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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 •*■■,;.■/■'■ ' 
 
 
 
 ^: 
 
 ^
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 SYDNEY WHITING, 
 
 AUTHOR OF •' HELIOXDE ; OB, ADVENTUKBS IN THE SUN;" " THE ROMANCE 
 
 OF A OAnRET," &c. 
 
 ' I never liste presume to Parnasso Hill; 
 But, pypiug low in shade of lowly grove, 
 I play to please myselfe, all be it ill." 
 
 The Shepherd's Calendar. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY N. TRUBNER AND CO., 
 8 AND 60, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1873.
 
 ?R 
 
 "11 /TOST of the following poems have, to some 
 extent, passed through an ordeal ; that is, they 
 have found acceptance at various times by the editors 
 of leading periodicals. Others are now published 
 for the first time, and the entire collection has been 
 revised, in the hope — though a very faint one — 
 of extending the circle of my readers in a depart- 
 ment of literature wherein the labour of production 
 is one of entire and absorbing love. The temerity of 
 terming the collection " Poems," I feel may bring 
 condign punishment ; but as poetry consists of many 
 degrees, and as I ask for only a place on the lowest 
 plinths of the Fane, it is just possible I may be per- 
 mitted so humble a position. The drama of " A 
 Summer's Tale of Venice," it is scarcely necessary 
 
 ;^-r>,.f or-
 
 VI 
 
 to observe, was not written with a view to represen- 
 tation, and its slight plot was intended merely as a 
 medium for a poetic dress. The poems on mytho- 
 logical subjects, were published several years ago, 
 and received at the time of tlieir appearance so many 
 kindly expressions from the press, that they are now 
 included in this unpretending anthology. 
 
 s. w. 
 
 Temple, 1873.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 —   — 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Sibyl's Glass 1 
 
 Cora 14 
 
 Resurg.am 2S 
 
 The Origin of the Snontorop 36 
 
 The Birth of Venus 43 
 
 The Sheik's Feast 52 
 
 Burns' Centenary 58 
 
 Burns' Centenary 04 
 
 Fairy Bells 69 
 
 Three Phases 74 
 
 LO\'E AND PrLDE go 
 
 Love's Astronomy 04 
 
 The Fate of Action 9G 
 
 Columbine May-Day ^ . .107
 
 Till CONTKNTS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 Soxc OF Bacchus 109 
 
 PoT-Poi'KRi li:} 
 
 CiiiJiSTMAS Bells 12i- 
 
 16 AND Echo 129 
 
 Delay 133 
 
 Twilight . . • 135 
 
 The Snowdrop 137 
 
 To Ilia 139 
 
 Iphigenia 141 
 
 May-Dav UC) 
 
 Spring-Tijie to the Flowers 152 
 
 Sabbath Day at Sea 155 
 
 Doubts and Fears 157 
 
 Address 159 
 
 The Carrion Crow 102 
 
 A I'lUil'HECV 101. 
 
 A Summer's Tale of Venice 109
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE SIBYL'S GLASS. 
 
 [The following is an attempt to sketch, in a concentrated poetical 
 form, the supposed progress of Creation, as suggested by the details 
 of the physical sciences.] 
 
 I. 
 
 IP any think that life is worth, 
 With all its myst'ry, but a thought, 
 Oh, scan the records of the earth, 
 
 Then ask if life, indeed, be nought. 
 Yes — turn at once to Science' light, 
 
 'Twill shadow forth the early time. 
 When o'er the realms of endless night. 
 
 There brooded first the thought sublime. 
 Intensest fires 'midst fearful jar. 
 
 For zEons bluster'd madly on ;
 
 I'OEMS. 
 
 Wliilc roaring waters joined the war, 
 But Form arose from chaos soon. 
 Yes, there had pass'd a mighty word, 
 Primeval harmony was heard. 
 
 II. 
 The Sibyl's glass shows earth a fire 
 
 Slow cooling down to scoria) rude ; 
 The while its raging flames retire 
 
 To burn in centi-al solitude. 
 But giant Force, a rebel still. 
 
 Amorphous masses flings on high ; 
 The whirlpool and tornado fill 
 
 With terror ocean and the sky. 
 Volcanoes belch beneath the sea, 
 
 And mountains leap and first behold 
 The sun in his sublimity. 
 
 And seeing — find their summits gold ! 
 Then forth the mighty mandate sped 
 The germ of life abroad was spi'ead. 
 
 III. 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 
 The sun from forth his vast domain 
 Doth send the Light, liis messenger, 
 
 Witli warinlh ninl I'olouv in licr ii'ain;
 
 THE sibyl's glass. 
 
 The beams, through liquid fields of blue, 
 
 Bid all the earth with radiance glow. 
 And bathe it in the burnished hue 
 
 We saw on mountain tops but now. 
 How strangely gi*and ! — the worlds afar 
 
 Are linked to earth by golden ray, 
 And every planet, every star, 
 
 Are but a part of unity. 
 Yes, star with star, and sun with sun, 
 Hold a divine communion ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 
 The scene is chang'd, and deep repose 
 Is brooding on the sleeping sphere. 
 
 And lulls to rest its mighty throes ; 
 Then harmonies akin to love 
 
 Are loosened from their home divine, 
 And over all creation move 
 
 To chasten, elevate, refine. 
 And yet the wondrous, peaceful scene 
 
 Is pi'elude to more wondrous birth ; 
 For Life at length is ushered in. 
 
 Its awful spirit moves on earth. 
 Yes, there had pass'd a mighty word, 
 And mystci-y to its depths was stirr'd. 
 
 ij 2
 
 I'OKMS. 
 
 V. 
 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 
 Thougli earth with teeming life be bless Vl, 
 The simpler works alone are here, 
 
 But being perfect, prompt the rest.* 
 Cycles roll, and as they fall 
 
 Merely points of ages die, 
 For what are Cycles, ages, all, 
 
 When reckon'd by eternity ! 
 Cycles roll, and as they fade, 
 
 The work sublime becomes more fair ; 
 And earth in beauties fresh array'd, 
 
 Beholds that LovE is everywhere. 
 Yes, there had pass'd a nn"ghty sound, 
 
 And love and beauty breathed around. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 Creations new rise one by one ; 
 
 Now gaudy insects paint the air. 
 The children of Ihc golden sun. 
 
 And birds array'd in gorgeous dress, 
 Like notes of music fly along —
 
 THE SIBTL's glass. 5 
 
 A music taught by happiness, 
 
 For joy intense breaks forth in song. 
 Their counterparts^ the flow'rets bloom 
 
 With wings, and voice, and plumage too. 
 Their petal wings, their voice perfume. 
 
 Their plumage caught from rainbow-hue. 
 For there had pass'd another spell, 
 Weaving the gentler forces well. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 
 Another age hath been a dream ; 
 And higher types of life appear, 
 
 Perfecting still creation's scheme. 
 While ever as an epoch bright 
 
 Doth culminate above the rest. 
 Another phase more exquisite 
 
 Is born from that, but now the best. 
 The attribute of God-like thought 
 
 Is ever to increase its own, 
 When to a seeming limit brought 
 
 It bears afresh a mightier one.' 
 And each doth take eternal place, 
 Like ever beaming stars in space !
 
 rOEMS. 
 VIII, 
 
 But turn again, the glass is clear : 
 
 The ■world is bathed in love and light; 
 And light and love with joy prepare 
 
 For earth another sacred rite. 
 Awaiting this, it rests awhile, 
 
 And viewing all its rich excess, 
 Its inward heart gives forth a smile. 
 
 The glow of its own loveliness. 
 And as that smile — the brightest one 
 
 Since first commenced creation's plan — 
 Illumes the world — the work is done, 
 
 It ushers in the spirit Man ! 
 The teeming earth makes festival, 
 And yields to man its beauties all. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And what is man ? How dimly flit 
 
 The shadows which would fain reply ; 
 With all his lore he must admit 
 
 Himself the greatest mystery. 
 He must allow his brief cai*eer 
 
 Is but a skein in Nature's loom, 
 He cannot think he dwclleth here 
 
 To limit marvels yet to come ;
 
 THE SIBYL S GLASS. 
 
 He cannot comprehend the love 
 
 Which breathes throughout the magic spell 
 The simplest form of life doth prove 
 
 To him, profoundest miracle. 
 Art thou the link of higher mould 
 The womb of time will yet unfold ? 
 
 X. 
 
 But tui'n again, the glass is bright : 
 
 Whate'er the problem dark may be ; 
 Above, around, there shines a light 
 
 To bid him onward hopefully — 
 A light whose beams about him fall 
 
 As closely as the folding air, 
 For they are Nature's wonders all 
 
 He views around him everywhere. 
 And Science tells him nothing dies : 
 
 The smallest leaf from Autumn's spray, 
 Though seeming dead, yet fructifies 
 
 To other shapes from out decay. 
 Then sure it were a strange belief 
 To rank the soul beneath the leaf! 
 
 XI. 
 
 And what the soul ? Ah, once again 
 Dim shadows crowd the clear reply.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And e'en the Sibyl seeks in vain 
 
 To answer, save by simile : 
 " A matchless diamond set in lead 
 
 The soul is, in its earthy zone, 
 With rays of light for ever fed : 
 
 Its setting crumbles, and is gone. 
 The diamond, too, in depths of earth 
 
 Deep hidden by its fellow-clay. 
 Is, \\hile obscured, of little worth. 
 
 But priceless in the beams of day 
 So, fur the soul such rays of light, 
 From heaven above, are requisite." 
 
 XII. 
 iJut turn again, the mirror scan : 
 
 Again the Sibyl's art we test. 
 When we demand— uf gifts to man 
 
 Which for himself is noblest — best ? 
 The shining oracle replies 
 
 That " TuuTH* is noblest, most divine ; 
 For truth it is which simplifies 
 
 And aids the progress of design. 
 Man scarcely thinks one falsity 
 
 By lip or word makes Nature grieve.
 
 THE SIBYL S GLASS. 
 
 And stays her course to rectify ; 
 
 One tlircad untrue she cannot weave 
 The warp and woof, divinely fair, 
 Reject all spot and blemish there." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And what is Nature ? — how began. 
 
 What is the cause, and where the source ? 
 Doth He vouchsafe no sign to man, 
 
 Nor leave a tracklight of his course ? 
 Oh, yes ! as roaming through the mead. 
 
 We scatter dew-drops on our Avay, 
 So worlds spring at th' Eternal's tread, 
 
 And light the blue immensity. 
 Systems arise, like diadems. 
 
 Crowning space with wreaths of fire ; 
 And suns with belts of starry gems 
 
 Take their eternal station higher. 
 But where the source, and what the cause ? 
 Ah ! here the mind must shrinking pause. 
 
 XIV. 
 For mind doth bend beneath the thought 
 Which grapples the idea uf space ;
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 Wlieu intellect is highest wrouglit, 
 
 A little speck it can but trace. 
 The image of eternity 
 
 We cannot pass before the mind ; 
 When million .^ous picture we, 
 
 The same are left before — behind. 
 In manner like, the human soul, 
 
 Filled and glowing with its God, 
 Knows but a fraction of the whole, 
 
 An unit of infinitude. 
 Ah ! wondrous fact — the stars we view 
 Are formed as e'en the drop of dew.* 
 
 XV. 
 
 Turn once again : the shadows pass 
 
 Within the mirror, and we see 
 New forms of light, which make the glass 
 
 Dazzling with rcfulgency. 
 Love — the maiden — smileth there. 
 
 Bidding man be not afraid, 
 For Intellect is chaining Fear, 
 
 While Truth is lending him hia aid. 
 Dogma strives to set Fkab free, 
 
 And Cant is doing all his best
 
 THE sibyl's glass. 11 
 
 To imitate true Piety, 
 
 And roam abroad as she is dressed. 
 But Knowledge rends tlie false pretence, 
 As Cant is yoked to Ignorance. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And Science, too, whose massive brow 
 
 Betokens tliouglit and daring will, 
 Has made with Art a holy vow, 
 
 To range the world to conquer ill. 
 'Tis Science makes the earth a Fane,* 
 
 And life itself a lengthened prayer ; 
 The grandest sun, the smallest grain. 
 
 In miracles, true light appear. 
 The maxima and minima 
 
 Of wonders keen-eyed Science knows, 
 Searching near, yet glancing far, 
 
 A gi'ain dissects, a planet shows ; 
 While dainty Art with palette near, 
 Copies all most good and fair. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then Hope perennial springs afresh, 
 
 Though often under Sceptic's sway ;
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 " Tlie age we live in" bursts the racsli, 
 
 And endeth her captivity. 
 Bright Intellect on highest throne, 
 
 Whose histre Pride essavs to dim, 
 Calls Knowledge forth, his dearest son, 
 
 And weds the blushing maid to him. 
 Thus Hope and Knowledge, wedded now. 
 
 Their destiny to best fulfil, 
 Join Art and Science, in tlieir vow, 
 
 To range the world, and conquer ill. 
 The shadows deepen — now are past. 
 But Hope was one which lingered last. 
 
 ' " Tlic botanist discovers tbe constancy of the gyratory motion of 
 the chara in the greater number of vegetable cells, and recognises iu 
 tlie genera and nitnral families of plants the intimate relations of 
 organic life." — Kosinos, 
 
 ' Many, no doubt, have marked the beautiful similitude between 
 different species of flowers and the smaller tribe of birds. Some of the 
 creeping plants seem to put forth their little leafy wings, while certainly 
 they make progress with them ! In like manner, the perfume of a 
 flower (its voice) touches us by association, as the song of a bird. The 
 flowers, loo, close their petals at night, and may be said poetically to 
 roost ; while in colours the likeness is striking, eH]>ecially in the Indian 
 Archipelago. The I'hyllium Siccifolium so closely resembles a leaf, 
 that, without a minute examination, it is impossible to distinguish it 
 from one ; and towards autumn its wings become brown and withered ! 
 
 ' Nature, as a celebrated physiologist has define<i it, and as the word 
 was interpreted by the Greeks and Komans, is, " that wliich is ever 
 growing and ever unfolding itself in new forms." — IIlmboi-dt.
 
 THE sibyl's glass. 1?> 
 
 * " In primus, hominis est propria Vkri inquisitio atrjue investi^atio. 
 Itaqae cum sumus negotiis necessariis, curisque vacui, turn aveuniB 
 aliquid videre, audire, ac dicere, cognitionemque rerum, aut occultarun), 
 aut admirabilium, ad bene beateque vivendum necessariam ducimus ; 
 ex quo intelligitur quod verum, simplex, sincerumque sit, id esse 
 naturae hominis aptissimum. Huic veri videndi cupiditati adjun('t:i 
 est appetitio qujedam principatus, ut nemini pacere animus henb a 
 naturS, informatus velit, nisi pra'cipienti, aut docenti, aut utilitatis 
 causa juste et legitime imperanti : ex quo animi magnitudo existit, et 
 humanarum rerum contentio." — Cicero, De Officiii, lib. i., § 13, quoted 
 by William Herschel. 
 
 * Mr. Tyndal says it is an old remark that the law which moulds a 
 tear also rounds a planet. 
 
 * " If one train of thinking be more desirable than another, it is 
 that which regards the phenomena of nature with a constant reference 
 to a supreme, intelligent author. To have made this the ruling, the 
 habitual sentiment of our minds, is to have laid the foundation of 
 everything religious. The world henceforth becomes a temple, and life 
 itself one continued act of adoration." — Palkt's Natural Theology.
 
 11 POKMS. 
 
 CORA: 
 a ILegcnD of ©omcrgetpfjirc. 
 
 THE Sun has sunk, but o'er each red-capp'il hill 
 His parting radiance fondly lingers still, 
 'Till twilight follows on the steps of day, 
 And softly steals the golden tints away. 
 Strange forms of clouds along the western sky 
 Like isles of green and lakes of crimson lie, 
 Which fading in the throbs of lessening light, 
 Die like a fairy vision out of sight. 
 Then all is hush'd, while Nature seeks repose, 
 And o'er her face a veil of shadow throws ; 
 While night arrayed in grief for daylight gone, "\ 
 Comes with her breath of perfume gently on, 
 And st.ars drop in their places one by one. ) 
 
 But soon still brighter rays illume the wood, 
 And bathe its fuliage in a silver flood ;
 
 CORA. 1 
 
 For throned in silence cloth the summer moon 
 
 Rule earth, and sky, and this sweet night of Juno. 
 
 Now is the time when sprites and spirits roam. 
 
 Or cautious peep from out each secret home ; 
 
 Spirits who weave from moonlight's filmy beams 
 
 Fantastic thoughts, and strange uncertain dreams. 
 
 And which in frolic mood they've power to fling 
 
 O'er mortal worlds, while worlds are slumbering. 
 
 And fairies too are busy in the glade, 
 
 For unnamed beauties by their spells are made, 
 
 And flowers of magic tints by fairy might 
 
 Are formed from out the soft uncertain light, 
 
 While blossoms bloom through whose thin petals shine 
 
 The dews of night like fresh distilled wine. 
 
 But all must vanish when the wak'ning day 
 
 Bids every fay and mystic work away. 
 
 The ground within this dell is softly moss'd, 
 
 And fairy rings are on the sward emboss'd ; 
 
 Trees, in their freshest dress, surround the glade. 
 
 And cast by contrast almost ebon shade. 
 
 The myrtle and the laurel interpose 
 
 Their dark-green foliage 'midst the briar-rose. 
 
 The digitalis and the heather-bell 
 
 Live here, the fairy's favourites of the dell,
 
 ir. POEMS. 
 
 For in tlioir leafy eii])s they sloop by day, 
 xVnd in the nigbt amidst t.lioii- petals play. 
 The woodbines twine their sweet caressing arms 
 Around each aged stem, and thus give charms 
 To that which else wei*e desolate and bare ; 
 The humbler woi-ks of Nature thus declare 
 That youth and beauty to the old should cling, 
 And round the aged stem love's fragrance fling. 
 
 Upon the borders of this lovely wood 
 
 A lonely, low-roof'd nestling cottage stood ; 
 
 But simple though the structure, it was drest 
 
 By vine and eglantine in sweetest vest. 
 
 And at thi.s time its lattices all gleam 
 
 Like trellisod mirrors in the silver beam. 
 
 The inmates seem at rest, no human sound 
 
 Disturbs the stillness of the scene ai'ound. 
 
 But there is one within that humble cot. 
 
 Who, though the night wears on, yet sleepeth not 
 
 Intensely docs she gaze upon the sky. 
 
 As though the glance coiild pierce its mystery. 
 
 And who shall say, when thus the human heart, 
 
 Beating with rapture, which its thoughts impart, 
 
 And loft alone with beauties that control, 
 
 And bear still fairer visions to tin; soul —
 
 CORA. 17 
 
 Who shall then say our fancies may not bring^ 
 Back to the heart some truth upon their wing ? 
 Who shall then say, wc may not feel th.e bliss 
 And beauties of a better world than this ? 
 And this sweet maiden, at such lovely hour, 
 May she not feel the mystic soul-born power ? 
 She gazes on the liquid azure dome. 
 Forgetting all — the scene, the hour, her home : 
 Hears not her own heart beating, so intense 
 The spirit's thoughts which bear her visions hence. 
 Alas ! such blissful moments soon are past ; 
 The stretch of mind is too intense to last ; 
 And when within the heart such fancies dwell, 
 A sigh or simpler cause will break the spell : 
 Would that the mind could better bear the strain, 
 And bid the dreams return to Heaven acrain. 
 
 'Twas thus tlie maiden gazed, and thus a sigh 
 Heaved her soft bosom, then the moonlit sky 
 Fell as a veil before the lovely scene 
 Of angel'd Heaven, where all her thoughts had been ; 
 That quiv'ring breath dissolved the blissful dream. 
 And all things round are simply as they seem ; 
 Tlie night is lovely, and the soft light shed. 
 But that bright vision of her heart is fled.
 
 18 POEMS. 
 
 Yet at her open casement still she gazed ; 
 
 Her deep blue eyes were still to Heaven upraised. 
 
 For, though her dream of imaged scenes was past, 
 
 Yet still to Heaven her lustrous eyes were cast. 
 
 Her pale soft cheek upon her hand was laid ; 
 
 Amidst her tresses loose the night air strayed ; 
 
 A darkness in the lustre of her eye 
 
 Gave to its glance the soul's intensity ; 
 
 The brightest eyes do oft this beauty wear 
 
 When thought lies in them like a shadow there. 
 
 And who thus communes with her heart alone ? 
 
 From whose soft eyelids has repose thus flown ? 
 
 Who may it be, thus like a guardian sprite, 
 
 Keeps watch upon the beauties of the niglit ? 
 
 Who, as the soft beams fall, seems not of earth, 
 
 But to the trembling light must owe her birth ? 
 
 No sprite — but Cora 'tis ; a rustic maid, 
 
 And yet so fragile that she well might fade 
 
 To shadcless form, and in her own loved grove. 
 
 On airy wing 'midst kindred spirits move. 
 
 The spot neglected, save b}' Nature's care. 
 
 Still brings furlh flowers; and though not bright nor rare 
 
 As nurtured ones, yet, left to Natni-c's liaiid, 
 
 As sweetly smile and scent their own loved land ; 
 
 Anil til the breezes give as sweet perfume 
 
 As those lii'iglit petals which mi-c f'niccd to Monin.
 
 CORA. 19 
 
 And thus was Cora's mind — IS'ature its eruide. 
 
 Its monitress, and Cora deified 
 
 The sweet instructress, and, as flow'rets wild, 
 
 So Cora was completely Nature's child. 
 
 And Cora knew no passion of the heart. 
 
 Love, it is true, was of hei-self a part ; 
 
 Indeed it was her fault — if fault it be — 
 
 To love all objects with intensity ; 
 
 But love — what men call love — she ne'er had known ; 
 
 Her heart, which could have worshipp'd, was her own. 
 
 Almost alone she dwelt ; her thoughtful mind 
 
 "Would in the grove's retreat most pleasure find ; 
 
 But still she gladly join'd the village scene. 
 
 When May-day gave the villagers their queen ; 
 
 They chose a nut-brown, merry, laughing maid, 
 
 How unlike Cora ! yet 'twas she array'd 
 
 The rustic queen, and all the May- day band. 
 
 Owed what of grace they had to Cora's hand. 
 
 Her one companion in this lone retreat 
 Was old indeed, yet was his life made sweet 
 By Cora's tenderness. A time-worn man, 
 Whose feeble form betoken'd that the span 
 Of his exhausted life was dwindling fast, 
 And though still living, life seem'd well-nigh past. 
 
 c2
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 But lie was Cora's fiithcr, and licr axvc 
 
 Awhile kept death away, though hov'ring near. 
 
 "With him alone she lived, him she adored, 
 
 On him alone her heart's best love she pour'd. 
 
 But even now, at this most ti-anquil hour, 
 
 Wliose loveliness would scare an evil power, 
 
 When night's soft breath is far too pure and light 
 
 To bear upon ethereal wave a sprite 
 
 That could attaint its breath — a form was here 
 
 That well might every elfin spirit scare 
 
 To flowery bells, or to their form of air, 
 
 That they the dreary shadowy guest might fly ; 
 
 But he had come on wing so stealthily 
 
 That beauteous night smiled ever sweetly still, 
 
 And Coi-a gazed unconscious of an ill : — 
 
 And while she thus was fann'd by night's soft breath, 
 
 And all was lovely — could she dream of death ? 
 
 And yet with Cora, in this peaceful cot. 
 
 The spii'it was — but Cora knew it not. 
 
 A short while since her father she had seen, 
 
 In calm repose, his features so sei-ene. 
 
 She dieni'd lie .sh'pt. Poor child! She little knew. 
 
 Although she mark'd his features' pallid hue. 
 
 That death had ('(inntoiTcited sleep so well; 
 
 Bui thought tlic iiKiiiiilinJii, whicli then softly fell,
 
 CORA. 
 
 Had paled his cheek ; and so she gently cast 
 A curtain o'er the lattice — 'twas the last 
 Sweet act of love ; and trembling did she tread, 
 In fear her gentle step might wake — the dead ! — 
 
 Thus while she gazed, and all was bright as day, 
 
 The life of him so dear had pass'd away ; 
 
 While from her bosom rose a quiv'ring sigh : 
 
 Yet she was happy, and she knew not why 
 
 The trembling breath she drew. — A glistening tear. 
 
 From out her heart's own joy, would oft appear, 
 
 And dim the lustre of her deep fringed eye ; 
 
 And thus the maiden all unconsciously 
 
 A tribute to her parent's spirit paid 
 
 With signs of grief, but not in gnef array 'd ! 
 
 But now her casement she has left. — At length, 
 
 Fatigued -with watching, does her mental strength 
 
 Succumb to weariness ? Does downy sleep, 
 
 Light with his drowsy wing, and gently steep 
 
 Her waning senses in some bright-hued dream ? 
 
 It must be so ; for, see, the moon- rays stream 
 
 No more upon her form : the night air sighs, 
 
 As disappointed, to her lattice flies 
 
 And finds the sweet breath'' gone, which it had sought 
 
 To prove to flow' rets that their scent was nought, 
 
 21
 
 22 I'OKM?. 
 
 Ami bid them emulate in vain. But see ! 
 
 The cottage door is opcu'd silently, 
 
 But for the shade it might some spirit be. 
 
 And Cora 'tis, who comes the night to bless, 
 
 To add fresh beauty to its loveliness. 
 
 'Twere almost sin to* say she could repose 
 
 ■\Vliile ev'ry beauty of the night still thro-\vs 
 
 Their magic charm around. They bid her come, 
 
 A lovely wanderer from her moon-lit home. 
 
 One glance she casts upon the chamber, where 
 
 She deem'd her father slept — no thought of fear 
 
 Or ill foreboding eross'd the lovely maid : — 
 
 It would be strange were purity afraid ! 
 
 No loneliness she feels, but only knows 
 
 That which she seeks in rich profusion grows 
 
 Upon the greenwood sward ; and only views 
 
 What well she loves, the moon's soft silvery hues. 
 
 Dancing amidst the foliage of the groves ; 
 
 And thus of fear unconscious onward moves, 
 
 And nears the glen — the same — the mystic one 
 
 I named before, then tenanted alone 
 
 By elfish sprites. But now tlie balmy air 
 
 In tuneful motion bids her enter there. 
 
 Her fate is cast, and ev'ry step she takes. 
 
 Sweet sounds of wrlcomr fi-om the stillness wakes;
 
 CORA. 
 
 23 
 
 And though she treads upon the briary way, 
 
 No crisping sound ensues — soft as a ray 
 
 Her footstep fixlls, nor does the ground indent, 
 
 And eact impending stem or brancli is bent 
 
 Ere she can reach the green entanglement. 
 
 But Cora, still unconscious, onward treads, 
 
 Amidst the violets' and the blue-bells' beds, 
 
 Nor sees them raise again their scented heads 
 
 As though her step was air's light kiss. She stoops, 
 
 Mayhap to pluck some pale-eyed flower that droops, 
 
 With fragrance and with ghst'ning pendent dews. 
 
 Which magnify while they reflect its hues ; 
 
 JSIayhap for this sweet theft she short while stays, 
 
 And then moves onward through the tangled ways, 
 
 Which, though it opes its sylvan arms to make 
 
 A pathway else conceal'd — the mystic brake 
 
 Resumes its tangled form behind the maid, 
 
 And thus she nears the magic fairy glade. 
 
 Within this dell a difierent atmosphere 
 Is breath'd by Spirits of the moon-lit air ; 
 Now they are seen, and then anon they fade, 
 And all seems motionless within the glade ; 
 And then anon the rays the outline take 
 Of mortal form, which suddenly will break
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 Til dancing light again, and all around 
 
 Swells liarmony, till gradually the sound 
 
 Subsides to merely moving of the trees, 
 
 And plaintive whisperings of the scented breeze. 
 
 The tiny forms of fairy beings play, 
 
 And liang in clusters on each quivering ray : 
 
 Or float upon some perfume passing by, 
 
 Witb folded pinions resting lazily. 
 
 Anon within the cavern of a bud 
 
 Some elfish band will sink in listless mood ; 
 
 And closing up the curtains of the flower 
 
 Remain embosora'd for an idle hour. 
 
 Then others pluck the moss from off its bed 
 
 And piling it around the rose's head 
 
 In pillow 'd rest, find to their great content 
 
 The moss enamonr'd of tlie luscious scent 
 
 And contact sweet, remains for ever there. 
 
 And makes the rose, a " moss rose," ever fair. 
 
 But ah ! what means that change ? The elves ajipear 
 
 As though transfix'd upon the blossoms here : 
 
 They are not frighted, for they do not fly. 
 
 Or hide themselves in petal cups — but lio 
 
 Upon Ihe fragile leaves, as though in fear 
 
 Again to flutter on the stagnant air, 
 
 While all witliin the dell appear to wait 
 
 Some strange cvenf, and grow inanimate. —
 
 CORA. 25 
 
 And see ! amidst the briglitness falls a shade, 
 Some mortal wanders to the fairy glade ! 
 Who yet must purer be, than mortals are. 
 Or like that sudden quenching of the star 
 That's lost from Heaven in the abyss of air, 
 Would ev'ry elf and spirit disappear. 
 But, though 'tis Cora's shadow dims the spot. 
 Yet the immortal forms are frighted not. 
 With sweet bewilderment the air she feels 
 Press'd round her form, and o'er her senses steals 
 Oblivion of the past ; but, as it fades, 
 In lieu a mystic sense her mind pervades ; 
 What erst appear'd but common to her view, 
 ITow wears a diff'rent shape, a stranger hue. 
 She sees the dews of night are bubbling springs, 
 Where fairies tired with gambols lave their wings. 
 She knows that colour in each tender flower, 
 And perfume, too, are born of the same power 
 That maketh worlds, and creatures of the hour ; 
 She views the sap arise in magic force. 
 Imparting life and beauty in its course ; 
 She comprehends that e'en the smallest bud 
 Is cared for by the same solicitude 
 Bestow'd by N'ature on the vast and grand. 
 AH this and more doth Cora understand. 
 For intuition subtle and refined
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 Imparts a strange perception to her mind. 
 TJie "wliile tlie light becomes incorporate, 
 And mixes with her form, ■while odours wait 
 To claim their share of welcome and delight, 
 And as she grows to merely outline light, 
 No more on Cora's form the air can press. 
 But air meets air and mingles in caress. 
 Then is the scene all animate again : 
 No form that loves the night now dare remain 
 Ensconced in cradling flowers — no spirit rest, 
 While all are with a kindred spirit bless'd. 
 Nor do they Avish — the music of each wing 
 Makes glad the air, the joyful fluttering 
 Bids ev'ry odour choicest incense pour, 
 Each floral chalice gives its richest store ; 
 The dew-drops glisten more intensely bi'ight. 
 Foil CoKA IS A Spirit of the Night. 
 
 E'en to this day the cottage may be seen. 
 
 But almost hidden from the passer's view ; 
 For Time has robed it in a garb of green : 
 
 Now climbs the ivy, where the roses grew. 
 And peasants speak of how the old man died. 
 
 And liow tliat night his only child was lost ; 
 And that in grief tlicy sought her near and wide ; 
 
 But vain the search, and vain tlie tears it coat.
 
 CORA. 
 
 They tell the tale with reverential fear, 
 
 That though the cot remains unoccupied, 
 Soft sounds at even-time still hover near ; 
 
 And, though the stranger will the tale deride. 
 Yet some avow they recognise the sound — 
 
 The same sweet melancholy sound they say. 
 That once had call'd the village band around, 
 To deck the maidens with the buds of May. 
 Strange stories have they all, and each one tells 
 
 The tale with fresh tradition of his own ; 
 13 ut all agree that ofttimes eerie bells 
 
 Send forth a musical, yet plaintive tone ; 
 More softly than if peal'd by village hands. 
 
 More sweetly than their notes e'er spoke before. 
 And then the home-returning peasant stands, 
 
 "With wond'ring silence till the sounds be o'er. 
 But, whatsoe'er the truth, the place is dear 
 To all who know the legend of tlie spot ; 
 And e'en the poorest rustic will forbear 
 
 To break the charm, to occupy the cot : 
 He will not even touch a tree or flower, 
 
 And so in wildness climb the creeping bands ; 
 And thus the cottage, to this very hour, 
 A loved memorial of tradition stands.
 
 28 roEMs. 
 
 KESURGAM. 
 
 IN a part of the City, where day by day, 
 The stream of humanity flows its way, 
 Leaving its waifs and strays behind 
 To people the courts and the alleys blind, 
 To people those hidden and horrible spots 
 WTiere the scum of rascality seethes and rots- 
 A pauper family rented a room, 
 If reeking walls, and filth, anil gloom. 
 And broken windows deserve the name. 
 Their daily life was a shifting game, 
 A game like fever, with changing fits ; 
 Food to-day by their vagabond wits. 
 Starvation next for a time, and tlien 
 By theft or begging a meal again.
 
 EESURGAM. '21 » 
 
 The mother, for lack of food and air, 
 Was a shadow of hungry, weak despair ; 
 The father worse, was a maudlin sot, 
 Who dribbled in rags o'er pipe and pot ; 
 And his children, ah ! what a horrible crew ! 
 None worse to be found in a Houndsditch stew ; 
 And they lived together some eight or ten, 
 If life be life in a festering den. 
 
 The youngest child might have done his best 
 To walk in the footsteps of all the rest, 
 Might perhaps have follow'd the family trade, 
 And tried his hand at an innocent raid 
 On the books of a stall : or, likelier still, 
 Have stolen the pence from a rag-shop till ; 
 But this, and more, in his case were denied, 
 For the boy was half-witted and lame beside. 
 Stunted from birth, with rickety limbs, 
 Twisted and turned by Nature's whims, 
 He scarcely could hobble from side to side 
 Of the room where his brethren swore and lied, 
 And saving once in a month or so. 
 When he craved for food and received a blow, 
 His sister, in gewgaws, and tawdry lace, 
 Had left in her nature the womanly grace
 
 30 POEMS. 
 
 To snatch him up with a sort of rough care, 
 And carry him forth into purer air. 
 
 But the horrible place was a world to him ; 
 
 And the light that cuter'd uncertain and dim, 
 
 Was comfoi-t and warmth; for he never had known 
 
 A sky unclouded, a sun that shone 
 
 With all its splendour of golden might. 
 
 And often he watch'd with a deep delight, 
 
 The motes of dust in the struggling ray : 
 
 For what could he do all the weary day, 
 
 IJut make the commonest objects round 
 
 His study, and care, and thought profound. 
 
 And the broken panes, and squares with none ; 
 And the rotten sash-lines hanging down ; 
 And the rent in the rafters, showing the beams 
 Where the mortar had split in cmcks and scams ; 
 And the scrap of sacking which forra'd his bed. 
 And the mouldy shaving that plllow'd his head, 
 And the gusts of wind that st-artlcd liis sleep, 
 Were each and all of significance deep. 
 For each and all to his limited sense. 
 Wore matters of study and thought infonso.
 
 RE^RGAM. 31 
 
 From night till morning-, one by one, 
 
 His brothers return'd when their work was done ; 
 
 Return'd to quarrel, and fight, and swear, 
 
 And haggle, each over his lawful share 
 
 Of stolen goods, or Charity's gifts 
 
 They managed to get by their rascally shifts. 
 
 While sodden with beer, or drunk with gin, 
 
 Mother and father came reeling in. 
 
 Till sleep which visits e'en vilest spots, 
 
 Descended alike on thieves and sots. 
 
 So the cripple was often left all alone. 
 
 To munch his crust and to gnaw his bone. 
 
 For once or twice they had taken him out 
 
 To pity excite, by limping about ; 
 
 But he acted so badly the mendicant part, 
 
 He never could touch Compassion's weak heart. 
 
 And as they well knew that his end was nigh, 
 
 They left him to rot in the family sty. 
 
 But as Nature is ever in contrasts rife. 
 It happen'd this child with his blighted life 
 Was at times nigh happy ; and over his face 
 Would flicker at times a shadow of grace,
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 A look for a moment, as mucli as to say, 
 "Who knows but there cometh a happier tlay ; 
 And a smile that was almost sweet would fly 
 Over his features to fade and die. 
 But brief, indeed, were these fits of joy, 
 In the hopeless life of the desolate boy ; 
 For cuffs and blows, and brotherly ways, 
 Of making deformity end its days. 
 Would soon succeed in hastening death, 
 Who was ready in waiting with foetid breath ; 
 For they hated the cripple's appealing face. 
 And they wanted his mat and his sleeping place ; 
 And as h(^ could neither beg, borrow, nor steal, 
 They gnidged him tlic leavings they call'd a meal. 
 
 One wearisome day, it so fell out. 
 
 That hunting for scraps, and groping about, 
 
 Like a hog for acorns, the faniisli'd lad found 
 
 A dirty root on the dirtier ground. 
 
 In a jeering mood they said it was sweet, 
 
 And good for a starving boy to eat; 
 
 JJut knowing their ways, he refused to try. 
 
 And carelessly cast it ns worthless by. 
 
 Cast it inside of an old broken pot. 
 
 Where it lay awhile with some earth forgot.
 
 RESURGAM. 33 
 
 But lo ! each week as the ci'ipple grew 
 
 Paler and weaker, came struggling through 
 
 The buried root, a small offshoot green, 
 
 "With a promise of blossom its leaves between ; 
 
 And this in amazement deep he saw, 
 
 For what should he know of the marvellous law, 
 
 That bids from meanest of seeds up spring. 
 
 Leaf, and flowers, and scents that fling 
 
 A wealth of odours on earth and air. 
 
 And daintily jiaints the rich parterre. 
 
 Ah ! how, indeed, should he dream or know. 
 
 Of ought save his life of want and woe. 
 
 But the root he had tended day by day. 
 
 Burst forth at length in a delicate spray. 
 
 Bud, and flower, and perfume, too, 
 
 Came from that bulb of a russet hue. 
 
 Its scent to him was a dream of Heaven, 
 
 Its touch as the lips by a spirit given ; — 
 
 The only kiss that the child had known ; 
 
 And when that the pale-tinted buds were blown 
 
 In bells of beauty, he often would creep 
 
 In the early morn from his fever'd sleep, 
 
 And gaze at his love in the strusrjrlina: lisrht. 
 
 With the sense of a new and a strange delight,
 
 Aiul the ilawii of a somctliiiig uiulcfineil, 
 Like sweet clew fell on his cliildisli mind. 
 
 As figui-es reflected iu ill-made glass 
 
 So dreams o'er his poor -weak liraiti would pass ; 
 
 And once in a vision lie tliouglifc he lay 
 
 Like the Avorthless bulb he had cast away, 
 
 Like the one in the rickety window nigli, 
 
 Which had grown to flower, though left to die. 
 
 And a feeling of life both sweet and new 
 
 Through ev'ry fibrous artery flew ; 
 
 While bud, and flower, and perfume rose 
 
 Like phantoms of form in that strange repose. 
 
 And he fancied the perfume had voice and said, 
 
 " I'm the soul of the thing that thou thought'st was 
 
 dead!" 
 And then he awoke to his life of pain, 
 And long'd for liis sleep and that dream again. 
 
 One night when his bi-otlurs came one by one, 
 
 Tliey found the life that they hated gone. 
 
 'Twas only a tatterdemalion dead, 
 
 A body of bones on a mouldy bed. 
 
 Ihit a hyacinth's jicials in perfumed rest, 
 
 Jiiiy on the mcMdieant's nuked breast;
 
 RESUEGAM, 35 
 
 And his skeleton hand the flower had crush'd 
 Into incense sweet for his pauper dust. 
 
 And thus, oh, reader ! my tale is done, 
 It innij have a moral — I offer none. 
 
 d2
 
 36 POEMS. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 I. 
 
 A DOWN the leaden sky, 
 The drifting snow-flakes fall ; 
 And o'er the ground they lie 
 
 A soft and velvet pall. 
 A symbol of the grief 
 
 That shivering Nature feels, 
 When ice on stem and leaf. 
 
 Her every tear congeals : 
 Yes, on the earth so light. 
 
 They form a velvet shroud ; 
 'Tis strange that flakes so white, 
 
 Should come from blackest cloud ! 
 Floating, drifting, soft descending 
 From their sources up on high ; 
 Falling, floating, never ending. 
 In tlie dull iind snllcn sky.
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP. 37 
 
 II. 
 
 The languid sun with slanting beam 
 
 Illumed a snowdrift fair, 
 And with his pale and wintry gleam 
 
 Formed silver crystals there. 
 But when the stealthy evening came 
 
 And bathed the western sky 
 With indigo and lurid flame 
 
 It bade the sunlight die. 
 Then like a lovely robe of far 
 
 The snow lay far and wide, 
 A robe of whitest miniver 
 
 Cast o'er the earth, its bride. 
 A mantle for the slumbering night, 
 
 And though itself so cold. 
 It warms with its protecting might, 
 
 All things within its fold. 
 It shelters embryo life in seeds 
 
 That in the spring shall rise, 
 In painted flow'rets o'er the meads, 
 
 With bright and loving eyes. 
 Those roots that hide and hibernate 
 
 Within their frozen home, 
 It covers up, and bids them wait 
 
 Till summer days shall come.
 
 38 I'OKMS. 
 
 Floating, drifting, never ending, 
 
 In tlic dark and sullen sky. 
 Falling, floating, soft descending 
 
 On the earth so tranquilly. 
 
 III. 
 Then spoke small voices sweet 
 
 From crypt beneath the ground 
 Where busy pigmies meet 
 
 To babble lore profound. 
 " Oh, Nature, hoar oar prayer, 
 
 The pi'ayer of spi'itcs who love, 
 The spotless diift so fair. 
 
 Born in the heavens above. 
 We are not elves who dwell 
 
 In perfumed cups of flowers. 
 When summer lights the dell. 
 
 And gilds the laughing hoars. 
 AVe care not for the days, 
 
 That di'ess in vesture green, 
 For wc are winter fays 
 
 Who love the frozen scene. 
 We live in icy homes 
 
 Wlicre bulbs and fibres grow ;
 
 THE OlUtilN UF THE SNOWDROP. ^9 
 
 Yes, we arc Aviuter gnomes, 
 The genii of the snow. 
 So Nature hear our prayer. 
 
 The prayer of sprites who love. 
 The spotless drift so fair 
 
 Born in the heavens above." 
 Floating, drifting, never ending, 
 
 In the dark and sullen sky ; 
 Falling, floating, soft descending. 
 On the earth so tranquilly. 
 To this replied a voice, in whisper low : 
 'Tvvas like the murmuring where waters flow, 
 " Speak, fairies, speak, and mine the task shall be, 
 To grant the boon you seek, all willingly." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Thanks, Nature, thanks, we ask of thee 
 
 Memento of our darling snow, 
 Before that dreadful time shall be — 
 
 And come it must we know — 
 When that the glowing days shall bring 
 
 Vertumnus and the sun. 
 To change the drift to gurgling spring, 
 
 And bid its waters run :
 
 40 POEMS. 
 
 We ask some token e'er the dress 
 
 Beloved by every fay, 
 That cherish'd us in loneliness, 
 
 Be rudely torn away. 
 For we must wait the circling year 
 
 Before it comes again. 
 So bounteous Nature hear our prayer, 
 And ei*e the frozen rain 
 Shall vanish quite, and winter go, 
 leave some record of the snow. " 
 Floating, drifting, soft descending. 
 
 From its sources up on high ; 
 Falling, floating, strangely blending 
 With the dull and leaden sky. 
 They ceased ; then once again there fell 
 A voice which like a perfume fill'd the dell. 
 So mystic in its tones, it floated round 
 As gently as the snow, in flakes of sound. 
 Yet clear as Nature's whispers ever fall 
 For those who love her : clear as madi-ijral 
 From reedy flutes where breezes lightly play, 
 And from the pipes evoke strange harmony. 
 For those who love her, fragments of a tone, 
 Or scent, or sigh, have meaning of tlieii- own.
 
 THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP. 41 
 
 Thus came, in trembling notes, her answer sweet. 
 Which I, in feeblest verse, must fain repeat. 
 
 Y. 
 
 " Oh, ftiiries of the frozen earth, 
 
 Who know the secrets of my power, 
 Who watch, and aid the magic birth 
 
 Of root to tree ; of seed to flower. 
 I grant your prayer and freely give 
 
 A relic of the winter time : 
 Within this very dell shall live 
 
 A lovely child of snow and rime. 
 Before the sun shall warmer grow. 
 
 And bid the drowsy Undines leap ; 
 Before the rivers dancing go 
 
 That late were ice in tranquil sleep : 
 Within this fairy dell shall rise 
 
 A snowdrop from the frozen rain. 
 And pale with maidenly surprise 
 
 At gift of life, shall pale remain. 
 No colour that can change or fade 
 
 Shall she assume, but like a nun 
 With hood of pearly petals made, 
 
 She'll 'scape the rude and garish sun.
 
 42 PUKMS. 
 
 Aniitlst lier maiden leaves so green, 
 
 She'll sit, and bend lier head to hear 
 The words which call her winter's queen 
 
 From knightly crocus growing near. 
 Sir Yellow Crocus, gay and bold, 
 
 Would win her for his lovely bride 
 Dress'd in his panoply of gold, 
 
 With spears of sharp leaves by his side. 
 But soon the sunny days will shine 
 
 And ice be changed to rippling water. 
 So make, oh elves, the snowdrop thine. 
 
 And love her as adopted daughter : 
 And wipe the tear-drops from her eyes. 
 
 And tell her this sweet hope is given. 
 That though her mother melts and flies 
 
 She'll come again in flakes from Heaven !" 
 Floating, drifting, soft descending 
 Fi'om their sources up on high ; 
 And their whiteness strangely blending 
 With the dull and leaden sky.
 
 THE BIRTH OF VENUS. 
 
 43 
 
 THE BIRTH OF VENUS. 
 
 PAPHOS. 
 
 FAIR land of beauty, lovely Cyprus, hail ! 
 From fortli thy Altars perfume fills the gale, 
 And on thy peaceful bosom Paphos lies, 
 Her glossy sea reflecting cloudless skies, 
 So liquid both, they mingle into one, 
 In limpid azui'e gilded by the sun. 
 The rolling ocean here has calm'd his roar, 
 And scarcely ripples on the Paphian shore. 
 Anou a restless wavelet rears its crest, 
 Despite the waters' almost perfect rest, 
 Ambitious for a frothy crown, and then 
 Sinks into sleep, and all is calm again. 
 
 Seek 'midst the choicest beauties of the earth 
 A fairer spot fur an immortal birth ;
 
 44- POEMS. 
 
 And vain the search : — not e'en th' Hesperides, 
 
 With nectar streams, and golden- fruited trees ; 
 
 Not all the Isles in the -^gean sea, 
 
 With all their wealth of floral luxury, 
 
 Can boast so exquisite a clime as this. 
 
 Where Nature scarcely breathes from sense of bliss. 
 
 The lotus opes her lovely ivory dress, 
 
 Whose fragrance faints at its own lusciousness, 
 
 And rhododendrons, and azaleas sweet 
 
 On knolls and mossy undulations meet, 
 
 While nightingales awaking in dismay 
 
 At their neglect of the dissolving day. 
 
 Throw almost passion in their wondrous song, 
 
 Now throbbing quick, now tremulously long. 
 
 Here Flora lives, her iris-coloured train. 
 
 In clustering beauties scatter'd to the main ; 
 
 The blossoms of the citron waft around, 
 
 Delicious perfume as they strew the ground ; 
 
 And crimson buds of wild pomegranate gleam 
 
 Like sunset broken in a rippling stream. 
 
 Close to the water's edge the myrtle gi-ows 
 
 In sweet contentment with the Cyprian rose, 
 
 Whose colour like the lining of a shell, 
 
 Accords with the approaching miracle.
 
 THE BIRTH OF VENUS. 45 
 
 Ripe luscious fruit of every sort and dye 
 In clusters hang, or on the soft banks lie. 
 And purple grapes give forth their juices rare 
 Press'd by the kisses of the vpandering air. 
 Light feathery trees with grace in every bend, 
 Through twining branches airs ^oHan send. 
 And perfumes as of gum from stems arise 
 In sweet and aromatic sacrifice. 
 In circling flights the pale-eyed amorous dove, 
 Sinks to the grove, her peaceful home of love. 
 The bold lycostomos in sportive play, 
 Gilds with his fin the momentary spray ; 
 And but for this the ocean gently flows, 
 Calm in the beauty of its deep repose. 
 But not long thus ; all imperceptibly 
 Commotion strange has risen o'er the sea, 
 And half-appearing forms with azure wing 
 Are o'er the water's bosom hoveriner ; 
 From forth the snowy and the frothing surge 
 The whiter necks of Nereids emergre. 
 Who holding converse with the magic train, 
 Dive with a message, then return again. 
 The fleeting moments in their noiseless flight 
 The shadows lengthen, but a mystic light
 
 4G POEMS. 
 
 Falls o'oi' the Rcono; unlike the morning ray, 
 
 Which with its rosy smile bids night away ; 
 
 Uulike the splendour of the molten sun, 
 
 Which turns to gold all that he shines upon ; 
 
 Unlike the hour it is of eventide 
 
 When hush'd by phantom beauties winds subside ; 
 
 Unlike the liour of sweet Phoonician night, 
 
 So strangely beautiful the new-born light. 
 
 The water-nymphs on harps of sea-weed play 
 
 Soft Lydian airs, wliich as they fade away 
 
 In caves and grottoes. Echo gives again 
 
 In sounds of rippling music o'er the main. 
 
 The lusty Tritons in their caves below 
 
 Send the glad waters with melodious flow; 
 
 And forms irst indistinct now plain appear 
 
 Emerjiing strange on all sides from the aii*; 
 
 And their fresh wreaths by loving Flora lent, 
 
 rrov(> tlirm tlie Zephyrs on some mission sent. 
 
 Ami llins it is, from out th' expectant sea 
 
 Thoy boar a form which all I'cluctantly 
 
 Tlio jealous waters yield, and on it press 
 
 Tlicir wavelets' kisses as a last caress.
 
 THE r.IRTIT OF VRNUS. 47 
 
 ANADYOMENE. 
 
 Sweetly bewilder'd, as from startled sleep, 
 
 Fair Aphrodite rises from the deep ; 
 
 Half shrinking as she feels the joyous air 
 
 Fan her soft limbs to di-y the waters there. 
 
 One hand she passes 'cross her lovely brow, 
 
 O'er which in wat'ry folds her tresses flow, 
 
 And on licr shoulder, magically fair, 
 
 Gathers the dripping clusters of her hair. 
 
 But still she blushes, and the watei-s still 
 
 Are loath their destined mission to fulfil. 
 
 While she herself, half Goddess and half foam, 
 
 Appears relapsing to her liquid home. 
 
 But waiting zephyrs their light arras entwine. 
 
 And bear their lovely burden o'er the brine — 
 
 They bear her to the spot I named before. 
 
 The loveliest on the lovely Cyprian shore. 
 
 With varied gifts the Seasons meet her now ; 
 
 Persuasion binds a cliaplet on her brow, 
 
 And nymphs called Pleasure with soft clasped hands, 
 
 In circles foot it o'er the silver sands ; 
 
 While young Desire in coming, yet hath gone, 
 
 She tonch'd tlio Goddess, and thev grew as one !
 
 48 I'OEMS. 
 
 THE APOTHEOSIS. 
 
 The gods from out Olympus' lieights liad seen 
 
 The Paphian waves yield forth the Paphian Queen ; 
 
 They mark'd her borne upon the lovely land, 
 
 They saw her limbs to rosy colour fann'd. 
 
 And now they view the "West winds gently rise, 
 
 And bear her fresh-born beauties on the skies. 
 
 And though immortal, this they wond'ring see, 
 
 For e'en immortals read not destiny. 
 
 Beauty doth elevate the human soul, 
 
 And bends man's nature to its soft control ; 
 
 Its magic influence will often gain 
 
 What strength of mind or arms could ne'er obtain. 
 
 The heart refined adores from sympathy, 
 
 The vulgar are subdued, they know not why ; 
 
 And Beauty's powers to deities extend, 
 
 Immortnl Gods beneath the influence bend. 
 
 What marvel then that all the heavenly host 
 
 Is wrapt in silence and in wonder lost. 
 
 When onward, upward, still the zephyrs bear 
 
 Their charge amidst the gods, and leave her there ? 
 
 She, new-born Beauty, with a timid mien. 
 
 And yet all joyfully, beholds the scene ;
 
 THE BIltTH OK VENUS. 49 
 
 Smiles tlii'ough lier blushes flit — as sun-vays shed 
 Their quivering light upon the roses' bed ; 
 All, all Olympus pauses in delight, 
 Stricken, enchanted, ravish'd at the sight ! 
 But now Apollo, from his sapphire throne, 
 ^\ ith silver bow, and sunny- tinted zone. 
 Advances from the rest. He, lustrous God, 
 The purport of this coming understood ; 
 For power to him by Jupiter was given 
 To read futurity in earth and heaven : 
 And thence the God his graceful figure bends, 
 His harmony-producing hand he tends ; 
 A smile calls all the heavenly choir around, 
 All bid a welcome, while melodious sound 
 Of voices from immortals sweeps the sky, 
 In praises of the bright nativity. 
 Some flow'rets bring, of soft celestial hue, 
 With amai'anths the gold-edged clouds they stx'cw ; 
 Some fan her with ambrosia- scented wing ; 
 Some o'er her rosy limbs ambrosia fling ; 
 Others attend with soft, officious care, 
 A.nd twine the tresses of her auburn hair. 
 A fleecy garment o'er her f(jrm is laid. 
 The texture frcm the fmest clouds is made. 
 
 E
 
 50 POKMS. 
 
 Tlie warlike !Nfars, more eager than the rest, 
 Enfolds her cliarms within the envied vest ; 
 And oh -what ecstasy ! liis martial cliest 
 Against her glowing form is gently press'd. 
 Not half so fatal wounds from his own dart 
 As those that pressure made upon his heart. 
 Apollo as the sun, illumes the day, 
 Apollo's harp drives clouds of care away. 
 The heavenly minstrel can with rapture move. 
 In sternest moments, e'en immortal Jove. 
 Then strike thy lyre, Apollo, strike thy lyre, 
 And as thy rays illume the heavens with fire. 
 So pour a flood of music through the sky, 
 And wake the phorminx with thy minstrelsy ! 
 Stern and secluded, 'midst a cloudy zone, 
 Removed to farthest heights, Jove sits alone. 
 Sublimest thoughts athwart his mighty soul 
 Bind past and future in their vast control ; 
 Immutable decrees from forth his mind 
 Pass to the earth, to bless or curse maidcind ; 
 Upon the fate of future worlds he dwells, 
 Wlion on the air that sound of music swells. 
 Then doth liis aspect glow with joy serene ; 
 Abstraction viinishes, for l>(>Miity'tt Queen 

 
 THE BIRTH OF VENUS. 51 
 
 Awaits him 'midst th' expectant gods below ; 
 
 And smiling as the strains continuous flow, 
 
 He joins the heavenly throng ; refulgence now 
 
 In place of mighty thought upon his brow. 
 
 Here let me draw a veil — no mortal's pen 
 
 Could paint the scene Olympus witness'd then. 
 
 Description failing, Fancy tries the strain ; 
 
 Invention aids her, but he aids in vain ; 
 
 So let me then the sequel hurry on, — 
 
 Nor with Icarian wing approach the sun. 
 
 And brief it is. The Gods their arms entwine, 
 
 Round Cypria centre of that band divine : 
 
 A priceless pearl within an ivory zone, 
 
 They bear her to the foot of Jove's bright throne ; 
 
 Hebe approaches, with the nectar-bowl, 
 
 Jove breathes within it an immortal soul ; 
 
 The rim he places near her williug lips. 
 
 Unconscious of the gift, she sweetly sips. 
 
 And then — oh, joy ! — gives back the brightest smile : 
 
 It was her first, and lit the air awhile : 
 
 Rejoice, ye skies — rejoice, thou vaulted Heaven, 
 
 For life to Love and Beauty has been given. 
 
 E 'J
 
 rjo POEMS. 
 
 THE SHEIK'S FEAST.^ 
 
 AN OLD TALE NY 1 T U A NEW E N D I N H. 
 
 I. 
 
 HASSAN BEN HASSAN lived as lie could, 
 Foi- 1)001' though prond Avas lie ; 
 His fare -A-as scant, his nppetite good, 
 Uulortuiiatc unity. 
 
 Nor wife nor wives Imd tin's sapient mnn, 
 But only his Bedouin kin ; 
 
 And he bclong'd to as bi*ave a clan 
 As ever thrust spear point in. 
 
 III. 
 And " Selim " his horse was dear to him, 
 
 Dearer than all beside ; 
 Selim as lovely as damsel slim, 
 
 \\';i-, niiivc tliiin a wil'r or bride.
 
 THE sheik's feast. 53 
 
 IV. 
 
 They said he came from a royal race, 
 
 In Solomon's stables bred -^ 
 And they judged it so by his wondrous pace, 
 
 And his nostrils quite blood red. 
 
 V. 
 His chest was deep, and his fetlocks thin, 
 
 As ankle of Syrian belle ; 
 His veins stood out from his glossy skin 
 
 As his soft flanks rose and fell. 
 
 vr. 
 He "whinnied with joy when Hassan said, 
 
 " Selim, thou'rt all to me !" 
 And often he pillow'd bis master's head 
 
 When they slept in the desert fi'ee. 
 
 vii. 
 Hassan Ben Hassan's humble tent 
 
 Was all astir to-day ; 
 For Akel the Sheik, on business bent, 
 
 Was coming Ben Hassan's way.
 
 POEMS. 
 VIII. 
 
 And savoury smells arose, I ween, 
 Of kabob and other fare ; 
 
 And a cook as swart as Yemen's' bean 
 Was hired for the visit rare. 
 
 IX. 
 
 For the powerful Sheik he loved pillau, 
 And juice of the Kishmee* vine ; 
 And he eat the more when he covertly saw 
 
 Ben Hassan forbore to dine. 
 
 X. 
 
 And the powerful Sheik he loved ragout, 
 
 And sherbet with violets in ;^ 
 And he knew where the red pomegranate grew 
 
 By a glance at its russet skin. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yes, Akel he relish'd the rich pillau, 
 
 And a flask of furbiddcu wine ; 
 But lie soothed his conscience when breaking tlie law 
 
 By pnviiig liivnsclf a fiiic.
 
 THE sheik's feast. 55 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet never was chief more hearty and true, 
 And his speech was bluff and gay ; 
 
 And as he'd just eaten and drank for two, 
 He was doubly pleasant to-day. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Ben Hassan," he said, " 'tis a long while since 
 I've had such a princely feed ; 
 
 But mine host himself is, in truth, a prince. 
 By Allah ! he is indeed. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " But ere I go his love I must task ;" 
 Says Hassan with deep salaam, 
 
 " Consider it done, whatever you ask, 
 For your humblest slave I am." 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Ben Hassan," he said, with a sort of a-h-e-m, 
 
 " This boon I ask of thee ; 
 Give Seliin to me as the crowning gem 
 
 Of your hospitality."
 
 5<> I'OKMS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ben Hnssan by turns grew -wliite and red : 
 " Great chief, jour pardon pi-aj, 
 
 " I wonld joyful!}^ give my horse," he said, 
 " But you've eaten him up to-day." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " No, no," cried Akel the Sheik, " tliou'rt wroiio-, 
 'Twas kid, and sheep, and doer, 
 
 Tliiit liave kept me here in vour tent so lou^. 
 And furuish'd our dainty fare. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " By cliance I heard — it matters not wlien, 
 How thy hirder stood with thee; 
 
 And Has.<;an, I kiunv, most loyal of men, 
 
 The feast thou wouldst serve for me. 
 
 xi\. 
 '■ Sn I secretly sent some meats to your i-ook, 
 
 And iiii order (u Sclim sjiare ; 
 And if onlside of your tent you look, 
 
 V(.ii will see your beloved one (liere.
 
 THE SHEIK S FEAST. 
 XX. 
 
 His bit and liis stirrups you'll find are gold, 
 
 Inadequate gift from, me ; 
 And my daughter is yours — if not too old," 
 
 And lie chuckled with cynical glee. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Farewell, Ben Hassan, too long I have stayed, 
 
 But this I have yet to say ; 
 "When next such a savoury feast is laid, 
 
 Don't starve as you did to-day." 
 
 XXII. 
 Ben Hassan with joy could scarcely move. 
 
 But he heard the well-known neigh ; 
 And he cast his arms round the neck of his love, 
 
 And wept, as the bravest may. 
 
 57 
 
 ' According to the Arabian chronicles, the ballad ouy;ht to end at 
 verse 16; but the hippophagy leaves an unpleasant flavour (morally) 
 hence the addition of the stanzas. 
 
 ^ The horses are called by the Arabs Kochlani, and thej' are said to 
 derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds. — NiEiiiiiK. 
 
 ^ Yemen is the province where the jMocha coifee grows. 
 
 * Kishmee, an island in the Persian Gulf, famous for its white wine. 
 
 ^ The sherbet the Arabs most esteem is made of violets and sugar. — 
 IjiHh lioo/ch.
 
 58 )'OEMS. 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS' 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 January 25tu, 1866. 
 
 [The two followiiif; pnems on Hums were sent in «•* competing 
 poems for a ])ri7,e oU'ercil by tlie Crystal Palace l)iri'Ct(irs, ami were 
 specially inciitioned, together witli some thirty others, tiy the ii'ljudi- 
 cators, and as the competing poems amounted to six hundred ami 
 twenty-one, they may possiMy lay claim to a place amongst the yiresent 
 collection. Tiie one in hlank verse has heen puhlished in a volume of 
 the selected competing poems: and the other appearel in the column.t 
 of " Dnce a Week," slightly altered from the original.] 
 
 SWIFTLY tlie stealthy siiuds have run 
 Since Scotia bore her poet son ; 
 When bursting forth with frantic power 
 A tempest rose to mark the hour : 
 Tlie clouds were chased athwart the moon, 
 The waves were lash'd on foaming Doon : 
 The very house was rudely torn 
 Wherein the inliinl hard was born.^
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS' hlRTHBAV. 50 
 
 'Twas more than strange that awful fray, 
 
 Which burst on Ayr so suddenly : 
 
 As if the spirits who preside 
 
 O'er birth-time, fought for right to guide 
 
 The future of the child of song, 
 
 And waged the combat fierce and strong : 
 
 But shrieking on the gloomy night, 
 
 The storm was conquer'd in its might. 
 
 'Twas winter then, but soon the hours 
 
 The summer brought with perfumed flowers : 
 
 A summer more than passing fair, 
 
 It hung a garland in the year ; 
 
 It wove a coronal to greet 
 
 The infant poet, slumbering sweet : 
 
 The gude-folk said they never knew 
 
 The earth, so fair, the sky so blue. 
 
 The merle whistled on the bouffh. 
 The mavis warbled soft and low. 
 And both in joy pour'd forth the tale ; 
 Their luscious cadence fill'd the vale. 
 The bending reeds as breezes past 
 Glad murmurs o'er the river cast, — 
 The river which, in after time. 
 Was note of music in his rhyme."
 
 OO POKMS. 
 
 The digitalis in the dells 
 
 Peal'd forth upon its tiny bells 
 
 A chime which shook the dewy showers 
 
 That clins: with love to woodland flowers. 
 
 The Avater lilies in the stream 
 
 Oped all their cups to morning's beam, 
 
 And drinking in the sunny rays, 
 
 They pledged the poet, and his days. 
 
 The lav'rock, like a speck on high, 
 His music scatter'd through the sky ; 
 The lintwhitc in the woodlands sang. 
 The squirrel in tliL' liiiic-trees sprang; 
 Tlie cushat coo'd within the grove 
 A ritornella to her love ; 
 The gowdspinks piped their roundelays, 
 And pledged the poet, and his days. 
 
 Again the winged hours had flown, 
 
 Another bud of time had blown ; 
 
 And manhood crowu'd the poet's brow, — 
 
 To Heaven he sang, yet work'd the plough, 
 
 Or cast the seed, or till'd the soil, 
 
 And with his sweet notes lighten'd toil : 
 
 A Irnrd in soul, yet yeoman strong. 
 
 He warbled his untutor'd song.
 
 THE ANXIVERSART OF BURXs' BIRTHDAY. Gl 
 
 And as he strew'cl the golden grain, 
 A prelude of ^olian strain, 
 Bade inspiration from on high 
 Descend with gifr of minstrelsy.^ 
 Then forms of beautj undefined, 
 Or shapes fontastic ci'oss'd his mind ; 
 But he transfix'd the shadows pale. 
 And gave them life in song or tale. 
 
 His Highland Mary ; Tarn o' Shanter ; 
 With Maggie's magic midnight canter ; 
 The Cotter's Night ; or sonnet fair ; 
 Or tender song ; or solemn prayer ; 
 The " modest crimson tipped flower ;" 
 Or damsel in her rustic bower ; 
 In tint or tone, all cross'd his brain, 
 The while he strew'd the golden grain. 
 
 And though his songs were music's own, 
 Their truth gave force to ev'ry tone : 
 Like garlands on some oak-tree flung. 
 The fragrance of his verses clunjr 
 To honesty ; and if should fly 
 The perfume all, truth ne'er can die, — 
 The manly truth he dared to speak, 
 To guide the strong and save the weak.
 
 i>2 POEMS. 
 
 He clink'd the coin of manhood's worth ; 
 He help'd the wearied heart to mirth ; 
 The counterfeit in language terse 
 He broke and scatter'd by his verse. 
 His burning words, like sparks of fire, 
 Flew as he swept the Doric lyre ; 
 And yet, anon, in tender sound 
 Sicilian music melted round.'' 
 
 Oh, there is something half divine, 
 In hand so rough, and brain so fine. 
 Edina's belles were glad to press 
 His doughty palm in soft caress.^ 
 He furrow'd earth with labour stern, 
 But found meanwhile the time to learu 
 Strange knowledge of the human heart, 
 And swept its strings with magic art. 
 
 liut wlio shall hope his worth to sing,. 
 Unless on his immortal Aving 
 We fly to Heaven for some loved tone. 
 That once was his to make our own ; 
 Ov mil Kdnic beauty from his .sti'iiiii, 
 Atnl liiintly giv(! it forth again ; 
 Or f.ilcli the eadeneo of some air, 
 Wlilcli liken itcrrmiic lingers tlicrc
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY OF TURXs' BIRTHDAY. G 
 
 But this were vain ; so, bard, adieu, 
 Thy spirit haunts thy mountains blue : 
 Thy echoes hnger in each dell, 
 And in the human heart as well, 
 O'er " banks and bi'aes" the music flies, — 
 The voice of genius never dies : 
 Then weep not o'er his willow'd urn, 
 The torch he lit will ever burn. 
 
 Q 
 
 ' " Robert Burns was born in a little mud-wallpd cottajje on the 
 banks of Doon, January 25th, 1759. As a natural mark of the event, 
 a sudden storm at tlie same moment swept the hind; the gable walls 
 of the frail dwelling gave way, and tin- babe bard was hurried throufjli 
 a tempest of wind and sleet to the shelter of a securer hovel." — 
 Allan Cu.nninoham. 
 
 - The river Ayr. 
 
 ^ " The poetic genius of my country found me as the prophetic 
 bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle 
 around me " — Burns' Dedication. 
 
 * The Sicilian and the Doric measures were the extreme of the 
 tender and the stern. The elder writers had a measure they called the 
 sul)-Dorian. 
 
 * The beautiful Duchess of Gordon amongst others.
 
 I '.I ro?:MS. 
 
 BURNS' CENTENARY. 
 
 FORMS of poetic beauty float around, 
 Wlicii mourufiillj, and yet elate, we bvcatlic 
 Tlie name of Scotland's Poet and her son ; 
 And down the vista of a hundred years 
 The torch still brightly burns wliicli Genius lit. 
 The finest slu-eds of song in warp and woof 
 Were interwoven in his melodies ; 
 And like some tapestry with golden threads 
 Depicting images of bygone yeai's. 
 His pictures of poetic skill will last 
 Uiifaded lieir-luonis to remotest days. 
 A melting tenderness, like gentle tones 
 From other spheres, subdued and harmonised 
 Tlio vigour of liis verso, and as we see 
 '{"lie water-lilii's on the river ope 
 Tin if Ivor}' petals, and with vycs of love 
 (la/.c ii]i\v;iid on tlie azure canop}'. 
 And vi'l tlicir rdots witliin tlir clnv licin ;it li ;
 
 burns' centenary. 65 
 
 So he upon the flowing stream of time 
 
 Expanded all the sweet leaves of his soul, 
 
 And gazed on high, yet doom'd with roughen'd hand 
 
 To dig and delve the clay of common earth. 
 
 'Twas strange, and strange as beautiful, to find 
 
 A soul encradled in a peasant's home 
 
 Cast off its narrow preconceived thoughts ; 
 
 And like a Pegasus in labour's yoke. 
 
 Fold up its wings, and bear its humble lot. 
 
 Oh sure it were a symbol half divine 
 
 To find him casting forth the fruitful seed. 
 
 And yet in manner Uke to know he sow'd 
 
 Such thoughts in human hearts, as soon could make 
 
 All Scotland ring with praises of the fruit ! 
 
 His harvest home of golden song was ripe 
 
 And beautiful, and midst the bounteous sheaves 
 
 The soft cyanes with their eyes of blue 
 
 Were garnered in ; those dainty flowers of rhyme 
 
 Which grew amongst the treasures of his lays. 
 
 As sculptors mould the common clay to forms 
 
 Of loveliness, so Nature from the fields 
 
 And plough-share called her gifted minstrel forth. 
 
 Mayhap his manly words sound somewhat harsh 
 To southern ear, but sweetest kernels oft 
 
 F
 
 G6 POEMS. 
 
 Are set in roughest rinds, and Nature then 
 To make the grateful earth receive the seed 
 Bursts all the coating as the fruit doth fall : — 
 Thus time in southern lands has broke the husk 
 Of northern sound, and in a loving soil 
 The seeds of his mellifluous sonf? ai'e fallen. 
 
 o 
 
 Nature, it seems, takes little heed of birth, 
 
 At least so far as that mysterious gift — 
 
 The gift of poesy. Where learn'd our bard 
 
 The cunning^ of his rhvmes ? How did he ken 
 
 The various measures of his verse, which changed 
 
 In force and tone like some ^olian strain ? 
 
 Anon, a love-lay trembled on the strings ; 
 
 Or harsher tone of war-song clang'd along ; 
 
 Or story quaint of goblins and of fays 
 
 Set all the chords in shivering sympathy ; 
 
 Or in some mournful dirge a wailing sprite 
 
 Died in vibrations of tlie trembling harp. 
 
 Then changing yet again like tuneful reeds 
 
 A strain Pandajan spoke of sylvan lore ; 
 
 Or some sweet idyl of Theocritus 
 
 Was echoed from the classic gi'oves ; or tone 
 
 Of Moschus, or of Rion seeni'd to hint 
 
 That Nature makes her best-loved poets speak
 
 burns' centenary. 07 
 
 In accents similar : yet seldom tlius, 
 For Burns was simply Burns — himself — alone, 
 And when he blew his sterner blasts along 
 And flung his gauntlet in the cause of truth, 
 No poet ever crown'd in capitol 
 Stood so apart. Oh truly he hath set 
 A beauteous iris in the sky of hope 
 To tell us that the world of human worth 
 Will ne'er by flood of vice be deluged more ! 
 How learn'd he all ? Whence came the power to view 
 Creation's hand impress'd in humble forms ? 
 Was it that the " lilies of the field" raised up 
 His hopes and inspirations heavenward ? 
 When singing of the crimson-tipped flower 
 Did it suggest to his enchanted view 
 Those bright celestial lab'ratories where 
 Not flowers alone receive their wondrous gifts, 
 But where all harmonies divine are wrought ? 
 The maxima and minima of things 
 Work with a godlike hand, which raising up 
 The " cloud-capp'd hills" yet pausing stoop to paint 
 With delicate and most elaborate skill 
 The humble daisy on the sloping sward. 
 All this he knew ; of this and more he sang:. 
 And smallest forms of Nature's mysteries 
 
 f2
 
 08 POEMS. 
 
 Wliicli to the common gaze were nought — to liira 
 
 "Were exquisite. As tiller of the soil 
 
 He soon became Earth's best interpreter, 
 
 And hieroglyphics of the fields and woods 
 
 Found an exponent in his tuneful lays. 
 
 To him the tinted children of the soil — 
 
 The flow'rets in their coats of divers hues — 
 
 Were lessons in the Earth's Astronomy, 
 
 And floral constellations group'd about 
 
 Were as celestial to his loving gaze 
 
 As those bright garlands of the midniglit sky 
 
 Which we call stars, and which can only bloom 
 
 Like to the cereus on the robe of night. 
 
 Thou livest still, dear Poet of the fields ; 
 
 For though the ashes of thy mortal part 
 
 Repose within the sad and dusky crypt. 
 
 Thy spirit is enshrined in Scottish hearts ; 
 
 And English too, for genius such as thine 
 
 Hath no especial home, and lights us all ; 
 
 Time is the pedestal on which it stands ; 
 
 And as the peaks of thy own mountains rise 
 
 All crown'd with gold when .sunset paints the scene, 
 
 So glory tinged the fabric of thy fame 
 
 Whrn lifp sank gently in the silent shades.
 
 FAIRY BELLS. '>r» 
 
 FAIRY BELLS.* 
 
 (Recited by Mr. Beixew, at the Westbourxe Hall, 
 and other places.) 
 
 I. 
 
 HIS voice was sweet, his words were fair ; 
 "Would that his love had ne'er been spoken ; 
 Would that the pole-star heard my prayer 
 
 In words, as now, in anguish broken ! 
 Would that the awful Greenland gales 
 
 Could drown my sighs ; for then, oh ! then, 
 I should be where my Alick sails, 
 
 And share the fate of daring men. 
 Would I were in that churning sea. 
 
 Where glassy icebergs, slowly moving, 
 Might threaten death to him and me ; 
 
 But what is death, when mad with loving ! 
 
 * There is a superstition amongst manj' of the seafaring people of 
 Great Britain that fairy bells are heard when lover, husband, or rela- 
 tion is returning from some expedition ; but, alas ! the^ do not always 
 refer to the living as in the following poera.
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 (Jh ! Alick, why those whispers low, 
 
 I'liusc hoiicy'd words, those soft entreiitiiigs ! 
 
 For. fai- away, 'midst ice aiid snow, 
 
 Thou wilt forget our summer meetings. 
 
 II. 
 His voice was sweet ; his words were fair ; 
 
 Oh, how I pi-ay'd him ne'er to leave mu ! 
 He only smooth'd my streaming hair ; 
 
 Said he, " My love, thy fears deceive thee. 
 Trust me, my Annie, soon will come 
 
 The happy days, when peace and plenty 
 Shall be the gifts of ice and foam ; 
 
 Wc cannot wed with coffers empty." 
 " Oh, j'cs !" I cried, " I'd wed thee now, 
 
 And work or starve, to stay thy going." 
 He only kiss'd my throbbing brow : — 
 
 Says he, " My love, the wind is blowing ; 
 The southern breeze creeps up the lea, 
 
 Sec on yon cliff the pines are bending ; 
 Thoy point towards the frozen sea. 
 
 Propitious winds and wishes sending." 
 
 ITT. 
 
 " Oh, Alick, darling, say not so, 
 
 Tliuu Miongly read'st the warning motion.
 
 FAIRY BELLS. 
 
 It says, ' Let not thy lover go, 
 
 There's death around the frozen ocean.' 
 Thou hearest how the curlews scream. 
 
 In echoes to the dreadful warning." 
 He only said, " 'Tis but a dream— 
 
 I must away ere break of morning. 
 But when in Spring thou hear'st the sound 
 
 Of magic bells above thee ringing. 
 Know that the whaler, homeward bound, 
 
 From off her prow the spray is flinging." 
 His boat sped o'er the seething surge ; 
 
 The wind flung back my wild cries, scoffing ; — 
 With strong and cruel pulls they urge 
 
 The craft that bears him to the offing ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But when I hear the eerie chimes. 
 
 They'll tell me that my lad's returning. 
 Yet, oh, the dreary, dreary times. 
 
 With hope so cold, and love so burning ! 
 The wintry months go slowly past : 
 
 I listen for the fairies pealing ; 
 I watch for every spar and mast ; 
 
 Away from home for ever stealing. 
 And mother frets ; and father's sad : — 
 
 Tlioy deem me daft thus ever sighing ! 
 
 71
 
 72 POKMS. 
 
 01), could I, as a sailor lad, 
 
 Across tho Arctic seas be flying ! 
 For then, oh then, the scalding tear 
 
 That burns my cheek, would not be flowing ; 
 For I should sail with Alick dear, 
 
 Close to his heart when blasts were blowiner ! 
 
 V. 
 The maniac windmill whirls its arms, 
 
 Like some weird giant winds defying ! 
 The sea-birds scream their shrill alarms ; 
 
 The day in streaks of umber's dying. 
 Tho waves are swashing on the strand, 
 
 Or in the booming caverns roaming : — 
 Anon tho tide leaves bare the sand. 
 
 And weedy pools lie in the gloaming ! 
 The coast is barren, stern, and sad 
 
 As those dark shores where he is roving : — 
 And yet they wonder I am mad — 
 
 Mad with the strain of over-lovino- ! 
 But, hark ! I hear the elfin bells ! 
 
 Ah, Alick, soon those arms will fultl thee ! 
 In rippling chime their music swells, 
 
 And ring " He comcb !" as Ahck told me !
 
 FAIRY BELL^?. 73 
 
 vr. 
 " Ah yes he comes," but o'er the sea 
 
 The tempest shrieks in mad commotion. 
 The lightning darts along the lee, 
 
 And melts in one the sky and ocean. 
 Alas ! those tongues of molten steel 
 
 Light up a wreck on breakers driven, 
 And on the deck pale spectres kneel 
 
 And breathe their last despair to Heaven ! 
 The while — how strange — those fairy bells 
 
 Steal softly o'er the foaming water ; 
 From out the din their music swells 
 
 Like rippling flutes 'midst war and slaughter. 
 But on the shore a pale corpse lies 
 
 With fond arms round no more to sever, 
 And on the gale this requiem flies, 
 
 " In death my AHck's mine for ever."
 
 71. POEMS. 
 
 THE THREE PHASES. 
 
 PHA.SE I. 
 
 FAR o'er tlio azure depths, iu wliicL the earth 
 Reposes now as at its primal birth, 
 Imagination takes a daring flight, 
 And penetrates to realms remote and bright. 
 Thought chases thought, and in the crowded race, 
 A bridge of beauty quivers over space ; 
 An arc created in youth's golden dreams. 
 As fragile as the floating web which seems 
 A skein unravell'd from an iris-bow, 
 To glisten on the summer air below. 
 But though so fragile, o'er it fimcies fly, 
 And mock the limits of earth's boundary ; 
 Within the furnace of the brain they burn, 
 And darting upward into space, return 
 jh-ight with attrition of some lustrous sphere, 
 Or laden with the treasures gather'd there.
 
 THE THEEE PHASES. 75 
 
 Or some have caught, from wing of astral breeze, 
 
 The mystic whispers of the Pleiades, 
 
 And then, deep-shadow'd in youth's glances, dwell 
 
 Those dreamy looks the painter loves so well. 
 
 But other fancies from his teeming brain, 
 
 Fly o'er the void, and ne'er come back again : 
 
 They find within that far ethereal sea. 
 
 Beauty with theirs, in strange affinity ; 
 
 A force mysterious lures them to the shore, 
 
 And they are lost to youth for evermore. 
 
 But soon these visions mystical depart. 
 
 And Love assumos his throne to rule the heart ; 
 
 And though a despot, yet his soft control, 
 
 Like sweet bells, chimes within an inner soul. 
 
 Deep, deep within, a bliss he bids arise, 
 
 And all things range themselves in melodies ; 
 
 The streams of life to music's murmurs flow, 
 
 And on youth's hearts there falls "love's purple glow." 
 
 Then do emotions new exert their miglit, 
 
 And song translates the language of delight ; 
 
 E'en as the sky -lark bathes her soaring wings 
 
 In balmy waves of air, and, ravish'd, sings 
 
 In wanton joy — so youth, with passion new. 
 
 Sends up his glad notes to the heaven's blue ;
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Sends up bis -wild notes upon pinions strong, 
 And scatters happiness in shreds of song. 
 Yes, sweetest Eoline, he sings to thee, 
 In accents soft as that low melody 
 Which evening breezes whisper in the ear 
 Of bending reeds, when not a sound is near. 
 
 PHASE IL 
 
 Oh man, arise, before thee lies the goal ; 
 Arise ! cast off the lethargy of soul. 
 Which poesy and song around thee fling ; 
 Put by thy trembling lyre, thy harp unstring, 
 Bid music cease, and fold thy poet's wing : 
 
 Life is the call. 
 
 Thy manhood doth demand a sterner theme 
 Than beauteous phantoms of thy early dream ; 
 Turn thy rapt vision from yon distant star, 
 llccal thy mystic thoughts, which wander far. 
 For here on teeming eaith thy duties are : 
 
 Here stand or fall. 
 
 Wring from the stirring world some prize to prove 
 That thou art worthy of that higher Love,
 
 THE THREE PHASES. 11 
 
 Who dwelletli not for aye in Paphian bowers, 
 But gathers riches from the toiling hours, 
 And binds his brow with laurels, not with flowers : 
 
 Do thou the same. 
 
 Fox'ge on the glowing anvil of the world. 
 Some manacle for vice. Thy flag, unfurl'd. 
 Let flutter wide where human energy 
 Enrols within its ranks the brave, the free, 
 For action is life's noblest poesy, 
 
 And work is fame. 
 
 The ceaseless toil of muscle and of mind 
 Illumines life, and lights and leads mankind. 
 Then, onward ever ! and amidst the din, 
 With hope and strong heart plunge thou fearless in. 
 And Fortune's guerdon thou shalt surely win 
 
 For Eoline. 
 
 Then, if thou wilt, in leisure's peaceful hours, 
 Find happy solace in thy minstrel powers. 
 And oh ! when life has borne good fruit for thee, 
 How doubly sweet those tender words will be 
 Which woo, and win her with her melody, 
 
 And she is thine !
 
 78 _ POEMS. 
 
 PHASE III. 
 
 Deeply we have quaflTd together, 
 Passion fervent, love sincere ; 
 
 But the chalice is not empty — 
 
 Some hath gone, but much is hci'C. 
 
 In vain the world has brought us sorrow, 
 You have been my solace true ; 
 
 Evciy wave of adverse fortune 
 
 Hath been bravely stemm'd by you. 
 
 Ecstasy of joys departed 
 
 Leaves behind no feeble light ; 
 
 Chiisten'd love is love augmented — 
 There is strength in gentle might. 
 
 Wiiat though now a line of silver 
 (j listens in your raven hair ? 
 
 In ^jlayful mood, with loving finger, 
 Time too soon hath placed it there. 
 
 At this moment, orange-blossoms 
 'Midst your tresses seem to twine. 
 
 And their perfume lingers sweetly 
 Hound the brow of Koline.
 
 THE THREE PHASES. 79 
 
 Yet, dear love, 'tis twenty summers 
 
 Crown the term of wedded life. 
 And garlands hang all down the vista, 
 
 Placed there by a perfect wife.
 
 80 roKMS. 
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 
 
 LOVE and Pride together rambled 
 O'er the fields one sunny day ; 
 Through the May-thorn hedges scrambled ; 
 Love loud-laughing all the way. 
 
 How tliey came to rove together 
 Ma Iters little — perhaps because 
 
 Grassy meads, and glorious weather. 
 Lured them forth — but so it was, 
 
 Cupid, as a pinion'd rover, 
 
 T()pj>'d tho fences without fear; 
 
 Pride, all wingless, stumbled over. 
 Getting many a scratch and tear. 
 
 Cupid laugli'd at Pride's debasement. 
 Who, each time he felt a thorn. 
 
 Sternly asked Love wliat ilie cliaso meant, 
 Hiding foar, but showing scorn.
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 81 
 
 Love laugh 'd more at eacli disaster ; 
 
 And plucking fragrant bits of May, 
 Skipp'd, and ran, and flew the faster, 
 
 Laughing still at Pride's dismay. 
 
 " I have wings," exclaim'd the urchin, 
 
 " Why didst thou set out with me ? 
 I shall leave thee soon the lurch in, 
 
 With thy weight of dignity. 
 
 " Cast the load at foot of this hill, 
 
 'Tis a loo: wHchL none should wear : 
 Saving those who feed on thistle, 
 
 Known by bray and length of ear. 
 
 " Ah, thou wilt not ! — then these brambles" 
 (Here he pluck'd some briars sweet) 
 
 " Bind thee to me, and thy rambles 
 Last for ever — no retreat. 
 
 " I will lead thee as Titania 
 
 Leads the night-dance o'er the lea, 
 I will cure thee of thy mania, 
 
 Pride, of smiling scorn on me ! 
 
 G
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 " 1 will lead thee as the fay queen 
 Loads the night-dance o'er the lea ; 
 
 I will hind thee Avitli the gay green 
 Bramble chains, I weave for thee. 
 
 " Seeing, some folks say's believing, 
 
 Watch me how I ])ly my art; 
 Bonds like those which T nm woaving 
 
 Are not bonds which bind the heart. 
 
 " Let the secret rest between us. 
 Watch me how my art I ply: 
 
 The trick wns taught by INrother Venus 
 When a Paphian infant I." 
 
 A.s lu^ sang, ho i-aii and fluttoi-'d ; 
 
 Pride not speaking all tho whilo ; 
 Something now and Ihoii he mnttor'd, 
 
 Looking on with haughty smilo. 
 
 Love at Icngtb Avith nimble fingers 
 Wove the fetters strong and light, 
 
 And whilo his stern companion lingers, 
 Casts them round, and draws them tight !
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 83 
 
 Pride, made captive by young Cupid, 
 
 What to utter scarcely knew, 
 He first look'd grand, then very stupid, 
 
 As Pride is ever wont to do. 
 
 " I have thee !" cried his young tormentor, 
 
 " Thorns are nothing new to thee. 
 Grumble not sir, be content, or 
 
 I will never set thee free. 
 
 " Why not break the fragile fetter ? 
 
 Ah, thou canst not ! — try again. 
 Art than force is often better — 
 
 S-o-ft-ly, it is near in twain. 
 
 " Gently, lest the thorns molest thee, 
 
 So, thou hast it ! — vain endeavour ! 
 Magic manacles invest thee, 
 
 I alone the links could sever. 
 
 " But I will not, thou art bound, sir, 
 
 Firmly, though by weakest thong, 
 Lash'd to Cupid like a hound, sir. 
 
 Beast and Beauty rove along.
 
 84 POEMS. 
 
 " Now we'll rest, for both are weary, 
 Sit thee by this river's side, 
 
 How thou lov'st me ! or so near me 
 Thou wouklst never come, dear Pride.' 
 
 Mocking thus, with folded pinion. 
 Love sat down upon the bi'ink, 
 
 Laughing still at his dominion 
 
 Over Pride, then stoop'd to drink. 
 
 As he did so. Pride complying 
 "With the hardships of the case, 
 
 Stoop'd with Cupid, who, espying 
 Bright reflections of each face, 
 
 Cried, "Why thou art twin with C'npid, 
 See, thou'rt quivering by my side. 
 
 For the waters, calm and lucid, 
 MiiTor Cupid, mirror Pride. 
 
 " Now I stoop — and so dost thou too, 
 See again our figures there ; 
 
 Bend again — again we bow to 
 Tiove and Pride^ — a pretty pair !
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 85 
 
 " Oil, what fun ! my dearest mother, 
 
 How I wish that thou couldst see 
 Pride obliged his pride to smother, 
 
 And compell'd to mimic m.e 1" 
 
 Pride bore well the boy's reviling, 
 
 But it rankled iu his thought, 
 And a kind of inward smiling 
 
 Hinted of some purpose wrought. 
 
 Cupid but of mischief thinking. 
 
 Heeded not the warning look, 
 And, refresh' d with rest and drinking, 
 
 Started up to cross the brook. 
 
 With outstretch'd wings to aid his leaping, 
 
 He back retired a step or so. 
 And sulky Pride, his counsel keeping, 
 
 Seem'd prepared to follow too. 
 
 So Cupid shouted, " Now be steady. 
 
 Start, sir, when I cry, Away ; 
 Once — twice — thrice — prepare, make ready. 
 
 Away ! — not so, oh stop, I pray !"
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 In vain he calls, for both had started, 
 And when they near'd the river's side. 
 
 Pride stopp'd short, then nimbly darted 
 "With the boy within the tide. 
 
 Cupid sank, then rose and fiutter'd, 
 Till his wings, all dripping wet. 
 
 Soon grew useless ; then he splutter'd. 
 Sinking deeper, deeper yet. 
 
 Sinking deeper, for the fetter 
 Now refused to set him free, 
 
 And Pride, to teach liini manners better, 
 Dipp'd him, as we often see — 
 
 Lady Neptune's children laving 
 From machines in beachy row. 
 
 When amidst their shrieks and raving, 
 Bubble, splutter — in thiy go. 
 
 Cupid's cheeks grew pale as lily 
 Dripping with the dew of moi'n. 
 
 And within Pride's arms, so still he 
 Lay, that life bceui'd almost gone.
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 87 
 
 But a sigh and geutle quiver 
 
 Proved that heart of Love is strong, 
 So Pride from out the silver river 
 
 Stept and laid him gently down. 
 
 He laid him where the sun was shining 
 
 Warm below and bright above ; 
 And Phoebus, seeing Cupid pining. 
 
 Dried the boy — and tasted Love ! 
 
 Then the roses, fresh as ever, 
 
 Mantled o'er his checks again. 
 So Pride soft whisper'd — " Please to sever, 
 
 Cupid dear, the galling chain." 
 
 With feeble hands, Love took the fetter 
 
 Which till now had bound the two, 
 And pouting, mutter'd — " There now, get a- 
 
 Way, 'tis broke, so Pride, adieu ! 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! and if thou meet me 
 
 In this mead where oft I rove, 
 I beg with distant bow thou'lt greet me, 
 
 Nor throw cold water upon Love.
 
 88 I'OEMS. 
 
 " Boast not of the cruel measure 
 Thou hast used to set thee free, 
 
 But try thyself when thou hast leisure 
 The system of hydropathy. 
 
 " Adieu ! adieu ! most poignant sorrow 
 Will soon within thy heart be born ; 
 
 IS'ow Pride upholds thee, but to-morrow 
 Pain will take the place of scorn." 
 
 The last few words were like a sound 
 Of music fiiding through the air ; 
 
 An iris seem'd to melt around, 
 Shedding lustre everywhere. 
 
 An odour linger'd, for the fragrant 
 Words he spoke were sweet as May, 
 
 And Pride, half-pausing, saw the Vagrant 
 Swathed in light, then melt away. 
 
 Yes, he rose to blissful bowei's, 
 Rose up through the ether tide. 
 
 And, welcomed back by rosy Hours, 
 Soon forgot the world and Pride.
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 89 
 
 But Pride, alas ! not soon forgetting 
 All the smiles wbicli late had shone 
 
 O'er bis path like sunlight setting, 
 As Love predicted — sorrow 'd on. 
 
 So mucli, indeed, he took to grieving, 
 That sharp regret.s did rankle sore, 
 
 And bitter was the forced believing, 
 That Love had fled for evermore. 
 
 But the very tears which started, 
 
 Though reluctant and but few, 
 Changed his nature, and imparted 
 
 Feelings altogether new. 
 
 The ice of Pride, though slowly thawing 
 
 In the sun of memory sweet, 
 Work'd a secret spell for drawing 
 
 Love again from his retreat. 
 
 And once again the sun was glancing 
 
 In the stream I named but now. 
 And golden eddies bright were dancing 
 
 To the music of its flow.
 
 00 I'OEMS. 
 
 Pride was there — reflections bitter 
 
 Setting bilious fluids free, 
 When all at once, a merry titter 
 
 Roused him from his reverie. 
 
 And then he saw a flying dragon — 
 
 Dragon-fly, I mean to say — 
 And a Coy, without a rag on, 
 
 Held the insect-king at bay. 
 
 Lightly vaulting from the saddle, 
 And jerking oil" the magic reins, 
 
 " By Jove !" he cried, " such speed doth addle 
 Even my immortal brains. 
 
 " However, Fly, thou'st done thy duty. 
 So haste thee to the Cyprian shore, 
 
 And Psyche tell — dear soul of beauty ! 
 I return to dine at four." 
 
 Pride surprised, beheld before him 
 The roguish son of beauty's queen. 
 
 And the sight did much restore liim 
 To his haughty look and mien.
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 91 
 
 (For 'tis true, tliat if we sorrow 
 
 For young Love our wounds to heal, 
 
 When we win him, then we borrow 
 Mask of Pride, to joy conceal.) 
 
 " Nay, Sir Pride," cried Cupid, laughing, 
 " Frown no more — I know thy heart, 
 
 And since I come from nectar quaffing, 
 I'm in the mood to heal thy smart. 
 
 " I come to say we'll roam together 
 
 When again the sun shall glow ; 
 But, I swear, no magic tether 
 
 Will I ever round thee thi-ow. 
 
 " In idea I like to follow 
 
 S unny streamlets as they glide ; 
 But I find my friend Apollo 
 
 Warmeth not the under tide. 
 
 " Who could think such surface smiling 
 
 Hid a death's embrace beneath : 
 With seeming light and warmth beguiling, 
 
 Its gets one down and stnpy the breath.
 
 92 POEMS. 
 
 " It likes me not, aud so my oath, sir, 
 Again I take to bind thee never ; 
 
 And, being free, I think that botli, sir. 
 May spend a pleasant day together." 
 
 Pride uprose, and, smiling, patted 
 Cupid on his beauteous wings, 
 
 And with a patron's air he chatted 
 To young Love about such thiugs, 
 
 As much concerns the siGrhinsr lover 
 
 And the bashful maiden too ; 
 But now my task and lay are over, 
 
 I have nothing left to do. 
 
 Except to add — my simple ditty 
 
 Doth a little moral hide ; 
 Which hints, if maidens show no pity, 
 
 Binding Cupid fast to Pride, 
 
 Wliy Pride will try his hand at slaughter; 
 
 And though, 'tis true, Love ne'er can die, 
 Yet he likcth not cold water. 
 
 So he is compcll'd to ily.
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 93 
 
 He mmj come back, if soft emotion 
 "Warms the heart and dews the ejes ; 
 
 He may sail back upon the ocean 
 
 Caused by tears, and toss'd by sighs : 
 
 But at best 'tis doubtful whether 
 
 Love 'midst storms will oft return. 
 The ice which made him stretch his feather 
 
 Makes the way back, bleak and stern. 
 
 Thus, ye lovely Angel-flowers 
 
 Made to dry the saddest tear. 
 Let the young God bless thy bowers, 
 
 Pride discreetly standing near : 
 
 For his presence is but proper. 
 
 Keeping Love in decent bounds. 
 Especially when lovers pop a 
 
 Question made of trembling sounds. 
 
 So, ye lovely Angel-flowers 
 
 Blooming in this world of clay, 
 Let the Boy, at proper hours, 
 
 In with Pride, and both may stay.
 
 94 I'OEMS. 
 
 LOVE'S ASTRONOMY 
 
 ^n Concetto. 
 
 IANTHE my darling, the pale moon is keeping 
 Her vigil on high while the iiiglitingales sing; 
 The Earth in her beauty is tranquilly sleeping, 
 "While cluster'cl to guard it, are stars in a ring. 
 
 II. 
 
 They say look to Zenith, and there ever beaming 
 Arc guld(Mi-eyed stellar orb.s, })onsive witli love ; 
 
 But below at Antipodes, Nadir is teeming, 
 
 The East ami tlu; "\V(>st, too, are gomm'd as above. 
 
 in. 
 No que.stion our Earth is the centre of Heaven, 
 
 And stars ai'C battalions around us at night ; 
 Their watch-fii'es are lighted, tli(> pus.s-wdid is giv(Mi, 
 
 A)id wo nil SCO lirrc is their bivouac'.s licrht.
 
 love's astronont. 95 
 
 IV. 
 
 To me, I confess, 'tis an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 Each eve when that camp of the mighty appears, 
 
 To fancy I list to a heavenly measure, 
 
 As planets march out to " the music of spheres." 
 
 V. 
 
 And do we not see, too, on Summer's night clearly, 
 A meteor drop down from the ranks in the sky ; 
 
 We call it a shooting star, but it is really 
 A runaway spirit escaping on high. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A spirit of evil entranced with thy beauty, 
 
 Attempts on the bloom of its freshness to light ; 
 
 But discover'd in time by the sentry on duty. 
 He saves my lanthe, and chastens the sprite. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I own I am puzzled, if e'er I endeavour 
 
 To tell what becomes of the stars in the day; 
 
 And I cannot account for the fact, that whenever 
 The sun is seen rising they all run away.
 
 96 roKMS. 
 
 THE FATE OF ACTION. 
 
 DAY-BREAK. 
 
 AURORA rises from old Ocean's arras 
 Suffused with blushes, and array'd in grace : 
 And lustrous Sol, enamour'd of her charms, 
 
 Deepens her roses with his warm embrace. 
 Thus glowing colours greet the coming day, 
 
 Streaking the east with bright and varying dyes, 
 Which, as they change their hue, dissolve away, 
 
 And fade from Phoebus as he mounts the skies. 
 Then Nature, grateful for the fvesh'ning hour, 
 
 Her daily tribute for the blessing pays. 
 And breatlics an odour from each np'ning flower, 
 
 And birds give forth in choral song their prai.sc. 
 And, iris-mirrors, tremble on each bongh 
 
 Dew-drops — the gems of morning's lovely gear. 
 And music fi-om yEolian whispers now 
 
 Is lionic upoi: tlic pi'i'fiinicd frcsh'niiig Mir.
 
 THE FATE OF ACTJION. 
 
 Oh ! that some voice more eloquent than mine 
 
 Would sing the glories of sweet healthful morn 
 An hour it was that saw a birth divine : 
 
 For this bless'd time beheld Hygeia born. 
 But now my lay a diflfrent tone must take ; 
 
 And hark ! that huntsman's echo in yon dell 
 Reminds me of the strain I must awake, 
 
 And bids me leave a theme beloved so well. 
 
 THE WOOD-KING. 
 
 King of the woodlands, foremost in the chase. 
 Each grove's thy home, each dell thy dwelling-place ; 
 Thy sovereign sway the subject wood-gods own — 
 The sky, thy canopy — the bank, thy throne. 
 Thy council in the shelter'd glens debate, 
 Thy bow and buskins, symbols of thy state. 
 The ensign of thy monarchy, — thy spear ; 
 Thy trophies, tusks and antlers of the deer ; 
 The dancing stream, — thy never- failing mine, 
 Where jewels countless in the sunbeams sliine ; 
 Thy tributes levied not, but freely paid 
 By ev'ry Faun and Satyr of the glade. 
 Thy couch, the mossy turf, where shelt'ring trees 
 Call fortli a melody from ev'ning's breeze — 
 
 H
 
 98 POEMS. 
 
 For their resistance, as the sweet wind blows, 
 Produces music for thy calm repose. 
 King of the woodlands ! happy is thy lot ; 
 The cares of empires' kings approach thee not. 
 'Tis thou, Acta?on, art this woodland king, 
 Whose praises ev'ry Dryad loves to sing. 
 Thou art this monarch of the Avood domain, 
 "Whom sighing Oreads love, but love in vain. 
 Arise, Actason, on thy buskins brace ; 
 Arise, Actroon, to the healthful chase ; 
 Across thy chest the well-charged quiver fling ; 
 Action is indeed the huntsman kinc: ! 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 Hark ! from yo)i wiry brake that well-known strain 
 Tells thee the scent lies freshly o'er the plain. 
 The game is roused, and at the welcome sound 
 Tliy glad voice answers cheerily around. 
 Those silver notes on morning's breezes fling. 
 And l)id in ev'ry dell the echoes ring. 
 Forward, Actccon ! forward, or the game 
 Finds shelter in yon brake to 'scape thy aim. 
 Thy flying feet scarce touch the moss-clad ground. 
 Ami liiinlly linisli (lie pendent dew -drops round;
 
 THE FATE OF ACTJ:ON. 99 
 
 But for thy arms, thou seem'st a flying god 
 Pursuing some coy Dryad of the wood. 
 Ah ! why relax thy speed ? Why is thy breast 
 Against the smooth bark of that dark tree press'd ? 
 Why does Actseon thus his figure hide ? 
 Thy spear is clasp'd, thy bov/ is thrown aside ; 
 Why thus transfix'd, with Kps so firm compress'd 
 !N^o breath escapes from forth thy hard-held chest; 
 No muscle moves, and thou dost now appear, 
 Some guardian statue of that yew-tree there. 
 But hark ! that scarcely-heard and distant call, 
 And crisping in yon brake, explains it all ; 
 The monster is about to break his lair, 
 The close wood moves, the grunt of angry fear 
 Grows louder as he nears the thicket's verge ; 
 The yelling hounds compel him to emerge ; 
 Quicker than thought is poised the ready spear. 
 Which like a meteor glances throiigh the air. 
 Unerring is the arm that launch'd that dart. 
 It strikes the grisly boar, and finds his heart. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Near sweet Gargaphia's vale a fountain springs. 
 Where Zephyrs love to dip their perfumed wings ;
 
 100 POEMS. 
 
 TVlierc poppies and the dittany^ abound, 
 
 And all bright flow'rets sweetly bloom around. 
 
 Upon the bosom of the bubbling stream, 
 
 '!Midst twining shrubs intruding sun-rays gleam, 
 
 And through the trcllLs of the leafy shade 
 
 A qniv'ring shadow on the brook is made. 
 
 A verdant bank sweeps sloping to its brink, 
 
 Where amorous doves come flutt'ring down to drink. 
 
 The bending hyacinth sighs sweetly here, 
 
 And birds of gaudy plumage paint the air. 
 
 On all sides shelt'ring trees tlieir branches raise 
 
 To screen its beauties from the common gaze. 
 
 Few mortals e'er disturb this lovely spot, 
 
 And e'en the wand'ring huntsman knows it not. 
 
 DIANA AND HER NYMPHS. 
 
 At that sweet time when graceful morn unfolds 
 Tlio dew}- pearls which in her la]) slic holds; 
 Beside this stream reposed a maiden band, 
 AVhose undeck'd limbs an unseen Z^'pliyr iimu'd ; 
 But the light waving of their golden hair 
 And moving of his wing's reveal'd hiin there. 
 Some twine in listless mood the flow'ry braid, 
 And east it in the brook as soon as made, 
 
 ' These (lowers were Rncrcil to Diana.
 
 THE FATE OF ACTION. 101 
 
 And watch it floating down the limpid stream, 
 As smoothly gliding as their own life's dream. 
 Others rise dripping from the streamlet's waves, 
 Like Naiads stepping from their crystal caves. 
 Some their fair locks in heavy fillets twine, 
 Others in simple knots their hair confine. 
 Some round their form the fragile vesture place, 
 And on their snowy feet the buskins brace: 
 This, with the cestus, and their hunting gear, 
 In Dian's train the lovely nymphs declare. 
 And where, oh chaste Diana ! where art thou. 
 Surely amidst thy sweet companions now ? 
 Not half so joyous would they sport and play. 
 If thou, fair huntress queen, wert now away ! 
 And see, from forth that half-conceal'd alcove 
 She in immortal loveliness doth move. 
 A crescent on her radiant brow is seen. 
 But needed not to stamp the maiden Queen. 
 It glistens o'er her forehead wondrous fair. 
 Of brightness made, for 'tis no substance there. 
 The radiant glance from forth her heaven-lit eyes 
 Perforce in every heart bids passion rise ; 
 And yet, when risen, it is but born to die 
 Such the strange influence is of chastity. 
 Her form is all disrobed — her sweet undress 
 Discloses all her simple loveliness.
 
 102 I'OEMS. 
 
 No conscious look she wears to mar the charm — 
 
 Blushes denote a mind apprised of harm. 
 
 But now upon tlie streamlet's verge she stands, 
 
 Her tresses gather'd in her ivory hands, 
 
 Half shrinking as she feels the water's lips 
 
 Bedew the lovely foot she partly dips. 
 
 But ah ! what means that start ? her smile hath flown, 
 
 And o'er her form a vesture quick is thrown. 
 
 She stands erect, as though some sudden fear 
 
 Had pierced her bosom and transfix'd her there. 
 
 Her nymphs alarm'd, in quick disorder fly, 
 
 And wake the woodlands witli tlieir piteous cry ; 
 
 Confused they seek the shelter of the grove, 
 
 But yet the heavenly maid disdains to move. 
 
 The smiles which brighteu'd her sweet face but now 
 
 Are fled, and anger darkens o'er her brow. 
 
 TJIi: CIUME. 
 
 Behold, through yonder trees a huntsman's seen 
 Witii rapture gazing on the lovely queen ; 
 Tiie breaking of those boughs betrays him there ; 
 But he, alas ! knows not the danger near. 
 Although the cause of all that strange dismay. 
 He knows not that he frights those nymphs away
 
 THE FATK OF ACTION. 103 
 
 The cry he hears not of the wailing band, 
 So rapt in admiration does he stand. 
 Bold huntsman, fly ! thou hast no time to lose ; 
 Fly this retreat while thou hast time to choose ; 
 Oh be not blinded with the dazzling sight, 
 'Tis certain death such deep, intense delight ; 
 For dear life's sake pass not that sylvan screen, 
 'Tis fatal to approach th' immortal queen. 
 Alas ! he heeds not, for his raptured sight 
 Had ne'er beheld a form so wondrous bright ! 
 In fairest dreams, when brightest visions bless, 
 !N"e'er had he pictured such rare loveliness. 
 Unmindful of her stern and angry glance, 
 He sees her beauty, and he dares advance: 
 He rashly ventures past that sylvan bound. 
 Which forms a zone to guard the spot around ; 
 And then no sooner does he tread the glade. 
 Than strength deserts him, and his senses fade ; 
 His blood, erst dancing with delight, congeals. 
 That maiden's awful glance his fate reveals. 
 
 DIANA S REVENGE. 
 
 Speechless the goddess mark'd the huntsman's gaze, 
 Nor scarcely moved except to higher raise
 
 104 I'UEMS. 
 
 The slender garment o'er her throbbing breast ; 
 And yet so thin and vapour-Hke the vest, 
 So close its airy folds her limbs embraced, 
 Through the light web her beauty could be traced. 
 But when she views the hardy youth invade 
 The woody bound'ry of her sacred shade ; 
 When she observes him gazing on her face, 
 And yet unblinded by the heav'nly grace ; 
 All her celestial attributes she wears. 
 Her dazzling immortality declares : 
 His fate in awful silence does she cast. 
 Athwart her mind his doom severe has pass'd : 
 No words pronounce the stern, unheard decree. 
 The goddess wills it, and the Fates agi-ee. 
 Would that the sequel were as like a dream ; 
 Tliy hapless fate thus as a vision seem. 
 E'en as it is, the wondering huntsman's glance 
 Shows that he deems it some delusive trance ; 
 But yet the trees, the lawn, the rippling stx'cam. 
 Tell him, alas ! too truly, 'tis no dream. 
 His yelling hounds in full and wak'ning cry. 
 Tell him his comrades and the game are nigh. 
 Fain would he call, but ah ! he vainly tries, 
 A mournful nole alone comes forth in sighs ;
 
 THE FATE OF ACTION. 105 
 
 Those piteous tones alone his anguish tell, 
 
 While the fierce pack approach with frantic yell. 
 
 He trembles at the sound — that once -loved cry 
 
 Bids him with fearful menaces to fly. 
 
 Fain would he leave the mystic spot — yet strange, 
 
 His nature and his form appear to change, 
 
 And as he struggles with the awful throes, 
 
 Nearer and nearer to the stream he goes. 
 
 And sees reflected in that mirror there, 
 
 No more Acteeon, but a timid deer. 
 
 A conscious horror chills his very blood. 
 
 The cry grows louder in the echoing wood ; 
 
 On come the dogs, a gloom falls o'er his soul, 
 
 And down his anguish'd cheek the large tears roll ; 
 
 Death's awful coming shade he trembling feels, 
 
 The dogs are close, — now at his very heels ; 
 
 The foremost pulls him bleeding to the ground, 
 
 Ah, stern Diana ! 'twas his fav'rite hound ; 
 
 The rest yell round — his quiv'ring life is o'er, 
 
 Their fangs they dye deep in Actseon's gore. 
 
 Weep all ye dark-clad trees, lament yc now, 
 Hang tear-drops on your every leaf and bough ;
 
 lOG POEMS. 
 
 Ye llow'rs tliat saw tlic loved Actajon die, 
 Give deeper than your wont the fragrant sigli ; 
 Ye glist'ning dews that tremble on each spray, 
 Fall to the earth in drops of deep dismay. 
 Oh, lovely morn, of which I sang before, 
 Wear not the happy smile Avhicli then you wore : 
 Ye crystal springs, that murmui* as ye flow. 
 Give as ye glide proti'acted notes of woe. 
 Weep, every Dryad of the mourning wood, 
 Weep, ev'ry Faun, weep, ev'ry sylvan God; 
 Weep, ev'ry Nereid of the crystal rill. 
 And with your copious tears the stream o'ciiill. 
 Ye dark green cypress, hang your heads in grief, 
 Bid sorrow bend o'er ev'ry drooping leaf; 
 Ye warbling birds, let notes of joy be o'er. 
 Sing your complaint — Actajon is no more !
 
 COLUMBINE MAY-DAV. 107 
 
 COLUMBINE MAY-DAY. 
 &ong. 
 
 r. 
 
 COLUMBINE May-day, welcome art tliou, 
 Clusters of blossoms circle tliy brow ; 
 Brightly the Sun-God burnishes earth, 
 Lightly the chui'ch bells peal at thy birth ; 
 Dear one, fair one. Columbine sweet. 
 Dance, and the May flowers spring at thy feet. 
 
 II. 
 The streamlets reflect the blue of the sky, 
 And down in their depths seems a heaven to lie ; 
 Anon the light breezes ripple the stream. 
 Then the reflex is gone, like the breath of a dream. 
 Dear one, fair one. Columbine sweet, 
 Dance, and the May flowers spring at thy feet.
 
 108 POEMS. 
 
 in. 
 Harlequin Grecn-Spinng' comes with his wanil, 
 Spangled with dew-drops, seeking tliy hand; 
 His luscious young lips, love's lessons teach, 
 And kisses translate it better than speech ; 
 Dear one, fair one, Columbine gay. 
 Harlequin Green-Spring wins thee to-day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The gold-belted bee pretending he brings 
 A message of love on his mendicant wings. 
 Asks leave of the buds as a lover entreats 
 In the Slightest salute, then rifles their sweets : 
 
 Dear one, fair one, Columbine soon, 
 
 Thy garlands will drop in the lap of young June. 
 
 ' Vcrtuninus.
 
 SONG OF BACCHUS. 109 
 
 SONG OF BACCHUS. 
 
 TIME: EVENING GRADUALLY DRAWING TOWARDS NIGHT. THE M.ENADES 
 ARE SURROUNDING A RUSTIC SHRINK OF BACCHUS OFFERING LIBA- 
 TIONS, AND CHANTING TO HIS PRAISE. 
 
 THE fumes of ruby wine arise, 
 Sendiug the soul to light their eyes, 
 Around their temples tendrils cling, 
 Whilst their melodious voices sing 
 Praises of the sparkling wine. 
 And Evoe ! is the shout divine. 
 
 On, Bacchse on, my Msenades advance, 
 With ivory feet that twinkle in the dance : 
 With flowing tresses loosen'd to the wind. 
 With zone of ivy and the oak entwined ; 
 Choir of fair dames, raise your sweet voices high, 
 While Evoe, Evoe, is the joyful cry.
 
 110 POEMS. 
 
 Kiss with your snowy feet the grateful ground, 
 And wine, bright wine, shall instant flow around ; 
 In gurgling streamlets shall it course the plain, 
 And, whilst my orgies last, shall thei'C remain ; 
 So sweetly to the ev'ning bi'eezes fling 
 Your dulcet notes, and Evoe, Evoe, sing. 
 
 The dappled skins, across their shoulders thrown. 
 Wave as they dance, or kiss the smilax zone ; 
 The tliyrsus, circling in their lovely hand, 
 Brings milk or honey from the yielding land ; 
 No music's wanted save the silvery sound 
 Of Evoe, Evoe, which they breathe around. 
 
 The Fauns, delighted at the warbling strain. 
 Peep from their delves, and then withdraw ngain ; 
 The closiiiij flow'rets in their sholter'd beds 
 Re-opc their petals, and I'c-lift tlieir heads — 
 For could they seek repose whilst that soft song 
 Of Evoe ! on tlio air is borne alnnii. 
 
 f^ 
 
 The fumes of ruby wine arise. 
 Sending their soul to light their eyes ; 
 Around their temples tendrils cling. 
 Whilst their melodious voices sing
 
 SONG OF BACCHUS. Ill 
 
 Praises of the sparkling wine, 
 And Evoe ! is the shout divine. 
 
 But list — they know, sweet Msenados, I'm here. 
 Hark to their voices which enchant the air. 
 
 CHOEUS OP M^NADES. 
 
 Come, strew the earth with its heautiful flowers, 
 
 The twinking stars will peep ; 
 Apollo has qucnch'd his golden showers 
 
 Afar in the western deep. 
 
 {A voice heard.} 
 
 Softly change those quickly moving measures, 
 
 Dithyrambus hears the strain ; 
 Fling on his shrine your welcomed treasures. 
 
 Then resume those notes again. 
 
 Come, strew the earth with its beautiful flowers, 
 
 The twinkling stars will peep ; 
 Apollo has quench'd his golden showers 
 
 Afar in the western deep. 
 
 {A voice heard.)
 
 1 1 2 POEMS. 
 
 Again that sound is softly borne along, 
 
 List, Baccha?, list ! it is no mortal song ; 
 
 Raptured is Nature as the tuneful strain 
 
 Comes with the breezes o'er the fragrant plain ; 
 
 Is it a hymn to sweet departing day, 
 
 What are those dulcet notes, quick, Baccha?, say ? 
 
 It is our God accepts our rites divine. 
 Then pour the rich libations on his shrine; 
 Raise high in silver sounds the Bacchic lay. 
 While the sweet rites to Dithyrambus pay. 
 Press'd with the snowy hands the grape shall bleed, 
 And send its luscious fragance o'er the mead ; 
 Pour milk and honey, and the rich perfume 
 Crush'd from the spicy cassia in its bloom ; 
 Around the yew tree's vermeil berries fling. 
 And high in silver sounds of Bacchus sing ! 
 Oh ! happy Majnadcs, the God approves the lay, 
 Then high your voices raise in Bacchic symphony. 
 
 So, rest, Baccha?, rest ! the Pleiudes peep, 
 Like gems on the Persian vest ; 
 
 Bacchus will w.itcli wliilo his ]\I{)enades sleep, 
 And breezes will fan tliem to rest.
 
 POT-POURRI. 113 
 
 POT-POURRI. 
 
 A summer's day fable. 
 
 A LOVELY Rose, nor red nor white, 
 But of a tint between the two — 
 A tint to me more exquisite 
 
 For roses than all other hue, 
 And which lias beea described so well 
 As Hke the lining of a shell — 
 Indulged, within her lone retreat, 
 In converse with herself so sweet, 
 That passing near you would have thought 
 
 Amidst her leaves some summer sprite 
 His lingual lore in music taught. 
 
 And lay in ambush of delight. 
 And if you ask the reason why 
 
 This gift of speech so strangely given : 
 'Twas perhaps because, with loving sigh, 
 
 She asked the boon direct of Heaven. 
 
 I
 
 114 POEMS. 
 
 J3ut this I knoTv — she lived alone, 
 Away, away from other flowers ; 
 
 And maidens by themselves are prone 
 To spend as best they may the hours ; 
 
 To clear away their mental fog, 
 
 If need be, in a monologue. 
 
 And thus she spoke, one sunny day, 
 
 And I translate as best I may. 
 
 " I wonder that, with all my beauty. 
 In life I've no especial duty, 
 Except to feel that I am fair, 
 And idly scent the summer air. 
 Sure Nature never xneant that I 
 Should live in inutility : 
 Should never feel the longing gi'cod 
 To do at least one worthy deed. 
 I'm sure she cannot ; so suppose 
 I turn a missionary rose. 
 And try to make all flowers that blow 
 As good as I, or nearly so ; 
 To bid the children of the earth 
 Feel and lament their humble biith, 
 Reminding them from smallest seed 
 Magnolias spring — and yet the weed !
 
 POT-POUREI. li; 
 
 At all events, I'll try my power, 
 
 And send my belted knight, the bee, 
 
 With message to each floral bower, 
 And kiss of honey-dew from me : 
 
 To tell them I am not content 
 
 To live an useless ornament ; 
 
 But that I feel I ought to teach. 
 
 And from my leafy pulpit preach." 
 
 With this she paused, and, with a sigh, 
 Seem'd for a moment lost in thought ; 
 The while the wind, in passing by. 
 
 The music of her voice had cauffht. 
 And laughing up the sunlit vale, 
 Bid Echo echo forth the tale 
 How Rose, with lofty fervour fired, 
 Spoke 'midst her leaves like one inspii-ed. 
 But she, unconscious that the breeze 
 
 Had touch'd her lightly — then away, 
 Continued still, in words like these. 
 
 Her musical soliloquy. 
 Continued to rehearse the speech 
 By which she hoped to warn and teach : — 
 
 r 2
 
 JKj POEMS. 
 
 " Tlio Violets hide tlicir purple heads 
 Too bashfnlly within their beds ; 
 Courage exists with self-respect, 
 A tmth they seldom recollect, 
 
 " The Lilac's scent is sweet, no doubt, 
 But indiscreetly given out. 
 Exclusiveness is often good, 
 And maidens in a generous mood 
 :May grant too much : and thus to me 
 The Lilac might more prudent be. 
 
 " Then see the Lily, all in white, 
 Her dress is surely far too slight ; 
 What would censorious people say 
 Of evening costume worn by day ? 
 Wliat would they think if damsels all 
 Dress'd in the daytime for a ball ? 
 
 " As for Carnations— if they move 
 They have that vulgar scent of clove ! 
 And why do all their sisters think 
 It right to dress in staring pink ? 
 No tint is like the maiden's blush ; 
 Or even a still fainter flush,
 
 I'OT-PUUKKI. 117 
 
 Like that I wear, is best of all ; 
 For hues too bright the senses pall. 
 
 " Next look at that depeudent thing, 
 Ou stranger's aid compell'd to cling — 
 The tribe we called Convolvuli — 
 Who climb and twist, I know not why ; 
 Far better self-reliant be. 
 And grow alune ' in fancy free.' 
 
 " Talk of the Daisy's modest mien ! 
 A bolder minx was never seen ; 
 Think how she stares with all her might 
 Into the very face of light ! 
 
 " The Blue-bell hangs her pretty head 
 With modest gaze ; but then 'tis said 
 She droops the tender lid of truth 
 From some faux pas in early youth : 
 Some story how she shelter gave 
 To elfin renegade and slave. 
 Who, flying from Titania's sway. 
 Beheld her on his headlong way, 
 And, falling prostrate at her feet, 
 Awoke within her Ijelfry sncct
 
 118 POEMS. 
 
 A chime of love. Alas ! 'twas hai*d, 
 Thus only ending in an escapade. 
 
 " But this is scandal and a shame, 
 Though I know one I need not name, 
 Who, when the honey-bee's about, 
 Lets from her luscious prison out 
 Mellifluous scent ; and then when he 
 Alights to taste the luxury, 
 She shrinks and shrivels at the touch,^ 
 Assuming prudence over much : 
 Like some young damsel who pretends 
 To modesty beyond her friends. 
 
 " Then there's another even worse, 
 
 Whose very sweetness is a curse; 
 
 A female traitress in her ways, 
 
 Who smiling softly, yet betrays ; 
 
 Who opes her ripe, delicious lip, 
 
 And when Ephemera would sip 
 
 (Those pretty, gaudy, short-lived things 
 
 With little rainbows on their wings), 
 
 She bids them cuter her abode. 
 
 And baits with mead the treacherous road ; 
 
 ' Mimosa \r\\'(v
 
 POT-POURRI. 119 
 
 Then, once within, she letteth fall 
 Her ivory trap, and kills them all !* 
 
 " As for the Primrose, pretty dunce, 
 We all know what her hue was once, 
 But jealous of some idle fellow, 
 Woke in the morning all in yellow ! 
 
 " Ah me ! I might go on for ever. 
 
 And find some perfect flow'ret — never. 
 
 So now to put in force my plan 
 
 Of making converts where I can, 
 
 And showing to my sisterhood 
 
 The thorny path which leads to good." 
 
 How Rose would have fultill'd her task. 
 
 'Tis not for me to know or ask : 
 
 For chance ordain'd that near her grew 
 
 A plant with prickles sharp and fine, 
 A plant beloved by very few, 
 
 A sort of leafy porcupine, 
 A pungent acanaceous thing, 
 Which for a touch returns a sting ; 
 But, boldly grasp'd, no wound you'll get 
 (Like ills of life when bravely met). 
 ^ Venus's fly-trap.
 
 120 POEMS. 
 
 Well, he bad lieard the Rose enlarge 
 On foibles of the floral world, 
 
 And wi-athful at the shameful charge, 
 His prickly lips indignant curled. 
 
 And curling, thus in language bold 
 
 His mind to Rose too harshly told : 
 
 " Shame on you, maiden, for the view 
 
 You take of all those lovely flowers, 
 15(ini of the sunshine and the dew, 
 
 And cherish'd by the loving hours ! 
 Slianic for tin- niaiiy rifts you find, 
 
 Pretending that you praise the while. 
 Or, hinting errors undefined. 
 
 Stab with your censure as you smile ! 
 
 " Do you not know, with all your gi-ace 
 
 And all the fiagrance that you yield. 
 You come of a degenenite race, 
 
 The common dog-ro^e of the field ? 
 As tor yourself — of moon-rays born. 
 
 You w< re at first but passing fair. 
 Though, tinted by the crimson morn, 
 
 You owe your beauty to her care.
 
 POT-POURRI. 
 
 " Have you forgot the clays of yore, 
 
 The gentle, tender part you play'd, 
 When brother, red with bi'other's gore, 
 
 Of you their badge, and symbol made. 
 Ha ! ha ! you shrink, and well you may : 
 
 The names of Lancaster and York 
 Should fill your bosom with dismay, 
 
 And bid you tremble on your stalk ; 
 Then, if you please remember this 
 
 When next you speak in terms of scorn, 
 That when you give the slightest kiss, 
 
 You ever threaten with a thorn ! 
 Your beauty I could almost hate ; 
 
 And e'en your perfume's naught to me, 
 Since no attractions compensate 
 
 For absence of humility. 
 As for your blushes and your bloom, 
 
 Another truth I'll tell to you. 
 Try all you may, you'll ne'er assume 
 
 A single shade of lovely blue. 
 Why, even the Forget-me-not 
 
 And little Woodbine of the glade, 
 With azure beaixty paint the spot, 
 
 And love the sunshine or the shade. 
 
 121
 
 1 -JJ POEMS. 
 
 " And bright Cyfines 'midst the corn, 
 And meek Lobelia, growing near, 
 
 "Were both, oh, Rose, cerulean born, 
 And boast a garb you'll never wear. 
 
 So pray, vain maid, another time 
 
 Kespect your absent sisters' fame ; 
 
 Depreciation is a crime. 
 
 And hypercritics come to shame !" 
 
 Poor tender Rose ! through every leaf 
 
 She shudder'd at this stern address : 
 In all her life such poignant grief 
 
 Had never marr'd her loveliness. 
 In all her life she never heard 
 
 Such cruel lips so sternly speak ; 
 And like a frighten'd, fluttering bird, 
 
 She felt all powerless and weak. 
 So weak, that when she tried to say 
 
 She saw her fault, but yet must own 
 Such savage speech was not the way 
 
 To make a timid Rose atone, 
 She could not form her words aright, 
 
 And thrice essay 'd, but all in vain ; 
 Then in the arms of breezes light 
 
 She swooned in " aromatic pain :"
 
 POT-POURRI. 
 
 And fsxinting, fell upou the ground, 
 And scatter'd all her beauty there ; 
 
 And loving soft airs swept around 
 And wept a requiem for the fair. 
 
 And now her sweet leaves are embalm'd — 
 Oh, happy thought ! — embalm'd for me, 
 
 In life her tender beauty charm'd, 
 In death she lives in Pot-pourri. 
 
 123
 
 1 -1 I PDEMS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 I.'iicni.iJ liv JIk. Bki.i.i-.w at tiu; \Vi stijoui!Ni; IIai.i., am> 
 <>riii:u pi.AcKs. 
 
 IN broken notes of isuiuul, 
 The voice of distant bulls 
 Falls fitfully around, 
 
 Burno o'er the rimey dells. 
 
 Anon in wailin": tunes 
 
 It breaks against the breeze, 
 Or in sad accents moans 
 
 Amidst the shiveiing trees. 
 
 In fragments o'er the glades 
 
 It falls, or floats aloft ; 
 Then tremulously fades 
 In echoes low and soft.
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 125 
 
 But other, nearer chimes, 
 In laughing octaves run, 
 
 In memory of old times, 
 
 And what the days have done. 
 
 Then changing, clang and wail, 
 Up in their pi'ison high, 
 
 And sob, and groan, and rail, 
 At their captivity. 
 
 Ringing : — flinging wild notes everywhere ! 
 Clanging :— hanging discord in the air ! 
 Chiming : — rhyming words from brazen throat ! 
 Pealing : — stealing o'er the meadows and the moat ! 
 Dying : — sighing gently as a child ! 
 Floating : — gloating o'er their tumult wild ! 
 Swinging : — springing suddenly to life ! 
 Surging : — urging nature into strife ! 
 Laughing : — quaffing the sweet and eager air ! 
 Groaning : — moaning in a weird note of despair I 
 
 Yes, how they sigh. 
 And seem to die,
 
 I'JG POEMS. 
 
 But like expii-ing ember, 
 At slightest bi-eath, 
 They leap from death, 
 
 And wrestle with December. 
 
 Oh, 'tis strange, 
 
 How they chaii;,'0. 
 In rhythmus and in measure. 
 
 Now tolling sad, 
 
 Now almost mad, 
 With throbbing pulse of pleasure. 
 
 But not long thus, — the ringers soon 
 "Will catch the proper metre. 
 
 Staccato first ; then rippling tune 
 Grows every moment sweeter. 
 
 Away, away, the music flics. 
 
 O'er mead, and wold, and river, 
 
 Arpeggio movement shakes the skies. 
 And makes the belfry quiver. 
 
 Away, away, the cheerful sound, 
 Flics with its Christmas greeting, 
 
 AjkI laughs along the icy ground, 
 Wlicrc siiiiwih'ops pjilc arc peeping.
 
 CHISTMAS BELLS. 127 
 
 Tlio Crocus hearing chimes of mirth, 
 
 Puts on her brightest yellow, 
 What cares she for the frosty earth, 
 
 When peals ring out so mellow. 
 
 The blackbird, in a love-lorn mood, 
 
 Is pecking at red berries, 
 But hark ! those joy bells make her food 
 
 As sweet as summer cherries. 
 
 In truth all Nature hears the strains, 
 With heart of honest gladness ; 
 
 They ring surcease of human pains. 
 And ring — a death to sadness. 
 
 They ring of friendship, and the grasp 
 Of hands in manly greeting ; 
 
 They ring the softer tender clasp 
 Of Love and Psyche meeting. 
 
 They ring oblivion of the years 
 Whose sunset was in sorrow ; 
 
 They drown in waves of sound, the fears 
 That cloud the dawn to-morrow.
 
 128 POEMS. 
 
 Tliey ring the affluent table s])read, 
 They ving of that sweet maiden, 
 
 Who comes witli modest silent tread, 
 Witli gifts for pdor folk laden. 
 
 They ring in tones more sweet than all. 
 Of Hopes the Cross has given, 
 
 And then their glad notes rise and fall, 
 Lilce Christmas bells in Heaven.
 
 I'o AND ECHO. 12l.> 
 
 10 AND ECHO. 
 
 STROPHE. 
 
 10, sweet nympli ! each grace that could adorn 
 Was given to thee, that e'en high Jove 
 Felt the sharp pangs of burning love, 
 And bade thee quick to Lerna's gi'ove : 
 But all his wishes thou repaid' st with scorn. — 
 
 Sweet suffering maid ! still Juno's vengeful eye 
 Mark'd thee the victim of her jealousy; 
 Argus, carth-boi'n, was sent to keep 
 Watch on thy ways, till lull'd to sleep 
 By Mercury's soft treach'rous strain, 
 Which closed his hundred eyes, and he was slain : 
 But still, sweet 15, still not free from pain. 
 
 Sent from thy father's peaceful home, 
 In heifer's form compelled to roam. 
 Tortured by the brize's sting. 
 Which followed sHU thy wandering. 
 
 K
 
 l:;u POEMS. 
 
 ANTISTKOPIIE. 
 
 Daughter of Inaclius, destined to bear 
 A progeny begot by heavenly Jove, 
 Still dost thou shed the peace-consuming tear ? 
 SLiil iu the yviitlu heifer's form dost move? 
 Sweet 1(3, no, 
 Thy time of Avoe 
 Expired by iS'ile Canopic ; thus 
 
 From thy sad stormy passage there 
 The strait was call'd the Bosporus,^ 
 
 And changed the term of ancient Kliea, 
 Which gulf in after-times shall be 
 
 Called from thy course tlT Ionian sea. 
 
 Of 16, sweetest lo, sing, 
 To lo tune the trembling string, 
 For 16 pour the tuneful song. 
 Borne on Ionian winds along, 
 'Till Echo wakes and gives again 
 Softly back the warbled strain. 
 
 ' Bosporus -jjassage of tin; liiifrr.— I'iilr. rioinclheiis Cliuineil.
 
 10 AND ECHO. 131 
 
 EPODE. 
 
 All, Echo, ah ! thy voice from out that dell 
 
 Tells how Love's dart once made thy bosom bleed, 
 And then soft sighs from out that bosom fell 
 That wafted fragrance to the flow'ry mead. 
 But now, alas ! thy voice alone remains, 
 A sad memorial of thy love-made pains. 
 N"ai'cissus sigh'd, but not for thee ; 
 Enamour'd of himself was he : 
 While gazing in the limpid brook 
 Himself for some soft N'aiiid took. 
 Each time he stoop'd, she nearer came, 
 
 And almost kiss'd his vermeil lip ; 
 When he withdrew — she did the same, 
 Then near'd, as he approach'd to dip 
 His arms t' embrace the image there. 
 Poor youth ! the dancing stream, 
 Gilded by Apollo's beam, 
 And heedless of his heart-born tear, 
 Reflected fair Narcissus' charms, 
 But yielded not the shadow to his arms. 
 Still pined he on, till soft compassion came 
 And changed him to a lovely flower, 
 
 K 2
 
 132 POKMS. 
 
 Wliicb to this day still bears his name, 
 
 And gives in summer's even hour, 
 A perfume such as forth he sigh'd, 
 When his o\vn iniaue his embrace denied. 
 But sorrow came to Echo's heart ; 
 
 E'en Time, that healer of all pain, 
 Could not assuage the rankling smart. 
 He tried his power, but tried in vain. 
 She sorrow 'd on — and like some lovely flower, 
 Drooping for want of sunshine and tbe shower, 
 Sicfh'd forth her life — but such true love 
 
 Could not without memorial be. 
 And so in ev'ry dell and grove 
 Is Echo's sweetest harmony. 
 In after-times, as now, her voice will still reply 
 To ev'ry tuneful note, to ev'ry lover's sigh. 
 And now she wakes to 16's praise, 
 Responsive to the choral lays : 
 Ev'ry dingle, ev'ry dell, 
 Ev'ry fragrant heather bell. 
 Hears soft Echo sweet reply, 
 And dearly loves the minstrelsy.
 
 DELAT. 133 
 
 DELAY. 
 
 ©ong. 
 
 THE goldeu hours are fleeting, Jane ; 
 The summer sweets are on the wane ; 
 Witli brown Is tinged the waving grain, 
 
 Then why, why delay ? 
 There's danger in the word, my love, 
 For life must ever onward move ; 
 Its sands this truth too surely prove. 
 By running out alway. 
 
 The fruit is on the bending bough. 
 
 But buds were there when first my vow. 
 
 Was breathed to thee. Then answered'st thou- 
 
 There shall be no delay. 
 Yet feather'd broods since then have flown, 
 The blackbird sings with mellow'd tone. 
 The fir-tree drops its dusky cone. 
 
 Full over-ripe to-day.
 
 \[i4 POEMS. 
 
 The soft air rustles through the wheat, 
 As though to test, by contact sweet 
 If Autumn will its task complete. 
 
 To ripen — not delay. 
 Amidst tlic stems, the corn-flowers lie, 
 Their blue eyes watching poppies nigh ; 
 But neither bloom'd, dear love, when I 
 
 Confess'd to thee in May. 
 
 Come, an thou lov'st me, come with me ; 
 The bells shall wake with marriage glee. 
 The clerk and parson clink their fee, 
 
 And both of them shall say : 
 " Was ever such poor guerdon given 
 For licensing a man to Heaven ; 
 But bless them both, for they have riven 
 
 The monster called— Delay. "
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 135 
 
 T 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 HE light is waning, and the evening air 
 X Bids his loved flow'rets for the night prepare ; 
 He roves amidst their petal cups, and sips 
 The sweetest kisses from their dewy lips ; 
 Or wipes the tear-drops from the lily's eyes, 
 Or gathers odours as he onward flies ; 
 Then rustling through the trees a last " good-bye," 
 Fades in the cadence of a plaintive sigh. 
 The belted bee, with treasures all oppress'd. 
 Unloads his sweets at home, and then — to rest ; 
 The songsters hood- wing all their pretty heads, 
 Snugly within their own made feather-beds ; 
 But haply some lone robin wakes a strain, 
 A hymn forgot — then folds his head again 
 Within the lining of his soft warm wing, 
 Bid by his mate mayhap to sleep, not sing.
 
 136 putiis. 
 
 The bat on velvet pinion flits unheard, 
 
 Uneartlily as the phantom of a bird. 
 
 The distant streamlet, like a serpent lies, 
 
 Torpid and dark, until the moon shall rise, 
 
 Then, like a glist'ning snake, 'twill onward glido 
 
 Its scales, the ripples of the silver tide. 
 
 Both day and night, oh ! twilight, own your charms, 
 
 For as the day sinks gently in your arms, 
 
 Yoa greet her with the perfume of your breath. 
 
 And reconcile her to a fragrant death ; 
 
 While on the other hand the night you greet 
 
 "With dewy spangles, and an odorous treat 
 
 Ton spread upon the cai-pet of the earth. 
 
 Sighing o'er death, yet welcoming a birth ! 
 
 Thus blending light and darkness into one, 
 
 The shadows deepen, and the hours steal on ; 
 
 The dew-drops — tears for the departed day — 
 
 You change to gems for night's nativity.
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 137 
 
 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 Set to Music by T. P. Knight. 
 
 %ong. 
 
 I. 
 
 PALE daughter of the snow arise, 
 Awake to life with wondering eyes, 
 For ice-bound is thine home ; 
 On every side bright prisms gleam, 
 The drift lies soft in winter's beam, 
 A sea of sleeping foam. 
 
 II. 
 Thou bloomest w^hile thy sister flowers, 
 Await the warm and gala hours 
 
 Of almond-scented May : 
 And in thy rube of dainty white, 
 As if 'twere made of frozen li'^ht, 
 
 Smil'st on the shivering day.
 
 138 I'OEMS. 
 
 III. 
 A spear of ice on spray and stem 
 Is there to guard each lustrons gem 
 
 Wliicli flames in sunset's glow. 
 J}ut l./io' art bending to\\'ards the earth 
 In marvel at thy magic birth, 
 A flow 'ret from the snow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When Nature in her sternest mood 
 Form'd rugged winter harsh and rude 
 
 She smiled ; for thou wert born ; 
 But when in after-times she bade 
 The summer sunlight flash the glade 
 
 She sigh'd ; for thou wert gone ! 
 
 V. 
 
 So Nature's tender child arise ; 
 While floating from the tranquil skies 
 
 The snow-flakes fall around. 
 Arise ! and take thy destined place 
 An afterthouglit of Nature's grace 
 
 To deck the frozen ground.
 
 TO ILIA. 139 
 
 P 
 
 TO ILIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 LACE tliat crystal cup of wine 
 
 Near the taper burning bright ; 
 See, a ruddy light doth shine, 
 
 A ruby with a heart of liglit. 
 
 II. 
 Every time the golden flarue 
 
 Wavers to the evening air, 
 The crimson shadow does the same. 
 
 Dancing here, and dancing there. 
 
 III. 
 Haste, my love, with Chian wine, 
 
 The taper is the beaming soul ; 
 The glow it casts are thoughts divine. 
 
 Darling Ilia, fill the bowl.
 
 14.0 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When thy sighs of soft desire 
 
 Stir the roses round my brow, 
 
 My senses quiver, and a tire 
 
 Dances through my veins as now. 
 
 V. 
 
 Grapes shall weep with luscious tear. 
 The soul of love shall ravish'd be ; 
 
 Ravish'd by tbe Tcian air, 
 
 In Lydian accents sung by thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 To-night I drain the chalice deep. 
 
 To Scythian^ measure quaffing free ; 
 
 To-night the Byblian vine shall weep 
 To strains Ionic sung by thee. 
 
 ' The Scythians were noted for their deep potations.
 
 IPHIGENIA. 
 
 141 
 
 I P H I G E N I A. 
 
 AGAMEMNOX. 
 
 STERN the decree which dooms a lovely child 
 To pour her life-blood on the reekin^ shrine, 
 All stain'd by bestial blood. Oh, ye just Gods, 
 They call thee chaste Diana ; sure thy heart 
 Ne'er warm'd with love, or couldst thou thus command 
 A maiden's blood, thy anger to assuage ? 
 I would not be irreverent, but sure 
 The chastity of mind lies not in this. 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 And yet all Aulis breathes with pestilence ; 
 
 E'en to Euboea the foul air extends, 
 
 And Boreas by ^olus is sent 
 
 To spread the dank contagion 'mongst our troops ; 
 
 For dainty Zephyr on his di-ooping wing, 
 
 Would sickou ore he fann'd the noxious breeze
 
 142 POEMS. 
 
 Which sends its bh's-htintr breath o'er all Bceotia. 
 
 Tlien canst thou pause, when by a woman's death 
 
 These ills may be averted, and the waves, 
 
 Which like the Cyclops' hammers beat against 
 
 Our rending ships, be calm'd ? Hast thou forgot 
 
 The deep dishonour by young Paris done 
 
 To th' Atridje's name, when at the court 
 
 Of injured Menelaus entertained ! 
 
 Can then the Gen'ral of the Grecian troops. 
 
 Whose duty 'tis to urge them on to battle. 
 
 Pause for an instant while disorder rages 
 
 Amongst the very men he has to lead, 
 
 Whilst quick prevention of these ills is his ? — 
 
 Ke-kindle all thy soul's most noble blood, 
 
 For oh ! remember, Agamemnon's name 
 
 Is one that must descend to after-ages, 
 
 With fame immorial, nor meriting the taunt 
 
 Tliat soft alFection in his nerveless hcai-t, 
 
 Bade linger with disease the Grecian Iiosts ! 
 
 ACAMKMXUN. 
 
 Enough — no more is wanting, and my heart 
 Casts off a father's love, and cases it 
 In iron. Go bid the garlands be entAvined 
 To deck th(; victim, let libations press'd
 
 IPHIGENIA. 143 
 
 From earth's best fruits, be on the altar pour'd; 
 Despatch too by the swiftest birds the news 
 To Clytemnestra of her daughter's death. 
 No more — I pray no more ; my firm resolve 
 Hath pass'd, and take advantage of my will, 
 Or recollection of my sweet child's form 
 Will rush all o'er my heart, to make me snatch 
 The victim ere her blood shall purify, 
 The beast- stain' d altar where she trembling lies. 
 
 (Chorus of officiating Dames. Ijphigenia hoimd on the alUir.) 
 
 The blood of Agamemnon must be shed, 
 
 Ere stern Diana stays the foul disease, 
 And thus his daughter to the knife is led, 
 
 By death the virgin Goddess to appease. 
 Oh, sad our office, for so sweet a maid 
 Was ne'er before upon this altar laid. 
 Fair and as pure as sweet Castalia's stream, 
 How quickly vanish'd is thy young life's dream. 
 
 Thy trembling resignation more, disarms 
 Our woful duty, than the piercing cries 
 Which erst have sounded to the vaulted skies ; 
 
 Oh, dreadful task to violate such charms ! 
 The Oracle could scarce the tear refrain 
 
 When first the stern decree he gave.
 
 1 -14 POEMS. 
 
 And sliOAvM bj every sii^-n liis pnin. 
 
 Jlnf tliat, alns ! that conld not save 
 Thy sweet young hfo, or make the hard decree, 
 Take from thy heart its load of misery. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Come, maidens, cease these useless tears, 
 
 ITer doom hath passM. mid wc no choice hnvc left 
 
 Whilst we give wn_v to tronil)ling fears, 
 Of strength of purpose is the soul bereft. 
 
 Prepare we then, 'tis vain t' attempt to keep 
 
 The shrinking victim from eternal sleep ; 
 
 And Avhen stern fate's decree is pass'd — 'tis wrong 
 
 By slow suspense the evil to prolong. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Ah, what is this ! a lovely dappled hind 
 
 Entwined within the sacrificial braid ! 
 Oh, gen'roHS Goddess, the exchange is kind, 
 
 For none hath sent this but tlu> huntress-maid. 
 The bcaut'ous victim with the snow-white breast, 
 
 Whir-h heaved uneven with her trendiling lifo^ 
 Jlatii now in Taurica's fair dome a rest; 
 
 How Tienr tli' escape from Atropos's knife !
 
 IPHIGENIA. 145 
 
 Sweet virgin Goddess of the silver bow, 
 
 Whose hair is braided lest the wanton wind 
 Should bid unlicensed thy bright tresses flow, 
 Unpleasing symbol to thy chasten'd mind ; 
 
 But lovely huntress, in thy train appear 
 
 The Oceanides with flowing hair. 
 
 Their golden tresses unconfined, 
 
 Stream as they chase the fleeting hind ; 
 A fitting difference 'tween a Goddess born, 
 And those who only her sweet train adorn. 
 
 Then high in measured cadence raise 
 
 The gentlest, sweetest, choral lays ; 
 
 Sweet fragrance on the altar fling, 
 
 In undulating measure sing 
 To chaste Diana's praise.
 
 14(3 POKMS. 
 
 D' 
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 ^EAR scented May, 
 This season, pray, 
 Come deck'd in gear 
 Wliicli suits the year ; 
 For you, 
 In lieu 
 Of green and blossom'd dress, 
 
 Arrive too oft en deshabille, 
 And look so comfortless, 
 
 We feel 
 Tluit you've been made 
 
 An April fool, 
 And thus have come array'd 
 In dress too cool. 
 If this year thus — I pray you quick return — 
 
 To day's the lirst, it is noi many miles — 
 Cjo back, young ]\Iay, and do in future learn 
 To dress yourscll in waiin and sunny smiles.
 
 MAT-DAY. 147 
 
 But now presuming that you're really May, 
 Clad in your brightest and your best array ; 
 Presuming you are such — then let me sing 
 One verse to you and to the sweets you bring : 
 
 Dear scented May ! 
 
 Oh ! how we love 
 
 The mossy way ; 
 
 And as we move, 
 To feel it gently yielding to the tread, 
 Wliile ev'ry daisy rears its saucy head. 
 
 As though the step had been a kiss ; 
 !N^ot e'en a fleecy cloud obscures the sky, 
 So deep and blue it seems, as though the eye 
 
 Could penetrate the realms of bliss. 
 The perfume rises from the sweet woodbine. 
 The dew-drop glistens on the eglantine, 
 The songsters, 'midst the fresh-clad trees, 
 Are pouring forth their happy melodies ! 
 The insect world is busy on its wing, 
 And hums its notes of welcome to the Spring. 
 All Nature smiles with happy life ; 
 
 The very au* is rife 
 With living myriads all newly born, 
 To only Inst the sunshine of the morn. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 POEMS. 
 
 The sheep-bell tinkles on the distant hill, 
 The sunlight quivers on the dancing rill, 
 The cuckoo's note is borne upon the air, 
 And ev'ry feather'd husband starts with fear ! 
 The swallow twitters on his sunny wing, 
 The lark and thrush in emulation sing, 
 The one, ambitious, warblrs to the sky. 
 The other wakes the grove with harmony. 
 ITark to the ringing of the village bells: 
 The sound now dies away, now softly swells :- 
 A maiden's voice upon the liglit air floats, 
 Alas ! too far to catch the tuneful notes : 
 But no — again they come upon the breeze. 
 And reach the car subdiied in tones like these 
 
 All tlio eartli is smiling, 
 
 Tlie sun with cheerful ray, 
 O'er hill aiid dale is shining 
 
 With brighter light to-day ; 
 Tlic skylark is adoi-ing 
 
 The beauty of the morn — 
 To " Heaven's gate" he's soaring, 
 
 Proclaiming — !^[ay is born.
 
 MAY- DAY. 
 
 149 
 
 The daffodil is i-earing 
 
 Her srold and scented head ; 
 
 The cowslip is appearing 
 
 From her sweet and leafy bed. 
 
 True, the violet now is fading, 
 
 But, tender to the last, 
 
 Her own fresh leaves are shading. 
 The beauty which is past. 
 
 The happy birds are winging 
 
 Their bright and tuneful way ; 
 In chorus they are singing 
 
 May's natal roundelay : 
 Soft echoes are replying, 
 
 And each take up the strain, 
 While just as they dying, 
 
 The birds sing forth again. 
 
 Country ! I loved thee from my very soul, 
 And worshipp'd Nature second to my God. 
 
 Oh ! for those hours again, when once I stole 
 Out to the silent night, and gazing stood.
 
 1 OO POEMS. 
 
 Enraptured 'iicatli the Summer star-lit sky, 
 
 And child-like thinking that my feeble prayer 
 Would sooner reach the azure canopy, 
 
 Because no sound disturb'd its passage there. 
 Country ! I loved thee — and that happy time 
 
 In mem'ry lives to bid me love thee yet. 
 Yes, Country ! Nature ! still I call thee mine, 
 
 And all thy beauties will I ne'er forget ; 
 For recollection comes on fancy's wings. 
 
 Laden with bygone scenes of happy hours, 
 And 'mid the tumult of a city brings 
 
 Thy shady glades — the perfume of thy flowers. 
 But now no more of this — reader forgive 
 
 The short lament I could not well suppress. 
 And add one sigh to mine, if you, too, live 
 
 Far from the scenes of rural loveliness. 
 
 Dear scented, now half-pouting May, 
 
 I see you deem 
 'J'hat I furget your natal day. 
 And idly dream. 
 Instead of singing of your beauty Lriglit — 
 Dear one, digression is the Poet's right.
 
 MAY-DAT. 151 
 
 I've spoken of you, May, when morning's prime 
 
 And morning's golden rays your sweets reveal ; 
 When gaily at your birth the church bells chime 
 
 To welcome you with many a merry peal. 
 But now the hour is changed, and star-light throws 
 
 A veil of soften'd brightness o'er your face ; 
 All Nature, hush'd, has sunk into repose, 
 
 For night comes gently on with stealthy pace : 
 The sky grows studded with a thousand gems 
 
 To glow a short while in the firmament ; 
 The flowers are crown'd with dewy diadems 
 
 Bestow'd by ev'ning for their fragrant scent; 
 The moon is rising o'er the sleeping scene. 
 
 And one by one the stars withdraw their light, 
 They dare not shine so brightly when their Queen 
 
 Ascends her throne, to rule the realms of night. 
 So now, dear May, sleep gently, sweetly on — 
 
 The bright Night folds you in his fond embrace ; 
 The breezes of the day to rest are gone, 
 
 And perfumed air alone floats o'er your face.
 
 1.52 POEMS. 
 
 SPRING-TIME TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 ©ong. 
 
 I. 
 
 AWAKE ! awake ! fair flowers arise, 
 The sun around is beaming. 
 Arise ! awake ! in sweet surprise, 
 
 And wonder at your dreaming. 
 
 II. 
 
 Too long earth's loving anodyne 
 
 Hath steep'd your lids in slumber. 
 
 Arise ! awake ! to Hfc divine 
 
 With sweets the earth encumber. 
 
 III. 
 And what your dreams ? Ah ! who may know 
 
 What flow'rcts think while sleeping ? 
 But, perhaps, tlic niglit-wiiul, .sighing low. 
 
 Your secrets strict is keeping?
 
 SPRING-TIME TO THE FLOWERS. 
 IV. 
 
 And lie could say : in dreams you see 
 Some spot all fair and sunny, 
 
 Where, like a tiny hawk, the bee 
 Is poised to swoop on honey ; 
 
 y. 
 
 And that in slumber you distil 
 
 Such fragrance for the rover, 
 
 That, though he comes to rob or kill, 
 He stays — your humble lover ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 But useless is surmise or guess ; 
 
 For now the waiting hours 
 Are ready, with a gala dress, 
 
 To deck their darling flowers. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Are ready, with a fragrance rare. 
 To consecrate your beauty ; 
 
 And tell you that, to look so fair, 
 Is simple act of duty. 
 
 153
 
 154 POEMS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Your tender green, and lilac pale, 
 And odours, all were given 
 
 For spring-time, and the winged gale 
 
 Wliicli wafts a word from Heaven. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A word to say, wlicn Eden's gate 
 Shut out the world for ever : 
 
 Man's lot had been too desolate, 
 
 Compcll'd from flowers to sever. 
 
 X. 
 
 And so the edict pass'd that you. 
 Your primal grace assuming, 
 
 Should smile on earth, with scent and hue 
 As when in Eden blooming.
 
 " o 
 
 SABBATH DAY AT SEA." 155 
 
 " SABBATH DAY AT SEA." 
 
 Set to Mu.sic by J. P. Knight. Sung by Mr. Santley. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHO could believe the restless sea, 
 Tlie stormy, wild, mid booming ocean, 
 Could rest to-day, and seem to be 
 
 A sky without a cloud or motion ? 
 
 II, 
 Who could believe the awful deep, 
 
 That tells of wreck, and death, and plunder, 
 To-day can like an infant sleejj. 
 
 Yet wake to-morrow in its thunder? 
 
 III. 
 But, hark ! a diapason rolls 
 
 From human lips to list'ning Heav'n, 
 The solemn thanks of human souls, 
 
 For safety 'mid their dangers giv'n.
 
 150   POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tes, «pward from that distant speck, 
 
 With sail and spars in trim perfection, 
 
 Ascends a sound from forth tlie deck, 
 
 The sailor's voice for God's protection ; 
 
 V. 
 
 For 'tis the Sabbath Day at sea, 
 
 And pray'rs are o'er the waters stealing ; 
 The brave, the hardy, and the free, 
 
 Who never knelt to man, are kneeling.
 
 DOUBTS AND FEARS. 167 
 
 DOUBTS AND FEARS. 
 
 To L. N. 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE is one who has heard with anguish and sorrow, 
 That ihness has bhghted your bloom for awhile; 
 And is it not strange that a shadow should follow, 
 So soon the dear light of thy beautiful smile ? 
 
 II. 
 There is one who will gather from fond recollection, 
 
 And wear it for ever a blossom of joy, 
 A joy so delicious, e'en after reflection 
 
 May sober its rapture, but never destroy. 
 
 III. 
 There are many around us whose natures can never. 
 
 Assimilate love with the sensitive soul ; 
 The refined emanation escapes them for ever, 
 
 They only discover the lees in tlip bowl.
 
 158 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But the poet wlio dwells in the region of feeling, 
 
 Doth siiblimate love to a spirit so fine, 
 That he trusts to the soul without lanffuatjc revealing, 
 
 Its presence, its truth, and its essence divine. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet mingled with ecstasy, doubt, and dejection, 
 Arise like a cloud o'er the star of our trust. 
 
 And turn the sweet blossoms of love and affection, 
 To fniit of the desert, which crumbles to dust. 
 
 VI. 
 And must I believe that the words which were spoken. 
 
 Arc formless as motes in the beam of tlic sun ; 
 Is the clialice you sweeten'd, uncarcd for or broken. 
 
 Is all its aroma, rejected or gone H 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah, let me remember that exquisite hour, 
 As one you forbid me on Lethe to cast ; 
 
 And let it re-blossom a love-civiiifr flower, 
 Its fiiiit in the future, its roots in the past.
 
 ADDRESS. 159 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 SPOKEX AT MISS KELLY's THKATRE, ON THK OCCASION' OK A PKR- 
 FORMANCE IN AID OF THE ITALIAX SCHOOLS IX ENGLAND. 
 
 FORMS of eternal beauty haunt the mind 
 Whene'er we breathe the name of Italy ; 
 And Art low bends her head in reverence, 
 Although a tear-drop trembles on her lid 
 In memory of the present and its fruits. 
 Oh, what a debt of gratitude we owe 
 To that fair land, whose sky hath canopied 
 The birthplace of a race of mighty men, 
 Whose souls were breathed, and stand in adamant. 
 The Lares and Penates of our homes, 
 Are at this moment models of her eift ; 
 While form, and colour, outline, and design, 
 Are group'd in harmony within our halls. 
 How can the dainty connoisseur repay 
 The debt he owes for luxuries of vision ? 
 How cnn the Sapplios of our modern times,
 
 160 POEMS. 
 
 "SVTiose thrilling notes awake au atmosphere 
 
 Of silence round, evince their souls' emotion ? 
 
 How can the dwellers in»the world of Ai-t, 
 
 The painters and the sculptors of the day, 
 
 Speak of their masters, giant spirits gone, 
 
 In language adequate ; or how the poet sing, 
 
 And not nplift the flood-gates of his thanks, 
 
 Wlicn shades of Dante, Ariosto, rise 
 
 And bid him strive by ever-daring thought 
 
 And sweetest song, their sti'ains to emulate ? 
 
 How can the lover, lost in halcyon dreams. 
 
 Approach the beauteous vortex of his love, 
 
 Unversed in something of that eloquence 
 
 Which glow'd when Peti'arch woke his Laura's name 
 
 In language born of Passion's melody ? 
 
 In saddest truth, tlien, one and all, oh ! say, 
 
 How can the stirring Present render back 
 
 The debt bequeath'd l\v the groat sleeping Past? 
 
 A thousand tongues could never answer us, 
 
 Were every tongue exponent of a heart 
 
 Of lovc! and gratitude ; but still, if humbly we 
 
 Attempt to pay the swelling interest. 
 
 And that alone, 'twere something to achieve. 
 
 With this inten(, in all due diffidence, 
 
 Wo don to-night a plumage not oiii- own,
 
 ADDRESS. 161 
 
 And flutter in a mimic world awhile : 
 
 But since we hope, by not ungraceful mirth, 
 
 To move ye to applause, our best reward. 
 
 Oh, let the smiles eradiate from hearts, 
 
 Not lips alone ; for we assemble here 
 
 To fill the urn which Charity presents, 
 
 And swell the coffers of a holy cause. 
 
 Yes, we are here, to gather by your aid 
 
 The golden fruit which pastimes innocent 
 
 May shake from boughs of mirth ; and laying them 
 
 In childhood's lap, augment the stores which give 
 
 The sons and daughters of fair Italy, 
 
 Who live exotics in our northern home, 
 
 The impulse of instruction ; so that they. 
 
 The oifspring of the good and great, may learn, 
 
 The value of their rich inheritance. 
 
 Thus blended in their hearts a radiaiit hope. 
 
 With soften'd memory, it were not vain 
 
 To deem that glories of a brilliant Past 
 
 May guide their energies to rise afresh. 
 
 The sun, when bathed at eve in golden light. 
 Appears to plunge in shades of endless niglit ; 
 But — happy truth — it is the setting raj 
 Doth fringe the vesture of another day. 
 
 M
 
 lt;-J I'OKMS. 
 
 T 
 
 THE CARRION CROW. 
 
 rpHE Carrion Crow is tlie bird for me, 
 As he sits aloft on the gibbet tree ; 
 He maketh his food of the fest'ring dead, 
 With bleacliiug bones he niuketh his bed ; 
 With carrion flesh he crarameth his maw, 
 And lie gobbles it down with his 
 
 Caw ! Caw ! 
 
 The Carrion Crow is the bird for me, 
 
 ] Tow I love his sleek black poll to sec. 
 
 His fine bright eye it standeth out, 
 
 And he markcth well what the worms are about. 
 
 He needeth no cook, for his food is raw, 
 
 Hut he sayeth his grace with liis 
 
 Caw! Caw! 
 
 L<Jok at his plnniagc, black as jet ; 
 Look at his l)eak, so sti'oiigly set;
 
 THE CARRION CROW. 163 
 
 Like a hammer descending on flinty stones, 
 So he rappeth his bill against echoing bones ; 
 He maketh a sound, but he maketh no flaw, 
 For he dives in the flesh with his 
 
 Caw ! Caw ! 
 
 In the noonday sun he taketh his nap, 
 And he wakes to renew his tap, tap, tap ; 
 Again he hops to his carrion feast. 
 To surfeit again on some mouldering beast ; 
 He picks out the flesh of the crumbHng jaw, 
 And he whitens the skulls with his 
 
 Caw ! Caw ! 
 
 Time passes on, still the carrion bird 
 By his croaking cry in the night is heard. 
 Still he fatteneth well on cariion meat, 
 Still the gibbet top is his constant seat ; 
 Ages pass on, and changed is the law. 
 But he flourishes on with his 
 
 Caw ! Caw ! 
 
 M 2
 
 164 POEMS. 
 
 A PROPHECY. 
 
 [The followiiifj lines were written at the time when the marriage of 
 the Queen of Spain occupied the attention of Europe, and were pub- 
 lished at that period] : — 
 
 A MAIDEN desolate within her chamber wept. 
 " Oh God !" she cried, "why is this sacrifice ? 
 I seek no throne, no state, and (jnly ask 
 A woman's privilege to male my heart. 
 Oh, that he came to seize mine heritage 
 By force of arms and with intent declared. 
 But no ! he looks in dim futurity, 
 And seeing but the outline of a dream 
 That son begot by him shall wear Spain's crown, 
 Makes me the victim of his lust of power. 
 To-morrow, at the altar of high God 
 lie bids me kneel, and with a faltering tongue 
 I'refjicu by perjury lliis body's wrongs. 
 Alas ! this wide wurld oll'crs me no friend. 
 And Nature outraged l)i(ls a niothei-'s form
 
 A PKOPHECT. 165 
 
 Come clad in terrors seconding my doom. 
 
 Oh ! Heaven of mercy, if to-morrow's sun 
 
 Must rise once more upon this life of woe, 
 
 Void of all chances t' avert my doom, 
 
 Then must I humbly bend to thy decree ! 
 
 But with the certainty these tears are seen, 
 
 And that an agony so exquisite 
 
 Pierces the vaulted dome on high, and brings 
 
 A retribution soon and terrible," 
 
 She said, and down her cheek the large tears roll'd 
 
 In sobs of agony, and robed in grief, 
 
 The morrow brought no sunshine to her heart. 
 
 The dreadful pageantry, in proper course 
 
 Was duly chronicled ; and on the self-same eve 
 
 A mystic hght shone o'er the Tuileries, 
 
 Tlie culmination of the Bowhon star.
 
 A SUMMER'S TALE OF VEMCE. 
 
 %. graiira, in dhtce ^.tts.
 
 A SUMMER'S TALE OF VENICE, 
 a Drama, in 'Cfirce acts. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Venice. An open Space. 
 
 Enter Anselmo and Vitale. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Anselmo ! why thou art completely changed 
 From sunny spring to sombre autumn's time : 
 And all thy blossoms, which were wit and mirth, 
 Are prematurely turn'd to bitter fruit 
 Of sighs and groans ; and all this done by love ! 
 If love be ever thus, then Heaven forfend 
 That love should visit one I count a friend.
 
 170 A SUMMKK'S tale of VENICE. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Yes, it is love which weighs my spirit down ; 
 And oh ! 'tis hard to love, and know not where 
 To find the load-star of my soul. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Alas ! 
 It must have been a falling star that dropt 
 From out its azure setting in the sky. 
 'Tis very often on a summer's night 
 One sees the meteor thus, but 'tis not oft 
 It doth reverse a man so thoroughly. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Ay, like a meteor she did dazzle me. 
 
 And, like a meteor, trackless she hath gone. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Did she from out the Adriatic rise, 
 
 A second Venus, dripping fi'om the waves ? 
 
 Or didst thou sow the dragon's tooth, and she 
 
 Sprung from the earth all arm'd to conquer theo ?
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 171 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 To stay thy mocking, I will tell the tale. 
 
 One morning, coming from Secretto's ball. 
 
 We met a musical quartette of dames, 
 
 Whose laughter drovvn'd the splashing of our oars. 
 
 Thus I was almost at their side before 
 
 They had observed me ; then in sweet dismay. 
 
 They shuffled on their masks, and laughing bade 
 
 Their gondolier to rest till I had pass'd. 
 
 Meanwhile, Vitale, I had seen a face 
 
 Replete with beauty of that pensive kind 
 
 Which most doth hallow women's loveliness. 
 
 She seem'd some goddess dreaming of her home, 
 
 Or mourning some short-lived raortality. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Such is thy taste ! I relish less of thought : 
 Such faces seem regretting their own charms : 
 But beauty ought to deck itself in smiles. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 True ; but when intellect and beauty form
 
 172 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 A contract of their own to make a face 
 Their mutual citadel — the loveliness 
 Doth take its shape from an immortal source 
 The reflex of the soul. Still more a charm 
 "When pensive thought is added unto this, 
 To soften and subdue the fire of mind. 
 Then doth a woman's beauty emulate 
 Anorelic form. And such hath she to whom 
 My life is dedicate. A glance did serve 
 Her likeness to implant upon my heart ; 
 And there the portraiture hath dwelt with me, 
 Stamp'd by the hand of love for evermore. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Beauty's exponent ought to lie in smiles. 
 The loveliest view without the sun is lost. 
 Thy beauties ever were like moonlight nights, 
 Serenely cold and passionless : but mine, 
 Like rosy day, all redolent of smiles. 
 'Tis well in this our tastes do not agree ; 
 For as it is, we cannot clash in arms. 
 But didst thou not attempt to learn her luuiu',
 
 A summer's tale op VENICE. 173 
 
 Or were thy energies all petrified 
 By her cold glance ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Oh, no : I would not speak, 
 For she did evidently shun discourse : 
 And what is stranger, all Bergetto's pains 
 To find her residence hath been in vain. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I'll wager thee that Pippo finds her out : 
 I have already bade him to the task. 
 If he tracks not the fair incognita, 
 Then shall I think the waters yielded forth 
 Some day-break Spirit to thy wondering sight. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Never was Naiiid half so lovely yet ; 
 Or, if her equal lived, and once beheld 
 Her spirit-image in her crystal home, 
 Then, like Narcissus, must she die of love, 
 For love of her own beauty.
 
 174 A SUMMKK's tale Uf VENICE. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Adieu, my friend ; 
 I pity thee with so much earnestness, 
 Tliat I'll at once to work. Anon we meet. 
 Then I will tell thee of the means I've used 
 To give a substance to thy morning dream ; 
 And so, till then, farewell. (Exit.) 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Farewell, indeed ! 
 For if thou farest badly in thy search, 
 How worse fare I, who wait tby seeking her. 
 Oh ! I could ever praise her to the wind ; 
 And then, perchance, some sweetly scented breath, 
 Bearing commission to her fragrant lips. 
 To learn how sweeter they — might in its folds 
 Convey the sighs my heart would fain suppress ; 
 To speak the love my tongue woxild fain confess. 
 
 (E.vit.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 175 
 
 Scene II. — View of the Bialto. 
 Enter Pippo and Bergetto. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Ab, Bergetto, friend and rogne, whitlier now ? Thou 
 hast some secret, I suppose, to keep inviolate, for thou 
 seemest dying to tell it. 
 
 bergetto. 
 
 An' I miglit die if I waited the stopping of thy tongue. 
 Call me a rogue, forsooth ! The learned tell us, Pippo, 
 that particles of like nature are attracted together ; thus 
 my being a rogue explains why thou art here. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Come, thy secret or the news. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Coretto has been teaching me a new pass. I can run a 
 man through while he is winking.
 
 176 A summer's tale op VENICE. 
 
 f 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Keep thy secret entirely for thine own use. What 
 else ? 
 
 BERGETTO. . 
 
 I killed the bullying Frenchman, De Courtney, the 
 other night. By my faith, though, it was a lucky tierce 
 that did it. The rascal was as good at swordcraft as 
 Bergetto. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Of course, thou braggart. No merit else in killing 
 him. What next ? 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 The most lovely woman in Venice hnth fallen in love 
 with me. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 That is possible, for an angel hath translated lu-r 
 passion for me. What else ? 
 
 15ERGETT0. 
 
 Thy masler has u knave for a servant.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 177 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 And thy servant a villain for his master. Go on. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 My Lord Anselmo has grown moody, and morose, and 
 mouldy through love. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Signor Vitale has deserted poor Juliet. He dis- 
 covered a mole on her shoulder. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Signor Anselmo is in love, downright in love. 'Tis 
 no fanciful sentimental offspring of Cupid, but the god 
 hath done it all himself, and now I hardly know my 
 former master. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 He never knew, or he never would have hired thee. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Rascal ! I'll show thee my new method of letting day- 
 light through a man. 
 
 If
 
 178 A SfMMKIi's TAM- OF VrXICE. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 I'll Iny tlioo a piastre I get the first hit. 
 
 BKHGETTO. 
 
 Ay, twenty that thou gett'st the first hit. 
 
 (Sfrtl-cs him.) 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Go to. Docs not the signor know for wliom ho so 
 sighs ? 
 
 LERGKTTO. 
 
 No : neither does thy master, for I learn lie is seeking 
 licr all over Venice for liis uuliai)py fi-iond. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 (I will not tell hiiu that 1 have found the lady.) 'Tis 
 very strange. T thought that if liergetto or Pippo saw 
 but the flutter of a lady's garment, they would know the 
 wearer by it. 
 
 BEROETTO. 
 r)r, trace the owner uf ;i little loot hut 1 m I f-way peep- 
 ing from a l)al('()iiy.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 179 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Or, from the fingers touching the strings of a gon- 
 dola's curtain, know who was inside. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Or, by the outline of a hideous mask, in strict dis- 
 cordance with the face beneath, tell the hidtlen beauty's 
 name. 
 
 PlPPO. 
 
 Oi*, make the pavement of the Piazzetta say whose 
 foot had kissed it last. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Yes, thou playest in very truth the part of a providing 
 jackal to the lion, and findest the prey out for thy 
 master, which master needs the prayers of all the saints 
 in the calendar to get a niche in heaven if his servant 
 was seen with him half an hour before. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Tliy pious speech has called him forth. Get thou
 
 180 A summer's TAIT. OF VENICK. 
 
 hence, sirrah ! T wish not my master to sec I waste my 
 time in converse with such as thou. 
 
 BEKGETTO. 
 
 Find out tlic lady of Anselmo's love, and in return I'll 
 be sarcastic, and will say — <j"0(l, honC'^t Pip. {Edit.) 
 
 Enter Vitale. 
 
 VITALE, 
 
 Hast any tidings of the lady yet H 
 
 PIPPO, 
 
 Yea, my good lord, and of the Lady Julia, and Signora 
 Viola, and Lord Gcrardo's waiting-woinuii, and Lucretia, 
 and the Milanese, and the dame of Padua — all. These 
 notes will testify my skill. (Showing notes.) The lovely 
 Viola I saw in person, and her questions were so search- 
 ing, 1 was ccjinpelled to say you were gone to Lonibardy 
 to sec your aunt. 
 
 VITALK (itnjvtticntli/). 
 
 'Tis not of these I speak, but of the fair 
 
 Wliosc charms have wrought such changes on nij- friend.
 
 A SU.MilEIi's TALE UF VENICE. 181 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Your pardon, sir, but what quality of love is his ? 
 I have learned the lady's residence and name, but she is 
 one to vvrhoni honourable love alone can bo proffered. If 
 your sort of love is meant, my lord 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 No fear of any but the truest — best. 
 
 Anselmo never loved before, and now 
 
 The god makes up in strength the fallow time. 
 
 Anselmo's heart knows not of love like mine. (StuU>/.) 
 
 While I have dissipated golden youth, 
 
 Turning the current sterling time to nought. 
 
 His purer soul hath nursed its sweet affections. 
 
 And by the nursing hath increased the store. 
 
 Thus he hath now a heart of worth to give, 
 
 The more since late he lays it on love's shrine. 
 
 But I have served an untrue deity, 
 
 The image of the god without Ins soul ; 
 
 The dross of love, the counterfeit of truth. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Be sure, my lord, thou art in love with love.
 
 182 A SUMMKK's tale of VENICE. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Oil, that my licensed soul could tiud some chord 
 To bind it, like my fiiend's, in innocence; 
 Some sweet encliantress, who in honour's home 
 "W'ould weave a spell to bid my ti-uant heart 
 Abhor the false god as I loved him once. 
 
 nvvo. 
 
 This sudden change doth show the spell already is 
 began. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Would that it wore ! But now no more of tliis ; 
 Thou hast learn'd the lady's name — who is she ? 
 
 I'll'l'O. 
 
 Ihey call her Isola : she is the Duke's own kins- 
 woman. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Ah, by my faith 1 Ihy love, Ansehno takes 
 No lowly flight. Is .she of Venice then !^
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 183 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Of Venice now, and Florence now and then; and 
 then of Florence yet again. (Vitale impatient.) Nay, 
 my lord, prithee let me impart my knowledge in mine 
 own way. It liath cost much to gain it, and must be 
 doled forth like all valuable stutt\ 
 
 VITALB. 
 
 Oh, if thou gavest money, take my purse ; 
 
 But tell me what thou know'st, and get thee hence. 
 
 PlPPO. 
 
 Money, i'taith ! No, master mine, it hath cost your 
 Pippo far more than money's worth — his modest, loving, 
 virgin heart. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I'll let thy knowledge, sirrah, quickly out 
 From forth thy doublet with my rapier's point. 
 
 PIl'FO. 
 
 That would be cutting open the goose for her golden 
 (3o-g-s — destroying the swan for his song. Well, my lord,
 
 184 A SUMMEU'S TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 this, in brief, is the talc. In Florence lately dwelt two 
 ladies, who were accounted the most lovely there. They 
 lived {^imitating his masfer) in solitude, nursing their 
 minds in Learning's lap, the while their forms grew up in 
 beauty's mould. (Vitale impatient.^ A week ago, 
 Florence mourned their loss. They left the city for the 
 palace of our Duke, and there they have dwelt since. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 And yet their presence hei*e is still unknown. 
 
 rirro. 
 
 From what I can gather from the cuttings of ray in- 
 formant's reservation, I fancy the Duke is fattening his 
 nieces. (Vitale half (b-au's Jus sicnrd) Well, my lord, 
 cooping them up like capons, till he finds a good market, 
 is much the same tiling. I believe he is seeking for 
 proper mates, and keeps them guarded in case they 
 should fall in luvo fur themselves. The ])roccss agrees 
 with them, at all events, for I hear they arc rare beauties, 
 and (jutshine all here.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE, 185 
 
 VITAL E, 
 
 111 Florence 'twas I first a likeness set 
 Of female beauty in my heart, and love 
 Since then has stamp'd the lines indelibly. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Nay, 'tis a passing sketch, my lord, for you have said 
 the same of every fresh beauty. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 But yet my roving heart was never fix'd. 
 
 The sun's most wondrous might we scarcely heed, 
 
 Because its heat is all dispersed abroad ; 
 
 But only concentrate the smallest beam, 
 
 And it doth burn with fire's intensity. 
 
 Just so is love ; when dissipated thus. 
 
 Its strength is broken in a thousand rays ; 
 
 But once collect them in united force, 
 
 And what can then withstand their potency ? 
 
 Bat all regrets are vain and foolish now : 
 
 How didst tliou trace the fair incognita ?
 
 186 A summer's talk of VKXICE. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 oil, a little love adventure of mine own — saving your 
 presence, sir — led to the knowledge. I performed a 
 trifling service for a damsel one night, and as she was so 
 muffled up I might have taken her for an old woman, 
 slie was very sensibly grateful — told mo she was young 
 and very pretty, and one of the waiting-women upon 
 twu ladies who had arrived from Florence. This led to 
 a better acquaintance ; and although to my famished 
 ear she only doled forth scraps and bits, I learned enough, 
 and am now ready to lead you to the very apartment of 
 the ladies. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 But what excuses can I offer them, 
 Unless 1 say from Florence I have come, 
 Bearing most urgent tidings from their friends ? 
 Tims, if 1 giiiii admittance by the cheat. 
 The fraud i will extenuate, and trust 
 Love's rhetoric t(j plead lor him iind me. 
 
 I'llTO. 
 
 No fear, my luid, if uiiee you gain their ear.
 
 A summer's talk of venick. 187 
 
 YITALE. 
 
 Ay, and her heart's best love I ought to gain, 
 Because I plead in friendship's holy cause. 
 Soon shall I find if this sweet deity 
 Approves the worship of her votary. 
 
 (^Exeunt severally.) 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room in. the Diil-es Palace. 
 Enter LuciA and Lucilla. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 I do freely own it, coz. Whether it be from sympathy, 
 because my mistress hath lost her heart, I know not; 
 but certain it is, whenever I am idle I find myself think- 
 ing of Pippo. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 And I of Bergetto, when I have nothing else to do. 
 And certainly our ladies are very deep in the same pre- 
 dicament. Did^it thou observe the other morning how
 
 188 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 my mistress's mask lingered in her Laud wliilo the 
 cavalier seemed demolisbiug her with his glances ? 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 That did I ; and also that his well-graced servitor fixed 
 liis looks on Lucia. How very suddenly their gondola 
 came abreast of us. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Why our tongues did gallop so fast, and we laughed 
 so indecorously loud, thinking none listened but the 
 stream, it was no wonder we heai'd not the splash of 
 oars. How sad my lady has become since then. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 She is somewhat addicted to make terms with melan- 
 cliiily up;ui the least occasion. 'Tis her tem])er to be sad 
 and yet she hath a sweet disposition. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 No better mistress in tlie woi-ld. And thy lady, too, 
 with all her high spirits and fondness for railleiy, is 
 gentle as a dnye, when gentleness is most needful.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 189 
 
 LUCILLA, 
 
 Yes, we are fortunate in those we serve, and in those 
 who serve us ; for never was a more seemly lover than 
 Pippo, and, by thy account, Bergetto is not of ordinary 
 mould. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 He is the most saucy varlet in the world. It was he 
 or Pippo who was tinkling under our window last night. 
 He would have climbed the balcony in a thought, if we 
 had been the least indiscreet. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 We are sure to meet them to-morrow night, as we have 
 to attend our ladies to the ball. Remember, until our 
 time of probation hath passed, we are to conceal our 
 names ; and furthermore we will dress alike, so, if needs 
 be, we can play upon their ignorance of our persons, and 
 entangle their notions of our identity. Pippo hath never 
 seen thee, nor Bergetto me, so, if occasion requires we 
 can be either apart or the same together.
 
 ]:H) a SLMMF.k's tale UF VENICE. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Lovers are always best when well tormented. If all 
 goes smoothly on, they let love's barque lie lazily on the 
 waters of certainty ; but if there be but a doubt to ripple 
 the waves, and a chance of a gale, they are on the alert 
 directly, and attentive to their business. After the ball, 
 I believe all the world may know our names. Canst 
 thou guess the reason why the Dnke is so careful in con- 
 cealing his kinswomen ? 
 
 LUC I L LA. 
 
 1 .suppose ho is desirous of liuding proper mates here 
 ill Vouico for liis cngod liirds. 
 
 LTTL\. 
 
 Little does he guess how Cupid lialli crept in through 
 the crevices of his cage. The moment a watch is placed 
 upon yuuug hearts, tliat moment tliero is most interest 
 in evading the sentinel. I think love Avill sit easily 
 enough on my mistress, but I fear foi- Ihinc. Misfortune 
 often settles on tenderest lieauties, just as blight selects 
 the sweetest flowers.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 191 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 T^ay, I hear that Lord Anselmo is of the most noble 
 family of Padua, only excelled by the nobleness of his 
 own nature. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Oh, I doubt it not. But there is a stern determina- 
 tion in my lady's character, which only needs to be 
 developed by love to enable her to act to the very letter 
 of her own Avill. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Yes, the Duke will have some trouble to barter either 
 of our dames, if that be his intent. But they come this 
 way ; so let us hence to concert our plans to best deceive 
 and torment our lovers. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 I'm with thee, coz. Too many sweets do cloy, 
 
 The purest metals all need some alloy 
 
 Before they can be work'd, and thus 'tis meet 
 
 We mix with love some innocent deceit. (Expimf.)
 
 192 A summer's tale of venioe. 
 
 Ente?' IsOLA ajul Mina. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Laugh on, dear ^Miua ; I can bear the sti*aiu ; 
 Thy mocking proves the love-bird in thy heart. 
 I hear it beating its imprison'd wings, 
 E'en though thy langliter tries to stifle it. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 I ever thought love sadden'd sister mine, 
 For thou hast been for a ■whole week so dull, 
 Tliat I must sacrifice to mirth for botli. 
 Did I not find thee gazing on the stars, 
 When all the world did sleep but Isola ? 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 On that especial one which looks o'er Florence ; 
 It shone the brightest of the starry host. 
 And wlicn his name was uttered in tliy sleep, 
 Its lustre deepen'd till it blinded me.
 
 A summer's tale of vknice. 193 
 
 Enter Lucilla, 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 A gentleman below doth crave admittance. He bears 
 a message from some friends at Florence. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Messengers from friends do bear credentials 
 
 MINA. 
 
 N'ay, let him speak ; his words can do no harm. 
 Lucilla, tell the gentleman we wait. {Exit Lucilla.) 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 What if it be some message from the Duke, 
 Which finds us thus .so easy of access ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 If treachery be meant — be Mina for a^vhile ; 
 I will be Tsola. Exchansre our names 
 
 O 
 
 Before the cavalier, and it may spoil 
 The purpose of his coming. 
 
 u
 
 ll»4 A summer's talk of VEXrCE. 
 
 IPOLA. 
 
 I'll leave tlieo 
 To manage him thyself; for who so fit ? 
 ArmM as thou art with C(jurage and with wit. (Exit.) 
 
 Enter Vitale. 
 
 MiNA {puts on her masJc). 
 (Ah ! 'tis the same ! What sti-angn fatality ! 
 To hide my blushes will I wear this mask, 
 To hide my passion I will fain be stern.) 
 What means this tre.spass, sir ? or do you err, 
 And seek some otiier than the Lady Tsola ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 (Oh, happy fate ! 'tis she. Tliat little mask 
 Doth hide her face, but not her loveliness.) 
 Thy pardon, lady, for my coming here. 
 And seeking such divinity of trutli 
 With falsehood on my lips — for, honestly, 
 I bear no .syllable from friends of thine, 
 ^riiiis l(^t Ihc cancell'd fabrication gain 
 Foririvoncss ihat it i\y was fninicd.
 
 A summer's tale of VliNICE. 195 
 
 MINA. 
 
 To make 
 Or mar a falsehood, sir, is easy done. 
 When candour lacks occasion, it oft forms 
 A quibble or a cheat that it may honest seem 
 When it doth straight confess it is a cheat. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 This do not I. ISTot for myself I come, 
 But I do plead for one more dear to me 
 Than life itself; and as his life doth rest 
 Upon my seeing thee — the petty fraud 
 Doth in its aim bring full extenuation. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Some wager laid to mar my privacy. 
 Fit recreation for an idle hour ! 
 A pleasant pastime for a cavalier ! 
 Far better to have climb'd the balcony, 
 And proved thy courage and thy strengMi of limb, 
 Than read}' faculty for falsehood, sir. 
 
 u2
 
 ^\H^ A sl'mmkr's tale of vf.xice. 
 
 VITAL F. 
 
 (I'faith she hath a spirit of her own.) 
 
 Being the suitor in another's cause, 
 
 I will not risk the little chance he lias 
 
 By taking ill the keenness of thy words. 
 
 This then, in brief, the cause is of my crime. 
 
 Perchance thou'st heard — most casually, of course — 
 
 That in this city dwell two gentlemen 
 
 Whose names are not forgotten in the list 
 
 Of those who've served tlie senate in tlio iield. 
 
 But more than fame for arms they prize 
 
 The foi'tune which hath made them firmest friends ; 
 
 For none so bound in ties of brotherhood. 
 
 As those they call Aiiselmo and Vitale. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 And which art thou, sir? for I guess that friends 
 So staunch do sometimes separate, and one of them 
 Dotli break into a lady's solitude 
 To make a story for the other's ear. 
 
 VITAT.K. 
 
 Uli ! tliou dost wrong ag:iiii hn\h liijn nnd mo.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 197 
 
 Anselmo is ray friend, and I so love him 
 That I have ventured here to plead his cause. 
 Had I but knowji the sharpness of thy wit, 
 It would indeed liave been a test of love 
 To risk the shafts. But now I know their point, 
 And feel the pain, how greatly do I prove 
 My courage in his cause by waiting here, 
 And bearing all thy poignant mockery 
 Until I've told thee what a heai't he hath, 
 And how with all that heart he worships thee. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 (What music thou hast lost, dear Isola !) 
 Capacious heart, that maketh room for love 
 And friendship both. Go, prithee tell him, sir, 
 That Love's ambassador is not approved, 
 Because we do not recognise the right 
 Of those who send a message to our court 
 Who bear no signs of proper royalty. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Oh, lady, send not message so unkind. 
 But let me pray thy presence at the ball
 
 l[)Q A summer's tale OP VENICE. 
 
 To-morrow at the palace of the Dake, 
 
 And then speak what thou wilt to him thyself; 
 
 But send not misery by proxy thus. 
 
 MIXA. 
 
 The Lady IMina, sir, doth never make 
 
 (Ah ! by St. Mark, I have betray'd myself). 
 
 VITALB. 
 
 j\Iina didst say ! And was she late of Florence ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 But just return'd — knowest thou the lady ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 From Florence too, and Mina is her name ! 
 
 Dear lady, tell me is she tall, like thee ? 
 
 Has slie thy grace, with beauteous form as thine? 
 
 Is she thy counterpart ? — oh say slie is, 
 
 And fate has not anotlier boon to give. 
 
 MIXA. 
 
 Tliou suri'art mad. 1 know llie huly well, 
 Ay, as myself.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 190 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Oil let me see her, then : 
 A moment grant me with lier own dear self, 
 For I would gladly purchase it with life. 
 
 MINA (takes off her mask). 
 Thy sword, sir. An hour thou hast wasted here. 
 Thy Hfe is mine, so yield it with good grace. 
 Where wilt thou have the blow ? 
 
 VITALE (in great surjjrise). 
 
 Not in my heart, 
 For thoTi wouldst wound thyself therein enshrined. 
 Oh ! what strange metamorphosis is this ? 
 Oh ! what intense delight to find thee here, 
 To know thee near me, and to touch thy hand ! 
 Thou who hast held my willing soul in bond ; 
 Thou who awok'st me first to life — for life 
 Was nought till glowing with the thought of thee. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Hast thou e'er seen, sir, summer lightning play 
 With ardent flashes on a summer's eve,
 
 200 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 Ligliting the east one moraeut with the blaze, 
 Tlien shortly after all the west is bright 
 Lit by the fickle flame ? Just so dost thou. 
 Thy words Hash furtli in Lord Anselmo's praise, 
 And light his love so well, I see it all : 
 When lo ! at Miua's name the lightning plays 
 Directly opposite. Then when I take 
 The flimsy mask from my poor features, sir, 
 Again thy vivid eloquence breaks forth, 
 To cancel all the pleading for thy friend, 
 if thou to friendship thus a traitor turn, 
 'Twere hard indeed to credit thee in love. 
 
 VITAL K. 
 
 I cannot think a fate so terrible 
 Is destined to destroy my hopes — my life. 
 Art thou, then, Isola and Mina both ? 
 Art thou the goddess of Anselmo's love ? 
 
 MIXA. 
 
 Arc Isola and Mina names so strange. 
 
 One liidy may not entertain them both ? 
 
 IJiii now, sir, fare thee well. To-morrow j;i"ht
 
 A summer's tale of venioe. 201 
 
 J may forget thy rash intrusion here ; 
 And as I know thou art a gentleman, 
 In all the best acceptance of the word, 
 I promise thee my hand to dance with thee. 
 
 vitale. 
 
 Alas ! an hour ago a word so kind 
 Would then have lit my soul with happiness. 
 What greater j(jy on earth to have my hand 
 In a delicious contact with thine own ? 
 But now I dare not entertain the thoug'ht. 
 For truth to thee is falsehood to my friend. 
 
 mina. 
 
 (Far falser I, thus counselling my tongue 
 To utter falsehoods which my heart abhors. 
 But, oh ! 'tis very sweet to torture him. 
 And force confessions of his welcome love.) 
 Once more, sir, fare thee well. I do rejoice 
 To find thee careful of the trust imposed 
 By this strange friend of thine ; but lest thy faith, 
 In its commendable integrity,
 
 •202 A summer's tale ok VENICE. 
 
 Sliuuld keep thee from the ball to-morrow night, 
 
 'Tis right, I say, in all good modesty, 
 
 I'd rather dance with thee than any else. 
 
 Nay, sir, I must beseech thee leave mc now. 
 
 Too much we have prolong'd this strange discoui-sc ; 
 
 And recollect, that truth and fiiith remove 
 
 The clouds which rise upon the sky of love. 
 
 YITALE. 
 
 Oh, sweet enigma ! there doth lie a sting 
 lO'eu in the very honey of thy words; 
 And I do gladly take my leave of thee. 
 For honour, friendship, should I soon forget 
 AVhile thus my car drinks in such ravishment. 
 To-morrow night, I do entreat thee, solve 
 The riddle of thy strange yet sweet discourse ; 
 And like the sun, which clears the mists of day, 
 Let truth chase all the mystery away. 
 
 (Exit with deep obeisance.) 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Ay, ev'ry doubt from out that noble heart, 
 Jf waiin alleetion has i\\v jxiwer to chase
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 203 
 
 The clouds wliicli I myself did bid arise 
 Upon the firmament of his deep faith, 
 Where honour, truth, and friendship reign, 
 Like stars to guide him to the heaven of love. 
 In bondage, too, dear Isola, thou hold'st 
 A noble heart ; for nobleness is proved 
 Wlien it doth consort much vs'ith its own form, 
 And thy Anselmo is Vitale's friend ; 
 That doth bespeak him fitted for thy love ; 
 That doth his worthiness most surely prove ; 
 Oh, thou dost guess not what a tale I bear. 
 Bliss for thine heart, and music for thine ear. 
 
 {Exit into inner chaniher.^
 
 204 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A marjnificeni tervace-icaij leads to the back of 
 tlie Duke's Palace, from the xvindows of which lights 
 are streaming, and music is heard tcithin. On one side is 
 a canal, by ichich the guests, who arrive in gondolas, 
 continue to pass — some masked, some in costume — into 
 the I'alace. The ten-ace is illuminated by lights in vases, 
 and the moon has risen. Statues, and flowers in stands, 
 ij-c, ornament the place. 
 
 Enter Vitalb, attended by Pippo and others, who iviihdraiv. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Not less tliaii life do 1 Anseliiio love; 
 Not less tli:ni both is honour (Iciir lo me: 
 And must 1 forfeit fricndslii|) ami my faith, 
 JJceaiise a lady's smile di.lh riiiiiivjite I
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 205 
 
 But why, ill fortune's name, did lie select 
 
 The only -svomau whom with proper suit 
 
 I fain would conquer to become my wife ? 
 
 Of him she spoke with cold indifference, 
 
 But, oh ! to me her words were music's own ; 
 
 And I could trace beneath her seeming frowns, 
 
 Affection struggling to be paramount. 
 
 Yet I do fear myself, for friendship arm'd 
 
 All cap-a-pie to fight and conquer Love, 
 
 Is but a mortal combating a God. 
 
 And what though friendship's buckler be of truth. 
 
 His weapons all the vows he ever swore, 
 
 Yet Love breathes fragrant incense o'er his foe, 
 
 And ends the strife without a single blow. 
 
 Enter Anselmo, unth Bergetto, and Attendants, 
 (Attendants imilulraiv.) 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Never was gratitude so weak before : 
 Its very greatness is its poverty ; 
 For how can I repay thy serving me 
 In this, this greatest purpose of my life ?
 
 :20G A ^;uM.\IKli^s talI': of Venice. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Wliy thy insolvency of thanks is caused 
 By thy extravagance in paying thcni 
 Where none are due. I tell thee candidly, 
 I fuilM to gain one word of such import 
 That I might construe truly into love. 
 She promised to be here ; and that she will, 
 Ts all the consolation I can give. 
 
 ANSELMO- 
 
 Thon wort not wont to be so choice of words, 
 That banish all kind form of sentiment. 
 
 VITALK. 
 
 (Thou wert not wont to stumble in thy choice, 
 
 And out of all tlie world select 
 
 She v,-h(jni I love.) What wouldst thou have mc say? 
 
 'Tvvcrc surely useless to raise phaulom liopes. 
 
 ANSELAIO. 
 
 < 
 
 'Tis useless, too, to raise a false despair. 
 Ai't' wi- .so often conquerM in Love's wars.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 207 
 
 E'en when we raise a sort of bandit's strife, 
 
 Waylaying beauties who most treasures bear ? 
 
 And ara I now, thy comrade in success, 
 
 To turn poltroon when love legitimate 
 
 Is on my side and all-expectant waits, 
 
 To crown the triumph of affection's arms ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Ay, but thou bearest colours not thine own. 
 Tlie lady's beauty is not of the stamp 
 To which thou'st sworn thy knightly fealty. 
 " II Penseroso" should thy motto be. 
 But on thy banner is " I'Allegro" writ. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Ah ! was her beauty lighted up by smiles ? 
 Thou now hast learn'd that sunshine often flits 
 Athwart the brow of thought, and yet no detriment 
 
 To pensive loveliness. At once confess 
 
 1- 
 
 The sunny light hath scorch'd thy tender he irt, 
 And thou art somewhat jealous of thy friend.
 
 •J08 A SrMMKIi's TALK OF VENICE. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 If we were jealous, save as jealous friends, 
 We ne'er bad lived so long in amity, 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 I did but jest, and jests are new to me. 
 As thy sad gjiit is marvellous in thee. 
 
 Elite}' IsoLA a)ul 'Mis.\, masLcd. Lucia, Lucilla, and 
 Servants attend them. (Servants withdraw.) 
 
 Who have we here ? Vitale, she doth come ! 
 Oh, yes, a thousand masks could ne'er disguise 
 The beauty veil'd beneath. My beating heart 
 Dotli plniiily toll me tliat its mistress comes. 
 
 vitale. 
 
 They seem to love the frosh'ning air of night : 
 'Tis she — tlic very step of majesty 
 Doth stamp her as my lovely Florentine. 
 
 MiNA {to TilTCIA). |, 
 
 Thou know'st thy task ! take heed, betray ns not; 
 I yet must test the metal cpf his triitli. 
 
 (Lucia ami Lich.i.a cxruni.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 209 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Take care, dear Mina, there is danger there ; 
 Experiments do often injure those 
 Who try to probe into affection's heart. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Ah ! they do join us, and she bows to thee. 
 
 viTALE (to mina). 
 
 The happy moment is at length arrived ; 
 Thy hand I claim, dear lady, for the dance. 
 
 MINA. ' 
 
 I recollect — my word is sacred, sir ; 
 But first I pay my devoirs to the Duke. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 What ecstasy is this ! Oh, hapless friend, 
 Forgive the perfidy, if such it be, 
 "To lose a mortal for a deity. 
 
 {They retire back, and enter the ba/l-room). 
 
 ANSELMO (to ISOLA). 
 
 I know thee, lady, though that envious mask
 
 210 A summer's tale OV VENICE. 
 
 Sits on thy features like a liypocrite ; 
 
 For it assumes disguise, that it may lie 
 
 In blissful contact with thy loveliness. 
 
 But were it dense and black as Erebus, 
 
 Beauty would shine, like sunlight through a cloud. 
 
 ISOLA {removes her mask). 
 You know me, sir, and straightway cull 
 The flowers of language for my vanity. 
 That I may wear them nntil jULlgment reels 
 Beneath the incense of their potent spell. 
 You know me not— or could you thus confuse 
 Beauty with my poor humble features, sir ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Beauty and thou are but a synonym. 
 Beauty is oft an index to the mind. 
 The lovely binding of a glorious book. 
 Wherein a store of love and knowledge lies 
 To teach, delight, exalt, and vanquish us. 
 And such art thou — a poem in thyself, 
 In whicli do shine all woman's attributes 
 In brightest lustri', :inini;itf and real.
 
 A SUMMER S TALE OF VENICE. 21.1 
 
 Forgive these liastj and most worthless words ; 
 For if I lose the fleeting time, which gives 
 These happy moments to converse with thee, 
 I do my loving soul so sad a wrong, 
 That it would torture me for evermore. 
 Then let it hope, for, oh ! my life doth rest 
 Upon the tenure of thy comiuo- words. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Then am I dumb. I dare not take thy life, 
 But give a, willing hearing to thy praise. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Oh ! thanks, dear lady, and in simple words, 
 For inasmuch as opportuTiity 
 Is fleeting as the smiles of April days, 
 In brief I swear my love for thee is such. 
 That wert thou less immortal than thou art, 
 My worship would become idolatry. 
 This simple truth is all my tongue could say. 
 If tutor' d into cunning form of words, 
 For in its import doth my soul translate 
 The offer of my fortune and myself 
 
 p 2
 
 212 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 But, oh ! were ^^•caltll of kingdoms nil mine own, 
 
 How infinitely poor and worthless I, 
 
 When weigh'd against the value of thy heart. 
 
 And yet, thus bankrupt of all qualities, 
 
 Befitting me to gain one smile of thine, 
 
 I dare to seek a prize which might reward. 
 
 The virtues of a hero, or a god. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 (Be still, my heart, nor let its love confess ; 
 But, like a miser, hoard its happiness.) 
 How can I thank you for your candour, sir? 
 A clear confession makes a fully less ; 
 For, oh ! indeed it does deserve the name. 
 To honour me so much with your esteem. 
 How can you read my merits in my face ? 
 How tell my temper or my honesty ? 
 How know I have one virtue in my heart? 
 How guess I have oiu particle of love 
 In ill! my inner soul? That you are pleased 
 With my poor outward form 1 fain believe, 
 For r:dsehuod never glows with eloquence, 
 Aiiil woi'ds fif eloquence li;ive said — 'tis so.
 
 A summer's tale op VENICE. 213 
 
 Yet, brightest jewels lie in dullest ore, 
 And worthless ones are oft encased in sheen. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Doth beauty fix her throne upon a brow 
 
 To rule the virtues which she clothes in shape 
 
 Of her own form, except she reigns supreme ? 
 
 Can harmony of feature made by mind 
 
 The absence of its own creator speak ? 
 
 Dotb intellect shine forth from out the eyes 
 
 To prove a dull and leaden soul within ? 
 
 If contradictions thus can e'er agree, 
 
 Then truth and virtue never dwelt with thee. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 How skilfully thou canst attune thy words 
 To music for mine ear. What, if I give my lieart, 
 Because thy praise intoxicates my sense, 
 Wouldst thou not deem my love of little worth 
 
 Till sober sense did ratify the gift ? 
 
 But I do owe thee best and warmest thanks. 
 
 And it would be excess of modesty 
 
 Did I disown the gratitude I feel ;
 
 214 A suMMini't; tale of venmce. 
 
 A debt ill-paid by words, unless my heart 
 Were gifted ^-ith tliy tongue of rhetoric. 
 But pray, sir, let us hence : 1 have to pay 
 My duty to tlie Duke. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Most willingly ; 
 For others soon will desecrate this spot, 
 To me most ballow'd by thy gentle words, 
 To whose sweet music hope doth wake afresh. 
 Oh ! 1 would keep this place inviolate, 
 And hedge it round with Spirits of my love. 
 To guard its sacredness for evermore. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 (And I would set a watch upon my heart, 
 But vigilance is useless, for he knows 
 The pass-word — passion — gains the citadel. 
 Then reason is invoked, but all in vain. 
 For love has enter'd, and nmst o'en remain.) 
 
 {Theij retire back, ami enter the ball-room.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 215 
 
 Enter LuciA and Bergetto. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Wliy, you are gay as Momus in his cups. 
 
 BEEGETTO. 
 
 Yes, I would ever favour make with mirth ; 
 For you, the widwife are, to help its birth. 
 And I turn nurse to feed it when it cries, 
 Filching its nourishmeat from out your eyes. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 ! 
 
 Then you do give it tears 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Merriment's best sign ; 
 For mirth does fatten well on laughter's brine. 
 But now your name, dear maid, and just suppose 
 You answer me in ordinary prose. 
 I am not fitted, as you seem to be, 
 To talk in verse so veiy fluently.
 
 216 A SUMMKK's tale of VENICE. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 You bid me speak in prose, yet straightway you 
 Do the same thing you would not I should do. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 When 1 huvo such example, 'tis but right 
 To follow Avhen it lends so kind a light. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 'Twill lead you into bogs and briars, too. 
 And dance before you but to puzzle you : 
 So give it up — verse is a cheating thing, 
 Light as itself is verse's reasoning. 
 
 BERQETTO. 
 
 Women do ever love what they abuse ; 
 Thus you condemn the form of speech you use. 
 But not of verses, 'tis of love I speak ; 
 Not Poets' liingunge, but your name T seek. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 I've told you oft 'tis Lu— and udught but, Lu 
 Is what they call me ; — and I answer too :
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 217 
 
 If you seek farther — it is still the same, 
 Unless, indeed, you choose to change the name. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 That do I live for, for my heart is thine, 
 And I do love you as a thing divine. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Nay, as a simple, honest woman, sir, 
 Simple — because Bergetto I prefer ; 
 Honest — because mine honour is mine oAvn ; 
 And woman, sir — because I'm woman born. 
 So, if you love me, prithee let it be 
 Without a bit of immortality. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Ay, as you will, so long as you approve — 
 As angel, woman, devil — I will love : 
 I doubt not you are each in turn, yet I 
 Am still your suitor, and your votary. 
 Who have we here ? 
 
 ■^
 
 218 A summer's TAF.K 01' VENICE. 
 
 Enter Fool i)i cap and beJIs, ^c. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 They call me fool — or ass — 
 And such I am, and thou my looking-glass. 
 
 15ERGETT0. 
 
 "Without your telling — one is right, I'll swear, 
 For you can make reflections everywhere. 
 
 LL'CIA. 
 
 1"ilt not your sense against his folly so : 
 Wlieu rcjison's prostrate, it disarms a foe. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 Good. Take \\\\ })art, whichever part thou wilt, 
 Or take me all, and let him call thee jilt. 
 
 BEUGETTO. 
 
 Wrapt in his folly doth a venom lie : 
 He hides a sting beneath his mummery. 
 
 {Thiy retire hack and exeunt.) 
 
 KOUL. 
 
 A stinj' fur tliu.se who greet nic with a stiii''.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 219 
 
 That is but fair, and no fool's reasoning. 
 A blow for those who think a gentle word 
 On fool is lost, and but for reason good. 
 'Tis sweet to think how little people deem 
 That stilted learning doth like folly seem ; 
 Nor guess they that redundancy of sense 
 Is oft mistaken for mind's impotence. 
 
 {Sings. A bell accompaniment in the orchestra.) 
 
 My cap and bell 
 
 Doth my calling tell. 
 
 With their ting ! tang ! tingle ! 
 Bat those who wear nur cap nor bell. 
 You know their natures just as well : 
 For the cap is shown in ev'ry word. 
 And the bell goes ting ! whene'er they're heard. 
 So the world and I are much the same, 
 For marry ! we play the self-same game. 
 
 Enter Pippo and Lucilla. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Metliinks, Sir Fool, the jingle of those bells 
 A requiem plays for Folly's death in you.
 
 220 A SI'MMER's tale of VENICE. 
 
 !Maiiy a song I've heard from wiser lips, 
 Hath room for pregnancy of sense like that. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 Go treat thy thine hearing with thy lover's words, 
 
 if thou want'st more of folly. Come not here, 
 I'm the bell-wether of Minerva's flock. 
 
 PIPPO (to lucilla). 
 
 He earns his pay i-ight well — they whisper, too, 
 The Duke doth hold him in his confidence, 
 For greater service than to laugh at him. 
 
 fool. 
 
 Why dost thou nmmble so ? I hear thee not. 
 But go : I need not offer thee my cap. 
 
 Pll'PO. 
 
 Why, thou art like a porcupine to-day : 
 As nettlesomc and quick. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 \U\\ I can lay
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 221 
 
 My quills all smoothly down, that thou may'st pat 
 And stroke and fondle me — but go thy way, 
 I'm making verses for my wedding-day. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Who is thy bride ? 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 Why, ev'ry woman, sure ; 
 No harem in Mahomet's paradise 
 So stock'd as mine. Ay, I shall have thee, too : 
 Or marry him — I share thy favours. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 I think we will move on. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 To leave him thus 
 Is greater favour than he doth predict. 
 
 FOOL. (Sings. Accompaniment as be/ore.) 
 
 My cap and bell 
 Do my calling tell, 
 
 With their ting ! tang ! tingle !
 
 • )■•)•> 
 
 A SUMMER S TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 But there lies a gap 'twixt tlicm and me : 
 
 By what they do, their folly you see. 
 
 Now, the tiling which doth my folly tell 
 
 Is very soon doff'd — my cap and bell. 
 
 So the outward form of folly is here, 
 
 But the essence you find spreads everywhere. 
 
 . (Fool retires back.) 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Nay, be not fickle thus, but say at once 
 I'll marry thee, dear Pip, whene'er thou wilt. 
 Candfjur on these occasions is the food 
 Which love likes best. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Mayhap one-sided love 
 Is not oft ask'd the choice; of nourishment. 
 A yea and nay I hold in counterpoise. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Why, thou hast nwiiM (Ikhi didsf rctmii my Idve.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE, 223 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Well, that implies I do not wish to keep it. 
 We ne'er return a gift we dearly prize. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Ay, but I gave it for a fair exchange. 
 
 LDCILLA. 
 
 Upon my word, you value much your love. 
 You ask for mine, and call it fair exchansre ! 
 This will be fair : I'll give you just a bit, 
 A little mite of love, and for the sbred 
 Give all of yours, without an atom's loss, 
 And then the bargain will be just. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Agreed : 
 So long as you will marry me — and now, 
 Reveal your name, or why you hesitate. 
 
 LUCILLA, 
 
 Why, then, 'tis Lu — a pretty name, is't not ?
 
 22A A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 'Tis short and sweet, but soraotliiug else dotli wait 
 To perfect it. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 My friends do call me Lu — 
 And nothing else — at least my dearest friends. 
 
 PI PPG. 
 llicn will I call you Lu— till doomsday comes. 
 
 LUCILI-A. 
 
 You may be call'd upon for warmer work. 
 Fancy your ghost through all th' infernal gloom 
 Shouting out Lu — till Cerb'rus howls again. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Or rather, till the music of the name 
 Suspends the anguish of the spirits there. 
 
 (Fool returns.) 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 Here comes your frioiid :i;,'aiii ! no donbt Ih'MI tamo 
 •Ml VI mr cxtravairanoc.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 225 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Witli greater still ; 
 He said he'd share your favours when wc wed. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 And so he shall (Pippo pauses) ; half of the citron buds 
 You'll order from Verona shall be his. 
 
 (They retire bad:.) 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 I cannot bear the heat of my own breath : 
 It fills the ball-room till it stifles me. 
 A thousand human beings talking love, 
 Bleating like sheep their amorous desires, 
 Or frisking in the hot satyric dance, 
 Doth sore affect even folly's stomach. 
 Here comes a couple of a higher breed, 
 
 Enter Mina (still assuming her sister^ s name) andYnkL^. 
 
 Who talk of love in sickly sentiment, 
 
 And gloss its baser part v.ith cunning shape 
 
 Of compliment, and similies and wit,
 
 22(3 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 And fancy tliat they're less the animal. 
 
 Sure this is sense — but no — they call me Fool ! 
 
 (Retires back, and sings. Accompaniment as before). 
 
 All the world would make a noise 
 
 If married or if single ; 
 And after all, what is that noise 
 
 But — tingle ! tang ! tingle ! 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Oil, lady sweet, be not as sceptical 
 As you are fair, for I must e'en avow, 
 By every beauty that the earth doth own, 
 I love you as the dear supreme of all. 
 Why will you cast the ht^lluboro of doubt 
 Within affection's chalice which I hold, 
 And trembling ask the fragi*aut lips of faith 
 'J'o touch and sanctify for evermore ? 
 There, now you frown ! and yet anon, mayhap, 
 By smiles you'll raise a phantom happiness, 
 Which, seeming tangible, will all dissolve 
 When I attempt to test its certainty.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 227 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Why, vanity is ever pleased to hear 
 Confessions such as thine — but when you press 
 Your suit into the form of marriage thus, 
 It takes a shape that scares a prudent maid. 
 So I do fain retract encouragement, 
 To keep a loophole lest I need escape. 
 Is not this candour, sir ? Besides, if I did say 
 " Oh, yes, without delay I'll marry you. 
 Place you at once as lord of all my heart, 
 And put my freedom in your hands for aye," 
 What of your fiuend ? You say he loves me too ; 
 Between such claimants what, sir, can I do ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Why, if you love him, tell me so at once. 
 And I would banish me to distant climes, 
 Content to dwell with sorrow for his sake. 
 But oh ! I pray you keep me not in doubt ; 
 Suspense is worse than certain misery. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 I do not crave your friend Anselmo's love. 
 
 y 2
 
 228 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 ? 
 
 Have you the same indifference for me 
 
 MINA. 
 
 In all good honesty, I like you well ; 
 
 And were I free as I would wish to be, 
 
 I e'en could place my hand in yours, and say. 
 
 This humble gift is all your own : — but stay, 
 
 I could do this, for you possess, sir, much 
 
 To win so light a trifle as ray heart. 
 
 Yet I would pause — nay, I would e'en refuse, 
 
 And more — declare upon my sacred word 
 
 I ne'er would wed you, if I thought your friend 
 
 "Would feci one moment's pang when you make known 
 
 Th' acceptation. Ay, and more than this, 
 
 I must refuse my hand, unless he feels 
 
 Delight because it may be yours. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Enough ! 
 My fate is cast, for e'en if fi-iendship stirr'd 
 The noblest feelings in his heart, and he 
 llelinqui.sh'd all his claim, yet must he feel 
 An utter desolation at his loss.
 
 A summer's tale op VENICE. 229 
 
 MINA. 
 
 ( If I had not reward in store for you, 
 I would not test your truthful nature thus.) 
 Now that you know my resolution, sir, 
 We will, if please you, join the dance again. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 A moment more — what meaning was implied 
 When you did say you were not free to choose ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Simply, my will's dependent on the Duke, 
 Who, by the virtue of his guardianship. 
 Disposes of my sister's hand and mine 
 To whom he may select. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 What, if I gain 
 His free consent to make you mine ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Alas! 
 Do kinsmen ever give their countenance
 
 230 A summek's tale of Venice. 
 
 To those their poor dependent wards would choose ? 
 Besides — jour friend — my resolution's firm. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Why he doth seem full happy with your sister, 
 And lias not made an effort for your hand. 
 Her name is Isola. Is she like to you ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Nay, quite dissimilar. While I am deem'd 
 A gay and maybe careless demoiselle, 
 My sister, sir, is grave, and harbours thought, 
 And is a devotee at Learning's shrine. 
 From thi.s her style of beauty takes its tone. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Then ])ray to Heaven, she may her features show. 
 And soon remove that Elliiup's lace she wears 
 To mar such loveliness. 
 
 MlNA. 
 
 Nay, but, good sir. 
 He cunnol full in love with both of u.s.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 231 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 The more I thiuk, the more I am confused ; 
 So I will e'en submit to fate and thee, 
 Praying of both to clear the mystery. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 A good resolve when none is left beside. 
 But see, the Duke hatli order' d music here. 
 To give the revellers a moonlight dance. 
 
 (Thei/ retire hack. A crowd of Maskers enter from the 
 Palace. Fool and a (jroup come forward.^ 
 
 FIRST MASK. 
 
 Here are the florins, Sii' Fool — pray decide the wager. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 Speed on : 1 have no time to waste. 
 
 FIRST MASK. 
 
 We all three differ about the effect which veritable 
 Love doth cause. I affirm he makes a man sad, turns 
 his breathing into sighs, causes each leg to be fearful of
 
 232 A SUMMEU'S TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 its neighbour, so that one is slowly drawn after the 
 other; establishes an affection between the arms, that 
 they do lie most lovingly on one another. In short, 
 doth make the entire man a sort of peg for Melancholy 
 to hang her mantle on, patched up with groans, sudden 
 ejaculations, starts, and throes. 
 
 FOOL {to SECOND MASK). 
 In what wise differ you ? 
 
 SECOND MASK. 
 
 I swear that love assimilates with love ; 
 And when a man doth love in proper foi'ni, 
 The God disclo.«;es mnrvcls to his sioht. 
 And what were things of casual form before. 
 He now dcth clothe with love's intelligence. 
 !Much tliat was bad he now thinks passing good ; 
 Much that was doubt In! lie thinks excellent; 
 All that was common he duth elevate; 
 And can with keen perception ever see 
 That gotjd preponderates throughout the world. 
 In short, I vow that love in truest guise 
 Exalts and well-nigh Deifies th,' iimii.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 233 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 If that's a maiclen by thy side, and thou dost ■woo her, 
 thy speech hath won her now, chiefly because she under- 
 stands it not. And thou, how is't with thee ? {to Third 
 Mask.) 
 
 third mask. 
 
 I differ from my friends. I say that genuine love doth 
 make a man happy as a bird. Each morn when I awake, 
 the eyes of her I love seem looking into mine, and with 
 their laughing light dance to and fro, like to the image 
 of a sun circle, which performs a phantom motion on the 
 wall. My heart doth form the centre of a thousand 
 joyous meteors, which cast a light on the clouds of sore 
 events. In fact, I do avow love rises on man's life, 
 like the sun upon the world, to brighten, aiid sustain, 
 and glorify. 
 
 FOOL. 
 
 And each man backs his notion by the wager of a 
 hundred florins. 'Tis a small sum to gild an image with, 
 whose upper half is a man, the lower half a goat. Well, 
 tell it not that the Fool essays a word of common sense,
 
 234 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 and he will answer thee. Here are the hundred florins 
 {cli)iJcs them) ; this is the Fool's philosophy, grubbed out 
 of books {puts them in his pocket), and the musty rhyme 
 will settle the question. 
 
 Love unto some is food and nourishment ; 
 
 From some he takes all sleekness and content. 
 
 While unto others he gives cunning wit, 
 
 And ev'ry word they utter makes a hit, 
 
 He yet doth change again — turns wit to sighs, 
 
 Or smiles to anger, and himself denies. 
 
 Some are by Love changed both in mien and mitid ; 
 
 Some he quick-sighted makes, some makes he blind ; 
 
 In short. Love's changes are a multitude, 
 
 And no two changes bear similitude. 
 
 (Music without.) 
 
 Bat hear — other lips discourse on love, so leave the 
 Fool, and listen with all the length of your cars. 
 
 (Song is heard from without. A harp accompaniment.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 235 
 
 I. 
 
 Brightly, oil brightly, the moon-rays are falling, 
 
 The waters are glassing the deep sky above : 
 Then hasten, ye lovers, the gondolier's calling, 
 
 'Tis time for young hearts to be hallow'd by love. 
 While softly the light on the water is sleeping, 
 
 Oh seek not your faith, nor your love to deny ; 
 For nought betwixt earth and bright heaven is keeping 
 
 The plighting of love from ascending on high. 
 Hush ! softly the dip of the gondolier's oar 
 
 Shall be lull'd to a sound scarcely heard by the night ! 
 Young hearts, ye may dream that earth is no more, 
 
 But changed to a heaven of love and delight. 
 
 II. 
 
 Brightly, oh brightly, the moon-rays are streaming ; 
 
 How deeply unlike are the thoughts they impart ! 
 For though they are bright — they but coldly are beaming, 
 
 Yet passion and warmth they bestow on the heart,
 
 286 A summek's tat.e of vexice. 
 
 oil ! pure is the Lour, and the holiest feeling 
 
 Forbids aught of love but the true lover's vow : 
 If e'er was a time for affection's revealing 
 
 The language of soul, it is now — it is now. 
 Hush ! softly the dip of the gondolier's oar 
 
 Shall be lull'd to a sound scarcely heard by the night 
 Young hearts, you may dream that earth is no more. 
 
 But changed to a heaven of love and delight ! 
 
 (Jfusic strikes up. Maskers /onw a dance, and 
 curtain falls.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 237 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A Piazza. 
 
 Enter Pippo and Beegetto. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 And so thou really didst not see her last night ? 'Tis 
 well ; her beauty would have blinded thee. 
 
 bergetto. 
 Wilt thou say whom ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 What were thou doing to miss her ? 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 flaking love to an angel.
 
 2;38 A summer's tale ok venice. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Wtll, but didst thou sec her ? 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Devils ! man, see whom ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Oh ! what a f^^oddess in pctlicoats is she ! 
 
 BEP.GETTO. 
 
 If thou meanest a woman, I have a match for her. 
 She hath a front of wit. a back of scorn, sides of mirth 
 and humour, and tail of epigram. 
 
 PIPPU. 
 
 Jly sweet hath everything outside and inside for 
 pcrl'cct woman. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 Inside ! 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Yes, shf is h lied with intelligence, and covered ^viill
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 239 
 
 beauty. She is a volume of excellent manuscript, whose 
 pages Virtue hath illuminated with her own portrait. 
 Its binding is of the softest skin, its preface explains its 
 contents, and liking the index, I bought the book, 
 
 BERGETTO 
 
 Bless thy conceit ! How much didst give ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Coins stamped with Love's image. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Thou wilt be hanged for forgery yet. What is the 
 title ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Title ! 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Tes, books have titles — does she carry it on her 
 back ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 It's small enough to be writ anyuhere.
 
 240 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Wi'U, the priest can leogtheu it. What is't ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 llcr name is — promise discretion. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 That's a long one. ]\Inoh hinger than any angel's 
 name. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Thy angel's ugliness stunted it, when her sponsors 
 put it on her. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Spare thy wit, and speak her name. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 'Tis very short. 
 
 BEUGETrO. 
 J la!
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 241 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Yes, quite as short as ha ! Well, then, 'tis 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 In faith's name, what ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 No, not what — shorter. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 I swear I will cudgel thee. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Well, gentle friend — 'tis Lu. 
 
 BERGETTO, 
 
 Lu ! if there be not two Lu's in Venice — make thy 
 will. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 How now ? 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Lu, didst say ? Oh no, thou hast not dared to set thy 
 
 R
 
 242 A SUMMEU'S TALE OF VEXICE. 
 
 misbegotten love on the same woman I have elected for 
 my bride. iVy angel is Lu ! 
 
 PIPPO (^drawing his sivorcT). 
 Before I let daylight through tliy carcase, did she say 
 she was the Lady Isola's waiting-woman ? 
 
 BERGETTO (draivs his sword). 
 Ay, the same — come on. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 One instant, knave : there may be some mistake e'en 
 yot. This ring I wear came from her — a token of our 
 plighted faith. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 This chain she presented to me till our wedding-day 
 makes all we have a mutual property. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 One moment yet. Is she tall, with hair dark as night, 
 hut herself merry as tlio morn ?
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 2 lo 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Yes, and as full of smiles for Bergetto as the noon ; 
 and cool, in regard for thee, as the evening. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Come on, thon braggart. 
 
 {They fight. Bergetto wounds his sword-arm.) 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 There's a scratch for thee. Art satisfied ? That was 
 the Frenchman's trick I told thee of before. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Since first blood is thine, we'll settle it bj arbitration, 
 and the subject of the quarrel shall decide. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Why, I will make an appointment with this imp, or 
 angel, or whatever she may prove to be; and if she 
 
 r2
 
 244 A SUM.MKl;'.^ TAI,K OF VENICE. 
 
 keeps it, come and see us, aud let tbine own eyes drink 
 in tliy niiscrv. 
 
 BEUGETTO. 
 
 Nay, for as much as thou art vanquish'd, I will make 
 the appointment, and thou shalt look on when she comes. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Perhaps, if we named nearly the same time, she would 
 come to both. There is no plumbing the abyss of woman's 
 deceit. 
 
 BEUGETTO. 
 
 Well, I agree. When St. Mark strikes four to-day, I 
 will be liero with the fair 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Never mind her name, it brings on the cholic. When 
 St. Mark chimes a quarter past she will bo with mo. 
 
 BICKGETTO. 
 
 TIk; our Uj whom slu; comes is in no way to l)c inter- 
 f»'rcd with bv the other.
 
 k SUMMKK's tale of VENICE. 245 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 No, I swear not to speak if she is with thee. I'll 
 murder thee in the evening, and go to Greece. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Or swing in the Piazzetta in the morning. Poor Pip. 
 — I do pity thee. Adieu. {Exit.) 
 
 PIPPO. 
 Not so poor as thou, if a wife will eni'ich me. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene II. — An Ante-room in the Dukes Palace. 
 Enter Vitale, and Mina, unseen hij him. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 No more shall resolution alternate 
 Between a doubtful love and friendship sure. 
 Still be my friend, Anselmo, for I s^\ear, 
 By absence fx-oni thee to deserve the name, 
 And I will fly from love to keep thy trust.
 
 -i-O A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 (First Huayt the cords with whicli I liold thee bound). 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Her beauty would imply that Truth herself 
 Must dwell within so sweet an edifice, 
 For Virtue should have been the architect 
 To raise the temple for her dwellinfc-place. 
 But truth, which ought the very core to be 
 Of smallest syllable from maidens' lips, 
 Doth ne'er resemblance bear to coquetry. 
 Yet she doth hesitate ; recals her speech ; 
 Doth seem confused, and not a word comes free, 
 Frctih from her soul, untainted by a doubt. 
 'Tis pity that such outward loveliness 
 Should hide the mildew of untruth witliin. 
 
 MiNA (co7uing foitcanl). 
 
 Unwilling, and yet with willing ear, 
 1 overheard your speech.. Yes, you are right. 
 Words, sir, are living things : we give them birth 
 To rise in judgment either for or 'gainst us ; 
 And if we did implant a boul of truth
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 247 
 
 In ev'ry syllable we give the world, 
 
 Earth might become a paradise again. 
 
 But, oh ! except one little falsity. 
 
 Which soon should have been made as clear as light, 
 
 I have deceived you, sir, in nought — yet you 
 
 Set falsehood's name upon my character, 
 
 And from a change of feeling in yourself 
 
 Avow I am not worthy of your love. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 How cruel thou. Say but in simple words 
 That I may call thee mine. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 What ! with thy wings 
 Full spread to fly from me ? It is too late : 
 The Duke hath signified his choice is made, 
 And I must wed. 
 
 VI'J'ALE. 
 
 Little as I know thee, 
 I will be sworn thou wilt not so forget 
 Thine own pure nature as to let the Duke
 
 248 A summer's tale of venice. 
 
 Trade with tby person as with merclmndise, 
 And sell thy hand unhallow'd by thy heart. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Ay, but kind fate may so direct his choice, 
 That liis selection proves my own. What then ? 
 
 VITAL E. 
 
 Oh, do not trifle thus — thy pleasure lies 
 
 In probing wounds, instead of healing them. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 SERVANT. 
 
 Lady, the Duke, so please you, waits your presence. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 MIXA. 
 
 I come. Oh, think of me with wntler thou'rhts 
 When next we meet, and 'twill be soon. Adieu, 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 VITAL E. 
 
 Was ever mortal hO completely held
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 249 
 
 In woman's cliangefal fantasy as I ? 
 
 First she confesses love, then straight retracts. 
 
 Next, she declares that she will give her hand 
 
 If vsredding me doth cause a rival joy ! 
 
 Then, when I swear I will not injure him, 
 
 She well-nigh urges me to do the wrong ; 
 
 And ends it all by calmly telling me 
 
 The Duke has mated her, and she must wed ! 
 
 There must be something wrong in this, for ti'uth 
 
 Doth never need a veil of mystery. 
 
 Enter Anselmo with a letter, not seeing Vitale. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 How bright doth finely-temper'd honour shine 
 
 In ev'ry syllable her hand hath writ ; 
 
 Making them each a torch of purity 
 
 To light her character in dearest form ! 
 
 How sweetly is her nature here express'd, 
 
 Set forth in words that bid affection's heart 
 
 Leap forth in ecstasy to catch the sense ! 
 
 But for this note, the Duke's most sudden will 
 
 Had strewn with thorns my new-trod path of joy, 
 
 But she, with loving hand of ti-uthfulness.
 
 250 A summer's tale ok VENICE. 
 
 Hath clear'd the threatening parasites away. 
 Go next my heart, sweet messenger of love ; 
 Guard it from evil — thy antithesis. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I fear, Anselmo, I intrude on thee : 
 But I do bear a load upon my soul, 
 And 1 would ask thy aid to lighten it. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Thou dost command mo as tliou ever didst. 
 Why not, dear friend, in full assurance say 
 Do this, or that, without another word ? 
 Thou know'st thy will in all things is my own. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Thy words augment occasion for the boon. 
 
 A wrong I've done thee, and would e'en atone 
 
 Before it be too late. Nay, hear mo on, 
 
 'Tis soon cxplain'd, and, oli ! that thy forgiveness 
 
 Were spoke as brieHy. 
 
 AXSELMO. 
 
 1 will nut listen.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 261 
 
 If thou hast lost my fortune to some foe, 
 I e'en could pardon it, for I am Iieir 
 To wealth so vast, that all beside is nouofht. 
 The rich mine of her love is promised me, 
 A treasure ever inexhaustible. 
 
 VITALB. 
 
 (Can she be thus so false to him and me !) 
 What, dear Anselmo, an' the mine be rich 
 As all Golconda's fabled store, if she 
 Doth turn by fickleness the gold to dross ? 
 For love in woman false is little less. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 My friend, what dust thou mean ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 That I forgot 
 The debt I owe tliee for a thousand boons 
 Perform'd through all my life, and set my heart 
 Where thou hast jDlaced thine own : and she, I fear, 
 Doth welcome both — at least, her conduct lacks 
 That candid front of fair integrity
 
 252 A summek's talk of vexice. 
 
 Whicli scoi'iis to raise a doubt; but, oh ! 'tis thou 
 Didst rise in judgment 'guinst me, and decreed 
 A load of angni.sli 'till I told thee all. 
 Nay, prithee hear me on. 'Tis some excuse 
 Tliat I did meet the dame at Florence once ; 
 And 'twas not till I gain'd an interview. 
 And then first knew her name was Isola, 
 That I perceived the strange entangleuieut 
 Which threaten'd discord to our amit}-. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 I scarce can credit my own sense. I thought 
 !My suit was urged — ay, even to her face. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Yes, when her face was mask'd ; but ere I left, 
 She stood before me as the Florentine. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 I am so ill-prepared for news thus strange 
 I cannot shape reply. That thou aii kind, 
 And generous, and candid, 1 can feel. 
 For else Yitalc could not be — but say
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 253 
 
 Thou hast some other meaning in thy words 
 Besides what my poor understanding finds. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Would that I had ; but 'tis not my intent 
 To mar thy happiness in smallest shape : 
 For oh ! Anselmo, there is much in love 
 That will not bear the crucible of thought. 
 For thought doth analyse its every part, 
 And proves alloy is mingled with it all. 
 The senses wait on love for womankind 
 With pleasure in their train in cunning guise ; 
 But yet, with all love's blandishment and smiles. 
 With all the gilding which dotli glitter on't, 
 With all tlie ecstasy which makes the heart 
 Bound in its seat, yet passion still is there 
 Mixing with all, and blemishing the best. 
 'But friendship holds his sovereignty without 
 One minister of passion in his court. 
 And I'ules the baser part of human kind 
 With laws that do regenerate it much. 
 The flattering sycophants which ever wait 
 Upon love's rival court, and make themselves
 
 254 A summer's tale of venice. 
 
 Tlie theme of theii- own praise and flattery, 
 Are by the power of friendship all reversed : 
 And then, in place of self-esteem, they see 
 Another's excellence. The courLier's vanity 
 Gives place to sober judgmcTit of men's worth ; 
 And even selfishness, the subtlest stain 
 Which finds its way into the purest hearts, 
 Doth fain succumb when friendship enters too ; 
 Thus is the sacrifice of little worth 
 I make to call thee still my friend. To-night 
 I do depart, and may all happiness 
 Wait on thy steps, as soitow does on mine. 
 
 ANSKI.MO. 
 
 How terrible is this ! Fate hath decreed 
 The worst infliction that she could bestow. 
 The sweetest period of my life has changed 
 To biltcrness. Oh ! best and dearest friend, 
 By fliis warm grasp, and by the love I bear 
 For thee, my brother of our happy youth, 
 I sweai- 1 will do nought to injure thee. 
 But if tbou bidst me to relinqui.sh love, 
 T yield my life, for 'tis a part of it.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 255 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 N'aj, 'twere a useless sacrifice for thee. 
 
 And lest thou credit'st me for greater worth 
 
 Than I can justifj, I must confess 
 
 I would not give up hope so readily, 
 
 Had she confess'd, in plain unvarnish'd words, 
 
 An honest love ; but ev'ry syllable that she did speak 
 
 Was stamp'd with doubt, and though she gave 
 
 Enough encouragement to lead me on, 
 
 I fear'd to follow so unsure a flame, 
 
 Which, like a meteor of the night, misleads. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Encouragement ! what meanest thou by the word ? 
 
 VITALR. 
 
 I fear, Anselmo, that her purity 
 
 Is not unmingled with a common sin, 
 
 Which women think is none, for they believe 
 
 Deceit's a weapon Nature furnishes 
 
 For them to use in warfare 'gainst us all. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Nay, that the lady in the smallest Avord
 
 250 A SUMMEK's tale of VENICE. 
 
 Hiilps not an atom else than is express'd 
 I stake my soul upon. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 The Duke, my lord, awaits you. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I follow you. 
 Adieu, dear friend : to-night we meet again ; 
 I've much to tell thee ere I take my leave. 
 
 AN S ELMO. 
 
 Nay, dear Vitalo, 'twould be wrong to all ; 
 To me, a score of hearts, and to thyself. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I seek o'i>n now commission for the wars. {Exit.) 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 How cr\icl fate ! Thus, at the very time 
 When all my hopes were nearly consummate,
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 257 
 
 To turn my foe, and strike so fatally. 
 Oh ! were her worth of less undoubted form, 
 His words would sorely rankle in the wound 
 Which sorrow at his pain already caused. 
 But her sweet character doth bear the stamp 
 Of purity so clear, that doubt doth die 
 At mention of its enemy, her name. 
 
 Enter IsOLA, in haste. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 How fortunate we meet ! Hadst thou my note ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 My heart doth hold it in captivity. 
 But wherefore ask ? now it hath found its home, 
 Where it is welcomed by a thousand thanks, 
 And usher'd in by love, thou wouldst not take 
 The cherish'd missive from its resting-place ? 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Oh no. I wrote it with the full belief 
 That thou wouldst feel that even bashfulness 
 Should not, with sensibility ton nice, 
 
 8
 
 or,8 A summek's talk of vfxtcf. 
 
 Stand in tiie path of clearing doubt away. 
 I now attend the Duke, and it may chance 
 His purport takes a form to bid us part. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Go where thou wilt, sweet love, I follow thee ; 
 The guide-star of my fate in life or death. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 I do not fear myself, for did the Duke 
 
 Threaten my life, or offer me a crown, 
 
 I would nut purchase it by falsehood's voav, 
 
 Sworn at the altar kneeling to my God, 
 
 Searing my very soul with perjury. 
 
 But lest he separate us by some course 
 
 We neither dream of now, Anselmo say 
 
 Whate'er occurs thou wilt rely on me; 
 
 And if the worst should happen, still believe 
 
 Thai (ruth shall justify tliy faith and love 'r* 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 To doubt thee were to doubt the life oi" truth. 
 1 swear, dear Isola, my tiaist in thee
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 259 
 
 Is equal to my love, and that doth prove 
 Against suspicion such an antidote, 
 That did enigmas rest in all thy words, 
 My deep affection would decipher them 
 To show the soul of purity in all. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Believing thee, I do not fear the Duke. 
 
 Misfortvme is deprived of half its sting 
 
 When those we love preserve our memoiy, 
 
 Embalm'd in confidence — 'tis a sweet plant, 
 
 Shedding a perfume even over hope. 
 
 When hope doth languish most ; and if events 
 
 Be barren of all fruit of happiness, 
 
 Nipping the early blossoms of our love, 
 
 Set in their place the flowers of ];ope and faith, 
 
 And they shall only fade when I am false. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Memory shall be a very paradise, 
 Wliere trust indeed shall bloom, tended by lov-e. 
 But wherefore thus so sad, dear Isola ? 
 
 S 2
 
 260 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 The Duko hath Icarn'd the secret of our hearts ; 
 And in the note which bids me wait on him, 
 There breathes a tone unwontedly severe. 
 
 Ai;SELMO. 
 
 I, too, am snramon'd, and I know not why : 
 Wlio couhl betray a love invisible ? 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 I hear the Duke doth learn by strangest means, 
 
 Not only tidings useful to the state, 
 
 But plots and stratagems of love as well. 
 
 And it is whisper'd that his minister, 
 
 A certain Fool in outward gear, betrays 
 
 All who do trust his folly with the ir news. 
 
 Here comes a messenger to bid mo haste, 
 
 And so — adieu. Tlion wilt rtly on me, 
 
 Whate'er betides, and in this confidence 
 
 Again- adieu. (Exit.)
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 261 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 In Heaven and thee I trust. 
 My stake on happiness is far too deep 
 For simply Iwpe — so from my earnest soul. 
 I trust in Heaven and thee. (Exit.) 
 
 Scene III. — Tlie Piazza, as before. 
 Enter Bergetto. (Clock st7Hkes.) 
 
 beegetto. 
 Now is the time. Poor Pip ;— I'm sorry for thee, Pip 
 — for thou hast been a mei-ry fi-iend and true. Poor 
 devil ! I will make light of thy misery, which is doing 
 thee a good turn. Oh ! 'twill be glorious to see thee 
 dumb with vexation when she doth come ! 
 
 Enter Pippo. 
 PIPPO. 
 The bell hath struck.
 
 202 A summer's tale of vbnice. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Nay, but a moment. Sec, she comes — avaunt, thou 
 villain, into darkness. 
 
 Enter Lucia, mashed. 
 
 (PiPP(') rctircH hack in a rage, and is dlxiut to speak.) 
 Nay, keep thy oath — be silent. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 (Poor jealous fools — why, they are blind as bats !) 
 Well, Hcrgotto, I received thy note, and here 1 atu. 
 What wouldst thou ? 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Good, sweet Lu. I tell thee why I sought thee thus. 
 I have a kind of an acquaintance with a fellow — a most 
 entire coxcomb — a very impersonation of petty vanities 
 stuck on one man — the laughing-stock of every woman 
 ill Venice. Well, this biped puppy, whom they call 
 I'ippo, hath sworn that you bestowed all sorts of favours 
 on him, and had the impudence to give his cfTrontory a 
 shape, by declaring that you have promised to marry 
 hiui.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 263 
 
 LUCIA, 
 
 I promised to marry any but thee I Nay, to believe 
 that so dishonourable a blot can rest on my nature, 
 proves thee unfitted for my love. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Nay, it is 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 How durst thou think I should promise to marry two 
 men, sir ? I will never speak to thee again. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 But hear 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 I will not hear. Thou hast put an insult on mine 
 honour ; and if thou eouldst do that before marriage, 
 what wouldst thou after ? But I refuse thee. 
 
 BERGETTO. 
 
 Oh! lam
 
 264 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 Nay, not a word. Tliuu liast proved thyself umvortby 
 a thouglit even, and I retract all tlie absurdity I spoke 
 last uiglit. (Exit, j)retending anger.') 
 
 PiPPO {coining foi'ward). 
 
 All,' all ! my fine friend, how likcst thou the end ou't ? 
 Now thou wilt hear what she nays to me, for be sure she 
 hath left thee in such haste only to come to me. 
 
 Enter Lucilla, masked. 
 
 (Bergetto is about to address her, hut Vwvo pusJies 
 
 him back.) 
 
 Nay, keep thy oath, good Bergetto. 
 
 lucilla. 
 
 (Now to speak like my mischivous cousin, or it's all 
 over with me.) Well, Pippo, no spirit ever waited on 
 his master with more alacrity. What wouldst thou ? 
 
 rippo. 
 Thanks, dearest maid. When 1 have wished tu speak
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 265 
 
 of scoundrels, idiots, knaves, and Bucli like, and wanted 
 to express the superlative of eacli, thou hast heard me 
 name a certain Bergetto. Well, this clod of ills and 
 follies hath svporn, that at the ball last night, thou gavest 
 him a token of thy love, and accepted him, with all his 
 vices thick upon him, as thy husband 
 
 LUCILLA {interi-upting') . 
 
 A base invention of thine own, to cast a slur upon my 
 character, that thou mayest rid thyself of me. I quite 
 understand. Thou dost repent giving me so valuable a 
 commodity as thyself, so desirest to lay a fault upon me 
 to give thee occasion — nay, speak not — truly, sir, an in- 
 genious way of ridding thyself of a burden. But fear 
 not. I tell thee now I am not sorry at thy caprice, for 
 I see I have had a lucky escape in marrying that worst 
 of characters — a suspicious man. Nay, sir, I wish to 
 hear no word of thine. {Exit in a hurry S) 
 
 (PiPPO is confounded^ and looks on without attempting to 
 
 speak.) 
 
 BERGETTO (coviing forward and mocking). 
 " Ah, ah ! my fine friend, how likest thou the end
 
 2(50 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 ou't ?" I'll tell thee what — never let us quarrel about 
 womankind or woman unkind again. 
 
 Enter Lucia and Lucilla, unmasJced. 
 She hath deceived us both alike, but leaves no wound 
 save what I treated theo to. 
 
 PIPPO. 
 
 Give me thy hand. 'Tis well said, Bergetto ; hence- 
 forth a fig for women all. However, revenge is left, and 
 we will paint her in her true colours as jilt, and will 
 hang the portrait as a warning at every bachelor's door 
 in Venice. 
 
 LUCIA (to bergetto). 
 
 Here is the copy ready o thy hand. 
 
 LUCILLA (to PIPPO). 
 Is it a fuillungth, or a miniature? 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 If love be blind, thuu art indeed in love : 
 And if 'tis thus, and we attempt to move
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 267 
 
 The bandage from thine eyes to give thee sight, 
 
 Love is not love — so keep without the h'glit. 
 
 But yet — when blind, it seems that every sense 
 
 Deserts thee quite — so, as a recompense, 
 
 Know that the vows to Lu, which thou didst swear, 
 
 Were false — for Lucia is the name I bear. 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 And T, Lucilla — yet we both are Lu — 
 And, honestly — we meant to puzzle you. 
 
 PIPPO (to lucia). 
 
 Although before I never saw thy face, 
 
 I have been minded often of thy grace ; 
 
 For here is one {to Lucilla) so very like to thee. 
 
 That we have loved a double deity. 
 
 BEEGETTO. 
 
 I did not think that beauty could divide 
 Her gifts so equally on either side ; 
 Weigh each your gi-aces, and a single hair 
 Would the just balance of the scales impair.
 
 2G8 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 rippo. 
 Most happy wc, for we have both a prize, 
 Alike in manner, and alike in size ; 
 And one resemblance more doth further strike — 
 Your tongues in speed run very much alike 
 
 LUCILLA. 
 
 They must be fast, for they are driven so, 
 To keep the pace thy impudence doth go. 
 But, as by some mischance, we four are plighted, 
 Delay our race of tongues — 
 
 LUCIA. 
 
 'Till we're united. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Room in the Palace. 
 
 (Secretaries at a talk, Attendants, &c. Duke, Isola, 
 
 and MiN'A.) 
 
 duke. 
 The punishment that I would guard you from 
 Rests with yourselves alone. Condcnui not ino,
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 2tj9 
 
 For I am bound to minister to him 
 
 Who, dying, did bequeath you to my charge, 
 
 And left his wishes in his will express'd, 
 
 That I, his nearest relative, should choose 
 
 A husband for you each — fitted, of course, 
 
 In worth to match with so much worthiness. 
 
 But 'tis provided, too, if you refuse 
 
 To marry whom I name, your fortune goes 
 
 A rich endowment to a nunnery. 
 
 It seems, however, that although you know 
 
 The trust I hold, aud its contingent aim. 
 
 You have disposed already of your hearts, 
 
 Forgetting that the gift opposed by me 
 
 Doth strip you of your fortune, and doth place 
 
 A sterner punishment within my hands. 
 
 So pause before, in obstinate disdain, 
 
 You bring a judgment I would fain withhold ; 
 
 And, as I swear the cavaliers are rich 
 
 In all good parts for perfect gentlemen, 
 
 Yield with good grace, siuce you must yield at last. 
 
 And do not force me to command your will, 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Was it so great a crime to ope the door
 
 270 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 Wliich cage J our hearts, and give them liberty ? 
 
 But please you, gracious Duke, I'm ready now 
 
 To hasten to the altar, and to swear 
 
 Loyalty and love, and go through all the form 
 
 Which waits on marriage, if a trifle you 
 
 Will grant me for my ready complaisance. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Your place, fair niece, is not to dictate terms. 
 But wliat is your request ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Simply, your grace, 
 I vow to wed, this morning, if you will, 
 Ay, and to deck myself in gayest dress. 
 To seem a bride, and not a sacrifice — 
 Look at ray sister, please you, sire — she chides 
 Li gesture dumb but eloquent, because 
 She fancies I am playing hypocrite. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Tt seems you do not lofie your saucy toiiyue 
 l']'i!ii at a nininciit when 'tis least required ; 
 Bill youi- request — or your conditions — which ?
 
 A summer's tale op VENICE. 271 
 
 MINA, 
 
 Why, my Lord Duke, in matters of the heart 
 
 Maidens do think their will a privilege 
 
 By Nature given them, for she hath made 
 
 Its instincts all irrelevant to vpill : 
 
 And forasmuch as I could not control 
 
 The urgency of love, I gave my heart, 
 
 Without remembering once that your goad grace 
 
 Did lay a claim to the poor property, 
 
 To make it over to some stranger's care. 
 
 So much I own ; and having thus confess'd 
 
 My crime, my folly, and forgetfulness, 
 
 I do repeat my promise, sire, to wed. 
 
 If you will grant the small request I make. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Pray be the Duke, and turn my guardian too ; 
 Change places for the nonce. But I agree, 
 If you will wed the gentleman I name ; 
 All terms are then in form of settlements. 
 
 MIXA. 
 
 What gratitude I owe ! 'Tis simply this — 
 Permit me, sire, to marry whom I will.
 
 •J72 A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 DUKE {smiling aside}. 
 
 ^kFy word is pledged, and I must fain submit : 
 Of course surmising that the gentleman 
 Ts willing to embrace the happiness 
 Involved in choosing him. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Oh yes, indeed ; 
 That is, your grace, a noccssai-y clause, 
 Subtracting nought from all the thanks I owe. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Then recollect, I keep you to your word. 
 And now, what says your gentle sister here? 
 Am 1 to turn a ])lcadcr yet again — 
 Forget the sovereign in the advocate ? 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 'Tis I the pleader, and your grace the judge, 
 "Who will, I think, allow my cause is just; 
 For I do simply ask for liberty 
 To lose my fortune lather than to wed.
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 273 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Nay, by my faith ! your stubbornness is wrong : 
 You marry, lady ; and to none but him 
 Whom I have chosen shall you give yourself. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Oh, my Lord Duke be merciful, be just. 
 
 You would not that the daughter of your friend, 
 
 Your relative, should so pollute her name. 
 
 Her lineage and herself, as e'er to wed 
 
 At any mandate but her own heart's love ? 
 
 You Avill not force so tei-rible a wrong 
 
 Upon a helpless woman, sire, who leans 
 
 For aid and kindness on the very judge 
 
 Who would consign her thus to misery ? 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Think you, your father would such trust have placed 
 
 In both my judgment and my leniency. 
 
 If he had thought I should have wedded you 
 
 To any but the noblest and the best ? 
 
 Why should his daughter then evince such fear — 
 
 Or is she wiser than her father was ? 
 
 T
 
 1>74- A tjUMMEu's TALE OF VENIOK. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 1 never yet deceived you — nor \vill now. 
 
 Not e'en equivocation, nor one word 
 
 That tells with double sense, will I e'er speak. 
 
 Thus, my good Duke, I honestly confess 
 
 That I liave pledged myself to die unwed 
 
 If you refuse me use of my own will. 
 
 Oh, sire, it is so great a sacrifice. 
 
 Whose terrible extent men scarcely know, 
 
 When they do ask a maiden to pronounce 
 
 The vow which wedding her corporeally 
 
 Divorces her affections from her heart, 
 
 And sends her on the barren path of life 
 
 A soulless outcast when bereft of love. 
 
 Oh, my good liege, this hand did never steal; 
 
 This tongue ne'er spoke in language of untruth; 
 
 ily will did guide them in an honest course ; 
 
 And shall my will, whieh rules o'er petty things, 
 
 Consign this person to dishonesty ? 
 
 Degrade it in the sncred name of God, 
 
 Making the altar but a barter-place, 
 
 Wlierc, with few words of seeming sanctity, 
 
 The bargain's sti-uck, ami tili ! (lie name of wife
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 27^ 
 
 Doth brand, not bless, a slave for evermore ! 
 That I should act in this most solemn mime 
 Is so repugnant to my very soul. 
 That I would sooner die than take a part, 
 
 MINA (aside). 
 (I'faith, bat love doth make her eloquent.) 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Or sooner perish than forego your love I 
 
 ISOLA. 
 No merit if I do confess my love, 
 Because I am aware you know the truth. 
 But were ray heart and hand at liberty, 
 With all respect, my liege, for your commands, 
 Forgive me if I say, no punishment 
 Could shake my firm resolve. I dare not wed 
 With one of whom I am so ignorant, 
 I do not even guess his name, or why 
 He seeks so poor a person as myself.' 
 If he doth know me well, he too must know 
 I should refuse his suit — not knowiuo" me. 
 No loss accrues from my rejecting him. 
 
 T 2
 
 *J70 A SUMMER S TALE OF VENICE. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 So be it, then. It scorns you are so bent 
 Jn having your own way, tliat I withdraw 
 The wilhng hand which would have guided you. 
 And if you lose the path to happiness, 
 Wliich I would fain have clear'd of obstacles, 
 Tlic blame and consequence doth rest with you. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 'Tis not reproach, but gratitude I owe 
 
 For this emancipation of my fears. 
 
 And oh ! forgive me, sire, if 1 have spnlcc 
 
 The smallest syllabic that lacks respect. 
 
 Hut in a cause where soul and hcai't do plead, 
 
 The mode of speech may take improper form ; 
 
 And if it were so, prithee pardon me. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Wlien hearts arc threaten'd, then tlic tongue cries out ; 
 
 And, like a sentinel, do(h sound alni-ms. 
 
 Defending its commander 'gain.st attacks 
 
 "With every ai-rn of specious argument. 
 
 ilnt now (lie .strife is o'ci' l.c pleased (o write
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE, 277 
 
 In simple words 'tis you, not I, refuse 
 
 Your heart and hand, since I did promise botli ; 
 
 And I would hold a written testament. 
 
 That may acquit me of all want of truth. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Most gladly, sir — no dubious terms shall cast 
 
 One doubt upon the source of the refusal. ( Writes.) 
 
 MiNA (aside). 
 
 There's something hidden in this suavity ; 
 More, I suspect, than meets the view. 
 
 ISOLA {giving paper). 
 This doth attach, my liege, all blame to me. 
 
 DUKE {having read it). 
 
 It is sufficient — bi'ief and explicit. 
 Adieu, then, ladies, till I send for you. 
 Be ready at command, since I may seek 
 Some further converse : and again take heed, 
 Not I, but you, direct your destinies.
 
 278 A sl'mmeb's tale of Venice. 
 
 ISOLA {to mina). 
 A mystery lies in every word he speaks. 
 
 MlNA (to isola). 
 
 There is a something lurking in his eye, 
 
 WLo.'^e character I cannot comprehend. (Exeunt.) 
 
 Entei- Anselmo <md Vitale. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 (Here come tlie prompters of their eloquence; 
 
 But, hy my faith, they recollect their part 
 
 With so much certainty of utterance, 
 
 That they must read it in their inmost hearts. 
 
 Making the prompter's place a sinecure.) 
 
 Signor Vitale, you have writ to me, 
 
 Demanding your commis.sion to hear arms; 
 
 And forasmuch as the rash Genoese 
 
 Do draw on Venice fur her best defence. 
 
 There is the answer to you requisition ; 
 
 (Gives a paper.) 
 *You tjikc command as herein specified. 
 You, Lord Anselmo, would not willingly
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 279 
 
 Be where your friend is not ; tlius have I drawn 
 The terms which make you captain of a troop. 
 
 (^Gives a paper.) 
 I need not tell you that the senate c.ills 
 On all the servants of the state for aid 
 And ready energy to quell these wars. 
 Therefore with utmost speed I pray depart. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 My liege, kind fortune hath allotted me 
 
 A name not ill connected with the deeds, 
 
 Which, shared hy others, hath made Venice stand 
 
 Alone as conqueror of her enemies. 
 
 No imputation, then, can be attach'd, 
 
 When I request that you will cancel this. 
 
 For now ambition to excel in arms 
 
 Hath given place to hopes that I may win 
 
 A richer prize than war could ever give. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 The duty of a soldier is to cast 
 All thoughts away that enervate his soul, 
 And love should be the spur to braverv; 
 To follow, not precede, the call to war.
 
 2bO A summer's tale of VENICE. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Most true ; and if you will accord one boon 
 Dependent on my service giving me 
 A right to ask it, I will fly to arms, 
 And either die, or merit the reward. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 A noble soldier and a gentleman, 
 
 As Lord Anselmo is, doth hold a right 
 
 To ask a favour from the state. What is't ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 On you alone, my liege, the favour rests ; 
 On you alono my happiness depends ; 
 'Tis you alone can make or mar my fate, 
 !My life a blessing or a lengtheu'd curse. 
 On you doth rest the rich disposal, sire, 
 Of her to whom my life is dedicate : 
 And from your giaciuus hand I liunibly seek 
 Your lovely charge, the Lady Isola. 
 
 1>LKE. 
 
 Pity you cast your happiness, my lord,
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 281 
 
 Upou so frail a barque, wliich every wave 
 Of changeful humour bears iti diff'reut track. 
 'Twas but a minute since, the lady here 
 Refused you in such terms, that I was forced 
 Abruptly to concede my earnest wish 
 That she would marry you. 
 
 I'p ' 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 What mean you, sire 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Am I so little explicit ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 My liege. 
 You do coiToborate what I dared think : 
 The Lady Isola, with all her form 
 Of grace most exquisite, doth ever change. 
 Like hues of evening, beautiful and warm, 
 Yet evanescent, fitful, and unreal. 
 Thus have I told him oft, and bcgg'd him too. 
 To plant love's banner on a firmer ground.
 
 282 A summer's talk of Venice. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 My lord, bow answer you your friend ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 As I would answer him and all the world ! 
 
 Standing on earth, we think that clouds do pass 
 
 Atliwart the face of heaven ; but when we climb 
 
 Some eminence, we see the azure deep 
 
 Lies calmly in immensity beyond. 
 
 Thus is her truth, if clouds do cross its light, 
 
 liclief augments my faculty to sec, 
 
 And I do view its brightness clear as day. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 What if your eyes translate her wishes, sir? 
 Here i.s a note which she hath writ for you. 
 
 ANSKLMO. 
 
 Oh, yes, her own dear hand hath rested liere. 
 
 (h'cads.) 
 " When you would wed, first win the lady's love ; 
 " It is the oidy key (o huppiness. 
 " Nut having it, you foi ce ailcction's lock,
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 283 
 
 " And then the whole is spoil'd for evermore. 
 
 " Thus, as I cannot render you the charm 
 
 " Which hallows marriage vows, I here declare 
 
 " The Duke hath urged your suit in ablest form ; 
 
 " And I, alone consulting my own heart, 
 
 " Decline the offer with as firm resolve 
 
 " As I do write the name of — IsOLA." 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Dost credit thine own eyes ? 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Oh, yes, my liege, 
 But tranquilly I read. I said before, 
 I view her brightness from the altitude 
 Which true affection doth accord to me : 
 And though I cannot understand these lines 
 I feel assured the blindness is with me, 
 And not a spot dims her integrity. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 (Was ever trust so obdurate and just ?)
 
 284 A summer's tale of Venice. 
 
 Niiy, tlien, your lioaring sliiill assist your siy;ht. 
 
 {To Servant.) 
 Go tell the ladies I would speak with them. 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 I'rithee, Ansclmo, do not rest thy faith 
 Upon the shifting nature of her love. 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 My faith is set — ay, and so firmly too, 
 Suspieion's breath must turn a hurricane 
 To shake its fixity. 
 
 DUKE (to VITALE). 
 
 Upon what grounds 
 Have you built up your disbelief, good sir, 
 or this fair lady's truth ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 Why, please your grace, 
 It so tum'd out, all inadvertently, 
 I fell in luve with her, and often spoke 
 With love's warm tongue, while slie, I must confess. 
 Did SLLiu t(j rdish it; but yet she lack'd
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 285 
 
 A candid manner, and I soon observed 
 
 Anselmo loved the lady too ! Thus I 
 
 In friendsliip's cause retreated from tlie course. 
 
 Enter IsOLA and MmA, folloived by Pippo, Bergetto, 
 Lucia, and Lucilla. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Supposing you could find her parallel, 
 At least in beauty, but in truth excell'd, 
 Could you transfer your love ; or is it chain'd, 
 With all its hopelessness, to this ftiir dame ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 N^o, my Lord Duke : since fate, to punish me, 
 
 For many crimes committed against love. 
 
 Refuses me the mistress of my soul, 
 
 I would not swell the catalogue of sin 
 
 By wedding where affection takes no part. 
 
 'Tis true I do relinquish Isola, 
 
 And true with her I give up hope and love. 
 
 DUKE (to ISOLA and MiNA, icho are about to .ipeak). 
 Nay, fur your own sake, interrupt me not. 
 
 (To Isola.)
 
 286 A summer's tale of venice. 
 
 In brief, say yea or nay, did you declare 
 In terms of clearest form that you reject 
 The husband which my duty made me choose. 
 
 ISOLA iji.esitatimj') . 
 I — did, my liege 
 
 ANSELMO. 
 
 Oh, Isola, I jiray- 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Nay, sir, I must command you hear me on. 
 
 {To MlNA.) 
 And you, loo, lady, did j-on not avow 
 That you would wed the object of your choice, 
 Only surmising he objected not ? 
 
 MINA. 
 
 I did ! I did ! 'tis all an error, sire — 
 
 DUKE (staf/ing her). 
 And errors punisli tliose who gave them birth. 
 
 (7V( Anselmo.) 
 My lord, ynu swurL- full confidence just now,
 
 A summer's tale of VENICE. 287 
 
 And spake some pretty speeches about your faith. 
 Here stands the heaven of your most steadfast trust, 
 With self-confessed clouds obscuring it. 
 What think you now ? 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 My liege, I do implore 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Each word increases your just punishment. 
 Your answer, sir. 
 
 AN S ELMO. 
 
 As I did ever think : 
 That truth would never leave his bless'd abode, 
 Tasting but once the sweetness of its home, 
 Which it hath tasted here. {Going to Isola,) 
 
 My life I stake 
 Upon the worth personified by her. 
 AVe love — and if she hath rejected me. 
 She knew not that your choice had fallen here. 
 
 ISOLA. 
 
 Can it be true !
 
 2.S8 A SUMMEIi'S TAMC OF VENICE. 
 
 PUKE. 
 
 It is, but now too late ; 
 I jndgo you all by your own wilfulness. 
 Isola refused the gentleman I chose ; 
 Her sister is rejected by her cavalier, 
 Who swears to marry none but Isola. 
 Anselmo only doth require that I 
 Should indicate my will, since he alone 
 Hath judged of others, and not judged himself. 
 Thus ope the packet which commissions you 
 To take up arms at once. 
 
 MINA (to VITALE). 
 
 I must speak out 
 Or else my very heart will burst ! ^ly name 
 \^ Mina, and not Isola; and bUnd 
 Art tlion not to have seen the simple p.art 
 Wliich 1 did pliiy to test thy honesty. 
 
 viTAl.E (in extreme sin-prisr). 
 
 (lladncss and sorrow do together come : 
 
 Joy that 1 .1111 not the rival ol'iiiy I'liciid, 
 
 And .sorriiu .•^iiicu I'm .siuiimunM I'nv Iroiii thee.
 
 A SUMMER S TALE OF VENICE. 280 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 Read your commands — but first, Anselmo, yours. 
 
 ANSELMO (opens the packet and reads, greatly agitated). 
 
 " You are appointed captain of a ti'oop, 
 
 " (Of graces exquisite) — To carry arms, 
 
 " (Whene'er the humour suits) — To wage a war, 
 
 " (In Love's own cause), and, if you win the day, 
 
 " Seek your reward of Isola." 
 
 (Embracing Isola.) 
 'Tis here ! 'tis she ! I am bereft of words : 
 But not a moment of my life shall pass 
 Unheeded by my soul's best gratitude. 
 
 ISOLA (embracing the duke). 
 
 How could I utter one harsh word to thee, 
 My sovereign, yet my father and my friend ? 
 
 VITALE. 
 
 This is a day of happiness indeed. (Reads.) 
 
 " As you do ask commission for the wars, 
 " 'Tis granted you, provided you can live 
 " All thi'ough a honey-moon with Mina wed. 
 
 U
 
 
 290 A summer's tale of venick. 
 
 " If you survive the time, then, an' you please, 
 " You may betake yourself to other arms, 
 '* Having thus proved yourself immaculate. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Why, then, my liege — he never will be kill'd 
 He serves not Venice, since you will it so. 
 
 DUKE. 
 
 He acted nobly, and deserves your care : 
 He stood a test which men do seldom bear ; 
 Not love alone doth meet reward to-day, 
 IJut friendship, confidence and purity. 
 
 (Curtain falls.) 
 
 Tin; i;m).
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 HELIONDE 
 
 OR, 
 
 ADVENTURES IN THE SUN. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 REVUE DES DEUX MONDES. 
 
 "Cette ingfoieuse rdverie platonique abonde en details charmants, et ce qui vaut 
 mioux en sentimens elpv^s Non seulement I'auteur coniprend la grace et la beaute 
 dPS formes animees mais il en oomprend la vertu et la veritij. 'Heiionde'' meritait 
 done une mention sp^ciale pour son Elevation de pen8($o, sa subtilite de me'hode, les 
 traditions de platonisme anglican qu'il renferm^, et la conflance en la sage disposition 
 des lois du monde sur laquelle ce livre repose." 
 
 NORTH BRITISH REVIEW. 
 
 " A wort in which are apparent the learning of the schools and the aruteness of 
 philosophy, combined with the graces of light literature and poetic t^tncy." 
 
 MORNING ADVERTISER. 
 
 "This work is at once imaginative and genial, learned and fanciful, wise and witty. 
 There is no doubt that ■Heliondd' is one of the most mmarkable hooks which has 
 been published for a long while, and will shortly be one of the most popular. Talk 
 of Christmas books, indeed ! here is one— not for children, but for boyhood, girl- 
 hood, youth, manhood, and the accomplished lady." 
 
 GLOBE. 
 
 " For pretty conceits, gorgeous descriptions, elegant fancies, and unearthly 
 wonders, it is long since we have seen anj thing to equal ' Heliondd.' " 
 
 LEADER. 
 
 " Every paragraph in this oetavo book of more than 400 pages contains something 
 ingenious, elegant, and fanciful. Many who are glad to surprif o science in undress 
 will walk here to pick up. in a few careless moments, tit-bits of learning and 
 philosophy enough to make a dinner-tabie scholar and a drawing-room savant." 
 
 SPORTING REVIEW. 
 
 "The author, without a tinge of pedantry, has introduced a depth of philoso- 
 phical knowledge, profound and scientific matter, intermixed research, with poetic 
 fancy, rich humour, pleasing conceits, and charming satire. It is a standard work 
 that will outlive the ephemeral productions of the day." 
 
 BRIGHTON GAZETTE. 
 
 " We scarcely know which most to arimire in this work, the industry of the 
 author in collecting as annotations an immense number of scientific facts, and the 
 ingenuity with which ho bases upon those f.acts a work of imagination, or the 
 exceeding gracefulness of his style, sparkling, vivacious, and humorous, his earnest 
 vlea for the beautiful, and his skilful setting forth thereof in all its loveliness."
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 THE JIEMOIRS OF A STOMACH. 
 
 Ninth (^English Edition), 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Homing ^dreWiser.— "This pleasant, and. if rightly read, profitable jeu-d'esprit, 
 ha8 for it.t penninn a Fcholar an observer, a satirist, and a humourist — a rare 
 
 oonibinntioii. ypt the more doliRhtfril from its infrfnnoncv In truth, 
 
 thi« hook, amidst its quiiis and cranks, contains nioro dietetic truths, more caustic 
 hitinps into the polished surface of medii-al humbug, more eastronomic. physio- 
 logical, aye, and philosophical teachings, than a score of ' professional ' works." 
 
 Sun. — " We advine all lovers of fun, and all who have dyspeptic stomachs, to 
 take one dose of humour from this work; it is worth five hundred fees paid to 
 an M.D." 
 
 /?n7anmVi.— "ThP concludins ad\ice of this wpll-writtpn book would, if strictly 
 followed, In nine cases out of ten, supersede the necessity of physic or physician." 
 
 Wi'Vf yor/'Tin/ — "Nonp but n. hiehly-cviltivnted and plernnt mind could have 
 produced this work, whirh. nf>twifhst(\nding its grntesqiie title, is full of beauties 
 of eomnoFition nnd litertry exeelleneps both of thought and composition. Moreove'". 
 it is useful nnd ^ounl. nnd wo could with pleasure fill our columns with extracts 
 from its fascinating pages." 
 
 DM-er Telf(jrnph.—^' V,vcTvho(\v with any sort of stomachic ni'roent phonld resd 
 this book for their benefit and those in sound he.ilth should re«d it for ilieir 
 iirpu';ein<'nt Its inpredients are wit. mirth, humour, and philosophy, the latter 
 none the less sound because presented to us in a laughing form." 
 
 AVir.« o/ the Worhl —"There is so much pound sense in the work, and tbnt too, 
 told so plainly, and with sui'h strikinff truth, that it carries conviction witb !t. 
 Tliero is fllso so much humour, leaminc and deep satire in the handlintr of the 
 Hiibict. that the very Inufhter engendered at each pace will rouse the dvsnentic 
 from his stato of ennui, and by throwing a plenm of sunsliine over h's glodmv 
 faneies. dispel the illusion under which a" invaliil is too fre(|U<'ntly enveloped. It 
 is the nio.st witty, learned, and truthful hook that we have seen for a louj^ time." 
 
 EXHIBITION CATALOGUE OF 18G2. 
 
 EDITED T?Y THE SAME AUTTIOU. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Moniinfi Ilernld. Mav '.'S. 1S62 _" That which is called the Tndustrinl f'ntalogue, 
 and Imx been prenarod under the superintendence of Afr. ,'«vdney Whiting, has 
 culled forth on all lianrlH aeknowledements of th« cure and th« general nccnrncy 
 with which CO 1 "ire a maus of minu'e and separate indications have been brouphi 
 toifeiher. Mr WhlUntr Ih known to famn a« a writer of combined fancv nnd doptb 
 of thoiii/bt : 111)1 that he has Kiicepeded so nignallv in nceomplishiiiir a labour of 
 Hli"<-r lnilii«try and unf'onireiilal apnIlcAtion. must he taken as a promise that hn 
 will turn thone p..<nnrH of ».eir.dincip1inn--so rare in eonjunclion with brighter and 
 Jiioro groccful glftJi— to a piirjioHo nioro profitable to literature and to his own fame. 
 
 AJ'ii't/ Trlntniph. Mav mh - " Perhat>s the 'InduHtrial r'atalo^ue.' coinpilod by 
 Mr. Svilnev Whilliiir U \\\" most labopiiiiiM piiM'O of nuMdianical literature sinen 
 Mtm. Cowderi Cliirkn's • Shakespeare f'on<-ordanc" ' An ' lu'ln^lrial Tatalogue ' in 
 liH fit name In a dnuhln sense; for while it will endure as a record of the world's 
 InduHlrv. it will also -lard a.i aiuoiiuincni of hiii'-lc haudcd labour."
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF A GARREI 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 WESTMINSTER REVIEW. 
 " The great charm of the work is the O'Aisey. He is, so far as we are aware, 
 unique in English literature." 
 
 PALL MALL GAZETTE. 
 "There is scarcely a page of uninteresting reading from beginning to end." 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 " The character of such an Irishman as the O'Aisey is in itself the proof that 
 there is infinite bumnur as well as infinite austerity in the purpose of creation, and 
 admirably has Mr. Whiting; worked it out, so as to make it at once a rich store of 
 laughter. "and a most instructive comment on the sublime irrationality which drives 
 Englishmen to madness in their attempt to govern that inconsequent race." 
 
 ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. 
 "The villain of the storv, Simpson Coelho. the Brazilian Creole, has all the 
 deadly force and cunning of a hero of one of Mr. Wilkie CoUins's malignant plots." 
 
 LONDON REVIEW. 
 " The tone is ho pure, and at the same time so genial, that no one can fail to be 
 delighted with it The love story is as charming a liitle idyll as has ever been 
 made to grace the somewhat prosaic records of London life." 
 
 MORNING ADVERTISER. 
 "His (the author's) clear mental visions and astute reflections on men, manners, 
 things, characters, and events are full of genial wit and wisdom." 
 
 OBSERVER. 
 "None but a practical writer could sn well have described the requisites of 
 authorship. The character of Patrick O'Aisey is the most interesting. There 
 never was a cleverer picture of the broad Irishman." 
 
 PUBLIC OPINION. 
 "The clever author is srifted with a singularly happy style, and though ho talks 
 seriously enough when the occasion serves, yet it is done with so much friendly 
 feeling and real beauty, that the lessons are easily borne." 
 
 STAR. 
 "The tale is not merely deeply interestine. It is highly humorous, and full of 
 touches of tender pathos and sweet domesticity." 
 
 ILLUSTR.\TED TIMFS. 
 "The record of the hero's musical development while suffering from the affliction 
 of blindness is refreshing and beautiful, if a little improbable." 
 
 WEEKLY TIMES. 
 "There is amusement in every page." 
 
 THE ERA. 
 
 '"The Romance of a Garret is a ' fiction ' of the pleasantest possible description, 
 and one from which a great moral lesson is to be learned. In every chapter of this 
 admirable book the sorrows and fiii^appointments which so far outweisih the 
 triumiihs of the working man of literature, are detailed with homely truthfulness 
 and simplicity." 
 
 BRIGHTON GAZETTE. 
 " There is real intellectual pleasure to be. derived from the perusal of a work of 
 this character, aud literarv men especially will relish the descriptions of literary 
 lite and literary work, written with kien satire, yet an evident love of truth. The 
 pages sparkle with wit. especially those iu which the inimitable Patrick O'Aisey 
 figures. Altogether it is a charming work, and deserves a more than ephemeral 
 popularity."
 
 • u
 
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