A-I32.5'l>2, Z$/'4/fi?7 PR4765.H C 9 D2188 V 8 rSl,yLibrary David Westren. 3 1924 013 480 896 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013480896 DAVID WESTREN. DAVID WE ST REN BY ALFRED HAYES, M.A., NEW COLL., OXON. AUTHOR OF " THE LAST CRUSADE." [Second Edition.] BIRMINGHAM : CORNISH BROTHERS, 37, NEW STREET. LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 1888. PRINTED AT THE HERALD PRESS, BIRMINGHAM, BY WRIGHT, DAIN, PEYTON, AND CO. [All rights reserved.'] DEDICATION. To those, whose quiet and persistent heroism in saving life exceeds all that has been dared in destroying it, to all faithful ministers of the art of healing, this poem is with the deepest respect inscribed. DAVID WESTREN. Man's portion is the aspect of his God. On lives that amble down a gentle slope Faith rides at ease, and casts a passing glance Of pity, scorn, or hatred, on the wretch That struggles through the mire of misery, Doubting if Love hath willed it. Some there be, Who, smitten by their Maker's heavy hand, Yet challenge not the omnipotence of Love — Bright souls, the sunshine of whose genial health No tears can quench, or minds whose loyalty Proves stronger than all reason, or meek spirits Not smarting 'neath the lash of unjust' wrath ; DAVID WESTREN. While some — unwilling Stoics — grimly -smile, And ply, with aching heart but steady hand, Their needful toil, and ask not Whence nor Why. * * # Not the whole earth can show a fairer sight, More haunted by the spirit of the Past, More overgrown with old-world memories, That cling about it like the clustering growth Of its own ivy-shroud, more eloquent Of the strange pathos of this human life, Than is the village church. It is the soul Of all around ; so near it seems at once To nestling cot and field and tree and star, So tender in its simple harmony With the sweet quiet of the countryside ; DAVID WESTREN. ; As if it "grew there of its own pure will, And loved the soil that bore it. Softly falls Its guardian shadow on the sleeping flock, Low lying in their last and silent fold, While they who soon shall share that beauteous rest Are kneeling to the Lord of life and death, And o'er the graves and through the yew-tree creeps The murmur of the ages. Envy there Doth cease to gnaw his heart, and Scorn forgets To curl the lip, and hate and avarice And pride, and all that poisons human joy, Are turned to loveliness ; the snarls of Strife, With all our little swelling selfish cares, Are hushed ; the blustering voice of Tyranny Is awe-struck ; but pure love and gentle thoughts. DAVID WESTREN. Forgetfulness of wrong and utter peace, Hallow the sombre garden of the dead. Nor is the life of him, who doth control That unambitious realm in serving it, Less beautiful and blessed, so the man Be worthy of his calling. He alone, Saving the healer of their bodies' ills, Knoweth the dumb abysses that lie hid Within the darksome bosoms of the poor, Sees life in all its nakedness, and moves Familiar through the depths of joy and woe. His hand it is that seals with Christ's own sign Our children's brows, that joins their trembling hands In closest compact ; his the voice that breathes DAVID WESTREN. Firm consolation o'er the closing grave, Whose tones can still the bickerings of spite And slander's garrulous tongue. 'Tis his to strew The seed of wholesome knowledge, his to shed A fruitful sunshine through the dullest home, Lifting its grovelling cares to nobler aims ; While week by week, oft as the Sabbath hush Descends upon the country, while the loam Dries on the empty wain, and by the hearth The sheep-dog basks, and even the wild birds Seem conscious of the holy day, 'tis his — O high and happy service ! — to stand forth Amidst his flock, within those sacred walls Where generations of the sons of toil Have lived their purest hours, and feed their souls DAVID WESTREN. From that old Book whose beauty doth not fade, Whose wisdom, passion, truth and tenderness For nigh two thousand years have been the stay Of tottering faith, the balm of bruised hearts, The widow's comfort and the martyr's shield. All this is his, and more ; the pastor hath Earth's dearest gift — a home whose daily life Squares with his calling ; simple constant joys, Without excitement and without remorse, That lengthen days and brace him to endure His dark experiences, the ruffian's oath, The breath of sickness and the bed of death. Beneath his roof the lofty and the low Find equal entertainment ; poverty DAVID WESTREN. Hath not made lean his heart, nor riches dulled Its native sympathies, but all his ways A kindly grave refinement ever haunts, Begot of generous lore, unharassed hours Of musing, gentle birth, and Christian love ; And if his brain may lack the ample scope Of those whose thought is free to range at will, Yet oft a larger heart doth compensate For tranquil breadth of judgment, and the man Is loftier than his creed. Ev'n such an one Was David Westren ; not a man more loved Through all the breadth of that fair shire which seems A miniature of all our island's charms, DAVID WESTREN. Whose bosom reared in England's noon-day pride Her rarest spirits, — the rich old shire of Devon ; There slumber in deep vales her warmest homes, There lie her greenest pastures, softest woods, Her wildest streams, her loneliest sweep of moor, And there the Western Ocean thunders forth Its mightiest harmonies. He knew them all, And loved them, as the heir of some great name Loves the old scrolls that tell his fathers' deeds ; And his was no mean stock ; his sire, well pleased To ply the surgeon's craft, could yet claim kin, Though here and there broken or dim the line, With that proud Earl whom zealots sought to mate With England's kingly Queen, whilst yet the gloom Of Mary's brow darkened this happy land. DAVID WESTREN. Nor had the old man left the precious trust, Which all inherit and must all bequeath, No richer for his stewardship. Full oft, At night returning from some couch, where Death Had fled his calm quick hand, the Atlantic blast Broad-bellowing o'er the moorland, and the sleet Blinding his watchful eyes, his restless brain Outstripped the storm, careering through the mists That coldly veil futurity's dim waste, Some day to lift as glorious clouds, and melt In showers of blessing, when her wilderness Shall blossom as the rose. Full oft, returned, His hasty meal at end, and scarcely snatched A too brief space of hardly-won repose, The midnight lamp lit up his furrowed brow, DAVID WESTKEN. Bent on the page that told from o'er the sea The latest marvel of his art, or knit To prove with lens the subtle seeds of ill ; Whence rising, he would pace his lonely room With flashing eye, quick heart, and cheek aflame, Forecasting the wide hope that dawneth now, Its brightest ray beaming from eager France, On plagued humanity ; that every pest May, by long culture of its ravenous germs, Be turned against itself, and slowly starved From out its stronghold. His was the first hand, In all that custom-nursing shire, that steeped The sufferer's senses in a painless trance, •Ere the knife did its cruel kindly work ; His the first hand, when all the veins ran flame, DAVID WESTREN. II That ceased to rob the weak and panting heart Of that which fed its strength. — iA brave, wise man ; Above his place, yet scorning not its toils, Before his day, yet faithful to its needs. He, dying of a scratch, by chance self-dealt » Whilst seeking life for others in the dead, Called to his couch, ere yet the fiery flood Had wrapt the lofty citadel of mind, His three stout sons, each from his distant post ; The first-born from those walls which all the might Of Heathendom ne'er reared, where day by day The Son of Man is worshipped in good deed, Where such poor forms, as thronged at set of sun Around the Great Physician, find a hand DAVID WESTREN. Waiting to heal, a voice attuned to soothe ; The second from his care of field and flock ; The youngest and most prized — for his dear life Nigh cost the mother's — from his books and sports In that old city peopled by the young, Where Time becomes a boy again, and life Flows ever fresh, a bright and laughing tide, Through halls grown grey in brooding o'er the past, And streets that totter with the weight of years. They by the bedside stood, young David's hand Locked in his father's grasp, who gazed on all With such deep, eloquence as dying eyes Alone can pour, and spake in trembling tones : — DAVID WESTREN. 1 3 " My sons, my own dear sons, you come in time To hear my blessing and my solemn charge, Ere Death makes hideous pastime with his prey ; God grant, for your loved sakes, the venomous fangs That soon will fasten on my reeling brain, Convulsing all my frame beyond control, May do their office quickly ; that not long These eyes, that now brim o'er with conscious love, May glare on you in fierce forgetfulness, A ghastly mockery, too remote for tears. Grieve not, my children, that a single tree Is blasted to the base, before its fruit Be fully ripened ; for no higher lot Is dealt to man than this, to lose his life In a good cause ; and though my special toil 14 DAVID WESTREN. The slow research of years, seem labour lost, Yet from long mingling of aspiring souls, In God's own time, shall spring the master-mind, Whose thought shall win the eagle's height, and scan The dark recesses of the realm of pain. A vast mosaic is the face of Truth ; We fashion each with patient narrow sight His little block, tinted with one self-hue Of light or gloom, as suits his mood ; then comes The master, and with wider vision schemes Of these a fancied feature ; God alone Knoweth the aspect of the perfect face. Nor wills He that the meanest piece should fail From out that mighty work, if but the hand Were true and firm that wrought it. O my sons, DAVID WESTREN. 15 Be faithful above all things to the light That burns within you, vvheresoe'er it lead, To shame, to death, to loss of faith itself; Thus only can new paths be found at last Through trackless seas of ignorance ; and think not That pilot's life is cast away, who finds In depths unknown an unrecorded grave. O, for the honour of High God, be true ; For they blaspheme His faithfulness who deem That earnest thought e'er led the soul astray. Let not ambition, poverty, or scorn Corrupt you to forsake the side of Truth, How thankless, how deformed soe'er she seem ; So only will ye know the peace of God." l6 DAVID WESTREN. This and much more he spake, Death standing by To weigh his words ; and when three days had passed, A desperate conflict over — for the frame Was iron-knit, and battled to the last — They closed the sunken eyes, and with held breath Kissed the white brow and left him to his rest. But in the dead of night the youngest came, And kneeling at the bedside laid his head,. Aching with tears, upon his father's breast, And whispered to his heart, "I will be true ;" And while he lingered by the open grave, Those sounds were in the throbbing of his blood, And pleaded in the moaning of the wind ; And evermore his father's dying words, Which only in the fateful hours of life DAVID WESTREN. 1 7 Rang in his brothers' ears, possessed his soul And ruled his lightest action. But the stroke That robbed him of the firmest of all friends, A wisely-loving father, was an ill That carried its own balm — the need for work ; And not as yet knew he the grief that snaps The spring of deed and drains the fount of hope, The tears that wash the colour out of life, Making each night a frantic prayer for death, Each morn a lingering torture, with dull eyes Fixed ever on the past. His equal share Of the small hoard, his father's selfless thrift Had heaped to meet the hour of need, he spent 1 8 DAVID WESTREN. In training for the soldiership of Heaven ; Deeming himself full rich if once he stood, As they of old, not having purse or scrip, Yet girt to serve his Captain. But not long Was poverty, that prunes luxuriant growth To bear more fruit, that saves the warmth of youth For starving age, and keeps life's relish keen, His comrade ; for the widely-honoured name His father left him, joined with his own worth, His noble mien and courtly eloquence, Availed, ere many years had flown, to win An ample living 'mid the tors and streams That bred him, and the loveliest home in Devon. Sheltered it lay beside the bosomed slope DAVID WESTREN. 1 9 That nursed the little village, and the church Peeped from the woods in whose soft lap it slept ; Although some fields removed from humbler homes, Twas more, it seemed, in modesty than pride, As if it sought to screen its wealthier lot From its poor brethren ; for it rather showed A lordly cottage than a pastor's home ; A mossy thatch, with ivy half o'ergrown, Proof against summer's sting and winter's tooth, O'erpeeped the lattices, set wide to drink The garden's breath, whose lingering scent should lure The sleeper to sweet dreams ; while sunshine beamed, Or moonlight glimmered, in the rooms beneath, Through creepers, wreathing with their tangled flowers The long verandah shading all the front ; DAVID WESTREN. There the white jasmine, rose and honeysuckle Twined lovingly their arms and mingled free Their fragrant kisses ; pale canary-creeper Climbed in its one brief summertide of life As near the sky as they ; and the sweet pea Reached feeling tendrils to each drooping spray And lightly curled around it ; but when these Had shed their petals on the thirsty wind, And the few feeble blossoms, that still strove To smile, were smothered in a wealth of green, Came Autumn, and with lovely petulance Set all aflame, while 'mid the glowing leaves The clematis, proud empress of the fall, Arrayed herself in purple. — Such the bower ; Whence sloped a lawn, studded with beds of bloom, DAVID WKSTREN. 2 Streaked with trim paths, and dappled with the shade Of flowering trees, down to the riverside. There for three years he dwelt, a cheerful man, Beside his lonely hearth ; though oftentimes, The full flood chafing in his Celtic veins, His big heart bounding and his cheek on fire With draughts of ocean-air, a mighty want Would on a sudden famish frame and soul ; And passion-gusts would sweep through every nerve, Like the warm pulsings of a great south-wind, Melting his inmost core, and drowning sense With wave on wave of strange delirious hope. Then would a vivid presence, far away, A dream of darkling eyes and silken hair, DAVID WESTREN. An ecstasy of all things soft and pure, A rapture of all grace and tenderness, Possess him like a frenzy ; and a soul Would seem from these to clothe herself in shape, Like Venus rising from the spray ; a form His strong arms ached to clasp, and all his being Yearned to enfold. Yet nowise was the man Of sensual cast, no kin to those slow beasts Whose dull desires crave coarsest excitants And constant whetting ; agony and death Were such to him, whose heart, though strung to cope All day with horse and hound from tor to tor, And scarcely own the strain, yet thrilled and shook Before the downcast lashes of a girl. Less was he one to chill the zest of life DAVID WESTREN. 23 With thankless self-repression, or lay waste The sunny fields of joy with monkish scorn, Or fret away the substance of delight In idle day-dreams, or forego the care Of his loved flock to battle with himself — Dangers that still beset the lonely priest. No healthier life than his on all the moor ; A lover of good cheer ; a bubbling source Of jest and tale ; a monarch of the gun ; A dreader tyrant of the darting trout Than that bright bird whose azure lightning threads The brooklet's bowery windings ; the red fox Did well to seek the boulder-strewn hillside, When Westren cheered her dappled foes ; the otter Had cause to rue the dawn when Westren's form 24 DAVID WESTREN. Loomed through the steaming bracken, to waylay Her late return from plunder, the rough pack Barking a jealous welcome round their friend. Yet was the sportsman's heart as kind and soft As any mother's ; he would turn aside To set the struggling beetle on its feet, Or stoop to lift a pallid worm, surprised By daybreak, and restore it to the grass ; Children would hang upon his willing arm, Dancing for joy beside him, as he strode Through the small thorp whose heart and soul he was ; And not a cottage threshold but well knew And loved his footstep. Nobly could his voice Render the lofty music of the Word, While sunbeams streamed across the well-filled church : DAVID WKSTREN. 25 Boldly apply it, in all charity, To present need ; nor mar the good effect By dealing it as patrons deal a dole, But rather as all brethren at one feast. Thus for three years he lived, a lonely man ; Till, at a look, the secret of his breast, And all the folded powers within his soul, Expanded ; as a bud, that long hath swelled In russet sheath, suffusing its shut heart With faintest tints of beauty yet to come, Bursts at a glance of summer, and lays bare The splendour of its bosom to the sun, Revealing deepening hues, which but for him Had languished into pallor. Such a sun 26 DAVID WESTKEN. Is love, and such a bud the heart of man. 'Twas on a flashing morning, storm and shine, And April like a wilful maiden laughed To see her own bright tears, and rainbows played With huge clouds, huddling to a sullen heap, Yet crowned with pearl, while overhead the sky Was fresh-bathed blue ; snow here and there still clung Along the dusky ridges of the moor, Dwindling the farthest distance to a span ; But where the river, like a silver thread That wanders o'er a cloth of broidered gold, Wound through the fragrant glory of the furze, Fluttered the first white butterfly, and larks Left with a cry of joy the twinkling wheat DAVID WESTREN. 27 To mount upon the sunbeams. At first dawn, Led by the muffled voices of the stream, Enswathed in mist, had Westren wandered forth ; Snatched a sweet breakfast, with a mossy rock For seat and table, and for drink a draught Of the pure torrent rioting its way From pool to pool ; had cast his mimic fly Where'er a deeper eddy offered hope Of stouter prey ; and now, his creel well-stored With many a supple victim, homeward bound Loitered in vacant mood. When, as he reached A sudden bend, where the pent river made A whirlpool, fretting 'neath the hollow bank, 28 DAVID WESTREN. Smiled over by a blackthorn-bush, that vied In snowy radiance with the sunlit foam, A vision met his eyes which sent the blood Back to his startled heart, and held his frame Entranced. — Upon the further bank, one foot Lost in the yielding sand, and one far-stretched Against a fallen bough, that made the stream Swerve savagely but left a tranquil pool Beyond, there stood the figure of a girl, Shapely and full and tall, in all the grace Of unrestraint ; a joyful eagerness, Save for one swift glance round, had banished shame As far as from the brow of any child That tumbles in the hayfield ; her light arms Cared but to rule the sturdy trout, that leapt DAVID WESTREN. 29 And struggled for its life, bending the rod Toward its dark lair beneath the twisted roots ; Her wild-rose cheek was burning with the pants That shook her giddy heart ; her soft grey eyes Flashed triumph, and the tawny hair flew loose About her face, rejoicing to escape The hat, blown off and dangling at her back. But scarce had Westren stumbled on the thought To steal away, then raise some warning sound Of song or crackling thicket as he neared The blackthorn, when she turned, as if aware Of one that watched, and turning met his eyes Fixed with delighted wonder on her own. 30 DAVID WESTREN. Then, quick as the deep blush that flooded cheek And brow and neck with crimson, she drew back The witching foot, and stood erect, her face The plaything of contending pride and shame ; While the big trout, a moment free, rushed in Beneath the tangled drift. But, net in hand, Splashed Westren to the rescue, with gay laugh And merry words of compliment ; and soon The trout lay floundering on the grassy bank, A gallant fish, all flashing to the sun In silver mail inlaid with scarlet gems, His back thick-sprinkled as a leopard's hide With rich brown spots, and belly of bright gold. Then followed broken talk ; and then a pause DAVID WESTREN. 31 Whose sweet oppression only young hearts know, When the tongue fails and all the brain is steeped In languor, when the breath comes fast and faint, Laden with cherished sickness, when the heart Is lost, and in its place a sense of want Curdling the frame with bliss, till arms and lips Tingle with tender promptings. — O that life, Time and the world could stand for ever still In that deep pause, dearer than tongue can sing, Or heart imagine that hath felt it not, Dearer than they who own its spell e'er know Till all the dew on life's best flower be dry. — Great God ! could not the wealth of might, that went To build this world, have framed a lesser orb And saved it from decay ; could not Thy love 32 DAVID WESTREN. Have willed that life's best pleasure should outlive One melting hour? — We thank Thee for the hope That cheers us to our downfall, — while it lasts; But ah ! 'tis sad to stand beside its wreck, And see the lovely longing of the bud To blossom full, the passion of the boy For manhood, the blind hunger of the youth To rush from love's light promise to a feast, Which, though 'tis sweet, yet dulls the first fresh sense, And leads through loss and mourning to the grave. So Westren lived one hour of perfect spring, Beseeching love with eyes, if not with lips ; And the fair girl who moved beside him felt Delicious tremor, and a conscious fear DAVID WESTREN. 33 Of her own beauty, while her faltering steps Seemed wandering through a fresh-born world, her breast Breathing strange air, the warbling of the birds New eloquence, and earth and sky and sun Quick with a life that had not been before. Thus, all too soon, they reached a lovely nook, Where the loud river, storming down a stair Of giant boulders, smothered its complaint In meeting woods, whereon a film of mist Slept like the bloom upon a purple grape. There sat her father, busied with his brush, Seeking in vain to catch the subtle play Of light and shadow, as the great white clouds Sailed over, and between their frowns a world 34 DAVID WESTREN. Of gradual hues, a million tinted boughs Answered the sunlight. A famed artist he, Not courting Nature in her bolder moods, But wooing such fine changes of her face As man may never hope to win, albeit With failure such as most would deem success. A glad smile chased the sadness from his brow, Hearing the ripple of his daughter's laugh Behind him ; but still gazing on his work : — " Well, Sunbeam, and what sport ? " " Look, father, look ! " For this we have to thank a friend in need." So saying, she displayed her spotted prize, DAVID WESTREN. 35 Bending her blushing face to point how here And there the living splendour of his sheen Had faded ; while the father jealously Took measure of her comrade, as he rose, Encumbered by the girl's glad arm, to greet The stranger ; who, with easy dignity, After due deference paid to riper years, Described that morning's chance, his neighbourhood And calling, and with modest thoughtful praise Of the half-finished picture took his leave. But once he paused, ere yet the lovely nook, Now lovelier for its tenant — as all things Are fairer for the presence of a girl — Was lost to view ; and pausing, saw her form 36 DAVID WESTREN. Stooped o'er her father's shoulder as he worked ; Her form, but not her face ; for that — O joy ! — Was gazing toward him, just as long a space As love could wrest from shyness ; then 'twas hid Quick as a bird's head turns — and one great gasp Burst from the heart of Westren, like the leap Of the whole blood when from a deadly wound The shaft is drawn, flooding his frame with fire, And lighting up a fever in his cheek, Which raged throughout the day, and all that night Scared slumber from his pillow. But what excess Of balm, what overflowing of content Ev'n to dismay, what slaking of his thirst DAVID WESTREN. 37 Almost to drowning, had he stood at dawn A spirit in her chamber, all unseen, Yet seeing all ; had watched that maiden shape, Cast lavishly in Nature's choicest mould, Rise from her wakeful bed, and open wide The casement, and look forth upon the stream With hot pale cheeks and tired eyes charged with tears; Then fling herself again upon the couch, And sigh and smile, and press with dimpled hand Her tender-housed young heart, low murmuring "Ah! love, ah ! love, I would not have thee gone !" Small need to" tell that daybreak found the man A restless pilgrim to the spot, where first Their eyes had mingled in the warmth of youth. 38 DAVID WESTREN. How scant of flowers the blackthorn seemed; how chill The meadow-mist ; how void of sense the chirp Of bird and ceaseless rattle of the stream ; How changed and empty all ! — Small need to tell The maiden's fear and longing, as she roamed That day, no further from her parent's sight, Than timid nestling trying its young wings Near to the home it longs yet fears to leave. The rabbit rustling through the withered fern, The leaping squirrel, or the laughing jay, Would send her fluttering back, wireframe that thrilled As if 'twere all one heart, and icy hands Palsied with nervous pleasure. Smaller need To tell how rose and lily lost and won Their thrones within the empire of her cheek, DAVID WESTREN. 39 When, with the tumult of his heart proclaimed From out his eyes, the master of her life Stood once again before her. — Love like theirs Is reinless as the lightning, and will cleave Its way through heaven and hell. And so there came A moment, when the pleading of their eyes Grew giddy-blind, and the two gazing souls Swam into one another, and the strength Of man and maid, and all the heart of life, Death and for ever, mantled to their lips And sealed them in a long devouring kiss. As when two streams, whose rushy sources lie Wide-parted on the moorland, trickle down 40 DAVID WESTREN. For many a lonely mile, till far away They hear each other's voices calling low, And gather speed and volume, bearing still Nearer to one another, till at last With one glad leap they mingle, and flow on Through barriers of rough rock, through marsh and wold, Through flowery meads and music-breathing woods, Till the salt tide turns all their life to tears And the great deep receives them. All our fate Hangs on an unknown moment. As a child's Light laugh may rouse the slumbering avalanche, So some weak thing — a passing shower, a snatch Of song, a glance, a step — oft wakes our doom. DAVID westren: 41 How stern soe'er the law, we know it not, We still must wrestle with a phantom foe, We still must bow the head, as oft in tears As thankfulness. The balances of God Are fine beyond all reckoning, howsoe'er Fraught with eternal issues. So these two Became one flesh, one heart, almost one soul In wedlock's soft constraint, and seemed to move As in some vivid dreamland, where delight Is law and sweetest sin no more debarred. And little wonder, if the tender maid, Rapt in a space so short from cool repose To burning tumult, from the morn of May 42 DAVID WESTREN. To July's noon, oft felt the power of love Brood like a thundercloud, yet cleft by rays Of hope, and soon to pass and leave the sky Untroubled. But one night, the waning moon Hidden beneath a brow of cloud, that lowered For leagues along the black horizon, girt Each with the other's arm the lovers sat, And listened to the sadness of the sea. They watched the myriad links of liquid gold Quiver away, until the deep was all One heaving darkness and a world-wide moan Swept o'er it like the spirit of despair. Then Westren felt a strong convulsion shake DAVID WESTREN. 43 Her gentle breast. " Love, let us go," he said, "You shudder, and the night grows dark." But she, For answer, threw her arms around his neck, Her head upon his heart, while passionate sobs Waylaid her utterance. But when that swift storm Was over, and she raised her tearful eyes To close beneath his kisses, lingeringly, With much self-blame for foolish doubts and fears, She told her mood. " Forgive me, dearest one, And God forgive me ; but a dreadful doubt, Ev'n when my heart was fullest of fond thoughts, Chilled through me, like a blast of cruel wind Nipping the bloom of spring ; the awful doubt — 44 DAVID WESTREN. Father of love, forgive ! — if love indeed Be worth its heavy cost. Darling, to think That one of us must stand some day and watch The other pass for ever out of reach, Helpless, then fall beside the dead, and feel O such a loneliness, O such a waste Of anguish, that my heart foreboding it Reels, as the weak brain reels when it essays To grasp eternity. Is God in truth A niggard creditor, Who doth require Strict payment for the joys we call His gifts, For children's smiles the pangs of motherhood, For youth's bright fitfulness the fogs of age, For wedded love the widow's wintry heart, For every bliss a pang — a lifelong score DAVID WESTREN. 45 Of pains and tears, remorse and weariness, Till death discharges the grand debt of life ? Is God less generous than ourselves, or weak To do His will ; or is this loving heart No image of His love, this straining brain Helpless to comprehend ? — Then wherefore life ? Not for man's pleasure ; pain and fear forbid ; Not surely for God's toy ? — Kiss me, dear heart ! My soul is strangely troubled, but the cloud Is melting in the radiance of thy love. See, how the moon breaks forth and strews the waves With glory ; so thy presence gilds with light The deep and darksome trouble of my soul. To feel thy kiss is worth more agony Than life can hold." 46 DAVID WESTREN. Then Westren, his strong arm Enfolding her, as when a father folds A cheering arm around his frightened child, Spake words of manly comfort, not unmixed With reverent faith: — "for Christ Himself hath known That utter desolation, and the path He trod can never more be wholly dark. And for love's cost — unless a tree or stone Deserve our envy, all that makes us feel Exalts us, and is welcome though with tears." So passed the one dark storm across their moon Of wedded rapture ; and next night they lay — O sweet and strange delight ! — in their own home, All doubt and tumult calmed, and both their hearts DAVID WESTREN. 47 Steeped in content. What sure repose of love Glowed from the man's dark eyes, as deep he drank The twilight of the girl's ; what perfect peace To lay his head on her pure breast, and feel Her soft arm clasp his neck, her golden hair Fall light as gossamer o'er brow and cheek, While through the open lattice came the scent Of honeysuckle, jealous of her breath, And mingling with her sighs the stream's low voice Made slumbrous music. Then what new delight To waken to her presence, watch the heave Of the white bosom as the eyes unclosed, Kiss the soft peach-bloom of the rounded cheek, 48 DAVID WESTREN. The snowy loveliness where cheek joined lip And health and joy and womanhood were met In dimpled union. What refreshing bliss To lead her through the garden, bright with flowers And sunshine, ringing with the songs of birds ; To see her, at the cheery morning meal, Peep round the urn, the better to enjoy The fulness of his face. What calm of pride To guide her through the village, every hand Doing her kindly reverence ; and to note The happy wonderment of those who came To pay due homage to the pastor's wife ; And mark the smile that lit the sick man's brow, When, laden with sweet flowers or dainty food, Always with gentlest words, her radiant form DAVID WESTREN. 49 Shone like an angel's through the gloom of death. And then the precious evenings, all too short, When reverently they communed with the souls Of the great dead, who live for evermore, To light the generations on their way, And hold a candle to the heart of Man ; — The Hebrew seers, the subtle brains of Greece, The mirror-mind of Shakespeare. Or they dwelt With no less love, if lightlier, on the page Of bards whose voice and pinion is to theirs As linnet's to the lark's. But most they joyed, With twin intent and sympathetic hands, To spell upon the ivory keys the thoughts Of those rare souls, whose poesy is writ SO DAVID WESTREN. In world-wide language, eloquent of moods Too vast, too deep, too delicate for speech ; Heart-searching strains of harmony, to which The measured music of melodious words Is stammering discord ; — Handel's stately pomp ; Mozart's clear gracefulness ; the piteous wail Of Schubert ; and the monarch of all song, Master of all the human heart can feel, Infinite pleading, awful tenderness, Titanic power — Beethoven's stormy soul. Oft would they rise from this with throbbing frames Drained of emotion, and would wander forth To lose among the summer stars the sense Of human greatness. DAVID WESTREN. 5 I Dearly too they loved To thread the narrow over-arching lanes, Seeking some rare wild-flower, or scramble up The steep hedge-bank for prize of moss or fern ; Dearly, when skies were fair, to track the course Of moorland stream, and take their gipsy meal Where the exulting eye could roam o'er leagues Of naked loneliness — a billowy waste Of russet grass, peat-ruts and spongy tufts, Heaving away to hills whose rocky crests, Storm-hewn to shape of beast or heathen god, Scowl at the ocean crawling far beneath — A desolation wearing on its face Marks of perpetual warfare ; grisly scars Dealt myriad ages back by fire and ice, 52 DAVID WESTREN. And wounds fresh-furrowed by the torrent's share. A silence like the hush of a dead star, Save for the whisper of some tiny life, Some exquisite, translucent, winged thing, That slept all winter through the thunder-clang Which shook the very tors ; as oftentimes, In Nature's tender irony, a spire Of fairy grass takes shelter where the pine Dares not to rear its head. — Then home across The saddened wilderness, until the glow Of furze and heather, and the hoary blue Of bracken, and the evensong of birds, Broke the weird charm. Nor were their least delights DAVID WESTREN. S3 Rare visits to her father, in that hive Of cares, that crowded loneliness, that heart And brain of earth's profusest energies, Whereto the veins and nerves of the whole world Converge, where life fulfils its worst and best, And loudest beats the mighty pulse of Man. There would they hear the master-works of song Souled forth as if the master's own right hand Were swaying their full tide ; now wakening The shiver of the violins, the plaint Of the slow horn, the clarionet's sweet sigh, And yearning sorrow of the double bass; Now rousing all to fury, and again Lulling the storm of music to a moan, 54 DAVID WESTREN. As of some weary spirit wandering forth For ever homeless o'er the deep of pain ; And then a dance of fairies, light as dew, Mad whirl of witches, or voluptuous maze Of black-eyed girls beneath an Eastern moon ; And then a blast of strange sepulchral woe Freezing the blood with nameless dread ; and last A strain so jubilant, sublime and strong, It seemed as though eternity were made One triumph-arch, through which, while Heaven and Earth Rang with applause of millions, God Himself Marched. — But dull words are vain; music is all. So Westren deemed ; and oftimes, homeward bound From such repasts, broad themes of melody DAVID WESTREN. 55 Still rocking through his brain, would chill his wife With silence unawares ; feeling himself A worm within a well, and those great lords Of song enthroned upon the mountain-tops, Too high almost for worship. Kindred joy, But reverence less bewildered, as the art Of sound is rarer than the art of speech, He felt, when Shakespeare's worlds of mirth and grief Lived on the stage before his brightening eyes, Gesture and garb and scene conspiring all To emphasize the wondrous poesy. From these delights returning to their home 56 DAVID WESTREN. Embosomed in the moor, they felt fresh joy In Nature's outer loveliness, a joy Which palls for those who never quit her side, A joy distinct from close communion held With Nature's soul, or never-tiring quest Among her boundless marvels. Even so, His knowledge of her spirit's worth undulled, A lover's relish of his mistress' face Oft fails for lack of absence. Thus they lived For years, one flesh, one heart, almost one soul, In wedlock's soft constraint ; and two fair babes, A boy and maiden, filled their home with glee And winning ways and tender hopes and fears ; DAVID WESTREN. 57 And grew, like flower and sapling, to such grace Of girlhood, such fine manliness, that life Was one long May^-day. So the Pastor reared A perfect home ; and, alway thanking Heaven, Shed sunshine wheresoe'er he went, and cheered The wretched with the warmth of his glad face, The poor in bliss with bounty of his store, And preached a God of mercy, love and joy. But tremble to be happy ! — Human joys Are but as glittering rain-drops, lightly poised On life's black, naked tree ; a sweep of wind — A shower of tears — and all the tree is bare ; 58 DAVID WESTRKN. A few calm, cloudless days — and heaven s loud With thunder, and the angry brow of Fate Frowns as of old on man's brief happiness. Within yon fruit-fair cheek the worm Disease Lies coiled ; beneath yon smiling water lurks The monster Death, and sits with open arms At foot of yonder precipice. — Climb on, Poor mortal, with strained hands and bleeding feet, Climb on ! — but ere thou reach the top, ev'n while Thou pausest to take breath and gaze with pride Upon the hard-gained height, comes One unseen And hurls thee to the base. — Let earth's proud lord Cast off the mail of faith, gird on the proof Of fact, hedge round his life with gathering power And cunning, yet the bow at venture drawn DAVID WESTREN. 59 Will pierce through all ; and who shall name the hand That drew it, or if any hand there be ? # # # A spotless August sky, whose fresh young blue Had faded in the heat to blinding grey ; A sound of waters, like a ceaseless tale Told in a dream ; a solitary cleft Between two barren hills, where drowsily The glinting river trickled through rude blocks Of granite, scarcely gilding into foam, Scarce wrinkling the brown mirror of the pool. There, in the shadow of a rock, her head Laid on her mother's lap, whose happy hand Played loving-careless with the straying hair, Reclined a girl ; a blossom just awake 60 DAVID WESTREN. To its own loveliness, half bud, half flower ; Her tender-tinted cheek now flushed with sun And moorland air and joyful exercise ; Her grey eyes gifted with a twofold light, A sparkling outward glance of frolic health, An inward glow of sweet self-consciousness ; A younger Sybil Westren, whose blithe spring Gave promise of a summertide as fair Even as hers, who, bending o'er the girl, Seemed moulded into perfect motherhood. Sleeping awake she watched the sparrow-hawk, With level wings at rest and searching head, Sail o'er the silenced furze, till with slow sweep He dipt beneath the ridge that swam with heat, DAVID WESTREN. 6 1 And timid chirpings broke the hush ; or traced Along the heather, bending 'neath his weight, The great green caterpillar, who, with Spring, His lowly slumber ended, will flaunt forth An emperor-moth ; or listened to the shrill Small singing of the cricket, and stretched out A lazy finger toward it, or to pluck A whortleberry larger than its kind And almost out of reach, the sun-browned hand Foiling the whiteness of the arm that peeped A moment from its sheath. When suddenly She started, and a pallor blanched her cheek, Like a rare flake of snow that settles soft 62 DAVID WESTREN. On a rose-petal in mid May ; her eyes Were fixed with terror, while her trembling hand Clutched at her mother; who, in anxious love : — "What ails you, darling?" — But the startled girl, With frozen whisper, shrinking back : — " See, see ! It flutters nearer, nearer — there — again — The snow-white bird — it flutters in my face — Save me ! " — and so fell swooning on the breast Of the scared mother. But that moment rang A glad halloo ; and up the rugged cleft, From rock to rock, came springing a fair boy Of thirteen summers, health and hope and glee Bracing his limbs and dancing in his eyes, DAVID WESTREN. 63 His shouldered fly-rod nodding at each bound ; And no great way behind him, but with steps More cautious, climbed the father. At whose voice The maiden's eyelids lifted, and once more The darkened life dawned rosy in her cheek ; But still the terror of the snow-white bird Disturbed her, as the billows of the deep Cease not to heave, although the storm be past That raised them ; nor could all the mother's smiles, The boy's kind clumsy jests, the father's arm Of love, though all were sweetly welcomed, chase The vision from her fancy. 64 DAVID WESTREN. But that night, The boding mother watching with wet eyes And lips of whispering prayer, the maiden slept A fretless slumber, and next morn arose Her own bright self, and all their fears were stilled. So summer swelled to autumn, and again Shrank into winter, and the snowdrop's life Made petty earthquake in the thawing soil, Yearning to know the light ; and that coy flower, The white narcissus, reared its coronet Above the frail forget-me-not, and cloves Hung their big heads and spiced the sultry air ; And thus the semicircle of the year, Laden with blossom, brought once more the day DAVID WESTREN. 65 Of Sybil's terror ; and a cloudless noon Beat on a little lonely cove, begirt With sandstone cliffs. Above, the golden corn Basked ; and below, the tiny languid waves Scarce stirred the cowrie, lying like the tip Of a babe's finger on the broken shells. There, in a cavern, where the weed drooped limp And clotted, and the sea-anemone Slept closed in cups of brine, so clear and still They seemed as empty, maid and mother found A cool asylum, and the dripping roof Was music to their ears. Then, while the sea Trembled with longing and its sparkling eyes 66 DAVID WESTREN. Smiled welcome, one by one the girl unloosed Her snowy garments, till the last thin robe Slid lingering to her ankles, and she stood Naked before the sun — the loveliest sight He ever gazed on ; paused, and held her breath One moment for the faintest sound, then picked With dainty feet her way among the rocks And hidden pools thick-mantled with brown weed, And gaining a firm plain of printless sand, That glistened here and there with slabs of wet, Ran like a cloud -chased sunbeam, her bright hair Fluttering upon the wind of its own speed ; So rriet the sea, and trampled its repose To spray, that made a spangled veil of white Up to her waist, and falling forward thrust DAVID WESTREN. 67 With shining arms the unwilling flood aside, Braved the soft wavelets with her softer breast, The ripple's rapid kisses with her cheek, And sank beneath and never rose again. The sea gave one calm smile of deep content. Such calm as dwells upon the face of Time, Rolling his flood, now lightened by the flush Of sunrise, now by evening's pensive hues, Now by noon's steady glitter, o'er the wrecks Of systems, with their countless loves and hates, Ambitions, struggles, wisdoms, arts and faiths ; Upon whose bosom sails this sun-born world, Beneath whose bosom shall it slowly sink With its starved crew Mankind. — Time well may smile. 68 DAVID WESTREN. So with the setting sun they stole the girl From the bereaved sea, and bore her home, And laid her lifeless on the bed, her face White as her bosom and the weeping hair Clinging about her shoulders ; and one star Tearfully trembled in the maiden cheek Of eve, and through the open casement found The mother kneeling, with convulsive arms Outstretched and panting heart and streaming face, The daughter lying with hands meekly crossed, Breast marble-still and lily-curtained eyes ; Tumultuous anguish, absolute repose ; Heart-rending irony of life and death. But ere the flowers, fresh-planted on her grave, DAVID WESTREN. 69 Had learnt to love their home, while autumn spread Wide wings of mist and sunshine o'er the land, Brooding in silence, or with stormy sob Raved through the dripping trees, another grave Lay by it, 'neath whose raw, red mound there slept The brother. For one noon — a swift sea-fog Blinding the blue and drenching all the hills With twilight — a grey look of anxious thought Swept like the mist across the mother's face, Now quick to fear the worst, remembering Her boy gone forth at daybreak with his dog, To trace the toddling of the baby Dart, Through darker pools an ever-narrowing stream, 70 DAVID WESTREN. Through thicker sedge an ever-hushing song, Up to its lonely source. And when the lamp, An hour before its time, brought not the light And solace of his face, the mother passed Restless from room to room, needle and book Laid down as soon as taken up, and clasped Her chilling hands, and ever and anon Peered through the parted curtains on a gloom, That, seen from such a nest of ruddy warmth, Looked drearier than itself; yet strove to mask Her fears from Westren, gaining from the fraud Small comfort. But when night, like fiends at play, Roared in the chimney, and the driving rain Hissed on the fire and lashed the rattling glass, The father left his chair, a look of stone DAVID WESTREN. 7 I Hardening his face, took staff and lantern, kissed His trembling wife, and murmuring, " Keep good heart, My darling, all may yet be well," passed down The low, dark hall. But ere he reached the door, i The bitter whining of a dog in pain Was heard above the tempest, and the scratch Of eager paws against the oak, and next A sharp, impatient barking, like the knock Of one who looks for welcome and comes home To find his own door barred. A shaft of ice Shot through the father's bosom, and he felt 72 DAVID WESTREN. His wife hang heavy on his arm, her grasp Tighten upon it, as he drew the bolt, And, with a yell and buffet of the wind That stopped his breath, let in the shivering dog ; Who, crouching with a moan at Westren's feet, And gazing up with simple wistful eyes, Dropped from his mouth a scarf. Hour after hour, Ashy and thin, her heart a fluttering flame Scarce living, every breath a gasp of prayer, The tortured mother lay. The clock's dull pulse Smote on her straining sense, as smites the slow Monotonous labour of the funeral bell On the stunned ear of her who kneels beside DAVID WESTREN. 73 The empty cot, while to the grave is borne Her child. But when a sickly dawn, whose eyes Were bleared with stagnant tears and passion spent, Moaned o'er the ruined woods, and made more wan The mother's wasted face, the garden latch Clicked, and a measured tramp of feet drew near, Heavy as with some burden. At the sound She rose ; but while she staggered to the door, It opened, and the guardian of her life / Folded and held her back with gentle force ; And reading that she read the worst : — " Not yet, Dear wife, not yet. Death took him with rough hand, If kindly-swift. Our boy is safe with God.* — 74 DAVID WESTREN. But she caught No word, but hung as helpless in his arms As hangs a broken ivy-spray half-torn From the stout oak it clasped. Nor ever more Saw she her son, nor learnt how those stern rocks, Whereon he fell, had marred the fair young face, But languished sorrow-stunned, with memory's lamp Too dim to search the darkness of the past And find the woe there hidden. Yet two years She lingered, while the husband's lips became Daily more pale and silent, and the frost DAVID WESTREN. 75 Crept through his hair, and lines of hard resolve Estranged his face from those that loved it best, And spake, like rifts of earthquake, of the strife That raged beneath. But to his wife the man Was tenderer than a woman ; and his eyes Would glisten, watching her ; and all day long His thoughtful hands would ply her with small deeds Of kindness, which, like ripples on a lake, Keep fresh the depths of love ; so that she clung More fondly to his strength, and praised his care With words that oftimes drove him from her side To screen his tears. And oft on summer eves, Tending the flowers that drooped their dewy heads, 76 DAVID WESTREN. Still warm with sunset, where the children slept, While twilight round the churchyard folded soft Her murmuring wings, and far away the thrush With broken music soothed his mate to rest, She ceased her toil, and sat with tearless eyes Low-lingering o'er the flowers, and whispered how She loved them better than her garden-brood, And blessed the mercy of the hand that lulled Children and flowers so tenderly to sleep. Then, standing near, the man would turn away His face, and stare upon the cloudless sky Lying death-pale along the blackening moor, And storm would gather to his brow, and waves Of fire would labour up from his swoll'n heart, Scalding his throat. DAVID WESTREN. 77 But never grief or dread Assailed the sweet wife more ; for day by day A drowsy sadness, as of a tired child. Stole o'er her; and the heart that ne'er knew hate Grew yet more loving to her God, her home, Her husband, and her dearest friends— the poor; Till, when the long nights mourned the dying year, Close watching by the fever-bed of one Deserted for his sins, her gentle lips Breathing no censure, breathing naught but love, She took upon her own pure arm the blow She warded from the wretch, and, readier far, Laid down her stainless life without a sigh. Four days of silence through the darkened house, Of whispered words and noiseless feet ; four days 78 DAVID WESTREN. Of reverent hush along the village street — And round the open grave, a little space Held back by awe and pity, thronged a flock Larger than ever, till that sunless hour, The muffled bell had gathered. In their midst, With head erect, bared to the hueless sky, Calmer than marble, colder, stronger, stood The pastor. Like a frost his silence held Their breath ; but when the stony lips had moved, A shudder shook the listeners ; for the words Of comfort, uttered in that distant tone, So hard and level, chilled them to the soul, As Death himself were speaking. Never once Quivered his lip, or quailed his voice ; his eyes Gleamed fixed and clear, as though the fount of grief DAVID WESTREN. 79 Were ice-bound ; and when, quicklier than their wont, The awe-struck crowd moved whispering from the spot, They left him an old man, with face upraised Defiant to the winter heavens, with teeth Firm-set and hands tight-clenched, standing unmoved Beside the open grave. But when his eyes Had looked their last upon the flowers that hid The coffin, soiled and shattered with the clods Whose hollow fall yet rattled in his ears, And heaving one long sigh he turned to seek His lonely home, the storm within his heart Brooked not its mocking silence, with broad day Pointing a pallid finger at the bed 80 DAVID WESTREN. Where last she lay, her fire-side chair, and home Bereft of all that made the name so dear, But drove him to the moorland's desolate breast For sympathy. With quick mechanic stride He crossed the sallow fields, freckled with spots Of livelier green, the river's sounding bridge ; Scaled with unbated speed the upland slopes, Where the spare pasture struggled for its life With hungry growth of furze and bracken ; gained The heather, where the rusty bells still clung And rustled 'neath his feet, the huge grey tors Looming like ghosts of storm, and mantled loose With streaming mist ; sped down the craggy hill, DAVID WESTREN. 8 1 As sure of foot as one who walks in sleep ; Plashed through the sucking moss and swollen brook : Nor paused for breath, nor slacked his pace, until The ceaseless clamour of the lonely Dart, So old yet ever new, raved at his feet, Bathing with spray the dear familiar rocks, Their picnic haunt ; where oft, with wife and child Couched at his side beneath the broad blue sky, And helping with their smiles the gladsome sun To lighten that stern scene, the man had sat, And counting up the treasures of his life, And love that beggared all, had blest the God That gave it. Like the spirit of the scene DAVID WESTREN. He stood, and turned upon its loneliness A face as cold and drear. The weeping rocks Shook with the thunder of the flood, now swoll'n To thrice its summer volume — a mad race Of boiling whirlpools, over-riding all, With tawny foam-flakes scudding on the blast Or dancing in a huddled drift behind Some granite block that barred a troubled pool. The rotten rushes whistled, and the heron Heavily rose and flapped its way to wastes More lonely yet, while overhead the gull, Storm-driven inland, wheeled against the wind Saddening its pauses with a homeless note Soon drowned in wider wailing. DAVID WESTREN. 83 There he stayed, Enfolded by the sorrow of the moor, Till heart and limb grew cold, and evening's dusk Deepened the dusk of mist that all day long Had steeped the spot, and scanty plumes of snow Drifted from underneath heaven's downy wing Of mottled grey. Then homeward by the course They last had traced together in the glow Of love's brief summer, rock and fern and stream Flecked with the softness of the setting sun, And all that heaving wilderness asleep In purple splendour. — Ah ! the change to this ! The wind's lament, the torrent's headlong rage, The driving sleet, the blank dismay of heaven, Decay and desolation — and within, A winter past all words. 84 DAVID WESTREN. So twilight fell Upon the moorland village, and the trees And hedges lost their hues, and stared more black Against the snow ; and when the first pale lights From cottage-panes besprinkled the white street With brilliants, and round many a hearth, close-drawn, A merry ring of rosy children laughed, While inly smiling the neat mother spread The simple board, and listened for a step To gladden gladness, — the bowed form of him, Whose pastoral care had cheered the lives of each, Crept, worn in limb, in spirit all too firm, Slow through the silence toward his cheerless home. Hollow, as when one treads within a vault, DAVID WESTREN. 85 Echoed his footstep in the hall, where late His children's voices and his wife's soft smile Made warmth and music ; and the house, bereft Of Death's tremendous presence, felt more dead, And colder, emptier seemed his room, and all Familiar objects meaningless. His food Scarce tasted, and the lamp burnt low, he sat Past midnight staring at the dying fire, Heedless of cold and wide awake, his mind One ferment ; for the anguish of that day- Had wrought a life's experience, and beneath The icy hardness of an outward calm The deepest powers that sway within the soul 86 DAVID WESTREN. Had done fierce battle. And as some generous child, Chastened he knows not why, lets fall no tear, But noble anger floods his brow with flame And tumult shakes his breast, so Westren chafed Impatient 'neath the random scourge of Fate : — " Let come the worst ! The dregs of life are left, The bitter dregs, to prove. This wretched drop Of comfort yet remains — to sternly test Each harsh ingredient of the poisoned cup, And drain it like a man. But never think I'll kiss the hand that proffers it. Say'st thou 'Tis God's hand? — And this torrent of wild thought, Undulled by passage through a thousand minds, Welling direct and clear from the riv'n depths DAVID WES'L'REN. 87 Of mine own soul, this passionate cry that pleads For hearing against all I held most true, Braving hope's utter ruin — is not this God's voice ? — Or hath the God that spake of old Grown silent to his children, or their ears Deaf? — Were the young world's nerves more quick to feel, Its heart more soft than ours, who stand amazed Far up time's painful steep, and see above No summit, and below the dim horizon Of buried generations, and around A silence, broken only by the sad Low voice of the departed and the throb Of daily life? — Was thought's rash childhood truth, And hath it grown to manhood of a lie ? — How then keep faith in childhood's truth, how then 88 DAVID WESTREN. Have faith in aught? — This thing at least I know; There dwells within each soul a still deep voice That knows not how to lie ; whose simple force, How slow soe'er its conquest, shall prevail, Shall swell with mild persistence, till it drown The shrill complaint of shallow enmities, And fill the world with pit}', peace, and love. That voice I dare not stifle, and it cries : — ' Better to face eternity, misled By steadfast cleaving to an earnest doubt, Won at all hazards, dark and comfortless, Than nurse with lukewarm breast a flattering creed, Idly inherited from hearts, whose blood, Shed for its sake when others held it not, First made it precious. Better to feel, awake, DAVID WESTREN. 89 The smart of the soul's wounds, to see and brave The worst, than bind the aching eyes and drug The spirit into stupor. Better now For me, and, in the world's long run, for all.' I trust 'tis God's own Spirit that so speaks, Cheering my lonely wretchedness, as oft, When looks of hate, more scorching than the flames, Glared from around, its strength-instilling tone Hath cheered some steadfast martyr at the stake. I trust 'tis He ; — yet, if it be not He, I am not quite alone, not quite alone. For as, when faints away some master-note, Struck singly, all the kindred nerves that lie Within the spacious instrument are touched 9° DAVID WESTREN. And tremble in their sleep, till slowly grows Around that lonely note a whispered chord ; So, when some searching passion cries aloud, And no man living answers, one by one The kindred spirits of the deathless dead Vibrate in sympathy, till far away Is heard the murmur of a mighty choir Sustaining the full concord. Thus awakes The voice of conscience in the soul of Man. A chorus of the brave and kind and true Of all time, countless as the stars of heaven ; A music like to theirs, profound and low ; And one still voice, distinct amid the rest, My father's : — ' O be faithful to the light DAVID WESTREN. 91 That burns within you, wheresoe'er it lead, To shame, to death, to loss of faith itself — Father, I will ! — Witness the God, Who wrenched The sickle from His trusty labourer's hand, Already bowed to reap a golden store Of blessing for the sick, a harvest sown In sacrifice, watered with tears, and reared By sleepless toil ! — Witness the God, Who tore The opening flower from where it grew to shed Love-light on all that passed, and quenched its smile In the brute sea !— Witness the God, Who robbed His puny sad ones of the joyous strength Of my brave boy ! — Witness the God, Whose breath Froze the warm current of my darling's life And turned my own to bitterness ! — The pain ? 92 DAVID WESTREN. That's little — we're no cowards — Heaven's harsh blast Is not so new a thing but men have learnt To stand erect against it like the oak, Women to bow beneath it like the reed ; The pain itself is little ; but to find In Him I held all-loving, wise, and strong, A weak, an erring, or a cruel God — This 'tis that troubles me. What good soe'er Be born of pain, a God all-wise and strong Could otherwise have wrought, and would have wrought Were He all-loving. If, to save His love, We grant Him baffled by the stubborn stuff He deals with, either then He lacks full strength Or wisdom to choose means. And though 'tis writ, ' My thoughts are not your thoughts,' yet pain abides DAVID WESTREN. 93 And sin, some too strong Devil, or a God Of rapine, wreck and lust — a bushman's God. No man, wise, kind and strong, would scheme a world Like this ; and if our kindest, wisest thoughts Reflect not His, He is no God of ours, We never hear His voice- or feel His love, And worship is mere pastime. That fierce race, Whose ' eye for eye and tooth for tooth ' made pain Sin's scourge, that ' jealous God ' Who bade the child Drain to the dregs the grandsire's bitter cup, Taught us stern fact, but tightened the hard knot That none hath yet unravelled ; and though Christ Spake of Siloam's tower and justified 94 DAVID WESTREN. Those murdered Galilaeans, His mild law Shifted the ground indeed, but stifled not The old complaint that still ascends to Heaven. What answer ? — When long-suffering Job stood forth, Abhorred of all his kind, and conscience-clear Arraigned the Lord, what answer wrested he ? — ' Go to ! — If, having giant's strength, I choose To use it like a giant, who art thou To say me nay ? — Behold leviathan.' — That were a Lord to flatter, not to love ; He shirks the spirit's challenge, puts us off With beasts and storms and splendours of the sky, As if we lacked reminding of brute force, As if we never felt its clumsy hoof, DAVID WESTREN. 95 As if the bulk of twenty million whales Were worth one pleading soul, or all the laws That rule the lifeless suns could soothe the sense Of outrage in a loving human heart ? — Sublime ? — majestic ? — Ay, but when our trust Totters, and faith is shattered to the base Grand words will not uprear it. Where then turn ? To Christ? — Far off — an echo from the dream Of deepening twilights, when, a stormy boy, I sobbed beside my mother's knee, my face Hid in her lap, her gentle trembling hand Stroking my head — I hear the Sabbath words That women love, ' Come unto me all ye g6 DAVID WESTREN. That labour and are heavy-laden ' — Ah ! The grave, sweet sadness, moving men to tears ! Ah ! the soft music, like the rise and fall Of some mild angel's breast, who bears to heaven The suffering child he watched o'er ! — But to me What helpless loveliness ! — a briony-spray To one who needs an oak-staff. How 'shall I, Whose sufferings profit nothing — nay, whose grief Hath robbed this poor world of three precious lives And palsied all my powers for good, find rest Because Christ suffered to redeem a world ? I too would gladly suffer for some end Seen as He saw the end for which He died. We hold Him God. Would that we held Him man ! DAVID WESTREN, 97 Then were the sense of God's abandonment At our worst peril easier to be borne — Our Brother bore it — But if He be God, Clad with God's strength to bear and overcome, Knowing Himself for God, foreknowing all, What merit was't in Him, what help to us In bearing ill, who are not gods but men ? " Thus many a night he wrestled, many a day Sought by long toiling o'er the withered moor To tire out soul with frame ; and shunned to move Amidst his flock ; for when a winding lane Had brought him face to face with some rude boor Trudging his heavy way, a troubled look Of wistful wonder, like the human look 98 DAVID WESTREN. In a dog's eyes that sees his master grieve, Would dignify the poor rough face, and raise Fresh waves of tumult in the pastor's breast. And wheresoe'er he moved, all joyous things Seemed smitten into silence and abashed, As in the presence of some mighty grief; And everywhere the quick keen eyes of Pain Found food to grow by, horrors scarcely seen, Or, seen, scarce noted by the eyes of Joy In quest of healthier nurture : — the fierce hawk Preying upon the dove's soft eyes, with claws Deep in her breast, and the grey down that warmed Her nestlings clinging to his blood-stained beak ; The sheep that lay for days with shattered limbs, Sustaining torture on the scanty grass DAVID WESTREN. 99 In reach of where it fell, till now it lies A-dying with dim eye upturned to heaven ; The wounded plover trailing through the heath A bleeding wing. — And then his frenzied mind Would wander to like scenes of human woe ; Would see upon the Western prairie-plain The aged Indian crouching o'er the embers, With sunken cheeks, and hungry hopeless gaze Fixed on the wide horizon, where his tribe Had vanished many an hour ago ; the seaman Just dead beside his mates, while far away The sail he prayed for with his last faint breath Shines all too late. — And then his thoughts would rush From the lone desert to the jostling throng, Where flash of lights and roar of wheels o'erpower IOO DAVID WESTREN. The inward wail ; would enter some dark room, Where wondering children huddled, and the wife Knelt, white almost as he whose hand she held To feel the last dread tremor ; or would hear The splash and oily gurgle of the flood, Thick with a city's foulness, where some girl, Whose childhood knew the scent of cottage-flowers, Had found oblivion. And each fearful scene Shifted to yet more fearful — nameless wrongs And cries of helpless innocence, the babe's Short life of moaning, and the sleepless fang Of cancer gnawing at the strong man's breast, Famine's lean cheek, the maniac's lightning eye, Hate, murder, lust, revenge, remorse, despair, And all the hideous armament of Woe, DAVID WESTREN. IOI Till earth seemed hell, and the grey, weeping sky And sobbing wind bewailed a world of pain. Then all the generous instinct of the man Uprose indignant, and he groaned aloud : — " How have we sinned, to merit such hard lot, My wretched fellow-men, and I, of all Most wretched ? The blind bolt strikes all alike, Half-gods no less than those who seem half-fiends, Me too, who know myself nor fiend nor god, Who know myself a simple, true, brave man, Like many a million more ; but know few men For whose worst fault the sternest earthly judge Would doom them to a tithe of what they bear 102 DAVID WESTREN. Guiltless ; — and earthly justice may not weigh The tainted blood, the atmosphere of sin, The inward agony ; but He, Who knows How fathered and forefathered, how begot In sin, how sin was food and drink and breath And after what hard struggle sin prevailed, Would stay His angry hand, were sin indeed The cause of all we suffer. — Almost tears Soften my long-parched eyes, when I recall The piteous tenderness of love in pain ; And yet the sea-bird circling with short sweeps Around his wounded mate, divinely blind To selfish danger, wails not to call forth Man's pity, since the sights that most would move Have oft no witness, and for every tear DAVID WESTREN. I03 A thousand hearts unheeded bleed to death. Marvellous ? — ay, most marvellous, if the Power Who wills it thus be Wisdom, Might and Love, And there be none with strength to thwart His will. The very beasts must marvel at a world So crammed with fair and foul, desire and hate, Laughter and tears — good God ! to think men laugh Rippling along the shallows, while the depths, Where no sound is, await them. — Who so dull, Or drunk with happiness, or drugged with woe, As not to marvel at this world's great girth, A lesser planet of a lesser sun, That sun a mote of star-dust in the vast Of endless space sun-swarming, whilst his feet 104 DAVID WESTREN. Trample some tiny flower where lies enwrapt Life within life for ever, and he stands Amazed amid the boundless Universe ? Then suddenly the consciousness of self Besets him, and the rushing of his thoughts Deafens him, like the rushing of the blood In one who swoons ; and all that fills the world, Its hugest feature and its frailest birth, The storm-built mountain-tops, the rainbow-thread Of gossamer, the mammoth and the gnat, The unnamed insect in its little world Beneath the moss, the puny giant Man, His cities and devices, wars and wealth, His thrilling story, passions, arts and creeds, His poor six feet of sod when life is done — DAVID WESTREN. I05 All that has ever been or is on earth Throngs and appals the soul, and most of all The mind that thus can marvel — Wondrous ? — ay, Wondrous indeed ! If God be satisfied To make men gape, then let Him rest content. But yestermorn, when all was blind with fog, And from the black boughs, streaked with watery snow, The drops made dismal music, that poor bird I found scarce dead, trapped by some thoughtless child, Who, like enough, shall prove a kindly man, Its eyes half-shut and glazed with hours of pain, Wakened a wonder that was more akin To horror than to worship — Alas ! alas! The wretch I am ! — a torture to myself, Io6 DAVID WESTREN. A stumbling-block to others. Grief like this May soften pride and stoop the tyrant's neck, But hardens tender hearts and sours the kind, Who think — Were they Almighty, would they plague Their helpless creatures thus ? " — So day by day, When Dawn called up her phantoms from the vale, He fled the shadow of his ruined home, And followed her grey train across the hills ; But, sick with sights of anguish, oft would seek The prison of his room, where pain at least Was narrowed ; till its channel grew so deep, Its flood so frantic, that it bore him out Again to wider sorrow for relief. DAVID WESTREN. I07 Nor even in the blessed hours of night, When over life and all its weariness A gradual veil is drawn, and Slumber's balm Benumbs the sense, and Care forgets her load, And Fear himself can smile, did Westren's soul Find respite. Prayer, that breathes the air of faith, Sank choked in its first accents ; and when sleep Had barred his mind 'gainst all things from without That fought against his peace, the ungoverned brain Ran wild in fierce excess ; terrific dreams Assailed him, and unutterable horrors Poisoned his rest ; no deed so vile, so far From waking thought, but he would wreak it out With ghastly relish ; his wife's hallowed face, With that dear look in it which made it hers — Io8 DAVID WESTREN. Where poetry fails, where painting is so strong — Loved more than ev'n its beauty, would bend down And kiss him as he slept ; but when he flung His rapturous arms around her, she would turn A stiff, green corpse, and rot in his embrace, Or mingle with her daughter and himself In frightful revelry. Yet never once The impulse came, to baulk the rage of Fate By self-destruction ; not for fear of aught Might be beyond the grave — for well he deemed Death's sleep was sound; — but as some desperate man, At bay before a host, casts not aside Nor turns against himself his sword, but sets DAVID WESTREN. 10 9 His back against a rock, and plants his foot, And locks his teeth, and knits his brow, resolved To sell his life for somewhat, even so Stood Westren, firm, indignant, and resolved To brave the worst, die hard, and at his post. Howbeit, at times, most often when the twilight That deepens to the week's last night, and seems A drowsier dusk than that of other eves, Summoned the village-pastor to prepare Food for his flock, a sickness smote his heart, Thinking how dull, mechanical and cold Was now that worship which he once had led With joy so full, how vain for him the prayers That brought his hearers comfort, and how slight O DAVID WESTREN. His hold upon the faith whereto they clung. Then would a longing seize him, to be quit Of charge so grave, and add his modest wealth, Saved for the dead, to swell his brother's store, And end his days a shepherd of dumb sheep. But when he marked the saddened brows of those To whom he told his purpose, and the love They bare him, and the good his care had wrought, And thought upon the grey old church, where knelt His darlings, and their graves beneath the yew, He faltered, and thus communed with himself: — "What matter form and symbol, so we love And succour one another ? Christ's command Is clear, howe'er we wrangle o'er His Being. DAVID WESTREN. I And for men's dreams — methinks I see the smile, The calm grave smile, would kindle on His lip, Hearing some mother reason Hell away, Her scapegrace son now dead. Our living faith Is what we love and suffer ; and the truth That changeth not with man, we cannot know, And blunder when we guess at. Yet truth is, Howe'er we blunder ; and shall God be wrath That children love their dolls, the old ones best ? Why should I shrink to lead their simple worship, Seeing they ask it ? Doth a father shun To share his children's mirth, because for him 'Tis make-believe, because his heart is sad ; Much more, deny them comfort ? No man owns More loyally the lordship of our Lord, Missing Page DAVID WESTREN. I 1 3 And kisses them, and presses to her heart The babe that never smiled. * * * Yet Nature seems, Like Man, not wholly ruthless at her worst ; But, when her rage is spent, would seem to know A rude remorse, and longing to atone By mildness for the shocks her fury dealt ; And while for those to come she doth prepare New scenes of bliss, she slowly draws a mantle Of loveliest clinging life o'er all her wrecks, And hallows them with venerable grey. So, month by month, the gentle touch of time O'erlaid the ruins of the pastor's joy With tenderness, and memory's gentle mist 114 DAVID WESTREN. Softened their cruel aspect ; till at last A genial smile of sacred pleasure lit His grief; as when a sudden glance of sun Breaks through a leaden thundercloud and lights Some abbey's gloomy relics, the grey stones Glow, and the ivy flashes golden-green. 'Twas at that season when the hardened snow Still melts along the hedgerows, but a day Has fled the advancing summer-host, to be The herald of its coming. Here and there The hawthorn's glossy twigs were gemmed with green, The violet low within her bower of leaves Fed on her own sweet heart, the shining fields Steamed in the sun, and all around was heard DAVID WESTREN. I 1 5 The faint and subtle stir of springing life. That morn had Westren felt unbidden warmth Steal through his blood, and a swift sense of joy Quicken his torpid pulse, he knew not why ; Till, almost glad at heart, he left his seat Beside the sun-quenched fire, and cast aside His book, and sought the widow's lowly thatch, Around whose husband's grave the footprints yet Were fresh of those that bare him to his rest. The door stood open, and the sanded floor Was streaked with sunbeams ; other sound was none Save the clock's laboured pulse ; a little maid, Plying her busy needle, watched beside A sleeping babe ; and perched upon a chair, With restless, sidelons; head, a robin scanned Il6 DAVID WESTREN. The room, now dropping down to pick a crumb, Now peeping in the cradle. Spellbound stood The pastor ; and the tenderness of life, Its love and trust and beauty beyond words, Smote on his grief like sunshine, and he felt The icy hardness that had bound his heart Yield, and his bosom swell, and blessed tears Flooding his brain and eyes with full relief. But while, half-blind with welcome mist, he gazed, Down the deep lane, her village errand o'er, The mother bent her homeward steps. A smile Of chastened gladness answered the kind thoughts DAVID WESTREN. 117 That sunned his face, when with a friend's firm grasp He took her faltering hand and uttered words Of quiet greeting ; and her brave, sad mien, And eyes that brimmed with gratitude, sent hope And strength through all his soul, and love toward Man, And faith in love, and patience under pain, And reverence for the Father of all Good. So", warm at heart, he entered that low porch, While with a curtsey rose the little maid, And robin hid himself among the plants, That filled the window, turning a full face Of constant summer to the village street. Soothing as twilight's chill to aching eyes Was that calm atmosphere of sorrow ; sweet Il8 DAVID WESTREN. As dawn's first rosy hue the tender bloom Of maidenhood, that deepened as he laid A fondling hand upon the child's bright hair ; And a great gladness filled him, as he felt The tide of life returning, and the glow Of God's own wine once more along his veins. Nor sank his heart again. That evening, ere The green light faded from the sky, a sense Of healthy slumber, cool and fresh, subdued His heightened pulse, as if the hand that lay One moment on the girl's fair head had drawn Her childhood into all his blood. He longed With wonder for the morrow, knelt awhile Speechless beside his bed in more than prayer ; DAVID WESTREN. 119 And since all light but Nature's then had jarred His tranquil mood, he laid him down to rest By light of one clear star, and slept the sleep She gives her darlings. Buoyantly he rose From dreamless slumber — yet a deep, dim joy Had lived with him all night, like that which haunts A sleeping child and curls his angel lip — Threw wide the lattice, let the morning breeze Thrill him, and soon was busied with his plants, That long had lacked a master. Ne'er before Felt he so calm, so strong to cope with ill And foster good ; never before so loved The green of earth, the boundless blue of heaven, O DAVID WESTREN. The rolling clouds, the triumph of the winds, Man in his might and woman in her bloom, The lavish heart of childhood, youth's wild hopes, And all the myriad marvels and delights Of this our strange rich life. And while his soul Was borne along the great highway of Time, The steady march of seasons, and the vast Procession of the centuries, beneath The transient stars and changeless void of space — God knoweth whence and whither — swept his life Along with its huge tide, and he rejoiced To feel the glorious impulse. Once again His eyes were quick to greet all gladsome sights, DAVID WESTREN. 121 And passed in tranquil pity o'er those woes Where Man was helpless. But two brief days since, He scarce had marked the early-brooding thrush That quitted not her nest when he drew near, But gazed at him with bright and steady eye As fearless as her love. Yet now all pain Seemed to such precious beauty as the black And barren rocks, whereon a man, who seeks The diamonds lurking in their rugged clefts, Wastes not a sigh. And dear it was to move Once more amidst his flock, to soothe their cares, To share their glee, to toil for them, and feel Their love encompass him ; while deep content 2 DAVID WESTREN. Plowed through him from that never-failing source Of joy, whereat the saddest soul may drink, That faith of every creed — the love of Man. Bright gleamed life's scanty raptures, seen athwart The dark background of universal pain ; And why the Maker bade all joy be child Of sorrow, and each sunbeam cast its shade, He asked no longer; but the pleasing pain Of quiet work, and unambitious hopes, Mingled the light and shadow of his life To one harmonious grey, which, though it be Less vivid than the radiant blue of spring, Yet dreads no overcasting. Ev'n his face Partook his spirit's calmness ; and the light DAVID WESTREN. 123 That made his brow benign seemed not less far From that gnarl'd frown it wore of late, than seems The blossom from its root. And week by week He spake of Christ the Man, Who comforts more Than Christ the God, His scorn of selfish pain, His love for children, flowers and all things sweet, His care for suffering men and all things sad, His loneliness, and sorrow wide as sin. He bade his flock be strong to fight with ill — No matter whence or why ; 'tis here ; enough — To cleave to good, and reverence all things pure, And love and help each other. Whatsoe'er He bade them, that he wrought in constant deed, , Unwearied and undoubting. 124 DAVID WESTREN. So he lived For many a year, beloved ; and grew each day More gentle to the erring, poor and weak, More pitiful and helpful, with his steps More nearly in the footprints of our Lord ; And evening stole upon him, clear and calm, As shines a spot serene of tender sky When storms are over ; and one twilight hour — So still, the moth's soft flight beneath the yew Was heard — he laid him down beside the grave Where slept his loved ones, and there found his rest. DAVID WESTREN SECOND EDITION. Crown 8vo, 6s. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "Mr. Hayes has already won repute ' David Weslren' consists of the most charming and faultless blank verse Mr. Hayes has a quite marvellous gift of song within his power." Academy, April 28th, 1888. '• An exceedingly able poem Has formal merit of the highest character But his poem has conspicuous merit of a higher order than mere technical skill can claim. . . . The poem is in every line instinct with strong spiritual force. . . . . Mr. Hayes has a poet's eye for nature, and his poem is full of truthful touches The poem has finer passages than this, when it is concerned with the change in Westren's faith. The force and delicacy of these, however, cannot be fairly illustrated either by quotation or description The work, as a whole, is of an excellence rarely enough seen, and will be heartily welcomed by all lovers of true poetry." Scotsman, February 6th, 18S8. " There can be no doubt but that Mr. Hayes's blank verse is of very good quality indeed." Spectator, May 19th, 1888. " Mr. Hayes has the virtues of sincerity of mind and loftiness of aim ; he looks at nature with a most constant heart." Saturday Review, February nth, 18S8. " To many readers the tender grace of the English scene will appeal with peculiar force and attraction." Westminster Review, April, 18S8. " It must be rather more than a year since that, from a pile of volumes, we singled out 'The Last Crusade,' and predicted, without hesitation, that in Mr. Hayes we should find a new poet of no mean rank. . . . The new volume now before us strengthens the opinion we then formed His eye is as clear, his touch as true as ever In spite of their pathos, we must not dwell upon the details, but pass rapidly on to the wife's funeral, with its magnificent picture of Westren's despair The poem should distinctly add to Mr. Hayes's reputation." Literary World, April 6th, 1888. " Mr. Hayes states the problem of life extremely well There is a great deal in Mr. Hayes's poem that is strong and fine, and he undoubtedly possesses a remarkable faculty of poetical expression ; some of his descriptive touches of nature are very graceful and suggestive, and he will probably make his mark in literature." rail Mall Gazette, April 6th, 1888. " Mr. Hayes shows a quite exceptional mastery of a form of verse in which it is the easiest thing in the world to fail egregiously. . I His blank verse is, in its form and balance, emphatically his own Lines like these, and others we could give, make it clear that in Mr. Hayes we have to deal with something more than a mere writer of good verse — a man of genuine poetic sensibility, with the power of putting the results of that sensibility into admir- able shape." Globe, April 6th, 1888. "Marked by flashes of true poetic power 'David Westren ' has not a few noble thoughts We could quote many a tine descriptive passage The problem of the evil in the world is boldly grappled with." Public Opinion, April 13th, 1888. "Unusually good blank verse and a sympathetic tone are the distinguishing features of 'David Westren,' by a writer of whose work we have before had occasion to speak in terms of high praise The old doctor's dying speech to his sons may be described as really fine." Graphic, March 24th, 1888. "'The Last Crusade' was received with marked favour by the critics and the public, and ' David Westren ' cannot but confirm the opinion already formed, and raise Mr. Hayes still more in public estimation. The story is one of touching heroism told with consum- mate power." Cotirt and Society Review, February 8th, 1888. "' David Westren ' is a charming piece of workmanship. . . The lines read with a smoothness which speaks volumes for the literary capacity of their author The whole production is of a character which should go far to secure for ' David Westren ' a popularity that will fully establish Mr. Hayes's position." City Press, May 23rd, 1888. " The style of this book is exquisite. The author is quite a master of clear-flowing blank verse." Oxford Review, May 23rd, 1888. "A story simple and full of deep pathos, which gives ample scope for the exercise of thought, broad, tender, and sympathetic, as to the great mysteries of life Nor is there any falling off in descriptive power, in the felicity of phrase, the charm of rhythm, and the jewel-like finish of workmanship that distinguished the earlier work Full of pregnant thought and wise suggestion We hailed Mr. Hayes's first poem as giving us assurance of one who among the crowd of writers of fluent and pleasant verse could be considered a genuine poet, original, and with the mark of distinction which differentiates the genuine poet from the facile versifier. ' David Westren ' strengthens and confirms the impressions derived from ' The Last Crusade.' " Birmingham Daily Post, December rst, 18S7. "From whatever point of view regarded, this work must be pronounced a success Were this all it would be no mean achievement ; but there is superadded a wealth of poetic thought presented in the most chastened language." Liverpool Courier, August 14th, 1888. " The whole poem bears an almost perfect finish The exquisite pictures of love, and the grace of descriptive narration are almost beyond praise. The expression of complex emotion and deep feeling are especially powerful Such rare promise as is contained in ' The Last Crusade ' and ' David Westren ' should secure in maturity a place among our fairest singers for Alfred Hayes." Western Morning News, May 2nd, I 888. " The work before us is that of a genuine poet Mr. Hayes has a peculiarly happy gift for describing scenery. . . His analysis of character is clear and discriminating, and the varying mentnl emotions are depicted with the hand of a sympathetic artist guided by the insight of a philosopher The work has the charm of originality both in conception and execution. Mr. Hayes's poem on 'The Last Crusade* won golden opinions. We are convinced that ' David Westren ' will in no degree diminish the reputation which the earlier work earned for its author." Western Daily Mercury, March 19th, 1888. " The author of ' The Last Crusade ' rose, by his first work, to a position of eminence among contemporary poets, and the predictions which discriminating critics based upon the earlier effort are more than fulfilled by the beautiful poem before us The author is as successful in the analysis and delineation of complex phases of character as he had already proved himself in description and narrative As a writer of blank verse Mr. Hayes is almost beyond criticism There are passages of ' David Westren ' which seem to lose in strength and massiveness, simply by the perfect workmanship of the poetry And, best of all, the book is of the type which indicates not a consummated but a growing genius." Bristol Mercury, April 24th, 188S. " Of a high order for its depth of thought, moral purity, and religious light. . . . ■ An entrancing story told with the poet's tender feeling and wise estimate of what is to come." Western Times, February 23rd, 1 888. " In ' The Last Crusade ' Mr. Hayes struck so high a chord, and produced such sweet and sustained harmony, that we opened his new poem with high expectations and some little trepidation. But a perusal of the new poem has confirmed the impression produced by his former book — tiiat he is a poet; and a poet of very great merit. Both ' The Last Crusade ' and ' David Westren ' have so much heavenly music and true poetic fire as will ensure their being read with pleasure wherever English is read, and will place the author's name high up on the roll of fame." Eastern Morning News, 2nd April, 1888. " The graceful and finished verse of which he has shown himself a master Delicately and melodiously dealt with. Ably and sympathetically treated Fully equal to Mr. Hayes's reputation." Leeds Mercury, February :5th, 1888. " Told in beautiful blank verse Mr. Hayes has communicated an extraordinary beauty to this simple story. . . . His, book has abundant merits." Dundee Advertiser, March 12th, 1888. " Mr. Alfred Hayes is by no means an unknown poet. He has already made his mark The construction of ' David Westren' has been planned by a master-hand, and the language, while soft and sweet, and full of tender pathos, is marked as well with freshness, vigour, and great power of reflection There is a genuine ring about Mr. Hayes's poetry which cannot fail to attract Every detail is studied with its minutest effect He revels in all that is lofty and grand, weird and bold, soft and gentle. Each is painted in masterly style, and in an easy flowing diction that many a poet of older growth well may envy His descriptions are gems of delicate and graceful word-painting ' David Westren ' displays true genius, warmth of feeling, purity of heart, immense power of thought, great range of language, and stamps the author as one of our most rising poets — a poet from whom greater things may be expected yet." Devon and Exeter Gazette, May 19th, 1888. VI. " The analysis of David Westren's character is told in sweet and subtle language, the exquisite touches being enhanced by their realism The arguments which bring the book to a close are full of sound sense and reverent treatment Every page sparkles with descriptive beauty." Bristol Times, February 20th, 1888. " ' David Westren ' is the story of a noble, beautiful, and quiet life, told in graceful blank verse. The central character is a fine ideal conception." Manchester Examiner, June 20th, 1888. " The author of ' David Westren ' is already known as a poet of an exceptionally high order, on the merits of his previous work, 'The Last Crusade.' His blank verse has the easy rhythm and the simple diction of the master-hand A few quotations will show the picturesqueness of the style and the facility of description which the gifted author possesses, but the book should be read as a whole, and we heartily recommend it to all lovers of pure English poetry." Bath Herald, April 28th, 18S8. " It is refreshing to turn to a poem like this, cast in a simple. yet strong mould, full of romance and pathos and pure and lofty thinking, and characterised throughout by a lucid beauty of conception and execution Not the least noticeable quality of the poem is its originality The genius of taking pains is manifest on every page of the poem. Its author has ' the great poetic heart,' the possession of which ' is more than all poetic fame,' but Mr. Hayes has already won the fame in addition by his first poem." Birmingham Daily Gazette, December 6th, 1888. " The story is told in such beautiful language that the hearts of readers are melted. It is a safe thing to hazard that few readers will get through the volume dry-eyed. It is one of those books which nerve the whole being of the reader in a grasp of sympathetic pain.. But the work is not wholly a phantasy of pleasing pain. It is relieved by many artistic touches of description which brighten the melody of the verse, while they do not lessen the pathos of the story." Sheffield Daily Telegraph, February 16th, 1888. " One is carried away by the drama and its melodious enunciation as effectually as the writer himself could wish. This is rare praise, but praise none the less merited In fact Mr. Hayes has given us a vignette of human life, sublimed as only an inspired poetic delineation of human life can be." Midland Evening News, December 14th, 1887. "The lines are of a level excellence, anon rising into a bright, lovely, or striking phrase But the signal merit of the poem is the lucidity of the narrative, and the impressiveness with which the history is gradually unfolded and borne in upon the mind of the reader The last-named scene is drawn with great power and pathos." Manchester City News, March loth, 1888. " Mr. Alfred Hayes, who has won some just fame by his poem 'The Last Crusade,' has come forward with another poetic venture, 'David Westren.' These passages will show that Mr. Hayes has poetic feeling, fancy, imagination, and manipulative dexterity." Glasgow Herald, February 23rd, 1888. " The poem is a pathetic record of a man's life, its love, strength, despair, and tenderness. It shows depth of thought and powerful analysis of feeling Stately and melodious blank verse. • • . . We have read no book with the like pleasure for some time, and we predict for the author no mean place in literature." Nottingham Daily Express, 5th March, 1888. " The extracts we have given from 'David Westren' are more than sufficient to justify a repetition of the opinion we ventured to express when ' The Last Crusade ' appeared. ... If elevation of sentiment, quick sympathy with all that is noble and good, dramatic power, beautiful and original imagery, grace and spontaneity of diction, musical rhythm, and finish of workmanship go to the making of poetry which will live, then Mr. Hayes's new volume is one which the English-speaking peoples will cherish and prize for generations." Staffordshire Advertiser, December 3rd , 1 888. " Among the crowd of books of verse it is a pleasure to meet with one which is worth the reading. . . . It is no small praise to add that Mr. Hayes shows as much power in the delineation of human emotions as in the description of natural scenery." York Herald, April 23rd, 1888. " A poem of much beauty and of much pathetic interest. . . . The narrative of David Westren's life, his romantic meeting with his future wife, of their absorbing love, and ol their beautiful home among the leafy solitudes ol Devonshire is very delightful reading." Manchester Courier, April 27th, 1S88. " We do not hesitate to say that the reputation Mr. Hayes achieved by ' The Last Crusade ' will not be diminished by his new work It grapples with the problems which now more than ever puzzle our intellects and at times well-nigh paralyse our wills Many a passage arrests our attention by its deep insight or its delicacy of feeling Yet it is not so much this exceptional beauty of isolated passages that most strikes us as the uniformly high level which is maintained. The style is absolutely free from affeciations, and the English singularly pure and simple throughout, though never lacking in dignity, and often rising to most impressive eloquence." Midland Counties Herald, December 8th, 1887. " Mr. Hayes has the soul and the eye of a true poet, and his faculty of utterance is in every way worthy the lofty character of his thought and his fine imagination There never falls from Ws pen a mean, poor, or undignified line. If you once begin to read him. the music of his pages draws you on and on with increasing interest ; you find that he has dramatic as well as poetic power, and you follow him to the close We could produce many beautiful pictures from the book Readers of refined taste will derive enjoyment from its sentiment, its classic grace, and its atmosphere of pure and delicate fancy." Christian Life, February 25th, 1888. " We wish we could do justice here to the grace and dignity, the literary skill and music of this beautiful poem. . . . Mr. Hayes will probably reach a very high mark indeed among the poets of the last decade of our century." Inquirer, May 12th, 1888. " A noteworthy poem He must be a very dull reader who should tire of this work. . . . We thank Mr. Hayes for a poem full of the deepest pathos, and written with great felicity of diction Its incidents are set forth with a gracious gentleness which moves the heart, and its portraiture of Nature shows the seer-like quality of the true poet. We shall expect even finer work from such a writer." Nonconformist, September 20th, 1888. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE LAST CRUSADE. SECOND EDITION. Crown 8vo, 6s. 6d. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " A poem of considerable promise. . . . We were especially struck with the clearness and musical flow of the blank verse, and with the entire absence of any trick of style or affectation. The description of the plague in the camp is vivid and powerful, and the character of the chivalrous and impassioned king is conceived with imagination and insight." Westminster Review, April, 1888. " Of real and undoubted excellence Mr. Hayes has poetic power of an even higher order, and if he improves and develops he is sure to win a distinguished position among the poets of our time He has the instinct which tells an artist when he has got a good subject, whilst he possesses also that imaginative sympathy which enables the true poet to reach out of himself, and to grasp the thoughts and feelings of others We can confidently assert that there are but few living poets who could have done better." Literary World, March nth, 1887. "The narrative moves on for the most part in stately, and some- times very musical, blank verse, flashing out occasionally into noble thoughts and felicitous figures. The tone is throughout lofty, and the diction remarkably pure, while some of the sonorous cadences are particularly fine. The verse is robust and vigorous The description given of the attempt of a party of fanatic Moslems to penetrate to the royal pavilion is exceedingly good, and the scene between the dying monarch and his son is highly dramatic. There is undoubtedly power and passion in the work before us." Public Opinion, January 2lst, 1887. "This volume of Mr. Hayes's has real merits, and gives him a claim to the consideration of all those who are lovers of English poetry Mr. Hayes is attempting to keep up what we believe to be the best and healthiest tradition of English poetry. . . . . The various characters are clearly and sharply drawn, and the speeches put into their mouths appropriate and telling. . . . The description of the plague and the plague-stricken camp is exceedingly powerful, and there is real poetic beauty in the descrip- tions of Alpine solitude and Alpine glory." The Guardian, March 23rd, 1887. " ' The Last Crusade ' contains poetry of an unusually high order, both as to matter and manner Nothing could be better of its kind than the way in which the story of St. Louis' death is told ; the description of the plague-stricken camp is also very powerful There is quite enough in the volume to arouse sanguine hopes of his possible future." Graphic, January 1st, 1887. " By far the most promising of the poets now before us is Mr. Alfred Hayes, author of ' The Last Crusade.' Mr. Hayes can write excellent blank verse." „ „ ,. „ ,, ., . ., ~ , „„ Pall Mall Gazette, April 28th, 1887. " The portrait of the king is as lovely as it is heroic Such dazzling visions of stainless snow and ice, breaking with their radiance upon the heavenly blue ; such glowing sunset changes upon the Alpine heights ; such magical sunrises and moonlights on those white fields and crags, have seldom been flashed upon the ' inward eye ' with such spirit-stirring vividness, except by Mr. Ruskin himself. . . . . Any lover of the sea will find here enchanting pictures of its changing moods The striking thing about the whole book is its individuality ; it is not an echo, it is a new voice." Journal of Education, April 1st, 1887. " Mr. Hayes is a poet of no mean order and will without doubt make a name for himself." City Press, March 30th, 1887. "Mr. Hayes has given the world a series of very remarkable and highly-finished poems, which testify not only to abundant labour and the most loving care on the part of the author, but also to his possession of the true poetic talent in a very high degree." Oxford Review, February gfh, 1887. " Mr. Hayes possesses a keen sense of fitness and a fine insight into the shifting phases of Nature." Oxford Magazine, January 26th, 1887. "The predominant thought as we lay aside the volume, after such a draught of poetry as no new poet has given us for a long time, is the perception of the exquisitely-perfect finish of the whole, every verse, and every modulation and pause, satisfying the sense — that triumph of' verbal music where the informing thought is echoed by the sound and cadence of the words. Mr. Hayes has not only the poet's eye and hand, but, what is of far more import, the poet's heart There is a quite singular delicacy and truth in the metaphors and similes We had marked many more passages, for they are as thick as dew gems on the morning hill-side. . . . . The subject on which Mr. Hayes has lavished all this poetic wealth is one well worthy of commemoration As a piece of descriptive writing this is magnificent No quotation could do justice to a picture which depends for effect on the aptitude of harmonious parts. .... In a passage of noble eloquence and pathos Mr. Hayes points the moral of this dreadful scene A very remarkable and singularly beautiful poem ; not an ephemeral production, but one which is a distinct gain to contemporary poetic literature, and which promises a future of mark to its gifted author." Birmingham Daily Post, December 3rd, 1886. " 'The Last Crusade' contains many passages of striking beauty and originality Saint Louis was the King Arthur of modern times — 'working out his will to cleanse the world' — 'and Mr. Hayes determined to enshrine his deeds in the same manner as the Laureate has immortalised those of his hero. The result is surprising because it is so successful. The Doric style of verse, with its compactness and condensation, cannot be trifled with, and only master-hands can use it with ease or grace. Mr. Hayes's poems dis- play great power. The descriptive parts are vivid, rich, and invested with natural charm ; the sentiment is at all times worthy of the theme. Some of the phrases seem to sparkle gem-like on the pages ; others, instinct with music, at once arrest attention. . . . Here we find that rare combination, daring fancy, and harmonious expression. There is such subtlety in the lines that their 'mysterious glimmer' exercises a magic influence over the mind of the reader. The chasteness of sentiment is another striking characteristic of the poems His pictures have the merit of being real, we see and understand them ; the view is never obscure, the brightness is never too fierce or the colouring too rich. . . . . His solemn and impressive lines on ' Silence,' which form the prelude to 'The Burial of Saint Louis,' are so unique, so marvellous and so original, that we must do more than simply refer to them Mr. Hayes is a true poet. When he becomes his own daimon he will assuredly take a position to which all poets aspire, but which few are able to attain." Birmingham Daily Gazette, December 22nd, 1886. "The author has certainly drunk at the same well as 'God's Prophets of the Beautiful.' .... The affectation and fustian which so often pass under the name of poetry are absent from this volume The story is told in easy flowing verse, which arrests the attention and commands the sympathy of the reader." Manchester Courier, March 25th and September 9th, 1887. "Mr. Hayes is a poet, and his book contains many proofs that he has the poet's heart as well as the poet's hand and eye. High poetical thoughts are here set in words worthy of them. One might fill columns with instances." Eastern Morning News, December 30th, 1886. " A poem of singular grace and power In the midst of a great deal of contemporary verse which is simply melodious or simply didactic, it is refreshing to find such a combination of vigour and music as is to be met with in this trilogy of ' The Last Crusade.' . . . There is some excellent character-painting, and the character of Louis is an admirable study of majestic gentleness. . . . . Mr. Hayes displays great dramatic power." Leeds Mercury, December 17th, 1886. " ' The Last Crusade ' is a narrative poem of great merit. . . It is marked by exquisite finish. . . . The impressive atmosphere of the poem can only be gathered from a perusal of it as a whole." Manchester City News, February 19th, 1887- '"The Last Crusade' is one of the most notable books of the season We hope we have done enough to induce all lovers of the highest kind of poetry to get the book and give it what it deserves — an honoured place on their library shelves." Liverpool Review, January 8th, 1887. " Mr. Hayes, in fixing upon his subject, has shown much wisdom and insight. In the treatment of the subject we find all through the true touch. It is, indeed, no small praise that, high as the argument is, full justice is done to it by the refinement of sentiment, and the glow of imagination by which these poems are characterised. The language too, while absolutely free from affectations, is always impressive — impressive by reason of its very simplicity The descriptions of Alpine scenery are magnificent." Midland Counties Herald, Nov. 25th and Dec. 30th, 1886. "Mr. Hayes is no mere rhymester, but his verse has the true dignity and beauty which the genuine poetic faculty alone can impart. It has Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky Brings colours dipped in heaven, that never die. . . . . ' The Burial of Saint Louis ' abounds in fine descriptions of scenery Here we reluctantly make an end of culling extracts. We think we have fulfilled our promise of showing that a true poet has risen up among us." Staffordshire Advertiser, December 24th, 1886. "A new poet has discovered himself in England, whose verse betrays the genuine poetic faculty, and develops both dignity and beauty of thought and expression The description of the scaling of Nazareth is painfully thrilling and strikingly dramatic." Boston Post, U. S. A., January 15th, 1887.