ALDERMAN STACKS PR 6003 £436 AMT ae - by are )rm: Bl bah us AWRuae Ber wi X032038934 . ee at Sede eos tehan Fo ee tee Rit ings re a Pike wh fed panes ng0 S . we |x o s w ALDERMAN LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIAeek oe 4 . ~ Lens Ces me : % : ; \ 4 < sor aS r <->. > zMr. Mackenzie Bell is also the author of: CHARLES WHITEHEAD: a Biographical and Critical Monograph. New edition, 3s. 6d. CHRISTINA Rosserri: a Biographical and Critical Study. Fourth edition, 6s. Compiled from Mr. Bell’s poetry by Rev. J. J. Nesbitt, THz TakING or THE FLAG AND OTHER RECITATIONS. Is. A“ Treasury ”’ from Mr. Bell’s poetry selected by Mr Albert Broadbent for his “Treasury ” Series. 3d. LONDON : THOMAS BURLEIGH, | } {ae COLLECTED POEMS.: IG WIT Wee Ka} Paha a UGE MRE j NE ee where a valley closes fs ik iS if alte } i i Hi ) “ aX i Hi Ni SU BNR i] . S p. 116 ‘Mid mountain heights up-piled ”THE Collected Poems OF MACKENZIE BELL Author of “Spring’s Immortality,” “ Pictures of Travel,” &c., &e. ape Fes LONDON Francis Riddell Henderson z6 Paternoster Square 1904nouabyastas et é €.§ r 5 \ bt 7 &Contents. Prefatory Note Spring’s Immortality The Lame Boy in the Woods Aspirations SONNETS. Old Year leaves 9. 440 In Memoriam, W. E. Forster At the Grave of Dante Gabriel Rossetti . An Autumn Reminiscence I a TT FP TR PAGE XV GW If IZVili Contexts. Browning’s Funeral—lI. pee Il. At Stratford-on-Avon To a Lady Playing the Harp in Her Chamber—I. . NG POEMS FOUNDED ON HISTORY. True Sons of Britain The Taking of the Flag THE KEEPING OF THE VOW THE BATTLE’S PAUSE . The Death of Captain Hunt . The Loss of H.M.S. Victoria. Queen Victoria PAGE ry 13 15 17 18 25 oy 39 47 71 74Contents. PICTURES OF TRAVEL. Palms by Moonlight at Alicante Joao to Constanca Francisca to Jaspear Christmas in the Summer Sunshine Verses on a Vase filled with sub-tropical flowers . oe On the Road to Camera de Lobos, Madeira Sunday Morning off Mazagan, Morocco . On Looking up the Vale of Cauterets, Hautes Pyrénées, by Night . The Southern Night Lines on a Stone near the Summit of the Simplon Pass. In the New Forest After Sunset off Pauillac PAGE oI 1 96 98 - LOT i 168 ee ee IE ee IT et econ ata Te et AIR Tp eee ax Contents. PAGE Evening in the Forest of Meudon . . . 114 Wald Roses and Show. .).) 5. | 2 os At Sea—Off the mouth of the Garonne— Sunset oe ee rs Near St) Sanweur 60 6. oe on On'the Lake of Geneva 7° 2). 3 ores RELIGIOUS POEMS. joe Christina Kossetti 5. ss 1s A Sunrise in-Early Summer. .. . . 126 Het Boy just Dead 2) i ee Maraclese (rer, ee eae On a Present Crisis in the Church of mela) 6 ee Va ae Gods Peace) ke ar mcivallying Song. 2.) eo 3 a aloe Morning Thoughts .Contents. A Song of Comfort . The Balance of Life. “Lord, teach us to Holy Quietude TO A WORKER AMONG THE Poor . Pray ” A PLEA FOR FAITH LYRICS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Unfulfilled Ideal The Child Cowper at Berkhampstead . Apostrophe to an Ink Bottle in a Hotel LET Coffee-Room . A Golden Wedding . In Ellington Copse . A Song of Early Summer . PAGE Ad - 143 - 145 - 147 51 - 159 167 . 169 - 174 {go+4) wiebels on attest lo , se ‘ ar) =o XH The Heart’s Summer The Autumn is Dying . December Daises and December Days To Edmund Clarence Stedman The Poet’s Inspiration A Memory and a Presence Remonstrance. “While the Sunset, slowly dying ” The Bride’s Song The Hawthorn Spray The Puritan’s Farewell to his Betrothed . Passion’s Slave Two Lives . To Sir Walter Scott Solitude. To A Summer Evening in the Woods © The Boy Chatterton to Himself . PAGE 180 182 184 185 186 . 188 | ot 193 196 198 200Contents. PAGE The Boy Colemdae to Mimseli | «7 | ans The Philosophy of Frequent Failure . . 217 The Philosophy of our@echings. =. 216 Wand Bancies;) G05 205 Rl eae Wo lredernick Menuyson 9) 3 eon (Through Mists/of Nears 9 | 228 | HUMOROUS POEMS. Moonliehtion the Pagus).) 1) 3. | 22, } Waiting forthe Dentisy | . =. . =. 2 228 | | NotesPrefatory Note. My two books Spring’s Immortality and Other Poems and Pictures of Travel and Other Poems being now out of print it has been judged advisable to publish their con- nH tents anew in a single volume, and to add some poems not hitherto collected. One of my critics, to whose views I attach importance, has questioned the accuracy of my natural history, because in ‘ Spring’s ibs Immortality” I say : “From many a stone the ouzels sing i ; By yonder mossy stream.” I { ; —his contention being that the bird under such conditions merely says Chzt/ I ventureXVI Prefatory Note. to refer him to p. 71 of “ British Birds in their aunts, by. the late Nev. ©. A Johns. dhere that well-known naturalist, in the course of an interesting narrative about its habits, remarks that the dipper or water ouzel alights ‘on a wet mossy stone rising but a few inches above the water, where the stream runs swiftest and the spray sparkles brightest. But for the roar of the torrent you might hear his song, a low melodious strain.” Perhaps I ought to mention that I had not read the passage just quoted when I[ wrote “ Spring’s Immortality.” In Stanza VI. of “ The Battle’s Pause,” an attempt is made to paint a picture of what in other times was very familiar in the estuary of the Mersey—the sailing out of many merchant- men which had long been wind-bound. ThisPrefatory Note. XVli must indeed have been a singularly beautiful sight as viewed from such a coign of vantage, for example, as Seacombe beach opposite to Liverpool. What marine spectacle in these days of steam can equal in picturesqueness the sailing-ships of the early part of the last century, imposing even in their proportions, and moving majestically through the water under favouring conditions ? With reference to other lines in the same stanza, it may be mentioned that. ~St,: Nicholas, the ancient parish church of Liverpool, is near the river, and is a noticeable object from it. In the opening months of 1814 there was an extraordinarily severe frost in the neighbour- hood of Liverpool with ice-floes on the Mersey. il _ ae - a adie = a I gE :XVill Prefatory Note. As to “ The Southern Night,” I may perhaps state that, for “ moonlight” as a rhyme-word with the accent on the second syllable, I have the authority of Sir Walter Scott. ‘A Plea for Faith” was written, and its title chosen, before I read, both in manuscript and in proof, my friend Dr. George S. Keith’s “” Plea for a Simpler Faith.” “A Plea for a Simpler Faith” was not suggested by my poem, J am obliged to the editors of The Morning Post, The Palt Mall Magazine, The Church- man, The Christian World, The Outlook, Black and White, The Lady's Realm, The Literary World, The Thrush, and other periodicals, for permission to include poems which originally appeared in their pages. ThePrefatory Note. Xie 1 two sonnets, ‘To a Lady Playing the Harp in Ha : her Chamber,” were first published in the | — third series of ‘‘ The Savage Club Papers.” Once more I have to offer my sincere thanks to the critics and to the public for the cordial reception given to my work. MACKENZIE BELL. } LONDON, October 715th, 1901.Spring’s Immortality. Tue buds awake at touch of Spring From Winter’s joyless dream ; i; From many a stone the ouzels sing By yonder mossy stream. The cuckoo’s voice, from copse and vale, Lingers, as if to meet The music of the nightingale Across the rising wheat— The bird whom ancient Solitude Hath kept for ever young, Unaltered since in studious mood Calm Milton mused and sung. BSpring’s Immortality. Ah, strange it is, dear heart, to know Spring’s gladsome mystery Was sweet to lovers long ago— Most sweet to such as we— That fresh new leaves and meadow flowers Bloomed when the south wind came ; While hands of Spring caressed the bowers, The throstle sang the same. % # % * s Unchanged, unchanged the throstle’s song, Unchanged Spring’s answering breath, Unchanged, though cruel Time was strong, And stilled our love in death.tac season hath its sadness, but for me Summer hath most of all. But though its sylvan beauty soothes my soul And brings sweet reveries—though the happy birds, Discoursing music, stir my mind with dreams, With melodies, with thoughts of deep delight ; Yet still there lurks within the Summer’s heart Or in mine own, a pain—a deep, wild pain— Which, even amid still Autumn’s ravages fT never feel, nor yet in Winter’s storms. Is it, lask, that Summer’s voiceless spell— Her loveliness of copse and lea and flower Is all too soon dissolved—that blossoms fade The Lame Boy in the Woods. I know not why, ea 5 gee RT r : , : eal ere *ontpeabeagitalh Viekal J.’N ys 2 Ne > : eo A i a> a ew i Ms ke The Lame Boy in the Woods. When Summer’s glory dies? Ah, no; ah, no! It is that Summer’s mocking gladness lends To loss a sharper sting when I recall The joy of buoyant health and tireless limbs Which others feel—alas! through all my life A joy that knows not me.Aspirations. © ror the poet’s voice and song— Piercing, yet sweet and clear, | 2 Rich as the cushat’s note, yet strong | To reach the great world’s ear! . O for the visions that abide SR Bi Axara “he Within the poet’s mind, gee alfa if teal = The thoughts which through his bosom glide Leaving strange joy behind! O for the fruit—immortal fruit Soiled by no earthly leav’n, Not fame alone, nor vain repute, But something caught from heav’n—y rh Lie y _ 4 = a Pag a Ms i ae wa 4 ; Aspirations. Assurance that my strain has cheered One soul, if only one, And shed on the dark path it feared A passing glimpse of sun.SONNETS.Beier earnOld Year Leaves. TossED by the storms of Autumn chill and drear, The leaves fall auburn-tinted, and the trees Stand reft and bare, yet on the silent leas The leaves lie drifted still—while cold, austere, Grim Winter waits—while early snowdrops cheer The woodland shadows—while the happy bees Are wakened by the balmy western breeze, And birds and boughs proclaim that Spring is here. So lost hopes severed by the stress of life Lie all unburied yet before our eyes, Though none but we regard their mute decay ; And ever amid this stir and moil and strife Fresh aims and growing purposes arise Above the faded hopes of yesterday.In Memoriam, W. E. Forster. (Obiit April 5th, 1886.) O sTALWART man and pure, whose earnest face Mirrored thy fair-orbed soul, whose every deed Made answer to thy word, who gav’st no heed To selfish babble or the lust of place, Who—grieving at thy country’s perilous case Grown dire by lack of knowledge—in her need Cam’st with thy succour—thou whose civic creed, Too wide for party, dealt with all the race. A year hath passed since thou wast laid to rest, Yet fragrant is thy memory; thy bequest A work whose scope and grandeur Time shall gauge. Britain some day—her daughter-lands apart No longer—will remember thee whose heart Fired hers to win her world-wide heritage.11 At the Grave of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, April 9th, 1883. Hers of a truth the world’s extremes are met: Amid the grey—the moss-grown tombs of those Who led long lives obscure till came the close When, their calm days being done, their suns were set— gn ae 7 Kes i e The Taking of the Flag. He bounds once more ’Mid smoke and roar To his appointed place ; Fearless, serene, Is still his mien, Fearless, serene his face, Our men with glee Shout “ Victory!” Right glad of heart are they ; And from each gun The Dutchmen run Tn wonder and dismay. A sudden shame, Half rage, half blame, Their captain overpowers ; With one accord Our sailors board, And soon the ship is ours.Lhe Taking of the Flag. And of the youth Who thus in truth Had won a hero’s meed, We spoke with pride Till far and wide Was known his peerless deed.fT li ODTHE KEEPING OF THE Vow.rt hieThe Keeping of the Vow. A.D, 1330. ® ° . Kine Roserr Brucz is dying now, Heavily comes his breath, And that last strife ’twixt death and life Will soon be won by death ; Around his couch the liegemen stand ; ) \ < f They heave full many a sigh, | . . / ‘s In dire dismay and grief are they BE To know their liege must die. “Sir James of Douglas, come!” he cries, ‘ Hver wert thou my friend, And though we part, ’tis well thou art With me unto the end.% Sart aial io The Keeping of the Vow. “When great my need I vowed to God If He would grant to me That war’s surcease should bring us peace, And Scotland should be free, “ His blesséd banner I would bear To holy Palestine, With arms to quell the Infidel: Such was your King’s design. “Sore grieved am I that here I he— Death’s hand upon my brow— In vain, in vain, ’mid gnawing pain, Do I recall my vow. “Then promise me right faithfully, When I am laid at rest, That with my heart thou wilt depart To do my last behest!”The Keeping of the Vow. “My liege, I pledge my knightly word, Thy bidding shall be done, The work is sad, yet am I glad Such favour to have won! “Safe in my bosom shall thy trust Abide with me for ever, Unless, perchance, in peril’s hour, *T'were best that we should sever.” The king smiles faintly in reply— Then slowly droops his head, And on the breast of him he loved Robert the Bruce lies dead. % ss * * ¥ In fit array at break of day : 5 _ Doth Douglas soon depart, And in a casket carefully He keeps that Kingly Heart.i ee a IS ine The Keeping of the Vow. Crossing the main and sighting Spain, He joins the truceless war Of Moor and Christian—that fierce strife Which rages as of yore;” For here he knows that of a truth His devoir first should be, And with his host he swells the boast Of Spanish chivalry. The armies twain on Tebas’s plain Outspread—a goodly sight! Hager they wait with hope elate, Impatient for the fight ; The summer sunbeams on the shields Of warriors brightly glancing, Tllume the mail of many a man And many a charger prancing, And gallant crest that in the breeze Full gaily now is dancing ;The Keeping of the Vow. Hach Moslem there with scimitar, Upon his Arab horse, Moves with a calm, a fearless mien, Unswerving in his course, Lo here at length the stately strength The Cross and Crescent wield, As deadly foes now darkly close Upon this fatal field. The Spaniards’ stroke hath broken through The dense opposing line! Yet none the less both armies press Around their standard-sign, While many a Paynim once so proud Lies lifeless on the plain, And many a jennet of Castile Runs free with dangling rein, Re pe RG BND Lh AEa ne ge Nn ns bedSSS keene The Keeping of the Vow. First in the van the Douglas rides, With all his men-at-arms,— A worthy company are they To front the Paynim swarms, With bioody spur and loosened rein They break the stubborn foe, So swift the chase they scarce can trace The course by which they go, Till, looking back upon their track, The Paynim ranks they see Have closed them in, ’mid dust and din With shout of wolfish glee. “We find full late the danger great,” Sir Douglas cries, “return ! And charge the foe like Scots who know The rout at Bannockburn.The Keeping of the Vow. “Surely the men who conquered then Vain Edward’s mighty host Will never yield this sacred ° field Nor let the base Moor boast.” So, boldly speaking, quick he turns— He gallops to the rear— This dauntless quest through fierce unrest As gallant doth appear As his who braves the foam-flaked waves To succour one most dear. As Douglas passed the blows fell fast— Stern was the conflict wild, With steeds and men, who ne’er again Would rise, the field was piled. Yet, with his followers not a few, Now he has cleft his way With flashing eye and flashing blade Straight through the grim array,The Keeping of the Vow. Once more he glances round, and sees, | Still in the thickest fight, Walter St. Clair, his well-beloved, A very valiant knight. Licht at ae Ra ese we Full oft had they in tourney gay Their chargers deftly wheeled, Full oft were nigh in days gone by On many a battle field,— “ Ride to the rescue!” Douglas shouts, “Ride on, and do not spare, To save him from a woeful death Which of you will not dare!” Urging his horse with headlong force, He seeks to render aid, And many a tunic’s fold is cleft By his resistless blade ;The Keeping of the Vow. Yet is he left, of friends bereft, Swart foemen all around, Through the echoing strokes on helm and shield Of help there comes no sound. Now snatches he the jewelled casque Where lies the Heart he loves, (‘Tis strange to see how tenderly His mailed hand o’er it moves), And flings it forward, forward yet, With this his battle cry, “Pp I follow thee, or die!” With lifted lance he makes advance To where his treasure fell, Hach crash of blow—now fast, now slow— Like a rude requiem knell, ress on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont:Tae Ltt aT at. pp ar se Sea i ~ The Keeping of the Vow. And left alone, yet ne’er o’erthrown, He grapples with the foe, Until a sword-thrust piercing him At last doth lay him low. Then gallantly he struggles still, Half kneeling on the plain, And there, o’erwhelmed by many a wound, The peerless knight is slain. So died the chief, his life well lost In Scottish hero’s work, The stainless Douglas, he who sleeps In mossy Douglas kirk.THE BATTLE’S PAUSE.The Battle’s Pause. (An Imaginary Episode at Waterloo). [ Ar daybreak on a lonely sea Strange is the silence; heavily The louring clouds loom dim and dun, Till comes at length the far-off sun; Strange is the silence of the day Where waves are hushed in some fair bay ; Strange is the silence of the night Where throned in space the stars give light ; Strange is the silence that ofttimes Broods o’er the city’s shame and crimes ; Strange is the silence of the room Where lingering sickness hangs in gloom ;SSAA Sac 48 The Battles Pause. Strange is the silence after death Where anguished sound departs with breath ; But stranger is the silence when The moans are stilled of wounded men, Where stilled an instant are the cries That from wild scenes of strife arise As noise of rapid volleys cease,— As God grants here and there release,— As suddenly the senses yield To silence on the battle-field. iT In these fleet moments interposed Ere yet once more the foemen closed, In inner vision every man Lived o’er again his whole life’s span. Only of plunder many thought, But here and there was one who caughtThe Battles Pause. Swift glimpses, borne on Spirit-wings, Of God, of Heaven, of holy things— Who felt his courage no less high Because he was prepared to die. III One dreams of his betrothed in France, A dark-eyed girl with laughing glance, And wonders if he soon shall meet Her tender looks, her smile go sweet. “Ah, ma Lucille,” with tears he cries, “Fain would I see the glad surprise Break the calm gaze of your dear eyes, As with high hope I come once more, Unwounded from the field of war. Fain would I see your rippling curls, More precious than those lustrous pearls My gift to you—that sometimes deck E50. The Battles Pause. The stately beauty of your neck— That on your bosom rise and fall, White rivals of its whiteness, all Ficlipsed in utter loveliness. Fain would I see again that dress ; Its dainty hue of mellow brown Sets off the clustering curls that crown Your shapely head. Fain would I see The happy village revelry That joyous day which makes you mine— When underneath the ancient vine Around Saint Etienne’s porch we pass Just coming from the wedding Mass, And leaving near to the altar stair The curé with his silvery hair, Low kneeling now in holy prayer, To crave a blessing on us there,The Battle’s Pause. His guileless, gladsome, saintly soul As spotless as his pure white stole.” IV Another soldier sees a room O’ershadowed,by a partial gloom, As heavy curtains shade the hght From a wan sufferer’s weakened sight, And on a couch is seen a boy, Whose wasted face, all flushed with joy, i" Looks on a portrait, newly there, ‘a Of a tall youth with raven hair, 4 Clad in a garb of martial hue. [: And then in accents heartfelt, true, He speaks the words: ‘‘ Would that I too With my dear brother still could be Where Valour leads to Victory.”Skea we The Battles Pause. Vy A Scotsman here among “ The Greys ” Chafes inly now at war’s delays,— Would but the bugle sound the charge ! Would that he were once more at large Among the flying cuirassiers ! He knows no pity, knows no fears,— For him each instant passes slow Passed not in fight against the foe,— ’Tis hard o stand, nor give one blow— It suits his fiery humour ill To be a living target still, Nor use his good sword at his will. Near him “ The Inniskillings ” share A post of danger,—everywhere True soldiers they,—who greatly dare.The Battles Pause. VI Before an English soldier lie Down-trodden fields of wheat and rye, But his tired vision does not meet These blood-stained fields of rye and wheat. He sees not how his comrades here Reveal no sign of craven fear ; While they with bandaged hand or face, Still struggle on, nor quit their place. He sees not, as in many rifts The smoke of battle, rising, lifts, How everywhere all undismayed Still frm they stand as on parade, Although their thinning ranks disclose How hard with them the conflict goes. He sees the Mersey ; fresh and cool The east wind blows from Liverpool To Seacombe beach, where, loitering,D4 The Battles Pause. He stood one early morn of spring A month or two before. The day At first had seemed but chill and grey Till brilliant sunshine suddenly Had flooded all the estuary. For weeks the west wind had prevailed— No ship, if outward bound, had sailed ; But now the fickle wind had veered, And now the sailors’ hearts were cheered, While a whole fleet—a gallant show Of eager ships—was free to go. Full many a vessel, towards the bar — Across the waters near and far, Moves buoyantly. With what delight He looks upon the goodly sight Of canvas spread to catch the breeze That dances o’er the rippling seas ! How shapely are the skiffs which pass Between him and St. Nicholas ! How graceful is the distant town,The Battles Pause. Which gaily o’er the waves looks down ! Changed is the scene since ’mid the snow He saw it scarce a year ago. Then many a white and large ice-floe Reared its strange shape on every side, While tossing idly on the tide. Vil Another soldier sees his home Where whirls the wild Biscayan foam ; Where surges beat with sullen roar Upon a dreary pine olad shore. There his good mother yet must wait For many a month disconsolate, Waiting, still waiting for her child, With heavy heart unreconciled To his long absence—her distress At times most pitiful to guess.seeE i TTT A ee See Se 56 The Battle's Pause. He sees her in her peasant’s dress At household duties, at her door At eve and morning, evermore Thinking with heavy heart of him ; With unshed tears her eyes grow dim, Looking, aye looking constantly, Across the same sad, dreary sea. Again he hears the gleeful noise And chatter of the village boys, He even hears the sound once more Of sabots on a cottage floor. Again it seems that mournful day When he, alas, was called away ; Again he sees the fishing-boat That comes to bear him to the town; Again his home grows more remote As o'er the sea the sun goes down. Still he beholds his mother’s face, And still he feels her warm embrace, He knows her anguished doubts, her fears,The Battle’s Pause. And would-be smiles, he feels her tears. He hears the heaving waters nigh— He sees above, an angry sky, Dark, yet with streaks of mingled grey, Fading while swiftly dies the day. He passes to the gathering gloom As though to some impending doom ; Drear seems the earth, the sky, the main— He feels that Nature knows his pain. VIII A youthful soldier looked around Upon the ghastly battle ground. He was a conscript, ne’er before Had he beheld the face of War, He saw not all its deeps of pain, For former scenes arose again, Once more he was a child at play,58 The Battle's Pause. In that steep village street which lay, Crag-perched, ’mid tree-boles gnarled and grey With age. It was the close of day. Was that the church he knew of old, That the rude cross where he was told The story of the ancient time So full of mystery, lust, and crime ? Ah, how he loved yon olive wood, To him how sweet its solitude, How oft on many a summer night He watched from there the fading light, Till grew more bright and yet more bright The distant lamps of great Marseilles, And when at length the daylight fails, Fair seem the stars, fair seems the sea, Ah, how at once his memory Brings back for him these moonlit hours ’Mid fragrance of the orange flowers. Fresh is the air, and soft and still, Save when the mistral brings its chill.The Battle's Pause. Once more he feels the morning breeze Which gently curls the azure seas Around his father’s fishing-boat, That like a live thing seems to float. Lovely it looks with dark brown sail, Outspread to catch each gentle gale. And when the noontide comes at length The crew refresh their waning strength By frugal meal, or merry jest, By games, or cheerful talk, or rest. One man had fought where waned the star Of France in fight off Trafalgar ; Another speaks of Austerlitz, And shows the combat as he sits. With eager words, with eyes aflame, He tells the tale, ‘‘ The Emperor came To our right flank when sore distressed : We needed succour, needed rest, Yet better was his presence then Than of a thousand untired men,”’TTT attr) je etal ie 60 The Battles Pause. So, early stirred the martial fire In the boy’s breast—the fond desire To win the soldier’s honoured name, To win the soldier’s meed of fame. To him an order comes ere long To join the army; ’mid a throng Of youths he gains a barrack square, Strange seems the ceaseless bustle there. Here well-groomed horses drink their fill ; Here is an active squad at drill ; Here words of gaiety he hears ; And here a mother stands in tears ; Here stands a veteran hale, erect, In garb that points to no neglect, Though he has marched full many a mile, In blazing sunshine all the while, A faultless soldier he has been, No chance of war could change his mien ;The Battles Pause. Here stands a youth with shambling gait, In soldier’s dress, yet unelate, With stupid look, and vacant face, As though his garb were some disgrace ; Here agile gunners clean a gun; And here, his day’s work nearly done, A driver of the army train Brings in his store of food and grain. The conscript thinks with what glad heart In scenes like these he took a part. With joy his boy’s heart overflows, He longs to smite his country’s foes, Of what he leaves he scarce takes heed, Civilian clothes he doffs with speed, To him his uniform brings life, He thinks of glory in the strife. He thinks, as now the sun goes down, Of lasting honour and renown ; To him War is not sad, but strange— It gives him motion, stir, and change.Poe Tt tT + Rie oe The Battle’s Pause. Through all the long, the happy marches Across Provence, now bright with spring, He sees the gay triumphal arches, He hears once more the joy-bells ring. And then one day, through beat of drums, He hears the cry, ‘‘ The Emperor comes,” ‘““The Emperor comes ”’—on every side They pass the word with looks of pride. Each soldier feels his courage rise, Fresh pleasure sparkles in his eyes, And while he stands the more upright, Sees his accoutrements are bright, And hopes his bayonet, sword, or lance Will seem to that all-piercing glance As sword or bayonet ought to look. For who could bear the sharp rebuke Or face his comrades’ words or jeers, Or worse, his comrades’ covert sneers,The Battles Pause. At one the Emperor deigned to chide ? An hour has gone ; the corps espied The staff approaching, near a wood. It stood to arms. Kind Nature’s mood Was peaceful: there the stock-dove coo’d ; The dreamer sees one purple flower, Which decked the spot that sunny hour. ‘“The Emperor is an altered man Since Leipsic,” says a veteran. And yet the great Napoleon seems The ideal of a soldier’s dreams, As now he passes on his course, Erect upon his snow-white horse Amid his marshals. Soult and Ney, Heroes of many a well-fought day, Ride near him now, in gayest trim. They jest, and sometimes speak with him— Yet never seem to lose the sense—64: The Battles Pause. lf Of that strange man’s strange influence— Eee f that magnetic, cruel power By which Napoleon, hour by hour, Until his fiery race was run, fy a ee oe Remorselessly swayed every one. | Firm are his lips, stern are his eyes— I Hard eyes, where naught of gladness hes ; TiN Yet signs there are of wasting life, Wasting through care and lust of strife, That drooping lip, that haggard cheek, Of pain, of ebbing force, they speak, But none, save veterans here and there, Perceive his chill, his altered air ; The troops, o’erjoyed to see his face, See in his glance a sign of grace: His presence cures their every ill, 1» And ‘ Vive ’Empereur!” their shont is still.The Battles Pause. IX A tranquil, sunlit village green Sees one young Englishman : between A row of elms he catches sight Of one dear cottage ; to the right Lies the grey rectory, and beyond Old Farmer Granger’s ricks and pond, Just where the high road quickly dips. Here as a child he sailed his ships, While loafers from the alehouse near Gladdened his heart by words of cheer, And showed him how to set his sail, To woo the soft, the favouring gale. * * * * He sees again the long sea beach A mile or two from home; the reach The farm-folk call the Little Broad Gleams in the sun, while boys applaud. EFsient tt Tat at) uct ES NY op dg 66 The Battles Pause. His feats of strength; or on the sea Perchance he rows right merrily, While myriad skylarks, singing, soar Above the sand cliffs on the shore ; Or looking seaward from the land He views the sunset vague and grand. xX A Frenchman thinks with many a fear Of his one sister—very dear Is she to him, a girl most fair. He sees e’en now her dark-brown hair, And inly speaks, “‘ Herself a flower She hawks sweet blossoms hour by hour Through many a parched Parisian street, Gladly, though oft with toil-worn feet. Tis she who wins the daily bread And shelter for my father’s head,The Battles Pause. Since age and sickness disallow Him strength to earn his living now; While J, who should have been their Without appeal am forced away, Simply because some men—whose aims I do not know and scarce their names— Have fixedly resolved on Way. And I—one of their human store— Am made to face death at their will Till kings and emperors have their fill,” How strange are we! he who so dreamed And all unpatriotic seemed, When fierce again began the strife, Fought with the best—cared not for life. The vision changes, and he sees The comely, the belovéd trees That droop in summer’s sultry blaze, Along the white Parisian ways. In one old street he sees a spot Stay,68 The Battles Pause. Shaded by lime-trees : there is not A cooler nook, and side by side An old man and a maid abide In sweet affectionate converse there, To rest, to breathe its fresher air. "Tis those he loves, and for a space He treads himself that well-known place, So keen his inner sight. And soon His sister starts through afternoon Long hours, and near the Tuileries She stays, then moves along the quays. She is yo fair, so pure, so sweet, She seems to gladden all the street. And many glance at her, and smile ; They note her brave looks all the while, They know her toil of every day, Toil such as wears her youth away. And one, an honest artisan, A homely, upright, thrifty man,The Batile’s Pause. Poring o’er some long-cherished plan, Passing, thinks, ““ Would she were my wife, Happy were I though hard my life.” And with a Frenchman’s frugal care He saves, and saving, dreams of her. Although from childhood’s earliest days She knew the drear Parisian ways (Gay to the rich, drear to the poor), From every harm she walks secure, From virtue none her steps allure. In thought, in actions, she is good, Kindness her constant habitude. She raises soft and pleading eyes With something of a chaste surprise At many a word, at many a sight, That comes to her by day, by night. All innocence without, within, She sees, yet sees not, all their sin. a aTE TL IL. > eee ae ees - The Battles Pause. XI Thus runs each hapless soldier’s dream In that short pause—that restful gleam Of blesséd peace. But, hark, there comes The gathering roll of distant drums Beating the charge, and then the sound Of musketry. Men gaze around Half in surprise—then hear again The clash of arms, the cry of pain, The wounded horse’s neigh ; and so Fateful with pain the gaunt hours go.The Death of Captain Hunt.’ January 8th, 1761. THE watch on board the Unicorn Look out at dawn of light, The sails are here, the sails at last! The Frenchman heaves in sight. And swiftly now the order comes To give the Frenchman chase, The Frenchman who is lost, we know, If we can win the race. Hurrah! the coward’s flight is vain, The ships are drawing nigh, Hach man prepares to win the fight-— To win the fight or die.a SLi 72 The Death of Captain Hunt. And soon the cannons’ smoke and boom Are rolling all around, Through two fierce hours of clangorous strife Is heard the deadly sound; Wild scene of strange delirious joy, Yet desolating woe, For now a shot our captain fells, And he is borne below. Two seamen gently bear him down, And while the surgeon tries To bind his wound, he looks on us With tender, pitying eyes. The strife ne’er stays—the bearers bring Another blood-stained man. “Surgeon,” our captain says at once, “Go, save him if you can.The Death of Captain Hunt. “My wound is mortal; thus for me Your care is all in vain, Not so with him, then use your power To ease his heavier pain.” & a *% & ® Soon ebbed our captain’s tide of life— hort was the time for him— Yet still his constant mind was clear Although his eyes grew dim. And in a while his heart was glad For we had won the day, His noble heart was satisfied— His spirit passed away.The Loss of H.M.S. “ Victoria.” June 22nd, 1893. x Let England mourn for these her gallant sons, Who, seeing death was certain, yet remained Steadfast to duty, all unconsciously Grown to be heroes,—mourn for them whose souls, Fired with immortal courage, conquered fear. Let England grieve with them who, silent, weep A loss irreparable with bitter tears. Let England grieve for him who, though he erred Soon felt perchance, in feeling he had erred, An agony more great than death itself. * % 4 * Let England still rejoice, for now she knows, Though Time and Science change the face of war he stuff of English hearts they cannot change.Queen Victoria. Obiit., January 22nd, Igor. The musician Grief With mystic power hath played upon the heart, And, through the heart, hath opened wide the door Of that most sacred sanctuary—the soul. Each of us is an instrament; and each Is, in some notes at least, diversely strung From all our fellows ; yet in this we know One harmony of universal love. We seem to see The wintry woods around thy “ palace walls ” Above the tossing Channel, fraught with much a a a76 Queen Victoria. Of Britain’s story, and we think of him, Thy friend, our Tennyson, whose “clear call” brought ‘“‘ No moaning of the bar.” No more, no more Shall thy loved Scotland know thy kindly face Among her hills and glens; nor shalt thou join Again in her dear customs; or in these Religious rites of hers, homely and sweet. Once we remembered that thou wert for us The mighty Personage whose reign hath seen A grandeur greater even than the days Of Shakespeare and of Ralegh; that to thee We owed wise counsel, fruit of toilsome hours Of patient thought, and converse with the men Of genius who have graced our commonwealth For three and sixty years ; a queen whose realms Rich with the spoils of Science, had grown strongQueen Victoria. With valiant Colonies which girt the world. To-day we deem that thy long, blameless life Hath aided, under God, our race to grow The noblest on this earth, And now, and now For thee we pray not; for ourselves we pray : With thee ’tis well.PICTURES OF TRAVEL.Palms by Moonlight at Alicante. Patms by moonlight! waving palms, How the thought of you embalms In memory still the spot whereon I saw you last! Softly, wonderfully clear On that night did you appear Whose blissful hours, swift-winged, too soon, too soon, were past. Here the eye could range at will, And of beauty take its fill, Beauty so rare it soothed as soothes a heay’n-sent dream— Or a mellow Eastern tale Where the genii ride the gale And glide among such trees on many a moonlight gleam.82 Palms by Moonlight at Alicante. For the strange ethereal sight Thrilled me with a new delight, While still the full-orbed moon o’er leaf o’er feathery bough From a sky of purest blue Silver glory gently threw. Then rapturous visions came I know not whence or how— Visions, sweet and kind, that stole Through my hush’d and happy soul To strive against their power had been a vain endeavour, And, with ravished eye and heart, Wished I never to depart, Looking, I longed to live, and see these sights for ever.Joao to Constanca. (A Lesté® sunrise in Madeira.) YonveEr flush across the sea, Brings the morning back to me When you seemed to lend the lieht That dispersed the lingering night; When I heard your step, and knew Joy of joy! ’twas surely you; When I turned and saw your face, i: Saw you glide with girlish erace ; | : ; Though before my heart was moved Then it was that first I loved. > Rosy cloudlets, lately dun, Seemed as now to hide the sun ;A aS ee pan ese he pa te > Joao to Constanga. Other cloudlets seemed to stana Ready waiting his command. Brighter, brighter grew the group, Every tint was in the troop, Red, and blue, and rich maroon, Fleecy white appearing soon, As at length we plighted troth, Hallowed moments for us both. O’er the peaks the vapoury shrouds Shifted with the shifting clouds ; Faintly purpled clouds were spread O’er the peaceful ocean’s bed ; Clouds empurpled now, and orand, Cast a halo o’er the land. Bvery bird and opening flower Felt the gladness of the hour, As the gentle landward breeze Stirred the tall banana-trees.Jodo to Constanca. You remember how the day, While dawn’s freshness wore away, 4 Took a dimmer purple hue As the clouds were changed anew, You remember how we walked, You remember how we talked, How, beneath this trellised vine, Oft you told me you were mine, Each remembrance makes more clear All the debt I owe you, dear.Francisca to Jaspear: A Madeiran Idyl. Tun rich—the rich alone—may dream of death As solace for their sorrow, not the poor. Whate’er their grief, the poor have work to do Tf they would not behold their dear ones starve. Now were I dead there’s none to pluck the fruit And sort it on our stall o’ market days, Mother is ill, and through the scorching hours Father is busy ’mid the sugar-canes. Tt seems but yesterday since you and I, Happy with thoughts of coming happiness, Lived in the future, for the pleasant years Stretched all before us, fraught with all the joyFrancisca to Jaspear. That only love which changes not can give. Never shall I forget how once we sat Here where the orange-trees yield grateful shade, As with fond eyes of truth you told to me Once and again the sweet familiar tale That ever to a maiden’s heart is new. Far, far beneath me, shimmering in the sun, Were palms with shapely branches, outlined now More clearly by the strong light pouring down, And nearer, on the left, an avenue Of red and white camellias full in flower Formed one long vista filled with varying hues, While countless clustering vines and citron trees Gleamed in a rare, a radiant mingled glow Of gorgeous colour. The banana-trees, Hach with its fragrant load of luscious fruit, The graceful guavas with their light-green leaves, The loquats with their deeper verdant tints,eet tae, A Rt Siete tes 88 Francisca to Jaspear. The stately yam-trees with their blossoms white, Stood forth in all their loveliness together. Delightful was it, when the sun declined, To loiter with you as the breath of night Conquered the sultry ardour of the day ; To see the moon rise over silent seas ; To see the summer heavens, now decked with stars, Vie with the shafts of distance-mellowed light From many a cottage on the lone crag-sides In making a rich girdle round the bay; To hear the soft machéte® play some air Of gayest sound, perhaps a mazy dance. Alas! alas for me, such hours of bliss Can nevermore return, for you are dead. Good were it if I lay where you are laid In that fair spot where one may hear the waves Break idly on the shingle beach below Tn noontide heat when scarce a lizard stirs ;Francisca to Jaspear. Where scented roses cling around the tombs Still blooming on throughout the sunny year. Yes, mother, I am coming, you must look At these my oranges, fresh plucked and ripe, And at my custard apples, they will be The finest in the market-place to-day.Christmas in the Summer Sunshine. (Funchal, Madeira.) CHRISTMAS in the summer sunshine! O how 4 wonderful it seems,— Dowered with gladness are its moments, realizing poet-dreams, While its moments hasten from me, how I wish F | they came to stay,— How I wish their guileless pleasure nevermore might pass away. Softly play around my forehead breathings of the seaward breeze, | As it stirs the swaying branches of the palms and orange-trees,—Christmas in the Summer Sunshine. 9] Asit stirs the cactus growing on the gaunt uprising cliffs Hanging o’er the gleaming ocean dotted with the fishing skiffs. Nature here with slightest tendance grants her gifts of loveliest hue— Gives among the vine-clad ridges wild-flowers purple, golden, blue,— Here azaleas, rich gardenias ope their blossoms to the air, With the rose and trained geranium—whose wild types are also fair. Pure and calm the moonlight radiance for the people as they pass On the eve of merry Christmas to and from the midnight mass ; While the jocund serenaders through the balmy hours of night92 Christmas in the Summer Sunshine. By their songs and sprightly music often bring a brief delight. Ha 10 Christmas in the summer sunshine! neither frost 5 i nor snow is here, Buoyant health can welcome winter but it fills the i | sick with fear— Here the sick with friends around them spend a f cheerful Christmas day, } Thinking of but seldom pining for a chill home far away.Verses On a vase filled with sub-tropical flowers grown in the open air at Madeira, in December. Mosr beauteous flowers! Come ye to tell of summer hours, Of balmy breezes—lengthened days, Of warblers’ blithesome lays ? Thus come ye not, Hor not in summer lies your lot, No lengthened days attend your birth Nor birds with vocal mirth.| 94 Verses on a Vase filled with Flowers. Yet gentle gales Are near, and sunshine still prevails, As in frail loveliness ye lie Too soon, alas! to die. Ah fair, how fair, Here Nature working everywhere,— if If winter thus it makes to me, What must the spring-time be! And yet, although Each plant delights in southern glow, Upon no zephyr is there spent One breath of subtle scent. Tis England’s flowers— The lily and rose of English bowers— Retain the perfume and the glow: These blossoms only blow.Verses on a Vase filled with Flowers. "Tis England’s spring Whose every floweret seems to bring New sweets to blend with every breeze Among the budding trees. Yet ’tis a power, This glory of each plant and flower, To make the poet’s heart rejoice And sing with gladsome voice. The poet feels— Yet rarely even he reveals— The restful store of blissful thought Such flowers to him have brought.On the Road to Camara de Lobos, Madeira. January, 18—. Tux sun that is setting afar in the west Tn raiment of glory goes down to his rest, And, like a young maiden who wishes good-bye To the lover when leaving her, blushes the sky ; How fair is the picture as now in the west Tn raiment of glory the sun goes to rest. The clouds in apparel of sunset appear, Apparel of beauty while Evening draws near, While calmly they watch o’er the sleep of the sea Unstirred by the breezes. How wondrous to me Is the peace of the picture, as now in the west In raiment of glory the sun goes to rest. oS oSOn the Road to Camara de Lobos. 97 How peerless and perfect God’s painting appears, His delicate work never fades with the years ; His painting now quiet, now wild beyond speech, Man only can copy, man never can reach In grandeur. So thought I, as now in the west In raiment of glory the sun goes to rest.sunday Morning off Mazagan, Morocco. A magic city Fancy-dight, Thou seem’st this tranquil Sabbath day, i Strange town all glittering, treeless, white, Begirt with sand and seething spray— Lit by the sun whose rays reveal Kach flat-roofed Orient dwelling-place,— Hach stately mosque, each well whose wheel A camel turns with tireless pace. Dark Moors in their fantastic dress, In haste to reach us, leave the shore,— They make the distance less and less, So strong the stroke of each long oar.Sunday Morning off M. azagan. 99 Now they have reached us and with pride Disdain the aid the steps afford, Bare feet from heel-less slippers glide, And, cat-like, quick they spring on board. All speak at once, with gestures quaint, And few but in an unknown tongue, Those in the boats take up the plaint, And on the deck still more have sprung. A single ship is in the bay Besides our own,—no others ride At anchor. And she goes her way— But not until to-morrow’s tide. And from her mizen-mast there floats— Dear sight to every British heart— That flag whose mingled hue denotes A union naught should ever part.100 Sunday Morning off Mazagan. A welcome standard! ’tis a sign— A welcome sign—that some are here Who worship at a common shrine, Who pray like me—like me revere.On Looking up the Vale of Cauterets, Hautes Pyrénées, by Night. Tove night is here, In outline soft I see A vista through the gloom, where, mirrored clear, Gleam rock and peak and tree. The mountain forms In solemn grandeur rise, Each summit still the strength of countless storms For countless years defies. The dark-green pines Clothe all the slopes around—+ 102 The Vale of Cauterets by Night. How lone these slopes on which each cold star shines ! Nor doth a single sound Invade the calm,— Or by its presence change The sense of vastness, soothing like a balm, From heaven so new and strange.The Southern Night. (The Valley of the Gave de Pau.) Ax! lovelier comes the southern night Than night of northern skies, Where tedious twilight mocks the flight Of day that slowly dies— Here placid Evening’s starry veil O’er all is swiftly cast— Here peace seems wafted on the gale— And care awhile is past. In southern summer’s mellow night How sweet it is to stray "Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight Make fairer far than day!The Southern Night. How fair the widely stretching woods That gird the spacious plain, While watchful Silence, queen-like, broods | O’er them in sombre reign— : / | How fair the river’s crystal thread, | Seen faintly from afar, ! As silvery starlight now is shed 1 From many a tranquil star. In southern summer’s mellow night How sweet it is to stray "Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight Make fairer far than day! How fair the crested mountains lie, Distant, yet wondrous clear, Uprising tier on tier ;— : | Their snow-capt peaks against the sky | How fair the sleeping landscape seems, While here and there are heardThe Southern N: aght. Sounds bringing Music’s richest dreams Or laughter-laden word. In southern summer’s mellow night How sweet it is to stray *Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight Make fairer far than day !Lines: f Suggested by seeing, at the summit of the SimplIon | Pass, a stone, fragment of some rude ancient carving, brought perhaps from a neighbouring valley for road-making purposes. The stone had lain doubtless fora long time near the spot where I saw it. How strange perchance have been, quaint carven stone, | { ° e ° | Your harsh vicissitudes, how came you here? Change spares not even you, though you have known | No soul-distress, nor Sorrow’s blinding tear, Nor deep unutterable heart-wrought fear.Lines. 107 Did you of some calm shrine once form a part Where vesper hymns arose at close of day, Where lovers true were linkéd heart to heart, And humble villagers approached to pray, Then, rising, went refreshed upon their way P And did fierce war destroy your place of peace When some forgotten skirmish happened there Ere yet the Austrian yoke was made to cease By famed Marengo?” Bullets did not spare The lowly church, and fire soon laid it bare. Maybe, when fickle Time had brought neglect, When reverence was a thing of long ago, : When none in all the hamlet had respect For its old ruined fane, they came to throw Its remnants thus away, and used you so. Near you, must oft have wandered weary men ‘Mid dire storm-battles fought on wintry nights ;—108 Tines. Near you, perchance, have happened now and then More wondrous deeds, more awe-inspiring sights Than sages know in whom the world delights. What mighty tempests must have passed you by When ’mid the riven mountains thunder pealed, And storm-clouds came apace athwart the sky In mad career, while Nature half revealed The grandeur of the tumult, half concealed Its majesty and power. The silent snows Must oft have lain upon you, when the hands Of Winter framed his lofty couch, and chose His glacier lairs—when all the higher lands Loomed ghastly, shuddering at his dread com- mands In solemn midnight hours when callous stars Shine down on snow-drifts, on the glaciers lone, And on snow-laden pines: when nothing marsThat spectacle to human eyes scarce known, Where Nature rears ’mid rocks her frost-bound throne. Yet are you broken now to make a road— Fallen from your pristine state, and haply too You will be worthless in your chill abode, And shrink from man’s unfeeling, heedless view In your smail nook, ignoble, poor, and new.In the New Forest. Most clear! most fair! The swelling woodland lies, Stretching in leafy glory everywhere Before my wondering eyes. Here mighty oaks, Stalwart, and vast, and strong, A thousand years have faced the tempest’s strokes— Have been the home of song. Here wave the boughs Of tall and sombre pines, 9 Here stands “the temple of beeches,” made for VOWS Of love when softly shinesIn the New Forest. The summer moon. Here tremulous branches sway Of sun-lit birches,—on the sward at noon Their shadows seem at play. I linger still In this sweet solitude, Wishing my care-sick mind could taste at will The healing sylvan mood.After Sunset off Pauillac. (Gironde.) Tus day is gone, but yonder fading streaks Of light still fleck the bosom of the sky. Swart Night comes swiftly. Hark, that sound | bespeaks My nearness to the ocean, ‘tis the cry | Of some belated sea-bird, and I hear The ripples at my feet. A low sweet song | Monotonous, yet musical and clear, | Is breeze-borne from a vessel’s deck along. The crew raise anchor quickly, and away She glides into the gloom, while growing lowAfter Sunset off Pauillac. And ever lower sounds the roundelay. W hat now may be her fortune none can know. Like her, o’er Life’s strange, trackless sea we sail, Nov know if calm or tempest will prevail,Evening in the Forest of Meudon. i} / (Seine et Oise). ReruRNING sometimes from the fields of sleep, ] I seem to see that twilight once again, That twilight as mysterious, rich, and deep, As yonder blackbird’s strain. l see the sombre loveliness around ; I feel the sense of awe, the enthralling peace, gle Of Nature’s woodland silence, for no sound i i | Makes here that silence cease. Anon I see the waters of the lake Gleam in the last hues of the sunset glow, y While here and there the lazy cattle slake Their thirst, and homeward go.Livening in the Forest of Meudon. 115 But hear, O hear, that sudden burst of song, At last it is the full-voiced nightingales ! While mellow cuckoos sing, and so prolong Music as daylight fails. * # * * Long hours have passed, and man and beast and bird Rest ; yet my heart is filled with pure delight; And lo, a single nightingale is heard Amid the moouless night.| iY Wild Roses and Snow. (Basses Pyrénées.) How sweet the sight of roses In English lanes of June, When every flower uncloses To meet the kiss of noon. How strange the sight of roses— Roses both sweet and wild— Seen where a valley closes "Mid mountain heights up-piled Upon whose sides remaining Is strewn the purest snow, By its chill power restraining The tide of Spring’s soft glow.Wild Roses and Snow. Yet God who gave the pureness To yon fair mountain snow, Gives also the secureness Whereby these roses blow.capt ar “ wa a! At Sea—Off the Mouth of the Garonne—Sunset. A twitit halo gilds the troubled sky, And gilds the heaving waters far and nigh ; About me here is some strange loveliness Which, as the shadows deepen, grows not less. Hark! Now, not once or twice, but o’er and o’er, In solemn grandeur comes the deep-voiced roar Of strong Atlantic surges; where I stand I look, but see no welcome speck of land. How beautiful is youder distant sail Illumined yet; but soon my eyes must fail To trace its further course, for it will be Lost in the glory of the sunset sea.Off the Mouth of the Garonne. 119 And as I gaze, and gaze, dim thoughts arise— Thoughts of Man’s destiny ; these callous skies Seem types of earthly cruelty, and now The sea, like man, is sad—I know not how. The air is still; no wingéd wanderer cleaves The silence in his flight, as Night receives Hre long her stately queen the crescent moon, fi Whose glimmering beams show all the billows soon.Sao snipers eta nna Near St. Sauveur. (Hautes Pyrénées.) Lo, what a glorious prospect is revealed— Mountains and snow, and pine-trees beauty-clad ! Upon the sloping sides of monarch heights Reposes gracefully a misty veil In wreaths almost transparent; but ev’n now Its mass divides, and clear against the sky Rises each giant summit, calm and grand, Proud that its lone, its vast, its God-wrought strength Defies so long decay. I needs must feel Nature is great, and Man is impotent, Yet still how much his art hath made increase To this rare store of beauty. Each small patchNear St. Sauveur. Perceived upon the mountain side, reclaimed From barren wilderness, what power it hath To cheer the eye. To me it often scems As though no prospect reached perfection till It showed some kindly trace of human toil.On the Lake of Geneva. A sILvERN haze is over all. At hand Are gently swaying poplars, rippling larches, And firmly rooted firs, while further off Gleam azure waters of the waveless lake. Beyond again are mountains ; not, as oft, Gaunt snow-capped monarch peaks, but bright with verdure. The rocks throw shadows quaint upon the grass ; White chdlets peep among the clustering vines Gay boats glide smoothly on with placid sails Widely outspread.RELIGIOUS POEMS.To Christina Rossetti. Great as a Poet, greater as a Woman. (Died December zgth, 1894.) I marvet not that God hath called away Thy peerless soul to where His saints abide ; Rather I praise Him that He bade thee stay On earth so long—to be a heavenward guide.A Sunrise in Early Summer. Wy I Now lagging black-browed Night at last is ) gone, And fair and happy Dawn at length is here. | How sweet the sights which now I look upon— The sights of summer beauty growing clear ! | The meadows yonder and the lawn appear | Glittering with dewdrops—dewdrops silvery, white, Touched by the sun’s first beams; while far and nearA Sunrise in Early Summer, 127 Hach bird, each flower awakes, and hails the sight Of coming morn: to them like me it brings delight. Nt ‘To eastward hes a mass of sable cloud Made glorious by the rising sun, who flings His rays athwart its depths. I hear the loud Yet mellow thrush’s note—a blackbird sings With sudden burst of song—a lark up-springs From that wide field of wheat; so more and more Sounds Nature’s orchestra of myriad strings. I watch the apple-bloom, while May-bnds pour On all the gentle air their matchless, fragrant store.co Clatiemadas aks: | e 128 A Sunrise in Early Summer. a | II O, who at sunrise could be aught but glad— Sunrise, the prototype of perfect day, When we shall wake to bliss, nor weak nor sad, bar And, feeling swiftly the seraphic ray From God’s effulgence, cast the fears away Which still cleave to us, and with rapturous soul Know that black Trouble can no longer stay In His blest presence—know the precious goal Where all Harth’s grievous wounds are made for ever whole.Her Boy Just Dead. (A Mother Speaks.) My darling dead ! Is all the long endeavour To vanquish Death in vain ? These wistful eyes, a) : So Truth-illumed and loving, will they never Check by a look again my futile sighs ? And shall I weep—although for him the gladness Of this world’s many pleasures now is o’er, | And I am left with this my load of sadness, a Which here on earth is mine for evermore ?ph 130 Her Boy Just Dead. A cripple’s lot' were his, had he, remaining, Here ta’en his part where grief and care are a) rife— Little of sinless happiness obtaining, I Feeling all miseries of earthly life. To shorten that hard period of probation Given to such as he so often here— To raise him soon to an immortal statiou Where comes no thoughtless word, no taunt, me jeer The Master, in His mercy, gently made him Fitter among His ransomed ones to be— And day by day more perfectly arrayed him In His own peerless robe of purity.Her Boy Just Dead. Then shall I cherish an abiding sorrow For him whom God in goodness calls away P Nay, rather let me muse on that blest morrow Which joins in bliss our severed souls for aye.a ciieninsgegee ne mS Miracles. Curist’s wondrous miracles were signs indeed Of wondrous power; yet every miracle Of His had moral purpose, and was wrought To show this moral purpose: and perchance Thus is it that no longer we possess The power to do such deeds. Had you or I Such gifts, we still should heal unceasingly, Nor judge of the effects were cures but made. Where then would be God’s discipline of pain ? Where His just government of all His world ? Where then would be His discipline of sorrow ?On a Present Crisis in the Church of England. Who would have deemed the days would come When Superstition’s blighting force ( 4 ’ In this our land would take its course Unchecked, condoned, no longer dumb ? This land where many a Smithfield fire Blazed three short centuries ago, And where “‘ the Babylonian woe ”’ Milton denounced with thunderous lyre. Three centuries ago our race (3 Saw God-like Truth, and loved her well ; No visitant, she came to dwell With us; and England took her place134 On a Present Crisis. First of the nations ; glorious youth Her dower, and on her queenly brow God’s seal of peace. God grant her now Once more a sight of God-like Truth. London, February 26th, 1899.AEN POT ee ee rn cite me EB i God’s Peace. ‘* The peace of God which passeth all understanding.” Phil. iv. 7. How oft amid the griefs of life— i Perplexed, misjudged, distressed—~ O God, I waver in the strife, ea | sg And long and ery for rest. : How oft I feel—so great my need, My courage so outworn— As though my griefs were now indeed iY : Greater than could be borne. Yet oft will come in times like these— Come like a gracious balm— A sense of peace, of joy, of ease, A sense of heaven’s own calm.God’s Peace. Ah! then my heart would fain express What I have felt before— "Tis not I feel my griefs are less— I feel Thy love is more. And some are here, O God, to-day, Here with their voiceless grief, O give the aid for which they pray, O give such sweet relief, O give Thy peace, Thy calm, Thy joys, Here as they humbly bow— Such gifts nor Time nor Change destroys, Give them, and give them now.A Rallying Song. Sometimes trustful, often fearful, In this world of shifting wrong ; Sometimes joyful, often tearful, Still be this our rallying song— Aye, in sadness And in gladness, Nobly act, for God is strong. When, oppressed by deep soul-sorrow,, Life beneath the darkest skies Seems so drear that no to-morrow Holds a threat of worse surprise— In such sadness As in gladness Nobly act, for God is wise.A Rallying Song. When our souls are tried, and tempted Some ignoble end to buy, From the coward’s bonds exempted, Let us resolutely cry— Evil sow not, That it grow not, Nobly act, for God is nigh.Morning Thoughts. SWEET-VOICED songsters softly singing Tell me of a day begun, Its appointed portion bringing Of the duty to be done. Last day’s deeds are gone for ever,— Seems it not most passing strange Their results remain, and never Can be touched by time or change? Like a child, his pebble throwing From the streamlet’s sedgy marge, Marking not the ripples growing Though they one by one enlarge—Morning Thoughts. ih So, with influence still increasing, a Widening o’er Life’s mystic sea, Man deals out his actions,—ceasing Only with Hternity. \; Many yesterday, unthinking, Chose the road which leads to night,— While a few, with souls unshrinking, | Chose the pathway of the light. Thus I muse with deep emotion Whilst the moments melt away — Muse upon the boundless ocean Of the issues of to-day.A Song of Comfort. Nor always have we sorrow, there are seasons When buoyant joy dispels all dreams of ruth— Times when our thoughts of sorrow seem but treasons To king-like Truth. Not always are we vext by cares and troubles,— Often the griefs of life appear no more— Vanished, as on a lake the rain-drop bubbles, When showers are o'er. Not always feel we that our hopes are blighted ; A glad fruition will they often gain, When we perceive the good are aye requited Who conquer pain. Z x PRO eet ate fot a SNOT ET ee Sarai egg en Se St ae eT BE a in eee eS ed eee ees a EST ee ee nw pons = (Fiatker eres Be ila142 A Song of Comfort. Not always should we grieve, each tribulation Is sent to purify—to raise the soul, To fit it for its glorious destination— A heavenly goal.The Balance of Life. ’T'rs false to say the world, though sad, Hath no redeeming feature, ’Tis false to say the world, though glad, Can hold no hopeless creature. The darkest life has oft a ray Of sunshine on the morrow, The brightest life has many a day Whose hours are filled with sorrow. No life with ceaseless grief is fraught, None with all bliss and beauty, By varied teaching are we taught The way to walk in duty.The Balance of Life. {f happy be our earthly lot, And free of Sorrow’s burden, Greater the need to linger not ;— Our work shall have its guerdon : Yet richer guerdon comes to those | Whom heay’n hath not exempted i From pain, who quell the self-same foes Although more sorely tempted. Fach grief that sweeps across the heart, Tf sinless be its sadness, In Life’s long lesson bears a part And yields us future gladness.‘‘Lord, Teach us to Pray.” Luke xi. 1. A DARK enigma is our life Without Thy guiding ray ; Then calm, O Christ, its sordid strife By teaching us to pray. Prayer is Heaven’s torch when doubts and fears With darkness cloud our way,— Its holy radiance guides and cheers,— What peace it brings to pray ! Oft lies our path through pain and woe While in Karth’s night we dwell, Yet prayer is still a ight to show That aye Thou leadest well; L“Lord, Teach us to Pray.” So when Life’s mysteries distress, And Sorrow bars our way, We plead that Thou wouldst make it less By teaching us to pray.Holy Quietude. Sprrir of holy quietude, ; | For thee my soul is sighing— For thee in many a mournful mood My soul is blindly crying— But still a voice comes softly clear, “That spirit seldom cometh here.” Spirit of holy quietude, While, weary, I am breasting Life’s waves, bring with thee all things goc Deep peace, and joy, and resting :— Yet still the voice— No, never here Doth she thy soul would find appear.”Holy Quictude. | | | | Spirit of holy quietude, ae Grant me a single token— Show me that Life’s long conflict rude Put i By gleams of peace is broken ; } But the voice whispers in mine ear, ba “That spirit never dwelleth here.” Spirit of holy quietude, 4 Mine earthly course is ending, Now let thy peace within me brood, Sin’s strongest fetters rending ; “In heaven,” the voice says at my side— ‘In heaven alone doth she abide.” a cae SeTO A WORKER AMONG THE POOR.To a Worker among the Poor. Covurace like yours has still a mighty power To purify the mind from hour to hour, To permeate with thrilling force the soul, To give new confidence, new self-control, To make each faulty faculty so clear That, though you plainly see the danger near, You scorn to dread it—scorn to turn aside, Duty your first, your chief, your only guide. i = os Leo secre 2 Sie Ses " oe een =" ¢ ¥ peepee pe ol See Ae See eee we. Sa nc RE REL OE Rh ae ee ae = The soldier ’mid the scenes of deadly strife 2s Thin ks of his country—thinks not of his life ; ; And shall we then in these degenerate days Speak of him lightly, cease to give him praise Ptae ar 152 To a Worker among the Poor. Yet Glory has for him her ancient charm, Excitement nerves for him his stalwart arm ; When bullets whistle in the dread advance, For him there comes the touch of old Romance. War has its use: sometimes it keeps alive Those qualities that make a nation thrive ; In certain minds it checks the love of self : It teaches self-control, and scorn of pelf ; Once and again it seems to make for good, By teaching patriotism and fortitude— That love of country flippant scribes deride As but a foible—but a foolish pride— That love of country which a nation’s fame Exalts ; whose absence brings a nation’s shame. Yet War, alas! not seldom seems to be Only a form of licensed butchery— One of the ills that from our passions spring— The warrior’s courage but a puny thing.To a Worker among the Poor. 153 Yes ; yours is truer courage, for it comes Not from the fife’s shrill note, nor roll of drums, Not from the maddening energy of pain Where Horror, heedless, stalks among the slain, But from that hidden strength which has its birth In some sublimer sphere beyond this earth. That bravery is not yours which men acclaim ; That bravery is not yours which gives men fame; Yours is the courage which but few suspect ; Yours is the courage which can bear neglect ; Yours is the courage which can suffer long, The courage of the man whose soul is strong, Who labours on, still doing silent good, Nor stays his hand for Man’s ingratitude. Although you seem to till a thankless soil, Your prayers are never vain, nor vain your toil; Some fruit you yet may have to cheer your heart, In some new epoch you may bear a part; af rm 3 Inet ine pet coed 5 = a ¥ i ae %3 pve earunnw. ager Sie S Ct EG mas a abi ee eT See Figg SOE Fg RE OS EY, eee oe Meets. oe i hale Lok > ie ence on ae Te I ns SIL ‘154 To a Worker among the Poor. But ev’n if now, through your short span of years Your work be weary, and no fruit appears,— Though, in humility, you look within, Deeming your failure the result of sin,— It is not so; for still our Father knows What each requires—on each He still bestows The discipline most needed ; still He weighs Our work with heavenly scales; our purblind gaze Kinds failure often where He knows success. All are His instruments, and so the less His need of one man for the world’s great need ; Righteous He is, to all He gives their meed Of praise or blame ; yet not like us He scans— We see results, by them we make our plans, And trust or trust not men. Men’s character He reads with searching glance that cannot err, And thinks not of results, but values still Patience and faith, and will to do His will.To a Worker among the Poor. 155 So to His best beloved oft gives He trial, As to His Blesséd Son, of base denial, And haply most will honour near His throne Some humble follower by the world unknown. Blurred is perspective by our earthly view— To God perspective aye is clear and true. Hiffort like yours ever to do the right Will raise your soul from height to nobler height, And gives at last that guerdon, full, unpriced, The “Well done” of your life-long master, Christ.A PLEA FOR FAITH.A Plea for Faith. Lire! How mysterious does it seem, how strange Its grief, its happiness, its shame, its sin ! How hard its changes are! Can we believe In a great God of kindness infinite Who yet can daily leave His hapless world To be—for so it seems—the home of pain, Pain often useless, often showered on those Who seem to need it least P Can we believe In Perfect Goodness and Omniscient Power Permitting Evil to possess and spoil His fair dominions, and to bring a curse— An ageless and unceasing curse—upon them fF Alas, to our poor minds our futile years Seem but a clueless maze. When happiness160 A Plea for Faith, Ts ours, a hidden canker-worm reveals Its hateful presence, and too soon there comes Something to vex the spirit, or to jar, Something to cloud or check our perfect joy. One man has buoyant health, and feels delight In living merely, yet he finds how hard Is poverty to bear ; it oftentimes Hangs round him as a changeless destiny. Too rich is he to rank among the poor, Too poor is he to rank among the rich ; Of neither class, he knows the ills of both. Another man has ample wealth, and friends Who love to do him honour, and to give To him the zest in living which such friends Alone can give. Yet look !—alas, ’tis clear Disease’s curse is on him, fell disease For which weak human skill affords no cure And scarce alleviation. He is doomed To pass a joyless life despite the joysA Plea for Faith. Surrounding him. Another man we see With riches and with pulse of flawless health. With steadfast, cheerful face he fronts the world, And all seems well; yet could we look within, Some grief we should perceive which saps his life And makes it full of care—a grief that springs Not from his fault ; or oftentimes we see Innocent children suffer for the sake Of guilty parents, or a mother’s heart Guileless and pure, that bleeds for some loved son Or daughter who, alas, has gone astray. Not seldom in despondency we feel As though the wrong is victor o’er the right, As though our life were but a flake of foam Cast by some cruel sea on some bleak shore, A moment seen, and then for ever lost. DI i . g Si ha ii Rte oN ~ = = on erie 7 Se ee a an aeitay ge ERASE ST ua a a aha aa 2 "i AL Le ee ae ee ee Pr S x Pre aes ; car " io ere : rs 3Hue j 162 A Plea for Faith. And yet, if we deny that God exists As perfect in His goodness as His power, If we deny that Death, God’s angel, brings To man a nobler life, what do we gain To compensate us for the hopes we lose For still we must endure the woes of life, Still must we feel the longings which arise | | For rest and peace amid our daily toil. These we must still endure, and yet perceive Beyond the grave no gleam of gathering light, Nought save the gloom of nothingness before us. But if we greet kind Faith, and let her hand Lead us through all our years, though at the last We find that hope of happier life is vain ca tegen (That ’twere so would not change the argument) Faith’s guidance will have given a mighty boon | To us, in gladdening all our days on earth. So even if we wholly set asideA Plea for Faith. Faith’s fervent pleading with the intellect— A pleading ever present, ever strong, ’Tis wiser far to guide our minds to view The problem still in some such wise as this, "Tis true amid our earthly life there runs A tangled thread of strange perplexity And much injustice ; yet comes by-and-by A nobler state of being, when that which seems Unjust will be explained or set aright. ’Tis best to hold that there exists a God Who made Man’s mind with marvellous powers, though He, In His deep wisdom limited the scope Of what He made, wherefore our reason’s sphere Of thought is swiftly reached, and so it seems To us so frequently that human life Hath such injustice in its fleeting years ; That He decrees that it is well for us In humble trust to tread “ The path of sorrow,” =n al “= a chs mene AD NA La Ga la164 A Plea for Faith. Perchance as discipline for me high scheme Of joy hereafter, or perchance to show To others how the brave can conquer pain ; That Life’s dark mysteries do but transcend, Not contradict our reason, and when soon Our earthly life shall close, there dawns a life When He endows us with new gifts of mind. Then chief among the pleasures it can give Will be the thrill of joy when first we feel That now we understand those mysteries Which vexed our souls before—when first we find That many “themes with which we cannot cope”’ Grow clear, and “Earth’s worst phrenzies”’ are at length Forgotten in the joy of Hope’s fruition.LYRICS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.The Unfulfilled Ideal. Wuen youthful Summer decks the sward With flowers on plain and hill, And Nature wins her meet reward By ~ - yore 5 ef —— 3 : ripest aad Sarasa lee Sy apnea Spe eras in ee For working Winter’s will, Even then Life’s music lacks a chord: Something wanted still! In Autumn, when each searing leaf With gentle sorrow fraught, And every garnered golden sheaf Yield fruit for mingled thought :— We feel a void—there comes a grief— Something vaguely sought168 The Unfulfilled Ideal. When Winter lays an icy hand Where Spring had kissed the ground, And stiff and stark is all the land Where Summer erst was crowned :— We feel but do not understand: Something still unfound! When Spring returns with radiant grace To fill the earth with song, And gladness smiles in every place, And love and life are strong, Still comes the want we cannot trace: Something wanted long!The Child Cowper at Berkhampstead. *‘ Where the gard’ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way.” CowPeER, My Mother’s Picture. Brieut beams of sunshine lit the lawn, And all the landscape seemed as drawn From some enchanter’s treasure ;— The birds were singing loud and clear, But most perchance he loved to hear The blackbird’s cheery measure. And while he loiter’d ’neath the trees Soft scents were wafted by the breeze That blew across the hay-field - sae aa - ee wip La ee mg OI i gE IO ew x eg ee ete cerned : fa rae ihn comet a ices RADE WEES 8 Re a ok Soap eee Ee Fn S ; par r Th, » Rn pan A ine i ri gent Eg Oe pee i Beene PS hak Bee $5; agente ors ote Sah Sesh Lak x Mrs ae Ss ot Prete abe Pair a soos: SS pe s a6 i i (heCowper at Berkhampstead. ni ' Where village children then resorted, Hn {| And as among the swaths they sported Transformed. it to a play-field. Did these dear visions fade away ? i They did—and for their death that day He felt a throb of sorrow; But gladness came in sorrow’s place When Hope said with her smiling face, “Twill live again to-morrow.”Apostrophe to an Ink Bottle in a Hotel Coffee-room. "Tis strange to think how oft your aid Has been invoked, and then To think how often you are made A confidant, and when Prosaic words of business life By you have been expressed ; And you have told what fears were rife Within a lover’s breast. Perchance a little girl or boy ( Released from schoolday fetters, ; Intent on games, and flushed with joy, Employs you for home letters.i 4 172 Apostrophe to an Ink Bottle. ' A husband forced, though Jeal and true, i In some new land to dwell, To his dear wife indites by you A. passionate farewell. my a ig There enters now a seeming “ swell,” , | Hager, yet half afraid, he impresses you for a “ billet doux ” On business rather “ shady.” “Commercials” pen a dazzling dream Of greatly grown “connection”; Pl And next you aid the swelling stream | Pau Of filial affection he'd Which flows in sadness, as a son, From his fond mother parted, Grieves that his course, alas, has run So far from whence it started.Apostrophe to an Ink Bottle. 173 You help each one from day to day, Whate’er his situation ; And each one goes upon his way, Feeling no obligation !A Golden Wedding: Lines addressed to Friar Farlow Wilson | : on behalf of the Brotherhood of the Whitefriars, ’ October 6th, 1899. Take this our gift which after many years : Comes from a circle of your firmest friends ; Remembering your true-hearted words of cheer And kindly deeds towards them, oftentimes. Se a, nptrteenagggent - Yes; Life is rich whate’er the cynics say, So long as ’mid its ceaseless toil and fret | Men play their parts as you do, seeking ever To show your fellow-workers sympathy.A Golden Wedding. de To her we owe our thanks who did not grudge To you the hours spent in our Brotherhood, Fraught with the mellow treasured memories Of many a by-gone wit whose name is dear. What matters it though callous Time has now Turned, with resistless touch, your locks to grey, If still your heart be young ; and this it is We know. May all your coming days prolong For you and yours Harth’s highest, choicest joy.In Ellington Copse. | How lovely are these woodland ways Clad in their summer dress, Where come not din and smoke to mar Their evening loveliness ; | Where wild-rose and convolvulus Are wov’n in every hedge, And buttercups and foxgloves glow By this clear brooklet’s edge; A ti manag Where breezes waft their balmiest scents Adown the silent wood, | And scarce a songster sings to break The hush of solitude;In Ellington Copse. Where shadows creep across my path And softly dies the day— And Summevr’s beauty holds the world Within her gracious sway. This evening every wild-flower here More deeply stirs my heart Than alien flowers or prodigies Of man’s botanic art ; This sweet-brier bough, that meekly sends Its perfume on the air, I would not give for any flower The gardener deems most fair; I leave the rich their bowers of art Wreathed with the rarest flowers, Enough for me these woodland ways Jn Summer’s twilight hours. N are ae i Speen Sak ibe x aoe ReSeaibeDie bashed Jes Mae ee nN LE ara eich oF” hee ean eer x ee ar Perc ar ater Peters S ae ee biasA Song of Early Summer. i} Swret is the time when tender leaves Burst forth in all their perfect grace, When swallows twitter from the eaves, And Spring to Summer yields her place; When red and white the chestnut shows, When fragrance from the hawthorn spreads, When fair the blue wistaria blows, And iris lies lift their heads. Yet soon the chestnut petals fade, ead a pine. cae Sw Wistaria blooms droop one by one, | Soon sigh the leaves for welcome shade, Then fall with dews at set of sun.A Song of Early Summer. Not so the spring-time of the heart, That knows nor change nor swift decay, The spring-time of our nobler part Shall never fade or pass away. a eeanit ee The Heart’s Summer. Sweet is the noon of a summer day When, through the woodlands coming, The village sounds seem far away And drowsy bees are humming. Sweet are the hours of a summer night When kindly dews are falling, And thoughts that come with the fading hght Are soothing, or enthralling. Sweet are the tones of a friendly voice When all seems gone but sorrow, Bidding the heart once more rejoice, For peace may come to-morrow.The Hearts Summer. Sweet is the sound of the world’s applause When fame at last hath found us, And (wage for toil in a righteous cause) is Flings victory’s wreath around us. But sweeter far is a heart at rest, A heart unsoured by sadness— Which throbs within a blissful breast With a God-imparted gladness.The Autumn is Dying. Tue autumn is dying, And leaves that are still, Grief’s tokens, are lying On plain and on hill; My garden of pleasure Lies withered and bare, Oh the pitiless measure Of ruin wrought there. in a hedgerow wind-shaken —~ ee Se aes \ To wildest unrest, ; Forlorn and forsaken I see a bird’s nest,The Autumn is Dying. lis soft down decaying, Its fledglings all flown, z Naught save the shell staying i Deserted and lone. ( S Then the thought rises, cleaving The depths of my mind, Soon we too shall be leaving Our loved homes behind, Soon the grave will enclose us— Life’s pilgrimage o’er— «« And the place that now knows us Shall know us no more.”December Daisies and December Days. Au, how the sight of these untimely flowers Brings dear remembrances of summer hours, When the full heart in buoyant mood was filled With happiness—when the swift moments thrilled The soul with subtle thoughts no words express. Kind haleyon moments! How they soothe and bless And beautify my sordid life. And here, When this December day is stir-less, clear At its brief twilight—when there shines afar From out a cloudless heav’n yon evening star— When southern breezes blow, nor storm nor rain Disturb,—I dream ’tis summer come again.To Edmund Clarence Stedman. SEVERED from you by sundering seas I dwell— Never have clasped your hand, nor heard your voice— b 5 ee se re Poa _ se >. 5 . penn itelie nell > once cs ~ aan ae —_ “yor - ihepetoy ee MS SS al oe oe AS titcte hse Saeed Aad ot hoes rer eee beds Tarn phtern Reese ain Se oso : Lic 7 6 eat y eae Peter y - feveiess rit itteaa Titre $i Never have seen your eyes make loving choice } Of mine to tell the truths words may not tell. And yet I know you—oft in tranquil mood | | Your welcome songs—your wealth of critic | q lore— To me have brought a joy unfelt before,— : ‘ : Or letters from you cheered my solitude. January 19th, 1895.The Poet’s Inspiration. TRUE inspiration ever seems A joy and yet a pain, i | To light the poet’s lofty dreams, | To purify his strain. Its presence glorifies the line ( Whose rhythmic measure halts, | Makes hackneyed thoughts seem half divine, Till few perceive such faults. NS And thus, although we sometimes find imperfect chords like these \ | In songs of many a master-mind, How seldom they displease:The Poet's Inspiration. But when its presence is not felt, Though smooth the verses roll— Though cadences in sweetness melt— They cannot stir the soul.A Memory and a Presence. Wuen clasping in mine own the hand j : | Of him I loved the best, Whose converse cheered, as sight of land Cheers mariners distressed, How once I loved the darkening hour | Of Summer’s happy day, | As gently from each leaf and flower bee The daylight passed away. cemeteries For he had learnt to bear his part In Earth’s unending strife, To labour with unflinching heart Amid the ills of life—A Memory and a Presence. To feel adversity and pain, Hopes blighted, bitter wrong, And yet, ere long, to find again God’s peace which makes men strong. So would he talk of bygone years In that hush’d eventide, Of former hopes, delights, and fears, Of early friends who died, And wisely would my future trace, eee eee IE en Tee pp TN IE Te ectuantede ASAE SJ 54 2 Retin ee ca a Ne LAE IS oe naa is = Then leaving things of Time, In raptured tones, with upturned face, Would speak of themes sublime. He had that wordless eloquence, That strange, that wondrous power, Which sways the soul with force tense In calm of such an hour;A Memory and a Presence. And walking where the shadows steal Across the garden here, Alone with memory still I feel His spirit ever near.Remonstrance. (Written for Music.) "Twas here, when last we met, you promised me That on this spot, and on a certain day, Once more we should embrace and kiss: yet see Still, still you stay. Ah, if you knew the yearning of my heart And all its grief, love, when you are away, And saw how oftentimes the tear-drops start, You would not stay. Like some faint scent of flowers borne on the air, Dispelling languor during Summer’s sway, Your coming, dearest, soon dispels my care— Then wherefore stay ? ——— ge EIT RL I nen} vs Bef o ive eon aes Sice6 at hata tN TRUER) =. = : ae 2 ‘ pA fas rts betel a eit ee) o Serr yo a ud192 Remonstrance. Come now, my darling, come, as erst of yore,— A touch of your soft hand will make me gay, Light with your smile my dark path as before, Nor longer stay.“ While the Sunset, slowly Dying.” Wuite the sunset, slowly dying, Sheds a light o’er sea and strand, And the night-chilled breeze is sighing As the darkness wraps the land— Come, with influence strong yet fouder Mingled thoughts of vanished years, Waking soul-thrills that can render Sometimes joy and sometimes tears. All the past, returning, seems Present with its living dreams. When the kindly summevr’s glory Filled the earth with myriad charms, First I breathed a lover’s story— First I felt true love’s alarms— O“While the Sunset, slowly Dying.” First I pleaded with a maiden, Hazel-eyed, and pure, and fair As that eve whose gales love-laden ' Wantoned with her auburn hair. | All the past, returning, seems t Present with its living dreams. Now to me how swiftly thronging Come the visions of the past— Treasured past to me belongng— Span of bliss too deep to last: | Still do I remember clearly What I asked in trembling tone, And her words, “I love you dearly, Yours I am, and yours alone.” All the past, returning, seems | Present with its living dreams. | | We were “ wedded, happy-hearted,” And our future path seemed bright,“While the Sunset, slowly Dying.” Who could tell we should be parted, Love’s glad sun obscured in night? Yet one eve, when softly sighing Summer breezes lulled the rose, I beheld her, fainting, dying, I beheld her dim eyes close. Ah, how living, fraught with woe, Rise the sights of long ago! % % se 2 ‘5 Yet amid my sore dejection Comes the comfort ever new— Comes the balm, the sweet reflection, To each other we were true. For some end God sendeth sorrow, When that end is gained at last, In the radiant heavenly morrow We shall meet—all sorrow past. There, no longer fraught with woe, Rise the days of long ago. 195The Bride’s Song. A Fw days more, a few days more, , And all the world will change! For I shall enter through Love’s door To something sweet yet strange— i To that new home where comes no fear Unshared by him I love— And I shall always, always hear His voice where’er I rove. \ | With him, and him alone, \ RTE ) Ah then, ah then, my duty lies | Less duty than delight, surprise, To me before unknown—The Bride’s Song. Delight that I am ever nigh To do each fond behest, Surprise that I, and only I, Can make his life more blest. Oft does he praise my sunny hair, The bloom upon my cheeks— Would that I were indeed so fair When thus my dear one speaks. | I feel myself unworthy, yet & He takes me for his wife, | Z But I will yield—to pay my debt— 4 a y The service of my life.The Hawthorn Spray. Happy, with that strange happiness Which Spring spreads o’er the land, I see a girl, I see a boy, They are walking hand in hand. | I hear them as they gaily talk, They heed no future care, He plucks a flushing hawthorn spray To deck her fairer hair. | \ | «¢ And let this be a token now,” ow. The merry boy exclaims, | ««That, some time in the coming years, We two may link our names.The Hawthorn Spray. The may-buds are a symbol meet Of this our treaty pure, So may our compact bring us joy And evermore endure.”’ These two—though many years have fled— Fled like a dream away, Are still as true of heart as on That unforgotten day. And so together oft again Amid the spring-tide’s glow They walk, remembering thankfully Their love-pledge long ago. ——— a acre See te GMa fod» fering Mies cnet RF ee ne| The Puritan’s Farewell to his f Betrothed, 1642. SHE— WHEN Love arose and taught my heart To hold thee first and chief, I never dreamed that we should part In pain beyond belief, Then wherefore bring this aching woe BE To me, to thee, to all, he Hien thoush harah Duty bids thee go | : To obey thy faction’s call? | \ Th Nay, speak not so; that sigh, that look, Wound worse than blades of steel,The Puritan’s Farewell. Yet what were I if I forsook, Because of thine appeal, No “faction” but God’s righteous cause, No struggle of greed and shame— One stern last stand for Right and laws That win His high acclaim? Truth, Justice, Conscience plead with me, Then wouldst thou have me, dear, For calm and ease and joy with thee To yield to craven fear— To prove a recreant from the right— A coward sore afraid— : : | A traitor in the coming fight | Where England needs mine aid? Thou murmur’st, ‘‘ We shall meet no more: a I know, I know thy pain, Our life is brief, but when ’tis o’er True lovers live again—The Puritan’s Farewell. They live again in that fair land » Where comes nor strife nor sword— Where Truth and Joy go hand in hand— And Love hath Faith’s reward. There, where each feeling stands confessed, Wilt thou know all my sorrow— h Wilt know what pangs have rent my breast Ere leaving thee to-morrow. Lo, hearken to the distant chime, To us a knell of sadness, Then let us spend our span of time In peace more deep than gladness. SHE— The weakness goes: oh, heed it not! ar ee ee \ My fears have done thee wrong ; My pain is but my woman’s lot, And Love shall make me strong :—The Puritan’s Farewell. In these brave arms I will be brave, And while thou still art here, To God will lift my soul, and crave The peace which casts out fear.Passion’s Slave. Burnp passion ever showed its maddening power hi | Enthroned within him—a sin-garnered dower Of quenchless loves and longings. That fierce ‘ | storm Which breaks the boughs of Life, where sheltered warm Repose, like unfledged nestlings, Life’s chief joys, 1 Swept o’er his soul—the wave that swift destroys i Man’s store of peace. What years of labour cost He by one fatal step for ever lost.Two Lives. A cottacse home: a peaceful place Where Sorrow hides her pallid face ; Husband and wife, a happy pair, Who thankfully Life’s blessings share ; And living far from towns’ turmoil, They simply crave a “ leave to toil!” % * se a A workhouse full of dreary din, Full of the signs of want and sin. A man and woman sinking fast, Sinking, yet conscious to the last, Their senses steeped in wrathful woe None but the frugal poor can knowsais ct ene - 206 Two Lives. When first, despite their care, is spent Their all through sickness and the rent; When first, despite their abject grief, No kindly landlord grants relief ; When first, despite their abject gloom, His agent comes—decrees their doom; When first within the workhouse gate Silent they stand, how desolate! When first they feel, with sorrow bowed, The loneliness amid a crowd— When first they feel in their distress That is the deepest loneliness ; When first they feel they near their end, Yet by their bed no former friend ; When now, despite their struggles—strugegles long and brave— Their death but fills—but helps to fill—a pauper’s grave.To Sir Walter Scott. (Written after reading his ‘‘ Journal.’’) Port, ’twas no strange sun that shone on thee a) Through thy pure life so crowned with dignity, No sun with light now clouded, now inteuse, But aye the unclouded sun of common sense.Solitude. Amp the throng Which, restless, moves along With hurrying footsteps o’er the earth, But few their noblest thoughts have known, Seldom save when alone Come thoughts of worth. Tt needs the balm Of soul-restoring calm To purge the mind of Life’s alloy; ai ane ae \} Thus yielding back Man’s highest power, | His blesséd pristine dower Of peace and joy.Solitude. And thus do men With new and eager ken Taste those rich joys that only live In solitude—joys which uplift Their souls to truth—best gift That Life can give.To ——— \ | (A Summer Evening in the Woods.) if Wi How lovely are the woodland glades to-night, The boughs slow moving in the balmy air, As birds sing now and then from pure delight With melody low-pitched, though scarce aware apt Nowe nage They sing. The branches, erewhile gaunt and bare, Have donned their daintiest dress; the insects keep A dreamy revel, murmuring everywhere ; 4) In these dear glades, so still, so dim, so deep, ee Save for these lulling sounds kind Nature seems to sleep.The voiceless stars shine out, and all too soon The calm delicious summer twilight ends ; Yet but a little space, and lo! the moon Has ris’n, and thence a flood of light descends, While she among the clouds, majestic, wends Her queen-like way; obsequious stand they near, Like courtiers round a throne; each object lends Fresh beauty to the landscape made so clear In this rare light that all its richer hues are here. iit Now in this evening walk there lives anew That joyous summer evening long ago, Sweet as to-night, when first I walked with you— When, as the westering sun was sinking low,212 T'o I firstknew all your love for me; and so Hach year since then more swiftly than the last Has gone, for Time but made our love to grow. Yes, while the years are hurrying to the past, My one regret it is that still they fly so fast.The Boy Chatterton to Himself. ‘‘Sublime of thought, and confident of fame.” COLERIDGE, Monody on the Death of Chatterton. Tat dotard soul I cannot comprehend, Who knows no hope that, after many years His name shall be preserved by other means Than by an entry sl the parish books— The soul who never knew the proud desire To be remembered in far days unborn By some great deed accomplished. Therefore here I make a vow—a vow unchanging, strong: I will redeem the time, and, though the days Are evil, yet it will be my delight214. The Boy Chatierton to Himself. To toil unceasingly, that at the last It shall be seen I have not lived in vain. Men’s hours are passed as sacred Scripture saith— “They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die.” Few daily doings are of much account In fifty years; then let my mind be set On some fit theme meet for my noblest powers.The Boy Coleridge to Himself. ‘¢O capacious soul !” WorpswortH, The Prelude, Book zw. ‘¢T wonpuR wherefore ?”’ is the soul-stirred cry Which wells up from the depths of human hearts In every sphere of life—from lowly homes And princely palaces—from hermit cells And seething crowds—from youth and riper age And longest length of years—from rich and poor From all who have the manliness to think— In health or sickness—happiness or woe— In Life’s supremest moments or its trifles Which often makes men ponder most. And this Incessant questioning is surely meant216 The Boy Coleridge to Himself. As greatest food for hope—a token given, That, notwithstanding its abyss of sin, Within man’s soul the germs of good abide. Mysterious are the links that firmly weld Our trains of thought together. First we brood On some small trivial matter—now the germ Of musings somewhat loftier—then behold A thread is woven with our thought, and lo It leads to higher themes !—vast vistas new For serious contemplation :—and we gain Sublimest heights, as God-reflected thoughts Transcending reason throng our kindled mindsThe Philosophy of Frequent Failure. In Youth’s glad morning hours of strenuous life Great contemplations often fill the mind With noblest aspirations, while it seems To us, as yet scarce touched by sordid care And blighting prejudice, quite possible Through our unaided strength to win at last Some shining goal which glitters in our sight— A goal which, when ’twas won, would crown with good The Universal Brotherhood of Man. But as the years roll on we find the dream Less easy of fulfilment,—for we feel218 = The Philosophy of Frequent Failure. Our ardour less intense—our weary feet Glide gently into that poor old-world groove We so despised of yore,—and we are fain To use fast-failing energy in strife ‘Gainst daily troubles ; higher aims forgotten.The Philosophy of our Feelings. Tig strange that what seems grief to-day Should seem like joy to-morrow, That present bliss should pass away And seem, in future, sorrow. Yet in the web of life we find, While its vague threads we measure, The pattern of our mood of mind Traced out in pain or pleasure. Ceiba mie eet GE Se Pe a aeWind Fancies. Mourmurina winds vague fancies carry t To the heart while sweeping by, And the fancies often tarry Though the winds that brought them die. et rgstmemcageat Now the fancies are of gladness, Life itself seems one delight ; Now the fancies are of sadness, Life itself seems dark as night.To Frederick Tennyson. (Died February 26th, 1898, in his ninety-first year.) Kpest of your august, poetic race, You go the last to your calm resting-place ; Yet though you pass from out our earthly view, Your work remains, and Time shall give your due. Whether beneath the tranquil Tuscan skies You mused as all too soon the daylight dies ; Whether you watched from your far island home The English Channel's eddying miles of foam ; Or whether in your mild declining daysee i } ec smarter he a a 222 T'o Frederick Tennyson. You sojourned ’mid our London’s clamorous Ways ; Yours was the poet’s life through length of years ; Yours were the poet’s joys, and hopes, and fears : Yours were the tender ministries of song ; Yours were the pleasures which to bards belong Who, dwelling in the world, yet “ dwell apart,” And think but of their God and of their art. Our gain from lives like yours no verse can tell - Eldest of English poets, fare you well. Lonnon, February 26th, 1898. — pay tN ae acThrough Mists of Years. OrrTIMES arise through mists of years, In hours of gentle sadness, Dreams of a face once seen with tears, Whose smile was then my gladness ! Like, yet unlike, the light that guides The storm-tossed o’er the ocean, Deep in my soul that face abides, Cherished with true devotion. Such moments come to soothe and bless, To touch with gleams of glory, Drawn from a by-gone happiness, Life’s sometime dreary story.224, Through Mists of Years. So well it is when lonely lies Life’s pathway girt with sorrow, That this dear vision should arise, Which from the past I borrow.HUMOROUS POEMS.Moonlight on the Tagus. Tu moon shines o’er the Tagus. Now a flood Of soft-spun sparkling radiance clothes the scene With dazzling splendour, save where shadows lie Upon the river’s bosom, sheltering there The coward Darkness, here dethroned awhile, By the moon’s great though seeming gentle might. Ah me, how beautiful! Deep azure sky, Deep azure sea, and steadfast-beaming stars,— A dreamy blissful languor stealeth fast Over my soul while musing pensively On this fair vista steeped in rapt repose, And I forget the busy throng of life That it presents by day,—and almost now I could imagine it some magic realm Enchanted in far fairyland, beyond The power of mortal reach. But soon a voice Says, “ Supper’s come at last, let’s eat, and then to bed.” IS TENT SSO ssaWaiting for the Dentist. t THoueH many dismal years I’ve been i To dull old Care apprenticed, Of smaller woes the worst I’ve seen Is—waiting for the dentist! How dreary is the cheerless room Where pain must bide his pleasure, i The very chairs are steeped in gloom And seem to grieve at leisure, Ph As if his patients’ molar grief, WY So uncontrolled its swelling, F For its fierce tide had sought relief i ) By deluging the dwelling. \} Books cannot soothe a rampant tooth Though they enrich a table, | Sorrow alone seems kin to truth, And joy a lying fable.Waiting for the Dentist. 229 When from the window you, perchance, Behold sweet girlhood’s graces, They only make you look askance And think how sore your face is, On many chairs and sofas, too, More martyrs round you languish, You glance at them, they glance at you, And give a groan of anguish. You deem it hard their turn arrives Before you in rotation, Or they wax wrath that yours deprives Their case of consolation. You muse upon the ruthless wrench That buys a tooth’s departing, Or how the stopping-pangs to quench, In which you may be starting ; Or haply on these ivory chips Harsh Nature may deny you, But which the “ golden key” equips Man’s genius to supply you. No words your mood of mind express, A mood devoid of quiet, errr ATWaiting for the Dentist. ' Where pain, delight, and keen distress we fl Mingle in hopeless riot. Yes, though much sorrow one must know j While to old Care apprenticed, i The greatest unheroic woe | Is—waiting for the dentist. we oS aes ¥. - ae tee 4Notes. Note to ‘* At the Grave of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.” 1. Rossetti died at Birchington-on-Sea, Kent, on the 9th of April, 1882. Note to ** Browning’s Funeral—I.” 2. See Browning’s poem, entitled ‘‘ In a Gondola.” Note to ‘‘ The Taking of the Flag.” 3. The epithet ‘‘ Dutch rag” is said to have been the actual phrase used by the sailor whom Hopson addressed. The boy had only joined the fleet on the day before as a volunteer, and had previously been a tailor’s apprentice. Vide ‘‘ Sea Fights,” p. 73. Professor Laughton, in ‘‘ The Dictionary of National Biography,” expresses his opinion, however, that the incident on which this poem is based has no historical foundation. Notes to ‘“‘ The Keeping of the Vow.” 4. When I first versified this incident, I was not aware that the subject had been already dealt with under the title of ‘‘ The Heart of the Bruce,” by Professor Aytoun. 5. It will be remembered that the struggle in Spain between the Moors and the Christians lasted for cen- turies.¢ . : 9239 Notes. ' 6. It is evident, from what we know of his conduct, me i) that Douglas regarded the war as pre-eminently a re- ligious one. Note to ‘* The Death of Captain Hunt.” i | 7. See “ Battles of the British Navy,” vol. i., p. 210, — i { Note to ‘‘ Joao to Constanca.” 8. The desté is a south-east wind felt in Madeira, and frequently prevalent for several days. At the beginning or close of a desté the sunrises and sunsets are superb. Purple is the colour particularly prominent. Note to “ Francisca to Jaspear.” 9. The Portuguese guitar. Note to “ Lines on a Stone near the Summit of the Stmplon Pass.” 10. There was some desultory fighting in the Italian Alpine valleys before Napoleon the First’s decisive victory of Marengo. Printed by A. W. Parcnine & Co., 1, Chelverton Road, Putney, London, S.W.