HE SINGS OF WHA T THE WORLD WILL BE WHEN THE YEARS HAVE DIED AWAY." TENNYSON. BEING A VOLUME CONTAINING BIOGRAPHICAL & CRITICAL SKETCHES OF THE CAREERS OF "gfoefs of our onm tmc ano owtfrg, TOGETHER WITH CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WORKS. F. A. W. EYLES. LONDON: GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN, AND WELSH. AND SYDNEY, N.S.W. 1889. BRIGHTON : PRINTED BY EYLES & SON, 77, NORTH STREET. $Rlt PREFACE. My chief aim in the pages of the present volume has been to lay before the public, in as concise a form as possible, biographical and critical sketches of popular and distinguished poets of our own time and country, together with interesting specimens of their works, in order that, haply, those readers who have known hitherto but little of the gifts of present-day poets, may be induced to seek a larger acquaintance with their works. It is believed that the field here entered has not previously been taken by any existing anthology, and although it is not pretended that the list of poets who may be termed popular is yet completed, it is suggested that the work, whilst containing reliable informa- tion of the lives of the poets included, consists also of such a representative collection of Modern Poetry as has never before appeared within the covers of one volume. A CKNOWLEDGMENTS. PORTRAIT FRONTISPIECE. With the exception of that of Sir Edwin Arnold, the copyright of which belongs exclusively to Mr. Vander Weyde, I am indebted to the courtesy of Messrs. Elliott and Fry, to whom the originals belong, for permission to reproduce the group of copyright portraits contained on the frontispiece. POEMS. My best thanks are due also to Messrs, Trubner and Co. (Arnold) ; Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein and Co. (Barlow) ; the Editor of the Argosy for " By Eden's Swift Tide," Messrs. Boosey and Co. for "An Old Garden ;" Messrs. Raphael Tuck and Son for Two Christmas Card Verses (Burnside) ; Messrs. Kegan Paul and Co. (Dobson, Gosse, and Lewis Morris) ; the Editor of the Argosy for " In the Cloisters " (Doudney) ; Mr. David Stott for " Uriel," Messrs. Chapman and Hall for the Earlier Poems (Lytton) ; Messrs. Chatto and Windus (Marston) ; the Editor of The Girls' Own Paper (Newsam) ; Messrs. George Bell and Sons (Coventry Patmore) ; the Editor of Longman's Magazine (Robertson) ; the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge (Rossetti) ; and Messrs. Routledge and Son (Clement Scott), for permission to insert in this volume poems of which they hold the copyright. THE EDITOR OF " POPULAR POETS OF THE PERIOD." of onfrifcufors, By whom the Editor has been assisted in preparing the Sketches. BELL, H. T. MACKENZIE, 153. BRANCH, H. E., 97, 298. FAHY, F. A., 284. GALLIENNE, RICHARD LE, 180. JAPP, DR. ALEXANDER H., 58, 170, 193, 257, 289, 332, 353. 359- MAYO, ISABELLA FYVIE, 117. MELVILLE, CLAUDE, 10, 15, 44, 49, 54, 65, 89, 144, 148, 177, 206, 229, 270. NEWSAM, WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT, 185, 225, 304, 321. NIAS, JAMES, 3", 343- ROSS, F., 20. SHARP, MRS. ELIZABETH A., 368. UNDER HILL, JOHN, 104, 347, 373. WALKER, JOHN, 234. GENERAL INDEX. An asterisk denotes that excerpts only are given from the Poems thus marked. PORTRAIT FRONTISPIECE- SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, MR. ALFRED AUSTIN, MR. ROBERT BROWNING, MR. W. S. GILBERT, DR. CHARLES MACKAY, MR. LEWIS MORRIS, MR. CLEMENT SCOTT, MR. ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE, ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. INTRODUCTORY ESSAY "ON SOME ASPECTS OF CONTEMPORARY POETRY;" BY H. T. MACKENZIE BELL Page xvii. of ^rifctrs and fifles of Page ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM 122 To Earine 123 Primrose 124 Meadowsweet 125 Heather 125 The Western Wind ... 126 Among the Heather 127 Civitas Dei 128 ARMSTRONG, GEORGE FRANCIS 249 The Fireship of Kanaris 251 In the Mountainland 254 The Castle of De Riddlesford (Wicklow) 255 ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN i *The Light of Asia 3 *The Feast of Belshazzar 7 Serenade 9 To Matthew Arnold 225 ARNOLD, MATTHEW 225 AUSTIN, ALFRED 65 A Night in June 66 A Question 68 An Answer 68 *Prince Lucifer 69 *The Human Tragedy 70 BARLOW, GEORGE 304 Adam and Eve 306 Blue-Bells 307 A Southern Vengeance 308 The Old Maid 310 Page BELL, THE REV. CANON CHARLES DENT 298 The Summers of the Long Ago 300 Fox How 301 'Tis Well to be a Maiden Free 303 BELL, H. T. MACKENZIE 170 In Memoriam, W. E. Forster 172 The Keeping of the Vow 172 Waiting for the Dentist 175 BINGHAM, G. CLIFTON 54 I Would the Boats Were Home 54 Letters 55 From a Child's Hand 56 All My World 57 BLACKIE, JOHN STUART 97 The Jungfrau of the Lurlei ... 99 Beautiful World 102 BLIND, Miss MATHILDE 368 *The Ascent of Man 369 The Dead 371 The Sower 372 BOYLE, ROBERT WHELAN 338 Robert Burns.... 340 The Queen 340 Welsh Heroes 34 1 The Winds 341 The Eye 342 Fellow Creatures . 34 2 BROWNING, ROBERT 193 Vlll POPULAR POETS. Page BUCHANAN, ROBERT 332 BURNSIDE,MISS HELEN MARION 15 The Auld Burnside 17 By Eden's Swift Tide 1 8 An Old Garden 18 Two Christmas Card Verses 19 DIXON, Miss CONSTANCE E. ... 144 *The Chimney-piece of Bruges 145 The Roaming Souls 147 DOIISON, AUSTIN 104 The Prodigals 106 The Cradle 107 The Street Singer 107 On London Stones 108 A Dialogue from Plato 108 A Gentleman of the Old School no Don Quixote in DOHERTY, MALCOLM 241 The Legend of St. Christopher 242 A Castle in the Air 246 The Queen's Colours 247 The Fisher's Wife 248 DOUDNEY, SARAH 112 In the People's Garden 113 Of the Earth, Earthy 114 In the Cloisters 116 DOVETON, F. B 200 The Last Farewell 201 My Lady's Charms 204 Parva Domus Magna Quies 205 EDMONDS, MRS. E. MAYHEW... 213 The Poet's Wife 214 Hesperas 215 O, Beauteous Death 215 EDWARDS,M. BARBARA BETHAM 78 The Golden Bee 79 Dreams that came True 82 FORSHAW, CHARLES F 84 A Summer's Day 85 Sunrise in the Woods August 86 My Love _ 88 GILBERT, W. S 311 The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 313 The Way of Wooing 316 The Fairy Curate , ... 318 Sing for the Garish Eye 320 GOSSE, EDMUND 347 *Fortunate Love 349 The Ballad of Dead Cities ... 351 Song from "King Erik " 352 The First Snow 352 GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL ... 284 Fathe rO'Flynn 285 Page Love's Wishes 286 O'Farrell the Fiddler 287 HALL, THE REV. NEWMAN ... 44 Alpine Cattle Bells 45 Who Makes the Daisies 46 To live for Christ is Glory ... 47 Thy Wayis Best 48 HAMILTON, EDWIN 89 The Moderate Man 90 To My First Love ... 92 The Sort of Man He was 92 Shadow and Sunshine 94 My Wooing 95 JAPP, ALEXANDER HAY 117 A Music Lesson 118 Summer's Advent 120 The Tangled Skein 121 LAMPSON, FREDERICK LOCKER 359 The Skeleton in the Cupboard 361 Beggars ... 362 A Nice Correspondent 364 The Reason Why .. 366 Geraldine Green 366 LANG, ANDREW 343 LANGBRIDGE, THE REV. F 229 Doctor Dan's Secret 230 Exit Tommy 231 LEFROY, THE REV. E. C 216 The Poet 217 A Sicilian Night 217 A Thought from Pindar 218 In the Cloisters 218 LYTTON, THE EARL OF 321 Uriel (a Mystery) 322 Forbearance 328 Desire 329 The Chess Board 330 The First Farewell 331 Knowledge and Wisdom 331 The Last Wish 331 MACKAY, CHARLES 129 King Edward and the Nightin- gales 131 *Egeria 133 The Poet 135 The Bard's Recompense 135 Eternal Justice 136 MARSTON, DR. WESTLAND 219 The Death-Ride 220 By the Sea 223 Mine 224 MAYO, MRS. ISABELLA FYVIE .. 49 Then and Afterwards 50 A Story of Isandlana 51 The Long Sermon 53 GENERAL INDEX. IX. Page MEREDITH, GEORGE 373 MONKHOUSE, COSMO 279 Mysteries 280 Life and Death 282 In Arcady 282 A Dead March 283 MORRIS, WILLIAM 353 MORRIS, LEWIS 33 *The Epic of Hades 35 *Gwen 37 The Birth of Verse 40 The Organ Boy 42 NEWSAM, WM. CARTWRIGHT... 20 A Morning Reverie 21 Barcarolle 22 Patriotic Song , 23 Darkness and Dawn 24 Just us of old, I dream 25 Serenade 25 Thine, and Thine Alone 26 Sonnet to Sir Edwin Arnold i Sonnet to the Earl of Lytton 321 NOBLE, JAMES ASHCROFT 180 She and I 182 An Invitation 183 Barren Days 184 OXENFORD, EDWARD 148 Come back to Me ..... 149 Old Cronies 150 A Winter's Tale 151 PATMORE, COVENTRY 58 First Love 61 The Rosy-bosom'd Hours 61 AFarewell 63 Love's Reality 64 The Year 64 PLUMPTRE, THE VERY REV. E. H 10 *Lazarus n The River 13 A Silver Wedding Day 14 ROBERTSON, D. J 206 The Taking of Brill 206 Sea-spells 209 Noontide 211 ROSSETTI, Miss CHRISTINA G. 234 Sonnet from " Later Life"... 236 After Communion 236 Dream-land 237 *Time Flies 238 After Death 239 Song 239 To-day for Me 240 Page SCOTT, CLEMENT 161 Three Kisses 163 The Midnight Charge 164 An Angel's Visit 167 SHARP, WILLIAM 72 Mad Madge O'Cree 73 Monna Natura 76 SIMS, GEORGE R -. 27 The Old Actor's Story 29 Louis Napoleon 32 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON C. ... 257 The Water-Fairy 261 Comparisons 264 May-time in Mid-winter 265 Love's Exchanges 267 In Guernsey (To Theodore Watts) 268 Roundels 269 TENNYSON, LORD ALFRED 289 TYNAN, Miss KATHARINE 177 Autumnal 179 WADDINGTON, SAMUEI 138 Lines written by Rydal Water 139 Chateau Freyer 140 On the Heights 140 Human 142 Refugium Peccatorum 143 A Last Word 143 WATTS, THEODORE 153 Ode to Mother Carey's Chicken 155 The Sonnet's Voice 159 The First Kiss 159 The Heaven that Was 160 WEATHERLY, FREDERIC E 185 The Star of Bethlehem... 187 London Bridge 188 The Quaker 189 To-morrow will be Friday ... 190 Wishes and Fishes 191 Paradise Square 192 WEBSTER, MRS. AUGUSTA 274 Waiting, Waiting 275 Poulain, The Prisoner 275 The Swallows 277 The Whisper 278 The Heart that Lacks Room 278 The Lovers 278 WILTON, THE REV. RICHARD... 270 The Snowdrop Dies 271 The Sparrow 271 The Tides .... 272 When I am Gone ... 272 Shells from Gennesaret 273 INDEX AND CLASSIFICATION OF POEMS. The Ballad of Dead Cities 351 | The Prodigals 106 Page A Castle in the Air 246 Adam and Eve 306 A Dead March 283 A Dialogue from Plato 108 A Farewell 63 AGentlemanof the Old School... no All my World 57 Alpine Cattle Bells 45 Among the Heather 127 A Morning Reverie 21 A Music Lesson 118 A Nice Correspondent 364 An Invitation 183 A Night in June 66 An Old Garden 18 A Question and An Answer 68 A Silver Wedding Bay 14 A Southern Vengeance 308 A Story of Isandlana 51 Autumnal 179 A Winter's Tale 151 Barcarolle 22 Beautiful World 102 Beggars 362 Blue-Bells 307 By Eden's Swift Tide 18 By the Sea 223 Civitas Dei , 128 Come back to Me 149 Comparisons 264 Darkness and Dawn 24 Desire 329 Doctor Dan's Secret 230 Dreamland 237 Dreams that Came True 82 :< Egeria ... 133 Eternal Justice 136 Exit Tommy 231 Father O'Flynn 285 Fellow Creatures 342 First Love 61 Forbearance 328 From a Child's Hand 56 Geraldine Green 366 * Gwen, a Drama in Monologue ... 37 Page Hesperas 215 In Arcady 282 In the Cloisters 116 In the Mountainland 254 In the People's Garden 113 I would the Boats were Home ... 54 Just as of Old, I Dream 25 King Edward and the Nightingales 131 *KingErik 352 Knowledge and Wisdom 331 *Lazarus 1 1 Letters 55 Lines written by Rydal Water ... 139 London Bridge , 1 88 Louis Napoleon 32 Love's Exchanges 267 Love's Reality 64 Love's Wishes 286 Mad MadgeO'Cree 73 Maytime in Midwinter 265 MonnaNatura , 76 My Lady's Charms 204 My Love 88 Mysteries 280 My Wooing 95 Noontide 211 O, Beauteous Death 215 Ode to Mother Carey's Chicken 155 O'Farrell the Fiddler 287 Of the Earth, Earthy 114 Old Cronies 150 On the Heights 140 Paradise Square 192 Parva Domus Magna Quies 205 Patriotic Song 23 * Prince Lucifer 69 Robert Burns 340 Sea-Spells 209 Serenade 9 and 25 Shadow and Sunshine 94 She and I 182 Shells from Gennesaret 273 Sing for the Garish Eye 320 Song 239 Sunrise in the Woods August ... 86 INDEX AND CLASSIFICATION. Page The Angel's Visit 167 *The Ascent of Man 369 The Auld Burnside 17 The Bard's Recompense 135 The Birth of Verse 40 The Castle of de Riddlesford . . 255 The Chess Board 330 *The Chimney-Piece of Bruges .. 145 The Cradle 107 The Death-Ride 220 * The Epic of Hades 35 The Eye 342 The Fairy Curate 318 *The Feast of Belshazzar 7 The Fireship of Kanaris 251 The First Farewell 331 The Fisher's Wife 248 The Golden Bee 79 The Heart that Lacks Room 278 *The Human Tragedy 7 *The Jungfrau of the Lurlei 99 The Last Farewell 201 The Last Wish 331 The Legend of St. Christopher... 242 * The Light of Asia 3 The Long Sermon S3 The Lovers 278 The Keeping of the Vow 172 The Midnight Charge 164 The Moderate Man 90 Then and Afterwards 5 The Old Actor's Story 29 The Old Maid 310 The Organ-Boy 42 The Poet 135 The Poet's Wife 214 The Quaker 189 The Queen : A National Jubilee Ode 340 Page The Queen's Colours 247 The Reason Why 366 The River 13 The Roaming Souls , 147 The Rosy-Bosom 'd Hours 61 The Skeleton in the Cupboard ... 361 The Sort of Man he was 92 The Sower , 372 The Star of Bethlehem 187 The Summers of the Long Ago 300 The Swallows 277 The Taking ofBrill 206 The Tangled Skein 121 The Water Fairy 261 The Way of Wooing 316 The Western W 7 ind... ... 126 The Whisper 278 The Winds 341 The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 313 The Year 64 Thine and Thine Alone 26 Three Kisses 163 Thy Way isBest 48 *TimeFlies 238 'Tis well to be a Maiden Free . . . 303 To-day for Me ... 240 To Earine 123 To Live for Christ is Glory 47 To-morrow will be Friday 190 To My First Love 92 To Matthew Arnold 225 Two Christmas Card Verses 19 Uriel ... 322 Waiting for the Dentist 175 Waiting, Waiting 275 Welsh Heroes 34 1 Who makes the Daisies 46 Wishes and Fishes 191 gonnds. After Communion After Death A Last Word A Sicilian Night A Summer's Day A Thought from Pindar Barren Days Chateau Freyer Don Quixote Epithalamium (Fortunate Love). Fox How Heather _ Human In Memoriam, W. E. Forster ... In the Cloisters *LaterLife Life and Death . 236 239 143 217 85 218 184 140 III 350 301 125 142 172 218 236 282 Meadowsweet 125 Mine 224 Poulain, the Prisoner 275 Primrose 124 Refugium Peccatorum 143 Sir Edwin Arnold i Summer's Advent 120 The Dead 371 The Earl of Lytton 321 TheFearofDeath(FortunateLove) 350 The First Kiss 159 The First Snow 352 The Heaven that was 160 The Poet 217 The Sonnet's Voice 159 The Sparrow 271 The Tides 272 xii. POPULAR POETS. Page On London Stones 108 Page When I am Gone 272 The Snowdrop Dies 271 ^lo Expectation (Fortunate Love) .. 349 | First Sight (Fortunate Love) 349 ^lounbels. *A Century of Roundels 269 | In Guernsey (To Theodore Watts) 268 *gttUaneUe. The Street Singer 107 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Page Across the trackless skies thou may'st not wander . . 142 A few curved fragile shells 273 A florin to the willing guard 61 A giant man was old Christopher 242 A hearty old man is Doctor Dan 230 A host of things I take on trust ; I take 236 Ah! swallows, is it so 277 A little lad was fishing 191 A little soul scarce fledged for earth 269 All silent and changed is the spot where we parted 18 A maiden sat at her window wide 316 A miracle of love and power divine 342 An ancient English city and a grave 116 An angel, with three lilies in her hand 163 And we are lovers, lovers he and I 278 A new year gleams on us, tearful 265 A Quaker, he sat in his chamber dim 189 Are there hearts yet warm and kind 17 A ruined Tower with ivies green ,. 255 Ask why I love the roses fair 366 A sparrow lighted chirping on a spray 271 As through those portals our lost one went 205 At noonl stand upon the height 211 At Worthing, an exile from Geraldine G 367 Autumncloses 352 Beautiful world 102 Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack in Beneath her window in the cool, calm night , 350 Beyond his silent vault green springs went by 275 Blind thoughts which occupy the brain 40 Bright thro' the valley gallops the brooklet 61 Call me not, love, unthankful, nor unkind , 328 Child, when they say that others 264 Come, as you love her , 261 Come, draw your chair to the fire, old friend 150 Come, let us go into the lane, love mine 68 Come, stand we here within this cactus-brake 217 Come when Spring touches with gentle finger 183 Down in the wild south country 51 Down-trickling, soft and slow 13 Do you remember, dear ; do you remember 19 Dread Spirit that, whate'er the uncertain tongue 254 Fingers on the holes, Johnny :.. 118 Five-and -twenty summers lie behind you in the past 14 Fox How ! fair home 'midst Nature's fairest scene 301 From morn to eve they struggled Life and Death 282 Gaze not at me, my poor unhappy bird 155 Great brown eyes < 42 Have I not striven in vain to forget thee 94 xiv. POPULAR POETS. Page Have they told you I am going ... 114 He lived in that past Georgian day no Here where the heather blooms _ 140 He stands at the kerb and sings 107 Hesperas in the evening, 'neath the arch ... 215 High in the organ-loft, with lilied hair , 350 Hither and thither, to and fro 73 How many men we meet who pass away 342 How soft the music of the bells 45 How steadfastly she'd worked at it 107 How sweet the life of my youth with thee 82 Hush, friend and foe ! no more his name , ,.. 32 I am known to my friends as "The Moderate Man" 90 I am pacing the Mall in a rapt reverie 362 I built a castle in the air 246 I'd "read" three hours. Both notes and text 108 I drew the blind and the curtain 50 If love is not worth loving, then life is not worth living 238 If only in dreams may man be fully blest 159 I heard a voice by night, that called to me "Uriel, Uriel." 322 I know who makes the daisies 46 I love and worship thee in that thy ways 76 I love him, and I love him, and I love 278 I may not kiss away the tears that still 331 I'm lying on a hopeless bed, from which I know I'll never rise 53 In September 179 In that tranced hush, when sound sank awed to rest 224 In yon hollow Damon lies 282 I once knew a sailor, whose name it was Bill 92 I remember, I remember, an old garden gay and trim 18 I remember meeting you 92 Irene, do you yet remember 330 I see him ! I gaze in his sorrowful eyes _ 149 It was the close of Rhamazan 251 It was the eve of Christmas, the snow lay deep and white 187 I walked to-day where Past and Present meet 218 I walk, I trust, with open eyes 64 I was alone ! the City sad with sleep ... 167 Just as of old, I mark the golden bars 25 King Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower 131 King Robert Bruce is dying, uncertain comes his breath 172 Laden with precious merchandise well stored, the growth of Indian soil. 79 Lady! in this night of June ". 66 Light slumber is quitting 366 Love, wilt thou love me still when wintry streak 68 Lo, wounded of the world and stricken of sin 143 Lute! breathe thy lowest in my lady's ear .. 9 Measure thy knowledge by the weight of it 331 'Mid brooding silence and deep solitude 140 Mine is a wild, strange story the strangest you ever heard 29 My head is weary with a sense of loss 214 My love has eyes of vivid blue 88 Now nature sn;iles, and decks the radiant earth 85 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xv. Page Now summer comes laughing along the lands 120 Now, thin, what has become of Thady O'Farrell 287 O'er towns and hamlets, hills and dells 19 O, Eve, the darkness deepens. Yet I see 306 Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety 285 Oh, how gaily we float in our brave little boat 22 Oh ! never, never, shall the story fade 341 Oh, stalwart man and pure, whose earnest face .. 172 Oh, the linden boughs are swinging 113 O, mighty mind, O, sweet poetic pen i Once a fairy , 318 One day, one day, I'll climb that distant hill 307 One evening, many months ago 95 One evening walking out, I overtook a modest colleen 127 On London stones I sometimes sigh 108 Pass the word to the boys to-night ! lying about 'midst dying and dead 164 Play me a march low-toned and slow a march for a silent tread 283 Ploughman Poet ! o'er mankind 340 Princes 1 and you most valorous 106 Proud and lowly, beggar and lord .., 188 Saint Valentine kindles the crocus 123 She gave her life to love. She never knew 3 10 She sitteth still who used to dance 240 Since all that I can ever do for thee 331 Sing for the garish eye 320 Soft the firelight shines around her 55 Soft, through the vale, the evening zephyrs sigh 25 So, it has really come at last 201 Someone has said a whispered word to me 278 Statesman, philospher, and bard combined 3 21 Still may the King of Kings look down 34 Suffer that as thou takest boat to cross 225 Sweet shadowy eve, thy calm solitude 85 The blended beauties of hill, dale, and stream , . 86 The characters of great and small 361 The cobbler sang, for his heart was light 192 The crab, the bullace, and the sloe 69 The crocus, while the days are dark 64 The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept - 239 The dead abide with us ! Though stark and cold 371 The first sharp snow is shrilling through the trees 352 The fisherman's wife, she stood on the strand 248 The glow and the glory are plighted 3^4 The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors _, 268 The man is thought a knave, or fool 136 The night is come, ah, not too soon 3 2 9 The rancour of the East Wind quell'd, a thrush 124 There is a charm that haunts the air 209 There's an island we love, there's a spot that we cherish 23 There's a strange pale light in the low'ring sky 54 The roads are long and rough, with many a bend 128 The snowdrop dies, yet the woods ring .. 271 The sun was setting, and vespers done 19 xvi. POPULAR POETS. Page The twilight fell ; a glimmering chain of lamps 223 The western wind blows free and far 126 The winds had hushed at last as by command 372 The winds to-night the saddest music fill , 341 The world's a tangled skein, my child, like that ye hold i' your hand ... 121 They found them lying side by side, hard by the foaming flood 247 Though many dismal years I've been 175 Through grass, through amber'd cornfields, our slow stream 125 Through the old street of the village 56 Thy way, O Lord ! Thy way not mine 48 'Tis sweet to wander forth, when all is still 21 'Tis well to be a maiden free , 303 To be beloved, we only need to die 215 " Tommy must leave us to-night," we said , 231 Truth fails not ! no, in sooth, 'tis we that fail 143 'Twas a starless night and dreary 151 'Twas on the shores that round our coast 313 Twin immortalities man's art doth give 218 Under the bright room where they lay 308 Up the long slope of this low sandy shore 272 Vast barren hills and moors, cliffs over lakes 125 Waiting, Waiting. 'Tis so far 275 Well, I'm not much of a thinker 280 We sat mute on our chargers, a handful of men 220 We will not pine for death and rest 47 What is a poet? Is he one who keeps 217 What of these barren days that bring no flowers , 184 What shall we give him who teaches the nations 135 What though thy day of life be nearly gone 2 4 What, you would have me tell again 206 When day lies sleeping in the lap of night 26 When first this dull earth showed a sweeter face 57 When first we met the nether world was white 349 When flower-time comes, and all the woods are gay 349 When hope lies dead Ah, when 'tis death to live 160 When I am dead, my dearest 239 When I am gone from mortal view 272 When she doth speak, no other sound I hear 204 When silence falls upon the solemn night 300 Where are the cities of the plain 35* Where shall I find a white rose blowing 238 Where sunless rivers weep 237 "Who is this?" said the moon 135 Who sails with pennant waving gay , 99 Why do I love my love so well 182 Why should I call Thee Lord, who art my God 236 Wild waves dashing with a weary motion 147 With all my will, but much against my heart 63 Worship was a holy maid 139 Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you 286 Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach 159 You send me your love in a letter 267 Except in one instance, lam neither directly nor indirectly answerable for the selections which appear in this volume ; but the principle on which they have been made is clear, and, I think, wise. The book is intended, not as an anthology of the finest specimens of contemporary poetry, but as a fairly representative collec- tion, showing the poetic activity of the time and the direction in which it moves. And if the principle on which the selections have been made is too comprehensive (and, in my judgment, sometimes it is), the offence of catholicity in criticism is not perhaps altogether an unpardonable one. It has been said that our great dramatists of the past Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Webster, and Fletcher cannot be fully understood by any critic who is not familiar with the lesser luminaries of the Elizabethan period. And, so with regard to Lord Tennyson, Mr. Browning, Mr Swinburne, and Mr. William Morris, it may be said that in order fully to understand them through the effect of their work the critic must have some knowledge of their less famous contemporaries. Of course in the limited space at my command it is out of my power to give anything like a full survey of such a wide and important field as contemporary English poetry. Nor do I much regret my limitation. For I cannot help feeling a doubt as to my power of treating with anything like adequacy a theme so important. I will therefore content myself with discussing one or two aspects of the subject which occur to me. Macaulay's famous dictum as to the adverse effect of civilization on poetry has, at no previous time, been more falsified by the result than now, for there never was an era in English literary history when more poetry was produced. We see how remarkable is this fact when we call to mind the many conditions of modern life detrimental to its production. What Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, in his "Poets of America," has aptly called the "minor and obvious forces antagonistic to a devoted pursuit of the ideal," are too apparent to be dwelt on at great length. I cannot help, however, expressing my conviction that the hard struggle for existence in modern days, and the pressure of ever-increasing cares beneath the weight of materialised conditions of life, are factors detrimental to the poetic mood. Nevertheless, Mr. H. D. Traill has just told us that never before were there so many people of poetic acquirements, and, in so speaking, he only reiterates what those well qualified to judge are constantly saying. Indeed, it seems probable that, owing to increased education and culture, future times will see an increased number of persons writing verse of even a high class ; though we can hardly join seriously in Mr. Traill's humorous expectation of the epoch when there will be more "real poets in every household than prosaists." One notable and fundamental characteristic of the poetry of our time, as dis- closed by the contents of this volume, is the comparative unimportance of the dra- matic form at present. For the book gives a fairly adequate picture of contemporary poetry, though few of the excerpts are extracts from dramas. Probably never before (except, perhaps, in the period of restricted poetic activity which we usually associate with the twenty or thirty years of the eighteenth century immediately before the rise of Cowper), could there have been a representative selection of English poetry by living poets in which dramatic poetry was so ignored : certainly xviii. POPULAR POETS. never in any age as rich as the present in really great poets. This shows how mainly lyrical the contemporary muse has become. As lyrists, Lord Tennyson, Mr. Browning, and Mr. Swinburne have caught the public ear, and as lyrists they have secured it, and yet they have all produced dramas so powerful and noble that at any other period in the history of English literature their dramatic work would have commanded far more attention than it now commands. And poets of smaller figure than these have also produced very fine plays which soon dropped out of public knowledge : though, it is true, that in " Michael Field " we have a writer who owes a considerable repute entirely to plays for the study. Mrs. Webster, again, (though not represented in this volume by a selection from her dramatic work) has won celebrity in this department of literature. Her classical tragedy, " The Sentence," is highly original, and, despite a singularly painful motif, deeply interesting. But, in truth, little popular attention is now obtainable for poetic drama ; the dramatic form is no longer an inviting one for the general reader. I have, for instance, heard a well-known critic declare that had Mr. Edmund Gosse's drama "King Erik" appeared in an epoch more fortunate for the drama, it must have taken a high place and held it. Mr. Alfred Austin's " Savonorola " is another example of a fine play that has had no chance, having fallen on unlucky times. "A play may be read as well as seen," says Mr. Leslie Stephen, " but it calls for an effort of imagination on the part of the reader which can never quite supply the place of actual sight ; and the play intended only for the study becomes simply a novel told in a clumsy method." Without entirely agreeing with so sweeping a criticism as this, we yet must feel that there is sufficient truth in the remark to aid us in understanding why dramatic poetry has in these days lost its hold upon the public. Perhaps another reason is to be found in the fact that nowadays so many novels of a superior quality, dramas in another form, are scattered broadcast throughout the land. For, in the days when poetic drama was a living force, the art of prose fiction was in its very infancy. Perhaps, too, people accustomed to lives of simpler routine, if not of lesser activity, were more easily satisfied within the range of poetic drama. For poetic drama has necessarily a more limited range in delineating life than prose romance. I do not of course mean to imply that it has less potentiality far from it but the mere nobility and grandeur of its potentialities lessen its range, and prevent it from appealing to the ordinary mind the mind nurtured on the daily journals and other modern mental " spoon- meat." This is partly also the cause of the keener energy and the greater amount of talent now employed in prose fiction ; for as writers, even of poetic imagina- tion, have to look to ways and means, it follows that they must use their talents in channels financially remunerative, and the days are gone by when a Scott or a Byron wrote a stirring metrical tale with almost as much pecuniary success as a prosperous novelist of our own time. It is true that we have still poets of reputation like Mr. Robert Buchanan and Dr. Walter C. Smith, who give us metrical tales possessing worthy and even high qualities. Bat who would for a moment suppose that Mr. Robert Buchanan's "White Rose and Red" would have the same selling power and popularity with the crowd as his " Shadow of the Sword "or " God and the Man." Another noticeable characteristic of contemporary poetry is the mastery over form which is everywhere displayed. Loose versification, such as often con- tented so great a poet as Byron, would, in these days, hardly be condoned in poets of immeasurably humbler pretensions. The same may be said about the prosaic diction into which Scott not infrequently falls. These lapses of his make Mr. Gosse's recent strictures on Scott's poetry easy to understand, even though INTRODUCTION. xix. we may not entirely agree with them. In truth, the critic's own love of form fully explains his attitude towards both Scott and Gray. Nevertheless, Mr. Gosse has surely been unjust to Scott, or at least unmindful that more than mere technical qualities are necessary in great poetry. No doubt (as an able writer in The Spectator, when discussing Mr. Gosse's recent article in The Forum, has pointed out), Scott's " verse has not always assisted and not trammelled his imagination " an important test of the great poet which the reviewer in The Spectator formulates. But the question is not whether Scott's imagination was always assisted, but whether it usually was. Let me cite the following lines from "The Lord of the Isles," which are not often quoted, as an example, among many, of the restraints of verse having quickened Scott's imagination : " Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, The slackening of the storm could spy. ' One effort more, and Scotland's free ! Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee Is firm as Ailsa rock ; Rush on with Highland sword and targe, I, with my Carrick spearmen, charge ; Now, forward to the shock !' At once the spears were forward thrown, Against the sun the broadswords shone ; The pibroch lent its maddening tone, And loud King Robert's voice was known ' Carrick, press on they fail, they fail ! Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, The foe is fainting fast ! Each strike for parent, child, and wife, For Scotland, liberty, and life, The battle cannot last !' " Is it possible that the man who wrote this passage and many others of equal fire was not a great poet, or at least a writer amply justifying his use of the poetic vehicle ? Perhaps it is one of the significant signs of our time, that critics, even of Mr. Gosse's intelligence, should, in their eager desire for that form which they do not always find in Scott, err so grievously as to say that his poems are only spoilt Waverley novels. The truth is that Scott rose, whenever fired by passion or strong emotion, into verse if not of the highest technical excellence, like that of Wordsworth (who was also apt to fall into prose), yet of a stirring and also of a musical kind. And does it not behove some of our present day poets to remember intensity amid their anxiety for form ; and not to forget that form, important as it is, is not everything ? Doubtless the greatest poet is he who, like Tennyson, is not only a master of poetic expression, but of that living imagination and concreteness of utterance which make his pictures as vivid to his readers as sights seen by their bodily eyes. This mastery over form is seen in every branch of poetic art ; but in no variety more than in the sonnet. Coleridge's failure to write a really fine sonnet has often been remarked upon, and it is certainly very strange that he, whose metrical gift was above that of most of his contemporaries, should fail, where, in our time, so many succeed. Students of literature will remember Coleridge's forcible justification of his practice, contained in the introduction to his sonnets in the 1797 edition of his poems. He says : " A sameness in the final sounds of its words is the great and grievous defect of the Italian language. That rule, therefore, which the Italians have established, of exactly four different sounds in xx. POPULAR POETS. the sonnet, seems to have arisen from their wish to have as many, not from any dread of finding more. But surely it is ridiculous to make the defect of a foreign language a reason for our not availing ourselves of one of the marked excellences of our own." But while considerable weight must be conceded to this able presentation of the case, it cannot be said to settle the question. Wordsworth is generally acknowledged, and justly, as the great master of the Nineteenth Century sonnet, and yet there are very few sonnets of his that reach the ideal perfection of structure which Rossetti achieved, which the sonnet writer should seek, and which Wordsworth evidently did seek, judging from the many and astonishing changes some of his best sonnets underwent. His great sonnet to Toussaint L'Ouverture is a remarkable case in point ; for we find there that so eager was his apparent striving after and so evident his difficulty in attaining regularity that he made some sacrifices of substance in order to reach it. On the subject of the Petrarcan sonnet, Mr. Samuel Waddington who has made it a special study has some excellent remarks. So have Mr. Ashcroft Noble, Mr. John Dennis, Mr. Hall Caine, and Mr. William Sharp ; and Mr. Main's anthology shows how deep and how wide is the interest taken in this form. In my notice in this volume of one of our contemporary poets, Mr. Theodore Watts, whose sonnets have attracted special attention, I had occasion to refer to his well-known sonnet, called "The Sonnet's Voice," in which he likened the movement of a certain variety of what is called the Petrarcan sonnet to the flow and ebb of a wave. Mr. Watts, however, as is shown by his article on the sonnet in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica, " one of the most thorough analyses of the rationale of this form of poetry that has yet appeared is very far from asserting that all sonnets of octave and sestet move or ought to move by way of flow and ebb. On the contrary, he contends that some of the best Petrarcan sonnets do not move by flow and ebb, but after the octave is finished go on and achieve a climacteric effect in the sestet. This is why, in making my selection from his poems for the present volume, I was careful to give an example of each of his own methods of writing sonnets. In the sestet of " The Heaven That Was" we get, as I hinted in my criticism, a slackening of power and a lightening of volume suggestive of the flow and return of a billow. And in the sestet of " The First Kiss " we see the con- trary effect, i.e., a very marked accession of strength and volume an accession that ends only with the last line. It is this adaptation of the form to the impulse in every sonnet he has yet printed which led Rossetti to characterise this writer's sonnets as "splendid affairs." In the matter of sonnets I do not propose here to touch upon the vexed question of regularity and irregularity of structure. So long as irregular sonnets give us such poetry as Shelley's " Ozymandias," and Mr. Lang's sonnet on Colonel Burnaby, I, for my part, will not enquire cen- soriously about regularity or irregularity of form. I confess, also, to having a great love of the simpler variety called the Shakespearean sonnet. I should be extremely sorry to see it entirely abandoned for the sonnet of octave and sestet ; and it must never be forgotten that in this form both Shakespeare and Drayton have embodied some of the loveliest poetry in the English language. But it is in structures more artificial than the sonnet, such as the ballade, the rondeau, the villanelle, the triolet, etc., that the contemporary study of form is most seen. I, for my part, prefer simpler measures, but I cannot withhold my admiration from the skill with which such poets as Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Austin Dobson, and others overcome all difficulties, and contrive in these elaborate and dainty numbers to give expression to true and beautiful poetry. The INTRODUCTION. xxi. "Ballade of the Southern Cross," for example, by Mr. Lang, is as vigorous in thought as exquisite in form. " Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Whose havens are the hoards of peace, Whose boys are in our quarrel bold ; Our bolt is shot, our tale is told, Our ship of state in storms may toss, But ye are young if we are old, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross ! All empires tumble Rome and Greece Their swords are rust, their altars cold ! For us, the children of the seas, Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled, For us in fortune's book enscrolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss ; Nor while ye last our knell is tolled, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross ! Envoy. Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, When o'er thy grave has grown the moss, Still Rule Australia shall be trolled In Islands of the Southern Cross !" And how skilfully has Mr. Dobson, in the following lines, combined the atmosphere of the period with fervid patriotic enthusiasm. It is just such a strain as we might fancy Ralegh reciting to a group of admiring courtiers. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH. Of the Spanish Armada. " King Philip had vaunted his claims ; He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to faggot and stack us ; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, And where are the galleons of Spain ? >;: ^: * # Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us ; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us ; To his mines at Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain ; Alas ! that his Greatness should lack us ! But where are the galleons of Spain ? Envoy. Gloriana ! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain ?" xxii. POPULAR POETS. May it not be remarked, however, with all deference, that the polished forms of Mr. Dobson and Mr. Lang delightful as they are have sometimes hardly sufficient solidity for our English modes of modern life ? Mr. Lang himself has defended against such an objection the learned and accomplished literary persons of both sexes who employ these forms by contending, with his accustomed play- ful acumen, that poems so shaped were never meant to be anything more than elegant trifling. And this argument, at first sight, may appear conclusive. But there is, I think, an obvious retort. When people undoubtedly possess poetic faculty, they should, in my judgment, more frequently use their gift in higher directions and to express serious thought. It would be manifestly unjust, however, to deny that several poems, notably by Mr. Dobson, have been written in pre- eminently artificial measures, and yet reach a high level of meditative fervour and emotional force. A class of poetry known as vers de societt deserves especial mention. Most of Mr. Lang's and almost all of Mr. Dobson's poetry belong to this category. But besides these writers, Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson is the chief worker in this department of verse. His "London Lyrics," dainty in themselves, have had a wide influence, and some of them ; such as " The Rose and the Ring,'' and "A Wish," reach strains of pathos. A worthy follower of Mr. Locker-Lampson, Mr. Ashby-Sterry, has, perhaps, more frequently than his master, used the elegant metres aforesaid. His rondeau, entitled "A Street Sketch," is a favourable example of his art. It is interesting, also, to notice how much the influence of form is observable, even in our professedly humorous verse, which makes no claim to the higher attributes of poetry. How different is the burly humour of Peter Pindar and the frequently uncouth versification of the author of the " Ingoldsby Legends " from that of Mr. W. S. Gilbert, or of the following stanzas from the clever "Ballade of Evolution " by Mr. Grant Allen : " In the mud of the Cambrian main Did our earliest ancestor dive : From a shapeless albuminous grain We mortals our being derive. He could split himself up into five, Or roll himself round like a ball ; For the fittest will always survive, While the weakliest go to the wall. * # * * At length as an ape he was fain The nuts of the forest to rive ; Till he took to the low-lying plain, And proceeded his fellow to knive. Thus did cannibal men first arrive, One another to swallow and maul ; And the strongest continued to thrive While the weakliest went to the wall. Envoy. Prince, in our civilised hive Now money's the measure of all ; And the wealthy in coaches can drive While the needier go to the wall." And here, let me add, is the proper field for these lovers of exotic struc- tures. I refer to the realm of humorous verse. It must not be understood INTRODUCTION. xxiii. from the tenor of the foregoing remarks that the present writer thinks comic verse of the last generation (such, for example, as the " Ingoldsby Legends"), inferior in point of ability to the comic verse of our own day. This is far from being his opinion, his remarks are simply concerned with form. But we must not forget, that while many of our poets work with such elaborate skill in the most difficult metres, there are others, such as Mr. William Bell Scott, Mr. Lewis Morris, Sir Edwin Arnold, Mr. William Ailing- ham, and Mr. Clement Scott who avoid complicated metres, and endeavour to say what they have to say in forms as simple and in language as direct as possible ; bringing themselves as close as may be to the reading public. As to the form- less lines of Mr. Walt Whitman, it is remarkable that, notwithstanding the genuine and widespread admiration which some of his noble humanitarian utterances have received, his methodhas left no following whatever. Poets, like the late Mr. Arthur O'Shaughnessy, have endeavoured to mimic his style, but without securing even a moment's attention to their experiments. It is fortunate that the often admirable substance of his so-called "poems " can be admired without fear of his style corrupting poetic methods. It is also worthy of note, that notwithstanding the great admiration Matthew Arnold has received, and still receives as a poet, his influence on the poetry of to-day is not visible in a marked degree. " Too fast we live, too much are tried, Too harassed, to attain Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide And luminous view to gain." Poetry has been defined as "the concrete and artistic expression of the human mind in emotional and rhythmical language," and, if we accept this definition, it follows that thepoetry of the future, though doubtless modified by altering conditions, must remain essentially the same in character as the poetry of the past and present. In an age such as ours, when circumstances are not only constantly altering, but altering with great rapidity, it would be manifestly rash even in the most far-seeing and accomplished critic, and how more so in myself, to predict the absolute future of poetry. But of two things we may be quite certain. Firstly, it will certainly remain as exigent as now in the require- ments of form, and secondly (as Professor Dowden has pointed out respecting literature as a whole), it will have to deal more and more with democracy and democratic opinion. It were perhaps unwise to say that the days of troubadours, knights, and "ladyes fayre" as themes for verse are over, for the poetry of romance will always retain a place. But the poet of the future will probably find, like the novelist of the future, that real abiding human interest is most often discoverable in themes close at hand. Or when he goes, like our Laureate in the " Idylls of the King," to the storehouses of romance and mythical lore, he will go not only to seek unprosaic themes, but themes having a human interest even in the depths of their apparent mysticism. He will find but little that is too humble if adequately treated, as theme for poetry. But while mere command of form without the " ore of poetry " will signify nothing, no success can be achieved without adequate poetic expression. H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. London, July, 1889. of Oje Sir Edwin Arnold, C.SJ. SONNET. O mighty mind, sweet poetic pen ! What noble thoughts your lofty strains inspire. To glow within the soul like living fire. Things, long unseen, undreamed by meaner men, Stand forth unveiled to Arnold's keener ken: His graceful words express the heart's desire, And, when his cunning hand doth touch the lyre, All, all is harmony and swtetness then : His song fills every soul with pure delight, Raising each grovelling thought from earth away, Far from the shadowy regions of the night, Up to the radiance of celestial day, Where all is pure, and beautiful, and bright, And Heavtn's unchanging light shines on for aye. WM. CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. EW men have realised with greater directness their loftiest and noblest ambitions than the scholarly litterateur whose name lends grace and, we trust, influence to the first of these pages. Born in the early summer of 1832, the second son of Mr. Robert Coles Arnold, J.P., of Kent and Sussex, he was educated at King Henry the Eighth's School, Rochester, and at King's College, London, being elected subsequently to a scholarship at the University College, Oxford, where, in his twentieth year, he gained the Newdigate Prize for his English poem, " The Feast of Belshazzar. 5 ' His literary aims were high, and each year brought with it the attainment of new hopes, as it never failed also to record fresh advances in a career already bright and full of brilliant promise. In 1853 he was selected to address the late Earl of Derby on his installation as Chancellor of the University. In 1854 he graduated in honours. The year following found him in the temporary but responsible position of Second Master in the English division of King Edward the Sixth's School at Birmingham. And not long after, so great were his attainments, so many his parts, he was elected to the POPULAR POETS. post of Principal at the Government Sanscrit College at Poona, and made a Fellow of the University of Bombay. Being a man of great learning, and a profound thinker, it was but natural that he should embrace the opportunity of his sojourn in India to acquire a more intimate acquaintance, through personal observation, with the manners, customs, and religious ideas of the interesting and ancient races inhabiting that beautiful, mystic, Oriental land. And to this acquired knowledge, combined with his high intellectual gifts, we are indebted for the descriptive truthfulness and grandeur which give such a stamp of reality to his eastern works. Through- out his period of office in the Bombay district, during which time he was twice the recipient of the official thanks from the Governor in Council for his valuable services through the period of the Mutiny, he found time to devote considerable attention to the study of Indian literature. The result of these labours may be seen in numerous volumes, which testify to the greatness of his genius and the depth of his intelligence. Foremost of the works of this class should stand "The Light of Asia," that magnificent Epic poem which treats with such exquisite skill and with such force of manner of the life and teach- ings of Buddha. For this great master-piece, much of which was wiitten, we are told, during the author's daily journeys on the Under-ground Railway, Sir Edwin Arnold was decorated by the King of Siam with the Order of the White Elephant. Produced as recently as 1879, it has already passed through fifty editions in England and numerous versions in America, and has been read with enthusiasm by scholars throughout the civilised world. We wonder not at this, for the time spent in its perusal has been passed, as Carlyle so forcibly states, "Well and nobly, as in a temple of Wisdom." The remaining works of impor- tance we may, perhaps, be permitted to classify with less distinction. They are "The Hitopades'a," which was published in India, with a vocabulary in English, Sanscrit, and Murathi ; "The Book of Good Counsels," being a metrical translation of the work just mentioned; "Education in India ;" "A History of the Administration of India under the Marquis f Dalhousie ;" " The Indian Song of Songs," a metrical paraphrase from the Sanscrit of the Gita Govinda of Jayadeva ; a volume of Oriental subjects in verse, under the title of "Indian Poetry;" translations from the Sanscrit Epic, "The Mahabharata ;" " Pearls of the Faith ; or, Islam's Rosary," being an enumeration of the ninety- nine "beautiful names of Allah," with comments in verse ; and lastly, " Lotus and the Jewel," containing " In an Indian Temple," and " The Casket of Gems." There has also just been issued a volume of " Selections from the National and Non-Oriental Poems " of this author. As one of our finest Greek scholars, Sir Edwin Arnold has further given us "The Euterpe of Herodotus," being a translation from the Greek text, with notes ; a popular account, with translated passages, of " The Poets of Greece;" and " Hero and Leander," a translation in heroic verse from the Greek of Musseus ; with many other pieces from Greek, Latin, and other languages. In 1861, immediately after his return from India, he joined the staff of the Daily Telegraph, of which journal he now holds the laborious and responsible post of editor. It may be mentioned that it was Sir Edwin Arnold who, on behalf of the proprietors of this journal, arranged the first expedition of George Smith to Assyria, resulting in the recovery of the cuneiform tablets of the Deluge and the Creation. Under his direction also Henry Stanley was sent as Dr. Livingstone's SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. successor to Africa, this expedition resulting in the discovery of the great River Congo. Sir Edwin Arnold is a Fellow of the Royal Asiatic and the Royal Geographical Societies of London, and Honorary Correspondent of that of Marseilles. As a fitting tribute to his valued services in India, he was named, at the time of the Queen's Proclamation as Empress of that land, a Companion of the Star of India. Four years later, that is in 1876, he received from the Sultan the second-class of the Imperial Order of the Madjidie ; and at a later date the third-class of the Ormanieh. On January I, 1888, he was named by Her Majesty, the Queen-Empress, Knight Commander of the Order of the Indian Empire. He has contributed largely to critical and literary reviews, and is the author, in addition to the numerous works already mentioned, of "Griselda," "Death, and Afterwards," &c., &c. A man of tireless industry, almost every day of whose life has been spent in the joint pursuit of his profession and of all branches of literature, it will be well understood, to use the concluding words of a kindly, courteous communication which he was good enough to send me on the subject of this work, that he is even now, in the fifty-sixth year of his age, "literally without leisure," "THE LIGHT OF ASIA." (BUDDHA'S RENUNCIATION BEFORE THE KING.) The Lord Buddha having conquered the world and returned to the throne of the King, his Father, " set himself To teach the Law in hearing of his own." " He spake these things before the King '' : Om Amitaya ! measure not with words Th' Immeasurable ; nor sink the string of thought Into the Fathomless. Who asks doth err, Who answers, errs. Say nought ! The Books teach Darkness was, at first of all, And Brahm, sole meditating in that Night : Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there ! Nor him, nor any light Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes, Or any searcher know by mortal mind ; Veil after veil will lift but there must be Veil upon veil behind. Stars sweep and question not. This is enough That life and death and joy and woe abide ; And cause and sequence, and the course of time, And Being's ceaseless tide, POPULAR POETS. Which, ever changing, runs, linked like a river By ripples following ripples, fast or slow The same yet not the same from far-off fountains To where its waters flow Into the seas. These, streaming to the Sun, Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece To trickle down the hills, and glide again ; Having no pause or peace. This is enough to know, the phantasms are ; The Heavens, Earths, Worlds, and changes changing them, A mighty whirling wheel of strife and stress Which none can stay or stem. Pray not ! the Darkness will not brighten ! Ask Nought from the Silence, for it cannot speak ! Vex not your mournful minds with pious pains ! Ah ! Brothers, Sisters ! seek Nought from the helpless gods by gift and hymn, Nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruits and cakes ; Within yourselves deliverance must be sought ; Each man his prison makes. Each hath such lordship as the loftiest ones ; Nay, for with Powers above, around, below, As with all flesh and whatsoever lives, Acts maketh joy and woe. What hath been bringeth what shall be, and is, Worse better last for first and first for last ; The Angels in the Heavens of Gladness reap Fruits of a holy past ; The devils in the underworlds wear out Deeds that were wicked in an age gone by : Nothing endures : Fair virtues waste with time, Foul sins grow purged thereby. * * * * Higher than heaven, outside the utmost stars, Farther than Brahm doth dwell, Before beginning, and without an end, As space eternal and as surety sure, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. Is fixed a Power divine which moves to good, Only its laws endure. It seeth everywhere and marketh all : Do right It recompenseth ! Do one wrong The equal retribution must be made, Though Dharma tarry long. It knows not wrath nor pardon ; utter-true Its measures mete, its faultless balance weighs ; Tiroes are as nought, to-morrow it will judge, Or after many days. By this the slayer's knife did stab himself ; The unjust judge hath lost his own defender ; The false tongue dooms its lie ; the creeping thief And spoiler rob, to render. Such is the Law which moves to righteousness, Which none at last can turn aside or stay ; The heart of it is Love, the end of it Is Peace and Consummation sweet. Obey ! * * * * Manifold tracks lead to yon sister-peaks Around whose snows the gilded clouds are curled ; By steep or gentle slopes the climber comes Where breaks that other world. Strong limbs may dare the rugged road with storms, Soaring and perilous, the mountain's breast ; The weak must wind from slower ledge to ledge, With many a place of rest. So is the Eightfold Path which brings to peace ; By lower or by upper heights it goes. The firm soul hastes, the feeble tarries. All Will reach the sunlit snows. The first good level is Right Doctrine. Walk In fear of Dharma, shunning all offence ; In heed of Karma, which doth make man's fate ; In lordship over sense. POPULAR POETS. The second is Right Purpose. Have good-will To all that lives, letting unkindness die And greed and wrath ; so that your lives be made Like soft airs passing by. The third is Right Discourse. Govern the lips As they were palace-doors, the King within ; Tranquil and fair, and courteous be all words Which from that presence win. The fourth is Right Behaviour. Let each act Assoil a fault, or help a merit grow : Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads Let love through good deeds show. # & -\- * As one who stands on yonder snowy horn Having nought o'er him but the boundless blue, So, these sins being slain, the man is come Nirvana's verge unto. Him the Gods envy from their lower seats ; Him the Three Worlds in ruin should not shake ; All life is lived for him, all deaths are dead ; Karma will no more make New houses. Seeking nothing, he gains all ; Foregoing self, the Universe grows " I :" If any teach Nirvana is to cease, Say unto such they lie. If any teach Nirvana is to live, Say unto such they err; not knowing this, Nor what shines beyond their broken lamps, Nor lifeless, timeless, bliss. Enter the path ! There is no grief like Hate ! No pains like Passion, no deceit like Sense ! Enter the path ! far hath he gone whose foot Treads down one fond offence. Enter the path ! There spring the healing s treams Quenching all thirst ! there bloom th' immortal flowers Carpeting all the way with joy ! there throng Swiftest and sweetest hours ! SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. Ah ! Blessed Lord ! Oh, High Deliverer ! Forgive this feeble script, which doth Thee wrong, Measuring with little wit Thy lofty Love. Ah ! Lover ! Brother ! Guide ! Lamp of the Law ! I take my refuge in Thy name and Thee ! I take my refuge in thy Law of Good ! I take my refuge in Thy Order ! Om ! The Dew is on the lotus ! Rise, Great Sun ! And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave. Om mani padme hum, the Sunrise comes ! The Dewdrop slips into the shining Sea ! THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR. Calmly and silent as the fair full moon Comes sailing upward in the sky of June Fearfully as the troubled clouds of night Shrink from before the coming of its light So through the hall the Prophet passed along, So from before him fell the festal throng. By broken wassail-cup, and wine o'erthrown Pressed he still onward for the monarch's throne : His spirit failed him not his quiet eye Lost not its light for earthly majesty ; His lip was steady and his accent clear, "The King hath needed me, and I am here.'' " Art thou the Prophet ? read me yonder scroll, Whose undeciphered horror daunts my soul There shall be guerdon for the grateful task, Fitted for me to give, for thee to ask A chain to deck thee and a robe to grace, Thine the third throne, and thou the third in place." POPULAR POETS. He heard and turned him where the lighted wall Dimmed the red torches of the festival, Gazed on the sign with steady gaze and set, And he who quailed not at a kingly threat Bent the true knee, and bowed the silver hair, For that he knew the King of Kings was there : Then nerved his soul the sentence to unfold, While his tongue trembled at the tale it told And never tongue shall echo tale as strange Till that change cometh which must never change. " Keep for thyself the guerdon and the gold What God hath graved, God's prophet must unfold ; Could not thy father's crime, thy father's fate Teach thee the terror thou hast learnt too late Hast thou not read the lesson of his life, Who wars with God shall strive a losing strife ? His was a kingdom mighty as thine own, The sword his sceptre, and the earth his throne The nations trembled when his awful eye Gave to them leave to live, or doom to die The Lord of Life the Keeper of the grave, His frown could wither, and his smile could save Yet when his heart was hard, his spirit high, God drave him from his kingly majesty, Far from the brotherhood of fellow men, To seek for dwelling in the desert den ; Where the wild asses feed and oxen roam He sought his pasture and he made his home, And bitter-biting frost and dews of night Schooled him in sorrow till he knew the right, That God is ruler of the rulers still And setteth up the sovereign that He will. Oh ! had'st thou treasured in repentant breast His pride and fall, his penitence and rest, And bowed submissive to Jehovah's will, Then had thy sceptre been a sceptre still. SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, C.S.I. But thou hast mocked the majesty of heaven, And shamed the vessels to its service given ; And thou hast fashioned idols of thine own Idols of gold, of silver, and of stone ; To them hast bowed the knee, and breathed the breath, And they must help thee in the hour of death. Woe for the sign unseen, the sins forgot, God was among ye, and ye knew it not ! Hear what He sayeth thus, ' Thy race is run ; The years are numbered, and the days are done, Thy soul hath mounted in the scale of fate, The Lord hath weighed thee and thou lackest weight ; Now in thy palace porch the spoilers stand, To seize thy sceptre, to divide thy land.'" >,; %. ;| ; ^ That night they slew him on his father's throne, The deed unnoticed, and the hand unknown ; Crownless and sceptreless Belshazzar lay, A robe of purple, round a form of clay. SERENADE. Lute ! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, Sing while she sleeps, " Ah ! belle dame, aimez-vous ?" Till dreaming still, she dream that I am here, And wake to find it, as my love is, true ; Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow measure, softer, stiller, yet, That lute-strings quiver when their tone's at rest, And my heart trembles when my lips are set. Stars ! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, Shine through the roses for a lover's sake, And send your silver to her lidded eyes ; Kissing them very gently till she wake : Then, while she wonders at the lay and light, Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue. Dean Plumptre, of Wells. HIS distinguished Divine and eminent scholar may be ranked with Hebe and Keble as among the best religious writers of any age. The various Biblical subjects he has chosen to illustrate in his poems are handled in a masterly manner, and are embellished and adorned by graceful and dignified language, high religious sentiments and feeling, and true poetic treatment. What is known as to the early life of the Very Rev. E. H. Plumptre may be summed up in a few words. Born August 6th, 1821, he received his education under private tutors and at King's College, London. In 1844 he graduated as a " double first " at Oxford, and, having previously held a Scholar- ship at University College, was elected to a Fellowship of Brasenose in the same year. From that time onward it will be convenient to note the chief positions which Dean Plumptre has held at various periods in his life : the Professorships of Pastoral Theology (1853) and New Testament Exegesis (1863) at King's College, London ; the Prebend of Portpool in St. Paul's Cathedral (1863) ; the living of Pluckley, in Kent, to which he was presented by the late Archbishop Tait, in 1869 ; and, by exchange with the Rev. E. J. Selwyn, that of Bickley, where he remained from 1873 to his appointment to the Deanery of Wells, in 1881. From 1848 to the last named date, Dean Plumptre was also closely connected with Queen's College, Harley Street, holding Professorships in various subjects, and managing the affairs of the College as Dean and Secretary, and finally as Principal. He has also held the Assistant Preachership of Lincoln's Inn (1851-58) ; has been Select Preacher at Oxford (1851, 1864, 1872) and Cambridge (1879, 1887), Grinfield Lecturer on the Septuagint, and Examiner in the Theological School at the former University (1872-74), and Examining Chaplain to Bishop Ellicott (1865-67) and Archbishop Tait (1879-82). As a writer, Dean Plumptre has ventured into many different paths of litera- ture. His first published work, a small volume of sermons, or, " The Calling of a Medical Student" (1840), was followed at intervals by others of the same type : " King's College Sermons " (1860), " Theology and Life " (1865), Boyle Lectures, or "Christ and Christendom" (1866), "Movements in Religious Thought " (1879), besides some dozen or more of sermons on special occasions. His labours as an interpreter of Scripture have borne fruit in Commentaries on the Book of Proverbs, in the "Speaker's Commentary;" on Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, the first Three Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, and 2 Corinthians, in Bishop Ellicott's "O. T. and N. T. Commentaries" for English Readers ; on i and 2 Timothy in the International Commentary ; on Ecclesiastes, St. James, and I and 2 Peter in the "Cambridge School Bible;" St. Paul in Asia Minor (1877), and a Popular Exposition of the Epistles to the Seven Churches of Asia (1877). For the first three or four years of its work, the Dean was a member of the O. T. DEAN PLUMPTRE. i j Revision Company, and he contributed largely to Dr. Smith's "Dictionary of the Bible." His "Biblical Studies " and his "Spirits in Prison " maybe named as further contributions in the same region of literature, and his Editorship of the "Bible Educator" may call for at least a passing mention. The scope of this work, however, is more immediately concerned with Dean Plumptre's labours in other directions, and we have to mention, accordingly, three volumes of original verse : "Lazarus " (1863), "Master and Scholar " (1866), "Things New and Old " (1884), which have met with high appreciation. General hymns first published in these volumes have found their way into " Hymns Ancient and Modern " and other popular collections, both among Churchmen and Nonconformists. Dean Plumptre's powers as a verse-writer have been exhibited also in the region of translation. Of this the most conspicuous instances are his "Sophocles" (1865), his "CEschylus" (1868), and last, but not least, his version of the " Commedia and Canzoniere" of Dante, with a life of the Poet and studies on many points of interest connected with his works (1886-87). Lastly, we may add, he is engaged on a "Life of Bishop Ken," the author of the Morning and Evening Hymns, which, it is expected, will be published early in the autumn of the present year. It remains only to add that the Dean has for nearly twenty-five years been a copious contributor to periodical literature, notably, to the Edinburgh, Quartfrly, and Contemporary Reviews, to Good Words, and the Sunday Magazine. The only fact of public interest in Dean Plumptre's private life is that he was married in 1848 to the youngest sister of the late Rev. Frederick Denison Maurice. CLAUDE MELVILLE. LAZARUS. " Is Hades conquered ?'' I had asked when first I looked on light anew ; " or must I die The common death of all men ?" Could I smile, Hearing I stood, death's terrors still in sight, As men may smile who have not crossed the stream ? Not so, but thought and vigil, prayer and fast, These filled the hours, and evermore I sought To know how He who saved me lived His life, Not with the crowd, or teaching in the streets, Or breaking bread with friends, but when, alone, He with His father communed secretly. And one clear moonlight night I followed Him i 2 POPULAR POETS. To the calm garden of Gethsemane, Where oft He made resort. All now was gone, My land, my gold, my robes. I kept back nought But the few weeds I wore, and still I stored, As precious relic of a priceless boon, The winding-sheet of linen, white and clean, In which they wrapt me. At the midnight hour, Casting that sheet around me, I stole on From Bethany and over Olivet, And neared the garden. As the moonlight shone, I saw the three, the foremost of the Twelve, Weary and spent with toil, stretched out in sleep, As men too tired to watch, too weak to pray. But He was there, the pale face paler seen, As on it fell the moonbeams ; and the sweat Dropt down from brow and face in agony ; And as I nearer drew, I heard the cry, (Strange echo of the words once heard before), " With Thee, O Father, all is possible." And then, as yielding up His will to God's, He left it all to that Almighty Love To give or to refuse. " What more I saw I need not tell. Thou know'st it in the tale Which every Church receives the shame, the scourge, The cross, the death, the burial, and the morn Of that bright Rising. Yet there dwells with me One moment in my life I may not pass. As I stood listening, from the Kedron vale The crowd streamed forth, with torches, clubs, and swords, And thronging through the garden seized on Him, And led Him captive. The eight, and then the three, Alarmed, confused, forsook their Lord and fled. DEAN PLUMPTRE. 1 3 THE KIVER. Down-trickling, soft and slow, Where the green mosses grow, The baby streamlet hardly wakes the hush, That broods o'er yonder height, Where falls the calm, low light, And moor and peak give back the crimson flush. Then, as its waters swell, O'er crag, and rock, and fell, They pour in many a thread of silver sheen ; And now their clearer voice Bids hill and vale rejoice, And sweet, low echoes pierce the still serene. * * n= * Past pleasant village-spire, Past cheerful cottage fire, In tranquil course flows on the nobler stream, Spanned in its statelier march By many a moss-grown arch, Through which the sparkling ripples glance and gleam. * * * * Onward past ancient halls, Onward past castle-walls, Each with wild legends of an earlier time, Stories of red-cross knight, True to the death in fight, Lay of true love, or darker tale of crime. ^ tfc n ; ^ Broad sweeps the mightier flood, Where once a forest stood. Now all waste marish, fen, and reed-grown shore ; And, far on either hand, We see the distant sand, And hear the sea's loud murmurs evermore. 14 POPULAR POETS. So flows our human life, With mightier issues rife, Onward and onward to a wider sea ; We note its feeble source, We track its winding course, We know not what its destiny may be. A SILVER WEDDING DAY. Five and twenty summers lie behind you in the past, Since the solemn words were spoken which made you one for life ; Five and twenty summers, coming slowly, fleeting past, Binding still, with links of silver, the husband and the wife. Joys and griefs in that dim distance now are blended into one, Each building up the fabric of the love and peace at home ; Rest and labour, health and sickness, have reared it, stone by stone, And the house shall stand unshaken, though winds beat and waters foam. And your children guard its portals, and the western skies are clear, And the voice of joy and gladness is heard within the gate : For the thoughts that make life bitter have found no entrance there, Nor the wail o'er broken idols, nor the cry of doom, " Too late." Shall the silver pass to golden ? Shall faces fresh and gay Crown the brows of those we honour with the dewdrops of their youth ? Shall the after-glow be brighter than the dawn of orient day, And the hopes of earlier visions fall short of present truth ? Ah ! we know not, and we ask not ; the times are in His hand Who orders all things well for all loving hearts and true ; And the years shall bring the peace which we cannot understand, Life's welcome euthanasia, be they many years or few. Helen Marion Burnside. HIS accomplished and gifted authoress was born at Bromley Hall, Middlesex, where her family, which is of Scottish ex- traction, resided for many years. When quite a child she shewed considerable talent for poetry and painting. In 1855, after a severe attack of scarlet fever, she, being at that time 12 years of age, had the misfortune to lose her hearing. In a very able and interesting article on the subject of deafness, which she contributed recently to the Argosy, she says: ' ' Speaking to those who, like myself, are totally deaf, but were not born so, and thus have a memory of sounds to assist them in re-adjusting the faculties left to them so as to correspond with their changed surroundings, here, as in the case of blindness, compensation is made, and the remaining senses gain incalculably in fineness and intensity. By a combination of keen observance and the relation kept up by means of vibration with external sounds, what may almost be called another sense is developed. So wonderful and complete is the organisation with which a beneficent Creator has endowed us that even we, whom He has seen fit, for some wise and merciful reason, to make imperfect, thus can yet show forth His praise and His works. "A deaf person does not by any means live in a world of such utter and complete silence as must appear to those about them who do not recognise the value of vibration in conveying the impression of external sound to internal senses. Every footstep in a room, every touch on an article of furniture, even the slight disturbance of the air caused by the opening or shutting of a door, is as instantly and unconsciously noted by a deaf as it would be by a hearing person. " Neither are nature's many voices silent to the deaf, especially to those who love and look for them. Even Fairy Fine-ear herself could not take more delight in the varied music of the country than I do. The rustle of the leaves in the wind one has but to look at a tree to hear them ; the hum of bees, the songs of birds the air is teeming with such sounds. And then the water music : the steady ripple of the river, the dance of the brook, and the grander tones of the sea, from the murmur and plash of its tiny waves, to the boom and roar of stormy breakers. The mental ear of a lover of these things can hear them all, whenever the bodily eye sees them." In 1864 a volume of her poems was published, some of which were written at a very early age. She has been a contributor for many years to the Religious Tract Society's Magazines, the Aigosy, and is the authoress of "A Story of a a Birthday " (poem), &c. As a graceful example of this charming authoress' descriptive style of writing, I cull the following from Spring : " On the other side of the road lay an apple orchard, a perfect fairy-land of bloom and fragrance, about which the bees had hummed all day, and flocks of bright-hued finches had chirped and twittered, shaking down showers of snowy petals on the warm grass beneath, as they fluttered and darted about. Swinging i6 POPULAR POETS. on a bough at the edge of this orchard, in full view of the amorous singers, was the female nightingale for whose favour they were evidently competing. Louder and louder, sweeter and sweeter, became the flood of serial music on one side of the road, whilst the bird opposite swung on, in seeming indifference to it. All at once it became evident that one of the singers was growing exhausted. His voice sunk now and then as if it must soon cease altogether, but again and again it recovered, and thrilled out with renewed strength and clearness. The other bird sang on steadily, and apparently without effort. At length, after a minute or two of complete silence on the part of the weaker of the two, he burst out into a perfect ' roulade ' of full mellow notes, rising and falling till the voice of the steady singer was almost drowned in the rush of sound. Then it suddenly sunk into silence, there was a little flutter amongst the branches, and a bird fell to the ground at the feet of the listeners. The young man picked it up : it was quite dead, its heart having burst in its fierce final effort. He silently laid the little body on his companion's lap, and, as he did so, the female bird flew across the road and joined the remaining singer, who received her with many blandish- ments and endearments, and finally warbled a mellow poean of love and victory as they flew off together amongst the apple boughs." As a lyric writer, Miss Burnside is well known and her works are much appreciated. Nearly loo of her songs have been set to music and published. " Tired," issued 18 years ago, was her first success ; and " An Old Garden " and " In the primrose time of the year," more recent productions, are at the present time very popular. For some time past she has acted as Editor to Messrs Raphael Tuck and Sons. Miss Bumside is, most deservedly, a favourite with a very large class of readers. The chief characteristics of her verses are musical smoothness and picturesque suggestiveness ; they are full of poetic feel ing and graceful tender- ness, and are in sympathy with all that is womanly, pure, and good. They appeal to the heart, and have, doubtless, touched a tender chord in the bosoms of thousands. Nor is Miss Burnside known for her literary work alone. She has also attained to some celebrity in Art. The Royal Academy accepted one of her pictures of fruit and flowers before she was 19 years of age, and, later, two portraits in crayons. For the past eight or nine years she has held the post of designer to the Royal School of Art Needlework, under the presidency of H.R.H. Princess Christian, by whom her work of various kinds has been favour- ably noticed. Miss Burnside's designs have been published in the Queen, The Lady, and the Girls' Own Paper, and are greatly admired for their beauty, taste, and originality. One of the poems in " Round Nature's Dial," which we quote, gives a traditional origin of the name of Burnside. CLAUDE MELVILLE. HELEN MARION BURNSIDE. 17 THE AULD BURNSIDE. AN EXCERPT FROM "ROUND NATURE'S DIAL." Are there hearts yet warm and kind By the auld burnside Like the hearts that wed I mind By the auld burnside ? Does the laughter, licht an' gay, O' the bairnies at their play, Yet ring sweetly down the brae, By the auld burnside ? O, the laverock trill'd his sang By the auld burnside, A' the sunny simmer lang, By the auld burnside ; An' the wild bee lo'ed to dwell In the heather's honey'd cell, Or i' dainty azure bell, By the auld burnside . Tis the land our fathers trod By the auld burnside, An' their bluid has dyed the sod By the auld burnside, For they fought fu' mony a fight, An' their arms were strang to smite, For their God, an' for their right, By the auld burnside. But our kindred bands awa' Fra' the auld burnside ; They are scattered wide an' far Fra' the auld burnside And the winter win' an' rain, Beat upo' the cauld hearth stane, O' the house, a' lorn an' lane, By the auld burnside. We shall never wander mair By the auld burnside Where the heather blooms sae fair, By the auld burnside ; 1 8 POPULAR POETS. But we'll bear the name for aye, O' the muirland an' the brae An' the bonnie lands that lay By the auld burnside ! BY EDEN'S SWIFT TIDE. All silent and changed is the spot where we parted In days that have vanished by Eden's swift tide ; Ah, dear were those days, love, whe,n, gay and light-hearted, We deemed that the sunshine would always abide ! 'Twas then the green gloom where the branches hang over Was lit by the smile of your gladsome young face No warble of bird, and no whisper of lover, Now breaks the sad silence that broods o'er the place. Our youth has departed, its roses have faded O'er graves of the past their bright petals were shed ; By sorrow and absence our lives are o'ershaded, But ne'er from our skies has hope's rainbow quite fled. In years yet to come, though my name be unspoken, I know the old love, dear, will live in your heart, As it lives in mine own for our faith is unbroken, Despite the hard mandate which doomed us to part. Ah, dear is the spot where our troth we once plighted, And dear the green bowers by Eden's swift tide, But dearer the hope that, at last re-united, Our hearts may know bliss which for aye shall abide. AN OLD GARDEN. I remember, I remember an old garden gay and trim, And the fountain in the centre, with its gleaming marble rim, There were rows of stately lilies, winding walks where roses grew, And a dragon at each corner, fashioned from the hedge of yew ! It was called " My Lady's Garden," and the maiden fair and tall, Who was wont to walk within it, I remember best of all. HELEN MARION BURNSIDE. 19 In her petticoat of satin, and her gaily-flowered gown, And the perfume and the powder in her hair of sunny brown ! I remember, I remember, 'tis a lifetime since we met, But her sweet face, pure and saintly, in my mem'ry lingers yet ! And I dream I see her walking, with her stately grace of old, In the Garden that is guarded by the gates of pearl and gold. I remember that sweet garden, with the lilies fair and tall, But the maid who walked within it I remember best of all. TWO CHRISTMAS CARD VERSES. i. Do you remember, dear ; do you remember How, oft, 'midst winter's rime, We two have met in many a past December, To welcome Christmas time ? Do you remember the brown wood-paths lying Wrapped in their shroud of snow, Where once we watched while the old year was dying Behind the sunset's glow, Do you remember, dear do you remember? Now from my heart once more, Amidst the fading glory of December, I bless you as of yore ! ii. O'er towns and hamlets, hills and dells, There softly breaks upon the ear The silver sound of joyful bells, Which tell the birth of Christ is near. We hear the stir of unseen wings, Behind the haze that veils the morn A golden sunbeam upward springs, And once again the Light is born. Float on, sweet sounds, o'er hills and dells, Upon our hearts, sweet Day-spring, fall, From where, beyond the chiming bells, God sends His gift of peace to all. William Cartwright News am. APTAIN GALTON, a few years ago, published a work on " Hereditary Genius,'' in which he propounds the theory that genius is inherent in certain families and is transmitted from one generation to another. The Cartwright Newsams are a remarkable instance of this hereditary genius, three of whom father, son, and grandson have attained popularity as writers of poetry chiefly by the sweetness of their lyrical compositions. William Cartwright Newsam is descended from a line oi ancestry long settled near Richmond, in Yorkshire ; and a branch of the ancient Saxon family of de Newsum, the first known of whom was Ulchil, Lord of Newsum, temp. Edward the Confessor. The family flourished as a county family through the Plantagenet era, had a grant of arms, and gave in their pedigree at one of the visitations of heralds, in the reign of Richard II. William Cartwright Newsam is the grandson of the well-known poet of the same name, who was the author of a charming work, entitled the " Poets of Yorkshire," which, after his death in 1844, was completed and published in 1845, by his friend, John Holland, the Sheffield Poet. The subject of this sketch was born at Nottingham in 1861, and was educated at the Grammar Schools of Nottingham and Clitheroe. Besides inheriting, in a high degree, the poetical genius of his father and grandfather, he is a musical composer, and has published, under his own name and various noms de plume, many pieces which have become popular and have been highly praised by the musical press. As a lyric author he has been most favourably noticed by the leading papers of the day. He is the author of numerous songs, which have been set to music by eminent composers. The Daily Telegraph, speaking of a composer who has set some of Mr. W. C. Newsam's lyrics to music, says that " he has been fortunate in meeting with a collaborateur so accomplished as Mr. W. C. Newsam, the author of the words. Not only are the several subjects chosen by him free from the least violation of good taste, but the diction employed in their treatment is. at all times, beyond reproach." Mr Newsam is a well-known contributor to numerous magazines, and his poetic writings have been widely copied by the provincial and American press. F. Ross, F.R.H.S. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. 21 A MORNING REVERIE. Tis sweet to wander forth, when all is still, And watch the daybreak from some neighbouring hill, To mark the stars, that gleamed so bright on high, Grow pale, and paler, in the sapphire sky. Each lofty peak is crowned with rosy tinge, Each cloud of night is edged with golden fringe ; Bright bars of light break through the sombre grey, And mark the coming of the joyful day ; Turning to gems the dew-drop tears of night, Touching each darkened stream with ruby light ; Till the great sun himself ascends on high And fills with splendour all the Orient sky ; Painting each spot within the magic scene With jewel flow'rets, set in sylvan sheen. O, how the soul, enchanted by the sight, Soars and expands with rapture and delight ! Each flower, each leaf, each trembling tiny blade, That beautifies the hill or decks the glade All, in their varied splendour, as they shine, Proclaim the hand that fashioned them Divine. His was the hand that gave the rose its hue, That gave its fragrance to the violet too ; And everything that is, both great and small, They are His treasures, and He knows them all The boundless ocean and the teeming land ^ Each drop of water and each grain of sand, ' Lie marked and numbered in His mighty hand. J * * * * Ah ! who can know the adamantine chain, That binds sweet Pleiades and all its train ? Whose, but the Great Creator's mighty hands Can loose Orion's everlasting bands ? Far, far beyond the world we call our own, What countless systems fill the space unknown ! POPULAR POETS. Suns that illumine, with their glorious light, Myriads of worlds, unseen by mortal sight : Suns circling suns, thro' all the boundless space, Each in its orbit and appointed place. Shining they move, harmonious band by band. Controlled and guided by a mighty hand, Through one unbounded, vast, ethereal sea, Through all the ages of eternity. Near or remote, however great or small, One mighty influence binds and governs all, O, how the soul, prostrated by the thought, Lost in immensity, shrinks back to nought ! O, Great Omnipotent ! to think that man Should dare to measure, with his puny span, Thy wond'rous power, Thy wisdom, or Thy grace, Thy boundless mercy to his fallen race : Or dare to place one soul above the rest, Say who shall perish, or who shall be blest. Thy grace and mercy reach both great and small ; Thy boundless love hath power to save them all. Say what they may, it is enough for me } To leave my destiny, whate'er it be, \ To leave my life, my soul, my all with Thee. ) BARCAROLLE. Oh ! how gaily we float in our brave little boat, Whilst our melody rises and sinks with the wave, And the surges so bright, seem to dance with delight, As the prow of our barque they so joyously lave. As our oars cleave their way, see the bright drops of spray, How they change into sapphires, and sink in the wave ; And downward they go, to the bright sands below, Where the syren lies hid in her emerald cave. And as we slowly glide, over the shining tide, Filling the air with our music and song, WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWS AM. 23 See how the surges bright, gleaming with golden light, Dance in their joy, as they bear us along. The pale moon sits on high, like a queen of the sky, Throwing far o'er the billows a pathway of white ; Whilst so joyous and gay, the glad waves in their play, Seem to glitter and gleam in her silvery light. Oh ! how happy are we, as the waves of the sea, Softly rock us to rest, in a dream of delight ; And our boat glides along, whilst sweet music and song, Seem to fall like a charm on the ear of the night. And as we smoothly glide, over the heaving tide, Softly the breeze sings a lullaby song, Whilst the glad waves below, shining with mystic glow, Light up our track as they bear us along. PATRIOTIC SONG. There's an island we love, there's a spot that we cherish, 'Tis the home of our fathers, the place of our birth ; 'Tis our own dear, old England, and long may she flourish, The brightest and best among lands of the earth. There is hardly a page in our rough island story, There is scarcely a country, wherever it be, But can show some brave record of honour and glory, To the name of Old England, the Queen of the Sea. There's a glorious old flag, with its three crosses blended, That has long braved the storm, and has weathered the blast, 'Tis the flag that our sires have so nobly defended, And its tattered old shreds we will nail to the mast. To the Queen of our Hearts, and the Queen of our Nation, To our Crown and our Country, most loyal are we ; And Britannia stands firm on this solid foundation, While she rests on her shield, as the Queen of the Sea, May the Thistle and Shamrock, united for ever, Be entwined, side by side, with our bonny red Rose, 24 POPULAR POETS. And let those who the bonds of their Union would sever, Be avoided as traitors, and branded as foes. Then a truce to all parties, your Whig and your Tory When our land is in danger, no party are we ; All united we stand in defence of her glory, And the flag of Old England, Queen of the Sea. DARKNESS AND DAWN. What though thy day of life be nearly gone, And deepening shades of night come swiftly on : Why dost thou turn to earth thy tearful eyes ? Why heaves thy breast with unavailing sighs ? Hath not the Holy One, to bless the night, Bedecked the vault of Heaven with stars of light ? Though none can see them when the light is near, When twilight deepens, then the stars appear. Though clouds may gather in the silent night, And quench the feeble stars' uncertain light, Though from thy sight the last faint flickering ray Of dubious light may slowly fade away, Though Stygian darkness cover all the sky, Take comfort still, for God Himself is nigh ; Be of good courage ; wherefore should'st thou fear ? When night is darkest, then the dawn is near. Soon shalt thou see the day-spring from on high, With radiant splendour gild the Orient sky ! Then every cloud of night shall disappear, For dawn is breaking, and the day is near. So, when the night of death shall pass away, Then comes the dawning of eternal day, When the glad soul shall wing its glorious flight Up to the mansions of celestial light. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. 25 JUST AS OF OLD, I DREAM. Just as of old, I mark the golden bars That fleck with amber all the western sky ; Just as of old the faint, pale, flickering stars Peep shyly from the azure vault on high. The drowsy sheep-bells lull the listless ear, The sleeping lilies glimmer on the stream ; The bell tolls softly from the turret near ; And wrapt in love's sweet revery, I dream. Just as of old 1 dream, I dream. I feel soft fingers wander through my hair, And tender kisses press my burning brow ; Enthralled, as by a spell, I linger there, For love's sweet glamour is upon me now. Twas love's first dream ! and though it passed away, Still sweet to me its thrilling moments seem, As in the gloaming of the dying day, Wrapt in sweet mem'ries of the past, I dream. Just as of old I dream, I dream. Those soft, sweet fingers clasp my hand no more, No gentle voice is whispering in mine ear, But sweetest visions of the days of yore Steal softly o'er me as I linger here. Oh, dream of love ! though faded now for aye, Bright in my soul thy living mem'ries gleam, When, in the silence of the dying day, Just as of old, once more I dream, I dream. Just as of old I dream, I dream. SERENADE. Soft, through the vale, the evening zephyrs sigh, Whilst gentle dew-drops woo each fragrant flower ; 26 POPULAR POETS. Fair Cynthia lifts her shining lamp on high To light the lover to his lady's bower ; The silvery sheen falls softly from above And floods thy casement with its gentle light, Whilst I, beneath, am singing songs of love To charm thy slumber through the summer night. Oh ! may thy dreaming be joyous and bright ; Sleep on, my Pretty One, Sweet One, good night. May sweetest angels constant vigil keep, Beside thy couch, through all the summer night, To close thy radiant eyes with peaceful sleep, And charm thy soul with visions pure and bright ; Visions of hills that touch the azure sky, Of glittering seas that lave the golden shore ; But, in thy brightest dreams, oh ! dream that I, And I alone, am thine for evermore. Oh ! may thy dreaming be joyous and bright ; Sleep on, my Pretty One, Sweet One, good night. THINE AND THINE ALONE. When day lies sleeping in the lap of night, And chaste Diana sheds her silv'ry light ; When stars are glitt'ring in the vault above, When sings the nightingale his song of love, Then as I wander through the whisp'ring trees, Whose leaves are kiss'd by every fragrant breeze, How thrills my heart with joy, My Love ! My Own ! To know that I am thine, and thine alone. Then, as I upward turn my weary eyes And view the shining wonders of the skies, One bright, unchanging star, with brilliance rare, Surpassing all the rest, shines softly there ; And that sweet star, so pure, serene, and bright, That, like a jewel, decks the brow of night, Seems a fit emblem of my love for thee, Pure and unchanging through eternity. George R. Sims. ITH the varied, interesting, eminently useful life of Mr. George R. Sims, the biographers have been busy. To that large section of the community with whom the writings of this clever journalist, playwright, and poet, are popular, the details and incidents of his stirring career are known very nearly by heart. Indeed, Mr Sims has himself given us, in an entertaining auto- biography, written for The Theatre, the leading facts from the " short and simple annals " of his life. Upon these authentic data all subsequent biographies appear to have been founded. And, with characteristic kindliness and inherent good nature, he has furnished me with copies of these for reference in my present task. Not very long ago a leading musical critic, writing of the Handel Festival, said, " I should very much like to tell my readers something new about the 'Messiah ' performance," and added, " They would be very much surprised if I could. " My own position with those who are good enough to glance through these pages is very similar. Mr. Sims is of the people. He is known by them, he is loved by them. He is their champion ; nay, more, he is their idol. Nor is this full measure of popularity to be wondered at. As a boy at school he was a stern censor of abuses. And this characteristic has followed him through life. His minute researches into the manner in which the poor lived were the means, some few years ago, not only of effecting in the lowly habitations of the masses considerable improvement, but of rendering their whole lives happier, more com- fortable, more perfect. To have successfully accomplished, at forty years of age, so high and noble an aim may be regarded as an achievement the like of which few men are permitted to attain. Nor do Mr Sims' services in a charitable and Christian cause end here. His writings, whether for the stage or for those weekly journals from which his name, or his equally celebrated nom de plume, is insepar- able, bear the impress of good and lofty purpose. It has been his pleasant mission throughout his literary career to enlighten the minds of those who have very little leisure, and, perhaps, less education, to think and act for themselves. He has accomplished, in addition, much more. He has afforded continual en- tertainment to minds more cultured. The prose contributions of "Dagonet" stand unsurpassed amongst contemporary newspaper literature for simplicity of style, lightness of treatment, interest, and charm. And his poems would appear to be little less popular, for they have already passed through numerous editions. He is one of our best exponents of the simple narrative ballad. His lines are imbued with force, and ring with truth ; and, although the author himself con- fesses that his poetry has paid " because in the highest sense of the word it is not poetry," there are examples amongst his works where rare poetic genius asserts itself in a singularly forcible and remarkable manner. As ranking with the foremost of these, I would venture to select " Louis Napoleon.' 5 Born in London in the early autumn of 1847, Mr. Sims received the first portion of his education at Eastbourne. Later we find him at Hanwell College, 28 POPULAR POETS. and subsequently at Paris and Bonn. Returning to England in his nineteenth year, he entered the office of a merchant in London. Here, at a somewhat later period, he devoted the odd moments and leisure of his life to the pursuit of litera- ture. Like many of his predecessors who had attained positions of fame, his first experiences were not wholly encouraging. He sent poems and short stories right and left, but never had one accepted. He knew, however, the value of perse- verance ; and having become acquainted with a journalist, whom he helped occasionally with his work, he won his way to a secure position in the profession upon which he had set his heart. It is a fact of some interest and import that his first guinea earned by journalism was for a column of "Waifs and Strays '' in the Weekly Dispatch, to which Mr. Henry Sampson was a leading contributor. Engaged thus in a like interest, the two journalists met and became intimately acquainted. In 1874 Mr Sampson succeeded Tom Hood, the younger, in the editorship of Fun. This appointment meant further advancement in the field of literature for his aspiring and gifted colleague, who, as the " Lunatic Laureate" to this comic journal, scored his first emphatic success. Three years later the Referee was projected by the same enterprising pair, its contributors assuming the names of King Arthur's Knights. As " Dagonet," Mr. Sims undertook to contribute notes on social and political topics of current interest, and from that date to this the supply has never once failed. Whilst the Referee was yet in its infancy, Mr. Sims was still occupied for seven hours every day in the city. Pressure of business, however, has never been an excuse for letting the grass grow under his feet. In addition to his con- tributions to the two weekly papers already mentioned, he managed to find time to adapt " Le Centenaire " for the English stage, to write "Crutch and Tooth- pick " for the Royalty, and to edit One and All, in which he wrote a novel once a week. His success as a melodramatist was secured in 1881 by the brilliant reception accorded "The Lights o" London, " produced at the Princess's by Mr. Wilson Barrett. This was the first of a long series of melodramas, written now for the Princess's, now for the Adelphi, at times alone, at others in collaboration, that has been beflattered by wholesale and, it must be admitted, feeble imitation. To return for a moment to Mr. Sims' journalistic work, it should be mentioned that many of his contributions to the Press have been pub- lished in volume form, and have passed through several editions. In this way the "Dagonet Ballads, "published first in the Referee, and the "Ballads of Babylon,'' contributed to the World, have gained immense popularity and publicity. Nor have his numerous prose works proved less successful. "The Social Kaleido- scope," a series of entertaining sketches of essentially human interest, signed " Geearez," in the Weekly Dispatch ; " The Three Brass Ballsj;" " The Theatre of Life ;" " Rogues and Vagabonds ;" " How the Poor Live ;" and, more re- cently, "Mary Jane's Memoirs," and " Mary Jane Married, " have enjoyed a circulation that may well be termed phenomenal. At the present moment Mr. Sims contributes regularly his three columns of ' ' Mustard and Cress " to the Referee, maintains his connection with the Dispatch, has commenced a pleasing and interesting association with the Sunday Times, is engaged with Mons. Jacobi on a new comic opera a class of work he has left untouched since the produc- tion of " The Merry Duchess" and has received a commission to write, in col- laboration with Mr. Paul Meritt, a new drama for the Madison Square Theatre in New York. GEORGE R. SIMS. 29 THE OLD ACTOR'S STORY. Mine is a wild, strange story the strangest you ever heard ; There are many who won't believe it ; but its Gospel every word ; It's the biggest drama of any in a long adventurous life The scene was a ship, and the actors were myself and my new- wed wife, You mustn't mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then ; I'm old, you know, and I wander it's a way with old women and men, For their lives lie all behind them, and their thoughts go far away, And are tempted afield, like children lost on a summer day. The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, But I see it again this evening I can never shut out the sight ; We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, When we had an offer for Melbourne, and made up our minds to go. * * * * We hadn't a friend in England we'd only ourselves to please, And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortunes across the seas ; We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough- We hadn't been out a fortnight before we had had enough. But use is a second nature, and we'd got not to mind a storm, When misery came upon us came in a hideous form. My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad That the doctor said she was dying I thought 'twould have sent me mad. Dying when leagues of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, And the nearest land was hundreds ay, thousands of miles away. She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, So still I'd to bend and listen for the faintest sign of breath. She seemed in a sleep, and sleeping, with a smile on her thin wan face, She passed away one morning, while I prayed to the throne of grace. 30 POPULAR POETS. I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, Till the surgeon came, and he told me " It was useless, my wife was dead !" Dead ! I wouldn't believe it. They forced me away that night, For I raved in my wild despairing the shock sent me mad out- right. I was shut in the farthest cabin, and I beat my head on the side, And all day long in my madness " They murdered her !" I cried. They locked me away from my fellows put me in cruel chains It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon's brains. I cried in my wild, mad fury that he was a devil sent To gloat o'er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent. I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, And my wife lay dead quite near me. I beat with my fettered fists, Beat at my prison panels, and then O God and then I heard the shrieks of women, and the tramp of hurrying men. I heard the cry, " Ship a-fire !" caught up by a hundred throats, And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats ; Then cry upon cry and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, And the place grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood I beat at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack I could see the flames shoot upwards, seizing on mast and sail, Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale. I dashed at the door in fury, shrieking, " I will not die ; Die in this burning prison !" but I caught no answering cry. Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door. I was free free with the heavy irons dragging me down to death. I fought my way to the cabin, choked with the burning breath Of the flames that danced around me like man-mocking fiends at play, And then O God ! I can see it, and shall till my dying day. GEORGE R. SIMS. 31 There lay my Nell as they'd left her, dead in her berth that night ; The flames flung a smile on her features a horrible, lurid light. God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side ; I thought she was living a moment I forgot that my Nell had died. In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain ; I heard a sound of breathing, and then a low cry of pain. O, was there mercy in Heaven was there a God in the skies? The dead woman's lips were moving the dead woman opened her eyes. I cursed like a madman raving, I cried to her, " Nell ! my Nell !" They had left us alone and helpless alone in that burning hell. They had left us alone to perish forgotten me living and she Had been left for the fire to bear her to Heaven, instead of the sea. I clutched at her roused her shrieking the stupor was on her still ; I seized her in spite of my fetters, fear gave a giant's will. God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck, Up up to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck. We'd a moment of life together a moment of life, the time For one last word to each other ; 'twas a moment supreme, sublime. From the trance we'd for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there, husband and wife ! It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, When a shout came over the water, and I looked, and lo, there lay, Right away from the vessel, a boat that was standing by They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky. I shouted a prayer to Heaven, then called to my wife, and she Tore with new strength at my fetters God helped her, and I was freej 33 POPULAR POETS. Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life. Did they save us ? Well, here I am, sir, and yonder's my dear old wife. We were out in the boat till the daylight, when a great ship passing by Took us on board, and at Melbourne landed us by and by. We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship. LOUIS NAPOLEON. BORN MARCH i6xH, 1856. DIED JUNE IST, 1879. Hush, friend and foe ! no more his name Shall raise a thought of France's shame Or patriot's fret, Nor shall he shine, a wandering star, To guide the hopes of friends afar That star has set ! Launched on a sunlit ocean's breast, The zephyrs curl no wavelet's crest On speeds the barque. Adrift too soon on stormy sea, Black rise the billows on the lee : The night grows dark. Safe moored awhile 'neath alien skies, In friendly port the frail craft lies With flapping sail ; Then speeds once more across the main, And dares the billows yet again And courts the gale. O, loving eyes that from the shore Scan the wild waste of waters o'er, God help thee now ! The barque that sped long leagues away On barbarous coasts lies wrecked to-day- Wrecked keel and prow. Hush, friend and foe ! and let two lands, Sisters in sorrow, link their hands Across his grave. Forget all else, O France, to-day, Save that the exile far away Was young and brave. Lewis Morris, M.A. NEW Writer." How strange these words appear in their application to one who by his singular command of poetic expression, his rich imagination, his sincerity and fervency of style, has carved for himself an honoured place with the fore- most poets of the nineteenth century. Yet less than a decade since the gifted author of that magnificent poem, " The Epic of Hades/' which is held universally to greatly enrich English poetic literature, was known to the world by no other name. All his early poems appeared anonymously. And this fact is the more remarkable when we consider that he is the great-grandson of he well-known Welsh antiquary and poet, Lewis Morris, of Penbryn, in Cardiganshire. He made no use of his ancestral fame. He chose rather to come forth modestly, simply, unheralded. And by his own genius he has already added materially to the reputation won by life- long literary toil and research by his great-grandsire, whose treasured mantle, grown rich by age, he wears with such becoming grace. His is that ideal poetry defined by Dr. Channing : " It delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation of the soul. It indeed portrays, with terrible energy, the excesses of the passions ; but they are passions which show a mighty nature, which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep though shuddering sympathy. Its great tendency and purpose is to carry the mind beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion." Born in Carmarthen in 1833, Mr. Lewis Morris was educated first at Cowbridge and Sherborne Schools, and subsequently at Jesus College, Oxford. A learned scholar, a diligent student, he early attained the coveted honour of being placed in the first class in classics in the First Public Examination, in 1853. Two years later he was again placed in the first class in classics at the Final Examination. In 1858 he was awarded the Chancellor's Prize for the best English Essay. In the same year he took his degree of M.A. ; and in 1861 he was called to the Bar at Lincoln's Inn, obtaining at that period a Certificate of Honour of the First Class. From this time forward till the year 1880, we find him practising chiefly as a Conveyancing Counsel. In this year he was appointed on the Departmental Committee charged by the Government to inquire into Intermediate and Higher Education in Wales a post for which, by his deep and detailed knowledge of the educational deficiencies and requirements of that picturesque country, he was eminently qualified to lend very material and considerable assistance. Mr. Morris is, further, an Honorary Fellow of Jesus College, Honorary Secretary of the University College of Wales, a Knight of the Order of the Saviour of Greece, a Justice of the Peace for the County of Carmarthenshire, and Vice-Chairman of the Political Committee of the Reform 34 POPULAR POETS. Club. As a politician Mr. Morris has been of great service to his party, and it is to be regretted that his friends in Wales have been, hitherto, insufficiently united to return him to a seat in the House of Commons. At the General Election of 1881 he issued an address to the Carmarthenshire Burghs, but retired, rather than divide the party, in favour of a local employer of labour. Five years later ; viz., at the General Election of 1886, he was the unsuccessful Gladstonian candidate for the Boroughs of Pembroke and Haverford West, for which he has been, by the unanimous vote of the party, selected as the Liberal candidate at the next Election. It was during the later years of his connection with the Bar that Mr. Morris found time to set about the first of those classic contributions to poetic literature that have won him favour throughout the length and breadth of the land. Between the years 1871 and 1874 appeared three volumes of " Songs of Two Worlds," now in their thirteenth edition. "The Epic of Hades," that fine work to which we have referred as stamping beyond all dispute its author's genius, belongs to a somewhat later period, and has already passed into its twenty- third edition. This was followed, in 1879, by " Gwen ; a Drama in Monologue," and " The Ode of Life," both in their seventh edition. In 1883 came " Songs Unsung;" in 1886, "Syria," a powerful drama of the Byzantine period, written for Miss Anderson, but, owing to the departure of that lady for America, not yet acted ; and in 1887, " Songs of Britain," comprising Welsh legends of great beauty, which may one day become famous. All these, with the exception of the two last-named, were published anonymously as the productions of " A New Writer," and have only, within a comparatively recent period, made their appearance with the signature of their author. The pages of many of the best magazines have also been enriched by the fertile pen of this writer ; and the time is not yet too distant to have forgotten the lofty and beautiful sentiments breathed in the graceful ode written upon that interesting and auspicious occasion when the Queen celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of her reign. For this work, which appeared first in Murray's Magazine, and the still finer ode on the Imperial Institute, written for the ceremony of laying the foundation stone, by the request of the Prince of Wales, and sung to the music of Sir Arthur Sullivan, Mr. Morris was made the recipient of a silver medal, in recognition, not only of the occasions, but of Her Majesty's sincere appreciation of the poet's sterling worth. Lately he has written a poem equally fine in conception and bold in treatment, commemorative of the defeat, three hundred years ago, of the Spanish Armada. This composition appeared in Murray's Magaiine for July, and was circulated by the Committee formed to commemorate the event at their celebration in the same month. Mr. Morris was also commissioned to write an ode to be sung by four hundred voices at the National Festival of Co-operative Workers, held at the Crystal Palace in August, a task which he is understood to have accepted with alacrity, from his entire belief in the principle of Co-operation as a remedy for many of the evils of society. Of late, indeed, the public have learned to look to Mr. Lewis Morris for those official and semi-official efforts, which used to be associated in fact, as they are still in theory, with the still greater name of our venerable Laureate. LEWIS MORRIS. 35 "THE EPIC OF HADES." (APOLLO'S VICTORY OVER MARSYAS.) 'Twas a fair day When sudden, on the mountain side I saw A train of fleecy clouds in a white band Descending. Down the gleaming pinnacles And difficult crags they floated, and the arch, Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun, Hung like a glory o'er them midst the pines They clothed themselves with form, and straight I knew The immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre, Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses clad In robes of gleaming white ; then a great fear, Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knew Myself a mortal equalled with the gods. Ah, me ! how fair they were ! how fair and dread In face and form, they showed, when now they came Upon the thymy slope, and the young god Lay with his choir around him, beautiful And bold as Youth and Dawn. There was no cloud Upon the sky, nor any sound at all When I began my strain. No coward fear Of what might come restrained me ; but an awe Of those immortal eyes and ears divine Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full Of ears for me alone the woods, the fields, The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound My flute might make ; such subtle harmonies The silence seemed to weave round me and flout The half-unuttered thought. Till last I blew, As now, a hesitating note, and lo ! The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes, 36 POPULAR POETS. Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life Rise up within me and expand, and all The human, which so nearly is divine Has glorified, and on the Muses' lips, And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair Approval, and my soul in me was glad. For all the strains I blew were strains of love, Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies Within beloved arms, and wreathes his locks With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings Unheeding ; and I saw a kindly gleam Within the Muses' eyes, who were, indeed, Women, though god-like. But upon the face Of the young Sun-god only naughty scorn Sate, and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, And played the Song of Life ; and lo, I knew My strain, how earthy ! Oh, to hear the young Apollo playing ! And the hidden cells And chambers of the universe displayed Before the charmed sound ! I seemed to float In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips In from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt By that I heard, and dared to wish no more For victory ; and yet because the sound Of music that is born of human breath Comes straighter from the soul than any strain The hand alone can make ; therefore, I knew, With a mixed thrill of pity and delight, The nine immortal sisters hardly touched By this fine strain of music, as by mine, And when the high lay trembled to its close, Still doubting. LEWIS MORRIS, 37 Then upon the Sun-god's face There passed a cold, proud smile. He swept his lyre Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice, The voice of godhead sang. Oh, ecstasy ! Oh happiness of him who once has heard Apollo singing ! For his ears the sound Of grosser music dies, and all the earth Is full of subtle undertones, which change The listener and transform him : as he sang Of what I know not, but the music touched Each chord of being I felt my secret life Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns To drink the summer rain ; and at the call Of those refreshing waters, all my thoughts Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells Deep call to deep, and all the mystery Of all that is, laid open. As he sang, I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes, Sign " He has conquered ?" Yet I felt no pang Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard Such music while I lived, even though it brought Torture and death. "GWEN, A DRAMA IN MONOLOGUE." Act I. Scene VI. As on the clear hill-sides we walked together, A gleam of purple passed over the sea, And, glad with the joy of the summer weather, My love turned quickly and looked on me. Ah, the glad summer weather, the fair summer weather ! Ah, the purple shadow on hill and sea ! 38 POPULAR POETS. And I looked in her eyes as we walked together, And knew the shy secret she fain would hide, And we went hand in hand through the blossoming heather, She who now was my sweetheart, and I by her side ; For the shade was the shadow of love's wing-feather, Which bares, as he rises, the secrets we hide. Now, come cloud or sunshine, come joy or weeping, It can be no longer as 'twas before. Just a shadow of change o'er the soul comes creeping, And farewell to the joyance and freedom of yore ; For it crosses Love's face, where he lies a-sleeping, And he soars awaking, nor slumbers more. Act II. Scene II. v % * =J: Dear child, so sweet in maidenhood, How should I doubt, regarding thee, A secret spring of hidden good, Which rules all things and bids them be ? Dear soul, so guileless and so pure, So innocent and free from stain, As 'twere untempted Eve again, I lean upon thee and grow sure. I love no more the barren quest, The doubt I cherished I despise ; I am a little while at rest, Seeing the godhead in thine eyes. Can good be, yet no Giver ? Can The stream flow on, yet own no source? From what deep well of hidden Force Flows the diviner stream in man ? LEWIS MORRIS. I know not. Some there is, 'tis clear, A mystery of mysteries. Thy youth has gazed upon it, dear, And bears its image in thine eyes. Yes, God there is. Too far to know, It may be, yet directing all. It is enough ; we spring, we grow, We ripen, we decay, we fall, To a great Will. No empty show Of aimless and unmeaning ends Our life is, but the overflow Of a great Spring which always tends To a great Deep. The silver thread Between the Fountain and the Sea We are for ever, quick or dead, And Source and Ending both are He. It is enough no more I know ; But maybe from thy faithful eyes, Thy trust that knows no chill, thy glow Of meek and daily sacrifice, I may relearn the legend fair I whispered at my mother's knee, And seeing Godhead everywhere, Confess, " And this man, too, was He." Act II. Scene VI. How fair and fresh from this grey churchyard shows The rich green vale beneath. Upon the deep Lush meadows, where the black herds grazing seem Like rooks upon the grass, a silvery gleam, 40 POPULAR POETS. Now lost and now discovered, marks the place Where winds the brimming river. Here, thick woods Of oak and beach upon the sloping banks Bend to the shadowy stream which glides beneath. There, through the emerald meads, shallow or deep, It hastens or loiters, till the tall dark elms Grouped by the distance, hide it, And above, On either hand, the eternal mountains rise, Pine-clad below, upon whose upper heights The unfenced heather purples. All the sky Is flecked with soft, white, fleecy clouds which cast Bewildering charms of shadow ; and beyond, A shining azure drawn 'twixt earth and sky, Glitters the summer sea. Most beautiful Thou art, oh Motherland, which I have known As yet so little. Beautiful art thou, My second mother, sunny Italy, Where blue heaven is brighter, and the sea Gives back a clearer azure. But for me There grows a tenderer charm from these green fields And purple hills and white-flecked skies, denied To thy more brilliant landscape. THE BIRTH OF VERSE. Blind thoughts which occupy the brain, Dumb melodies which fill the ear, Dim perturbations, precious pain, A gleam of hope, a chill of fear, These seize the poet's soul, and mould The ore of fancy into gold. LEWIS MORRIS. 4I And first no definite thought there is In all that affluence of sound, Like those sweet formless melodies Piped to the listening woods around, By birds which never teacher had But love and knowledge : they are glad. Till, when the chambers of the soul Are filled with inarticulate airs, A spirit comes which doth control The music, and its end prepares ; And, with a power serene and strong, Shapes these wild melodies to song. Or haply, thoughts which glow and burn Await long time the fitting strain, Which, swiftly swelling, seems to turn The silence to a load of pain ; And somewhat in him seems to cry. " I will have utterance, or I die ! " Then of a sudden, full, complete, The strong strain bursting into sound, Words come with rhythmic rush of feet, Fit music girds the language round, And with a comeliness unsought, Appears the winged, embodied thought. But howsoever they may rise, Fit words and music come to birth ; There soars an angel to the skies, There walks a Presence in the earth A something which shall yet inspire Myriads of souls unborn with fire. And when his voice is hushed and dumb, The flames burnt out, the glory dead, He feels a thrill of wonder come At that which his poor tongue has said, And thinks of each diviner line " Only the hand that wrote was mine." POPULAR POETS. THE ORGAN-BOY. Great brown eyes, Thick plumes of hair, Old corduroys The worse for wear ; A buttoned jacket, And peering out An ape's grave poll, Or a guinea pig's snout ; A sun-kissed face, And a dimpled mouth, With the white flashing teeth And soft smile of the south ; A young back bent, Not with age or care, But the load of poor music 'Tis fated to bear : But a common-place picture To common-place eyes, Yet full of a charm Which the thinker will prize. They were stern cold rulers, Those Romans of old, Scorning art and letters "For conquest and gold ; Yet leaving mankind, In mind and in tongue, With the laws that they made And the songs that they sung : Sitting rose-crowned, With pleasure-choked breast, As its nude young limbs crim- soned, Then stiffened in death ; Piling up monuments Greater than praise, Thoughts and deeds that shall live To the latest of days : Adding province to province, And sea to sea, Till the idol fell down And the world rose up free. And this is the outcome, This vagabond child With the statue-like face And eyes soft and mild. This creature so humble, So gay, yet so meek, Whose sole strength is only The strength of the weak ; Of those long cruel ages Of lust and of guile, Nought left us to-day But an innocent smile. For the laboured appeal Of the orator's art, A few childish accents That reach to the heart. I turn with grave thought To this child of the ages, And to all that is writ In Time's hidden pages. Shall young Howards or Guelphs, In the days that shall come, LEWIS MORRIS. 43 Wander forth seeking bread Far from England and home ? Shall they sail to new continents, English no more, Or turn strange reverse To the old classic shore P Shall fair locks and blue eyes, And the rose on the cheek, Find a language of pity The tongue cannot speak " Not English, but angels ?" Shall this tale be told Of Romans to be As of Romans of old ? Shall they too have monkeys And music ? Will any Try their luck with an engine Or toy spinning-jinny ? Oh, my England ! Oh, mother Of free man ! Oh, sweet, Sad toiler, majestic, With labour-worn feet ! Brave worker, girt round, Inexpregnable, free, With tumultuous sound And salt spume of the sea, Fenced off from the clamour Of alien mankind By the surf on the rock, And the shriek of the wind, Tho' the hot Gaul shall envy The cold German flout thee, Thy far children scorn thee, Still thou shalt be great, Still march on uncaring, Thy perils unsharing, Alone, and yet daring Thy infinite fate. Yet ever remembering The precepts of gold, That were written in part For the great ones of old " Let other hands fashion The marvels of art ; To thee fate has given A loftier part. To rule the wide peoples ; To bind them to thee By the sole bond of loving, That bindeth the free. To hold thy own place, Neither lawless nor slave : Nor driven by the despot, Nor tricked by the knave." The Rev. Newman Hall, LL.B. HE REV. NEWMAN HALL, who was born at Maidstone in 1816, is widely and favourably known as an earnest and eloquent preacher, and as a religious poet of recognised standing. His early poetic tastes were fostered and encouraged by his mother, who was a great lover of good poetry, especially that of a sacred character. For several years he was in business with his father, the publisher of the Maidstone Journal, thus acquir- ing a thoroughly practical knowledge of journalism. In his twenty-first year he entered Highbury College ; Graduated B.A. in London University, during the first year of its charter ; and, subsequently, received the degree of LL.B., winning the Law Scholarship. He was ordained as minister of Albion Congregational Church, Hull, in 1842, and twelve years later was called to the pastorate of Surrey Chapel (Rev. Rowland Hill's), Southwark, the congregation of which removed to Christ Church, Lambeth, in 1876. This church cost ,64,000, the greater portion of which sum was raised by his exertions. In 1867 he visited the United States and Canada, where he was welcomed cordially as having advocated the cause of the North in the great war, and was made D.D. of three Universities in recognition of his services. He was invited to open the Congress with prayer, Speaker Colfax presiding, and to preach in the House of Representatives to the members of both Houses of Congress. He also delivered an address, of two hours' duration, to the Senators and members of Congress at Washington, Chief Justice Chase being in the chair, and General Grant among the immense audience. The object was to prove that the masses of the people of England, many of its greatest men, and its leading journalists, had always been on the side of Union and Emancipation. ^3,500 was contributed in America, and an equal sum in England, towards building the " Lincoln Tower," adjoining Christ Church, Lambeth, in commemora- tion of Emancipation, and in token of International Brotherhood. This tower, with its spire, representing the stars and stripes, is one of the finest in London. The Rev. Newman Hall has, during 45 years, been an earnest and unpaid advocate of Total Abstinence from Intoxicating Drinks, in all parts of the country. His church holds nearly 2,000 worshippers, and is the centre of a large system of philanthropic agencies. He has published numerous works ; of these the largest is a handsome 8vo. volume on the " Lord's Prayer," which has received commendation from all sections of the Church. One of his smaller works, entitled " Come to Jesus," has been translated into many languages, and has reached a circulation of upwards of three millions. Being a great lover of Nature, an admirer of picturesque scenery, and of the snowy heights and beautiful lakes of Switzerland and Italy, it is but natural that many of his poems are associated with his wanderings in some of the most interesting and charming regions in the world. He has been a great traveller, has visited the Holy Land and Egypt twice, Italy, Switzerland, Norway, Spain, Morocco, &c., and paid three visits to Canada and the United States of America. His poetry has REV. NEWMAN HALL. 45 been published under the successive titles of " Bolton Abbey Hymns," "Pilgrim Songs in Cloud and Sunshine," " Songs of Earth and Heaven," and " Mountain Musings." During 34 years' labours in London he has been invalided only three Sundays ; and now in his seventy-third year is as vigorous as ever. CLAUDE MELVILLE. ALPINE CATTLE BELLS. How soft the music of the bells, Borne by the breeze from sheltered dells, Where herds of mountain-cattle feed, In friendly groups, on flowery mead. These bells send forth, not one alone, But vibrate notes of every tone ; This chorus of the Alps is sung, With one accord, by old and young. Such artless music of the hills The soul, with a strange rapture, fills ; So many sounds, so varied, meet In such sweet harmony complete. The distant blending with the near, The tenor, bass, and treble clear, The bell sonorous slowly swung, With the small heifer's sharply rung. Help us, O Lord, to raise to Thee Music, each one in his degree ; Despising none because their note In varying tones may heavenward float : For though to listeners standing near Some notes discordant may appear, Yet unto Him who hears above All blend in harmony ot love. 46 POPULAR POETS. WHO MAKES THE DAISIES? A CHILD'S HYMN. I know who makes the daisies And paints them starry bright ; I know who clothes the lilies, So sweet, and soft, and white : And surely needful raiment He will for me provide, Who knows Him as my Jesus, And in His love confide. I know who feeds the sparrow, And robin, red and gay ; I know who makes the skylark Soar up to greet the day : And me much more he cares for, And feeds with daily bread, Whom He has taught to love Him, And trust what He has said. The daisy and the lily Obey Him all they can ; The robin and the skylark Fulfil His perfect plan : And I, to whom are given A heart, and mind, and will, Must try to serve Him better, And all His laws fulfil. The daisies, they must perish, The lark and robin die ; But I shall live for ever, Above the bright blue sky : Dear Jesus, Thou wilt help me To love Thee more and more, Until in Heaven I see Thee, Am like Thee, and adore. REV. NEWMAN HALL. 47 TO LIVE FOR CHRIST IS GLORY. We will not pine for death and rest, Too soon from service breaking ; Fruit plucked unripe can ne'er be blest, Our task beneath forsaking : Not till the course is run, Our Leader says, " Well done !" Not till the conflict's borne, The chaplet can be worn ; The Cross, the Crown is making. Our life on earth has tender ties We should not wish to sever : Rich works of faith, sweet charities, Which soon must cease for ever : To watch, and weep, and wait, By love to conquer hate, The flesh in curb to keep, To rescue wandering sheep How noble such endeavour ! 'Tis gain if Jesus bids us die, When young, mature, or hoary ; 'Tis loss to wish the fight to fly, Foreclosing life's bright story : To battle for His laws, To suffer for His cause, To share His grief and shame To vindicate His name To live for Christ is glory. 48 POPULAR POETS. THY WAY IS BEST. Thy way, O Lord ! Thy way not mine Although opprest, For smoother, summer paths I pine, Thy way is best. Though crossing thirsty deserts drear, Or mountain's crest ; Although I faint with toil and fear, Thy way is best. Though not one open door befriend The passing guest ; Though night its darkest terror lend, Thy way is best. So seeming wild without a plan, Now east, now west, Joys bora and slain, hopes blighted, can Thy way be best ? My soul by grief seems not to be More pure and blest ; Alas ! I cannot, cannot see Thy way is best. I cannot see on every hand By anguish prest, In vain I try to understand Thy way is best : But I believe Thy life and death Thy love attest, And every promise clearly saith "Thy way is best." I cannot see but I believe ; If heavenly rest Is reached by roads where most I grieve, Thy way is best. Isabella Fyvie Mayo. HIS estimable lady and graceful writer was born of Scottish parents in London, in the year 1843. Her father came of a race of Aberdeenshire farmers, of the old- fashioned, simple kind, who worked with their own hands, and in whose kitchen the birr of the spinning-wheel was seldom silent. Her mother was tbe descendant of a similar family among the " Borderers" on Tweedside. Mrs. Mayo's girlhood was spent in London, where she married, in 1870, Mr Mayo, a solicitor. At his death, in 1877, she removed to Aberdeen, where she has since resided. She began to write poetry at a very early age, her first production appearing in a little periodical called The Youth's Magazine. Subsequently she became a contri- butor to many of the leading periodicals of the day, including Good Words, The Sunday Magazine, Cassell's Magazine, The Quiver, The Sunday at Home, The Argosy, Scribner's, and many others. Mrs. Mayo is well known as a writer of fiction under her own name ; but, perhaps, still more widely under her nom-de-plume, " Edward Garrett." Her principal prose works are : " The Occupations of a Retired Life," " The Crust and the Cake," " Doing and Dreaming," " Her Object in Life," "By Still Waters," " At any Cost," &c. These books have been largely circulated in America and their author has made numerous friends on the other side of the Atlantic. The reason is not far to seek. Her writings are invariably graceful and full of interest, and they tend also to elevate the minds of her readers towards the level of her own pure, womanly ideal of what is good and true. There is about her works, both prose and poetry, a manner and tone which appeal to the most intelligent, as well as the simplest minds, by directing their thoughts beyond the narrow sphere of mortal life, to the far wider infinitude of that which is to be. All that she has written has but one tendency and one direction, and that upward. Better cannot be said of any writer than may truly be written of Mrs. Mayo : She has worthily employed the talents entrusted to her, by doing her best to amuse, improve, and elevate the classes for whom she writes. CLAUDE MELVILLE. 50 POPULAR POETS. THEN AND AFTERWARDS. I drew the blind and the curtain, I smoothed down the rumpled bed, I closed the Bible beside it, And with God I left my dead. And out I went in the gloaming, Out in the rain and the wind, And none of the people who met me Knew what I left behind ! * * * * I'd thought I was tired of weeping, Tired of fear and unrest, O God ! but there's something harder, Which teaches us those were blest ! Better sit- wakeful, watching, Than stare in the dark at sleep ; Better go weeping for ever, Than have nothing left to weep ! O, how shall I bear to answer The smile of a stranger's glee, While nobody keeps his sorrows To whisper alone to me ? Ah, me ! and those hours were bitter ! But my God was strong and kind, For He knows that Life hides treasures For our empty hands to find. The heart that has lost its nearest Stands open to the air, And the lonely and the erring, And the orphan enter there. There are sick folk to be tended, And poor folk to be fed ; Starved souls as well as bodies, To fill with daily bread. ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. 51 For comfort or for counsel Comes many a whispering tone To kindly lives at leisure From business of their own. While men may sit bemoaning Their fields by storm laid bare, God's silent grass is growing Till other crops are there ! So, after sorrow's scathing, As day by day rolls by I find no time for weeping, And smile without a sigh ! A STORY OF ISANDLANA. Down in the wild south country The English flag lay low, And English troops were sorely pressed By fierce, exulting foe. Was each man for his neighbour ? Or each man for his own ? In bitter stress and struggle A nation's soul is shown. God only knows all secrets, But women's hearts reply, " Living, our men were heroes, And heroes they would die !" And there was one among them, A gallant soldier boy, Before whom life lay golden, A very dream of joy. POPULAR POETS. The battle, it was over, The struggle had been vain, And life's one chance remaining The river was to gain. His horse had fallen beneath him, And he the way must tread : A mounted comrade met him, Another horse he led. " Mount, Vereker !" he shouted, " The Zulus press behind ! Thank God for this good charger, And race him like the wind !" He asked no second bidding, God knows his life was fair, With all the hopes and memories Which rose before him there ! He scarce had reached the saddle Before a trooper came, Who, loud in piteous accents, Pleaded a better claim. Cried he, " The horse you've mounted Is mine, this moment lost." Down came the gentle Vereker, And did not count the cost. There was no time for parley, For question or reply, He owned the claim undoubtingly, And stayed behind to die ! He could not seize another's : He could not dream a lie : These were the hard things for him, The easy was to die ! Three cheers for good old Britain, Nor can her day be done, While she has many like him, Her just and gentle son ! ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO. 53 THE LONG SERMON. I'm lying on a hopeless bed, from which I know I'll never rise : A peep of blue that fades to gray is all that's left me of the skies ; I'll never see the woods again but daily someone brings me flowers, And I am seldom left without a book to cheer my silent hours. They're not such long hours as you think. They float past like a pleasant dream : You cannot think what visions rise what pleasant thoughts upon me gleam : Sometimes it almost seems as if great mysteries opened to my mind, But nothing stays except the sense that God is good, and friends are kind ! It seems as if those days come back, when I was but a little child With chubby cheeks and yellow hair on whom each passing stranger smiled, Who loved to go to church with Nell, my sister with the gentle face, And fancied God's own glory made the sunlight in the dim old place. And though the sermon might be long, Nell's circling arm was warm and kind, And gracious words went echoing through the chambers of my opening mind Till " God, Our Father " seemed to fill the carven roof that arched above, While Nellie's clasp interpreted the mysteries of trustful love. Ah, Nellie's safe in Heaven now : she went there twice ten years ago, And I've had many an uphill bit temptation, struggle, doubt, and woe< Full many a day when I was strong, and like to live for many a year, I've needed help and pity more than now I need them lying here ! While folks are tender to the babes, and to the sick and weak and old, I sometimes think the strong and brave are left a little in the cold ! I'd like to whisper from my bed, " When Life is hard to understand There's nothing helps us through so well as tender clasp of loving hand !" G. Clifton Bingham. HIS popular lyric author was born September, 1859, in Bristol. At the early age of twenty he was obliged, as he expresses it, to shift for himself. He devoted his attention to literary work, and the first monetary recognition he received was a cheque in payment for six sonnets. These were afterwards published in Time, then edited by Mr. Edmund Yates, who, in a characteristically genial letter, said that the payment was not altogether for the intrinsic value of the poems as by way of encouragement to a young beginner. Finding that the result of writing poems for magazines was not very encouraging from a pecuniary point of view, and possessing a good knowledge of music, he commenced to write lyrics suitable for musical treatment. He was most successful in this essay, and his first lyric, written in 1882, found a ready purchaser in Mr. J. L. Roeckel. Thus encouraged, the young lyrist applied himself to his task, and has since written over one thousand lyrics of all styles sentimental, humorous, pathetic, sacred, and passionate. He does not owe his success to any freak of fortune or to favouritism, but to steady perseverance and earnest work. In the pursuit of his labours he has met with many discourage- ments and found many obstacles ; all of which he has set aside or sur- mounted* Nor is his fame confined alone to this country. In America a great deal is thought of Mr. Clifton Bingham. And in speaking of his abilities as a lyrist I cannot, perhaps, do better than quote the Boston Musical Record, which says he " is one of England's foremost lyric poets. His verse has a delicacy of sentiment, grace of expression, and elegance of diction as rare as it is pleasing." CLAUDE MELVILLE. I WOULD THE BOATS WERE HOME. There's a strange pale light in the low'ring sky, And a hush on the shore where the shadows lie, And fears and prayers in the hearts hard by For the lives on the restless foam ; And the surge rolls in as the slow hours wane, And the deep wind moans like a soul in pain ; The sea is lost in the mist and the rain, And I would that the boats were home ! G. CLIFTON BINGHAM. 55 Ay, take my hand, lass, and cling to me, You've only one away, I have three ; But you're young and bonny to stand with me And watch for the ones who roam ; Ay, weep if you can there is balm in tears, For the gaze that out in the wild night peers j But the young have hope where the old have fears- And I would that the boats were home ! Ay, there's One who doth wind and wave control ; But who could rest when the surges roll, And a loved voice cries to the listening soul From over the troubled foam ? I old, you young, two with one pray'r stand In the wind and the rain on the stormy strand Hark ! What is that ? Ay, unclasp your hand, For I know that the boats are home ! LETTERS. Soft the firelight shines around her, Where she sits, when day is past, Shines on her, her lips that falter, And her tears that fall so fast. They are letters, faded letters, That she reads there in its glow, And she wonders where you wander Are you sad, and do you know ? Still the firelight leaps and dances, Still she reads them slowly through, One by one, each faded letter They are all she has of you. Only letters, worn with reading, Here and there a blot, a stain ; You have gone, she knows not whither, But the words you wrote remain ! POPULAR POETS. Slow the firelight dies and darkens, But she sees it not for tears, And her dreaming is of elsewhere, And her thoughts of other years. But she prays, where'er you wander, Just to see your face once more, Just to hear you say you love her With the old, old love of yore ! FROM A CHILD'S HAND. Through the old street of the village, When the day was done, I went, And its quiet hush and restful Brought my heart a strange content. And a little child was standing At a gateway, fair to see, With a lily in her sweet hand, And she gave the flow'r to me ! With a smile I stooped to take it From the tiny lifted hand ; And it goes with me for ever, Sun and shadow, sea and land. It has faded, it has withered, As earth's fairest flowers will, But whene'er I look upon it I can see the giver still ! Through the old street of the village When long years have gone, I pass ; But the gateway is deserted, There is shadow on the grass. And I know I shall not see her Where we met on earth of yore, For her white soul blooms a lily In God's garden evermore ! G. CLIFTON BINGHAM. 57 ALL MY WORLD. When first this dull earth showed a sweeter face, And grey skies took a brighter glow, The world seemed not, so full was it of grace, The old sad world of long ago ; Shadow grew light, a greener leaf unfurled, That which was false all turned to true ; I did not know that you were all my world, That all, that all my world was you ! When first you smiling laid your hands in mine, When first you gave your love to me, My heart met yours, but did not half divine How great and deep love was to be. No face but yours, love, seemed mine eyes to see, None sweeter, all the sweet world through ; I did not know you were the world to me, That all, that all my world meant you ! Now, when you go, you take with you the light, And leave me in the shadow here, I know no pain or pleasure, day or night, Sorrow or joy, save you are near. Glad song of bird, green leaf upon the tree, Earth's sweetness, life's bliss, heaven's blue ; I know that you are all the world to me, That all, that all my world is you ! Coventry Patmore. HE pre-Raphaelite movement in England had its influence on poetry as well as on painting, though on that side it is not so definite and easily traced. Dante Gabriel Rossetti exhibited it in both aspects ; though his verse, sweet and insinuating as it is, sometimes passes into over-realistic and prosaic phases, as in the well-known piece entitled "Jenny." Mr Coventry Patmore, if we must not seek to identify him too closely with the movement as a movement, must be held to illustrate in poetry some of the more attractive and permanent elements of the pre-Raphaelite ideal. In him it became an effort to elevate, and to suffuse with gentle sentiment and passion, the ordinary domestic ties to touch with imagination and subdued fancy the course of ordinary English courtship, love, marriage, and family life. That he succeeded is attested by the great sale of his best-known work, of which recently a very cheap edition has sold in vast numbers, and to which it may be said that, in a manner as marked as it is significant, all his minor and earlier works pointed. The leading traits and tendencies are noticeable in it from the first. " The Angel in the House " appearing, as it did at first, before the public in instalments made a marked impression ; and if, in some respects, intensity and bold lyrical suggestion were lacking, it never failed in sincerity and sweetness, in finished rhythmical cadence, and in pure beautiful thoughts, which often flowered in unexpected and lovely images. Sometimes the touch is so light, the fancy so airily-playful, that it seems as though we were moving on to the level of vert de societf proper ; but a deep, earnest-gay thought comes, like the glance of a grave kindly eye amid festivity, and restores the proper balance and imparts the colour and elevation needed to sustain the work. The pervading impression is that of settled content, and soft, ardent admiration of beauty of character, and all the feelings that go to make up the bliss of home ; of a cultured home, with the gentle relief that refinement of circumstances generally brings with it. Mr Patmore is thus explicitly a domestic poet. He does not aim at striking effects at producing grand impressions ; but rather at sustaining and elevating ordinary chords of feeling and the experiences on which they rest. There is no excitement in his narrative, nor aim at tragic situations. He is powerful in des- cription, but he needs no adventitious aids from his subject ; he appeals to the common heart, and the common interests of life suffice him. A gentle radiance as of morning light lies on his verse, a dewy grace and softness ; and, above all, a sense of reserve and sufficiency due to a fine reticence. His own exquisite verse might almost be quoted as his motto : " Not to unveil before the gaze Of an imperfect sympathy In aught we are, is the sweet praise And the main sum of modesty." He never oversteps the line, which many poets would be tempted to do in treating the theme he has taken ; and is never felt to be effusive, or to indulge in COVENTRY PATMORE. 59 the fatal too-much. This air of perfect sincerity and frankness, combined with the most manly self-restraint, marks off his work, and sufficiently distinguishes it from that of those poets who are often very fine and very touching, but sometimes also inclined to be effusive, if not even "gushing." A pervading simplicity and dignity are everywhere present in the poetry of our subject. The tone of Mr Coventry Patmore's work is essentially English. If he paint a bit of landscape, it reminds you of Constable a church-tower peeping through a screen of trees, with its vane golden in the sun-light ; an old mansion, mellowed by age, with its angularities all subdued, its walls ivy-clad, and its lawns and patriarchal trees gathered round it ; and the life-stories associated with it give a colour to it, and, as it were, a pathetic radiancy in his eyes. There is nothing wild or outri in his landscape he affects rather the phases in which nature con- fesses the softening and subduing hand of man. But he is an admirable landscape painter, and presents a picture with a few gentle touches. As a metrist he has few equals. With him the poet's craft has heen a serious and continuous study ; and he illustrates in his practice the principles that he has adopted, with no affectation or mannerism, but with a soft and gentle flow that carries the reader along with a sense as of a delightful under-song. To one of the later editions of the "Angel in the House," he prefixed an essay on metrical law, which em- bodies the results of his thought and experience ; and it would do many a poetical aspirant good to study that essay, as showing how much labour and mental effort are needed to perfect the technical instruments, which a successful poet employs to gain his results. The manner, too, in which the poet has laboriously revised, corrected, and arranged and re-arranged his poems, shows how assiduous and open to criticism above all to self-criticism must be the poet who is resolved to reach the highest level of excellence possible. This will, in some degree, come out in our biographical outline to follow ; but we must not omit to make mention here of the " Florilegium Amantis " a volume of extracts from all the works, issued some years ago under the judicious and tasteful editorship of Dr. Richard Garnett, of the British Museum. It is a choice and lovely bouquet, from a rare and well-filled garden ; and suffices to give a very good idea of the poetic work as a whole. Coventry Kearsey Dighton Patmore (he has practically discarded the two middle names) saw the light at Woodford, in Essex, on July 2nd, 1823, so ihat he is now in his 66th year. In person he is tall, still stiaight and fresh, and bears no very visible marks of years ; gracefully courteous, and dignified in manner. He is the son of the late P. G. Patmore, a successful literary man, who is still remembered as the author of "Literary Reminiscences," and also as the sometime Editor of Colburn's " New Monthly Magazine," to which he largely contributed. Mr Coventry Patmore was thus reared in the congenial atmosphere of literary life from the first. In 1844, that is, when he was only twenty-one, he published his first volume of ' ' Poems," a work which indicated the finest perception, and, to the eyes of the discerning, held out the promise which after years were so amply to fulfil. The opening piece, "The River," is especially finished and musical. In 1846 he was appointed one of the assistant librarians of the British Museum ; and was associated with the leaders of the pre-Raphaelite movement so far as to contribute several pieces to "the Germ." In 1853, his volume titled " Tamerton Church Tower, and other Poems " was published, and, in the 6o POPULAR POETS. eyes of the more critical, advanced him to a still higher position in the roll of our poets ; but during the next year his place was made secure by the publication of the first portion of the "Angel in the House " ("The Betrothal.") " The Espousals" came next, in 1856 ; and a revised edition of the two parts was issued in 1858 ; and a further revision followed in 1860. In the same year appeared " Faithful for Ever ;" and in 1863 "The Angel in the House " was completed by the publication of the " Victories of Love." An important recast of the whole work was made in 1868 the same year in which Mr Patmore retired from the British Museum, after which he bought and occupied an estate of some 400 acres in Sussex, which he farmed and improved. Of this enterprise he has given a most instructive and felicitous account in a series of papers, under the title of " How I managed and improved my Estate," which originally appeared in the St. James's Gazette some two years ago. Here Mr Patmore appears in the character of the practical man, and director of labour ; and certainly with no sense of disadvantage to that phase from his poetical leanings, though the story is told as only a poet and man of high culture could tell it. In 1868 he settled at Hastings, where he still lives, occupying one of the most delightful of old-fashioned mansions "not quite in the busy world, nor quite beyond it" completely protected from all winds save the "sweet south," where ilexes and myrtles bloom along the slope precisely as in Italy. Nearby he has built a large Catholic Church. His interests in religious and philanthropic work go in harmony with his poetic labours. In 1877 appeared " The Unknown Eros, and Other Odes," as remarkable for elaborate finish as for fine conception; and in 1878 a collected edition of the works, elaborately revised once more, was given to the public. The list of Mr. Patmore's works would be incomplete without reference to " The Children's Garland," one of the most select and tasteful of poetic anthologies, which he edited for " The Golden Treasury Series " of Messrs. Macmillan; and the auto-biography of Bryan Walter Procter (Barry Cornwall), which was published under his editorship in 1877. Nor should we forget to mention the felicitous and scholarly translation of that remarkable Cardiphonia of St. Bernard on " The Love of God," which Mr. Patmore, along with a member of his family, has accomplished, and which was published in 1881. Mr. Patmore throughout his literary career has also done good work in reviews and journals, having contributed largely to the Edinburgh Review, North British Review, National Review, Saturday Review, and to the Pall Mall Gazette and St. James's Gazette, while under his friend Mr. Frederick Greenwood's editorship. ALEX. H. JAPP. COVENTRY PATMORE. 61 FIRST LOVE. Bright thro' the valley gallops the brooklet ; Over the clear sky travels the cloud ; Touch'd by the zephyr, dances the harebell ; Cuckoo sits somewhere singing so loud : Two little children seeing and hearing Hand in hand wander, shout, laugh, and sing. Lo, in their bosoms, wild with the marvel, Love, like the crocus, is come ere the Spring. Young men and women, noble and tender, Yearn for each other, faith truly plight, Promise to cherish, comfort, and honour ; Vow that makes duty one with delight. Oh, but the glory, found in no story, Radiance of Eden, unquenched by the Fall ; Few may remember, none may reveal it, This the first first-love, the first love of all. THE ROSY-BOSOM'D HOURS. A florin to the willing guard Secured for half the way . (He lock'd us in, ah, lucky starr'd) A curtain'd, front coupe*. The sparkling sun of August shone ; The wind was in the West ; Your gown and all that you had on Was what became you best ; And we were in that seldom mood When soul with soul agrees, Mingling, like flood with equal flood, In agitated ease. 62 POPULAR POETS. Far round, each blade of harvest bare Its little load of bread ; Each furlong of that journey fair With separate sweetness sped. The calm of use was coming o'er The wonder of our wealth, And now, maybe, 'twas not much more Than Eden's common health. We paced the sunny platform, while The train at Havant changed ; What made the people kindly smile, Or stare, with looks estranged ? Too radiant for a wife you seem'd, Serener than a bride ; Me happiest born of men I deem'd, And showed perchance my pride. I loved that girl, so gaunt and tall, Who whisper'd loud, " Sweet thing !'' Scanning your figure, slight yet all Round as your own gold ring. At Salisbury you stray'd alone Within the shafted glooms, Whilst I was by the verger shown The brasses and the tombs. At tea we talk'd of matters deep, Of joy that never dies ; We laugh'd till love was mix'd with sleep Within your great sweet eyes. The next day, sweet with luck no less, And sense of sweetness past, The full-tide of our happiness Rose higher than the last. At Dawlish, 'mid the pools of brine, You stepp'd from rock to rock, One hand quick tightening upon mine, One holding up your frock. COVENTRY PATMORE. 63 On star-fish and on weeds alone You seem'd intent to be : Flash'd those great gleams of hope unknown From you, or from the sea ? Ne'er came before, ah, when again Shall come two days like these ; Such quick delight within the brain, Within the heart such peace ; I thought, indeed, by magic chance A third from heaven to win, But as, at dusk, we reach'd Penzance, A drizzling rain set in. A FAREWELL. With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach -bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even thro' faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet ; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry. POPULAR POETS. LOVE'S REALITY. I walk, I trust, with open eyes ; I've travelTd half my worldly course, And in the way behind me lies Much vanity and some remorse. I've lived to feel how pride may part Spirits, tho' match'd like hand and glove I've blush'd for love's abode, the heart ; But have not disbeliev'd in love ; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing, Unworthy of a serious song : And love is my reward ; for now, When most of dead'ning time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow, Its odour quickens all my brain. THE YEAR. The crocus, while the days are dark, Unfolds its saffron sheen ; At April's touch, the crudest bark Discovers gems of green. Then sleep the seasons, full of might, While slowly swells the pod, And rounds the peach, and in the night The mushroom bursts the sod. The winter falls ; the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars ; The snowdrift heaps against the hut, And night is pierced with stars. Alfred Austin. HE County of Yorkshire stands pre-eminent as the birth-place of illustrious and distinguished men. It has given an Emperor and a Pope to Rome, and has contributed largely to every branch of Literature, Science, and Art. In verification of this I need only mention such names, taken at random, as Henry Hotspur, Lord Hawke, Lord Howard of Effingham, Ascham, Wyclif, Congreve, Mason, Flaxman, Smeaton, Captain Cooke, Luke Fox, Scoresby, Judge Gascoigne, William Wilberforce, and, among prominent men of the present time, Alfred Austin, the well-known narrative, lyrical, and dramatic poet, who was born on the 3Oth of May, 1835, at Headingley, near Leeds. He received his education at Stonyhurst and Oscott, graduated at London University, and was called to the Bar at the Inner Temple, at the age of twenty-two, but never practised. Pope complained that many men were lost to us as poets by the superior attractions of the law. This, however, was not the case with Mr Austin. He decided not ' ' to grace the bench and thunder at the bar," but to devote himself to poetry and literature, for which he showed an early predilection. At the age of eighteen he had made his first literary venture with the publication of a work entitled " Randolph ; a Tale of Polish Grief," which was issued anonymously. His next production was "The Season," a work of singular merit, which, although severely criticised, at once stamped its author as a scholar and an elegant writer, possessing a distinct individuality and genius. For the next few years Mr Austin forsook the Muse for the pleasures of foreign travel. He spent a considerable time in Italy, contemplating in pleasant idleness the artistic treasures and natural scenery of that beautiful country. This literary inaction was not, however, wasted time, as it enabled him to store his mind with lofty thoughts and charming imagery with which to beautify and enrich his subsequent writings. He took, at this time, great interest in further- ing and promoting that Italian unity which has now, happily, become an impor- tant factor in European politics. In 1872 Mr Austin published a small volume of lyrical poems, "Interludes;" and, in the following year, issued a much more ambitious production, entitled "Madonna's Child," a work showing marked progress in lucidity, terseness, scope, and ability. The late Lord Beaconsfield, in a letter to the author, said : " I cannot go to bed without telling you how charmed I am with 'Madonna's Child.' It cannot fail to touch the public heart." Since 1872 Mr Austin has produced a succession of charming publications, among which may be mentioned, " Soliloquesin Song," "The Human Tragedy," "Leszko, the Bastard," "The Tower of Babel," "Savonarola," "At the Gate of the Convent;" and, lastly, " Prince Lucifer," dedicated to the Queen, perhaps the most popular and widely read of Mr Austin's poems. He has been a 66 POPULAR POETS. constant contributor to the Standard since 1867, and is the editor of the Natiotial Review. It has been said of Mr Austin that " many of his poems are steeped in the sweets and sounds of English meadows and lanes ;" and he has been aptly designated by the Athenaum "the poet laureate of the English spring." It is no wonder that his poems are so sweetly pastoral and suggestive of rural scenery : He is so great a lover of the country, that, although he has received many seductive offers to quit his sylvan surroundings and reside in town, he has resisted every temptation to do so, preferring to remain in his beautiful country home, which is situated in one of the most delightful and charming positions in the picturesque county of Kent. CLAUDE MELVILLE. A NIGHT IN JUNE. Lady ! in this night of June, Fair like thee and holy, Art thou gazing at the moon That is rising slowly ? I am gazing on her now : Something tells me, so art thou. Night hath been when thou and I Side by side were sitting, Watching o'er the moonlit sky Fleecy cloudlets flitting. Close our hands were linked then ; When will they be linked again ? What to me the starlight still, Or the moonbeams' splendour, If I do not feel the thrill Of thy fingers slender ? Summer nights in vain are clear, If thy footstep be not near. ALFRED AUSTIN. 67 Roses slumbering in their sheaths O'er my threshold clamber, And the honeysuckle wreathes Its translucent amber Round the gables of my home : How is it thou dost not come ? If thou earnest, rose on rose, From its sleep would waken ; From each flower and leaf that blows Spices would be shaken ; Floating down from star and tree, Dreamy perfumes welcome thee. I would lead thee where the leaves In the moon-rays glisten ; And, where shadows fall in sheaves, We would lean and listen For the song of that sweet bird That in April night is heard. And when weary lids would close, And thy head was drooping, Then, like dew that steeps the rose, O'er thy languor stooping, I would, till I woke a sigh, Kiss thy sweet lips silently. I would give thee all I own, All thou hast would borrow : I from thee would keep alone Fear and doubt and sorrow. All of tender that is mine, Should most tenderly be thine. Moonlight ! into other skies I beseech thee wander. Cruel, thus to mock mine eyes, Idle, thus to squander Love's own light on this dark s pot For my lady cometh not ! 68 POPULAR POETS. A QUESTION. Love, wilt thou love me still when wintry streak Steals on the tresses of autumnal brow, When the pale rose hath perished in my cheek, And those are wrinkles that are dimples now ? Wilt thou, when this fond arm that here I twine Round thy dear neck to help thee in thy need, Droops faint and feeble, and hath need of thine, Be then my prop, and not a broken reed ? When thou canst only glean along the past, And garner in thy heart what Time doth leave, O, wilt thou then to me, love, cling as fast As nest of April to December eave ; And, while my beauty dwindles and decays, Still warm thee by the embers of my gaze ? AN ANSWER. Come, let us go into the lane, love mine, And mark and gather what the Autumn grows The creamy elder mellowed into wine, The russet hip that was the pink-white rose ; The amber woodbine into rubies turned, The blackberry that was the bramble born ; Nor let the seeded clematis be spurned, Nor pearls, that now are corals, of the thorn. Look ! what a lovely posy we have made From the wild garden of the waning year. So when, dear love, your summer is decayed, Beauty more touching than is clustered here Will linger in your life, and I shall cling Closely as now, nor ask if it be Spring ALFRED AUSTIN. 69 PRINCE LUCIFER." Scene IV. ADAM. (Digging a grave, and singing as he does so). The crab, the bullace, and the sloe, They burgeon in the Spring ; And when the west wind melts the snow, The redstarts build and sing. But Death's at work in rind and root, And loves the green buds best ; And when the pairing music's mute, He spares the empty nest. Death ! Death ! Death is master of lord and clown ; Close the coffin, and hammer it down. When nuts are brown and sere without, And white and plump within, And juicy gourds are passed about, And trickle down the chin ; When comes the reaper with his scythe, And reaps and nothing leaves, O, then it is that Death is blithe, And sups among the sheaves. Death ! Death ! Lower the coffin and slip the cord : Death is master of clown and lord. When logs about the house are stacked, And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are cracked, And faggots blaze and spit ; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak : But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death ! Death ! Death is master of lord and clown ; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. 70 POPULAR POETS. THE HUMAN TRAGEDY." GODFBID AND OLYMPIA. Now woke the morn, pure as a maiden wakes, And, while the world still slept, forth hand in hand Went Godfrid and Olympia. Lagging flakes Of silvery mist, by light gales curled and fanned, Fled up the hills ; from feathery foliaged brakes Rang out melodious matins ; on the sand, And on the sea, glistened a pearly dew ; And, over both, bright bent the heavens blue. He had a leathern satchel at his back, And in her breast a missal small she bore ; And, their sole burdens these, they took the track That lies between the mountains and the shore. On the smooth main was many a white-sailed smack, Upon the hillside many a ruin hoar ; With many a fluttering wing the air was sown, But on the mountain road themselves alone. Soon as they reached the last and loftiest crest Whence could Spiaggiascura be descried, Halting, they took their first brief snatch of rest, By a bright well that bubbled at their side. There, as she said a prayer within her breast, He gazed exulting o'er the prospect wide ; And then the twain, hands linking as before, Strode on, nor saw the little city more. Through smiling tracts, close fenced from winds and snows, Fed, all the year, by the sun's fostering ray, And kissed by every vernal gale that blows, Tracts that are Eden still, their journey lay. Full on the left the eternal mountains rose, Upon the right ranged headland, creek, and bay, And jutting promontories, round which the bright Blue ocean ended in a fringe of white. ALFRED AUSTIN. Far up the hills were smooth steep pastures green, Whence tinkling herd-bells fitful reached the ear ; And in the rough and bosky clefts between Browsed shaggy goats, clambering where all was sheer ; While, though unheard, and only faintly seen, There a thin silvery thread, a white speck here, Dashed the precipitous torrent, soon to flow Glibly adown the gradual slopes below. The smiling slopes with olive groves bedecked, Now darkly green, now, as the breeze did stir, Spectral and white, as though the air was flecked With elfin branches tipped with gossamer ; And then so faint, Godfrid could scarce detect Which the gray hillside, which the foliage fair ; Until once more it dense and sombre grew, Again to shift, just as the zephyr blew. Nigher their ken were mulberry, fig, and vine, This linked to those in many a long festoon, 'Neath which the wise, when days are long, recline, Reaping the hours in a deep golden swoon. The tendrils yet had but begun to twine Round the pale stems that would be hidden soon ; But, in the cradling furrows lodged between, Peeped sprouting maize, and grasses newly green. And here and there with glistening lemon bowers, The lower landward terraces were crowned, Or shapely orange groves, whose fragrant flowers Make of the land a bride the whole year round. Pink petals from the almonds fell in showers, Weaving a vernal carpet for the ground ; And o'er the walls peered tufts of yellow broom, And oleanders reddening into bloom. William Sharp. " Read Nature ; Nature is a friend to truth ; Nature is Christian, preaches to mankind ; And bids dead matter aid us in our creed." YOUNG. R. WILLIAM SHARP has been one of the poet's most diligent followers. He has not only read Nature, but has been its earnest student from his earliest boyhood, when he delighted in nothing so much as to run unfettered over hill and down dale, to hold converse with humble fisher folk, and to scrape an acquaintance with wandering gipsies. The dawn is his Assyria, and the sunset and moon-rise his Paphos. He is as great an enthusiast of Nature as Emerson. Indeed, his whole life has been one striking verification of the beautiful truth that by studying Nature a good man may " walk up and down the world as in a garden of spices, and draw a divine sweetness out of every flower." His "Earth's Voices," one of the earliest, as it is also one of the most appreciated, of his contributions to poetic literature, is a volume replete with charming and refreshing verse, inspired solely by his inborn love of Nature's beauteous works. And this happy spirit we find pervading all Mr. Sharp's poetry, which is as agreeable as it is original and essentially modern. Descended from a reputable Scottish family, generation after generation of whom occupied a leading position amongst the manufacturers of Paisley, Mr. Sharp is still quite a young man. He was born at Garthland Place in 1856, and was educated, first at the Academy, and afterwards at the University, of Glasgow. At College he worked literally day and night, studied French and German literature most assiduously, and, in his spare hours, wrote long poems and produced on paper more than one drama. Seeing the great popularity of Mr. Sharp's published works, the earliest of which were his "Transcripts from Nature," " Human Inheritance," and his " Record and Study of Rossetti," it is to be regretted that these first efforts were destroyed. Such, however, was their end ; but Mr. Sharp was persistent. After undertaking a voyage to Australia for the benefit of his health, followed by a stay at the Gold Diggings and a journey through Gippsland across the Australian Alps into New South Wales, and a voyage in the Pacific, he set to work with a will, became intimate with Dante Gabriel Rossetti and many other men of mark and learning, and no longer thought of consigning the results of his labours to the flames, but took his M.SS. to the publishers', and soon discovered that the ranks of litterateurs and poets were not so full but that they could receive one who promised so well and has accomplished since so much to justify the critics' first favourable impressions. Prior to the commencement of his literary career, Mr. Sharp was engaged for a short time in a Colonial Bank, and on the staff of the Fine Art Society. WILLIAM SHARP. 73 Thereafter he spent some time in Rome, Florence, Venice, and elsewhere abroad. He has since become a distinguished and respected art critic. In addition to the works already mentioned he has published a Memoir of his friend, the late Philip Bourke Marston, prefatory to a selection from the latter's poetical writings ; " The Songs and Sonnets of Shakespeare ;" and a " Study of Shelley." He has at this moment on hand a "Life of Heine," and "The Life, Corres- pondence, and Friendship of Joseph Severn " (the Severn M. SS. having been placed in his hands to this end). He is a frequent contributor to the leading magazines. He has also written a novel, and two romances for boys. As General Editor of the Canterbury Poets series he has done much to serve the cause of popular culture ; and he is also, I may add, literary editor of a weekly paper having an immense circulation. Mr Sharp has edited the poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, but it is by his "Sonnets of this Century" that he is best known in his critical capacity. This anthology (produced at a time when the author was unable to revise the proofs through ill-health) gained immediate success. The first large edition was speedily exhausted : having been carefully revised, it speedily passed through numerous editions in various forms, and in less than two years from its first issue was in its Thirtieth Thousand. As an instance of the popularity of his own poetic works I may mention that Mr. Sharp's last volume of poems, "Romantic Ballads," was sold out within a week from publication. His prose writings have been little less successful. Indeed, up to the present, Mr. Sharp's comparatively brief career in the literary world has been singularly fortunate, and holds out much promise for the future. MAD MADGE O'CREE. Hither and thither, to and fro, She wander'd o'er the bleak hill sides ; She watch'd the wild Sound toss and flow, And the water-kelpies lead the tides. She heard the wind upon the hill, Or wailing wild across the muir, And answered it with laughter shrill, And mocked its eldritch lure. Within the running stream she heard A music such as none may hear ; The voice of every beast and bird Had meaning for her ear. 74 POPULAR POETS. " What seek ye thus, fair Margery ? Ye know your Ranald's dead : Win hame, my bonnie lass, wi' me, Win hame to hearth and bed !" " Hark ! hear ye not the corbie call It shrills, Come owre the glen, For Ranald standethfair and tall, Amid his shadow-men /" " His shadow-men, O Margery ! Tis of the dead ye speak : Syne they are in the saut deep sea What gars ye phantoms seek ?" " Hark, hark ye not the curlew wail ? May Margery mak haste, For Ranald wanders sad and pale, About the lonely waste." " O Margery, what is't ye say ? Your Ranald's dead and drowned. Neither by night, neither by day, Sail your fair love be found." " He is not dead, fir I hae seen His bonnie gowden hair : Within his arms I've claspit been, An' I have dreamit there. " Last night I stood by green Craigmore And watch'd the foaming tide : And there across the moonlit shore A shadow sought my side. " But when he kissed'me soft and sweet, And faintly ca'd tae me, I rose an' took his hand an' fleet We sought the Caves o' Cree. WILLIAM SHARP. 75 " Ah, there we kissed, my love and I : An' there sad song he sang O' how dead men drift wearily 'Mid sea-wreck lank and lang. " And once my wan love whisper'd low How mid the sea-weeds deep As but yestreen he drifted slow He saw me lying asleep " Aye, sound in sleep beneath the wave Wi' shells an' sea-things there, An' as the tide swept o'er my grave It stirred like weed my hair : u In vain, ah, all in vain, he tried To reach and clasp my hand, To lay his body by my side Upon that shell-strewn strand. " But ah, within the Caves o' Cree He kissed my lips full fain Ay, by the hollow booming sea We'll meet, my love, again." That night again fair Margery In Cree Caves slept full sound, And by her side lay lovingly The wan wraith of the drowned. O, what is yon toss-tossing there Where a' the white gulls fly : Is yon gold weed or golden hair The waves swirl merrily ? O, what is yon white shape that slips Among the lapsing seas : Pale, pale the rose-red of the lips Whereo'er the spindrift flees. POPULAR POETS. What bears the tide unto the strand Where the drowned seaman lies : A waving arm, a hollow hand, And face with death-dimmed eyes. The tide uplifts them, leaves them where Each first knew love beside the sea : Bound each to each with yellow hair Within the Caves o' Cree. MONNA NATURA. I love and worship thee in that thy ways Are fair, and that the glory of past days Haloes thy brightness with a sacred hue : Within thine eyes are dreams of mystic things, Within thy voice a subtler music rings Than ever mortal from the keen reeds drew ; Thou weav'st a web which men have called Death But Life is in the magic of thy breath. The secret things of Earth thou knowest well ; Thou seest the wild-bee build his narrow cell, The lonely eagle wing through lonely skies ; The lion on the desert roam afar, The glow-worm glitter like a fallen star, The hour-lived insect as it hums and flies ; Thou seest men like shadows come and go, And all their endless dreams drift to and fro. In thee is strength, endurance, wisdom, truth : Thou are above all mortal joy and ruth, Thou hast the calm and silence of the night : Mayhap thou seest what we cannot see, WILLIAM SHARP. 77 Surely far off thou hear'st harmoniously Echoes of flawless music infinite, Mayhap thou feelest thrilling through each sod Beneath thy feet the very breath of God. Monna Natura, fair and grand and great, I worship' thee, who art inviolate ; Through thee I reach to things beyond the span Of mine own puny life, through thee I learn Courage and hope, and dimly can discern The ever nobler grades awaiting man : Madonna, unto thee I bend and pray Saviour, Redeemer thou, whom none can slay ! No human fanes are dedicate to thee, But thine the temples of each tameless sea, Each mountain-height and forest-glade and plain No priests with daily hymns thy praises sing, But far and wide the wild winds chanting swing, And dirge the sea-waves on the changeless main While songs of birds fill all the fields and woods, And cries of beasts the savage solitudes. Hearken, Madonna, hearken to my cry ; Teach me through metaphors of liberty, Till strong and fearing nought in life or death I feel thy sacred freedom through me thrill, Wise, and defiant, with unquenched will Unyielding, though succumb the mortal breath Then if I conquer take me by the hand And guide me onward to thy Promised Matilde Barbara Betham-Edwards. O the great good nature and inherent kindliness of Charles Dickens Miss Barbara Betham-Edwards owes the first start in her literary career. Whilst quite a young girl she wrote what is even now her most popular poem, " The Golden Bee," and forwarded it to the editor of All the Year Round, in which magazine, to her delight no less than surprise, it soon made its appearance. "The Golden Bee" was Miss Betham-Edwards' first effort. It was followed, after a brief interval, by "Don Jose's Mule," which has shared its popularity. Later, came various other poems since collected and published in volume form. In the charming Elizabethan Manor House of Weslerfield Hall, Miss Matilde Barbara Betham-Edwards was born in 1836. Her childhood was spent amidst the picturesque pastoral scenes of sylvan Suffolk. Here she loved to linger and dwell, and it was with great reluctance, in later life, she felt obliged for her health's sake to remove to the South Coast. Motherless at a tender age, Miss Betham-Edwards' education was left to a large extent in her own hands. Fortunately, she possessed the means of unlimited access to good and standard works, and understood perfectly the value of making the most of this happy opportunity. She soon developed an aptitude for deep and earnest study, and obtained proficiency in several languages. By this acquisition she was enabled, without difficulty, to turn from Sophocles to Caldern, from Virgil to Dante, from Schiller, her best-beloved poet, to Victor Hugo, and admire the writings of these authors in the original. It is no exaggeration to say that Miss Betham-Edwards has devoted her whole life to the pursuit of literature. To be sure, she passes no inconsiderable part of every year with her friends in France ; but her English life is now as it always has been, one of strict literary retirement. Early in her career she published "The White House by the Sea," the first of her long series of novels, each of which has met with much appreciation. Nor has she spared her pen, when occasion required, on behalf of the opponents of vivisection, of which she is an ardent and uncompromising adversary. MATILDE BARBARA BETHAM-DWARDS. 79 THE GOLDEN BEE." PART I. Laden with precious merchandise well stored, the growth of Indian soil, And costly work of Chinese hands, the patient wealth of toil ; Upon the wave with sails outspread, like white-winged bird at sea, There sped a vessel, homeward bound, the gallant Golden Bee! The captain's manly heart rejoiced, for things had prospered well. His home on shore he'd reach ere long with much good news to tell; Good news for Parsee merchants, and good news for fair young wife, Whose sweet affection made the joy and beauty of his life ! Ere long he'd kiss his bonnie boy, and hold him on his knee, Awhile he'd listen eager-eyed to stories of the sea ; Ere long he'd kiss his latest born, and then the captain smiled, Smiled, father-like, to think of her, his little unseen child. A tear ran down his sunburnt cheek, a mild joy lit his eye So sweet the thoughts of love and home so near they seemed to lie; Whilst all his being thrilled with joy so sweet and strong and good, That, though he uttered not a word, his prayer was understood. Then one by one rose tremulous each little twinkling star, And bright and cold Polaris gleamed, that guided from afar : Alone amid the solitude of starlit sky and sea, On glided as a soft-winged bird, the good ship Golden Bee. But hark ! what sudden cry is that of sorrow and affright, That breaks like tempest unawares the stillness of the night ; That rouses all from rest and sleep to trouble and dismay ; That wakes the captain dreaming sweet of home so far away ! 8o POPULAR POETS. Oh, captain, wake ! 'tis but a dream the harbour is not won ; Thou dost not clasp thy Mary's hand, nor kiss thy little son ; Thy baby sweetly sleeps ashore, that shore is far from thee ; Wake, captain, wake, though] none but God can save thy Golden Bee. " The ship's on fire ! " an awful cry to hear on lonely seas, With double danger in the breath of every favouring breeze ; But calm and ready for the need, the captain gave command, Imparting strength with every word unto his little band. For three whole days the vessel burned. Oh ! strange it seemed to be, Girt round with fires unquenchable upon the pathless sea ; For neither skill nor strength availed : the fatal breezes blew Nearer and nearer came the end to ship and gallant crew. * * * * " Quick, man the boats ! the ship is lost ! " at last the captain said, And no man spoke, but straight and swift the order was obeyed ; Then one by one the crew stepped forth, but all beheld with tears, Their Golden Bee deserted, their home of many years. First had the captain snatched from flame and placed upon his breast, A relic of departed days, of all his heart loved best A little prayer-book, well worn now, a gift in early life, Sweet token from his only love ere yet he called her wife. Amid a death-like silentness of breeze and sky and sea, Beneath a brilliant tropic night they left the Golden Bee ; And when they saw the blackened wreck totter amid the wave, Each sailor breathed a prayer to God, who yet might spare and save. Then forth upon a lonely sea, six hundred miles from land, The solitary boats sailed forth with that courageous band ; Sailed forth as drifts a withered leaf upon the surging tide, With only hope to be their strength, and only God as guide. MATILDE BARBARA BETH AM-ED WARDS. 81 PART II. Where palaces of merchant kings in marble splendour rise, And gleam beneath the burning blue of fair Calcutta's skies ; Where orange groves and myrtle boughs perfume the sultry air, Abode the captain's fair young wife and watched his coming there. She never heard the ocean waves or saw a ship at sea, Without a thought of him who steered the stately Golden Bee; She never kissed her babes at night or woke at dawn of day, Without a prayer that God would speed her sailor on his way. Days glided by and brought the time when every ship might be The one for which her soul was sick of wistfulness to see ; Till came a morn when hope grew faint within her patient heart, When every sudden voice or step would make her pale and start. She held her children to her heart, and prayed without a word (Oft-times the breathed unspoken prayer by Heaven is soonest heard) ; Or if they heedless played or slept, the passion of her grief Would spend itself in bitter tears which brought her no relief. Then, as a calm and peaceful night follows a day of rain, And drooping plants will feel the sun and ope their leaves again, For sweetest sake of feeble babes, no helper by, save One, She learned to lead a widowed life, and say, " Thy Will be done ! " One night, when by her bright boy's crib, her baby on her breast, She sang her evening cradle-song and hushed the pair to rest, A ship that bore a foreign flag rode calmly with the tide, And dropt its anchor in the port by the fair city's side. Before the mother's voice had ceased its singing low and sweet, A hasty footstep echoed through the silence of the street ; And when the boy's blue dreamy eye sought for her smile no more, A figure passed the window panes and paused outside the door. 82 POPULAR POETS. Then came a low-breathed tender voice : it only murmured " Wife," And heart to heart the two were clasped, recalled to new glad life. For hours they could not speak a word, but shedding blessed tears, A hymn of thankfulness poured out to One who always hears. And oft again the captain sped along the ocean ways, And lived again in memory those fearful shipwrecked days. And many a sailor knows the tale, and tells as told to me, What hap befell the gallant crew saved from the Golden Bee. DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. How sweet the life of my youth with thee ! Though bitter the world of man to me. We dwelt in an attic lone and bare, And coldly the winter stars shone there. And scant the bread that we had to eat, And sad our lives, though our love was sweet, She said " My love, my poet, my friend, Hope on, the true must win in the end. " So long as you doubt my prophecies, How can I trust when you call me wise ? " At last men will hear and understand A poet's voice that speaks in the land. " And rich in time we two will go To ancient lands you have yearned to know. " We'll fly like the birds, without a care, O'er purple seas and through cities fair. " And taste the breath of a morning breeze, Blown off piny clefts of the Pyrenees. MATILDE BARBARA BETH AM-ED WARDS. 83 " And hear in Venice sweet Tasso's song, By stately gondola borne along. " We'll sail to Egypt, and rest awhile In palm-girt palace beside the Nile. " And watch from our roof Canopus rise, In silver splendour 'mid opal skies. " Then dream sweet days in the southern seas, Till we reach trie land of Pericles ! " And see Athene's purple hill, Whose marble columns gleam golden still : " And find wherever we chance to go, That my poet's fame has journeyed too ! " What days to wait for !" And then she smiled, By such fond fancies from care beguiled. The years have passed. And passed as she said ; Alas ! the seer of my life was dead ! They call me poet and crown my brow, I heed not fame or its guerdon now. What praise can alter the past for thee, Whose love was stronger than death for me ? Ah ! could we meet at our attic door, In tears as often as we met before ! A single sorrow we shared as one Was worth all the joys I taste alone ! Charles Frederick For s haw, D.D.S. R. FORSHAW, who has resided in Bradford since childhood, was born at Bilston, Staffordshire, on the 23rd of January, 1863. He served his apprenticeship as a chemist and dentist, obtained his diploma as a Doctor of Dental Surgery in 1885, and is now the senior partner in a firm of well-known dental practitioners in Bradford. In the intervals of his busy professional life he has found time to write several volumes of poetry, and many scien- tific pamphlets on such popular subjects as " Tea," "Alcohol," "Tobacco," etc., etc., and to contribute verse to nearly one hundred papers and periodicals. He has evidently inherited the gift of poetry from his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Garratt, M.A., of Baddesley Ensor, who was for some time Vicar of Audley, in Staffordshire. This gentleman published, in 1818, a large volume of poems, which met with a ready sale. Dr. Forshaw is about to publish a work, entitled " Yorkshire Poets' Birthday Book," which will contain over one hundred poems and biographies by various native authors. He is at the present time editing a serial publication, "Yorkshire Poets, Past and Present," which is meeting with considerable success, and will form a fitting sequel to Newsam's " Poets of Yorkshire," and Grainge's " Poets and Poetry of Yorkshire." Being the President of the West Riding Literary Club, and an active correspondent and contributor to so many newspapers, he is well known throughout the whole of Yorkshire ; and, as an author, poet, and lecturer, ha? many admirers. It may be mentioned, in conclusion, that Dr. Forshaw is a Fellow of several learned societies ; the Honorary Representative of the Society of Science, Letters, and Art, of London ; Senior Dental Surgeon to the Bradford Dental Hospital ; and Consulting Dentist to the Ilkley College, in addition to having held appoint- ments at the Bradford Eye and Ear Hospital and the Bradford Children's Hospital. CHARLES FREDERICK FORSHAW. 85 A SUMMER'S DAY. Morning. Now Nature smiles, and decks the radiant earth With beauteous brightness. The sun's glad blaze On verdant hill and rippling streamlet plays, And calls their thousand beauties into birth. All insect life sport round in playful mirth ; In shady glades rare flowers glad the eyes And fill the bosom with a wrapt surprise, For well we love their glory and their worth. The birds send forth their rapture-breathing strains, And fill the groves and all the woodland lanes With their wild minstrelsy. Their music sweet Rings through the soul with balmy influence, All earth is clad in gay magnificence, In hallowed grandeur, heav'nly and complete. Evening. Sweet shadowy eve, thy calm solitude Steals o'er the heart and soothes the pangs of pain, Brings blissful quiet to the restless brain, And whispers soft to those who pensive brood. Blest eventide, thou art reflection's food, Thy gentle breathing, thy soft lulling breast, Tells us of hope, tranquility and rest, And bringeth peace with fond solicitude. Yon glorious orb the silvery moon above, Inspires with joy, with holiness and love. The sky bedecked with starry gems of light, The solemn hush, the hours distant chime, The stilly mildness plaintive and sublime, Minds us of realms wherein there is no night. 86 POPULAR POETS. SUNRISE IN THE WOODS AUGUST. The blended beauties of hill, dale and stream, Are now awake, From o'er the mountain tops the sun's red gleam In ruddy glory, like a glowing beam, Shines o'er the lake. The hallowed haunts of wood and dell, are all Bathed in sweet dew ; The rippling brook, slow-trickling, in its fall, Makes music sweet, and now each wild-bird's call Sounds fresh and new. Their warbled song of gladness cheers the heart, And makes the soul Thrill with a charm that seems of life a part. The fresh'ning breeze feels never to depart. Each grassy knoll With gayest flow'rs in many varied hues, Makes the breast fire With sweet emotion. Their perfumes suffuse The air ; and when we on their glories muse, Each poet's lyre Throbs with new rapture and sings songs of praise, Enchanting mirth. The sunbeams on their gladd'ning beauty plays, And they, cheered by its warming halcyon rays, Charm all the earth. Sweet hour of morn, in many raptures blest, Thou leav'st no room For sadness, but still nurses on thy breast, And ever, with a touch most kind, caressed, All those in gloom. CHARLES FREDERICK FORSHAW. 87 The humming insects thy fond breath inhale, They buzz with glee ; Thy kindly spirit, borne along the vale Makes them exult ; and as they skyward sail, Lightsome and free, We ponder on the ever beauteous scene. For morn's fair face Decks all the earth in radiant living green, Tints all the woodland with a blissful sheen, Fills it with grace ; The trees in richest foliage now are dight, Thy sky above Seems calm and tranquil, full of holy light ; We feel when turning from this prospect bright, Burdened with love To the Creator, who has crowned the land With lustrous gems, And with a splendour seen on every hand, Robed all the leafy glades ; made Nature grand With diadems ; Till with a dazzling halo, landscapes seem In bridal dress, And birds and flow'rs all waking from their dream ; With cloudless love and gorgeous lustre teem, And joy's excess. 88 POPULAR POETS. MY LOVE. My Love has eyes of vivid blue, My Love has cheeks of damask hue, My Love has hair as black as jet And smiles like rippling rivulet. My Love's fair brow is white as snow, My Love has lips of cherry glow, My Love would take the world by storm, Her heart is tender, true, and warm. My Love has sweet capricious ways, My Love has voice like lark's clear lays, My Love is stately as a queen With crown of gold and silver sheen. My Love is known by name of Ruth, My Love's a mine of priceless truth, My Love's a little lily hand, When with her I'm in fairyland. My Love will soon be my own wife, My Love with me will spend her life, My Love, my life, my hope, my all, I'll love thee whatsoe'er befall. Edwin Hamilton, M.A., M.R.I.A. O every lover of genuine wit and sparkling humour the name of Mr. Edwin Hamilton should be familiar ; and, although it may be comparatively unknown to many English readers, we venture to predict that it will not long remain so. He is a worthy successor to the late Mr. Thomas Hood, to whose writings Mr. Hamilton's are not dissimilar in character or construction. He is a master of versification, and his Muse is set in every conceivable form of metre, and is equally good in all. There is a vein of melancholy tenderness pervading even his drollery ; and the unsuspected changes from the pathetic to the humorous are very striking and effective. Mr. Edwin Hamilton, a member of the Irish Bar, and only son of the late Rev. Hugh Hamilton, of Dublin, was born on the I4th April, 1849. In 1863 he obtained a King's Scholarship at Durham Grammar School, where he remained until 1868, in which year he matriculated at Trinity College, Dublin, where he took "honours" in Classics and in Mathematics. In 1872 he was awarded the Vice-Chancellor's Prize for English Verse in Dublin University, and he graduated two years later. In 1877 he took the degree of Master of Arts, and was elected in 1879 a member of the Royal Irish Academy, in the Department of Polite Literature. His first volume of verse, "Dublin Doggerels," appeared in 1877, and his second, " The Moderate Man," in 1888. He is well known in Ireland as a writer of humorous and satirical prose, and of short stories, and is a dramatic critic of considerable ability. Mr. Hamilton thus characteristically criticised "Dublin Doggerels " in a periodical of which he was the editor: "The man who takes up this book will not lay it down again in a good temper. The poems in this enormous tome are as full of dramatic fire as Shakespeare's weird legend of ' Humpty Dumpty,' and more replete with graceful poetic fancy and delicate imagery than Lord Byron's famous lyric, 'The house that Jack built.' We have tested the quality of the paper upon which the book is printed, and find it highly inflammable, this characteristic being, no doubt, partly due to the latent dramatic fire already mentioned. The cover is thick and flat, thus rendering the work a potent instrument for the destruction of black beetles. We con- fidently recommend the volume to the favourable consideration of governors of hospitals, where the comic passages will prove an admirable soporific, to say nothing about its powers of keeping an unruly window from rattling on stormy nights. No father of a family should neglect to buy it for his descendants, and the father of no family should purchase it for his own use. There is no purpose, from training a retriever to wrapping up ounces of salt butter, to which this extraordinary and invaluable work may not be immediately devoted." CLAUDE MELVILLE. 9 POPULAR POETS. THE MODERATE MAN. I am known to my friends as " The Moderate Man," Who keeps within limits as well as he can, And can claim with excusable pride That, although, when at school, I was always a dunce, I never received castigation but once Or twice at the very outside. When I read for the Army, the Church, and the Bar, I was better than most undergraduates are, But my study appeared misapplied ; For, somehow or other, I never got through, Though every examiner passed me but two Or three at the very outside. Though money appeared little better than dross, There's a line to be drawn between profit and loss, And the loss may be suffered to slide ; Of the many dear friends who lent money to me I meant to pay all but a couple or three Or four at the very outside. When I met any lady who pleased me, and who Had the name of possessing resources for two, I booked her at once as my bride, But was never engaged at one period to more Than two or three possibly certainly four Or five at the very outside. I'm a temperance man, as a matter of course, And am seldom or never seen home by " the force," For the following rule is my guide : As soon as the daylight begins to arrive I seldom touch more than four glasses or five Or six at the verv outside. EDWIN HAMILTON. When my card-playing friends have induced me to play, I have won, as a rule, just as often as they, Just as often, in fact, as I tried ; But, although I get fully my share of the tricks, I rarely bring with me more aces than six Or seven at the very outside. Though forty, I've taken up cricket again, And endeavour to score a leg-bye now and then, And can bowl a no-ball or a wide ; But, although I make bets on the rival eleven, I don't miss, on purpose, more catches than seven Or eight at the very outside. Moral No. 1. Be a moderate man, like the writer of this, For, too much of a good thing is often amiss ; Let the fiend of excess be defied ; Don't drink, flirt, nor swindle, and don't sit up late ; Be in bed every morning by seven or eight Or nine at the very outside. Moral No. 2. If you happen to find your exchequer is low, You should write for the papers, (provided that no Further friend can be found to provide) ; And they're easily pleased ; for this poem of mine Has not been refused by more papers than nine Or ten at the very outside. POPULAR POETS. TO MY FIRST LOVE. I remember meeting you, In September, Sixty-two, We were eating, both of us, And the meeting happened thus :- Accidental, on the road (Sentimental episode). I was gushing, you were shy, You were blushing, so was I. I was smitten, so were you. (All that's written here is true). Any money ? Not a bit. Rather funny, wasn't it ? Vows we plighted, happy pair ! How delightful people were ! But your father, to be sure, Thought it rather premature ; And your mother, strange to say, Was another in the way. What a heaven vanished then ! (You were seven, I was ten), That was many years ago, Don't let anybody know. THE SORT OF MAN HE WAS, I once knew a sailor, whose name it was Bill, And he was such a nice young man ; When he sailed, the girls wept till it made them quite ill, He was such a sweet young man. EDWIN HAMILTON. 93 He courted one Molly, a regular dear, Whose income was several million a year ; Every day he was absent she marked with a tear, He was such a nice young man. He was such a good young man, Though rather a gay young man, For he ate, drank, and slept, while his sweetheart wept, He was such a wise young man. On a Cannibal island one day he was wrecked, And they said " What a plump young man ! " He eloped with the queen, but she didn't object, He was such a sly young man. " I forgive you, she's yours," said the monarch, said he, " I shall never miss one out of seventy-three ; May she sit upon you as she sat upon m e, You are such a soft young man." And he felt like a sold young man ; But he wasn't a dull young man, So he gave her the slip in the very next ship, He was such a fly young man. He came home, and his Molly cried " Hip, hip, hooray ! " For she thought him a true young man, And agreed to be married the following day, He was such a brave young man. But the black one turned up at the ceremon-ee, And said, " This here bridegroom is my proper-tee," " Oh, take him, and welcome," says Molly , says she, " For he's not such a nice young man. He isn't a choice young man, In fact, quite a bad young man." So Molly got wed to the curate instead, And the black to her own young man. 94 POPULAR POETS. SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. Have I net striven in vain to forget thee, Tried to believe that I loved thee no more, Lied when I said I had ceased to regret thee ? Thee whom I never can cease to adore. Hope, when will you leave me ? How can you but grieve me ? Love, if you deceive me, Truth can be truth no more. Oh, for a smile through this dark world to guide me ; Quenched is the beacon, and clouded the star. Smile on me, frown on me, cheer me, or chide me, Even remember me, near thee or far. Fate, harder than ever, How dared you to sever Hearts changeable never ? World, what a world you are ! How can I live if thy smile be denied me ? Meet me again, and turn night into day. Darkness were daylight if thou wert beside me ; Daylight is darkness when thou art away. Fate, when shall I meet her ? Love, how shall I greet her ? Earth, what have you sweeter ? Time, what a time you stay ! Come to me, sweet ; it were treason to doubt thee ; Come to my heart that is brimming with love. Come, for the world is a desert without thee, Make me the envy of angels above. Steps ! now for our meeting ; Heart, how you are beating ! Lips, know you the greeting ? Time, what a time for love ! EDWIN HAMILTON. 95 MY WOOING. One evening, many months ago, We two conversed together; It must have been in June or so, For sultry was the weather. The waving branches made the ground With lights and shadows quiver ; We sat upon a grassy mound That overhung a river. We thought, as you've perhaps inferred, Our destinies of linking : But neither or us spoke a word, For each of us was thinking . Her ma had lands at Skibbereen, Her pa estates in Devon ; And she was barely seventeen, And I was thirty-seven. We gathered blossoms from the bank, And in the water flung them : We watched them as they rose and sank With flakes of foam among them. As towards the falls in mimic race They sailed these heads of clover We watched them quicken in their pace, We watched them tumble over. We watched them ; and our calm repose Seemed calmer for their troubles, We watched them as they sank and rose And battled with . the bubbles. We noticed then a little bird, Down at the margin drinking : But neither of us spoke a word, For each of us was thinking. 9 6 POPULAR POETS. At length I thought I fairly might Declare my passion frantic : (The scenery, I'm sure, was quite Sufficiently romantic.) I'd heard a proverb short and quaint, My memory though shady Informed me it began with " faint," And finished up with " lady.'' I summoned then the pluck to speak : (I felt I'd have to, one day, I only saw her once a week, And this was only Monday.) I called her angel, duck, and dove, I said I loved her dearly, My wordsthe whisperings of love Were eloquent, or nearly. I told her that my heart was true, And constant as the river : I said, "I'll love you as I do, ' For ever and for ever.' Oh ! let me hear that voice divine " I stopped a bit and listened, I murmured then, " Be mine, be mine," She said, " I won't ! "and isn't. Stuart Blackie. HE subject of this sketch is a prophet not without honour even in his own country. Indeed, it would be scarcely too much to say that in Scotland no living name is held in greater and more general estimation than that of John Stuart Blackie. The reason is not far to seek, and is to be found, partly in the Professor's writings, but chiefly in the Professor himself in his originality and strength of character, in his broad, human sympathies, combined with all that is wholesome in the sentiment of nationality, in his kindly humour and genial disposition, in his earnest citizenship, always asserting itself by the side of his profound attainments, and in his very presence, which is thoroughly typical and worthy of the man and known almost everywhere in education-loving, lecture-hearing Scotland. It is not often that a really popular poet or a really popular man is met with in academic halls. But if there is a scholar who is the opposite of a Dry-as-dust, it is Professor Blackie ; and no one has written verses more true to the best and soundest instincts of every-day humanity than he has done. The son of a banker, John Stuart Blackie was born at Glasgow on July 28th, 1809. While he was yet an infant, his father removed to Aberdeen, and here the embryo preceptor received his earliest training, first at a private school and then at Marischal College. When of the age of fifteen he proceeded to Edinburgh University, having at that time no preference for any particular vocation. He had, indeed, already been attracted to the study of theological and philosophical questions, but the tendencies of his thought, while sincerely religious, were sufficiently unorthodox to preclude his entering the Kirk, even had he a wish to do so. At the conclusion of his course at Edinburgh he enlarged his acquisitions by visiting Gottingen, Berlin, and Rome. The two years thus spent were prolific of result. The student obtained a thorough mastery over the German and Italian languages, and applied himself also, with special enthusiasm, to Classical Philology an enthusiasm which first led him to original composition. His maiden effort was an exposition, in Italian, of an ancient Roman sarcophagus. It now became necessary for him to adopt a profession, and, returning to Scotland, he selected Law, being, after due preparation, called to the Bar in 1834. He, however, never practised. Essentially literary in his instincts, he soon' discovered a more congenial occupation, and became a contributor of reviews to Blackwood, Tait, and the Foreign Quarterly. He also published at this period an excellent metrical translation of Goethe's "Faust," with notes and prolegomena, of which a second edition has been issued. In 1841 Mr Blackie was chosen Professor of Humanity in his old college at Aberdeen ; this position he held for eleven years. During that time he took a prominent part in the movement for reforming the Scotch Universities, which 98 POPULAR POETS. led to the appointment of a Parliamentary Commission in 1858, and culminated in important and beneficial changes. While thus occupied the literary activity of the Professor did not cease. He wrote several philological articles for the Classical Museum (edited by Dr. L. Schmitz), and published his metrical translation of "/Eschylus," dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard. The merit of the translation deepened the impression which had been formed in the Republic of Letters as to the attainments of its author. Almost simultaneously with its publication, he was elected (in 1852) to the chair of Greek, at Edinburgh. This position he continued to hold until 1882. For thirty years he applied himself devotedly and enthusiastically to his work, ever broadening his own knowledge while imparting to others, and ever winning the regard and reverence of his pupils. Of the position which he occupies as a Grecian ; of the zeal with which he has endeavoured to vivify the language by the adoption of the modern Greek pronunciation ; and of the views which he advocates in reference to linguistic studies generally, it would be here superfluous to speak. It is with the poetical, rather than with the academical, side of the Professor's versatile genius that we are principally concerned. In 1857 appeared his " Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece : with other poems," in 1860, his "Lyrical Poems," many of which are in Latin, while others demonstrate the facility with which he can compose in German. In 1866 was published " Homer, and the Iliad," in four large volumes, a translation of the " Iliad" being given in ballad measure. This was followed, in 1869, by " Musa Bursichosa, a collection of songs for Students and University Men. " In later works were : "War Songs of the Germans" (1870) ; "Songs of Religion and Life" (1876), wherein the writer shows the breadth of his sympathies, and protests against the rigid Galvanism of his country ; " The Language and Literature of the Highlands " (1876), an eloquent vindication of the dignity of Gaelic literature, and a vigorous plea for its better scholastic recognition ; " The Wise Men of Greece " (1877), being a series of dramatic dialogues; "The Natural History of Atheism, a Defence of Theism against Modern Atheistic and Agnostic Tendencies" (1877) ; "Lay Sermons" (1881); " Altavona ; or, fact and fiction from my life in the Highlands" (1881) ; and, in 1885, he put forth his ripe views on the character and influence of Goethe, in ' ' The Wisdom of Goethe." Even these do not complete the list, for, besides numerous contributions in prose and verse to magazines, Professor Blackie has written dissertations on the Land Laws, on Church and State, Democracy, and other subjects, historical and economical. He has collected a sum of .12,000, and has been mainly instrumental in founding a Celtic Chair in Edinburgh University, and he has lectured widely both in England and Scotland. H. E. BRANCH. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 99 "THE JUNGFRAU OF THE LURLEI." (A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.) Who sails with pennant waving gay So swift adown the Rhine ? A chief I see with ostrich plume, A chief and boatmen nine. As swallow swift with dipping wing, So swift they glide along, And ever as they lift the oar They raise the merry song. It is the young Count Palatine That fares in that swift boat, And he a deed of strange intent Within his heart hath thought. For he hath heard of the Jung-frau That on the Lurlei stands, And he in haste is coming now On her to lay his hands. By Mary Mother hath he sworn The maiden shall be mine Now fresh to work, my merry men, And row me down the Rhine ! The pilot was an aged man : Deep thought with blithe content Upon his weather-beaten brow And cheek was friendly blent. " I rede thee, young Count Palatine, I rede thee well," quoth he, " I am a man of many years, Though but of low degree." " I rede thee well, Count Palatine, My spirit bodes no good Of this strange voyage that we sail ; We do not as we should. TOO POPULAR POETS. *' The virgin of the Lurlei rock, We know not what she be : She may be of the angel race ; She is no bride for thee. " Or an Undine she may be, A daughter of the stream ; Rough mortal hand to touch a maid So pure may not beseem. " For oft-times at calm eventide, As native fishers tell, When mellow shines the parting light, And chimes the vesper bell, " She beckons with a friendly hand, And, pointing to the flood, There, if you fish, she seems to say, Your fishing will be good. " And whoso, with the rising sun, First casts where she hath shown, The choicest fish that Rhine can boast That day he calls his own. " I rede thee well, Count Palatine, My heart misgives me sore, I rede thee, turn from this Jung-frau, And think on her no more." " Have thou no fear, my pilot true, Thou know'st I mean no harm, The maid shall grace my festal board, Shall rest within my arm. " And be she of Undine tribe, Or of the Angel race, The Heaven that gave the heart to dare, Shall crown the deed with grace ! " JOHN STUART BLACKIE. IOI And to his words a loud halloo His merry comrades shouted ; The pilot strove to smile in vain ; He shook his head and doubted. And plash, and plash, and hallo-ho ! Still gaily on it goes Adown the stream, till to their view The Lurlei rock uprose. And on that rock there shone a sheen Of mingled sun and moon, And as they nigher came, they heard A strange unearthly tune, But wondrous sweet. The Jung-frau sate Beside the silver sand, And held a string of amber beads In her uplifted hand. And her the mellow-setting sun And mellow-rising moon Beshone, as moveless there she sate, And sang her witching tune. " Now, by high Heaven ! that golden hair, That eye of blue is mine !" So spake, and sprang with sudden leap The young Count Palatine ; But sprang too soon. His hasty step Missed the deceiving shore ; The whirling eddy sucked him down ; He sank, and rose no more. * * * * IO2 POPULAR POETS. BEAUTIFUL WOULD. Beautiful world ! Though bigots condemn thee, My tongue finds no words For the graces that gem thee ! Beaming with sunny light, Bountiful ever, Streaming with gay delight, Full as a river ! Bright world ! brave world ! Let cavillers blame thee ! I bless thee, and bend To the God who did frame thee. Beautiful world ! Bursting around me, Manifold, million-hued Wonders confound me ! From earth, sea, and starry sky, Meadow and mountain, Eagerly gushes Life's magical fountain. Bright world ! brave world ! Though witlings may blame thee, Wonderful excellence Only could frame thee ! The bird in the greenwood His sweet hymn is trolling, The fish in blue ocean Is spouting and rolling ! Light things on airy wing, Wild dances weaving, Clods with new earth in spring Swelling and heaving ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE. Thou quick-teeming world, Though scoffers may blame thee, I wonder, and worship The God who could frame thee ! Beautiful world ! What poesy measures Thy strong-flooding passions, Thy light-trooping pleasures ? Mustering, marshalling, Striving and straining, Conquering, triumphing, Ruling and reigning ! Thou bright-armied world ! So strong ! who can tame thee ? Wonderful power of God Only could frame thee ! Beautiful world ! While God-like I deem thee, No cold wit shall move me With bile to blaspheme thee ! I have lived in thy light, And, when Fate ends my story, May I leave on death's cloud The bright trail of life's glory ! Wondrous old world ! No ages shall shame thee ! Ever bright with new light, From the God who did frame thee ! Austin Dob son. ENRY AUSTIN DOBSON, Poet and Critic, was born at Plymouth, in the year 1840. He was educated at Strasburg, and his parents intended that he should become an Engineer. At the age of sixteen, however, he entered the Civil Service. In the autumn of 1867, Anthony Trollope, the novelist, founded a magazine, called Saint Paul's (it was edited by the novelist and illustrated by J. E. Millais, R.A.); and among other new writers whom the editor then introduced to the public was Mr. Austin Dobson. Among his earliest contributions to Saint Paul's were the poems, "Une Marquise," " Avice," and "A Song of Angiola in Heaven." All are signed " A. D." The first-named (with a few slight verbal alterations) now finds a place in "Old-World Idylls;" the second appears among "Vignettes in Rhyme;" while the third is now included among the "Miscellaneous Poems." Mr. Dobson's first volume of verse was published in 1873, under the title of "Vignettes in Rhyme." It was followed by " Proverbs in Porcelain," in 1877 ; and "Old-World Idylls" and "At the Sign of the Lyre" succeeded at intervals. Mr. Dobson's literary work conveniently divides itself into two well-defined groups : his contributions to the study of eighteenth-century literature, and his poetry. With the former it is not my purpose here to deal ; but I may, en passant, be allowed to mention his monographs on Fielding, Steele, and Gold- smith. These works are noteworthy for careful research, accuracy of statement, and that finished prose style which can be attained only by the assiduous writer of verses. In the matter of poetry, Mr Dobson is famous as having been the first Eng- lish writer to popularsie the old French forms of verse ; and his name will always remain associated with the ballade, the rondel, the rondeau, the villanelle, and the triolet. He employs these tricky and oft-times beautiful measures with consum- mate skill ; and in his hands, and as written by Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Edmund Gosse, and other acknowledged masters, the old French forms] have been found capable of yielding a most varied and refined entertainment. Specimens of the ballade, the rondeau, and the villanelle are subjoined. Two characteristics of Mr. Dobson's verse can scarcely fail to strike the most superficial reader. The one is his minute acquaintance with the customs and life of the eighteenth century attained, he will modestly tell you, by assiduous read- ing of the newspapers of the time ; the other is the grace and polish displayed in every line he writes. The former could only be illustrated by reference to much of his poetry, and to many of his prose works ; but the latter will make itself evident to anyone who will take the trouble to read the poems which follow. Mr. AUSTIN DOBSON. 105 Dobson, like a true artist, works slowly. All the poetry he has written in twenty years might be compassed within the space of two moderate-sized volumes. He laments the "hurry of this time " in oneiof his rondeaux : Scant space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work ah ! would we might ! With slower pen. The poems which I have selected to illustrate this brief sketch are seven in number. The first is a ballade, entitled "The Prodigals," and is usually looked upon as the " pioneer ballade " of our language. It is, at any rate, the first that Mr. Dobson wrote, and, in my opinion, it is the best. It is distinguished from his lighter verse by the serious purpose which underlies it, and fulfils the highest aim of poetry in being a "criticism of life." The little poem of three stanzas which follows shows our poet in his pathetic mood. "The Cradle " is a gem which deserves to be placed at the side of Wordsworth's " She dwelt among the untrodden ways," and Matthew Arnold's " Requiescat." " He stands at the kerb and sings," exhibits both Mr. Dobson's quaint humour and his perfect mastery of that most difficult of all the old French measures, the villanelle. ' ' On London Stones "is a rondeau another resuscitated French form. Next we have "A Dialogue from Plato " a piece which belongs to that kind of poetry which is embraced by the generic term, " Vers de Societe." The sixth selection is an "Old- World Idyll," entitled "A Gentleman of the Old School," in which we are enabled to see Mr. Dobson as the poet of the eighteenth century. And my final choice is a sonnet characteristic of the author's method in this class of verse, and is to be found amongst those representative of the century. " To praise a man " as General Gordon once remarked to a friend of 'mine "implies superiority on the part of him who praises." I, therefore, refrain from any further laudation of Mr. Dobson. But, in conclusion, I may, perhaps, be permitted to apply to him his own words, and to say that for the space of more than twenty years he has " held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust." JOHN UNDERBILL. io6 POPULAR POETS. THE PRODIGALS. Ballade : Irregular. "Princes ! and you, most valorous, Nobles and Barons of all degrees ! Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, Beggars that come from the over-seas ! Nothing we ask or of gold or fees ; Harry us not with the hounds, we pray ; Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize, Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " Dames most delicate, amorous ! Damosels, blithe as the belted bees ! Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, Beggars that come from the over-seas ! Nothing we ask of the things that please ; Weary are we, and worn, and gray ; Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees, Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday ! " Damosels Dames, be piteous !" (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) " Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !" (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, But only to beat on the breast and say : " Life we drank to the dregs and lees ; Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday !" Envoy, Youth, take heed to the prayer of these ! Many there be by the dusty way, Many that cry to the rocks and seas, "Give us ah ! give us but Yesterday!" AUSTIN DOBSON. 107 THE CRA.DLE. How steadfastly she'd worked at it ! How lovingly had drest With all her would-be-mother's wit That little rosy nest ! How lovingly she'd hung on it ! It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath it's coverlet A little sleeping head. He came at last, the tiny guest, Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest . . Her coffin was his bed. THE STREET SINGER. Villanelle from my window. He stands at the kerb and sings, 'Tis a doleful tune and slow, Ah me, if I had but wings ! He bends to the coin one flings, But he never attempts to go, He stands at the kerb and sings. The conjuror comes with his rings. And the Punch-and-Judy show. Ah me, if I had but wings ! They pass like all fugitive things They fade and they pass, but lo ! He stands at the kerb and sings. All the magic that Music brings Is lost when he mangles it so Ah me, if I had but wings ! But the worst is a thought that stings ! There is nothing at hand to throw He stands at the kerb and sings Ah me, if I had but wings ! io8 POPULAR POETS. "ON LONDON STONES." Rondeau. On London stones I sometimes sigh For wider green and bluer sky ; Too oft the trembling note is drowned In this huge city's varied sound ; " Pure song is country-born "I cry. Then comes the spring, the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly ; And I I too ! no more am found On London stones ! In vain ! the woods, the field's deny, That clearer strain I fain would try ; Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground ; Abroad she pouts ; she is not shy On London stones ! A DIALOGUE FKOM PLATO. " Lf temps le mieux employ^ est celui qu'on perd" CLAUDE TILLIER. I'd " read " three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming, Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. AUSTIN DOBSON. 109 " You're reading Greek ?" " I am and you ?" " O, mine's a mere romancer !" " So Plato is." " Then read him do ; And I'll read mine in answer.'' I read. " My Plato (Plato, too, That wisdom thus should harden !) Declares ' blue eyes look double blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " She smiled. " My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those philosophers Are sadly mis-translated." " But hear, the next's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted !" She smiled once more " My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album- verse concocters." Then I " Why not ? Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw DIANA'S apparition?" She blushed this time. " If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches." " Agreed," I said. " For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking." no POPULAR POETS. She read no more. I leapt the sill : The sequel's scarce essential Nay, more than this, 1 hold it still Profoundly confidential. A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. [Brief Excerpts.] He lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That " Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure ; He held some land, and dwelt thereon, Where, I forget, the house is gone ; His Christian name, I think, was John, His surname, Leisure. Reynolds has painted him, a face Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded ; The eyes are blue, the hair is drest In plainest way, one hand is prest Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, round his throat A soft cravat ; in all you note An elder fashion, A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspire compassion. AUSTIN DOBSON. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her ; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. Lie softly, Leisure ! Doubtless you, With too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue ; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your quiet house, Old friend, and miss you ! DON QUIXOTE. Behind thy pasteboard, on thy battered hack, Thy lean cheek striped with plaster to and fro, Thy long spear levelled at the unseen foe, And doubtful Sancho trudging at thy back, Thou wert a figure strange enough, good lack ! To make wiseacredom, both high and low, Rub purblind eyes, and (having watched thee go) Despatch its Dogberrys upon thy track ; Alas ! poor Knight ! Alas ! poor soul possest ! Yet would to-day, when Courtesy grows chill, And life's fine loyalties are turned to jest, Some fire of thine might burn within us still ! Ah ! would but one might lay his lance in rest, And charge in earnest were it but a mill. Sarah Doudney. R. Salmon, in a paper which was recently published in the Nineteenth Century, compared Sarah Doudney's books for girls with those of Miss Austen ; and, like Miss Austen, Miss Doudney lived for years a quiet country life. She was born in the parish of Kingston, in the suburbs of Portsmouth, and began to write verses and stories while she was still a child. At seventeen she wrote "The Lesson of the Water-mill," which afterwards became the most popular song of America. As questions concerning the origin of this song have been frequently asked, it may be as well to state that it was suggested by a picture of a water-mill in a child's scrap-book, and under the engraving were the words which form the refrain of the poem " The mill cannot grind with the water that is past." Miss Doudney was still a young girl when she removed from the neighbour- hood of Portsmouth to a remote village in the parish of Cathrington, Hants ; and it was in this quiet spot that all her earlier books were written. After producing several works for the young, she became a regular contributor to the Sunday Magazine, and her connection with that serial has continued unbroken up to the present time. She contributes stories also to the Quiver and the Argosy. All her best-known poems have appeared in the Sunday Magazine, Good Words, and the Quiver. For ten years Sarah Doudney has resided chiefly in London, and her latest production is a wedding hymn, written for use at the Savoy Chapel Royal, by request of the Chaplain. SARAH DOUDNEY. 113 IN THE PEOPLE'S GARDEN. Oh, the linden boughs are swinging As the wind sighs from the west ; I can hear the children singing, But the zephyr's song is best ; Little hearts laugh out their gladness, Long may their life-music last ; Ah, what can they know of sadness, For the children have no past ! But the west wind murmurs faintly To the blossoms of the lime, " It was in the people's garden, And the year was in its prime." It was in the people's garden That your love to me was told, Ere your heart began to harden, And your face grew false and cold ; We were workers, bred together In a sordid city street, Humble birds of common feather, Life was hard, but love was sweet ; We were patient, asking only Longer rest and better pay ; And the end was clear before us, When you chose another way. You were handsome, you were clever, You could win the rich man's ear ; You were eloquent, yet never Told your brethren's hope and fear ; Now your wealthy masters prize you, And you ride where once you ran ; H 4 POPULAR POETS. I, the working-girl, despise you You, the self-made gentleman ! Poor and weary and forsaken, Lone and blighted in my youth, I have still the faithful spirit That is true to God and truth. Hark, from many a city steeple Bells are calling clear and high, And the daughter of the people Hears their eager souls reply; What is this that they are crying Under God's great azure dome ? " Right the wrong, and save the dying, Come, and make the world Thy home ! Make this earth Thy people's garden, Free from want and woe and crime, We are waiting, hoping, praying, Come, and bring our golden time ! " OF THE EARTH, EARTHY." Have they told you I am going To the land of rest ? I am very patient, knowing All is for the best ; Yet the summer light is clearest Ere the soul departs, Nature seems to draw the nearest Unto dying hearts. SARAH DOUDNEY. Have they told you I am leaving Earthly things behind ? Love, perhaps, was but deceiving, Friendship proved unkind ; Yet the sunshine, softly stealing Down the soft green slope, Brings back all the trustful feeling, All the dreams of hope. Have they told you I am hasting To a fairer home ? Yes j but here are roses wasting, Blossoms white as foam ; Here are sun-gilt vine-leaves wreathing Round our cottage door ; Here the solemn fir-trees breathing Fragrance evermore. Have they told you I am setting All my thoughts on high ? Yes ; but can I learn forgetting , While old haunts are nigh ? When the bracken plumes are swaying On our pine-crown'd hill, I can almost hear you saying That you love me still. Hush ! I hear a footstep falling On the garden plot, And a voice speaks, softly calling, Yet I answer not Till I feel your arms around me, On my face your breath. Love and faith have sought and found me This is life not death. u6 POPULAR POETS. IN THE CLOISTERS. An ancient English city, and a grave, Beneath the shadow of cathedral walls, Where solemn elms their bowery branches wave, And tender rain of April softly falls ; Hoarse-voiced rooks, a restless sable crowd, Whirl with strange clangour round the bleak old towers, Drifting and meeting, closing like a cloud Above grim bosses and grey stone-wrought flowers. Great mouldering heights of rugged sculpture rise, Grisly with heads of dragons, worn and bold, Coloured by weather-stains of thousand dyes, Tinged with the lichen's melancholy gold ; While here and there some shattered saint looks down From his dark niche betwixt the pillars high, Or stately king still wears his stony crown, And with calm brow confronts the changeful sky. There, on that lowly grave, the snowdrop springs, There smile the dim blue violets of March ; And like a sound of mighty rushing wings Through the low western doorway's pointed arch Sweeps forth the deep prayer-music o'er the mound, And dies far out amid the busy strife Beyond the minster-gates, where toil hath drowned The faint sweet echoes of eternal Life. Soft moss of shady green and pearly grey Has clustered thickly on the time-worn stone ; Dark ivy-chains, that strengthen day by day, About the grave their clasping bonds have thrown ; And often I go back through misty years Along dim paths where love's old wild-flowers grow, To seek that sheltered place with quiet tears Where one true heart was buried long ago. Dr. A. H. Japp. LEXANDER HAY JAPP, LL.D., was born at Dun, near Montrose, in the year 1840. His name clearly indicates that Scandinavian origin so often traceable in the inhabitants of the north-east coast of Scotland. He turned his attention towards literature at an early age, and after studying, with marked success, at the University of Edinburgh, went to London, and was soon fairly launched upon the sea of journalism. Of the influences surrounding his earlier years we may gather something from his book, " Lights on the Way ; Some Tales Within a Tale," by J. H. Alexander, B.A., edited by H. A. Page. The nominal "editor " was the real author, Alexander H. Japp, veiled by this nom df#ktmf t otten subsequently used. But this book, though referring to this period, was not published till long after- wards. Dr. Japp's first independent literary venture was a little book with a large subject, "The Three Great Teachers of our Time," Carlyle, Ruskin, and Tennyson. It was a work which could not fail to make a durable impression on any mind especially any mind in a growing state which came under its influence. Those who have read it can understand that Dr. Japp is a critic of the highest class, one who seeks to enter into an author's meaning, and to under- stand his aims, and will not give honour where it is undeserved, nor withhold where it seems due. Though the author, as we understand, does not lay much store by this early production, it is often quoted and referred to still. On the appearance of " Locks- ley Hall, Sixty Years After, " the Pa!! Mall Gazette in its "Occasional Notes" cited Dr. J a pp' s criticism on the original " Locksley Hall" as dramatically demanding a sequel, and said the new poem of the Laureate was " a remarkable instance of the fulfilment of a literary prophecy." In 1865 Dr. Japp joined the staff of Good Words and the Sunday Magazine, to both of which he has largely contributed, amongst other articles, many papers on life in London among the lapsed masses, and among criminals, and bearing also on divers efforts towards their reclamation and reformation. Lengthened extracts from these were given, at the suggestion of the late Lord Shaftesbury, in a journal devoted to such matters. This was long before the period of Mr. G. R. Sims' investigations, or the " Bitter Cry of Outcast London." Thus, apart from his labours as an editor or as a critic, it will be seen that Dr. Japp has produced much independent work, both under his own name and under various pseudonyms. Under the disguise of " H. A. Page " he did the immense literary service of familiarising the British public with the life and writings of Thoreau, the American naturalist-philosopher, whose name was scarcely known in this country before the appearance of Dr. Japp's monograph. His little book expounds and explains a life and its theories which might puzzle many, if lacking such an interpreter. By setting forth how simple are the elements of real human n8 POPULAR POETS. life if the mind be freed from the trammels of unprofitable convention, it tends to lift the reader above the murky atmosphere of petty cares and ambitions, and breathes forth a spirit of strong, wholesome, inspiriting wisdom. Under the same nom de plume, Dr. Japp has produced studies of the lives and writings of Thomas de Quincy and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and under his own name a larger work on " German life and literature." In 1880, Dr. Japp received the degree of LL.D. from Glasgow University. His poems are at present scattered up and down the pages of magazines, though several of them have already found a deserved place in volumes of selected verse. ISABELLA FYVIF. MAYO. A MUSIC LESSON. Fingers on the holes, Johnny, Fairly in a row : Lift this and then that, And blow, blow, blow ! That's how to play, Johnny, On the pipes sae shrill, Never was the piper yet But needed a' his skill. And lang and sair he tried it, too, Afore he won the knack Of makin' bag and pipe gie His very yearnin's back. The echo to his heart-strings Frae sic a thing to come ; O is it nae a wonder Like a voice frae out the dumb ? Be patient noo, my Johnny lad, Ye must na hurry thro' Tak' time and try it o'er again Sic' a blast ye blew ! A. H. JAPP. 119 It's no alane by blowin' strong, But eke by blowin' true, That ye can mak' the music To thrill folk thro' and thro'. The weak folk and the learnin', 'Tis them that mak's the din ; But for the finished pipers They count it as a sin. And maybe it's the very same A' the world thro' The learners the very ones That mak' the most ado ! Ye know the Southrons taunt us I say na they're unfair About our squallin' music, An' their taunts hae hurt me sair ; But if they'd heard a piper true At night come o'er the hill, Playing up a pibroch Upon the wind sae still. Rising now, and falling now, And floating on the air, The sounds come softly on ye Almost ere ye're aware, And fold themselves about the heart, That haesna yet forgot The witchery o' love and joy Within some lonely spot : I'm sure they wadna taunt us so, Nor say the bagpipes wild, Nor speak o' screachin' noises Enough to deave a child. i2o POPULAR POETS. They would say the bagpipe only Is the voice of hill and glen ; And would listen to it sorrowing Within the haunts of men. Fingers on the holes, Johnny, Fairly in a row, Lift this and then that, And blow, blow, blow ! That's how to play, Johnny, On the pipes sae shrill, Never was the piper yet But needed a' his skill. SUMMER'S ADVENT. A SONNET. Now Summer comes laughing along the lands, With a garland of roses round her brow, And she shakes the gold o'er the grassy knowe, And the wall-flowers flame at the touch of her hands. There is light and odour where'er she stands, Her soft breath is tinting the harebells now, With a blue that might symbol love's sweet vow, And she sows white stars on the alien sands. At the touch of her skirts with a thrill arise The ox-eye daisies and foxgloves tall, That bend and sway with a softer surprise, And the pimpernels that open their eyes To the sun alone : and the finches call To their mates, as the sweet May blossoms fall. A. H. JAPP. THE TANGLED SKEIN. 121 The world's a tangled skein, my child, like that ye hold i' your hand, There's nought but sometime goes amiss, be it ever so well planned ; Life's best may be patient waiting, when our heart is at ease, As they say there's always quiet at the bottom o' the seas ! However wild the waves, they say, deep down is quiet rest ; And so the great peace, my child, is in God's deep o' the breast. And I think if we took counsel of what our spirit tells, And thought of our good Maker more than of any object else, That each of us might do our part to bring that peace to all ; And so the world become again like it was before the Fall. But we run, and, all impatient, break and pull the threads awry, And we seldom think we're much to blame, although we never try To gather up the ragged ends we've left there in our haste, But fancy God will knit them up and pardon all our waste. And, I think, our God does knit them up a scourge for us at last, For every fault comes back to us with other faults o'ercast ; Till of the whole it looks as though God's Providence was bent A patched and ugly dress to make out of our foiled intent, To wrap us round with misery, unless we strive to show Our penitence and willingness to work for Him below ; And then He takes the garment, and He dyes it all of one, Till it shines a spotless token of the beauty we'll put on, When the Son will lead us glorified before the great white throne. I love to talk of heavenly things and tell you what I think, As here we sit at evenings when the sun begins to sink ; When father chats with sister Kate, and the great mill is at rest : It's like a foretaste o' the joy that's promised to the blest. I dunno think I make it plain, as parson does, you know, But of my words you'll maybe think when I lie still and low. I'm sure of this, that happiness ne'er comes by heaping gain, But only to a humble mind, contented to remain In patient, meek obedience to God and His commands, And leaving all the things of time completely in His hands. William Allingham. 1 ERY little beyond the bare outlines is generally known of the career of Mr. William Allingham. There are some natures averse to unmasking themselves before the piercing eyes of the world. They elect to remain in concealment rather than to stand forth in the light of open criticism, preferring that their individuality should find expression only in the results of their labours. We do not complain of, but rather admire, this retiring disposition. Only the biographer suffers. He stands routed and utterly defeated before this graceful reserve. His occupation's gone. The general mind, however, finds much to approve in a nature wont to shrink from publicity. In this loveof retirement this desire to recede from the bright sunshine to the blissful shade lies much of the charm that surrounds halo-like the moss-grown path trodden by one who is with the foremost poets modern Ireland has produced. We will not seek to break in upon this love for quietude, this desire for calm unruffled and peace quite undisturbed. To do so were to net ungenerously indeed ; yet we may perhaps be permitted, without wounding any nature or hurting any feelings, to trace very briefly the career of one whose Muse has delighted many hearts, and is never mentioned save with admiration and high esteem. Mr. Allingham is one of Nature's truest poets. Born on the banks of the river Erne, he is ever discovering fresh glories in the picturesque country through which its waters flow. " Amid the shady woods and sunny lawns, " from which he has drawn much of his material, he delights to linger. Here his family, originally English, has been long settled. Here, also, the beauteous scenery of North West Ireland has inspired many of those lyrics which, besides finding place in the poets' volumes, have enriched the pages of numerous periodicals. To the first number of Household Words Mr. Allingham contributed " The Wayside Well ;" and, both in this msgazine and the Athenaum, his earlier writings, growing in favour as they became more widely known, frequently appeared. In 1850 he published his first volume, " Poems." Four years later appeared " Day and Night Songs, " an enlarged edition of which, illustrated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Millais, and A. Hughes, came forth the following year as an artistic advance upon the original. Not long afterwards Mr. Allingham was appointed editor of Prater's Magazine, in which "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland," one of the poet's most appreciated efforts, made its first appearance. More recently the choicest examples of his writings, not previously arranged, have been collected and published in volume form, thus making a valued addition to the author's best known and most popular works, included amongst which, in addition to those already mentioned, are "Evil May Day," "Ashby Manor, "and " Blackberries." WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. TO EARINl "Earing, Who had her very being, and her name, With the first knots or buddings of the Spring." BEN JONSON. Saint Valentine kindles the crocus, Saint Valentine wakens the birds ; I would that his power could evoke us In tender and musical words ! I mean, us unconfident lovers, Whose doubtful or stammering tongue No help save in rhyming discovers ; Since what can't be said may be sung. So, Fairest and Sweetest, your pardon (If no better welcome) I pray ! There's spring-time in grove and in garden ; Perchance it may breathe in my lay. I think and I dream (did you know it ?) Of somebody's eyes, her soft hair, The neck bending whitely below it, The dress that she chances to wear. Each tone of her voice I remember, Each turn of her head, of her arm ; Methinks, had she faults out of number, Beings hers, they were certain to charm. From her every distance I measure ; Each mile of a journey, I say " I'm so much the nearer my treasure," Or ''so much the farther away." And love writes my almanac also ; The good days and bad days occur, The fasts and the festivals fall so, By seeing or not seeing her. I24 POPULAR POETS. Who know her, they're happy, they only ; Whatever she looks on turns bright ; Wherever she is not, is lonely ; Wherever she is, is delight. So friendly her face that I tremble, On friendship so sweet having ruth : But why should I longer dissemble ? Or will you not guess at the truth ? And that is dear Maiden, I love you ! You sweetest and brightest and best ! Good luck to the roof-tree above you, The floor where your footstep is press'd ! May some new deliciousness meet you On every new day of the Spring ; Each flow'r in its turn bloom to greet you, Lark, mavis, and nightingale sing ! May kind vernal powers in your bosom Their tenderest influence shed ! May I when the Rose is in blossom Enweave you a crown, white and red ! PRIMROSE. (Flowers and Months}. The rancour of the East Wind quell'd, a* thrush Joyfully talking on through glittering rain, O see the yellow tufts along the lane, Crowding the copse round every budded bush, Dotting the dingle by its brooklet's gush, And elm path's mossy border, who not fain To drink their tender sweetness, cool and fresh, The very breath of Spring, return'd again ? WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 125 The Child's Flow'r, in the childhood of the year : Our slopes and woods but yesterday were drear ; Now all the country breaks into a smile Of Primroses, and Youth is full of cheer ; This fragrant vernal breeze in some, the while, Waking old thoughts, unutterably dear. MEADOWSWEET. (Flowers and Months} . Through grass, through amber'd cornfields, our slow Stream- Fringed with its flags and reeds and rushes tall, And Meadowsweet, the chosen from them all By wandering children, yellow as the cream Of those great cows winds on as in a dream By mill and footbridge, hamlet old and small (Red roofs, gray tower), and sees the sunset gleam On mullion'd windows of an ivied Hall. There, once upon a time, the heavy King Trod out its perfume from the Meadowsweet, Strown like a woman's love beneath his feet, In stately dance or jovial banqueting, When all was new ; and in its wayfaring Our Streamlet curved, as now, through grass and wheat. HEATHER. (Flowers and Months}. Vast barren hills and moors, cliffs over lakes, Great headlands by the sea a lonely land ! With Fishers' huts beside a yellow strand, Where wave on wave in foam and thunder breaks, 126 POPULAR POETS. Or else a tranquil blue horizon takes Sunlight and shadow. Few can understand The poor folk's ancient tongue, sweet, simple, grand, Wherein a dreamy old-world half awakes. And on these hills a thousand years ago Their fathers wander'd, sun and stars for clock, With minds to wing above and creep below ; Heard what we hear, the ocean's solemn shock, Saw what we see, this Heather-flow'r aglow, Empurpling league-long slope and crested rock. THE WESTERN WIND. The Western Wind blows free and far Under the lonely Evening Star, Across an ocean vague and vast, And sweeps that Island Bay at last ; Blows over cliff there^over sand, Over mountain-guarded land, Rocky pastures, moors and lakes, Rushing River that forsakes His inland calm to find the tide ; Homes where Men in turn abide ; And blows into my heart with thrills, Remembered thrills of love^and joy. I see thee, Star, above the hills And waves, as tho' again a Boy, And yet through mist of tears. O shine In other hearts, as once in mine, And thou, Atlantic Wind, blow free For others now, as once for me ! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 127 AMONG THE HEATHER. (Irish Songs and Poems). One evening walking out, I o'ertook a modest colleen, When the wind was blowing cool, and. the harvest leaves were falling. ' Is our road, by chance, the same ? Might we travel on together ?' ' O, I keep the mountain side ' (she replied), ' among the heather.' ' Your mountain air is sweet when the days are long and sunny, When the grass grows round the rocks, and the whinbloom smells like honey ; But the winter's coming fast, with its foggy, snowy weather, And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill, among the heather.' She praised her mountain home ; and I'll praise it too with reason, For where Molly is, there's sunshine and flow'rs at every season. Be the moorland black or white, does it signify a feather, Now I know my way by heart, every part, among the heather ? The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls thick and stormy ; Yet I'd travel twenty miles to the welcome that's before me ; Singing hi for Eskydun, in the teeth of wind and weather ! Love'll warm me as I go through the snow, among the heather. 128 POPULAR POETS. CIVITAS DEI. The roads are long and rough, with many a bend, But always tend To that Eternal City, and the home Of all our footsteps, let them haste or creep. That city is not Rome. Great Rome is but a heap Of shards and splinters lying in a field ; Where children of to-day Among the fragments play, And for themselves in turn new cities build. ii. That city's gates and towers, Superber than the sunset's cloudy crags, Know nothing of the earth's all-famous flags ; It hath its own wide region, its own air. Our kings, our lords, our mighty warriors, Ajre not known there. The wily pen, the cannon's fierce report, Fall very short. in. Where is it? . . . Tell who'can. Ask all the best geographers' advice. Is't builded in some valley of Japan ? Or secret Africa ? or isle unfound ? Or in a region calm and warm Enclosed from every storm Within the magical and monstrous bound Of polar ice ? IV. Where is it ? . . . Who can tell ? Yet surely know, Whatever land or city we may claim And count as ours From otherwhere we came, Elsewhither must we go ; Ev'n to a City with foundations low As Hell, with battlements Heaven-high, Which is eternal ; and its place and name Are mystery. Charles Mackay. HARLES MACKAY ! This is a name dear to the heart of every Englishman. It has been breathed with tenderness in every land where our tongue is spoken. Held in high estimation by distinguished critics, it is endeared also to the masses of the people and eulogised by the philanthropist. We do well to cherish such a name, for Charles Mackay has done much, by the freshness and sweet simplicity of his style, by his broad sympathies, and by the manliness of his senti- ments, to open up the unselfish soul of the nation, to reveal, if I may borrow a phrase from Beeton, the love of the holy and the best, and to bring down to earth, as it were, "heaven in its purity and sweetness, and divine, untainted loveliness and glory." Whatever he has keenly felt has manifested itself in language of touching verse. Of this there is no more beautiful example than that to be found in the noble and valorous sentiments poured forth in "The Souls of the Children." This touching poem, the "sweet versification" of which appealed directly to twenty thousand sympathetic hearts, was reprinted at the request of the Prince Consort for cheap and gratuitous circulation among the people, in aid, as the author tells us, "of the great cause of the education of the poor children of the multitude." A member of the Highland family of which Lord Reay is chief, Charles Mackay was born at Perth, in 1814, and educated first in England, and after- wards in Belgium. The publication of a small volume of poems at the age of twenty led to his introduction to the Editor of the Morning Chronicle, and his accession to the editorial staff of this paper. "Are there not," asks Thackeray, " little pages in everybody's life that seem to be nothing, and yet affect all the rest of the history ? " There certainly have been in Charles Mackay's, for his early connection with this once influential and powerful daily journal has exercised a beneficent influence over his life's career. Of this auspicious opening to the profession of journalism he made the utmost advantage, winning golden opinions from all with whom he was brought in contact. The sound experience he acquired in this position well qualified him for the post of Editor of the Glasgow Argus, the then leading Liberal journal of the west of Scotland. This position he occupied from 1844 till 1847. In the meanwhile, he had not neglected his poetic Muse, having published, at intervals, "The Hope of the World ;" "The Salamandrine," which is esteemed by many as his masterpiece; "Legends of the Isles ;" and "Voices from the Mountains." These had secured for him a reputation not less great than that he had won by the vigour and scholarly grace of his numerous prose writings. Indeed, so highly valued were his literary' services that the Glasgow University conferred on him, about this period, the degree of LL. D. 130 POPULAR POETS. Upon the establishment of the Daily News, Dr. Mackay contributed to that journal a series of soul-stirring poems, under the title, " Voices from the Crowd," since published in separate form. For many years he wrote the leading articles of (he Illustrated London News, which first gave this paper a high political and literary position. He has also written for Blaekwood, the Fortnightly, the Nineteenth Century, and many other periodicals ; and more than a quarter of a century ago he himself established the London Review, During the years I 857-58, he undertook a successful lecturing tour in the United States, and published subsequently an interesting and instructive account of his experiences. Four years later he was deputed by the Times to act as its corres- pondent in New York, where he remained till the close of the Civil War in April, 1865, when he proceeded to Canada in the service of the same great journal and first broached authoritatively the Confederation of all the British American Colonies, an idea which speedily took root and was carried into effect in the establishment of what is now the Dominion of Canada. By this period he had published the most noted of his poetic works, the chief amongst which being " Egeria, " " Under Green Leaves," and " A Man's Heart ;" and, as a song writer, had secured world-wide fame with the popular and stirring series of which "Cheer Boys, Cheer," "To the West," "There's a good time coming," and many others equally well-known, are representative. These songs, numbering more than one hundred in all, have been set to music by Sir Henry Bishop, Sir G. A. Macfarren, Mr Frank Mori, Mr. Henry Russell, and other distinguished composers. As a brilliant essayist he also figures ; whilst, as a novelist, he is represented by "Longbeard," "Baron Grimbosh," "Luck, and what came of it," "The Twin Soul," &c. Although volumes of poems, "Studies from the Antique," for example, have during the last few years issued periodically from his study, he has latterly devoted his attention more exclusively to prose, and by the publication of such valuable and erudite works as ' ' The lost beauties of the English Language," "The Gaelic Etymology of the language of Western Europe," " The Founders of the American Republic," and "A Dictionary of Lowland Scotch," has rendered a service to his country that cannot be too highly estimated. Even now he is busy in collecting for an interesting volume the stray effusions of the last five years. Some of these are from American papers and reviews ; others have not yet seen the light. When published they will afford another example of the tireless industry that has been characteristic of their author's method of work for sixty years. Like Carlyle, however, Charles Mackay has never acquired wealth from his works, and it must grieve his numerous admirers to know that there is but small provision for the fleeting autumn of his honoured career. The sea -songs of Charles Dibdin secured from a generous Government a merited reward. Is our generosity now spent, that we make no attempt to repay the yeoman service of such eminent men as Charles Mackay ? I trow not ; but for the fair fame of our island home let it not be said that we forget those who have devoted their whole lives to our interests, or allow the life's harvest-time of one who has been not inaptly named the British Beranger to be partially barren when it should be all golden. CHARLES MACKAY. 131 KING EDWARD AND THE NIGHTINGALES. King Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower Old and enfeebled by the weight of power Sick of the troublous majesty of kings Weary of duty and all mortal things Weary of day weary of night forlorn Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born. Thick woods environed him, and in their shade He roamed all day, and told his beads, and prayed. Men's faces pained him, and he barred his door That none might find him ; even the sunshine bore No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight ; And darkness pleased no better than the light. He scorned himself for eating food like men, And lived on roots, and water from the fen ; And, aye, he groaned, and bowed his hoary head Did penance, and put nettles in his bed Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast Told all his follies all his sins confessed Made accusations of himself to Heaven, And owned to crimes too great to be forgiven, Which he had thought, although he had not done, Blackening his blackness : numbering one by one Unheard of villanies without a name, As if he gloried in inventing shame, Or thought to win the grace of Heaven by lies, And gain a Saintship in a Fiend's disguise. Long in these woods he dwelt a wretched man, Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban Laden with ceaseless prayer, and boastful vows, Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs. But sore distressed he was, and wretched quite, For every evening, with the waning light, A choir of nightingales, the brakes among, Deluged the woods with overflow of song. 132 POPULAR POETS. " Unholy birds," he said, " your throats be riven ! You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from Heaven." But still the song, magnificent and loud, Poured from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud ; Now to his vexed and melancholy ear, Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear ; Anon it deepened on his throbbing brain, To full triumphal march or battle strain ; Then seemed to vary to a choral hymn, Or De Profundis from cathedral dim, " Te Deum," or " Hosanna to the Lord," Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord. He shut his ears, he stamped upon the sod : " Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God ! And thou, beloved saint to whom I bend, Lamp of my life, my guardian, and my friend, Make intercession for me, sweet St. John ! And hear the anguish of thy suffering son ! May never more within these woods be heard The song of morning or of evening bird ! May never more their harmonies awake Within the precincts of this lonely brake, For I am weary, old, and full of woe, And their songs vex me ! This one boon bestow, That I may pray, and give my thoughts to thee, Without distraction of their melody ; And that within these bowers my groans and sighs And ceaseless prayers be all the sounds that rise. Let God alone possess me, last and first ; And, for his sake, be all these birds accursed." This having said, he started where he stood, And saw a stranger walking in the wood ; A purple glory, pale as amethyst, Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist ; And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet, He kissed his garment's hem, and clasped his feet. CHARLES MACKAY. 133 " Rise," said the Saint, " and know, unhappy king, That true religion hates no living thing ; It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man, And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can ; Shares in each harmless joy that nature gives, Bestows its sympathy on all that lives, Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee, And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy. Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers, But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs ; So shall it mount on wings of love to Heaven, And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven." The calm voice ceased ; King Edward dared not look, But bent to earth, and blushed at the rebuke ! And though he closed his eyes and hid his face, He knew the Saint had vanished from the place, And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang With the sweet song the birds of evening sang. No more he cursed them ! Loitering on his way, He listened, pleased, and blessed them for their lay ; And, on the morrow quitted Havering To mix with men and be again a king And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less, Increased in virtue and in happiness. EGERIA. Deep in the shade of high o'er-arching trees, Birches and beeches, elms and knotted oaks, A fountain murmured with a pleasant sound. Not often through those thick umbrageous leaves Pierced the full glory of the noonday sun ; Not often through those pendulous branches hoar Glittered the mellow radiance of the moon. 134 POPULAR POETS. A cool dim twilight, with perpetual haze, Crept through the intricate by-ways of the wood, And hung like vapour on the ancient trees. The place was musical with sweetest sounds, The fountains sang a soft monotonous song ; The leaves and branches rustled to the wind With whispered melody ; the waving grass Answered the whisper in a softer tone ; While morn and eve, the midnight and the noon, Were listeners to the rapturous minstrelsy Of lark, and linnet, nightingale, and merle, And all the feathered people of the boughs. In this calm nook, secluded from the world, The marble statue of a nymph antique Stood in the shadow. Radiant were her limbs With modesty ; her upturned face was bright With mental glory and serene repose ; The full round arms and figure to the midst Displayed the charm of chastest nudity ; A flowery drapery round her lower limbs In ample folds concealed the loveliness, The majesty, and glory of the form. One hand was raised and pointed to the stars, The other, resting on her snow-white breast, Seemed as if it felt the pulsing of her heart ; She stood, the symbol of enraptured thought, And holy musing. At her feet an urn Poured in a marble font a constant stream Of limpid water ; sacred seemed the place To philosophic and religious calm ; The very wind that stirred the upper boughs Seemed as attuned to choral harmonies. Under the pedestal these words inscribed, In Grecian character, revealed her name, " Egeria " he who seeks her here shall find " Love be his light, and purity his guide." CHARLES MACKAY. THE POET. " Who is this ? " said the Moon To the rolling sea, " That wanders so gladly, or madly, or sadly, Looking at thee and me ? " Said the sea to the moon, " 'Tis right you should know it, This wise good man Is a wit and a poet ; But he earns not, and cannot, His daily bread, So he'll die By and by, And they'll raise a big monument Over his head ! " Said the bonny round Moon to the beautiful Sea, " What fools the men of your Earth must be !" THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE. What shall we give him who teaches the nations, And cheers the sad heart with the magic of song, Now melting to sorrow subsiding to patience, Or pealing like thunder in hatred of wrong ? What shall we give him for spreading, like Homer, A halo of light o'er the land of his birth Augmenting its glory, embalming its story, And sowing its language like seed o'er the earth ? Give him ? The scorn of the rich and exalted ! If virtuous, ignore him ; if erring, assail ! Proclaim when he stumbled ! make known how he halted, And point with his follies your venomous tale. Give him ? Neglect, and a crust for his pittance ; And when he is dead, and his glory lives on, A stone o'er his grave shall be all the acquittance The nation shall pay to the greatness that's gone ! 136 POPULAR POETS. ETERNAL JUSTICE. The man is thought a knave, or fool, Or bigot, plotting crime, Who, for the advancement of his kind, Is wiser than his time. For him the hemlock shall distil ; For him the axe be bared ; For him the gibbet shall be built ; For him the stake prepared. Him shall the scorn and wrath of men Pursue with deadly aim And malice, envy, spite, and lies Shall desecrate his name. But Truth shall conquer at the last, For round and round we run ; And ever the Right comes uppermost, And ever is Justice done. Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, Cheerily to and fro ; Trust to the impulse of thy soul, And let the poison flow. They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay That holds a light divine, But they cannot quench the fire of thought By any such deadly wine. They cannot blot thy spoken words From the memory of man, By all the poison ever was brewed Since time its course began. To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored, So round and round we run ; And ever the Truth comes uppermost, And ever is Justice done. CHARLES MACKAY- 137 Plod, Friar Bacon, in thy cave ; Be wiser than thy peers ; Augment the range of human power, And trust to coming years. They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed, And load thee with dispraise ; Thou wert born five hundred years too soon For the comfort of thy days ; But not too soon for humankind. Time hath reward in store ; And the demons of our sires become The saints that we adore. The blind can see, the slave is lord, So round and round we run ; And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong, And ever is Justice done ! And live there now such men as these With thoughts like the great of gold ! Many have died in their misery, And^left their thought untold ; And many live, and are ranked as mad, And placed in the cold world's ban, For sending their bright far-eeeing souls Three centuries in the van. They toil in penury and grief, Unknown, if not maligned ; Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn Of the meanest of mankind ; But yet the world goes round and round, And the genial seasons run ; And ever the truth runs uppermost, And ever is Justice done ! Samuel Waddington. R. WADDINGTON is a native of Yorkshire, and was born in the year 1844, at Boston Spa, a village situate on the banks of that most beautiful of northern streams, the river Wharfe. From the time of Charles I. till the year 1718 his ancestors lived at East Rigton, a little hamlet consisting of some dozen houses adjoining Bardsey, where the poet Congreve was born, and about nine miles from the village of Horsforth, where Longfellow's ancestors resided. It is interesting to note that there appears to have been a connection between the two families, a Miss Long- fellow (sister of Longfellow's ancestor, who emigrated to America in 1680) having married a Mr. Waddington, of Harewood, near Bardsey, who afterwards bought the Longfellow property at Horsforth. From East Rigton the family removed to Oglethorpe Hall, a house once celebrated as the residence of the Oglethorpes. Here Mr. Waddington's ancestors remained for nearly a century, and subse- quently his branch of the family removed to Boston Spa. When thirteen years of age Mr. Waddington was sent to St. John's School, Huntingdon, where, it may be mentioned, Oliver Cromwell was educated. Five years later he was offered a scholarship at St. Peter's College, Cambridge, but as his friends wished him to go to Oxford he matriculated at Brasenose College at that University, and eventually took his B.A. degree in 1865. Soon after leaving Oxford he obtained an appointment at the Board of Trade, which he has now held for upwards of twenty years. As a litterateur his name has, during recent years, become identified in an especial manner with the history and composition of the " Sonnet." In 1881 he published his first volume connected with sonnet-literature, entitled, " English Sonnets by Living Writers," of which a second edition (enlarged) has since been published. In the following year appeared his companion volume, " English Sonnets by Poets of the Past ;" and more recently he has published his own poems under the title of " Sonnets and Other Verse." Respecting this volume a writer in the Saturday Review observed, " These sonnets are no mere metrical exercises. Deft craftmanship was to be expected from a critic of Mr. Wadding- ton's knowledge and equipment. More than this we find in the best examples of this little collection, in 'Through the Night-Watches' and 'To-Day,' for instance. These are very picturesque in ex pression, full of thought and suggestive fancy. The sonnet ' Worship,' written when the poet was but fifteen, is probably unique as a specimen of precocious accuracy and mastery of form." Among the sonnets which have been especially praised are ' Soul and Body,' 'What Gospel?' 'A Metaphysic Cul de Sac,' and 'From Night to Night'; and of the lyrics, ' The C oquette ' and ' The Inn of Care,' the New York paper, the Critic, remarking respecting the last-named that it ' ' has not a little SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 139 of the lilt and swing and singing simplicity of Longfellow and Heine." 'The Coquette' was originally published in Temple Bar, and afterwards in Mr. Davenport Adams' " Latter-Day Lyrics. 5 ' In 1886 Mr. Waddington published a selection of translated sonnets, entitled " Sonnets of Europe," in which he included translations by himself of sonnets by Dante, Leonardo da Vinci, ^Philippe Desportes, and Hugo Hollandius. He has also contributed sonnets to Mr. Andrew Lang's " Ballads of Books " and Mr. William Sharp's " Sonnets of this Century," and several of his other poems appeared in Mr. Gleeson White's " Ballades and Rondeaus." It may be added that Mr. Waddington is also the author of a monograph on the poet, Arthur Hugh Clough, which was published in 1883, and has recently edited a selection of religious verse, entitled, " Sacred Song." LINES WRITTEN BY RYDAL WATER. Worship was a holy maid, Faith a refuge in the shade, Gossips tell me both are gone Tell me, Love, dost thou live on ? Then for wedded heart and head Thou must make one marriage-bed Wisdom as his bride must take Pity for the hearts that ache ! Lo, the children she shall bear, Shall Love's garland'ever wear ; Holy children shall they be, Duty, Joy, and Charity. 140 POPULAR POETS. CHATEAU FREYER. (In the Ardennes.) 'Mid brooding silence and deep solitude Unwatched the dreamy fountains softly play ; The antique trees stand round in quaint array, Trim old-world worshippers of sombre mood : Within this ancient paradise intrude No mortal-mocking thoughts of life's decay, Yet here the youthful wanderer well might pray For age as lovely, with like peace imbued. Fair scene, farewell ! Farewell, lone avenue ! Farewell, farewell, once more old house, adieu ! Thy gift within our heart we long shall keep, Thy treasured memory in our spirit store, Like some fair dream that crowns thy peaceful sleep With days of rapture and old loves of yore. ON THE HEIGHTS. Here where the heather blooms 'Neath the blue skies, Here let us rest awhile, What, if time flies, Joy yet awaiteth us Ere the day dies ! See how the pathway creeps Round the cliff-side ; Serpent-like seemeth it Upward to glide ; Here, 'mid the heather, long We will abide. SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 141 Nature, around us, lies Placid and still, Nature ! thy children, we Wait on thy will, Happy and silent here, Here on thy hill. Are we not part of thee, Born of thee, thine ? Shall we not come to thee, Kneel at thy shrine ? Nature, we turn to thee, Thou art divine ! Peace that is sweet to us, Strife for its leaven. Hate that is hell to us, Love that is heaven, These for our good we know Us hast thou given. Self-love, a secret force Goading us on ; Sympathy holding us Bound-fast in one, Creature to creature linked, Father to son. Hope in the morning, and Strength at the noon ; Rest in the eventide, These are thy boon ; Sleep, with the darkness, thou Sendest, and soon ! Full well thou teachest us, Where'er we turn, All that is meet for us Earthborn to learn, From what is evil here, Good to discern. I 4 2 POPULAR POETS. This, too, we learn ot thee, This to be true, All things about us, both Old things and new, Pass, and the power of them Fades as it grew. While in the manifold Births that unroll, Shaping the universe, Breathes but one soul, One long existence one Infinite whole. HUMAN. Across the trackless skies thou may'st not wander ; Thou may'st not tread the infinite beyond ; In peace possess thy soul, reflect and ponder, Full brief thy gaze tho' Nature's magic wand Light up an universe, and bid thee wonder ! What though beyond the sea there may be land Where grows the vine, where blooms the oleander, Where verdure gleams amid the desert sand, Yet not for thee those foreign, fertile spaces, Remote, unseen, unknown, though known to be ! Thy home is here, and here beloved faces Make sweet and fair the home and heart of thee : Thy home is here, and here thy heart embraces, Life's joy and hope, love, truth, and liberty ! SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 143 Lo, wounded of the world and stricken of sin, Before the gate she comes at night's dread noon ; There on the path, with fallen flowers bestrewn, She kneels in sorrow ere she enters in : Lone and forlorn, with features wan and thin, A shadow crouching 'neath the shadowy moon, One gift she craves, one hopeless, hapless boon, ' Thy pity, Lord, a breaking heart would win ! ' Religion was the Refuge ! In distress There might the sinner flee, the weary press ; Haven where sorrow 'mid the world's mad din Might kneel in silence, and sweet solace find ! Refugium peccatorum, shall mankind Lay waste the sinner's home, yet keep the sin ? A LAST WORD. Truth fails not ! no, in sooth, 'tis we that fail ! Cowards that fear to speak the truth we know ; Traitors, at superstition's shrine that bow ; Mere worshippers of ease that shrink and quail Before the manifest fact that draw the veil Of feigned doubt, enquiring, Is it so ? Fearing the path of bigots, and the blow To halting hearts, how faithful, yet how frail ! Truth faileth never ! O brother man, be brave, And put the Untruth from thee. Truth must save, And truth alone. Darkness, disease, and death, These, these have been thy comrades : henceforth lave Thy soul in lucid waves of light, since faith In truth alone true life environeth. Constance R. Dixon. ONCERNING the literary career of this young and pleasing writer we are not able to say very much, as it has been somewhat brief; but her first volume, "The Chimney- piece of Bruges," which appeared at the end of 1886, gave great promise for the future, and was very favourably re- ceived. "A Swedish Legend" and the sonnets contained in the volume, were written when Miss Dixon was only about sixteen years of age. Mr. Oscar Wilde, after reading the book, invited its fair authoress to join the staff of his paper, the Woman's World; an invitation to which Miss Dixon readily assented. From the ability displayed in such work as she has already done, we have every reason to anticipate that success will attend her efforts in the future ; and we have no hesitation in including some extracts from her writings in our anthology. Our first excerpt is taken from " The Chimney-piece of Bruges." This tragic poem is written in blank verse, and is graphic, concise, and full of interest ; its inception and treatment throughout are powerful and pathetic and give evidence of considerable dramatic skill nicely blended with the charming delicacy of true poetic expression. The legend, which is said to be true, was related to the authoress of the poem whilst at Bruges by a native. It tells how Marie, the young and beautiful bride of Andrea, was treacherously murdered by her husband's most trusted friend, the deed being committed with a dagger having the name of " Andrea " upon it. Suspicion fell upon the husband, who was tried, pronounced guilty, and sentenced to death. The father of the murdered girl, who had never doubted the innocence of Andrea, pleaded so earnestly for the young man's life that the sentence was commuted to imprisonment. For thirty years the unhappy prisoner solaced himself by carving a chimney-piece of exquisite beauty " He wrought the mighty monument of woe, And peopled it with splendid Kings and Queens, And left his murdered Marie's lovely face To last for ever in his native land." Through these long years, Henri, the real murderer, had been living unsuspected ; but, being at last upon his death-bed, made a full confession of his guilt. The priest, horrified at the enormity of the crime, indignantly refused to grant the absolution craved, and the guilty wretch died unshriven and unblest. The news of Andrea's innocence soon spread ; and the priest hastened to communicate the joyful intelligence to the poor prisoner, and to welcome him to freedom. The shock was too great "The artist's worn-out frame fell to the ground, Too weak to bear the sudden shock of joy : The wonder of release. While Henri's guilt Snapt the last chord of life's frail trembling harp." CLAUDE MELVILLE. CONSTANCE E. DIXON. 145 THE CHIMNEY-PIECE OF BRUGES." ***** As his long tale went on, the sick man's voice Grew firmer with the strength excitement gives, Yet at the end he sank exhausted back " Father, absolve me quickly, ere I die ! " But still the grim confessor spake no word ; For in his frosty breast, so long unmoved, The Man rose up and overcame the Priest ! A moment's deadly silence ; then the storm Of righteous human wrath broke out and raged Above the dying cow'ring criminal, As, springing to his feet with flashing eyes, He thundered forth " Son of the Evil One ! Villain ! and wretch ! I cannot find fit words I, used to tales of every sort of crime, I, that for thirty years have heard of sins, Until I deemed I knew all that are wrought In this dark world ! I cannot find a word With which to name thy cruel crime. ' Absolve ! ' Father above ! can I, or any priest, Bearing Thy mercy to the penitent, Presume to stretch its grace to such as This ? One who could first destroy with ruthless hand A fair and faithful daughter of the Church, And then allow the man he had bereaved To suffer in his stead ! Death, or a fate Far worse than death, the slowest martyrdom On record in the world ! Thirty long years Of weary toil, without the artist's meed Of praise ; save when the splendour of his work Surprised a word or two from men who deem Even to this day, that his God-gifted hand Could strike the gentle heart which loved him well ! 146 POPULAR POETS. Thirty long years of woes beyond all words, Borne with a noble patience which hath preached Christ's gospel every day to those around. While thou hast lived in luxury and ease, Thy seared conscience giving thee no pain, Howbeit, doubtless, thou didst often hear The fame of that fine Mantlepiece at Bruges, On which a weary wight had worked for years. And knew in thy black heart, that sculptor sad Was wearing out his life in dark disgrace, Among his fellow-men, for thy foul crime ! And yet no thought of boyhood's happy hours, When Andrea had been all a brother might, Could move thee to a care to right the wrong ! Heav'n were not Paradise if such as thou Could crawl like reptiles through the Pearly Gate. Nay ! ask not absolution ! Only fear Can move to right in such a serpent's soul ! I was a Man before I was a Priest, And man was made God's image, and Christ died That man might rise to what he once had been, By seeing and by loving Christ's pure life. But when a soul for whom He died'rejects His grace, and turns aside to do dark deeds, Careless of pardon till the parting hour, It is the sin against the Holy Ghost. To such no priest of God hath power to say ' Rejoice ! Thy God forgives, thou shalt not die ! ' ' Then came a gasp, an awful rattling sound, And on the pillow Henri's head fell back, A stare of terror in the eyes ; but ere The priest's loud call could bring the waiting leech, That crime-stained soul went forth to face its fate. The grave physician came, and closed the eyes ; And lifting high his crucifix, the Priest CONSTANCE E. DIXON. 147 " In manus tuas, Domine ! " no more. Then turning to the leech : " Before us lies The man who slew Marie, poor Andrea's bride ! Do thou tell Van Mael, spread the news abroad ! While I go straight to set the prisoner free." THE ROAMING SOULS, Wild waves dashing with a weary motion (Far away from Albion's snowy cliffs), Dream-boats drifting on a moonlit ocean, Ghostly figures standing in the skiffs. Two fair forms amid the silence greeting, Sadly, sweetly, as two spirits may, Knowing moontide ne'er could bring their meeting, While those spirits still were wrapt in clay. " Soul ! sweet soul ! ah ! whither art thou drifting, In thy dream-boat o'er this phantom sea ? Round thy barque the mirrored moonbeams shifting, Seem a pathway leading me to thee ! " " Whither, friend ? O see'st thou not uplifted, Far away, the Standard of the Sky ? When my dream-boat under that hath drifted, Safe in harbour shall it ever lie." " Tis the Cross ! on which mine eyes gaze nightly, When the sun sets o'er this southern strand ; If to-night it seem to shine more brightly Twas to guide thee to my far off land ! Here is welcome, from long years of exile, To the heart whose dreams are all of thee ! Stay thy barque then, till the morning sun smile ! Drift no more upon a lonely sea ! " " Nay, dear soul ! a dream can linger never ! Long 'ere morn my barque must fade away, Leave thee lonely by these waters ever, Till the sunlight of eternal Day." Edward Oxenford. HE subject of our present sketch was born at Dulwich, on the 5th January, 1848, and is a relative of John Oxenford, the well-known poet, dramatic author, and critic. Mr. Edward Oxenford received his early education at Denmark Hill Collegiate School, and, afterwards, from private tutors. At a very early age he showed considerable aptitude for poetry and literature, and, as a youth, was a contributor to several periodicals. Being a good mathematician, it was decided that he should adopt the profession of an actuary ; but, finding this dis- tasteful, he relinquished his appointment and decided to follow the more con- genial pursuits of literature. He has embarked in nearly every branch of author- ship, and as a lyric-writer has written over 2,000 songs. " I fear no foe," a bold, manly composition, was his first success, and it has been followed by many others which have found numerous admirers, and become very popular. He is the writer of several books of poems, and joint author of a charming and interesting work entitled " What you will." As a librettist he has also been busy, having written more than 50 operas and cantatas, which have been set to music by well-known composers, and much praised by the critical Press. As a dramatic author he has contributed several pieces to the stage, among which may be mentioned "The Great Mogul," "Rosalie," "Between Two Fires," " This House to Let," and "Prisoners at the Bar," a comic opera which has been performed in the principal provincial towns. He is, further, the compiler of the biographies of various eminent men, including Professors Tyndall and Huxley, the Bishop of Peterboro', Lords Aberdare, Napier of Magdala, and Elcho ; Sir Thomas Whitworth, and the late Mr. Charles Matthews. Mr. Oxenford is the London Correspondent to several provincial papers, and has contributed tales and verse to the columns of the Queen, Graphic, Society, CasselFs Magazine, Girls' Own Paper, &*c., &>c. He was for a considerable time the author of the topical poems appearing in Society, for one of which, "Man the Lifeboat," he received the thanks of the National Lifeboat Institution. CLAUDE MELVILLE. EDWARD OXEN FORD. 149 COME BACK TO ME. I see him ! I gaze in his sorrowful eyes ! I hear his sad voice, that was broken with sighs, As he breath'd a farewell ere he sail'd o'er the sea, And believed that his heart was as nothing to me. I told him O, would that my speech had been dead That he car'd not for me lov'd another instead ! Ah ! those words of distrust I now bitterly rue, For I know, all too late, they were wholly untrue ! O laddie, my laddie, beyond the sea, My heart is a-weary for sake of thee ! No peace in my breast, No moment of rest, O laddie, my laddie, come back to me ! He pleaded, and vow'd that he lov'd me alone ; That his heart and his life were for ever mine own ; But I taunted, and treated his pleadings as dross, O, my heart ! nought on earth can atone for thy loss. So sweet and so tender was he to the last, And I saw the bright tears down his cheek flowing fast ; Yet to him in reply nothing more would I say, So he left me, and wandered in silence away. O laddie, my laddie, beyond the sea, My heart is a-weary for sake of thee ! No peace in my breast, No moment of rest, O laddie, my laddie, come back to me ! POPULAR POETS. OLD CRONIES! Come, draw your chair to the fire, old friend, And fill your glass to the brim ! Come, puff away at a yard of clay, Till the room with the smoke grows dim ! It's a long, long time since we met, old friend, And your face 'tis a treat to see, For the past comes back, and reminds me, Jack, Of the chums that we used to be ! So here's a health to the days gone by ! And a health to the days to be ! Should the world prove unkind, Never mind, you will find A friend to the end in me! As boys we both ran away to sea, To fight for our country's king, And oft and oft, on deck or aloft, Have we laugh'd at the musket's ring ! Not a scrap car'd we who the foe might be, Or how many they were to one, For we knew full well, British pluck would tell, And must win ere the fight was done ! So here's a health to the days gone by ! And a health to the days to be ! Should the world prove unkind, Never mind, you will find A friend to the end in me! 'Tis true we're short of a limb or two, At first it was strange, I know, But tars don't grieve for an empty sleeve, Or a bit of a timber toe ! EDWARD OXENFORD. And if need arose, we again, old friend, Would our cable slip from ashore, And fight for the king, whilst a cheer could ring, As we fought in the times of yore ! So here's a health to the days gone by ! And a health to the days to be ! Should the world prove unkind, Never mind, you will find A friend to the end in me! A WINTER'S TALE. 'Twas a starless night and dreary, And the ground lay deep in snow, As she weary, very weary, Toil'd along with footsteps slow ! And a babe was to her bosom Claspt all closely as she went But a tiny weakly blossom Of her sorrows innocent ! She pass'd outward from the city, Tho' the hour was growing late, To appeal, with song, for pity By the mansions of the gieat ! Long she sang beneath the windows, All a-glow with ruddy light, And she watch'd the many shadows In the dwellings warm and bright. " Ah ! within is wealth and comfort, While e'en bread from me is kept ! " '52 POPULAR POETS. Softly kiss'd her sleeping infant, And, unnotic'd, sadly wept ! Then her voice grew low and feeble, For the cold was hard to bear, Yet she sang, all vainly hoping That some kindly hearts were there ! Sick at heart, she struggl'd homeward To her small and squalid den, And no more her song resounded In the ears of callous men ! For her soul that night was summon'd To the bright Eternal Shore, Where her sorrow turned to gladness, And her sufferings were o'er ! Then the guardian Angels watching, With their never-ceasing love, Saw the lonely babe, and bore it Where its mother dwelt above ! Cc Theodore Watts. LOSELY associated with some of the greatest poets and writers of our time, and exercising a marked influence not only on their work but on their lives, Mr Watts has preserved absolutely his own individuality. Nor must it be supposed that his reputation is in any wise enhanced by even such environments as his : it is amply justified by his published work, small as is that work as yet in point of quantity. Born at St. Ives, and educated in the first instance as a naturalist, he was subsequently trained for the law, and has lived many years in London, where, before he was generally known as anything beyond a conversa- tionalist, he was a prominent member of a famous literary and artistic circle. His verses, however, had been read and much admired by one or two friends well qualified to judge, while his critical influence was felt even before he began to criticise in print. His speciality is the criticism of poetry and imaginative literature generally. In this direction his work has been mainly in the Athenceum (of which he is now the chief literary critic) and the ninth edition of the " Encyclopaedia Britannica." In his article on Rossetti, contributed to the latter, he first employed the phrase "Renascence of Wonder" to describe the distinguishing qualities of some of the best English poetry "since the so-called neo-romantic movement." This phrase and several others originated by him have been widely adopted in England, America, and Germany ; and are likely to be per- manently accepted as terms of definition in criticism. But by far the most important critical essay he has yet published is that entitled "Poetry" in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica." For depth of thought, lucidity of ex- pression, and mastery over the vast field of his materials, the essay is un- surpassed. Mr. Theodore Watts (in literature he has dropped his first name Walter) is also largely identified with what has been sometimes styled the Contemporary, sometimes the natural sonnet, owing to his having formu- lated the ingenious and interesting theory of the "deep melodic law" underlying the octave and sestet of the sonnet corresponding to the flow and ebb of a wave. This theory, as might have been supposed, was much commented on by critics and writers on the sonnet ; but it is now universally accepted. In one of the extracts from Mr. Watts's poems hereinafter given (" The Sonnet's Voice"), he expounds his theory in a manner which happily blends, in Mr. Hall Caine's apt phrase, "scholastic definition with poetic fervour." This is not a fitting occasion for, nor indeed would space permit, a considerable discussion on the subject of the structure of the sonnet ; it may be well, however, to say that although Mr. Watts's 154 POPULAR POETS. predilections are generally towards the Petrarcan type, he by no means holds the opinion that this should be the invariable model, and has written some fine examples in the Shakespearian form. Mr. Watts's "Burden of the Armada" is the only attempt that has yet succeeded in giving a full dra matic picture of the great struggle ; for Macaulay's fine fragment never got beyond a description of the beacon fires, and Mr. W. C. Bennett's continuation in the same metre, though not without a certain vigour, is wanting in intensity of poetic force. Mr. Watts's poem on the subject is the best known, and in many respects the most important one he has yet published, but it is too long to be given here. It is evidently an attempt to do the direct dramatic and concise work which is usually done by the ballad in a new structure that should call up no suggestions of the recognised " etght-and-six '' ballad movement that movement which has been handled so splendidly by a few great poets but worked to death by little ones. Had this poem possessed no higher merit, its directness, combined with dramatic strength its imagi- native intensity, combined with dramatic ardour would alone have made it remarkable. As far as the present writer can form a judgment, it pos- sesses every attribute calculated to make great a poem of dramatic narra- tive. Except to so skilful a metricist as Mr. Watts, the metrical rendering of the sea's billowy movements by a novel combination of octosyllabic and decasyllabic lines and a two-foot refrain would have presented great diffi- culties, and would have seriously impeded the swiftness of movement so essential in battle scenes. Such difficulties, if they were ever felt by the author, have been overcome ; indeed it is, if possible, in the stirring de- scriptions of the various encounters between the English and Spanish fleets in the Channel that the most vivid passages occur : the picturesqueness of individual lines, many in truth forming perfect pictures, being a noticeable feature. Picturesqueness of epithet is always a marked characteristic of Mr. Watts's verse, specially noteworthy examples being found in his two noble companion sonnets "Natura Benigna" and "Natura Maligna. " With regard to the "Ode to Mother Carey's Chicken," the principal poem among the following selections, a poem very generally admired and which Mr. Rider Haggard has publicly singled out as one of the three poems which have "touched and influenced him above all others" if there be truth in Pope's dictum, quoted with approval by Carlyle, that the proper study of mankind is man, then, perhaps, it may be said to have one serious disadvantage, as compared with the Armada poem, in the absence of strictly human interest, except as shown in the writer's sym- pathy with the bird. But the poem is most remarkable, and perhaps in originality of conception, and in the author's abandonment to what may be called the purely imaginative side of natural description, it stands, as the novelist just mentioned seems to think, unrivalled. The other two extracts I have made from Mr. Watts's poetry are sonnets descriptive of two de- velopments of the love-passion. Not only is " The First Kiss " charming because of rhythm, and the perfect ease and simplicity with which the landscape is vitalised by the poet's own passion while the passion grows into an objective picture by the aid of the landscape, but the aspect of THEODORE WATTS. 155 love as a spiritual flame so intense that the grosser fires of the blood are themselves ' ' burnt and purged away " comes upon the reader almost like a revelation. "The Heaven That Was" represents a widely different development of the love-passion. Surely never in the whole range of our poetry has the anguish of regret been more intensely rendered than in the eight lines beginning "When hope lies dead ah, when 'tis death to live." The conclusion of this sonnet, though pregnant with poetic feeling, is not equal to its commencement. It would be an easy, as it certainly would be to me a congenial task, to dwell a little longer on the many beauties and distinctive qualities of Mr. Watts's poetry qualities which will give him a permanent and high place among our poets but enough has already been said to indicate in some measure his position : and my extracts from his work must now be left to speak for themselves. H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN. (On seeing a storm-petrel on a cottage watt and releasing it.) Gaze not at me, my poor unhappy bird ; That sorrow is more than human in thine eye ; Too deep already is my spirit stirred To see thee here, child of the sea and sky, Cooped in a cage with food thou canst not eat, Thy " snow-flake " soiled, and soiled those conquering feet, That walked the billows, while thy " sweet-sweet-sweet " Proclaimed the tempest nigh. Bird whom I welcomed while the sailors cursed, Friend whom I blessed wherever keels may roam, Prince of my childish dreams, whom mermaids nursed In purple of billows silver of ocean-foam, Abashed I stand before the mighty grief That quells all other : Sorrow's king and chief: To ride the wind and hold the sea in fief, Then find a cage for home ! 156 POPULAR POETS. From out thy jail thou seest yon heath and woods, But canst thou hear the birds or smell the flowers ? Ah, no ! those rain-drops twinkling on the buds Bring only visions of the salt sea-showers. " The sea !" the linnets pipe from hedge and heath ; " The sea !" the honeysuckles whisper and breathe ; And tumbling waves, where those wild-roses wreathe, Murmur from inland bowers. These winds so soft to others, how they burn ! The mavis sings with gurgle and ripple and plash, To thee yon swallow seems a wheeling tern. And when the rain recalls the briny lash Old Ocean's kiss thou lovest, when thy sight Is mocked with Ocean's horses manes of white, The long and shadowy flanks, the shoulders bright Bright as the lightning's flash, When all these scents of heather and brier and whin, All kindly breaths of land-shrub, flower, and vine, Recall the sea-scents, till thy feathered skin Tingles in answer to a dream of brine, When thou, remembering there thy royal birth, Dost see between the bars a world of dearth, Is there a grief a grief on all the earth So heavy and dark as thine ? But I can buy thy freedom I (thank God !), Who loved thee more than albatross or gull Loved thee when on the waves thy footsteps trod Dream'd of thee when, becalmed, we lay a-hull Tis I thy friend who once, a child of six, To find where Mother Carey fed her chicks, Climbed up the stranded punt, and, with two sticks, Tried all in vain to scull, THEODORE WATTS. Thy friend who owned a Paradise of Storm The little dreamer of the cliffs and coves, Who knew thy mother, saw her shadowy form Behind the cloudy bastions where she moves, And heard her call : " Come ! for the welkin thickens, And tempests mutter and the lightning quickens !" Then, starting from his dream, would find the chickens Were only blue rock-doves, Thy friend who owned another Paradise Of calmer air, a floating isle of fruit, Where sang the Nereids on a breeze of spice While Triton, from afar, would sound salute : There wast thou winging, though the skies were calm, For marvellous strains, as of the morning's shalm, Were struck by ripples round that isle of palm Whose shores were "Carey's lute." And now to see thee here, my king, my king, Far-glittering memories mirror'd in those eyes, As if there shone within each iris-ring An orbed world ocean and hills and skies ! Those black wings ruffled whose triumphant sweep Conquered in sport ! yea, up the glimmering steep Of highest billow, down the deepest deep, Sported with victories ! To see thee here ! a coil of wilted weeds, Beneath those feet that danced on diamond spray, Rider of sportive Ocean's reinless steeds- Winner in Mother Carey's sabbath- fray When, stung by magic of the witch's chant, They rise, each foamy-crested combatant They rise and fall and leap and foam and gallop and pant Till albatross, sea-swallow, and cormorant Are scared like doves away ! 158 POPULAR POETS. And shalt thou ride no more where thou hast ridden, And feast no more in hyaline halls and caves, Master of Mother Carey's secrets hidden, Master most equal of the wind and waves, Who never, save in stress of angriest blast, Asked ship for shelter, never till at last The foam-flakes hurled against the sloping mast Slashed thee like whirling glaives ? Right home to fields no seamew ever kenned, Where scarce the great sea-wanderer fares with thee, I come to take thee nay, 'tis I, thy friend Ah, tremble riot I come to set thee free; I come to "tear this cage from off this wall, And take thee hence to that fierce festival Where billows march and winds are musical, Hymning the Victor-Sea ! * * * * # Yea, lift thine eyes, my own can bear them now : Thou'rt free ! thou'rt free ah, surely a bird can smile ! Dost know me, Petrel ? Dost remember how I fed thee in the wake for many a mile, Whilst thou wouldst pat the waves, then, rising, take The morsel up and wheel about the wake ? Thou'rt free, thou'rt free, but for thine own dear sake I keep thee caged awhile. Away to sea ! no matter where the coast : The road that turns to home turns never wrong : Where waves run high my bird will not be lost. His home I know : 'tis where the winds are strong ; Where, on her throne of billows, rolling hoary And green and blue and splashed with sunny glory, Far, far from shore from farthest promontory The mighty Mother sings the triumphs of her story, Sings to my bird the song ! THEODORE WATTS. 159 THE SONNET'S VOICE (A metrical lesson by the sea shore). Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine clear, The while my rhymes are murmuring in your ear, A restless lore like that the billows teach ; For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach From its own depths, and rest within you, dear, As through the billowy voices yearning here, Great nature strives to find a human speech. A sonnet is a wave of melody : From heaving waters of the impassioned soul A billow of tidal music one and whole Flows in the " octave ;" then returning free, Its ebbing surges in the " sestet " roll Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea. THE FIRST KISS. If only in dreams may Man be fully blest, Is heav'n a dream ? Is she I claspt a dream ? Or stood she here even now where dew-drops gleam And miles of furze shine golden down the West ? I seem to clasp her still still on my breast Her bosom beats I see the blue eyes beam : I think she kiss'd these lips, for now they seem Scarce mine : so hallovv'd of the lips they press'd ! Yon thicket's breath can that be eglantine ? Those birds can they be Morning's choristers? Can this be Earth ? Can these be banks of furze ? Like burning bushes fired of God they shine ! I seem to know them, though this body of mine Pass'd into spirit at the touch of hers ! i6o POPULAR POETS. THE HEAVEN THAT WAS (A sleepless night in Venice). When hope lies dead Ah, when 'tis death to live And wrongs remembered make the heart still bleed, Better are Sleep's kind lies for Life's blind need Than truth, if lies a little peace can give ; A little peace ! 'tis thy prerogative, O Sleep ! to lend it ; thine to quell or feed This love that starves this starving soul's long greed, And bid Regret, the queen of hell, forgive. Yon moon that mocks me thro' the uncurtained glass Recalls that other night, that other moon, Two English lovers on a grey lagoon, The voices from the lantern'd gondolas, The kiss, the breath, the flashing eyes, and, soon, The throbbing stillness : all the heaven that was CCA Clement Scott. HERE are in the variety and multiplicity of our labours some tasks that we approach with peculiar, and, indeed, cordial pleasure ; and to discourse of the qualities of a man the gracefulness and purity of whose writings we have learned to admire and to hold in high esteem, may be allowed to rank with, the first of these. Mr. Clement Scott has many admirers. As a poet his touching sentiments and dainty conceits appeal to a large circle ; as a dramatist he finds numerous followers ; whilst as a philanthropist, and one, moreover, whose words and deeds are full of the milk of human kindness, he has accomplished much good and useful work. To this delightful trinity of characters Mr. Scott adds the rdle of critic ; and it is as a critic that he is best known and most respected. When the leaves on the trees where changing their colour in 1888, and the berries on the hedges were beginning to ripen, Mr Scott, who commenced his career on the Sunday Times, was celebrating on the staff of the Daily Telegraph his silver wedding with dramatic criticism. Through long years he has worked honourably at a post in which he has attained a position that may be regarded as unique. The dramatic student does not live who cannot follow with pleasure and delight this critic's detailed reviews of new productions and interesting revivals. There is a refinement, an artistic finish, a surpassing thoroughness about these works that no other contemporary critic, if we except, perhaps, Mr. William Archer, has yet revealed. When, moreover, we remember that these criticisms are written when the day's work is ordinarily over, and that there can be no parleying with Time or the relentless printer, we may well wonder that even this facile pen never falters, and that every idea is as perfectly connected as it is set down lucidly and clearly. . Whether as a dramatist or as a critic, Mr. Scott has had but one aim throughout his career, and this has been the purification of the Stage from the contaminating influences that have sometimes manifested themselves, and the maintenance of all that is best, most wholesome, and instructive in the drama of the day. There is little necessity to give detailed proof of this assertion ; its truth is already well known and widely recognised. We may, however, be permitted to mention that no better evidence of this noble end can be found than in the pure and wholesome motives of such essentially human plays as " Sister Mary," "The Cape Mail," "Diplomacy," " Off the Line, " "Tears, Idle Tears," and many others of which Mr. Scott is the author or part author. In his capacity as critic Mr. Scott has performed similar, if not greater, service for the drama ; and we have only to recall to mind his vigorous onslaught on " Ariane " to appreciate how fully he has at heart the cause of the Stage and the profession of Actors. Of this play, if I remember rightly, he said, "It does not contain one scene 1 62 POPULAR POETS. that can be remembered with pleasure, or a single man or woman, from one end of the story to the other, that can be regarded save with a shudder of disgust." No greater tribute to the worth of this or any review could be paid than that which a brother journalist and editor spontaneously wrote, that " it ought to be written in letters of gold." The son of a benevolent clergyman, Mr Scott has inherited in an unusual degree his father's noble views and lofty sentiments. He was born eight and forty years ago at Christ Church Parsonage, Hoxton, and received his education at Marlborough College, Wiltshire. Here it was, a diligent, lively lad at school, that he wrote his first poem, which appeared under the title of " The Wreck of the Royal Charter " in the poets' corner of the Marlborough Times. On quitting college in the year 1860, he was appointed by Lord Herbert of Lea, to a clerkship in the War Office. To many a man of literary aims and high ambitions, the duties of the desk would have proved insufferably irksome. Mr Scott, however, did not seem to find them so, for the ap- pointment he had secured he held without intermission till the spring of 1879, when he retired on a pension. Happily for the development of those abilities which he displayed at an early age, Mr Scott found ample leisure in these years spent at the War Office to pursue his studies in literature and to follow that profession for which he was so eminently qualified. His first Vers de Societe having been printed in Temple Bar, by Edmund Yates, we find him subsequently a constant contributor to Fun in such excellent company as that of Harry Leigh, Jeff Prowse, and Savile Clarke. As dramatic critic he was employed until the year 1873, when his connection with the Daily Telegraph commenced successively on the Sunday Times, the Weekly Dispatch, and the Obset ver. In addition to his contributions to Fun, he also wrote poetry for Punch after Mr Burnand assumed the editorship. In this satiric journal appeared many of those poems afterwards issued in volume form, under the titles, "Laysot a Londoner," "Poems for Recitation," and lastly a volume of collected poems, "Lays and Lyrics," in the charming handy volume series published by Routledge and Sons. In connection with the second named, it may be interesting to mention that his first work of this nature, "The Cry of the Clerk," was quoted in extenso in the Times. If we follow further his career, we shall find that it has been Mr Scott's happy custom to publish in volume form the pink of his contributed articles, whether in prose or poetry. In this manner, his holiday papers, " Round about the Islands " and " Poppy Land Papers," have been collected and issued as separate publications. Mr Scott is still associated with the editorial staff of the Daily Telegraph, whose columns, in addition to those of the Illustrated London News, to which he is a frequent contributor, his graceful and smooth-flowing contributions help materially to adorn. CLEMENT SCOTT. 163 THREE KISSES. An angel, with three lilies in her hand, Came winging to the earth from Paradise ; They changed to kisses ere she reached love's land, And fell upon the brow, the lips, the eyes. First was the kiss of purity and peace Lonely they sat together by the fire To him from sorrow came a dear release, To her the shadow of a dim desire. Two aimless souls had ceased their wandering, Two fettered spirits struggled to be free ; To sweet love's garden came the blossoming, The tender leaf unfolded on Love's tree, The Kiss of Sanctity ! Next was the kiss of soul bound unto soul They stood at night beneath a ruined tower Dimly they heard the waves' eternal roll, Life was embodied in a single hour ! The one strong moment in a love divine, The Present shadowing Futurity ; No fate, no time, no terror could combine To rob that silence of its ecstasy The Kiss of Unity ! Last came the kiss of dear love perfected, Sad in the chamber of the thing called Death ! Two tapers at the feet, two at the head, The murmured prayer, the low, half-sobbing breath, But brighter yet in distance far away, A gathered army of the souls that live ; The golden dawn of a transcendent day, When angels of the lilies come to give The Kiss Eternity ! 164 POPULAR POETS. THE MIDNIGHT CHARGE. Pass the word to the boys to-night ! lying about midst dying and dead Whisper it low ; make ready to fight ! stand like men at your horse's head ! Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles your pistols thrust ; Then, setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy bite the dust ! What did they call us, boys, at home ? " Feather-bed soldiers ! " faith, it's true ! " Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a grand review ! " Feather-bed soldiers ? Curse their chaff ! Where in the world, I should like to know, When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier sorry to go ? Brothers in arms, and brothers in heart ! cavalry ! infantry ! there and then ; No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die like Englishmen ! So pass the word in the sultry night, Stand to your saddles ! make ready to fight ! We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching for miles away ; We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with our swords to-day ! Our horses look with piteous eyes they have little to eat, and nothing to do ; And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly blue. But it's over now, so the Colonel says : he is ready to start, we are ready to go : And the cavalry boys will be led by men Ewart ! and Russell ! and Drury-Lowe ! CLEMENT SCOTT. 165 Just once again let me stroke the mane let me kiss the neck and feel the breath Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the battle to life or death ! " Give us a grip of your fist, old man ! let us all keep close when the charge begins ! God is watching o'er those at home ! God have mercy on all our sins ! So pass the word in the dark, and then, When the bugle sounds let us mount like men !" Out we went in the dead of the night ! away to the desert, across the sand Guided alone by the stars of Heaven ! a speechless host, a ghostly band ! No cheery voice that silence broke ; forbiddea to speak, we could hear no sound But the whispered words, " Be firm, my boys !" and the horses' hoofs on the sandy ground. " What were we thinking of then ?" Look here ! if this is the last true word I speak, I felt a lump in my throat just here and a tear came trickling down my cheek. If a man dares say that I funked, he lies ! But a man is a man, though he gives his life For his country's cause, as a soldier should he has still got a heart for his child and wife ! But I still rode on in a kind of dream ; I was thinking of home and the boys and then The silence broke ! and a bugle blew ! then a voice rang cheerily, " Charge, my men !" So pass the word in the thick of the fight, For England's honour, and England's might ! What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night ? I can scarcely tell, For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind of hell ! I should like you to see the officers lead forgetting their swagger and Bond Street air 1 66 POPULAR POETS. Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo, and troopers swear ! With a rush we are in it, and hard at work there's scarcely a minute to think or pause For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour, and country's cause ! Feather-bed warriors ! On my life, be they Life Guards red, or Horse Guards blue, They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers showed them at Waterloo ! It isn't for us. who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they wrong or right ; We've to keep the oath that we gave our Queen ! and when we are in it we've got to fight. So pass the word, without any noise, Bravo, Cavalry ! Well done, boys ! Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairly won, A message has come from the Empress-Queen just what we wanted a brief " Well done !" The sword and stirrups are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels are empty quite, And the poor old chargers' piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the desperate fight. There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is scarred and red ; There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the " pal " who's dead ; I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war ; but the world at large It knows so well when duty's done ! it will think sometimes of our cavalry charge ! Brothers in arms and brothers in heart ! we have solemnly taken an oath ! and then, In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers like Englishmen ! So pass this blessing the lips between 'Tis the soldier's oath God Save the Queen. CLEMENT SCOTT. 167 THE ANGEL'S VISIT. AN ALLEGORY IN VERSE. I was alone ! The City sad with sleep, Where tears are sown that time alone can reap, Distance before, behind the darkened street, The empty pavement echoed to my feet, And mist-crowned spires of churches to the sky Pointed from earth to heaven reproachfully ! I passed a darkened home I held my breath, Feeling the presence and the chill of death There, taper-lighted, in a chamber lay, Covered with flowers, a cold face, cut in clay ! One woman o'er his features bent to scan The marble relic of what once was man ! The lily scent revived remembered years, Each flower's chalice held the dew of tears ; Each kiss on that dear forehead, calm and white, Shut out the world, revealed the infinite ! " If he would only whisper now," she said, " What are the buried secrets of the dead ? If he could only wake just once to know The bitter truth, that I have loved him so ! This one lone soul I would have died to save I cannot rescue from to-morrow's grave." Revolt and anguish in her senses mix, As from her neck she tears a crucifix ; Then on his heart she leaves it in the gloom, And kneels heart-broken, in that haunted room. Once more I wandered till a woman's cry Shivered to all the pale stars in the sky. In a low street, neglected and alone, In faded beauty and with heart of stone, Her tarnished hair falling on soiled neck, Of all that once was beautiful, the wreck, 1 68 POPULAR POETS. Lay there neglected in the morning grey Man's ruined plaything, broken by the way ! "There is no mercy in the world," she said, " For sinners such as I," then bowed her head, And from the lips that once were roses twain Poured from her heart release of prison'd pain : " I could have borne the sorrow and the smart Men seal in blood upon a woman's heart ; I could endure reproach of the defiled, And die a thousand deaths to save my child ! I'd suffer all that such as I endure, I am polluted she at least is pure ! They took my child, by God's sweet mercy sent, For she was dying for my nourishment ; Another's arms will rock her to her rest, A maiden mother soothe her on her breast ; The patient Sisters watch her troubled sleep, Whilst I, her outcast mother, can but weep." I wandered on, and found one lonely light Breaking the darkness of the silent night. There, in a garden hospital, had grown The flowers God had planted for his own. Soft guarded by sweet Sisters undefiled, Lay, racked with pain, the suffering little child : Fever had made the infant's face grow old, And agony bedewed her hair of gold. " There may be hope," they whispered as she lay ; " God's flowers waken at the dawn of day." And as they spoke, a faint flush in the sky Gilded the sleeping city lovingly. From out the lilac of the lovely east Three guardian angels were from heaven released. One, crowned with lilies, to death's chamber sped ; One flew to raise the outcast's lowly head ; One folded wings above the infant's bed. CLEMENT SCOTT. 169 Then to the troubled heart one angel said : " Take heart, be comforted, though he be dead. Love is a bridge, pass on, but do not stay ; Love is an hour, the minutes count, but pray. Love has divided you, oh ! pause and see The endless rapture of eternity. He waits for you in that eternal glow That some can picture, none can ever know. The love desired on earth is sometimes given To those who pray, and meet again in heaven." The second angel soothed the outcast's sighs, Kissing the tear-drops from her weary eyes : " You loved much ! There is no punishment For such as make confession and repent. Come, with your tears to wash the bruised feet, Broken with stones of the unlovely street, Lean on the sacred heart, its pity see ; ' Depart in peace, thy faith hath savdd thee.' When did the sinner cry in vain ? Ah, when ? The purest saint is perfect Magdalen." The third sweet angel on the infant smiled, And soothed with sleep the suffering little child, And the sweet angels watching by the bed Knew morn had come and agony had fled. The sleeping city woke to life anew, As back to heaven three guardian angels flew ; And three poor tortured creatures felt release, Chastened by comfort of a promised peace. Winging their rosy way to realms above, The Angels pointed to Eternal Love. H. T. Mackenzie Bell. F recent years the name of Mr. Mackenzie Bell has become familiar to an increasing circle of readers through his mono- graph on Charles Whitehead, and his contributions to the Academy and other London journals, both in prose and verse. Not that his career by any means began with these ; he has been an assiduous verse-writer and essayist for a num- ber of years ; but he was, till about 1884, little known to the general public. He has had from childhood to struggle against physical drawbacks which would have discouraged most men ; and, in choosing the career of literature, which he did on coming to reside in London a few years ago, he showed no little boldness and determination. Suffering from a weakness in the right side the result of infantile paralysis he has exhibited indefatigable perseverance and devotion to his loved pursuits and studies. He has to use his left hand for writing. In all his compositions there are the marks of patient culture. In his prose studies keen curiosity for facts and careful analysis are the leading notes, with a well-controlled sympathy, which seldom becomes effusive. His poetry is varied in style from the ballad to the simple lyric from the dramatic sketch to the patriotic or didactic song. A few of his sonnets are particularly finished, one of them having found a place in the valuable collection of Mr. William Sharp, and one or two of his poems show a decided gift of quiet humour, "Waiting for the Dentist" at once occurring to the mind here. A whole section of his poems, and one which deserves more attention than it has received, are his " Verses of Travel," rhymed records of impressions of scenes in Spain, in Italy, Madeira and other places the state of his health at one time having rendered necessary recourse for long periods to southern climes. His books present many proofs of how a temporary disadvantage can, by the wise and observant man, be turned to gain. In the preface to his " Old Year Leaves," Mr Bell, in the most healthy and humorous way, assigns himself the humble niche of a "minor poet," classifying the fraternity, however, and characterising with apt and ingenious touch the section with which he would fain be ranked : " There is one class of minor poet which, in my judgment, has a right to " "exist, if only because it is a modest class, and because, being modest, it is true " "to its name, I mean the minor poet who sings the songs of minor life, leaving " "' the larger utterance ' to higher voices; who lives on the lowly plains of" "every-day experience, and does not pretend either to the sweep of vision or" "compass of voice of those who dwell on the heights." Mr. Bell's leading note is healthy simplicity, unaffected, affectionate, sincere, and simple naturalness. If he does not ascend very high, he never H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. 171 descends too low : he sings of what he knows, and he finds the fitting note modestly objective, and alternatively joyous and r pathetic, as the sights and sounds of nature recall or suggest the contrasted elements of which human life is made up sun and shadow, sorrow and tears, laughter and sighs, pleasure and pain. Mr. Mackenzie Bell was born on the 2nd of March, 1856. His father, who had been for many years a resident in Buenos Ayres, was then a Liverpool merchant. His mother is a sister of the late Scottish judge, Lord Mackenzie, author of the well-known "Studies in Roman Law." His physical weakness in youth caused him to be educated almost entirely at home ; but his own aptitude for learning so far made up for this disadvantage that, in the beginning of 1874, it was arranged he should go to the University of Edinburgh with the view of taking his M.A. degree, and afterwards proceeding to Trinity Hall, Cambridge, preparatory to entering on a legal career in London. Working very hard with this object proved too much for his strength. His health completely broke down ; and he had, under medical orders, to relinquish the plan, and eventually to go abroad, visiting many noted health resorts. Spain exercised a powerful influence on his mind, as was to be expected, and it is visible in his writings. By-and-by, he was so far recovered as to be able to fall back on habits of study and literary work, and produced many verses, most of which appear in his published volumes. "The Keeping of the Vow" a very successful ballad was written in 1877. His first volume, to which this poem gave the title, was issued in 1879. "Verses of Varied Life" followed in 1882. In the autumn of 1883 "Old Year Leaves" appeared. It contains some of his most finished work. In 1884 he published his biographical .and critical monograph : "A Forgotten Genius: Charles Whitehead" a man of remarkable genius, admired by Dickens and Rossetti, but, like so many men of genius, the victim of vices which at last undid him. Mr Bell's volume, discriminating and effective as it is, asserts for him something of classic position, and will do much to preserve his memory and send students of literature to his books. It was very favourably received by the most influential critical journals. Mr Bell is at present engaged on a book dealing with fiction during the last eighty years which is shortly to be published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus. In 1885, new editions of Mr. Bell's poems were issued by Mr. Fisher Unwin, with considerable rearrangement of contents. The three specimens we give pretty faithfully represent Mr Bell's varied styles. ALEXANDER H. JAPP. 172 POPULAR POETS. IN MEMORIAM W. E. FORSTER. (Obiit, April j", 1886.) Oh stalwart man and pure whose earnest face Mirrored thy fair-orbed soul ; whose every deed Made answer to thy word ; who gav'st no heed To foolish babble or the lust of place. Who, grieved to see thy country's hapless case For lack of knowledge, cam'st when great her need, With succour just and meet ; whose civic creed Was not of party, but took in the race. A year has passed since thou wert laid to rest, Yet fragrant is thy memory ; thy bequest A work whose scope and grandeur Time shall gauge. England some day, her daughter-lands apart No longer, will remember thee whose heart Fired hers to win her world-wide heritage. THE KEEPING OF THE VOW. (AD. 1330) King Robert Bruce is dying, uncertain comes his breath, And the last strife for failing life will soon be won by death ; Around his couch the courtiers stand, and heave full many a sigh, In dire dismay and grief are they to see their monarch die. " Sir James of Douglas, come ! " he cries, " thou ever wert my friend, And though we part, 'tis well thou art with me unto the end. When in great straits, I vowed to God if He would grant to me That War should cease in perfect peace, and Scotland should be free, His blessed banner I would bear to sacred Palestine, H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. 173 With arms to quell "the Infidel : such my supreme design. And grieved am I that here I lie, life ebbing fast away, This gnawing pain now proving vain the hope my vow to pay. Then promise me right faithfully, when I am laid at rest, That with my heart thou wilt depart to do my last behest ! " " I pledge my knightly word, my liege, thy bidding shall be done, And though so sad, yet am I glad such favour to have won ! Safe in my bosom shall thy trust abide with me for ever, Unless perchance in peril's hour 'twere best that we should sever." The king smiles faintly in reply then gently falls his head, And on his grand old follower's breast bold Robert Bruce lies dead. With pennons gay and proud array doth Douglas then depart, And in a casket carefully he keeps the kingly heart. Crossing the main and sighting Spain, he hears of that wild war Which Moor and Christian long have waged with ceaseless conflict sore; Forthwith he deems that here it seems his mission first should be, And with his host soon swells the boast of Spanish chivalry. The armies twain on Tebas' plain extend a splendid sight ! In armour dight with weapons bright, impatient for the fight ; The summer sunbeams on the shields of warriors brave are glancing, And o'er the plain spurs many a man with charger proudly prancing, Whose gallant crest, stirred by the breeze, full gaily now is dancing, While each Moslem there with scimitar, upon his Arab horse, Moves with a calm courageous mien, unswerving in his course : And thus at length the stately strength the Cross and Crescent wield, As deadly foes now darkly close upon this fatal field. The Spaniards' stroke hath bravely broke the dense opposing line ! Yet none the less both armies press around their standard-sign, And though many a Paynim late so proud lies lifeless on the plain, While good Castilian jennet's seen unguided by the rein. First in the van the Douglas rides, with all his men-at-arms, A valiant company they are, inured to war's alarms, 174 POPULAR POETS. The veterans of a hundred fields, for whom it had its charms, With spur and rein they onward strain on the retreating foe, And in the chase can scarcely trace the road by which they go, Till, looking back upon their track, with horror now they see The ranks opposed once more have closed they are in jeopardy ! " We find full late the danger great," Sir Douglas cries. " Return ! And charge the foe like Scots who know the rout at Bannockburn ; Surely the men who vanquished then vain Edward's vast array No caitiff Moor can e'er o'ercome on this victorious day !" Thus speaking, swift he turns his steed, and gallops to the rear, Mid battle's tide his dauntless ride as gallant doth appear As the swimmer's strife who strives for life, yet feels no craven fear. And as they passed the blows fell fast : stern was the conflict wild, With steeds and men, who ne'er again would rise, the field was piled. Yet Douglas true, with still a few, has almost cut his way With wondrous force resistless straight through the grim array, When glancing quickly round, he sees, still struggling in the fight, The noble Walter St. Clair, a very valiant knight. They oft were nigh in days gone by, on many a bloody field, And oft had they in tourney gay their chargers swiftly wheeled, " Ride to the rescue ! " Douglas shouts ; " dash on, and do not spare, To save yon matchless comrade, which man of you will not dare ! " Urging his horse with headlong force, he rushes to his aid, And many a tunic's fold is cleft by his resistless blade ; Yet he is left of friends bereft fierce foemen all around, And mid the roar of mortal strife of succour not a sound. Now snatches he the jewelled casque in which the Heart reposes ('Twas strange to see how lovingly his hand upon it closes), And flings it forward 'mong the foe around him, with the cry, ''Press on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont : I follow thee or die ! " With lifted lance he makes advance to where his treasure fell, Each crash of blow now fast, now slow like a rude requiem knell And left alone, yet ne'er o'erthrown, he grapples with the foe, Until a sword-thrust piercing him at last doth lay him low ; Then gallantly he fights awhile, half kneeling on the plain, H. T. MACKENZIE BELL. 175 And there, exhausted by his wounds, he finally is slain. So died this grand old hero ! In Douglas Kirk he sleeps, While history the record proud of his achievements keeps. WAITING FOR THE DENTIST. Though many dismal years I've been To dull old Care apprenticed, The worst of the small woes I've seen Is waiting for the dentist ! How dreary is the cheerless room In which you bide his pleasure, The very chairs seem steeped in gloom, And sorrow without measure. As if so wild mute-molar grief, So uncontrolled its swelling, That its fierce tide had sought relief By deluging the dwelling. What though of literature a store Is lying on the table, You only think the books a bore ; To read you are unable. What from the window, though, perchance, You see forms full of graces, They merely make you look askance, And think how sore your face is. On many chairs and sofas, too, More martyrs round you languish, You glance at them, they glance at you, And give a groan of anguish. 7 6 POPULAR POETS. You deem it hard, their turn arrives Before you in rotation, Or they wax wroth that yours deprives Their case of consolation. You muse upon the ruthless wrench Which buys a tooth's departing Or how the stopping pangs to quench, In which you may be starting. Or haply on these ivory chips, Harsh Nature may deny you, But which the " golden key " equips Man's genius to supply you. No words your mood of mind express, A mood devoid of quiet, In which pain, pleasure, and distress Mingle in hopeless riot. Yes, though much sorrow one must know, While to old Care apprenticed, The greatest unheroic woe Is waiting for the dentist. C Katharine Tynan. ATHARINE Tynan is a young author whose writings in part National are inspired by, and are entirely in sympathy with, aspirations and hopes in Ireland. Her political poems are full of that pathos and weird wistfulness which are so peculiar to Irish poetry ; she sings of the dead, rather than the living, active patriot, and her lines on Patrick Sarsfield are an illustration of this : " Ah ! Patrick Sarsfield, when you lay, With your life-blood flowing amain, You looked at the dark stain on your hand, And ' Would it were shed for my own dear land, ' You cried in your spirit's pain. Did you long, true heart, in their alien clay, For a mossy churchyard mound, With the shamrocks shrouding you close and sweet, From the weary head to the weary feet, In the blessed Irish ground ? " Her religious, as well as her political sentiments, are also in accord with her surroundings, and find such pure and beautiful expression in all her writings as to endear her to the warm-hearted, imaginative people of her native land. Living, as she does, near Dublin, in the village of Clondalkin, a simple country district surrounded by romantic hills, her mind seems to reflect all the tints, shades, and colours of her rural surroundings. Singing of her native hills, she says : Yester' eve they were silver-grey, Soft as the young dove's breast ; And rose and amber hues have they When the sun goes in the saffron West ; And all the vales are purple-black Below the paling day-star's track. I know all tender shades on them, I love them in all moods Kingly robe and diadem, 178 POPULAR POETS. Or mist that like a grey bird broods ; Their vapoury clouds that sail and glide The rain that clothes them like a bride. My hills are like great angels, Whose wide wings sweep the stars And peace for their evangels Cried clear across earth's fumes and jars ; My hills stand all unchangingly, While man's short days go by, go by. Her writings are not numerous, and a critic might find some crudities and irregularities in her versification. Everything is seen, as it were, through coloured glasses ; the " blue hills," and the " rose and amber hues,' 1 which they have when the sun goes down in the "saffron west ;" the "rose-blue skies ;" the quaint old gardens, "In whose green gloom red lilies stand for warden." All her pictures are highly coloured, and bear testimony to the fervour and warmth of her heart, rather than to her technical skill and maturity of judgment. This is not to be wondered at in one so young, impressionable, and impulsive. To most readers, her freshness and simplicity will give pleasure, as they are sweetly blended with a true devotion to her native land, and that pure religious senti- ment with which she is herself so deeply imbued. Miss Tynan was born in Dublin, and educated in the Dominican Convent of St. Catherine of Sienna, Drogheda. In 1885 she published her first volume of poems, "Louise de la Valliere," which was well received, and won praise from such eminent judges as Cardinal Newman, Cardinal Manning, Lord Lytton, and the Rossettis. Two years later she issued another volume, entitled "Shamrocks.' These publications procured Miss Tynan a place in the literary world, and she is now a contributor to many of the best of the literary and artistic magazines of her own country and the United States of America. CLAUDE MELVILLE. KATHARINE TYNAN. 179 AUTUMNAL. In September The land grows gold with miles of waving wheat : Sad heart, dost thou remember How tall and fair the green spears stood in May ? Alack ! the merry morn that might not stay ; 'Tis sunset now, and night comes, grey and fleet. In September Droopeth the red fruit in the orchard close : Sad heart, dost thou remember How the boughs bloomed auroral in the May, Waxed paler, flushed rose-redder day by day ? For these we shall have Winter with his snows. In September Chirps the bright robin with his breast a-fire : Sad heart, dost thou remember How the thrush trilled her love-song in the May, And the bold blackbird sang when eve was grey? Silence hath fallen on all the tuneful choir. In September Redly the trees like wind-blown cressets burn : Sad heart, dost thou remember How the leaves gleamed transparent in the May, And danced against the sky in happy play ? The hearth grows cold, the fires to ashes turn. In September The green young world is waxen old and sere : Sad heart, dost thou remember The golden breath the cowslips had in May, How the breeze waved each scented hawthorn spray ? Our year goes out, and we go with the year. James As her oft Noble. R. James Ashcroft Noble was born in Liverpool, in 1844, and educated partly at the Liverpool College and partly at a private school established by one of the masters of that institution to whom he was warmly attached. It was intended that he should next proceed to Trinity College, Dublin, but, owing to delicate health interfering with that design, he was placed in a solicitor's office instead. He was, however, soon obliged to relinquish law also ; and the next few years of his life were spent for the most part in seeking health at this place and that, and find- ing little. Another quest was more successful, for it was certainly during these apparently "barren days" that he laid the foundation of that literary knowledge, deep as wide, which has since done him such good service. His love of books seems to have been of that "great passion" order, which, while it "gloriously forgets " itself and plunges right and left in the great sea, still finds its own by an instinctive propulsion. But although, doubtless, "a book and a nook," whatever and wherever, were happiness enough for him, and though, of course, all manner of belles- lettres (to employ a useful word which the Westminster alone seems to preserve from desuetude) were contemporaneously devoured, it would seem that for the fruits of "sweet philosophy" the young Noble felt most "thirsty longing." Of this his earliest work bears witness, for the first of all his printed writing was a series of articles, which appeared in the Liverpool Mercury, relating to the " Essays and Reviews " controversy, then at its height, and entitled "The Present Crisis in the Church." Other literary activity found expression in various articles and poems contributed to All the Year Round, Chambers' Journal, the Victoria Magazine, Fraser's, &c. , and about this time he was offered his first regular work, as principal reviewer of the Liverpool Albion, then a morning daily. While hold- ing this appointment, in 1872, Mr. Noble published his first book, "The Pelican Papers: Reminiscences and Remains of a Dweller in the Wilderness," which, having passed through two editions, is now out of print, and rarely to be met with. Pelican's story is told partly in the narrative of his friend, partly in records of his conversation and extracts from his letters and " remains." Among these are literary and philosophical essays of rare insight and wonderful maturity of expression, brightened by "a pretty wit," and occasionally by a "copy of verses," which Pelican would shyly produce now and again from a certain mysterious black box. Several of Mr. Noble's finest poems are among these, the first and second of the selections for instance though printed as here, or even as in the volume of collected verse, they seem to have no right away from the pleasant prose wherein one first found them. Buttercups are sweet in a garland, but sweeter nestling here and there amid the grass. Though, of course, ' ' She JAMES ASHCROFT^ NOBLE. 181 and I " is for all the world of lovers, it is best to find it shining like a happy golden tear in the heart of its own love-storyPaul Pelican's story of " Love and Death." And, while talking of lovers, I must not forget that the volume was dedicated to " E. M. L.," a lady who, in 1873, became Mr. Noble's wife. The Albion was short-lived as a morning paper, and Mr. Noble next appears as editor of the Liverpool Argus, a weekly critical, political, and social journal of high class. Of too high class for Liverpool, for, though during Mr.' Noble's editorship it numbered among its contributors such names as Miss Frances Power Cobbe, Professor Dowden, the late Professor Graham, Mr. Hall Caine, and Mr. William Watson, it was not a business success ; and after eighteen months of it Mr. Noble resigned. About this time (1878) his connection with the Spectator was commenced, and in the same year was published his essay in the Contemporary Review on "The Sonnet in England," to which all subsequent writers on that form of verse have been indebted. Perhaps the most pleasant acknowledgment of that indebtedness was made by the late Mark Pattison in the preface to his edition of Milton's sonnets. In 1880, Mr. Noble removed to London, and joined the staff of several important journals. Among these his connection with the Academy has been most significant, his reviews of novels in which (together with a booklet to be mentioned later) have made him authorita- tive on prose fiction also. For over three years all went prosperously, but, in 1883, a blow that seemed likely to shatter all his hopes fell upon him, in an attack of spinal paralysis, which baffled even such an authority as Professor Ferrier. That gentleman on being called in declared Mr. Noble's recovery hopeless, and six months as the longest possible limit of his life. However, re- membering that the air of Southport had previously benefited him, Mr. Noble's friends had him removed thither, and the event fulfilled the hope to the uttermost. Instead of being in the grave at the end of six months, Mr. Noble was, with the aid of sticks, " hobbling about " the promenade, and in a little over a year he was so far recovered as to accept the post of literary editor to a leading Manchester daily, besides resuming Mvs>,Academy and Spectator articles. His chief literary occupation is still in connection with these journals, and he now lives at Birkdale, not unvisited of pain, but wonderfully healthy and vigorous for a man who five years ago had but six months to live. Since his illness he has published a closely-reasoned and delightfully-written essay on "Morality in English Fiction,'' and a volume of poems, which he modestly describes as ' ' Verses of a Prose Writer." Mr. Noble's poetry is characterised by many qualities peculiarly refreshing amid all the heat and perfume of the riotous efflorescence of our latter-day verse. If he belongs to any school, it is to that of Mr. Matthew Arnold, for his muse is frugal without being penurious. He has a fine classical sense of foim whatever he aims at expressing is expressed in a way that seems final ; we are never oppressed by the feeling with which the verbosity of modern verse too often oppresses us that it is all very pretty, but that someone else will have to come along and write the whole thing over again. His thought is garmented as becomes maturity, not smothered in fanciful swaddling clothes. His verse also possesses that other indispensable quality of poetry music ; not that coarse obvious music which is common-place next generation, but rather that subtler melody too delicate for vulgarisation, coming and going like the fragrance of the sweet-briar. His subjects have, perhaps, in the main a seriousness of POPULAR POETS. character not surprising when we remember how great a part suffering has played in his life. But they are of a fine seriousness ; there is no maudlin despair in their treatment ; but, on the contrary, every where evident (to use Mr. R. L. Stevenson's words) the power of " that shining and courageous virtue, Faith." RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. SHE AND I. Why do I love my love so well ? Why is she all in all to me ? I try to tell, I cannot tell, It still remains a mystery. And why to her I am so dear, I cannot tell, although I try, Unless I find both answers here She is herself, and I am I. Her face is very sweet to me, Her eyes beam tenderly on mine ; But can I say I never see Face fairer, eyes that brighter shine ; This thing I surely cannot say, If I speak truth and do not lie ; Yet here I am in love to-day, For she's herself, and I am I. It cannot be that I fulfil Completely all her girlish dreams ; For far beyond my real still Her old ideal surely gleams. And yet, I know her love is mine, A flowing spring that cannot dry : What explanation? This, in fine She is herself, and I am I. JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE. 'Mid all the cords by which two hearts Are drawn together into one, This is a cord that never parts, But strengthens as the years roll on ; And though, as seasons hurry past, Strength, beauty, wit, and genius die, Till death strike us, this charm will last She is herself, and I am I. She is herself, and I am I ; Now, henceforth, evermore the same, Till the dark angel draweth nigh, And calleth her and me by name : Yea, after death has done his worst, Each risen soul will straightway fly To meet the other : as at first She'll be herself, I shall be I. AN INVITATION. Come when spring touches with gentle finger The snows that linger Among the hills ; When to our homestead return the swallows, And in the hollows Bloom daffodils. Or, if thou tarry, come with the summer, That welcome comer, Welcome as he ; When noon-tide sunshine beats on the meadow, A seat in shadow We'll keep for thee. 184 POPULAR POETS. Or, if it please thee, come to the reaping, Wher to safe keeping They bring the sheaves ; When Autumn decketh with coloured splendour And pathos tender The dying leaves. Or come and warm us when winter freezes, And northern breezes Are keen and cold, With loving glances, and close hand pressings, And fervent blessings That grow not old. Nay ! do not linger ; for each to-morrow Will break in sorrow If thou delay : Come to us quickly ; our hearts are burning With tender yearning : Come, come to-day. BARREN DAYS. What of these barren days that bring ^o flowers To gladden with fair tints and odours sweet, No fruits that with their virgin bloom entreat Violence from rose-red lips that in dim bowers Pout with a thirsty longing ? Summer showers Softly but vainly fall about my feet, The air is languid with the summer heat That warms in vain : what of these barren hours ? I know not : I can wait nor haste to know, The daily vision serves the daily need ; It may be some revealing hour shall show That while my sad sick heart did inly bleed, Because no blossom came nor fruit did grow, An angel hand had sowed celestial seed. Frederic E. Weatherly. RE-EMINENT among the song writers of the present century stands the name of F. E. Weatherly, whose fertile pen has clothed with beautiful fancies every phase of human life from the cradle to the grave, and has filled many pleasant pages in our poetic literature during a period of nearly twenty years. Mr. Weatherly has led, as it were, two lives strongly in con- trast with each other, but full of interest and varied experi- ences. For many years he has been engaged as a tutor or coach at Oxford, cramming undergraduates with Law, Logic, Classics, and Political Economy, and is the Author of a work on the "Rudiments of Logic," which has enjoyed wide circulation as a University text-book. Yet, during all this period, we find him living a dual life by day a busy toiler in dry, uninter- esting drudgery ; and by night, and in his intervals of rest, a writer of charming verse, expressed in language exquisite in its simplicity, and so rhythmical and musical in its elegant flow that his lyrics have become popular as " Household Words" wherever the English language is spoken. High and low, rich and poor, from the drawing-room to the humblest cottage on the heath, in the busy hives of industry, in every English ship that sails the sea, by every barrack fire, his words have been sung and listened to with enjoyment. Not only have his writings given pleasure by their graceful and playful fancies, but they have, by their refreshing sweetness and purity, their manly sympathetic tenderness, tended to raise the minds of millions to a higher level ; whilst in no instance have they pandered to that which is unworthy and debasing. Frederic E. Weatherly is the son of a surgeon, and was born at Portishead, a pleasant seaside place on the Bristol Channel, in the County of Somerset, on the 4th of October, 1848. He received his early education at Hereford Cathedral School, where he displayed considerable aptitude and ability. In 1867 he went, as a Scholar and Exhibitioner, to Brasenose College, Oxford. He took his degree as B.A. in 1871, and subsequently that of M.A., being about the same time elected Hulmeian Exhibitioner. After spending a year as a master in Christchurch Cathedral School, he commenced private tuition, devoting about eleven hours daily to this work. It was in the intervals, between these laborious days, that Mr. Weatherly employed his hours of recreation if recreation it may be called in writing many of those lyrics and poems which have since become so famous. His first important contribution, " Gone Home on New Year's Eve," appeared in a now defunct paper entitled College Rhymes, and was often recited by the late Mr. Bellew with great success. On the installation of the Marquis of Salisbury as Chancellor of the University, in 1870, an ode by Mr. Weatherly was one of those selected for recitation in the theatre ; and, in the same year, he published his first volume of poems, entitled "Muriel, 1 86 POPULAR POETS. and other Poems," this little piece feeing founded on Hans Andersen's fairy tale, " Little Mermaid." Mr. Weatherly has had the good fortune to have his songs set to music by the best composers of our time, including, Sainton Dolby, Roeckel, Henry Smart, J. L. Molloy, Gounod, Sir Arthur Sullivan, Diehl, Blumenthal, Odoardo Barri, Cowen, Stephen Adams, Giro Pinsuti, Tosti, Hope Temple, Milton Wellings, and many others. Among his best-known songs are, " Nancy Lee," " London Bridge," " They all Love Jack," " Midship- mite," "Old Brigade," "Children's Home," "Auntie," "Last Watch," " Our Last Waltz," "Darby and Joan," |'The Chorister," "Maids of Lee," "Needles and Pins," "My Lady's Bower," and "In Sweet September." There are, however, many others, the bare names of which would be more than sufficient to fill the whole space at my disposal. In addition to his prodigious work as a lyric author, he has largely contributed dramatic and other poems to current literature. In 1884 he wrote the libretto of " Hero and Leander," for the Worcester Musical Festival; in 1885, the " Song of Baldur," for the Hereford Festival ; in 1886, " Andromeda," for the Gloucester Festival ; and amongst his other writings are to be found " Children's Birthday Book," " Sixes and Sevens," "Told in the Twilight," " Through the Meadows," " Punch and Judy," "Out of Town," "Adventures of Two Children," "Land of Little People,'' "Sunbeams," " Nurseryland, " " Honeymoon," &c. In children's literature he has attained very distinguished success ; and, indeed, the same may be said of every form of poetry that he has touched. There is little doubt that he is capable of doing greater things than he has yet attempted. Hitherto his poems have brought him not only popularity, but have been to him a source of very considerable pecuniary advantage, and these results he may deem a sufficient reward. During his labours as a tutor he followed up the study of the law, and in 1887 was called to the bar, and is at present in practice as a Barrister in London. In 1873 Mr. Weatherly married a daughter of the late Mr. John Hard wick, and is the father of three children ; and to his happy married life may be attributed much of his success as a writer of domestic and nursery literature. WILLIAM CARTWKIGHT NEWSAM. FREDERIC E. WEATHERLY. 187 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. It was the eve of Christmas, the snow lay deep and white, I sat beside my window, and look'd into the night ; I heard the church bells ringing, I saw the bright stars shine, And childhood came again to me, with all its dreams divine. Then, as I listened to the bells, and watched the skies afar, Out of the East majestical there rose one radiant star ; And ev'ry other star grew pale before that heav'nly glow, It seemed to bid me follow, and I could not choose but go. From street to street it led me, by many a mansion fair, It shone thro' dingy casement on many a garret bare ; From highway on to highway, through alleys dark and cold, And where it shone the darkness was flooded all with gold. Sad hearts forgot their sorrow, rough hearts grew soft and mild, And weary little children turn'd in their sleep and smiled : While many a homeless wanderer uplifted patient eyes Seeming to see a home at last beyond those starry skies. And then methought earth faded, I rose as borne on wings, Beyond the waste of ruined lives, the press of human things, Above the toil and shadow, above the want and woe, My old self and its darkness seemed left on earth below. And onward, upward shone the star, until it seemed to me, It flashed upon the golden gates and o'er the crystal sea ; And then the gates rolled backward, I stood where angels trod ; It was the star of Bethlehem had led me up to God. 1 88 POPULAR POETS. LONDON BRIDGE. Proud and lowly, beggar and lord, Over the bridge they go ; Rags and velvet, fetter and sword, Poverty, pomp, and woe. Laughing, weeping, hurrying ever, Hour by hour they crowd along, While, below, the mighty river Sings them all a mocking song. Hurry along, sorrow and song, All is vanity 'neath the sun ; Velvet and rags, so the world wags, Until the river no more shall run. Dainty, painted, powder'd, and gay, Rolleth my lady by ; Rags-and-tatters, over the way, Carries a heart as high. Flow'rs and dreams from country meadows, Dust and din thro' city skies, Old men creeping with their shadows, Children with their sunny eyes, Hurry along, sorrow and song, All is vanity 'neath the sun ; Velvet and rags, so the world wags, Until the river no more shall run. Storm and sunshine, peace and strife, Over the bridge they go ; Floating on in the tide of life, Whither no man shall know. Who will miss them there to-morrow, Waifs that drift to the shade or sun ? Gone away with their songs and sorrow ; Only the river still flows on. Hurry along, sorrow and song, All is vanity 'neath the sun ; Velvet and rags, so the world wags, Until the river no more shall run. FREDERIC E. WEATHERLY. 189 THE QUAKER. A Quaker, he sat in his chamber dim, Looking as glum as glum might be, When the sound of music stole up to him, " Oh ! 'tis a sin and a snare !" quoth he. But louder and sweeter it rose than before, He prest his book to his knee, Then he heaved a deep sigh, and he opened the door, " Verily, yea ! I must go and see !" So he stole down the stairs, with a smile in his eye, For a Quaker can smile when there's nobody by ! And there was his sweet little cousin alone, Dancing as gay as gay might be. " O fie, cousin, fie !" said he with a sigh, " Dancing is terribly wrong !" quoth he. " But how dost thou know?" she said with a smile. " I never have tried," quoth he, " But I think that I could, and I'm sure that I would? " Verily, yea ! then I would !" said she. So he took her sweet hand, and he said " let us try," For a Quaker can dance when there's nobody by ! So they danced and they danced in the twilight dim, Happy and gay as well might be. " Thou must hold me much closer !" she whispered to him. " Verily, yea ! then I will !" quoth he. And he felt her heart beating so close to his own, As they danced till the daylight fled, " O coz, prithee say, dost thou think we may ' yea ' ?" " Verily, verily, yea !" she said. So he ' yea '-ed, and she ' yea '-ed, as their lips were so nigh, For a Quaker will kiss when there's nobody by ! 190 POPULAR POETS. "TO-MORROW WILL BE FRIDAY." The sun was setting and vespers done, From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went through the garden trim, In cassock and cowl to the river's brim. Every brother his rod he took, Every rod had a line and hook, Every hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the evenshine ! " O ! to-morrow will be Friday, So we fish the stream to-day; O ! to-morrow will be Friday, So we fish the stream, Benedicite ! " So down they sate by the river's brim, And fished till the light was growing dim, They fished the stream till the moon rose high, But never a fish came wandering by. They fished the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine ; And the Abbot said, " It seems to me These rascally fish have all gone to sea, And to-morrow will be Friday, But we've caught no fish to-day, O ! to-morrow will be Friday, But we've caught no fish, Maledicite ! " So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate ; They thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, " O ! we must curb our appetite." But down in the depths of the vaults below There's Malvoisie for a world of woe ; So they quaff their wine and all declare That fish after all is but gruesome fare. " O, to-morrow will be Friday, So we'll warm our souls to-day, O ! to-morrow will be Friday, So we'll warm our souls, Benedicite. FREDERIC E. WEATHERLY. 191 WISHES AND FISHES. A little lad was fishing Beside a river's brim, The fish by no means wishing To be beguiled by him. A little maid was smiling Down at him in spite : " Patience is a virtue ! " But the fish won't bite. Wishes ! Wishes ! Life is ever so, While the little fishes Chuckle down below. A lover bold was kneeling Before a maiden's feet, In words of tender feeling He cried, " I love you, sweet !" The maiden fair was smiling, Saying soft and low, " Patience is a virtue, E'en in love, you know !" Wishes ! Wishes ! Life is ever so, While the little fishes Swim away below ! An ancient maid was sitting, In a ballroom bright and fair, Her brow in anger knitting, The picture of despair ; An ancient beau was smiling, Hidden safe from sight : " Patience is a virtue ! " But the fish won't bite ! Wishes ! Wishes ! Idle wishes, they ; While the prudent fishes Safely swim away ! 192 POPULAR POETS. PARADISE SQUARE. The cobbler sang, for his heart was light, As he watched his child at play ! But a shadow came in the summer night And took the child away. He sits in his garret under the tiles, He works in moody despair, The sun never shines and nobody smiles In the gloom of Paradise Square. He mends and patches, on and on, He scarcely ponders why, Or whether the winter is come or gone, Or how the hours go by. He never lifts his heart or eyes, He never breathes a prayer ; It is so far from Paradise To the gloom of Paradise Square. Tick tack, tick tack, the long hours thro', He patches old and torn ; But once there came a little shoe Like one his child had worn. The hammer dropped from his hard rough hand, The tears rolled from his eyes, That was a voice he could understand, For it came from Paradise. Robert Browning. T is common to speak of Mr. Browning as obscure. This is easier than to understand the cause of the impression. Cer- tainly, it is not because Mr. Browning cannot lay hold on com- mon experiences, and give expression to them in direct and simple language, musical and affecting. Whoever has, in the proper mood, read " Evelyn Hope," " Oh, to be in England now that April's there, " and such interludes as, " Oh, lyric love, half angel and half bird," scattered through " The Ring and the Book," and the longer poems, not to speak of " The Pied Piper of Hamelyn," "How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," the power- ful ballad of "Henri Kiel," and several other pieces, will at once admit this. Few who know the lyric interlude : " O lyric love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire," are likely to forget it. Scarcely any English poet has shown more capacity to render at once the glow and passion of daring adventurous action, as well as of heroic endurance, with the play of the motives that render men oblivious of the lesser self, when lifted on the wave of a loyal sentiment or the sense of a divine idea. It is not, then, in any morbid perversion or inherent weakness, due to narrowness of sympathy, sickly sensitiveness, or incapacity to face bolder or more broadly human themes, and master them by tact and force of imagination, that we can find the origin of what people are pleased to call the obscurity of Mr. Browning. Where then can we find it ? Mr. Browning, when his genius seeks its fullest scope, is by necesssity of his nature what, for want of a better phrase, we must call a psychological dramatist. He is not content to see the subject merely from his own point of view, but to regard it, as we may say, from the angles of many minds ; and it is just as true of minds as of diamonds that they have facets which reflect only according to the angle. How a fact or circumstance will strike different minds minds differently constituted, differently educated, differently disposed by inheritance, by motive or self-interest, or even the same mind in different moods is the problem that he is ever presenting to his imagination. Behind all, there is the sense of a composed, clear, incisive, and subtle intelligence, surveying and analysing all, but still keeping his own point of view ; and interjecting it may be more or less indirectly his own impressions, that come invariably with all the force of an old Greek chorus. And this, in spite of the irony that often mingles with the tone, is sympathetic ; so that, in a sense, Mr. Browning's dramatic analysis transforms itself for most part into an apology. He would have us to see and feel the position as the hero himself saw and felt it. The sense of reserve, and the dry manner 194 POPULAR POETS. in which he often interjects light on his personages, is the main source of his peculiar humour, which is quite unlike any one else's. Above all, Mr. Browning well understands that opposites are not always antagonists. We know how the most unlikely elements, under the command of science, fuse, and produce a new substance. Even common salt results from two elements that are as unlike each other, and as unlike salt, as can be. Mr. Browning often effects something of the same transformation by the chemistry or alchemy of his genius, and hence the peculiar grip, the tartness on the palate, as we may say, of some of his work, as if of vinegar and sugar in a unique amalgamation. The flame of love may be the medium in his hands, or it may be the flame of passion, of envy, of hatred, or of jealousy. But invariably the same result is accomplished. You see characters modifying each other, or in the process of being modified, and you see also the poet himself acknowledging to himself some sense of the inevitable alike in the characters and in his mind. Perhaps the highest reach that Mr. Browning's genius has obtained in this respect is to be found in "The Ring and the Book," where the somewhat repellent facts of the Roman murder trial, when reflected through various minds, become richly dramatic and a noble study of motive and character and moral purpose. The same subtle power is at work in the later volume, "Parleyings with certain People," which is at once one of the boldest, most original, and daring of Mr. Browning's works. And in the volume somewhat oddly named " Jocoseria," there are many notable instances of it. Our little survey of Mr. Browning's characteristics would be incomplete did we not make note of his insight into painting and music, of which his poems bear many traces. He is a colourist indeed of a remarkable kind ; a painter of men from the inside, as some of the old masters were ; and he is cunning in the disposal of his lights and shadows. This judgment is not alone drawn from such poems as " Fra Lippo Lippi" or " Andrea del Sarto, " in which the subject of art and its alliance with the human character and religious aspirations, are more directly dealt with, but from many significant lines and touches throughout his works. Those who have read Mr. Browning's works with any attention and thought will be ready to admit this. Some of the very richest of his painting in this respect is to be found in the section, "Gerard de Lairesse," in the " Parleyings with certain People of Importance in their Day," which, we may remark in passing, would scarcely have any significance were it not for the manner in which Mr. Browning's subtle revelations of the subject and his own confessions in interpretation go to support and enhance each other. What gives the unique interest to such dramatic narratives as "The Ring and the Book," or to take an example from his earlier works " Sordello," does not a little to thin away the broad element of human interest in his works which are more strictly dramatic in form as in the tragedy of "The Blot on the 'Scutcheon, "and "Strafford." He is too keen in his curiosities, too apt to allow his thoughts about his characters to colour their reflection and even their action. No doubt, Mr. Browning might have become a great and successful writer for the stage, had he consented to forego the indulgence of his own peculiar psycho- logico-dramatic vein. But whenever this appears in force, no matter what the f'jrm adopted, by the very fact the drama is at once relegated to the closet ; for, how- ever much the playwright may muse and reflect, and seek to see things in indirect ROBERT BROWNING. 195 lights for his own satisfaction, he must remain content with letting his personages act out their own character and destiny ; and so seem to remove himself from the current of the action, as though he were merely an outside spectator like the rest of us, perfectly impartial and disinterested. This is the nature of that highest "vicarious thinking," to which Mr. Buxton Forman, quoting from another, does full justice in his deeply critical work : "Our Living Poets." Mr. Browning is a "vicarious thinker," but sui generis. He delights consciously to show behind the transparency the easily discriminated light of his own imagination. We have the character, but plus Mr. Browning's interpreting light ; and the unity of the whole is hardly to be discoveied apart from insight and sympathy with that. Cold and dull it is, till we are moved to some refined curiosity about the poet himself. And then, when we reach this, and lay the ear close, we can list the beatings of the heart. Miss Barrett, before she became Mrs. Browning, with that apt power of criticism of (which she showed many instances, in " Wine of Cyprus," in " Lady Geraldine's Courtship," and other pieces, spoke of reading "From Browning, some pomegranate, which if cut deep down the middle shows heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity." No terms could be better ; for the poems, even when most psychological, are still vascular, and show the blood beating beneath the flow of the verse. The primary interest in Mr. Browning's greatest productions is thus of a pre-eminently subjective and intellectual kind. His predilection for characters that are moved by exceptional or in some measure morbid motive or passion is also a factor in the case. This may be realised by a moment's thought of the very different way in which JMr. Browning would have treated "St. Simeon Stylites" from that of Lord Tennyson. He would have given us the completest analysis of the mental and spiritual condition, with suggestions of how that condition was induced, and some justification for it in a critical sense ; and certainly would not have contented himself with mere consistency and pleasantness of pictorial result. Indeed, in "Prince Hohensteil-Schwangau," we have what is, in effect, really such a story ; but the conception, as well as the whole style, demands width of canvas, and is utterly alien from the merely pictorial spirit, which contents itself witlTgeneral unity ^of tone and a kind of idyllic coherency. There is another piece of Mr. Browning's, "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," which deals with the [passions of envy, jealousy, and hatred, which may possess the monkish heart ; and he makes the monologue of the Brother a wonderful transcript at once of the workings of the human heart in these circum- stances and of his own indirect comment on it. A more effective public reading, well done, there could hardly be, for chances of expression and accentuation. In " Paracelsus " we have also a very vivid illustration of Mr. Browning's mode of work ; but our space will not permit us to go into detailed criticism and instance. Mr. Browning, with that mingling of universal truth and' personal confession of which he is the great master, has himself indicated "this, in the most felicitous and emphatic manner, in that very touching and beautiful poetical dedication of his " Men and Women" Dramatic Lyrics to his^wife, bringing into prominence the fact that, though he never could, ' ' in the years remaining, paint you pictures, make you music, that should all express me, still in these, ' My fifty Men and Women,'" lay the record of heart and mind, clear] and faithful for the true heart that would read therein and receive aright. 196 POPULAR POETS. Recently, a paragraph went the round of the papers, in which Mr Browning was represented as firmly declining all the temptations an editor could put in his way to contribute to a magazine, and giving as his chief reason that he did not regard himself as likely to satisfy the readers of magazines, his poems not being fitted for such mediums. "Those who wish to study my poems," he is said to have written, "will go to my books." But here Mr. Browning himself much as we must praise the stern self-respect, the conscientiousness of his attitude somewhat under-estimated his own range and capability, and unconsciously did not a little to confirm the public in their conviction of his unrelieved obscurity. A whole volume might be drawn from the works of Mr. Browning as well- fitted to appear in high-class magazines as any poetry that has been written in the pre- sent half-century. And, doubtless, he has the power of producing such pieces still. Of course, this cannot be said of his longer poems, for the reasons we have attempted to give. Nevertheless, there are passages on passages which make appeal, direct and unquestioning, to the common mind and heart ; and, lifted from their context, would stand effectively as separate poems of sentiment, reflection, or character. Here is such a passage, from the very earliest of his writings, viz., : the poem, "Pauline." Thou wilt remember one warm morning, when Winter Crept aged from the earth, and Spring's first breath Blew soft from the moist hills ; the blackthorn boughs, So dark in the bare wood, when glistening In the sunshine, were white with coming buds, Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks Had violets opening from sleep-like eyes ! I walked with thee, who knewest not a deep shame Lurked beneath smiles and careless words, which sought To hide it, till they wandered and were mute, As we stood listening on a sunny mound To the wind murmuring in the damp copse, Like hidden breathings of some hidden thing Betrayed by sleep : until the feeling rushed That I was low indeed, yet not so low As to endure the calmness of thine eyes. And so I told thee all, while the cool breast I leaned on altered not its quiet beatings. And long ere words, like a hurt bird's complaint, Bade me look up, and be what I had been, I felt despair could never live by thee : Thou wilt remember. Thou art not more dear Than song was once to me : and I ne'er sang But as one entering bright halls where all Will run and shout for him : sure I must own That I am fallen, having chosen gifts Distinct from theirs that I am sad, and fain Would give up all to be but where I was. Not high, as I had been if faithful found, But low and weak, yet full of hope, and sure Of goodness as of life that I would lose ROBERT BROWNING. 197 All this gay mastery of mind, to sit Once more with them, trusting in truth and love, And with an aim not being what I am. We cannot resist the temptation to include another passage here -a picture of Morning after Storm : But morning's laugh sets all the crags alight Above the baffled tempest : tree and tree Stir themselves from the stupor of the night, And every strangled branch resumes its right To breathe, shakes loose dark's clinging dress, waves free In dripping glory. Prone the runnels plunge, While earth, distent with moisture, like a sponge, Smokes up, and leaves each plant its gem to see, Each grass-blade's glory glitter. Had I known The torrent now turned river ? masterful, Making its rush o'er tumbled ravage stone And steep which barred the froths and foams ; no bull Ever broke bounds in formidable sport More overwhelmingly, till, lo, the spasm Sets him to dare that last mad leap : report Who may his fortunes in the deathly chasm That swallows him in silence ! Rather turn Whither, upon the upland, pedestalled Into the broad day-splendour, whom discern Those eyes but thee, Supreme One, rightly called Morn-maid in heaven above, and, here below, Earth's huntress queen. I note the garb succinct, Saving from smirch that purity of snow From breast to knee, snow's self with just the tint Of the apple-blossom's heart-blush. Ah, the bow Slack-strung her fingers grasp where, ivory-linked Horn curving blends with horn, a moonlike pair Which mimic the brow's crescent, sparkling so As if a star's live restless fragment winked, Proud, yet repugnant, captive in such hair ! What hope along the hillside, what far bliss Deep in the hollow, rather, where combine Tree, shrub, and briar, to roof with shade and cool The remnant of some lily-strangled pool, Edged round with mossy fringings, soft and fine. * * * What have I seen? O Satyr, well I know How sad thy case, and what a world of woe Was hid by thy brown visage, funy-framed Only for mirth ; who otherwise could think Making thy mouth gape still on laughter's brink, Thine eye a-swim with merriment unnamed, But haply guessed at by their furtive wink. 198 POPULAR POETS. And all the while a heart was panting sick Behind that shaggy bulwark of thy breast Passion it was that made thy heart-bursts thick I took for mirth subsiding into rest. So, it was Lyda she of all the train Of forest-thridding nymphs 'twas only she Turned from the rustic homage in disdain, Saw but that poor uncouth outside of thee, And, from her circling sisters, mocked a pain Echo had pitied whom Pan loved in vain- For she was wistful to partake thy glee, Mimic thy mirth who loved her not again. In the lyric of impassioned love, as well as of life, Mr. Browning has pro- duced some fine specimens. Here are a few stanzas from one of these, entitled "In Three Days." O, loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Out-breaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried, After the warmth and scent inside, Thro' lights and darks now manifold, The dark inspired, the light controlled, As early Art embrowns the gold. What great fear, should one say, "Three days That change the world might change as well Your fortune ; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befel ! " What small fear, if another says, " Three days and one short night beside, May throw no shadow on your ways ; But years must teem with change untried, With chance not easily defied, With an end somewhat undescried." No fear ! Or if a fear be born This minute, it dies out in scorn. Fear ! I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn. If Mr. Browning, in various poems, leads us to the idea that he does not like the professed patriot any more than he does professed mesmerists and mediums (witness "Sludge"), he certainly can do justice to the true patriot, as well as pourtray powerfully the wavering flaccidity and helplessness of public opinion generally towards the real benefactors of a nation. This is how he ends his fine poem, titled, " The Patriot :" ROBERT BROWNING. 199 The air broke into a mist with bells, The old wall rocked with the crowd and cries, Had I said, "Good folks, mere noise repels But give me your sun from yonder skies ! " They had answered, " And afterward, what else ? " Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun, To give it my loving friends to keep ; Nought man could do have I left undone : And you see my harvest that I reap, This very day, now a year is run. rfc rfc *"' I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind ; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go ! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead, Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me ? God might question : Now instead, "Tis God shall repay ! I am safer so. Mr. Browning's life has been to a large extent such a life as we might expect from his works a life of meditation, thought, and constant effort at poetic attainment, but not a life marked by many changes or incidents, though he has lived much abroad and travelled much. He was born at Camberwell, in 1812. He was first sent to school at Dulwich, and afterwards completed his education at the London University. He took no degree. His first work of mark, " Paracelsus, "was published in 1836, when he was still a young man, but though admired and praised by many critics, it was not much read. His " Pippa Passes," which followed next, received more public favour. In 1837 came the tragedy of "Strafford," which was produced at Covent Garden by Macready, who appeared in the leading part, supported by Helen Faucit ; the piece, however, did not meet with the success to which its intellectual qualities entitled it. In 1843, "The Blot on the Scutcheon" was produced at Drury Lane, but hardly with more success than " Strafford." In 1856, "Men and Women" appeared ; and since then his works have followed each other in a steady and continuous stream. His vein seems almost inexhaustible ; for he is still at the age of 76 busy and productive. In the year 1846 Mr. Browning married Elizabeth Barrett, whose name stands in the first rank of English poets. It was owing greatly to the delicate health of his poet -wife that he lived subsequently a great deal abroad especially at a villa near Florence, to which not a few already make pilgrimages, just as to the places most associated with Dante, or Petrarch, or Byron, or Scott. Mrs. Browning died in 1861. Though Mr. Browning now lives a somewhat retired life, he has many friends, especially among younger men, who look up to him as to a patriarch in literature. ALEXANDER H. JAPP. F. B. Doveton. N the gifted author of " Snatches of Song " and " Sketches in Prose and Verse," the world has a poet whose dainty and attractive writings want only to be widely known to be thoroughly appreciated. Mr. F, B. Doveton is a man of parts. He has been described by an eminent critic as one of the most successful of our younger singers ; and it is said of his prose "Angling Sketches," on equally good authority, that they are drawn with the etching needle of a Kingsley, This is high praise, and it is no less exalted than sincere. Mr. Doveton is an earnest student ; he is, as a poet, a perfect master of technique, and his thoughts, whether humorous or sentimental, find invariably rhythmic and delicate utterance. This criticism applies also to his attractive songs, many of which have been set to music by distinguished composers. That some of his minor pieces are a little unequal in sustained poetic sentiment is a defect due to what has been an irresistible tendency to sing of subjects of inferior importance equally with those of greater magnitude. Subtlety of thought, perfection of style, and refined and graceful finish, must be held, however, to predominate in Mr. Doveton's com- positions, and "In sight of these, minor distinctions fly." Of the further qualities of this poet's verse, which has met with a highly favourable reception at the hands of several distinguished poets and critics, the selections we append may be left to speak for themselves. "The Last Farewell" has been described by Mr. Browning as "pretty and touching." Mr. F. B. Doveton is the eldest son of the late Captain Doveton, of the Royal Madras Fusiliers, and is related to Mr. Rider Haggard. He was born at Exeter in the year 1841, and was educated for the Army, in which branch of Her Majesty's service he commenced, early in life, his interesting career. Mr. Doveton left the Service in 1879, and has since resided in Devonshire and, latterly, at Eastbourne, where he is now busy with his prose and poetic writings. He is, moreover, an ardent angler, and a great lover of birds and wild flowers, country life for him possessing many charms. Prose and poetry he has sown broad- cast through the Press, and he was fortunate enough, long before he thought of including his fugitive pieces in two attractive volumes, to have his many abilities fully recognised by the editors of prominent newspapers and magazines in London and the provinces. Two of his poems have found an appropriate place in " Devon- shire Scenery ;" many of his parodies also have been included in Mr. Hamilton's " Collections ;" while numerous selections of his verse have been reproduced in the columns of the leading American, Indian, and Australian papers. F. B. DOVETON. 201 THE LAST FAREWELL! So, it has really come at last, That parting which I held in dread, What time with free elastic tread, Across Life's sunny fields I passed ! That hour which still was stealing on With stealthy steps, though all the while, With roving eyes and careless smile, I posed as Pleasure's myrmidon. When at their best and brightest were The blossoms that above me hung, In those old days when we were young And this grey world exceeding fair ; Then, often, like a glimpse of gloom Beyond bright skies discerned afar, Would visions of this parting mar My paradise of bliss and bloom ! Yes, darling, in that long ago, When we went maying hand in hand, And dancing down a summer land All flooded with a golden glow, E'en then, though both our hearts were light, And love was mirrored in your eyes, Would sometimes fall athwart the skies The shadow of the coming night. And now, that shadow deepens fast Within this chamber ; and they seem To melt into a mocking dream Those halcyon memories of the past, That smiling summer land of yore Is now a weary waste of snow. I hear the blasts across it blow ; Their burden still is " Nevermore I" POPULAR POETS. That loving hand, so warm and white, Which now is prisoned in my own, Will soon lie comfortless alone, My soul must go into the night ! My darling ! Nestle closer yet To this exhausted feeble frame. Let me be sure it is the same The old the only Margaret. Yes ! Those are Margy's eyes of grey- The deep clear wells of other days. Most sweet and steadfast is their gaze As in those summers far away. I mused alone a month ago, As twilight deepened into night, And calmly in the dying light I marvelled at my lot below. How rich my argosy of bliss ! My bark steered by an angel hand O'er life's wild sea towards that strand Which tranquil shining waters kiss ! And who was I that God above Should dower me with wealth untold ? No splendid argosy of gold, But one unselfish woman's love ! I glanced around the cosy room, Marked each familiar feature there, The treasured volumes everywhere, The crystal vases gay with bloom. And then in fancy came to me The empty chair the idle pen As you will see them, darling, when Your dying Love has ceased to be. F. B. DOVETON. 203 Upon the dear old desk still lies The ode I meant for you alone, Begun on earth, but, oh, my love, It will be finished in the skies ! And on the morrow you will glide Into that darkened chamber, Love, While I shall watch you from above, Or even linger by your side. For though I shall have done with Time Before yon flaming sun has set, Our spirits will be fettered yet By links mysterious and sublime. And, Margy, when my soul has fled, Let those two vases still be gay With dewy bloom from day to day, To draw bright thoughts around the dead. Within my chair you will recline Inhaling odours rare and dense, Till with their subtlety the sense Is drugged, as with delicious wine. And those white arms will lightly rest Where mine have rested ; and a dream Of dead delights will wake a gleam Of sunshine in your darkened breast. Now I must sleep, but ere I die I ask your pardon, stricken bird, For many a hasty, angry word That I have breathed in days gone by. I recked not in that thoughtless time, How cruel was the shaft I sped ; But on the threshold of the dead I do not dare to gloss my crime. 204 POPULAR POETS. I am forgiven it is well But oh, my darling, weep no more For one who nears a radiant shore, Whereon our loved and lost ones dwell. How dark it grows ! Come closer yet The music of a summer sea ! It singeth of the past and thee ; The wavelets whisper, " Margaret !" sk * * I see you dimly feel your hand But you seem very far away, I drift from darkness into day The daylight of the Morning Land ! I see you not all spirit now I am bedazzled by the light. Fair clouds of angels are in sight A glory shines about my brow But though life's fevered dream is past, My voice may haply reach your ear, So from these regions, calm and clear, I waft you one " Good-night " the last ! MY LADY'S CHARMS. When she doth speak, no other sound I hear, Her fresh young voice the silence breaks alone, So soft its tone, so silvery and clear, Its airy melody is music's own. Joy tells its tale upon my glowing cheek, And all my soul is stirred when she doth speak. F. B. DOVETON. 205 When she doth smile I trow I do not need That golden beams should steal into my room ; Only the radiance of her face I heed, Only the gleam that lightens o'er its bloom ! I well can spare the sunlight for awhile, For all the world is bright when she doth smile ! When she doth sing, discordant seems the song Of the glad lark up-springing thro' the blue, Waked by her strain, celestial fancies throng *In the rapt soul, and dreams it never knew. No other sound such ravishment may bring, And Angels pause to list when she doth sing. When she is near, the rose will show less fair, The lily pale is shorn of half its grace, I only see the glory of her hair, I only know the beauty of her face. Her presence gladdens like the vernal year, And it is always May when she is near. "PARVA DOMUS-MAGNA QU1ES." THE INSCRIPTION OVER CAPTAIN PERCIVAL'S VILLA AT CANNES, WHERE PRINCE LEOPOLD DIED. As through those portals our lost one went, These grand words broke upon his daily sight : Could they have whispered that his span was spent ? Did they foreshadow the approaching night ? We cannot tell nor shall we ever know Until we meet him on that twilight shore Beyond the deep, o'er which our dead ones go, Whose billows' dreary dirge is " Nevermore !" His race is run a shining angel flew To that fair home beneath soft sapphire skies, Gave him that rest which here he never knew, And gently drew the bandage from his eyes. D^lncan John Robertson. UNCAN John Robertson was born on the I4th January, 1860. His father, James Robertson, was Sheriff Substitute of Orkney, and a descendant of the ancient family of Robertson of Straun, chiefs of the Clan Donnachaidh. TTis mother was an Orcadian, and the daughter of the Rev. William Logic, D.D, Mr. Robertson was educated first at the Academy, and subsequently at the University of Edinburgh. Whilst at the latter he ob- tained the second place in a poetical competition, and this success led him to practice writing verse with a view to publication. He was articled to a solicitor in Edinburgh, and, at the expiration of his term, returned to Kirkwall, where he now follows his profession, holding the office of County Clerk of Orkney. He has contributed poetry to numerous journals and maga- zines, including Truth, The Graphic, Chambers Journal, Longman's Magazine, Weekly Scotsman, &c. His writings, though not very numerous, are polished and pleasing, and there is no doubt that, should he continue as he has begun, he will eventually rank high as a writer of charming, graceful, and elegant verse. "The Taking of Brill," which we quote, amongst other poems, as representative of Mr. Robertson's compositions, is now for the first time printed. CLAUDE MELVILLE. THE TAKING OF BRILL. 1st April, 1572, What, you would have me tell again The oft-repeated tale, Which shook fierce Alva's devil's heart, And made false Philip quail ; Of how we took the town of Brill With four-and-twenty sail? But four-and-twenty sail were we, And scarce four hundred men, Wild, out-lawed beggars of the sea, And starving beggars, when We set the flag of liberty On Holland's shores again. DUNCAN JOHN ROBERTSON. 207 Bold De La Marck our Admiral A mighty oath had sworn, His head should be untouched by shears, His beard should go unshorn, Till he had vengeance for the deaths Of Egmont and of Horn. For four long years, untouched by shears, His lion's mane he grew ; And the great beard that swept his belt No razor ever knew, Since Egmont died in 'sixty-eight, And now 'twas 'seventy-two. 'Twas on a windy night in March We left the English shore ; Then mad with hunger and revenge Round Zealand's coasts we bore, And on the morn of All-fools' Day Sailed up the Meuse once more. 'Twas on the morn of All-fools' Day When folks would cross the ferry, They called on Peter Koppelstock To row them in his wherry, And laughed to see our ships come in For all their hearts were merry. " Now, prithee, ferry-man," they cried, " Tell us, who mote they be " That with such show of battered pride " Come sailing in from sea ? " " I know them well," quoth Koppelstock, '' 'Tis De La Marck with his beggar-tolk, " Seeking an alms," quoth he. 2 o8 POPULAR POETS. Then cold the laughter grew I ween Upon each coward lip, For the craven landsmen crouched like hounds Beneath the Spanish whip : But that bold ferry-man rowed out To the Sieur de Treslong's ship. " Now, welcome, welcome home once more, " Ere yet it be too late ! " Brave Treslong, thou hast friends on shore, " Though long they have to wait, " Who have sworn to wash in Spanish gore "The wounds of 'sixty-eight." Then they have brought the ferry-man Before the Admiral : " Now, are the Spaniards strong within r " To hold the city wall ? " " But few and faint of heart they be, " And when the beggars of the sea " Sail in, the town will fall" Now, all within the town, I wot, Confusion was and din ; The frightened burghers only sought How best to save their skin, When they had seen the beggars' fleet From sea come sailing in. And when the ferry-man came back With Treslong's signet ring, " How many fighting men/' they cried, " Do these sea-beggars bring ? " "There might be some five thousand men," He laughed in answering. DUNCAN JOHN ROBERTSON. 209 Then fled the Spanish dogs, and left The burghers to their fate ; Tight-belted and with sword in hand Two long hours did we wait, And then the southern gate we stormed And burned the northern gate. That morning starving men were we, That night we fed our fill ; Nor was it said of man or maid One blood-drop did we spill, When the fierce beggars of the sea Took the good town of Brill. Duke Alva came with sword and flame Us sea-beggars to slay ; But the town of Brill, we hold it still And I have heard men say, We tumbled down King Philip's crown, Upon that All-fools' Day. SEA-SPELLS. There is a charm that haunts the air, A subtle spell from restless seas, Which finds and follows everywhere Sons of the tide-swept Oreacles. Still in our hearts, where'er we roam, Wakening sweet memories of home. 'Twas sweet in Autumn days to lie On the hill -side and watch the bay, Its colours varying with the sky, From deepest blue to tenderest grey, With streaks of silver sunlight barred, Or with white foam-flakes streaked and starred. 210 POPULAR POETS. Then fancy filled the quiet place And with the magic of her wand Brought back once more the vanished race, The fabled folk of fairy land, And, working transformation strange, Touched all the world to glorious change. The great black cormorants that flew Across the point from sea to sea, Were dragons of the darkest hue, Monsters of dread and mystery ; Most awful when by night they came, Their angry nostrils breathing flame. Far, where the eastern heaven bent To meet the waves, with favouring breeze The Viking war-ships homeward went, Laden with spoil from southern seas, With the proud raven flag unfurled, That held in terror half the world. When stealing round the distant shore, A boat came slipping through the sea, I knew a gallant knight she bore. To set some captive princess free ; Soft wafted by enchanted gales, A golden bark with silver sails. There from the quiet hills I caught The secrets in their hearts they hold, Where the strange swarthy dwarf-folk wrought The clear-blue steel and gleaming gold : In dream-rapt silence listening, I heard their mighty hammers ring, In thunders of the breakers, borne Upon the winds for many a mile, I heard the giants' shouts of scorn, Roaring their wrath from isle to isle ; Or bellowings from long shores and low, Where blue sea-bulls roam to nnd fro. DUNCAN JOHN ROBERTSON. So through the shadowy Autumn days Would fancy work her wondrous spell, And ever cast an added grace On the dear land I love so well. To all her children she must stand For ever, " The beloved land." NOONTIDE. At noon I stand upon the height, Here at the parting of the ways Adown the long gray road I gaze That lies between me and the night. Then turn my longing eyes once more To the fair land where I have been, Where shady pathways lie between The woodlands and the river's shore. Far off I see the shining sand, I hear the voices of the waves Singing among the glimmering caves The low sweet songs of fairyland. Ah me ! and I have come so far Since that glad hour when far away I watched the waking of the day, The fading of the morning star. I heard Apollo's deathless lyre, Far by the fount of Helicon, And all about the woodlands shone The crocus like a sudden fire. They say this dusty highway leads To Fame and fortune, place and power, That Time has many a golden dower For him who fashions dreams to deeds- 2J2 POPULAR POETS. If I some potent spell might cast, Fulfilment of my wish to earn, I'd only pray I might return To the dear places of the past Be mine the tender rose of hope That trembles in the morning sky, And all the sunset's gold may lie Ungathered on the Western slope. Not any paean which has rung From thousand thousand lips to greet A hero's triumph were so sweet To me as that glad chorus sung In quiet dawns, when, 'midst the birds, A soft wind, rising from the sea, Wakens a wild sweet melody, The ghost of long-forgotten words : While clear above the silver mist The happy light is mounting high, Changing the opal of the sky To emerald and amethyst. The thrush that sang his morning song, High on the elm-tree's topmost bough, Within his cage sings sadly now, Nor struggles, for the bars are strong. I know my wishes are as vain As his behind his prison bars The morning stole away the stars, The night will bring them back again. Then as I turn me from the height, And tread the hard and dusty way, Hope whispers even yet I may Find my lost past beyond the night. Mrs. Edmonds. RS. Elizabeth Mayhew (Waller) Edmonds was born in London, and in early childhood showed a capability and facility for verse-making which were discouraged. She received a home education of that very vague and often interrupted character which is mostly the result when brothers or sisters are the self-appointed instructors. Nevertheless, having oppor- tunities, she indulged a voracious appetite for reading, and read indiscriminately ; and somehow became acquainted with the best authors of France, Germany, Italy, and of Old Rome. Mostly engaged in the best years of life in active housewifery' pursuits, she was fifty years of age when, to divert her mind from a pressing care, she applied her- self to learning classic Greek. This soon developed a turn for what is termed Philhellenism, and was followed by a study of the modern Greek language. After a visit to Athens in 1880, yielding to the repeated solicitations of her husband, she wrote "Fair Athens," a short sketch of her stay in that city. This was followed by a paper in Macmillan's Magazine in September, 1 88 1, on "The Lyrical Poetry of Modern Greece." Two years later she published a small volume of poems entitled "Hesperas," the outcome of a domestic bereavement, Mrs. Edmonds' remedy for any great grief being study, or literary work. Her Philhellenism again found expression in 1885 in a volume of translations from the poetry of modern Greece, called "Greek Lays, Legends, and Idylls," an enlarged and revised edition of which appeared in 1886, and in 1887 in "The Sonnets of Europe" the Greek Sonneteers were also represented through her. This, besides papers relative to Greece contributed to the Academy, the Folk Lore Journal, and the Woman's World, and an interesting novel published quite recently under the title of "Mary Myles," is at present the sum of Mrs. Edmonds" literary work, which began only in the autumn of life. 214 POPULAR POETS. THE POET'S WIFE. My head is weary with a sense of loss, Although the summer tide is all aglow ; Whate'er I look upon seems turned to dross, With thoughts that stifle, and with thoughts that grow- I knew it was my beauty woke his theme, Mine eyes that made his verse with passion flow ; And I was proud and happy- Did I deem That he would mount, whilst I was left below ? The years have made him famous, and the years Have weighed upon me with exceeding weight ; Betwixt us two, there day by day appears A deeper valley, and 2. steeper height- Did I not see the looks of cold surprise, When on his arm amid the courtly hall? The questioning glances and uplifted eyes, As though they whispered, " Does her face recall Aught that could e'er those glowing lines inspire Which on a sudden made the world to pause And ask with rapture, ' Whence caught he this fire ? ' Who is the maid, and where, that is the cause ? " And so I go no more to clog his joy With the sad thought I am no fitting mate For his ripe years ; he was but yet a boy When for my " starry eyes " he tempted fate- All day I sit alone, and on my knees His poems lie open, and I strive in vain To lift my soul to his, my weak brain sees Words, words, and only words, and words again- But yet I will not tell him I have grief, For he would seek in some way to atone ; I would not see, for my poor heart's relief, My eagle moping by the ingle stone. MRS. EDMONDS. 215 HESPERAS. HESPERAS in the evening, 'neath the arch Of thick leaves stirred by the soft western wind, Where the last gold ray lights the dusky larch, And trembles through the beech arms low inclined, Between the pauses of the throstle's song, Between the interchange of loving thought, In simple rhymes some inner feelings strong, I bring to 'guile the hour (yet not unsought) ; While, circling round, the blithe bat's filmy wings With quick erratic motion fan the face, In eager hasting, ere swift darkness brings The time to seek its shrouded nesting-place. When Love is speaking, Love will listen long ; And deep-browed night her dew-damp cloak drew round Full oft, whilst my dull pipe in lingering song From ears indulgent grateful welcome found. O, BEAUTEOUS DEATH! To be beloved, we only need to die O, beauteous Death ! that giveth us this boon. However long our hearts in bondage lie, Love in its warm embrace will hold us soon ; And they who know us not, or know us wrong, Will by degrees come nearer to our side Will see the things that unto us belong, And, as the shadowing veil is drawn aside Will note some fairness where they saw a stain Will strive each tone and accent to recall And with a sudden tenderness will strain Love-longing eyes, then hoping to know all. Were this thy only gift, this would be why, O beauteous Death ! methinks, 'tis well to die- The Rev. E. C. Lefroy. HE Rev. Edward Cracroft Lefroy was born at Westminster, in the year 1855. His father is a great nephew of Miss Austen, the novelist, while, on his mother's side, he is connected with the two accomplished sisters who married the poet-brothers, Alfred and Charles Tennyson. It may be interesting also to note that his mother is a niece of Sir John Franklin. Mr. Lefroy received his education at the Blackheath Proprietary School and Keble College, Oxford, where he graduated in 1877. The following year he took Holy Orders, keeping up in this respect family traditions, since both his grandfather and great-grandfather were clergy- men, and successively Rectors of Ashe, near Basingstoke. He served curacies at Lambeth (Old Church), St. German's, Blackheath, and St. John's, Woolwich. Since 1882 he has devoted himself to literary and tutorial work. As a verse-writer Mr. Lefroy's reputation rests entirely on his sonnets. These originally appeared in the shape of pamphlets, locally printed. In 1885, however, a selection made from these pamphlets was published in a single volume under the title "Echoes from Theocritus and other Sonnets." Either in their first or second form the sonnets won favourable notice from all fhe critics and editors most competent to give an opinion,including Messrs. Andrew Lang, William Sharp, David Main, Samuel Waddington, Hall Caine, E. C. Stedman, and Miss Christina Rossetti. What strikes the reader first in looking through Mr. Lefroy's book is the wideness of his range. Classical and modern subjects appear to attract him equally. It is true that the modern subjects are for the most part treated in a classic, non -romantic temper ; but, on the other hand, there is a note of " prettiness " in some of the Theocritean sonnets, which, though it may not be foreign to the Bard of Sicily, is hardly characteristic of classical literature as a whole. No two readers would be likely to agree as to which of Mr. Lefroy's efforts are the happiest. There is a breezy freshness about " A Football Player," "A Cricket Bowler," and "Bill; a Portrait," which will commend them to folk whose poetical studies are few and far between. Those more refined may prefer the series called "Windows of the Church." Perhaps the best of the classical type is " A Thought from Pindar." Mr. Lefroy does not always adhere to the strict rules of Miltonic sonneteering. He admits sometimes more than two rhymes into the "octave," but he never follows the loosely-knit Shakespearean model, with its three quatrains and a couplet. "High thoughts, hard forms, toil, vigour, these be thine, 5 ' he says, addressing the ideal poet, and it is upon these lines that his own success has been achieved. E. C. LEFROY. 217 THE POET. What is a poet ? Is he one who keeps His heart remote from cares of human-kind, Tasting the rich feast of a perfect mind, Watching the shadowed form that broods and sleeps On Fancy's breast, the drawing from her deeps New thoughts of Beauty, splendid, unconfmed ; Contemptuous of the common lot, and blind To the great silent crowd that toils and weeps ? Ah, no ! All woes that all men ever knew Lie in his soul, their labours in his hand ; Yea, tear for tear, and haply tear for smile, Sin's smile, he renders them ; and if some while He doth withdraw himself, 'tis but to stand Such space apart as gives the larger view. A SICILIAN NIGHT. Come, stand we here within this cactus-brake, And lei the leafy tangle cloak us round. It is the spot whereof the seer spake To nymph and faun a nightly trysting-ground. How still the scene ! No zephyr stirs to shake The listening air. The trees are slumber-bound In soft repose. There's not a bird awake To witch the silence with a silver sound. Now haply shall the vision trance our eyes, By heedless mortals all too rarely scanned, Of mystic maidens in immortal guise, Who mingle shadowy hand with shadowy hand, And moving o'er the lilies circle-wise, Beat out with naked feet a saraband. 218 POPULAR POETS. A THOUGHT FROM PINDAR. Twin immortalities man's art doth give To man ; both fair ; both noble ; one supreme. The sculptor beating out his portrait scheme Can make the marble statue breathe and live ; Yet with a life cold, silent, locative ; It cannot break its stone-eternal dream, Or step to join the busy human stream, But dwells in some high fane a hieroglyph. Not so the poet. Hero, if thy name Lives in his verse, it lives indeed. For then In every ship thou sailest passenger To every town where aught of soul doth stir, Through street and market borne, at camp and game, And on the lips and in the hearts of men ! IN THE CLOISTERS. Winchester College. I walked to-day where Past and Present meet, In that grey cloister eloquent of years, Which ever groweth old, yet ever hears The same glad echo of unaging feet. Only from brass and stone some quaint conceit, The monument of long-forgotten tears, Whispers of vanished lives, of spent careers, And hearts that, beating once, have ceased to beat. And as I walked, I heard the boys who played Beyond the quiet precinct, and I said " How broad the gulf which delving Time has made Between those happy living and these dead," And, lo, I spied a grave new-garlanded, And on the wall a boyish face that prayed. Dr. Westland Marston. N tracing the lives of English men of letters, the reflective student must often be reminded of the example of Voltaire. He, as every reader of those charming autobiographical reminiscences published under the title of the " Commentaire Historique," knows, was induced to turn aside from the Bar "to the cultiva- tion of the belles-lettres." His reason, perhaps, was different from that which would now be given by nine litterateurs of every ten on the northern side of the English Channel, but the fact remains that his example has been followed by a surprisingly large number of eminent men. The long and well-lived career of Dr. Westland Marston furnishes another case in point, for, on the completion of his legal education, under the direction of an uncle, he relinquished law for the study of literature. A man of high abilities, and of considerable culture, he soon became famous, both as a poet and a dramatist. His first play, "The Patrician's Daughter," was successfully produced when he was only twenty-three years of age, by Mr. Macready, at Drury Lane. This was followed by " The Heart and the World," " Strathmore," "Anne Blake and Philip of France," each a five-act drama ; by " Donna Diana," "Life for Life," " Pure Gold," " The Favourite of Fortune," "A Hero of Romance," and " Under Fire," all but the last four being blank verse plays; and by such smaller pieces as "Borough Politics," "A Hard Struggle," and " The Wife's Portrait." The production of these plays during the quarter of a century succeeding his first appearance as a dramatist gave Dr. Marston ample facilities for noting the history of the stage as it was left by Macready and found by Irving, and made him well qualified for the task of issuing in November, 1888, a work on " Our Recent Actors," a volume which is as scholarly in treatment as it is interesting and valuable in character. In the meanwhile Dr. Marston was acquiring considerable fame as a poet. He contributed some stirring lyrics to the Athenaum, published a romantic poem under the title of "Gerald," and wrote "The Death Ride," a fine, vigorous composition which has found a reputation world-wide. Nor do Dr. Marston's attainments end here. He was one of the editors of the National Magazine ; and he is not unknown as a novelist, having written "A Lady in her own Right," and "Family Credit and Other Tales," an interesting collection of short stories, gathered together from the pages of periodicals to which they were first con- tributed. Of Dr. Marston's descent, we know that he was the son of the Rev. Stephen Marston, a Nonconformist Minister of much eloquence and learning. His mother was a descendant of the baronial family which had given its name to Kyme Tower, and had been long settled in South Lincolnshire. A member of this family married Anne Ayscough, the martyr who suffered death at the stake in the 220 POPULAR POETS. reign of Henry VIII., for differing from the King on some point of theology. Dr. Marston married early in life, and was the father of the poet, Philip Bourke Marston, whose sympathetic Muse is treasured in America, as well as in England, till the present day. He has, during his long career, experienced to the full the bitter sorrows of this world, but he possesses this most happy consolation, that, though he has reached the ripe age allotted by the Psalmist to man's life, his mind is as vigorous, his sense of criticism as keen, and his appreciation of art as great, as when, forty years ago, he had just proved himself an honoured acquisition to the ranks of literature. THE DEATH-RIDE. A Tale of the Light Brigade. " We sat mute on our chargers, a handful of men, As the foe's broken columns swept on to the glen Like torn trees when the whirlwind comes ; Cloven helm and rent banner grew dim to our ken, And faint was the throb of their drums. " But, no longer pursued, where the gorge opens deep They halt ; with their guns they crowd level and steep ; Seems each volley some monster's breath, Who shows cannon for teeth as he crouches to leap From his ambushed cavern of death. " Their foot throng the defile, they surge on the bank ; Darts a forest of lances in front ; o'er each flank Peer the muskets, a grisly flock : They have built their live tower up, rank upon rank, And wait, fixed, for an army's shock. 14 Far in front of our lines, a dot on the plain, Mute and moveless we sat till his foam-flecked rein At our side gallant Nolan drew. ' They still hold our guns, we must have them again, Was his message ' Advance, pursue !' WESTLAND MARSTON. 2 2i " Pursue them ; What, charge with our hundreds the foe Whose massed thousands await us in order below ! Yes, such were his words. To debate The command was not ours ; we had but to know, And, knowing, encounter our fate, " We ride our last march ; let each crest be borne high ! We raise our last cheer ; let it startle the sky And the land with one brave farewell ; For soon never more to our voice shall reply Rock, hollow, fringed river, or dell. " Let our trump ring its loudest ; in closest array, Hoof for hoof, let us ride ; for the chief who to-day Reviews us is Death the victorious : Let him look up to Fame, as we perish, and say, ' Enrol them, the fall'n are the glorious !' " We spur to the gorge ; from its channel of ire Livid light bursts like surf, its spray leaps in fire ; As the spars of some vessel staunch, Bold hearts crack and fall ; we nor swerve nor retire, But in the mid-tempest we launch. " We cleave the smoke-billows as wild waves the prow ; The flash of our sabres gleams straight like the glow Which a ploughing keel doth break From the grim seas around, with light on her bow, And light in her surging wake. " We dash full on their guns : Through the flare and the roar Stood the gunners bare-armed ; now they stand there no more, The war throat waits dumb for the ball ; For those men pale and mazed to the chine we shore. And their own cannon's smoke was their pall. " That done, we're at bay ; for the foe with a yell Piles his legions around us. Their bayonets swell Line on line ; we are planted in steel : ' Good carbine ! trusty blade ! Each shot is a knell, Each sword- sweep a fate ; they reel !' 222 POPULAR POETS. " One by one fall our men, each girt with his slain, A death-star with belts. Charge ! we break them ! In vain ! From the heights their batteries roar, The fire sluices burst ; through that flood, in a rain Of iron, we strike for the shore. " Thunder answers to thunder, bolts darken the air, To breathe is to die ; their funeral glare The lit hills on our brave ones rolled : What of that ? They had entered the lists with Despair. And the lot which they met, they foretold. " Comrade sinks heaped on comrade ! A ghastly band, That fell tide, when it ebbs, shall leave on the strand : Of the swimmers who stemmed it that day A spent, shattered remnant we struggle to land And wish we were even as they." Oh, Britain, my country ! Thy heart be the tomb Of those who for thee rode fearless to doom, The sure doom which they well fore-knew ! Though mad was the summons, they saw in the gloom Duty beckon and followed her through. She told not of trophies, of medal or star, Or of glory's sign-manual graved in a scar ; Nor how England's coasts would resound When brothers at home should greet brothers from war, As they leaped upon English ground. She told not of streets lined with life up to heaven, One vast heart with one cry till the welkin is riven " Oh, welcome, ye valiant and tried !" She told not of soft arms that clasp the re-given, She only said, " Die !" and they died. Let Devotion henceforth Balaklava own No less than Thermopylae, meet for her throne , And thou, Britain thou mother bereft By thy grief for the sleepers who hear not thy moan, Count the worth of the sons thou hast left. WESTLAND MARSTON. 223 BY THE SEA. The twilight fell ; a glimmering chain of lamps Defined the crescent beach ; with sullen moan, Before the cliff's unvanquished citadel, Retired the sea ; the fisher's lantern gleamed On the moist shore, and from his stranded boat Trailed the rent net, entangled with the weed. Opened behind an ancient, low-roofed street, With laboured windings. Tapers in small panes Doled parsimonious light on scanty wares On toys that wore their cobwebs moodily Like mourners at a birthday's funeral, On fruits that warned the taste they once enticed, And faded ribbons silent homilies On maiden pride. A straggling group whose speech Fell brief and dull, whose unexpectant steps Loitered abroad to shun unsocial homes, Divided as I passed. There came no sound To break the torpor till, with pant and scream, Clanged the steam monster on its iron road, Angering the hazy distance from its sleep. Oh, harsh Reality, Life's fair Ideal Fled from thy frown ! Stretched on the sombre coast, A log my pillow, listlessly I shook The sand to sand and cried " 'Tis fit these grains Within a glass should measure vanity." Here, as I lay and caught the fretting wash Of the tired ebb, a flickering watery beam As if a wandering finger of veiled light Felt for its way played tremulous on the sand, And made me ware of moon-rise. Like the Angel That overcame the Dragon, coil by coil Did she unwind of vast and tortuous cloud, 224 POPULAR POETS. Then free emerged and stainless, filling space With the mild awe that breathes from loveliness. Higher she rose. Gaunt peaks, from depths of gloom, Smit by her smile, smiled back. Beneath her spread The palpitating waves a shining track, Leading to lands as lovely as her light, Across a night of sea. Bright rose the masts Of stranded boats as they were'moored beside The happy Avalon- Roof, lattice, wall Caught the soft glory, save where shadows fell Deep as remembered love and still as peace. So by one heavenly influence, common forms Put on ethereal semblances ; and methought " Thus our familiar life the radiant soul Exalts and hallows ; nought so mean but, touched By that essential beauty, grows divine." MINE. In that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest, Ere from her spirit's rose-red, rose-sweet gate Came forth to me her royal word of fate, Did she sigh, ' Yes,' and droop upon my breast ; While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressed By the seized senses, there did fluctuate The plaintive surges of our mortal state, Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest. Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain, Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime, Dared joys forbid to man ? Oh, Light supreme, Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain, Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleam On two who entered heaven before their time ! Matthew Arnold. To MATTHEW ARNOLD. Suffer that as thou takest boat to cross Grim Charon's tide, on voyage, heavy loss To England but to thee gain manifold / pluck thee by the shroud, and press thy cold Forgetful hand ; to lay this obolus Into its honoured palm I Ah ! think on us In thy new walks upon the Asphodel ; Nor quite forsake the sad sphere inhere we dwell, Fighting thy battle, lending our small stress To "stream which maketh unto Righteousness /" Now, that thou better knowest friends and foes, Good Friend! dear Rival! bear no grudge to those Who had not time, in Life's hard fight, to show How well they liked thee for thy "slashing blow;" How "sweet" thy "reasonableness" seemed; how right Thy lofty pleading for the long-dimmed "light!" Thou, that didst bear my Name, and deck it so That coming thus behind hardly I know If I shall hold it worthily, and be Meet to be mentioned in one Age with thee Take, Brother ! to the Land where no strifes are, This praise thou wilt not need ! Before the Star Is kindled for thee let my funeral torch Light thee, great Namesake! to th' Elysian Porch! Dead Poet ! let a poet of thy House Lay, unreproved, these bay-leaves on thy brows! We that seemed only friends, were lovers : Now Death knows it! and Love knows! and I! and Thou! "FROM EDWIN ARNOLD. ATTHEW ARNOLD poet, critic, and philosopher was the son of the well-known head master of Rugby, a familiar figure in "Tom Brown's Schooldays." He was born, in December, 1822, at Laleham, a quiet, picturesque village on the Thames, where his father, Thomas Arnold, was at that time Rector. He was sent to Winchester School, and, within a year of his entering, gained the first prize for rhetoric. In 1837 he left Winchester for Rugby. Here he succeeded in gaining an open scholarship at Balliol College, which he entered in 1841. 226 POPULAR POETS. Following up his previous successes, he soon distinguished himself by winning the Hereford Scholarship for proficiency in Latin, and afterwards the Newdigate Prize for a poem on "Cromwell." In 1845 he was elected a Fellow of Oriel College, a similar honour having been conferred upon his father some thirty years previously. Two years later he was appointed private secretary to Lord Lansdowne, and in the following year published, anonymously, "The Strayed Reveller and other Poems." He was appointed, in 1851, one of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, a position for which he was eminently fitted by his practical acquaintance with educational matters both in England and on the Continent. After receiving this appointment he married a daughter of Mr. Justice Wightman. In 1861 he published a valuable and most, interesting report on primary education in Germany, France, and Holland ; and subsequently issued a further report on Continental education. These reports, which were published in a cheap form, have been of great service to this country. "Empedocles on Etna" was published, anonymously, in 1853, an( i was followed in the succeeding year by two series of poems, under his own name, which created a most favourable impression, and led to his election, in 1857, to the Professorship of Poetry at Oxford. Mr. Arnold may be classed among the finest elegiac poets of the period. "The Scholar Gipsy," "Thyrsis," and "Rugby Chapel," are beautiful examples of his style. The following lines from " The Scholar Gipsy " are thoroughly typical and characteristic of his manner and mood ; they are full of the sweetest music, but written in that plaintive, melancholy key which seemed to be part of his nature : For most I know thou lov'st retired ground : Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe Returning home on summer nights have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet As the slow punt swings round : And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, And fostering on thy lap a heap of flowers, Plucked in stray fields and distant woodland bowers, And thine eye resting on the moonlit stream. And then they land and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come, To dance around the Fayfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft hast thou given them store Of flowers the frail-leafed white anemone, Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves But none has words she can report of thee. MATTHEW ARNOLD. 227 And, above Godston Bridge, when haytime's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass, Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass, Have often passed thee near, Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown : Marked thy outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes and soft abstracted air : But when they came from bathing thou wert gone. At some lone homestead on the Cumnor hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children who early range these slopes and late, For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching all an April day The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. * * * * Of his other poems the best known are, perhaps, " Sohrab and Rustum " and " Merope." In the " Golden Treasury " series he edited selections from the poems of Byron and Wordsworth, and Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." As a critical writer he stands in high repute ; among his principal works being "Essays in Criticism," "St. Paul and Protestantism," "Culture and Anarchy," and many others, which have been collected from various sources and published in book form. He died, April I5th, 1888, at Liverpool, where he had gone, full of happy anticipation, and apparently in the best of health, to meet his daughter on her arrival from America. During a walk in the afternoon he suddenly fell forward, and immediately expired from heart disease. Mr. Arnold's end came to him as, perchance, he might have wished, in the full zenith of his fame, and with the power of his intellect unimpaired. His was not the melancholy end of life so graphically depicted in his beautiful and pathetic poem, " Growing Old ": " It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to suffer this, And feel but half and feebly, what we feel. It is last stage of all- When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost That blamed the living man." This fate was not his, for he died full of honour and with the respect and sympathy of all who knew him ; leaving behind a record of high aims, lofty sentiments, and enduring affection. The manner of his death was much in accord with his wish so beautifully expressed in the following lines : 22 g POPULAR POETS. " I ask not that my bed of death From bands of greedy heirs be free ; For these besiege the latest breath Of fortune's favoured sons, not me. * * * Spare me the whispering, crowded room, The friends who come, and gape, and go ; The ceremonious air of gloom All, which makes death a hideous show ! Nor bring to see me cease to live Some doctor full of phrase and fame To shake hie sapient head and give The ill he cannot cure a name. Nor fetch to take the accustom'd toll Of the poor sinner bound for death His brother-doctor of the soul To canvass with official breath The future and its viewless things, That undiscover'd mystery Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! Bring none of these ; but let me be, While all around in silence lies, Moved to the window near, and see Once more before my dying eyes, Bathed in the sacred dews of morn The wide aerial landscapes spread The world which was e'er I was born The world which lasts when I am dead, Which never was the friend of one, Nor promised love it could not give, But lit for all its generous sun, And lived itself and made us live. Then let me gaze till I become In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! To feel the universe my home ; To have before my mind instead Of the sick room, the mortal strife, The turmoil for a little breath The pure eternal course of life, Nor human combatings with death ! Thus feeling, gazing, let me grow Composed, refresh'd) ennobled, clear Then willing let my spirit go To work or wait, elsewhere or here ! " WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT NEWSAM. The Rev. Frederick Langbridge, M.A. REDERICK Langbridge was born at Birmingham, on March 1 7th, 1849, and received his early education at the Grammar School of King Edward VI. He was put to business, but dislikingit, proceeded to Oxford, and finally graduated M.A. at Merton College. Mr. Langbridge took Holy Orders in 1876, and was licensed to the curacy of St. George's, Kendal. Two years later he married and was appointed to the Incumbency of Glen Alia, a small parish situate in one of the wildest parts of Donegal. For the past five years he has held the incumbency of St. John's, Limerick. Mr. Langbridge's contributions to various papers and magazines were for a long time "declined with thanks ;" but, eventually, one was accepted by Casselfs Magazine, and for this he received the magnificent sum of six shillings, in stamps ! Subsequently he received, for another contribution, half-a- guinea from Chambers' Journal. The first of his poems to attract any attention was "Sent back by the Angels," which appeared in Good Words. Since then he has been a contributor to numerous periodicals, including The Quiver, Eastward Ho ! The Spectator, Good Words, The Graphic, Illustrated London A T e~ivs, The leisure Hour, Sunday Magazine, and Little Folks. Many of his lyrics have been set to music, and have attained considerable popularity for their racy and quaint humour. Mr. Langbridge is fond of depicting scenes in the lower strata of life, and for this he seems to have a peculiar aptitude. His poems in this direction are racy in their vernacular, clear in conception, and usually convey good moral teaching, although, at times, they descend to a broadness of expression which grates some- what harshly upon refined ears and verges dangerously near to profanity. Examples of this are to be found in " David Roper's Wife," " A Street Sermon," and some few others. No doubt his writings are intended to " treat honestly of the struggles and temptations, the joys and sorrows, of the poor ; and are the outcome of true sympathy and earnest study. Their laughter is genuine mirth, and their tears are real tears." CLAUDE MELVILLE. 230 POPULAR POETS. DOCTOR DAN'S SECRET. A hearty old man is Doctor Dan As any in Romford Town, With his cheery grin, and his threefold chin, And his jolly old shining crown. And friends who have proved what his quarters are Right willingly stay to dine ; They have faith in his cook and his fat cigar, And his bottle of vintage wine. " It's a queer little crib," said Doctor Dan, " But cosy enough for a single man." As they lounge at ease, and toast their knees, The host, with a laugh, will say, " My kingdom's small, but over it all I reign with a despot's sway. No serious dame may freeze my joke With a glance of her awful eye, Nor cough rebuke from a cloud of smoke, Nor put the decanter by. I feel in my heart," says Doctor Dan, " For that poor white slave, the married man." But as soon as the last good-bye is said, And he fears not ring or knock, He walks to his desk, with a solemn tread, And quietly turns the lock. The tear-mists rise in his brave blue eyes, As he stands and gazes there ; It is gold bright gold in his hand that lies But the gold of a lost love's hair.