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 THE 
 
 SHADOWS OF THE LAKE
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 LONDON
 
 THK 
 
 SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK LEYTON 
 
 THJRD Eprnox 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREf^N, A\l> ('O. 
 
 AND NEW YORK ; 15 EAST le"- STREET 
 1892 
 
 . All rights reserved
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Shadows of the Lake . . . . i 
 
 Love's Lesson 17 
 
 Calm and Storm 19 
 
 Father and Child 22 
 
 The Vision of Joy with Wisdom's Messaoe . 48 
 
 Lonely Age 50 
 
 Monte Generoso 54 
 
 The Bells beneath the Sea . . . . 56 
 
 An Idle Hour 80 
 
 A Wanton Spirit 84 
 
 A Child's Faith 87 
 
 Orphan Children 88 
 
 Many Voices 93 
 
 V 
 
 922010
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS ON DEATH 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 109 
 
 Parting ....>• 113 
 
 The Night of Death 117 
 
 Harmony through Death 121 
 
 Reunion 124 
 
 Enid 126 
 
 On the Death of Laurence Oliphant . . 129 
 
 Written after Reading the Life of Father 
 
 Damien 132 
 
 Death and Life 134 
 
 Coming Light 136 
 
 Thought, Madness, and Rest . . . .139 
 
 VI
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 A MYTH 
 
 With careless feet we tread our native hills, 
 
 And breathe the air so sweet with heather flowers, 
 
 Where ocean's briny kisses, borne along 
 
 By eager wind, leave on the pallid cheek 
 
 The rosy blush of coming health and joy. 
 
 We pass the humble cottage by the path, 
 
 Yet seldom lift the latch to enter there ; 
 
 Thus missing much of quickly-fading thought 
 
 And rustic musings which, if only found, 
 
 Would often throw a soft and mystic light 
 
 Around the smallest act of daily life. 
 
 In simple annals may be often heard 
 
 The trickling stream of poetry, that laves 
 
 With its refreshing touch all drooping life, 
 
 And covers ruggedness with yielding growth. 
 
 Oh Wales ! so long the home of dreamy rest, 
 Sure e'en the desecrating feet of those 
 Who treat thy solitudes with vile contempt 
 Must fail to take away thy hidden charms, 
 Passing them by uninjured and unknown. 
 For thou hast clothed thy pictures in a dress, 
 Often so humble in its outward show 
 
 I B
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 That few pull back thy simple covering, 
 Fearing to find some withered form disclosed. 
 Thy language saves thee from the careless ones, 
 And, like the lovely maiden who passed by 
 Along the evil street of some vile town 
 Clothed in the garments of a mendicant, 
 With head bent low and feigning palsied Hmbs, 
 So dost thou hide thy beauty from the sight 
 Of those who wantonly would do thee harm. 
 But like the youth, in love with all mankind — 
 And seeing even in the most deformed 
 Still one whose features yet might be divine — 
 Who took her to his home with loving care, 
 So we may also, seeking far enough, 
 Likewise obtain a vision unawares, 
 A form to fill us with strange ecstasy. 
 
 Yet must we go far from men's busy haunts. 
 Far from the beaten track, where Nature sits 
 'iVIid her calm solitudes. In such a spot. 
 Nestling among the wild and barren hills. 
 There lies a little lake : the dangerous rocks 
 Rise sheer from out the water's sullen gloom : 
 Only on one side tender grass and flowers 
 Touch its dark margin, and the fragile ferns. 
 On calm days, gaze upon their image fair 
 Reflected in the tranquil depth below. 
 On this side of the lake, and covered o'er 
 With many creeping plants and tender moss, 
 A ruined cottage stands. If, passing by, 
 The careless stranger notices the spot. 
 He scarce methinks would visit it again. 
 Yet there is something strange about the place, 
 
 2
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 And if on some dark night, when no soft breath 
 
 Of wind disturbs the sohtary calm, 
 
 You see its waters by the palhd Hght 
 
 Of many twinkUng stars, two misty shapes 
 
 (Mistake them not for any floating clouds) 
 
 Will slowly rise out of the gloomy deep 
 
 And hover near the place, until a gust 
 
 Of fitful wind, or else the dawning day, 
 
 Forbids the spot to any restful sprites. 
 
 And what are these, these spirits of the air 
 
 Who haunt the still and unfrequented lake ? 
 
 The tale I give as it was told to me 
 
 By quite a little child, who lives hard by. 
 
 Children— whose spirits fresh have come from far, 
 
 Where 'tis not thought a thing of manly growth 
 
 To doubt the higher part of human Hfe— 
 
 Are our best teachers ; for their earthly form 
 
 Has not yet wrapped them in so coarse a shroud 
 
 That all the glory of their past is lost ; 
 
 And from their lisping words we gather truth 
 
 Missed in the blank conceit of bhnder doubt. 
 
 It fails me now to give her babbling words ; 
 
 Though much I wish the prattle could be told. 
 
 I tell it as I can— not as I would. 
 
 Years back, they say— though truth is covered o'er. 
 As is yon cottage by the creeping moss, 
 Leaving but patches now, that we can see, 
 Of what was once the clear and barren fact — 
 There dwelt beside this lake a withered form, 
 An ancient woman, dreaded far and near ; 
 Some said she held a strange and secret power 
 
 ^ B 2
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 To draw dark spirits from the realms of hell. 
 
 None knew her parentage, or whence she came ; 
 
 Nor where she found the child who dwelt with her; 
 
 But sure it is, that never sweeter form 
 
 Was brought in contact with such ugliness. 
 
 And if, on any calm and sunny morn, 
 
 The child bent downwards to the water's edge 
 
 To gaze upon her image on the lake, 
 
 Nature would hold her breath, lest she might lose 
 
 The sweetness of the vision lying there ; 
 
 But should the ancient dame bend o'er the child, 
 
 Casting her image likewise down below, 
 
 Some fitful breeze, or else a falling bough, 
 
 Would blur the picture out with eager haste, 
 
 Striving to hide a contrast which exposed 
 
 So gross a revelation. 
 
 Thus the child — 
 Tended by ugliness of deepest shade, 
 Herself a streak of Hght and innocence — 
 Grew on to womanhood, and carried thence 
 All that had made her early youth so fair ; 
 Only upon the childishness was laid 
 The rounded beauty of her maidenhood ; 
 And all the rustic youths would dream of her, 
 Coming from far to catch a distant sight 
 Of aught so lovely ; yet with solemn awe, 
 Fearing to draw too near to one possessed ; 
 For it was said that those who dared to kiss 
 The softly-rounded cheek of this fair maid, 
 Before the year had passed away must die. 
 Thus, circled round with maledictions dread, 
 The girl was left to gloomy solitude. 
 
 4
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 But on a night, the eve of which was still 
 With that deep hush which tells of coming storm, 
 A dreadful tempest swept across the hills, 
 Bearing upon its breast an awful shape 
 Of flaming fire, with deep-mouthed thunderings. 
 Then lightning played upon the ragged heights 
 Around the gloomy lake, v/hose waters rose 
 Like boiling froth under the lashing wind. 
 And in a misty cloud were scattered far 
 Over the trembling growth of gorse and heath. 
 The thunder shook the mountains, which in scorn 
 Cast back a sullen roar, and far and near 
 The mighty rocks contended with the storm 
 In fierce and oft-repeated mockery ; 
 At every blow the echoes answered back, 
 To end at last in angry muttering. 
 The startled sheep fled downward from the hills, 
 And huddled into any welcome nook 
 That seemed to offer shelter from the blast. 
 The peasant, having closed the straining door, 
 Stood listening to the tempest, while his eyes — 
 Themselves not free from sidelong looks of fear — 
 Watched his half-naked little ones, who now, 
 Called from sweet sleep and many tender dreams, 
 And half-convulsed, with childlike helplessness 
 Had cast themselves in dread around his wife. 
 
 The angry torrent, swollen by the rain. 
 Rushed o'er the bending grass or heathered slopes, 
 Forgetting in its haste the narrow bounds 
 Which in its calmer days it keeps content, 
 As if rejoiced to leave the noise and strife 
 And hide beneath the surging of the sea : 
 
 5
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 And in its selfishness oft casting down 
 The straining tree, that else had stood secure — 
 Thus bringing cruel death along its path. — 
 So we, eager to gain some wished-for end, 
 Often forget the many hopeless lives 
 Bruised by our wanton feet, and left behind 
 On each side of our path ; while we but gain 
 A restless sea of new and deeper pain. 
 
 At last the storm abated, and once more 
 The silent stars looked down upon a scene 
 Of sad destruction and of bitter woe. 
 Tall pine-trees — clutching with their eager roots 
 Still to the faithless stones— were spread athwart 
 The swolle'n torrent, that in careless haste 
 Still hurried on, among the broken rocks 
 Which the fierce lightning had, in angry rage, 
 Torn from the mountain side. 
 
 And now behold 
 The moon shines forth between the hurrying clouds, 
 And softly casts her silver beams around. 
 The humble ferns lift slowly from the ground. 
 And, trembling, let the heavy raindrops fall, 
 Thus rising higher in their timorousness. 
 The crafty otter creeps from out the hole 
 Which gave him kindly shelter, and a bird, 
 Now freed from fear, chirps with a faint relief. 
 But who is this, standing so pale and still 
 Beside the cottage door, with eyes intent ? 
 Her tender limbs, with scanty covering, 
 Quiver with bitter cold and anxious fear ; 
 And her bright hair, in long and ample waves, 
 Is fluttering in the half-relenting wind 
 
 6
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 'Tis Dorti — the fair maiden of the hills — 
 Looking with anxious gaze at yonder cliff; 
 For thither had her dread companion gone 
 To shelter from the storm within its breast. 
 Now all is changed. The cleft is rent in twain, 
 The cavern buried in its shattered dome. 
 
 Thus does she gaze, till slowly o'er her face 
 Passes a look of fear, and a wild shriek 
 Wakens the weary hills to echo still 
 The anguished cry, as the girl flies in fear 
 Down the steep path that climbs the mountain side. 
 
 Not very far from this grim, lonely spot, 
 And in a lovely glen where youthful pines 
 Put forth their tender shoots, unharmed by wind — 
 Safe in the confidence of sheltering hills — 
 Another cottage stood, whose sides were rich 
 With clustering roses, keeping company 
 With homely ivy and the wild woodbine. 
 Within this cottage lived a lonely youth. 
 Orphaned when qyite a little toddling boy, 
 And reared by Nature and the scanty care 
 Offered by neighbouring folk in charity — 
 Which seldom has the touch of tenderness 
 We love to hope lies hidden in the word. — 
 Thus had he thriven on the fostering care 
 Of his wild mother ; welcomed as a friend 
 By all her shy, retiring family. 
 And it is said that birds, and creeping things. 
 And e'en the timorous squirrel, knew his voice 
 Coming from far to hear the tuneful sounds 
 He called from his sweet harp at eventide — 
 
 7
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 Strange chords that were at times both sad and wild. 
 During the storm he lay, with tranquil face, 
 Watching its strength ; for none of Nature's moods 
 Had fear for him — 'twas but his mother's frown. 
 But when the gentle moon had stolen forth 
 From misty, scudding clouds — that even now 
 Did often blur her image in the sky — 
 He wandered out with eager wish to save. 
 If it might be, some solitary lamb 
 Divided from the flock, or else a bird 
 Blown from the nest and quivering hopelessly 
 Upon the reeking ground ; and as he passed 
 He lifted up the hapless, burdened growth 
 Which lay beside the path on either side — 
 So dear to him was any helpless life. 
 Now as he looked around a vision strange 
 Appeared to him. There rested on a rock — 
 One of the jagged portals of the gorge — 
 A girl, whose garments white and streaming hair 
 Were gently moved by the soft, amorous wind, 
 As with bare, hesitating feet shp stood. 
 Her hand was held to shade her straining eyes, 
 Which scanned the gloomy dell on either side. 
 For one brief pause he stood irresolute, 
 Then spake aloud : 
 
 ' Spirit of the mountains, wherefore art thou come, 
 Leaving all the wildness of thy rocky home ? 
 Rest, oh rest a moment, speed not thou away. 
 Stay till night is over, till return of day. 
 Often I have seen thee in the hours of rest. 
 And have lingered sweetly on the vision blest ; 
 
 8
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 Now the very presence comes upon my sight. 
 Must I lose thee even as in dreams at night ? ' 
 
 While thus he wildly spoke 
 The girl, in fear, moved down the rocky path 
 And stood before him, looking on the ground. 
 But he, so wild with love too long restrained, 
 And careless of all else— yea, even death- 
 Essayed to kiss her sad and lovely face. 
 But looking up she moved, and spake to him : 
 
 ' Love and pain go hand in hand. 
 They are held with iron band. 
 Lonely I must ever go. 
 Closely wound about with woe. 
 If thou give thy love to me, 
 I must give back death to thee. 
 
 Touch me not ! 
 
 ' For my heart may never know 
 Any kiss but that of woe. 
 Hasten from" the awful doom 
 Of the now o'ershadowing tomb. 
 Fai-e thee well, nor think of me, 
 Fated by this dread decree. 
 
 Fare thee well.' 
 
 Yet, ere she ceased to speak these awful words 
 He caught her in his arms, with burning love, 
 And on her lips, her eyes, and silken hair, 
 In many eager kisses told his love — 
 As from the mountains came the solemn moan 
 Of distant thundering. 
 
 9
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 And thus two lonely hearts were bound with cords — 
 
 Which either grow into eternal bands, 
 
 For stronger binding in a \vorld beyond, 
 
 Or else the natures which th^y cling around ' 
 
 Are so clogged o'er with carnal appetites 
 
 That poisonous growths and other noisome things 
 
 Destroy the tender shoots of holy love, 
 
 Till but a worthless heap is left at last 
 
 For purifying fire once more to cleanse. 
 
 In blissful rest of lonely wedded love 
 
 The months rolled by in that calm, wooded glen ; 
 
 And naught disturbed the quiet harmony 
 
 Of their new-found content and homely joy. 
 
 And summer came, with warmth to gladden them ; 
 
 And autumn, with her many-tinted shades. 
 
 Teaching of change when winter's death draws nigh — 
 
 Prelude to sleep and rest — ere yet the spring, 
 
 With her eternal resurrection life. 
 
 Calls all things back to effort and to joy. 
 
 Yet on a day before the winter came 
 The lovers climbed the heights, at eventide. 
 To watch the sun dip slowly in the sea ; 
 And led by restless fate, or some desire, 
 ^They passed the lake, upon whose margin stood 
 The witch's cottage, still untenanted. 
 Resting at last upon those broken rocks 
 That mark the natural grave of wickedness, 
 Thus sat they watching, as the curious tints 
 Spread o'er the scene ; their eyes intently turned 
 To where the ocean met the glowing sky, 
 
 lo
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 Where clouds arrayed in glory paid respect 
 To the departing sun. 
 
 The poet's harp 
 Lay idle by his side as thus they gazed, 
 And Dorti's lovely head was drooping down 
 Upon his shoulder, as her eyes, now moist 
 With half-forbidden tears, looked to the sea 
 While thus she spake to him : 
 
 ' Oh sing to me some gentle strain ; 
 My soul is full of hidden grief. 
 A dread has overshadowed me ; 
 My heart is seeking for relief. 
 I fain would draw more close to thee ; 
 Place then thine arm around me, dear ; 
 Thus shall the horror pass away. 
 All banished then the unknown fear, 
 And I shall dream of joyous things, 
 Wafted away on music's wings.' 
 
 So with his arm around her thus he sang. 
 While watching still the changing shades of light 
 
 ' Behold the sun sinks gently in the west. 
 The night is well-nigh here ; 
 Spirits speak of the coming rest, 
 The rest to us so dear. 
 Gently heaves the dreamy sea 
 With the calm of departed fear. 
 
 Dream on. 
 II
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 ' Larks soar to heaven, yet sink to sleep 
 On beds of earthly clay. 
 Our spirits, groping in the deep, 
 Lose the glory of day. 
 The sun moves on regardlessly 
 Of the things that must pass away. 
 
 Dream on. 
 ' The clouds rise up at the eventide 
 To hide the sun from view ; 
 Glories, that may not abide, 
 Create the heaven anew. 
 Joy is worth the moment bright. 
 Though it pass as the early dew. 
 
 Dream on. 
 ' The clouds and the ocean, that seem so close. 
 Are ever parted in twain. 
 But when the colour has died away 
 They shall meet in the gentle rain ; 
 And many hearts that have tried to touch. 
 And failed, in the glory of day, 
 Have heard in the breath 
 Of the Angel of Death 
 A whisper that told the way, 
 I hear ! I hear !— all Nature seems to say 
 Come, come away — • 
 Thy spirit is not made to stay 
 For ever fretting in this sordid clay. 
 Away ! away ! 
 
 And yet, my loved one, wherefore is the call ? 
 I cannot leave thee desolate, alone. — 
 
 Stand back ! thou awful figure — stand away I 
 
 What means within thy hand the pall, 
 
 12
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 The winding-sheet ? Take back thy hand ! — 
 Ah ! now I know thy hateful shape. — Away !' 
 
 Thus, with his song disturbed by some strange form, 
 His hands stretched out in deprecating fear, 
 He darted up, and springing quickly round, 
 Fell downward, o'er the cliff, into the lake. 
 
 Veil then the scene of grief ; let us not view 
 
 The form of that poor desolated girl, 
 
 Whose anguished sobs made the still air vibrate 
 
 In sympathetic sadness, while she bends 
 
 Far downward over the relentless crag, 
 
 And tracks with staring eyes, undimmed by tears, 
 
 The headlong pathway of the mangled dead : 
 
 Who soon in peace shall rest beneath the deep. 
 
 Never to rise again. 
 
 From that day forth — though urged by loving hands- 
 No power could draw her from the lonely lake. 
 Again her dreary resting-place was found 
 In yonder barren cottage, as of yore ; 
 And slowly o'er her eyes there came a look 
 So wild and strange that those who knew her best 
 Would say her soul had left behind the shell 
 Of grief, and passed to other spheres away. 
 She never wandered from the narrow lake, 
 And ever as she walked would seem to see 
 Some image in the water beckoning her. 
 Till often she would stand irresolute 
 Whether it were not best that she should cast 
 Her life, in faith, upon the chilly wave, 
 
 13
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 As if she hoped to find the arm of love, 
 Waiting to draw her home. 
 
 So time moved on- 
 Till on a night of calm, still beauteousness, 
 WTien every sound was hushed in solemn av/e, 
 Two shepherds walking on the mountain top 
 Beheld a glorious sight : — The dreamy moon 
 Cast her reflection on the silent lake, 
 And cut the waters with a silver line 
 Of hovering light. While looking, they could see 
 A tiny boat move from the darker wave 
 And rest upon the brightness mirrored there ; 
 One figure stood alone within the stern — 
 The figure of a girl all robed in white, 
 Who, as she looked below, thus softly sang : 
 
 ' My love, whose form I ever see 
 floating 'neath the quiet deep, 
 Say, wilt thou not come to me ? 
 How much longer must I weep ? 
 For each day brings more of sadness, 
 Parted from thy gentle sway ; 
 And each night I mourn the gladness 
 That I knew at close of day. 
 Must I now be ever parted 
 From the only thing I love. 
 Ever going broken-hearted 
 While upon the earth I move ? 
 Yonder cold and barren mountain 
 Covered is at eventide 
 
 14
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 By the spirit of the fountain 
 That, by day, had left its side. 
 Would that I might leave behind me 
 This cold form of earthly clay, 
 And in spirit hover near thee 
 At the close of every day. 
 Thus the sun, which has descended 
 Softly to the glowing sea, 
 Surely, while on high suspended. 
 Has a gentle memory. 
 Now I see thee, 'neath the playing 
 Of the water, beckon me ; 
 What is it that thou art saying? 
 Bidding me to come to thee ? 
 Yes ! 'tis so — and thou art calling, 
 Though thy voice is 'neath the wave ; 
 And thine accents, gently falling. 
 Bid me now be strong and brave. 
 Thou canst not come back to fetch me, 
 But thou bidst me bend and kiss. 
 'Neath the water I shall touch thee. 
 Feel the joy of bygone bliss. 
 I would lie where thou art lying, 
 I would press my heart to thine : 
 There is but the pain of dying — 
 Then for ever thou art mine.' 
 
 And as she spoke, in accents wild with love, 
 She stooped and kissed the ever-trembling wave. 
 Then, with her arms outstretched, constraining love 
 Drew her below. 
 
 15
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 Thus, as the shepherds watched- 
 Held back by wonderment — they saw arise 
 From out the spot where she had lately sunk 
 Two beauteous, misty forms, at first apart, 
 Though by a little space ; but as they rose. 
 And floated slowly o'er the moonlit lake. 
 They blended into one, drawn heavenward. 
 
 i6
 
 LOVES LESSON 
 
 What art thou, Love ? — strange visitant, whose name 
 Breathes through the centuries a quenchless flame ; 
 A power for good or ill that ever is the same. 
 
 The morning stillness wakens thee from rest, 
 The dreamy calm, when thy light form is prest 
 In tenderness around the ones thou lovest best : 
 
 Thou dost awaken them with thy soft kiss, 
 Yet in their sleep they half its sweetness miss, 
 Scarce waked from their dreams to clearer thoughts of 
 bliss. 
 
 Thou floatest visions o'er their opening eyes, 
 That fill them with delight and shy surprise ; 
 Visions which fitful sleep so oft to them denies. 
 
 Surely thou art a breathing, sexless thing ; 
 
 For youth and maiden hear thee whispering 
 
 The same soft, yearning sounds, thy gentle opening. 
 
 They know thee not, and thou with smiling face 
 Lookest upon them, as with sweet embrace 
 Thou dost, with thy soft form, their tender limbs 
 enlace. 
 
 17 c
 
 LOVE'S LESSON 
 
 The youth will feel thee first, and slowly rise 
 And shake thee off ; the maiden in surprise 
 Will look, she knows not where, but never in thine 
 eyes. 
 
 And thou wilt leave them to return again ; 
 Who fight against thee only fight in vain — 
 Ever thy power increasing while their strength must 
 wane. 
 
 As morning mist soon vanishes away, 
 
 And leaves unveiled the perfect light of day, 
 
 Those burning rays of thine now fall upon their way. 
 
 Yet this is not the time thou lovest best, 
 
 This is the time of passion and unrest ; 
 
 Thou keepest still for them the glories of the west. 
 
 The sun moves on apace, the shadows play 
 In ever-lengthening movement on the way, 
 And speak to all of peace and of departing day. 
 
 But lo ! a change. Oh, grand, illumined sky ! 
 On which ten thousand golden glories lie — 
 This is thy time, O Love, to rule triumphantly. 
 
 Where art thou now ? Between two lovers' eyes, 
 Teaching the language which each touch supplies 
 When one responding heart beside another lies. 
 
 Move softly then thy soothing hand, and lay 
 Thy lips upon their dreamy eyes, and stay 
 No longer teaching here ; thy work is done — Away 1 
 
 18
 
 CALM AND STORM 
 
 The day is so calm and sunny, 
 
 So quiet, and so still. 
 The breeze is so soft and gentle 
 
 Our sails will hardly fill, 
 
 As we smoothly glide to westward, 
 
 Where soon the sun shall lie 
 Upon the water's heaving breast, 
 
 That swells so peacefully. 
 
 We dream of the days now over, 
 
 Of hopes that fade and die, 
 As we watch the rippling waters 
 
 And hear the sea-birds cry. 
 
 The stillness that holds the ocean 
 Calms not the troubled brain, 
 
 Nor the spirit crushed with sadness. 
 Nor heart that's filled with pain. 
 
 The brightness is cold and cruel, 
 
 The motion dull and slow, 
 To spirits all wild with tumult, 
 
 To hearts all dark with woe. 
 
 19 c 2
 
 CALM AND STORM 
 
 Yet now, as we watch the surface 
 That seems so cahii and bright, 
 
 We notice a hne of darkness 
 Crowned with a line of light : 
 
 And ever this moving shadow 
 Seems to approach more near ; 
 
 And we see the storm-clouds gather, 
 Yet without thought of fear. 
 
 As we lower down the foresail, 
 The mainsail closely reef, 
 
 And turn our boat to face the storm 
 Each action brings relief. 
 
 The sea-birds call as they pass us, 
 Mocking with cries of dread ; 
 
 Yet now that the waves draw closer 
 The restless pain has fled. 
 
 A moment our bark is shaken, 
 
 And trembles as in pain, 
 And the sails flap wildly o'er us, 
 
 Then, filling, meet the strain. 
 
 A heaving lurch, then on we rush 
 And nobly plough our way, 
 
 Keeping close to the raging wind 
 Dashing through blinding spray. 
 
 20
 
 CALM AND STORM 
 
 The clouds have hid the setting sun. 
 The gloom is spreading fast, 
 
 The waves rage still more furiously, 
 And stronger sweeps the blast. 
 
 And yet in all this tumult wild 
 
 Our spirits find release, 
 And 'mid the raging of the storm 
 
 We gained our wished-for peace.
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 The sea has left a slab of sunken rock, 
 
 Whose base is covered with a tangled net 
 
 Of sea-weed, green and brown. Lonely it stands, 
 
 As desolate upon the smooth sea-sand 
 
 As though some giant power, in days gone by, 
 
 Had torn it from the clifif that hangs above, 
 
 Casting it there in sport. The sea-birds scream, 
 
 And circle round it as if moved by fear ; 
 
 Disturbed from their accustomed sleeping-place 
 
 By some unwonted cause. 
 
 Unheeding them, 
 Nor conscious of their loud, complaining cries, 
 A father and his child are resting there, 
 Silent and still, upon the wave-worn stone ; 
 The minds of both are too intently fixed 
 Upon the glories of a setting sun 
 To note the wild disturbance in the air. 
 
 A strange unearthly light, the wondrous glow 
 Cast by those rival mirrors, sea and sky. 
 Broods over all the scene ; yet most of all 
 The brightness seems to dwell upon the girl — 
 One who has barely passed from childhood's joys, 
 Though ripening into womanhood — a change 
 
 22
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 That is not yet complete, but shadows forth 
 The glories of the future and the past. 
 
 The man beside her now for long has lost 
 The dancing pulse of youth's short-lived delight ; 
 His hair is streaked with grey, and on his face 
 Are lines that tell of many anxious thoughts ; 
 Yet over all his countenance is spread 
 A look of calm content, as though the pain, 
 Which in the past had caused those furrows deep, 
 Has faded now away and left him peace — 
 The peace that comes to those long cast adrift 
 Upon the stormy sea of raging thought 
 When quietly they rest on waters smooth 
 Within some tranquil bay. He knows perchance 
 That only for a time his fragile barque 
 May anchor there, that^oon the reefed sails ' 
 Must be again unfurled to lead him on 
 To unknown waters. — Yet he rests content. 
 Men call him infidel — a name oft used 
 By those who move along the beaten track 
 Which trembling minds think safest for their feet ; 
 But he, doubtful of smooth and easy paths 
 Which seem to lead no whither, has alone 
 Braved the more steep ascent, and cut his steps 
 From out the solid rock confronting him, 
 Cutting a pathway to the awful heights 
 Which ever lie beyond him, bathed in mist. 
 The watchers on the broader road below 
 Look up in horror, lest some loosened stone 
 Should slip beneath his feet. And now they turn 
 Towards the depths below, as fancy shows 
 His mangled body in the gloomy gulf. 
 
 23
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 'Tis also feared that he must downward drag 
 The fair companion given to his charge ; 
 For he has left her ignorant of all 
 The written revelations of her God. 
 To her the name so often taught to babes 
 Is scarcely known ; for never to his child 
 Has he breathed words that tell of other life, 
 Save as revealed in its material form. 
 
 And yet in lower things her knowledge stands 
 
 Far in advance of what the world may judge 
 
 As suited to a girl of tender years. 
 
 She long has heard much of the wondrous store 
 
 Of strange and hidden things which science keeps 
 
 P"or those who love her ways and follow them. 
 
 Taught by her father in the solitude 
 
 Of their still country home, she finds her joy 
 
 In seeking out, with him, the mysteries 
 
 Of Nature's laws ; whether as shown at night 
 
 By rolling worlds, or in the lowest growth 
 
 Of living things that move unseen around. 
 
 Often these two, upon some cloudless night, 
 
 Have watched the stars, and talked of those vast 
 
 worlds 
 That pass along upon their given paths ; — 
 Changeless they seem, yet changing evei-y hour ; 
 Endless to us, yet moving to their end. 
 Or in the day, with patient, loving care. 
 Beneath some microscopic lens, have traced 
 The wonders of the deep, so full of hfe, 
 Loving to track the slow development 
 
 24
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Of ever-growing powers, that come through need 
 And fade through lack of use. 
 
 Strange life for one 
 So full of bubbling youth. She stands alone 
 From those around, who think their work is done 
 Ere they have scarcely learnt the way to learn. 
 Yet, out of all her comrades, there are few 
 Fit to compare with her in youthful sports ; 
 Often, alone for hours, upon the waves 
 She guides her boat, fearless of every harm ; 
 A very daughter of the raging sea, 
 So thoughtless and so wild. 
 
 Now silently 
 She sits beside her father, drinking in 
 The beauty of the scene. At last she speaks : 
 
 Child 
 
 ' My father, as I watch the sky 
 At even, when the sun is low, 
 And all these glories round me lie 
 On heaven above and earth below, 
 I seem to feel — I know not what ; 
 I seem to hear a soundless sound — 
 A voice that speaks to me, and yet 
 Is never to be found. 
 
 ' It seems to say, yet says it not, 
 " Why art thou waiting over there ? 
 Thou art upon the scene a blot : 
 Nature can never need thee here. 
 25
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Haste from this mystery of light, 
 In which thou hast no part at all ; 
 This is the hour for thoughts of death, 
 When lengthening shadows fall." 
 
 ' I know not why, but something seems 
 Unsatisfied within my heart ; 
 I dwell as in some land of dreams. 
 And realise so small a part. 
 I live as in another land, 
 Where things are never as they seem ; 
 I have a tingling in my blood, 
 As in some happy dream. 
 
 ' Things that are false are also true, 
 What is but fancy seems so real ; 
 Old things vanish before the new, 
 Which I see not, but which I feel. 
 Powerless my thought to backward turn, 
 Yet still more powerless to ascend 
 To light beyond the misty glow, 
 To glory at the end.' , 
 
 Father 
 
 ' The time has come to thee, my child, 
 When the Spirit of God draws near, 
 Touching the spirits that are His 
 With a tender and loving fear ; 
 As It speaks mute words of wisdom, 
 While It shows them new worlds of light, 
 The whispers they scarce can follow, 
 And the glory bedims their sight. 
 26
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Now at last I am free to speak 
 Of the little that we can know 
 Of the hidden world around us, 
 While we dwell in this world below. 
 Difficult is the path to tread 
 That leads up to that wished-for land ; 
 Sweeter far we shall find the way 
 If we follow it hand in hand. 
 
 How I have longed, in days gone by, 
 To awaken within your mind 
 Such thoughts as you fain would utter, 
 Though the language you scarce can find ; 
 Yet I feared to spoil by forcing 
 The glad time which I felt was near — 
 The time when the soul awakens, 
 When the Spirit of God we hear. 
 A blossom unfolding slowly 
 To make way for the germ of birth 
 Is marred if we force it open, 
 And we rob it of all its worth ; 
 When left to the gentle sunshine, 
 To the softly-moving air. 
 To the all-unconscious insect, 
 The pollen will enter there ; 
 And soon, in the coming autumn. 
 When the fruit is all streaked with red, 
 The blossom whose leaf you opened 
 Has long been forgotten and dead : 
 The petals of all fell downwards, 
 Having finished their puny strife ; 
 One left but decay behind it, 
 And the others the germs of life. 
 27
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 To speak of an unseen spirit 
 
 Unto those who have seen no glow 
 
 That passes from out the heaven 
 
 To illumine the world below, 
 
 Is to talk in unknown language, 
 
 Which though we may mimic the sound, 
 
 Has a meaning that is not fathomed, 
 
 A beauty that is not found ; 
 
 In vain have the words been spoken ; 
 
 In vain would we hasten the dawn ; 
 
 The spirit alone can hearken, 
 
 And the spirit has not been born.' 
 
 Child 
 
 ' What things are these ? O dawning light I 
 A God ? My father, is it true ? 
 Is death, too, not an endless night ? 
 Are all things changed? Are all things new? 
 Is there a spirit in the flower? 
 A guiding hand to rule the sea ? 
 An artist-hand that paints the sky? 
 A presence near to me ? 
 
 ' I thought the world a rolling ball. 
 Moving upon its senseless way ; 
 That any time it might befall 
 For all to perish in a day. 
 Often I've wondered that blind chance 
 Should chance to be so wondrous wise ; 
 Why from decay such beauty rose, 
 And life from all that dies. 
 28
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 ' And still more strange it seemed to me, 
 Of all. strange things, was mental power, 
 That this should perish utterly, 
 And quickly vanish in an hour ; 
 While in the low matei'ial world 
 Change often comes, but never loss : 
 Life out of death, sweet things from foul, 
 The useful from the dross. 
 
 ' How glorious all things seem to grow. 
 Illumined by this light from high ! 
 A halo rests on all below ; 
 No longer need we fear to die. 
 Tell me— Is there an endless hfe ? — 
 As I have sometimes heard it said — 
 Or only rest to follow strife ? 
 Oh ! tell me of the dead.' 
 
 Father 
 
 « 'Tis a hard question that you ask, my child, 
 What of the dead? where dwell they now unseen? 
 For lo ! a veil is cast before our eyes ; 
 We speak unto the dying, then a change 
 Comes over all, and we remain alone ; 
 And he, our friend, has gone we know not where. 
 The voice that spake to us just now is hushed ; 
 The eyes that looked so lovingly in ours 
 Answer us not with love ; the form is still — 
 We call this death. We know that he has gone : 
 Divided from us by that clinging veil 
 We strive in vain to part ; we know but this, 
 
 29
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 He is not here ; that form, now stiff and cold, 
 
 Though bearing still the likeness of our friend, 
 
 Is not the one we seek. We seek the mind 
 
 That gave us counsel in perplexity ; 
 
 The love that always overshadowed us 
 
 When in his presence ; and the many thoughts 
 
 That flowed from soul to soul and gave us strength. 
 
 And yet we feel him near ; at times, indeed, 
 
 We almost seem to penetrate the veil. 
 
 And hold him once again within our ken ; 
 
 Yet, ere we grasp the vision, it is gone. 
 
 And darkness passes over all the soul. 
 
 We see, we hear, we touch ; but this new sense 
 
 We have no power to exercise at will ; 
 
 We fail, through undevelopment, to reach 
 
 The spirit-world, while conscious of its power. 
 
 So has it always been in times gone by : 
 Each new enlargement of a higher gift 
 Comes slowly forth, and not till ages pass 
 Does it reach all, fulfilling thus its end ; 
 Till, perfected by use, it stands at last 
 A sense that all acknowledge, all attain. 
 So has it been with sight, and still we see 
 The lower forms that struggle in the dark. 
 Or see imperfectly with vision blurred. 
 
 ' Let us, for one brief moment, cast aside 
 Our knowledge of what is, and turn instead 
 To dreams of what, in other worlds, may be. 
 In one of those bright stars that we have watched 
 So often in the silent hours of night 
 There may exist a race made like to ours, 
 
 30
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Save that they lack one gift, the power to hear. 
 They dwell in silence, most profoundly still ; 
 No voice is heard amongst them, but by signs 
 They speak their needs, communicate their thoughts. 
 Now, should the sense of hearing come to such, 
 Making its slow development and growth, 
 What would they feel at first ? Some thunderous roar 
 Would wake them with a shock— a shock of what ? 
 'Tis strangely like a blow— yet how unlike ! 
 Think of the argument that then would hold 
 Their minds engrossed ; how some who lacked the gift, 
 And therefore heard no sounds, would strive to prove 
 That naught had passed save what might be explained 
 By sight or feeling. Yet the sense would grow — 
 Coming to some- far quicker than the rest — 
 Until at length some few, indeed, would hear 
 The sound of unknown music dimly float 
 (Oh, ecstasy of joy!) into their souls. 
 
 Thus, as time passed, it might seem well to Him — 
 Who rules all worlds— to send into their midst 
 One with this power complete, and bid him tell 
 Of music soft and low, such as at nights 
 We hear when nightingales sing in the woods ; 
 And then of those grand harmonies that roll 
 From out the organ's breast ; of tuneful choirs ; 
 Of a child's laughter ; of a baby's cry; 
 Or of the awful anguish that a groan 
 From dying lips will give to those who stand 
 Beside the bed of death. Think you that he 
 Thus speaking to the deaf, who never heard, 
 Would teach them? No !— the undeveloped ones 
 Would jeer at him, and ask that he should prove 
 
 31
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 The truth of what he said ; and though, indeed, 
 He might at last perform great miracles — 
 Yes, miracles to them — by this new force, 
 They still would not believe. But to the few 
 Who had this gift at all such truth would be 
 A revelation, and his words would pass, 
 In ages yet to come, a guiding light. 
 Growing more glorious as the coming power 
 Advanced from age to age. 
 
 And thus are we developing by use 
 A higher sense than we have yet attained ; 
 Yet as this gift is greater, and the world 
 It shows to us is full of nobler souls — 
 Purer and fairer than our mortal sight 
 Can image to the mind— it therefore seems 
 That only to the pure our God will grant 
 To exercise this power; these see His face. 
 Though but in part, and only through the cloud 
 Which rests upon those bright and holy hills ; 
 But yet this cloud is glorious to behold : — 
 Such hast thou seen.' 
 
 Child 
 
 ' Stay for a moment ! — Let me think ! 
 Such brightness overshadows me. 
 The face of God that I have seen. 
 And that I yet may see ? 
 An endless life, in which to dwell 
 For ever under His pure sway ? 
 Drawing me on to perfectness, 
 Nearer Him day by day ? 
 32
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 » Oh ! why have I not seen before? 
 It ail seems now so plain and clear. 
 Blind, 'mid the seeing, I have stood, 
 Deaf among those that hear. 
 Light, shining on my sightless eyes, 
 Has drawn from them their hidden power— 
 The revelation of a life 
 Revealed in one short hour. 
 
 ' Awful the ecstasy of joy 
 That waits us in the future years, 
 When we have left this mortal state, 
 With all its pain and tears, 
 When clouds are no longer present, 
 And the light is no longer pale ; 
 Before us then the face of God, 
 
 ' Behind us then the veil. 
 
 • Fearful the thought that every wrong 
 Should ever make that light more dim, 
 That every fault that we commit 
 Is parting us from Him. 
 Oh ! why, when He is so holy. 
 When He rules with such endless might, 
 Has He in a cloud of darkness 
 Hidden His glorious light ? 
 
 ' With sin, that closes us around. 
 With pain for ever pressing near, 
 With darkness overshadowing, 
 And many thoughts of fear.
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Has He, in that land of glory, 
 For His children no thought of love, 
 That they, in the land of darkness, 
 See not the light above, 
 
 ' Or, seeing it, see but dimly, 
 Through such visions of pain and sin. 
 That their hearts are well-nigh broken, 
 Scarcely they hope to win ? 
 Why is this world not perfect? 
 And why should we suffer and die? 
 'Tis hard for my mind to fathom ; 
 Tell me the reason why ! ' 
 
 Father 
 
 Ever, from earliest records of the past. 
 Has the cry risen upward from the earth, 
 " Why must we die and suffer? Why this pain, 
 Which moves its pallid form, with outstretched hands, 
 Between us and our joy? this clinging mist 
 Of chilly, vaporous horror that winds round, 
 Now closing on our hearts, now for a time 
 Lifting, to leave us 'neath the shining sun?" 
 
 We know but little of the wondrous laws 
 That guide this mighty universe of ours ; 
 But as some form of low development. 
 Living unseen by any human eye 
 Beneath the surface of a tranquil pool, 
 Might try to fathom the beyond, that lies 
 A misty vision which he cannot reach. 
 So look we from this larger spot of ground 
 Which we have called the world. 
 
 34
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 'Tis vain to hope 
 That in the narrow circle of our powers 
 We can attain to truth. Yet still we press 
 Toward the outer ring ; and as we strive 
 It widens evermore, till now, at length, 
 As we look forth on those twin mysteries, 
 Sin and attendant Pain, a light breaks forth. 
 Shining behind them, and reveals in part — 
 Amid the many rocks of that dark hill 
 Which stands beyond — the pathway whence they came. 
 
 What know we then of sin? We know but this — 
 That in the universe a mighty power 
 Moves on its ordered way : — we call this Good, 
 Because it tends to happiness and peace. 
 Now and again some discord seems to break 
 From out the harmony ; a tuneless chord. 
 That sends along the world a trembling shock, 
 And stays its perfect march : — we call this Sin, 
 Because it leads to pain and suffering. 
 
 Now in the Bible — that most wondrous book, 
 Mis-read, as all books must be by those minds 
 That are not tuned into the writer's key — 
 We have a wondrous poem, like to this : 
 In a far distant time God ruled the world, 
 And perfect order followed all He did. 
 All Nature was a servant which obeyed 
 His mighty bidding, questioned not His acts. 
 A lovely world, where sin was never found. 
 Where pain was yet unknown, ruled by one mind. 
 Sweetly the morning light revealed again 
 A land at peace, softly the evening shades 
 Drew peace to still profounder restfulness. 
 
 35 D2
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Yet God was still alone ; even with man — 
 If he yet dwelt upon the universe — 
 Then made but as an instrument to move 
 As God ordained him, reasoning not the while. 
 A man without a mind, a tuneful string 
 Struck into music by another's hand. 
 
 Then God looked down upon His work, and said : 
 " Behold ! 'tis very good, yet have I none 
 To commune with in this great loneliness. 
 Were it not better I should form a soul 
 Like to my own — one who, through knowing both, 
 Should choose the good, because it is the best, 
 And shun the evil, seeing where it tends ? " 
 Then God made man — a being with the power 
 To grow to perfectness, the friend of God, 
 Should he but gain at last the germ of life. 
 Yet failing, he must sink still slowly down 
 Till all of order from his life has gone. 
 And he at length shall pass into the dark, 
 Where worthless things lie hid ; until the husk 
 Which formed his frame is changed to better use. 
 
 So, 'neath the fruit-trees you have often sat, 
 As the frail blossoms flutter to the ground ; 
 Some have fulfilled their task — we know not whv — 
 The others failed. — Yet love we those frail flowers.' 
 
 Child 
 
 My mind is tossed upon a sea — 
 
 A sea of heaving power, 
 Changing the current of past thought 
 
 Completely in an hour. 
 36
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 I see, in part, that man left free 
 Must choose the evil ere the good ; 
 
 Darkness must overshadow us, 
 Then light is understood. 
 
 ' Yet, passing over me, I feei 
 
 The hidden weight of pain ; 
 I think of all the grief and woe 
 
 That seem of no avail ; 
 For so many souls go downward, 
 
 And many have hopes so low, 
 Their spints are not awakened 
 
 When life has ceased to flow. 
 
 ' It hardly seems quite just that God, 
 
 In raising only part. 
 Should give to some sad lives of pain, 
 
 And b'd them then depart. 
 After the bitter life on earth 
 
 Many must still with pain endure ; 
 After the sorrow and the tears, 
 
 What gain will they secure ? 
 
 ' And life seems all too short and hard 
 To gain eternal life ; 
 While ever, standing in our way, 
 
 Surrounded by the night, 
 We see dark Death, with heedless hand, 
 
 As he clutches at young and old : 
 A child has hardly felt its limbs 
 Ere they are stiff and cold. 
 2,1
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 While struggling on with feeble mind, 
 
 Nor anxious to remain, 
 The very old are often left, 
 
 Useless, yet full of pain. 
 Father, I wonder, knowing this. 
 
 You had no fear that Death might stay 
 This joy from ever reaching me 
 ^ By taking me away.' 
 
 Father 
 
 If God ordained that only on this earth, 
 And during this short span of mortal life, 
 We might, alone, pass on to perfectness ; 
 That if we failed all hope was ever lost 
 Of finding joy in our appointed home. 
 And of attaining then the secret germ 
 Of life eternal — had I thought this true 
 I might indeed have tried to rouse from sleep 
 The dormant soul, afraid untimely Death, 
 Coming too soon, might cut life's tender thread. 
 But why should this be so ? All Nature's laws 
 Teach us another lesson : lowest growths 
 Take many ages for development. 
 Why should the grandest form that God has placed 
 Within our view thus violate His laws ? 
 It were more likely far that countless years 
 And countless lives, perchance, have both been spent 
 Before the weakest mind could yet attain 
 Its present power ; no faintest memory 
 May linger with us of that bygone past. 
 Yet is there nothing strange that as we pass 
 
 38
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 From our old life into some larger life 
 
 That all behind should vanish from our view. 
 
 Even it may be better we should turn 
 
 The passing page, and start our race afresh, 
 
 Yet bearing with us still the growth of time. 
 
 Thus in some dreams no knowledge of the past 
 
 Stands out before us as we deeply sleep ; 
 
 We live new lives all in a breath of time, 
 
 Yet when we wake, how soon they fade away. 
 
 So is it at our birth : some little child 
 
 Comes down to our own world, and soon we see 
 
 That in that tender body dwells a soul 
 
 Waiting to grasp the few and needed powers 
 
 Peculiar to our race — the power to speak. 
 
 The power to use its eyes, and move about. 
 
 These being found, the soul bursts quickly forth, 
 
 A character distinct, and which we hold 
 
 No power to alter, though we mould its shape. 
 
 Rub off the comers, teach it how to hide 
 
 What we deem wrong ; and yet we make it not. 
 
 It may be, like our own. God wills, perchance, 
 
 That those of equal growth shall have the use 
 
 Of sweet communion, and each other's help. 
 
 It seems — and I have often thought it so — 
 That sometimes in the passing of a soul 
 From hfe to life it needs a state of rest. 
 This it must find in early infancy ; 
 Time quite enough to lose, in that strange state. 
 All knowledge of the past. And yet some doubt 
 That our souls spring all naked from the past ; 
 Among them one whose sweetest verses speak 
 Of the remembered visions of a child. 
 
 39
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 He tells us how in childhood trailing clouds 
 
 Of glory follow us from whence we came ; 
 
 That we forget not utterly at first 
 
 The life beyond our sleep, but as we grow 
 
 Shades of our prison-house begin to close, 
 
 Hiding the glory from us, till at last 
 
 It fades into the light of common day. 
 
 This may be so ; 'tis hard for us to tell 
 What we remember as a little child. 
 Coming as we may often do from worlds 
 Unlike our own, the change in all around 
 Would hinder our remembrance. Yet, indeed, 
 Souls may revisit earth in many forms, 
 And thus the stages that we see around, 
 Some having minds half- formed, some clear and 
 
 bright, 
 Ready to grasp each flash of passing thought 
 Within their eager reach. 
 
 And yet, again, 
 A life fulfils two objects — one its own, 
 And one for those who live within its sphere. 
 A little child may die. — A mother stands 
 Watching with bitter love that fragile life 
 Passing away from her. Why stays it not 
 To run its perfect race? It may be this, — 
 The child was chiefly sent to raise the hearts 
 Of those around it, while the soul thereof 
 Needed a longer sleep ; two childhoods now 
 Soften its future life. 
 
 You also ask me of the very old, 
 Why drag they on that weary length of days ? 
 Useless they seem, to others and themselves. 
 
 40
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Yet is this so ? After the busy strife, 
 The active battle on the field of life, 
 In which small time is left for quiet thought, 
 May it not be that when the eye seems dull, 
 The mind too slow to answer readily, 
 That waking dreams reveal a lesson lost 
 During the burden of the mid-day toil, 
 And that at eventide the voice of God 
 Is often heard?' 
 
 Child 
 
 * How beautiful the words that flow 
 Fresh from the poet's heart to ours ! 
 How sweetly does he bring to us 
 
 Those few faint shadows of lost powers, 
 The half-remembered thoughts, that seem 
 Part recollection, and yet part a dream ! 
 
 ' I, too, recall when very young. 
 
 When many things were new to me ; 
 
 As when we came down here to live, 
 And first I saw the boundless sea 
 
 Tossed into fury by the blast, 
 
 It woke strange scenes of a forgotten past. 
 
 ' Yet children seldom wonder much ; 
 They know not for how short a space 
 They have been living even here ; 
 
 The tiny distance of their race 
 Spreads out behind them evermore, 
 An endless passage with no entrance-door. 
 41
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 * When first I can look back at all, 
 Remembering the things I thought, 
 My mind seemed much as it is now, 
 
 Save for the knowledge time has brought ; 
 And far behind me seemed to be 
 Just such a past, stretching eternally. 
 
 ' Indeed, this view of endless life 
 
 Makes many things more smooth and plain ; 
 Much of the inequality, 
 
 And something of the bitter pain. 
 But two things yet remain to me 
 Still wrapt around with darkest mystery. 
 
 ' Those who shall reach to cloudless joy 
 
 After this bitter toil and strife 
 Are blest indeed, nor need they mind 
 
 However dark their path in life. 
 But what of those who ever go, 
 Through downward stages, into depths below ? 
 
 'And then, why should that lower life. 
 
 Which has not any nobler end, 
 Be bound to suffer and to die t 
 
 To what good can their anguish tend .? 
 And God — the God of love, you say — 
 Why sweeps He not this useless pain away?' 
 
 Father 
 
 ' Firstly, my child, it is no certain thing 
 That any life shall fail to gain the soul, 
 42
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Which, being found, must rise eternally. 
 
 Yet were it so, what do we know of pain ? 
 
 Let us consider. Is this life a curse, 
 
 Even to those — if any such there be — 
 
 Who reap no future good through suffering ? 
 
 What is the primal purpose of all pain ? 
 
 Is it not this — to keep from injury. 
 
 To save from death through inadvertency ? 
 
 If there were placed no check, a child would hold 
 
 Its finger in the flame, and watch it burn ; 
 
 A bird, wishing to reach some distant spot, 
 
 Would dash against the trees, and feeling naught 
 
 Would dash again, until its mangled form 
 
 Lay bleeding on the grass, thus maimed for life. 
 
 Without the pangs of hunger that we know, 
 
 Who would strive still to gather needed food, 
 
 Or rest, if eager to attain some end, • 
 
 Unless the weariness that follows toil 
 
 Rid us to cease in time ? Thus pain is part — 
 
 A necessary part — of all the growth 
 
 To higher order in the race of life, 
 
 And grows with other growth, as needs arise. 
 
 Trees, flowers, and all the lower forms of life 
 
 Feel not, or feel without the sense of pain 
 
 As we should understand it, moving on 
 
 Toward the best by some attracting power 
 
 Of light or heat. But slowly, as growth tends 
 
 To free existence, a more subtle check 
 
 Must guide the impulses, and so we see 
 
 What we call suffering — though unlike to ours — 
 
 Spread through the lower world, until at last 
 
 It reaches man in his more savage state, 
 
 43
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 And rises on to mental grief, and then 
 To the deep sorrow of the inmost soul. 
 
 Yet must we use great care if we would judge 
 Of others by ourselves ; else shall we err 
 Most grievously about the love of God, 
 And cause our souls a needless suffering ; 
 For when a man with all his nervous powers — 
 Needed for his high nature — looks below. 
 And sees some twisting worm, that turns and rolls 
 As if in torture, he may, knowing naught 
 Of all the laws that cause those writhing turns, 
 Dream that it suffers deeply. Thus the cries 
 Made by some animals if only touched 
 Are like to shrieks of anguish ; yet we know 
 They suffer not, but that their bitter cry 
 Is a protection to them. 
 
 For many years have I with anxious care 
 Studied the lives of others, striving thus, 
 'Mid all life's labyrinths, to find at last 
 If joy or Sorrow hold the ruling power. 
 'Tis a hard thing to creep beneath the crust 
 Which custom builds around the heart of man. 
 And find the self you seek ; 'tis also hard 
 To throw oft" your surroundings, and to see 
 Into another life with other eyes. 
 For what to me is pain, to him is joy ; 
 What brings a shiver of the coldest dread 
 Into my heart, passes him by unmoved ; 
 And what I long for, he can prize no more, 
 By use made callous of my greatest good, 
 By lack desiring what to me is dross. 
 Yet as I studied, still the more I found 
 
 44
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 That life was prized both by the rich and poor ; 
 That even to the fooHsh, as the wise, 
 Joy caused the scale to turn, and pain rose up 
 More clearly to the sight ; but still beneath — 
 Keeping the scale weighed down — was happiness. 
 Few I could find who in their quiet moods 
 Would change their life for any other life ; 
 Few wished for death, and of those very few, 
 When next I met them I would find their joy 
 Surpassed the joy of others ; for the hearts 
 Which suffer most have also times as well 
 When they are full of such deep ecstasy 
 That it is hard for natures whose smooth plain 
 Shows not these valleys, nor yet those bright hills, 
 To understand their joy. 
 
 Yet, after all, how little do we know 
 Of any life ! Why should it pass away ? 
 May it not rather rise from growth to growth : 
 From flower to the free-moving life that floats 
 Within the pool ; then upward, ever on, 
 Until at last it reaches grander strength, 
 And as a man can commune with its God. 
 And still beyond, what endless heights may lie, 
 What mighty powers as yet we dream not of ? 
 ••What joy awaits us at the further end, 
 When we have found at last, through suffering, 
 Not goodness only, but the love of good. 
 Having brought forth a mind, in perfect tune, 
 To harmonise with God's ? 
 
 45
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 Child 
 
   It is a glorious thought, this hope 
 
 Which you have kindled in my heart- 
 The immortality of life, 
 
 In which the lowest forms take part, 
 Each living thing we see around 
 Upon its heavenward journey bound. 
 
 ' Onward and upward they shall tend ; 
 
 Thus each fulfils the best it may. 
 And as in all material things 
 
 Nothing can ever pass away, 
 Death gives to each the needed change, 
 A higher vision, and a wider range. 
 
 ' And yet still more, the more we know 
 
 Dqes sin become a thing to fear ; 
 'Tis it that shuts us out from God 
 
 While He is bidding us come near; 
 And at the end, it well may be 
 Lowers our place through all eternity. 
 
 ' Well may men speak of punishment 
 
 That never ends. Oh ! bitter thought, 
 If when I reach the home of light. 
 
 The goal we all so long have sought, 
 I see — ah ! with what hopeless pain — 
 At God's own feet a vacant place remain. 
 46
 
 FATHER AND CHILD 
 
 ' Vacant — yet shall I never know 
 The glory of that perfect life ; 
 Fit place alone is it for those 
 
 Who fought the noblest in the fight ; 
 Then must I be content to go 
 Into the lesser light, that shines below. 
 
 ' My father, look ! the darkness spreads 
 Now over all the sea and sky ; 
 Thus has the night her mantle spread 
 
 Over us all so quietly ; 
 The stars are shining on the sea, 
 Casting their bright reflection peacefully. 
 
 ' So full is all my mind of thought, 
 
 Each little object that I see, 
 Since we came here an hour ago, 
 
 Is all so strange and new to me. 
 From every side, so soft and clear. 
 The unknown voice of God I seem to hear. 
 
 ' Fain would I then return once more, 
 And in the silent darkness kneel. 
 
 My new-found Father calls to me. 
 While still His presence I can feel 
 
 Thus, in the solitude of night, 
 
 Bidding me waken to still greater light' 
 
 47
 
 A VISION OF JOY WITH WISDOM'S 
 MESSAGE 
 
 As I lay in silent darkness 
 
 A vision came down to me, 
 A maiden of perfect beauty — 
 
 Such only in dreams we see. 
 The mist that had half concealed her 
 
 Rose upwards and passed away, 
 For the darkness of night was dispelled by a light 
 
 More fair than the glory of day. 
 
 The maiden came close beside me, 
 
 And whispered into my ear ; 
 Her voice was of wondrous sweetness, 
 
 But her words I did not hear. 
 Little cared I, thus wrapt in bliss, 
 
 For what she had come to say, 
 But absorbed in the thought of the joy she had brought, 
 
 I dreaded its passing away. 
 
 Then, finding I disregarded 
 
 The words she was sent to bring, 
 She spoke no more in a whisper. 
 
 But straightway began to sing 
 
 48
 
 J VISION OF JOY WITH IVISDOAPS MESSAGE 
 
 A song of the sweetest cadence, 
 
 That blotted out every thought ; 
 For my mind, being bound in a network of sound, 
 
 Had still left her meaning unsought. 
 
 At last, when the son^was over. 
 
 And the words unheeded lay 
 All buried beneath the music, 
 
 Her spirit was drawn away. 
 Then passed through the awful silence 
 
 That message I had to hear, 
 When the darkness revealed what the light had 
 concealed. 
 
 While adding her prelude of fear. 
 
 But now that the night is over 
 
 The vision I yet retain, 
 Though what it had come to tell me 
 
 I am seeking still in vain. 
 For though we so oft in pleasure 
 
 Miss wisdom that sorrow brings, 
 Yet the thoughts that remain, or that meet us again. 
 
 Came first on joy's radiant wings. 
 
 49
 
 LONELY AGE 
 
 Dead as the fallen leaves ! 
 
 All that I love have died, 
 And loneliness now weaves 
 
 Around, on- every side, 
 A cruel net, in which I must abide. 
 
 The firelight droops and dies, 
 
 Fading so fast away, 
 And phantoms that arise, 
 
 Of a far distant day, 
 Seem half-grotesque and fearful as they play. 
 
 Oh ! to look back, and know 
 
 I cannot speak again, 
 To any here below, 
 
 Of all the love and pain 
 Together felt ; — I now alone remain. 
 
 The phantoms of the past, 
 
 Associations dear — 
 I now am left the last 
 To brood upon them here ; 
 Thus joy is changed to grief, and hope to fear. 
 
 50
 
 LONELY AGE 
 
 There is no power to make, 
 
 In this my closing day, 
 New friendships, for the sake 
 Of brightening the way ; 
 Others have friends with whom they love to stay. 
 
 'Tis seldom, save in youth, 
 
 That we can draw those bands 
 Of perfect trust and truth 
 
 Around us. Age still stands 
 And knocks without, with ever-weakening hands. 
 
 Ambition 's dead and gone ; 
 
 None now will blame or praise 
 The work that I have done, 
 As in our divers ways 
 We gave each other help in early days. 
 
 Oh for that time once more ! 
 
 How well I seem to see, 
 Beyond the open door, 
 
 Ready to welcome me. 
 Those friendly forms that now have ceased to be 
 
 The bright and ruddy glow 
 
 Cast from our wood-piled fire ; 
 I hear the ceaseless flow 
 Of talk, that would not tire ; 
 The foolish hopes, to which we all aspire. 
 
 51 E2
 
 LONELY AGE 
 
 For as the evening passed 
 Still further on to night, 
 And few remained at last 
 In the then failing light, 
 The subjects winged their way in higher flight. 
 
 We talked of noble ends, 
 
 Of powers that we might sway, 
 Dreaming that all life tends 
 Towards a brighter day — 
 Fair dreams of glory, soon to. pass away. 
 
 The world moved us apart. 
 
 With all this will imply 
 Of altered mind and heart, 
 
 Which change continually. 
 Shall we draw close in death's etemitv? 
 
 And now to all but me 
 
 That greatest change has come, 
 
 While 1 must wait to see 
 The little we have done^ 
 How small the hoped-for good, the victor>' won. 
 
 Had I, in wiser mood. 
 
 Sought for a humbler end. 
 Choosing that homely good 
 To which our natures tend, 
 My closing days had known a brighter end. 
 
 52
 
 LONELY AGE 
 
 Children around my knee — 
 
 How bright they'd make the place ! 
 Now playing close to me, 
 As in each childish face 
 I might some page of my past life retrace. 
 
 But this was not to be — 
 
 No sunny, golden light 
 Of children's hair I see ; 
 
 Only a gloomy sight 
 Of loneliness, fit sign of coming night. 
 
 O Death ! if thou agree 
 To take me as a friend — 
 
 Now all have gone but thee — 
 Together, we will wend 
 A quiet journey to the unknown end. 
 
 53
 
 MONTE GE NERO SO 
 
 Here beauty folds me round on every hand, 
 Each moment brings fresh glories into sight : 
 
 The widest vision of the fairest land, 
 
 Softened with mist and purple evening light. 
 
 No more I, yiew the Alps from blinding snow. 
 But see them towering upward to the sky 
 
 From out the vine-dressed plains which lie below, 
 Divided where the ruddy waters lie. 
 
 The spreading lake of Como on my right, 
 O'er which the Tyrol's lofty mountains rise ; 
 
 Lugano's water, partly hid from sight, 
 Close at my feet in solemn shadow lies ; 
 
 While Maggiore spreads her m inding form 
 Beyond the mountain's side, but half revealed, 
 
 As if she, in her pride, with lofty scorn 
 
 Of rival power, her best had still concealed. 
 
 Hid by no clouds, but 'twixt the severed head 
 Of Monte Rosa's double-crowned height, 
 
 Bathing the mountains with a fiery red, 
 The sun is passing quickly from my sight 
 
 54
 
 MONTE GENEROSO 
 
 While the stern Matterhom, a tiny spire 
 
 Of blackness, shows against the evening sky, 
 
 Upon whose steep and giddy surface dire 
 The cHnging snow, in vain, has sought to lie. 
 
 The lesser Alps, that lie so far away 
 
 Beside the inland sea, show their proud crests- 
 Like some fair islands that have lost their way 
 
 Among the clouds— o'er which a glory rests. 
 
 The plains are covered with an opal veil, 
 That in the distance seems some ocean fair. 
 
 On whose warm breast those distant islands sail, 
 And then at sunset slowly disappear. 
 
 Oh ! mount of wondrous changes ! when again 
 Can I such varied beauty hope to see? 
 
 Not till once more thy summit I regain. 
 Or death reveal still grander sights to me. 
 
 55
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 'TwAS springtime in the bright, warm month of May 
 As I, half-dreaming, near the close of day 
 Heard o'er the water, while it rose and fell, 
 The soft vibration of a distant bell ; 
 And as I listened, so it seemed to me, 
 The mingled cries of stifled agony, 
 And sobbing sounds, like children when they weep, 
 Went upward from the bosom of the deep. 
 1 rose up, wondering what these sounds might be 
 That reached me thus upon the lonely sea. 
 And looking o'er the boat, saw down below 
 In the clear water, where the sea-weeds grow, 
 What seemed the ruins of some temple old, 
 Whose buttressed towers the waving plants enfold, 
 And columns high, and arches reaching wide, 
 Spread out in ordered form on every side ; 
 While, winding now along the watery aisle, 
 A long procession slowly seemed to file. 
 -A crowd of misty shapes appeared below, 
 Their heads bent down, as if oppressed by woe. 
 The waters rippled, and the vision passed. 
 Blurred by the action of some fitful blast. 
 Was it but Fancy's picture I had seen ? 
 And were the bells but ringing in my dream? 
 
 56
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 My ancient oarsman now had ceased to row, 
 And, pointing to the wonders down below, 
 He told me that the temple which I saw 
 The people round had often seen before ; 
 And that the bells oft sent their music wide, 
 Some having heard them on the mountain-side 
 Even in storms, when frightened sea-birds screech, 
 And the wild waves foam fiercely on the beach. 
 And when the spring tides came, in days gone by. 
 That he had seen a tower left partly dry ; 
 But now the sea had slowly pressed its way, 
 Sweeping all things beneath its cruel sway. 
 Holding within its clutching, murderous hand, 
 What once were tracts of cultivated land, 
 And always covering now the highest walls 
 Of those strange towers and desolated halls. 
 I learnt from him all facts that he could tell, 
 And many legends that he knew as well 
 About this place, which seemed so strange to me. 
 Thus buried 'neath the stillness of the sea. 
 
 And on the evening of the second day. 
 Still fascinated, I had found my way 
 Over the water to the fated spot 
 Where many lives had met so sad a lot, 
 And, leaning forward, gazing down below, 
 I sought to fathom this strange tale of woe. 
 And waiting thus, at last I seemed to see 
 Things dim at first shown now more clear to me. 
 Until at last, revealed in wavering light, 
 These wondrous visions passed before my sight, 
 
 57
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 And all the words came plainly to my ear, 
 
 Like rippling water, soft, yet strangely clear ; 
 
 Yet ne'er before had I such wonders seen. 
 
 Save in a world of dreams — perchance it was a dream. 
 
 And first, upon the gently sloping side 
 Of a green hill where sheep have closely cropped 
 The tender grass, I see, 'mid sheltering trees, 
 A little cottage stand, with heathered roof, 
 While round the open door a natural porch 
 Of mountain ash and wild, rebellious rose 
 Have formed a shade luxurious and cool. 
 
 Beneath the shadow peacefully there lies 
 
 A rustic girl, with sleepy eyes half closed ; 
 
 And on her knee a child some few weeks old 
 
 Stretches its baby fingers towards her breast, 
 
 Eager for food ; or else the dancing light 
 
 That plays on that smooth whiteness, lying bare, 
 
 Attracts its half-formed sight. Now, when it moves. 
 
 The mother raises too her sleepy lids. 
 
 And, stooping, kisses its soft, rounded cheek, 
 
 And, kissing, draws it still more closely up, 
 
 In sweet contentment, to the wished-for place ; 
 
 Then lets her head droop down, as thus she sings, 
 
 In cooing softness, to the baby-child : 
 
 ' Draw from thy mother, oh child of my heart ! 
 All of the blessing that she may impart. 
 Laying upon me a burden so sweet, 
 Joy of the union wherein we may meet. 
 
 58
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Nestling closely, and dreaming in peace, 
 Sweetest unconsciousness, why must it cease? 
 Ever I'm watching and thinking of thee. 
 Press me still closer, dream only of me.' 
 
 Then, in sweet joy, she, leaning forward, looks 
 With satisfaction full upon the babe, 
 Till both contented sleep, nor heed they aught 
 Of that which passes round them, save as sleep 
 Brings to them both the half-unconscious joy 
 That Nature, freely followed, freely gives. 
 
 Then from the cottage-door comes softly forth 
 A youth, whose face is bronzed with summer sun ; 
 Noble his form, though dressed in shepherd's guise, 
 And on his countenance is plainly writ 
 Both firm resolve and perfect honesty. 
 He turns towards the sleepers, with a look 
 That seems to say, ' Behold ! they are my own. 
 My own for life, my own for evermore.' 
 Thus, as he bends down o'er them, his rapt gaze 
 Seems to attract the infant from its sleep, 
 And the child moves from that soft resting-place, 
 Rousing its mother from her peaceful dreams 
 To look around. Thus looking, she beholds 
 Her husband standing near her in the light, 
 And smiles on him with just a maiden blush. 
 Not yet destroyed by sweeter motherhood, 
 But like the early dawn, that breathes of night, 
 Yet feels the sun, and knows of coming day. 
 He draws his arm around her as she moves. 
 And through the door they vanish from my sight 
 
 59
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Then the scene fades, the cottage melts away, 
 All passing slowly to a neutral grey. 
 
 Now other visions pass before my sight : 
 
 I see upon an almost level plain, 
 
 Between the mountains and the sleeping sea, 
 
 An abbey, with its long and straggling walls, 
 
 Its spreading arches, and its lofty towers, 
 
 Lying distinctly in the moonlight calm. 
 
 Upon the highest tower a brazen cross 
 
 Is turned to silver in the pallid light, 
 
 And casts a giant shadow o'er the sea. 
 
 Through the deep quiet of the solemn night 
 
 Softly the sound of song and music rise 
 
 Up toward the gloomy vault, from whence the stars 
 
 Shine restfuUy upon the world below. 
 
 As in a dream, I seem to enter now 
 
 Within the building, through a massive arch 
 
 Of stonework covered o'er with dewy moss ; 
 
 Then, through a vaulted corridor, soon reach 
 
 A stately hall ; here lingering I stand. 
 
 What are these sounds of revel that I hear ? 
 
 Is this the house of fasting and of prayer ? 
 
 Sitting around a table thickly strewn 
 
 With all the remnants of a lordly feast 
 
 I see a band of coarse and sensual men. 
 
 Though robed in all their monkish habiliments ; 
 
 One holds a brimming goblet in his hand 
 
 As thus he sings : 
 
 ' Away by the restless sea, 
 And far from all searching eyes, 
 60
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 We'll drink again to the blood-red wine. 
 To its power that never dies ; 
 Raise it up in a brimming cup, 
 For beneath it a glory lies. 
 
 ' Oh ! who can its power unfold, 
 Or tell of the perfect glow 
 Passing along through each throbbing nerve 
 While we feel its soothing flow ? 
 Down it slips, to our finger-tips, 
 As the joys of Heaven we know. 
 
 ' Pressing all pain from the heart. 
 Driving all care from the mind, 
 Slowly a swimming and reeling bUss 
 Is all that is left behind ; 
 Dimly we seem in a drowsy dream 
 Deeper and deeper entwined. 
 
 ' Away with all thought of sin 
 With the cup so rich and strong ; 
 Drinking the gift of the mighty gods, 
 It surely will not be wrong 
 To take the kiss of soothing bliss, 
 And welcome the gift with a song. 
 
 Cast from your mind the fear 
 That pain awaits the morrow, 
 For heavenly winds are breathing fresh, 
 Which we, for once, may borrow ; 
 Seek its light while the wine is bright ; 
 Away with all thought of sorrow ! 
 61
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 * Oh ! be not the fool that tastes, 
 And, feeling his vision clear, 
 Ceases to search for the glorious end, 
 Restrained by some foolish fear. 
 Drink again, till it fill the brain. 
 Lest the glory should disappear.' 
 
 The song is done, 
 And at its closing lines the men rise up 
 On every side, and drain their brimming bowls — 
 The sons of God turned to the fiends of hell, 
 More ghastly by the contrast that they draw 
 From what they call themselves, and what they are. 
 Oh ! mockery of fate ! these noble halls. 
 Built to the glory of Eternal God ; 
 This place so made for silence and for thought, 
 Where years before the sound of lofty psalms 
 Rose up to Heaven at the hour of prayer 
 From the deep voices of the tuneful choir — 
 Now conquering evil takes the place of good ; 
 Men set apart for God sink down to hell, 
 The lowest hell of dark hypocrisy ; 
 The Devil, grinning through each shameless face, 
 Laughs long and loud, the monarch of the place. 
 Yes, hateful is the sight, yet deeper crimes 
 Those abbey walls have known, and yet shall know, 
 Before the God of vengeance shall arise. 
 And wipe for ever from the laden earth 
 This nest of sin, this foul iniquity. 
 
 The night has passed, and now the welcome sun 
 Shines down upon the desecrated pile, 
 
 62
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 And on the mountains, and the smihng sea. 
 All Nature opens to its warming touch, 
 And tender flowers unfold, and gaze anew 
 Upon its glory ; while the drowsy sheep, 
 Half rising, nibble at the nearest grass ; 
 The shepherd leaves his home reluctantly, 
 Unwilling yet to part from her he loves. 
 And as he wanders up the stony path, 
 Perchance he sees the mother and her child. 
 As when they slept within the cottage porch. 
 Ah ! when shall he press that fond heart to his. 
 Or gaze again into those loving eyes ? 
 Oh ! deed of darkness, forming with the light. 
 What ills shall come before another night ! 
 
 At noon the mother leaves her infant child 
 
 To other care, and goes upon her way 
 
 To offer praise within the house of God 
 
 For this great gift vouchsafed — the first delight 
 
 Of bearing to the world another life 
 
 Through the rough path of pain which ends in joy. 
 
 How little did those country-people know 
 Of priestly vice in all its hateful forms ; 
 Simple in thought, as simple in their ways. 
 They still believed that all were good and pure 
 Who dwelt within the abbey's sacred walls. 
 No whispering wind had carried o'er the plain 
 The secret which, too soon, they all must know — 
 The answer to the question which had long 
 So troubled all the fearful country-side : 
 Why ever and again some maiden fair 
 
 63
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Was seen no more among them, though they searched 
 
 In vain for her dead body by the sea, 
 
 Or 'mid the awful mountains' solitude. 
 
 Thus, with no thought of harm, the childlike wife, 
 
 In all the beauty of her youthfulness, 
 
 Passes that cursed portal, and moves on 
 
 Softly, beneath the arches spreading wide, 
 
 Into the silent chapel, and kneels down. 
 
 Pouring out words of praise and thankfulness. 
 
 Meanwhile, unseen in the confessional, 
 The abbot, having watched her as she came, 
 Sits waiting, turning in his lustful mind 
 How best he may secure his evil will. 
 
 She rises from her knees, and softly play 
 The broken sunbeams on her bended head 
 As now she moves toward that distant arch 
 Where stands the dim confessional, and steps. 
 With half-reluctant tread, into the shade. 
 The few remembered sins are quickly told. 
 And still she waits, his pardon to receive. 
 Or hear what penance she must still perform. 
 Then the priest speaks these words : 
 
 ' When a wife has felt the joy 
 Of sweet motherhood, and knows 
 Once again the breathing life 
 That has followed all her woes, 
 It is ordered she shall leave. 
 For the half of that glad day, 
 64
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Every thought of other things, 
 And in solemn silence pray. 
 In this abbey we have placed, 
 Looking toward the restful sea, 
 A fitting room for those who wish 
 In holy solitude to be. 
 Entering there, alone, to pray, 
 Put away the clothes you wear. 
 Snow-white raiment you will find 
 Ready waiting for you there. 
 Robed in this more fitting garb, 
 Kneel till the reclining sun 
 Dips into the glowing sea ; 
 Then, your penance being done, 
 I will come and pardon thee, 
 And with my blessing set thee free.' 
 
 The girl now follows up some winding stairs 
 
 Her treacherous guide ; nor has she any fear 
 
 As, leaving her in loneliness to pray, 
 
 He passes on to an adjoining cell. 
 
 Then Esther, left alone, leans thoughtfully. 
 
 For a short space, upon the massive stones 
 
 From which arise the narrow Saxon arch, 
 
 And wonders at the height on which she stands. 
 
 Till, mindful of the words the priest had said. 
 
 She looks around, and close beside her sees 
 
 A thin, soft garment of the purest white. 
 
 As delicate of texture as a web 
 
 Of gossamer, yet soft like fleecy wool. 
 
 Then, half-reluctantly, she loosens now 
 
 Her homespun rustic robes, and as they fall 
 
 65 F
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Downward to her bare feet, the sun shines full 
 
 Upon a form of perfect loveliness, 
 
 Replete with strength and power, yet soft and round 
 
 With youth ; a daughter of the wind-swept hills. 
 
 'Tis but a moment that she stands revealed. 
 
 Then takes the snow-white robe, and casts it o'er 
 
 The rival purity of her fair form, 
 
 And, kneeling down, begins her prayer aloud. 
 
 ' Mother of God, to thee my prayer 
 Shall gladly on this day be given. 
 For the same joy has filled thine heart, 
 With the same pains thou too hast striven. 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray, 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 ' The air breathes warmly on my face, 
 The sea lies calmly down below, 
 And all things speak of rest to me ; 
 Wilt thou not, too, thy peace bestow ? 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray, 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 * If I should love the world too well 
 That treats me with a touch so mild. 
 If I my baby prize too much. 
 Didst thou not also love thy child ? 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray. 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 ' If I have seldom thought of thee 
 When all the world was full of joy, 
 66
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Thou yet, I know, will pity me ; 
 Oh still for me thy power employ ! 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray, 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 ' Thy face I often seemed to see 
 When lately in deep pain I lay ; 
 And it was thy sweet, loving hand, 
 That pointed out to me my way. 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray, 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 ' The dews of heaven on all alike 
 Fall gently, with refreshing kiss ; 
 Press thou on me thy healing lips, 
 Although unworthy of the bliss. 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray, 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! 
 
 ' When down the sun in glory sinks, 
 And the bright light is fading fast, 
 Let that sweet knowledge come to me 
 That I am one with thee at last. 
 Mother of God, to thee I pray. 
 Oh grant me pardon on this day ! ' 
 
 The voice now ceases, though the moving lips 
 Tell of the prayers that ever upward rise 
 From that still form, fit resting-place alone 
 For sunny light or amorous moving wind ; 
 Both play upon her hair, which waves and floats 
 Like beams of golden light, now lying low 
 
 67 F 2
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Upon her virgin garment, now tossed round, 
 In floating threads, on her unconscious face. 
 
 The hours move on ; the monk has left his cell, 
 
 Unmelted by the pure and holy words 
 
 Which met his listening ears, and oft his eyes 
 
 Turn eagerly toward the sinking sun ; 
 
 The hour his victim hopes to hear those words 
 
 Of absolution breathed ; the time when he — 
 
 Inflamed by hell — has made the foul I'esolve 
 
 To damn, if it may be, the soul he should absolve. 
 
 The sun has scarcely touched the flaming line 
 Where sky and ocean softly meet as one, 
 And Esther, weaiy of the lengthening hours. 
 Waits her release, with many anxious thoughts 
 For her young child, and all its pressing needs, 
 When the door opens silently, and then 
 Is made securely fast by one who stands 
 Withiii the room, though yet unseen by her. 
 
 The priest moves softly on, and quickly lays 
 His hand upon her arm, and draws her close 
 As she, still fearless, rises from her knees 
 And stands before him in the clinging dress 
 Which round her lies in many graceful folds. 
 Then he, secure in this retreat from fear 
 Of all resistance to his evil ends. 
 Reveals himself at last, and shadows forth, 
 In honeyed words, his foul and hateful will. 
 She springs from his embrace, and stands aghast, 
 With eyes distended in a hopeless fear — 
 As some poor hunted deer will stand at bay 
 
 68
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 When stopped in her wild flight by towering rocks 
 
 She cannot scale, while still the greedy hounds 
 
 Press close behind in eager thirst for blood. 
 
 So stands she now, her hair all wildly cast 
 
 About her face ; and still the tender wind, 
 
 Eager to serve her in its humble way, 
 
 Blows softly, from behind, the waving folds 
 
 Of golden light around her panting breast, 
 
 Which else had been revealed ; for those fierce hands 
 
 Had torn away the fastening of her robe, 
 
 And part disclosed the beauty trembling there. 
 
 What hope is there for her to cry aloud 
 
 From that high tower amid the silent plain? 
 
 Her husband, 'mid the mountain solitude, 
 
 Is listening to the dreamy, tinkling sound 
 
 Of sheep-bells, all unconscious of her woe. 
 
 And yet she cries, in anguish, for the help 
 
 She knows can never come ; and now falls down 
 
 Upon her knees, to draw, if it may be. 
 
 Pity from that vile heart, in hopeless hope, 
 
 The last expedient of her despair, 
 
 Although she knows full well there is no pity there. 
 
 The priest approaches nearer to his prey, 
 As through the window comes the evening song 
 Of fishermen returning from their toil. 
 Far in the distance he can see their forms. 
 As slowly from the shore they wind their way 
 Towards their village homes. Then o'er his mind 
 There passes a resolve, half-formed by fear 
 Lest someone hear her cries, but even more 
 
 69
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 From deep reluctance to the light of day : 
 He now will leave her till the shades of night 
 Have settled on the plain ; for, daylight o'er, 
 He may more surely his weak prey secure. 
 
 Thus to the torture of a dark suspense 
 He leaves her till the revel shall be done ; 
 And she— oh blest reprieve ! though brief it seem- 
 Lifts her bare arms to Heaven in earnest prayer 
 As thus she pleads : 
 
 ' Father, whose almighty hand 
 Rulest all the powers that be, 
 Keep me from this cursed fate, 
 Save me ! save me ! set me free ! 
 Free, though by the hand of death 
 I can only rescue gain. 
 Any fate were better far 
 Than this all- polluting stain. 
 Sweet indeed is life and home, 
 Dear my little child to me ; 
 Sweeter far my husband's love ; 
 Oh ! that I his face might see 
 Once, if only once, before 
 I must pass to endless night. 
 Blackness creeps into my soul. 
 Vainly now I look for light. 
 God — if any God exists 
 In this hateful tomb of sin — 
 Now Thy power of wrath disclose, 
 Over Hell the victory win ; 
 Raise on high the thundering waves, 
 70
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Let them wash this place away ; 
 Thou hast power to move the sea, 
 Its foundations Thou didst lay. 
 Or let Thy most fearful power, 
 That is hidden in the sky, 
 Shatter these polluted walls, 
 Though beneath them I should lie. 
 Any fate would better be 
 Than the one designed for me.' 
 
 Like some fair prophetess of old she stands, 
 With lifted hands and fingers tightly closed. 
 All Nature seems to feel a magic power 
 Enfold it in a silence most profound — 
 The silence that so frequently foretells 
 A coming storm. 
 
 The sunset glory of the sea and sky 
 Has faded now away, and darkness broods 
 Over the deep ; yet ever and again 
 A mocking gust of wind passes along, 
 Bearing its train of dismal groaning sounds 
 Behind it. Then all again is silence. 
 Now, in the west, a distant line of light 
 Is seen, as the cold glare of moonlight shines. 
 For a brief moment, on the sleeping sea ; 
 A line that to the watchful eyes of those 
 Who toil upon the ocean's treacherous breast 
 Speaks of the foam-tossed waves that curl and hiss 
 Upon the margin of a hurricane. 
 And ever as the clouds, now hurrying on, 
 Leave rifts of fleecy thinness o'er the moon, 
 
 71
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 That line of light is seen approaching fast 
 Toward the shore. 
 
 Meanwhile the midnight revel has begun 
 
 'Mid those doomed walls, and shouts of drunken mirth 
 
 Go forth to meet the storm. Within his hand 
 
 The master of these orgies takes again 
 
 The brimming cup, and rises for a song — 
 
 When lo ! the hall is lit from roof to floor 
 
 With one resplendent flash of fitful hght, 
 
 And every sound is hushed by sudden fear. 
 
 Then on the trembling crowd a frightful peal 
 
 Of thunder bursts, and all is still once more. 
 
 Now the ground seems to tremble with the shock 
 Of some far-distant earthquake ; and the wind 
 Roars with resistless fury as again 
 The awe-struck feasters feel the solid earth 
 Beneath them rock, and hear amid the storm 
 The frightful sounds of rending massive walls, 
 Of falling arches, and the answering groan 
 Of heavy-weighted timber, that in vain ' 
 Strives to resist some overpowering strain. 
 
 The ocean, now awakened from its sleep 
 By howling wind and thunder's sullen roar, 
 Feel its sure bed upheaving from beneath 
 By subterranean force, and quits its bounds. 
 Rushing in wild and unrelenting flood 
 Over the fertile plains, and, 'mid the groans 
 Of anguish and despair, pours its cold wave 
 Over that sumptuous feast, and mixes up 
 
 72
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Its briny waters with the blood-red wine. 
 And now, with curses on their dying Hps, 
 The priests of Hell go forth to meet their God, 
 While, having heedlessly fulfilled its task, 
 The wave moves on. 
 
 The tempest having spent its fiercest power, 
 And dizzy with its own tumultuous flight 
 Through the dark shades of night, now hesitates 
 As the first messenger of coming dawn — 
 Light, colourless and dim — casts once again 
 Her mantle on the chilly sea and land —   
 A vestment that the rosy dawn shall gild 
 With all its fitful colouring and light, 
 Turning the shadowless, grey garment worn 
 By Nature's trembling form to its fair robe 
 Of sunshine and of shade. 
 
 The sun looks forth. 
 Drawing apart the ruddy-curtained clouds 
 Which hide it from the earth, and touches first 
 The hill-tops into life, then slowly moves 
 Its glory down their rugged sides, and rests 
 Among the valleys, calling from their sleep 
 The noisy birds, whose rippling notes of joy 
 Follow its downward steps — a train of song 
 Borne up by willing hearts. Now it has reached 
 The village, and aroused from pleasant dreams 
 The weary sons of toil ; and still it moves. 
 Eager to pour its warmth upon the plain 
 Whose barren breast it years gone by had kissed, 
 And, kissing, brought about fertility. 
 It finds it not— the sullen, jealous sea 
 
 73
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Has taken back its gift, and as the sun 
 
 Touches its wished-for spot, a mocking wave 
 
 Raises its snow-white crest into the hght, 
 
 Then, having felt the warmth, rolls round in joy, 
 
 And licks the trembling grass and shattered flowers. 
 
 In vain the sunlight, seeking for the earth, 
 
 Finds only a wide bay of heaving sea. 
 
 And where the abbey stood a single tower 
 
 Rises from out the watery solitude 
 
 As if to mark the spot ; while here and there 
 
 Around the massive walls grotesquely float, 
 
 With waving arms, some bodies of the dead, 
 
 Robed still in monkish dress, whose staring eyes 
 
 Look ghastly in illumined sightlessness. 
 
 One living form alone is breathing near, 
 
 Which those dark walls hide from the searching sun ; 
 
 Alone, but all unconscious of the day, 
 
 And still, as if the ministers of death 
 
 Had come too close, and touched it with their breath. 
 
 Light turns again to darkness, and I stand 
 In the tempestuous night, and feel once more 
 The bitter cold pass tingling through my blood. 
 The hills around are indistinct and dim — 
 A shadowy background to the haggard form 
 That stands beside me, casting these wild words 
 Into the wilder night : 
 
 ' In vain — ah ! yes, it is in vain to seek 
 Her living form amid these mountains bleak. 
 
 74
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Truly I knew that cruel Death alone 
 Could hold her from her loved ones and her home. 
 She must have come to meet me on my way, 
 Tired out with weary watching. Could'st thou stay 
 No longer waiting till I came to thee, 
 But must come wandering forth in search of me? 
 And thou hast found, amid these hills, instead, 
 The gateway to the regions of the dead. 
 Oh : that I, seeking also, here might find 
 The only rest that now can calm my mind, 
 For, left alone, I cannot long remain ; 
 Each changing thought is torture to the brain, 
 Life is not life when all the joy is flown. 
 With no sweet welcome, home no more is home. 
 Our child !— ah ! why have I this threadlike chain, 
 The only power that links me now with pain ; 
 Else would I bid defiance to my fate, 
 Nor on this earth need any longer wait 
 For tardy death to bring me to my dead. 
 Life is our own, and hangs upon a thread 
 So light and frail that e'en a coward's heart, 
 O'erwhelmed by pain, would scarcely fear to part 
 The tender cord, save that the awful deep 
 Lies dark beyond ; let it but only keep 
 In its dim distance all we hold most dear. 
 Then dare we look beneath us without fear, 
 Seeing from out the gloom some beckoning hand 
 To bid us welcome to that unknown land. 
 But is she there? I cannot now endure 
 To think of her as gone, so sweet and pure, 
 So fit for life and love, now lying still. 
 Stretched motionless upon some barren hill. 
 
 75
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Or does she float upon the swollen flood, 
 A mangled form? O God ! I see the blood 
 Upon her face, turned upward as she lies 
 On the fast-moving water ; now her eyes 
 Look on me as she floats. Yet stay, — oh ! stay 
 These frightful scenes — Ah ! now they pass away. 
 But what is this that wavers here and there? 
 I see her— yes, I see her coming near ; 
 
 She touches me again, and now I hold 
 
 Ah! what is this — this figure stiff and cold 
 That clings so close to me. I feel its breath. 
 Is it the touch of madness, or of death?' 
 
 Exhausted by the passion of his grief, 
 And maddened by his hopeless quest, the youth 
 Sank down upon the ground, as if at rest. 
 His face half-buried in the yielding growth 
 Of purple heath. 
 
 Now darkness reigns again ; 
 Slowly it brightens to a hazy mist. 
 Through which I see a crowd of hurrying scenes 
 That come and go, as on some mountain top 
 We see, between the riflings of a cloud, 
 Distinct and clear, the distant country He 
 In sunshine at our feet, to fade again, 
 And then again appear, a vision new, 
 Before our dazzled eyes. 
 
 Now for a moment spreads the new-formed bay, 
 Lying so calmly 'neath the midday sun ; 
 Many a fishing-boat thus smoothly glides 
 Above those fields which yesterday gave hope 
 
 76
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 Of han-est-time ; while round the abbey-tower 
 The fishermen are busy gathering 
 A ghastly draught into their laden boats, 
 Already burdened with the gloomy freight 
 Of human dead. 
 
 A tiny craft now steers 
 From westward of the tower, and in the stern 
 I see a girl, who in the distance seems 
 Like some fair spirit watching o'er the dead. 
 The sunshine, faUing on her moving dress. 
 Transforms it to a softly-floating mist. 
 While round her head a golden halo lies — 
 The sunbeams' mirror, where they love to trace 
 Their changing, sparkling hues. 
 
 And now again 
 I look upon the drifting clouds, which pass 
 A curtain o'er my vision ; yet I hear 
 A low, sweet song, whose ever-swelling strains 
 Now rise, now fall, as if the heaving sea 
 Disturbed their ordered flow. 
 
 ' Sweet is the breath of the morning air 
 
 After the gloomy night ; 
 Sweet is the warmth of the rising sun, 
 
 So gentle and yet so bright. 
 Borne along from my prison walls 
 
 On the breast of the faithful sea. 
 Quickly 1 glide o'er the smooth, swelling tide, 
 
 To the joy that is waiting me. 
 
 * No longer I fear that awful fate, 
 No longer wish to die ; 
 77
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 For powerless are the remorseless hands 
 
 That all stiff and helpless lie, 
 Free from passion the pallid face, 
 
 And the body so cold and chill, 
 And never again that accursed brain 
 
 Shall fulfil its unholy will. 
 
 I am free at last, and now once more 
 
 Terror has passed away. 
 The gloom is over, with all its fear. 
 
 And joy has come with the day. 
 Light falls softly on all around. 
 
 Yet the glory of Heaven on me ; 
 Leaving the night in the arms of the light, 
 
 I am coming, my love, to thee.' 
 
 Yet only one more scene I see — 
 
 A joyful end. It is the evening time. 
 
 The mother has again her infant child 
 
 In those fond arms, and leans her weary head 
 
 Upon her husband's breast. Her dreamy eyes 
 
 Turn to the burning log, whose ruddy glow 
 
 Casts upon all around a flickering light. 
 
 As in a drowsy voice she softly sings : 
 
 * The dews of heaven are falling on the ground, 
 And now, once more, our longed-for rest is found. 
 The day began— ah ! with what cruel pain ; 
 At eventide we find our rest again. 
 Thus in the ever-quickly fading light 
 We welcome thy glad coming, gentle Night 
 
 1^
 
 THE BELLS BENEATH THE SEA 
 
 ' Thou breathest on the fears that now are o'er, 
 And pleasant scenes upon our vision pour, 
 Driving all care away ; the gloomy past 
 Is hidden by the veil which thou hast cast, 
 And all things speak again of that delight 
 Which comes with thy sweet presence, gentle Night. 
 
 ' The birds of evening lead thee on thy way 
 With their sweet song, breathed at the close of day. 
 The flowers rejoice to feel thy mantle spread 
 Around them, lying on their mossy bed. 
 All Nature, gladdened by the restful sight. 
 Gives thee a royal welcome, gentle Night. 
 
 ' And now once more, before unconscious sleep 
 Bears us away upon the drowsy deep 
 Where dreamland like a floating island stands 
 Midway between those widely-severed lands 
 Of stern reality and fancy bright. 
 We gladly bid thee enter, gentle Night. 
 
 * Together, lying softly on thy breast, 
 
 W'e feel a hand upon our eyelids pressed. 
 
 And Sleep, thy gentle handmaid, is she near ? 
 
 Yes — surely 'tis her footstep that I hear 
 
 Thus stealing on ; and now before my sight 
 
 Twin forms appear — sweet Sleep and gentle Night. 
 
 * Therefore, my husband, let us dream again, 
 Dismissing every thought of bygone pain 
 Each from the other's heart. So close to thee 
 I know no harm can ever come to me : 
 Then shall we gather still a new delight 
 
 From pleasant dreams, fair children of the Night.' 
 
 79
 
 AN IDLE HOUR 
 
 Come, my baby, let us play, 
 I am tired of work to-day ; 
 Let us roll among the flowers. 
 Or make haycocks into towers. 
 Into which we'll, hiding, creep, 
 And wrap ourselves in drowsy sleep. 
 Or shall we against the wall 
 Toss the light and tricksome ball ? 
 Or chase the darting dragon-fly 
 Flashing between us and the sky ? 
 Shall we climb the waggon's side, 
 On its swelling burden ride, 
 As it homeward wends its way 
 To the growing rick of hay ? 
 
 Or would you rather we should roam 
 Where nightingales have made their home ; 
 That I lift you up on high. 
 Show you where their young ones lie. 
 Each one with an open bill, 
 That the parents strive to fill, 
 Till the never-weary sun, 
 Having now his course outrun. 
 Sets behind yon leafy hill ; 
 Then their father's voice shall 611 
 80
 
 AN IDLE HOUR 
 
 All the twilight with his song- 
 Throbbing sounds that pass along, 
 Breaking up the restful hour 
 Into waves of moving power ? 
 Is it better we should take 
 From the shed your hoe and rake ? 
 Shall we, o'er the drooping flowers, 
 Pour some satisfying showers ; 
 Watch the poppy shake its head, 
 Casting dewdrops on the bed 
 Of forget-me-nots, that peep, 
 Striving open eyes to keep 
 Till the sun at close of day 
 Gives the poppy perfect sway, 
 And each flower it then will steep 
 Into drowsy, nodding sleep — 
 Sleeping till the sun shall rise, 
 Flaming, through the ruddy skies ? 
 Shall I tell you of the sprites 
 That are never still at nights : 
 How they dance among the roses, 
 Fill each othei-'s hair with posies. 
 Laugh and sing and roll for joy, 
 Making everything their toy ; 
 Diving in the Hmpid pool. 
 Throwing up the waters cool. 
 Catching the reflection fair 
 Of the stars, that tremble there ? 
 Some will sit upon the side 
 Of the spreading leaves that ride. 
 With the lilies, whitely dressed, 
 Lying on the water's breast- 
 Si
 
 AN IDLE HOUR 
 
 Little figures, only seen 
 By the soft moon's gentle beam, 
 As they comb their tresses bright 
 In the fitful, falling light; 
 And their naked forms will glide 
 Here and there, on every side, 
 Giving, each to each, a kiss — 
 Thus they fill the cup of bliss. 
 They are happy spirits bright, 
 Phantoms, gladdening the night. 
 When you've had your fill of play, 
 We will softly steal away. 
 O'er the green and mossy bridge, 
 To yon little swelling ridge, 
 Where in spring the primrose pale 
 Never has been known to fail ; 
 We shall see the purple mist. 
 That will then the sun resist. 
 While the hills in splendour rise. 
 Through it, to the glowing skies. 
 Slowly we may watch the day 
 Softly dream itself away. 
 And the water, lying low. 
 Giving back the heavenly glow. 
 Then I fancy you will lay 
 Your head upon the yielding hay, 
 While I shield you from the cold. 
 Scented clover round you fold ; 
 Then we'll dream of wondrous things, 
 Of beings bright, with silver wings, 
 Fluttering with us to the sky, 
 In whose arms perhaps we lie ; 
 82
 
 AN IDLE HOUR 
 
 Or of falling through the air 
 Without any thought of fear, 
 Or of sailing endless seas, 
 Borne by the inconstant breeze ; 
 Till at last a hooting sound 
 Causes us to look around, 
 And we see the owlet fly 
 'Twixt us and the starry sky. — 
 Cease this babble — let us play ;— 
 Come away. 
 
 83 02
 
 A WANTON SPIRIT 
 Written after a Spiritualistic Manifestation. 
 
 ' I AM full of the breath of the night, 
 Of the spirit of rollicking play, 
 Of the deepness of dreams, that may sport 
 In a tricksome and wandering way ; 
 For my spirit is free as the air, 
 And my body is gone to decay. 
 While the soul— that I might have brought forth- 
 I strangled by night and by day. 
 And now I am nothing at all 
 Rut a wandering spiritual form, 
 That breathes in the calmness of night 
 The breath of a meaningless storm ; 
 For my spirit has reaped what was sown, 
 Which simply was nothing at all, 
 And now I have nothing to do. 
 So I come at the medium's call. 
 
 Listen, listen unto me : 
 I am free, I am free ; 
 Let us laugh and let us sing ; 
 Brush no down from off my win^ 
 For I am a fragile thing, 
 I might fade away. 
 
 84 
 
 '6»
 
 A WANTON SPIRIT 
 
 Once I heard an inner voice ^ 
 
 Speaking unto me ; 
 
 Now I simply can rejoice, 
 
 For there is no other course 
 
 That I see, or wish to see, 
 
 But to be a spirit free. 
 
 With no thought of pain. 
 
 * Yet at times I fain would grasp 
 Something tangible and firm, 
 And materialise myself, 
 If only as a worm ; 
 For I long for the dear old earth, 
 On whose bosom I last had birth — 
 Yes, as a worm, I'd roll and turn. 
 And feel myself at last. 
 
 Therefore I come at your call ; 
 iDo with me as you may ; 
 Night is my only chance, 
 1 fade at the breath of day. 
 Give me a part of yourself,* 
 
 For this is the only way. 
 Hush ! I begin to feel — 
 
 Make the light more dim. 
 
 Softly I touch the forms of such 
 
 As circle the outer rim. 
 
 Now I am clear, and stand 
 
 Among you all again ; 
 
 1 It is now generally believed by Spiritualists that a spirit, 
 while in process of materialisation, takes substance from the 
 medium. 
 
 85
 
 A WANTON SPIRIT 
 
 Yet I feel no conscious power, 
 And I have no conscious pain. 
 Again, as I stand in your midst, 
 Behold ! my material shell 
 Is slowly slipping away, 
 Whither I cannot tell. 
 
 And now I am free once more, 
 Once more I rollick and play, 
 Tossing and rolling round and round, 
 In my happy and meaningless way ; 
 For as I lived on earth 
 So shall I live alway, 
 Until at last, from lack of power, 
 I slowly dissolve away.' 
 
 86
 
 A CHILD'S FAITH 
 
 A CHILD was playing at my side, 
 
 And pointed to the ground : 
 ' Look, father ! at that ugly thing 
 
 The insects crawl around ; 
 I dug it from where that flower so white 
 Had stood above all of the flowers in height 
 
 That grew in my garden bed.' 
 
 ' Oh, foolish child !' I, turning, said, 
 
 ' 'Tis a bulb gone to decay, 
 And all the winter, 'neath the snow, 
 
 Seemingly dead it lay ; 
 Yet out of the rotten form that you see 
 Has risen the greatest delight to thee, 
 
 Your lily, so white and fair.' 
 
 The child looked at me wonderingly, 
 
 Yet doubted not my word ; 
 Of all the wonders in her life. 
 
 The strangest she had heard. 
 Fain had I the faith of this little child ; 
 For the path of my life looks dark and wild 
 
 That God has ordained for me. 
 87
 
 ORPHAN CHILDREN} 
 
 The spot is calm and fair : the willow's shade 
 Hangs softly o'er the quiet, slumbering pool, 
 In which the ever- restless wagtails wade. 
 With slender legs, in shallow waters cool, 
 And all is breathing rest and solitude ; 
 But now the tall and heavy-headed grass 
 Is pressed aside by many tiny feet, 
 Led, from I know not where, to this my still retreat. 
 
 What strange unnatural guests are these, that bring 
 Disturbance into Nature's resting-place? 
 Why stand they silent, in a crowded ring 
 Of listless wonder? Cannot they embrace 
 
 1 These verses were written after a friend of mine had 
 brought some orphan children to spend a day in the country. 
 It was a pitiful sight to see how impossible it was for them to 
 enter into the pleasures of their new surroundings. Two days 
 afterwards a letter came from one of the Guardians of the 
 Worldiouse, from which I quote, thinking comment unnecessary. 
 
 ' Did I tell you that the children cried all Sunday after going 
 
 to you, seeing Mrs. so happy with her little child, and 
 
 then thinking of their own lost parents, and their lives all so 
 different?' 
 
 88
 
 ORPHAN CHILDREN 
 
 At once the joy of such a lovely spot ? 
 Have they no shouts of childhood's laughing joy, 
 No eager wish to chase the dragon-fly, 
 Or are they gathered here to rest before they die? 
 
 They are some Workhouse orphans— England's curse — 
 Bound by the law of sloth to awful fate, 
 To deep contamination, tenfold worse 
 Than hell ! Oh ! hapless babies of the State. 
 Oh ye, our rulers ! who profess to feel 
 Pity for fellow-creatures' suffering, 
 Spare to these helpless ones at least one hour 
 Of those you waste on men, from whom you gain your power. 
 
 The children move — 'tis pain to watch their play, 
 So fearful are they of well-known reproof, 
 So joyless in their joy, so deadly gay — 
 They carry o'er them still the workhouse roof; 
 It shuts them from the sky, the flickering rays 
 Which strive to reach them through the trembling leaves ; 
 They have upon them the abiding pain 
 Which with them through their lives shall evermore remain. 
 
 •■o' 
 
 The very birds and insects seem to them 
 But forms of dread : no spotted ladybird 
 Has been their toy, while crawling up some stem 
 Of nodding grass ; they have not ever heard 
 The croak of frogs, the joyous thrush's song, 
 The cuckoo's note, the whispering of leaves 
 When the wind touches them ; where'er they roam 
 They bear with them, alas ! no memory of home. 
 
 89
 
 ORPHAN CHILDREN 
 
 Or, still more sad, I see a little girl 
 Of ten years old, with eyes that used to smile ; 
 She looks around her in a giddy whirl 
 Of strange remembrance of some long, long while 
 Gone by, which all these pleasant sights and sounds 
 Bring back to her dead heart ; she sees again 
 Her father's cottage, and her mother's face, 
 Which she has sought in vain since that last fond embrace. 
 
 I see her cast herself upon the ground 
 And sob — the sob of childhood's bitter pain — 
 While all the other children stand around, 
 As thus she cries : ' Oh, let me here remain ; 
 Take me not back to that dark gloomy town. 
 I cannot go. Oh, mother ! mother ! come 
 And live with me again, and fondle me, 
 For I can bear no more this endless misery.' 
 
 But no one heeds her prayer ; the busy world 
 Cares not for such. Why drag them into sight? 
 It forms great buildings, into which are hurled 
 The helpless ones ; and surely it is right 
 To hide cold pain away, that we may live, 
 With more contentment, in our solitude, 
 And that the busy world may pass along 
 By those grim walls that hide all sign of grief or wrong. 
 
 How can the world be wrong — this Christian land, 
 That bows its knee unto the children's Friend — 
 He Who, when living, held His loving hand 
 To such as these, and bade them never send 
 
 90
 
 ORPHAN CHILDREN 
 
 The children from Him ? No one ever now 
 Need cause them to offend ; it is the State. 
 And who shall tie a millstone round the State, 
 Or drown its mighty power, or influence its fate? 
 
 Yet the curse rises upward to the sky — 
 The orphan's curse ; and so, perchance, some day 
 A child of yours may also grieving lie 
 Upon a bed like theirs, and with them cry 
 To the great God for vengeance upon those 
 Who never moved a hand to ease their pain ; 
 And God may grant, in answer to that prayer. 
 You shall be called from death to stand a watcher there. 
 
 Watching and powerless, you shall slowly see 
 Contamination creep, like some foul thing, 
 Over the child you love so tenderly. 
 How useless then will be the piercing sting 
 Of Conscience, pricking you to strive for those 
 Poor helpless little ones. Ah ! then at last 
 The truth will dawn that you, and such as you. 
 Are parts of this great State, and bid it what to do. 
 
 Oh for a prophet's voice among us now ! 
 Oh for the love of Christ in every heart ! 
 Surely our heads in bitter shame should bow. 
 And from each face all sign of joy depart, 
 While these sad orphan children still are bound, 
 Herding with vice and every youthful crime. 
 We drag them from the dead they loved so well, 
 To once again baptise them in the lake of hell. 
 
 91
 
 ORPHAN CHILDREN 
 
 Let each man in his inmost heart declare 
 He will not rest until this evil cease; 
 That it shall be his ever-constant care 
 To gain for them at last some sure release. 
 Then shall this curse from England pass away 
 Which echoes from the words of One who said, 
 ' What thou shalt do, in love or cruelty, 
 To these My little ones, that shalt thou do to Me.' 
 
 92
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 ' There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in tlie world, 
 and none of thera without signification. ' 
 
 Part I. — The Country 
 
 ij/ Voice 
 
 Leave me in peace ; the time is short, 
 And I v/ould follow joy, beauty, and rest : 
 
 The path of even happiness 
 Will always prove the best. 
 
 Why do you say, with voice so sad, 
 
 I am leaving the path which once I trod 
 
 To walk knee-deep among the flowers, 
 Turning my back on God ? 
 
 Surely God loves that we should play, 
 
 Like children, with the beauties that He gives 
 
 Nor wills that we, with hideous cries, 
 Should shout to prove He lives. 
 
 You say our fellow-creatures lie 
 
 All steeped in awful ignorance and sin ; 
 
 That we should cast all joy away 
 A single soul to win. 
 93
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 You show the fearful pain of hell 
 That awaits each soul I may fail to save, 
 
 And tell me millions will be swamped 
 In that pitiless wave. 
 
 I turn away, in blank despair, 
 
 From a Faith that would surely drive me mad, 
 And, worshipping the bright and fair. 
 
 Leave the ugly and bad. 
 
 ind Voice 
 
 ' The wish is father to the thought,' 
 And the life of man to his creed ; 
 
 The watery soil of contented ease 
 Has nourished a strangling weed. 
 
 The tender flowers of your early faith 
 
 Look sickly and die away, 
 Lacking the warm, impetuous love 
 
 That lent them its gentle ray. 
 
 And over the soft and humid ground 
 
 Of a self-indulgent dream 
 Has risen a mist of placid doubt, 
 
 That quenches the sun's_vvarm beam. 
 
 You move away with a sigh of pain 
 If discord touches your ear, 
 
 Nor turn to help, as your Master did, 
 At sight of a single tear. 
 94
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 You wear a smile of deepest scorn 
 At the hope of a ransomed land, 
 
 And therefore wantonly leave it all, 
 Withdrawing a helping hand. 
 
 And still the tide of pain moves on, 
 
 While the widows mourn for their dead, 
 
 And fatherless children, looking on, 
 Are crying aloud for bread. 
 
 The foulest sewers of sin, untouched, 
 
 Are swelling the turbid flood. 
 And on their surface the bodies float 
 
 Of infants smeared with blood. 
 
 \st Voice 
 
 Cease, oh cease this strain of sorrow ; 
 
 The gentle summer air is full of calm, 
 And rest is over all the hills. 
 
 That will not hear of harm. 
 
 The brook is murmuring, on its way 
 A gentle song of sweet and full content ; 
 
 The tall grass whispers pleasantly, 
 Although its head is bent. 
 
 Yonder, a little fluttering thing 
 
 Breathes forth its soul in songs of joy. 
 
 Nor seems to know of aught that could 
 Its simple bliss alloy. 
 95
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 And these are all God's creatures too, 
 Whose mission is to teach us mirth, 
 
 While we, you say, should turn away 
 Our face to the cold earth, 
 
 And seek amid the dust for aught 
 That is deformed, and never sings. 
 
 And take to our sad hearts and warm 
 The chilly, bloodless things. 
 
 You say that we shall glory find 
 Far greater than the angels bright ; 
 
 Yet now you bid us close our eyes, 
 And dream that it is night. 
 
 So, with eyes that see but dimly 
 
 Through tears that for others are shed, 
 
 You try to point out to others 
 The path that they should tread. 
 
 No wonder they turn disheartened 
 From so twisted and sad a life, 
 
 While you after pain and sorrow 
 Are beaten in the strife. 
 
 2nd Voice 
 
 The dreamy air of ease 
 That to the country chngs, 
 
 Is carrying away 
 
 Higher and nobler things. 
 96
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 But come with me, for once, 
 To where those thousands dwell 
 
 And see, with human eyes, 
 Men as they live in hell ; 
 
 Then from your eyes shall fall 
 These scales, and you shall hear 
 
 A voice no man can drown 
 By any scoff or sneer : 
 
 A voice so full of pain, 
 
 An awful, pleading cry. 
 Speaking in solemn words 
 
 To each one passing by. 
 
 \st Voice 
 
 Yes, I know that there is pain | 
 
 Yet I seem to see 
 Nothing, in your plan of life, 
 
 That you show to me, 
 Which would lift the sorrow, 
 
 Or could help the pain ; 
 It would roll like thunder 
 
 Over all again, 
 Even if you lift it 
 
 For a little space — 
 Bring a look of gladness 
 
 Into one child's face, 
 As I might by leading 
 
 One to this bright spot. 
 97 
 
 H
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 Fancy his rejoicing 
 
 At so changed a lot ! 
 But for a bright moment 
 
 Could the glory last, 
 And a hell more awful 
 
 Then would hold him fast- 
 Hold him with a tension 
 
 Never known before 
 I had shown the heaven, 
 
 And then closed the door. 
 Yet \\'\\\ I now follow 
 
 Even where you will, 
 And with sights of sorrow 
 
 You mine eyes shall fill ; 
 For perhaps the country, 
 
 That I hold so dear, 
 Has not all the lessons 
 
 Good for me to hear, 
 And perchance the deepest 
 
 Lies beneath a tear. 
 
 Part II.— The Town 
 
 \st Voice 
 
 Where is the vision of thy God ? 
 A voice has seemed to say. 
 Hast thou left Him in the country, 
 So many miles away, 
 While Satan here has made his nest 
 For many a weary day i 
 93
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 This is the city of vain shows : 
 
 Nothing is true or sound, 
 
 And over all that tread its streets 
 
 A horrid net is wound, 
 
 And they call its meshes Custom, 
 
 And wrap it close around. 
 
 The god to whom they seem to bow 
 
 Has an unholy law : 
 
 He only loves the saintly ones, 
 
 In whom there is no flaw, 
 
 While against the fallen outcast 
 
 He wages ceaseless war. 
 
 And what makes their god more fearful, 
 
 He glances not within — 
 
 The heart may be a cankerous sore, 
 
 And yet be free from sin ; 
 
 If only the outward cloak is clean, 
 
 It heaven at last shall win. 
 
 Darkness is deepened by fog and smoke, 
 The river creeps through the slime, 
 
 And the goodness, that once was holy, 
 Gets sickly looking at crime. 
 
 The girls that reel, with their drunken mirth. 
 
 Forth from their sickening den, 
 Are going out on their hell-made track, 
 Damning, and damned by, men. 
 
 What shall we say of the angels pure 
 
 Beholding the face of God, 
 Who watched, with such sad, devoted love, 
 
 The steps that their childhood trod ? 
 
 99 H 2
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 For I see before me a little child, 
 So spotless and pure and bright, 
 
 Lying in peace on its mother's knee 
 In the soft, warm evening light. 
 
 Again before me a filthy wretch, 
 
 Staggering home through the night, 
 
 Falls down to sleep, and I see her face — 
 O God ! 'tis a fearful sight. 
 
 Yet I know, indeed, that the two are one. 
 And the change has come with age ; 
 
 I think of all she has had to bear. 
 Through every lowering stage. 
 
 With always a hell that looms before, 
 
 Always a heaven behind ; 
 She looks no more for angels now. 
 
 Or, looking, she scarce could find. 
 
 They left, alas ! with the purer past, 
 And, shall we say, with her God? 
 
 And now she is pushed by other souls, 
 Who follow where once she trod. 
 
 They stagger thus on the downward road, 
 The damning and damned as well, 
 
 The back ones pushing the front ones on, 
 Till they find their rest in hell, 
 loo
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 To live, and to die, and then be damned- 
 
 If this is the end of all, 
 Or even one of God's little ones 
 
 Is destined at last to fall, 
 
 Then why am 1 bidden to leave my joy 
 To fight against God's decree ? 
 
 Surely the future which waits for them 
 Cannot depend upon me. 
 
 Think what an awful injustice 
 To the one I fail to save, 
 That God should decree 
 That it rest upon me 
 Whether in hell he eternally burn, 
 Or in heaven be pure and free. 
 
 2)rd Voice 
 
 The town hath taught thee wisdom which in vain 
 Thou would'st have sought amid the quiet fields ; 
 
 We long have given up all foolish faith — 
 
 Here careless chance her blood-smeared sceptre 
 wields. 
 
 The good are trampled down by grasping vice, 
 The pure are tainted by the spotted vest 
 
 Which is ever held out for them to wear, 
 And whoso weareth knows no longer rest. 
 
 loi
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 Go back from whence thou earnest, ere thy feet 
 Cling to'the mire, and have not power to rise, 
 
 And, if thou canst, rejoice, as when a child, 
 Before Hell and the city made thee wise. 
 
 But talk no more of God ; and if the birds 
 Sing to His praise within the quiet glade. 
 
 And to thy vision all seems fair and good 
 
 While dreaming thus beneath the flickering shade, 
 
 Remember what this day has shown to thee, 
 And, seeking deeply, thou wilt also find 
 
 That, even in the country, pain 's the core. 
 Though pleasure forms, perhaps, a thicker rind. 
 
 For hell is here, and heaven is all a myth, 
 While chance can hardly cast us up again. 
 
 Our life revives — yes, in a thousand lives — 
 For lo ! worms rise within our form, and reign. 
 
 4//z Voice 
 
 Look round and see, nor heed the shade 
 
 That now has passed away ; 
 Spirits of evil come to those 
 
 Who neither work nor pray. 
 
 Look at that young and tender girl, 
 
 Moving in love so pure 
 Amid a scene of guilt like this — 
 
 What pain she must endure. 
 1 02
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 Careless of self, nor heeding aught 
 
 Of blind, contentious creeds. 
 She follows where her Master trod, 
 
 For others' sins she bleeds. 
 
 The moonlight falls where now she stands. 
 
 And lightens up her face ; 
 Is there not something hidden there, 
 
 Which even you may trace ? 
 
 Her hand, so pure and white, has clasped, 
 
 In pleading, longing pain, 
 Another hand, and thus she strives 
 
 To kindle hope again; 
 
 Proving that God is truly good 
 
 Because He can forgive. 
 That where true holiness is found 
 
 No thought of hate can Hve. 
 
 Go ask her : ' Is it worth the pain 
 
 To live so dark a life ? ' 
 ' Hope ! certain hope ! ' will be the cry 
 
 From out the toil and strife. 
 
 And if you ask her yet again. 
 Why they who see most sin. 
 
 And struggle with a conquering foe, 
 Thus keep this hope within 'i 
 103
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 She'll answer, ' There was One who spoke 
 Words that are echoing still : — 
 
 If any man would know the truth, 
 He first must do God's will.' 
 
 Part IIL— The Country 
 
 A still small Voice 
 
 The land lies gently to the south, 
 And breathes back each flickering ray 
 Which the amorous sun gives to the earth — 
 Kisses, which linger after a birth, 
 Warming the breasts with an unknown worth ; 
 For the flowers abound in this sheltered spot, 
 And the cruellest wind can touch them not. 
 A butterfly flutters from flower to flower ; 
 Foolishly now it is leaving the bower 
 To find a brighter home. 
 Never at peace, never at rest — 
 This is the law that God sees best 
 Under His heavenly dome. 
 
 Out of the bower the wind is cold, 
 And the fallows look dull and drear ; 
 Yet still the insect moves on its way 
 Over the dull and lifeless clay — 
 Nothing is there to bid it stay. 
 At last, all alone on the barren ground, 
 A lovely and delicate flower is found ; 
 The butterfly, hovering into its well, 
 Has slowly vibrated the delicate bell 
 Into a marriage sound. 
 104
 
 MANY VOICES 
 
 Barren without another's aid, 
 Useless soon it must have laid ; 
 Each was for the other made. 
 
 Ever the craving of desire 
 Is leading onward into pain — 
 A restful, pitiful fire. 
 Yet God is guiding each and all 
 Nearer their home at every fall ; 
 Rest at last ; at last they find 
 The kernel, hidden 'neath the rind — 
 The rind of pain, the kernel of rest ; 
 This is the law that God sees best. 
 
 105
 
 POEMS ON DEATH
 
 INTRO D UCTION 
 
 Thou voice immortal ! that dost ever send 
 A tuneful song to rouse the gloomy night 
 Where darkness ever broods. Thou spirit blest ! 
 Who through the hard and barren form dost see 
 That pure ethereal essence which pervades 
 All living things— speak once again to me. 
 Near to the border of some desert's sand. 
 Upon whose barren waste no tender growth 
 Of flower, or grass, or solitary palm 
 Speaks of returning life, a tiny plant 
 Lived once alone, and, living, fought with death ; 
 Now and again some gentle, pitying shower 
 Would pour upon it those refreshing drops, 
 The edges of its bounty ; and the dew 
 That rested o'er the fertile plain hard by. 
 At eventide would soothe its drooping leaves ; 
 Thus dying, still it Uved, and living, died. 
 Until at length some passing hand removed 
 Its drooping form, and planted it again 
 In a cool glen, beside a tranquil stream. 
 Thus borne, by unseen impulses, away 
 From living death, I come — if it may be— 
 To rest in solitude. 
 
 109
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Thy voice shall speak 
 To me at nights, when those eternal stars — 
 The diadem illumining thy brow — 
 Shine down upon me, telling of the power 
 Which dwells in thee, and of the littleness 
 That wraps me ever round. Yet thou hast called- 
 Even in darkness I could hear the voice 
 That bade me rise and follow, leaving all 
 The busy toil and strife, and, it may be, 
 All jiOy and pleasure, save the happiness 
 Thou givest to thine own. Trembling I came, 
 Obedient to the call, yet fearing still 
 That self, in wanton pride, had cast adrift 
 Upon the wandering wind the sound I heard 
 Sent back by mocking echoes from the hills. 
 Oh thou who art at one with those twin powers, 
 Wisdom and Meekness ! let the former come 
 And rest upon me, till all pride depart 
 From my rebellious heart ; then, only then, 
 Shall I be fit to take again the strain 
 Of music, which is trembling on the air, 
 And turn it into song. 
 
 How poor an instrument is that of speech 
 To give expression to those subtle chords 
 Of inner thought which come to us from thee ! 
 Formed by material man for earthly use, 
 It lacks as yet those finer, hidden tones, 
 And as we strive to lovingly draw forth 
 Some tender strain, behold ! a silence reigns. 
 
 Oh ! for the time when heart shall speak to 
 heart 
 Untrammelled by the weight of needed words ; 
 
 I lO
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 When one great soul shall teach us mighty truths 
 Which lie beyond the reach of mortal ears 
 Or mortal voice. Then only shall we see 
 The littleness of what we now applaud, 
 The wisdom of the wise. 
 
 There are two forms — 
 Though weak as yet — in which to drive our 
 
 thoughts 
 Onward from soul to soul. In poetry, 
 By faint suggestion, we may sometimes reach, 
 A higher meaning than the words express ; 
 A subtle essence passes through the lines, 
 Conveying to each heart in tune with ours 
 A flash of light. In music, we may pour 
 Our souls into the air, and it may be 
 That, as the waves of sound pass ever on. 
 Some listening ear may catch the harmony. 
 Not only of the sound, but of the thought 
 Which brought the sound to life. 
 
 Yet only those can hope to thus express 
 Thy inmost meaning who have left behind 
 All hope of gain, all wish for praise and fame. 
 If we would speak, it must be from the heart, 
 Not at another's bidding ; not to reach 
 The many, but the few who, like ourselves, 
 Feel kin emotions. We must cast aside 
 All rules and laws that bind the secret flow 
 Of thy soft voice, and wholly leave our hearts 
 Naked, yet unashamed, to those warm rays 
 That fall from thee. Thus may we touch, at last, 
 Some other spirit, who will feel us near, 
 And draw to us, until a tingling glow 
 
 III
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Passes from soul to soul, and loneliness — 
 Whose icy form creeps close beside our way 
 Is for the moment banished, as we gaze 
 Together on the mysteries of life 
 That circle us around. 
 
 112
 
 PARTING 
 
 Deep in the silence that so often falls 
 
 On all around us when the rain has ceased, 
 
 While yet the air is heavy with the weight 
 
 Of floating mist, I stood at last alone. 
 
 Beneath my feet the battered flowers hung 
 
 Their over-weighted heads, held down by tears 
 
 They could not cast aside ; above me lay 
 
 The deep, oppressive weight of changeless cloud ; 
 
 Beyond me, in the valley, was a shape 
 
 Of ever-growing vapour, that now hid 
 
 Part of the distant hills. Those hills, which seemed 
 
 On sunny days such small and puny things, 
 
 Now towered in gloomy majesty on high. 
 
 The sound of dripping, and a trickling flow 
 
 Of many waters, filled the silent hour 
 
 With dreamy sound ; and yet, above all else — 
 
 Yet conscious all the time of trivial things — 
 
 I listened, breathless, to the fading sound 
 
 Of fast-retreating feet. 
 
 For one had left me for a distant land — 
 One who had often seemed, in thought and hope, 
 A second self ; a presence woven round 
 With dear associations of the past : 
 With dreams of high ambitions, and the flush 
 Of early hope, that never shall return. 
 We parted, and the pressure of his hand 
 
 113 I
 
 PARTING 
 
 Was still on mine ; and still I heard that step 
 
 Which I, alas ! shall never hear again. 
 
 Broken is now the cord so closely bound 
 
 That well we knew no human hand could find 
 
 The separate parts, or wantonly untwine 
 
 The band of friendship ; yet the ruthless power 
 
 Of Destiny — decreer of our fate — 
 
 Unable to unbind the bands of love, 
 
 Has passed the separating force she wields 
 
 Between our lives, cutting them thus in twain. 
 
 What art thou, Friendship ? Purest earthly form 
 Of that divinest love which holds the world ; 
 Faint foretaste of the sweet communion known 
 By happy spirits risen from the dust. 
 That wandering dust that blinds our earthly sight. 
 In vain we strive to grasp the perfect form 
 Of thy inconstant power ; in vain we lay 
 Our burdened souls unclothed, if thou art near, 
 Hoping to bring thee to us ; yet once more. 
 When we have felt thy touch, and closed our eyes 
 To draw thy sweetness in, behold ! we sleep, 
 And, waking, find thee not. Thy presence moves 
 Still farther from us as the years go by ; 
 Each heart, encrusted with the selfish shell 
 Built up of small and inconsiderate acts. 
 The outcome of past years, becomes at last 
 So isolated in its small domain 
 That none may enter now excepting those 
 Who bear within their hand the magic key 
 Of old association. Thus in vain 
 We strive again to fill a vacant place 
 Within our barren hearts. 
 
 114
 
 PARTING 
 
 My friend, alas ! 
 It seemed indeed a cruel, wanton hand 
 That forced thee, at the close of thy short life, 
 To leave thy native land, and all the hearts 
 Whose love was dear, and passing sweet to thee. 
 Were it not better that, if Death must come, 
 He should have found thee, not in some strange land. 
 To there unsheathe his naked, shining blade. 
 Where no sweet ministers were standing by 
 To soothe thy pain, where every gasp for breath 
 Which shook the body also caused a sigh 
 For something else than breath — for that sweet air, 
 That tender atmosphere of well-known love 
 That none, however pitiful, can give, 
 If strangers to our lives. 
 
 Thy death, indeed. 
 Was a sad contrast to the peaceful end 
 We had so often dreamed of in the past ; 
 Such dreams as these, never to be fulfilled : 
 
 In the cool evening of a summer's day. 
 When the faint hum of insects filled the air 
 With dreamy sound, and while the setting sun 
 Poured its effulgent glory far and near — 
 Then had we wished to die. 
 Far from the city, in profoundest calm, 
 Where no disturbing sound of busy toil 
 Might rouse us once again to cares of life. 
 While the birds, singing all unconsciously. 
 Would tease us with no weight of weary words ; 
 Where the bright harvest fields, in golden glow, 
 Should speak of that great harvest yet to come — 
 There had we wished to die. 
 
 lis 1 2
 
 PARTING 
 
 Surrounded only by the very few 
 Whose lives were one with ours, whose souls had 
 
 touched, 
 And, touching, found an answering thrill of joy ; 
 With children round us too, whose merry laugh 
 Is hushed by none, yet who would turn at times. 
 And, gazing forth with wide and wondering eyes, 
 Would pity us, although they knew not why, 
 Save that they felt from all around the flow 
 Of sweet compassion passing ever forth. 
 Thus — till the end was very nearly reached ; 
 Then willed we even these should pass away, 
 With words of tender farewell ; and alone 
 With only one, the dearest of them all, 
 Should those few moments pass that end the race 
 Which we call Life. So, hand in hand with Love, 
 We would have wished to die. 
 
 Yet how unlike to these our dreams of death 
 Was thy sad parting from this earthly home. 
 Alone within a foreign land thou diedst, 
 Unministered by any tender touch 
 Of well-known hands — alone, yea ! quite alone, 
 Divided by the cold, relentless sea 
 From wife and children, fatherland and friends. 
 Yet what accounts it now ? The gate is passed, 
 And thou hast found— after how brief a space ! — 
 The heart that touched most closely to thine own 
 
 Six months, as we on earth can reckon time, 
 A moment in the eternal land of thine. 
 And heart, again united unto heart, 
 Found rest completed there. 
 
 Ii6
 
 THE NIGHT OF DEATH 
 
 The night breathes of death in her stillness, 
 
 The calm of unspeakable pain, 
 And the dead are less dead than the living— 
 
 They will not be parted again. 
 But oh ! the cold numbness of horror 
 
 That moves through the deadness of grief, 
 The groan that no pity can answer, 
 
 The tears that can give no relief. 
 
 Oh ! why didst Thou take her so early, 
 
 And leave us in deepest despair ? 
 For thy world is so full of such spirits, 
 
 And love is the life of that air. 
 We needed some loving example — 
 
 Where discord for ever is rife — 
 And now there is no one to follow. 
 
 Or take up the thread of her life. 
 
 We kneel, but no word can we utter. 
 Save only the name of the dead ; 
 
 O God ! when our mind can but wander, 
 Pray Thou grander prayers in our stead, 
 117
 
 THE NIGHT OF DEATH 
 
 We hear through the stiUness strange murmurs, 
 And sounds that we cannot explain, 
 
 The whisper of something expected, 
 A voice, to speak never again. 
 
 For the lips of our loved one are still. 
 
 Nor move they with trembling breath, 
 For on them has been tenderly laid 
 
 The kiss of the Angel of Death. 
 Yet ever, in patience, we listen 
 
 Through the murmuring silence of night, 
 And gaze, 'mid the wavering darkness. 
 
 To catch but the flicker of light. 
 
 'o* 
 
 For of all we may say about death. 
 
 Like children, we think of the dead 
 In the form that we love and remember :- 
 
 What else can we place in its stead? 
 For the eyes that have looked into ours, 
 
 The hand that has soothed us in pain, 
 And the lips, with their pressure of love, 
 
 Must surely be ever the same. 
 
 And therefore our breathing we silence, 
 
 And eagerly strain for a sound 
 Of the voice ever ready to comfort 
 
 All hearts in which sorrow was found. 
 We lift up our hands in the darkness 
 
 To touch what we think may be near ; 
 We feel but the numbness of waiting. 
 
 And only each heart-beat we hear. 
 ii8
 
 THE NIGHT OF DEATH 
 
 Then slowly our hands drop beside us, 
 
 No longer we listen in pain ; 
 Our brain seeks relief, and refuses 
 
 To bear still this agonised strain, 
 And dimly we wander to subjects 
 
 That touch us, and fade from our sight, 
 Till gently the Angel of Slumber 
 
 Breathes on us the visions of night. 
 
 We hear a soft step in the distance, 
 
 A step heard so often before, 
 And we raise up our head from the pillow — 
 
 Hark I someone is now at the door. 
 It opens — a light shines upon us, 
 
 ' And on Ah ! then why should we weep.-* 
 
 She is bearing her child in her arms, 
 
 As she tenderly rocks it to sleep. 
 
 Now we see her come close to our side, 
 
 And hold out the child for a kiss. 
 As we gently take one of her hands. 
 
 And tremble with rapturous bliss. 
 We call her. She looks at the child. 
 
 And strokes the bright hair on its head ; 
 So we call her again by her name — 
 
 O God ! 'tis the name of the dead. 
 
 We struggle — endeavour to rise — 
 
 The vision moves slowly away, 
 And we look for the light that was there — 
 
 We look — 'tis the dawning of day. 
 119
 
 THE NIGHT OF DEATH 
 
 CoM, cruel, and sad is the day 
 That brings to the heart no rehef ; 
 
 Cold, cruel, and sad is the light 
 That calls us again to our grief. 
 
 1 20
 
 HARMONY THROUGH DEATH. 
 
 In the darkness, in the twilight, 
 I have called to thee in vain ; 
 The loneliness has answered 
 Like the pattering of rain, 
 Like the humming of the insects 
 When the light begins to wane. 
 And sometimes I have heard thee, 
 In a whisper never clear, 
 Which, even whilst I listen, 
 I am doubting if I hear ; 
 And the fear that I shall lose it 
 Is the loss that caused the fear. 
 
 Thou hast left me all in sadness, 
 Though once I seemed to be 
 A lustre on thy brightness, 
 A very part of thee. 
 As thou hast often whispered 
 While bending over me. 
 Oh God ! this moving stillness, 
 This breathing silentness, 
 This opening as a prelude 
 Which leads to nothingness — 
 If only Thou would'st turn it 
 To something more, or less : 
 
 121
 
 HARMONY THROUGH DEATH 
 
 To the more of certain knowledge, 
 Or the less of ended hope ; 
 To that with which my spirit, 
 Now bound to earth, may cope ; 
 Or else to my strained vision 
 Give Thou a wider scope ; 
 Or grant me, in compassion, 
 Never to hear the strain 
 Which seems to speak of meeting 
 Some chord of love again, 
 But as the chord draws nearer 
 Breaks down, in soundless pain. 
 O Death ! that thou should'st sever 
 
 This unity so sweet ; 
 
 Leaving a sound of discord, 
 
 Tuneless and incomplete. 
 
 Which wanders on for ever 
 
 Its kindred notes to meet. 
 
 Perchance the finer portion 
 
 Which you have drawn away 
 
 Is breathing forth, in heaven 
 
 In that land of endless day, 
 
 The purest consummation 
 
 Of this half-finished lay. 
 For yet, I needs must fancy 
 
 That, even on that shore. 
 
 My love has not forgotten 
 
 The life that went before. 
 
 And beneath the sweetest singing 
 
 Has yet a hidden store ; 
 And only when thy spirit 
 Visits this home again 
 
 122
 
 HARMONY THROUGH DEATH 
 
 In pitiful compassion, 
 
 To take what shall remain, 
 
 Will the listening hosts of heaven 
 
 Hear a completed strain. 
 
 123
 
 REUNION 
 
 A LARK, called from the tangled growth 
 Of grass on which it softly lay 
 
 By the sweet carol of its mate, 
 Rose to the sky at close of day- 
 Passing away. 
 
 Two raindrops, resting 'neath a flower- 
 One hidden from the burning sun 
 
 Are parted : one is left behind ; 
 Yet are they, ere the day is done, 
 Still side by side. 
 
 A spirit, on this lonely earth, 
 Divided from its kindred heart, 
 
 Will surely seldom settle here, 
 But hasten, eager to depart. 
 To reach its sphere. 
 
 And thus are we deprived of both. 
 And left behind alone to grieve ; 
 Yet ever now they call to us, 
 
 Anxious our spirits to receive : 
 
 " Only believe." 
 124
 
 REUNION 
 
 And very soon the time will come 
 When we shall all have left this side 
 
 And, passing to a better life, 
 
 Drawn close together shall abide, 
 A circle wide. 
 
 125
 
 ENID 
 
 How strange a thing is thought, when backward 
 
 thrown ! 
 How oft, from voices inarticulate. 
 It brings strange and forgotten memories 
 Of bygone hope or many-sided love. 
 The darkness shows a vision, and the shade 
 Quivers with forms, that seem to move more near — 
 Dim spirits of the past, leading along 
 Some toddling faith or half-formed fantasy. 
 Yet there are times when deep reflection comes, 
 Called forth by small and humble messengers. 
 And yet replete with words of heavenly power. 
 
 The mighty forest, with its boundless space ; 
 The endless sea, in calm, or restless rage ; 
 The mountains, naked in their barrenness ; 
 The valleys, clothed with spring's fresh tenderness — 
 All have their separate utterances. 
 Yet not in these does Nature softly speak. 
 With her own gentle voice, to draw us near ; 
 These docs she thrust upon the unwilling heart. 
 Teaching all men their worth, their nothingness. 
 But there are moments when, with tender touch, 
 
 126
 
 ENID 
 
 She draws us close, and with a mother's love 
 Speaks to her children in short syllables. 
 
 My heart was full of sadness as I watched 
 
 A pure and taintless stream winding its way 
 
 Through tangled underwood and bending ferns ; 
 
 I knew that ere it reached the ocean's verge 
 
 Each drop, so perfect now, must tainted be ; 
 
 And such, I thought, am I— a tainted drop, 
 
 Borne ever on toward the unknown sea. 
 
 My heart was far too sad to look beyond 
 
 Into the wider sky, else had I known 
 
 A deeper law, and yet a higher light ; 
 
 For I was come into the woods to think. 
 
 A mystery was over me, for lo ! 
 
 A child, a very little child, was dead — 
 
 Gone from us ; nevermore should we behold 
 
 Her sunny face, half hidden in her curls, 
 
 Or hear her merry laughter .in the fields ; 
 
 No more the daisies 'neath her feet would sink, 
 
 To lift their heads unharmed. For she has gone, 
 
 And taken back a glory from the earth. 
 
 Nature ! what hast thou to give to me 
 
 On this bright morning? Is there aught of hope 
 That I can learn from thee to bring me rest ? 
 
 1 turned, and saw upon a tender leaf 
 Whose stem, most delicate, was deeply bowed 
 With the unusual weight, a dewdrop lie : 
 One gentle breath of wind and it must drop 
 Into the stream, but nothing stirred the air : 
 And as the early sun peeped through the leaves 
 
 127
 
 ENID 
 
 The dewdrop passed away, drawn heavenward. 
 Then knew I that so, hke this early dew, 
 Our child had gone, not downward to the sea, 
 But upward to the heaven ; and far away. 
 To where the eager stream is hastening on, 
 Behold ! a misty line of silver light, 
 Where sky and ocean meet. 
 
 128
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LAURENCE 
 OLIPHANT 
 
 I SAW a madman — one the world called mad — 
 Men always call the minds above them so ; 
 
 And though the thought of it is passing sad, 
 In a fools' march we all together go. 
 
 Idiots at one end of the winding train, 
 
 Silent, with stupid gaze, move on their way, 
 
 Following the only instincts that remain — 
 The instincts caused by an abiding pain. 
 
 And close in front of these, with foolish stride. 
 Their talking fellows move, with wavering tread, 
 
 Hoping that they may gain the wished-for side 
 Of those in front, and talk with them instead. 
 
 While those in front press on, with like desire, 
 Seeking to hear the folly they deem wise ; 
 
 And in this march they never seem to tire. 
 
 Nor care if, like the moth, their light should lead to 
 fire. 
 
 Next come the stupid wise, whose eyes are cast 
 Upon the beaten track, who never cease 
 
 129 K
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LAURENCE OLIPHANT 
 
 Crying that it, and it alone, at last 
 Will lead to perfect, happiness and peace ; 
 
 Forgetting that the path on which they tread 
 Is not a king's highway, by wisdom formed, 
 
 But that they wander helplessly instead 
 Over the crowded footmarks of the blindly led. 
 
 And led by whom ? Those whom the world calls mad. 
 
 The leaders of this band, through all the past, 
 Are like the one whose life, so strange and sad, 
 
 Has moved away beyond our view at last. 
 
 Where they have been, there also we are led ; 
 
 We know not why, yet follow them we must ; 
 We reach out to them, with our arms outspread, 
 
 To grasp their gifts, and take them upon trust. 
 
 Some stand aloof; and he who thus disdains 
 To trust in aught as higher than himself. 
 
 And thinks that he is free from foolish chains, 
 Is driven, ass-like, from behind, with reins. 
 
 'Tis true he sees them not, but moves ahead. 
 With neck outstretched, in self-confiding pride ; 
 
 Unknowingly, by custom he is led, 
 
 Her reins thus guiding him from side to side. 
 
 But those alone make custom (such as he 
 Who now has left us, after noble fight) — 
 
 Those who still love the spirit which is free. 
 And dare to follow where they see the light.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LAURENCE OLIPHANT 
 
 Only, if they should haply go too fast, 
 Or do too much, or see too great a light, 
 
 The world will treat them as in ages past : 
 
 Will chain them down as mad, or murder them at 
 last. 
 
 Yet thou art gone, brave spirit, to the light ; 
 
 We follow in the footsteps thou hast trod, 
 Trusting that through the darkness of the night 
 
 They lead us upward to the feet of God. 
 
 131 K2
 
 WRITTEN AFTER READING THE 
 LIFE OF FATHER DAMIEN 
 
 Pure is the lily pale ; 
 
 Pure are those sparkling rills 
 Whose waters never fail, 
 As ever from the hills 
 They dance and play upon their downward way. 
 
 Pure in the early morn 
 
 Is the fresh moving air, 
 That ere the day is born 
 
 We meet in valleys fair, 
 Or on the side of mountains reaching wide. 
 
 Pure is the young child's heart 
 
 That knows no thought of sin, 
 Ere innocence depart, 
 
 And passions rage within : 
 Evil, when nigh, must, grieving, pass it by. 
 
 Yet purer than all these 
 
 Is that high soul whose life, 
 Tainted by foul disease, 
 
 Has pass'd from out the strife, 
 Leaving a name immortalised by fame. 
 133
 
 FATHER DA MI EN 
 
 Ever, for endless years, 
 A lesson has been taught 
   That, heedless of all fears, 
 
 Or of what pain it brought, 
 A man could go to welcome grief and woe. 
 
 Freely he took his chain, 
 
 All hopeless of release, 
 Knowing he must remain, 
 
 'Mid groans that never cease, 
 Till death should bring an end to suffering. 
 
 From peace and quietness 
 To restless, seething woe, 
 ' He went in fearlessness 
 
 Into that hell below : 
 Self vanquished lay, Love held her perfect sway. 
 
 Monarchs, with all their pride, 
 
 Forgotten, pass away ; 
 Wisdom will not abide 
 
 The light of coming day ; 
 His love shall be remembered through eternity. 
 
 133
 
 DEATH AND LIFE 
 
 Some birds were softly singing, and to me their songs 
 were bringing 
 
 A pain of throbbing thoughts, which passed in dream- 
 waves through my head ; 
 
 While all around the shades of night fell softly on the 
 fading light, 
 
 And the distance was no more in sight — so I turned 
 to the graves instead. 
 
 Little, I thought, has life to give, as I turned to the 
 graves instead — 
 
 To the graves of the dreamless dead. 
 
 When, ah ! when will my dreaming cease ? When, 
 
 ah ! when shall I find release ? 
 Spectres pass through our joy and pain, moving on in 
 
 an endless stream : 
 Creeping now in the sunlit day, dancing at night in 
 
 fevered play. 
 Who can ever these phantoms lay t or who can his 
 
 soul redeem ? 
 Who, from tTie thrall of this ghostly band, can e\er 
 
 his soul redeem — 
 
 Until he shall die in his dream .-' 
 134
 
 DEATH AND LIFE 
 
 Shall we in death a ransom win ? or will the end of 
 
 the dream begin 
 Going on, as it did before, with illusions yet more rife ? 
 Shall we, indeed, at last be free the meaning of all our 
 
 dreams to see, 
 To pluck the leaves from the mystic tree, and rest from 
 
 phantom strife ? 
 Does Death in his hand hold the mystic tree, the 
 
 healer of earthly strife ? — 
 
 Then Death shall but bring us to life. 
 
 135
 
 COMING LIGHT 
 
 Upon a lonely spot, where trembling stars 
 Revealed but dimly the surrounding hills, 
 Clothed simply with their rugged nakedness, 
 A man stood all alone before a tomb, 
 And in deep anguish mourned his only child 
 In accents sad and wild. 
 
 ' The night has come too soon to thee 
 
 With pitiless, cold breath. 
 Taking thy gentle form away 
 
 To the mocking anns of Death. 
 And evermore I hear thee say. 
 As on that night thou would'st not stay, 
 " Someone is calling me away." 
 
 ' Someone — yet how could it be so. 
 
 From that dark land of night 
 Where all is hushed in deepest sleep, 
 
 That knows of no coming light ? 
 It must have been a fancied sound 
 That caused thee thus to look around. 
 Alas ! what darkness hast thou found. 
 136
 
 COMING LIGHT 
 
 ' There is no God ! and thou art gone 
 
 Into the gloomy night ; 
 Though even when the end drew near 
 
 Thy vision seemed blurred with light, 
 For still thine arms were lifted high 
 To one that fancy pictured nigh.— 
 Such visions come to those who die. 
 
 ' There is naught but Chance ! And yet methinks 
 
 That Chance must surely be 
 An evil being, that delights 
 
 Ever in torturing me— 
 Always to cruelly mock, and say. 
 With pointing finger, " Look this way ! 
 Behold ! that child of thine is clay." 
 
 ' I look ; but it is not my child 
 
 Lying so still and cold, 
 The dews of death upon her face. 
 
 On the hands that firmly hold 
 Something we may not, cannot see — 
 The one, she thought, that set her free.— 
 'Tis all a mockery to me. 
 
 ' Sometimes I feel that I must curse 
 This God— if God there be- 
 So that if He should strike me dead, 
 
 Or even torture me, 
 I, through my awful anguish wild, 
 Should know Him— know that He was mild 
 And loving to my little child. _ 
 
 137
 
 COMING LIGHT 
 
 ' But oh ! to think that she should place 
 
 Her simple, loving trust 
 In aught that is so blind as Chance — 
 
 In the powerless, throbbing dust. 
 Yet that o'er her there's naught as high 
 In heaven, or earth, or sea, or sky, 
 Seems still to mock me as a lie. 
 
 ' For how could Chance, in any mood, 
 
 Bring forth so fair a flower — 
 A spirit breathing endless love, 
 Yet changing in every hour, 
 And every change a sweeter change ? 
 Shall it not know a wider range ? 
 To cease to be were passing strange. 
 
 ' 'Twould seem less wonderful that God, 
 Ruling this lower land, 
 Leads on His children, as they walk. 
 
 With firm but with loving hand. 
 Perchance there is a brighter place, 
 A higher home, some purer race, 
 Who see their Maker face to face. 
 
 ' If so, I know my child is blest ; 
 
 Fain would I that I knew 
 That all the things that she believed 
 
 Of a God and heaven were true. 
 It may be that those only rise, 
 Through mist, into the cloudless skies, 
 Who pass through meekness to be wise.'
 
 THOUGHT, MADNESS, AND REST 
 
 Dee J' in that land where hidden thoughts abide — 
 
 Thoughts which no language can as yet express, 
 
 And which no tongue may utter — we are led 
 
 Often to wander. Round us still may press 
 
 The well-known objects of our daily life, 
 
 Still there, and yet forgotten ; cast aside 
 
 By no deep effort of the tired mind, 
 
 But rather banished by that greater light 
 
 That draws us near. Thus, while the world moves on, 
 
 We peacefully may dream our time away. 
 
 Fit mark for every passing scoff or sneer 
 
 Men cast upon us, as we let slip by 
 
 The golden prize they seek. 
 
 'Tis strange indeed 
 How divers are the views of this short life 
 Held by the various minds we see around : 
 To some it seems a brief eternity. 
 So viewed because their fearful eyes refuse 
 To rest upon its margin. Some, again. 
 Think it a game of play, where tears have place — 
 Unbidden and unwelcome interlude. 
 While some have found it but a round of toil 
 They strive in vain to break. And, yet again, 
 Many regard it as a wilderness 
 
 139
 
 THOUGHT, MADNESS, AND REST 
 
 Surrounded and enveloped by a cloud. 
 
 To only few does this short life appear 
 
 A sleep, from which they must awaken soon, 
 
 In which strange dreams are passing through their 
 
 minds, 
 Coloured at first by visions of the past, 
 And then by objects ever pressing on 
 Between them and that shining light afar, 
 Which, as they nearer move, still more disturb 
 The ordered calm of sleep. 
 
 Our minds will play with phantasies 
 
 Which ever move along, 
 Weary of cold realities 
 
 That to the earth belong ; 
 The common life of common things 
 
 Has lost its wonted power ; 
 We strive to use our damaged wings, 
 
 If only for an hour ; 
 We struggle, and with struggle rise 
 
 On pinions soiled with clay ; 
 We feel the warmth of sunny skies. 
 
 The glory of the day — 
 We feel it for one moment bright, 
 
 Then down exhausted fall 
 To clouds and darkness, from the light— 
 
 A mockery to all. 
 
 Then wearily we creep from sight, 
 And in some gloomy cavern hide. 
 Whose mocking echoes answer us. 
 Cast back from every side. 
 140
 
 THOUGHT, MADNESS, AND REST 
 
 Our thoughts, like bats with hideous wings, 
 Feed greedily on night-bred things ; 
 While madness, too, with horrid eyes, 
 
 Ever will hover near, 
 A ghastly mimic of the wise, 
 Filling us with thoughts of fear ; 
 And closer still the dismal shape 
 
 Creeps on, with ruthless power. 
 We see no loophole of escape 
 As it nears us every hour ; 
 No hand its onward march can stay 
 Upon its ever-winding way 
 
 Towards its trembling prey. 
 We look below, we look on high, 
 In vain we turn toward the sky 
 
 And pray, with tears, to die. 
 No answering voice of love we hear, 
 No help is present, or seems near, 
 
 The echoes mock our prayer. 
 
 Thus, how often we may see 
 Some soul lost in misery, 
 In such horrors revelling 
 As were never felt in hell ; 
 Though at times it still may lie 
 In a trance of ecstasy. 
 While the body, on its way, 
 Left alone, will often stray — 
 Here and there its steps will wend 
 Till it meets some tragic end. 
 
 Laugh and sing, ye little rills 
 Bursting from the riven hills ; 
 141
 
 THOUGHT, MADNESS, AND REST 
 
 Cast in scorn, oh mocking deep ! 
 Water o'er the mangled heap. 
 This is man, whose mighty mind 
 Had gone wandering to find 
 Ways whereby this world could be 
 Ruled by him more perfectly. 
 
 Toss the body here and there, 
 Draw thy fingers through its hair, 
 Make it seem imbued with power 
 Just for one more fleeting hour, 
 And upon some rocky bed 
 Leave, at last, the mangled dead. 
 Angels then will bear the soul, 
 Free at last from mortal strife, 
 Guided by Divine control, 
 Raising it to higher life, 
 Now from darkness borne away 
 Into light of endless day. 
 After turmoil, sweetest peace ; 
 
 After pain, a blest release. 
 
 Soon, thus healed by tender love. 
 It at last, perchance, may see. 
 
 By the heavenly light above 
 
 That reveals eternity. 
 
 Somewhat of the reason why 
 
 Of that dark and awful hour : — 
 
 That by pain it has been led 
 
 To a greater joy and power ; 
 
 Also, that the ghastly forms 
 
 Haunting once that gloomy deep 
 
 Were but shades the night deforms. 
 
 Burdens of a troubled sleep ; 
 142
 
 THOUGHT, MADNESS, AND REST 
 
 But at last, in rosy dawn, 
 
 They may change, in some strange way, 
 
 To a mist, then softly borne 
 
 On the breast of coming day, 
 
 Destined in the sunny air 
 
 Of perfect love to pass away. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODK AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARB 
 
 LONDON
 
 THE SHADOWS OF THE LAKE 
 
 pj^Ilss notices of the first and second editions 
 
 ' There is indubitable merit in F. Leyton'^ "The Shadows of the 
 Lake, and Other Poems." Many of these compositions are deeply 
 tinged with melancholy. ... At the same time, U is no less true that 
 one of our greatest poets said that " sweetest songs oft come of saddest 
 thought," and everybody knows what point of time it is that the swan 
 chooses for its most dulcet strains. Among the most fluent and 
 musical of these pieces is "The Night of Death." ... "A Wanton 
 Spirit," which was thrown into verse after a spiritualistic stance, is 
 calculated to ruffle the serenity and self-respect of mediums.' — Graphic, 
 February 14, 1891. 
 
 ' Written by a man with plenty of poetic temperament, and marked 
 by considerable imagination and power.' — IVestminsier Review, July 
 1891. 
 
 ' "The Shadows of the Lake" is not, as the author's preface sug- 
 gests, unduly full of melancholy. Sad they are, no doubt, but the key- 
 note is one of sympathy with human suffering. The blank verse of this 
 volume is full of interest to us.'— Observer, August 9, 1891. 
 
 ' Rare indeed is the poet who can touch, even with " flying finger," 
 the subject of a mourner's sorrow. Still, considering the immense 
 difficulties of this subject, we think that this author has acquitted him- 
 self well. To our mind the two longest poems — namely, "The Bells 
 Beneath the Sea " and ' ' Father and Child " — are also the best. These, 
 together with " The Shadows of the Lake," are of sufficient length to 
 give scope to the author's imagination and sense of the picturesque.' — 
 I'anity Fair, February 14, 1891. 
 
 ' Makers of verses and poets are of a very different order. The 
 first, plentiful enough ; the second, rare indeed. . . . Mr. Leyton, who 
 must certainly be admitted to the select circle of poets, touches the 
 
 L
 
 PRESS NOTICES OF THE 
 
 highest rans:e of contemplated thought and speculation on those fasci- 
 nating but hidden mysteries of the universe we all long to solve, the 
 eternal why and wherefore, whence and whither. . . . "Many Voices" 
 is didactic and yet most musical in composition, also inspired with a 
 thoroughly wholesome optimism in ])resence of the acknowledged 
 existence of guilt and evil. But we recommend pubhcity for Mr. 
 Leyton's poems, as there is a high purpose running through his teaching, 
 conveyed in true poetic spirit.' — Jewish World, April 3, 1891. 
 
 ' A volume of thoughtful verse, showing considerable power of 
 expression. We prefer, however, such pieces as "The Idle Hour" to 
 those in which the author shows his sympathy with Laurence Oliphant 
 and the spiritualists.' — Literary World, March 6, 1891. 
 
   In " Lonely Age" a true note is struck. . . . " Father and Child," 
 a poem in dialogue, is to our thinking one of the best things in the 
 book.' — Public Opinion, February 20, 1891. 
 
 • The " Poems on Death," for the sadness of which Mr. Leyton 
 apologises, are in truth the best he has written, because, being actuated 
 by deep personal feeling, he has allowed his thoughts to choose their 
 own time of appearance and tlieir own suitable apparel.' — Whitehall 
 Review, February 14, 1891. 
 
 ' We must confess we have left many leaves uncut, and those we 
 have read contain much that we do not understand. For instance, 
 we do not in the least know the poet's real opinion of Laurence 
 Oliphant. ... "A Wanton Spirit," written after a "spiritualistic 
 manifestation," is certainly original, but is it poetry?' — John Bull, 
 February 21, 1891. 
 
 ' A vein of sadness runs through this volume of verse — none, how- 
 ever, the worse for that. The best verse is melancholy. A close 
 observation of Nature in all her changing moods is also noticeable in 
 the writer's lines, and considerable power of fixing the impressions in 
 appropriate words.' — Bookseller, January 9, 1891. 
 
 ' The writer is deeply imbued with spiritualistic faiths, and reflects, 
 not unworthily, we think, alike the hopefulness and dreaminess of many 
 spiritualist teachings.' — Inquirer, January 31, 1891. 
 
 ' Mr. F. Leyton's "Shadows of the Lake, and Other Poems," are 
 gracefully written, full of passion and pathos, and not without deep and 
 interesting thoughts. But his religion is not that of the Christ, with a 
 definite reliance and a distinct revelation. High thoughts of justice, 
 noble aspirations after abiding love, are mingled with misty shadows 
 of sentiment and intangible dissatisfaction with " the beaten track." ' — 
 The Record, July 3, 1891.
 
 FIRST AND SECOND EDITIONS 
 
 ' A volume of poems distinctly above the average in literary merit. 
 There is considerable power, both of thought and of versification. Of 
 the line of feeling we cannot say that, so far as we understand it, we 
 agree with it ; it seems to be what is usually called, by misapplication 
 of another and a greater poet's words, the "larger hope."' — Baptist, 
 June 12, 1891. 
 
 ' Is the work of an educated, thoughtful man. ..." Many Voices" 
 has strong points, and tells how the love of material beauty may be 
 harmfuL' — Church Review, January 22, 1891. 
 
 ' Graceful if melancholy.' — Times, August 7, 1891. 
 
 ' " Shadows of the Lake" is a very dismal production, . . . and is 
 utterly destitute of poetic feeling. . . . There is no excuse for such a 
 work as this." — Daily Chronicle, February 18, 1891. 
 
 ' Mr. Leyton writes well enough t6 make his work worth reading for 
 the aptness of its thoughts and the neatness of his metrical expressive- 
 ness.' — Scotsman, January 5, 1891. 
 
 ' " Father and Child " is in some sense a remarkable poem. It is 
 the story of a father who has deliberately refrained from teaching his 
 child anything of religion and of the life to come, but at last does so 
 while they are sitting by the sea. It is a singularly bold idea, and is 
 worked out with considerable skill. The whole volume is a thoughtful 
 one.' — Glasgow Herald, February 3, 1891. 
 
 'The author of "The Shadows of the Lake" has a wonderfully 
 steady flow of ideas; his mental "output" is exceptionally great.' — 
 Inverness Co;^rier, March 10, 1891. 
 
 ' The volume contains twenty-two poems, all of which are of a 
 v«ry high order. The author apologises, but we think needlessly, for 
 the tone of sadness which runs through some of the pieces entitled 
 " Poems on Death," as they are marked by much sweetness of expres- 
 sion and genuine earnestness.' — Newcastle Ch7-onicte, January 6, 1891. 
 
 ' ' ' The Shadows of the Lake, and Other Poems," are tinged through- 
 out with a tone of sadness that will only consort with the feelings of 
 such as have suffered bereavements of a more or less acute character.' — 
 Manchester Courier, January 31, 1891. 
 
 ' In spite of their frequent truth and tenderness of feeling, Mr. 
 Leyton's poems lack the purely expressional qualities which touch 
 with delight the ear of the world.' — Manchester Examiner, January 10, 
 1891. 
 
 'There is much in the volume entitled "The Shadows of the 
 Lake" which is worth reading. Perhaps "The Bells Beneath the Sea" 
 is the best thing in the? book." — Yorkshire Post, March 18, 1891.
 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 ' Mr. Leyton's recent volume of verse is stamped with true 
 genius. . . . "The Shadows of the Lake" is very impressive, and 
 shows some powerful imagery. Another touching poem is founded 
 on the death of Laurence Oliphant.'— Yorkshire Gazette, February 28, 
 1891. 
 
 ' The " Poems on Death " are the product of earlier years, but we 
 may say that they do not suffer from this fact, for they bear the impress 
 of cultivated thought and refined feeling. . . . The lines on the death 
 of Laurence Oliphant perhaps explain a little of the author's mode of 
 thought, and we prefer the lines on Father Damien, which breathe a 
 higher spirit. Thev are, in fact, very fine. ... In "Many Voices" 
 the lines on " The Town " are full of suggestive power. ..." Lonely 
 Age " is one of the most beautiful pieces in a book which is richly stored 
 with the graces of the poet, and shows a certain power of analysis which 
 is uncommon.' — Bristol Times, January 17, 1891. 
 
 'A poet of a somewhat sombre mood, though evidently an ardent 
 lover of the picturesque in Nature.' — Liverpool Courier, May 18, 1891. 
 
 ' The verses do not exhibit any attempt to imitate the style of 
 any great living or dead poet.' — Dublin Evening Mail, January 7, 
 1891. 
 
 ' A volume of verse which many will read with that interest which is 
 born of earnestness and solemnity. . . . The volume is full of beautiful 
 thought, while the style is strong and attractive to all who like good 
 poetry.' — Western Morning News, February 16, 1891. 
 
 ' In " Orphan Children" the writer sounds a noble note — an echo 
 of Mrs. Browning's " Cry of the Children" — in behalf of tiie joyless 
 young creatures in our workhouses. The long poem entitled "The 
 Hells Beneath the Sea" is full of promise for the author's future, and 
 the dialogue poem, " Father and Child," contains some just and 
 helpful thoughts on the enigmas of life.' — Sheffield Independent, 
 l''ebruary 27, 1891. 
 
 '"The Shadows of the Lake," from which Mr. Leyton's volume 
 takes its name, is but one of several serious poems, besides many 
 shorter and slighter pieces, which give great variety to the book, and 
 the reader must be hard to please if he does not in it find something to 
 his mind. For the most part the tone of Mr. Leyton's muse is grave, 
 and in the first part, called " Poems on Death," necessarily sad, but 
 there is at least hopefulness, even in his questioning attitude towards 
 death, and the impn ssion which the whole book leaves on the mind is 
 nc't one of melancholy so much as a sober joy in living and hopefulness 
 for the future.' — Bradford Observer, March 31, 1891.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 SKELETON LEAVES 
 
 PRESS NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION 
 
 ' Mr. Frank Leyton's poem, " Skeleton Leaves," tells a melancholy 
 story, but tells it with such grace of expression and such a gentle 
 touch that it makes a pathetic harmony all through. It is written 
 (if some preludes and interludes be expected) in a simple and forcible 
 blank verse, and purports to be the diary of a girl. Mr. Leyton treats 
 this theme always with genuine poetical feeling, and never drops (as 
 poems of this kind so often do) to mere mawkishness of sentiment. 
 The book will be welcome to every lover of poetry who can appreciate 
 work that is frankly sad and sombre.' — Scotsman, July 18, 1892. 
 
 ' Mr. Leyton's second volume of poems confirms the opinion which 
 we formed on reading his first. He is a real poet. The story is told 
 in verse which is sometimes noble, always melodious, and \\'hich leaves 
 many thoughts with the reader. The short poems that intervene be- 
 tween the different parts of the story are of singular merit.' — Vanity 
 Fair, September 3, 1892. 
 
 ' A work of undoubted merit, a book to read and re-read. In 
 admirable blank verse of most melodious flow it presents a ' ' Story 
 from the Records of the Dead" by means of supposititious "Leaves 
 from the Diary of a Suicide." There is no question of the moving 
 pathos of the piece and its graceful, thoughtful interludes ; there can 
 be as little question of the author's possession of po^-tical powers of a 
 high order. Though the ' ' Diary " seems a ' ' long, deep sigh of endless 
 misery," which sometimes freezes all the blood 'with creeping icy 
 chill," a strange attraction holds the reader, who, spellbound by the 
 lurid pictures of an experience of suffering, pollution, sorrow, and 
 suspense, and by subtle analyses and delineations of hope, love, dark- 
 ness, passion, despair, repentance, madness, is borne ever onward, 
 evi-n "while darkness looms so deeply all around." The writer's 
 sympathy with the sad, the unfortunate, the suffering, the tempted, and 
 the fallen, is stamped on every page ; and in tlie sarcastic mood, which
 
 PJ^ESS NOTICES OF THE 
 
 sometimes comes uppermost, he brings a heavy indictment against the 
 tempter and those who, on the ground of freedom, advocate a marriage- 
 less love.' — Liverpool Post, August ii, 1892. 
 
 ' The verse is smooth, harmonious, and graceful.' — Literary World, 
 September 23, 1892. 
 
 ' In many respects suggestive of Mrs. Browning's " Aurora Leigh," 
 this exquisitely musical poem has the advantage of directness ; while 
 the narrative itself is so full of tender melancholy, the lights and 
 shadows alternate in such a clever interplay of hope and fear, that 
 it would be ditficult to name any poem of recent date in which the 
 Greek ideal of simple purity has been wrought out in so manly a spirit 
 of sympathy and insight. It is Gretchen's story, in a sense, but in 
 English life, with a change to Italy for an interval, and is quite a 
 masterpiece of artistic excellence. '—Z./z'^r/oci/ Mercury, August 3, 1892. 
 
 ' Is full of power and pathos. Like the author's " .Shadows of the 
 I,ake," the thoughts are sad, but the tone of melancholy that runs 
 through the volume in no way interferes with the merit of the work.' — 
 Observer, September 25, 1892. 
 
 'The verse in which they are written is, to begin with, simple, clear, 
 and correct ; it is also informed by genuine earnestness. The treat- 
 ment is impressive. The main narrative is in blank verse, and each 
 division of it is prefaced by a lyrical piece, in which the writer is usually 
 seen at his best." — Globe, August 15, 1892. 
 
 ' Mr. Leyton is seen to distinct poetical advantage.' — Public Opinion, 
 August 12, 1892. 
 
 ' Mr. Leyton's earlier work was pronounced to be deeply tinged with 
 melancholy, while he was freely admitted to be a poet of a very high 
 order. He does not write for the great multitude, yet his impressive 
 style, graceful versification, and thorout;hly thoughtful muse is likely 
 . to meet with a wat m appreciation by those readers— and they are many — 
 who have learned something of the tragedy of life, whose ears are open 
 to the quiet undertone of suffering so eloquent to the attentive ear. 
 The author of ■' Skeleton Leaves" is distinctly tuneful in the midst of 
 his melancholy ; he is strong and fearless in his dealing with his 
 tragic subject. The "Leaves from the Diary of a Suicide" show 
 indubitable merit and unusual power.' — Manchester Courier, August 27, 
 1892. 
 
 ' A story-poem of much originality and real power. It is a poem of 
 great sadness, often throbbing with intense passion. The blank verse 
 is very musical, and is varied with other metres, over which the author 
 has an easy command. The book creates a deep human sympathy 
 with the victims of evil environment.' — Christian World, September i, 
 189a.
 
 FIRST EDITION 
 
 ' The prettily got-up volume contains a terrible life-history told in 
 verse which frequently rises to the height of true poetry, especially in 
 the short " pieces" interpolated between the chapters. Some of these, 
 especially "Anxiety," " Rest," and " Death," are very good.' — World, 
 August 24, 1892. 
 
 ' Beautifully bound and well printed on handmade paper. Sadness 
 is the predominant feature which marks these pages of genuine poetry. 
 The sorrows of Enar Inglow are tenderly told. We particularly admire 
 some of the rhymed verses, which serve as preludes to the various 
 sections of poems. The book is one of chastened sadness ; the language 
 employed is simple, yet elegant ; and, best of all, an undertone of truth 
 lies underneath all. But to be appreciated rightly the book must be 
 read as a whole, and to our readers we commend it heartily.' — Bristol 
 Times, July 23, 1892. 
 
 ' It has much merit. It is rich in thoughtful suggestion. The life- 
 history is chequered with light and shade, sunshine and storm. There 
 is much power in this story of a lost soul, and the poet has accomplished 
 his task in a praiseworthy manner.' — Birmingham Gazette, August 9, 
 1892. 
 
 'No healthy soul can read these melancholy "Leaves" without 
 sharing the author's passion of pity and indignation. The story of the 
 forlorn child is lold with moving pathos. 'There is real music in his 
 verse. Many of his lyrical preludes are very beautiful, the prevailing 
 lightness of touch not wanting interludes to show that he can smite the 
 chords with might. He knows how to stir the emotions deeply, and to 
 make strong feeling a goad to righteousness. Those who believe in the 
 poetry of conscience have reason to thank Mr. Leyton for his latest 
 work.' — Independent, September 9, 1892. 
 
 ' The intentions of the poet are excellent, and the poetry is of a 
 much higher type than that of many volumes which pass through our 
 hands. The story is sorrowful, pitiful, even horrible ; and, alas ! but 
 too common. We wish we could think that its moral might be laid to 
 heart, even by a small proportion of its readers. But for all this we 
 are compelled to warn mothers that the book is not one to be placed in 
 the hands of their girls, and that the religious teaching is slight and 
 vague.' — English Churchman, October 6, 1892. 
 
 • This is not the first time Mr. Leyton's work has been before us. 
 He has something to say, and as a rule says it well. The story he 
 tells (in blank verse which is quite above the average) is sad and 
 unpleasant, but he does not gloss over sin, or make it in any way 
 attractive. There is real pathos in some of the scenes, notably where 
 Enar Inglow tries in vain to take her child's life, the pure child-face 
 and the impure river turning her from her piu-pose.' — Chunk Review, 
 September 8, 1892.
 
 P/?i:SS NOTICES OF THE FIRST EDITION 
 
 'Most musical, most melancholy is the volume of poetry by Mr. 
 Frank Lejton entitled "Skeleton Leaves." Mr. Leyton's verse is 
 thoughtful and measured, and occasionally, as in the lines to " Anxiety," 
 strikes a note of distinction.' — Scottish Leader, September 29, 1892. 
 
 'The blank verse, which forms the major portion of the book, is 
 fluent and musical, and displays considerable iaxicy.'— Freeman's 
 Journal, August 8, 1892. 
 
 ' Chiefly in blank verse of no mean order. Some rhymed pieces at 
 the head of each section show considerable skill.' — Inquirer, August 6, 
 1892. 
 
 ' It needs no particular acuteness to see tliat Mr. Leyton can write 
 verse of a superior kind. His subject, "The Diary of a Suicide," is 
 melancholy enough, but throughout the gloom the author is continually 
 pointing to the light beyond." — Bookseller, August 6, 1892. 
 
 ' There are finely imaginative passages in the poem, and especially 
 in section viii., entitled "Passion," some terse and vigorous bits of 
 narrative, and some clear transcripts of strong and natural feehng.' — 
 Sheffield Independent, July 29, 1892. 
 
 ' Intensely sad and impressive. There are many eftective passages 
 in the poem.' — Dundee Advertiser, July 21, 1892. 
 
 ' The impassioned verse which unfolds the various phases of this 
 story is well worthy the author of " The Shadows of the Lake," which 
 attracted public attention some months ago. Amongst modern poets 
 we know of none better equipped with those singular gifts which 
 enable men to depict with adequate power the varying emotions of 
 the human heart. Here Mr. Leyton delineates with the master-hand 
 almost every phase from joy to despair, from the ecstasy of life down 
 to the agonising despondency which drives to contemplated suicide. 
 From comforting touches of domestic life there is occasionally sudden 
 flight to lofty allegory, but the one is not obsciu-ed by the other, and 
 the pictures are vivid and thrilling.' — Yorkshire Gazette, July 30, 1892. 
 
 
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