B E A3D Dlfl 
 
 ' 
 
 
 y D 1 1 
 
 
 
 
 i ,;;!;> 
 
 'iiliiil'iljj'iiiih'^f^ 
 
 ! 
 
 
 
 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 

 JUDITH 
 
 AND 
 
 tinv poms* 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS MILLS, M.R.C.S.L. 
 
 With cheeks all dimpled, and with eyes so shy 
 
 And fawn-like, that their light could scarce be caught 
 
 And treasured up by love in passing by. 
 
 * * * * She was, 
 
 Like some stray note of music, left behind, 
 
 In banquet hall deserted — some fair guest 
 
 Too sweet to say good-night to. — She was like 
 
 Eke all things else most rare — some flower in rest, 
 
 Whose dream was beauty. 
 
 London : 
 
 Saunders, Otley, and Co., Conduit Street. 
 
 1859. 
 
 m 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
TUc*3 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Independently of its success or non-success as a 
 literary composition, the present volume is en- 
 deared to the Author by many recollections, origi- 
 nating from, or intimately associated with, its 
 progress, for intruding which upon their notice, he 
 has to claim the indulgence of the general reader ; 
 bearing as they do but little relevancy to the poem 
 itself, but rather, arising out of it as a natural 
 consequence, as certain plants are said to be indi- 
 genous to particular soils, when Nature produces 
 them spontaneously and without labour. 
 
 The Author is well aware all natural productions 
 of this kind are too apt to be classed by a certain 
 order of minds under the sweeping, generic term 
 of weeds, but he writes not for them. The sneers 
 of such affect not him ; or, if at all, inversely only, 
 since in all a^es the censures of the fool have 
 been considered as so much praise by the wise. 
 For his part, the Author is happy in the possession 
 
 i 486 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 of his own estimate of such things ; a better 
 nomenclature, and a higher order of classification. 
 In his opinion, emotions, impulses, and affections 
 of the mind, which flow directly and without effort 
 from the heart, are more likely to be truthful, 
 noble, generous, and wise, than those which are 
 the result of calculation, or the offsprings of much 
 forecast and thought ; and may indeed be likened 
 to the wild flowers of the poet, which are planted 
 by angels'' hands between the furrows, in the night 
 season while the husbandman or farmer is asleep. 
 
 But to proceed : debarred by partial loss of 
 sight from following his legitimate vocation, and 
 equally cut off by this, and a train of fortuitous 
 circumstances over which he had no control, from 
 the pursuit of any other — amid the crumbling and 
 falling in of props himself had reared at much 
 cost and labour, only to see them fail him in the 
 hour of need; the sundering of family ties, and the 
 consequent snapping of link by link in the golden 
 chain of memory and association, which had so 
 long rested upon his heart, been kept warm by its 
 pulsations and bright by the labour of his hands ; 
 with wasted energies, broken health, and ruined 
 fortunes, the Author has been indebted, under 
 Providence, to this little volume for the solace of 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 many a weary hour, and the filling in and peopling 
 of many an aching void, which, but for its 
 dear companionship, would have been cheerless and 
 ten an tless . indeed. It may in truth be said to 
 have been to him as the oasis in the desert is to 
 the wayworn pilgrim nearly spent with toil ; a 
 garden in the midst of the wilderness, where the 
 flowers ever bloomed, the grasses waved, and the 
 fountain sparkled, and where a delicious shade, as 
 from a canopy let fall from heaven, was ever shed 
 down upon his repose, whenever he was permitted 
 to rest even for a short season beneath the protect- 
 ing arms and pagoda-like roof of this, to him, the 
 " oasis parva" of the desert. 
 
 To such of the nobility, clergy, and gentry 
 who — partially and slightly canvassed only — have 
 contributed no unimportant part toward the success 
 of his present undertaking, always within those 
 strict limits prescribed by himself — the Author's 
 best thanks are here due, and it is with a feeling of 
 pride and satisfaction he tenders them. But 
 while expressing his high estimate of the obliga- 
 tion conferred, and his just appreciation of the 
 kindness, courtesy, and gentlemanly manner in 
 which, in the great majority of instances, it has 
 been accorded, he would be permitted to say to the 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 two latter classes of his supporters, that while such 
 acts in themselves constitute their best reward, 
 they do not necessarily end there, but in their con- 
 sequences, like " mercy," partake of a twofold 
 character, and like it in the sequel not infrequently 
 become " twice blessed. 11 While to the former he 
 would observe, in all humility, that it is in such 
 works, and in the performance of such relative 
 duties, that the true seal of Nature's nobility is set 
 to their patents royal, and although such seals are 
 not to be met with in books of heraldry now 
 extant, it is his earnest hope they may be found 
 elsewhere in another place and in another Book, 
 unspotted from the world, undefaced and unbroken. 
 
 As to his professional brethren, the author can 
 only thank and bid God speed them, and as he 
 does so, he feels how poor and inadequate are 
 such limited phrases to convey even a faint im- 
 pression of the gratification he experiences in 
 witnessing so general a demonstration of feeling in 
 his favour in his own county, as his eye traverses 
 the long and almost unbroken lines of Worcester- 
 shire professional names which adorn the columns 
 of his Subscription List. 
 
 Long may it be thus ! long may the members of 
 our noble profession, distinguished alike as gentle- 
 
PREFACE. Vli 
 
 men, as scholars, and as Christians, assert their old 
 prerogative to be first and foremost on all occasions 
 where the exercise of the active virtues is called for. 
 In this they do no more than follow out in their 
 lives that great principle of universal philanthropy 
 upon which their motto is founded- — that motto 
 which is engraved beneath the device upon their 
 shield ; and which ought to be inscribed in letters 
 of gold, and in all languages, on the banner of their 
 service, that all men might see and be enabled to 
 comprehend at a glance, and in its fullest extent, the 
 true meaning of its great and generous import — 
 " Quae prosunt omnibus artesT 
 
 To those personal friends and neighbours — dear 
 friends of an earlier and a happier period — whose 
 warm human sympathies, true English hearts, and 
 ready hands, have contributed to shed the halo of 
 success upon his labours, which otherwise might 
 have been wanting, the Author must be brief in his 
 acknowledgments of their many kindnesses, lest he 
 become unmanned before the accomplishment of his 
 task. May God bless them ! and give to them 
 and theirs, health, happiness, and prosperity ; and 
 when he shall be far away may his name still con- 
 tinue to be a familiar household word anions: them 
 at hearth and board. To be an honoured and 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 much-cared-for guest in the halls of princes would 
 be to him — in comparison with the sterling worth 
 and friendship of the leal and true and. brave- 
 hearted of other days — as so much dust that is 
 weighed in the balance. 
 
 The voices of their ready response to his call 
 will always find an echo in his heart, and will long 
 be to him as the songs of Zion were — sad, but 
 sweet — to the dwellers in exile, and afar off, when 
 they hung their harps upon the willows, and sat 
 down by the side of the alien waters. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 1 
 
 Judith ...... 
 
 Alone ....... 53 
 
 The Torn Leaf 77 
 
 Other Poems : 
 
 The Dream-Girl 87 
 
 Castle-Building ..... 91 
 
 The Farewell ..... 94 
 
JUDITH, 
 
 % ffWricat Romance in fttcnotflpe. 
 
 B 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 "Tis high noon, and lovely Flora holds her draw- 
 ing-room for May. 
 
 All sweet things are in her crush-rooms, all yield 
 forth their sweets to-day ; — 
 
 All save one, the sweetest, Judith ; in her balcony 
 of flowers 
 
 Sigh beneath her oriel window, linger still the 
 tardy hours ; 
 
 For like me, these lazy vassals hold their fairest 
 feoffs, at will 
 
 Of their sovereign and lady, and without her lan- 
 guish still. 
 
 Like to sweet clematis climbing, in full dress, and 
 
 gemmed, and pearled ; 
 Like a queen-girl to the dais of her throne-room. 
 
 crisped and curled, 
 
 B 2 
 
4 JUDITH. 
 
 By the lovely Three, the Graces : come from forth 
 
 the sacred fane, 
 Where enshrined thy maiden fancies — heliotropes 
 
 of sweets in vain, 
 Flowers immured in costly vases — waste their 
 
 perfumes rich and rare, 
 In conservatories guarded, within walls however 
 
 fair — 
 Ladie-bird of summer sweetness, nutter forth, into 
 
 the air. 
 
 Lo, she comes ! the portals open, gilded leaf, in leaf 
 
 unfurls, 
 Turning in a noiseless centre, round the cynosure 
 
 of girls. 
 Folds of silken violet curtains, undulating to her 
 
 feet, 
 Olose the place of sanctuary, ere the shining valves 
 
 remeet. 
 Now she blushes like the princess in the woods' 
 
 enchanted shade — 
 Like some princess disenchanted, half delighted, 
 
 half dismayed — 
 Till the well known panorama, leaf, and shrub, and 
 
 flower, and bird, 
 Drop into her heart the sunshine of one talismanic 
 
 word. 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 And I fancied — almost fancied — those fair ame- 
 thysts, her eyes, 
 Caught the rose-tints of the morning, from the 
 
 roseries of skies, 
 As she saw me wait her coming, by our old 
 
 scholastic tree ; 
 Would that her embroidered kerchief now, as 
 
 then, were waved to me ; 
 But that copyhold of mischief, and fee-simple of 
 
 Coquettes, 
 Pretty Grace, my lady's bower-girl, paragon of all 
 
 Soubrettes, 
 Laughed outright, her notes of silver, warbling in, 
 
 with warbling song, 
 Of the throstle, and the linnet, all the painted 
 
 groves among : 
 To the stately terrace-garden, where my lady holds 
 
 the seat 
 Of her empire o'er the flowers, with the mosses at 
 
 her feet. 
 Now she stops, and chides for blushing all her 
 
 roses as thev view 
 My presumption in the distance, gazing through 
 
 them, through and through ; 
 Makes belief she sees, nor cares not, half averts ;i 
 
 conscious glance, 
 
6 JUDITH. 
 
 Covered with the sweet confusion of the May- 
 queen in the dance ; 
 
 Toys, and plays, and then demurely, all their 
 blushes to eclipse, 
 
 .Bows her head to kiss the tallest which come 
 nearest to her lips ; 
 
 Then she sports with Grace, the graceless, flirts 
 her scarf of varied dye, 
 
 Laughs and talks incessant chatter, chitter chatter, 
 like a pye. 
 
 But she comes ; shall I go meet her, on the crisp 
 
 and velvet lawn I 
 All her state is only seeming, like to that of dainty 
 
 fawn 
 Which an estray in the forest with short bound, 
 
 or mincing pace, 
 Tosses back the head to listen in the groves of 
 
 Cunmore Chase ; 
 But when sound invades the covert, be it step, or 
 
 whispered word, 
 Fast, as fearful hare at fastest, it rejoins the 
 
 dappled herd, 
 So doth Judith, golden-headed, like unto a sun- 
 beam dance, 
 Here, and there, and every where, in the old 
 
 familiar manse. 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 Look at her indeed and welcome, gaze upon her 
 
 from afar, 
 Better be a moonstruck dreamer, and adore some 
 
 winking star — 
 I will be her grave preceptor, look wise saws, and 
 
 quote the cloth ; 
 I must trim my lamp with cunning, to ensnare this 
 
 pretty moth. 
 
 For her father, save his presence, here takes tithe 
 
 of all he sees, 
 For his lines in pleasant places have been cast for 
 
 dues and fees. 
 Here he liveth, pride eschewing, dominoed with 
 
 sanctity, 
 Sacerdotal, and catholic, custos rotulorum, he ; 
 Looking penitentiaries, whipping posts, and parish 
 
 stocks ; 
 As he thunders from his rostrum, down upon his 
 
 folded flocks. 
 Pluralist is he, unsparing of anathema and creed, 
 But for his own great example, go to, those that 
 
 run may read. 
 But as Alma Mater teaches, there is scarce a 
 
 bookish rule, 
 But is jostled with exceptions to confound the 
 
 learned fool. 
 
8 JUDITH. 
 
 So this beefs heart, tabernacled in its ribbed and 
 
 rocky wall, 
 Gushes forth with living waters, at one low, sweet, 
 
 earnest call. 
 Whose but her's, the lady Judith's, child, and lady, 
 
 <rirl in one, 
 The all on this side of lawn sleeves he has never 
 
 frowned upon. 1 
 
 But here she comes ! loveliest cygnet, 
 O milk-white swan, why sail so long, 
 
 1 The inappositeness of these remarks to the real cir- 
 cumstances of the case, cannot be more clearly demon- 
 strated than in the progress of the narrative. But while 
 tendering this explanation to the hypercritical, the author 
 would take the opportunity to claim for himself the pri- 
 vilege, enjoyed in common by all writers, and which has 
 been accorded to them in all ages, even by the most fas- 
 tidious, to portray character without being held respon- 
 sible for its demerits or defeatures ; and without his own 
 opinions and sentiments being compromised, or considered 
 in the remotest degree as identical with those of his subject. 
 As reasonable indeed would it be to make a portrait painter 
 amenable to public opinion for deviations from the correct 
 median line of beauty in the persons and countenances of 
 his sitters, as an author for those idiosyncrasies and eccen- 
 tricities of character, which fall under his pen in the 
 course of his labours. 
 
JUDITH. 9 
 
 So wide o 1 me thy childhood's magnet — 
 Am I grown weak, or thou more strong \ 
 
 This is the sunny bank of violets, 
 
 Sweet scented o'er with flowering thymes, 
 
 On which we two have sate together, 
 A many hundred scores of times, 
 
 A-spelling of some famous legend ; 
 
 Or silently and hand in hand, 
 A little boy and girl discoursing, 
 
 Or dreaming dreams of fairy land. 
 
 Or else, for I was then the stronger, 
 
 As her dear dove-like eves sought mine, 
 
 I'd prate of hair-breadth "scapes, and shipwrecks, 
 And of the wonders of the line : 
 
 Or else of Robin Hood the lawless, 
 
 Of Friar Tuck, and Little John ; 
 And last, not least, of brave Sir Bertrand, 
 
 Whose sword the lands and ladv won. 
 
 And here my birdie soft would warble 
 
 That but for me, that but for me, 
 She would be frighted to go homeward, 
 
 For fear of what things she might see. 
 
10 JUDITH. 
 
 And this would add unto my stature, 
 
 Until I grew so very tall, 
 That she would laugh, and I look bolder 
 
 Than Roland's self at Ronscevalle. 
 
 But she is wiser now, and statelier, 
 For like the sacred rose so meet 
 
 In queenly England's crown of flowers, 
 She blooms majestically sweet. 
 
 But here she is, and smiles like heaven, 
 But Grace looks down demure and sad ; 
 
 I know they come to cheer my sorrow, 
 Because they are no longer glad. 
 
 For they are fair, and she most loveliest, 
 And 'tis my fault, and none of theirs, 
 
 That while they crown the golden harvest, 
 I am of the unransomed tares. 
 
 But soft ; she seats herself, my darling, 
 And on the sudden light is made 
 
 To shine around, as when a sunbeam 
 Leads back a shadow into shade. 
 
 Or when the heart, too full for gladness, 
 Mounts up into the eyes, and sees 
 
JUDITH. 11 
 
 The mists before its sight departing 
 Like voyagers for distant seas. 
 
 So I, so late the thrall of sorrow, 
 Thus led forth by the rosy springs 
 
 Of other years to happier bowers, 
 
 Took up my harp, and smote the strings. 
 
 Loii£ I sung, and lon^ she listened to the 
 
 minstrelsy I played ; 
 Stolen gems, from treasured caskets, lowly at her 
 
 feet I laid. 
 Now to check her pride, with woman, jarred the 
 
 chords, and shook the brand 
 O'er the deluge, tempest drunken, with the vintage 
 
 of her hand ; 
 Then to lure her back, and soothe her with soft 
 
 prelude's honeyed word, 
 I essayed " Orphean" measures, such as once the 
 
 Dryades heard. 
 Last of love I oped the volume, and my pencil 
 
 grown more bold 
 Blazoned the illumined margin, powdered it with 
 
 pearl and gold. 
 
12 JUDITH. 
 
 But the queen-girl, lady Judith, all this while 
 
 remained as mute, 
 As when, changed into a laurel, Daphne ""scaped 
 
 Apollo's lute. 
 Had my lyre miscarried also — had the boldness of 
 
 its reach 
 Scared within its pearly grotto that fair canta- 
 
 trice, her speech I 
 Nay, not so, for she is gentle, as the song-bird she 
 
 is true, 
 To her instinct-loving nature, with a dash or two 
 
 of rue ; 
 Just enough to make one love her rather better 
 
 than one should, 
 Just enough to make one hate her for a little if 
 
 one could. 
 She is like the ring-dove tender, or a posy, emblem 
 
 meet, 
 Or a blossom shedding* fragrance, or like music 
 
 that is sweet. 
 Like to everything in nature, which with nature's 
 
 fairness vies, 
 Which is beautiful and lovely, which is maidenly 
 
 and wise. 
 
 Still I could not choose but marvel, what alembic 
 charms were wrought 
 
 n 
 
JUDITH. 13 
 
 In the crucible of fancy, in the palace of her thought. 
 That no overture made sacred by her hand, or 
 
 j voice, was heard, 
 Though like melody her presence all the soul 
 
 within me stirred. 
 Could it be her pompous father had invaded our 
 
 retreat — 
 Like the lady charmed in Comus, filled she an 
 
 enchanted seat ? 
 Till her lusty lover's coming should disfranchise 
 
 her from thrall, 
 Was I then a thing of nothing, could not I 
 
 accomplish all? 
 
 Gorgon-eyed, he soon will humble, follow suit, or 
 
 join in quest 
 When I place him on the dais, at my board the 
 
 honoured guest. 
 Ah ! beshrew me, 'twere most proper — and the 
 
 maiden well might mate, 
 With my broad lands for her dower, and myself to 
 
 give them weight. 
 And why not — is hate eternal ? — shrive it, will it 
 
 not depart — 
 Will no cast of holy office squeeze the black drop 
 
 from the heart I 
 
14 JUDITH. 
 
 Well, what matter, so that summer follow close on 
 
 winter's heels — 
 So the lady daughter smileth, what to me the 
 
 grudge he feels ? 
 For 'tis time, virgin blossom — oh, thou milk- 
 white rose, to mate — 
 Time the badges of our houses stood no more 
 
 opposed in hate. 
 Oh, 'tis time, sacred vestal, that the altar-piece 
 
 be reared, 
 That the shrine, long consecrated, for full worship 
 
 be prepared. 
 And thy father — proud, imperious, apt and quick 
 
 to take offence, 
 I will foin at his own weapons ; I am proud — I too 
 
 can fence. 
 I arose — 'twas stiff* occasion — like a monarch from 
 
 his throne — 
 But, alas ! for human purpose, I was standing 
 
 there alone. 
 
 She was gone, no Satyr-father leered upon me 
 
 where I stood, 
 But a sound of mocking laughter reached me from 
 
 the hanging wood : 
 She was gone into the sunshine, to the tropics of 
 
 the bowers, 
 
JUDITH. 15 
 
 And an atmosphere was breathing round her of the 
 
 rosy hours. 
 Fool was T — ah, fool for thinking that the silken 
 
 wins: inlaid 
 Of the moth-fly with cameleon, would not shift 
 
 within the shade, 
 Though the shade were but reflection of itself in 
 
 etchings wrought, 
 On the margin of a flower, in a trellis-work of 
 
 thought ; 
 It is off with blush of summer, on its summer 
 
 painted wings, 
 Off to sip of sweets ambrosial on the sunny side of 
 
 things. 
 
 Would that I might be the shadow, always waiting 
 
 at her side, 
 Then my heart might feel the sunshine, though to 
 
 see it were denied. 
 Would that I might stoop my manhood, swear 
 
 allegiance, satrap bound, 
 To the footcloth of her service, be to her as hawk 
 
 or hound. 
 Run or fly and fetch or carry, and for guerdon 
 
 and for grace, 
 Touch the lily hand of wonder, gaze into the angel 
 
 face. 
 
16 JUDITH. 
 
 But such love were sure dishonour, love should 
 
 hold a golden mean, 
 And the love that sighs for fetters, is ignoble, base, 
 
 and mean. 
 And three years have I, a minor, still to wait, to 
 
 watch, to sue ; 
 In three years how much may happen, 'tis long 
 
 time to make ado. 
 In three years love may be vanquished, in three 
 
 years love may be schooled, 
 Or the tyrant of the fancy in its turn by love be 
 
 ruled. 
 In three years the tender sapling may don iron 
 
 like the oak, 
 Or the twi<r fair hands are bending grow into the 
 
 stubborn yoke. 
 Fain would I essay from falling from a high and 
 
 proud estate, 
 I would barter life for honour, but would peril both 
 
 for hate. 
 Pretty moth of varied colour, gem of Ophir rarely 
 
 wrought, 
 
 Dainty bird of daintiest summers, you may be too 
 
 dearly bought. 
 ^ * * * i 
 
 1 Where asterisks occur, they denote a lapse of three 
 years in the time of the piece. 
 
JUDITH. 17 
 
 I am Sir Marmaduke de Mahone, 
 
 And lie of low and mean degree ; 
 For what were all his church's honours, 
 
 To my broad lands and castles three I 
 
 I am of ancient Norman lineage, 
 
 He but a churlish Saxon priest ; 
 Now by my fathers' knightly pennon, 
 
 It were foul shame, to say the least, 
 
 For me, the last of all the Mahones, 
 
 To doff the cap, and sue for grace 
 Before the priestly stole and cassock, 
 
 And all for one disastrous face. 
 
 And once he called me fool and dreamer, 
 And once he struck me in the heat 
 
 Of age's thin and frothy passion — 
 Struck rne, a Mahone, to his feet ! 
 
 Since then, the deeds of all my fathers 
 
 In old Provencal-Norman song, 
 Have frowned upon the slow of manhood, 
 
 The servile underling of wrong. 
 
 No matter, what to me were honour, 
 Brave deeds of arms, or pride of birth, 
 
 C 
 
18 JUDITH. 
 
 I loathe all things, both man and nature, 
 The golden sun, the glorious earth — 
 
 All things save one — dear Holocaust ! 
 
 Fair flame, and costliest wealth of girls, 
 better had her love been purchased 
 
 With banks of Coromandel pearls, 
 
 Than thus ; and yet I do remember, 
 The syren spake once on a time, 
 
 And as she spake, like down of cygnet, 
 A soft white hand was laid on mine. 
 
 " O Marmaduke, my father loves you, 
 You are the ward, and not the thrall ; 
 
 Then why thus petulant and froward, 
 So changed to him, to me, to all ? 
 
 " He would be to you as a father, 
 
 I as the fondest sister should ; 
 Then be to him no more ungracious, 
 
 He would be kind, indeed he would. 11 
 
 Here paused the pride and grace of girlhood ; 
 
 The cause I felt, for fierce and strong 
 Leaped in my eyes, like sword from scabbard, 
 
 The memory of the father's wrong. 
 
JUDITH. 19 
 
 And Grace too, with unseemly freedom — 
 
 At least in one of her decree — 
 Stepped in between, and drew my heaven, 
 
 My seventh heaven's heaven far from me. 
 
 Grace is two years my lady's senior, 
 
 And if two years, which heaven forefend, 
 
 In all oirls 1 growth attain her stature, 
 'Twere ill to thwart them, or offend. 
 
 Yet doth she from her lady borrow 
 Sweet airs of sovereignty and grace ; 
 
 E'en as an angel, gazing sometimes 
 Into some brighter angel's face, 
 
 Will, like the mirror's polished surface, 
 Though set far back, within the night 
 
 Of some dark niche, reflect the glory 
 In distance thrown upon its sight. 
 
 What flowers be these which straw the carptt : 
 Embroidered gloves, her gloves, dear heart ! 
 
 Worth an earl's ransom to the meanest. 
 To me the wide world's richest mart. 
 
 Ah, dainty glove ! ah, daintiest minion, 
 
 Which clasped her white hand's wonder, see, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 JUDITH. 
 
 I rifle of your stores tins treasure, 
 And this, and this — let be, let be, 
 
 For lo, his voice, the dread familiar 
 Of prison hours, invades the bliss ; 
 
 " Come, to your books, young sir, be patient, 
 All may go well — enough of this." 
 
 "Twas he, eavesdropper, spy, I muttered, 
 But curbing still the bitter jest, 
 
 I eyed him with sedate composure, 
 
 And front to front, with lip compressed, 
 
 No whit abashed, his index finger 
 Still pointed to the study door. 
 
 Was I a boy I I frowned, he faltered, 
 Then smiled more blandly than before. 
 
 " Well, be it so, the day is charming, 
 And Judith rides upon the downs ; 
 
 Go get your horse, and follow after, 
 'Twere seemlier far than idle frowns. 
 
 " And as you touch her jewelled bridle, 
 
 Or gaze into her angel face, 
 Be she unto the troubled waters 
 
 The Dove of promise, and of grace. 
 
JUDITH. 21 
 
 " From this we read no more together, 
 
 I abdicate a thankless throne, 
 A few months more of hateful durance, 
 
 Will o-ive Sir Marmaduke his own. 
 
 " Now leave me, sir, my rede is ended, 
 The old man's task will soon be done 
 
 Go, Marmaduke of many manors, 
 But poor withal — go forth, my son !" 
 
 5 
 
 He said, and with a haughty gesture 
 Of courtesy, overstrained with age, 
 
 He passed into the inner chamber, 
 
 And left me foiled, half mad with rage. 
 
 Ha ! ever thus must I be bidden 
 At his behest to come and go, 
 
 To stint my breath, to fetch and carry — 
 Ha, by St. George ! shall this be so I 
 
 No, never — am I groom or lacke}^, 
 To follow at his daughter's heels, 
 
 To guide her palfrey, hold her stirrup, 
 Or take what worse the devil deals \ 
 
 No, by the old crusader's glory ! 
 Fll in and tell him so j nay, more, 
 
22 JUDITH. 
 
 I'm in a merry mood for figures, 
 
 I'll square with him our ancient score- 
 Then scorning with my riding gauntlet 
 To touch the door, or turn the lock, 
 I pressed my boot against the panel, 
 Which yielded inward with a shock. 
 
 Then outspake he, " This rash intrusion I 
 Proud boy, beware, or dread my power — 
 
 Apologise and leave my presence, 
 Or I will make you rue the hour. 1 ' 
 
 " Sir !" I exclaimed, with sudden passion, 
 " Before the menials in your hall, 
 
 Before fair Grace and lady Judith, 
 You struck me down before them alL 
 
 " 'Tis I who seek for reparation, 
 
 The curse of such an hour be thine — 
 
 Your hand first outraged a De Mahone, 
 'Twas vour turn then, now, sir, 'tis mine 
 
 He had upsprung in choler boiling, 
 An old man's rage at whitest heat ; 
 
 But as he listened, tempered somewhat, 
 Then dropped exhausted in his seat. 
 
JUDITH. 21 
 
 " Poor boy !" I heard him sigh, " the doctor 
 
 Gave me assurance then in vain ; 
 The sun-stroke of the hot delirium 
 
 Will sojourn in the sounder brain, 
 
 " Like stereotypes of vanished colours, 
 Or blush of love, or scowl of hate, 
 
 Which artist-like the red sun leaveth 
 In finger prints upon the plate. 
 
 " Yet was he wise and lion-hearted — 
 This man of science, calm and clear — 
 
 I should have told him all, or nothing, 
 He reasoned well, the fault was here." 
 
 He laid his hand upon his bosom, 
 But now like bull of Bashan bound, 
 
 I roared with rage and blatant fury — 
 This time he trembled at the sound. 
 
 " I know your age and reverent calling- 
 Protect your tonsured head from harm, 
 
 But by the stain upon my 'scutcheon, 
 There still is one shall feel my arm. 
 
 " There still is one — my early playmate, 
 The loved companion of my youth, 
 
24 JUDITH. 
 
 Your soldier boy, whose hand is plighted 
 To my sweet sister, Edith Ruth. 
 
 " Him on parade, or in the barrack, 
 
 Or ere his knightly spur be won, 
 I will essay, and thus my weapon 
 
 Will reach the father through the son." 
 
 CD 
 
 He leaped upon me like a panther, 
 
 His great rough arms wound round his prize ; 
 And like two gladiators baffled, 
 
 We glared into each other's eyes. 
 
 His was the master mind and triumphed, 
 Mine cowering underneath his look, 
 
 He dragged me, trussed and ready pinioned 
 For sacrifice, before the Book. 
 
 For here his wont was, or at even, 
 
 Or early morn, to plant his foot, 
 Within the truths therein empannelled, 
 
 And square his actions by their root. 
 
 Here dropped he me, and with obeisance, 
 His reverend hand, which did not shake, 
 
 He laid upon the holy volume, 
 
 And fixed me with his eye, and spake. 
 
JUDITH. 25 
 
 And though no word, asseveration, 
 Nor form of oath, save this was done ; 
 
 I felt the act through all my members 
 Had all the sacredness of one. 
 
 " That you have oft provoked my anger, 
 It is most true ; your froward way 
 
 Was ever strowed with wreck and tempest, 
 Since one unhallowed, hapless day, 
 
 " Of which anon — but that correction 
 I made you brook, or finger raised, 
 
 Save or to caution or admonish, 
 I never did, the Lord be praised ! 
 
 ; ' I know for this, the sin of Eli 
 
 Is laid full heavy at my gate ; 
 But if to love too much be sinful, 
 
 Far better die than live to hate. 
 
 " And now, young sir, draw near and listen, 
 'Tis time the cloud be rent in twain, 
 
 'Tis time you see its ' silver lining, ' 
 
 Lest you go forth, blood-curst like Cain. 
 
 " You once were one possessed, forsaken 
 Of God and man, a lurid gleam, 
 
26 JUDITH. 
 
 Shot from a dead man's eye, phosphoric, 
 With the corruption of its dream. 
 
 " Such was your state, a-gape, and staring 
 With soulless eyeball, to explore 
 
 The blackened shrine, in which, illumined, 
 The white robed priest was seen no more. 
 
 "And then it was, when dead or dying 
 The fiend, who writes with rapid pen 
 
 Beside death-beds, took your confession, 
 And gave you unction, scorned till then. 
 
 " And ever, as he took possession 
 Of niche by niche, with horrid din, 
 
 He shook the desecrated temple, 
 Or grinned defiance from within. 
 
 " Wrong you? beside your godless pillow, 
 Or stark and staring in your chair, 
 
 I ofttimes knelt — myself and household — 
 Till you became the child of prayer. 
 
 " And when the hot delirium's fever, 
 With giant hand, beat in the gate 
 
 Of death and hell, and poured new currents 
 Of life along — of scorn, and hate — 
 
JUDITH. 27 
 
 " And when you raved barbaric war-cries, 
 Or shouted fierce some battle song ; 
 
 Or when your dark eye flashed with passion, 
 Or lowered o'er the fancied wrong ; 
 
 " I left you not, and still another 
 
 With holier influence near you kept, 
 
 An angel form by love transfigured 
 Which ever bowed her head and wept, 
 
 " Like effigy of human sorrow, 
 
 Set o'er the urn where stricken sleeps 
 
 The hope of some long life-time perished, 
 Which ever bows the head and weeps. 
 
 " And when at last, her prayers prevailing, 
 The scales fell off, and you were fed 
 
 With manna which her love provided, 
 You blessed her and the demon fled. 
 
 " Fled you for ever, but his falsehood, 
 
 Poor boy ! the ghost which haunts you still, 
 
 No exorcist can lay or banish, 
 
 Save your strong love and stronger will. 11 
 
 I cast myself upon the carpet, 
 Upon the floor his foot had trod ; 
 
28 JUDITH. 
 
 For I, the last of all the Mahones, 
 Had not been stricken, save bv God. 
 
 And I, of lofty name and lineage, 
 Could well afford this homage leal ; 
 
 Beside, to my world's empress father, 
 Was I, her slave, too proud to kneel ? 
 
 I told hi in of my lorn condition, 
 I told him of my hopes and fears, 
 
 My haughty pride, my stubborn nature, 
 
 And kissed and bathed his hands with tears. 
 
 I told him all, and o'er my passion 
 
 I swept a hurricane of words, 
 Like stormy night winds, when they buffet 
 
 The tempest-tossed ^Eolian chords. 
 
 But ever with the name of Judith, 
 Soft inspirations — stop-note sweet — 
 
 Would check or lay the speaking numbers 
 In bars of music at her feet. 
 
 He motioned me to rise, I did so, 
 
 And silently and stern we met ; 
 I flashed an eve, as though to measure 
 
 The distance now between us set. 
 
JUDITH. 29 
 
 His cold impassive brow, which never 
 
 Gave token of its secret springs, 
 Seemed throned in clouds, like Jove's on Ida, 
 
 When weighing out the sum of things. 
 
 Not stern, not doubtful, but Olympian — 
 High, massive, broad, impressive, grand, 
 
 The Fates stood round to do his bidding, 
 The golden scales were in his hand, 
 
 And like a lightning through the darkness, 
 
 I saw a form bound into light, 
 Before which all my senses, baffled, 
 
 Shrunk back abashed into the night. 
 
 He sprung exulting to the trial, 
 
 I took my place as in a dream ; 
 I saw the mighty balance tremble, 
 
 His sink to earth, mine kick the beam. 
 
 I shrieked aloud, the old man started, 
 And laid his hand upon my arm ; 
 
 His touch restored my scattered senses, 
 His look dissolved the classic charm. 
 
 Yet was this he, the oft-rejected, 
 A youth of rude unlettered power, 
 
SO JUDITH. 
 
 Who loved his hawk, his hound, his hunter, 
 Far better than a lady's bower. 
 
 Him had I seen, but scorn, for scorning, 
 Had steeped our intercourse in gall ; 
 
 Her squire was he of mews and stables, 
 But I, her knight in bower and hall. 
 
 The old man eyed me long, and keenly, 
 To see what purposes I wrought ; 
 
 For when I something to him stammered, 
 He only smiled, as though in thought. 
 
 But when I urged my suit and passion, 
 As though divining me, he said, 
 
 " Young Langley is a lusty wooer, 
 
 The maiden fair,"''' and shook the head. 
 
 I — crushed with rage, the cup o'erflowing 
 So late with wine, now dead with lees, 
 
 And weeping with a woman's weakness — 
 I clave unto the old man's knees. 
 
 But when I lowlier bent to soften 
 
 The oracle before whose breath 
 My own must cease, or shout for gladness, 
 
 Or else endure a living death, 
 
JUDITH. 31 
 
 He raised me, scanned my lines severely, 
 And though no dawn upon me broke, 
 
 He put the hair back from my forehead, 
 As though unwittingly, and spoke — 
 
 " Your father was my earliest patron, 
 I owe to him fame, fortune, wife ; 
 
 And like two lusty summer rivers, 
 We coursed along the banks of life. 
 
 44 Too soon the golden bowl was broken, 
 
 Too soon the silver cord untied ; 
 Enough, you know the rest — your mother — 
 
 When you were born that angel died. 
 
 44 He lingered, but to make me promise, 
 And seal my promise with an oath 
 
 By all which we had loved together, 
 By all which had been dear to both, 
 
 ; ' That come what might, in storm or sunshine, 
 In weal or woe, come death or worse, 
 
 I still would shield her helpless offspring 
 From some hereditary curse. 
 
 44 What "'twas he did not name, or naming, 
 I heeded not, mv soul was moved, 
 
32 JUDITH. 
 
 And all the currents of my being 
 Set to the voice of him I loved. 
 
 " I vowed all things, this side of heaven, 
 All he had given, all it might lend ; 
 
 Wife, children, self, to consecrate — ■ 
 A world too narrow — to this end. 
 
 " I have done so; I never thwarted, 
 By word or deed, overt or hid, 
 
 The love I saw grow up together 
 In your young hearts — I never did. 
 
 " Nay, more — with patriarchal firmness, 
 The all on earth to which I yearned, 
 
 I bound, and laid upon the altar 
 
 Of my great love, and saw it spurned. 
 
 " Nay, boy, this is no time for raptures, 
 One thing I cannot give, the heart ; 
 
 This must be won, you have my promise, 
 And now, Sir Marmaduke, depart. 
 
 "Go, and redeem a costlier treasure 
 
 Than e'er was raised from costliest mine ; 
 
 But if you fail in this, remember 
 Your sin of failure is not mine." 
 
JUDITH. 
 
 33 
 
 I rushed abroad into the courtyards, 
 
 I shouted till my voice grew hoarse, 
 And in each phase of mad excitement, 
 
 I shouted still — " My horse, my horse !" 
 I banned the grooms for lazy varlets, 
 
 I deafened them with shout on shout ; 
 I banned them while thev saddled him, 
 
 I banned them when they led him out — 
 My horse ! I sprung into the saddle, 
 
 And spurred him till he reared upright ; 
 Then smote him down with might of Samson, 
 
 And curbed him till he maddened quite ; 
 And then like storm-fiend, long imprisoned 
 
 In caves of iEolus and Night, 
 I loosed him from my grasp of iron, 
 
 And launched him on his headlong flight. 
 Away, as flies the crow, at sunset, 
 
 Through tangled brake, o'er upland bold. 
 We go as free as mountain torrent, 
 Or winter wraith which rides the wold. 
 We gain the downs — ah, happy moorlands ! — 
 
 The broad horizon round we scan ; 
 No speck of life in all the distance, 
 
 No sound of hoof, no sign of man. 
 Away, away ! — the turf devouring, 
 Each object seems instinct with life — 
 
 D 
 
14 JUDITH. 
 
 Each dwarf- cursed shrub, each block of granite, 
 
 Each feathered knoll, with being rife, 
 Flee past us, like those fleeting shadows, 
 
 More swift than is the swiftest flight 
 Of hawk or hound, which people chambers, 
 
 And crowd a life-time in a night. 
 And now we reach the forest border, 
 
 And skirt like lightning: in the track 
 Left by the satyr-foot of ages, 
 
 And not a fiend to head us back. 
 Now through the sweat-dripped, Cain-cursed 
 hollow 
 
 Of peasant toil, misnamed a road, 
 We plunge as through a field of fallow, 
 
 Before the Lammas seed is sowed. 
 Now dash we down the broken causeway, 
 
 And pass the Hundred's clanging mills ; 
 Then clatter up the rocky passes, 
 
 Which open out the distant hills ; 
 To where two ancient mill-streams meeting, 
 Shake hands, or elbows, in a fling, 
 
 More true than if a Doge of Venice 
 Had plummed their waters with his ring. 
 
 Anon, we burst upon the hamlet, 
 And scathe with fire its smiling green, 
 
 Annihilating time and distance, 
 And gone again, as soon as seen. 
 
JUDITH. 35 
 
 Ah -ha ! well neighed iny gallant charger, 
 
 Your war-note sounds both stout and leal : 
 Let Langley hear your hoof of thunder, 
 
 Let be, this heart, and arm of steel. 
 Away, away ! nor let, nor hindrance — 
 
 Away my steed, of force sublime — 
 And dash your foot-prints to the fetlocks 
 
 Deep in the running sands of time. 
 Arrest their course, and like the Roman, 
 
 My world's wide empire once more mine, 
 Til make thee vizier of my kingdom, 
 
 For this one o-allant race of thine. 
 Hurra ! hurra ! the country opens, 
 
 The frighted hills behind us run, 
 Behold the distant town, and steeples, 
 
 The great north road is fairly won. 
 But drawn across it, strongly fettered, 
 
 Grins ghastly grim, the toll-bar gate, 
 With arms out-spread to stop our progress, 
 
 Or soon would do so did we wait. 
 I measure with my eye the distance, 
 
 I gather up the reins with care ; 
 And forward to my steed I shouted, 
 
 And smote with rage the empty air ; 
 And as the war-horse in the battle 
 
 Which answers to the trumpet's sound, 
 
 D 2 
 
*J 
 
 6 JUDITH. 
 
 He drew himself up well together 
 
 And charged the barrier at a bound. 
 Ha, 'sdeath ! — but cleared, by Jove, and over ! 
 
 Well sped, my steed, a gallant ride ; 
 But shaken by the fall, he staggers, 
 
 And stares around him wild and wide. 
 I crammed the Cerberus with logic, 
 
 In lieu of toll he had not earned, 
 And while I spoke my mettled charger 
 
 The flying road behind him spurned. 
 Hurra ! — but other sounds come gathering, 
 
 And sweeping down upon our course ; 
 The hamlet life is up and stirring, 
 
 And then the cry " To horse, to horse !'" 
 1 turned half-round within my saddle, 
 
 I saw an aged stalwart form, 
 Too well I knew that grim old bearing, 
 
 Meet pilot he to guide the storm — 
 And hark, a cheer, another follows, 
 
 And then in piercing accents wild, 
 I hear the father's shout of terror, 
 
 " The madman boy, my child, my child P* 
 And like to thunder in the distance, 
 
 Or underground, or overhead, 
 Low, rumbling, fierce, and ever nigher, 
 
 Comes clanging on the horseman's tread. 
 
JUDITH. 37 
 
 Still is there time ! hark, forward, forward 
 
 To yonder knoll of rising ground, 
 There will my eager gaze be sated, 
 
 And sweep for miles the country round. 
 Too late ! I see them now, my temples 
 
 Are bound as with a band of steel, 
 And like to Bacchanals in riot, 
 
 My senses madden till they reel. 
 He rides beside the jewelled bridle, 
 
 And to each whispered accent low, 
 As to some strain of heavenly music, 
 
 He bows him to the saddle bow. 
 I passed them like a fiery meteor, 
 
 Half glared around, half checked my horse.. 
 I heard a scream, I saw the Langley 
 
 Spur forward to arrest my course. 
 I swept him from my path of thunder, 
 
 As easy as the summer fly 
 Is brushed from off the pile of velvet 
 
 By hand of maiden, proud and high. 
 A-joust ! I cried — for e'en the falcon, 
 
 Cast loose from jesses and from ring, 
 Will scorn to strike a noble quarry, 
 
 Save in mid air, and on the wing — 
 He looked but ill at ease and anxious, 
 
 Oft waved his hand, but not to me, 
 
38 JUDITH. 
 
 And when, like arrow from the bowstring', 
 
 I charged him home, he turned to flee, 
 I headed him, I called him coward, 
 
 I flushed his cheek with brand of shame, 
 I saw him reel, and then spur forward, 
 A demon Satan could not tame. 
 
 Foul fall the times when modern usage 
 Debar to gentlemen their swords, 
 
 Now jurors rule the code of honour, 
 And home-spun magisterial boards. 
 
 We closed, we tugged, we foamed, we struggled. 
 Nor fates more fell, nor fiends more lost, 
 
 Horsemen and horse swept on together, 
 In one wild sea of sand-drift tost. 
 
 Till in the end, for I was stronger, 
 And better mounted, and more bound 
 In strands of hate, I hurled him bleeding 
 Both horse and rider to the ground. 
 
 Was it a dream, what followed after? 
 
 The play of death, the tennis yard, — 
 The flash of weapons in the moonlight, 
 
 The deadly lunge within the guard \ 
 I saw the Langley, crimson blushing, 
 
 With blood my eager hand had spilt ; 
 I saw the red forked lightning quiver 
 
 Along his blade from point to hilt ; 
 
JUDITH. 39 
 
 And then, amid Cimmerian darkness, 
 
 j ? 
 
 A fire-pang passed throughout my frame, 
 Hot as the seething hell of passions, 
 Which rocked me on its points of flame. 
 
 Was it a dream, what followed after I 
 
 An old man railing at his stars, 
 And first, true love, in prison beating 
 
 Itself to death against the bars I 
 I know not ; for as many tissues, 
 
 Of varied texture, varied dye, 
 Go to compose but one fair limning 
 
 Of colours to the artist's eye ; 
 So in my woof, the fatal sisters 
 
 Have wrought and spun, till web and strand. 
 Each leaf of gold and thread of tissue — 
 
 Have been worked up beneath their hand, 
 To form one Peri and one Haden, 
 
 All things else lost or void of form, 
 The spring-tide flood, the surging billow, 
 
 The wreck, the life-boat, and the storm. 
 
 # # # * 
 
 I know a little bird keeps harping, 
 
 For ever on a single bar — 
 " Get up, Sir Marmaduke, you sluggard, 
 
 For Cunmore Chase is not so far. 
 
40 JUDITH. 
 
 Leave to the world's great fool his hauble, 
 His crotchet to the learned brain ; 
 
 Leave pomp, and state, and paid lip-service, 
 And be your own true man again. 
 
 " But what if Judith, lady Judith, 
 
 Or riding on her palfrey fair, 
 Or walking in her terrace garden, 
 
 A-play, but not a-work, be there. 
 
 " Or if behind illumined window 
 
 Of that fair manse — a glory set 
 Within a pearl-encrusted heaven — 
 
 My lady be not risen yet." 
 
 To which, the little bird persisting, 
 " Go get you gone, go get you gone, 
 
 Each spot to you is land enchanted, 
 And crisp as ever is the lawn, 
 
 " Where once her foot." — " Dear bird, mve over 
 The fondling turf has long been mute, 
 
 The flowers she loved have perished singly, 
 And silent is her lovely lute." 
 
 To which the prating bird makes answer, 
 " All this I grant, I say not nay ; 
 
JUDITH. 41 
 
 But still the framework of the picture, 
 Though empty, would have much to say. 
 
 " The glowing woods in which she wandered, 
 
 The chaste Diana of the scene ; 
 The princely park, the pretty paddock, 
 
 The rural church, the village green ; 
 
 " The dear old linden tree, the schoolroom 
 Of happier days, and that sweet elf, 
 
 The hindering brook, which gave you courage 
 To touch her hand, and then — herself. 
 
 " Mean were the artist who such portrait 
 Could not fill in with faithful mind ; 
 
 As touch, man's second sight, restoreth 
 The sense of colours to the blind. " 
 
 " bird of song, O warbling birdie, 
 When I go hence, when I go hence, 
 
 Will you become my loved companion, 
 Nor tell sweet Philomel from whence, 
 
 " When we surprise her groves Arcadian, — 
 For I would hear your tuneful lays, 
 
 So brave withal, but not remember 
 The plaintive songs of other clays. 
 
42 JUDITH. 
 
 " So bustle, sweeting, be up early, 
 
 For spite of time, and chance, and change, 
 
 Before the matin-cock has chanted, 
 We go to visit Cunmore Grange.'' 
 
 groves of Cunmore Chase, thy tintings, 
 
 Like Rembrandt colours, dulled in gold, 
 Of some far off remembered landscape, 
 
 Have mellowed, but have not grown old ; 
 Still gorgeous are they to behold, 
 
 Like gilded tissues, rich illuming 
 Earth's sable mantle, half unrolled 
 
 At nature's feet, while still sun-lighted — 
 While still the cherubim, the sworded — 
 
 Half smiles from Eden on the night. 
 Ah, western clouds, the same as ever, 
 
 Reflecting glorious old sun-settings, 
 On which each day reclining passes, 
 
 On golden harp-strings out of sight. 
 
 Grange, the softer, fairer sister 
 Of Cunmore's lordly park and chase, 
 
 Thy paddock fair, and smiling gardens — 
 Dear miniatures of flower and grace, 
 Of sweet things in and out of place — 
 
 Do form an altar-piece to nature, 
 
JUDITH. 4o 
 
 But no divinity I trace, 
 No dawn of thee, proud Lady Judith, 
 High-priestess, pearl o'' price of ladies, 
 
 And fairest, youngest grace of girls. 
 Ah, woe is me, thou lovely orient, 
 Why only break, like mermaid sporting, 
 The mirror of the seas in pieces, 
 
 To cast behind this trail of pearls \ 
 
 Which leaves one consolation only, 
 
 That wert thou not, in earth and air, 
 Of all the stars the constellation ; 
 
 A golden cycle, rich and rare, 
 
 Revolving round me everywhere, 
 Thou hadst not been the wide world's wonder, 
 
 Like famed Loretto's lady fair ; 
 Nor had I roamed through realms enchanted, 
 Nor thus, with scrip and staff of palmer, 
 
 Have journeyed to thy shrine to-night. 
 Ah, me ! those eyes of hues seraphic, 
 Though false to me, are dearer ever ; 
 And like kaleidoscopes of colours, 
 
 Reflect within them worlds of light. 
 
 This is her balcony, made sacred 
 
 By angel footsteps, for, God wots, 
 An angel unaware will sometimes 
 
44 JUDITH. 
 
 Step in "'twixt us and the sun-spots, 
 
 And all earth's crushed forget-me-nots. 
 And Judith, stateliest girl of ladies, 
 
 Who with her sight hand's cunning plots, 
 To bind young love in silken fetters ; 
 What seems she less than angel bending, 
 
 From empyreal, to the stand 
 Beneath her throne, where kneels her lover, 
 And where, like moonlight kissed by roses, 
 Her white hand blushed at love's caresses — 
 
 Ah, happy fool to touch that hand ! 
 
 'Twas but a minute ; in her throne-room 
 
 Court beauties of fair Flora wait, 
 And milky ways of jessamine flowers 
 
 Illume the dais, where in state 
 
 The Peri of the garden sate ; 
 'Twas but a minute, briefest minute, 
 
 But time enough to mould a fate ; 
 For ah, she tried to rise — vain effort ; 
 She tried to frown as though in anger, 
 
 But failing, looked her sacred will, 
 And placed one fair and dimpled finger 
 Upon her lips — twin rose-buds parted — 
 Then rose, and with a quick emotion, 
 She passed, and left me kneeling still. 
 
JUDITH. 45 
 
 It came too soon, the news, the wedding, 
 
 The hurrying to and fro of feet, 
 The dashing chariots and white favours, 
 
 The dreadful joy-bells throb and beat ; 
 
 The sunshine where the cross-roads meet, 
 From which I shrunk, as shrinks the felon 
 
 Beneath the branding iron's heat, 
 For there was waved from carriage window, 
 A hand more white than snow-flake drifting — 
 
 I know not well if this were so, 
 For I had deemed me safely hidden 
 Within the woodland's secret covert, 
 But still a white hand, waved in passing, 
 
 Goes with me wheresoever I o-o. 
 
 But this is passed, has long been over — 
 How lornr, 'twere vain to ask or tell ; 
 
 It may be days, it may be minutes, 
 It may be ages, by the swell 
 And growth of atoms ; atoms dwell 
 
 In little space, but this great sorrow, 
 Like to no Typhon, chipped the shell 
 
 Of earth, and sprung full-sized to being, 
 
 In just and equable proportions, 
 To frown defiance at the sky ; 
 
 No, this must have been gently nurtured, 
 
46 JUDITH. 
 
 Been watered oft with plenteous showers — 
 No matter whence — to grow so portly, 
 And thus to hold its head so high. 
 
 This is the painted oriel window, 
 
 From which her eyes, twamoons, looked down, 
 To craze the wits of lower mortals, 
 
 Or rule their tides with smile or frown ; 
 Albeit she wore no queenly crown, 
 Yet was she queenly, awe-inspiring, 
 
 In all her slaves, prince, peer, or clown ; 
 Her eyes transmuted all things common, 
 Into one genii-peopled garden 
 Of golden fruits and precious stones ; 
 Ah, well-a-day ! the poet-sculptor 
 Who to his own fond work is bending, 
 Is wiser in his idol-worship 
 
 Than he who kneels to empty thrones. 
 
 No matter ! better thus to perish, 
 Than dash the pedestal to earth, 
 
 On which hath stood that form transfigured, 
 E'en for a minute's space, of dearth 
 Of all things else of equal worth ; 
 
 As well of labour be yoke-fellow, 
 
 And curb the curse with hollow mirth, 
 
47 
 
 JUDITH. 
 
 As in the end too late discover 
 Twas nothing save a block of marble, 
 
 Or inch or two of canvass, marred 
 In an unequal strife with nature, 
 Which stood betwixt ourselves and others, 
 And made us demigods or demons 
 
 Of draa'on-o'uarded realms ill-starred. 
 
 I knew a oreat man once, who watching 
 
 Lono- o'er a treasure, made a cool, 
 And what then seemed fair calculation 
 Of all its ingots, and by rule — 
 Some book-craft lore picked up at school — 
 He struck a balance-sheet, and smiling, 
 
 Thought it would last his time, poor fool. 
 Ah me! those bells, chime — chime, still chiming, 
 Have turned methinks into a belfry — 
 
 Some dismal crypt where horror dwells, 
 The brain, wherein the soul once mounted, 
 Hot mettled rode, and warred with Titans — 
 With all its peers around — till vanquished 
 By one wild peal of marriage bells. 
 
 " Din-don, din-din — din, don f 1 I marvel 
 Rude handed kerns, who toil and sweat, 
 Should dare intrude their occupation 
 
48 JUDITH. 
 
 On me that am above them set 
 
 So high they needs must chafe and fret ; 
 In sooth, my privilege of order 
 
 Their grimy malice seems to whet, 
 Their brawny arms and corded sinews 
 
 Do never tire, their's sovereignty, 
 The people's in't 'twill roar anon. 
 So be it then, give way, my masters, 
 But measure me your time, bad timests 
 Mar all — one, two, what botched ? out patience ! 
 
 Is Babel up? " din — din, — din, don." 
 
 Soh ! still it jars, and ever louder, 
 
 As tho' the lost loved Pleiad's moan 
 Would take amends, and deafen nature, 
 And tell how from her silver zone, 
 Her star was fallen, her light was flown, 
 And how 'mid symphonies celestial, 
 
 Her seven-stringed lyre was mute alone. 
 Why, so — 'tis well — but sure such chimings 
 As these — such doleful, dismal 'plainings — 
 
 Would vex the drum of any ears ; 
 But when my manners, lacking breeding, 
 Would stow discourteous, I remember 
 How fair she once was, when throne seated 
 She led the concert of the spheres. 
 
JUDITH. 49 
 
 Ha, by Saint George ! a form in passing, 
 
 Is thrown across the field of gold 
 Which intersects yon oriel window ; 
 
 What desecrating foot so bold, 
 
 To tread the glories, not yet cold, 
 Which flood the tesselated flooring 
 
 Of what was once, in days of old, 
 The throne-room of the queen of ladies ? 
 And where, if I remember rightly, 
 
 All set around with virgin pearls, 
 Her portrait rests upon a mantel 
 Of chaste design, which mirrors only 
 The blushes of that lovely orient, 
 
 The darling and the pride of girls. 
 
 Ha ! it is he, her hated father ! 
 
 What brings him here, so thin and worn ? 
 Would he forestal my heart's dear worship, 
 
 And like the fiend, when sick and lorn, 
 
 Be penitent, be shrived and shorn, 
 And mutter aves, and long credos, 
 
 To all the saints from night to morn ? 
 Begone ! what ho ! give place, the Mahone 
 Claims here the right of sanctuary ! 
 
 Ho, privilege ! I come like night 
 Into her chamber, where, soft shaded 
 
 E 
 
50 JUDITH. 
 
 By wing of cherubim, her glories 
 Still shine, as shine in secret places 
 The diamond's atmospheres of light. 
 
 Well met at last, stern stoic father, 
 
 With clear cut profile, calm and bold ; 
 See in the wall I turn her picture, 
 
 Lest in the moonlight, pale and cold, 
 
 Her likeness to thee I behold — 
 " Din — din, — din, don," — His merry chiming ! 
 
 These bells, sir, ever ring for gold, 
 Ha, do they not ! I speak at random, 
 For things do trouble me : my lady — 
 
 Your daughter, is she not I pray ? — 
 Did promise once she would grow taller 
 Some thought or so — "'twas eighteen summers 
 She counted last, no more, on honour. 
 
 Ha, must you go ! Grive you good day. 
 
 ]ie praised, for he is gone ! my mumming 
 Hath feared him with an antic word, 
 
 And made of him a fair good riddance ; 
 For ah, methought my lady-bird 
 Within me touched some chords, not heard. 
 
 Nor waked to sound, as birds when sleeping 
 Have notes of music in them stirred : 
 
JUDITH. 1 
 
 So when a star shoots down from heaven — 
 What time in thousand candelabra, 
 The mightier burners in the sky, 
 The moon and sun-like constellations, 
 Do hold high mass — the star more pitying, 
 Which quits her place, and travels earthward, 
 Is felt, not heard, though heaven be nigh. 
 
 An I were rid of bells, this chiming, 
 
 Methinks that I would sleep — what spells 
 
 Are in this place, the spot is holy ? 
 He should be canonized, who dwells 
 In her fair chamber — what, more bells { 
 
 Nay, then the world is one wide belfrv, 
 And I Bob-major — what, more knells l 
 
 Ha ! what is this I More plagues it raineth — 
 
 How, through the roof? what, blood and water ' 
 No water, but all blood ; mv breath 
 
 Tugs at my throat for life — 1 throttle — 
 
 Help, help ! will no one come ? horror ! 
 
 The room reels round, grows dark, 'tis over — 
 Can this be 1 oh mv soul ! 'tis death. 
 
 E 2 
 
A L N E. 
 
ALONE. 
 
 O Lord, upon the highway of the world, 
 My step is as a stranger's ; none there be 
 To wait its comings or its o-oino-s forth ; 
 It finds no echo, maketh none ; alone — 
 Always alone ; no shadow casteth it 
 No reflex of itself; alone, alone! 
 
 All men are like to rubbish, which is swept 
 From off the stage, when they have played their 
 
 parts ; 
 Poor socked and buskined fools ! awhile ago 
 They formed the puppets of the drama, life, 
 When, lo, the curtain dropped ; and, one by one, 
 The thousand lights which did make up their 
 
 world 
 Of sound, sight, sense, volition, were snuffed out . 
 The curfew tolled ! — A cycle more is turned, 
 
56 ALONE. 
 
 And floods the scene with new creations ; 
 
 None of the old. A golden cycle more, 
 
 And Time, commissioned, brushes with his wing 
 
 Their palaces, their tumuli, and groves, 
 
 And pleasant places ; and we find them not. 
 
 But still a voice as of some Babvlon, 
 
 Or city of the plain made desolate, 
 
 At intervals, in watches o 1 the night, 
 
 Comes howling forth from out its catacombs, 
 
 And rushing down the ghauts, and steps sublime 
 
 The foot-prints of its ages, strikes the chords 
 
 In thunder of the great .ZEolian harp, 
 
 Whose wires are stretched from point to point of 
 
 space. 
 Look where it stands, supernal and alone, 
 With its great bars of adamantine gold ; 
 Whose diapason grand, the first stop-note 
 Of time recorded ! the same mighty harp, 
 New from creation^ hand, which Nature swept 
 In her loud matin, anthem peal of praise, 
 When all the sons of God and morning stars 
 Did shout for joy. 
 
 Each age, with iron hand, 
 Resounding wide, those adamantine bars 
 
ALONE. 57 
 
 Hath stricken in its march across the stage ; 
 For record of its deeds, a Talmud voice, 
 Like unto distant thunder, thus is rolled, 
 From shore to shore, as wave succeeds to wave 
 In infinite progression, without end. 
 Some age is always passing, something dies. 
 
 Here is a Gothic churchyard, old enough, 
 
 But tallied by the wrinkles in the horn 
 
 Of Time, that old Egyptian Centaur ; 
 
 No age at all, yet sooth to say quite old 
 
 And out of date, and by the count of man's, 
 
 Not Time's estate, octogenarian 
 
 To say the least ; but as fourscore or more, 
 
 In this our puny kalendar of dates, 
 
 Will ever have its jokes, and boys, and girls 
 
 To keep it warm, and point its merry quips, 
 
 Young folk of fifty-five, or thereabout, 
 
 So will Time also — this is one of them, 
 
 And there be many such : let us go in, 
 
 And turn some leaves, on which the printer's ink 
 
 Is not yet dry. 
 
 Here there be dead enow : 
 Each in his place, six feet of earth or so, 
 Cut, squared, and measured, and a shabby stone 
 
58 ALONE. 
 
 With quarterings from death's book of heraldry. 
 Yea, here they lie; this is their Golgotha ; 
 The grim and gray old churchyard where they 
 
 dwell, 
 Hard by the temple where they worshipped once ; 
 The porcelain, and the dust of common clay, 
 Which struggled for pre-eminence of place, 
 At sunrise of their day ; but when at e'en 
 The shadows lengthened, like good Mussulmans 
 In some great eastern caravansary 
 Here laid them down together, and sleep well. 
 
 Churchyards have got their legends : dismal wraiths 
 All sheeted in the moonlight, from their graves 
 Steal forth o 1 nights, and with their eldritch shrieks 
 Do shake the crutch-stick of the beldam crone 
 With a new palsy. Once it happed indeed, 
 At Lammas time, or else at Candlemas — 
 For dates become confused in some folk's brains — 
 That in the gloaming, from the belfry top, 
 Old Gaffer Jock, that home belated came, 
 From fair, or market, or from yon rude barn, 
 Where player folk resort, did hear a din, 
 As of some evil sabbath beino- held 
 By things unholy, till his shock of hair 
 Did all but lift the bonnet from his head. 
 
ALONE. 
 
 The churchyard passed, he scratched his drowsy 
 
 pate, 
 To prick him to new purpose ; a stone cross, 
 And blasted heath, and warlock haunted glen, 
 Had to be passed, ere he could hope to gain 
 The sheep track of the mountain pointing home. 
 Just then too, as it seemed to him for spite. 
 The moon became obscured. Anon he heard 
 The mill-stream in the distance shout to him, 
 As though to warn him of some danger near; 
 And looking up to see what let or hurt 
 The moon had met with in her milky way, 
 That she withheld her light, he did behold, 
 In the mid-air, and like unto a cloud 
 Of ragged shape — a hideous spectacle — 
 A rout of ribald witches, riding down 
 Their broomsticks to the moor, with hellish glee ; 
 And thunder, lightning, and a storm of rain, 
 Which shook the welkin, made a jubilee, 
 At which the looker on did stop his ears, 
 And pluck his bonnet down before his eyes. 
 But when he looked again, and there beheld, 
 As "'twere a-staring of him in the face, 
 The witches'' fire, the caldron, and the dance, 
 He turned and fled outright, stout Gaffer Jock. 
 Jock o" the hills, who never feared his man, 
 
60 ALONE. 
 
 Did turn and flee, but how or where he went, 
 How, or where, passed the night was never known ; 
 But at the early dawn, in his own place, 
 In the accustomed nook, beside his hearth, 
 Sate Gaffer Jock, and a stern man was he ; 
 For Jock was master here, and knew it well, 
 And so did they, his leal gude wife and bairns. 
 
 Belike the dame, who had a merry eye, 
 
 Of shrewd good temper, said the less the while, 
 
 But thought the more, for Madge, the gipsy girl, 
 
 Her sister's child, at sundown had been up, 
 
 The day before, to say their folk were camped 
 
 Upon the heath, hard by the warlock's glen, 
 
 For one night only, nigh the broken dam, 
 
 Said little Madge — and begged a stoop o' meal 
 
 And other cantraps, and a posset drink, 
 
 For her who was foot-wearied but heart whole — 
 
 The erring sister, mother to the child — 
 
 All which the dame had done with much ado, 
 
 And eking out o' means : no niggard hand 
 
 Was hers ; she also sent great store beside 
 
 Of good advice, kind greetings, and what-nots, 
 
 And thrifty hus'ife saws, enow to turn 
 
 A leper from his ways, This knew not Jock, 
 
 Nor was to know, but a stout man was he, 
 
ALONE. 61 
 
 As seated in his high backed wicker chair, 
 He looked the lord of all — he looked it ; ah ! 
 
 But when Jock mellowed, at midday or eke 
 
 At eventide : or at the village forsre 
 
 Or roadside inn — he did discourse indeed 
 
 Of naught but marvels ; how their ghostships all 
 
 Had hailed him from the crypt and belfry-top, 
 
 Gave him good even, asked him what o'clock, 
 
 How went the markets, and what price was grain ? 
 
 AVhereat each gaping clown did scratch the ear, 
 
 And shift the clouted shoon, as tho 1 to mark 
 
 And emphasise attention. Cup and can 
 
 Went round the while, and clinked the pottle-jack, 
 
 And droughty clodpates, stinted o' their draught, 
 
 With baited breath, for fear o' losing aught ; 
 
 Or with great hands, as if to shut out sight, 
 
 Did clamp their eyes, and straightway look again 
 
 As though expecting more. But when he told, 
 
 How at the witches 1 sabbath on the moor, 
 
 He had overturned the caldron, broke the charm, 
 
 And sent the sisters weird all packing home 
 
 On broomsticks fashioned out of gibbet-stakes, 
 
 Without their dainty supper, a real live 
 
 And unbaptised young infant — 'twas too much ! 
 
 The gude wife swooned outright, and left the kail 
 
62 ALONE. 
 
 To tend itself; while she, the drab-shod wench — 
 Well named of all work — who had felt the goad 
 Of eye and tongue throughout the live-long day, 
 Now stood at ease, or cracked her bony joints, 
 And blessed herself, old Jock, and all the world. 
 Two ancient gossips that looked in to buy 
 Their pennyworths of snuff and candle ends — 
 For this our hostel boasted of its store — 
 Did nod the head, or purse the lentel mouth, 
 And straight despatchful-wise, and tarrying naught, 
 Did make clean off much faster than they came, 
 A-plucking down their hoods, and muttering still 
 Of death-bed scenes, of ghosts, and bogle lights ; 
 And every lazy loon and pick-thanks there, 
 And every Jack and Grill, did homeward trudge, 
 But word spake none, until in ingle nook, 
 Behind barred doors, they bade old Jock God speed, 
 And blessed themselves that such a man was found 
 To stand up for the parish at a pinch. 
 
 Churchyards have got their legends, grasses tall, 
 Or cypress shades, which echo to the tread 
 Of time no more, do make themselves amends, 
 And stealing to the foot of some rude cross, 
 Or statelier monument of man's decay, 
 Do whisper of strange things unto the dead, 
 
ALONE. 63 
 
 Until a lovely sunbeam darting in 
 
 Like a bright child unto its grandsire's knee, 
 
 The frowning shadows flit from off the dial, 
 
 And day comes back again. The golden east 
 
 Throws ope its portals to the pranksome sun, 
 
 Who in his chariot, fiery red with haste, 
 
 Doth pass Aurora and the lovely dawn, 
 
 That with tired team had paused a minute's space 
 
 To breathe their horses in the steep ascent. 
 
 He chid them with such words, as slug-a-beds 
 
 And loves-in-idleness, till both did laugh, 
 
 With rosy mouth, to hear the tardy lord 
 
 So well express his own inaptitude — 
 
 For they had been afoot an hour or more, 
 
 And he was newly up. 
 
 But see what comes 
 To break the charmed enchantment of the place : 
 A pigmy ruffler, mark him for the nonce — 
 The brawling brooklet from the upland sweeps, 
 And village in the distance, smirching on 
 Cer stone and break, a-talking evermore ; 
 For I have ever found your hill-side folk 
 A sort of babblers, prating all the while — 
 They chirp amid their lentals and their grain, 
 Their flocks and herds ; grasshoppers at a feast 
 
64 ALONE. 
 
 Could do no less, nor faith could they do more. 
 
 Now, whether 'tis they dwell too nigh to heaven- 
 
 A sublimated race — or too remote, 
 
 As 'twere cut off from kind, an Ishmael sent 
 
 Into the wilderness, or eke scape-goat 
 
 The merrier o 1 its load ; now whether this 
 
 Or other cause prevail to make them glib 
 
 Of speech, and hand, and eye, nor share the lot, 
 
 The common lot, which giveth unto men 
 
 The right to sympathise and feel for man, 
 
 Incarnate of one flesh, I do not know. 
 
 But sure am I, their heads, or else their heels, 
 
 Are liohter than some other folk I wot. 
 
 But see, our brooklet now a lady comes — 
 It hath forsook the people of the hills, 
 And soon will be a-maying in the fields ; 
 No longer like a little ragged boy, 
 Who plays a truant in the upland wilds, 
 With smiling face of mischievous intent 
 It peepeth forth, or e'er it leaps the rock 
 And darts into the hollow still, to see 
 What stir is in the valley down below ; 
 Or like the painted savage youth in sport, 
 Or mimic ambuscade, it traileth on 
 Its length in silence, o'er some patch of sward, 
 
ALONE. 65 
 
 Or creepeth round the foot of some rude cairn, 
 
 Or giant block of Druid granites piled, 
 
 Which mark the spot where once a temple stood, 
 
 In days primeval. Ha ! not such again, 
 
 Nor when at close of some sweet hallow-e'en, 
 
 In tumbling cadences of music, fell 
 
 Its silver foot a-down the craggy steep, 
 
 On whose broad breast it showed, like rounds of 
 
 ii S ht, 
 
 Of some fair ladder reared against the sky ; 
 
 No, never more like this, though gatherer bold 
 
 Of samphire, poised aloft, swung in mid-air, 
 
 Ne'er did the feat more nimblv — this no more 
 
 Canst thou achieve, for thou canst not turn back — 
 
 Thy silver foot hath left the rounds of light 
 
 For ever far behind, and never more 
 
 Will its swift step bear music to the hills, 
 
 Nor tread in roundelays of songs the cliffs, 
 
 Nor leap for gladness any more at all. 
 
 But still to me, who am so very old, 
 
 And love to live back in the Ions; ao-o, 
 
 'Tis sweet to linger on the mountain side, 
 
 A little while ere sunset, and to hear 
 
 The footfalls of the past impress with sound 
 
 The pedal boards of thought. 
 
 F 
 
66 ALONE. 
 
 But thou art off — 
 O larking middy, from the upper shrouds 
 Of thv great world's three-decker — off again. 
 Through mountain gorge, or lichen-covered dell, 
 Through tangled fern, o'er purpled heathery wilds, 
 Thou racest through the moorland to the village. 
 But here the tinkling bells of drowsy sheep, 
 A-browsing on the scanty herbage, mark 
 The rude and noisy wayfarer's approach. 
 No sentiment hath this our mountain brook, 
 No care nor thought for self or other folk ; 
 Besmirched, and soiled, and like some blackguard 
 
 boy, 
 It brawleth all the rural hamlet through : 
 Now sings to maid a-spinning at her wheel 
 Before the door ; now scolds the village wife, 
 For pounding of its tribute, for the use 
 Of kail and pot ; now smirks up in the face 
 Of sage grimalkin, which, with velvet paw 
 Half poised aloft, some rash experiment 
 Was meditating, but at this rebuff 
 Recoiled as from a leper or a wraith. 
 Then runs the ducks, and drives the screaming 
 
 flock 
 Of beldam geese a -clattering to the pond, 
 And jumps in after like another Pach. 
 
ALONE. 67 
 
 The village pond, which lies a rood or more 
 From the old pound, a little to the left — 
 Well swum, brave swimmer ! out on t'other side. 
 Now glid'st thou like a harlequin, between 
 The well-worn stepping-stones old crones had 
 
 placed 
 Across thy course a-many years ago, 
 For hus'ife uses, or for passing o'er ; 
 Thou seorn'st them, thou ; but yet with purlings 
 
 sweet, 
 And whimperings of thy crest, dost make ado, 
 As though thou loved'st the ground whereon th 
 
 stand. 
 
 Yet mock'st thou, for in sooth thou loved'st th* 
 
 not, 
 But lay'st thyself in sunshine at their feet, 
 For that all things thou lov'st — thyself the most, 
 And these the least — and yet e'en these thou 
 
 hafst not, 
 For peering over one, the tall one there, 
 At 'vantage ta'en, thou did'st espial make, 
 And saw'st before thee thy sweet rural bridge. 
 Which forms a grotto cool, and arched within, 
 Where thou wilt make thy toilet, by and by — 
 Yon quaint, moss-covered, one arched, rural bridg 
 
 F 2 
 
68 ALONE. 
 
 Which the old squire, the one before the last, 
 
 Did there erect, at his own proper cost, 
 
 That thus the folk, both great and small, might 
 
 come 
 Dry-shod to church, or village wake, or fair, 
 Without or let or hindrance to their mood 
 From our small brook, which sometimes from the 
 
 hills, 
 Fed by a hundred streams, unseen till then, 
 With froward petulance, would sweep along, 
 Scream treble bass, and toss its tiny wave 
 O'er all impediment of lesser mould, 
 Or be it stepping-stone, or tree, or plank. 
 
 But this is long a^o — not now, not now ; 
 
 No more the music of the mountain stream 
 
 Is heard by me ; no more the merry shout 
 
 Of village sport ; no more the tinkling bells 
 
 Of browsing sheep ; no old familiar sound — 
 
 The sterile rock in grimness and repose 
 
 Still stands, with all its hundred eyes sealed up ; 
 
 Its hundred ears closed, and its hundred hands 
 
 In immobility far worse than death : 
 
 From earth unto its scarred and sullen brow, 
 
 No rounds of light will evermore ascend, 
 
 For angel footsteps to go up and down, 
 
 And summer there again — alone, alone ! 
 
ALONE. 6.9 
 
 But all this while, our brooklet underneath 
 The friendly bridge hath donned another suit, 
 Of silver sheen, festooned, and looped with pearls 
 Of waters fair ; droplets from faeries 1 hands 
 Let fall, from mosses flowering in the wall 
 Of yon rude arch, where all day long they hide 
 From Puck and his associates, till the moon 
 Hath trimmed her lamp, and Oberon's tiny horn, 
 Borne by the sharded beetle in his flight, 
 And all the pomp of proud Titan ia's court, 
 Invite them to their old familiar haunts : 
 Where in the dell, or in the spicy glade, 
 Their tinkling footsteps haunt the dreams of 
 flowers. 
 
 But now more mundane, see our brooklet comes, 
 Fresh from its toilet, and with look demure, 
 And pretty sandalled shoon, and silver laugh — 
 No longer froward, petulant, and vain, 
 But low, and soft, and musical, and sweet, 
 Like unto woman's. Pleasant places now — 
 Sweet flowering turfs, like carpets richly piled, 
 Do spread their tufted patterns in the sun, 
 And through the undulating sweeping folds 
 Of these fair garnitures o" nature's loom, 
 Our brooklet runneth like a thread of o-old, 
 
70 ALONE. 
 
 Throughout some piece of rare embroidery, 
 
 To where our village churchyard's homestead stands, 
 
 Of kith and kin. Here it is lost awhile — 
 
 For here, as though overwearied with its play 
 
 Of chasing down the butterfly and bee, 
 
 It resteth in the hollow of the bank, 
 
 Beneath the wall, hard by the wicket gate, 
 
 But yet in sooth perforce — for that an oak, 
 
 Some rude old fellow of the hills, that hath 
 
 Prescriptive right of twice three hundred years 
 
 For what he doth, puts forth a monstrous foot, 
 
 All knobbed and knarled out of its osier bed, 
 
 To trip it in its progress : this with care 
 
 Not to offend, but with a maiden pride, 
 
 And dainty movement of its graceful form, 
 
 It did avoid, and starting off again, 
 
 Th 1 enamelled meads received it ; sloping down. 
 
 Still downward with the setting sun it flowed, 
 
 For well it knew its own warm bosky dell 
 
 Of eglantine, sweetbriar, heath, and fern — 
 
 The one of wood anemones I mean — 
 
 Had been expecting it, and there prepared 
 
 A couch of crystal set in emeralds, 
 
 Where the more fair than life, the water sprite, 
 
 The pale and beautiful, the lotus proud, 
 
 Will bed with it at night — well, go thy way. 
 
ALONE. 7 1 
 
 What, ho ! old warden, thou that babblest not ; 
 Old yew-tree, thou that wagg'st no leaf the less, 
 Nor wink'st an eye the more, for all thou seest. 
 What, ho ! I say, thou that keep'st watch and 
 
 ward — 
 Have there no footsteps without challenge passed. 
 In all the time that thou hast tarried here — 
 Old soldier, hast ne'er slept upon thy post ? 
 For none come nio-h thee to relieve thv watch, 
 And thou art waxing very old indeed — 
 A green old age ! thou toss'st thy arms abroad. 
 As though to sigh disclaimer to my words ; 
 Well, be it so, and in good sooth thy looks 
 Do much belie thy humour, an "'twere gay. 
 Hark ! did'st hear aught? nay, shiver not thy 
 
 leaves, 
 *Tis but my heart, that measures with its strokes 
 The pass of steps, the footfalls of the dreams 
 Of sleepers which do come to watch their dead. 
 Perchance thine ears are dulled ; the earths o 1 
 
 graves, 
 Let fall on coffin-lids, do dull some wits 
 And madden other — and perchance, too, blind. 
 Lord ! how slight a thing will oft put out 
 The lamp of life — the prick of angry thorn, 
 Or blow of hazel-twig, or bodkin point — 
 
72 ALONE. 
 
 But thou, that hast outlived all else beside, 
 
 To thee it should be boon and benison, 
 
 That thou canst see no more — wouldst weep for aye, 
 
 And ne'er have done with tears ? for who in age, 
 
 Had he his lusty manhood, and his strength 
 
 Of heart, brain, intellect, in one entire, 
 
 To feel, think, act, avoid, and cope withal — 
 
 Who but would swoon at once, or die outright, 
 
 To feel the iron enter in the soul, 
 
 Home, home by inch-meal, or to watch the stake, 
 
 Slow driven through the heaving, panting heart, 
 
 In some cross-road of life — the unblessed grave 
 
 Of lifetime hopes, and aspirations high, 
 
 Here met at last. All men are suicides 
 
 Of some diviner, immaterial self, 
 
 And in each breast, a suicidal spot 
 
 Is set apart, fenced oft", and walled around 
 
 From all approach, where flower or weed no more 
 
 Will ever bloom, and where no passer-by 
 
 Will ever pause again ; no tear be shed, 
 
 No voice be heard, no insect hum of life, 
 
 No song of birds, but silence evermore. 
 
 Why soh ! have cheer ! far better off art thou, 
 
 Old soldier, with thy one foot in the grave, 
 
 For none approach thee, since that thou hast drunk 
 
ALONE. 73 
 
 Of fell mandragora ; none seek thy shade 
 
 For rest or pastime, and no plant or herb, 
 
 No parasitical emboldened arms, 
 
 With serpent fold, will evermore embrace 
 
 Thy o-iant form, thou sad Laocoon ! 
 
 Thy bower-days are passed, thy fairest flowers 
 
 Have perished round thee, and no blade of grass, 
 
 Or little fairv weed, will evermore 
 
 Approach thy stem — thy rude and rugged stem — 
 
 For thy stern frown will nevermore relax, 
 
 And in its shadow, side by side with death, 
 
 Thy first-born lie, which knew no passover; 
 
 And thy great knotted veins, which leap no more, 
 
 Like hart before the hounds, with bound of life, 
 
 In full career, are swollen and turgid grown, 
 
 As drunken with the poisons of the earth, 
 
 In which thou stand'st knee deep in dust of graves, 
 
 And ashes of thy dead. Oh, better thus ! 
 
 In thy young day how many eager hands 
 
 Did score thy yielding bark with souvenirs, 
 
 And happy household words, and names which 
 
 haunt 
 The memory of a lifetime, now botched out, 
 Or welded o'er with cicatrices worn 
 Hard as the nether millstone, cubic-squared, 
 Or laminse of fossils, drop by drop, 
 
74 ALONE. 
 
 Concreted hard from waters, which flowed on 
 From the same source, too prodigal of life, 
 Till all used up — arrested as in tears, 
 And so turned into stone, like Niobe. 
 
 Once more, once more, and yet once more alone — 
 
 Too much alone to die, for my free thoughts 
 
 Do minister to me much strengthening food, 
 
 And like to good mediciners do cull 
 
 Their simples and their poisons with such care, 
 
 That one doth ever act as antidote 
 
 Unto the other ; thus do I suspend, 
 
 Like to the camel driver's coffin lid, 
 
 'Twixt heaven and earth ; too far removed from 
 
 both 
 To be connect with either — me none claim — 
 I am alone, alone ; and when uproused, 
 The desert crieth with a mighty voice, 
 From its waste places. I do hear the roar 
 As of a people arming in hot haste : 
 The rattling to and fro of chariot wheels, 
 The voices of the captains, and the shoutings ; 
 While far off — tabor and harp-string sounding 
 Like to ^Eolian chords through distance spread, 
 And mighty space, that all the winds might swell 
 The song of triumph — the Hosanna rose ! 
 
ALONE. 75 
 
 I see, or else I dream, and dreaming see 
 
 A lady, famed as was in later days 
 
 The Sphynx for pride, bend lowly down to watch 
 
 A wicker basket and a sleeping child, 
 
 Which chance, as 'twere, had cast upon the bank, 
 
 With rushes of the golden river crowned ; 
 
 I see her stoop, and gather up her robes 
 
 Of silver tissue and brocade of gold, 
 
 Which burn into the burnished water's edge ; 
 
 And then, as though her presence stirred its dreams, 
 
 The rosy child, with smile ambrosial, wakes, 
 
 And entering at her eyes, and breathing flowers, 
 
 Its soul with hers becomes incorporate. 
 
 Again I see upon the river's bank, 
 
 Amid the reeds with crimson purple flushed, 
 
 An arabesque of reddening glory poured 
 
 Around, as on some tesselated floor 
 
 From heaven's broad gate, in molten bars of light; 
 
 And in its midst, as on a dais raised, 
 
 On wing of cherubim and seraphim, 
 
 And bathed in glory of the antitype, 
 
 An ansrel and a cherub stand in <2;old. 
 
THE TOBN LEAF, 
 
THE TORN LEAF. 
 
 Nay, illumine not the volume, 
 Iron clasped and iron bound ; 
 
 Let it sink to Hades, hissing, 
 In gyrations round and round. 
 
 If from cliff to cliff rebounding, 
 
 It emit one honest spark, 
 Great or small, it still may brighten 
 
 In the chaos what is dark. 
 
 Point to where the quicksand crouching, 
 Or the savage rock opposed, 
 
 Lie in wait like ambushed foemen, 
 When the postern gate is closed. 
 
 Or some humbler path exploring, 
 With a glow-worm's sober light — 
 
 Flood, and insect, or a flow'ret, 
 Or the sand-drift of a night ; 
 
80 THE TORN LEAF. 
 
 Or the fragment of an atom, 
 
 Which is seen to shift its place — 
 
 Who can tell what change it ruleth, 
 In the laws which govern space ? 
 
 Progress thus, in like transition, 
 
 Treads its terrible incline, 
 Down the charred and blackened tunnel, 
 
 Through the mighty mammoth line, 
 
 Till it reach the point permitted, 
 When it bursts upon the strands, 
 
 And its myriad-freighted atoms 
 Buried lie beneath the sands. 
 
 Buried deep in ribbed thick darkness 
 
 Of the hideous chasm rent 
 By the force of the explosion 
 
 Of its hot breath, prison pent. 
 
 But still onward, on new sleepers, 
 
 Of an a^o-reo-ate sublime, 
 Other trains rush on for ever, 
 
 To the terminus of Time. 
 
 Knowledge triumphs for a season, 
 While her steeds obey the hand 
 
 Of the strong in inspiration, 
 Of the mighty in command. 
 
THE TORN LEAF. 81 
 
 For at best the boldest driver 
 From his seat in dust is hurled, 
 
 On arriving at the turn-off 
 Of the railroad of the world. 
 
 Still to these, her favoured children, 
 Nature will her stores reveal, 
 
 Now and then bv coruscations 
 Smitten from her flint and steel. 
 
 And to these the task is given 
 To explore the sunken shaft, 
 
 Fell the forest, light the beacon, 
 Plant the prairie, build the raft. 
 
 And from these in strength undaunted. 
 
 Does the pilot ever stand, 
 In his boat upon the waters, 
 
 With the soundings in his hand ; 
 
 While their pioneers who traverse 
 Zembla"s night or Indus 1 clime, 
 
 Drop the mattock and the shovel 
 In the ghauts and steps of time, 
 
 G 
 
82 THE TORN LEAF. 
 
 For succeeding; generations 
 To point out with eager hand, 
 
 As the ship-wrecked, nearly hopeless, 
 To the foot-prints in the sand. 
 
 Thus the noblest, truest, wisest, 
 Leave their landmark for a sign 
 
 Of the path their feet have trodden 
 In the terrible incline ; 
 
 While the millions toiling after 
 
 In a famine-stricken mass, 
 Pluck their manna in the desert, 
 
 Speak their angel in the pass ; 
 
 Or if cast upon the waters, 
 Find a footing on the planks 
 
 Which are drifted down the river 
 From the creeks within the banks ; 
 
 Where the hammers of the wheelwrights, 
 Or the click click of the mills 
 
 Point to human habitations, 
 And the force of human wills. 
 
THE TORN LEAF. 83 
 
 But there are who rashly crowding 
 Sink the rafts on which they trend. 
 
 And a generation passes, 
 And another age is dead. 
 
 But each stage and tide of being 
 With the limits of its run, 
 
 Is set down upon the scroll leaf 
 Of the tables of the sun . 
 
 All is order, no confusion, 
 And each cycle as it turns, 
 
 Still describes an area broader, 
 With a brighter glory burns ; 
 
 Till their theories of atoms 
 
 Be resolved and weighed by God. 
 
 Till the first Great Cause triumphant 
 Strike the balance with His rod. 
 
 Thus creating, lost, absorbing, 
 Or absorbed, shall all things roll 
 
 Into one great summer solstice, 
 Thrown across from pole to pole. 
 
 G 2 
 
OTHER POEMS. 
 
THE DREAM-GIRL. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 A maiden in her pride, 
 
 The dark locks from her Parian brow- 
 Flowed free as ocean's tide. 
 
 As summer floated round her form, 
 
 Came from the pearly gate, 
 Within the rosy arch of flowers, 
 
 The voice of bonnie Kate. 
 
 It sang of love and ladies' wiles, 
 
 She smiled an arch conceit; 
 She thought that knights and barons bold 
 
 Were kneeling at her feet ; 
 
 But turning with an air demure 
 
 And look of mock disdain, 
 She placed her fairy foot upon 
 
 A couchante lion's mane ; 
 
88 THE DREAM-GIRL. 
 
 But ever as her fingers wove 
 
 For him the silken yoke, 
 The monarch stirred, the meshes brake, 
 
 The lovely maiden woke. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 A lady in her prime, 
 She was too beautiful for earth 
 
 To meddle with, or time ; 
 
 And ever where her dark eve turned, 
 Her white and wondrous hand 
 
 Did wondrous things, which well beseemed 
 The ladv of the land. 
 
 Or as she walked in stateliness, 
 
 Her blaze of beauty bright 
 Was photographed in all she saw, 
 In floods of rosy light. 
 
 And still — her lion at her feet, 
 
 Her knights and barons bold 
 Her colours in the tournay wore, 
 
 As in the days of old ; 
 
THE DREAM-GIRL. 89 
 
 But even as her Parian brow, 
 
 The pride of conquest spoke, 
 The needle dropping from her hand 
 
 The lovely lady woke. 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 Alack, and woe the day, 
 That ever aught so beautiful 
 
 On earth should pass away ! 
 
 For sitting at her task whilom, 
 
 The lovely tissues seemed 
 To grow confused beneath her hand 
 
 As though she had but dreamed — 
 
 Alas the while ! her lion died — 
 
 And knight and baron bold, 
 Beneath their banner in the field, 
 
 Of azure and of gold. 
 
 The all she loved, the dream itself, 
 
 The glories she had spun, 
 All died, and then the beautiful, 
 
 The angels wooed and won. 
 
90 THE DREAM-GIRL. 
 
 And as the web of varied dye 
 And magic loom they broke, 
 
 'Mid cherubim and seraphim 
 The lovely dreamer woke. 
 
CASTLE-BUILDING. 91 
 
 CASTLE-BUILDING. 
 
 A pile of gorgeous, sunset hue 
 
 He reared — and o'er it rolled the cars 
 Of wondrous night — and Dian drew, 
 
 Of melody, the golden bars, 
 
 Across the earth, the lyre of stars ; 
 And costly gems and rubies, cast 
 
 With lavish hand, encrust the walls, 
 The coruscations of the past, 
 
 Which trembling through the perfumed halls. 
 
 The dream of Araby recalls. 
 As music rose and swept along 
 
 The lyre, the voice heard long ago 
 Did fill the measure of sweet song, 
 
 Which ever floated sad and low 
 
 The stately mansion to and fro ; 
 And while within the curtained shrine, 
 
 In floods and bars of light, was thrown 
 An atmosphere almost divine, 
 
 Within the inner chamber shone 
 
 The lustre of another zone. 
 
92 CASTLE-BUILDING. 
 
 But rude hands rent the vail in twain, 
 
 And rushing in, a motley crew 
 Profaned the sacred, golden fane, 
 
 And as the orgies louder grew, 
 
 The footstep of the past withdrew. 
 And festive rites beneath the moon 
 
 Were held, and like to concords sweet, 
 The pipe and tabor played in tune, 
 
 And round and round the jewelled feet 
 
 Of dancing girls the marbles beat ; 
 . The wines of Cyprus sparkled bright, 
 
 The red Falernian vied with art — 
 Through purpling halls a-blaze with light — 
 
 But from the holy of the heart, 
 
 The cherubim and sword depart. 
 Meantime within, with loaded dice, 
 
 Two players sat in stern debate 
 Of all this mighty cost — the price 
 
 Lay heaped upon the board, and late 
 
 They played, and played — the man and Fate. 
 
 Lost, lost ! the hoarded wealth of years, 
 And hurrying where the charmer calls, 
 
 The gilded pageant disappears — 
 And black Egyptian horror falls 
 Throughout the decorated halls. 
 
CASTLE-BUILDING. 93 
 
 The chambers and the rooms of state, 
 
 ") 
 
 Which memory's Gobelins arras Jined, 
 
 Close to, and shut 5 and as on Fate 
 He fiercely turns with passion blind, 
 Time locks them one by one behind. 
 
 Still Dian and her cloud-set stars 
 Intoned from high the latest note, 
 
 Which trembled through the perfumed bars, 
 Of melodies which dying float 
 Around the disenchanted moat. 
 
 And last they crushed the lyre, and he 
 Despairing cried, and evermore 
 
 Was seen to grasp a broken key, 
 And listen as in times of yore, 
 But voice or step heard never more. 
 
94 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 The garden of the roses once, 
 
 I trode a-wearied saying, 
 I hear a voice of angels near, 
 
 Or else of girls a-playing. 
 
 And pushing with my arm the screen 
 
 Of foliage summer-laden, 
 And peeping through I there espied 
 
 A vision bright of Haiden. 
 
 The fountains plashed, the parterres bloomed, 
 The birds sang sweet and lowly ; 
 
 I was a-wearied and I said, 
 God sain and keep it holy ! 
 
 But not for all of flowers I saw, 
 
 And not from ban of Hades, 
 Nor for the song of summer birds, 
 
 But for the love of ladies ; 
 
THE FAREWELL. 95 
 
 Their white arms interlaced and twined, 
 Their lips like rose-buds tangled, 
 
 And feet enamelling the dews 
 Till all the beds were spangled. 
 
 The peachy blushes of their cheeks, 
 
 Exhaled in rosy bowers, 
 Were gathered up by Nature's hand 
 
 And broad cast o'er the flowers. 
 
 Their songs when heard at eventide 
 
 Beside the sapphire waters, 
 Were stored in shells and coral caves 
 
 By ocean's fairest daughters. 
 
 The redness of their ripened lips, 
 
 Inhaled by summer posies, 
 Was rifled by the honey-bee, 
 
 Incarnadine of roses. 
 
 Their lids of lilies when they closed 
 O'er eyes of violet seeming, 
 
 Were likened to the flowers in rest. 
 The beautiful when dreaming. 
 
96 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 And through enchanted realms of sleep, 
 
 The bevies of the fairies 
 Made musical with humniincr birds 
 
 The sunlight of its prairies. 
 
 May oases for ever bloom, 
 Still sweet the desert making, 
 
 And fair spots evermore embrace 
 And kiss their feet in waking. 
 
 No more — the bard has disappeared, 
 He passed and left no token ; 
 
 The reed is hushed, the harp is mute, 
 The diapason broken. 
 
 And never more at starry eve 
 Will murmur of the billow, 
 
 Nor music of the shells be heard 
 Around his lonely pillow. 
 
 No more the lute of many strings, 
 Where love^ Elysian shade is, 
 
 Will vibrate to the touch or tone, 
 The hand or voice of ladies ; 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 0' 
 
 But silent ever more, untouched, 
 Save by the sighs of roses, 
 
 Or lotus-breath of girls at play, 
 The harp of love reposes. 
 
 H 
 
F. Shoberl, Printer, 51, Rupert Street, Haymarket, W. 
 
50, Conduit Street, Hanover Square. 
 
 May, 1859. 
 
 Messrs. SAUNDERS, OTLEY, & Co.'s 
 LIST of NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 dftctton. 
 
 The Dean ; or the Popular Preacher. 
 
 By Berkeley Aikin, Author of ' Anne Sherwood.' Post 8vo, 31s. 6d. 
 
 Constitutional Press. — " For this book we predict no ephemeral reputation ; 
 all classes will read it. The stamp of genius is on it; but it trenches on 
 delicate ground, and will infallibly arouse the zealous hostility of rebuked 
 hypocrisy." 
 'Spectator. — " Mr. Aikin holds a powerful pen." 
 
 Morning Chronicle.—"' The Dean' will establish Mr. Aikin's reputation. 
 It far surpasses 'Anne Sherwood' in thought, manner, and stjle, and will 
 render good service to a good cause." 
 
 Review. — " This is one of the most interesting novels we have read. In 
 its comic parts it reminds us of the best writings of Mrs. Trollope and 
 Theodore Hook." 
 
 John Bull — "The sketches are truthfully and powerfully drawn. There is 
 no want of the passionate energy of style that distinguished ' Anne Sher- 
 wood.' " 
 
 Chances and Changes. 
 
 By the Author of ' My First Grief.' Post 8vo, 10s. Gd. 
 
 ConfefTions of a Too-Generous 
 
 YOUNG LADY. Crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 Harriette Browne's School Days, 
 
 Post 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
2 MESSRS. SAUNDERS, OTLEY, & CO.'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Paul Ferroll, 
 
 By the Author of ' IX Poems by V.' Fourth Edition. Post 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 Morning Post. — "'Paul Ferroll ' is a most strikingly original production. 
 It may be regarded as a phenomenon in literature — a book that must be 
 read, and cannot be forgotten." 
 
 Economist. — " It is one of the most singular and striking works we have 
 ever read." 
 
 New Quarterly. — " We have seldom read so wonderful a romance. We can 
 find no fault with it as a work of art. It leaves us in admiration, almost in 
 awe, of the powers of its author." 
 
 Year after Year, 
 
 By the Author of ' Paul Ferroll ' Third Edition. Post 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 Examiner — " We have in this work no faint illustration of the genius of 
 the author of ' Paul Ferroll.' The story is told with skill, the situations are 
 all well conceived, and pointed with the subtle touches which come only 
 from the pen of the true artist." 
 
 Critic. — "The interest is admirably sustained, and the writing is very 
 powerful. It is decidedly a work of genius." 
 
 John Bull — '* Theie is a spell upon the reader from first to last." 
 
 Recollections 
 
 OF A MAIDEN AUNT. Post 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 Yefterday ; or, Mabel's Story, 
 
 Post. 8vo, 10s. 6d. 
 
 fBtSccttatu ous'. 
 
 The Private Journal 
 
 OF THE' MARQUESS OF HASTINGS, Governor-General and Com- 
 mander-in-Chief in India. 
 
 Edited by his Daughter, Sophia, the Marchioness of Bute. Second 
 Edition, 2 vols, post 8vo, with Map and Index. 
 
 Times. — " We offer our thanks to Ltdy Bute for consenting to the publica- 
 tion of this work. To be duly appreciated, it should be read in the spirit of 
 the dedication. From a situation as difficult as it was splendid, holding the 
 double office of Governor-General and Commander-in-Chief, and tranquil! is- 
 iug India by great reforms, it is delightful to see the gallant old soldier and 
 statesman here detailing the strange sights and sounds of an unknown land 
 for the future information of his dear children." 
 
DUNLEY HOUSE SCHOOL. 
 
 MISS WALKER 
 
 Begs to announce her intention of opening the above school at 
 Easter next, when she will be prepared to receive a limited num- 
 ber of pupils on the terms mentioned below. 
 
 The house, which is within three miles of the town of Stour- 
 port, is large and commodious, pleasantly and healthfully situated 
 within its own grounds, and replete with every accommodation. 
 
 The object of Miss Walker will be to impart a sound, practical, 
 and useful English education, combined with careful moral and 
 religious training, to such children and 'young ladies as maybe 
 committed to her charge. 
 
 TERMS. 
 
 For Board and General Tuition, comprising English Grammar 
 and composition, History and Geography, Writing, Reading, and 
 Arithmetic, together with plain and ornamental Needlework. 
 
 PER QUARTER. 
 
 
 
 Boarders . • 
 
 <£5 
 
 
 
 Under twelve . 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 Weekly Boarders 
 
 4 10 
 
 
 
 Under twelve . 
 
 3 70 
 
 
 
 Daily Boarders . 
 
 2 10 
 
 
 
 Under twelve . 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 Daily Pupils 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 Under twelve 
 
 13 
 
 
 
 Boys under twelve years of age admitted. 
 
 French, Drawing, Dancing, Music, and Singing, taught by 
 Masters, at the House, on the usual terms. 
 
 Bills to be paid quarterly, and a quarter's notice will be required 
 before the removal of a pupil. - 
 
 Laundress, 12s. per quarter. 
 
 It is requested that each pupil be provided with a pair of sheets, 
 
 four towels, tea spoon, desert spoon, and fork, which 
 
 will be returned on the pupil leaving the school. 
 
 Referee (by permission) The Rev. John Parsons Hastings, MA.. 
 
 F.P.S.C , Rector of Areley Kings and Chaplain to 
 
 the Bishop of Llandaff. 
 
■: : 
 
' 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 .. j.