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LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1888 •, K.-cLG\o\^^ {The rights of translation atid of reproduction are reserved.') CONTENTS. PAGE Dorchester ... ... ... ... ... i The Daffodil ... ... ... ... 2 Spring and Winter ... ... .. ... 4 epafffiia x^^^Swc ... ... ... ... 6 Chloris ... ... ... ... ... ... 7 The Dove's Song ... ... ... ... 9 The Eagle's Song ... ... ... ... 11 The Nightingale's Song at the Grave of Melampus i 3 Linus ... ... ... ... ... ... 15 Syrinx ... ... ... ... ... 20 Spring ... ... .. ... ... ... 22 Spring Flowers ... .. ... ... 24 The Naiad ... ... ... ... ... 28 The Hamadryads ... ... ... ... 31 Post Obitdm Felix ... ... ... ... 34 Ulysses ... ... . ... ... 36 CONTENTS. S3 55 PACE Icarus ... ... ... ... ... ... 40 Sapphics ... ... ... ... . 41 Roses and Lilies ... ,,. ... ... 43 Autumn ... ., ... ... ... 44 Sea Breezes ... ... ... ... ... 46 Laissez la Verdure ... ... ... ... 48 owp£ ... ... ... ... ... ... 49 Hic Jacet ... ... ... ... ... 51 The Bridle-path KlLMORIE Sappho ... ... ... ... ... ... 60 Love and Duty ... ... ... ... 62 The Streamlet ... ... ... ... ... 64 The Blackbird ... ... ... ... 66 To Chaucer ... ... ... ... ... 70 To Shelley ... ... ... ... .. 72 To Thomas Carlyle ... ... ... ,,, 80 The Music of the Future ... ... ... 83 Song of the Danes ... ... ... ,., 87 With a Copy op Raphael's Life and Works 89 The Forlorn Hope Clipeique Insigne Decorum ... Ad Collegium Regale Canta]3rigiense ... Vale! CONTENTS. A Fragment PACK ... 101 A Lost Life 102 The Ark and the Dove ... IDS The Tree of Galilee 108 The Trumpet-call ... Ill David 114 S. Francis to his Brothers ... 116 For a Midnight Mass 120 "The Night cometh, when no Man can work" 121 From Victor Hugo ... 124 Tenebrae 126 SURSUM CORDA ... ... 127 Holy Communion 129 "The Lord is King: the Earth may be i 3 lad THEREOF" ... 131 In Memoriam, S. D. ... ... ... - 133 In Memoriam, J. F. L. ... - 135 To W. M 137 Love and Music... ••■ 139 Love is Enough 140 The Nightingale ... 141 The Muses' Garden ... 142 The Starch Hyacinth ... ••■ 143 Amor Mendax 144 CONTENTS. Content The Summons Religion Hodge PAGE Death in a Maze ... ... ... ... 145 146 148 The Seed of Life ... ... ... ... 149 Symbolum Athanasii ... ... ... ... 150 151 The Question ... ... ... ... ... jca Behind the Veil ... ... ... ... jj. All Saints' Day ... ... ... 154 Jan's Impressions ... ... ... ... 157 More Impressions of Jan ... ... ... 161 GeARGE at WHITECHAPEL ... ... ... 166 171 DORCHESTER. A LITTLE town, hard by the southern coast, Embowered in chestnuts and grave sycamores — Though fairer there be found on happier shores, Yet dearer none to me, who make my boast Of thine old honours, and the Roman host. Planting its eagles by yon silver stream, Where childhood's fancy imaged forth the gleam Of spears, and tricked in living hues the ghost Of the dead time. But oft my footsteps led Me restless far afield ; 'twas sweet to lie Far off, where earth her flowery carpet spread On the sweet-breathfed downs ; to list the cry Of birds or bleating sheepfolds, while o'erhead Marched the white clouds across an autumn sky. THE DAFFODIL. From a drooped yellow cup, Peeping full wary, Lifting cool curtains up, Stept a wee fairy. Sing ho ! the daffodil, Spring's yellow brede ; Laugh, coppice ; twinkle, rill, Spring's in the mead. Elves the glad signal see, Hail it outspringing. Climb the tall daisy tree With dewdrops brimming. Long hath the winter been. Keen the loud blast, Now, clad in silken sheen. Spring's come at last. Spread are your leafy tents, Foot it full lightly, While through the waving bents Stars twinkle brightly ; THE DAFFODIL. By mossy river-sides, In daisied lawns, Or where thick covert hides The dappled fawns. Come from anemones' Tender-veined chalice ; Come from narcissus' eyes, Elfin queen's palace ; From where light breezes swing Dusky blue bells. Calling the elfin king Out to the fells. Gone is the frost that nipped ; Buds are outbreaking. Larches are crimson-tipped, Earth is awaking. Sing ho ! the daffodil, Spring's yellow brede ; Laugh, coppice ; twinkle, rill, Spring's in the mead. DUNSFORD. ( 4 ) SPRING AND WINTER. Winter met the rosy spring ; Fierce the grim hag shook her locks : Froze his cheek with icy wing, Froze his soul with bitter mocks. " Trifler ! dost thou dare from me Wrest the sceptre of the earth? At my breath thy puppets, see ! Strangled in their puny birth. " All men tremble at my power. Dread the trampling of my feet ; House within, and feebly cower O'er the red hearth's quivering heat. " Thee, nor maid nor infant dreads ; Out into the meads they go. Rifling tender violet beds, Watching how the cowslips blow. SPRING AND WINTER. " Then the merchant trims his sail, Fearless he of thwarting wind ; Hangs upon the sea bird's trail, Leaves the sheltering port behind." But the boy bold answer makes " Foul thou art — a grisly thing ; All men hate thee ; laughter breaks From the very name of spring." She her icy wand would lift Spiteful : but he pierced her through With a sunbeam ; keen and swift His all-conquering arrows flew. Till she melted in a shower. Fed perforce the teeming earth ; Mingled with the budding flower. Brought the tender blade to birth. What care we, if 'neath the sod Still she lurks — will rise again ? Hail ! all hail, thou blooming god ! Dead is winter ; — spring doth reign. C 6 ) Ipaafila \£\iSbJV. When the summer blooms again, Hither, swallow, o'er the sea ! Bright the sky without a stain, Warm the breeze across the lea. Not among the forest leaves, Cares she with her mate to stay ; But beneath the household eaves, Hangs her little home of clay. Two there be, a gallant pair. Sure Minerva loves the twain. Taught the tiny heart to dare, Fired with faith the tiny brain. 'Mid the hot school's busy hum. Twittering in and out they flew ; Still the nest hangs : hither come, When the summer blooms anew. ( 7 ) CHLORIS. Sweetest ever seems the bloom Reft by %te's untimely doom, Dearer she whom death hath ta'en Than the dear ones that remain. Iphianassa's queenly grace, Fair Lysippe's blushing face, And, brimming o'er with sportive glee, Child of the winds, Iphinoe, These are left : but she is gone — Chloris, featured like the dawn, Sunny-tressed, and violet-eyed. Joying in her father's pride. Joying in the sweet excess Of her budding loveliness. Thrice five years the sisters gave Spinning in their icy cave. Then the fatal thread they sever, ■ And the bright eyes close for ever. What is left of Chloris now ? AVhy, poor king, dost downward bow. CHLORIS. Pointing to the slab beneath ; There a rose-enamelled wreath, Ever fresh at mom's return, Rests upon a little urn. Ask you, what the urn contains ? All sweet Chloris : nought remains But white ashes, year by year Moistened by a father's tear, And three golden locks that rest Ever on a father's breast. ( 9 ) THE DOVES SONG. Poor Thyrsis, why so wan, So woe-begone ? Nay, prithee cease thy care : — My mistress loves thee not, Nor bends her will a jot To thy fond fruitless prayer. But thou, be warned in time — despair ! despair ! Deep in the forest glades. Where sunlight fades To glimmering green at noon, A pine-tree rises stark, Whose scarred and wrinkled bark, Bears witness with the moon To vows in April made, forgot in June. There didst thou carve her name, But she — ah ! shame, Goes past with scornful brows : Yet where the treacherous rind Shows Phillis intertwined With Damon, straight she bows. And senseless wood with kisses warm endows. THE DOVE'S SONG. Poor shepherd, why forlorn ? Tempt not her scorn, There be as fair as she : — Lo ! in yon covert nook. Athwart the reedy brook, Nesera waits for thee. Look, Thyrsis, look, by yonder willow tree. Ah ! Venus, cruel queen. Why wreak thy spleen On him who decks thy shrine With rosy wreaths in spring And myrtle blossoming, But when the sweet flowers pine, With floods of dewy milk, and fragrant wine ? ( II ) THE EAGLES SONG. Above the storm-rack slow I rise Into the cloudless ether bare, I lift undimmed my steadfast eyes To meet the sun-god's angry glare, Nor vail I once my towering crest Till at the Thunderer's feet I rest. The far earth hangs beneath his throne, A speck amid the encircling blue ; Of mortal creatures I aloiie Have dared to pierce the stillness through Of the unpeopled desert air Up to the Thunderer's golden chair. And as he shakes his red right hand. And bends the terror of his brow. Upon a guilty plague-struck land Where crops are rotting, and the plough Rusts in the furrow, I the while Joy in the peace of a loving smile. THE EAGLES SONG. Ye mortal kings, whose awful state Rests on eternal laws of right, Love truth and justice, lest too late Ye learn how weak your sovran might : Vainly the stubborn Titans strove 'Gainst the immutable will of Jove. He rules supreme, while Themis stands, All-righteous Themis, at his side ; Obey, ye kings, her stern commands, And quell the vaunts of lawless pride :- Reign as he reigns o'er gods : for then Ye shall be meet to be kings of men. ( 13 ) THE NIGHTINGALES SONG A T THE GRA VE OF MEL AMP US. Ensilvered by the soft moon's pensive haze The low mound sleeps, where tranced Melampus lies, And gebtly to and fro the slow reed sways, Rocked by Alpheus' whispered lullabies : — Ah ! weary length of days, When will ye bid again the dreamer rise ? Never ! The grave hath closed above his head. And in mute dusky halls of Proserpine Disconsolate he wanders with the dead. Where no bird sings, nor sun doth ever shine ; The joys of earth are fled, The dance and flute, the myrtle and the vine. Or lies there far beyond the violet main. In the dim western haze an island fair. Peopled by spirits of heroic strain, Loved by the gods, whom rugged Time must spare. When on the ruthless plain He levels nations with his mighty share ? 14 THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG. Or in Elysian valleys doth lie rest, Couched on soft-breathing beds of asphodel, Where all year long the teeming earth is drest In her spring freshness, and each leafy dell In safe seclusion blest. Harbours all birds whose tongues make music well ? There sure Melampus, in some charmed bower, Holds commune with his dear ones ; there, if aught But sullen darkness stretch beyond the hour, When severed are the quickening chords of thought, And through the black mists lower Pale dreams of hope with shadowy comfort fraught. Howe'er this be, thy name shall live for aye, O dear Melampus, in Arcadian lawns, To thee shall birds sing homage all the day. And tell thy praises to the large-eyed fawns, To thee my passionate lay Shall thrill the night, nor cease till morning dawns. ( iS ) LINUS. Wail for Linus ; he is dead, Dust hath fouled the sunny head That was far afield espied, Like a star on the hillside, Where the wanton shepherds lie All the springtide noon ; and vie One with other who shall sing Sweetest of the blossoming Of the tender buds that shoot Round about the gnarlfed root, In the close heart of the woods, Or of the rush of tumbling floods Loosened from their icy bond. Or the uncurling of a frond Where the fern breaks through the sod. There would Linus like a god, On a little hillock stand. While the swains on either hand Hushed their pipes ; still was the air. Blue the sky, a fragrance rare i6 tINUS. Floated through the dreamy noon. Then the enraptured boy would tune His lyre, and cast his glowing eyes To Apollo in the skies. For the bright god was his sire, Taught his hand to touch the lyre, With tender pauses subtly wrought To a silence of sweet thought, Till out again the notes would swell Musical as Philomel. How went the boy ? His coat was green. But its hue was as the sheen Of the young enamelled leaf. From his shoulder hung a sheaf Of bright-tipped arrows, and a bow When as he would with Dian go Hunting of the tuskfed boar. But about his waist he wore A girdle set with silver studs Ruddy as the beechen buds. Flower-enwoven was his hair, And his lily feet were bare. Say what fate befell him, say That he perished in mid-May. Torn by his own dogs he lies, Violet streaks are in his eyes, Roses with his blood are red. Whose the jealous Jiand that sped LINUS. J 7 The fierce hounds upon their lord ? Ah ! the cruel Dis abhorred, He hath slain the lovely boy, He the murderer of joy, Envying Ganymede to Jove. Dead is Linus — him the grove, Him the pleasant pastures mourn. And the shepherd-cotes forlorn. But he standeth by the board In the Stygian hall abhorred. Pouring cups for the grim king Where no merry birds do sing. Nor the frolic lambkins play. Dead is Linus ; well-a-day. See the naiad's reedy bed Fails for drought, her tears are shed Vainly for the boy whose face, Oft enamoured of his grace. She mirrored in her watery glass. Black for very woe the grass. Moaning o'er the scathfed mead Stray the kine, that wont to feed Down fair leas, besprinkled well With cowslips and with asphodel. Linus, wilt thou come again ? Canst thou melt the cold disdain Of black Dis, or haply move Her who smote his soul with love LINUS. Plucking flowers in Enna's dale ? She, I trow, will heed thy tale, Soothe her lord with kisses soft, Till he yield, and how and croft Welcome their lost darling back : Hymn her softly with no lack Of milk and honey, and your verse In sad solemn strains rehearse. " Queen, upon thy ebon throne Where in state thou sittest lone. Ruling o'er thy ghostly train, If aught of ancient love remain For the places where of yore Thou wast merry with a score Of maidens dancing in a ring. To our maidens succour bring. Who for loss of Linus pine. Help, Persephone divine. By the flowers which did star With fresh hues the Stygian car. Shaken from thy dainty kirtle. Still, men tell, a spray of myrtle Dost thou cherish, solemn queen. And gaze on, till the vanished scene. Bounteous earth and sunny skies Rush upon thy weeping eyes. Ah ! have pity, send him back, Linus, on the dreary track LINUS. 19 Thou thyself must never tread. See upon thine altar shed Blood of jet-black ram, but now Pushing horns from budded brow, Honey dew and milk of kine : Help, Persephone divine.'' Shepherds, raise the dirge again : Once, e'er evening lull our pain With soft air, and bid repose. In the west a radiant rose Promise gives of better days. Praise great Pan, ye shepherds, praise. He perchance will intercede \ Help, Apollo, in our need, Pierce with shafts the Python death. Shepherds, cease — a fragrant breath Hovers o'er the loved one's tomb. Leave him in the starlit gloom. Farewell all ; the night grows chill ; But when morn on yonder hill Flames abroad, we meet again To lament our shepherd slain. ( 20 ) SYRINX. Hear me, Ladon, as I stand Lone upon thy silver sand ; Hear me, caverns broidered o'er With the ilex-coppice hoar. Oread-haunted vistas blue, Erymanthus ever new With thy spiky fir-tree crown ; Hear me, Maenalus the brown, How I mourn and wail and pine. Though all Arcady be mine. Wail and pine for ever and aye : — List, ye shepherds, as I play To soothed flocks, that softly browse O'er Lycaeus, in the drowse Of the silent midday heat, — Ah J my gentle reedlets sweet. Sweet and tunable ; but thou Sweeter far, who didst endow With hearing the husht streams that weep Down Cyllene's fabled steep. SYRINX. On his cliff I did espy Tranced the herald Mercury ; All forgot Jove's awful hest, Folded his wing : — ah ! why so blest In that breath of balmy air Soft as zephyrs, must I dare To affront her cold disdain ? Long I wooed her, wooed in vain ; Madly would have kissed ; but lo ! Dry reeds mock my lips, that grow Deep in Ladon : — yet from these Draw I notes, that better please Than golden Phoebus' praised wire : — List, ye nymphs that be my quire, To the burden's bitter close : — And sadly answer that the rose Of your wreath hath passed away ; Then softly end your roundelay. SPRING. Sweet Spring came dancing o'er a daisied lawn, At break of dawn, Tossing her aery curls in disarray From a wreath of may. And on her gown were budding emblems wrought : The fond wind caught Its flowery border, left the lithe limb free For jollity. As she came dancing, dancing o'er the lawn At break of dawn. Lambs gambolled at her feet ; birds in a quire. Their souls afire, Cried welcome ! welcome ! hearts with frolic pleasure Wove the mad measure, A merry-making round about their queen, On the daisied green. So all day long they played till evening's close. Whereat a rose SPRING. 23 Flamed into odour for a funeral pile : She paused awhile, Wistful ; then shivering, laid her fair limbs down, Without a frown, And in the lap of summer swooned and died At eventide. C 24 ) SPRING FLOWERS. Spring, spring at last. Over the seas, Swallows 'come hither On the warm breeze, Floating together : Winter is past Soft the winds blow ; Sullen and black Winter is fled On the cloud-rack. Heavy as lead, Where sleeps the snow. Carol, glad earth, Carol of spring, Merles on the bough, Larks on the wing. All sweet things now Hasting to birth. SPRING FLOWERS. 25 Sparkles the stream, Meadows are gay, Laughing leaves kiss. Lambs are at play ; Life is one bliss. One happy dream. Soft — as I sing. What harsh, dull cry Grates on my ear, Pierces the sky, Mars the full, clear Fluting of spring ? From noisome wynds, Sullen and rude. Where the grim city Pens up her brood. Where soft-eyed pity No welcome finds. Could they but know. Could they but see Spring in her glory, Bird, beast, and tree. List the glad story, Watch the grass grow, 26 SPRING FLOWERS. Tears would fill eyes Unwont to weep ; Sad faces smile ; God would let peep, If but a while, The far-off skies. Oh ! the hereafter, The sunny clime. Where no frost biteth Flowers of the prime, Nor sorrow blighteth Music and laughter. Ye, for whom spring Empties her gifts In plenteous measure. Through no scant rifts Of your full treasure Her bounties fling. Little ye can, That little do ; Primroses scatter, Violets strew. Is it no matter ? Was He not man ? SPJiING FLOWERS. 27 Full measure bring ; Give till your heart Swell with the giving, Swell, though it smart ; This is true living : Thus giveth spring. ( 28 THE NAIAD. "Quanta prsestantius esset Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas Heiba, neque ingenuum violarent marmora tophum." In the heart of the busy city, A plashing fountain drips, As the moonbeams are softly kissing Its cold white marble lips. Out of the water arises The form of a maiden fair, With star-bright eyes outshining From a mist of tangled hair. And a wail swelled up to the midnight, As the fountain rose and fell, Sad as the nightingale's passionate sorrow, Clear as a silver bell. THE NAIAD. 29 " Sister, Oread sister, Safe in thy mountain home, Happy art thou in the budding brakes. Where the gay fawns lightly roam. " Pity me, pity me, sister, Here in the haunts of men, I in the reek of the stifling smoke. Thou in the woodland glen. " I by the clamours deafened Of the babbling, hurrying crowd ; Thou by the lark's clear carol awakened As he thrills the heart of the cloud. " Mindest thou still, my sister, Our dance in the forest glade. When the mossy marge of my own fair fount Was prankt with flowery braid ? " Now, on a marble basin. My weary waters beat ; And the sun falls fierce on a gilded shrine. Till the faint air swoons with heat. " But what to me is the splendour ? My heart it pineth sore For the rustling shade of the forest green, And the glad free days of yore. 30 THE NAIAD. " I'm fain to lurk through midday, In the cool of my caverns deep ; And then in the silent pitiful night, Out under the moon to weep." 31 ) THE HAMADRYADS. In the deep forest opes a lawn Whose walls the enlacing pine trees weave ; I, wandering since the ruddy dawn, Burst through the circling boughs at eve, And, dazzled by the sunny gleam, Pushed on through knee-deep fern, to slake My thirst, where brawled a tinkling stream And wandered by from brake to brake ; Then sank upon the grass, and lay Upgazing at one lucid star, That through a rift of the heavens gray Beamed in the wake of Dian's car. There as I lay in dreamy mood. And watched on high the sailing rook, Sleep stole unbidden, by siknce wooed. And cadenced warblings of the brook. Meseemed the daisy-sprinkled lawn Glowed with a soft and mystic light, Too mellow for the blush of dawn. Or the cold fires of austere night. 32 THE HAMADRYADS. A whisper shivered through the trees, A voice cried, " Sisters, why delay ? The night is short ; pale Hecate flees. Scared by the trump of jealous day." I looked, and from each cleaving bole, Wreathed in green scarf of cheerful hue. Rose a fair Dryad ; music stole From each bell-flower that shook with dew. Then, linking hand in hand, they wove The twinkling dance with mazy feet ; While, through the stillness of the grove. Swelled the full chorus, clear and sweet ; " Oh ! happy we, who know no rest. Whose eyes dull slumber never seals, But when, low-sinking in the west. The sun-god dips his burning wheels. When mortals drowse in sluggish trance. And leave the world to purer sprites, By the soft elfish rays we dance, Woo the pale moon with mystic rites, Scare the grey wolf from fold, and swell Ripe ears to bursting ; tenderest maid Lies guarded by our potent spell, 'Neath the grim forest's gnarled shade. Oh, cruel men ! what ill return Is this ? The harsh saw's grating scream. The summons of the woodman stern. The well-poised hatchet's steely gleam. THE HAMADRYADS. 33 Spare, mortals ! We are mortal too ; We live but with our trees ; whene'er Our home by force or time decays, We mingle with the silent air. One foot is missing in our round, A sister oak lies charred and rent. Let the loud dirge one moment sound ; Then, sisters, fly ! the night is spent." A piercing wail rung in my ears. Or was it but the birds' full quire ? The grass was wet with midnight tears, The tree-tops flushed with ruddy flre. I started from my couch ; the lark Shook in the blue her steadfast wings. Was it a vision of the dark ? Or whence the print of fairy rings ? ( 34 ) POST OBITUM FELIX. Call no man happy, ere he die, — The paths of Ufe are winding still ; Fair smiles the sun, but yonder sky Is glooming o'er the western hill. Each pretty floweret droops her crest, Mute prophet of the crashing hail, As stalks the shadow from the west, And the bright meads grow sudden pale. Art young? and does she bloom for thee, Yon maiden ? smiles she rosy sweet ? Do swiftest minutes swifter flee. When lips and silent glances meet ? Yet frail may be the diadem Whose mingled scents about thee wave- Thy blossom cankered, snapt the stem, That bore its crown so fresh and brave. POST OBITUM FELIX. 35 Art strong, and throned in highest place, That kingdoms dread thine awful frown ? What trust is in the pride of race ? What lasting glory in the crown ? See ! where the Theban monarch stands, Wise, honoured, blest, beloved, but now — Wrings with dry eyes his bloodless hands, The great drops beading pn his brow. See quivering heart-throbs shake his frame, His blood runs thick ; as gout by gout, Slow brimming o'er his cup of shame The horrid secret filters out. Art old, and hast thou seen good days ? Do children bless thy honoured name ? Do grateful nations sing thy praise ; And write thee on the scroll of fame ? Yet may thy sun go down in gloom. Thy firstborn die before his sire, The cloud of some ancestral doom May quench in woe thy smouldering fire. Content thee with the present good ; Be bold to say. This day is mine ; Ere fate uplifts her mystic hood. Dare not to call the morrow thine. ( 36 ) UL YSSES. The oars flashed in the sluggish sea, The good ship's head swung round ; Out rang the mariners' lusty cheer, For they were homeward bound. The master stood upon the prow, And hurled his words afar ; Red burnt the wrath upon his cheek, From many an ireful scar. " What ! are ye men ? your mien is such ; Your soft limbs mock our own : Thin sounds drop feebly from your mouths, Faint as a ring-dove's moan. " Degenerate swine ! to sleep, to eat, Then eat and sleep again ; To drowse in miry sloth, nor feel The healthful prick of pain ; azyssES. 37 " The joy that dawns from sorrow's night, The pleasure born of toil, The grapple with the stormy sea. The victory o'er the soil. " Swing to your oars, my comrades true. In measured cadence swing ; Let the deep shout beneath your stroke, And the merry surges sing. " And soon a piping breeze shall blow And whistle, ' Home, boys, home ! ' And we shall mount upon the wave. And scour the flying foam. " It may be we shall never touch The dear, the wished-for shore ; It may be we shall never cease Our toiling with the oar. " Yet better sure to press straight on. Our eyes upon the goal ; To cast all care on those whose will Great earth and heaven control, " Than thus becalmed in a weary bay, To cheat the lagging hours. To rot amid the languid fume Of fast-decaying flowers. 38 ULYSSES. " There is a joy — Zeus grant us grace That deeper joy to win ; To hear the shoutings in the port As the good ship enters in ; " Up the old streets with boys at play, And girls that poise the urn, To walk all dazed, while townsmen greet Their long-lost friends' return : " Then, seated in a shadowy hall. To carve the mighty chine ; To banquet loud and deep, and pledge Our comrades o'er the wine : " To hear a sweet-tongued bard rehearse The deeds of men of old ; To know our sons will sing of us. When our lips are dull and cold ; "When after toils and wars we lie, Safe in the lap of earth, And time shall bring new wars, new toils. To men of later birth. " They say we are a punier folk. Than were our sires of yore ; That earth bears not such stalwart sons As in old time she bore. ULYSSES. 39 " The gods know all ; yet well I ween Earth is yet fair and young, Her brow unfurrowed by the years, Her sinews bravely strung. " I ween the men she yet shall bear Shall be to men of old. As by pale silver burns afar The ruddy gleam of gold. " Then trim the sail, my gallant crew, Bend lightly to the oar ; The buoyant wave that lifts us on Beats on our native shore." ( 40 ) ICARUS. Icarus, who dar'st thy father's hest despise : He safer is, thou nearer to the skies. The cautious sire his midway course will keep ; Who aims at stars, must spurn the abhorrfed deep. Wise, prudent, sage, — such titles let him claim : The sea that whelmed thee, Icarus, bears thy name. ( 4t ) SAPPHICS. How shall men know the poet ? Is't the swain who, Smoothly devolving amatory numbers, Pipes me of Damon, or a pretty Phyllis Scornfully pouting, Streamlet and wood and zephyr intermingled, Pastoral scenes, and buttercups and daisies ? Say, shall I dub him, as he gently fluteth, Augur Apollo ? Or, is he more justly the poet reckoned Worthy he of ApoUinarian laurel, Stentor, who rolls out resonant a Brobdig- Nagian Epic ; Hurtling of words, fresh hammered on the anvil Of the forge Cyclopean ; huge, chaotic, Scoriae outbelched from Erebus, gigantic. Sesquipedalian ? Not in heaved entrails of a riven ^tna. Not in the smooth green irrigated meadow. Dwells the dear Muse, who with an ivy chaplet Crowns her adorer. 42 SAPPHICS. Not in the highway, but among the thickets, Muffling the heights of Helicon : a temple Pillared with pines, and odorous of incense Daintily mingled, Roses and freshblown violets ; a quiring Down the green aisles goes tremulous ; a wind-swept Murmur of forest, or anon the ring-dove Sadly bemoaning. Not to all mortals Helicon revealeth Mysteries, nor breathes the melodious whisper Borne on the silence, passionately thrilling, Fitful, unearthly. Offer high service to the holy maidens, Pure be thy hands, O poet. Ah ! the rapture If thou wake sudden by the haunted water. Cool Aganippe. C 43 ) ROSES AND LILIES. White lilies on her brow, Red roses on her lips, Take the sweets, my pretty, now. Soon the day sKps. Soon, soon the roses pale. Soon, soon the lilies fade, Time's gain is lover's bale. Cold creeps the shade. Dance, while the rose is red. Dance, while the lilies glow. Time makes the flowret's bed Deep 'neath the snow. ( 44 ) A UTUMN. The hurrying clouds go softly by In the autumn sky, The blue gleams faintly out between Yon fleecy screen : The last leaf flutters from the tree, Sole relic left of summer's bravery. Doth the sight trouble thee, my soul ? Do sad clouds roll Athwart thy vision, as the sky Frowns silently, Flecked by the passing cloud, and bare Stands the stark tree in the chill autumn air ? Alas ! are thy leaves falling fast In the autumn blast ? Is thy day chill, thy summer fled ? Doth the pale dread Of winter cast long shadows drear, And chill forebodings of the dying year. AUTUMN. 45 O spring, sweet time of budding flowers, Art thou not ours ? Lies there not past the wintry time Some better clime. Where no frost bites, nor hopes decay, Nor birds sit mute upon a leafless spray ? ( 46 ) SEA BREEZES. Blow, thou solemn wind and sweet, O'er rough places of the world, Where the sullen mists are curled. Where dank humours evermore Chill the air ; — blow from the shore. Where the wind and water meet, From the infinite vast sea. Blow across the dreary wolds. Where the weary shepherd folds His tired flock, beat by the sun. Seeking pasture, where is none. In the dry hills, despairingly. Come, and melt in tender showers, Let the worn grass lift its head, Break with bright hues, yellow and red, The dull semblance of the field. Bid the parchfed desert yield Treasures of its unborn flowers. SEA BREEZES. 47 We are tired of sameness, tired Of a sleepy, sodden peace. Welcome art thou, as the fleece Of a little cloud, espied From old Carmel's withered side : Welcome, though thou come attired In the majesty of storm — Howl, ye tempests, so ye purge All the vapours foul, that surge Upward from the steamy marsh. Blow, ye great winds, loud and harsh. And our sluggish pulses warm, As we battle manfully With the freshening breeze, that sings Cheerly, and full plenty brings To the fields that parch and pine ; That brings savours of the brine. Of the infinite vast sea. ( 48 ) LAISSEZ LA VERDURE. Lay me beside a maze of laughing rills Amid the ancient hills, Where wingfed winds go singing all day long The heathery knolls among, Yet so that oft they breathe upon my grave Scents of the distant wave. And when ye gather 'neath the kindly earth This frame of little worth. See that ye lift the green grass reverently. Lest some poor daisy die. Then in the dark brown curtains of my bed Wrap up this weary head. And finely set the turf : soon Nature's grace Will heal the mattock's trace ; Wild flowers shall bloom, and bees shall haunt the mound Making a drowsy sound To lull me in the sun-tide : night shall steep My couch in dewy sleep. These be my trophies : no cold sculptured stones To press upon my bones. Earth's arms below, and warm life overhead : So bury ye your dead. ( 49 ) a(opi. Gather the tender firstlings of the year To deck her bier, Ere yet the cold winds nip them, blustering forth From the chambers of the north. Mix snowdrops pure with violets golden-eyed, So sweet she was, so white, my bride ! She lived not on to the hot summer days. Not hers the blaze Of full-blown roses, nodding to the noon In the flush of gorgeous June. Her memory glistens fresh with April showers. And breathes a fragrance of May flowers. No age shall ever mar her perfect charm, Shielded from harm Of the revengeful years : her springtide face Hath the apple bloom's pure grace. Streaked petals dropped upon the careless grass. As on the ruffling breezes pass. 50 awpi. Dear spirit : dost thou hover yet around The once loved ground, Where thy new beauty dawned upon the day In ever fresh array, Bounteous of smiles to all ? — but the inner shrine, The sweet core of the heart was mine. Be with me ever, that no deed of shame May blot the name Thou once didst bear ; for thy dear sake I'll prove The livery of pure love. That so, from throes of death's last agony, I may pass in, to be with thee. ( 5« ) HIC JACET. Now my course is nearly run, And I face the setting sun. Warm has been my day, and kind j Dear the scenes I leave behind. And their memory lingers yet. As faint breath of violet ; As dead roses treasured up, I' the hollow of a crystal cup. Day on day flies swiftly past, One day soon will be my last ; I shall lay my body down, Doff the worn and tattered gown Of my pilgrimage on earth. Now, to her who gave me birth. All that mortal was, returns ; But my soul that upward yearns. Purged by stress of mortal strife, Blossoms into second life. Let no pomp of fringfed pall Mock my simple funeral. 52 HIC JACET. Let the friends who loved me best, Bear my body to its rest ; Shed a tear that soon will dry, Tear, such as gems the daisy's eye On May morning silently. Ye who haply mourn my loss, Plant on my grave a wooden cross ; That I may thus remembered be. By the few that lovfed me. Ere the wooden cross decay. Ye too shall have passed away. Then what matter if the stain Of yellow lichens crust, engrain, Blur the record. Let it pass ; Still shall wave the tender grass. Still the wild flowers bloom and fade. To mark the spot where I was laid. ( 53 ) THE BRIDLE-PATH. The glare of dust is on the road, The highway broad and white ; And a motley crowd streams fast and loud From morn to dewy night : But off the track, ah ! well know I, A green lane windeth free : So let the world go by, go by. The bridle-path for me. Is it for gold, or is it for fame Those panting toilers long, With drawn set face, at furious pace, A crushing breathless throng ? But room and shade and peace have I Under the greenwood tree : So let the world go by, go by, The bridle-path for me. 54 THE BRIDLE-PATH. What is the end of the weary road ? They know not, care not, they ; Their throats are dust, yet on they must, And the foul fiend pricks alway : But I may rest, or dreaming lie. By fount or dewy lea : So let the world go by, go by. The bridle-path for me. What is the end of my bridle-path ? I know not, fear not, I ; But I ween some day in a' turn of the way A grassy mound will lie. Thereon my tired arms I'll fold And close my tired eyne ; The world may couch in gold, in gold, The daisied turf be mine. November i6, 1883. ( s? ) KILMORIE. Swift pass the circling years away, And lo ! our silver wedding-day, Day of bright hues and sweet content, Fit harbinger of merriment, Yet softer dropping at its close : Less sharp at noon the keen wind blows. And promise gives in westering rays Of a long string of pearly days. Up the steep mountain blithe I go, To scan the broad scene spread below ; But pause beside the brawling stream. And let my vagrant fancy dream Of life and what it brings and loses. Of what it blindfold takes or chooses. How far it rules or yields to fate, Free roving or determinate. Yon streamlet's forces fed from heaven Clefts in the solid rock have riven. And thus the deeper sinks the bed. The less the random waters spread ; 56 KILMORIE. Yet the pent streamlet fairer speeds Than plashy flats of wasteful reeds. And then to wedded Hfe I bent With allegorical intent, As how the stream that hurries by, Can mirror wedded harmony, For sure in man's twin nature lies, A close-knit web of sympathies — One thread, how wide soe'er its girth, Environs all the solid earth. So in a sheltered nook alone, Seated on a wave-worn stone. Unseen but of the silent trout. Like Richard erst I beat it out. Two wimpling burns among the heather, Take heart to blend their streams together, And fuller glint with merrier tone Than when each burnie flowed alone ; Now straitened in their narrow walls, And dropping down by easy falls. From rock to rock in reaches cool ; With here and there an umber pool. The umber pools are pauses fraught With insight clear and deeper thought. The wedded stream that babbles on In sweet secluded unison. What is it but the modest grace Of uneventful commonplace ; KILMORIE. 57 Lives hidden from the day's broad eye, Yet giving back a peaceful sky ? The bank that honeysuckles climb, The heather and the fragrant thyme. These are the sweet and simple pleasures, That all outweigh earth's golden treasures, And wreath our brows in fairer gems. Than gleam in princes' diadems. Here rifts of barren rock appear, To make the flowrets doubly dear. The cares that dog the married state Are pestering flies importunate. That buzz around in ceaseless rings, To vex the soul's imaginings. But now I leave the burnie's side. And scan the upland frowning wide, And chief the point which highest springs. The goal of my lone wanderings. Tired, footsore, aching, on I plod. Now sinking in the marshy sod. Now o'er burnt heather black and dry, But upward still unweariedly. Still fancying what shall meet my eye Whene'er I breast the summit high. 'Tis won, and dipt in violet haze, The northern mountains meet my gaze, Bold peaks and shadowy glens between : — Southwards, that more familiar scene. S8 KILMORIE. Yon mystic rock that sea-birds haunt Sheer from mid-ocean rising gaunt. Beyond, the swelling hills of Ayr A softer, mellower outline wear ; Westward, the cliffs of bold Argyle Slope to Cantyre and Sunda's Isle, And on the dim horizon's line, The silver coasts of Erin shine. Here as I face the solemn skies Needs must I idly moralize. Into my song stern duty drag To symbolize rude Ailsa's crag, And ruth and gentle peace compare With the soft coast of distant Ayr. The Lagg's green hollow nestling deep, With pines on either wooded steep, Is the cool spot sequestered low, Through which our quiet waters flow ; Erin's faint line that mocks my gaze, Is childhood's scarce imagined haze. Then northward as I turn and spy The Nornies beckoning silently — Crags on whose peaks the white clouds brood, A weird deep-cowlfed sisterhood — My thought roams onward to the pall, Which holds our ardent hopes in thrall, And bids man pause, yet fearless eye The goal of dim futurity, KILMORIE. 59 Pause for a moment's breath, and then Wend on his patient way again, Not knowing what shall be the end, Yet hasting not the veil to rend Which hides what else might bid him shrink From danger's unimagined brink. Hang, kindly wreaths ; — enough to see What day by day awaiteth me ; The path with purpling heather crowned. Or the hueless common ground. Yet glimpses here and there let peep, Of the strong cserulean deep Unfathomed heaven, where shines on high The steadfast star-sown galaxy. What ye import, or sun or gloom, Lies hid in fate's mysterious womb : Dreamlike ye brood, and scarce do seem More solid than a baseless dream. Is it a dream, this shadowy life, Dream-children mine and a dream- wife ? God grant that up beyond the blue. Waking we find earth's visions true. August yd, 1886. ( 6o ) SAPPHO. Sappho, when she parted, set In the grass a violet, Bade me water it with dew. Soft distilled from eyelids true To her gentle memory \ Threatened me, if it should die. She would dart a killing scorn. Ice-cold as a wintry morn, From the arched bow of her eyne, Piercing this poor heart of mine. But, if from its earthy bed, It should lift a silken head, Golden-eyed and purple-hued. Then my lady might be wooed, In a gracious, melting mood. Out alack ! a bitter frost Nips the bud : my pains are lost — Pains that love made light to me. For the joy that was to be. SAPPHO. 6 1 Sappho, loose the fatal string, For though death be on its wing, Thy sweet shaft shall end my woe. Nay, dear lady, do not so, Let beam pity from thine eye On thy loyal votary, Who hath never failed to wet With his tears thy violet. In a constant, fond intent ; Or, if thou wilt not relent. Smite me, dear, I'll not demur So thou be executioner. ( 62 ) LOVE AND DUTY. This- way and that twin passions move, And both are. strong and both are sweet, As in the subtle glass of love Their mingled vapours meet Yet is it vain to think that e'er I still might love, and still be free The banner of my land to bear, Leaving my heart with thee. O cruel fate ! for I had nerved My soul to scorn the sensual lure ; The sirens sang : — I never swerved, True to my Cynosure. This is no siren on her rock, No Circe with her swinish spell. But Rachel as she led her flock To water at the well. May I not stoop me down and drink At yon bright stream ? and must I on To stand upon thy slippery brink. Thou blood-red Rubicon ? LOVE AND DUTY. 63 But what if she, the babbling rill, That laughed and sparkled in my eyes, Thread sunless spaces drear and still, Her prattle choked with sighs ? O God of battles, didst thou make The budding glories of the spring, Was it Thy hand that clothed the brake. And bade the throstle sing ? O Prince of Peace, and shall our land Cower breathless 'neath a tyrant's frown, Dost Thou not reach the avenging brand To strike the oppressor down ? Ah ! little brooklet, wayside well, Laugh, but on other eyes than mine, The bitter thoughts that in me swell Would dash thy sweet with brine. Now one last kiss upon thy brow. One last dear pressure of thy hand. Shrink, rebel love, before my vow To God and fatherland. 'Tis past— I am alone again. Alone, and evermore alone ; Brace, God, mine arm, quicken my brain. But turn my heart to stone. ( 64 ) THE STREAMLET. The little happy stream, that babbles on Dimpling in sunshine, flashing into glee, Sings merry-hearted, though the heavens be wan, And clouds o'ercast their bright serenity; For still the ripple clear Has tender meanings for the listening ear. And thus I read the purpose of its tone : " It is scant grace to laugh, when all is bright. Who would not laugh, when Spring upon her throne Scatters the frost with floods of arrowy light ; When at the break of day The pearl dews glisten on the front of May ? " Then followeth Summer, over-ripe with bliss, And fainting with excess of revelry ; When I must shrink beneath the sun's hot hiss. Though the cool naiads ply unceasingly Their brimming urns to fiill From secret founts my ever dwindling rill. THE STREAMLET. 65 " Soon Autumn dashes on a fuller stream His ruddy vesture ; flings upon the sod Bright raindrops jewelled by the slanting beam, As sinks to rest the violet-crowned god ; To me the tribute flows : Shall I not sing o'er Autumn's glorious close ? " Only when Winter howling from the north, Sweeps o'er the shivering land, and in his grasp Clutches me, first a choking sob breaks forth. Then dies to utter muteness, till his clasp Loosens at Spring's return, And for new joys the feathered creatures yearn. " Their- little hearts are bubbling o'er with mirth. And so my pent-up music findeth voice. The music I had stored for the new birth. When all lay dead, but I could still rejoice. And my mute paean sing ; Melt, icy bonds, before the spring, the spring." ( 66 ) THE BLACKBIRD. Among the blossoms of the tender year My feet went wanton wild I knew not where ; It was the time when cherries ruddy ripe, Hang on the bough, and mar the mellow pipe Of blackbirds, which at eve I loved to hear. And now the sun was lowering, and anon Would from the joyous fields of air be gone To the chill regions of the lower world ; Yet still aslant his flashing shafts be hurled. As loth to yield, ere yet the fight was won. And on a tree hard by his beams he flung. Lighting the tiny purple lamps that hung In clusters, and a blackbird on the spray With dainty bill oft stooping made assay Of that ripe fruit, then tuned his merry tongue. THE BLACKBIRD. 67 He had fed full, and altered was his note, Still in despite he strained his little throat, And vexed his soul with grating dissonance ; Then heedless of the cause, would dart his lance, And with red spirtings stain his glossy coat. Then I : " Ah, silly bird, what dost thou here ? Of thy sweet music hast thou ne'er a care, Choking thy honey with such gluttony? But sorely shalt thou rue it by-and-by. When other birds shall sing, and thou despair. " Yet such as thou have many been, I trow. Who once their lives unto the Muse did vow. And asked with strong desire to give up all For her sweet service, who did so enthrall Their being, and with such grace did them endow. " Ah ! woe is me for him, who doth abuse Laurel-crowned Phoebus, and doth rather choose To wrap him in a leopard-skin, and wave The tipsy thyrsus ; vainly shall he crave Grace and forgiveness of the outraged Muse. " Vainly shall seek return to Hippocrene, To sit in place along the shaded green, Where sounds the shell, that baby Hermes strung For his vext brother : he is ever young. Who of this sacred company hath been : 68 THE BLACKBIRD. " If so he forfeit not the Muse's dower, Nor recreant prove, for she will have the flower, The perfect prime unto her dedicate. Who serveth her must early serve and late. Nor slack his duteous homage one short hour. " Nor liveth she with sty-fed luxury. Nor in those halls, where spell-bound victims lie Touched by the rod of that accursfed witch. Fell Circe, nor in mansions of the rich Haunts she with haggard-eyed satiety. " Yet thou mayst meet her oft, where falls the brook Most musical, filling a shadowy nook With sweet refrains and echoes manifold. Or on some thymy upland will she hold Converse with one that bears a shepherd's crook. " Or in a studious parlour, where the light Breaks through green leaves, she woos some anchorite, Whose heart is full with books of lofty strain. To bathe in her cool dews his fevered brain, Or holds him star-bound through the silent night. " And such weird glamour doth she o'er him fling, That he doth through the heavenly spaces wing. Leaving dull earth and its poor joys behind, And, mounted on the chariot of the wind, Joy in his lady's solemn communing." THE BLACKBIRD. 6) Thus I all heat : he, perching on a thorn, Where was his nest, to answer thought it scorn, Yet seemed to say, " Vain songster, wake with me. Ere yet the dews be dry upon the lea. And let our rival notes salute the morn." ( 70 ) TO CHAUCER. Sweet singer of the dawn Who in that voiceless stillness, when the gray Throbbed opal-tinged with hues of coming day Upon our English lawn, Didst honour chief the flower that lies bestrewn On the green-vestured meadows, when the May Walks forth with silver shoon. Pace with me, master mine, Adown the dewy crofts, and tread the glades Unrifled yet, ere wake the merry maids Their comely locks to twine With daisies, and salute the blushing spring. Linger, blest prime, full' soon the freshness fades. Full short the blossoming. Thou who when all was still, And from the dayspring's altar dimly curled Faint wreathed mists, and the eastern gates were pearled With rose and daffodil. TO CHAUCER. 71 Didst blow a note so clear, so joyous free, Mute thickets woke to song, and the blithe world Rang with thy jollity. Teach me, whose lot doth lie 'Mid whir of multitudinous wheels, and din Of clashing words and. eddying thoughts, to win Thy grave simplicity. Thy loyal tenderness, thy courteous grace ; Crystal revealings of the heart within Read on the gentle face. Teach me thy humour fine To flout men's follies with a kindly smile That yet they wince, bethink them, pause awhile. Catch glimpses half-divine ; But with keen arrows of thy barbfed wit, Piercing his close-set panoply of guile To slay the hypocrite. Teach me thy one best lore. To dower pure womanhood with worship due, Maiden, wife, mother, set in order true. Bloom, flower, and fruitful core ; White innocent leaves with rosy blushes tipt. Great many-seeded heart of golden hue. In the strong sunbeams dipt. 72 ) TO SHELLEY. " Peace ! peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of life." Adonais. The heaven is full of light, The earth of peace : Her throes of quick delight, Her labours cease : Now slow maturing in her silent womb, Her fruits the signal wait to burst their dreamful tomb. Oft must the stubborn ground Be white with rime, Ere yet the trumpets sound Of vernal prime : Pause, swallow, pause upon thine eager wing, Back to your silken cells, ye nurslings of the spring. TO SHELLEY. 73 Alas ! how many a flower Shall mock my rede ; Prevent the quickening hour, Then rue her deed Too late, and nipped by winter's cruel treason, Fail of her full-orbed fruit in its appointed season ! Children of Chaos old, Folly and Sin, Twin-sister leading bold Her brother twin, Gives him to kiss the velvet buds of May; Nor recks he that his touch doth wither all away — For Folly aye is blind, Not his to see The ruin left behind : Still laugheth she, Charming his senses with her siren song. With sweet forbidden apples luring him along. Must it be ever so ? Must man be still Blind to his settled woe, His captive will Enchained, his reason struggling to be free. Yet meshed in glittering webs of subtlest sophistry ? 74 TO SHELLEY. O spite ! that one endowed With gifts so rare, Throned on a rainbow cloud Of fancies fair, With starry brow assailing heaven's height. And upward soaring with a Titan's might. Should by intemperate pride His brightness mar, Down from the zenith glide, As sinks the star, Whose trailing lustregilds the hideous dark Amoment — then black nightengulfs the vanished spark. A spark ! for what is man, Supremely blessed ? His longest days a span. By hope caressed ; For ever doomed to lack his full fruition, And gnaw the bitter rind of unfulfilled ambition. Yet for no vulgar crown That spirit yearned, Prized not the cheap renown By victors earned At price of bitter tears of widows lone. And the slow turning of soft hearts to stone. TO SHELLEY. 75 His was a nobler aim — To raise on high Thy radiant beacon flame, Great Liberty ; To lift the bowed back of the weary slave, And misery's brow in healing balm to lave. His eager fiery soul Took the instant way Impatient of control, Nor brooked delay, Would fain tear wisdom from her crystal sphere, And for a rapturous earth forestall the golden year. Why should dull torpor wrap The nations round ? Awake 1 like thunderclap Peals the clear sound, Rings Hope's evangel in heart-piercing tones : — He sang, and looked for movement in the lifeless bones; Indignant, looked in vain. Not thine the spell, O poet, though thou fain Wouldst combat hell, And the keen falchion of thy wit embrue In blood of Superstition's hoary crew ; 76 TO SHELLEY. Not thine, thou Archimage Of earth and sky, Man's travail to assuage. Or still the cry Of fainting myriads scantly brought to birth, To crawl pale victims to their parent earth. " To us a Child is born ; " Born to set free And ransom sad forlorn Humanity ; His spirit breathes upon a world of pain. And from rent furrows springs the golden grain. Golden — -but ah ! not yet ; In patience we Must bear the daily fret, Nor hope to see. Save in mirage of splendour far descried, Man's work with triumph crowned, man's Maker justified. Yet earth is green, and heaven Is blue above ; Still softly falls at even The dew of love ; Though darkling clouds the dim horizon bound. Yet God doth walk on earth, and earth is holy ground. TO SHELLEY, 77 Lark ! that with eager crest Wouldst heavenward pass, Earth is thy home, thy nest Is in the grass ; The sacred centre of thy joys and sorrows. The shrine of happy days, the pledge of glad to-morrows. Thy home — and yet no home. Poor bird, for thee ; Wayward thy swift wings roam Intent to flee Cold looks, cold skies, storm-clouds of bitter hate ; And thy lone soul sat pining desolate. Still, 'neath Italian skies, 'Mid Alpine snows, Thy spirit homeward flies. Thy full heart glows, While the light boat again the current stems, Where Bisham's woods o'erlook the silver Thames, Cypress and myrtle weep Above thy dust ; Strangers thine ashes keep In sacred trust ; Lightly the Roman turf above thee lies, Paven with violets and anemones. 78 TO SHELLEY. Yet art thou English still, An island child ; English thy dauntless will, Thy spirit mild, Pushed forth by fate adventurous paths to dare, Yet pining wistful for thy native air. Law's cold prescription spurned, Thou didst aspire, So hot thy spirit burned With heaven-lit fire, All baser ores of nature to compel To love's white heat in thy pure crucible. Hadst thou but lived our vexed Estate to know. Time would have more perplexed Thy spirit's flow, Shadows more sombre mocked thy steadfast gaze Striving in vain to pierce the illimitable maze. Yet while the tyrant frowns, The bigots rave. While hope with laurel crowns The patriot's grave, While liberty is but a voiceless cry, And her sworn sons miscall her anarchy ; TO SHELLEY. 79 Still rings in the charmfed air Thy clarion shrill, Free winds the summons bear From hill to hill ;— On ! legions, on ! link hands, and forward press, Your watchwords, Brotherhood and Righteousness. His sins are all forgiven — He lovfed much ; Lightly his soul is shriven By love's own touch : Unwitting sinned he, fighting against sin : His soul lies in the breach — the fort is yet to win. Christmas, 1886. ( 8o ) TO THOMAS CARLYLE. " Old lion, smooth thy mane : no need to bristle, 'Tis but a puny rhymster's penny whistle." Mr. Carlyle, you earnest man, Preach to a frivolous world you can, Preach to a frivolous world you must. Lest in its scabbard your good sword rust ; But, Mr. Carlyle, we are earnest too : May a poor rhymster preach, sir, to you ? Masculine Titan of ruggedest mind. Frowning majestic on weak mankind. Is it in scorn or in pity more That you bid those dreadfullest thunders roar At sour, Pharisaical, wry-faced cant ? But, Mr. Carlyle, don't you sometimes rant ? . Much as I love you, Thomas Carlyle, I am stirred sometimes by a righteous bile, As thy infinitesimal sparks of sense Float mistily dim in the vast immense : Must the infinities' sorrowful gaze Rest ever on billowy tenebrous haze ? TO THOMAS CARLYLE. 8l Many a windbag, thou shifty knight, Hath been pierced by the point of thy falchion bright, Vainly from thee are impostors screened ; Stately, bewigged and bebombazined, Thou strippest all bare the pretentious prig, Off with the bombazine, off with the wig. The shivering duke of Windlestraw Shrinks at thy presence in trembling awe : His pinchbeck coronet's Brummagem lustre Looks common, however his Grace may bluster. But he huddles his old rags on him again. As thy voice dies out in his moonstruck brain. Could he but feel thy scathing scorn, He would curse the hour he ever was born : The smirking gigman would cower in his gig ; But ah ! true Thomas, he cares not a fig ; His mind is too gross, and his aims too low. To wince at a bolt from Olympian snow. Thou a tempestuous ocean wave, WrathfuUy storming each dismal cave, Striving with manfuUest force to drag The shelving sand from the treacherous crag, To beat man's pitiful barrier down. And the world in a levelling deluge drown, G 82 TO THOMAS CARLYLE. So, rising over the weltering tide, The' granite peaks shall alone abide. And a hero race, of resistless might. Guide the frail nations in justice and right. Oh ! great strong heart, thou art true as steel ; Prick Rozinante — the windmills reel. But we, poor poets, ah ! what are we ? Just rivers that make for the swallowing sea, — Now in a cataract pouring steep, Now through a meadow-land, calm and deep : Some of us nothing but babbling rills, Restlessly breaking the peace of the hills. We water the earth with a fostering care ; We glass in our bosom the landscape fair ; And the blissful calm of our ceaseless roll Brings manifold peace to the weary soul : E'en the tiniest brooklet narrow and mean Makes some little corner of woodland green. Go on, true Thomas, but own we too Have a poor task in the world to do, And our waters at last pass into the sea, To be dashed on the rugged coast, Thomas, by thee ; We welcome \hy prose with a whimsical smile, And hail thee one of us, Thomas Carlyle. ( 83 ) THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. By a Modern. Hence, loathed melody ! Thou apish semblance of articulate sound, The world hath done with thee ; No more shall fingers weave thy voluble round, Jigging Sebastian ; hence, ye shadowy forms. Ye dilettante swarms, Handel or Haydn, powerful erst. In man's fond infancy. Now on the tranced elements hath burst The music of the time, the undefiled, Ye snare no more men's hearts by sugared art be- guiled. Hence, ye cobweb spinners, hence ; Fancy yields to conquering sense : See ! the great Tannhauser comes, Cymbals clash, sound, kettledrums, Now the pipe, the clarion brays, Vocal in Tannhauser's praise. 84 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. Nursling of the savage wood, Playmate of the shaggy bear, Nature's sole interpreter, Ears he hath for the hidden cry Of the wild wind sweeping by, Skill to phrase in rugged tones What old Ocean hoarsely moans. Yield, ye sour-lipped critics, yield. See, Tannhauser storms the field ; Cease, ah ! cease your droning hum Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum. With your routed legions flee, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee, Fly, Mozart, Beethoven, fly ! Vain your linkfed panoply, — The fine web of golden mail, Crushed beneath the hero's flail. Music, heavenly maid, is born. Not that false siren, who hath shorn The locks from many a champion's head On her lap of dalliance spread, Which such fell enchantment wrought That their manhood they forgot. Babbled weak and soulless trash, Sentimental balderdash ; Lisped in pretty mincing measures Gilded pinchbeck, tinsel treasures, THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 85 And the rapturous world was tickled By the dulcet tones that trickled From a lorn lute amorously j Or paled, as tuned to loftiest key, In measured march of awful sound, Thunder-music shook the ground. Slavish fiddlers of old time, Toiling at a painful rhyme, Fain to cozen the nice ear With a puling tune, and tear Sense from sentiment apart, So you could but touch the heart. Pshaw ! mere study of effect. That ne'er could reach the intellect. We can bid each passion thrill On a note, and pass at will From grave to gay, from hot to cold, In convolutions manifold. Rhythmical our movement flows, Slow the varied fabric grows. Of fantastic shape and style, Mazy as a Gothic pile. With pepper-boxes here and there, And crawlings of a random stair, No dull classic Parthenon, With formal pillars of cold stone. 86 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. Not such a temple will we build To honour him, whose song hath filled Our rapt soul with new delight ; Hail, Baireuth ! the favoured site Of our palace, whence shall flow Streams of rhythmic sense that glow, With clear metallic lava-heat. And shrivel flaunting vines that meet Its solid force with wantoning Of tendrils in the buxom spring. Earth shall soon forget her youth, And the dreams she dreamed were truth, Fade before the critic's glass. Our simple fathers ! let them pass With a mild and patient smile ; Their day is o'er ; their whims beguile The trained intellect no more. Burn, moderns, burn the hivfed store Of old experience, musty grown, Doddered eld with eyes of stone, Bid fancy loose each drivelling thrall. And common sense be all in all. ( 87 ) SONG OF THE DANES. Swift as the north wind, Curdling the broad fen, Felling the tall oak, Cometh the Dane. Homesteads are blazing, Women shriek helpless, ' Red is the hearth-stone With blood of the slain. Up the broad rivers. Slow wind the slim galleys, Packed with the war-dogs, Lusty and grim : Ware, ye fat burghers, Slow in the sword-play, Ye shall drain sorrow's cup Full to the brim. SONG OF THE DANES. Whereso the raven, Spreads her black pennons, Altar and battlement Crumble to dust ; We storm the rampart. Level the minster walls. Vain, ye pale priestlings, all Vain is your trust. Where the black mire pits Are loud with the hell-frogs, White-livered cravens, Writhing ye crawl ; We in Valhalla Feast on the boar's flesh, List the Scald's battle song Harping in hall. Ope your full coifers, Glut the fell wolfs maw. Else shall ye feel his teeth Biting full shrewd : Slaves, till your fields for us. Broach the ripe mead for us. We are the lords of earth, Odin's fierce brood. ( 89 ) WITH A COPY OF RAPHAEL'S LIFE AND WORKS. Dora, the brush you love so well Was wielded by great Raphael, And this belated gift, perchance, Meeting a meditative glance. May bid your matron hand make good The promise of your maidenhood. Now the blessed golden haze And flush of early married days So brim with joy the fluttering heart, That scant room is left for art. But when the glamour melts away In the steadfast light of day. Art will resume her wonted reign — Art, whose gay fantastic train Flows in rich disorder by. Mirror of life's pageantry. Yet is not Hfe all motley : — look In the pages of my book ; go WITH COPY OF RAPHAEL'S LIFE AND WORKS. See the Virgin Mother stand, A kneehng saint on either hand ; See the glistening of her eyes Steeped in holy mysteries, And with rapture gazing on " The Cherub Contemplation ; " See the blessed babe she raises On her arm, 'mid angels' praises. Nestling on His mother's breast. Life is but a wild unrest, If thou let the clamorous din Of the great world enter in, Wresting from thy calm control That still chamber of the soul. Wherein the mighty issues lie Of Time and of Eternity. If of this thou keep the key. The world shall never mock at thee. ( 9' ) THE FORLORN HOPE. " Who mans the breach that gapes so wide ? " Stepped forth a boy with kindUng eye. " Too young, too young ! " " Not so," he cried, " Never too young to die. " No folk will mourn me, should I fall ; Alone am I ; yet not alone. From the fresh earth dear voices call, And claim me for their own. " My mother freed my soul from dread. So I was true to man and God : My dying father bade me tread The path himself had trod. " His sword I wield ; he sees me now ; He calls a blessing on his son — ' On ! on ! ' he cries, ' fulfil thy vow ; Fight, till the day be won ! ' " 92 THE FORLORN HOPE. The day was won : the banners wave, Back rolls the battle's turbid tide ; He lieth in his father's grave Hard by his mother's side. ( 93 ) CLIP El QUE INSIGNE DECORUM. " What bears Etona on her shield ? " What her true son should be, — A valiant lion in the field, At heart a fleur-de-lis. He shall go on in ruddy sheen And lion-like oppose, Foremost in brunt of battle seen, And grappling with his foes. But ever at his heart of hearts Stand thick the lily sheaves, To cool his rage and heal his smarts With their fair virgin leaves. 'Tis his to conquer, to endure ; All taint of ill he shuns ; Still lion-hearted lily-pure Be all Etona's sons. ( 94 AD COLLEGIUM REGALE CA NT A BRIGIENSE. The ruddy rose of Lancaster, Set on a glorious stem, May well beseem, she doth aver, A royal diadem. Not hers to blanch before the storm. Or scatter at the gale. Her valiant heart burns close and warm Beside her sister pale. Red-lipped the cleft pomegranate glows And bursts its swelling rind. Scattering the seed that wisdom sows Upon the random wind. The stout portcullis hangs beside, And will not lightly rise. But bars the portal's entrance wide From thievish enemies. Oh, ruddy rose ! — oh, faithful seed ! Strong shelter in distress — Give warmth of heart, wisdom at need, And loyal steadfastness. ( 95 ) VALE! When troubled with an in-ward smart True wisdom bids us meet it gaily, So in a lively tone I'll start My "Vale," Musing of joys that once were mine Beneath those elms, that once were thicker. Young strength my food, and youth's new wine My liquor. Now breath is shorter, limbs refuse The task in which they once delighted ; What use to don my cricket-shoes ? I'm blighted ! In vain against a modern whirl I thrust a bat in hope to nick it ; Nor earns my once emphatic curl A wicket. Not that in younger days I soared In thought towards the sky-blue heaven : P'r'aps in a match I never scored Eleven. 96 VALE ! With bat and ball I had my shy, A recreation beatific, Now cricket, like all else, is sci- Entific. Forgive a lame rhyme — let it pass. My Pegasus will slouch and sidle. Too long has been turned out to grass, Grows idle. He ambles down a pleasant lane. The sweet grass munches — sniffs the breezes ; But put his bellows on the strain. He wheezes. Once, once, he thought not work a sin. Nor met a spur with inward curses, I fear he took a pleasure in His verses. Now all the world's material grown :. He potters, who too finely nice is : The Classics would you read ? A Bohn Suffices. We were a simple-hearted folk, Alive to praise — to prizes callous, Ere the grim "crammer " laid his yoke On Pallas. Since then she mopes as thin as lath, Her flowing robe submits to dockings, Blue were her eyes, but now she hath Blue stockings. VALE ! 97 But on, my Muse, from moor and hill And sunny scents to highway beaten, From boy to man I change — yet still 'Tis Eton. I teach where once I learnt ; I stuff Weak stomachs with unsavoury matter, Till heart grows sore and temper gruff With clatter. Yet oft when worried by arrears, With Fourth Form plaguing, verses pressing, A gush of loyalty brought tears Of blessing. In buckram stiff we smother ruth With natural graces round us playing : We dwell in chill October: youth Is Maying. Yet from their laughter power is breathed That cheats the sad remorseful hours. And slowly whitening locks are wreathed In flowers. Now all is over, let me own I wasn't always quite judicious — Sometimes perhaps both look and tone Were vicious. Boys will be boys, and when they are There's not a more cantankerous creature. Some imp perchance may whisper — " Bar Their teacher." 9*5 VALE ! Yet were there some who rose like trout At any bait I cared to dangle, Knew not what 'twas to sulk or pout, Or wrangle ; Who never thought my whims absurd, Nor called me an unfeeling brute, or Sneered lightly at that magic word, My Tutor. Eton, farewell ! if aught in me Just hovers on the genus poet, Alone, most royal Nurse, to thee I owe it. Here on sweet lore my spirit fed, Lore fragrant from the Muse's censer, And underneath thy limes I read My Spenser. Farewell ! be faithful to thy bond. Let mind and body grow together. But let not body stray beyond Her tether. There are who say — it can't be true — Are you — I vow I'm no ascetic — But are you just a trifle too Athletic ? A strenuous fight against the grain, For duty's sake a manly tussle. Is good for morals, good for brain, And muscle. VALE! 99 But when the cry is, " Will it pay ? If so, we'll train, and give up salmon." It savours slightly — shall we say ? Of Mammon. Win victory on victory piled : Flags after all are coloured bunting : E'en emulation may be styled Pot hunting. Win, rather win, thy sons to be Each his true self in mind and feature ; Let large-eyed nature mirror thee, Thou nature. Give play to genius — leave a void In which vague pleasures may be tasted ; Deem not each moment unemployed Is wasted. The crammer cries — " The grind's the thing : " Believe him not, in vain he crieth ; Young David slew with stone and sling Goliath. " Quo Musa tendis 2 life is short : And you, fair shrew, a sad transgressor, 'Tis time you put about for port." " Why — yes, sir ! I only thought to weave a spell One moment, which the Fates must sever." — Farewell ! then, yes;— but not farewell For ever. VALE! For if your quondam friend you seek, March ever East till there's no more land, You'll find him prowling on the bleak North Foreland. Or should my Kentish wilderness Lie thence too many leagues asunder, Then, if you yearn for me, address As under. ? ( lOI ). A FRAGMENT. Tear down the blind And let me look at Nature, face to face, The all-bountiful, the mother of warm life, Warm tear-drops, and the passion of keen joy. Out on the slavish world ! the mill-horse round Of settled obligation, the nice shrug, At who would step beyond the precise line Worn by monotonous footfalls ; weary slabs Of cold dull granite in a cloistered walk Dipt in ancestral gloom. Let me go forth To the sunlight, though his arrows strike me blind : — The god of healing he. My pulse beats strong, Heart flutters, as I grope into the day, Stumbling, but ever kissing the dear earth That smells o' the violet. Oh ! the ecstasy Of freedom, and the slowly opening eyes, The dawn of thoughts fresh-breathing as the morn. Now let me die. I have lived, methinks, a life In the brief moment of enfranchisement. Blind me, yea, kill me then, all glorious day. Flooding my soul with music that bids crack The thin-spun wires of poor humanity. A LOST LIFE. 1 TROD erewhile a narrow pass, Hell and destruction yawned below ; My naked feet were on the grass, Around sweet airs of heaven did blow. They said, " Beware the treacherous brink," They bound my feet with silken bands, 'Neath silken folds they bade me blink, A silken cord about my hands. They led me trembling with aifright. Lest the sweet flowers should lure my eyes, I stumbled, wondering, in the night, I poisoned heaven's sweet breath with sighs. They set me on a wayside stone, Drew off the kerchief, left me there ; The path was sand ; the wind did moan. The dull cloud lowered in the heavens bare. A LOST LIFE. 103 The silken cord an iron chain, Still tightened as I strove to walk. Numbed limbs; cramped hands; a wildered brain, A babbling of uncertain talk. An arid waste stretched far around. The flowery path was left behind. Husks mocked me, scattered on the ground, And 'stead of fruit the empty rind. Far, far away, a merry throng. That pruned the vine, and delved the soil. Their free limbs joying in the sun, Their hands embrowned by honest toil. They laboured, piping as they went, They laboured on till day was o'er. The corn is housed, the grapes are trod, They rest beside the cottage door. I dragged me to my withering heap. If I perchance one seed might win. One found I ; and my heart 'gan leap, •I dug the soil, I thrust it in. I watered it with bitter tears, I watched a feeble blade outbreak. Trembling I saw, 'mid hopes and fears, The hidden vigour of life awake. I04 A LOST LIFE. Sickly it grew, with stunted fronds, And its wan fruit was bitter-sweet. Yet had it strength to rive my bonds, The iron melted from my feet. In the dim west the eye of God Flung wide apart the cloudy pall, Unscared the lessening path I trod, Undaunted saw the shadows fall. Dying, I win true liberty, I cast the human cords aside ; O Master, had I clung to Thee, And Thou hadst been my spirit's guide, Would not the love that oped my day. And waked the soul that in me lies. Have led me down youth's flowery way With unbound hands, with open eyes ? ( los ) THE ARK AND THE DOVE. My cumbrous ark was victualled well For voyage across an unknown sea, I stept into the darkling shell And shut the door on me. The water lapped, the vessel rocked, The darkness choked me sitting there, High in the roof a crevice mocked My thirst for the boon air. Slowly my eyes recovered sight, I glowered about the dusky hold, I counted all my bales aright, And yellow bars of gold. Then sudden through the window flew A white dove, wheeled and passed away. Passed outwards to the heavens blue Child of the light and day. He dazed me with his glistening flight, And yet full loth I saw him flee. He was a child of day and light. He could not stay with me. io6 THE ARK AND THE DOVE. I sat and pined the livelong day, But ah ! the sweet bird came not back, And night shut out the tiny ray That flecked the hideous black. I tore away the jealous bars, I rove in twain the lintel trim. Through the ragged edges peered the stars. Chasing the twilight dim. I worked in haste while fingers bled, The firesh wind shook my dizzy brain. When from the east the dawning red Burst on my eyes like pain. My ark lay idle in the port. My voyage had not yet begun. Ah ! loiterer, for the time was short. Uprose the mighty sun. The mast I pieced of precious trees. Tore in long strips my costliest bales. And set before the bellying breeze Great tapestry for sails. The barque inoved out, the wind blew strong, The bars of gold my ballast were, Up in the lift I heard a song. Sweet scents were in the air. And the dear dove I scared away Perched on my hand, a welcome guest. And in my bosom night and day Was well content to rest. THE ARK AND THE DOVE. 107 All through an islet-jewelled sea We passed, and still the soft wind blew, My white-winged angel joyously From isle to islet flew. For me with eager beak he sought Soft spicy leaves of virtue rare, Back to my breast his treasures brought. And nestled ever there. We make for some far distant shore. Through sun and storm, through foul and fine. Somewhere I know, but know not where. My dove's home will be mine. ( io8 ) THE TREE OF GALILEE. There grew a flower in Galilee, A tender plant in a parchfed ground, A fragrant flower of low degree, A passion-halo fringed it round. They trod its sweetness underfoot. Trampled it, crushed it with savage glee. Fancied it dead to the nether root, But out of its ashes grew a tree. It grew, and the birds took shelter there, And under its shadow the world had rest ; Its sunlit top rose into the air. Its root sucked life from the earth's warm breast. They hewed with axes, they burned with fire ; The fire hissed powerless — shivered the axe. They gnashed fierce teeth as higher and higher They saw the fair tree burgeon and wax. THE TREE OF GALILEE. icg But some there were of wilier strain- Who loaded the boughs with tinsel gifts Till they bent and bowed, and cracked, and the rain Dripped slowly in at the yawning rifts. In a cunning mill the leaves they ground. And made them incense bitter and strong ; The dizzying smoke whirled round and round, And worked in the brain of the simple throng. So when their blear eyes, sick with cares, Were lifted on high in the heat of the day, They were dazed by the glittering bauble wares, And the voice was choked on its upward way. Birds were singing the leaves among. High up, out of the smoke and glare ; Unheard of the pitiful, huddling throng. They flung their hymn to the bounteous air. Out, out with the stifling fume ! Tear the flittering tinsel down ; Let in the heaven, though wrapped in gloom. Though it be black with a thunder-frown. Though the sky peer sorrowful through. Though the sun be hid for a while, Shine it shall in the stedfast blue. And bless starved hearts with a golden smile. THE TREE OF GALILEE. O sweet tree, while the thunder rolls, Awestruck, mute, we gaze on thee. Slide thy rustling peace into our souls. Lull us lovingly, O sweet tree. Then as solemnly cometh the night. The slow dark night with a wail of the wind, The stars will cluster in heaven's height And flash upon tears of joy, which blind Our eyes, full weary with dearth of bliss. With hoping ever, and straining sore. To catch one glimpse of the truth which is. And shall be ours, when the night is o'er. THE TRUMPET-CALL. The Lord blew out a trumpet-call, To wake the slumbering world ; And on the Mount of Calvary His banner stood unfurled. From east to west the call went out, It blew from north to south. O'er busy cities and teeming plains, On to the land of drouth. The rich man heard within his hall. And turned upon his bed ; The crimson banner glared at him, A dull and lurid red. " It has been so before," he cried, " In ages long agone ; The trumpet calls, the echoes die. And still the world moves on. THE TRUMPET-CALL. " My gold is safe within my box, My hand upon the key : " The Spirit of God breathed cold on him, And fast in death lay he. " Heard ye that sound upon the wind ? " The vine-crowned reveller cried ; " Saw ye the banner's flaunting folds On the winged tempest ride ? " But drink we yet the red, red wine, And pledge me full and free : " There came a flash from the lightning-cloud, And stark in death lay he. The canting liar was stricken dumb, The smile froze on his lip ; A dead stare glazed the murderer's eye. As the knife fell from his grip. But the Lord's servants heard the call, And trooped in order forth ; From east and west the hosts rode out. They rode from south to north. But chief from huts where Patience sits, From lowly roofs, they came ; And on their eyes the red banner Lit up a holy flame. THE TRUMPET-CALL. 113 The gaunt oppressors of the earth, The full-fed calves lie low ; Up to the hill of Calvary The meek-eyed people go. They sing of Him who died on cross, The lowly Lord of men, Who sets the poor man on the throne, , And spoils the robber's den. They sing of peace, and love that knits Each man unto his kin ; And a new earth, where never strife Sows the rank seed of sin. Was it a mocking dream ? still sneers, Still moils the faithless world ; When shall the Lord's great trumpet sound, His banner be unfurled ? ( "4 ) DA VID. On the dark hills of Bethlehem, As waned the solemn night, And each still pasture dewy-fresh Was breaking into light, Out sang a lowly shepherd-boy And blithely woke the dawn, All circled by his silly sheep, Lay stretched about the lawn. " My father sends me out afield. The youngest born am I, My brothers scorn me, as they don Their warlike panoply. But ever on the mountain side Or down the rush-grown vale I lead my flocks, where grass is sweet And waters never fail. The bitter frost, the howling wind, The midday heat I bear. Content to claim, a freeborn lad, My heritage of air. DAVID. 115 But not alone, ah ! not alone, Though bleak the heaven or still ; God talketh with me on the height And whispereth in the rill. Around me, trusting in my care, The little lambkins lie, Thick as the stars that God hath set Upon the midnight sky. As He unto the stars in heaven, I to my sheep below : He leads them on, as after me The little lambkins go. Shall I be as a tiny star. Faint sparkling in the night, Or as yon sun, that issues forth A giant in his might ? I know not : I have thoughts that stir And glow within my breast, A vision of the coming times : He knoweth what is best. Up, lark, the-morn is in the sky ; My brother, let. us sing His praise who feedeth thee and me, Who loveth clown and king." ( ii6 ) ^. FRANCIS TO HIS BROTHERS. Come, brothers, come, the blessed Lord is near ; My brothers, make good cheer, Not with the things of earth, the wine and oil. That blight and mildew spoil, But with the wine of love, the oil of grace, The brightness of that face, Which now ye see but dimly ; soon, ah ! soon. It will be very noon, He will stand by, and ye shall kiss his feet. And hand with hand shall meet. Oh, brothers, will ye faint upon the way, That leads us to the day ? Up through the mists, the clinging mists of earth. Up from the cold and dearth, To warmth and light and love and utter rest. In the mansions of the blest. Gird the brown cloak about thy loins, oh man. Sell all thou hast : — the span Of this poor life give for infinitude — Come out into the rude S. FRANCIS TO HIS BROTHERS. 117 Waste desert, there to commune with thy God ; Come, where no foot hath trod The pathless thickets, there alone with Him, Shrouded in twilight dim, Bewail the folly of the bitter past. Kneel, wrestle with Him, fast, Cling to Him, weeping, till He deign to bless. Then from thy wilderness Go forth to labour in the stubborn soil That scantly pays thy toil, Till thou hast learned to water it with tears ; Unmoved to meet the jeers. The taunts of bitter worldlings, and to prove The panoply of love. In this alone shalt thou have power to win. And slay the monster. Sin. Faint not, my brother, thou art not alone. The saints about the throne Plead for thee, and the Virgin mother stands Uplifting holy hands ; Yea, He who hung upon the bitter tree, Bends down to comfort thee. Trust in Him wholly ; He who feeds the birds. Pastures the senseless herds, Yea, fills the lion's maw, — shall He not feed His children in their need ? Go, brothers, beg your bread from door to door, Your daily bread ; no more. i8 ^. FJiANCIS TO HIS BROTHERS. Lest sloth creep in, and hankerings of the sense, And full-fed insolence. Lest the enemy, with soft insidious feet, Sow tares among the wheat. Watch, brothers, watch ; the time is very short. Soon shall ye win the port. The blessed haven where ye fain would be, 'Scaped from the perilous sea. Pray, brothers, pray, in simple words and few — • He hears not them, but you ; The broken sobbing, the faint, frequent cry. That, that shall pierce the sky. Shall cleave the steadfast firmament of heaven As the ancient rocks are riven By lightning flashes. Oh, pure ecstasy, God's azure throne to see One moment, tranced in some celestial dream, To feel that things but seem, Which men count true, and through the cloudy bar To reach at things that are. Sing, brothers, sing ; ease your full heart with song. Hark ! hark ! yon eager throng, Our feathered sisters make the thickets ring — Oh, sing, my brothers, sing. Give praise to Him who made the world so fair, Who dresseth all things bare With beauty, till the desert wilds rejoice. All creatures, raise your voice i; FRANCIS TO HIS BROTHERS. itg In one great hymn of triumph to the Lord, Who paints the flowery sward. So, when the worn frame sinks,the pulse beats low, Life's lamp hath ceased to glow. Thou mayst all-joyful greet our sister, Death, With the, last faint flickering breath, And take her hand in thine, and find sweet rest Upon her tender breast. 120 ) FOR A MIDNIGHT MASS. Wrapt is the world in sleep profound, God and His angels wake around ; Wake, too, the souls, whose chanted hymn Rolls through the pillared arches dim. Lord, if a pain-racked spirit cry, " Ease, give me ease from agony ! " Close now his eyes in slumber deep. Lord, let us wake that he may sleep. Lord, if a spirit wake for ill, Wake but the cup of wrath to fill, Let the low chant which Thou dost hear Ring in the startled sinner's ear. Sing, sons of earth, and join the choir Harping about the throne of fire, Sing till the kindling breath of morn Wake man in cities, bird on thorn. " THE NIGHT COMETH, . WHEN NO MAN CAN work:' I. With sable wings uprushing From the uttermost edge of light, Earth's manifold clamours hushing, Swiftly Cometh the night. Work, O man, in the day. Work, and thou shalt not weep ; Kneel down at eve and pray. Night is the time for sleep": And night cometh on apace. The morn with joy was reeling, The midday sun beat strong ; Now shadows are softly stealing. The darkness comes ere long : Thou wilt have run thy race. " THE NIGHT COMETH, WHEN The bee has ceased her roaming, The carol of birds is dumb, Stilled by the peaceful gloaming Is the great world's restless hum. And the rush and the din of fight. Still is all strife diurnal, Closed is the cottage door ; Only the river eternal, Only the sea's strong roar : Swiftly cometh the night. IV. And the heart goes back to the glimmer On the floor of the new-born day. And the light grows dimmer and dimmer. As the purples melt in grey — Goes back to the burst of prime : The dew on the lips of the morning, The scent of his fragrant hair. The splendour of hope adorning The bountiful, buxom air : Ere yet there was thought of time. Now thought in the heart is waking. Begins the sorrowful quest, NO MAN CAN WORIC" 123 And for all its weary aching, It dares not, it cannot rest — Though thought be a piercing thorn : The light is fading wholly, The chill of eve comes on, The broad red sun sinks slowly. It sinks ; it will soon be gone : Will it again be born ? VI. " Work," says a voice of sorrow, "While it is called to-day j Trust in a glad to-morrow, In regions far away^ — In the heavenly Father's home." And the voice grows solemn and sweet. As the evening fades and fades, And bids the cold heart beat. With a hope of better days — Of the glorious days to come. Yet 'tis but a whisper, lightly On the evening breezes borne, " The night is soon past, but brightly, Swiftly cometh the morn." ( 124 ) FROM VICTOR HUGO. Haste to thy prayers, my child : a golden star Pierces the dark, as daylight gently fades ; Mist blurs the hill's clear outline, and afar The wheel scarce glints amid the gathering shades : List ! nature breathes repose ; the roadside trees Shake off day's dust, swept by the evening breeze. The gloaming opes the treasury of night And bids her bright gems glitter ; now the west Narrows its crimson fringe : a silver light Chases dull shadows on the water's breast — Trees, thickets, paths in dim confusion meet. And maze in doubt the weary traveller's feet. Evil and toil and hate attend the day : — Pray we ; the night, the solemn night draws near ; The aged swain, the wind whose murmurs play About yon crumbling tower, the flock, the mere Suffer with stifled groan and mute despair ; Tired nature needs repose, and love and prayer. FROM VICTOR HUGO. 125 'Tis now the hour, when with uplifted eye, Hands clasped, feet bare, low kneeling on the stone. Weak infants hold with angels converse high. Whilst we pursue strange pleasures ; — to the throne Of the great Father they for us repair, And raise the self-same hour the self-same prayer. And then they sleep: — while flitting thro' the dark Swarms round tumultuous many a golden dream, Born of the day's last whisper ; now they mark Those red lips breathing soft, and as a stream Of joyous bees, to taste the budding flower. Cluster enamoured round the infant's bower. O cradled slumber, murmur infantine Of guileless supplication upward sped ; Religion soft and smiling ; prelude fine To night's grand minstrelsy ; as sleep, with head Couched 'neath their wing, the nurslings of the air, So slumbers childhood 'neath the wing of prayer. ( 126 ) TENEBRA'E. Guide me, O Lord, that I the end may see Whereto Thou drawest me ; For sure I do not walk by fantasy. My will is nought ; I know not what I would, Thou wiliest all things good, Nor least Thy wisdom, when least understood. When I would fain the glorious vision see, sense, thou tyranny, Back to the noisome slough thou draggest me. Aloft in clouded majesty He stands : 1 lift my trembling hands ; They fall o'erweighted by sin's iron bands. O faithless and perverse, be still, my soul, Thy rebel thoughts control, God's voice is heard above when thunders roll. Out of the riven cloud He speaks aloud : On thine unsheltered head The flashing bolt is sped. Welcome it, though it smite thee dead. ( 127 ) SURSUM CORD A. Who dares to search his heart within Shall find foul evidence of sin, Yet let him not resign the quest, Nor think to steal a guilty rest, By shutting of the inward eye, Closing the book, putting it by With a half-smile and a half-sigh : A smile that this poor creature man, Should vainly fret himself to scan The least thread of a tangled plan ; A sigh that one so goodly made. Fraught with such promise, should degrade His kingly faculties, and creep The earth, who might have climbed the steep- Nay, ta'en him wings, and borne on high In an arch-angel's panoply. Breathed freely in his native sky. Might have — but ah ! the brutish part Mocks the keen longings of the heart. And bids him be content to lie Grovelling in Epicurus' sty : 128 SURSUM CORD A. And, recking nought of all beyond, Those pale ethereal visions, fond Mad whimsies of a poet's brains Who, for mere love of feigning, feigns, Till he believes the lies he coins, Turns preacher — him the enthusiast joins In chase of phantoms ! Vain pursuit : Deep strikes in earth the human root, And but that on its stem it bears Bright sky-aspiring flowers, and wears The vesture of green hope, would seem To disallow the poet's dream. But the sweet blossom that lifts up To the sky its dew-brimmed cup Rebukes the coward lie, that robs Bewildered manhood of his throbs And yearnings for an unfelt bliss. Ah ! who for Fortune's harlot kiss And tawdry nothings of to-day Would barter his true life away ? The hidden life, which none can know Save He whose fire bid it glow Self-fed, as that which, lit of yore On Horeb, sanctified the floor Of barren rock, and made the place So heavenly pure, that on his face The shepherd fell, his shoes unbound. For the lone hill was holy ground. ( 129 ) HOLY COMMUNION. O Dweller in thick clouds, Thou Source of light, Shrouding Thy face in darkness, scarcely seen By fitful gleams of glory, bid the night Melt wholly, shine Thou out the wrack between. That we may see, And seeing eat, and eating live in Thee. Lo ! the fair table with white linen spread, Type of pure hearts that win the Holy Grail, Lo ! here the mystic wine, the mystic bread, But oh, for one clear glimpse beyond the veil ! That we may see, And seeing eat, and eating live in Thee. O blessed bread, of broken limbs the sign. Of the sad cross and its fierce agonies. O emblem of dear bloodshed, blessed wine, Food to our spirit be, light to our eyes. That we may see. And seeing eat, and eating live in Thee. 130 HOLY COMMUNION. We would serve better, did we know Thee more, Why veil'st Thou then Thy presence from our sight? Why may we not behold Thee, and adore ? Dawn, glorious Sun, and bless us with Thy light. That we may see, And seeing eat, and eating live in Thee. Strike our blind eyes with fire : purge clean away Gross scales that dull our vision ; quicken them With tempered splendours of the eternal ray That blazes on Thy royal diadem. That we may see, And seeing eat, and eating dwell in Thee. •( i3t ) "THE LORD IS KING: THE EARTH MA Y BE GLAD THEREOF:' The word of God came sounding through the night In timorous man's despite, And tore the fine-wrought cobwebs of man's wit To shivering rags, and split The inveterate crust of habit : man stood bare In the clear quivering air. Crashed church and palace in ruinous overthrow : The breath of God 'gan blow. A sound went through the world of mighty rain, The washed earth breathed again, And scents broke forth, and the dull places smiled — Man like a little child Stretched out blind hands, and knew that in the cloud His Father's voice was loud. Knew that the torrent of the falling rain Would cleanse him from all stain. That dawn was breaking on a new-bom earth, Where never drought nor dearth Would vex the patient glebe — for God's full hand Lay on the quiet land. ' THE LORD IS KING." O blessed age ! how shall we win to thee ? Great Father, set us free From doubt and discord — teach us we may trust, We very shreds of dust. In Thee, who yet shalt crown with joy and mirth The travail of the earth. ( 133 ) IN MEMORIAM, S. D. He who 'neath this stone doth lie, Heir of sad mortality, Was full young, methinks, to die. Yet if love and life be one, And God's face the true man's Sun, Fairly then his course was run. Strong of soul, and pure of guile, Lived he in his Father's smile. Foiled each sting of guilty sense With armour of pure innocence. Bold, at duty's call to smite, Championing the true and right, "Valiant knight of God to thrust The serpent to his native dust. Ripe in heavenly wisdom, though Few the years he lived below. So his knell was early rung, For whom God loves, he dieth young. Ye who knew him, loved him, see Ye keep his image faithfully. 134 JN' MEMORIAM, S. D. Gaze amid your blinding tears, See him foremost of his peers, Brave and wise beyond his years. Then when time your tears hath dried, Take his memory for your guide, Walk as with him side by side. Hallow life, and ever stand With your soul in your right hand : Ready, be it soon or late. When God knocketh at the gate. In the hour when passions throng And flesh is weak and sin is strong ; When lethargic slumbers deep Lull the conscience-cry to sleep, Wake with him, with him refrain, Then he hath not lived in vain. (135 ) IN ME MORI AM, J. F. L. Asleep, yet not asleep ; Dead to the world, yet living in His sight, Who is the very Source of life and light ; Yet must we mourn and weep. There lies a gulf between Unbridged, unfathomed ; only strong-winged faith Can soar the abysmal horror without scathe, Undaunted and serene. She only, eagle-eyed. Can pierce the vaulted blackness, and descry The immortal stars that gem the immortal sky On the far other side. And she is earthly still. Tears dim her crystal orbs ; her eager feet Stumble in mortal weariness, unmeet To climb the eternal hill. i.!6 IN MEMOKIAM, J. F. L. But up — we may not stay ; His work has been well done : ours is to do. He would not have us linger ; strong and true, He beckons us away. " Earth to its kindred earth, Ashes to ashes, unremorseful give ; This dust must die, that it again may live. For me the second birth, " For me who dwelt erewhile In a frail body, crumbled at a touch To nothingness : — then weep not overmuch ; Or through the tear-drops smile. "Yet follow me apace : — Walk worthy of the Father, who will know And snatch His own betimes from sin and woe To see Him face to face." ( 137 ) TO W. M. O SINGER of an earthly paradise, Who in a languid pleasaunce all day long To thy soft cithern moanest a sad song Of love and all love's rapturous agonies, Achings of exquisite pain, and dainty eyes Starved with slow hungering for sweet lips denied. Or only so triumphant, that the pride Of dear-won victory is marred by shades Of the quick-coming end ; so, side by side, Hand in cold hand, adown the flowering glades Pass the pale restless lovers \ present joys Fade, as the gliding spectre without noise Hangs on their footfall. Ah, thou gilded bliss ! Who would love life, since life such torment is ? II. Who would love life ? and yet men love to live, Nor sated from life's empty board retire. E'en the last tattered shreds reluctant give Of that silk vesture, that was love's attire. 138 TO W. M. Now frayed and stained and dull ; smoulders the fire UiJOn a dying hearth despairingly, Or shoots pale flickers in sad mockery Of that fierce blaze which seized the crackling logs Piled largely. Ah, thou lichen-vestured tree ! Wilt thou yet linger, when the slow sap clogs. And wrap starved leaves about thy wrinkled bark ? Better to fall before the woodman's steel And bear brave shipmen on a steadfast keel, Than shame the budded greenery cold and stark. III. O Paradise ! art thou so far away ? Is there no garden left in the bleak earth, Where the balm season ever stands full May, Where no frost biteth, no sick ravening dearth Brings famine to the full-fed heart of mirth ? And silence answered, " Peace, poor heart, be still ! Within thee, cloistered by a jealous fence, Lies thine own garden-ground, which thou must till With pensive labours and fond diligence, Bending to this dear task thy wayward will : A garden of deep waters crystal-clear. Of sunny lawns with tremulous dewdrops wet. Bright flowers in trim disorder fairly set. And deep-pleached walks to contemplation dear." ( 139 ) LOVE AND MUSIC. Oh, I could die upon a lady's breath, And faint at one touch of a lily hand, Swooning away to dreamful realms of death, And pass yet thrilling to the unseen land. Where what of ecstasy the weak flesh owns, Is so sublimed in some ethereal wise, That the whole being melts in aery tones, And glows distilled in heavenly harmonies. Music and gentle Love were ever twins — Like rapture in their eyes, the self-same hair. Blown from a rose-flushed face; — when Love begins To pour rich gladness on the teeming air Music breaks in, and wings the echoing strain. Till woods and mountains shout and laugh again. ( MO ) LOVE IS ENOUGH. " Love is enough : " let me too sing of him In no loose tinkling metre passion-fed, Breathing faint airs of dreamland, echoes dim From Venus' shrine, who haunts the forest dread. And masks its horrors with her witcheries. Ah ! me, that strong-limbed Love, the son of God, Should quench the crystal of his heavenward eyes In such gross brotherhood. Ye who have trod The wicked glades that glow with Venus' fire. Untrue to love and life, and liberty. If now ye stand erect, cleansed from the mire Of sensual wallowing, sing his praise with me. That love divine that wreathes him with a bay, Scorns loss, kills death, hates darkness, fronts the day. ( "41 ) THE NIGHTINGALE. Love is the Lord of life. Oh, happy pair, Live ever in your new-found bliss content, Breathing all tenderly the buoyant air That floats about Love's temple — dew-besprent From his most secret fount, whose waters pure Make ever fair, and bid sweet youth endure. Though locks grow silver. Ask the nightingale What charm is in his throat, that all night long He thrills the breathless lilies of the vale With fluttering bursts of wild tempestuous song ? Whence comes that long-drawn note of jubilant pain Rending his heart ? He'll tell the old-world tale. Love taught me : thus my eager heart I drain To be from love's full chalice brimmed again. ( 142 ) THE MUSES' GARDEN. Far from the turmoil and the rack of men, In that still garden where the Muses sing, I tread the quiet glades, oft communing With mighty spirits of old, whose awful ken Unscathed hath lit on Dian in her glen, Athena's marble breast, the flashing wing Of Hermes ; who have heard the enamoured string Of young Apollo's lyre, and dipped their pen In Hippocrene divine. O solitude. Full of the blissful laurelled company, Whence hooting owl-notes and the discord rude Of ravening kites are banished. Let me fly To lawns with asphodel and daisies strewed, Ringed by deep woods, roofed by the cloudless sky. ( 143 ) THE STARCH HYACINTH. As once I wandered on Italian hills In the sweet spring, the joyous budding-time, Drinking the breath each little flower distils, Wooed by warm kisses of that gracious clime, I came upon a patch of dark blue bells, Bloomed like the grape, of rich and clinging scent, A common simple flower, yet with it blent Were odours of the past, and potent spells Of memory's breathing : I was rapt away To an old garden, where, a child at play, I let the unburdened hours flow lightly by, Strown with these self-same blossoms : stay, oh, stay, Dear visions of the morn, that cool the eye Dazed with the hot glare of a midday sky. ( 144 ) AMOR MEND AX. They met — loved — parted for a single frown, A windy tongueless rumour, a mere burr Flung with light meaning, just a tale o' the town That scarce would make one green-eyed gossip purr. Their close vows thrilled the roses; hearts glowed warm In June, but froze ere autumn's leaves were strewed. • He to the wars ; she, dangling on the arm Of a rich fool, pined in proud solitude. What's left ? a broken lute found t'other day In a still chamber, where the past lies dead. ' Scroll-painting on the face ; as thus — a spray Of myrtle — white doves billing — overhead "A. V." entwined; the motto, "Love's all fire." Scrawled on the back in ochre, " Love's a liar." ( 145 ) DEATH IN A MAZE. Death met me pacing silent through a maze, His ebon wings rose raven-like for flight, The new moon glistening touched those trackless ways Whose every turning yielded fresh delight. Then he, his lean dart shaking, " Hence, vain fool. Fall to thy prayers ; shroud thee in some close cell, Thou slave of passion, erring fancy's tool, Haste, ere I strike thee, plunge thee deep in hell." Then I, " At what turn of the tangled grove Thy doom shall be to smite me, lies with him Whose blue breathes hope through the green roof above." Then brake a smile across his visage grim. He touched the dewdropped roses one by one. And lo ! they oped their petals to the sun. ( 146 ) CONTENT. Nurse of calm thought and meditation, hail, Beloved Contentment ! Thine the sober dress Meet for green places in the wilderness And cool secluded founts. Thine too the dale Which memory haunts, weaving her shadowy veil With dreamy fingers, lest forgetfulness Blot out dear childhood's hopes ; or in the stress Of manifold ambitions life grow stale. And lose its freshness — a dull treadmill round — At best a ladder, in whose narrow bound With plodding feet upward man ever goes. To win some glittering prize, but not repose. Ah ! the mad clash of strife, the Babel sound. While earth is riven with fruitless labour throes. But, sweet Contentment, I with thee will dwell. Unmoved by shocks of failure, hopes of gain. Dear is thy presence as the wished-for rain To fainting crops ; cool as the wayside well : CONTENT. 147 Thy hand is on my brow, and 'neath that spell Dies the fierce fire frona out my 'wildered brain, And peace comes singing back, and in her train The simple pleasures. Ah ! vain fool, to sell Life for the means of life, to aim at heaven And spurn God's earthly gift, a life not given To mock thee. Take it reverent, learn to be, Not to become, in all humility. It may be thou too much hast moiled and striven. Have faith in Him, and faith shall make thee free. There be that judge thee kinswoman to Sloth, My mistress, and the dull-eyed fiend Despair. Not such the heavenly semblance thou dost wear — Calm steadfast eyes, and lips that pledge their troth Unwavering. Thou canst haste thee nothing loth At call of love, and breathe serener air In sin-polluted dungeons ; 'neath thy care The stunted soul warms with a kindlier growth. And up to heaven its blossomed incense throws. Yet claims no portion but the air that blows For all, the sun that shines, the earth that feeds Alike tall fragrant flowers and humble weeds. Oh, be content to bloom as doth the rose. And, dying, strew the soil with grateful seeds. ( 148 ) THE SUMMONS. Come down, O priest, from yonder mystic height. And battle with the world that lies below, Lies sunk in misery. Ah ! forbear the flight Which thou on wings of seraphim aglow Wouldst hazard, where no thwarting cross-winds blow. But in most blessed calm of awful light God sits, thou weenest, rapt from mortal sight. Throned in thick clouds. Thou shalt not find Him there, But in some noisome alley, some close wynd. Where huddling crouch the meanest of thy kind, There shalt thou meet Him, on a crazy stair With sad face pitiful, healing the blind. The deaf, the dumb, till the black shivering air Grow warm with love, and luminous with prayer. ( 149 ) THE SEED OF LIFE. What ! thou wouldst teach the poor ? in God's name, go- Foul is the dreary waste, the labourers few. Go : for He calleth ; thou art brave and true, Thou hast the saint's pure calm, the martyr's glow : — On, then : — yet what thy self-set task ? to sow Good seed : — whence, whence that handful in thy hand, The musty floor's gross refuse, nearer scanned ? Shall this secure the barn's full overflow ? Cast all away : — look out upon a land. Where teems the rank soil smit with fever-heat And passions vile in loathly foison breed ; Then bow thy back ; — 'tis no heroic feat : — Take for thy guerdon scorn : — pluck weed by weed With cracking sinews : — God shall find the seed. ( I50 ) SYMBOLUM ATHANASIL I HEARD the chanting of a white-robed choir, That sang the creed, not his, but named of him Who faced a world in arms fearless and grim ; A harsh-blown trumpet-note, no wind-swept lyre, No still small voice after the wind, the fire, The earthquake ; rather the weird cherubim, Than the scarred face, which painters strive to limn ; All vainly strive, yet in the strife mount higher. Their souls entranced in spaces broad and deep, Awed by celestial visions ; — who shall dare To voice God's secrets ? Tremble and despair. Poor earthly worm that on the edge dost creep Of infinite worlds ; — not thine the crystal stair By which white angels climb the heavenly steep. ( 151 ) RELIGION. Religion binds, you say? — ay, stick to stick In a dry faggot trim and serviceable, Our handy Shibboleth amid the babel Of clamorous builders, heaping brick on brick, Believed of shining jasper : heaven is thick With reek of poisonous fumes ; each pile unstable Tricked with dome, pyramid, column, antic gable. Till the whole head is faint, the whole heart sick. And shall we never win that Eden old, Where stands the tree of Life, the living green Gemmed with fresh flower and fruit ; — never return From yon dull flat, whose slime is priced for gold, To the still garden, mystical, unseen ? And will the cherub's brand for ever burn ? ( 1S2 ) THE QUESTION. Whene'er at some high feast of holy Church, 'Mid broidered vestments, and the curling fume Of incense, and sweet solemn chants that search The yearning spirit bathed in tenderest gloom. My thought goes back despite me to the time When the loved Jesus walked this lower earth, Endured the sun's hot glare, the winter's rime. Houseless, a wayworn wanderer from His birth. Ah, me ! I cry, and wouldst Thou have it thus, Is this Thy simple feast of bread and wine ? When from high heaven Thou lookest down on us, Doth Thine eye linger on yon gilded shrine : Or does wild Galilee enchain Thee yet And the lone brow of silent Olivet ? ( 153 ) BEHIND THE VEIL. O TEAR-DIMMED cycs that ineffectual yearn For power the insensate blank to penetrate, Intent with eager gaze, early and late, If haply once, but once, they may discern The cloud-encumbered portals backward turn. And see forth issuing from his palace gate The Lord of day in pomp of royal state. About whose throne attendant seraphs burn : — O restless eyes, yon kindly clouds but screen Light unapproachable, that were your bane, But for the curtain of the dark that shields. Above the great sun rides though all unseen, And yon black clouds remorseful teem with rain, The blessed rain that waters human fields. ( 154 ) ALL SAINTS' DAY. O SUMMER of the Saints, last peaceful sigh Of earth fordone, brimful of tender peace, Smile of reposing nature fain to cease From labour and be locked in apathy, Dreaming of summer roses and the cry Of fledglings in the nest, the lambs new fleece, Yet drowsily, as she had earned a lease Of quiet and unblamed tranquillity. The breath of lulling winds is on my face Soft as a mother's touch : the golden sun Drinks earth's slow incense fume, as slow I pace On pearly sands from ocean's empire won, By lapse of lulling waves that interlace And part, then up with sparkling laughter run. Theockitus. ( 157 ) JAN'S IMPRESSIONS. A Dorset Dialogue. Jan Stokes — Gearge Nokes. Gearge. WuLL, zurely, that's a purty caafe, 'S black's a cwoal ; is th' wold un saafe ? She looks main wicked. Soa, my lass ! WuU, have 'ee heard what's come to pass ? Noa, zure, what's up ? for 'tain't my mission, Ye knaws, to be a poUytician. Gearge. Wull, then, I tell 'ee. Them there vokes To Lunnon, zure as I be Nokes, 'A ben and 'vented a new name To call our Quaan by. 158 JAN'S IMPRESS TONS. Jan. Shaame, man, shaame ! What ! do 'em want to have a 'public ? Lard ! I be zick o' that there subjeck. There's Bill, 'e do go on amazin', When once you sets un off a-blazin', About thay 'Merikins, and all Their vartues constitootional. But latterly I zeems to zee They bain't more honest vokes nor we. Gearge. Lard, Jan, 'tain't that ! she's gone up higher, Onless wold Dizzy's a black liar : She's Impress. Jan. What d'ye zay, my zun ? Like that pore lady what's a-run Vrom Vrance ? Gearge. 'Ees, zure, the very saame. Not running, mind 'ee, but the naame. yan. Then, tell 'ee what, I'll just be bound, They wants to drag our Quaan to ground. JAN'S IMPRESSIONS. 159 That Dizzy, aye, 'e plays his part, He's a darned Radical to heart. Impress o' Ingland ! Gearge. Stop there, Jan, Ye ain't heard all ; hold hard, my man : Impress o' Ingy. Jan. Wuss and wuss. Who cares for they black vokes a cuss ? Gearge. Soft, Jan ; you're caafe's as black's a nigger And yet, you'll own, a purty figger. Ingins is men, Jan. yan. What's the odds ? A voke as worships chaney gods ; What's our Quaan got to do wi' thay ? And Impress, so you're plaised to saay. Is a peg higher up than Quaan ; What do thay thaivish Tories maane. To shove in here a title rotten That Ingland's Quaan may be forgotten ? l6o JAN'S IMPRESSIONS. Gearge. Hush, Jan ! here let me name your caafe, Black Impress. yan. Aye, Gearge, you may laafe, 'Tis got past jokin' I do 'low ; — Thick name '11 vit for my black zow ; But this 'ere heifer, nait and clane, She bain't Black Impress, but Black Quaan. ( i6i ) MORE IMPRESSIONS OF JAN. Jan, WuLL, Gearge, my man ! why, what's up now ? Ees, ees — you'd need to mop your brow, 'Tis plaguy hot ; but zeem to I There's other vish for we to vry, And not goo muggin' of our paat, And runnin' scores up on the zlaat For sake o' scraps o' greasy news. Why doan't 'ee buy your childer shoes ? Gearge. There, Jan, do laave a man aluone. You'd wear yourself to skin and buone. And all for what ? To rape the earn That vills ould Varmer Grumble's barn. But I've a-larned a man's a man — To zlaave hain't God A'mighty's plan. Besides, while you be mindin' ship And hoein' zwedes, I gets a peep M i62 MORE IMPRESSIONS OF JAN. At vurrin pollyticks, and knaws The draaft o' ever)' wind that blaws ; You hain't no good, man, in creation— You ain't a had no eddication. Jan. There, Gearge, be quite ; no need to splutter, I knaws which way to spread me butter. Them pollyticks, when all's a-zed, Doan't zeem to butter moast vokes' bread. Wull — what's your news ? Gearge. We've done the Rooshians, And zot back Turkey in her cushions : She be to lie, and smoake her pipe, While we do rule ; and when 'tis ripe The pear 'uU jest drop down our gullet — We bain't such fools, I guess, to mull it. We've got a purty little bite Jest for to whet our appetite, — Zyprus — but you doan't knaw 'en, p'raps, I zeed 'en in my darter's maps — By way of relish, why, t' wull do, We'll soon hae Ashier Minor, too. And what a blessin' for the world. Wherever Ingland's flag's unfurled. No dawdhn' there ; for 'tis our waay T'exploity, as the Vrench voke saay. MORE IMPRESSIONS OF JAN. 163 A country wi' abuses zwarmin', And moast eat up alive wi' varmin. Jan. That's very wull, Gearge, ef 'twill bide : — Be other vokes quite sateesfied ? Gearge. Wull, Jan, 'tis true, the Greeks be mad To vind their pickin's be so bad ; The Vrench, too, they be rarely zold, And Ettly settin' in the cold. But Lor, doan't matter what they saay. For we be there, and mane to staay. Jan. What o' the Congress ? Gearge. That's the joake, Haaf of their plans gone oflf in smoake. They dressed so vine, and looked so smug, Paassed up and down a vriendly jug, Settled their business nigh, when rap Down comes the Zyprus thunderclap. They sniggered, just to make believe, Wi' Dizzy laafin' in ez zleeve. i64 MORE IMPRESSIONS OF JAN. Jan. WuU, Gearge, now I bain't quite a vool Tho' praps I ain't-a-ben to school ; And ef ye saay I caan't zee clear, 'Tain't cos me noddle's vuzzed wi' beer. Why should us moil wi' dirty work Jest for to saave thick laizy Turk ? Be my pore sojer buoy to vight, To keep thay haythen zinners right ? T' wuU need zome tougher stuff than taape To lick thay beggars into shaape. That's nateral ; vokes as loves a cup Hev found it hard to gie it up. Thar — no offence, Gearge ; wull, d'ye see I'm all for rash'nal liberty. And when do grow wi' time and tide, Why, then, my zun, 'tis like to bide. But 'tain't no zort o' use, you knaw. To stick in stalk, and bid 'en graw. Hows'ever, what's a-done's a-done, 'Twon't do for we to cut and run. We're in vor't, you and I'll be taxed Be zartin zure, and no leave axed. We'll hae to work, man, double tides, Vur zelf, and haaf the world besides. 'Tis hard, but yet, zay what ye can, 'Tis vine to be an Inglishman ; MORE IMPRESSIONS OF JAN. 165 Tho' thick there Dizzy, ef 'tis true, He bain't no better nor a Jew. They Lunnon vokes knaws best ; but thar I can't but think there's zummat quare In voUering jest ees beck and call, Who ain't no Inglishman at all. Tell ee what 'tis, I zees my way, He's vain to be a Dook, they zaay. We'll gie'n a crown, and bid en goo And make en King o' Jericho ; And ef an Inglish dook he'd bee, Whoy, call en Dook o' Coventry. And now, Gearge, there's a chance for you, Pack up, and off to Zyprus too ; And, ev ee stays there, oonce a year I'll zend ee out zome Darset beer. ( i66 ) GEARGE AT WHITECHAPEL. A Dorsetshire Dialogue. Scene — in front of Jan's cottage. Jan. What, Gearge ? coora een, and take a snack, I be main glad to zee ee back. And how's the vokes to Lunnon town — Our Zue as was, and 'Lizer Brown ? Lard ! lard ! to think I might a stood A chaance that evemen down to wood, Eef I'd a plucked up heart, and zaid What was a rumblin' in my yead. But there, I meesed my chaance, and she I'd 'low is better off wi' he ; Though they do say that coontry ruoses, Lunnon do dra' from chaiks to nuoses. Well, Gearge, my lad, and what've ye zeen ? The grass as grows to Bethnal Green ? They tell I 'twouldn't graze a caafe, Wull there now, Gearge, you needn't laaf. GEARGE AT WHITECHAPEL. 167 Or thick Whitechapel, I'll be boun' Ees colour's more like whitey-brown. What cood 'a took our 'Lizer there ? But wimmin's ways was alius quare. Gearge. Oh ! 'Lizer, she be vine and well, And Zue's a married Zimon Pell. Do 'ee mind Zimon ? him as droave The Bem'ster bus — a downy coave. Wull, 'ee's nest's warm, I tell 'ee, now, And Zue's as peart as bird on bough. Jan. She's welcome to'n ; I knaws the man, A vlirted oonce wi' zister Van. There, Van she didn't break her 'eart — Nor I — a warn't the praper zart. But tell us, Gearge, of all the host O' things ye zeed, what plaased ee most. Gearge. Wull, Zunday laast I went to zee Zum picters, man — admission vree. Jan. Picters a Zunday ! where be runnin' ? What ! be 'em haythens up to Lunndn ? i68 GEARGE AT WIIITECHAPEL. Gearge. Noa, Jan, and what'll maake 'ee stare, The passon's zelf he led the vair ; Bounced out o' church, and round a went, A taachin' what the picters meant. Then curate coomed to do 'ees part, A rottlin' off the stuff by 'eart, Wi' zunny smile and zunny yead — I caan't quite tell 'ee what er zaid ; But there a zimmed to maak things clair, And people hustled roun' to hear. I hain't so diver's most, but yit Two sceanes I niver shall forgit. Oone was a pup o' dree waiks wold, Athirt the door stuone laad so buold, As who should zay, if tramps did try To clim't, he'd knaw the raason why. T'other (I thinks I zees un still), Zum ship a standin' on a hill, Wi' ruddled flaaces vine and clain, An' ev'ry lock o' wool so plain, Zimmed I could stroake 'em, purty dears ; The zun a shinin' droo their ears. And brimbles, I most thought they'd prick me, And vlowers as zimmed to cry, coom pick me. Thinks I, the cooast's so plaguy bright, 'Twill raain afore to-morrer night. GEARGE AT WHITECHAPEL. Curate (and curate baint a vool), Sez 'ee, ".'Tis the Perofflite School;" A furrin chap I guess wur he, As keeped his school beyand the zee ; But must a zeed a Southdown ship, And larned 'is build from head to tip, For whatsumdever waz 'is naation, Perofflite arned his sitiwation. Jan. But, Gearge, why didn't 'ee goo to church ? Gearge. Now, schoolmeaster, jist drop the birch ; O' coorse a did, und 'eeard the passon Zing out, " My house he bain't a glass 'un ; Eef you drow stuones at he fur malice, Ee's stouter built nor Cristil Pallis." That's what er meant, Jan ; but er zaid Zummut loike this : " Me vriends, you've read O' kaaping Zabbaths, and 'tis raight To maak the daay a pure delaight ; Rist for the voke, as moils and slaaves, A droppin' paas-maal in their graaves ; And rist fur he as grabs and siles Es vingers haapin' goolden piles. The Zabbath he wur maad for man, Be zure that's God A'moighty's plan." 170 GEARGE AT WHITECHAFEL. And we was keepin' un so well As you to whoam ; fur truth to tell, I'd be muore shaamed, eef I wur zeen, A vuddlin' on the village green. And passon there, for zence and wits, Do bate our passon into vits. Ef you zot in your usual pew, I 'low you snoared the zarmon droo. Noa, noa, Jan, let 'em scam and jest, Whitechapel passon's waays be best. " God and the people," that's his martar ; A better caan't be, nor a sharter. And God and people both do 'gree, Of that be zure, in blessin' he As brings a zlip o' coontry down. To chair pore vokes as lives to town. ( 171 ) HODGE. Ees, zur, you knows the law, no doubt ; We pore men scarce can spell en out. I've broake my contrac', more vool I, I've maade my bed, and there mun lie. But you gurt vokes that live so high, Ha'nt 'ee ne'er heard o' charity ? What is it, then ? To gie me coal To Christmas, as a pore man's dole. To gie me blankets, weskuts, socks. Or dress my gall in your gall's vrocks ? Noa, noa — 'tain't clothes, nor warmth, nor vood. Nor 'eet advice — 'tis brotherhood. I be a man zo well as thou. You pays the waage, I guides the plough ; My eddication bain't so vine. But that's the country's vault, not mine. Eef you want labourers good and true, Jest teach 'em how they'd ought to goo ; 172 HODGE. Teach 'em to veel they're men, not slaaves Jest vit to drop into their graves, After a dull and stoopid life. Teach 'em to vight wi' you the strife Agen the devil's selfishness That plagues us all, and you no less. Teach 'em to veel they're bound to do The work they zots their hands unto With right good will, no stintin' measure, Jest making work a'most a pleasure ; Cos him they works for pays 'em free, And holds 'em just so good as he. Teach 'em to zaave and look avore To keep the wolf from out the door ; To hate the porehouse like the devil. To hate the beer and tipsy revel. There, I can clap it in one sentence — I manes to teach 'em Independence. Gie 'em a bit o' garden ground, A tiny cottage, warm and zound ; And mind 'ee make 'em paay their rent, And count their pence afore they're spent. Paay a vuU waage, and let 'em lam That livin' is their own consarn. HODGE. 173 They'll hae to rough it ; ay, that's true, Ye richer volk must help 'em droo. We baint much used to saave, and yet We'd try, if you'd but help a bit ; And gie our childer, doan't 'ee zee. The chance you never gied to we. My pore wold feather, when er died, Sez he, " Zun John, I've most a cried. To think as you and Joan must slaave Like I, from childhood to the grave." " Plaze God," sez I, " when I be gone, I wun't kave that to my zun John.'' Noa, noa, zur — I be bound to vight For my zun John wi' all my might ; For all my neighbours, kith and kin, I tell 'ee wot — I wun't give in. If you spaakes fair, why, here's my han'. But if you threatens — I'm your man. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. yA y / / / '^< ^ / /- >^^s^^ ""^ /^