1 POEMS LONDON PRINTED KV SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. NEW-STREET SQUARE J POEMS BY THE RIGHT H(3N. SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, Bart. M.P. 'Song is the twin of golden Contemplation, The harvest-flower of life ' A NEW EDITION, REVISED / Of T^ LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 1865 Tlic right of translation is reserved DEDICATORY EPISTLE TO THE REV. BENJAMIN HALL KENNEDY, D.D. HEAD MASTER OF SHREWSBURY SCHOOL. My dear Dr. Kennedy, Some years ago I anticipated the honour" of inscribing to you a certiiin work which, had I completed it for publication, would have owed no slight obligations to your exquisite taste and incom- parable scholarship. But circumstances compelled me to suspend my task when it was scarcely half accomplished ; and the labour that pleases us at one time of life — 'dum res et Sitas — patiuntur' — seldom retains its charm when we return to it at another — ' Sol ubi montium Mutaret umbras.' But in relinquishing the work to which you so vi Dedication. kindly encouraged me, I am naturally unwilling to forego the honour which its completion would have enabled me to claim ; and therefore I ask permission to dedicate this collection to you. The poems herein contained, among which are a few till now unpublished, have been composed at various intervals ; some within the last year or two — others remounting to tlie date of those early College days when our acquaintance commenced ; you then sweeping from every rival the prices of academical ambition, and I achieving no otlier distinction than is conferred by the companionship with distinguished contemporaries. Of such a companionship this Dedi- cation is a grateful memorial. Among the lessons bestowed by experience, few are more consolatory than that which bids us seek to turn a disadvantage to profit ; accordingly I liave made more extensive alterations (which I trust are improvements) in some of the poems contained in this edition than I should have been warranted in doing had they enjoyed the good fortune of a familiar acquaintance with the public. Do not smile Dedication. vii at my hope that what I have written in verse may, some clay or other, become better known to my countrymen, since in that hope consists my excuse for prefixing to this collection a tributary record of the respect and admiration With which 1 am, My dear Dr. Kennedy, Your sincerely attached friend, EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. Hastings: Dec. 22, 1864. CONTENTS, The Boatman The Mind and the Body Fate: a Picture May-Song Retirement : Man^s Final Choice TJi<: Lark in the Cage The First Violets The Image on the Tide Is it all Vanity f The True Joy -Giver Belief; the Unknoiun Language The Pilgrim of the Desert . Love and Death To the Lost; a Lifers Record Mind and Soul The Guardian Angel The Love of Maturer Years 'ACP. I Ij 26 29. 31 35 Zl 40 42 47 50 53 57 60 75 79 Si X Contents. The Everlasting Grave-Digger . . .85 T/ic Dispute of the Poets . . . .87 Ganyjuede • . . . . . 103 Past and Future . . . . .104 The Angel and the Child . . . .106 To a Withered Tree in June . . .108 On tJic Repcrnsal of Letters wi'itten in Y 024th . no TJie Desire of Fa7ne. . . . -113 The Loyalty of Love . . . .116 A La7nent . . . . . .119 Lost and Avenged . . . . .120 The Treasures by the Wayside . . ,124 Address to the Soul in Despondency . .126 TJte Sabbath . .. . . . .128 The Hollow Oak . . . . .130 Love and Fame . . . . • ^3^ Love at First SigJit . . . . -133 Love's Sudden Growth . . . -135 The Love- Letter . . . . -137 TJie Language of tJie Eyes . . .138 Doubt ....... 140 TJie Assurance . . .• . .142 Memories^ the Food of Love . . -144 Absent^ yet Present . . . _ . .146 Lovers' Quarrels . . . . . 149 Contents. XI The Last Separation The Buoy Lai Rochefoucauld and Condorcet The Beautiful descends not The Long Life and the Full Life The Mind and the LLeaj't . Fo)'eJ)odings . Oramaj oi\ Fate and Fj'eewill PAGE 152 155 156 158 159 161 164 167 Narrative Poems : — Milton Constance ; or, The Portrait Eva The Fairy Bride The Beacon Lay of the MifistreFs Heart 173 211 263 279 296 The Parca [Six Leaves from History] : — 1. Napoleon at Lsola Bella 2. Mazarin 3. Andre Chenier 4. Mary Stuart and her Mourner 5. The Last Days of Elizabeth 6. CroniiiicWs Dream . 311 316 ^ -) n 328 344 Xll Contents. PACK "^ r r 77?.- Souls of Books . . • • • 3!)3 Jealousy and Art . . • • -361 The Bones of Raphael . . . .362 The Ideal World . . • • -367 Epigraph . - • • • • 38i 1 \^HiVi THE BOATMAN. 'ALF sleeping still, I stand among The silvery, trembling sedges, And hear the riv^r rolling strong, Through mists that veil its edges. ' Up, Boatman, up ! the moments flee As on the bank I shiver ; And thou must row me towards the sea Along this length of river.' The Boatman rose and stretched his hand — ' Come in — thou hast far to go ; ' And through the drowsy reeds from land The boat went soft and slow ; Stealing and stilly, and soft and slow. And the Boatman looked in my face, and smiled ' Thy lids are yet heavy ; sleej) on, poor child ! Lulled by the dri[) Of the oars I dip, V, TJie Boatman. Measured and musical, sure and steady — Sleep by my side While from home we glide.' And I dreamily murmur, ' From home already ! ' II I awake with a start — on my sight flashes day. ' So late, and so little advanced on the way ; Arouse thee, old laggard, and row me faster, Or never a stiver thou'lt get from me.' '■ When the voyage is over, my pert young master, Be sure the grey Boatman will earn his fee. But whether I seem to thee fast or slow. There is but one speed for the boat I row ; I measure my movements by no man's taste. Whether he ask me to halt or haste. Plish, plash, drop upon drop. On without hurry, but on without stop ; The clock on yon turret is not so steady.' If crawl we must at this snail-like pace, Ere the river flow curved to the curving shore, Let me take a last look at my native place, And the green of the sedges — one last look more. .Where the home of my birth ? Is it blotted from earth % Just left, and now lost to my sight already ! ' The Boatman, Tauntingly answered the Boatman grey : ' Not a moment ago Didst thou call me slow ; But already's a word thou wilt often say. 'Tis the change of the shore Proves the speed of the oar, Stealing the banks away, stealthy, steady.' Ill See from the buds of the almond bough A beautiful fairy rise ; Now it skims o'er the glass of the wave, and now It soars to its kindred skies : Follow its flight. Or, lost to sight. It will vanish amid the skies ! ' ' My boat cannot flee as thy fairy flees ; Ten thousand things with brighter wings Disport in the sun, and, one by one, Are scattered before the breeze. But only the earliest seen, as now. Can dazzle deluded eyes ; And never again from the almond bough For thee will a fairy rise ! Already the insect is drowned in the wave Which I cut with my careless oar ; j. TJie Boatman. Already thine eye has forgotten its grave, Allured by the roses on shore. Though I measure my movements by no man's taste, Whether he ask me to halt or haste, Yet I time my way to the" best of my power, That the fairest place has the fairest hour ; Behold, in the moment most golden of day. Air and wave take the hues of the rose-garden bay. While my boat glides as softly as if it could stop, The oars on the smoothness so languidly drop, Softer and softer. Softer and softer. Softer and softer, though never less steady. Interfused on the stream Both the rose and the beam, Lo, the arms of the bay close around thee already ! ' ' Rising out of the stream. As from slumber a dream — Is it Eden that closes around me already % IV Oh, land and leave me ! take my gold ; My course is closed before the sea. Fair on the. garden m.ount, behold An angel form that becks to me ! TIic Boatmaji. 5 With her to rest, as rests the river, In airs which rose-hues flush for ever.' 'I'hou bad'st me follow a fairy, when An insect rose from the almond bough ; I (lid not follow thy fairy then, I may not halt for thine angel now. Never the fare whom I once receive, Till the voyage be over, I land or leave. But I'm not such a churl as I seem to be. And the angel may sit in my boat with thee.' Tinkle, tinkle—' What means that bell ? ' ' Thine angel is coming thyself to tell. See her stand on the margin by which we shall glide — Open thine arms and she springs to thy side.' ' Close, close to my side, O angel ! O bride ! A fresh sun on the universe dawns from thine eyes, To shine evermore Through each change on the shore, • And undimmed by each cloud that flits over the skies.' Side by side thus we whisper — 'Who loves, loves for ever,' As wave uj^on wave to the sea runs the ri\er. And the oar on the smoothness drops noiseless and steady. Till we start with a sigh. Was it she — was it I — ) The Boatman. \\'ho first turned to look back on the way we had made? Who first saw the soft tints of the garden-land fade % Wlio first sighed — 'See the rose-hue is fading already?' * Boatman, look at the blackening cloud ; Put into yon sheltered creek, For the lightning is bursting its ghastly shroud, And hark how the thunders break ! ' ' No storm on this river outlasts its hour ; As I stayed not for sun, so I stay not for shower. Is thy mantle too scanty to cover thy bride % Or are two not as one, if they cling side to side % ' I gather my mantle around her form, And as on one bosom descends the storm. Look up,' said the Boatman ; ' the storm is spent : No storm on this river outlasts its hour \ And the glories that colour the world are blent In the cloud which gave birth to the thunder-shower. The heaven is glad with the iris-beams, The earth with the sparkling dew ; And fresher and brighter creation seems, For the rain that has pierced me thro'. TJic Boatman. 7 There's a change in myself, and the change is chill ; There's a change, O my bride, in thee. Is it the shade from the snow-capt hill, ^^'hich nears as we near the sea 1 But gone from her eye is the tender light, From her lip the enchanting play ; And all of the angel that blest my sight Has passed from my bride away ; — Like the fairy that dazzled my earlier sight. The angel has passed away. Muttered the Boatman — ' So like them all ; They mark the change in the earth and sky, Yet marvel that change should themselves befall, And that hearts should change with the changing eye; They swear ' for ever ' to sigh ' already ! ' Within from the bosom, without on the stream. Flit shadow and light as a dream flits on dream : But never to hurry, and never to stop, Plish, plash, drop upon drop. My oars, through all changes, move constant and steady.' Down the stream still we glide, Still we sit side by side — Side by side, feeling lonely, and sighing ' already ! ' 8 The Boatman. VI Bustle and clatter, and dissonant roar ! The mart of a mighty town, From the cloudy height to the stony shore, Wearily lengthening down. And here and there, and everywhere, Are gamesters at eager play — The poor and the rich, none can guess which is which, So motlily mixed are they. Not a man but his part in the gaming takes. Wherever the dice from the dice-box fall ; Beggar or prince in the lottery stakes — The beggar his crust, and the prince his all. And the prizes the winners most loudly boast, Even more than the gems and gold. Are the toys which an infant esteems the most, Ere he come to be five years old ; A coral of bells, or a trumpet of tin. Or a ribbon for dolls to wear — The greybeard who treasures like these may win, The crowd on their shoulders bear. There's a spell in the strife Of this gambling life ; The strong and the feeble, the fickle, the steady, 1 o its pastime it draws, As the whirlpool that, sportive, sucks into its eddy The fleets and the straws. The Boatiiiaii. - q ' Hold, Boatman ! I can bear no more The sameness of the unsocial wave, And thou shalt land me on the shore. Or in the stream ril tlnd my grave. For the s])ort of man's strife Gives the zest to man's life ; Without it, his manhood dies. Be it jewel or toy. Not the prize gives the joy. But the striving to win the prize.' ' Never the fare whom I once receive. Till the voyage be over, I land or leave ; But if thou wouldst gamble for toy or dross, I am not such a churl as thy wish to cross.' Tinkle, tinkle — ' What means that bell % ' ' The gamesters are coming thyself to tell. Both the angel and gamester are equally free To sit by thy side till we come to the sea.' Clatter and clamour, tumult and din ! As the boat skims the jetty, they scramble in ; Foeman or friend. Welcome the same ; 10 TJic Boatman. Ere we come to the end Of the changeful game, The foe may be friend, And the friend may be foe ; Out of hazards in common alHances grow. The stranger who stakes on my side is my friend — Against me, a brother my foe. Jangle and wrangle, and babel and brawl. As down from the loud box the dumb dice fall : A hoot for the loser, a shout for the winner ; He who wins is the saint — he who loses, the sinner. Scared away from my side by the throng and the din, Still my bride uncomplainingly views The contest that brightens her eye, if I win, And sweetens her smile if I lose. Plish, plash, drop upon drop, Never we hurry, and never we stop ! With our eyes on the cast, and our souls in the game, While the shores that slip by us seem always the same. Jangle and wrangle, and tumult and brawl, And hurrah for the victor who bubbles us all ! And the prize of the victor I've wellnigh won. When all of a sudden drops down the sun. TJic Boatman. 1 1 One throw, and thy favours, O Fortune, I crown ! Hurrali for the victor ! — I start with a frown, For all of a sudden the sun drops down. ' I see not the die — Is it cloud fleeting by'? Or is it — it cannot be— night already % ' The sun,' said a voice, as black shadows descend, Has sunk in the sea where the river shall end ; Unheeded the lapse of the stream and the light ; Warns as vainly the sea heard distinct through the night ? Hark ! the whispers that creep From the World of the Deep, Which I near with the oars, sounding solemn and steady.' 1 hear but the winds that caressingly creep Through the evergreen laurels remote from the deep ; And the sun has his heirs in the stars' — I reply, And still grasping the dice-box I gaze on the sky, And watch for Orion — to light up the die. ' WTiat gleams from the shore ? Hold, but one moment more ; Rest under yon light, shining down from the height. Hurrah for the victor ! — but one throw more !' No rest on the river — that's past for thee ; The beacon but shines as a guide to the sea. 12 TJic Boatmaiu One chime of the oar, ere it halt evermore, Muffled and dirgehke, and sternly steady ; And the beacon ilhiming the last of the shore Shall flash on the sea to thy murmur, "Already!"' Then seems there to float Down the length of the way — From the sedges remote — From the rose-garden bay — From the town and the mart — From the river's deep heart — From the heart of the land — From the lips of the bride, Through the darkness again Stealing close to my side. With her hand in my hand — From the gamesters in vain Staking odds on the main Of the last all-invisible die — An echo that wails back the wail of my sigh, As I murmur, ' The ocean already ! ' — ' Already ! ' One glimmer of light From the beacon's lone height, One look at the shore, and one stroke of the oar, And the river is lost in the ocean already ! 13 THE MIND AND THE BODY. NCE among other tenants at will upon earth., Dwelt a Mind of high rank, very proud of his birth. With a Body, who, though a good Body enough. When his feelings were hurt, was inclined to be rough : Now that Mind and that Body, for many a day, Lived as what we call friends in a cold sort of way ; For the very best friends, though the sons of one mother, Cool in friendship by seeing too much of each other. At length, just as time should have softened their tether, And they had not much longer to rub on together, Many trifles occurred that they differed about, And engendered the rancour which thus they si)oke <3ut. Quoth the Mind to the Body, ' Attend to me, sir ; At whatever I propose, must you always demur % Rouse up, and look lively — we want something new — Just the weather for travel; let's start for Peru ; 14 The Mind and the Body. Ha ! there you sit, languidly, sipping your sago !' THE BODY. I'm forced to remind you I've got the lumbago. THE MIND. ye gods, what a wrench ! softly, softly ! lie still — 1 abandon Peru ; take your anodyne pill. Somewhat eased by the pill and a warm fomentation, The Body vouchsafed to the Mind — contemplation. Now, the calmness with which sound philosophers scan ills, Depends, at such times, very much on hot flannels. Mused the Mind: — 'How can Matter stretch ]\Ie on the rack Why should Mind feel lumbago ? has Mind got a back 1 I could write something new on that subject, I think — Would it hurt you, my Body, to give me the ink V THE BODY. At your old tricks again ! Let me rest in my bed. Metaphysics indeed ! pleasant nuts for my head. Ah, beware of yourself ! If its rage you provoke, That head could demolish the Mind with a stroke. THE MIND. Grim thought to have scared Mr. Addison's Cato, When he sat in his dressing-gown reading his Plato ! TJie Mind and the Body. 15 Does Man nurse in his head an electric torpedo, Whose stroke could have hurled into rubbish the ' Ph?edo '? Vile Body ! thou tyrant ! thou worse than a Turk ! If I must be thy slave — then, at least, let me work, For in labour we lose the dull sense of our chain ; But I cannot ev'n think without leave of thy brain. Well, well ! since it must be, I tamely submit. How NOW do you feel ? less inclined for a fit 1 That is well ! come, cheer up ! though you are a vile Body, Let me cherish and comfort you ! — Ring for the toddy. Then the Body, though not without aid of the Mind, Raised himself on his elbow, and gravely rejoined : — THE BODY. O my Mind ! it is well said by Sappho — at least So she says in Grillparzer* — that you are a beast, And the worst of all beasts ; other sins she compares To hyenas and wolves, lions, tigers, and bears ; But the snake is Ingratitude ! — you are ungrateful, And are thus of all beasts of the field the most hateful. Rememberest thou, wretch, with no pang of remorse, How I served thy least whim in the days of my force ^ * ' Die andern Laster, alle Hyanen, Lowen, Tiger, Wolfe, sind's Der Undank ist die Schlange ! '— Grillparzer's Sappho. 1 6 TJic Mhid and the Body. When thy thoughts through my ear, touch and taste, scent and sight. Wandered forth for the food which they found in deHght ; When my youth crowned thee king of Hope's boundless domains, And thy love wanned to life from the glow of my veins. And what my return 1 overtasked, overborne, And alike by thy pains and thy pleasures outworn, Thou hast made me one ache from the sole to the crown. Thank thyself, cruel rider, thy steed founders down ! Now, ere the Mind's answer I duly report. It becomes me to say that in camp and in court, In senate and college, this Body and Mind, Clubbed up in one whole, by one title defined, Were called ' A Great Man.' With excusable pride, The Mind, looking down on the Body, replied — THE MIND. View thy pains as the taxes exacted by glory. What's this passage through life to a passage in story ? I have made thee one ache from the sole to the crown, Be it so ! And the recompense ? Priceless ; Renown. The Mind and the Body. ly THE BODY. Hang renown ! Horrid thing, more malign to a Body Than that other strong poison you offered me — toddy. By renown in my teens I was snatched from my cricket. To be sent to the wars, where I served as a wicket. And there your tirst step in renown crippled me. By the ball you invited to fracture my knee. THE MIND. Well, I cannot expect you to sympathise much With the Mind's noble longings — THE BODY. To limp on a crutch ? THE MIND. But battles and bullets don't come every day — You owe me some pleasant things more in your way ; For the joys of the sense are by culture refined, And the Body's a guest in the feasts of the Mind. Recall'st thou the banquets vouchsafed thee to share. When the wine was indeed the Unbinder of Care ; In which Genius and Wisdom, invited by Mirth, Laid aside their grand titles as rulers of earth ; And, contented awhile our familiars to sit, (ienius came but as Humour, and Wisdom as Wit / Recall'st thou those nights ? c 1 8 TJic Mind and the Body. THE BODY. Well recall them I may ! Vcs, the nights might be pleasant, but then — their Next Day ; And, as Humour and Wit should have long since found out, The Unbinder of Care is the Giver of Gout. Vet you've injured me less with good wine and good cooks, Than with those horrid banquets you made upon books. Every hint my poor nerves could convey to you scorning. Interdicted from sleep till past three in the morning, AVhile you were devouring the trash of a college. And my blood was made thin with crude apples of knowledge. To dry morsels of Kant, undigested, I trace Through the maze of my ganglions the tic in my face : And however renowned your new theory on Light is. Its effect upon me was my chronic gastritis. Talk of Nature's wise laws, learn from nature's lawgiver, That the first law to man is — 'Take care of your liver!' But 1 have not yet done with your boasted renown, 'Tis the nuisance all Bodies of sense should put down. Where a Mind is renowned, there a Body's dyspeptic — Ev'n in youth Julius Caesar made his epileptic. The carbuncular red of renowned Cromwell's nose Explains his bad nights : what a stomach it shows ! TJic Mind and the Body. 19 Who more famed than they two? Perhaps great Alexander : But would I be his body '? I'm not such a gander. When I think on the numberless pains and distresses His small body endured from his great mind's excesses, All its short life exposed to heat, cold, wounds, and slaughter, Its march into Ind — not a drop of good water; Its enlargement of spleen — shown by rages at table. Till it fell, easy prey, to malaria at Babel ; — Could his mind come to earth, its old pranks to repeat Once more, as that plague, Alexander the Great, And in want of a body propose to take me. My strength re-bestowed and my optipn, left free, I should say, as a body of blood, flesh, and bones. Before I'd be his, I'd be that of John Jones. Enough : to a mortal no curse like renown ! Here, shifting his flannels, he groaned and sunk down. Now on hearing the Body complain in this fashion. The Mind became seized with fraternal compassion ; And although at that moment he felt very keenly The sting of his pride to be rated so meanly. So much had been said which he felt to be true In a common-sense, bodily, plain })oint of view, That it seemed not beneath him to meet the complaint By confessing his sins — in the tone of a saint. 20 TJic Mind and the Body THE MIND. Yes, I cannot deny that 1 merit your blame — I have sinned against you in my ardour for fame ; Yet even such sins you would see, my poor Body, In a much milder light had you taken that toddy. But are all of my acts to be traced to one cause 1 Have I strained your quick nerves for no end but applause? Do not all sages say that the Mind cannot hurt you If it follow the impulse unerring of virtue ? And how oft, when most lazy, I've urged you to step on, And attain the pure air of the moral to prepon ! Let such thoughts send your blood with more warmth through its channels, Wrap yourself in my virtues, and spurn those moist flannels ! THE BODY. Ho ! your virtues ! I thank you for nothing, my Mentor, I'd as soon wrap my back in the shirt of the Centaur. What the Mind calls a virtue too oft is a sin, To be shunned by a Body that values his skin. Pray, which of your virtues most tickles your vanity % THE MIND. The parent and queen of all virtues — Humanity. TJic Mind and tJic Body. 21 THE BODY. And of all human virtues I've proved it to he The vice most inhumanly cruel to me. Scarcely three weeks ago, when, seduced by fine talk ( )f your care for my health, I indulged in a walk, ( )n a sudden you stop me — a house is in flames, It was nothing to me had it burned up the Thames, But you hear a shrill cry — ' Save the child in the attic I ' Vou forget, thanks to you, that Tve long been rheumatic, A-nd to rescue that brat, who was no child of mine, LJp the Alp of a ladder you hurry my spine, rhus, as Cassio was stabbed from behind by lago, ^^ile assassin, you plunged in my back — this lumbago, rhat was, I beHeve, your last impulse of virtue ! THE MIND. [n improving myself must I ever then hurt you % Must your wheels for their clockwork be rendered unfit, [f made slower by wisdom or quicker by wit ; [s the test of all valour the risk of your bones, \n(l the height of philosophy scorn for your groans % Vlust the Mind in its strife give the Body no quarter, \nd where one would be saint must the other be martyr ? Mas, it is true I and that truth j^roves, () brother ! rhat we two were not meant to live long with each other. 22 TJie Mind and the Body. But forgive me the past — what both notv want is — quiet; Henceforth, I'll concentre my thoughts on your diet ; And, at least, till the term of companionship ends, Let us patch up our quarrels and try to be friends. Then the Body let fall the two words, in men's fate And men's language, the fullest of sorrow — ' Too late ! ' He paused and shed tears — then resumed : ' I can see Nothing left for myself but revenge upon thee.' He spake — gout, lumbago, and tic re-began. Till both Body and Mind fell asleep — A Great Man ! Thus the feud once declared, was renewed unrelenting. Still the Mind proudly braved the avenger's tormenting ; And whene'er he could coax from his jailer, the gout, The loan of two feet to walk statelily out, The crowd's reverent gaze on his limp and his crutch. And the munnur, ' There goes the Great Man,' soothed him much. ' Ache, O body ! ' he said, ' from the head to the crown. Ever young with the young blooms the life of renown.' How long this stern struggle continued, who knows, 'Tis the record of Mind that biography shows ; Even German professors still leave in dark question \ The most critical dates in a Caesar's digestion. At length a door oped in the valves of the heart. Through which the Mind looked and resolved to depart; The Mind and tJic Body. 23 Bending over the Body he wliispered ' (lood-night ! ' And then, kissing the hds, stole away with the light. So at morning the Body lay cold in his bed, And the news went through London, ' The Great Man is dead ! ' Now the Mind — like a young bird, w^hose wings newly given. Though they lift it from earth, soar not yet into heaven — Still hovering around the old places he knew, Kept this world, like the wrack of a dream, in his view. But strange to relate — that which most had consoled Or rejoiced him to think would remain in his hold, As a part of himself, the Immortal, — renown — Seemed extinct as the spark when a rocket drops down. Of senates disputing, of battle-fields gory, Of story and glory and odes laudatory, He could not have thought less had he been a John Doree. Much amazed, he beholds all the pains they bestow On that Body so long his most pitiless foe ; •With the plate on the coffin, the wreaths on the bier. And the scholar explaining in Latin severe. That he lived for all races, and died to lie Here. Saith the Mind, ' What on earth are those boobies about \ That black box but contains my lumbago and gout. Why such pomps to my vilest tomientor assigned. And what has that black box to do with this Mind ? Hark ! they talk of a statue ! — of what \ not of me ; Can they think that my likeness in marble can l)e / 24 The Mind and the Body. Has the Mind got a nose, and a mouth, and a chin ? Is this Mind the old fright which that Body has been ? Is it civil to make me the marble ima^o Of the gone incarnation of gout and lumbago % ' Thus the Mind. While the Body, as if for preferment, Goes in state through the crowd to his jDlace of interment. * Solemn princes and peers head the gorgeous procession ; March the mutes — mourning best, for they mourn by profession ; And so many grand folks, in so many grand carriages, Were not seen since the last of our royal love-marriages. A little time more ; the black box from men's eyes Has sunk under the stone-door inscribed ' Here he lies ! ' And the princes and peers who had borne up the pall — Undertakers, spectators, dean, chapter and all — Leave the church safely locked all alone with its tombs, And the heir takes the lawyer to lunch in his rooms ; And each lesser great man in the party he'd led. Thinks, ' An opening for me, now the Great Man is dead ! ' And the chief of the other wrong half of the nation Sheds a tear o'er the notes of a funeral oration ; For the practice of statesmen (and long may it thrive) Is to honour their foes — when no longer alive. In short, every Man — save the Man who knows Town, Would have said for three days — ' This is lasting renown ! ' TJic Mind and the Body. 25 But of lasting renown one so soon becomes weary — The most lasting I know of is that of Dundreary. Now the Mind liavingdone with our world's men and things, High o'er all that know death poised the joy of his wings ; Every moment from light gaining strength more and more, Every moment more filled with the instinct to soar, Till he sees, through a new sense of glory, his goal, And is rapt to the gates whicli Mind enters as Soul. 26 FATE: A PICTURE, the cradled child she has rocked asleep The mother sings low — by the angry deep ; The breakers are white and the winds are wild ; The mother sings on to the cradled child. Lullaby singeth she, And the child slumbers soft ; Loud below howls the sea ; Loud the pines groan aloft ; Lullaby singeth she, And the child slumbers soft. II ' Lullaby, lullaby, Slumber on, slumber soft ! While below howls the sea, While the pines groan aloft. Fate: A Pictmr. 27 Slumber on — I'm with thee ! Slumber on, slumber soft ! Leaving angels so newly, So pure from earth's ill, Is thy slumber not truly The angel-land still ? Say to those who are near thee, " My father's at sea ; " 'Mid the angels who hear thee, His guardian may be. Lullaby, lullaby ! Slumber safe — slumber soft ; Slumber on, to tell angels thy father's at sea.' Ill From a cliff whose grey fissures the forest-pines veil. Darkening more the dark sky, mighty wings slowly sail ; "Fis the eagle sent forth by the cries of his brood. And his eyes, as he sails, pierce the space for their food. He looks on the glebe — there, no doves settle dov.n. For the grim sky has daunted all wings but his own : He looks on the pastures — the flocks he beholds — IJut the dog and the shepherd stand guarding the folds : And onward liis death-bearing wings slowly sail Through the midst of the cloud, in the teeth of the gale. 28 Fate: A Picture. He halts — becomes down from the cloud, poised at rest, And the winds beat in vain on his motionless breast. He halts, and hangs over the "infant that sleeps, And the mother intent on the watch that she keeps ; And she sees not the dark form below the dark cloud, For her head o'er the world in the cradle is bowed. Still she sings lullaby. Still the child slumbers soft, Underneath the dread eye Looking down from aloft. All remote from the gloom, under skies of calm blue. Goes the ship into port, 'mid the songs of its crew — But still the deceit of her credulous fear Views the danger afar to be blind to it near, As over the infant the death-wings delay Their swoop, till her breastleave unsheltered their prey. Still she bends o'er the sleeping — The bird hangs above ; O'er the life in God's keeping, Watch both ; — Death and Love. And she sees not the eye Looking down from aloft ; Still she sings lullaby, Still the child slumbers soft. 29 MAY-SONG. HERE'S a time for all good lasses. Sigh not, Jennie — wherefore sigh ? Ever as the May moon passes Lovers drop down from the sky ; Cushat, mavis, lark, and linnet, Each is singling out its pair ; Marriages with every minute ; Hark ! their joy-peals in the air ! Ope thy heart unto the summer ; Love comes suddenly as Fate : \\'ho is yonder fair new-comer Gliding to thy garden gate ? Birdlike, seeks he one to sing to Coyly hid in leaves— like thee ? Couldst thou single him to cling to ? — Coyly peep through leaves, and see. 30 May- Song. As the bird sings he is singing, ' May is in the air above ; And through blossoms round me springing Winds the pathway to my love. ' Still thy beating, heart impassioned, Learn in silence to repine ; Her soft beauty was not fashioned For a dwelling rude as mine. ' Wherefore, wild-bird, art thou bearing Twig and moss to yonder tree ? ' ' For the home that I am rearing High from earth, as love's should be. ' If thus rudely I begin it. Love itself completes the nest ; And the downy softness in it Comes, O Lover, from the breast.' All the while, the buds are springing ; May is round thee and above ; As the bird sings he is singing — As the bird loves canst thou love 1 31 RETIREMENT: MAN'S FINAL CHOICE. ESTS my cheek upon my hand, rests my elbow on the table, Like a man who would in earnest compel himself to muse, Bu: my thoughts are in revolt from a will become unable To consolidate in order the freedom they abuse. Still I seek, I yearn, I pray to fasten firm decision On the choice that must determine the lot of waning life ; What is best for me seems clear thro' all shadow to my vision, The Sabbath-day of quiet, after working days of strife. Ah ! to watch on lawns remote, in the deep of Sabine valleys, How the sunset gilds the cypress gro\\'ing high beside my home, While the ringdove's latest coo lulls the fading forest alleys. Were sweeter for life's evening than the roar and smoke of Rome. 32 Retirement : All the prizes which allured me in the eager days of passion, Seem to reason, when it pauses, not to scorn them but survey, As baubles which for childhood kindly sages stoop to fashion ; If sages make the playthings, 'tis to smile upon the play. Thro' the crannies wrought by time in this world of art around us Into deeps of azure distance the vague horizon flies, Instinctive of the infinite — whatever wall may bound us, Our souls pursue the landscape lengthening on to meet the skies. But stands against my wishes and their willing friend, my reason, A something — how to name it even reason cannot say ; Ah, is it pride, resenting every counsel as a treason Which whispers abdication to the hand that loses sway % For all of us, the tritest, shrink reluctant from the cession Of an atom-weight of power o'er the lives of fellow-men ; Not a Dobson quits his till, not a Jobson his profession. Not a Jones in penny journals the sceptre of his pen, Mails Final Choice. ' 33 ^Vithout a pang at parting from his portion in the splendour Of that oneness ruhng all things, the commonwealth of life : 3r is it but the instinct which revolts from the surrender To a voice that seems the grave's when it whispers ' Rest from strife ' % For, too surely he begins into death to fade already, Who, seen and heard no longer, leaves the din of life afar, Vnd gazing on the dial, marks the shadow gliding steady Where the timepiece halteth dumb to the dawning of the star. iiTet, oh yet, when, in my young day, fair dreams of moral beauty Limn'd out my human future into harmony and plan, jrave pediment and pillar, arc and comer-stone of duty, Their own allotted places in the edifice of man, Ever in those early day-dreams, the palace pile extending Closed its length in shadowed cloisters sequestered for the sage. \nd the fairest life must lose what is fairest in its ending If all without a twilight fades the sun away from age. D 34 Retirement : Ma?is Final Choice. Still I hesitate and ponder : my will in craven shrinking Leaves undrawn the final lot in the muffled urn of fate, While each moment in the hour-glass is sinking, swiftly sinking, And swiftest of all moments is the one that comes too late. Well, this weakness of the will, tho' it humble, should uplift, me, It links me but the closer to the all-disposing Power ; Despite my best endeavour, if the running current drift me, The loadstone of eternity draws tow'rds itself the hour. Man's will is only godlike, when a god himself doth seize it ; All sails that traverse ocean, Heav'n sends the wind to fill. If human will be silent, heavenly wisdom so decrees it, Man! that wisdom may be speaking in the silence of thy will. 35 THE LARK IN THE CAGE. FOR MUSIC. HE cage on the wall by the porch is hung ; Within it the skylark sings ; He Avas tamed to his prison while yet too young For the joy of ascending wings. Trille-la, Trille-la, He looks thro' the bars, and sings. Content -with the food that is daily given. Does he never have instincts dim Of a sunnier life in the golden heaven With creatures akin to him? Trille-la, Trille-la, He looks at that heaven and sings. Said a child in pity, who pass'd that way, ' Poor bird 1 it is sad for thee To be pent in a cage from the realm of day ; .Soft, soft, I will set thee free.' Hark, aloft, Trille-la To the lark in the cage, Trille-la, A bird in the azure sings. ^6 The Laj'k in the Cage. But the cag^d lark to the dungeon bar In terror and tremble clings ; And he heeds not the bird in the skies afar, Where never yet soared his wings. From the well-known cage to the unknown space Seems a desolate ghastly change ; And the merciful child with the angel face To him is a monster strange. I'he child, in his pity, reclosed the door, And passed on his loving way ; Many wings he released into light, before His errand was done that day. When the skylark saw that the foe was gone Who had offered such grievous wrong, He folded the wings which refused the sun. And burst into blithesome song. Trille-la, Trille-la, Trille-la, In the prison with folded wings, Reprieved from his heaven, he sings, Trille-la, Trille-la, But still 'tis to heaven he sings, Trille-la, Trille-la. 37 THE FIRST VIOLETS. HO that has loved knows not the tender tale Which flowers reveal, when lips are coy to tell % Whose youth has paused not, dreaming, in the vale W^here the rath violets dwell? Lo, where they shrink, along the lonely brake, Under the leafless melancholy tree ; Not yet the cuckoo sings, nor ghdes the snake, Nor wild thyme lures the bee ; Yet at their sight and scent entranced and thralTd. All June seems golden in the April skies ; How sweet the days we yearn for — till fulfill'd : O distant Paradise, Dear Land to which Desire for ever flees ; Time doth no Present to our grasp allow. Say, in the fix'd Eternal shall we seize At last the fleeting Now ? 38 The First Violets. Dream not of days to come — of that Unknown Whither Hope wanders — maze without a clue ; ( ;ive their true witchery to the flowers ; — thine own Youth in their youth renew. Avarice, remember when the cowshp's gold Lured and yet lost its glitter in thy grasp. Do thy hoards glad thee more than those of old \ Those wither'd in thy clasp, From these thy clasp falls palsied. — It was then I'hat thou wert rich — thy coffers are a lie ; Alas, poor fool ! Joy is the wealth of men. And Care their penury. Come, foil'd Ambition, what hast thou desired ? Empire and power % — O, wanderer, tempest-tost ! These once were thine, when life's gay spring inspired Thy soul with glories lost. Let the flowers chann thee back to that rich time When golden Dreamland lay within thy chart, When Love bestow'd a realm indeed sublime — The boundless human heart. The First Violets. 39 Hark, hark again, the tread of bashful feet ! Hark the boughs rustHng round the trysting-place I Let air again with one dear breath be sweet, Earth fair with one dear face. Brief-Uved, first flowers — first love ! The hours steal on To prank the world in summer's pomp of hue ; But what can flaunt beneath a fiercer sun Worth what we lose in you % Oft by a flower, a leaf, in some loved book We mark the lines that charm us most ; — Retrace Thy life ; — recall its loveliest passage ; — Look, Dead violets keep the place ! 40 THE IMAGE ON THE TIDE. OT a sound is heard But my heart by thine ; Breathe not a word, Lay thy hand in mine. How trembhng, yet still, On the lake's clear tide, Sleep the distant hill And the bank beside. The near and the far Intermingled flow ; The herb and the star Imaged both below. So deep and so clear, Through the shadowy light, The far and the near In my soul unite ; TJic Image on the Tide. 41 The future and past, Like the bank and hill, On the surface glass'd, Though they tremble still ; Disturb not the dream Of this double whole ; The heav'n in the stream, On my soul thy soul. The sense cannot count (As the waters glass The forest and mount And the clouds that pass) The shadows and gleams In that stilly deep, Like the tranquil dreams Of a hermit's sleep. One shadow alone On my soul doth fall — And yet in the one It reflects an All. 42 IS IT ALL VANITY 2 OUBTING of life, my spirit paused perplext, Let fall its fardell of laborious care, And the sharp cry of my great trouble vext Unsympathising air. Out on this choice of unrewarded toil, This upward path into the realm of snow Oh for one glimpse of the old happy soil Fragrant with flowers below For what false gold, like alchemists, we yearn, Wasting the wealth we never can recall, Joy and life's lavish prime ; — and our return? Ashes, cold ashes, all ! Could youth but dream what narrow burial-urns Hopes that went forth to conquer worlds should hold, How in a tomb the lamp Experience burns Amidst the dust of old ! — Is it all Vanity ? 43 In the chill dawn of real life, how soon The beautiful Ideals fade away ! As Fairies seen under the doubtful moon, Fly disenchanting day ; Love render'd saintlike by its pure devotion ; Knowledge exulting lone by shoreless seas ; And Feeling tremulous to each emotion, As May-leaves to the breeze ; And, oh, that grand Ambition, poet-nurst, \Vhen boyhood's heart swells u]) to the Sublime, And on the gaze the towers of glory first Flash from the peaks of time ! Are they then wiser who but nurse the growth Of joys in life's most common element, Creeping from hour to hour in that calm sloth Which Egoists call ' Content % ' Who freight for storms no hopeful argosy, Who watch no beacon wane on hill-tops grey. Who bound their all, where from the human eye The horizon fades away ? 44 ^^ ii ^^^ Vanity f Alas for Labour, if indeed more wise To drink life's tide unwitting where it flows ; Renounce the arduous palm, and only prize The Cnidian vine and rose ! Out from the Porch the Stoic cries, ' For shame ! What hast thou left us, Stoic, in thy school 1 ' That pain or pleasure is but in the name ? ' A nerve belies thee, fool ! Never grave Pallas, never Muse severe Charm'd this hard life like the free, zoneless Grace; Pleasure is SAveet in spite of every sneer On Zeno's wrinkled face. What gain'd and left ye to this age of ours, Ye early priesthoods of the Isis, Truth — When light first glimmer'd from the Cuthite's towers ; When Thebes was in her yoiith ? When to the weird Chaldaean spoke the star, When Hades open'd at Heraclean spells, When Fate made Nature her interpreter In leaves and murmuring wells ? Is it all Vanity f 45 When the keen Greek chased flying Science on, Upward and up the infinite abyss ? — Like perish'd stars your arts themselves have gone Noiseless to nothingness ! And what is knowledge but the wizard's ring, Kindling a flame to circumscribe a ground ? The belt of light that lures the spirit's wing Hems the invoker round. Ponder and ask again, ' What boots our toil %' Can we the Garden's wanton child gainsay, When from kind lips he culls their rosy spoil And lives life's holiday % Life answers, * No — if ended here be life, Seize what the sense can give — it is thine all ; Disarm thee, Virtue, barren is thy strife ; Knowledge, thy torch let fall, ' Seek thy lost Psyche, yearning Love, no more ! Love is but lust, if soul be only breath ; Who would put forth one billow from the shore If the great sea be — Death V 46 Is it all Vanity f But if the soul, that slow artificer, For ends instinctive, reared /r^;// life, hath striven. Feeling beneath its patient webwork stir AVings only freed in heaven. Then, and but then, to toil is to be wise ; Solved is the riddle of the grand desire Which ever, ever, for the Distant sighs. And must, perforce, aspire. Rise, then, my soul, take comfort from thy sorrow ; Thou feel'st thy treasure when thou feel'st thy load ; Life without thought, the day without the morrow, God on the brute bestow'd ; Longings obscure as for a native clime. Flight from what is to live in what may be, God gave the Soul ; — thy discontent with time Proves thine eternity. 47 THE TR UE JO V- GIVER. H CEvoe, Liber Pater, Oh, the vintage feast divine, When the god was in the bosom And his rapture in the wine ; When the Faun laugh'd out at morning ; When the McXnad hymn'd the night ; And the Earth itself was drunken With the worship of deUght ; Oh QEvoe, Liber Pater, Thou, whose orgies are upon MoonHt hill-tops of Parnassus, Shady slopes of Helicon ; — Ah, how often have I hail'd thee ! Ah, how often have 1 been The gay swinger of the thyrsus, When its wither'd leaves were green ! 48 The True Joy -Giver. Then, the boughs were purple-gleaming With the dewdrop and the star ; As, in chanting, came the wood-nymph, And, in flashing, came the car. But how faded are the garlands Of the thyrsus that I bore. When the wood-nymph chanted ' Follow ! In the vintage-feast of yore. Yet my vineyards are the richest That Falemian slopes bestow ; Has the vineherd lost his cunning % Has the summer lost its glow % Dullard, never on Falernium The true Care-Dispeller trod \ There, the vine-leaves wreathe no thyrsus, There, the fruits allure no god. Liber's wine is Nature's life-blood ; Liber's vineyards bloom upon Moonlit hill-tops of Parnassus, Shady slopes of Helicon. The True Joy-Give}-. 49 But the hill-tops of Parnassus Are still free to every age ; I have trod them with the Poet, I have mapp'd them with the Sage ; And I'll take my young disciple To heed well, with humbled eyes, How the rosy Gladness-giver Welcomes ever most the wise. Lo, the arching of the vine-leaves ; Lo, the sparkle of the fount ; Hark, the carol of the Masnads ; Lo, the car is on the Mount ! ' Ho, there ! — room, ye thyrsus-bearers, For your pla}'inate I have been !' ' Once it might be,' laughed Lyaeus, ' But thy thyrsus then was green.' And adown the gleaming alleys See, the gladness-bringer glide ; And the wood-nymph murmurs ' Follow 'J'o the young man by my side. E 50 BELIEF; THE UNKNOWN LANGUAGE. AN IDYLL. Y summer-reeds a music murmur'd low, And straight the Shepherd-age came back to me ; When idylls breathed where Himera's waters flow, Or on the Haemus hill, or Rhodope ; As when the swans, by Moschus heard at noon, Mourn'd their lost Bion on the Thracian streams ; Or when SimsetJiea murmur'd to the moon Of Myndian Delphis — old Sicilian themes. Then softly turning, on the margent-slope \Miich back as clear translucent waters gave. Behold, a Shape as beautiful as Hope, And calm as Truth, bent, singing, o'er the wave. Belief ; The Uukuoiun Language. 5 r To the sweet lips, sweet music seem'd a thing Natural as perfume to the violet. All else was silent ; not a zephyr's wing Stirr'd from the magic of the channer's net. What was the sense beneath the silver tone % WhaL the fine chain that link'd the floating measure ^ Not mine to say — the langoiage was unknown, And sense was lost in undistinguish'd pleasure. Pleasure, dim-shadow'd with a gentle pain As twilight Hesper with a twilight shroud ; Or like the balm of a delicious rain Press'd from the fleeces of a summer cloud. When the song ceased, I knelt before the singer. And raised my looks to soft and child-like eyes. Sighing : ' What fountain, O thou nectar-bringer, Feeds thy full urn with golden melodies % ' Interpret sounds, O Hebe of the soul. Oft heard, methinks, in Ida's starry grove. When to thy feet the charmed eagle stole. And the dark thunder left the brows of Jove I" 52 Belief ; The Unknown Language. Smiling, the Beautiful replied to me, And still the language flow'd in words unknown ; Only in those pure eyes my sense could see How calm the soul that so perplex'd my own. And while she spoke, symphonious murmurs rose ; Dryads from trees. Nymphs murmur'd from the rills ; Murmur'd Mpenalian Pan from dim repose In the lush coverts of Pelasgic hills ; Munnur'd the voice of Chloris in the flower ; Bent, murmuring from his car, Hyperion ; Each thing regained the old Presiding Power, And spoke— and still the language was unknown. Dull listener, placed amidst the harmonious Whole, Hear'st thou no voice to sense divinely dark % The sweetest sounds that wander to the soul Are in the Unknown Language. — Pause, and hark ! 53 THE PILGRIM OF THE DESERT. P^ARILY flaggeth my Soul in the Desert : Wearily, wearily. Sand, ever sand, not a gleam of the fountain Sun, ever sun, not a shade from the mountain : Wave after wave flows the sea of the Desert. Drearily, drearily. Life dwelt with life in my far native valleys, Nightly and daily ; Labour had brothers to aid and beguile ; A tear for my tear, and a smile for my smile ; And the sweet human voices rang out ; and the valleys Echoed them gaily. Under the almond-tree, once in the spring-time, Careless reclining ; The sigh of my Leila was hush'd on my breast. As the note of the last bird had died in its nest ; Calm look'd the stars on the buds of the spring-time. Calm — but how shining ! 54 J^ he Pilgrim of the Desert. Helow on the herbage there darken'd a shadow ; Stirr'd the boughs o'er me ; Dropp'd from the almond-tree, sighing, the blossom ; 'Crumbling the maiden sprang up from my bosom ; 'I'lien the step of a stranger came mute through the shadow, Pausing before me. He stood grey with age in the robe of a Dervise, As a king awe-compelling ; And the cold of his eye like the diamond was bright, As if years from the hardness had fashion'd the light : ' A draught from thy spring for the way-weary Dervise, And rest in thy dwelling.' And my herds gave the milk, and my tent gave the shelter ; And the stranger spell-bound me ^Vith his tales, all the night, of the far world of wonder, Of the ocean of Oman with i3earls gleaming under ; And I thought, ' O, how mean are the tents' simple shelter And the valleys around me ! ' I seized as I listen'd, in fancy, the treasures By Afrites conceal'd ; Scared the serpents that watch in the ruins afar ( )'er the hoards of the Persian in lost Chil-Menar ; — Alas ! till that night happy youth had more treasures Than Ormus can yield. TJic Pilgriui of the Desert. 55 Mom came, and I went with my guest through the gorges In the rock hollow'd ; The flocks bleated low as I pass'd them ungrieving, 'i'he almond-buds strew'd the sweet earth I was leaving : Slowly went Age through the gloom of the gorges, Lightly Youth follow'd. We won through the Pass — the Unknown lay before me, Sun-lighted and wide ; Then 1 turn'd to my guest, but how languid his tread, And the awe I had felt in his presence was fled, And I cried, ' Can thy age in the journey before me Still keep by my side % ' • Hope and Wisdom soon part ; be it so,' said the Dervise, ' My mission is done.' As he spoke, came the gleam of the crescent and spear, Chimed the bells of the camel more sweet and more near ; — ' Co, and march with the Caravan, youth,' sigh'd the Dervise, ' Fare thee well I ' — he was gone. What profits to speak of the wastes I have traversed Since that early time % One by one the procession, replacing the guide, Mave dropp'd on the sands, or have stray'd from my side; And I hear never more in the solitudes traversed The camel-bell's chime. 56 The Pilgrim of the Desert. How oft I have yearn'd for the old happy valley, But the sands have no track ; He who scom'd what was near must advance to the far, Who forsaketh the landmark must march by the star, And the steps that once part from the peace of the valley Can never come back. So on, ever on, spreads the path of the Desert, Wearily, wearily ; Sand, ever sand — not a gleam of the fountain ; Sun, ever sun — not a shade from the mountain ; As a sea on a sea, flows the width of the Desert, Drearily, drearily. How narrow content, and how infinite knowledge ! Lost vale, and lost maiden ! Enclosed in the garden the mortal was blest : A world with its wonders lay round him unguest ; That world was his own when he tasted of knowledge — Was it worth Aden ] 57 VrtlVt LOVE AND DEATH. STRONG as the eagle, O mild as the dove, How like and how unlike O Death and O Love ! Knitting earth to the heaven, The near to the far. With the step in the dust, And the eye on the star. Ever changing your symbols Of light or of gloom ; Now the rue on the altar, The rose on the tomb. From love, if the infant Receiveth his breath, The love that gave life Yields a subject to Death. 58 Love and Death. When Death smites the aged, Escaping above FHes the soul re-deliver'd Bv Death unto Love. And therefore in waiUng We enter on life ; And therefore in smiling Depart from its strife. Thus Love is best known By the tears it has shed ; And Death's surest sign Is the smile of the dead. The purer the spirit, The clearer its view, The more it confoundeth The shapes of the two ; For, if thou lov'st truly. Thou canst not dissever The grave from the altar, The Now from the Ever ; Love and Death. 59 And if, nobly hoping, Thou cjazest above. In Death thou beholdest The aspect of Love. 6o TO THE LOST; A life's record. PART I. RETROSPECTION FROM THE HALTING-PLACE. ET me pause, for I am weary, Weary of the trodden ways ; And the landscape spreads more dreary Where it stretches from my gaze. Many a prize I deem'd a blessing When I started for the goal, Midway in the course possessing Adds a burden to the soul. By the thorn that scantly shadeth, From the sloped sun reclin'd, Let me look, before it fadeth On the eastern hill behind ; — To tJic Lost; A Lifcs Record. 6i On the hill that life ascended, While the dewy morn was young ; While the mist with light contended, And *"he early skylark sung. Then, as when at first united, Rose together Love and Day ; Nature wdth her sun was lighted, And my soul with Viola ! O my young earth's lost Immortal Naiad vanished from the streams ! Eve, torn from me at the portal Of my Paradise of Dreams I On thy name, with lips that quiver, With a voice that chokes, I call. Well ! the cave may hide the river, But the ocean merges all. Yet, if but in self-deceiving. Can no magic charm thy shade ? Come unto my human grieving, Come, but as the human maid I 62 To the Lost ; By the fount where love was plighted, Where the lone wave glass'd the skies ; By the hands that once united ; By the welcome of the eyes ; By the silence sweetly broken When the full heart murmur'd low. And with sighs the words were spoken Ere the later tears did flow ; By the blush and soft confession ; By the wanderings side by side ; By the love denied possession ; And the heavenlier, so denied ; By the faith yet undiverted ; By the worship sacred yet ; To the soul so long deserted, Come, as when of old we met ; Blooming as my youth beheld thee In the trysting-place of yore — Hark, a footfall ! I have spell'd thee, I.o, thy living smile once more ! A Lifes Record. 63 PART 11. THE MEETING-PLACE OF OLD. Glides the brooklet through the rushes. Now with dipping boughs at i>lay, Now with quicker music-gushes Where the pebbles chafe the way. Lonely from the lonely meadows Slopes the undulating hill ; And the slowness of its shadows But at sunset gains the rill : Not a sign of man's existence, Not a glimpse of man's abode, Yet the church-spire in the distance Links the solitude with God. All so quiet, all so glowing, In the golden hush of noon ; Nature's still heart overflowing From the breathless lips of June. 64 To the Lost ; Song itself the bird forsaketh, Save from wooded deeps remote, Mellowly and singly breaketh, Mellowly, the cuckoo's note. 'Tis the scene where youth beheld thee ; 'Tis the trysting-place of yore ; Yes, my mighty grief hath spell'd thee, Blooming — living — mine once more ! PART III. LOVE UNTO DEATH. Hand in hand we stood confiding, Boy and maiden, hand in hand, Where the path, in twain dividing, Reach'd the Undiscover'd Land. Oh, the Hebe then beside me. Oh, the embodied Dream of Youth, With an angel's soul to guide me. And a woman's heart to soothe ! A Lifcs Record. 65 Like the Morning in the gladness Of the smile that lit the skies ; Liker Twilight in the sadness Lurking deep in starry eyes ! Gaudier flowerets had eflaced thee In the formal garden set ; Nature in the shade had placed thee With thy kindred violet ; As the violet to completeness Coming even ere the day ; All thy life a silent sweetness Waning with a warmer ray. So, upon the verge of sorrow Stood we, blindly, hand in hand, Whispering of a happy morrow In that undiscover'd land. Thou, O meek one, fame foretelling. Grown ambitious but for me : While my heart, if proudly swelling, Beat — ah, not for Fame, but thee. F 66 To the Lost ; In that summer-noon we parted, Life redundant over all. Once again — O broken-hearted — When the autumn leaves did fall, Meeting — life from life to sever ! Parting — as depart the dead, When the dark ' Farewell for ever ! ' Fades from marble lips, unsaid ; As upon a bark that slowly Lessens lone adown the sea. Looks abandon'd Melancholy — Did thy still eyes follow me ! Wilful in thy self-devotion. Patient on the desert shore, Gazing, gazing, till from ocean Waned thy last hope evermore. Gentle victim, they might bind thee, But to fetter was to slay ; As a statue they enshrined thee, At a sepulchre to pray ; A Life's Rcco'd. 67 Bade the bloodless lips not falter ; Bade the cold despair be brave ; Yes, the next morn at the altar ! But the next moon in the grave ! Little dream'd they when they bore thee To the nuptial funeral shrine, That to ME they did restore thee, And release thy soul to mine ! Yet can ev'n the grave regain thee ? Gain as human love would see ? Darling — Pardon, I profane thee; Angel — bend and comfort me ! PART IV. LOVE AFTER DEATH. Cold the loiterer who refuseth At the well of life to drink. Till the wave a sparkle loseth. And the silver cord a link. 6$ To the Lost ; But the flagging of the forces In the journey of the soul, If the first draught waste the sources, If the first touch break the bowl !- On the surface bright with pleasure Still thy distant shade was cast ; Ah ! the heart was where the treasure, And the Present with the Past. If from Fame, the all-deceiver, Toil contending garlands sought, Oft our force is but our fever, And our swiftness flight from Thought. Hollow Pleasure, vain Ambition, Give me back the impulse free — Hope that seem'd its own fruition, Life contented but to be. When the earth with heaven was haunted In the shepherd-age of gold. And the Venus rose enchanted From the sunny seas of old. A Lifcs Record. 69 Cease, not mine the ignoble moral Of an unresisted grief ; Can the lightning sear the laurel, Or the winter fade its leaf? Flowerless, yet, until the dying, Green as when the sap began. Bolt and winter both defying — So be manhood unto man. Once I wander'd forth dejected In the later times of gloom ; And the icy moon reflected One still shadow o'er thy tomb. There, in desolation kneeling, Snows around me, stars above, Came that second world of feeling. Came that second birth of Love. When regret grows aspiration, When o'er chaos moves the breath And a new-born dim creation Rising, wid'ning, dawns from death. yo To the Lost ; Then methought my soul was lifted From the anguish and the strife ; With a finer vision gifted For the Spirituals of Life ; For the links that, while they thrall us, Upward mount in just degree, Knitting, even if they gall us, IJfe to Immortality ; For the subtler glories blending With the common air we know. Angel hosts to heaven ascending Up the ladder based below. Straight each harsher iron duty Did the sudden light illume ; Oh, what streams of solemn beauty Take their sources in the tomb ! A Lifcs Record. PART V. THE PANTHEISM OF LOVE PASSING INTO THE IDEAL Then I rose, at dawn departing, Wan the dead earth, wan the snow, Wan the frost-beam dimly darting Where the corn-seed lurk'd below ; From that night, as streams dividing At the fountain till the sea, Wildly chafing, gently gliding, Life has twofold lives for me ; One by mart and forum passing, Vex'd reflection of the crowd ; One the hush of forests glassing, Or the changes of the cloud. By the calmer stream, for ever Dwell the ghosts that haunt the heart, And the phantoms and the river Make the Poet-World of Art. 72 To the Lost ; There in all that JFancy gildeth, Still thy vanish'd smile I see ; And each airy hall it buildeth Is a votive shrine to thee ! Do men praise the labour % — gladden'd That the homage may endure ; Do they scorn it % — only sadden'd That thine altar is so poor. If the Beautiful be clearer As the seeker's days decline, Should the Ideal not be nearer As my soul approaches thine % Thus the single light bereft me Fused through all creation flows ; Gazing where a sun had left me, Lo, the myriad stars arose ! A Life's Record. 73 PART VI. THE BIRD SINGS FROM THE THORN. Now the eastern hill-top fadeth From the arid wastes forlorn, And the only tree that shadeth Has the scant leaves of the thorn. Not a home to smile before me, Not a voice to cheer is heard ; Hush ! the thorn-leaves tremble o'er me- Hark, the carol of a bird ! Unto air what charm is given ! Angel, as a link to thee, Midway between earth and heaven Hangs the delicate melody ! How it teacheth while it chideth, Is the pathway so forlorn? Mercy over man presideth, And — the bird sings from the thorn. 74 To the Lost ; A Lifcs Record. Floating on, the music leads me, As the pausing-place I leave, And the gentle wing precedes me Through the lulled airs of eve. Stay, O last of all the number, Bathing happy plumes in light, Till the deafness of the slumber, Till the blindness of the night. Only for the vault to leave thee, Only with my life to lose ; Let my closing eyes perceive thee Fold thy wings amid the yews. 75 MIND AND SOUL. iJARK ! the awe-whisper'd prayer, ' God spare my mind ! ' Dust unto dust, the mortal to the clod ; But the high place, the altar that has shrined Thine image — spare, O God ! Thought, the grand link from human life to Thee, The humble reed that by the Shadowy River Responds in music to the melody Of spheres that hymn for ever — The order of the mystic world within. The airy girth of all things near and far ; Sense, though of sorrow — memor}% though of sin — Gleams through the dungeon bar — \'ouchsafe me to the last ! — Though none may mark The solemn pang, nor soothe the parting breath, Still let me seek for God amid the dark. And face, unblinded, Death ! ']6 Mind and Soul. Whence is this fine distinction 'twixt the twain Rays of the Maker in the lamp of clay, Spirit and Mind % — strike the material brain, And soul seems hurl'd away. Touch but a nerve, and Brutus is a slave ; A nerve, and Plato drivels ! Was it mind, Or soul, that taught the wise one in the cave, The freeman in the wind? If mind — O Soul ! what is thy task on earth % If soul ! Oh, wherefore can a touch destroy, Or lock in Lethe's Acherontian dearth The Immortal's grief and joy % Hark, how a child can babble of the cells Wherein, beneath the perishable brow. Fancy invents, and Memory chronicles, And Reason asks — as now : Mapp'd are the known dominions of the thought. But who shall find the palace of the soul % Along what channels shall the source be sought, The well-spring of the whole % Mind and Soul. jj Look round, vain questioner — all space survey, Where'er thou lookest, lo, how clear is Mind ! Hie laws that part the darkness from the day, And the sweet Pleiads bind. The thought, the will, the art, the elaborate power Of the Great Cause from which the All began — Gaze on the star, or bend above the flower, Still speak of Mind to man. But the arch soul of soul — from which the law- Is but the shadow, who on earth can see % What guess cleaves upward through the deeps of awe, Unspeakable, to thee % As in Creation lives the Father Soul, So lives the soul He breathed amidst the clay ; Round it the thoughts on starry axles roll, Life flows and ebbs away. \{ chaos smote the universe again, And new Chaldaeans shuddered to explore Amidst the maddening elements in vain The hamionious Mind of yore, 78 Mind and Sonl. Would not God live the same ? — the Unseen Spirit, "Whether that life or wills or wrecks Creation \ — So lives, distinct, the God-spark we inherit. When Mind is desolation. 79 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. ROM Heaven what fancy stole The dream of some good spirit, aye at hand, The seraph whispering to the exiled soul Tales of its native land ? Who to the cradle gave The unseen watcher by the mother's side, Born with the birth, companion to the grave, The holy angel-guide ? Is it a fable %—' No,' I hear Love answer from the sunlit air, ' Still where my presence gilds the darkness — know- Life's angel-guide is there % ' Is it a fable ? — Hark, Faith hymns from deeps beyond the palest star, '/am the pilot to thy wandering bark. Thy guide to shores afar.' 8o TJie Guardian Angel. Is it a fable 1 — sweet From wave, from air, from every forest tree, The murmur spoke, ' Each thing thine eyes can greet An angel-guide can be. ' From myriads take thy choice, In all that lives a guide to God is given ; Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voice When Nature speaks of Heaven !' 8i THE LOVE OF MATURER YEARS. AY, soother, do not dream thine art Can alter Nature's stern decree ; Or give me back the younger heart, Whose tablets had been clear to tliee. Why seek, fair child, to pierce the dark That wraps the giant wrecks of old % Thou wert not with me in the ark, When o'er my life the deluge roll'd. To thee, reclining by the verge, The careless waves in music flow ; To me the ripple sighs the dirge Of my lost native world below. Her tranquil arch as Iris builds Above the Anio's torrent roar, Thy life is in the life it gilds, Born of the wave it trembles o'er. G S2 The Love of Matiirer Years. For thee a glory leaves the skies If from thy side a step depart ; Thy sunlight beams from human eyes, Thy world is in one human heart. And in the woman's simple creed Since first the helpmate's task began, Thou ask'st what more than love should need The stern insatiate soul of Man. No more, while youth with vernal gale Breathes o'er the brief Arcadia still ; — But when the Wanderer quits the vale. But when the footstep scales the hill, But when with awe the wide expanse The Pilgrim's earnest eyes explore, How shrinks the land of sweet Romance, A speck — it was the world before ! And, hark, the Dorian fifes succeed The pastoral reeds of Arcady : Lo, where the Spartan meets the Mede, Near Tempe lies — Thermopyle ! TJic Love of Mature}' Years. 83 Each onward step in hardy life, Each scene that Memory halts to scan, Demands the toil, records the strife — And love but once is all to man. Weep'st thou, fair infant, wherefore weep % Long ages since the Persian sung, * The zephyr to the rose should keep. And youth should only love the young.' Ay, lift those chiding eyes of thine ; The trite, ungenerous moral scorn ! The diamond's home is in the mine, The violet's birth beneath the thorn ; There, purer light the diamond gives Than when to baubles shaped the ray; There, safe at least the violet lives From hands that clasp — to cast away. Bloom still beside the mournful heart. Light still the caves denied the star ; Oh Eve, with Eden pleased to part. Since Eden needs no comforter ! 84 TJlc Love of Matnrcr Years. My soft Arcadian, from thy bower I hear thy music on the hill ; And bless the note for many an hour When I too — am Arcadian still. Whene'er the face of Heaven appears, As kind as once it smiled on me, ril steal adown the mount of years. And come — a youth once more, to thee- From bitter grief and iron wrong When Memory sets her captive free. When joy is in the skylark's song, My bhthesome steps shall bound to thee ; When Thought, the storm-bird, shrinks before The width of nature's clouded sea, A voice shall charm it home on shore. To share the halcyon's nest with thee : Lo, how the faithful verse escapes The varying chime that laws decree. And, like my heart, attracted, shapes Each wandering fancy back — to thee. THE EVERLASTING GRAVE-DIGGEK. KTHOUGHT I stood amidst a Inirial-phKc And saw a phantom ply the sexton's trade, Pale o'erthe charnel bow'd the ])hantom face. Noiseless the phantom 8i)ade Gleam'd in the stars. Wondering 1 ask'd, ' Whose grave dost thou prepare?' The labouring ghost disdainful paused and said, To dig the grave is Death my father's care, I disinter the dead Under the stars.' Therewith he cast a skull before my feet, A skull with worms encircled, and a crown ; And mouldering shreds of Beauty's winding-sheet. Chilling and cheerless down Shimmer'd the stars. S6 Tlic Everlasting Gravc-Digger. ' And of the Past,' I sigh'd, ' are these alone The things disburied ? spare the dread repose, Or bring once more the monarch to his throne, To Beauty's cheek the rose.' Cloud ^vrapt the stars, While the pale sexton answer'd, ' Fool, away ! Thou ask'st of Memory that which Faith must give ; Mine is the task to disinter the clay, Hers to bid life revive ' — Cloud left the stars. 87 THE DISPUTE OF THE POETS. A LYRICAL ECLOGUE. N idyll scene of happy Sicily ! Out from its sacred grove on grassy slopes Smiles a fair temple, vow'd to some sweet Power Of Nature deified. In broad degrees From liower-^\Teath'd porticoes the shining stairs, Through tiers of myrtle in Corinthian urns, Glide to the shimmer of an argent lake. Calm rest the swans upon the glassy wave, Save where the younger cygnets, newly-pair'd. Through floating brakes of water-lilies, sail Slowly in sunlight down to islets dim. But farther on, the lake subsides away Into the lapsing of a shado^vy rill Melodious with the chime of falls as sweet As (heard by Pan in Arethusan glades) The silvery talk of meeting Naiades. Where cool the sunbeam slants through ilex-boughs, The fane above them and tlie rill below, 88 The Dispute of the Poets. Two forms recline ; nor e'er in Arcady Did fairer Manhood win an Oread's love. Nor lift diviner brows to earliest stars. The one of brighter hues, and darker curls Clustering and purple as the fruit o' the vine, Seem'd like that Summer-Idol of rich life Whom sensuous Greece, inebriate with delight. From Orient myth and symbol-worship brought To blue Cithaeron, blithe with bounding faun And w^ood-nymph wild. Nature's young lord, lacchus ! Bent o'er the sparkling brook, with careless hand From sedge or sward, he pluck'd or reed or flower, Casting away light wreaths on playful waves ; While — as the curious ripple mumiur'd round Its odorous prey, and eddying whirl'd it on O'er pebbles glancing sheen to sunny falls — He laugh'd, as childhood laughs, in such frank glee The very leaves upon the ilex danced Joyous, as at some mirthful wind in May. The other, though the younger, more serene, And to the casual gaze severer far. To that bright comrade-shape, by contrast seem'd As serious Mom, star-crown'd on Spartan hills, To Noon, when hyacinths flush through Enna's vales, A Lyrical Eclogue. 89 Or muvmurous winglets hum 'mid Indian palms. Such beauty his as the first Dorian bore From the flir birthplace of Homeric men, Beyond the steeps of Boreal Thessaly, When to the swart Pelasgic Autocthon The blue-eyed Pallas came with lifted spear, And, her twin type of the fair-featured North, Phoebus, the archer with the golden hair. Bright was the one as Syrian Adon-ai, Charming the goddess born from roseate seas ; And while the other, leaning on his lyre, Lifted the azure light of earnest eyes From flower and wave, to the remotest hill On which the soft horizon melted down, Ev'n so methought had gazed Endymion, With looks estranged from the luxuriant day. To the far Latmos steep — where holy dreams Nightly renew'd the kisses of the Moon. Entranced I stood, and held my breath to hear The words that seem'd to warm upon their lips. As if such contest as two Nightingales Wage, emulous in music, on the peace 7'hat surely dwelt between them, had anon I'orct'd its mellifluous anger : — Then 1 Icarn'd 90 • TJic Dispute of the Poets. That the fair two were orphans, rear'd to youtli Song and the lyre, where ringdoves coo remote, And loitering bees cull sweets in Hyblan dells : And that their discord, as their union, grew Out of their rivalry in lyre and song. Therewith did each, in the accustom'd war Of pastoral singers in Sicilian noons. Strive for his Right (O Memory, aid me now 1) In the sweet quarrel of alternate hymns. CARICLES. As the sunlight that plays on a stream. As the zeph)T that rustles a leaf. On my soul comes the joy of the beam. And a zephyr can stir it to grief. Whether pleasure or pain be decreed, My voice but in music is heard ; By the sunny wave murmurs the reed ; From the sighing leaf carols the bird. PHILASTER. Unto her hierarch Nature's voices come But through the labyrinthine cells of Thought, A Lyrical Eclogue. 91 Not at the Porch doth Isis hold her home, Not to the Tyro are her mysteries taught ; The secret dews of many a starry night Feed the vast ocean's stately ebb and flow ; The leaf is restless where the branch is slight, Still are the boughs whose shades stretch far below. CARICLES. As the skylark that mounts With the dawn to the sun, As the flash from the founts Of the swift Helicon, Song comes ; — and I sing ! Wouldst thou question me more 1 Ask the wave or the wing Why it sparkle or soar ! PHILASTER. Full be the soul if swift the inspiration ! The corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife Song is the twin of golden Contemplation, The harvest-flower of life. 92 TJic Dispute of the Poets. The Cloud-compeller's bolt the eagle bears, But when the wings the strength divine have won, Full many a flight around the rock prepares The Aspirer towards the Sun ; Progressive heights to gradual effort given, Till, all the plumes in light supreme unfurl'd. It halts ; — and knits unto the dome of heaven This pendant ball — the World. CARICLES. Hail, O hail, Pierides, Free Harmonia's zoneless daughters, Whom abrupt the Maenad sees By the marge of moonlit waters, Weaving joy in choral measure To no law but your sweet pleasure ; Wanton winds in loosen'd hair Lifting gold that gilds the air ; Say, beneath what stariy skies Lurk the herbs that purge the eyes 1 On what hill-tops should we cull The moly of the Beautiful ? A Lyrical Eclogue. 93 What tlie charm the soul to capture In the cestus-belt of rapture, When the senses, trembling under, Glass the Shadow-land of Wonder, And no human hand is stealing O'er the music-scale of Feeling 1 As ceased the question, rose delicious winds, Stirring the waves that kiss'd the tuneful reeds, And all the wealth of sweets in bells of flowers ; So that, methought, out from all life, the Muse Murmur'd responses low, and echo'd, ' Feeling ! " PHILASTER. Divine Corycides, Whose chosen haunts are in mysterious cells, And alleys dim through gleaming laurel-trees Dusking the shrine of Delphian oracles — Under whose whispering shade Sits the lone Pythian Maid, Whose soul is as the glass of human things ; While up from bubbling streams In mists arise the Dreams Pale with the future of tiara'd kings— 94 T^^^ Dispute of the Poets. Say, what the charm which from ambrosial domes Draws the Immortal to Time's brazen towers, When on the soul the gentle Thunderer comes — Comes but in golden showers ] When, through the sealed portals of the sense, Fluent as air the Glory glides unsought ; And the serene effulgent Influence Rains all the wealth of heaven upon the thought 1 And as the questions ceased, fell every wind. The ilex-boughs droop'd heavy as the hush In which the prophet doves brood weird and calm Amid Dodonian groves ; — the broken light On crisped waves grew smooth ; on earth, in heaven. The inexpressive majesty of Silence Pass'd as some Orient sovereign to his throne. When all the murmurs cease, and every brow Bends down in awe, and not a breath is heard. Yet spoke that stillness of the Eternal Mind That thinks, and, thinking, evermore creates ; And Nature seem'd to answer Poesy From her deep heart, in thought re-echoing ' Thought." CARICLES. Thou, whose silver lute contended With the careless reed of Pan — A Lyrical Eclogue. 95 Thou whose wanton youth descended To the vales Arcadian, At whose coming heavenher joy Lighteth even Jove's abode, Ever blooming as the boy Through thine ages as the god ; Fair Apollo, if the singer Be like thee the gladness-bringer ; If the nectar he distil Make the worn earth youthful still ; As thyself when thou wert driven To the Tempe from the heaven, As the infant over whom Saturn bends his brows of gloom, Roves he not the world a-maying, From his I dan halls exiled ; Or with Time repose in playing. As, with Saturn's locks, the child ? Therewith from far, where unseen hamlets lay In wooded valleys green, came mellowly Laughter and infant voices, borne perchance I'Yom the light hearts of happy Children, sporting Round some meek Mother's knee ; — ev'n so, methought, Did the familiar human innocent gladness Through golden Childhood answer Song, 'The Child.' 96 TJlc Dispute of the Poets. PHILASTER. Lord of lustrating streams, And altars pure, appalling secret Crime, Eternal Splendour, whose all-searching beams Illume with life the universe of Time, All our own fates thy shrine reveals to us ; Thither comes Wisdom from the thrones of earth. The unraveller of the Sphinx — blind CEdipus, "Who knows not ev'n his birth ! On whom, Apollo, does thy presence shine Through the clear daylight of translucent song ? Only to him who serveth at the shrine. The priesthood can belong ! After due and deep probation, Only dawns thy revelation Unto the devout beseecher Taught by thee to grow the teacher : Shall the bearer of thy boAv Let the shafts at random go ? If the altar be divine. Is the sacrifice a feast ? Should our hands the garland twine For the reveller or the priest ? A Lyrical Eclogue. 97 Therewith from out the temple on the liill Broke the rich swell of fifes and choral lyres. And the long melody of such large hymns, As to the conquest of the Python-slayer, Hallow'd thy lofty chant, Calliope ! Thus from the penetralian aisles divine The solemn god replied to Song, ' The Priest.' CARICLES. And who can bind in formal duty The Protean shapes of airy Beauty? ^^'ho tune the Teian's lyre of gold To priestly hymns in temples cold ] Accept the playmate by thy side, Ordain'd to charm thee, not to guide. The stream reflects each curve on shore. And Song alike thy good and error ; Let Wisdom be the monitor, But Song should be the mirror. To truth direct while Science goes With measured pace and sober eye : The simplest wild-flower more bestows Than Egypt's lore, on Poesy. H 98 The Dispute of the Poets. The Magian seer who counts the stars, Regrets the cloud that veils his skies ; To me, the Greek, the clouds are cars From which bend down divinities ! Like cloud itself this common day Let Fancy make awhile the duller. Its iris in the cloud shall play. And weave thy world the pomp of colour. He paused ; as if in concord with the Song Seem'd to flash forth the universe of hues \\\ the Sicilian summer : on the banks Crocus, and hyacinth, and anemone, Superb narcissus, Cytherea's rose, And woodbine lush, and lilies silver-starr d ; And delicate cloudlets blush'd in lucent skies ; And yellowing sunbeams shot through purple waves ; And still from bough to bough the wings of birds. And still from flov/er to flower the gorgeous dyes Of the gay insect-revellers, wandering went — ■ And as I look'd I murmur'd, ' Singer, yes. As COLOUR to the world, so song to life I ' A Lyrical Eclogue. 99 PHILASTER. Conceal'd from Saturn's deathful frown. The wild Curetes strove, By chant and cymbal clash, to drown The infant cries of Jove. But when, full-grown, the Thunder-king, Triumphant o'er the Titan's fall, And tlironed in Ida, look'd on all, And all subjected saw ; Saw the sublime Uranian Ring, And ever)' joyous living thing, Calm'd into love beneath his tranquil law ; — Then straight above, below, around, His voice was heard in cver}^ sound ; The mountain pealed it through the cave. The whirlwind to the answering wave ; By loneliest stream, by deepest dell. It murmur'd in mysterious Pan ; No less than in the golden shell From which the falls of music well O'er floors Olympian ; For Jove in all that breathes must dwell, And speak through all to Man. lOO TJlc Dispute of the Poets. Singer, who asketh Hermes for his rod, To lead men's souls into Elysian bowers, To whose belief the alter'd earth is trod Still by Kronidian Powers, If through thy veins the purer tide hath been Pour'd from the nectar-streams in Hebe's um. That thou mightst both without thee and within Feel the pervading Jove— wouldst thou return To the dark time of old, When Earth-born Force the Heir of Heaven controll'd, And with thy tinkling brass aspire To stifle Nature's music-choir, And drown the voice of God '? O Light, thou poetr)^ of Heaven, That glid'st through hollow air thy way, That fill'st the starry founts of Even, And all the azure seas of Day ; Give to my song thy glorious flow, That while it glads it may illume, Whether it gild the iris' bow. And part its rays amid the gloom ; Or whether, one broad tranquil stream, It break in no fantastic dyes, But calmly weaving beam on beam, Make Heaven distinct to human eyes ; A Lyrical Eclogue. loi A truth that floats serene and clear, 'Twixt gods and men an atmosphere ; Less seen itself than bringing all to sight, And to man's soul what to man's world is Light. Then, as the Singer ceased, the western sun Halted a moment o'er the roseate hill Hush'd in pellucent air ; and all the crests Of the still groves, and all the undulous cun-es Of far-off headlands stood distinctly soft .Against the unfathomable purple skies, And linking in my thought the outward shows Of Beauty with the inward types sublime, By which through Beauty poets lead to Knowledge, And are the lamps of Nature, ' Yes,' I murmufcl. ' Song is to soul what unto life is Light ! ' But gliding now behind the steeps it flush'd, The disk of day sunk gradual, gradual down, And in the homage of the old Religion To tlie departing Sun — the rival two Ceased their dispute, and bent sweet serious brows In chorus with the cusps of bended flowers, Sighing their joint ' Farewell, O golden Sun I' Now Hesper came, the gentle she])herd star, I02 The Dispute of the Poets. Bright as when Moschus sung to it ; — along The sacred grove, and through the Parian shafts Of the pale temple, shot the glistening rays, And trembled in the tremor of the wave :-*- Then the fair rivals, as they silent rose, Turn'd each to each in brotherlike embrace ; Lone amid starry solitude they stood. In equal beauty clasp'd — and ^ve that confides, a .smile can so deceive : id Ruthven kneeling at the altar's base less'd not the idol which profaned the place ; Q a 228 Constance ; or, But smiles forsake when secret hours bestow The angry self-confessional of Avoe ; When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit. All ! what a world were this if all were knowTi, And smiles on others track'd to tears alone ! Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye, Her soul had spoken and confess'd its He : But sometimes natures least obscured by clay Shine through an awe that scares the meek away ; And, near as Ufe may seem to life, alas ! Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass. Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsook Her lip, and died, abash'd, before his look ; His foes his virtues — honour seem'd austere. And all most reverenced most provoked the fear. ' II Pass by some weeks : to London Seaton went, His genius glorying in its wonted vent ; New props are built, and new foundations laid. And once more rose thy crowded temple — Trade ! Then back the sire and daughter bent their way, There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the With Constance came a friend of earlier years, Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears ; The Portrait. 229 ,eaf intertwined with leaf, their youtli together ipen'd to bloom through life's first iVpril weather. o Juliet Constance had no care untold, [ere grief found sympathy and wept consoled ; [ere could the virgin's heart to virgin ear onfide that sense of loss which leaves so drear 'he smileless world. To youth that misses one fcTiose looks were light, earth seems without a sun. 'hus would they commune, when from darkening skies, 'ale as lost joys, stars gleam'd on tearful eyes. 'hey guess'd not how the credulous gaze of love )welt on the moon that rose their roof above. 'he moon is kind to lovers ; still her beam Iheats fond Endymions ; — well, let dreamers dream. Ill IMeanwhile, to England Harcourt's steps return'd, .nd Seaton's new-born state the earliest news he learned i/liat the emotions of this injured man % [e had a friend — and thus his letter ran : lack to this land, where merit starves obscure, k^here wisdom says, " Be anything but poor," Leturn'd, my eyes the path to wealth explore, .nd straight I hear, " Constance is rich once more ! " 'hou know'st, my friend, with what a dexterous craft 'scaped the cup a tenderer dupe had quaff' d ; 230 Constance ; or, For in the chalice misery holds to life, What drop more nauseous than a dowerless wife % Yet she was fair, and gentle, chaiTning — all That man would make his partner at a ball ! And, for the partner of a life, whit more % Plate at the board, a porter at the door ! Cupid and Plutus, though they oft divide, If bound to Hymen, should walk side by side ; A boon companion halves the longest way — When Plutus join'd, I own that Love was gay ; But Plutus left, where Hymen did begin, The way look'd dreary and the god gave in : Now his old comrade once more is bestow'd, ' And Cupid starts refresh'd upon the road. " But how," thou ask'st, " how dupe again the ear. In which thy voice slept silent for a year % And how explain, how " — Why impute to thee Questions whose folly thy quick glance can see % Who loves is ever glad to be deceived. Who lies the most is still the most believed. Somewhat I trust to eloquence and art. And where these fail — thank Heaven she has a heart ! More it disturbs me that some rumours run, That Constance, too, can play the faithless one ; That, where round pastoral meads blue streamlets purl. Chloe has found a Thyrsis — in an Earl ! TJic Portrait, 231 And oh ! tliat Ruthven ! Hate is not for me ; \Mio loves not, hates not — both bad policy. Yet could I hate, through all the earth T know- But that one man my soul would honour so. Through ties remote — by some Scotch grand-dam's side, We are, if scarce related, yet allied ; And had his mother been a barren dame, Mine were those lands, and mine that lordly name : Nay, if he die without an heir, ev'n yet — Oh, while I write, perchance the seal is set ! Farewell ! a letter speeds to her retreat, The prayer that wafts her Harcourt to her feet ; There to explain the past — his faith defend. And claim, ct cetera — Yours, in haste, my friend ! ' > IV To Constance came a far less honest scroll ; Yet. oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul ! Fear, hope — reports that madden'd, yet could stir No faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her : Wild vows renew'd — complaints of no replies To lines unwrit ; the eloquence of lies ! And more than all, the assurance still too dear, Of Love surviving that long age — a year ! wSuch were the tidings to the maiden borne. And — woe the day — upon her Bridal Morn ! 232 Constance; or, It was the loving twilight's rosiest liour, The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower, As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride, With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side ; For Ruthven went before, that first of all His voice might welcome to his father's hall : There, on the antique walls, the lamp from high Show'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by. Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive, Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave ; Below the gothic masks, grotesque and grim, Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim. Hung the accoutrements that lent a grace To the old warrior-pastime of the chase. Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne ; The hawker's glove, the huntsman's soundless horn ; On the huge hearth the hospitable flame Lit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame ; Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd, On their new daughter ominously frown'd ; To the young stranger, shivering to behold, The home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old. TJie Portrait. 233 VI ' Doth it so chill thee, Constance % Dare I own, The charm that haunts what childhood's years have kno\\ii, How many dreams of fame beyond my sires, Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires ! Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time, As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime ; In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live. To every relic some weird legend give ; And muse such hopes of glorious things to be, As they, the Dead, mused once ; — wild dreams — fulfill'd in thee ! Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone, A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own ! And what if all that charm'd me then, depart % Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n — thy heart ! What, drooping still ! Nay, love, we are not all So sad within, as this time-darken'd hall. Come ! ' — and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side) To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride. There, all of later luxury lent its smile. To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile. 234 Constance ; or, What though the stately tapestry met the eyes, Gay were its pictures, briUiant were its dyes ; There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof, In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof. There, in the gothic niche, the harp was placed. There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste ; Through the half-open casement you might view The sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue ; And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain, Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain : Within, without, all plann'd, all deck'd to greet The Queen of all — whose dowry was deceit ! Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above — All, save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's hymn to Love ! As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breast She fell ; and passionate tears, till then supprest, Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tears Betray'd no secret that could rouse his fears — For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt — The tears but proved how well his love was felt. And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hear Thanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear, He whisper'd, ' Linger not !' and closed the door. And Constance sobbed, ' Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more !' TJie Portrait. 235 VII Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode, And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflowed. Pass'd is the porch — he gains the balmy air, Still crouch the night-winds in their forest lair. The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines, On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines. A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink, Reflects the shy stag as it halts to drink ; And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides, Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides. Wandering^ along his boyhood's haunts, he mused ; The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused ; It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown, And left to Nature, Love and God alone ! Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there. His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer. VIII Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night. Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light — ' Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I ?' And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye ; He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'd The starry heaven of the rai)t thoughts it thrill'd ; 236 Constance ; ov^ He gain'd the hall — the lofty stair he wound — • Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground ! The tapestry veii'd him, as its fqlds, half-raised, Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed : Still Constance wept — and hark what sounds are those ! What awful secret those wild sobs disclose ! — * No, leave me not !— I cannot meet his eyes ! O Heaven ! must life be ever one disguise ! What seem'd indifference when we pledged the troth. Now grown — O wretch ! — to terrors that but loathe ! Oh that the earth might swallow me !' Again Gush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain. ' Nay, nay, be cheer' d — we must not more delay ; Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay ; No, for thy sake — for thine — I must begone.' She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone. IX By the opposing door, from that, unseen. Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen, Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled bride Look'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side ! They gazed in silence face to face : his own, Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone. At length the low and hollow accents stirr'd His blanching lip, that writhed with every word : TJic Portrait. 237 ' Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear ; A love so hated wounds no more thine ear. I thank thee — I — ' His lips would not obey His pride ; and all the manly heart gave way. Low at his feet she fell : the alter'd course Of grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse ; ' Forgive me ! — O forgive !' ' Forgive !' he cried, And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied. * Vile mockery ! Bid me in the desert live Alone with treason — and then say " Forgive !" Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made. Faith in all things thy falsehood has betray'd ! Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youth Dream'd its safe haven, murmuring,' " Here is Truth 1' Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast. Exult ! thy fraud surpasses all the rest. No ! close, my heart — grow marble ! Human worth Is not ; and falsehood is the name for earth !' X Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he paced The floor to feel the world indeed a waste ; For as the earth if God were not above, Man's hearth without the Lares — Faith and Love ! 238 Constance ; or, But what his woe to hers ? — for him at least Conscience was calm, though every hope had ceased. But she ! — all sorrow for herself had paused, To live in that worse anguish she had caused : ' No, Ruthven, no ! Thy pardon not for me ; But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on thee ! Oh could I merit even thy regret ; Oh that repentance could requite thee yet ! Oh that a life which henceforth ne'er shall own One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone — Obedience, honour — ' ' These may make the wife A faultless statue : — love but breathes the life ! Poor child ! Nay, weep not ; bitterer far, in truth. Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth : For manhood's pride the love at last may quell, But when could Woman with Indifference dwell ? No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared. O Heaven — the solitude thy soul has dared ! But thou hast chosen ! Vain for each regret ; All that is left — to seem that we forget. No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall ; Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence — 'take them all ! May they console thee, Constance, for a heart That — but enough ! So let the loathed depart ; TJic Portrait. 239 These chambers thine, my step invades them not ; Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot. Let the bride's hate annul the husband's claim ; If wed, be cheer'd ; our wedlock but a name. Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart above The power of beauty, when disarmed of love. And so, may Heaven forgive thee !' ' Ruthven, stay ! Generous — too noble : can no distant day Win thy forgiveness also, and restore Thy trust, thy friendship, ev'n though love be o'er ?' He paused a moment with a soften'd eye ; — ' Alas ! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply : If ever, Constance, that blest day should come, When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home ; If ever, when with those who court thee there. The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare. And feel that, if thy choice thou couldst recall, Him now unloved, thy love would choose from all — Why then, one word, one whisper ! — oh, no more — ' And, fearful of himself, he closed the door : 240 Constance ; or, PART IV. I Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true ! 'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue : "What we call Matter, on this outer earth. Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth. How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled ; But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild ! Man's soul is as an everlasting dream, Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream : To-day, in glory all the world is clad — Wherefore, O Man % — because thy heart is glad. To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey — The same ! Oh no — the pomp hath passed away ! Wherefore the change % Go, ask within, reply — Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky ! Vainly the world revolves upon its pole ; — Light — Darkness — Seasons — these are in the soul I II * Trite truth,' thou sayest — well, if trite it be, Wliy seek we ever from ourselves to flee % Pleased to deceive our sight, and loth to know We bear the climate with us where we go ! TJic Portrait. 241 To that immense Bethesda, whither still Each worse disease seeks cures for every ill ; To that great well, in which the heart at strife Merges its own amidst the common life — Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal, Or Self- Ambition, still as sure to heal — From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore ; Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more. Flock'd to his board the magnates of the hour Who clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness — Power ! The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race — The Word-besiegers of the Fortress — Place ! Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on, A moment gilded — in a moment gone ; For Honours fool but with deluding light — The place it glides through, not the wave., is bright ! '"" The means, if not his ends, with these the same, In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name ! Night after night the listening senate hung On that roused mind, by grief to action stung I Night after night, when action, spent and worn, Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne ; The sight of Home the frown of life renew'd — The World gave fame, and Home a solitude ! * Schiller. R 242 Constance ; or, III And Constance ? sever'd from a husband's side, No heart to cherish, and no hand to guide. Still, as if ev'n the veiy name of wife Drew her soul upward into loftier life, The solemn sense of woman's holiest tie Arm'd every thought against the memory. 'Mid shatter'd Lares stood the Marriage Queen — As on a Roman's hearth, with marble smile serene : New to her sight that galaxy of mind Which moves round men who light and guide their kind, WTiere all shine equal in their joint degrees, And rank's harsh outlines vanish into ease. As Power and Genius interchange their hues, So genial life the classic charm renews ; Some Scipio still a Terence may refine, Some grac'd Augustus prompt a Maro's line. The polish'd have their flaws, but least espied Amongst the polish'd is the angle pride ; And, howsoever Envy grudge their state. Their own bland laws democratise the great. IV Watch'd she, amid those orbs, her guardian star, Ruling her house of life, altho' too far The Portrait. 243 To warm her world % Alas ! unhappy wife ! No Star-seer reads aright the scheme of life If miss'd the hour in which it should be cast ; Each future starts from one point in each past. And in the crowd was now their only meeting — They who from crowds should so have hail'd retreating. But in the crowd if eye encounter'd eye, Whence came her blush, or wherefore heaved his sigh ? Ah ! woe when lost the heavenly confidence, Man's gentle right, and woman's strong defence !— Like the frank sunflower. Household Love to day Must ope its leaves ; — what shades it, brings decay. V The world look'd on, and construed, as it still Interprets all it knows not into ill. ' Man's home is sacred,' flattering proverbs say ; Yes, if you give the home to men's survey. But if that sanctum be obscured or screen'd, In every shadow doubt suggests a fiend : So churchyards seen beneath a noonday sky Are holy to the clown who saunters by ; But vex his vision by the glimmering light, And straight the holiness expires in fright ; He hears a goblin in the whispering grass, And cries ' Heaven save us !' at the Parson's ass ! 244 Constance ; or, ' Was ever lord so newly wed so cold ? Poor thing ! — forsaken ere a year be told ! Doubtless some wanton — ^whom we know not, true, But those proud sinners are so wary too ! Oh ! for the good old days — one never heard Of men so shocking under George the Third ! ' So ran the gossip. With the gossip came The brood it hatch' d — consolers to the dame. The soft and wily wooers, who begin. Through sliding pity, the smooth ways to sin. My lord is absent at the great debate, Go, soothe his lady's unprotected state ; Go, gallant — go, and wish the cruel Heaven To thee such virtue, now so wrong'd, had given ! Yes, round her flock'd the young world's fairest ones, The soft Rose-Garden's incense-breathing sons : But vernal winds rouse not the melodies Hid in Apollo's lute ; nor the vague sighs Of fluttering triflers the still music stored In woman's heart : the secret of its chord Is kept for him who, linking tone to tone. Calls music forth and claims it as his own. VI Now came the graver trial, though unseen By him who knew not where the grief had been — TJie Portrait. 245 He knew not that an earlier love had steel'd Her heart to his — that curse, at least conceard ; Enough of sorrow in his lonely lot — The why, what matter ] — that she loved him not. One night, when revel was in Ruthven's hall, He near'd the brilliant cynosure of all : ' When the last Ruthven dies, behold his heir ! ' He said ; she turn'd — O Heaven ! — and Harcourt there ! Harcourt the same as when her glance he charm'd, For surer conquest by compassion arm'd — The same, save where a softer shadow, cast O'er his bright looks, reflected the sad Past ! Now, when unguarded and in crowds alone, The future dark — the household gods o'erthrowm ; Now, when those looks, that seem, the while they grieve, Ne'er to reproach — can pity best deceive ; The sole affection she of right can claim — Now, Virtue, tremble not — the Tempter came ! VII He came, resolved to triumph and avenge — Sure of a heart whose sorrow spoke no change ; Pleased at the thought to bind again the chain — For they who love not still can love to reign ; 246 Co7istance ; or, Calm in the deeper and more fell design To sever those whom outward fetters join — To watch the discord Scandal rumours round, Fret every sore, and fester every wound ; Could he but make dissension firm and sure, Success would render larger schemes secure ; ' Let Ruthven die but childless ! ' ran his prayer, And in the lover's sigh cold avarice prompts the heir. He came and daily came, and daily schemed — Soft, grave, and reverent, but the friend he seemed. These distant cousins, from their earliest days, To different goals had trod their varying ways : If Ruthven oft with generous hand supplied What were call'd luxuries, did Shoreditch decide, But what no jury of Mayfair could doubt Are just the things life cannot live without ; Yet gifts are sometimes as offences view'd. And envy is the mean man's gratitude ; And, truth to own, whate'er the one bestow'd, More from his own large, careless nature flow'd, Than through the channels tenderer sources send. When Favour equals — since it asks a Friend. But Ruthven loved not, in the days gone by, The cold, quick shrewdness of that stealthy eye, That spendthrift recklessness, which still was not The generous folly which itself forgot. TJlc Portrait. 247 You love the prodigal, the miser loathe ; Yet oft the clockwork is the same in both : Ope but the works — the penury and excess Chime from one point — the central selfishness : — And though men said (for those who wear with ease The vulgar vices, seldom much displease), ' His follies injured but himself alone ;' His follies spared no welfare but his own : Mankind he deem'd the epitome of self, And never laid that volume on the shelf. Somewhat of this had Ruthven mark'd before — Now he was less acute, or Harcourt more : The first absorb'd in sorrow or in thought ; The last in craft's smooth lessons deeper taught. Not over-anxious to be undeceived, Ruthven, refomi in what was rot, believed ; They held the same opinions on the state, And were congenial — in the last debate ; Harcourt had wish'd to join the patriot crew Who botch our old laws with a patch of new ; Ruthven the wish approved ; and found the seat — And so the Cousins' union grew complete. Well then, at board behold the constant guest. With love as yet by eyes alone exprest : From the past vows he dared not yet invoke The ancient Voice ; — yet of the j^ast lie sp(jke. 248 Constance ; or, Whene'er expected least, he seem'd to gHde A faithful shadow to her haunted side. But why relate how men their victims woo ? — He left undone no art that can undo. VIII And what deem'd Constance, now that, face to face, She could the contrast of the Portraits trace ? — Could see the image of the soul in each By thought reflected on the waves of speech — Could listen here (as when the master's ease Glides with light touch along melodious keys) To those rich sounds which, flung to every gale, Genius awakes from Wisdom's music-scale ; And there admire when lively Fashion wound Its toy of small talk into jingling sound. Like those French trifles, elegant enough. Which serve at once for music and for snuff", Some minds there are which men you ask to dine Take out, wind up, and circle with the wine. Two tunes they boast ; this Flattery — Scandal that ; The one A sharp — the other Something flat : Such was the mind that for display and use, Cased in rococo, Harcourt could produce — Touch the one spring, an air that charm'd the town Tripp'd out and jigg'd some absent virtue down ; TJic Portrait. 249 Touch next the other, and the bauble plays Fly from tlic world ' or ' Once in happier days.' For Flattery, when a Woman's heart its aim, Writes itself Sentiment — a prettier name. And to be just to Harcourt and his art, Few Lauzuns better play'd a Werter's part ; He dress'd it well, and Nature kindly gave His brow the paleness and his locks the wave. Mournful his smile, unconscious seem'd his sigh ; You'd swear that Goethe had him in his eye. Well these had duped when young Romance surveys Life's outlines — lost amid its own soft haze. Compared with Ruthven still doth Harcourt seem The true Hyperion of the Delian dream. Ah, ofttimics Love its own wild choice will blame, Slip the blind bandage, yet doat on the same. Was it thus wilful, Constance, still with thee, Or did the reason set the fancy free % PART V. I The later summer in that second spring When the turf glistens with the fair)' ring. When oak and elm assume a livelier green, And starry buds on water-flowers are seen ; 250 Constance ; or, When parent nests the new-fledged goldfinch leaves, And earliest song in airiest meshes weaves ; When fields wave undulous with golden com, And August fills his Amalthaean horn — The later summer shone on Ruthven's towers, And lord and wife (with guests to cheer the hours Not faced alone) to that grey pile retum'd ; Harcourt with these, and Seaton, who had leam'd Eno' to call him from his world of strife, To watch that Home which makes the Woman's life. Not ev'n to Juliet Constance had betray'd Those griefs the House-gods, if they cause, should shade. Nor friendship now in truth the grief could share — A dying parent needed Juliet's care, « In climes where Death comes soft — in Tuscan air. And least to Seaton would his child have shown One hidden wound ; her heart still spared his owti. But now the father, trembling, at her side Saw the smooth tempter, not the watchful guide — Saw through the quicksands flow each sever'd life, Here the cold lord and there the courted wife. And longed to warn and yet was silent still. For warning ofttimes makes more sure the ill, Nought hardens error like too prompt a blame, And virtue totters if you sap its shame ; — The Portrait. 251 Stung by his doubts came Seaton, with the rest, His pmdence watchful, and his fears supprest, Resolved to learn what fault, if fliult were there, Had outlaw'd Constance from a husband's care. And left the heart (the soul's frail fort) unbarr'd, For youth to storm. ' Well age,' he sigh'd, ' shall guard.' II Meantime, the cheek of Constance lost its rose, Food brought no rehsh, slumber no repose : The wasted form pined hour by hour away, But still the proud lip struggled to be gay ; And Ruthven still the proud lip could deceive — Yet 'tis in smiling that proud natures grieve ! Ill In that old pile there was a huge square tower, Whence look'd the warder in its days of power ; Still, in the arch below, the eye could tell Where on the steel-clad van the grim portcullis fell ; And from the arrow-headed casements, deep Sunk in the walls of the abandon'd keep, The gaze look'd kingly in its wide command (J'er all the features of the subject land ; 252 Constance ; or, From town and hamlet, copse and vale, arise The hundred spires of Ruthven's baronies ; And town and hamlet, copse and vale, around. Its arms of peace the gentle Avon wound. IV A lonely chamber in this rugged tower The lonely lady made her favourite bower — From her more brilliant chambers crept a stair. That, through a waste of ruin, ended there ; And there, unseen, unvvitness'd, none intrude. Nor vex the spirit from the solitude. How, in what toil or luxury of mind. Could she the solace or the Lethe find ? Music or books % — nay, rather, might be guess'd The art her maiden leisure loved the best j For there the easel and the hues were brought, Though all unseen the fictions that they wrought. Harcourt more bold the change in Constance made ; Sure, love lies hidden in that depth of shade ! That cheek how hueless, and that eye how dim — '■ Wherefore,' he thought and smiled, ' if not for him V More now his manner and his words, disami'd Of their past craft, the anxious sire alarm'd. True, there was nought in Constance to reprove. But still what hypocrite like lawless love % TJic For trait. 253 One eve, as in the oriel's arch'd recess Pensive he ponder'd, linking guess with guess, Words reach'd his ear — if indistinct — yet plain Enough to pierce the heart and chill the vein. 'Tis Constance, answering in a faltering tone Some suit ; and what — was by the answer shown, ' Yes ! — in an hour,' it said. — ' Well, be it so.' — ' The placer— 'Yon keep.'— 'Thou wilt not fail me?'— 'No !' 'Tis said ; — she first, then Harcourt, quits the room. ' Would,' groan'd the sire, ' my child were in the tomb ! ' He gasp'd for breath, the fever on his brow — ' Was it too late % — What boots all warning now % If saved to-day — to-morrow, and the same Danger and hazard ! had he spared the shame To leave the last lost virtue but a name % ' V Sickening and faint, he gain'd the outer air, Reach'd the still lake, and saw the master there ; Listless lay Ruthven, droopingly the boughs Veil'd from the daylight melancholy brows ; I>istless he lay, and with indifferent eye Watch'd the wave darken as the cloud swept by. The father bounded to the idler's side — ' Awake, cold guardian of a soul ! ' he cried ; ' Why, sworn to cherish, fail'st thou ev'n to guide V 254 Constance ; or, * Why?' echoed Ruthven's heart — his eye shot flame- ' Dare she complain, or he presume to blame V Thus ran the thought, he spoke not ; — silent long As pride kept back the angry burst of wrong. At length he rose, shook off the hand that prest, And calmly said, ' I listen for the rest : Whatever charge be in thy words convey'd, Speak; — I will answer when the charge is made !' VI Like many an offspring of our Saxon clime, Who makes one seven-day labour-week of time, Who deems reprieve a sloth, repose a dearth, And strikes the sabbath of the soul from earth ; In Seaton's life the Adam-curse was strong; He loved each wind that whirl'd the sails along ; He loved the dust that wrapt the hurrying wheel ; And, form'd to act, but rarely paused to feel. Thus men who saw him move among m.ankind, Saw the hard purpose and the scheming mind, And the skill'd steering of a sober brain, Prudence the compass and the needle gain. But now, each layer of custom swept away, The Man's great nature leapt into the day : He stretch'd his arms, and terrible and wild. His voice went forth — ' I gave thee, Man, my child TJic Portrait. 255 I gave her young and innocent — a thing Fresh from the heaven, no stain upon its wing ; One fonn'd to love, and to be loved, and now (Few moons have faded since the solemn vow) How do I tmd thou hast discharged the trust ? Account — nay, frown not — to thy God thou must. Pale, WTetched, worn, and dying: Ruthven, still These lips should bless thee, couldst thou only kill. But is that all \ — Death is a holy name, Tears for the dead dishonour not ! — but Shame ! O blind, to bid her every hour compare With thine his love — with thy contempt his care ! Yea, if the lightning blast thee, I, the sire, Tell thee thy heart of steel attracts the fire \ Hadst thou but loved her, that meek soul I know — Know air — His passion falter'd in its flow; He paused an instant, then before the feet Of Ruthven fell. ' Have mercy ! Save her yet ! Take back thy gold : say, did I not endure, And can again, the burden of the poor \ But she— the light, pride, angel, 'of my life- God speaks in me— O husband, save thy wife!' VII ' Save ! and from whom, old Man?' Yet, as he spoke, A fdeam of horror on his senses broke ; 256 Constance ; o?', ' From whom? What! know'st thou not who made the first, Though fading fancy, youth's wann visions nurst? This Harcourt — this ' — he stopp'd abrupt, appall'd ! Those words how gladly had his lips recall'd ; For at the words — the name — all life seem'd gone From Ruthven's image : — as a shape of stone, Speechless and motionless he stood ! At length The storm suspended burst in all its strength : ' And this to me — at last to me !' he cried, ' Thine be the curse, who hast love to hate allied : Why, when my life on that one hope I cast. Why didst thou chain my future to her past — Why not a breath to say, " She loved before; Pause yet to question, if the love be o'er !" Didst thou not know how well I loved her — how Worthy the altar was the holy vow. That in the wildest hour my suit had known, Hadst thou but said, ' Her heart is not her own,' Thou hadst left the chalice with a taste of sweet '? I — I had brought the wanderer to her feet — Had seen those eyes through grateful softness shine. Nor turn'd — O God ! — with loathing fear from mine ; And from the sunshine of her happy breast Drawn one bright memory to console the rest \ — But now, thy work is done — till now, methought, There was one plank to which the ship^vreck'd caught. TJic Portrait. 237 Forbearance — patience might obtain at last The distant haven — see I the dream is past — She loves another! In that sentence — hark The crowning thunder ! — the last gleam is dark ; Time's wave on wave can but the more dissever ; Tlie world's vast space one void — for ever and for e^■er ! ' VIII Humbled from all his anger, and too late Convinced \vhose fault had shaped the daughter's fote. The father heard ; and in his hands he veil'd His face abash'd, and voice to courage fail'd ; For how excuse — and how console % And so, As when the tomb shuts up the ended woe, Over that burst of anguish closed the drear Abyss of silence — sound's chill sepulchre ! At length he dared the timorous looks to raise, But gone the form on which he fear'd to gaze. Calm at his feet the wave crept murmuring ; Calm sail'd the cygnet with its folded wdng ; (Gently above his head the lime-tree stirr'd. The green leaves rustling to the restless bird ; Hut he who, in the beautiful of life, Alone with him should share the heart at strife. Had left him there to the earth's happy smile — Ah ! if the storms within earth's calmness could beguile ! 258 Constance ; or, IX With a swift step, and with disorder'd mind, Through which one purpose still its clue could find, Lord Ruthven sought his home. ' Yes, mine no more,' So mused his soul, ' to hope or to deplore ; No more to watch the heart's Aurora break O'er that loved face, the light of life to speak — No more, without a weakness that degrades, Can Fancy steal from Truth's eternal shades ! Yes, we must part ! But if one holier thought Still guards that shrine my fated footstep sought. Perchance, at least, I yet her soul may save, And leave her this one hope — a husband's grave ! ' Home gain'd, he asks — they tell him — her retreat : He winds the stairs, and midway halts to meet His rival passing from that mystic room. With a changed face, half sarcasm and half gloom. Writhed Ruthven's lip — his hands he clench'd ; — his breast Heaved with man's natural wrath ; the wrath the man siip- prefjt. Her naxne, at least, I will not make the gage Of th3,t foul strife whose cause a husband's rage.' The Portrait. 259 So, with the calmness of his hon eye, He glanced on Harcourt, and he pass'd him by. XI And now he gains, and pauses at the door — Why beats so loud the heart so stern before % He nen-ed his pride — one effort, and 'tis o'er. Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters : — there Kneels Constance yonder — can she kneel in prayer ? What ol)ject doth that meek devotion chain In yon dark niche % Before his steps can gain Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale, And o'er the object draws the curtain veil. But there the implements of art betray What thus the conscience dare not give to-day. A portrait ? whose but his, the loved and lost. Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost % So Ruthven guess'd — more dark his visage grown. And thus he spoke : ' Once more we meet alone. Once more — be tranquil — hear me ! not to upbraid And not to threat, thy presence I invade; But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept, If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept, If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine — Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been thine, 26o Constance ; or, Hear me — O hear me, for thy father's sake ! For the full heart that thy disgrace would break ! By all thine early innocence — by all The woman's Eden — wither'd with her fall — I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide, Implore the daughter, not command the bride ; Protect — nor only from the sin and shame. Protect from slander, thine — my Mother's — name ! For hers thou bearest now ! and in her grave Her name thou honourest, if thine own thou save ! I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start *? From him, as me — the time hath come to part; And ere for ever I relieve thy view — The one thou lov'st must be an exile too. Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice Betray thy secret — Flight shall seem his choice ; A fair excuse — a mission to some clime. Where — weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time This heart is not of iron, and the worm That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form ; And then, perchance, thy years may run the course Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse. And now, farewell for ever!' As he spoke. From her cold silence with a bound she broke. And clasp'd his hand. ' Oh, leave me not ! or know, Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so, But wrongs no more. The Portrait. 261 ' No more? — Oh, spurn tlic lie; Harcourt l)ut now hath left thee! Well — deny!' '' Yes, he hath left me!' 'And he urged the suit That — but thou madden'st me ! false lips, be mute !' — • He urged the suit — it is for ever o'er; Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore, One word, nay less, one gesture ' (and she blush'd), • Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumj^tion crush'd.' — ' What ! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care V ■ There did I point and say, " J/y /leart is there !'' ' Amazed, bewilder' d — struggling half with fear And half delight — his steps the curtain near. He lifts the veil : that face — It is his own ! But not the face her later gaze had known ; Not stern, nor sad, nor cold ; but in those eyes, The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies ; The fond smile beaming the glad lips above. Bright as when radiant with the words, ' I love.' An instant mute — oh, canst thou guess the rest ? The next, his Constance clinging to his breast : All from the proud reserve, at once allied To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride. Melting in sobs and happy tears — and words Swept into music from long-silent chords. 262 Constance ; or, The Portrait. Tlien came the dear confession, full at last, Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past ; And as a sudden footstep nears the door, As a third shadow dims the threshold floor — As Seaton, entering in his black despair, Pauses, the tears, the joy, the heaven to share — The happy Ruthven raised his princely head, ' Give her again — this day in truth we wed !' And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves, A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir. 263 EVA: A TRUE STORY. I THE maiden's home. COTTAGE in a peaceful vale ; A jasmine round the door ; A hill to shelter from the gale ; A silver brook before. Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, In mornings soft with May ; Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, Reflecting heaven, away ! A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth Rejoicing Nature gave, And heaven was mirror'd in her trutli More clear than on the wave. Oft to that lone sequester'd place My boyish steps would roam, There was a look in Eva's face That seem'd a smile of home. And oft I paused to hear at noon A voice that sang for glee ; 264 Eva : Or mark the white neck glancing down, The book upon the knee. II THE IDIOT BOY. Who stands between thee and the sun ? — A cloud himself — the Wandering One ! A vacant wonder in the eyes — The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll ; — The light was in the laughing skies, And darkness in the Idiot's soul. He touch'd the book upon her knee — He look'd into her gentle face — ' Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. I know not why, but where I pass The aged turn away ; And if my shadow vex the grass, The children cease from play. My only pla)Tiiates are the wind, The blossom on the bough ! Why are thy looks so soft and kind % Thou dost not tremble — thou ! ' Though none were by, she trembled not — Too meek to wound, too good to fear him A True Story. 26 And, as he linger'd on the spot, Slie hid the tears that gush'd to hear him. Ill PRAYER OF Arthur's father. * O Maiden ! ' — thus the sire begun — ' O Maiden, do not scorn my prayer : I have a hapless idiot son, To all my wealth the only heir ; And day by day, in shine or rain, He wanders forth, to gaze again Upon those eyes, whose looks of kindness Still haunt him in his world of blindness ; A sunless world ! — all arts to yield Light to the mind from childhood seal'd Have been explored in vain. Few are his joys on earth ; — above, For every ill a cure is given — (rod grant me life to cheer with love The wanderer's guileless path to heaven.' He paused — his heart Avas full — ' And now, What brings the suppliant father here ? Yes, few the joys that life bestows On him whose life is but repose — (Jne night, from year to year ; — "J j\/ 266 Eva : Yet not so dark, oh maid, if thou Couldst let his shadow catch thy Hght, Couldst to his hp that smile allow Which comes but at thy sight ; Couldst (for the smile is still so rare, And oh, so innocent the joy !) His presence, though it pain thee, bear. Nor fear the harmless idiot boy ! ' Then Eva's father, from her brow Parted the golden locks, descending To veil the sweet face, downwards bending And, pointing to the swimming eyes, The dew-drops glist'ning on the cheek, * Mourner ! ' the happier father cries, ' These tears her answer speak ! ' Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow. In mornings soft with May ; Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow In summer skies away ; — But sweeter looks of kindness seem O'er human trouble bow'd. And gentle hearts reflect the beam Less truly than the cloud. A True Story. 267 IV THE YOUNG TEACHER. Of wonders on the land and deeps She spoke, and glories in the sky — The Eternal life the Father keeps For those who learn from Him to die. So simply did the IMaiden speak — So simply and so earnestly, You saw the light begin to break, And Soul the Heaven to see ; You saw how slowly, day by day. The darksome waters caught the ray, Confused and broken — come and gone — The beams as yet uncertain are, But still the billows murmur on. And struggle for the star. V THE STRANGER SUITOR. There came to Eva's maiden home A Stranger from a sunnier clime ; The lore that Hellas taught to Rome, The wealth that Wisdom works from Time, 268 Eva : Which ever, in its ebb and flow, Heaves to the seeker on the shore The waifs of glorious wrecks below. The argosies of yore ; — Each gem that in that dark profound. The Past, the Student's soul can find ; Shone from his thought, and sparkled round The enchanted palace of the mind. In manhood's noon, his brow of pride Spoke will unmoved in dangers tried ; His was the mien which, not severe, Seems gently calm with conscious sway, And his the voice which thro' the ear Glides to the heart it steals away. Ah 1 Falsehood never could deceive But for her gift of charm ; Truth fails Because she coldly says, ' Believe,' While Falsehood woos us — and prevails. How trustful in the leafy June, She roved with him the lonely vale ; How tmstful by the tender moon, She blushed to hear a tenderer tale. O happy Earth ! the dawn revives. Day after day, each drooping flower — A True Story. 269 Time to the heart once only gives The joyous Morning Hour. ' To him — oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth, For whom the world's false bloom is o'er % My heart shall haven in thy truth, And tempt the faithless wave no more. In my far land, a sun more bright Sheds rose-hues o'er a tideless sea ; But cold the wave, and dull the light, Without the sunshine found in thee. Say, wilt thou come, the Stranger's bride, To that bright land and tideless sea ? There is no sun but by thy side — My life's whole sunshine smiles in thee !' Her hand lay trembling on his arm, Averted glow'd the happy face ; A softer hue, a mightier charm, Grew m.ellowing o'er the hour — the place ; Along the breathing woodlands moved A PRESENCE dream-like and divine — How sweet to love and be beloved, To lean upon a heart that's thine ! Silence was o'er the earth and sky — By silence love is answer'd best — 70 Eva : Her answer was the downcast eye, The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast. What rustles through the moonHt brake ^ What sudden spectre meets their gaze ? What face, the hues of hfe forsake, Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays % You might have heard his heart that beat, So heaving rose its heavy swell — No more the Idiot — at her feet. The Dark One, roused to reason, fell. Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought, The lightning broke upon the blind — The jealous love the cure had wrought. The Heart, in waking, woke the Mind. VI THE MARRIAGE. To and fro the bells are swinging, Cheerily, clearly, to and fro ; Gaily go the young girls, bringing Flowers the fairest June may know. Maiden, flowers that bloom'd and perish'd Strew'd thy path the bridal day ; May the hope thy soul has cherish'd. Bloom whefi these are pass'd away ! A Tnic Story. 271 The Father's parting prayer is said, The daughter's parting kiss is given ; The tears a happy bride may shed, Like dews ascend to heaven \ ' And leave the earth from which they rise. But bahnier airs and rosier dyes. VII THE HERMIT. Years fly; beneath the yew-tree shade Thy father's holy dust is laid ; The brook glides on, the jasmine blows; But where art thou, the wandering wife. And what the bliss, and what the woes, Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life 1 For whether life may laugh or weep, Death the true waking — life the sleep. None know ! afar, unheard, unseen — The present heeds not what has been ; This herded world together press'd, Can miss no straggler from the rest — Not so ! Nay, all one heart may find, Where Memory lives, a saint enshrined — Some altar-hearth, in which our shade 'I'he Household-god of Thought is made. 2/2 Eva : Who tenants thy forsaken cot — Who tends thy childhood's favourite flowers Who wakes, from every haunted spot, The ghosts of buried hours ? 'Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrow From thee the vision and the sorrow — To whom the reason's golden ray, In storms that rent the heart, was given ; The peal that burst the clouds away Left clear the face of heaven ! And wealth was his, and gentle birth, A form in fair proportions cast ; But lonely still he walk'd the earth — The Hermit of the Past. It was not love — that dream was o'er ! No stormy grief, no wild emotion ; For oft, what once was love of yore, The memory soothes into devotion ! He bought the cot : — The garden flowers — The haunts his Eva's steps had trod. Books — thought — beguiled the lonely hours. That flow'd in peaceful waves to God. A True Story. 273 VIII DESERTION. She sits, a statue of Despair, In that far land, by that bright sea ; She sits, a statue of Despair, Whose smile an angel seem'd to be — An angel that could never die. Its home the heaven of that blue eye ! The smile is gone for ever there — She sits, the statue of Despair ! She knows it all — the hideous tale — The wrong, the perjury, and the shame ; — Before the bride had left her vale. Another bore the nuptial name ; Another lives to claim the hand Whose clasp, in thrilling, had defiled : Another lives, O God, to brand The Bastard's curse upon her child ! Another ! — through all space she saw The face that mock'd the unwedded mother's In every voice she heard the Law, I'hat cried, 'Thou hast usurp'd another's I' And wIto the horror first had told ? — From his false lips in scorn it came — T 2/4 Eva : ' Thy charms grow dim, my love grows cold ; My sails are spread — Farewell.' Rigid in voiceless marble diere — Come, sculptor, come — behold Despair ! The infant woke from feverish rest — Its smiles she sees, its voice she hears — The marble melted from the breast. And all the Mother gush'd in tears. IX THE INFANT-BURIAL. To and fro the bells are swinging, Heavily heaving to and fro ; Sadly go the mourners, bringing Dust to join the dust below. Through the church-aisle, lighted dim, Chanted knells the ghostly hymn. Dies ir(Z, dies illa^ Solvet scEclum infavilld ! Mother ! flowers that bloom'd and perish'd, Strew'd thy path the bridal day ; Now the bud thy grief has cherish'd, With the rest has pass'd away ! A True Story. 275 Leaf that fadeth — bud that bloometli, Mingled there, must wait the day When the seed the grave entombeth Bursts to glory from the clay. Dies ircE, dies ilia., Solvet seeclum infavilld I Hai)py are the old that die, With the sins of life repented ; Happier he whose parting sigh Breaks a heart, from sin prevented ! Let the earth thine infant cover From the cares the living know ; Happier than the guilty lover — Memory is at rest below ! Memory, like a fiend, shall follow, Night and day, the steps of Crime ; Hark ! the church-bell, dull and hollow, Shakes another sand from time ! I'hrough the church-aisle, lighted dim, Chanted knells the ghostly hymn ; Hear it. False One, where thou fliest, Shriek to hear it when thou diest — Dies ine, dies ilia, Solvet seeelum infavilld ! 2/6 Eva : X THE RETURN. The cottage in the peaceful vale, The jasmine round the door, The hill still shelters from the gale. The brook still glides before. Without the porch, one summer noon, The Hermit-dweller see ! In musing silence bending down, The book upon his knee. Who stands between thee and the sun I- A cloud herself — the Wand'ring One ! — A vacant sadness in the eyes, The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; The light is in the laughing skies, And darkness, Eva, in thy soul ! The beacon shaken in the storm, Had struggled still to gleam above The last sad wreck of human love, Upon the dying child to shed One ray — extinguish'd with the dead : A True Story. 277 O'er earth and heaven then rush'd the night ! A wandering dream, a mindless form — A star hiirl'd headlong from its height, Guideless its course, and quench'd its light. Yet still the native instinct stirr'd The darkness of the breast — She flies, as flies the wounded bird Unto the distant nest. O'er hill and waste, from land to land, Her heart the faithful instinct bore ; And there, behold the Wanderer stand Beside her Childhood's Home once more ! XI LIGHT AND DARKNESS. \Mien earth is fair and winds are still, ^\^len sunset gilds the western hill, Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, (^r by the brook, with noiseless feet, Two silent forms are seen ; So silent they — the place so lone — 'J'hey seem like souls when life is gone, That haunt where life has been : And his to watch, as in the past Her soul had watch'd his soul. 278 Eva : a True Stojy. Alas ! her darkness waits the last, The grave the only goal ! It is not what the leech can cure — An erring chord, a jarring madness : A calm so deep, it must endure — So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness ; A summer night, whose shadow falls On silent hearths in ruin'd halls. Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to feel His presence like a happier air, Close by his side she loved to steal, As if no ill could harm her there ! And when her looks his own would seek, SomxC memory seem'd to wake the sigh, Strive for kind words she could not speak, And bless him in the tearful eye. O sweet the jasmine's buds of snow. In mornings soft with May, And silver-clear the waves that flow To shoreless deeps away ; But heavenward from the faithful heart A sweeter incense stole ; — The onward waves their source desert, But Soul returns to Soul ! 2/9 THE FAIR Y BRIDE PART I. XD how canst thou in tourneys shine, Or tread the gHttering festal floor \ On chains of gold and cloth of pile, The looks of high-born Beauty smile ; Nor peerless deeds, nor stainless line, Can lift to fame the Poor ! ' His Mother spoke ; and Elvar sigh'd — The sigh alone confess'd the truth ; He curb'd the thoughts that gall'd the breast — High thoughts ill suit the russet vest ; Yet Arthur's Court, in all its pride. Ne'er saw so fair a youth. * As the subject of this poem (written in very early youth' is suggested by one of the Fabliaux, the author has represented Arthur and Guenever according to the view of their characters taken in those French romances : n view very different from that taken in the maturer poem of ' King Arthur," which may, perhaps, some day or other, be better known to tlie general reader than it is at present. 28o TJic Fairy Bride : Far, to the forest's stillest shade, Sir Elvar took his lonely way ; Beneath an oak, whose gentle frown Dimm'd noon's bright eyes, he laid him down, And watch'd a Fount that through the glade Sang, sparkling up to day. * As sunlight to the forest tree ' — 'Twas thus his murmur'd musings ran — ' And as amidst the sunlight's glow, The freshness of the fountain's flow — So — (ah, they never mine may be !) — Are gold and love to man.' And while he spoke, a gentle air Seem'd stirring through the crystal tides ; A gleam, at first both dim and bright, Trembled to shape, in limbs of light, Gilded to sunbeams by the hair That glances where it glides ;* Till, clear and clearer, upward borne, The Fairy of the Fountain rose : * ' With hair that gilds the water as it glides.' — Marlowe, Edw. II. A Talc. 281 The halo quivering round lier, grew More steadfast as the shape shone through — O sure, a second, softer Morn The elder daylight knows ! Born from the blue of those deep eyes, Such love its happy self betray'd As only haunts that tender race, \\'ith flower or fount, their dwelling-place ; — The darling of the earth and skies She rose — that Fairy Maid ! ' Listen ! ' she said, and wave and land Sigh'd back her murmur, murmurously — ' A love more true than minstrel sings, A wealth that mocks the pomp of kings, To him who wins the Fairy's hand A Fairy's dower shall be. ■ But not to those can we belong Whose sense the charms of earth allure ! If human love hath yet been thine. Farewell — our laws forbid thee mine. 'J1ie Children of the Star and Song, We may but bless the Pure ! ' 282 The Fairy Bride : ' Dream — lovelier far than e'er, I ween, Entranced the glorious Merlin's eyes — Through childhood, to this happiest hour, All free from human Beauty's power, My heart unresting still hath been A prophet in its sighs. ' Though never living shape hath brought Sweet love, that second life, to me. Yet over earth, and through the heaven. The thoughts that pined for love were driven I see thee — and I feel I sought Through earth and heaven for thee ! ' PART IL Ask not the Bard to lift the veil That hides the Fairy's bridal bower ; If thou art young, go seek the glade, And win thyself some fairy maid ; And rosy lips shall tell the tale In some enchanted hour. A Talc. 283 ' Farewell ! ' as by the greenwood tree, The Fairy clasp'd the Mortal's hand — ' Our laws forbid thee to delay — Not ours the life of every day ! — And man, alas ! may rarely be The guest of Fair}^-land. ' Back to thy Prince's halls depart, The stateliest of his stately train : Henceforth thy wish shall be thy mine — Each toy that gold can purchase, thine — A fairy's coffers are the heart A mortal cannot drain.' ' Talk not of wealth — that dream is o'er I — These sunny locks be all my gold !' ' Xa}' ! if in courts thy heart can stray Along the fairy forest way, Wish but to see thy bride once more — Thy bride thou shalt behold. ' Yet hear the law on which must rest Thy union with thine elfm bride ; If ever by a Avord — a tone — Thou mak'st our tender secret known, The s])ell will vanish from thy breast — The I'"airy from thy side. 284 The Fairy Bride : ' If thou but boast to mortal ear The meanest charm thou find'st in me, If — here his Hps the sweet Hps seal, Low-murmuring, ' Love can ne'er reveal — It cannot breathe to mortal ear The charms it finds in thee !' PART III. High joust, by Carduel's ancient town, The kingly Arthur holds to-day ; Around their Queen, in glittering row, The starry hosts of Beauty glow. Smile down, ye stars, on his renown Who bears the wreath away ! O chiefs who gird the Table Round — O war-gems of that wondrous ring ! — Where lives the man to match the might That lifts to song your meanest knight, Who sees, preside on Glory's ground. His Lady and his King % A Talc. * 285 \\'hat prince, as from some throne afar, Shines onward — sliining up the throng ? Broider'd with pearls, his mantle's fold Flows o'er the mail emboss'd with gold ; As rides, from cloud to cloud, a star, The bright one rode along ! Twice fifty stalwart squires, in air The stranger's knightly pennon bore ; Twice fifty pages, pacing slow. Scatter his largess as they go ; Calm through the crowd he pass'd, and, there, Rein'd in the lists before. Light question in those elder days The heralds made of birth and name. Enough to wear the spurs of gold. To share the pastime of the bold. ' Fonvards !' — their wands the Heralds raise, And in the lists he came. Now rouse thee, rouse thee, bold Gawaine I Think of thy Lady's eyes above ; Now rouse thee for thy Queen's sweet sake. Thou peerless Lancelot of the Lake ! Vain Gawaine's might, and Lancelot's vain I — T/icy know no P^airy's love. 286 The Fairy Bride: Before him swells the joyous tromp, He comes — the victor's wreath is won ! Low to his Queen Sir Elvar kneels, The helm no more his face conceals ; And one pale form amidst the pomp, Sobs forth, ' My gallant son ! ' PART IV. Sir Elvar is the fairest knight That ever lured a lady's glance ; Sir Elvar is the wealthiest lord That sits at good King Arthur's board ; The bravest in the joust or fight. The lightest in the dance. And never love, methinks, so blest As his, this weary world has known ; For, every night before his e3^es. The charms that ne'er can fade arise — A star unseen by all the rest — A life for him alone. A Talc. 287 And yet Sir Elvar is not blest — He walks apart \\\\\\ l)rows of gloom • The meanest knight in Arthur's hall His lady-love may tell to all ; He shows the flower that glads his breast — His pride to boast its bloom ! ' And I who clasp the fairest form That e'er to man's embrace was given, Must hide the gift as if in shame ! What boots a prize we dare not name % The sun must shine if it would warm — A cloud is all my heaven I' Much proud Genevra "' maiTell'd, how A knight so fair should seem so cold ; What if a love for hope too high, Has chain'd the lip and awed the eye % A second joust — and surely now The secret shall be told. P^or, tJiere^ alone shall ride the brave Whose glory dwells in Beauty's fame ; * As Guencver is often called Genevra in the French romances, the latttr name is here adopted for the sake of euphony. 288 TJic Fairy Bride : Each, for his lady's honour, arms— His lance the test of rival charms. Joy unto him whom Beauty gave The right to gild her name ! Sir Lancelot burns to win the prize — First in the lists his shield is seen ; A sunflower for device he took— WJure^er thou shinest, turns my look' 'So as he paced the lists, his eyes Still sought the sun — his Queen ! And why. Sir Elvar, loiterest thou ? — Lives there no fair thy lance to claim % ' No answer Elvar made the King ; Sullen he stood without the ring. Forwards ! ' An armed whirlwind, now, On horse and horseman came ! And down goes princely Caradoc — D own Tristan and stout Agrafrayn — Unscath'd, alone, amidst the field. Great Lancelot bears his victor-shield ; The sunflower bright'ning through the shock. And through that iron rain. A Talc. 289 ' Sound, trumpets — sound ! — to South and Xortli : I, Lancelot of the Lake, proclaim, That never sun and never air Or shone or breathed on form so fair As hers — thrice, trumpets, sound it forth ! — Our Arthur's royal dame I ' And South and North, and West and East, Upon the thunder-blast it flies ! Still on his steed sits Lancelot, And even echo answers not ; Till, as the stormy challenge ceast, A voice was heard — ' He lies ! ' All turn'd their mute, astonish'd gaze, To where the daring answer came. And lo ! Sir Elvar's haughty crest ! — Fierce on the knight the gazers press'd ; — Their wands the sacred Heralds raise — Genevra weeps for shame. Sir Knight,' King Arthur smiling said, (In smiles a king should wrath disguise), Know'st thou, in truth, a dame so fair, Our Queen may not with her compare ? Genevra, weep, and hide thy head — Sir Lancelot, yield the prize.' u 290 TJic Fairy Bride : ' O, grace, my liege, for surely each, The dame he serves, should peerless hold, To loyal eye and faithful breast The loved one is the loveliest.' The King replied, ' Not crafty speech — Bold deeds — excuse the bold ! * So name thy fair, defend her right ! A list ! — Ho, l>ancelot, guard thy shield. Her name % ' — Sir Elvar's visage fell : ' A vow forbids the name to tell.' ' Now out upon the recreant Knight Who courts, yet shuns, the field ! ' Foul shame, were royal name disgraced By some light leman's taunting smile ! Whoe'er — so run the tourney's laws — Would break a lance in Beauty's cause. Must name the highborn and the chaste — The nameless are the vile.' Sir Elvar glanced, where, stern and high, The scornful champion rein'd his steed ; Where, o'er the lists the seats were raised. And jealous dames disdainful gazed. He glanced, nor caught one gentle eye — Courts grow not friends at need : A Talc. 201 ' King ! I have said, and keep my vow.' ' Thy vow ! I pledge thee mine in turn, Ere the third sun shall sink — or bring A fair outshining yonder ring, Or find mine oath as thine is no^v Inflexible and stern. ' Thy sword, unmeet to serve the right — Thy spurs, unfit for churls to wear. Torn from thee ; — through the crowd, which heard Our Lady weep at \'assars word, Shall hiss the hoot, ' Behold the knight. Whose hps belie the fair !' ' Three days I give ; nor think to fly Thy doom \ for on the rider's steed. Though to the farthest earth he ride, Disgrace once mounted, cUngs beside ; And Mockery's barbed shafts defy Her victim's swiftest speed.' Far to the forest's stillest shade, Sir Elvar took his lonely way ; Beneath the oak, whose gentle frown Still dimm'd the noon, he laid him down, And saw the Fount that through the glade Sang sparkling up to day. 292 TJic Fairy Bride : Alas ! in vain his heart addrest, With sighs, with prayers, his elfin bride ; — What though the vow conceal'd the name, Did not the boast the charms proclaim % The spell has vanish'd from his breast, The faiiy from his side. Oh, not for vulgar homage made. The holier beauty form'd for one ; It asks no wreath the arm can win ; Its lists — its world — the heart within ; All love, if sacred, haunts the shade — The star shrinks from the sun ! Three days the wand'rer roved in vain ; Uprose the fatal dawn at last ; The lists are set, the galleries raised, And, scorn' d by all the eyes that gazed, Alone he fronts the crowd again. And hears the sentence pass'd. Now, as, amid the hooting scorn, Rude hands the hard command fulfil, W^hile rings the challenge — ' Sun and air Ne'er shone, ne'er breathed, on form so fair As Arthur's Queen ' — a single horn Came from the forest hill. A Talc. A note so distant and so lone, And yet so sweet, it thrill'd along. It husli'd the champion on his steed, Startled the rude hands from their deed, Charm'd the stern Arthur on his throne, And stili'd the shouting throng. To North, to South, to East, and West, They turn'd their eyes ; and o'er the plain. On palfrey white, a Lady rode ; As woven light her mantle glow'd. Two lovely shapes, in azure dress'd, Walk'd fii*st, and led the rein. The crowd gave way, as onward bore That vision from the Land of Dreams ; Veil'd was the gentle rider's face, But not the two her path that grace. How dim beside the channs they wore All human beauty seems ! So to the throne the pageant came. And thus the Fairy to the King : ■' Not unto thee for ever dear, Wy minstrel's song, to knighthood's ear, Jjeseem.s the wrath that wrongs the \'0w W'liich hallows ev'n a name. 29: 294 ^^^'^ Fairy Bride: ' Bloom tliere no flowers more sweet by night \ Come, Queen, before the judgment throne : Behold Sir Elvar's nameless bride ! Now, Queen, his doom thyself decide.' She raised her veil, and all her light Of beauty round them shone ! The bloom, the eyes, the locks, the smile, That never earth nor time could dim ; Day grew more bright, and air more clear, As heaven itself were brought more near. And oh ! Jiis joy, who felt, the while. That light but glow'd for him ! ' My steed, my lance, vain champion, now To arms : and Heaven defend the right ! ' Here spake the Queen, ' The strife is past,' And in the lists her glove she cast, ' And I myself will crown thy brow, Thou love-defended Knight ! ' He comes to claim the garland crown ; The changeful thousands shout his name ; And faithless beauty round him smiled. How cold, beside the Forest's Child, Who ask'd not love to bring renown. And clung to love in shame ! A Talc. 295 He bears tlie ])ri/e to those dear feet : ' Not mine tlie guerdon : oh, not mine !' Sadly the fated Fairy hears, And smiles through unreproachful tears ; ' Nay, keep the flowers, and l)e they sweet Wlien I — no more am thine I' She lower'd the veil, she turn'd the rein, And ere his lips replied, was gone. As on she went her chamied way, No mortal dared the steps to stay ; And when she vanish'd from the plain All space seem'd left alone I (Jh, woe 1 that faiiy sha])e no more Shall bless thy love nor rouse thy j^ride 1 He seeks the wood, he gains the spot : The Tree is there, the Fountain not ; Dried up : — its mirthful play is o'er. Ah, where the Fairy Bride ? Alas ! with fairies as with men, Who love are victims from the birth ! A fearful doom the fairy shrouds. If once unveil'd by day to crowds. 'Hie Fountain vanish'd from tlie glen, 'jhe i'airv fnjin the earth ! 296 THE BEACON. OW broad and bright athwart the wave, Its steadfast Hght the Beacon gave ! Far beetling from the headland shore, The rock behind, the surge before, How lone and stern and tempest-sear'd. Its brow to heaven the turret rear'd ! Type of the glorious souls that are The lamps our wandering barks to light. With storm and cloud round every star. The Fire-Guides of the Night ! II How dreary was that solitude ! Around it scream'd the sea-fowl's brood ; The only sound, amidst the strife Of wind and wave, that spoke of life, Except, when heaven's ghost-stars were pale, The distant cry from hurrying sail. TJic Beacon. 297 From year to year the weeds had grown O'er walls slow-rotting witli the damp; And, with the weeds, decay'd, alone, The warder of the lamp. Ill But twice in every week from shore Fuel and food the boatmen bore ; And then so dreary was the scene, So wild and grim the warder's mien, So many a darksome legend gave Awe to that Tadmor of the wave, That scarce the boat the rock could c:ain. Scarce heaved the pannier on the stone. Than from the rock and from the main The unwilling life was gone. IV A man he was whom man had driven To loathe the earth and doubt the heaven ; A tyrant foe (beloved in youth) Had arm'd the law to slay the truth ; Stri])[/d hearth and home, and left to sliamc The broken heart — the blacken'd name. 298 TJic Beacon. Dark exile from his kindred, then, He hail'd the rock, the lonely wild : Upon the man at war with men The frown of Nature smiled. But suns on suns had roll'd away ; The frame was bow'd, the locks were grey : And the eternal sea and sky . Seem'd one still death to that dead eye ; And Terror, like a spectre, rose From the dull tomb of that repose. No sight, no sound, of human-kind ; The hours, hke drops upon the stone ! What countless phantoms man may find In that dark word — ' Alone ! ' VI Dreams of blue heaven and hope can dwell With thraldom in its narrowest cell ; The airy mind may pierce the bars, Elude the chain, and hail the stars : C'anst thou no drearier dungeon guess In space^ when space is loneliness % TJic Beacon. 299 The body's freedom profits none, The heart desires an ec^ual scope ; All nature is a gaol to one A\'ho knows nor love nor hope ! VII One day, all summer in the sky, A hapi)y crew came gliding by, With songs of mirth and looks of glee A human sunbeam o'er the seal O Warder of the Beacon,' cried A noble youth, the helm beside, ' This summer-day how canst thou bear To guard thy smileless rock alone, And through the hum of Nature hear No heart-beat, save thine own?' VIII ' I cannot bear to live alone, To hear no heart-beat save my OAvn ; Each moment, on this crowded earth. The joy-bells ring some new-born birth ; Can ye not spare one form — but one. The lowest — least beneath the sun. ;oo TJic Beacon. To make the morning musical With welcome from a human sound % ' ' Nay,' spake the youth, ' and is that all % Thy comrade shall be found.' IX The boat sail'd on, and o'er the main The awe of silence closed again ; But in the wassail hours of night. When goblets go their rounds of light, And in the dance, and by the side Of her, yon moon shall see his bride. Before that Child of Pleasure rose. The lonely rock — the lonelier one, A haunting spectre — till he knows The human wish is won ! Low-murmuring round the turret's base Glides wave on wave its gentle chase ; Lone on the rock, the warder hears The oar's faint music — ^hark ! it nears — It gains the rock ; the rower's hand Aids a grey, time-worn form to land. TJic Beacon. 301 Behold the comrade sent to thee !' He said — then went. And in that place The Twain were left ; and Misery And Ckiilt stood face to face ! XI Yes, face to face once more array'd, Stood the Betrayer — the Betray'd ! Oh, how through all those gloomy years, When Guilt revolves what Conscience fears, Had that wrong'd victim breathed the vow That., if but face to face ! — And now, There, face to face with him he stood. By the great sea, on that wild steep ; Around, the voiceless solitude. Below, the funeral deep ! XII They gazed — the Injurer's face grew pale — Pale writhe the lips, the murmurs fail, And thrice he strives to speak — in vain ! The sun looks blood-red on the main, The boat glides, waning less and less — No law lives in the wilderness. 32 TJlc Beacon. Except Revenge — man's first and last ! Those wrongs — that wretch — could they forgive ? All that could sweeten life was past ; Yet, oh, how sweet to live ! XIII He gazed before, he glanced behind ; There, o'er the steep rock seems to wind The devious, scarce-seen path, a snake In slime and sloth might, labouring, make. With a wild cry he springs ; — he crawls : Crag upon crag he clears ; — and falls Breathless and mute ; and o'er him stands, Pale as himself, the chasing foe — Mercy ! what mean those clasped hands, Those lips that tremble so % XIV Thou hast cursed my life, my wealth despoil'd; My hearth-gods shatter'd, my name soil'd ; The wreck of what was Man, I stand 'Mid the lone sea and desert land ! Well, I forgive thee all ; but be A human voice and face to me ! i The Beacon. -xq j^j O stay — O stay — and let me yet One thing, that sjjeaks man's language, know 'Die waste hath taught me to forget I'hat earth once held a foe I' XV () Heaven ! methinks, from thy soft skies, Look'd tearful down the angel-eyes ; Back to those walls to mark them go, Hand clasp'd in hand — the Foe and Foe ! And when the sun sunk slowly there. Low knelt the prayerless man in prayer. He knelt, no more the lonely one ; Within, secure, a comrade sleeps ; Fhat sun shall not go down upon A desert in the deeps. XVI He knelt — the man who half, till then, Forgot his (jod in loathing men — He knelt, and pray'd that (iod to spare The Foe to grow the Brother there ; Anfl, reconciled l)y Love to Heaven, P'orgiving — was he not forgi\'en ] ;04 T^ff-^^ Beacon. ' Yes, God did man for man create ; Man's wrongs, man's blessings can atone ! To learn how Love can spring from Hate, Go, Hate, and live alone.' 105 LAY OF THE MINSTREL'S HEART .\Y wakes from trembling leaves the flower. May wakes to love the young ; On Provence shone the Vesper star ; Beneath fair Marguerite's lattice-bar The Minstrel, Aymer, sung : ' The May-buds bloom in mead and bower ; Ah, May is swift of wing; But I no change of seasons fear, May blooms for me throughout the year, For love is always spring ! * Now, since I seek the Holy Land To brave the Paynim power, Give me thy troth-pledge ere we part.' ' Take this and wear it on thy heart,' She said — and dropj^'d a flower ! ' Bring back the pledge and claim my hand : ' The minstrel bent his knee : X o6 Lay of the MinstrcVs Heart. ' The flower my trust from thine receives, The heart whose hfe-throb stirs its leaves, Shall both come back to thee,' He joins the host the Hermit leads, He gains the Holy Land ; High deeds uplift the lowliest name ; And knightly heart soon wins from Fame The right to Beauty's hand. Who wears the cross, must earthly meeds Resign for those on high. The poison'd shaft, in Victory's hour. Has pierced the heart on which the flower Stirs to the parting sigh ! May wakes the blooms again from earth. May wakes to love the young. And harj) and hymn proclaim the Bride, Who smiles, Count Raimond, by thy side. The Maid whom Aymer sung ! Now, up the hall and thro' the mirth, A pale procession, see ! Turn, Marguerite, from the bridegroom turn- Thine Aymer's name is on that urn ; — His heart comes back to thee ! Lay of tJic MiiistrcVs Heart. 30 0^/ On the dead heart the dead flower hes — Well, in this world of ours. May comes and goes, Love meets and parts ; But Love is meant for living hearts, And May for living flowers. One tear bedew'd the Lady's eyes. No tears beseem the day. ' The flower can ne'er to life return, A marble tomb shall grace the urn,' She said, and turn'd away. The marble rose the urn above, The world went on the same ; The Lady smiled. Count Raimond's bride, And flowers, and loves, that bloom'd and died. Each May returning came. Dead leaves and faith in mortal love, Brief fame and poison'd dart. These make, with, quittance for all wrong, The marble tomb — O child of song, The history of thy heart ! THE PARC^ : SIX LEAVES FROM HISTORY 1. NAPOLEON AT ISOLA BELLA. 2. MAZARIN. 3. ANDRE CHENIER. 4. MARY STUART AND HER MOURNER. 5. THE LAST DAYS OF ELIZABETH. 6. CROMWELL'S DREAM. II NAPOLEON AT I SO LA BELLA. At I sola Bella, in the Lago Maggiore, where the richest vegetation of ihe tropics grows in the vicinitj'^ of the Alps, there is a lofty laurel-tree uhe bay', tall as the tallest oak, on which, a few days before the battle of Marengo, Napoleon carved the word ' Battaglia.' The bark has fallen away from the inscription, most of the letters are gone, and the few left are nearly effaced. FAIRY island of a fair}- sea, Wherein Calypso might have spell'd the (ircek, Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury, Cull'd from each shore her Zephyr's wings could seek. From rocks, where aloes blow, Tier above tier, Hesperian fruits arise ; The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon ; An India mellows in the Lombard skies, And changelings, stolen from the Libyan sun, Smile to yon Ali)S of snow. 3^2 ■ Napoleon at Isola Bella. II Amid this gentlest dream-land of the wave, Arrested, stood the wondrous Corsican ; As if one glimpse the better angel gave Of the bright garden-life vouchsafed to man Ere blood defiled the world. He stood — that grand Sesostris of the North — While paused the car to which were harness'd kings; And in the airs, that lovingly sigh'd forth The balms of Araby, his eagle-wings Their sullen thunder furl'd. Ill And o'er the marble hush of those large brows, Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod, A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs. The prophet tree of the dark P34hian god. Shadowing the doom of thrones ! What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy, Stirs in the cells of that unfathom'd brain ? Comes back one memory of the musing boy, Lone gazing o'er the yet unmeasured main. Whose waifs are human bones % Napoleon at I sola Bella. 3 1 3 IV To those deep eyes cloth one soft dream return, Soft with the bloom of youth's unrifled spring, When Hope first fills from founts divine the urn, And rapt Ambition, on the angel's wing, Floats first through golden air % Or doth that smile recall the midnight street, When thine own star the solemn ray denied, And to a stage-mime,* for obscure retreat From hungry Want, the destined Caesar sigh'd % — Still Fate, as then, asks prayer. V Under that prophet tree, thou standest now ; Inscribe thy wish upon the mystic rind ; Hatli the warm human heart no tender vow Link'd with sweet household names % — no hope enshrined Where thoughts are priests of Peace % Or, if dire Hannibal thy model be, rj)read least, like him, thou bear the thunder Jiouic ! Perchance ev'n now a Scipio dawns for tlice, Tliou doomest Carthage while tliou smitest Rome — Write, write, ' Let carnage cease ! ' * Talma. 314 Napoleon at I sola Bella. VI Whispers from heaven have strife itself inform'd ; — ' Peace ' was our dauntless Falkland's latest sigh, Navarre's frank Henry fed the forts he storm'd, Wild Xerxes wept the hosts he doom'd to die ! Ev'n War pays dues to Love ! Note how harmoniously the art of Man Blends with the Beautiful of Nature ! see How the true laurel of the Delian Shelters the Grace ! — Apollo's peaceful tree Blunts ev'n the bolt of Jove. VII Write on the sacred bark such votive prayer, As the mild Power may grant in coming years, Some word to make thy memory gentle there ; — More than renown, kind thought for men endears A Hero to Mankind. Slow moved the mighty hand — a tremor shook The leaves, and hoarse winds groan'd along the wood ; The Pythian tree the damning sentence took, And to the sun the batde-word of blood Glared from the gashing rind. Napoleon at I sola Bella. 315 VIII So, thou hast writ the word, and sign'd thy doom : Farewell, and pass upon thy gory way, The direful skein the pausing Fates resume I Let not the Elysian grove thy steps delay From thy Promethean goal. The fatal tree the abhorrent word retain'd : I'ill the last Battle on its bloody strand Flung what were nobler had no life remain'd — The crownless front and the disarmed hand And the foil'd Titan Soul ! IX Now, year by year, the warrior's iron mark Crumbles away from the majestic tree. The indignant life-sap ebbing from the bark A\'here the grim death-word to Humanity Profaned the Lord of Day. High o'er the pomp of blooms, as greenly still. Aspires that tree — the archetype of fame. The stem rejects all chronicle of ill ; The bark shrinks back — the tree survives the same — The record rots awa\'. r. vvKNO : Oct. 8, 1845. 3i6 MAZARIN, FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHOUT. * I was walking, some days after, in the nev/ apartments of his palace. I recognised the approach of the Cardinal (Mazarin) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, "II faut quitter tout cela !" {"I must leave all that!") He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his heart, " II faut quitter tout cela ! What pains have I taken to acquire these things ! Can I abandon them without regret? I shall never see them more where I am about to go!'" &c — Mhnoires Inediis de Louis Henri, Comte dc Brietuie, Barriere's Edition, vol. ii. p. 115. ERENE the marble images Gleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows ; Their Ufe, Hke the Uranides, A glory and repose. Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoil From many a gorgeous frame ; One race will starve the living toil, The next will gild the name. Mazarin. 3 1 7 That stately silence silvering through, The steadfast tapers shone Upon the Painter's pomp of hue, The Sculptor's solemn stone. Calm in that ark above the Sea Of Time, behold the Few Saved from lost worlds of Art, to be The sires of worlds anew. There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath, Along the quiet floor ; An old man leaves his bed of death To count his treasures o'er. Behold the dying mortal glide Amidst the eternal Art ; It were a sight to stir with pride Some pining painter's heart ! It were a sight that might beguile Sad Genius from the hour, To see the life of Genius smile Upon the death of Tower. 3 1 8 Mazarin. The ghost-like master of that hall Is kmg-like in the land; And France's proudest heads could fall Beneath that spectre hand. Veil'd in the Roman purple, preys The canker-worm within ; And more than Bourbon's sceptre sways The crook of Mazarin. Italian, yet more dear to thee Than sceptre, or than crook ; The Art in which thine Italy Still charm' d thy glazing look ! So feebly, and with wistful eyes, He crawls along the floor ; A dying man, who, ere he dies, Would count his treasures o'er. And, from the landscape's soft repose, Smil'd thy calm soul, Lorraine ; And, from the deeps of Raphael, rose Celestial Love again. Mazariii. 319 In pomp, whicli his own pomp recalls, The haui^ard owner sees Thy cloth of gold and banquet halls, Thou stately Veronese ! While, cold as if they scorn'd to hail Creations not their own, The gods of Greece stand marble-pale Around the Thunderer's throne. There, Hebe brims the um of gold; There, Hermes treads the skies ; There, ever in the Serpent's fold, Laocoon deathless dies ; There, startled from her mountain rest, Young Dian turns to draw The death-full shaft that threats the breast Her slumber fail'd to awe ; There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds, And life's large labours done, Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds, Alcmena's mournful son. 320 Mazarin. They gaze upon the fading form With mute immortal eyes ; — Here, clay that waits the hungry worm ; There, children of the skies. Then slowly, as he totter'd by, The old man, unresign'd, Sigh'd forth : ' Alas ! and must I die. And leave such life behind % The Beautiful, from which I part, Alone defies decay ! ' Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal Art Smiled down upon the clay. And as he waved the feeble hand, And crawl' d unto the porch, He saw the Silent Genius stand With the extinguish'd torch ! The world without, for ever yours, Ye stern remorseless Three \ Wliat, from that changeful world, secures Calm Immortality % Mazariu. :;2i Nay, soon or late decays, alas ! Or canvas, stone, or scroll ; From all material forms must pass To forms afresh, the soul. 'Tis but in that which doth create, Duration can be sought ; A worm can waste the canvas ; — Fate Ne'er swept from I'ime, a Thought. Lives Phidias in his Avorks alone ? — His Jove returns to air : Hut wake one godlike shape from stone. And Phidian thought is there ! Blot out the Iliad from the earth. Still Homer's thought would fire Each deed that boasts sublimer worth. And each diviner lyre. Like light, connecting star to star. Doth Thought transmitted run; — Rays that to earth the nearest are, Have longest left the sun. Y 322 ANDRE CHENIER. FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHIN. ' Andre Chenier, whose exquisite genius forms the connecting Hnk between the French poetry of the last century and that which adorns the present, perished by the guillotine, July 27, 1794. In ascending the scaffold, he cried, "To die so young!" "And there was something here ! " he added, striking his forehead, not in the fear of death, but in the despair of genius ! ' — Thiers. ITHIN the prison's dreary girth, The dismal night, before That morn on which the dungeon Earth Shall wall the soul no more, There stood serenest images Where doomed Genius lay, The ever young Uranides Around the child of clay. Andre CJicnicr. On blacken'd walls and nigged floors Shone cheerful, thro' the night, The stars — like beacons from Llie shores Of the still Infinite. From Ida to the Poet's cell The Pain-beguilers stole ; Apollo tuned his silver shell, And Hebe brimm'd the bowl. To grace those walls he needed nought That tint or stone bestows ; Creation kindled from his thouiiht : He call'd — and gods arose. The visions Poets only know Upon the captive smiled. As bright within those walls of woe As on the sunlit child ; He saw the nameless glorious things Which youthful dreamers see. When Fancy first with munnurous \\ings O'ershadows bards to be ; 324 Andre CJicnier. Those forms to life spiritual given By high creative hymn ; From music born — as from their heaven Are bom the Seraphim.'- Forgetful of the coming day, Upon the dungeon floor He sate to count, poor child of clay. The wealth of genius o'er • To count the gems, as yet unwrought, But found beneath the soil ; The bright discoveries claim'd by thought, As future crowns for toil. He sees The Work that shall outlive The canvas and the stone. To which his mind a life shall give Immortal as its own. It shines complete, ere yet begun j So to the sailor s eye, The phantom of the unrisen sun Stands in the Arctic sky. ♦ Aus den Saiten, wie aus ihren Himmeln, Neugebor'ne Seraphim.. — Schiller. :)"3 Ajidrc CIu'nic7\ ^ '» Ah, his shall be that sweetest fame, Which, gladdening common ways, Makes so beloved the Poet's name Men bless it while they praise. True to the human heart shall chime The song their lips repeat ; \Mien heroes chant the strain — sublime ; \^"hen lovers breathe it — sweet. Lo, from the brief delusion given, He starts, as through the bars Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Hea\en- And Thought alike — the stars. Hark to the busy tramp below I The jar of iron doors ! The gaoler's heavy footfall slow Along the funeral floors I The murmur of the crowds that round The human shambles throng ; That muffled sullen thunder-sound — The Death-cart grates along ! 326 Andre CJicnier. ' Alas ! so soon ! — and must I die,' He groan'd forth unresign'd ; ' Flit like a cloud athwart the sky, And leave no wrack behind ! ' And yet my Genius speaks to me ; The Pythian fires my brain ; And tells me what my life should be ; A Prophet — and in vain ! ' O realm more wide, from clime to clime, Than ever Caesar sway'd ; O conquests in that world of time My grand desire survey'd ! ' Blood-red upon his loathing eyes Now glares the gaoler's torch : ' Come forth, the day is in the skies. The Death-cart at the porch ! ' Pass on ! — to thee the Parc^ give The fairest lot of all ; — In golden poet-dreams to live, And ere they fade — to fall ! Andre Chcnicr. ^2j 'J1ie shrine that longest guards a Name Is oft an early tomb ; 11ie poem most secure of flime Js — some wrong'd poet's doom ! Z2^ MARY STUART AND HER MOURNER. ' Mary Stuart perished at the age of forty-four years and two months. Her remains were taken from her weeping servants, and a green cloth, torn in haste from an old biUiard table, was flung over her once beautiful form. Thus it remained unwatched and unattended, except by a poor little lap-dog, which could not be induced to quit the body of its mistress. This faithful little animal was found dead two days afterwards ; and the circumstance made such an impression even on the hard-hearted minister of Elizabeth, that it was men- tinned in the official despatches.' Mrs. Jamieson's Female Sovereigns : Ma7y Queen of Scots. HE axe its bloody work had done ; The corpse neglected lay ; This peopled world could spare not one To watch beside the clay. The fairest work from Nature's hand That e'er on mortals shone, A sunbeam stray'd from fairy land To fade upon a throne; — Mary Stuart ami her Mourner. 329 The Venus of the Tomb ■•■ wliose form Was destiny and death ; The Siren's voice that stirfd a storm In each melodious breath ; — Such was^ what now by fate is hurl'd To rot, unwept, away. A star has vanish'd from the world ; And none to miss the ray ! Stern Knox, that loneliness forlorn A harsher tnith might teach To royal pomps, than priestly scorn To royal sins can preach ! No victims now that lip can make I That hand is powerless now ! O God ! and what a king — but take A bauble from the brow ? The world is full of life and love ; The world methinks might spare From millions, one to watch above The dust of monarchs there. * Libitina, the Venus who presided over funerals. VNIVE. >VP.1/ OF 330 Mary Stuart and Jicr Mourner. And not one human eye ! — yet, lo ! What stirs the funeral pall % What sound — it is not human woe — Wails moaning through the hall % Close by the form mankind desert One thing a vigil keeps ; More near and near to that still heart It wistful, wondering creeps. It gazes on those glazed eyes, It hearkens for a breath — It does not know that kindness dies, And love departs from death. It fawns as fondly as before Upon that icy hand ; And hears from lips, that speak no more. The voice that can command. To that poor fool, alone on earth, No matter what have been The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, The Dead is still a Queen. Mary Stuart and her Mourner. 331 With eyes that horror could not scare, It watch'd the senseless clay ; — Crouch'd on the breast of Death, and there Moan'd its fond life away. And when the bolts discordant clash'd. And human steps drew nigh, The human pity shrunk abash'd Before that faithful eye ; It seem'd to gaze with such rebuke On those who could forsake ; Then turn'd to watch once more the look, And strive the sleep to wake. They raised the pall — they touch'd the dead, A cry, and t)otk were still'd — Alike the soul that Hate had sped, The life that Love had kill'd. Semiramis of England, hail ! Thy crime secures thy sway : But when thine eyes shall scan the tale Those hireling scribes convey ; 132 Mary Stuart and Jicr Mourner. When thou shalt read, with late remorse, How one poor friend was found Beside thy butcher'd rival's corse, The headless and discrown'd ; Shall not thy soul foretell thine own Unloved, expiring hour, When those who kneel around the throne Shall fly the falling tower ; When thy great heart shall silent break, When thy sad eyes shall strain Through vacant space, one thing to seek, One thing that loved — in vain ? Though round thy parting pangs of pride Shall priest and noble crowd ; More worth the grief, that moum'd beside Thy victim's gory shroud ! 3-> -> 00 THE LAST DA YS OF ELIZABETH. ' Her delight is to sit in the darlc, and sometimes, with shedding tears, to bewail Essex.' — Contemporancojis Correspoftdence. ' She refused all consolation ; few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some hidden grief which she cared not to reveal. But sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage them. Ten days and nights she lay upon the carpet leaning on cushions which her maids brought her,' &c. — HfME. ISE from thy bloody grave, Thou soft Medusa of the Fated Line"' y Whose evil beauty look'd to death the l)ra\c Discrowned Queen, around whose passionate shame Terror and Grief the palest flowers entwine, That ever veil'd the ruins of a Name With tlie sweet parasites of song divine 1 * Mary Stuart : 'the .soft Medusa ' is an expression strikingly .ipplicd !■ her in her own day. 334 ^^^^ Last Days of Elizabeth. Arise, sad Ghost, arise. And if Revenge outlive the Tomb, Behold the Doomer brought to doom ! Lo, where thy mighty Murderess lies, The sleepless couch — the sunless room — Through the darkness darkly seen Rests the shadow of a Queen ; Ever on the lawns below Flit the shadows to and fro. Quick at dawn, and slow at noon. Halving midnight with the moon : In the palace, still and dun, Rests that shadow on the floor ; All the changes of the sun Move that shadow nevermore. II Yet oft she turns from face to face A keen and wistful gaze. As if the memory seeks to trace The sign of some lost dwelling-place Beloved in happier days. Ah, what the clue supj^lies In the cold vigil of a hireling's eyes % Ah, sad in childless age to weep alone, Look round and find no grief reflect our own ! TJic Last Days of Elizabeth. y^ O Soul, thou speedest to thy rest away, But not upon the pinions of the dove ; When death draws nigh, how miserable they Who have outlived all love ! As on the solemn verge of Night Lingers a wear}' Moon, Thou wanest last of every glorious light That bathed with splendour thy majestic noon : The stately stars that clustering o'er the isle Lull'd into glittering rest the subject sea ; Gone the great Masters of Italian wile, False to the world beside, but true to thee ! Burleigh, the subtlest builder of thy fame, The serpent craft of winding Walsingham ; They who exalted yet before thee bow'd ; And that more dazzling chivalry — the Band That made thy Court a Faer)' Land, In which thou wert enshrined to reign alone The Gloriana of the Diamond Throne ; All gone — and left thee sad amidst the cloud. Ill To their great sires, to whom thy youth was known. Who from thy smile, as laurels from the sun, Drank the immortal greenness of renown, Succeeds the cold lip-homage scantly won 336 T]ic Last Days of Elizabeth. From the new race whose hearts already bear The Wise-man's offerings to the unworthy Heir. Watching the glass in which the sands nui low, Hovers keen Cecil with his falcon eyes, And musing Bacon* bends his marble brow. But deem not fondly there To weep the fate or pour the averting prayer Attend those solemn spies ! Lo, at the regal gate The impatient couriers wait ; To speed from hour to hour the nice account Of those too lingering sighs Which yet must vex unpitying ears, before Vacant the throne to which the Scot shall mount Up steps still slippery with his Mother's gore I IV O piteous mockery of all pomp thou art, Poor mortal-born, worn out with toil and years ! As, layer by layer, the granite of the heart Dissolving, melteth to the weakest tears That ever village maiden shed above The grave that robb'd her quiet world of love. * See the correspondence maintained by Francis Bacon and Robert Cecil (the sons of Elizabeth's most faithful friends) with the Scottish court, during the Queen's last illness. The Last Days of Elizabeth. :>.•)/ Ten days and nights upon that floor Those weary hmbs have lain ; And every hour lias added more Of heaviness to pain. As gazing into dismal air She sees the headless phantom there, The victim round whose image twined The last wild love of womankind ; That lightning flash'd from stormy hearts, Which now reveals the deeps of Heaven. And now remorseless, earthward, darts. Rives, and expires on what its stroke hatli riven .' 'Twere sad to see from those stern eyes The unheeded anguish feebly flow ; And hear the broken word that dies In moanings faint and low ; But sadder still to mark, the while, The vacant stare, the marble smile, And think, that goal of glory won, How slight a shade between The idiot moj^ing in the sun And England's giant Queen ! ""' * 'It was after labouring for nearly three weeks under a morljid melan- choly, which brought on a stupor not unmixed with some indications of a disordered fancy, that the Queen expired.' — Aikins tnntslation of a Lathi letter [author itukuoivu to Ediinoiti Lamlcrt. Z 338 TJlc Last Days of Elizabeth. Call back the joyous Past ! Lo, England white-robed for a holyday ! While, choral to the clarion's kingly blast, Shout peals on shout along the Virgin's way, As through the swarming streets rolls on the long array. Mary is dead ! — Look from your fire-won homes, Exulting Martyrs ! — on the mount shall rest Truth's ark at last ! The avenging Lutheran comes, And clasps the Book ye died for to her breast ! * With her, the flower of all the land, The high-born gallants ride. And ever nearest of the band. With watchful eye and ready hand, Young Dudley's form of pride ! t Ah, ev'n in that exulting hour. Love half allures the soul from Power, To that dread brow, in bending down, Throbs up, beneath the manlike crown, * ' When she (EHzabeth) was conducted through London amidst the joyful acclamations of her subjects, a boy, who personated Truth, was let down from one of the triumphal arches, and presented to her a copy of the Bible. She received the book with the most gracious deportment, placed it next her bosom,' &c. — Hume. + Robert Dudley, aft'^rwards the Leicester of doubtful fame, attended Elizabeth in her passage to the Tower. TJic Last Days of ElizabctJi. 330 The woman's heart wild-beating, While steals tlie whisper'd worship, paid Not to the Monarch, but the Maid, Through tromps and stormy greeting. VI Call back the gorgeous Past ! The lists are set, the tmmpets sound, Impatient pennons quiver to the blast ; Still as the stars, when to the breeze Sway the jjroud crests of stately trees. Bright eyes, from tier on tier around. Look down, where on its famous ground Murmurs and moves the bristling life Of antique Chivalry ! Forward 1 ' '••' — the signal word is gi\en : Like cloud on cloud, by tempest driven. Steel lightens, and arm'd thunders close ! How plumes descend in flakes of snows ; How the ground reels, as reels a sea, Beneath the inebriate rapture-strife Of jocund Chivalry ! * The customary phrase was, ' Laisscz allcr," 7. 2 340 TJic Last Days of Elizabeth. ^\'ho is the Victor of the Day % Thou, of the dehcate form and golden hair, And manhood glorious in its midst of May ; Thou who, upon thy shield of argent, bearest The bold device, ' The Loftiest is the Fairest 1 ' As bending low thy stainless crest, ' The Vestal throned by the West ' Accords the old Provencal crown Which blends her own with thy renown ; Arcadian Sidney — Nursling of the Muse, Flower of divine Romance, whose bloom was fed By daintiest Helicon's most silver dews, Alas ! how soon thy lovely leaves w^re shed — Thee lost, no more were Grace and Force united, Grace but some flaunting Buckingham unmann'd, And Force but crush'd what Freedom vainly righted- Behind, lo Cromwell looms, and dusks the land With the swart shadow of his giant hand. VII Call back the Kingly Past ! W^here, bright and broadening to the main. Rolls on the scornful River, Stout hearts beat high on Tilbury's plain, Our Marathon for ever ! The Last Days of lilizahctli. 341 No breeze above, but on the mast The i)ennon shook as with the blast. Forth from the cloud the day-god strode ; Flash'd back from steel, the splendour glow'd. Leai)t the loud joy from earth to heaven, As through the ranks asunder riven, The ^^'arrior-^Voman rode ! Hark, thrilling through the armed line The martial accents ring, ' Though mine the \A'oman's form, yet mine The Heart of England's King!'* Woe to the Island and the Maid I The Pope has preach'd the New Crusade, His sons have caught the fieiy zeal ; The Monks are merry in Castile; Bold Paniia on the main ; And through the deep exulting sweep The thunder-steeds of Si)ain. What meteor rides the headlong gale % The flames have caught the giant sail ! Fierce Drake is grappling prow to prow ; God and St. George for Victory now I Death in the battle and the \\in(l — Carnage before and st(jrm behind — • ' I know I liavc hut the hudy of a weak and fcchlc wtjiiiaii, hut I have the heart of a king, and of a king of Kngh'ind too.' 342 TJic Last Days of ElizabctJi. Wild shrieks are heard above the hurthng roar By Orkney's rugged strands, and Erin's ruthless shore. Joy to the Island and the Maid ! Pope Sextus wept the Last Crusade, His sons consumed before his zeal ; The Monks are woeful in Castile; Your monument the main, The glaive and gale record your tale. Ye thunder-steeds of Spain ! VIII Turn from the idle Past ; Its lonely ghost thou art I Yea, like a ghost, whom charms to earth detain, (When, with the dawn, its kindred phantom-train Glide into peaceful graves) — to dust depart Thy shadowy pageants ; and the day unblest, Seems some dire curse that keeps thee from thy rest. Yet comfort, comfort to thy longing woe. Thou wistful watcher by the dreary portal ; Now when most human, since most feeble, know. That in the Human struggles the Immortal. Flash'd from the steel of the descending shears, . Oft sacred light illumes the parting soul ; And our last glimpse along the woof of years. First reads the scheme that disinvolves the whole. The Last Days of Elizabeth. 343 Vet, then, recall the Past ! Is Reverence not the child of Sympathy? To feel for Greatness we must hear it sigh : On mortal brows those haloes longest last Which blend for one the rays that verge from all. Few reign, tew triumph ; millions love and grieve : Of grief and love let some high memory leave One mute appeal to life, upon the stone — That tomb shall votive rites from time receive When History doubts what ghost once filTd a throne. So. indistinct while back'd by sunlit skies, But large and clear against the midnight pall, Thy human outline awes our human eyes. Place, place, ye meaner royalties below, For Nature's holiest — Womanhood and Woe I Let not vain youth deride the age that still Loves as the voum? — loves on unto the last ; Grandest the heart when grander than the will — Bow we before the soul which through the past Turns no \ain glance towards fading heights of jjride. But strains its humbled tearful gaze to see Love and Remor.se, near Immortality, And by the yawning Grave, stand side by side. 344 CR OMWELL 'S DREAM. The conception of this Ode originated in a popular tradition of Cromwell's earlier days. It is thus strikingly related by Mr. Forster, in his very valuable Life of Cromwell : ' He laid himself down, too fatigued to hope for sleep, when suddenly the curtains of his bed were slowly withdrawn by a gigantic figure, which bore the aspect of a woman, and which, gazing at him silently for a while, told him that he should, before his death, be the greatest man in England. He remembered when he told the story, and the recollection marked the current of his thoughts, tJiat thejigiire had not made viention of the luord King.'' Alteration has been made in the scene of the vision, and the age of Cromwell. HP2 moor spread wild and far, In the .sharp whiteness of a wintry shroud ; Midnight, yet moonless; and the winds ice-bound : And a gi-ey dusk — not darkness — reign'd around, Save where the phantom of a sudden star Peer'd o'er some haggard precipice of cloud : Where on the wold, the triple pathway cross'd, A sturdy wanderer, Avearied, lone, and lost, Paused and gazed round ; a dwarf'd but aged yew O'er the wan rime its gnome-like shadow threw ; CroniiK-'cir s Dream. 345 The spot in\ited, and by sleep opprest, Beneatli tlie boughs he laid him down to rest. A man of stalwart limbs and hardy frame, Meet for the ruder time when force was fame, Youthful in years — the features yet betray Thoughts rarely mellow'd till the locks are grey : Round the firm lips the lines of solemn wile Might warn the wise of danger in the smile ; P)Ut the blunt aspect spoke more sternly still I'hat craft of craft — the Stubborn Will : That which — let what may betide — Never halts nor swerves aside ; From afar its victim viewing. Slow of speed, but sure-pursuing ; Through maze, up mount, still hounding on its way. Till grimly couch'd beside the conquer'd prey ! II The loftiest fate will longest lie In unrevealing sleep ; And yet unknown the destined race, Nor yet his soul had walk'd with Grace ; Still, on the seas of Time Drifted the ever-careless prime, But many a blast that o'er the sky All idly seems to sweep. 346 Cromwcir s Dream. Still while it speeds may spread the seeds The toils of autumn reap : And we must blame the soil, and not the wind, If hurrying passion leave no golden grain behind. Ill Seize — seize — seize !* Bind him strong in the chain, On his heart, on his brain. Clasp the links of the evil Sleep ! Seize — seize — seize — ■ Ye fiends that dimly sweep Up from the Stygian deep. Where Death sits watchful by his brother's side 1 Ye pale Impalpables, that are Shadows of Truths afar, Appearing oft to warn, but ne'er to guide, Hover around the calm, disdainful Fates, Reveal the woof through which the spindle gleams Open, ye Ebon gates ! Darken the moon — O Dreams ! Seize — seize — seize — Bind him strong in the chain, * Aa/3e, Aa^e, AdjSe, A.a|3e. — ^EsCHYL. Enmcn. 125. CroDin'cir s Dream. 347 On his heart, on his brain, Clasp the Hnks of the evil Sleep ! Awakes or dreams he still % His eyes are open with a glassy stare, On the fix'd brow the large drops gather chill. And horror, like a wind, stirs through the lifted hair. Before him stands the Thing of Dread — A giant Shadow motionless and pale I As those dim Lemur-vapours that exhale From the rank grasses rotting o'er the dead. And startle midnight with the mocking show Of the still, shrouded bones that sleep below — So the wan image which the Vision bore Was outlined from the air, no more Than served to make the loathing sense a bond Between the world of life and grislier worlds beyond. IV ' Behold !' the Shadow said, and lo ! Where the blank heath had spread, a smiling scene ; Soft woodlands sloping from a village green,* And, waving to blue heaven, the happy cornfields glow : • The farm of St. Ives, where Cromwell spent three years, whicli he aftorwanis recalled with regret, though not unafflicted with dark hj'pochondria and sullen discontent. Here, as Mr. Forster impressively observes, ' in the tenants that rented from him, in the labourers that served under him, he sought to sow the seeds of his after troop of Ironsides. . . . All the /ajftoits doctrines of his later nttd morr 34^ Croimvcir s Dream. A modest roof, with ivy cluster'd o'er, And Childhood's mirth busy beside the door. But, yonder, sunset sleeping on the sod. Bow Labour's rustic sons in solemn prayer ; And, self-made teacher of the truths of God, The Dreamer sees the Phantom-Cromwell there 1 ' Art thou content, of these the greatest Thoii^ Murmur'd the Fiend, ' the Master and the Priest?' A sullen anger knit the Dreamer's brow, And from his scornful lips the words came slow, ' The greatest of the hamlet. Demon, No !' Loud laugh'd the Fiend — then trembled through the sky. Where haply angels watch' d, a warning sigh ; And darkness swept the scene, and golden Quiet ceased. V * Behold !' the Shadow said — a hell-born ray Shoots through the Night, up-leaps the unholy Day, Spring from the earth the Dragon's armed seed, The ghastly squadron wheels, and neighs the spectre-steed. Unnatural sounded the sweet Mother-tongue, As loud from host to host the English war-cry rung ; Kindred with kindred blent in slaughter show The dark phantasma of the destined Woe ! celebrated years were tried and tested in the little farm of St. Ives. . . . Before going to their field-work in the morning they (his servants) knelt down with their master in the touching equality of prayer ; in the evening they shared with him again the comfort and exaltation of divine precepts.' — Fokster's Crotmvell. Cromijcirs Dream. 349 A gay and glittering band ! Apollo's lovelocks in the crest of Mars — T.ight-hearted Valour, laughing scorn to scars — A gay and glittering band, Unwitting of the scythe — the lilies of the land ! Pale in the midst, that stately squadron boasts A princely form, a mournful brow ; And still, where plumes are proudest, seen, With sparkling eye and dauntless mien, The young Achilles ■" of the hosts. On rolls the surging war — and now Along the closing columns ring — ' Rupert ' and ' Charles ' — ' The Lady of the Crown,' f ' Down with the Roundhead Rebels, down 1 ' ' St. George and England's king ! ' A stalwart and a sturdy band — Whose souls of sullen zeal Are made by the Immortal Hand Invulnerable steel ! A kneeling host — a pause of prayer, A single voice thrills through the air, ' They come. Up, Ironsides ! For Truth and Peace unsparing smite ! Behold the accursed Amalekite ! ' * Prince Rupert. t ' Henrietta Maria I ' was the popular batllc-cry of tlic Cavaliers. ;5o CromweWs Dream. The Dreamer's heart beat high and loud, For, calmly through the carnage-cloud, The scourge and servant of the Lord, This hand the Bible — that the sword — The Phantom-Cromwell rides ! A lurid darkness swallows the array, One moment lost — the darkness rolls away, And, o'er the slaughter done, Smiles, with his eyes of love, the setting Sun ; Death makes our foe our brother \ And, meekly, side by side. Sleep scowling Hate and sternly smiling Pride, On the kind breast of Earth, the quiet Mother ! Lo, where the victor sweeps along, The Gideon of the gory throng, Beneath his hoofs the harmless dead — The aureole on his helmed head — Before him steel-clad Victory bending. Around, from earth to heaven ascending The fiery incense of triumphant song. So, as some orb, above a mighty stream Sway'd by its law, and sparkhng in its beam — A power apart from that tempestuous tide, Calm and aloft, behold the Phantom-Conqueror ride ! Croniiucir s Dream. 351 ' Art thou content — of these the greatest Thou, Hero and Patriot?' murmur'd then the Fiend. The unsleeping Dreamer answer'd, ' Tempter, nay, My soul stands breathless on the mountain's brow And looks beyond ! ' Again swift darkness screen'd The solemn Chieftain and the fierce array. And armed Glory pass'd, like happier Peace, away. VI He look'd again, and saw A chamber with funereal sables hung, Wherein there lay a ghastly, headless thing, That once had been a king — And by the corpse a living man, whose doom, Had both been left to Nature's gradual law. Were riper for the garner-house of gloom. Rudely beside the gory clay were flung The Norman sceptre and the Saxon crown ; * So. after some imperial tragedy August alike with sorrow and renown, We smile to see the gauds that moved our awe. Purple and orb, in dusty lumber lie — Ahis ! what thousands, on the stage of Time, l'"nvicd the baubles, and revered the mime ! King Alfred's crown was actually sold after the execution of Charles the First. 352 Cromwcir s Dream. Placed by the trunk — with long and whitening hair By dark-red gouts besprent, the sever'd head Up to the Gazer's musing eyes, the while, Look'd with its livid brow and stony smile. On that sad scene, his gaze the Dreamer fed, Familiar both the Living and the Dead ; Terror, and hate, and strife concluded there, Calm in his six-feet realm the monarch lay ; And by the warning victim's mangled clay The Phantom-Cromwell smiled, and bending down With shadowy fingers toy'd about the shadowy crown. ' Art thou content at last ? — a greater Thou Than one to whom the loftiest bent the knee, First in thy fierce Republic of the Free, Avenger and Deliverer *? ' ' Fiend,' replied The Dreamer, ' who shall palter with the tide % — Deliverer ! Pilots who the vessel save Leave not the helm while winds are on the wave. The Future is the Haven of the Now !' ' True,' quoth the Fiend — Again the darkness spread, And night gave back to air the Doomsman and the Dead ! VII 'See !' cried the Fiend. He views A lofty Senate stern with many a form Crvjuivcir s Drcajn. 353 Not unfamiliar to the earlier strife ; Knit were the brows, and passion fliish'd the hues, And all were hush'd ! — that hush which is in life As in the air, prophetic of a storm. Uprose a shape* with dark bright eye ; It spake, and at the word The Dreamer breathed an angr}' sigh ; And, starting, clutch'd his sword ; An instinct bade him hate and fear That unknown shape — as if a foe were near — For, mighty in that mien of thoughtful youth. Spoke Fraud's most deadly foe — a soul on fire with Truth; A soul without one stain Save England's hallowing tears ; — the sad and starry Vane. There enter'd on that conclave high A solitary Man ! And rustling through the conclave high A troubled murmur ran ; A moment more — loud riot all — With pike and morion gleam'd the startled hall : * When Cromwell came down (leaving his musketeers without the door to disstih c he Long Parliament, Vane was in the act of urging, through the last stage, the Bill hat would have saved the republic. — See Forster's spirited account of this scene, '.i/c of Vane, p. 152. A A 354 Cromwcirs Dream. And there, where, since the primal date Of Freedom's glorious morn, The eternal People solemn sate, Tlie People's Champion spat his ribald scorn ! Dark moral to all ages ! — Blent in one The broken fasces and the shattefd throne ; The deed that damns immortally is done ; And Force, the Cain of Nations, reigns alone ! The veil is rent — tlie crafty soul lies bare ! * Behold,' the Demon cried, ' the Future Cromwell, there t Art thou content, on earth the Greatest thou, Apostate and Usurper % ' — From his rest The Dreamer started with a heaving breast, The better angels of the human heart Not dumb to his — Tlie Hell-Bom laugh'd aloud, And o'er the Evil Vision rush'd the cloud 1 355 THE SOULS OF BOOKS. I IT here and muse ! it is an antique room — High roof'd with casements, through whose purple pane UnwilHng Dayhght steals amidst the gloom. Shy as a fearful stranger. There they reign, In loftier pomp than waking life had known, The Kings of Thought ! not crown'd until the grave. WTien Agamemnon sinks into the tomb, Homer takes back the royalties he gave, And rules the nations from the Argive's throne. Ye ever-living and imperial Souls, Lighting with undistinguished rays the air We live and breathe in ; who of us can tell WTiat he had been, if Cadmus had not taught The magic letters by which thought to thought Bequeathes a wealth enlarged by every heir ? 356 TJie Souls of Books. Had Plato's reasonings perished in his cell, Leaving no trace on time-defying scrolls % If, hush'd with Homer's harp his mighty line, The world had lost ' the tale of Troy divine % ' There, loom the outlines vast of right and wrong, Heroic force assuaged to human ruth ; Europe may date her history from the song That gave the types of Homer to her youth. II Hark ! while we muse, without the walls is heard The various murmur of the labouring crowd, How still, within those archive-cells interfd. The Calm Ones reign ! and yet they rouse the loud Passions and tumults of the circling world ! The peaceful temples they have built to Thought Are the great arsenals of every war. Thence, all the banners in gone time unfurl'd, Ever again into fresh fields are brought, Grace some new Cato's bier or some new Cesar's car. They fire meek preachers with the zeal for truth, And lift the looks of poets to the star ; To the old races they transmit their youth, The Conscript Fathers of the men we are. TJic Souls of Books. Ill ^ And now so still ! Yet, Cicero, heaves thy heart In thy large language, sweet with measured swell. Darling alike of Nature and of art, Horace here smiles on life, and smiling sighs ; Reclined where Tyndaris, in the vale's cool del I O'er Lesbian wine-cups chants her Teian lay ; While on the mount which upward charms his e}es Great Pan's free music floats through summer skies ! O'er all our days reigns Thought's calm Yesterday As out from books the guardian spirits rise. Guiding our footsteps while upon our way Their own fall noiseless. Hark ! the world so loud, And tJic}\ the movers of the world, so still I What robes the dead with glor)? what can give The regal purple to the funeral shroud ? We hunt some child of genius to the tomb, And at its threshold hate and envy cease. And what the charm that can such heallli (Hstil From wither'd leaves — oft poisons in their bloom ? We blame some books as harmful ! Do they live ! *A A 3 .')D/ 358 TJie Souls of Books. If so, believe me, time hath made them pure. In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace — God wills that nothing evil should endure ; The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole, As the dust leaves the disembodied soul ! Come from thy niche, Lucretius ! Thou didst teach To man his wildest superstition — Chance, Denied his grief the Jove whom prayer could reach. And closed the pale Elysium on his glance. Dost thou make converts ? No ! thine art disproves The creed which grants no planner to the plan ; As the contriving mind harmonious moves Thro' every work attesting art in man, So ev'n if Nature her First Cause conceal'd. In man's contrivance God's w^ould be reveal'd. Go — bid the atoms into form combine. And human art bear witness to Divine ! Lo ! that grim merriment of hatred ;'"" born Of him, the master-mocker of mankind, Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen, Lucian's loud scoff seems pleasantry refined. And Voltaire's cynic sneer a smile serene. Do we not place it in our children's hands, Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled lands \ * Gulliver''s Travels. TJic Souls of Books. 359 God's and man's libel in that foul Yahoo \ Well, and what mischief can the libel do? O impotence of Genius to belie Its glorious task — its mission from the sky] Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scorn On aught the Man should love or Priest should mourn ; And lo I the book, from all its ends beguiled, A harmless wonder to some happy child ! IV All books grow sanctified by time ; they are Temples, at once, and landmarks. In them, we — Who but for them, upon that inch of ground We call ' The Present,' from the cell could see No daylight trembling on the dungeon bar — Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round, Traverse all space, and number every star, And feel the Near less household than the Far I There is no Past, so long as Books shall live 1 A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again For him who seeks yon well ; lost cities give Up their untarnish'd wonders, and the reign Of Jove revives and Saturn : — At our will Rise dome and tower on ])eli)hi's sacred liill ; Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe ; along Leucadia's headland sighs the Lesbian's song ; 360 The Sauls of Books. With Egypt's Queen once more we sail the Nile, And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile : Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er ; Ope but that page — lo ! Babylon once more ! V Ye make the Past familiar as our home : And is that all % No : in each prophet sage — No; in each herald soul that Greece and Rome Sent forth, ere yet to Bethlehem moved the Star, In each bright guess illuming Tully's page. Or sparkling up from Plato's golden dreams, Your earnest light converged the scatter'd beams, Shot thro' the crannies of the silent portal That spans the entrance of the Life to come. And as yourselves have conquer'd death, ye are Types of the truth that Thought must be immortal. Apart from you, for not of human birth. One Book, to hope and grief alike is given. Mourner — love moulders not in graves of earth, Read ; and the lost smile down on thee from heaven. l6i JEALOUSY AND ART. F bright Apollo be the type of Art, So is flay'd Marsyas that of Jealousy : ^Vith the bare fibres which for ever smart Under the sunbeams that rejoice the sky. Had Marsyas ask'd not with the god to vie, The god had praised the cunning of his flute. Thou stealest half Apollo's melody, Tune but thy reed in concert with his lute. Each should enrich the other — each enhance By his own gift the common Beautiful : That every colour more may charm the glance. All varying flowers the garland-weavers cull ; Adorn'd by Contrast, Art no rival knows — The violet steals not ])erfume from the rose. 362 THE BONES OF RAPHAEL. When the author was in Rome, in the year 1833, the bones of Raphael were discovered, and laid in state for several days in St. Peter's church. AVE upon wave, the human ocean stream'd Along the chancel of the solemn pile ; And, with a softer day, the tapers beam'd Upon the bier within the vaulted aisle : And, mingled with the crowd, I halted there, And ask'd a Roman scholar by my side. What sainted dust invoked the common prayer ? ' Stranger ! ' the man, as in disdain, replied, ' Nine days already hath the Disinterr'd Been given again to mortal eye, and all The great of Rome, the Conclave and the Pope, Have fiock'd to grace the second funeral Of him whose soul, until it fled, like Hope, Gave beauty to the world : But haply thou, A dweller of the North, hast never heard Of one who, if no saint in waking Hfe, TJic Bo lies of RapJiaci 36 o'^o Communed in dreams with angels, and transferr'd The heaven in which we trust his soul is now To the mute canvas. Underneath that pall Repose the bones of Raphael ! ' Not a word I answer'd, but in awe I drew more near, And saw the crowd toil on in busy strife, Eager which first should touch the holy bier \ I ask'd a boor, more earnest than the rest, ' Whose bones are these % ' ' I know not what his name : But, since the Pope and Conclave have been here. Doubtless a famous Saint ! ' The Boor express'd The very thought the wandering stranger guess'd. Which wiser, he, the Scholar, who had sneer d To hear the Stranger canonise the Dead ; Or they, the Boor, the Stranger, who revered The Saint, where he the Artist ? Answer, P'ame, Whose Saints are not the Calendar's ! Perchance Tasso and Raphael, age to age, have given The earth a lustre more direct from Heaven Than San Gennaro, or thy Denis, France ; Or English George ! — Read History."' * Gibbon, after a powerful sketch of the fraud, the corrupti