LIBRARY 
 
 University of 
 
 I&V4ME
 
 BY 
 
 THE "5UNW5L" PUBLISHING C<? 
 
 WARFUNGTON 
 
 19O2
 
 pfi 
 
 s 8
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE xi 
 
 GENERAL DEDICATION. To MY FATHER AND 
 
 MOTHER. . . . . . . . . . . xv 
 
 
 
 SUNRISE i 
 
 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC : 
 
 DEDICATION. To Theodore Craig London. . . 7 
 INVOCATION. At the Dawn of the New Year. (With 
 
 apologies to Robert Buchanan.) . . ., . . 13 
 
 " The People's Tribune." 27th March, 1889. .. 19 
 
 The Death of Father Damien. . . . . . . 22 
 
 In the Night-Time 26 
 
 In the Burial Ground : Hill Cliff. 29 
 
 To One I Love. . . . . . . . . . . 33 
 
 At " Heaven's Gate." A Recollection of Longleat. 36 
 
 The Two Heavens. . . . . . . . . . . 37
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Heart's Yearning. . . . . . . . . 46 
 
 " The Greatest Thing in the World." . . . . 48 
 
 The Rising of the Storm. . . . . . . . . 52 
 
 To an Old Flag. A Reminiscence of a Village 
 
 Club 55 
 
 The Voice which Calls. . . . . . . . . 60 
 
 In the Golden Autumn Weather. . . . . . . 64 
 
 An Epithalamion. . . . . . . . . . . 72 
 
 The Eternity of Beauty. . . . . . . . . 76 
 
 Good-Bye ! 80 
 
 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE : 
 
 DEDICATION. To E. James Hall. . . . . . . 87 
 
 In Memoriam. Jenny, nth December, 1890. .. 91 
 
 The Earthly Paradise. 95 
 
 The Empire's Loss. On the Death of Sir John A. 
 Macdonald, Prime Minister of Canada, 6th 
 
 June, 1891. . . . . . . . . . . 98 
 
 Misunderstood. .. .. .. .. 101 
 
 A Voice from Avilion. . . . . . . . . 103 
 
 Engaged. . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On the Opening of the Imperial Institute. loth 
 
 May, 1893. . . . . . . . . no 
 
 The Wreck of the Victoria. . . . . . . ..113 
 
 A Canterbury Pilgrimage. .. .. .. .. 119 
 
 The Eternal Sea. Brighton 120 
 
 The Star of Love. Brighton. . . . . . . 121 
 
 Our Dead Comrade. In Memory of Henry Hewitt 
 
 Button. i4th October, 1893. .. .. 125 
 
 " The Old Folks at Home." Christmas, 1893. . . 129 
 
 The Socialist Poet. On hearing William Morris 
 address an Open-Air Meeting at Trafford 
 Bridge, Salford, on Sunday, the nth March, 
 1894. .. -.133 
 
 A Bridal Wreath, nth April, 1894. .. .. 136 
 
 A Fantasy. On the Hills below Riber Castle, 
 
 Matlock. . . . . . . 142 
 
 Mother Nature. Matlock. . . . . . . . . 144 
 
 The Last Song. An Incident in the Matabele War. 146 
 
 The Bells of Antwerp. . . . . . . 149 
 
 The Lion of Waterloo. . . . . . . . . 153 
 
 The King, the Queen, and the Prime Minister. 
 Suggested by the sudden death, at Windsor 
 Castle, on the i2th December, 1894, of 
 Sir John Thompson, Premier of Canada. . . 159
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In Memoriam. Theodore. 5th February, 1895.. . 161 
 The Closing Page. .. .. .. .. 166 
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE : 
 
 DEDICATION. To My Wife. . .. .. .. 173 
 
 The New Home. .. .. .. .. ..179 
 
 " It Cannot Be ! " Suggested by the speech of the 
 Hon. Thomas F. Bayard, the American 
 Ambassador, at the Annual Dinner of the 
 Actors' Benevolent Association, London, 
 i8th December, 1895. . . . . . . 182 
 
 The Two Hells 185 
 
 In "The Valley of the Shadow." 191 
 
 The Roman Well. Wilderspool. . . . . . . 193 
 
 The Borough Jubilee. 3rd April, 1897. . . . . 198 
 
 A Kiss. . . . . . . . . . . . . 202 
 
 A Song for Greece. . . . . . . . . . . 203 
 
 The Diamond Jubilee. 22nd June, 1897 . . . . 208 
 
 God Save the Empire ! .. .. .. ..212 
 
 " The Doctor." In Memory of Thomas Starkey 
 Smith, M.B., F.R.C.S., who died suddenly 
 on the 4th September, 1897. . . . . 214
 
 CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 At Hawarden. .. .. .. .. ..217 
 
 At Binbrook. .. .. .. . .. ..220 
 
 The Return to Town. . . . . . . 225 
 
 The Storming of Dargai. . . . . . . . . 227 
 
 " Nor Will They Forget." 231 
 
 The House of Pain. . . . . . . . . . . 234 
 
 In Poppyland. . . . . . . . . . . 236 
 
 The Sea Insatiable. Cromer. . . . . . . 237 
 
 A Fancy in the Train. . . . . . . . . 240 
 
 The Sky is full of Angels. Aby, Lincolnshire. . . 242 
 On the Tercentenary of Cromwell's Birth. 25th April, 
 
 1899. .. .... 244 
 
 The Dawn of Peace. . . . . . . . . 247 
 
 A Song of Escape. . . . . . . . . . . 250 
 
 The Vision of Caedmon. . . . . . . . . 252 
 
 In Lakeland. . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 
 
 In the Hour of Defeat. . . . . . . 258 
 
 The Worshipper of the Images. Written in the 
 
 Warrington School of Art. . . . . . . 260 
 
 The Chimneys. . . . . . . . . . 261 
 
 The Three Sieges. Kimberley Ladysmith 
 
 Mafeking. . . . . . . . . . . 264
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Everlasting Why. Suggested by the death of 
 
 Denis Davies, Actor and Poet. . . . . 267 
 
 Chaucer's Death-Day. Written in the Rylands 
 Library, Manchester, on the 25th October, 
 1900. .. .. .. .. .. ..272 
 
 "J'ai Faim!" t . *. ..' .. .. 273 
 
 Christmas, 1900. .. .. .. .. .. 277 
 
 SUNSET '.. ... ..279
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 THIS volume contains the whole of the author's 
 poems written during the existence of " Sunrise : A 
 Weekly Paper for the People" (September, 1888, to 
 December, 1900), and printed in that journal, which 
 he desires to reproduce with the exception of " A 
 Midnight Fantasy," which is too long for inclusion 
 here, and may possibly be published later, and three 
 local poems, already included in previous "Sunrise" 
 Publications. 
 
 It was originally intended to issue them in 
 three separate volumes, the first, to be entitled 
 " Echoes from an Old Attic," containing the poems 
 written during his residence at Bruche, Padgate ; 
 the second, "Lays from a Country Lane," at Lynd- 
 hurst, Padgate ; and the third, " In the Shadow of 
 the Spire," at Warrington.
 
 Xll PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 Various circumstances having delayed their 
 appearance, it is now considered better to issue 
 the whole of them together, under the general title 
 of " 'Sunrise' Songs," retaining the sub-titles, and 
 following, as closely as possible, the order in which 
 they were actually written. A few of them have 
 been abbreviated, and all of them revised. 
 
 The cover and title-page are the design of Miss 
 Florence H. Laverock, of Warrington.
 
 GENERAL DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FATHER AND MOTHER. 
 
 SOURCE of my songs, I fondly send them. 
 At midnight with my love, to you ; 
 
 May Fortune's favouring breeze attend them, 
 Which tremblingly once more I woo ! 
 
 The first with tears were dedicated 
 
 To one uplifted into life ; 
 The next with friendship's fancies freighted, 
 
 At midnight, in a time of strife ; 
 The last, the week that we were mated, 
 
 Were dedicated to my wife. 
 
 And now to you the whole I offer, 
 And dedicate them all anew,
 
 XVI GENERAL DEDICATION. 
 
 And with a son's devotion proffer 
 The fruit of all these years to you. 
 
 MORNINGSIDE. 
 
 WARRINGTON, 
 
 I5TH NOVEMBER, 1902.
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 THE clouds are breaking, the world is waking, 
 All dumb with wonder the nations lie, 
 
 The mountains redden, the ocean blushes, 
 A glory flushes the eastern sky. 
 
 In the midnight eerie men's hearts were weary, 
 And the earth was dreary, and life was dark ; 
 
 And in senseless slaughter their blood like water 
 Was spilled with only the stars to mark. 
 
 They dreamt of Aidenn, but, heavy laden, 
 Both man and maiden awoke to weep ; 
 
 For their magic dreaming was idle seeming, 
 
 And the hopes they cherished were hard to keep. 
 
 And, though earth was teeming with milk and honey, 
 
 For lack of money, the millions died 
 Of sheer starvation in many a nation 
 
 Where shrines were reared to the Crucified.
 
 2 "SUNRISE" SONGS. 
 
 And cruel fevers and plagues devoured them, 
 And envy soured them, and they were slaves 
 
 To a fierce unreason, and lost in hazes, 
 And under the daisies they dug their graves. 
 
 And from their sorrow some sought to borrow 
 Surcease by draining the goblet dry ; 
 
 And found their sadness had turned to madness, 
 And slew each other, and knew not why. 
 
 But some for ever, with strong endeavour, 
 Were grandly working, their eyes aglow ; 
 
 And they told the realms that the gloom would vanish, 
 And the sunrise banish the night of woe. 
 
 But the many mocked at the message spoken, 
 And asked a token, and craved a sign ; 
 
 And in vain they waited, for the earth seemed fated 
 In endless misery to pine. 
 
 Yet still they laboured with souls undaunted, 
 
 Though the night was haunted with things of shame ; 
 
 And they dared all evils, and men and devils, 
 Till the darkness trembled, and sunrise came.
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 The clouds are breaking, the world is waking, 
 The ghosts are quaking, the shadows fly ; 
 
 The gloom is riven with the fires of heaven 
 Take heart, my brothers, the day is nigh !
 
 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 THEODORE CRAIG LONDON. 
 
 THESE echoes of the vanished years 
 
 I lovingly inscribe to thee, 
 And launch, amid a mist of tears, 
 
 Once more my little argosy. 
 Six years to-night, fanned by thy favour, 
 
 With golden hopes, I launched the last 
 How soon my faith began to waver 
 
 How soon the vessel felt the blast ! 
 
 It never reached the rosy isles 
 
 Where Fame extends her laurel wreath, 
 And, though it won thy friendly smiles, 
 
 The critics marked it out for death ; 
 But speedily it found a haven 
 
 Within that generous breast of thine ;
 
 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And so thy name is fondly graven 
 Upon this second craft of mine. 
 
 And who so well as thee should claim 
 
 The tardy tribute of a song ? 
 Where should I find another name 
 
 That comes so quickly to my tongue ? 
 The thoughts of which these echoes linger 
 
 Were largely born when thou wert by ; 
 The very soul within the singer 
 
 Was often naked to thine eye. 
 
 The secrets of my ancient room 
 
 On dreamy eves we used to share ; 
 There was a glamour in the gloom 
 
 Of that old attic up the stair ; 
 For us it glowed with gods and graces, 
 
 For us with splendid angels shone, 
 And in it we beheld the faces 
 
 Of all the glorious great ones gone. 
 
 Forth from its shadowy shelves there came 
 Young poets with their pearls of speech, 
 
 Or prophets with their tongues of flame, 
 Or calm philosophers to teach,
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Or men who told such tales of wonder 
 As filled our eyes with sudden light, 
 
 While from afar we heard the thunder 
 That surges from the Infinite. 
 
 And oh ! what high resolves we made 
 
 Within that haunted upper room ; 
 What patriotic plans we laid 
 
 To save the tottering realm from doom ; 
 How oft, in thought, we emulated 
 
 The genial giants of the shelves, 
 And in the Halls of Fame created 
 
 What cosy corners for ourselves ! 
 
 And often in our dreams arose 
 
 Young faces as the lilies fair, 
 With voices like the sound which flows 
 
 From some enchanted dulcimer, 
 With limbs than Indian ivory finer, 
 
 With eyes that shamed the stars above, 
 For dearer, sweeter, and diviner 
 
 Than Fame, or Wealth, or Power, was Love. 
 
 Ah, friend ! those halcyon eves are fled ; 
 Dust in the ancient attic lies ;
 
 10 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And some of our twin dreams are dead, 
 And many an old ambition dies ; 
 
 And, sitting in another chamber 
 Without the glamour of the last, 
 
 I send to thee, this sad November, 
 These various echoes of the past. 
 
 Thy pulse may pause ere they appear 
 
 Incarnate from the labouring press, 
 And yet, methinks, they shall be dear 
 
 To thee despite their earthy dress ; 
 If unto thee it shall be given 
 
 To pass into the upper air, 
 Perchance thy soul may catch in Heaven 
 
 The music of thy native star. 
 
 Thy sorrows past, thy sins assoiled, 
 
 Thy form transfigured, and thy face 
 Lit with the radiance undefiled 
 
 Which beams about the Holy Place, 
 Methinks thou wilt not fail to listen 
 
 For the poor songs which pleased thee here, 
 Though round thee all the splendours glisten 
 
 Of some serener, happier sphere 
 
 Some sphere where Malice shall be dumb, 
 Some star where friends shall not betray,
 
 DEDICATION. II 
 
 Some region where no slanders come, 
 And where no saddening memories stay ; 
 
 Some world where thou may'st grandly finish 
 The task from which thou hast been torn, 
 
 And thy young cup of life replenish 
 At the far fountains of the morn. 
 
 LYNDHURST, 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1894.
 
 INVOCATION. 
 AT THE DAWN OF THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 (WITH APOLOGIES TO ROBERT BUCHANAN.) 
 
 " Come again, come back to me," 
 
 Sunny years for ever fled ; 
 Often in my dreams I see 
 
 Shadowy forms about my bed ; 
 Often to my ears there steal 
 
 Golden songs too sweet to last ; 
 Often in my veins I feel 
 
 The red pulses of the past : 
 As the old years end their reign, 
 
 I am fain 
 
 To recall them in my pain 
 " Come again ! " 
 
 " Come again " your dead restore, 
 Bring the old bright faces back ; 
 
 Let my spirit grasp once more 
 All the honest hands I lack ;
 
 14 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 Let me hear the voices gay 
 
 Once as harps within my room ; 
 On my brow your ringers lay, 
 Make a glory of the gloom ; 
 Time is like another Cain, 
 
 Youth is slain, 
 
 And my heart is torn in twain 
 "Come again ! " 
 
 Friends are gone who made life sweet, 
 
 Dreams are dead that once were born 
 In my mystical retreat 
 
 As the night moved on to morn ; 
 Round the house the sad wind wails, 
 
 Weeping for the old year's death, 
 Telling melancholy tales 
 
 In a ghostly underbreath : 
 Faded is life' yellow grain ; 
 
 The refrain 
 
 Rings like music in my brain 
 " Come again ! " 
 
 But, alas ! I only hear 
 
 Feeble echoes faint and low ; 
 Vainly through the night I peer 
 
 For the friends I used to know ;
 
 INVOCATION. 15 
 
 Vainly seek to touch the strings, 
 
 Once responsive, now so dumb ; 
 To the past my fancy clings 
 Like a golden honeycomb, 
 And the sweetness of the strain 
 
 Would retain : 
 
 Like the widow's son of Nain, 
 " Come again ! " 
 
 Are these ghosts about the fire ? 
 
 Surely those are forms I know ! 
 Surely through my quivering lyre 
 
 The old songs begin to flow ! 
 Sudden resurrection stirs 
 
 Down in Memory's chambers vast, 
 And, embodied in my verse, 
 
 Rise the legions of the past : 
 From the tombs where they have lain, 
 
 Lo ! the train, 
 
 As the night begins to wane, 
 "Come again ! " 
 
 Ah ! 'tis golden morning now, 
 
 And the sun is newly born ; 
 See, he flames upon the brow 
 
 Of the bright blue New Year's morn !
 
 l6 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 Forth into the world I go, 
 
 " Greet the unseen with a cheer," 
 Warmed by love's rich afterglow 
 
 Love's old music in my ear. 
 Wherefore should I then complain ? 
 
 Tears are vain, 
 
 All good things and true remain, 
 Or "come again ! " 
 
 IST JANUARY, 1895.
 
 "THE PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE." 
 27TH MARCH, 1889. 
 
 I. 
 
 AT last the struggle with the Reaper dread 
 
 Has slowly issued in his victory ; 
 
 The voice whose music helped to make us free 
 Is hushed for ever ; and the hoary head, 
 With England's praises proudly chapleted, 
 
 Has bowed to the omnipotent decree : 
 
 Around his tomb the nation silently 
 Assembles to lament him he is dead ! 
 
 In a still place, by no vain pomp adorned, 
 Among the simple friends he loved so well, 
 
 His mighty soul majestically sleeps : 
 Shame smites the bosom of the man who scorned ; 
 Dumb are the lips from which old slanders fell ; 
 A king has fallen, and an empire weeps.
 
 20 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 II. 
 
 What if, at times, in his intense disdain 
 
 Of craft, and fraud, and tyranny, and wrong, 
 He launched the lightnings of his ire among 
 
 The men who laboured for the common gain 
 
 By tardier methods, which he would not deign 
 To recognize, and lashed the murmuring throng 
 From whom he differed with relentless tongue ? 
 
 His heart was honest, if his speech was plain. 
 
 And honesty is almost out of date ; 
 
 The age is rotten, and the man who lies 
 
 Most fluently, and veers with every wind, 
 Is he who soonest grasps the helm of state : 
 The silly crowd are fed with sophistries, 
 And lo ! the blind are leaders of the blind. 
 
 III. 
 
 But not alone because the mask he tore 
 
 From Falsehood, and the thing he felt declared, 
 Does England prize his memory : he cared 
 
 For the mute millions, starving at the door
 
 THE PEOPLE S TRIBUNE. 21 
 
 Of Luxury, and told them that the store 
 
 Of all the world's white harvest might be shared ; 
 And, when guns thundered and the bugle blared, 
 
 Spoke of the time when war shall be no more. 
 
 He fought for Ireland while the fulsome herd 
 Of proselytes who fawn on her to-day 
 Were "in their swaddling clothes," but would not 
 
 bend 
 
 His sturdy conscience at the Wizard's word ; 
 With steadfast feet he kept the ancient way, 
 And, serving England, still was Ireland's friend.
 
 THE DEATH OF FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 IT is brave to die on the tented plain, 
 When the trumpet sings of glory ; 
 
 And the sward is red with the newly slain, 
 And the very daisies gory. 
 
 It is grand to die when the wild winds cry, 
 And the storms are fiercely raging, 
 
 Round the captain standing steadfastly, 
 The elements engaging. 
 
 It is grander still to face the stake, 
 Or the headsman's axe of terror ; 
 
 And to calmly die for the truth's sweet sake 
 In a cruel age of error. 
 
 But fame is the guerdon of him who dies 
 In the battle's loud commotion ; 
 
 And the thought of safety lights the eyes 
 Of the warriors of the ocean ;
 
 THE DEATH OF FATHER DAMIEN. 23 
 
 And the martyr keeps his conscience clean 
 
 As the price of his life's bestowing, 
 And can meet the axe with brow serene, 
 
 Or the flames with fury glowing. 
 
 And I sing of one whom no thought of fame, 
 
 Or hope of safety, tempted ; 
 Whose life was free from the risk of shame, 
 
 And from fiery tests exempted ; 
 
 But he left the fields of the flocks that he 
 Might peacefully have tended ; 
 
 And he boldly sailed to a distant sea 
 Where the folds were undefended. 
 
 And here he heard of a darker clime, 
 
 By a thing of horror haunted ; 
 And, with flinchless courage and faith sublime, 
 
 He faced it all undaunted. 
 
 He went to mingle with those whom man 
 From his homes and haunts had driven, 
 
 And who dwelt together beneath a ban, 
 And died with their souls unshriven ;
 
 24 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 To tell of the touch of the Man Who healed 
 The lepers who thronged to greet Him ; 
 
 Of the "many mansions" His lips revealed, 
 Where the weary ones might meet Him. 
 
 And long he laboured, with fearless breast, 
 Till, at last, his brow was smitten 
 
 With the direful marks of the grisly pest ; 
 And he knew that his doom was written, 
 
 Unless, indeed, he would haste to flee, 
 Like Lot from the burning city, 
 
 And leave the isle to its misery ; 
 But his soul was full of pity, 
 
 And he would not purchase the boon of life 
 At the cost of the tears of others ; 
 
 He would linger on where the curse was rife- 
 He would not forsake his brothers ! 
 
 And the plague increased through the slow, sad 
 years, 
 
 And his face and form were altered : 
 It seized his body, his limbs, his ears, 
 
 But his footsteps never faltered.
 
 THE DEATH OF FATHER DAMIEN. 
 
 In the path of the Master he bravely trod, 
 Heaven's light on his branded features ; 
 
 And he died to prove his love to God 
 By his love to his fellow-creatures.
 
 IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 
 
 MY little girl ! God knows how much I love you, 
 My life's best treasure, and my heart's best pearl, 
 
 And how my spirit, hovering above you, 
 
 Would keep the shadows from your lightest curl. 
 
 My darling lassie, source of all my gladness, 
 While you are troubled, how can I be gay ? 
 
 I watch you suffer, and to see your sadness 
 Drives all my dreams of happiness away. 
 
 Oh ! it is hard to feel a gulf divide us, 
 
 And have no claim to wipe your weeping eyes ; 
 
 For, having that, whate'er might be denied us, 
 I should not wholly miss my paradise. 
 
 I ask no paradise except to fold you 
 
 Close to my heart, and shield you till I die, 
 
 And with strong arms of utmost love to hold you, 
 The one thing needful underneath the sky.
 
 IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 27 
 
 My dreams of fame, and wealth, and health, and pleasure, 
 My hopes of honour in the world's dull strife, 
 
 Whatever things I have been wont to treasure, 
 All else which helps to make the sum of life, 
 
 Seem dearth, and dross, and nothingness without you ; 
 
 It is your smile that turns them into gold ; 
 And if, to-day, I should begin to doubt you, 
 
 My life would wither and my heart grow old. 
 
 But something tells me, when no smile of greeting 
 Illuminates the heaven of your eyes, 
 
 And there is distance in our mien at meeting, 
 And chilling coldness in your calm replies, 
 
 That in some corner of your gentle bosom 
 There buds a tendril very fair to see, 
 
 A branch of love divinely born to blossom, 
 And perfume all the wilderness for me. 
 
 That you and I, like oak and ivy, facing 
 The storms of life, shall only closer grow, 
 
 Our hopes, and hearts, and beings interlacing, 
 One in the sunshine, doubly one in woe.
 
 28 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And, though the burdens we may have to carry 
 May oftentimes seem over-hard to bear, 
 
 Each helping each, we will not faint nor tarry, 
 And rest will come, or here or otherwhere. 
 
 Life shall be fraught for you and me with singing, 
 And future peace atone for present pain : 
 
 Is that the merry marriage bells outringing, 
 And dare I dream of happiness again ? 
 
 I must be patient in my tribulation, 
 
 And some proud morn my dreams may all come true ; 
 To-morrow shall be rich in compensation, 
 
 And all I covet I shall find in you.
 
 IN THE BURIAL GROUND : HILL CLIFF. 
 
 I STAND in silence on the haunted hill, 
 The sun is shining, and the wind is still, 
 The world around is wonderfully fair, 
 And yet my heart aches, and mine eyelids fill. 
 
 Around me lie the relics of the dead ; 
 My kinsmen slumber wheresoe'er I tread ; 
 We leave another loved one here to-day, 
 And still the sun shines, though a life has fled. 
 
 Why does it shine to mock our misery ? 
 How can it shine upon such things as we ? 
 
 We toil, and weep, and struggle, and, behold, 
 Life's ashes flicker, and we cease to be ! 
 
 What boots it to be born ? With bleeding feet 
 We tread the pathways where the flowers are sweet, 
 
 And lo ! they wither as we gather them, 
 And happiness is all a huge deceit.
 
 30 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 There is not one in this calm close to-day 
 But has some grief which eats his life away ; 
 
 Each soul among us is a place of tombs 
 In which dead dreams of happiness decay. 
 
 And all we suffer all our fellows share : 
 Below the silence of this grave-yard bare, 
 
 I mark the town, in silver hazes hid 
 They cover up the blackness of despair ! 
 
 In every house beneath that silver shroud 
 
 There hides some heartache, and some head is bowed 
 
 With agony too terrible to tell, 
 And all the world is underneath a cloud. 
 
 Oh ! wherefore is it that we love so well ? 
 It is our love which constitutes our hell ; 
 
 If we were callous, and had hearts of stone, 
 We might be heedless of the burial bell. 
 
 We love and lose, and, losing love, lose all ; 
 We cling together, but a spectre tall, 
 
 With clammy fingers, enters at the door, 
 And we must sever at his icy call.
 
 IN THE BURIAL GROUND : HILL CLIFF. 31 
 
 Our joys are fleeting, and are mixed with pain ; 
 We gather gold, and household gods, and gain 
 
 Six feet of chilly earth to slumber in, 
 And, passing, wonder, Is it all in vain ? 
 
 And still the sun shines ! Oh ! my brothers, why, 
 If all be darkness, is the azure sky 
 
 Suffused to-day with splendour and with flame ? 
 We do not perish, if we have to die ! 
 
 We do not perish all the universe 
 
 Is deathless, and the terror of the curse 
 
 That darkens it shall yet be rolled away ; 
 And God shall finish each discordant verse 
 
 In the great poem of Eternity ; 
 
 And human love shall yet rewarded be 
 
 I cannot tell you when, or how, or where ; 
 But still the sun shines, and it speaks to me ! 
 
 I will not, dare not, though on dust I tread, 
 I cannot, even here among the dead, 
 
 Believe that any lofty thing shall fail 
 When the long aeons have been perfected.
 
 32 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 The sun shines on ay, shines full visibly ! 
 
 It shines when vapours wrap the realms on high, 
 
 It shines when inky darkness folds the world, 
 And peace is brooding in the soundless sky. 
 
 The sun shines still cast off your garb of gloom ! 
 The sun shines still it gilds the very tomb ! 
 
 And life, and love, and truth shall conquer yet, 
 And mock the thunders of the day of doom !
 
 TO ONE I LOVE. 
 
 " And all stories that ended sadly of old had a happy 
 sequel added, while all new stories had a happy ending." 
 
 A Soul's Comedy : ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 
 TAKE heart, little lassie, though dark is the night, 
 The morning will follow, the day shall be bright ; 
 Though winter is weary, the future shall bring 
 The balm and the music the rapture of spring. 
 
 Take heart, little lassie ; the pain that you bear 
 Has shown us the fibre of which you are made ; 
 
 You have fronted your anguish with fortitude rare, 
 And, in moments of torture, strange strength have 
 displayed ; 
 
 Too long you have trusted at last to despair, 
 
 And the anguish shall leave you, the sting shall be 
 stayed ; 
 
 For courage will conquer, and patience must win 
 
 Bear up, little maiden, and never give in !
 
 34 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 Take heart, little lassie, those beautiful eyes 
 
 Were made for the sunshine, though lovely in tears ; 
 
 And the dews in the violets soar to the skies, 
 
 And, through mists of the morning, heaven's azure 
 appears. 
 
 Oh ! strange is the riddle we each have to read, 
 And the tenderest bosoms most frequently bleed ; 
 The gentlest, the fairest, the kindest, the best, 
 The sweetest, the rarest, must weep with the rest ; 
 But, sooner or later, there comes to the brave 
 The guerdon they merit, the comfort they crave ; 
 And for weeping comes laughter, and songs follow 
 
 sighs, 
 And the smiles shall return to those sweet little eyes. 
 
 Take heart, little lassie, hope on as of yore, 
 
 And the cares that distress you shall grieve you no 
 
 more; 
 From the pangs that have racked it your frame shall 
 
 be free, 
 And your body be stronger than ever before. 
 
 There is happiness waiting for you and for me ; 
 Though the rivers are frozen, the hedges are hoar, 
 I know that the daisies shall bloom on the lea ;
 
 TO ONE I LOVE. 35 
 
 And I feel, as I see you, and ache with your pain, 
 That the cloud shall depart which has melted to rain 
 On the face that is troubled, in the eyes that are wet, 
 And the health that you covet shall come to you yet !
 
 AT " HEAVEN'S GATE." 
 
 A RECOLLECTION OF LONGLEAT. 
 
 THIS common earth, at times, with all its woes, 
 
 Bowed down beneath its burden though it be, 
 
 Feels a dim sense of the felicity 
 Of those far heights of infinite repose 
 By men called Heaven. My fancy flows 
 
 To a sweet morn in summer. I can see 
 
 A hill divinely rounded, and a free 
 Expanse of lawns and woodlands ; softly blows 
 A wind with delicatest scents of flowers 
 
 O'erladen, and the sun is like a god : 
 
 And to the region where his feet have trod 
 The lark soars singing ; yonder are the towers 
 Of a great palace ; here the dreamy bowers 
 
 Where the bees murmur, and the bluebells nod ; 
 
 And soft as velvet is the shining sod, 
 And calm as halcyons are the golden hours. 
 
 This gentle rise is known as " Heaven's Gate," 
 And such, that morn, in sooth, it seemed to me ; 
 The sky was still, the fields serenely fair, 
 
 The hills delectable ; with sinless state 
 Nature had donned her rich embroidery, 
 And, to my fancy, there were angels there,
 
 THE TWO HEAVENS. 
 
 Amid the whirl and stress of life, 
 Sick of the everlasting strife, 
 
 "Heart-sore in Babylon," 
 How sweet it is to dream of rest 
 In some far City of the Blest 
 
 Beyond the shining sun. 
 
 How soothingly the splendour falls 
 From those celestial jasper walls, 
 
 And how the twelve gates gleam ; 
 Sweet is the crystal rivers flow, 
 And those fair fields with " no more snow,' 
 
 How beautiful they seem ! 
 
 Through meadows prankt with asphodel 
 What chords of matchless music swell 
 
 From all the starry choirs ; 
 The streets are paved with burnished gold, 
 No beggars shiver in the cold 
 
 The Lazaruses have lyres !
 
 38 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And every pang by mortals borne, 
 And every chain by mortals worn, 
 
 Is left " outside the gate " ; 
 No sorrow enters, and no sighs 
 Disturb the peace of Paradise 
 
 All tears are wiped away. 
 
 And through the streets no hearses move, 
 With night-black steeds, to bury Love 
 
 In sepulchres of pain ; 
 And gentle hearts asunder riven 
 Meet in the peerless halls of Heaven, 
 
 " And never part again." 
 
 Oh ! aching brows, and weary feet, 
 And lonely lives, it shall be sweet 
 
 To hear the angels sing ; 
 Courage, be bold, look up, press on, 
 For, when the dreary night is gone, 
 
 Ye shall behold the King ! 
 
 " Stop ! " cries the sceptic. " Idle is 
 Your golden dream of empty bliss ; 
 Your Heaven is all a lie ;
 
 THE TWO HEAVENS. 39 
 
 Your pearly gates, and jewels rare, 
 And palms and crowns beyond compare, 
 Your home within the sky, 
 
 " Are but a fable out of date : 
 'Tis vain to hope to conquer Fate, 
 
 Or cheat the maws of Death ; 
 And here, or nowhere, is your heaven : 
 One life alone to man is given 
 
 ' This life of mortal breath ' ! 
 
 " Cast off your cradle memories, 
 To loftier manhood learn to rise, 
 
 From idle dreams awake ; 
 If hidden in the utmost star 
 No pearly gates and portals are, 
 
 Your heaven ye must make ! " 
 
 Great God ! And is our hope a lie ? 
 And are we only "born to die," 
 
 And unto dust return ? 
 Is it in vain when, in the grave, 
 We bury all we care to have, 
 
 And all life's anguish learn,
 
 40 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 We look, through lashes fringed with tears, 
 To that blue silence sown with spheres, 
 
 And see the light afar 
 Of the great wings of seraphim, 
 And gaze into the eyes of Him 
 
 Whose forehead bears a scar, 
 
 And hear him whisper, " Dry your eyes ; 
 * Ye meet again ! ' The dead shall rise 
 
 My brothers, / have risen ! " 
 Is it in vain, in our despair, 
 We look to Him, with lips of prayer, 
 
 To loose our souls from prison ? 
 
 It cannot be ! The weight of woe 
 The human heart is doomed to know, 
 
 The river of red tears, 
 Are surely hard enough to bear 
 If death be all, let black despair 
 
 Blot out the very spheres ! 
 
 Intolerably lonely now, 
 As by the laden bier we bow, 
 Is life without the loss
 
 THE TWO HEAVENS. 41 
 
 Of faith in immortality ; 
 " It is impossible to die," 
 We sob, and clutch the Cross ! 
 
 But, whether this poor life be all, 
 Or whether, at the trumpet's call, 
 
 The meanest son of man 
 Shall burst his cerements, and soar 
 Where seraphs sing and saints adore- 
 
 Whatever be the plan 
 
 Of the eternal frame of things, 
 If all the sky be thick with wings, 
 
 Or dark as deepest Hell, 
 At least, this little world is ours, 
 And, if the ravening grave devours, 
 
 The monster we must quell. 
 
 Beneath our feet the violets bloom, 
 And far away the Day of Doom 
 
 Looms dark against the sun ; 
 And over us star-faces swing, 
 And mountains rise, and thrushes sing, 
 
 And rippling rivers run.
 
 42 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 The shining landscape glows with corn, 
 The flocks and herds the hills adorn, 
 
 The womb of earth conceals 
 Strange treasures, and rich secrets rare 
 The " unfathomed caves of ocean bear," 
 
 And the old world reveals 
 
 A million treasures to the wise, 
 And hides such possibilities 
 
 As none of us conceive, 
 But all of us may seek and find ; 
 And we are wretched "fools and blind 
 
 To idly sit and grieve, 
 
 Instead of striving, noon and night, 
 To drag Creation's laws to light, 
 
 And foil our misery : 
 From wallowing in primeval slime 
 The race has slowly learned to climb 
 
 It yet may learn to fly ! 
 
 We "suffer from ourselves," each ill 
 That clings to us, and clogs us still, 
 Must swiftly strangled be ;
 
 THE TWO HEAVENS. 43 
 
 The lunacy of war, the lust 
 Of gold, the sway of self, the crust 
 Of hopeless poverty, 
 
 The leering eye, the reeling limb, 
 The brain with all its windows dim, 
 
 The crowded prison cell, 
 The deadly havoc of disease, 
 The shrieking slave upon his knees, 
 
 The horrid dream of Hell, 
 
 Proved by the spectacles of pain 
 We meet in every reeking lane, 
 
 The harlot's life of care 
 All woes that for long ages back 
 Have kept the race upon the rack 
 
 Are self-imposed, I swear ! 
 
 Why should we fight ? We may be friends ! 
 Why should we starve ? The earth extends 
 
 Her teeming arms to all ! 
 Why should we turn the luscious vine 
 To an accursed anodyne 
 
 Our manhood to enthral ?
 
 44 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 What need is there for serfs to sweat ? 
 If every man would pay his debt 
 
 Of honest toil, I trow 
 That all of us might fare like kings, 
 And leisure would be left for wings 
 
 On human backs to grow. 
 
 And we might fathom more and more 
 The fount of being, and explore 
 
 Life's utmost mystery ; 
 And Death himself might tremble when 
 We turned to hunt him to his den, 
 
 And leave him there to die. 
 
 Freed from the curse of want and war, 
 The secret of the Caves of Kor 
 
 Bared to our keener ken, 
 Lulled by all music, lifted up 
 To drink with gods the ambrosial cup 
 
 Which Hebe held again, 
 
 Each foot of earth ablaze with flowers, 
 High thoughts the comrades of the hours, 
 High duties to be done,
 
 THE TWO HEAVENS. 45 
 
 The stars would woo us, with soft eyes, 
 "Into the hoar deep to colonize," 
 And soar beyond the sun ! 
 
 We laugh to scorn the sceptic's cry, 
 We know that we shall never die ; 
 
 The universe is given 
 To every suffering son of man ; 
 But, first, to carry out God's plan, 
 
 We'll make this earth a heaven !
 
 THE HEART'S YEARNING. 
 
 " Ah me, ah me, and ah me ! 
 My heart crieth out for thee ! " 
 
 SYLVESTER. 
 
 IN the silence of the night, 
 In the splendour of the day, 
 
 When the morning skies are bright, 
 While the meadows turn to gray, 
 When I kneel me down to pray, 
 
 When I hear sweet music sweep 
 From the belfries far away, 
 
 Or with stifled footsteps creep 
 
 To the drowsy realm of sleep, 
 "Ah me, ah me, and ah me! 
 My heart crieth out for thee ! " 
 
 " So near, and yet so far " 
 So dear, and yet so cold ! 
 
 As the poet craves the star, 
 As the miser loves his gold, 
 Ay, more a thousandfold,
 
 THE HEART'S YEARNING. 47 
 
 Is the yearning in my breast 
 
 For the hand I long to hold, 
 And the lips that I have pressed ; 
 I am filled with a vague unrest 
 
 " Ah me, ah me, and ah me I 
 
 My heart crieth out for thee ! " 
 
 Once I was sick for fame, 
 Once I was mad for pleasure ; 
 
 And to win a dazzling name, 
 Or to tread a stately measure, 
 And beguile the hours of leisure 
 
 With song, and jest, and wine ; 
 But all Golconda's treasure, 
 
 And a Shakespeare's name to shine, 
 
 Are less than a smile of thine : 
 "Ah me, ah me, and ah me I 
 My heart crieth out for thee ! "
 
 "THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD." 
 
 WHAT is the worthiest object of devotion ? 
 
 What is the greatest thing in all the world ? 
 Is it the violet mystery of ocean, 
 
 Or the red sun in clouds of glory furled ? 
 
 Is it the lordship of immense dominions ? 
 
 The crown that dazzles, though the heart be cold ? 
 The poet's unimaginable pinions ? 
 
 The miser's hoard of unimagined gold ? 
 
 Is it to speak with stately tongue of wonder ? 
 
 To read the future like an open scroll ? 
 To tame the lightning, and translate the thunder, 
 
 And have all knowledge centred in the soul ? 
 
 Is it the faith with power to move the mountains, 
 And cast them, shuddering, in the affrighted sea ? 
 
 Which hears the murmur of the crystal fountains 
 In the far haven where we long to be ?
 
 " THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD." 49 
 
 Is it the hope that, when the night is dreary, 
 Discerns the morning with delighted eyes, 
 
 And softly whispers to the worn and weary, 
 And tells the mourner that the dead shall rise ? 
 
 It is not these, but something vastly greater, 
 Though in its nature gentler than the dove : 
 
 Straight from the bosom of the world's Creator 
 It flows in music, and its name is Love. 
 
 Not the sweet love alone of man and woman, 
 Which turns life's water to enchanted wine 
 
 That tender feeling, wonderfully human, 
 
 Which makes the meanest more than half divine ; 
 
 But love in all its depth and breadth of beauty, 
 And all its height, which reaches up to Heaven ; 
 
 Which binds the world in golden bonds of duty, 
 And works in silence, like a subtle leaven, 
 
 That "man to man " may "be a friend and brother," 
 And clothes the naked, and with influence sweet 
 
 Leads the lost daughter to the lonely mother, 
 And draws the wanderer to the father's feet ;
 
 5O ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 Which tends the flowers, and treats God's creatures 
 kindly, 
 
 And aches to see the meanest thing in pain, 
 And weeps to watch the drunkard reeling blindly 
 
 Into the dark, and guides him home again. 
 
 It groans to hear the trumpet call to battle, 
 And shouts aloud to bid the nations pause 
 
 Ere madly rushing, 'mid the cannon's rattle, 
 To " ruin, and the breaking up of laws." 
 
 It sighs to see the destitute forsaken, 
 
 And the rich heedless in their robes of gold ; 
 
 And, in its agony, it seeks to waken 
 The dormant instinct of the Christ of old. 
 
 It cannot bear to hear the churches shrieking 
 Of endless "isms," and of eternal hell, 
 
 While the sweet voice of Christ is calmly speaking : 
 " All are my brothers if they love me well ! " 
 
 Men build great minsters, and with pomp of singing, 
 And lofty ritual, their devotion prove,
 
 "THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD." 51 
 
 To creeds, and forms, and observations clinging : 
 Christ's creed is short the heart of it is Love ! 
 
 And when we learn it all our life shall borrow 
 Its daily air from hills Delectable ; 
 
 There shall be sunshine in the eyes of Sorrow, 
 And at God's footstool man shall surely dwell. 
 
 All the old aching shall find consolation, 
 All the old dreams realities shall prove, 
 
 And all the stars shall laugh with exultation, 
 And earth at last be heaven, for " heaven is love."
 
 THE RISING OF THE STORM. 
 
 As I sit, to-night, in my sanctum high, 
 Where my chosen volumes round me lie, 
 
 I feel the woe 
 
 Of the world below, 
 And I hear the winds begin to sigh. 
 
 And I start from the drowsy verge of sleep, 
 And my very pulses seem to leap 
 
 At the fitful wail 
 
 Of the rising gale, 
 For the wind has secrets hard to keep. 
 
 And I catch the cry of the souls in pain, 
 And I hear poor Rachel weep again, 
 
 And the burning tears 
 
 Of the buried years 
 Are borne to me in a sad refrain.
 
 THE RISING OF THE STORM. 53 
 
 And the hurricane grows louder yet, 
 And I hear the warrior's wild regret, 
 
 And the widow's wail 
 
 As, deathly pale, 
 She walks the field where the armies met. 
 
 And the window rattles, the rafters shake, 
 And a million echoes seem to wake 
 Of forgotten wrongs 
 That have found their tongues, 
 And risen to bid the tyrant quake. 
 
 And with tramp of thunder the tempest roars : 
 From twilight forests and dreary shores 
 
 It bears the curse 
 
 Of the universe, 
 And to God for speedy vengeance soars. 
 
 And the towers, and columns, and thrones of kings 
 Are tossed like chaff on the tempest's wings ; 
 
 And the idols fall 
 
 In the blood-stained hall, 
 And his sword from its scabbard the warrior flings.
 
 54 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And all things rotten, and all things base, 
 Are whirled away, and the fields of space 
 
 Are thick with the hail 
 
 Of the things that fail, 
 Or bright with the promise which takes their place. 
 
 And, above the bellow of the blast, 
 I can hear the angels marching past, 
 And softly sowing, 
 Where tares were growing, 
 The golden seeds of truth at last. 
 
 And the world, that was laden with wrongs and lies, 
 Has been swept and purged, and the clouded skies 
 
 Are opaline, 
 
 And the deserts green, 
 And the wildernesses paradise.
 
 TO AN OLD FLAG. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF A VILLAGE CLUB. 
 
 O, DIM old flag on my attic wall, 
 
 Strange memories wake at the sight of thee, 
 And, to-night, I tenderly recall 
 
 The dreams I dreamed of the days to be 
 In the days long over, before I found 
 
 That hopes are hollow, and dreams betray ; 
 But the faith that prompted them is sound, 
 
 And I cling to nobler hopes to-day. 
 
 Thy dusky folds were the emblems fair 
 
 Of the wish to work for the common good, 
 And to make the weal of the world our care 
 
 Whatever the world's ingratitude. 
 The village club that we founded then 
 
 Was to be the germ of a boyish plan 
 To manufacture grander men, 
 
 And in cricket the youthful scheme began.
 
 56 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 I saw that the many had muscles weak, 
 
 And pallid brows, and a stooping gait ; 
 And it seemed a worthy thing to seek 
 
 Their heads and hearts to elevate. 
 Sound minds, I argued, were wont to dwell 
 
 In healthy bodies and stalwart frames ; 
 And the way to make men wise and well 
 
 Was to stir their pulses by manly games. 
 
 We would show the land, in our little way, 
 
 That mind and muscle would one day wed ; 
 That the lad with leisure for honest play 
 
 Was not the lad with the empty head. 
 The team that shone in the football field, 
 
 Or guarded the village wickets well, 
 At the proper season, would stand revealed 
 
 In mind alike invincible ; 
 
 And, waxing greater from year to year, 
 
 In strength and knowledge would lead the van, 
 And make this kingly lesson clear, 
 
 That mind and body were merged in man ; 
 That the lion's force, and the seraph's brain, 
 
 Were a prize 'twas surely ill to miss ; 
 And that apes in trousers were men in vain, 
 
 And bards like women anomalies.
 
 TO AN OLD FLAG. 57 
 
 In short, our flag was the flag of all 
 
 Who for perfect manhood nobly yearned, 
 And who heard the "voice" on the mountains call, 
 
 And their faces towards the future turned ; 
 And beneath its folds we would work together 
 
 A band of brothers divinely moved 
 To point the way to the golden weather, 
 
 And to spread the light of the truth we loved. 
 
 But I found, alas ! that the friends were nil 
 
 Who cared for cricket and progress too ; 
 And in vain I laboured to instil 
 
 The leaven in the breasts of the members new ; 
 The books I bought were seldom read, 
 
 And the broader aims I mildly mooted 
 To lazy acquiescence led, 
 
 Or by village wits were soon disputed. 
 
 And it seemed a thing incredible 
 
 That any cranium had room to carry 
 The Rugby Rules and dreams as well, 
 
 And that mind and muscle were made to 
 
 marry. 
 To win a match by accident, 
 
 And quarrel every week or so, 
 Was all our village meetings meant 
 
 I grieve to tell it ten years ago !
 
 58 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 A few arose with zeal enough, 
 
 And with arms as strong as their legs were 
 
 fleet, 
 And in many a Rugby scrimmage rough 
 
 Their proudest rivals learned to beat ; 
 And the football fame of our village club 
 
 Progressed with each recurring season ; 
 But the more it flourished ay, "there's the 
 rub " 
 
 My schemes were voted void of reason. 
 
 When the bladder rose, and the goal was 
 gained, 
 
 And the empty thousands thronged to see, 
 No thought of nobler things remained, 
 
 And the dreams were wholly left to me. 
 To be the theme of the idle chat 
 
 Of the throng of towns that were mad for 
 
 matches 
 Was the only thing worth aiming at, 
 
 And life was merely kicks and catches ! 
 
 I left, at last, for the flag was faded, 
 And all my hopes had faded too ; 
 
 And the skies, alas ! were strangely shaded, 
 That were bright, at first, with heaven's own 
 blue:
 
 TO AN OLD FLAG. 59 
 
 No friend I found to share my yearning 
 
 The dim world's darkness to dispel, 
 And, from football frenzies sadly turning, 
 
 I bade the fallen club farewell. 
 
 But I claimed the flag as a legacy, 
 And they have not vanished the dreams of 
 
 youth ; 
 
 And men will some day come to see 
 That the schemes I cherished were based in 
 
 truth ; 
 That brainless bodies are lamps unlit, 
 
 Or within whose shelter the red lusts flame ; 
 That strength needs wisdom to govern it, 
 And the world needs both in its night of 
 shame.
 
 THE VOICE WHICH CALLS. 
 
 " AND now my soul uplifted sees afar 
 The heights of life it sought in vain so long, 
 And faintly limn'd against the furthest sky 
 Acclivities undream'd of. Thence thy voice 
 Is calling ; nothing I behold of thee 
 A voice alone upon the mountain heights 
 Which calls and calls ! " 
 
 Israfel: ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 
 OH, friend ! I, too, have heard the mystic " voice " 
 
 " Which calls and calls ! " and, in the whirl of thought, 
 
 Have caught the summons from the heights afar ; 
 
 And fain am I to follow and achieve. 
 
 I long to leave the circling littleness, 
 
 I weary of the uncongenial air ; 
 
 Like some poor bird, bereft of both its wings, 
 
 I languish here amid the drooping flowers ; 
 
 I sicken as the exile pines for home ; 
 
 I chafe to feel my fetters, and my ears 
 
 Are deafened by the discords, and they ache 
 
 For some high music unattainable,
 
 THE VOICE WHICH CALLS. 6l 
 
 My fellows turn their faces from the sky ; 
 
 With quivering hands they clutch the glittering coin 
 
 That still eludes them ; from their hearts they pluck 
 
 The lily, and the laurel, and the rose, 
 
 And in their places deadly nightshade springs ; 
 
 Lust lives in them, unsanctified by love ; 
 
 Love sells itself for gold, and honest fame 
 
 Is valued less than fulsome flattery ; 
 
 At Circe's bidding, men are turned to swine ; 
 
 And multitudes " reel back into the beast," 
 
 Nor heed the promise of their " growing wings " ; 
 
 They steep themselves in crimson floods of wine, 
 
 And drain themselves with all debauchery ; 
 
 Each robs the other ; in the veins of all 
 
 There creeps a poison dooming them to die ; 
 
 They cringe before false altars ; while they pray 
 
 They whet the dagger ; prophesying peace, 
 
 They wage eternal warfare ; blest with lands 
 
 That yield unbounded harvests, still they starve ; 
 
 The heirs of a vast fortune, on the husks 
 
 Of life they feed ; and, though an angel came 
 
 From utmost heaven to proffer them " a crown 
 
 Of 'living and melodious diamonds,' ' 
 
 Unless some jeweller the gift appraised 
 
 In golden ducats, would reject the boon : 
 
 Their eyes are blind to all God's heaven of stars ; 
 
 Their ears are deaf, though Israfel should sing ; 
 
 They reck not of the scent of asphodel,
 
 62 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 The taste of manna, or the touch of wings ; 
 
 And I am weary, and I long to leave 
 
 The haunts of their debasement. To the hills 
 
 I lift mine eyes, and see the Shining Ones, 
 
 And I, with thee, am wending thitherward ; 
 
 And, peradventure, somewhere on the way, 
 
 We shall fall in with pilgrims, for the "voice" 
 
 " Which calls and calls " grows clearer, and the ears 
 
 Of some are open ; and our band shall grow, 
 
 And we shall call, still following the "voice," 
 
 To those within the valleys ; and, at last, 
 
 Grown wiser, Dives shall forsake his hoard, 
 
 And Mammon's crowded fanes be lonelier ; 
 
 And Bacchus, reeling from the empty cup, 
 
 Shall hold his tongue, and hearken ; and the priest 
 
 Relinquishing his outworn mummeries, 
 
 Shall leave the altar, and look out on heaven, 
 
 And hear the "voice," and follow ; and the slave 
 
 Shall lift his bended back, and, listening, 
 
 Shall never bend again ; and, on the field 
 
 Where steeds career in splendid panoply, 
 
 The warrior, sheathing his relentless sword, 
 
 Shall shudder and turn Godwards, thence to tread 
 
 "The" gradual "paths of an aspiring change." 
 
 If soul be flesh, and spirit fantasy, 
 
 My very flesh will make it wings and soar ! 
 
 And ever, as we rise, there shall unfold 
 
 New hills before us, loftier than our dreams,
 
 THE VOICE WHICH CALLS. 63 
 
 And caverns luminous with mystic fire, 
 
 From whence the inmost secret of the world 
 
 Shall yet be plucked. And still the "voice" shall call, 
 
 And still our souls shall hear it, still remote, 
 
 But never pausing, never looking back, 
 
 And alway nearer, alway following, 
 
 Through stars, and aeons, and eternities.
 
 IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN WEATHER. 
 
 STRANGE peace had come upon him in the golden 
 
 autumn weather, 
 And his soul was full of singing, though the summer 
 
 flowers were fled, 
 For he dreamed that they would travel through the 
 
 wilderness together, 
 
 And his life no more be blighted by the word that 
 she had said. 
 
 A year ago, he wandered in a wonderland created 
 By the magic of the vision of the love he counted 
 
 his; 
 In an hour his dream was shattered, and his heart 
 
 seemed separated 
 
 By a gulf too deep to fathom from a very heaven of 
 bliss. 
 
 And he could not read the riddle of the winsome little 
 
 maiden 
 
 "Who had twined herself about him as the ivy to the 
 tree,
 
 IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN WEATHER. 65 
 
 Till the air with all the fulness of the Beulah hills was 
 
 laden, 
 
 And he walked like one enchanted in a realm of 
 melody. 
 
 It was bitterer than death to him to feel his fondness 
 
 slighted, 
 And no answer in her gaze to find to all he yearned 
 
 to know ; 
 It was hell to feel the coldness of the hand to which 
 
 he plighted 
 
 All he had, and was, and might be, only just a year 
 ago. 
 
 Was the lady he had honoured with the wealth of his 
 
 devotion 
 Just as fickle and as callous as the girls who wed for 
 
 gold? 
 Was her heart an empty vessel all unfitted for the 
 
 ocean 
 Of the love he had to offer, with its mystery untold ? 
 
 Was she weary of a wooer who was often out of fashion ? 
 Did his talk of books grow tedious ? W T ere his 
 praises too sincere ?
 
 66 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 Was she worthy of the fervour which he put into his 
 
 passion ? 
 
 Did she merely want a biped, and a thousand pounds 
 a year ? 
 
 Or had idle tongues been busy ? Did convention come 
 
 between them ? 
 Were they severed by the gossip of the fools who 
 
 live to talk ? 
 Had they guessed their tender secret who in dalliance 
 
 had seen them ? 
 
 Or had scandal swooped upon them with the talons 
 of the hawk ? 
 
 Or had some, by interfering where to interfere is 
 
 treason, 
 Made the maiden pause bewildered, and as timid as 
 
 a dove ? 
 Did they deem her undeveloped ? Was his homage 
 
 out of season ? 
 
 Was her heart too young to treasure the intensity 
 of love ? 
 
 But full often in the winter she would sweetly smile 
 
 upon him, 
 
 And his life leapt up to meet her as the cowslips to 
 the sun ;
 
 IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN WEATHER. 67 
 
 Though, when jealous forms were watching, she would 
 
 coldly seek to shun him, 
 
 Though their lips were still divided, ah ! their eyes 
 were growing one. 
 
 And he felt that, in the silence, she was tenderly 
 
 repeating 
 All the love-words he had spoken in the hour of 
 
 his distress ; 
 That, when darkness filled her chamber, her young 
 
 heart was softly beating, 
 
 'Neath the snow of her soft bosom, to the warmth 
 of his caress ; 
 
 That she hid the love within her, as the lily's scent is 
 
 folded 
 In the whiteness of its being from the fervour of 
 
 the day, 
 But that all her aspirations by his own were subtly 
 
 moulded, 
 
 And that, robbed of his devotion, she would weep 
 her life away. 
 
 And he vowed, within his chamber, when the silver 
 
 stars were shining 
 
 From the spaces lit with angels in the quivering 
 void above,
 
 68 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 To be loyal to the lady, and to cease his sad repining, 
 And to win his spurs by actions that were worthy 
 
 nf Vipr Invp 
 
 of her love. 
 
 He would weave his sweetest singing into garlands in 
 
 her honour, 
 He would dip his pen in sunlight to illuminate her 
 
 name ; 
 All of beauty, and of music, and of peace should fall 
 
 upon her, 
 
 And her life be hid from evil by God's ministers of 
 flame. 
 
 He had friends with souls as lofty as the pinnacles of 
 
 Heaven, 
 He had dreams as rich as Allah, he had hopes as 
 
 high as God ; 
 He had seen the sheen that shimmers from the golden 
 
 candles seven, 
 
 By the crystal stream had wandered, in the golden 
 streets had trod. 
 
 And the fire which he had stolen from these fair 
 
 celestial places 
 
 He would flash upon his fellows from a firmament 
 of song,
 
 IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN WEATHER. 69 
 
 And with some serene evangel would irradiate their 
 
 faces, 
 And to some exalted music tune the universal tongue. 
 
 And the damsel, as she listened, would be ravished 
 
 by the splendour 
 Of the strain that she had wakened, and would feel 
 
 its soft control ; 
 And a light as bright and beautiful as dawn is, and as 
 
 tender 
 
 The light of love would greet him from the windows 
 of her soul. 
 
 So he waited, tossed and driven, like a vessel in the 
 
 thunder 
 
 Of the billows madly breaking on the distant har- 
 bour bar; 
 And, at times, the trembling argosy in darkness seemed 
 
 to founder, 
 
 But her eyes would be his beacon they were steady 
 as a star. 
 
 And, as spring succeeded winter, and the bluebells 
 
 'gan to blossom, 
 
 They were slowly drawing nearer, and at last the 
 roses came ;
 
 70 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 She was yearning to him daily by the beating of her 
 
 bosom 
 
 He could tell it by the trembling of the hand he 
 was to claim ! 
 
 But the fulness of his guerdon was too high to come 
 
 so early, 
 
 And her lips too rich in honey, and her heart with 
 :+ Love's own wine ; 
 And he waited for possession till the autumn dews 
 
 were pearly, 
 
 Till the corn with gold was glowing, and the purple 
 on the vine. 
 
 And, last night, she nestled to him, as the woodbine 
 
 to the trellis, 
 And their spirits grew together as their arms were 
 
 intertwined ; 
 
 And they thrilled with all the rapture that too beauti- 
 ful to tell is, 
 
 And although they spoke but little, ah ! their mean- 
 ing was divined. 
 
 And he could not doubt, that morning, as they sat 
 
 within the garden, 
 
 Every flower diffusing sweetness, every cloud on fire 
 above,
 
 IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN WEATHER. 71 
 
 Though he dared not sue too fondly, lest in vain he 
 
 sought for pardon, 
 
 That his pain was slowly turning to the paradise of 
 love. 
 
 Strange peace had come upon them in the golden 
 
 autumn weather, 
 Though the yellow leaves were falling, and the winter 
 
 came apace ; 
 
 For he knew that they would travel through the wil- 
 derness together, 
 
 And his life be one long summer in the sunshine of 
 her face.
 
 AN EPITHALAMIOX. 
 
 AT last 'tis past, the time of waiting, 
 
 And lo ! the day of days is here ; 
 It is the merry morn for mating, 
 
 And balmy is the atmosphere ; 
 The sun the ancient spire is lighting, 
 
 The church is filling with the fair, 
 And man and maid, their hands uniting, 
 
 Undying fealty fondly swear. 
 
 Wooing, suing oh ! these are over ; 
 
 The pulses meet that throbbed apart ; 
 Rich is the guerdon of the lover 
 
 He takes the loved one to his heart ; 
 He vows to cherish her in sorrow, 
 
 In weal or woe, his gentle bride ; 
 And, through the infinite To-morrow, 
 
 The twain shall nestle side by side. 
 
 Blisses, kisses ah ! these are sweet, 
 But life has sweeter things in store
 
 AN EPITHALAMION. 73 
 
 The perfect tune of hearts that beat 
 
 In unison for evermore ; 
 The sacrifice of self, the lifting 
 
 Of burdens light with love for leaven ; 
 The coupled souls together drifting 
 
 Through Eden's valleys into Heaven. 
 
 Fashion, passion ay ! these are fleeting ; 
 
 And youth is brief, but truth remains, 
 And love endures, in Heaven completing 
 
 The fulness of its golden gains. 
 Here with the gold the dross is mingled, 
 
 But oh ! the gold is always there ; 
 And those who love by God are singled 
 
 The peace of Paradise to share. 
 
 And I, with feeble voice that falters, 
 
 Though from my heart its accents flow, 
 Predict a joy that never alters 
 
 For these who forth united go. 
 The years will pass, the silver thicken 
 
 In the locks so richly dark to-day, 
 But love will only bloom and quicken 
 
 As the pulse's music dies away. 
 
 His manly arm shall still defend her, 
 Her winsome voice shall solace him,
 
 74 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And all the shining angels lend her 
 
 Their wings should tears her eyes bedim ; 
 
 From her, as from a fountain, drinking 
 Sweet influences, he shall be 
 
 All that he has been to her thinking, 
 And everything he pictured she ; 
 
 And from the twain the world inherit 
 
 Men with the father's sturdy scorn 
 Of meanness, and the mother's merit, 
 
 In mingled strength and virtue born ; 
 And daughters fair, and meet for loving, 
 
 Shall fondly rise to call them blest, 
 Their lofty lineage proudly proving 
 
 By all we hold as worthiest. 
 
 And from their path the clouds shall hasten, 
 
 Or love will pierce them like the sun ; 
 And though the thorns may come to chasten 
 
 Their human lot, they shall be one ; 
 And every pang shall draw them nearer, 
 
 And every sorrow seal their troth, 
 And every sunny dream be dearer 
 
 Because it is the dream of both. 
 
 If wealth be theirs, may health to use it 
 Be theirs, and gentle charity ;
 
 AN EPITHALAMION. 75 
 
 If fortune change, and they should lose it, 
 
 May calm content their portion be ; 
 If friends be theirs, may they be loyal ; 
 
 Though gold and friendship faithless prove, 
 I know their lot shall still be royal, 
 
 And kings might envy them their love.
 
 THE ETERNITY OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " All that is beautiful shall abide, 
 All that is base shall die ! " 
 
 Balder the Beautiful : ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 WHAT is the song "that is ringing from river, mead, 
 
 and sky ? " 
 " All that is beautiful shall abide, all that is base 
 
 shall die." 
 The flowers their petals flinging when the summer 
 
 winds are high, 
 And the waves on the shingle singing where the 
 
 yellow sunbeams lie, 
 And the majesty of mountains, and the thunder's 
 
 thrilling cry, 
 And the stars whose golden faces the might of night 
 
 deny, 
 Are moved to a solemn echo " as the music wanders 
 
 by"- 
 "All that is beautiful shall abide, all that is base shall 
 
 die ! "
 
 THE ETERNITY OF BEAUTY. 77 
 
 There are bards whose feet have stumbled, but their 
 
 sweetest songs live oh ; 
 
 Though the quills from angels' feathers were some- 
 times dipped in slime, 
 They were oftener dipped in honey, and their starry 
 
 names are known 
 By the songs that beat reveille to the throbbing 
 
 pulse of Time ; 
 When the daisies bloom above them, Oblivion blots 
 
 the page 
 That was dark with the saddening record of their 
 
 slips in the sensual sty, 
 Whilst Fame embalms their message as the glad 
 
 world's heritage 
 "All that is beautiful shall abide, all that is base 
 
 shall die ! " 
 
 The artist who is haunted by the grand conception 
 
 blurred 
 Believes that the best within him will live to speak 
 
 his skill ; 
 And that one supreme oration, when the great crowd 
 
 scarcely stirred, 
 
 In the ears of men will linger when the stammering 
 tongue is still ;
 
 78 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 And the squalid habitations where the pig-like 
 
 people pine 
 Will crumble into ashes, while the minster's 
 
 towers deride 
 The assaults of the tireless centuries, and swell the 
 
 note divine, 
 
 " Only the base shall " perish, "the beautiful shall 
 abide ! " 
 
 There was never a true word spoken which craft or 
 
 crime could kill, 
 There was never a sceptred falsehood that Hell 
 
 had power to save ; 
 Though the very spheres should shiver, and the very 
 
 sun stand still, 
 I should see the Truth rise radiant from the 
 
 universe's grave ; 
 
 In vain does Apollyon rally the armies of the Pit, 
 For Right and Truth are sisters, and God is on 
 
 their side ; 
 
 In vain do the banded devils assail the Infinite, 
 For "the base shall " surely perish, " the beautiful 
 shall abide ! " 
 
 In hamlet and in city, in continent and sphere, 
 From the worm to the archangel we move to the 
 goal designed ;
 
 THE ETERNITY OF BEAUTY. 79 
 
 And the myriad metamorphoses which mystify us 
 
 here 
 
 Are simply transmutations of the Eternal Mind ; 
 And the graves of the world are caldrons from 
 
 whence, on wizard wings, 
 Shall rise the dazzling legions that with God's 
 
 splendour vie ; 
 At the mouth of the open sepulchre the trump of 
 
 Azrael rings : 
 
 " All that is beautiful shall abide, all that is base 
 shall die ! " 
 
 Then shall we curse our burden, and sit us down 
 
 and sigh, 
 When "all that is beautiful shall abide," and "all 
 
 that is base shall die " ? 
 We are born for a golden guerdon, though the years 
 
 seem all awry ; 
 We are kin to the burning glories of the unveiled 
 
 Deity ; 
 Through the womb of Heaven, star-laden, we shall 
 
 float, and flame, and fly ; 
 We shall smile at " the wreck of matter and the 
 
 crash of worlds " defy ; 
 
 To the voice of our lamentation a million suns reply : 
 " All that is beautiful shall abide, all that is base 
 
 shall die ! "
 
 GOOD-BYE ! 
 
 " Tis very hard to leave you." 
 
 Volumes in Folio : RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 
 
 MY guests have gone, my attic is forsaken, 
 The final moment finds me here alone ; 
 
 From their snug shelves my volumes have been taken, 
 With dusty relics every seat is strown ; 
 
 Old room, 'tis time we parted, you and I 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Ah ! dear to me is every nook and corner, 
 And every book and beam is strangely dear ; 
 
 I care not for the sneering of the scorner ; 
 My life of life for many a golden year 
 
 Has all been lived within this attic high : 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Here, from the hubbub of the world secluded, 
 I closed my ears to the dull clink of gold ;
 
 GOOD-BYE. 8l 
 
 Here I forgot how Mammon had deluded 
 
 The multitude, and how their hearts were cold 
 How they had learned to curse, and cheat, and lie : 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 What jokes have rung beneath this ancient ceiling, 
 What quips and cranks been passed, what secrets 
 
 told, 
 What longings breathed, what hidden founts of 
 
 feeling 
 
 Have burst their bonds, what speculations bold, 
 What questionings of life's dark mystery : 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Here at the shrine of Poesy I have listened 
 
 To music all too sweet to understand ; 
 Have seen the lamp that on her altars glistened, 
 
 " The light that never was, on sea or land ; " 
 Have thrilled to voices like the trumpet's cry : 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Here I have drunk the Heliconian waters ; 
 
 Here I have tasted nectar, and have trod 
 Serene amid the shining sons and daughters 
 
 Of seraphim, who crowd the courts of God, 
 And on great wings of wonder float and fly : 
 Good-bye !
 
 82 ECHOES FROM AN OLD ATTIC. 
 
 When the sun sank, and the tired earth was sleeping, 
 And the dull noises of the day were done, 
 
 And, through the lattice mystically peeping, 
 The stars, with their eternal faces, shone, 
 
 Here Heaven would open to my ravished eye : 
 Good-bye ! 
 
 Good-bye ! with all the golden dreams I treasured, 
 Here in the silence, when the midnight fell, 
 
 Dreams of a throbbing universe unmeasured, 
 And of a love stronger than Death or Hell 
 
 Old room of mine, so strangely near the sky, 
 Good-bye !
 
 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 E. JAMES HALL. 
 
 THE wind about my windows blowing 
 Is laden with sad memories ; 
 
 The years creep slowly on, and, going, 
 Instead of bays, bring cypresses ; 
 
 And Lethe's stream is dumbly flowing, 
 And soon shall swallow all that is. 
 
 But, ere the black and snaky river 
 Shall sweep my songs into that sea 
 
 Where human fame is lost for ever, 
 I send this little book to thee, 
 
 An honest friend who failed me never, 
 Nor ever asked a loan of me ; 
 
 Who understood my aspirations, 
 And loved the ancient town I loved ;
 
 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Saw England crowned among the nations, 
 Her honour by the world approved ; 
 
 And mingled in my lamentations 
 
 To see Wrong rule, and God unmoved. 
 
 Together we have fondly striven 
 
 To help the world with tongue and pen ; 
 
 To make it rather more like Heaven, 
 Its children rather more like men ; 
 
 Sometimes, to desperation driven, 
 
 Have half despaired, but hoped again ! 
 
 And we, a year ago, together 
 
 Saw Death stoop down and grimly seize 
 A brave young soul, and harshly tether 
 
 His wings, and bring him to his knees, 
 And, on the verge of golden weather, 
 
 The life within his warm veins freeze 
 
 A brave young soul who shared our yearning 
 For earth's best gifts, and tasted most ; 
 
 But found, in spite of all his learning, 
 How poor they were when love was lost, 
 
 And, from the empty banquet turning, 
 The Stygian river calmly crossed.
 
 DEDICATION. 89 
 
 Our paths were tenderly united 
 By mingled strands of peace and pain ; 
 
 But he the further shore has sighted, 
 And only you and I remain : 
 
 The closer shall our faith be plighted 
 Till in some star we meet again ! 
 
 And hark ! the midnight hour is booming, 
 The world spins on, and you and I, 
 
 Though thunder-clouds were darkly looming 
 In every corner of the sky, 
 
 Believing in " the good time coming," 
 And knowing that the dawn is nigh, 
 
 Would not despair ; we hear sweet singing, 
 We catch high visions, and we know, 
 
 To Truth and to each other clinging, 
 That, whatsoever tempests blow, 
 
 Far off the City bells are ringing, 
 And Death himself is lying low. 
 
 " IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE," 
 I5TH NOVEMBER, 1895.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 JENNY. 
 IITH DECEMBER, 1890. 
 
 ALAS for the light of the dreary day 
 
 That came as the sad year's end drew on ; 
 Alas for the length of the weary way 
 
 That thou must traverse ere day be done ; 
 Alas for the home where the blinds are low 
 
 In the busy town, with its noise and stir ; 
 And alas for us, who share thy woe, 
 
 And alas for all the world but her ! 
 
 Ah, me, my friend ! I was loth to think, 
 
 As I said good-bye that autumn night, 
 That a cup like this would be thine to drink 
 
 When the frost on the window-panes was white. 
 It is not often that souls are wed, 
 
 And that spirits meet in the touch of lips ; 
 And I did not dream, when the dawn was red, 
 
 Of the sudden shadow, the blank eclipse !
 
 Q2 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 From many an altar I knew there went, 
 
 To "the trivial round" and " the common task," 
 The millions who were quite content 
 
 To eat, and drink, and die, nor ask 
 That Love should lift them till they gleamed 
 
 Like angels in the common air, 
 And all who saw them dimly deemed 
 
 That Heaven was near when they were there. 
 
 But ye were absolutely one 
 
 Heart, mind, and body, and soul had met ; 
 And the Eden sunshine softly shone 
 
 On the road ye travelled, and lingers yet ; 
 And the savour of the memory 
 
 Of a doubly perfect love like this 
 Shall evermore be dear to me, 
 
 Though the maiden's voice all silent is. 
 
 I know, my friend, how dark the way 
 
 Will be for thee for many a year ; 
 And when thy youthful locks are gray, 
 
 And the leaves of life are turning sere, 
 Thy heart will yearn to the long ago, 
 
 And thy bosom thrill with a sudden pain, 
 In the silence, when the lights are low, 
 
 And haply thou will weep again.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 93 
 
 But not for her need tears be shed, 
 
 And not for her need the sad bells toll 
 In the silent country of the dead, 
 
 New scenes of richer life unroll ! 
 I do not know what life it is, 
 
 Or in what body the dead shall rise ; 
 I cannot fathom the mysteries 
 
 That hide in yonder azure skies ; 
 
 But this I know, that nothing fails 
 
 Of just, or good, or pure, or high, 
 Though the stars should fall, and that Love avails, 
 
 Though the roses shrink, and droop, and die ; 
 In all God's universe, I know 
 
 Love never loses its reward, 
 Though in dumb procession we must go 
 
 To the narrow house where the worm is lord. 
 
 And peradventure, even now, 
 
 A radiant spirit comes from far 
 To gently soothe thy burning brow 
 
 With the balm that blooms in the Morning Star ; 
 Wherever thy weary feet may wend 
 
 The sheen of silver wings shall be ; 
 However this poor life may end, 
 
 Love lives through all eternity.
 
 94 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And perhaps, in some diviner sphere, 
 
 Thy troth may be completed yet ; 
 For the story is not ended here, 
 
 And cannot end while eyes are wet ; 
 And my soul to some far future turns 
 
 When Love shall foil the Monster Fell 
 I tell thee, with a heart that burns 
 
 Within me, all shall yet be well ! 
 
 The lady sleepeth leave her so ; 
 
 And rise, go forth, and work as one 
 Who never bends to any blow, 
 
 And in the winter feels the sun ; 
 And, as twilight falls, thou shalt softly stray, 
 
 With a beating heart to a shining land ; 
 And your lips will meet in the ancient way 
 
 She "will w r ake, and remember, and understand."
 
 THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 
 
 THE fabled voyagers, in years long fled, 
 
 Sailed from the common sorrow of their kind, 
 
 And over boundless wastes of water sped, 
 And trod great forests, and before the wind 
 Flew on from dreadful zone to zone to find 
 
 The Earthly Paradise. Alas, alas, 
 
 The ancient dream the old enchantment has ! 
 
 For we, too, seek the Earthly Paradise, 
 But not in frail ships on a lonely sea 
 
 The rolling centuries have made us wise ; 
 The peace we dream of, if it is to be, 
 Our toil must rear from the world's misery, 
 
 And sweat of brain, and heart, and hands must mould 
 
 The Age of Honour from the Age of Gold. 
 
 And dreary is the task, and I despair ; 
 The road is heavy and the end unsure,
 
 g6 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And peradventure none of us shall share 
 The bliss beyond the ills we seek to cure ; 
 And I must strive, and struggle, and endure, 
 Led on by hollow hopes, and tempest-tossed, 
 And only waken to give up the ghost. 
 
 I need a nearer paradise. The skies 
 
 May hide all things I ever dreamed of they 
 
 Are high and cold ; the Earthly Paradise 
 We work for still recedes, and Time is gray ; 
 And I am very weary of the way, 
 
 And of the issue I can hardly guess, 
 
 And sadly stumble on, companionless. 
 
 For dreams are vain, and labour unfulfilled, 
 And the high Heaven too distant for my need : 
 
 Is there no rock on which my heart may build ? 
 No Eden for the human feet that bleed ? 
 Ah, yes ! The Fates that bitterly decreed 
 
 That Death alone should prove the Heaven above, 
 
 Have left the Earthly Paradise of Love. 
 
 And I have found that Earthly Paradise, 
 Which shall suffice me till my task is done ;
 
 THE EARTHLY PARADISE. 97 
 
 Within your bosom the sweet region lies, 
 And lo ! your soft smile lights it like the sun : 
 It is your heart, my lady ; I have won 
 The thing for which I scarcely dared to pray, 
 And all my dreams grow tangible to-day. 
 
 I dream that you and I, made one by Love, 
 All lovely dreams for evermore shall share ; 
 
 I dream that, heart to heart, we twain shall prove, 
 Though Heaven be distant, that the earth is fair ; 
 I dream that we shall help the world to bear 
 
 Its burden bravely, and, with hope renewed, 
 
 Together labour for the common good. 
 
 And still I dream that somewhere, near or far, 
 All souls shall find the rest for which they crave ; 
 
 That poverty shall pass, and want, and war, 
 And all we ask the least of us shall have, 
 And in the light of Love defy the grave ; 
 
 That Heaven shall crown the Earthly Paradise, 
 
 And both be sweetened by your soft blue eyes.
 
 THE EMPIRE'S LOSS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD, 
 
 PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA, 
 
 6TH JUNE, 1891. 
 
 " A British subject I was born ; a British subject I will 
 die. With my last efforts and with my latest breath will 
 I resist this veiled treason which seeks by sordid bribes 
 and mercenary proffers to lure the people of Canada from 
 
 their allegiance." 
 
 LAST ELECTION ADDRESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 BRITANNIA built an Empire oversea ; 
 
 In blood were its immense foundations laid ; 
 
 She guarded it with courage undismayed, 
 Proud of the promise of its destiny ; 
 Its borders were the dwellings of the free ; 
 
 About its margin every ocean played ; 
 
 One Sovereign all its citizens obeyed, 
 And at one Throne were proud to bend the knee.
 
 THE EMPIRE'S LOSS. 99 
 
 It grew and flourished, and the years rolled on, 
 Till some foretold its imminent decline, 
 Declaring it too big for our control ; 
 They said the flag which like a meteor shone 
 
 Through all its borders soon should cease to shine, 
 And Greater Britain never reach her goal. 
 
 II. 
 
 Some listened to the prophecy appalled, 
 
 Some swore the croaking word to falsify ; 
 
 And one declared that he, at least, would die 
 A British subject ; and, when Treason bawled 
 With growing vehemence, on his kinsmen called 
 
 To baffle it, and all its force defy ; 
 
 And England watched him with strong sympathy, 
 And smiled to see its empty schemes forestalled. 
 
 For he, the victor in a score of fights, 
 
 The man who kept his own Dominion one, 
 
 And made her rich, and populous, and bold, 
 Scorning old age, and ease, and the delights 
 Of power, went forth to prove himself her son, 
 Nor stab his Mother for base bribes of gold.
 
 TOO LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 III. 
 
 He saved the Empire, but he lost his life 
 In saving it ; his " latest breath " was spent 
 In grappling with the unfilial crew intent 
 
 On raising up insidious seeds of strife, 
 
 And darkly seeking, with the traitor's knife, 
 To split the strands indissolubly blent ; 
 And, ere upon the last long road he went, 
 
 Crushed out the plots with which the realm was rife. 
 
 He died for England, let us live for it : 
 The danger he averted we must slay, 
 
 The unity he dreamed of must complete ; 
 Upon the wall the handwriting is writ, Q 
 And England must not hesitate a day, 
 Or continents may crumble at her feet !
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 I. 
 
 I SAID so much because I loved you so, 
 
 Nor deemed your love would thus misunderstand ; 
 My heart is heavy in an alien land ; 
 
 You read my impulse wrongly, and the blow 
 
 Your answer gave me chilled me like the snow ; 
 The bond which bound us seemed a rope of sand, 
 And all the visions which my soul had planned 
 
 Passed like the sunset as I turned to go. 
 
 Believe me, dearest, had I loved you less, 
 
 My lips stern custom would have closely sealed. 
 'Twas faith in you, and in our plighted troth 
 That made me bold, and wrought my sore distress. 
 Your gentle lips my heart-wound slowly healed, 
 But the pain rankles : God forgive us both !
 
 IO2 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 II. 
 
 It seemed to me that, when two hearts were one, 
 No secrets should divide them ; that the ring 
 Was but a token of a nobler thing, 
 
 In Eden's scented silences unknown ; 
 
 That, when two spirits beat in unison, 
 There was no fear of misinterpreting : 
 It was a creed that poets love to sing 
 
 A faith to which I have myself been prone. 
 
 Forgive me if I wronged the name of Love, 
 I who esteem it more than half of Heaven, 
 
 And, lacking it, should scarcely care to live ; 
 My life, at least, my advocate shall prove : 
 
 Forgive my words, as yours have been forgiven, 
 And trust me more, but O, at least forgive ! 
 
 BELFAST, 
 
 I2TH JULY, 1891.
 
 A VOICE FROM AVILION. 
 
 THE clouds are weeping in the lane, 
 The winds are wailing round the hill, 
 The weary world is blank and chill, 
 
 And Nature's eyes are dim with pain, 
 
 And mine are dim with sympathy, 
 For lo ! a presence has withdrawn 
 Which was "an awful rose of dawn " 
 
 To souls with faculty to see 
 
 A peerless prophet in a day 
 
 Distraught with Faction's empty noise, 
 Sunk in the slough of sensual joys, 
 
 In Doubt's dim pathways gone astray ; 
 
 A stainless patriot in an age 
 
 Of "trucklings to the transient hour;" 
 A voice, "whatever tempests lour," 
 
 The silver morning to presage
 
 104 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 A voice of music such as thrilled 
 The knights of Arthur on the day 
 When, "like" a "shadow, slipt away 
 
 The hart with horns of gold, and rilled 
 
 Their souls with answering music high, 
 And swayed them like a hand of fire, 
 And stirred their pulses with desire 
 
 To do some lordly deed or die. 
 
 The magic vision passed, the spell 
 Of the heart-moving music ceased ; 
 And some reeled "back into the beast," 
 
 And some remembered it, and fell 
 
 In battle with wild heathen hordes, 
 
 Or lived clean lives with purpose grand, 
 And died at last to save the land 
 
 Which was King Arthur's and the Lord's. 
 
 And we, for half a hundred years, 
 
 Have seen such marvels, have been stirred 
 By music strange as that they heard 
 
 We hear it through our mist of tears !
 
 A VOICE FROM AVILION. IO5 
 
 In summer sunlight, as we tread 
 Each holy rood of English ground, 
 The hart will pass, the music sound, 
 
 And all our lives be hallowed. 
 
 And when, as on the pane to-night, 
 The rain is beating like a cry, 
 And all God's angry winds are high, 
 
 We still shall see the vision bright, 
 
 And still shall catch the music, though 
 
 To the realm's roots the storm should tear, 
 And empires reel, and all things fair 
 
 Shake with presentiments of woe. 
 
 For that sweet music from the spheres 
 Was spoken, though the voice was his ; 
 God sends these thrilling melodies 
 
 To stop the fountains of our tears, 
 
 And keep the soul's escutcheon white 
 In a dank air too earthy grown, 
 And stir us, were we made of stone, 
 
 To crush the Wrong and crown the Right.
 
 106 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Loud roars the wind, and will not cease : 
 The elements his dirges sing, 
 The storms his praise are trumpeting 
 
 His " life was pure," " his end was peace ; " 
 
 There was no " moaning of the bar" 
 When calmly he " put out to sea ; " 
 Death seemed a thing of majesty, 
 
 Whose brow was blazing like a star 
 
 To guide him to Avilion, 
 
 " Where falls not hail, or rain, or " " snow," 
 And where no bellowing tempests blow ; 
 
 And tenderly the moonlight shone 
 
 About the brow, so marble pale, 
 " Of him that utter'd nothing base," 
 Whose laurels all God's stars replace, 
 
 Whose hands have clasped the Holy Grail. 
 
 WELLFIELD, STOCKTON HEATH, 
 QTH OCTOBER, 1892.
 
 ENGAGED. 
 
 TO-DAY with smiles at last we start, 
 Dear little heart, upon a sea 
 
 Of mystery, with love for chart : 
 What will the coming weather be ? 
 
 We cannot tell what storms may swell, 
 What billows beat about our bark ; 
 
 We do not know what havens sweet 
 Our eyes may greet the path is dark 
 
 But Love shall pilot us ; with thee 
 The port I shall not fail to gain ; 
 
 The stars shall be our landmarks ; we 
 Shall laugh at Death, and smile at Pain. 
 
 This life below is full of woe, 
 And soon we go into the night 
 
 O, heart's delight ! O, lily white ! 
 Eternity is ours, I trow !
 
 108 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Sweet little maiden, be it mine, 
 In storm or shine, to shield thee well ; 
 
 In winter's hour to guard my flower, 
 When thunders lour, and surges swell. 
 
 And may our troth be kept by both, 
 Nor Heaven be loth to smile on it ; 
 
 And all the fears of darker years, 
 And all the tears, be rainbow-lit. 
 
 Long is the voyage may we move 
 In equal love unto the close ; 
 
 Nor doubt assail, nor passion pale, 
 Nor envy rob us of repose. 
 
 And may our bodies be the root 
 
 Whose flower and fruit is in the skies, 
 
 And from the seeds spring noble deeds, 
 And high repute in Paradise. 
 
 For, should we miss life's ecstasies, 
 
 Which heaven forefend, there lies before 
 
 A golden shore, and every kiss 
 
 Foretells a bliss which shall not end.
 
 ENGAGED. IOO, 
 
 Through devious years, with divers fears, 
 
 And beatific hopes enow, 
 I've sailed alone, and life has shown 
 
 Both fair and foul ; but may my vow 
 
 Bring joy to me, and unto thee 
 
 Felicity exceeding strange ; 
 And may this ring cease glittering 
 
 If ever our young love should change ! 
 
 I5TH NOVEMBER, 1892.
 
 ON THE OPENING OF THE IMPERIAL 
 INSTITUTE. 
 
 IOTH MAY, 1893. 
 
 " WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main," 
 She gazed upon a virgin land 
 
 To kiss whose feet the waves were fain ; 
 Around her breast the flowers were spread, 
 
 Upon her brow God's sunlight fell, 
 And in her eyes the nations read 
 
 The promise of a miracle. 
 
 She spread her wings, and every sea 
 
 Quivered beneath her queenly flight, 
 And where she rested Liberty 
 
 Lifted its forehead to the light ; 
 About her knees the captives clung, 
 
 The slave rejoiced to feel her nigh, 
 And from her loins new nations sprung 
 
 With stalwart limbs and courage high.
 
 ON THE OPENING OF THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE. Ill 
 
 The praises of the Northern Nurse 
 
 A hundred alien races told, 
 And into that proud lap of hers 
 
 They poured their treasures manifold. 
 The years rolled on her children grew ; 
 
 One left in wrath the others clove 
 Still closer to her heart, and knew 
 
 And answered to the Mother's love. 
 
 She reared a regal hall for them, 
 
 They placed their richest treasures there 
 It blazed with many an eastern gem, 
 
 It bloomed with shimmering fabrics fair ; 
 All arts and handicrafts adorned 
 
 Its ample courts, all Nature's spoil, 
 Wooed from the realms by tyrants scorned, 
 
 All trophies of strong English toil. 
 
 And from the midmost tower there rang 
 
 Bells wild with tuneful prophecy, 
 And to the listening city sang 
 
 Of mystic lands beyond the sea ; 
 And under them in council met 
 
 Wise hearts to plot, sage heads to plan ; 
 To clasp their kinsmen closer yet, 
 
 And hail the brotherhood of man.
 
 112 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Ring on, O bells, and never rest, 
 
 And may the music of your chimes 
 Be heard from utmost east to west, 
 
 Be fondly felt in farthest climes ; 
 Ring on and sing, and never cease 
 
 To call to all our kith and kin 
 To meet within these walls in peace, 
 
 And bring the world's great morning in !
 
 THE WRECK OF THE VICTORIA. 
 
 THE sky was fair and sunny, 
 
 And quiet was the sea, 
 When the ships into the roadstead, 
 
 With banners waving free, 
 Put forth on a golden afternoon 
 
 In a goodly company. 
 
 In two great lines majestic, 
 
 By two ocean monsters led, 
 They moved with ease through the placid 
 seas, 
 
 The Admiral at their head ; 
 But the placid seas were hungry, 
 
 And they feast upon the dead ! 
 
 What sudden fancy palsied 
 The brain so often tried ? 
 
 What black fiend stood to whisper 
 The fell word at his side ?
 
 114 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LAXE. 
 
 What dreadful madness seized him 
 That golden summer-tide ? 
 
 The eyes so clear were blinded 
 To the doom he went to meet ; 
 
 For he gave a reckless order, 
 And refused to cancel it ; 
 
 And they marvelled and obeyed him !- 
 'Tis the way in the English Fleet ! 
 
 Some dreamed that a new manoeuvre 
 Would crown his ancient skill ; 
 
 But nearer the vessels drifted, 
 Nearer and nearer still ; 
 
 And the doors were closed, and the sea 
 
 reposed, 
 And the Admiral had his will. 
 
 Suddenly through the silence 
 
 There came a hollow roar, 
 For the ram of the mighty " Camperdown " 
 
 Through the flag-ship's armour tore, 
 And in through the gap, like a thunder-clap, 
 
 The waves began to pour.
 
 THE WRECK OF THE VICTORIA. 115 
 
 From stem to stern she quivered, 
 
 And reeled from the fatal shock, 
 But the Admiral stood, as an Admiral 
 should, 
 
 Like a lump of his native rock, 
 And every man obeyed him 
 
 They were all of the same old stock ! 
 
 And their spirits did not falter, 
 And their courage did not fail ; 
 
 And never a nerve grew feeble, 
 And never a cheek turned pale, 
 
 And never a man from his duty ran 
 In truth, 'tis a noble tale ! 
 
 Some toiled in the shattered forecastle, 
 
 Wet to the very waist ; 
 Some stood by the sinking bulwarks, 
 
 Or the sick in safety placed ; 
 And some, in the nether darkness, 
 
 A blacker danger faced. 
 
 For the engines must be tended, 
 And the furnaces be fed,
 
 Il6 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And deep in the monster's bowels, 
 With the hissing waves o'erhead, 
 
 The stokers stood half naked, 
 By the roaring fires blood-red. 
 
 And the rest on the deck formed calmly, 
 Though the great ship rocked and 
 swayed, 
 
 Each man at his post undaunted 
 Of such stuff are the English made ! 
 
 And she staggered, and heeled, and listed, 
 And shook like a thing afraid. 
 
 The chaplain walked among them, 
 
 A valiant man was he ; 
 " Steady ! " he cried, " men, steady ! " 
 
 And they answered sturdily ; 
 For they knew his voice, and loved him, 
 
 And they did not fear the sea. 
 
 And then, as the waves crept nearer, 
 And they saw that the end was nigh, 
 
 They leapt from the fated vessel, 
 \V ith never a moan or sigh ;
 
 THE WRECK OF THE VICTORIA. 
 
 And she turned, like a whale that was wounded, 
 Her keel to the steel-blue sky, 
 
 Her screws in the still air waving, 
 
 Their blades a bloody bane ; 
 And the Fleet looked on with horror, 
 
 As she sank in the seething main ; 
 And a plash was heard, and its depths were 
 stirred, 
 
 And the sea grew blue again. 
 
 But hundreds slept beneath it, 
 
 Far from the light of day ; 
 And there, in its voiceless caverns, 
 
 The corpse of the Admiral lay ; 
 " It was all my fault," he had murmured, 
 
 And the price was glad to pay. 
 
 And he paid it well and boldly, 
 And the land forgives her son ; 
 
 And he sleeps with the crew who loved him 
 They were heroes every one ; 
 
 And they died like English sailors, 
 Their duty bravely done.
 
 Il8 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And the wind shall sing their dirges, 
 And the skies soft tears shall shed, 
 
 And all lands shall tell their story, 
 And all English sailors tread 
 
 Their decks with prouder faces, 
 
 For the sake of these English dead. 
 
 You may talk of England's glory 
 As a thing that is out of date ; 
 
 You may tell me her day is over, 
 And the enemy at the gate ; 
 
 But, with sons like these to serve her, 
 7 shall not fear her fate !
 
 A CANTERBURY PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A CANTERBURY pilgrim, here I pause 
 
 A little season from life's storm and stress ; 
 
 The quaint old streets are filled with quietness ; 
 To its soft arms the old-world city draws 
 My weary spirit from the hungry jaws 
 
 Of life's mad Maelstrom with a soft caress ; 
 
 Its lanes have secrets I am fain to guess, 
 And at its heart of peace no canker gnaws. 
 
 But from the oldest church in all these lands, 
 Where Ethelbert was washed as white as snow, 
 The city is hidden, and, towering to the sky, 
 The old cathedral, like God's witness stands, 
 Whatever tumults vex the world below, 
 To point poor pilgrims to the City on high.
 
 THE ETERNAL SEA. 
 
 BRIGHTON. 
 
 STRANGE surge amid the sunshine ; the same song 
 That murmurs in mine ears dim tales of old 
 Crept drowsily along those shores of gold 
 
 Where Jason wandered ; crawled into the strong 
 
 Soul of Ulysses, bidding him prolong 
 Those mystic sailings by great poets told ; 
 Called Caesar hither, with his legions bold, 
 
 And led the Vikings here with treacherous tongue. 
 
 And the blue billows, bursting into snow, 
 Clasped the soft limbs of Venus ; pityingly 
 
 Saw white Andromeda, a captive lone ; 
 Wept sore to see sweet Dido's lover go, 
 Reflected redly the fell fires of Troy, 
 And sang the dirge of empires overthrown.
 
 THE STAR OF LOVE. 
 
 BRIGHTON. 
 
 O, STAR of love, how much I love thee, 
 How sweet thy splendours are to me, 
 
 A primrose heaven of calm above thee, 
 And at thy silver feet the sea ! 
 
 And fain am I to launch upon it, 
 And sail to where it meets the sky, 
 
 And pass the purple islets on it 
 Those cloudy isles of majesty 
 
 And steer my bark through the azure reaches 
 Beyond whose borders thy soft rays gleam, 
 
 And moor my boat on thy silver beaches, 
 And drink the life of which I dream ! 
 
 In the burning west, like a world expiring, 
 Or the crimson flame of an altar-fire, 
 
 The red sun sank, in shame retiring, 
 
 As thy silver splendours mounted higher.
 
 122 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 So red Lust lours in a world of beauty, 
 And mocks Love's star-like radiance mild, 
 
 And passion is at war with duty, 
 And soul and body unreconciled. 
 
 We may not look on the radiant creatures, 
 
 As white as lilies, as roses sweet, 
 With breath like balm, and flowers for features, 
 
 And pulses that to music beat. 
 
 Their loveliness is of the devil, 
 
 Their ripe lips lure us down to hell : 
 
 O, why is such perfect rapture evil ? 
 And why was beauty made to sell ? 
 
 I will leave a world so unsufficing, 
 I will launch upon yon quiet sea ; 
 
 And beyond yon sunset isles, rejoicing, 
 With a cloud for a boat, I will sail to thee. 
 
 And from thy waters new Aphrodites 
 Will rise to greet me, unafraid ; 
 
 I will pass to where thy silver light is, 
 
 T^ i lor^ri
 
 THE STAR OF LOVE. 123 
 
 By peerless maidens divinely peopled, 
 Their beauty bare to the eyes of Heaven ; 
 
 Through magic cities silver-steepled, 
 
 And lit with the rainbows splendours seven. 
 
 All I have dreamed of perfect pleasure, 
 
 All I have ever feigned of love, 
 Its passion in a tenfold measure, 
 
 Its purity as of the dove, 
 
 Shall there be mingled in one emotion 
 Whose transports every soul shall share 
 
 In a rapture wide as the sunlit ocean, 
 In a silver peace beyond compare. 
 
 The earth is weary and heavy-laden, 
 Its skies are heavy, its lips defile ; 
 
 But in thy sweet orb we shall find an Aidenn 
 Where the snow-limbed peris softly smile, 
 
 And all is sinless, as God intended, 
 When Eve was naked and unashamed, 
 
 And bliss and beauty and truth are blended, 
 And love is duty, and is not blamed.
 
 124 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LAXE. 
 
 O, star of love, with a strange, sweet yearning 
 
 I lift my longing hands to thee, 
 In the darkening heavens like a beacon burning, 
 
 And at thy silver feet the sea !
 
 OUR DEAD COMRADE. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF HENRY HEWITT BUTTON. 
 I4TH OCTOBER, 1893. 
 
 BRAVE fellow-soldier in a fight 
 
 Waged ever since the world began, 
 
 For truth, and liberty, and right, 
 And for the brotherhood of man, 
 
 I stand beside your grave to-day, 
 Pain at my heart, tears in my eyes ; 
 
 For long and lonely is the way 
 Which leads, at last, to Paradise. 
 
 Here have we battled many a time, 
 In one camp you, another I ; 
 
 But each of us resolved to climb 
 A little nearer to the sky 
 
 Antagonists, as some would deem, 
 But very real friends withal ;
 
 126 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 How lonely will the old ways seem 
 Now thou art gone beyond recall ! 
 
 The fight proceeds ; we dare not pause, 
 Though every fellow-soldier fell ; 
 
 How should we falter when our cause 
 Is true, and is invincible ? 
 
 The faithful few who knew thy worth, 
 And loved to hear thy silver tongue, 
 
 Smile at the muttered "earth to earth" ; 
 They see thee as a seraph young, 
 
 With those clear eyes transformed to stars, 
 On those brave shoulders shining wings, 
 
 Gone forth to battle in God's wars, 
 And find the hidden soul of things. 
 
 New worlds await thee, thither thou 
 Canst pass without reproach or fear ; 
 
 No stain upon thy fair young brow, 
 Thy conscience as the noonday clear.
 
 OUR DEAD COMRADE. 127 
 
 The loss is ours ; for thee the fight 
 
 Is lifted to a loftier plane ; 
 And thou shalt soar from height to height, 
 
 While we, lamenting, here remain. 
 
 But, should we overtake thee there 
 God help us on the upward way ! 
 
 What joy with thee to sweetly share 
 The light "more beautiful than day." 
 
 Together we may meet again, 
 On grander arguments intent ; 
 
 Together walk and talk as when, 
 
 Beneath the stars, we homeward went 
 
 Through the hushed streets and silent ways, 
 And marvelled at life's mystery ; 
 
 Together thread the starry maze 
 In which all hidden wonders lie. 
 
 Comrades on earth, our vales go 
 
 Up from these autumn pathways cold 
 
 To where, in raiment white as snow, 
 We see thee walk the streets of gold.
 
 128 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And, should they reach thee in that land 
 Whose secrets are at last revealed, 
 
 Know that we proudly pray to stand 
 Beside thee yet on many a field ; 
 
 To catch thy ringing accents clear, 
 Thine honest face again to see, 
 
 And battle bravely there, as here, 
 For truth for evermore with thee.
 
 THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME." 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1893. 
 
 ANOTHER Christmas dawns with mystic splendour 
 
 Across the weary visage of the world, 
 And smooths its wrinkles, and with influence tender 
 
 As the sweet breath of roses just uncurled, 
 It falls with silver spell on cot and palace 
 
 From the blue silence of the starlit dome, 
 And glows like wine in Time's enchanted chalice, 
 
 And softly touches "the old folks at home." 
 
 Ah, dear old faces ! may its fullest measure 
 
 Of hope and happiness be yours to-day ; 
 Whatever life still holds of peace and pleasure 
 
 Encompass the remainder of your way. 
 The hill is climbed, and now ye are descending, 
 
 But lo ! " love, honour, troops of friends " I see, 
 Your mutual steps with sunny feet attending, 
 
 And the white Christ to bear you company.
 
 I3O LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 " Darby and Joan " God bless your dear old faces ! 
 
 He put the woven silver in your hair, 
 And well that ancient "crown of glory" graces 
 
 The brows that yearly seem to grow more fair ; 
 And I would weave a little crown of singing, 
 
 And, all unworthy though the offering be, 
 Am fain to see its strands about you clinging, 
 
 Spun by Love's ringers from the heart of me. 
 
 But " Darby " will not aid our merry-making, 
 
 He cannot join us at our annual feast ; 
 Yet soon again, his bed of pain forsaking, 
 
 And, from the silence of his room released, 
 He shall return to the old round of duty, 
 
 And the old round of honest pastime share ; 
 Again will know the golden sunshine's beauty, 
 
 And drink the elixir of the morning air. 
 
 And health and energy shall be supplied him, 
 
 And he shall sit in the accustomed place, 
 With dear old " Joan " once more to sit beside him, 
 
 Love in her accents, sunshine in her face. 
 We look for many Yules of love and laughter, 
 
 We dream of many Christmases to come, 
 And paint sweet pictures of a long hereafter 
 
 Lit by the smiles of "the old folks at home."
 
 "THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME." 13! 
 
 Again, in thought, we gather, re-united, 
 
 In the dim days that sweetly lie before, 
 New little faces sitting here delighted, 
 
 While the wind blusters vainly at the door, 
 And in the hall the mistletoe is hanging, 
 
 And round the room the faithful ivy twines, 
 And from the spire the Christmas bells are clanging, 
 
 And through the night the great hall window shines. 
 
 We pray for years in which we may repay you 
 
 Some little portion of the debt we owe ; 
 In which to "love," and "honour," and "obey" you, 
 
 " With sweet observances " our duty show ; 
 While we were young, our hearts were warm, but 
 often 
 
 Our feet were wayward, and our eyes were blind ; 
 But, with the years, we somehow seemed to soften, 
 
 And, now, our only care is to be kind. 
 
 To you we owe birth, knowledge, health, and leisure, 
 
 From you inherit an untarnished name ; 
 I pray that we may keep the priceless treasure, 
 
 And hand it on without a touch of shame. 
 Better than all the dazzling riches wrested 
 
 From all the mines, or won from all the seas, 
 Is a good name, and that, at least, is vested 
 
 In us, who learnt the lesson at your knees.
 
 132 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 " From" our " youth up " you gradually taught us 
 
 That life is more than meat, and drink, and mirth ; 
 Your loving-Jdndness beautifully brought us 
 
 To realize the Heaven beyond the earth. 
 Ah, me ! your precepts often seemed above us, 
 
 And, yet, your practice was our strength and stay ; 
 And still you counsel, watch, and ward, and love us, 
 
 And still point out the safe, but narrow, way. 
 
 And surely it will lead to life eternal, 
 
 Though oftentimes we stumble on the road ; 
 And, someday, in the fields for ever vernal, 
 
 Where never Winter's icy hand hath snowed, 
 A Christmas feast the worlds will all be keeping, 
 
 And we shall gather, never more to roam, 
 Within a land where there is no more weeping, 
 
 And meet in Heaven "the" dear "old folks at 
 home ! "
 
 THE SOCIALIST POET. 
 
 OX HEARING WILLIAM MORRIS ADDRESS AN OPEN- 
 AIR MEETING AT TRAFFORD BRIDGE, SALFORD, 
 ON SUNDAY, THE IITH MARCH, 1894. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE heir of Chaucer, girt with growing bays, 
 Stoops from his place amid the lords of song 
 To give the woes of the dumb millions tongue ; 
 
 To fire their spirits, in these evil days, 
 
 With visions of the brightness of the blaze 
 Of the new morning, when the hand of Wrong 
 Shall loose its hold on the awakened throng, 
 
 And men shall hurl him from his ancient place. 
 
 A lurry is the uncrowned laureate's throne, 
 A barren waste his kingdom, and the wind 
 Of rude March blusters in his silver hair ; 
 But from his lips are words of music blown 
 To ears half deadened by the daily grind 
 Of Mammon's mills that rise so darkly there.
 
 134 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like an archangel in the rising sun, 
 
 He stood with a high message ; and men heard 
 The rousing syllables, and scarcely stirred, 
 
 Rough though they were, until the tale was done. 
 
 Then here and there outspoke some doubting one 
 Who craved interpretation of a word 
 So big with meaning, but so long deferred ; 
 
 And the great poet scorned to answer none. 
 
 I followed him, with a dim sense of awe ; 
 
 The babble of the streets was round him now ; 
 
 Unwittingly the witless crowd went by, 
 And scarce a soul in all the city saw 
 The lambent glory playing on his brow, 
 
 Or guessed, that morning, that a king was nigh. 
 
 III. 
 
 He paused upon the bridge to see the ships, 
 New-anchored at the proud old city's knees ; 
 I stood behind him, wondering what the breeze 
 
 Was whispering to him, with its quivering lips ; 
 
 I saw him glance to where the water dips 
 Toward the under-world. Perchance he sees 
 Some mystic vessel, with silk sails of peace, 
 
 That slowly through the glittering wavelets slips !
 
 THE SOCIALIST POET. 135 
 
 His blue eyes filled with the new vision, lo ! 
 While the flags throb to feel his passing feet, 
 His friends and he at last move on again ; 
 Worthy to tread where God's high singers go, 
 He calmly turns into a quiet street, 
 And makes his home, like Christ, with common 
 men.
 
 A BRIDAL WREATH. 
 
 IITH APRIL, 1894. 
 
 I WILL go into the garden, and with loving hands 
 
 will gather 
 From the lap of balmy April for my sister's hair a 
 
 wreath ; 
 Not a flower in all the village but would infinitely 
 
 rather 
 
 Grace her brows, this wedding morning, than go 
 lonely to its death. 
 
 Of the may-blooms I will twine it she is fair, and 
 
 they divine it ; 
 Of her friends the young forget-me-nots they 
 
 know that she is sweet ; 
 And the golden-coated gillyvers shall softly speak 
 
 her praises, 
 
 And the tale the little daisies with shy faces shall 
 repeat.
 
 A BRIDAL WREATH. 137 
 
 And the bluebells with a burden of low music shall 
 
 be ringing, 
 And a million green spears guard her as she goeth 
 
 forth to roam, 
 
 To the strong arm of her lover with a maid's de- 
 votion clinging, 
 
 And the tulips shall be lamps to her to light the 
 lady home. 
 
 The haughty rhododendron doth anticipate the 
 
 summer, 
 And is here, a lordly comer, full a month before 
 
 his time ; 
 And the little periwinkle all its deep blue eyes shall 
 
 twinkle 
 
 As it hears the bluebells tinkle in a fairy wedding 
 chime. 
 
 And the hyacinths, half swooning with the sweetness 
 
 which they cover, 
 Shall be tokens of the crowning of the damsel's 
 
 dream of love ; 
 And the merry little kiss-me-quicks shall call unto 
 
 her lover, 
 
 While the apple blooms are blushing in the balmy 
 boughs above.
 
 138 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And the yellow-eyed primroses shall be seen amid 
 
 the posies 
 Which the showery month discloses as a dowry 
 
 for the dears ; 
 In the absence of the lilies, all the golden " daffa- 
 
 dillies " 
 
 Shall be there like dancing maidens, but shall 
 " fill their cups with tears." 
 
 And the purple pansies, weeping, like the rest of us, 
 
 to lose her, 
 Shall be there to softly whisper sunny secrets in 
 
 her ear ; 
 Not a flower in all the garden that would venture 
 
 to refuse her, 
 
 But with one consent they choose her as the 
 flower of all the year. 
 
 The auriculas shall mingle in the wreath, with 
 
 colours royal, 
 And the beautiful red-currants, all abloom from 
 
 head to foot ; 
 And the honest-hearted ladslove shall proclaim her 
 
 lover loyal, 
 
 And the pears shall softly prophesy of mystical 
 sweet fruit.
 
 A BRIDAL WREATH. 139 
 
 And the delicate pink heather, in the boisterous 
 
 spring weather, 
 Will but bid them cling together, as its roots unto 
 
 the moor ; 
 And the buttercups will offer "faery gold" from 
 
 earth's grim coffer 
 
 That shall put to scorn the scoffer who would 
 dare to call them poor. 
 
 And the lush life in the hedges, like a green flame 
 
 swiftly breaking 
 Into strange illumination on the boughs where 
 
 throstles sing, 
 Shall remind us of the beauty of the fuller life's 
 
 awaking, 
 
 And the larks shall be the heralds of the coming 
 of the King. 
 
 The honeysuckle's magic horns, in loving salutation, 
 Shall wind a wedding welcome, by the elfin bug- 
 lers blown, 
 
 And the little scillas shyly troop to see the Corona- 
 tion, 
 
 And the moss with pink stars carpet the ap- 
 proaches to the Throne.
 
 140 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And the almond, ere it wither, shall with rosy hands 
 
 bequeath her 
 One bright spray to match her blushes and to 
 
 emulate her snow, 
 And to make her think of Heaven, where, no more 
 
 of friends bereaven, 
 
 All who loved on earth, at even, shall together 
 Godward go. 
 
 Take my poor wreath as a token of a confidence 
 
 unspoken, 
 And may each succeeding season come with fingers 
 
 full of flowers, 
 While your coupled lives steal onward like a silver 
 
 brook unbroken, 
 
 And your heart makes happy music, as it made 
 when you were ours. 
 
 May the Summer, ere it closes, bring its lilies and 
 
 its roses, 
 Its honey for your larder, its heartsease for your 
 
 breast ; 
 
 And may Autumn's hands be laden with the holly- 
 hocks of Aidenn, 
 
 And the golden apples hanging in far islands of 
 the west.
 
 A BRIDAL WREATH. 14! 
 
 And, when Winter steals upon you, may the lover 
 
 who has won you 
 Find you faithful as the ivy that defies its icy 
 
 breath, 
 And the ruddy holly berries be a message from the 
 
 fairies 
 
 Of a love that flouts the ferries of the grisly boat- 
 man, Death !
 
 A FANTASY. 
 
 ON THE HILLS BELOW RIBER CASTLE, MATLOCK. 
 
 HONEY-SWEET clover, a desolate lover, 
 I lie in the balm of the scented grass ; 
 
 The winds to my sighing are sweetly replying, 
 And the air some strange enchantment has. 
 
 Are these hills of Heaven ? To me is it given 
 To meet with Queen Venus just over the stile ? 
 
 The flowers all in blossom were made for her 
 
 bosom, 
 The land is a mirror reflecting her smile. 
 
 Where the gray cliffs go climbing a soft bell is 
 chiming, 
 
 From the heart of a valley of infinite rest ; 
 Ah ! surely yon meadow is rich with the shadow 
 
 Of a nymph in the river with beautiful breast.
 
 A FANTASY. 143 
 
 And merry Pan is piping, hearken ! 
 
 Within the forest green and cool, 
 Where the bluebells droop, and the branches darken, 
 
 I hear his whistle clear and full. 
 
 And look ! the lovely huntress sweepeth, 
 With bow and arrows, divinely by, 
 
 Where the creamy honeysuckle creepeth 
 To kiss those limbs of ivory. 
 
 And the satyrs leer from the woodland places, 
 \Vith evil faces and goat-like tread, 
 
 As, with mellow horn, she blithely chases 
 The flying stag to his ferny bed. 
 
 And every tree is a tender maiden, 
 And every rock has a prisoner fair, 
 
 And every wandering wind is laden 
 With shining visions and music rare. 
 
 And on the purple mountains yonder 
 Old Jove doth ponder, in council high, 
 
 The gods around him, with looks of wonder, 
 And alway over them the sky.
 
 MOTHER NATURE. 
 
 MATLOCK. 
 
 HERE in the lush grass let me lie, 
 I weary of the city's babble. 
 
 Shut in by sapphire depths of sky, 
 And far from all life's roar and rabble. 
 
 I long to lean my tired ear 
 
 Close to kind Nature's gentle bosom ; 
 To catch her voice so sweet and clear, 
 
 With all the world around in blossom, 
 
 And hearken to her heart-throbs deep, 
 And draw her loving arms about me, 
 
 And in her lap to fall asleep 
 
 The world, to-day, can do without me ! 
 
 Or like some trusting child will I 
 To her calm message sit and listen,
 
 MOTHER NATURE. 145 
 
 While the bird-people pass me by, 
 And the far waters sing and glisten. 
 
 I cannot read the riddle yet ; 
 
 She says my spirit could not bear it ; 
 But, though my eyes with tears are wet, 
 
 My grief is hers, and she will share it ; 
 
 And she will whisper me such things, 
 And hint at such divine fulfilling, 
 
 As turn my heart-chords into strings, 
 With mystic music strangely thrilling. 
 
 And, looking in her sunlit eyes, 
 
 My faith shall never more be shaken ; 
 
 And, listening to her melodies, 
 My soul to a new life shall waken ; 
 
 And, following where her feet have trod, 
 Shall surely find "sweet rest at even " ; 
 
 Her "hills go climbing up to God," 
 And earth is but "the gate of heaven."
 
 THE LAST SONG. 
 
 AN INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE WAR. 
 
 THE following verses are based upon a touching 
 story which was circulated in the English papers, and 
 gleaned from the lips of the natives, soon after the tragic 
 death of Major Wilson and his party. 
 
 THEY went to find the king, 
 
 A gallant little band ; 
 Through swamps and woods meandering, 
 
 Within an alien land ; 
 They thought of the distant home 
 
 Proud was each warrior's mien 
 Of the little gem in a belt of foam, 
 And sang " God save the Queen ! " 
 
 They crossed the river deep 
 With unaccustomed rain, 
 Their anxious comrades left to keep 
 Watch on the neighbouring plain ;
 
 THE LAST SONG. 147 
 
 But amid the dusky trees 
 
 Were duskier foemen seen : 
 Dark is the doom reserved for these 
 
 Who sing " God save the Queen ! " 
 
 Outnumbered ten to one, 
 
 Cut off from hope of aid, 
 Too late they knew themselves undone, 
 
 By lying lips betrayed. 
 Their comrades heard the din, 
 
 But the river rolled between : 
 Would they turn and fly, or fall like men, 
 And sing " God save the Queen " ? 
 
 Ah, how the fierce foe sting ! 
 
 Like bees about a hive, 
 With the impis of the hunted king 
 
 The woods were all alive ; 
 By bullets sore beset, 
 
 Dead steeds their only screen, 
 Unmoved the leaden hail they met, 
 And sang " God save the Queen ! 
 
 And one by one they fell 
 Alas, for the brave men slain !
 
 148 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 But the remnant stood their ground right well, 
 
 And fought with might and main ; 
 Not a bullet missed its mark, 
 Each sabre cut right clean, 
 
 And, amid the hellish carnage, hark ! 
 They sing " God save the Queen ! " 
 
 For, as on Senlac's heights, 
 
 These sons of the English blood, 
 This sturdy little band of whites, 
 
 Like the old heroes stood ; 
 Not one fell out or failed, 
 
 But each, with brow serene, 
 Stood up as long as life availed, 
 
 And sang " God save the Queen ! " 
 
 At last they all lay dead, 
 
 Their weapons by their side 
 Not a man in the little troop had fled, 
 
 Or his English blood belied ; 
 But on dusky lips the tale 
 
 Has kept the memory green 
 Of the men who, dying, did not quail, 
 But sang " God save the Queen ! "
 
 THE BELLS OF ANTWERP. 
 
 UP the dim reaches of an ancient river 
 
 Along whose level shores contentment dwells, 
 
 There lies a city musical for ever 
 
 With the sweet clamour and the clang of bells. 
 
 Afar you see the great cathedral looming 
 
 Across lush meadows half concealed in mist, 
 
 And soon there comes a salutation booming 
 Mysterious welcome o'er the waters. Hist ! 
 
 Above the gables gray with ancient shadows, 
 Out of yon clustering nest of human souls, 
 
 Beyond the ships, the hamlets, and the meadows, 
 A sudden music mystically rolls, 
 
 So strange, so sweet, so far away, so eerie, 
 You listen wistfully, with upturned eyes, 
 
 As though you heard, amid life's desert dreary, 
 The golden melodies of Paradise.
 
 150 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 You steal into the quaint heart of the city, 
 
 And lo ! it throbs and palpitates with bells- 
 Anon they plead to you in tones of pity, 
 Anon with mellow wrath the minster swells. 
 
 Full soon, absorbed in loving contemplation 
 Of the dim lanes where past and present meet, 
 
 You start a sudden burst of jubilation 
 Floods with rich sound the silence of the street ! 
 
 Or, if you sit and dream where boughs are bending 
 Above the deep peace of some drowsy square, 
 
 With crash and roar the bells burst on you rending 
 The palpitating pulses of the air ! 
 
 At night, men start, from nameless orgies reeling 
 
 Is that an angel singing in the sky ? 
 Ah, no ! 'tis but the minster's voice appealing 
 
 To the poor dwellers in the sensual sty. 
 
 And, as they reach the ponderous door, they linger, 
 Half haunted by the sound that cleaves the gloom ; 
 
 And the tall tower above becomes a finger 
 To point them Godward as the great bells boom.
 
 THE BELLS OF ANTWERP. 
 
 Your ears may catch the chimes at early morning ; 
 
 They follow you and haunt you through the day ; 
 At eve, they sound a solemn word of warning, 
 
 And bid you turn aside, and pause, and pray. 
 
 And, while the world, amid the dark, is kneeling, 
 Awe-struck and contrite, underneath its load, 
 
 The mellow bells are rhythmically pealing, 
 And the stars answer from their bright abode. 
 
 Old stories say when storms of shot were pour- 
 ing 
 
 Against the walls, and thunderbolts of shells, 
 That, night and day, above the cannon's roaring, 
 
 Four times in every hour rang out the bells. 
 
 Nor shall they cease till all earth's children, kneel- 
 ing 
 
 To the One Father, shall One Faith confess. 
 Hark ! once again I hear them softly pealing, 
 
 Here in life's tumult of God's righteousness ; 
 
 Here in life's sadness of the songs of Heaven ; 
 Here in life's warfare of the rest above ;
 
 152 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Now low, now loud, but morn, and noon, and even, 
 Ringing the changes on the Creed of Love. 
 
 Roll on, O bells, or delicately tremble 
 
 To liquid notes in the blue silence drowned ; 
 
 Throb, shake, and thunder, till you shall resemble 
 Some silver torrent's turbulence of sound ! 
 
 Steal softly to me, gentle bells, and "quiet," 
 Within my heart, "the restless pulse of care ; " 
 
 Break out again, in all your brazen riot, 
 And shake the shadowy precincts of the square 
 
 With a great song proclaiming Truth immortal ; 
 
 That the eternal music shall not cease, 
 Though all Hell's armies surge around the portal 
 
 Of the sweet city of God's changeless" peace !
 
 THE LION OF WATERLOO. 
 
 THOU noble brute, with strong paw lightly poised, 
 High up in air, upon yon deadly ball, 
 
 The rumour of thee hath been grimly noised 
 In many a continental capital. 
 
 In vain thou lookest from thy mighty mound 
 For other foes thy kingly wrath to dare : 
 
 They could not meet thee on thy English ground, 
 * But wreaked their petty insults on thee there. 
 
 The peasant ploughs these peaceful fields, and lo ! 
 
 Bullets he finds where he expected grain ; 
 And round him suddenly red harvests grow 
 
 Of warriors fighting the old fight again. 
 
 * The French army, on their march to Antwerp, in 
 1832, broke a piece from the tail of the great bronze 
 image.
 
 154 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 And, ere I climb to thy great feet, the sky 
 Unlocks its doors in cataracts of rain ; 
 
 And where the legions of the dead men lie 
 Rages and roars a sudden hurricane. 
 
 The lightnings leap, and the great thunders roll, 
 With horrid crash, across the shuddering land, 
 
 As when white icebergs meet around the pole, 
 Or shiver into splinters on the strand. 
 
 Beneath thy feet the battle smokes again, 
 " The hero of a hundred rights " is there ; 
 
 And, standing by the distant cottage, fain 
 To trample on him, is the world's despair. 
 
 Round yonder barn by a few stalwarts held, 
 Fierce hosts of warriors surge like seas in storm ; 
 
 But still the little handful, still unquelled, 
 Hold like a fortress the beleaguered farm. 
 
 Their ammunition fails, and vainly now 
 They seek to keep the enemy at bay ; 
 
 Hell in their eyes, revenge on every brow, 
 Into the house the foemen force their way.
 
 THE LION OF WATERLOO. 155 
 
 Escape is hopeless, for the windows, barred, 
 Prevent the egress of the dauntless few ; 
 
 Behind, the maddened legions press them hard ; 
 The dead in front into the well they threw. 
 
 I drank that day the water never wine 
 Seemed half so magical a drink to me ; 
 
 Distilled from heroes' veins, it swelled in mine 
 Till every pulse in them sang " Liberty." 
 
 Again the solid squares in order stood, 
 
 Like rocks confronting the relentless wave ; 
 
 Back from the contest, drenched in their own blood, 
 Again recoiled the bravest of the brave. 
 
 Hour after hour the foaming sea of steeds 
 Broke baffled on the solid rock of men ; 
 
 As one drops out another still succeeds ; 
 Again they charge but to recoil again. 
 
 And yonder, where the ancient chateau hides 
 Amid the umbrage of the sheltering trees, 
 
 A valiant little garrison derides 
 
 A ravening horde of desperate enemies.
 
 156 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 The red wall round it seems a wall of men, 
 Half hidden in the treacherous mists of morn ; 
 
 But Bonaparte's battalions seek in vain 
 
 To make a breach within that rampart worn. 
 
 I saw it, broken into fragments, still 
 Remaining to attest the timeworn tale ; 
 
 A monument to the undaunted will 
 
 Which held it till the day began to fail, 
 
 And, with the dusk, the solid squares became 
 A thousand sudden thunderbolts of war, 
 
 Let loose, at last, in England's mighty name, 
 The baffled tyrant's latest hope to mar. 
 
 Along the very road I proudly trod, 
 
 In one grim rabble, the great army runs : 
 
 They fought right well the issue was with God, 
 And with our honest English hearts and guns. 
 
 Nor shall the meed of generous praise be grudged 
 To our allies, who, burning for the fight, 
 
 For hours in vain through thick morasses trudged, 
 And, hence, could only reach us with the night.
 
 THE LION OF WATERLOO. 157 
 
 But round yon church, upon whose roof I saw 
 The cracks and crannies of the fusilade, 
 
 As village gossips still relate with awe, 
 A noble stand the toilworn warriors made, 
 
 And crushed the foe to powder, moving on 
 To where the larger battle ebbed and flowed, 
 
 Arriving, footsore, as the day was gone, 
 And joining in the chase up yonder road, 
 
 While the foiled arbiter of Europe's fate 
 The grandest warrior in the world save one 
 
 Fled from the bloody field disconsolate, 
 
 His proud sword shattered, and his great dream done. 
 
 And, as the moon stole o'er these haunted plains, 
 Dead eyes stared blankly at its silver face ; 
 
 And, soon, a solitary horseman reins 
 
 His trembling steed amid the bloody place, 
 
 And, in the silver gleam, I surely see 
 
 The great world-victor : has he come to keep 
 
 A carnival amid this butchery ? 
 
 Ye little know him he has come to weep !
 
 158 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 For, if defeat be food for honest tears, 
 Tears well may grace an honest victory too : 
 
 At best it brings much heartbreak all these years 
 Have not effaced the graves of Waterloo ! 
 
 And, therefore, at thy feet, oh, lion bold ! 
 
 Love of my country surging in my veins, 
 I, pondering on all war means, cry " Hold ! 
 
 Count up its losses, estimate its gains ; 
 
 " And, as ye see this smiling land, and think 
 Of all the gallant troops of dead men there, 
 
 Ask if these fields need human blood to drink, 
 Then pray for peace and may God grant the 
 prayer ! "
 
 THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE 
 PRIME MINISTER. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE SUDDEN DEATH, AT WINDSOR 
 
 CASTLE, ON THE I2TH DECEMBER, 1894, 
 
 OF SIR JOHN THOMPSON, PREMIER 
 
 OF CANADA. 
 
 FRESH from the task of linking all her lands 
 In fellowship, though oceans rolled between, 
 A proven statesman came to see the Queen, 
 
 To take a well-won honour from her hands, 
 
 And join the chosen whom the Throne demands 
 As trusty councillors on whom to lean 
 When tempests gather in the skies serene, 
 
 And nations need the brain that understands. 
 
 But scarcely has the imperial monarch left 
 The imperial statesman when the pallid King 
 Of the one Empire which is broad as theirs
 
 l6o LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Suddenly summons him, and we, bereft, 
 Of a strong voice we needed, closer cling, 
 A mother joining in a daughter's prayers.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 THEODORE. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1895. 
 
 " AND, as twilight falls, thou shalt softly stray, 
 
 With a beating heart, to a shining land ; 
 And your lips will meet in the ancient way 
 She ' will wake, and remember, and understand.' " 
 
 IT has fallen now, and your lips have met, 
 
 That were harshly torn asunder here, 
 While we are left, with eyelids wet, 
 
 'Neath the frosts and snows of another year ; 
 And the world, to-day, seems doubly lone 
 
 Two stars from its black skies strangely fled ; 
 The hand we clasped as cold as stone ; 
 
 The lady we remember dead ! 
 
 And is it only four years ago 
 
 Since I stood with thee by the damsel's grave ?
 
 l62 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Alas, how little we mortals know, 
 
 And from Death's fingers how little we save ! 
 Great deeds for thee I had vaguely planned, 
 
 In the mighty world, ere the " twilight " fell, 
 And the summons came from the "shining land"; 
 
 But I hear a whisper, " All is well ! " 
 
 And we would not call thee back ah, no ! 
 
 From the fierce world-fever thou art freed ; 
 And it may be it is better so, 
 
 For those wounds of thine were deep indeed ; 
 And men are cruel, though Christ forgives, 
 
 And the best we do is soon forgot, 
 While the memory of our lapses lives, 
 
 And Fame is a bauble dearly bought ! 
 
 I knew the weight of thy burden, friend, 
 
 And how life's music lacked a chord 
 Those rosy hopes with the sombre end, 
 
 Those Titan tasks without reward ; 
 Those "failings," too, which so often "leaned 
 
 To virtue's side," but led thee on 
 To the barren fields where thy worn hands 
 gleaned, 
 
 Instead of the bread they sought a stone !
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 163 
 
 At the brimming board in thought I see 
 
 Thy crowd of guests make mirth again, 
 And suddenly they seem to flee, 
 
 And leave thee lonely in thy pain ; 
 I see the fell worm of disease 
 
 Creep like a snake within thy frame, 
 And I feel the blood within me freeze, 
 
 So changed thou art, and yet the same 
 
 Brave, though the world has turned away ; 
 
 Calm, though the night-black end is nigh ; 
 Still jesting in the ancient way ; 
 
 Still strong of heart, though doomed to die ; 
 Patient, though prostrate ; great, though weak ; 
 
 Kind, though thy generous purse is bare ; 
 Still prone, with eager eyes, to speak 
 
 Of all things beautiful and fair ; 
 
 And dreaming, on thy bed of death, 
 Of sunny seas and skies of blue, 
 
 Where life flows in with every breath, 
 And there is nobler work to do ; 
 
 Still thinking of the themes that move 
 The masses, as the trees are swayed ;
 
 164 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 Still staunch to the souls that won thy love, 
 And the honey-sweet thought of the dear dead 
 maid. 
 
 The things that often gave us pause 
 
 Thy new-born mind shall quickly grasp ; 
 Thou shalt discern the mystic laws 
 
 That bind the worlds with a golden clasp, 
 And set the young stars spinning, and light 
 
 To help the angels on their road 
 Through the mazes of the Infinite 
 
 The million burning lamps of God. 
 
 What though the red flame feast on thee, 
 
 And launch thy limbs on every wind ? 
 Thine ego, free, shall laugh to see 
 
 Its outworn garments left behind, 
 What is the body at the best 
 
 But a pleasant prison for the soul, 
 Which holds it back from its native quest, 
 
 And keeps it from its dazzling goal ? 
 
 But the prison doors are open wide, 
 And above thee brightly bends the sky,
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 165 
 
 With dawn's first roses richly dyed, 
 
 And calm with its tranquillity ; 
 And I see thee led to "the living stream," 
 
 Where thy stains may all be washed away, 
 Where the " many mansions " softly gleam, 
 
 And the " twilight " changes into day.
 
 THE CLOSING PAGE. 
 
 THE days of the old life are over, 
 
 The days of the new life are nigh, 
 And the beautiful life of the lover 
 
 Will close when the rose in the sky 
 Has merged in the noon, and the maiden 
 
 Has mingled her being in mine, 
 And the soul of the organ is laden 
 
 With music of gladness divine. 
 
 And the lane I have loved I am leaving, 
 
 Like a bird starting out from the nest ; 
 And my memory, tenderly cleaving 
 
 To the roof where the family rest, 
 Refuses the guerdon of slumber, 
 
 Though the night creeps away as I sing, 
 And the minutes in mystical number 
 
 Lead on to the rite of the ring. 
 
 I have laughed, I have wept, I have listened 
 To voices of gods and of men ;
 
 THE CLOSING PAGE. 167 
 
 I have paused where the sunlight has glistened 
 On forest, and mountain, and glen ; 
 
 I have stood with the stars to remind me 
 Of worlds that are swarming like bees ; 
 
 And the silvery planet has found me 
 Full often, at eve, on my knees. 
 
 I have dreamed of the whiteness of Beauty, 
 
 And its passion have panted to prove ; 
 I have thrilled to the trumpet of Duty, 
 
 And gathered the lilies of Love ; 
 For the laurels of Fame I have striven, 
 
 And have pined, in life's pitiful rain, 
 For "the golden pomegranates of " Heaven, 
 
 "To quiet its fever and pain." 
 
 My friends will be with me to-morrow, 
 
 And the maiden of maids by my side ; 
 Yet my spirit remembers with sorrow 
 
 The friend of my friends who has died ; 
 And the friends who have gone like the swallows, 
 
 And the maids who have passed like the snow ; 
 And I think of the silence that follows 
 
 The tumult that surges below. 
 
 The days of my years have been brightened 
 By music, and pictures, and books ;
 
 168 LAYS FROM A COUNTRY LANE. 
 
 The burdens of life have been lightened 
 By the magic of beautiful looks ; 
 
 The wings of my soul have expanded, 
 And the feet of my fancy have trod 
 
 The mountains whose summits commanded 
 A wonderful vision of God. 
 
 But the curtain is falling for ever 
 
 On the vanishing page of the past ; 
 It was bright with the light of endeavour, 
 
 It was dark with the sorrows that last ; 
 Its path I can trace by its kisses, 
 
 Its dreams, and its losses, and fears ; 
 And I doubt if the wine of its blisses 
 
 Exceeded the gall of its tears. 
 
 But the sunshine of summers unclouded, 
 
 And the hail of the winters forlorn, 
 In the leaves of my song have been crowded, 
 
 And stored for the light of the morn ; 
 And the morn cannot fail to be sunny, 
 
 And the years will my prophecy prove, 
 If I add to life's mystical honey 
 
 The heavenly manna of love.
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 IN Shakespeare's town together forth 
 Upon the sea of life we fare, 
 
 And leave the black and noisy North 
 For fairy shores, and haunted air. 
 
 By Avon's tranquil stream we tread, 
 And through its ancient streets we go ; 
 
 We see, in thought, his golden head 
 Within the cradle lying low. 
 
 We follow his young steps to school, 
 And pace the very room where he 
 
 Made merry often, played the fool, 
 Drank the first draughts of Poesie.
 
 174 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 We watch him singing in the church, 
 Or roistering across the way, 
 
 Or, 'neath the lofty elm or birch, 
 Intent the mild-eyed deer to slay. 
 
 Nay, in the very hall we stand 
 
 Where the young shame-faced culprit stood- 
 The darling of our English land 
 
 Caught poaching out in yonder wood. 
 
 We follow him to that quaint cot 
 Where dwelt the lady whom he loved ; 
 
 High was the lowly maiden's lot, 
 
 And proud her nuptial fortune proved. 
 
 For afterwards we also saw 
 
 The stately home of later years, 
 
 And trod the church's aisles with awe, 
 And mused above his dust with tears. 
 
 And everywhere by Avon's stream 
 We found some relic of the king 
 
 To whose remains, as in a dream, 
 A grateful world comes wandering.
 
 DEDICATION. 175 
 
 The houses where his comrades dwelt, 
 The spacious streets he calmly trod, 
 
 His everlasting influence felt, 
 
 Seem somehow strangely near to God. 
 
 And, from that monumental shrine 
 About whose feet the river plays, 
 
 I see his countenance divine, 
 The sun suffusing it with rays ; 
 
 And every wood, and every hill, 
 And every green and tender field, 
 
 And every soft and rippling rill 
 
 Some sunny memory seems to yield. 
 
 About his lordly presence stand 
 
 Sweet Rosalind, and Hamlet grave ; 
 
 The warriors of the fatherland ; 
 Ophelia sad, Othello brave ; 
 
 Miranda, with her magic art ; 
 
 Cordelia, with her eyelids wet ; 
 And Portia, in her pleasing part ; 
 
 And Romeo and Juliet.
 
 176 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 * In Irving's room, beside the fire 
 
 His "sceptre" stirred to more than flame, 
 
 I once again resume my lyre, 
 And twine these verses with thy name. 
 
 His humble " throne " preserved in glass, 
 His vacant " empire " briefly ours, 
 
 And at my side my bonnie lass, 
 A lily in a world of flowers. 
 
 * " To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide 
 world which he can truly call his own, there is a momen- 
 tary feeling of something like independence and terri- 
 torial consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he 
 kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 
 stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world with- 
 out go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he 
 has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time 
 being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair 
 is his throne, the poker his sceptre, the little parlour some 
 twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. . . ' Shall 
 I not take mine ease in mine inn ? ' thought I, as I gave 
 the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a 
 complacent look about the little parlour of the Red 
 Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon." " An ancient clock . . 
 ticked on the opposite side of the room." The Sketch 
 Book : WASHINGTON IRVING.
 
 DEDICATION. 177 
 
 And, as the old " clock " ticks and tells, 
 With steady stroke, the flight of time, 
 
 My soul with sudden rapture swells, 
 And makes a rainbow of my rhyme. 
 
 May all the foison of the place 
 Go with us to the toiling town ; 
 
 May Shakespeare's benediction grace 
 Our coupled lives, and calmly crown 
 
 Our mutual labours, and inspire 
 My voice to sing some loftier strain 
 
 Than animates the common choir ; 
 And may we from these sweet days gain 
 
 The strength to suffer, and the faith 
 To love as loved and suffered those 
 
 Whose memories shall know not death 
 While still the tranquil Avon flows. 
 
 THE RED HORSE, 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 
 
 OCTOBER, 1902.
 
 THE NEW HOME. 
 
 IN the new home ! The dreams of years have 
 blossomed 
 
 Upon the sunny tree of life at last ; 
 By my own hearth, in cosy warmth embosomed, 
 
 I don my slippers, and recall the past. 
 Bright was the dawning of the deathless journey, 
 
 Fair was my start upon life's upward way ; 
 And now, at rest from many a tilt and tourney, 
 
 With grateful heart, I muse upon the way. 
 
 I think of the old home where first I wandered 
 
 Out of Eternity into the world ; 
 Of the dear fields where the old brook meandered, 
 
 And apples grew, and honeysuckles curled ; 
 Of the quaint folk who filled my childish fancies, 
 
 And of the hearse with waving plumes which 
 
 came 
 To chill the ardour of my young romances, 
 
 And make life different, albeit the same.
 
 l8o IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And then my mind in loving thought remembers 
 
 The spacious roof where elm trees greenly stood ; 
 The boyish dreams beside the glowing embers, 
 
 And the first vision of sweet maidenhood ; 
 The attic old where I, with kindred spirits, 
 
 Some clad in buckram, some attired in tweed, 
 First grasped the kingdom which the mind inherits, 
 
 And first essayed to mount the winged steed. 
 
 Next I recall the home where my heart's longing 
 
 A winsome damsel wonderfully eased, 
 And troops of sunny-hearted friends came thronging, 
 
 From Mammon's thrall reluctantly released ; 
 "While the old folks looked on with smiling faces, 
 
 And loved to join in our discussions sage, 
 Or shared our admiration of the graces 
 
 Who in these chapters filled up many a page. 
 
 And now I sit, a bachelor no longer, 
 The garrulous companion of the fire, 
 
 With nobler duties, with ambitions stronger, 
 And by my side, at last, my heart's desire, 
 
 Love's light like starshine seen through winter 
 
 branches, 
 Yet nearer, dearer, sweeter, warmer far ;
 
 THE NEW HOME. l8l 
 
 And Love's the hand that pitifully stanches 
 The wounds contracted in a world of war. 
 
 I seize my lyre, and pray that I may smite it 
 
 To such a strain as shall have power to move 
 Men's souls to take the torch of Truth and light it, 
 
 And lead the world to happiness and love ; 
 To bid them turn their weary faces sunward, 
 
 And, in the midmost horror of the night, 
 To clasp each other's hands, and, marching onward, 
 
 To swear eternal fealty to the Right. 
 
 And yonder bells, at evening softly pealing, 
 
 And yonder spire, a miracle in stone, 
 Above the smoke, the heavenlier life revealing, 
 
 Shall point my faltering footsteps to the Throne, 
 And, 'mid the turmoil of the town, shall gather 
 
 Sad hearts beneath the overshadowing wings 
 Which brood about the presence of the Father 
 
 In the white City of the King of kings.
 
 "IT CANNOT BE!" 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE SPEECH OF THE HON. THOMAS 
 
 F. BAYARD, THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR, AT 
 
 THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE ACTORS' 
 
 BENEVOLENT ASSOCIATION, LONDON, 
 
 l8TH DECEMBER, 1895. 
 
 IN wrath a hundred years ago 
 
 The Mother wrestled with the child ; 
 It won its liberty, and lo ! 
 
 Peace crowned the twain and on them smiled : 
 Now War is thundered o'er the sea 
 " It cannot be ! " 
 
 Brothers in blood, in speech the same, 
 
 In all the old traditions one, 
 Rocked in one cradle whence there came 
 The grandest race beneath the sun, 
 
 Put up your swords, and say with me : 
 " It cannot be ! "
 
 " IT CANNOT BE ! " 183 
 
 Shall we, who wept by Garfield's grave, 
 
 Now wet with gore the sacred sod ? 
 Shall ye, who yearn across the wave 
 To Shakespeare's home, and England's God, 
 Make all your past a mockery ? 
 " It cannot be ! " 
 
 The mighty voices of the dead 
 
 With one consent forbid the crime ; 
 The stars which grandly overspread 
 Your banner, and the cross sublime 
 Which graces ours at enmity ? 
 " It cannot be! " 
 
 Far better did our sabres burn 
 
 Where poor Armenia's children die 
 Like sheep, alas ! and vainly turn 
 To timorous England, asking why 
 She disregards their piteous plea- 
 " It cannot be ! " 
 
 It shall not be if all who love 
 Their common origin will pray 
 
 To Him whose mighty muscles move 
 The pulses of the world to stay
 
 184 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 This sudden frenzy of the free 
 It shall not be ! 
 
 O Christ, whose birth in Bethlehem 
 Was heralded with songs of peace, 
 
 Speak to the sister realms, and stem 
 Their tumult with Thy righteousness, 
 And whisper, as we kneel to Thee, 
 
 "IT CANNOT BE ! " 
 
 24TH DECEMBER, 1895.
 
 THE TWO HELLS. 
 
 " There are two hells Turkey in Europe and Turkey 
 in Asia." Professor Thouma'ian, the Armenian Exile, at the 
 Co-operative Hall, Warrington, list January, 1896. 
 
 WHAT lamentable thing is this ? 
 Two hells within a world of bliss ? 
 
 Who bears the word of wail ? 
 One who, from tribulation dire, 
 Has sadly come, with lips on fire 
 
 To tell the fearful tale ! 
 
 Both hells are washed by shining seas, 
 Watered by rivers, decked with trees, 
 
 With noble mountains blest ; 
 Their valleys teem with fruit and grain, 
 Bright cities gleam on every plain, 
 
 With vines their hills are dressed ; 
 
 And one has felt the sacred feet 
 Of God's apostles, heard the sweet 
 Message from Nazareth ;
 
 l86 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And in it for two thousand years 
 Man's faith has triumphed o'er his fears, 
 And Love has conquered Death. 
 
 But by the strait betwixt the twain, 
 With maidens to assuage his pain, 
 
 And silken curtains hung 
 To deaden his poor victim's cries, 
 And hide their anguish from his eyes, 
 
 His satellites among, 
 
 There rules the man whose fiendish word 
 Is sharper than a two-edged sword, 
 
 And at his awful nod 
 Grim word is sent to west or east, 
 And Death is summoned to a feast 
 
 Called in the name of God ! 
 
 Into his ears his minions pour 
 Vile flatteries, and guard his door 
 
 From vengeance stark and stern ; 
 And damsels dance, and dulcimers 
 Discourse sweet music, while the curse 
 
 Of multitudes, who turn
 
 THE TWO HELLS. 187 
 
 Alike to God and man, and cry 
 For succour in their agony, 
 
 Falls on deaf ears, or only moves 
 The laughter of the harem, where 
 He mixes dalliance with prayer, 
 
 Or his devotion proves 
 
 By smiling on the bloody herd 
 
 Of butchers, by his creatures stirred 
 
 All tortures to contrive ; 
 To disembowel children sweet, 
 Cut out men's tongues, lop off their feet, 
 
 Or flay their foes alive. 
 
 Anon these imps of hell deflower 
 Some tender maiden, overpower 
 
 Some virtuous wife, or slay 
 Some venerable father, or 
 Envelop temples in the roar 
 
 Of flames which none can stay ; 
 
 Or, grown jocose, with devilish shout, 
 Men's bleeding heads they kick about 
 Like balls in bloody sport ;
 
 l88 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Or rear them on their pikes, and bear 
 The grisly trophies high in air, 
 Where gaping crowds resort. 
 
 Lust shorn of every spark of love, 
 Blind fury which no tears can move, 
 
 Black-handed robbery, 
 And universal arson, and 
 Red murder stalking through the land 
 
 Within whose borders lie 
 
 The apocalyptic churches seven, 
 
 And those twin streams whose currents even 
 
 Once watered Paradise ; 
 And yonder, by the Golden Horn, 
 " God's Shadow," looking on with scorn 
 
 In his lascivious eyes ! 
 
 Surely the demons of the pit 
 
 Have burst their bars, and fiercely flit 
 
 In turbans through the East ; 
 And Satan wars with God again, 
 And devils in the guise of men, 
 
 A little while released,
 
 THE TWO HELLS. 189 
 
 Play "such fantastic tricks" "as make 
 The angels weep," and fiercely slake 
 
 Their fiery thirst in blood, 
 While thousands ask : " Does God forget 
 To launch his thunderbolts, and let 
 
 Destruction like a flood 
 
 Encompass those whose crime it is 
 To be the faithful witnesses 
 
 Of his Eternal Son, 
 While Europe, lisping Jesus' name, 
 Stands idly by, nor cares to claim 
 
 That justice shall be done ? " 
 
 Oh ! England, are thine ears grown cold ? 
 Art thou, too, callous, growing old, 
 
 Or are thy arms outworn ? 
 Once all thy knightliest rode forth, 
 With one accord, from south and north, 
 
 To where the Lord was born 
 
 To guard his sacred sepulchre, 
 
 And grandly wage a Holy War 
 
 Against these fiendish foes ;
 
 190 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And once thy warriors like a storm 
 Swept fiercely on the godless swarm 
 Who crushed the Huguenots ; 
 
 And once thy sons, with hearts of steel, 
 Could face a continent, and feel 
 
 A courage, being free, 
 Which not the mighty world in arms 
 Could quench ; and shall these vague alarms, 
 
 My England, palsy thee ? 
 
 Thou did'st not quake before * the threat 
 Of yon fierce Kaiser ; England, yet 
 
 I know thine heart is strong ; 
 Then say these devilries shall cease, 
 Or loose thy sword in righteousness, 
 
 And make an end of wrong ! 
 
 * Allusion is here made to the telegram sent by the 
 German Emperor to President Kruger at the time of the 
 Jameson Raid.
 
 IN "THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW." 
 
 I. 
 
 FROM Life's sweet uplands suddenly you fell 
 Down crumbling slopes of too elusive bliss 
 Into the depths of that forlorn abyss 
 
 Whose weariness no common words can tell, 
 
 Whose pains are often as the pains of Hell, 
 
 Whose mournful hollows God's bright sunlight 
 
 miss, 
 The radiant message of the Morning's kiss, 
 
 And none escape except by miracle. 
 
 Long nights and days you lingered in the shade, 
 Whilst Love looked on, half blinded with hot tears, 
 
 And querulously questioned Heaven's decree ; 
 Or, in its anguish, impotently prayed 
 For grace to grapple with its icy fears, 
 For power to face the coming misery.
 
 IQ2 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 II. 
 
 But step by step you sought the hills again, 
 Supported by Love's arm, and slowly led 
 From shadow into sunshine ; and you tread 
 
 Green pastures now, and, after months of pain, 
 
 Walk by still waters ; and our hearts are fain, 
 By the Good Shepherd stayed and comforted, 
 And with the manna of his kindness fed, 
 
 To praise Him wholly, and no more complain. 
 
 Our souls restored to faith, our cup of life 
 With gladness running over, to the hills 
 
 Together turning when the night draws nigh, 
 It may be we shall reach, at last, dear wife, 
 A realm the music of whose crystal rills 
 Flows from the utmost depths of yonder sky.
 
 THE ROMAN WELL. 
 
 WILDERSPOOL. 
 
 I WENT, this morning, with curious eyes, 
 To a lonely place by the water's brim, 
 
 Where the path to the mighty ocean lies, 
 And the ships sail up from the sunset's rim, 
 
 For my soul had strangely felt the spell 
 
 Of the tale I had heard of a Roman Well. 
 
 By the brink of the inky waterway 
 A mine of wealth had been unrolled ; 
 
 A wayside altar had seen the day, 
 
 And coins worth more than their weight in gold, 
 
 The marks of an ancient citadel, 
 
 A Roman Road, and a Roman Well. 
 
 My heart was stirred by the visions grand 
 Which filled my brain as I read the tale, 
 
 And I saw the dear old fatherland, 
 Through the hazy past, like a silver veil,
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 In the days when warriors were proud to dwell 
 By the side of this memory-haunted Well. 
 
 In fancy I saw tall damsels lean, 
 
 With marble limbs, and pitchers fair, 
 
 About its brim, as the sunset's sheen 
 Made a golden glory of their hair, 
 
 And their warlike lovers pause to tell 
 
 The old, old tale at the Roman Well. 
 
 Two thousand years had almost gone 
 Since first they came to the land I loved ; 
 
 But the work they wrought was nobly done, 
 And the centuries passed it by unmoved ; 
 
 And when they left it, new foes to fell, 
 
 The Wall remained, and the Roman Well. 
 
 And the Danes swooped down on the smiling fields, 
 And the Saxons came with their yellow hair, 
 
 And the Normans, burning behind their shields, 
 And the years rolled on, but the work was there; 
 
 And a new race rose, the world to quell, 
 
 Like the builders of this ancient Well.
 
 THE ROMAN WELL. IQ5 
 
 But the Camp was lost in the lust for gold, 
 And the ploughshares passed where the dead 
 lay dumb, 
 
 And the sunny fields in a pall were rolled, 
 And little men recked of ancient Rome ; 
 
 And Trade was more, with its noise and smell, 
 
 Than foolish tales of a Roman Well. 
 
 Till, at last, * a learned stranger came, 
 By some half forgotten rumour led, 
 
 And the heedless natives put to shame 
 By the light his lamp of knowledge shed ; 
 
 And he strove the darkness to dispel 
 
 Which wrapped in gloom the Roman Well. 
 
 It was barely a fortnight since first the sun 
 Had shone once more on the buried prize 
 
 * Mr. Thomas May, whose subsequent discoveries 
 have clearly proved that an important military station 
 existed at Wilderspool (probably known as Veratinum), 
 and that three, at least, of our local industries (the manu- 
 facture of glass, pottery, and iron) date back to the time 
 of the Roman occupation.
 
 196 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 When I went to gaze on the relics won 
 
 From the dull earth's womb, with eager eyes ; 
 But already had Mammon rung the knell 
 Of Camp, and City, and Roman Well. 
 
 And my dream was vain, for a heap of stones, 
 And a broken fragment, alone remained ; 
 
 There was sand beyond it a million tons : 
 It was in the way as a wight explained ; 
 
 And sand was surely made to sell, 
 
 And what was the use of a Roman Well ? 
 
 Great God ! is our stock of sand so small 
 That this trace of "the grandeur that was Rome " 
 
 Into sudden ruin must swiftly fall 
 That a load may pass, or a cart may come ? 
 
 The very horses might rebel 
 
 At the wrong that is done to the Roman Well ! 
 
 And the town by the hell-black river there, 
 In the pall of poisonous smoke concealed 
 
 Have its sons and daughters ceased to care 
 For the timeworn wonders its borders yield ? 
 
 If not, the words should in thunder swell 
 
 To their lips : " Restore our Roman Well ! "
 
 THE ROMAN WELL. IQ7 
 
 For what is sand, were it dust of gold, 
 Compared to the thought of the mighty dead ? 
 
 Shall the ashes of men's sires be sold, 
 And their very altars turned to bread ? 
 
 'Twas, in sooth, a saddening spectacle, 
 Those stones which were once a Roman Well ! 
 
 IST JANUARY, 1897.
 
 THE BOROUGH JUBILEE. 
 
 3RD APRIL, 1897. 
 
 'Tis fifty years ago to-day 
 
 Since first this "good old town " of ours, 
 As the old civic records say, 
 
 Received its charter, and the showers 
 Of fifty Aprils have but served 
 
 To help to make its glory grow, 
 As fifty winters have but nerved 
 
 Its sinews with their frost and snow. 
 
 And proudly through its ancient streets 
 
 What tales their narrow courts could tell !- 
 Where every lingering breeze repeats 
 
 Some old tradition, to the swell 
 Of trumpets, following the Mayor, 
 
 We wend in proud procession, while 
 The sound of music fills the air, 
 
 And banners wave, and maidens smile.
 
 THE BOROUGH JUBILEE. igg 
 
 And as we pass what fancies rise 
 
 What vanished faces we can see ! 
 Amid the changing melodies, 
 
 The hazy past comes back to me ; 
 The builders of the borough seem 
 
 To march beside us to the square ; 
 And, suddenly, as in a dream, 
 
 Strange figures greet us everywhere. 
 
 The Mayor of fifty years ago 
 
 Is proudly followed by his peers ; 
 But who are these whose garments show 
 
 The trace of more than fifty years ? 
 *The gallant "Bluebacks," surely ! Yes, 
 
 And coaches gay with many a horn ; 
 And watchmen quaint, with pleasantries 
 
 Still loudly heralding the morn. 
 
 Grave scholars now our ranks receive 
 From fyonder mouldering mansion dim ; 
 
 And jolly monks to join us leave 
 The Friary, with mellow hymn ; 
 
 * The Warrington Volunteers of 1798. 
 f The Old Academy.
 
 200 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And from the road towards the spire 
 Cromwellian soldiers stoutly come ; 
 
 And Cavaliers, with hearts on fire, 
 March to the music of the drum. 
 
 And barons bold, in armour bright, 
 
 From the old winding streets emerge, 
 In Warrington's defence to fight, 
 
 And lustily their horses urge ; 
 And down the Causeway haughtily 
 
 A glittering Roman legion rides, 
 While still as ever to the sea 
 
 The same old river softly glides. 
 
 Heirs of two thousand years are we, 
 
 No petty mushroom town is this ; 
 And Warrington may live to see 
 
 Its jubilee of centuries ; 
 Its past is bright with gallant deeds, 
 
 Is writ in many a folio rare, 
 Is felt in half a hundred creeds, 
 
 And heard in many a patriot's prayer. 
 
 If somewhat of our ancient fame 
 Be lost amid the smoke of trade ;
 
 THE BOROUGH JUBILEE. 2OI 
 
 " 
 
 - 
 
 If gold be worshipped, to our shame, 
 And little more than money made ; 
 
 If the pure air be tainted now, 
 
 The river black, once clear as glass, 
 
 A halo hangs about the brow 
 
 Of "\Varrington which shall not pass. 
 
 And from her nightmare she shall rise, 
 
 And she shall cast her shame away, 
 And, standing under the blue skies 
 
 A lovely giantess shall say : 
 " I will repay you for your pain, 
 
 Ye toilers in my service high ; 
 Your faithful labours were not vain : 
 
 Come, share my queenly destiny ! "
 
 A KISS. 
 
 COMPACTED of honey and fire, 
 
 Of velvet, and music, and bliss, 
 The bud which presages desire, 
 Compacted of honey and fire, 
 A rose with its roots in the mire, 
 A flower in a flame is a kiss 
 Compacted of honey and fire, 
 Of velvet, and music, and bliss.
 
 A SONG FOR GREECE. 
 
 WHAT is this sudden call which shrills 
 
 Afar from classic sea to sea, 
 And stirs the fair Thessalian hills 
 
 With the great cry of Liberty ? 
 Once more the Cross and Crescent meet, 
 And War rolls on with bloody feet ! 
 
 For centuries the realm has faced 
 
 Its ancient tyrants unafraid ; 
 A hundred times its sons have braced 
 
 Their hearts and arms, and, undismayed, 
 Resisted the fierce Moslem horde 
 Whose only Bible is the sword. 
 
 And now once more the call goes forth 
 
 To roll the tide of battle back ; 
 And, turning boldly towards the north, 
 
 Where loom the mountains bold and black, 
 The sons of Athens proudly move 
 Their lineage once again to prove.
 
 204 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And in yon valleys dark and deep 
 They gladly meet the hated foe ; 
 
 And on yon mountains, stark and steep, 
 The sons of Greece are lying low ; 
 
 But still, like old Leonidas, 
 
 Northwards the dauntless legions pass. 
 
 And every town in Greece is armed, 
 And every son of Greece has seized 
 
 His sword, and to the battle swarmed, 
 In the great cause to die well pleased, 
 
 If valour may not quite avail 
 
 O'er Moslem numbers to prevail. 
 
 From every clime beneath the sun 
 
 The heirs of Homer's greatness speed ; 
 
 A hundred thousand move as one 
 To help the nation in its need ; 
 
 And freemen, envious of their fame, 
 
 From many a land assist the flame. 
 
 But still the turbaned warriors pour 
 Like vultures through each grim defile,
 
 A SONG FOR GREECE. 205 
 
 The Crescent waving 'mid the roar 
 Of Hell's accursed artillery, while 
 With bleeding hearts, but quenchless Taith, 
 The Greeks resist them to the death. 
 
 In every Grecian heart their burns 
 The flame by old Achilles lit ; 
 
 And every Grecian bosom yearns 
 Towards Marathon to think of it ! 
 
 The land from end to end on fire 
 
 With one unquenchable desire 
 
 One stern resolve to show the world 
 That Grecian greatness is not dead, 
 
 Though all the Moslem hosts be hurled 
 In grim array on Greece's head ; 
 
 One thrilling, universal cry 
 
 For God, the King, and Liberty ! 
 
 'Tis all in vain in Heaven afar 
 God views the carnage and is still ; 
 
 The bloody tides of death and war 
 Roll on from classic hill to hill ; 
 
 The Crescent stands where proudly stood, 
 
 The Cross, now drowned in seas of blood.
 
 2O6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And sudden panic palsies those 
 
 Who made, at first, so brave a stand ; 
 
 Who shall resist the tawny foes 
 Who swoop upon the fatherland ? 
 
 Outnumbered, Hellas stands alone, 
 
 Like Niobe, transformed to stone. 
 
 And Europe, at whose bloody door 
 The guilt of this grim struggle lies, 
 
 What recks she of the cannon's roar ? 
 The vulture feasts when Freedom dies ; 
 
 And Czars and Emperors may gain 
 
 New trophies from poor Freedom's pain. 
 
 And France is mute, rude Russia's slave, 
 And Italy, the Kaiser's tool ; 
 
 And even England, once so brave, 
 In spite of her majestic rule, 
 
 Is the mere jackal of the rest, 
 
 And bows her head upon her breast. 
 
 And I myself could well-nigh weep 
 To see my England sunk so low ; 
 
 Heaven grant my country may not reap 
 The seed she is not slack to sow ;
 
 A SONG FOR GREECE. 207 
 
 That Nemesis, with stealthy tread, 
 May never strike her greatness dead ! 
 
 For still, methinks, the land shall wake, 
 And speak with the old voice again, 
 
 And all the banded tyrants quake 
 Before her footsteps on the main, 
 
 And every land, from sea to sea, 
 
 Laugh with the wine of Liberty !
 
 THE DIAMOND JUBILEE. 
 
 22ND JUNE, 1897. 
 
 CHILD of the kingly, hail ! 
 We greet thee, on thy Diamond Jubilee, 
 Loyal, rejoicing. Sixty years ago, 
 
 With prayers and tears thus runs the touch- 
 ing tale 
 Thou didst inherit thine authority, 
 
 Thy purpose high, thy soul as white as snow ; 
 And now thy hair is snowy : spring is fled, 
 
 And the rich rose-time, and the autumn's 
 
 peace ; 
 
 But thy life's winter shall not bring thee woe ; 
 Long have the sunbeams on thy path been shed : 
 They shall not fail thee till the journey 
 
 cease 
 O, Queen and Empress, hail ! 
 
 Bride of the noble, hail ! 
 Who says the age of chivalry is gone ?
 
 THE DIAMOND JUBILEE. 2Og 
 
 Was Albert less than knight ? Not they whose 
 
 strife 
 
 Sufficed to win the vision of the Grail 
 Were knightlier than the unforgotten one, 
 
 The stainless husband of a spotless wife ; 
 Both born to power, and both devoid of 
 
 blame 
 
 An Arthur he, but thou no Guinevere ; 
 And lo ! his offspring emulate his life, 
 His progeny perpetuate his fame : 
 
 From far they come to celebrate the year 
 Parents of princes, hail ! 
 
 Friend of thy people, hail ! 
 Our sighs have moved thee, and thy pangs we 
 
 share ; 
 We mourned with thee in widowhood, and 
 
 grieved 
 When to thy circle came the Monster 
 
 Pale 
 And took an Alice ; and we helped to bear 
 
 The loss of Leopold ; and thou, bereaved, 
 As now thon hearest all thy subjects sing, 
 
 In thy distress didst hear a nation moan ; 
 And often has thy sympathy relieved 
 Thy weary subjects in their sorrowing,
 
 210 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And drawn them nearer to thy ancient 
 
 Throne 
 Then, gentle lady, hail ! 
 
 Exalted sovereign, hail ! 
 Dim is proud Gloriana's pomp to-day : 
 Immense was her renown, and all her foes 
 Fled from her banner with the voice of 
 
 wail ; 
 
 Warriors, and sailors bold, and statesmen gray 
 Encompassed her, and wondrous bards arose 
 Within the realm whose names will never die ; 
 But more of the immortal names are thine, 
 And rarer deeds thy fifty years disclose 
 Than all the records of thine ancestry 
 
 In wrongs redressed, and earth made more 
 
 divine 
 Thrice happy monarch, hail ! 
 
 Ruler of ocean, hail ! 
 
 The sturdy dwellers underneath the world, 
 The men whose hands the affluent prairies sow, 
 
 They who on seas of endless summer sail, 
 The warriors of the East, with flags unfurled, 
 The heirs of regions where the diamonds 
 glow,
 
 THE DIAMOND JUBILEE. 211 
 
 Turning their faces to the isle of home. 
 Join in the general song of jubilee ; 
 And, borne by all the balmiest winds that blow, 
 Across great waters, leaping into foam, 
 
 The thrilling chorus thunders up to thee, 
 Mother of Empires, hail !
 
 GOD SAVE THE EMPIRE ! 
 
 GOD save our Empire grand, 
 The freeman's fatherland, 
 
 Wide as the world ; 
 Still may its borders grow, 
 Its sons be swift to go 
 To greet all winds that blow 
 
 With flag unfurled. 
 
 And where they plant their foot 
 May Liberty take root, 
 
 And Truth prevail ; 
 And under alien skies 
 New English cities rise, 
 With honour in their eyes, 
 
 And hearts of mail. 
 
 And may the races strange, 
 With dusky limbs, who range 
 These regions vast,
 
 GOD SAVE THE EMPIRE ! 213 
 
 Love the same laws as we, 
 From utmost sea to sea 
 Be as one family 
 With us at last. 
 
 May all our borders flow 
 With milk and honey, know 
 
 Long years of Peace ; 
 But, should War's clarion sound, 
 And every land be found 
 Against us, Lord, confound 
 
 Our enemies ! 
 
 And may the realms that reach 
 Round the great globe, whose speech 
 
 Is Shakespeare's own, 
 In closer bonds unite, 
 Beneath one banner fight, 
 And lead the world to light, 
 
 And to thy Throne !
 
 "THE DOCTOR." 
 
 IN MEMORY OF THOMAS STARKEY SMITH, M.B., 
 
 F.R.C.S., WHO DIED SUDDENLY ON 
 
 THE 4TH SEPTEMBER, 1897. 
 
 WHAT is this shadow in the town ? 
 Is some great chief or captain dead, 
 
 Or vacant is the civic chair ? 
 In every house the blinds are down, 
 On every hand men's eyes are red, 
 And grief is in the very air. 
 
 Whence are these crowds who throng the streets, 
 That long procession sad and slow, 
 
 That multitude so deeply moved ? 
 Whose is the honoured name that greets 
 The aching ear where'er you go ? 
 
 Who was this man so much beloved ?
 
 "THE DOCTOR." 
 
 "The doctor" that is all: no bays 
 In senate or in council won 
 
 Adorned his brow ; he did not crave 
 The empty tribute of men's praise ; 
 He shrunk, indeed, from glory's sun ; 
 But he has found it in the grave. 
 
 Unostentatiously for years 
 The tall, slim, gentle figure passed 
 
 From door to door ; and where it came 
 The suffering half forgot their tears, 
 The heavy-laden felt, at last, 
 
 Their weak hopes flicker into flame. 
 
 At his approach the fever fled, 
 And Anguish its relentless hold 
 
 Relaxed, and the tired pulses stirred ; 
 And Death, from many a weary bed 
 Of suffering, by his skill controlled, 
 Shrank, baffled, like some evil bird. 
 
 On clammy brows his hands shed balm ; 
 The weltering wound began to heal 
 Beneath his lingers ; heart and brain
 
 2l6 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Leapt with new life to hear the calm, 
 
 Kind voice of comfort, or to feel 
 
 The solace of his hand again. 
 
 Unheard of in the big debate, 
 
 Unknown where party strife was high, 
 
 Regardless of the trump of Fame, 
 To many a gilded mansion great, 
 Or simple cottage nestling by, 
 
 Beloved of all, " the doctor " came. 
 
 He died, at last, while ushering in 
 A young soul to the light of day, 
 
 A new life to the mother's breast : 
 'Tis well such sacrifice should win 
 Such recompense of loving lay 
 
 Your sad wreaths down, and let him rest
 
 AT HAWARDEN. 
 
 I. 
 
 How sweet it is, old feuds at last forgot, 
 This quaintly winding village street to tread, 
 And, by the feet of contemplation led, 
 
 To seek the castle in the sylvan spot 
 
 Where dwells, from strife secluded, one whose lot 
 Erstwhile it was, to wordy battle bred, 
 To rouse a realm to mingled hate and dread 
 
 His powers recalled, his -faults remembered not ; 
 
 To see him tread with tottering feet the road 
 That leads to the Great Silence, leaning still 
 On her who soothed and shared his strenuous 
 
 way; 
 
 The voice that once like some proud river flowed 
 Grown feeble, and the once herculean will 
 Companion to a little child at play.
 
 2l8 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 II. 
 
 That venerable form that walks the aisle 
 Of the old church so feebly lately swayed 
 A senate by its silver tongue, and played 
 
 Upon men's minds like stringed instruments the 
 while 
 
 One half the realm looked on with answering smile, 
 And the strong words with thunderous plaudits 
 
 paid ; 
 The other half its anger almost stayed, 
 
 Held captive by the magic of his style. 
 
 And suffering lands in those beclouded eyes 
 
 Caught glimpses of the sunshine ; on those lips, 
 As though for life, the tortured martyrs hung ; 
 Downtrodden races, with a wild surprise, 
 
 From the world's face beheld the long eclipse 
 Pass slowly, hanging on that silver tongue. 
 
 III. 
 
 But now the night creeps on, and from the strife 
 Of tongues the veteran, turning, seeks repose 
 Amid the innumerable folios 
 
 With all the wisdom of the ages rife ;
 
 AT HAWARDEN. 2IQ 
 
 Or laughs with Dorothy, or joins his wife 
 In quiet intercourse, or welcomes those 
 Who bring their tribute ere the old man goes 
 
 Through Death's dark portals to the larger life. 
 
 Amid its oaks the stately mansion sleeps, 
 The crumbling ruin rising by its side ; 
 
 The mellow bells take up their soft refrain ; 
 While England in her inmost memory keeps 
 His old achievements, and recalls with pride 
 The greatest figure of the greatest reign.
 
 AT BINBROOK. 
 
 ON these high wolds, ringed in with sky, 
 Bounded by the unbroken blue, 
 Across whose breast the clouds pursue 
 
 Their wave-like path, alone am I. 
 
 The nether earth I cannot see, 
 Its hurrying life I cannot hear ; 
 I breathe an ampler atmosphere, 
 
 And from its cares awhile am free. 
 
 This is an island in the air ; 
 Oblivious of the world below 
 Its populations reap and sow, 
 
 And forth into the furrows fare, 
 
 Or send their fleecy flocks afield, 
 Or lead the loaded wagons home, 
 Or slowly plough the leagues of loam, 
 
 While the eternal cisterns yield
 
 AT BINBROOK. 221 
 
 " The early and " the "latter rain," 
 And "drop " their " fatness " on the sod, 
 Which yearly offers up to God, 
 
 With usury, his gifts again. 
 
 Yet have these island-folk their share 
 
 In the eternal interchange 
 
 Of joy and sorrow kinsmen strange 
 On these high wolds, as everywhere. 
 
 Young life laughs out at morning lo ! 
 
 The night draws on and brings the bier ; 
 
 Love sings when all the woods are sere, 
 And mocks the stinging frost and snow. 
 
 Sometimes God's glory gilds the corn, 
 And every field is white with fleece ; 
 Sometimes the fruitful harvests cease, 
 
 And all in vain the sheep are shorn. 
 
 And, as the fox in yonder wood 
 Creeps out or ever chanticleer 
 Proclaims the dawn, and fills with fear 
 
 The bosoms of the fluffy brood,
 
 222 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 The wolf called Poverty, with feet 
 Of hunger, howls about the door ; 
 And smaller grows the humble store, 
 
 Till there is little left to eat. 
 
 And there are island-tragedies ! 
 In yonder roofless room there lay, 
 One autumn-eve, two youths, they say, 
 
 Drawn hither from across the seas 
 
 To help the husbandman to reap 
 
 His golden treasure. Midnight came : 
 The room was wrapped in sudden flame, 
 
 Which swooped upon them in their sleep, 
 
 And bore their souls on fiery wings 
 Where the eternal harvests wait ; 
 And left their bodies such is Fate 
 
 The ashes and the dust of things. 
 
 But happier life is mostly theirs 
 The sweet simplicities which crown 
 Man's labour when the blinds are down, 
 
 And on the hearth the faggot flares ;
 
 AT BINBROOK. 223 
 
 The boon companionship of birds, 
 The glory of the mellowing woods, 
 Nature in all her changeful moods, 
 
 Society of flocks and herds, 
 
 Babble of brooks, and lisp of leaves, 
 The village gossip late o' nights, 
 The Sabbath with its simple rites, 
 
 The harvest of the shining sheaves. 
 
 And I, who sojourn here awhile, 
 Find only joy warm hands that greet 
 With generous welcome ; converse sweet, 
 
 And friends who on my fancies smile. 
 
 I drink deep draughts of this pure air, 
 Find rest in the great quietness, 
 Glad to forget the storm and stress 
 
 Which surge below, the toil and care. 
 
 The sun comes up from yonder sea 
 With yellow hair and burning beard ; 
 The pallid moon, a spectre weird, 
 
 Follows his footsteps silently ;
 
 224 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And over me the blue sky leans, 
 The stars steal out, and nightly tell 
 My doubting soul that all is well ; 
 
 And from these harvest hours it gleans 
 
 Great sheaves of golden calm to take 
 Back to the smoky lowlands where 
 Mammon is lord, and garner there, 
 
 And into bread of life to make.
 
 THE RETURN TO TOWN. 
 
 BRIEF interspace of quiet hours 
 In scenes familiar to my ken 
 
 How gloomily the morning lowers 
 As sadly we go home again ! 
 
 Back through the mingled rain and mire, 
 Back to the turmoil of the town ; 
 
 But with me still my heart's desire, 
 To greet life's smile, to face its frown. 
 
 Too soon the golden hours have fled, 
 The summer passed, the autumn flown ; 
 
 The leaves are withered all and dead, 
 The houris of the garden gone ; 
 
 The grass is wilted, and the trees 
 Poor skeletons of what they were ; 
 
 But life has richer things than these 
 Which thrive and blossom everywhere.
 
 226 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Friendship defies the winter's blast, 
 
 Love laughs at the mere thought of change ; 
 
 And they shall bud, and bloom, and last, 
 Though all the outer world be strange. 
 
 And under yonder smoky pall 
 
 Warm hearts are found, and friends abide ; 
 And, though the last leaves slowly fall, 
 
 And Sol himself be leaden-eyed, 
 
 In yonder home the fires shall glow 
 With ruddy warmth, to-night, I wot ; 
 
 And in their radiance we shall know 
 The accustomed sweetness of the spot. 
 
 And in our hearts we twain shall take, 
 Born of our fleeting sojourn here, 
 
 Such sunny memories as make 
 Perpetual summer of the year. 
 
 WESTLANDS, 
 
 PADGATE, 
 
 I4TH OCTOBER, 1897.
 
 THE STORMING OF DARGAI. 
 
 ON a rocky height, in a rugged land, 
 By the boulders hid from view, 
 
 The rebels mustered, a wild-eyed band, 
 And their bullets hissed and flew ; 
 
 And they barred our way to their grim retreat, 
 
 And they baffled our attack, 
 For the bravest shrank, and, with faltering feet, 
 
 From the bloody hill turned back. 
 
 The general saw, from his post afar, 
 How his plans would thwarted be, 
 
 And disaster come, like an evil star, 
 On the heels of victorv 
 
 Unless that vantage ground were ta'en, 
 
 And the rebels put to flight 
 Though the slopes were sown with the newly 
 slain, 
 
 They must seize it ere the night !
 
 228 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And he called for the colonel who led the host 
 From the kilted North who came : 
 
 " Ere the night descend we must seize that post 
 Though it belch with fire and flame ! 
 
 " It must taken be, and ' the Gordons ' bold 
 
 Must take it ! " at the word, 
 The colonel glanced at the rocky hold, 
 
 And he grasped his trusty sword. 
 
 And he looked at his valiant Highlanders, 
 
 And the message out spoke he, 
 And he turned to lead them 'twill live in verse 
 
 How they answered the colonel's plea ! 
 
 Like a meteor blazing across the sky, 
 Down their ranks the message flew ; 
 
 And each man heard it with flashing eye, 
 And the heart in each beat true. 
 
 And the pipers played a whirling strain 
 Which made their pulses reel, 
 
 And, like hounds in leash let loose again. 
 They leapt up the bloody hill.
 
 THE STORMING OF DARGAI. 22Q 
 
 And from every rock the lightning flared, 
 
 And the fateful bullet sped ; 
 But up the hissing slope they fared, 
 
 Though it groaned with the newly dead. 
 
 And through the zone of fire they pushed, 
 
 And amid the boulders gray, 
 Or up the rugged pathways rushed 
 
 To the height where the hillsmen lay. 
 
 The gallant piper, Findlater, 
 Is wounded in either heel ; 
 
 But, above the battle's noise and stir, 
 They can hear his pibroch's peal. 
 
 And there, in the pelting hail of lead, 
 
 His back to a friendly stone, 
 While the rocks with his honest blood ran red, 
 
 The piper played right on. 
 
 The hill is thick with the forms of those 
 Who shall never tight again ;
 
 230 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 But the zone is past, and the summit shows 
 With the kilted Highlandmen. 
 
 Through "the jaws of death " and " the mouth 
 of hell," 
 
 They have fought their way to fame ; 
 And the tongues of those unborn shall tell 
 
 The gallant piper's name.
 
 NOR WILL THEY FORGET." 
 
 " Not the Government alone, but the whole nation 
 feels most deeply the goodwill sent them across the 
 sea. Nor will they forget." President McKinleys 
 Message to the British People, through " The Daily 
 Mail" at tJw beginning of the War with Spain. 
 
 THE men who, in council assembled, 
 Decreed that the sword must be drawn, 
 
 With faces which never have trembled, 
 Look forth to the land of the dawn ; 
 
 We have heard, o'er the severing water, 
 In the lands where the sun seems to set, 
 
 The Mother saluting the Daughter, 
 Who will not forget. 
 
 What though, in the century darkened 
 With strife we remember with pain, 
 
 To the sound of your swords we have hearkened, 
 We never shall draw them again ;
 
 232 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 What though we have sternly resented 
 The wrong which you did to us, yet, 
 We know you have bravely repented, 
 And we can forget. 
 
 It is true that, with arrogant clamour, 
 We have often insulted our " home," 
 
 But we cannot escape from its glamour, 
 In spite of the severing foam : 
 
 Its poets, and heroes, and sages, 
 
 Are ours we acknowledge the debt 
 
 And, though Hell were let loose on the ages, 
 We could not forget. 
 
 In the hour of your late isolation, 
 
 When the kingdoms, like hounds on the track 
 Of the lion, all yelped at your nation, 
 
 And you valiantly bearded the pack, 
 Though, with strangely unfilial feeling, 
 
 We had answered your love with a threat, 
 We were moved to the marrow, and, kneeling, 
 We bid you forget. 
 
 And now we are sailing to battle, 
 We are marching majestic to war,
 
 " NOR WILL THEY FORGET. 233 
 
 And, above the artillery's rattle, 
 
 We can hear your strong voice from afar; 
 
 Through the depths of the sundering ocean 
 It leaps like the light, and is met 
 
 With a tumult of kindred emotion 
 We will not forget. 
 
 In our veins the red current is flowing 
 Which drove the Armada to doom ; 
 
 And the tempests like trumpets are blowing, 
 And the waves they are building a tomb 
 
 For the race who are trained in transgression, 
 And in crimes they shall swiftly regret; 
 
 They are brave, but the price of oppression 
 They must not forget. 
 
 The boom of the cannon shall slacken, 
 The crash of the battle will cease, 
 
 And no longer the smoke of it blacken 
 The island devoted to peace ; 
 
 But the voice which resounds o'er the water 
 Ere the star of the Spaniard has set, 
 
 Is dear to the heart of the Daughter, 
 Nor will she forget.
 
 THE HOUSE OF PAIN. 
 
 I. 
 
 FROM the dark shadow of the vale released, 
 You stole with joy to the sweet earth again ; 
 To pluck its many-coloured flowers were fain, 
 
 And sit once more at the accustomed feast ; 
 
 We half imagined that your pangs had ceased, 
 And lo, your blue eyes dim with longings vain, 
 You pass the portals of the House of Pain, 
 
 To meet its stern, yet pitiful, high-priest ! 
 
 And we must leave you, though Love longs to 
 
 share 
 Your agonies, which the still stars will see 
 
 And keep on shining, and the lusty sun 
 Behold with ruddy face, nor seem to care ; 
 For Wisdom answers us, " It may not be ! 
 The crowning anguish is a lonely one ! "
 
 THE HOUSE OF PAIN. 235 
 
 II. 
 
 But to the three in that old furnace cast, 
 
 Whose fire was sevenfold hotter than of yore, 
 There came a radiant Presence, and 'twas four 
 
 The King beheld, with countenance aghast ; 
 
 And, to the fishers, feeling the full blast, 
 Which made the Galilean waters roar, 
 There came One walking with a face which wore 
 
 A light of wonder, and the tempest passed. 
 
 And you, heart's dearest, tossed with many a 
 
 doubt, 
 Beset with darkness that we may not know, 
 
 Yet feeling all the fury of the fire, 
 Shall see the shining Presence, and pass out, 
 With grateful lips, and soft young face aglow, 
 To life, and love, and all that you desire.
 
 IN POPPYLAND. 
 
 IN Poppyland I lie and dream, 
 
 And watch the changing waters gleam 
 
 Above the shadowy cities lost 
 
 Whose churches fringe this golden coast : 
 How blue the glittering wavelets seem ; 
 How bright the blazing solar beam ; 
 The emerald surges break in cream 
 
 Against the bastions, flower-embossed, 
 Of Poppyland. 
 
 And yet, full oft, with shuddering scream, 
 The billows rise, in wrath supreme, 
 And charge in thundering host on host, 
 Each white with some remembered ghost, 
 In Poppyland.
 
 THE SEA INSATIABLE. 
 
 CROMER. 
 
 I. 
 
 INSATIABLE and cruel-hearted sea, 
 
 That with false footsteps eats into the land, 
 
 I fear thy thunders, and thy billows grand : 
 These yellow cliffs, that frown defiantly, 
 Shall crumble at thy coming, and shall be 
 
 As prone before thee as yon level sand ; 
 
 And Father Time, with his majestic hand, 
 Shall claim whole realms as tribute due to thee. 
 
 For ever hungry, will the solid world 
 
 Suffice to feed thee ? Must these towers in turn 
 
 Topple and tremble at thy giant stride ? 
 And will some sunrise come, with clouds impearled, 
 To find thee universal lord, and learn 
 That thou, O king, art still unsatisfied?
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Or will the fires that lurk within the core 
 Of this green globe of beauty fiercely claim 
 Both sea and land ; in cataclysmal flame 
 
 Leap from the ocean's bosom ; fold the shore 
 
 In hurricanes of scarlet horror ; pour 
 
 Their blood-red surges o'er the seats of fame, 
 And overwhelm the darkest haunts of shame, 
 
 And wrap the world in their relentless roar ? 
 
 What if the earth should be one ruin vast, 
 One lamentable chaos, flickering out 
 
 To ashes and to darkness ; or driven on 
 Through Heaven's wide spaces, past the silver rim 
 Of Venus, till, with tottering feet, at last, 
 It drops into the jaws of yonder sun ? 
 
 III. 
 
 What matters ? God himself cannot erase 
 One moon, or sun, or planet, or white star ; 
 The things which have been in Creation are ; 
 
 Nor can he blot one atom from the face
 
 THE SEA INSATIABLE. 239 
 
 Of all His 1 shining universe; displace 
 One solitary molecule ; or mar 
 The mighty forces which, in depths afar, 
 
 Build the new worlds, and set new suns ablaze. 
 
 Eternal as the gods themselves, serene 
 
 'Mid earthquake, thunder, fire, and wave, and 
 
 storm, 
 
 The universe moves on to music high ; 
 Within the womb of things He works unseen, 
 And all the worlds are but the shifting form 
 That swathes the splendour of the Deity.
 
 A FANCY IN THE TRAIN. 
 
 GOD lit the land with heather, 
 In the blue and golden weather 
 
 Ere the winter comes apace ; 
 And He fired the fields with poppies, 
 And He kindled many a coppice 
 
 With the flame which was His face. 
 
 And He girt the hills with gorse, 
 Till they seemed to be the source 
 
 Of a splendour like the sun's ; 
 And the world's great burning bosom 
 With a blaze of endless blossom 
 
 Was all on fire at once. 
 
 But amid them He sent straying 
 His cool streams, softly laying 
 
 His lilies in their path ; 
 And He made the rushes quiver 
 In many a tranquil river 
 
 At the time of aftermath.
 
 A FANCY IN THE TRAIN. 24! 
 
 And around them He set swinging 
 The silver tides, and flinging 
 
 Their tribute to the moon ; 
 And the silver stars came peeping, 
 When the golden sun was sleeping, 
 
 And the waves were all in tune. 
 
 And the world which He had builded, 
 With the sun's great glory gilded, 
 
 By the moon's white beams caressed, 
 Swung with soft and silver motion 
 Through the blue and golden ocean 
 
 Of His Heaven, and was blest.
 
 THE SKY IS FULL OF ANGELS. 
 
 ABY, LINCOLNSHIRE. 
 
 THE sky is full of angels, choir on choir, 
 
 I see them soaring upwards through the blue, 
 To where Christ sits enthroned, in regions 
 
 higher 
 
 Than stars and worlds which let His glory 
 through. 
 
 I see them soaring homewards, back to God, 
 Back from a clime in whose polluted air 
 
 Their pinions droop, their feet of amber, shod 
 With flame, grow heavy with a great despair. 
 
 I see them soaring homewards, back to Heaven, 
 Back from an orb wherein they cannot breathe, 
 
 To where, amid the rainbow's splendours seven, 
 They shower God's manna on the worlds be- 
 neath.
 
 THE SKY IS FULL OF ANGELS. 243 
 
 I see them soaring homewards, million-winged, 
 From whence, in yonder west, a pool of fire, 
 
 With amethystine clouds of glory ringed, 
 The sun goes down above the world's desire. 
 
 I see them soaring homewards, host on host, 
 In glittering lines, and legions manifold, 
 
 To disappear on some ethereal coast, 
 
 In yon blue heights, a lessening cloud of gold. 
 
 And fain am I to follow them ; the world, 
 In many a mood, I, too, am swift to spurn ; 
 
 To soar, at last, with hidden wings unfurled, 
 To where suns kindle and the planets burn ; 
 
 Where flows a river of crystal, like to glass ; 
 
 Where night ne'er cometh, and where Death is 
 
 dead ; 
 And where, for ever, as the aeons pass, 
 
 On all his worlds the light of God is shed.
 
 ON THE 
 TERCENTENARY OF CROMWELL'S BIRTH. 
 
 25TH APRIL, 1899. 
 I. 
 
 I DO not love thee, Cromwell, but I hate 
 
 The idle yelping of the bigot crew 
 
 Who seek to rob thee of thy lawful due, 
 And, in their smallness, grudge to own thee great, 
 Forget thy splendid service to the state, 
 
 Drag all thy faults and failings into view, 
 
 Depict thy vices in the darkest hue, 
 And deem thy very virtues out of date. 
 
 The golden sun has spots upon his face ; 
 The moon herself with silver visage marred 
 
 Pursues her queenly path through yonder sky ; 
 But shall we therefore drag them from their place, 
 Rail at the twain as planets evil-starred, 
 And all their sovran services deny ?
 
 ON THE TERCENTENARY OF CROMWELL'S BIRTH. 245 
 
 II. 
 
 And thou hast served our England : from the sway 
 Of tyrant kings and priestcraft's deadening thrall 
 Hast won supreme deliverance for us all ; 
 
 Thine iron hand has kept a world at bay, 
 
 Filled the presumptuous nations with dismay, 
 And made the envious seas thy slaves withal ; 
 Whilst, at thy stern old voice majestical, 
 
 The ravening wolf of Rome forsook his prey. 
 
 And through the mists of these three centuries 
 Thy name shines out resplendent as the morn ; 
 And England, great, and strong, and rich, and 
 
 free, 
 
 The miserable brood of calumnies 
 Smothers with ineradicable scorn, 
 
 Acknowledging her unpaid debt to thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 And these old streets have quivered to the tread 
 Of the old king who would not wear a crown ; 
 And still the ancient legends of the town 
 
 Tell how, yon neighbouring hillock thick with dead,
 
 246 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 The footmen captured, and the horsemen fled, 
 As darkness gathered, and the stars looked down, 
 To God ascribing all the day's renown, 
 
 He hither came and laid his wearv head. 
 
 And here we purpose proudly to preserve 
 The rugged lineaments, that men may learn 
 
 To honour them, and love true liberty, 
 Nor from the paths of righteousness to swerve, 
 Nor incense unto idols vain to burn, 
 But own God king, and none divine save He. 
 
 %* Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton's forces 
 at Red Bank, Wimvick, on the igth of August, 1648, 
 pursuing them to Warrington Bridge, where the infantry 
 surrendered. A statue was erected at this point in the 
 Tercentenary year.
 
 THE DAWN OF PEACE. 
 
 O Peace, white Peace, for thee the world is waiting, 
 
 Too long by War's fierce talons rent and torn ; 
 Come, and this bloody planet consecrating, 
 Bring in the morn ! 
 
 THROUGH the tired ages men had slain each other, 
 
 In maniac passion seized the glittering sword, 
 And stained the sweet breast of the green Earth- 
 Mother, 
 
 And mocked the gentle teaching of the Lord. 
 The centuries moved slowly on ; the angels 
 
 Wept bitter tears to see the deadly strife ; 
 In vain were all Christ's beautiful evangels ; 
 
 The world grew cold, and Death seemed Lord of 
 Life. 
 
 When lo ! * the master of the many legions, 
 His great heart weary of the endless war, 
 
 * The Czar.
 
 248 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Sent forth a message to earth's utmost regions, 
 And in the East once more they saw the Star. 
 
 Fools sneered, and cynics doubted ; wise men hailed 
 
 him 
 As wiser than the best of them had deemed ; 
 
 And his mere majesty so much availed him 
 That a great hope on the world's darkness gleamed. 
 
 At his imperial fiat swift assembled 
 
 Sage counsellors from all the distant lands ; 
 And, at their meeting, Hell's foundations trembled, 
 
 And aliens smiled, and clasped each other's hands. 
 The realms whose vineyards still were red with 
 slaughter, 
 
 The cities seared with mingled blood and flame, 
 Beheld a Pitying Spirit, and besought her, 
 
 With prayers and tears, to end their night of 
 shame. 
 
 And orphans gazed towards that distant palace 
 With grateful eyes, and mothers sore bereaved, 
 
 And maidens, wounded by the war-god's malice ; 
 And all who in the Golden Rule believed 
 
 Hung breathless on their grave deliberations, 
 And good men everywhere at heart rejoiced ;
 
 THE DAWN OF PEACE. 249 
 
 And suffering realms, amid their lamentations, 
 Took heart of hope, and named the name of 
 Christ. 
 
 The century's sun had risen in fiery anger ; 
 
 Its golden face with clots of blood was seared ; 
 Year after year rose War's barbaric clangour, 
 
 And men to Moloch hideous altars reared. 
 It set in amber calm, whilst Faith was dreaming 
 
 Of the new century that should be born, 
 And all the desolated lands were gleaming, 
 
 And all the mountains flaming with the morn. 
 
 O Peace, white Peace, for thee the world has waited 
 
 For nineteen hundred dreadful years in vain ; 
 Come, while the angels sing, with souls elated, 
 Their song again ! 
 
 * # * This poem was written at the time of the Peace 
 Conference at the Hague, in the summer of 1899, before 
 the bloody struggle in South Africa had come to mock 
 men's hopes of a diviner day.
 
 A SONG OF ESCAPE. 
 
 From the dust in the street, 
 And the toil and the heat ; 
 
 From the centres where Mammon and misery 
 meet ; 
 
 From the gold and the dross, 
 And the gain and the loss ; 
 From the workaday world, and the weight of its 
 cross ; 
 
 From the fever that fills 
 Life's pulses, and kills, 
 
 I will turn to the heights and the lights of the 
 hills ; 
 
 I will shake myself free 
 Of the city, and flee ; 
 I will rest on the breast of the beautiful sea,
 
 A SONG OF ESCAPE. 251 
 
 And the waves, as they roar 
 Up the echoing shore, 
 Shall tell me rich secrets undreamt of before ; 
 
 And the winds, as they sweep 
 O'er the paths of the deep, 
 Shall make every mystical nerve in me leap ; 
 
 And the heathery sod 
 Of the hills to be trod 
 Shall carry me into the presence of God !
 
 THE VISION OF C^EDMON. 
 
 ACCORDING to tradition, a number of years after the founda- 
 tion of the Abbey in 656 or 657, by St. Hilda or Hild, 
 daughter of Oswy, the Northumbrian king, one of the 
 lay brothers, who fulfilled the menial duties of cowherd, 
 retired to rest one night among the oxen, sad and 
 shamed because while others sang he was perforce 
 dumb. In the silent watches of the night he dreamt 
 that a celestial presence stood over him. " Rise, Caed- 
 mon ! " said the figure, " rise and sing." " Alas ! " 
 replied the unlettered peasant, " I cannot sing." With 
 that the angel touched his lips with flame, and Caed- 
 mon's soul was filled with the ecstasy of song. " What 
 shall I sing ? " he cried. " Sing the beginning of 
 Creation," came the reply ; and straightway the des- 
 pised and hitherto voiceless herdsman burst into song. 
 When he awoke he was able to recall all that he had 
 sung, and that song is still preserved to us. Casdmon 
 having now proved his calling and election sure, laid 
 aside his secular habit for the priestly robe. He sub- 
 sequently turned many portions of Scripture into Saxon 
 verse, and died, honoured and beloved, about the year 
 680. WARD, LOCK & Co.'s Guide to Whitby.
 
 THE VISION OF C^EDMON. 253 
 
 THE sun had set, the hills grew dim, the night 
 Was darkly brooding over yonder bay, 
 
 And, * where the awe-struck sea-bird checks his 
 
 flight, 
 In cloistered gloom the mighty Abbey lay. 
 
 And sadly with the oxen Csedmon sought 
 
 Rest from the shame which rilled him he was 
 dumb: 
 
 When others sang, in vain the harp he caught 
 To sing in turn the words refused to come! 
 
 Sleep stole upon him, and the lowing kine, 
 Dreaming of clover, drowsed in hairy grace, 
 
 When suddenly a great light seemed to shine, 
 And with its holy splendour rilled the place. 
 
 And by his side in dazzling robes there stood 
 A radiant angel 'mid the wilted ling, 
 
 * " They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 
 As over Whitby's towers they sail, 
 And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
 They do their homage to the saint." 
 
 Marmion : SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 
 254 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And a deep voice disturbed the solitude, 
 
 And slowly said: "Rise, Caedmon ! rise and sing." 
 
 " What shall I sing? " the timorous herd replied, 
 While a strange quivering seized his faltering 
 tongue. 
 
 " Sing the beginning of Creation," cried 
 The voice divine, and Csedmon rose and sung. 
 
 His lips were loosed, his heart was all on fire. 
 Majestic visions on his eyeballs poured, 
 
 And, as he looked, he compassed his desire, 
 And suddenly his soul found wings and soared. 
 
 The mighty "guardian of Heaven's realm" he 
 praised, 
 
 And next described, in tuneful sequence due, 
 The wonders of the starry " roof" upraised, 
 
 The lesser splendours of the "world " he knew ; 
 
 And told in his quaint Saxon speech how forth 
 From the void womb of things Creation came,
 
 THE VISION OF C^EDMON. 255 
 
 The firmament, the moon, the stars, the earth, 
 The sea's blue bosom, and the sun's high flame. 
 
 The fishes, flashing through the neighbouring deep ; 
 
 The birds, whose music still outsoared his own ; 
 The timid oxen lying here asleep ; 
 
 * The reptiles, prisoned in these cliffs of stone. 
 
 And man, majestic, lord of all things there, 
 In God's own image ah, how much defaced ! 
 
 And Eve's white beauty, crowned with shining hair, 
 And that strange fruit she was so fain to taste ! 
 
 Dawn smote the eastern windows, poured its gold 
 On lofty arch, and traceried nave and choir, 
 
 " They told, how in their convent-cell 
 A Saxon princess once did dwell, 
 
 The lovely Edelfled. 
 And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
 Was changed into a coil of stone, 
 When holy Hilda pray'd." 
 
 Marmion.
 
 256 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Night's misty mantle from these hills unrolled, 
 And lit the living waves behind with fire. 
 
 And the unlettered herdsman, hence a king, 
 With happy feet passed to the place of prayer ; 
 
 And, as the grave monks listened, wondering, 
 Told them the story of his dream so fair. 
 
 And, as he told them, to his lips again 
 Came the sweet syllables so silver-clear ; 
 
 And the monks heard, and, at the heavenly strain, 
 Were seized with a deep awe akin to fear. 
 
 And from the oxen to the inner shrine 
 He went with a great gladness in his eyes, 
 
 The father of the mystic gift divine 
 
 W 7 hich fills our English land with melodies !
 
 IN LAKELAND. 
 
 AT last I pay the debt, too long deferred, 
 
 To lovely Lakeland, home of saints and seers, 
 And paradise of poets. All these years 
 
 The thought of it within my breast has stirred ; 
 
 But all that I have dreamt of it, or heard, 
 The actuality in no way nears 
 Of these high mountains and majestic meres, 
 
 And language seems to lack the authentic word. 
 
 But were I Wordsworth, or had I the power 
 Of Coleridge, or even Southey's pen, 
 
 Or could I borrow Ruskin's tongue of gold, 
 My very being would burst into flower ; 
 These valleys and these rocks should ring again 
 With rapturous music not to be controlled.
 
 IN THE HOUR OF DEFEAT. 
 
 IN this dark hour of fresh defeat, 
 
 Shall England quake with vague alarms, 
 Who girds the ocean with her Fleet, 
 
 And clasps the world within her arms ? 
 Nay, rather shall her bosom swell 
 
 Responsive to the cannon's roar, 
 And those who served their country well 
 
 But serve her bravelier than before. 
 
 She asks for no triumphal march 
 
 Through foes that slink away like sheep ; 
 With feet that fail, and lips that parch, 
 
 And limbs that bleed, she has to reap 
 The harvest of renewed renown, 
 
 Still following the trumpet's blast ; 
 But victory shall proudly crown 
 
 Her venerable brows at last. 
 
 Brave are those bearded farmers hid 
 In yonder distant kopjes blue,
 
 IN THE HOUR OF DEFEAT. 259 
 
 Or cunningly concealed amid 
 
 The bushes of the wild karroo ; 
 Dauntless their leaders, sure their aim, 
 
 Their secret allies everywhere, 
 And every hillock ringed with flame, 
 
 And every rock and stone a snare. 
 
 But never has our England quailed, 
 
 Or turned her back on any foe ; 
 And, though all Hell upon them hailed, 
 
 Still forward must her armies go. 
 What though the hills be thick with dead, 
 
 And red the swollen rivers run, 
 And every valley be the bed 
 
 Of some poor lad whose task is done ? 
 
 Her path is onward, sword and fire, 
 
 The rifle's flash, the cannon's boom, 
 Shall only lift her glory higher, 
 
 And leave her children larger room ; 
 And in her wake shall follow peace, 
 
 And brotherhood, and unity, 
 And for such sacred things as these 
 
 Where is the man who would not die ?_ 
 
 i6TH DECEMBER, 1899.
 
 THE WORSHIPPER OF THE IMAGES. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE WARRINGTON SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 SHAPES of immortal beauty, pray descend 
 From your high pedestals, that we may grow 
 To your perfection, and Creation know, 
 
 As the round world moves onward to its end, 
 
 The strength and loveliness that used to blend, 
 When, with soft limbs of ivory and snow, 
 In His own image for ye prove it so 
 
 God peopled Eden, as old Moses penned. 
 
 Come down, O Venus, warm with sweet heart's 
 
 blood ; 
 Leave thy calm place, Apollo ; each and all, 
 
 Like lovely Galatea, breathe and move ; 
 Your peerless beauty satisfies my mood, 
 Your fair proportions, white and mystical : 
 I am your worshipper reward my love !
 
 THE CHIMNEYS. 
 
 A curse upon the chimneys 
 
 With their black and baleful breath, 
 That dulls God's skies of splendour, 
 
 And dooms the flowers to death : 
 Like horrible dark giants 
 
 In grisly groups they stand, 
 And vomit forth destruction 
 
 In a "green and pleasant land ! " 
 
 A curse upon the chimneys, 
 
 That fill the streets with grime, 
 Where the little children wander, 
 
 And grow old before their time ; 
 That darken all the windows 
 
 Looking out upon the sky, 
 Where the clouds are fairy islands 
 
 In the blue infinity ! 
 
 A curse upon the chimneys, 
 And the things they represent
 
 262 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 The grasping greed for riches, 
 The poor man's punishment ; 
 
 The loss of joy and freedom, 
 And the glad, sweet, golden air, 
 
 And the world of waving branches, 
 With the thrushes singing there ! 
 
 In the name of all the daisies, 
 
 And the snowdrops, milky white, 
 And the wonderful sweet lilies, 
 
 And the roses of delight 
 Of their many-coloured sisters, 
 
 Whom I vainly seek to nurse 
 Into health, and strength, and beauty, 
 
 I will register my curse. 
 
 Ay, and in the name, far dearer, 
 
 Of the darkened souls who pine 
 In the pestilential alleys 
 
 Which are scarcely fit for swine ; 
 Of the pale-faced little people 
 
 Who are blinded from their birth 
 To the glory of the heavens, 
 
 To the gladness of the earth ;
 
 THE CHIMNEYS. 263 
 
 Of my fellow men and women 
 
 In their multitudes forlorn ; 
 Of the night which hangs for ever 
 
 In a world ablaze with morn ; 
 Of the Eden which has faded, 
 
 And the desert man has made, 
 I will curse the god called Mammon, 
 
 And the altars reared to Trade !
 
 THE THREE SIEGES. 
 
 KIMBERLEY LADYSMITH MAFEKIXG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Shut up within the glittering mountains high 
 Wrung from the bowels of the earth below, 
 Where dazzling specks of solid rainbow glow, 
 
 While overhead the shells went crashing by, 
 
 And ever and anon there came the cry 
 
 Of some poor wounded one, and, sure but slow, 
 The pangs of hunger deepened, and the foe 
 
 Hung like a cloud in the surrounding sky, 
 
 The soldiers and civilians dauntless held 
 The Diamond City, feasting, making mirth, 
 
 The children and the women underground, 
 Till French to gallant Kekewich came, and 
 
 quelled 
 
 The thunderstorm, the women from the earth, 
 Pale-faced, but brave, emerging at the sound.
 
 THE THREE SIEGES. 265 
 
 II. 
 
 Within a fever-stricken valley pent, 
 
 Great booming guns agape on every height, 
 That screamed like devils in the dead of night, 
 
 While one by one the torturing moments went, 
 
 Till presently the food was almost spent, 
 And pestilence fell on them like a blight, 
 Ten thousand warriors stood round General 
 White, 
 
 And faced starvation, wounds, and death, content ! 
 
 And thrice they heard of succour from afar, 
 And thrice they learnt of rescue close at hand, 
 And thrice their hopes were dashed, whilst day 
 
 by day 
 
 The dead grew more, the living less, the war 
 More wearisome, and still the shadowy band 
 Held on till Buller rolled the clouds away ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And yonder, out upon the billowy plain, 
 A tiny handful of brave souls, required 
 To keep the old flag flying, strangely fired 
 
 With courage suited to the time amid the slain,
 
 266 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Surrounded by grim spectacles of pain 
 
 Led by the man whom all the world admired, 
 For seven long months watched on and on untired, 
 
 Living, at last, on husks instead of grain. 
 
 And here, as everywhere, the feeble folk, 
 The women and the children, like the men, 
 
 Laughed in the face of death, defied surrender, 
 Until, when Mahon came, the tempest broke, 
 The foe betook them to their homes again, 
 
 And all the world acclaimed the town's defender !
 
 THE EVERLASTING WHY. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF DENIS DAVIES, 
 ACTOR AND POET. 
 
 " Thus are we for ever asking, 
 
 Till at length our mouths securely 
 With a clod of earth are fasten'd, 
 That is not an answer, surely ? " 
 
 Latest Poems : HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 AND must the eternal question come 
 In this still scene of scented peace, 
 
 Beneath this cloudless sapphire dome, 
 And under this green heaven of trees ? 
 
 The eyebright blooms in every lane, 
 The hawthorn whitens everywhere, 
 
 And yet my heart is racked with pain, 
 And heavy with a world's despair.
 
 268 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Down by the river, crystal-clear, 
 This golden morn, we sadly found, 
 
 With glazing eyes, a splendid steer 
 The monarch of the meadows drowned ! 
 
 And round us, like mute centaurs, stood, 
 With quivering horn and anxious eye, 
 
 A piteous tremor in their blood, 
 
 The herd, and dumbly wondered why ? 
 
 And to my heart the question came 
 With tenfold force, remembering 
 
 How, while these woods were all aflame, 
 And every bird on fire to sing, 
 
 There lay within a darkened room 
 A brave young singing friend of mine, 
 
 Oblivious of the hawthorn's bloom, 
 The eyebright's wistful glance divine. 
 
 The pride of the admiring place, 
 The rising hope of all the town,
 
 THE EVERLASTING WHY. 269 
 
 The richest promise of his race, 
 By sudden fever stricken down. 
 
 "Dead," like young Lycid, "ere his prime," 
 The harp from his melodious hold 
 
 Withdrawn to some serener clime, 
 The strenuous ringers strangely cold. 
 
 And from the stage he proudly trod, 
 
 His voice all music and his form all grace, 
 
 Snatched by some sour and envious god 
 Grown jealous of his frank young face. 
 
 The love within him, strong and sweet, 
 Denied to the predestined maid, 
 
 The life he blithely went to meet 
 
 More tragic than the things he played. 
 
 " Whom the gods love die young," 'tis said : 
 In golden sequence still they go, 
 
 The laurels on each shining head, 
 The larger, loftier life to know ;
 
 270 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 Unto the Morning Star to sing, 
 To learn the music of the spheres, 
 
 Whilst sadly we together cling, 
 Half blinded by a mist of tears. 
 
 The radiant souls we least can spare, 
 The singing children of the dawn, 
 
 Into the blueness of the air 
 
 Pass like sweet visions, and are gone. 
 
 The brainless herd who swear and swill, 
 And grub for gold, and cheat, and lie, 
 
 We might have spared they linger still, 
 While he is taken tell me why ? 
 
 Why should the mother's heart be torn, 
 The sweet home circle sadly sigh, 
 
 The many friends be left forlorn 
 O, tell me, tell me, tell me why ?
 
 THE EVERLASTING WHY. 271 
 
 God of the rolling orbs that spin 
 
 In myriads through the shoreless sky, 
 
 When shall Thy worlds the answer win 
 To hush their everlasting why ? 
 
 ABY GRANGE, 
 
 LINCOLNSHIRE, 
 
 IOTH JUNE, i goo.
 
 CHAUCER'S DEATH-DAY. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE RYLANDS LIBRARY, MANCHESTER, 
 ON THE 25TH OCTOBER, IQOO. 
 
 FIVE hundred years have flown, O deathless father, 
 Since last thy lips these pearls of language strung 
 
 Five hundred years and lo ! to-day men gather 
 To sound thy praises with a trumpet tongue ; 
 
 To tell how the old stream into a river 
 Of song has broadened nay, into a sea 
 
 Upon whose bright breast men shall sail for ever 
 Into the harbours of Infinity, 
 
 And blithely greet thee in some grander City 
 
 Than that towards which thy "Pilgrims" used to fare, 
 
 And hear thee speak still grave, and wise, and witty 
 God's stars of splendour in thy shining hair.
 
 J'AI FAIM 
 
 ' " J'ai faim ! " All is said ! It is the universal cry 
 of existence hunger ! . . . Humanity is never satisfied, 
 it ransacks earth, air, ocean, it gathers together gold, 
 jewels, palaces, ships, wine and woman, and then, 
 when all is gotten that can be gained out of the labour- 
 ing universe, it turns its savage face towards Heaven and 
 apostrophizes Deity with a defiance. " This world is not 
 enough for my needs ! " it cries. " I will put Orion in my 
 pocket and wear the Pleiades in my button-hole ! I will 
 have Eternity for my heritage and Thyself for my com- 
 rade ! -j'aifaim I " ' 
 
 Wormwood: MARIE CORELLI. 
 
 "J'ai faim!" The universal cry of hunger 
 
 hark! 
 How from the world's dry lips the sound is 
 
 borne ! 
 
 Midas turns all to gold he touches dark 
 As midnight seem the rosy hues of morn ; 
 
 * Literally, " I have hunger."
 
 274 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And Cleopatra, in her goblet deep, 
 
 Dissolves the peerless orient pearl in vain ; 
 
 With fierce desires her queenly pulses leap, 
 And life itself is one delicious pain. 
 
 And Solomon builds lordly palaces, 
 
 And, throned on gold of Tarshish, in great 
 
 halls 
 Of ivory built, and regal cedar trees, 
 
 From out his empty heart of hunger calls 
 For lily damsels on his mood to wait, 
 
 And wine in rivers, and is still athirst : 
 Vain are the lutes, the lights, the festivals 
 
 " J'ai faim ! " he cries, of all earth's kings the 
 first. 
 
 And we ! In vain our store of wealth increases, 
 
 In vain we build us sunny " bowers of ease," 
 In vain we spread our canvas to the breezes, 
 
 And woo the secrets of the unknown seas ; 
 In vain our tables flow with milk and honey, 
 
 Or glow with the red juices of the vine ; 
 We want the meat we cannot buy with money, 
 
 Nor can we slake our thirst in earthly wine.
 
 " J'AI FAIM ! " 275 
 
 We win the white breast of some sweet earth- 
 maiden, 
 
 And sigh for Venus, rising from the sea ; 
 To clasp the fire-lipped houris out of Aidenn, 
 
 Or walk with Eve in naked majesty ; 
 About us bloom bright gardens of sweet faces, 
 
 And, having gained the dewiest rosebud there, 
 " J'ai faiml " we cry. " Where are the fabled 
 Graces, 
 
 Or Guinevere, robed in her golden hair ? " 
 
 All earth is ours : its opal clouds, its awning 
 
 Of God's immense, unfathomable blue ; 
 Its seas of sapphire, and the golden dawning 
 
 Of the great sun, reflected in the dew ; 
 The moonlight on the summits of the moun- 
 tains, 
 
 The fragrance in the bosom of the flowers, 
 And roses, rainbows, rivers, trees, and foun- 
 tains, 
 
 And friendship, love, and truth all these are 
 ours ! 
 
 And still we hunger the eternal yearning 
 Burns like a fire within the breast of man ;
 
 276 IN THE SHADOW OF THE SPIRE. 
 
 And still our eyes go impotently turning 
 
 Towards the heavens, their utmost orbs to 
 scan ; 
 
 Beyond Orion, and the Pleiads tender, 
 With weary feet, we still are fain to plod ; 
 
 To grasp the unfathomed universe's splendour 
 The soul is only satisfied with God !
 
 CHRISTMAS, 
 
 1900. 
 
 THE nineteen hundredth Christmas chimes 
 
 In music from yon tapering spire ; 
 And year by year the sad world climbs, 
 
 Through cloud and storm, a little higher ; 
 And year by year we nearer are 
 
 To that blue heaven which bends above ; 
 And soon our wandering little star 
 
 Shall lean upon God's heart of love !
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 THE sun, that rose like a ball of amber, 
 Was swift to clamber to shining day ; 
 
 And now, in the Twilight's mystic chamber, 
 With pomp of purple, he dies away. 
 
 With his arising what vague surmising 
 
 Of golden centuries was born ; 
 What dreams of wonder for all men " under 
 
 The opening eyelids of the morn." 
 
 But the climbing splendour by storms was clouded, 
 And soon was shrouded in night again ; 
 
 And when best we builded, and earth seemed gilded 
 With God's own glory, we built in vain. 
 
 But we knew that the Night was always driven, 
 With black wings riven, before the spears 
 
 Which flash like flame through the fields of Heaven 
 When the Sun-god's burning chariot nears.
 
 280 "SUNRISE" SONGS. 
 
 There was never a sunset swift and splendid, 
 In trailing clouds of ruby rolled, 
 
 There was never a starless night that ended 
 In aught but glories "of rose and gold." 
 
 And the banners torn and stained in battle 
 We still shall carry, and have not furled ; 
 
 And, though Hell's artillery roar and rattle, 
 We still shall fight for the dear old world. 
 
 And a thousand sunsets shall find us ready, 
 With arms unresting, to march again, 
 
 In storm and darkness, with footsteps steady, 
 To war with evil, and wrong, and pain ; 
 
 For love to labour, for man and woman, 
 And all things human the brutes as well ; 
 
 For joy to wrestle, that peace may nestle 
 Where Hatred's brood of serpents dwell. 
 
 And we know that a dazzling day is certain, 
 By death unclouded, and free from tears, 
 
 When the Night shall fold her sable curtain 
 For a hundred million golden years.
 
 SUNSET. 28l 
 
 Our hopes may falter, our modes may alter, 
 We cannot palter with wrong or sin ; 
 
 Through storms undaunted, and the darkness 
 
 haunted, 
 We labour still, for the Dawn shall win !
 
 SUNRISE" PUBLICATIONS.
 
 "SUNRISE" 
 
 PUBLICATIONS. 
 
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 Superseded, in 1901, by 
 
 THE DAWN : A MONTHLY MAGAZINE OF PROGRESS, id. 
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 Bound volumes, with cover designed by J. Wilmot 
 Lunt, 3/6 each. 
 
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 4 "SUNRISE" PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 SUNRISE " CHAP-BOOKS : 
 
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 of the Work of William Eyres, The Famous 
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 Bennett. 
 
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 6 "SUNRISE" PUBLICATIONS. 
 
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 Any of the above will be sent to any address on receipt 
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 THE "SUNRISE" PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
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 PRINTED BY 
 
 THE "SUNRISE" PUBLISHING COMPANY, WARRINGTON. 
 
 1902.
 
 Date Due 
 
 tCD JUL an 
 
 1973 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.*. 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161
 
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