A t&j&fd /8/j/t>P n M36B1 BY SOLENT AND DANUBE. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 35221 92 BY SOLENT AND DANUBE. poema anfc Ballabs. W: WILSBT MARTIN. LONDON: TELTBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL. 1885. [All rightt reserved.] CD fy*Ui n. vxii.il Dedication. TO MY DAUGHTER, 2lfca Xouise. As earth greets sunshine with the golden gifts Fed of its beams, would I, dear one, greet thee, Who hast been sunshine to my heart and brain Since tlyy sweet eyes first look'd upon our world. Earth gives the incense of her breathing flowers, The hues of holiday, on bud and leaf, The worship of her trees, the soaring songs Of all her birds. — She gives her best, and I Give these: the wrinkled leaves, the struggling blooms Of thought, stirr'd in the air of poesy, And blossoming upon that side of me Which loves thy sunshine, and the light of borne. > August 1885. CONTENTS. A GOLDEN DAY CROSSING STILL LOOKING BY THE SOLENT. PAGE I 12 16 IRonOcaui - . JASMINE STARS SLEEP, EABT MINE BLOW, WILD MARCH WIND SWEET LAGGARD, COME ! . TWIT TWIT ! TWIT TWIT ! THE AUTUMN LEAVES GO BY . THE AUTUMN LEAVES LIE DEAD 18 19 20 21 22 23 2 4 Sonnets. THE PEARL 01' PEACE A WILD NIGHT 25 26 CONTENTS. THE WOOING OF THE MOON AND SEA — SONNET TO ... . DO. POWER . DO. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH . ... THE BIRTH OP THE BED HOSE — HENDECASYLLABICS WAU-NE-BE-WIN-KA . . . . WILD FLOWERS THE WHITE ROSE . PLEADING . . ... PAGE 27 28 29 3° 33 38 42 43 44 (Sluatrafns. • 47 WORSHIP • 47 FRIENDSHIP 48 LOVE 48 LOVE, HATE, FEAR . 49 FEAR NONE, FEAR ONE 49 HOPE • 5° • Si • Si TASTE . . . . 5' LABOUR . 52 ENVY 53 NATURE . • 54 ONE FRIEND . • 54 CONTENTS. SLIPPING LIFE LOVE IN AGE DAFFODILS CNREST . PAGE 55 55 55 56 56 Songs. RED BERRIES OF BRIONY I DREAM'D A DREAM OF AN OLD, OLD LOVE MOO-LE-HU-A . TWO LIVEB .... WHY DO I LOVE HER? . AT THE BEEOHEN TREE . MT LILT OF THE VALLEY I WILL NOT TELL . SHE WAITS NO MORE APPLE BLOSSOMS THE SONG OF THE FREE . 57 58 60 62 64 65 67 69 70 71 73 LIFE SEA GULLS MY COTTAGE . A MEMORY A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN A BALLADE OF MALVERNE CHASE 75 76 78 80 84 90 CONTENTS. BY THE DANUBE. PAGE attila — sonnet . 97 king Stephen's grown— ballad 98 wabeiob bise ! 106 THE BLACK PLUME . Io8 SHADOWS ... 113 BT THE WATCH-PIKE ... 117 ILLONA . .120 BATTHTANYI . . . . -123 THE BRIDGE OP STRAUBING — BALLAD . I25 HABALD (FROM THE GERMAN OP UHLAND) 1 34 FROM THE GEKMAN OF HEINE . 1 38 HOME — SONG (PBOM THE GEEMAN) . . 1 39 GUTEN MOEGEN— SONG 141 MISCELLANEOUS. THE BEDFORDSHIBE PLAIT-GIBL MF.MORY PICTURES CONCEENING LOVE . WHEN OUB PRINCE CAME HOME — KONG MY LOVE IS A PLOWEE . SYMPATHY ENDEAVOUE ... jgo THIS LAY OF NOBODY l5j 145 I49 IS2 153 '55 157 Bi? tbe Solent. A GOLDEN DAY. The sunbeams filter through the pines And tangled undermass ; But kinglike, through the aspen-trees In golden splendour pass ; And the shadows of the moving leaves Chequer the tender grass. A shade-loved bauk slopes near, thorn-topp'd, With straggling brambles wild, "Where lurks, the last of all the year, A primrose faint and mild ; 'Mid laughing speedwell bright with eyes, The blue eyes of a child. A A GOLDEN DAY. The cranesbill lifts a saucy face, A red flag gleams afar, Fit flag for fairy-elves to bear O'er bank, and bush, and scar ; While stitchwort white peeps here and there, And twinkles like a star. II. wild flowers of my motherland ! Gems of the woodland wide, Companions in our burden'd ways, Meek watchers by our side ; What tender thoughts, from birth to age, Within your petals hide. The toddling pet with dimpled hands, Among the meadow daisies, Will clutch their silver and their gold, And scream his treble praises ; While Age amid the leaves will track Green memory's shadowy mazes. The trefoil of our early youth With silver dewdrops wet; The hue of Love's forget-me-nots, We never can forget — A GOLDEN DAY. The perfume of those violets blue Is floating round us yet. 'Tvras not an English hot-house plant * That, sent across the seas, Evoked a welcome warm and wild In the far antipodes, That stirr'd to life in distant hearts The old-home sympathies — Xo, 'twas an English primrose pale That made their bosoms glow ; A yellow primrose from the wood That made their warm tears flow ; A primrose, from the old loved land, The misty long-ago. The human heart is wayward, strange, Uncertain flow its springs, But ever bound by simplest ties, And link'd to simplest things ; A song — a lock of hair — a flower, Will touch its tenderest strings. * Dr. Ward mentioned in a paper read at the Royal Institution, that a primrose had, in the early days of the colony, been taken to Australia in a covered glass case ; and when it arrived there in full bloom, the sensation it excited as a, remembrance from the old Fatherland was so great,- that it was found necessary to protect it with a strong guard. A GOLDEN DAY. III. Ah ! what is this ? a dead leaf falls, A leaf of last year's green Floats gently here from yon tall beech, And whispers — " I have been ; And thou, like me, wilt bloom thy bloom, And then be no more seen." Thanks, little leaf ! thou preachest well, To me, no sadden'd strain ; Both man and leaf are mystic links In Nature's endless chain — If I fulfil myself, as thou, I shall not live in vain. Long life was thine, thou sturdy leaf, For many days have been Since first the wooing voice of Spring Enticed thee on the scene — Thy heart, responsive, burst the bud, And she beheld thee green. Thy fellow-gladdeners of the wood, Thy brothers — where are they ? Some overkist by Summer, fell, And some by slow decay, A GOLDEN DAY. And some by fierce Autumnal winds And storms were swept away. But thou held'st on — gallant leaf! Through hurtling hail and snow, The hurricane's tempestuous breath, The lightning's angry glow : Nor did'st thou fall, till this year's leaves Told thee 'twas time to go. Go, little leaf, and take thy rest, Thy tiny flag is f url'd ; Thou'rt old, and dry, and stiff with age, And russet-red and curl'd ; But in thy day thou didkt thy best To beautify the world ! IV. So still I sit, a robin chirps And flutters near my feet ; Now watches, sidelong, 'mid the boughs That gloom my rustic seat ; While the linden hums her wing-made song In slumb'rous summer heat. Huge Alp-lands of sun-smitten clouds On the horizon lie, A GOLDEN DAY. And rear their silver battlements Into the windless sky — Vast regions of untroubled calm Beyond the human cry. And overhead, scarce one stray film To fleck the tender blue ; And in my heart, scarce one stray care To cloud the spirit's hue, For the beauty of the scene hath sooth'd And fill'd me through and through. V. Nature, how I love thy ways ! Unsullied, fresh and free, Be they within the solemn woods, Or by the restless sea, On hillside, underneath the stars, Or clover-scented lea — To me the same, where'er they lead Eemote from crowded street, Where, caged and bound, I often pine For rest in thy retreat ; To look thee closer in the face, And worship at thy feet. A GOLDEN DAY. Health lives upon the breezy downs, Where the bending harebell blows, Young hope lies hid in shining leaves — A balm for mental woes — And in the foldings of a flower, The heart may find repose. VI. Now smiles the far coast in its sleep, The Solent rolls serene, Streak'd here with tints of greenest blue, And there of bluest green, And there of purple lost in grey And silver'd in between. The sense that I have nought to do Steals sweetly over me ; Nothing to do for one green month, Nothing to do — but be — To lie full length on grassy slope In sight of summer sea. To weary worker forced to seek The feathers for his nest ; To toiling, moiling, busy ones, How good a thing is rest ! A GOLDEN DAY. The Peace that falls from Angels' wings On eyelids of the blest. Some roads may pass through level ways, And they who tread repine That in the vale they cannot trace The far horizon line, That life is strife for daily bread, With little oil and wine. Yet work, methinks, gives ampler range ; And paths, though flat and grey, May lead to rosy heights at last When duty points the way ; For labour makes a king of man, And crowns him every day. VII. golden hours of vagrant thought ! Unbent the daily strain — Shut out the calling, writing world, The care of loss or gain — Rest for the eyelids and the eyes, Eest for the hand and brain. The glories of all summer days My soul hath made its own ; A GOLDEN DAY. The fulness of all leisure-time My life hath ever known, Come back in this, on heart and mind, Like some remember'd tone, — Some tone heard down the glades of time (Perchance in other spheres), Whose recognition floods the soul As it falls upon the ears, "With feelings closely link'd with joy, Yet half akin to tears. I would this hour could stretch itself Along my future ways ; Its peace, with all her wings, enfold My life in after days, Ere old age totters to the brink Encrown'd with silver haze. VIII. See now ! the shadows of the trees Are lengthen'd on the grass ; In distant reaches gleams the sea A flood of floating glass ; And white sails flash like sea-birds' wings As round the Point they pass. A GOLDEN DA Y. The golden sun is half immersed Beneath the lucent sea, And greater, in the parting smile, His bright face seems to be — E'en as our good gifts larger grow The moment ere they flee. A glorious sunset ! cirrus clouds, The ringlets of the sky, Shake out their tresses flush'd with gold And hues that blend and die ; While loom, like mountains fringed with light, The giant cumuli. IX. Still, still I muse, till silvery stars Hang out their fires on high ; And earth-born lights from ship and shore Give answer to the sky ; And gleam, from twice a hundred barks, In spangled broidery. God hangs His lamps in heaven above, Man lights his lamps below ; To me — a sweet mysterious link With destinies that glow, A GOLDEN DAY. And roll in music past all thought Or human passions' flow. The white breast of the tranquil sea Eeflects both lights together ; The one, majestic, calm, sublime, One flickering, wavering ever — Emblems of God's eternal love, And feeble man's endeavour. The lichen-coated moths brush past To greet our window's light — 'Tis time to rise — the wind begins A storm-song to the night ; And voices call me, faces peep, Small faces pink and white. Farewell, sweet time ! farewell, sweet thoughts ! I hide your light away Within my memory-cells, perchance, To glad me when I'm grey, — And in the diary of my life Mark this a golden day. Ar». CROSSING. I lay afloat, in an idle boat (A fisher-lad held the oar), Off a Devon strand, and watch'd the grand Old sea run up the shore. The Welsh coast slept, where the waters crept Far out on the utmost rim ; Slept with its pines, in long, low lines, Shadowy, grey, and dim. Old Lundy lay some leagues away, Guarding the middle sea ; A silver mist his low length kist, Yet rugged and cold look'd he. CROSSING. And there, as I lay in that slate-bound bay, While that fisher-lad sat by me, A butterfly came, with wings aflame, Fluttering out to sea. From heather and broom, like a winged bloom, From fields where the charlock grew, From cowslip cells, and hyacinth bells, Over the foam he flew. Does he seek a bride, on that far Welsh side ? Does he dream, as he wanders o'er, Of fairer flowers, and sunnier hours, And love on a golden shore ? Does the wee thing own a sense unknown To us, who are Nature's kings ? Can he hear the beat of his love's fair feet, And the pulse of her luminous wings ? " Come back," I cry, " frail butterfly, Come back to the land, and live ! Each cup of the fields rare nectar yields, But what hath the sea to give ? " Still on he flies — I strain mine eyes — " fisher-lad, raise the mast ; 14 CROSSING. The wind is hale, so set thy sail, And follow far and fast." We follow the flight of that thing of light, Under the blue serene, With only the flow of the tide below, And only the wind between. Xow over the foam, as seeking a home In those cruel white blooms of the spray ; Xow seeming to rest on a wave's curl'd crest, And now up in the air, and away ! And ever he flew, and farther drew From the fast-receding shore : And ever we sped, but ever he fled Fluttering on before. " Turn, little one, turn where the clovers burn, Where the speedwell waits in the lane, To greet thee with eyes like April skies, When April is on the wane. " Though wondrous to thee are the fields of the sea, Though the foam-flowers lightly blow, Beware of their breath, there is death, chill death, In the kiss of their tossing snow ! CROSSING. 1 5 " Though the deeps laugh fair in the sunny air, And the arm of the wind is strong, Thou wilt find no rest in gulf or crest, And the way is so long, so long ! " Stay, little one, stay ! " But no backward way Will those delicate wings pursue ; They throb through the haze, and part from my gaze, Absorbed in the infinite blue. And whether they pass'd to that shore at last, That shore beyond the sea, Or found a grave in the purple wave, Can never be known to me. Far lies the goal of the human soul, And frail are the wings for flight, And the way is so wide, and fierce is the tide, And over all cometh the ni^ht. STILL LOOKING. By the weed-strewn, brown, desolate reaches, Lonely, and half broken-hearted, We met, and we parted, By the weed-strewn, brown, desolate reaches. A moan from the dolorous ocean Crept round about and above her — To the ear of each lover Crept a moan from the dolorous ocean. The dun cormorant rustled above us ; Her dissonant cry boded evil; Like goblin or devil, The dun cormorant rustled above us. STILL LOOKING. 17 One wild clinging kiss, and we parted, No light fringed the skirts of our morrow ; In silence, in sorrow, One wild clinging kiss, and we parted. We turned, face to face, stepping backward, The distance between us grew wider ; Ere distance could hide her, We turned, face to face, stepping backward. The mists weird and white came between us, As a screen, parting one from the other ; Parting lover from lover, The mists weird and white came between us. Yet I know my old love is still looking 'Thwart the gloom of the years as they follow, With eyes sad and hollow ; I know my old love is still looking. IRondeau. JASMINE STARS. White Jasmine stars, upon an old grey wall, Whereon the yellow sunbeams seldom fall, Eain-stain'd and weather-worn, yet wholly fair, For one lush creeper clings in greenness there, With dark-hued leaves and blossoms white and small. It was a loving hand o'er that old wall First taught the young arms of the Jasmine tall To cling, and spread star-clusters everywhere. Sweet Jasmine stars ! When my lone heart was cold as yon grey wall, A little Jasmine came, at Love's low call, And warm'd with starry blooms the chambers bare ; My heart grew glad, and the impassion'd air Pierced with its fragrance spread it over all. Jasmine stars ! RONDEAU. 19 SLEEP, BABY MINE. Sleep, baby mine. The failing light is low, The witch-elms toss their branches to and fro ; And howling winds sing baby's lullaby. Move, shadows move, and grey frost-clouds go by, My baby sleeps, whatever winds may blow. Sleep, baby mine ; while he, who loves us so, Is daring all the bitter, drifting snow Across the moorlands where the great winds cry. Sleep, baby mine ! Within — The crackling wood-fire's ruddy glow Warms each wee hand, and curled roseleaf toe. Without — The blinding, biting storm mounts high, And barbed snowflakes scatter down the sky. God send thy father ere the darkness grow ! Sleep, baby mine ! RONDEA U. BLOW, WILD MARCH WIND. Blow, wild March wind ! In hollows of the lea, In copses low, thy bride awaiteth thee — • The timid, saint-like, white anemone. She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings, Till o'er her beat the pulsings of thy wings. Blow, wild March wind ! that we her face may see, Through pine-clad gorges by our northward sea, Through English woodlands where the blackcap sings. Blow, wild March wind ! She lifts her face. The answering passion stings Her veined leaves, at the rough kiss he brings. Sing round her bridal couch thy melody, Thy breath is life to her. Apart from thee She droops and dies, the frailest of frail things — ■ Then blow, March wind ! RONDEA U. SWEET LAGGARD, COME. Sweet laggard, come ! and list the drowsy chime Of happy bees, 'neath umbrage of the lime — The Spring is here, come thou and be my Spring ! The trees put on their leaves while west-winds sing, Do thou put on the love my heart doth bring. Sweet laggard, come ! Waste not the vernal time, Enjoy the breath of Love's delicious prime — The Spring is here, come thou and be my Spring ! Sweet laggard, come ! The golden wren doth like a blossom swing, And hark! the curlews clamour on the wing. Sweet laggard, come ! and list thy lover's rhyme, As up the starry ways of love we climb, Thou queen of all my song, and I thy king. Sweet laggard, come ! RONDEA U. TWIT TWIT, TWIT TWIT. Twit twit, twit twit ! The martins come again, With wings aweary, flying o'er the main Prom Senegal or dry Morocco's shore. Snow-breasted exiles ! seek your homes once more, Each last year's nest still shows an open door. Twit twit, twit twit ! The martins come again, Underneath my eaves, above my window-pane ; They bring me all the Spring in their low strain, Twit twit, twit twit ! Blithe birds of mystery — God-taught — give o'er Your tireless flight, and teach me half your lore. Now, black against the sapphire sky they soar, Now, flash with white athwart the April rain, Eeturning ever with the low refrain, Twit twit, twit twit ! RONDEAU. 23 THE AUTUMN LEAVES GO BY. The autumn leaves, the autumn leaves go by, In gusty showers of red and gold they fly ; In showers of brown and grey sink low to die. The old leaves fall not till the buds be born; And Love's bud lives, though last year's hopes lie shorn. Wind answers wind with melancholy cry ; The branches lift bare lances to the sky, — And all my heart is bare, and cold, and dry As autumn leaves. maiden with the amber hair of morn ! Kill not Love's autumn bud with frosts of scorn. Come, autumn leaves ! and cover from the eye Of day my germ of love, till spring winds sigh ; For young hope lives, tho' old hopes lowly lie As autumn leaves. 24 RONDEA U. THE AUTUMN LEAVES LIE DEAD. The autumn leaves, the autumn leaves lie dead ; But through the swaying bough-rifts looks the blue, And I see more of Heaven overhead. My joys were summer leaves ; so thick they grew, That Heaven's sweet light could only filter through. The autumn leaves, the autumn leaves lie dead, My joys are trampled leaves, and lost to view ; The winds that took them brought me grief instead. autumn leaves ! My joys Love could not keep when strong storms blew ; Love could but weep, because they were so few. All hues have died, grey, gold, and russet-red. The lacing boughs form windows o'er my head, And through each one, God's light is shining true, Though autumn leaves lie dead. Sonnet. THE PEARL OF PEACE. A bivalve feeding in the warm salt sea Draws inward, with the wave, a sandy grain, Which, not returning with the wave again, Remains henceforth its secret grief to be. Day after day, so sea-wise folk agree, The creature hides it in a dew-like rain Of ceaseless tears, till, harden'd out of pain, A precious pearl is fashion'd perfectly. From outer seas of passion, seas of strife, There drifts at times upon the human heart A secret rankling grief that day by day We cover with the bitter tears of life, Till, wrought of pain from out our nobler part, The pearl of Peace remains with us alway. SONNET. A WILD NIGHT. Hark ! at the front door knocks the wintry blast, Angry and loud, as one that will be heard : Fair Nature, from her sleep uncouthly stirr'd, Writhes in the storm ; the raindrops patter fast, Crash follows crash, each louder than the last ; Above the hills resounds the gathering word Of warlike winds, that now to madness spurr'd, Against the windows hailshafts thickly cast, So thick, that Fancy, on the whirlwind, sees A troop of storm-imps, who, amid the rain, Bear up, for mischief, granaries of peas, And dash quick handfuls 'gainst the window-pane. In vain I strive to compass slumb'rous ease, Sleep will not settle on my wakeful brain. SONNET. 27 THE WOOING OF THE MOON AND SEA. The moon is woo'd by her wild lord the sea, Whose yearning waves wax wanton in their joy, Upheaving amorously; he fain would toy With his sweet moon, as I would toy with thee. In long low sighs he uttereth his plea ; She half unveils her face, as maiden coy, Then beams her love ; he doth the winds employ To messenger his speech, while listeneth she. Her image in his breast she sees to-night In broken gold, whene'er his voice is rough ; So thou may'st see thy face of moon-pale light In my true eyes, if thou look close enough. She draws her sea's deep heart. Thou draw'st thy knight, Whose heart-tide sets to thee, nor fears rebuff. 28 SONNET. TO There dwells sweet music in her speaking face, And 'neath the curtains of her sea-grey eyes Her soul looks out, as 'mid the dappled skies Looks forth the blue. And I have loved to trace Thought chasing thought with ever-shifting pace, O'er face and brow wherein all discord dies ; To watch each sun-lit smile, that breaking, flies, Or finds around her perfect mouth its place. Nor grave is she, nor is she passing gay ; But, as the iris-colours blend in air, So all her moods do blend in her alway — So womanlike withal — so young, so fair, Thrice happy he who in a golden day Wins her, to climb with him life's rugged stair. SONNET. 29 PO WER. Self-rule sustain'd, the sovereignty of will, With reverence of self and manhood fraught, Controlling action and each prompting thought, The knowledge of himself for good and ill Give man a force o'er man — to strive until He finds the light ; until the dews are caught From ancient mists on awful heights, and brought To parched lips, constrained to take their fill. As beacons on the mountains, towering, grand, Stand out the master-minds in shine and shower, Old Time's grey cheek hath wrinkled since they plann'd And wrought for human weal. — Their deathless dower The ages pay, whose homage they command, And wield, with forceful sway, a Godlike power ! THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. I. Wave, mystic bough, with all thy pearls ; Shine, little pearls, o'er bench and stall, In poor man's cottage, rich man's hall ; Make glad our English boys and girls. And gladden us of longer years, Made children by thy happy glow, Recalling from the long-ago Dead kisses and forgotten tears. We weave thy tints with those that gleam More bravely in the holly sprays, And weaving, muse of ancient days, And musing, see as those who dream. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. The forest glades, the solemn night, The glory where the moonbeams slant, The Druids' weird unearthly chant, The glinting robes — the pagan rite. And then from out the darkness leaps A light — around the holly borne — A light that on that Christmas morn First broke upon Judaean steeps. In golden shafts which flush'd the wind With glory, borne o'er every sea, The herald of great good to be — Freedom and hope for human kind. II. "Wave, mystic bough ! To thee belong The praises that I fain would sing ; From out the wintry woodlands bring The gladness of thy thrush's song. The foliage died on bank and byre, The pale leaves flutter'd, stricken dead ; The rain-clouds gather'd overhead, The West was lit with sullen fire. 32 THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. Each tree drew on its snowy hood, Or bared gaunt arms, whilst thou between Didst shine, a flash of golden green Upon the darkness of the wood. Shine now on all our darken'd days, On hearth and home, on young and old, And teach some hearts to fling their gold, As thou thy light, in straiten'd ways. Shine now, that underneath thy leaves The custom old may live anew, And kisses fall, when hearts are true, As plentiful as autumn sheaves. Shine out on all, and far and wide — On cheeks where lingers yet the tear, On hearts so weary of the year — A flash of joy this Christmas-tide ! THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. 33 THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. (hendecasyllabics.) Thro' tlie gateways of Eden, Eve all mournful Look'd, gold gateways of Eden, sharply closing On our mother, who laving with wet sorrow Her soul's bitterness, loth to leave her bower, "Whose cool leaflets and tendrils barr'd the sunbeams, Saw her home of the future, in the distance, Bare, wild, cheerless, beset with leafless branches, Thorns, sharp thistles and horrid growths unsightly, No buds broke to the hills where Heaven slumber'd, Eor the flowerless plain was parch'd and barren ; So she pray'd to the bright, the guarding Angel : " wing'd spirit ! as good as thou art lovely, Grant me time yet to linger 'mid my flowers, Time to gather the seed-cells of my blossoms ; Ere we bear to the wilds our weight of weeping." Then fair Eve to her garden sped, half-cheerful; In her hasting her lithe limbs shook a snowfall c 34 THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. Of white rose-leaves. The small gales caught her tresses ; The clear stream, at her fair flesh, rippled wonder ; Pards, large-eyed, as she pass'd by look'd allegiance ; Love-torn creepers caress'd her with their tendrils ; The green sward, at her tread, with daisies silver'd ; Pale proud lilies low-bow'd their heads — she pass- ing— For the souls of the flowers felt her presence, As the earth the sweet whisper of the spring-time. Love-lured airs with low music palpitated, While white seraphs, above her, sang their greetings : " Thy seed shall in the ages crush the serpent." Sang they Hope, and fair Paith, and Love triumphant. Once more rapture, ambrosial, delightful, Pill'd her heart, as the sunbeam fills the crocus ; Wan-eyed Sorrow in sleep her pinions folded — Wee bright cherubs, on rosy winglets, help'd her, Brought her fruit of the bough, and seed of blos- som ; Wealth of sun-woven fabrics — many-tinted Cups of Paradise, full to brim with summer. But a cry, as of pain, arose in Eden — A sharp cry from the lips of Eve, embower'd 'Mid her roses, she, plucking milky blossoms, THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. 35 Felt thorns twain, on a sudden, smite her finger ; Sharp thorns, sharper than spears, the first in Eden ; For the roses were thornless, smooth as willow, Ere her sinfulness. Blood-drops stain'd the petals, Erst as white as the hellebore in winter ; And she, musing, beheld a wondrous marvel — Where the beads of her blood the leaves ensanguin'd, Lo ! red roses were born, as joys in sorrow, A rose, red as the nut-tree bloom in spring-days. 'Neath the eaves of her argent lids, night- fringed, Twin tears wander'd adown her cheeks like lost stars, Spheres of light, to the golden-hearted roses Where they rested ; and blossoms, erewhile scentless, Gave an odour to sweeten all the ages. In green shadowy ways, half glad, half mournful, Mov'd fair Eve ; and her consort watch'd her coming, As peaks, swathed in the night-clouds, watch for morning. Light she stept, with her flower-load uplifted, Full ripe pendulous clusters bearing seed-pods, Through the arches and aisles of leafy Eden. Cheer'd she him, her belov'd, with smiles of sun- light, 36 THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. He, our Father, was dark a.t heart and downcast ; But the glow of her presence flush'd his pulses, And he fed on her face as one a-hunger'd. Swung her burthen of scents upon his shoulder, And, with arm on her white waist, pass'd the portals, To the wilderness pass'd they, while behind them Bang the dissonant clang of gates sharp closing. Wander'd they in the wilds and desert places, Till they reach'd, through a break among the moun- tains, Way-worn, weary, a valley speck'd with verdure. With swift silver the streamlets slash'd the hillsides Worn with storms, and at last, in one stream gather'd, Flow'd out, under the sun, to seek Euphrates. There the exiles, heart-lighten'd, found a refuge, Where, by labour of hands, uprose a garden, Whose leaves sang in the wind of bygone pleasures. There Eve sow'd in the earth the seeds of Eden, And soon flowers, as flames of fire, brake upward, Bright buds, splendid as those in Angels' garlands, Guests in Paradise ere the curse resounded. Through the mists of the years, each bloom she gathered, Each seed's mystery, comes with tear-wet petals, THE BIRTH OF THE RED-ROSE. 37 With the breath of the morn of earth, to woo vis — Comes, all stainless, to tell of days once sinless, To point us where the star-buds bloom immortal. Thanks, fair Mother of ours ! amid the shadows That gloom us, and the tears that spring from sorrow, Comes the thought, to our worn hearts bringing sweetness, Buds from Paradise still adorn our pathways, The pure blossoms of Eden cluster round us. 38 WA U-NE-BE- WIN-KA . WA U-NE-BE-WIN-KA . " Hence ! come not near, let me die," said the Prin- cess, fair Wau-ne-be-win-ka. " Death I prefer to the loss of a limb — yea, death ; though the promise Of youth is bright to my sight, and the path of the years is undarken'd. Could I, the daughter of Wongo, King of the great Winnebagoes — Could I lag lame in the forests and live ? could I limp as a cripple ? I, call'd the Fleet of Foot, pride of the hunters, a red-doe in swiftness ? Better is death than dishonour, and better than life as a cripple." Thrust she then from her the Medas, and cut the loose flesh from her ankle, Bound it up, bleeding and torn, badly crush'd to the bone in Wisconsin. WA U-NE-BE- WIN-KA . 39 " Great is my daughter of heart," said the King of the tribe Winnebago ; " Better a Princess should die, than be humbled by limping on crutches; — Hard for my child to die in the bloom of her youth and her beauty ; Harder for me, my sunshine ! left darkly to creep to my fathers. Through the lush forest and prairie, a red fawn she gamboll'd beside me, Liv'd in my heart, kept it flesh — as flint will it harden without her. Through all the land was her voice as the breath of a song to my people ; Songless and sad all the land, on the day that it sinks into silence. Yield to the Medas and die not ! Stay with me, stay with the old man ! " Turn'd then, pain-laden, the Princess, and answer'd, her eyes on her Father — " Better is death than dishonour, and better than life as a cripple." " Come to thy little-one, come ! " said the Princess Wau-ne-be-win-ka. " Take my hand, my Father ! dark Pan-guk is breathing upon me. 40 WAU-NE-BE-WIN-KA. Eaise my head with thine arm ; let me gaze once more on the forest ; Now to the sky-woods it spreads, one forest from earth unto Heaven- Golden and purpling in splendour stretch further ,the plains of the hunters. Voices are calling and singing ; the ghosts of our people are calling, Calling my spirit to bound through the limitless prairie of Heaven — Kiss me, my Father ! I go ! " " Nay, stay with me — stay ! " cried the old man. Soft as the sigh of the trees in the tender calm of the evening, Sweet as the moan of doves rose the last words of Wau-ne-be-win-ka — " Better is death than dishonour, and better than life as a cripple." " Great was my daughter of heart," said the King of the tribe Winnebago, " Great, as a Princess should be, a Princess, the daughter of Wongo ; Fair as the flower of night, dew-wet 'neath the moon of green leaflets, WAU-NE-BE-WIN-KA. 41 True as string to the bow, when bent by the arms of the hunter. Gone is my pretty one, gone, as the mist-wreath caught up by the sunbeam — Gone to our people above, in the fair summer Isles of the Blessed — Gone to the Home of the Light, the hills of the Home of the Morning." Wailing and weeping they bear her, the Princess Wau-ne-be-win-ka. Clothed in her robes of ermine, and deck'd in her bead-work and tassels — ■ Wailing and weeping they bury her, deep in the heart of the forest. Bracelets and trinkets they place on the grave of their lov'd one departed, Belts of white wampum and furs, while a Brave sings the song of her virtues. Long will her last words live in the memory-cells of her people — " Better is death than dishonour, and better than life as a cripple." 42 WILD FLOWERS. WILD FLOWERS. Wild jocund flowers ! wee stars that spangle earth, Shine on and twinkle in your verdant spheres. Fabrics of light ! wrought in the looms of Heaven, And painted with the pencil of a God. cheery little stars ! your gleaming rays, From out the hedgerows and beside my path, When stumbling in the mists, have often proved So many friendly lights to guide me on. 1 love to hold you by your slender stems, And learn the golden lore within your eyes ; Or, when ye swing your censers as ye pray At eventide, upon my spirit's ear To catch the voicings of your trembling choirs ; Inhale your incense as it soars to God, And feel I have a part with you. 'Tis good To trace His impress on your veined leaves, To track the filmy foldings of a rose, Or gaze in silence on a daisy's fringe. THE WHITE ROSE. 43 THE WHITE ROSE. The bride, a white rose with no flush of red, Moves down with all her maids, sweet jasmine stars ; The best-man only sees the Altar bars ; He feels the white-rose thorn ; and would be dead. He hides his wound ; he lifts a noble name For men to worship in the coming days; But dearer far to him than human praise Is one fair face, and hair of yellow flame. He bows his head beside a sculptured stone ; The white rose sleeps; the thorn has ceased to pain; The perfumes only of the leaves remain. He claims his dead, for ever his alone. 44 PLEADING. PLEADING. A VILLA, in the South. A lake that laves The marble terraces, whose orange-trees Shake dewy odours over silver waves, Fann'd by a languid breeze. I rest, half dreaming, watching 'neath my feet The slowly-gliding swans divide the mere — A rustle, and a voice most clear and sweet Steals softly on mine ear. " You know what I have come for. His ship sails To-morrow — I must answer Yes or No — And she won't hear of it." The young voice fails, Then speaks again more low. " But you will make me happy ? I should die If we were parted. He so good, so true, So generous : and he loves me so, and I — I love him dearly, too ! " PLEADING. 45 A silence and a kiss, and round my neck Two white arms twine themselves, as if to win Compliance from my yielding heart, and check The sterner thoughts within. In such a strait, what could a father say ? A coaxing whisper — "Think of one whole year That we have waited. Can he go away Without a word of cheer ? " " Sweet daughter mine, bear with me if I seem, In love of you, to play a miser's part ; 'Tis hard to speed a treasure down the stream Long hoarded in my heart. " Is he so true and wise ? " " So wise, so true ! " " And can you trust yourself ? " " Beneath the sun I know there is for me (not counting you) One only — only one ! " " Well, well, no tears ! Methinks I never met An abler pleader — parting good from ill. I would it were, and would it were not. Yet You conquer ; have your will." 46 PLEADING. Another kiss, another soft caress — She glides away, as sunlight thro' the flow'rs. I sit and muse ; the winds in idleness Euffie the orange bow'rs. " Two hearts made happy, so what need to frown ? The children love each other. Smile, then, wife. A happy love is sure the fairest crown And whitest flower of life." (Quatrains. AMBITION. The royal eagle hawketh not for flies, Nor mates the soaring skylark with the wren; So, scorning narrow aims of lesser men, Move to their goal, the minds of high emprise. WORSHIP. I WORSHIP Him who dwells anear, afar, Below the crocus breaking through the mould, Above the cloud-ships with their sails of gold, Behind the protoplasm and the star. 43 QUATRAINS. FRIENDSHIP. Some Friendships are like leaves ; when skies are fair Their green flags flutter, making glad the day ; But when the chill winds blow, they fall away And leave the quiv'ring branches cold and bare. II. Break not an ancient Friendship ; keep it hale ; Stir round its roots, that it be green of heart ; Let not the spirit of its growth depart : It is a power to brave the strongest gale. LOVE. Love must be first and last, the part, the whole ; Must fill the human void as ocean fills Its broadest channels, ancient as the hills, And slightest shell o'er which its waters roll. QUATRAINS. 49 LOVE, HATE, FEAR. I. True love hath sight, but thro' a crystal spies, All flush'd with rosy light, its heart's desire ; Fell hate glares through one lidless orb of fire ; But pallid, fear hath twice a hundred eyes. II. The love of half a world may not avail To guard the hero from the secret thrust Of one mean foe ; the brightest steel may rust, And hate find chinks in coat of proved mail. FEAR NONE— FEAR ONE. Of all mankind, there is but one Whom thou shouldst fear beneath the sun- In love or hate, for pride or pelf — One — only one ; that one — thyself ! 5 o QUATRAINS. HOPE. When Hope's glad sun shines full upon our track, We feel not much the burthen of our load ; The light is in our face along the road, And all the shadows lie behind our back. II. Hope is a dream whose climbing fancies take Their tincture from the iris-colour'd skies ; A dream we ever dream with open eyes, With hearts aglow, and senses all awake. III. Build palace halls ! build castles in the air ! Flush all their cloudy heights with rosy bloom ! But raise no prison turreted in gloom, And dig no cave to prove a wild beast's lair. — s-v»aMs«-i«— QUATRAINS. 5r GRIEF. Grief comes, a giantess, with strength to bind ; She grips our hand and glares into our eyes ; If we but kiss her mouth, she daily dies, Fades into air, and leaves a flower behind. MIRTH. Mirth comes, a reveller beneath the moon. Bring music ! wine ! Fling garlands on the floor ! The guest withal is looking at the door — The flow'rs he brings are cut, and wither soon. TASTE. Five senses fall to us from Nature's hand; But who shall say that some, more amply blest, Have not a sixth, controlling all the rest ? Taste is innate, not purchased at command. 52 QUATRAINS. LABOUR. Labour of brain, and of the good right hand, Gives man the mastership of half his fate ; Will crown him king for guerdon, soon or late, With crown no royal idler can command. II. A garden is the mind, within whose bound You gather roses, but with horny hand. Who will not toil, no roses may command, For thankless weeds will revel in the ground. in. I am not sure that life, to any one, A fuller measure of contentment brings, With all its gifts, than in the draught which springs Prom honest work, well plann'd, and bravely done. QUATRAINS. 53 ENVY. I. The envious man is sensitive of sight ; Some sounds, too, fret his ear, as light his gaze. He cannot bear to hear another's praise — He is half blinded by another's light. 11. He stabs behind, and in the dark or dusk ; His swords are Ifs and Buts. To cloak his guile He'll sometimes faintly praise, and with a smile Disguise his asafcetida in musk. in. Unlike the honest squid, who flings his black Full in the face of his pursuing foes, He, bland of front, his inky batter throws On all his rivals — but behind their back. 54 QUATRAINS. NA TURE. The heart of nature soothes the heart of man, If with his heart he looks into her eyes. A place of leaves, wide air, and sunny skies, Will soothe him more than even woman can. II. We cry, and Nature answers us in time ; With both hands gives us what we ask and prize ; A lily pure and pale to glad our eyes, A spotted toad from out the ooze and slime. ONE FRIEND. Who hath one friend, of straight and loyal mind, But one, of all the million swarms of men, Is strong, beyond the energy of ten, Is rich, beyond the level of mankind. QUATRAINS. 55 SLIPPING. The foot may sooner slip on marble way Of royal palace, or in rich man's hall, Than on the rough road where the sunbeams fall, Or cottage paving of the common clay. LIFE. A stream roars downward to a hidden sea That slumbers moonless, starless, without bound, "Whence comes nor voice, nor form, nor any sound : The stream is Life, the sea — Eternity. LOVE IN AGE. The hoar and wrinkled trees, long past their prime, Hang out, at call of Spring, their green young leaves ; So when an aged heart Love's call receives, Hopes, fresh as leaves, rebloom and conquer time. 56 QUATRAINS. DAFFODILS. A smile of last year's sun stray'd down the hills, And lost its way within yon windy wood ; Lost through the months of snow, but not for good ; March found it in a clump of daffodils. UNREST. We leave the Good beside us, and uplift Wild hands to clutch the Better as our right, But somehow miss it in the low dim light. The Good returns not as a second gift. Songs. RED BERRIES OF BRIONY. EIch was the harvest he vow'd to reap, When he planted his germ below ; " Love will give sheaves of red gold to keep, And its fruit will be sweet, I know." But his golden sheaves Are the wrinkled leaves By the gusty autumn borne ; And his fruit, the red berries of briony That cling round a wither'd thorn. " Eoses will throw me their blooms," she said, " When winter is white on the tree ; Love will bring clusters when leaves are dead — The vine's purple clusters to me." But her rose-tree stands "With roseless hands, In the cold bleak air forlorn ; And her clusters are berries of briony That cling round a wither'd thorn. 58 J DREA'M-D A DREAM. I DREAM'D A DREAM OF AN OLD, OLD LOVE. I dream'd a dream of an old, old love, And sweet was that dream to me ; For it brought me the time of my early prime, And life as it used to be. We walk'd once more to the village church, 'Neath the blue of the Sabbath skies ; Down the trysting lane, to the sacred fane, With th' light of young love in our eyes ; And again, in the dark pine-woods we stray'd Away from the noontide heat, Where only the thrush broke the silent hush, As I lay at my darling's feet. / DRBAM'D A DREAM. 59 II. I dreaui'd a dream of an old, old love, And sweet was that dream of bliss ; For. it brought me a hand from the Spirit-land, And the touch of a spirit-kiss. A sense of happiness, pure and strange, As a dove on my bosom lay ; With the breath of a wing, with an odour of spring, My sorrow had pass'd away. So, I know my old love as an Angel lives, Beyond where the pale stars shine, That she came from above, on a mission of love, To bring peace to this soul of mine. 6o MOO-LE-HU-A. MOO-LE-HU-A. (A CHINESE SONG.) My heart is light, for grief is dead. The sky is smiling o'er my head, Moo-le-hu-a. I come to thee from stormy seas, willow waving in the breeze ! Moo-le-hu-a. When three stars shine, wilt thou be mine ? Moo-le-hu-a. The pale moon's scythe of two days old, 1 in thine eyebrow's curve behold, Moo-le-hu-a. Thine eyes have far more light within, Than th' crystal of a mandarin, Moo-le-hu-a. When three stars shine, wilt thou be mine ? Moo-le-hu-a. MOO-LE-HU-A. 61 Thy skin, white wax with rose o'ershed, Thy budding lips, a crimson thread, Moo-le-hu-a — Long-nailed fingers, night-dark hair ; Thy feet are golden lilies fair, Moo-le-hu-a. When three stars shine, wilt thou be mine ? Moo-le-hu-a. Than lotus, fairer thou to me, Or white flower of the ehas-hoo tree, Moo-le-hu-a. When pingtaou blooms, and three stars shine On evening's brow, I'll make thee mine, Moo-le-hu-a. When three stars shine, thou shalt be mine, Moo-le-hu-a. 62 TWO LIVES. TWO LIVES. Dismal the chamber is, deep in the city, Faint is the light in the middle of day ; Never complaining, but bravely, though weary, From morning till evening he labours away. Father dead, mother dead, left on life's battlefield, In the ranks, lonely, to fight for his bread; Those who once fiatter'd look coldly upon him, No fortune has he, save his hands and his head. " No one to love me ! Oh ! nothing to cling to ! Lone as a heron upon a grey stone.' 1 " Faint not, heart ! for the Love that is endless Broods o'er the soul that is weary and lone." II. Cheerless her window is, wall'd from the sunshine, Cheerless the room where the lessons are said. Often so weary, with lone heart half breaking, From morning till evening she works for her bread. TWO LIVES. 63 Father dead, mother dead, early a governess, Yet was she born to as lofty a lot As they whose gay voices and light happy laughter Ascend to the schoolroom, where she is forgot. "No one to love me ! Oh ! nothing to ding to ! High on the 'mountain, a blossom unknown." " Faint not, heart ! for the eyes of the angels Best on the flower that bloometh alone." III. 'Mid myrtles and roses a fair cottage nestles ; Loving the spot, all the sunbeams play there ; A young mother presses her babe to her bosom, And fondly the husband leans over her chair. Now is she happy, and he is triumphant ! The big stones are broken that block 'd up his way. They met, both so lonely, loved truly and wedded, And twelve months have flown like a sweet sum- mer day. " Some one to love me ! Oh ! something to cling to ! No more the lone heron or blossom unknown." " Rejoice then, hearts ! for the Love that is endless Hath cared for the souls that were weary and lone.'' 64 WHY. DO I LOVE HER ? WHY DO I LOVE HER ? Not for her fortune, her fortune, her fortune, Not for the lustre that rests on her name : Were her lot lowly, Still should I wholly Worship her, worship my darling the same ! Why do I love her ? How can it be ? Because she's herself, just her sweet self to me. II. Not only her beauty, her beauty, her beauty, Not only the sunshine that lives in her face ; Something far nearer, Sweeter and dearer, Binds her to me with its infinite grace. Why do I love her ? How can it be ? Because she's herself, just her sweet self to me. AT THE BEECHEN TREE. 65 AT THE BEECHEN TREE. " Oh meet me by the stile," he wrote, " The stile beside the beechen tree." She was the pride o' the country-side, He was a sailor home from sea. Beside the brook she wends her way, The birds sing high ! the birds sing low ! " Now will he come, or will he stay ? " Her heart says, " Yes ; " her heart says, " No." " I did not send an answer back. But he should know, I love him well, For had I told him all he ask'd, I should have nothing more to tell." So through the wood she wends her way, The birds sing high ! the birds sing low ! " Now will he come, or will he stay ? " Her heart says, " Yes ; " her heart says, " No." E 66 AT THE BEECHEN TREE. She nears the spot — he is not there — " faithless heart ! " she faintly cries. But he is only hiding near, And soon he looks into her eyes. Beside the stile he holds her fast, The birds sing low, as if to bless. " Now give the answer, love, at last.'' Her heart leaps high, her lips say, " Yes.' MY LILY OF THE VALLEY. 67 MY LILY OF THE VALLEY. When the spring shines in the valley Comes the lily leaf to woo, Calling to his bride, the lily, Till she answers, peeping through. As a maiden sweet, she cometh, To her lover lifts her face, And the tall green leaf enfolds her In a tender close embrace. So grow to me, as I to thee, One, only one, in joy or grief, Facing together wind and weather, The lily and the leaf. Now the spring shines in the valley, I await thee here alone, Wait to greet my bride, my lily, Wait to call thee all my own. Come, my darling ! come, my flow'ret ! Lift to me thy radiant face, MY LILY OF THE VALLEY. And, like lily-leaf, I'll fold thee To iny heart, in close embrace. Then grow to me, as I to thee, One, truly one, in joy or grief, Pacing together wind and weather, The lily and the leaf. / WILL NOT TELL. 69 I WILL NOT TELL. Whom do I love ? I will not say ! Has he dark eyes, Or blue, or grey ? Lives he so near, or far away ? Vain, vain your task, In vain you ask His name — I will not say ! Whom do I love ? I will not tell ! His glance wakes Love's Enchanting spell. He lives — in my heart — I know it well. Vain, vain your task, In vain you ask His name — I will not tell ! 7o SHE WAITS NO MORE. SHE WAITS NO MORE. The chestnut buds begin to break, The light stays longer on the lea, " Oh, surely he will come," she said — - " Come back to me ! " The poppies burn amid the wheat, The hot winds scorch the weary day. " Alas ! he has not come," said she, " From far away." The days are growing grey and cold, The chestnut leaves are earthward shed- " He will not come in time," she sighed, " Ere I be dead." The snowflakes fall on carved stone, The ship is blown from distant shore — He comes, her love, he comes — too late ! She waits no more. APPLE BLOSSOMS. 71 APPLE BLOSSOMS. Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring ? In the spring ? An English apple orchard in the spring ? When the spreading trees are hoary With their wealth of promise-glory, And the mavis pipes his story In the spring ! Have you pluck'd the apple blossoms in the spring ? In the spring ? And caught their subtle odours in the spring ? Pink buds pouting at the light, Crumpled petals baby-white, Just to touch them — a delight ! In the spring ! Have you walk'd beneath the blossoms in the spring ? In the spring ? Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring ? 72 APPLE BLOSSOMS. When the pink cascades are falling, And the silver brooklets brawling, And the cuckoo bird is calling, In the spring ! Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring ? In the spring ? In an English apple-county in the spring ? When the bride and maidens wear Apple blossoms in their hair, Apple blossoms everywhere In the spring ! If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, In the spring! Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the spring. No sweet sight can I remember Half so precious, half so tender, As the apple blossoms render In the spring ! THE SONG OF THE FREE. 73 THE SONG OF THE FREE. " Oh, sing me a song of your Northern land," Said a Queen to the captive who knelt at her feet. " I would hear of a hero, as true as his brand ; Of a maiden all loyal, and fair, and sweet." 11. '" I can sing no song of my Northern land, mighty Queen ! though my life you save ; For freedom dwells on that wave-wash'd strand, And freedom's song is no song for a slave." in. " Strike off his chains. Oh, be free ! " she cried ; And the fetters fell as her words went forth. He took his harp with a minstrel's pride, And sang of the fame of his distant North. 74 THE SONG OF THE FREE. IV. Then his spirit rose up, and he shook the strings With the strength of a wind that is fierce and strong, And his wild notes soar'd upon burning wings, Till dead hearts awoke at his magic song. For he sang of Hope, and of Liberty, Of the banner of Eight and of Truth unfurl'd ; And a great voice grew, like the roar of the sea, The voice of an answer from half a world. VI. It thrill' d with the promise of good to be, Of light that should shine to the uttermost shore- The minstrel is dust ; but the song of the free Rolls onward and upward for evermore ! LIFE. Life is wrought of little things, Little joys with azure wings, Little cares with barbed stings. Little moments swarm in showers, Bringing weeds, and bringing flowers, Dying in the silent hours. Tall the silent hours away, Clad in white, and clad in grey, On the bosom of each day. Every day its burthen rears, Sorrow, joyance, pleasure, tears, Tribute to the hungry years. And the years sweep out to sea, Bearing you, and bearing me, To the wide eternity. SEA-GULLS. The sea has left the shingle, The furrow'd sands are dry ; The seven colours mingle In the sunset of the sky. The trailing seaweeds glisten On the worn rocks old and grey ; And the small pools seem to listen For the sea- voice far away. The white-wing'd gulls are flying Along the water-floor, Their laughing and their crying Break the silence of the shore. This the burthen of their story, Which they pipe between the tides, " Ours the Sea with all its glory, And the little fish besides." SEA-GULLS. 77 And they call, with wing-commotion, To the small pools by the strand, " When we've done with this our Ocean, It will reach you near the land." MY COTTAGE. There is a cottage somewhere that I love ; I see it ia my dreams at break of day ; I have it not, and yet 'tis mine, above The power of human will to take away. I know it stands green-girded with old trees That fence it from the rude borean blasts ; Yet spread their arms to woo each low-voiced breeze That wantons round it while the summer lasts. Behind it lifts a tor where heather grows, Gold furze, and blossoms loved of fly and bee ; And when, through rifted hills, a strong wind blows, I sometimes hear the moaning of the sea. MY COTTAGE. 79 I watch the ships go by to other lands, The white sails steal up from the under world ; Below me sleep the yellow curving sands, And leafy coombes wherein the fronds are curl'd. Its porch — a joy to those who enter in — Gives flowery welcome to each guest of mine, Sweet preface to the human book within, In roses, clematis, and eglantine. It peeps out westward to the setting sun, And takes, on tiny spire, his parting rays ; I watch the star-fires light up one by one, The white moon float across the evening haze.' cottage home ! withdrawn behind the bands That hold the Future and its cloudy veil, When on thy door I lay familiar hands, This sombre Now may seem a golden tale. yearning human heart ! how fickle ! strange ! The Now is on me with its crushing load, Its hard cold lines, its low and narrow range, The daily clamber up the broken road. A MEMORY. We were two boys together, he and I ; "We met, as men, beneath a neighbour-sky, In Belgian village. By its lonely strand, Its silver sea, by dunes of yellow sand, Pacing its brick-paved digue or wooden pier, He talk'd of her. I lent him friendship's ear. He was a painter of rare breadth and touch, A poet, who had thought and suffer'd much. I loved the man ! I felt 'twas good to be Awhile with sorrow by that silvery sea. These words of his, I write from memory. " Half light of joy, half shadow of regret, Sweet half pain hoarded in my memory yet, As gold the miser hoards, who finds at best His one delight the source of all unrest. A MEMORY. 81 At times," he said, " I live fair days, and she In dream of night or morning reverie, Like some loved air, comes back again to me. " voice long lost ! smile ! that seem'd so true ; Come back, come back ! the tropic past renew. Vain words ! For you, I fain would draw aside The curtains of the silent years that hide Her face, on which mine eyes have look'd their last ; And bid the night we met — of all the nights In my spoilt life the fatefulest — rise .out From its deep grave, as it has risen when lights Are dark within the house, and I alone Muse like a mourner by a funeral stone. " eyes ! where dwelt the witchery of power, Dark eyes and deep that beam'd from out a bower Of lashes curl'd like stamens of a flower. hair of night ! not flowing light and free As wintry tresses of the birchen tree, But serpent-wound and braided royally. 82 A MEMORY. form ! the beauty of the Greek inbred, Such gracious curves of brow, and lip, and chin, And stately throat, and fair full breasts wherein The Love-god's self might rest his drowsy head. " With magic finger-tips across the keys Her white hands wander'd, while weird melodies Crept forth like prison'd sea-nymphs from their caves, Weeping sweet sorrow over moou-lit waves ; Sighing for sorrow on the lonely seas. Why sorrow ? Why should I have heard in these Unsyllabed revealings of her soul So much of anguish ? Was it prophecy, Foreknowing how the coming days would roll The bitter tides of pain 'twixt her and me ? " She sang of woman's faith in olden years, Of women's love who loved as angels do ; Her voice was like a star that led me through A land of love-dreams ; all the air was thrill'd "With nameless raptures, and the wide skies fill'd With love-light passionate as their own blue. She sang of loyalty ; devotion's tears Stirr'd in her singing, and my glowing heart, Warm as a boy's who hears of Trojan deeds A MEMORY. 83 And worships Hector, fell before her breath And worshipp'd her, the singer. All the creeds Of olden worlds hold not the counterpart Of that idolatry that fill'd me then ; The sweetest madness ever known to men, Blinder than blind-eyed Fate, and deep as Death. " The rest is dark," he said — " you know, in part, How she became my wife ; but in my heart How she was treasured none can ever know. She knew it, but too late ! for then the blow Which shatter'd all my peace had fall'n ; and he, The striker, at my feet, beside this sea, Shot down in wrath, lay whining like a cur. She knew my love, the day I pardon'd her, And gave her more than half of all I had, But broke away, for good, and left her — mad ! Perhaps I sinn'd in hardness in my pain, Perhaps I should have brought her home again, — Our happy home ! " A pause — -then softly I, " Where is she now ? " He answer'd with a sigh : " The wheel is silent, for the stream is dry, The dead leaves drift, the green leaf turns to brown, And on her grave the quiet stars look down." A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN. Twas many a hundred years agone, The sun was stooping low — It shone upon a dying man Whose beard was as the snow. " Oh fetch me here a priest — a priest ; Oh ride ye far and fast ; For he must shrive my guilty soul Before the day be past." So fast they rode by moor and mead, Nor drew the bridle-rein Until they brought a holy friar From out Saint Quentin's fane. A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN. 85 " Now sit by me, thou holy man, But first the chamber clear, For I have that to tell to-night Which others may not hear — - " And bar the door, thou holy man, The casement close with care ; For I have that to tell to thee No wandering wind may bear. " I was a knight of ancient race, Had lands and yellow gold, My name, good priest ? — nay, ask it not Until my tale be told. " I had a brother, less in age Than I by summers three — I loved a maiden, fair as dawn — She loved him more than me. " I watch'd them in the redd'ning woods, I track'd them through the glen ; One eve, I saw him kiss her lips, A madness seized me then. " And hell awoke within my soul, The Fiend hiss'd at my ear — 86 A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN. Ay, cross thyself, thou holy man, 'Tis a ghastly tale to hear. " I crouch'd behind a blasted thorn — They pass'd me, whispering low ; Then like a savage thing I sprang, And fell'd him at a blow. " I saw him lying at my feet, I stabb'd him as he lay ; — Nay, stare not so, thou holy friar, But tell thy beads and pray. " There rang a cry, a passionate cry, It rang through all the wood ! She knelt beside the dying man, And cursed me where I stood. " An exile have I roam'd since then Through many a strange countree ; But ever, like a slow sleuth-hound, Her curse hath follow'd me " For fifty long, lone, weary years. Now would I pardon win ; Oh lift the cross, thou holy man, And shrive me of my sin." A BALLAD OF SAINT QUBNTIN. 87 The holy friar, he bows him down, And aves mutters three ; And once, and twice, he tells his beads Before a word speaks he. " Art thou full sure thy brother died ? " " Oh ! that too well I know ! I saw the death-glaze in his eyes ; I saw his life-blood flow." ' Xow, if thou heard'st thy brother lived, Would that thy spirit cheer ? " " Ah, that would be the gladdest word That ever I could hear ! " For I would give my castles twain, That are beside the sea, And many a league of rich fat land, If such a thing might be. " Vain, vain ! I know that he is dead, For I have seen his sprite Within the whispering woods at dawn, And in the failing light. " And once it turn'd and seem'd to smile As I lay upon my bed ; 88 A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN. Nay — stare not so with thy sad eyes, Thou fill'st my soul with dread." What ails him now, that holy friar, That he should tremble so ? He kneels beside the aged man, And fast the hot tears flow. " Look up, look up, good Ethelberf, Thy brother is not dead ; 'Tis he who clasps thy hand in his, And kneels beside thy bed." " Now may Our Ladye pardon thee, If this wonder be not true — And yet — thy voice- — it seems to be The voice of one I knew — " It draws me hack to far-off years ; We are two boys again — There is no blood upon my hand, No devil in my brain. " And Mervyn woods are broad and green, Oh speak — and let me hear ! " " By every Saint ! " said the holy friar, " I am thy brother dear." A BALLAD OF SAINT QUENTIN. The joy that lit the old man's eyes, I ween ; twas good to see. " Oh ! what of her whose fair young face Did come 'twixt thee and me ? " " Her body lies in sacred sod, Within a convent wall ; Her spirit is in Paradise Among the angels all." The night went down, the morning broke ; They forced the barred door, And there, I trow, was such a sight As scarce was seen before. With arms about each other's neck, As they were boys in play, With a look of peace upon each face, In death the brothers lay. One grave was scoop'd in Quentin's shrine, And many a mass was said, And bells were toll'd, and tapers burn'd. God rest the quiet dead ! A BALLADE OF MALVERNE CHASE. (OLD ENGLISH FORM — ABOUT A.D. 1550. ) From Malverne Hille she lookt adowne, Her dark eyne glanced athwarte the Chase. " Why comes not my true Knyght to me, To calle the joye-bloud to my face ? " Vaine shines the sunne on my brydal morne ; Vaine clang the bells in a measure gaye ; A shadowe lyes across my hearte, And woe is me ! on my weddinge daye." The daughter she of a gentyll wighte — Highe Foresteer of the Eoyale deere — He had full power of lyfe and lymbe Through alle the Chase, and far and neare. A BALLADE OF MALVERNE CHASE. 91 " Nowe well-adaye ! my hearte is saire ! My hearte is saire ! " cryed that faire ladye ; " Oh woe is me ! if he come not soon, For I shall die in my miserie ! "Oh mickle I feare the fierce Outlawe Wille bee to-daye my Love's undoinge ; For Dunn 0' th' Brande wolde give hys riglite hande To mar my Knyght hys wooinge. " Oh haste awaye ! sith ye love me welle, Looke highe and lowe, by brere and yew ; And I wille give a golden fee To alle who succur my Lover true." They searche them easte, they searche them weste, From Coweleighe Cross to Beweleighe Lane, Or ever they came to the haunted glen, They founde the Knyght and a heape of slaine. By Saint Woolstann ! sin' the worlde beganne Was never, I wis, such a sight to see ! The deade Knyght sat hym against a thorne, And the Outlawes bore hym companie. 92 A BALLADE OF MALVERN E CHASE. For two laye starke at hys lefte hande, As deade were they as a coffin boarde; And eke two more upon hys righte, Pierced throughe and throughe with hys trustye sworde. And he, the Chief, the fierce Outlawe, Hys face as wan as a wyndinge-sheete, Dark Dunn o' th' Brande, without hys righte hande, Laye colde and stille at the Knyght hys feet. Five foes to one, they on hym felle, Five swordes to one throughe halfe the night ; Though five to one, they were overcome, Five foes laye deade in the morninge light. " Xowe take ye boughen from the tree, Nowe make a bedde of the leavis greene ; And we wille beare to holy grounde The bravest Knyght was ever seene." They wende them slowlye throughe the woode, They chaunte a dirge so weird and shrille, She hearde it on the bittere winde, And alle her bloud ranne colde and chille. With water from the holy-welle, With many a signe of the sacred tree, A BALLADE OF MALVERNB CHASE. 93 They washed the brave deade Knyght hys woundes, And brought hym to the Pryourie. In Jesu Chapelle, ryche and dimme, They layed hym, dresst in Death's wycht gowne, Where from each window's pictured pane, Hys deare Lorde Master lookt adowne. " Ah woe is me ! " cryes the sadde Ladye, "My sweete deade Love, he waites hys bride, This night it is our brydal night, And I wille laye me by hys side." In purfled amice dight was she, Alle emerants and pearles wycht, With marriage flouris round her heade, It was, I wis, a pityous sight ! Like wroughten marble was her face, So stedfaste sette in her despaire ; Yet wrung she not her small wycht handes, Nor broke one threade of her raven haire. She moved alonge with firm slowe step, With wide eyne fixt, as she hadde seene A wycht star ou a far-off hille, And heeded not what laye atween. 94 A BALLADE OF MALVBRNE CHASE. So gained she to the Pryourie, "Withouten pause, withouten dreade, Bent over, kist her loved Lord's face, Then laide her by her noble deade. Her maides, a group of flouris pale, Worne by the raine of bittere griefe, Before the Holy Altar kneel, And weepinge, praye for her reliefe. The night weares downe and silence falls, ISTowe lifted by a sobb of woe, And nowe, by chaunte of olden hymne. And sisters' voices softe and lowe. Eftsoons the drearye morninge breakes, The wide worlde wakes to joye or paine : Her maides up from their knees do rise, But she will never wake againe. Her face is as the lilye wycht, Her hande is colde as any stone ; For grief she died on her weddinge night. Sure sadder tale was never knowne ! DBi? tbe Danube. Sonnet. ATTILA. The kingdoms trembled, Princes shook with fear, Imperial Rome flung forth a cry of woe, "When Attila's fierce star's ensanguined glow Had lit, with awful glare, a hemisphere. A prodigy of valour ! 'neath his spear, The startled lions of the West crouch'd low ; Victorious fortune scatter'd every foe, And bade the glory of the Huns appear. But who shall track high Heaven's fateful thread ? A world in arms had fail'd, with war unfurl'd, To strike the blow that in her bridal bed The fair Idolca struck. Her dagger hurl'd From life and strife, ere age had bow'd his head, The " Scourge of God," the " Terror of the World." KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. A.D. IOOO. Night moonless sank on Estergoni, On Palace and on town; But lovingly, like Spirit-eyes, The diamond-stars look'd down. The river Gran swept by to join Her Danube's seaward race ; A willing bride, to throw herself Into his wild embrace. The winds were hush'd, the stately trees Had sway'd themselves to sleep ; And Magyar chief, Sclavonian, Jew, The Christian priest, the Scythian too, Lay wrapp'd in slumber deep. But here and there, among the poor, Gaunt hunger broke the rest ; KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. 99 The squalid babe, with piteous moan, Forsook the famish'd breast ; And haggard men turn'd restlessl}', And women, worn with care, Awoke from dreams of eager feast And groan'd in their despair ; For flocks were few, and fields lay waste, And spades were red with rust, And many a sturdy peasant arm Lay stricken in the dust ; Eeligious war had curs'd the land, And brothers drew the sword, And some for Scythian gods had fought, And some for Christ the Lord. The Palace stands out grim and dark Upon its rocky height ; But, from the middle turret gleams A faint yet steady light. 'Tis from the chamber of the King, King Stephen, good and wise, For him, the gentle dews of sleep Fall not on weary eyes ; Care sits upon his lofty brow, A nation's wearing care ; A nation's sorrow in each line So deeply furrow'd there. A7JVG STEPHEN'S CROWN. To frame good laws and wise decrees, To foster truth and right ; To heal his country's bleeding wounds, He toils into the night. For this, his lonely lamp is lit, His sagest schemes are plann'd ; To make Hungaria strong and free, A great, a Christian land. His taper throws a soften'd light Within that vaulted room ; It falls on battle-dinted shield, On sword and helmet's plume, It creeps along the storied walls, And clasps, with ghostly grace, The arms uncouth of ancient war, The trophies of the chase; It rests on spoils of glorious art Wrought in old Eome or Greece, And on a fair white marble cross, The Christian's sign of peace. Before that cross the Priest-King kneels,- In prayer he seeks relief, Outpouring in the gloom of night The torrent of his grief. KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. " How long, Lord ! shall civil strife Among my people dwell ? How long, Lord ! shall Pagan gloom Against Thy light rebel ? Oh heal the land — a brother's brand Now seeks a brother's life ; Oh heal the land — the husband's hand Is raised against the wife ; Oh heal the land — our flocks are few, Thy poor are hardly fed ; Oh heal the land — our fields are bare, Thy children cry for bread. Arise ! and break the Pagan chains, And set the prisoners free ; ' Arise ! with healing in Thy wings,' And draw all men to Thee." King Stephen rose, he paced the room ; High-heap'd before him spread A waste of gold and precious gems ; Then, musingly, he said — " gold, red gold, a gift, a curse, A blessing, used aright, A curse, if used for selfish ends, Thou break'st my sleep to-night ! KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. I give thee to a craftsman's hand, Well-skill'd, of fair renown, To make, adorn'd with these rich gems, My Coronation Crown ; While all around my Palace gates, With nought to purchase bread, This scroll declares — the poor abound, Unclothed, umvarm'd, unfed. Xow, by the Eood ! for brighter days My crown shall wait — full sure Its gold would scorch my brow and brain If taken from the poor. gold, red gold, a gift, a curse, A blessing, used aright, A cuvse, if used for selfish ends, Thou break 'st my sleep to-night." The King drew on an ample cloak ; He took his golden store ; Stepp'd through his sleeping guards, unseen, And pass'd the outer door. He gain'd the town ; he sought the poor, The sick, infirm, and old ; And at each door the good King laid A piece of shining gold. KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. 103 The hours flew by, but onward still, Still on the monarch went; A faint flush graced the eastern sky ; The golden store was spent. Pull many a heart grew glad next day, And each the wonder told, How a good Angel had come down And strew'd the town with gold. A year pass'd by — a wondrous crown, With sapphire lights inlaid, To Stephen came. Rome's mighty Pope The splendid offering made. A wondrous crown of beaten gold, With many a diamond spark Outlooking from each subtle sphere, Like stars from out the dark. And twelve enamels of the Saints And holy men of eld, Refulgent with the tints of noon, In golden circlets held ; And in the centre, Christ the Lord With long dishevell'd curls, Framed fair in amethystine rays And the sheeny light of pearls. 104 KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. And from the circle's sparkling rim Nine golden chains hung down ; While mystic trefoils, diamond-lit, Adorn'd King Stephen's crown. Eight royally the monarch wore That crown through changeful years ; But fairer than its fairest gem His blameless life appears. He law from out disorder drew, And with an arm of might Drove Wrong to cower in its den Abash'd before the Eight ; Broke up the Pagan hordes, and ere He pass'd to brighter day, Beheld the Christian verities Hold universal sway. From Tatra's crags to Duna's banks, And Thesis' watery hem, Was felt the firm wise rule of him Who wore that diadem. At length, full flush'd with golden years, True love, and reverence wide, He laid, amid a people's tears, His earthly rule aside. But a better crown awaited him, A beam of his Master's love ; KING STEPHEN'S CROWN. 105 A glory round his sainted brow, In the Heavenly Courts above. Though dead and gone, in smiles, in tears, His lamp still shines through misty years, Still greets us from afar. Undirnm'd by time, unquench'd by might, The Magyar turns to bless its light, His country's morning-star ! WARRIOR, RISE.' The Lion has bounded from his lair ; He tosses his mane to the startled air ; The voice of his thunder stretches wide ; The shepherd turns pale on the mountain-side. Warrior, rise ! thy weapon draw, Save the Lamb from the Lion's paw. The Eagle has soar'd above his nest ; The towering crags beneath him rest ; He watches, fierce- eyed, each fleecy troop, And poises his wings for the fatal swoop. Warrior, rise ! thy weapon draw, Save the Lamb from the Eagle's claw. WARRIOR, RISE! 107 The foeman has cross'd the guardian pass ; His spears, as the forest, make night on the grass : As clouds are his banners ; his hands are red ; The green earth trembles beneath his tread. Warrior, warrior ! draw thy brand, Strike for Home and Fatherland ! THE BLACK PLUME. " On the wide plains of Pannonia, Cymbals clash, and trumpets blare, In the sacred strife for freedom, Calling me to do and dare. Must I leave thee ? near one — dear one ! Answer, wife ! " Then answer'd she — " Take the sword thy fathers fought with. Strike for Hungary and for me." 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves silently Fall at her feet. Yonder move the Austrian masses ; Death stands facing every eye ; But their hearts refuse to falter, They will conquer or will die. THE BLACK PLUME. 109 " Magyars ! " cries their leader gaily — " White hands this good falchion gave ; For our loved ones, follow swiftly Where you see my black plume wave." 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. Din of drums and bray of bugles, Martial-music's rousing swell, Poll of muskets, boom of cannon, Whiz of shot and bursting shell, War-horse snorting, sabres clashino- Cries of men who scorn to yield, Wail of wounded, groans of dying, Pise up from the battlefield. 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. Brute-force, with its surging thousands, Eears aloft its hydra-head, Pouring from its deadly trenches — Pouring fiery showers of lead. THE BLACK PLUME. 'Mid the blue smoke waves a black plume, Where the bellowing cannon roar, Where the bullets fall as hailstones, And the sod is wet with gore. 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. Onward sweeps the tide of conflict In its red resistless course ; Fierce as ocean lash'd to fury, Breaking with a mighty force ; But as rock against the waters Stand the patriot few to-day. Marvel not ! they fight for country, Home, and freedom, in the fray. 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. " Yonder ! past their bristling cannon, Yonder, brothers, must we go ; Years of wrong, one hour of vengeance — Let us grapple with the foe ! " THE BLACK PLUME. Up the steep he bears the colours — Talpra vitez ! ours the day ! Hark ! their elgin smites the Heavens, And the grim foe melts away. 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. As the driftwood of the forest When the whirlwind rushes through, When the boughs are bare in winter, Fled the many from the few ; Left their guns, and left their trenches, Left their wounded, and their slain, Left their colours, and their comrades, On the cumber'd battle-plain. 'Neath the old linden-tree, Sits the wife dreamily ; Wither'd leaves sighingly Fall at her feet. Where the mound of death was deepest, Lay the black plume, fleck'd with blood ; Lay their hero, gash'd and gory, Stiffen'd in a crimson'd flood. THE BLACK PLUMB. But a look of joy and triumph Graced his features calm and proud, And the colours that he carried Cover'd him as with a shroud. 'Neath the old linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily, Wither'd leaves sighingly, Fall at her feet. Now the sky is black and murky, And the wind wails o'er the plain, Soft and mournful, nature's sorrow For the orphans and the slain ; And they bury him, their darling ! Stout of heart, the true and tried, On the red field where he conquer' d In his glory and his pride. Still, 'neath the linden-tree Sits the wife dreamily, "Wither'd leaves sighingly, Moaningly, dyingly, Fall at her feet. SHADOWS. A Tiszian maiden, Laughter-laden, Leant beside a garden gate ; Musing, smiling, Self-beguiling, Thinking on her absent mate. A Chikosh, youthful, Honest, truthful, Was that favour'd absent mate ; Came he slyly, Look'd round shyly, Then stood bashful near the gate. He was gallant, Brave and gallant, Stout of heart, and stout of limb ; H 114 SHADOWS. But, through Cupid He look'd stupid ; She look'd furtively at him. Lost in wonder, Quite asunder, Stood he from that dark-eyed maid. " Why so slyly Come you nigh me ? You're not wanted, sir,'' she said. " See — our shadows, Our two shadows, Painted by the slanting sun. Madre might see, So might Padre — Would the shadows could be one! " If, when keeping Watch, and peeping, Madre see one shadow lie, From her curtain, She'll feel certain I'm alone, and you're not by." SHADOWS. 115 Still in wonder, Still asunder, Stood lie from that Tiszian maid ; Eyes paid duty To her beauty, But to near — he seem'd afraid. Then she pouted, Then she flouted, Then she said her finger pain'd — He stood sighing, Vainly trying Some sweet speech which he had feign'd. From her bright eyes Dancing light flies, Crowds his pulses with a glow. Each grows dearer, Shadows nearer Tremble as the moments go. Peelings thronging, Yearning, longing, Their hands meet — they can't tell how ; Coldness dies off, Shyness flies off, Tongue-tied he no longer now. n 6 SHADOWS. And she nestles, To him nestles, Glowing, willing to be prest ; While his strong arms Fold her young charms To his bunda-cover'd breast. And he prays her, Fondly prays her, To become his own — his wife ; Two no longer, Loving stronger, One in heart, and one in life. She replying, Not denying, " See, my heart, the sinking sun On the pad throws Not hco shadows, Love has made our shadows one." BY THE WATCH-FIRE. " Come, heap more wood upon the fire, And bid the red wine flow ; The night we'll give to song and mirth, The morrow to the foe ! The Turkish hosts, by Duna's side, In swarthy myriads lie, Thick as the falling forest leaves, When autumn winds are high ; Thick as the locusts on the march, When the springing corn is green, The winged thieves spread right and left, And nothing lives between. They come, as in the days of old, When Bela was our King, The Mongul monsters came, and stung Our sires with deadly sting. u8 BY THE WATCH-FIRE. They come, as then, to sack, to burn, To make a blacken'd track Of this, our own, our sunny land — Shall we not drive them back ? Ay, Brothers ! like a storm we'll rise And sweep them from the sod ; For we shall strike for hearth and home, For country, and for God ! Then heap more wood upon the fire, And bid the red wine flow ; The night we'll give to song and mirth, The morrow to the foe." Thus spake a Hunnish warrior eld (Brave Bator was he hight), As round the watch-fire group'd his band, The eve before the fight. Then rising to his feet, he said — "While eyes were bent on him — " Fill, fill this mighty cup with wine ; Ay, fill it to the brim — And here's a pledge, and here's a name, As the goblet passes round, Shall speed the life-blood to your heart, And make your pulses bound. The Magyar loves the tented field, The war-horse, and the lance, BY THE WATCH-FIRE. 119 The merry trill of gipsy song, The twinkle of the dance, The bright eyes of a maiden brown, The rich wine, as it glows, But deeper still — a crowned King To lead him on his foes ! And since great Arpad taught us war, Was never such a knight In hall, or camp, in love, or strife, As I will name to-night. Drink to our strong and dauntless King, Matthias, firm and free ! God give him health ! God give him wealth ! To-morrow — victory ! Then heap more wood upon the fire, And bid the red wine flow ; The night we'll give to song and mirth, The morrow to the foe ! " ILLONA. Oh ! I have lost Illona, My love with the shining hair, And night-dark eyes, So deep and wise, And brow divinely fair. I have sought her in the meadows, And 'neath the rowan-tree, "Where, in the glow Of a young moon's bow, She gave her heart to me. Say — have you seen Illona ? My wild wood-flower, Illona ? Her voice is sweet, Her foot is fleet, Dark-eyed Illona ! ILLONA. II. I have wander'd by the river, By the music-making rills ; I have stray'd beside The waters wide, I have rambled o'er the hills ; But ah ! I cannot find her, I fear that she is dead, And I would rest On her cold breast This weary, wilder 'd head. Soon I shall die, Illona, My goddess-brow'd Illona ; The cut branch weeps, The dead branch sleeps, Dark-eyed Illona. in. Last night, last night I saw her All in a winding sheet ; She seem'd to glide O'er Duna's tide With moonbeams at her feet. She raised a weird wan finger, And bent her eyes on me, ILLONA. And whisper'd low, So faint and low, Oh come ! Oh come to me ! I come, I come, Illona ! The long light breaks, Illona In spirit-land, I touch thy hand, Dark-eyed Illona ! BATTHYANYI. At night in my dreams thou art with me ; I gaze on thy soul-beaming face ; I drink thy sweet breath, and I fold thee So long in a tender embrace. Our little one nestles beside thee, Asleep in its ivory nest — Forgotten my chains and my anguish; I pillow my head on thy breast. Thy lips breathe my name in a murmur ; Thy white hand clasps mine, as of old ; I wake — all my fetters are clanking, And the wind through my dungeon blows cold. — ^z^m^s^ — THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. In one of the three chapels planted round the churchyard of St. Peter's Church, outside of the walls of the town of Straubing, a tomb- stone is pointed out as that which covers the grave of the unfortu- nate Agnes Bernauer. Though the daughter of a humble citizen of Augsberg, this fair damsel by her beauty and virtue gained the heart of Albert, son of Duke Ernest of Bavaria. Albert was privately married to her, but, unfortunately for the happiness of the youthful couple, their secret reached the ears of the Duke, who had planned for his son a more exalted match. The father, taking advantage of his son's absence, caused Agnes to be seized, condemned to death upon false accusations, and cast from the Bridge of Straubing into the Danube. Having succeeded in freeing herself from her bonds, the poor victim, shrieking for help and mercy, endeavoured to reach the bank, and had nearly effected a landing, when a miscreant caught her by her long hair, and dragging her back into the stream, held her under water until the tragedy was completed. The fury and despair of Albert on hearing of her shameful death were boundless. He fled, and in open rebellion joined the army of Louis the Bearded, his father's bitterest foe, and with him invaded his native land to take vengeance on the murderers of his bride. The chronicler adds that this deadly and unnatural feud lasted tor many years. THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. " He said, ' I will return ere dark ; ' He told me not to fear: The dark has come, the stars are out, But Albert is not here. Behind the open lattice, where We twain have sat, I wait, That I may rush to meet him, when His hand is on the gate. How fair the days have dawn'd for me Since that sweet Easter-tide, When love amidst its flowers came And claim'd me as a bride ! " sweet half-year of cloudless skies ! fields and happy flowers ! sunny morns ! golden nights ! laughter-laden hours ! 126 THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. A step — he comes ! Alas ! 'tis gone — It passes by the gate ; Some weary peasant trudging home — Lie still, poor heart, and wait ! " How weirdly loom the poplars tall ! The passion-flowers o'erhead Are trembling, yet I feel no wind ; And now a bloom falls dead. The farthest darkness seems to take Strange shapes that cheat tbe eye ; The very silence throbs with sounds — I listen, and they die. He said, 'I will return ere dark ; ' He told me not to fear. The dark has come, the stars are out, But Albert is not here. ' Why comes he not ? I know he seeks The Duke, his haughty sire, Duke Ernest, stern, they say, and proud, Of fierce and vengeful ire ; And he will tell of all our love, How he woo'd and won his bride, And I shall ride in cloth-of-gold, A lady by his side ; THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. 127 For ere he left he kiss'd me thrice, And press'd me to his heart — ' Sweet Agnes, till our days be done No power shall make us part ; And by my knightly faith I swear That thou shalt take thy stand Before the world, my wedded wife, The proudest in the land ! ' These were his words, his last loved words — Why is my heart not light ? Why sits a fear of coming woe Upon my soul to-night? The air seems stirr'd with viewless wings, My senses creep with dread ; Is it the pulsing of my heart, Or did I hear his tread ? He said ' T will return ere dark ; ' He told me not to fear : The dark has come, the moon is up, But Albert is not here. " He comes ! he comes ! my own ! my life ! Fly, laggard love, be fleet ! But hark ! What means this sound of tongues, This noise of many feet ? Why comes he not alone to-night ? " But ere her words had died, 128 THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. Three armed men of savage mien Rush'd in and seized the bride. " Unhand me ! — Hold ! what want you here ? Can it be gold you seek ? " Amazed at such rare loveliness, Those rough men could not speak, But each fell back, and silent gazed On face and ruffled brow ; — Duke Ernest, Lord of all the land, Enters the chamber now. " Oh where is Albert ? — speak, my Lord, — My Albert, brave and true ? " " Peace," said the Duke, " that knight is lost For evermore to you." "Kay, nay, my Lord, recall your words, Pray God it may not be ! Por I am all the world to him, And he is all to me." She sank down in a suppliant curve, So innocent, so sweet ; She look'd up in his frowning face, She clung about his feet : " You will not part us, gentle Duke, No ! no ! 'twere death in life ! He is my husband, leal and true, And I am his true wife." THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. 129 Duke Ernest forth a casket drew, Which holy relics hid from view, And said, " Know I full sure That thou art not Lord Albert's wife ; Now swear on these for very life He is thy paramour. Nay, start not ! frown not ! thou canst make Of me a foe or friend ; Deny this rite, this marriage-bond, So shall mischances end; These men will bear thee far away Safe to a distant land, With dainty robes, and costly gems, And gold at thy command ; The fragrant dish, the silken couch, The red juice of the vine, And all that makes life full of life, I promise shall be thine. Upon these sacred relics swear Thou art not wedded wife ; But dare refuse — this scroll condemns : To-night I take thy life." She started proudly to her feet, She spake with flashing eye, " That I am Albert's wedded wife I never will deny. 130 THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. Though life to me is dear and sweet, And death a gloomy shore, Though I love life so well," she said, " I love my honour more." The old knight clench'd his mailed hand. He stamp'd his foot in scorn : " Prat'st thou of honour thus, forsooth ? Thou, a poor peasant born ? Thou art a witch ; by hellish arts Hast thou beguiled my son." " Now, by the Holy Cross," said she, " No witch-deed have I done ; He sought me for my own poor sell, Though high in rank was he He woo'd and won my virgin heart, And then he wedded me. Yes, wedded me ! in Holy Church Was breathed the mystic vow ; And though I was a peasant born, I am his equal now I " A coarse curse, like an adder, hiss'd From fierce lips parch'd and white : " The eagle mates not with the crow ; The crow shall die to-night." He gave a sign his creatures knew ; Obeying it full soon, THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. 131 They drag her, fair as sculptured saint, Beneath the peering moon. Along the dusty road they trail Her dark dishevell'd hair — Would that brave Albert, sword in hand, Could meet those ruffians there ! They reach old Straubing's fatal bridge — Ah ! deed of dire disgrace — The sad moon hides behind a cloud Her pale affrighted face : The Danube roars, the deep wind wails, The night-birds loudly scream ; One long, lorn, terror-laden cry — They've thrown her in the stream. The clouds clear off, and silvery beams A halo round her throw, Illume each stone upon the bridge, Each broken wave below. See ! see ! she breasts the angry flood, She struggles with the tide, She nears the bank — by all the Saints She'll reach the further side ! Oh haste thee ! haste thee, gallant knight ! And give a helping hand ; 132 THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. Yea ! leap into the swollen stream, And draw her safe to land. He grasps her flowing hair — and now — God ! that there should be In all the world so black a heart, So base a wretch as he ! He holds her head beneath the surge — A struggle — all is o'er — And she, so lovely and so true, Is still for evermore. A great light on the waters fell, Sweet whispers floated by, And melting strains of far-off song Were wafted from the sky ; And then a wreath of mist arose From the spot where Agnes sank ; Duke Ernest saw it seek the stars, Then, shuddering, left the bank. Fair Agnes — many a bard has sung Her beauty and her bale, And many a fair Bavarian maid Has wept to hear her tale ; Wept too for Albert, hapless knight, Who, hastening to her side, THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. 133 Met on the bridge her murder'd corse, Just rescued from the tide. He took her cold, cold hand in his, And there with passionate breath He swore, upon her silent heart, He would avenge her death. Long years have past, in Straubing town, By Danube's turbid wave ; They still show, near its ancient church, Her venerated grave. And History tells how civil war Eaged like a roaring flood ; How son 'gainst sire waged deadly strife, And dyed the land with blood ; And how the old Duke mourn'd his heir, As the ghastly years went by, While in his lurid soul was nursed The worm that would not die. HARALD. (FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAN'D.) Before his glittering retinue Eides Harald, brave and good, Eides with his band, all moonbeam lit, Into the haunted wood. They bear aloft the banner won In field of fiercest fight ; Their songs of war and victory Startle the solemn night. But ah ! what stirs in bush and tree, Sails on each bright moonbeam, Drops from the violet-tinted clouds, Springs from the ferny stream ? HARALD. 135 Fair forms that 'mid the horsemen glide, Strewing fresh flowers around, While sweet songs through the leafy wood Enchantingly resound. They weave white arms round stalwart necks, Warming each mailed breast ; Their kisses fall on bearded mouths So tenderly carest. They draw, then fling the swords away, With wiles that still increase ; They lure the warriors from their steeds, And rob them of their peace. They are the bright elves of the wood, A semi-human band — Spellbound, each warrior leaves his lord, And goes to faery-land. But he, Sir Harald, brave and free, All clad in armour tried, Still holds his good sword in his hand, And will not turn aside. His knights, his squires have gone — there lie Their swords and bucklers good ; 136 HARALD. Each proud steed, from his master freed, Flies wild within the wood. Sad, sorrow-laden, 'mid dim trees That flung weird arms on high, He rode, and reach'd where rugged rocks Were piled against the sky. And water, crystalline and cool, From out the grey rocks burst ; Sir Harald sprang down from his horse, For he was sore athirst. He scarce had quench'd his thirst, and laid His helmet on the bank, When all the vigour of his limbs Forsook him, and he sank — He sank upon the rock. The stream In awful splendour leapt ; The Lethe draught benumb'd his soul, He nodded, and he slept. And still he slumbers, head on breast, Though centuries have flown : His grey beard waves, his armour shakes Upon the rugged stone. HARALD. '37 When lightnings flash, and thunders roll, And storms roar through the trees, The peasant hears him draw his sword, And clank it in the breeze. FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE. I look on thee, sweet floweret, So fresh, and pure, and fair ; While on my heart creeps slowly The shadow of a care. I'd lay my hands devoutly Upon thy golden hair ; And pray God keep thee ever, As fresh, and pure, and fair. t^£ Song. HOME. (FROM THE GERMAN.) Ask'd I the weary wanderer, " Whence comest thou ? " " Home, Home, from Home.' He sigh'd, with sadden'd brow. Ask'd I then the peasant boy, " Whither thy way ? " " Home, Home, my Home ! " He cried in accents gay. Ask'd I next a smiling one, " Where dwells delight ? " " Home, Home, at Home ! " Said he, with glances bright. 140 HOME. Ask'st thou me why oft I sigh ? Why restless roam ? — Home, Home, no Home, I have no more a Home ! Song. GUTEN MORGEN. Guten Morgen I Drowsy flowers, On your eyelids hangs the dew ; Waken, waken, sleepy flowers, I have come to talk to you. Send your sweet breaths o'er the lea, O'er the lea, To a maiden fair to see, Fair to see, And I'll greet you heartily, Guten Morgen ! Guten Morgen ! I will greet you tenderly, Guten Morgen ! Guten Morgen ! Golden sunbeam, Sailing on the morning air, 142 GUTEN MORGBN. Will you take a message, sunbeam, To a maiden passing fair ? Gild the couch where sleepeth she, "Where sleepeth she, Kiss her cheek, and say from me, Say from me, That I greet her heartily, Guten Morgen ! Guten Morgen ! That I love her tenderly, Guten Morgen ! flDiscellaneous. THE BEDFORDSHIRE PLAIT GIRL. Before a rustic cottage door, And sitting in the sun, I saw a girl some eight years old, And another little one. Each left arm held a hoop of plait Fast growing to a score ; For quickly moved their fingers small As I drew near the door. Well done ! my tiny folks," said I ; Then, to the elder maid, Is this your little sister here, So busy at her trade ? " K 146 THE BEDFORDSHIRE PLAIT GIRL. " Yes, sir,'' she said, and from her mouth Another straw she took ; "An' that's my hrother Billy there, ' A plattin' by the brook." " Do others plait as young as you ? " " Why, yes, in course they do ! There's Billy, he are less than she, An' Billy, he plaits too." " You love a game, I'm sure," said I, " When plaiting task is o'er." " Yes, mother lets us play sometimes, When we 'ave done our score." " Of course you go to school," I said ; She shook her sunny head ; " Oh please sir, we don't go to school, We 'as to earn our bread." " You cannot read ? " " Xo sir, not yet ; But Jane Smith can, I'm told ; And as for I, I means to try — " That is, when I are old." " What can you earn ? You cannot say ; Come, try and give a guess." THE BEDFORDSHIRE PLAIT GIRL. 147 " Well, sometimes eight'u pence a week, But sometimes I earns less. " When father had the fever, sir, We little money got ; But a lady came and buy'd my plait, An' then I earn'd a lot ! " But mother splits the straws for me, An' she does more nor that ; She clips the ends, an' mills it too, Afore she sells the plait. "An' then she takes all what we've made, An' though it rains or snows, To sell it all, on market-days, To Dunstable she goes. "But mother says that, by-and-by, If I makes 'aste an' grows, As I shall go to Luton, sir, Where everybody sews ! " I do so long for that to come, I are so proud to grow ; They don't do plait at Luton, sir, They only has to sew ! " THE BEDFORDSHIRE PLAIT GIRL. Hard-working little lass ! thought I, Thou'st taught, in childish speech, How much akin are human aims, Link'd closely each to each. Some distant Luton we desire, Some duty we despise ; We plan, we strive, we hope, until The long sleep shuts our eyes. MEMORY PICTURES. Upon the mirror-surface of the mind The Beautiful imprints itself, in shades And colours of its own, and thenceforth lives, Through passing days and all the weighted years, A precious picture of the memory. Not all of Beauty seen by us so lives, But that which flashing on the inward sight Beveals its sense to ours and stays with us, Grows part of us and makes us rich, becomes What he, " the sweet dead singer," call'd " a joy For ever." I, with eyelids closed, behold At times, imperfectly, as if a mist Had drawn itself across, at times most clear, These dear presentments of the past. 150 MEMORY PICTURES. The scene, The hour, I first confronted face to face The unutterable wonder of the sea ; The birth of day, when snowy mountain peaks Were drench'd with glory by the climbing sun ; A rose-clad cottage, sloping into shade Of apple boughs ; a green path through a wood, "With burning gold of broom on either hand ; Night on an English river, meadows dark, Whose willows, drooping low with sorrowing leaves, At sound of sweet sad music trembling near, Wept tears of moonlight in the sleeping stream. Amid such pictures of my buried days, Familiar as the face of long-loved friend, There comes to me at times, when lights are low, And silence sits beside me in the house, One scene, of all most vividly impress'd, When tender chords gave Heavenly symphonies, And unlock'd hearts closed not again for joy. Ah ! who hath not in memory's secret cell, Enshrined 'mid holy things, fresh, truthful, pure, The tender reflex of a human face ? Ah ! I have one, a winsome, speaking face, A gentle woman's trusting, loving face. I see it now, as when, a passionate boy, MEMORY PICTURES. 151 In village school — extemporised a church — I saw it first. The forms so closely placed, The narrow room — seat opposite to seat — The sermon long, and logical, and dry ; And yet regretfully I heard it close, For holy music murmur'd in my ear, And, 'neath a winter cloak, my young heart saw The folded whiteness of an Angel's wings, And found a Heaven in those sea-grey eyes. Beloved face ! I greet thee yet again ; Age cannot dim thy beauty, cankering care Can 'grave no furrows on thy lovely brow ; No silver rivulets can ever run Adown the masses of thy golden hair ; The bloom upon thy cheek can never fade, The redness of thy lips, the trembling light Of those sweet eyes can never pass away. As long as reason sits upon its throne, As long as these poor pulses beat, so long, Fair picture of my youth, wilt thou endure. CONCERNING LOVE. You know not what you ask — to bid me tell, In words, the wonder of the Love-god's spell. 'Tis vain, dear Heart ! I'd need Apollo's lyre To breathe the love-thonghts which your eyes inspire. Those thoughts are finer than the spider's wire ; And they are warmer than the mountain's fire ; And deeper than the ocean's hidden wells ; And fairer than his coral caves and shells, His sea-nymphs, running fingers through their curls, In crystal caverns lit with sheeny pearls. Ah, love ! and wider than the southern seas ; Sweeter than honey of Mellona's bees ; Swifter in flight to you than winged fire — How, then, could language compass such desire ? IreillPlf ^^^^^^^ffl ISiliiilB ^^^^S^^^>®^^^^^^^^ ife^^B' 5 ^^^^ 5 ^S*ci*WS i^^^^fe?^il2ife^^«*** Song. WHEN OUR PRINCE CAME HOME. Broke the gladsome day in glory, When our Prince came home ; Broke in flame the headlands hoary, When our Prince came home. On the happy winds our streamers Swept from towers, ships, and steamers, And our big guns woke the dreamers, When our Prince came home. Clash'd the bells from every steeple, When our Prince came home ; While the cheers of Britain's people, When our Prince came home, 154 WHEN OUR PRINCE CAME HOME. Clave the listening air asunder, "Woke the echoes with their thunder, Woke the whole wide world in wonder, When our Prince came home. Warm the welcome true and loyal, When our Prince came home ; Like himself, free, frank, and royal, When our Prince came home. Dangers dared by land and ocean, With a patriot's deep devotion, Woke the breath of our emotion, When our Prince came home. Every hand was raised to greet him, When our Prince came home ; All our love went forth to meet him, When our Prince came home ; For his noble brave endeavour East and West to link together In our hearts sank deep for ever, When our Prince came home. MY LOVE IS A FLOWER. My Love is a flower Amid the leaves sleeping ; I, the air round her bower, Guard the sleep of my flower, Dry the tears of each hour, And the night-dews of weepim my Love is a flower Amid the leaves sleeping ! My Love is a linnet In golden furze nesting ; I, her mate, every minute By the nest of my linnet, Sing songs to her in it, Sing songs to her, resting. my Love .is a linnet In "olden furze nesting ! [56 MY LOVE IS A FLOWER. My Love is a peach All the sunbeams are kissing ; I am jealous of each For kissing my peach ; Mine the hand that can reach, And she soon will be missing. my Love is a peach All the sunbeams are kissing ! -*& My Love is a maiden With glint-o'-gold tresses ; Just an angel from Aidenn Is my faery-sweet maiden ; I, her lover, am laden With a lover's caresses. my Love is a maiden With crlint-o'-gold tresses ! SYMPATHY. How shall I breathe to thee From my worn heart, Words of sweet sympathy, Thoughts that shall solace thee In thy hard part ? How shall I preach to thee The sacred strain ; Tell thee, thy loss is gain ; Tell thee, thy grief is joy ; Tell thee, thou'lt meet thy boy In Heaven again ? This part is not for me, Mine, silently shall be, To weep with thee. 158 SYMPATHY. When slips away The dreary day Behind the rounded hills, and solemn night, Enthroned amid her stars of argent light, Eules the still world— the mourner's cherish'd hour, Sacred to grief, and that mysterious power Which we call memory — Then, my part shall be To weep with thee. When thou, bereft of sleep, Shalt prayerful vigil keep, And, peering in the gloom Of thy encurtain'd room, Shalt see, in vision-wise, his little cot, Shalt hear his evening prayer, And kiss his forehead fair, Stroke his yellow hair, Then listen for thy darling's sleeping breath, Now hush'd in death ; And when Eeality, with stony eyes, Sits on thy couch, and thou dost realise The dread decree — " Thou shalt go to him, but he Shall not, shall not return to thee ; " When the fountains of thy woe Thine eyelids overflow, SYMPATHY. 159 Drenching thy pillow in a bitter sea, Then will I think of thee, Then my part shall be To weep with thee. Weep, 'twill ease thy pain ; Tears are the kindly rain By Heaven sent To moisten our hard hearts beneath its sky, Lest they should shrink, and shrivel, and be dry ; Lest the white blooms of Charity should die, Faded and spent. Oh ! there is joy in sadness, There is bliss in tears — Amid the summer showers, The arched bow appears — A promise gleaming through the mists of years, In characters that burn and glow — Sorrow shall cease— tears shall not always flow. ENDEAVOUR. Go forward, strive, and nobly show- On the battlefield of life, That whosoe'er may be the foe Thou'rt equal to the strife. Thy heart is warm, thy arm is strong, Thou soar'st on eager wings — Fear not, the harp will give her song, If we rightly touch the strings. THE LAY OF NOBODY. In Demogorgon's reign, long years gone by, When gods and goddesses dwelt on this earth, "When Cybele's fair mountain pierced the sky, So ancient legends say, I had my birth. It happen'd thus : — An oracle foretold That if the monarch dug with spade of gold Beneath a twisted thorn, some centuries old, Deep under ground, And round and round, A wondrous baby would be found. The mighty monarch bared his kingly arm, And with the golden spade essay'd the charm ; The stubborn earth gave way to left and right, Eocks, rent and riven by the monarch's might, L 1 62 THE LAY OF NOBODY. Eoll'd down the echoing hills, till yawning wide A chasm open'd in the mountain side ; The old tree groan' d, and moan'd, and creak'd in pain, The wind sobb'd through the boughs, the tender rain Came down in tear-drops ; still the glowing King Delved with a will, and thus did blithely sing — " A delver am I — ha, ha ! In the earth beneath the sun, Happy am I, ha, ha ! For my work is bravely done. 'Tis good to dig, dig, dig, Out of the heat and cold ; And hurrah for the spade that can dig, dig, dig, The spade of the yellow gold ! " " A delver am I — ha, ha ! Under the pleasant ground, Happy am I, ha, ha ! As I dig round and round. Oh fat is the earth to dig, dig, dig, In riches to have and hold ; And hurrah for the spade that can dig, dig, dig, The spade of the yellow gold ! " THE LAY OF NOBODY. 163 The monarch paused, and prest his streaming brow — " A baby-ruler is the prize — I vow, Ye gods ! I'll win it ! " With might and main He delved again ; Then listen'd in the cleft to catch some sound. It came — at last ! success his labours crown'd, golden minute ! He search'd his self- wrought cave — and found — Nobody in it. So underneath that gnarled and twisted thorn, Nobody saw the light, and I was born. The gods in conclave then, to mark my birth, Gave me as dower, The wide-wing'd power, To rule, and school, And sometimes fool the earth ; But, harsh condition, on my shoulders hurl'd Full half the crimes and blunders of the world. Supine the monarch lay on throne of state, Attendant gods around his footstool wait ; From labour resting, calm as night was he, His vacant eyes, half closed, beholding me. 1 64 THE LAY OF NOBODY. Then one, with low obeisance, straight began — " Great Sire of earth — the creature, known as man, Will chant the praises of this quest of thine ; "Will grave, in future days, the golden line In which a world thy attributes may scan. I draw aside the veil. Behold the sea ! The seething waters of futurity ! Across the billowy road I gaze, A myriad voices thus attune thy praise." " Demogorgon ! ruler of the earth ! Who underground, Nobody found, And gave" Nobody birth, All hail to thee for thy great quest — Nobody hast thou loved, Nobody blest, Nobody' help'd, Nobody raised, Nobody cheer'd, Nobody praised ; Through all thy days, Nobody's friend hast stood, And with thy gold hast done Nobody good." The monarch smiled his thanks. The gods dispersed, In knots and groups my varied points rehearsed. Said one — " His face is like a sun's — high-brow'd, What time the sun is hidden by a cloud." And one — -'' His voice is sweet as song of bird, Or laugh of waters by the sleepers heard." THE LAY OF NOBODY. 16; A third — " The spell of form and shape I find Within the rushing vortex of his mind." To whom — a youthful god — " This morn I caught His clear-cut face, in woven mists inwrought With sudden phantasies of glowing thought, As one who, looking through the night, sees nought." Whereat the goddesses upon the air Flung rhythmic flatteries, and lightly sware, Compared with them, that Nobody was fair. Smile, sweet Enchantress ! as I wake the string, Myself the burthen of the song I sing ; The poet's lyre adorn with myrtle sprays, Beguile my fancy up thy mist-crown'd ways As, critic-like, I spread the praise. Of Nobody. Great and strong, Mighty powers to me belong Over earth and sky, And the forces that lie In nature and god-like mind. Nobody human thought can bind, And if it pleasure be, Fierce human will, as a lion tamed, Can lead in captivity ; 1 66 THE LAY OF NOBODY. Can quench in the hearts of the young and free The light of love and of liberty. The secrets of nature, as time flows on, I gather as shells by the sea — While the secrets of men, Are "within my ken, Though hidden they be. I mount and I fly on Fancy's wings, So list to the melody Nobody sings. High, high ! Nobody can fly In the liquid air, 'Neath the azure sky — Nobody can sail on the clouds outroll'd In waves of crimson and burnish'd gold ; The mountains o'ertop where the rivers are born ; Eing the green earth, while the amber morn Slips through the bars of the star-gemm'd night ; And shadowless, bright, Flash through the zones on a shaft of light. Fire, fire ! Nobody can live In the furnace fire, And laugh as the flames mount higher and higher ; THE LAY OF NOBODY. 167 Can handle live coals, as a child at play With the daisies of March or the roses of May — Can track the red flame to the home of its birth In the central fires of the globed earth ; And 'mid the volcano's fierce sulphurous play, Can mount on the lava and soar away — Away, and away, Where human foot never hath sullied the clay, Where the flowers all day With the little winds play, And the winds, all the hours, Kiss the mouths of the flowers, And carry their love-breath away — There, flying, I stray, Light-hearted and gay, As an iris-wing'd Psyche of Castalay. The sea, the sea ! The grey-green sea, Nobody can live 'neath the rolling sea, In the fathomless deeps Where the mermaiden sleeps, By the rocks brown and bare Where she combeth her hair ; 'Mid the billows' white foam, Where she maketh her home, — 1 68 THE LAY OF NOBODY. And down, down, Where the seaweed brown Waves like a wood in the fields of the sea ; In the pink-coral caves, In the nest of the waves, There Nobody loves to be. The Pole, the Pole ! Nobody has found that mystic goal, Has climb'd its ice-walls stair by stair — Nor penguin nor seal haunts its desolate shore, No petrel shrieks in its gelid air — The albatross will not venture there — But the wild winds howl, and the tempests pour, The ice-floes grind, and crash, and roar, And I and death reign evermore. Air, water, fire, my will obey, Their viewless ministrants I lead; The future, as a scroll, I read, I make the fleeting present stay. I track within the vale of time That future veil'd in mist and rain, I count its argosies of pain, And catch the music of its rhyme. THE LAY OF NOBODY. 169 I sail across its sullen seas, And dip adown its nether world, And know, before my sails are furl'd, The gulf and all its mysteries. Nobody sees the nameless graves By ocean hid, by forest gloom'd, Sees one, in growing snow entomb'd, Fold unto fold, where winter raves — His grave who call'd his seamen forth, "Who pass'd the eternal Arctic gate, And on by many a frozen strait, And bitter winding of the North ; Who sought to find the farthest shore, And found the end of all his days, And sleeps within the silent ways, Where only G-od had moved before. Ah me, Time goes, Its dark sea flows ; As its waves roll outward My knowledge grows. Hearken thou, before its close, And learn the things Nobody knows. 17 o THE LAY OF NOBODY. Nobody knows When the iron-shod heel of the despot Might Shall trample no more the form of Eight. Nobody knows When the sordid souls of the young and old Shall cease to bow down to the idol Gold ; Deeming not then, what they cannot endure, As the worst of all crimes, the crime to be poor. Nobody knows When Truth, as the lily, shall bloom on high, When the weeds of the False shall wither and die Nobody knows. Nobody knows When knowledge shall spread like a flood, in its might, Flushing the dark of the world with light, Turning the many from wrong to the right. Nobody knows When pestilence, madness, and famine shall seem Distorted scenes of a long past dream. THE LAY OF NOBODY. 171 Nobody knows When the blood-drench'd wars of the world shall cease, And the nations drink health at the waters of Peace. Nobody knows When drunkenness, poverty, hunger, and crime, Shall slip from the world, and a glorious time Shall fall, like a light from a golden clime, Wrapping the earth in a rest sublime, Nobody, Nobody knows ! PRINTED BV BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON. 126 THE BRIDGE OF STRAUBING. A step — he comes ! Alas ! 'tis gone — It passes by the gate ; Some weary peasant trudging home — Lie still, poor heart, and wait ! " How weirdly loom the poplars tall ! The passion-flowers o'erhead Are trembling, yet I feel no wind ; And now a bloom falls dead. The farthest darkness seems to take Strange shapes that cheat the eye ; The very silence throbs with sounds — I listen, and they die. He said, ' I will return ere dark ; ' He told me not to fear. The dark has come, the stars are out, But Albert is not here. ' Why comes he not ? I know he seeks The Duke, his haughty sire, Duke Ernest, stern, they say, and proud, Of fierce and vengeful ire ; And he will tell of all our love, How he woo'd and won his bride, And I shall ride in cloth-of-trold, A lady by his side ; THE BRIDGE OF STRAVBING. 127 For ere he left he kiss'd me thrice, And press'd me to his heart — ' Sweet Agnes, till our days be done No power shall make us part ; And by my knightly faith I swear That thou shalt take thy stand Before the world, my wedded wife, The proudest in the land!' These were his words, his last loved words — "Why is my heart not light ? Why sits a fear of coming woe Upon my soul to-night? The air seems stirr'd with viewless wings, My senses creep with dread ; Is it the pulsing of my heart, Or did I hear his tread ? He said ' T will return ere dark ; ' He told me not to fear : The dark has come, the moon is up, But Albert is not here. " He comes ! he comes ! my own ! my life ! Fly, laggard love, be fleet ! But hark ! What means this sound of tongues, This noise of many feet ? Why comes he not alone to-night ? " But ere her words had died,