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POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON college library 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 1 8 70 . 
 
Through harmony of words may murmur the har- 
 mony of things ; whispers of human life and the world 
 our scene, pensive memories, high hopes, musically min- 
 gling, — at fit moments, to soothe, cheer, strengthen. 
 Fine, mystical, and complex is our being, in the midst 
 of manifold operation, which we feel without compre- 
 hending; and Poetry is no less real than Existence. 
 
 169413 
 
By the good-will of Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, 
 this little book, written in Ireland, is reproduced in 
 America. 
 
 An Irishman can hardly look westward without think- 
 ing of the great country to which his island is the near- 
 est European land, and without remembering, though 
 the magnetic link is broken, that by many infrangible 
 ties they remain connected. Among the rest are liter- 
 ary ties; and some of these songs even, made for Irish 
 peasants, have already migrated with them across the 
 Atlantic. To my own imagination America is for many 
 reasons the most interesting of countries, and specially 
 because of a certain living Writer, — one of the men in 
 whose rank no country has many, living or departed, 
 and with whom current opinions are never prepared to 
 deal. 
 
 His are the following words: “Let us take heed to 
 what surrounds us. To-day is a king in disguise.” 
 And these : “ The foundations of man are not in matter, 
 but in spirit. But the element of spirit is eternity.” 
 
 W. A. 
 
 Ballyshannon, Ireland, May , 1860. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Day and Night Songs — First Series: — 
 
 I. THE TOUCHSTONE 15 
 
 II. EYEY 17 
 
 III. WINDLASS SONG 19 
 
 IY. VENUS QF THE NEEDLE 21 
 
 V. THE FISHERMAN 24 
 
 VI. iEOLIAN HARP — “ WHAT SAITH THE 
 
 "%IVER?” 26 
 
 vii. oh! were my love 28 
 
 VIII. THE FAIRIES.. 30 
 
 IX. THE RUINED CHAPEL 33 
 
 X. A DREAM 35 
 
 XI. LEVA VI OCULOS 37 
 
 XII. CROSS-EXAMINATION 39 
 
 XIII. THE CUPIDS 41 
 
 XIV. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY 43 
 
 XV. IN A SPRING GROVE 47 
 
 XVI. SERENADE 48 
 
 XVII. THE DIRTY OLD MAN 50 
 
 XVIII. THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL 55 
 
 XIX. THE WAYSIDE WELL 57 
 
 XX. THE LOVER AND BIRDS 60 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 XXI. THE MILKMAID 63 
 
 XXII. THE LIGHTHOUSE 66 
 
 XXIII. THE VALLEY STREAM 68 
 
 XXIV. iEOLIAN HARP — “ IS IT ALL IN VAIN ? ” 70 
 
 XXV. LADY ALICE 72 
 
 XXVI. TIIERANIA 75 
 
 XXVII. WAYCONNELL TOWER 77 
 
 XXVIII. THE WITCH BRIDE 79 
 
 XXIX. SPRING IS COME 80 
 
 XXX. THE MESSENGER 82 
 
 XXXI. AUTUMNAL SONNET 84 
 
 The Music-Master — a love story 87 
 
 Day and Night Songs — Second Series: — 
 
 i. the choice 141 
 
 II. AEOLIAN HARP — “ WHATSIS IT THAT 
 
 IS GONE?” 144 
 
 III. THE PILOT’S PRETTY DAUGHTER. . . . 146 
 
 IV. TO THE CICADA 150 
 
 V. THE COLD WEDDING 152 
 
 VI. ON A FORENOON OF SPRING 155 
 
 VII. THE THREE FLOWERS 156 
 
 VIII. IN THE DUSK. 158 
 
 IX. ST. MARGARET’S EVE 160 
 
 X. AN AUTUMN EVENING 163 v 
 
 XI. ALOLIAN HARP — “o PALE GREEN 
 
 SEA!” 167 
 
 XII. THE GIRL’S lamentation 169 
 
 XIII. WISHING 173 
 
 XIV. THE SAILOR 175 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XV. THE LULLABY 178 
 
 XYI. OUR MOUNTAIN 179 
 
 XVII. MORNING PLUNGE . . 184 
 
 XVIII. THE BIRD 186 
 
 XIX. A BOY’S BURIAL 188 
 
 XX. ON THE SUNNY SHORE 190 
 
 XXI. THE NOBLEMAN’S WEDDING 191 
 
 xxii. “would i knew!” 194 
 
 XXIII. BY THE MORNING SEA 196 
 
 XXIV. THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE 198 
 
 XXV. A VALENTINE 200 
 
 XXVI. UNDER THE GRASS 202 
 
 xxvii. nanny’s sailor lad 205 
 
 XXVIII. FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS 207 
 
 XXIX. DEATH DEPOSED 211 
 
 XXX. ON THE TWILIGHT POND 213 
 
 George Levison; or, The Schoolfellows 214 
 
 The Mowers .* 226 
 
 Abbey Assaroe 228 
 
 Among the Heather 231 
 
 Every Day 233 
 
 Nightwind '. 236 
 
 Sir Marmaduke Pole 237 
 
 Autumn Landscape 241 
 
 Robin Redbreast 242 
 
X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQH 
 
 Angela 244 
 
 Song 247 
 
 Dogmatism 248 
 
 Down on the Shore.* 249 
 
 Fairy Dialogue 251 
 
 The Winding Banks of Erne 259 
 
 Sunday Bells 266 
 
 The Queen of the Forest 268 
 
 Mea Culpa 270 
 
 To the Nightingales 272 
 
 “These little Songs” 275 
 
DAY AND NIGHT SONG 
 
TO MY FRIENDS, KNOWN AND UNKNOWN. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 L 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 A Man there came, whence none could tell, 
 Bearing a Touchstone in his hand ; 
 
 And tested all things in the land 
 By its unerring spell. 
 
 Quick birth of transmutation smote 
 The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
 
 Purple nor ermine did he spare, 
 
 Nor scorn the dusty coat. 
 
 Of heir-loom jewels, prized so much, 
 
 Were many changed to chips and* clods, 
 And even statues of the Gods 
 Crumbled beneath its touch. 
 
It) 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 Then angrily the people cried, 
 
 “ The loss outweighs the profit far ; 
 
 Our goods suffice us as they are ; 
 
 We will not have them tried.” 
 
 And since they could not so avail 
 To check his unrelenting quest, 
 
 They seized him, saying — “ Let him test 
 How real is our jail ! ” 
 
 But, though they slew him with the sword, 
 And in a fire his Touchstone burn’d, 
 
 Its doings could not be o’erturn’d, 
 
 Its undoings restored. 
 
 And when, to stop all future harm, 
 
 They strew’d its ashes on the breeze ; 
 They little guess’d each grain of these 
 Convey’d the perfect charm. 
 

 n. 
 
 EYEY. 
 
 Bud and leaflet, opening slowly, 
 
 Woo’d with tears by winds of Spring, 
 
 Now, of June persuaded wholly, 
 
 Perfumes, flow’rs, and shadows bring. 
 
 Evey, in the linden alley, 
 
 All alone I met to-day, 
 
 Tripping to the sunny valley 
 
 Spread across with new-mown hay. 
 
 Brown her soft curls, sunbeam-sainted, 
 Golden in the wavering flush ; 
 
 Darker brown her eyes are, painted 
 Eye and fringe with one soft brush. 
 
 Through the leaves a careless comer, 
 Never nymph of fount or tree 
 
 Could have press’d the floor of summer 
 With a lighter foot than she. 
 
18 
 
 EVEY. 
 
 » 
 
 Can this broad hat, fasten’d under 
 With a bright blue ribbon’s flow, 
 Change my pet so much, I wonder, 
 Of a month or two ago ? 
 
 Half too changed to speak I thought her, 
 Till the pictured silence broke, 
 
 Sweet and clear as dropping water, 
 
 Into words she sung or spoke. 
 
 Few her words ; yet, like a sister, 
 Trustfully she look’d and smiled ; 
 
 ’Twas but in my soul I kiss’d her 
 As I used to kiss the child. 
 
 Shadows, which are not of sadness, 
 Touch her eyes, and brow above. 
 
 As pale wild-roses dream of redness, 
 Dreams her innocent heart of love. 
 
* 
 
 m 
 
 WINDLASS SONG. 
 
 Heave at the windlass ! — Heave O, cheerly, 
 men ! 
 
 Heave all at once, with a will ! 
 
 The tide’s quickly making, 
 
 Our cordage is creaking, 
 
 The water has put on a frill, 
 
 Heave O ! 
 
 Fare you well, sweethearts ! — Heave O, cheerly, 
 men ! 
 
 Shore gambarado and sport ! 
 
 The good ship all ready, 
 
 Each dog-vane is steady, 
 
 The wind blowing dead out of port, 
 
 Heave O! 
 
 Once in blue water — Heave O, cheerly, men ! 
 Blow it from north or from south ; 
 
20 
 
 WINDLASS SONG. 
 
 She’ll stand to it tightly, 
 
 And curtsey politely, 
 
 And carry a bone in her mouth, 
 
 Heave O ! 
 
 Short cruise or long cruise — Heave O, cheerly, 
 men ! 
 
 Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one. 
 
 No latitude dreads he 
 Of White, Black, or Red Sea, 
 
 Great ice-bergs, or tropical sun, 
 
 Heave O ! 
 
 One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men ! 
 Heave, and good-bye to the shore ! 
 
 Our money, how went it ? 
 
 We shared it and spent it ; 
 
 Next year we’ll come back with some more, 
 Heave O ! 
 
1Y. 
 
 VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. 
 
 O Makyanne, you pretty girl, 
 
 ( Intent on silky labour, 
 
 Of sempstresses the pink and pearl, 
 Excuse a peeping neighbour ! 
 
 Those eyes, for ever drooping, give 
 The long brown lashes rarely ; 
 
 But violets in the shadows live, — 
 
 For once unveil them fairly. 
 
 Hast thou not lent that flounce enough 
 Of looks so long and earnest ? 
 
 Lo, here’s more “ penetrable stuff,” 
 
 To which thou never turnest. 
 
 Ye graceful fingers, deftly sped ! 
 
 How slender, and how nimble ! 
 
22 
 
 VENUS OF THE NEEDLE. 
 
 0 might I wind their skeins of thread, 
 
 Or but pick up their thimble ! 
 
 How blest the youth whom love shall bring, 
 And happy stars embolden, 
 
 To change the dome into a ring, 
 
 The silver into golden ! 
 
 Who’ll steal some morning to her side 
 To take her finger’s measure, 
 
 While Maryanne pretends to chide, 
 
 And blushes deep with pleasure. 
 
 Who’ll watch her sew her wedding-gown, 
 Well conscious that it is hers ; 
 
 Who’ll glean a tress, without a frown, 
 
 With those so ready scissors. 
 
 Who’ll taste those ripenings of the south, 
 The fragrant and delicious — 
 
 Don’t put the pins into your mouth, 
 
 O Maryanne, my precious ! 
 
 1 almost wish it were my trust 
 To teach how shocking that is ; 
 
VENUS OF THE xSEEDLE. 
 
 23 
 
 I wish I had not, as I must, 
 
 To quit this tempting lattice. 
 
 Sure aim takes Cupid, fluttering foe, 
 Across a street so narrow ; 
 
 A thread of silk to string his bow, 
 
 A needle for his arrow ! 
 
y. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 BY GOETHE. 
 
 The water gushed, the water swell’d 
 A Fisherman sat by, 
 
 Watching the angle that he held, 
 With peaceful heart and eye. 
 
 And as he gazed in listless mood, 
 The polish’d water surged ; 
 
 And, dripping from the cloven flood, 
 A woman’s form emerged. 
 
 She sung to him, she spake to him : 
 
 “ Why lure my brood away, 
 
 By human skill, and human fraud, 
 Up to the burning day ? 
 
 Oh, happy live the little fish ! 
 
 So happy — mightst thou know, 
 This moment ’twere thine only wish 
 To come to us below. 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 25 
 
 “ Finds not the Sun a resting-place ; 
 
 The Moon, within the mere ? 
 
 Uplifts not each a radiant face, 
 
 Grown doubly bright, and clear ? 
 Persuade thee not these heav’ns so deep ?* 
 This moist, embracing blue ? 
 
 Thy features, lo ! that swim and sleep 
 In soft eternal dew ? ” 
 
 The water gush’d, the water swell’d, 
 
 It kiss’d his naked feet ; 
 
 Deep longing all his heart imped’d, 
 
 As when our love we meet. 
 
 She spake to him, she sung to him ; 
 
 No help could come between ; 
 
 Half drew she him, half sank he in, 
 
 And never more was seen. 
 
iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 What saith the river to the rushes grey, 
 
 Rushes sadly bending, 
 
 River slowly wending ? 
 
 Who can tell the whisper’d things they say ? 
 Youth, and prime, and life, and time, 
 
 For ever, ever fled away ! 
 
 Drop your wither’d garlands in the stream, 
 
 Low autumnal branches, 
 
 Round the skiff that launches 
 Wavering downward through the lands of dream 
 Ever, ever fled away ! 
 
 This the burden, this the theme. 
 
 What saith the river to the rushes grey, 
 
 Rushes sadly bending, 
 
 River slowly wending ? 
 
 It is near the closing of the day. 
 
uEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 27 
 
 Near the night. Life and light 
 For ever, ever fled away ! 
 
 Draw him tideward down ; but not in haste. 
 Mouldering daylight lingers ; 
 
 Night with her cold fingers 
 Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste. 
 Ever, ever fled away ! 
 
 Vainly cherish’d! vainly chased! 
 
 What saith the river to the rushes grey, 
 Rushes sadly bending, 
 
 River slowly wending ? 
 
 Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay, 
 
 Up the cave moans the wave, 
 
 For ever, ever, ever fled away 1 
 
VII. 
 
 OH! WERE MY LOVE. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a country lass, 
 
 That I might see her every day ; 
 
 And sit with her on hedgerow grass 
 Beneath a bough of may ; 
 
 And find her cattle when astray, 
 
 Or help to drive them to the field, 
 And linger on our homeward way, 
 
 And woo her lips to yield 
 A twilight kiss before we parted, 
 
 Full of love, yet easy-hearted. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a cottage maid, 
 
 To spin through many a winter night, 
 Where ingle-corner lends its shade 
 From fir-wood blazing bright. 
 
 Beside her wheel what dear delight 
 To watch the blushes go and come 
 With tender words, that took no fright 
 Beneath the friendly hum ; 
 
OH ! WERE MY LOVE. 
 
 29 
 
 Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling, 
 
 At a fireside legend’s telling. 
 
 Oh ! were my Love a peasant girl, 
 
 That never saw the wicked town ; 
 
 Was never dight with silk or pearl, 
 
 But graced a homely gown. 
 
 How less than weak were fashion’s frown 
 To vex our unambitious lot ; 
 
 How rich were love and peace to crown 
 Our green secluded cot ; 
 
 Where Age would come serene and shining, 
 Like an autumn day’s declining ! 
 
VHI. 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 A child’s song. 
 
 Up the airy mountain, 
 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 
 We daren’t go a-hunting 
 For fear of little men ; 
 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 
 Trooping all together ; 
 
 Green jacket, red cap, 
 
 And white owl’s feather ! 
 
 Down along the rocky shore 
 Some make their home, 
 
 They live on crispy pancakes 
 Of yellow tide-foam ; 
 
 Some in the reeds 
 Of the black mountain-lake, 
 With ffftgs for their watch-dogs, 
 All night awake. 
 
THE FAIRIES. 
 
 31 
 
 High on the hill-top 
 The old King sits ; 
 
 He is now so old and grey 
 He’s nigh lost his wits. 
 
 With a bridge of white mist 
 Columbkill he crosses, 
 
 On his stately journeys 
 
 From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 
 
 Or going up with music 
 On cold starry nights, 
 
 To sup with the Queen 
 
 Of the gay Northern Lights. 
 
 They stole little Bridget 
 For seven years long; 
 
 When she came down again 
 Her friends were all gone. 
 
 They took her lightly back, 
 
 Between the night and morrow, 
 They thought that she was fast asleep, 
 But she was dead with sorrow. 
 
 They have kept her ever since 
 Deep within the lakes, 
 
 On a bed of flag-leaves, 
 
 Watching till she wakes. 
 
32 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 By the craggy hill-side, 
 Through the mosses bare, 
 They have planted thorn-trees 
 For pleasure here and there. 
 Is any man so daring 
 As dig one up in spite, 
 
 He shall find the thornies set 
 In his bed at night. 
 
 Up the airy mountain, 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 We daren’t go a-hunting 
 For fear of little men ; 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 Trooping all together ; 
 Green jacket, red cap, 
 
 And white owl’s feather ! 
 
IX. 
 
 THE KUINED CHAPEL. 
 
 By the shore, a plot of ground 
 Clips a ruin’d chapel round, 
 
 Buttress’d with a grassy mound ; 
 
 Where Day and Night and Day go by, 
 And bring no touch of human sound. 
 
 Washing of the lonely seas, 
 
 Shaking of the guardian trees, 
 
 Piping of the salted breeze ; 
 
 Day and Night and Day go by 
 To the endless tune of these. 
 
 Or when, as winds and waters keep 
 A hush more dead than any sleep, 
 Stilhmorns to stiller evenings creep, 
 
 And Day and Night and Day go by ; 
 Here the silence is most deep. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE RUINED CHAPEL. 
 
 The empty ruins, lapsed again 
 Into Nature’s wide domain, 
 
 Sow themselves with seed and grain 
 As Day and Night and Day go by ; 
 And hoard June’s sun and April’s rain. 
 
 Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; 
 And now the graves are also dead ; 
 
 And suckers from the ash-tree spread, 
 While Day and Night and Day go by 
 And stars move calmly overhead. 
 
X. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night, 
 And I went to the window to see the sight ; 
 
 All the dead that ever I knew 
 Going one by one and two by two. 
 
 On they pass’d, and on they pass’d ; 
 Townsfellows all from first to last ; 
 
 Born in the moonlight of the lane, 
 
 And quench’d in the heavy shadow again. 
 
 Schoolmates, marching as when we play’d 
 At soldiers once — but now more staid ; 
 
 Those were the strangest sight to me 
 Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea. 
 
 Straight and handsome folk ; bent and weak too 
 And some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to ; 
 Some but a day in their churchyard bed ; 
 
 And some that I had not known were dead. 
 
36 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 A long, long crowd — where each seem’d lonely. 
 And yet of them all there was one, one only, 
 That raised a head, or look’d my way ; 
 
 And she seem’d to linger, but might not stay. 
 
 How long since I saw that fair pale face ! 
 
 Ah, mother dear, might I only place 
 My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, 
 
 While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest 1 
 
 On, on, a moving bridge they made 
 Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade ; 
 Young and old, women and men ; 
 
 Many long-forgot, but remember’d then. 
 
 And first there came a bitter laughter ; 
 
 And a sound of tears a moment after ; 
 
 And then a music so lofty and gay, 
 
 That every morning, day by day, 
 
 I strive to recall it if I may. 
 
XI. 
 
 “ LEY AVI OCULOS.” 
 
 In trouble for my sin, I cried to God ; 
 
 To the Great God who dwelleth in the deeps. 
 The deeps return not any voice or sign. 
 
 But with my soul I know thee, O Great God ; 
 The soul thou givest knoweth thee, Great God ; 
 And with my soul I sorrow for my sin. 
 
 Full sure I am there is no joy in sin, 
 Joy-scented Peace is trampled under foot, 
 
 Like a white growing blossom into mud. 
 
 Sin is establish’d subtly in the heart 
 As a disease ; like a magician foul 
 Ruleth the better thoughts against their will. 
 
 Only the rays of God can cure the heart, 
 
 Purge it of evil : there’s no other way 
 Except to turn with the whole heart to God. 
 
38 
 
 LEVA VI OCULOS. 
 
 In heavenly sunlight live no shades of fear ; 
 
 The soul there, busy or at rest, hath peace ; 
 And music floweth from the various world. 
 
 The Lord is great and good, and is our God. 
 There needeth not a word but only these ; 
 
 Our God is good, our God is great. ’Tis well. 
 
 All things are ever God’s ; the shows of things 
 Are of men’s fantasy, and warp’d with sin ; 
 
 God, and the things of God, immutable. 
 
 O great good God, my pray’r is to neglect 
 
 The shows of fantasy, and turn myself 
 
 To thy unfenced, unbounded warmth and light ! 
 
 Then were all shows of things a part of truth : 
 Then were my soul, if busy or at rest, 
 
 Residing in the house of perfect peace ! 
 
XII. 
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 
 
 What knowest thou of this eternal code ? 
 
 As much as God intended to display. 
 
 Wilt thou affirm thou knowest aught of God ? 
 
 Nor save his works, that creature ever may. 
 
 Is not thy life at times a weary load ? 
 
 Which aimless on my back he would not lay. 
 
 Is it all good the conscience doth forbode ? 
 
 The deepest thought doth least my soul affray. 
 
 When hath a glimpse of Heav’n been ever show’d ? 
 Whilst walking straight, I never miss its ray. 
 
 Why should such destiny to thee be owed ? 
 
 Easy alike to him are yea and nay. 
 
40 
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 
 
 Why shouldst thou reach it by so mean a road ? 
 Ask that of him who set us in the way. 
 
 Art thou more living than a finch or toad ? 
 
 Is soul sheer waste, if we be such as they ? 
 
 Thou never wilt prevail to loose the node. 
 
 If so, ’twere loss of labour to essay. 
 
 Nor to uproot these doubts so thickly sow’d. 
 Nor thou these deeplier-rooted hopes to slay. 
 
XIII. 
 
 THE CUPIDS. 
 
 i. 
 
 In a grove I saw one day 
 A flight of Cupids all at play, 
 
 Flitting bird-like through the air, 
 
 Or alighting here and there, 
 
 Making every bough rejoice 
 With a most celestial voice, 
 
 Or amongst the blossoms found 
 Rolling on the swarded ground. 
 
 Some there were with wings of blue, 
 Other some, of rosy hue, 
 
 Here, one plumed with purest white, 
 There, as dyed in golden light ; 
 Crimson some, and some I saw 
 Colour'd like a gay macaw. 
 
 Many were the Queen of Beauty s — 
 Many bound to other duties. 
 
THE CUPIDS. 
 
 II. 
 
 A band of fowlers next I spied, 
 Spreading nets on every side, 
 Watching long, by skill or hap 
 Fleeting Cupids to entrap. 
 
 But if one at length was ta’en, 
 After mickle time and pain, 
 Whether golden one or blue, 
 Piebald, or of rosy hue, 
 
 When they put him in their cage 
 He grew meagre as with age, 
 Plumage rumpled, colour coarse, 
 Voice unfrequent, sad, and hoarse ; 
 And little pleasure had they in him 
 Who had spent the day to win him. 
 
XIV. 
 
 LOVELY MARY DOFNELLY. 
 
 ( To an Irish Tune.) 
 
 Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you J love the 
 best ! 
 
 If fifty girls were round you I’d hardly see the 
 rest. 
 
 Be what it may the time of day, the place be where 
 it will, 
 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before 
 me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a 
 rock, 
 
 How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they 
 give me many a shock. 
 
 Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a 
 show’r, 
 
 Could ne’er express the charming b’p that has me 
 in its pow’r. 
 
44 
 
 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 
 lifted up, 
 
 Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a 
 china cup, 
 
 Her hair’s the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so 
 fine ; 
 
 It’s rolling down upon her neck, and gather’d in a 
 twine. 
 
 The dance o’ last Whit-Monday night exceeded 
 all before ; 
 
 No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the 
 floor; 
 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was 
 
 gay! 
 
 She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my 
 heart away. 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so 
 complete, 
 
 The music nearly kill’d itself to listen to her 
 feet ; 
 
 The fiddler moan’d his blindness, he heard her so 
 much praised, 
 
 But bless’d himself he wasn’t deaf when once her 
 voice she raised. 
 
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 
 
 45 
 
 And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what you 
 sung, 
 
 Your smile is always in my heart, your name 
 beside my tongue ; 
 
 But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d count on 
 both your hands, 
 
 And for myself there’s not a thumb or little finger 
 stands. 
 
 Oh, you’re the flower o’ womankind in country or 
 in town ; 
 
 The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down. 
 
 If some great lord should come this way, and see 
 your beauty bright, 
 
 And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right. 
 
 O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, 
 
 Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- 
 tains fall ! 
 
 O might we live together in a cottage mean and 
 small ; 
 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only 
 wall! 
 
 O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my dis- 
 tress. 
 
46 
 
 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 
 
 It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish 
 it less. 
 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 
 poor and low ; 
 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may 
 go! 
 
XV. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 IN A SPRING GROVE. 
 
 Here the white-ray’d anemone is born, 
 Wood-sorrel, and the varnish’d buttercup ; 
 
 And primrose in its purfled green swathed up, 
 Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn, 
 
 Grey ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn. 
 Here, too, the darting linnet has her nest 
 In the blue-lustre d holly, never shorn, 
 
 Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast, 
 Piping' from some near bough. O simple song ! 
 
 O cistern deep of that harmonious rillet, 
 
 And these fair juicy stems that climb and throng 
 The vernal world, and unexhausted seas 
 Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it, 
 
 Each and all these, — and more, and more than 
 these ! 
 
XVI. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, 
 The while we dare to call thee dear, 
 
 So may thy dreams be good, although 
 The loving power thou canst not know ! 
 As music parts the silence, lo ! 
 
 Through heav’n the stars begin to peep, 
 To comfort us that darkling pine 
 Because those fairer lights of thine 
 Have set into the Sea of Sleep. 
 
 Yet closed still thine eyelids keep ; 
 
 And may our voices through the sphere 
 Of Dreamland yet more softly rise 
 Than up these shadowy rural dells, 
 Where bashful Echo sleeping dwells, 
 And touch thy spirit to as soft replies. 
 Let peace from gentle guardian skies, 
 Till watches of the dark be worn, 
 Surround thy bed, — a joyous morn 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 49 
 
 Make all the chamber rosy, bright ! 
 Good-night! — From far-off fields is borne 
 The drowsy Echo’s faint “ Good-night,” — 
 Good-night ! Good-night ! 
 
 4 
 
xvrt. 
 
 THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 
 
 A LAY OF LEADENHALL. 
 
 In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man ; 
 
 Soap, towels,' or brushes were not in his plan. 
 
 For forty long years, as the neighbours declared, 
 His house never once had been clean’d or repair’d. 
 
 ’Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like 
 street, 
 
 One terrible blot in a ledger so neat : 
 
 The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, 
 And the rest of the mansion a thousand times 
 worse. 
 
 Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, 
 Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain ; 
 
 The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, 
 
 And the panes from being broken were known to 
 be glass. 
 
THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 
 
 51 
 
 On the ricketty signboard no learning could spell 
 The merchant who sold, or the goods he’d to sell ; 
 But for house and for man & new title took growth, 
 Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave its name to them 
 both. 
 
 Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, 
 The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust, 
 
 Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof ; 
 ’Twas a Spiders’ Elysium from cellar to roof. 
 
 There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man 
 Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ; 
 
 With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face, 
 
 For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no dis- 
 grace. 
 
 From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his 
 shirt, 
 
 His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; 
 
 The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding, — 
 
 Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and 
 breeding. 
 
 Fine dames from their Carriages, noble and fair, 
 Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare ; 
 
52 * 
 
 THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 
 
 And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so 
 frightful, 
 
 The Dirty Man’s manners were truly delightful. 
 
 Upstairs might they yenture, in dirt and in gloom, 
 
 To peep at the door of the wonderful room 
 
 Such stories are told about, none of them true ! — 
 
 The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. 
 
 That room — forty years since, folk settled and 
 deck’d it 
 
 The luncheon’s prepared, and the guests are ex- 
 pected. 
 
 The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, 
 
 For his love and her friends will be with him to- 
 day. 
 
 With solid and dainty the table is drest, 
 
 The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom 
 their best ; 
 
 Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will ap- 
 pear, 
 
 For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. 
 
 Full forty years since, turn’d the key in that door. 
 
 ’Tis a room deaf and dumb ’mid the city’s uproar. 
 
THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 
 
 53 
 
 The guests, for whose joyance that table was 
 spread, 
 
 May now enter as ghosts, for they’re every one 
 dead. 
 
 Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come 
 and go ; 
 
 The seats are in order, the dishes a-row ; 
 
 But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the 
 mouse 
 
 Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old 
 House. 
 
 Cup and platter are mask’d in thick layers of 
 dust ; 
 
 The flowers fall’n to powder, the wine swath’d in 
 crust ; 
 
 A nosegay was laid before one special chair, 
 
 And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies 
 there. 
 
 The old man has play’d out bis parts in the scene. 
 
 Wherever he now is, I hope he’s more clean. 
 
 Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban 
 
 To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old 
 Man. 
 
54 
 
 THE DIRTY OLD MAN. 
 
 [A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many 
 years kept a large hardware shop in Leadenhall-street, 
 London. He was best known as Dirty Dick (Dick, for 
 alliteration’s sake, probably), and his place of business as 
 the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. 
 These verses accord with the accounts respecting himself 
 and his house.] 
 
XVIII. 
 
 
 THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 ( To an Irish Tune.) 
 
 Her blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, 
 Her lips have made smiling more fair ; 
 
 On cheek and on brow there’s no wrinkle, 
 But thousands of curls in her hair. 
 
 She’s little, — you don’t wish her taller ; 
 
 Just half through the teens is her age ; 
 And baby or lady to call her, 
 
 Were something to puzzle a sage ! 
 
 Her walk is far better than dancing ; 
 
 She speaks as another might sing ; 
 
 And all by an innocent chancing, 
 
 Like lambkins and birds in the spring. 
 
 Unskill’d in the airs of the city, 
 
 She’s perfect in natural grace ; 
 
56 
 
 THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 She’s gentle, and truthful, and witty, 
 
 And ne’er spends a thought on her face. 
 
 Her face, with the fine glow that’s in it, 
 
 As fresh as an apple-tree bloom — 
 
 And O ! when she comes, in a minute, 
 Like sunbeams she brightens the room. 
 
 As taking in mind as in feature, 
 
 How many will sigh for her sake ! 
 
 — I wonder^ the sweet little creature, 
 What sort of a wife she would make. 
 
 
XIX. 
 
 THE WAYSIDE WELL. 
 
 Greet thee kindly, Wayside Well, 
 In thy hedge of roses ! 
 
 Whither drawn by soothing spell, 
 Weary foot reposes. 
 
 With a welcome fresh and green 
 Wave thy border grasses, 
 
 By the dusty traveller seen, 
 
 Sighing as he passes. 
 
 Cup of no Circean bliss, 
 
 Charity of summer, 
 
 Making happy with a kiss 
 Every meanest comer ! 
 
 Morning, too, and eventide, 
 Without stint or measure, 
 
 Cottage households near and wide 
 Share tl v liquid treasure. 
 
58 
 
 THE WAYSIDE WELL. 
 
 Fair the greeting face ascends, 
 
 Like a naiad daughter, 
 
 When the peasant lassie bends 
 To thy trembling water. 
 
 When a laddie brings her pail 
 Down the twilight meadow, 
 
 Tender falls the whisper’d tale, 
 
 Soft the double shadow ! 
 
 Clear as childhood in thy look, 
 Nature seems to pet thee ; 
 
 Fierce July that drains the brook 
 Hath no power to fret thee. 
 
 Shelter’d cool and free from smirch 
 In thy cavelet shady, 
 
 O’er thee in a silver birch 
 Stoops a forest lady. 
 
 To thy glass the Star of Eve 
 Shyly dares to bend her ; 
 
 Matron Moon thy depths receive, 
 Globed in mellow splendour. 
 
 Bounteous Spring ! for ever own 
 Undisturb’d thy station ; 
 
THE WAYSIDE WELL. 
 
 59 
 
 Not to thirsty lips alone 
 Serving mild donation. 
 
 Never come the newt or frog, 
 Pebble thrown in malice, 
 
 Mud or wither’d leaves, to clog 
 Or defile thy chalice. 
 
 Heaven be still within thy ken, 
 Through the veil thou wearest,— 
 Glimpsing clearest, as with men, 
 When the boughs are barest ! 
 
XX. 
 
 THE LOVER AND BIRDS. 
 
 Within a budding grove, 
 
 In April’s ear sang every bird his best, 
 
 But not a song to pleasure my unrest, 
 
 Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love. 
 
 Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in 
 jest. 
 
 To every word 
 Of every bird 
 
 I listen’d, and replied as it behove. 
 
 Scream’d Chaffinch, “ Sweet, sweet, sweet ! 
 O- bring my pretty love to meet me here ! ” 
 
 “ Chaffinch,” quoth I, “ be dumb awhile, in 
 fear 
 
 Thy darling prove no better than a cheat ; 
 And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.” 
 Yet from a twig 
 With voice so big, 
 
 The little fowl his utterance did repeat. 
 
THE LOVER AND BIRDS. 
 
 63 
 
 Then I, “ the man forlorn 
 Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.” 
 
 “ And what’ll he do ? what’ll he do ! ” scoff’d 
 The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn, 
 Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft, 
 With cackling laugh : 
 
 Whom I, being half 
 
 Enraged, call’d after, giving back his scorn. 
 
 Worse mock’d the Thrush, “Die ! die ! 
 
 O could he do it? could he do it ? Nay ! 
 
 Be quick ! be quick ! Here, here, here ! ” 
 (went his lay) 
 
 “ Take heed ! take heed ! ” then, “ Why ? 
 why ? why ? why ? why ? 
 
 See — ee now ! see — ee now ! ” (he drawl’d) 
 “ Back ! back ! back ! R-r-r-run away ! ” 
 
 O Thrush, be still ! 
 
 Or, at thy will, 
 
 Seek some less sad interpreter than I ! 
 
 “ Air, air ! blue air and white ! 
 
 Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither 
 I flee!” 
 
 (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the 
 lea) 
 
62 
 
 THE LOVER AND BIRDS. 
 
 “ Hills, countries, many waters glittering 
 bright, 
 
 Whither I see, whither I see ! deeper, deeper, 
 deeper, whither I see, see, see ! ” 
 
 Gay Lark, I said, 
 
 The song that’s bred 
 
 In happy nest may well to heav’n make flight. 
 
 u There’s something, something sad, 
 
 I half remember ” — piped a broken strain. 
 Well sung, sweet Robin ! Robin sung again, 
 
 “ Spring’s opening cheerily, cheerily ! be we 
 glad ! ” 
 
 Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad, 
 Till now, grown meek, 
 
 With wetted cheek, 
 
 Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had. 
 
XXL 
 
 THE MILKMAID. 
 
 (To the tune of “ It was an old Beggarman.”) 
 
 O, where are you going so early? he said; 
 Good luck go with you, my pretty maid ; 
 
 To tell you my mind I’m half afraid, 
 
 But I wish I were your sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun is shining low, 
 And the cocks in every farmyard crow, 
 I’ll carry your pail, 
 
 O’er hill and dale, 
 
 And I’ll go with you a-milking. 
 
 I’m going a-milking, sir, says she, 
 
 Through the dew, and across the lea ; 
 
 You ne’er would even yourself to me, 
 
 Or take me for your sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
64 
 
 THE MILKMAID. 
 
 Now give me your milking stool awhile, 
 
 To carry it down to yonder stile ; 
 
 I’m wishing every step a mile, 
 
 And myself your only sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
 O, here’s the stile in-under the tree, 
 
 And there’s the path in the grass for me, 
 And I thank you kindly, sir, says she, 
 
 And wish you a better sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
 Now give me your milking-pail, says he, 
 And while we’re going across the lea, 
 
 Pray reckon your master’s cows to me, 
 Although I’m not your sweetheart. 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
 Two of them red, and two of them white, 
 of them yellow and silky bright, 
 
 She told him her master’s cows aright, 
 Though he was not her sweetheart 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
 She sat and milk’d in the morning sun, 
 And when her milking was over and done, 
 
THE MILKMAID. 
 
 65 
 
 She found him waiting, all as one 
 As if he were her sweetheart. 
 
 When the morning sun, &c. 
 
 He freely offer’d his heart and hand ; 
 
 Now she has a farm at her command, 
 
 And cows of her own to graze the land ; 
 
 Success to all true sweethearts ! 
 
 When the morning sun is shining low, 
 And the cocks in every farmyard crow, 
 I’ll carry your pail 
 O’er hill and dale, 
 
 And I’ll go with you a-milking. 
 
 6 
 
 
XXII. 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The plunging storm flies fierce against the pane, 
 And thrills our cottage with redoubled shocks ; 
 
 The chimney mutters and the rafters strain ; 
 Without, the breakers roar along the rocks. 
 
 See, from our fire and taper-lighted room, 
 
 How savage, pitiless, and uncontroll’d 
 
 The grim horizon shows its tossing gloom 
 
 Of waves from unknown angry gulfs uproll’d ; 
 
 Where, underneath that black portentous lid, 
 
 A long pale space between the night and sea 
 
 fleams awful ; while in deepest darkness hid 
 All other things in our despair agree. 
 
 But lo ! what star amid the thickest dark 
 A soft and unexpected dawn has made ? 
 
 O welcome Lighthouse, thy unruffled spark, 
 Piercing the turmoil and the deathly shade I 
 
THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 67 
 
 By such a glimpse o’er the distracted wave 
 Full many a soul to-night is re-possest 
 Of courage and of order, strong to save ; 
 
 And like effect it works within my breast. 
 
 Three faithful men have set themselves to stand 
 Against all storms that from the sky can blow, 
 Where peril must expect no aiding hand, 
 
 And tedium no relief may hope to know. 
 
 Nor shout they, passing brothers to inform 
 What weariness they feel, or what affright ; 
 
 But tranquilly in solitude and storm 
 
 Abide from month to month, and show their light. 
 
XXIII. 
 
 THE VALLEY STREAM. 
 
 Stream flowing swiftly, what music is thine ! 
 
 The breezy rock-pass, and the storm- wooing pine, 
 Have taught thee their murmurs, 
 
 Their wild mountain murmurs ; 
 
 Subdued in thy liquid response to a sound 
 
 Which aids the repose of this pastoral ground ; 
 
 Where our valley yet mingles an awe with the 
 love 
 
 It smiles to the sheltering bastions above ; — 
 
 Thy cloud-haunted birthplace, 
 
 O Stream, flowing swiftly ! 
 
 Encircle our meadows with bounty and grace ; 
 
 Then move on thy journey with tranquiller pace, 
 To find the great waters, 
 
 The great ocean-waters, 
 
 Blue, wonderful, boundless to vision or thought ; — 
 
 Thence, thence, might thy musical tidings be 
 brought ! 
 
THE VALLEY STREAM. 
 
 69 
 
 One waft of the tones of the infinite sea ! 
 
 % 
 
 Our gain is but songs of the mountain from thee : 
 Thy primitive issue, 
 
 Thou Stream of our valley ! 
 
 And have we divined what is thunder’d and hiss’d, 
 Where the awful ledge glimmers through screens 
 of grey mist, 
 
 And raves forth its secrets, 
 
 The heart of its secrets ? 
 
 Or learn ’d what is hid in thy whispering note, 
 Mysteriously gather’d from fountains remote, 
 Where the solitudes spread in the upper sunshine ? 
 O Stream flowing swiftly, what music is thine ? 
 Far-wafted, prophetic ? 
 
 Thou Stream of our valley ! 
 
* 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ^OLIAN HARP. 
 
 Is it all in vain ? 
 
 Strangely throbbing pain, 
 Trembling joy of memory ! 
 Bygone things, how shadowy 
 Within their graves they lie ! 
 
 Shall I sit then by their graves, 
 Listening to the melancholy waves ? 
 I would fain. 
 
 But even these in vapours die : 
 
 For nothing may remain. 
 
 One survivor in a boat 
 On the wide dim deep afloat } 
 
 When the sunken ship is gone, 
 
 Lit by late stars before the dawn. 
 
JEOLIAN R Alii . 
 
 71 
 
 The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars are dumb. 
 The ship is sunk full many a year. 
 
 Dream no more of loss or gain : 
 
 A ship was never here. 
 
 A dawn will never, never come. 
 
 — Is it all in vain ? 
 
XXV. 
 
 LADY ALICE. 
 
 i. 
 
 Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the turret 
 stair, 
 
 Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond in 
 her hair ; 
 
 When every arching passage overflows with shal- 
 low gloom, 
 
 And dreams float through the castle, into every 
 silent room ? 
 
 She trembles at her footsteps, although they fall so 
 light; 
 
 Through the turret loopholes she sees the wild mid- 
 night ; 
 
 Broken vapours streaming across the stormy sky ; 
 
 Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan and 
 cry. 
 
LADY ALICE. 
 
 73 
 
 She steals along a gallery ; she pauses by a 
 door ; 
 
 And fast her tears are dropping down upon the 
 oaken floor; 
 
 And thrice she seems returning — but thrice she 
 turns again : — 
 
 Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old father’s 
 brain ! 
 
 Oh, well it were that never shouldst thou waken 
 from thy sleep ! 
 
 For wherefore should they waken, who waken but 
 to weep ? 
 
 No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace a 
 vigil keep, 
 
 But Woe, — a lion that awaits thy rousing for its 
 leap. 
 
 ii. 
 
 An afternoon of April, no sun appears on high, 
 
 But a moist and yellow lustre fills the deepness of 
 the sky : 
 
 And through the castle-gateway, left empty and 
 forlorn, 
 
 Along the leafless avenue an honour’d bier is 
 borne. 
 
74 
 
 LADY ALICE. 
 
 They stop. The long line closes up like some 
 gigantic worm ; 
 
 A shape is standing in the path, a wan and ghost- 
 like form, 
 
 Which gazes fixedly ; nor moves, nor utters any 
 sound ; 
 
 Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks down upon 
 the ground. 
 
 And though her clothes are ragged, and though her 
 feet are bare, 
 
 And though all wild and tangled falls her heavy 
 silk-brown hair ; 
 
 Though from her eyes the brightness, from her 
 cheeks the bloom is fled, 
 
 They know their Lady Alice, the darling of the 
 dead. 
 
 With silence, in her own old room the fainting 
 form they lay, 
 
 Where all things stand unalter’d since the night 
 she fled away : 
 
 But who — but who shall bring to life her father 
 from the clay ? 
 
 But who shall give her back again her heart of a 
 former day ? 
 
XXVI. 
 
 THERANIA. 
 
 O Unknown Belov’d One ! to the mellow season 
 Branches in the lawn make drooping 
 bow’rs ; 
 
 Yase and plot burn scarlet, gold, and azure ; 
 Honeysuckles wind the tall grey turret, 
 
 , And pale passion-flow’rs. 
 
 Come thou, come thou to my lonely thought, 
 
 O Unknown Belov’d One. 
 
 Now, at evening twilight, dusky dew down-wavers, 
 Soft stars crown the grove-encircled hill ; 
 Breathe the new-mown meadows, broad and 
 misty ; 
 
 Through the heavy grass the rail is talking ; 
 
 All beside is still. 
 
 Trace with me the wandering avenue, 
 
 O Unknown Belov’d One. 
 
76 
 
 THERANIA. 
 
 In the mystic realm, and in the time of visions, 
 
 I thy lover have no need to woo ; 
 
 There I hold thy hand in mine, thou dearest, 
 And thy soul in mine, and feel its throbbing, 
 Tender, deep, and true : 
 
 Then my tears are love, and thine are love, 
 
 O Unknown Belov’d One ! 
 
 Is thy voice a wavelet on the listening darkness ? 
 Are thine eyes unfolding from their veil ? 
 Wilt thou come before the signs of winter — 
 Days that shred the bough with trembling fingers, 
 Nights that weep and wail ? 
 
 Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death, 
 
 O Unknown Belov’d One ? 
 
XXVII. 
 
 WAYCONNELL TOWER. 
 
 The tangling wealth by June amass’d, 
 Left rock and ruin vaguely seen ; 
 
 Thick ivy-cables held them fast, 
 
 Light boughs descended, floating green. 
 
 Slow turn’d the stair, a breathless height, 
 And, far above, it set me free, 
 
 When all the golden fan of light 
 Was closing down into the sea. 
 
 A window half-way up the wall 
 It led to ; and so high was that, 
 
 The tallest trees were not so tall 
 
 That they could reach to where I sat. 
 
 Aloft within the moulder’d tower, 
 
 Dark ivy fringed its round of sky, 
 
 Where slowly, in the deepening hour, 
 
 The first few stars unveil’d on high. 
 
78 
 
 WAYCONNELL TOWER. 
 
 The rustling of the foliage dim, 
 
 The murmur of the cool grey tide, 
 With tears that trembled on the brim, 
 An echo sad to these I sigh’d. 
 
 O Sea, thy ripple’s mournful tune ! — 
 The cloud along the sunset sleeps ; 
 The phantom of the golden moon 
 Is kindled in thy quivering deeps, 
 
 Oh, mournfully ! — and I to fill, 
 
 Fix’d in a ruin-window strange, 
 Some countless period, watching still 
 A moon, a sea, that never change ! 
 
 The guided orb is mounting slow ; 
 
 The duteous wave is ebbing fast ; 
 And now, as from the niche I go, 
 
 A shadow joins the shadowy past. 
 
 Farewell ! dim ruins ; tower and life ; 
 
 Sadly enrich the distant view ! 
 
 And welcome, scenes of toil and strife 
 To-morrow’s sun arises new. 
 
xxvin. 
 
 THE WITCH-BRIDE. 
 
 A fair witch crept to a young man’s side, 
 And he kiss’d her and took her for his bride. 
 
 But a Shape came in at the dead of night, 
 And fill’d the room with snowy light. 
 
 And he saw how in his arms there lay 
 A thing more frightful than mouth may say. 
 
 And he rose in haste, and follow’d the Shape 
 Till morning crown’d an eastern cape. 
 
 And he girded himself and follow’d still, 
 
 When sunset sainted the western hill. 
 
 But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side, 
 Weary day ! — the foul Witch-Bride. 
 
XXIX. 
 
 SPRING IS COME. 
 
 Ye coax the timid verdure 
 Along the hills of Spring, 
 
 Blue skies and gentle breezes, 
 
 And soft clouds wandering 1 
 The quire of birds on budding spray, 
 Loud larks in ether sing ; 
 
 A fresher pulse, a wider day, 
 
 Give joy to everything. 
 
 The gay translucent morning 
 Lies glittering on the sea, 
 
 The noonday sprinkles shadows 
 Athwart the daisied lea ; 
 
 The round Sun’s sinking scarlet rim 
 In vapour hideth he, 
 
 The darkling hours are cool and dim, 
 As vernal night should be. 
 
SPRING IS COME. 
 
 81 
 
 Our Earth has not grown aged, 
 
 With all her countless years ; 
 
 She works, and never wearies, 
 
 Is glad, and nothing fears : 
 
 The glow of air, broad land and wave, 
 
 In season re-appears ; 
 
 And shall, when slumber in the grave 
 These human smiles and tears. 
 
 Oh, rich in songs and colours, 
 
 Thou joy-reviving Spring ! 
 
 Some hopes are chill’d with winter 
 Whose term thou canst not bring. 
 
 Some voices answer not thy call 
 When sky and woodland ring, 
 
 Some faces come not back at all 
 With primrose-blossoming. 
 
 fhe distant-flying swallow, 
 
 The upward-yearning seed, 
 
 Find nature’s promise faithful, 
 
 Attain their humble meed. 
 
 Great Parent ! thou hast also form’d 
 These hearts which throb and bleed ; 
 
 With love, truth, hope, their life hast warm’d, 
 And what is best, decreed. 
 
 6 
 
XXX. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 A messenger, that stood beside my bed, 
 
 In words of clear and cruel import said, 
 
 (And vet methought the tone was less unkind.) 
 
 “ I bring thee pain of body and of mind.” 
 
 w Each gift of each must pay a toll to me ; 
 
 Nor flight, nor force, nor suit can set thee free ; 
 Until my brother come, I say not when : 
 Affliction is my name, unloved of men.” 
 
 I swoon’d, then bursting up in talk deranged, 
 Shatter’d to tears ; while he stood by unchanged. 
 I held my peace, my heart with courage burn cl, 
 And to his cold touch one faint sigh return’d. 
 
 Undreamt-of wings he lifted, “ For a while 
 I vanish. Never be afraid to smile 
 Lest I waylay thee : curse me not ; nay, love ; 
 That I may bring thee tidings from above.” 
 
THE MESSENGER. 
 
 83 
 
 And often since, by day or night, descends 
 The face obdurate ; now almost a friend’s. 
 
 O ! quite to Faith ; but Frailty’s lips not dare 
 The word. To both this angel taught a pray’r. 
 
 “ Lord God, thy servant, wounded and bereft, 
 Feels thee upon his right hand and his left : 
 Hath joy in grief, and still by losing gains ; — 
 All this is gone, yet all myself remains ! ” 
 
XXXI. 
 
 AUTUMNAL SONNET. 
 
 Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods, 
 And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 
 And night by night the monitory blast 
 Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass’d 
 O’er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 
 
 Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
 Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 
 Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. 
 
 Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 
 Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise 
 The soft invisible dew on each one’s eyes, 
 
 It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 
 To walk with memory, when distant lies 
 Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve, 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER, 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 
 

 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 I. 
 
 Music and Love ! — If lovers hear me sing, 
 
 I will for them essay the simple tale, 
 
 To hold some fair young listeners in a ring 
 
 With echoes gather’d from an Irish vale, 
 
 Where still, methinks, abide my golden years, 
 
 % 
 
 Though I not with them, — far discern’d through 
 tears. 
 
 ii. 
 
 When evening fell upon the village street 
 And brother fields, reposing hand in hand, 
 Unlike where flaring cities scorn to meet 
 The kiss of dusk that quiets all the land, 
 
88 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 ’Twas pleasant laziness to loiter by 
 Houses and cottages, a friendly spy. 
 
 hi. 
 
 And hear the frequent fiddle that would glide 
 Through jovial mazes of a jig or reel, 
 
 • Or sink from sob to sob with plaintive slide, 
 
 Or mount the steps of swift exulting zeaL ; 
 
 For our old village was with music fill’d 
 Like any grove where thrushes wont to build. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mixt with the roar of bellows and of flame, 
 Perhaps the reed-voice of a clarionet 
 From forge’s open ruddy shutter came ; 
 
 Or round some hearth where silent people set, 
 Where the low flute, with plaintive quivering, ran 
 on 
 
 Through “ Colleen Dhas ” or “ Hawk of Bally- 
 shannon.” 
 
 v. 
 
 Or pictured on those bygone, shadowy nights 
 I see a group of girls at needlework, 
 
 Placed round a candle throwing soft half-lights 
 On the contrasted faces, and the dark 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 99 
 
 And fair-hair’d heads, a bunch of human flow’rs ; 
 And many a ditty cheers th’ industrious hours. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Pianoforte’s sound from curtain’d pane 
 Would join the lofty to the lowly roof 
 With delicate links of one harmonious chain ; 
 
 And often down the street some Glee’s old woof, 
 “Hope of my heart” — “Ye Shepherds” — “ Light- 
 ly tread,” 
 
 Would mesh my steps or wrap me in my bed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The most delicious chance, if we should hear, 
 Pour’d from our climbing glen’s enfoliaged rocks, 
 At dusk some solitary bugle, clear, 
 
 Remote, and melancholy ; echo mocks 
 The strain delighted, wafting it afar 
 Up to the threshold of the evening star. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Gerald was our music-master’s name ; 
 
 Young Gerald White ; whose mother, not long 
 wed, 
 
 Only to make him ours by birthright came. 
 
 Her Requiescat I have often read, 
 
90 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 Where thickest ivy hangs its ancient pall 
 Over the dumb and desolate abbey wall. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The father found a music-pupil rare, 
 
 More ready still to learn than he to teach ; 
 
 His art no longer was his only care, 
 
 ** But now young Gerald with it, each for each ; 
 And with a secret and assiduous joy 
 The -grave musician taught his happy boy. 
 
 x 
 
 The boy’s whole thought to Music lean’d and sway’d 
 He heard a minor in the wind at night, 
 
 And many a tune the village noises play’d ; 
 
 The thunder roar’d like bands before the might 
 Of marching armies ; in deep summer calm 
 The falling brooklet would intone a psalm. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Chapel organ-loft, his father’s seat, 
 
 Was to the child his earthly paradise ; 
 
 And that celestial one that used to greet 
 His infant dreams, could take no other guise 
 Than visions of green curtains and gold pipes, 
 And angels of whom quire-girls were the types. 
 
THE MUSIC— MASTER. 
 
 94 
 
 . XII. 
 
 Their fresh young voices from the congregation, 
 Train’d and combined by simple rules of 
 chant, 
 
 And lifted on the harmonious modulation 
 Roll’d from the lofty organ, ministrant 
 
 To sacred triumph, well might bring a thought 
 
 Of angels there, — perhaps themselves it brought. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Poor girls the most were : this one had her nest, 
 
 A mountain mavis, in the craggy furze ; 
 
 Another in close lane must toil and rest, 
 
 And never cage-bird’s song more fine than 
 hers, 
 
 Humming at work all through the busy week, 
 
 Set free in Sabbath chorus, proud and meek. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And when young Gerald might adventure forth 
 Through Music-land, — where hope and memory 
 kiss 
 
 And singing fly beyond the bourne of earth, 
 
 And the whole spirit full of aching bliss 
 
 Would follow as the parting shrouds reveal 
 I Glimpses ineffable, but soon conceal, — 
 
92 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XV. 
 
 While all the hills, mayhap, and distant plain, 
 Village and brook were shaded, fold on fold, 
 With the slow dusk, and on the purpling pane 
 Soft twilight barr’d with crimson and w 
 gold 
 
 Lent to that simple little house of prayer 
 A richly solemn, a cathedral air ; 
 
 XVI. 
 
 His symphonies to suit the dying close 
 
 Suffused it with a voice that could not ask 
 In vain for tears ; not ask in vain from those 
 Who in the dew fulfill'd their pious task, 
 Kneeling with rosaries beside a grave ; 
 
 To whom a heavenly comforting it gave. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thus village years went by. Day after day 
 Flow’d, as a stream unvext with storms 
 floods 
 
 Flows by some islet with a hawthorn grey ; 
 Where circling seasons bring ^ share ol 
 buds, 
 
 Nests, blossoms, ruddy fruit, and, in their turn, 
 Of withering leaves and frosty twigs forlorn. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 93 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 So went the years, that never may abide ; 
 
 Boyhood to manhood, manly prime to age, 
 Ceaselessly gliding on, as still they glide ; 
 
 Until the father yields for heritage 
 (Joyful, yet with a sigh) the master’s place 
 To Gerald — who could higher fortune grace. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But the shy youth has yet his hours of leisure : 
 
 And now, the Spring upon the emerald hills 
 Dancing with flying clouds, how keen his pleas- 
 ure, 
 
 Plunged in deep glens or tracking upland 
 rills, 
 
 Till lessening light recall him from his roaming 
 To breathe his gather’d secrets to the gloaming. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Spring was around him, and within him too. 
 
 Delightful season ! — life without a spur 
 Bounds gaily forward, and the heart is new 
 As the green wand fresh budded on a fir ; 
 
 And Nature, into jocund chorus waking, 
 
 Tempts every young voice to her merry-making. 
 
94 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Gerald, high echoing this delightful Spring, 
 
 Pour’d from his finger-tips electric power 
 In audible creations swift of wing, 
 
 Till sunshine glimpsing through an April 
 shower, 
 
 And clouds, and delicate glories, and the bound 
 Of lucid sky came melting into sound. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Our ear receives in common with our eye 
 
 One Beauty, flowing through a different gate, 
 With melody its form, and harmony 
 Its hue ; one mystic Beauty is the mate 
 Of Spirit indivisible, one love 
 Her look, her voice, her memory do move. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Yet sometimes in his playing came a tone 
 Not learn’d of sun or shadow, wind or brook, 
 But thoughts so much his own he dared not own, 
 Nor, prizing much, appraise them ; dared nol 
 look 
 
 In fear to lose an image undefined 
 That brighten’d every vista of his mind. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 95 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Two pupils dwelt upon the river-side, 
 
 At Cloonamore, a cottage near the rush 
 Of narrow’d waters breaking from a wide 
 
 And pond-like smoothness, brimming green and 
 flush 
 
 Dark groves ; and here for Gerald, truth to say, 
 His weekly task was more than holiday. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A quiet home it was ; compact and neat 
 As a wren’s nest. A gentle woman’s choice 
 Had built and beautified the green retreat ; 
 
 But in her labours might she not rejoice, 
 
 Being summon’d to a stiller place of rest ; 
 
 And spent her last breath in a dear behest. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 That was for her two daughters : she had wed 
 A plain, rough husband, though a kind and 
 true ; 
 
 And u Dearest Bernard,” from her dying bed 
 She whisper’d, “ Promise me you’ll try to do 
 For Ann and Milly what was at my heart, 
 
 If God had spared me to perform my part.” 
 
96 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As well as. no abundant purse allow'd, 
 
 Or as the neighbouring village could supply, 
 
 The father kept his promise, and was proud 
 To see the girls grow up beneath his eye 
 Two ladies in their culture and their mien ; 
 Though not the less there lay a gulf between. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A spirit unrefined the elder had, 
 
 An envious eye, a tongue of petty scorn. 
 
 That women these may own — how true ! how 
 sad ! 
 
 And these, though Ann had been a countess 
 born, 
 
 Had mark'd her meaner to the dullest sight 
 Than grows a yellow lily with a white. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 White lily, — Milly, — darling little girl ! 
 
 I think I see as once I saw her stand ; 
 
 Her soft hair waving in a single curl 
 Behind her ear ; a kid licking her hand ; 
 
 Her fair young face with health and racing warm, 
 And loose frock blown about her slender form. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 97 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The dizzy lark, a dot on the white cloud, 
 
 That sprinkles music o’er the vernal breeze, 
 Was not more gay than Milly’s joyous mood; 
 
 The silent lark that starry twilight sees 
 Cradled among the braird in closest bower, 
 
 Not more quiescent than her tranquil hour. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Her mind was open, as a flowery cup 
 
 That gathers richness from the sun and 
 dew, 
 
 To knowledge, and as easily drew up 
 
 The wholesome sap of life; un watch’d it 
 grew, 
 
 A lovely blossom in a shady place ; 
 
 And like her mind, so was her innocent face. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 At all times fair, it never look’d so fair 
 As when the holy glow of harmonies 
 Lighted it through ; her spirit as it were 
 An azure heav’n outshining at her eyes ; 
 
 With Gerald’s tenor while the fountain sprung 
 Of her contralto, fresh and pure and young. 
 
98 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 In years a child when lessons thus began, 
 
 Child is she still, yet nearly woman grown ; 
 
 For childhood stays with woman more than man, 
 
 In voice and cheek and mouth, nor these 
 alone ; 
 
 And up the sky with no intense revealing 
 May the great dawn of womanhood come stealing. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Now must the moon of childhood's trembling 
 white 
 
 Faint in the promise of her flushing heaven ; 
 Looks are turn'd eastward, where new orient light 
 Suffuses all the air with subtle leaven ; 
 
 And shadowy mountain-paths begin to show 
 Their unsuspected windings 'mid the glow. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Her silky locks have ripen’d into brown, 
 
 Her soft blue eyes grown deeper and more shy, 
 And lightly on her lifted head the crown 
 Of queenly maidenhood sits meek and high; 
 
 Her frank soul lives in her ingenuous voice, 
 
 Most purely tuned to sorrow or rejoice. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 9S 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Within the Chapel on a Sunday morn 
 
 She bows her mild head near the altar-rail, 
 
 And raises up that mild full voice unworn 
 Into the singing; — should a Sunday fail, 
 
 There’s one would often mark her empty seat, 
 There’s one would find their anthem incorm 
 plete. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Few her companions are, and few her books ; 
 
 And in a ruin’d convent’s circling shade, 
 
 The loveliest of tranquil river-nooks, 
 
 Where trailing birch, fit bow’r for gentle maid, 
 And feather’d fir-tree half shut out the stream, 
 
 She often sits alone to read or dream. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Sometimes through leafy lattice she espies 
 A flitting figure on the other shore ; 
 
 But ever past th’ enchanted precinct hies 
 That wanderer, and where the rapids roar 
 Through verdured crags, shelters his beating 
 heart, 
 
 Foolishly bent to seek, yet stay apart. 
 
100 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Then Milly can resume her reverie, 
 
 About a real friend, that she could love : 
 
 But finds her broken thought is apt to flee 
 To what seem other musings : slowly move 
 The days, and counted days move ever slowest . 
 Milly ! how long ere thy own heart thou know- 
 est ? 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sooner than Gerald his. His path-side birds 
 Are scarcely more unconscious or more shrink- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet would he tell his love in simple words 
 Did love stand clearly in his simple thinking : 
 High the discovery, and too high for one 
 Who counts his life as though not yet begun. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 For all the rest seem sage and busy men ; 
 
 And he alone despised, and justly too, 
 
 Or borne with merely; — could he venture then 
 To deem this rich inheritance his due ? 
 
 Slowly the fine and tender soul discerns 
 Its rareness, and its lofty station learns. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 101 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And now, ’tis on a royal eventide 
 
 When the ripe month sets glowing earth and 
 air, 
 
 And Summer by a stream or thicket-side 
 Twists amber honeysuckles in her hair, — 
 
 Gerald and Milly meet by trembling chance, 
 
 And step for step are moving, in a trance, 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 On pathway foliage-curtain’d and moss-grown. 
 Behind the trees the white flood flashing 
 swift, 
 
 Through many moist and ferny rocks flung down, 
 Boars steadily, where sunlights play and shift. 
 How oft they stop, how long, they nothing 
 know, 
 
 Nor how the pulses of the evening go. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Their talk ? — the dappled hyacinthine glade 
 Lit up in points of blue, — how soft and treble 
 The kine’s deep lowing is by distance made, — 
 The quail’s “ twit-wit-wit,” like a hopping 
 pebble 
 
102 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 Thrown along ice, — the dragonflies, the birds, 
 
 The rustling twig, — all noticed in few words. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 A level pond, inlaid with lucid shadows 
 
 Of groves and crannied cliffs and evening sky, 
 And rural domes of hay, where the green meadows 
 Slope to embrace its margin peacefully, 
 
 The slumb'ring river to the rapid draws ; 
 
 And here, upon a grassy j ut, they pause. * 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 How shy a strength is Love's, that so much fears 
 Its darling secret to itself to own l 
 Their rapt, illimitable mood appears 
 A beauteous miracle for each alone ; 
 
 Exalted high above all range of hope 
 By the pure soul's eternity of scope. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Yet in both hearts a prophecy is breathed 
 Of how this evening’s phantom may arise, 
 
 In richer hues than ever sunlight wreathed 
 On hill or wood or wave : in brimming eyes 
 The glowing landscape melts away from each ; 
 And full their bosoms swell, too full for speech. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 103 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Is it a dream ? The countless happy stars 
 Stand silently into the deepening blue ; 
 
 In slow procession all the molten bars 
 
 Of cloud move down ; the air is dim with 
 dew ; 
 
 Eve scatters roses on the shroud of day ; 
 
 The common world sinks far and far away. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 With goodnight kiss the zephyr, half asleep, 
 
 Drops to its cradle in the dusk of trees, 
 
 Where river-chimings tolling sweet and deep 
 Make lullaby, and all field-scents that please 
 The Summer’s children float into the gloom 
 Dream-interwoven in a viewless loom. * 
 
 L. 
 
 Clothed with an earnest paleness, not a blush, 
 
 And with th’ angelic gravity of love, 
 
 Each lover’s face amid the twilight hush 
 
 Is like a saint’s whose thoughts are all above 
 In perfect gratitude for heavenly boon ; 
 
 And o’er them for a halo comes the moon. 
 
104 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Thus through the leaves and the dim dewy croft 
 They linger homeward. Flowers around their 
 feet 
 
 Bless them, and in the .firmament aloft 
 
 Night’s silent ardours. And an hour too fleet, 
 Though stretching years from all the life before, 
 Conducts their footsteps to her cottage door. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thenceforth they meet more timidly ? — in truth, 
 Some lovers might, but all are not the same ; 
 In the clear ether of their simple youth 
 
 Steady and white ascends the sacred flame. 
 They do not shrink hereafter ; rather seek 
 More converse, but with graver voices speak. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 One theme at last preferred to every other, 
 Joying to talk of that mysterious land 
 Where each enshrines the image of a mother 
 Best of all watchers in the guardian band ; 
 
 To highest, tenderest thought is freedom given 
 Amid this unembarrass’d air of Heaven. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 105 
 
 LIV. 
 
 For when a hymn has wing’d itself away 
 On Palestrina’s full-resounding chords, 
 
 &nd at the trellis’d window loiter they, 
 
 Deferring their goodnight with happy words, 
 Almost they know, without a throb of fear, 
 
 Of spirits in the twilight standing near. 
 
 LV. 
 
 knd day by day and week by week pass by, 
 
 And Love still poised upon a trembling 
 plume 
 
 Floats on the very verge of sovereignty, 
 
 Where ev’n a look may call him to assume 
 The rich apparel and the shining throne, 
 
 And claim two loyal subjects for his own. 
 
 LYI. 
 
 Wondrous, that first, full, mutual look of love 
 Coming ere either looker is aware ; 
 
 Unbounded trust, a tenderness above 
 
 All tenderness ; mute music, speechless pray’r, 
 Life’s mystery, reality, and might, 
 
 Soft-swimming in a single ray of light ! 
 
106 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 O when shall fly this talismanic gleam, 
 
 Which melts like lightning every prison- 
 bar, 
 
 Which penetrates the mist with keener beam 
 Than flows from sun or moon or any star ? 
 Love waits ; and like a pebble of the ground 
 Th’ imperial gem lies willing to be found. 
 
 LYIII. 
 
 One evening, Gerald came before his hour, 
 Distrustful of the oft-consulted clock ; 
 
 And waits, with no companion, till his flow’r — 
 Keeping the time as one of Flora’s flock, 
 Whose shepherdess, the Sunset Star, doth fold 
 Each in its leaves — he may again behold. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Nor thinks it long. Familiar all, and dear, 
 
 A sanctity pervades the silent room. 
 
 Autumnal is the season of the year ; 
 
 A mystic softness and love-weighty gloom 
 Gather with twilight. In a dream he lays 
 His hand on the piano, dreaming plays. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 107 
 
 LX. 
 
 Most faint and broken sounds at first are stealing 
 Into the shadowy stillness ; wild and slow, 
 Imperfect cadences of captive feeling, 
 
 Gathering its strength, and yet afraid to know 
 Its chance of freedom, — till on murmuring chords 
 Tlf unguarded thought strays forth in passionate 
 words. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Angel of Music ! when our finest speech 
 Is all too coarse to give the heart relief, 
 
 The inmost fountains lie within thy reach, 
 Soother of every joy and every grief ; 
 
 And to the stumbling words thou lendest wings 
 On which aloft th’ enfranchised spirit springs. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Much love may in not many words be told ; 
 
 And on the sudden love can speak the best. 
 These mystical melodious buds unfold, 
 
 On every petal showing clear imprest 
 The name of Love. So Gerald sung and play’d 
 Unconscious of himself, in twilight shade. 
 
108 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 He has not overheard (O might it be !) 
 
 This stifled sobbing at the open door, 
 
 Where Milly stands arrested tremblingly 
 By that which in an instant tells her more 
 Than all the dumb months mused of ; tells it 
 plain 
 
 To joy that cannot comprehend its gain. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 One moment, and they shall be face to face, 
 
 Free iathe gift of this great confidence, 
 
 Wrapt in the throbbing calm of its embrace, 
 
 No more to disunite their spirits thence. 
 
 The myrtle crown stoops close to either brow, - 
 But ah ! what alien voice distracts them now ? 
 
 LX V. 
 
 Her sister comes. And Milly turns away ; 
 
 Hurriedly bearing to some quiet spot 
 Her tears and her full heart, longing to lay 
 On a dim pillow cheeks so moist and hot. 
 
 When midnight stars between her curtains gleam 
 Fair Milly sleeps, and dreams a happy dream. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 109 
 
 LXYI. 
 
 O dream, poor child ! beneath the midnight 
 stars ; 
 
 O slumber through the kindling of the dawn ; 
 The shadow’s on its way ; the storm that mars 
 The lily even now is hurrying on. 
 
 All has been long fulfill’d ; yet I could weep 
 At thought of thee so quietly asleep. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But Gerald, through the night serenely spread, 
 Walks quickly home, intoxicate with bliss 
 Not named and not examined ; overhead 
 
 The clustering lights of worlds are full of this 
 New element; the soft wind’s dusky wings 
 Grow warmer on his cheek, with whisperings. 
 
 LXYIII. 
 
 And yet to-night he has not seen his Love. 
 
 His Love — in that one word all comfort dwells 
 Reaching from earth to those clear flames above, 
 And making common food of miracles. 
 
 Kind pulsing Nature, touch of Deity, 
 
 Sure thou art full of love, which lovers see ! 
 
110 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Most cruel Nature, so unmoved, so hard, 
 
 The while thy children shake with joy or pain ! 
 Thou wilt not forward Love, nor Death retard 
 One finger-push, for mortal’s dearest gain. 
 
 Our Gerald, through the night serenely spread, 
 Walks quickly home, and finds his father dead. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 God’s awe must be where the last stroke comes 
 down, 
 
 Though but the ending of a weary strife, 
 
 Though years on years weigh low the hoary crown, 
 Or sickness tenant all the house of life ; 
 Stupendous ever is the great event, 
 
 The frozen form most strangely different ! 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 To Gerald follow’d many doleful days, 
 
 Like wet clouds moving through a sullen sky. 
 
 A vast unlook’d-for change the mind dismays, 
 
 And smites its world with instability ; 
 
 Rocks appear quaking, towers and treasures vain, 
 Peace foolish, Joy disgusting, Hope insane. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 For even Cloonamore, that image dear, 
 
 Returns to Gerald’s mind like its own ghost, 
 
 In melancholy garments, drench’d and sere, 
 
 Its joy, its colour, and its welcome lost. 
 
 Wanting one token sure to lean upon, 
 
 (How almost gain'd !) his happy dream is gone. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Distracted purposes, a homeless band, 
 
 Throng in his meditation — now he flies 
 To rest his soul on Milly’s cheek and hand, — 
 
 Now he makes outcry on his fantasies 
 For busy cheats : the lesson not yet learn ’d 
 How Life’s true coast from vapour is discern’d. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Ah me ! Tis like the tolling of a bell 
 To hear it — “ Past is past, and gone is gone ; ” 
 With looking back afar to see how well 
 
 We could have ’scaped our losses, and have 
 won 
 
 High fortune. Ever greatest turns on least, 
 
 Like Earth’s own whirl to atom poles decreased. 
 
112 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 For in the gloomiest hour a letter came, 
 
 Shot arrow-like across the Western sea, 
 
 Praising the West ; its message was the same 
 As many a time ere now had languidly 
 Dropp’d at his feet, but this the rude gale bore 
 To heart, — Gerald will quit our Irish shore. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 And quit his Love whom he completely loves ; 
 "Who loves him just as much ? Nay, downcast 
 youth ! 
 
 Nay, dear mild maiden ! — Surely it behoves 
 That somewhere in the day there should be ruth 
 For innocent blindness ? lead, oh, lead them now 
 One step, but one ! — Their fates do not allow. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The parting scene is brief and frosty dumb. 
 
 The unlike sisters stand alike unmoved ; 
 
 For Milly’s soul is wilder’d, weak, and numb, 
 
 That reft away which seem’d so dearly proved. 
 While thought and speech she struggles to recover 
 Her hand is prest — and he is gone for ever. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 113 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Time speeds : on an October afternoon 
 
 Across the well-known view he looks his last ; 
 The valley clothed with peace and fruitful boon, 
 The chapel where such happy hours were pass’d, 
 With rainbow-colour’d foliage round its eaves, 
 
 And windows all a-glitter through the leaves. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The cottage-smokes, the river ; — gaze no more, 
 Sad heart ! although thou canst not, wouldst not 
 shun 
 
 The vision future years will oft restore, 
 
 Whereon the light of many a summer sun, 
 
 The stars of many a winter night shall be 
 Mingled in one strange sighing memory. 
 
 8 
 
 END OF PART I. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 A LOVE STORY. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. 
 
 The shadow Death o’er Time’s broad dial creeps 
 With never-halting pace from mark to mark, 
 Blotting the sunshine ; as it coldly sweeps, 
 
 Each living symbol melts into the dark, 
 
 And changes to the name of what it was ; — 
 Shade-measured light, progression proved by loss. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Blithe Spring expanding into Summer’s cheer, 
 Great Summer ripening into Autumn’s glow, 
 The yellow Autumn and the wasted year, 
 
 And hoary-headed Winter stooping slow 
 Under the dark arch up again to Spring, 
 
 Have five times compass’d their appointed ring. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 115 
 
 III. 
 
 See once again our village ; with its street 
 Dozing in dusty sunshine. All around 
 Is silence ; save, for slumber not unmeet, 
 
 Some spinning-wheeFs continuous whirring 
 sound 
 
 From cottage door, where, stretch’d upon his side, 
 The moveless dog is basking, drowsy-eyed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The hollyhock within each little wall 
 
 Sleeps in the pomp of its encrusted blooms ; 
 Up the hot glass the sluggish blue flies crawl ; 
 
 The heavy bee is humming into rooms 
 Through open window, like a sturdy rover, 
 Bringing with him warm scents of thyme and 
 clover. 
 
 v. 
 
 From little cottage-gardens you almost 
 
 Smell the fruit ripening on the sultry air ; 
 Opprest to silence, every bird is lost 
 In eave and hedgerow ; save that here and 
 there 
 
 With twitter swift, the sole unquiet thing, 
 
 Shoots the dark lightning of a swallow’s wing. 
 
116 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet in this hour of sunny peacefulness 
 
 One is there whom its influence little calms, 
 
 One who now leans in agony to press 
 
 His throbbing forehead with his throbbing 
 palms, 
 
 Now paces quickly up and down within 
 
 The narrow parlour of the village inn. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He thought he could have tranquilly beheld 
 The scene again. He thought his faithful grief, 
 
 Spread level in the soul, could not have swell’d 
 To find once more a passionate relief. 
 
 Three years, they now seem hours, have sigh’d 
 their breath 
 
 Since when he heard the tidings of her death. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Last evening in the latest dusk he came, 
 
 A holy pilgrim from a distant land ; 
 
 And objects of familiar face and name, 
 
 As at the move of a miraculous wand, 
 
 Rose round his steps ; his bed-room window show’d 
 
 His small white birthplace just across the road. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 117 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet in that room he could not win repose ; 
 
 The image of the past perplex’d his mind ; 
 Often he sigh’d and turn’d, and sometimes rose 
 To bathe his forehead in the cool night-wind, 
 And vaguely watch the curtain broad and grey 
 Lifting anew from the bright scene of day. 
 
 x. 
 
 When creeping sultry hours from noontide go, 
 He rounds the hawthorn hedge’s well-known 
 turn, 
 
 Melting in midsummer its bloomy snow, 
 
 And through the chapel gate. His heart forlorn 
 Draws strength and comfort from the pitying 
 shrine 
 
 Whereat he bows with reverential sign. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Behind the chapel, down a sloping hill, 
 
 Circling the ancient abbey’s ivied walls 
 The graveyard sleeps. A little gurgling rill 
 Pour’d through a corner of the ruin, falls 
 Into a dusky-water’d pond, and lags 
 With lazy eddies ’mid its yellow flags. 
 
118 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Across this pool, the hollow banks enfold 
 An orchard overrun with rankest grass, 
 
 And gnarl’d and mossy apple-trees, as old 
 As th’ oldest graves almost; and thither pass 
 The smooth-worn stepping-stones that give their aid 
 To many a labourer and milking-maid. 
 
 . XIII. 
 
 And not unfrequently to rustic bound 
 
 On a more solemn errand, — when we see 
 A suppliant in such universal ground, 
 
 Let all be reverence and sympathy; 
 
 Assured the life in every real pray’r 
 Is that which makes our life of life to share. 
 
 XI Y. 
 
 But resting in the sunshine very lone 
 
 Is each green hummock now, each wooden 
 cross ; 
 
 And save the rillet in its cup of stone 
 
 That poppling falls, and whispers through the 
 moss 
 
 Down to the quiet pool, no sound is near 
 To break the stilliness to Gerald’s ear. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 119 
 
 XV. 
 
 The writhen elder spreads its creamy bloom ; 
 
 The thicket- tangling, tenderest briar-rose 
 Kisses to air its exquisite perfume 
 
 In shy luxuriance ; leaning foxglove glows 
 With elvish crimson ; — nor all vainly meet 
 The eye which unobserved they seem to greet. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Under the abbey wall he wends his way, 
 Admitted through a portal arching deep, 
 
 To where no roof excludes the common day ; 
 Though some few tombstones in the shadows 
 sleep 
 
 Of hoary fibres and a throng of leaves, 
 
 Which venerable ivy slowly weaves. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 First hither comes, in piety of heart, 
 
 Over his mother’s, father’s grave to bend, 
 
 The faithful exile. Let us stand apart, 
 
 While his sincere and humble pray’rs ascend, 
 As such devout aspirings do, we trust, 
 
 To Him who sow’d them in our breathing 
 dust. 
 
120 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But veil our very thoughts lest they intrude 
 (Oh, silent death! oh, living pain full sore!) 
 Where finds he, wrapt in grassy solitude, 
 
 That gentle matron’s grave, of Cloonamore, 
 And on the stone these added words are seen — 
 “ Also, her daughter Milly, aged eighteen.” 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Profound the voiceless aching of the breast, 
 When weary life is like a grey dull eve 
 Emptied of colour, withering and waste 
 
 Around the prostrate soul, too weak to 
 grieve — 
 
 Stretch’d far below the tumult and strong cry 
 Of passion — its lamenting but a sigh. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Grief’s mystery desire not to disperse, 
 
 Nor wish the secret of the world outspoken ; 
 ’Tis not a toy, this vital Universe, 
 
 That thua its inner caskets may be broken. 
 Sorrow and pain, as well as hope ‘and love, 
 Stretch out of view into the heavens above. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 121 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Yet, oh ! the cruel coldness of the grave, 
 
 The keen remembrance of the happy past, 
 The thoughts which are at once tyrant and 
 slave, 
 
 The sudden sense that drives the soul aghast, 
 The drowning horror, and the speechless strife, 
 That fain would sink to death or rise to life ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 At last, as Gerald lifted up his face, 
 
 He grew aware that he was not alone. 
 
 Amid the silence of the sacred place 
 
 Another form was stooping o’er the stone ; 
 
 A greyhair’d woman’s. When she met his eyes 
 She shriek’d aloud in her extreme surprise. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 “ The Holy Mother keep us day and night ! 
 
 And who is this ? — Oh, Master Gerald, 
 dear, 
 
 I little thought to ever see this sight ! 
 
 Warm to the King above I offer here 
 My praises for the answer he has sent 
 To all my pray’rs ; for now I’ll die content ! ” 
 
122 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XXI Y. 
 
 Then, as if talking to herself, she said, 
 
 “ I nursed her when she was a little child. 
 
 I smooth’d the pillow of her dying bed. 
 
 And just the way that she had often smiled 
 When sleeping in her cradle — that same look 
 Was on her face with the last kiss I took.” 
 
 xx v. 
 
 “ *Twas in the days of March,” she said again. 
 
 “ And so it is the sweetest blossom dies, 
 
 The wrinkled leaf hangs on, though falling fain. 
 I thought your hand would close my poor old 
 eyes, 
 
 And not that. I’d be sitting in the sun 
 Beside your grave, — the Lord’s good will be 
 done ! ” 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Thus incoherently the woman spoke, 
 
 With many interjections full of woe ; 
 
 And wrapping herself up within her cloak 
 Began to rock her body to and fro ; 
 
 And moaning softly, seem’d to lose all sense 
 Of outward life in memories so intense. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 123 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Till Gerald burst bis silence and exclaim’d, 
 
 With the most poignant earnestness of tone, 
 
 “ O nurse, I loved her ! — though I never named 
 The name of love to her, or any one. 
 
 ’Tis to her grave here — — ” He could say no 
 more, 
 
 But these few words a load of meaning bore. 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Beside the tombstone mute they both remain’d. 
 
 At last the woman rose, and coming near, 
 Said with a tender voice that had regain’d 
 A tremulous calm, “ Then you must surely 
 hear 
 
 The whole from first to last, cushla-ma-chree ; 
 
 For God has brought together you and me.” 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And there she told him all the moving tale, 
 Broken with many tears and sobs and sighs; 
 How gentle Milly’s health began to fail; 
 
 How a sad sweetness grew within her eyes, 
 And trembled on her mouth, so kind and meek, 
 And flush’d across her pale and patient cheek. 
 
124 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTEK. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And how about this time her sister Ann 
 
 “Entered Religion/’* and her father’s thought 
 Refused in Milly’s face or voice to scan, 
 
 Or once so lively step, the change that 
 wrought ; 
 
 Until a sad conviction flew at last, 
 
 And with a barb into his bosom pass’d. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Then, with most anxious haste, her dear old 
 nurse 
 
 TTas sent for to become her nurse again ; 
 
 But still the pretty one grew worse and worse. 
 
 F or with a gradual lapsing, free of pain, 
 
 And slow removes, that fond eyes would not see, 
 Crept on the hopeful, hopeless malady. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Spring came, and brought no gift of life to her, 
 Of all it lavish’d in the fields and woods. 
 
 Yet she was cheer’d when birds began to stir 
 About the shrubbery, and the pale gold buds 
 
 4 . 
 
 * Took conventual vows. 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 125 
 
 Burst on the willows, and with hearty toil 
 The ploughing teams upturn’d the sluggish soil. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 “’Twas on a cold March evening, well I mind,” 
 The nurse went on, “ we sat and watch’d to- 
 gether 
 
 The long grey sky; and then the sun behind 
 The clouds shone down, though not like sum- 
 mer weather, 
 
 On the hills far away. I can’t tell why, 
 
 But of a sudden I began to cry. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 44 1 dried my tears before I turn’d to her, 
 
 But then I saw that her eyes too were wet, 
 And pale her face, and calm without a stir; 
 Whilst on the lighted hills her look was 
 set, 
 
 Where strange beyond the cold dark fields they 
 
 lay, 
 
 As if her thoughts, too, journey’d far away. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 “After a while she ask’d me to unlock 
 A drawer, and bring a little parcel out. 
 
126 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 I knew it was of it she wish’d to talk, 
 
 But long she held it in her hand in doubt; 
 
 And whilst she strove, there came a blush and 
 spread 
 
 Her face and neck with a too passing red. 
 xxxvi. 
 
 44 At length she put her other hand in mine ; 
 
 4 Dear nurse/ she said, 4 1 ’m sure I need not 
 ask 
 
 Your promise to fulfil what I design 
 
 To make my last request, and your last task. 
 
 You knew young Master Gerald’ (here her 
 speech 
 
 Grew plain) ‘that used to come here once to 
 teach ? ’ 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 44 1 said I knew you well ; and she went on, — 
 
 4 Then listen : if you ever see him more, 
 
 And he should speak of days are past and 
 gone, 
 
 And of his scholars and his friends before — 
 Should ask you questions — knowing what you’ve 
 been 
 
 To me, — Oh! could I tell you what I mean!’ 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 127 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 “ But, sir, I understood her meaning well ; 
 
 Not from her words so much as from her 
 eyes. 
 
 I saw it all ; my heart began to swell, 
 
 I took her in my arms with many sighs 
 And murmurs, and she lean’d upon my neck 
 Till we both cried our fill without a check. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 “ She saw I knew her mind, and bade me 
 give 
 
 Into your hand, if things should so befall, 
 
 The parcel ; — else, as long as I should live, 
 
 It was to be a secret kept from all, 
 
 And say you never wrote, never return’d, 
 
 When my last hour drew near, was to be burn’d. 
 
 XL. 
 
 “ I promised to observe her wishes duly ; 
 
 But said I hoped in God that she would still 
 Live many years beyond myself. And truly 
 While she was speaking, like a miracle 
 Her countenance lost every sickly trace. 
 
 Ah, dear ! ’twas setting light was in her face. 
 
128 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 “ She told me she was tired, and went to bed, 
 And I sat watching by her until dark, 
 
 And then I lit her lamp, and round her head 
 Let down the curtains. ’Twas my glad re- 
 mark 
 
 How softly she was breathing, and my mind 
 Was full- of hope and comfort, — but we’re blind! 
 
 XLII. 
 
 “ The night wore on, and I had fall’n asleep, 
 When about three o’clock I heard a noise 
 And sprang up quickly. In the silence deep 
 Was some one praying with a calm weak 
 voice ; 
 
 Her own voice, though not sounding just the 
 same ; 
 
 And in the pray’r I surely heard your name. 
 XLIII. 
 
 u Sweet Heaven ! we scarce had time to fetch 
 the priest. 
 
 How sadly through the shutters of that room 
 Crept in the blessed daylight from the east 
 To us that sat there weeping in the gloom ; 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 129 
 
 And touch’d the close-shut eyes and peaceful 
 brow, 
 
 But brought no fear of her being restless now. 
 
 XLIY. 
 
 “ The wake was quiet. Noiseless went the hours 
 Where she was lying stretch’d so still and 
 white ; 
 
 And near the bed, a glass with some Spring 
 flowers 
 
 From her own little garden.' Day and night 
 I watch’d, until they took my lamb away, 
 
 The child here by the mother’s side to lay. 
 
 XLY. 
 
 u The holy angels make your bed, my dear ! 
 
 But little call have we to pray for you: 
 
 Pray you for him that’s left behind you here, 
 
 To have his heart consoled with heavenly dew! 
 And pray too for your poor old nurse, asthore ; 
 Your own true mother scarce could love you 
 more ! ” 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 Slow were their feet among the many graves, 
 Over the stile and up the chapel walk, 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 Where stood the poplars with their timid leaves 
 Hung motionless on every slender stalk. 
 
 The air in one hot calm appear’d to lie, 
 
 And thunder mutter’d in the heavy sky. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Along the street was heard the laughing sound 
 Of boys at play, who knew no thought of 
 death ; 
 
 Deliberate-stepping cows, to milking bound, 
 
 Lifted their heads and low’d with fragrant 
 breath ; 
 
 The women knitting at their thresholds cast 
 
 A look upon our stranger as he pass’d. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 Scarce had the mourners time a roof to gain, 
 When, with electric glare and thunder-crash, 
 
 Heavy and straight and fierce came down the rain, 
 Soaking the white road with its sudden plash, 
 
 Driving all folk wuthin-doors at a race, 
 
 And making every kennel gush apace. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The storm withdrew as quickly as it came, 
 
 And through the broken clouds a brilliant ray 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 131 
 
 Glow’d o’er the dripping earth in yellow flame, 
 And flush’d the village panes with parting day. 
 Sudden and full that swimming lustre shone 
 Into the room where Gerald sat alone. 
 
 L. 
 
 The door is lock’d, and on the table lies 
 
 The open parcel. Long he wanteth strength 
 To trust its secrets to his feverish eyes; 
 
 But now the message is convey’d at length ; — 
 A note ; a case ; and folded with them there 
 One finest ringlet of brown-auburn hair. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The case holds Miily’s portrait — her reflection : 
 Lips half apart as though about to speak; 
 
 The frank white brow, young eyes of grave 
 affection, 
 
 Even the pretty seam in the soft cheek : 
 
 Swift image of a moment snatch’d from Time, 
 Fix’d by a sunbeam in eternal prime. 
 
 LII. 
 
 The note ran thus, “ Dear Gerald, near my 
 % death, 
 
 I feel that like a Spirit’s words are these, 
 
132 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 In which I say, that I have perfect faith 
 
 In your true love for me, — as God, who sees 
 The secrets of all hearts, can see in mine 
 That fondest truth which sends this feeble sign. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 “I do not think that he will take away, 
 
 Even in Heaven, this precious earthly love ; 
 Surely he sends its pure and blissful ray 
 Down as a message from the world above. 
 Perhaps it is the full light drawing near 
 Which makes the doubting Past at length grow 
 clear. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 “We might have been so happy! — But His 
 will 
 
 Said no, who orders all things for the best. 
 
 O may his power into your soul instil 
 
 A peace like this of which I am possess’d ! 
 And may he bless you, love, for evermore, 
 
 And guide you safely to his Heavenly shore ! ” 
 
 LV. 
 
 Hard sits the downy pillow to a head • 
 Aching with memories : and Gerald sought 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 133 
 
 The mournful paths where happy hours had 
 fled, — 
 
 Pacing through silent labyrinths of thought. 
 Yet sometimes, in his loneliness of grief, 
 
 The richness of the loss came like relief. 
 
 LYI. 
 
 Minutely he recall’d, with tender pride, 
 
 How one day — which is gone for ever- 
 more — 
 
 Among his bunch of wild flowers left aside, 
 
 He found a dark carnation, seen before 
 In Milly’s girdle, — but alas, too dull 
 To read its crimson cypher in the full ! 
 
 LVII. 
 
 She smiled, the centre of a summer’s eve : 
 
 She sung with all her countenance a-glow 
 In her own room, and he could half believe 
 The voice did far-off in the darkness flow : 
 He saw her stretch’d in a most silent place, 
 With the calm light of prayer upon her face. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 All this night long the water-drops he heard 
 Vary their talk of chiming syllables, 
 
,134 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 Dripping into the butt ; and in the yard 
 
 The ducks gabbling at daylight : till the spells 
 Of misty sense recall’d a childish illness 
 When the same noises broke the watching still- 
 ness. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Wellnigh he hoped that he had sadly dream’d, 
 And all the interval was but a shade. 
 
 But now the slow dawn through his window 
 gleam’d, 
 
 And whilst in dear oblivion he was laid, 
 
 And Morning rose, parting the vapours dim, 
 
 A happy heavenly vision came to him. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Kind boons of comfort may in dream descend, 
 Nor wholly vanish in the broad daylight 
 — When this our little stoiy hath an end, 
 
 That flickers like a dream in woof of night, 
 Its slender memory may perchance be wrought 
 Among the tougher threads of waking thought ? • 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Thus Gerald came and went. Till far away, 
 
 His coming and his errand were not told. 
 
• THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 135 
 
 And years had left behind that sunny day, 
 
 Ere some one from the New World to the Old 
 Brought news of him, in a great Southern town, 
 Assiduous there, but seeking no renown. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 After another silent interval, 
 
 The little daily lottery of the post 
 Gave me a prize ; from one who at the call 
 Of u westward ho ! ” had left our fair green 
 coast, 
 
 With comrades eager as himself to press 
 Into the rough unharrow’d wilderness. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 “ Through these old forests (thus he wrote) we 
 came 
 
 One sundown to a clearing. Western light 
 Burn’d in the pine-tops with a fading flame 
 Over untrodden regions, and dusk night 
 Out of the solemn woods appear’d to rise 
 To some strange music, full of quivering sighs. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 u Such must have been the atmosphere, we thought, 
 The visionary light of ancient years, 
 
136 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 When Red Man east or west encounter’d nought 
 Save bear and squirrel, with their wild com- 
 peers. 
 
 But other life was now ; and soon we found 
 The little citadel of this new ground. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 u The neat log-Cctbin from its wall of pines 
 Look’d out upon a space of corn and grass 
 Yet thick with stumps; ’twas eaved with running 
 vines, 
 
 As though among the vanquish’d woods to pass 
 For something native. Drawing to its door, 
 
 We question’d of the mystic sounds no more. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 “ They blended with the twilight and the trees, 
 At hand, around, above, and far away, 
 
 That first it was a voice as of the breeze 
 Hymning its vespers in the forest grey ; 
 
 But now we heard not airy strains alone, 
 
 But human feeling throb in every tone 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 A swelling agonv of tearful strife 
 Being wearied out and hush’d, — from the pro- 
 found 
 
THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 137 
 
 Arose a music deep as love or life, 
 
 That spread into a placid lake of sound, 
 
 And took the infinite into its breast, 
 
 With Earth and Heaven in one embrace at rest 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 “ And then the flute-notes fail’d. Approaching 
 slow, 
 
 Whom found we seated in the threshold 
 shade ? 
 
 Gerald, — our Music-Master long ago 
 In poor old Ireland ! much inquiry made 
 Along our track for him had proved in vain ; 
 And here at once we grasp’d his hand again ! 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 “ And he received us with the warmth of heart 
 Our brothers lose not under any sky. 
 
 But what was strange, he did not stare or start 
 As if astonish’d, when, so suddenly, 
 Long-miss’d familiar faces from the wood 
 Emerged like ghosts, and at his elbow stood. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 “ ’Twas like a man who joyfully was greeting 
 (So thought I) some not unexpected friends. 
 
138 
 
 THE MUSIC-MASTER. 
 
 And yet he had not known our chance of meeting 
 More than had we : but soon he made amends 
 For lack of wonder, by the dextrous zeal 
 That put before us no unwelcome meal. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 “ We gave him all our news, and in return 
 He told us how he lived, — a lonely life ! 
 
 Miles from a neighbour sow’d and reap’d his 
 corn, 
 
 And hardy grew. One spoke about a wife 
 To cheer him in that solitary wild, 
 
 But Gerald only shook his head and smiled. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 “ Next dawn, when each one of our little band 
 Had on a mighty Walnut carved his name, — 
 Henceforth a sacred tree, he said, to stand 
 ’Mid his enlarging bounds, — the moment came 
 For farewell words. But long, behind our backs, 
 We heard the echoes of his swinging axe.” 
 
DAY AND NIGHT SONGS. 
 
 A 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
I. 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 How let me choose a native blossom, 
 Ere I quit the sunny fields, 
 
 Fittest for my Lucy’s bosom, 
 
 Hill, or brake, or meadow yields. 
 
 Flag or Poppy I’ll not gather, 
 
 Briony or Pimpernel; 
 
 Scented Thyme or sprouting Heather, 
 Though I like them both so well. 
 
 Purpling Vetches, crimson Clover, 
 Pea-bloom winglets, pied and faint, 
 
 Bluebell, Windflow’r, pass them over; 
 Sober Mallow, Orchis quaint; 
 
 Striped Convolvulus in hedges, 
 Columbine, and Mountain-Pink; 
 
142 
 
 THE CHOICE. 
 
 Lilies, floating seen through sedges, 
 Violets nestling by the brink ; 
 
 Creamy Elder, blue Germander, 
 Betony that seeks the shade ; 
 
 Nor ‘where Honeysuckles wander, 
 
 May that luscious balm persuade. 
 
 Sad Forget-me-not’s a token 
 Full of partings and mishaps; 
 
 Leave the Foxglove spire unbroken, 
 Lest the fairies want for caps. 
 
 Crimson Loose-strife, Crowfoot, Pansy, 
 Golden Gorse, or golden Broom, 
 
 Eyebright cannot fix my fancy, 
 
 Nor the Meadowsweet’s perfume. 
 
 Azure, scarlet, pink, or pearly, 
 
 Kustic friends in field or grove, — 
 
 Each of you I prize full dearly; 
 
 None of you is for my Love ! 
 
 Wild-Bose ! delicately flushing 
 All the border of the dale, — 
 
 Art thou like a pale cheek blushing, 
 Or a red cheek turning pale? 
 
THE CHOICE. 
 
 143 
 
 Is it sorrow ? Is it gladness ? 
 
 Lover’s hopes or lover’s fears ? 
 
 Or a most delicious sadness, 
 
 Mingled up of smiles and tears ? 
 
 Come ! — no silky leaflet shaken — 
 
 To a breast as pure and fair; 
 
 Come ! and thoughts more tender waken 
 Than thy fragrant spirit there! 
 
II. 
 
 iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 What is it that is gone, we fancied ours? 
 
 O what is lost that never may be told ? — 
 
 We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve 
 Until the perfect closing of the night. * 
 
 Listen to us, thou grey Autumnal Eve, 
 
 Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds 
 Are broken into melancholy gold ; 
 
 The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow’rs 
 Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light; 
 Because within thy deep thou hast the shrouds 
 Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold, 
 
 Which once, or so it seem’d, were full of might 
 Some power it was that lives not with us now, 
 
 A thought we had, but could not, could not hold. 
 O sweetly, swiftly pass’d ! — air sings and mur- 
 murs ; 
 
 Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough: 
 
jEOLIAN harp. 
 
 145 
 
 O sadly, swiftly pass’d ! — air sighs and mutters ; 
 Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould. 
 Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and 
 white. 
 
 O what is gone from us, we fancied ours? 
 
 10 
 
III. 
 
 THE PILOT’S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 
 
 O’er western tides the fair Spring Day 
 Was smiling back as it withdrew, 
 
 And all the harbour, glittering gay, 
 
 Return’d a blithe adieu; 
 
 Great clouds above the hills and sea 
 Kept brilliant watch, and air was free 
 For last lark first-born star to greet, — 
 When, for the crowning vernal sweet, 
 Among the slopes and crags I meet 
 
 The Pilot’s pretty Daughter. 
 
 Round her gentle, happy face, 
 
 Dimpled soft, and freshly fair, 
 
 Danced with careless ocean grace 
 Locks of auburn hair: 
 
 As lightly blew the veering wind, 
 
 They touch’d her cheeks, or waved behind, 
 
THE PILOT’S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 Unbound, unbraided, and unloop’d; 
 
 Or when to tie her shoe she stoop’d, 
 
 Below her chin the half-curls droop’d, 
 
 And veil’d the Pilot’s Daughter. 
 
 Bising, she toss’d them gaily back, 
 
 With gesture infantine and brief, 
 
 To fall around as soft a neck 
 As the wild-rose’s leaf. 
 
 Her Sunday frock of lilac shade 
 (That choicest tint) was neatly made, 
 
 And not too* long to hide from view 
 The stout but noway clumsy shoe, 
 
 And stocking’s smoothly-fitting blue, 
 
 That graced the Pilot’s Daughter. 
 
 With look, half timid and half droll, 
 
 And then with slightly downcast eyes, 
 
 And something of a blush that stole, 
 
 Or something from the skies 
 Deepening the warmth upon her cheek, 
 
 She turn’d when I began to speak; 
 
 The firm young step a sculptor’s choice ; 
 How clear the cadence of her voice ! 
 
 Health bade her virgin soul rejoice, — 
 
 The Pilot’s lovely Daughter. 
 
148 THE PILOT’S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Were it my lot (the sudden wish) — 
 
 To hand a pilot’s oar and sail, 
 
 Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh, 
 Spangled with herring-scale ; 
 
 By dying stars, how sweet ’twould be, 
 
 And dawn-blow freshening the sea, 
 
 With wear y, cheery pull to shore, 
 
 To gain my cottage-home once more, 
 
 And clasp, before I reach the door, 
 
 My love, the Pilot’s Daughter! 
 
 This element beside my feet 
 Allures, a tepid wine of gold ; 
 
 One touch, one taste dispels the cheat, 
 
 ’Tis salt and nipping cold : 
 
 A fisher’s hut, the scene perforce 
 Of narrow thoughts and manners coarse, 
 Coarse as the curtains that beseem 
 With net-festoons the smoky beam, 
 
 Would never lodge my favourite dream, 
 E’en with my Pilot’s Daughter. 
 
 To riches of the common earth, 
 
 Endowing men in their own spite, 
 
 The Poor , by privilege of birth, 
 
 Stand in the closest right. 
 
THE PILOT'S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 Yet not the hand alone grows dull « 
 With clayey delve and watery pull : 
 
 And this for me, — or hourly pain. 
 
 But could I sink and call it gain ? 
 
 Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain 
 
 To wed a Pilot's Daughter. 
 
 Lift Aer, perhaps ? — but ah ! I said, 
 Much wiser leave such thoughts alone. 
 So may thy beauty, simple maid, 
 
 Be mine, yet all thy own. 
 
 Join'd in my free contented love 
 With companies of stars above ; 
 
 Who from their throne of airy steep 
 Do kiss these ripples as they creep 
 Across the boundless darkening deep, — - 
 Low voiceful wave ! hush soon to sleep 
 The gentle Pilot’s Daughter I 
 
IV. 
 
 TO THE CICADA. 
 
 By Meleager. 
 
 From the Greek Anthology . 
 
 Cicada ! drunk with drops of dew, 
 What musician equals you 
 In the rural solitude ? 
 
 On a perch amidst the wood, 
 Scraping to your heart’s desire 
 Dusky sides with notchy feet, 
 Shrilling, thrilling, fast and sweet, 
 Like the music of a lyre. 
 
 Dear Cicada ! I entreat, 
 
 Sing the Dryads something new; 
 
 So from thick-embowr’d seat 
 Pan himself may answer you, 
 
 Till every inmost glade rejoices 
 With your loud alternate voices; 
 
TO THE CICADA. 
 
 151 
 
 And I listen, and forget 
 All the thorns, the doubts and fears, 
 Love in lover's heart may set ; 
 Listen, and forget them all. 
 
 And so, with music in mine ears, 
 Where the plane-tree-shadows steep 
 The ground with coldness, softly fall 
 Into a noontide sleep. 
 
V. 
 
 THE COLD WEDDING. 
 
 But three days gone 
 Her hand was won 
 By suitor finely skill’d to woo ; 
 
 And now come we 
 In pomp to see 
 The Church’s ceremonials due. 
 
 The Bride in white 
 Is clad aright, 
 
 Within her carriage closely hid ; 
 
 No blush to veil — 
 
 For too, too pale 
 
 The cheek beneath each downcast lid. 
 
 White favours rest 
 On every breast ; 
 
THE COLD WEDDING. 
 
 153 
 
 And yet methinks we seem not gay. 
 
 The church is cold, 
 
 The priest is old, — 
 
 But who will give the bride away? 
 
 Now, delver, stand, 
 
 With spade in hand, 
 
 All mutely to discharge thy trust: 
 
 Priest’s words sound forth; 
 
 They’re — “Earth to earth, 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 
 
 The groom is Death ; 
 
 He has no breath; 
 
 (The wedding peals, how slow they swing !) 
 With icy grip 
 He soon will clip 
 Her finger with a wormy ring. 
 
 A match most fair. 
 
 This silent pair, 
 
 Now to each other given for ever, 
 
 Were lovers long, 
 
 Were plighted strong 
 In oaths and bonds that could not sever. 
 
154 
 
 THE COLD WEDDING. 
 
 Ere she was born 
 That vow was sworn ; 
 
 And we must lose into the ground 
 Her face we knew: 
 
 As thither you 
 
 And I, and all, are swiftly bound. 
 
 This Law of Laws 
 That still withdraws 
 Each mortal from all mortal ken — 
 
 If ’twere not here ; 
 
 Or we saw clear 
 
 Instead of dim as now ; — what then ? 
 This were not Earth, and we not Men 
 
VI. 
 
 ON A FORENOON OF SPRING. 
 
 I’m glad I am alive, to see and feel 
 The full deliciousness of this bright day, 
 
 That’s like a heart with nothing to conceal ; 
 
 The young leaves scarcely trembling ; the blue- 
 grey 
 
 Rimming the cloudless ether far away; 
 
 Brairds, hedges, shadows; mountains that reveal 
 Soft sapphire ; this great floor of polish’d steel 
 Spread out amidst the landmarks of the bay. 
 
 I stoop in sunshine to our circling net 
 From the black gunwale ; tend these milky kine 
 Up their rough path ; sit by yon cottage-door 
 Plying the diligent thread ; take wings and 
 soar — 
 
 O hark, how with the season’s laureate 
 Joy culminates in song! If such a song were 
 mine ! 
 
VII. 
 
 THREE FLOWERS. 
 
 A Pilgrim light for travel bound 
 Tript through a gay parterre ; 
 
 The cool fresh dew was on the ground, 
 The lark’s song in the air. 
 
 One bud, where free of cloud or mist 
 Heaven’s colour did unfold, 
 
 He claim’d with joy and fondly kiss’d, 
 And next his heart will hold. 
 
 How happy ! might the tender thing, 
 
 The blue delightful blossom, 
 
 Have kept the sweetness of its Spring, 
 Nor wither’d in his bosom! 
 
 He strode along through cultured fields, 
 By manly contest won, 
 
 And bless’d the sylvan bow’r that shields 
 From rage of noontide sun ; 
 
THREE FLOWERS. 
 
 157 
 
 But spied aloft a rich red bloom, 
 
 And, good or evil hap, 
 
 The slippery precipice he clomb 
 To set it in his cap. 
 
 Then forward, forward proudly flies, 
 Too swift and proud for heeding 
 How leaf by leaf his vaunted prize 
 May scatter in the speeding ! 
 
 Across a moorland crept his way ; 
 
 The heather far and near 
 Steep’d in the solemn sinking day, 
 
 And the sad waning year. 
 
 His bent regard descries a flow’r, 
 
 One little cup of snow, 
 
 Whose mystic fragrance hath the pow’r 
 To bring him kneeling low. 
 
 All on the ground he dropt asleep ; 
 
 The grasses grew to hide him. 
 
 Above unrolls the starry deep ; 
 
 A white flower waits beside him. 
 
vm. 
 
 SONG, IN THE DUSK. 
 
 O welcome ! friendly stars, one by one, two by 
 two ; 
 
 And the voices of the waterfall are toning in 
 the air ; 
 
 Whilst the wavy landscape-outlines are blurr’d 
 with falling dew ; 
 
 As my rapture is with sadness, because I may 
 not* share, 
 
 And double it by sharing it with thee. 
 
 — Cloudy fire dies away on the sea. 
 
 Now the calm shadowy earth she lies musing 
 like a saint; 
 
 She is wearing for a halo the pure circlet of 
 the moon ; 
 
SONG, IN THE DUSK. 
 
 159 
 
 From the mountain breathes the night-wind, 
 steadily, though faint, 
 
 As my breathing when I whisper, “ Ah ! might 
 some heav’nly boon 
 
 Bestow thee, my belov’d one, to my side ! ” 
 — Like a full, happy heart flows the tide. 
 
 
 
IX. 
 
 ST. MARGARET’S EYE. 
 
 I built my castle upon the sea-side, 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, * 
 
 Half on the land and half in the tide, 
 Love me true / 
 
 Within was silk, without was stone, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 It lacks a queen, and that alone, 
 
 Love me true! 
 
 The grey old harper sung to me, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 Beware of the damsel of the sea ! 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
 Saint Margaret’s Eve it did befal, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 The tide came creeping up the wall, 
 Love me true! 
 
ST. MARGARET’S EVE. 
 
 161 
 
 I open’d my gate ; who there should stand — 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand, 
 Love me true ! 
 
 The cup was gold, and full of wine, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0 , 
 
 Drink, said the lady, and I will be thine, 
 Love me true! 
 
 Enter my castle, lady fair, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0 , 
 
 You shall be queen of all that’s there, 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
 A grey old harper sung to me, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 Beware of the damsel of the sea ! 
 
 Love me true! 
 
 In hall he harpeth many a year, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0 , 
 
 And we will sit his song to hear, 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
 11 
 
 
 I 
 
162 
 
 ST. MARGARET’S EVE. 
 
 I love thee deep, I love thee true, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 But ah ! I know not how to woo, 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
 Down dash'd the cup, with a sudden shock, 
 The leaves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 The wine like blood ran over the rock, 
 Love me true ! 
 
 She said no word, but shriek’d aloud, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0 , 
 
 And vanish’d away from where she stood, 
 Love me true! 
 
 I lock’d and barr’d my castle-door, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 Three summer days I grieved sore, 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
 For myself a day and night, 
 
 The waves roll so gaily 0, 
 
 And two to moan that lady bright, 
 
 Love me true ! 
 
? 
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
 X. 
 
 AN AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Now is Queen Autumn’s progress through the 
 land ; 
 
 And all her sunbrown subjects are astir, 
 Preparing loyally on every hand 
 
 A golden triumph. Earth is glad of her. 
 
 Those regal curtain ings of cloud on high, 
 
 And shifting splendours of the vaulted air, 
 Express a jubilation in the sky, 
 
 That nobly in the festival doth share. 
 
 With arching garlands of unfinger’d green, 
 
 And knots of fruit, a bower each highway 
 shows ; 
 
 Loud busy Joy is herald on the scene 
 To Gratitude, Contentment, and Repose. 
 
 Lately, when this good time was at its best, 
 
 One evening found me, with half-wearied pace, 
 
164 AN AFTUfoN EVENING. 
 
 Mounting a hill aganst the lighted West, 
 
 A cool air softly. \&Wing on n)y face. 
 
 The vast and gorgeous pomp of silent sky 
 Embathed a harvest realm in double gold; 
 Sheaf-tented fields of bloodless victory ; 
 
 Stackyards and cottages in leafy fold, 
 
 "Whence climb’d the blue smoke-pillars ; grassy 
 hill 
 
 And furrow’d land their graver colourings * 
 lent ; * 
 
 And some few rows of corn, ungather’d still, 
 
 Like aged men to earth, their cradle, bent. 
 
 While reapers, gleaners, and full carts of grain, 
 With undisturbing motion and faint sound 
 Fed the rich calm, o’er all the sumptuous 
 plain ; 
 
 Mountains, imbued with violet, were its bound. 
 
 Among the sheaves and hedges of the slope, 
 
 And harvest-people, I descended slowly, 
 
 Field after field, and reach’d a pleasant group 
 On their own land, who were not strangers 
 wholly. 
 
AN AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 165 
 
 Here stood the Farmer, sturdy man though 
 
 g^y, 
 
 In sober parley with his second son, 
 
 Who had been reaping in the rank all day, 
 
 And now resumed his coat, for work was 
 done. 
 
 Two girls, like half-blown roses twin, that 
 breathed 
 
 The joy of youth untroubled with a care, 
 
 Laugh’d to their five-year nephew, as he 
 wreathed 
 
 Red poppies through his younger sister’s 
 hair. 
 
 Their homestead bounds received me with the 
 rest ^ 
 
 The cheerful mother waiting at the door 
 
 Had smiles for all, and welcome for the guest, 
 
 And bustling sought the choicest of her store. 
 
 O gentle rustic roof! luxurious board ! 
 
 Kind eyes, frank voices, mirth and sense were 
 there ; 
 
 Love that went deep, and piety that soar’d; 
 
 The children’s kisses and the evening pray’r. 
 
166 
 
 AN AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Earth’s common pleasures, near the ground like 
 grass, 
 
 Are best of all ; nor die although they fade : 
 Dear, simple household joys, that straightway 
 pass 
 
 The precinct of devotion, undismay’d. 
 
 Returning homeward, soften’d, raised, and still’d ; 
 
 Celestial peace, that rare, transcendant boon, 
 Fill’d all my soul, as heav’n and earth were 
 filled 
 
 With bright perfection of the Harvest Moon. 
 
XI. 
 
 iEOLIAN HARR 
 O pale green sea, 
 
 With long pale purple clouds above — 
 
 What lies in me like weight of love ? 
 
 What dies in me 
 
 With utter grief, because there comes no sign 
 Through the sun-raying West, or on the dim 
 searline ? 
 
 O salted air, 
 
 Blown round the rocky headlands chill — 
 
 What calls me there from cove and hill ? 
 
 What falls me fair 
 
 From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night ? 
 Or in the waves is coming through the dusk 
 twilight ? 
 
168 
 
 iEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 O yellow star, 
 
 Quivering upon the rippling tide — 
 
 Sendest so far to one that sigh’d ? 
 
 Bendest thou, Star, 
 
 Above where shadows of the dead have rest 
 And constant silence, with a message fror thv 
 blest ? 
 
xn. 
 
 THE GIRL’S LAMENTATION. 
 
 ( To an old Irish Tune.) 
 
 With grief and mourning I sit to spin ; 
 
 My Love pass’d by, and lie didn’t come in; 
 He passes by me, both day and night, 
 
 And carries off my poor heart’s delight. 
 
 There is a tavern in yonder town, 
 
 My Love goes there and he spends a crown, 
 He takes a strange girl upon his knee, 
 
 *And never more gives a thought to me. 
 
 Says he, “ We’ll wed without loss of time, 
 And sure our love’s but a little crime ; ” — 
 My apron-string now it’s wearing short, 
 
 And my Love he seeks other girls to court. 
 
 O with him I’d go if I had my will, 
 
 I’d follow him barefoot o’er rock and hill; 
 
 I’d never once speak of all my grief 
 If he’d give me a smile for my heart’s relief. 
 
170 
 
 THE GIRL’S LAMENTATION. 
 
 Iii our wee garden the rose unfolds, 
 With bachelor’s-buttons, and marigolds; 
 I’ll tie no posies for dance or fair, 
 
 A willow twig is for me to wear. 
 
 For a maid again I can never be, 
 
 Till the red rose blooms on the willow-tree. 
 Of such a trouble I heard them tell, 
 
 And now I know what it means full" well. 
 
 As through the long lonesome night I lie, 
 
 I’d give the world if I might but cry; 
 
 But I mustn’t moan there or raise my voice, 
 And the tears run down without any noise. 
 
 And what, O what will my mother say ? 
 She’ll wish her daughter was in the clay. 
 
 My father will curse me to my face ; 
 
 The . neighbours will know of my black 
 grace. 
 
 My sister’s buried three years, come Lent ; 
 But sure we made far too much lament. 
 Beside her grave they still say a prayer — 
 
 I wish to God it was I was there ! 
 
THE GIRL'S LAMENTATION. 
 
 171 
 
 The Candlemas crosses hang near my bed ; 
 
 To look on them puts me much in dread ; 
 
 They mark the good time that’s gone and past: 
 It’s like this year’s one will prove the last. 
 
 The oldest cross it’s a dusty brown, 
 
 But the winter winds didn’t shake it down ; 
 
 The newest cross keeps the colour bright, — 
 When the straw was reaping my heart was light. 
 
 The reapers rose with the blink of morn, 
 
 And gaily stook’d up the yellow corn, 
 
 To call them home to the field I’d run, 
 
 Through the blowing breeze and the summer 
 sun. 
 
 When the straw was weaving my heart was glad, 
 For neither sin nor shame I had, 
 
 In the barn where oat-chaff was flying round, 
 And the thumping flails made a pleasant sound 
 
 Now summer or winter to me it’s one ; 
 
 But oh ! for a day like the time that’s gone. 
 
 I’d little care was it storm or shine, 
 
 If I had but peace in this heart of mine. 
 
172 THE GIRL'S LAMENTATION. 
 
 * 
 
 Oli ! light and false is a young man’s kiss, 
 
 And a foolish girl gives her soul for this. 
 
 Oh ! light and short is the young man’s blame, 
 And a helpless girl has the grief and shame. 
 
 To the river-bank once I thought to go, 
 
 And cast myself in the stream below ; 
 
 I thought ’twould carry us far out to sea, 
 
 Where they’d never find my poor babe and me. 
 
 Sweet Lord, forgive me that wicked mind! 
 
 You know I used to be well-inclined. 
 
 Oh, take compassion upon my state, 
 
 Because my trouble is so very great ! 
 
 My head turns round with the spinning-wheel, 
 And a heavy cloud on my eyes I feel. 
 
 But the worst of all is at my heart’s core ; 
 
 For my innocent days will come back no more. 
 
 [Note. In some parts of Ireland (I have seen it near 
 Bally shannon and heard of it elsewhere) is a custom of 
 weaving a small cross of straw at Candlemas, which is 
 hung up in the cottage, sometimes over a bed. A new 
 one is added every year, and the old are left till they fall 
 to pieces.] 
 
XIII. 
 
 WISHING. 
 
 A child’s song. 
 
 Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, 
 
 A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring 
 The stooping boughs above me, 
 
 The wandering bee to love me, 
 
 The fern and moss to creep across, 
 
 And the Elm-tree for our king! 
 
 Nay — stay ! I wish I were an Elm-tree, 
 
 A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay ! 
 The winds would set them dancing, 
 
 The sun and moonshine glance in, 
 
 The birds would house among the boughs, 
 And sweetly sing. 
 
 O — no ! I wish I were a Robin, 
 
 A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; 
 
174 
 
 WISHING. 
 
 Through forest, field, or garden, 
 
 And ask no leave or pardon, 
 
 Till Winter comes with icy thumbs 
 To ruffle up our wing ! 
 
 Well — tell! Where should I fly to, 
 Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell ? 
 Before a day was over, 
 
 Home comes the rover, 
 
 For Mother’s kiss, — sweeter this 
 Than any other thing. 
 
XIV. 
 
 THE SAILOR. 
 
 A ROMAIC BALLAD. 
 
 Thou that hast a daughter 
 For one to woo and wed, 
 
 Give her to a husband 
 
 With snow upon his head; 
 
 Oh, give her to an old man, 
 Though little joy it be, 
 
 Before the best young sailor 
 That sails upon the sea! 
 
 How luckless is the sailor 
 When sick and like to die ; 
 
 He sees no tender mother, 
 
 No sweetheart standing by. 
 
 Only the captain speaks to him, — 
 Stand up, stand up, young man, 
 And steer the ship to haven, 
 
 As none beside thee can. 
 
76 
 
 THE SAILOR. 
 
 Thou sayst to me, “ Stand up, stand up ; ” 
 
 I say to thee, take hold, 
 
 Lift me a little from the deck, 
 
 * 
 
 My hands and feet are cold. 
 
 And let my head, I pray thee, 
 
 With handkerchiefs be bound ; 
 
 There, take my love’s gold handkerchief, 
 And tie it tightly round. 
 
 Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; 
 
 See, where these mountains meet — 
 
 The clouds are thick around their head, 
 The mists around their feet : 
 
 Cast anchor here ; ’tis deep and safe 
 Within the rocky cleft; 
 
 The little anchor on the right, 
 
 The great one on the left. 
 
 And now to thee^O captain, 
 
 Most earnestly I pray, 
 
 That they may never bury me 
 In church or cloister gray ; — 
 
 But on the windy sea-beach, 
 
 At the ending of the land, 
 
 All on the surfy sea-beach, 
 
 Deep down into the sand. 
 
THE SAILOR. 
 
 177 
 
 For there will come the sailors, 
 Their voices I shall hear, 
 
 And at casting of the anchor 
 The yo-ho loud and clear ; 
 
 And at hauling of the anchor 
 The yo-ho and the cheer, — 
 Farewell, my love, for to thy bay 
 I nevermore may steer! 
 
 12 
 
XV. 
 
 THE LULLABY. 
 
 I saw two children hush'd to death, 
 
 In lap of One with silver wings, 
 Hearkening a lute, whose latest breath 
 Low linger’d on the trembling strings. 
 
 Her face is very pale and fair, 
 
 Her hooded eyelids darkly shed 
 Celestial love, and all her hair 
 Is like a crown around her head. 
 
 Each ripple sinking in its place, 
 
 Along the lute’s faint-ebbing strain, 
 Seems echo’d slowlier from her face, 
 And echo’d back from theirs again. 
 
 Yes, now is silence. Ho not weep. 
 
 Her eyes are fix’d : observe them long-, 
 And spell, if thou canst pierce so deep, 
 The purpose of a nobler song.* 
 
XVI. 
 
 OUR MOUNTAIN. 
 
 All hail to our Mountain ! form well-known, 
 His skirts of heath, and his scalp of stone, 
 Guardian of streams in their headlong youth, 
 That rise in spate or dwindle in drouth, — 
 Who sets o’er the clouds an Olympian seat 
 Where thunder is roll’d beneath our feet, 
 Where storm and lightning 
 And sunshine bright’ning 
 Solemnly girdle our steep retreat ! 
 
 A Day on the Hills ! — true king am I, 
 
 In my solitude, public to earth and sky. 
 
 Fret inhales not this atmosphere, 
 
 Wing’d thoughts only can follow here, 
 
 Folly and falsehood and babble stay 
 In the ground-smoke somewhere, far away. 
 Let them greet and cheat 
 In the narrow street, — - 
 Who cares what all the newspapers say ! 
 
180 
 
 OUR MOUNTAIN. 
 
 O ! the tyrant eagle’s palace to share, 
 
 To possess the haunts of the shy brown hare, 
 And a thousand fields with their lakes a-shine, 
 And hamlets, and towns, and the ocean line, 
 And beechen valley, and bilberry dell, 
 
 And glen where the Echoes and Fairies dwell, 
 With heaps and bosses 
 Of plume-fern and mosses, 
 
 Scarlet rowan and slight blue-bell ! 
 
 Plume-ferns grow by the Waterfall, 
 
 Wide in the shimmering spray and tall, 
 
 Where the ash-twigs tremble, one and all, 
 
 And cool air murmurs, and wild birds call, 
 And the glowing crag lifts a dizzy wall 
 To the blue, through green leaves’ coronal, 
 And foam- bells twinkle 
 Where sunlights sprinkle 
 The deep dark pool of the waterfall. 
 
 I sit with the Shepherd Boy an hour, 
 
 By a grey cliff’s foot, on the heather-flow’r, 
 Simple of life as his nibbling sheep 
 Dotted far down the verdant steep ; 
 
 I climb the path which sometimes fails 
 A peasant bound to more distant val&s, 
 
OUR MOUNTAIN. 
 
 181 
 
 When Night, descending, 
 
 The world is blending, 
 
 Or fog, or the rushing blast assails. 
 
 My feast on a marble block is spread, 
 
 I dip my cup in a cold well-head. 
 
 The poet’s page is strong and fine, 
 
 I read a new volume in one old line, 
 
 Leap up for joy, and kiss the book ; 
 
 Then gaze far forth from my lofty nook, 
 
 With fresh surprise, 
 
 And yearning eyes 
 
 To drink the whole beauty in one deep look. 
 
 From these towers the first grey dawn is spied, 
 They watch the last glimmer of eventide, 
 
 Wear shadows at noon, or vapoury shrouds, 
 
 And meet in council with mighty clouds ; 
 
 And at dusk the ascending stars appear 
 On their pinnacle crags, or the chill moon-sphere 
 Whitening only 
 Summits lonely, 
 
 Circled with gulfs of blackest fear. 
 
 When ripe and dry is the heathery husk, 
 
 Some eve, like a judgment-flame through the dusk, 
 
182 
 
 OUR MOUNTAIN. 
 
 It burns the dim line of a huger dome 
 Than is clad in the paschal blaze of Rome, 
 
 And to valley, river, and larch-grove spires, 
 Signals with creeping scarlet fires, 
 
 Keen o’erpowering 
 Embers cowering 
 
 Low where the western flush retires. 
 
 But the stern dark days with mutter and moan 
 Gather, like foes round a hated throne ; 
 
 Terror is peal’d in the trumpet gale, 
 
 Crash’d on the cymbals of the hail, 
 
 Vapours move in a turbulent host, 
 
 Cave and rift hold daggers of frost, 
 
 And silently white 
 In some morning’s light 
 Stands the conquer’d mountain, a wintry ghost. 
 
 Till pack’d in the hollows the round clouds lie, 
 And the wild-geese flow changing down the 
 sky 
 
 To the salt sea-fringe; then milder rains 
 Course like young blood through the wither’d 
 veins 
 
 That sweeping March left wasted and weak; 
 And the grey old Presence, dim and bleak, 
 
OUR MOUNTAIN. 
 
 183 
 
 With sudden rally 
 By mound and valley 
 
 Laughs with green light to his baldest peak! 
 
 Thy soft blue greeting through distant air 
 Is home’s first smile to the traveller, — 
 Mountain, from thee, home’s last farewell. 
 
 In alien lands there are tales to tell 
 Of thy haunted lough, and elvish ring, 
 
 And cairn of the old Milesian king, 
 
 And the crumbling turrets 
 Where miser spirits 
 Batlike in vaults of treasure cling. 
 
 Giant ! of mystical, friendly brow ; 
 
 Protector of childhood’s landscape thou; 
 
 Long golden seasons with thee abide, 
 
 And the joy of song, and history’s pride. 
 
 Of all Earth’s hills I love thee best, 
 
 Reckon from thee mine east and west ; 
 Fondly praying, 
 
 Wherever straying, 
 
 To leave in thy shadow my bones at rest. 
 
XVII. 
 
 MORNING PLUNGE. 
 
 I scatter the dreams of the pillow 
 To spring to a sunshiny floor ; 
 
 O welcome ! you glittering billow, 
 
 Whose surf almost reaches our door 
 
 The cliff with its cheerful adorning 
 Of matted sea-pink under foot, — 
 
 The lark gives me “ top o’ the morning l ” 
 The sailing-boat nods a salute. 
 
 Already, with ocean-born graces, 
 
 Comes many a bright-featured maid, 
 Peep children’s damp hair and fresh faces 
 From straw hat’s or sun-bonnet’s shade. 
 
 Green crystal in exquisite tremble, 
 
 My tide-brimming pool I behold ; 
 
 What shrimps on the sand-patch assemble ! 
 — I vanish ! embraced with pure cold. 
 
MORNING PLUNGE. 
 
 185 
 
 A king of the morning-time’s treasures, 
 
 To revel in water and air, 
 
 Join salmon and gull in their pleasures, 
 Then home to our sweet human fare. 
 
 There stand the blue cups on white table, 
 Rich nugget of gold from the hive, 
 
 And there’s uncle George and Miss Mabel, 
 And Kitty, the best child alive ! 
 
 Now two little arms round my neck fast, 
 
 A kiss from a laugh I must win, — 
 
 You don’t deserve one bit of bi^akfast. 
 You unbaptized people within ! 
 
XVIII. 
 
 THE BIRD. 
 
 A child’s song. 
 
 u Birdie, Birdie, will you pet ? 
 
 Summer is far and far away yet. 
 
 You’ll have silken quilts and a velvet bed, 
 And a pillow of satin for your head!” 
 
 u Td rather sleep in the ivy wall ; 
 
 No rain comes through, tho’ I hear it fall; 
 The sun peeps gay at dawn of day, 
 
 And I sing, and wing away, away ! ” 
 
 “ O Birdie, Birdie, will you pet ? 
 Diamond-stones and amber and jet 
 We’ll string on a necklace fair and fine, 
 
 To please this pretty bird of mine ! ” 
 
 “ O thanks for diamonds, and thanks for jet, 
 But here is something daintier yet, — 
 
THE BIRD. 
 
 187 
 
 A feather-necklace round and round, 
 
 That I wouldn’t sell for a' thousand pound ! ” 
 
 “ O Birdie, Birdie, wont you pet ? 
 
 We’ll buy you a dish of silver fret, 
 
 A golden cup and an ivory seat, 
 
 And carpets soft beneath your feet ! ” 
 
 “ Can running water be drunk from gold ? 
 Can a silver dish the forest hold? 
 
 A rocking twig is the finest chair, 
 
 And the softest paths lie through the air, — 
 Goodbye, goodbye to my lady fair ! ” 
 
XIX. 
 
 A BOY’S BURIAL. 
 
 On a sunny Saturday evening 
 They laid him in his grave, 
 
 When the sycamore had not a shaking leaf, 
 And the harbour not a wave. 
 
 The sandhills lay in the yellow ray 
 Ripe with the sadness of parting May ; 
 
 Sad were the mountains blue and lone 
 That keep the landscape as their own ; 
 
 The rocky slope of the distant fell ; 
 
 The river issuing from the dell ; — 
 
 And when had ended the voice of pray’r 
 The Fall’s deep bass was left on the air, 
 
 Rolling down. 
 
 Young he was and hopeful, 
 
 And ah, to die so soon ! 
 
 His new grave lies deserted 
 At the rising of the moon ; 
 
A boy’s burial. 
 
 189 
 
 But when morn comes round, and the church 
 bells sound, 
 
 The little children may sit on the mound, 
 
 And talk of him, and as they talk, 
 
 Puff from the dandelion stalk 
 Its feathery globe, that reckons best 
 Their light-wing’d hours ; — while the town is at 
 rest, 
 
 And the stone-chacker rattles here and there, 
 And the glittering Fall makes a tune in the air, 
 Rolling down. 
 
XX. 
 
 ON THE SUNNY SHORE. 
 
 Checquer’d with woven shadows as I lay 
 Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam ; 
 
 I saw an Echo- Spirit in his bay, 
 
 Most idly floating in the noontide beam. 
 
 Slow heaved his filmy skiff*, and fell, with sway 
 Of Ocean’s giant pulsing, and the Dream, 
 Buoy’d like the young moon on a level 
 stream 
 
 Of greenish vapour at decline of day, 
 
 Swam airily, — watching the distant flocks 
 Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep 
 Touch’d the clear-trembling cool with tiny 
 shocks, 
 
 Faint-circling ; till at last he dropt asleep 
 Lull’d by the hush-song of the glittering deep 
 Lap-lapping drowsily those heated rocks. 
 
XXL 
 
 THE NOBLEMAN’S WEDDING. 
 
 {To an old Irish Tune.) 
 
 Once I was guest at a Nobleman’s wedding; 
 Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been 
 kind ; 
 
 And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the 
 shedding ; 
 
 Her former true lover still runs in her mind. 
 
 Clothed like a minstrel, her former true lover 
 Has taken his harp up, and tuned all the 
 strings ; 
 
 There among strangers, his grief to discover, 
 
 A fair maiden’s falsehood he bitterly sings. 
 
 u O here is the token of gold that was broken ; 
 Through seven long years it was kept for your 
 sake ; 
 
192 
 
 THE NOBLEMAN’S WEDDING. 
 
 You gave it to me as a true lover’s token ; 
 
 No longer I’ll wear it, asleep or awake.” 
 
 She sat in her place by the head of the table, * 
 The words of his ditty she mark’d them right 
 well ; 
 
 To sit any longer this bride was not able, 
 
 So down, in a faint, from the carved chair 
 she fell. 
 
 “ O one, one request, my lord, one and no 
 other, 
 
 O this one request will you grant it to me ? 
 
 To lie for this night in the arms of my mother, 
 And ever, and ever, thereafter with thee.” 
 
 Her one one request it was granted her fairly; 
 Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed ; 
 
 And the very next morning, early, early, 
 
 They rose and they found this young bride 
 was dead. 
 
 The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he 
 kiss’d her, 
 
 He spoke loud and low, and listen’d full 
 fain ; 
 
THE NOBLEMAN’S WEDDING. 
 
 193 
 
 He call’d on her waiting-maids round to assist 
 her, 
 
 But nothing could bring the lost breath back 
 again. 
 
 O carry her softly! the grave is made ready; 
 
 At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green ; 
 For she was a young and a sweet noble lady, 
 The fairest young bride that I ever have seen. 
 
 13 
 
XXII. 
 
 WOULD I KNEW! 
 
 Plays a child in a garden fair 
 Where the demigods are walking; 
 Playing unsuspected there 
 As a bird within the air, 
 
 Listens to their wondrous talking : 
 “Would I knew — would I knew 
 W T hat it is they say and do ! ” 
 
 Stands a youth at city-gate, 
 
 Sees the knights go forth together, 
 Parleying superb, elate, 
 
 Pair by pair in princely state, 
 
 Lance and shield and haughty feather 
 “ Would I knew — would I knew 
 What it is they say and do!” 
 
 Bends a man with trembling knees 
 By a gulf of cloudy border; 
 
WOULD I KNEW ! 
 
 Deaf, he hears no voice from these 
 Winged shades he dimly sees 
 Passing by in solemn order : 
 
 “ Would I knew — O would I knew 
 What it is they say and do I ” 
 
XXIII. 
 
 BY THE MORNING SEA. 
 
 The wind shakes up the sleepy clouds 
 To kiss the ruddied Morn, 
 
 And from their awful misty shrouds 
 The mountains are new-born : 
 
 The Sea lies fresh with open eyes; 
 
 Night-fears and moaning dreams, 
 Brooding like clouds on nether skies, 
 Have sunk below, and beams 
 Dance on the floor like golden flies, 
 
 Or strike with joyful gleams 
 Some white-wing’d ship, a wandering star 
 Of Ocean, piloting afar. 
 
 In brakes, in woods, in cottage-eaves, 
 
 The early birds are rife, 
 
 Quick voices thrill the sprinkled leaves 
 In ecstasy of life ; 
 
BY THE MORNING SEA. 
 
 197 
 
 With silent gratitude of flowers 
 The morning’s breath is sweet, 
 
 And cool with dew, that freshly showers 
 Round wild things’ hasty feet. 
 
 But the heavenly guests of tranquil hours 
 To inner skies retreat, 
 
 From human thoughts of lower birth 
 That stir upon the waking earth. 
 
 Across a thousand leagues of land 
 The mighty Sun looks free, 
 
 And in their fringe of rock or sand 
 A thousand leagues of sea. 
 
 Lo ! I, in this majestic room, 
 
 As real as the Sun, 
 
 Inherit this day and its doom 
 Eternally begun. 
 
 A world of men the rays illume, 
 
 God’s men, and I am one. 
 
 But life that is not pure and bold 
 Doth tarnish every morning’s gold. 
 
XXIV. 
 
 THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE. 
 
 ‘Twas when the spinning-room was here, 
 
 There came Three Damsels clothed in white, 
 With their spindles every night ; 
 
 Two and one, and Three fair Maidens, 
 
 Spinning to a pulsing cadence, 
 
 Singing songs of Elfin-Mere; 
 
 Till the eleventh hour was toll’d, 
 
 Then departed through the wold. 
 
 Years ago , and years ago; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth How . 
 
 Three white Lilies, calm and clear, 
 
 And they were loved by every one; 
 
 Most of all, the Pastor’s Son, 
 
 Listening to their gentle singing, 
 
 Felt his heart go from him, clinging 
 Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere ; 
 
THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE. 
 
 199 
 
 Sued eacli night to make them stay, 
 
 Sadden’d when they went away. 
 
 Years ago , and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 
 
 Hands that shook with love and fear 
 Dared put back the village clock, — 
 
 Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock, 
 
 Flow’d the song with subtle rounding, 
 
 Till the false “ eleven ” was sounding ; 
 
 Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere 
 Swiftly, softly, left the room, 
 
 Like three doves on snowy plume. 
 
 Years ago , and years ago ; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 
 
 One that night who wander’d near 
 Heard lamentings by the shore, 
 
 Saw at dawn three stains of gore 
 In the waters fade and dwindle. 
 
 Nevermore with song and spindle 
 Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere. 
 
 The Pastor’s Son did pine and die : 
 
 Because true love should never lie. 
 
 Years ago , and years ago; 
 
 And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 
 
XXV. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 Lady fair, lady fair, 
 
 Seated with the scornful, 
 
 Though your beauty be so rare, 
 
 I were but a born fool 
 Still to seek my pleasure there. 
 
 To love your features and your hue, 
 All your glowing beauty, 
 
 All in short that’s good of you, 
 
 Was and is my duty, 
 
 As to love all beauty too. 
 
 But now a fairer face I’ve got, 
 
 A Picture’s — and believe me, 
 
 I never look’d to you for what 
 A picture cannot give me: 
 
 What you’ve more, improves you not. 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 201 
 
 Your queenly lips can speak, and prove 
 The means of you uncrowning ; 
 
 Your brow can change, your eyes can move, 
 Which grants you power of frowning ; 
 
 Hers have Heav’n’s one thought, of Love. 
 
 So now I give good-bye, ma belle , 
 
 And lose no great good by it ; 
 
 You’re fair, yet I can smile farewell, 
 
 As you must shortly sigh it, 
 
 To your bright, light outer shell ! 
 
XXVI. 
 
 UNDER THE GRASS. 
 
 Where these green mounds o’erlook the min- 
 gling Erne 
 
 And salt Atlantic, clay that walk’d as Man 
 A thousand years ago, some Yikin stern, 
 
 May rest, or chieftain high of nameless clan ; 
 And when my dusty remnant shall return 
 To the great passive World, and nothing can 
 With eye, or lip, or finger, any more, 
 
 O lay it there too, by the river-shore. 
 
 The silver salmon shooting up the fall, 
 
 Itself at once the arrow and the bow ; 
 
 The shadow of the old quay’s weedy wall 
 Cast on the shining turbulence below; 
 
 The water-voice which ever seems to call 
 Far off out of my childhood’s long-ago; 
 
 The gentle washing of the harbour wave ; 
 
 Be these the sights and sounds around my grave. 
 
UNDER THE GRASS. 
 
 203 
 
 Soothed also with thy friendly beck, my town, 
 And near the square grey tower within whose 
 shade 
 
 Was many of my kin’s last lying-down ; 
 
 Whilst, by the broad heavens changefully ar- 
 ray’d, 
 
 Empurpling mountains its horizon crown ; 
 
 And westward ’tween low hummocks is dis- 
 play’d 
 
 In lightsome hours, the level pale blue sea, 
 
 With sails upon it creeping silently : 
 
 Or, other time, beyond that tawny sand, 
 
 An ocean glooming underneath the shroud 
 Drawn thick athwart it by tempestuous hand ; 
 
 When like a mighty fire the bar roars loud, 
 As though the whole sea came to whelm the 
 land — 
 
 The gull flies white against the stormy cloud, 
 And in the weather-gleam the breakers mark 
 A ghastly line upon the waters dark. 
 
 A green unfading quilt above be spread, 
 
 And freely round let all the breezes blow ; 
 May children play beside the breathless bed, 
 Holiday lasses by the cliff-edge go ; 
 
204 
 
 UNDER THE GRASS. 
 
 And manly games upon the sward be sped, 
 
 And cheerful boats beneath the headland row; 
 And be the thought, if any rise, of me, 
 
 What happy soul might wish that thought to be. 
 
XXVII. 
 
 NANNY’S SAILOR LAD. 
 
 Now fare-you-well ! my bonny ship, 
 
 For I am for the shore. 
 
 The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, 
 They’ll carry me no more. 
 
 And all as I came walking 
 And singing up the sand, 
 
 I met a pretty maiden, 
 
 I took her by the hand. 
 
 But still she would not raise her head, 
 
 A word she would not speak, 
 
 And tears were on her eyelids, 
 
 Dripping down her cheek. 
 
 Now grieve you for your father ? 
 
 Or husband might it be ? 
 
 Or is it for a sweetheart 
 That’s roving on the sea ? 
 
206 
 
 nanny’s sailor lad. 
 
 It is not for my father, 
 
 I have no husband dear, 
 
 But oh ! I had a sailor lad 
 And he is lost, I fear. 
 
 Three long years 
 
 I am grieving for his sake, 
 
 And when the stormy wind blows loud, 
 
 I lie all night awake. 
 
 I caught her in my arms, 
 
 And she lifted up her eyes, 
 
 I kiss’d her ten times over 
 In the midst of her surprise. 
 
 Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny, 
 
 And speak again to me ; 
 
 0 dry your tears, my darling, 
 
 For I’ll go no more to sea. 
 
 1 have a love, a true true love, 
 
 And I have golden store, 
 
 The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, 
 They’ll carry me no more ! 
 
 x 
 
XXVIII. 
 
 FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 The time of Frost is the time for me ! 
 
 When the gay blood spins through the heart 
 with glee, 
 
 "When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound, 
 And the footstep rings on the musical ground; 
 When the earth is gray, and the air is bright, 
 And every breath a new delight ! 
 
 While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest, 
 
 What a glorious sky ! — through the level west 
 Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze, 
 
 Which deepen’d up into purple greys, 
 
 With stars aloft as the light decreas’d, 
 
 Till the great moon rose in the rich blue east. 
 
 And Morning ! — each pane a garden of frost, 
 
 Of delicate flowering, as quickly lost; 
 
 For the stalks are fed by the moon’s cold beams, 
 And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams 
 
208 
 
 FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 By Night’s keen breath, and a glance of the Sun 
 Like dreams will scatter them every one. 
 
 Hurra ! the lake is a league of glass ! 
 
 Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass. 
 
 Off we shoot, and poise and wheel, 
 
 And swiftly turn upon scoring heel ; 
 
 And our flying sandals chirp and sing 
 Like a flock of swallows gay on the wing. 
 
 Happy skaters ! jubilant flight ! 
 
 Easily leaning to left and right, 
 
 Curving, coasting an islet of sward, 
 
 Balancing sharp on the glassy cord 
 With single foot, — ah, wretch unshnven ! 
 
 A new star dawns in the fishes’ heaven. 
 
 Away from the crowd with the wind we drift, 
 No vessel’s motion so smoothly swift; 
 
 Fainter and fainter the tumult grows, 
 
 And the gradual stillness and wide repose 
 Touch with a hue more soft and grave 
 The lapse of joy’s declining wave. 
 
 Pure is the ice ; a glance may sound 
 Deep through an awful dim profound 
 
FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 209 
 
 Of water-dungeons where snake-weeds hide, 
 
 Over which, as self-upborne, we glide, 
 
 Like wizards on dark adventure bent, 
 
 Masters of every element 
 
 Homeward ! How the shimmering snow 
 Kisses our hot cheeks as we go ! 
 
 Wavering down the feeble wind, 
 
 Like a manifold thought to a Poet’s mind, 
 
 Till the earth, and trees, and icy lakes, 
 
 Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes. 
 
 But the village street — the stir and noise ! 
 Where long black slides run mad with boys ; 
 Where the pie is kept hot , in sequence due, 
 Aristocrat now the hobnail shoe ; 
 
 And the quaint white bullets fly here and 
 there, 
 
 With laugh and shout in the wintry air. 
 
 In the clasp of Home, by the ruddy fire, 
 
 Ranged in a ring to our heart’s desire, — 
 
 Who is to tell some wondrous tale, 
 
 Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale, 
 
 Set chin on hands, make grave eyes stare, 
 
 Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair ? 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 The one low voice goes wandering on 
 Through a mystic world, whither all are gone 
 The shadows dance ; little Caroline 
 Has stolen her fingers up into mine. 
 
 But the night outside is very chill, 
 
 And the Frost hums loud at the window-sill. 
 
XXIX. 
 
 DEATH DEPOSED. 
 
 Death stately came to a young man, and said, 
 
 “ If thou wert dead, 
 
 What matter ? ” The young man replied, 
 
 “ See my young bride, 
 
 Whose life were all one blackness if I died. 
 
 My land requires me ; and the world’s self, too, 
 
 Methinks, would miss some things that I can do.” 
 
 Then Death in scorn this only said, 
 
 “ Be dead.” 
 
 And so he was. And soon another’s hand 
 Made rich his land. 
 
 The sun, too, of three summers had the might 
 
 To bleach the widow’s hue, light and more light, 
 Again to bridal white. 
 
 And nothing seem’d to miss beneath that sun 
 His work undone. 
 
 But Death soon met another man, whose eye 
 Was Nature’s spy; 
 
212 
 
 DEATH DEPOSED. 
 
 Who said, “ Forbear thy too triumphant scorn. 
 The weakest born 
 
 Of all the sons of men, is by his birth 
 Heir of the Might Eternal ; and this Earth 
 Is subject to him in his place. 
 
 Thou leav’st no trace. 
 
 “ Thou, — the mock Tyrant that men fear and 
 hate, 
 
 Grim fleshless Fate, 
 
 Cold, dark, and wormy thing of loss and tears ! 
 Not in the sepulchres 
 
 Hast lodging, but in my own crimson’d heart ; 
 Where while it beats we call thee Life. De- 
 part ! 
 
 A name, a shadow, into any gulf, 
 
 Out of this world, which is not thine, 
 
 But mine : 
 
 Or stay ! — because thou art 
 Only Myself.” 
 
XXX. 
 
 ON THE TWILIGHT POND. 
 
 A shadowy fringe the fir-trees make, 
 Where sunset light hath been ; 
 
 The liquid thrills to one gold flake, 
 
 And Hesperus is seen ; 
 
 Our boat and we, not half awake, 
 
 Go drifting down the pond, 
 
 While slowly calls the Rail, “ Crake-crake," 
 From meadow-flats beyond. 
 
 This happy, circling, bounded view * 
 Embraces us with home; 
 
 To far worlds kindling in the blue, 
 
 Our upward thoughts may roam; 
 
 Whence, with the veil of scented dew 
 That makes the earth so sweet, 
 
 A touch of astral brightness too, 
 
 A peace — which is complete. 
 
GEORGE LEVISON ; OR, THE SCHOOL- 
 FELLOWS* 
 
 The noisy sparrows in our clematis 
 Talk’d about rain ; a quiet summer dusk 
 Shadowing the little lawn and garden-ground 
 Which part us from the village street below. 
 
 One pale pure star — one altar newly lit, 
 
 Amidst the carbuncle and beryl bum’d 
 Of twilight’s vast cathedral ; but the clouds 
 Were gravely gathering, and a fitful breeze 
 Flurried the foliage that till now had droop’d. 
 
 A p'icture, steadfast on the fading sky, 
 
 And wafted, showering from their golden boss, 
 The petals of the white-rose overblown. 
 
 Our wall being low upon the inner side, 
 
 A great white-rosebush stoops across, to note, 
 
 Up to the churchyard-gate, down to the brook, 
 And lifted fields beyond with grove and hedge, 
 
 * First published in Mr. Dickens’s Household Words , 
 December 12, 1857. 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 215 
 
 The doings of the village, all day long ; 
 
 From when the labourers trudging to their toil 
 With sickle, scythe, or spade, hear outpost cocks 
 Whistle a quaint refrain from farm to farm, 
 
 Until the hour of shadow and repose, 
 
 When footsteps cease, and every taper’s quench’d. 
 Children that pass to school, or home again, 
 
 One with an arm about another’s neck, 
 
 Point to the fragrant treasure, clustering rich, 
 And for a dropping rosebud pay a smile. 
 
 The sun was down ; the loyal garden-blooms 
 Shut all their dreaming colours ; and a Flower 
 Was closing like the rest, a Flower of Flowers. 
 That herald star which look’d across the world 
 Found nothing prettier than our little child 
 Saying his evening prayer at mother’s knee, 
 
 The white skirt folding on the naked feet, 
 
 Too tender for rough ways, his eyes at rest 
 On his mother’s face, a window into heaven. 
 Kiss’d now, and settled in his cot, he’s pleased 
 With murmuring song, until the large lids droop 
 And do not rise, and slumber’s regular breath 
 Divides the soft round mouth. So Annie’s boy 
 And mine was put asleep. I heard her foot 
 Stir overhead. There would be time to-night, 
 
216 
 
 GEOKGE LEVISON; OK y 
 
 Before the rain, to loiter half-an-hour 
 As far as to the poplars down the road. 
 
 And hear the corncrakes through the meadowy 
 vale, 
 
 And watch the childhood of the virgin moon 
 Over a ruddy sunset’s marge of cloud 
 Sinking its crescent. Sweetheart of my life 1 
 Green be those downs and dells above the sea, 
 Smooth-green for ever, by the plough unhurt, 
 Nor overdrifted by their neighbouring sands, 
 Where first I saw you ! first since long ago, 
 When we were children at an inland place 
 And play’d together. I had often thought, 
 
 I wonder should I know that pleasant child ? 
 Hardly, I doubt. I knew her the first glimpse; 
 Ev’n while the flexile curvature of hat 
 Kept all her face in shadow to the chin. 
 
 And when a breeze to which the harebells 
 danced 
 
 Lifted the sun a moment to her eyes, 
 
 The ray of recognition flew to mine 
 Through all the dignity of womanhood. 
 
 Like dear old friends we were, yet wondrous 
 new; 
 
 The others chatted, she and I not much; 
 Hearing her ribbon whirring in the wind 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 217 
 
 (No doubting hopes nor whimsies born as yet) 
 Was pure felicity, like his who sleeps 
 Within a sense of some unknown good-fortune, 
 True, or of dreamland, undetermined which ; 
 My spirit buoyant as the gulls that swept 
 That line of cliff above the summer surge, 
 Smooth-wing’d and snowy in the blue of air. 
 Since, what vicissitude ! We read the past 
 Bound in a volume, catch the story up 
 At any leaf we choose, and much forget 
 How every blind to-morrow was evolved, 
 
 How each oracular sentence shaped itself 
 For after-comprehension. 
 
 Even so, 
 
 This twilight of last summer, it befell ; 
 
 My wife and boy up-stairs, I leaning grave 
 Against the window; when through favourite 
 paths, 
 
 My memory, as if sauntering in a wood. 
 
 Took sober joy : an evening which itself 
 Returns distinctly. Troops of dancing moths 
 Brush’d the dry grass ; I heard, as if from far, 
 The children playing in the village-street, 
 
 And saw the widow, our good neighbour, light 
 Her candle, sealing up the mail. At six, 
 
218 
 
 GEORGE LEVI SON ; OR, 
 
 Announced by cheerful octaves of a horn. 
 
 A pair of winking wheels shake the white rose, 
 Arrive at six, depart again at nine, 
 
 And just at tea-time, with the day’s work 
 done — 
 
 A link of the year’s order, lest we lose 
 In floating tangle every thread of life — 
 
 Appears in happy hour the lottery-bag ; 
 
 Which, with its punctual “ Times,” may bring us 
 word 
 
 From Annie’s house ; or some one by the 
 Thames, 
 
 The smoky friendly Thames, who thinks of us; 
 Or sultry Ganges, or Saint Lawrence chill, 
 
 Or from the soil of kangaroos and gold, 
 
 Magnetic metal ! Thus to the four winds 
 One’s ancient comrades scatter through the world. 
 Where’s Georgy now, I thought, our dread, our 
 pride, 
 
 George Levison, the sultan of the school ? 
 
 With Greek and Latin at those fingers’ ends 
 That sway’d the winning oar and bat ; a prince 
 In pocket-money and accoutrement ; 
 
 A Cribb in fist, a Cicero in tongue ; 
 
 Already victor, when his eye should deign 
 To fix on any summit of success. 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 219 
 
 For, in his haughty careless way, he’d hint — 
 
 44 I’ve got to push my fortune, by-and-by.” 
 
 How we all worshipp’d Georgy Levison ! 
 
 But when I went to college he was gone, 
 
 The}' said to travel, and he took away 
 Mentor conjoin’d with Crichton from my hopes, — 
 No trifling blank. George had done little there, 
 But could — what could he not? . . . And now, 
 perhaps, 
 
 Some city, in the strangers’ burial-ground, 
 
 Some desert sand, or hollow under sea, 
 
 Hides him without an epitaph. So men 
 Slip under, fit to shape the world anew ; 
 
 And leave their trace — in schoolboy memories. 
 
 Then I went thinking how much changed I am 
 Since those old school-times, not so far away, 
 
 Yet now like preexistence. Can that house, 
 Those fields and trees, be extant anywhere ? 
 Have not all vanish’d, place, and time, and men ? 
 Or with a journey could I find them all, 
 
 And myself with them, as I used to be ? 
 
 Sore was my battle after quitting these. 
 
 No one thing fell as plann’d for; sorrows came 
 And sat beside me ; years of toil went round ; 
 And victory’s self was pale and garlandless. 
 
220 
 
 GEOKGE LEVISON ; OR, 
 
 Fog rested on my heart; till softly blew 
 The wind that clear’d it. ’Twas a simple turn 
 Of life, — a miracle of heavenly love, 
 
 For which, thank. God! 
 
 When Annie call’d me up, 
 We both bent silent, looking at our boy; 
 
 Kiss’d unaware (as angels, may be, kiss 
 Good mortals) on the smoothly rounded cheek, 
 Turn’d from the window, — where a fringe of 
 leaves, 
 
 With outlines melting in the darkening blue, 
 Waver’d and peep’d and whisper’d. Would she 
 walk 
 
 Not yet a little were those clouds to stoop 
 With freshness to the garden and the field. 
 
 I waited by our open door; while bats 
 Flew silently, and musk geranium-leaves 
 Were fragrant in the twilight that had quench’d 
 Or tamed the dazzling scarlet of their blooms. 
 Peace, as of heaven itself, possess’d my heart. 
 
 A footstep, not the light step of my wife, 
 Disturb’d it ; and, with slacker pace, a man 
 Came up beside the porch. Accosting whom, 
 And answering to my name : u I fear,” he said, 
 
 “ You’ll hardly recollect me ; though indeed 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 221 
 
 We were at school together on a time. 
 
 Do you forget old Georgy Levison ? ” 
 
 He in the red arm-chair ; 1 not far off, 
 Excited, laughing, waiting for his face : 
 
 The first flash of the candles told me all : 
 
 Or, if not all, enough, and more. Those eyes, 
 When they look’d up at last, were his indeed, 
 Though mesh’d in ugly threads as with a snare ; 
 And, while his mouth preserved the imperious 
 curve, 
 
 Evasion, vacillation, discontent, 
 
 Warp’d all the handsome features out of place. 
 His hair hung prematurely grey and thin ; 
 
 From threadbare sleeves the wither’d tremulous 
 hands 
 
 Protruded. Why paint every touch of blight? 
 
 Tea came. He hurried into ceaseless chat ; 
 Glanced at the ways of many foreign towns ; 
 Knew all those great men, landmarks of the 
 time, 
 
 And set their worths punctiliously ; brought back 
 Our careless years ; paid Annie compliments 
 To spare ; admired the pattern of the cups ; 
 Lauded the cream, — our dairy’s, was it not ? 
 
222 
 
 GEORGE LEVISON; OR, 
 
 A country life was pleasant, certainly, 
 
 If one could be content to settle down ; 
 
 And yet the city had advantages. 
 
 He trusted, shortly, underneath his roof 
 To practise hospitality in turn. 
 
 But first to catch the roof, eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! 
 That was a business topic he’d discuss 
 With his old friend by-and-by 
 
 For me, I long’d 
 
 To hide my face and groan ; yet look’d at him ; 
 Opposing pain to grief, presence to thought. 
 
 Later, when wine came in, and we two sat 
 The dreary hours together, how he talk’d ! 
 
 His schemes of life, his schemes of work and 
 wealth, 
 
 Intentions and inventions, plots and plans, 
 Travels and triumphs, failures, golden hopes. 
 
 He was a young man still — had just begun 
 To see his way. I knew what he could do 
 If once he tried in earnest. He’d return 
 To Law, next term but one ; meanwhile com- 
 plete 
 
 His great work, u The Philosophy of Life, 
 
 Or, Man’s Relation to the Universe,” 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 223 
 
 The matter lying ready to his hand. 
 
 Forty subscribers more, two guineas each, 
 
 Would make it safe to publish. All this time 
 He fill’d his glass and emptied, and his tongue 
 Went thick and stammering. When the wine 
 came in 
 
 I saw the glistering eye ; an eager hand 
 Made the decanter chatter on the glass 
 Like ague. He grew maudlin drunk at last ; 
 Shed tears, and moan’d he was a ruin’d man, 
 Body and soul ; then cursed his enemies 
 By name and promised punishment ; made vaunt 
 Of genius, learning ; caught my hand again, — 
 Did I forget my friend — my dear old friend? 
 Had I a coat to spare ? He had no coat 
 But this one on his back ; not one shirt — see ! 
 ’Twas all a nightmare ; all plain wretched truth. 
 And how to play physician ? Where’s the 
 strength 
 
 Repairs a slow self-ruin from without ? 
 
 The fall’n must climb innumerable steps, 
 
 With humbleness, and diligence, and pain. 
 
 How help him to the first of all that steep ? 
 
 Midnight was past. I had proposed to find 
 A lodging near us ; for, to say the truth, 
 
224 
 
 GEORGE LEVISON; OR, 
 
 I could not bid my wife, for such a guest, 
 
 In such a plight, prepare the little room 
 C ail’d u Emma’s ” since my sister first was here. 
 Then with a sudden mustering up of wits, 
 
 And ev’n a touch of his old self, that quick 
 Melted my heart anew, he signified 
 His bed was waiting, he would say good-night, 
 And begg’d me not to stir, he knew his road. 
 But arm in arm I brought him up the street, 
 Among the rainpools and the pattering drops 
 Drumming upon our canopy ; where few 
 Or none were out of doors ; and once or twice 
 Some casement from an upper story shed 
 Penurious lamplight. 
 
 Tediously we kept 
 
 The morning meal in vain expectancy. 
 
 Our box of clothes came back ; the people said 
 He paid without a word, and went his way, — 
 They knew not whither. He return’d no more. 
 He now is dead. 
 
 Months changed about, or ere 
 The sudden frost of that unhappy guest 
 Hose from our life, — which, like our village, 
 keeps 
 
THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. 
 
 225 
 
 The tranquil centre of a cultured vale, 
 
 Guarded with hills, but open to the sun, 
 
 And every star successive, east or west, 
 
 That glorifies the circle of the year. 
 
 A grave, secluded life, but kindly fill’d 
 With natural influences ; neither void 
 Of strength and gladness from profounder springs, 
 And since, at many a meditative hour 
 By day or night, or with memorial flash, 
 
 I see the ghost of Georgy Levison ; 
 
 A shifting phantom, — now with boyhood’s face 
 And merry curls ; now haggard and forlorn, 
 
 As when the candles came into the room. 
 
 One sells his soul ; another squanders it ; 
 
 The first buys up the world, the second starves. 
 Poor George was loser palpably enough, — 
 Supernal Wisdom only knows how much. 
 
 15 
 
THE MOWERS. 
 
 Where mountains round a lonely dale 
 Our cottage-roof inclose, 
 
 Come night or morn, the hissing pail 
 With yellow cream o’er flows*; 
 
 And roused at break of day from sleep, 
 And cheerly trudging hither, — 
 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
 
 We mow the grass together. 
 
 The fog drawn up the mountain side 
 And scatter’d flake by flake, 
 
 The chasm of blue above grows wide, 
 And richer blue the lake ; 
 
 Gay sunlights o’er the hillocks creep, 
 And join for golden weather, — 
 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 The good wife stirs at five, we know, 
 The master soon comes round, 
 
THE MOWERS. 
 
 227 
 
 And many swaths must lie a-row 
 Ere breakfast-horn shall sound ; 
 
 The clover and the florin deep, 
 
 The grass of silvery feather, — 
 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 The noontide brings its welcome rest 
 Our toil-wet brows to dry ; 
 
 Anew with merry stave and jest 
 The shrieking hone we ply. 
 
 White falls the brook from steep to steep 
 Among the purple heather, — 
 
 A scythe-sweep., and a scythe-sweep, 
 
 We mow the dale together. 
 
 For dial, see, our shadows turn ; 
 
 Low lies the stately mead : 
 
 A scythe, an hourglass, and an urn — 
 All flesh is grass , we read. 
 
 To-morrow’s sky may laugh or weep, 
 
 To Heav’n we leave it whether, — 
 
 A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep, 
 We’ve done our task together. 
 
ABBEY. ASSAROE. 
 
 Grey, grey is Abbey Assaroe, by Ballyshannon 
 town. 
 
 It has neither door nor window, the walls are 
 broken down ; 
 
 The carven stones lie scatter’d in briar and net- 
 tle-bed ; 
 
 The only feet are those that come at burial of 
 the dead. 
 
 A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, 
 
 Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not 
 in pride ; 
 
 The boor-tree* and the lightsome ash across the 
 portal grow, 
 
 And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe. 
 
 It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban f 
 mountain blue; 
 
 It hears the voice of Erna’s fall, — Atlantic 
 breakers too; 
 
 * Local name fbr the elder ( sambucus nigra.) 
 t Usually but incorrectly named Ben Bulban . 
 
ABBEY ASSAROE. 
 
 229 
 
 High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank 
 of oars 
 
 Brings in the salmonboat to haul a net upon the 
 shores ; 
 
 And this way to his home-creek, when the sum- 
 mer day is done, 
 
 The weary fisher sculls his punt across the set- 
 ting sun ; 
 
 While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cot- 
 tage white below ; — 
 
 But grey at every season is Abbey Assaroe. 
 
 There stood one day a poor old man above its 
 broken bridge ; 
 
 He heard no running rivulet, he saw no moun- 
 tain-ridge ; 
 
 He turn’d his back on Sheegus Hill, and view’d 
 with misty sight 
 
 v The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses 
 ghostly white; 
 
 Under a weary weight of years he bow’d upon 
 his staff, 
 
 Perusing in the present time the former’s epitaph ; 
 
 For, grey and wasted like the walls, a figure full 
 of woe, 
 
 This man was of the blood of them who founded 
 Assaroe. 
 
230 
 
 ABBEY ASSAROE. 
 
 From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower* Tyrconnell 
 broad was theirs; 
 
 Herdsmen and spearmen, bards and wine, and 
 holy abbots’ prayers, 
 
 With chanting always in the house which they 
 had builded high 
 
 To God and to Saint Bernard, — whereto they 
 came to die. 
 
 At least, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins 
 of his race 
 
 Shall rest among the ruin’d stones of this their 
 saintly place. 
 
 The fond old man was weeping; a^id tremulous 
 and slow 
 
 Along the rough and worked lane he crept from 
 Assaroe. 
 
AMONG THE HEATHER. 
 
 One evening walking out, I o’ertook a modest 
 colleen ,* 
 
 When the wind was blowing cool, and the har- 
 vest leaves were falling. 
 
 “Is our road, by chance, the same? might we 
 travel on together?” 
 
 “01 keep the mountain side, (she replied) 
 among the heather.” 
 
 “ Your mountain air is sweet when the days are 
 long and sunny, 
 
 When the grass grows round the rocks, and the 
 whinbloom smells like honey ; 
 
 But the winter’s coming fast with its foggy, 
 snowy weather, 
 
 And you’ll find it bleak and chill on your hill 
 among the heather.” 
 
 * Colleen , a young girl. 
 
232 
 
 AMONG THE HEATHER. 
 
 She praised her mountain home : and 111 praise 
 it too, with reason, 
 
 For where Molly is, there’s sunshine and flow’rs 
 at every season. 
 
 Be the moorland black or white, does it signify 
 a feather, 
 
 Now I know the way by heart, every part, 
 among the heather? 
 
 The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls 
 thick and stormy; 
 
 Yet I’d travel twenty miles with the welcome 
 that’s before me; 
 
 Singing hi for Eskydun, in the teeth of wind and 
 weather ! 
 
 Love ’ill warm me as I go through the snow, 
 among the heather. 
 
EVERY DAY. 
 
 Let us not teach and preach so much, 
 But cherish, rather than profess; 
 
 Be careful how the thoughts we touch 
 Of God, and Love, aud Holiness, — 
 
 A charm, most spiritual, faint, 
 
 And delicate, forsakes the breast, 
 Bird-like, when it perceives the taint 
 Of prying breath upon its nest. 
 
 Using, enjoying, let us live; 
 
 Set here to grow, what should we do 
 But take what soil and climate give ? 
 
 For thence must come our sap and hue 
 
 Blooming as sweetly as we may, 
 
 Nor beckon comers, nor debar; 
 
 Let them take balm or gall away, 
 According as their natures are. 
 
234 
 
 EVERY DAY. 
 
 Look straight at all things from the soul, 
 But boast not much to understand; 
 
 Make each new action sound and whole, 
 Then leave it in its place unscann’d : 
 
 Be true, devoid of aim or care, 
 
 Nor posture, nor antagonise : 
 
 Know well that clouds of this our air 
 But seem to wrap the mighty skies 
 
 Search starry mysteries overhead, 
 
 Where wonders gleam ; yet bear in mind 
 
 That Earth’s our planet, firm to tread, 
 Nor in the star-dance left behind. 
 
 For nothing is withheld, be sure, 
 
 Our being needed to have shown ; 
 
 The far was meant to be obscure, 
 
 The near was placed so to be known. 
 
 Cast we no astrologic scheme 
 
 To map the course we must pursue ; 
 
 But use the lights whene’er they beam, 
 
 And every trusty landmark too. 
 
 The Future let us not permit 
 
 To choke us in its shadow’s clasp ; 
 
EVERY DAY. 
 
 235 
 
 It cannot touch us, nor we it; 
 
 The present moment’s in our grasp. 
 
 Soul severed from the Truth is Sin ; 
 
 The dark and dizzy gulph is Doubt ; 
 Truth never moves, — unmoved therein, 
 
 Our road is straight and firm throughout. 
 
 This Road for ever doth abide. 
 
 The universe, if fate so call, 
 
 May sink away on either side; 
 
 But This and God at once shall fall. 
 
NIGHT WIND. 
 
 Moaning blast,* 
 
 The summer is past, - 
 And time and life are speeding fast ! 
 
 Wintry wind, 
 
 Oh, where to find 
 
 The hopes we have left so far behind! 
 
 Mystery cold, 
 
 To thee have they told 
 Secrets the years will never unfold ? 
 
 Sorrow of night, 
 
 Is love so light 
 
 As to come and go like a breeze’s flight? 
 
 Opiate balm, 
 
 Is death so calm 
 
 As to faint in the ear like a distant psalm? 
 
SIR MARMADUKE POLE. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke Pole was a sturdy old knight, 
 
 Who in war and in peace had done every man 
 right ; 
 
 Had lived with his neighbours in loving accord, 
 
 Save the Abbot and Monks, whom he fiercely 
 abhorr’d, 
 
 And to their feet alone refused oak-floor and 
 sward. 
 
 With guests round his table, good servants at 
 call, 
 
 His laughter made echo the wide castle-hall ; 
 
 He whoop’d to the falcon, he hunted the deer ; 
 
 If down by the Abbey, his comrades could 
 hear — 
 
 u A plague on these mummers, who mime all 
 the year ! ” 
 
 And now see him stretch’d on his leave-taking 
 bed. 
 
 Five minutes ago with a calm smile he said, 
 
238 
 
 SIR MARMADUKE POLE. 
 
 u I can trust my poor soul to the Lord God of 
 Heaven, 
 
 “ Though living unpriested and dying unshriven. 
 “ Say all of you, friends, 4 May his sins be for- 
 given ! ’ ” 
 
 But some who are near to him sorely repine 
 He thus should decease like an ox or a swine ; 
 So a message in haste to the Abbey they send, 
 When the voice cannot ring, and the arm can- 
 not bend ; 
 
 For this reign, as all reigns do, approaches an end. 
 
 Says my Lady, “ Too long I have yielded my 
 mind.” 
 
 Son Bichard to go with the world ” is inclined. 
 M Sweet Mother of Mercy !” sobs Jane, his young 
 • spouse, 
 
 u O Saviour, forget not my tears and my vows ! ” 
 In pray’r for the dying her spirit she bows. 
 
 At once the good Abbot forgets every wrong, 
 And speeds to the gate which repell’d him so 
 
 long ; 
 
 The stairs (“Pax vobiscum ”) are strange to his 
 tread ; 
 
SIR MARMADUKE POLE. 
 
 239 
 
 He puts every one forth. Not a sound from 
 that bed ; 
 
 And the spark from beneath the white eyebrow 
 is fled. 
 
 Again the door opens, all enter the place 
 
 Where pallid and stern lies the well-belov’d face. 
 
 u The Church, through God’s help and Saint 
 Simon’s, hath won 
 
 “ To her bosom of pity a penitent son.” 
 
 See the cross on his breast ; hark, the knell is 
 begun. 
 
 Who feasts with young Richard ? who shrives the 
 fair Jane ? 
 
 Whose mule to the Castle jogs right, without 
 rein ? 
 
 Our Abbey has moorland and meadowland wide, 
 
 Where Marmaduke hunting and hawking would 
 © © 
 
 ride, 
 
 With his priest-hating humours and paganish 
 pride. 
 
 In the chancel the tomb is, of Marmaduke Pole. 
 
 Ten thousand full masses were said for his 
 soul, 
 
240 
 
 SIR MARMADUKE POLE. 
 
 With praying, and tinkling, and incense, and 
 flame ; 
 
 In the centre whereof, without start or exclaim, 
 
 His bones fell to dust, you may still read the 
 name, 
 
 ’Twixt an abbot’s and bishop’s who once were 
 of fame. 
 
AUTUMN LANDSCAPE. 
 
 October skies are misty, cool, and grey, 
 
 The stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, 
 
 The meadow of its mounds; a noble grief 
 Has beautified the woods in their decay ; 
 
 How many colours on the falling leaf 
 Encurtaining our solemn hills to-day, 
 
 Whose afternoon is hush’d and wintry brief 1 
 Only a robin sings from any spray. 
 
 And Night sends up her pale cold moon, and 
 spills 
 
 White mist around the hollows of the hills, 
 Phantoms of firth or lake ; the peasant sees 
 His cot and stackyard, with the homestead 
 trees, 
 
 In-islanded ; but no vain terror thrills 
 His perfect harvesting ; he sleeps at ease. 
 
 16 
 
ROBIN REDBREAST. 
 
 (a child’s song.) 
 
 Good-bye, good-bye to Summer ! 
 
 For Summer’s nearly done; 
 
 The garden smiling faintly, 
 
 Cool breezes in the sun ; 
 
 Our thrushes now are silent, 
 
 Our swallows flown away, — 
 
 But Robin’s here, in coat of brown, 
 And scarlet breastknot gay. 
 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 O Robin dear ! 
 
 Robin sings so sweetly 
 In the falling of the year. 
 
 Bright yellow, red, and orange, 
 
 The leaves come down in hosts ; 
 The trees are Indian Princes. 
 
 But soon they’ll turn to Ghosts ; 
 
ROBIN REDBREAST. 
 
 243 
 
 The leathery pears and apples 
 Hang russet on the bough ; 
 
 It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 
 'Twill soon be winter now. 
 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 O Robin dear! 
 
 And what will this poor Robin do ? 
 For pinching days are near. 
 
 The fireside for the cricket, 
 
 The wheatstack for the mouse, 
 
 When trembling nightwinds whistle 
 And moan all round the house; 
 
 The frosty ways like iron, 
 
 The branches plumed with snow, — 
 
 Alas ! in Winter dead and dark 
 Where can poor Robin go? 
 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 O Robin dear ! 
 
 And a crumb of bread for Robin, 
 
 His little heart to cheer. 
 
ANGELA. 
 
 After the long bitter days, and nights weigh’d 
 down with my sadness, 
 
 Faint I lay on the sofa with soften’d thoughts in 
 a twilight. 
 
 Stilly she glided in, and tenderly came she 
 beside me, 
 
 Putting her arm round my head that was weary 
 with sorrowful aching, 7 
 
 Whispering low in a voice trembling with love 
 and with pity, 
 
 “ Knowest thou not that I love thee ? — am I 
 not one in thy sorrow? 
 
 Maze not thy spirit in windings, joy that our 
 Father excels us, 
 
 Since with his power extends the greatness of 
 his compassion. 
 
 Fear not the losing of love; for, listen, a spirit 
 hath told me 
 
 Heaven is not without aught that Earth has of 
 holy and lovely; 
 
ANGELA. 
 
 245 
 
 Purified shall they be found, but better in es- 
 sence they could not ; 
 
 Gold in this earthly alloy has not come but 
 from mines in the Great Heav’n. 
 
 Thou — move on in thy course unswerving from 
 shades in the pathway, 
 
 Pits and crags they seem, thou wilt find them 
 nothing but shadows. 
 
 Take thou care of the present, thy future will 
 build itself for thee; 
 
 Life in the body is full of entanglements, harsh 
 contradictions, — 
 
 Keep but the soul-realities, all will unwind itself 
 duly. 
 
 Think of me, pray for me, love me, — I cease 
 not to love thee, my dearest.” 
 
 So it withdrew and died, and the heart, too joy 
 ful, too tender, 
 
 Felt a new fear of its pain, and its want, and 
 the desolate evening 
 
 Sunken, and dull, and cold. But quickly a kind 
 overflowing 
 
 The burning eyelids assuaged, and my heart 
 grew calmer and calmer ; 
 
246 
 
 ANGELA. 
 
 Noting, at length, how the gloom acknowledged 
 a subtle suffusion, 
 
 Veiling with earnest peace the stars looking in 
 through the window, — 
 
 Where, in the very minute appointed from num- 
 berless ages, 
 
 Slowly up Eastern night, like a pale smoke, 
 mounted the moon-dawn. 
 
SONG. 
 
 O Spirit of the Summertime ! 
 
 Bring back the roses to the dells ; 
 The swallow from her distant clime, 
 The honey-bee from drowsy cells. 
 
 Bring back the friendship of the sun ; 
 
 The gilded evenings, calm and late, 
 When merry children homeward run, 
 And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 
 
 Bring back the singing; and the scent 
 Of meadowlands at dewy prime ; — 
 O bring again my heart’s content, 
 Thou Spirit of the Summertime! 
 
DOGMATISM. 
 
 “Thus it is written.” Where? Oh, where? 
 In the blue chart of the air? 
 
 In the sunlight ? In the dark ? 
 
 In the distant starry spark? 
 
 In the white scroll of the cloud ? 
 
 In the waved line of the flood ? 
 
 In the distant range of cliff? 
 
 In the rock’s deep hieroglyph? 
 
 In the scribbled veins of metal? 
 
 In the tracings on the petal ? 
 
 In the fire’s fantastic loom ? 
 
 In the fur, or scale, or plume ? 
 
 In the greeting brother’s glance ? 
 
 In the corpse’s countenance ? 
 
 In men’s real thoughts and ways ? 
 
 Time’s long track, or passing days ? 
 
 In the cypher of the whole ? 
 
 In the core of my own soul ? 
 
 Nay ! — I have sincerely sought, 
 
 But no glimpse of this thing caught. 
 
DOWN ON THE SHORE. 
 
 Down on the shore, on the sunny shore ! 
 
 Where the salt smell cheers the land; 
 
 Where the tide moves bright under boundless 
 light, 
 
 And the surge on the glittering strand ; 
 Where the children wade in the shallow pools, 
 Or run from the froth in play; 
 
 Where the swift little boats with milkwhite 
 wings 
 
 Are crossing the sapphire bay, 
 
 And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale, 
 Holds proudly on her way. 
 
 Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry, 
 And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie, 
 
 Under the tent of the warm blue sky, 
 
 With the hushing wave on its golden floor 
 To sing their lullaby. 
 
 Down on the shore, on the stormy shore! 
 Beset by a growling sea, 
 
250 
 
 DOWN ON THE SHORE. 
 
 Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep 
 Like wolves up a traveller’s tree. 
 
 Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast 
 Blows the curlew off, with a screech ; 
 
 Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the 
 roots, 
 
 Is flung out of fishes’ reach ; 
 
 Where the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals, 
 And scatters her planks on the beach. 
 Where slate and straw through the village spin, 
 And a cottage fronts the fiercest din 
 With a sailor ’« wife sitting sad within, 
 Hearkening the wind and water’s roar, 
 
 Till at last her tears begin. 
 
FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 “Whither goest, brother elf?” 
 
 “ The sun is weak to warm myself 
 In a thick red tulip’s core. 
 
 Whither thou?” 
 
 “ Till day be o’er, 
 To the dim and deep snow-palace 
 Of the closest lily-chalice, 
 
 Where is veil’d the light of noon 
 To be like my Lady’s moon. 
 
 Thou art of the day, I ween?” 
 
 “ Yet I not disown our Queen. 
 
 Nor at Lyse’ am backward found 
 When the mighty feast comes round ; 
 When She spreads abroad her power 
 To proclaim a midnight hour 
 
252 
 
 FAIRY dialogue: 
 
 For the pale blue fays like thee 
 And the ruddy elves like me 
 To mingle in a charmed ring 
 With a perfect welcoming ; 
 
 Guarded from the moon-stroke cold, 
 And wisp that scares us on the wold.” 
 
 “Swift that Night is drawing near, 
 When your abrupt and jovial cheer 
 Mixes in cur misty dance. 
 
 Else we only meet by chance, 
 
 In the dark undew’d recesses 
 Of the leafy wildernesses, 
 
 Or thus hid in some cold flower 
 To escape the sunlight hour, 
 
 And more afflictive mortal eye.” 
 
 “ Gladly, gladly, do I spy 
 The little cottage-girls go by — 
 
 Feel the bounty and the grace 
 Of a pleasant human face. 
 
 O my sister, would we might 
 Show ourselves to mortal sight ; 
 
 They sure would love us if they knew 
 All the friendly turns we do. 
 
 Even now, a gentle thought 
 
FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 253 
 
 Pays our service dimly wrought. 
 
 The paler favourites of the moon 
 Cannot give nor take such boon ! ” 
 
 “ Chantings, brother, hear you might, 
 Softly sung through still of night: 
 
 Calling from the weird North 
 Dreams like distant echoes forth, 
 
 Till through curtain’d shades they creep, 
 T’ inlay the gloomy floor of sleep 
 For babes, and souls that babe-like are : 
 So we bless them from afar 
 Like a faint but favouring star. 
 
 — But tell me how in fields or bowers 
 Thou hast spent these morning hours ? ” 
 
 “ Through the tall hedge I have been, 
 The shadowy wall of crusted green, 
 Within whose heart the birds are seen. 
 Speeding swiftly thence away 
 To the crowning chestnut-spray, 
 
 I watch’d a tyrant steal along 
 Would slay the sweet thrush in her song; 
 Warned, she soon broke off from singing. 
 And we left the branchlet swinging. 
 Whispering robin, down the walk, 
 
254 
 
 FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 News of poising, pouncing hawk. 
 
 The sycamore I next must strew 
 On every leaf with honey-dew. 
 
 And hither now from clouds I run; 
 For all my morning work is done.” 
 
 “ Alas, I wither in the sun, 
 
 If I hap to leave my nest 
 Ere the day be laid to rest! 
 
 But to-night we lightly troop 
 By the young moon’s silver hoop; 
 Weaving wide our later ranks 
 As on the evening river-banks 
 Shifting crowds of midges glance 
 Through mazes of their airy dance 
 O might you come, O might you tee 
 All our shadow’d revelry ! 
 
 Yet the next night shall be rarer, 
 Next and next and next, still fairer; 
 We are waxing every night, 
 
 Till our joy be full and bright ; 
 
 Then as slowly do we wane 
 With gentle loss that makes no pain. 
 For thus are we with life indued : 
 Ye, I guess, have other food, 
 
 Since with rougher powers ye deal.” 
 
FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 255 
 
 “We with fragrant soul are fed 
 Of every flower whose cheek is red, 
 Shunning yellow, blue, and white, 
 
 And southward go, at the nightingale’s flight. 
 Many the faery nations be. 
 
 O ! how I long, I long to see 
 The mooned midnight of our feast 
 Flushing amber through the east; 
 
 When every cap in Elfindom 
 Into that great ring shall come ; 
 
 Owf and elf and fairy blended, 
 
 Till th’ imperial time be ended ! 
 
 Even those fantastic Sprites 
 Lay aside their dear delights 
 Of freakish mischief and annoyance 
 In the universal joyance, 
 
 One of whom I saw of late 
 
 As I peeped through window-grate, 
 
 (Under roof I may not enter) 
 
 Haunt the housewife to torment her ; 
 Tangle up her skeins of silk, 
 
 Throw a mouse into her milk, 
 
 Hide her thimble, scorch her roast, 
 Quickly drive her mad almost ; 
 
 And I too vexed, because I would 
 Have brought her succour, if I could. 
 
256 
 
 FAIIIY DIALOGUE. 
 
 — But where shall this be holden, say? 
 Far away 9 ” 
 
 “ O, far away. 
 
 Over river must we fly, 
 
 Over the sea, and the mountain high, 
 
 Over city, seen afar 
 
 Like a low and misty star, — 
 
 Soon beneath us glittering 
 Like a million worms. Our wing 
 For the flight will ne’er suffice. 
 
 Some are training flitter-mice, 
 
 I a silver moth.” 
 
 “ Be ware 
 
 How I’ll thrid the vaulted air! 
 
 A dragon-fly with glassy wings, 
 
 Born beside the meadow springs, 
 
 That can arrow-swiftly glide 
 Thorough the glowing eventide, 
 
 Nor at twilight-fall grow slack, 
 
 Shall bear me on his long red back. 
 Dew-stars, meteors of the night, 
 
 May not strike him with, affright, 
 
 He can needle through the wood, 
 
 That’s like a green earth-chained cloud, 
 
FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 257 
 
 Mountain-summits deftly rake, 
 
 Draw swift line o’er plain and lake; 
 If at Lysco I be last, 
 
 Other elves must journey fast. 
 
 Lu a vo ! ” 
 
 “ But Elf, I rede, 
 
 Of all your herbs take special heed. 
 
 Our Mistress tholes no garden-flowers, 
 Though we have freedom of these bowers. 
 Tell me what you mean to treasure, 
 
 Each in’s atom ? ” 
 
 “ Gold-of-Pleasure, 
 Medic, Plumeseed, Fountain-arrow, 
 Vervain, Hungry-grass, and Yarrow, 
 Quatrefoil and Melilot.” 
 
 u These are well. And I have got 
 Moonwort and the Filmy Fern, 
 
 Gathered nicely on the turn. 
 
 But wo to fairy that shall bring 
 Bugloss for an offering, 
 
 Toad-flax, Barley of the Wall, 
 
 Enchanters Nightshade, worst of all. 
 
 — Oh, brother, hush ! I faint with fear ! 
 A mortal footstep threatens near.” 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 FAIRY DIALOGUE. 
 
 “ None can see us, none can hear. 
 Yet, to make thee less afraid, 
 
 Hush we both, as thou hast pray’d. 
 
 I will seek the verse to spell 
 Written round my dark flow’r’s bell, 
 And try to sing it. Fare-thee-well ! * 
 
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, 
 THE EMIGRANT’S ADIEU TO BALLY- 
 SHANNON. — * 
 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon ! Where I was bred and 
 born ; 
 
 Go where I may, I’ll think of you, as sure as 
 night and morn ; 
 
 The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every 
 one is known, 
 
 And not a face in all the place but partly seems 
 my own.. 
 
 There’s not a house or window, there’s not a 
 field or hill, 
 
 But, east or west, in foreign lands, I’ll recollect 
 them still. 
 
 I leave my warm heart with you, though my 
 back I’m forced to turn — 
 
 So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
260 
 
 THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 No more on pleasant evenings we’ll saunter 
 down the Mall, 
 
 Where the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon 
 to the fall, 
 
 The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily 
 she creeps, 
 
 Cast off, cast off ! — she feels the oars, and to 
 her berth she sweeps ; 
 
 Now stem and stern keep hauling, and gathering 
 up the clue, 
 
 Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the 
 crew, 
 
 Then they may sit, and have their joke, and set 
 their pipes to burn ; — 
 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 
 of Erne ! 
 
 The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the 
 tide, 
 
 When all the green-hill’d harbour is full from 
 side to side — 
 
 From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the 
 Abbey Bay, 
 
 From the little rocky island to Coolnargit sand- 
 hills grey; 
 
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 261 
 
 While far upon the southern line, to guard it 
 like a wall, 
 
 The Leitrim mountains, clothed - in blue, gaze 
 calmly over all, 
 
 And watch the ship sail up or down, the red 
 flag at her stern ; — 
 
 Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks 
 of Erne ! 
 
 Farewell to you, Kildony lads, and them that 
 pull an oar, 
 
 A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to 
 Mullaghmore ; 
 
 From KiJlybegs to Carrigan, with its ocean- 
 mountain steep, 
 
 Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in 
 the deep ; 
 
 From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round 
 by Tulle n strand, 
 
 Level and long, and white with waves, where 
 gull and curlew stand ; — 
 
 Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers 
 you discern; — 
 
 Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding 
 banks of Erne! 
 
262 
 
 THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! and your sum- 
 mer crowds that run 
 
 From inland homes, to see with joy th’ Atlan tic- 
 setting sun ; 
 
 To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport 
 among the waves ; 
 
 To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the 
 gloomy caves ; 
 
 To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the 
 crabs, the fish ; 
 
 Young men and maids to meet and smile, and 
 form a tender wish; 
 
 The sick and old in search of health, for all 
 things have their turn — 
 
 And I must quit my native shore, and the 
 winding banks of Erne ! 
 
 Farewell to every white cascade from the Har- 
 bour to Belleek, 
 
 And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy- 
 shaded creek ; 
 
 The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash 
 and holly grow; 
 
 The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving 
 flood below ; 
 
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 2G& 
 
 The Lough that winds through islands under 
 Turaw mountain green ; 
 
 The Castle Caldwell’s stretching woods, with 
 tranquil bays between: 
 
 And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the 
 heath and fern, — 
 
 For I must say adieu — adieu to the winding 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
 The thrush will call through Camlin groves the 
 livelong summer day ; 
 
 The water run by mossy cliff, and bank with 
 wild flowers gay ; 
 
 The girls will bring their work and sing beneath 
 
 • a twisted thorn, 
 
 Or stray with sweethearts down the path among 
 the growing corn ; 
 
 Along the river-side they go, where I have 
 often been, — 
 
 Oh, never shall I see again the days that I have 
 seen, 
 
 A thousand chances are to one I never may re- 
 turn, — 
 
 Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 
 of Erne ! 
 
264 THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours 
 meet, 
 
 And the fiddle says to boys and girls “get up 
 and shake your feet,” 
 
 To “ shanachus ” and wise old talk of Erin’s 
 days gone by — 
 
 Who trenched the rath on such a hill, and 
 where the bones may lie, 
 
 Of saint, or king, or warrior chief ; with tales of 
 fairy power, 
 
 And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twi- 
 light hour, 
 
 The mournful song of exile is now for me to 
 learn — 
 
 Adieu, my dear companions on the winding 
 banks of Erne ! 
 
 Now measure from the Commons down to each 
 end of the Purt, 
 
 From the Red Barn to the Abbey, I wish no 
 one any hurt ; 
 
 Search through the streets, and down the Mall 
 and out to Portnasun, 
 
 If any foes of mine be there, I pardon every • 
 
 one : 
 
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 
 
 265 
 
 I hope that man and womankind will do the 
 same by me, 
 
 For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the 
 sea. 
 
 My loving friends I’ll bear in mind, and often 
 fondly turn, 
 
 To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding 
 banks of Erne. 
 
 If ever I’m a money’d man, I mean, please God, 
 to east 
 
 My golden anchor in the place where youthful 
 years were pass’d ; 
 
 Though heads that now are black and brown 
 must meanwhile gather grey, 
 
 New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones 
 drop away — 
 
 Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world 
 beside ; 
 
 It’s home, sweet home, where’er I roam, through 
 lands and waters wide. 
 
 And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return 
 
 To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding 
 banks of Erne. 
 
SUNDAY BELLS. 
 
 Sweet Sunday Bells ! your measured sound 
 Enhances the repose profound 
 On all these golden fields around, 
 
 And range of mountain, sunshine-drown’d. 
 
 Amid the cluster’d roofs outswells, 
 
 And wanders up the winding dells, 
 
 And near and far its message tells, 
 
 Your holy song, sweet Sunday Bells ! 
 
 Sweet Sunday Bells ! ye summon round 
 The youthful and the hoary-crown’d, 
 
 To one observance gravely bound ; 
 
 Where comfort, strength, and joy are found. 
 
 The while your cadenced voice excels 
 To mix a crowd of tender spells 
 From marriage-peals, and funeral-knells, 
 
 And childhood’s awe, — sweet Sunday Bells! 
 
SUNDAY BELLS. 
 
 267 
 
 O Sunday Bells! your pleading sound 
 The shady spring of tears hath found, 
 
 In one whom neither pew nor mound 
 May harbour in the hallow’d ground : 
 
 Whose heart to your old music swells ; 
 Whose soul a deeper thought compels ; 
 Who like an alien sadly dwells 
 Within your chime — sweet Sunday Bells! 
 
THE QUEEN OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful Queen of the Forest, 
 How art thou hidden so wondrous deep? 
 Bird never sung there, fay never morriced, 
 All the trees are asleep. 
 
 Nigh the drizzling waterfall 
 
 Plumed ferns wave and wither; 
 Voices from the woodlands call, 
 
 “ Hither, O hither ! ” 
 
 Calling all the summer day, 
 
 Through the woodlands, far away. 
 
 Who by the rivulet loiters and lingers, 
 Tranced by a mirror, a murmur, a freak 
 Thrown where the grass’s cool fine fingers 
 Play with his dreamful cheek ? 
 Cautious creatures flitting by, 
 
 Mystic sounds fill his pleasure, 
 Tangled roof inlaid with sky, 
 
 Flow’rs, heaps of treasure : 
 
THE QUEEN OF THE FOREST. 
 
 269 
 
 Wandering slowly all the day, 
 
 Through the woodlands, far away. 
 
 Hush ! if the hiding enchantress thou follow, 
 Hearken the yew, he hath secrets of hers : 
 The grey owl stirs in an oak-tree’s hollow, 
 The wind in the gloomy firs. 
 
 Down among those dells of green, 
 Glimpses, whispers, run to wile thee; 
 Waking eyes have nowhere seen 
 Her that would beguile thee — 
 Draw thee on, till death of day, 
 Through the duskwoods, far away. 
 
MEA CULPA. 
 
 At me one night the angry moon 
 Suspended to a rim of cloud 
 Glared through the courses of the wind. 
 Suddenly there my spirit bow’d 
 And shrank into a fearful swoon 
 That made me deaf and blind. 
 
 We sinn’d — we sin — is that a dream? 
 We wake — there is no voice nor stir; 
 
 Sin and repent from day to day, 
 
 As though some reeking murderer 
 Should dip his hand in a running stream, 
 And lightly go his way. 
 
 Embrace me, fiends and wicked men, 
 
 For I am of your crew. Draw back, 
 Pure women, children with clear eyes. 
 
 Let Scorn confess me on his rack, — 
 Stretch’d down by force, uplooking then 
 Into the solemn skies! 
 
MEA CULPA. 
 
 271 
 
 Singly we pass the gloomy gate ; 
 
 Some robed in honour, full of peace, 
 Who of themselves are not aware ; 
 Being fed with secret wickedness, 
 
 And comforted with lies : my fate 
 Moves fast; I shall come there. 
 
 All is so usual, hour by hour ; 
 
 Men’s spirits are so lightly twirl’d 
 By every little gust of sense ; 
 
 Who lays to heart this common world? 
 Who lays to heart the Ruling Power, 
 Just, infinite, intense — ? 
 
 Thou wilt not frown, O God. Yet we 
 Escape not thy transcendent law ; 
 
 It reigns within us and without. 
 
 What earthly vision never saw 
 Man’s naked soul may suddenly see, 
 Dreadful, past thought or doubt. 
 
TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 You sweet fastidious Nightingales ! 
 
 The myrtle blooms in Irish vales, 
 
 By Avondhu and rich Lough Lene, 
 Through many a grove and bowerlet green 
 Fair mirror’d round the loitering skiff. 
 
 The purple peak, the tinted cliff, 
 
 ' The glen where mountain-torrents rave 
 And foliage blinds their leaping wave, 
 Broad emerald meadows fill’d with flow’rs, 
 Embosom’d ocean-bays are ours 
 With all their isles ; and mystic tow’rs 
 Lonely and grey, deserted long, — 
 
 Less sad if they might hear that perfect song 
 
 What scared ye ? (surely ours of old) 
 
 The sombre Fowl hatch’d in the cold? 
 
 King Henry’s Normans, mail’d and stern, 
 Smiters of gallowglass and kern ? 
 
TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 273 
 
 Or. most and worst, fraternal feud, 
 
 Which sad Iernd long hath rued ? 
 
 Forsook ye, when the Geraldine, 
 
 Great chieftain of a glorious line, 
 
 Was hunted on his hills and slain, 
 
 And one to France and one to Spain 
 The remnant of the race withdrew? 
 
 Was it from anarchy ye dew, 
 
 And foul oppression’s bigot crew, 
 
 Wild complaint, and menace hoarse, 
 Misled, misleading voices, loud and coarse ? 
 
 Come back, O Birds, — or come at last! 
 For Ireland’s furious days are past; 
 
 And, purged of enmity and wrong, 
 
 Her eye, her step, grow calm and strong. 
 Why should we miss that pure delight? 
 Brief is the journey, swift the dight; 
 
 And Hesper dnds no fairer maids 
 In Grecian or Devonian glades, 
 
 No loves more true on any shore, 
 
 No lovers loving music more. 
 
 Melodious Erin, warm of heart, 
 
 Entreats you ; — stay not then apart, 
 
 But bid the Merles and Throstles know 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 (And ere another Mavtime go) 
 
 Their place is in the second row. 
 
 Come to the west, dear Nightingales ! 
 The Rose and Myrtle bloom in Irish vales. 
 
THESE LITTLE SONGS, 
 
 These little Songs, 
 
 Found here and there, 
 
 Single, or throngs, 
 
 Floating in air, 
 
 Springing from lea, 
 
 Or hid in the sea, — 
 
 Somehow or other 
 Have come together, 
 
 I can’t tell how, 
 
 But certainly know 
 
 It never was wit on an inkstand begot ’em 
 Remember the place 
 And moment of grace, 
 
 Summer or winter, springtime or autumn, 
 By sun, moon, stars, 
 
 Or a coal in the bars, 
 
 In market or church, 
 
 Graveyard or dance, 
 
 When they came without search, 
 Were found as by chance. 
 
276 
 
 THESE LITTLE SONGS. 
 
 A word, a line, 
 
 You may say are mine; 
 But the best in the songs, 
 Whatever it be, 
 
 To you, and to me, 
 
 And to no one belongs. 
 
^ES HOT CIHCUi 
 
 A l/ing hc»Wn j W. 
 
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