Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/tamertonchurchtoOOpatm 
 
TAMERTON fa CL 
 
 C H UR C H-TO WE R 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 BY COVENTRY PATMORE W_ 
 
 I took unto me two ftaves 5 the one I called Beauty, and the 
 other I called Bands, and I fed the flock. — Zecb . xi. 7. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN W. PARKER AND SON WEST STRAND 
 
 ®OSTOK 
 
 p 1 ‘i '> * 
 
 1854 
 
 -IJT 
 
 
 
128990 
 
“Ladies 5 Praise and Love’s Apology,” u The 
 Eve of the Wedding / 5 and some of the short 
 pieces at the end of the volume, are passages 
 or sketches of passages for a long poem now in 
 course of composition and publication. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 PT^AMERTON Church-Tower i 
 
 The Yew-Berry 57 
 
 Ladies’ Praise and Love’s Apology .... 75 
 
 The River 91 
 
 The Falcon • . . . . in 
 
 The Eve of the Wedding 133 
 
 Hope against Hope 147 
 
 The Woodman’s Daughter 163 
 
 Eros 179 
 
 A Thunder-Shower 181 
 
 Alms without Charity 184 
 
 Easter and Lent 186 
 
 The Golden Age 187 
 
 The Year 190 
 
 The Storm 191 
 
 Night and Sleep 193 
 
 The Tragedy of Tragedies 197 
 
 Bertha 199 
 
viii Contents. 
 
 Page 
 
 Reprobate 201 
 
 Little Edith 1 204. 
 
 Little Edith II 206 
 
 A Sketch in the Manner of Hogarth . . . . 208 
 
 Amy’s Marriage 213 
 
 Sonnet 218 
 
 v / 
 
 7 ' . 
 
TAMERTON CHURCH-TOWER. 
 

TAMERTON CHURCH-TOWER. 
 
 I. 
 
 HE hazy East hot noon did bode ; 
 
 Our horses snuff’d the dawn ; 
 W e made ten Cornish miles ofroad, 
 Before the dew was gone. 
 
 We left the Church at Tamerton 
 In gloomy western air ; 
 
 To greet the day we gallop’d on, 
 
 A merry-minded pair. 
 
4 
 
 Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 We clomb the hill where Lanson’s Keep 
 Fronts Dartmoor’s distant ridge ; 
 
 Thence trotted South ; walk’d down the steep 
 That slants to Gresson Bridge ; 
 
 And paused awhile, where Tamar waits, 
 
 In many a shining coil, 
 
 And teeming Devon separates 
 From Cornwall’s sorry soil. 
 
 Our English skies contain’d, that Spring, 
 
 A Caribbean sun ; 
 
 The singing birds forgot to sing, 
 
 The rivulets to run. 
 
 For three days past, the skies had frown’d, 
 Obscur’d with blighting shades, 
 
 That only mock’d the thirsty ground 
 And unrejoicing glades. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 5 
 
 To-day, before the noon was nigh, 
 Bright-skirted vapours grew, 
 
 And on the sky hung languidly ; 
 
 The sky was languid too. 
 
 Our horses dropp’d their necks and nosed 
 The dusty wayside grass. 
 
 Whilst we beneath still boughs reposed, 
 And watch’d the water pass. 
 
 We spoke of plighted Bertha : Frank 
 Shot pebbles in the stream ; 
 
 And I lay by him on the bank ; 
 
 But dreamt no lover’s dream. 
 
 She was a blythe and bashful maid, 
 
 Much blushing in her glee ; 
 
 Y et gracing all she did and said 
 With sweet sufficiency. 
 
6 'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 u Is Blanche as fair?” ask’d I, who yearn 3 
 To love, and live complete ; 
 
 To taste unselfish pleasures, earn’d 
 By service strict and sweet. 
 
 “ Well, you’ll say fairer: she’ll surprise 
 cc Your heart with crimson lips ; 
 
 <c Fat underlids, that hold bright eyes 
 u In laughing half-eclipse ; 
 
 u Alluring locks, done up with taste 
 cc Behind her dainty ears ; 
 
 “ And manners full of wayward haste, 
 
 “ Tho’ facile as the deer’s.” 
 
 “ You paint a leaflet, here and there : 
 u Shew me the blossom ; tell 
 
 “ What mysteries of good and fair 
 “ These blazon’d letters spell.” 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 7 
 
 u Her mouth and teeth, by Cupid’s bow ! 
 
 “ Are letters spelling, kiss ; 
 
 “ And, witchingly withdrawn below 
 u Twin worlds of baby-bliss, 
 
 u Her little waist — ” u No more,” I cried. 
 With love and anger faint, 
 u Or else, by Cupid’s self, your Bride 
 u Shall know how you can paint ! ” 
 
 My life, ’twas like a land of dreams, 
 
 Where nothing noble throve : 
 
 Dull seem’d it as to maiden seems 
 The verse that’s not of love. 
 
 u See where,” sigh’d I, u the water dim 
 “ Repeats, with leaden hue, 
 
 “ The fervid sun, the cloud’s hot rim, 
 
 “ The gap of dazzling blue ! ” 
 
8 Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 Quoth Frank, U I do : and thence foresee 
 “ And all too plainly scan 
 u Some sentimental homily 
 “ On Duty, Death, or Man.” 
 
 u ’Tis this said I, cc our senses mar, 
 u Ev’n so, sweet Nature’s face, 
 
 “ Unless by love revived they are, 
 cc Or lit by heavenly grace. 
 
 “ Below the hazel talks the rill ; 
 
 cc My heart speaks not again : 
 a The solemn cloud, the stately hill, 
 cc I look on each in vain. 
 
 cc Sure he for whom no Power shall strike 
 u This darkness into day — ” 
 cc Is damn’d,” said Frank, who morall’d like 
 The Fool in an old Play. 
 
'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 9 
 
 u That’s true ! ” cried I, cc yet, as the worm 
 “ That sickens to its change — ” 
 cc Or as the pup that nears the term 
 “ At which pups have the mange — 
 
 “ Pooh ! Come, Man, let us on,” he said, 
 u For now will be the storm ! ” 
 
 And while we rode quaint sense we made 
 From heav’n’s swift-varying form. 
 
 Above us bent a prophet wild, 
 
 Pointing to hidden harm ; 
 
 Beyond, a magic woman smiled, 
 
 And wove some wondrous charm ; 
 
 Past that, a censer jetted smoke : 
 
 Black convolutions roll’d 
 To heaven, and caught the light, and broke 
 In crowns of shining gold. 
 
io 
 
 Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 II. 
 
 rjpHE gaps of blue shrank fast in span ; 
 
 The long-forgotten breeze, 
 
 By lazy starts and fits, began 
 To move the higher trees. 
 
 We spurr’d ’neath one black cloud, that flung, 
 For earnest of it’s stores, 
 
 A few large drops, that struck among, 
 
 The light-leaved sycamores. 
 
 At noon, we came to Tavistock ; 
 
 And sunshine still was there ; 
 
 But gloomy Dartmoor seem’d to mock 
 It’s weak and yellow glare. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 1 1 
 
 The swallows, in the wrathful light, 
 
 Were pitching up and down ; 
 
 A string of rooks made rapid flight, 
 
 Due southward, o’er the town ; 
 
 And children ran from field and wood, 
 
 Or under elm and ash, 
 
 Embracing sheaves of king-cups, stood 
 To watch the first bright flash. 
 
 Now, baiting at the Tiger-Inn, 
 
 We talk’d, by windows wide, 
 
 Of Blanche and all my unseen kin, 
 
 Who did our coming bide. 
 
 The heavy sign-board swang and shriek’d, 
 
 In dark air whirl’d the vane, 
 
 Leaves flew, dust rose, and, straining, creak’d 
 The shaken window-pane. 
 
12 
 
 Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 Hot to be gone, Frank rose and eyed 
 Black cloud and swinging branch : 
 
 But less long’d he to greet his Bride, 
 
 Than I to look on Blanche. 
 
 Her name, pair’d still with praise at home, 
 Would make my pulses start ; 
 
 The hills between us were become 
 A weight upon my heart. 
 
 a Behold,” I cried, a the storm comes not : 
 
 “ The northern heavens grow fair.” 
 
 u Look South,” said Frank, u ’tis one wide blot 
 cc Of thunder-threatening air.” 
 
 The string of rooks had travell’d on, 
 
 Against the southern shroud; 
 
 And, like some snaky skeleton, 
 
 Lay twisted in the cloud. 
 
' Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 13 
 
 a No storm to-day ! ” said I, cc for, see, 
 cc Yon black things travel South/’ 
 
 We follow’d soon \ our spirits free, 
 
 Our bodies slaked from drouth. 
 
 I rode in silence ; Frank, with tongue 
 Made lax by too much port, 
 Soliloquizing, said or sung 
 After this tipsy sort. 
 
 44 Yea, nerves they are the Devil’s mesh, 
 44 And pups begin quite blind, 
 
 44 And health is oft-times in the flesh, 
 
 44 And measles in the mind ! 
 
 44 Foolish and fair was Joan without \ 
 
 44 Foolish and foul within ; 
 
 44 High as a hunted pig his snout, 
 
 44 She carried a foolish chin,. 
 
1 4 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 “ The Boy beheld, and brisk rose he 
 “ At this badly painted fly : 
 
 “ That boys less wise than fish should be 
 “We men, Sir, needs must sigh, 
 
 “ The fool his Deary vow’d to wed : 
 
 “ The Goodwife bade him not : 
 
 “ The Goodman talk’d till his face turn’d red 
 “ The Boy he quail’d no jot : 
 
 “ The Goodman talk’d till his face turn’d blue 
 “ But the Boy he would be girl’d : 
 
 “ And yet a maxim, false or true, 
 
 “ Will shake the mighty world.” 
 
 So, jumbling jointless song and jest 
 And strangely chosen oath, 
 
 He spurr’d ; until, by heat oppress’d, 
 
 We rode in silence both. 
 
’Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 III. 
 
 /^VN, on we toil’d, amidst the blaze 
 From Dartmoor’s ridges bare ; 
 Beneath the hush’d and scorching haze 
 And through the twinkling air ; 
 
 Along the endless mountain-side, 
 
 That seem’d with us to move ; 
 
 Past dreary mine-mouths, far and wide 
 Huge dross-heap, wheel, and groove 
 
 Dark towns by disembowell’d hills, 
 Where swarthy tribes abode, 
 
 Who, in hard rocks, with harder wills, 
 Pursued the crooked lode ; 
 
1 6 'Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 Up heights, that seem’d against us match’d 
 Until, from table-land, 
 
 Before the teazing midge was hatch’d, 
 
 We hail’d the southern strand. 
 
 Then pleasantly, on even ground 
 And through the lighter air, 
 
 We paced along and breath’d around, 
 
 A merry-minded pair. 
 
 The hills by lone Tintagil loom’d 
 Amidst the setting blaze, 
 
 Tintagil, full of warriors plumed, 
 
 In good King Arthur’s days. 
 
 Frank told how Merlin there the dame 
 Of Duke Gorloy beguiled -> 
 
 How she, to clear her sinless shame, 
 
 Bare Uther’s princely child ; 
 
c Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 17 
 
 How Pelles, loving fair Ettarde, 
 
 Forgat himself, and God ; 
 
 And how, by sorrow stricken hard, 
 
 He woke and bless’d the rod. 
 
 A western night of even cloud 
 Suck’d in the sultry disk ; 
 
 Bright racks look’d on, a fiery crowd, 
 To seamen boding risk; 
 
 The late crow wing’d his silent way 
 Across the shadowy East ; 
 
 The gnat danced out his little day, 
 
 His ceaseless singing ceased ; 
 
 Along the dim horizon round 
 Fled faint electric fires ; 
 
 Blue glow-worms lit the fresher ground 
 By moisture-harbouring briers ; 
 c 
 
1 8 'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 Far northward twinkled lonely lights, 
 
 The peopled vales among ; 
 
 In front, between the gaping heights, 
 
 The mystic ocean hung. 
 
 Our weary spirits flagg’d beneath 
 The still and loaded air ; 
 
 We left behind the freer heath, 
 
 A moody-minded pair. 
 
 With senses slack and sick of mirth, 
 
 Tho’ near the happy goal, 
 
 I murmur’d, fearing nought on earth 
 Could quite content the soul : 
 
 cc Alas ! should love prove such a light 
 a As yonder glow-worm’s lamp, 
 
 u That gleams, at distance, strong and bright, 
 u Approach’d, burns weak and damp. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 l 9 
 
 “ Perchance, by much of bliss aroused, 
 u The heart will pant for more ; 
 
 “ And then the worm of want lies housed 
 “ Within the sweet fruit’s core ! 
 
 “ Far worse, if juggled by the mind 
 cc Unpurg’d from vapors loose — ” 
 
 “ You dream,” yawn’d Frank, cc and wake to find 
 cc Your Goddess a green goose. 
 
 u In vowing, as a mortal must, 
 
 “ The heart to one fair mate, 
 u As in all else, be not unjust 
 u Nor disproportionate.” 
 
 cc Vain, vain,” cried I, “ is worldly weal. 
 
 “ We faint, within the heart, 
 u For good which all we see and feel 
 
 u Foreshadows but in part.” 
 
20 
 
 ‘Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 He answer’d, “ What you faint for, win ! 
 
 cc Faint not, but forward press. 
 cc Heav’n proffers all : ’twere grievous sin 
 “ To live content in less. 
 
 u The Sun rolls by us every day ; 
 
 u And it and all things speak 
 u To the sinking heart of man and say, 
 u ’Tis wicked to be weak. 
 
 u We would not hear the hated sound ; 
 
 u But, by the Lord, we must : 
 
 <c If not, the heavy world goes round, 
 u And grinds us into dust.” 
 
 With each a moral in his mouth. 
 
 We rein’d our sweating nags, 
 
 Where quiet Ocean, on the South, 
 
 Kiss’d Edgecomb’s ruddy crags. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 subtly love within me wrought, 
 So excellent she seem’d, 
 
 Daily of Blanche was all my thought, 
 Nightly of Blanche I dream’d \ 
 
 And this was all my wish and all 
 The work now left for life, 
 
 To make this wonder mine, to call 
 This laughing Blanche my wife. 
 
 I courted her till hope grew bold \ 
 Then sought her in her place, 
 
 And all my passion freely told, 
 
 Before her blushing face. 
 
22 
 
 'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 I kiss’d her twice, I kiss’d her thrice, 
 Thro’ tresses and thro’ tears ; 
 
 I kiss’d her lips, I kiss’d her eyes, 
 
 And calm’d her joys and fears. 
 
 So woo’d I Blanche and so I sped, 
 
 And so, with small delay, 
 
 I and the patient Frank were wed 
 Upon the self-same day. 
 
 Then friends all round kiss’d either Bride, 
 I Frank’s, Frank mine ; and he 
 
 Laugh’d as for once we thus defied 
 Love’s sweet monopoly. 
 
 Then Blanche bid all farewell with tears ; 
 And down the Park’s fair slope 
 
 We drove ; she grave with virgin fears, 
 And I with life’s great hope. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 23 
 
 And so, with bashful nuptial haste, 
 
 We traveled ; I and she 
 Discountenanced both at this first taste 
 Of wedded liberty. 
 
 But soon I cheer’d my fearful dove ; 
 
 And soon forgot the place, 
 
 Where all the world had look’d shy Love 
 So rudely in the face. 
 
H 
 
 ’Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 V. 
 
 r |"^HE noon was hot and close and still, 
 When, steadying Blanche’s hand, 
 
 I trod with her the southern hill, 
 
 And row’d with her from land. 
 
 Ere summer’s prime that year the wasp 
 Lay gorged within the peach ; 
 
 The tide, as though the sea did gasp. 
 
 Fell lax upon the beach. 
 
 Quietly dipp’d the dripping scull. 
 
 And all beside was calm ; 
 
 But o’er the strange and weary lull 
 No angel waved his palm. 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 2 5 
 
 The sun was rayless, pale the sky, 
 
 The distance thick with light : 
 
 We glode beyond the fort and by 
 The war-ship’s sleeping might. 
 
 Her paddle stirr’d : without a breeze, 
 
 A mimic tempest boil’d : 
 
 The sailors on the silent seas 
 With storm-tuned voices toil’d. 
 
 I could not toil ; I seldom pray’d : 
 
 What was to do or ask ? 
 
 Love’s purple glory round me play’d, 
 Unfed by prayer or task. 
 
 All perfect my contentment was, 
 
 For Blanche was all my care ; 
 
 And heaven seem’d only heaven because 
 My goddess would be there. 
 
26 Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 No wafted breeze the ships did strike, 
 No wish unwon moved me ; 
 
 The peace within my soul was like 
 The peace upon the sea. 
 
 At times, when adlion sleeps, unstirr’d 
 By any motive gale, 
 
 A mystic wind, with warning heard, 
 Ruffles life’s slacken’d sail. 
 
 The fancy, then, a fear divines, 
 
 And, borne on gloomy wings, 
 
 Sees threats and formidable signs 
 In simply natural things. 
 
 It smote my thought, how, yesternight, 
 The moon rose in eclipse ; 
 
 And how her maim’d and shapeless light 
 O’erhung the senseless ships. 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 2 7 
 
 From deeps of sleep my spirit woke, 
 Affrighted, uttering prayer : 
 
 Merciful Lord ! thy lifted stroke, 
 
 If I repent, forbear ! 
 
 The terror pass’d, as, lightning-lit, 
 Red cloud-scenes shew and close ; 
 
 And soon came wonder at the fit, 
 And smiles and full repose. 
 
 Again I turn’d me, all devote, 
 
 To my sweet Idol’s shrine ; 
 
 Again I gazed where, on the boat, 
 Her shadow mix’d with mine. 
 
28 Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 VI. 
 
 RI E D F rank, who, with his wife, was there, 
 u We dream ! sing each a song.” 
 
 And he sang first an old brave air, 
 
 And pull’d the boat along. 
 
 “ Sir Pelles woo’d in scorn’s despite ; 
 
 “ He cherish’d love’s sweet smart : 
 u Ettarde proved light ; then, like a Knight, 
 a He turn’d her from his heart. 
 
 “ O, the remorse with which men pay 
 a For duties done too well ! 
 
 “ But conscience gay does grief allay \ 
 
 “ As all true Knights can tell.” 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 2 9 
 
 cc Alas, poor Knight !” cried Blanche, cc Nay, 
 hear,” 
 
 Said Frank, “ the saddest half!” 
 
 And drearily he troll’d, while clear 
 Rose Blanche’s puzzled laugh. 
 
 u Sir Lob was drunk ; the stars were bright. 
 
 cc Within an empty ditch, 
 cc Sir Lob all night lay right and tight 
 a As a Saint within his niche. 
 
 “ Now, well, quoth he, goes life with me : 
 cc I’ve liquor and to spare \ 
 u I hate the herd that vulgar be ; 
 u And, O, the stars are fair ! 
 
 a The Mill-dam burst : Sir Lob lay sunk 
 a In that celestial swound : 
 a The Mill-stream found the Knight dead drunk, 
 u And the Jury found him drown’d.” 
 
3 ° ‘Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 u The tunes are good ; the words,” said I 
 u Are hard to understand.” 
 
 And soon I prefaced with a sigh 
 u This pagan love-song grand. 
 
 “ When Love like Ichor fills the veins, 
 
 <c Like Amaranth lights the brow, 
 u The Past grows dark, the Future wanes 
 “ Before the golden Now. 
 
 “ Marc Antony the war-flags furl’d, 
 u For Egypt’s Queen said, Stay : 
 
 “ He reck’d not of the worthless world, 
 
 “ Well lost by that delay. 
 
 “ Quoth Antony, Here set I up 
 cc My everlasting rest : 
 
 “ Leave me to drain Joy’s magic cup, 
 
 “ To dream on Egypt’s breast.” 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 3 
 
 Frank smiled, and said my note was wrong ; 
 ’Twas neither Man’s nor Boy’s ; 
 
 And Blanche sang next, some modern song 
 Of u Flowers” and u Fairy Joys.” 
 
 As bright disparted skies that break 
 To let a cherub through, 
 
 So seem’d her mouth : my sight did ache, 
 Glist’ring with fiery dew \ 
 
 And in the laugh of her brown eye 
 My heart, contented so, 
 
 Lay like the honey-thirsty fly 
 Scorch’d in the cactus’ glow. 
 
 Nor heeded I what sang my Saint, 
 
 Such magic had the sound. 
 
 The myrtle in her breath made faint 
 The air that hearken’d round. 
 
32 
 
 'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 u Now, Wife,” said Frank, cc to shame our lays, 
 cc Try you in turn your power : 
 cc And sing your little song in praise 
 cc Of Love’s selectest flower.” 
 
 Her hand felt his : thus sang she then, 
 Submitted to his rule, 
 
 Tho’ shyer than the water-hen 
 On Tamar’s shadiest pool. 
 
 cc The Myrtle sates with scent the air 
 <c That flows by Grecian hills ; 
 
 <c Its fragile leaflets glisten fair 
 cc By warm Italian rills. 
 
 u The North too has it’s Lover’s-Flower, 
 cc The glad Forget-me-not ; 
 cc Too bold thro’ sunshine wind and shower, 
 
 “ Too blue to be forgot.” 
 
Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 33 
 
 VII. 
 
 JpOINTING far East, Frank said, cc Do 
 u you see 
 
 u Yon porpoise-droves at play ?” 
 
 We gazed, and saw, with failing glee, 
 
 Bright lines of spotted spray. 
 
 Once more, the boded terror shook 
 My spirit, this time dumb. 
 u To land ! to land ! ” cried Frank, cc for, look, 
 “ The storm, at last, is come ! ” 
 
 Above us, heated fields of mist 
 Precipitated cloud : 
 
 For shore we pull’d ; the swift keel hiss’d \ 
 Above us, grew the shroud. 
 
 D 
 
34 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 The pale gull flapp’d the stagnant air ; 
 
 The thunder-drop fell straight ; 
 
 The first wind lifted Blanche’s hair ; 
 
 Looking to me she sate. 
 
 Across the mighty mirror crept, 
 
 In dark’ning blasts, the squall ; 
 
 And round our terror lightly leapt 
 Mad wavelets, many and small. 
 
 The oars cast by, convuls’d out flew 
 Our perilous hope the sail : 
 
 None spoke ; all watch’d the waves, that grew 
 Under the splashing hail. 
 
 With urgent hearts and useless hands, 
 
 We sate and saw them rise, 
 
 Coursing to shore in gloomy bands, 
 
 Below the appalling skies. 
 
'Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 35 
 
 The wrathful thunder scared the deeps ; 
 
 And where, upon our wake, 
 
 The sea got up in ghastly heaps, 
 
 White lines of lightning strake. 
 
 On, on, with fainting hope we fled, 
 Hard-hunted by the grave : 
 
 Slow seem’d it, though like wind we sped 
 Over the shouldering wave. 
 
 In front swift rose the crags, where still 
 A storm of sunshine pour’d : 
 
 At last, beneath the southern hill, 
 
 The dangerous breakers roar’d. 
 
 O, bolt foreseen before it burst ! 
 
 O, chastening hard to bear ! 
 
 O, cup of sweetness quite revers’d, 
 
 And turn’d to void despair ! 
 
36 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 Blanche in fear swooning, I let go 
 The helm : we struck the ground : 
 The sea fell in from stern to prow, 
 
 And Blanche, my Bride, was drown’d. 
 
 What guilt was her’s ! But God is great 
 And all that may be known 
 To each of any other’s fate 
 Is, that it helps his own. 
 
Earner ton Church-Tower. 
 
 37 
 
 VIII. 
 
 13 OUND in a vortex go the years, 
 
 Each swifter than the last ; 
 
 And seasons four their set careers 
 Pursued and somehow pass’d. 
 
 The spirit of Spring, this year, was quench’d 
 With clouds and wind and rain ; 
 
 All night the gust-blown torrent drench’d 
 The gloomy window-pane. 
 
 Against the pane the flapping blind 
 Flapp’d ever, dismally ; 
 
 And ever, above the rain and wind, 
 
 Sounded the dismal sea. 
 
3S Tamerton Church-Tower . 
 
 The billows, like some guilty crew 
 Devour’d by vain remorse, 
 
 Dash’d up the beach, sighing withdrew, 
 And mix’d with murmurs hoarse. 
 
 The morning was a cheerless sight 
 Amongst the turbid skies ; 
 
 But sweet was the relief of light 
 Within my restless eyes : 
 
 For then I rose to prayer and toil, 
 Forgat the ocean’s moan, 
 
 Or faced the dizzy crash and coil 
 That drown’d its mournfuller tone. 
 
 That heaving world I faced, with pride 
 Of anguish curb’d ; nor quail’d, 
 
 While, ’neath the battery of the tide, 
 The hissing shingles fail’d. 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 39 
 
 But never, when the waves drew back, 
 Trod I the weltering strand \ 
 
 For horribly my single track 
 Pursued me in the sand. 
 
 One morn I watch’d the rain subside \ 
 And then fared singly forth 
 
 Below the clouds, till eve to ride 
 From Edgecomb to the North. 
 
 Once, only once, I paus’d upon 
 The sea-transcending height, 
 
 And turn’d to gaze : far breakers shone, 
 Slow gleams of silent light. 
 
 Into my horse I struck the spur ; 
 
 Sad was the soul in me ; 
 
 Sore were my lids with tears for her 
 Who slept beneath the sea. 
 
4 ° 
 
 Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 But soon I sooth’d my startled horse, 
 
 And check’d that sudden grief, 
 
 And look’d abroad to crag and gorse, 
 
 For Nature’s sane relief. 
 
 Far forth the air was dark and clear, 
 
 The crags acute and large, 
 
 The clouds uneven, black and near, 
 
 And ragged at the marge. 
 
 The spider, centred in his mesh, 
 
 Shook not, but as I rode, 
 
 The opposing air, sweet, sharp and fresh, 
 Against my hot lids flow’d. 
 
 Peat-cutters pass’d me, carrying tools ; 
 Hawks glimmer’d on the wing ; 
 
 The ground was glad with grassy pools, 
 And brooklets galloping. 
 
'Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 4 1 
 
 The sparrow chirp’d with feathers spread, 
 And dipp’d and drank his fill, 
 
 Where, down its sandy channel, fled 
 The lessening road-side rill. 
 
 I cross’d the furze-grown table-land, 
 
 And near’d the northern vales, 
 
 That lay perspicuously plann’d 
 In lesser hills and dales. 
 
 Now rearward, in a slow review, 
 
 Fell Dartmoor’s jagged lines ; 
 
 Around were dross-heaps, red and blue, 
 Old shafts of gutted mines ; 
 
 Impetuous currents copper-stain’d, 
 Wheels stream-urged with a roar, 
 Sluice-guiding grooves, strong works that 
 strain’d 
 
 With freight of upheaved ore. 
 
4 2 
 
 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 Thought I, u The moving mountain-side 
 cc Seems half its ancient length, 
 u And all the land is purified, 
 
 “ And fill’d with hearty strength.” 
 
 Just then, the train, with shock on shock, 
 Swift roar and birth-scream dire, 
 
 Grew from the bosom of the rock, 
 
 And pass’d in noise and fire. 
 
 With brazen throb, with vital stroke, 
 
 It went, far heard, far seen, 
 
 Setting a track of shining smoke 
 Against the pastoral green. 
 
 Now, bright drops, lodg’d in budding trees, 
 Were loos’d in sudden showers, 
 
 Touch’d by the novel western breeze, 
 Friend of the backward flowers. 
 
‘Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 43 
 
 Now rose the Church at Tavistock, 
 
 The rain still falling there ; 
 
 But sunny Dartmoor seem’d to mock 
 The gloom with cheerful glare. 
 
 About the West the gilt vane reel’d 
 And poised ; and, with sweet art, 
 
 The sudden, jangling changes peal’d, 
 Until, around my heart, 
 
 Conceits of brighter times, of times 
 The brighter for past storms, 
 
 Clung thick as bees, when brazen chimes 
 Call down the hiveless swarms. 
 
44 
 
 Earner ton Church-Tower. 
 
 IX. 
 
 J RESTED at the Tiger-Inn, 
 
 There half-way on my ride, 
 
 And mused with joy of friends and kin 
 Who did my coming bide. 
 
 I saw my Father’s half-dropp’d lid, 
 
 His smile when plying Frank 
 With pith of wisdom, wisely hid 
 In humour rich and rank. 
 
 I heard the fable apt, the catch 
 With many morals fraught ; 
 
 And even then some random snatch 
 Within my memory wrought. 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 45 
 
 The Vicar next, in sombre wear 
 That shone about the knees, 
 
 Before me stood, his aspedt fair 
 With godly memories. 
 
 I heard again his kind “ Good-bye : 
 cc Christ speed and keep thee still 
 “ From frantic passions, for they die 
 u And leave a frantic will. 
 
 <c I’ve watch’d thy life : I think that God 
 cc Of thee hath special care : 
 tc Give thanks ! and, ’gainst the heaviest rod, 
 u This solace with thee bear : 
 
 “ Best fruits come not of sunniest years ; 
 
 cc Good use have griefs ; they try 
 cc The sacred faculty of tears, 
 cc And man with men ally. 
 
46 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 u Misfortunes shew us sins conceal’d, 
 cc As slugs come out in rain ; 
 cc And the heart’s wants are all reveal’d 
 cc Unto the heart in pain.” 
 
 Then pass’d my Uncle, learn’d and meek 
 A soul, in strangest truth, 
 
 As wide as Asia and as weak \ 
 
 Not like his daughter Ruth. 
 
 A Maid of fullest heart she was ; 
 
 Her spirit’s lovely flame 
 Nor dazzled nor surprised, because 
 It always burn’d the same \ 
 
 And in the heaven-lit path she trod 
 Fair was the wife foreshewn, 
 
 A Mary in the house of God, 
 
 A Martha in her own. 
 
1 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 47 
 
 Corporeal charms she had ; but these 
 Were tranquil, grave and chaste, 
 
 And all too excellent to please 
 A rash, untutor’d taste. 
 
 In love with home, I rose and eyed 
 The rainy North ; but there 
 The distant hill-top, in it’s pride, 
 
 Adorn’d the brilliant air ; 
 
 And as I pass’d from Tavistock, 
 
 The scatter’d dwellings white, 
 
 The Church, the golden weather-cock 
 Were whelm’d in happy light ; 
 
 Dark rocks shone forth with yellow brooms ; 
 
 And, over orchard walls, 
 
 Gleam’d congregated apple-blooms, 
 
 In white and ruddy balls ; 
 
48 ‘Tamer ton Church-Tower. 
 
 The children did the good sun greet, 
 With song and senseless shout ; 
 
 The lambs did skip, their dams did bleat, 
 In Tavy leapt the trout ; 
 
 Across a fleeting eastern cloud, 
 
 The splendid rainbow sprang, 
 
 And larks, invisible and loud, 
 
 Within its zenith sang. 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 49 
 
 X. 
 
 ^T^HE wild joys of the noontide curb’d, 
 There follow’d holy calm, 
 
 As when, o’er saints by bliss disturb’d, 
 
 An Angel waves the palm. 
 
 So lay the Earth that saw the skies 
 Grow calm and bright above, 
 
 As the repentant spirit lies 
 In God’s forgiving love. 
 
 The lark forsook the waning day, 
 
 And all loud songs did cease ; 
 
 The Robin, from a wither’d spray, 
 
 Sang like a soul at peace. 
 
5 ° 
 
 Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 The great sun, that did westward go, 
 Extinguish’d not the moon, 
 
 That mark’d, with alteration slow, 
 
 The deepening afternoon. 
 
 Far to the South, in sunset glow’d 
 The peaks of Dartmoor ridge, 
 
 And Tamar, full and tranquil, flow’d 
 Beneath the Gresson Bridge. 
 
 There, conscious of the numerous noise 
 Of rain-awaken’d rills, 
 
 And gathering deep and sober joys 
 From the heart-enlarging hills ; 
 
 And strangely taught of teachers high, 
 The sad and merry clouds, 
 
 That variously succeeded by, 
 
 In singleness or crowds \ 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 51 
 
 I sat, until the first white star 
 Appear’d, with dewy rays, 
 
 And the fair moon began to bar 
 With shadows all the ways. 
 
 O, well is thee, whate’er thou art, 
 And happy shalt thou be, 
 
 If thou hast known, within thy heart, 
 The peace that came to me. 
 
 O, well is thee, if aught shall win 
 Thy spirit to confess, 
 
 God proffers all, ’twere grievous sin 
 To live content in less ! 
 
 I mounted, now, my patient nag ; 
 And scaled the easy steep ; 
 
 And soon beheld the quiet flag 
 On Lanson’s solemn Keep. 
 
5 2 
 
 Tamer ton Church-Tower . 
 
 And now, whenas the waking lights 
 Bespake the valley’d Town, 
 
 A child o’ertook me, on the heights, 
 
 In cap and russet gown. 
 
 It was an alms-taught scholar trim, 
 
 Who, on her happy way, 
 
 Sang to herself the morrow’s hymn ; 
 
 For this was Saturday. 
 
 u Saint Stephen, stoned, nor grieved nor groan 
 cc ’Twas all for his good gain ; 
 
 “ For Christ him blest, till he confess’d 
 u A sweet content in pain. 
 
 u Then Christ his cross is no way loss, 
 w But even a present boon : 
 a Of his dear blood fair shines a flood 
 “ On heaven’s eternal noon.” 
 
Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 
 53 
 
 My sight grew moist. ’Twas not for her 
 Who slept beneath the sea. 
 
 On sped I then without the spur, 
 
 By homestead, heath and lea. 
 
 O’erhead the perfedt moon kept pace, 
 
 In meek and brilliant power, 
 
 And lit, erelong, the eastern face 
 Of Tamerton Church-Tower. 
 

 
 
 
THE YEW-BERRY. 
 
THE YEW-BERRY. 
 
 CALL this idle history the cc Berry 
 of the Yew;” 
 
 Because there’s nothing sweeter 
 than it’s husk of scarlet glue, 
 
 And nothing half so bitter as its black core bit- 
 ten through. 
 
 I loved, saw hope, and said so ; learn’d that 
 Laura loved again ; 
 
 Wherefore speak of joy then suffer’d ? My head 
 throbs, and I would fain 
 Find words to lay the spectre starting now be- 
 fore my brain. 
 
5 8 Yhe Yew-Berry. 
 
 She loved me : all things told it ; eye to eye, 
 and palm to palm : 
 
 As the pause upon the ceasing of a thousand- 
 voiced psalm 
 
 W as the mighty satisfaction and the full eternal 
 calm. 
 
 She could see me coming to her with the vision 
 of the hawk ; 
 
 Always hastened on to meet me ; always in our 
 daily walk 
 
 Low tones to me grew lower, sweet’ning so her 
 honey-talk, 
 
 That it fill’d up all my hearing, drown’d the 
 voices of the birds, 
 
 The voices of the breezes, and the voices of 
 the herds ; 
 
 And her countenance in silence was more speak- 
 ing than her words. 
 
The Yew-Berry. 
 
 59 
 
 Even when alone together, looks no utterance 
 can define 
 
 Mark’d, now and then, soul wanderings that 
 confirm’d her half divine : 
 
 High treasure, ten times treasured, fornot seem- 
 ing wholly mine ! 
 
 On her face, then and for ever, was the serious- 
 ness within ; 
 
 Her sweetest smiles, (and sweeter did a lover 
 never win), 
 
 Ere half done, grew so absent that they made 
 her fair cheek thin. 
 
 On her face, then and for ever, thoughts un- 
 worded used to live ; 
 
 So that when she whisper’d to me, cc Better joy 
 Earth cannot give,” 
 
 Her lips, though closed, continued, cc But 
 Earth’s joy is fugitive.” 
 
6o 
 
 The Tew- Berry. 
 
 For there a nameless something, though sup- 
 press’d, still spread around ; 
 
 The same was on her eyelids, if she look’d to- 
 wards the ground ; 
 
 When she spoke I knew directly that the same 
 was in the sound : — 
 
 A fine dissatisfaction which at no time went 
 away, 
 
 But mingled with her laughter, even at its 
 brightest play, 
 
 Till it touch’d me like the sunshine in the closing 
 of the day. 
 
 I felt that mortal fortune had attain’d its giddiest 
 height : 
 
 The things we cannot measure we imagine in- 
 finite. 
 
 But I soon found that perfecting is confiding a 
 delight. 
 
The Yew-Berry. 
 
 61 
 
 Next Laura I loved Wortley, in part for the 
 man he seem’d, 
 
 In part because my Laura loved his talk, which 
 she esteem’d, 
 
 As she said, and I demurr’d not, for the thought 
 with which it teem’d. 
 
 For even when he utter’d common things, and 
 clear to sight, 
 
 He, look’d at us so intently that we scarcely 
 thought them trite : 
 
 A trick of serious manner wherein women much 
 delight. 
 
 Let none ask joy at the highest, save those who 
 would have it end : 
 
 There’s weight in earthly blessings ; they are 
 earthy, and they tend, 
 
 By predetermin’d impulse, at their highest, to 
 descend. 
 
6z 
 
 ‘ The Yew-Berry. 
 
 I still for a happy season, in the present, saw 
 the past, 
 
 Mistaking one for the other, feeling sure my 
 hold was fast 
 
 On that of which the symbols vanished daily : 
 but at last, 
 
 As when we watch bright cloud-banks round 
 about the low sun ranged, 
 
 We suddenly remember some rich glory gone 
 or changed, 
 
 All at once I comprehended that her love was 
 grown estranged. 
 
 From this time forward, glimpses of a darker 
 fear came on : 
 
 They came ; but how, I know not, were no 
 sooner come than gone. — 
 
 At times, some gap in sequence frees the spirit, 
 and we, anon, 
 
The Yew-Berry. 
 
 6 3 
 
 Are aware of states of living ended ere we left 
 the womb, 
 
 And see a vague aurora flashing to us from the 
 tomb, 
 
 The dreamy light of new states, dash’d tremen- 
 dously with gloom. 
 
 We tremble for an instant, and a single instant 
 more 
 
 Brings absolute oblivion, and we push on as 
 before : 
 
 Just so those dreadful glimpses came, and 
 startled, and were o’er. 
 
 The change I saw in Laura I would not ev’n 
 yet bemoan, 
 
 But combated conviction till ’twas almost over- 
 thrown : 
 
 No frauds are so effectual to deceive us as our 
 
 own. 
 
6 4 
 
 The Yew-Berry. 
 
 One morning, one bright morning, W ortley met 
 me. He and I, 
 
 As we rode across the country, met a friend 
 of his. His eye 
 
 Caught Wortley’s, who rode past him, u What,” 
 said he, “ pass old friends by ? 
 
 u So I’ve heard your suit’s successful ! Truly 
 stuff for a romance 
 
 After your foul french fashion. But, ah ! ha ! 
 should Herbert chance — ” 
 
 “ Nay, Herbert’s here,” said he, and introduced 
 me, with a glance 
 
 Of easy smiles, ignoring this embarrassment, 
 and then 
 
 This pass’d off, and soon after I went home, and 
 took a pen, 
 
 And wrote down all the matter, how it hap- 
 pen’d, where and when : 
 
The Yew-Berry . 
 
 6s 
 
 And, having read it over once or twice, sat down 
 to think, 
 
 From time to time beneath it writing more, till, 
 link by link, 
 
 The evidence against her was fulfill’d : I did 
 not shrink, 
 
 But I read it all together, and I found it was no 
 dream. 
 
 What I felt I can’t remember ; an oblivion 
 which the gleam 
 
 Of light which oft comes through it shews for 
 blessedness extreme. 
 
 At last I moved, exclaiming, “ I shall not be- 
 lieve, until 
 
 I’ve spoken more with Laura,” Thereon all 
 my heart grew still : 
 
 For doubt and faith are active, and decisions of 
 the will. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 The Tew-Berry. 
 
 I sought my Love. She started : I suppose 
 that I was pale. 
 
 We talk’d ; but words on both sides, seem’d to 
 sicken, flag, and fail. 
 
 Then I gave her what I’d written, watching 
 whether she would quail. 
 
 In and out flew sultry blushes; so, when red re- 
 flections rise 
 
 From conflagrations, filling the alarm’d heart 
 with surmise, 
 
 They lighten now, now darken, up and down 
 the gloomy skies. 
 
 She finish’d once ; but fearing to look from it, 
 read it o’er 
 
 Ten times at least. Poor Laura, had those 
 readings been ten score, 
 
 That refuge from confusion had confused thee 
 more and more ! 
 
The Yew-Berry. 67 
 
 Seeing, at last, how surely my conviction must 
 be built, 
 
 She turn’d at bay, and trusted to that crutch, 
 made like a stilt, 
 
 The insolent bravado wherewith weakness out- 
 stares guilt. 
 
 u By what right is it,” said she, cc you are here 
 to question me ? 
 
 u Read this, your rude indictment, which ac- 
 knowledges the plea 
 
 u Of common love now cancell’d. Truly, Sir, 
 the times are free, 
 
 cc When a Lady may not venture, when it 
 pleases her, to slight 
 
 u A foolish boy’s first passion, nurs’d awhile for 
 his delight, 
 
 u Lest he, a man, insult her ; pleading thus his 
 4 wrong,’ his right.” 
 
68 
 
 The Yew-Berry. 
 
 <c I plead no right/’ I answer’d, breaking short 
 this senseless throng 
 
 Of words that show’d she dreaded accusation 
 loud and long ; 
 
 “ And, would that you could see this ! your’s 
 oh, Laura, is the wrong. 
 
 u Love ends where wrong commences, and with 
 Love Love’s wrong must end. 
 
 u I’ve lost, ah ! what, love losing, you’ve lost 
 power to comprehend. 
 
 “ I feel no wrong.” Then finding all her base- 
 less pride unbend, 
 
 I said, u Y ou’re ill, sit Laura,” and she sat down 
 and was meek. 
 
 cc Ah tears ! Not loft to God then. But pray 
 Laura, do not speak : 
 
 u I understand you better by the moisture on 
 
 your cheek.” 
 
The Tew-Berry. 69 
 
 She shook with tears, in silence. I yet check- 
 ing passion’s sway, 
 
 Said only, u Farewell Laura!” then got up, 
 and strode away ; 
 
 For I felt that she would burst my heart asunder 
 should I stay. 
 
 Oh, ghastly corpse of Love so slain ! It makes 
 the world it’s hearse ; 
 
 Or, as the sun extinct and dead, after the dooms- 
 day curse, 
 
 It rolls, an unseen danger, through the darken’d 
 universe. 
 
 I struggled to forget this ; but, forgetfulness too 
 sweet ! 
 
 It startled with it’s sweetness, thus involv’d it’s 
 own defeat ; 
 
 And every time this happen’d, aching memory 
 would repeat 
 
7 ° 
 
 ^The Vew-Berry. 
 
 The shock of that discovery : so at length I 
 learn’d by heart, 
 
 And never, save when sleeping, suffer’d thence- 
 forth to depart 
 
 The feeling of my sorrow : and in time this 
 sooth’d the smart. 
 
 Sharp sufferings are not lasting, they may kill, 
 or drive us mad, 
 
 Or leave a tone in talking that will make the 
 hearer sad ; 
 
 But they are never lasting, not even such as I 
 have had ; 
 
 For, evermore, Pain’s offspring kill their mo- 
 ther : at least so 
 
 I’ve found. I thank kind Heaven, woe-bought 
 wisdom has made woe 
 
 Seem light, when I remember what it was 
 awhile ago. 
 
The Yew-Berry. 71 
 
 Yet even now not seldom in my leisure, in the 
 thick 
 
 Of other thoughts, unchalleng’d, words and 
 looks come crowding thick — 
 
 They do while I am writing, till the sunshine 
 makes me sick, 
 
 Y et that is all for her sake, not for mine ; and 
 lo, the tear 
 
 Of Pity hath a sweetness among sweets with- 
 out it’s peer ; 
 
 Souls sainted, by such sadness lift themselves 
 from sphere to sphere. 
 

 
 
 
LADIES’ PRAISE, 
 
 AND 
 
 LOVE’S APOLOGY. 
 
HONORIA. 
 
 LADIES’ PRAISE. 
 
 O, when the Lord made North and 
 South 
 
 And Sun and Moon ordained, He, 
 Forthbringing each, by word of mouth, 
 
 In order of it’s dignity. 
 
 Did Man from the crude clay express 
 By sequence ; and, all else decreed. 
 
 He form’d the Woman : nor might less 
 Than Sabbath such a work succeed. 
 
 And still with favour singled out, 
 
 Marr’d less than Man by mortal fall, 
 
?6 
 
 Honor ia. 
 
 Her disposition is devout, 
 
 Her countenance angelical. 
 
 No faithless thought her instinct shrouds, 
 But fancy chequers settled sense, 
 
 Like alteration of the clouds 
 
 On noonday’s azure permanence. 
 
 Pure courtesy, composure, ease 
 Declare affe&ions nobly fix’d, 
 
 And impulse sprung from due degrees 
 Of sense and spirit sweetly mix’d. 
 
 Her modesty, her chiefest grace, 
 
 The ceflus clasping Venus’ side, 
 
 Is potent to deject the face 
 
 Of him who would affront it’s pride : 
 Wrong dares not in her presence speak, 
 Nor spotted thought it’s taint disclose, 
 Under the protest of a cheek 
 
 Outbragging Nature’s boast the rose. 
 In mind and manners how discreet ! 
 
 How artless in her very art ; 
 
Ladies' Praife. 
 
 How candid in discourse ; how sweet 
 The concord of her lips and heart ; 
 
 How humbly careful to attract, 
 
 Tho’ crown’d with all the soul desires, 
 Connubial aptitude exact, 
 
 Diversity that never tires ! 
 
 What though she be the Child of Eve, 
 Death-wounded to the dear heart’s core, 
 Shall Man for her sad lineage grieve, 
 
 Man suffering less and sinning more ? 
 
 No : he whose praises do not pile 
 The measure of her just desert 
 Impugns the logic of her smile, 
 
 Which gives the balm and takes the hurt. 
 For my part, when rejoiced I trace 
 Her various worth and how she is 
 Our most effectual means of grace 
 And casket of our worldly bliss, 
 
78 
 
 Honor ia. 
 
 I, looking round, do nowhere see 
 That second good which doth afford 
 The like compulsion urging me 
 
 With a pure mind to praise the Lord. 
 
 When I behold the reckless brook 
 That casts itself from yonder crag, 
 Leaving its shade along the rock, 
 
 And wavering lower like a flag ; 
 
 When I behold the skies aloft, 
 
 Passing the pageantry of dreams \ 
 
 The cloud whose bosom, cygnet-soft, 
 
 A couch for nuptial Juno seems ; 
 When I behold the mountains bright ; 
 
 The shadowy vales with feeding herds 
 I from my lyre the music smite, 
 
 Nor want for justly matching words : 
 All powers of the sea and air, 
 
 All interests of hill and plain, 
 
Ladies Praise. 
 
 79 
 
 I so can sing in seasons fair 
 
 That who hath felt may feel again : 
 
 Nay more ; the gracious Muses bless 
 At times my tongue, until I can 
 With moving emphasis express 
 The likeness of the perfect man. 
 
 Elated oft by such free songs, 
 
 I think with utterance free to raise 
 That hymn for which the whole world longs, 
 A worthy hymn in Woman’s praise ; 
 
 A hymn bright-noted like a bird’s, 
 
 Arousing these song-sleepy times 
 With rhapsodies of perfect words, 
 
 Ruled by returning kiss of rhymes. 
 
 But when I look on her and hope 
 To tell with joy what I admire, 
 
 My thoughts lie cramp’d in narrow scope, 
 
 Or in the feeble birth expire ; 
 
 No skill’d complexity of speech, 
 
 No heart-felt phrase of tenderest fall, 
 
8o 
 
 Honor ia. 
 
 No liken’d excellence can reach 
 Her the sheer paragon of all. 
 
 Yet shall it be my chosen task 
 
 To sing her worth as Maid and Wife ; 
 And were such post to seek, I’d ask 
 To live her laureate all my life : 
 
 On wings of love uplifted free, 
 
 And by her gentleness made great, 
 
 I’d teach how noble Man should be 
 To match with such a lovely mate : 
 And then in her would move the more 
 The Woman’s wish to be desired 
 (By praise increas’d) till both should soar, 
 With blissful emulations fired : 
 
 And as geranium, pink or rose 
 Is thrice itself thro’ power of art, 
 
 So might my happy skill disclose 
 
 New fairness, ev’n in her fair heart; 
 Until that churl should nowhere be, 
 
 Who bent not, awed, before the throne 
 
Ladies’ Praise. 
 
 8 1 
 
 Of her affecting majesty, 
 
 So meek, so much unlike our own ; 
 
 Until, (for who may hope too much 
 
 From her who wields the powers of Love), 
 Our lifted lives at last should touch 
 
 That heavenly goal to which they move ; 
 Until we find, as darkness rolls 
 Far off and fleshly mists dissolve, 
 
 That Male and Female are the poles 
 On which the joyful spheres revolve. 
 
 Me to these happy notes of praise 
 Not only Woman’s graces stir ; 
 
 Myself I never seem to raise 
 So much as when I honor her : 
 
 For while my songs so various run, 
 
 There lives before my constant mind 
 An image, time-endear’d, of one 
 Who is to me all womankind. 
 
 G 
 
8 2 
 
 Honoria. 
 
 Honoria call her. She confers 
 
 Bright honor when she breathes my name 
 Birth’s blazon’d patents, shewn with her’s, 
 Are falsified and put to shame ; 
 
 All rank irradiates from her smile, — 
 
 I speak but as I feel and think, — 
 
 Y et pride consumes me not, the while 
 At honor’s source, uncheck’d, I drink : 
 For as a Queen who may not find 
 Her peer in all the common Earth, 
 Submits her meek and royal mind, 
 Espousing one of subject birth ; 
 
 All barter of like gain above, 
 
 She raised me to her noble place, 
 
 And made my lordship of her love 
 The humbling gift of her free grace. 
 
Love's Apology . 
 
 83 
 
 FELIX. 
 
 LOVE’S APOLOGY. 
 
 I. 
 
 T~ TE meets, by heavenly chance express, 
 
 The destin’d Maid : some hidden hand 
 Unveils to him that loveliness 
 
 Which others cannot understand. 
 
 No songs of love, no summer dreams 
 Did ere his longing fancy fire 
 With vision like to this : she seems 
 In all things better than desire. 
 
 His merits in her presence grow, 
 
 To match the promise in her eyes ; 
 
 And round her happy footsteps blow 
 The authentic airs of paradise. 
 
8 4 
 
 Felix. 
 
 For love of her he cannot sleep ; 
 
 Her beauty haunts him all the night ; 
 
 It melts his heart, it makes him weep 
 With wonder, worship, and delight. 
 
 O, paradox of love ! he longs, — 
 
 Most humbled when he most aspires, — 
 To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs 
 From her he honors and desires. 
 
 Her graces make him rich, and ask 
 No guerdon ; this imperial style 
 Affronts him ; he disdains to bask 
 The pensioner of her priceless smile. 
 
 He prays for some hard thing to do, 
 
 Some work of fame and labour immense, 
 To stretch the languid bulk and thew 
 Of Love’s fresh-born magnipotence. 
 
 No smallest boon were bought too dear, 
 Tho’ barter’d for his love-sick life ; 
 
 Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer, 
 
 To vanquish heaven, and call her wife. 
 
Love's Apology. 
 
 85 
 
 He notes how Queens of sweetness still 
 Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate ; 
 How, self-consign’d with lavish will, 
 
 They ask but love proportionate ; 
 
 How swift pursuit by small degrees, 
 
 Love’s tactic, works like miracle ; 
 
 How valour, clothed in courtesies, 
 
 Brings down the haughtiest citadel ; 
 
 And therefore, though he merits not 
 To kiss the braid upon her skirt, 
 
 His hope, discouraged ne’er a jot, 
 
 Outsoars all possible desert : 
 
 Resistance only makes him gay ; 
 
 The fiercer fight the fairer she ; 
 
 In vain her distance says him nay ; 
 
 Hope desperate grown feigns certainty. 
 Ah, whither shall a Maiden flee, 
 
 When a bold Youth so swift pursues, 
 And siege of tenderest courtesy, 
 
 With hope perseverant, still renews ! 
 
86 
 
 Felix. 
 
 Ah, wherefore flee ? Her simple breast 
 Thanks him who finds her fair and good ; 
 She loves her fears, veil’d joys arrest 
 The foolish terrors of her blood ; 
 
 By secret sweet degrees her heart, 
 
 V anquish’d, takes warmth from his desire 
 She makes it more, with bashful art, 
 
 And basks at Love’s late dreaded fire. 
 
 O, might he, when by doubts aggriev’d, 
 Behold his tokens next her breast, 
 
 At all his words and sighs, perceiv’d 
 Against it’s blithe obtrusion press’d ! 
 
 But soon, his victory he devines : 
 
 He tells her what his feelings are ; 
 
 And, lo, her love, unveiling, shines 
 As steady as a tropic star. 
 
Love's Apology. 
 
 87 
 
 II. 
 
 1\ !W OST rare is still most noble found, 
 Most noble still most incomplete : 
 
 Sad law, which leaves King Love uncrown’d, 
 In this obscure terrestrial seat ! 
 
 His heavenly splendour magnifies 
 
 The least admixture of Earth’s mould, 
 Cheapens himself in his own eyes, 
 
 And makes the foolish mocker bold. 
 
 O, zealous good, O, virtuous glee, 
 
 Religious, and without alloy, 
 
 O, privilege high, which none but he 
 Who chastely merits can enjoy ; 
 
 O, Love, thou art that fabled Sun 
 
 Which all the world with bounty loads, 
 Without respect of realms, save one, 
 
 And gilds with double lustre Rhodes ! 
 
88 
 
 Felix . 
 
 O, heathen gross conceit, to blind 
 The eyes of Love, that subtly see, 
 And him call captive and confin’d, 
 Whom Love makes excellently free ! 
 With bale more sweet than others’ bliss, 
 And bliss more wise than others’ bale, 
 The secrets of the world are his, 
 
 And freedom without let or pale. 
 
 If Fate his dear ambition mar, 
 
 And load his breast with hopeless pain, 
 And seem to blot out sun and star, 
 
 Love, lost or won, is Wisdom’s gain : 
 For, looking backward through his tears, 
 With vision of maturer scope, 
 
 He smiles as one dead joy appears 
 The platform of some better hope ; 
 Confessing that the sharpest smart 
 Which human patience may endure, 
 Pays light for that which leaves the heart 
 More generous, dignified, and pure. 
 
THE RIVER. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 I. 
 
 T is a venerable place, 
 
 An old ancestral ground, 
 
 So broad the rainbow wholly stands 
 Within it’s lordly bound ; 
 
 And here the river waits and winds 
 By many a wooded mound. 
 
 Upon a rise, where single oaks 
 And clumps of beeches tall 
 Drop pleasantly their shade beneath. 
 
 Half-hid amidst them all, 
 
 Rests in it’s quiet dignity 
 An ancient manor-hall. 
 
' The River. 
 
 9?. 
 
 Far seen through lofty iron gates, 
 
 It is a cheerful sight ; 
 
 About it’s many gable ends 
 
 The swallows wheel their flight ; 
 The huge fantastic weather-vanes 
 Look happy in the light. 
 
 It’s ivied turrets seem to love 
 The murmur of the bees ; 
 
 And though this manor-hall hath seen 
 The snow of centuries, 
 
 How freshly still it stands amid 
 It’s wealth of swelling trees ! 
 
 The leafy summer-time is young ; 
 
 The yearling lambs are strong ; 
 The sunlight glances merrily ; 
 
 The trees are full of song ; 
 
 The valley-loving River flows 
 Contentedly along. 
 
The River. 
 
 93 
 
 Embracing all this ancient home, 
 
 A host of green hills stand 
 About the central manor-rise. 
 
 As cheerful as a band 
 Of happy children round their chief 
 Extended hand-in-hand. 
 
 Their shadows from the setting sun 
 Stretch all across the plain ; 
 
 The watch-dog, in the silent night. 
 Stops wrangling with his chain, 
 
 To hear, at every burst of barks. 
 
 The hills bark back again. 
 
 Look where the merry weather-vanes 
 Reel upon yonder tower : 
 
 There, amid starry jessamine 
 And clasping passion-flower, 
 
 The sweetest Maid of all the land 
 Is weeping in her bower. 
 
94 
 
 The River. 
 
 Alas, the lowly Youth she loves 
 Loves her, but fears to sue : 
 
 He came this morning hurriedly ; 
 
 Then out her young blood flew ! 
 But he talk’d of common things, and 
 Her eyes are fill’d with dew. 
 
The River. 
 
 95 
 
 II. 
 
 r | ^IME passes on : thro’ strong belief 
 Of disregard, or pride ; 
 
 Thro’ passion changed, or choice that hath 
 The grieving heart belied, 
 
 The Maiden has her promise given 
 To be another’s Bride. 
 
 November and the clouds are come ; 
 
 The river, lately bright, 
 
 Rolls foul and black, and gloomily 
 Makes known across the night, 
 
 In far-heard plash and weary drench, 
 
 The passage of it’s might. 
 
9 6 
 
 The River. 
 
 The Bridegroom counts the tolling hours ; 
 
 The guests are coming fast ; 
 
 (The vanes are creaking drearily 
 Within the dying blast !) 
 
 The bashful Bride is at his side ; 
 
 And night is here at last. 
 
 The guests are gay ; the minstrels play ; 
 
 ’Tis liker noon than night ; 
 
 From side to side, they toast the Bride 
 Who blushes ruby light : 
 
 For youth and age, for clown and sage, 
 
 It is a cheerful sight. 
 
 But to the park : away, away, 
 
 This merry noise and glare ! 
 
 To the silent park ; for one whose thoughts 
 Are darker than the night is there, 
 Leaning against an aged tree 
 By thunder smitten bare. 
 
The River. 
 
 97 
 
 He minds not either warmth or cold. 
 
 Nor cares he for the dull moonshine, 
 And yet he cries “ ’tis chill, ’tis chill, 
 This lonely heart of mine.” 
 
 And yet he cries, “ O, misery, 
 u Cold is the dull moonshine.” 
 
 The oriel’d hall shines bright with shapes 
 Of nun and saint devout ; 
 
 Broad bars of red and purple light 
 Stand in the mist without ; 
 
 And sadly across the muffled air 
 Cometh the laughter shout. 
 
 No sound or sight this solemn night 
 But moves the soul to fear : 
 
 The faded nuns stare through the gloom 
 Askaunt, and wan, and blear ; 
 
 And wither’d cheeks of watchful saints 
 Start from their purple gear. 
 
 H 
 
9 s 
 
 The Rivet \ 
 
 The burthen of the wedding-song 
 Comes hither like a wail ; 
 
 The stream, athwart the cedar grove, 
 Is shining ghastly pale, 
 
 Shining athwart the cedars’ gloom, — 
 Dark soul ! what doth thee ail ? 
 
 His cloudy brow clears all at once ; 
 
 Some thought brings pleasant balm. 
 He leans no more, but up he stands 
 As straight as any palm : 
 
 Hath he some soothing plan of life ? 
 No, for his looks are calm. 
 
 He turns him from the lighted hall : 
 His sad breast scarcely heaves ; 
 
 He paces t’ wards the gloomy wood ; 
 
 Across it breaks and cleaves ; 
 
 And now his footfall dies away 
 Upon the wither’d leaves. 
 
The River. 
 
 99 
 
 III. 
 
 'T | ^HE restless moon, among the clouds, 
 Is loitering slowly by ; 
 
 Now in a circle like the ring 
 About a weeping eye ; 
 
 Now left quite bare and bright, and now 
 A pallor in the sky. 
 
 The lonely stars are here and there, 
 
 But weak and wasting all ; 
 
 The winds are dead, the cedars spread 
 Their branches like a pall ; 
 
 The guests, by laughing twos and threes, 
 Have left the bridal hall. 
 
IOO 
 
 The River. 
 
 The moon is looking through the mist, 
 Cold, lustreless, and wan ; 
 
 And wildly past her dreary form 
 The watery clouds rush on, 
 
 A moment white beneath her light, 
 
 And then, like spirits, gone. 
 
 Silent and fast they hurry past, 
 
 Their swiftness striketh dread, 
 
 For earth is hush’d, and no breath sweeps 
 The spider’s rainy thread, 
 
 And every thing but those pale clouds 
 Is dark, and still, and dead. 
 
 Beneath the mossy, ivy’d bridge. 
 
 The river slippeth past : 
 
 The current deep is still as sleep, 
 
 And yet so very fast ! 
 
 There’s something in it’s quietness 
 That makes the soul aghast. 
 
The River. 
 
 IOI 
 
 No wind is in the willow tree 
 That droops above the bank ; 
 
 The water passes quietly 
 Beneath the sedges dank ; 
 
 Yet the willow trembles in the stream, 
 
 And the dry reeds talk and clank. 
 
 The weak stars swoon ; the jagged moon 
 Is lost in the cloudy air. 
 
 No thought of light ! save where the wave 
 Sporteth a fitful glare. 
 
 The dumb and dreadful world is full 
 Of darkness and night-mare. 
 
 The hall-clock clangs : the watch-dog barks : 
 What are his dreams about ? 
 
 Marsh lights leap, and tho’ fast asleep 
 The owlets shriek and shout ; 
 
 Stars, thro 5 chasms in utter black, 
 
 Race like a drunken rout. 
 
102 
 
 The River. 
 
 A man is on the bridge : behold 
 His paleness in the dark ! 
 
 He watches the stars that race in the stream, 
 And knows them not : but hark ! 
 
 The clock stops tolling, the owls are still, 
 And still is the watch-dog’s bark. 
 
 “ Wake, wake, oh wake !” the Bridegroom calls 
 Unto his sleeping Bride. 
 
 “ Alas, I saw thee, pale and dead, 
 
 Roll down a frightful tide ! ” 
 
 He clasps her hand : “ How chill thou art ! 
 cc What is it, sweet my Bride ?” 
 
 The Bride bethinks her now of him 
 Who last night was no guest. 
 a Sweet Heaven ! and for me ? I dream 
 Be calm, thou throbbing breast.” 
 
 She says, in thought, a solemn prayer 
 And turns again to rest. 
 
 ! 
 
The River. 
 
 Along, along, swiftly and strong 
 The river slippeth past ; 
 
 The current deep is still as sleep, 
 And yet so very fast ! 
 
 There’s something in its quietness 
 That makes the soul aghast. 
 
The River. 
 
 IV. 
 
 rr^HE morn has risen : wildly by 
 The water glides to-day ; 
 Outspread upon it’s eddying face, 
 Long weeds and rushes play ; 
 
 And on the bank the fungus rots 
 And the grass is mix’d with clay. 
 
 Time passes on : the park is bare ; 
 
 The year is scant and lean ; 
 
 The river’s banks are desolate ; 
 
 The air is chill and keen ; 
 
 But, now and then, a sunny day 
 Bringeth a thought of green. 
 
The River. 
 
 105 
 
 Amid blear February’s flaw, 
 
 Tremulous snow-drops peep ; 
 
 The crocus, in the shrewd March morn, 
 Starts from its wintry sleep ; 
 
 And daisies shine in lovely hosts, 
 
 Among the pasturing sheep. 
 
 The waters, in their old content, 
 
 ’Twixt iris’d margins run ; 
 
 The pike, as trackless as a sound, 
 
 Shoots thro’ the current dun ; 
 
 And languid new-born chesnut-leaves 
 Expand beneath the sun. 
 
 The summer’s prime is come again ; 
 
 The trees are out anew ; 
 
 The current keeps the mournful past 
 Deep in it’s bosom blue, 
 
 And babbles low thro’ quiet fields 
 Grey with the falling dew. 
 
io6 
 
 The River . 
 
 The sheep-bell tolleth curfew-time ; 
 
 The gnats, a busy rout, 
 
 Fleck the warm air ; the distant owl 
 Shouteth a sleepy shout ; 
 
 The voiceless bat, more felt than seen, 
 
 Is flitting round about ; 
 
 The poplar’s leaflet scarcely stirs ; 
 
 The river seems to think ; 
 
 Athwart the dusk, the lily broad 
 Looks coolly from the brink ; 
 
 And knee-deep in the freshet’s fall, 
 
 The meek-eyed cattle drink. 
 
 The chafers boom ; the white moths rise 
 Like spirits from the ground ; 
 
 The grey-flies sing their weary tune, 
 
 A distant, dreamlike sound ; 
 
 And far, far off*, in the slumberous eve, 
 Bayeth an old guard-hound. 
 
The River. 
 
 107 
 
 At this sweet time, the Lady walks 
 Beside the gentle stream ; 
 
 She marks the waters curl along, 
 
 Beneath the sunset gleam, 
 
 And in her soul a sorrow moves, 
 
 Like memory of a dream. 
 
 Her pulses flutter palpably ; 
 
 Her spirits droop and fail, 
 
 As when the startled Bridegroom dreamt 
 He saw her dead and pale. 
 
 She cannot tell what moves her so ; 
 
 The stream has told no tale. 
 
 She passes on. How still the earth, 
 
 And all the air above ! 
 
 Here, where of late the scritch-owl shriek’d, 
 Whispers the happy dove ; 
 
 And the river, through the ivy’d bridge, 
 Flows calm as household love. 
 
 
THE FALCON. 
 

 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 I. 
 
 HO would not be Sir Hubert, for 
 his birth and bearing fine, 
 
 His rich sky-skirted woodlands, 
 valleys flowing oil and wine ; 
 
 Sir Hubert, to whose sunning all the rays of 
 fortune shine ? 
 
 So some men praised Sir Hubert, and the others 
 warmed with praise 
 
 Of Hubert noble-hearted, than whom none went 
 on his ways 
 
 Less spoilt by splendid fortune, whom no peril 
 could amaze. 
 
I 12 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 To Ladies all, save one, he was the rule by 
 which the worth 
 
 Of other men was reckon’d ; so that many a 
 maid, for dearth 
 
 Of such a knight to woo her, love foreswore, 
 and with it mirth. 
 
 No prince could match his banquets, when 
 proud Mabel was his guest ; 
 
 And shows and sumptuous triumphs day by day 
 his hope express’d 
 
 That love ev’n yet might burgeon in her young 
 unburgeon’d breast. 
 
 Time pass’d, and use for riches pass’d with 
 hope, which slowly fled ; 
 
 And want came on unheeded ; and report in 
 one day spread 
 
 Of good Sir Hubert bankrupt, and of Mabel 
 richly wed. 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 "3 
 
 Forth went he from the city where she dwelt, 
 to one poor farm, 
 
 All left of all his valleys : there Sir Hubert’s 
 single arm 
 
 Serv’d Hubert’s wants ; and labour soon re- 
 lieved love’s rankling harm. 
 
 Much action brought much easement of the 
 melancholy freight 
 
 He bore within his bosom \ and his fancy was 
 elate 
 
 And proud of Love’s rash sacrifice which led to 
 this estate : 
 
 And quickly he discover’d that the heaven-esta- 
 blish’d task, 
 
 Direct and serious seeking for the bread we 
 daily ask, 
 
 Strikes clear the face of nature from an unsus- 
 pected mask. 
 
 1 
 
The Falcon . 
 
 n 4 
 
 Right glad was he, long ’custom’d to the estate 
 almost ofkings, 
 
 To find the sweetest waters in the simplest way- 
 side springs, 
 
 And new delights, twice novel, thus descried in 
 common things. 
 
 One friend was left, a falcon, famed for beauty, 
 skill and size, 
 
 Kept from his fortune’s ruin, for the sake of 
 its great eyes, 
 
 That ’minded him of Mabel’s. Of an evening 
 he would rise, 
 
 And wake it’s royal glances and reluctantly 
 flapp’d wings, 
 
 And looks of grave communion with his light- 
 some questionings, 
 
 That broke the drowsy sameness, and the sense 
 like fear that springs 
 
The Falcon . 
 
 
 At night when we are conscious of our distance 
 from the strife 
 
 Of cities, and the memory of the spirit in all 
 things rife 
 
 Endows the silence round us with a grim and 
 ghastly life. 
 
 His active resignation wrought, in time, a heart- 
 felt peace, 
 
 And though, in noble bosoms, love once lit 
 can never cease, 
 
 He could walk and think of Mabel, and his 
 pace would not increase. 
 
 Who say, when somewhat distanced from 
 Love’s heat and fiercer might, 
 
 cc His brand burns us no longer ; it is out,” use 
 not their sight : 
 
 For ever and for ever we are lighted by the light : 
 
ii 6 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 And ere there be extinguish’d one minutest 
 flame, love-fann’d, 
 
 The Pyramids of Egypt shall have no place in 
 the land, 
 
 But as a nameless portion of it’s ever shifting 
 sand. 
 
The Falcon . 
 
 117 
 
 II. 
 
 ryiHREE summers pass’d, and Mabel was 
 a widow ; but the land, 
 
 The wealth of her dead Lord, was first her 
 child’s : so Mabel’s hand 
 
 Was not for Hubert’s having, had it beckon’d 
 his demand : 
 
 For Hubert felt, tho’ Mabel might, like him, be- 
 come resign’d 
 
 To poverty for Love’s sake, she would never, 
 like him, find 
 
 That poverty is riches, only of another kind. 
 
n8 The Falcon. 
 
 One morning, while he rested from his delving, 
 spade in hand, 
 
 There came a sense of glory ; and he look’d 
 about the land, 
 
 And he, and all he look’d at, seem’d to brighten 
 and expand. 
 
 The wind was newly risen ; and the airy skies 
 were rife 
 
 With fleets of sailing cloudlets, and the trees 
 were all in strife, 
 
 Extravagantly triumphant at their newly gotten 
 life. 
 
 Birds wrangled in the branches, with a sweet 
 confused noise ; 
 
 Even the conscious cuckoo, judging wisest to 
 rejoice, 
 
 Shook round his cc cuckoo, cuckoo,” as if care- 
 
 less of his voice. 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 n 9 
 
 But Hubert mused and marvelPd at the glory 
 in his breast ; 
 
 The first glow turn’d to passion, and he nurs’d 
 it unexpress’d ; 
 
 And glory gilding glory turn’d, at last, to sunny 
 rest* 
 
 Then again he look’d around him like an angel, 
 and, behold, 
 
 The scene was changed ; no cloudlets cross’d 
 the serious blue, but, roll’d 
 
 Behind the distant hill-tops j gleam’d aerial hills 
 of gold. 
 
 The wind too was abated, and the trees and 
 birds were grown 
 
 As quiet as the cloud-banks \ right above, the 
 bright sun shone, 
 
 Down looking from the forehead of the giant 
 sky alone. 
 
120 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 Then the nightingale, awaken’d by the silence, 
 shot a throng 
 
 Of notes into the sunshine ; cautious first, then 
 swift and strong ; 
 
 Then he madly smote them round him, till the 
 bright air throbb’d with song, 
 
 And suddenly stopp’d singing, all amid his ex- 
 tacies : — 
 
 Myrtles rustle ; what sees Hubert ? sight is 
 sceptic, but his knees 
 
 Bend to the Lady Mabel, as she blossoms from 
 the trees. 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 1 21 
 
 III. 
 
 OHE spoke, her eyes cast downwards, while 
 upon them, dropp’d half way, 
 
 Lids sweeter than the bosom of an unblown lily 
 lay,— 
 
 “ In faith of ancient amity, Sir Hubert, I this 
 day, 
 
 “ Would beg a boon, and bind me your great 
 debtor.” O, her mouth 
 
 Was sweet beyond new honey, or the bean-per- 
 fumed South, 
 
 And better than pomegranates to a pilgrim dumb 
 for drouth. 
 
I 22 
 
 The Falcon . 
 
 She look’d at his poor homestead \ at the spade 
 dropp’d from his hand \ 
 
 And then her heart reproach’d her, What in- 
 ordinate demand 
 
 Was she come there for making! Then she 
 says, in accents bland, 
 
 Her page and she are weary, and her wish can 
 wait : she’ll share 
 
 His noontide meal, by his favour. This he 
 hastens to prepare, 
 
 But, lo ! the roost is empty, and his humble 
 larder bare : 
 
 No friend has he to help him \ no one near of 
 whom to claim 
 
 The tax, and force it’s payment in his passion’s 
 sovereign name ; 
 
 No time to set the pitfalls for the swift and 
 fearful game ; 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 123 
 
 Too late to fly his falcon, which, as if it would 
 assist 
 
 It’s master’s trouble, perches on his idly offer’d 
 fist. 
 
 With busy, dumb caresses, treading up and down 
 his wrist. 
 
 But now a gleam of comfort and a shadow of 
 dismay 
 
 Pass over Hubert’s visage \ now it seems he 
 would essay 
 
 The fatness of his falcon, while it flaps both 
 wings for play ; 
 
 Now, lo, the ruthless lover takes it from it’s 
 trusted stand ; 
 
 Grasps all it’s frighten’d body with his hard re- 
 morseless hand \ 
 
 Puts out it’s faithful life, and plucks and broils it 
 on the brand. 
 
124 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 In midst of this famed dinner, Mabel gave her 
 wish its word : — 
 
 a My wilful child, Sir Hubert, pines from fancy 
 long deferr’d ; 
 
 u And now he raves in fever to possess your 
 famous bird.” 
 
 u Alas ! ” he said, u behold it there.” Then 
 nobly did she say 
 
 u It grieves my heart, Sir Hubert, that I am all 
 too poor to pay 
 
 u For this magnificent banquet I am honour’d 
 with to day : 
 
 cc But if, Sir Hubert, henceforth, we can meet 
 as friends, my board 
 
 “ To you shall be as open as it would were you 
 it’s Lord.” 
 
 She bow’d and blush’d and left him, from his 
 vex’d mind unrestored. 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 125 
 
 IV. 
 
 A /T ONTHS pass’d, and Hubert went not, 
 but lived on in his old way ; 
 
 Until to him, one morning, Mabel sent her page 
 to say, 
 
 That should it suit his pleasure, she would speak 
 with him that day. 
 
 w Ah, welcome Sir !” said Mabel, rising cour- 
 teous, kind and free : 
 
 “ I hoped, ere this, to have had you for my 
 guest, but now I see 
 
 “ That you are even prouder than they whisper 
 you to be.” 
 
126 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 Made grave by her great beauty, but not daz- 
 zled, he replied, 
 
 With every noble courtesy, to her words ; and 
 spoke beside 
 
 Such things as are permitted to bare friendship ; 
 not in pride, 
 
 Or wilful overacting of the right, which often 
 blends 
 
 Its sacrificial pathos, bitter-sweet, with lover’s 
 ends, 
 
 Or that he now remember’d her command to 
 u meet as friends 
 
 But having not had knowledge that the infant 
 heir was dead, 
 
 Whose life made it more loving to preserve his 
 love unsaid, 
 
 He waited calmly wondering to what mark this 
 summons led. 
 
The Falcon . 
 
 127 
 
 She, puzzled with a strangeness by his whole 
 course disavow’d, 
 
 Spoke further: u Once, Sir Hubert, I was 
 thoughtless, therefore proud ; 
 
 “ I trust I’m now more noble ; certain ’tis that 
 like a cloud, 
 
 u Y outh hides worth from the youthful : very 
 like a cloud’s, youth’s light 
 
 w Seems more, because more scatter’d, than the 
 sun’s, that makes it bright, — 
 
 “ The truth that shining through it, is itself 
 obscur’d from sight. 
 
 “ I bend beneath the burden of the debts con- 
 tracted then. 
 
 u I was not then so worthy — near — as — as — 
 alas ! ’tis when 
 
 u We moralize we find that we have not free 
 minds like men.” 
 
128 
 
 The Falcon. 
 
 She strove to give her meaning, yet blush’d 
 deeply with dismay 
 
 Lest he should find it. Hubert fear’d she pur- 
 pos’d to repay 
 
 Love’s offerings with lucre, which she wanted 
 words to say. 
 
 His eyes are dropp’d in sorrow from their wor- 
 shipping : but, lo ! 
 
 Upon her sable vesture they are fall’n : with 
 progress slow, 
 
 Through dawning apprehension to sweet hope, 
 his features grow. 
 
 And all at once are lighted with a light, as when 
 the moon, 
 
 Long labouring to the margin of a cloud, still 
 seeming soon 
 
 About to swim beyond it, bursts at last as bare 
 
 as noon. 
 
The Falcon. 
 
 129 
 
 <c O, Lady, I have loved, and long kept silence ; 
 but I see 
 
 “ The time is come for speaking. O, sweet 
 Lady, I should be 
 
 cc The blessedest knight in Christendom, were 
 I beloved by thee !” 
 
 One small hand’s weight of whiteness on her 
 bosom did she press ; 
 
 The other, woo’d with kisses bold, refused not 
 that caress \ 
 
 Feasting the hungry silence came, sob-clad, her 
 silver cc Yes.” 
 
 Now who would not be Hubert, for his dark- 
 eyed Bride divine, 
 
 Her rich, sky-skirted woodlands, valleys flowing 
 oil and wine, 
 
 Sir Hubert to whose sunning all the rays of for- 
 tune shine ! 
 
 •^■ 0 * 0 ^ 
 
 K 
 
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 
 
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 
 
 I. 
 
 HE sits upon her little bed. 
 
 And muses by the moon : 
 
 Ere this, to-morrow, she’ll be wed : 
 Ere this ? How strangely soon ! 
 
 An obvious blank of ignorance 
 Lies full across her way, 
 
 And shadows, cast from unknown chance, 
 Make dim the coming day. 
 
i34 The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 She must not think of that : the fear 
 O’erfilms her giddy eye ; 
 
 And she may swoon, with no one near, 
 And so, unmarried, die. 
 
 Her faithless dread she quite discards : 
 
 And now sad memory flings 
 It’s glory round the last regards 
 Of old, accustom’d things. 
 
 Twice dear seems yonder moonlit church ; 
 
 Her home, where she was bred ; 
 
 Her room ; her linnet on his perch ; 
 
 Thrice dear her little bed. 
 
 Her mother’s voice, her father’s eyes 
 Accuse her : all in vain 
 She thinks herself a wife, and tries 
 To feel the greater gain. 
 
The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 *35 
 
 Her unknown fortune nothing cheers 
 Her heart’s familiar loss ; 
 
 And torrents of remorseful tears 
 Their smarting threshold cross. 
 
 When first within her bosom Love 
 Took birth and beat his wings, 
 
 It seem’d to lift her mind above 
 All care for other things. 
 
 But, oh, too lightly did she vow 
 To leave her happy nest; 
 
 And dreadful is the thought that now 
 Assaults her shaken breast. 
 
 Ah, should her lover’s love abate ; 
 And should she, wretched, lose 
 
 All dear regards of maiden state, 
 Dissolv’d by marriage dues. 
 
1 36 The Eve of the Wedding . 
 
 Once more those sickening dreams alloy 
 Her hope with nameless blame : 
 
 But dread, she trusts, will turn to joy 
 Like smoke to sudden flame. 
 
 With instinct of her ignorance, 
 
 The virgin’s veiled guide, 
 
 She casts to Love the reins of Chance 
 Nor recks what shall betide. 
 
 And, so determin’d, she collects 
 Her senses, much abused 
 
 By fear that monstrously reflects 
 God’s future all confused. 
 
 And now to bed : at morn’s first gleam, 
 Mother will wake her Pride ; 
 
 And weary looks would ill beseem 
 The decorated Bride. 
 
The Eve of the Wedding. 137 
 
 The accustom’d scripture duly read. 
 Conferring happy calm, 
 
 And pray’rs with sweet acceptance said. 
 She says her nightly psalm. 
 
 cc My Saviour free, who lovest me 
 u Because I do not doubt, 
 cc Within me let thy Spirit be, 
 u Thy Providence without* 
 
 a All them to bless, who thee confess, 
 u Thou dost not slack nor cease : 
 
 <c Their ways are ways of pleasantness, 
 a And all their paths are peace.” 
 
 Now, graceful as a lamb, she stands 
 Before her mirror’d charms ; 
 
 Unloops her frock, her waist unbands, 
 With busy, dimpling arms ; 
 
138 "The Eve of the JVedding. 
 
 Loosens her hair ; relieves the folds 
 Of her confining vest ; 
 
 With colouring cheek, content, beholds 
 The pureness of her breast ; 
 
 And so her fragrant body rids 
 From art : and now the moon 
 Makes lilies of her unkiss’d lids, 
 
 For simple maids sleep soon. 
 
The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 *39 
 
 II. 
 
 A ND is it no vain fantasy 
 
 That fills his blood with pride ? 
 Shall he, to-morrow, verily, 
 
 Be Bridegroom to the Bride ? 
 
 Is he, ev’n he, indeed, henceforth, 
 
 To live the supreme lord 
 Of her whose smile, for rarest worth, 
 Were over-rich reward ? 
 
 To live enchain’d with her by chains 
 Not dissolubly wrought ? 
 
 Oh, bliss beyond belief! It pains 
 The narrow house of thought. 
 
140 The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 Time’s briefest void seems infinite 
 ’Twixt him and his desire ; 
 
 Yet Earth must turn ere Passion light 
 His own funereal pyre. 
 
 Patience and hope have parted truce, 
 
 And all his fancies are 
 
 Like blinding mists driven up profuse 
 Before Day’s glorious car. 
 
 Incredible life’s promise seems ; 
 
 Or, credible, too great : 
 
 Love his own deity blasphemes, 
 
 And doffs his heavenly state ! 
 
 What force, if man be set so high, 
 
 His further will debars 
 
 To pluck the chaste moon from the sky, 
 And tread out all the stars ? 
 
The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 141 
 
 Vague discontents awaken, fed 
 By wealth past hope or aim ; 
 
 And fears, like salamanders, bred 
 In Love’s unslacken’d flame. 
 
 Not prescient of the strong defence 
 Of thoughts that still perplex 
 
 With all the countless difference 
 And sweet consent of sex, 
 
 He dreads lest time should make them twain, 
 Or use should let them run, 
 
 With undistinguish’d heart and brain. 
 
 Like dew-drops into one. 
 
 He thinks, if Love be blind, then she, 
 
 This Maid, esteem’d most rare, 
 
 When fact hath marr’d his fantasy, 
 
 May prove less wise and fair ; 
 
142 The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 If not, then he, his little worth 
 
 Soon known, comes toppling down 
 From Love’s heroic heights to earth, 
 And casts his phantom crown. 
 
 But this ’tis works him most annoy, 
 That peace and gratitude, 
 
 The sanction and the soul of joy, 
 
 Are missing from his mood. 
 
 He reads how patient Jacob paid 
 The price of Rachel ; then, 
 
 What reverent grace Tobias said, 
 
 To Sarah’s sweet cc Amen.” 
 
 But all in vain : true will is storm’d 
 By lawless hope and fear, 
 
 And fire-mists of a world unform’d 
 
 O’ercloud his spirit clear. 
 
The Eve of the Wedding . 
 
 H3 
 
 His pulses throb, his temples burn, 
 
 He chides himself, u Unwise ! 
 cc Who, duteous overmuch, would turn 
 “ Delight to sacrifice. 
 
 u Seasons there are to laugh, to pray ; 
 
 tc Seasons to reap, to sow ; 
 
 <c Bless God, who gave to each it’s day, 
 cc Nor teach the rose to blow ! ” 
 
 In the still night the village-clock 
 Strikes twice and far away, 
 
 With answering cheer, the crying cock 
 Rebukes the lagging day. 
 
 O, for the silent wings of sleep ! 
 
 Beside his joyless bed, 
 
 He asks that Heaven will Amy keep, 
 And him, till they be wed ; 
 
The Eve of the Wedding. 
 
 144 
 
 So casts him down ; but is not won 
 To his despised repose, 
 
 Until, through shifting mists, the sun 
 Like a carbuncle glows. 
 
HOPE AGAINST HOPE. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HOPE AGAINST HOPE. 
 
 IRST the Youth, with eager fore- 
 head, 
 
 Flashing eyes and flowing hair : 
 
 “ Lo, the perfect form of goodness 
 “ Is appearing everywhere ! ” 
 
 Then the other, (’twas his father), 
 
 Shaking silver locks, Hope’s pall : 
 
 “ What avails the form of goodness, 
 
 “ When there is no life at all ? ” 
 
4 8 Hope against Hope . 
 
 Cried the youth, “ There was a sculptor, 
 u And an image fair he made, 
 
 “ Because the times lack’d beauty ; 
 
 cc And, as soon as he had pray’d, 
 u He saw it move sweet motion, 
 u Felt it waxing heavenly warm : 
 
 “ God gives the spirit, Father, 
 u If men will make the form.” 
 
 u A fable shrewdly morall’d : 
 
 “ But, — suppose that moral just, — 
 u Alas, I look round vainly 
 
 “ For the form in which you trust. 
 cc When governments grow formless, 
 cc Which form the time’s events” — 
 
 “ Nay, look higher ;” said the young man ; 
 cc Look what governs governments. 
 
Hope against Hope. 
 
 H9 
 
 u The outward eye turns inward, 
 u Slowly wedding fact to fact, 
 a Such harmonized experience 
 
 u Making knowledge, knowledge act : 
 u While all of this progresses, 
 u Sense is weakly, vision thick, 
 u Sin itself has little savour, 
 
 u And the soul of man lies sick. 
 
 “ The creeping thing has dwindled 
 u To the grub, that it may fly ; 
 cc And those who will but calmly 
 u Watch the present can descry 
 cc Upon its corpse-like surface, 
 cc In its dead, mechanic strife, 
 cc The blind, uneasy motions 
 
 cc That foretell the higher life. 
 
' 5 ° Hope against Hope . 
 
 a Religion is in fashion ; 
 
 cc All, for decency, profess ; 
 
 “ And round her sovereign centre, 
 cc Lo, all Arts and Learnings press ! ” 
 a I hate their lax lip-worship.” 
 cc So do I replied the youth ; 
 u I say that we are tending 
 
 u Through the form of truth to truth. 
 
 cc We learn to think the Muses 
 w No divinities; divine, 
 u Then only while their glory 
 u Is a simple reflex shine, 
 a A high and tender moonlight, 
 cc That endures but while they run 
 u With humble faces looking 
 cc To the universal Sun. 
 
Hope against Hope. 
 
 “ Behold !” his eye-lids lifted 
 
 With his hope, the young man saith, 
 “ These also fill their places 
 u As the pioneers to faith, 
 u Clearing paths for higher Powers, 
 cc When they give the fleshly clod 
 “ An upward gaze, through beauty 
 cc Unto goodness, unto God. 
 
 a Supporters of our moments 
 a Slack in faith, their quality 
 cc Is that of humble handmaids ; 
 
 “ Make them Idols, and they flee ; 
 u Or, worse, remain as tyrants, 
 a Who, most tyrant-like, employ 
 u The power we give against us, 
 a With a jealous hate to joy. 
 
I 5 2 
 
 Hope against Hope. 
 
 cc Like purpose quickens science : 
 u Learnings, hitherto a proud, 
 u Loquacious, shallow, heartless, 
 
 “ Sightless, deaf, and grovelling crowd, 
 c< Approaching now their Maker, 
 u Hand in hand, like humble friends, 
 cc Own that alone for knowledge 
 “ Which in godly wisdom ends.” 
 
 “ My son, this is brave talking, 
 cc But too hopeful far for me. 
 a True doctors and true poets 
 
 “ Live, perhaps, but where lives he, 
 cc The gentle, loving shepherd 
 
 u Of the ancient mode, who taught 
 cc The people by example ; 
 
 “ Preaching simply what he wrought ? ” 
 
Hope against Hope* ^53 
 
 cc Alas, my Father, seldom 
 
 u May we meet him now : but where 
 “ A double choice seems offer’d, 
 cc Hope extreme, extreme despair, 
 
 “ Choose hope : ah ! let us therefore 
 “ Think a day shall drown this night, 
 
 “ When each may find his pastor 
 <c In a conscience strong with light. 
 
 u For hoping or despairing 
 
 “ There is huge and equal scope. 
 u Huge ill or good must follow, 
 u Just, as we despair or hope. 
 u Hope therefore without limit : 
 cc To despair is to blaspheme. 
 
 “ Hark ! I will dare to utter 
 cc What I have dared to dream. 
 
154 Hope against Hope. 
 
 cc Think, Father, what a heaven 
 
 u Were this common earth full-grown 
 u Think : are not signals given 
 u Of its nonage well-nigh flown ? 
 u What is heaven ? Trust not any, 
 u When they call it mystery : 
 u Its features are not many, 
 w And have strange simplicity.” 
 
 “ That is true ; ” replied the old man, 
 <c But it has been always so : 
 cc Why therefore think the blessing 
 u Nearer now than long ago ? ” 
 
 “ Nay, nay !” replied the young man, 
 u It has not been always so ! ” 
 
 High fervours flush his forehead, 
 
 And his eager fancies flow : 
 
Hope against Hope. 
 
 X SS 
 
 a Rest from evil 5 too soon given 
 u Unto man 5 had found his mind 
 u Incapable of heaven : 
 
 w Evil hath good use assign’d : 
 u It makes him question nature 
 
 4C For relief ; which though he miss, 
 u He gains by knowledge stature 
 To lay hold on highest bliss : 
 
 u For not until perfection 
 
 lc Shall be his, in Nature’s lore, 
 a Can he feel heav’n’s full dilection, 
 cc Can he perfectly adore. 
 
 “ His maturity approaches : 
 u Daily fleeter in advance, 
 a The rule of light encroaches 
 u On chaotic Ignorance 5 
 
is 6 Hope against Hope. 
 
 u Fast fade the separations 
 
 u Fine and false, — wherewith we mar 
 ct Our noblest speculations, — 
 
 “ Of c divine’ and c secular 
 cc And c Sciences,’ first Science 
 
 cc Now they know themselves for one, 
 cc Grow golden from reliance 
 u For true light on the true Sun. 
 
 u In trust, pure, strong, and steady, 
 
 “ T’ward the full light let us fare : 
 u See ! Learning’s bound already 
 
 u Shows its faint edge here and there. 
 a There comes an age of power ! 
 
 a Man shall sit at ease all day, 
 u In faith, as in a tower, 
 
 u While all lower things obey. 
 
Hope against Hope. 
 
 *57 
 
 u No more the slave of chances, 
 
 “ Or of lies, or partial truth” — * 
 
 “ What tissues of mad fancies 
 u Art thou weaving, silly youth ! 
 u He, with sight unwarp’d by factions, 
 u Truly seeing what he sees, 
 cc Shall do all righteous actions 
 “ With a heav’n-descended ease ; 
 
 u Shall call the world his neighbour $ 
 cc Shall perceive its whole love bum 
 “ On him ; and, without labour, 
 u Shall an equal love return ; 
 cc Shall fill the lofty station, 
 
 u To fill which he left the sod, 
 a The mouth-piece of creation 
 “ For the praises of its God. 
 
* 5 8 Hope against Hope. 
 
 cc O, what a blessed junction 
 a Of all joys will happen then ! 
 u Beyond thought’s deepest function ! 
 
 u That was little to it, when 
 <c Great Kepler’s spirit, steering 
 cc Past the stars, untouch’d by fears. 
 “ Within our mortal hearing 
 
 u Brought the music of the spheres 
 
 “ Alas, my son, what ails thee ? 
 
 “ Calmly listen : say, how chimes 
 u With thy harmonious story 
 
 a The vast discord of the times ? ” 
 “ O, harshly and appalling, 
 
 “ If we dare not with them cope ; 
 cc But if we act our calling, 
 
 “ Love, believe, and work in hope, 
 
Hope against Hope. 
 
 *59 
 
 u O, sweetly and completely, 
 cc Even as should be the din 
 cc Of instruments tuned meetly, 
 cc Ere the harmony begin : 
 u At times all seems confusion, 
 cc Still not such that it confounds, 
 cc For all hath strange allusion 
 
 a To the advent of sweet sounds ; 
 
 “ At times, you hear in snatches, 
 u Calmly listen ! softest strains, 
 
 “ Divine, prophetic catches, 
 cc Full of rest to human pains ; 
 cc At times, low voices singing, 
 
 u c Sin and death to hell are hurl’d : 
 <c It is the second coming 
 
 u Of the Saviour of the world ! 9 ” 
 
160 Hope against Hope. 
 
 He ended. Small birds whistled, 
 
 Branches waved, the world was glad ; 
 And for all the old man’s doubting, 
 
 And for all his sighing sad, 
 
 Boughs and birds still waved and whistled ; 
 
 And for all that he could say, 
 
 Touch’d with the young man’s music, 
 Ever waved and whistled they. 
 
 (1846.) 
 
THE WOODMAN’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 M 
 

 
THE WOODMAN’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 N u Gerald’s cottage” by the hill, 
 Old Gerald and his child, 
 
 His daughter Maud, dwelt happily; 
 He toil’d and she beguiled 
 The long day at her spinning-wheel, 
 
 In the garden now grown wild. 
 
 At Gerald’s stroke the jay awoke ; 
 
 Till noon hack follow’d hack, 
 
 Before the nearest hill had time 
 To give it’s echo back ; 
 
 And the evening mists were in the lane 
 Ere Gerald’s arm grew slack. 
 
164 The Woodman's Daughter. 
 
 Meanwhile, below the scented heaps 
 Of honey-suckle flower, 
 
 That made their simple cottage-porch 
 A cool, luxurious bower, 
 
 Maud sat beside her spinning-wheel, 
 
 And spun from hour to hour. 
 
 The growing thread thro’ her fingers sped 
 Round flew the polish’d wheel ; 
 
 Merrily rang the notes she sang 
 At every finish’d reel ; 
 
 From the hill again, like a shrill refrain, 
 Follow’d the rapid peal. 
 
 That sound is heard no more, no more 
 The gnarl’d and lichen’d oak 
 Flings moss and mould from smitten roots 
 Nor Echo mocks the stroke 
 Which once kept all day long from sleep 
 The silence it awoke. 
 
The Woodman's Daughter. 16 
 
 The Woodman’s dead : his rusting axe 
 Reddens the wither’d bough 
 In which he struck it last ; and Maud, 
 Poor Maud, sings wildly now ; 
 
 And village gossips say she knows 
 Worse grief than she’ll avow. 
 
 Her tale is this : In the sweet age 
 When heaven’s our side the lark, 
 
 She used to go with Gerald, where 
 He work’d from dawn to dark, 
 
 For months, to thin the crowded groves 
 Of the ancient Manor-Park. 
 
 She went with him to think she help’d ; 
 
 And whilst he hack’d and saw’d, 
 
 The rich Squire’s son, a young boy then, 
 Whole mornings, as if awed, 
 
 Stood silent by, and gazed in turn 
 At Gerald and on Maud. 
 
1 66 The Woodman s Daughter . 
 
 And sometimes, in a sullen tone, 
 
 He’d offer fruits, and she 
 Received them always with an air 
 So unreserv’d and free, 
 
 That shame-faced distance soon became 
 Familiarity. 
 
 Therefore in time, when Gerald shook 
 The woods at his employ, 
 
 The young heir and the cottage-girl 
 Would steal out to enjoy 
 The sound of one another’s talk, 
 
 A simple girl and boy. 
 
 They spent their time and took their walks 
 Uncheck’d, unquestion’d ; yet 
 They always hid their wanderings 
 By wood and rivulet, 
 
 Because they could not give themselves 
 A reason why they met. 
 
The Woodman s Daughter. 167 
 
 II. 
 
 *^TE ARS pass’d away : The month was May, 
 But almost upon June ; 
 
 The linnets to the joyful time 
 Their voices did attune ; 
 
 And hermit moles crept out to suck 
 The pleasant breath of noon. 
 
 Maud once had read, when lovers die 
 And go where angels are, 
 
 Each pair of lovers’ happy souls 
 Will make a double star : 
 
 So stars grew dearer, and she thought 
 They did not look so far. 
 
1 68 The Woodman s Daughter . 
 
 But being ignorant, and still 
 A child in heart, and prone 
 
 To think all new and great delights 
 Peculiarly her own, 
 
 She scarcely guess’d what made so sweet 
 Tales told of lover’s moan. 
 
 The two friends met, and wander’d forth 
 Along the river-side, 
 
 Talking of this and that by the way : 
 
 She question’d, he replied ; 
 
 And she recollected, at the last, 
 
 This question yet untried : 
 
 u Why is it that we never talk 
 u Of Love, like other things ? 
 
 u We’ll do so now, and you shall tell 
 u What ’tis, and whither springs 
 
 “ This joy of which that tender Bard, 
 
 “ Whose book you gave me, sings.” 
 
TUhe Woodman s Daughter. 169 
 
 “ Last night/’ said he, “ when after dusk 
 “ I rose up to depart, 
 
 “ We saw the moon, all liquid white, 
 cc Out of the dark trees start, 
 cc As then I felt, I felt when you 
 u First came upon my heart. 
 
 <c That’s love, Dear, and no more, I think 
 u About it can be told.” — 
 
 The multitudinous clouds moved past 
 In glittering heaps uproll’d ; 
 
 And all between their carv’d forms stood 
 The plain skies, blue and cold ; 
 
 The flat, white river laps’d along, 
 
 Now a broad, broken glare, 
 
 Now winding around thro’ the bosom’d lands ; 
 
 Till lost in the distance, where 
 The tall hills, sunning their ancient peaks, 
 Made emptier the empty air. 
 
i/o The Woodman s Daughter. 
 
 Swallows among the boisterous winds 
 Were striving to and fro ; 
 
 The raving trees toss’d out their arms 
 Toward the sky; below, 
 
 The streaming corn-fields smoothly sped 
 In one continual flow. 
 
 “ Love” said Maud, u is a noble thing !” 
 And their several fancies wrought 
 To the same effect with each ; they went 
 Right on, nor said they aught 
 But quicken’d their steps, as if they strove 
 To overtake their thought. 
 
 The noonday fled : still on they sped, 
 
 Their hands lock’d each in each ; 
 
 The youth now and then pluck’d recklessly 
 The flowers within his reach ; 
 
 And both felt a rash, unusual joy 
 For which they wanted speech. 
 
The Woodman s Daughter. 
 
 171 
 
 Their novel joy was not all joy : 
 That indistinct alarm 
 Which whispers to unsullied minds 
 The coming on of harm, 
 
 Made joy sit strange and heavily, 
 Like some unholy charm. 
 
1 7 Z The Woodman s Daughter. 
 
 III. 
 
 IME pass’d away. “ Poor child, poor 
 
 child!” 
 
 Was all that Gerald said : 
 
 And he would steady his old hand 
 Upon her hapless head, 
 
 And think of her as tranquilly 
 As wise men of the dead. 
 
 But he is gone : and Maud comes out, 
 This gentle day of June ; 
 
 And having sobb’d her Babe to sleep, 
 Help’d by the stream’s soft tune, 
 She rests along the willow-trunk, 
 Below the calm blue noon. 
 
The Woodman's Daughter. 173 
 
 Her thoughts arise instead of tears : 
 When Merton met her last 
 It was just such a day as this : 
 
 How life since then has pass’d ! 
 
 How henceforth pass it ? For she feels 
 Her mind is failing fast 
 
 Best break at once her present plan ! 
 
 Out-blush an evil name ; 
 
 Bear scorn she cannot scorn in turn ; 
 
 Unanswerable blame. 
 
 And so she would ; but Merton too, 
 That done, must feel her shame. 
 
 The shadow of her little babe, 
 
 Deep in the stream, behold ! 
 
 Smiles quake over her parted lips : 
 Some thought has made her bold ; 
 She stoops to dip her fingers in 
 To feel if the water’s cold. 
 
i74 The Woodman' s Daughter. 
 
 ’Tis soft and warm, and runs as ’twere 
 Perpetually at play : 
 
 But then the stream, she recollects, 
 
 Bears everything away. 
 
 There is a dull pool hard at hand 
 That sleeps both night and day. 
 
 She stands there : closing weeds have shut 
 The water from her sight \ 
 
 They stir awhile, but now are still. 
 
 Her arms fall down ; the light 
 Is horrible, and her countenance 
 Is pale as a cloud at night. 
 
 Merrily now from the small church-tower 
 Cometh a noisy chime ; 
 
 The larks climb up thro’ the heavenly blue, 
 Carolling as they climb ; 
 
 And, lo, in her face stands the great surprise 
 That comes with the first crime ! 
 
The Woodman's Daughter. 175 
 
 The pool reflects the scarlet West 
 With a hot and guilty glow ; 
 
 The East is changing ashy pale ; 
 
 But Maud will never go 
 While those great bubbles struggle up 
 From the rotting weeds below. 
 
 The light has changed. A little since 
 You scarcely might descry 
 The moon, now gleaming sharp and bright, 
 From cloudlets slumbering nigh ; 
 
 And, one by one, the timid stars 
 Step out into the sky. 
 
 The night is far advanced ; but Maud 
 Is constant at her post, 
 
 Sunk in a dread, unnatural sleep, 
 
 Beneath the skiey host 
 Of drifting mists, thro’ which the moon 
 Is riding like a ghost. 
 
4 
 
EROS, 
 
 AND OTHER SHORT POEMS. 
 
 N 
 

EROS. 
 
 RIGHT thro’ the valley gallops the 
 brooklet ; 
 
 Over the welkin travels the cloud ; 
 Touch’d by the zephyr, dances the harebell ; 
 
 Cuckoo sits somewhere, singing so loud ; 
 Swift o’er the meadows glitter the starlings, 
 Striking their wings all the flock at a stroke ; 
 Under the chesnuts new bees are swarming, 
 Rising and falling like magical smoke : 
 
 Two little children, seeing and hearing, 
 
 Hand in hand wander, shout, laugh and sing : 
 
1 8 o 
 
 Eros. 
 
 Lo, in their bosoms, wild with the marvel, 
 Love, like the crocus, is come ere the Spring. 
 Young men and women, noble and tender, 
 Yearn for each other, faith truly plight, 
 Promise to cherish, comfort and honour ; 
 
 Vow that makes duty one with delight. 
 
 Ah, but the glory, found in no story, 
 
 Radiance of Eden unquench’d by the Fall ; 
 Few may remember, none may reveal it, 
 
 This the first First-love, the first love of all ! 
 
A THUNDER-SHOWER. 
 
 rr^HE cloud-bank rises, huge and calm. 
 And doubtful if for bale or balm : 
 Toppling crags, portentous towers 
 Appear at beck of viewless powers, 
 
 Along a rifted mountain-range : 
 
 Untraceable and swift in change, 
 
 Those glittering peaks, disrupted, spread 
 To solemn bulks seen overhead. 
 
 The sunshine quench’d, from one dark form 
 Fumes the appalling light of storm ; 
 
 Straight to the zenith, black with bale, 
 
 The cottage-smoke goes, deadly pale ; 
 
182 
 
 A Thunder- Shower. 
 
 And one wide night of hopeless hue 
 Hides from the heart the recent blue. 
 
 From time to time, a flash unshrouds 
 The picture of the plighted clouds : 
 
 Vague recess, projection dim, 
 
 Scatter’d rack and shadowy rim. 
 
 The gathering wind licks up the dust ; 
 Kine drop their heads ; the tortur’d gust 
 Snatches the long, ascending smoke, 
 
 And jags it, like the light’ning’s stroke. 
 The blood pricks ; then a blinding flash 
 And close, coinstantaneous crash 
 Humble the soul ; and the hail, far round, 
 Resilient dims the whistling ground 
 With a low mist of crossing, curves : 
 
 It slants against the gust, nor swerves, 
 Nor flags in force from first to last ; 
 
 And, sudden as it came, ’tis past. 
 
A Thunder-Shower . 
 
 183 
 
 The darkness melts \ far thunder faint 
 Mutters its vast and vain complaint ; 
 
 And gaps and fractures, fringed with light, 
 Show the sweet skies, with squadrons bright 
 Of cloudlets, glittering calm and fair 
 Thro’ gulphs of calm and glittering air. 
 
184 
 
 ALMS WITHOUT CHARITY. 
 
 T KNEW a soft-eyed Lady, from a noble 
 foreign Land : 
 
 Her voice, I thought, was lowest when we 
 walk’d out, hand in hand ; 
 
 I began to say, Heav’n pleasing, I shall have 
 her for my Bride : 
 
 Darken’d, darken’d, darken’d, was the whole 
 world when she died. 
 
 In the street a man since stopp’d me : in a no- 
 ble foreign tongue 
 
 He said he was a stranger, poor, and strangers 
 all among : 
 
. Alms without Charity . 185 
 
 I offer’d all I had. He gazed ; then took it, 
 hand and all. 
 
 O, how his look accused me, while he held my 
 hand in thrall, 
 
 Pressing it with a gratitude which made my 
 conscience start : 
 
 For that was not my meaning; and his thanks 
 rebuked my heart. 
 
1 86 
 
 EASTER AND LENT. 
 
 Y feasting taught to fast, 
 
 By fasting taught to feast, 
 Who does both well shall find 
 The life of the heart increased : 
 Who proudly at feast-time starves 
 Brings praises of no price 
 To Him who loves obedience 
 Better than sacrifice. 
 
THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 J SOMETIMES sit and mark my child 
 Through the clover racing wild ; 
 
 And then, as if I sweetly dream’d, 
 
 I half remember how it seem’d 
 When I, too, was a reckless rover 
 Amongst the bee-beloved clover : 
 
 Pure airs from heavenly places rise 
 Breathing the blindness from mine eyes, 
 Until, with rapture, grief and awe, 
 
 I see again as then I saw. 
 
 As then I saw I see again 
 The heavy-loaded harvest-wain, 
 
1 88 
 
 The Golden Age. 
 
 Hanging tokens of its pride 
 In the trees on either side ; 
 
 Daisies coming out at dawn 
 In constellations on the lawn ; 
 
 The glory of the daffodil ; 
 
 The three black windmills on the hill, 
 
 Their magic arms flung wildly by, 
 
 With magic shadows on the rye : 
 
 In the leafy coppice, lo, 
 
 More wealth than miser’s dreams can show, 
 The blackbird’s warm and woolly brood, 
 With golden beaks agape for food ! 
 
 Gipsies all the summer seen, 
 
 Native as poppies to the Green ; 
 
 Winter with its frosts and thaws, 
 
 And opulence of hips and haws ; 
 
 The lovely marvel of the snow ; 
 
 The happy, happy ships that go, 
 
 Sailing up and sailing down, 
 
The Golden Age. 
 
 Through the fields and by the town ; 
 
 All the thousand dear events 
 That fell when days were incidents. 
 
 O, for days like those again ! 
 
 — But life is deep and words are vain. 
 Mark yonder hedgerow, here and there 
 Sprinkled with Spring, but mainly bare ; 
 The wither’d bank beneath, where blows. 
 In yellow crowds, the fresh primrose : 
 What skill of colour thus could smite 
 The troubled heart-strings thro’ the sight 
 What magic of sweet speech express 
 Their primeveral tenderness ? 
 
 Can these not utter’d be, and can 
 The day-spring of immortal man ? 
 
190 
 
 THE YEAR. 
 
 rr^HE crocus, while the days are dark, 
 Unfolds it’s saffron sheen ; 
 
 At April’s touch, the crudest bark 
 Discovers gems of green. 
 
 Then sleep the seasons, full of might ; 
 
 While slowly swells the pod 
 And rounds the peach, and in the night 
 The mushroom bursts the sod. 
 
 The Winter falls ; the frozen rut 
 Is bound with silver bars ; 
 
 The snow-drift heaps against the hut ; 
 
 And night is pierc’d with stars. 
 
THE STORM. 
 
 rr^HE boon she had ask’d, a task for days, 
 Being done next morning, while she slept, 
 With love’s full heart, that finds no praise 
 In vows which are not more than kept, 
 
 I, glad, went forth. In the blue above 
 Some pitchy shreds took size and form, 
 
 And, like a madman’s wrath or love, 
 
 From nothing rose a sudden storm. 
 
 The blossom’d limes, which seem’d to exhale 
 Her breath, were swept with one strong sweep, 
 And up the dusty road the hail 
 Came like a flock of hasty sheep, 
 
 Driving me into a cottage-porch, 
 
 Close to my goal, the Minster Spire, 
 Which, in the darkness, seem’d a torch 
 Touch’d with the sun’s retreating fire. 
 
92 
 
 The Storm. 
 
 A voice so sweet that even her voice, 
 
 I thought, could scarcely be more sweet, 
 
 As thus I stay’d against my choice, 
 
 Did mine attracted hearing greet ; 
 
 And presently I turn’d my head 
 
 Where the* kind accents still went on, 
 
 And where, to an old blind man, she read 
 The gentle doctrine of Saint John. 
 
 She did not see me ; quick I went, 
 
 Thro’ the fierce shower’s whistle and smoke, 
 To her home, and thence her woman sent 
 Back with umbrella, shawl and cloak. 
 
 The storm soon pass’d : the sun’s quick glare 
 Lay quench’d in vapours fleecy, fray’d ; 
 
 And all the moist, delicious air 
 
 Was fill’d with shine that cast no shade ; 
 And, when she came, forth the sun gleam’d, 
 And clash’d the trembling Minster chimes ; 
 And the breath with which she thank’d me seem’d 
 Brought thither from the blossom’d limes. 
 
*93 
 
 NIGHT AND SLEEP. 
 
 i. 
 
 T T O W strange it is to wake 
 
 And watch, while others sleep, 
 Till sight and hearing ache 
 For objects that may keep 
 The awful inner sense 
 
 Unroused, lest it should mark 
 The life that haunts the emptiness 
 And horror of the dark ! 
 
 2 . 
 
 How strange the distant bay 
 Of dogs ; how wild the note 
 Of cocks that scream for day, 
 In homesteads far remote ; 
 
J 94 
 
 Night and Sleep. 
 
 How strange and wild to hear 
 The old and crumbling tower 
 Amidst the darkness, suddenly 
 Takelife and speak the hour 
 
 3 - 
 
 If dreams or panic dread 
 
 Reveal the gloom of gloom, 
 Kiss thou the pillow’d head 
 By thine, and soft resume 
 The confident embrace, 
 
 And so each other keep 
 In the sure league of amity, 
 
 And the safe lap of sleep. 
 
 4 - 
 
 Albeit the love-sick brain 
 Affects the dreary moon, 
 
 111 things alone refrain 
 
 From life’s nocturnal swoon : 
 
Night and Sleep. 
 
 *95 
 
 Men melancholy mad, 
 
 Beasts ravenous and sly, 
 
 The robber and the murderer, 
 Remorse, with lidless eye. 
 
 5 - 
 
 The nightingale is gay, 
 
 For she can vanquish night; 
 Dreaming, she sings of day, 
 
 Notes that make darkness bright : 
 But when the refluent gloom 
 Saddens the gaps of song, 
 
 We charge on her the dolefulness, 
 And call her crazed with wrong. 
 
 6 . 
 
 ’Tis well that men should lie 
 All senseless, while the sun, 
 Coursing the nether sky, 
 
 Leaves half the world o’errun 
 
196 
 
 Night and Sleep. 
 
 With baleful shapes unseen ; 
 
 And foul it is when we 
 By loud carousal desecrate 
 Night’s evil sanctity. 
 
 7 - 
 
 ’Twere good that all should pray, 
 And so lie down to rest, 
 
 While yet the wholesome day 
 Is lingering in the West. 
 
 His prayer shall turn to peace, 
 Who still regards with awe 
 The midnight’s noxious mystery, 
 And nature’s genial law. 
 
197 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF TRAGEDIES, 
 
 J AM not easily moved to mourn : 
 
 Pity I neither ask nor give 
 For common ills, which may be borne 
 With thanks, as teaching men to live : 
 Flesh-racking pains, wan death in blood, 
 Those have I borne, this borne to see, 
 Unscared ; but to hear of womanhood 
 By fraud discrown’d of chastity, 
 
 To mark the world’s indifferent eyes, 
 
 And God’s postponement to be just, 
 While virtue like a field-flower dies, 
 
 Crush’d by the stupid hoof of lust, 
 
 Makes me as one who an earthquake feels ; 
 The weight of apprehended ill 
 
i9 8 ^he Tragedy of Tragedies . 
 
 Sickens my spirit ; shock’d faith reels ; 
 
 And wrath and pity work, until 
 For me the lights of the heaven fall, 
 The interests of the earth depart, 
 And nature for a space seems all 
 Horror and darkness at the heart. 
 
l 99 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 SWIFTLY speeds the clear tide, flow- 
 ing o’er the flat sea-sand : 
 
 So swiftly love came o’er me, while we paced 
 the murmuring strand : 
 
 So swiftly Bertha’s love met mine : right gladly 
 then I spake. 
 
 Sweet thanks had He who made us each for the 
 other’s sake. 
 
 O, slowly falls the dark wave, ebbing down the 
 rough rock-side : 
 
 So slowly sorrow leaves me : it is long since 
 Bertha died ; 
 
200 
 
 Bertha. 
 
 But the memory of her dearness is an ever-new 
 despair ; 
 
 And the burthen of life’s mystery seems more 
 than 1 can bear. 
 
201 
 
 REPROBATE. 
 
 i. 
 
 A T intervals, across this strife 
 
 Of strangely mingled death and life, 
 Flash awful visions, glimpses vast 
 Of each, as each shall surely last. 
 
 A muscle’s movement in a face, 
 
 A step, a look, a random word 
 Opens a breach in time and place, 
 
 And rumours from beyond are heard : 
 Celestial whisper, fiendish mutter, 
 
 Too dread, too sweet for tongue to utter. 
 Christ teach us by his timely grace ; 
 
 And, having taught, avert the fate 
 Of the relapsing Reprobate ! 
 
202 
 
 Reprobate. 
 
 ii. 
 
 In him, alas, is little good, 
 
 A man of sinful will and blood, 
 
 Who fails so often from the Way, 
 
 He sickens at the light of day. 
 
 His soul, cast down by shame and grief, 
 Too weak to call for Christ’s relief, 
 
 From all the glories of the Lord 
 Shut out, lies helpless, self-abhorr’d, 
 
 And faintly hopes, this fever ceased, 
 
 To die out wholly, like a beast, 
 
 Forgetting all life’s ill-success 
 In dark and peaceful nothingness. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says, 
 
 “ Sorrow for Sin God’s judgment stays !” 
 Against God’s Spirit he lies ; quite stops 
 
Reprobate. 
 
 20 3 
 
 Mercy with insult ; dares, and drops, 
 Like a scorch’d fly, that spins in vain 
 Upon the axis of it’s pain, 
 
 Then takes it’s doom, to limp and crawl, 
 Blind and forgot, from fall to fall. 
 
204 
 
 LITTLE EDITH. 
 
 I. 
 
 r i^HINK of cloudlets, light and tender, 
 Underneath the moving moon, 
 Full of love to that bright lender 
 Of their beauty in her noon. 
 
 Think of ripples, smooth, unriven, 
 Travelling regularly on, 
 
 Swiftly, delicately driven 
 
 By the white breast of a swan. 
 
 Think of lambs new shorn, at leisure 
 Filing through the narrow lane, 
 
 With repeated bleats of pleasure, 
 
 To their green abodes again. 
 
Little Ldith. 
 
 205 
 
 Think of whatsoever feedeth 
 
 Tranquil moods ; and you shall find 
 Calmer grace in little Edith, 
 
 Edith of the thoughtful mind. 
 
206 
 
 LITTLE EDITH. 
 
 II. 
 
 T SAY, u I must amend me, 
 
 And be like little Edith.” 
 
 She does not comprehend me ; 
 
 Some riddle she infers : 
 
 And while, with sweet demureness, 
 My countenance she readeth, 
 
 I sadden from the pureness 
 Of that child’s smile of her’s. 
 
 I sigh, “ She is unto me 
 As April to November.” 
 
 With marvel does she view me, 
 My meaning to devine : 
 
Little Edith . 
 
 207 
 
 Thank Heav’n, my heart’s compunction 
 Abates when I remember 
 Our spirit’s dear conjunction 
 Thro’ her dear Lord and mine. 
 
208 
 
 A Sketch in the 
 
 A SKETCH IN THE MANNER 
 OF HOGARTH. 
 
 U ^HERE to be hang’d till you are dead . 55 
 
 The man had heard it, had been led 
 Again to prison, and had heard 
 The preacher preach the Holy Word — 
 
 Too late ; for, by his fear abused, 
 
 The phrase of all seem’d all confused, 
 
 And this seem’d all that all men said, 
 a There to be hang’d till you are dead.” 
 
 All night fell hammers, shock on shock ; 
 
 With echoes Newgate’s granite clang’d : 
 
Manner of Hogarth. 
 
 209 
 
 The scaffold built, at eight o’clock 
 They brought the man out to be hang’d. 
 
 Then came from all the people there 
 A single cry, that shook the air ; 
 
 A single cry, that turn’d to storm 
 Of yells and noises multiform, 
 
 Where each, with mad gesticulations, 
 Rivall’d the rest in execrations : 
 
 Mothers held up their babes to see, 
 
 Who spread their hands and crow’d for glee ; 
 Here a girl from her vesture tore 
 A rag to wave with, and join’d the roar, 
 
 In shrieks, and singing, and savage jests, 
 Tossing about her naked breasts ; 
 
 There a man, with yelling tired, 
 
 Stopp’d, and the culprit’s crime inquired ; 
 
 A sot, below the doom’d man dumb, 
 
 Bawl’d his health in the world to come ; 
 
 p 
 
2 10 
 
 A Sketch in the 
 
 These blasphemed and fought for places 
 Those, half-crush’d, cast frantic faces, 
 To windows, where, in freedom sweet, 
 Others enjoy’d the wicked treat. 
 
 At last, the show’s dread crisis pended : 
 Struggles for better standings ended ; 
 The rabble’s lips no longer curst, 
 
 But stood agape with horrid thirst ; 
 Thousands of breasts beat horrid hope ; 
 Thousands of eye-balls, lit with hell, 
 But one way all, to see the rope 
 Unslacken as the platform fell. 
 
 The rope flew tight : and then the roar 
 Burst forth afresh ; less loud, but more 
 Confused and affrighting than before. 
 
 A few harsh tongues for ever led 
 The common din, the chaos of noises, 
 
Manner of Hogarth. 
 
 21 
 
 But ear could not catch what they said. 
 
 As when the realm of the damn’d rejoices 
 At winning a soul to its will, 
 
 That clatter and clangour of hateful voices 
 Sicken’d and stunn’d the air, until 
 The dangling corpse was straight and still. 
 
 The show complete, the pleasure past, 
 
 The solid masses loosen’d fast : 
 
 Each went his way or lagg’d behind, 
 
 As suited best his need or mind : 
 
 A thief slunk off, with ample spoil, 
 
 To ply elsewhere his daily toil ; 
 
 A baby strung it’s doll to a stick ; 
 
 A mother praised the pretty trick ; 
 
 Two children caught and hang’d a cat ; 
 Two friends walk’d on, in lively chat ; 
 Two foes, who had disputed places, 
 
 Went forth to fight, with murderous faces i 
 
212 
 
 A Sketch. 
 
 These, heavy-paced and heavy-hearted, 
 Whose dinners were to earn, departed, 
 Jealous of those who had pence to stay 
 At gin-shops by, and make it a day.* 
 
 * I understand that these verses, which were first 
 printed some years ago, have been regarded as indi- 
 rectly advocating the abolition of punishment by death. 
 I had no such intention in composing them. 
 
213 
 
 AMY'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 O W all the house is early awake, 
 And fain would all seem gay ; 
 But thoughtless are the hearts that make 
 A merry wedding-day. 
 
 With richness due they dress the Bride, 
 Yet miss the expected grace 
 Thro’ dearth of answering bridal pride 
 In Amy’s anxious face. 
 
 With weary hearts and heartless smiles. 
 At Church the Lovers meet, 
 
 And coldly glance down nave and aisles. 
 Where curious gossips greet. 
 
214 
 
 Amy s Marriage . 
 
 Now friends kneel round with many a tear. 
 Shed causeless save for this, 
 
 That Pathos stores it’s sharpest spear 
 For times of tenderest bliss. 
 
 The Priest takes Amy’s hand, and now. 
 Too much distraught to blush, 
 
 After the Priest she says the vow, 
 
 Heard in the nervous hush. 
 
 Lo, Christ, at gracious nuptials, still 
 Turns water into wine : 
 
 Let Love obey his own sweet will, 
 
 Made law by Love divine ; 
 
 Let friends arise and greet once more ; 
 
 The trembling marriage-vow 
 Has bound them too, mere friends before. 
 Brothers and sisters now. 
 
 The servants, in the hall arranged, 
 
 The Nurse who Amy nurst, 
 
Amy s Marriage. 
 
 215 
 
 Regard with awe Miss Amy changed 
 To Mistress Hazelhurst. 
 
 The children laugh and gaze their fill, 
 Much marvelling how it is ; 
 
 The maids with fluster’d fancies still 
 Forget, and call her cc Miss.” 
 
 The luncheon o’er, the chariot waits 
 Below the chesnut drive, 
 
 Where buzzing people throng the gates, 
 Like bees before the hive. 
 
 Now sad adieus and solace sweet 
 The Bride’s faint heart employ ; 
 
 And he looks on, with high conceit 
 Of his superior joy. 
 
 Her father brings them down the way ; 
 And lively cheer pretends ; 
 
 And soon returns, in converse gay 
 With Hugh’s neglected friends. 
 
2 i 6 Amy s Marriage. 
 
 At Amy’s bedside, rumpled nest, 
 
 The bird for ever flown, 
 
 Her mother kneels with aching breast, 
 And weeps and prays alone. 
 
 With mirthful talk, the guests belie 
 Their several thoughts ; for some 
 Regret sweet days like this gone by, 
 
 Or long for such to come ; 
 
 Others, thro’ ancient tears, discern 
 Love’s prospering purpose cross’d, 
 Occasion miss’d, ne’er to return, 
 Despised or lightly lost ; 
 
 With dim compunctions some recall 
 Old times when they could feel, 
 When noble thoughts seem natural, 
 And love was virtuous zeal ; 
 
 Others there are whose hearts’ content 
 Unlovely shades destroy, 
 
Amy's Marriage. 
 
 21 7 
 
 Cast by the brightness eminent 
 Of these two stars of joy ; 
 
 And this to all is sadly known, 
 
 Upon the bridal bed 
 
 Where Love to-day confirms his throne, 
 Sweet Hope lies crown’d and dead. 
 
218 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 "Ty /T Y childhood was a vision heavenly 
 wrought ; 
 
 High joys of which I sometimes dream, yet fail 
 To recollect sufficient to bewail, 
 
 And now for ever seek, came then unsought. 
 But thoughts denying feeling, every thought 
 Some buried feeling’s ghost, a spirit pale, 
 Sprang up, and wordy nothings could prevail 
 And juggle with my soul ; since, better taught : 
 The Christian’s apprehension, light that solves 
 Doubts without logic, rose in logic’s room ; 
 
Sonnet. 
 
 2 I 9 
 
 Sweet faith came back, sweet faith that hope 
 involves, 
 
 And joys, like stars, which, though they not 
 illume 
 
 This mortal night, have glory that dissolves 
 And strikes to quick transparence all its gloom. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 

 
 
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