qpHpn 11 T U^ RNIA V University of California • Berkeley Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2008 witin funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/birdsofpassagesoOOblinricli BIRDS OF PASSAGE a [Edition limited to 250 copies. ^ BIRDS OF PASSAGE SONGS OF THE ORIENT AND OCCIDENT BY MATHILDE BLIND Eonton CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1895 kQAN o.aCK " The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter — and the bird is on the wing." Omar Khayyam. CONTENTS. Prelude .... SONGS OF THE ORIENT Welcome to Egypt . . The Sphinx Sphinx-Money The Tombs of the Kings Hymn to Horus NUIT Egyptian Theosophy The Moon of Ramadan The Beautiful Beeshareen Boy The Dying Dragoman . . A Fantasy . . The Desert Scarab/eus Sisyphus The Colossi of the Plain Mourning Women . . The Sakiyeh Internal Firesides . . On Reading the "Rubaiyat" of Omar Khayyam A Kentish Rose Garden IN II 12 13 14 26 29 31 34 40 48 57 61 66 67 68 70 71 72 517 VI CONTENTS. SONGS OF THE OCCIDENT. Roman Anemones .• 75 Ave Maria in Rome 76 The New Proserpine .. 78 Soul-Drift 80 On a Torso of Cupid .. 81 The Mirror of Diana . . 84 On Guido's Aurora .. 87 Spring in the Alps 88 The Agnostic .. 91 A Bridal in the Bois de Boulogne 93 A White Night .. 98 The Forest Pool 100 Noonday Rest . . 102 Cross-roads 104 The Moat . . . . 106 SHAKESPEARE SONNETS. Anne Hathaway's Cottage Anne Hathaway Cleve Woods Lost Treasure . . The Avon . . Evensong (Holy Trinity Church) Shakespeare Cedars of Lebanon at Warwick Castle 109 no 112 "3 114 "5 116 117 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. Pastiche Marriage 121 123 CONTENTS. vii Notes PAGE Once WE Played .. .. .. .. .. 124 Affinities — I. .. .. .. .. .. .. 126 II. .. .. .. .. .. ..128 III 129 To A Friend, with a Volume of Verses .. ..131 As Many Stars .. .. .. .. 132 Love's Vision . . . . . . . . . . 134 A Parable . . . . . . . . . . 135 Between Sleep and Waking . . . . . . 137 Rest . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Mystery of Mysteries . . . . . . . . 141 143 BIRDS OF PASSAGE B PRELUDE. What a twitter ! what a tumult ! what a whirr of wheeling wings ! Birds of Passage hear the message which the Equinoctial brings. Birds of Passage hear the message, and beneath the flying clouds, Mid the falling leaves of autumn, congregate in clamorous crowds. Shall they venture on the voyage ? are the nestlings fledged for flight ; Fit to face the fluctuant storm-winds and the ele- mental night? 4 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. What a twitter! what a tumult ! to the wild wind's marching song Multitudinous Birds of Passage round the cliffs of England throng. And o'er tempest-trodden Ocean, cloud-entangled day and night, Birds on birds, in corporate motion, wing a common- wealth in flight. Waves, like hollow graves beneath them, hoarsely- howling, yawn for prey ; And the welkin glooms above them shifting form- less, grey in grey. And across the Bay of Biscay on undaunted wing they flee, Where mild seas move musically murmuring of the Odyssey ; PRELUDE. 5 Where the gurgling whirlpools glitter and by soft Circean Straits, Fell Charybdis lies in ambush, and the ravenous Scylla waits ; Where a large Homeric laughter lingers in the echoing caves, And in playful exultation Dolphins leap from dimpling waves ; Where, above the fair Sicilian, flock-browsed, flower- pranked meadows, looms ^tna — hoariest of Volcanoes — ominously veiled in fumes ; Where the seas roll blue and bluer, high and higher arch the skies. And as measureless as ocean new horizons meet the eyes ; 6 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Where at night the ancient heavens bend above the ancient earth, With the young-eyed Stars enkindled fresh as at their hour of birth ; Where old Egypt's desert, stretching leagues on leagues of level land, Gleams with threads of channelled waters, green with palms on either hand ; Where the Fellah strides majestic through the glimmering dourah plain. And in rosy flames flamingoes rise from rustling sugar-cane ; — On and on, along old Nilus, seeking still an ampler light, O'er its monumental mountains. Birds of Passage take their flight. PRELUDE. 7 Where the sacred Isle of Philae, twinned within the sacred stream, Floats, like some rapt Opium-eater's labyrinthine lotos dream, Birds on birds take up their quarters in each creviced capital, In each crack of frieze and cornice, in each cleft of roof and wall. And within those twilight-litten, holy halls of Death and Birth, Even the gaily twittering swallows, even the swallows, hush their breath. And they cast the passing shadows of their palpitating wings O'er the fallen gods of Egypt and the prostrate heads of Kings. 8 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, Even as shadows Birds of Passage cast upon their onward flight Have men's generations vanished, waned and vanished into night SONGS OF THE ORIENT. WELCOME TO EGYPT, The Palms stood motionless as Pyramids Against the golden halo of the sky ; Interminable crops of wheat and rye Mantled the plain with downy coverlids Of silken green, where little freckled kids Frolicked beneath the staid maternal eye ; And babe-led buffaloes plashed trampling by, Sprinkling cool water on their dusty lids. Spake the grave Arab, as his flashing glance Swept the large, luminous verdure's dewy sheen, Sedately, with a bronze-like countenance : " Neharak Said ! Lo, this happy day. My country decks herself in sumptuous green, And smiling welcome, Lady, bids you stay." 13 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, THE SPHINX, Wanderer, behold Life's riddle writ in stone, Fronting Eternity with lidless eyes ; Of all that is beneath the changing skies, Immutably abiding and alone. The handiwork of hands unseen, unknown, When Pharaohs of immortal dynasties Built Pyramids to brave the centuries, Cheating Annihilation of her own. The heart grows hushed before it. Nay, methinks That Man, and all on which Man wastes his breath, The World, and all the World inheriteth, With infinite, inexorable links Grappling the soul ; that love, hate, birth and death Dwindle to nothingness before thee— Sphinx. 13 SPHINX-MONE V. Where Pyramids and temple-wrecks are piled Confusedly on camel-coloured sands, And the mute Arab motionlessly stands, Like some swart god who never wept or smiled, — I picked up mummy relics of the wild (As sea-shells once with clutching baby hands), And felt a wafture from old Motherlands, And all the morning wonder of a Child To find Sphinx-money. So the Beduin calls Small fossils of the waste. Nay, poet's gold : 'Twill give thee entrance to those rites of old, When hundred-gated Thebes, with storied walls. Gleamed o'er her Plain, and vast processions rolled To Amon-Ra through Karnak's pillared halls. 14 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS, Where the mummied Kings of Egypt, wrapped in linen fold on fold, Couched for ages in their cofifins, crowned with crowns of dusky gold, Lie in subterranean chambers, biding to the day of doom, Counterfeit life's hollow semblance in each mazy mountain tomb. Grisly in their gilded coffins, mocking masks of skin and bone, Yet remain in change unchanging, balking Nature of her own ; THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 15 Mured in mighty Mausoleums, walled in from the night and day, Lo, the mortal Kings of Egypt hold immortal Death at bay. For — so spake the Kings of Egypt — those colossal ones whose hand Held the peoples from Pitasa to the Kheta's con- quered land ; Who, with flash and clash of lances and war- chariots, stormed and won Many a town of stiff-necked Syria to high-towering Askalon : "We have been the faithful stewards of the death- less gods on high ; We have built them starry temples underneath the starry sky. i6 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. " We have smitten rebel nations, as a child is whipped with rods : We the living incarnation of imperishable gods. " Shall we suffer Death to trample us to nothing- ness ? and must We be scattered, as the whirlwind blows about the desert dust ? " No ! Death shall not dare come near us, nor Corruption shall not lay- Hands upon our sacred bodies, incorruptible as day. " Let us put a bit and bridle, and rein in Time's headlong course ; Let us ride him through the ages as a master rides his horse. THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 17 '' On the changing earth unchanging let us bide till Time shall end, Till, reborn in blest Osiris, mortal with Immortal blend." Yea, so spake the Kings of Egypt, they whose lightest word was law, At whose nod the far-off nations cowered, stricken dumb with awe. And Fate left the haughty rulers to work out their monstrous doom ; And, embalmed with myrrh and ointments, they were carried to the tomb ; Through the gate of Bab-el-Molouk, where the sulphur hills lie bare, Where no green thing casts a shadow in the noon's tremendous glare ; C i8 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Where the unveiled Blue of heaven in its bare intensity Weighs upon the awe-struck spirit with the world's immensity ; Through the Vale of Desolation, where no beast or bird draws breath, To the Coffin-Hills of Tuat— the Metropolis of Death. Down — down — down into the darkness, where, on either hand, dread Fate, In the semblance of a serpent, watches by the dolorous gate ; Down — down — down into the darkness, where no gleam of sun or star Sheds its purifying radiance from the living world afar ; THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 19 Where in labyrinthine windings, darkly hidden, down and down, — Proudly on his marble pillow, with old Egypt's double crown, And his mien of cold commandment, grasping still his staff of state, Rests the mightiest of the Pharaohs, whom the world surnamed the Great. Swathed in fine Sidonian ; linen, crossed hands folded on the breast, There the mummied Kings of Egypt lie within each painted chest. And upon their dusky foreheads Pleiades of flam- ing gems, Glowing through the nether darkness, flash from luminous diadems. 20 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Where is Memphis ? Like a Mirage, melted into empty air : But these royal gems yet sparkle richly on their raven hair. Where is Thebes in all her glory, with her gates of beaten gold ? Where Syene, or that marvel, Heliopolis of old? Where is Edfu ? Where Abydos ? Where those pillared towns of yore Whose auroral temples glittered by the Nile's thick- peopled shore ? Gone as evanescent cloudlands, Alplike in the afterglow ; But these Kings hold fabc their bodies of four thousand years ago. THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 21 Sealed up in their Mausoleums, in the bowels of the hills, There they hide from dissolution and Death's swiftly grinding mills. Scattering fire, Uraeus serpents guard the Tombs' tremendous ^ate ; s While Thoth holds the trembling balance, weighs the heart and seals its fate. And a multitude of mummies in the swaddling clothes of death, Ferried o'er the sullen river, on and on still hasteneth. And around them and above them, blazoned on the rocky walls, Crowned with stars, enlaced by serpents, in divine processionals, 22 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Ibis-headed, jackal-featured, vulture-hooded, pass on high, Gods on gods through Time's perspectives — pil- grims of Eternity. There, revealed by fitful flashes, in a gloom that may be felt, Wild Chimaeras flash from darkness, glittering like Orion's belt. And on high, o'er shining waters, in their barks the gods sail by, In the Sunboat and the Moonboat, rowed across the rose-hued sky. Night, that was before Creation, watches sphinx- like, starred with eyes, And the hours and days are passing, and the years and centuries. THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 23 But these mummied Kings of Egypt, pictures of a perished race, Lie, of busy Death forgotten, face by immemorial face. Though the glorious sun above them, burning on the naked plain, Clothes the empty wildernesses with the golden, glowing grain ; Though the balmy Moon above them, floating in the milky Blue, Fills the empty wildernesses with a silver fall of dew ; Though life comes and flies unresting, like the shadow which a dove Casts upon the Sphinx, in passing, for a moment from above ; — 24 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Still these mummied Kings of Egypt, wrapped in linen, fold on fold, Bide through ages in their coffins, crowned with crowns of dusky gold. Had the sun once brushed them lightly, or a breath of air, they must Instantaneously have crumbled into evanescent dust. Pale and passive in their prisons, they have con- quered, chained to death ; And their lineaments look living now as when they last drew breath ! Have they conquered ? Oh the pity of those Kings within their tombs. Locked in stony isolation in those petrifying glooms ! THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS. 25 Motionless where all is motion in a rolling Universe, Heaven, by answering their prayer, turned it to a deadly curse. Left them fixed where all is fluid in a world of star-winged skies ; Where, in myriad transformations, all things pass and nothing dies ; Nothing dies but what is tethered, kept when Time would set it free, To fulfil Thought's yearning tension upward through Eternity. 26 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. HYMN TO HORUS, Hail, God revived in glory ! The night is over and done ; Far mountains wrinkled and hoary, Fair cities great in story, Flash in the rising sun. Behold the Dawn uncloses The shutters of the night ; The Waste and her oases Blossoms a rose of roses Beneath thy rose-red light. Hail, golden House of Horus, Lap of heaven's holiest God ! HYMN TO HORUS. 27 From lotos-banks before us Birds in ecstatic chorus Fly, singing, from the sod. Up, up, into the shining. Translucent morning sky, No longer dull and pining, With drooping plumes declining, The storks and eagles fly. The Nile amid his rushes Reflects thy risen disk ; A light of gladness gushes Through kindling halls, and flushes Each flaming Obelisk. Vast Temples catch thy splendour ; Vistas of columns shine Celestial, with a tender Rose-bloom on every slender Papyrus-pillared shrine. 28 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, In manifold disguises, And under many names, Thrice-holy son of Isis, We worship him who rises A child-god fledged in flames. Hail, sacred Hawk, who, winging, Grossest the heavenly sea ! With harp-playing, with singing, With linen robes, white clinging. We come, fair God, to thee. Thou whom our soul espouses, When weary of the way. Enter our golden houses, And, with thy mystic spouses, Rest from the long, long way. 29 NUIT. The all upholding, The all enfolding, The all beholding, Most secret Night ; From whose abysses. With wordless blisses, The Sun's first kisses, Called gods to light. One god undying, But multiplying. Restlessly trying, Doing : undone. 30 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Through myriad changes, He sweeps and ranges ; But life estranges Many in one. In wild commotion, Out of the ocean, With moan and motion, Waves upon waves, Mingling in thunder, Rise and go under : Break, life, asunder ; Night has her graves. 31 EGYPTIAN THEOSOPHY. Far in the introspective East A meditative Memphian Priest Would solve — such is the Sage's curse — The Riddle of the Universe. Thought, turning round itself, revolved, How was this puzzling World evolved ? How came the starry sky to be, The sun, the earth, the Nile, the sea ? And Man, most tragi-comic Man, Whence came he here, and where began ? 32 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Communing with the baffling sky, Who twinkled, but made no reply, He brooded, till his heated brain Grew fairly addled with the strain. For in that dim, benighted age Philosopher and hoary sage Had not yet had the saving grace To teach the Schools that Time and Space, And all the marvels they contain. Are but the phantoms of the brain. But that profound Egyptian Seer Maybe — who knows ? — came pretty near ; When, after days of strenuous fast, He hit the startling truth at last : EGYPTIAN THEOSOPHY. 33 And on select, mysterious nights, Veiled in occult, symbolic rites : He taught — that once upon a time — To disbelieve it were a crime — The World's great Qgg — refute who can, That meditates on Life and Man — While deafening cacklings spread the news — Was laid by an Almighty Goose. D 3* BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE MOON OF RAMADAN, The sunset melts upon the Nile, The stony desert glows, Beneath heaven's universal smile, One burning damask rose ; And like a Peri's pearly boat. No longer than a span, Look, faint on fiery sky afloat, The Moon of Ramadan. Our boat drifts idly with the Stream, Our boatmen ship the oar ; Vistas of endless temples gleam On either topaz shore ; THE MOON OF RAMADAN. 35 And swimming over groves of Palm, A crescent weak and wan, There steals into the perfect calm The Moon of Ramadan. All nature seems to bask in peace And hush her lowest sigh ; Above the river's golden fleece The happy Halcyons fly. And lost in some old lotos dream, The pensive Pelican Sees mirrored in the mazy stream The Moon of Ramadan. Black outlined on the golden air, A turbaned Silhouette, The Mueddin invites to prayer From many a Minaret Our dusky boatmen hear the call, And prostrate, man on man, 36 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. They bow, adoring, one and all, The Moon of Ramadan. Where Luxor's rose-flushed columns shine Above the river's brim, The priests with incense once, and wine, Made sacrifice to Him, The highest god of Thebes, and head Of all the heavenly clan ; But now the Moslem hails instead The Moon of Ramadan. The gods have come, the gods have gone, Yet wedded to their walls. Winged with the serpent of the Sun In mute processionals. They stride from door to massy door, Bound nations in their van, Though Amon's Sun has waned before The Moon of Ramadan. THE MOON OF RAMADAN. yj Yea, even proud Egypt's proudest king, Who chastised rebel lands, And brought his gods for offering Mountains of severed hands ; Who singly, like a god of War, Smote hosts that swerved and ran, Lies low 'neath Allah's scimetar — The Moon of Ramadan. And Isis, Queen, whose sacred disk's Horned splendour crowned her brow, While fires of flashing Obelisks Flamed in the Afterglow ; And white-robed priests who served her shrine Have turned Mahommedan, And worship Him who wears for sign The Moon of Ramadan. The rosy lotos, flower and leaf, Which wreathed each sacred lake. BIRDS OF PASSAGE. V/ith Nature's loveliest bas-relief, Has followed in their wake ; Yea, with the last true Pharaoh's death, The lotos leaves, grown wan, Have changed to lily white beneath The Moon of Ramadan. The gods may come, the gods may go. And royal realms change hands ; But the most ancient Nile will flow, And flood the desert sands ; And nightly will he glass the stars' Unearthly caravan. Nor care if it be Rome's red Mars Or Moon of Ramadan. The sunset fades upon the Nile ; The desert's stony gloom, Receding blankly mile on mile. Grows silent as a tomb. THE MOON OF RAMADAN. 39 All weary wanderers, man and beast, Hie, fasting, to the Khan, While shines above their nightly feast The Moon of Ramadan. 40 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE BEAUTIFUL BEESHAREEN BOY, Beautiful, black-eyed boy, O lithe-limbed Beeshareen ! Face that finds no maid coy, Page for some peerless queen : Some Orient queen of old. Sumptuous in woven gold, Close-clinging fold on fold, Lightning, with gems between. Bred in the desert, where Only to breathe and be Alive in living air Is finest ecstasy ; THE BEAUTIFUL BEESHAREEN BOY. ^\ Where just to ride or rove, With sun or stars above, Intoxicates like love, When love shall come to thee. Thy lovely limbs are bare ; Only a rag, in haste. Draped with a princely air. Girdles thy slender waist. And gaudy beads and charms, Dangling from neck and arms. Ward off dread spells and harms Of Efreets of the waste. Caressed of wind and sun. Across the white-walled town Fawnlike we saw thee run. Light Love in Mocha brown ! 42 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Wild Cupid, without wings, Twanging thy viol strings ; With crocodiles and rings Bartered for half a crown. Spoilt darling of our bark, Smiling with teeth as white As when across the dark There breaks a flash of light. And what a careless grace Showed in thy gait and pace ; Eyes starlike in a face Sweet as a Nubian night ! Better than Felt or Fez, High on thy forehead set, Countless in lock and tress, Waved a wild mane of jet. THE BEAUTIFUL BEESHAREEN BOY. 43 Kings well might envy thee What courts but rarely see, Curls of rich ebony Coiled in a coronet. Lo — in dim days long since — The strolling Almehs tell, Thou shouldst have been a prince, Boy of the ebon fell ! If truth the poet sings, Thy tribe, oh Beduin, springs From those lost tribes of Kings, Once Kings in Israel. Ah me ! the camp-fires gleam Out yonder, where the sands Fade like a lotos dream In hollow twilight lands. 44 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Our sail swells to the blast, Our boat speeds far and fast, Farewell ! And to the last Smile, waving friendly hands. From England's storm-girt isle, O'er seas where seagulls wail, Rocked on the rippling Nile, We drift with drooping sail. On waters hushed at night. Where stars of Egypt write In hieroglyphs of light Their undeciphered tale. Forlorn sits Assouan ; Where is her boy, her pride ?- Now in the lamplit Khan, Now by the riverside. THE BEAUTIFUL BEESHAREEN BOY. 45 Or where the Soudanese, Under mimosa trees, ; Chaunt mournful melodies, We've sought him far and wide. Oh, desert-nurtured Child, How dared they carry thee. Far from thy native Wild, Across the Western Sea? Packed off, poor boy, at last, With many a plaster cast Of plinth and pillar vast, And waxen mummies piled ! Ah ! just like other ware. For a lump sum or so Shipped to the World's great Fair — The big Chicago Show ! 46 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. With mythic beasts and things, Beetles and bulls with wings, And imitation Sphinx, Ranged row on curious row ! Beautiful, black-eyed boy ; Ah me ! how strange it is That thou, the desert's joy, Whom heavenly winds would kis With Ching and Chang-hwa ware, Blue pots and bronzes rare, Shouldst now be over there Shown at Porkopolis. Gone like a lovely dream, Child of the starry smile ; Gone from the glowing stream Glassing its greenest isle ! THE BEAUTIFUL BEESHAREEN BOY. 47 We've sought, but sought in vain ; Thou wilt not come again, Never for bliss or pain, Home to thy orphaned Nile. 48 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE DYING DRAGOMAN. Far in the fiery wilderness, Beyond the town of Assouan, Left languishing in sore distress. There lay a dying Dragoman, Alone amid the waste, alone, The hot sand burnt him to the bone ; And on his breast, like heated stone, The burden of the air did press. His head was pillowed on a tomb, Reared to some holy Sheik of old ; The irresistible Simoom Whirled drifts of sand that rose and rolled THE DYING DRAGOMAN. 49 Around him, and the panting air Was one sulphureous spectral glare, Shot with such gleams as lights the lair Of tigers in a jungle's gloom. Groaning, he closed his bloodshot eyes, As if to shut out all he feared ; And greedily a swarm of flies Fell on his face and tangled beard. He lay like one who ne'er would lift His head above that ashy drift ; When lo, there gleamed across a rift The blue oasis of the skies. Like smoke dispersing far and wide. The draggled sands were blown away ; The wild clouds in a refluent tide Receded from the face of day. E 50 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, The lingering airs yet lightly blew Till the last speck cleared out of view, And left the hushed Eternal Blue, And nothing else beside. Then once again, with change of moods, A mighty shadow, broadening, fell Across those shadeless solitudes, Without a Palm, without a Well. Wing wedged in wing, an ordered mass Unnumbered numbers pass and pass. As if one Will, one only, was In all those moving multitudes. A chord thrilled in the sick man's brain ; He raised his heavy-lidded eyes. He raised his heavy head with pain. And caught a glimpse of netted skies. THE DYING DRAGOMAN, 51 Meshed in ten thousand wings in flight That cleft the air. Oh wondrous sight ! He gasped, he shrieked in sheer delight : " The Storks ! The Storks fly home again ! " I too, O Storks, I too, even I, Would see my native land again. Oh, had I wings that I might fly With you, wild birds, across the main ! Take, take me to the land, I pray, The land where nests are full in May, The land where my young children play : Oh, take me with you, or I die. " My lonely heart blooms like a flower. My children, when I think of you ; My love is like an April shower, And fills my heart with drops of dew. 52 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, Along their unknown tracks, ah me ! The Storks will fly across the sea ; My children soon will hail with glee Their red bills on the rain-washed tower." Home-sickness seized him for the herds That browse upon the fresh green leas ; Home-sickness for the cuckoo birds That shout afar in feathery trees ; For running stream and rippling rill That, racing, turned his woodland mill : And tears on tears began to fill His eyes, confusing all he sees. Again he doats on rosy cheeks Of children rolling in the grass ; Again the busy days and weeks, The months and years serenely pass. THE DYING DRAGOMAN. 53 Black forest clocks tick day and night, His board and bed are snowy white, His humble house is just as bright As if it were a house of glass. Again, beneath the high-peaked roof, His wife's unresting shuttle flies Across the even warp and woof; Again his thrifty mother plies Her wheel, that hums like noontide bees ; And lint-locked babes about her knees Hark to strange tales of talking trees, And Storks deep versed in sage replies. Again the ring of swinging chimes Calls all the pious folk to church. With shining Sunday face, betimes. Through rustling woods of beech and birch 54 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Full of moist glimmering hollows where The pines bow murmuring as in prayer, And musically through the air The forest's mighty Choral swells. Again, O Lord, again he sees The place where Heaven came down one day ; Where, in a space of bloom and bees, He won his wife one morn of May. Warm pulses shook and thrilled his blood, Wild birds were singing in the wood, The flowering world in bridal mood Joined in the Pinewood's symphonies. Again, O Lord, in grief and fear, He bids good-bye to all he loves ; The waters swell, the woods are sere, The Storks are gone, and hushed the doves. THE DYING DRAGOMAN. 55 He goes with them ; he goes to heal The sickness whose insidious seal Is set on him. Ah, tears will steal And blur the Storks that disappear. A furnace fire behind the hill, The sun has burnt itself away ; The ghost of light, transparent, chill, Yet floats upon the edge of day. And all the desert holds its breath As if it felt and crouched beneath The filmy, flying bat of death About a heart for ever still. And one by one, seraphic, bland, The bright stars open in the skies ; And large above the Shadow land The white-faced moon begins to rise. 56 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. And all the wilderness grows wan Beneath the stars, that one by one Look down upon the lifeless man As if they were his children's eyes. A FANTASY, I WAS an Arab, I loved my horse ; Swift as an arrow He swept the course. Sweet as a lamb He came to hand ; He was the flower Of all the land. Through lonely nights I rode afar; God lit His lights- Star upon star. 58 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. God's in the desert ; His breath the air : Beautiful desert, Boundless and bare ! Free as the wild wind, Light as a foal ; Ah, there is room there To stretch one's soul. Far reached my thought, Scant were my needs : A few bananas And lotus seeds. Sparkling as water Cool in the shade, Ibrahim's daughter, Beautiful maid. A FANTASY. 59 Out of thy Kulleh, Fairest and first, Give me to drink Quencher of thirst. I am athirst, girl ; Parched with desire, Love in my bosom Burns as a fire. Green thy oasis, Waving with Palms ; Oh, be no niggard, Maid, with thy alms. Kiss me with kisses, Buds of thy mouth, Sweeter than Cassia Fresh from the South. 6o BIRDS OF PASSAGE, Bind me with tresses, Clasp with a curl ; And in caresses Stifle me, girl. I was an Arab Ages ago ! Hence this home-sickness And all my woe. 6i THE DESERT, Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, Eternal as the Sea ; What lacks the tidal sea thou hast — Profound stability. Beneath the sun that burns and brands In hushed Noon's halting breath, Calm as the Sphinx upon thy sands Thou art — nay, calm as death. The desert foxes hide in holes, The jackal seeks his lair ; The sombre rocks, like reddening coals, Glow lurid in the glare. 62 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Only some vulture far away, Bald-headed, harpy-eyed, Flaps down on lazy wing to prey On what has lately died. No palm tree lifts a lonely shade, '' No dove is on the wing ; It seems a land which Nature made Without a living thing. Or wreckage of some older world, Ere children grew, or flowers. When rocks and hissing stones were hurled In hot, volcanic showers. The solemn Blue bends over all ; Far as winged thought may flee Roll ridges of black mountain wall. And flat sands like the sea. THE DESERT. 63 No trace of footsteps to be seen, No tent, no smoking roof ; Nay, even the vagrant Beeshareen Keeps warily aloof. But yon, mid tumbled hillocks prone, Some human form I scan — A human form, indeed, but stone : A cold, colossal Man ! How came he here mid piling sands, Like some huge cliff enisled, Osiris-wise, with folded hands, Mute spirit of the Wild ? Ages ago the hands that hewed, And in the living rock Carved this Colossus, granite-thewed, And curled each crispy lock : 64 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Ages ago have dropped to rest, And left him passive, prone. Forgotten on earth^s barren breast, Half statue and half stone. And Persia ruled and Palestine ; And o'er her violet seas Arose, with marble gods divine, The grace of god-like Greece. And Rome, the Mistress of the World, Amid her diadem Of Eastern Empires set impearled The Scarab's mystic gem. Perchance he has been lying here Since first the world began. Poor Titan of some earlier sphere] Of prehistoric Man ! THE DESERT, 65 To whom we are as idle flies, That fuss and buzz their day ; While still immutable he lies, As long ago he lay. Empurpled in the Afterglow, Thou, with the Sun alone, Of all the stony waste below. Art King, but king of stone ! Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast, Eternal as the Sea, The present here becomes the past, For all futurity. 66 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. SCARABAiUS SISYPHUS. I've watched thee, Scarab ! Yea, an hour in vain I've watched thee, slowly toiling up the hill, Pushing thy lump of mud before thee still With patience infinite and stubborn strain. Strive as thou mayst, spare neither time nor pain, To screen thy burden from all chance of ill ; Push, push, with all a beetle's force of will, Thy ball, alas ! rolls ever down again. Toil without end ! And why ? That after thee Dim hosts of groping Scarabs too shall climb This self-same height ? Accursed progeny Of Sisyphus, what antenatal crime Has doomed us too to roll incessantly Life's Stone, recoiling from the Alps of time ? (^7 THE COLOSSI OF THE PLAIN. Ancient of Days ! Before the Trojan Wars You towered as now in your colossal prime, Watching the rosy footed morning climb O'er far Arabia's flushing mountain bars. Despite your weird disfigurement and scars You dwarf all other monuments. Sublime Survivors of old Thebes ! you baffle Time, And sit in silent conclave with the Stars. Ah, once below you through the glittering plain Stretched avenues of Sphinxes to the Nile ; And, flanked with towers, each consecrated fane Enshrined its god. The broken gods lie prone In roofless halls, their hallowed terrors gone, Helpless beneath Heaven's penetrating smile. 68 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, MOURNING WOMEN. All veiled in black, with faces hid from sight, Crouching together in the jolting cart, What forms are these that pass alone, apart, In abject apathy to life's delight? The motley crowd, fantastically bright, Shifts gorgeous through each dazzling street and mart ; Only these sisters of the suffering heart Strike discords in this symphony of light. Most wretched women ! whom your prophet dooms To take love's penalties without its prize ! MOURNING WOMEN. 69 Yes ; you shall bear the unborn in your wombs, And water dusty death with streaming eyes, And, wailing, beat your breasts among the tombs ; But souls ye have none fit for Paradise. 70 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE SAKIYEH. " How long shall Man be Nature's fool ?" Man cries ; "Be like those great, gaunt oxen, drilled and bound, Inexorably driven round and round To turn the water-wheel with bandaged eyes ? And as they trudge beneath Egyptian skies, Watering the wrinkled desert's beggared ground, The hoarse Sakiyeh's lamentable sound Fills all the land as with a people's sighs ? " Poor Brutes ! Who in unconsciousness sublime, Replenishing the ever-empty jars, Endow the waste with palms and harvest gold : And men, who move in rhythm with moving stars. Should shrink to give the borrowed lives they hold: Bound blindfold to the groaning wheel of Time. 71 INTERNAL FIRESIDES. Bewilderingly, from wildly shaken cloud, Invisible hands, deft moving everywhere, Have woven a winding sheet of velvet air, And laid the dead earth in her downy shroud. And more and more, in white confusion, crowd Wan, whirling flakes, while o'er the icy glare Blue heaven that was glooms blackening o'er the bare Tree skeletons, to ruthless tempest bowed. Nay, let the outer world be winter-locked ; Beside the hearth of glowing memories I warm my life. Once more our boat is rocked. As on a cradle by the palm-fringed Nile ; And, sharp-cut silhouettes, in single file, Lank camels lounge against transparent skies. 72 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, ON READING THE '^ RUBAIYAT' OF OMAR KHAYYAM IN A KENTISH ROSE GARDEN. Beside a Dial in the leafy close, Where every bush was burning with the Rose, With million roses falling flake by flake Upon the lawn in fading summer snows : I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old. Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold — Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years, They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. You may not know the secret tongue aright The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write ; Only a poet may perchance translate Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light. SONGS OF THE OCCIDENT. 75 ROMAN ANEMONES. The maiden meadows softly blush Beneath the enamoured breeze, And break into one purple flush Of frail anemones. Violet and rose and vermeil white, Woven of sun and showers, They seem to be embodied light Transfigured into flowers. 76 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. AVE MARIA IN ROME, Far away dim violet mountains Fade away from sight ; Flashing from fantastic fountains, Jets the liquid light, Where from Nymph's or Triton's lip Bubbling waters drip and drip, Bubbling day and night. Pealed from tower to answering tower, O'er the city swells. Ringing in the hallowed hour. Rhythm of bells on bells ; And on wings of Choral Song, Confluent hearts to Mary throng, From low, cloistered cells. AVE MARIA IN ROME. 77 On the golden ground of even, Like a half-way home, On the pilgrim road to heaven Floats St. Peter's Dome ; High, high, in the air alone, Man's dread Thought transformed to stone, Pinnacled o'er Rome. Pincio. 78 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, THE NEW PROSERPINE. Where, countless as the stars of night, The daisies made a milky way Across fresh lawns, and flecked with light, Old Ilex groves walled round with bay, — I saw thee stoop, oh lady sweet, And with those pale, frail hands of thine Gather the spring flowers at our feet, Fair as some late-born Proserpine. Yea, gathering flowers, thou might'st have been That goddess of the ethereal brow, Revisiting this radiant scene From realm of dolorous shades below. THE NEW PROSERPINE. 79 Thou might'st have been that Queen of Sighs, Love-bound by Hades' dreadful spell ; For veiled within thy heaven-blue eyes, There lay the Memory of Hell. Villa Pamfili Doria. 8o BIRDS OF PASSAGE. SOUL-DRIFT. I LET my soul drift with the thistledown Afloat upon the honeymooning breeze ; My thoughts about the swelling buds are blown, Blown with the golden dust of flowering trees. On fleeting gusts of desultory song, I let my soul drift out into the Spring ; The Psyche flies and palpitates among The palpitating creatures on the wing. Go, happy Soul ! run fluid in the wave, Vibrate in light, escape thy natal curse ; Go forth no longer as my body-slave, But as the heir of all the Universe. Villa Borghese. 8i ON A TORSO OF CUPID. Peach trees and Judas trees, Poppies and roses, Purple anemones In garden closes ! Lost in the limpid sky, Shrills a gay lark on high ; Lost in the covert's hush, Gurgles a wooing thrush. Look, where the ivy weaves, Closely embracing. Tendrils of clinging leaves Round him enlacing, BIRDS OF PASSAGE, f With Nature's sacredness Clothing the nakedness, Clothing the marble of This poor, dismembered love. Gone are the hands whose skill Aimed the light arrow, Strong once to cure or kill, Pierce to the marrow ; Gone are the lips whose kiss Held hives of honeyed bliss ; Gone too the little feet, Overfond, overfleet. O helpless god of old, Maimed mid the tender Blossoming white and gold Of April splendour ! ON A TORSO OF CUPID. 83 Shall we not make thy grave Where the long grasses wave ; Hide thee, O headless god, Deep in the daisied sod ? Here thou mayst rest at last After life's fever ; After love's fret is past Rest thee for ever. Nay, broken God of Love, Still must thou bide above While, left for woe or weal, Thou hast a heart to feel. Villa Mattel. 84 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE MIRROR OF DIANA. POPULAR NAME FOR LAKE NEMI. She floats into the quiet skies, Where, in the circle of the hills, Her immemorial mirror fills With light, as of a Virgin's eyes When, love a-tremble in their blue, They glow twin violets dipped in dew. Mild as a metaphor of Sleep, Immaculately maiden-white, The Queen Moon of ancestral night Beholds her image in the deep : As if a-gaze she beams above Lake Nemi's magic glass of love. THE MIRROR OF DIANA, 85 White rose, white lily of the vale, Perfume the even breath of night ; In many a burst of sweet delight The love throb of the nightingale Swells through lush flowering woods and fills The circle of the listening hills. White rose, white lily of the skies, The Moon-flower blossoms in the lake ; The nightingale for her fair sake With hopeless love's impassioned cries Seems fain to sing till song must kill Himself with one tumultuous trill. And all the songs and all the scents, The light of glowworms and the fires Of fire-flies in the cypress spires ; And all the wild wind instruments Of pine and ilex as the breeze Sweeps out their mystic harmonies ; — 86 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. All are but Messengers of May To that white orb of maiden fire Who fills the moth with mad desire To die enamoured in her ray, And turns each dewdrop in the grass Into a fairy looking-glass. O Beauty, far and far above The night moth and the nightingale ! Far, far above life's narrow pale, O Unattainable ! O Love ! Even as the nightingale we cry For some Ideal set on high. Haunting the deep reflective mind, You may surprise its perfect Sphere Glassed like the Moon within her mere, Who at a puff of alien wind Melts in innumerable rings, Elusive in the flux of things. 87 ON GUIDO'S AURORA. Glorious, in saffron robes and veil unfurled, Borne on the wind of her ecstatic flight, Aurora floats before the Lord of Light, And showers her roses on a jubilant world. Lo, where he beams, ambrosial, yellow curled, The God of Day, with unapparent might, Checking his fiery steeds, that plunge and bite As if from heaven his Chariot should be hurled. And on the Clouds a many-tinted band Of Hours dance round their Leader, grave or gay As glowing near or in his wake they sway ; While poised above the sun-awakened land The Morning Star, fair herald of the day. Hovers, a Cupid, back-blown torch in hand. 88 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. SPRING IN THE ALPS. The flowers are at their Bacchanals Among the lusty green ; Wild Orchis and Narcissus waltz With Marguerite for queen. Birds join in glees and madrigals To little loves unseen ; And unimprisoned Waterfalls Flash laughing in between. The Sunlight, leaping from the Heights, Flames o'er the fields of May, Winged with unnumbered swallow-flights Fresh from the long sea way ; SPRING IN THE ALPS. 89 And butterflies and insect mites, Born with the new-blown day, Cross fires in shifting opal lights From spray to beckoning spray. The dandelion puffs her balls, Free spinsters of the air, Who scorn to wait for beetle calls Or bees to find them fair ; But breaking through the painted walls Their sisters tamely bear, Fly off in dancing down, which falls And sprouts up everywhere. And far above Earth's flower-filled lap And rosy revelry. The mountain mothers feed her sap From herded clouds on high — 90 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Each pinnacle and frozen pap Whose life has long gone by, A bridge which spans the mighty gap Between the earth and sky. St. Gotthardt. 91 THE AGNOSTIC. Not in the hour of peril, thronged with foes, Panting to set their heel upon my head, Or when alone from many wounds I bled Unflinching beneath Fortune's random blows ; Not when my shuddering hands were doomed to close The unshrinking eyelids of the stony dead ; — Not then I missed my God, not then — but said : " Let me not burden God with all man's woes ! " But when resurgent from the womb of night Spring's Oriflamme of flowers waves from the Sod ; When peak on flashing Alpine peak is trod 92 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. By sunbeams on their missionary flight ; When heaven-kissed Earth laughs, garmented in light ;— That is the hour in which I miss my God. 93 A BRIDAL IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. How the lilacs, the lilacs are glowing and blowing ! And white through the delicate verdure of May The blossoming boughs of the hawthorn are showing, Like beautiful brides in their bridal array ; With cobwebs for laces, and dewdrops for pearls, Fine as a queen's dowry for workaday girls. In an aisle of Acacias enlaced and enlacing, Where the silvery sunlight tunnels the shade. Where snowflakes of butterflies airily chasing Each other in trios flash down the arcade : ' 94 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Arrayed in white muslin the new wedded bride Looks fresh as a daisy, the groom by her side. The guests flitted round her with light-hearted laughter ; They hunted the slipper, they kissed in the ring ; Of days gone before and of days coming after They thought of no more than the bird on the wing. Were the loves and the laughter and lilacs of May, With the sunshine above, not enough for the day? And the lilacs, the lilacs are blowing and glowing ! They pluck them by handfuls and pile in a mass ; And the sap of the Springtide is rising and flowing Through the veins of the greenwood, the blades of the grass ; Up, up to the last leaf a dance on the tree, It leaps like a fountain abundant and free. A BRIDAL IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. 95 The blackbirds are building their nests in the bushes, And whistle at work, as the workpeople do ; The trees swing their censers, the wind comes in gushes Of delicate scent mixed of honey and dew. Now loud and now low through the garrulous trees A burst of gay music is blown with the breeze. And the girls and the boys from the faubourgs of Paris, The premature gamins as wise as fourscore ; The vain little Margots and wide-awake Harrys, Surprised into childhood, grew simple once more, And vied with the cuckoo as, shouting at play, They dashed through the thickets and darted away. Ah, fair is the forest's green glimmering splendour. The leaves of the lime tree a network of light ; 96 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. And fringing long aisles of acacia, a tender And delicate veiling of virginal white, Where, framed in the gladdening flowers of May, The bride and her bridesmaids beam gladder than they. They have crowned her brown tresses with haw- thorn in blossom, They have made her a necklace of daisies for pearls ; They have set the white lily against her white bosom, Enthroned on the grass mid a garland of girls ; With the earth for a footstool, the sky -roof above. She is queen of the Springtide and Lady of Love. Oh, the lilacs, the lilacs are glowing and blowing ! They pluck them by bushels as blithely they go A BRIDAL IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. 97 Through the green, scented dusk where the haw- thorn is showing A luminous whiteness of blossoming snow. And the Sun ere he goes gives the Moon half his light, As a lamp to lead Love on the bridal night. H 98 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. A WHITE NIGHT, The land lay deluged by the Moon ; The molten silver of the lake Shimmered in many a broad lagoon Between grey isles, whose copse and brake Lay folded on the water's breast, Like halcyons in a floating nest. And like a child who trusts in God When in the dark it lies alone, Stretched on the aromatic sod My heart was laid against your own. Against your heart, which seemed to be Mine own to all Eternity. A WHITE NIGHT. 99 • Lapped in illimitable light, The woods and waters seemed to swoon, And clouds like angels winged the night And slipped away into the Moon, Lost in that radiant flame above As we were lapped and lost in love. Achensee. loo BIRDS OF PASSAGE, THE FOREST POOL, Lost amid gloom and solitude, A pool lies hidden in the wood, A pool the autumn rain has made Where flowers with their fair shadows played. Bare as a beggar's board, the trees Stand in the water to their knees ; The birds are mute, but far away I hear a bloodhound's sullen bay. Blue-eyed forget-me-nots that shook, Kissed by a little laughing brook, Kissed too by you with lips so red, Float in the water drowned and dead. THE FOREST POOL. loi And dead and drowned 'mid leaves that rot, Our angel-eyed Forget-me-not, The love of unforgotten years, Floats corpse-like in a pool of tears. Delamere Forest. I02 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. NOONDAY REST, The willows whisper very, very low Unto the listening breeze ; Sometimes they lose a leaf which, flickering slow. Faints on the sunburnt leas. Beneath the whispering boughs and simmering skies, On the hot ground at rest. Still as a stone, a ragged woman lies, Her baby at the breast. Nibbling around her browse monotonous sheep, Flies buzz about her head ; Her heavy eyes are shuttered by a sleep As of the slumbering dead. NOONDAY REST. 103 The happy birds that live to love and sing, Flitting from bough to bough, Peer softly at this ghastly human thing With grizzled hair and brow. O'er what strange ways may not these feet have trod That match the cracking clay ? Man had no pity on her — no, nor God — A nameless castaway ! But Mother Earth now hugs her to her breast, Defiled or undefiled ; And willows rock the weary soul to rest, As she, even she, her child. Hampstead Heath. I04 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. CROSS-ROADS. The rain beat in our faces, And shrill the wild airs grew ; The long-maned clouds in races Coursed o'er heaven's windy blue. The tortured trees were lashing Each other in their wrath, Their wet leaves wildly dashing Across the forest path. We did not heed the sweeping Of storm=bewildered rain ; Our cheeks were wet with weeping. Our hearts were wrung with pain. CROSS-ROADS. 105 For where the cross-roads sever, Parting to East and West, We bade good-bye for ever To what we each loved best. The Moors. io6 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. THE MOAT. Around this lichened home of hoary peace, Invulnerable in its glassy moat, A breath of ghostly summers seems to float And murmur mid the immemorial trees. The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease, Swell softly, like a pigeon's emerald throat ; And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note The flight of velvet-footed centuries. The very sunlight, hushed within the close. Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade ; Still as a relic some old Master made The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows ; And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose Blooms like a rose that never means to fade. Groombridge. SHAKESPEARE SONNETS. I09 ANNE HATHA WAY'S COTTAGE. Is this the Cottage, ivy-girt and crowned, And this the path down which our Shakespeare ran, When, in the April of his love, sweet Anne Made all his mighty pulses throb and bound ; Where, mid coy buds and winking flowers around, She blushed a rarer rose than roses can, To greet her Will — even Him, fair Avon's Swan — Whose name has turned this plot to holy ground ? no BIRDS OF PASSAGE. To these dear walls, once dear to Shakespeare's eyes, Time's Vandal hand itself has done no wrong- : This nestling lattice opened to his song, When, with the lark, he bade his love arise In words whose strong enchantment never dies — Old as these flowers, and, like them, ever young. Ill ANNE HATHAWAY, His Eve of Women ! She, whose mortal lot Was linked to an Immortal's unaware, With Love's lost Eden in her blissful air, Perchance would greet him in this blessed spot. No shadow of the coming days durst blot, The flower-like face, so innocently fair, As lip met lip, and lily arms, all bare, Clung round him in a perfect lover's knot. Was not this Anne the flame-like daffodil Of Shakespeare's March, whose maiden beauty took His senses captive ? Thus the stripling brook Mirrors a wild flower nodding by the mill, Then grows a river in which proud cities look. And with a land's load widens seaward still. 112 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, CLEVE WOODS. Sweet Avon glides where clinging rushes seem To stay his course, and, in his flattering glass, Meadows and hills and mellow woodlands pass, A fairer world as imaged in a dream. And sometimes, in a visionary gleam. From out the secret covert's tangled mass. The fisher-bird starts from the rustling grass, A jewelled shuttle shot along the stream. Even here, methinks, when moon-lapped shallows smiled Round isles no bigger than a baby cot, Titania found a glowworm-lighted child, Led far astray, and, with anointing hand Sprinkling clear dew from a forget-me-not, Hailed him the Laureate of her Fairyland. 113 LOST TREASURE, The autumn day steals, pallid as a ghost, Along these fields and man-forsaken ways ; And o'er the hedgerows bramble-knotted maze The whitening locks of Old Man's Beard are tost. Here, shrunk by centuries of fire and frost, A crab tree stands where — lingering gossip says — In ocean-moated England's golden days. Great treasure, in a frolic, once was lost. Here — fresh from fumes of some Falstaffian bout, When famous champions, fired by many a bet. Had drained huge bumpers while the stars would set — Beneath its reeling branches by the way. Till twice twelve hours of April bloom were out — Locked in oblivion — Shakespeare lost a day. I 114 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, THE AVON. What are the Willows whispering in a row, Nodding their old heads o'er the river's edge ? What does the West wind whisper to the sedge And to the shame-faced purples drooping low ? Why sobs the water, in its broken flow Lapping against the grey weir's ruined ledge ? And, in the thorny shelter of the hedge, What bird unloads his little heart of woe ? ' Green Avon's haunted ! Look, from yonder bank The willow leans, that hath not ceased to weep, Whence, hanging garlands, fair Ophelia sank ; Since Jacques moped here the trees have had a tongue ; And all these streams and whispering willows keep The moan of Desdemona's dying song. "5 EVENSONG. {HOLY TRINITY CHURCH.) The hectic autumn's dilatory fire Has turned this lime tree to a sevenfold brand, Which, self consuming, lights the sunless land, A death to which all poet souls aspire. Above the graves, where all men's vain desire Is hushed at last as by a Mother's hand, And,Time confounded, Love's blank records stand. The Evensong swells from the pulsing choir. What incommunicable presence clings To this grey church and willowy twilight stream ? Am I the dupe of some delusive dream ? Or, like faint fluid phosphorent rings On refluent seas, doth Shakespeare's spirit gleam Pervasive round these old familiar things ? ii6 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. SHAKESPEARE, Yearning to know herself for all she was, Her passionate clash of warring good and ill, Her new life ever ground in Death's old mill, With every delicate detail and ejt masse, — Blind Nature strove. Lo, then it came to pass, That Time, to work out her unconscious Will, Once wrought the Mind which she had groped for still, And she beheld herself as in a glass. The world of men, unrolled before our sight, Showed like a map, where stream and waterfall And village-cradling vale and cloud-capped height Stand faithfully recorded, great and small ; For Shakespeare was, and at his touch, with light Impartial as the Sun's, revealed the All. 117 CEDARS OF LEBANON AT WARWICK CASTLE, Cedars of Lebanon ! Labyrinths of Shade, Making a mystery of open day ; With layers of gloom keeping the Sun at bay, And solemn boughs which never bloom or fade. Contemporaries of that great Crusade, When militant Christendom leaped up one day, Fired by the Cross, and, rushing to the fray, Poured Eastward as oracular Peter bade. Borne hither when Christ's Sepulchre was won, And planted by hoar Warwick's feudal walls. You grew, o'ershadowing every rival stem. When English woods don May's fresh coronals. Say, — Mourn ye still for lost Jerusalem, Funer:^l trees — beloved of Lebanon ? MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 121 PASTICHE. I. Love, oh, Love's a dainty sweeting, Wooing now, and now retreating ; Brightest joy and blackest care. Swift as h'ght, and h'ght as air, II. Would you seize and fix and capture All his evanescent rapture ? Bind him fast with golden curls, Fetter with a chain of pearls ? III. Would you catch him in a net. Like a white moth prankt with jet? 122 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Clutch him, and his bloomy wing Turns a dead, discoloured thing ! IV. Pluck him like a rosebud red, And he leaves a thorn instead ; Let him go without a care, And he follows unaware. V. Love, oh, Love's a dainty sweeting. Wooing now, and now retreating ; Lightly come, and lightly gone, Lost when most securely won ! 123 MARRIAGE. Love springs as lightly from the human heart As springs the lovely rose upon the brier, Which turns the common hedge to floral fire, As Love wings Time with rosy-feathered dart. But marriage is the subtlest work of art Of all the arts which lift the spirit higher ; The incarnation of the heart's desire — Which masters Time — set on Man's will apart. The Many try, but oh ! how few are they To whom that finest of the arts is given Which shall teach Love, the rosy runaway, To bide from bridal Morn to brooding Even. Yet this — this only — is the narrow way By which, while yet on earth, we enter heaven. 124 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. ONCE WE PLAYED. Once we played at love together — Played it smartly, if you please ; Lightly, as a windblown feather, Did we stake a heart apiece. Oh, it was delicious fooling ! In the hottest of the game, Without thought of future cooling, All too quickly burned Life's flame. In this give-and-take of glances. Kisses sweet as honey dews, When we played with equal chances. Did you win, or did I lose ? ONCE WE PLAYED. 125 Was your heart then hurt to bleeding, In the ardour of the throw ? Was it then I lost, unheeding, Lost my heart so long ago ? Who shall say ? The game is over. Of us two who loved in fun, One lies low beneath the clover, One lives lonelv in the sun. 126 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. AFFINITIES. I. I WILL take your thoughts to my heart ; I will keep and garner them there Locked in a casket apart. Far above rubies or rare Pearls from the prodigal deep, Which men stake their lives on to find, And women their beauty to keep, I will treasure the pearls of your mind. How long has it taken the earth To crystalize gems in a mine ? How long was the sea giving birth To her pearls, washed in bitterest brine ? AFFINITIES. 127 What sorrows, what struggles, what fierce Endeavour of h'ves in the past, Hearts tempered by fire and tears, To fashion your manhood at last ! 128 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 11. Take me to thy heart, and let me Rest my head a little while ; Rest my heart from griefs that fret me In the mercy of thy smile. In a twilight pause of feeling, Time to say a moment's grace, Put thy hands, whose touch is healing. Put them gently on my face. Found too late in Life's wild welter, All I ask, for weal and woe. Friend, a moment's friendly shelter, And thy blessing ere I go. AFFINITIES, J 29 III. Full many loves and friendships dear Have blossomed brightly in my path ; And some were like the primrose rathe, And withered with the vernal year. And some were like the joyous rose, Most prodigal with scent and hue, That glows while yet the sky is blue. And falls with every wind that blows — Mere guests and annuals of the heart ; But you are that perennial bay, Greenest when greener leaves decay, Whom only death shall bid depart. K 130 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, TO A FRIEND, WITH A VOLUME OF VERSES. To you who dwell withdrawn, above The world's tumultuous strife, And, in an atmosphere of love, Have triumphed over life ; To you whose heart has kept so young Beneath the weight of years, I give these passion flowers of song, Still wet with undried tears. You too have trod that stony path Which steeply winds afar. And seen, through nights of storm and wrath, The bright and Morning Star ; TO A FRIEND, 131 Where, shining o'er the Alps of time On valleys full of mist, It beckons us to peaks sublime, Oh, brave Idealist. 132 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. AS MANY STARS. As many stars as are aglow Deep in the hollows of the night ; As many as the flowers that blow Beneath the kindling light ; As many as the birds that fly Unpiloted across the deep ; As many as the clouds on high, And all the drops they weep ; As many as the leaves that fall In autumn, on the withering lea, When wind to thundering wind doth call, And sea calls unto sea ; AS MANY STARS. i33 As many as the multitude Of quiet graves, where mutely bide The wicked people and the good, Laid softly side by side ; — So many thoughts, so many tears, Such hosts of prayers, are sent on high, Seeking, through all Man's perished years, A love that will not die. 134 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, LOVE'S VISION. Transported out of self by Youth's sweet madness, Emulous of love, to Love's empyrean height. Where I beheld you aureoled in light. My soul upsprang on wings of angel-gladness. Far, far below, the earth and all earth's badness — A speck of dust — slipped darkling into night, As suns of fairer planets flamed in sight. Pure orbs or bliss unstained by gloom or sadness. Lo, as I soared etherially on high, You vanished, from my swimming eyes aloof, Alone, alone, within the empty sky, I reached out giddily, and reeling fell From starriest heaven, to plunge in lowest hell, My proud heart broken on Earth's humblest roof. 135 A PARABLE, Between the sandhills and the sea A narrow strip of silver sand,'. Whereon a little maid doth stand, Who picks up shells continually Between the sandhills and the sea. Far as her wondering eyes can reach A Vastness, heaving grey in grey To the frayed edges where the day Furls his red standard on the breach, Between the skyline and the beach. The waters of the flowing tide Cast up the seapink shells and weed ; She toys with shells, and doth not heed The ocean, which on every side Is closing round her vast and wide. 136 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. It creeps her way as if in play, Pink shells at her pink feet to cast ; But now the wild waves hold her fast, And bear her off and melt away A Vastness heaving gray in gray. 137 BETWEEN SLEEP AND WAKING. Softly in a dream I heard, Ere the day was breaking, Softly call a cuckoo bird Between sleep and waking. Calling through the rippling rain And red orchard blossom ; Calling up old love again, Buried in my bosom ; Calling till he brought you too From some magic rei^ion ; And the whole spring followed you, Birds on birds in legion. 138 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Youth was in your beaming glance, Love a rainbow round you ; Blushing trees began to dance, Wreaths of roses crowned you. And I called your name, and woke To the cuckoo's calling ; And you waned in waning smoke, As the rain was falling. Had the cuckoo called " Adieu," Ere the day was breaking? All the old wounds bled anew Between sleep and waking. J39 REST, We are so tired, my heart and I. Of all things here beneath the sky- One only thing would please us best- Endless, unfathomable rest. We are so tired ; we ask no more Than just to slip out by Life's door ; And leave behind the noisy rout And everlasting turn about. Once it seemed well to run on too With her importunate, fevered crew, And snatch amid the frantic strife Some morsel from the board of life. I40 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. But we are tired. At Life's crude hands We ask no gift she understands ; But kneel to him she hates to crave The absolution of the grave. 141 MYSTERY OF MYSTERIES, Before the abyss of the unanswering grave Each mortal stands at last aloof, alone, With his beloved one turned as deaf as stone, However rebel love may storm and rave. No will, however strong, avails to save The wrecked identity knit to our own ; We may not hoard one treasured look or tone, Dissolved in foam on Death's dissolving wave. Is this the End ? This handful of brown earth For all releasing elements to take And free for ever from the bonds of birth ? Or will true life from Life's disguises break, Called to that vast confederacy of minds Which casts all flesh as chaff to all the winds ? NOTES. Page II, line 12. " Neharak Said": "May thy day be happy." Page 13. "Sphinx-Money": Small fossil shells or am- monites, frequently found in some parts of the desert. Page 17, line 13. " Bab-el-Molouk" : The Gate of the Kings. The entrance to the rocky tombs, most of which belong to the eighteenth and nineteenth Dynasties. Page 1 8, line 7. " Tuat " : The depth of the grave. Page 21, line 7. "While Thoth holds the trembling balance, weighs the heart and seals its fate." Perhaps of all Egyptian beliefs, none is so widely known as " The Judg- ment of the Dead." It is frequently represented on tombs and temples, and there is a remarkable wall-painting of it in the beautiful little temple of Der-el-Medineh. After Osiris, Judge of the under world, Thoth plays the chief part in this impressive ceremony. He is the Moon-god, generally represented as an Ibis or Baboon. " The soul first advanced to the foot of the throne, carrying on its outstretched hands the image of its heart or of its eyes, agents and accomplices of its vices and virtues. It humbly ' smelt the earth,' then arose, and with upHfted hands recited its profession of faith. In the middle of the hall its acts were weighed by the assessors. Like all objects belonging to the gods, the balance is magic. Truth squats upon one of the scales ; 144 BIRDS OF PASSAGE, Thoth places the heart upon the other, and, always merciful, bears upon the side of Truth, that judgment may be favour- ably inclined. He affirms that the heart is light of offence, inscribes the results of the proceeding upon a wooden tablet, and pronounces the verdict aloud." — " The Dawn of Civiliza- tion," by G. Maspero. Page 22, line ii. " In the Sunboat and the Moonboat" : The chief barks of Ra, the Sun-god, were called Saktit and Mazit. He entered one on his rising in the East, which carried him along the celestial river ; and the other about the middle of his course, which bore him to the land of Manu, which is at the entrance of Hades. Page 26. " Horus" : Horus, the Egyptian Apollo, son of Osiris and Isis, and avenger of his murdered father. He is chiefly associated with the victoriously rising sun, and a slayer of the Serpent, Hke all Sun-gods. He is generally depicted with the side-lock of infancy, or as hawk-headed, or simply as a great golden Sparrow-Hawk, who puts all other birds to flight. Page 29. " Nuit " : One of the names for the primaeval night of Egyptian mythology. She is described as follows in an inscription cut on the front of the mummy-case of Mykerinos, the builder of the third great Pyramid : " Thy Mother Nuit has spread herself out over thee in her name of Mystery of the Heavens." Page 31. "Egyptian Theosophy." The Egyptian ima- gination was extremely fertile in inventing myths of the creation. " One amongst many was that Sibu was concealed under the form of a colossal gander, whose mate once laid the Sun-Egg, and perhaps still laid it daily. From the piercing cries wherewith he congratulated her, and an- nounced the good news to all who cared to hear it — after NOTES, 145 the manner of his kind — he had received the flattering epithet of Ngagu-oiru, the Great Cackler. Other versions repudiated the goose in favour of a vigorous bull, the father of gods and men, whose companion was a cow, a large-eyed Hathor, of beautiful countenance." — '* The Dawn of Civiliza- tion," by G. Maspero. Page 34. "The Moon of Ramadan." The month of Ramadan is the month of fasting, which begins as soon as a Muslim declares that he has seen the new moon. From daybreak to sunset, throughout the month, eating and drink- ing are absolutely prohibited, but the faithful indemnify themselves by feasting and smoking throughout a great part of the night. Page 37, line 3— " And brought his gods for offering Mountains of severed hands." The Pharaohs used to cut off the hands of their conquered enemies, and make them an offering to their gods. The subject is depicted in a striking wall-painting of the Temple at Medinet Haboo. Page 40. " The Beautiful Beeshareen Boy." The Bee- shareens are a wandering desert tribe of Upper Egypt, reminding one of our Gypsies. Many of them are remark- ably handsome, more particularly in childhood. The grace of their movements and charm of manner must strike all travellers on the Nile. The children haunt the shore where boats land, and set up an incessant cry for '* backsheesh," and there are few who can resist the winning smiles with which they sweeten their importunities. Conspicuous among the crowd was a lovely boy of sixteen, who attracted the attention of artists and photographers two or three winters ago. He had the elegant proportions of a Tanagra statuette, and was L 146 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. so constantly asked to sit for his portrait that he must have thought that that was the end and aim of all tourists. Finally, he was carried off to the World's Fair with other curiosities of Egypt. When the Beeshareens returned to Assouan he was not amongst them, and rumour says that he got as far as Marseilles, where he utterly vanished. This tribe dress their profuse black hair in quite an extraordinary fashion. It is worn in countless little plaits, with a high, fuzzy bunch in the centre. I have heard it said that they wear it thus in memory of their descent from one of the lost tribes of Israel. Page 63, hne 7 — " A human form, indeed, but stone : A cold, colossal Man ! " This unfinished Colossus of red granite was discovered by two English officers while riding in the desert round Assouan. The scene is one of extraordinary desolation. The ash- coloured sand, broken by blue-black ridges, is a chaos of scat- tered stones and boulders which might be part of a landscape in the moon. The statue is believed to be that of Amenhotep III., to whom we owe the two Colossi of the Plain, of which one is the famous " Vocal Memnon." He was also the Egyptian Nimrod, and on one of his lion-hunting expeditions to the South is said to have met a beautiful young maiden, whom he married, though she was neither Egyptian nor of royal race. She was that famous Queen Thi who introduced the worship of the Sun's disk into Egypt. Page 66. " Scarabaeus." The beetle {Scarabceus sacer) was the emblem of the principle of life and creative power, which the Egyptians worshipped under such manifold forms. It was supposed to have no female, and to roll the eggs which produce its offspring into a kind of ball, sparing no effort to place them in safety. NOTES. 147 Page 70. " The Sakiyeh " : The ancient Egyptian water- wheel, still in use. It is made of a notch-wheel, fixed verti- cally on a horizontal axle, and a long chain of earthenware vessels brings the water either from the river itself or from some little branch canal, and empties it into a system of troughs and reservoirs. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AVD SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. BY MATHILDE BLIND. THE PROPHECY OF SAINT 0RA!7, and other Poems. THE HEATHER ON FIRE. THE ASCENT OF MAN. DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. SONGS AND SONNETS. TARANTELLA: A Romance. L 2 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. THE PROPHECY OF SAINT ORAN, ^nt) otijtx pocm0. " There Is perhaps no phase of our history more capable of poetic treatment than the sainted lives of the Irish monks who first spread the Christian faith over the western shores of Scotland, and yet it would be difficult to point to a single representative poem having Saint Columba and the devoted band of his disciples for its heroes. An attempt at filling up this gap has recently been made by Miss Blind in a narrative poem devoted to the fate of St. Oran, the friend and disciple of St. Columba. . . . Apart from the sonorous beauty of her lines, there is in her diction a straightforwardness and simplicity, and an entire absence of affectation and false sentiment, which, combined with considerable power of characterization, make her volume a remarkable contribution to English literature." — Times, September 26, 1881. "To disturb the tnotif of a legend is alwaj^s a bold, and mostly a rash pro- ceeding. . . . And yet so skilfully is the story handled that the main incidents of the legend do not lose, but gain by this disturbance of the motif, and the character of Oran, which with the old fnot if conld only have presented the single side of the religious enthusiast, becomes a character exhibiting that complexity which modern taste demands. . . . Directness of style and lucidity of narrative are the cha- racteristic excellences of the poem. There are few contemporary poets who could have done so much dramatic business in so few lines. . . . In each of the sonnets there is a thought that is well expressed, and worth expressing." — Athenaufn, July 30, 1881. " It is in the domain of character that the poem is distinguished by its highest excellence. There is an Ideal statuesqueness embodied In the person of St. Columba such as is felt to possess a powerful appeal to the Imagination. The poem embraces many passions, of which the most tender and beautiful finds ex- pression In the exquisite creation of the radiant golden-haired girl for whose love St. Oran breaks his vow of chastity. But the really powerful contribution to our knowledge of character which this book contains is fittingly centred in St. Oran himself. A dramatic instinct of high order finds utterance in his struggles between opposing passions. Nor are the metrical excellences of the poem less conspicuous. . . . If one were In need of some single phrase by which to denote the ultimate effect produced by this book, one might say that it seems the most mature of all recent first efforts, even of established rank." — Academy, July 16, 1881. " In the choice of a subject for her chief poem she has been singularly fortu- nate. . . . That a story such as this is full of poetical suggestiveness is obvious, and Miss Blind has proved herself equal to the occasion. She has avoided writing anything approaching to a ' tendency poem.' She metes out justice with an equal hand to all her characters. The genuine enthusiasm and religious zeal of the monks are set forth In language as Inspired as is the final protest of St. Oran against their narrow fanaticism ; and one of the best passages in the book is indeed the Sermon In which St. Columba announces the Gospel of love and re- demption to the islanders." — Pall Mall Gazette, August 22, 1881. " ' The Prophecy of Saint Oran' is skilfully told and vigorously written. In the description of nature and scenery ; in the delineation of character ; and In the management of singularly difficult pos-Itions, there is visible a firm and practised hand, a bold and unmistakable power. ' The Street Children's Dance ' not unworthily ranks with some of the touching pieces of Hood, Mrs. Barrett Browning, and others." — British Mail, September i, 1881. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 "The only excuse for street music that can reasonably be considered valid is the touching plea for public toleration which is embodied in Miss Mathilde Blind's poem, wherein the spectacle of poor children dancing round an organ is as pathetically moralized and as tender and full of loving pity as M rs. Browning's 'Cry of the Children.'" — Daily Telegraph, September i, 1881. " The poem is rich in true description of sea and sky anJ mountain, and glows in sympathy with the deeper feelings which stir humanitj'. There has been published no poem of such creative suggestiveness as this for many a day, and we hope and believe that it is the precursor of other work by the same unfaltering hand. This poem is a true work of art, complete and beautiful. 'I'here is in the volume other work which shows a master's touch. . . ." — Manchester Exavihier and T lines, July i, 1882. " II y a la bien plus qu'une simple facilite de versification. Le r^cit du poeme d'ouverture est grand et fort, la maniere de raconter est pleine de po^sie et d'effet. Depuis la mort de Mrs. Barrett Browning, nous n'avons point eu de poesie aussi hautement inspiree qui ait jailli d'une source feminine." — Le Livre, Paris, October 10, 1881. THE HEATHER ON FIRE: % ^aU of tj^e |^igi)lant) ©Icaranccg. " Miss Blind has produced one of the most noticeable and moving poems which recent years have added to our shelves. ... As a singer with a message her attempt is praiseworthy, and her performance is fairly self-consistent. It is eminently homogeneous ; the passion once felt, the inspiration once obeyed, the well-head pours forth its stream in a strong and uniform current, which knows no pause until its impulse ceases. . . . The story is pathetic at once in its sim- plicity and in its terror. . . . We congratulate the author upon her boldness in choosing a subject of our own time, fertile in what is pathetic, and free from any taint of the vulgar and conventional. Poetry ot late years has tended too much towards motives of a merely fanciful and abstruse, sometimes a plainly artificial, character ; and we have had much of lyrical energy or attraction, with little of the real marrow of human life, the flesh and blood of man and woman. Positive subject-matter, the emotion which inheres in actual life, the ver>' smile and the very tear and heart-pang, are, after all, precious to poetry, and we have them here. ' The Heather on Fire ' may possibly prove to be something of a new departure, and one that was certainly not •ixy^^x^wom." —Athetueitm, July 17, 1886. " Miss Blind has chosen for her new poem one of those terrible Highland clearances which stain the history of Scotch landlordism. Though her tale is a fiction it is too well founded on fact. ... It may be said generally of the poem that the most difScult scenes are those in which Miss Blind succeeds best ; and on the whole we are inclined to think that its greatest and mo^t surprising success is the picture of the poor old soldier Rory driven mad by the burning of his wife. In his frenzy he mixes up his old battles with the French and the descent of the landlord's ejectors upon the village." — Academy, August 7, 1886. " In this versified tale of Highland clearances, Mathilde Blind has, with genuine poetic instinct, selected a family the fortunes of which form the burden of her story. . . . Literature and poetry are never seen at their best save in con- tact with actual life. . . . This little book abounds in vivid delineation of cha- racter, and is redolent with the noblest human sympathy." — Newcastle Daily Chronicle, June 3, i386. " A subject which has painfully preoccupied public opinion is, in the poem entitled 'The Heather on Fire,' treated with characteristic power by Miss Mathilde 4 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. Blind. Irish evictions have offered so convenient a theme to party strife, that the suffering's of the unhappy Highland crofters have not always met with the com- passion they were so well calculated to inspire. In eloquent and forcible verse. Miss Blind tells the tale of their wrongs, their resistance to the hard fate imposed upon them, and describes the bitter grief with which, ' Crowding on the decks with hungry eyes. Straining towards the coast that flies and flies,' those among them driven into exile look on the shores to which many bid an eternal farewell. Both as a narrative and descriptive poem ' The Heather on Fire' is equally remarkable." — Morning Post, July 30, 1886. "We are happy in being able to extend to the present poem a welcome equally sincere and equally hearty ; for it is a poem that is rich not only in power and beauty but in that ' enthusiasm of humanity ' which stirs and moves us, and of which so much contemporary verse is almost painfully deficient. Miss Blind does not possess her theme ; she is possessed by it, as was Mrs. Browning when she wrote ' Aurora Leigh.' . . . We can best describe the kind of her success by noting the fact that while engaged in the perusal of her book we do not say, ' What a fine poem ! ' but ' What a terrible story ! ' or, more probably still, say nothing at all, but read on and on under the spell of a great horror and an over- powering pity. Poetry of which this can be said needs no other recommendation, and, therefore, we need not unduly lengthen our review of ' The Heather on Fire.'" — Manchester Exatniner and Times, September i, 1886. " There are charming pictures of West Highland scenery, in Arran apparently, and of the surroundings and conditions of Highland cottar life." — Scotsman, July 20, 1886. '•In 'The Heather on Fire,' she exhibits a clearness and beauty of diction, a rhythmical correctness, a grace and simplicity of style which mark her out as no slavish follower of any poetic ' school,' but an unaffected and truthful expression of her own feelings. • . . Whatever the reader's opinion may be on the grievance which Miss Blind throws into such fierce light, he cannot fail to be pleased with her graceful tale, so gracefully and simply told." — Glasgoiv Herald, July 20, 1886. "Miss Mathilde Blind's poem is the tragic epic of the old evictions in the Highlands ot Scotland. It is a strange fact that the general reader knows more about the siege of Troy, the Norman Conquest, and the Wars of the Roses than about such matters in the very history of our own days as the depopulation of the Highlands of Scotland by the landlords. The old story comes to the front just now by reason of the crofter agitation. In the preface to her fine and touching epic, and in the notes at the end. Miss Blind pas.ses in review some of the facts of the eviction of the Glen Sannox people by the Duke of Hamilton in 1832, -where, as she .says, ' the progress of civilization, which has redeemed many a wilderness and gladdened the solitary places of the world, has come with a curse to these Highland glens, and turned green pastures and golden harvest fields once more into a desert.' The ' Heather on Fire ' is a poem in four cantos— or ' Duans ' — comprising about two hundred stanzas.'' — School Board Chronicle, July 10, 1886. " It is written in a strain which must of necessity appeal to the sympathies of all grades of society, and at the same time it is eminently poetical, both in thought and rhythm." — Western Antiquary, August, 1886. "A book like this forms an admirable corrective to the harsh and cold-blooded theories of such landlords as the Duke of Argyll on the rights of his class." — Cambridge hidependent Press, August, 1886. "There is a sonorous beauty, a classic dignity and depth of pathos throughout her four cantos, and a vivid and thrilling description is given of the industrious hamlets, the contented, happy people, and the ruthless manner in which the evictions were effected by the stewards and ground-officers." — Elgin Courant, August, 1886. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 TARANTELLA: " The author of this two-vohimed romance is favourably known by other works, and by the appreciative ' Life of George Eliot.' The strange effects of the bite of a tarantula spider, so firmly believed in by the Italian peasantry, and the marvellous power of musical enthusiasm, supply the motive of the story ; and the characters are portrayed with great force, pathos, and a touch of homely humour." — Bookseller., Christmas, 1884. "Miss Blind n:ay be congratulated on 'Tarantella,' her first novel. In the ricitiz.sw^ have called it) of the musician, Emanuel Sturm, nearly all the interest of the book is concentrated. The violinist, poor and unknown, finds himself at Capri. Accident brings him, one evening, to a frightened group of women, one of whom has just been bitten by the tarantula, and, according to the popular superstition, he is implored to play, in order to drive the poison out of her. He refuses at first, but afterwards consents, and finding himself almost supernaturally inspired, plays an improvised 'Tarantella' throughout a whole stormy night, finally curing the girl. The tune thus strangely hit on spreads, and ultimately makes him famous, but the love he has conceived for his Antonella brings him almost as much misery as his music brings him fame." — Pall Mall Gazette, February 5, 1885. "Admiration of the delicate sketching now in vogue should not blind us to the very opposite kind of charm of which 'Tarantella' is full. Entirely poetical in conception (save that it is not written in metre), ' Tarantella ' is more essentially a poem than many a narrative written in smooth and elegant verse. . . . 'Tarai.- tella' is indeed full of strange originality and scenic effects of uncommon powers. The dance among the ruins is not likely to be soon forgotten by the most un- imaginative of readers, and it is rarely, we think, that in an English novel the psychology of the poetic temperament has been touched by a hand so delicate and at the same time so strong." — Athenaum, January 17, 1885. "There is abundant imagination, and the language is generally fresh and vigorous. . . . The author finds many opportunities of introducing scenes from German life, which are evidently written with intimate knowledge. . . This is distinctly a novel to read." — Echo, June 16, i8£6. "This powerful and pathetic tale has carried us more completely out of our- selves and along with it than any work of fiction we have read tor many a day. . . . Her (Miss Blind's) word-pictures glow with rich local colours ; she is a complete mistress of the art of dramatic cause and effect. When once fairly under weigh, she never allows the interest to flag for a single moment. Thus it is only when we ha\e laid down the final volume that we have time or inclination to pause and recognize the care and art which have contributed to this triumphant result ; to turn back . . . and dwell on the author's extraordinary knowledge of the human heart — extraordinary alike for its depth and its range. As for the wit and humour with which the book is freely sprinkled, the poetic and artistic spirit which pervades it throughout, they can only be appreciated on a second or a third perusal." — Life, December 25, 1884. " 'Tarantella' is extremely clever, and the treatment of the weird subject she has chosen picturesque in the extreme. The local colouring is especially fine and her character studies extremely strong. Thrice welcome in its two-volume form, ' Tarantella' is a book bound to make its mark." — Whitehall Review, December II, 1884. "We have verjMngenious resources in music and the bite of the tarantula, which alone music is said to heal. Notwithstanding the sense of im.probability, we follow the strange fortunes of Antonella, Count ess Ogotshka, and her almost magical transformation with interest. Mina, the innocent girl, her friend, is well delineated, and Emanuel Sturm, the wonderful violinist and composer, for whose portrait Paganini has doubtless been available, is original, no less than his friend the painter." — British Quarterly, January, 1885. 6 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "'Tarantella' is a very clever story, with plenty of action and not without tragic incidents. The author has also plenty of humour, and there is at least as much light as shade in the book. Mina is not less delightful than the Countess is objectionable, in spite of her beauty and her daring." — London t igaro, November 20, 1886. "We shall not spoil the story by hinting at its denotieine7it. It is a deeply interesting one ; and the characters, three of them at least, are sufficiently original to give the author a high rank as a novelist. . . . The book abounds in striking and interesting pictures of Italian and German life and scenery." — Dzcblin Mail, November, 1886. " ' Tarantella' is, indeed, a novel unlike the common — full of power and imagi- nation and originality. ... It would be unjust to deny to this very remarkable book a large share of what the world calls genius." — Alelbojirne Argus, March 14, 1885. " By her recent works, ' The Prophecy of Saint Oran ' and the ' Life of George Eliot,' Miss Blind brought herself before the public as a writer of considerable ability, and her latest novel will do much to increase her reputation. . . . 'Taran- tella' deserves to be classed among the best novels of the present day." — Scottish jNews, June 15, 1886. "There is an inherent charm about 'Tarantella' which will be apparent to the reader from a peru-al of the first chapter. This agreeable quality does not end there, however. The whole of the tale, which is divided into forty-six chapters, is permeated with features of an exceptionally attractive description. Not the least noteworthj'-character of the story is its novelty. Most of the incidents, which are carefully elaborated and follow in logical sequence, are conspicuous for an airy freshness in nature and treatment. Every chapter has its specific purpose, there being a uniform overflow of idea and sentiment ; and each development of the pleasing romance opens to the mental vision of the thoughtful reader incidents of a more or less engrossing description. Continental scenes and customs are de- scribed with freeness and perspicuity, and the varii.-d and eventful adventures of the principal characters, pleasingly typical, it may be mentioned, of the roman- ticism invariably associated with ' love's young dream,' when, as in the present instance, there is a combination of youth and beauty — are recorded with a poetical fervour and gracefulness of diction which are certain to be generally admired." — Western Daily Press, June 2, 1886. THE ASCENT OF MAN: " Miss Blind traces the ' Ascent of Man' through successive stages, until first love, and then sorrow— which is love under another guise — lead us to the highest conception of human life we can hope to reach. It is a brave, sad, glorious story, told with inimitable skill, and as only a poet who knows man's heart, with its hopes, doubts, fears, aspirations, could possiblv tell it. . . . The other poems in the volume are as excellent in their kind as those which give a title to it. The only difference between them is that one series is rich with human experience, and with the results of knowledge and of high thinking, while the other is all aglow with the fresh delights of the outdoor world. These deliglits find an almost perfect expression. ... A reviewer who is so fortunate as to light on a book like this, lays it down with regret, and fears that he has not said of it all that it deserves should be said. That is my feeling ; and, lest I should have omitted any note of praise that ought to be sounded, I should like to add, by way of suggestion to all lovers of poetry — and I hope they are still many — that here is truly a book that is worth the loving."— Academy, June 15, 1889. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS, 7 " The effort which Miss Blind has made is one deserving of high praise. From Chaos to Kosmos she hurries her reader along, breathless and perspiring perhaps, but never anxious to stop. We have known her book to be read on the Underground Railway, and the reader to be so absorbed in its contents as to be carried unawares several stations past his destination. . . . Miss Blind's gift of song is genuine, and her imagination powerful. . . . When all is said and done, ' The Ascent of Man ' remains a remarkable poem, and cannot fail to increase its author's reputation as a brilliant and original writer." — Atheticeum, July 20, 1889. " There is a fine elevation of tone, and there is a splendid mastery of diction, well sustained from the beginning to the end. . . . The poems are unquestionably very beautiful." — School Board Chronicle, June 8, 1889. " Miss Blind has already a place of honour among poets, and this striking volume will make it sure. There is nothing weak or unreal about her verse, and there is much force of thought, sympathy for all, and burning scorn of luxurious vice." — Liverpool IMercury, June 19, 1889. " One of the advanced minds of the day is Mathilde Blind. I have at my side her latest book, ' The Ascent of Man.' The poems are all earnest and high pitched in tone — they are human. . . . Every line comes from a heart full of life's unutterable woes, ot" hope's faint, half-believing monitions." — Cheltenham- Examiner, June 19, 1889. "To Miss Blind belongs the honour of having been the first to .seriously render Charles Dar a in and Herbert Spencer into verse on anything like a bold and comprehensive scale. 'The Ascent of Man' is a really remarkable poem. Its main conception is even noble, its manner of execution is brilliant and vigorous, and it abounds in passages which prove Miss Blind to possess the true poetic faculty." — ^Vit and Wisdom, August 3, 1889. " In her last published volume of poems, ' The Ascent of Man,' Miss Blind has revealed qualities of imagination, enthusiasm, and strength, which place her high indeed among women writers of the day." — Echo, August 8, i88g. " Miss Blind has already proved herself to be no ordinary writer of verse, and her new volume will add to her reputation. ' The Ascent of Man ' is a philosophical poem, challenging comparison by its subject with the great work of Lucretius, and inevitably suggesting some of the finest passages of Tennyson." — Manchester Examiner, May 18, 1889. "That Miss Blind's volume shows signs of poetic power no careful reader can for a moment doubt." — Literary World, June 14, 1889. "Miss ?]lind is an accomplished authoress, and a verse-maker of remarkable skill. There is plenty of .suggestion, as well as a good deal of brilliant, forcible, and easy colouring, in ' The Ascent of Man." — Star, June 17, 1S89. "This is a powerful but unequal poem: but the task set to herself by the author was such a mighty one, that, even had her success been far less than it is, she might well be proud. . . . This volume will considerably enhance Miss Blind's reputation as a poetess." — Lady's Pictorial, June 28, 1889. " There are some fine passages, elevated in conception and felicitous in expres- sion. . . . The volume, as a whole, is a considerable advance on Miss Blind's previous poetic work, and should give much pleasure to all thoughtful and cultivated readers." — Globe, May 22, 1889. "The chief merit of this fine poem is that it treats from the transcendental point of view certain conceptions and theories of life which modern science has shown us under another aspect." — St. James's Gazette, June 16, 1889. " * The Ascent of Man ' is a volume of verse which is marked by much grace of diction. In her ' Poems of the Open Air,' Miss Blind is specially succe.--sful. Though a thousand poets have taken us into the gardens and fields ere now, we gladly return to them with her." — British Weekly, July 12, 1889. 8 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " Her descriptions of the early struggles for existence are powerful and picturesque in a high degree." — Pa/^ Mall Gazette. " Has merit of no common order, due, perhaps, as much to the author's wide human sympathy as to her poetical gifts." — Morning Post. "The doctrines and tendencies of present-day thought are endowed with fascinating poetic form in Miss Mathilda Blind's 'Ascent of Man.' . . . She encircles grave Science with an aureole, and illuminates his grey technical pages with rainbow tints and emblazoned designs." — Watts' s Literary Guide. "This new volume is another testimony to the sterling character of Miss Blind's poetic talent. Technically the verse-workmanship is masterly; the verse is sonorous and well balanced, the diction simple and unaffected, and the style marked by the essential quality of distinction." — Women's Penny Paper. " 'The Ascent of Man ' opens with lines which, in their vigour and rhythmic sweep, recall the most resonant passages of Lucretius." — The Scottish Leader. DRAMAS IN MINIATURE. " In the lyrics, as well as in the longer poems, there are dramas in miniature. . . . For indeed Miss Blind is pre-eminently successful as a writer of lyrics. In her lyrics she is ' simple, sensuous, and passionate :' she catches at times the heart's own rhythm in its troubled, exquisite moments. Her best work gives one the impression of having been lived : it has the impromptu of nature. And for this it should be prized by those who value the simpler, deeper qualities of an art which must needs be so close to nature." — A thenceum. " A book of poetry that is welcome and delightful. . . . Miss Blind's 'dramas' exhibit genuine story-telling gifts, in addition to the fancy that was to be expected from the author. When we put the book down we eye it respectfully as the worthy work of an earnest, true-hearted, unaffected student of human nature." — Academy. "Original as she is in thought and diction, she has studied in the sound poetic school of Shelley, Keats, Byron, and the great poets of the beginning of the century." — Woman. " The 'dramas' and lyrics of which Miss Blind's book is composed are among the most poetical of the gifted authoress's productions. Miss Blind's verse is not an echo, but an original voice of diverse tones. Among Miss Blind's many gifts is a rarely equalled gift of picturing the grandeur of desolation, and this ' Song of the Willi' is an instance of \K.."—Echo. " Good healthy poetry, high in aim from the social reformer's side." — Liverpool Mercury. " All these ' dramas ' are impressively written, and the descriptive passages are almost always successful." — Speaker. "She portrays the passions which all have felt, or can feel, and portrays them at once delicately and forcibly." — Wojuen's Herald. " Miss Blind's imaginings have vigour and vividness, and her verse, never feeble, gives always a resonant ring." — Scottish Leader. "Powerful verse." — Titties. London: Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly. w^^^ ^^m, al^'^^'f^^^^SSB ^^^» CHATTO & \VINDUS 214, Piccadilly, London, W. 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