then for birth ! 
 
 How like a bonny bird of God he came, 
 
 And pour'd his heart in music for the Poor ; 
 
 Who sit in gloom while sunshine floods the land, 
 
 And feel through darkness, for the hand of Help ! 
 
 And trampled Manhood heard, and claimed his crown, 
 
 And trampled Womanhood sprang up ennobled ! 
 
 The human soul lookt radiantly through rags ! 
 
 And there was melting of cold hearts, as when
 
 56 HOOD. 
 
 The ripening sunlight fingers frozen flowers. 
 
 ! blessings on him for the songs he sang ! 
 "When all the stars of happy thought had set 
 In many a mind, his spirit walkt the gloom 
 Clothed on with beauty, as the regal Moon 
 Walks lur night-kingdom, turning clouds to light. 
 Our Champion ! with his heari too big to ! 
 
 In bonds, — our Poet in his pride of power ! 
 Ay, we II remember him who fought our fight, 
 And chose the .Martyr's robe of flame, and spurn'd 
 The gold and purple of the glistering slave. 
 His Mausoleum is the People's heart, 
 There he lies crown'd and glorified, — our King 
 In state, with singing robe wrapt richly round. 
 
 1 > 1 1 1 't is not meet, mj England, his dear dust 
 Should lie where splendid flatteries flaunt on tombs, 
 As treachery serves to brighten wanton tears — 
 With not a line of letter'd love to tell 
 
 What mighty heart lies quencht and broken there. 
 
 So let us build our Poet's monument ! 
 
 With passionate hearts of love for corner-stoues, 
 
 And tears thai temper for immortal fame. 
 
 And it were well, my England, shouldst thou come 
 
 To weep some honest drops above his grave. 
 
 Our Hood is worthier of eternal praise 
 
 And blessings, and dear heart-immunities, 
 
 Than warrior Wellington, who rode to fame 
 
 On Death's white horse, by Battle's crimson path.
 
 57 
 
 LOVE LYRICS. 
 
 THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 
 
 Ah ! 't is like a tale of olden 
 
 Time, long, long ago ; 
 "When the world was in its golden 
 
 Prime, and love was lord below ! 
 Every vein of Earth was dancing 
 
 With the Spring's new wine ! 
 'T was the pleasant time of flowers, 
 
 When I met yon, love of mine ! 
 Ah ! some spirit sure was straying 
 
 Out of heaven that day, 
 When I met you, Sweet ! a-Maying 
 
 In that merry, merry May. 
 
 Little heart ! it shyly open'd 
 
 Its red leaves' love-lore, 
 Like a rose that must be ripen'd 
 
 To the dainty, dainty core.
 
 53 LITTLE LILYBELL. 
 
 But its beauties daily brighten, 
 
 And it blooms so dear, — 
 Tho' a many Winters whiten, 
 
 I go Maying all the year. 
 And my proud heart will be praying 
 
 Blessings on the day, 
 "When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, 
 
 In that merry, merry May. 
 
 LITTLE LILYBELL. 
 
 "When unseen fingers part the leaves, 
 
 To show us Beauty's face, 
 And Earth her breast of glory heaves, 
 
 And glows from Spring's embrace ; 
 When Flowers on green and golden wings 
 
 Float up— Life's sea doth swell 
 And flush a world of venial things ; 
 
 Came little Lilybell ! 
 
 And nke a blessed Bird of calm, 
 
 Our love's sweet wants she still'd ; 
 Made passion's fiery wine run balm, 
 
 Life's glory half fulfill' d.
 
 LITTLE LILYBELL. 59 
 
 Prom dappled dawn to twinkling dark, 
 
 Our witching Ariel 
 Moves thro' our heaven ! 0, like a lark 
 
 Sings little Lilybell ! 
 
 And she is fair — 0, very fair ! 
 
 With eyes so like the dove ; 
 And lightly leans her world of care 
 
 Upon our arms of love ! 
 It cannot be that ye will break 
 
 The promise-tale ye tell ; 
 Ye will not make such fond hearts ache, 
 
 Our little Lilybell ! 
 
 As on Life's stream her leaflets spread, 
 
 And tremble in its flow, 
 We shudder lest the awful Dead 
 
 Pluck at her from below ! 
 Breathe faint and low, ye winds that start ; 
 
 stream, but softly swell ; 
 Your eveiy motion smites the heart 
 
 For little Lilybell ! 
 
 We tremble lest the Angel Death, 
 
 Who comes to gather flowers 
 For Paradise, at her sweet breath 
 
 Should fall in love with ours !
 
 60 LITTLE L1LYBELL. 
 
 0, many a year may come and go, 
 
 Ere from Life's mystic well 
 Such stream shall flow, such flower shall blow, 
 
 As little LilybeU ! 
 
 Ah, when her dear heart fills with fears, 
 
 And aches with Love's sweet pain,' 
 And pale cheeks burn thro' happy tears, 
 
 Like red rose in the rain ! 
 1 marvel, Sweet, if we shall see 
 
 The sight, and say 't is well, 
 When the Beloved calls for thee, 
 
 Our dainty Lilybell? 
 
 How rich Love made the lowly sod, 
 
 Where such a flower hath blown! 
 O Love, we love, and think that God 
 
 Is such a love full-grown ! 
 Dear God ! that gave the blessed trust, 
 
 Be near, that all be well; 
 And morn and eve bedew our dust, 
 
 For love of Lilybell !
 
 61 
 
 TO A BELOYED ONE. 
 
 Heaven hath its crown of Stars, the Earth 
 
 Her glory-robe of flowers — 
 The Sea its gems — the grand old Woods 
 
 Their songs and greening showers : 
 The Birds have homes, where leaves and blooms 
 
 In beauty wreathe above ; 
 High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream — 
 
 And we, Sweet ! we have love. 
 
 We walk not with the jewell'd Great, 
 
 Where Love's dear name is sold ; 
 Yet have we wealth we would not give 
 
 For all their world of gold ! 
 We revel not in Corn and Wine, 
 
 Yet have we from above 
 Manna divine, and we '11 not pine, 
 
 While we may live and love.
 
 62 TO A BELOVED ONE. 
 
 There 's sorrow for the toiling poor, 
 
 On Misery's bosom nursed : 
 Rich robes for ragged souls, and Crowns 
 
 For branded brows Cain-curst ! 
 But Cherubim, with clasping wings, 
 
 Ever about us be, 
 And, happiest of God's happy things ! 
 
 There 's love for vou and me. 
 
 Thy lips, that kiss till death, have turn'd 
 
 Life's water into wine ; 
 The sweet life melting thro' thy looks, 
 
 Hath made my life divine. 
 All Love's dear promise hath been kept, 
 
 Since thou to me werl given; 
 A ladder for my soul to climb, 
 
 And summer high in heaven. 
 
 I know, dear heart ! that in our lot 
 
 May mingle tears and sorrow; 
 But, Love's rich Rainbow 's built from tears 
 
 To-dav, with smiles To-morrow. 
 The sunshine from our sky may die, 
 
 The greenness from Life's tree, 
 But ever, 'mid the warring storm, 
 
 Thy nest shall shelter'd be.
 
 WHEN I COME HOME. 63 
 
 I see thee ! Ararat of my life, 
 
 Smiling the waves above ! 
 Thou hail'st me Victor in the strife, 
 
 And beacon'st me with love. 
 The world may never know, dear heart ! 
 
 What I have found in thee ; 
 But, tho' nought to the world, dear heart ! 
 
 Thou 'rt all the world to me. 
 
 WHEN I COME HOME. 
 
 Around me Life's hell of fierce Ardours burns, 
 
 "When I come home, when I come home ; 
 Over me Heaven with her starry heart yearns, 
 When I come home, when I come home. 
 Eor the feast of Gods garnisht, the palace of Night 
 At a thousand star-windows is throbbing with light. 
 London makes mirth ! but I know God hears 
 The sobs i' the dark, and the dropping of tears ; 
 For I feel that he listens down Night's great dome : 
 When I come home, when I come home ; 
 Home, home, when I come home, 
 Tar i' the night when I come home.
 
 64 WHEN I COME HOME. 
 
 1 walk under Night's triumphal arch, 
 
 "When I come home, when I come home ; 
 Exulting with life like a Conqueror's march, 
 
 When I come home, when I come home. 
 I pass by the rich-chamber' d mansions that shine, 
 Overflowing with splendour like goblets with wine : 
 I have fought, I have vanquisht, the dragon of Toil, 
 And before me my golden Hesperides smile ! 
 And but Love's flowers make rich the gloam, 
 AY hen I come home, when I come home ! 
 
 Home, home, when I come home, 
 
 Tar i' the night when I come home. 
 
 the sweet, merry mouths up-turn'd to be kist, 
 
 AY hen I come home, when I come home ! 
 How the younglings yearn from the hungry nest, 
 
 "When I come home, when I come home ! 
 My weary, worn heart into sweetness is stirr'd, 
 And it dances and sings like a singing Bird, 
 On the branch nighest heaven, — a-top of my life : 
 As I clasp thee, my winsome, wooing "Wife ! 
 And thy pale cheek with rich, tender passion doth bloom, 
 "When I come home, when I come home ; 
 
 Home, home, when I come home, 
 
 Far i' the night when I come home. 
 
 Clouds furl off the shining face of my life, 
 "When I come home, when I come home, 
 
 And leave heaven bare on thy bosom, sweet Wife, 
 When I come home, when I come home.
 
 ICHABOD. 65 
 
 With her smiling Energies, — Faith warm and bright, — 
 With love glorified and serenely alight, — 
 With her womanly beauty and queenly calm, 
 She steals to my heart with her blessing of balm ; 
 And but the wine of Love sparkles with foam, 
 When I come home, when I come home ! 
 
 Home, home, when I come home ! 
 
 Tar i' the night when I come home. 
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 Seven Summers' Suns have set ! and earth is once more 
 
 sweetly flooded 
 With fragrance, for the virgin-leaves and violet-banks 
 
 have budded : 
 Heaven claspeth Earth, as round the heart first broodeth 
 
 Love's rich glow ; 
 A blush of Flowers is mantling where the lush green 
 
 grasses grow ! 
 
 All things feel summering sunward, golden tides flood 
 
 down the air, 
 Which bums, as Angel-visitants had left a glory there ! 
 
 F
 
 66 ICIIABOD. 
 
 But darkness on my aching spirit shrouds the merry 
 
 shine, — 
 I long to feel a gush of Spring in this poor heart of mine. 
 
 Morn opes Heaven's secret portal, back the golden gates 
 
 are drawn, 
 And all the fields of glory blossom with the crimson Dawn : 
 But never comes thy clasping hand, or carol of thy bps, 
 That made my heart soar like a God, when bursting 
 
 Death's eclipse. 
 Sweet voice ! it came like saintly music, quiring angels 
 
 make, 
 When pain sat heavy on my brow, and heart was Hke to 
 
 break : 
 Methought such love gave wings to climb some starry 
 
 throne to win ; 
 Thou didst so lift my Life's horizon — letting heaven in. 
 
 I 'm thinking, dariing, of the days when life was all divine, 
 And love was aye the silver chord that bound my heart 
 
 to thine ; 
 When bfe bloom 'd at thy coming, as the green earth 
 
 greets the sun, 
 And, like two dew-drops in a kiss, our twin souls wed in 
 
 one. 
 Ah ! still I feel ye at my heart ! and 'mid the stir and 
 
 strife, 
 Ye sometimes lead my feet to walk the angel-side of Life !
 
 ICHABOD. 67 
 
 The magic music yearns within, as unto thee I turn, 
 And those brave eyes, a-blaze with soul, thro' all my 
 being burn. 
 
 Come back, — come back ; I long to clasp thee in these 
 
 arms, mine own ; 
 Lavish my heart upon thy Hps, and make my love the 
 
 Crown 
 And Arc of Triumph to thy life. Why tarry? Time 
 
 hath cast 
 Strange shadows on my spirit since we met and mingled 
 
 last ! 
 Yet there be joys to crown thee with ; the sunshine and 
 
 the sweet 
 Are hived, Hke honey, in my heart, to share them when 
 
 we meet : 
 How I have hoarded up my life ! how tenderly I strove 
 To make my heart fit home for thee, its nestling Bird of 
 
 love ! 
 
 God bless thee ! once the radiant world thy beauty 
 
 crowrdike wore, 
 But Hfe hath lost a tender grace that cometh never more ! 
 The flowers will bud again in spring, and happy birds 
 
 make love, 
 With melting hearts, a-brooding o'er their passion in the 
 
 grove. 
 
 f 2
 
 63 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 But thou wilt never more come back, to clothe my heart 
 
 with spring; 
 Dear God ! Love's sweetest chord is tura'd to Pain's most 
 
 jarring string ! 
 The Glory hath departed ! and my spirit pants to go 
 Where 'mid Life's troubled waters, 't will not see the 
 
 wreck below. 
 
 HUSBAND and wife. 
 
 0, peoudly I stood in the rare Sunrise, 
 
 As the dawn of your beauty brake ; 
 But I fear'd for the storm, as I lookt at the skies, 
 
 And trembled for your sweet sake ! 
 And 0, may the evil days come not, I said, 
 
 As I yearn' d o'er my tender blossom ! 
 Strong arm of love ! shelter the dear one's head ; 
 
 And I nestled you in my bosom. 
 May the tears never dim the love-light of her eye,- 
 
 May her Life be all Spring-weather ! — 
 Was the prayer of my heart, ere you, Love, and I, 
 
 Were Husband and Wife together.
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 69 
 
 But the suns will shine, and the rains will fall, 
 
 On the loftiest, lowliest spot ! 
 And there 's mourning and merriment mingled for all 
 
 That inherit the human lot. 
 So we 've suffer'd and sorrow'd and grown more strong, 
 
 Heart-to-heart, side-to-side, we have striven, 
 With the love that makes summer-tide all the year long, 
 
 And the heart that is its own heaven ! 
 We clung the more close as the storm swept by, 
 
 And kept the nest warm in cold weather ; 
 And seldom we 've falter'd since you, Love, and I, 
 
 Have been Husband and Wife together ! 
 
 Like the sweet happy flowers of the wilderness, 
 
 You have dwelt life to life with Nature ; 
 And caught the wild beauty and grace of her ways, 
 
 And grown to her heavenlier stature ! 
 In golden calm, and in quickening strife, 
 
 Hath your womanly worth unfolden ; 
 And sunshine and show'r have enricht your life, 
 
 And ripen'd its harvest golden. 
 There is good in the grimmest cloud o' the sky, 
 
 There are blessings in wintry weather : 
 Even Grief hath its glory, since you, Love, and I, 
 
 Have been Husband and Wife together. 
 
 0, Life is not perfect with Love's first kiss : 
 Who would win the blessing must wrestle ;
 
 70 A SONG OF HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 And the deeper the sorrow, the dearer the bliss, 
 
 That in its rich core may nestle ! 
 Our Angels oft greet us in tearful guise, 
 
 And our saviours come in sorrow : 
 While the murkiest midnight that frowns from the skies, 
 
 Is at heart a radiant Morrow ! 
 We laugh and we cry, we sing and we sigh, 
 
 And Life will have wintry weather! 
 So we '11 hope, and love on, since you, Love, and I, 
 
 Are Husband and Wife together. 
 
 A SONG OF HAPPY LOYE. 
 
 My life lay Uke a sea -bud dark upon the wateiy wold, 
 That feels when Spring is in the world, and striveth to 
 
 unfold. 
 The breath of Love pass'd o'er me, and the Spring went 
 
 laughing by ; 
 Till on a sudden I was 'ware that thou, Beloved, wert nigh. 
 The Bird of Love to my window came, and sang a strain 
 
 divine : 
 Sweet Bird ! he makes his nest, I said, 'neath other eaves 
 
 than mine !
 
 A SONG OF HAPPY LOVE. 71 
 
 But many a day hath come and gone, and still he sits and 
 
 sings 
 His song of happy futures, and of dear remember'd things. 
 
 My life went darkling like the Earth, nor knew it shone a 
 
 Star 
 To that dear heaven on which it hung in worship from afar. 
 0, many bared their beauty, like brave flowers to the bee : 
 He might have ranged through sunny fields, but nestled 
 
 down by me ; 
 And daintier dames would proudly have smiled him to 
 
 their side, 
 But with a lowly majesty he sought me for his Bride ; 
 And grandly gave his love to me, the dearest thing on 
 
 earth, 
 Like one who gives a jewel unweeting of its worth. 
 
 'Twas when the Earth her green lap spreads for Sum- 
 mer's gorgeous gifts, 
 
 And plump for kisses of the Sun her ripen'd cheek 
 up-lifts, 
 
 "When maiden May was caught and kiss'd in arms of 
 lusty June, 
 
 He newly strung my harp of life, and play'd its sweetest 
 tune. 
 
 0, I had been content to live in cottage built of clay, 
 
 So I might see and bless him, when he chanced to pass 
 that way !
 
 72 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. 
 
 But to his heart he claspt me, with a look of glorious 
 
 pride, 
 And to his home he took me, and he crown'd me for his 
 
 Bride. 
 
 NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. 
 
 One of God's own Darlings was my bosom's nestling 
 Dove, 
 With her looks of love and sunshine, and her voice so 
 rich and low : 
 How it trembled thro' my life, like an Immortal's kiss of 
 love ! 
 How its music yearns thro' all my memory now ! 
 
 ! her beauty rainbows round me, and her sweet smile, 
 silverly 
 As a song, fills all the silence of the Midnight's charmed 
 hours ; 
 And I know from out her grave she '11 send her love in 
 death to me, 
 By the Spring in smiling utterance of Flowers.
 
 no jewell'd beauty is my LOVE. 73 
 
 ! my Love, too good for Earth, lias gone into the 
 world of light ; 
 It was hard, she said, to leave me, but the Lord had 
 need of her ; 
 And she walks the heavens in glory, like a Star i' the 
 crown of Night, 
 With the Beautiful and Blessed mingling there. 
 
 Gone before me, to be clothed on with bridal robe of 
 white, 
 Where Love's blossom flowers to fruit of Knowledge, — 
 Suffering 's glorified ! 
 And my love shall make me meet and worthy of her 
 presence bright, 
 That in heaven I may claim her as my Bride. 
 
 NO JEWELL'D BEAUTY IS MY LOYE. 
 
 No jewell'd Beauty is my Love, 
 
 Yet in her earnest face 
 There 's such a world of tenderness, 
 
 She needs no other grace.
 
 74 NO JEWELL'd BEAUTY IS MY LOVE. 
 
 Her smiles, and voice, around my life 
 In light and music twine, 
 
 And dear, O very dear to me, 
 Is this sweet Love of mine. 
 
 joy ! to know there 's one fond heart 
 
 Beats ever true to me : 
 It sets mine leaping like a lyre, 
 
 In sweetest melody : 
 My soul up-springs, a Deity ! 
 
 To hear her voice divine ; 
 And dear, very dear to me, 
 
 Is this sweet Love of mine. 
 
 If ever I have sigh'd for wealth, 
 
 'T was all for her, I trow ; 
 And if I win Fame's victor-wreath, 
 
 I '11 twine it on her brow. 
 There may be fonns more beautiful, 
 
 And souls of sunnier shine, 
 But none, none, so dear to me, 
 
 As this sweet Love of mine.
 
 75 
 
 LOVE ME. 
 
 " All dear as the feeling when first-flowers start, 
 
 Thou cam'st in thy musical lightness : 
 And the cloud wept itself in rich rain on my heart, 
 
 That had hidden thy beauty and brightness. 
 'T was as Life's topmost window oped suddenly, bright 
 
 With the gbttering face of an Angel, 
 The sweet secret out-flasht on thy forehead of light, 
 
 And I knew thee, my own love-Evangel ! 
 O how shall I crown thee, Love, on my heart's throne, 
 
 Thou art so far, far above me?" 
 And aye, as her dear eyes lookt love in my own, 
 
 The Maiden answered, " Love me." 
 
 " My Beloved is fair as some beautiful star 
 
 That walks with an air of glory ; 
 And her large-hearted looks and her lineaments are 
 
 As some Queen's of the old Greek story ! 
 There 's never night now, since those dear eyes of thine 
 
 Smiled on me their soft sweet splendour, 
 And I drank of the wine of thy kisses divine : 
 
 what for such love shall I render ?"
 
 76 love's fairy ring. 
 
 And aye, as I knelt at my true Love's shrine, 
 
 She bent in her beauty above me : 
 And aye, as her sweet eyes lookt love into mine, 
 
 The Maiden answered, " Love me." 
 
 " could my heart, moimtain-region'd in bHss, 
 
 Thy Ufe with Love's affluence dower, 
 Thou should'st have heaven in a world e'en bke this, 
 
 And the joy of a life in each hour ! 
 Thou should'st go forth like a conquering Queen, 
 
 Reaping rich heartfuls of treasure, 
 Nor strive where the worn of heart wearily glean 
 
 But handfuls, in harvesting pleasure." 
 And aye, as I knelt at my true Love's shrine, 
 
 She bent in her beauty above me : 
 And aye, as her sweet eyes lookt love into mine, 
 
 The Maiden answered, " Love me." 
 
 LOVE'S FAIRY RING. 
 
 While Titans war with social Jove, 
 My own sweet wife and I 
 
 We make Elysium in our love, 
 And let the world go by !
 
 LOVE'8 FAIRY KING. 77 
 
 never hearts beat half so light 
 
 With crowned Queen or King ! 
 never world was half so bright 
 
 As is our fairy-ring. 
 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring. 
 
 Our world of empire is not large, 
 
 But priceless wealth it holds ; 
 A little heaven links marge to marge, 
 
 But what rich realms it folds ! 
 And clasping all from outer strife 
 
 Sits Love with folden wing, 
 A-brood o'er dearer life-in-life, 
 
 Within our fairy-ring, 
 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring. 
 
 Thou leanest thy true heart on mine, 
 
 And bravely bearest up ! 
 Aye mingling Love's most precious wine 
 
 In Life's most bitter cup ! 
 And evermore the circling horns 
 
 New gifts of glory bring ; 
 We live and love like happy flowers, 
 
 All in our fairy-ring, 
 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring.
 
 73 LOVE'S FAIItY RING. 
 
 We 've known a many sorrows, Sweet ! 
 
 We 've wept a many tears, 
 And often trod with trembling feet 
 
 Our pilgrimage of years. 
 But when our sky grew dark and wild, 
 
 All closelier did we cling : 
 Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled, 
 
 Peace crown'd our fairy-ring, 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring. 
 
 Away, grim Lords of Murderdom ; 
 
 Away, Hate, and Strife ! 
 Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from 
 
 Your feast of human life ! 
 Heaven shield our little Goshen round, 
 
 From ills that with them spring, 
 And never be their footprints found 
 
 Within our fairy-ring, 
 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring. 
 
 But, come ye who the Truth dare own, 
 Or work in Love's dear name ; 
 
 Come all who wear the Martyr's crown- 
 The Mystic's robe of flame !
 
 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. 79 
 
 Sweet souls, a Christless world doth doom 
 
 Like birds smote blind to sing ! 
 For sucb, we '11 aye make welcome room 
 
 Within our fairy-ring, 
 
 Dear love ! 
 
 Our hallowed fairy-ring. 
 
 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. 
 
 We sit serenely 'neath the night, 
 As still as stars with swift debght ; 
 In tears, that show how in Life's deep 
 The hidden pearls of beauty sleep ! 
 And quiet, as of sleeping trees, 
 And silence, as of sleeping seas. 
 The channels of our bbss run fUl'd, 
 Their faintest happy murmur still'd. 
 
 Upon my forehead rests thy palm, 
 And on my spirit rests thy calm. 
 I cannot see thy cheek, but know 
 Its sea of rose-bloom hath a glow
 
 80 LOVE-IN-IDLENESS. 
 
 Like ruby light, and richly lies 
 The dew i' the shadow of thine eyes : 
 Deep eyes ! like wells of tenderness, 
 That ask how they may sootldiest bless. 
 
 Warm fragrance like the soul o' the South, 
 Is round us, and thy damask mouth 
 With the sweet spirit of its breath, 
 Dissolves me in debcious death. 
 Musk-roses blowing in the gloom, 
 Drop fragrance fainting in the room. 
 Such sensuous sadness fills the air, 
 Eipe bfe a bloom of dew doth wear. 
 
 The harping hand hath dull'd the lyre 
 Of thrilling heartstrings — by their fire 
 That droops, the dreamy Passions doze 
 In large luxuriance of repose. 
 While we our fields of pleasure reap, 
 Our Babes be in the wood of Sleep : 
 One, first love's dream of beauty wrought ! 
 One, the more perfect afterthought. 
 
 We sit with silent glory crown' d, 
 And Love's arms wound bke heaven round : 
 Or on rich clouds of fragrance swim 
 The summer dusk so cool and dim.
 
 A LOVER S FANCY. 81 
 
 I only see that thou art near, 
 I only feel I have thee, Dear ! 
 I only hear thy throbbing heart, 
 And know that we can never part. 
 
 A LOVER'S FANCY. 
 
 Sweet Heaven ! I do love a maiden, 
 Kadiant, rare, and beauty-laden : 
 When she 's near me, heaven is round me, 
 Her dear presence doth so bound me ! 
 I could wring my heart of gladness, 
 Might it free her lot of sadness ! 
 Give the world, and all that 's in it, 
 Just to press her hand a minute ! 
 Yet she weeteth not I love her ; 
 
 Never dare I tell the sweet 
 Tale, but to the stars above her, 
 
 And the flowers that kiss her feet. 
 
 ! to hve and linger near her, 
 And in tearful moments cheer her ! 
 
 1 could be a Bird to lighten 
 
 Her dear heart, — her sweet eyes brighten : 
 
 G
 
 82 TIIE GOLDEN WEDDING-RING. 
 
 Or in fragrance, like a blossom, 
 Give my life up on her bosom ! 
 For my love 's withouten measure, 
 All its pangs are sweetest pleasure ; 
 Yet she weeteth not I love her ; 
 
 Never dare I tell the sv. 
 Tale, but to the stars above her, 
 
 And the flowers that kiss her feet. 
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING-RING. 
 
 With a white hand like a lady, 
 And a heart as merry as Spring, 
 
 I am ripe and I am ready 
 For a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 This old world is scarce worth seeing, 
 Till Love wave his purple wing, 
 
 And we gauge the bliss of being 
 Thro' a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 "Would you draw far Eden nearer, 
 And to earth the Angels bring, 
 
 Tou must seek the magic mirror 
 Of a golden wedding-ring.
 
 THE GOLDEN WEDDING-RING. 83 
 
 As the earth with sea is bounded, 
 
 And the winter-world with spring, 
 So a Maiden's life is rounded 
 
 With a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 I have known full many a Maiden, 
 
 Like a white rose withering, 
 Into fresh ripe beauty redden 
 
 Thro' a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 As the crescent Moon rings golden, 
 
 Her full glory perfecting, 
 Womanly beauty is unfolden 
 
 In a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 Fainting spirits oft grow fearless, 
 
 Sighing hearts will soar and sing, 
 Tearful eyes will laugh out tearless, 
 
 Thro' a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 There 's no jewel so worth wearing, 
 That a Lover's hands may bring, — 
 
 There 's no treasure worth comparing 
 With a golden wedding-ring. 
 
 Ah ! when hearts are wildly beating, 
 
 And when arms all glowing ding, 
 Think, Love's circle wants completing 
 
 With a golden wedding-ring. 
 G 2
 
 84 
 
 SONG. 
 
 All glorious as a Rainbow's birth, 
 
 She came in Spring-tide's golden hours ; 
 When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, 
 
 And May was crown'd with buds and flowers ! 
 The mount in- devil at my heart 
 
 Strove faintlicr, as my life did win 
 The charmed heaven, she wrought apart, 
 
 To wake its slumbering Angel in ! 
 With radiant mien she trode serene, 
 
 And past me smiling by ! 
 ! who that lookt could chance but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 Her budding bosom, like Love's fruit, 
 
 Peer'd out, a-yearning to be prest : 
 Her voice shook all my heart's red root 
 
 Yet might not break a babe's soft rest 
 Her being mingled into mine, 
 
 As breath of flowers doth mix and melt, 
 And on her lips the honey-wine 
 
 Was royal-rich as spikenard spilt ;
 
 A POOH MAN S WIFE. 85 
 
 With love a-gush, like water-brooks, 
 
 Her heart smiled in her eye ; 
 ! who that lookt coiild chance but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 The dewy eyelids of the Dawn 
 
 Ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show : 
 O Love ! such eyes have surely shone 
 
 As jewels in some starry brow ! 
 Her brow flasht glory bke a shrine, 
 
 Or lily-bell with sunburst bright ; 
 Where came and went love-thoughts divine, 
 
 As low winds walk the leaves in light : 
 She wore her beauty with the grace 
 
 Of Summer's star-clad sky ; 
 ! who that lookt could chance but love ? 
 
 Not I, sweet soul, not I. 
 
 A POOR MAN'S WIFE. 
 
 Her dainty hand nestled in mine, rich and white, 
 
 And timid as trembling dove ; 
 And it twinkled about me, a jewel of light, 
 
 As she garnisht our feast of love
 
 86 A POOR MAN'S WIFE. 
 
 'T was the queenliest hand in all lady -land, 
 And she was a poor Man's wife ! 
 
 ! little ye 'd think how that wee, white hand 
 Could dare in the battle of Life. 
 
 Her heart it was lowly as maiden's might be, 
 
 But hath climb'd to heroic height, 
 And burn'd bike a shield in defence of me, 
 
 On the sorest field of fight ! 
 And startbng as fire, it hath often flasht up 
 
 In her eyes, the good heart and rare ! 
 As she drank down her half of our bitterest cup, 
 
 And taught me how to bear. 
 
 Her sweet eyes that seem'd, with their smile subbme, 
 
 Made to look me and light me to heaven, 
 They have triumph'd thro' bitter tears many a time, 
 
 Since their love to my life was given : 
 And the maiden-meek voice of the womanly Wife 
 
 Still bringeth the heavens nigher ; 
 For it rings like the voice of God over my bfe, 
 
 Aye bidding me climb up higher. 
 
 I hardly dared think it was human, when 
 
 I first lookt in her yearning face ; 
 For it shone as the heavens had open'd then, 
 
 And clad it with glory and grace !
 
 LOVE. 87 
 
 But dearer its light of healing grew 
 
 In our dark and desolate day, 
 As the Bainbow, when heaven hath no break of blue, 
 
 Suiileth the storm away. 
 
 ! her shape was the lithest Loveliness, — 
 
 Just an armful of heaven to enfold ! 
 But the form that bends flower-like in love's caress, 
 
 'With the Victor's strength is soul'd ! 
 In her worshipful presence transfigured I stand, 
 
 And the poor Man's English home 
 She lights with the Beauty of Greece the grand, 
 
 And the glory of rcgallest Kome. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 O Love ' Love ' Love ! 
 
 Its 'j:\n\-\ Miiiics our gloom, 
 And, flower-like flush! with life, the heart 
 
 Dolli burgeon into bloom ! 
 Sweei as the sunshine's golden kiss, 
 
 Thai crow us the world anew : 
 Sweet as in Roses' hearts ofbliss, 
 
 Soft, Bummer-dark, drops dew.
 
 a maiden's song. 
 
 Love ! Love ! Love! 
 
 May make the brave heart ache ; 
 Pulse out its lavish life, and leave 
 
 It, mournfully to break ! 
 But how exquisite it starts 
 
 The thoughts that bee-like cling, 
 To drain the honey from young hearts, 
 
 And leave a bleeding sting ! 
 
 Love ! Love ! Love ! 
 
 Its very pain endears ! 
 And every wail and weeping brings 
 
 Some blessing on our tears ! 
 Love makes our darkest days, sweet dove ! 
 
 In golden Suns go down, 
 And still we '11 clothe our hearts with love, 
 
 And crown us with Love's crown. 
 
 A MAIDEN'S SONG. 
 
 I love ! and Love hath given me 
 Sweet thoughts to God akin, 
 
 And oped a living Paradise 
 
 My heart of hearts within : 
 
 from this Eden of my life 
 God keep the Serpent Sin !
 
 UNBELOVED. 89 
 
 I love ! and into Angel-land 
 
 With starry glimpses peer ! 
 I drink in beauty like heaven-wine, 
 
 When One is smiling near ! 
 And there 's a Kainbow round my soul 
 
 For every falling tear. 
 
 Dear God in heaven ! keep without stain 
 
 My bosom's brooding Dove : 
 clothe it meet for angel-arms, 
 
 And give it place above ! 
 For there is nothing from the world 
 
 I yearn to take, but Love. 
 
 UNBELOVED. 
 
 Like a tree beside the river 
 
 Of her life that runs from me, 
 Do I lean me, murmuring ever 
 
 In my love's idolatry. 
 And I reach out hands of blessing, 
 
 And I stretch out hands of prayer, 
 And, with passionate caressing, 
 
 Waste my life upon the air.
 
 90 UNBELOVED. 
 
 In my ears the syren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
 But for ever, and for ever, 
 Euns from my embrace. 
 
 Spring by spring the branches duly 
 
 Clothe themselves in tender flower ; 
 And for her sweet sake as truly 
 
 All their fruit and fragrance shower 
 But the stream w ith careless laughter 
 
 Runs in merry beauty by, 
 And it leaves me — yearning after — 
 
 Lorn to weep, and lone to die. 
 In my ears the syren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles up in my face ; 
 But for ever, and for ever, 
 Buns from my embrace. 
 
 I stand mazed in the moonlight, 
 
 O'er its happy face to dream ! 
 I am parched in the noonlight, 
 
 By the cool and brimming stream ! 
 I am dying by the river 
 
 Of her life that runs from me, 
 And it sparkles by me ever 
 
 AVith its cool felicity.
 
 A LYRIC OF LOVE. 91 
 
 In my ears the syren river 
 
 Sings, and smiles np in my face : 
 But for ever, and for ever, 
 Kuns from my embrace. 
 
 A LYRIC OF LOVE. 
 
 The Bird that nestles nearest earth, 
 
 To Heaven's gate nighest sings ; 
 And loving thee, my lowly life 
 
 Doth mount on Lark -like wings ! 
 Thine eyes are starry promises : 
 
 And affluent above 
 All measure in its blessing, is 
 
 The largess of thy love. 
 
 Merry as laughter 'mong the hills, 
 
 Spring dances at my heart ! 
 And at my wooing, Nature's soul 
 
 Into her face will start ! 
 The Queen-moon, in her starry bower, 
 
 Looks happier for our love ; 
 A dewier splendour fills the flower, 
 
 And mellower coos the Dove.
 
 92 KISSES. 
 
 My heart may sometimes blind mine eyes 
 
 With, utterance of tears, 
 But feels no pang for thee, Belov'd ! 
 
 But all the more endears : 
 And if life comes with cross and care 
 
 Unknown in years of yore, 
 I know thou 'It half the burthen bear, 
 
 And I am strong once more. 
 
 Ah ! now I see my life was shorn, 
 
 That, like the forest-brook 
 When leaves are shed, my darkling soul 
 
 Up in heaven's face might look ! 
 And blessings on the storm that gave 
 
 Me haven on thy breast, 
 Where life hath climaxt like a wave 
 
 That breaks in perfect rest. 
 
 KISSES. 
 
 One kiss more, Sweet ! 
 Soft as voluptuous wind of the west, 
 Or silkenest surge of thy purple-vein'd breast, 
 Bipe lips all ruddily melting apart, 
 Drink up the honey and wine of my heart !
 
 -WM.I-AM.-'IW I NTY. 93 
 
 One kiss more, Sw. 
 Warm as a morning sunbeam's dewy gold 
 Blips in a red Rose's fragrantest fold, 
 Sets its green blood all a-blush, burning up 
 At the fresh feel of life, in its crimson cup! 
 
 One kiss more, Sweet ! 
 Fidl as the flush of tin- Bea-waves grand 
 Flooding the sheeny fire out of the sand; 
 ( ha all the shores (if my being let Bliss 
 Break with its neap-tide sea in a kiss ! 
 
 s\\ t.i;t-am>-t\\ enty. 
 
 ( ) ,\n love 'a a winsome lady ; 
 
 8we< tei Gace oe'< c fed Lore on ! 
 In a Court, or forest shady, 
 
 Queenlier beauty never shone. 
 
 Like a ladye from a Gar land 
 Came my true I ove, brave to - 
 
 \- to heaven its rainbow garland, 
 I her beauty rich to me.
 
 94 SWEET- AND-TWENTI. 
 
 In white arms of love she wound me, 
 And I lookt up in her smile : 
 
 In warm arms of love she bound me, 
 As the sea takes some blest isle. 
 
 As some dusky lake may mirror 
 One fair star that shines above, 
 
 So my life — aye growing clearer — 
 Holds this tremulous Star of Love. 
 
 O to see her life in blossom, 
 With its bloom of bravery ! 
 
 Pure the dew lies in the bosom 
 Of her sweet virginity. 
 
 Nearest to my heart I wear her ; 
 
 As a bark the waves above — 
 so proudly do I bear her 
 
 On the bosom of my love ! 
 
 Look you, how she cometh, trilling 
 Out her gay heart's bird-like Miss ! 
 
 Merry as a May-morn, thrilling 
 With the dew and sunshine's kiss. 
 
 Buddy gossips of her beauty 
 
 Are her twin cheeks : and her mouth 
 
 In its ripe warmth smileth, fruity 
 As a garden of the south.
 
 DESERTED. 95 
 
 Ha ! my precious Sweet-and-Twenty, 
 Husband still your virgin pride ! 
 
 Just a month, and this dear, dainty 
 Thing shall be my wedded Bride. 
 
 DESERTED. 
 
 Love came to me in a rosy cloud, 
 
 With a golden glory kist ; 
 And high up in heaven we royally rode, 
 
 Till it melted in mournful mist. 
 Gone ! gone ! is the light that shone, 
 
 With the dream of my earlier day : 
 And the wild winds moan, and alone, alone, 
 
 I go on my weary way. 
 
 The Lords of life, and the happy in soul, 
 
 Tn their glory pass me by ; 
 And the days come and go, and the seasons roll, 
 
 All under a smiling sky.
 
 96 SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOVE. 
 
 The sweet spring-tide comes back to earth o'er 
 
 The soothed Winter sea ; 
 But He wiU return no more, no more, 
 
 Never come back to me. 
 
 0, it were better that I lay sleeping, 
 
 With his Baby on my breast, 
 Where the weary have done with weeping, 
 
 And the wretched are rock'd to their rest ! 
 The world is a desolate, dreary one, 
 
 And full of sad tears at best ! 
 God, take back thy wandering weary one, 
 
 Like a wounded Bird home to its nest. 
 
 SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOYE. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 Thro' all the world we walk apart : 
 
 Thou mayst not in my bosom lie : 
 I may not press thee to my heart, 
 
 Nor see love-thinkings light thine eye :
 
 SWEET SPIRIT OP MY LOVE. 97 
 
 Yet art thou with me. All my life 
 
 Orbs out in thy warm beauty's sphere ; 
 
 My bravest dreams of thee are rife, 
 
 And colour' d with thy presence dear. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 I know how beautiful thou art, 
 
 But never tell the starry thought : 
 I only whisper to my heart, 
 
 " She lights with heaven thy earthliest spot." 
 And birds that night and day rejoice, 
 
 And fragrant winds, give back to me 
 A music ringing of thy voice, 
 
 And surge my heart's love-tide to thee. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 The Spring and Summer bloom-bedight, 
 
 That garland Earth with rainbow-showers, — 
 Morn's kissing breath, and eyes of light, 
 
 That wake in smiles the winking flowers, 
 The air with honey 'd fragrance fed, 
 
 The flashing waters, — soughing tree, — 
 Noon's golden glory, — sundown red, 
 
 Aye warble into songs of thee. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 When Night's soft silence clothes the earth, 
 And wakes the passionate bird of love ; 
 And Stars laugh out in golden mirth, 
 
 H
 
 93 SWEET SPIRIT OF MY LOVE. 
 
 And yearning souls divinelier movi 
 \\ ben God's breath hallows every spot, 
 
 And, lapp'd in feeling's luxury, 
 The heart 's break-fidl of tender thought ; 
 
 Then art thuu with me, still with me. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 I listen for thy footfall, — feel 
 
 Thy look is burning on me, such 
 As reads my heart : 1 sometimes reel 
 
 And throb, expectant for thy touch ! 
 For by the voice of woods and brooks, 
 
 And flowers with nrgin-fraCTance wet, 
 And earnest stars with yearning looks, 
 
 I know that we shall mingle yet. 
 
 Sweet Spirit of my love ! 
 Strange places on me smile, as thou 
 
 Badst pass'd, and left thy beauty's tints: 
 The wild flowers even the secret know-, 
 
 And light and shade flash mystic hints. 
 Meseems, like olden Gods, thou 'It come 
 
 In cloud ; but mine anointed eyes 
 Shall see the glory burn thro' gloom, 
 
 And clasp thee, Sweet ! with large surprise.
 
 99 
 
 THE PATRIOT TO HIS BRIDE. 
 
 Will you leave the fond bosom of Home, where 
 
 Bliss hath been from your earliest waking ? 
 Can you give its endearments to come, where 
 
 Life hath many a hot heart-aching ? 
 Have you counted the cost to stand by me, 
 
 In the battle I fight for Man ? 
 And shall your angel-love deify me, 
 
 Who stand in the world's dark ban ? 
 0, a daring high soul you will need, dear love, 
 
 To brave the life-battle with me : 
 For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love, 
 
 And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. 
 
 Sweet ! know you of gallant hearts perishing, — 
 
 The fine spirits that dumbly bow ? 
 For a bttle of Fortune's cherishing, 
 
 They are breaking in agony now ! 
 And without the sunshine that life needetb, 
 
 Alas ! Sweet ! for me and for you : 
 But little the careless world heedeth 
 
 For love like ours, tender and true ! 
 
 h 2
 
 100 A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 0, a daring high soul you will need, dear love, 
 
 To brave the life-battle with me : 
 Tor your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love, 
 
 And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. 
 
 Well, you 've sworn, I have sworn, God hath bound us, 
 
 In a covenant the world shall not part : 
 I have flung my love's purple around us, 
 
 And you Uve in each pulse of my heart ! 
 It may be our name in Earth's story 
 
 Shall endure when we are no more ; 
 For love lives as the Stars burn in glory, 
 
 And the Flowers bud on Earth's green floor. 
 But a daring high soul you will need, dear love, 
 
 To brave the life-battle with me : 
 For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love, 
 
 And your sweet eyes dim tearfully. 
 
 A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 Earth hke a Lover poor and low 
 Feasts on Night's queenly beauty now ; 
 While I, with burning heart and brow, 
 Awake to weep for thee, Love !
 
 A NIGHT SONG. 101 
 
 The spangled glories of the Night, 
 The Moon that walks in soft, white light, 
 These cannot win my charmed sight, 
 Or hire a thought from thee, Love ! 
 
 I 'm thinking o'er the short, sweet hour, 
 Our hearts drank up Love's growth of power, 
 And summer' d as in Eden's bower, 
 
 When I was blest with thee, Love ! 
 There burn'd no beauty on the trees, 
 There woke no song of birds or bees, 
 But Love's cup for us held no lees, 
 
 And I was blest with thee, Love. 
 
 Then grand and golden fancies spring 
 From out my heart, on splendid wing, 
 Like Chrysalis from Life's wintering 
 
 Burst bright and summeringly, Love ! 
 And as a Chief of battle lost 
 Counts, and recounts, his stricken host, 
 Stands tearful Memory making most 
 
 Of all that 's toucht with thee, Love. 
 
 Perchance in Pleasure's brilliant bower 
 Thy heart may half forget Love's power, 
 But at this still and starry hour 
 Does it not turn to me, Love ?
 
 102 o LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR ! 
 
 0, by all pangs for thy sweet sake, 
 In my deep love thy heart-thirst slake, 
 Or, all-too-full, my heart must break : 
 
 Break ! break ! with loving thee, Love ! 
 
 LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! 
 
 lay thy hand in mine, dear ! 
 
 We 're growing old, we 're growing old ; 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear, 
 
 That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold. 
 'T is long, long since our new love 
 
 Made Hfe divine, made life divine ; 
 But age enricheth true love, 
 
 Like noble wine, like noble wine. 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 
 
 And take thy rest, and take thy rest ; 
 Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 
 
 And make thy nest, and make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head, on this dear head ; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid, are surely laid.
 
 I LOVE MY LOVE, AND MY LOVE LOVES ME. 103 
 
 lean thy life on mine, dear ! 
 
 'T will skelter thee, 't will shelter thee. 
 Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 
 
 On my young tree, on my young tree : 
 And so, till boughs are leafless, 
 
 And Song-birds flown, and Song-birds flown, 
 We '11 twine, then lay us, griefless, 
 
 Together down, together down. 
 
 I LOVE MY LOVE, AND MY LOVE 
 LOVES ME. 
 
 The life of life 's when for another we 're living, 
 Whose spirit responds to ours like a sweet Psalter ; 
 
 When heart-smiles are burning, and flame-words out-giving 
 The fire we have lit on her heart's holy Altar ! 
 
 Love, God's religion ! Love, burning and starried ! 
 The soul must be beautiful where thou art palaced ; 
 
 1 mark where thy kiss-seal is set on the forehead, 
 
 I know where thy dew of heaven 's richliest chaliced.
 
 104 I LOVE MY LOVE, AND MY LOVE LOVES ME. 
 
 That radiant brow brcaketh thro' cloud and world-stain, 
 
 And strong is that soul in the battle of Duty ; 
 Smiling May-sunshine thro' Life's Winter-rain, 
 All outer things clothing with inner-world beauty ! 
 'T is writ in the face, whose heart singeth for glee, 
 "I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 Once I was a-weary of life and the world, 
 
 And the voice of Delight on my heart fell accurst, 
 And my eyes oft with tear-drops unweetingly pearPd, 
 
 I had no one to love, tho' with love my heart burst : 
 Then on me a sweet dream of Paradise stole — 
 
 Turn'd to radiance the shadows that brooded around me ; 
 And walking the gardens that Eden my soul, 
 
 One morning, my Love, like another Eve, found me : 
 She lookt, and a maelstrom of joy whirl'd my bosom; 
 
 ^lie smiled, and my being ran bliss to the brim : 
 She spake, and my eager heart flusht into blossom ; 
 
 Dear Heaven ! 't was the music set to my Life's hymn ! 
 And up went my soul to God, shouting for glee, 
 " I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 I know, Love of mine ! time may nevermore bring 
 Back the lost freshness that clad my young heart ; 
 
 But, looking on thee, dear ! sweet thoughts will up-spring, 
 As from the cold tomb the green verdure will start !
 
 BRIDAL SONG. 105 
 
 I look in thine eyes, and, joy to the weeper ! 
 
 Their love-light makes sunshine of all my dark fears ; 
 And what made my heart faint, lifts it now, a strong leaper ! 
 
 And livers of bliss flood its channels of tears. 
 I had deem'd its wealth flung on sands barren and binning, 
 
 And sweet 't is to find my Life's current again, 
 Caught lip in thy love's precious chalice — returning 
 
 Like dew that hath been to heaven, dropping in rain. 
 And my heart's perpetual hymn shall be, 
 " I love my Love, and my Love loves me." 
 
 BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 Gaily the Sun woos the Spring for his Bride, 
 
 With kisses all warm and golden ; 
 Till the life at her heart she no longer may hide, 
 
 And the wealth of her love is unfolden. 
 
 The wrinkled old Sea sidles up the sands, 
 
 And lavishes kisses in showers 
 On the Earth, till the Grey-beard's young darHng stands 
 
 All dress'd in her bridal flowers !
 
 106 A WAIL. 
 
 With kisses, sweet kisses, the mellow Rains start 
 
 The virgin flowers a-blossom, 
 And ripen their beauty till fragrant lips part, 
 
 And Love's jewel gleams rich in their bosom. 
 
 Faint with love wingeth the wantoning Wind, 
 And yearns as its heart were a-breaking, 
 
 And kisses sweet kisses, till buds be untwined. 
 And the young leaves all are awaking. 
 
 And there 's nothing so dainty-sweet in life 
 As to kiss the Maid glowing and tender, 
 
 Till the heart of the Wife giveth up in the strife, 
 Full-flowering in Love's splendour. 
 
 A WAIL. 
 
 The Day goeth down red darkling, 
 The moaning waves dash out the light, 
 
 And there is not a star of hope sparkling, 
 On the threshold of my night.
 
 A WAIL. 107 
 
 The wild winds of Autumn go wailing 
 
 Up the valley and over the hill, 
 Like yearning Ghosts round the world sailing, 
 
 In search of the old love still. 
 
 A fathomless sea is rolling 
 
 O'er the wreck of the bravest bark ; 
 And my pain-muffled heart is tolling 
 
 Its dumb-peal down in the dark. 
 
 The waves of a mighty sorrow 
 
 Have whebned the pearl of my life : 
 
 And there cometh to me no morrow 
 Shall solace this desolate strife. 
 
 Gone are the last faint flashes, 
 Set is the sun of my years ; 
 
 And over a few poor ashes 
 
 I sit in my darkness and tears.
 
 10S 
 
 As the White Snow crowns the Hills, and the arms of 
 Ether fills, 
 With the glory of its loveliness — a presence as of light, 
 And it looks up in Heaven's face with all a Virgin's 
 trusting grace : 
 So the Maiden walkt on Purity's white height. 
 But the Snow will blush for bliss, at the red Dawn's 
 fervent kiss ; 
 And fall from its high throne, and lose the brightness 
 from its brow ; 
 And be trodden on the highways, and be trampled in the 
 byways : 
 So the Maiden's life is stain'd and trampled now.
 
 109 
 
 VOICES OF OUR OWN TIME. 
 
 M;\V YEAR'S EVE IN EXILE. 
 
 Tin: flower and chivalry of many lands 
 
 rothed to Martydom a- to a Bride, — 
 \\ arriors of Freedom who for berita 
 
 r on their browa a mark as curs I in's, — 
 Had mel together, a Btrange companie ! 
 brothers, battling in one sacred can 
 Tli' ail- w ho had lain life's all 
 
 (in Freedom's hungrj Altar, and gone forth 
 Clad in the spirit of self-sacrifii 
 T<» mam a thankless world with homeless hearts, — 
 Men who had tosl on Danger's wildest wavi 
 
 For whom a radiant Victorj ever sh , 
 
 Like I [i ro on ber watch-tower w ith ber torch, 
 Lighting her lover through the Bhadcvi of death, — 
 Men who had broken Battle's burning Li 
 Dealing life with their looks, death with their hands, 
 And Btrode like Salamanders through War's flame;
 
 110 NEW YEAR'S EVE IN EXILE. 
 
 And in the last stern charge of desperate valour, 
 
 On Death's scythe dasht with force that turn'd its edge. 
 
 Some were but youths, yet with such manhood flusht, 
 
 By eager leaps to catch at lordlier life, 
 
 They had attain'd the old heroic stature. 
 
 Some had grown grey with battle, some with years, 
 
 And there were ancient Sorrows grand as kings 
 
 Of an old peerless line. Such silent Griefs 
 
 And Sufferings crown'd for immortality. 
 
 Earnest as fire they sate, and reverent 
 
 As though a God were present in their midst ; 
 
 Stern, but serene and hopeful, prayerful, brave, 
 
 As Cromwell's Ironsides on a battle-eve ; 
 
 Each individual life as clencht and knit, 
 
 As though beneath their robes their fingers clutcht 
 
 The weapon sworn to strike a Tyrant down. 
 
 Such proud Bebef did Lift their kindling brows, 
 
 Such glowing purpose hunger'd in their eyes, 
 
 With fire enough to set a world in flames. 
 
 No servile souls, that at your fixed look, 
 
 Like meek worms, writhe into their darkening holes. 
 
 And One up-rose to word the Thought that ran 
 
 Hot to their hearts and glittering to their brows ; 
 
 An old man, with the mournfull'st, thin, grey hair ; 
 
 The lines of suffering in his face seem'd drawn 
 
 Tight with the mortal tug of Agony ; 
 
 But with sad majesty he smiled, and splendour 
 
 Broke sweetly from the furrows of his face,
 
 NEW YEAR S EVE IN EXILE. Ill 
 
 As wrinkles on the waters laugh with light. 
 
 Dilating as a Prophet's wings of flame 
 
 Flutter'd within him — all his aspect burn'd 
 
 With an unearthly fire. He was caught up 
 
 The mount Transfiguration, with eyes fixt 
 
 On air, as though he talkt with one beyond. 
 
 He stood there looking down the unseen time, 
 
 Like some hoar Hill that lifts its solemn peak 
 
 To catch the unrisen Morn, while all the plains 
 
 Are drowsed and darkling. He already sunn'd 
 
 Him in the glory of the coming day. 
 
 And his words swept their yielding, springing hearts, 
 
 As strong winds take a field of billowing corn. 
 
 " The merry bells are jubilant To-night 
 
 Through all the land of Exile ; blithe wine laughs 
 
 Its bubbbng laughter, — winking gem-like eyes, 
 
 And leaps up in the beaker like red lips 
 
 Whose kisses storm the inner gates of bliss. 
 
 But not with mirth, and song, and dainty feast, 
 
 We meet to hold our solemn festival. 
 
 We wait the wine of Freedom : when it runs, 
 
 We shall wax merry, too, — perchance grow drunken— 
 
 They keep it ripening to such mellow age ! 
 
 And we shall banquet like Immortals fed 
 
 By Hebe's hand at the Ambrosial feasts. 
 
 The New Year flashes on us sadly grand, 
 
 Leaps in our midst with ringing armour on, 
 
 Strikes a mail'd hand in ours, and bids us arm
 
 112 NEW YEAIl's EVE IN EXILE. 
 
 Ere the first trumpet sound the onset hour. 
 
 Dense darkness lies on Europe's w inter-world. 
 
 Stealthy and grim the Bear comes creeping on, 
 
 Out of the North, and all the Peoples sleep 
 
 By Freedom's smouldering watch-fire : there is none 
 
 To snatch the brand, and dash it in his face. 
 
 Old England sleeps, and still the Bear creeps on. 
 
 Ah ! she forgetteth how, in the old years, 
 
 The great hearts of her glorious Commonwealth 
 
 Sent thunder-throbbings through the lands, and gave' them 
 
 Such a new pulse of nobler life : and when 
 
 Their sumless Venture wreckt, and o'er them roll'd 
 
 The wormwood waters of defeat and death, 
 
 How in their pleading hands they held the Babe 
 
 And Orphan Liberty, and bade her rear it 
 
 For love of them, and for its own sweet sake. 
 
 And England slinks behind the nations now. 
 
 Dim is her Beacon Despots paled to see 
 
 Burn on them through the dark, like God's stern eye. 
 
 Her battle-armour rusteth in her halls, 
 
 And the old mighty arm that struck such blows 
 
 Tor Bight and Freedom, hangeth listless now. 
 
 A dry-rot eats her life : her God is Mammon ! 
 
 God Mars no longer leaps into her heart, 
 
 As in a chariot driving down to battle. 
 
 Her ancient fame and valour have become 
 
 A tale that 's told us of forgotten times — 
 
 Some fabled Kraken slumbering in its sea ! 

 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE IN EXILE. 113 
 
 ! for the voice of Milton once again, 
 To make the lion-eyes lighten, and her heart 
 As tremblingly alive as is a Star, 
 Till in her naked strength majestical 
 She walkt the sun-road of her glorious way. 
 But England sleeps — the Euin still rolls on. 
 Earth crouches 'neath the shuddering wings of Eear. 
 Silent, and very calm, Freedom lies husht, 
 And listens like a panting thing pursued, 
 Heark'ning, heart-stifled, for the stealthiest tread 
 Of One that hunts like Tarquin for Lucrece. 
 5 T is midnight now, and all the creeping tilings, 
 And Birds of Darkness, ply their ghastly work. 
 Life gropes and stumbles among gaping graves, 
 And Freedom's worshippers fall headless, while 
 They bend to give their hearts up at her shrine ! 
 But God 's in heaven, and yet the day shall dawn — 
 Break from the dark upon her golden wings, 
 Her quick, ripe splendours rend and burn the gloom. 
 Her living tides of glory burst, and foam, 
 And hurry along the star-lampt streets of night. 
 Cloud after cloud shall light a rainbow-roof, 
 And build a Triumph-Arch for conquering Day 
 To flash her beauty — trail her grandeurs through, 
 And take the world in her white arms of light. 
 And Earth shall fling aside her mask of gloom, 
 And lift her tearful face. there will be 
 Blood on it thick as dews ! The Children's blood 
 
 I
 
 114 NEW YEAR'S EVE IN EXILE. 
 
 Splasht in the Mother's face ! And there must be 
 
 A red sunrise of retribution yet ! 
 
 A mighty future is about to break 
 
 The hush o' the world — the waiting gloom in heaven. 
 
 The New Year cometh with a magic key, 
 
 To ope some radiant chamber in Time's palace. 
 
 Our Martyrs have not sown such seed in vain ! 
 
 Beneath old Winter's snows a world of hope 
 
 Lies ripening, and shall richly run to flowers, 
 
 When Spring comes dancing like a jubilant Psaltress, 
 
 And free earth kindles as a countenance 
 
 Alive with love, and all the soul alight ! 
 
 come, thou Spring of God, and at thy voice 
 
 The balmy blood shall beat in bud and leaf! 
 
 And come, thou mellow rain, fall on it warm, 
 
 And fondle it with kisses, drop rich tears ; 
 
 And blow, thou sweet Spring-wind, and set it stirring 
 
 With secret rapture — budding tenderly, 
 
 With all the glory of its folded bloom, 
 
 And all its fragrance striving for the light. 
 
 God, what a Spring and Harvest yet shall crown 
 
 The dark, dem Deluge of Calamity ! 
 
 Then come, thou grand New Year, in silence come 
 
 Across the white snows, and the winter-land. 
 
 Come, great Deliverer, call the peoples up, — 
 
 Up from the Egypt of their slavery ! 
 
 King out the death-knell of old Tvrannv — 
 
 'T is rotten ripe, and the heart of half the world
 
 NEW YEAR S EVE IN EXILE. 115 
 
 Doth beat and burst to hurry it into hell. 
 
 Stride o'er the Present, grand as some huge wave 
 
 Should rush across Panama at a leap, 
 
 And make two Seas one perfect world of waters. 
 
 So link our great Past to a nobler Future, 
 
 And set our new world singing on its way, 
 
 With sunshine freighted, like a heart of bliss, 
 
 And Life's rich tide at Glory's high flood-mark. 
 
 A little while, and we shall yet retm - n 
 
 Each to the Fatherland, like kings to conquest. 
 
 Light breaks there ! in the East : it grows, and soon 
 
 Shall Freedom's sun roll up the Heaven of Life. 
 
 We may not see God's face, yet at our side 
 
 He combats for us, with his vizor down. 
 
 But no more words — like weeds, they sap the soul 
 
 Of richness that should fill the fruit of deeds. 
 
 Henceforth let lips be dumb, as Bravery — 
 
 Her parley done — had shut her gates, to ope not 
 
 Save for the shouts that chariot Victory forth. 
 
 We are all ready ! We have waited long ! 
 
 God strike the hour, Ho ! let the trumpets ring !" 
 
 He ceased. One shout ran thro' the night, and struck 
 
 Heaven's boss of stars, and like a ship went down 
 
 In the lone sea of silence flowing round. 
 
 In touching majesty the Stars lookt down, 
 
 As tho' they yearn' d to them with answering pulse, 
 
 And with invisible speed the world roll'd on. 
 
 i 2
 
 116 
 
 OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 There she sits in her Island-home, 
 
 Peerless among her Peers ! 
 And Humanity oft to her arms doth come, 
 
 To case its poor heart of tears. 
 Old England still throbs with the muffled fire 
 
 Of a Past she can never forget : 
 And again shall she banner the "World up higher ; 
 
 For there 's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 They would mock at her now, who of old lookt forth 
 
 In their fear, as they heard her afar ; 
 But loud will your wail be, O Kings of the Earth ! 
 
 When the Old Land goes down to the war. 
 The Avalanche trembles, half-launcht, and half-riven, 
 
 Her voice will in motion set : 
 ring out the tidings, ye Winds of heaven ! 
 
 There 's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 The old nursing Mother 's not hoary yet, 
 There is sap in her Saxon tree ; — 
 
 Lo ! she lifteth a bosom of glory yet, 
 
 Thro' her mists, to the Sun and the Sea.
 
 ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. 117 
 
 Fair as the Queen of Love, fresh from the foam, 
 
 Or a star in a dark cloud set ; 
 Ye may blazon her shame, — ye may leap at her name, — 
 
 But there 's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 Let the storm burst, it will find the Old Land 
 
 Beady-ripe for a rough, red fray ! 
 She will fight as she fought when she took her stand 
 
 Tor the Eight in the olden day. 
 Ay, rouse the old royal soul, Europe's best hope 
 
 Is her sword-edge by Victory set ! 
 She shall dash Freedom's foes adown Death's bloody slope ; 
 
 For there 's life in the Old Land yet. 
 
 ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. 
 
 Now, glory to our England, 
 As she rises, calm and grand, 
 
 With the ancient spirit in her eyes,- 
 The good Sword in her hand !
 
 118 ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. 
 
 Our royal right on battle-ground 
 
 Was aye to bear the brunt : 
 Ho ! brave heart ! for one passionate bound, 
 
 And take thy place in front ! 
 Now glory to our England, 
 
 As she rises, calm and grand, 
 With the ancient spirit in her eyes — 
 
 The good Sword in her hand ! 
 
 Who woidd not fight for England ? 
 
 Who would not fling a life 
 I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage, 
 
 And glory in the strife? 
 Her stem is thorny, but doth burst 
 
 A glorious Eose a-top ! 
 And shall our dear Eose wither ? Eirst 
 
 We '11 drain life's dearest drop ! 
 Who would not fight for England ? 
 
 Who would not fling a life 
 I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage, 
 
 And glory in the strife ? 
 
 To battle goes our England, 
 All as gallant and as gay 
 
 As Lover to the Altar, on 
 A merry marriage-day.
 
 ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE. 119 
 
 A weary night she stood to watch 
 
 The battle-dawn up-roll'd ; 
 And her spirit leaps within, to match 
 
 The noble deeds of old. 
 To battle goes our England, 
 
 All as gallant and as gay 
 As Lover to the Altar, on 
 
 A merry marriage-day. 
 
 Now, fair befall our England, 
 
 On her proud and perilous road : 
 And woe and wail to those who make 
 
 Her foot-prints red with blood ! 
 Up with our red-cross banner — roll 
 
 A thunder-peal of drums ! 
 Fight on there, every valiant soul, 
 
 And courage ! England comes ! 
 Now, fair befall our England, 
 
 On her proud and perilous road : 
 And woe and wail to those who make 
 
 Her foot-prints red with blood ! 
 
 Now, victory to our England ! 
 
 And where'er she hfts her hand 
 In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, 
 
 God bless the dear Old Land !
 
 120 DOWN IN AUSTRALIA. 
 
 And when the Storm has pass'd away, 
 
 In glory and in calm, 
 May she sit down i' the green o' the day, 
 
 And sing her peaceful psalm ! 
 Now, victory to our England ! 
 
 And where'er she lifts her hand 
 In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right, 
 
 God bless the dear Old Land ! 
 
 DOWxN IN AUSTRALIA. 
 
 Quaff a cup, and send a cheer up, for the Old Land ! 
 
 We have heard the Reapers shout, 
 
 For the harvest going out, 
 Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land ; 
 
 And our message shall be hurl'd 
 
 Up the steep sides of the world, — 
 There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land. 
 
 We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land ! 
 
 For the old ancestral tree 
 
 Striketh root beneath the sea, 
 And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land :
 
 DOWN IN AUSTRALIA. 121 
 
 We shall come, too, if you call, 
 We shall fight on if you fall ; 
 Cromwell's land shall never be a bought and sold Land. 
 
 'b 1 
 
 The standard of the Lord wave o'er the Old Land ! 
 
 For the waiting world holds breath 
 
 While she treads the den of Death, 
 \\ ith the peaceful sleeve stript up from her bare bold hand ; 
 
 And her rose in blood shall bloom 
 
 On the bosom, and the tomb 
 Of her many heroes fallen for the Old Land. 
 
 0, a teiTor to the Tyrant is that bold Land ! 
 
 He remembers how she stood, 
 
 With her raiment roll'd in blood, 
 When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land ; 
 
 And he looks with darken'd face, 
 
 For he knows the hero race 
 Strike the Harp of Freedom — draw her Sword with bold 
 hand. 
 
 Let thy glorious voice be heard, thou great and bold Land ! 
 
 Speak the one victorious word, 
 
 And fair Freedom's wander'd Bird 
 Shall wing back with leaf of promise from the Old Land ; 
 
 And the peoples shall come out 
 
 From their slave-land with a shout 
 For the spring that greeneth in the Future's Gold Land.
 
 122 FRANCE AND ENGLAND. 
 
 When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land, 
 
 You shall see the Tyrant down ! 
 
 You shall see the ransom' d crown 
 On the brow of trampled peoples won with bold hand : 
 
 She shall thresh her foes like corn, 
 
 They shall eat the bread of scorn, 
 And we '11 sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land. 
 
 Quaff a cup, and send a cheer up from the Gold Land. 
 
 We have heard the Reapers shout, 
 
 For the harvest going out, 
 Seen the smoke of Battle closing round the bold Land ; 
 
 And our answer shall be huii'd 
 
 Up the steep sides of the world, — 
 There are true hearts down here beating for the Old Land. 
 
 THE LILIES OF FRANCE AND OLD 
 ENGLAND'S RED ROSE. 
 
 Like a stern old friend, War grimly comes 
 
 To the temple of peaceful Life ; 
 With the well-known nod of his beckoning plumes 
 
 He hurries us into the strife.
 
 FRANCE AND ENGLAND. 123 
 
 And we meet once more, in the fields of fate, 
 
 With our chivalrous Enemy, 
 Who knows, by the grip of our hands in hate, 
 
 What the strength of our love may he. 
 ! the Lilies of France and old England's Bed Rose 
 
 Are twined in a Coronal now ; 
 And at War's bloody bridal it glitters and glows 
 
 On Liberty's beautiful brow. 
 
 We have dasht together like waves and rocks ! 
 
 We have fought till our shirts grew red ! 
 We have met in the shuddering battle-shocks, 
 
 Where none but the freed soul fled ! 
 Now side by side, in the fields of fate, 
 
 And shoulder to shoulder, are we ; 
 And we know, by the grip of our hands in hate, 
 
 What the strength of our love may be. 
 ! the Lilies of France and old England's Bed Rose 
 
 Are twined in a Coronal now ; 
 And at War's bloody bridal it glitters and glows 
 
 On Liberty's beautiful brow. 
 
 Then gather ye, gather to battle, ye Braves, 
 
 In the might of your old renown ! 
 And follow ye, follow ye, over the waves, 
 
 Where Liberty's sun went down ! 
 By the bivouac-fire, in the battle-shower, 
 
 Bemember your destiny grand,
 
 124 FBANCE AND ENGLAND. 
 
 To set in the thrones of their olden power 
 
 The peoples of many a land ! 
 For the Lilies of France and old England's Red Rose 
 
 Are twined in a Coronal now ; 
 And at War's bloody bridal it gUtters and glows 
 
 On Liberty's beautiful brow. 
 
 Till the last fetter' d nation that calls us is free, 
 
 Let us fall upon Tyranny's horde ! 
 Brave Italy, Poland, and Hungary, see, 
 
 With their praying hands seek for a Sword ! 
 Till the Storm-God is roused in each suffering land, 
 
 Let us march thro' the welcoming world ; 
 And till Freedom and Faith shall go hand-in-hand, 
 
 Let us keep the war-standard unfurl'd ! 
 For the Lilies of France and Old England's Red Rose 
 
 Are twined in a Coronal now ; 
 And at War's bloody bridal it glitters and glows 
 
 On Liberty's beautiful brow.
 
 125 
 
 THE FLEET BEFORE SEBASTOPOL. 
 
 HiKK.ui ! we grip the Tyrant now! 
 
 And there 's no heart so lowly 
 But burns to strike a battle-blow, 
 
 And win a cause so holy ! 
 The Brave look fearless in the eyes 
 
 Of Death, nor cry him quarter; 
 And 't is no nearer heaven. Boys 
 
 l'.\ Land, than 't i- by Water! 
 And 0! but a jubilant carouse 
 
 Awaits us in our fax land, 
 When we shall thrust up conquering brows, 
 
 And take our Country's L r arland. 
 
 0, think how bappj ill dim, 
 
 l . reel as on the beaches, 
 With blissful looks of love that swim 
 
 'I hro' long luxurious reach 
 They watch us aow from out the \\ 
 
 1 > 1 1 1 all tuo proud to Borrow 
 For us who rest on Victory's breast, 
 
 Or wear her wreath tO-mOITOW.
 
 126 THE FLEET BEFORE SEBASTOPOL. 
 
 And ! but a jubilant carouse 
 
 Awaits us in our far land, 
 When we shall thrust up conquering brows, 
 
 And take our Country's garland. 
 
 We '11 seek the bed of Death, to win 
 
 Fair Freedom's dream of beauty, 
 Or wrest her from the Tyrant, in 
 
 The loving arms of duty. 
 Then gaily thro' the ocean foam 
 
 Shall sail our nobler Argo, 
 And proudly to our Island-home 
 
 We '11 bear the precious cargo. 
 And ! but a jubilant carouse 
 
 Awaits us in our far land, 
 When we shall thrust up conquering brows, 
 
 And take our Country's garland. 
 
 To-day the ancient valour starts, 
 
 And the spirit of old story 
 Shall flash from out heroic hearts, 
 
 And kindle England's glory. 
 Wild voices wail across the sea, — 
 
 They cry from many a woe-land, — 
 Eevenge ! remember Sinope ! 
 
 Revenge ! remember Poland ! 
 And ! but a jubdant carouse 
 
 Awaits us in our far land,
 
 THINGS WILL GO BETTER YET. 127 
 
 When we shall thrust up conquering brows, 
 And take our Country's garland. 
 
 Now, Britons, fight your Ships to-day 
 
 As Grenville fought the Spaniard ! 
 And if War's bloodiest game they play, 
 
 Have at them grip-and-poignard. 
 One thrilling shout for England, Ho ! 
 
 Then, naked for the fight, men, 
 Dash in like fire upon the foe, 
 
 And God defend the Eight, men ! 
 And ! but a jubilant carouse 
 
 Awaits us in our far land, 
 When we shall thrust up conquering brows, 
 
 And take our Countiy's garland. 
 
 THINGS WILL GO BETTER YET, 
 
 Old Earth with cloud and thorn is rife : 
 
 Man hath his miseries still ; yet flowers 
 Make sunshine in the darkest life, 
 
 And tint with heaven this world of ours. 
 And there be hearts all loving, 
 
 And love shall love beget ; 
 For now, thank God ! we 're moving, 
 
 Things will go better yet.
 
 128 i AN EXILE'S SONG TO HIS COUNTRY. 
 
 From out the brain 't will wrench a tear, 
 
 To count our Martyrs by the way ; 
 Yet, bear a hand, my brother dear, 
 
 A glorious remnant lives to-day. 
 The people, leagued and loving, 
 
 Shall break the tyrants' net ; 
 And now, thank God ! we 're moving, 
 
 Things will go better yet. 
 
 AN EXILE'S SONG TO HIS COUNTRY. 
 
 How dimm'd is all thy glory, and how dark the shadow falls, 
 And wild the sorrow waileth thro' thy hamlets and thy halls; 
 Thy banner burns no longer on the mountains and the sea ; 
 And ! the dead are blessed who thy suffering may not see. 
 How are thy brave ones scattered on many an ahen strand, 
 Thy darhngs leal and true to the dear old Motherland ! 
 
 They've bound thee in the grave-clothes, and we watch 
 
 with tears and sighs, 
 Till Freedom comes like Christ, and thou like Lazarus 
 
 shalt rise ; 
 And thy pale face, my Country, shall flush with ripening 
 
 bloom, 
 As Nature's colour kindles when the breath of Spring 
 
 doth come :
 
 an bulb's song to HIS COUNTRY. 129 
 
 All! come, thou Spring of promise ; mighty Hope, put 
 
 forth thine hand, 
 And build thy arch of triumph o'er the dear old Motherland. 
 
 The birds that follow Summer, they come, and they depart, 
 • the land of my love, and the home of my heart ; 
 i. like a wounded bird, my spirit trembles in the wind, 
 
 And flatters down, and they arc gone, and I am left behind ! 
 
 ii lets in the nest ! the spoiler's bloody hand! 
 And I so far away from the dear old Motherland ! 
 
 Sometimes when life is darl glory bursts its glooms, 
 
 lightning thru" the startled night the face of things 
 
 illumes ; 
 A sudden splendour .smites me, and — ere the thunders 
 
 roll— 
 
 1 * thy face look radiant thro' the darkness of my soul: 
 And thou art sitting at the feel of Freedom, great and 
 
 grand. 
 Thy children happ) in thy smile, thou dear old Motherland. 
 
 0, thou among the nation- for thy might >halt yet be 
 theme, I. 
 
 Thy fatal curse of Beauty bj l blessing all redeemed! 
 
 Tin- red wounds where they pierced thee .-hall to Bears of 
 
 glory turn, 
 And in thy tearful eyes the light of boundle-s life s-hall burn. 
 
 K
 
 130 THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR. 
 
 The heavens are fill'd with Martyrs, but the earth still 
 
 holds a band, 
 Who will meet in battle yet for the dear old Motherland. 
 
 Ah ! many are the gallant hearts will never answer when 
 Thy clarion-cry shall call us up to the field again ! 
 And many are the tears must fall, and prayers go up to God ; 
 But the vintage redly ripens, and the wine-press shall be 
 
 trod. 
 The harvest bendeth rich for death, the reapers clench the 
 
 hand, 
 And Victory comes to claim his Bride, thou dear old 
 
 Motherland. 
 
 THE 
 
 CHIVALRY OF LABOUR. 
 
 Uprouse ye now, brave brother-band, 
 With honest heart, and working hand : 
 We are but few, toil-tried, and true, 
 Yet hearts beat high to dare and do : 
 And who would not a champion be 
 In Labour's lordlier Chivalry ?
 
 THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR. 131 
 
 We fight ! but bear no bloody brand, 
 We fight to free our Fatherland : 
 We fight that smiles of love may glow 
 On lips where curses quiver now ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! true Knights are we 
 In Labour's lordlier Chivahy. 
 
 ! there be hearts that ache to see 
 The day-dawn of our victory : 
 Eyes full of heart-break with us plead, 
 And Watchers weep, and Martyrs bleed : 
 ! who would not a Champion be 
 In Labour's lordlier Chivahy ? 
 
 Work, Brothers mine ; work, hand and brain ; 
 
 We '11 win the Golden Age again : 
 
 And Love's Millennial morn shall rise 
 
 In happy hearts, and blessed eyes. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! true Knights are we 
 
 In Labour's lordlier Chivalry. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 THE 
 
 CHIVALRY OF LABOUR 
 
 EXHORTED TO THE WORSHIP OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Our world oft turns in gloom, and life hath many a 
 
 perilous way, 
 Yet there 's no path so desolate and thorny, cold and gray, 
 But Beauty like a Beacon burns above the dark of strife, 
 And like an Alchemist she turns all things to golden life. 
 On human hearts her presence droppeth precious manna 
 
 down, 
 On human brows her glory gathers like a coming crown : 
 Her snide bghts up Life's troubled stream, and Love, the 
 
 swimmer ! lives ; 
 And 't is brave to battle for the guerdon that she gives ! 
 Then let us worship Beauty with the knightly faith of old, 
 Chivaby of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! 
 
 The first-fruits of the Past at Beauty's shrine are offer'd 
 up, 
 rom which a vintage meet for Gods she crusheth in her 
 cup :
 
 THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR, 133 
 
 And from the living Present doth she press the rare new 
 
 wine, 
 To glad the hearts of all her lovers with a draught divine. 
 Earth's crowning miracle ! she comes ! with blessing lips, 
 
 that part 
 Like mid-May's rose flusht open with the fragrance of her 
 
 heart : 
 And life turns to her colour — kindles with her light — like 
 
 flowers 
 That garner up the golden fire, and suck the mellow 
 
 showers. 
 Come let us worship Beauty with the knightly faith of old, 
 O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! 
 
 Come let us worship Beauty where the budding Spring 
 
 doth flower, 
 And lush green leaves and grasses flush out sweeter every 
 
 hour : 
 Or Summer's tide of splendour floods the lap o' the World 
 
 once more, 
 With riches like a sea that surges jewels on its shore. 
 Come feel her ripening influence when Morning feasts our 
 
 eyes— 
 Thro' open gates of glory — with a glimpse of Paradise : 
 Or queenly Night sits crowned, smiling down the purple 
 
 gloom, 
 And Stars, hke Heaven's fruitage, melt i' the glory of 
 
 their bloom.
 
 134 THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR. 
 
 Come let us worship Beauty with the knightly faith of old, 
 O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! 
 
 Come from the den of darkness and the city's soil of sin, 
 
 Put on your radiant Manhood, and the Angel's blessing 
 win ! 
 
 Where wealthier sunlight comes from Heaven, like wel- 
 come-smiles of God, 
 
 And Earth's bHnd yearnings leap to life in flowers, from 
 out the sod : 
 
 Come worship Beauty in the forest-temple, dim and hush, 
 
 Where stands Magnificence dreaming ! and God bumeth 
 in the bush : 
 
 Or where the old lulls worship with their silence for a 
 psalm, 
 
 Or Ocean's weary heart doth keep the sabbath of its calm. 
 
 Come let us worship Beauty with the knightly faith of old, 
 
 Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold ! 
 
 Come let us worship Beauty : she hath subtle power to 
 
 start 
 Heroic word and deed out -flashing from the humblest heart ! 
 Great feelings will gush unawares, and freshly as the first 
 Bich Bainbow that up startled Heaven in tearful splen- 
 dour burst. 
 O blessed are her lineaments, and wondrous are her ways 
 To re-picture God's worn likeness in the suffering human 
 face !
 
 TO-DAY AND TOMORROW. 135 
 
 Our bliss shall richly overbrim like sunset in the west, 
 And we shall dreani immortal dreams, and banquet with 
 
 the Blest. 
 Then let us worship Beauty with the knightly faith of old, 
 Chivaby of Labour toning for the Age of Gold ! 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 High hopes that bum'd like Stars sublime, 
 
 Go down i' the Heavens of Freedom ; 
 And true hearts perish in the time 
 
 We bitterliest need 'em ! 
 But never sit we down and say 
 
 There 's nothing left but sorrow : 
 We walk the Wilderness To-day, 
 
 The Promised Land To-morrow. 
 
 Our birds of song are silent now, 
 There are no flowers blooming ! 
 
 Yet life beats in the frozen bough, 
 And Freedom's Spring is coming !
 
 136 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 And Freedom's tide comes up alway, 
 Tko' we may strand in sorrow : 
 
 And our good Bark, a-ground To-day, 
 Shall float again To-morrow. 
 
 Thro' all the long, dark night of years 
 
 The People's cry ascendeth, 
 And Earth is wet with blood and tears : 
 
 But our meek sufferance endeth ! 
 The Few shall not for ever sway, 
 
 The Many moil in sorrow : 
 The Powers of Hell are strong To-day, 
 
 But Christ shall rise To-morrow. 
 
 Tho' hearts brood o'er the Past, our eyes 
 
 With smiling Futures glisten! 
 For, lo ! our day bursts up the skies : 
 
 Lean out your souls and listen ! 
 The world rolls Freedom's radiant way, 
 
 And ripens with her sorrow : 
 Keep heart ! who bear the Cross To-day, 
 
 Shall wear the Crown To-morrow. 
 
 O Youth ! flame-earnest, still aspire, 
 
 With energies immortal ! 
 To many a heaven of Desire, 
 
 Our yearning opes a portal ! 
 
 i
 
 THE KINGLIEST KINGS. 137 
 
 And tho' Age wearies by the way, 
 
 And hearts break in the furrow, 
 We '11 sow the golden grain To-day, — 
 
 The Harvest comes To-morrow. 
 
 Build up heroic lives, and all 
 
 Be like a sheathen sabre, 
 Beady to flash out at God's call, 
 
 Chivalry of Labour ! 
 Triumph and Toil are twins : and aye 
 
 Joy suns the cloud of Sorrow ; 
 And 't is the martyrdom To-day, 
 
 Brings victory To-morrow. 
 
 THE KINGLIEST KINGS. 
 
 Ho ! ye who in a noble work 
 
 Win scorn, as flames draw air, 
 And in the way where Lions lurk, 
 God's image bravely bear ; 
 Tho' trouble-tried, and torture-torn, 
 The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.
 
 138 THE KINGLIEST KINGS. 
 
 Life's glory, like the bow in heaven, 
 
 Still springeth from the cloud ; 
 And soul ne'er soar'd the starry Seven, 
 But Pain's frre-charioi rude. 
 They've hauled best who've boldliest borne, 
 The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn. 
 
 The Martyr's fire-crown on the brow 
 
 Doth into glory burn ; 
 And tears that from Love's torn heart flow, 
 To pearls of spirit turn. 
 Our dearesl hope- in pangs are born, 
 The kingliest King- are crown'd with thorn. 
 
 \- beauty in Death's cerement shrouds, 
 1 Stars bejewel Night, 
 
 God-splendours live in dim heart-clouds, 
 And Buffering worketh might. 
 The mirkest hour is mother o' Morn, 
 The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.
 
 139 
 
 TO 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LAOOR. 
 
 Like leaves from Autumn's bough, Old Friend, 
 
 Our ripest hopes depart ; 
 And there 's little left us now, Old Friend, 
 
 To cheer the Patriot's heart. 
 The Altars where we knelt, Old Friend, 
 
 Grow desolate and cold, 
 And faint is the faith we felt, Old Friend, 
 
 I 5 the valiant days of old. 
 
 In bloody shrouds they sleep, Old Friend, 
 
 Who coidd not live as slaves : 
 And the living only weep, Old Friend, 
 
 Above their Martyrs' graves ! 
 Freedom hath many a wound. Old Friend, 
 
 And, ring'd by hounds of bell, 
 She wraps her purple round, Old Friend, 
 
 To fall as Csesar fell. 

 
 140 god's world is worthy better men. 
 
 The men of blood prevail, Old Friend, 
 
 And, stricken in the night, 
 The people's weeping wail, Old Friend, 
 
 Goes praying for the light. 
 And yet their day shall come, Old Friend, 
 
 Though we may never hear 
 The shouts of Harvest-home, Old Friend, 
 
 Nor see the golden year. 
 
 GOD'S WORLD IS WORTHY BETTER 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Behold ! an idle tale they tell, 
 
 And who shall blame their telling it ? 
 The saints have got their cant to sell, 
 
 The world pays well for selling it ! 
 They say the world's a desert drear, — 
 
 Still plagued with Egypt's blindness ! 
 That we were sent to suffer here, — 
 
 What ! by a God of kindness ? 
 That since the world has gone astray, 
 
 It must be so for ever,
 
 GOD S WORLD IS WORTHY BETTER MEN. 141 
 
 And we should stand still, and obey 
 
 Its Desolators. Never ! 
 We '11 labour for the better time, 
 
 With all our might of Press and Pen ; 
 BeHeve me, 't is a truth sublime, 
 
 God's world is worthy better men. 
 
 With Paradise the world began, 
 
 A world of love and gladness : 
 Its beauty may be marr'd by man 
 
 With all his crime and madness. 
 Yet 't is a brave world still. Love brings 
 
 A sunshine for the dreary ; 
 With all our strife, sweet Rest hath wings 
 
 To fold o'er hearts a-weary. 
 The Sun in glory, like a God, 
 
 To-day climbs up heaven's bosom, 
 The flowers upon the jcwell'd sod 
 
 In sweet love-lessons blossom. 
 As radiant of immortal youth 
 
 And beauty, as in Eden ; then 
 Believe me, 'tis a noble truth, 
 
 God's world is worthy better men. 
 
 ! they are bold, knaves over-bold, 
 
 Who say we are doom'd to anguish : 
 That men in God's own image soul'd, 
 
 Like hell-bound slaves, must languish.
 
 142 NEBRASKA. 
 
 Probe Nature's heart to its red core, 
 
 There 's more of good than evil ; 
 And man, down-trampled man, is more 
 
 Of Angel than of Devil. 
 Prepare to die ? Prepare to live ! 
 
 We know not what is living : 
 And let us for the world's good give, 
 
 As God is ever giving. 
 Give Action, Thought, Love, Wealth, and Time, 
 
 To win the primal age again ; 
 Believe me, 't is a truth sublime, 
 
 God's world is worthy better men. 
 
 NEBRASKA: 
 
 OR, THE SLAYERY-ABOLITIOXIST TO HIS BRIDE. 
 
 Sad I come for thy caresses, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 And my nestling brow is bound with crown of thorn ; 
 
 And the more thy leal heart presses, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Is thy true and tender bosom pierced and torn.
 
 NEBRASKA. 143 
 
 I have gloom'd thy girlish, gladness, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Made thee tearful in thy Wifehood's dewy dawn, 
 Given thy voice a soid of sadness, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Set thy dainty cheek's ripe beauty waxing wan. 
 
 The wild Hght of wilder' d sorrows, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Is the lustre that comes flashing to thine eyes, 
 As of hopes that know no morrows, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Or from sunken suns that set no more to rise. 
 
 My poor heart hath put on mourning, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 For the death of sweet and saintly Liberty ; 
 It was down the Traitor's Turning, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 That they smote her in the Country of the Free. 
 
 Where the Ark of Freedom rested, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 When the May-Flower rode so bravely o'er the Flood, 
 "VN here tbe Bird of Freedom nested, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 In the land our Fathers bought with precious blood.
 
 144 NEBRASKA. 
 
 They have broken every promise, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 False as hell to League, and Covenant, and vow ; — 
 Torn the Babes of Freedom from us, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Grim as Herod ! and like Herod they shall bow. 
 
 In the mire our Banner's trailing, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride ; 
 
 It but symbols bloody stripes and bitter tears, 
 To a world of Tyrants hailing, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 
 And a world of Slaves that groans, a Hell that cheers. 
 
 Our good Bark is heavily wearing, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 And the hungry sharks they track us thro' the sea, 
 With their cruel keen eyes glaring, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 For the burial of embalmed Liberty. 
 
 How the darkness round us presses, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride ! 
 By the dying watch-fire hearts sit dark and dumb ; 
 And we strain and make blind guesses, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Of the morning and the morrow that shall come.
 
 NEBRASKA. 345 
 
 O, 't will be a fearful waking, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 Should the faces of our Brothers dawn in view, 
 
 With the light above us breaking, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 And the earth beneath us wet with crimson dew. 
 
 We are weak, and win derision, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 All too weak to crush the Serpents that we clasp ; 
 
 But I see in solemn vision, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 The young Heroes who shall kill them in their grasp. 
 
 See — the Flag of Freemen dancing, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 On the Tyrants' towers, and Bums of old Wrong — 
 See — the Slave's proud eyes up-glancing, bonny bride, 
 bonny bride, 
 T\ ith the heart that breaks no more, save into song. 
 
 See — the hills of earth that whiten, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 With the feet of angels coming down to men ! 
 See — the homes of earth that brighten, bonny bride, 
 bonny bride, 
 With the beautiful that vanisht, come again. 
 
 There 's a long road, wild and dreary, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 
 Thro' the winding ways of Sorrow's wilderness ! 
 And a many will fall weary, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 
 And but few the honeyed Land of Promise press. 
 
 L
 
 146 
 
 IT WILL END IN THE RIGHT. 
 
 Yet we '11 battle on with bravery, bonny bride, bonny bride, 
 We shall battle on as Sabbathless as Doom ; 
 
 And we '11 leave the land of Slavery, bonny bride, bonny 
 bride, 
 Tho' the wreath of Victory crown the Martyr's tomb. 
 
 IT WILL END IN THE RIGHT. 
 
 Never despair ! 0, my Brother in sorrow ! 
 
 I know that our mourning is ended not. Yet, 
 Shall the vanquisht to-day be the Victors to-morrow, 
 
 Our Star shall shine on when the Tyrant's sun 's set. 
 Hold on ! tho' they spurn thee, for whom thou art living 
 
 A Hfe only cheer'd by the lamp of its love : 
 Hold on ! Freedom's hope to the bounden ones giving : 
 
 Green spots in the waste wait the worn spirit-dove. 
 Hold on, — still hold on, — in the world's despite, 
 Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of God bright, 
 And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Eight. 
 
 What, tho* the Martyrs and Prophets have perisht ? 
 
 The Angel of Life roDs the stone from their graves : 
 Immortal 's the love, and the freedom they cherisht, 
 
 Their Faith's Triumph-cry stirs the spirits of slaves !
 
 A WELCOME TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 147 
 
 They are gone, — but a Glory is left in our life, 
 
 Like the day-god's last kiss on the darkness of Even — 
 Gone down on the desolate seas of their strife, 
 
 To climb as star-beacons np Liberty's heaven. 
 Hold on, — still hold on, — in the world's despite, 
 Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of God bright, 
 And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Eight. 
 
 Think of the Wrongs that have ground us for ages, 
 
 Think of the "Wrongs we have still to endure ! 
 Think of our blood, red on History's pages ; 
 
 Then work, that our reck'ning be speedy and sure. 
 Slaves, cry unto God ! but be our God reveal'd 
 
 In our Eves, in our works, in our warfare for man ; 
 And bearing — or borne upon — Victory's shield, 
 
 Let us fight battle-harness'd, and fall in the van. 
 Hold on, — still hold on, — in the world's despite, 
 Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of God bright, 
 And, my life for thine ! it shall end in the Eight. 
 
 A WELCOME TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 Ho ! Patriots of old England, wake ! 
 
 And join ye heart and hand, 
 To welcome him for Freedom's sake 
 
 Within our fatherland !
 
 148 A "WELCOME TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 He needs no proud triumphal arch, 
 
 Nor banners on the wind : 
 In hearts that beat his triumph-march, 
 
 Our Kossuth 's fitly shrined ! 
 "We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless him. 
 
 He rose hke Freedom's morning star, 
 
 Where all was darkling, dim — 
 We saw his glory from afar, 
 
 And fought in soul for him ! 
 Brave Victor ! how his radiant brow 
 
 Kinu'il Freedom's host like Saul! 
 And in his crown of sorrow now 
 
 He 's royallest heart of all. 
 We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless Mm. 
 
 Ay, English hearts thro' proud tears gush 
 
 With glory at his name — 
 Whose brave deeds made the roused blood rush 
 
 Along our veins like flame : 
 We cheer'd him thro' his hero-strife — 
 
 And, in his presence met,
 
 A WELCOME TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 149 
 
 We '11 show the world that noble life 
 
 Lives in Old England yet ! 
 We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless him. 
 
 He cometh dim with glorious dust, 
 
 From out his wrestling ring : 
 But, blessings — praises — deathless trust — 
 
 Like armies round him cling ! 
 And Freedom runs her radiant round, 
 
 Tho' clouds shut out the sky ; 
 And soon the World's great heart shall bound, 
 
 To Kossuth's conquering cry. 
 We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless him. 
 
 His Hungary billows o'er with graves 
 
 Of Martyrs not in vain : 
 See what a ripening harvest waves 
 
 Its fruit of that red rain ! 
 Again his naming sword shall glare 
 
 The Despots' splendour dim : 
 And palsy strike the arm that dare 
 
 Not strike a blow for him !
 
 150 ONWARD AND SUNWARD. 
 
 We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless him. 
 
 King out, exult, and clap your hands, 
 
 Free Men and Women brave — 
 Shout, Britain ! shake the startled lands, 
 
 And free the bounden Slave ! 
 Come forth, make merry in the sun, 
 
 And give him welcome due ; 
 Heroic hearts have crown'd him one 
 
 Of Earth's Immortal few ! 
 We meet him here, we greet him here — 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress him ! 
 And Kings have no such welcome dear, 
 
 As Kossuth hath : God bless him. 
 
 OS WARD AND SUNWARD. 
 
 Tell me the song of the beautiful Stars, 
 
 As grandly they gbde on their blue way above us, 
 Looking, despite of our spirit's sin-scars, 
 
 Down on us tenderly, yearning to love us !
 
 ONWARD AND SUNWARD. 151 
 
 This is the song in their work-worship sung, 
 Down thro' the world-jewelled universe rung : 
 " Onward for ever, for evermore onward," 
 And ever they open their loving eyes Sunward. 
 
 " Onward," shouts Earth, with her myriad voices 
 
 Of music, aye answering the song of the Seven, 
 As like a wing'd child of God's love she rejoices, 
 
 Swinging her censer of glory in heaven. 
 And lo, it is writ by the finger of God, 
 In sunbeams and flowers on the live-green sod : 
 " Onward for ever, for evermore onward," 
 And ever she turneth all trustfully Sunward. 
 
 The mightiest souls of all time hover o'er us, 
 
 Who labour' d like gods among men, and have gone 
 Like great bursts of sun on the dark way before us : 
 
 They 're with us, still with us, our battle fight on, 
 Looking down victor-brow' d, from the glory-crown' d hill 
 They beckon, and beacon us, on, onward still : 
 And the true heart's aspirings are onward, still onward ; 
 It turns to the Future, as earth turneth Sunward.
 
 152 
 
 THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. 
 
 There 's no dearth of kindness 
 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 
 We gather thorns for flowers ! 
 Outward, we are spurning — 
 
 Trampling one another ! 
 While we are inly yearning 
 
 At the name of " Brother !" 
 
 There 's no dearth of kindness 
 
 Or love among mankind, 
 But in darkling loneness 
 
 Hooded hearts grow blind ! 
 Full of kindness tingling, 
 
 Soul is shut from sold, 
 When they might be mingling 
 
 In one kindred whole ! 
 
 There 's no dearth of kindness, 
 
 Tho' it be unspoken, 
 From the heart it buildeth 
 
 Rainbow-smiles in token —
 
 THERE S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. 153 
 
 That there be none so lowly, 
 
 But have some angel-touch : 
 Yet, nursing loves unholy, 
 
 We live for self too much ! 
 
 As the wild-rose bloweth, 
 
 As runs the happy river, 
 Kindness freely floweth 
 
 Tn the heart for ever. 
 But if men will hanker 
 
 Ever for golden dust, 
 Kingliest hearts will canker, 
 
 Brightest spirits rust. 
 
 There 's no dearth of kindness 
 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 
 We gather thorns for flowers ! 
 cherish God's best giving, 
 
 Falling from above ! 
 Life were not worth living, 
 
 Were it not for Love.
 
 154 
 
 EDEN. 
 
 There is not a rift in the blue sky now, 
 
 Where a million tempests tore it ; 
 There is not a furrow on Ocean's brow, 
 
 Tho' a million years have past o'er it. 
 And for all the storms and the strifes that have roll'd 
 
 Down the ages grim and gory, 
 Earth weareth her pleasant face, as of old, 
 
 And laughs in her morning glory. 
 And Man — tho' he beareth the brand of Sin, 
 
 And the flesh and the devil have bound him — 
 Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin, 
 
 Only nurture up Eden around him. 
 
 the cloud may have fall'n on the human face, 
 
 And its lordliest beauty blighted ; 
 Eor love hath gone out with a dark'ning trace, 
 
 Where the inward glory lighted. 
 Yet the old world of love liveth still in the heart, 
 
 As we 've many a sweet reveabng ; 
 And its rich fossil-jewels in tears will up-start 
 
 With the warm flood of holier feeling.
 
 THE THREE VOICES. 155 
 
 Ay/Man — tlio' he beareth the brand of Sin, 
 And the flesh and the devil have bound him — 
 
 Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin, 
 Only nurture up Eden around him. 
 
 the terrors, the tortures, the miseries dark — 
 
 That have curst us, and crusht, and cankered ! 
 Yet, aye, from the Deluge, Humanity's Ark 
 
 Hath on some serene Ararat anchored. 
 the golden chains that link heaven to earth, 
 
 The rusts of all time cannot sever ! 
 Evil shall die in its own dark dearth, 
 
 And the Good liveth on for ever. 
 And Man — tho' he beareth the brand of Sin, 
 
 And the flesh and the devil have bound him — 
 Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin, 
 
 Only nurture up Eden around him. 
 
 THE THREE VOICES. 
 
 A w ailing voice comes up a desolate road, 
 Drearily, drearily, drearily ! 
 
 Where mankind have trodden the by-way of blood, 
 Wearily, wearily, wearily !
 
 156 THE THREE VOICES. 
 
 Like a sound from the Dead Sea all shrouded in glooms, 
 
 With breaking of hearts, fetters clanking, men groaning, 
 Or chorus of Havens, that croak among tombs, 
 It comes with the mournfullest moaning : 
 " Weep, weep, weep ! " 
 Yoke-fellows, listen, 
 Till tearful eyes gbsten : 
 'T is the voice of the Past : the dark, grim-featured Past, 
 All sad as the shriek of the midnight blast : 
 
 Weep, weep, weep, 
 Tears to wash out the red, red stain, 
 
 "Where earth hath been fatted 
 By brave hearts that rotted, 
 And life ran a deluge of hot, bloody rain : 
 Weep, weep, weep. 
 
 Another voice comes from the millions that bend, 
 
 Tearfully, tearfully, tearfully! 
 Prom hearts which the scourges of slavery rend, 
 
 Fearfully, fearfully, fearfully ! 
 Prom many a worn, noble spirit that breaks, 
 
 In the world's solemn shadows adown in Life's valleys, 
 Prom Mine, Porge, and Loom, trumpet-tongued it awakes, 
 On the soul wherein Liberty rallies : 
 " Work, work, work ! " 
 Yoke-fellows, listen, 
 Till earnest eyes glisten :
 
 THE THREE VOICES. 157 
 
 'T is the voice of the Present. It bids us, my brothers, 
 Be Freemen : and then for the freedom of others 
 
 Work, work, work ! 
 For the Many, a holocaust long to the Few : 
 O work while ye may ! 
 work while 't is day ! 
 And cling to each other, united and true : 
 Work, work, work. 
 
 There cometh another voice sweetest of all, 
 Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily ! 
 And my heart leapeth up at its glorious call, 
 
 Merrily, merrily, merrily ! 
 It comes like the soft touch of Spring-tide, un-warping 
 
 The thrall of oppression that bound us : 
 It comes like a choir of the Seraphim, harping 
 Their gladsomest music around us : 
 "Hope, hope, hope !" 
 Yoke-fellows, listen, 
 Till gleeful eyes glisten : 
 'T is the voice of the Future, the sweetest of all, 
 That makes the heart leap to its glorious call. 
 
 Hope, hope, hope ! 
 Brothers, step forth in the Future's van, 
 For the worst is past, 
 Bight conquers at last, 
 And the better day dawns upon suffering man : 
 Hope, hope, hope.
 
 158 
 
 THIS WORLD IS PULL OF BEAUTY. 
 
 There lives a voice within me, a guest-angel of my heart, 
 And its sweet lispings win me, till the tears a-trembling 
 
 start ; 
 Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody, 
 And evermore it singeth this sweet song of songs to me — 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 Night's starry tendernesses dower with glory evennore, 
 
 Morn's budding, bright, melodious hour comes sweetly as 
 of yore ; 
 
 But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sun- 
 bursts shine, 
 
 And there be million hearts athirst for Love's immortal 
 wine. 
 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 If faith, and hope, and kindness pass'd, as coin, 'twixt 
 
 heart and heart, 
 How, thro' the eye's tear-blindness, should the sudden 
 
 soul upstart !
 
 THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. 159 
 
 The dreary, dim, and desolate, should wear a sunny bloom, 
 And Love should spring from buried Hate, like flowers 
 
 o'er Winter's tomb. 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 Were truth our uttered language, Angels might talk with 
 
 men, 
 And God-illumined earth should see the Golden Age again ; 
 The burthen' d heart should soar in mirth like Mom's 
 
 young prophet-lark, 
 And Misery's last tear wept on earth, quench Hell's last 
 
 cunning spark. 
 Tor this world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 Lo ! plenty ripens round us, yet awakes the cry for bread, 
 The millions still are toiling, crusht, and clad in rags, unfed ! 
 While sunny hills and valleys richly blush with fruit and 
 
 grain, 
 But the paupers in the palace rob their toiling fellow-men. 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 Dear God! what hosts are trampled 'mid this killing 
 
 crush for gold ! 
 What noble hearts are sapp'd of love ! what spirits lose 
 
 life's hold !
 
 160 TIIIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Yet a merry world it might be, opulent for all, and aye, 
 With its lands that ask for labour, and its wealth that 
 
 wastes away. 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love. 
 
 The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flow'r-lips of the 
 
 sod — 
 The happy Buds that hymn their raptures in the ear of 
 
 God— 
 The summer wind that bringeth music over land and sea, 
 Have each a voice that singeth this sweet song of songs 
 
 to me — 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And, if we did our duty, it might be full of love.
 
 1G1 
 
 POLITICAL LYRICS. 
 
 THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. 
 
 They rose in Freedom's rare sunrise, 
 
 Like Giants roused from wine ; 
 And in their hearts and in their eyes 
 
 The God leapt up divine ! 
 Their soids flasht out like naked swords, 
 
 Unsheathed for fiery fate ! 
 Strength went like battle with their words- 
 
 The Men of Forty-eight, 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the Men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Dark days have fall'n, yet in the strife 
 
 They bate no hope subbme, 
 And bravely works the exultant life, 
 
 Their hearts pulse thro' the time : 
 
 M
 
 162 THE MEN OF FORTY-EIGHT. 
 
 As "rass is greenest trodden down, 
 So suffering makes men great, 
 
 And this dark tide shall richly crown 
 The work of Forty-eight, 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 For the Men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Some in a bloody burial sleep, 
 
 Like Greeks to glory gone, 
 But in their steps avengers leap 
 
 With their proof-armour on : 
 And hearts beat high with dauntless trust 
 
 To triumph soon or late, 
 Tho' they be mould'ring down in dust — 
 
 Brave Men of Forty-eight ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the Men of Forty-eight. 
 
 when the world wakes up to worst 
 
 The Tyrants once again, 
 And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst, 
 
 Bare music ! on the brain, — 
 With heart to heart, in many a land, 
 
 Ye '11 find them all elate— 
 Brave remnant of that Spartan-band, 
 
 The Men of Forty-eight. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 For the Men of Forty-eight.
 
 163 
 
 THE PATRIOT. 
 
 Ay, Tyrants, build your Babels ! forge your fetters ! link 
 
 your chains ! 
 As brims your guilt-cup fuller, ours of grief ebbs to the 
 
 drains ; 
 Still, as on Christ's brow, crowns of thorn for Freedom's 
 
 Martyrs twine ; 
 Still batten on live hearts, and madden, o'er the hot 
 
 blood-wine. 
 Murder men sleeping, or awake, — torture them dumb 
 
 with pain, 
 And tear, with hands all bloody red, Mind's jewels from 
 
 the brain ! 
 Your feet are on us, Tyrants — strike ! and hush Earth's 
 
 wail of sorrow : 
 Your sword of power, so red to-day, shall kiss the dust 
 
 to-morrow. 
 ! but 'twill be a merry day, the world shall set apart, 
 When Strife's last brand is broken in the last crown'd 
 
 Tyrant's heart ! 
 And it shall come, — despite of Kifle, Rope, and Rack, and 
 
 Scaffold, 
 Once more we lift the earnest brow, and battle on unbaffled. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE PATRIOT. 
 
 Our hopes ran mountains high, we sang at heart, wept 
 
 tears of gladness, 
 When Trance, the bravely beautiful, dasht down her 
 
 sceptred madness ; 
 And Hungary her one-hearted race of mighty heroes hurl'd 
 In the death-gap of the nations, as a bulwark for the world. 
 Hungary ! gallant Hungary ! grand and glorious thou 
 
 wcrt, 
 The World's soul feeding, like a river, gushing from God's 
 
 heart ; 
 And Eome, — who, while her Heroes bled, felt her old 
 
 breast heave higher, — 
 How her eyes redden'd with the flash of all their Eoman 
 
 fire! 
 Mothers of children, who shall live the Gods of future 
 
 story! 
 Your blood shall blossom from the dust, and crown the 
 
 world with glory. 
 Ye '11 tread them down yet, curse and crown ! up-lift 
 
 the trodden Slave, 
 And Freedom shall be sovran in the courts of fool and 
 
 knave. 
 
 Wail for the hopes that have gone down ! the young life 
 
 vainly spilt ! 
 Th' Eternal Murder still sits crown'd, and throned in 
 
 damning guilt :
 
 THE PATRIOT. 165 
 
 Still in God's golden sun the Tyrants' bloody banners 
 
 burn, 
 And Priests, — Hell's midnight Thugs ! — to their soul- 
 strangling work return ! 
 See how the oppressors of the poor with serpents hunt our 
 
 blood ; 
 Hear, from the dark, the groan and curse go maddening 
 
 up to God. 
 They kill and trample us poor worms, till earth is dead 
 
 men's dust ; 
 Death's red tooth daily drains our hearts, but end, ay, 
 
 end it must. 
 The herald of our coming Christ leaps in the womb of 
 
 Time; 
 The poor's grand army treads the Age's march with step 
 
 sublime. 
 Ours is the mighty future ! and what marvel, brother 
 
 men, 
 If the devoured of ages should turn devourers then ? 
 
 ! brothers of the bounding heart, I look thro' tears and 
 
 smile, 
 The World is rife with sounds of fetters snapping 'neath 
 the file ; 
 
 1 lay my hand on England's heart, and in each life-throb 
 
 mark, 
 The pealing thought of freedom ring its Tocsin in the 
 dark.
 
 166 THE PATRIOT. 
 
 I see the Toiler hath, become a glorious Christ-like 
 
 preacher, 
 And, as he wins a crust, stands proudly forth, the great 
 
 world-teacher ; 
 He still toils on, but, Tyrants, 't is a mighty thing when 
 
 slaves, 
 "Who delve their lives into their work, know that they 
 
 delve your graves. 
 Anarchs ! your doom comes swiftly ! brave and eagle 
 
 spirits climb, 
 To ring Oppression's death-knell from the old watch- 
 towers of time ; 
 A spirit of Cromwellian might is stirring at this hour, 
 And thought is burning in men's eyes with more than 
 
 speechful power. 
 
 Old England, cease the mummer's part ! wake, Starveling, 
 
 Serf, and Slave ! 
 Rouse in the majesty of wrong, great kindred of the 
 
 brave ! 
 Speak, and the world shall answer, with her voices 
 
 myriad-fold, 
 And men, like Gods, shall grapple with the giant-wrongs 
 
 of old. 
 Xow, Mothers of the people, give your babes heroic 
 
 milk; 
 Sires, soul your sons to daring deeds, no more soft words 
 
 of silk ;
 
 OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY. 167 
 
 Great spirits of the mighty dead take shape, and walk our 
 
 mind, 
 Their glory smites our upward look, we seem no longer 
 
 blind ; 
 They tell us how they broke their bonds, and whisper, 
 
 " So may ye:" 
 One sharp, stern struggle, and the slaves of centuries are 
 
 free ! 
 The people's heart, with pulse like cannon, panteth for 
 
 the fray, 
 And, brothers, gallant brothers, we '11 be with you in that 
 
 day. 
 
 OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR 
 PAUPER-PAY. 
 
 Smitten stones will talk with fiery tongues, 
 And the worm, when trodden, will turn ; 
 
 But, Cowards, ye cringe to the cruellest wrongs, 
 And answer with never a spurn.
 
 163 OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY. 
 
 Then torture, O Tyrants, the spiritless drove, 
 
 Old England's Helots will bear : 
 There 's no hell in their hatred, no God in their love, 
 
 Nor shame in their dearth's despair. 
 For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, 
 
 Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; 
 Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, 
 
 And our Daughters his Slaves by night. 
 
 The Tearless are drunk with our tears : have they driven 
 
 The God of the poor man mad ? 
 Tor we weary of waiting the help of Heaven, 
 
 And the battle goes still with the bad. 
 but death for death, and life for life, 
 
 It were better to take and give, 
 With hand to throat, and knife to knife, 
 
 Than die out as thousands hve ! 
 Tor our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, 
 
 Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; 
 Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, 
 
 And our Daughters his Slaves by night. 
 
 Fearless and few were the Heroes of old, 
 Who play'd the peerless part : 
 
 We are fifty-fold, but the gangrene Gold 
 Hath eaten out Hampden's heart.
 
 OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY. 169 
 
 With their faces to danger, like free-men they fought, 
 
 With their daring, all heart and hand : 
 And the thunder-deed follow'd the lightning-thought, 
 
 When they stood for their own good land. 
 Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, 
 
 Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; 
 Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, 
 
 And our Daughters his Slaves by night. 
 
 When the heart of one half the world doth beat 
 
 Akin to the brave and the true, 
 And the tramp of Democracy's earthquake feet 
 
 Goes thrilling the wide world through, — 
 We should not be living in darkness and dust, 
 
 And dying like slaves in the night ; 
 But, big with the might of the inward " must" 
 
 We should battle for Freedom and Eight ! 
 For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay, 
 
 Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white ; 
 Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day, 
 
 And our Daughters his Slaves by night.
 
 170 
 
 THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE 
 
 KNEEL. 
 
 Good People ! put no faith in Kings, nor in your Princes 
 
 trust, 
 "Who break your hearts for bread, and grind your faces in 
 
 the dust ! 
 The Palace Paupers look from lattice high, and mock 
 
 your prayer : 
 The Champions of the Christ are dumb, or golden bit 
 
 they wear ! 
 O but to see ye bend no more to earth's crime-cursed 
 
 things ! 
 Ye are God's Oracles : stand forth ! be Nature's Priests 
 
 and Kings ! 
 Ye fight and bleed, while Fortune's darlings sHnk in 
 
 splendid lair ; 
 With lives that crawl, like worms through buried Beauty's 
 
 golden hair ! — 
 A tale of lives wrung out in tears their Grandeur's garb 
 
 reveals, 
 And the last sobs of breaking hearts sound in their 
 
 Chariot-wheels !
 
 THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL. 171 
 
 league ye — crush the things that kill all love and 
 
 liberty ! 
 They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up 
 
 go We. 
 
 Trust not the Priests, their tears are lies, their hearts are 
 
 hard and cold ; 
 They lead ye to sweet pastures, where they fleece the 
 
 foolish fold ! 
 The Church and State are linkt and sworn to desolate the 
 
 land. 
 Good people, 'twixt these Toxes' tails, We '11 fling a fiery 
 
 brand ! 
 Up, if ye will be free, to golden calves no longer bow : 
 The Nations yearn for liberty — the world is earnest now ! 
 Your bent-knee is half-way to hell ! — Up, Seniles, from 
 
 the dust ! 
 The Harvest of the free red-ripens for the sickle-thrust. 
 They 're quaking now, and shaking now, who 've wrought 
 
 the hurtling sorrow, 
 To-day the desolators, but the desolate To-morrow ! 
 Loud o'er their murder's menace wakes the watchword of 
 
 the Free : 
 They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up 
 
 go We ! 
 
 Some bravest patriot-hearts have gone, to break beyond 
 
 the Sea, 
 And many in the dungeon have died for you and me !
 
 172 THEY ABE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL. 
 
 And still we glut the Merciless — give all Life's glory up, 
 That stars of flame, and winking eyes, may crown their 
 
 revel-cup ! 
 Back, tramplers on the Many ! Death and Danger 
 
 ambusht lie ; 
 Beware ye, or the blood may run ! the patient people cry : 
 Ah ! shut not out the light of hope, or we may blindly dash, 
 Like Samson in his strong death-grope, and whelm ye in 
 
 the crash. 
 Think how they spurn'd the People mad, that old Kegime 
 
 of France, 
 Whose heads, like poppies, from Death's Scythe fell in a 
 
 bloody dance. 
 Ye plead in vain, ye bleed in vain, ah ! Blind ! when will 
 
 ye see 
 They are but Giants while we kneel ? One leap, and 
 
 up go We. 
 
 The merry flowers are springing from our last-year 
 
 Martyrs' mould, 
 As their dreams had taken blossom telling what they 
 
 would have told ; 
 Of all our rainbowed Future : and what this earth shall be 
 When we have bartered blows and bonds for life and 
 
 liberty. 
 Ah ! what a face of glory shall the weary world put on, 
 When Love is crowned, and shall king the heart its royal 
 
 throne !
 
 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT. 173 
 
 we shall see our darlings smile, — who meet us tearful 
 now, — 
 
 Ere the Eternal mom breaks gray, on the Beloved's brow : 
 
 And Love shall give the kiss of Death no more to those 
 we love, 
 
 And pride, not shame, shall flush the face of our heart- 
 nestling Dove. 
 
 Rouse, Titans, scale th' Olympus where the hindering 
 Tyrants be : 
 
 They are but Giants while we kneel : one leap, and up 
 go We. 
 
 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND 
 FORTY-EIGHT. 
 
 People of England, rouse ye from your dreaming ! 
 
 Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap : 
 Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming : 
 
 Lo ! a pidse stirs that never more shall sleep 
 In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide; with wonder ! 
 
 The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower, 
 Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder, 
 
 The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour, — 
 
 Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne 
 and Power.
 
 174 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT. 
 
 Vampyrea have drain' d the human heart's best blood, 
 Kings robb'dj and Priests have curst us in God's name : 
 
 Out in the midnight of the Pasl we 've stood — 
 While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game. 
 
 We have been worshipping a gilded crown, 
 
 Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head ; 
 
 Chains fell on us as we were bowing down; 
 \\ e deem'd our Gods divine, but lo ! instead — 
 Tiny are but painted clay, — with morn the charm has 
 
 lied I 
 
 And this is merry England, — cradling-place 
 
 Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd ! 
 \\ here smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face, 
 
 And Justice reign'd— Her awful eyes close-bound! 
 "Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted. 
 
 And twain in love Law never thrust apart ? 
 How i- the glory of our life departed 
 
 From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart ; 
 
 And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the 
 h< art! 
 
 Husht be the Herald on the walls of fame, 
 
 Trumping this People as their Country's pride ; 
 
 "Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame : 
 See ye not how the palaced knaves deride 
 
 Us flatter' d fools ? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy, 
 Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night, 

 
 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT. 175 
 
 And grinds the poor to flush its coffers wealthy ? 
 Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might, 
 Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's 
 " Eight." 
 
 There 's not a spot in all this flowery land, 
 
 Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been : 
 
 ! were it not for its all-blasting hand, 
 
 Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been ! 
 
 Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave, — 
 
 Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters, 
 
 Wedded our living hopes unto the grave, — 
 
 Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters, 
 And tuni'd our thoughts to blood — to gall, the heart's 
 sweet waters ? 
 
 Where is the spirit of our ancient Sires, 
 
 Who, bleeding, wrung their Eights from tyrannies olden ? 
 God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires 
 
 From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden ; 
 The mighty dead lie slumbering around, — 
 
 Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air ; 
 Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground : 
 
 Their deeds spring forth in glory, — live ail-where, — 
 
 But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear. 
 
 Go forth, when Night is husht, and heaven is clothed 
 With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,
 
 176 EIGHTEEN IHNDEED AND FORTY-EIGHT. 
 
 Feel the stirr'd spirit leap to them betrothed, 
 
 As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul ; 
 Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning, 
 
 The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves, — 
 Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning 
 
 With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves ! 
 
 O ! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves ? 
 
 Immortal Liberty ! we see thee stand 
 
 Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain 
 With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand, 
 
 And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain ! 
 ! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre 
 
 Joy's broken chord ? and on the People's brow 
 Set Empire's crown ? light up thy beacon-fire 
 
 Within their hearts, with an undying glow ; 
 
 Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now ? 
 
 Curst, curst be war, the World's most fatal glory ! 
 
 Te wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall ! 
 Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory 
 
 Grim glaive of strife behind Obbvion's pall. 
 The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle 
 
 Thunders no terror on his murderous soul. 
 Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle 
 
 The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole, 
 
 Shall blunt no lance of bght, no onset backward roll. 
 
 Old Poets tell us of a golden age, 
 
 When earth was guiltless, — Gods the guests of men,
 
 THEY "WHO FELL FOR HUNGARY AND ROME. 177 
 
 Ere sin had dhnni'd the heart's illumined page, — 
 
 And Sinai-voices say 't will come again. 
 ! happy age ! when Love shall rule the heart, 
 
 And time to live shall be the poor man's dower, 
 When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exdes smart, — 
 
 Mind is the only diadem of power. — 
 
 People, it ripens now ! awake ! and strike the hour. 
 
 Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause ; 
 
 Bless, bless, God, and crown their earnest labour, 
 Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws, 
 
 With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre ! 
 Bless, bless, God ! the proud intelligence, 
 
 That Hke a sun dawns on the People's forehead, — 
 Humanity springs from them Hke incense, 
 
 The Future bursts upon them, boundless — starried — 
 
 They weep repentant tears, that they so long have 
 tarried. 
 
 THEY WHO PELL 
 
 FOR HUNGARY AND ROME. 
 1850. 
 
 They are gone ! 
 When on earthquake-edge they slumbered, 
 Who have man accurst ; 
 
 N
 
 178 THEY "WHO FELL FOR HUNGARY AND ROME. 
 
 And Hope's blossoms, many-numbered, 
 
 Into flower burst ; 
 When our hearts, like throbbing drams, 
 Beat for Freedom ; sang, She comes ! 
 God ! they stumbled among tombs. 
 
 They are gone ! 
 Freedom's strong ones, young and hoary, 
 
 Beautiful in faith ! 
 And her first dawn-blush of glory 
 
 Gilds their camp of death ! 
 There they lie in shrouds of blood ; 
 Murder'd, where for Bight they stood — 
 Murder'd, Christ-like, doing good. 
 
 They are gone ! 
 And 't is good to die up-giving 
 
 Valour's vengeful breath, 
 To make Heroes of the living, — 
 
 Thus divine is death. 
 One by one, dear hearts ! they've left us, 
 Yet Hope hath not all bereft us : 
 Still we man the breach they cleft us. 
 
 They are here ! 
 Here, where life ran ruddy rain, 
 
 "When power from God seem'd wrencht
 
 THEY WHO FELL FOE HUNGARY AND ROME. 179 
 
 Here, where tears fall — molten brain ! 
 
 And hands are agony-clencht ! 
 Look, Love lifts the veil ; ah ! now 
 There 's a glory, where the glow 
 Of Pain's fire-crown seam'd each brow. 
 
 They are here ! 
 In the Etna of each heart, 
 
 Where Vengeance langhs hell-mirth, 
 In the silent tears that start 
 
 O'er their glorious worth ! 
 Tears ? ay, tears of fire, prond Weepers ! 
 For these sonl-sepnltured sleepers : 
 Fire ! to smite Death's blood-seed reapers. 
 
 They are here ! 
 With us in the march of time, 
 
 Beating at our side ! 
 Let us live their lives sublime, 
 
 Die as they have died ! 
 Wait : these Martyrs yet shall come, 
 Myriad-fold, from their heart-tomb ! 
 In the Tyrants' day of doom. 
 
 N 2
 
 130 
 
 A CRY OF THE PEOPLES. 
 
 Like a strong man in torture, the weary world turneth, 
 
 To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness : 
 With shame and with shudder, poor Mother ! she yearneth 
 
 O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness. 
 gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorred, 
 
 T\ ho murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-springs, — 
 And are crowned to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead : 
 
 O let them be last of the Queens and the Kings ! 
 
 By the lovers and friends we have tenderly cherisht, 
 
 Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath, 
 Who struggled like Gods met in fight, and have perisht 
 
 In poverty's battle with grim daily death : 
 O, by all dear ones that bitterly plead for us — 
 
 Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings — 
 Sisters that Aveep for us — mothers that bleed for us — 
 
 Let these be last of the Queens and the Kings ! 
 
 Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our Martyrs, 
 Ye might not tell where the brave blood ran like rain ! 
 
 But there it burns ever ! and heaven's weeping waters 
 And branding suns never shall whiten the stain !
 
 HOPE ON, HOPE EVEB. 131 
 
 Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us, 
 And smite till each helm bravely flashes and rings ! 
 
 Life for Ufe, blood for blood, is the lesson they 've taught us, 
 And be these the last of the Queens and the Kings ! 
 
 Ho ! weary Nightwatch, is there light on the summit ? 
 
 Yeamer up through the Night, say, is there hope ? 
 For deeper in darkness than fathom of plummet, 
 
 Our Bark thro' the tempest doth stagger and grope ! 
 " To God's unforgiven, to caitiff and craven — 
 
 To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings : 
 Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into haven, 
 
 For Death tracks the last of the Queens and the Kings ! " 
 
 HOPE ON, HOPE EVER. 
 
 Hope on, hope ever ! though to-day be dark, 
 
 The sweet sunburst may smile on thee to-morrow : 
 Tho' thou art lonely, there 's an eye will mark 
 
 Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow ! 
 Tho' thou must toil 'mong cold and sordid men, 
 
 With none to echo back thy thought, or love thee, 
 Cheer up, poor heart ! thou dost not beat in vain, 
 
 For God is over all, and heaven above thee — 
 Hope on, hope ever.
 
 182 HOPE ON, HOPE EVER. 
 
 The iron may enter in and pierce thy soul, 
 
 But cannot kill the love within thee burning : 
 The tears of misery, thy bitter dole, 
 
 Can never quench thy true heart's seraph yearning 
 For better things : nor crush thy ardour's trust, 
 
 That Error from the mind shall be uprooted, 
 That Truths shall dawn as flowers spring from the dust, 
 
 And Love be cherisht where Hate was ernbruted ! 
 Hope on, hope ever. 
 
 I know 't is hard to bear the sneer and taunt, — 
 
 With the heart's honest pride at midnight wrestle, 
 To feel the killing canker-worm of Want, 
 
 While rich rogues in their stolen luxury nestle ; 
 For I have felt it. Yet from Earth's cold Eeal 
 
 My soul looks out on coming things, and cheerful 
 The warm Sunrise floods all the land Ideal, 
 
 And still it whispers to the worn and tearful, 
 Hope on, hope ever. 
 
 Hope on, hope ever ! after darkest night, 
 
 Comes, full of loving life, the laughing Morning ; 
 Hope on, hope ever ! Spring-tide, flusht with light, 
 
 Aye crowns old Winter with her rich adorning. 
 Hope on, hope ever ! yet the time shall come, 
 
 When man to man shall be a friend and brother ; 
 And this old world shall be a happy home, 
 
 And all Earth's family love one another ! 
 Hope on, hope ever.
 
 183 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT. 
 
 5 T is coming up the steep of Time, 
 
 And this old world is growing brighter ! 
 We may not see its dawn sublime, 
 
 Yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter. 
 We may be sleeping in the ground, 
 
 When it awakes the world in wonder ; 
 But we have felt it gathering round, 
 
 And heard its voice of living thunder. 
 'T is coming ! yes, 't is coming ! 
 
 'T is coming now, the glorious time, 
 
 Foretold by Seers, and sung in story ; 
 For which, when thinking was a crime, 
 
 Souls leapt to heaven from scaffolds gory ! 
 They pass'd, nor see the work they wrought, 
 
 Now the crown'd hopes of centuries blossom ! 
 But the live lightning of their thought 
 
 And daring deeds, doth pidse Earth's bosom. 
 'T is coming ! yes, 't is coming ! 
 
 Creeds, Empires, Systems, rot with age, 
 But the great People 's ever youthful ! 
 
 And it shall write the Future's page, 
 To our humanity more truthful !
 
 184 THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT. 
 
 The gnarliest heart hath tender chords, 
 To waken at the name of " Brother ;" 
 
 And time comes when brain-scorpion words 
 We shall not speak to sting each other. 
 'T is coming ! yes, 't is coming ! 
 
 Out of the light, ye Priests, nor fling 
 
 Your dark, cold shadows on us longer ! 
 Aside ! thou world-wide curse, call'd King ! 
 
 The People's step is quicker, stronger. 
 There 's a Divinity within 
 
 That makes men great, whene'er they will it. 
 God works with all who dare to win, 
 
 And the time cometh to reveal it. 
 
 'Tis coming! yes, 'tis coming! 
 
 Freedom ! the tyrants kill thy braves, 
 
 Yet in our memories live the sleepers ; 
 And, tho' doom'd millions feed the graves, 
 
 Dug by Death's fierce, red-handed reapers, 
 The world shall not for ever bow 
 
 To things which mock God's own endeavour ; 
 "I is nearer than they wot of now, 
 
 When flowers shall wreathe the sword for ever. 
 'T is coming ! yes, 't is coming ! 
 
 Fraternity ! Love's other name ! 
 
 Dear, heaven-connecting link of Being ! 
 Then shall we grasp thy golden dream, 
 
 As souls, full-statured, grow far-seeing. 

 
 OUR LAND. 185 
 
 Thou shalt unfold our better part, 
 
 And in our Life-cup yield more honey ; 
 
 Light up with joy the poor man's heart, 
 
 And Love's own world with smiles more sunny. 
 'T is coming ! yes, 't is coming ! 
 
 Ay, it must come ! The Tyrant's throne 
 
 Is crumbling, with our hot tears rusted ; 
 The Sword earth's mighty have leant on 
 
 Is canker'd, with our heart's blood crusted. 
 Koom ! for the men of Mind make way ! 
 
 Ye robber Eiders, pause no longer ; 
 Ye cannot stay the opening clay : 
 
 The world rolls on, the light grows stronger, — 
 The People's Advent 's coming ! 
 
 OUR LAND. 
 
 'T is the Land that our stalwart fore-sires trode, 
 Where the brave and heroic-soul'd 
 
 Implanted our freedom with their best blood, 
 In the martyr-days of old. 
 
 The huts of the lowly gave Liberty birth, 
 Their hearts were her cradle glorious,
 
 1S6 OUR LAND. 
 
 And wherever her foot-prints letter'd the earth, 
 Great spirits up-sprang victorious, 
 
 In our rare old Land, our dear old Land, 
 With its memories bright and brave, 
 
 And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band 
 To free it of Tyrant and Slave. 
 
 Alfred was of us, and Shakespeare's thought 
 
 Bekings us, all crowns above ! 
 And Freedom's dear faith a fresh splendour caught 
 
 From our grand old Milton's love ! 
 And we should be marching on gallantly, 
 
 And striding from glory to glory, 
 For the Eight with our Might striking valiantly, 
 
 On the track of the famous in story — 
 For our rare old Land, our dear old Land, 
 
 "With its memories bright and brave, 
 And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band 
 
 To free it of Tyrant and Slave. 
 
 On Naseby-field of the fight sublime, 
 
 Our old red Eose doth blow ! 
 Would to God that the soul of that earber time 
 
 Might marshal us conquering now ! 
 On into the Future's fair clime the world sweeps, 
 
 And the time trumpets true men to freedom : 
 At the heart of our helots the mounting God leaps, 
 
 But for the Moses to lead 'em !
 
 THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 187 
 
 For our rare old Land, our dear old Land, 
 With its memories bright and brave ! 
 
 And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band 
 To free it of Tyrant and Slave. 
 
 What do we lack, that the ruffian Wrong 
 
 Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold ? 
 We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong, 
 
 We have hearts as big and as bold ! 
 Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school 
 
 Our lives to a sterner bravery ? 
 No ! down and down with their robber rule, 
 
 And up from the land of slavery ! 
 For our rare old Land, our dear old Land, 
 
 With its memories bright and brave ! 
 And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band 
 
 To free it of Tyrant and Slave. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 
 
 'Tis hard, 'tis hard to wander on through this bright 
 
 world of ours, 
 Beneath a sky of smiling blue, on velvet paths of flowers,
 
 183 THE CRY OF TIIE UNEMPLOYED. 
 
 With music in the woods, as there were nought but joy- 
 
 aunce known, 
 Or Angels walkt earth's solitudes, and yet with want to 
 
 groan, 
 To see no beauty in the stars, nor in God's radiant smile, 
 To wail and wander misery-curst ! willing, but cannot toil. 
 There 's burning sickness at my heart, I sink down 
 
 famished ! 
 God of the wretched, hear my prayer : I woidd that I 
 
 were dead ! 
 
 Heaven droppeth down with manna still in many a golden 
 
 show'r, 
 And feeds the leaves with fragrant breath, with silver dew 
 
 the flow'r. 
 There 's honey'd fruit for bee and bird, with bloom laughs 
 
 out the tree, 
 And food for all God's happy things ; but none gives food 
 
 to me. 
 Earth, deck'd with Plenty's garland- crown, smiles on my 
 
 aching eye, 
 The purse-proud, — swathed in luxury, — disdainful pass 
 
 me by: 
 I 've eager hands, and earnest heart — but may not work 
 
 for bread ! 
 God of the wretched, hear my prayer : I would that I 
 
 were dead !
 
 THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 189 
 
 Gold, art tliou not a blessed thing, a charm above all other, 
 
 To shnt up hearts to Nature's cry, when brother pleads 
 with brother ? 
 
 Hast thou a music sweeter than the voice of loving- 
 kindness ? 
 
 No ! curse thee, thou 'rt a mist 'twixt God and men in 
 outer blindness. 
 
 "Father, come back!" my children cry; their voices, 
 once so sweet, 
 
 Now quiver lance-bke in my bleeding heart ! I cannot meet 
 
 The looks that make the brain go mad, for dear ones 
 asking bread — 
 
 God of the wretched, hear my prayer: I would that I 
 were dead ! 
 
 Lord ! what right have the poor to wed? Love 's for the 
 
 gilded great : 
 Are they not form'd of nobler clay, who dine off golden 
 
 plate ? 
 'T is the worst curse of Poverty to have a feebng heart : 
 Why can I not, with iron-grasp, tear out the tender part ? 
 I cannot slave in yon Bastille ! ah no, 't were bitterer pain, 
 To wear the Pauper's iron within, than drag the Convict's 
 
 chain. 
 I 'd work but cannot, starve I may, but will not beg for 
 
 bread : 
 God of the wretched, hear my prayer: I would that 1 
 
 were dead !
 
 190 
 
 SONG 
 
 OP 
 
 THE RED REPUBLICAN. 
 
 Fling out the red Banner ! its fiery front under, 
 
 Come, gather ye, gather ye, Champions of Right ! 
 And roll round the world, with the voice of God's thunder, 
 
 The Wrongs we 've to reckon, oppressions to smite. 
 They deem that we strike no more like the old Hero-band, 
 
 Victory's own battle-hearted and brave : 
 Blood of Christ ! brothers mine, it were sweet but to see 
 ye stand, 
 
 Triumph or Tomb welcome, Glory or Grave ! 
 
 Fling out the red Banner in mountain and valley ! 
 
 Let Earth feel the tread of the free once again ; 
 Now soldiers of Freedom, for love of God, rally, 
 
 Old Earth yearns to know that her children are Men. 
 We are nerved by a thousand wrongs, burning and bleeding, 
 
 Bold Thoughts leap to birth, but the bold Deeds must 
 come; 
 And wherever Humanity 's yearning and pleading, 
 
 One battle for Liberty strike we heart-home.
 
 SONG OF THE RED REPUBLICAN. 191 
 
 Fling out the red Banner ! achievements immortal 
 
 Have yet to be won by the hands labour-brown ; 
 And few, few may enter the proud promise-portal, 
 
 Yet wear it in thought like a glorious Crown ! 
 And joy of the onset ! sound trumpet, array us ; 
 
 True hearts would leap up were all hell in our path ; 
 Up, up from the Slave-land ; who stirreth to stay us, 
 
 Shall fall, as of old, in the Ked Sea of wrath. 
 
 FKng out the red Banner, Sons of the morning ! 
 
 Young spirits abiding to burst into wings, — 
 We stand shadow-crown'd, but sublime is the waminsr, 
 
 All heaven 's grimly husht, and the Bird of Storm sings ! 
 "All's well," saith the Sentry on Tyranny's tower, 
 
 While Hope by his watch-fire is grey and tear-blind ; 
 Ay, all 's well ! Freedom's Altar burns, hour by hour, 
 
 Live brands for the fire-damp with which ye are mined. 
 
 Fling out the red Banner ! the patriots perish, 
 
 But where their bones whiten the seed striketh root : 
 Their blood hath run red the great harvest to cherish : 
 
 Then gather ye, Beapers, and garner the fruit. 
 Victory ! victory ! Tyrants are quaking ! 
 
 The Titan of Toil from the bloody thrall starts ; 
 The slaves are awaking, the dawn-light is breaking, 
 
 The foot-fall of Freedom beats quick at our hearts !
 
 192 
 
 PRESS ON. 
 
 Press on, press on, ye Kulers, in the roused world's 
 
 forward track : 
 It moves too sure for ye to put the clock of Freedom back ! 
 We 're gathering up from near and far, with souls in 
 
 fiery glow, 
 And Eight doth bare its arm of might to bring the 
 
 spoilers low. 
 Kings, Priests, ye 're far too costly, and Ave weary of your 
 
 rule; 
 "We crown no more "Divinity," where Nature writeth 
 
 "Fool!" 
 Ye must not bar our glorious path as in the days agone ; 
 We know that God made Men, not Princes, Kings, or 
 
 Priests. — Press on ! 
 
 Press on, press on, ah! "Nobles!" ye have play'd a 
 
 daring game ; 
 But your star of strength is falling, fades the prestige of 
 
 your name :
 
 PRESS ON. 193 
 
 Too long have ye been fed and nurst on human blood and 
 
 tears ; 
 The naked truth is known, and Labour leaps to life, and 
 
 swears 
 His pride of strength to bloated Ease he will no longer give : 
 For all who live should labour ; " Lords," then all who 
 
 work might live ! 
 The combat comes ! make much of what ye 've wrung 
 
 from Fatherland ! 
 Press on, press on ! To-day we plead, To-morrow we '11 
 
 command. 
 
 Press on ! a million pauper-foreheads bend in Misery's dust ; 
 God's champions of the golden Truth still eat the moiddy 
 
 crust : 
 This damning curse of Tyrants must not kill the nation's 
 
 heart ; 
 The spirit in a million Slaves doth pant, on fire to start 
 And strive to mend the world, and walk in Freedom's 
 
 march sublime ; 
 While myriads sink heart-broken, and the land o'erswarms 
 
 with crime. 
 " God ! " they cry, " we die, we die, and see no earnest 
 
 won ! " 
 Brothers, join hand and heart, and in the work press on, 
 
 press on !
 
 194 
 
 ANATHEMA MARANATHA. 
 
 Deeper and deeper the Tyrant's lash flayeth, 
 Swifter and swifter fierce ]\lisery slayeth ; 
 Tighter and tighter the grip of Toil groweth, 
 Nearer and nearer the dark Bum floweth. 
 And still ye bear on, and ye faint heart and breath, 
 Till ye creep, scourged hounds, to your kennel of death : 
 O down to the dust with ye, cowards and slaves, 
 Plague-stricken cumber-grounds, slink to your graves ! 
 
 Love is the crown of all Life, but ye wear it not ; 
 Freedom, Humanity's palm, and ye bear it not ; 
 Beauty spreads banquet for all, but ye share it not ; 
 Glimmer the blinding veil glooms, and ye tear it not. 
 Weaving your life-flowers in "Wrong's robe of glory, 
 Ye stint in your starkness with hearts smitten hoary : 
 O down to the dust with ye, cowards and slaves, 
 Plague-stricken cumber-grounds, slink to your graves ! 
 
 They have broken our hearts for their hunger, and trod 
 The wine-press for Death, with the grapes of our God ; 
 And ye lick their feet, red with your blood, like dumb 
 
 cattle : 
 Ah ! better and braver to meet them in battle ! 

 
 THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY. 195 
 
 The bow that Tell drew hath lost none of its spring, 
 But ye nerve not with daring the arrow and string : 
 Then down to the dust with ye, cowards and slaves, 
 Plague-stricken cumber-grounds, sHnk to your graves ! 
 
 There 's a curse on the Mammonites fiery and fell, 
 Gold turns their hard hearts into hearthstones for hell ; 
 And there 's wringing of hands with the Knave and the 
 
 Tyrant, 
 For God's graven autograph 's on their death-warrant. 
 While lordlier manhood 'neath Freedom's heart yearneth, 
 Up now ! while before ye the fire-pillar burnetii ! 
 Or down to the dust with ye, cowards and slaves, 
 Down, down for ever, and slink to your graves ! 
 
 THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY. 
 
 Sons of Old England, from the sod, 
 
 Up-Uft the noble brow ! 
 Gold apes a mightier power than God, 
 
 And wealth is worship! now ! 
 In all these toil-ennobled lands 
 
 Ye have no heritage ; 
 They snatch the fruit of youthful hands, 
 
 The staff from weaiy age. 
 o 2
 
 196 THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY. 
 
 tell them in their Palaces, 
 
 These Lords of Land and Money ! 
 
 They shall not kill the poor like bees, 
 To rob them of Life's honey. 
 
 Thro' long dark years of blood and tears, 
 
 We 've toil'd like branded slaves, 
 Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land 
 
 Of paupers, prisons, graves ! 
 But our long-sufferance endeth now, 
 
 "Within the souls of men 
 The fruitful buds of promise blow, 
 
 And Freedom lives again ! 
 tell them in their Palaces, 
 
 These Lords of Land and Money ! 
 They shall not kill the poor like bees, 
 
 To rob them of Life's homy . 
 
 Too long have Labour's nobles knelt 
 
 Before exalted "Kank;" 
 Within our souls the iron is felt — 
 
 We hear our fetters clank ! 
 A glorious voice goes throbbing forth 
 
 Prom millions stirring now, 
 Who yet before these Gods of earth 
 
 Shall stand with unblencht brow.
 
 THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE. 197 
 
 tell thein in their Palaces, 
 
 These Lords of Land and Money ! 
 
 They shall not kill the poor like bees, 
 To rob them of Life's honey. 
 
 THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE. 
 
 He is gone : better so. We should know whdltand under 
 
 Our Banner : let none but the trusty remain ! 
 For there 's stern work at hand, and the time comes shall 
 sunder 
 
 The shell from the pearl, and the chaff from the grain ! 
 And the heart that thro' danger and death will be dutiful — 
 
 Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands, 
 With a Life, like a palace-home built for the Beautiful — 
 
 Freedom of all her Beloved demands ! 
 
 He is gone from us ! Yet shall we march on victorious, 
 
 Hearts burning like Beacons — eyes fixt on the Goal ! 
 And if we fall fighting, we fall like the Glorious ; 
 
 With face to the Stars, and all heaven in the soid ! 
 And aye for the brave stir of battle we '11 barter 
 
 The sword of life sheatht in the peace of the grave : 
 And better the fieriest fate of the Martyr, 
 
 Than live like the Coward, and die like the Slave !
 
 193 
 
 ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD, 
 
 Sweet Phosphor tricks to a smile the brow of heaven, 
 Dawn's golden springs surge into floods of day, 
 Lush-leavy woods break into singing, Earth 
 Prom dewy dark rolls round her balmy side, 
 And all gogg right, and merrily, with the world. 
 
 Spring with a tender beauty clothes the earth, 
 Happy, and jewell'd like a sumptuous Bride, 
 As tho' she knew no sorrow — held no grave : 
 No glory dims for all the hearts that break, 
 And all goes right, and merrily, with the world. 
 
 Birds sing as sweetly on the blossom'd boughs, 
 Suns mount as royally their sapphire throne, 
 Stars bud in gorgeous gloom, and harvests yield, 
 As tho' man nestled in the lap of Love : 
 All, all goes right, and merrily, with the world. 
 
 But slip this silken-folded mask aside, 
 
 And lo, Hell welters at our very feet ! 
 
 The Poor are murder'd body and soul, the Rich 
 
 In Pleasure's chalice melt their pearl of life ! 
 
 Ay, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
 
 THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE. 199 
 
 Lean out into the looming Future, mark 
 
 The battle roll across the night to come ! 
 
 " See how we right our Wrongs at last," Eevenge 
 
 Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven : 
 
 Yet, all goes right, and merrily, with the world. 
 
 So Sodom, grim old Eeveller ! went to death. 
 Voluptuous Music throbb'd thro' all her courts, 
 Mirth wanton'd at her heart, one pidse before 
 Fire-tongues told out her bloody tale of wrong, — 
 And all went right, and merrily, with the world. 
 
 THE AWAKENING OE THE PEOPLE. 
 
 sweet is the fair face of Nature, when Spring 
 
 With living flower-rainbow in glory hath spann'd 
 Hill and dale ; and the music of birds on the wing 
 
 Makes earth seem a beautiful faery land ! 
 And dear is our first-love's young spirit-wed bride, 
 
 With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse, 
 When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide 
 
 Up in beauty to melt on her cheeks and her lips. 
 But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see, 
 As a People up-girding its might to be free.
 
 200 THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 to see men awake from the slumber of ages, 
 
 "With brows grim from labour, and hands hard and tan, 
 Start up living heroes, the dreamt-of by Sages ! 
 
 And smite with strong arm the oppressors of man : 
 To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring, 
 
 Slaves of the midnight-mine ! serfs of the sod ! 
 Show how the Eternal within them is stirring, 
 
 And never more bend to a crowned clod : 
 Dear God ! 't is a sight for Immortals to see, — 
 A People up-girding its might to be free. 
 
 Battle on bravely, sons of humanity ! 
 
 Dash down the cup from your lips, O ye Toilers ! 
 Too long hath the world bled for tyrants' insanity — 
 
 Too long our weakness been strength to our spoilers. 
 For Freedom and Flight, gallant hearts, wrestle ever, 
 
 And speak ye to others the proud words that won ye : 
 Your rights conquer'd once, shall be wrung from you 
 never ; 
 
 O battle on bravely ; the world's eyes are on ye ; 
 And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see, 
 As a People up-girding its might to be free !
 
 201 
 
 THE WORKER. 
 
 I CAKE not a curse though from birth he inherit 
 
 The tear-bitter bread and the stingings of scom, 
 If the man be but one of God's nobles in spirit, — 
 
 Though penniless, richly-soul'd, — heartsome, though 
 worn — 
 And will not for golden bribe lout it or flatter, 
 
 But cHngs to the Eight aye, as steel to the pole : 
 He may sweat at the plough, loom, or anvil, no matter, 
 
 I '11 own him the man that is dear to my soul. 
 
 His hand may be hard, and his raiment be tatter'd, 
 
 On straw-pallet nightly his weary limbs rest ; 
 If his brow wear the stamp of a spirit unfetter'd, 
 
 I 'm mining at once for the gems in his breast. 
 Give me the true man, who will fear not nor falter, 
 
 Though Want be his guerdon, the Workhouse his goal, 
 Till his heart has burnt out upon Liberty's Altar : 
 
 For this is the man I hold dear to my soid.
 
 202 THE WORKER. 
 
 True hearts, in this brave world of blessings and beauty, 
 
 Aye scorn the poor splendour of losel and lurker ; 
 And Tod is creation's crown, worship is duty, 
 
 And greater than Gods in old days is the Worker. 
 For us the wealth-laden world laboureth ever ; 
 
 For us harvests ripen, winds blow, waters roll ; 
 And him who gives back in his might of endeavour, 
 
 I '11 cherish, — a man ever dear to my soul.
 
 203 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 LINES INSCBIBED 
 
 TO THE 
 
 REY. E. D. MAURICE. 
 
 God bless you, Brave One, in our dearth, 
 Your life shall leave a trailing glory ; 
 
 And round the poor Man's homely hearth 
 We proudly tell your suffering's story. 
 
 All Saviour-souls have sacrificed, 
 
 With nought but noble faith for guerdon ; 
 And ere the world hath crown' d the Christ, 
 
 The man to death hath borne the burden ! 
 
 The Savage broke the glass that brought 
 The heavens nearer, saith the legend ! 
 
 Even so the Bigots welcome aught 
 
 That makes our vision starrier-region'd !
 
 204 LINES INSCRIBED TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 
 
 They lay their Corner-stones in dark 
 Deep waters, who up-build in beauty, 
 
 On Earth's old heart, their Triumph-Arc 
 That crowns with glory lives of duty. 
 
 And meekly still the Martyrs go 
 
 To keep with Pain their solemn bridal ! 
 
 And still they walk the fire who bow 
 Not down to worship Custom's idol. 
 
 In fieriest forge of martyrdom, 
 
 Their swords of soul must weld and brighten : 
 Tear-bathed, from fiercest furnace, come 
 
 Their lives, heroic-temper'd — Titan ! 
 
 And heart-strings sweetest music make 
 When swept by Suffering's fiery fingers ! 
 
 And thro' soul-shadows starriest break 
 The glories on God's brave light -bringers. 
 
 Take heart ! tho' sown in tears and blood, 
 No seed that 's cpiick with love, hath perisht, 
 
 Tho' dropt in barren byeways — God 
 
 Some glorious flower of life hath cherisht. 
 
 Take heart ; the rude dust dark To-day, 
 Soars a new-lighted sphere To-morrow ! 
 
 And wings of splendour burst the clay 
 That clasps us in Death's fruitful furrow.
 
 205 
 
 A SONG IN THE CITY. 
 
 Coining the heart, brain, and sinew, to gold, 
 Till we sink in the dark, on the pauper's dole, 
 
 Feeling for ever the flowerless mould, 
 Growing about the uncrowned soul ! 
 
 0, God ! God ! must this evermore be 
 
 The lot of the Children of Poverty ? 
 
 The Spring is calling from brae and bower, 
 In the twinkling sheen of the sunny hour, 
 
 Earth smiles in her golden green ; 
 There 's music below, in the glistering leaves, 
 There 's music above, and heaven's blue bosom heaves 
 
 The silvery clouds between ; 
 The boughs of the woodland are nodding in play, 
 And wooingly beckon my spirit away — 
 
 I hear the dreamy hum 
 Of bees in the lime-tree, and birds on the spray ; 
 And they, too, are calling my thinking away ; 
 But I cannot — cannot come. 
 
 Visions of verdant and heart-coobng places 
 
 Will steal on my soul Hke a golden spring-rain, 
 
 Bringing the lost Light of brave, vanisht faces ; 
 Till all my Life blossoms with beauty again.
 
 206 A SONG IN THE CITY. 
 
 But 0, for a glimpse of the flower-laden Morning, 
 
 That makes the heart leap up, and knock at heaven's 
 door ! 
 for the green lane, the green field, the green wood, 
 
 To take in, by heartfuls, their greenness once more ! 
 How I yearn to lie down in the lush-flower'd meadows, 
 And nestle in leaves, and the sleep of the shadows, 
 
 Where violets in the cool gloom are awaking, 
 There, let my soul burst from its cavern of clay, 
 To float down the warm spring, away and away ! 
 
 TOR I WAS NOT MADE MERELY FOR MONEY-MAKING. 
 
 At my wearisome task I oftentimes turn, 
 
 From my bride, and my monitress, Duty, 
 Forgetting the strife, and the wrestle of life, 
 
 To talk with the spirit of beauty. 
 The nmltitude's hum, and the chinking of gold, 
 
 Grow hush as the dying of day, 
 For on wings, pulsing music, with joy untold, 
 
 My heart is up, and away ! 
 Glad as the bird in the tree-top chanting 
 
 Its anthem of Liberty ; 
 With its heart in its musical gratitude panting, 
 
 And 0, 't is a Miss to be ! 
 Once more to drink in the life -breathing air, 
 
 Lapt in luxurious flowers — 
 To recall again the pleasures that were 
 
 In Infancy's innocent hours —
 
 A SONG IN THE CITY. 207 
 
 To wash the earth-stains and the dust from my soul, 
 
 In nature's reviving tears, once more ; 
 To feast at her banquet, and drink from her bowl 
 
 Eich dew, for the heart's hot core. 
 Ah me ! ah me ! it is heavenly then, 
 
 And hints of the spirit-world, near alway, 
 Are stirring, and stirr'd, at my heart again, 
 
 Like leaves to the kiss of May : 
 It is but a dream, yet 't is passing sweet, 
 
 And when from its spells my spirit is waking, 
 Dark is my heart, and the wild tears start ; 
 
 TOB, I WAS NOT MADE MERELY FOR MONEY-MAKING. 
 
 My soid leaneth out, to the whisperings 
 
 Of the mighty, the marvellous spirits of old ; 
 And heaven-ward soareth to strengthen her wings, 
 
 When Labour relapseth its earthly hold ; 
 And breathless with awfullest beauty, — it listens, 
 
 To catch the. Night's deep, starry mystery ; 
 Or in mine eyes, dissolved, it glistens, 
 
 Big, for the moan of Humanity. 
 Much that is written within its chamber, 
 Much that is shrined in the mind's living amber, 
 
 Much of this thought of mine, — 
 I fain woidd struggle and give to birth ; 
 For I would not pass away from earth, 
 And make no sign !
 
 203 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN. 
 
 I yearn to utter, what might live on, 
 
 In the world's heart, when I am gone. 
 
 I would not plod on, like these slaves of gold, 
 
 Who shut up their souls, in a dusky cave : 
 I would see the world better, and nobler-soul'd, 
 
 Ere I lay me down in my green turf-grave. 
 I may toil till my life is filled with dreariness, 
 Toil till my heart is a wreck in its weariness, 
 Toil for ever, for tear-steept bread, 
 Till I go down to the silent dead. 
 But, by this yearning, this hoping, this aching, 
 
 I WAS NOT MADE MERELY FOR MONEY-MAKING. 
 
 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN. 
 
 In the tears of the Morning — 
 
 The smiles of the sun, 
 The green Earth's adorning 
 
 Told spring had begun ! 
 Warm woods donn'd their beauty, wrought 
 
 Through long still nights, 
 And musical breezes brought 
 
 Elowery delights :
 
 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN. 209 
 
 The humming leaves flasht 
 
 Eich in light, with sweet sound, 
 And the glad waters dasht 
 
 Their starry spray round ! 
 The wood-bines up-climbing, 
 
 Laught out, pink and golden, 
 And bees made sweet chiming 
 
 In roses half-folden. 
 But where was that infant-band, 
 
 Wont in spring weather 
 To wander forth, hand-in-hand, 
 
 Violets to gather ? 
 Ah misery ! they slept, 
 
 The dear blossoms of love ! 
 Where the green branches wept, 
 
 And the grass crept above ; 
 Melodious gladness 
 
 Throbb'd thro' the rich air, 
 But the anguish of madness 
 
 Kent Poverty's lair ; 
 For Famine had smitten 
 
 Its pride of life low, 
 And agony written 
 
 On heart and on brow. 
 Sweet from the boughs the birds 
 
 Sang in their mirth, 
 The lark messaged heaven-wards 
 
 Blessings from earth —
 
 210 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN. 
 
 But I turn'd where our gentle Lord's 
 
 Loves lay in dearth. 
 They heard not, nor heeded, 
 
 The sounds of life o'er them ! 
 They felt not, nor needed, 
 
 The hot tears wept for them ! 
 But earth-flowers were springing 
 
 O'er human flowers' grave, 
 And, God ! what heart-wringing 
 
 Their tender looks gave ! 
 They died ! died of hunger — 
 
 By bitter want blasted ! 
 While wealth for the Wronger 
 
 Kan over untasted — 
 While Pomp, in joy's rosy bow'rs, 
 
 Wasted life's measure, 
 Chicling the lagging hours, 
 
 Wearied of pleasure ! 
 They died ! while men hoarded 
 
 The free gifts of God : 
 They died ! 't is recorded 
 
 In letters of blood. 
 Yet the com on the hills 
 
 Waves its showery gold crown ; 
 Still Nature's lap fills 
 
 With the good heaven drops down. 
 ! this world might be lighted 
 
 With Eden's first smile —
 
 THE FAMINE-SMITTEN. 211 
 
 Angel-haunted — unblighted, 
 
 With Freedom for Tod : 
 But they wring out our blood 
 
 For their banquet of gold ! 
 They annul laws of God, 
 
 Soul and body are sold ! 
 Hark now ! hall and palace, 
 
 Ring out, dome and rafter ! 
 Ay, laugh on, ye callous ! 
 
 In Hell there '11 be laughter : 
 But tremble, hell-makers ; 
 
 The shorn among men — 
 The world's image-breakers 
 
 Grow mighty again ; 
 There be stern times a-coming, 
 
 The dark days of reck'ning, 
 The storms are up-looming — 
 
 The Nemesis wak'ning! 
 On heaven, blood shall call, 
 
 Earth quake with pent thunder, 
 And shackle and thrall 
 
 Shall be riven asunder. 
 It will come, it shall come, 
 
 Impede it what may : 
 Up, People ! and welcome 
 
 Your glorious day. 
 
 p 2
 
 212 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Yes, Peace is beautiful ; and I do yearn 
 For her to clasp the World's poor tortured heart, 
 As sweet spring warmth doth brood o'er coming flowers. 
 But peace with these Leviathans of blood — 
 Who pirate crimson seas, devouring men ? 
 Give them the hand of brotherhood — whose fangs 
 Are in our hearts with the grim blood-hound's grip ? 
 Wouldst see Peace, idiot-like, with smirk and smile, 
 A-planting flowers to coronal Truth's grave ? 
 Peace, merry-making round the funeral pyre, 
 Where Freedom, fiery-curtained, weds with death ? 
 Peace, mirroring her form by pools of blood, — 
 Crowning the Croat in Vienna's fosse, 
 With all sweet influences of thankful eyes, 
 For murder of the glorious Burschenschaft ? 
 Peace with Oppression, which doth tear dear friends 
 And brothers from our side to-day, and comes 
 To eat our hearts and drink our blood to-morrow ? 
 Out on 't ! it is the Tyrant's cunning cant, 
 The robe of sheen flung o'er its deadly daggers, 
 Which start to life, whene'er it hugs to death. 
 I answer, War ! — war with the cause of war, —
 
 PEACE. 213 
 
 War with our misery, want, and wretchedness, — 
 
 War with curst Gold, which is an endless war 
 
 On Love, and God, and our Humanity ! 
 
 Brothers, I bid ye forth to glorious war ! 
 
 Patch fig-leaves o'er the naked truth no more. 
 
 The stream of Time runs red with our best blood ! 
 
 Time's seed-field we have sown with fratricide, 
 
 And dragon's teeth have sprung, ay, in our hearts. 
 
 ! we have fought and bled on land and sea, 
 
 Heapt glory's car with myriads of the brave, 
 
 Spilt blood by oceans — treasures by the million, 
 
 At every Tyrant's beck. Had we but shed 
 
 Such warm and eloquent blood for Freedom's faith, 
 
 War's star in heaven had lost its name ere now. 
 
 " Brothers ! " I cried, — well, Brothers, brother slaves ! 
 
 ! but to give ye slaves their valiant heart, 
 Whose dumb, dead dust is worth your living souls — 
 Dear God ! 't were sweet to kiss the scaffold-block ! 
 
 1 'd proudly leap death's darkness, to let shine 
 The Future's promise thro' your sorrow's tears ! 
 Sorrow ? ah, no ! ye feel not sense so holy : 
 The worm of misery riots in your hearts — 
 
 Ye hear your younglings in the drear midnight 
 Make moan for bread, when ye have none to give ! — 
 Ye drain your life, warm, for the vulture's drink ! 
 The groaning land is choked with living death. 
 ! ye are mated to the things of scorn. 
 And I have heard vour miserable madness
 
 211 PEACE. 
 
 Belchi forth in drunken pasans to your tyrants, 
 I dging your murderers to the hell they 've made ! 
 Ah, Chrisl ! was it for this, thou sudden sun, 
 Didst light these centuries with thy dying smile? — 
 Was it for this, so many and so many 
 Have haekt their spirit-swords againsl our fettera 
 And killing cords, that bleed our hearts to death — 
 Wept griefs might turn the soul grey in an hour — 
 Broke their great hearts for love, and, in despair, 
 Dasht their immortal crowns to earth, and died? 
 
 it for this the countless Host of Martyrs, 
 I' crown'd and robed in fiery martyrdom, 
 Beat out a golden-aged Future from 
 The angel-metal of their noble lives — 
 Clomb the red scaffold — strain'd tin ir weary < 
 Across the mists of ages, for one glimpse 
 Of midnight burning into that bright Dawn 
 Now bursting golden, up the skies of time? 
 When will ye put your human glory on? 
 How long will ye lie darkling desolate, 
 With barren brain, blind life, and fallow heart ? 
 The hollow yearning grave will kindly close, 
 And flowers spring where the mould lay freshly dark ! 
 The leaves will burst from out the naked'st boughs, 
 Fire-ripen'd into glorious greenery, 
 Waste Moor and Fen will kindle into spring : 
 How long will ye lie darkling desolate ? 
 Lord God Almighty ! what a spring of freedom
 
 PEACE. 215 
 
 Awaits to burst the winter of our world ! 
 
 O ! if aught moving thrills a brother's love. 
 
 Which pleads for utterance in blinding tears, 
 
 Then let these words burn living in your souls, 
 
 Snatch Fear's cold hand from oft* your palsied hearts, 
 
 And send the intrepid shudder through your veins. 
 
 Helots of Albion ! Penury's nursbngs ! rise, 
 
 And swear, in God's name, and in Heaven's or HeU's, 
 
 Ye will bear witness at the birth of Freedom ! 
 
 Arise, and front the blessed light of Heaven, 
 
 With tyrant-quailing manhood in your looks ! 
 
 Arise, go forth to glorious war for right, 
 
 And justice, and mankind's high destiny ! 
 
 Arise, 't is Freedom's bleeding fight, strike home 
 
 Wherever tyrants lift the gorgon-head ! 
 
 There is a chasm in the coming years, 
 
 A-gape for strife's Niagara of blood — 
 
 Or to be bridged by brave hearts linkt in love. 
 
 The world is stirring with its mighty purpose : 
 
 No more be laggards in the march of men. 
 
 The Vulture Despotism spreads wide its wings 
 
 Eight royally, to give ye broader mark ! 
 
 And the hag Evil sickens unto death, 
 
 With her sore travail o'er the birth of Good. 
 
 And yet shall War's red-letter' d creed die out ; 
 
 Where blood is running, shall the wild-flowers blow ; 
 
 Where men are groaning, shall their children sing ; 
 
 And Peace and Love re-Genesis the world.
 
 216 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE. 
 
 Earth, garnisht Bride-like, bares her bosom to the 
 
 nestling Night, 
 Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls of 
 
 light; 
 
 Ten thousand tender, stany eyes smile o'er the world at 
 
 rest, 
 The weary world — husht like an infant on its mother's 
 
 breast ! 
 
 The great old hills thrust up their foreheads in rich- 
 sleeping Hght : 
 
 How proudly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping 
 God to-night ! 
 
 The flowers have hung their cups with gems of their own 
 
 sweetness wrought, 
 And muse upon their stems, in smiling ecstasy of thought : 
 
 They have banquetted on beauty, at the fragrant Eve's red 
 
 lips, 
 And fold in charmed rest, with crowns upon their velvet tips.
 
 A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE. 217 
 
 No green tide sweeps the sea of leaves, no wind-sigh stirs 
 
 the sod, 
 While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting 
 
 God. 
 
 Sweet hour ! thou wak'st the feeling that we never know 
 
 by day, 
 For Angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath the 
 
 clay : 
 
 Even while I list, such music stealeth in upon my soul, 
 As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph- 
 harpings stole — 
 
 Or I could grasp the immortal part of life, and soar, and 
 
 soar, 
 Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found 
 
 such hidden lore ! 
 
 It flings aside the weight of years, and lovingly goes back, 
 To that sweet time, the dear old days, that gUsten on its 
 track ! 
 
 Life's wither'd leaves grow green again, and fresh with 
 Childhood's spring, 
 
 As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbow- 
 ring : —
 
 218 A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE. 
 
 The Past, with all its gather'd charms, beckons me back 
 
 in joy, 
 And loving hearts, and open arms, re-clasp me as a boy. 
 
 The voices of the Loved and Lost are stirring at my heart, 
 And Memory's miser'd treasures leap to life, with sudden 
 start, — 
 
 As through her darken'd windows, warm and glad sun- 
 light creeps in, 
 
 And Lang-syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn 
 heart doth win. 
 
 Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou hast lookt and 
 
 smiled, Mother, 
 And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very clnld, Mother ! 
 
 I 'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, much as in 
 
 those hours, 
 When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds and 
 
 flowers, 
 
 "When the long summer days were short, for my glad soul 
 
 to live 
 The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could give. 
 
 When Heaven sang to my innocence, and every leafy grove 
 And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches with 
 love.
 
 A GLIMPSE OP AULD LANG-SYNE. 219 
 
 When life oped like a flower, where clung my lips, to 
 
 quaff its honey, 
 And joys throng'd like a shower of gold king-cups in 
 
 meadows sunny. 
 
 I '11 tell thee, Mother ! since we met, stern changes have 
 
 come o'er me : 
 Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all before me. 
 
 ! I was full of trustful faith, and, in my glee and glad- 
 
 ness, 
 Deem'd not that others had begun as bright, whose end 
 was madness. 
 
 1 knew not smiles could light up eyes, like Sunset's laugh- 
 
 ing glow 
 On some cold stream, which bums above, while all rims 
 dark below ; 
 
 That on Love's summer sea, great souls go down, wliile 
 
 some, grown cold, 
 Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love for 
 
 gold; 
 
 How they on whom we'd staked the heart forget the 
 
 early vow, 
 And they who swore to love through life would pass all 
 
 coldly now ;
 
 220 A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE. 
 
 How, in the soul's dark hour, Love's temple-veil is rent 
 
 in twain, 
 And the heart quivers thorn-crown' d on the cross of fiery 
 
 pain. 
 
 And shatter'd idols, broken dreams, come crowding on 
 
 my brain, 
 As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come again. 
 
 It tells of golden moments lost — heart sear'd — blind Pas- 
 sion's thrall ; 
 
 Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste, Love's honey 
 turn'd to gall. 
 
 It tells how many and often high resolve and purpose 
 
 strong, 
 Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have died upon my 
 
 tongue. 
 
 I left thee, Mother, in sweet May, the merry month of 
 
 flowers, 
 To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer-hours. 
 
 I left my world of love behind, with soul for life a-thirsting, 
 My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart was 
 bursting:. 
 
 -a* 
 
 For I had knit my soul to climb, with poverty its burden ; 
 Give me but time, give me time, and I would Ann the 
 guerdon.
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. 221 
 
 Ah, Mother ! many a heart that all my aspiration cherisht 
 Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-march 
 perisht. 
 
 We see the bleeding victims lie upon the world's grim 
 
 Altar, 
 And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts make 
 
 us falter. 
 
 Mother, the world hath wreakt its part on me, with 
 
 scathing power, 
 Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee at this 
 
 hour. 
 
 And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes with sweet 
 
 tears wet, 
 I know there wells a spring of love through all my being 
 
 yet. 
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Merry Christmas Eve ! in the Palace where knavery 
 Crowds all the treasures the fair world can render : 
 
 Where spirits grow rusted in silkenest slavery, 
 And life is out-panted, in sloth, and in splendour :
 
 222 MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 In gladness and glory, Wealth's darlings were meeting, 
 And jewel-claspt fingers linkt softly again ; 
 
 New friendships were twining, and old friends were 
 greeting, 
 And twin hearts grew one, in God's golden love-chain. 
 
 Merry Christmas Eve ! in a poor man's grim hovel, 
 
 There huddled in silence a famishing family ; 
 Church-bells were laughing in musical revel, 
 
 They heard the loud mockery, with brows throbbing 
 clammily ; 
 All in the many time there they sat, mourning — 
 
 Two sons — two brothers — in penal chains bleeding ; 
 Their hearts wandered forth to the never-returning, 
 
 Who rose on their vision, pale, haggard, and pleading. 
 
 Merry Christmas Eve ! for the rich, as in duty, 
 
 Taste pander'd and ruby wine woo'd on the board, 
 Eyes smiled in feign'd glory, on birth, and on beauty ; 
 
 And lying bps flatter'd the Mammonite lord. 
 Love-kisses sobb'd out 'twixt the rollic and rout, 
 
 And Hope went forth, reaping-in long-promist treasure. 
 What matter, tho' hearts might be breaking without ? 
 
 Their groans were unheard in the palace of pleasure. 
 
 Merry Christmas Eve ! but the stricken ones heard 
 No neighbourly welcome, no kind voice of kin ; 
 
 They lookt at each other, but spake not a word, 
 
 TVhile through crevice, and cranny, the sleet drifted in.
 
 MEKKY CHRISTMAS EVE. 223 
 
 In a desolate corner, one, hunger-kill' d, lay, 
 
 And the mother's hot tears were the bosom-babe's food. 
 
 What marvel, Statesmen, what marvel, I pray, 
 Such misery nurseth Crime's dark viper-brood ? 
 
 men, angel-imaged in Nature's fan* mint, 
 
 And is it for this, ye were fashioned divine ? 
 Ah, where 's the god-stamp — Immortality's print ? 
 
 We are tyrants and slaves, knit in one tortured twine : 
 That a few, like to gods, may stride over the earth, 
 
 Millions, born to heart-murder, are given in pawn ; 
 When will the world quicken for Liberty's birth, 
 
 Which she waiteth, with eager wings beating the dawn ? 
 
 False Priests, dare ye say 't is the will of your God, 
 
 (And shroud the Christ's message in dark sophistry,) 
 That these millions of paupers should bow to the sod ? 
 
 Up, up, trampled hearts, it 's a lie ! it 's a lie ! 
 They may carve "State" and "Altar" in characters 
 golden, 
 
 But Tyranny's symbols are ceasing to win ; 
 Be stirring, O people, your scroll is unfolden, 
 
 And bright be the deeds ye emblazon therein.
 
 224 
 
 THE SINGER. 
 
 "Up out of the Corn the Lark caroll'd in light, 
 
 Like a new splendour sprung from the dark husk of Night, 
 
 Green light shimmer' d laughing o'er forest and sod ; 
 
 The rich sky was full of the presence of God, 
 
 As with brave careless rapture he lavisht around 
 
 Bare violet fancies and rose-leaves of sound : 
 
 Ah thro' the Mom's sun-city sea-like his psalm 
 
 "With melodious waves dasht the bright world of calm : 
 
 But heavily hung the droopt eaes of the Corn : 
 
 They were gathering gold in the dewy Morn. 
 
 And he sang, as on heaven's fire-grains he had fed, 
 Till his heart's merry wine had made drunken his head. 
 How he sang ! as bis honey in Life's cells ne'er dwindled, 
 And bale-fires of Joy on all Life's hills were kindled : 
 O ! he sang, as he felt that to singing was given 
 The magic to build rainbow-stairways to heaven ! 
 And he coidd not have sung with more lusty cheer, 
 Had all the world Hstened a-tiptoe to hear ! 
 All the while heavily hung the Corn, 
 And its drowsy ears heard not the Sweetheart 
 of Morn.
 
 225 
 
 BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 From an Article, written ly Dr. S. Smiles, in "Eliza Cook's 
 Journal," 1851. 
 
 The reader of the miscellaneous literature of the day- 
 lias doubtless met with the name of Gerald Massey 
 attached to poems strikingly beautiful in language and 
 intensely passionate in feeling. These poems have here- 
 tofore been published chiefly in journals which are yet in 
 a great measure tabooed in what are regarded as "respect- 
 able literary circles." The " Spirit of Freedom," a cheap 
 journal, started in 1849, and written exclusively by 
 working-men, contained a large number of them ; and 
 others have since appeared in the " Christian Socialist," a 
 cheap journal conducted by Clergymen of the Church of 
 England; and many others also, of great beauty, have 
 been published in the "Leader," a remarkably able jour- 
 nal conducted by Thornton Hunt, the son of the poet. 
 
 You see at once that the writer is a man of vivid 
 genius, and is full of the true poetic fire. Some of his 
 earlier pieces are indignant expostulations with society 
 at the wrongs of suffering humanity ; passionate protests 
 against those hideous disparities of Life which meet our 
 eye on every side ; against power wrongfully used ; against 
 fraud and oppression in their more rampant forms ; min- 
 gled with appeals to the higher influences of knowledge, 
 justice, mercy, truth, and love. It is always thus with 
 the poet who has worked his way to the light through 
 darkness, suffering, and toil. Give a poor down-trodden 
 man culture, and, in nine cases out of ten, you only 
 increase his sensitiveness to pain : you agonize him with 
 the sight of pleasures which are to him forbidden ; you
 
 226 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 quicken his sense of despair at the frightful inequalities of 
 the human lot. There are thousands of noble natures, 
 with minds which, under better circumstances, would have 
 blessed and glorified their race, who have been for ever 
 blasted — crashed into the mire — or condemned to courses 
 of desperate guilt ! — for one who, like Gerald Massey, has 
 nobly risen above his trials and temptations, and tri- 
 umphed over them. And when such a man does find a 
 voice, surely "rose-water" verses and "hot-pressed" 
 sonnets are not to be expected of him ; such things are 
 not by any means the natural products of a life of despe- 
 rate straggling with poverty. When the self-risen and 
 self-educated man speaks and writes now-a-days, it is of 
 the subjects nearest to his heart. Literature is not a 
 mere intelligent epicurism with men who have suffered 
 and grown wise, but a real, earnest, passionate, vehement 
 living thing — a power to move others, a means to elevate 
 themselves, and to emancipate their order. This is a 
 marked peculiarity of our times ; knowledge is now more 
 than ever regarded as a power to elevate, not merely 
 individuals, but classes. Hence the most intelligent of 
 working-men at this day are intensely political : we merely 
 state this as a fact not to be disputed. In former times, 
 when literature was regarded mainly in the light of a rich 
 man's luxury, poets who rose out of the working-class 
 sang as their patrons wished. Bloomfield and Clare sang 
 of the quiet beauty of rural life, and painted pictures of 
 evening skies, purling brooks, and grassy meads. Burns 
 could with difficulty repress the "Jacobin" spirit which 
 burned within him ; and yet even he was rarely, if ever, 
 political in his tone. His strongest verses, having a 
 political bearing, were those addressed to the Scotch 
 Bepresentatives in reference to the Excise regulations as 
 to the distillation of whiskey. But come down to our 
 own day, and mark the difference : Elliot, Nichol, Barn- 
 ford, the author of " Ernest," the Chartist Epic, Davis, 
 the "Belfast Man," De Jean, Massey, and many others, 
 are intensely political; and they defend themselves for
 
 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 227 
 
 their selection of subjects as Elliot did, when he said, 
 " Poetry is impassioned truth ; and why should we not 
 utter it in the shape that touches our condition the most 
 closely— the political?" But how it happens that the 
 writing's of working-men now-a-days so generally assume 
 the political tone, will be best ascertained from the follow- 
 ing sketch of the life of Gerald Massey : — 
 
 He was born in May, 1828, and is, therefore, barely 
 twenty-three years of age. He first saw the light in a 
 little stone hut near Tring, in Herts, one of those mise- 
 rable abodes in which so many of our happy peasantry 
 — their country's pride ! — are condemned to live and 
 die. One shilling a week was the rent of this hovel, the 
 roof of which was so low that a man could not stand 
 upright in it. Massey's father was a canal boatman, 
 earning the wage of ten shillings a week. Like most 
 other peasants in this " highly-favoured Christian coun- 
 try," he had no opportunities of education, and never 
 could write his own name. But Gerald Massey was 
 blessed in his mother, from whom he derived a finely- 
 organized brain and a susceptible temperament. Though 
 quite illiterate like her husband, she had a firm, free spirit, 
 — it 's broken now ! — a tender yet courageous heart, and 
 a pride of honest poverty which she never ceased to che- 
 rish. But she needed all her strength and courage to 
 bear up under the privations of her lot. Sometimes the 
 husband fell out of work ; and there was no bread in the 
 cupboard, except what was purchased by the labour of the 
 elder children, some of Avhom were early sent to work in 
 the neighbouring silk-mill. Disease, too, often fell upon 
 the family, cooped up in that unwholesome hovel : indeed, 
 the wonder is, not that our peasantry should be diseased, 
 and grow old and haggard before their time, but that they 
 should exist at all in such lazar-houses and cesspools. 
 
 None of the children of this poor family were educated, 
 in the common acceptance of the term. Several of them 
 were sent for a short time to a penny school, where the 
 teacher and the taught were about on a par ; but so soon 
 
 Q 2
 
 223 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 as they were of age to work, the children were sent to the 
 silk-mill. The poor cannot afford to keep their children 
 at school, if they are of an age to w r ork and earn money. 
 They must help to eke out their parents' slender gains, 
 even though it be only by a few pence weekly. So, at 
 eight years of age, Gerald Massey went into' the silk- 
 manufactory, rising at five o'clock in the morning, and 
 toiling there till half-past six in the evening ; up in the 
 grey dawn, or in the winter before the daylight, and 
 trudging to the factory through the wind, or in the snow ; 
 seeing the sun only through the factory windows ; breath- 
 ing an atmosphere laden with rank oily vapour, his ears 
 deafened by the roar of incessant wheels : — 
 
 " Still all the day the iron wheels go onward, 
 Grinding life down from its mark ; 
 And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, 
 Spin on Mindly in the dark." 
 
 What a life for a child ! What a substitute for tender 
 prattle, for childish glee, for youthful playtime ! Then 
 home shivering under the cold, starless sky, on Saturday 
 nights, with 9d,, Is., or 1*. 3d,, for the whole week's 
 work ; for such were the respective amounts of the wages 
 earned by the child labour of Gerald Massey. 
 
 But the mill was burned down, and the children held 
 jubilee over it. The boy stood for twelve hours in the 
 wind, and sleet, and mud, rejoicing in the conflagration 
 which thus liberated him. Who can wonder at this ? 
 Then he went to straw-plaiting, — as toilsome, and, per- 
 haps, more unwholesome than factory-work. Without 
 exercise, in a marshy district, the plaiters were constantly 
 having racking attacks of ague. The boy had the disease 
 for three years, ending with tertian ague. Sometimes 
 four of the family, and the mother, lay ill at one time, all 
 crying with thirst, with no one to give them drink, and 
 each too weak to help the other. How little do Ave know 
 of the sufferings endured by the poor and struggling 
 classes of our population, especially in our rural districts ! 
 No press echoes their wants, or records their sufferings ;
 
 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 229 
 
 and they live almost as unknown to us as if they were the 
 inhabitants of some undiscovered country. 
 
 And now take, as an illustration, the child-life of 
 Gerald Massey. " Having had to earn my own dear 
 bread," he says, "by the eternal cheapening of flesh and 
 blood thus early, I never knew what childhood meant. 
 I had no childhood. Ever since I can remember, 1 have 
 had the aching fear of want, throbbing in heart and brow. 
 The currents of my life were early poisoned, and few, 
 methinks, would pass unscathed through the scenes and 
 circumstances in which I have lived ; none, if they were 
 as curious and precocious as I was. The child comes 
 into the world like a new coin with the stamp of God 
 upon it ; and in like manner as the Jews sweat down 
 sovereigns, by hustling them in a bag to get gold-dust 
 out of them, so is the poor man's child hustled and 
 sweated down in this bag of society to get wealth out of 
 it ; and even as the impress of the Queen is effaced by the 
 Jewish process, so is the image of God worn from heart 
 and brow, and day by day the child recedes devil-ward. 
 I look back now with wonder, not that so few escape, 
 but that any escape at all, to win a nobler growth for 
 their humanity. So blighting are the influences which 
 surround thousands in early life, to which I can bear 
 such bitter testimony." 
 
 And how fared the growth of this child's mind the 
 while ? Thanks to the care of his mother, who had sent 
 him to the penny school, he had learnt to read, and the 
 desire to read had been awakened. Books, however, 
 were very scarce. The Bible and Bum an were the 
 principal; he committed many chapters of the former to 
 memory, and accepted all lbiuyan'g, allegory as bond fide 
 history. Afterwards he obtained access to " Robinson 
 Crusoe " and a few Wesleyan tracts left at the cottage. 
 These constituted his sole reading, until he came up to 
 London, at the age of fifteen, as an errand-boy; and now, 
 for the first time in his life, he met with plenty of books, 
 reading all that came in his way, from " Lloyd's Penny
 
 230 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 Times," to Cobbett's Works, " French Avithout a Master," 
 together Avith Engbsh, Roman, and Grecian history. A 
 ravishing awakenment ensued, — the delightful sense of 
 growing knowledge, — the charm of new thought, — the 
 wonders of a new Avorld. " Till then," he says, " I had 
 often Avondered Avhy I lived at all, — Avhether 
 
 ' It was Bot better not to be, 
 I was so full of misery.' 
 
 Now I began to think that the crown of all desire, and 
 the sum of all existence, was to read and get knoAvledge. 
 Read ! read ! read ! I used to read at all possible times, 
 and in all possible places ; up in bed till two or three in 
 the morning, — nothing daunted by once setting the bed 
 on fire. Greatly indebted was I also to the bookstalls, 
 where I have read a great deal, often folding a leaf in a 
 book, and returning the next day to continue the subject ; 
 but sometimes the book was gone, and then great was my 
 grief! When out of a situation, I have often gone Avith- 
 out a meal to purchase a book. Until I fell in love, and 
 began to rhyme as a matter of consequence, I never had 
 the least predilection for poetry. In fact, I always 
 eschewed it ; if I ever met with any, I instantly skipped 
 it over, and passed on, as one does with the description of 
 scenery, &c., in a novel. I always loved the birds and 
 flowers, the woods and the stars ; I felt delight in being 
 alone in a summer-wood, with song, like a spirit, in the 
 trees, and the golden sun-bursts glinting through the ver- 
 durous roof; and Avas conscious of a mysterious creeping 
 of the blood, and tingling of the nerves, when standing 
 alone in the starry midnight, as in God's own presence- 
 chamber. But until I began to rhyme, I cared nothing 
 for written poetry. The first verses I ever made were 
 upon ' Hope,' when I Avas utterly hopeless ; and after I 
 had begun, I never ceased for about four years, at the end 
 of which time I rushed into print." 
 
 There was, of course, crudeness both of thought and 
 expression in the first verses of the poet, which were pub-
 
 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 231 
 
 lished in a provincial paper. But there was nerve, 
 rhythm, and poetry : the burthen of the song was, " At 
 eventime it shall be light." The leading idea of the 
 poem was the power of knowledge, virtue, and tempe- 
 rance to elevate the condition of the poor, — a noble idea 
 tridy. Shortly after, he was encouraged to print a shil- 
 ling volume of " Poems and Chansons," in his native 
 town of Tring, of which some 250 copies were sold. Of 
 his later poems we shall afterwards speak. 
 
 But a new power was now working upon his nature, 
 as might have been expected, — the power of opinion, as 
 expressed in books, and in the discussions of his fellow- 
 workers. 
 
 "As an errand-boy," he says, "I had, of course, many 
 hardships to undergo, and to bear with much tyranny ; 
 and that led me into reasoning upon men and things, the 
 causes of misery, the anomalies of our societary state, 
 politics, &c, and the circle of my being rapidly out- 
 surged. New power came to me with all that 1 saw, 
 and thought, and read. I studied political works, — such 
 as Paine, Volney, Howitt, Louis Blanc, &c, which gave 
 me another element to mould into my verse, though I 
 am convinced that a poet must sacrifice much if he write 
 party-political poetry. His politics must be above the 
 pinnacle of party zeal ; the politics of eternal truth, right, 
 and justice. He must not waste a life on what to- 
 morrow may prove to have been merely the question of 
 a day. The French Bevolution of 1848 had the greatest 
 effect on me of any circumstance connected with my own 
 life. It was scarred and blood-burnt into the very core of 
 my being." 
 
 But, meanwhile, he had been engaged in other literary 
 work. Full of new thoughts, and bursting with aspira- 
 tions for freedom, he started, in April, 1849, a cheap 
 journal, written entirely by working-men, entitled, "The 
 Spirit of Freedom:" it was full of fiery earnestness, and 
 half of its weekly contents were supplied by Gerald Mas- 
 sey himself, who acted as editor. It cost him five situa-
 
 232 A BIOGRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 tions during a period of eleven months, — twice because 
 he was detected burning candle far on into the night, and 
 three times because of the tone of the opinions to which 
 he gave utterance. The French Revolution of 1848 
 having, amongst its other issues, kindled the zeal of the 
 working-men in this country in the cause of association, 
 Gerald Massey eagerly joined them, and he has been 
 recently instrumental in giving some impetus to that 
 praiseworthy movement, — the object of which is to per- 
 manently elevate the condition of the producing classes, 
 by advancing them to the status of capitabsts as well as 
 labourers. 
 
 A word or two as to Gerald Massey's recent poetry. 
 Bear in mind that he is yet but a youth ; — at twenty-three 
 a man can scarcely be said fairly to have entered his man- 
 hood ; and yet, if we except Robert Nichol, Avho died at 
 twenty-four, we know of no Engbsh poet of his class, 
 who has done any thing to compare with him. Some of 
 his most beautiful pieces originally appeared in the 
 columns of the " Leader." They give you the idea of a 
 practised hand — one who has reached the full prime of 
 his poetic manhood. Take, for instance, his " Lyrics of 
 Love," so full of beauty and tenderness. Nor are his 
 " Songs of Progress " less full of poetic power and beauty. 
 
 Gerald Massey is a teacher through the heart. He is 
 familiar with the passions, and leans towards the tender 
 and loving aspect of our nature. He takes after Burns 
 more than after Wordsworth, Elliot rather than Thomson. 
 He is but a young man, though he has had crowded into 
 his twenty-three years abeady the life of an old man. 
 He has won his experience hi the school of the poor, and 
 nobly earned his title to speak to them as a man and a 
 brother, dowered with "the hate of hate, the scorn of 
 scorn, the love of love." 
 
 LONDON : — PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICHOLS, 32, LONDON-WALL.
 
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