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COSNELL UNIVEBSny LIBBAHY 
 
 3 1924 057 665 477 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924057665477 
 
LONDON POEMS 
 
WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 " The dumb, wistful yearning in man to something higher— yearning such 
 as the animal creation showed in the Greek period toward the human — has 
 not as yet found any interpreter equal to Buchanan." — The Spectator, 
 
 "In the great power of appealing to universal Humanity hes Buchanan's 
 security. The light of Nature has been his guide, and the human heart his 
 study. He must unquestionably attain an exalted rank'among the poets of 
 this century, and produce works which cannot fail to be accepted as incontest- 
 ably great, and worthy of the world's preservation." — Contetnporaty Revie^u, 
 
 " Buchanan is the most faithful poet of Nature among the new men. He 
 is her familiar. Like no British poet, save himself, he knows her." — 
 StedmmUs Victorian Poets. 
 
 BALLADS OF LIFE, LOVE, AND HUMOUR. With Frontispiece 
 by Arthur Hughes. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 SELECTED POEMS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. With a Frontis- 
 piece by Thomas Dalziel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 LONDON POEMS. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 UNDERTONES. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s, 
 
 THE BOOK OF ORM. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. 
 
 IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN. Crown 8vo, cloth 
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 ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES: A Tale of Salt Lake City. 
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 WHITE ROSE AND RED : A Love Story. Crown Bvo, cloth 
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 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W. 
 
LONDON POEMS 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 1883 
 
A' l^^5"fc 
 
 1 
 
 BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
TO 
 
 WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON. 
 
 " Nostrorum sermonum candide judex. . • . 
 Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est. 
 Non Tu corpus eras sine pectore.'' 
 
 HOKACE, Epp. I. 4. 
 
 My dear Dixon, — This book is inscribed to you ; and lest 
 you .should ask wherefore, I will refresh your memory. Seven 
 years ago, when I was an ambitious lad in Scotland, and when 
 the north-easter was blowing coldly on me, you sent me such 
 good words as cheered and warmed me. You were one of two 
 (the gentle, true, and far-seeing George Henry Lewes was the 
 other) who first believed that 1 was fitted for noble efforts. 
 Since then you have known me better, and abode by your first 
 hope. Nor have you failed to exhibit the virtue, not possessed 
 by one writer in a hundred, of daring to express publicly your 
 confidence in an unacknowledged author. 
 
 One word concerning the present volume. " London Poems " 
 are the last of what I may term my "poems of probation,"— 
 wherein I have fairly hinted what I am trying to assimilate in 
 life and thought. However much my method may be confounded 
 with the methods of other writers, l am sure to get quartered (to 
 my cost, perhaps) on my own merits by and by. 
 
 Accept these poems, — ^given under a genuine impulse, and not 
 merely in compliment. Of your fine qualities I will say nothing. 
 Your candour may offend knaves and your reticence mislead 
 fools ; but be happy in your goodness, and in the loving homage 
 of those dearest to you. — And believe me, 
 
 Always your Friend, 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 BsxHiLt, Sussex, yuiie 1S66. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LONDON POEMS— mgk 
 
 Bexhill, 1866, ....'... i 
 The Little Milliner, . . . „ . .11 
 
 Liz, 27 
 
 The Starling, -45 
 
 Jane Lewson, SS 
 
 Langley Lane, 9' 
 
 Edward Crowhurst ; or, "A New Poet," . 97 
 
 Artist and Model, 137 
 
 Nell, ... q ..... I49 
 
 Attorney Sneak, , , 161 
 
 Barbara Gray, . t i7S 
 
 The Linnet, .,»..... 181 
 
 London, 1864, ■ s ...... 187 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS— 
 
 The Death of Roland, 197 
 
 The Scaith o' Bartle 216 
 
 The Glamour, 247 
 
 The Gift of Eos 256 
 
 Glossary of a Few Scotticisms Used in "The 
 
 Scaith o' Bartle," 271 
 
LONDON POEMS 
 
 ©rcift itur t)inem tn'8 »oI(e SKeiifd^etireBtn! 
 (Sin jeber tcBt'«, nic^t sicteti tfl'« Befomit, 
 Unb MO it)v'« paSt, bo tfl'« iittcrefaiit. 
 
 fausi — Vorspiel aufdem Theater. 
 
BEXHILL, 1866. 
 
 "\T OW, when the catkins of the hazel swing 
 Wither'd above the leafy nook wherein 
 The chaffinch breasts her five blue speckled eggs, 
 AU round the thorn grows fragrant, white with may, 
 And underneath the fresh wild hyacinth-bed 
 Shimmers like water in the whispering wind ; 
 Now, on this sweet still gloaming of the spring. 
 Within my cottage by the sea, I sit. 
 Thinking of yonder city where I dwelt. 
 Wherein I sicken'd, and whereof I leam'd 
 So much that dwells like music on my brain. 
 A melancholy happiness is mine ! 
 My thoughts, like blossoms of the muschatel. 
 Smell sweetest in the gloaming ; and I feel 
 Visions and vanishings of other years, — 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Faint as the scent of distant clover meadows — 
 Sweet, sweet, though they awaken serious cares — 
 Beautiful, beautiful, though they make me weep. 
 
 The good days dead, the well-belov^d gone 
 Before me, lonely I abode amid 
 The buying, and the selling, and the strife 
 Of little natures ; yet there still remain'd 
 Something to thank the Lord for. — I could live ! 
 On winter nights, when wind and snow were out, 
 Afford a pleasant fire to keep me warm ; 
 And while I sat, with homeward-looking eyes, 
 And while I heard the humming of the town, 
 I fancied 'twas the sound I used to hear 
 In Scotland, when I dwelt beside the sea. 
 I knew not how it was, or why it was, 
 I only heard a sea-sound, and was sad. 
 It haunted me and pain'd me. and it made 
 
BEXHILL, 1866. 
 
 The purifying trouble grew and grew, 
 Till silentness was more than I could bear. 
 Brought by the ocean murmur from afar, 
 Came silent phantoms of the misty hills 
 Which I had known and loved in other days ; 
 And, ah ! from time to time, the hum of life 
 Around me, the strange faces of the streets. 
 Mingling with those thin phantoms of the hills, 
 And with that ocean-murmur, made a cloud 
 That changed around my life with shades and 
 
 sounds. 
 And, melting often in the light of day, 
 Left on my brow dews of aspiring dream. 
 And then I sang of Scottish dales and dells. 
 And human shapes that lived and moved therein, 
 Made solemn in the shadow of the hills. 
 Thereto, not seldom, did I seek to make 
 The busy life of London musical. 
 And phrase in modern song the troubled lives 
 Of dwellers in the sunless lanes and streets. 
 Vet ever I was haunted from afar. 
 While singing ; and the presence of the mountains 
 Was on me ; and the murmur of the sea 
 Deepen'd my mood ; while everywliere I saw. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Flowing beneath the blackness of the streets, 
 The current of sublimer, sweeter hfe, 
 Which is the source of human smiles and tears, 
 And, melodised, becomes the strength of song. 
 
 DarkUng, I long'd for utterance, whereby 
 Poor people might be holpen, gladden' d, cheer'd ; 
 Brightning at times, I sang for singing's sake. 
 The wild wind of ambition grew subdued. 
 And left the changeful current ji my soul 
 Crystal and pure and clear, to glass like water 
 The sad and beautiful of human life ; 
 And, even in the unsung cit/s streets, 
 Seem'd quiet wonders meet for serious song, 
 Truth hard to phrase and render musical. 
 For ah ! the weariness and weight of tears. 
 The cr)dng out to God, the wish for slumber, ' 
 They lay so deep, so deep ! God heard them all ; 
 He set them unto music of His own ; 
 But easier far the task to sing of kings. 
 Or weave weird ballads where the moon-dew glistens, 
 Than body forth this life in beauteous sound. 
 The crowd had voices, but each living man 
 Within the crowd seem'd silence-smit and hard : 
 
BEXHILL, 1866. 
 
 They only heard the murmur of the town, 
 
 They only felt the dimness in their eyes, 
 
 And now and then turn'd startled, when they saw 
 
 Some weary one fling up his arms and drop, 
 
 Clay-cold, among them, — and they scarcely grieved, 
 
 But hush'd their hearts a time, and hurried on. 
 
 'Twas comfort deep as tears to sit alone, 
 Haunted by shadows from afar away. 
 And try to utter forth, in tuneful speech, 
 What lay so musically on my heart. 
 But, though it sweeten'd life, it seem'd in vain. 
 For while I sang, much that was clear before — 
 The 'Souls of men and women in the streets. 
 The sounding sea, the presence of the hills, 
 And all the weariness, and all the fret, 
 And all the dim, strange pain for what had fled — 
 Turn'd into mist, mingled before mine eyes, 
 RoU'd up like wreaths of smoke to heaven, and 
 
 died: 
 The pen dropt from my hand, mine eyes grew 
 
 dim, 
 And the great roar was in mine ears again, 
 And I was all alone in London streets. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Hither to pastoral' solitude I came, 
 Happy to breathe again serener air 
 And feel a purer sunshine ; and the woods 
 And meadows were to me an ecstasy, 
 The singing birds a glory, and the trees 
 A green perpetual feast to fill the eye 
 And shimmer in upon the soul ; but chief, 
 There came the murmur of the waters, sounds 
 Of sunny tides that wash on silver sands, 
 Or cries of waves that anguish'd and went white 
 Under the eyes of lightnings. 'Twas a bliss 
 Beyond the bliss of dreaming, yet in time 
 It grew familiar as my mother's face ; 
 And when the wonder and the ecstasy 
 Had minted with the beatings of my heart. 
 The terrible City loom'd from far away 
 And gather'd on me cloudily, dropping dews, 
 Even as those phantoms of departed days 
 Had haunted me in London streets and lanes. 
 Wherefore in brighter mood I sought again 
 To make the life of London musical, 
 And sought the mirror of my soul for shapes 
 That linger' d, faces bright or agonised. 
 Yet ever taking soniething beautiful 
 
BEXHILL, 1866. 
 
 From glamour of green branches, and of clouds 
 That glided piloted by golden airs. 
 
 And if I list to sing of sad things oft, 
 It is that sad things in this life of breath 
 Are truest, sweetest, deepest. Tears bring forth 
 The richness of our natures, as the rain 
 Sweetens the smelling brier ; and I, thank God, 
 Have anguish'd here in no ignoble tears — 
 Tears for the pale friend with the singing lips, 
 Tears for the father with the gentle eyes 
 (My dearest up in heaven next to God) 
 Who loved me like a woman. I have wrought 
 No girlond of the rose and passion-flower, 
 Grown in a careful garden in the sun ; 
 But I have gather'd samphire dizzily, 
 Close to the hollow roaring of a Sea. 
 
Far away in the dark 
 
 Breaketh that living Sea, 
 Wave upon wave ; and hark ! 
 
 These voices are hlown to me ; 
 Fpr a great wind rises and hlows. 
 
 Wafting the sea-sound near, 
 But it fitfully comes and goes. 
 
 And I cannot always hear ; 
 Green houghs are flashing around. 
 
 And the flowers at my feet are fair. 
 And the wind that bringeth the ocean-sound 
 
 Grows sweet with the country air. 
 
L 
 
 THE LITTLE MILLINER: 
 
 With fairy foot and fearless gaze 
 She passes pure through e^dl ways ; 
 She wanders in the sinful town. 
 
 And loves to hear the deep sea-music 
 Of people passing up and down. 
 
 Fear nor shame nor sin hath she. 
 But, like a sea-bird on the Sea, 
 Floats hither, thither, day and night: 
 
 Xhe grea.t black waters cannot harm her, 
 £e< ause she is so weak and b'ght. 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. 
 
 IV yr Y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 
 
 A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, 
 A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet, 
 A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; 
 And all her finery to charm beholders 
 Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, 
 The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow, 
 And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. 
 But gladly in the busy town goes she, 
 Summer and winter, fearing nobodie ; 
 She pats the pavement with her fairy teat, 
 With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street ; 
 And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, 
 A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. 
 
14 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 We lodged in the same house a year ago : 
 She on the topmost floor, I just below, — 
 She, a poor milliner, content and wise, 
 I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; 
 And, long ere we were friends, I leamt to love 
 The little angel on the floor above. 
 For, every mom, ere from my bed I stirr'd. 
 Her chamber door would open, and I heard, — 
 And listen'd, blushing, to her coming down, 
 And palpitated with her rustling gown, 
 And tingled while her foot went downward slow, 
 Creak'd like a cricket, pass'd, and died below ; 
 Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, 
 I saw the pretty shining face go by. 
 Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet, — 
 A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 
 All winter long, witless who peep'd the while, 
 She sweeten'd the chill mornings with her smile : 
 When the soft snow was falling dimly white. 
 Shining among it with a child's delight. 
 Bright as a rose, though nipping winds might blow. 
 And leaving fairy footprints in the snow ! 
 
 And every night, when in from work she tript. 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. Ij 
 
 Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt, 
 
 That I might hear upon the narrow stair 
 
 Her low " Good evening," as she pass'd me there. 
 
 And when her door was closed, below sat I, 
 
 And hearken'd stilly as she stirr'd on high, — 
 
 Watch'd the red firelight shadows in the room, 
 
 Fashion'd her face before me in the gloom, 
 
 And heard her close the window, lock the door, 
 
 Moving about more lightly than before, 
 
 And thought, "She is undressing now !" and oh ! 
 
 My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! 
 
 And I made pictures of her, — standing bright 
 
 Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white, 
 
 Upbinding in a knot her yellow hair. 
 
 Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; 
 
 Till, last, the floor creak'd softly overhead, 
 
 'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed, — 
 
 And all was hush'd. Yet still I hearken'd on, 
 
 Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; 
 
 And saw her slumbering with lips apart, 
 
 One little hand upon her little heart. 
 
 The other pillowing a face that smiled 
 
 In slumber like the slumber of a child. 
 
 The bright hair shining round the small white ear. 
 
l6 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 The soft brealik stealing visible and clear, 
 
 And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 
 
 Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 
 
 How free she wander'd in the wicked place, 
 Protected only by her gentle face ! 
 She saw bad things-^ how could she choose but 
 
 see? — 
 She heard of wantonness and misery ; 
 The city closed around her night and day,, 
 But lightly, happily, she went her way. 
 Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
 Could touch a heart so innocently stin'd,— 
 By simple hopes that cheer'd it through the 
 
 storm, 
 And little flutterings that kept it warm. 
 No power had she to reason out her needs, 
 To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; 
 But she was good and pure amid the strife. 
 By virtue of the joy that was her life. 
 Here, Where a thousand spirits daily fall, 
 Where heart and soul and senses turn to gail. 
 She floated, pure as innocent could be. 
 Like a small sea-bird on a storftiy sea, 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. I7 
 
 Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, 
 Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow, 
 While the clouds gather, and the waters roar, 
 And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 
 
 And London streets, with all their noise and 
 stir, 
 Had many a pleasant sight to pleasure her. 
 There were the shops, where wonders ever new, 
 As in a garden, changed the whole year through. 
 Oft would she stand and watch with laughter sweel: 
 The Punch and Judy in the quiet street ; 
 Or look and listen while soft minuets 
 Play'd the street organ with the marionettes ; 
 Or join the motley group of merry folks 
 Round the street huckster with his wares and jokes. 
 Fearless and glad, she join'd the crowd that flows 
 Along the streets at festivals and shows. 
 In summer time, she loved tlie parks and squares, 
 Where fine folk drive their carriages and pairs; 
 In winter time her blood was in a glow. 
 At the white coming of tlie pleasant snow; 
 And in the stormy nights, when dark rain pours, 
 She found it pleasant, too, to sit indoors. 
 
l8 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And sing and sew, and listen to the gales, 
 Or read the penny journal with the tales. 
 
 Once in the year, at merry Christmas time. 
 She saw the glories of a pantomime, 
 Feasted and wonder'd, laugh'd and clapp'd aloud, 
 Up in the gallery among the crowd, 
 Gathering dreams of fairyland and fun 
 To cheer her till another year was done ; 
 More happy, and more near to heaven, so, 
 Than many a lady in the tier&, below. 
 
 And just because her heart was pure and glad, 
 She lack'd the pride that finer ladies had : 
 She had no scorn for those who lived amiss, — 
 The weary women with their painted bliss ; 
 It never struck her little brain, be sure. 
 She was so very much more fine and pure. 
 Softly she pass'd them in the public places. 
 Marvelling at their fearful childish faces ; 
 She shelter'd near them, when a shower would fall, 
 And felt a little frighten'd, that was all. 
 And watch'd them, noting as they stood close by 
 Their dress and fine things with a woman's eye, 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. I9 
 
 And spake a gentle word if spoken to, — 
 And wonder'd if their mothers lived and knew. 
 
 Her look, her voice, her step, had witchery 
 And sweetness that were all in all to me ! 
 We both were friendless, yet, in fear and doubt, 
 I sought in vain for courage to speak out. 
 Wilder my heart could ne'er have throbb'd before her, 
 My thoughts have stoop'd more humbly to adore her, 
 My love more timid and more still have grown, 
 Had Polly been a queen upon a throne. 
 All I could do was wish and dream and sigh, 
 Blush to the ears whene'er she pass'd me by. 
 Still comforted, although she did not love me, 
 Because her little room was just above me. 
 
 'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow 
 Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, 
 And girls were selling violets in the town, 
 That suddenly a fever struck me down. 
 The world was changed, the sense of life was pain'd. 
 And nothing but a shadow-land remain'd ; 
 Death came in a dark mist and look'd at me, 
 I felt his breathing, though I could not see, 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 But heavily I lay and did not stir, 
 
 And had strange images and dreams of her. 
 
 Then came a vacancy : with feeble breath, 
 
 I shiver'd under the cold touch of Death, 
 
 And swoon'd among strange visions of the dead, 
 
 When a voice call'd from Heaven, and he fled ; 
 
 And suddenly I waken'd, as it seem'd. 
 
 From a deep sleep wherein I had not dream' d. 
 
 And it was night, and I could see and hear. 
 And I was in the room I held so dear, 
 And unaware, stretch'd out upon my bed, 
 I hearken'd for a footstep overhead. 
 
 But all was hush'd. I look'd around the room, 
 And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. 
 The wall was reddeii'd by a rosy light, 
 A faint fire flicker'd, and I knew 'twas night, 
 Because below there was a sound of feet 
 Dying away along the quiet street, — 
 When, turning my pale face and sighing low, 
 I saw a vision in the quiet glow : 
 A little figure, in a cotton gown, 
 Looking upon the fire and stooping down. 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. . 21 
 
 Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed 
 Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side, — 
 Her lips apart, her clear eyes strain'd to see. 
 Her little hands clasp'd tight around her knee, 
 The firelight gleaming on her golden head. 
 And tinting her white neck to rosy red, 
 Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure, 
 With childish fear and yearning half demure. 
 
 Oh, sweet, sweet dream! I thought, and strain'd 
 mine eyes. 
 Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs. 
 
 Softly she stoop'd, her dear face sweetly fair, 
 And sweeter since a light like love was there, 
 Brightening, watching, more and more elate. 
 As the nuts glow'd together in the grate, 
 Crackling with httle jets of fiery light. 
 Till side by side they turn'd to ashes white, — 
 Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear 
 For rapture that itself was radiance clear, 
 And would have clapp'd her little hands in glee, 
 But, pausing, bit her lips and peep'd at me, 
 And met the face that yeam'd on her so whitely. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, 
 While, raised on elbow, as she tum'd to flee, 
 '■'■Polly /" I cried, — and grew as red as she ! 
 
 It was no dream ! — for soon niy thoughts were clear, 
 And she could tell me all, and I could hear ; 
 How in my sickness friendless I had lain. 
 How the hard people pitied not my pain ; 
 How, in despite of what bad people said. 
 She left her labours, stopp'd beside my bed. 
 And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die ; 
 How, in the end, the danger pass'd me by j 
 How she had sought to steal away before 
 The sickness pass'd, and I was strong once more. 
 By fits she told the story in mine ear, 
 And troubled all the telling with a fear 
 Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid, 
 Lest I should think her bold in what she did; 
 But, lying on my bed, I dared to say, 
 How I had watch'd and loved her many a day, 
 How dear she was to me, and dearer still 
 For that strange kindness done while I was ill, 
 And how I could but think that Heaven above 
 Had done it all to bind our lives in love. 
 
THE LITTLE MILLINER. 23 
 
 And Polly cried, turning her face away, 
 
 And seem'd afraid, and answer'd "yea" nor "nay;" 
 
 Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs, 
 
 Look'd on my pale thin face and earnest eyes, 
 
 And seem'd in act to fling her arms about 
 
 My neck, then, blushing, paused, in fluttering 
 
 doubt. 
 Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing, — 
 That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing ! 
 
 Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die 
 How happily the dreamy days went by. 
 While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats, 
 Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets. 
 And Polly by me like a sunny beam. 
 And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream ! 
 'Twas happiness enough to lie and see 
 The little golden head bent droopingly 
 Over its sewing, white the still time flew. 
 And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! 
 And then, when I was nearly well and strong, 
 And she went back to labour all day long. 
 How sweet to lie alone with half shut eyes, 
 And hear the distant murmurs and the cries, 
 
24 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And think how pure she was from pain and sin, — 
 
 And how the summer days were coming in ! 
 
 Then, as the sunset faded from the room, 
 
 To listen for her footstep in the gloom, 
 
 To pant as it came stealing up the stair. 
 
 To feel my whole life brighten unaware 
 
 When the soft tap came to the door, and when 
 
 The door was open'd for her smile again ! 
 
 Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night, 
 
 She sat beside me in the quiet light 
 
 And happy things were said and kisses won, 
 
 And serious gladness failnd its vent in fun. 
 
 Sometimes I would draw close her shining head, 
 
 And pour her bright hair out upon the bed. 
 
 And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold, 
 
 While " Here," I cried, " I count my wealth in gold ! " 
 
 Sometimes we pla/d at cards, and thrill'd with bliss, 
 
 On trumping one another with a kiss. 
 
 And oft our thoughts grew sober and found themes 
 
 Of wondrous depth in marriage plans and schemes ; 
 
 And she with pretty calculating lips 
 
 Sat by me, cautious to the finger-tips, 
 
 Till, all our calculations grown a bore. 
 
 We summ'd them uo in kisses as before 1 
 
THE LITTLE MILUNEK. 25 
 
 Once, like a little sinner for transgression, 
 She blush'd upon my breast, and made confession : 
 How, when that night I woke and look'd around, 
 I found her busy with a charm profound, — 
 One chestnut was herself, my girl confess'd. 
 The other was the person she loved best, 
 And if they bum'd together side by side. 
 He loved her, and she would become his bride ; 
 And burn indeed they did, to her delight, — 
 And had the pretty charm not proven right? 
 Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said, 
 While her confessor, too, gre\v rosy red, — 
 And close together press'd two blissful faces, 
 As I absolved the sinner, with embraces. 
 
 And here is winter come again, winds blow, 
 The houses and the streets are white with snow ; 
 And in the long and pleasant eventide. 
 Why, what is Polly making at my side 1 
 What but a silk-gown, beautiful and grand, 
 We bought together lately in the Strand ! 
 What but a dress to go to church in soon. 
 And wear right queenly 'neath a honey-moon ! 
 And who shall match her with her new stiaw bonnet. 
 
2& LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Her tiny foot and little boot upon it, 
 Embroider'd petticoat and silk-gown new, 
 And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do t 
 And she will keep, to charm away all ill, 
 The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; 
 And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
 To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ' 
 
II. 
 
 LIZ. 
 
 The crimson light of sunset falls 
 
 Through the gray glamour of the murmuring r^it 
 And creeping o'er the housetops crawls 
 
 Through the black smoke upon the broken paue. 
 Steals to the straw on which she lies. 
 
 And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks. 
 Her sun-tann*d neck, her glistening eyeS,— 
 
 While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks. 
 But when it is no longer light. 
 
 The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark. 
 And dies upon the breast of Night, 
 
 Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark. 
 
LTZ. 
 
 T T EY, rain, rain, rain ! 
 
 It patters down the glass, and on the sill, 
 And splashes in the pools along the lane — 
 
 Then gives a kind of shiver, and is still : 
 
 One likes to hear it, though, when one is ill. 
 Rain, rain, rain, rain ! 
 
 Hey, how it pours and pours ! 
 Rain, rain, rain, rain ! 
 
 A dismal day for poor girls out-o'-doors ! 
 
 ir. 
 
 Ah, don't ! That sort of comfort maTces me cry. 
 And, Parson, since 1 'm bad. J want to cue. 
 
LONDON POEMS, 
 
 The roaring of the street, 
 The tramp of feet, 
 The sobbing of the rain, 
 Bring nought but pain ; 
 They 're gone into the aching of my brain ; 
 And whether it be light, 
 Or dark dead night, 
 Wherever I may be, I hear them plain ! 
 I 'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear 
 To wander, like a shadow, here and there — 
 As useless as a stone — tired out — and sick ! 
 So that they put me down to slumber quick. 
 It does not matter where. 
 No one will miss me ; all will hurry by. 
 And never cast a thought on one so low ; 
 Fine gentlemen miss ladies when they go, 
 But folk cajre nought for such a thing as I. 
 
 ui. 
 
 'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that — ^too bad ! 
 Joe, though he 's often hard, is strong and true — 
 [Ah, Joe meant well] — and there's the baby, too )- 
 
 But I 'm so tired and sad. 
 
 I 'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad. 
 
LIZ. 31 
 
 A man can, fight along, can say his say, 
 
 Is npt look'd down upon, holds up his head, 
 And, at a push, can always earn his bread : 
 
 Men have the best of it, in many a way. 
 
 But ah ! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep 
 Decent find honest, tramping in the town, — 
 Their best but bad — made light of — beaten down — 
 
 Wearying ever, wearying for sleep. 
 
 If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder. 
 Why, Parson, dear, they 're happier being blind : 
 They get no thanks for being good and kind — 
 
 The, better that they are, they feel the sadder ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nineteen ! nineteen ! 
 
 Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old ; — 
 I feel like fifty, Parson — I have been 
 
 So wicked, I suppose, and life 's so cold ! 
 Ah, cruel are the wind, and rain, and snow, 
 
 And I 've.been out for years among them all ; 
 
 I scarce remember being weak and small 
 Like baby there — it was so long ago. 
 It does not seem that I was born. I woke, 
 
32 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 One day, long, long ago, in a dark room, 
 And saw the housetops round me in the smoke, 
 
 And, leaning out, look'd down into the gloom, 
 Saw deep black pits, blank walls, and broken panes, 
 
 And eyes, behind the panes, that flash'd at me, 
 And heard an awful roaring, from the lanes, 
 
 Of folk I could not see ; 
 Then, while I look'd and listen'd in a dream, 
 
 I tum'd my eyes upon the housetops gray, 
 And saw, between the smoky roofs, a gleam 
 
 Of silver water, winding far away. 
 That was-thfi River. Cool and smooth and deep, 
 
 It glided to the sound o' folk below. 
 
 Dazzling my eyes, till they began to grow 
 Dusty and dim with sleep. 
 Oh, sleepily I stood, and gazed, and hearken'd ! 
 
 And saw a strange, bright light, that slowly fled. 
 
 Shine through the smoky mist, and stain it red. 
 And suddenly the water flash'd, — then darken'd ; 
 And for a little time, though I gazed on. 
 The river and the sleepy light were gone ; 
 But suddenly, over the roofs there lighten'd 
 
 A pale, strange brightness out of heaven shed, 
 And, with a sweep that made me sick and frighteri'd. 
 
LIZ. 33 
 
 The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head ; — 
 And down below me roar'd the noise o' trade, 
 And ah ! I felt alive, and was afraid, 
 
 And cold, and hungry, crying out for bread. 
 
 V. 
 
 All that is like a dream. It don't seem ^rue/ 
 Father was gone, and mother left, you see, 
 To work for little brother Ned and me ; 
 
 And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, — 
 
 Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out. 
 With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat. 
 
 While mother char'd for poor folk round about. 
 Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street. 
 
 Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair. 
 
 To make the time pass happily up there : 
 
 A steamboat going past upon the tide, 
 A pigeon lighting on the roof close by, 
 The sparrows teaching little ones to fly, 
 
 The small white moving clouds, that we espied, . 
 And thought were living, in the bit of sky — 
 With sights like these right glad were Ned and I ; 
 
 And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calHng, 
 Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles. 
 
34 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And it was fine to see the still snow falling, 
 
 Making the housetops white for miles on miles, 
 And catch it in our little hands in play. 
 And laugh to ftel it melt and slip away ! 
 But I was six, and Ned was only three. 
 And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; 
 
 And one cold day, in winter time, when mother 
 Had gone away into the snow, and we 
 
 Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, 
 He put his little head upon my knee, 
 And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, 
 
 But look'-d quite strange and old ; 
 And when I shook him, kiss'd him, spoke to him. 
 
 He smiled, and grew so cold. 
 Then I was frighten' d, and cried out, and none 
 
 Could hear me ; while I sat and nursed his head, 
 Watching the whiten'd window, while the Sun 
 
 Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red. 
 And I began to sob ; — till mother came, 
 Knelt down, and scream'd, aud named the good 
 God's name, 
 
 And told me he was dead. 
 And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping, 
 
 Placed him among the rags upon his bed, 
 
LIZ. 35 
 
 I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping, 
 
 And took his little hand, and felt no fear. 
 
 But when the place grew gray and cold and drear, 
 And the round Moon over the roofs came creeping, 
 
 And put a silver shade 
 
 All round the chilly bed where he was laid, 
 
 I cried, and was afraid. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah, yes, it 's like a dream ; for time pass'd by, 
 
 And I went out into the smoky air. 
 Fruit-selling, Parson — trudging, wet or dry — 
 
 Winter and summer — weary, cold, and bare. 
 And when old mother laid her down to die, 
 And parish buried her, I did not cry. 
 
 And hardly seem'd to care ; 
 I was too hungry, and too dull ; beside. 
 
 The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust — 
 It took me all my time, howe'er I tried. 
 
 To keep my hmbs alive and earn a crust ; 
 I had no time for weeping. 
 
 And when I was not out amid the roar. 
 
 Or standing frozen at the playhouse door. 
 Why, I was coil'd upon my straw, and sleeping. 
 
36 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Ah, pence were hard to gain ! 
 
 Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain : 
 
 Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled, 
 
 And gave me money for my face's sake. 
 That made me hard and angry, when a child ; 
 
 But now it thrills my heart, and makes it ache ! 
 The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do. 
 
 Fighting and starving in the wicked town. 
 
 But go from bad to badder — down, down, down- 
 Being so poor, and yet, so pretty, too? 
 Never could bear the like of that^ah, no ! 
 Better have starved outright than gone so low ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But I 've no call to boast. I might have been 
 
 As wicked. Parson deaij in my distress. 
 But for your friend — you know the one' I mean ? — 
 
 The tall, pale lady, in the mourning dress. 
 Though we were cold at first, that wore away— 
 
 She was so mild and young. 
 
 And had so soft a tongue. 
 And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say. 
 She never seem'd to scorn me — no, not she ; 
 And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me ! 
 
37 
 
 Not one of those that make a girl feel base, 
 And call her names, and talk of her disgrace. 
 And frighten one with thoughts of flaming hell, 
 
 And fierce Lord God, with black and angry brow ; 
 But soft and mild, and sensible as well ; 
 
 And oh, I loved her, and I love her now. 
 She did me good for many and many a day — 
 
 More good than pence could ever do, I swear, 
 
 For she was poor, with little pence to spare — 
 Leam'd me to read, and quit low words, and pray. 
 And, Parson, though I never understood 
 How such a life as mine was meant for good. 
 And could not guess what one so poor and low 
 
 Would do in ±at sweet place of which she spoke, 
 And could not feel that God would let me go 
 
 Into so bright a land with gentlefolk, 
 I liked to hear her talk of such a place, 
 
 And thought of all the angels she was best. 
 Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face 
 
 Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ah, sir ! 'twas very lonesome. Night and day, 
 Save when the sweet miss came, I was alone, — 
 
3» loSdon poems. 
 
 Moved on and hunted through the streets of stone, 
 And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay. 
 Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for ; 
 
 I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong. 
 
 And often, very often, used to long 
 For some one I could like and keep alive for. 
 Marry 1 Not they ! 
 
 They can't afford to be so good, you know ; 
 But many of them, though they step astray. 
 
 Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go 
 Against what 's decent. Only — 'tis their way. 
 And many might do worse than that, may be, 
 
 If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought — 
 It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me 
 
 Must sin a little, to be good in aught 
 
 IX. 
 
 So I was glad when I began to see 
 
 That Joe the costermonger fancied me ; 
 
 And when, one night, he took me to the play, 
 Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair 
 That we should take a httle room and share 
 
 Our earnings, why, I could not answer "Nay !' 
 
HZ. 39 
 
 And that 's a year ago ; and though I 'm bad, 
 
 I 've been as trae to Joe as girl could be. 
 I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad, 
 
 Joe never, never meant but well to me ; 
 And we have had as fair a time, I think, 
 
 As one could hope, since we are both so low. 
 
 Joe likes me — never gave me push or blow, 
 When sober : only, he was wild in drink. 
 But then we don't mind beating when a man 
 
 Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight, 
 Works for his bread, and does the best he can ; — 
 
 'Tis being left and slighted that we hate. 
 
 X. 
 
 And so the baby 's come, and I shall die ! 
 
 And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here, 
 
 Where folk will think him bad, and all 's so drear, 
 The great Lord God knows better far than I. 
 Ah, don't ! — 'tis kindly, but it pains me so ! 
 You say I 'm wicked, and I want to go ! 
 " God's kingdom," Parson dear 1 Ah nay, ah nay ! 
 
 That must be like the country — which I fear : 
 I saw the country once, one summer day, 
 
 And T would rather die in London here ! 
 
40 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife, 
 
 And took a sudden faticy in my head 
 
 To try the country, and to earn my bread 
 Out among fields, where I had heard one's life 
 Was easier and brighter. So, that day, 
 I took my basket up and stole away, 
 Just after sunrise. As I went along, 
 
 Trembling and loath to leave the busy place, 
 I felt that I was doing something wrong, 
 
 And fear'd to look policemen in the face. 
 And all was dim : the streets were gray and wet 
 
 After a rainy night : and all was still ; 
 
 I held riiy shawl around me with a chill. 
 And dropt my eyes from every face I met ; 
 Until the streets began to fade, the road 
 
 Grew fresh and clean and wide, 
 Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode. 
 
 And gardens full of flowers, on every side. 
 That made me walk the quicker — on, on, on — 
 
 As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes, 
 
 And all at once I saw, to my surprise. 
 The houses of the gentlefolk were gone, 
 
xiz. 41 
 
 And I was standing still. 
 
 Shading my face, upon a high green hill, 
 
 And the bright sun was blazing, 
 And all the blue above me seem'd to melt 
 
 To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing 
 On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I '11 ne'er forget that day. All was so bright 
 
 And strange. Upon the grass around my feet 
 The rain had hung a million drops of light ; 
 
 The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet, 
 It seem'd a sin to breathe it All around 
 
 Were hills and fields and trees that trembled thi-ougb 
 
 A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue ; 
 And there was not a sound, 
 
 Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies, 
 And the soft wind, that ran along the ground, 
 
 And blew full sweetly on my lips and eyes. 
 Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest, 
 
 Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, 
 sighing, 
 I stole into a dewy field to rest. 
 
42 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying 
 Was fresh and living — and the bird sang loud. 
 Out of a golden cloud — 
 
 And I was looking up at him and crying ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 How swift the hours slipt on ! — and by and by 
 The sun grew red, big shadows fiU'd the sky, 
 
 The air grew damp with dew, 
 
 And the dark night was coming down, I knew. 
 Well, I was more afraid than ever, then, 
 
 And felt that I should die in such a place, — 
 
 So back to London town I tum'd my face, 
 And crept into the great black streets again ; 
 And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar. 
 
 Why, I was better, for in London here 
 
 My heart was busy, and I felt no fear. 
 I never saw the country any more. 
 And I have sta/d in London, well or ill — 
 
 I would not stay out yonder if I could. 
 
 For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good— 
 I could not bear a life so bright and still. 
 All that I want is sleep. 
 Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep ! 
 
LIZ. 42 
 
 God won't be hard on one so mean, but He, 
 Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound 
 There in the deep cold darkness under ground ; 
 
 And I shall waken up in time, may be, 
 
 Better and stronger, not afraid to see 
 
 The great, still Light that folds Him round and 
 round ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 See ! there 's the sunset creeping through the pane — 
 
 How cool and moist it looks amid the rain ! 
 
 I like to hear the slashing of the drops 
 
 On the house tops. 
 
 And the loud humming of the folk that go 
 
 Along the streets below ! 
 
 I like the smoke and roar — I am so bad — 
 
 They make a low one hard, and still her cares. . . . 
 
 There 's Joe ! I hear his foot upon the stairs ! — 
 He must be wet, poor lad ! 
 He will be angry, like enough, to find 
 
 Another little life to clothe and keep. 
 But show him baby. Parson — speak him kind — 
 
 And tell him Doctor thinks I 'm going to sleep. 
 A hard, hard life is his ! He need be strong 
 
44 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And rough, to earn his 'bread and get along. 
 I think he will be sorry when I go, 
 
 And leave the little one and him behind. 
 
 I hope he '11 see another to his mind. 
 To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe ' 
 
Ill 
 
 THE STARLING. 
 
THE STARLING. 
 
 'X'HE little lame tailor 
 
 Sat stitching and snarling — 
 Who in the world 
 
 Was the tailor's darling? 
 To none of his kind 
 Was he well-inclined, 
 
 But he doted on Jack the starling; 
 
 n. 
 
 For the bird had a tongue, 
 And of words good store. 
 
#8 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And his cage was hung 
 
 Just over the door. 
 And he saw the people, 
 
 And heard the roar, — 
 Folk coming and going 
 
 Evermore, — 
 And he look'd at the tailor.T 
 
 And swore. 
 
 From a country lad 
 
 The tailor bought him,^ 
 His training was bad. 
 
 For tramps had taught hini ; 
 On alehouse benches 
 
 His cage had been, 
 While louts and wenches 
 
 Made jests obscene. — 
 But he leam'd, no doubt. 
 
 His oaths from fellows 
 AVbo travel about 
 
 With kettle and bellow's. 
 
THE STARLING. 49 
 
 And three or four, 
 
 The roundest by far 
 That ever he swore, 
 
 Were taught by a tar. 
 And the tailor heard — 
 
 " We '11 be friends ! " said he, 
 "You're a clever bird, 
 
 And our tastes agree — 
 We both are old, 
 
 And esteem life base. 
 The whole world cold, 
 
 Things out of place, 
 And we 're lonely too, 
 
 And full of care — 
 So what can we do 
 
 But swear 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 "The devil take you, 
 How you mutter ! — 
 
 Yet there 's much to make you 
 Swear and flutter. 
 
so LONDON POEMS. 
 
 You want the fresh air ~ 
 
 And the sunlight, lad, 
 And your prison there 
 
 Feels dreary and sad. 
 And here I frown 
 
 In a prison as dreary, 
 Hating the town, 
 
 And feeling weary: 
 We 're too confined, Jack, 
 
 And we want to fly, 
 And you blame mankind, Jack, 
 
 And so do I ! 
 And then, again, 
 
 By chance as it were, 
 We leam'd from men 
 
 How to grumble and swear; 
 You let your throat 
 
 By the scamps be guided, 
 And swore by rote — 
 
 All just as I did ! 
 And without beseeching. 
 
 Relief is brought us — 
 For we turn the teaching 
 
 On those who taught us ! " 
 
THE STARLING. 51 
 
 A haggard and ruffled 
 
 Old fellow was Jack, 
 With a grim face muffled 
 
 In ragged black, 
 And his coat was rusty 
 
 And never neat, 
 And his wings were dusty 
 
 From the dismal street, 
 And he sidelong peer'd. 
 
 With eyes of soot too, 
 And scowl'd and sneer'd, — 
 
 And was'lame of a foot too 1 
 And he long'd to go 
 
 From whence he came j — 
 And the tailor, you know, 
 
 Was just the same. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All kinds of weather 
 They felt confined, 
 
52 LONDON- POEMS. 
 
 And swore together 
 
 At all mankind ; 
 For their mirth was done, 
 
 And they felt like brothers, 
 And the swearing of one 
 
 Meant no more than the other's ; 
 'Twas just a way • 
 
 They had leam'd, you see, — 
 Each wanted to say 
 
 Only this^" Woe 's me ! 
 I 'm a poor old fellow, 
 
 And I 'm prison'd so. 
 While the sun shines meUow, 
 And the com waves yellow. 
 
 And the fresh winds blow, — > 
 And the folk don't care 
 
 If I live or die. 
 But I long for air, 
 
 And I wish to fly ! " 
 Yet unable to utter it. 
 
 And too wild to bear, 
 They could only mutter it^ 
 
 And swear. 
 
THE STARLING. 53 
 
 VII. 
 
 Many a year 
 
 They dwelt in the city. 
 In their prisons drear, 
 
 And none felt pity, 
 And few were sparing 
 
 Of censure and coldness, 
 To hear them swearing 
 
 With such plain boldness ; 
 But at last, by the Lord, 
 
 Their noise was stopt, — 
 For down on his board 
 
 The tailor dropt, 
 And they found him dead, 
 
 And done with snarling, 
 And over his head 
 
 Still grumbled the Starling; 
 But when an old Jew 
 
 Claim'd the goods of the tailor, 
 And with eye askew 
 
 Eyed the feathery railer, 
 And, with a frown 
 
 At the dirt and rust, 
 
54 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Took the old cage down, 
 In a shower of dust, — 
 
 Jack, with heart aching. 
 Felt life past bearing. 
 
 And shivering, quaking, 
 
 All hope forsaking. 
 Died swearing. 
 
IV. 
 JANE LEWSON. 
 
 Clasping his knee with one soft lady-hand, 
 ' The other fingering his glass of wine, 
 Black-r^mented, white-haired, polite, and bland. 
 
 With mellow voice discourses Doctor Vine : 
 He warms, with deep eyes stirred to thoughtful light. 
 
 And rouad about his serious talk the while. 
 Kindly, yet pensive — worldly wise, yet bright. 
 
 Like bloom upon the blackthorn blows his smile* 
 
JANE LEWSON. 
 
 A H, strong and mighty are we mortal men ! 
 Braving the whirlwind on a ship at sea, 
 Facing the grim fort's hundred tongues of fire, 
 Ay, and in England, 'neath the olive branch, 
 Pushing a stubborn elbow through the crowd. 
 To get among the heights that keep the gold ; 
 But there is might and might, — and in the one 
 Our dames and daughters shame us. Come, my friend. 
 My man of sinew, — conscious of your strength, 
 Proud of your well-won wrestles with the world, — 
 Hear what a feeble nature can endure ! 
 
 A little yellow woman, dress'd in black. 
 
 With weary crow's-feet crawling round the eyes, 
 
S8 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And solemn voice, that seem'd a call to prayer; 
 
 Another yellow woman, dress'd in black, 
 
 Sad, too, and solemn, yet with bitterness 
 
 Bum'd ip upon the edges of her lips. 
 
 And sharper, thinner, less monotonous voice ; 
 
 And last, a little woman aubum-hair'd, 
 
 Pensive a little, but not solemnised, 
 
 And pretty, with the open azure eyes, 
 
 The white soft cheek, the little mindless mouth, 
 
 The drooping childish languor. There they dwelt, 
 
 In a great dweUing of a smoky square 
 
 In Islington^ named by their pious ftiends, 
 
 And the lean Calvinistic minister — 
 
 The Misses Lewson, and their sister Jane. 
 
 Miss Sarah, in her twenty-seventh year. 
 Knew not the warmer passions of her sex, 
 But groan'd both day and night to save her soul ; 
 Miss Susan, two years younger, had regrets 
 Her sister knew not, and a secret pain 
 Because her heart was withering — ^whence her tongue 
 Could peal full sharp at times, and show a sting; 
 But Jane was comely— might have cherish'd hopes, 
 
JANE LEWSON. 59 
 
 Since she was only twenty, had her mind 
 
 Been hopefuUer. The elders ruled the house. 
 
 Obedience and meekness to their will 
 
 Was a familiar habit Jane had learn'd 
 
 Full early, and had fitted to her life 
 
 So closely, 'twas a portion of her needs.. 
 
 She gazed on them, as Eastern worshippers 
 
 Gaze on a rayless picture of the sun. 
 
 Her acts seem'd other than her own ; her heart 
 
 Kept melancholy time to theirs ; her eyes 
 
 Look'd ever unto them for help and light ; 
 
 Her eyelids droop'd before them if they chid. 
 
 A woman weak and dull, yet fair of face ! 
 
 Her mother, too, had been a comely thing — 
 
 A bright-hair'd child wed to an aged man, 
 
 A heart that broke because the man was hard, — 
 
 Not like the grim first wife, who brought the gold, 
 
 And )delded to his melancholy kiss 
 
 The 'melancholy virgins. Well, the three, 
 
 Alone in all the world, dwelt in the house 
 
 Their father left them, living by the rents 
 
 Of certain smaller houses of the poor. 
 
 And they were stem to wring their worldly dues — 
 
 Not charitable, since the world was base, 
 
60 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 But cold to all men, save the minister, 
 
 Who weekly cast the darkness of his blessing 
 
 Over their chilly table. 
 
 All around 
 The life of London shifted like a cloud, 
 Men sinned, and women fell, and children cried, 
 And Want went ragged lip and down the lanes ; 
 While the two hueless sisters dragg'd their chain 
 Self-woven, pinch'd their lives complexionless, 
 Keeping their feeUngs quiet, hard, and pure. 
 But Jane felt lonesome in the world ; and oft, 
 Pausing amid her work, gazed sadly forth 
 Upon the dismal square of wither'd trees. 
 The dusty grass that grew within the rails, 
 The garden-plots where here and there a flower 
 Grew up, and sicken'd in the .smoke, and died ; 
 And when the sun was on the square, and sounds 
 Came from the children in the neighbouring streets, 
 .She thought of happy homes among the fields. 
 And brighter faces. When she walk'd abroad, 
 The busy hum of life oppress'd her heart 
 And frighten'd her : she did not raise her eyes. 
 Hut stole along, — a sweet shape clad in black, 
 
JANE LEWSON. 6l 
 
 A pale and pretty face, at which the men 
 
 Stared vacant admiration. Far too dull 
 
 To blame her gloomy sisters for the shape 
 
 Her young days took, she merely knew the world 
 
 Was drear ; and if at times she dared to dream 
 
 Of things that made her colour come and go, 
 
 And dared to hope for cheerier, sunnier days. 
 
 She grew the wanner afterwards, and felt 
 
 Sad and ashamed. The dull life that she wore. 
 
 Like to a gloomy garment, day by day. 
 
 Was a famiUar life, the only life 
 
 She clearly understood. Coldly she heard 
 
 The daily tale of human sin and wrong, 
 
 And the small thunders of the Sunday nights 
 
 In chapel. All around her were the streets, 
 
 And frightful sounds, and gloomy sunless faces. 
 
 And thus with tacit dolour she resign'd 
 
 Her nature to the hue upon the cheeks 
 
 Of her cold sisters. Yet she could not pray 
 
 As they pra/d, could not wholly feel and know 
 
 The blackness of mankind, her own heart's sin ; 
 
 But when she tried to get to God, and yearn'd 
 
 For help not human, she could only cry, 
 
 Feeling a loveless and a useless thing. 
 
62 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Thinking of those sweet places in the fields, 
 Those homes whereon the sun shone pleasantly, 
 And happy mothers sat at cottage doors 
 Among their children. 
 
 Save for household work. 
 She would have wasted soon. From week to week 
 The burthen lay on her, — the gloomy twain 
 Being too busy searching for their souls, 
 And begging God above to spare the same. 
 Yet she was quiet thus, content and glad 
 To silent drudgery, such as saved her heart 
 From wilder flutterings. The Sabbath day 
 Was drearest : drest in burial black, she sat 
 Those solemn hours in chapel, listening. 
 And scarcely heeding what she heard, but watching 
 The folk around, their faces and their dress. 
 Or gazing at the sunshine on the floor ; 
 And service over, idly pined at home, 
 And, looking from the window at the square, 
 Long'd for the labour of the coming day. 
 Her sisters watch'd her warily, be sure ; 
 And though their hearts were pure as pure could be. 
 They loved her none the better for her face. 
 
JANE LEWSON. 63 
 
 Love is as cunning as disease or death, 
 No doctor's skill will ward him off or cure, 
 And soon he found this pale and weary girl. 
 Despite the cloud of melancholy life 
 That rain'd around her. In no beauteous shape, 
 In guise of passionate striphng iris-eyed, 
 Such as our poets picture in their songs, 
 Love came ; — but in the gloomy garb of one 
 Whom men call'd pious, and whose holy talk 
 Disarm'd the dragons. 'Twere but idle, friend, 
 To count the wiles by which he won his way 
 Into her heart ; how she vouchsafed him all 
 The passion of a nature not too strong ; 
 How, when the iirst wild sunshine dazzled her. 
 The woman loved so blindly, that her thoughts 
 Became a secret trouble in the house ; 
 And how at last, with white and frighten'd face, 
 She glided out into the dark one night. 
 And vanish'd with no utterance of farewell. 
 
 The sisters gave a quick and scandall'd cry, 
 And sought a little for the poor flown bird; 
 Then, thinking awful things, composed their hearts 
 In silence, pinch'd their narrow natures more, 
 
64 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And waited. "Thisissomething strange," theythought, 
 
 " Which God will clear; we will not think the worst, 
 
 Although she was a thing as light as straw." 
 
 Nor did they cry their fear among their friends. 
 
 Hawking a secret shame, but calmly waited, 
 
 Trasting no stain would fall upon their chill 
 
 And frosty reputations. Weeks pass'd by; 
 
 They pra/d, they fasted, yellowing more and more, 
 
 They waited sternly for the end, and heard 
 
 The timid knock come to the dpor at last 
 
 It was a dark and rainy night; the streets 
 Were gleaming watery underneath the lamps, 
 The dismal wind scream'd fitfully without. 
 And made within a melancholy sound ; 
 And the faint knock came to the door at last 
 The sisters look'd in one another's faces. 
 And knew the wanderer had retum'd again. 
 But spoke not; and the younger sister rose, 
 Open'd the door, peer'd out into the rain. 
 And saw the weary figure shivering there, 
 Holding a burthen underneath her shawl. 
 And silently, with wan and timid look. 
 The wanderer slipt in. No word of greeting 
 
JANE LEWSON. 65 
 
 Spake either of the sisters, but their eyes 
 Gleam'd sharply, and they waited. White and cold, 
 Her sweet face feebly begging for a word, 
 Her long hair dripping loose and wet, stood Jane 
 Before them, shivering, clasping tight her load, 
 In the dull parlour with the cheerless fire. 
 Till Susan, pointing, cried in a shrill voice, 
 " What are you carrying underneath your shawl, 
 Jane Lewson J " and the faint despairing voice, 
 While the rain murmur'd and the night-wind blew, 
 Moan'd, " It 's my Baby/" and could say no more, 
 ,For the wild sisters scream'd and raised their hands, 
 And Jane fell quivering down upon her knees, 
 The old shawl opening show'd a child asleep, 
 And, trebling terror with a piteous cry, 
 The child awaken'd 
 
 Pointing to the door, 
 With twitching lips of venom, Susan said — 
 " Go !" and the elder sister echo'd her 
 More sadly and more solemnly. But Jane, 
 Clinging to Sarah's skiarts, implored and moan'd, 
 " Don't turn me out ! my little girl will die ! 
 I have no home in all the world but here; 
 
66 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Kill me, but do not drive me from the house !" 
 " Jane Lewson," Susan cried, as white as death, 
 "Where is the father of this child?" and Jane 
 Moan'd, " Gone, gone, gone ;" and when she named 
 
 his name, 
 And how, while she who spake in sickness lay, 
 He secretly had fled across the seas, 
 They shiver'd to the hair. Holding her hand 
 Upon her heart, the elder sister spake 
 In dull monotonous voice — " Look up ! look up 1 
 Perhaps 'tis not so ill as we believed. 
 Are you a wedded woman V The reply 
 Was silentness and heavy drooping eyes. 
 Yet with no blush around the quivering lids ; 
 And Sarah, freezing into ice, spake on 
 In dull monotonous voice — " Your sin has brought 
 Shame on us all, but they who make their beds 
 Must sleep upon them ; go away, bad woman ! 
 The third of what our father left is yours, 
 But you are not our sister any more." 
 Still moaning, shuddering, the girl begg'd on, 
 Nor ceased to rock the babe and still its cries, 
 " Kill me, but do not drive me from the house I 
 Put any pain upon me that you please, 
 
JANE LEWSON. 67 
 
 But do not, do not, drive me forth again 
 Into the dreadful world ! I have no friends 
 On all the earth save you !" The sisters look'd 
 At one another, and without a word 
 Walk'd from the room. 
 
 Jane sat upon the floor, 
 Soothing the child, and did not rise, but waited ; 
 The agony and terror dried her tears, 
 And she could only listen, praying God 
 That He would soften them ; and the little one 
 Look'd in her face and laugh' d. 
 
 A weary hour 
 Pass'd by, and then, still white, and stem, and cold. 
 The sisters enter'd, and the elder one 
 Spake without prelude : "We have talk'd it o'er, 
 Jane Lewson, and have settled how to act; 
 You have a claim upon us : will you take 
 The third of what our father left, and find 
 Another home 1" But Jane cried, " Do not, do not. 
 Drive me away ; I have no friends save you ; 
 And I am sorry." Trembling, for her heart 
 Was not all cold, the elder icicle 
 
68 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Resumed : " Take what is left you, and be gone, 
 And never see our faces any more ; 
 Or if you will, stay with us here, but only 
 On these conditions : For the infant's sake. 
 And for the sake of our good name, our friends 
 Must never know the miserable child 
 Is yours ; but we will have it given out 
 That, being lonely and unwedded here, 
 We have adopted a poor tenant's child, 
 With view to bring it up in godliness." 
 Jane answer'd, with a feeble thrill of hope, 
 " Anything, anything, — only leave me not 
 Alone in the dark world." " Peace !" Susan said, 
 " You do not understand : the child herself 
 Must never know Jane Lewson is her mother : 
 Neither by word nor look nor tender folly. 
 Must you reveal unto the child her shame, 
 And yours, and ours !" Then, with a bitter cry. 
 And a wild look, Jane cried, " And must my babe 
 Not know me V " Never," Sarah Lewson said : 
 " For the babe's sake, for yoiirs, for ours, the shame 
 Must not be uttej'd. See, you have your choice : 
 Take what our father gave you, and depart, 
 Or stay on these conditions. We are firm. 
 
JANE LEWSON. 69 
 
 We have decided kindly, not forgetting 
 You were our sister, nor that this poor child 
 Is blameless, save that all the flesh is sin, 
 But not forgetting, either, what we owe 
 To God above us." Weeping o'er the child, 
 Not rising yet, Jane answer'd, " I will stay ; 
 Yes, gladly, for the little baby's sake, 
 That folk may never call it cruel names." 
 And the stern sisters took from off the shelf 
 The great old Bible, placed it in her hands 
 And made her kiss it, swearing before God 
 Never to any one in all the world. 
 Not even to the child itself, to tell 
 She was its sinful mother. Wild and dazed, 
 She sware upon the Word. "That is enough." 
 Said Sarah ; " but, Jane Lewson, never again 
 Speak to us of the evil that has pass'd ; 
 Live with us as you used to do, and ask 
 The grace of God, who has been kinder far 
 Than you deserved." 
 
 Thus, friend, these icicles 
 Dealt their hard measure, deeming that they did 
 A virtuous and a righteous deed ; and Jane, 
 
70 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 The worn and mindless woman, sank again 
 
 Into submission and house-dradgery, 
 
 Comforted that she daily saw her child, 
 
 And that her shame was hidden from the world, 
 
 And that the child would never suffer scorn 
 
 Because a sinner bore it. But her heart 
 
 Was a bruised reed, the little sunny hue 
 
 Had gone from all things ; and whene'er she pray'd, 
 
 She thought the great cold God above her head 
 
 Dwelt on a frosty throne and did not hear. 
 
JAKE lEWSON. 
 
 ir. 
 
 Yet He, the Almighty Lord of this our breath, 
 Did see and hear, and surely pitied too, 
 If God can pity, — ^but He works as God, 
 Not man, and so we cannot understand. 
 
 No whisper of reproach, no spoken word. 
 Troubled with memories of her sinfulness 
 The suffering woman ; yet her daily life 
 Became a quiet sorrow. In the house 
 She labour'd with her hands from morn to night, 
 Seeihg few faces save the pensive ones 
 Whose yellow holiness she bow'd before ; 
 And tacitly they suffer'd her to sink 
 Into the- household drudge, — with privilege 
 Upon the Sabbath day to dress in black. 
 Sit in the siinless house or go to prayer, — 
 
72 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 So idle, that her thoughts could travel back 
 To shame and bitterness. Her only joy 
 Was when she gave her little girl the breast, 
 (They dared not rob her weary heart of that,) 
 When, seated all alone, she felt it suck. 
 And, as the little lips drew forth the milk, 
 Felt drowsily resign'd, and closed her eyes. 
 And trembled^ and could feel the happy tears. 
 
 There came a quiet gathering in the house, 
 And by the gloomy minister the child 
 Was christen'd ; and the name he gave to her 
 Was " Margaret Lewson." For the sisters said, 
 " Her mother being buried, as it were, 
 The girl shall take our name." And Jane sat by, 
 And heard the pious lie with aching heart. 
 And ever after that her trouble grew. 
 
 Soon, when the sound of Uttle feet were heard 
 In the dull dwelling, and a baby-voice 
 Call'd at the mother's heart, Jane thrill'd and heard, 
 But even as she listen'd the sweet sounds 
 Would seem to die into the cloud that hid 
 The great cold God above her. Margaret 
 
JANE LEWSON. 73 
 
 Grew to a little wildling, quick and bright, 
 
 Black-eyed, black-hair' d, and passionate and quick, 
 
 Not like its mother; fierce and wild when chid, 
 
 So that the gloomy sisters often thought, 
 
 "There is a curse upon it;" yet they grew 
 
 To love the little wildling unaware, 
 
 Indulged it in their stern and solemn way, 
 
 More cheer'd than they believed by its shrill laugh 
 
 Within the dismal dwelling. But the child 
 
 Clung most to Jane, and though, when first it learn'd 
 
 To call her by her Christian name, the sound 
 
 Bruised the poor suffering heart, that wore away ; 
 
 And all the little troubles of the child, 
 
 The pretty joys, the peevish fits, the bursts 
 
 Of passion, work'd upon her nature so. 
 
 That all her comfort was to snatch it up, 
 
 And cover it with kisses secretly. 
 
 Wilful and passionate, yet loving too, 
 
 Grew Margaret, — an echo in a cave 
 
 Of human life without ; clinging to Jane, 
 
 Who never had the heart to fondle it 
 
 Before her sisters j not afraid at times 
 
 To pinch the thin, worn arms, or pull the hairs 
 
 Upon the aching head, but afterwards 
 
74 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Curing the pain with kisses and with tears. 
 So that as time wore on the mother's heart 
 Grew tenderer to its trouble than before. 
 
 Then later, when the little girl went forth 
 To school hard by, the motion and the light 
 Hied from the house ; and all the morning hours 
 The thin face came and went against the panes. 
 Looking out townward, — till the little shape 
 Appear'd out of the cloud, and pale eyes grew 
 Dim to its coming. As the years went on, 
 The mother, with the agony in her heart 
 She could not utter, quietly subdued 
 Her nature to a listening watchfulness : 
 Her face grew settled to expectant calm, 
 Her vision penetrated things around 
 And gazed at something lying far beyond, 
 Her very foot linger'd about the house, 
 As if she loiter'd hearkening for a sound 
 Out of the world. For Margaret, as she grew, 
 Was wilder and more wilful, openly 
 Master'd the gloomy virgins, and escaped 
 The pious atmosphere they daily breathed 
 To gambol in a freer, fresher air j 
 
JANE LEWSON. 7$ 
 
 And Jane would think, " 'Twill kill me, if my child 
 
 Should turn out wicked." Mindless though she was, 
 
 And feeble, yet the trouble made her sense 
 
 Quick, sharp, and subtle to perceive and watch. 
 
 A little word upon the girlish tongue 
 
 Could sting her, — ^nay, a light upon the face, 
 
 A kindling of the eye, a look the child 
 
 Wore when asleep, would trouble her for days. 
 
 Carrying strangest import. So she waited. 
 
 Watching and listening, — while the young new life 
 
 Drew in the air, and throve, absorbing hues 
 
 Out of a thousand trivial lights and shades 
 
 That hover'd lightly round it. Still to Jane 
 
 The habit of submission clung : she watch' d 
 
 The wiser sterner faces oftentimes. 
 
 Trembling for confirmation of her fears ; 
 
 And nightly pray'd that God, who was so just. 
 
 So hard to those who went astray at all. 
 
 Would aid her sisters, helping them to make 
 
 The little Margaret better as she grew, — 
 
 Waking her secret trouble evermore 
 
 With countless, nameless acts of help and love, 
 
 And humble admonition, — comforted 
 
 By secret fondlings of the little arms, 
 
76 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Or kisses on the tiny, wilful mouth 
 Apart in childish slumber. 
 
 Thus the years 
 Pass'd over her like pensive clouds, and melted 
 Into that dewy glamour on the brain, 
 Which men call Memory. Wherefore recount 
 The little joys and sorrows of the time : 
 The hours when sickness came, and thought itself 
 Tick'd like a death-watch, — ^all the daily hopes 
 And impulses and fears 1 Enough to tell. 
 That all went onward like a troubled stream, 
 Until the sisters, Worn and growing old. 
 Felt the still angel coming nearer, nearer. 
 Scattering sleep-dust on uplooking eyes ; 
 And Jane, though in her prime, was turning gray; 
 And Margaret was a maiden flower full-blown. 
 
 A passion-flower ! — a maiden whose rich heart 
 Burn'd with intensest fire that tum'd the light 
 Of the sweet eyes into a warm dark dew ; 
 One of those shapes so marvellously made, 
 Strung so intensely, that a finger-press. 
 The dropping of a stray curl unaware 
 
JANE LEWSON. TJ 
 
 Upon the naked breast, a look, a tone, 
 
 Can vibrate to the very roots of life, 
 
 And draw from out the spirit light that seems 
 
 To scorch the tender cheeks it shines upon; 
 
 A nature running o'er with ecstasy 
 
 Of very being, an appalling splendour 
 
 Of animal sensation, loveliness 
 
 Like to the dazzling panther's; yet, withal. 
 
 The gentle, wilful, clinging sense of love, 
 
 Which makes a virgin's souL It seem'd, indeed. 
 
 The gloomy dwelling and the dismal days, 
 
 Gloaming upon her heart, had lent this show 
 
 Of shining life a melancholy shade 
 
 That trebled it ia beauty. Such a heart 
 
 Needed no busy world to make it beat : 
 
 It could throb burningly in solitude ; 
 
 Since kindly Heaven gave it strength enough 
 
 To rock the languid blood into the brains 
 
 Of twenty smaller natures. 
 
 Then the pain, 
 The wonder, deepen'd on the mother's heart, — 
 Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
 To be her mother. As she might have watch'd 
 
78 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 A wondrous spirit from another world, 
 
 Jane Lewson watch'd her child. Could this fair 
 
 girl,— 
 This wild and dazzling life, be born oiheri — 
 A lightning flash struck from a pensive cloud 
 The wan still moon is drinking ? Like a woman 
 Who has been sick in darkness many days, 
 And steps into the sunshine, Jane beheld 
 Her daughter, and felt blind. A terror grew 
 Upon her, that the smother'd sense of pride 
 Lack'd power to kill. She pray'd, she wept, she 
 
 dream'd, 
 And thought, if Margaret's had been a face 
 More like the common faces of the streets, 
 'T would have been better. With this feeling, grew 
 The sense of her own secret. Oftentimes 
 A look from Margaret brought the feeble blush 
 Into the bloodless cheek ; — creeping away 
 Into her chamber, Jane would wring her hands. 
 Moaning in pain, " God help me ! If she knew ! 
 Ah, if she knew !" And then for many days 
 Would haunt the dwelling fearfully, afraid 
 To look on what she loved, — till once again, 
 Some little kindness, some sweet look or tone, 
 
JANE LEWSON. 79 
 
 A happy kiss, would bring her courage back 
 And cheer her. 
 
 Nor had Margaret fail'd to win 
 The hard-won sisters j oft their frosty eyes 
 Enlarged themselves upon her and grew thaVd — 
 In secret she was mistress over both — 
 And in their loveless way, they also felt 
 A frighten'd pleasure in the beauteous thing 
 That brighten'd the dull dwelling. 
 
 Oftentimes, 
 The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth 
 In wilful act or speech or evil looks, 
 Deepen'd Jane's terror. Margaret heeded not 
 The sisters' pious teachings, did not show 
 A godly inclination, — nay, at times 
 Mock'd openly. Ah, had she guess'd the pain. 
 The fear, the agony, such mockings gave 
 Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
 To be her mother ! In her secret heart 
 Jane deem'd her own deep sorrows all had come 
 Because she had not, in her dreary youth, 
 Been godly ; and as such flashes as she saw 
 
8p LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Gleam from her girl, seem'd wicked things indeed ; 
 And at such times the weary woman's eyes 
 Would seek the sunless faces, searching them 
 For cheer or warning. 
 
 In its season came 
 That light which takes from others what it gives 
 To him or her who, standing glorified, 
 Awaits it. 'Tis the old, sad mystery : 
 No gift of love that comes upon a life 
 But mean's another's loss. The new sweet joy, 
 That play'd in tender colours and mild fire 
 On Margaret's cheek, upon the mother's heart 
 Fell like a firebrand. 
 
 For to Jane, her friend, 
 Her dearest in the household from the first. 
 Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
 To be her mother, Margaret first told 
 The terror — ^how she loved and was beloved ; 
 And seated at Jane's feet, with eyes upturn'd, 
 Playing with the worn fingers, she exclaim'd, 
 " I love him, Jane ! and you will love him too 1 
 I will not many any other man !" 
 
JANE LEWSON. 8l 
 
 And suddenly Jane felt as if the Lord 
 Had come behind her in the dark and breathed 
 A burning fire upon her. for sne thought, 
 " My child will go away, and I shall die I" 
 But only murmur'd, " Marry, Margaret ? 
 
 You are too young to marry !" and her face 
 
 Was like a murder'd woman's. 
 
 And the pain, 
 The agony, deepen'd, when the lover's face 
 Came smiling to the dwelling, young and bright 
 With pitiless gladness. Jane was still, and moan'd, 
 " My child will go away, and I shall die !" 
 And look'd upon her sisters, and could see 
 They pitied her ; but their stem faces said, 
 " This is God's will ! the just God governs all ! 
 How should we cross such love ?" adding, "Beware, — 
 For our sakes, for your own, but chief of all 
 For her sake whom you love, remember now ! 
 Pray, and be silent !" And the wounded heart 
 Cried up to God again, and from the sky 
 No answer came ; when, crush'd beneath her pain, 
 The woman sicken'd, lay upon her bed, 
 And thought her time was come. 
 
SZ LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Most tenderly 
 Her daughter nursed her ; little fathoming 
 The meaning of the wild and yearning look 
 That made the white face sweet and beautiful ; 
 For Jane was saying, " Lord ! I want to die ! 
 My child would leave me, or my useless life 
 Would turn a sorrow to her, if I stay'd : 
 Lord, let me die ! " Yea, the dull nature clung 
 Still unto silence, with the still resolve 
 Of mightier natures. Thinking she would die, 
 Jane lay as in a painless dream, and watch'd 
 The bright face stir around her, following 
 The shape about the room, and praying still 
 For strength — so happy in her drowsy drfeam, 
 That she went chill at times, and felt that thoughts 
 So tranquil were a sin. A darker hour 
 Gloam'd soon upon her brain. She could not see 
 The face she loved ; murmur'd delirious words ; 
 And in the weary watches of the night. 
 Moaning and wringing hands, with closbd eyes, 
 Cried "Margaret! Margaret!" Then the sisters 
 
 sought , 
 To lead the girl away, lest she should hear 
 The secret ; but she conquer'd, and remain'd ; 
 
JANE LEWSON. 83 
 
 And one still evening, when the quiet fire 
 Was maicing ghosts that quiver'd on the floor 
 To the faint time-piece ticking, Jane awoke, 
 Gazed long and strangely at the shining face. 
 Waved her thin arms, cried, " Margaret ! Margaret '. 
 WTiere are you, Margaret? Have you gone away? 
 Come to your mother ! " The wild cry of pain 
 Startled the maiden, but she only thought 
 The fever'd woman raved. Twining her arms 
 Around Jane's neck, she murmur'd, " I am here ! " 
 Weeping and kissing ; but the woman sigh'd 
 And shiver'd, crying feebly, " Let me die ! 
 My little girl has gone into the town. 
 And she has learn'd to call me wicked names, 
 And will not come again ! " 
 
 When, wearied out, 
 Jane sank to troubled sleep, her child sat still. 
 Thinking of those strange words ; and though at last 
 She shut them from her thought as idle dream, 
 Their pain retum'd upon her. The next day 
 She spake unto the sisters of the same, 
 Adding, in a low voice, " She talk'd of me, 
 And moan'd out loudly for a little child — 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Has she a child 1 " The first quick flash of fear 
 Died from the yellow visages unseen, 
 And they were calm. " Delirium ! " Sarah said ; 
 "But you, my child, must watch her sick-bed 
 
 less — 
 You are too young, too weak, to bear such things." 
 And this time Margaret did not say a word, 
 But yielded, thinking, " It is very strange ! — 
 There is a mystery, and I will watch : 
 Can Jane have had a child?" 
 
 That very day 
 The dark mists roU'd from the sick woman's brain, 
 And she awoke, remembering nought, and saw 
 The sisters watching her. Two days they watch'd ; 
 And spake but very little, though they saw 
 The wan eyes wander with a hungry look, 
 Seeking the face they loved. Then Sarah took 
 Jane's hand, and spake more gently, sisterly, 
 (Such natures, friend, grow kinder as they age,) 
 Than she had done for many years, and told 
 Of those wild words utter'd while she was ill; 
 Jane moan'd and hid her face ; but Sarah said, 
 "We do not blame you, and perchance the Lord 
 
JANE LEW SON. 85 
 
 Spake through you ! We have thought it o'er, and. 
 
 pray'd : 
 Now listen, Jane. Since that unhappy night. 
 We have not spoken of your shame, yet know 
 You have repented." With her face still hid, 
 Jane falter'd, " Let me die ! " but Sarah said, 
 " We do not think, Jane Lewson, you will live j 
 So mark me well. If, ere you go away. 
 You feel that you could go more cheerfully. 
 If you are certain that it is not sin, 
 Poor Margaret shall know she is your child j 
 We will not, now you die, deny you this ; 
 And Margaret will be silent of the shame, — 
 And, lest you break your oath upon the Word, 
 Our lips shall tell her.'' Still Jane Lewson hid 
 Her face ; and all was quiet in the room. 
 Save for a shivering sound and feeble crying. 
 But suddenly Jane hfted up her face. 
 Beauteous beyond all beauty given to joy. 
 And quickly whispering, press'd the chilly hand — 
 " I will not speak ! I will not hurt my child 
 So cruelly ! — the child shall never know! 
 And I will go in silence to my grave. 
 Leaving her happy, — and perhaps the Lord 
 
86 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Will pardon me ! " Then, for the first last time, 
 The sisters look'd on Jane with different eyes, 
 Admiring sternly, with no words of praise. 
 Her they had scom'd for feebleness so long. 
 
 Even then the watchers in the chamber heard 
 A sound that thrill' d them through, — a rustling dress, 
 A deep hard breathing as of one in pain ; 
 And pointing with her hand Jane scream'd aloud ; 
 And turning suddenly the sisters saw 
 A face as white as marble, yet illumed 
 By great eyes flashing with a terrible flame 
 That made them quail. And in a dangerous voice, 
 As low as a snake's hissing, Margaret said, 
 "I have heard all!" Then the great eyes were 
 
 tum'd 
 On Jane, and for a moment they were cold ; 
 But all at once the breathless agony 
 Of recognition struck upon her heart. 
 The bosom heaved and moan'd, the bright tears burst, 
 And Margaret flung herself upon the bed. 
 Clasping her shivering mother ; and at first 
 Jane shrank away, — but soon the wondrous love 
 Master'd her, — she could smile and kiss and cry — 
 
JANE LEWSON. 87 
 
 And hear the dear wild voice cry, " Mother ! mothei !" 
 And see the bright face through her tears, and feel 
 That Love was there. 
 
 After the first strange bliss 
 Of meeting, both were stiller. Jane could weep, 
 And bear to feel so happy. Margaret 
 Clang to her mother, breathed her bliss upon her, 
 Fondling the silver' d tresses, covering 
 The thin hard hand with kisses and with tears. 
 Trying to say a thousand merry things 
 That died in sobs and tears, and only saying, 
 For all the utterance of her speechful heart, 
 " Mother ! my mother !" Suddenly her shame 
 Came back upon the woman, and she tum'd 
 To seek her sisters' faces piteously. 
 But they had stolen from the happy room,; 
 Whereon again she murmur'd, " Let me die ! 
 I am a wicked woman, Margaret ! 
 Why did you listen 1 " But a second burst 
 Of love and blissful pain, and bitter things 
 Hurl'd at the cruel sisters, answer'd her; 
 And more tears flow'd, and more fond kisses brush'd 
 The tears away,— until at last Jane cried, 
 
88 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 " Dear, I could go away not weeping now — 
 God is so gentle with me !" 
 
 But He, who drew 
 Thus from His cloud at last and look'd so kind, 
 Will'd that Jane Lewson should not die so soon. 
 The agony did not kill her, and the joy 
 Sent a fresh life into her languid blood 
 And saved her. So that soon she rose from bed, 
 To see the sunshine on her daughter's face, 
 To see the sunless sisters, who again 
 Look'd cold as ever. 
 
 But a burning fire 
 From Margaret scorch'd them to the heart, because 
 They loved the girl ; she heap'd upon their heads 
 Rage and reproaches, mockery and scorn. 
 Until they cried, " You are a wicked girl ! 
 Jane Lewson's shame is on you. After this 
 We cannot dwell together any more." 
 And Margaret would have answer'd fiercelier still. 
 But that her feeble mother, piteously 
 Gazing at them to whom in spite of all 
 Her heart was humble, begg'd her on her knees 
 
JANE I.S,WSON. 89 
 
 For silence ; and, thus conquer'd, Margaret 
 Answer'd her aunts with kisses and with tears 
 Shower'd on her mother's face. 
 
 That evening, 
 Margaret held her mother round the neck, 
 And led her to her lover in the house, 
 And with her lips set firm together, saying, 
 " This is my dear, dear mother," told him all, 
 Concealing nothing. For a time, the man 
 Look'd startled and appall'd ; but being made 
 Of clay not base, he smiling spake at last. 
 And stooping softly, kiss'd the thin worn hand — 
 " She is my mother, too, — ^and we will dwell 
 Together!" 
 
 And they dwelt together, — leaving 
 The dismal dwelling in the smoky square. 
 To dwell within a cottage close to town ; 
 But Jane lived with them only for a year. 
 And then,' because the heart that had been used 
 To suffering so long could not endure 
 To be so happy, died ; worn out and tired. 
 Kissing her child ; and as her dying thoughts 
 
go LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Went back along the years, the sufifering seem'd 
 Not such a thankless suffering after all. 
 But like a faded garment one has leam'd 
 To love through habit ; — and the woman cried 
 On her stern sisters with her dying breath. 
 
V. 
 
 LANGLEY LANE: 
 
 % %D\it ^oem. 
 
lANGLEY lANE. 
 
 T N all the land, range up, range do*n, 
 
 Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet, 
 As Langley Lane, in London town, 
 
 Just out of the bustle of square and street ] 
 Little white cottages, all in a row, 
 Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow, 
 
 Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
 And up above the still blue sky, 
 Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by, — 
 
 I seem to be able to see it 'all ! 
 
 For now, in summer, I take my chair, 
 And sit outside in the sun, and hear 
 
 The distant murmur of street and square. 
 And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; 
 
94 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
 Comes running many a time each day, 
 
 With her little hand's-touch so warm and kind ; 
 And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, 
 And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, — 
 
 For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 
 
 Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 
 
 Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes clear, 
 And I am older by summers three, — 
 
 Why should we hold one another so dear il 
 Because she cannot utter a word, 
 Nor hear the music of bee or bird. 
 
 The water-cart's splash, or the milkman's call. 
 Because I have never seen the sky. 
 Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 
 
 Yet know she is gazing upon them all. 
 
 For the sun is shining, the swallows fly. 
 The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, 
 
 And I hear the water-cart go by. 
 With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row ; 
 
 And the Uttle one, close at my side, perceives 
 
 Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. 
 
LANGLEY LANE. gj 
 
 Where birds are chirping in summer shine, 
 And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
 Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — 
 
 And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. 
 
 Hath not the dear little hand a tongue. 
 
 When it stirs on my palm for the love of mel 
 Do I not know she is pretty and young? 
 
 Hath not my soul an eye to see 1 
 'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, 
 To wonder how things appear to her, 
 
 That I only hear as they pass around ; 
 And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
 Ske is happy to keep God's sight, 
 
 And /am happy to keep God's sound. 
 
 Why, I know her face, though I am bUnd — 
 
 I made it of music long ago : 
 Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 
 
 Round the pensive light of a brow of snow; 
 And when I sit by my little one. 
 And hold her hand, and talk in the sun. 
 
 And hear the music that haunts the place, 
 I know she is raising her eyes to me. 
 
gS LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And guessing how gentle my voice must be, 
 And seeing the music upon my face. 
 
 Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer, 
 
 (I know the fancy is only vain,) 
 I should pray : Just once, when the weather is fair, 
 
 To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ; 
 Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
 The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, 
 
 The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — 
 It is better to be as we have been,« — 
 Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. 
 
 To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. 
 
 Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! 
 
 There is always something sweet to hear ; 
 Chirping of birds, or patter of rain ; 
 
 And Fanny, my little one, always near ; 
 And though I am weak, and cannot live long, 
 And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong. 
 
 And though we can never married be,-^ 
 What then ? — since we hold one another so dear. 
 For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear^ 
 
 And the pleasure that only one can see? 
 
VI. 
 EDWARD CROWHURST; 
 
 OR. "A NEW POET." 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 
 
 Potts, in his dusty chamber, writes, 
 
 A dilettante lord to please : 
 A ray of country sunshine lights 
 
 The foggy region ruled by these ; 
 Flock, kind advisers, critics sage, 
 
 To damn the simple country clown,— 
 The mud of English patronage 
 
 Grows round his feet, and keeps him doim. 
 
 " 'T'HIS little mean-faced duodecimo, 
 
 ' Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer, ' 
 This coarsely-printed little book of rhymes, 
 Contains within the goodliest gift of song 
 The gods have graced us with for manv a day : 
 A crystal clearness^ as or running orooks. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 A music, as of green boughs murmuring, 
 A peeping of fresh thoughts in shady places 
 Like violets new-blown, a gleam of dewdrops, 
 A sober, settled, greenness of repose, — 
 And lying over all, in level beams. 
 Transparent, sweet, and unmistakable, 
 The light that never was on sea or land. 
 
 " Let all the greater and the lesser lights 
 Regard these lines upon a Wood in Spring, 
 Or those which follow, call'd 'the Barley-Bird,' 
 And then regard their laurels. Melody 
 More sweet was never blown through pastoral pipe 
 In Britain, since the Scottish Ramsay died. 
 Nor let the squeamish dreamers of our time. 
 Our rainbow bards, despise such song as this. 
 Wealthy in images the poor man knows. 
 And household chords that make the women weep. 
 Simply yet subtly, Edward Crowhurst works : 
 Singing of lowly truths and homely things — 
 Death snatching up a cotter's child at play, 
 Light flashing from far worlds on dying eyes 
 That; never saw beyond their native fields, 
 The pathos and the power of common life ; 
 
EDWARD CROWHU.RST. 
 
 And while, perchance, his deeper vein runs on 
 
 Less heeded, by a random touch is waken'd 
 
 A scent, a flower-tint, a wave of wings, 
 
 A sense of rusthng boughs and running brooks, 
 
 Touch'd by whose spell the soul is stirr'd, and eyes 
 
 Gaze on the dark world round them, and are dim. 
 
 " This Mister Crowhurst is a poor young man, 
 Uneducated, doom'd to earn his bread 
 By working daily at the plough ; and yet, 
 Sometimes in midst of toil, sometimes at night, 
 Whenever he could snatch a little time, 
 Hath written down (he taught himself to write !) 
 His simple verses. Is it meet, we ask, 
 A nature so superb should languish thus 1 
 Nay, he deserves, if ever man deserved. 
 The succour of the rich and high in place, 
 The opportunity to labour less, 
 And use those truly wondrous gifts of his 
 In modest competence j and therewithal. 
 Kindness, encouragement, and good advice, 
 Such as the cultured give. Even now, we hear, 
 A certain sum of money is subscribed, 
 Enough to furnish well his present needs. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Among the donors, named for honour here, 
 
 We note the noble Earl of Chremiton, 
 
 Lord Phidippus, Lord Gnathos, Lady Dee, 
 
 Sir Charles Toroon. But more must yet be done. 
 
 We dare to put the case on public grounds. 
 
 Since he who writes so nobly is, indeed, 
 
 A public benefactor, — with a claim 
 
 On all who love to listen and to look, 
 
 When the fresh Saxon Muse, in homeipun gear, 
 
 The free breez? blowing back her loosen'd hair, 
 
 Wanders barefooted through the dewy lanes 
 
 And sings -aloud, while all the valleys ring 
 
 For pleasure, and the echoes of the hills 
 
 Make sweet accord!" 
 
 — Conservative Review. 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 
 IL 
 
 AFTER TEN YEARS. 
 
 A homely matron, who has once been fair. 
 
 In quiet suffering old, yet young in years ; 
 Soft threads of silver in her auburn hair. 
 
 And lines around the eyes that tell of tears ; 
 But on her face there trembles peaceful light. 
 That seems a smile, and yet is far less bright,- 
 To tell of watchings in the shade and sun. 
 And melancholy duty sweetly done. 
 
 "\ X THAT, take away my Teddy? shut him up 
 
 Between stone walls, as if he were a thief? 
 You freeze my blood to talk of such a thing ! 
 Why, these green fields where my old man was bom, 
 
I04 LONDON POEiMS. 
 
 The river, and the woodland, and the lanes, 
 
 Are all that keep him living : he was ever 
 
 O'er fond of things like those ; and now, you see, 
 
 Is fonder of them than he was before, 
 
 Because he thinks so little else is left. 
 
 Mad 1 He 's a baby ! Would not hurt a fly! 
 
 Can manage him as easy as our girl ! 
 
 And though he was a poet and went wrong. 
 
 He could not help his failings. Ah, True Heart, 
 
 I love him all the deeper and the dearer ! 
 
 I would not lose him for the whole wide world ! 
 
 It came rnroueh working lonely m the fields, 
 And growing shy oi cheerful company. 
 And worrying his wits with idle things 
 He saw and heard when quiet out o' doors. 
 For, long ere we were wedded, all the place 
 Knew Teddy's ways : how mad he was for flowers 
 And singing birds ; how often at the plough 
 He used to idle, holding up his head 
 And looking at the clouds ; what curious stuff 
 He used to say about the ways of things ; 
 How week-days he was never company. 
 Nor tidy on a Sunday. Even then 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 10$ 
 
 Folk call'd him stupid : so did I myself, 
 At first, before his sheepishness wore off; 
 And then, why I was frighten'd for a time 
 To find how wondrous brightly he could look 
 And talk, when with a girl, and no one by. 
 Right soon he stole this heart of mine away, 
 So cunningly I scarcely guess'd 'twas gone, 
 But found my tongue at work before I knew. 
 Sounding his praises. Mother shook her head ; 
 But soon it was the common country talk 
 That he and I were courting. 
 
 After that 
 Some of his sayings and his doings still 
 Seem'd foolish, but I used to laugh and say, 
 " Wait till we marry 1 I shall make him change !" 
 And it was pleasant walking after dark. 
 In summer, wandering up and down the lanes. 
 And heark'ning to his talk ; and pleasant, too, 
 In winter, to sit cuddling by the fire. 
 And whispering to the quiet firelight sound 
 And the slow ticking of the clock. Ere long, 
 I grew to care for many things he loved. 
 He knew the names of trees, and birds, and flowers, 
 
106 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Their races and their seasons ; named the stars, 
 Their comings and their goings ; and could tell 
 Strange truths about the manners of the clouds. 
 Set him before a hedgerow in a lane. 
 And he was happy all alone for hours. 
 The woods and fields were full of joy to him, 
 And wonders, and fine meanings ever new. 
 How, at the bottom of the wayside well, 
 The foul toad lies and purifies the drink ; 
 How twice a year red robin sings a song, 
 Once when the orchis blows its bells in spring, 
 Once when the gold is on the slanted sheaves ; 
 How late at night the common nightingale 
 Comes in the season of the barley-sowing, 
 Silently builds her nest among the boughs. 
 And then sings out just as the roses blow. 
 And it is sweet and pleasant in the moon. 
 Why, half his courtship lay in talk like that, 
 And, oh ! the way he talk'd fiU'd high my heart 
 With pleasure ; but, o' quiet winter nights, 
 With wild bright eyes and voice that broke for joy. 
 He often read aloud from books of songs ; 
 One I remember, that I liked the best, 
 A book of pictures and of love-tales, call'd 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 107 
 
 " The Seasons." I was young, and did not think : 
 I only felt 'twas fine. Yet now and then 
 I noticed more, and took a sober fit. 
 And tried to make him tidy in his clothes, 
 And could not, though I tried ; and used to sigh 
 When mother mutter'd hints, as mothers will, 
 That he should work more hard and look ahead, 
 And save to fiimish out a house for me. . . . 
 For Teddy smiled, poor lad, and work'd more hard. 
 But save ... not he ! Instead of laying by, 
 Making a nest to rear the young ones in, 
 He spent his hard-won cash in buying books, — 
 Much dusty lumber, torn and black and old. 
 Long sheets of ballads, bundles of old rhyme, — 
 And read them, one by one, at home o' nights, 
 Or out aloud to me, or at the plough. 
 I chid at first, but quickly held my tongue. 
 Because he look'd so grieved ; and once he said, 
 With broken voice and dew-light in his eyes, 
 " Lass, I 'm a puzzle to myself and you. 
 But take away the books, and I should die ! " 
 His back went bare for books, his stomach starved 
 To buy them,— nay, he pawn'd his jacket once, 
 To get a dreary string of solemn stuff 
 
IdS I.ONPON POEMS. 
 
 All about Eve and Adam. More and more 
 He slacken'd at his toil ; and soon the lad, 
 Who tum'd the cleanest furrow, when he pleased, 
 Of all the ploughmen, let his work go spoil, 
 And fairly led an idle thriftless life 
 In the green woods and on the river side. 
 
 And then I found that he himself made verse 
 In secret, — ^verse about the birds and flowers, 
 Songs about lovers, rhymes about the stars, 
 I Tales of queer doings in the village here, — 
 All writ on scraps of paper out-o'-doors, 
 And hidden in an old tin coffee-pot 
 Where he had kept his cash. The first I heard 
 Was just a song all about him and me. 
 And cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing ; 
 He read it to me, blushing like a girl. 
 And I was pleased, and laugh'd, and thought it fine, 
 And wonder'd where he leam'd to make the words 
 Jingle so sweetly. Then he read me more. 
 Some that I liked, some that I fancied poor ; 
 And, last of all, one morn in harvest-time. 
 When all the men were working in the fields. 
 And he was nearly ragged, out it came — 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. IO9 
 
 " They 're reaping corn, and corn brings gold, my lass 
 But I will reap gold, too, and fame beside, — 
 I 'm going to print a Book ! " 
 
 I thought him mad ! 
 The words seem'd dreadful — such a fool was I ; 
 And I was puzzled more when he explain'd : 
 That he had sent some verses by the post 
 To a rich man who lived by selling songs 
 Yonder in London city; that for months 
 No answer came, and Teddy strain'd his eyes 
 Into the clouds for comfort ; that at last 
 There came a letter full of wondrous praise 
 From the great man in London, offering 
 Poor Teddy, if he sent him verse enough 
 To make a pretty little printed book, 
 To value it in money. Till I die, 
 I '11 ne'er forget the light on Teddy's face — 
 The light, the glory, and the wonder there : 
 He laugh' d, and read the letter out aloud. 
 He leapt and laugh'd and kiss'd me o'er and o'er. 
 And then he read the letter o'er again, 
 And then turn'd pale, and sank into a chair, 
 And hid his bright face in his hands, and cried. 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Bewilder'd though I was, my heart was glad 
 To see his happy looks, and pleased beside 
 That fine folk' call'd him clever. I said nought 
 To mother — for I knew her ways too well — 
 But waited. Soon came other wondrous news : 
 The scraps of verse had all been copied out 
 On fine white sheets, written in Teddy's hand, 
 Big, round, and clear, like print; and word had come 
 That they were read and praised by other folk. 
 Friends of the man in London. Last of all, 
 One night, when I was ironing the clothes, 
 And mother knitting sat beside the fire. 
 In Teddy came — as bright and fresh and gay 
 As a cock starling hopping from the nest 
 On May-day ; and with laughing eyes he cried, 
 " Well, mother, when are Bess and I to wed 1 " 
 " Wed ? " mother snapt, as sour as buttermilk, 
 "Wed? when the birds swim, and the fishes fly, 
 And the green trees grow bread and cheese and 
 
 butter 
 For lazy loons that lie beneath and yawn ! " 
 Then Teddy laugh'd aloud, and when I frown'd 
 And shook my head to warn him, laugh'd the more; 
 And, drawing out his leathern ploughman's pouch. 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 
 
 " See, mother, see ! " he cried,— and in her lap 
 Pour'd thirty golden guineas ! 
 
 At the first, 
 I scream'd, and mother look'd afraid to touch 
 The glittering gold, — and plain enough she said 
 The gold, she guess'd, was scarcely honest gain ; 
 Then Teddy told her all about his book. 
 And how those golden guineas were the price 
 The great rieh man in London put upon 't. 
 She shook her head the more ; and when he read 
 The great man's letter, with its words of praise, 
 Look'd puzzled most of all ; and in a dream, 
 Feeling the gold with her thin hand, she sat. 
 While Teddy, proud dew sparkling in his eyes, 
 Show'd me in print the little song he made 
 Of cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing, — 
 " And, Bess," he cried, " the gold will stock a house, 
 But little 'tis I care about the gold : 
 This bit of printed verse is sweeter far 
 Than all the shining wealth of all the world !" 
 And lifted up the paper to his mouth 
 And kiss'd the print, then held it out at length 
 To look upon 't with sparkling, happy eyes, 
 
LONDON POEMS, 
 
 And folded it and put it in his pouch. 
 
 As tenderly and carefully, I swear, 
 
 As if it were a note upon a bank 
 
 For wealth untold. Why linger o'er the tale ? — 
 
 Though now my poor old man is weak and iU, 
 
 Sweet is the telling of his happy time. 
 
 The money stock'd a house, and in a month 
 
 We two were man and wife. 
 
 Teddy was proud 
 And happy, — busy finishing the book 
 That was his heart's delight j and as for me. 
 My thoughts were merry as a running brook, 
 For Teddy seem'd a wise man after all ; 
 And it was spring-time, and our little home 
 Was hung with white clematis, porch and wall, 
 And wall-flower, candituft, and London pride, 
 All shining round a lilac bush in bloom, 
 Sweeten'd the little square of garden ground; 
 And cozy as a finch's mossy nest 
 Was all within : the little sleeping-room 
 And red-tiled kitchen j and, made snug and fine 
 By chairs and tables cut of bran-new deal, 
 The little parlour, — on the mantel-piece 
 
. KDWARD CROWHURST. 1:3 
 
 Field-flowers and ferns and bird's-egg necklaces. 
 Two pretty pictures pasted on the Avails, 
 (The portraits of one Milton and one Burns,) 
 And, in the corner Teddy loved the best, 
 Three shelves to keep the old, black, thumb-mark'd 
 books. 
 
 And if my heart had fever, lest the life 
 Begun so well was over-bright to last, 
 Teddy could cheer me ; for he placed his arm 
 Around me, looking serious in his joy. 
 When we were wed three days ; and " Bess," he said, 
 " The Lord above is very kind to me ; 
 For He has given me this sweet place and you. 
 Adding the bliss of seeing soon in print 
 The verse I love so much.'' Then, kissing me, 
 " I have been thmkmg of it all," he said, 
 " Holpen a bit by lives of other folk, 
 Which I have read. Now, many men like me 
 Grow light o' head and let their labour go ; 
 But men can't live by writing verses, Bess." 
 " Nay, nay," cried I, " 'twere pity if they could, 
 For every man would try the easier task. 
 And who would reap the fields or grind the corn •*' 
 
 H 
 
114 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And Teddy smiling, said, " 'Tis so ! 'tis so ! 
 Pride shall not pufF my wits, but all the day 
 I will toil happily in the fields I love ; 
 And in the pleasant evenings 'twill be fine 
 To wander forth and see the world with you. 
 Or read out poems in the parlour here. 
 Or take a pen and write, for ease o' heart. 
 Not praise, not money." I was glad tenfold, — 
 Put all my fears aside, and trusted him, — 
 And well he kept liis word. 
 
 Yet ill at ease, 
 Restless and eager, Teddy waited on. 
 Until the night a monster parcel came 
 From London : twelve brown volumes, all the same, 
 Wide-printed, thin, and on the foremost page, 
 " Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer." 
 The happiest hour my Teddy ever knew ! 
 He turn'd the volumes o'er, examined each. 
 Counted the sheets, counted the printed leaves, 
 Stared at his name in print, held out the page 
 At arm's length, feasting with his mouth and eyes. 
 I wonder'd at his joy, yet, spite o' me, 
 I shared it. 'Twas so catching. The old tale ! 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. tIJ 
 
 A little thing could make my Teddy's heart 
 
 Gay as a bunch of roses, while a great 
 
 Went by unheeded like a cannon-ball. 
 
 The glowworm is a little common grub, 
 
 Yet what a pretty gleam it often sheds ; 
 
 And that same poor, small, common-looking book, 
 
 Set on our table, kept around its leaves 
 
 A light like sunshine. 
 
 When his joy grew cool, 
 Teddy took up a book to read it through ; 
 And first he show'd me, next the foremost page, 
 A bit of writing called the "Author's Life,' 
 Made up of simple things my man had told — 
 How he was but a lowly labourer, 
 And how the green fields work'd upon his heart 
 To write about the pretty things he saw — 
 All put together by a clever man 
 In London. For a time he sat and read 
 In silence, looking happy with his eyes j 
 But suddenly he started up and groan'd, 
 Looking as black as bog-mud, while he flung 
 The book upon the table ; and I gript 
 His arm, and ask'd what ail'd him. " Bess," he :a.id. 
 
Il6 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 " The joy o' this has all gone sudden sour. 
 
 All through the cruel meddling of a fool : 
 
 The story of my life is true enough, 
 
 Despite the fine-flown things the teller sticks 
 
 Around it — peacock's feathers stuck around 
 
 The nest of some plain song-bird ; but the end 
 
 Is like the garlic-flower, — looks fine at first. 
 
 But stinks on peeping nearer. Bess, my lass, 
 
 I never begg'd a penny in my life, 
 
 I sought the help of no man, but could work. 
 
 ■What then ? what then ? O Bess, 'tis hard, 'tis hard ! 
 
 They make me go a-begging, book in hand, 
 
 As if I were a gipsy of the lanes 
 
 Whistling for coppers at an alehouse door !" 
 
 I, too, was hurt, but tried to comfort him ; 
 'Twas kindly meant, at least, I thought and said ; 
 But Teddy clench'd his teeth, and sat him down. 
 And wrote, not rudely, but as if in grief, 
 To him in London. Till the answer came, 
 The printed poems cheer'd him, though the book 
 Had lost a scent that ne'er would come again ; 
 And when the answer came, 'twas like the words 
 A mother murmurs to a silly child — 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. II7 
 
 A smiling, pitying, quiet kind of tone, 
 That made him angrier than violent speech j 
 And at the end a melancholy hint 
 About ingratitude. Teddy must trust 
 In those who had his fortune most at heart, 
 Nor rashly turn his friends to enemies, 
 Nor meddle with the kindly schemes of those 
 Who knew the great world better far than he. 
 Oh, Teddy's eyes were dim with bitter dew ! 
 " Begging is begging, and I never begg'd ! 
 Shame on me if I ever take their gold !" 
 I coax'd him to be silent ; and though soon 
 The bitter mood wore off, his gladness lost 
 The look of happy pride it wore pf old. 
 
 'Twas happy, happy, in the little home. 
 And summer round about on wood and field, 
 And summer on the bit of garden ground. 
 But soon came news, like whiffs of colour'd smoke, 
 Blown to us thickly on the idle wind. 
 And smelling of the city. For the land 
 Was crying Teddy's praises f Every morn 
 Came papers full of things about the Book, 
 And letters full of che^r from distant folk ; 
 
Il8 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And Teddy toil'd away, and tried his best 
 
 To keep his glad heart humble. Then, one day, 
 
 A smirking gentleman, with inky thumbs, 
 
 Call'd, chatted, pried with little fox's eyes 
 
 This way and that, and when he went away 
 
 He wrote a heap of lying scribble, styled 
 
 " A Summer Morning with the Labourer Bard ! " 
 
 Then others came : some, mild young gentlemen. 
 
 Who chirp'd, and blush' d, and simper'd, and were 
 
 gone; 
 Some, sallow ladies wearing spectacles, 
 And pale young misses, rolling languid eyes, 
 And pecking at the words my Teddy spake 
 Like sparrows picking seed ; and, once or twice, 
 Fine merry gentlemen who talk'd no stuff. 
 But chatted sensibly of common things. 
 And made us feel at home. Ay, not a day 
 But Teddy must be sent for, from the fields, 
 To meet with fine-clad strangers from afar. 
 The village folk began to open eyes 
 And wonder, but were only more afraid 
 Of Teddy, gave him hard suspicious looks. 
 And shunn'd him out-o'-doors. Yet how they throng'd, 
 Buzzing like humble bees at swarming time, 
 
EDWARD CROWHUKST. II9 
 
 That morn the oil'd and scented gentleman 
 
 (For such we thought him) brought a little note 
 
 From Lord Fitztalbot of Fitztalbot Tower, 
 
 Yonder across the moorland. 'Twas a line 
 
 Bidding my Teddy to the Tower, and he 
 
 Who brought it was the footman of my lord. 
 
 Well, Teddy went, was many hours away, 
 
 And then retum'd with cat's-claws round his lips. 
 
 " See ! " Teddy cried, and flung a little purse 
 
 Of money in my lap ; and I, amazed. 
 
 Counted ten golden guineas in my palm. 
 
 Then gazed at Teddy, saw how pale he was, 
 
 And ask'd what ail'd him. " 'Tis the money, lass," 
 
 He answer' d, groaning deep. "He talk'd, and 
 
 seem'd 
 Right kindly; ask'd about my home, and you ; 
 Spoke of the poems, smiled, and bow'd farewell ; 
 And, dropping that same money in my hat, 
 Bade me go dine below. I burn'd like fire, 
 Felt choking, yet was fearful to offend. 
 And took the money, as I might have took 
 A blazing cinder, bow'd, and came away. 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! this comes of yonder loon. 
 Who sent the book a-begging !" Then he talk'd— 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 How fiercely and how wildly, clenching hands : 
 
 " Was not a poet better than a lord t 
 
 Why should the cruel people use him so 1 
 
 Why would the world not leave his home in peace?" 
 
 And last, he vow'd to send the money back. 
 
 But I, though shamed and troubled, thought him 
 
 wrong, 
 And vow'd my lord was kind, and meant us well, 
 And won him o'er at last to keep the purse. 
 And ah ! we found it useful very soon. 
 When I lay in, and had a dreadful time. 
 And brought our girl. Then Teddy put aside 
 All grief and anger ; thought of us alone ; 
 Forgot, or nearly, all tlie praise and blame 
 Of loveless strangers ; and was proud and glad, 
 Making fond rhymes about the babe and me. 
 
 Ah ! had the folk but let my man alone. 
 All would be happy now. He loved his work, 
 Because it kept him in the fields ; he loved 
 The babe and me ; and all he needed more, 
 To keep his heart content, was pen and ink, 
 And now and then a book. And as for praise. 
 He needed it no more than singing birds ; 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 
 
 And as for money, why, he wanted none ; 
 And as for prying strangers in the house, 
 They brought a clumsy painful sense of pride 
 That made him restless. He was ever shy 
 Of company — he loved to dream alone — 
 And the poor life that he had known so long 
 Was just the kind of life he suited best. 
 He look'd a fine straight man in homespun gear, 
 But ne'er seem'd easy in his Sunday coat. 
 
 What should his fine friends do at last, but write, 
 Bidding my man to London, — there to meet 
 A flock o' gentlefolk, who spent their days 
 In making books ! — Though here we dwell so near, 
 That northward, far away, you see the sky 
 Black with the smoky breathing of the city. 
 We ne'er had wander'd far away from home. 
 Save once or twice, five miles to westward yonder, 
 To Kersey Fair. Well, Teddy fix'd to go ; 
 And seeing him full bent, I held my tongue. 
 And ofif he set, one day, in Sunday black, 
 A hazel staff over his shoulder flung. 
 His bundle swinging, — and was sped by train 
 To London town. Two weeks he stay'd away ; 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And, when he came from London, he was changed. 
 
 His eyes look'd wild, his cheek was pale, his step 
 
 Unsteady ; when he enter'd, I could smell 
 
 Drink in his breath. Full pain'd, and sick at heart, 
 
 I question'd him ; but he was petulant, 
 
 And snapt me short ; and when I brought the child, 
 
 He push'd her from him. Next day, when he rose, 
 
 His face was pallid ; but his kindly smile 
 
 Came back upon it. Ere the day was out. 
 
 He told me of his doings, of the men 
 
 And places he had seen, and when, and how. 
 
 He had been dull in dwellings of the rich. 
 
 Had felt ashamed in great grand drawing-rooms, 
 
 And angry that the kindly people smiled 
 
 As if in pity; and the time,, he said, 
 
 Would have gone drearily, had he lack'd the cheer 
 
 He chanced to find among some jovial folk 
 
 Who lived by making books. Full plain I saw 
 
 That something had gone wrong. His ways were 
 
 strange. 
 He did not seem contented in his home. 
 He scarcely glinted at the poor old books 
 He loved so dearly. In a little time, 
 Teddy grew more himself, at home, a-field, 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. I23 
 
 And though, from that day forward, he began 
 To take a glass and smoke a pipe at night, 
 I scarcely noticed. Thus the year wore on ; 
 And still the papers praised him far away, 
 And still the letters came from distant folk. 
 
 And Teddy had made friends : folk who could talk 
 About the things he loved, and flatter him, 
 Ay, laugh aloud to see him drink his glass, 
 And clap his back, and shake him by the hand. 
 How wild soe'er he talk'd. For by degrees 
 His tongue grew freei^ he was more at ease 
 With strangers. Oft he spent the evening hours 
 With merry-makers in the public-house. 
 And totter'd home with staring, dazzled eyes. 
 The country people liked him better now, 
 And loved to coax him out to drink at night, 
 And, gaping, heark'd to the -strange things he said. 
 Ah, then my fear grew heavy, though his heart 
 Was kindly still, his head still clear and wise, 
 And he went wastering only now and then. 
 
 But soon his ways grew better, for his time 
 Was spent in finishing another booL 
 
124 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Yet then I found him changed in other things ; 
 For once or twice when money as before 
 Was sent or given him, he only laugh'd, 
 And took it, not in anger. And, be sure, 
 Money gi'ew needful in the little home — 
 Another babe was coming. Babe and book 
 Were bom together, but the first was bom 
 Quiet and breathless. 'Twould be idle talk 
 To speak about the book. What came of that, 
 Was much the same as what had come before : 
 The papers praised it over all the land, 
 But just a shade more coolly ; strange folk wrote, 
 But not so oft. Yet Teddy was in glee, 
 For this time fifty golden guineas came 
 From the rich man in London. 
 
 Once again, 
 They coax'd him up to London ; once again. 
 Home came he changed, — with wilder words of wit, 
 And sharper sayings, on his tongue. He toil'd 
 Even less than ever : nay, his idle fiiends, 
 Who loved to drain the bottle at his side, 
 Took up his time full sorely. We began 
 To want and pinch : more money was subscribed. 
 
EDWARD CROWHUEST. IZJ 
 
 And taken : — till at last my man grew sick 
 Of working in the open fields at all. 
 
 And just as work grew hardest to his mind, 
 The Lord Fitztalbot pass'd him on the road, 
 And turn'd his head away. A change had come, 
 As dreadful as the change within himself. 
 The papers wrote the praise of newer men, 
 The strange folk sent him letters scarce at all ; 
 And when he spake about another book. 
 The man in London wrote a hasty " No !" 
 And said the work had little chance to sell. 
 Those words were like a sunstroke. Wild and scared, 
 My Teddy stared at London — all his dreams 
 Came back upon him — and with bitter tongue 
 He mock'd and threaten'd. 'Twas of no avail ! 
 His fine-day friends like swallows wing'd away, 
 The summer being o'er ; the country folk 
 Began to knit tlieir foreheads as of old, 
 Save one or two renown'd as ne'er-do-wells ; 
 And, mad with pride, bitten with shame and fear, 
 Teddy drank deeper at the public-house. 
 
 Teddy to blame t Teddy to blame ? Ah, nay ! 
 
126 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 The blame be theirs who broke his simple pride 
 With money, beggar'd him against his will. 
 The blame be theirs who flatter'd him from home, 
 And led him out to make his humble ways 
 An idle show. The blame be theirs who smiled 
 Whene'er he play'd a wrong and foolish part. 
 Because he had skill to write a bit of verse. 
 The blame be theirs who spoil'd him like a child. 
 And, when the newness of his face was gone, 
 Turn'd from him scornfully and smiled elsewhere. 
 Teddy to blame ! — a silly, ignorant man. 
 Not learn' d, not wise, not cunning in the world ! 
 
 But hearken how I changed him yet once more, 
 One day when he was sick and ill with pain. 
 I spake of all our early courting days. 
 Full low and tender, of the happy time 
 When I brought forth our girl, and of the words 
 He spake when we were happy ; last of all, 
 "Teddy," I said, "let people be unkind, 
 The whole world hard, you cannot heal your pain 
 Wastering, idling; think of merrier days. 
 Of me, and of our girl, and drink no more." 
 He gazed at me full long, his bosom rose 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 127 
 
 And flutter'd, and he held my hand in his, 
 And shivering, moaning, sank into a chair j 
 And, looking at the bookshelf at his side, 
 And at the common-looking thumb-mark'd books, 
 He promised, promised, with his poor cheeks wet, 
 And his voice broken, and his lips set firm. 
 
 True Heart, he kept his word. The public-house 
 Knew him no longer ; in the fields he toil'd 
 Lonely once more ; and in the evenings 
 Read books and wrote, — rand all he wrote, I know, 
 Was sad, sad, sad. Bravely he work'd all day, 
 But not so cheerfiiUy. And no man cared 
 To brighten him with goodly words. His face 
 Was stale with gentlefolk, his heart too proud 
 To mix with coarse, low men. Oft in the fields 
 They saw him turn his poor eyes Londonwards, 
 And sigh ; but he was silent of the pain 
 That grew upon him. Slowly he became 
 The sadden'd picture of his former self: 
 He stood at ploughtail looking at the clouds, 
 He watch'd the ways of birds and trees and flowers ; 
 But all the little things he leam'd and loved ' 
 Had ta'en a sadder meaning. Oftentimes, 
 
128 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 In spite of all he did to hide his heart, 
 I saw he would have been a happy man. 
 If any one had praised him as of old ; 
 But he was never sent for from the fields. 
 No strangers wrote to cheer him, and he seem'd 
 All, all, forgotten. Still, as true as steel. 
 He held his promise to our girl and me. 
 Though oft, I know, the dreadful longing came 
 To fly to drink for comfort Then, one night, 
 I heard a stirring in the dark : our girl 
 Crept close to me, and whisper'd in mine ear — 
 " Hark ! father 's crying !" 
 
 O 'tis terrible 
 To hear a strong man weep ! I could not bear 
 To find him grieving so, but crept unto him, 
 And put my arms about him, on his neck 
 Weeping, " O Teddy, Teddy, do not so ! 
 Cheer up, for you will kill me if you cry. 
 What do you long for ] Why are you so sad 1" 
 And I could feel him crush his hot tears down, 
 And shake through every limb. " O lass !" he cried, 
 " I cannot give a name to what I want : 
 I cannot tell you why I grow so sad ; 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. J29 
 
 But I have lost the pleasure and the peace 
 The verses brought me. I am sick and changed, — ■ 
 I think too much of other men, — I seem 
 Despised and useless. If I did not feel 
 You loved me so, and were so kind and true, 
 When all the world is cruel, I should fall 
 And wither. All my strength is gone away, 
 And I am broken !" 
 
 'Twas but Uttle cheer 
 That I could give him : that was grief too deep 
 For foolish me to understand or cure. 
 I made the little parlour bright o' nights, 
 Coax'd him to read aloud the books he loved, 
 And often he was like himself again. 
 Singing for ease o' heart ; and now and then, 
 A poem printed in a newspaper, 
 Or something kind from people in the world, 
 Help'd me a httle. So the time wore on ;— 
 Till suddenly, one night in winter time, 
 I saw him change. Home came he white and pale, 
 Shivering, trembling, looking wild and strange, 
 Yet speaking quietly. " My head feels queer — 
 It aches a bit ! " he said ; and the next day 
 
130 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 He could not rise from bed. Quiet he lay, 
 But now and then I saw him raise his hand 
 And hold his forehead. In the afternoon, 
 He fell to troubled sleep, and, when he woke. 
 He did not seem to know me. Full of fear, 
 I sent for Doctor Barth. When Doctor came, 
 He found poor Teddy tossing on bis bed. 
 Moaning and muttering and clenching teeth, 
 And Doctor said, " The iU is on the brain — 
 Has he been troubled lately ? " and I cried, 
 " Ay, much, much troubled ! He has fretted sore 
 For many months ! " 
 
 'Twas sad, 'twas sad, to see 
 My strong man suffer on his dull sick-bed, • 
 Not knowing me, but crying out of things 
 That haunted him. I will not weary you, 
 By telling how the Doctor brought him round, 
 And how at last he rose from bed, the ghost 
 Of his old self, and something gone away 
 That never would return. Then it was plain 
 That he could work no more : the Light had fled, 
 Which keeps a man a man despite the world 
 And all its cruel change. To fright the wolf, 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 131 
 
 I took in washing at the cottage liere ; 
 And people sent us money now and then. 
 And pitying letters reach'd us from the world, 
 Too late ! too late ! 
 
 Thank the good God above, 
 Wlio made me strong and willing, I could keep 
 The little house above us, though 'twas dear. 
 And ah ! I work'd more hard because I knew 
 Poor Tedd/s heart would break outright elsewhere. 
 Yet Teddy hardly seem'd to comprehend 
 All that had happen'd. Though he knew me well. 
 And spake full sensibly of many things, 
 He lack'd the power to speak of one thing long. 
 Sometimes he was as merry as a bird. 
 Singing wild songs he learn'd by heart when young ; 
 Sometimes he wish'd to wander out a-field, 
 But easy 'twas to lead his wits away 
 To other things. And he was changeful ever. 
 Now laughing and now crying ; and at times 
 He wrote strange notes to poets that were dead, 
 And named himself by all their names in turn. 
 Still making verse, whicli I had sense to see 
 Was wild, and strange, and wrong — not like the verse 
 
Ija LONDON POEMS. 
 
 He made of old. One day for liottrs he sat, 
 
 Looking upon the bit of garden ground, 
 
 And smiling. When I spoke, he look'd and laugh'd. 
 
 " Surely you know me, Teddy?" I exclaimed; 
 
 And up he raised his head, with shrill thin voice 
 
 Saying, " Yes, you are Queen Elizabeth, 
 
 And I am Shakespeare ;" and again he smiled 
 
 Craftily to himself; but when I hung 
 
 Around his neck, and wept, and ask'd again, 
 
 He turn'd upon me with so pale a look, 
 
 So wan, so sharp, so full of agony, 
 
 'Twas clear the cloud was lifted for a moment, 
 
 'Twas clear he knew that he was Teddy Crowhurst, 
 
 And that the light pf life had gone away. 
 
 And oft, in sunny weather, he and I 
 Had walks in quiet places, — in the lanes, 
 And in the woods, and by the river side ; 
 And he was happy, prying as of old 
 In little mossy nests, or plucking flowers. 
 Or dropping pebbles at the water-brim. 
 To make the speckled minnows start and fly 
 In little gleams of light. Ne'er had he been 
 More cunning in the ways and looks of things, 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. I33 
 
 Though memory fS,ird him when he tried for names. 
 
 The sable streaks upon the arum-flower 
 
 Were strange to him as ever ; a lark singing 
 
 Made his eyes misty as it used to do ;' 
 
 The shining sun, the waving of green boughs, 
 
 The rippling of the river down the dell, 
 
 Were still true pleasure. All the seasons brought 
 
 Something to charm him. Staring on the snow, 
 
 Or making great snow-houses like a boy. 
 
 He was as busy when the boughs were bare, 
 
 As carrying home a bough of scented May 
 
 Or bunch of yellow lilies from the pond 
 
 What had been pleasure in his younger days 
 
 Came back to keep him quiet in the world. 
 
 He gave much love to trees and birds and flowers. 
 
 And, when the mighty world was all unkind, 
 
 The little, gentle, speechless things were true. 
 
 True Heart, I never thought that he could bear 
 To last so long ; but ten slo* years have fled 
 Since the first book that brought the trouble and pain 
 Was printed, — and within the parlour there 
 Teddy is sitting, busy as a bee. 
 Doing 1 He dreams the world that knows him not 
 
134 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Rings with his praises, and for mahy an hour 
 Sits busy with the verse of later years, 
 Marks, copies, and arranges it with care. 
 To go to some great printer that he thinks 
 Is waiting ; and from time to time he eyes 
 The books they printed, numbering the lines. 
 Counting the pages. Sometimes he is Burns, 
 Sometimes John Milton, sometimes other men, 
 And sometimes — always looking saddest then — 
 Knows he is Teddy Crowhurst. Thin he is. 
 And worn, and feeble, — wearing slowly down 
 Like snowdrift ; and at times, when Memory 
 Comes for a moment like a mirror flash'd 
 Into his eyes, he does not groan and weep. 
 But droops the more, and seems resign'd and stilL 
 True Heart, I fear the end is near at last ! 
 He sits and hearkens vacantly and dreams, 
 He thrills at every knocking at the door, 
 Stilly he waits for light that never comes, 
 That never will return until the end. 
 And oft at evening, when my work is done. 
 And the dark gathers, and he holds my hand, 
 The waiting grows intenser, and becomes 
 The sense o' life itself. Take Teddy hence ! 
 
EDWARD CROWHURST. 13$ 
 
 Show me the man will draw my hand away ! 
 I am a quiet comfort to his pain ; 
 For though his thoughts be far away from here, 
 I know he feels my hand ; and ah ! the touch 
 Just keeps his heart from breaking. 'Tis my joy 
 To work where I can watch him through the day, 
 And quiet him, and see he wants for nought. 
 He loves to sit among his books and flowers, 
 And wears away with little pain, and feels 
 The quiet parlour is a pleasant place ; 
 And there — God bless him ! — in a happy time 
 Teddy will feel the darkness pass away. 
 And smile farewell upon his wife and girl. 
 And Light that he has lost will come again 
 To shine upon him as he goes to sleep, 
 
VIJ. 
 
 ARTIST AND MODEL: 
 
 a %o\)t Poem. 
 
 The scorn of the nations is bitter 
 But the touch of a hand is warm. 
 
ARTIST AND MODEL. 
 
 T S it not pleasant to wander 
 
 In town on Saturday night, 
 While people go hither and thither, 
 
 And shops shed cheerful light 1 
 And, arm in arm, while our shadows 
 
 Chase us along the panes, 
 Are we not quite as cozy 
 
 As down among country lanes 1 
 
 Nobody knows us, heeds us. 
 
 Nobody hears or sees. 
 And the shop-lights gleam more gladly 
 
 Than the moon on hedges and trees ; 
 
I40 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 And people coming and going, 
 All upon ends of their own, 
 
 Though they work a spell on the spirit, 
 Make it more finely alone.. 
 
 The sound seems harmless and pleasant 
 
 As the murmur of brook and wind ; 
 The shops with the fruit and the pictures 
 
 Have sweetness to suit my mind ; 
 And nobody knows us, heeds us, 
 
 And our loving none reproves, — - 
 1, the poor figure-painter ! 
 
 You, the lady he loves ! 
 
 And what if the world shotild scorn yoii. 
 For now and again, as you dOi 
 
 Assuming a country kirtle, 
 
 ' And bonnet of straw thereto, 
 
 Or the robe of a vestil virgin^ 
 Or a nun's gray gabardine, 
 
 And keeping a brother and sister 
 By standing and looking divine ? 
 
ARTIST AND MODEL. I4I 
 
 And what if the world, moreover, 
 
 Should silently pass me by. 
 Because, at the dawn of the struggle, 
 
 I labour some stories high ! 
 Why, there 's comfort in waiting, working, 
 
 And feeling one's heart beat right, — 
 And rambling alone, love-making, 
 
 In London on Saturday night. 
 
 For when, \vith a blush Titianlc, 
 
 You peep'd in that lodging of mine, 
 Did I not praise the good angels 
 
 For sending a model so fine 1 
 When I was fiU'd with the pureness 
 
 You brought to the lonely abode, 
 Did I not learn to love you ? 
 
 And — did Love not lighten the load 1 
 
 And haply, indeed, litQe darling. 
 
 While I yeam'd ana plotted and plann'd, 
 
 And you watch'd me in love and in yearnmg. 
 Your heart did not quite understand 
 
LONDON POEMS. 
 
 All the wonder and aspiration 
 You meant by your loveliness, 
 
 All the faith in the frantic endeavour 
 Your beautiful face could express ! 
 
 For your love and your beauty have thriven 
 
 On things of a low degree, 
 And you do not comprehend clearly 
 
 The drift of a dreamer hke me ; 
 And perchance, when you look'd so divinely, 
 
 You meant, and meant only, to say : 
 " How sad that he dwells in a garret ! 
 
 And lives on so little a day!" 
 
 What of that? If your sweetness and beauty, 
 
 And the love that is part of thee, 
 Were mirror'd in wilder visions. 
 
 And express'd much more to me, 
 Did the beautiful face, my darling. 
 
 Need subtler, loftier lore? — 
 Nay, beauty is all our wisdom, — 
 
 We painters demand no more. 
 
ARTIST AND MODEL. I43 
 
 Indeed, I had been no painter, 
 
 And never could hope to rise. 
 Had I lack'd the power of creating 
 
 The meanings for your sweet eyes ; 
 And what you were really thinking 
 
 Scarcely imported, in sooth, — 
 Since the truth we artists fail for, 
 
 Is the truth that looks the truth. 
 
 Your beautiful face was before me. 
 
 Set in its golden hair ; 
 And the wonder and love and yearning 
 
 Were shining sublimely there ! 
 And your eyes said — " Work for glory! 
 
 Up, up, where the angels call !" 
 And I understood, and I labour" d. 
 
 And I love the face for it all ! 
 
 I am talking, you think, so strangely ! 
 
 And you watch with wondering eyes !- 
 Could I utter one half of the yearning 
 
 Your face, even now, implies ! 
 
144 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 But the yearning will not be utter" d. 
 And never, ah ! never can be, 
 
 Till the work of the world is over. 
 And we see as immortals see. 
 
 Yet bless thee for ever and ever, 
 
 For keeping me humble and true. 
 And would that mine Art could utter 
 
 The wisdom I find in you. 
 Enough to labour and labour. 
 
 And to feel one's heart beat right, 
 And to wander unknown, love-making, 
 
 In London on Saturday night ! 
 
 You think : "How dearly I love him! 
 
 How dearly he loves me ! 
 How sweet to live on, and love him, 
 
 With children at my knee ! 
 With the useless labour over, 
 
 And comfort and leisure won, 
 And clever people praising 
 
 The work that he has done !" 
 
ARTIST AND MODEL. I45 
 
 I tliink : " How dearly I love her ! 
 
 How dearly she loves me ! 
 Yet the beauty the heart would utter 
 
 Endeth in agony; 
 And life is a climbing, a seeking 
 
 Of something we never can see ! 
 'And death is a slumber, a dreaming 
 
 Of something that may not be 1 " 
 
 And your face is sweetly troubled, 
 
 Your little hand stirs on mine own, 
 For you guess at a hidden meaning, 
 
 Since I speak in so tender a tone ; 
 And you rain the yearning upon me 
 
 You brought to my help before, 
 And I ask no mightier wisdom, — 
 
 We painters demand no more. 
 
 And we shall live, my darling, 
 Together till we grow old, 
 
 And people will buy my pictures, 
 And you will gather the gold. 
 
140 i^ONDOA POEMS. 
 
 And your loveliness will reward n\e, 
 
 And sanctify all 1 do, 
 And toiling for Love's sake, darling, 
 
 I may toil for Fame's sake, too. 
 
 Ah, dearest, how much you teach me, • 
 
 How much of hope and of light, 
 Up yonder, planning and painting, 
 
 And here on Saturday night ; 
 And I turn sad eyes no longer 
 
 From the pageant that passes around, 
 And the vision no more seems weary. 
 
 And the head may yet be crown'd ! 
 
 And I ask no more from mortals 
 
 Than your beautiful face implies, — 
 The beauty the artist beholding ■ 
 
 Interprets and sanctifies. 
 Who says that men have fallen. 
 
 That life is wretched and rough 1 
 I say, the world is lovely. 
 
 And that lovelmess is enough. 
 
ARTIST AND MODEL. I47 
 
 So my doubtina days ait: ended, 
 
 And the labour of life seems clear; 
 And life hums deeply around me, 
 
 Just like the murmur here, 
 And quickens the sense of living. 
 
 And shapes me for peace and storm, — 
 And dims my eyes with gladness 
 
 When it glides into colour and form ! 
 
 His form and His colour, darling, 
 
 Are all we apprehend, 
 Though the meaning that underlies them 
 
 May be utter'd in the end ; 
 And I seek to go no deeper 
 
 Than the beauty and wonder there. 
 Since the world can look so wondrous, 
 
 And your face can look so fair. 
 
 For ah ! life's stream is bitter, 
 When too greedily we drink, 
 
 And I might not be so happy 
 If I knew quite all you think ; 
 
148 LONDON POEMS, 
 
 And when God takes much, my darling, 
 He leaves us the colour and foim. — 
 
 The scorn of the nations is bitter, 
 But the touch of a hand is warm 
 
VIIL 
 NELL. 
 
 She gazes not at her who hears, 
 
 But, while the gathering darkness crie3| 
 Stares at the vacancy through tears, 
 
 That bum upon her glistening eyes, 
 Yet do not fall. Her hair falls free 
 
 Around a face grown deathly thin ; 
 Her elbow rests upon her knee> 
 
 And in her palms she props her chiuj 
 Her voice sounds hollow on the air 
 
 And often, ere her tale is told, 
 A groan disturbs her blank despair^ 
 
 And leaves a sense of bitter cold. 
 
NELL. 
 
 \7"0U 'RE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and true ! 
 
 God will be good to faithful folk like you ! 
 The neighbours all look black, and snap me short — 
 Well, I shall soon be gone from Camden Court. 
 You knew my Ned ? 
 
 A better, kinder lad never drew breath — 
 We loved each other true, though never wed 
 
 In church, like some who took him to his death : 
 A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
 
 His senses when he took a drop too much — 
 Drink did it all — drink made him mad when cross'd — 
 
 He was a poor man, and they 're hard on such. 
 So kind ! so true ! that life should come to this ! 
 
152 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Gentle and good ! — the very week before 
 The fit came on him, and he went amiss, 
 He brought me home, and gave me, with a kiss. 
 
 That muslin gown as hangs behind the door, 
 
 II. 
 
 O Nan ! that night ! that night ! 
 
 When I was sitting in this very chair, 
 Watching and waiting in the candle-light. 
 
 And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, 
 And tum'd, and saw him standing yonder, white 
 
 And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair ! 
 And when I ,caughit his arm and call'd, in fright. 
 
 He push'd me, swore, and pass'd 
 
 Back to the door, and lock'd and barr'd it fast ! 
 Then dropp'd down heavy as a lump of lead. 
 
 Holding his brow, shajcipg, and growing whiter, 
 
 And — Nan ! — just then the candlelight grew 
 brighter. 
 And I could see the hands that held his head, 
 All red! all red! 
 What could I do but scream 1 He groan'd to hear, 
 
 Jump'd to his feet, and gripp'd me by the wrist ; 
 
 " Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell ! " he hiss'd. 
 
NELL. IS3 
 
 And I was still for fear. 
 
 " They 're after me — I 've knifed a man ! " he said. 
 "Be still ! — the drink — drink did it — ^he is deadV 
 And as he said the word, the wind went by 
 With a whistle and cry — 
 
 The room swam round — ^the babe unborn seem'd to 
 scream out, and die ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Then we grew still, so still. I couldn't weep- 
 All I could do was cling to him and hairk-»^ 
 
 And Ned was col^ cold, cold, as if asleep, 
 
 But breathing hard and deep ; 
 The candle flicker'd out---the room grew dark— 
 
 And^Nan ! — although my heart was true and tried,- 
 ■When all grew cold and dim, 
 
 I shudder'd — not for fear pf them outside, 
 But just afraid to be alone with him : 
 
 And he was h,ard, he was — the wjod it cried— 
 
 A foot went holJitjw down the court and died — 
 
 What could I do but clasp his knees a»d cling ? 
 And call his name beneath my breath in pain ] 
 
 Until he raised his head a-listening, 
 And gave a groan, and hid his face again ; 
 
154 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 " Ned ! Ned ! " I whisper'd — and he moan'd and 
 
 shook — 
 But did not heed or look ! 
 
 " Ned ! Ned ! speak, lad ! tell me it is not trae ! " 
 At that he raised his head and look'd so wild ; 
 Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw 
 
 His arms around me, sobbing like a child, 
 And held me close — and not a word was spoken — 
 While I clung tighter to his heart and press'd 
 him — 
 And did not fear him, though my heart was broken^ 
 But kiss'd his poor stain'd hands, and cried, and 
 bless'd him ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold ' 
 
 With sound o' falling rain, — 
 When I could see his face, and it look'd old, 
 
 Like the pinch'd face of one as dies in pain ; 
 Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun. 
 We never thought to hide away or run. 
 Until we heard those voices in the street, 
 That hurrying of feet. 
 
 And Ned leap'd up, and knew that they had come. 
 " Run, Ned ! " I cried, but he was deaf and dumb ! 
 
I5S 
 
 " Hide, Ned ! " I scream'd, and held him — " hide 
 
 thee, man ! " 
 He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken'd, Nan 1 
 And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 
 
 Of knocking at the door — 
 A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 
 
 A mist — a tramp — a roar ; 
 For when I got my senses back again, 
 
 The room was empty, — and my head went round ! 
 The neighbours talk'd and stirr'd about the lane. 
 
 And Seven Dials made a moaning sound ; 
 And as I listen'd, lass, it seem'd to me 
 Just like the murmur of a great dark sea, 
 
 And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown'd ! 
 
 God help him ? God wtU help him ! Ay, no fear ! 
 
 It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no wrong ; 
 So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, 
 
 Now he is lost as loved me true and long. 
 Why, just before the last of it, we parted, 
 And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted ; 
 And ah, my heart was broke ! and ah, I cried 
 And kiss'd him, — till they took me from his side ; 
 
156 tONDON POEMS. 
 
 And though he died that way, (God bless him !) Ned 
 Went through it bravely, calm as any there : 
 
 They Ve wrought their till of spite upon his head, 
 And — there 's the hat and clothes he used to wear ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 . . . That night before he died, 
 
 I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried j 
 
 But when the clocks went " one," I took my shawl 
 
 To cover up my face^ and stole away, 
 And walk'd along the moonlight streets, where all 
 
 Look'd cold and still and gray, ■:— 
 Only the lamps o' London here and there 
 
 Scatter' d a dismal gleaming ; 
 And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, 
 
 Just like a woman dreaming : 
 But just as " three " was sounded dose at hand, 
 
 I started and turn'd east, before I knew, — 
 Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand, 
 
 And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo. 
 How I remember all I saw, although 
 
 'Twas only like a dream ! — 
 The long still lines o' lights, the chilly gleam 
 
 Of moonshine on the deep black stream below; 
 
»S7 
 
 While far, lar, far away, along the sky- 
 Streaks soft as silver ran, 
 
 And the pale moon look'd palet Up on high, 
 And little sounds in far-off strfeets begap ! 
 
 Well, while I stood, and waited, and look'd down, 
 
 And thought how sweet 'twould be to drop and 
 drown, 
 
 Some men and lads went by. 
 And I tum'd round, and gazed, and watch'd 'em 
 
 go, 
 Then felt that they were going to see hini die. 
 
 And drew my shawl more tight, and follow'd 
 slow. 
 How clear I feel it still ! 
 
 The streets grew light, but rain began to fall ; 
 I stopp'd and had some coffee at a stall. 
 
 Because I felt so chill ; 
 A cock crew somewhere, and it Seeili'd a call 
 
 To wake the folk who kill ! 
 The man who sold the coffee Stared at me ! 
 I must have been a sorry sight to see ! 
 
 More people pass'd — a country cart with hay 
 Stopp'd close beside the stall, — and two or three 
 
 Talk'd about ii/ I moan'd, and crept away! 
 
158 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place, 
 
 All in the falling rain, 
 I went, and kept my shawl upon my face, 
 
 And felt no grief or pain — 
 Only the wet that soak'd me through and through 
 
 Seem'd cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch — 
 It made the streets more drear and silent, too, 
 
 And kept away the light I fear'd so much. 
 Slow, slow the wet streets fiU'd, and all were going, 
 
 Laughing and chatting, the same way. 
 And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing. 
 
 Though still the rain fell fast and darken'd day! 
 Nan ! — every pulse was burning — I could feel 
 My heart was made o' steel — 
 As, crossing Ludgate Hill, where many stirr'd, 
 
 I saw Saint Paul's great clock and heard it chime, 
 i^nd hadn't power to count the strokes I heard, 
 
 But strain'd my eyes and saw it was not time ; 
 Ah ! then I felt I dared not creep more near, 
 
 But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill, 
 And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear 
 
 The people gathering still ! 
 
iSS 
 
 And still the rain was falling, falling, 
 
 And deadening the hum I heard from there; 
 And wet and stiff, I lieard the people calling. 
 
 And watch'd the rain-drops gUstening down my hair, 
 My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead, — 
 My shawl thrown off, now none could see, — my head 
 
 Dripping and wild and bare. 
 I heard the murmur of a crowd of men. 
 
 And next, a hammering sound I knew full well, 
 For something gripp'd me round the heart ! — and then 
 
 There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! how could I sit close by 
 And neither scream nor cry? 
 As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 
 
 But listening, listening, listening, still and dumb. 
 While the folk murmur'd, and the death-bell toU'd, 
 
 And the day brighten' d, and his time had come. . . 
 . . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but the knell 
 Of the slow bell I 
 And I could only wait, and wait, and wait. 
 
 And what I waited for I coifldn't tell. — 
 At last there came a groaning deep and great — 
 Saint Paul's struck " eight " — 
 
 I scream' d, and seema to turn to fire, and fell 1 
 
IbC . LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Vlll. 
 
 God bless him, live or dead ! 
 
 He never meant no wrong, was kind and true-^ 
 They 've wrought their fill of spite upon his head — 
 
 Why didn't they be kind, and take me too ? 
 And there 's the dear old things he used to wear, 
 And here 's a lock o' hair ! 
 And they 're more precious far than gold galore, 
 
 Than all the wealth and gold in London town ! 
 He 'II never wear the hat and clothes no more, 
 
 And I shall never wear the muslin gown ! 
 And Ned ! my Ned ! 
 
 Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call ; — 
 God bless you, Nan, for all you Ve done and said. 
 
 But don't mind me/ My heart is broke — that 's all ! 
 
IX 
 
 ATTORNEY SNEAK. 
 
 Sharp like a tyrant, timid like a slave, 
 A little man, with yellow, bloodless cheek ; 
 
 A snappish mingling of the fool and knave. 
 Resulting in the hybrid compound — Sneak. 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. 
 
 ■pUT execution in on Mrs Hart — 
 
 If people will be careless, let them smart : 
 Oh, hang her children ! just the common cry ! 
 Am I to feed her family 1 Not I. 
 I 'm tender-hearted, but I dare be just, — 
 I never go beyond the law, I trust ; 
 I 've work'd my way, plotted and starved and plann'd, 
 ' Commenced without a penny in my hand, 
 And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham — 
 No ! I 'm a man of principle, I am. 
 
 What 's that you say 1 Oh, father has been here ? 
 Of course, you sent him packing ? Dear, oh, dear ! 
 
164 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 When one has work'd his weary way, like me, 
 
 To comfort and respectability. 
 
 Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two. 
 
 And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew. 
 
 Can look the laws of England in the face, 
 
 'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace, 
 
 That one's own father — old and worn and gray — 
 
 Should be the only hindrance in his way. 
 
 Swore, did he? Very pretty! Thfeaten'd? Oh! 
 
 Demanded money? You, of ooiirse, said "Nol" 
 
 'Tis hard — my life will never be secure — 
 
 He '11 be rtiy ruin some day, I am sure. 
 
 I don't deny niy origin was low — 
 All the more credit to mysfelf, you know : 
 Mother (I never saw her) was a ttAtap, 
 Father half tramp, half pfedlair, and whole scamp, 
 Who travell'd over England with a pack, 
 And carried me about upon his back. 
 Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs. 
 Cheating the silly women with his wares, 
 Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food, 
 Pilfering oddis and ends where'er he could, 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. 165 
 
 And resting in a city now and then, 
 Till it becaiHie too hot, — and off again. 
 Beat me ? No, he knew better. I confess 
 He used me with a sort of tenderness ; 
 But would have warp'd my nature into sin, 
 Had I been weak, for lack of discipline. 
 Why, even now, I shudder to the soul. 
 To think how oft I ate the food he stole. 
 And how I wore upon my back the things 
 He won by cheats and lawless bargainings. 
 Oh, he had feeliogs, that I freely say ; 
 But, without principle, what good are they J 
 He swindled and he stole on every hand, 
 And I was far too young to reprimand ; 
 And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect. 
 And might have been committed for neglect. 
 
 Ah ! how I jna-naged, under stars so ill, 
 To thrive at allj to me is mystery still. 
 In spite of fathejc, though, I got along. 
 And early learn'd to judge the right from wi;ong; 
 At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed, 
 He gave me lessons how io write and read, 
 
166 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 I got a snack of schooling here and there, 
 And leam'd to sum by instinct, as it were. 
 Then, latterly, when I was seventeen, 
 All sorts of evil I had heard and seen ; 
 Knew father's evil ways, bemoan'd my fate, 
 Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great ; 
 Swore, with the fond ambition of a lad, 
 To make good use of what poor gifts I had. 
 
 At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down. 
 Hither I tum'd my thoughts, — to London town ; 
 And finally, with little doubt or fear, 
 Made up my mind to try my fortune here. 
 Well, father stared at first, and shook his head ; 
 But when he found I held to what I said. 
 He clasp'd me tight, and hugg'd me to his heart. 
 And begg'd and pray'd that I would not depart; 
 Said I was all for whom he had to care. 
 His only joy in trudging here and there; 
 VoVd, if I ever left him, he would die, — 
 Then, last of all, of course, began to cry. 
 You know how men of his position feel 1 
 Selfish, at best, even when it is real ! 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. 167 
 
 I tried to smooth him over, and, next day, 
 I pack'd what things I had, and ran away. 
 
 I need not tell you all my weary fight, 
 To get along in hfe, and do aright — 
 How often people, when I sought a place, 
 Still push'd my blessed father in my face ; 
 Until, at last, when I was almost stark. 
 Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk ; 
 How from that moment, by avoiding wrong, 
 Possessing principle, I got along j 
 Read for the law, plotted, and dream'd, and plann'd. 
 Until — I reach'd the height.on which I stand. 
 
 'Twas hard, 'twas hard ! Just as my business grows, 
 In father pops his miserable nose, 
 Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress, 
 And worn tenfold with want and wickedness ; 
 Calls me hard names because I wish'd to rise ; 
 Here, in the office, like a baby cries ; 
 Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace. 
 Till, red as fire, I coax'd him from the place. 
 
l68 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 What could I do under so g^eat a blow ? 
 I gave him money, tried to make him go ; 
 But ah ! he meant to rest, I plain could see, 
 His ragged legs 'neath my mahogany ! 
 No principle ! When I began complaining, 
 How he would be my ruin by remaining, 
 He tum'd upon me, white and wild, and swore, 
 And would have hit me, had I utter'd more. 
 
 "Tommy," he dared to say, "you've done amiss; 
 I never thought to see you come to this. 
 I would have Stopp'd you early on the journey, 
 If I had ever thoMght you 'd grow attorney, 
 Sucking the blood of people here in London ; 
 But you have done it, and it can't be undone. 
 And, Tommyj I -will do my best to see 
 You don't at all disgrace yourself and me." 
 
 I rack'd my brains, I moan'd and tore my hair. 
 Saw nothing left but ruin and despair ; 
 Father at hand, why, all would deem me low : 
 " Sneak's father ? humph !"— the business would go. 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. I69 
 
 The labour of long years would come to nought ! 
 
 At last I hit upon a happy thought : 
 
 Why should not father, if he pleased to be, 
 
 Be decent and respectable like me ; 
 
 He would be glad and grateful, if a grain 
 
 Of principle were settled in his brain. 
 
 I made the offer, — proud he seem'd and glad, — 
 
 There rose a hope he 'd change to good from bad, 
 
 Though, " Tommy, 'tis a way of getting bread 
 
 I never thought to come upon," he said ; 
 
 And so I put him in the office here, 
 
 A clerk at five and thirty pounds a year. 
 
 I put it to you, could a man do more ? 
 I felt no malice, did not close my door, 
 But gave the chance to show if he was wise : 
 He had the world before him, and could rise. 
 
 Well, for a month or more, he play'd no tricks, 
 Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six, 
 Not smart, of course, nor clever, like the rest, 
 But trying, it appear'd, to do his best ; 
 
xyo LONDON POEMS. 
 
 But by and by he changed — old fire broke out — 
 
 He snapp'd when seniors order'd him about — 
 
 Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk — 
 
 Would sit for precious hours before his work, 
 
 And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare 
 
 Out through the window at the empty air, 
 
 And watch the sunshine lying in the lane. 
 
 Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, 
 
 And look as sad and worn and grieved and strange 
 
 As if he ne'er iiad had a chance to change ; 
 
 Came one day staggering in a drunken fit ; 
 
 Flatly refused one day to serve a writ. 
 
 I talk'd, appeal'd, talk'd of my honest name, 
 
 He stared, tum'd pale, swore loud, and out it came : 
 
 He hated living with that monkey crew, 
 
 Had tried his best and found it would not do ; 
 
 He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears 
 
 Of people with the Law about their ears. 
 
 Would rather steal his meals from place to place. 
 
 Than bring the sorrow to a poor man's face — 
 
 In fact, you see, he hated all who pay. 
 
 Or seek their moneys in the honest way ; 
 
 Moreover, he preferr'd a roadside crust. 
 
 To cleanly living with the good and just : 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. 171 
 
 Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down, 
 He could not bear to stagnate in a town ; 
 To stick in a dark office in a street, 
 Was downright misery to a man with feet ; 
 Serving the law was more than he could bear, 
 Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air. 
 
 M^k that ! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad ! 
 His want of principle had made him mad. 
 I gave him money, sent him off oy train, 
 And trusted ne'er to see his face again. 
 
 But he came back. Of course. Look'd wan and ill, 
 More ragged and disreputable still. 
 Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men, 
 I granted him another trial then. 
 Still the old story — the same vacant stare 
 Out through the window at the empty air, 
 More watching of the sunshine in the lane, 
 And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, 
 Then more of tipsiness and drunken dizziness, 
 And rage at things done in the way of business. 
 
J-7a LONDOW POEMS. 
 
 I saw the very oiSce servants fineer, 
 
 And I deteimined to be more severe. 
 
 At last, one winter mom, I went to him, 
 
 And found him sitting, melancholy, grim, 
 
 Sprawliog like any schoolboy on his seat, 
 
 And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet : 
 
 Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits, 
 
 Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine tails, labell'd " Writs ; " 
 
 Thfiie, ayoang rascal, ragged as a <daw, 
 
 Drinking a cup of poison, labellUi " Law ;" 
 
 Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile 
 
 Of old indictments with a crai^ smile. 
 
 And sticking Lawyers on an office file ; 
 
 And in a comer, wretchedly devised, 
 
 A shape in black, that kick'dand agonised. 
 
 Strung by a pauper to a gallows great, 
 
 And undemeath it written, " Tommje's tfatb !" 
 
 I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside, 
 
 Produced a bunch of documents, and cried : 
 
 " Now, fathsc, no more nonsense ! You must 
 
 be 
 No more a plague and a disgrace to me— 
 If you won't work like others, you must .quit; 
 See, here are two subpoenas, there a writ. 
 
ATTORNEY SNEAK. 173 
 
 Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So. 
 
 Be sharp, — and mind your condtiGt, or you gO;" 
 
 He never said a word, but with a glare 
 
 All round him, drew his thin hand through his hair, 
 
 Turn'd white, and took the papers silently, 
 
 Put on his hat, and peep'd again at me. 
 
 Then quietly, not like a man in ire, 
 
 Placed all the precious papers oil the fire ! 
 
 And turning quickly, crying with a shout, 
 
 " You, and all documents, be damn'd/" went out. 
 
 He came again ! Ay, after wandering o'er 
 The country as of old, he came once more. 
 I gaVe him money, off he went ; and then. 
 After a little year, he came again ; 
 Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and poor, 
 And he -mW. be my ruin, I am sure. 
 He tells the same old tale from year to year, 
 How to his heart I ever will be dearj 
 Or oft into a fit of passion flies, 
 Calls me ungrateful and unkind, — then cries. 
 Raves of his tenderness and suffering. 
 And mother's too and all that sort of thing ! 
 
174 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim, 
 And — to be candid —I 'm afraid of him ; 
 For, ah ! all now is hopeless, to my cost, — 
 Through want of principle the man is lost 
 
 — ^That's Badger, is iti He must go to VerCj 
 The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here. 
 Say, for his children's sake, we will relent. 
 If he '11 renew at thirty-five per cent. 
 
BARBARA GRAY. 
 
 A mourning woman, robed in black, 
 Stands in the (wilight, looking back ; 
 Her hand is on her heart, her head 
 Bends musingly above the Dead, 
 Her face is plain, and piuchM, and thil^ 
 but splendour stiikes it fioni wi'ibiu 
 
BARBARA GRAY. 
 
 L 
 
 "■DARBARAGRAY! 
 
 Pause, and remembei what the world will say," 
 I cried, and turning on the threshold fled, 
 When he was breathing on his dying bed ; 
 
 But when, with heart grown bold, 
 
 I cross'd the threshold cold, 
 Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead. 
 
 II. 
 
 And all the house of death was chill and dim. 
 
 The dull old housekeeper was looking grim. 
 
 The hall-clock ticking slow,. the dismal rain 
 
 Splashing by fits against the window-pane, 
 
 The garden shivering in the twilight dark, 
 
 Beyond, the bare trees of the empty park, 
 
 M 
 
178 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 \nd faint gray light upon the great cold bed, 
 Ind I alone ; and he I tum'd from, — dead. 
 
 TII. 
 
 Ay, " dwarf" they called this man who sleeping lies • 
 No lady shone upon him with her eyes, 
 No tender maiden heard his true-love vow, 
 And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow. 
 What cared John Hamerton? With light, light laugh; 
 Ae halted through the streets upon his staff; 
 Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace 
 And sweetness in his pale and quiet face ; 
 Fire, hell's or heaven's, in his eyes of blue ; 
 Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto j 
 Could win a woman's Soul with what he said, 
 And I am here ; and here he lieth dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I would not blush if the bad world saw now 
 How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow ! 
 Ay, kiss it, kiss it, o'er and o'er again. 
 With all the love that fills my heart and brain. 
 
 v. 
 For where was man had stoop'd to me before, 
 Though I was maiden still, and girl no more ] 
 Where was the spirit that had deign'd to prize 
 
BARBARA GRAY. lyg 
 
 The poor plain features and the envious eyes 1 
 What lips had whisper'd warmly in mine ears 1 
 When had I known the passion and the tears ? 
 Till he I look on sleeping came unto me, 
 Found me among the shadows, stoop'd to woo me, 
 Seized on the heart that flutter'd withering here, 
 Strung it, and wrung it, with new joy and fear, 
 Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day, 
 Waken'd the dead heart, withering away. 
 Put thorns and roses on the unhonour'd head, 
 That felt but roses till the roses fled ! 
 Who, who, but he crept unto sunless ground, 
 Content to prize the faded face he found 1 
 John Hamerton, I pardon all — sleep sound, my love, 
 sleep sound ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin ? 
 Did he not think me fair enough .to win? 
 Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none, 
 living or dead, save he alone, had done 1 
 Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne'er 
 The full of life and love had mantled there 1 
 And I am all alone ; and here lies he, — 
 The only man that ever smiled on me. 
 
I&> LONDON POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies. 
 The light all faded from his winsome eyes : 
 Alone, alone, alone, he slumbers herCj 
 With wife 'nor little child to shed a tear ! 
 Little, indeed, to him did nature give ; 
 Nor was he good and pure as some that live, 
 But pinch'd in body, warp'd in limb. 
 He hated the bad world that loved not him ! 
 
 viu. 
 Barbara Gray 1 
 
 Pause, and remember how he tum'd away j 
 
 Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay t 
 
 Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong 
 
 Of pining lonely in the dark so long;. 
 
 Think of the comfort in the grief he brought. 
 
 The revelation in the love he taught. 
 
 Then, Barbara Gray} 
 
 Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will say ; 
 
 But kiss him, kiss him, o'er and o'er again. 
 
 In passion and in pain. 
 
 With all the love that fills your heart and brain ! 
 
 Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed. 
 
 For you have lived, and here your love lies dead. 
 
XI. 
 
 THE BLIND LINNET. 
 
 rl yhp ISei li ipSv, 
 
 inf y ipwPTt /aiSiy fjv ISeai y\vK6; 
 
 Soph. CEd. Tyr. 
 
THE BLIND LINNET. 
 
 nPHE sempstress's linnet sings 
 
 At the window opposite me ; — 
 It feels the sun on its wings, 
 
 Though it cannot see. 
 Can a bird have thoughts 1 May be. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sempstress is sitting, 
 
 High o'er the humming street, 
 
 The little blind linnet is flitting 
 Between the sun and her seat 
 
184 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 All day long 
 
 She stitches wearily there, 
 And I know she is not young, 
 
 And I know she is not fair ; 
 For I watch her head bent down 
 
 Throughout the dreary day, 
 And the thin meek hair p' brown 
 
 Is threaded with silver gray ; 
 And now and then, with a start 
 At the fluttering of her heart. 
 
 She lifts her eyes to the bird, 
 And I see in the dreary place 
 The gleam of a thin white face. 
 
 And my heart is stiir'd. 
 
 III. 
 Loud and long 
 The linnet pipes his song ! 
 For he cannot see 
 
 The smoky street all round, 
 But loud in the sun sings he, 
 
 Though he hears the murmurous sound ; 
 For his poor, blind eyeballs blink, 
 
 While the yellow sunlights fail, 
 
THE BLIND LINNET. iSj 
 
 And he thinks (if a bird can think) 
 
 He he^s a waterfall, 
 Or the broad and beautiful river 
 
 Washing fields of com, 
 Flowing for evei 
 
 Through the woods where he was bom ; 
 And his voice grows stronger, 
 
 While he thinks that he is ther^ 
 And louder and longer 
 
 Falls his song on the dusky air. 
 And oft, in the gloaming still, 
 
 Perhaps (for who can tell ?) 
 
 The musk and the muskatel. 
 That grow on the window sill, 
 
 Cheat him with their smeiL 
 
 nr. 
 
 But the sempstress can see 
 
 How dark thingfi be ; 
 
 How black through the town 
 
 The stream is flowing; 
 And tears fall down 
 
 Upon her sewdng. 
 
l86 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 So at times she tries, 
 
 When her trouble is stirr'd,. 
 To close her eyes, 
 
 And be blind like the bird. 
 And then, for a minute. 
 
 As sweet things seem. 
 As to the linnet 
 
 Piping in his dream ! 
 For she feels on her brow 
 
 The sunlight glowing^ 
 And hears nought now 
 
 But a river flowing — 
 A broad and beautiM river, 
 
 Washing fields of com, 
 Flowing for ever 
 
 Through the woods where she was bom- 
 And a wild bird winging 
 Over her head, and singing ! 
 And she can smell 
 The musk and the muskatd 
 
 That beside her grow, 
 And, unaware, 
 She murmurs an old air 
 
 That she used to know I 
 
XII. 
 LONDON, 1864 
 
LONDON, 1864. 
 
 "X 1 rHY should die heart seem colder, , 
 
 As the song grows stronger and surer 1 
 Why should the brain grow darker. 
 
 And the utterance clearer and purer? 
 To lose what the people are gaining 
 
 Seems often bitter as gall. 
 Though to sink in the proud endeavour 
 
 Were the bitterest of all. 
 I would to God I were lying 
 
 Yonder 'mong mountains blue, 
 Smiling in sweet conceptions 
 
 That were dried from my brow like dew. 
 
ipo LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Burning, and aching, and yearning 
 To conquer,, to sing, and to teach, 
 
 With the brain at white-heat, clutching 
 At visions beyond my reach, — 
 
 But with never a feeling or fancy 
 I could utter in tuneful speech ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Yea ! that were richer and sweeter 
 
 Than all that my soul hath found, — 
 Than to see and to know, and be able 
 
 To utter the knowledge in sound ; 
 For the heart feels colder and harder, 
 
 And a glory hath gone from me. 
 And I hate, for I view so clearly, 
 
 So much that I loved to see, 
 And the far blue misty mountains 
 
 Are grand as they used to be ! 
 
 III. 
 And Art, the avenging angel, 
 
 Comes, with her still, gray eyes, 
 Kisses my forehead coldly. 
 
 Whispers to make me wise ; 
 
LONDON, 1864. 191 
 
 And, too late, comes the revelation, 
 
 After the feast and the play, 
 That she works her end, not by giving, 
 
 But cruelly taking away : 
 By burning the heart till it shrivels, 
 
 Scorching it dry and deep 
 And changing the flower of living 
 
 To a poor dried flower that may keep ! 
 What wonder if often and often 
 
 The passion, the wonder dies ; 
 And I hate the terrible angel. 
 
 And shrink from her passionless eyes, — 
 Who, instead of the rapture and vision, 
 
 I held as the poet's dower — 
 Instead of the glory of living, 
 
 The impulse, the splendoiu", the power — 
 Instead of the singing raiment. 
 
 The trumpet proclaiming the day, 
 Gives, and so coldly, only 
 
 A pipe whereon to play ! 
 While the spirit of boyhood hath perish'd, 
 
 And never again can be. 
 And the singing seems so worthless, 
 
 Since the glory hath gone from me,— 
 
192 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Though the fer blue misty Hiountains,, 
 And the earth and the air and the sea, 
 
 And the manifold music and beauty, 
 Are grand as they used to be ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is there a consolation 
 
 For the joy that comes never again ? 
 Is there a balm remaining ? 
 
 Is there a refuge from pain 1 
 Is there a balm to quiet 
 
 The shame and the grief and the stinging? 
 Only the sweet, strange sadness, 
 
 That is the source of the singing. 
 
 V. 
 For the sound of the city is awful, 
 
 As the people pass to and fro, 
 And the friendless faces are dreadful, 
 
 As they come, and thrill through us, and go; 
 And the ties that bind us to others 
 
 Of our error and weakness are bom ; 
 And our dear ones ever love dearest 
 
 Those parts of ourselves that we scorn ; 
 
LONDON, 1864. 193 
 
 And the weariness will not be utter* d, 
 
 And the bitterness dare not be said, 
 And we hood the proud nature with meanness 
 
 To shut out the sight of our Dead ! 
 And what, then, remainetli as solace ] 
 
 Dear ones, or fortune, or farns 1 
 Only the sweet singing sadness 
 
 Cometh between us and shame. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And there dawnetli a time to the Poel, 
 
 When the bitterness passes away, 
 Wlien his heart is humbled in silence, 
 
 And he kneels in the dark to pray ; 
 And the prayer is turn'd into music, 
 
 And the music findeth a tongue. 
 And Art, the cold angel, seems kinder. 
 
 And comforts the soul she has stung. 
 Then the Poet, worn with the struggle, 
 
 Findeth his loss is his gain : 
 The sweet singing sadness is stranger. 
 
 Though nought of the glory remain ; 
 And the awful sound of the city, 
 
 And tlie terrible faces around, 
 
194 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 Take a traer, tenderer meaning, 
 
 And pass into sweetness and sound; 
 The mystery deepens and deepens, 
 
 Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud, 
 And the Poet, though often and often 
 
 Stricken, and eyeless, and bow'd, 
 Starteth at times from his wonder, 
 
 And sendeth his Soul up aloud ! 
 
 VIL 
 
 Lo ! I stand at the gateway of Honour, 
 
 And see the lights flashing within. 
 And I murmur these songs of the city. 
 
 Its sorrow, its joy, and its sin ; 
 And the sweetness is heavy upon me, 
 
 Though grown of the past and its wrong ; 
 My losses are sure if that sweetness 
 
 Be felt in the soul of the song. 
 I murmur these songs of the city. 
 
 And cast them as bread on the sea ; 
 And mine eyes are dim with the singing 
 
 That is all in the world to me ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 
 
 De Karlemane et de Rolant, 
 £t d'Olivier, et des vassaus. 
 Qui moururent «i Raiuscevaux I 
 
 "P\EAD was GeraJrd the fair, the woman-mouth'd, the 
 
 gay, 
 Who jested with the foe he slung his sword to slay ; 
 Dead was the giant Guy, big-hearted, small of brain ; 
 Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red haunch slit 
 
 in twain ; 
 Dead was the old hawk Luz, and sleeping by his side 
 His twin-sons, Charles the Fleet, and Pierre the 
 
 serpent-eyed ; 
 
igS MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Dead was Antoine, the same who swore to speak no 
 
 word 
 Till twice a hundred heads fell by his single sword ; 
 Dead was the wise Gerin, who gripp'd both spear and 
 
 pen; 
 Sansun was dead, Gereir was dead ! — dead were the 
 
 mighty men ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Then Roland felt his hfe return, and stirr'd, and 
 
 cried. 
 Felt down if Adalmar lay safe against his side, 
 And smiled quietlie, for joy the sword was there, 
 With heavy mailed hand push'd back his bloody hair. 
 And lying prone upon his back, beheld on high 
 The stars hke leopard-spots strewn in the deep gray 
 
 sky, 
 And tum'd his head, and saw the great hills looming 
 
 dim. 
 And in the west the Moon with red and wasting rim ; 
 Then sighing deep, swung round his head as in a 
 
 swoon, 
 And met the hunchback's eyne, glazed beneath the 
 
 Moon. 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. I99 
 
 Chi'l was the air, and frosty vapours to and fro, 
 Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, crawl'd to 
 
 and fro ; 
 And Roland thought, because his wound had made 
 
 him weak, 
 The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his 
 
 cheek. 
 And crawling to his knees, shivering in the cold, 
 Loosen'd his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roU'd; 
 And slowly his faint eyes distinguish'd things around, — 
 The dark and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground, 
 A helmet glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red, 
 A white horse quivering beside a warrior dead, 
 And in one moonlit place a ring on a white hand. 
 When Roland thought, " Gerard ! the merriest of the 
 
 band !" 
 And no one stirr'd ; behind, the hills loom'd cold and 
 
 dim; 
 And in the west the waning Moon with red and wasting 
 
 rim. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Then Roland cried aloud, " If living man there be 
 Among these heaps of slain, let that man answer me !" 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And no man spake. The wind crept chilly over all, 
 But no man felt it breathe, or heard the leader call. 
 " Ho, Olivier ! Gerin ! speak, an' ye be not dead !" 
 Small voices of the hills afar off echofed, — 
 Only a heathen churl rose cursing on his side. 
 And spat at him who spake, and curl'd his limbs, and 
 
 died. 
 Then Roland's mighty heart was heavy with its woes, — 
 When suddenly, across the fields, faint radiance rose. 
 First a faint spark, and then a gleam, and then a glare. 
 Then smoke and crimson streaks that mingled in the 
 
 air. 
 And as the thick flame clear'd, and the black smoke 
 
 swam higher. 
 There loom'd beyond a shape like one girt round with 
 
 fire. 
 And Roland cried aloud, because his joy was great, 
 And brandish'd Adalmar, and fell beneath the weight. 
 And lying prone strain'd eyes, and, gazing through the 
 
 night, 
 Still saw the glittering shape girt round with smoky 
 
 light. 
 And seemfed in a dream, and could not think at all. 
 Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl, 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 
 
 Then like a bruised worm weary, he crept and slow, 
 Straining his fever'd eyes lest the sweet light should go, 
 And often paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail, 
 'Mong heathens foul to smell and warriors clad in mail, 
 But coming near the light beheld the godly man, 
 Turpin the archbishop, unhelm'd and gaunt and wan, — 
 Gripping with skinny hand the ivory Cross sat he, 
 Clad head to heel in bright white mail and propp'd 
 against a tree. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And when on hands and knees the stricken chief 
 
 came near. 
 The Bishop raised the Cross, and knew his comrade 
 
 dear; 
 And Roland did not speak, though tears were in his ee. 
 But touch'd the blessed Cross, and smilfed painfullie ; 
 V/hile, " Gloiy be to God !" the Bishop faintly said, 
 "Thou livest, kinsman dear, though all the rest be 
 
 dead! 
 For while I linger'd here and listen'd for a sound. 
 And in the dim red moon beheld the dead around, 
 Thinking I heard a cry, 1 sought to cry again, 
 But all my force had fled, and I was spent with pain ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 When, peering round, I saw this heathen at my heel. 
 And search'd his leathern scrip and found me flint and 
 
 steel, 
 Then crawl'd, though swooning-sick, and found his 
 
 charger gray. 
 And searching in the bags found wither'd grass and 
 
 hay, 
 And made a fire, a sign for thee, whoe'er thou wert. 
 And fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt ; 
 And waken'd to behold thee near, wounded and weak, 
 The red fire flaming on thy face, thy breath upon my 
 
 cheek." 
 
 V. 
 
 Then those brave chiefs wrung hands, and as the 
 
 smoky flare 
 Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer, 
 And shadows loom'd out black against the frosty 
 
 shine, 
 While Turpin search'd his pouch and murmur'd, 
 
 " Here is wine!" 
 And Roland on his elbows raised himself and quaff"'d, 
 Drank, till his head swam round, a deep and goodly 
 
 draught, 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 203 
 
 And quickly he felt strong, his heart was wild and light, 
 And placed his dear sword softly down, and rose his 
 
 height, 
 Loosening his mail, drew forth the shirt that lay 
 
 beneath, 
 And took the blood-stain'd silk and tore it with his 
 
 teeth. 
 And dress'd the Bishop's wounds with chilly hand and 
 
 slow, 
 Then, while the Bishop pray'd, bound up his own wide 
 
 wound alsoe. 
 
 VI, 
 
 Then Roland search'd around, dipping his hands in 
 
 blood. 
 Till in a henchman's pack he found a torch of wood, 
 And taking flint and steel, blew with his mouth, and 
 
 lo! 
 The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the 
 
 glow; 
 And gave the torch unto the man of holy fame, 
 Who glittering like fire, sat sickening in the flame, 
 And crept across the mead, into the dark again. 
 And felt the faces of the slain, seeking the mighty men. 
 
204 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bless'd be thy name, white Mary, for thy breath and 
 light, 
 Like vapour cold, did fill the nostrils of thy knight ! 
 Yea, all his force came back, his red wound ceased to 
 
 bleed, 
 And he had hands of strength to do a blessfed deed ! 
 For one by one he found each well-belovfed head, 
 Sought out the mighty chiefs, among the heaps of dead. 
 Softly unloosed their helms, let the long tresses flow, 
 Trail'd them to Turpin's feet and set them in a row ; 
 And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazbd bright 
 On dreadful shapes in mail and faces ghastly white : 
 Sansun, who held his sword with grip that ne'er un- 
 loosed ; 
 Gerin, with chin on breast, as if he breathed and mused; 
 Great Guy, with twisted limbs, and bosom gash'd and 
 
 bare. 
 And blood-clots on his arms the cold had firozen there; 
 Old Luz, his skinny hands fill'd with a foeman's 
 
 beard ; 
 Charles with his feet lopp'd off, Pierre with his green 
 eye spear'dj 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 20$ 
 
 Sanche, the fierce woman's foe, and round his neck, 
 
 behold ! 
 A lock of lady's hair set in a ring of gold ; 
 Antoine, with crafty smile, as if new fights he plann'd ; 
 Gerard, still smiling on the ring upon his hand ; 
 And, brightest of the band, our Roland's comrade dear. 
 The iron woman-shape, the long-lock'd Olivier, 
 Who gript the bladeless hilt of Durandal his pride. 
 And held it to his kissing lips, as when he swoon'd 
 
 and died. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Turpin raised the torch, counted them one by 
 
 one : 
 " Ah, woe is me, sweet knights, for now your work is 
 
 done ! " 
 Then, reaching with the Cross, he touch'd their brows 
 
 and cried : 
 "White Mary take your souls, and place them at her 
 
 side I 
 White Mary take your souls, and guard them ten- 
 
 derlie, — 
 For ye were goodly men as any men that be ! " 
 And Roland stooping touch'd the brow of Olivier, 
 Smoothing the silken hair behind the small white ear. 
 
206 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And cried, "Ah, woe is me, that we should ever part!" 
 And kiss'd him on the foamy lips, and swoon'd for 
 ache of heart. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And Turpin dropp'd the torch, that flamed upon the 
 
 ground. 
 But meeting new-shed blood, went out with hissing 
 
 sound ; 
 He groped for Roland's heart, and felt it faintly beat, 
 And, groping on the earth, he found the wine-flask 
 
 sweet, 
 And fainting with the toil, slaked not his own great 
 
 drouth, 
 But, shivering, held the flask to Roland's foamy mouth : 
 E'en then, his Soul shot up, and in its shirt of steel 
 The corse sank back with crash like ice that cracks 
 
 beneath the heeL 
 
 X. 
 
 The frosty night-wind waken'd Roland from his 
 
 swound. 
 And, spitting salt foam from his tongue, he look'd 
 
 around, 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 20? 
 
 And saw the Bishop dear lying at length close by, — 
 Touch'd him, and found him cold, and utter'd up a 
 
 cry: 
 " Now, dead and cold, alas ! lieth the noblest wight 
 For preaching sermons sweet and wielding sword in 
 
 fight J 
 His voice was as a trump that on a mountain blows, 
 He scatter'd oils of grace and wasted heathen-foes, — 
 White Mary take his soul, to join our comrades 
 
 dear. 
 And let him wear his bishop's crown in heaven above 
 
 as here ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then it grew chiller far, the grass grew moist with dew. 
 The landskip glimmer'd pale, the hoary breezes blew, 
 The many stars above melted like snow-flakes white. 
 And far behind the hills the east was laced with light, 
 The dismal vale loom'd clear against a crimson glow. 
 Clouds spread above like wool, pale steam arose 
 
 below, 
 And on thq faces dead the frosty morning came. 
 On mighty men, and foes, and squires unknown to 
 
 fame, 
 
20S MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And armed mail gleam'd bright, and broken steel 
 
 gleam'd gray, 
 And cold dew fiU'd the wounds of those who sleeping 
 
 layj 
 And Roland, rising, drank the dawn with lips apart. 
 But scents were in the air that sicken'd his proud 
 
 heart! 
 Yea, all was deathly still; and now, though it was day, 
 The moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away. 
 The white mist wreath'd and curl'd over the glittering 
 
 dead, 
 A cock crew, far among the hills, and echoes answered. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then peering to the east, across the dewy steam, 
 He spied a naked wood, and there a running stream ; 
 Thirsting full sore, he rose, and thither did he hie. 
 Faintly, and panting hard, because his end was nigh ; 
 But first he stooping loosed from Turpin's fingers cold 
 The. Cross inlaid with gems and wrought about with 
 
 gold, 
 And bare the holy Cross aloft in one weak hand. 
 And with the other trail'd great Adalmar his brand. 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 209 
 
 Thus wearily he came into the woody place, 
 
 And stooping to the stream dipped therein his face, 
 
 And in the pleasant cold let swim his great black 
 
 curls, 
 Then swung his forehead up, glittering as with pearls; 
 And while the black blood spouted in a burning jet, 
 He loosed the bandage of his wound and made it wet, 
 Wringing the silken bands, making them free from 
 
 gore. 
 Then placed them cool upon the wound, and tighten'd 
 
 them once more. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in 
 
 wind. 
 Ghastly and round the sun loom'd dismally behind, 
 High overhead the moon faded with sickle chill. 
 The frosty wind dropp'd down, and all was deathlier 
 
 still. 
 And Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours 
 
 cold. 
 
 Beheld three marble steps, as of a niin old, 
 
 And at the great tree-bolls lay many a carven stone. 
 
 Thereto a dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown ; 
 
 o 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And .frosted were the boughs that gathered around, 
 And cold the runlet crept, with soft and soothing 
 
 sound, 
 And Roland smilbd sweet, and thought, " Since death 
 
 is nigh, 
 In sooth, I know no gentler place where gentle man 
 
 could die !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Whereon the warrior heard a sound of breaking 
 
 boughs, 
 And, from the thicket wild, leapt one with tanned 
 
 brows : 
 Half-naked, glistening dark with oily limbs, he came. 
 His long-nail'd fingers curl'd, his little eyes aflame. 
 Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the chief he flew, 
 " Yield thee thy sword of fame, and thine own flesh 
 
 thereto !" 
 Then Roland gazed and frown'd, though nigh unto 
 
 his death, 
 Sat still, and drew up all his strength in a great 
 
 breath, 
 Pray'd quickly to the saints he served in former days 
 With right hand clutch'd the sword he was too weak 
 
 to raise. 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 
 
 And in the leit swung up the Cross, and, shrieking 
 
 hoarse. 
 Between tlie; eyebrows smote the foe with all his force, 
 Yea, smote him to the brain, crashing through skin 
 
 and bone. 
 And Drone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone, 
 And gold and gems of price were loosen'd by the 
 
 blow. 
 And, as he fell, rain'd round the wild hair of the foe ; 
 But Roland kiss'd the cross, and, laughing, backward 
 
 fell, 
 And on the hollow air the laugh rang heavy, like a 
 
 knell. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And Roland thought: "I surely die; but, ere I 
 
 end. 
 Let me be sure that thou art ended too, my friend ! 
 For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am 
 
 clay. 
 My ghost would grieve tuii sore until the judgment 
 
 day !" 
 Then to the marble steps, under the tall bare trees, 
 I'railing the mighty sword, he crawi'd on hands and 
 
 knses, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with 
 
 might — 
 The bright hilt, sounding, shook, the blade flash'd 
 
 sparks of light ; 
 Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round. 
 Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound ; 
 Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down 
 
 the glade. 
 Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter'd the peerless 
 
 blade. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then Roland wept, and set his face against the 
 
 stone — 
 " Ah, woe, I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and 
 
 bone!" 
 And pain was on his soul to die so cheerless death ; 
 When on his naked neck he felt a touch like breath. 
 And did not stir, but thought, " O God, that madest 
 
 me. 
 And shall my sword of fame brandish'd by heathens 
 
 be? 
 And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen's heel. 
 Too weak to slay the slave whpse bated breath I 
 
 feel?" 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 
 
 Then, clenching teeth, he turn'd to look upon the foe. 
 His bright eyes growing dim with coming death ; 
 
 and lo ! 
 His life shot up in fire, his heart arose again. 
 For no unhallow'd face loom'd dark upon his ken, 
 N o heathen-breath he felt, — though he beheld, indeed, 
 The white arch'd head and round brown eyes of 
 
 Veillintif, his steed ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And pressing his moist cheek on his who gazed be- 
 neath. 
 
 Curling the upper lip to show the large white teeth. 
 
 The white horse, quivering, look'd with melancholy 
 eye. 
 
 Then waved his streaming mane, and uttered up a 
 cry; 
 
 And Roland's bitterness was spent— he laugh'd, he 
 smiled, 
 
 He clasp'd his darling's neck, wept like a little child ; 
 
 He kiss'd the foamy hps, and hugged his friend, and 
 cried : 
 
 " Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle 
 
 ride ! 
 
214 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet com- 
 rades be ! 
 
 And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting 
 thee? 
 
 To leave thy mighty heart to break, in slavery to the 
 foe? 
 
 I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so. 
 
 Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners 
 bright unfurl'd, 
 
 A shining light 'mong lesser lights, a wonder to the 
 world !" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And Veillintif neigh'd low, breathing on him who 
 
 died, 
 Wild rock'd his great strong heart beneath his silken 
 
 hide, 
 Tears roll'd from his brown eyes upon his master's 
 
 cheek. 
 And Roland, gathering strength, though wholly worn 
 
 and weak, 
 Held up the point of Adalmar the peerless brand. 
 And at his comrade's heart push'd with 'his dying 
 
 hand; 
 
THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 215 
 
 And the black blood sprang forth, while heavily as 
 
 lead, 
 With quivering, silken side, the mighty steed fell 
 
 dead; 
 And Roland, for his eyes with frosty film were dim, 
 Groped for the steed, crept close, and smiled, em- 
 bracing him, 
 And, pillow'd on his neck, kissing the pure white 
 
 hair, 
 Clasp'd Adalmar the brand, and tried to say a prayer, 
 And that he conquering died, wishing all men to 
 
 know. 
 Set firm his lips, and tum'd his face towards the foe, 
 And closed eyes, and slept, and never woke agdn. 
 
 Roland is dead, the gentle knight ! dead is the crown 
 of men ! 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE: 
 
 A TALE OF THE NORTH-EAST COAST. 
 
 Fathoms deep the ship doth lie, 
 
 Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell. 
 The cod slips past with round white eye. 
 Still and deep the shadows lie. 
 
 Dusky as a forest dell : 
 Tangled in the twisted sail. 
 
 With the breathing of the Sea, 
 Stirs the Man who told this tale. 
 
 Staring upward dreamilie. 
 
 T LAID him here, and scarcely wept ; but look ! 
 
 His grave is green and wild and like a wave. 
 And strewn with ocean-weeds instead o' flowers. 
 
 You saw him, Jack, langsyne, on board the Cro7v^ 
 Cod-fishing m Newfoundland, and (you.mind'i) 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 21; 
 
 We drank a gill, all three, the very day 
 Before the Crow went down off Baker's Head, 
 And all the crew were drown'd but brother Dan. 
 To think a man who faced so many a storm, 
 And stood on splitting planks and never quail' d, 
 And swam to save his life a dozen times, 
 Should ever die ashore ! Why, from the first, 
 We twins were meant for sailors : — God himself 
 Planted a wind in both our brains to blow 
 Our bodies up and down His calms and storms. 
 Never had wilder, stormier year been known 
 Here in the clachan, than the very year 
 When Dan and I were born ; — waters and winds 
 Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds 
 And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart, 
 Giving her whims and moods in which the bairns 
 Beneath her heart were fashion'd ; and in March, 
 The Scaith came down the valley, roaring past 
 Our mother's ears the hour we grat and saw. 
 Ay ! we were made to sail the seas, and hear 
 The battling of the waters and the winds. 
 And should have sail'd the seas until the end. 
 Green fields and wimpling streams and inglesides 
 Were never meant for cairds like Dan and I. 
 
2l8 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 When other boys were mumping at the school. 
 Or yellowing their white livers at a desk, 
 I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler, 
 And Dan took his big handkerchief, tied up 
 His sark and comb and brush, and two or three 
 Big home-baked bannocks, and a lump of cheese, 
 Kiss'd mother, (that 's her grave beside his own,) 
 And walk'd to Abereden, where he found 
 A berth on board a brig — ^s Jessie Gray, 
 Bound south for Cadiz. After that, for years 
 We drifted up and down ; — and when we met 
 Down in the Clyde, and joumey'd home together. 
 We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever, 
 But I had saved. How changed he look'd ! how fine ! 
 Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel, 
 A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's, — 
 Ay, every inch a sailor ! Then, the tales 
 We had for one another ! — tales of storms. 
 And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen ! — 
 But, " Bob, I 'm tired of being on the seas, 
 The life 's a hard one at the best," says Dan ; 
 And I was like a fool, and thought the same. 
 So home we came, found father dead and gone, 
 And mother sorely push'd ; and round her neck 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 2I9 
 
 We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried, 
 And we cried too, and I took out my pay 
 And pour'd it in her lap ; and Dan look'd grieved 
 And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried, 
 " I '11 never, never go to sea again ! " 
 
 'Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well 
 I mind it all. How pleasant for a time 
 Was life on land : the tousling with the girls, 
 The merry-making in the public-house. 
 The cosy bed on winter nights. We work'd — 
 I at the fishing, Dan at making nets — 
 And kept old mother for a year and more. 
 But ere the year was out, the life grew duil : 
 We never heard the wind blow, but we thought 
 Of sailing on the sea, — we got a knack 
 Of lying on the beach and listening 
 To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake. 
 Ashore we had to tarry. By and by. 
 The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself 
 In other ways, — taking a drop too much, 
 Fighting and cutty-stooling — and the folk 
 Began to shake their heads. Amid it all, 
 One night when Dan was reading out God's Book, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 (That bit about the storm, where Peter tries 
 To walk on water, and begins to sink,) 
 Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep, 
 And when we tried to wake her, she was dead. 
 
 With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down ; 
 And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay 
 A-hearkening to the sea that wash'd beneath : 
 Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet 
 Out of a rainy spot below the line 
 Where sky and water meet ; the sea was calm, 
 And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated 
 Slowly beneath, and here and there were places 
 Purple and green and blue, and close to land 
 The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch. 
 I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me, — 
 And that same morning, off we went again ! 
 
 No rest for us on land from that day forth. 
 We grew to love the waters ; they became 
 Part of our flesh and blood : the Sea, the Sea, 
 The busy whistling round the foam-girt world, 
 Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met, — 
 Once in a year or two, and never came 
 
T^E SCAITH O' BARTLE. 
 
 To Scotland, but we took a journey here 
 
 To look on mother's grave, and spend a day 
 
 With old companions. But we never thought 
 
 Of resting long, and never hoped to die 
 
 Ashore, like mother : we had fix'd it. Jack, 
 
 That we must drown some day. At last, by luck, 
 
 We ran together. Dan had go.t a- place 
 
 As captain of a brig, and, press'd by him. 
 
 They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together, 
 
 From Liverpool to New South Wales and back ; 
 
 And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men, 
 
 Forty and upward, — yet with kibble arms. 
 
 Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind 
 
 That blew no good to any one began. 
 
 And pufif'd us back to Scotland, to this place 
 
 Where we were born and bred. 
 
 Now, mark you. Jack, 
 Even a sailor is but flesh and blood. 
 Though out upon the water he can laugh 
 At women and their ways : a run on shore, 
 A splash among the dawties and the drink, 
 Soon tires, soon tires, — then hey ! away again 
 To the wild life that 's worthy of a man i 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 At forty, though, a sailor should be wise, 
 
 And 'ware temptation : whole a sailor, free, 
 
 But only half a sailor, though afloat, 
 
 When wedded. Don't you guess ? Though Dan was old, 
 
 His head was turn'd, while in the clachan here. 
 
 And by a woman, — Effie Paterson, 
 
 The daughter of a farmer on the hills, 
 
 And only twenty. Bonnie, say you 1 Ay ! 
 
 As sweet a pout as ever grew on land ; 
 
 But soft and tender, with a quiet face 
 
 That needed the warm hearth to light it up, 
 
 And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind 
 
 Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap, 
 
 I tried my best to wheedle Dan away, 
 
 Back to the brig ; but, red as ricks on fire. 
 
 He glinted dark with those deep eyes of his. 
 
 And linger'd. Then, 'twas nearly time to sail ; 
 
 I talk'd of going, and it all came out : 
 
 He meant to marry. Jack ! — and not content 
 
 With marrying, he meant to stop ashore ! 
 
 Why, if a lightning flash had split our brig, 
 I should have wonder'd less. But, " Bob," says he, 
 " I love this lassie as I never thought 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 223 
 
 'Twas in my heart to love ; and I have saved ; 
 And I am tired of drifting here and there 
 On the great waters : I have earn'd my rest, 
 And mean to stop ashore until I die." 
 'Twas little use to argue things with Dan 
 When he had settled aught within his mind ; 
 So all I said was vain. What could I do 
 But put a sunny face upon it all, 
 And bid him hasten on the day, that I 
 Might see his wedding, and be off again. 
 
 Yet soon I guess'd, before the wedding day, 
 That Effie did not care a. cheep for Dan, 
 But scunner'd at his brave rough ways and tales 
 Of danger on the deep. His was a voice 
 Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper 
 The soft sleek things that make the women blush, 
 And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan 
 Was forty, and the lassie but a child. 
 I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought ! 
 For Dan had siller, Effie's folks were poor, 
 And Dan was blind, and Effie gave consent, 
 And talk was no avail. The wedding guests 
 Went up to Jessie's home one pleasant day, 
 
224 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang, 
 And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn, 
 The blue above was fleck'd with feathery down, 
 The sea was smooth, and, like a ringdove's neck, 
 Changeful and full of colours, and the kirk 
 Stood mossy here upon the little hill. 
 And seem'd to ring a blessing over all. 
 
 And Effie ? Ah ! keep me irom women. Jack ! 
 Give them a bit o' sunshine — and they smile, 
 Give them a bit o' darkness — and they weep ; 
 But smiles and tears with them are easy things. 
 And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day, 
 With everybody happy roundabout, 
 Effie look'd happy too ; and if her face 
 Flush'd and was fearfiil, that was very joyj 
 For when a woman blushes, who can tell 
 Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame ? 
 And Dan (God bless him !) look'd as young as you. 
 Trembled and redden'd lass-like, and I swear. 
 Had he not been a sailor, would have cried. 
 So I was cheer'd, next day, when oflf I went 
 To take his post as captain of the brig. 
 And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong. 
 
THE SCAITH O' BAKTLE. 225 
 
 And went across the seas with easy heart. 
 Thinking I left a happy man behind. 
 
 But often, out at sea, I thought of Dan, 
 Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights 
 Were quiet, and the cabin where I slept 
 Was steaming with the moonshine, I would lie 
 And Usten to the lapping of the waves. 
 And think : " I wonder if this very light 
 Is shining far away on poor old Dan 1 
 And if his face looks happy in it, while 
 He sleeps by Effie's side?" On windy nights 
 I used to think of Dan with tremble and fear; 
 And often, when the waves were ribb'd and white. 
 And on we drove bare-poled before the wind, 
 The foamy waters seem'd to take the shape 
 Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear 
 Dan calling me ; and I would drink the salt, 
 And pace the deck with all my blood on fire, 
 And cry — " If Dan were driving on out here, 
 Dashing and weather-beaten, never still, 
 He would be happier !" 
 
 Ay ! though the storm 
 p 
 
226 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 RoU'd fierce between us, voices came from Dan 
 To tell me he was weary of the land- 
 Often, when I was floating in the ship, 
 He hung about these caves and yratch'd the moon 
 Silv'ring the places where no wind was blowing. 
 And thought of me ! or on the beach he lay, 
 And wearied to the breaking of the waves! 
 Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed 
 Wistfully eastward ! or on windy nights 
 He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set 
 His teeth together in the rain and wind. 
 Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea, 
 And pacing up and down upon the brinks 
 As if he trode the decks ! Why, things like those 
 Saved him from withering, salted all his blood," 
 And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are tar- 
 More merciful than a young woman's heart 
 
 Why, liad she been a bickering hizzie, fiU'd 
 With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin. 
 And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire, 
 Dan might have brought her round: tliat was the work 
 He understood full well; and, right or wrong, 
 He would have been the skipper to the end. 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 227 
 
 But though a man who has been train'd at sea, 
 
 Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men. 
 
 Can sink his voice and play a gentle part 
 
 In sunny seasons, he has little power 
 
 To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure, 
 
 Loved Effie with a love the deeper far 
 
 And tenderer because he had been bred 
 
 On the rough seas; but when, fi-om day to day, 
 
 He met a weary and a waning face. 
 
 That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile, 
 
 And saw the tears where never tears should be. 
 
 Yet never met an angry look or word, 
 
 What could he do 1 He loved the lass too well 
 
 To flyte ; tried tender words, but they were spent 
 
 Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew ; 
 
 And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to dree, 
 
 Turn'd soopit from the dwelling. Plain he saw 
 
 The lass was dreary, though she kept so still. 
 
 And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said, 
 
 But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him 
 
 With a pale face of gentleness and blame. 
 
 O Jack, Jack, Jack, of all the things accurst, 
 
 Worse than a shipwreck on a savage coast, 
 
 Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead, 
 
228 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Is dismal cloudy weather and dead calm ! 
 
 Homeless and sad and troubled by her face, 
 
 If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still, 
 
 Let the damp mildew settle on his heart, 
 
 He would have shrunk into a wretched thing 
 
 The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash, 
 
 And ne'er have had the heart to stand erect. 
 
 And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue. 
 
 What could he do, but try to ease his bim 
 
 By haunting yonder beach, and glorying 
 
 In stormy seasons, thinking of the life 
 
 He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever 
 
 Making a second life within his blood. 
 
 Thinking of me, and feeling that his heart 
 
 Was help'd a bit by his old friend the Sea? 
 
 And Effie Widdershins, from day to day, 
 Turn'd from the happy shining of the sun. 
 In wanrest and in tears ; and poor old Dan 
 Dree'd bitterly the dreary life in hand. 
 No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep. 
 
 'Twas comfort dwelling in so wild a place, 
 So near to open water ; but for that, 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 22y 
 
 I do not think he could have borne to dwell 
 
 Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew : 
 
 No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire, 
 
 No doctor's watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed, 
 
 No sound of tiny footfalls fill'd the house 
 
 With happy cheer ; the dull and lifeless mood 
 
 Grew on the wife ; her sense of shame seem'd gone ; 
 
 She paid no heed to dress, or to the house. 
 
 But wearied, like a pale-faced, listless flower, 
 
 Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed. 
 
 To see all household ties neglected so. 
 
 The crowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes, 
 
 The ingleside so dreary and so cold, 
 
 Dan clench'd his fists, and storm' d with thunder-voice ; 
 
 But Effie only trembled, and was still. 
 
 Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept ; 
 
 And iPan, who never in his life could bear 
 
 To see a woman greet, pleaded and begg'd, — 
 
 Without avail. Then many and many a night 
 
 He roam'd the silent chffs till peep of day, 
 
 Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea ; 
 
 And many and many a night he thought he heard 
 
 My voice a-calling him. One" night of storm. 
 
 When the sky murmur'd, and the foamy sea 
 
MISCELLANEOUS.' 
 
 Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs, 
 
 He fix'd to run away ; but could not go, 
 
 Until he gazed on Effie's face once more ; 
 
 And when he stole into her room unheard. 
 
 He saw her sleeping with a happy smile, 
 
 So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream, 
 
 So like the shining lass she used to be, 
 
 That his heart fail'd, he swaver'd forth again. 
 
 And lay upon the waterside and wept. 
 
 And though the wind was whistling in his eyes, 
 
 And the still fireflaught whiten'd all the sea. 
 
 He felt o'er weak, o'er gentle, and o'er sad, 
 
 l"o quit her in the little cottage here. 
 
 And leave the little lamp that lit her face 
 
 Many and many a stormy mile behind. 
 
 And dree again the darkness of the deep. 
 
 The house is yonder— ay, the red-tiled house. 
 With little patch of garden. Mark the pool 
 Of water at the door. Beyond you see 
 The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder 
 The dull, green water, with the purple stain 
 Out eastward, and the sunlight peeping through 
 Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies 
 
THE SCAITH O BARILE. 23I 
 
 Down in tlie gully, with the barren hills, 
 
 Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair. 
 
 On either side. Look backward, now ! The glen, 
 
 HoUow'd between the hills, goes inland, far 
 
 As eye can see, — with yellow pools of rain. 
 
 And cattle looking shadowy in the mists 
 
 Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all ! 
 
 'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye. 
 
 The danger. When the rains have lasted long. 
 
 The yellow waters (rightly christened here 
 
 The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen. 
 
 Suck in the strength of flying mist and cloud, 
 
 And, bursting from the hollows where they meet, 
 
 Rush seaward, with a roaring like the sea, 
 
 O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come 
 
 In one-and-twenty years. 
 
 When I came home, 
 A month ago, and walk'd across the liills 
 From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs. 
 And saw the clachan lying at my feet,— 
 The setting sun shining upon the house 
 Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there ! 
 The very punts and fish-boats just the same 
 
232 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed, 
 I saw a stooping figure with a stafif, 
 Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing 
 Wistfully seaward. As I look'd, he tum'd. 
 And though the face was haggard, worn, and old, 
 And every hair upon the head was gray. 
 And the fresh strength about the limbs was gone, 
 I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran 
 To hug him to my heart ; and he turn'd white, 
 Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me. 
 Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd, 
 He brighten'd, — ^as a bit of snow turns bright 
 When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore ! 
 He was the ghost of what he once had been ; 
 His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd 
 Like one's who, sinking to the slumber, smiles 
 To see a face he loves before he dies ; 
 And when his air grew cheerier, and at last 
 His love for me came brighter on his look, 
 His cheeriness seem'd sadder far than all. 
 Swavering down the path, he took my arm. 
 Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd, 
 Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead, 
 Until we halted at his cottage door ; 
 
THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 233 
 
 And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast 
 His eyes to windward, read the weather signs, 
 After old habit, ere he enter'd in. 
 
 Effie was there, — changed too ; she welcomed me. 
 Moved but and ben the house with a light step. 
 And smiled a wee : all women have a smile, 
 A happiness, a kind of second self, 
 Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw full soon 
 The bield was homeless; httle love was there; 
 Ah, that was common crack aroundabout ! 
 The first flush faded soon from Effie's face, 
 Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about 
 Like a sick lassie risen from a dream ; 
 And aft, when we were seated in the lowe, 
 She started, and her colour went and came; 
 And though her features wore a kind of fear, 
 There was a light of youth there: she would keek 
 At Dan, whose eyes were steady on the fire. 
 Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then 
 Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush 
 Died by degrees, her face became composed 
 To pallor, and the light had gone away. 
 Leaving her sick and soopit once again. 
 
234 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 At last, when we were smoking in the bield 
 One dull day in November, Dan arose 
 And took his stick, and beckoning me went outj 
 I follow'd; and he never spake a word, 
 But gript me by the arm, and walk'd along, 
 Until we left the clachan far behind. 
 And took a path that winded up the hills. 
 For many weeks, at intervals, the rain 
 Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp, 
 And down their sides ran many bxims new-bom, 
 Making an eerie murmur. Far away 
 Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist. 
 And all round Bartle rose a dewy steam 
 Silent and gray, with cattle here and there 
 Dismally looming; here and there a gull 
 Blowing to seaward. Still and dull was all. 
 So still, so still ; only the faint sharp stir 
 That is a sound, but seems a click within 
 The ear itself; save when from far away 
 A cow would low, and echoes faint and sad 
 Died inland, or when blowing on the wind 
 A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw 
 Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud. 
 With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on, 
 
THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 235 
 
 Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye 
 Took in the signs, and glinted up and down 
 With the old cunning ; but his heart was full, 
 His voice was broken like a greeting wean's, 
 And as we went along h? told me all. 
 
 All that you ken ! but somewhat more — a thought 
 Of later growth, a nettle in his heart — 
 That Effie was not true, as wives should be ; 
 Not that, while keeping care beneath her cloak, 
 She carried consolation 'neath her sark; 
 That would have meant a bloody deed with Dan; 
 But that her happiest thoughts were fallen things 
 That clung around a fresh young kimmer's knees. 
 I stp-red at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze ! 
 His grip was tight upon my arm, his face 
 Wliite as tlie snow on Callachan, his voice 
 Shrill as a seagull's shriek; and all at once 
 He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away, 
 And cried aloud with a full heart — " God ! 
 Why did I ever cease to sail the sea ?" 
 
 I tried to cheer him ; 'twas but useless work, 
 Stirring a muddy pool with bonnie flowers ! 
 
236 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 I tried to argue with him — he was dumb ! 
 And yet I saw, had I been daft enough 
 To echo him, he would have hated me. 
 He only half believed the things he said, 
 And would have tum'd in wrath on any man 
 Who could believe them true, and say the same. 
 He loved the braxie still, as few can love, 
 Save the good Shepherd, who has love for all ! 
 Could not have tholed to hear another's mouth 
 Condemn her ! blamed himself for all his grief! 
 And gladly would have died beneath her feet, 
 To win one word, one kiss, one. shining look. 
 To show his love had not been quite in vain ! 
 
 But on we fared, so fiU'd with our own thoughts, 
 We scarcely saw how far away we wander'd, 
 How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds 
 Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised 
 Their heads into the dismal air and cried. 
 Then, suddenly, there came a lightning flash 
 That for a moment lighted up the hills, 
 The far-off cliffs, and the white lines of foam, 
 And faded,— to a sound as if the earth 
 And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 237 
 
 Deepen'd — the thunder and the lightning came 
 
 Ofter than dark or silence ; and I felt 
 
 Far less myself on those dull endless heights, 
 
 Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea. 
 
 But Dan said Uttle ; only, as the drops 
 
 Of rain began to fall, he led the way 
 
 Into a mountain shieling, roof'd with peat, 
 
 Where we in shelter cowried, and talk'd on 
 
 Of his dull ingleside, his cheerless days. 
 
 How his heart gizzen'd looking from the land. 
 
 The terror and the pain he had to dree, 
 
 And " all I care for now is endedj Bob ! 
 
 I want to die, but not to leave the wife 
 
 Untended and unhappy. After all, 
 
 I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face, — 
 
 She is so young — mid-eild is past with me — 
 
 Be sure that she would love me if she could !" 
 
 And then he glower'd out on the dark, and groan'd, 
 
 " Would I were in my grave ! — would I were doom'd 
 
 Among the waves ! — would I were far out yonder, 
 
 Praying and sinking in a boat at sea !" 
 
 And I was silent ; but the elements 
 Made answer. With a clash like iron fell 
 
238 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The headlong torrent of the soot-dark clouds. 
 Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry, 
 Birming above, around, and smiting earth 
 With strength of stone. Never for many a year 
 Had such a fall been known : it seem'd the Lord 
 Unlocking all His waters to destroy 
 The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there 
 To promise sunshine and a speedy end ! 
 For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice 
 Gone southward, making frighted elders groan, 
 Caught ruffling cockernonies after prayers. 
 And which old wives in Bartle often call 
 The " Bail's rain," thinking Satan flies himself, 
 Dropping the sooty blackness from above. 
 Silent we cowried, watching, and the air 
 Was full of a great roar — the earth beneath 
 Seem'd shaking — and the torrent forced a way 
 Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell 
 Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink, 
 Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye 
 Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds 
 Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his heart, 
 And minded him of former fearsome days 
 Upon the ocean ; and his other self — 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 239 
 
 The weary self that lived the life on land — 
 Forsook him. Then there was a lull, a pause — 
 Not broken by the further fall of rain, 
 Nor by the diunder-claps, but by a sign 
 More terrible than all — a roar, a groan, 
 A motion as of waters, and a sound 
 Like the dread rushing of an angry sea. 
 
 And Dan threw up his arms, screaming aloud, 
 "The Scaith! the Scaith !"-^and groan' d, and 
 
 rush'd away, 
 I following close behind him in the mirk. 
 
 And on he rush'd, until he gain'd a craig, 
 Above the glen, yonder between the hills ; 
 And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud. 
 And the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew, 
 While we gazed down. The mist-s hung round the 
 
 heights, 
 The rain still fell, but softly, — and below, 
 Roaring on seaward, snatching in its course 
 Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith, 
 A blaCken'd yellow rush of waters, foaming 
 Where'er it touch'd the feet of craig or steep. 
 
240 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots 
 
 To twist them from their beds. White, scared, and 
 
 stunn'd, 
 Dan groan' d, and sank upon his knees, and wept. 
 Done was the thunder ; but the waters made 
 Another thunder, and the fireflaught came 
 Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far 
 A sound more awful — shrieks of living men. 
 Children and women ; while the thinning clouds 
 Parted to westward, brightening at the rims. 
 And rays of misty sunset slanted down 
 On Bartle, and the Scaith had seized its prey. 
 
 " EfRe ! " cried Dan; and sped along the hills. 
 And would have rush'd right downward to his death 
 Had I not gript him. But we found a way 
 O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height 
 Above the clachan. Jack, until I die. 
 That hour will haunt me ! For the clachan lay 
 Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood. 
 And bields sank shatter'd, and the sunset cold 
 Gleam'd upon Bartle and die sea beyond; 
 And on the slopes on either side there gather'd 
 Women and men : some screeching as they saw 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 24I 
 
 The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods, 
 Some crying for the friends they could not see, 
 Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns, 
 As if they had gone wild. Then Dan glared round, 
 Seeking for Effie, — but he saw her not;. 
 And the damp sunset gleaming on his face. 
 Grimed with the sooty rain-drops, ghastlied it, 
 But he was cool as he had often been 
 On gruesome nights at sea. " She is not here !" 
 He whisper'd ; " yet she cannot but be saved ; 
 Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand 
 Waving their arms yonder across tlie flood : 
 Oh, would my eyes were young, that I might see." 
 That way I gazed ; but all that I could see 
 Were mists beyond the clachan ; down below,. 
 The slow-subsiding waters ; here and there 
 Women and children screaming on tlie naips. 
 While punts and fish-boats glided here and there. 
 Piloting slowly tlirough the rocks and walls. 
 To succour those unsaved ; at intervals 
 A leafless tree-top peering tlirough the water, 
 AVhile frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd 
 Around it crying. Then, " A boat ! a boat ! " 
 Dan cried .; but he was crying to the air : 
 
24Z MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The folk around him heard and made a stir, — - 
 But some scarce raised their wild and greeting eyes, 
 And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried. 
 And then again sat rocking to and fro, 
 Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans 
 Bewailing their own sorrow. 
 
 Then the place 
 Blacken'd in gloaming — mists rose from the flood — 
 The sky turn'd black, with neither stars nor moon, 
 And down below, flashing from place to place. 
 The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death, 
 Flitted and faded, showing where the boats 
 Still moved about upon their weary work ; 
 And those who grieved were stiller all around ; 
 And the deep moaning of the Scaith was hush'd, 
 And you could hear the breaking of the Sea ; 
 And only now and then a hoUow splash 
 Spake plain of walls that yielded and shpt down 
 Into the waters. Then a light came near, 
 And to the water's edge a fishing-boat 
 Brought a dead fisher, and a greeting wean 
 Who cried for "mither;" and as he who row'd 
 Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms. 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 243 
 
 And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in, 
 Snatching the lanthom from the fisher's hand, 
 Push'd off ere I could follow, and was gone 
 Into the darkness. . . . 
 
 Jack, — I never again 
 Saw poor old Dan, alive 1 Yet it was well 
 His days were ended ; for that very day. 
 Ere the Scaith came, Effie had flown from home. — 
 Ay, with another man ; — and ere I knew 
 The truth, why, she was out upon the waves. 
 And fleeing with the loon to Canada. 
 Ill winds pursue her ! God will find her out ! 
 He sent His water down to free old Dan, 
 And He is after her across the deep ! 
 
 Next dawning, when the water was subdued, 
 And sinking slowly through the cracks of earth, 
 Pouring in deep brown burns to join the sea, 
 Fouhng with mud the line of breaking foam, 
 It was a piteous sight to watch the folk, 
 With spade and mattock, digging at the graves 
 Of their own dwellings ; taking what was saved 
 With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls, 
 
244 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides, 
 And boulders swept from far along the glen, 
 And household lumber gather'd everywhere, 
 Mingled in ruin ; and the frailer bields 
 Were swept away for ever. As for me, 
 I had my work in hand. I took a spade 
 And waded through the thick and muddy pool, 
 ('Twas still knee-deep,) right onward to the place 
 Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there, 
 Foremost of all. The bield was standing still. 
 Though doors and windows had been beaten in ; 
 And as I splash'd along the passage, bits 
 Of household lumber tripped me ; but I went 
 Right on to Effie's room, and there the flood 
 Was lying deep and cold ; and there lay Dan. 
 
 Drifting upon the water, with his face 
 Tum'd downward, his hands clench' d, his long gray 
 
 hair 
 Floating around him — stiff, and cold, and dead! 
 And when I turn'd his face up to the light, 
 I did not scunner much, it look'd so strong, 
 And seaman-like, and fine. I saw it all ! 
 How he had drifted thither in the mirk. 
 
THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 24S 
 
 And found the water low around the bield, 
 
 But slowly rising ; how he fought his way, 
 
 Search'd but and ben, and last, in Effie's room. 
 
 Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw 
 
 The place was toom; and how, while there he stood, 
 
 Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry 
 
 The wild Scaith struck the crashing window panes, 
 
 Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark, 
 
 Roa^d in his ears ; and while it struck him down, 
 
 Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life. 
 
 Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who 
 
 drown 
 A sudden flashing vision of their life, — 
 And ah ! how pitiful, how pitiful, 
 Remembrance came, that minute ere' he died : 
 A vision of the sounding sea afar, 
 A ghaistly ship upon it, — Effie's face. 
 Coming and going like to floating foam, — 
 The picture of the kirk upon the hill, 
 And sunshine glittering on the wedding guests,— 
 The shadowy cliff's where he had paced in pain. 
 The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me, 
 All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name. 
 And stniggled with the cruel Scaith, and died ! 
 
245 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Ay ! God Almighty's water, e'en ashore, 
 More merciful than women, found him out ; 
 And here he lies, but should have lain elsewhere. 
 Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues, 
 Not hinder'd. Jack, — I would have ta'en a boat, 
 And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones 
 Fasten'd beneath his feet to sink him down, 
 And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun 
 Dips red beneath the straight blue line of sea. 
 And said a prayer, and softly sent him down 
 Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever 
 The washing of the waters through the deeps : 
 With flag-weeds o'er his head, great weeds all round, 
 And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears, 
 His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed ! 
 But as it is, he slumbers here on land, 
 In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons 
 And fishermen that screech at open sea. 
 
THE GLAMOUR. 
 
 The hills close round her — everywhere 
 Strange voices deepen in the air; 
 The pain, the hope, the agony, 
 Flash to a sense of mystery ; 
 The shapes of earth and air and skies 
 Catch glamour in her weary eyes ' 
 Worn with the pain, worn with the pain, 
 She would lie down, and sleep again 1 
 
 /^ LORD my God, draw now Thy hand away — 
 The sleep-stoure fills my eyes — I feel my grave- 
 And I would reach a painless end, like those 
 Thy glamour ne*er hath troubled. I have been 
 O'er long a shadow on the paths of men, 
 O'er long a screecning bird in happy bields, 
 O'er long a haunted wanderer day and night 
 Lord, let nie die ! Lord, let me die ! Lord God, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Pity and spare me ! Draw Thy hand away ! 
 Thy breath is on me in the mirk, and ah ! 
 I sicken sore, while yonder through the pane 
 Corpse-candles, blowing blue against the wind, 
 Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn. 
 
 What had I done, that Thou should pick me out. 
 To breathe thy glamour on ] I was a lass 
 Happy and heartsome, till that dreesome day 
 I walk'd from kirk by moonlight down the glen, 
 And saw Maccaskill of Craig-Dhonil pass, 
 Sewn to the middle in his winding-sheet, 
 And waving hairy arms until I swoon'd ; — 
 And ere a year was run Maccaskill died ; 
 And then I kenn'd I had the bitter gift 
 My father and my father's- father had. 
 Yet I was young, and felt a kind o' pride, 
 To see so far into Thy mysteries, — 
 To ken when man or wife was doom'd to die ; 
 To see the young life in a lassie's wame. 
 Although her snood was whole ; to prophesy 
 Tempests and human losses. Many a man 
 Then turn'd away ; but Kenneth married me — 
 Kenneth Macdonald, sheep-herd on the hills, 
 
THE GLAMOUR. 249 
 
 A holy man and kind ; and for a time 
 
 The glamour came no more, and I was gay, 
 
 Feeling the young bairn underneath my breast 
 
 Breathe softly with the rocKing o' my heart. 
 
 But in the winter gloaming, when the drift 
 
 Was thick around the door, and winds were blowing, 
 
 And I was lying on the jizzen-bed, 
 
 And Jean the howdie wash'd my paps with salt, 
 
 I saw a strange thing lying on her knee — 
 
 A span-long body in a blood-stain'd sowe — 
 
 And scream'd, and cried, "Jean, Jean, the bairn will 
 
 die!" 
 And so it was. For while old mother slipt 
 Out to the kitchen lowe, where Kenneth sat, 
 To drop a cinder through the wee white sark, 
 The bairn came dead into the chilly mirk ; 
 And in the snowy dawing I beheld 
 The span-long body of my sweet first-born, 
 Wrapt in its sowe, upon the ftowdie's knee. 
 
 But Angus lived— my white-faced sickly bairn, 
 The last I bore ; for, ere I rose from bed, 
 I heard, one gloaming dark, from but the house, 
 A sound of sawing, hewing with an adze, 
 
250 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Mix'd with a sound of weeping, clapping hands ; 
 And all the bield was empty, — and I knew 
 A shell was being made for some one near ; 
 And ah ! before the moon was full again 
 Just as the season of the lambing came, 
 My bonnie man was sheeted in the house, 
 And stiff, and cold ; and I was left alone, 
 Shadow'd and sad, with hot tears dropping down 
 On Angus, pulling feebly at my breast. 
 
 I never bedded with another man, 
 Never bare wean again ; but I could earn 
 Both food and drink, and all my pride and joy 
 Was Angus. Lord, he was the bonniest bairn 
 The sweetest, gentlest, ever wrought in flesh, 
 To gladden mother's eyes. The very day 
 That he was bom, I call'd the minister, 
 Who gave him baptism, that the glamour ne'er 
 Might come on hira or his ; and ah ! he grew, 
 Pale like a lily — for this solemn world 
 O'er gentle ; and the glamour brought no fear 
 To mirk our dwelling. Nay, for many a year. 
 The eerie light seem'd gone away from me, 
 For never ghaist or burial cross'd my path. 
 
THE GLAMOUR. 25I 
 
 Corpse-light or wraith. Then Angus on tlie hills 
 
 Grew sheep-herd, like his father, though he lack'd 
 
 His father's fearless heart ; and, as he grew, 
 
 Tum'd weaker, whiter — bonnie still, but thin 
 
 And bloodless ; and he lack'd the heart to face 
 
 Darkness and danger : ringing of a bell 
 
 At midnight, sudden footsteps in the dark, 
 
 A hand placed on his shoulder suddenly, 
 
 Would strike him down into a swooning fit, 
 
 Dreesome to see ; and when his eighteenth year 
 
 Was o'er, he sometimes sicken'd at my face, 
 
 And shiver'd though he knew me. All at once 
 
 The glamour came across my Soul again. 
 
 One night, while we were seated in the bield, 
 
 I heard a wailing come from but the house, 
 
 And horror gript me. " Mother !" Angus cried, 
 
 Glow'ring full fear'd into my burning eyes, 
 
 " What ails thee 1" " Wheesht !" I whisper'd ; " hear 
 
 ye nought V 
 " Nought !" Angus said. And then I heard a sound 
 Of groans, and clapping hands ; and suddenly 
 I saw my Angus shrink until he grew 
 As small as any babe new-bom, and turn, 
 Swift as the fireflaught, to himself again ; — 
 
252 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And while P scream'd, and fell upon his neck, 
 Weeping, and kissing him, and moaning low. 
 He sicken'd at my face, and swoon'd away. 
 
 For, though I hid the trouble from my bairn, 
 Long had he known his mother was a seer. 
 Whose eyes were troubled by mysterious things ; 
 And every shade he saw upon my face 
 Distraught him, lest I saw before his path 
 Mishap or death. My white-faced, fearful bairn ! 
 My drooping Angus, with his soft, wide eyes. 
 And fluttering mouth ! Alone upon the hills, 
 He trembled — fear'd the lightning and the storm— 
 Tholed not to lie within the dark alone^ 
 And would have wither'd in his bairndom's time, 
 Had I not cheer'd him with a smiling face. 
 
 Lord, thou wert sore upon me ! I was lone, 
 And Angus was my pleasure. I was haunted. 
 And Angus was my help. Yet, once again. 
 Thy glamour struck me, and I knew, I knew, 
 Angus must die. Hard, hard, both day and night, 
 I tried to cheat myself and hope, and smiled 
 On Angus, till his heart grew still once more. 
 
THE GLAMOUR. ^53 
 
 But it was all in vain. Thrice Angus shrunk, 
 Three several gloamings, seated in his chair. 
 And I kept down my fear, and did not scream ; 
 And oft I heard the wailing in the house, 
 And sounding of the kirk-bells down Glen-Earn 
 At midnight. Then I sicken'd and grew thin, 
 And hunger'd o'er my bairn, and pray'd, and pray'd,- 
 And what to me was light of sun or star 
 If Angus went away 1 
 
 ... It was a night 
 Quiet and cold. The moon and stars were out, 
 The moon-dew glittering on the hills. Alone, 
 I sat, awaiting Angus. It grew late. 
 And Angus came not ; and the low winds blew, 
 And the clock tick'd, and ah ! my heart was dark. 
 Then, last, I took my cloak, and wander'd forth, 
 To see if he was coming down the Glen, 
 And took the cold wet pathway in the moon 
 Until I reach'd the foot of Cawmock Craig, 
 And saw the straight rock rise into the lift. 
 Its side all dark, but on its top the Moon 
 Shining full bright and cl?illy. As I stood, 
 I heard a shout, and saw, far, far above, 
 
254 ' MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 A figure dark between me and the lift, 
 Threading the narrow paths around the Craig 
 Whence many a man hath fallen and been slain j 
 And even then — Lord, Lord ! — thy glamour dropt 
 Upon me, and 1 saw before my face 
 The wraith of Angus wrapt in bloody sowe 
 Gliding before me in the ghaistly light. 
 Shrill as an owl, I screech'd ! — ^and up above 
 My Ang)is heard, and sicken'd, and swam round, 
 And, swooning on the sharp edge of the Craig, 
 Dash'd downward to his death ! — 
 
 . . , O bonnie, bonnie 
 Look'd Angus, lying in his sowe asleep. 
 Quiet like moonlight on his face, his hair 
 Kaim'd back and shining round his cold white ears. 
 And yonder in the cold kirkyard he lies ; 
 And, Lord, I want to slumber at his side. 
 And cheer him in the darkness of the grave, — 
 For he was ever fearful, weak, and pale — 
 A young man with a white bairn's timorous soul. 
 And, Lord, I think that Thou at last art kind, 
 For oft the white wraith, glimmering at my side. 
 Hath waved its arms, and moan'd, and look'd like mc: 
 
THK GLAMOUR. 
 
 255 
 
 And I have watch'd it ever, not afraid, 
 But sad and smiling ; and what dress I wore, 
 The wraith hath worn ; and when I turn'd my gown, 
 And let the gray hairs hang all down my neck. 
 The wraith, too, turn'd its gown, and loosed its hair ; 
 And yonder, yonder, yonder, through the pane, 
 The blue corpse-candles, blowing in the wind. 
 Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn. 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 
 
 Not in a mist of loveless eyes dies he» 
 
 Who loveth truly nobler light than theirs ; 
 To him, nor weariness nor agony. 
 
 Purblind appeals, nor prayers : 
 To kitn, the priceless boon 
 
 To watck/rom heights divine till all he dotui 
 Calm in each dreamy rising' o/ the Moon, 
 
 Glad in each glorioTis coming of the Sun, 
 
 Chorus of Hours. 
 
 T O ! here at the portal, awaiting new light, 
 
 We linger with pinions dripping dew-light, 
 Our faces shadoVd, our heads inclining, 
 The bright star-frost on our tresses shining ; 
 
THE GIFT OS- KOS. 257 
 
 Our eyes lum'd earthward in vigil hoiy, 
 Sinking our voices and singing slowly. 
 
 The dark Earth sleepeth to our intoning, 
 The Ocean only is gleaming and moaning ; 
 Our eyelids droop in a still devotion, 
 Yet we see the skies in the glass of Ocean, — 
 The void, star-lighted, is mirror'd faintly. 
 Slow slides the shade of Selene saintly. 
 
 3- 
 
 Eos ! Eos ! thou canst not hear us, 
 Yet we feel thee breathing in slumber near us ; 
 Dark is thy cloud-roof'd temple solemn. 
 Shadows deepen round arch and column ; 
 But a quiet light streams around thee, lying 
 In the feeble arms of thy love undying. 
 
 4. 
 
 Eos ! Eos ! thy cheek faint-gleaming 
 Sendeth a joy through the old man's dreaming; 
 His white liair poureth in frosty showers 
 Round a wreath fresh-woven of lily flowers. 
 
2j8 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And the flowers are fading and earthward snowing, 
 Save those thou breathest against unknowing. 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 What low, strange music throbs about my brain ? 
 I hear a motion as of robes — a moaning. 
 
 Eos. 
 
 'Tis the three sisters and their shadowy train. 
 Beating the right foot solemnly, and intoning. 
 
 Ah ! weary one, and have thy dreams been ill, 
 That thou upheavest thus a face so pale 1 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 Methought that I was dead, and cold, and still, 
 
 Deep in the navel of a charmed dale ! 
 Ah, love, thy gift doth heavy burthen bring, 
 
 Now I grow old, grow old. 
 And these weird songs the sisters nightly sing 
 
 Haunt me with memories strange and manifold ; 
 For every eve, when Phoibos fades away 
 
 Yonder across Pamassos snow-tipt height. 
 These halls feel empty, and the courts grow gray, 
 The sisters lose the radiance of the day ; 
 
THK GIFT OF EOF. 259 
 
 And thy bright hair fades to a silvern light, 
 And nothing seems that is not sad though sweet ! 
 
 But Heaven, this East, yea, and the earth below 
 Are silenced to the ditties these repeat, 
 
 Sinking their voices sad, and singing slow : 
 Yea, Ocean moans with many waters ! sleep 
 Is troublous even upon eyes that weep ! 
 The monsters of the earth are in their lairs 
 Moonlit and cold; the owl sits still and stares 
 Through woody nooks with round white eye; the 
 wind 
 
 Bieatheth and gropeth blind ; 
 The burthen and the mystery and the dream, 
 
 The sense of things that are and yet may be, 
 The strife between what is and what doth seem, 
 Is weary then on all, and most on me ! 
 
 Eos. 
 
 It is enough to know thou canst not die, 
 
 Like those of whom thou 'plainest, drowsy one ! 
 
 TlTHONOS. 
 
 The seasons come and go. the moments fly 
 Like scow-flakes, falling, melting in the sun, 
 
26o MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Nothing abideth — all must change — the earth 
 
 Puts on fresh raiment every dawn of day — 
 What seems most precious turns to little worth — 
 Our love, whose face was an auroral birth, 
 
 Steps in the shade an instant, — and is clay. 
 Is it enough to know I cannot die t 
 
 Further than deathless life, can I implore 1 
 Ah, but to know, as the slow years sweep by, 
 
 That life is worthy to be lived, is more. 
 Wherefore the burthen and the dream below? 
 Wherefore the happiness, the hope, the woe 1 
 Wherefore the slimy sense of evil things 
 
 That draws the adder round the young man's eyes 1 
 Wherefore the yearnings and imaginings. 
 
 The songs of bards, the broodirigs of the wise ? 
 Have the gods written only on their scroll : 
 
 " Man striveth merely for a little space, — 
 Then there is slumber, and the death-bells toll. 
 
 The children cry, the widow hides her face. 
 The foolish dream is o'er. 
 And all is done for ever evermore 1" 
 Oh, wherefore life at all, if life be such, — 
 
 A joy, a weariness, a growing gray ! 
 If life be more, how may man live too much ? 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 261 
 
 Eos. 
 Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away. 
 
 Hours. 
 Crow's-nest on a yew-tree, swing slow in sad weather. 
 There's a lock o' wet hair pastes thy brown sides 
 
 together ! — 
 Blood-red were her Ups, till she paled and grew thin. 
 As the pink under-eyelid- of snakes was her skin. 
 Crow's-nest on a yew-tree that grows on a tomb. 
 The little black fledglings croak low in the gloom ; 
 O maiden below, canst thou hear how they cry ? 
 Dost thou stir in thy sleep as the adder goes by? 
 A worm crawl' d away with the little gold ring 
 He placed on thy finger that summer morning ; 
 Then thy hand became bone, then was tum'd into clay, 
 While thy heart wither'd slowly ; but cheerly, to-day 
 Thy fingers are leaves on the tree, in whose shade 
 He sits with as tender a maid ! 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 Of death, corruption, change, and mystery. 
 They chant their chime to which the old world 
 sleeps ! 
 
262 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Why not for ever stand they bright and free, 
 Flinging a glad song over dales and deeps. 
 
 As morn by morn they do, when from my breast 
 With rosy footsteps thou dost bright'ning go, 
 
 Blue- winged, to Pamassos ? 
 
 Eos. 
 
 Be at rest ! 
 
 The sense of things is dark on these also ; 
 And e'en immortal gods grow pale at times 
 To hear their world-old rhymes. 
 Yea, Zeus the Sire himself beholds and hears, 
 
 Stares vacantly into the blue profound, 
 What time a rainbow drawn from all eaiith's tears 
 
 Fades on Olumpos with a weeping sound ! 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 What then remains, my soul, if this be so ? 
 
 Eos. 
 
 Around my neck I wind thy beard of gray. 
 And kiss thy quivering eyelids till they glow, 
 
 And thy face lightens on me, and I say, 
 " Look in mine eyes and know !" 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 263 
 
 Hours. 
 O clod of green mould, that wast lately a man, 
 Time was, thou wert footsore and weary and wan. 
 When thy brain was as fire, when thine eyes were as 
 
 lead, 
 When thy hair was as white as the bones of the 
 
 dead! 
 Dust in the urn, on a shelf, in a shrine. 
 Hast thou ears, hast thou eyes, canst thou feel, or 
 
 divine? 
 Bones in the ground, can ye guess what ye be 1 
 Brain, in the midst of the bones, canst thou see ? 
 Corse, in a clod-gown clammy with dew. 
 Skull, with a hole where the arrow went through, 
 Do ye dream, are ye troubled, remember ye there 
 The life and the light that ye were ? 
 
 » TiTHONOS. 
 
 Thine eyes are lit with passion strong enew 
 
 To melt a mortal's heart to fiery dew ! 
 
 The burthen and tlie wonder and the dream, 
 
 Yea, all I am or was, and all I seem. 
 
 Are dwarf 'd within these liquid orbs of thine 
 
 To the blue shadow of a love divine ! 
 
264 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Yea, sweetest, love is surest, traest, best ! 
 And dearest, knowing it must last for long ! 
 
 Eos. 
 
 Now, close thine eyes, lean heavy on my breast, 
 
 And let my lips rain over thee in song ! — 
 Thou wert a mortal who with fearless eyes 
 
 Dared seek the love of an immortal thing ; 
 Plead low thou didst, and strive and agonise. 
 
 Yet time ebb'd on, and little peace did bring; 
 And the immortal joy seem'd far away, 
 
 Lessening and lessening to a speck of gold 
 Against the gates of sunrise, — till that day 
 I came upon thee where thou sleeping lay. 
 
 Breathed smoothness on thy wrinkled forehead old, 
 And woke thee to these wondrous halls, from whence 
 
 Thou seest the glimmering tract of earth below, 
 And tranced thee to nuptials so intense 
 
 Thy flesh and blood seem'd melting off like snow. 
 Leaving thy soul in its eternal hues 
 
 Clear, strong, and pale, as yonder crystal sphere 
 That swings above my threshold, sprinkling dews 
 
 Immortal over all who enter here ! — 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 265 
 
 And still thy corporal semblance ages on, 
 Thy hair dries up, thy bones grow chill and bare. 
 
 A little while, my love, and all is gone, 
 Drunk by the lips of a diviner air ! 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 Ah woe ! ah woe ! — and I am lost for aye ! 
 
 Eos. 
 
 Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away ! 
 
 And nothing suffers loss if love remains ! 
 The motion of mine air consumes thy clay, 
 My breath dries up the moisture of thy veins ; 
 Yet have I given thee immortal being, 
 
 Thereto immortal love, immortal power, 
 Consuming thy base substance till thy seeing 
 
 Grows clearer, brighter, purer, hour by hour ; — 
 Immortal honour, too, is thine, for thou 
 
 Hast sought the highest meed the gods can give- 
 Immortal Love hadi stoop'd to kiss thy brow ! 
 
 Immortal Love hath smiled, and bade thee live ! 
 Wherefore the gods have given thee mighty meed. 
 
 And snatch'd thee from the death-pyres of thy 
 race, 
 
266 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 To wear away these weaiy mortal weeds 
 
 In a serener and a purer place, — 
 Not amid warriors on a battle plain, 
 
 Not by the breath of pestilence or woe. 
 But here, at the far edge of earth and main, 
 
 Whence light and love and resurrection flow, — 
 And I upon thy breast, to soothe the pain ! 
 Immortal life assured, what mattereth 
 That it be not the old fond life of breath 1 
 Immortal life assured, the soul is free — 
 It is enough to be ! 
 For lo ! the love, the dream, to which is given 
 
 Divine assurance by a mortal peace, 
 Mix with the wonders of supremest heaven. 
 
 Become a part of that which cannot cease. 
 And being eternal must be beauteous too. 
 
 And being beauteous, surely must be glad ! 
 O love, my love, thy wildest drtams were true, 
 
 Though thou wert footsore in thy quest, and 
 sad! 
 Not in a mist of hungry eyes dies he 
 
 ■Who loveth purely nobler light than theirs ; 
 For him nor weariness nor agony, 
 
 Purblind appeals, nor prayers ; 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 267 
 
 But circled by the peace serene and holy 
 
 Of that divinest thought he loved so long, 
 Pensive, not melancholy. 
 
 He mingles with those airs that made him strong, — 
 A little loath to quit 
 
 The old familiar dwelling-house of clay, 
 Yet calm, as the warm wind dissolveth it, 
 
 And leaf by leaf it droppetli quite away. 
 To him the priceless boon 
 
 To watch from heights serene till all be done ; 
 Calm in each dreamy rising of the Moon, 
 
 Glad in each glorious coming of the Sun ! 
 
 Hours. 
 
 The stars are fading away in wonder. 
 Small sounds are stirring around and under, 
 Far away, from beneath the ocean, 
 We hear a murmur of wheels in motion. 
 And the wind that brings it along rejoices, — 
 Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices ! 
 
 Eos. 
 
 It is Apollo ! Hitherward he urges 
 His four steeds, steaming odorous fumes of day ; 
 
Z68 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Along his chariot-wheels the white sea surges, 
 As up he drives his fiery-footed way. 
 
 TiTHONOS. 
 
 Ye brighten, O ye columns round about ! 
 
 Ye melt in purple shades, arches and towers i 
 Cloud-roof, thou partest, and white hands slip out. 
 
 Scattering pearls and flowers ! 
 Brighter and brighter, blazing red and gold, 
 
 Purple and amethyst, that float and fly ! — 
 While, creeping in, a dawn-wind fresh and cold 
 
 Pours silver o'er the couch whereon I lie ! 
 Afar the coming of Apollo grows ! 
 
 His breath lifts up my hair ! my pulses beat ! 
 
 My beard is moist with dews divinely sweet, 
 My lap is fiU'd with sparkling leaves of rose, 
 Wherein my fingers, withered and sere, 
 Grope palsiedly in joy ! — Afar I hear 
 The low, quick breathing that the earth is making- 
 Eastward she turns her dewy side, awaking. 
 But thou ! but thou ! 
 
 Insufierably brightening ! 
 Thy feet yet bathed in moist still shade, thy brow 
 
 Glistening and lightening, 
 
THE GIFT OF EOS. 269 
 
 Thy luminous eyes enlarging, ring on ring 
 Of liquid azure, and thy golden hair 
 
 Unfolding downward, curl on curl, to cling- 
 Around thy silken feet rose-tipt and bare ! 
 
 Thy hands stretch'd out to catch the flowers down- 
 flowing, 
 Thy blushing look on mine, thy light green vest 
 
 In balmy airs of morning backward blowing 
 From one divine white breast ! 
 
 The last star melts above thee in the blue. 
 
 The cold moon shrinks her horn, as thou dost go 
 
 Parnassos-ward^ flower-laden, dripping dew. 
 Heralding Kim who cometh from below ! 
 
 Hours. 
 
 O'jr hearts beat quicker, we lifl: our voices, 
 The east grows golden, the earth rejoices, 
 White clouds part with a radiant motion, 
 Moist sails glimmer beneath on Ocean, 
 And downward tripping, the sweet Immortal 
 Blushingly pauses without the portal ! 
 
270 MISCELLANEOUS, 
 
 2. 
 
 Eos ! Eos ! the sound from under 
 Deepens in music and might and wonder : 
 Thou staadest now on Pamassos' mountain, 
 Thv feet drip pearls from the sacred fountain, 
 And the sisters nine, to thy bright skirt cHnging, 
 Greet thee with smiling and mystic singing ! 
 
 3- 
 
 Eos ! Eos ! all earth beholds thee, 
 The light of the sunrise there infolds thee, 
 A cry comes up from the earth below thee. 
 Mountains and forests and waters know thee, 
 Fresh airs thy robe are backward blowing, 
 Under thy footprints flowers are growing ! 
 
 4- 
 Eos ! Eos ! the sound is louder ! 
 Behind streams radiance fiercer and prouder ! 
 A moment thou blushest, and glad we view thee, 
 Then Apollo the Fire-God speeds unto thee, 
 Speeding by with a smile he hails thee, — 
 And the golden cloud of his breathing veils tliee ' 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 OF A FEW SCOTTICISMS USED IN " THE SCAITH O' 
 BARTLE." 
 
 To avoid errors, (such as were not uncommon among 
 readers of the " Idyls of Inverburn.'O let it be under- 
 stood that the English equivalents given below merely- 
 express the meanings the Scotch words bear in tJie 
 text, and which they are in all instances capable of 
 bearing. 
 
 Bickering, quarrelling, 
 
 Bield, house. 
 
 Bim, burthen. 
 
 Braxie, a distempered sheep, 
 
 Caird, wild strapping fellow. 
 
 Clachan, small village. 
 
 Corsy-beUy, infant's first shirt- 
 
 Cowrie, stoop down. 
 
 Cushlingmushling, constantly muttering. 
 
 Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance, occupied in kirk by 
 
 girls who have slipt. 
 Daft, silly. 
 Dawtie, darling. 
 Dree, bear sadly. 
 Fireflaug/it, sheet lightnings 
 Flyte, scold. 
 
 Giszen, to dry up through drought. 
 Glamour, second-sight 
 Greet, cry. 
 Aowdie, midwilie. 
 
272 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Jixzen-bed, bed of labour. 
 Keek, peep. 
 Kibble, strong. 
 Kimmer, neighbour. 
 Lift, air; sky. 
 Lowe, firelight. 
 Mid-eild, raiddle-age. 
 Mirk, dark. 
 Naip, ridge of a roof. 
 Pout, a plump girl. 
 Ran-tree, mountain ash. 
 Sark, shirt; chemise. 
 Scaith, scourge, or plague. 
 Scunner, to shrink shudderingly. 
 Shieling, hut. 
 Siller, money. 
 Soopit, exhausted. 
 Sowe, shroud. 
 Sfeel, climb. 
 
 Stanchgrass, yarrow, used to stanch bleeding, 
 Stoure, dust. 
 
 Swaver, walk exhaustedly. 
 Thole, endure. 
 Toom, empty. 
 Wanrest, uneasiness. 
 Whin, dwarf gorse. 
 
 Widdershins, something growing in a direction contrary to 
 the sun-course. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 " My Love ! " 
 
22 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Piccadilly Novels — continued, 
 BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 
 Linley Bochford. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. - 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 BY AGNES MACDONELL. 
 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
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 Iiost Bose. 
 The Evil Eye. 
 
 BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 
 Open ! Sesame ! 
 Written in Fire. 
 
 BY JEAN MWDLEMASS. 
 
 Touch and Go. 
 
 BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A. Life's Atonement. 
 Josej)h's' Coat. 
 
 BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 
 
 Whiteladies. 
 
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 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 Halves. 
 
 Walter's Word 
 What He Cost Her. 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 By Proxy. 
 Under One Boof. 
 High Spirits. 
 From ExUe. 
 ■ Carlyon's Year. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 BY CHARLES READE, D.C.L. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Peg Woffington. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief, 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 A Simpleton. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 Beadiana. 
 
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 Her Mother's Darling. 
 
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 Bound to the.Wlieel. 
 Guy Waterman. 
 One Against the World. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 The Two Dreamers. 
 
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 Proud Maisie. 
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 The Way we Live Now. 
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 What She Came Through. 
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 Cavalry Life. 
 
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CHATTO &■ WINDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
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 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? 
 
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 This Son of Vulcan. 
 
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 'Twas In Trafalgar's Bay. 
 
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 Grantley Grange. 
 
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 Gabriel Conroy. 
 Flip. 
 
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 Surly Tim. 
 
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 Jtiliet's Guardian. 
 
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 The Cure of Souls. 
 
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 BasU. 
 
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 Miss or Mrs. P 
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 Leo. 
 
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 Archie Lovell. 
 
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 Felicia. 
 
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 Roxy. 
 
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 Polly. 
 
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 Never Forgotten. 
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 Seventy-flve Brooke Street. 
 
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 Filthy Lucre. 
 
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 Olympia. 
 Queen Cophetua. 
 
 BY EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 BY CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What wiU the World Say.o 
 In Honour Bound. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 In- Pastures Green. 
 
34 
 
 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Popular Novels — continued, 
 
 BY yAMES GREENWOOD. 
 Dick Temple. 
 
 BY ANDREW HALLWAY. 
 Every-day Papers. 
 
 BY LADY DUFFUS HARDY. 
 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
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 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
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 Garth. 
 Ellice Quentin. 
 
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 A Golden Heart. 
 
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 The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 
 
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 Thomicroft's Model. 
 
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 Fated to be Free. 
 
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 Confidence. 
 
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 The Queen of Connaught. 
 The Dark CoUeen. 
 
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 Number Seventeen. 
 Oakshott Castle. 
 
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 Patricia Kemball. 
 Atonement of Leam Dundas 
 The World WeU Lost. 
 XJndctr which Lord." 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 
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 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
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 Quaker Cousins. 
 
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 The Eva Eye. 
 Lost Bose. 
 
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 Open! Sesame! 
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 A Little Stepson. 
 Fighting the Air. 
 Written in Fire. 
 
 BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 Touch and Go. 
 Mr. DonUion. 
 
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 A Life's Atonement. 
 
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 Whiteladies. 
 
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 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 IdaJia. 
 
 CecU Castlemalue's Gage. 
 
 Tricotrin 
 
 Puck. 
 
 Folle Farine. 
 
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 Signa. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Moths. 
 
 PipisbreUo. 
 
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 At Her Mercy. 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 The Clyffards of Clyffe. 
 The Family Scapegrace. 
 The Foster Brothers. -■ 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. " 
 
 Humorous Stories. 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 A Marine Residence, t 
 Married Beneath Han.- 
 Mirk Abbey. 
 
CHATTO &■ WINDUS. PICCADILLY. 
 
 23 
 
 Popular Novels — continued. 
 
 James Payn — continued. 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 Two Hundred Pounds Reward. 
 The Best of Husbands. 
 Walter's Word. 
 HEklves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes, 
 Wbat He Cost Her. 
 Less Black than we're Fainted. 
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 High Spirits. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 Carlyon's Tear. 
 
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 The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
 
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 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 
 HEurd Cash. 
 
 Peg WofRngton. 
 
 Clmstie Johnstone. 
 
 Grifath Gaunt. 
 
 The Double Marriage. 
 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 
 Foul Play. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 The Course of True Love. 
 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 
 Put Yourself in his Place. 
 
 BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SAL A, 
 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
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 Bound to the Wheel. 
 Guy Waterman. 
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 A Match in the Dark. 
 
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 A Pleasure Trip in Europe. 
 
 Tom Sawyer. 
 
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 Sabina. 
 
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 Land at Last. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Paul FerroU. 
 
 Why P. FerroU KUled his Wife. 
 
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 Her Mother's Darling. 
 
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