Ethelstone, Evelihe ' 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 M^? Horace Dobeli* 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 4602.D3E8 
 
 Ethelstone, Eveline, and other peoms; or, 
 
 3 1924 013 453 943 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013453943 
 
ETHEL8T0NE, EYELINE 
 
 AND OTHEE POEMS. 
 
ETHELSTOKE, EVELINE 
 
 AND OTHEE POEMS ('/, /| | 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE CASTLE AND TALES 
 OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 ELIZABETH MAKY (FORDHAJ^ DOBELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF " VEKSTJS A WOKAN, PKO WOMEN, A MAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT MEK, 
 AND OTHEK ARTICLES," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1, PATEENOSTEE SQTJAEE 
 
 1881 
 
(The HgMs <if translation and of reproduction are reserved.) 
 
PEEFACB. 
 
 These Poems were ■written under many vicissitudes, some 
 only the other day, some in years gone by ; some in a 
 solitary room in an old Manor-house ; some in the green 
 lanes of Hertfordshire and Surrey, some in the wide 
 corn-fields of Cambridgeshire — some by the seashore — 
 and some, in the happiest of all places to the author — in 
 a London library, by London lamp-light, surrounded by 
 the roar of London life, and with the sweet companion- 
 ship of a sympathetic fellow- worker. 
 
 84, Haeley Street. 
 
 December, 1880. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Farewell to Odset 
 
 PASE 
 
 3 
 
 The Evening Star 
 
 6 
 
 The Good Phtsioian 
 
 9 
 
 DiBQE OP THE Red Ixdiax Warrior 
 
 14 
 
 Ethelstone (j1 Legend of the Castle} — 
 
 
 lutroductory Lines 
 
 ... 18 
 
 Canto I. ... 
 
 19 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 ... 29 
 
 Canto m. 
 
 39 
 
 Canto IV 
 
 ... 49 
 
 Canto V. ... 
 
 64 
 
 The Lost Star 
 
 ... 79 
 
 An Appfat, to France ... 
 
 82 
 
 A Letter to ... 
 
 ... 85 
 
 Impeomptd Lines on hearino op the Hopeless Illxess op — 
 
 S7 
 
 Thoughts in the Chamber op Death 
 
 ... 89 
 
 EvRT.TNE (J Tale of the Village}— 
 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 ... 95 
 
 Canto n. ... 
 
 108 
 
 Canto in 
 
 ... 121 
 
 THOUGHTFUL MOMENTS. 
 
 The Graves op Three Brothers 
 To Dr. 
 
 139 
 142 
 
VUl CONTENTS. 
 
 FAGE 
 
 Likes to mt Love ... ... ... ... ... 144 
 
 Old-fashioned Pbaises bt a Loveb op Summer ... ... 146 
 
 Treasueed Memories ... ... ... ... ... 148 
 
 Despairing Words ... ... ... ... ... ... 150 
 
 Impromptu Address to Calumny ... ... 153 
 
 POEMS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
 Near the Hoarse Waters op the Deep ... ... ... 157 
 
 The Fisherman ... ... ... ... ... 162 
 
 England's Daughter ... ... ... ... ... 164 
 
 The Fisherman's Bride ... ... ... ... 166 
 
 Murmurs et the "Sad Sea Waves" — 
 
 Murmur I. ... ... ... ... ... ... 171 
 
 Murmur n. ... ... ... ... ... 173 
 
 Murmur III. ... ... ... ... ... ... 175 
 
 By the White Cliffs ... ... ... ... ... 177 
 
 A FEW SONGS OF LIGHTER HOURS. 
 
 The Spiteful Bee ... ... ... ... ... ... igi 
 
 The WAT TVE live now ... ... ... ... ... 183 
 
 Moan of the Discontented ... ... ... ... igg 
 
 A Young Girl among the Chestnut Trees ... ... 190 
 
 Impromptu Lines on "My Uncle" ... ... ... 192 
 
 The Spurious Critics ... ... ... ... ... 194 
 
 Happy Thoughts ... ... ... ... ... ... 197 
 
 Paddy's Invitation ... ... ... ... ... 2OO 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND— 
 
 Introduction ... ... ... ... ... . . 205 
 
 Canto I. 
 Canto II. 
 
 207 
 220 
 
 Canto in. ... ... ... ... _ 234 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 OCCASIONAL PIECES, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The jroTUBat's Pakewell ... ... ... ... ... 249 
 
 The Student's Garret ... ... ... ... 251 
 
 Lutes to ... ... ... ... ... ... 255 
 
 The Dying Girl ... ... ... ... ... 257 
 
 Love! there ake Days ... ... ... ... ... 259 
 
 The Home of mt Childhood ... ... ... 261 
 
 Dreams of the Past ... ... ... ... ... 263 
 
 The Mother and her Three Daughters ... 265 
 
 The Brother Spirits of Death ... ... ... ... 2G7 
 
 More Happy Tuoughts ... ... ... ... ... 273 
 
 A BorxDLESs Empire; or. La Calomnie — the Mighty Empress 275 
 
 A FEW SCEAPS WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF 
 TEN AND SIXTEEN. 
 
 Dying Words ... ... ... ... ... ... 279 
 
 The Mother's Lament ... ... ... ... ... 283 
 
 A Thought ... ... ... ... ... 286 
 
 L'HiSTOIEE SE EfePfiTE .. ... ... ... ... 288 
 
 Peaceftl Reflections ... ... ... ... ... 289 
 
 Moorish BrisiAL Chant ... ... ... ... ... 290 
 
 QuESTioy and Answer ... ... ... ... ... 292 
 
 A Eeflection ... ... ... ... ... ... 294 
 
 CONCLUDING YEESES. 
 
 XaNES to ... ... ••■ •■• •■• ••• 297 
 
 To Woman 299 
 
 Mor.NTNG AND Evening ... ... ... ■•• •■• 300 
 
 The Teil of Night ... ... ... •■• ••• ^01 
 
A FAREWELL TO ODSEY. 
 
 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 
 
 DIRGE OF THE RED INDIAN WARRIOR. 
 
 a 
 
A FAREWELL TO ODSEY.* 
 
 [By one who, passing from the platforms of quiet country life to un- 
 known backwoods in New Zealand, was never heard of again. There 
 was much reason to believe that J. P. was lost in a remarkably violent 
 tempest, while sailing round the coast.] 
 
 FABEWELL=aJQiieLiarewell-l- 
 
 BRBATUM. 
 
 In Note to "A Farewell to Odsey,'' page 3, read, "Supposed 
 to have been written by one," etc. 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! 
 Ere yet a month liath rolled its course away. 
 Ere many setting sims have lit thy deU 
 "With the deep purple of departing day, 
 
 * This and a few others only of the following poems have already 
 appeared in print. 
 
A FAREWELL TO ODSEY.* 
 
 [By one who, passing from the platforms of quiet country life to un- 
 known backwoods in New Zealand, was never heard of again. There 
 was much reason to believe that J. F. was lost in a remarkably violent 
 tempest, while sailing round the coast.] 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! 
 For me, when evening's tranquil hours are o'er. 
 The watch-dog's surly bark, the far sheep-bell, 
 Shall wake the echoes of thy woods no more ! 
 I leave thee, sunny as thou art and fair, 
 I leave thee to thy calm, unbroken rest. 
 My step wiU rouse no more the timid hare, 
 Or scare the brooding partridge from its nest. 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! 
 Ere yet a month hath rolled its course away. 
 Ere many setting suns have lit thy deU 
 With the deep purple of departing day, 
 
 * This and a few others only of the following poems have already 
 appeared in print. 
 
A FAEEWELL TO ODSEY. 
 
 I shall be far, far absent, and for me 
 The curlew's note will henceforth sound in vain ; 
 The fox may haunt the wood or grassy lea, 
 But step of mine wiU scare it not again ! 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! 
 I shall think of thee when the spring returns, 
 Keealling oft-times the sweet, tender spell 
 Of thy rose hedges and thy greenwood ferns. 
 I shall think of thee when the swaUows come, 
 And when thy fairest flowers are in their prime, 
 Not then shall I forget, forsaken home. 
 How beautiful thou art in summer time ! 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell! 
 Full many a happy hour I owe to thee. 
 What time the gentle dews of evening fell 
 On lowly tlower-bell, or on lofty tree ; 
 And birds were hushed in copsewood and in dingle. 
 And voices died upon the summer air. 
 While the deep shades of evening seemed to mingle, 
 And veil the earth for thought, for rest, for prayer. 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell ! 
 I shall remember thee, too, when the night 
 FuU heavily hath fallen, and the swell 
 Of worldly feeling dies — as with the light — 
 
A FAEEWELL TO ODSEY. 5 
 
 When, poring o'er some wild or thoughtful book, 
 Through brightening starlight, when the flitting bat 
 Told of the deepening hour, with dreamy look 
 Beside mine ivied casement I have sat.* 
 
 Farewell — a long farewell 
 To them and thee, and when again we meet, 
 What shall have been no prophet can foretell. 
 Nor how the pulses of our hearts may beat. 
 It may be when the feeble hand of age 
 Hath rung o'er Hope's young grave his dreary knell. ■ 
 Ah me ! that future, weird, mysterious page 
 I dare not seek to read. — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 * This was a beautiful old window, surrounded by ivy, in the western 
 aspect of Odsey House, where J. F. lived. 
 
THE EVENING STAK. 
 
 Star of the eveniiig ! from our deep blue seas 
 Thou'rt passing, with thy beautiful, pale ray. 
 From mossy haunts, and noble forest trees. 
 And castled crags, and ruins wild and gray. 
 Yet linger for one passing moment more 
 O'er scenes of beauty thou hast loved of yore. 
 Though leaves are fallen now and flowers are dead. 
 And summer, with its glorious skies, hath fled, , 
 And summer, with its evening song of birds, — 
 Oh, linger yet to hear my last sad words ! 
 
 For I have loved thee ; for thy smile hath been 
 Upon me in my hours of thought and prayer. 
 When twilight glimmered o'er the wild wood scene. 
 And voices died upon the summer air. 
 And hearts were melted by the softened sound. 
 Or by the thrilling hush of all around, — 
 Then have I prayed beneath those silent skies. 
 My soul were freed from aU its earthly ties. 
 That I might follow in thy train, and see 
 The glorious Footsteps of Eternity ! 
 
THE EVENING STAE. 7 
 
 Through the long hours of night, when others slept, 
 And I my solitary watch 'have kept, 
 When strange, unfathomed thoughts awoke in me. 
 And dreams and hopes of things that might not be, 
 Wild and mysterious as the stirring strain — 
 Aye ! wilder, and as incomplete and vain — 
 A tempest's powerful spirit may awake 
 From deep and thrilling harp-strings, ere they break ; — 
 Oh, then, when the brain's passion-dreams were o'er, 
 Each vision stern Reality had crushed. 
 And I could wish that Feeling were no more, 
 That the deep voice of Life and Thought were hushed ; — 
 Then hath thine image met me, so above 
 All the base conflicts of this mundane spot. 
 Breathing of peace, of gentleness, of love. 
 Of future worlds, of things which perish not. 
 Alas ! I can but grieve that thy soft light 
 Must vanish from my yearning, wistful sight. 
 Perchance to shine on faiier scenes than these. 
 More glorious than our dells and plains and trees ! 
 
 I owe thee much, fair Star ; for thy pale ray 
 Hath often turned my heai-t from earth away ; 
 And through the long twilight, when mists have hung 
 Full densely o'er the pinewood and the hill. 
 And the weird stillness of the hour hath flung 
 A shade of sadness on my spirit — stUl 
 One faithful heart has watched for thy calm smile 
 To glimmer through the storm-cloud's heavy pile ! 
 
8 THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 light eternal ! when my aching head 
 
 And weary heart are resting with the dead, 
 
 May my last hour of peace and quiet be 
 
 In some lone spot where thou mayst shine on me. 
 
 In some green wilderness, some untrod wild, 
 
 Where thou art gleaming, and where God hath smiled ! 
 
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Ax aged man sat musing on the past, 
 EecaJling patiently eaeli recollection. 
 Upon "whose pale and furrowed brow was cast 
 The shade of many caa-es and much reflection. 
 Alas ! tec eai'ly had those eyes grown dim. 
 Too early had that slender form been bent. 
 For life had been a busy scene to him — 
 A task in which his energies were spent. 
 
 A night was falling round him, like the sleep 
 Of Eastern waves when evening is declining. 
 And Heaven seems o'er the world His watch to keep. 
 And stars by myriads on the seas are shining — 
 So calmly on the city's depths it fell ! 
 Unless the dull wheel of some carriage rolled. 
 Far distant, drowsily, or some deep bell 
 The passing hour fi-om a cathedral tolled. 
 
10 THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Musing he sat, recalling, as a dream, 
 The image of a young, aspiring boy, 
 Pacing the streets at mom's most early gleam, 
 "With footsteps light and bright eyes fuU of joy. 
 It might be with that vision in his heart 
 Of future years our childhood only knows. 
 With which too oft in later life we part. 
 And think of, as a phantom, at its close ! 
 
 More than a dream, in truth, of brilliant fame. 
 Of high renown, glowed in that ardent mind; 
 All youth's proud hopes of love, of wealth, of name, 
 Were his ; but even then with these combined 
 Were nobler aspirations, strong, and yet 
 Growing more daily strong, as he began 
 To comprehend the task before him set — 
 To comfort and to heal his feUow-man ! 
 
 That energetic figure bent, at length ; 
 
 That boy's rich hair was scattered now and gray. 
 
 For since that dawning time of youth and strength, 
 
 Near fifty years had rolled their course away ; 
 
 And with the calm but deep regret that age 
 
 So often brings, he sat reviewing it. 
 
 Perusing once again that mystic page 
 
 On which the stories of our lives are writ ! 
 
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 11 
 
 How had those high aspii-ings been fulfilled ? 
 
 How had those lofty dreams .been realized ? 
 
 Had that young heart been early checked and chilled, 
 
 Its efforts failures, its proud hopes despised ? 
 
 Did he, too, in thus picturing his past life. 
 
 And calling back its hours of joy and pain. 
 
 Feel he had waded through a sea of strife. 
 
 Like many men, to find his labours vain ? 
 
 Alas ! whate'er our efforts may have been. 
 
 There stiU must have been much in which we failed ; 
 
 Much guUt and sorrow all who live have seen. 
 
 Against which naught of human power availed. 
 
 And since that youth had left his parents' hearth. 
 
 He, too, had often grieved above the fall 
 
 Of those bright futures, round our earthy path 
 
 Built, fondly cheiished, and then wept, by all ! 
 
 Ah ! marvel not, then, that those fleeted years. 
 
 In giving up again each past event. 
 
 Blinded his sad eyes with unwonted tears. 
 
 And deeper shadows to his pale brow lent. 
 
 But, conquering soon that tender gi'ief, he turned 
 
 From phantasies he long had seen depart. 
 
 To other hopes with which his soul had burned. 
 
 That came back, even as sunlight, to his heart ! 
 
12 THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 
 
 He did a lone and narrow room recall — 
 
 A single lamp that half illumined it, 
 
 A table, like that room, confined and small. 
 
 Whereby a student oft was wont to sit ; 
 
 And where, with books and papers round him pUed, 
 
 He used to study, with a mind untired, 
 
 Until the star of mom upon him smiled, 
 
 Or, in its socket, his dim light expired. 
 
 ISIo useless learning that which he pursued, 
 
 No idle lore engaged his leisure then. 
 
 No wild ambitious hopes his mind amused. 
 
 Untouched, by him, the poet's glowing pen. 
 
 Or, if aught visionary could aUure 
 
 That meditative brow from sober thought. 
 
 No selfish dream at least was his — that cure 
 
 For maladies deemed fatal might be wrought. 
 
 Then, as he pondered, there arose again 
 Remembrance of that student's later life. 
 He saw him bending o'er the couch of pain. 
 He saw him, where disease and death were rife, 
 Applying aU the powers that he possessed 
 To rescue, from a sad or early grave. 
 His feUow-creatures — or to give them rest 
 And passing comfort, if he could not save. 
 
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 13 
 
 Oh ! he, the just and the upright, who can 
 Look back thus on his active life, and feel 
 He had dealt rightly by his feUow-man, 
 And if he failed, yet ever sought to heal ; 
 How must his heart such recollections cheer, 
 GUding the very pathway to the tomb ; 
 To him the thoughts of death can bring no fear. 
 And age, though premature, can bring no gloom. 
 
 So felt that aged man, as he looked back 
 Upon the path he had from childhood trod. 
 And hoped that his had been no useless track. 
 But one that was approved of by his God. 
 And thus, though tottering on the very brink 
 Of man's last home, with a contented breast 
 He could wait patiently the hour to sink. 
 At peace with all men, to his last long rest. 
 
DIRGE OF THE RED INDIAN WARRIOR. 
 
 Go to thy rest ! 
 Not where the taU and calm magnolias bow, 
 Slowly and solemnly each snowy crest ; 
 Beneath the violet-grass we lay thee now ! 
 
 Not where the pine, 
 With dreary sighing, echoed back thy tread. 
 When forest-dwellers made beneath its shrine 
 The ancient sleeping-places of their dead. 
 
 Not where the stream. 
 Beneath the arching wild-vine whispers low. 
 With spirit voices, when the sun's last beam 
 Falls where it bathes thy warriors' dust, we go ! 
 
 To thy dark bed 
 We would not that sad music's wail should come. 
 Nor see men bow the plumed and glittering head 
 In stately march to the deep-sounding drum. 
 
DIEGE OF THE BED INDIAN WAEEIOK. 15 
 
 They mock us well ! 
 With drooping banners, and the hollow sound 
 Long pealing from the battlements, to tell 
 That thou, our brave, at last has ransom found ! 
 
 A 
 
 We do not weep ! 
 Thy brothers have no tears to shed for thee \ 
 Smiling we gaze upon the dreamless sleep. 
 The fetters broken and the captive free ! 
 
 Hither we bring, 
 Ere yet the earth on thy cold brow we lay. 
 Thy boy ! for one wild moment here to cling. 
 In love's first sorrow to thy lips of clay. 
 
 Bend low and near ; 
 Nor sigh nor moan must break our chief's repose. 
 Yet, boy, in thy young heai't be written here 
 A deep and burning memory of his foe ! 
 
ETHELSTONE: ' 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CASTLE. 
 
O ! tell me a tale of the days of old, 
 
 When maidens were lovely and knights were bold, 
 
 And life, with its dull and dreary prose, 
 
 Was brightened by praise of the lily and rose. 
 
 Ah ! what in these modem days avails 
 
 So much of pretentious moral tales ! 
 
 Enough of the Pharisee (not the Saint !), 
 
 Enough of the Hypocrite's blighting taint. 
 
 In the daily paths of our lives we see — • 
 
 So a tale of the old Bomance for me ! 
 
ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Grey Hall of Ethelstone ! far out at sea 
 Benighted vessels steer their- covirse by thee ; 
 Tossed on the surges in the fading light, 
 When nearer objects only mock the sight. 
 Thou, buUt upon the summit of a hill, 
 Through unseen danger guid'st the pilot still. 
 Fair may thy bowers have been, Ethelstone ! 
 Merry with voices silent now and gone — 
 Bright was thy dwelling on a former daj^. 
 Filled with the forms that since have passed away, 
 When, deep in leafy groves, the flowers sweet 
 Bent down at the light tread of childish feet. 
 Now, when the shades of night enshroud the earth. 
 Dim are thy lights, and heard no more thy mirth ; 
 Though ever, at the same late, lonely hour, 
 Is lit a lamp in Lady Ethel's bower. 
 Who, scarce emerged from girlhood, and yet pale 
 With thought, awaits her absent lover's sail ; 
 And thus, through many years, is seen to keep 
 Her faithful watch o'er the Atlantic deep. 
 
20 BTHELSTONE. 
 
 Sole heiress of a wealthy sire 
 She sits unsought and silent there ; 
 And looks, as though the hope and fire 
 Of youth, were quenched in early care. 
 For Ethel has her mother's eyes, 
 Her mother's voice, and pensive brow — 
 That mother, once so worshipped, lies 
 Forgotten with her kindred now. 
 And he who worshipped her bears not 
 The slightest mention of her name ; 
 Dark and unhappy was her lot — 
 A broken heart, an injured fame. 
 But, oh ! in comfort rest thee here, 
 Below the earth's long-hardened crust. 
 For slander shall not reach the ear, 
 Or falsehood wring the heart of dust. 
 And if, poor wife and mother. Time, 
 That sometimes even rights the dead. 
 Hath proved thee innocent of crime, 
 And planted lilies o'er thy head — 
 It matters little now to thee. 
 Sleeping beneath the cypress tree. 
 
 There, near the mother, rests the son 
 One dying of neglect, and one 
 Was lost 'mid all that most endeai's 
 The memory of our youthful years. 
 The father who so rarely smiled, 
 
ETHELSTONE. 21 
 
 Yet brightened, when his favourite child 
 
 Drew near, and all that wealth could give 
 
 Was fondly lavished on his path ; 
 
 Yet, Heaven ! thy chastened sons must live ! 
 
 And by his solitary hearth 
 
 The grey-haired parent sits alone, 
 
 Though all that cheered his heart is gone. 
 
 Untended is the once gay hall, 
 The play-ground now is desolate, 
 And grass and nettles, rank and tall, 
 Grow up and choke its wicket gate ; 
 The moping, discontented hound 
 Howls in his kennel, night and day — 
 He misses the accustomed sound 
 Of voices, calling him to play ; 
 And sparrows in the chimneys build. 
 And ivy climbs the walls at will ; 
 The ancient courts, that once were filled 
 With childhood's laugh, are cold and still ; 
 Long spider's-webs are on the yvaH 
 And ceiling of that little room. 
 Where tinj" bed and playthings, all 
 Are left to dust, and damp and gloom. 
 Poor Ethel ! all her tender care 
 Soothes not her parent's sorrowing mind ; 
 Made harsher still by his despair. 
 He* bids her hence, in tones unkind — 
 
22 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 She turns from him her mournftil bro-w. 
 But where is she to wander now ? 
 Not underneath the chestnut shade, 
 Where, with the lost one, oft she played 
 
 Two weary years have passed away 
 Since that most sad, unhappy day ; 
 And down beside the bubbling spring 
 Where first the primrose glads the sight. 
 And where the fairies form their ring 
 And revel in the moon's full Hght, 
 Beneath the twisted, scented thorn 
 Sits Ethel, in the light of mom. 
 And one, whose bright and rapturous gaze 
 The glorious Hope of youth betrays, 
 Whose eyes so often search for hers. 
 Too eloquent interpreters ! 
 Is near her, sketching her sweet face. 
 Her form of elegance and grace. 
 It matters little whence he came. 
 Nor yet what titles graced his name ; 
 Whatever was his heritage. 
 His brow was like an open page. 
 Whose characters, distinct and bold. 
 Spoke there the spirit, warm and true — 
 Why care, then, Eeader, to be told. 
 How ranked he in the world's cold view ? 
 
ETHELSTONE. 23 
 
 Fairest of all the fairy spots 
 That here th' admii-ing gazer sees, 
 Where hawthorns grow in rugged knots. 
 And shed their blossoms in the breeze ; 
 And where, beside the mossy creek. 
 The water- wagtail builds her nest. 
 Or wild bee, humming, comes to seek 
 The flow'rets that she loves the best. 
 How suited to a scene like this ! 
 To those whose voices love and bliss 
 So soften, that the timid hare 
 Wakes not among the Meadow-sweet, 
 But slumbers even at Ethel's feet. 
 
 Fondly and long the lover lingers 
 O'er each fair line his pencils trace ; 
 There must be magic in those fingei-s. 
 So like, so truthful is that face. 
 First Love ! sweet Love ! ere yet the world 
 Hath chiUed us with its prudent creed, 
 ^^^lile yet the living page is fui'led 
 We afterwards so sadly read. 
 Beneath the stars there cannot be 
 An earthly joy compared to thee. 
 happy youth ; with hope elate. 
 Thy heaven appearing near to view. 
 Thy soul aspu-ing to be great. 
 Thy heart resolving to be true. 
 
24 ETHELSTOXE. 
 
 How is thy breast with rapture moved, 
 
 As, veiled by t^vilight's friendly hours, 
 
 The graceful form of thy beloved 
 
 Meets thee among the greenwood bowers ! ' 
 
 And wandering homeward through the vale. 
 
 While sheep-bells tinkle from afar, 
 
 Thy lips stiU breathe the same fond tale. 
 
 Beneath thy favourite evening star ; 
 
 StiU promising that life shall be 
 
 As tranquil as that tranquil night. 
 
 When even the Night-jar seemed to thee 
 
 A Nightingale, in thy delight. 
 
 Yes — hope that thou mayst realize 
 
 This glorious promise of thy heart ; 
 
 But, ah ! thy brother's mournful eyes 
 
 Have long since seen Ms dream depart. 
 
 He sits beside his lonely hearth — 
 
 Cold — cheerless — loveless — desolate — 
 
 Returning on his homeward path. 
 
 None fly to meet him at the gate ; 
 
 She, once the idol of his youth. 
 
 Even she hath left him there alone, 
 
 His model once of Love and Truth 
 
 To cheer a stranger's home is gone ! 
 
 Awhile, with hearts that warmly beat. 
 Untroubled by an evil doubt, 
 By changing Kghts the lovers meet. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 25 
 
 Forgetful of the Nvorld without. 
 
 A little time that dream dispels. 
 
 As Ethel's faltering footstep tells, 
 
 Her tears, and scarce coherent speech. 
 
 One night, upon the sandy beach ; 
 
 While looking dim and on the wane. 
 
 The moon sets slowlj- on the main. 
 
 This hour they pai-t; ere breaks the day 
 
 Her lover will be far away. — 
 
 " And yet I kneel not at thy feet 
 
 To take the oaths that others swear. 
 
 To vow, that never voice was sweet. 
 
 That never form but thine was fair " — • 
 
 Said Ernest, in a tender tone, 
 
 Pressing her hand within his own. 
 
 " No ; Heaven has given to thee the charms, 
 
 Beside which face and form are vain. 
 
 That make the clasp of these frail arms 
 
 More binding than the strongest chain. 
 
 The soul that lights thy gentle eyes. 
 
 The tender kindness of thy speech, 
 
 Have taught me more of Paradise 
 
 Than all that priest or pastor teach. 
 
 If I am poor and lowlj' born, 
 
 I think thou lov'st me more, not less ; 
 
 When others speak of me with scorn. 
 
 Thy dai'k eyes swim with tenderness. 
 
 Once loved, once deeply loved by thee. 
 
26 ethbLstone. 
 
 I know I cannot be forgot ; 
 Whate'er my future lot may be. 
 This worst of fears will haunt me not. 
 Such perfect faith thy love hath taught. 
 That I have sometimes fondly thought, 
 None who inspired so firm a trust, 
 Could have been formed in kindred dust ! 
 And now I leave thee, love, for Eome ; 
 Alas ! I shall be long from home — 
 Though only till my labours earn 
 For thee so bright and wide a fame, 
 . That, when in triumph I return. 
 Thy father shall not scorn my claim. 
 O Heaven ! this hour instructs too weU 
 The heart that knew not grief before ; 
 Too dear for words or looks to teU, 
 One last embrace, one more — one more ! " 
 
 " Farewell." That last embrace is o'er — 
 But motionless upon the shore 
 Still Ethel, cold and pale, remained. 
 Each nerve of hearing wildly strained 
 To follow still her lover's track 
 By each faint foot-fall echoing back. 
 Yes ! he may trust her, if we may 
 Trust any on our earthly way : 
 Though, through her eyes there often smiled 
 The meekness of a very child, 
 
ETHELSTONE. 27 
 
 The strong attachments veiled below 
 A universe could scarce o'erthrow. 
 While tranquilly there dwelt within 
 The heai-t that worshipped without sin, 
 Such faithful, truthful, pure belief — 
 Such trust in him she loved — her tears 
 Were only those of simple grief 
 In parting from him, though for years. 
 Not what the world would call a saint. 
 But grief had taught her self-restraint. 
 The fluttering breath, the timid sigh. 
 Heard when her lover's step was nigh. 
 The voice, so tremulously sweet, 
 Betrayed how that warm heart could beat. 
 But passion was subservient still 
 To higher powers — to nobler will. 
 It could not slave so pure a soul. 
 Whose high affections sought a goal, 
 A Paradise wherein to live. 
 That passion has no power to give. 
 They who would think to lightly sound 
 A mind so temperate — truthful — wise' — 
 A love that had no human bound, 
 Yet learned not thoughtlessly to prize, — 
 These careless triflers little think 
 How silently, link after link 
 Was joined, to form that loving chain. 
 That life shall never break again ; 
 
28 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 For rather, with a gentle pride, 
 
 A mind so modest seeks to hide, 
 
 From those that gaze with mocking eyes. 
 
 The joys for which it lives and dies. 
 
ETHELSTONB. 29 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " Far, in the calmest hour 
 Of night, the clear, shrill piping of a bird, 
 Resounding from some wreck of Roman power. 
 Oft on the high surrounding hills is heard. 
 For o'er the fallen warrior's buried crest 
 It buUds its lonely, unmolested nest. 
 
 " The statue from its niche 
 Hath been dragged down and trampled in the dust ; 
 The brazen image, and the palace, rich 
 With carving, left to rapine and to rust. 
 These, and the rifled tomb and grass-grown fane, 
 Are all that now of Roman pomp remain. 
 
 " Rome, when her blood-stained hand 
 The flag of Death and Victory unfurled 
 Above the fair homes of some ravished land. 
 Looked, spoke, and felt, the conqueress of the world ! 
 The wreath of laurel binds no more her brow ; 
 Proud empress say, where are thy triumphs now ! 
 
 " Tread reverently — thy tread, 
 wanderer ! is on her mighty dead. 
 Yon wild flowers, with their bells of beauty, hide 
 
30 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 The monument defaced — the column's pride. 
 Men raised them there to tell a tale to us. 
 Nor dreamed posterity would read it thus. 
 
 " mortal ! if a boast 
 Of human greatness e'er thy lips defiles. 
 Remember Rome ! her nation's conquered host. 
 Her noble cities, heaped in ruined piles. 
 So learn humility ; for here below 
 No wiser lesson human hearts may know." 
 
 Thus mused an artist, as the day 
 
 Closed o'er him on the Roman plains. 
 
 And sadly cast upon his way 
 
 The shadows of their vast remains. 
 
 For who, with thoughtful step, has pressed 
 
 The ground where heroes take their rest — 
 
 Where, cumbering the unconscious soil 
 
 Of radiant spring, lies heaped the spoU 
 
 Of temples, human hands prepared 
 
 As dwellings fitted for a god — 
 
 Oh ! who, in human shape, has dared 
 
 To tread the ground that Caesar trod, 
 
 Nor thus reflected, as the light. 
 
 By brilliant stars and planets cast. 
 
 Gave greater magnitude by night 
 
 To these grand records of the past ! 
 
 There — at that hour — the very wind 
 
ETHELSTONE. 31 
 
 Sighs forth, from tombs and emptied urns, 
 Those solemn lessons that the mind 
 So tardily and sadly learns. 
 
 Near the rapt gazer, where the mound 
 Is raised above the bones of those 
 Who rest, however once renowned. 
 In indiscriminate repose, 
 Reclined a Roman girl, whose face 
 Recalled, by its fixed, earnest gaze. 
 Those characters of Roman race 
 So rarely seen in modern days. 
 Her haughty brow, her lofty mien. 
 Might well have graced a Roman queen ! 
 And yet she wore no broidered vest. 
 Her robe was neither rich nor wide. 
 But simply as a peasant dressed 
 She wandered forth at eventide, 
 To gather, with her brother's aid. 
 The sleepj- herds, that idly strayed 
 And cropped the pasture, as it gi-ew 
 O'er tombs whose history none can ti-ace ! 
 Or slept among the flowers, nor knew 
 How memory sanctified the place. 
 
 Descendant of a noble line, 
 Her fortunes with the past were gone ; 
 Her task was now to tend the kine — 
 
32 ETHELSTONB. 
 
 This daughter of an ancient throne ! 
 
 Forgetting never, as her slow 
 
 And stately steps, at break of day, 
 
 Or at the sunset's parting glow. 
 
 Pursued her lone, inglorious way. 
 
 That through her young and restless veins 
 
 Flowed blood of those who scorned the chains- 
 
 The mean and ignominious crimes, 
 
 That mark the race in later times. 
 
 So, living only in the past. 
 
 The shadowy sadness of her eye 
 
 Confessed her spirit overcast. 
 
 By mourning for a time gone by. 
 
 Embittered by the sense of shame 
 
 Now clinging to her country's name. 
 
 Formed in a different mould from hers, 
 Her brother was a bright, young boy. 
 Who had the warm, free pulse that stirs 
 With every passing grief or joy. 
 That evening, resting at her feet. 
 His own within his sister's hand. 
 He mused on dreams, as pure and sweet 
 As those we steal from fairy-land : 
 Or raised his large and lustrous eyes 
 To count each star that lit the skies. 
 And seemed a careful watch to keep 
 Above this kindred world, that lay 
 
ETHELSTONE. 33 
 
 Enraptui'ed on the breast of Sleep, 
 
 Forgetful of the parted day. 
 
 So peaceful was the ah-, that she, 
 
 Who seemed so often sad of soul. 
 
 Sat rapt in some sweet reverie ; 
 
 And yielding to that hour's control. 
 
 She, who so often sang with fire 
 
 The heroes of her native land, 
 
 To-night awoke her silvery lyre 
 
 Ere long, with hesitating hand ; 
 
 While passionate, and with a swell 
 
 Of tenderness, in her most rare. 
 
 Her flute-like voice arose and fell 
 
 To some .iEolian dream-like air ; 
 
 Though something might the ear have caught 
 
 Of bitter self-reproachful thought. 
 
 That mingled sadly with the sigh 
 
 Of her voluptuous Italj*. 
 
 " I hear thee, my heart ! 
 Thou hast aroused me with a sudden start ; 
 And turning from the tombstones, damp and gray, 
 I look up, dazzled by a new-born day. 
 
 " Trembling with unknown fear, 
 Bewildered by a new and sweet delight. 
 Strange melodies are wafted to mine ear. 
 Strange worlds are dawning on my troubled sight. 
 
34 ETHELSTO^^E. 
 
 " Rome ! beautiful in chains, 
 Most god-like phantom of thy former state, 
 I thought my heart was buried in thy plains. 
 Or marble as the statues of thy Great. 
 
 '' I wake thee not again. 
 Thou mournful lyre, with Rome's imperial lays ; 
 I must attune thee to a softer strain. 
 And crown thee now with roses, not with bays. 
 
 " Thy reign of pride is o'er — 
 Roman daughter ! boast thyself no more ; 
 Descendant of the noble and the brave, 
 Alas ! thou, too, art suppliant and a slave. 
 
 " Bend lowly, then, thy knee ; 
 There is a goddess greater than thy Rome, 
 Whose slightest sigh shall have more power o'er thee 
 Than aU the peeans of thine ancient home! " 
 
 Lifting her glowing face to heaven, 
 Such queen-like sadness o'er it spread. 
 Even Ethel almost had forgiven 
 The eyes that there seemed riveted. 
 Then, with a trembling hand, once more 
 MarceUa struck her lyre, but now 
 Her song was fainter than before. 
 And sung with an averted brow. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 35 
 
 " Tell me if thou hast loved, 
 O Saxon ! Something in thy kindling cheek, 
 Thy flashing eye, thy frame so strongly moved, 
 Confesses what the lips are last to speak. 
 
 " Know'st thou what 'tis to feel 
 Such sweet enslavement of the heart and brain, 
 That thou, transported, wouldst not shame to kneel, 
 And kiss the fingers riveting thy chain ? 
 
 " See if thy firmer hand 
 Can tune my disobedient lyre aright. 
 My touch is faltering, and can scarce command 
 The melody of its full tones to-night." 
 
 Ernest's Reply. 
 
 " Fairest of Roman daughters ! 
 Far across the sea, 
 TMiere England breasts the blue Atlantic waters. 
 One faithful heart is watching now for me. 
 
 " Not her's the southern eye. 
 So languishing and bright — 
 'Tis rather like the mildness of a sky 
 Touched by the morning's fii'st, celestial light. 
 
36 ETHBLSTONE. 
 
 " Full many a weary year 
 Her heart hath kept its plight, 
 While summer bloomed and autumn leaves grew sear. 
 Or angry tempests woke the winter's night, 
 
 " But, idol of my heart — 
 Most precious life ! no more 
 Vain, worldly obstacles our fates shall part ; 
 The weariness of thy long watch is o'er ! 
 
 " For soon I see again 
 My native sunny isle, 
 Its cottage homes, its sheepfolds on the plain, 
 Its rivers, gleaming in the sun's calm smile. 
 
 " fair MarceUa, thou 
 And I no more may meet ; 
 Yet oft shall I recall thy noble brow. 
 Thy brilliant eye, thy voice so rich and sweet." 
 
 He fancied that he heard the sound 
 
 Of weeping, but he was alone ; 
 
 He paused, and looked in vain around- 
 
 MarceUa — Flavins — both were gone. 
 
 Far o'er the distant hiUs arose 
 
 The moon, but looking sick and pale. 
 
 And shining through her misty veil. 
 
 Like one subdued by secret woes. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 37 
 
 And Ernest watched her with a sigh — 
 
 His mood was changed — he knew not why ; 
 
 But suddenly there seemed a weight 
 
 To press upon his heart and brain ; 
 
 He felt as though some ghostly Fate 
 
 Moved sullenly across the plain. 
 
 Fortune had favoured his career — 
 
 His path to glory had been clear — 
 
 He stood a victor where, of yore, 
 
 A conqueror had stood before. 
 
 Yet sorrowing voices seemed to fill 
 
 The future with a dull despair — 
 
 A face, whereon was seen the chiU 
 
 Of Death, seemed gazing through the air ; 
 
 Recalling, to his fevered mind, 
 
 The voice and face of one he loved. 
 
 They were but fancies, scarce defined. 
 
 And yet his veiy soul was moved. 
 
 Oh ! oft, in after troubled years, 
 
 Returned that night of spectral fears, 
 
 When, musing on his distant home, 
 
 He stood upon the plains of Rome ! 
 
 O'er the bent flowers and dewy grass 
 A voice of warning seemed to pass ; 
 Faint as the sound of some far bell 
 That catches yet eludes the ear — 
 Sad as the tolling of a knell. 
 
38 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 It mocked yet filled his heart with fear. 
 
 " O thou ! " it mummred, "whose light tread 
 
 Profanes the preciaets of the dead — 
 
 Who grasp 'st at all within thy reach. 
 
 Forgetful what the past might teach — 
 
 Fond, foohsh youth, shall grief and change 
 
 For ever to thy heart he strange ? 
 
 Shall joy and pleasure be the words 
 
 That wake alone thy heart's deep chords ? 
 
 Must all the past portentous signs, 
 
 AE wisdom elder minds impart. 
 
 Be lost within the light that shiues 
 
 Round some fcaid idol of thy heart ? 
 
 Alas ! how little can thy gaze 
 
 Have read of what the wise are shown. 
 
 How little learned of human ways. 
 
 To caU one single heart thine own ! 
 
 Far wiser thou, to stop and pray 
 
 Beside some tombstone on thy way." 
 
ETHELSTOXE. 39 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 His steps are on his native shore, 
 'Tis England -welcomes him once more. 
 There is the grey old dwelling yet — 
 Yon lurid sun, so soon to set, 
 Shines redly on the ivy leaves 
 Now clustering o'er its very eaves ; 
 And there the casement, so well known. 
 Where Ethel used to sit alone. 
 Full many weary years have passed 
 Away, since Ernest saw her last ; 
 And yet he pictm-es her as bright 
 As in that hour of hope and bliss. 
 When first the trembling, loving light 
 Of her pure eyes encountered his ; 
 More timid than the first pale ray 
 Of starlight kissing now the bay. 
 Ere yet the sunset's gorgeous smile 
 Hath faded quite from rock ajid isle. 
 And pausing where laj- heavUy 
 Deep shadows, both of rock and tree. 
 Fond, dreamy memories, that thriUed 
 Not less than hopes of future years — 
 The eyes of Ernest slowly filled 
 
40 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Witt tender and delicious tears. 
 
 There, where the shore is smooth and low, 
 
 'Twas there they parted years ago. 
 
 With heavy hearts, oppressed with sorrow ; — 
 
 'Twill be their trysting place to-morrow! 
 
 But, ah ! he stood not there alone — 
 
 Upon a broken, mossy stone 
 
 Sat one whose gaze seemed calmly fixed 
 
 Upon that distant point of sight. 
 
 Where sky and sea seem intermixed. 
 
 And melt and mingle in the light. 
 
 The moisture of the ocean air 
 
 Unbound her long, luxuiiant hair, 
 
 The winds played gently with each tress. 
 
 As she sat mute and motionless. 
 
 But, when she heard his footstep's bound, 
 
 She sprang up with a frantic cry. 
 
 That wrung his heart, as though the soimd 
 
 Were not of joy, but agony; 
 
 Then, shrinking from his touch, she bowed 
 
 Her pale wild face, and wept aloud. 
 
 One moment's glance had shown that face 
 So strangely marked by sorrow's trace 
 He scarcely knew it for her own — 
 Hope, joy, youth, beauty — all were gone. 
 " How changed thou art ! I did not dream 
 So great a gi-ief awaited me ; 
 
ETHELSTONE. 41 
 
 When dark my future hopes might seem 
 
 I never thought of change in thee." 
 
 Said Ernest, in the weary tone — 
 
 The dull, -unbroken voice of one 
 
 Too stunned by sudden grief to show 
 
 That grief in outward signs of woe. 
 
 " Thou wert to me as some fixed star. 
 
 That still shone brightlj-, though afar ; 
 
 A steady beacon in the dark. 
 
 That gleamed when other lights had died. 
 
 By which I steered my trembling bark 
 
 O'er the fierce breakers of life's tide. 
 
 How changed thou art to meet me thus ! 
 
 It had not been in earlier days ; 
 
 Yon blue sky, bending over us. 
 
 Had then less softness than thy gaze. 
 
 I do not mourn thy faded cheek — 
 
 'Tis not of change like that I speak ; 
 
 It was not for thy girlish brow 
 
 I loved thee, or could love thee now. 
 
 Oh ! if one smile, one tender smile 
 
 Coidd light thy altered face awhile. 
 
 It were more beautiful to me 
 
 Than sunbeam to the pilot, tossed 
 
 Upon some strange, tempestuous sea. 
 
 His anchor gone, his rudder lost. 
 
 Alas ! thou art so sadly changed 
 
 That even thy heart has grown estranged. 
 
42 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 " Speak to me ! if thou hast forgot 
 Our parting on this very spot ; " 
 He added, in a tone more wild ; 
 " If I have only been beguiled 
 By falsehood — if thou wouldst deny 
 The vo"ws exchanged in fonder hours — 
 Forswear them ! I wUl ask not why — 
 Forswear them ! even in sight of bowers 
 Beneath whose listening trees I heard 
 Those mute lips breathe the first, fond word. 
 I could not prize a love so light 
 That storms could change or seasons blight ; 
 And if thy heart be lost to me. 
 However great the pang may be, 
 False love, I only wait to sever 
 The ties that bound us, and for ever." 
 
 " It might be better, for thy sake. 
 Even rudely thus those ties to break ; " 
 Said Ethel, in a tone so low 
 It scarcely reached her lover's ear — 
 So fuU of that fixed, hopeless woe. 
 It chills the very heart to hear ; 
 " It might be better thus ; but, oh ! 
 In anger we can never part ; 
 I cannot leave thee, love, and know 
 I have no portion in thy heart. 
 Hear me ; it is the only boon 
 
ETHELSTONE. 43 
 
 That I have now the right to crave ; 
 We part before the yellow moon 
 Shall rise upon the ocean wave ; 
 But I have first a tale to teU — 
 Yes, then, but not till then — Fareiuell. 
 
 " It will be kinder to be brief. 
 For oft suspense is worse than grief ; 
 I will but lightly touch on years 
 When, in my sad and loveless home, 
 I prayed, but not with bitter tears, 
 For this, our meeting hour, to come. 
 Beloved ! I knew that I possessed 
 AH that thy gifted soul could give. 
 And deemed that none were half so blessed, 
 Who shared the common life we live. 
 I only watched, with gentle sigh, 
 The flowers of summer droop and die. 
 I only hoped, as winter passed, 
 Each long, dark vigil were the last. 
 And there was one sweet hope that still 
 Gilded each hour's sad loneliness, 
 Like some bright watch-fire on a hill. 
 That shines into each dark recess 
 Of gloomy cave and shadowy steep. 
 When darkness broods upon the deep. 
 For, as I dwelt upon some trait 
 Of kindness in an earlier day, 
 
44 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 I hoped there yet would come an hour 
 When, softened by my love and care, 
 My father's dream of rank and power 
 Would melt away before my prayer. 
 I feel, too well, that I might seem 
 To other minds a very child ; 
 But, ah ! it was a blissful dream — 
 'Twas happy to be so beguiled. 
 And when, at last, the phantom light 
 That seemed so tranquilly to burn. 
 And cheer the darkness of my night. 
 Departed, never to return, 
 I only wished stUl thus to rest 
 Deluded, not aroused to weep ; 
 Or wrapt within that dreamless sleep 
 That none could ever more molest. 
 
 " It was a still and lovely eve, 
 And I was wandering on the beach 
 To watch the waters fall and heave. 
 As though they strove in vain to reach 
 The sky, that met them from above 
 With such a smile of golden love ! 
 How brightly that bright hour is fixed 
 Upon my mind ! I scarcely know 
 Why this should be — its close was mixed 
 With so much agonizing woe. 
 But I remember now so well 
 
ETHELSTONE. 45 
 
 How, with the soft and gradual swell 
 Of song, across the listening waters, 
 The voices of our peasant daughters. 
 Blent with the fishermen's rude notes. 
 Would reach me from some wandering boats. 
 While thy dear image o'er me stole, 
 So free from bitterness like this, 
 There could not, in a human soul. 
 Dwell more of gratitude and bliss. 
 
 " So smooth, so level was the sand, 
 I had not heard a step draw near ; 
 And, when I felt a grasping hand, 
 I started up with sudden fear. 
 It was my father's glance I met — 
 All ! heaven, why can I not forget ! 
 I should have told thee, ere tliis day 
 I had refused the proffered love 
 Of him whose castle, tall and grey. 
 Thou mayst distinguish far above. 
 And looking, like a monarch, down 
 Upon the homes of yon fair town. 
 I knew it grieved my father — still 
 I little thought that it could fill 
 His heart with so much bitterness. 
 I saw his pallid lips compress 
 With scorn that shook his very frame. 
 Each time he breathed thy hated name. 
 
46 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 I need not tell thee what he said — 
 'Tis better buried with the dead — 
 Save only, that unless I swore 
 That I would never see thee more. 
 That father's heaviest curse should be 
 The only dower I brought to thee. 
 
 " I tried to speak, but I forgot 
 All common forms of speech or prayer ; 
 I tried to think, but I could not — 
 I only pictured thy despair. 
 The dim ideas that floated by 
 Seemed motes that caught yet mocked my eye. 
 For, at that fearful time, I felt 
 More strange bewilderment than pain — 
 Confused and stupefied, I knelt — 
 Speechless — imploring — ^but in vain ! 
 
 " Thow knowest well — alas ! too well — 
 How changed I am since last we met ; 
 There is no need of words to tell 
 I might forswear thee — not forget. 
 Long, weary years await us now ; 
 So weary, that I need not cast 
 A deeper shadow on thy brow 
 By telling thee of what is past. 
 
 " The autumn leaves were dry and sere. 
 The winds were howling o'er the mere. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 47 
 
 When, in a vault's despairing gloom, 
 
 I stood beside my father's tomb ; 
 
 And felt, within its walls had perished 
 
 The last fond hope my heart had cherished. 
 
 Those lips could never now revoke 
 
 The curse that they so sternly spoke. 
 
 I thought of all those proud domains 
 
 They then called mine — the fertile plains, 
 
 The meadow lands beside the sea — 
 
 What were they now to him or me ? 
 
 Ah ! rather, all that once was glad, 
 
 The fragi-ant heath, the wooded height. 
 
 To me became each day more sad. 
 
 More filled with sorrow in my sight. 
 
 I only knew my bosom burned 
 
 With shame, to think that love like thine, 
 
 A gift so noble, had been spurned 
 
 For such possessions as were mine. 
 
 But yet I cannot be thy bride ; 
 
 For both of us is now despair 
 
 And anguish, even side by side ; 
 
 A father's curse awaits us there. 
 
 Then urge me not ; but if thy heart 
 
 StiU loves me as I would be loved. 
 
 Hear not my bitter prayer unmoved — 
 
 Pity — forgive me, and — depart." 
 
 He calmed, with one angelic look. 
 
48 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 The fearful tumult of her breast ; 
 
 He soothed the shattered frame that shook 
 
 With grief so hard to be repressed — 
 
 Then gently raised her droopiag head, 
 
 And pressed her trembling hand, and said, 
 
 " Unmoved ! O never could I hear 
 
 Unmoved, a prayer from one so dear ; 
 
 Whatever after-suffering 
 
 The granting of that prayer might bring. 
 
 I go, then ; never more to seek 
 
 To see thy face, to hear thee speak ; 
 
 But I ■will stUl return to thee 
 
 In dreams, and wander on this beach. 
 
 To picture joy beyond our reach, 
 
 A joy that now may never be. 
 
 Look up, and let me gaze once more 
 
 Into thine eyes, love, as of yore. 
 
 Hast thou no parting look to give — 
 
 No fond embrace — that I may live 
 
 In after darkened years, and dwell 
 
 Upon the love of this farewell ? " 
 
 The weary watch of many years was o'er ; 
 The light within the chamber shone no more. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 49 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Fair hour of eve ! by angels given 
 To soothe the careworn sons of earth, 
 When sunset leaves its glowing heaven 
 To orbs of an inferior birth, 
 And Labour, looking to the west, 
 Sees that the wished-for hour has come, 
 And, faint and weary, seeks the rest 
 Found sweetest in a peasant's home ; 
 Thou purest balm to those that grieve 
 O'er human weaknesses and crimes, 
 Whose beauty woos the world to leave 
 Its busy thoughts for fitter times, 
 How often, at thy tranquil hour, 
 We feel the past arise again, 
 So vividly as to o'erpower 
 Each colder purpose of the brain. 
 And seem to live once more in days 
 The brightest that we may have known. 
 Made brighter by the magic rays 
 That Memory throws around her own ! 
 
 And yet not always canst thou bring, — 
 hour of holiness and rest ! 
 
 E 
 
50 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 The thoughts that have no secret sting, 
 
 The memories that are only blessed. 
 
 To him, who to thy peaceful sky 
 
 Uplifts so sad and worn a face. 
 
 Thou hast but brought the bitter sigh, 
 
 Thy joys have found no resting-place. 
 
 It is a yoimg yet grey-haired man — - 
 
 That face and form are finely set, 
 
 And yet, alas ! what eye can scan 
 
 Their noble lines without regret ? 
 
 Although we see the mien of one 
 
 Not strange to free and noble thought. 
 
 Both energy and strength are gone — 
 
 Or seem but fitful and o'erwrought. 
 
 The leaden cheek, the fevered brow. 
 
 Of dissipation speak too well, 
 
 And languidly is beating noW' 
 
 The heart that once could warmly swell ! 
 
 He seeks no more the glorious aims 
 
 Whose hopes had made his youth so bright, 
 
 And Friendship finds no nearer claims. 
 
 And Love has lost its purer light. 
 
 And yet, without an envious smart. 
 
 He sees, in happier homes than his. 
 
 The blessing of a trusting heart. 
 
 The sweetness of domestic bliss. 
 
 For never hath he worn the sneer 
 
 We see the disappointed wear. 
 
ETHBLSTONE. 51 
 
 Nor less hath flowed the ready tear 
 
 To soothe another's woe and care. 
 
 There have been times when brighter years 
 
 In all their former hues returned — 
 
 When Sorrow dried her bitter tears 
 
 In fires that on her altars burned ; 
 
 But, ah ! the Genii brooding there 
 
 No earthly hope could long allure, 
 
 His was the acme of despair. 
 
 The grief that scarcely sighed for cure ! 
 
 Most beautiful and young the form 
 Reclining now at Ernest's feet ; 
 But, if that brow be strong and warm, 
 'Tis scarcely womanly or sweet. 
 Alas ! its anxious lines express 
 A fate but thinly veiled by pride, 
 Too dearly won was that caress — 
 Poor maiden ! she is not his bride. 
 We miss the timid, modest glance. 
 The charm of woman's countenance. 
 The downcast eyelids, that express. 
 Yet half conceal, their tenderness ; 
 But nothing of the helpless air 
 That marks her lover's mien is there — 
 Whatever pangs that breast have torn 
 They have been met with equal scorn. 
 To her the retrospect that brings 
 
52 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 The placid brow — the soothing sigh — 
 Can calm no pent-up sufferings, 
 Nor bring the tear-drop to her eye. 
 Unbent — untouched — she thinks to meet 
 The fate that holds her sternly down ; 
 The world that scorns her she can greet 
 With not less proud, disdainful frown. 
 For such an earthly Paradise 
 As that she forms around her now, 
 Who would not leave the purer skies 
 That light the moralist's cold brow ? 
 Thou wildest dreamer ! it is vain. 
 Thou canst not hush the voice within ; 
 Thou canst not break the gnawing chain 
 That links together grief and sin ; 
 Think not this vaunted outward show 
 Is like the peace that thou hast lost — 
 How little that warm heart could know 
 Of aU its love and sin would cost ! 
 Forsaken by thine own esteem. 
 Thy Paradise is but a dream ; 
 It fades ere yet the frailest flowers 
 Have vanished from their summer bowers. 
 And, once departed from the earth, 
 Alas ! it knows no second birth. 
 
 Music and laughter float around. 
 Fair forms and sunny brows are there, 
 
ETHELSTONE. 53 
 
 The hall re-echoes to the sound 
 Of many a soft, seductive air : 
 Young voices that are rich and sweet, 
 And hearts that warmly, wildly, feel, 
 Bright eyes that flash whene'er they meet, 
 With joy they care not to conceal, 
 These are with Ernest — but they wake 
 No chord responsive in his breast ; 
 Whatever form theh" mirth may take 
 He cares not, so they let him rest ! 
 Although the master of that hall, 
 He seems a strange and silent host. 
 His thoughts are far — his spirit lost, 
 Beyond their, or his own, recall. 
 They give the Ijre into his hand, 
 They bid him sing a song of joy — 
 Some legend of a fairy-land, 
 "Where love exists without aUoy. 
 He takes it with a brow unchanged, 
 And, as he lifts his dreamy eye. 
 They mark his mind is stUl estranged. 
 His gaze intent on vacancj*. 
 He sees no more the pi-esent scene. 
 Nor yet Marcella's changing mien. 
 Forgetful of the startled throng. 
 He wakes this sad and solemn song. 
 
54 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 DEEAMS. 
 
 " Dreams ! how they haunt the brain 
 With fantasies as beautiful as vain ; 
 
 The long-lost dead arise 
 And bend on us their unforgotten eyes, 
 
 Until we start from sleep 
 To find them fading into air — and weep ! 
 
 " Forms that so long have lain 
 In marble rest — in undisturbed repose. 
 
 Return to us again 
 With recollections of departed w;oes. 
 
 And bring the bitter tears 
 That wept the sorrows of our buried years. 
 
 " Eyes that the icy hand 
 Of Death hath long since set, unclose again — 
 
 And from a far-off land 
 The absent come, a pale and silent train, 
 
 Whose mild yet tender gaze 
 Recalls the fervid love of youth's fond days — 
 
 " Lips that his cruel seal 
 Hath sternly fixed, again look warm and bright, 
 
 Hearts that no more can feel. 
 Seem wrung with grief or trembling with delight. 
 
 Aye ! all that we can learn 
 Of human life may thus in dreams return ! 
 
ETHELSTONE. 55 
 
 " Yet sad it were, if all 
 We loved should pass for evermore away, 
 
 Shrouded beneath the pall 
 Wliose s6inbre folds conceal then- dread decay — 
 
 'Twere better that once more 
 They thus should visit those they loved before. 
 
 " Yea ! bitter though it is, 
 "\Mien in these mystic dreams some gentle tone 
 
 Recalls a faded bliss. 
 To waken from our joy and find it gone — 
 
 Far greater were the pain 
 To know that love and memory were in vain ! 
 
 " So come, ye shadows pale. 
 From the dim regions where may be thy rest ! 
 
 Not with despairing wail. 
 Or sad hands clasped upon each shadowy breast. 
 Rather with memories of a happier time. 
 When youth was bright and sorrow seemed a crime." 
 
 Hush ! ere the echoes of that lay 
 Die in the spacious halls away. 
 Another voice, of richer sound. 
 Pours its full, glorious notes around. 
 None present those clear accents heard 
 But felt the singer's soul was stirred ; 
 Though, haughty and disdainful still. 
 
56 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 No tremor in her tones was caught, 
 But yet there was a mournful thrill. 
 And oft a vein of bitter thought : 
 Alas ! too plainly they expressed 
 The tortured passions of her breast. 
 
 " Day closed upon the plains of ancient Rome. 
 And they who wandered in the flitting light. 
 Communing with the Genii of the past. 
 Paused silently beneath the wakened stars. 
 And both were young ; and one a youth, whose brow 
 "Was glorified by Hope— yet undeceived ! 
 The other was a maiden, pale and grave. 
 Long used to Sorrow, and not strange to Thought. 
 
 "And timidly she touched, with faltering hand, 
 A lyre that she had loved from early youth. 
 Nor ever, tUi that hour, had tuned to lays 
 More soft than pseans to eternal Rome ; 
 But now her heart was changed, and knew no more 
 The wan enthusiast of forgotten tombs ; 
 Like one bewildered by a waking dream. 
 Her song was faint and tremulous with love. 
 
 " He listened, but his heart was far away 
 In some fair region of the distant West ; 
 Where, by the borders of the sounding sea. 
 Dwelt one as beautiful as morning light. 
 Who loved him with the pure, unshaken love 
 
ETHELSTONE. 57 
 
 So rare among the daughters of the earth, 
 And he was hastening homeward, o'er the wave, 
 To find a home upon her faithful breast. 
 
 " Alas ! the Eoman maiden had a heart 
 Warm as the hearts of old romance — too true 
 For peace or rest. She followed him across 
 The deep Atlantic, and forgot her home ! 
 They met again : the youth was then a changed 
 And sadder man ; like others, he had learned 
 The fatal lesson of this human life — 
 For Hope had been deceived and Love was false. 
 
 " Thou weakest of mankind ' who still recalls 
 And mourns o'er visions that have long proved false. 
 Who still permits a love forsworn to reign 
 The empress of the strongholds of thy heart — 
 How long shall aU the glory of thy youth 
 Be dimmed by sickly fancies from the past ? 
 How long shall summer bloom for thee in vain. 
 And music wake no echo in thy breast ? 
 
 " Far in the loveliness of a fail' land 
 I buried the free soul, that once was stirred 
 By feelings that can find no utterance here — 
 So let it rest, forgotten 'mid the flowei-s ! 
 But thou ! who art a man, yet shaming not 
 To weep the tears a woman can despise — 
 Degenerate son of earth, why slumber thus. 
 Forgetful of the mission of thy youth ! " 
 
58 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Marcella ! never more shalt thou 
 
 Forget the low, the smothered sigh, 
 
 That cools the fever of thy brow. 
 
 And shames the mockery (rf thine eye ! 
 
 But now the lights — ^the guests — are gone— 
 
 The weary hostess sits alone. 
 
 Quenched is that bosom's angry fire. 
 
 Her head droops sadly o'er her lyre. 
 
 And, musing thus, a gentle kind 
 
 Of tremor seemed to thrill her frame, 
 
 As though, upon her darkened mind, 
 
 The dawn of better feelings came. 
 
 With timid steps she seeks the room 
 
 Where Emest oft retires to rest ; 
 
 That chamber now is left in gloom. 
 
 The lamp is out, the couch impressed. 
 
 For ia his once-loved studio, where 
 
 But rarely prying steps intrude. 
 
 He sits in drooping attitude. 
 
 Nor knows what watchful eyes are there. 
 
 And she is softly drawing near. 
 
 Her look is pensive now and sweet ; 
 
 She thinks to drop that glistening tear. 
 
 And seek forgiveness — at his feet. 
 
 Ah ! heaven, what portrait meets her gaze. 
 
 What young and lovely face is this? 
 
 What teUs it of those fatal days 
 
 His memory cannot yet dismiss ? 
 
ETHELSTONE. 59 
 
 How nobly — calmly — sits that air 
 Of wisdom on the brow of youth ! 
 How tender the expression there ! 
 How full of purity and truth ! 
 And if too much of passion lies 
 For perfect rest in those deep eyes, 
 So much of earnest faith and trust 
 To regulate its depths is given. 
 That, if that fragile form be dust. 
 The spirit is inspired of Heaven. 
 
 Alas ! alas! whate'er thy sin, 
 Poor maiden, none, without a sigh 
 Of sympathy, could look within. 
 And read thy heart's fierce agony. 
 As wildly thy scarce conscious hands 
 Tear thy long tresses from their bands ! 
 Thou feelest that thy reign is o'er. 
 That thou hast drained thy cup of bliss — 
 The cup that shall be thine no more ; 
 But, oh ! 'tis bitterer than this 
 To know thy own no unjust fate ; 
 Thine own mad fingers wove thy chain. 
 Thine own mad act hath closed the gate 
 That ne'er will ope to thee again. 
 The world despised — that world wiH now 
 Receive no more thy branded brow ! 
 
60 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 He speaks to her -witli soothing tone — 
 This man whom she hath loved so much — 
 He lays his hand upon her own, 
 She only shudders at the touch; 
 His words fall coldly on her ear. 
 They bring her neither sigh nor tear ; 
 She listens motionless, but seems 
 Like one who only hears in dreams. 
 " Thy heart was happier once ; yes, thou 
 Wert happier on the mountain's brow. 
 While listening to the shepherd's notes. 
 Or tending to thy flocks of goats. 
 Than 'mid the hot and fevered din, 
 The glitter of our halls of sin. 
 Thou hast a mother there — return ! 
 At least thy mother wiU not spurn 
 Her penitent and sinning child — 
 At least thy mother, who hath smiled 
 Upon thy babyhood, whose tears 
 And prayers have watched thy early years, 
 In fond remembrance of those days 
 Will never turn from thee her gaze ! 
 Go then, poor maiden, go and rest 
 Once more on her forgiving breast — 
 Return—" 
 
 "Return; oh ! yes, return ! 
 To some it is a joyful word, 
 
ETHELSTONE. 61 
 
 But in mine ear it seems to burn 
 
 As though a demon's voice I heai'd." 
 
 And, starting from her seeming trance. 
 
 She turned to him th' imploring glance 
 
 That might to tears of pity move, 
 
 But could not win a look of love. 
 
 " Nor home, nor country can I claim ; 
 
 Alas ! they would disown my name. 
 
 But thou, cold heai-t, what dost thou care ? 
 
 What, unto thee, is my despair ? 
 
 I would thou wert no longer dear ! 
 
 I would I had the strength to tear 
 
 Thine image from my mind, and fling 
 
 Away that soul-less, faithless thing ! 
 
 But, oh ! I ovni myself so weak, 
 
 I cannot even hear thee speak 
 
 Of aught that parts us — let me be 
 
 Thy servant, or whate'er thou wilt ; 
 
 But little choice is left for me, 
 
 The slave of love, and worse — of guilt." 
 
 " MarceUa ! no ; 'tis best we part. 
 But not in anger be it said ; 
 For thou hast loved me, and thy heart 
 Hath pillowed oft my sleeping head. 
 I hoped that I might there forget 
 The sorrows of my early troth ; 
 But would that we had never met. 
 
62 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 It had been better for us both ! 
 It is but mockery thus to live — 
 Thou seest I have no heart to give. 
 Farewell for ever." 
 
 " Then farewell ! 
 That word, for thee, shall Ting the knell 
 Of aU that life might yet bestow 
 Of happiness and peace below ! 
 I loved thee weU, unfeeling man. 
 Yet I have knelt to thee in vain ; 
 Thou dost despise me ; but I can 
 Turn, like the trodden worm, again ! 
 I go ; but even as I go, 
 The love of woman leaves thy hearth ; 
 It shall but bring thee tears an.d woe — 
 Not cheer again thy earthly path. 
 FareweU." 
 
 She waits not his reply, 
 But turns to him her dull, fixed eye — 
 Her brow, from which all light is gone — 
 Her lips, now set like lips of stone — 
 Then draws her mantle round her face, 
 And leaves him with a measured pace. 
 He sits alone ; his brow is damp. 
 His hand is trembling, and the lamp, 
 That long a sickly light had cast. 
 
• ETHELSTONE. 63 
 
 Sank, dying, as Marcella passed. 
 It is not for the curious eye 
 To read that soul's dark mystery — 
 So leave him there : the hour is late, 
 The timid stars, that only wait 
 The breaking of another day, 
 Fade slowly in the dawn away. 
 
64 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 Sweet Ethel ! surely time hath cast 
 Few shadows o'er thee as he passed. 
 Thy form hath still its simple grace, 
 The bloom is yet upon thy cheeks, 
 And stUl the same soft, pensive face 
 Thy gentle, tender soul bespeaks ! 
 Alas ! the light within thine eye 
 Is like a watch-fire lit by Death — 
 The leaf that wears the richest dye 
 Falls soonest at the Winter's breath. 
 In vain that brightness would deceive. 
 In vain that young and girlish air ; 
 But, oh ! in reverence let us grieve. 
 For more of heaven than earth is there. 
 
 Down in the village, as the low 
 Of cattle fills the morning air, 
 She wanders, with a footstep slow. 
 As though she loves to loiter there. 
 Whatever tempests have beset 
 The simple pathway she hath trod, 
 They have been meekly, humbly met. 
 Her grief was only shown to God. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 65 
 
 And hers is now th' untroubled mind 
 That suffering, nobly borne, will bring, 
 When earthly love becomes refined. 
 And memory scarcely knows a sting. 
 I once was shown some simple lines — 
 They say she wrote them at this time — 
 I give them here, but not as signs 
 Of either gift or power sublime, 
 But simply to denote the calm 
 That oft so pure a mind attains, 
 When Thought and Fancy bring but balm. 
 And only speak in peaceful strains. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHXTRCH. 
 
 " The village church ! no proud, assuming tower, 
 No lofty spire, it raises to the sky ; 
 It hath no outward show of pomp and power. 
 Attracting haughtily the stranger's eye ; 
 But, often hidden in some shady nook. 
 Its lowly outline, as declining day 
 Gives to the earth the twilight's dreamy look. 
 Mingles with other shapes and fades away. 
 
 " The village church ! it boasts no arching aisle 
 That echoed once the lordly abbot's tread ; 
 The sun that glimmers in with tranquil smile 
 Shines on no monument of noble dead ; 
 
 F 
 
66 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Nor bears it trace of Puritanic crimes 
 Or virtues, to reward the curious search ; 
 The rude, defacing hand of early times 
 Molested not the humble village church. 
 
 " The village church ! its quiet shade it throws 
 Not on the tombstones of the rich and brave, 
 But rather on the scarcely marked repose 
 Of him who slumbers in a peasant's grave. 
 And in its lonely churchyard may arise 
 The earnest accents of a mourner's prayer. 
 Uninterrupted, to the clear, grey skies — 
 The only murmur on the summer air. 
 
 " The village church ! its beUs are loud and clear. 
 Not silvery, as within a city's wall ; 
 But, mellowed by the distance, on the ear. 
 Like fairy melodies their changes fall. 
 The shepherd hears, far off, each swe llin g note. 
 The woodman listens in his wooded fells. 
 And pauses from his work ; for merry float 
 O'erhead the echoes of his native beUs. 
 
 " The village church ! the owl by daylight sits 
 Amid the ivy, as it richly trails 
 O'er the grey walls, and wakes and dreams by fits ; 
 Nor stirs abroad until the daylight fails ; 
 
ETHELSTONE. 67 
 
 For only few and straggling steps pass by 
 To scare it from its green and pleasant perch ; 
 The spot is sacred, and the very sky 
 Salutes with loving snule the Village Church." 
 
 We are forgetting, for a while, 
 How Ethel wanders in the morn, 
 Now leaning on some rustic stile. 
 Now wandering through the fields of corn. 
 And now she rests beneath a tree 
 Bent with the burden of the sweet 
 Ripe mulberries ; but who is he 
 Who kneels so wildly at her feet ? 
 
 They meet who have not met for yeai-s ! 
 And Ethel, whose em-aptured glance 
 Breaks often through her gushing tears. 
 Looks down on Ernest's countenance. 
 Ah ! feebly, faintly, words express 
 The joy of meeting such as this ; 
 The rapture of the first caress, 
 The clasping hands, the clinging kiss. 
 And even if that joy be brief. 
 Like stai-s that vanish as they shine, 
 'Tis worth an age of tears and grief 
 To live in moments so divine ! 
 Alas ! too soon that rapture fled. 
 And faintly, sadly, Ethel said. 
 
68 ETHELSTOKE. 
 
 " Mine own dear Ernest, can it be 
 Thy heart is still so true to me ? 
 It may be sweet to know it thus — 
 To read as clearly on thy face 
 As thou on mine, nor time, nor space 
 Nor circumstance had power o'er us. 
 I can but feel this joy, and yet. 
 Could I now speak in tones of blame, 
 'Twere wiser that we had not met, 
 To learn each other's hearts the same. 
 I fear, beloved, it wiU but add 
 Another sorrow to thy heart, 
 The life that is already sad 
 WUl be but sadder when we part." 
 
 " Speak not of parting ! nay, I can 
 Be calm no longer — let me speak ! 
 Why thus assume me more than man ? 
 I am but human — erring — ^weak. 
 I cannot longer lead this Hfe, 
 This strange, divided life, of ours, 
 I live but on the sea of strife, 
 I am the slave of unseen powers. 
 We have been parted long, and yet 
 How lovely is thy brow — more fair 
 Than when we parted, for regret 
 Alone, and not remorse, is there. 
 How ruby are thy lips ! how bright 
 
ETHELSTONE. 69 
 
 The glow upon thy cheek ! that eye 
 
 Emits such brilliant, fervid light, 
 
 It might have shamed an Indian sky. 
 
 Oh ! my belovfed, when I read 
 
 The life that in thy gaze is clear, 
 
 Well may my heart be wrung, and bleed 
 
 To think upon mine own career — 
 
 So reckless, and so stained with sin, 
 
 The bye-ways that my steps have known ; 
 
 If e'er a holier life I win, 
 
 I shall not win that life alone ! 
 
 Ah ! they who dare to separate. 
 
 And leave the loving to despair. 
 
 And load the buoyant with a weight 
 
 Beyond his youthful strength to bear. 
 
 Must have a dark account to pay 
 
 When human periods pass away. 
 
 Dear love, it was not right or wise 
 
 In thee to aid in such a wrong. 
 
 It ne'er is right to sacrifice 
 
 The loving to the proud and strong. 
 
 I dare to call thee much to blame 
 
 To take that cruel — unjust vow. 
 
 Forgetting I, too, had a claim — 
 
 But yet more wrongs to keep it now. 
 
 Thou wert the anchor of my soul. 
 
 And, oh ! when fiercely torn away. 
 
 Where'er the restless waves might roll. 
 
70 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 They bore me, a resistless prey. 
 Be thou that anchor once again — 
 Restore, reclaim me ! I wiU be 
 What I have sought to be in vain, 
 When separate from love and thee. 
 Is there no fond, persuasive voice 
 For me withia thy heart to pray ? 
 Ah ! Ethel, can it be thy choice 
 To cast thy lover's soul away ! " 
 
 " Beloved, I feel that thou art right 
 In part — that I did wrong to swear 
 A vow that had the power to blight 
 Thy youth, and leave thee to despair. 
 I often feared it might be so ; " 
 Said Ethel, tenderly and low. 
 " Yet, not the less I deem it wrong 
 To break that vow, thus held so long, 
 So solemnly — so sadly given — 
 And kept with so much faith to Heaven. 
 But, oh ! I cannot keep this creed 
 And hear thy voice so wildly plead. 
 I cannot leave thy soul to sink 
 In darkness, or thy heart to break ; 
 Even if it be the sin I think, 
 I wiU commit it — for thy sake. 
 I win be thine ; whate'er betide. 
 My place is henceforth at thy side. 
 
ETHELSTONE. 71 
 
 And if there yet be time to win 
 Such glory back as once was thine, 
 Such peace as once reposed within, 
 Dear Ernest, let that task be mine." 
 
 " if there yet be time ! " this phrase. 
 So touching in its meaning — words 
 So rarely heard in youthful days, 
 How must they wring his heart's deep chords ! 
 No ; nothing hath he heard, or hears, 
 Save this, " I will be thine." Grief ! 
 Stern ruler o'er so many years. 
 Yield him this respite ; it is brief 
 And slowly, with a joy too deep 
 For utterance, up the grassy steep. 
 And through the scented meadow land. 
 Homeward they wander, hand in hand. 
 
 Fair broke the morn, the very flowers 
 Seemed smiling in their mossy deUs ; 
 And joyfully, through woodland bowers. 
 Rang out the merry marriage bells. 
 Lady of Ethelstone ! that day 
 How many gay young girls were dressed 
 In white rosettes and white array. 
 To look their loveliest and best ! 
 Thou wert so much beloved, that they. 
 
72 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 Who scattered roses on thy path, 
 
 Turned oft aside to weep, and pray 
 
 That Heaven might bless thy home and hearth. 
 
 One only, muffled in her hood. 
 
 And scarcely noticed by the rest, 
 
 Despairingly, in silence, stood, 
 
 And clenched her hands upon her breast. 
 
 It was MarceUa ! but whate'er 
 
 The fell design that brought her there, 
 
 The awful grief that closqd that day. 
 
 Turned her revengeful thoughts away. 
 
 The power that seemed to stand before 
 
 Her mad and desperate hand and crime, 
 
 It may be, at that moment, wore 
 
 A form so threatening and sublime. 
 
 It calmed and humbled her ; she went 
 
 Back on her joyless way once more ; 
 
 It might be henceforth to repent. 
 
 It might be otherwise ; but o'er 
 
 Her fate for ever hangs a veil — 
 
 "We guess, but do not know her tale. 
 
 None, who had known her in the flower 
 
 Of youth, beheld her from that hour. 
 
 But, ah ! so many live and die. 
 
 Who take the path that she hath done. 
 
 We yield them but a passing sigh, 
 
 Eemembrance rests with Heaven alone. 
 
 Man, busy with the little stir 
 
ETHELSTONE. 73 
 
 Of his own greatness, lacks the time 
 To track the trembling steps that err, 
 On, down the dread abyss of crime. 
 
 The hour grew late, and soft and slow 
 Closed in the evening ; one by one 
 The clouds, that caught its parting glow. 
 Went down the pathway of the sun. 
 Ah ! never shall that sun arise 
 On earth, to glad again the eyes 
 That watch, with such an anxious gaze. 
 The gradual fading of its rays. 
 And is she — can she — be resigned ? 
 No ; but the sorrows of that mind 
 Heaven will forgive ; yea, even forgive 
 Her momentary prayer to live. 
 The cold, damp shadow of the grave 
 Is closing round her even here ; 
 But, oh ! not for herself that brave 
 Strong heart shrinks back with sudden fear ! 
 For o'er yon sable bier there bends 
 A figure shaken by despair ; 
 Ah ! how that sob her bosom rends — 
 It is her husband weeping there ! 
 And, torn by this strong agony. 
 She turns her pale, despairing face. 
 To meet that husband's grateful eye — 
 To take — to give — the last embrace. 
 
74 ETHELSTONE. 
 
 He knew not then — he could not guess — 
 The world of grief and love expressed 
 In the convulsive tenderness 
 With which she held him to her breast. 
 And knew that on his rapturous heart 
 Her own, ere long, would cease to beat ; 
 That thus, scarce wedded, they must part. 
 To meet — ah ! where and when to. meet ? 
 
 Through twilight's soft and silvery haze 
 Looks down the weU-loved star of eve. 
 For ever, with the same meek rays. 
 Alike for those that joy or grieve ! 
 The owl is hooting from the tree. 
 And Ethel's pale lips move in prayer ; 
 And, sinking at her husband's knee. 
 She rests awhile in silence there. 
 But something like a sigh — a sound. 
 Faint, feeble, fluttering, meets his ear ; 
 And Ernest lifts her from the ground. 
 Like one appalled with sudden fear. 
 And sees, heaven ! what sees he there ? 
 His Ethel's beautiful, warm eye 
 Now fixing in the dull, cold stare 
 Of nothingness and vacancy. 
 
 And all is over now, the hurrying tread, 
 The busy hands that fain would wake the dead ; 
 
ETHELSTONE. 75 
 
 The sound of grief — the glare of lights — all gone — 
 The}'' leave him, by his own command, alone. 
 Ah 1 why is it so much of sorrow clings 
 Roxmd the foud idols that on earth we form ; 
 Exalted, prized, above all hmnan things, 
 Fair in the sunshine, nor yet changed in storm, 
 Yet torn, in one wild moment, from our side. 
 When Love seems victor — Circumstance defied ? 
 Is it that we dare raise them even above 
 The holier smile of an Eternal Love ? 
 Thou heart-bereaved ! when in the grave they lay 
 The form so madly loved as more than clay. 
 They bury there thy hopes, thy joys, but oh ! 
 Curse not the fate that leaves thee still below ; 
 Plant thou the cypress o'er that grave — and wait : 
 God hears the Meek, and cheers the Desolate. 
 
THE LOST STAR 
 AN APPEAL TO FRANCE. 
 
 A LETTER TO . 
 
 IMPROMPTU LINES ON HEARING OF THE 
 
 HOPELESS ILLNESS OF . 
 
 THOUGHTS IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 
 
THE LOST STAR. 
 
 Farewell ! fai-ewell ! my dream of tliee is o'er, 
 And I may watch and weep for thee, but never 
 Look on thy pale, unearthly beauty more ; 
 Thou'rt gone from this sad world of mine for ever. 
 Withia our shadowed sky thy place is dark, 
 And there are few that vacant place to mark — 
 Few in whose mind thy light wiU dwell, as when 
 Thou wert beloved, admired, and sought by men. 
 The world revereth not departed things, 
 But, turning from the thoughts theii' memory brings, 
 Lost in some future vision, dares to tread 
 O'er the green mould, remembering not the dead ! 
 True ; but it may be folly thus to 3'earn 
 O'er dreams that may not to the heai't return. 
 To touch the notes of song that thi-ill no more 
 ^\"ith that deep sweetness they possessed of yore. 
 Oh ! now that I no more can strike the lyre 
 With prophet's daring hand or poet's fire, 
 Now that my soul is faint, my hand unstrung. 
 And o'er the heart its own wild hopes have wrung. 
 
80 THE LOST STAR. 
 
 There pass no images of love and light. 
 
 To gild the darkness of its heavy night, 
 
 'Twere better that its music were forgot 
 
 Than waken thus to quiver and to die. 
 
 All harsh and unmelodious ; but I 
 
 Have prayed I might forget, and — I could not ! 
 
 Why, in thy lofty beauty, hast thou passed 
 
 Without one lingering look, one pitying ray, 
 
 To be remembered, treasured as thy last. 
 
 When thy bright dweUing-place is far away ? 
 
 Have I, then, watched thy gentle light so long, 
 
 And loved thee with a love too true and strong ? 
 
 Not as with passion of an earthly stamp. 
 
 That, like the blue flame of a quivering lamp. 
 
 Through the deep stillness of the summer air, 
 
 While midnight skies are clear, bums bright and fail'. 
 
 Then, when the change and the wild storms come on, 
 
 One last expiring flash, and it is gone ! 
 
 No — I have loved thee with a love unshaken. 
 
 Through storm and sunshine — yet am thus forsaken ! 
 
 Oh ! I, who though a dweller on this earth. 
 
 Have turned from the light words of hoUow mirth. 
 
 And marked the thoughtless brow — the wanton eye — 
 
 To feel they had but little sympathy 
 
 To touch my heart ; must I, then, never know 
 
 The speaking gaze, the soft and thrilling tone 
 
 Whose secret speU binds heart to heart below ? 
 
THE LOST STAR. 8] 
 
 Are these things shut from me — and me alone ? 
 Ah ! must I never see the dark eye melt 
 With that fond feeling kindred hearts have felt, 
 Though loving still with that deep, burning swell 
 Of thought and feeling words can never tell ? 
 
 I would have died— have suffered all — for thee 
 Had there been but one echo in thy heart; 
 Had there been but one kindly thought for me, 
 I could have borne to see thee e'en depart ! 
 But there was none — thou wert so far removed 
 From the low, humble sphere wherein I dwell ; 
 And I did wrong to love as I have loved. 
 My heavy grief I have deserved too well. 
 Alas ! the Hand that hath created thee 
 Hath made thee beautiful, but far from me ! 
 It was not wise to love so bright a ray — 
 To seek from mine own trodden path to stray. 
 My recompense is now in bitter tears — 
 All that is left, a grief of many years — 
 The cruel knowledge that I did but rave 
 To think that pale and peaceful light of thine 
 For ever on mine earthly path would shine ; 
 It will not even gleam upon my grave ! 
 
 Once more, Farewell ! My dream of thee is o'er. 
 And I may watch and weep for thee, but never 
 Look on thy pale, unearthly beauty more ; 
 Thou'rt gone from this sad world of mine for ever ! 
 
 G 
 
AN APPEAL TO FRANCE. 
 
 I WOULD not seek to argue with, thee, France ! 
 
 The sophist's triumph never lit my brow ; 
 
 And if it had, but small would be the chance 
 
 Against one famed for subtilty as thou ; 
 
 But to thy feelings, to thy heart, I would 
 
 Appeal, even in thy present angry mood ; 
 
 For thou hast much withia thee true and good, 
 
 Mixed with the recklessness of thy half-southern blood. 
 
 I would not argue of decree or law. 
 
 But to thy past experience appeal ; 
 
 Thy right to right thyself dispute not, nor 
 
 Bid thee for monarehs more respect to feel ; 
 
 For there may be oppression we know not. 
 
 I would not wish thee tamely to submit ; 
 
 Thou may'st mean well, but hast thou then forgot 
 
 Thou canst not quench, at will, a flame so madly lit ? 
 
 Hast thou no other method of redress 
 Than that fierce weapon now upraised by thee ? 
 Must, then, the cry of terror and distress 
 Follow the steps that seek for liberty ? 
 
AN APPEAL TO FRANCE. 83 
 
 Alas ! in these " enlightened " times, must still 
 
 The trumpet's peal sound o'er the startled earth, 
 
 Thy daughters' eyes with tears of anguish fiU, 
 
 From fear to what dark woes its echoes may give birth ? 
 
 Yes ! " Mourir pour la patrie i " be thy cry, 
 
 Yes ! battle — but against a foreign foe. 
 
 Lift not thy warlike arm so madly high, 
 
 Against thyself must now rebound that blow ! 
 
 Go forth into the battle if thou wilt ; 
 
 Thou hast brought out thy sword — gird on that sword — 
 
 But not by thee a brother's blood be spilt. 
 
 Or dare not let thy country be the rousing word ! 
 
 I would remind thee of a time gone by, 
 When a dark curse had fallen on thy land, 
 And nations looked upon thee with a sigh. 
 Or pointed at thee with deriding hand. 
 I would recall to thee a fatal tale 
 By gory fingers on thy annals traced — 
 I would recall to thee a long, sad wail. 
 That rang then, shuddering, o'er thy country's ghastly 
 waste ! 
 
 Forget it not ! that cry so madly wild 
 Against thee, unto God in judgment rose ; 
 Forget it not ! thy hearth was then defiled 
 By all the crimes that man's dark bosom knows. 
 
84 AN APPEAL TO FEANCE. 
 
 Remember if — as in that hellish time — 
 Thou dost pretend oppression's bonds to free, 
 Yet loosen but the chains of rage and crime. 
 Great was the punishment and great again shall be ! 
 
 [Note. — These lines were written one evening, on hearing the mmoar 
 of a fresh Eevolution in France — happily a false one.] 
 
A LETTER TO 
 
 They who have o'er thee watched, year after year. 
 
 They who have prophesied Life had in store 
 
 For thee a brilliant and a high career. 
 
 Now tm-n aside and silently deplore ! 
 
 They who once loved to watch thy lofty brow, 
 
 Now shame to see the change that guilt hath wrought. 
 
 Why was thy faith so lightly shaken — thou 
 
 Forgetting all thy lips were early taught ? 
 
 I knew thee once as one of nobler mind — 
 
 Thou wert not, once, ungentle or unkind, 
 
 Thou loved'st me then — dost thou remember how ? 
 
 Those days were happy — art thou happier now ? 
 
 Those summer evenings — do they haunt thee not ? 
 
 Those pure amusements — are they quite forgot ? 
 
 Thy youth's bright ^'Lsions — have they all passed by. 
 
 Demanding no remembering hours ? And I — 
 
 Have I, too, loved thee with a love unshaken, 
 
 So long, so fondly, to be thus forsaken ? 
 
 Could I have lifted, once, the heavy veil 
 
 That hides the future, and have learned thy fate. 
 
 Could I have read the dark and bitter tale. 
 
86 A LETTER TO . 
 
 Whose later knowledge leaves me desolate. 
 
 Have known that thou wouldst tarnish thus thy youth, 
 
 Forgetting all thy lips had learned of truth. 
 
 To be a scoffer, with unholy men, — 
 
 I had not loved thee as I loved thee then ! 
 
 But go ! I have forgiven thee — ^my heart 
 Pities, hut hates not, even the thiag thou art. 
 I loved with too much truth to wish thee ill, 
 Too fondly not to sorrow for thee stiU. 
 Go ! but remember that though now thy name 
 I hear not uttered but with tears of shame. 
 And from mine heart thine image seek to wring, 
 Day after day, as but a worthless thing, 
 Remember stiU, if, in some distant days, 
 The world should grow distasteful to thy gaze. 
 Turn from its tinselled scenery once more. 
 To all that thou so fondly loved before — 
 A lesson bitter, but yet wise to learn — 
 Oh, fear thou not reproach from me — Return I 
 I will not welcome thee as many would. 
 Not with cold counsels of the sternly good 
 Win I receive thee, nor with saddest tears 
 Watch o'er the close of thy embittered years ; 
 But from the world to which thy chains were fast 
 Lift up thy heart to hope — to heaven — at last ! 
 Soothing thy restless spirit to repose. 
 Till o'er us both the grave in peace shall close ! 
 
IMPROMPTU LINES ON HEARING OF THE 
 HOPELESS ILLNESS OF . 
 
 They tell me thou art dying, while the sound is on the 
 
 breeze 
 Of the hum of manj- beetles, of the wild birds in the 
 
 trees ; 
 While those tliat watch beside thee with heartbroken 
 
 murmurs pray 
 That the hand of the Destroyer yet a greater Hand shaU 
 
 staj^. 
 
 ! thou friend of many seasons, oh ! thou faithful friend 
 
 of years, 
 
 1 cannot hear thy fate without the rush of bitter tears ! 
 The calm walks of our girlhood ai-e returning to my 
 
 mind, 
 T\Tien spring's bright gladness faded, or the summer's 
 
 sun declined, 
 When we strolled beneath " our & trees," with soft moss 
 
 beneath oui- feet. 
 And the smell of eai'ly roses and of new-made hay was 
 
 sweet ; 
 
88 IMPROMPTU LINES. 
 
 And when you went wandering onwards with a closer 
 
 friend than I ; 
 Ah ! those days of early friendship whose dear memories 
 
 cannot die ! 
 
 Companion, wife, and mother, all in one brave heart 
 
 combined, 
 Few had thy powers of soothing, or thy gentleness of 
 
 mind; 
 No words of careless mockery our friendship ever marred, 
 Thy sympathy was certain — e'en reproof was never hard. 
 In illness you remembered me with all a sister's kindness, 
 And my faults you treated leniently, with more than 
 
 sister's blindness. 
 We, who may follow, well may wish so pure a close as 
 
 thine 
 To Life's long wearj'^ pilgrimage — 'tis we who must 
 
 repiae ; 
 While we tread the arduous path that thou so patiently 
 
 hast trod, 
 And remain below to mourn thee, thou wilt be at peace 
 
 with God ! 
 
 [Note. — Mrs. and I had always been devoted and unwavering 
 
 friends, through circnmstanceB of great family diificulty, and it may 
 interest some to know that she dictated an answer to these lines, 
 which were read to her shortly before her death; which answer I 
 presei-ve as the last memento of a faithful friendship, among my best 
 treasures, and from which I may quote one passage, dear for its thought- 
 ful kindness : " Thanks for your beautiful lines, which read to me. 
 
 Tour and your husband's friendship have always been the greatest 
 comfort to me."] 
 
THOUGHTS IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 
 
 Men pass it by — that solitary light 
 
 That shines from Death's sad chamber through the night. 
 
 Nor ask they why it glimmers there so late ; 
 
 The grief within is hopeless, desolate ! 
 
 In loneliness our vigil must we keep, 
 
 The stars look on, but marvel why we weep. 
 
 There is no sympathy in outward things 
 
 With the deep woe that oft the human bosom wrings. 
 
 So, as with sinking heart and heavy eye. 
 We sit and watch beside the untrimmed lamp. 
 And listen to the sufferer's deep-drawn sigh. 
 Or wipe from his cold brow Death's fearful damp, — 
 There cometh in a bright and sudden ray 
 Through the half-opened shutter, as of day. 
 Lighting the chamber with a vivid smile — 
 Draw softly back that curtain — morning breaks, the 
 while! 
 
90 THOUGHTS IN THE OHAMBBE OF DEATH. 
 
 It is a moonbeam ; suUenly and slow 
 
 The heavy clouds from night's fair planet roU, 
 
 And night is glorious, yet we feel as though 
 
 That glory were a weight upon the soul. 
 
 The stars shine out as brilliantly as when 
 
 In summer-time the clouds are aU forgot. 
 
 Yet shrink we from their beauty, as from men 
 
 Who pass us by in joy and know our sorrow not ! 
 
 There is a weary sadness in this life. 
 
 That all must feel, yet none with us can share ; 
 
 The heart that wars most boldly with its strife, 
 
 Trampling most proudly on its stem despair, 
 
 Yet sinks beneath that seeming lesser ill. 
 
 That Cometh as a twilight o'er the heart ; 
 
 For something beautiful and holy, still 
 
 With its deep melancholy claims a kindred part. 
 
 Alas ! the consciousness of life's decay. 
 E'en when by beauty's side, fills us with awe. 
 And we would faiu that knowledge fling away — 
 In some loved form forget its fatal law. 
 Reluctant — nay, refusing oft — to learn. 
 From the duU fading eyes of Death we turn. 
 For something unto which the heart may cling 
 In fearlessness to love, as an immortal thing ! 
 
THOUGHTS IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 91 
 
 Yea ! we unto ourselves a world would make, 
 Unlike the one we live in ! peopling it 
 With forms decay knows not, for whose sweet sake 
 To live, with whose fond feelings oui-s to knit ; 
 Fearing no more that, when we love them most. 
 Beneath their fair young feet may yawn the tomb. 
 That when we call them ouis, with love's sweet boast, 
 E'en then they maj- depart and leave the world in gloom ! 
 
 Vain fancy 1 near the spot where Death is shrouded. 
 The wild flowei-s bloom and deck the mossy stone ; 
 Their blue-bells, like a summer sky, unclouded — 
 '•■ Within, but not without. Death ! is thine own." 
 So sing we, while the summer da.js are ours — 
 Alas ; those days depart, and we awake, 
 And find we did but dream ; the fair, young flowers 
 Depart, and all but Death that silent mound foi-sake. 
 
EVELINE: 
 
 A TALE or THE VILLAGE. 
 
" Tarn Thee unto me, and have mercy npon me ; for I am desolate and 
 afflicted." — Psalm xiv. 
 
 " I looked for some to take pity, bnt there was none ; and for 
 comforters, bnt I found none." — Psalm lxix. 
 
EVELINE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 It \ras the closing of a day in spring, 
 
 The herdsman led his cattle to the stream, 
 
 The swaUow caught upon its glancing wing 
 
 The ti-anquil glory of the last sunbeam. 
 
 Meanwhile, the wind, that o'er an English vale 
 
 Wafted the breath of the departing hours, 
 
 Told all it passed the same delicious tale 
 
 Of hidden violets and acacia flowers. 
 
 That vale was little known, and meet for him 
 
 Who loves to dwell beneath a placid sky ; 
 
 Its simple rustic dwellings — calm and trim — 
 
 Had even made Ambition heave a sigh. 
 
 The loft}^ hills, that shut it fi-om the world, 
 
 "Were clothed with giant trees, of age unknown ; 
 
 The quiet smoke that through their branches curled, 
 
 Arose from village cottages alone. 
 
 No haught}' noble built his mansion there. 
 
 Nor pride, nor fashion marred its sanctitude ; 
 
 Twas too remote from City heat and glare. 
 
96 EVELINE. 
 
 For wealth's delusive pleasures to intrude. 
 
 The villager went forth upon his way. 
 
 As morning starlight faded on his path ; 
 
 Retumiag, at the closing of the day, 
 
 To seek contentedly his humble hearth. 
 
 No dazzling dreams his peace of mind destroyed. 
 
 For him the present day sufficed alone, 
 
 Its unbought pleasures cahnly he enjoyed, 
 
 Nor prayed for life less toilsome than his own. 
 
 One spot within this beautiful retreat 
 Was yet more fair, more peaceful than the rest, 
 The flowery turf felt softer to the feet. 
 The ring-dove cooed securely from her nest. 
 And there — beneath the branches of a wood. 
 That formed a graceful background to the glade — 
 The low-thatched cottage of a peasant stood. 
 Embowered, like some fond secret, in the shade. 
 That evening, listening to the sighing leaves, 
 A maiden sat beneath its lowly eaves ; 
 And with her earnest eyes intently raised. 
 Through long green avenues of beech trees gazed, 
 To mark how far the mountain shades were thrown 
 Across the village that she called her own. 
 In truth she was a village child, though thought 
 Shone through her gaze no rustic life had taught. 
 'Tis rarely that we meet with eyes like those — 
 They spoke not of unrest or of repose — 
 
EVELINE. 97 
 
 Not wild and yet not quiet — ^but their glance 
 
 Inspired a feeling even of awe — as though. 
 
 Through the soft bloom of that young countenance, 
 
 Spoke the stern prophecy of future woe. 
 
 Yet ever, as the rolling year passed by, 
 
 Had Eveline, with careless hand and light. 
 
 Gathered the flowers beneath a smiling sky. 
 
 Or watched for glow-worms through the summer night. 
 
 The sun that rose behind the eastern hill. 
 
 Each morn awoke her with its early rays. 
 
 To seek some solitary spot, and fill 
 
 Its listening depths with her clear hymn of praise. 
 
 The same bright sun had shone upon her path, 
 
 As hastening homewards in the evening hours, 
 
 She crossed the greenwood to her humble hearth. 
 
 Her fragile basket filled with fruits or flowers. 
 
 And yet at times a gentle sadness played 
 
 Aroimd her beautiful and childlike mouth — 
 
 A something that no English birth betrayed, 
 
 A look of the soft languor of the South, 
 
 A pensiveness that scarce was grief, and yet 
 
 Too often showed itself in sighs and tears : 
 
 Those eyelids, too, with their long fringe of jet, 
 
 Drooped somewhat painfully for her young years. 
 
 'Tis said there was a gossip-loving dame. 
 Who, o'er her tea, used often to relate 
 How Eveline from foreign climates came ; 
 
98 EVELINE. 
 
 And how her parents met some fearful fate. 
 
 And left a little orphan girl below. 
 
 To weep o'er an inheritance of woe. 
 
 So she was sent across the sea, to find 
 
 A sweet, though simple, home — ^and friendly smile. 
 
 From one to whom her parents had been kind. 
 
 When once they visited the English isle. 
 
 Alas ! this good old friend the livelong day 
 
 Would spend in chatting with some neighbouring crone, 
 
 So left her tender charge to steal away 
 
 Far — ^far into the woods, and muse alone. 
 
 FuR oft in their warm shadows she beguiled 
 
 The weary hours by some too glowing thought, 
 
 Then once agaia resumed the playful child. 
 
 And garlands for her lambs, of woodbine wrought. 
 
 The very bird, that in the deep hedge-row 
 
 Built its neat nest with carefulness and pains, 
 
 So that no eye except its own might know ; 
 
 The goat that browsed along the grassy lanes, — 
 
 She called her friends ; and oft she could rejoice 
 
 In such companions, when no human voice 
 
 Found echo in the young and thoughtful mind 
 
 That secretly for love more kindred piued. 
 
 For though she loved the summer-time — ^the sweet 
 
 Green earth, and the blue sky that bent above — 
 
 The warm fond heart that in her bosom beat, 
 
 Stni whispered her there was a deeper love 
 
 Than that which filled her dark eye with the tear 
 
EVELINE. 99 
 
 Of pity, for the dying flower or bird ; 
 
 And passions strong as death, which have their sphere 
 
 Where the great voice of human life is heard. 
 
 As summer skies grew warmer, she forsook 
 All old and well-worn tracks — and wiled away 
 The long soft evenings by some lonely brook, 
 Wliere she could watch the water-birds at play ; 
 And throw them crumbs betimes — then start to feel 
 That tears were slowly gathering in her eyes. 
 And wonder grief upon her heart should steal. 
 In such fair scenes, and under such fair skies ! 
 Then, when the sorrow of the desolate 
 O'erpowered her with its weariness and weight, 
 The maiden, with a timid step, would seek 
 For comfort in the village homes around. 
 Alas ! that delicate and lily cheek, 
 That voice so low and tender in its sound. 
 Found not its likeness or its echo thei-e. 
 Though, with most sympathizing ear, she sat 
 And listened to the matron's tale of care. 
 Or joined the rustic maidens in their chat. 
 There was not one to hear her tale — the breast 
 On which her young and artless head might rest, 
 However gentle, was too unrefined 
 To feel or soothe the troubles of her mind. 
 
 So passed her Kfe away, till o'er her head 
 
100 EVELINE. 
 
 Her seventeenth uneventful year had sped. 
 
 For winter came and wenb, and spring-time flung 
 
 Her spells again upon the earth, and hung 
 
 Festoons of blossoms on each verdant bough ; 
 
 And where those flowers were freshest and most fair 
 
 The maiden sat, and one with youth's smooth brow, 
 
 Dark and yet beautiful — sat also there. 
 
 They met at first by chance — some fancy took 
 
 A tourist's footstep to a shady lane. 
 
 As Eveline sat musing by the brook — 
 
 We need not marvel that they met again. 
 
 The slender stream that murmured at their feet 
 
 Reflected now two faces — one was sweet, 
 
 The other noble, with a look of fire. 
 
 That seemed in his companion to inspire 
 
 Already that wild worship, which we see 
 
 Bend oft to human deity the knee. 
 
 There was a fascination and a spell 
 
 About him, that enslaved her but too well. 
 
 The self-possessed, insinuating air. 
 
 That marks a man to whom the world is known — 
 
 That eloquence of language, rich and rare. 
 
 That voice, persuasive, musical in tone — 
 
 And lastly, those deep eyes that flashed with light — 
 
 Were scarcely gifts her maiden heart could slight. 
 
 So as he spoke her deep eyes she would raise. 
 
 And gaze on him with childhood's artless gaze. 
 
 That, fears no scrutiny, and knows no sin. 
 
EVELINE. 101 
 
 The while he watched that open face, therein 
 To read each new idea and passing thought, 
 That in their jet unsullied loveliness, 
 Though free as air, unstable and self-taught. 
 Were such as angels might have dared confess. 
 He read that unto him the power was given 
 Of forming her young mind — ^the power to make 
 A pure and tender spirit fit for heaven. 
 Or chained to sin and sorrow for his sake. 
 Alas ! her fate is common — the world hears 
 Of such too often to be moved to tears. 
 Our glance may scarcely linger as we pass, 
 Our footsteps pause not as we hasten by 
 The very mound of stones and untrimmed grass. 
 Beneath whose weight a broken heart may lie. 
 
 Not yet he spoke of love, but rather led 
 Her fancy by the tales of old romance ; 
 And over all the glow of love he shed. 
 By tender accent and impassioned glance. 
 Or with an altered look and graver tone. 
 He told her of the far-famed Indian war ; 
 Spoke of the victories led by him alone, 
 Till Eveline looked up to him with awe. 
 Next changed the subject, with a ready wile. 
 To paint the beauties of the sea and land ; 
 So made her weep with him, or sigh, or smile. 
 Till heart and soul were both at his command. 
 
102 EVELINE. 
 
 And oft he gathered wild flowers of the field. 
 Or pulled such mosses as the forests yield, 
 And sat down at her feet, to shox how fair. 
 How wonderful ia form and hue they were. 
 Then, lastly, as the evening hours grew dim, 
 And cottage lights were gleaming from afar, 
 He wooed her to remain and watch with him, 
 WhUe he would name to her each gentle star. 
 That when the shades of night fell dark and low. 
 Came forth into the cool and placid sky ; 
 And as the leaves above them shook, even so 
 Shook EveKne beneath her lover's eye. 
 
 'Tis known not what the village matrons said. 
 It may be that the lovers used to meet 
 Where boughs hung closely round and overhead. 
 So none had penetrated their retreat. 
 'Tis certaiQ that her lover's noble name 
 The maiden never breathed — the modest shame 
 That flushed a cheek so generally pale, 
 Ee-closed her lips when trembling with the tale. 
 What need had she of counsellor or aid. 
 How could it be a sin that she was loved 
 By one who seemed a god on earth, and made 
 To glorify the world in which he moved ? 
 Ah ! they alone whose true love knew no strife. 
 Who trusted with a trust that could not fail, 
 Can dream how sunny must have been her life. 
 
EVELINE. 103 
 
 That one short period of her mournful tale. 
 
 We mark too often by our sighs and tears, 
 
 The changing seasons of our life's few years ; 
 
 To her. Time had no changes, save in this. 
 
 That each day brought a fuUer cup of bliss. 
 
 'Twas often said, that never English year 
 
 Had boasted skies more beautiful or clear. 
 
 The spring was full of blackthorn and of may — 
 
 The summer had a brilliant Southern look — 
 
 And flowers sprang up beside the village way. 
 
 And water-lilies blossomed in the brook. 
 
 Until the streams and woods were studded o'er 
 
 With glorious plants that none had seen before ! 
 
 To them — the youthful lovers — each new day 
 
 Brought forth some pleasm-e dearer than the last. 
 
 And as each gorgeous evening stole away. 
 
 More like a dream of fairyland it passed. 
 
 Yet the Elysium of that summer air 
 
 Dwelt not to them within the flowers or skies. 
 
 The spell that breathed such strange enchantment there. 
 
 Spoke in the tender glances of their eyes. 
 
 The summer grew more sultry, and the flowers 
 Drooped their pale blossoms in the hot noontide. 
 And waited patiently for evening hours, 
 Ere, bathed by the cool dew-drops, they revived. 
 And languid as the flowers the maiden sat. 
 Beneath the graceful willows of the brook. 
 
104 EVELINE. 
 
 While o'er her face she drew her rustic hat, 
 
 To hide it from her lover's ardent look. 
 
 For lo ! he speaks to her of love, and now 
 
 She turns away from him, but draws her breath 
 
 In thick and heavy sobs, while her young brow 
 
 One moment flushes, then is pale as death. 
 
 He spoke first of the world that lay around. 
 
 Like some vast dream, the spot in which she dwelt ; 
 
 And told her therein Faith was never found. 
 
 That Love was but a phantom — seen — not felt. 
 
 He said that there the laws of man enthralled. 
 
 And urged to guilt the true, devoted soul ; 
 
 Until his listener, trembling and appalled. 
 
 Sank at his feet and wept without control. 
 
 Then, in the tenderest tones of Love's own voice. 
 
 He drew, in specious lights, what Love might be. 
 
 Bound by no law save that of its own choice. 
 
 Warm as the sunbeams are, and not less free. 
 
 And murmured such a love as this would make 
 
 Her present home a paradise below. 
 
 Where he would live and die for her sweet sake, 
 
 So that her heart no human grief should know. 
 
 Something in accents tremulotisly sweet 
 
 She answered, whose low, thrilling words were sighed- 
 
 Scarce spoken — but we need not here repeat 
 
 AU that he said, or aU that she replied. 
 
 Enough ! — ^by those persuasive tones o'ercome, 
 
 The inward voice that might have warned was dumb. 
 
EVELINE. 105 
 
 As in some fairy dream her mind was tossed, 
 She listened — hesitated — and was lost. 
 
 Time passed — the autumn months were on the wane, 
 StiU her delirious love, with all its trust, 
 Ruled her too loving heax-t and dreamy hrain, — ■ 
 Not yet had she awakened — as aU must. 
 So one calm evening, as the sun went down 
 Behind the great unfathomable wood, 
 Now rich with autumn's hues of red and brown. 
 As side by side the two young lovers stood, 
 A musical though trembling voice was heard 
 To break upon that forest sanctitude. 
 More gently than the wood-notes of a bird. 
 When evening's light grows pallid and subdued. 
 " Beloved ! I am too happj". I have said 
 Even in my childhood that the world was fair. 
 When I have watched the blue heavens o'er my head, 
 And thought that I saw angels in the air. 
 And mine was then a lonely life — but this — 
 It is too much — I suffer from such bHss." 
 
 She Hfted to her lover her pale face — 
 Earnest and pale it was, and even a trace 
 Of passionate and burning tears was there — 
 Her joy was greater than her heai-t could bear. 
 Then, as she met his answering gaze, it shook 
 Her verj- frame — that long and loving look — 
 
106 EVELINE. 
 
 Blending his ardent soul in hers, as though 
 It never more could part therefrom below. 
 
 " And yet, dear life, one sad and tender fear 
 Breathes on my spirit even now, and here. 
 There is a doom from which no love can save — 
 It may be — ^long before thy hour of rest — 
 That form may lie within the spoiling grave 
 Which now thou claspest closely to thy breast. 
 Ah me ! it would be happier far to die 
 Together — thus — ^beneath this glorious sky, 
 Than so to leave thee — ^weeping and alone — • 
 For who could comfort thee if I were gone ! " 
 
 " Mine Eveline, thy thoughts are much too sad. 
 Dear one ! while youth is on thy brow be glad ! 
 Sit down upon this mossy bank, that we 
 May watch the rising of the autumn moon ; 
 How strangely dear hast thou become- to me ! 
 These hours of evening ever pass too soon. 
 Hush ! is it not the nightingale ? that song 
 Hath never sounded sweeter than to-night — 
 Each note that on the breeze is borne alonff. 
 Is like the voice of some unseen delight. 
 Oh ! let us sit and dream away the hour ; 
 The thoughts it brings us are beyond our reach 
 In the broad daylight, and they stiU o'erpower — 
 We do but mar them by our human speech. 
 
EVELINE. 107 
 
 I only ask — I only pray to dwell 
 Through life beside thee, gazing on thy brow ; 
 To clasp thee — ^thus — and feel thy bosom swell 
 For ever with the same warm love as now." 
 
 Her moment's grief was o'er, her heart was calm. 
 No doubts distui-bed the gentle head that lay 
 Confidingly and fondly on his arm : — 
 So passed that long-remembered eve away. 
 
108 EVELINE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Night, dtJl and starless, fell upon the world. 
 The earth lay motionless, the air was chill 
 And heavy with the wintry mists that curled, 
 In huge fantastic shapes, o'er wood and hill. 
 The village homes looked tenantless and dark — 
 The hour was early — ^yet their lights were out ; 
 The very watch-dogs held their usual bark. 
 For neither voice nor footstep was about. 
 The same strange Hfeless silence — ^far and near — 
 Seemed brooding o'er the forest and the plain ; 
 The only sound that ever met the ear 
 Was, now and then, the gentle plash of rain. 
 That trickled slowly from the cottage eaves. 
 And formed upon the path its baby floods. 
 Then fell with sharper sound upon the leaves. 
 The fallen leaves, of the now barren woods. 
 
 That cheerless night, beside a dying fire, 
 A mourner sat — in negligent attire ; 
 Not in a widow's robes her form was clad — 
 Her look was rather wild than simply sad. 
 It was not death she mourned — a grief like that 
 With less of sternness on her face had sat 
 
EVELINE. 109 
 
 No ray of hope lit up her heavy brow, 
 But languidly the eyelids rose and fell 
 O'er her dim sunken eyes — expressing now 
 That self-abasement words can never tell. 
 And oh ! as seen in that unsteady light, 
 No human pen could have portrayed a form 
 More spectral, or a face more deadly white. 
 While yet the pulses of the heart were warm. 
 A letter lay beside her — ^freshly writ. 
 The ink whereof appeared but barely dry ; 
 No tears had fallen there and blotted it. 
 No outward sign of anguish met the eye ; 
 Yet scrutiny more careful might have told 
 How much her frame was shaken as she wrote ; 
 Its crooked characters betrayed what cold 
 And trembling fingers had inscribed the note. 
 
 EVELINES LETTER. 
 
 " Once more I write to thee — alas ! once more 
 I pray for pity vainly asked before. 
 My heart is weaiy of its violence — 
 I now am calm and even resigned, and hence 
 I trace these lines, that in my altered mood 
 Their words may touch thee and be understood. 
 Thine image is beside me still, and nought 
 Can drive it thence, though bright and pure no more ; 
 
110 EVELINE. 
 
 Yet I will own to thee that I have thought 
 
 I judged too kindly of thy heart before. 
 
 It was not well of thee to leave me thus — 
 
 Nor by my shame and frightful anguish moved ; 
 
 Oh that the cold grave had divided us, 
 
 And not thy colder heart, my still beloved ! 
 
 And yet I write not to reproach — ^nay, I 
 
 Have often thought it sweeter far to die 
 
 Than live to loathe thy memory and thy name : 
 
 'Tis I — ^not thou — that have been most to blame. 
 
 But abject in my misery, I implore 
 
 That thou wilt write to me one little line — 
 
 One word of gentleness — I ask no more — • 
 
 'Twere useless to demand what once was mine. 
 
 Thy heart's warm love — I know that this is lost, 
 
 I — that once deemed it of myself a part. 
 
 Ah ! words can never teU thee what it cost 
 
 To tear that fond delusion from my heart. 
 
 But this is retribution well deserved — 
 
 Against which it were sinful to rebel ; 
 
 Nay, rather retribution I had nerved 
 
 My heart to bear with patiently and well. 
 
 K I alone might be the sacrifice, 
 
 I would not murmur at the kind decree, 
 
 But unrepining veil my guilty eyes. 
 
 And go where none again should hear of me. 
 
 I do remember I once made a vow 
 
 To suffer well and murmur not, but now 
 
EYELIXE. 1 ] 1 
 
 I cannot -wrestle longer with despair — 
 
 Oh God ! not I aloiie this shame must bear." 
 
 The rest was scarcely legible, defaced 
 By blotches here, and there so feebly traced. 
 And 3'et no word of kindness in reply 
 Even to that sad appealing letter came. 
 He had forsaken — ^left her there to die. 
 Or bear, as best she could, her grief and shame. 
 'Tis possible he gave a false address. 
 At least our charity may hope thus much 
 That feai'ing lest the tale of her distress 
 Too inconveniently his heart might touch, 
 He was content in ignorance to rest — 
 So banished her sweet image from his breast ! 
 
 Reluctantly and slowly from the earth 
 Now disappeared the dazzling robe of snow. 
 Whose late, unusual fall had checked the bkth 
 Of aU the flowers that March and April know. 
 That spring indeed was marvellously cold. 
 The new-born lambkins died within the fold. 
 Yet something like a cheerful sunlight smiled 
 Upon a face and head most sad and sweet. 
 That bent in prayer above an infant child. 
 Now slumbering in a cradle at her feet. 
 The languor of long sickness was expressed 
 In eyes that looked yet unresigned to fate, 
 
1 1 2 EVELINE. 
 
 A sense of lassitude that was not rest, 
 
 But rather overpowered her with its weight. 
 
 A stupor too was on her brow, as though 
 
 Her mind had wrestled with its frightful woe. 
 
 And from that conflict — terrible and rude. 
 
 Came forth — not lost — but utterly subdued. 
 
 Nay — ^yet not utterly — ^for when her glance 
 
 Rested upon her infant's countenance, 
 
 A something of her former self returned — 
 
 Her dull eye lost its fixed and vacant gaze, 
 
 A soul once more in its expression burned, 
 
 Whose tenderness was that of happier days. 
 
 But oh ! too often after this there came 
 
 A strange reaction o'er that shattered frame. 
 
 That shook with the fierce combat waged within, 
 
 Until you wondered if the better part 
 
 Of that once pure and gentle mind would win, 
 
 Or Ifiave her but a wrecked and hardened heart. 
 
 It was upon the mom of which we spoke. 
 Ere yet her infant from its slumber woke. 
 That in a tremulous and solemn tone, 
 So unlike the sweet bird-notes once her own, 
 She sang a song, or rather hymn, whose first 
 Calm words had done but little to prepare 
 A listener for the overpowering burst 
 Of mad, despairing grief that closed her prayer. 
 Yet blame her not — a heart so tender must. 
 
EVELINE. 113 
 
 When wronged where it has placed its holiest trust, 
 From all its human joys and hopes shut out, 
 Have its dark season of despair and doubt ; 
 Ere the sad eyes that tears and passion blind, 
 Their only safe and home-bound path shall find. 
 
 " I thank Thee, my God, 
 That Thou hast breathed upon my heart again, 
 And turned away the reckless steps that trod 
 The downward path from whence return is vain. 
 
 " It was but now I prayed 
 That Thou wouldst end my sorrow and my sin ; 
 Despair my heart so wild and hardened made, 
 I dreaded life, and saw no hope therein. 
 
 " My head was bowed with shame, 
 I dared not lift from earth my heavy eyes ; 
 I even feared to call upon Thy name. 
 Lest Thou Thy guilty suppliant shouldst despise. 
 
 " Oh ! pity and forgive 
 The heart that knew Thee not except through fear. 
 And hear the voice that now implores to live. 
 That it may yet perform its mission here. 
 
 " My Father, if Thou wilt 
 Chastise me heavily — Thy will be done. 
 But ah ! let not my error and my guilt 
 Fall on the fair head of my little one. 
 
114 EVELINE. 
 
 " I ask Thee but for this— 
 Not selfishly before Thee now I kneel — 
 Imploring not my faded youth or bliss. 
 Or praying Thee my broken heart to heal. 
 
 " No ! but "with burning tears 
 And supplicating hands entreating Thee 
 That I may guard mine infant's future years, 
 And save her from the fate that mine must be. 
 
 " My God ! my God ! I hear 
 Thy awful voice from the vast heavens reply — 
 It falls like thunder on my mortal ear ; 
 Thou dost refuse my prayer ; then let me die. 
 
 " Thou sayst I am unfit — 
 Dishonoured — stained and lost — ^for such a task ; 
 I know Thee wise, yet can I not submit ; 
 'Tis mercy and not justice that I ask." 
 
 She clasped her hands upon her throbbing breast, 
 Lest her deep sobs should break her iofant's rest ; 
 Then hastened wildly from the spot and flung 
 Her tender form upon the cottage floor. 
 Oh ! it was sad for one so fair and young 
 To lie and pray that she might rise no more ! 
 It was not tin a weary time had passed. 
 That somethiag like a purer, holier vein 
 
EVELINE. 115 
 
 Of feeling brought a gush of tears at last, 
 To calm her heart and soothe her fevered brain. 
 And hushing in her arms her waking chUd, 
 That melancholy voice Avas heard once more, 
 A song more sweet and gentle and less wild, 
 Upon the peaceful morning air to pour. 
 
 " Lullaby, Lullaby, 
 Dear one — rest ! 
 PiUow thy head on my yearning breast. 
 For never, ah ! never, shall sleep like this 
 Revisit thine eyes in after years. 
 The fond warm touch of thy mother's kiss, 
 Will have changed, on thy tender cheek, to tears. 
 
 " Lullaby, LuUaby, 
 Soft and deep 
 Falleth the shade of thy infant sleep. 
 Like a veil that a summer evening throws 
 On the tranquil brow of the parting day. 
 So deepens the calm of thy pure repose, 
 Till the light of thy face hath passed away. 
 
 " LuUaby, Lullaby, 
 Ne'er below 
 Shall thy mother again such slumber know. 
 Or the holiness of a peace like thine 
 
116 EVELINE. 
 
 Return to lier worn and weary brain. 
 Thy dreams are the dreams of Eden — mine 
 Are now but the echoes of waking pain. 
 
 " Lullaby, LuUaby, 
 Yet no more 
 From the mercy of Heaven my lips implore, 
 Than to guard from thy sweet young life the blight 
 On the guilty brow of thy mother cast ; 
 'Tis the prayer that I breathe by day, by night — 
 'Tis the prayer that iu death wiU be fondest — last ! " 
 
 Beneath a cypress ia the churchyard green. 
 One eve was raised a white and simple stone ; 
 There, as the sun shone calmly on the scene, 
 A mourner knelt — forsaken and alone. 
 Oh ! marvel not her brow was pale and sad, — 
 Beneath that fresh and myrtle-planted mould 
 Was laid the last — the only friend she had — 
 A friend whose dying words were harsh and cold. 
 And yet that stern and " virtuous reproof" 
 Was not for sinning lips like hers to blame ; 
 She, who so long had dwelt beneath the roof 
 Of that once kind and gentle-hearted dame. 
 Had brought but dark dishonour and distress 
 Within its simple tenement, of late — 
 Ah ! it was well deserved, yet not the less 
 Heart-breaking, to be left thus desolate. 
 
EVELINE. 117 
 
 It "was the severing of the only link 
 That bound her to the outer world, and she, 
 When evening's purple sun began to siak, 
 No longer knew where aid or hope might be. 
 She could not seek for sympathy among 
 The homes where she was welcomed once with pride; 
 The old would shake their heads at her, the young- 
 Shrink with disgust or pity from her side. 
 Such wei'e the maddening thoughts that now passed o'er 
 The mind that struggled with their course no more. 
 Her brain became bewildered, and possessed 
 Of but one longing — the desire for rest. 
 
 There was within the woods a mimic lake, 
 Whose depth was hidden by green moss and weeds, 
 Down o'er its edges fell the briar and brake. 
 Tangling their branches in obnoxious reeds. 
 There, with infatuation strange and wild. 
 She often came, and brought her infant child. 
 To gaze, as with a fascinated eye. 
 Upon its most unfathomable part. 
 And find it each day harder to deny 
 The urgent pleadings of her guilty heart. 
 'Twould be so sweet her aching eyes to close 
 Upon a world that she had loved too well ; 
 To know again the charms of a repose 
 Which dreams could not afiiight, or tears dispel ; 
 And sweeter still to know that none could sever 
 
118 EVELINE. 
 
 Her infant from her ; folded to her breast 
 They would be then together, and for ever, 
 At least in peace — ^if wept not, and unblest. 
 
 The moon was rising far behind a wood. 
 That looked gigantic in its partial Ught, 
 The hour that by an open casement stood 
 A pale and wasted figure clothed in white. 
 Her hands were clasped — the gaze of her dark eye 
 Was fixed upon her childhood's scenes, that lay 
 Beneath the midnight calmness of that sky. 
 And scarcely looked less lovely than by day. 
 Something like holiness was breathing there. 
 That would have moved another mind to prayer ; 
 And often through the unclosed lattice came 
 That strange — sweet perfume — never called by name. 
 That sometimes steals among our earthly bowers, 
 As though it had been shed by angel wings. 
 Howe'er this be, we know that there are hours 
 When earth is teeming with unearthly things, — 
 And this was one of them ; but she whose look 
 Was thereon bent as with the gaze of death, 
 Felt not its influence, nor moved, nor shook ; 
 Some ghastly purpose froze her very breath. 
 Hush ! hush ! she moves — a deep and holy charm 
 Lies in the wailing of that infant child ; 
 She raises it upon her nerveless arm, 
 Though gazing still with troubled looks and wild. 
 
EVELINE. lli> 
 
 Till on a piUow softer than its own 
 It rests its head, and stays its little moan. 
 Thank Heaven ! this baby confidence, withia 
 The breast that was a mother's still, awoke 
 A keener sense of her intended sin 
 Than if the voice of an Archangel spoke. 
 She clasped it to her bosom with a cry. 
 That, like her troubles, found no listening ear, 
 Yet met, perchance, a sympathy on high. 
 Which human charity refuses here. 
 
 Mom glimmered — but its first grey hours were spent 
 In timid prayers for pardon and for aid, 
 That from a mind most penitent were sent. 
 To One to whom none such have vainly prayed. 
 For now some hope seemed on her mind to daAvn, 
 That filled her darkened eye agaia with light— 
 The calmness of some holy purpose, born 
 Even in the fearful travail of that night. 
 Then broke the morn, as one, tear- worn and pale. 
 Yet tranquillized by some now fixed intent. 
 Took the green footpath leading from the vale — 
 Bearing her sleeping infant as she went. 
 No step was yet abroad — the frost lay stiU 
 Upon the impressed violets, and the rays 
 Of sunrise just appeared above the hill. 
 As Eveline turned back her parting gaze. 
 Ne'er had it seemed more lovely in her sight. 
 
120 EVELINE. 
 
 As, feeling that it was her last farewell, 
 
 She shaded from her face the sun's red light. 
 
 That she might see the home she loved so well. 
 
 Though earth could scarcely .boast a fairer spot, 
 
 Not this, but memories that were therein shrined, 
 
 Gave unto it a charm it else had not. 
 
 And made it a lost Eden to her mind. 
 
 She had been once the pride, too, of that place. 
 
 Both for her winning ways and sweet young face, 
 
 And for her girlhood's innocence and bloom — 
 
 Now buried, like her love, in one dark tomb. 
 
 She went forth as an outcast on her way. 
 
 No one befriending her, though some might pray 
 
 That she might find — what they would have denied- 
 
 A place wherein her broken heart to hide. 
 
 Alas ! for us, who, judging of the sin. 
 
 Deny the pardon that we hope to win ; 
 
 Who, hearing not the victim's piteous tale, 
 
 Turn from the prayer of her imploring eye. 
 
 And coldly shut her from our social pale. 
 
 To find without no friend or home, and die ! 
 
EVELINE. 121 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 OxE, with the seal of sorrow on her face, 
 
 Clasping a sickly infant to her breast, 
 
 Through a great city went with weary pace. 
 
 As crimson daj'light faded in the west. 
 
 That brilliant glow reflected from above 
 
 But now, on lofty tower and monument. 
 
 Had vanished gently as the smile of love. 
 
 So slowly and reluctantly it went. 
 
 And timidly the moon, that had so long 
 
 Awaited the departure of the daj^. 
 
 Gave forth her light — that hourly grew more strong. 
 
 Till all the city glistened in its raj-. 
 
 While, almost imperceptibly, the hum 
 
 Of life in the metropolis died out. 
 
 So left it unto prayer and sleep, though some 
 
 WTio had no homes to seek, were stUl about. 
 
 Even these at last retired with weary feet. 
 
 To choose some covered court wherein to lie. 
 
 And left the lonely watchman on his beat. 
 
 To count the stai-s that lit the narrow sky. 
 
 Then she, who had been latest of the late. 
 
 Regarding not that she was all alone. 
 
122 EVELINE. 
 
 Went slowly through a mansion's open gate, 
 And sat down on its noble steps of stone — • 
 Silent and chilly. None disturbed her there, 
 But left her to her bitter thoughts, or prayer. 
 
 Aye ! none disturbed her there — for there were few 
 Among that city's myriads, who knew 
 No spot, however rude, wherein to rest 
 The head that vice or poverty oppressed. 
 Yet nothing like complaint or anguish dwelt 
 In eyes that wept o'er selfish griefs no more ; 
 Disgrace — neglect — were now no longer felt, 
 The struggle with her heart's despair was o'er. 
 And she had won ! Submissive to her fate 
 Her look — ^though not rejoicing — ^was serene ; 
 Though lonely — cold — ^forsaken — desolate — 
 Her heart was calmer than it long had been. 
 Not aU the ravages by sorrow made. 
 Had marred a certain beauty in that face ; 
 A light that yet no sickness seemed to fade — 
 A sweetness no unkindness cotdd efface. 
 And purified and chastened from her sin. 
 She dared look forward now with hope, beyond 
 A world so fair without — so foul within — 
 From which her soul was breaking its last bond. 
 Once only — when her trembling hand undid 
 The shawl that wrapt her babe with scanty fold, 
 Tears dimmed her eyes and fringed each drooping lid. 
 
EVELINE. 123 
 
 Then fell as though they would not be controlled. 
 And long and fondly on its face she gazed, 
 Where Death had but too plainly set his seal — 
 But uttered no complaint, although she raised 
 Her eyes to heaven as with a last appeal. 
 
 The summer of that year had left again 
 The warm green earth another season old, 
 As through the broad street and the narrow lane. 
 Both day and night that hapless wanderer stroUed. 
 And yet to her that summer brought no sign — 
 For what in that great world could meet her gaze. 
 Except the sky became less clear and fine, 
 Or early lamplight spoke of shortened days ? 
 Alas ! her mission yet was unfulfilled. 
 The lost came not — though day succeeding day 
 She scanned each passing face, one moment thrilled 
 With hope — then turning — sickening — away. 
 Yet long and fondly to that hope she clung, — 
 Love's last — most strong — possession in the mind. 
 She once so passionate, and still so young. 
 Grieved much ere this one dream could be resigned. 
 Then when its cruel and bitter trial was o'er. 
 She raised her eyes to God — earth-bound no more. 
 
 No one molested her — they passed her by 
 Most frequently, with cold or vacant eye. 
 None spoke to her in accents coarse or rude ; 
 
124 EVELINE. 
 
 The little babe that to her bosom clung — 
 Her look — her step — so quiet and subdued, 
 Guarded from insult or licentious tongue. 
 Some few that passed her even again woidd turn, 
 As by a sudden impulse moved, to give 
 The pittance that she had not strength to earn ; 
 'Twas little — scarce enough whereon to live. 
 In truth her cheek — so hollow and so pale. 
 Told but too well starvation's horrid tale. 
 Yet with her thin and bony hand she took 
 The well-meant offering with a grateful look. 
 It was enough to hush her infant's cry — 
 The rest must follow soon — and with a sigh 
 That even a martyr could not have repressed, 
 She clasped her loved one closer to her breast. 
 
 Far o'er the meadows sounds the pleasant low 
 Of cattle, and the goatherd's rugged song ; 
 The peasant leaves his work with footsteps slow 
 And weary — musing as he strolls along. 
 The shepherd lingers in the fields awhile. 
 Returning not upon his homeward way 
 Till he has prophesied, from simset's smile. 
 The cloud or brightness of the coming day. 
 The fine and plenteous harvest of that year 
 Is gathered from the earth — the golden grain 
 
EVELINE. 125 
 
 Lies treasured in the bams, that scatter near 
 The villages and hamlets of the plain. 
 And far away as human eye can reach, 
 Through the green pastures flows a gentle stream, 
 Now shadowed by some solitary beech, 
 Now danciiig gaUy in the bright sunbeam — 
 While over all the wide and rich expanse 
 Of hill and meadow-grass, and wooded lands. 
 Uplifting its grey, time-worn countenance. 
 The castle of an English noble stands ! 
 
 The fair young heiress of these vast domains 
 Is tempted by the softness of the hour, 
 And wanders with her lover o'er the plains. 
 Till lost within a distant, autumn bower. 
 Thy life hath known no troubles, and thy years 
 As yet have been unmarred by care or tears — 
 No grief was ever known thy breast to swell 
 With early bitterness, young Isabel ! 
 And yet, this beautiful and tranquil eve 
 There is a sadness in thy lustrous eye — 
 Thy snowy bosom seems to fall and heave. 
 As if disturbed by an unwonted sigh. 
 Alas ! upon her lover's brow a cloud 
 Is falling like the darkness of the night : 
 His lips are deadly pale — his head is bowed. 
 His deep eye has a strange and troubled light. 
 Too often — even in the festive hall. 
 
126 EVELINE. 
 
 That blighting shadow had been seen to fall, 
 
 Though none of his companions seemed to know 
 
 The secret of that dark, mysterious woe. 
 
 But she, who walks so sadly by his side. 
 
 Years his aflSanced — soon to be his bride, 
 
 Had never found it difficult till now 
 
 To chase that heavy sternness from his brow. 
 
 Alas ! to-night that cold abstracted air 
 
 Scarce seems to recognize that she is there ! 
 
 'Twas strange that sweet young face should stiU return. 
 
 To haunt him with its fixed, reproachful gaze — 
 
 That glance, which seemed his very soul to burn 
 
 With the remembrance of departed days. 
 
 Yes — it was strange, but often would a tone 
 
 Of more than ordinary sweetness thrill 
 
 His bosom, and recall agaia that one 
 
 Clear bird-like voice that had been sweeter stilL 
 
 No other fancy to his heart had clung 
 
 So pertinaciously as this — although 
 
 Many whom he had wronged had been as young, 
 
 With star-like eyes, and bosoms white as snow. 
 
 She had a beauty which no other had, 
 
 A soul of tenderness, most deep and rare. 
 
 Oh that he could forget her, for her sad 
 
 Pale face seemed gazing on him everywhere ! 
 
 He started, for the voice of Isabel 
 Upon his guilty conscience sternly fell. 
 
EVELINE. 127 
 
 The air had been so breathless that a bird 
 Was startled by the strange, unwonted sound. 
 Disturbing thus a leaf that next was heard 
 To join its withered brethren on the ground. 
 
 " Oh ! deem me not unworthy of thy trust," 
 The lady said, in tones that somewhat shook. 
 " Tell me thy secret sorrow, love, why must 
 Thy brow so oft be clouded by that look ? 
 My every feeling I confide to thee, — 
 I do conceal no impulse of my heart ; 
 It is not well a woe like thine should be. 
 In which I have no portion — take no part. 
 Give me thy confidence ! Nay — wherefore shake 
 Thy head as though in anger or disdain ? 
 I ask not selfishly, but for thy sake — 
 I grieve for thee, and fain would ease thy pain. 
 Am I not thine ? can aught now sever us ? 
 Thy trust and confidence — or mine — destroy ? 
 Say — if this be — what grief consumes thee thus. 
 Why is it greater than thy love or joy ?" 
 
 He turned from her too curious eyes the brow. 
 That, pale before, grew even paler now. 
 " I have been dreaming," he replied — "no more — 
 It was the dark remembrance of a woe — 
 A stern affliction — suffered long before 
 I met thee ; " — then in hollow tones and low 
 
128 EVELINE. 
 
 He added : " For thy sake I will dismiss 
 Henceforth these moody habits of my brain. 
 And thou — if thou art wise — will grant me this, 
 To probe not thus my inmost thoughts again." 
 
 This bitter answer roused the lady's pride — 
 Her eyes flashed both with anger and defiance ; 
 'Twas strange to be so haughtily denied, 
 Even now — ^when she might well expect compliance ! 
 More white than marble grew that proud young face. 
 As some few words — -both taunting and constrained — 
 She answered him, and then with queen-like pace 
 Walked onwards till the broad high-road was gained. 
 That road went winding through a lordly wood. 
 Whose ancient oaks for centuries had stood, 
 And o'er the worn pedestrian's weary head 
 Their gnarled old branches hospitably spread. 
 There — ^rising from its most remote recess. 
 Was heard the gentle cooing of a dove. 
 That scene of rich, autumnal loveliness 
 But needed this — the voice of peace and love ! 
 In the green distance herds of deer were seen ; 
 Some basking idly on a sunny bank. 
 Some bounding lightly o'er the mossy green. 
 While others paused beside a stream and drank. 
 At times, the timid hares would venture out 
 Into the sunshine — or a pheasant soar 
 From some impervious shades, and wheel about. 
 
EVELINE. 129 
 
 Then drop into their quiet depths once more. 
 
 It is a lovely spot, and well doth he 
 
 ^ATio, aU regardless of yet early hours, 
 
 Chooses that yon fair bank his couch shall be, 
 
 So rests his head among the autumn flowers. 
 
 Ah me ! it is a woman's long dark hair 
 
 That mingles with the leaves and quaking-grass ; 
 
 Those white and wasted limbs are partly bare. 
 
 The winds caress them gently as they pass. 
 
 She sleeps — poor lonely wanderer — doth she sleep ? 
 
 There seems no motion there of heaving breath — 
 
 That slumber is too perfect — is too deep — 
 
 It is not slumber — it is surely death ! 
 
 " Oh ! hasten, dearest, ere it be too late. 
 
 Raise her, and bear her to the castle gate." 
 
 No words have power to picture what he felt, 
 Whose horror-stricken heart and guilty eyes — 
 As by that scarcely breathing form he knelt — 
 Failed not the lost — the wi-onged — to recognize. 
 Clasping an infant to her breast she lay. 
 Whose cold brow told of death, but not decay. 
 When — ^where — that hapless infant died — or how. 
 There is no record left to tell us now. 
 It may be, when its life was almost o'er. 
 The mother's thoughts returned to home once more. 
 One wish may have been strong within her soul — 
 The wish to lay it in its native vale ; 
 
 K 
 
130 EVELINE. 
 
 At least, it seems, her footsteps sought that goal. 
 
 From early morn till day began to fail. 
 
 Alas ! how frightfully afar it lay ! 
 
 The road was long and lonely, and but few 
 
 Perchance had succoured her upon her way, 
 
 And day brought showers — ^with evening fell the dew. 
 
 Who knoweth what she suffered, when the eyes 
 
 Whose failing light would soon be quenched for ever. 
 
 Fixed their last look upon the western skies, 
 
 That lit a home — Gloved — ^lost — ^forgotten never ! 
 
 Alas for him ! who, gazing on that form. 
 Felt thus revive the tenderness intense 
 Which, when the summer days were long and warm, 
 Had once inspired his fatal eloquence. 
 'Twere well the tear of pity even to shed 
 Upon that brow impure and guilty head. 
 He gazed as stupefied — nor moved — nor spoke. 
 As memory in his maddened brain awoke 
 Her girlish innocence — ^her perfect trust — 
 The love that he had trampled in the dust. 
 Yea, though so altered by one year of woe. 
 With tattered garment and dishevelled hair 
 Veiling alone her wasted breasts of snow — 
 He felt her dearer — thought her far more fair — 
 Than all the daughters of the earth beside. 
 Forgetting aU ambition and all pride. 
 He raised her — called her each endearing name 
 
EVELINE. _ 131 
 
 That memory could recall or love could frame. 
 Even this was useless — she could hear not now 
 The voice that once her very being stirred. 
 And Isabel looked on, but with a brow 
 Rigid as death, and uttering not a word. 
 
 * * » * 
 
 * • * * 
 
 Another hour of that strange eve steals by, 
 Bearing its burden to eternity. 
 And by an open casement now they lay 
 Her feeble form — within a spacious room : 
 'Tis strange — the peaceful closing of her day — 
 A life so sad, a death that brings no gloom. 
 She lives — ^but yet is dreaming — her dim eye 
 Seems vacantly to watch the twilight's veil 
 Usurp the place of sunset's golden dye. 
 Through which, as yet, the stars look duU and pale. 
 The earth is fading with a sleepy look, 
 The hoUow cawing of some drowsy rook 
 Comes hoai-sely from some ehns, that, tail and green, 
 Grrow down upon the edge of a ravine. 
 And far away, a long and lofty chain 
 Of hills that bound the meadow and the plain. 
 With that deep softness only twilight lends, 
 Its outline with the sky above it blends. 
 While slowly brightening in that sky's clear space. 
 The stars smile down upon the watcher's face. 
 
132 EVELINE. 
 
 Hush ! the last notes of wood-birds, sweet and clear, 
 That fill the grove with an autumnal straia. 
 Axe wafted faintly — softly — to her ear — 
 Music that she may never hear again. 
 They pause, as evening's last expiring flush 
 Grows paler, and then fades upon the sight ; 
 So leaves the earth reposing in the hush. 
 The breathless hush of a most perfect night. 
 'Twere sweet to die in such an hour as this. 
 To melt away into a dream of bliss ! 
 And she was dyiag — ^for the hand of Death 
 Upon her marble brow was sternly pressed — 
 There came at times a painful gasp for breath, 
 Her misty eye seemed languishing for rest. 
 The heart beat fitfully — paused — ^beat again — 
 Shapes grew unshaped to her disordered brain ; 
 A sudden breeze that from some distant bower 
 Brought the sweet perfume of the jasmine fiower. 
 Then raised her hair as with an unseen hand. 
 To her seemed whispering of a brighter land — 
 The curtains, as their rich folds slightly moved, 
 The murmuring voices of the lost and loved. 
 
 A form bent o'er her — 'twas her lover's form, 
 A hand upon her brow felt kind and warm. 
 Alas ! her failing eye no more could trace 
 The pale and grief-changed features of his face. ' 
 But when his ne'er-forgotten voice she heard. 
 
EVELIXE. 133 
 
 Hoaa:T3e — tremulous — yet tender as of yore — 
 
 It seemed as though a long-forgotten chord 
 
 Of life responded to its sound once more. 
 
 Yet though she heard him — -knew him, and around 
 
 His neck her wasted arms she feebly wound, 
 
 She could remember not her recent woe ; 
 
 Oblivious of all grief, her thoughts returned — 
 
 As oft in dreams — to joy^ that long ago 
 
 So brightly — fondly — in her heart had burned ! 
 
 EVELINES VISION. 
 
 'Tis summer once again, and where the boughs 
 
 Of forest trees droop almost to their feet. 
 
 Two youthful lovers sit — exchanging vows — 
 
 Their trembling hands ai'e clasped, their fond eyes meet. 
 
 'Tis past the hour of sunset, and behind 
 
 The western hills yon cloud of pui-ple fades — 
 
 And gently springeth up a low soft wind. 
 
 That woos the green leaves in the forest shades. 
 
 In the fai' east, a line of silver hue 
 
 Extends behind the mountain heights, and now 
 
 The moon is up, and lights a distant view 
 
 Of rock and valley with her broad white brow. 
 
 A little longer, and that chastened ray 
 
 Is stealing in among the beech- wood stems, 
 
 Kissing the dewy flowers upon its way, 
 
 UntU they glisten in its light like gems. 
 
134 EVELINE. 
 
 Next lights the lovers' faces as they sit 
 Forgetful of the hour, and watchiag it ! 
 While breaking on the solitude around 
 A distant song at intervals is heard. 
 It hath a strangely wild and joyous sound, 
 The clear, sweet singing of that native bird ! 
 We call it only earth who thereon gaze. 
 With pensive thought and meditative air — 
 It is the moon — and we receive its rays 
 As sent to cheer our paths of grief and care. 
 To them it is not earth, but Paradise ! 
 i. dwelling meet for perfect love and trust. 
 Warm — deep — as that now melting in their eyes. 
 The love of angels — ^not of human dust. 
 Words had been uttered on that summer eve, 
 Fond — earnest — passionate, and such as leave 
 A memory that can never more depart : 
 They echo now within that dreamer's heart. 
 She speaks ! her words, though faint, are strangely clear. 
 And faU like thunder on her lover's ear ! 
 
 " And yet, dear life, one sad and tender fear 
 Breathes on my spirit even now, and here. 
 There is a doom from which no love can save — 
 It may be — ^long before thy hour of rest — 
 That form may lie within the spoiling grave 
 Which now thou claspest closely to thy breast. 
 Ah me ! it would be happier far to die 
 
EVELINE. 135 
 
 Together — thus — beneath this glorious sky, 
 Than so to leave thee — weeping and alone — 
 For who could comfort thee if I were gone ! ' 
 
 a^ 
 
 She paused and seemed confused, some trembling gleams 
 Of dawning reason struggled with her mind, 
 Though, with the sweet bewilderment of dreams. 
 Her past and present joys were stUl combined. 
 
 " 'Tis strange ! it must be night ! I cannot see 
 Thy face — I cannot gaze upon thy brow, 
 And yet I know that thou art close to me — 
 I seemed to see thy loving eyes but now. 
 The sky is gone — I thought the stars were bright ; 
 I feel a numbness and an icy chQl 
 Steal o'er me, hke the damp cold dews of night. 
 It matters not, for thou art near me still ! 
 Thy trembling hand within mine own I press, 
 I feel thy kind and tender arm caress 
 And clasp me to thy heart — oh ] it is sweet 
 To feel that heart so fondly — warmly beat 
 ' Beloved ! I am too happy. I have said 
 Even in my childhood that the world was fair, 
 When I have watched the blue heavens o'er my head, - 
 And thought that I saw angels in the air — 
 And mine was then a lonely life — but this — 
 It is too much — I suffer — from such — bliss.' " 
 
136 EVELINE. 
 
 Faintly and falteringly these accents fell, 
 Her soul was darkening with its long eclipse ; 
 None wished that bright delusion to dispel. — 
 She died with these last words upon her lips. 
 
THOUGHTFUL MOMENTS. 
 
THE GEAVES OF THREE BROTHERS. 
 
 THE FIRST AND SECOND. 
 
 One sleeps beneath the wild Atlantic wave. 
 But records of his resting-place are none ; 
 His desolate and undiscovered grave 
 Undecked by flowers, unmarked by gilded stone. 
 
 His brother lies beneath the northern pines, 
 Where rabbits brood and wild doves build their nests ; 
 Yet not more calmly that cold brow reclines 
 Than his who sleeps beneath the Atlantic crests. 
 
 Neither from gloomy vault nor marbled urn, 
 Where love may slumber, sin lie uneonfessed. 
 Can we dare pray our lost ones to return 
 To life's wild turmoil or to grief's unrest. 
 
 They have a happier fate than those who strive 
 In vain to break the iron prison bars. 
 Oh, melancholy thought ! to pass our lives 
 So oft in craven peace or bitter wars ! 
 
140 THE 6EAVES OF THREE BEOTHEES. 
 
 There grief is silent, tears no more are shed. 
 Nor hearts sink low beneath their own sad weight ; 
 Oh, envy not the slumbers of the dead — 
 It is the living who are desolate ! 
 
 Under eternal warfare of the sky. 
 Or under smiling suns or flower-strewn sod. 
 It matters little where our bones may lie, 
 So that our souls return from thence to God. 
 
 THE THIRD. 
 
 Neither beneath the ocean's crest. 
 Nor where the pine trees' shadows fall, 
 My third young brother takes his rest. 
 But b}'' an abbey's noble wall. 
 
 His slender, wasted form they lay 
 'Mid long green grass and pale wild flowers. 
 Where sun-dials point the hour of day. 
 And warn us of our wasted hours.* 
 
 Full of a gentle, kindly wit. 
 He was the genial friend of all — 
 For none were e'er unkindly hit. 
 No malice from his lips could fall ! 
 
 There were two fine old sun-dials in the ancient churchyard of - 
 
THE GEAYES OF THEEE BROTHEES. 141 
 
 Where tall grass waves and daisies grow, 
 'Neath winter's storms or summer's skies, 
 He waits the day that no one knows, 
 When Heaven's own voice shall bid us rise. 
 
 '\Miat suns may rise — what suns may set — 
 Howe'er apart their graves may lie. 
 One faithful friend will ne'er forget 
 The brothers of a day gone by I 
 
TO DR. . 
 
 Thet listen for his footsteps on the stairs — 
 To them distinct through all the city's hum, 
 
 Hushiag their painful sighs, heart-broken prayers, 
 To count those footfalls as they nearer come ! 
 
 And sadly, as he bends above the bed. 
 
 They wait for words of comfort from his lips ; 
 
 Death shuts the fatal wings so darkly spread, 
 And Life smiles out behind her black eclipse. 
 
 His soothing hand relieves the racking pain, 
 
 Wipes the cold death-damp from the haggard face, 
 
 Brings hope and peace to the o'er-troubled brain. 
 And stays pale Death in his too-rapid pace. 
 
 No wonder that they bless him as he leaves 
 The darkened bedroom and its fevered air ; 
 
 The saddened brow, the bitter heart that grieves, 
 Are happier, better, for his presence there. 
 
TO DK. 143 
 
 Ever serene and calm himself, he goes, 
 
 Heedless of place and time, where duty calls ; 
 
 Be it to soothe the mightiest monarch's woes, 
 Or suffering penury in prison walls. 
 
 He, too, hath suffered, though his brow is calm ; 
 
 Grief, sickness, pain, are not to him unknown ; 
 But he, from whom so many seek their balm. 
 
 Seeks from on High the solace for his own. 
 
LINES TO MY LOVE. 
 
 Mine own true love ! from the first hour I clasped 
 Thy firm and gentle hand, the magic touch 
 Was even as though my future life I grasped — 
 A life of hope, although I feared it much ! 
 
 Thou wilt not leave me — if thou dost I die ! 
 Thou canst not leave me — ^let the hom-s pass by. 
 And count them not for happiness nor sorrow, 
 Eemembering only, there is yet To-morrow ! 
 
 That strange To-morrow — oh ! I fear it less 
 Than earthly days that darken and depress, 
 Without a silver lining to the cloud. 
 Or lifting of the head that grief hath bowed. 
 
 My heart is full of love — of tender pride. 
 Although my days are passed not by thy side ; 
 For where thou goest I can rarely go. 
 Not mine the power to heal or soften woe ! 
 
LINES TO MY LOVE. 145 
 
 I cannot thank thee, oh, thou best beloved — 
 To me the truest, purest among men — 
 Nor can I paint thee, with my heart so moved. 
 Either by eloquence of lips or pen. 
 
 But I will wait for thee, Life's latest hours — 
 Age shall not alter me, or Grief's weird powers ; 
 Knowing that from the first bright hour we met, 
 I lost the right to freedom — to forget ! 
 
 No human power our hands' true clasp shaU sever — 
 Love, while thou livest I am thine for ever. 
 Nay ! nor in future realms mine eyes can see 
 A life, a state, that is not passed with thee ! 
 
OLD-FASHIONED PRAISES BY A LOVER 
 OF SUMMER. 
 
 Oh, summer flowers are fresli and fair, 
 And summer skies are bright, I ween. 
 To those that leave the City air. 
 To wander in the woodland scene ! 
 
 For beautiful it is to be 
 By rippling stream and bending tree, 
 To leave the dull and crowded street 
 For leafy bough and blossom sweet, 
 To watch the graceful deer bound by. 
 With footstep light and sparkling eye. 
 The timid hare, with frightened look, 
 Steal from the shade of its own nook. 
 Oh, summer flowers, etc. 
 
 For beautiful it is to see 
 
 The sun rise o'er the dusky lea. 
 
 To watch it pierce the tangled shade 
 
 Of coppice dark or briary glade. 
 
(1LU-PASHI0NED PEAISES BY A LOVEE OF SUMMER. 147 
 
 Glistening in each bright drop of dew 
 That hangs upon the harebell blue — 
 Pouring its cheerful light o'er all, 
 Unchecked by tower or city wall. 
 Oh, summer flowers, etc. 
 
 For sweet it is at close of day 
 To stroll through woods with twilight grey, 
 Or when the moon is looking down 
 Through graceful ash, or beech tree brown, 
 To hear the dove coo in the glen, 
 The wildcock cry from marshy fen. 
 The pheasant, from its evening rest. 
 The moor-fowl from their rushy nest. 
 
 For summer flowers are fresh and fair, 
 And summer skies are bright, I ween. 
 To those that leave the City air, 
 To wander in the woodland scene. 
 
TREASURED MEMORIES. 
 
 Oh, ye past days, so anxious yet so dear. 
 Full of a countless list of tender stories — 
 With shifting lights of hope, of joy, of fear, 
 I would not change ye for a world of glories ! 
 
 Our little ones ! — across the chequered past 
 I see their tiny figures gaily flit, 
 Fair human memories that the longest last — 
 Gay with the pretty laugh of childish wit ! 
 
 I care but little what the dull world seems. 
 It costs no pang its trivial ties to sever. 
 So that my early loves come back in dreams — 
 Bright, sunlit joys that will be joys for ever. 
 
 No envy, with its sharp, envenomed stings, 
 No hateful spite can this sweet past destroy — 
 For Memory hath a world of gracious things. 
 The vilest tongue is powerless to destroy ! 
 
TREASURED MEMORIES. 149 
 
 They cannot hush the gentle, tender voices. 
 With all their merry laughter — infant cries. 
 There is no human spell my heart rejoices. 
 Like the sweet speU of childhood's mystic eyes ! 
 
 There may lie grander treasures at our feet. 
 And wealth or glory be within our call. 
 And friends may flatter — -flattery is sweet ! 
 But one dear, childish lisp outweighs them all — 
 
 One childish lisp — MaTnma — no angel tone 
 Can thrill the heart as that one tone can thrill, 
 That little word — that one — is all mine own. 
 Its first, soft accents are remembered still ! 
 
 And oh ! I pity with a thousand pities. 
 Those who in such sweet music have no part, 
 Not for the treasures of Ind's fabled cities 
 Would I yield up these treasures of my heart ! 
 
 September 12, 1880. 
 
DESPAIKING WORDS. 
 
 I CAUNOT hear wliere thou art dwelling now, 
 
 'Tis seldom that I even hear thy name — 
 
 Grief, since I met thee, may have seared thy brow. 
 
 Or it may still be fair yet not the same ! 
 
 But when recalling thy pale countenance. 
 
 And dreaming of thy deep and pensive eye, 
 
 'Tis as when first I met its thrilling glance. 
 
 Though years since then — ^long years have fleeted by. 
 
 Thy voice — it may be gentle now no more — 
 
 Thy vision now be dim — ^thy very heart 
 
 May be so changed from all I knew before, 
 
 I scarce could love the thing that now thou art ! 
 
 Or it may be that yet a sterner seal 
 
 Than Grief's, upon thy brow has been impressed, 
 
 And aU that once could breathe and move and feel, 
 
 Now shrouded lies in its last dreamless rest ; 
 
 And Hope's own flickering star, whose cheering ray 
 
 StiU. lingered, when all else had passed away — 
 
 Dark homes of sorrow to illumine yet — 
 
 That last lone star of love and life hath set ! 
 
DESPATEING WOEDS. 151 
 
 I watched it as it faded — ^night by night, 
 Hour after hour I watched its waning light, 
 And sighed to think the fitful gleam it gave 
 But glimmered, as a lamp within the grave, 
 To light the very dead with its wild glare 
 And show the depth of desolation there ! 
 'Tis gone ! and I am lonelier than before. 
 Joy hath no promise — Life no pleasure more. 
 Except that even thy very name be lost, 
 And buried with the suffering it has cost. 
 Thou hadst been but too fondly cherished — thou 
 Wert — all to me — but must be — ^nothing — now ! 
 
 I never watched the deepening of twilight, 
 I never looked out on the sky at night. 
 To calm the anguish of mine aching brow. 
 But something even then — I knew not how 
 Or why it came — some sympathetic tone 
 Came back, as though an echo of thiae own. 
 And brought me that wild swell of loving thought. 
 No tones but thy deep tones, have ever brought. 
 
 Oh ! yet must I forget thee — was it wrong 
 To cherish thee, as I have done so long ? 
 And must I turn from all that I have loved. 
 Or look upon it coldly and unmoved — 
 Feeling the desolation and the chill 
 Within — ^without — and yet concealing still I 
 
152 DESPAIRING WOEDS. 
 
 I must forget thee, even although my heart 
 Breaks with the ehaias that it would rend apart, 
 I must forget thee still — aye, even forget 
 That hour — that hapless hour, when first we met ! 
 
 I write not now as I have done before, 
 With one yet lingering hope to meet thee more. 
 No ! that wild dream is past — I buried aU 
 Before my hand could trace this hurried scrawl. 
 Farewell— farewell — and never over thee, 
 May come the shadow that o'ershadows me. 
 A light is gone that nothing can restore. 
 The dream of day, the midnight watch is o'er ! 
 
IMPROMPTU ADDRESS TO CALUMNY. 
 
 O Calumnt ! thou cruel and poisonous snake, 
 That crawls from filthy swamp, or nettled brake — 
 O Calumny ! upon whose hateful trail 
 The fruit falls rotted and the flowers grow pale — 
 
 None can escape thy snares — the meanest — least — 
 Who crawl life's thoroughfares — the holiest priest 
 Who prays within his cell — secure — alone — 
 Nor even a monarch on the proudest throne I 
 
 None can escape thee ! not the noblest fame. 
 The humblest footsteps or the loftiest name. 
 And heads revered must meet thy dastard blow, 
 Nor brow escape that shall be pure as snow ! 
 
 The mother, bending o'er her dying son. 
 The knight whose laurels had been hardly won, 
 The maiden and her lover — even the child 
 Thy foul and falsest slanders have defiled ! 
 
154 IMPROMPTU ADDRESS TO CALUMNY. 
 
 Who hath not known thee ? who, however pure, 
 From thy degrading shadow is secure ? 
 Who hath not been with noble anger stirred 
 When first thy vile and loathsome voice he heard ? 
 
 Insidious, crawling viper ! on thy track 
 There is no marching forwards, or yet back. 
 More wary than the fox and far more vile. 
 For Reynard bites, but Slander wears a smile ! 
 
 Thou meanest worm ! who would compassion feel, 
 When placing on thy head his hardest heel ? 
 None than thyself more shameless words have spoken, 
 None than thyself more sinless hearts have broken. 
 
 There is no spot where Poverty is sure. 
 No hearth where truth and honour are secure — 
 No home where Calumny hath not its berth — 
 Heaven is exempt, but never man — or Earth ! 
 
POEMS BY THE " SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
NEAR THE HOARSE WATERS OF THE DEEP. 
 
 Near the hoarse waters of the deep 
 There is a grey and crumbling stone. 
 Memorial of the solemn sleep 
 Of one who lived and died alone. 
 And when the moon is on the wave, 
 When idle strangers haunt it not, 
 A step is by that lonely grave, 
 A voice is in that silent spot ! 
 
 I would not stranger hearts should know — 
 I would not stranger eyes should see, 
 The heavy agony of woe 
 That I, so long, have borne for thee. 
 So fondly though our hearts were knit 
 None ever read it on thy brow. 
 For thou hast lived, conceaKng it — 
 Then none shall ever know it now ! 
 
 I heard from the Red Indian's land. 
 That thou wert life and love's no more — 
 I did not strike him with mine hand, 
 Who first that fatal tidings bore — 
 
158 NEAR THE HOARSE WATERS OF THE DEEP. 
 
 But listened — till the worst I heard, 
 Then turned away without a word, 
 Nor wept thee with a single tear. 
 Though thou hadst been so deeply dear ! 
 
 Alas ! it is not words can tell 
 How heavily the heart may swell — 
 For there is a dark depth of woe 
 For which the tears can rarely flow. 
 And tears will sometimes fill the eye 
 And flow, and yet we scarce know why. 
 While grief may be too fixed and dark. 
 For sigh to speak, or sob to mark. 
 
 Why was I not beside thee, when 
 
 The throes of sickness shook thy frame — 
 
 Thou know'st I had no fear of men, 
 
 I loved thee not with love so tame. 
 
 I never feared but for thy sake 
 
 That they might look on and condemn. 
 
 And if my heart should ever break. 
 
 It will not break through dread of them ! 
 
 Not, love — that, uselessly, thy name 
 Should ever lightly uttered be. 
 In tones of pity or of blame — 
 Although that blame were linked with me. 
 
NEAE THE HOAKSE WATERS OF THE DEEP. 159 
 
 But oh ! in love so deep as ours, 
 Had I but watched thy life's decline, 
 I might have soothed its parting hours — 
 So grief, alone, had not been thine ! 
 
 It may be anguish to have gazed 
 Upon the dark eyes of the loved, 
 To our own glance once fondly raised, 
 And now so vacant and unmoved — - 
 But deeper anguish to have known 
 That they had suffered — died — alone. 
 And we had not beside them knelt. 
 To soothe the sorrow they had felt ! 
 
 'Twas well to bury thee, beside 
 The quiet moaning of the tide — 
 To bury thee where all is bright 
 And beautiful, within our sight — 
 For wild flowers of the sea-beach gTow 
 Around thy tomb, and knowing not 
 The wasted form concealed below. 
 Cluster in joy around the spot ! 
 
 For thou wert lovely, and should be 
 Where loveliness around may dwell — 
 I would not they had buried thee 
 Within a cloister's vaulted ceU, 
 
160 NEAR THE HOAESE WATEES OP THE DEEP. 
 
 With bones not kindred — -it was meet 
 To bury thee where all is sweet. 
 And all around thy grave is rife 
 That thou most deeply loved in life ! 
 
 Sleep calmly where thou art — I will 
 Watch on through life's long pilgrimage, 
 Thy last dear wishes to fulfil — 
 And none shall ever read the page 
 Of Life that thou didst from them hide. 
 So slumber on — ^for none shall chide — 
 The very stars will vigil keep 
 Above a form so kindred — Sleep ! 
 
 For thou wert even as one of them 
 That in another sphere had birth, 
 Whose ray, though from so bright a gem. 
 Could pierce not the dark spots of earth. 
 And men looked up to thee with praise, 
 So constant was thy smile — ^because 
 Though tracing not their darker ways. 
 Thou wert no mocker of their laws ! 
 
 But when thou fellest, as they fall, 
 
 Into the sullen depths below, 
 
 And darkness settled over all 
 
 That earth's dull eyes were wont to know- 
 
NEAR THE HOARSE WATERS OF THE DEEP. 161 
 
 And looking through the empty air, 
 Men saw that thou hadst left no trace 
 Of what thou wert when dwelling there, 
 They marked no longer that lost place ! 
 
 Sleep ! I will watch beside thee, while 
 Mine eye may meet the moonbeam's smile. 
 Sleep ! I am near thee — till no more 
 Mine ear may catch the ocean's roar. 
 Then, though my grave be not with thine. 
 It will no hour of sorrow be 
 When that deep grief no more is mine — 
 To live a life unshared by thee ! 
 
 M 
 
THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 {Lines for music?) 
 
 Oh ! a lonely life the fisherman leads. 
 By the shores of the mighty ocean. 
 His music the sigh of its broken reeds. 
 Or the moan of its ceaseless motion. 
 
 He watches at eve the sun's red globe 
 Sink down in the glowing water. 
 Till the earth is veiled in the dusky robe 
 That the twilight hours have brought her ! 
 
 Then he steers o'er the sea his fearless boat, 
 Though the shades of night are falling, 
 And he hears the sea-fowl's evening note 
 From the rock to the island calling. 
 
 Oh ! a lonely life the fisherman leads. 
 By the shores of the mighty ocean. 
 His music the sigh of its broken reeds. 
 Or the moan of its ceaseless motion. 
 
THE FISHEKMAN. 163 
 
 Yet the Finland hunter dwells afar 
 
 In the North, without repining, 
 
 And blesses the light of each brilliant star, 
 
 On his frozen pathway shining ! 
 
 The chase of the deer, or the grisly bear. 
 The long dark days beguiling. 
 Is dearer to him than a clime more fair. 
 Or a sun from a blue sky smiling. 
 
 And the Arab, who lives a life so free. 
 Where the desert sun is glowing, 
 Is happier there than he e'er could be. 
 Where our own cool winds are blowing. 
 
 So well may the fisherman love his cot. 
 Where the fire is brightly burning, 
 As he merrily seeks the cheery spot, 
 From his evening work returning. 
 
 Yet a lonely life the fisherman leads. 
 By the shores of the mighty ocean. 
 His music the sigh of its broken reeds. 
 Or the moan of its ceaseless motion. 
 
ENGLAND'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Fretting the waves of the Atlantic sea, 
 Full many a weary day thy barque must be ; 
 But one fond heart is with thee on the water- 
 Forget her not ! thy country's lonely daughter ! 
 
 Remember ! when thy head 
 
 Thou layest on thy pillow, 
 
 When long the sunset's red 
 
 Hath faded on the billow, 
 
 That where thy footsteps used, 
 
 Hour after hour to stray, 
 
 And where thy heart hath mused, 
 
 At closing of the day. 
 
 One, mournfully may stand. 
 
 Watching each setting star 
 
 That seeks a southern land — 
 
 Weeping for those afar ! 
 
 Fretting the waves of the Atlantic sea. 
 Full many a weary day thy barque must be ; 
 
ENGLAND'S DAUGHTER. 165 
 
 But one fond heart is with thee on the water — 
 Forget her not ! thy country's lonely daughter ! 
 
 The glorious Southern eye, 
 Whose warmth is like the sky 
 That lights a southern spot — 
 Have England's daughters not ! 
 Their eyes are blue, and thou 
 With darker ones may meet, 
 With broader, nobler brow, 
 With tones more rich and sweet. 
 But never can there be 
 A heart more fond and true. 
 Than that which beats for thee 
 Beyond the waters blue I 
 
 Fretting the waves of the Atlantic sea, 
 Full many a weary month thy barque must be ; 
 But one fond heart is with thee on the water — 
 Forget her not ! thy country's lonely daughter ! 
 
THE FISHERMAN'S BRIDE. 
 
 The harvest moon is on the wane, 
 The mist lies on the lea, love. 
 
 When will the hours return again 
 That bring thee back to me, love ? 
 
 The deer seek shelter in the glen. 
 The moorhen in the sedgy lake, 
 The wildfowl haunt the marshy fen. 
 The hare is hiding in the brake. 
 October flowers are fading fast. 
 The cold winds strip the yellow trees. 
 For autumn days are nearly passed — 
 Ah — never were they sad as these ! 
 The skies, but now of richest blue, 
 Are changing to the winter's hue — 
 And midnight fogs will render vain 
 
 The lamp I burn for thee, love. 
 When will the hours return again 
 
 That bring thee back to me, love ? 
 
 'Tis sad, alone, as evening wears. 
 To hear the waves dash on the shore, 
 
THE FISHERMAN'S BRIDE. 167 
 
 Or watch, through hot and blinding tears, 
 The setting sunlight catch the oar ! 
 Or listen, as the hours drag on. 
 The tolling of some distant bell 
 Across the waves, whose mellowed tone 
 Swells sadly as the waters swell. 
 'Tis sad to mark, day after day, 
 Without thy presence pass away — 
 Then after all its hours of pain 
 The close of night to see, love. 
 When will the hours return again 
 That bring thee home to me, love ? 
 
 O ! winter nights are long and dark. 
 
 Through which my vigil oft I keep, 
 
 To catch the first glimpse of thy barque, 
 
 When it shall bound across the deep ! 
 
 Too oft the petrel's warning note. 
 
 The sea-gull, with yet wilder scream, 
 
 Forboding evil to thy boat, 
 
 Awake me from some mournful dream. 
 
 Alas ! mine is a troubled sleep. 
 
 And yet to waken is to weep. 
 
 Or listen to the stormy rain 
 
 That plashes on the sea, love. 
 
 When will the hours return again 
 
 That bring thee back to me, love ? 
 
MURMURS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 BY THE WHITE CLIFFS. 
 
MURMUES BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
 MUEMUE I. 
 
 When sunset glitters o'er the moaning waves, 
 Oft by the shore, in sad and sober moods 
 I muse, upon the thousand mournful graves, 
 Where Hope lies dead and Love in silence broods. 
 
 Silent I sit upon the lonely beach, 
 To hear the ocean sobbing on the shore. 
 love ! joy ! ye are beyond my reach — 
 Love is a dream — Ambition cheers no more. 
 
 ! for an hour when the chill heart might rise 
 Above the drear thoughts of this common earth — 
 In vain — in vain ! sad Echo still replies. 
 Youth hath passed on — Love hath no second birth. 
 
 ! for an hour when the young feet were swift 
 To tread the flower-bright plain — to climb the hill ; 
 Ah, Pity ! let thy sad-hued curtain lift, 
 And eyes look bright and hearts beat fondly stiU. 
 
172 MUEMURS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
 Too late ! despairing word — will nothing raise 
 The heavy pall that low and lower falls, 
 Bring back the glowing hopes of youth's bright days, 
 Dispel the gloom that more and more appals ? 
 
 Earth is forsaken — save in some fond dream 
 Youth comes with bounding step and song of joy — 
 Fancies that some dark hours will still redeem — 
 Hours of delight no Day-fiend can destroy ! 
 
 Under the waters of the boundless sea 
 Gems for an unborn age may brightly shine, 
 Gems that our eyes wUl vainly seek to see — 
 Not for thy vision, brother ! nor for mine. 
 
 Life ! thou art dreary in some moods of mind. 
 Full of pale thoughts of hopelessness and grief, 
 Thy silver rusts, thy gold is unrefined. 
 Age brings no wisdom — care hath no relief 
 
 The sea is silent and the sun hath set — 
 There is no answering brightness from the sky ; 
 The dying breezes sigh — Youth will forget, 
 As falls the leaf so Love and Hope must die. 
 
MIJKMUES BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 173 
 
 Murmur II. 
 
 Life ! love ! if aught should chance to sever 
 The links that bind our souls with ties so sweet, 
 Then would my fond heart cease to beat, for ever- 
 Cold as this granite whereon rest my feet. 
 
 life ! O love ! if one should e'er depart. 
 Leaving the other by the moaning sea. 
 Death would reign, only, o'er the lonely heart, 
 The bond that binds us is — Eternity. 
 
 life ! love ! together we have trod 
 The paths of life, from earliest youthful years. 
 For ever more companions, sent by God, 
 Joy hath not severed us — nor yet shall tears ! 
 
 life ! O love ! whate'er shall yet betide 
 In this conflicting life we lead below. 
 Still ever keep ye faithful, side by side. 
 Through morning tempests to the sunset's glow I 
 
174 MUEMUKS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
 life ! love ! together to the last ! 
 
 Till the fair goal of Life in Heaven we reach — 
 
 Neither appalled hy fury of the blast, 
 
 Nor by cruel rocks that strew the stony beach. 
 
MURMURS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 175 
 
 MURMUE III. 
 " NO MORE — NO MORE ! " 
 
 Again she lingers by the darkening main, 
 Recalling sadly days of past delight— 
 Her eyes are wandering o'er the seas in vain, 
 No sail, no vessel glads her weary sight. 
 
 " No more — ^no more ! " these words ring in her ears — 
 " Thy sighs are useless — stay those futile tears." 
 No more, no more — ^yet Hope will still believe. 
 In liege with Youth — with Pleasure — to deceive ! 
 " No more ! " — oh ! dreary words ! and scarcely Age 
 Can read, with eyes undimmed. Life's fatal page. 
 
 A ship goes forth — to meet its lonely fate — 
 No more she sees — the hour grows dark and late. 
 A skilful mariner may guide the helm. 
 Yet winds will rise, and billows overwhelm ! 
 
 No more, no more ! fair Spring can ne'er return. 
 Nor the tired heart with love and pleasure bum. 
 
176 MUKMUKS BY THE "SAD SEA WAVES." 
 
 The green blades of the grass are dry and brown- 
 The pearly blossoms fade — ^the fruit falls down, 
 Dies ripened in the turf below our feet — 
 Ah ! truth is bitter, only dreams are sweet ! 
 
 No more, no more ! it is the niermaid's song — 
 Gaily the light wave bears its notes along, 
 Until they rest in silence on the main — 
 Hope dies despairing — youth and love are vain. 
 
BY THE WHITE CLIFFS. 
 
 ! LITTLE hands and little feet ! 
 " I see them through the blinding tears — 
 
 ! little voices — soft and sweet, 
 
 1 hear them through the roll of years. 
 The tiny white and trembling hands, 
 That tell of sickness and of pain — 
 Filled with the treasures of the sands. 
 How memory brings them back again ! 
 
 I see them wandering, side by side — 
 Those treasured loves of early days — 
 They come again at eventide, 
 With aU their pretty childish ways— 
 And sweet it is, awhile, to dwell 
 Apart from life's too busy hum. 
 Wrapt in the sad and tender spell 
 Of sorrows past — of joys to come. 
 
 Thou pine-girt place — how calm thou art ! 
 The moon that shimmers through thy trees. 
 
178 BY THE WHITE CLIFFS. 
 
 Seems of thy woods a very part, 
 When parted by the wild sea breeze. 
 Not even the boatman's carol rude 
 Thy sleeping echoes bear along — 
 Thou art the very solitude 
 For lovers' sighs and poet's song. 
 
 White cliifs that breast the ocean wave, 
 Fringed with dark shades of birch and pine- 
 Bright stars that light the pirates' cave, 
 And through their gloomy branches shine — 
 Flag of the yacht, or idler's sail. 
 That gently flaps the dying gale — 
 Across the darkness ye return. 
 Like visions — mournful but not stern ! 
 
 Away ! for busy life is near. 
 Whose constant murmur thrills mine ear ; 
 It is the world — the world of strife — 
 It is the voice of eager life. 
 Give not to grief, to vain regret, 
 The moments that are gTanted yet ; 
 There stiU is work that may be done. 
 There stiU are victories to be won ! 
 
 Bournemouth, September, 1880. 
 
A FEW SONGS OF LIGHTEE HOUES. 
 
THE SPITEFUL BEE. 
 
 {A supposed Fable of Gay's.) 
 
 A BEE one day, in bitter mood, 
 
 Resolved to fight the whole bee brood ! 
 
 No sooner said than done, she flew 
 
 At once amidst the busy crew. 
 
 And in a moment stung them all, 
 
 The Queen, the drone — the big, the small. 
 
 And, happj-, as she cleans her wings. 
 
 Of Troy and "joys of war " she sings. 
 
 Then proudly, later ia the day, 
 
 "Saul might his boasted thousands slay, 
 
 But I with millions line the floor. 
 
 Piled up in heaps that block the door ! 
 
 " Where is the She so brave as I ? 
 A She, who half so flercely stings 
 
182 THE SPITEFUL BEE. 
 
 The weak, the old that cannot fly, 
 
 The rash, or ' feeble, silly' things ! 
 
 Lay up their food for rainy days ! 
 
 I hate such hypocritic ways ! 
 
 'Tis greed, wise mankind thinks with me 
 
 And scorns, at heart, the busy bee. 
 
 He brightens the sad ways of life, 
 
 But I would have things full of strife, 
 
 I love to hear the sharp reproaches, 
 
 The cries ! at bites of vile cockroaches. 
 
 Ye tears ! I love to see ye flow — 
 
 Joy I detest — I feed on woe. 
 
 So merrily around I fly, 
 
 To see the feeble droop and die ! " 
 
 October, 1880. 
 
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. 
 
 WITH APOLOGIES TO MB. TROLLOPE. 
 
 (Supposed to he contributed by one Hodges, 
 Hertfordshire boom .') 
 
 " A duke will ride in a second-class carriage, and a duchess come 
 down to breakfast in a linsey gown." — Proclamation of a modern novelist. 
 
 " I HITS Stodges maany hard blows, 
 
 For un desarves um, that I knows — 
 
 But if Stodges hits back agin, 
 
 I sez, sez I, 'tis a shaame and a zin ! 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
 " For who bees Stodges ? — a AigTiorant vool, 
 He doant goo to charch and he doant goo to school. 
 He aint got no laming, nor courage nuther, 
 And t' missus more hignorant nor the t'other ! 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez it, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
184 THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. 
 
 " For Stodges — he b'longs t' the good old times, 
 When folly and hignorance wurnt no crimes — 
 He doant write no letters and t' books never reads. 
 But he drives t' oold plough and he zoes t' tare zeeds. 
 For that Missus Kaikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
 " The hoame that he's gotten he caant maantain. 
 And his wifen's rare zilly, voolish and vain ; 
 He caant e'en gie un a round good blow — 
 She thinks it rare clewur nothun to know. 
 
 For that Missus Eaikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, if slie sez zo ! 
 
 " And his chiUun wuU grow up aU the zaame, 
 Folly and zOliness their pooty gaame — 
 What not to dew, mon, and what not to zay, 
 'Tis all that they duz, mon, the whole, live day ! 
 For that Missus Eaikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
 " Noa ! they dunno what in t' warld to doo — 
 Nar they dunno where iu t' warld to goo — 
 And they zits or they strools, droo th' vields aU day, 
 Sometoimes o' this un — then that un way ! 
 
 For that Missus Eaikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. 185 
 
 " When they've gotten money, oh ! doant they dress vine ? 
 
 Nuthin' to remind un o' pigsties and swine — 
 
 And in grand old halls goo merrily around, 
 
 AU to pianny or to viddles' merry zound. 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
 " And doant they live also on nice food nuther ? 
 Venison and jellies — one a patch on t' other — 
 There's nuthin' too vine for their stomachs, I'm thinking, 
 And nuthin' too prime for their throats for drinking. 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
 " And when un's in town, too, 'tis rare good vun 
 To loake at the shops and the things in un. 
 And buy the vine dresses, mon, that you zees there, 
 'Tis better, least, than going, mon, you knows where ! 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
 " And even in travellun', if the zeats be haard. 
 There's the last penny nooz, or the last c'rect eaard — 
 And if urn's squeezg'd close, why, it doant much matter. 
 For um all wears ' linsey,' and it caant get flatter ! 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
186 THE WAY WE LIVE KOW. 
 
 " For this is what duchesses wear, I'm told. 
 So it caant hurt in crushing, if I may maake bold — 
 And they ought'n much t' care, for it ain't much cost. 
 And it doant much show, when its crumpled and crossed. 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo. 
 
 " Since our missus' grey dresses are all made t' hum, 
 There ain't no bUls vor at Christmas to cum. 
 There woant be no ribbons or fal-lals to pay for. 
 And there woant be no hoops, hurrah, to make way for. 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 Zo it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! " 
 
 " 'Tis a werry good toime for the pigs and the asses,^ 
 'Tis a rare good toimc for the crowds and the masses. 
 With not no linsey gowns, but aU velvet and silk uns, 
 O ! a rare good toime for the reel Charley Dylke uns ! 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
 " For zum they be fat uns and zum they be thin, 
 And zum they sticks out and zum they caves in ; 
 Zum looks loike our baacon and zum poplar trees. 
 And they doant care for purtyness, that I zees ! 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know, 
 And it mun be true, mon, iishe sez zo ! 
 
THE WAY WE LIVE NOW. 187 
 
 " Duz hum ride in zecond class, or third class mebbe, 
 And thinks that's the way she proves she's a ledde — 
 And calls for a barrer that drives un on ends, 
 
 When she goos down to sheer to zee t' oold friends ! 
 
 For that Missus Raikes, she sez ut, you know. 
 And it mun be true, mon, if she sez zo ! 
 
 " Dew they arl go bumping in they second classes — 
 These vine young loards and their vine young lasses ? 
 Duz they wear no zatin and other vine dodges ? 
 Then — if that be their vineness — why — I'd rayther be 
 Hodges ! " 
 
MOAN OF THE DISCONTENTED ! 
 
 Midnight's veil o'er earth is spreading, 
 All is wrapt in gloom and shade, 
 Faint the light the moon is shedding, 
 Cold the wind in wood and glade. 
 But than midnight darker still. 
 The shadow on my spirit cast — 
 More biting than the north wind's chiU, 
 Is disappointment's withering blast. 
 
 trifler ! when thy step is bounding 
 O'er some grave's deserted flowers. 
 Or, rather, when thy harp is sounding 
 Notes of woe ia sorrow's hours — 
 Think of him whose heart is broken. 
 Dweller in a living tomb. 
 O'er whom the words of doom are spoken, 
 Hopes destroying ere they bloom I 
 
MOAN" OF THE DISCONTENTED. 189 
 
 Every one that I have cherished 
 From my dreary heart is banished. 
 All within of joy hath perished, 
 All without of light hath vanished ! 
 Feelings wounded — feelings blighted, 
 Never from some trouble free, 
 'Mid the gloom of woe benighted 
 What on earth is left for me ! 
 
 ! it was Youth's fairy fingers 
 Wove the fatal spells that bound me. 
 He alone could bid them linger, 
 Evermore in brightness round me. 
 But the words of Fate were spoken. 
 All of joy I deemed my own, 
 Faded — wasted, or was broken — 
 Happiness for ever flown ! 
 
 Chide me not — if, broken-hearted 
 Scared by Sorrow's heavy blow. 
 Scenes of joy — of hopes departed. 
 Haunt me still where'er I go ! 
 0— 0— 0— 
 
 [Note. — He was discontented even with his own complaint, by this 
 time, and so broke off abruptly.] 
 
A YOUNG GIEL AMONG THE CHESTNUT 
 TREES. 
 
 [This was, in fact, but one tree, of which twin stems, when about a 
 foot from the ground, divided into four magnificent ones, each a tree in 
 
 itself. It grew in the grounds adjoining the old manor-house of S 
 
 Bury. And a wooden house waB built in the tree.] 
 
 I DO remember well a wooden house, 
 
 Built 'mid the four stems of twin chestnut trees, 
 
 A mansion fit fqr the domestic mouse. 
 
 But scarcely made for giant, if you please ! 
 
 There would I sit and ponder, if this world 
 Would prove as happy as I deemed it then — 
 While dew fell softly on the green leaves curled. 
 And rabbits sported in the moonlit glen. 
 
 There would I wonder if my love would come 
 To fetch me, from some lovely, sunlit land, 
 And bear me, smiling, to some happy home, 
 Heart pressed to heart and fond hand clasping hand. 
 
A yOIJNG GIRL AMONG THE CHESTNUT TREES. 191 
 
 No human clatter there disturbed my rest, 
 Only the titmouse, tapping on the bark. 
 Only the wood-dove, cooing on its nest — 
 Only the starhght, gleaming through the dark ! 
 
 One foot on topmost bough and one below — 
 Like a descent from Paradise to Hades — 
 A nice descent for little boys we know. 
 But scarce so nice for timid girls or ladies ! 
 
 But ah ! how sweet it was to rock about. 
 And hear the pattering of the summer raia. 
 The wild birds singing and the cowherds' shout, 
 And know all search for me would be in vain ! 
 
 To hide in covert, like the timid roe. 
 Nor stir abroad until the red sunset, 
 These are the pleasures of long, long ago, 
 Kemembered still with something of — ^regret ! 
 
IMPROMPTU LINES ON "MY CTNCLE." 
 
 I HAD an uncle in former days, 
 A gentleman known for eccentric ways ; 
 A grey, old banker and one, it seems, 
 With aU the money that " banking " means. 
 But he lived in an unpretending street. 
 In a shabby house, for extremes v:ill meet. 
 With a shabby carriage, and servants as bad, 
 AU called him stingy, but no one — Triad ! 
 
 I dined with him once and I thought to eat 
 A dinner of soup, of fish and meat, 
 Some pudding to foUow ; perhaps, beside. 
 Some fruit from a garden that seemed his pride. 
 Bo full of cherries and green, young peas ! 
 Alas for me ! we had none of these. 
 But you'U not believe it, you hardly can. 
 Unless you had known the sort of man — 
 The miserly rich ! His dinner was not 
 Of fish, flesh, or fowl ; not even hot. 
 
IMPROMPTU LINES ON MY UNOLE. 193 
 
 But only a joint of fat, salt pig — 
 
 'Twas a cheek, I think, it was rather big 
 
 For only two — as for pudding or spice. 
 
 Or custard — ah me, there was nothing so nice ! 
 
 " Mine uncle " quitted the world one day. 
 One winter's morn, in the oddest way. 
 His men were cleaning a muddy pond. 
 Once used for fish, in the field beyond ; 
 And the work was hard, or the men were idle, 
 And he, who could never his temper bridle. 
 At once declared, with an angry shout. 
 They didn't know what they were about. 
 And he would show them the way to do it ; 
 And so he did, but he lived to rue it. 
 Or rather died — from the lesson taught. 
 So fatal the chiU that the teacher caught ! 
 He left me money — ^not much — in his will, 
 I thanked him then and I thank him still ! 
 I knew that money had oft its abuse. 
 So I put out mine to a right good use. 
 That brought me pleasure and profit as well. 
 But that's a secret I need not teU ! 
 
THE SPURIOUS CRITICS. 
 {A second supposed Fable of Gay's.) 
 
 Good Sirs, when next you vent your spite 
 
 See your sarcasm is more bright ! 
 
 Go home, and polish up your wit, 
 
 It needs some polish, all admit. 
 
 Your words have not the accents even 
 
 Of truth, that first, pure gift of Heaven. 
 
 You spoil even what you think you're praising. 
 
 Sure " Oireland " boasted your " upraising," 
 
 Or backwoods in the " Coloneese " 
 
 But scarce old England, if you please ! 
 
 We scorn the meagreness, the air 
 
 Of want of candour we see there, 
 
 Perchance ye bless some other shore. 
 
 And England boasts your race no more. 
 
 critics of a day gone by, 
 Of searching wit, of fearless eye, 
 Ghosts of Macaulay, Croker, Hume, 
 To wear your cloak some still assume, 
 
THE SPURIOUS CEITICS. 195 
 
 But are as like the ancient clan 
 As Apes, who dare assume the Man ! 
 'Tis but a passing phase, we trust. 
 Cowards there may be — will be — rfhust ! 
 Bright are the critic-rays, but rare. 
 And pass like meteors through the air. 
 And those that oft assume the place 
 Are poor pretenders in the race. 
 Are such a " mockery of the letter " 
 The sooner they are gone the better. 
 Not from a sculptor's hand are they. 
 Or formed of but his coarser clay. 
 'Tis true that when their rays are fine. 
 Few meteors more admired can shine. 
 But when but feeble beams they cast. 
 Sickly, pretentious of the past. 
 They are but shadows, at the best. 
 They are a mockery and a pest. 
 
 critics of a nobler school. 
 Whose words could fire, whose pens could rule. 
 Whose ink was bright, whose strokes were keen. 
 Where have your wandering footsteps been ! 
 In other histories are ye named. 
 Have other lands your service claimed ? 
 " Come back to Erin " was a cry 
 We all remember, years gone by — 
 Come back to England, critics dear, 
 
196 THE SPUEIOUS CRITICS. 
 
 Be sure a home awaits you here ! 
 Where honest hands and glances sweet 
 Will ever honest service greet. 
 And welcome back to vacant places, 
 One of the " Literary Graces " — 
 The critics — that we knew of yore. 
 Bold, witty, fearless, brave — once more ! 
 
 October, 1880. 
 
HAPPY THOUGHTS; 
 
 OR, THE EXCUSES OF THE SCANDAL-MONGEE. 
 
 " I BELIEVE what they have told me," said a caterpillar 
 
 once. 
 And some few who heard the saying thought the insect 
 
 was a dunce. 
 But there's many like that caterpillar, certainly I fear. 
 Who believe whatever's told them — credit everything 
 
 they hear. 
 
 " ! it miist be true " — they say, with gaping mouth and 
 
 starting eyes, 
 " I am sure that ' So-and-so ' would never tell me such 
 
 bare lies — 
 I often thought it might be, for I always saw about her 
 A something I can hardly say, that could but make me 
 
 doubt her. 
 
 " yes ! it must be true I'm sure, for I remember now 
 We met her once at Smithson's, when she scarce returned 
 my bow — 
 
198 HAPPY THOUGHTS. 
 
 She always was so stuck up and seemed scarce to care to 
 
 know us, 
 But truly she shall pay for the contempt she seeined to 
 
 show us. 
 
 " yes ! she gave herself such airs, her family was old, 
 And 'came before ' the Conqueror, at least so we were 
 
 told— 
 And never had their money from a business or a trade. 
 As if it mattered, so we got it, how the tin was made ! 
 
 " yes ! she was so stuck up — said good hreedvng was 
 
 the thing. 
 And did not care for wealth, or what proud grandeur it 
 
 might bring, 
 She did not care for ' Sunday dress,' for which we 
 
 snubbed her often, 
 And nothing her dislike to our ' gentility ' could soften. 
 
 " For she came of a good old stock — she loved it more 
 
 than money. 
 And more than dress or finery, which seemed to us so 
 
 funny — 
 Was prouder of her family than even we of show. 
 And if there is a stupid thing that is the thing — I know ! 
 
HAPPY THOUGHTS. 199 
 
 " O ! it is so ridiculous — that gentle, high-bred air, 
 
 'Tis everything what ive are — nothing what our fathers 
 were — 
 
 But we who make the money can afford to treat with 
 scorn 
 
 The airs of all such people — the well-bred and the well- 
 born ! " 
 
 Octoler, 1880. 
 
PADDY'S INVITATION, 
 
 (Impromptu lines on suddenly hearing that Mr. 
 ivas going on a visit to Ireland.) 
 
 Oh ! Johnny, brave Johnny, ould England's own Johnny, 
 
 Come to the land that is peaty and bonny ; 
 
 Gome to the scenes that yer thoughts most deloight in, 
 
 Your heart aU for pace and your hand fit for foightin'. 
 
 ! come o'er the wathers to Erin's green isle. 
 
 To a sodger's warm welcome, a purty girl's smile ■ 
 
 Give up the Sassenach's wicked ould schtde. 
 
 We'll tatche you, sorr, how to conquer or rule ; 
 
 We'U tatche you better nor they would have taught us, 
 
 We'U buy your favour as they would have bought us. 
 
 ! come o'er the wathers to Erin's green isle. 
 
 To a sodger's warm welcome, a purty girl's smile ! 
 
 We'll tatche you Wisdom, Sobriety, Pace ; 
 
 TiU all the warrs in this wild woorld shaU sace ; 
 
paddy's invitation. 201 
 
 Till England's ould sheep wid our lion lies down, 
 And Paddy is crowned wid a conqueror's crown ! 
 O ! come o'er the wathers to Erin's Efreen isle. 
 To a sodger's warm welcome, a purty girl's smile I 
 
 Oeh ! come o'er the wathers thin, Johnny, me boy. 
 
 We'll welcome ye gladly, we'll meet ye wid joy ; 
 
 We'll beat thim ould Southrons — 0! we'll show ye how — 
 
 And if ye're no sodger we'll tatche it ye, now ! 
 
 So come o'er the wathers to Eria's green isle. 
 
 To a sodger's warm welcome, a purty girl's smile ! 
 
 1879. 
 
FKAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 Far from the glowing clime of Italy, 
 
 Placed in the colder regions of the West, 
 
 There is an isle, in the Atlantic Sea — 
 
 The eagle builds upon its mountain crest — 
 
 The wild fowls breed upon its marshy moor — 
 
 Its reedy plains, that knew not life before. 
 
 Yet hath it, mixed with these, bright, peaceful deUs— 
 
 Woods for the birds and bees and flower-beUs, 
 
 Too beautiful to paint when summer's smile 
 
 Gilds with its gladdening beam that western isle ! 
 
 Sweet Innisfallen ! in thy ruder clime. 
 Although the colours of thy changeful sky. 
 Even in the brightest hours of summer-time 
 Know not, or rarely, Italy's deep dye — 
 Though thou hast not the rich, the gorgeous flowers, 
 That scent the south wind in Italia's bowers. 
 Nor the sweet melody that floats o'er all 
 
206 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 In her voluptuous clime, at evenfaU — 
 
 Yet, poetry is in the echoing roar 
 
 Of thy wild waves, known to no other shore. 
 
 Even in this distant age a speU is flung 
 
 O'er the M'eird plains where Ossian lays were sung ! 
 
 And on the marshy waste and heathy hill. 
 
 The poet's spirit seems to linger still. 
 
 To caU up phantoms in the midnight storms — 
 
 That shroud, in driving mist, their ghastly forms — 
 
 Pale shadows of the long-forgotten slain. 
 
 Haunting the rude mounds of some battle-plain, 
 
 That come, when evening's light is growing pale. 
 
 To pour o'er the unhonoured dead, their wail. 
 
FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 207 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Long since — washed by old ocean's tides — 
 Bounded by rocks on other sides. 
 And visited by summer rains. 
 Stretched one of those wild battle-plains 
 O'er whose bleak wastes a spell is cast, 
 By weird old legends of the past ! 
 The tangled briar-bush overran 
 The mouldering bones of fallen man — . 
 And stones and rocks were roughly piled 
 In cairns, o'ergrown with mosses green, 
 Yet, when the sunlight o'er it smiled. 
 Though rude, it was no dreary scene ! 
 The wildfowl, nestling half concealed 
 By rushes — grass, and brushwood low. 
 Came out to feel the sun's warm glow, 
 The wilder sea-birds o'er them wheeled — 
 The petrel — with its wings of white, 
 That glanced and quivered in the light ; 
 And each sweet blossom that had found 
 A shelter on the marshy ground, 
 Lifted to heaven its slender head. 
 As if to bless the light it shed ! 
 
208 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Built firmly on a craggy rock, 
 The centre of that wide extent, 
 Stood the old tower of Ball3Tiock, 
 As though it were some monument 
 Raised by the spectres of the slain. 
 To guard each now neglected mound ; 
 For, monarch of that lonely plain. 
 High o'er the swampy fiat it frowned — 
 And from its height, might be descried 
 The towers of Hugh O'Neil, that stood, 
 In all their old ancestral pride. 
 On noble rock — mid shaggy wood. 
 While opposite, far in the west. 
 There was the sweetest village nest. 
 Beyond which hills stretched far away. 
 Pine-girt or heathy, green or grey. 
 Till, fading from the gazer's eye. 
 Their outline mingled with the sky. 
 
 It was o'erlooking this wild scene. 
 At close of one of those bright days 
 When all looks peaceful, calm and green — 
 A maiden sat, whose pensive gaze. 
 From Ballynock's old casement, grey 
 With time, had watched the sunset pass. 
 Until the tints of evening lay 
 On mossy stone and bending grass. 
 A smile was lighting her blue eyes 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 209 
 
 And parted lips, that otherwise 
 Seemed, like those deep orbs, to express 
 Even in that face, so soft and fair, 
 That look of painful earnestness, 
 That tells the tale of youthful care ! 
 
 An orphan at an early age. 
 Hers were not childhood's happy years ; 
 And Morna soon had stained the page 
 Of life, with many bitter tears. 
 Graceful in form as fair in face, 
 Though daughter of no noble race. 
 There was that charm in her bright eyes. 
 Tearful and blue as her own skies— 
 That even made, by Morna's side. 
 High-born O'Neil forget his pride ! 
 He would have given his haughty name 
 Fair Morna's snowy hand to claim ! 
 And Hugh was young — of handsome mien. 
 With eyes that, beautiful and keen. 
 Revealed no lukewarm soul within — 
 Yet Morna's hand was hard to win — 
 Her heart had long been given to one 
 Who only by his love had won ! 
 For his estates were barren plains. 
 That bounded Hugh O'Neil's domains — 
 His home was on a lonely rock — 
 His castle haUs — rude Ballynock ! 
 
210 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 But Moma's soul was full of love 
 For aU of beautiful on earth ; 
 The changeful sky that bent above — 
 The flowers that owed to it their birth I 
 And Morna, from a very child, 
 Had loved to hear the legends wild 
 .Of Ballynock's rude plains — to tread 
 Upon the soil where heroes bled ! 
 She learned to know each mossy stone, 
 Each broken rock, with grass o'ergrown, 
 Each lakelet, where the wildfowl bred. 
 And wheeled with screams, above her head — 
 To hear the moaning of the waves. 
 Washing the fabled Sea-Kings' caves ; 
 And, wandering by the wild seashore 
 With Edgar, Morna asked no more ! 
 Until, on one bright summer day, 
 A year had rolled its course away. 
 And war came, — and the youthful chief 
 With Hugh O'Neil to battle went. 
 And Moma's hours in lonely grief. 
 And prayers for his return were spent. 
 Alas ! he came not back again. 
 She watched and wept for him in vara ; 
 O'Neil returned alone, to tell 
 How in the battle Edgar fell. 
 
 Two years had passed since then, and thouf^h 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 211 
 
 Time softens e'en the keenest woe, 
 Yet Morna's was a loving heart, 
 And often stiU the tears would start 
 When some sweet sound — some sunny eve 
 Recalled the lost and loved to mind ; 
 Although not idly did she grieve, 
 But gentle, pensive and resigned. 
 She shrank from melody and mirth. 
 And in the humbler homes of earth 
 Felt happy, when her hand could ease 
 The pangs of suffering and disease. 
 And other causes brought the smile 
 To Morna's careworn cheek awhile — 
 Though of the one beloved bereft, 
 Morna had stUl a brother left. 
 To watch for whose return she sat 
 And looked out from her casement grey, 
 Though hooting owl and flitting bat 
 Reminded her of parting day. 
 
 Dermid had been a fearless boy. 
 And legends of the wildest kind 
 Would make his young brow glow with joy. 
 And echo in his daring mind. 
 His eye would flash with generous fire, 
 To hear of deeds of noble worth, 
 He had besides, a wild desire 
 To visit stranger scenes of earth — 
 
212 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 With free and joyous eyes to gaze 
 
 On foreign woods and rocks and bays ! 
 
 But o'er that bold heart was, withal, 
 
 That glow of warm, romantic feeling. 
 
 That loves to watch, at evenfall. 
 
 The sober shades of autumn, stealing 
 
 O'er quiet plain and beech- wood dingle, - 
 
 The star of evening, wan and single. 
 
 Steal out through sunset's lurid gold. 
 
 And sadly light the plain and wold. 
 
 The moon that shone through broken clouds. 
 
 The fogs of even, as they drove 
 
 Like phantoms, in their ghastly shrouds, 
 
 O'er the dark vales would Dermid love ! 
 
 And lingering like some pensive lover. 
 
 Upon the sands of the seashore, 
 
 He watched the sea-birds o'er him hover. 
 
 Or listened to the surges' roar. 
 
 Yet, checking the strong wish to be. 
 
 Where the green waves of that fierce sea 
 
 Upon some stranger shore might curl, 
 
 He lingered stUl by Moma's side. 
 
 And ne'er had quitted that fair girl, 
 
 TiU, happy as young Edgar's bride 
 
 He bade her farewell in her home — 
 
 And went through newer scenes to roam. 
 
 » * * *4. 
 
 The night came on — one briUiant star 
 f A passage is here lost — evidently referring to Dennid's retam. 
 
FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 213 
 
 Gleamed on the ancient field of war, 
 The mountain mists arose — but ere 
 The moonbeams quivered o'er the mere, 
 The watched-for came ! and as she heard 
 The accent kind — the first fond word 
 That she had heard from him for years, 
 Fair Morna's dark eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " And will you dwell for ever here 
 And never leave me, Dermid dear — 
 And shall we watch again together 
 The foaming sea in stormy weather — 
 And gather sea-shells or field fiowers. 
 As we have done in earlier hours ? " 
 
 " Dear Morna, yes ! I have returned 
 From those wild scenes for which I yearned — 
 My heart is weary and oppressed, 
 I long for peace, dear, and for rest. 
 I wearied of the gorgeous dyes 
 Of foreign scenes — of foreign skies ; 
 There's rest in this wild solitude. 
 Where sounds are not, or sweet or rude — 
 Where e'en the sad forget to sigh, 
 'Tis here that I would live — and die ! " 
 
 Ere from his native land he roved 
 Dermid by many chiefs was loved, 
 For courteous manners — kindly heart — 
 And so from many a distant part 
 
214 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEaEND. 
 
 They came, to welcome back once more. 
 The wanderer to his own loved shore. 
 Even he, the haughty Hugh O'Neil, 
 Judged best his hatred to conceal, 
 Though Dermid had been Edgar's friend- 
 And this, he deemed had chiefly led 
 Fair Morna that yoimg chief to wed. 
 'Twas hard that scornful heart to bend, 
 'Twas harder even to disguise 
 The hatred gleaming in his eyes ! 
 But Morna stiU was loved, although 
 Her cheek had lost its first fresh glow. 
 And now was somewhat lined and faded. 
 How much of beauty still was there ; 
 And by their pensive lashes shaded 
 How lovely still her dark eyes were ! 
 And she grew lovelier, as the smile 
 That suited her fair face so well. 
 Returned again, to throw awhile 
 O'er all, its loving, tender spell. 
 Alas ! it was a transient light, 
 A sunbeam quenched in stormy night ! 
 But little then poor Morna knew 
 The heavy cloud of grief, that threw 
 Such shadows o'er her life's young scene, 
 With only transient light between. 
 Ere long, on her devoted path, 
 Would pour its last and darkest wrath ! 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 215 
 
 Two miles from Ballynock and in 
 O'Neil's dominions was a cave. 
 And those who passed it heard the din, 
 And echo of the hidden wave. 
 Though near upon the water's verge. 
 The constant breaking of the surge 
 Defended all approaches, save 
 From those that dared that surge to brave. 
 Here sometimes met a reckless crew, 
 From what wild shore they came none knew ! 
 They met by night and often laid 
 Their lawless hands upon the flocks 
 Of some poor villagers, that strayed. 
 At nightfall, o'er the neighbouring rocks. 
 And wild the revelry — 'twas said. 
 Within that cave was sometimes heard — 
 The villagers, whose very bread 
 Depended each upon his herd 
 Of goats, complained to Hugh O'Neil — 
 Who promised, with apparent zeal, 
 To seize or to disperse the foe. 
 But strange to say none seemed to know 
 When danger threatened their domain — 
 The foe still managed to elude 
 Their search, yet still returned again 
 From some unheard-of solitude ! 
 This led the villagers to say 
 Strange things of Hugh O'Neil himself— 
 
216 FEAGMEKTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Why lived he in a style so gay, 
 Whence came his grandeur and his wealth ? 
 Though high the race from whence he came, 
 He owed them little but the name ! 
 
 But Dermid, ever bold of hand, 
 ' Resolved to seize the robber band. 
 Ere he for many months had been 
 Inhabitant of this wild scene. 
 He manned his boats one stormy night. 
 Just as the pale and crescent moon 
 Withdrew from heaven her pallid light — 
 But Dermid's followers came too soon 
 To storm the lion in his lair — 
 Three only of the band were there. 
 These ruffians soon they safely bound. 
 But for their comrades watched in vain — 
 'Tis certain they were never found 
 Within that cavern-haunt again. 
 What chance detained them they heard not — 
 'Twas doubtless, in some safer spot 
 An oath of fierce revenge they swore. 
 Much for their comrades' fate, but more 
 For the rich booty they had lost — 
 The robes of sUk — the gems of cost. 
 Which Dermid's band had dared to seize — 
 Wrongs vengeance only could appease ! 
 
FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 217 
 
 It had been one of those hot days 
 When earth seems withered, by the rays 
 Of sunlight, and the flowers most sweet 
 Grow scentless in the burning heat. 
 The sky, tiU noontide, had been clear, 
 But, as the evening hours drew near. 
 Black, lowering clouds began to meet — 
 Like warriors gathering, seemed to greet — 
 Behind the mountains of the west. 
 Just ere the sun had sunk to rest. 
 And from behind the broken pile 
 Of mists, gave out his parting smile ; 
 Till craggy stone and rock and steep 
 That bordered here the moaning deep 
 Blushed gently and then fiery red — 
 And o'er the waves its glory shed — 
 Till, slowly, with one parting look. 
 It faded from the dazzled eye — 
 Leaving the scenes that it forsook. 
 The lightning, radiance to supply ! 
 Now showing forms of rugged rocks — 
 Defining their majestic blocks — 
 Then passing — ^glancing down below. 
 It bathed the plains in softer glow. 
 Lastly, it quivered o'er the wave. 
 Where grey-stone rock and marble reef. 
 Gleamed in the vivid light it gave. 
 So beautiful and yet so brief ! 
 
218 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 The evening had been strangely warm. 
 Long after that red sun had set — 
 And watching the slow-gathering storm, 
 Dermid and Morna lingered yet. 
 Both silently, as if it brought 
 Some train of melancholy thought 
 To mind — some scenes of former years — 
 And Moma's dark eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Brother ! " at last she softly said, 
 " Time, these last years has sadly sped ! 
 Though not upon my brow alone, 
 The veil of sorrow has been thrown ! 
 I well remember when we parted — 
 'Twas near these wild rocks of the sea, 
 And thou wert merry and light-hearted 
 Aja though Life held no griefs for thee ! 
 But where is that bright spirit now, 
 The roving thoughts that none could tame ' 
 So altered is that daring brow 
 I scarcely know it for the same. 
 Nay, teU me not that illness traced 
 Those circles, ne'er to be effaced — 
 Some deeper grief thy heart oppressed, 
 To make it languish thus for rest. 
 I cannot look upon thy face. 
 Nor see each sad, indented trace, 
 That tells a tale of bitter strife. 
 Instead of warm and joyous life ! 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 219 
 
 There was a time when o'er thy heart 
 Could come no shade of grief and woe 
 But I, dear Dermid, there had part — 
 
 ' would that it might stiU be so ! " 
 
 " Dear sister, ask not that of me — 
 
 1 could not even speak to thee 
 Of her that I have loved and lost, 
 And aU the anguish that it cost. 
 Forget, dear, that my cheek is pale — 
 'Twould madden me to tell — that tale ! " 
 
 " Forgive me, it was cruel to ask 
 Thy lips then, to perform such task.'' 
 And Moma's dark and wistful eyes 
 Turned sadly to the sombre skies. 
 A few stars glimmered in the east. 
 And, as the thunder-clouds unfurled. 
 Seemed struggling through their piles, at least 
 To throw some light upon the world ! 
 Then as she gazed a meteor's gleam 
 Like lightning, lit a distant chain 
 Of hills — a momentary gleam — 
 Then left all dim and chill again ! 
 The eyrie stiUness of the eve — 
 Those storm-clouds with their threatening form, 
 Warned Morna to retire and leave 
 The dark earth to the coming storm ! 
 
220 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Night closed o'er Ballynock's old castle grey, 
 The fury of the storm had passed away — 
 Through sullen clouds the moon serenely rode, 
 Gleaming one moment like a spectre through 
 The grey stone casements of that stern abode — 
 Then suddenly her ghastly light withdrew ! 
 The muttering of the thunder, low and hoarse, 
 StiU marked the tempest's slow, receding course. 
 
 Though past her usual hour of rest 
 Fair Morna's couch was still unpressed. 
 'Twas not to watch the lightning's flash 
 Grow paler, or to mark the sound 
 Of billows, as they strove to dash 
 In anger, o'er their rocky bounds. — 
 She neither saw that grim midnight 
 Was gathering o'er her silent halls. 
 Nor that her lamp's expiring light 
 Was flickering o'er the tap'stried walls. 
 A sudden light that from afar 
 Gleamed through the darkness, like a star 
 That startles at the gloomy sky. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 221 
 
 Just tlien caught Moma's tearful eye, 
 
 Who paused to wonder what sad wight 
 
 Was wandering out that stormy night — 
 
 And then returned to her sad train 
 
 Of melancholy thought again. 
 
 How long she sat she never knew — 
 
 Her lamp, low in the socket, threw 
 
 A ghastly light around, that came 
 
 By starts from its expiring flame. 
 
 When suddenly, distinct and clear, 
 
 A fearful cry struck on her ear ! 
 
 Then came a pause — it seemed so long. 
 
 So frightfully — so strangely still ! 
 
 The heart that first beat — wild and strong 
 
 Grew pulseless suddenly — and chill. 
 
 Her brain seemed darkened and then reeled, 
 
 Her blood felt icy and congealed — 
 
 One answering shriek — and o'er her sight 
 
 Had crept the shades of darkest night ! 
 
 'Twas well that consciousness had ceased — 
 Some hours of bitterness at least 
 Was spared that gentle, tender heart. 
 Meanwhile her household, with a start. 
 Had gathered in the hall, to share 
 Their master's danger — but they were 
 Unarmed, unable to withstand 
 The pirates' wild and reckless band. 
 
222 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Yet came a struggle — ^fierce but short — 
 Eesistance but too dearly bought ! 
 
 And -woe befeU aU household gems ! 
 Though there were no proud diadems 
 For queenly brows — no ingots rare- — 
 Or diamond stars for raven hair, 
 No bands of gold to bind the tress, 
 Or deck the brow, to which was lent 
 Too much of nature's loveliness 
 To need aught other ornament — 
 Yet those she had, to her were worth 
 Far more than richer spoils of earth — 
 Her father's portrait — set in gold. 
 Though only simply, plainly set — 
 Her mother's crucifix — these told. 
 To one who loved not to forget — - 
 Though environed by storm and strife — 
 The sweetest lessons of her life. 
 And there was more than one rich pearl, 
 Her lover's hand had placed above 
 Her snowy brow — when, yet a girl 
 She blushed at the first gifts of love! 
 These and some other gems, her cai-e 
 Had treasured in a chamber lone. 
 The far, blue hills were seen from there. 
 And Morna called that room her own. 
 'Twas in the west wing of the haU, 
 
FKAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 223 
 
 That looked out on a westem sky. 
 
 The sun lit up its tap'stried wall, 
 
 Before it faded from the eye ! 
 
 And gentle Morna loved to sit 
 
 In summer evenings — watching it. 
 
 With Memory's fond and tender look, 
 
 To mark the shades, as they declined — 
 
 Where every little gem, or book, 
 
 Recalled her lover to her mind. 
 
 Here came the pirates — to whose eyes 
 
 Seemed much of priceless booty there — 
 
 And more than one rich, costly prize 
 
 Soon glittered in their torches' glare. 
 
 For Edgar, when he brought his bride 
 
 His lonely home to bless and share 
 
 Had decked it, with a lover's pride. 
 
 With much both beautiful and rare. 
 
 Vases of snowy marble, rich 
 
 With carving, from their stands were taken. 
 
 And yet more priceless ones, from which 
 
 Some wild, field flowers were rudely shaken. 
 
 That Morna had, the day before. 
 
 Found in some rich spot of the moor. 
 
 Here paused they — for they feared from none 
 
 Discovery, till their work was done. 
 
 Mixed with their torches' fiery flame, 
 A ray of yellow moonlight broke 
 
224 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 The veil of threatening clouds, and came 
 
 Through Gothic frames of ancient oak. 
 
 It shone not thus, on other nights, 
 
 On ruffian forms and glaring lights. 
 
 That moon, so silvery and cold, 
 
 Threw, then, the casement-shadows o'er 
 
 The tap'stry's weird and heavy fold. 
 
 Or on the inlaid, plaquered floor, 
 
 Now, as if sickened, it withdrew 
 
 Its pure and peaceful light once more. 
 
 Behind a cloud of blackest hue. 
 
 And night grew gloomy as before. 
 
 But first, upon the waters dark 
 
 It glanced, and lit the pirates' barque. 
 
 Then seemed to strive, with trembling beam, 
 
 Into a lonely room to gleam — 
 
 As one, who there, in darkness lay 
 
 In silence bled his life away ! 
 
 Some time had passed — when, favoured by 
 The murky shadows of the sky. 
 From Ballynock's old postern gate 
 Two figures stole, with quickening pace — 
 They seemed to bear some precious weight. 
 And fear discovery or chase ! 
 So hurriedly their footsteps traced 
 The rugged pathways of the waste — 
 TiU they had reached the smooth sea-sand — 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 225 
 
 Far from the pirate vessel's stand. 
 
 There, in a little creek or bay, 
 
 A shallow boat at anchor lay — - 
 
 This they unmoored, in trembling haste. 
 
 Their burden in it gently placed — 
 
 Sprang in and pushed it from the shore — 
 
 Then, while one swiftly plied the oar, 
 
 The other — who, by one long tress 
 
 Escaped in haste or carelessness 
 
 Beneath a shadowy hat and large, 
 
 Seemed of the gentler sex, — -unwound 
 
 A mantle, her mysterious charge 
 
 That wrapt securely — closely round. 
 
 And damp as though with Death's cold dew. 
 
 Disclosed young Dermid's brow to view ! 
 
 Then, with a firm and skilful touch, 
 
 She bound the wounds, that now l^ad bled 
 
 So long, neglectedly and much — 
 
 A little more, and life had fled ! 
 
 While a third figure that, till now, 
 
 Sat silent at the vessel's prow. 
 
 In mumbling tones began to teU 
 
 Her beads, or breathe some weighty spell ! 
 
 It needed all that watcher's care— 
 So little now of life was there, 
 To bring it to that brow again ! 
 Her efforts long could only gain 
 
226 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Some faint and interrupted sighs, 
 
 A quiveruig opening of the eyes, 
 
 That seemed akeady dim and glazed — 
 
 And once the arm was feebly raised 
 
 That hung down wounded by the side — 
 
 Yet still unceasingly she tried, 
 
 Though once she glanced, when passing by. 
 
 At Hugh O'Neil's dark towers, round which. 
 
 Half hidden in obscurity. 
 
 And bordered with the beech-wood rich — 
 
 Many a green romantic steep 
 
 Rose boldly, from fair Erin's deep ! 
 
 Then looked back anxiously, but aU 
 
 Was dark in BaUynock's grim wall. 
 
 For even the pirates' torches bright, 
 
 Lit not the darkness of the night. 
 
 Music was heard and wine was pomred 
 That night at Hugh O'Neil's proud board — 
 His lofty halls rang back again 
 With laughter and with minstrel's strain. 
 And jewels flashed in raven hair. 
 For young and graceful forms were there. 
 Yet still the chief looked sadly on. 
 With brow and lips, stem-set and wan — 
 Though sometimes he would join the jest, 
 With hollow laugh, or sudden start — 
 While yet that brow and lip compressed. 
 Showed sterner thoughts were in his heart. 
 
FEAGMEKTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 227 
 
 The night has passed — the banquet o'er. 
 The sound of wassail heard no more — 
 The hall was chUl — deserted — bare — 
 Yet Hugh O'Neil still lingered there ! 
 And on his forehead — cold and damp 
 Gleamed the dull light of one pale lamp. 
 
 " Thou'rt surely iU," a soft voice said 
 And broke the silence, almost dread. 
 That in dim space now held its reign — 
 And roused the chieftain from his train 
 Of moody thought — " thou'rt surely ill — 
 Thy brow, my son, is strangely chiU ! 
 Why didst thou, in the festive throng, 
 Join neither in the jest nor song, 
 But turn from minstrel's merry lay — 
 Thou ! once the gayest of the gay ! 
 Nay ! smile not thus — too well I know 
 The smile of mirth from that of woe. 
 Alas ! that very smile betrays 
 It is no trifling cause that weighs 
 So heavily upon thy mind. ..." 
 Thus spoke the mother of O'Neil, 
 In those soft accents — -meek and kind. 
 Few hear and yet refuse to feel. 
 
 The blush of anger, or of shame. 
 To Hugh O'Neil's proud temples came — 
 
228 FKAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 " I love not questions " lie replied — 
 Then moodUy he turned aside, 
 And sought a Gothic casement, placed 
 Within a dark recess, that faced 
 The marshy flat and lonely rock. 
 Known by the name of Ballynock. 
 'T"was strange ! just then a vivid light 
 Brought those grim, distant haUs to sight ; 
 A brilliant glare — a bursting flame. 
 From tower— from turret, leaping came — 
 And as the chieftain wildly gazed 
 Fiercely it rose and fiercely blazed ! 
 
 O'Neil rushed madly from the haU — 
 His mother heard his frenzied call — 
 " Ho ! Morris — Rory — bring my steed. 
 
 And follow me with instant speed " 
 
 And then there came the trampling sound 
 Of horse's hoofs on flinty ground. 
 And Hugh, who rode at furious rate. 
 Soon left behind the castle gate. 
 
 O'Neil took not the circling road. 
 But straight across the plain he rode. 
 The wind was sullen, shrill and cold 
 And blowing o'er the open wold. 
 It had a weary, bitter tone, 
 'Twas almost like a spirit's moan. 
 
FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 229 
 
 It rose not ever loud or high, 
 But with a melancholy sigh 
 O'er reedy flats and fragments, rent 
 From rocks, like ghostly Banshee went ! 
 The partridge started from its rest, 
 The moorfowl left its rushy nest. 
 And raised its shrill, complaining cry. 
 As Hugh O'Neil dashed madly by. 
 The curlew joined its mournful wail 
 With the faint piping of the quail. 
 And far around each note was heard, 
 Across that flat and lonely waste — 
 As each bewildered fluttered bird 
 Flew from its grassy home in haste ! 
 
 He reached at last the burning hall. 
 Just as, like some funereal pall, 
 A column huge, of densest smoke. 
 From lofty roof — from lattice broke. 
 Then passed away — ^while sullen glare 
 Of leaping flames was fiercely shed 
 Upon the hot and heavy air ! 
 And yet — he thought, with sudden fear, 
 No voice — ^no cry fell on his ear — 
 He listened for some piercing call — 
 The roaring of the flames was all ! 
 A chill ran through his curdling blood, 
 Cold drops of perspiration stood 
 
230 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Upon his brow — and yet it seemed 
 As though some exultation gleamed 
 Within those eyes' fierce brightness, ere 
 Quenched by some sudden doubt, or fear ! 
 
 The eastern -wing was half-decayed, 
 Where flames their fiercest march had made ; 
 But Moma and her household dwelt 
 Within the western — this reposed 
 Unscathed as yet, but Hugh, who felt 
 There was no time to lose, unclosed 
 A postern door, within the waU, 
 And vaulted roof and noble hall 
 Soon echoed back his headlong tramp. 
 'Tis true, he had no guide, or lamp, 
 Nor needed them, the air was bright 
 With glowing flames, a blood-red light 
 Came from each casement that he passed. 
 And through the courts their shadows ca^t — 
 While mingled with the roaring flame 
 Another sound rose, sadly clear, 
 The wail of lamentation came 
 Distinctly to the chieftain's ear ! 
 
 Meantime the household of O'Neil 
 Had spared not spur, or goading steel. 
 But following him at utmost speed, 
 Each just had reined his foaming steed 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 231 
 
 As, issuing from a postern door, 
 
 A form dishevelled, pale yet fair. 
 
 Into the open space he bore — 
 
 And laid her down in cooler air. 
 
 Then, as the flames grew fast and faster. 
 
 The search grew wilder for " the Master " — 
 
 A search still vain, until they found 
 
 A track of recent blood, and traced 
 
 Its course without the castle's bound. 
 
 Then lost it in the marshy waste. 
 
 And now from distant hamlets came 
 The rustics — both the young and old, 
 Attracted by the lurid flame. 
 That lit afar the marshy wold. 
 Was there among them who wept not 
 For Morna ? one who there forgot 
 For whom her hapless brother brought 
 Such fearful vengeance on his head ? 
 Not one ! who had not gladly fought 
 And cheerfully his life-blood shed 
 For Dermid — but that fatal hour 
 Pursuit, alone, was in their power. 
 This promptly they commenced^ — a boat 
 Was quickly manned and put afloat. 
 Although they knew the chance was slight 
 Of chasing pirates such a night ! 
 The rest remained and bravely toiled 
 
232 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 To quench the flames, though often foiled. 
 And only paused when once they threw 
 A dark, suspicious glance at Hugh ! 
 
 " Mount thou my steed," the chieftain said. 
 His quick and ready page obeyed, 
 " And see a boat be instant manned 
 With bravest heart and boldest hand. 
 For I will at the first pale streak 
 Of morn, the pirate vessel seek." 
 
 Then Hugh returned to Moma's side. 
 Whose weeping maidens long had tried 
 To bring back life and warmth again 
 To their young mistress, but in vain. 
 It was a long, yet happy swoon, 
 In truth, the waking came too soon ! 
 There is no bitterness so deep 
 Like that of waking, as from sleep. 
 To find some evU hand hath been 
 To blast our life's most cherished scene ; 
 To feel the sad heart so oppressed. 
 Its dearest longing is for rest — 
 Though it might come with the duU gloom 
 And voiceless silence of the tomb ! 
 So Moma thought, as life returned. 
 And her foreboding heart had learned 
 Her brother's loss — the pirates' flight — 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 233 
 
 While burning towers that threw a light 
 Even to Dunhaven's distant crest 
 And pine-wood forests, told the rest ! 
 
 The clouds were parted — soft and grey 
 Came the first breaking of the day. 
 Alas ! that sunrise never more 
 Will throw its peaceful shadows o'er 
 That home she once had known so fair — 
 That long had been so loved a place — 
 And with a gesture of despair. 
 Poor Morna hid her tear-stained face — 
 While, breaking on her bitter grief 
 Thus gently spoke the mountain chief. 
 
 " Lady," he said — " my home so near. 
 Why linger we in sorrow here ? 
 My mother there awaits thee — I 
 Will chase the pirates o'er the sea — r 
 The gleam of morn is in the sky, 
 I may not linger — even with thee." 
 He took her trembling hand and raised 
 Her shivering figure from the ground — 
 But Morna turned and long she gazed 
 Silent and speechless — as spell-bound. 
 Without a murmur or a sigh 
 She stood awhile — with tearless eye. 
 Mute, motionless as sculptor's clay — 
 Then hid her face and turned away. 
 
234 FRAGMENTS Olj' AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 It was the noontide of a bright, warm day, 
 
 The air was scented with the summer flowers, 
 
 The long grass rustled with the breeze's play. 
 
 The wood-birds filled with song their leafy bowers. 
 
 The bees were winging, with a drowsy tone 
 
 From the blue harebell to the sweet-briar rose — 
 
 O'er earth and sky, o'er sea and rock were thrown, 
 
 An air of loneliness and calm repose. 
 
 The wood -pigeons were cooing in the shade — 
 
 The deer were basking in the sun's warm smile — 
 
 The rivulets went murmuring through the glade, 
 
 The fish-hawk watched the running streams the while ! 
 
 Or dived into the clear, pellucid flood. 
 
 Then rising shook around the diamond spray, 
 
 As to some branch of broad, decaying wood 
 
 It flew, to feast in quiet on its prey. 
 
 Deep in one of those sunny dells. 
 Whose banks are clothed with flower-beUs, 
 Where human steps were known to pass 
 But rarely o'er its haunted grass — 
 Where human voices echoed not — 
 There yet remained a ruined cot. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 235 
 
 It suited well that greenwood scene, 
 Its broken roof with moss was green — 
 And birds, or winds, had sown the seeds 
 Of hardy plants or creeping weeds. 
 In crevices of broken wall, 
 Or where the woodwork seemed decayed. 
 Of lovely ferns, or foxglove tall, 
 To crown the ruins Time had made ! 
 Though scarcely boasting chair, or bed, 
 Yet was this hut inhabited. 
 A woman, withered, old and wan. 
 Was basking in the glowing sun. 
 That shone in through the open door — ■ 
 And seemed as though she muttered o'er 
 Some magic charm, or potent prayer. 
 As her shrunk hand arranged with care 
 Herbs, gathered in the dead of night, 
 Or culled beneath the pale moonlight — 
 When fairies wake their harps' soft strain. 
 Or darker spirits hold their reign. 
 One who, if we might Fame believe. 
 By magic process, could with ease 
 The couch of bitter pain relieve — 
 Cure fatal wounds, or dire disease ! 
 Another inmate, too, was there. 
 With youthful brow and raven hair. 
 Who once was beautiful — her face 
 Still something had of beauty's grace. 
 
236 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 But now that brow was marked — her eye 
 Was restless, feverlit and dry. 
 A sullen, dull despair, a stem 
 Unwavering resolution, seemed 
 Within those hollow orbs to bum — 
 And sometimes even fiercely gleamed 
 The hard looi; of revenge, within 
 Its lightning brightness — then awhile 
 It changed into a scornful smile — 
 The smUe of mockery and of sin. 
 
 She bent above a wretched bed, 
 Where, wasted by long sickness lay 
 One, o'er whose clammy brow had spread 
 The very hue of soulless clay. 
 And seemed to watch with half-drawn sigh 
 And painful quivering of the eye. 
 The light of intellect again 
 Return to Dermid's wandering brain. 
 The first glance of the conscious eyes 
 Was one of wild, unmixed surprise — 
 Then, as he raised his languid head. 
 In faint and faltering tones he said — 
 " My sister "— " She is safe "— " Then how 
 Is it that I am here, and not 
 With her, and who and what art thou — 
 Why am I in this ruined cot ? " 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 237 
 
 " Nay — hxLsh thee — thou art far too pale, 
 Too weak, to hear so long a tale." 
 
 Poor Dermid sank back slowly — closed 
 His eyes — she deemed that he reposed. 
 And watched in silence, but ere long: 
 He spoke again — in tones more strong. 
 
 " Nay, teU me all, for o'er my mind 
 Suspicions dark, but scarce defined. 
 Have crowded, and are crowding stiU — 
 Like some foreboding shade of ill. 
 Fear not, my gentle nurse, but speak 
 The strength of life hath come again — " 
 A flush came o'er his sunken cheek 
 As slowly he arose, with pain. 
 " For all my recollections seem 
 The misty memories of a dream — 
 A frantic struggle — then a cry. 
 That thrilled my frame with agony. 
 My sister's voice ! then faces grim 
 And cruel as fiends seemed bending o'er 
 My own — then all grew dark and dim. 
 And faded, and I knew no more. 
 Thy voice is stranger to mine ear. 
 Who art thou, and what brings me here ? " 
 
 " I tell but what relates to thee — 
 
238 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 It matters not who / may be — 
 •Ask not details — enough, I heard 
 Thou wert condemned to die, by those 
 Whose deadly rage thou hadst incurred — 
 The pirates' savage band — and I 
 Resolved to snatch thee from their knife ! 
 I see that thou art wondering, why 
 A stranger's hand should save thy life — 
 'Twas for thy gentle sister's sake — 
 I knew her tender heart would break — 
 And joy for me would be in vain 
 If thou, so fondly loved, wert slain. 
 My mothers eyes in death she closed, 
 Arid blessed the spot where she reposed." 
 
 Some mournful, overpowering feeling 
 Seemed swelling in her heart, she bowed 
 Her head, and with her hand concealing 
 Her face, wept bitterly — aloud. 
 And yet, ere long, in firmer strain 
 And calmer voice, resumed again. 
 
 " Alas ! there seemed no help, and I — 
 I felt — I feared — that thou must die, 
 Unless I should betray thy foes. 
 And bring down ruin, both on those 
 That hated thee and one whose hand 
 Was in, but yet abhorred the plot. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 239 
 
 For there is one in that dark band, 
 Who, though my heart may love him not. 
 With generous pity gave me all 
 I have of peace and comfort here — 
 And I would not that he should fall — 
 Though for myself I know not fear ! 
 One hope there is, but faint indeed, 
 Yet cherished as a last resource, 
 As drowning men wiU grasp the reed. 
 And think to stem the current's force ; 
 But time is passing — To be brief. 
 The night of one dark expedition, 
 O'More was sent out by his chief — 
 I need not tell on what commission. 
 Enough — one dark and stormy night 
 We met, and we concealed our barque 
 Where there was neither shore nor light — 
 Within a sheltered creek and dark — 
 We knew that, e'er their work was o'er 
 Of pillage — hours might pass away — 
 And, entering by a secret door. 
 We robbed the murderers of their prey ! 
 For well I knew if aught of life 
 Was left thee — by their vengeful knife — 
 That TJlrique's magic speUs once more 
 Life, sense and vigour could restore ! 
 There's little more — save I have learned 
 Thy sister's towers thy foes have burned. 
 
240 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 She — as O'Neil the merit claims 
 
 Of having saved her from the flames — 
 
 Will now his honoured guest remain." 
 
 " And yet I know the lines of pain 
 That mark thy stern and knitted brow 
 Tell me thy tale unfinished now ! " 
 
 " 'Tis true ! but if those lips of thine 
 Repeat the tale that now I tell. 
 Ruin must fall on me and mine — 
 Then hear — but use thy knowledge well. 
 
 " Beware, beware of Hugh O'Neil, 
 The chieftain of that pirate band — 
 Howe'er he may his hate conceal, 
 Thy murder by his lips was planned ! 
 He hates thee, with a hate as feU 
 As ever human breast could swell. 
 And knows that Moma ne'er will give 
 Her hand to him while thou shalt live. 
 And many months ago, he swore 
 That he would wait and woo no more — 
 That Moma should, whate'er betide 
 Ere long become his own — his bride. 
 Nay, shake not wUdly thus thy arm, 
 Hear me, young madman — and be calm ! 
 Be calm — there is no danger yet — 
 
FEAGMENTS Or AN OLD LEGEND. 241 
 
 He deems thy sun of life hath set ; 
 He deems thy head is lying low, 
 And waits, until the heavy blow 
 That now is pressing on her heart 
 May be removed — at least in part. 
 From his foul grasp or from the grave, 
 Ronemher — thou alone canst save ! 
 
 " Dost thoii remember, weeks ago 
 The Lady Una sent to pray 
 Thy sister would awhile forego 
 Her dreary residence — to stay 
 Within that lady's brighter one ? 
 Canst thou not guess why this was done ? 
 But that, as Moma shrank from glee 
 And mirth, she stayed, instead, with thee. 
 It was to veil, thus, from her sight. 
 The horrors of that fatal night ! 
 Not that the Lady Una knew 
 Her son's dark union with the crew 
 Of pirates — gentle, meek and kind. 
 She bends to his imperious mind, , 
 Suspects not in the loved one ill, 
 Nor e'er disputes his haughty will. 
 
 " Dark is the soul of stern O'Neil, 
 His lip is smooth — his brow is steel, 
 And starts not at the boldest deed, 
 
 E 
 
242 FEAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 Whate'er may be the hearts that bleed. 
 He little knows what hand shall wreak 
 His ruin " — the triumphant glow 
 Of vengeance coloured her pale cheek. 
 As thus she spoke, and then the throe 
 Of anguish shook her wasted frame. 
 Yielding to burning tears of shame, — 
 " I see thou pitiest me — in vain 
 Thy lips would urge me break the chain. 
 That binds me still to those I hate — 
 'Tis vain to say, 'Tis not too late ! 
 Thou little know'st how fastened in 
 Its links, become the slaves of sin ! 
 And I am hopeless — helpless now — 
 But stay — for fever burns thy brow. 
 Rest, rest thy wearied brain, and I " 
 
 She paused and waiting not reply 
 Rose hastily — ^her mantle wide 
 Drew round her form and left his side. 
 • * * * 
 
 The flowers their tender leaves had curled. 
 And slumbered in their woodland bowers ; 
 The speU of rest crept o'er the world. 
 The sweet rest of the evening hours. 
 The shepherd left his sleeping fold. 
 The sun had set upon the lea. 
 The mists of evening swept the wold, 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 243 
 
 And night came on. Why lingers he, 
 
 The proud O'Neil, and still looks down 
 
 From heights on which the pine-woods frown, 
 
 To bleaker hills, where lately stood, 
 
 Fringed by a line of gloomy wood. 
 
 The time-worn towers of Ballynock, 
 
 Once record of far prouder days ? 
 
 There now is but a barren rock. 
 
 To mock the traveller's wistful gaze ! 
 
 " She must be mine " — he darkly said, 
 " Edgar and Dermid both are dead ! 
 'Tis little I have now to fear — 
 She must be mine — the bitter tear 
 E'en now is dried — the brow is wan, 
 But grief's first heavy shock is gone — 
 All past remembrances, or all 
 Connected with her castle's fall. 
 Now it no longer meets the eye 
 Will soften, as the months go by " — 
 
 Even as he triumphed came the sound 
 Of footsteps on the stony ground ! 
 The chieftain turned, but stood transfixed, 
 For fear and horror both were mixed 
 In the wild glances of the eye. 
 The frame that shook with agony. 
 'Twas Dermid ! by that bearing proud — 
 
244 FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 ThoTigli like a spectre in its shroud, 
 
 Yet with the bright eye none could tame, 
 
 'Twas Dermid, changed and yet the same ! 
 
 Emaciated, wan and pale, 
 
 He looked as though the ghastly tale 
 
 Of Death were written on his brow — 
 
 " ! why, pale spectre of the dead. 
 
 Dost thou return to haunt me now ? " 
 
 The conscience-stricken chieftain said. 
 
 " So much of misery and of ill 
 
 As thou hast caused me while in life — 
 
 Wilt thou return to haunt me still — 
 
 And plunge my soul in darker strife ? " 
 
 " Chief of O'Neil— thou dost but rave, 
 I am no spectre from the grave — 
 No doubt " — said Dermid with a sneer, 
 " The brave O'Neil is glad to hear 
 I have escaped the pirate band. 
 To mar the crimes their chieftain planned." 
 
 The cheek that first with fear had paled 
 With deeper shame that instant burned — 
 Hugh knew his self-command had failed — 
 Yet proudly, fiercely he returned 
 The scornful and contemptuous glance 
 That shot from Dermid's countenance. 
 Then turned away his conscious eyes. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF AN OLD LEGEND. 245 
 
 And muttered something of surprise 
 And pleasure — what he scarcely knew — 
 Ruin — discovery seemed impending — 
 His fears each moment wilder grew 
 For Conscience her sure aid was lending — 
 And stung by grief and pale with hate 
 He followed through the castle gate. 
 
 ^It ■SP ^ TfP 
 
 Morna was lying on a couch, her eyes 
 
 Seemed watching calmly twilight's sombre dyes 
 
 Steal slowly, pensively across the bay. 
 
 Deepening with the declining hours of day : 
 
 Her head was resting on her snowy arm — 
 
 But Dermid started at that perfect calm, 
 
 And lifted tenderly the drooping head. 
 
 And pressed the nerveless hand, — but life had fled ! 
 
 * * * « 
 
 Some weeks had passed, and when his strength returned. 
 The deeply injured brother only burned 
 To meet his foe upon the battle-plain. 
 They met and rumour said O'Neil was slain. 
 Though legends differ on this point, some say 
 He died within a convent far away. 
 One thing at least is certain — never more 
 Were seen his footsteps on his native shore. 
 
OCCASIONAL PIECES. 
 
THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL. 
 
 I HAVE watched over thee for many years — 
 Thou hast had all my hopes and all my fears. 
 Heaven only knows how anxious was the task 
 Of guiding thy young footsteps — but I ask 
 But one reward — refuse me not that one — 
 Return to me as now thou art, my son ! 
 
 Thou leavest me — I shall not see thee more. 
 Till years of tearful absence have passed o'er. 
 Thou leavest me — to cross the Indian seas, 
 To brave the dangers of the Sutlej wild — 
 But oh ! it is not perils such as these 
 I fear the most for thee — mine only child .' 
 
 Thou goest forth into a world of strife — 
 Thy barque will bear thee to a pleasant coast — 
 But be not tempted by the worldling's life, 
 Or envious of the pleasures he may boast. 
 Return not to me with the brow of shame — 
 Wring not my heart with thy dishonoured name ! 
 
250 THE mother's farewell. 
 
 Forget thou not the lessons I have taught — 
 Remember, oh, my son ! that pleasures bought 
 By sacrifice of duty, ever leave 
 Upon the heart and brain their dark impress — 
 Thy better part, despite thyself, will grieve — 
 Thou mayst conceal it, yet not mourn the less ! 
 
 Be kind, forgiving — ^be thou firm in right — 
 Pity the weak — exult thou not in might — 
 Go, then, my son — my fond and fervent prayer 
 WiU foUow, o'er the paths of the de.ep sea, 
 In joy, in sorrow — ^here and everywhere — 
 Thy mother's heart will still remember thee. 
 
 I have watched over thee for many years — 
 Thou bast had all my hopes and aU my fears. 
 Heaven only knows how anxious was the task 
 Of guiding thy young footsteps — but I ask 
 But one reward — refuse me not that one — 
 Retden to me as now thou art, my son. 
 
THE STUDENT'S GARRET. 
 
 Gleaming upon the moonlight scene, 
 "With sickly and uncertain light, 
 The student's lonely lamp was seen. 
 Through the long, weary hours of night. 
 Yet, o'er that lone and thoughtful one 
 There bent a night so calm and fair 
 Its loveliness might weU have won 
 His spirit from aU thoughts of care ! 
 Grey halls and towers, time-worn and rent. 
 And columns, shadowy and dim. 
 And many a pallid monument 
 That age had rendered stern and grim — 
 Yet beautified by moonlight, thrown 
 Upon their crumbling forms of stone — 
 Stood up, mysterious, silent, proud. 
 Each like some spectre in its shroud ! 
 O God ! of all the tearless hours. 
 The quiet rest that Thou hast given, 
 To cheer this chequered life of ours. 
 
252 THE student's gaeret. 
 
 Until its earthly links are riven — 
 
 Thou hast no gift that e'er can bring 
 
 Such peace to weary heart and brain, 
 
 Or change its look of suffering 
 
 To one as pure and calm again. 
 
 As moonlight on the summer deep, 
 
 Like Thy one gift of dreamless sleep ! 
 
 Yet still, as moonlight passed away 
 
 And starUght faded from the sky. 
 
 The student, by his lonely ray 
 
 Sat reading, with unwearied eye ! 
 
 And stars and moon looked gently down 
 
 With pitying, kind and loving glance, 
 
 Through the soft locks of palest brown, 
 
 That framed that thoughtful countenance. 
 
 Alas ! though hope and strength might now 
 
 Shine on that young, determined brow. 
 
 The spirit yet may be o'ercast, 
 
 Th' avenging shadow fall at last 1 
 
 Years since that brilliant moonlight night had flown, 
 And daylight's last and melancholy smile, 
 Through casement frames of grey and crumbling stone. 
 Lit a cathedral's dim and solemn aisle. 
 So sadly, too, and mournfully, upon 
 PiUar and arch and architrave it shone, 
 It almost seemed as though its light had caught 
 A tinge of human care, of grief and thought. 
 
THE STUDENT S GAEEET. 253 
 
 Fi'om the deep silence of the cloisters grey, 
 Grim homes of gloomy brooding and decay, 
 Where, all oblivious of past hopes and crimes, 
 The love, ambition, hate, of other times. 
 Each in his last and dreamless home enclosed, 
 The dead — the pale, unheeding dead — ^reposed ! 
 
 O'er the dark -woods a knell's deep voice was borne 
 And the brown leaves of autumn seemed to mourn. 
 And the cold flower-leaves in the copsewood curled 
 And shivered, as the suUen tones went by — 
 God ! 'tis sad to gaze upon the world. 
 And watch its brightest things decay and die. 
 To know a deep, blue sky is o'er us bending. 
 And sunlight on the fair green earth is shed, 
 E'en while a hoarse and solemn voice is sendiQCf, 
 Through the calm air its wailing for the dead ! 
 
 The dew fell heavily, as sunset's smile 
 Passed from each gravestone and its grassy mound, 
 And round the proud cathedral's dusky pile. 
 The wind was whistling with a dreary sound — 
 And through the vaults of death and cloisters damp 
 It came and went, unfelt, unheard by aU, 
 E'en where, beneath the heavy sable paU, 
 Lay the young student of the midnight lamp. 
 ! if that eye could raise its heavy lid. 
 To look back on the loved spot of its birth, 
 
254 THE STUDENT'S GAEKET. 
 
 And if that heart could feel, as once it did, 
 
 A feUow-pilgrim of our weary earth — 
 
 Even if its share of human suffering 
 
 Deeply in its short sojourn it had felt, 
 
 StiU with one yearning feeling it would cling 
 
 To those sad, toiling hoines where it had dwelt — 
 
 And sigh to leave the lightless tomb, to cheer 
 
 The ceaseless grief of those remaining here — 
 
 Until they, too, the weary path had trod. 
 
 That leads us to our resting-place — and God. 
 
LINES TO 
 
 I SOMETIMES feel, love, when the moon is out. 
 
 And shining down on us with its calm light. 
 
 And bats in the grey twilight flit about. 
 
 And trees grow shadowy in the deepening night — 
 
 As if in those delicious, solemn hours. 
 
 The world were far too glorious to be ours ; 
 
 As if a thought of bitterness and pain, 
 
 Could never dwell within my heart again ! 
 
 Father ! the world that Thou hast given us. 
 Seems far too fair and pure for grief or sin ; 
 'Tis beautiful to watch it slumbering thus — 
 To. watch star after star come stealing in, 
 Or the first streak of moonlight on the sky. 
 And listen for the curlew's shrilly cry, 
 And hear the leaves shake, with a faint, soft sound. 
 As if they feared to break the silence round — 
 To watch the owl fly round the ivied wall. 
 And know that Thou art watching over all ! 
 One star is rising now, though dim and pale. 
 Its light is glimmering faintly o'er our vale — 
 
256 LINES TO 
 
 Dear love ! above the roar and the dull sound, 
 That murmurs from thy far-off city dwelling, 
 How calmly it may shine upon thee, telling 
 Of that fair home to which we both are bound ! 
 
 Go on in thy bright path, beloved — my heart 
 Is ever with thee in thy onward way. 
 So far away from me as now thou art, 
 Thy spirit seems with me, each passing day. 
 Thou art my guardian angel, and each thought, 
 Each holy lesson that thy life hath taught. 
 Is with me in aU hours of joy and grief; 
 And in the evening when the day grows dim. 
 And the wind trembles, from flower leaf to leaf, 
 And night with its deep shadows, lies before us, 
 And the heart turns from worldly thoughts to Him, 
 Whose kind, forgiving eye is ever o'er us. 
 Thy words seem spoken by each leaf and flower, 
 Thy spirit breathing in each passing hour. 
 
 Farewell, beloved ! the stars have passed away — 
 M^a-y joy and sunshine follow on thy way. 
 And oh ! while thy heart, dear, is with me still. 
 Thy love — that shields me in each hour of iU, 
 I know — no moment even of grief can be, 
 But it wUl bind me more to God — to thee 
 
THE DYING GIEL. 
 
 Farewell — farewell. 
 
 Thou'rt dying with the spring of life before thee — 
 Thou'rt dying, while the primrose and bluebell 
 Are blooming, and the fair sky bending o'er thee — 
 
 Thou'rt dying while thy braided tress is dark, 
 Without one white line of decay to speak^ — 
 Ere thy smooth brow betrays one wrinkled mark, 
 Or one line mars the beauty of thy cheek ! 
 
 A little time — in the sepulchral shroud 
 And winding sheet, unfeeling hands have wound thee. 
 And thy pale, thoughtful brow, so gently proud, 
 Eests calmly as the senseless dead around thee. 
 
 A little time, and thy bright intellect 
 May lend itself to earthly things no more — 
 The powers of thy lofty mind be wrecked, 
 And the deep musings of thy heart be o'er. 
 
 s 
 
258 THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 Thou'rt dying, though thy dear eye's sunny Hue 
 Is sparkling with a softly brilliant light, 
 And on thy youthful cheek there is a hue 
 That seems for death too deeply rich and bright ' 
 
 Yet thou wilt die in girlhood's sunny hours. 
 With the fair spring-time of thy life before thee, 
 Thou'rt dying while the primrose and spring flowers 
 Are blooming, and the blue sky bending o'er thee. 
 
 And spring will pass — pass without thee to mourn 
 Its dying flowers, as thou hast done before — 
 And summer fade and spring again return 
 And yet again, but never bring thee more ! 
 
 And yet we dare not mourn that this must be. 
 For now thy gentle spirit wiU have passed 
 Before one evil breath hath withered thee — 
 Without one shadow on thy beauty cast. 
 
 It might have been if years had been thy lot 
 Thy heart had not been always calm as now — 
 Or sorrows' blight — disease's sadder blot 
 Had stained thy beautiful and placid brow. 
 
 His wiU be done, then, Who first placed thee here, — 
 To us is known not things of future days. 
 And we must worship stiU in awe and fear, 
 For Human minds can fathom not His ways. 
 
LOVE ! THERE ARE DAYS. 
 
 Love ! there are days -when I still live again 
 Through all our past of mixed delight and pain, 
 Days when the future shone so bright and clear 
 O'er the gilt clouds of the departing year, 
 When Hope smiled out through evening's closing portal, 
 When Grief stayed not and Love appeared immortal ! 
 
 How dear to me hath been thy brow serene, 
 What power sustaining thou hast ever been ! 
 Thy noble heart was ever strong to bear, 
 Scorning all tremors of my weak despair. 
 Scarce had I lived without thy tender touch, 
 That gave such comfort — that upheld so much ! 
 
 No weak and useless aims thy hours employed. 
 
 Not thine the noisy fame that some enjoyed. 
 
 Yet hundreds praised thee — hundred lips have taught 
 
 The truths thy words of hope and faith inspired. 
 
 The joy thy words of comfort ever brought — 
 
 The noble efforts thy brave words have fired. 
 
260 love! TEKEE ABE DAYS. 
 
 Helping the buoyant youth upon his way. 
 
 Soothing the sad fears of a parting day. 
 
 Few heroes e'er deserved more praise than thou 
 
 For deeds of unpretending greatness done. 
 
 No nobler laurels e'er can crown a brow 
 
 Than thou, with thy long patient toil hast won ! 
 
THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Home of my childhood, green and placid spot, 
 Meet dwelling-place for those that sigh for peace, 
 Shunned by ambition and where wars raged not, 
 Beloved and wept for until life shall cease — 
 
 There tumult and unrest 
 
 Slept in my youthful breast, 
 I knew not life, save ever to rejoice, 
 
 For through that peaceful glade, 
 
 My childhood's fancies strayed. 
 Nor listened to Ambition's dark, insidious voice. 
 
 No feverish pulse was stirred. 
 
 No trumpet's blare was heard. 
 No echoes of despair, of battle and of strife ; 
 
 The cooing of the dove. 
 
 The voice of peace and love. 
 These simple notes of calm, of pleasure were my life. 
 
262 THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Through summer's brilliant day 
 
 The children, at their play, 
 Full oft made glad the sweet and peaceful air — 
 
 The sounds of simple joys 
 
 No fierce, wild note destroys — 
 Day brought no hopeless grief and evening no despair. 
 
DREAMS OF THE PAST. 
 
 ! VISIONS of times gone by, 
 
 Ye come with a tear, or sigh. 
 With a weary brow and a sad and shadowy form, 
 
 With a half-reproachful gaze. 
 
 And a murmur of better days, 
 When a youth's bright hopes were high and a poet's 
 fancy warm. 
 
 O ! visions of joys no more. 
 
 Of pleasures that long are o'er. 
 Thy glance is cold and thy footsteps dull and slow ; 
 
 And ye speak with a mournful tone, 
 
 A sound that is half a moan, 
 As ye teU of the happy days that are now so long ago. 
 
 Ye speak of decay and death. 
 With a faint and faltering breath, 
 
 Of delights that are long since dimmed, of a broken heart, 
 Ye tell how our young hopes fail, 
 How the brow grows weary and pale. 
 
 As the visions of love and the hopes of youth depart. 
 Yet still would I fondly pray. 
 
264 DREAMS OF THE PAST. 
 
 For one hour of a by -gone day, 
 
 When love was constant and youth's bright hopes were 
 high. 
 When our fears of change were brief. 
 And we knew no thought of grief, 
 
 So lived for love and for joys that cannot die ! 
 
THE MOTHER AND HER THREE DAUGHTERS. 
 
 O'er the dark waters of the stormy bay, 
 With straining eyes and pallid, parting lips, 
 She sees the fluttering pennants fade away, " 
 Of one of Albion's noble, home-built ships. 
 
 She sees, with sad, prophetic eyes, the flash 
 Of lightning, as it gilds the crowded deck. 
 She hears the deafening thunder — the fierce dash 
 Of seething waters through the groaning wreck. 
 
 Trembling she turns away her inward gaze. 
 From all sad. visions of her far-off child. 
 And seeks near home for calmer, .brighter days. 
 For hopes more peaceful and for skies less wild. 
 
 There bends a face that she can ne'er forget. 
 Pure as the snowdrop, sweet as " Violet," * 
 Whose ear lists ever to another's moan, 
 Forgetful of all echoes of her own. 
 
 * Violet was her Christian name. 
 
266 THE MOTHEE AND HEK THREE DAUGHTERS. 
 
 A brow of pallor, oft of bitter pain, 
 
 Yet one whose heart is in another's woes. 
 
 With lips that bless or praise, but ne'er complain ; 
 
 With angel-footsteps through the world she goes. 
 
 Another by an English hearth she sees, 
 A face all glowing with a mother's joy. 
 Watching the pretty gambols on her knees, 
 The rippling laughter, of her noble boy. 
 
 She hath, as yet, a calm, untroubled lot, 
 Unbittered by despair, unstained by tears ; 
 And yet we dare not, on earth's changeful spot. 
 Foretell the sunshine of our unborn years. 
 
THE BROTHER SPIRITS OF DEATH. 
 
 (An old Poem.) 
 
 " I always fancy that Death should be represented by two brothers, 
 one an angel, the other a demon, who travel separately about earth ; the 
 iirst on an errand of mercy, the last to inflict misery ! " — Bmon. 
 
 'Tis the fairest hour of our lovely earth, 
 
 When the bright sun is descending, 
 And a soft grey light in her bowers of mirth 
 
 With the sunset's gold is blending ; 
 When the heat and the toU of day are o'er, 
 And the voice of the world is heard no more ; 
 But fairer that hour when shared with thee. 
 Then come to the greenwood, love, with me ! 
 
 Come to the forest's massive shade, 
 Come to the banks of the mossy glade. 
 Where nought but the rustling moan is heard 
 Of the autumn leaves, by the faint wind stirred. 
 And the heart is awed by the want of sound. 
 By the solemn hush of the gloom around. 
 
268 THE BROTHER SPIRITS OF DEATH. 
 
 Come ! there are few that wander now. 
 
 For the world is calm and still, 
 And the bird is slumbering on the bough, 
 
 And the wild deer on the hill. 
 But hush ! there are two that Hnger yet, 
 Watehiug the rich and red sunset — 
 And the brows of both are young and fair, 
 Unwithered, as yet, by the touch of care ; 
 And the sound of their laugh is soft and sweet. 
 And bright is the smile when their dark eyes meet. 
 
 But the maiden has paused where the flowers are fair, 
 While he twiaes a wreath in her flowing hair. 
 ! ask not what are the words they breathed. 
 And ask not why are their fond arms wreathed — 
 Thou mayst read the tale in the dark, soft eye, 
 Whose glance half seeks, half shuns reply — 
 Thou mayst guess, what words can ne'er express. 
 In the timid — half withdrawn caress, 
 And deem that happiness still may dwell 
 
 Where once from her empire hurled, 
 And many a heart with rapture swell, 
 
 Unknown to the busy world. 
 But a change hath come o'er the clear, blue sky, 
 The Demon of Death is hurrying by ! 
 
 Now come with me — 'tis that hour of night 
 
THE BEOTHEE SPIEITS OF DEATH 269 
 
 When the earth is lit by the pale moonlight — 
 
 When the stars steal forth in the twilight sky. 
 
 And the hollow wind forgets to sigh. 
 
 Lo ! under yon yew tree's dismal gloom 
 
 Thou see'st a lonely, fresh-made tomb — 
 
 'Tis the grave of her with the fair young brow 
 
 Whom thou saw'st in the woods — it seems but now. 
 
 But the fairest flower is borne away 
 
 From the earth to the tomb in an hour, or day ! 
 
 O ! little thought thou — when thou saw'st her there, 
 
 Braiding the flowers in her glossy hair. 
 
 The Demon of Death, with his poisonous breath. 
 
 Was pressing her glowing lips, 
 And the flower was doomed, ere it scarce had bloomed, 
 
 For a long and dark eclipse. 
 
 But he — whom I saw by that maiden's side — 
 Doth he live, to mourn for his hapless bride ? 
 
 He lives — but his spirit passed afar — 
 And he may not sleep where the wild flowers creep, 
 In the grave where his hopes, all mouldering, are. 
 But dwells on the earth, unloved — alone — 
 Some say that his mind is now o'erthrown — 
 Some say that his young and noble brow. 
 Is furrowed by grief and sufiering now. 
 They say that his heart is cold and changed. 
 
270 THE BROTHER SPIRITS OF DEATH. 
 
 That, ever, from others he keeps estranged — 
 That his auburn hair is thin and white. 
 And the form is bent that was once upright, 
 And they tell me the light will ne'er again 
 Return to his seared and shattered brain — 
 For the stamp of a fearful power is there, 
 The stamp of a fixed and dark despair ! 
 * * * * 
 
 'Twas night and the winds blew cold and shrill. 
 And a tempest raged ia wood and hill. 
 And the torrent swelled in the rocky glade. 
 
 And ruin was spreading wide. 
 As a wretched wife knelt down and prayed 
 
 By her dying husband's side. 
 And the thunder roared through her dwelling rude, 
 And the lightning flashed — in the interlude — 
 And shone on the languid head that lay 
 
 On her thin and wasted arm. 
 And the face was fair as the sculptor's clay, 
 
 But oh ! it was scarce more warm. 
 And the eyelids drooped o'er the eye's wan light 
 
 As though they never could rise again ; 
 And the pale lips seemed compressed and tight. 
 
 Yet quivered, at times, in pain. 
 And she who over that figure bent. 
 Whose heart to each throb of his was lent, 
 How bore she up in that gloomy hour 
 That tries the soul to its utmost power ? 
 ! though full many a haggard trace 
 
THE BROTHEE SPIRITS OF DEATH. 271 
 
 Could sorrow claim in that pallid face, 
 
 Though want had stolen the rosy hue, 
 
 From that deathlike cheek and those lips of blue. 
 
 And wrinkled her cheek with many a mark 
 
 And whitened the hair — once soft and dark, 
 
 It never could quell the spirit high 
 
 That dwelt in the dark, expressive eye, 
 
 That spoke of a mind both firm and strong. 
 
 And said she could suffer much, and long ! 
 
 She scarcely heeded the thunder's roar. 
 
 Or the wind that howled through the broken door. 
 
 She trembled not at the raging storm, 
 
 But sadly bent o er her husband's form. 
 
 And soothed his brow with her gentle touch, 
 
 And moistened his lips with her falling tears — 
 
 And felt, though she long had suffered much 
 
 That moment outweighed the grief of years. 
 
 " They say that grief is more lightly borne 
 
 When we have one with us to mourn," 
 
 She said, in a low and faltering tone. 
 
 As she kissed the brow that was now like stone, 
 
 " But oh ! I would rather pine alone 
 
 In a place where none might hear me moan. 
 
 And know thou wert far away, and free 
 
 And happy, as one on earth may be. 
 
 Than see thee, love, in thy youth die thus — 
 
 And the dark grave yawn for both of us." 
 
272 THE BROTHER SPIRITS OP DEATH. 
 
 The scene was changed, and the tempest's blast 
 With the cold and dreary night had passed. 
 And morning came, and the blue sky smiled 
 On a cottage lone, in a moorland wild. 
 But oh ! within was a calm more deep 
 
 Than the calm of that outward scene. 
 For there was a breathless, dreamless sleep. 
 
 Where sorrow but now had been ! 
 And there was rest for the broken heart, 
 
 And rest for the eyes that wept ; 
 A rest that could never more depart 
 
 From the eyes of those that slept. 
 The brow was eased of its load of care, 
 
 And the sad heart beat no more ; 
 For the Angel of Death was dwelling there. 
 
 And the sufferer's woes were o'er. 
 
MORE HAPPY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Old ladies like their scandal and old ladies like their tea, 
 But which is it they love the best, I think I hear you 
 
 say— 
 O scandal by a hundred times ! or so it seems to me. 
 For that they can have served to them at all times in the 
 
 day! 
 
 scandal is delightful ! for it makes the hours pass by 
 
 Without a break upon the "way, so rapidly they fly ; 
 
 It soothes and comforts one so much, wherever one may 
 
 be. 
 To think our friends so foolish, that so much more wise 
 
 are we 
 
 O scandal is delightful ! the most tasty of all food — 
 For it makes one feel so comfortable, ! so wise and 
 
 good — 
 For we don't do as others do — are not such fools as they. 
 And can we say a wiser thing, or one more pleasant, pray ? 
 
 T 
 
274 MORE HAPPY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Yes ! tea comes in the morning, or the evening of the day. 
 But scandal ever fills the mighty goblet on the tray — 
 Our tea we swallow down but in small cupfuls at a time. 
 But scandal is served up to us in bumpers, when its 
 prvnie ! 
 
 November, 1880. 
 
A BOUNDLESS EMPIRE ; OR, LA CALOMNIE— 
 THE MIGHTY EMPRESS. 
 
 I HAVE been a miglity traveller, I have seen unnumbered 
 lands. 
 
 And my swift, unwearied glance has swept the wildest 
 desert sands. 
 
 I have scaled the loftiest heights by human vision never 
 seen — 
 
 And through the darkest valleys have my curious foot- 
 steps been. 
 
 I have been a mighty traveller — I have breathed Sahara's 
 
 air, 
 I have strayed through densest forests, where the homes 
 
 are few but fair — 
 And when I saw a casement that seemed far too bright 
 
 and clean 
 I have breathed upon it heavily, then passed away 
 
 unseen! 
 
276 A BOUNDLESS EMPIEE. 
 
 I have been a mighty traveller and my steps were full of 
 
 joy. 
 
 When with Paris and frail Helen I was gay in ancient 
 
 Troy, 
 To Telemachus, alone, I ever failed to deal a blow, 
 WhUe Minerva was beside him to protect the boy from 
 
 woe. 
 
 I have dwelt within the palace, I have lingered in the cot, 
 There is no sacred refuge or retreat that knows me not ! 
 I have whispered words of misery to the happy and the 
 
 young, 
 I have wakened ghastly music when the harpstrings were 
 
 unstrung. 
 
 No one can ever conquer me, my power is over all. 
 
 And even the mightiest empires I have shaken to their 
 
 faU— 
 Nay ! often have I held in bond the proudest heart and 
 
 hand. 
 For even Death itself obeys my whisper or command. 
 
 If the path thy foes are travelling seems to thee too fair 
 
 and bright, 
 If there is glowing brilliancy where thou wouldst have it 
 
 night. 
 Invoke me in the sunshine or invoke me in the shade, 
 I am ever near— and solemnly I promise thee my aid. 
 Novemher, 1880. 
 
A FEW SCEAPS WEITTEN BETWEEN 
 THE AGES OF TEN AND SIXTEEN. 
 
DYING WORDS. 
 
 Mt friend, the .world is fading from my sight — 
 Unclose the casement — let the sun's warm smile 
 Yet once again my darkened vision light — 
 'Tis well, now hear me patiently awhile ! 
 The hand thou claspest in thine own — that thin 
 White hand, a few years back was firm and strong, 
 
 ! if to scorn existence be a sin, 
 
 'Tis one that will be charged on me ere long ! 
 For I am prematurely old, and now 
 WThen other men are in their very prime. 
 Dying, I lift to heaven my haggard brow. 
 Imploring grace — ^forgiveness — for the crime 
 Of having wasted, in the heart's mad grief. 
 Each noble purpose of a human soul ; 
 Asking no counsel — seeking no relief — 
 My sorrow was indeed without control ! 
 Death's voice is in mine ear, or I would fain 
 Live yet — repentant — but I must submit- — 
 
 1 pray not, even — ^for such prayer were vain — 
 
280 DYING WOKDS. 
 
 For further time than daylight may permit. 
 This only, oh my God ! I dare to ask — 
 That Thou wilt grant me, while yet life shall last, 
 Such strength as may fulfil a farewell task. 
 Whose pangs may win some pardon for the past. 
 Thy days are young, my friend — the world is still 
 A mystery to thee — with its sin and strife — 
 Bear with my failing accents and I wiU 
 Teach thee one lesson of its dreary life. 
 
 I have been much a wanderer, both by land 
 And sea — and dwelt where Indian sunlight smiles- 
 Braved the sirocco of the Lybian sand. 
 And mused a summer in the Western Isles. 
 StiE the remembrance of one English spot. 
 Like some lost Eden, ever haunted me — 
 I could have wished below no happier lot, 
 Than life, in that sweet vale beside the sea ! 
 FuU of true village pictures — calm and green — 
 Meet for the peasant or the poet life — 
 It wore no features of a sea-coast scene, 
 The screaming petrels knew it not — the strife 
 Of winds and waves but faintly met the ear, 
 Of him who wandered on the hills at eve. 
 To watch the storms of sultry skies draw near. 
 Or the white bosom of the ocean heave ! 
 'Tis sadly altered now — so I am told — 
 Its noble woods have fallen, and the bold. 
 
DYING WORDS. 281 
 
 Far stretching hills lie desolate and bare, 
 
 Swept by the fierce winds of an open sky — 
 
 With only shelter for the timid hare, 
 
 Such as the heath and furzen may supply. 
 
 Fresh flowers and leaves with spring-time come no more. 
 
 The sheep feed unrestrained upon the waste — 
 
 The sportsman strides across the open moor, 
 
 Nor knows what holy ground his steps have traced ! 
 
 When first I saw it spring was in its prime. 
 The gentle winds that fanned my youthful face, 
 FiEed with the fragrance of that most sweet time, 
 Told of the violet's secret dwelling-place, 
 Eve fell as, in returning through the glade, 
 I came upon a rustic cot that stood 
 Deep in the shadow of a sylvan wood. 
 There dwelt a village child, whose glorious face 
 Shone like a meteor in that homely place. 
 
 Such eyes as hers mine own had never seen. 
 Nor yet a brow more peaceful — calm — serene. 
 Lips that could smile the softest smile of earth, 
 Yet brightly part with ringing, childlike mirth. 
 This happened years ago, but I have read 
 Since then the story of her sad career^ — 
 Alas ! upon its pages have been shed 
 Full many a penitent and bitter tear ! 
 She who had no companions, found relief. 
 
282 DYING WORDS. 
 
 When left in solitude and worn witli prayer, 
 
 In making records of her joy and grief — 
 
 That piteous record have I stDl, but dare 
 
 Not look upon its trembling lines again ! * 
 
 Those broken characters would waken yet 
 
 Too much of human frenzy for the brain 
 
 Of one whose star of life is almost set. 
 
 Entomb them on my bosom, I implore — 
 
 I ask of thy long friendship only this, 
 
 That never eye of stranger ponder o'er 
 
 Its wild, fierce words of doubt, despair or bliss. 
 
 I tell, alas ! no new, romantic tales — 
 
 Yet common as they are aU effort fails 
 
 To speak the thoughts of madness they recall — 
 
 The hopes — the fears — the struggle and — the faU ! 
 
 So fare thee well — ^the time is flitting fast — 
 
 I die — not in the present — but the past ! 
 
 * It is impossible not to have longed to read that mysterious recoril, 
 !biit it was honourably buried with the dead — its contents unknown. 
 
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 They bore her from her father's hall. 
 
 The beautiful ! the young ! 
 And o'er her form the sable pall 
 
 In gloomy grandeur hung. 
 
 They bore her from each cherished scene. 
 
 From z'uin wild and grey. 
 From mountain brook, from forest green. 
 
 They bore her far away — 
 
 And laid her in the silent tomb 
 
 AU feelingless and cold, 
 They laid her in the damp and gloom. 
 
 And o'er her trod the mould. 
 
 And evening came — ^without a cloud 
 
 The summer's, sun had set. 
 But twilight's soft and dusky shroud 
 
 O'er earth was lingering yet. 
 
284 THE MOTHEE'S LAMENT. 
 
 And one pale star — one lonely star 
 
 Came stealing to the sky, 
 And soft, calm light it shed afar. 
 
 From its lone space on high. 
 
 And on the face of one it smiled, 
 
 Who o'er a grave was weeping, 
 Alas ! alas ! her only child 
 
 Beneath the sod was sleeping ! 
 
 Her countenance was worn with woe. 
 
 And mournfully she spoke. 
 Yet gentle was the voice and low, 
 
 That on the silence broke. 
 
 " They've laid thee in the cold, damp grave, the last, long 
 
 home of rest. 
 They've laid thee in the cold, damp grave, the sod is o'er 
 
 thee pressed. 
 And I shall never see thee more, the voice I loved is 
 
 stilled. 
 Thy warm and gentle heart, my child, the hand of Death 
 
 hath chilled. 
 
 " Yes ! I shall never see thee more, thy brilliant eye is 
 
 shaded — 
 The soft, deep bloom upon thy cheeks for ever now has 
 
 faded. 
 
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 285 
 
 Thy hand is damp and powerless — thy dark and glossy 
 
 hair, 
 All — all are shrouded in the tomb — in darkness spoiling 
 
 there. 
 
 " ! I shall miss at break of morn, thy footsteps gay and 
 
 Hght, 
 And I shall miss thy soothing hand and tender voice at 
 
 night — 
 Yet — dearest, I will weep no more, for brighter far must 
 
 be 
 The home that thou hast gone to seek, than that thou 
 
 sharedst with me. 
 
 "Thou'rt sheltered now for ever from all earthly trial and 
 woe, 
 
 The pangs of disappointment, love, thou never now canst 
 know — • 
 
 Of envy, or of love misplaced — affection unrequited — 
 
 That might have crushed thy spirit or its native fresh- 
 ness blighted. 
 
 " Yes, dearest, I will weep no more, for we again shall 
 meet, 
 
 Where I shall hear thy gentle voice — so musical and sweet, 
 
 Where sorrow is unknown and where affection is un- 
 crossed, 
 
 There shall I meet thee once again — my beautiful ! my 
 lost ! " 
 
A THOUGHT. 
 
 Too much the human heart is given 
 
 To sigh for what it cannot get — 
 
 Except the prize that men call heaven. 
 
 And this some scorn and some forget ! 
 
 Perchance it is when they despair 
 
 Of ever being welcome there ! 
 
 Each sighs for something out of reach. 
 
 Some El Dorado just in view — 
 
 But if each soaring mind but knew 
 
 The troubles that belong to each, 
 
 The cottage girl would scarcely sigh 
 
 To leave her own cahn, wooded deU, 
 
 The colours of a deep, blue sky 
 
 In rich and castled halls to dwell ! 
 
 Or beggar prize the miser's hoard, 
 
 Or saUor envy landed lord. 
 
 To all are sorrows — ^though to some 
 
 With such o'erwhelming power they come 
 
 Health, energy and hope are wrecked 
 
A THOUGHT. 287 
 
 Nay — even, perchance, the intellect ! 
 But oh — to some that purest grief 
 That turns from earth to One above. 
 And looks for mercy and relief 
 To Him " Who chastens but in love." 
 
L'HISTOIRE SE REPETE. 
 
 The little stream that rises from the hill 
 Swells to a mighty river at its base, 
 Bearing broad ships upon its bosom, still 
 We see the same marked features on its face. 
 A thousand years — the world is still the same, 
 Gloomy with tempests — sparkling in the sun — 
 Nature and ages differ but in name, 
 The next will finish what was last begun. 
 E'en Nature's face scarce shows a wrinkle more. 
 Though kingdoms change and centuries roll o'er ' 
 
PEACEFUL EEFLECTIONS. 
 
 Mt own true friend, the day is slowly dawning, 
 
 Methought the dreary night had never passed ! 
 
 That I should never live to see the morning. 
 
 Yet slowly, peacefully it breaks at last. 
 
 What will arise in these unfolded years, 
 
 Whose unknown scenes are yet before mine e3^es — 
 
 Will they bring bitterness, regret and tears. 
 
 Or calm and peace upspring, as sorrow dies ? 
 
 God only knows ! in patience we must wait, 
 
 Sorrow comes early — joy is ofttimes late. 
 
 And trustful ever must we wait the close 
 
 Of winter's storms — the dawn of Heaven's repose. 
 
 u 
 
MOORISH BURIAL CHANT. 
 
 "We lay her in her last, still home, the damp and dreary 
 
 grave, 
 Though she is fairer than the flowers that o'er her sadly 
 
 wave. 
 We lay her in the dark^iess there — ye call her back in 
 
 vain — 
 Mourn for her, oh ! mourn for her — she cannot come 
 
 again! 
 
 We looked on her but yesterday, when light was in her 
 
 eye. 
 We looked on her but yesterday and said — " She cannot 
 
 die ! " 
 So full of glowing life she seemed — alas ! how altered 
 
 now — 
 For Death hath borne her far away — oh ! stranger — ask 
 
 ye how ! 
 
MOOEISH BURIAL CHANT. 291 
 
 It was as spring's first leaf, that breaketh when the 
 
 winds sweep o'er it — 
 And fling it on the wintry ground, yet leave the branch 
 
 that bore it. 
 It was as droops a lonely rose-bud, gathered scarce in 
 
 bloom, 
 Yea — silently as falls a star, Death bore her to the tomb ! 
 
 Mourn for her, sad lover — lo, thy cherished hope has fled — 
 Mourn for her, sad father, mourn — thy only child is dead ! 
 O ! vainly do ye call her back — je have not now the 
 
 power, 
 To join the broken heart again — ^to raise the trampled 
 
 flower. 
 
 Pour forth the parting song and fling the last buds on the 
 
 bier, 
 Ah, lover — ^father — gaze once more — thy cherished hope 
 
 lies here ! 
 We lay her now beneath the earth — ye caU her back 
 
 in vain — 
 Then mourn for her, oh ! mourn for her — she cannot come 
 
 again ! 
 
QUESTION. 
 
 Hast thou forgotten that green, shady slope 
 Where once we sat and talked of love — alone, 
 When thy soft eyes were fuU of light and hope. 
 And mine were almost joyous as thine own ? 
 Hast thou forgotten that dark, spreading tree, 
 Beneath whose shade I told fond tales to thee ? 
 
 MELANCHOLY ANSWER. 
 
 It would be better far could we forget 
 
 That we had ever loved — had ever met. 
 
 Yet — there is joy still in recalling back 
 
 Each gleam of sunshine on that early track — 
 
 Ere yet we knew the hopeless withering 
 
 Of early fancy — it is sweet to bring 
 
 From memory's mournful land the many hours 
 
 Of joy — the dreamy thoughts that once were ours. 
 
 'Tis aU now left us of that peaceful past — 
 
 And I am happy — ^while those memories last. 
 
QUESTION AND ANSWER. 293 
 
 To dream again of thy young, open brow — 
 
 Alas ! I feel I scarcely know it now ! 
 
 To meet again each loving, trusting glance 
 
 That then beamed brightly from thy countenance. 
 
 All that is left me — yes ! but this is joy 
 
 That neither time nor sorrow can destroy ! 
 
A REFLECTION. 
 
 Ah ! little can we know what grief and crime 
 
 May wait for us when we would hasten time. 
 
 And when the long and weary days have passed, 
 
 How often on its fleeted hours we cast 
 
 Such glances of repentance or despair 
 
 'Tis more than even the stoical can bear. 
 
 ! could we but recall them — ^be again 
 
 All that we were — is then our prayer in vain ! 
 
CONCLUDING VEESES. 
 
LINES TO 
 
 Far more of heaven than earth, my own, shines in thy 
 
 calm and placid eyes. 
 Though thou hast yet the warmest love for all our earthly 
 
 loves and ties ; 
 And yet there is a placid look, even in the hours of 
 
 bitterest pain, 
 And few a peace so pure as thin§ can ever in this world 
 
 attain. 
 Thy gentleness, thy calm submission, more of heavenly 
 
 grace have taught 
 Than all the wisest sermons teach, or all by sore ex- 
 perience brought. 
 The peace of Heaven is in thine eyes — so beautifully soft 
 
 and clear. 
 And even the accents of thy voice seem almost heavenly 
 
 to mine ear. 
 God is with thee, my darling, I can read it on thy gentle 
 
 brow — 
 ! if I ever trusted Heaven I know my trust is in Him 
 
 now. 
 
298 LINES TO . 
 
 Thy pure and sinless life has been a noble lesson to us all, 
 Let those who think their footsteps firm take wiser heed 
 
 for fear they fall ! 
 For they may boast their sinless lives yet there are few 
 
 can live like thou, 
 While racking pain thy frame disturbs, but not the 
 
 Patience on thy brow. 
 
 November, 1880. 
 
TO WOMAN. 
 
 Woman ! from whom his first lisped prayer he learns, 
 To whom in all his early woes he turns. 
 In whose fond arms, upon whose faithful breast 
 His cares are soothed — his troubles laid at rest — 
 Who smUes with him in joy, grieves in his woes. 
 And save when shared with him no pleasure knows. 
 Heaven hath ordained her his one constant love, 
 Both here on earth and in the world above ! 
 
MORNING. 
 
 Now voices pour forth on the busy air, 
 Now riseth up the voice of earnest prayer, 
 Now in the city stream the multitudes 
 Into the court, the alley and the streets ' 
 While from the depth of forest solitudes 
 The breezes greet us with their woodland sweets. 
 O morning ! beautiful thou art, the while 
 Thou pourest o'er the earth thy first glad smile. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 So art thou lovely, evening ! if less bright 
 Than morning and less peaceful than the night. 
 Fair — and yet so unlike the while — for one 
 Brings the gay gladness of the laughing sun, 
 Thou the deep softness and the calm repose, 
 The tender silence of thy waning hours. 
 That rest from all its busy, worldly woes. 
 That makes earth seem too peaceful to be ours ! 
 
THE VEIL OF NIGHT. 
 
 {Written in the City) 
 
 Night in the city walls ! 
 Deserted are the street and thoroughfare, 
 The lights are gleaming in the festive halls, 
 The lamps light idly the untrodden square. 
 The deep hum of the mighty multitude. 
 The roll of carriage wheels, are now subdued ; 
 Only the beU from the cathedral tower 
 Is heard, to hoarsely toll the passing hour ! 
 
 The moon is high in heaven. 
 The stars are with her, and their mingled light. 
 To tower and dome and monument are given. 
 Looking far nobler in the sombre night 
 Than in broad noontide ; while a filmy cloud 
 Across the atmosphere at times may fly. 
 But cannot hide, with its pale, misty shroud. 
 The deep blue beauty of that midnight sky ! 
 
302 THE VEIL OF NIGHT. 
 
 woe ! that night so fair 
 Should ever hide the pale brow of despair. 
 The sunken cheeks, the hot, repentant tears, 
 That tell a tale of sad, or misspent, years — - 
 That it should listen to the guilty rave 
 Of those who, standing by the yawning grave 
 Wringing their wasted hands, foresee their fate- 
 And fain would fly, but know it then too late ! 
 
 woe ! that night so cahn 
 Should bring with it the wild, imploring prayer 
 Of hearts to which it can impart no balm. 
 Of spirits broken by the weight of care — 
 That when its shadow veils the midnight skies. 
 To him whose brow by guilt is overcast. 
 The ghastly fantoms of the wronged arise. 
 Demanding retribution for the past ! 
 
 And woe — that night so pure. 
 Should not o'er scenes as pure its vigil keep — 
 That its deep, heavy shadows should allure 
 To reckless orgies, not to holy sleep. 
 That ever o'er the calm, unheeding earth. 
 Should steal its planet's penetrating ray. 
 To witness the unholy scenes of mirth 
 Man dares not frequent in the eye of day. 
 
THE VEIL OF NIGHT. 303 
 
 O man ! — too little wise, 
 And yet so boastful of his mind and sense — 
 That he should watch the midnight stars arise, 
 AMiat time his secret revels to commence — 
 Knowing the retribution time must bring. 
 The years of grief, of hopeless suffering 
 That wait for him — till weary of his woes 
 The dark grave o'er his whitened head shall close ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 rRINTED BV WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 
 
By the same Author. 
 
 Just published. 
 
 VERSUS A WOMAN, PRO WOMEN, A MAN'S 
 THOUGHTS ABOUT MEN, AND OTHER 
 ARTICLES. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " Just now, when the subject of women is occupying so much attention, the 
 present work by Mrs. Horace Dobell has an interest irrespective of its merits. 
 Foremost among the subjects discussed by Mrs. Dobell is that of the false 
 estimate of women, and the part thej' play, taken by a woman herself — the 
 authoress of ' Young Mrs. Jardine.' The facts brought forward and the 
 arguments Mrs. Dobell has employed certainly tend to prove . . . that 
 the authoress of ' Young Mrs. Jardine ' takes an altogether one-sided view 
 of her own sex. . . . There is nothing more foolish than to condemn a whole 
 class . . . and Mrs. Dobell's vigorous protest will, no doubt, emancipate 
 not a few minds from the thraldom of its prejudiced misconceptions. . . , 
 
 "As an example of Mrs. Dobell's style we will quote a passage, in which 
 she lays bare the falsity of the assertion that women are ' feeble, useless, 
 half-educated, taught to believe that ignorance is amusing and helplessness 
 attractive.' 
 
 " ' History' has shown that a woman's natural nobility of nature has 
 sometimes shone forth so brilliantly from the obscurity in which it is 
 frequently veiled, that it could not be ignored, either by ignorance or envy. 
 Not all the restrictions that man or circumstances had placed before them 
 could always prevent women, when occasion required it, from coming 
 gloriously to the front, to the rescue or assistance of others. This has 
 happened from the time of the Bible to the present age — from the time of the 
 courageous love of the mother of Moses, the filial affection of Euth for 
 Naomi, the noble, heroic devotion of Esther to her oppressed and trampled- 
 upon people down to these " latter days," of which we have already spoken.' 
 
 " A woman who stands up for her own noble sex against one-sided 
 libellers deserves to be heard, Mrs. Dobell's work is interesting, as challenging 
 unsound views of life." — Court Circular, November 13, 1880. 
 
 " This is a breezy, vigorous, and impetuous attack on women who run 
 down their own sex. The writer takes up the glove thrown down by the 
 detractors, and battles strenuously '^ro women,' selecting as her antagonist 
 the authoress of ' John Halifax.' . . . Mrs. Dobell dares her to mortal 
 combat, and well does she handle her lance. It is refreshing to listen to the 
 crisp, trenchant criticism . . . and the book deserves to be an immense 
 
 X 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 favourite with womankind at large. She is as generous to the men as to 
 the women, and shows . . . that there is a preponderance of good over evil 
 even in characters that are far from faultless. . . . We have a series of shorter 
 essays, besides ' Tea Table Talk,' — musings, memories and criticisms, ... all 
 of which are boldly treated, affording as much pleasure as surprise to the 
 reader." — British Mail, November 2, 1880. 
 
 " The essayist's object is to controvert something that has been said to the 
 disparagement of women by one of their own sex, the authoress of * John 
 Halifax, Gentleman,' who, in a spirit of censorionsness, has asserted that 
 * women are feeble, useless, and half -educated, and taught to believe that 
 ignorance is amusing, and helplessness attractive.' ... Of course we should 
 be, as the author's title has it, ' versus ' the woman who has said it." — Daily 
 News, November 2, 1880. 
 
 " One of the most curious books that the reader is likely to find." — 
 Morning Advertisei\ 
 
 " One of the very oddest, if not the wisest essays we have ever read." 
 — Saturday Eeview, 
 
 '"Versus a Woman, Pro Women ' is designed as a defence of women. It 
 abounds in criticisms of the writings of lady novelists . . . and there is 
 an amount of originaKty about them that will afford amusement." — Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 "The chief part of this pungently written volume is taken up with a 
 defence of women and to some extent of the sterner sex. . . . Mrs. Dobell 
 finds in the recent novel entitled 'Young Mrs. Jardine,' by the authoress of 
 ' John Halifax,' the following passages : ' The man who has will to choose, 
 courage to win, and faithfulness to keep is almost unknown to modem 
 chivalry ; as rare, alas ! as the woman who deserves to be so adored,' and 
 ' Women are feeble, useless, half-educated ; taught to believe that ignorance 
 is amusing and helplessness attractive.' It can hardly be wondered that a 
 woman should be found to gird on her pen against such libels. . . . Mrs. 
 Dobell is quite justified in much that she says against the pessimist views 
 of women so often taken by the authoress in question, and women generally 
 win thank her for her vigorous defence of her sex, while the array she brings 
 forward of women who have distinguished themselves of late in both public 
 and private life is in itself sufiicient to show that the sex can claim the 
 possession of the highest virtues and excellences of humanity. . . . The 
 authoress of 'Young Mrs. Jardine' has laid herself open to many of the 
 severe strictures Mrs. Dobell has inflicted on her. . . . The miscellaneous 
 articles, such as those on ' Kleptomania,' ' False Judgments,' ' Novels,' and 
 ' Servantgallism,' are of a very readable character ; that on ' Servantgallism ' 
 is especially to be commended, as touching on one of the great domestic 
 grievances of modern \\ii."~ Standard, October 20. 
 
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24 
 
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