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 Visions of the night in ballad and song. 
 
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VISIONS OF THE NIGH 
 
 IN BALLAD AND SONG 
 
By the same Author. 
 
 IONE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Second and revised Edition. Crown 8vo, %s. 6d. 
 
 " If we are right in thinking this is our author's first work, we 
 shall look forward with interest to future productions from his 
 pen. . . We note with pleasure all absence of sentimentality 
 and plagiarism, and feel sure Mr. Seal will make his mark in 
 years to come." — Ecclesiastical Gazette. 
 
 '■* Dedicated to H.R.H. the Duke of Albany, but these poems 
 appeal to other than Royal personages. They are full of human 
 sympathy an4 pathos. . . . The author is gifted with the true 
 poetic instinct, and his work will be a welcome acquisition to 
 many." — Literary World. 
 
 London : Regan Paul, Trench & Co. 
 
VISIONS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 IN BALLAD AND SONG 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY SEAL 
 
 AUTHOR OF " IONE- AND OTHER POEMS " 
 
 LONDON 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., I, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1888 
 
 E.V. 
 C4ff 
 
N-i7 3 
 
 /\*,<&8Z,^3 
 
 (The rights oj translation and of reproduction arc reserved.') 
 
TO 
 
 ALFRED 
 
 LORD TENNYSON, 
 
 POET-LAUREATE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS 
 
 BY PERMISSION 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Four years ago, under the title of " lone, and other 
 Poems," I published my first volume. 
 
 Unaccompanied by a preface, that child of my 
 thoughts and feelings, born of my own inexperience, was 
 ushered into the world, and committed to its fostering 
 care, where, if it still lives, it has been nurtured and 
 sheltered by strange hands. 
 
 Its publication, however, brought me many friends, 
 and much kindly criticism ; and if I have not profited by 
 their generous advice, the fault is wholly mine, not theirs. 
 
 The present volume is, in the main, an unpretentious 
 attempt to revive a modern taste for Ballad Literature, 
 a taste which, by reason of long neglect, is in danger of 
 becoming impaired. 
 
 With the exception of the great epic writers, the 
 Ballad was formerly almost the only medium — certainly 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 it was the most popular form — of poetical treatment. Any 
 attempt, therefore, from whatever source, to resuscitate 
 that taste is an object good in itself, and worthy of 
 commendation by all those who value and appreciate 
 the Ballad as a " sweet teller of unfamiliar themes.'' 
 
 Though the subjects I have chosen vary greatly in 
 material as well as treatment, I have, whilst occasionally 
 allowing myself to stray into the by-paths of soliloquy 
 and reflection, always endeavoured to keep in view the 
 main object of the story, and to maintain the native 
 simplicity which characterizes the true English Ballad. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 A Song Unsung ... ... ... ... ... i 
 
 Wanted, a Leader of Men ... ... ... 4 
 
 Last of the Cornish Wreckers ... ... ... 7 
 
 Sic Transit ... ... ... ... ... 14 
 
 A Retrospect ... ... ... ... ... 16 
 
 The Ivy and the Oak ... ... ... ... 18 
 
 " Hide those Regrets " ... ... ... ... 19 
 
 "More Light!" ... ... ... ... 22 
 
 "They played together" ... ... ... ... 24 
 
 Lines to " Cato," my Faithful St. Bernard ... 30 
 
 Unwritten Thoughts ... ... ... ... 32 
 
 Demosthexes' Address to the Athenians ... 3s 
 
 The Last of Ronald's Line ... ... ... 37 
 
 "O for the Joy" ... ... ... ... 46 
 
 Evensong ... ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 "Give back thy Dead, O Sea!" ... ... 51 
 
 "I saw her in the Gloaming" ... ... ... 56 
 
 Napoleon and the Abbot ... ... ... 59 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Old Kepler 
 
 PAGE 
 
 After Long Years ... ... ••• ■■■ ••• 6 3 
 
 New Year's Eve ... ••• 6 5 
 
 "This is the Poet's Hour" ... ■•• •■■ 7 1 
 
 One Missing ... ... ••■ ■•• ••• 74 
 
 "Toi et moi, mon Ami" ... ■•• ••• ••■ 77 
 
 A Christmas Ballad ... ... ••• ••• 79 
 
 Lines to ... ••• ••■ ••• ■•■ °3 
 
 86 
 
 Love and Duty ... ■•■ -•• ■•• ••■ 8 9 
 
 A Vision of Night ... ... ■•• ■•■ 9 1 
 
 The Byron Centenary, 1788-1888 ... ... ••• 95 
 
 The Raven Wings of Night ... ... ... 96 
 
 A Last Adieu ... ... ... ■•• ••• 99 
 
 "Fair Lady, when I left these Hills" ... 101 
 
 "You ask a Song"... ... ... ... ■■• 104 
 
 A Sonnet ... ... ... ... ••• 107 
 
 After War — Peace ... ... ... ... 108 
 
 Jubilee Commemoration Ode, 1887 ... ... 112 
 
 A River-side Reverie ... ... ... ... 114 
 
 The Minster Bell ... ... ... ... 117 
 
 In Memoriam •. Late Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany 119 
 
 In Memoriam. To a Child very dear to the Author 121 
 
 Lines written in a Lady's Writing Album ... 122 
 
 Music and Sorrow ... ... ... ... 123 
 
 Lines to ... ... ... ... ... 124 
 
VISIONS OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 A SONG UNSUNG. 
 
 Alone in a little chamber, 
 
 Away from the noisome throng, 
 Whose revels and babel voices 
 
 Disturb the dreamland of song, 
 I sat, with the restless longing 
 
 Of a bird with broken wing, 
 That cannot mount to the ajther 
 
 Whither 'twould soar and sing. 
 
 Before me a book lay open, 
 
 But strangely it seems that night 
 I could not obey the inspiring 
 
 That bade me, " Arise and write ; " 
 The past with a present sadness 
 
 O'ershadowed the years to be : — 
 When a child looked in at the window, 
 
 And brought a letter to me. 
 
A SONG UNSUNG. 
 
 I smoothed out the folded missive, 
 
 And wondering, eagerly scanned 
 The words on its tear-stained pages, 
 
 Writ by an unknown hand ; 
 And shall I regret the revealing, 
 
 Or even forbear to recall 
 That touch of a kindlier nature 
 
 Which thrilled me at evenfall. 
 
 'Twas a song that a child had written, 
 
 The gush of a grateful heart 
 For some little act of compassion 
 
 In which I had borne a part ; 
 So sweetly the innocent rhythm 
 
 Unfaltering rippled along, 
 My heart went out on the stillness 
 
 To the child that had lisped in song. 
 
 It came in that hour of sadness, 
 
 When life's dark problem seems 
 More strange in its mystic workings 
 
 Than the wonders seen in dreams. 
 It came and delivered a message 
 
 That ever shall solace me, 
 Till the life which is has perished, 
 
 And pass'd to the life to be. 
 
 It came like a ray of sunlight 
 
 When the chastening storm has ceased, 
 Like the first sweet song unchallenged 
 
 Of a captured bird released ; 
 
A SONG UNSUNG. 
 
 Though it tells but a simple story, 
 
 The song that it sings to trie 
 Is sweeter far than the music 
 
 Of a perfect song could be. 
 
 And oft when my heart is weary, 
 
 And the winter nights seem long, 
 I muse o'er the child's glad message, 
 
 And read again that song ; 
 But I cannot efface one blemish, 
 
 Nor alter one simple strain, 
 For the words, in their wondrous sweetness, 
 
 Resound in my heart again. 
 
 So the music remains unwritten, 
 
 The song is still unsung, 
 And the language lisped in childhood 
 
 Is still in the childlike tongue ; 
 But it may be from angel voices, 
 
 With a heavenly chorus sweet, 
 I shall hear that song repeated 
 
 When the child and man may meet. 
 
C 4 ) 
 
 WANTED, A LEADER OF MEN. 
 
 Wanted, a light in the darkness, a leader to love and 
 
 obey, 
 A guide through the mist and shadows, that darken, 
 
 endanger the way ; 
 From cottage and crowded city, from mountain, valley, 
 
 and fen, 
 Comes the cry of a nation's travail, " Wanted, a leader of 
 
 men." 
 
 A leader unblinded by passion, with feelings unbittered 
 
 by hate, 
 Not all for the voice of the people, nor all for the 
 
 strength of the state ; 
 A heart with a mind to govern, a mind with a heart to 
 
 control, 
 Not always forgetting the body, nor ever forgetting the 
 
 soul. 
 
 Not a man of one party or faction, but a zealous uniter 
 
 of creeds, 
 Not an engine of wordy vapour, but a doer of worthy 
 
 deeds ; 
 
WANTED, A LEADER OF MEN. 
 
 Not a speaker of veiled sedition, but a guide for the 
 
 struggling mass 
 Who crowd through the valley of labour, crying, " Room 
 
 for the millions to pass." 
 
 Not a man of a priestly compassion, giving alms at 
 
 charity's door, 
 Who sees through the eye of a needle the woes and 
 
 wants of the poor ; 
 Nor a man of the people's passions, who sees through a 
 
 widening glass 
 The faults of those in high places, ever urging on class 
 
 against class. 
 
 But a leader grave and earnest, like some patriarch seer 
 
 of old, 
 Who saw with visions prophetic the scroll of the future 
 
 unrolled, 
 And heard in his heart a message like love to the ears of 
 
 a bride, 
 And felt in his soul's aspiring, the God-given wisdom to 
 
 guide. 
 
 To gather the lost that are scattered, and speak with no 
 
 faltering voice, 
 To counsel our hearts in sorrow, and joy with us when 
 
 we rejoice ; 
 Not seeking with blind adoration the praise of idolatrous 
 
 fame, 
 Nor making the goal of ambition the bribe of a gilded 
 
WANTED, A LEADER OF MEN. 
 
 But to guide in a great reunion, to lead in a righteous 
 
 cause, 
 Distributing mercy with justice, not ruling by rigour of 
 
 laws ; 
 Not bidding the poor to rebellion, nor teaching the rich 
 
 how to give, 
 But telling a sorrowing nation how nobler and better 
 
 to live. 
 
 New faith for the weak and faltering, new paths- for the 
 struggling to tread, 
 
 New strength for the strong who are fallen, new life for 
 the hopes that are dead ; 
 
 New pride for the proud ones vanquished, the great ones 
 we cannot recall, 
 
 And the heart of our country's honour, unbroken, un- 
 blemished through all. 
 
7 ) 
 
 LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 The wind howls wild round Sandy Cove, 
 The sea-birds screech in flight, 
 
 The darkling storm-clouds fret the skies, 
 " There'll be a storm to-night." 
 
 Thus spake a Cornish wrecker, as 
 He scanned the foam-ribbed sea, 
 
 Whose climbing billows seemed to touch 
 Night's lowering canopy. 
 
 And now the sullen breakers roar, 
 
 The waters rage and hiss, 
 God guide the ships at sea to port 
 
 On such a night as this. 
 
 Amidst a swarthy smuggler group 
 
 The daring wrecker stood, 
 A flaming torch was in his hand, 
 
 And higher still the wood, 
 
LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 Was heaped to flash the snaring flame 
 
 Across the stormy deep, 
 And lure the luckless manner 
 
 Where breakers rage and leap. 
 
 But wilder than the storm, his voice 
 Was heard in mocking glee, 
 
 Exulting with a scornful laugh 
 More cruel than the sea. 
 
 The thunder echoed from the cliffs 
 And rolled along the shore ; 
 
 With ominous rebuke it swelled 
 The tempest's deepening roar. 
 
 From peak to peak the lightning flashed 
 
 Until it touched the sea, 
 Where, battling with the waves, a ship 
 
 Was drifting helplessly. 
 
 And now the wreckers crowd the beach, 
 
 The cry goes up, " A sail, 
 A ship, a wreck," with joy they shout, 
 
 " She drives before the gale." 
 
 Anon she rides the billow's crest 
 And now she sinks from view, 
 
 Again the lightning leaps around 
 And shows her ghastly crew, 
 
LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 Clinging among the riven shrouds 
 
 That flutter in the light, 
 Yet still the torch burned in his hand, 
 
 The beacon-fire gleamed bright., 
 
 Once more the lightning flashed, once more 
 
 The thunder smote the main, 
 The wreckers from the rocky beach 
 
 Glance seaward, but in vain. 
 
 No more the vessel braves the storm, 
 
 No more she stems the tide, 
 The restless waters break between, 
 
 The sullen waves divide 
 
 Her treasures as their prey, the ship 
 Shall plough the deep no more ; 
 
 Her fragments strew the tide that bears 
 Her wreckage to the shore. 
 
 Among the reefs the wreckers stood 
 
 And watched with eager eyes, 
 Till one more daring braved the tide 
 
 That bore a drifting prize. 
 
 With jealous haste they gathered round, 
 
 But foremost of the band 
 Was he who piled the fatal heap, 
 
 And held the fiery brand. 
 
LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 " The prize is mine, if prize there be," 
 He shouted hoarse and loud ; 
 
 With angry threat his horny hands 
 Beat back the surging crowd. 
 
 He stooped amid the blinding surf 
 That swept the foam-girt strand, 
 
 And seized — but not the prize he sought - 
 And claspt — a human hand. 
 
 But ere the wrecker had despoiled 
 
 The burthen which he bore, 
 A wild unmanning cry was heard 
 
 Along the surf-bound shore. 
 
 The burning torch beside him lay, 
 The beacon-fire gleamed bright, 
 
 The flames leapt high with ghastly pride, 
 But,' by their mocking light, 
 
 He saw, he knew, alas, too late, 
 
 The savage work was done, 
 For in his arms the wrecker bore 
 
 His lifeless sailor son. 
 
 In silent awe he laid him down, 
 
 But never word spake he ; 
 No sign of sorrow answering 
 
 That message from the sea. 
 
LAST OF THE .CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 But who can tell the secret grief, 
 
 The agony of woe 
 That riots in the strong, and chills 
 
 The tears that will not flow. 
 
 None are all evil, hidden deep 
 
 Some virtue may be found 
 To diadem the erring soul 
 
 By sullen vice discrown'd. 
 
 Unknown the wrecker's mute despair, 
 
 Unseen its chilling blight, 
 Until a wild despairing cry 
 
 Resounded through the night, 
 
 And he was gone ; henceforth the cliffs 
 
 His hermit home shall be, 
 The eagle crags his resting-place, 
 
 Beside the moaning sea. 
 
 And ever when a storm descends 
 
 With devastating might, 
 The fishermen of Sandy Cove 
 
 Look oft towards the height 
 
 Where, to and fro, o'er crag and peak, 
 He climbs with outstretch'd hands, 
 
 As if to warn some passing ship 
 Against the shifting sands. 
 
LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 
 
 But once a deadlier storm arose, 
 
 And, watchful as of yore, 
 The fisher-folk of Sandy Cove 
 
 Were grouped upon the shore ; 
 
 When from the height a cry arose, 
 
 And, strangely as they tell, 
 Above the storm's confusing din 
 
 Was heard a deathly knell. 
 
 Three days and nights the tempest raged, 
 
 But nevermore was seen, 
 Where the tall cliffs divide the sky, 
 
 The wrecker's savage mien. 
 
 And when the storm had spent its strength, 
 They searched the cliffs around, 
 
 And, broken, bruised, where he fell, 
 The wrecker's corse was found. 
 
 Unloved, unmourned, they buried him, 
 
 All broken, where he fell ; 
 The nightwinds howled his funeral dirge, 
 
 The ocean moaned " Farewell." 
 
 And peasant wooers, as they stray 
 
 Beside the restless tide, 
 Ne'er linger by the wrecker's grave, 
 
 But turn their steps aside. 
 
LAST OF THE CORNISH WRECKERS. 13 
 
 And where the rugged cliffs resound 
 
 With ocean's deepening roar, 
 The fishermen of Sandy Cove 
 
 Ne'er run their craft ashore. 
 
 And evermore those awful cliffs 
 
 Shall frown above his tomb ; 
 Each barren peak and eyrie crag 
 
 Shall point the wrecker's doom. 
 
( 14 ) 
 
 SIC TRANSIT. 
 
 The day declines — its fleeting hours have run ; 
 O'er yonder distant hills the setting sun 
 Disrobes its mightiness, the victory won. 
 
 The daylight wanes — the peasant homeward hies ; 
 Dull, drifting clouds descend from eastern skies, 
 Day wrestles with the night, and daylight dies. 
 
 The twilight falls — the dark clouds darklier mass, 
 And, as their shadows trail the dewy grass, 
 I sit and watch the dim procession pass. 
 
 The twilight fades — and night's ethereal gloom 
 Shrouds the great oak and hides the timid bloom, 
 While strange weird fancies fill the silent room. 
 
 The night is come — some mystic sound appals 
 My weary heart, and on the stillness calls 
 Like whispering echoes through deserted halls. 
 
SIC TRANSIT. 15 
 
 Night reigns supreme — but sleepless Time creeps on, 
 While those we love pass from us one by one ; 
 Many are with us still, but some are gone. 
 
 The morning breaks — with mute resistless might 
 Dawn moves triumphant in the van of light, 
 Chasing the scattered clouds of vanquished night. 
 
 And night is gone — in manifold array 
 
 Glad nature smiles, or, drooping, mourns decay ; 
 
 Angels of Life and Death have passed this way. 
 
 And things are changed — o'er each familiar scene 
 Time's ruthless hand has. passed with sickle keen ; 
 We see what is, and mourn what might have been. 
 
 And this is life — a passing to and fro 
 
 From love and hate, joy, sorrow, mirth, and woe — 
 
 A little more or less is all we know. 
 
( 16 ) 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 Rise, streamlet, rise 
 
 Amongst my native hills, 
 Where countless secret waters stray 
 
 From ever rippling rills ; 
 By each unguarded path 
 
 Of wild, familiar flowers, 
 I played — as children love to play — 
 
 In childhood's happy hours. 
 
 Flow, streamlet, flow 
 
 By hillock, wood, and dell, 
 Where oft in after-years I roved, 
 
 For I have loved thee well, 
 And love thee still. E'en now, 
 
 While memories grow dim, 
 Beside thy winding path I stray 
 
 Toward the river's brim. 
 
 Roll, river, roll ; 
 
 Thy silent strength so strong 
 Reflects the stealthy years that steal 
 
 So silently along, 
 
A RETROSPECT. 17 
 
 And bear our youth away 
 
 Unseen, as, page by page, 
 The Book of Life records the lapse 
 
 Of manhood into age. 
 
 Tell, river, tell 
 
 What I have told to thee ; 
 From mountain, flood, and brooklet bear 
 
 My message to the sea. 
 Like thee, through storm and calm, 
 
 Endeavours come and go, 
 And still our aimless years, like thee, 
 
 For ever, ever flow. 
 
 Break, ocean, break 
 
 Thy power at my feet ; 
 A belt of sand has wasted thee, 
 
 And bade thy strength retreat, 
 The baffled tide returns 
 
 To chide the restless main ; 
 The ebb and flow of waters meet 
 
 To gather strength again. 
 
 And often, as we fail 
 
 Or fall from what is best, 
 Our strength, like thine, renewed, must rise, 
 
 And never, never rest 
 Until the tide shall turn 
 
 Toward that distant shore, 
 Where sweet familiar voices chant 
 
 The ever evermore. 
 
 c 
 
( 18 ) 
 
 THE IVY AND THE OAK. 
 
 Long the ivy loved the oak, 
 But the ivy never spoke, 
 Still content to climb and cling 
 Where the sighing branches swing 
 To and fro. 
 
 But a storm broke o'er the wood 
 Where the spreading oak-tree stood, 
 And the lightning's lurid dart 
 Piercing to its mighty heart, 
 
 Laid it low. 
 
 And a traveller from St. Kell 
 Found it lying where it fell, 
 But the ivy, ever true, 
 Round its withered branches grew, 
 As of yore. 
 
 When the heart with sorrow sown 
 Mourns its fairest hopes o'erthrown, 
 As we linger where they fell, 
 May the friends we love so well 
 Love us more. 
 
( 19 ) 
 
 "HIDE THOSE REGRETS." 
 
 Hide those regrets, forbear to bid me grieve ; 
 
 No sorrow shall from thee my heart estrange, 
 Nor deem me cold, unheeding, for, believe, 
 
 Among the changing, one shall never change. 
 
 Long have I loved thee, and will love thee still, 
 Though jealous tongues may whisper to defame, 
 
 And seek to blight by real or fancied ill, 
 
 Thy virtues rare they cannot share nor claim. 
 
 Too prone to chide, yet feeling no regret, 
 
 Themselves untaught, yet teaching how to live, 
 
 Rebuking what the goodly should forget, 
 Reviling where the Master saith " Forgive." 
 
 Why heed their slanders, who with Judas kiss, 
 Would fawn to-day, and faithless be to-morrow ? 
 
 Who smile exulting in the morn of bliss, 
 
 But prove inconstant with the night of sorrow. 
 
"HIDE THOSE REGRETS!' 
 
 We may not wed, yet each for each may feel 
 That pure sweet sympathy akin to love, 
 
 For kindred woe unites in common weal, 
 
 And welds the bond which sorrow strangely wove. 
 
 Time was when love was parent to desire, 
 Ere I was taught that friendship was an art, 
 
 To which the baser natures might aspire 
 To coin deceit, and play a traitor's part. 
 
 Presumption is not folly — 'tis a crime 
 When linked to hatred, daring to defame 
 
 With guilt the errors o'er which youth must climb, 
 And blight regrets with undeserving blame. 
 
 I would not plead for vice a gilded name, 
 Or deck the guilty head with virtue's crown, 
 
 Nor mingle with my song the transient fame 
 Of those who err to win a brief renown. 
 
 There lives no love that never knew a doubt, 
 Nor joy unbittered with no jealous pang, 
 
 No strength so strong that hatred may not rout, 
 Nor pleasure freed from envy's poisoned fang. 
 
 Though some desert thee, I will not forsake, 
 Though others leave thee, I'll not love thee less, 
 
 There is a strength misfortune cannot shake, 
 A pride that stoops to outcast loneliness. 
 
"HIDE THOSE REGRETS." 
 
 Fair play's a jewel, and a jewel fair 
 
 Will brighter shine with virtue's constant use ; 
 
 Unworn, its beauty dulls with jealous care, 
 Rusts with neglect, and deadens with abuse. 
 
 Go, gaping crowd, and cruel babblers, go ; 
 
 Let him among you sinless cast the stone : 
 What fawning friend would strike the Brutus blow ? 
 
 See thou art guiltless, and — let her alone. 
 
 Though calumny condemn thy lonely lot, 
 And callous tongues conspire to whisper ill, 
 
 Think not thy rarer virtues are forgot ; 
 Unchanged to me, thou art a woman still. 
 
 A woman — though not all divinely fair, 
 
 A woman — frail and friendless though thou be, 
 
 Unbowed by hate, unbroken by despair, 
 Be to the world what thou hast been to me. 
 
 There is an earthly Paradise untrod, 
 
 An Eden guiltless of Creation's fall ; 
 There is a height where man may walk with God, 
 
 Unclouded by despair's desponding thrall. 
 
 Sustained by faith, undaunted still aspire 
 From lesser glory to the greater good, 
 
 Where love reanimates each true desire, 
 And honour rules the cause of humanhood. 
 
( 22 ) 
 
 "MORE LIGHT!"* 
 
 As in his chamber, shadows deep 
 Oppressed the hours of fitful sleep, 
 Surrounded by death's disarray, 
 The laureate bard was heard to say, 
 " More light ! " 
 
 And as a watcher o'er him leant 
 With kindly smile and sweet intent, 
 To smooth his pillow, soothe his pain, 
 She heard the whispered words again : 
 " More light ! " 
 
 And ever when his watchful guest 
 An answer sought, or made request, 
 With sorrow's unsubmissive pride, 
 The dying poet's voice replied, 
 
 " More light ! " 
 
 No more shall love enthral his will, 
 No more may inspiration fill 
 
 * Goethe's last words are said to have beer. " More light ! 
 
'MORE LIGHT!" 23 
 
 His daring fancies with the fire 
 That flashed from his immortal lyre — 
 " More light ! " 
 
 Let jealous tongues his virtues chide, 
 Reprove his faults, assail his pride, 
 Let slander eat her loathsome fill, 
 His words shall echo sweeter still — 
 " More light ! " 
 
 He asked not glory, honour, fame ; 
 He sought not praise, nor heeded blame ; 
 He asked not longer years to live ; 
 He only asked that Time would give 
 " More light ! " 
 
 Through childhood's dim unfolded years, 
 Through youth's regrets, ambitions, fears, 
 Through every fault that dulls the page 
 Of manhood's might or feebler age, 
 " More light ! " 
 
 For those who walk where folly leads, 
 For doubting hearts, and erring creeds, 
 For all who search but dimly see 
 The truth that is, and is to be, 
 
 " More light ! " 
 
 The mighty truths the poet told, 
 The glorious songs he sang of old, 
 The legend lore he loved so well, 
 No sweeter words than these shall tell, 
 " More light ! " 
 
( 2 4 ) 
 
 " THEY PL A YED TOGETHER." 
 
 They played together, boy and girl, 
 
 Upon the village green, 
 And roamed unhindered side by side 
 
 O'er each familiar scene ; 
 By meadow, streamlet, wood, and grove, 
 They played and loved — as children love. 
 
 They grew together, youth and maid, 
 
 And one was beautiful, 
 The joy of every rural home, 
 
 Loved, loving, dutiful ; 
 But one, his soul with song inspired, 
 To fame's ambitious heights aspired. 
 
 She dwelt where Arno's streamlet strayed 
 
 Beside a rustic cot, 
 And lived with uncomplaining pride 
 
 A peasant's lowly lot ; 
 And he, when evening's work was done, 
 Came oft to woo what love had won. 
 
" THEY PLAYED TOGETHER? 25 
 
 But once there chanced that way to pass 
 
 A dame of high degree, 
 Who heard the maiden as she sang 
 
 And saw her girlish glee ; 
 Childless was she of noble blood, 
 And lonely was her widowhood. 
 
 A daughter once the lady had, 
 A sweet-souled, loving child, 
 
 In whom affection's cloudless morn 
 Looked from her eyes, and smiled ; 
 
 But ere she grew to youth and pride, 
 
 That tender floweret drooped and died. 
 
 And often as the lady passed 
 That cottage by the stream, 
 
 The maiden's voice and song awoke 
 The past, as from a dream 
 
 Of sorrow and regrets, — alas ! — 
 
 And yet she could not choose but pass. 
 
 And once, while yet the year was young, 
 
 Beside the open door 
 The lady paused, to hear again 
 
 The song she heard before ; 
 And listening there, forgot the pride 
 That would have turned her steps aside. 
 
26 " THEY PLAYED TOGETHER." 
 
 She loved the song, but more she loved 
 
 The little maid who sang, 
 Though sad sweet memories would come, 
 
 With many a secret pang ; 
 She sought by love to chide regret, 
 And soothe what love could not forget. 
 
 And wealth forsook its proud estate, 
 There — at that cottage door ■ 
 
 What recked it as they talked, that one 
 Was rich, and one was poor ? 
 
 Ere evening drew its darkening pall, 
 
 She took her to her lordly hall. 
 
 And so they parted, youth and maid, 
 
 Upon the village green 
 Where they had played so oft, and where 
 
 Love hallowed every scene ; 
 With vows from each true plighted heart, 
 They parted there, — as lovers part. 
 
 And months passed by, the months that seem 
 
 To those who love like years, 
 When Time one only tribute brings, 
 
 The absence that endears ; 
 Yet still he strove, toiled, hoped for fame, 
 To wed her with a glorious name. 
 
"THEY FLAYED TOGETHER." 27 
 
 And when a year had almost sped, 
 
 It was agreed, they say, 
 The maid across the hills should come, 
 
 And name the wedding day ; 
 But she came not as love arranged, 
 For one was true — but one had changed. 
 
 No more she came by wood and grove, 
 
 To seek her cottage home ; 
 No more she strayed by vale and stream 
 
 Where they had loved to roam ; 
 Her peasant lover she forgot, 
 For one was true — but one was not. 
 
 She dwelt amidst beguiling wealth 
 
 In luxury and ease, 
 And lovers, false as she was fair, 
 
 Came oft to fawn and please ; 
 In secret hours she nursed the scorn 
 That would despise the lowly born. 
 
 And when he came to plead his cause 
 
 With all a poet's pride, 
 To tell the praise his toil had won 
 
 And claim her for his bride, 
 She laughed and tossed her pretty head 
 But when he spake of love, she said — 
 
28 " THEY PLAYED TOGETHER?' 
 
 " I cannot love the old love now, 
 
 For Time's un weary wing 
 Has swept the sweetness from the past, 
 
 Where love was wont to cling ; 
 I treasure not thy bookish lore, 
 As lovers we must meet no more. 
 
 " My lover must a hero be, 
 
 Of glory, honour, fame, 
 By valour tried, of great renown, 
 
 Or high historic name ; 
 And thou, if thou wouldst worthy be, 
 Go, prove thy worth of love to me. 
 
 " The war-notes sung on hostile shores 
 
 Resound across the main, 
 Our country's dangers call to thee, 
 
 And must they call in vain ? 
 Shall honour, love, and patriot pride 
 Appeal to thee, and be denied ? " 
 
 With keen reproach, the maiden cast 
 
 That fatal look of scorn, 
 Which withers more the trusting heart 
 
 Than love's unloved return ; 
 A brief farewell — and lo, the light 
 Of love was lost in darkest night. 
 
" THEY PLAYED TOGETHER." 29 
 
 Then forth he went in broken hope 
 
 To foreign lands afar, 
 A martyr soul in strength so weak, 
 
 Went forth to wounds and war ; 
 To fight for honour, love, and pride, 
 He fought — and fighting — fell, and died. 
 
 As falls a leaf in woodland groves, 
 
 Unheeded there, he fell, 
 No comrade near to press his hand, 
 
 No friend to sigh " farewell ; " 
 For blame or praise, for good or ill, 
 He loved — and love is something still. 
 
 With strangers buried, friend and foe, 
 
 And in a stranger's land, 
 He sleeps beneath Hispania's soil, 
 
 Where haply some rude hand 
 Has reared a stone above the grave 
 Where rest the unforgotten brave. 
 
LINES TO "CATO," MY FAITHFUL 
 ST. BERNARD* 
 
 Friend of my youthful years, I do no wrong 
 
 To mourn thy loss with sad impassioned song, 
 
 Though some deride, upbraid, that I should deem 
 
 A dog's fidelity a poet's theme ; 
 
 Yet lives less worthy often gather praise 
 
 From minstrel's songs and Fame's historic lays. 
 
 Friend, said I in my grief? nay, more than friend, 
 Since thou changed not as fawning friendships bend, 
 So strong of limb, so full of every grace 
 That made thee worthy of thy faithful race ; 
 How shall I grieve for thee? how may I show 
 AVhat I now feel, but thou canst never know? 
 
 But most I mourn, that in an evil hour 
 
 An unseen hand despoiled thee of thy pow'r, 
 
 * For some unknown cause, treacherously poisoned by some one 
 who failed to appreciate in a dog the higher instincts and human 
 sympathies they lacked themselves. 
 
LINES TO "CATO," MY FAITHFUL ST. BERNARD. 31 
 
 The coward hireling of some baser mind, 
 
 Who dared to harm thee — thou — who wert so kind, 
 
 And stilled a heart that could not faithless be, 
 
 And chilled the blood which would have flowed for me. 
 
 Did I not say I mourned ? yet can it be 
 
 That death hath made thee dearer unto me ? 
 
 In life I loved thee — loved as only such 
 
 Can love who treasure faith at worth so much, 
 
 Now thou art gone, with vain regrets I bend, 
 
 And mourn thy loss, companion — guardian — friend. 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 UNWRITTEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 The book was open, but its pages bare 
 Reproached me with no records written there ; 
 From night to morn, from morning until night, 
 I heard a voice within me, saying, " Write ! " 
 
 But yet I wrote not. Silently the hours, 
 O'erburdened with the strife of secret pow'rs, 
 Full of mysterious meaning, one by one 
 Passed, as I sat in stillness dreaming on. 
 
 Like love's sweet charms reflected in a glass, 
 I saw, as in a dream, strange visions pass 
 Of beauty rare : but now the book is closed, 
 The voice is still, the sweetness undisclosed. 
 
 Twice round the clock the circling hands have passed, 
 
 And I am worn and hungered with the fast 
 
 Of many hours ; the whirl of eddying doubt 
 
 Has parched my lips, as leaves by summer's drought. 
 
UNWRITTEN THOUGHTS. 33 
 
 ■ Opprest with words that tell of hidden things, 
 And tortured with the wild imaginings 
 Of fancies strange that tempt my thoughts astray, 
 I dream the hours in idleness away. 
 
 For still by shadowy paths they seem to come : 
 I see and hear them — yet my voice is dumb ; 
 With eager ears I listen what they say — 
 Yet I reply not ; and they pass away. 
 
 They pass away, and come, and pass again, 
 Theme urging theme in one unending train ; 
 Strange lands and language, people stranger still, 
 Crowd through my fancy and the visions fill. 
 
 But when I would recount what I have seen, 
 The visions change, they are not what have been ; 
 Thought fails to fathom, language cannot tell 
 What I have seen, and loved, and loved so well. 
 
 Afar in distant thought, yet ever near, 
 Some fancy beckons and they reappear ; 
 Like memories sweet of old familiar themes, 
 They come and linger long in waking dreams. 
 
 Yet I'll repine not, and if thus to live 
 Is to misuse occasions youth doth give, 
 Then I have sinned— and sinning, now confess 
 To those more fain to censure than to bless. 
 
 D 
 
34 UNWRITTEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 Nor will I chide ; 'tis sweet to live apart 
 In that ideal which beautifies the heart, 
 Nor would I one mysterious scene forget, 
 Or cloud remembrance with one sad regret. . 
 
 Why should I mourn ? There is, or there has been, 
 Some liugering sweetness with each transient scene, 
 Some subtle charm I could not but obey, 
 That filled the hours my youth has dreamed away. 
 
 And it may be, in other years to come, 
 My soul will wake and be no longer dumb, 
 Reveal the thoughts my inner life has known, 
 And reap the fruits of silent labours sown. 
 
( 35 > 
 
 DEMOSTHENES' ADDRESS TO THE 
 A THENIANS. 
 
 " Sons of Athens, arm ! awaken ! 
 
 'Tis your country on you calls ; 
 Slavery's shackles shall be shaken, 
 
 Freedom reigns where fear enthrals. 
 By the vows which we have taken, 
 
 Freedom stands or freedom falls. 
 
 " By our life's fair morning fretted 
 With the lowering storm-clouds nigh, 
 
 By our country's wrongs regretted, 
 By each holy, kindred tie, 
 
 Honour claims our hearts indebted ; 
 Duty bids us do or die. 
 
 " By the hopes within us rising 
 And the sacred cause we serve, 
 
 Dangers braved, all fears despising, 
 We will ne'er from duty swerve ; 
 
 Freedom, as our birthright prizing, 
 Liberty our homes preserve. 
 
36 DEMOSTHENES' ADDRESS TO THE ATHENIANS. 
 
 " Not for fame or martial glory 
 
 Do I now invoke thy zeal ; 
 Though the path be rough and gory, 
 
 Strike, and make the tyrants feel. 
 Noblest in historic story, 
 
 They who fight for common weal. 
 
 " Let no rival factions sever, 
 
 We must all united be ; 
 With true purpose, high endeavour, 
 
 Raise the banner of the free. 
 Sons of Athens, now or never, 
 
 Strike for home and liberty ! " 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 
 
 Darkly the lowering storm-clouds loomed, 
 
 The surly thunder roared, 
 And weirdly the arrowy lightning flashed 
 
 Where mountain torrents poured, 
 
 As through fair Teviot's winding vale, 
 
 Revealed by the fitful light, 
 Two travellers with impatient zeal 
 
 Rode hard through the stormy night. 
 
 Though ride they both for Teviot's hall, 
 
 They do not ride abreast ; 
 One is a vassal of low degree 
 
 In the garb of serfdom drest. 
 
 But one is returned from Eastern lands, 
 
 From Araby's sands afar ; 
 He has fought beside Christ's sepulchre, 
 
 He comes from the holy war. 
 
THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 
 
 The hallowed cross of a sacred cause 
 He wears on his mail-clad breast, 
 
 And wildly the chilling nightwinds toss 
 The plume of his helmet's crest. 
 
 But why is the horseman's weary steed 
 Spurred on through the stormy night ? 
 
 Why rests he not at a wayside inn, 
 To ride with the morning light ? 
 
 Nay, ask him not, for his anxious brow 
 
 Is rife with rebellious pain ; 
 The brave in secret hide their grief, 
 
 And the strong do not complain. 
 
 But answer, good serf, what sorrow sits 
 
 So hard on thy liege's brow ? 
 What maid is false to her plighted troth ? 
 
 What news of a broken vow? 
 
 " 'Tis not the loss of a maiden's love," 
 
 The faithful serf replied ; 
 "The voice of a dying mother bids 
 
 My lord through the tempest ride." 
 
 But now they have reached a steep ascent, 
 Where, riding with slackened rein, 
 
 Th e warrior o'er his courser leaned, 
 And peered through the mists again. 
 
THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 39 
 
 " Hark ! hark ! dost thou not hear," he asked, 
 
 "The cry of a child's distress?" 
 " Nay, nay, my lord, 'twas the whistling winds, 
 
 Or the storm-fiend's wild caress." 
 
 Then on through the night their steeds were spurred, 
 
 Yet still as they onward sped 
 He heard that voice, which louder seemed 
 
 Than the thunder overhead. 
 
 And the warrior checked his courser then ; 
 
 " Let us backward ride," said he ; 
 " May God in His goodness guide aright 
 
 To the child, if such there be." 
 
 He turned his steed to the angry storm, 
 
 His brow was bared to the blast, 
 And wildly the restless night-winds shook 
 
 The pine trees as they passed ; 
 
 But his prayer was heard. All shelterless 
 
 From the howling tempest, stood 
 A little maid, who had wandered far 
 
 Astray in the pathless wood. 
 
 The rain-drops wooed her clustering hair, 
 
 The winds moaned wild regrets, 
 Yet still in her tiny hands she claspt 
 
 Some frail spring flowerets. 
 
40 THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 
 
 The warrior stooped to the timid child 
 
 To relieve her gushing tears ; 
 Soft was his touch, his accents kind, 
 
 As he soothed her childlike fears. 
 
 And when he mounted his steed once more, 
 
 To challenge the stormy night, 
 A burthen strange to his breast he held 
 
 Secure from the tempest's might. 
 
 On, on they rode, but the warrior's heart 
 Was filled with a strange unrest ; 
 
 His thoughts recalled his youth's bright dreams, 
 As he kissed his foundling guest. 
 
 The ride is o'er ; the steeds are stalled ; 
 
 A mother has kissed her son, 
 While blessing and prayer commingled rise, 
 
 With many a faint " Well done." 
 
 The vassals have welcomed back their lord 
 
 With loyal homage due, 
 But the child to him was fairer far 
 
 Than the pomp of retinue. 
 
 And as he watched her innocent glee, 
 
 From sorrow and grief beguiled, 
 The secret love of a loving life 
 
 Went out to that little child. 
 
THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 41 
 
 He took her in his outstretched arms, 
 
 And kissed her three times three ; 
 " What is thy name, little one ? " he asked, 
 
 " Wilt thou come and live with me ? " 
 
 The child looked into his eyes replete 
 
 With love's rekindled flame, 
 And thrust her hands through his shaggy locks, 
 
 As she lisped her sire's proud name. 
 
 But why does the warrior start and frown, 
 
 And his swarthy cheeks grow pale ? 
 Why do the locks of his drooping head 
 
 Shadow his breast of mail ? 
 
 A name that a child had lightly told, 
 
 Yet it dims his fearless eyes, 
 As he sees the old familiar scenes 
 
 Of his dead-past youth arise, 
 
 Where love's first prize was wooed and won, 
 
 Till a scheming courtier came, 
 And a broken vow was all that told 
 
 Of a faithless maiden's shame. 
 
 And solace meet for a wounded soul 
 
 He had sought in lands afar, 
 Beneath the heat of Arabia's sun, 
 
 In the changing chance of war. 
 
42 THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 
 
 But he hears a maiden's false reply 
 Come back through the distant years, 
 
 Like the strain of a sad, sad song, and now 
 He sees through a mist of tears, 
 
 That faithless one by another's hand 
 
 To the bridal altar led, 
 And the light unsullied still gleams bright 
 
 That shone from her jewelled head. 
 
 And this is the child of that fair false one — 
 
 An only child is she, 
 How strange that a soul so sweet should bring 
 
 So sad a memory ! 
 
 While through his thoughts in that bitter hour, 
 
 Temptation's withering blast 
 Like a whirlwind swept, and a voice he heard 
 
 Saying to him as it passed — 
 
 " If love's regret or jealous hate 
 Revive some slumbering wrong, 
 
 Is pride more slow to avenge, or is 
 Thy valiant arm less strong ? 
 
 " Or dost thou seek by subtler means 
 
 To strike at a secret foe, 
 And vengeance wreak by an unseen hand 
 
 For the wrongs of long ago ? 
 
THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 43 
 
 " Then let this child be in secret borne 
 
 To an isle of the western sea ; 
 Some yeoman's wife would gladly vow 
 
 To serve thy gold, and thee. 
 
 " With rustics schooled, her tender years 
 
 Should share a peasant's lot, 
 Her name and lineage unknown, 
 
 Or known, be soon forgot. 
 
 ' ' Thus guiltless thou of human blood, 
 
 Thy vengeance will be sure, 
 While sorrowing parents childless mourn, 
 
 Thy secret be secure." 
 
 The voice was still, the warrior stood, 
 
 His proud head bowed with woe, 
 When suddenly he started there, 
 
 As though a traitor's blow 
 
 Had struck him unawares, — the child 
 
 Was clinging to his knee, 
 While through his beard in scorn the words, 
 
 " It cannot, shall not be," 
 
 Rang through the silent hall. He crossed 
 
 His breast with holy sign, 
 " Unworthy deeds shall ne'er defame 
 
 The last of. Ronald's line." 
 
44 THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 
 
 And he prayed as ne'er he prayed before, 
 " This sin from my conscience keep," 
 
 And wept the great repentant tears 
 That only the strong can weep. 
 
 One glance above, and then he kissed 
 
 The foundling he caressed ; 
 With fond regrets his tender charge 
 
 He folded to his breast. 
 
 Then all was still ; the child had played 
 Its frail tired limbs to sleep, 
 
 And the daughter of his youth's false love 
 Lay there in his watchful keep. 
 
 Next morn the child in princely robes 
 
 Was set on a gentle steed, 
 And Ronald's attendants beside it rode, 
 
 For the warrior had decreed 
 
 That whoso honoured the child that morn, 
 
 Honoured the'ir master too, 
 And soon the morning sunlight glanced 
 On a lordly retinue. 
 
 But as he took his fond farewell 
 With presents costly and rare, 
 
 A blessing on her brow he breathed 
 With many a secret prayer. 
 
THE LAST OF RONALD'S LINE. 45 
 
 Then slowly the cavalcade moved on 
 
 Through Teviot's winding vale, 
 And the child sate like some fair princess 
 
 Enthroned in a fairy tale. 
 
 But the warrior stood by his lonely hall, 
 
 One hand upraised to his brow, 
 And one outstretched, as if he called 
 
 On God to a solemn vow. 
 
 For he felt the flow of that nobler life 
 Which gushed when his heart was young, 
 
 And heard the strains of the soul's sweet song 
 That had lived so long unsung. 
 
 For his heart rejoiced, with the secret joy 
 
 Of a purpose undefiled, 
 And the guiltless soul of a God-like man 
 
 To his fellows reconciled. 
 
( 46 ) 
 
 "0 FOR THE JOY." 
 
 O for the joy to press 
 
 My lips to thine, 
 One look of tenderness 
 
 Answering mine ! 
 O for the hopes that give 
 
 Promise of bliss, 
 Ever a life to live 
 
 Like unto this ! 
 
 Could I unburden now 
 
 All that I feel, 
 Love would in worship bow, 
 
 Pride meekly kneel ; 
 Glad memories wake again — 
 
 Hopes of the past 
 Weave for my heart a chain, 
 
 Welcome at last. 
 
 Then would my folded life 
 
 Break into song, 
 Love from its secret strife 
 
 Rise true and strong, 
 
•0 FOR THE JOY." 47 
 
 Hopes that drooped slenderly 
 
 Burst into bloom, 
 Thoughts that stole tenderly 
 
 Banish their gloom. 
 
 All that I deem most dear, 
 
 What most I prize, 
 Speaks in thy voice so clear, 
 
 Looks from thine eyes ; 
 Thou hast the soul that wakes 
 
 What I would give, 
 Thine is the life that makes 
 
 Mine worth to live. 
 
 And when I hear thy voice 
 
 Why do I start ? 
 Why do I then rejoice ? 
 
 Answer, my heart ; 
 Say why a restless soul, 
 
 Eager to rove, 
 Bows thus in meek control — 
 
 Say, is this love ? 
 
 Then am I captive bound, 
 
 Loved one, to thee ; 
 Hope has a refuge found — 
 
 Come unto me ; 
 Come to my breast and still 
 
 This aching heart, 
 Come to my life and fill 
 
 Its every part. 
 
48 "0 FOR THE JOY." 
 
 As flowers to the sun 
 
 Turn I to thee, 
 And as the rivers run 
 
 Down to the sea, 
 So would my wounded soul, 
 
 Crushed in its flight, 
 Welcome thy sweet control ; 
 
 Be thou its light. 
 
 Star of mysterious power, 
 
 Guide me thy way ; 
 Shine through my darkest hour 
 
 With clearer ray, 
 Making each pathway bright 
 
 Where thou hast shone ; 
 Daystar of love and light, 
 
 Shine on my own. 
 
C 49 ) 
 
 EVENSONG. 
 
 When the shadows of eve are declining, 
 
 And we sit in the firelight's glow, 
 How the sad heart in silence repining 
 
 Goes back to the years long ago, 
 Endeared with some love-given token, 
 
 And still where the tired heart clings, 
 Till the soul on the stillness unbroken 
 Goes out in that hour and sings, 
 
 " Come back to me, years that have perished, 
 
 And banish the shadows of pain ; 
 Love, hope, all that childhood most cherished, 
 Come back to my heart once again." 
 
 Tis sweet in the travail of sadness, 
 
 Through dreamlands of fancy and song, 
 To awake from the slumbers of gladness, 
 
 Where memory still lingers among, 
 And hear a known chorus of voices 
 
 Down Time's mystic avenues ring, 
 Till the soul through its vision rejoices, 
 
 Goes out in that hour to sing, 
 
So EVENSONG. 
 
 " Come back to me, streamlet and river, 
 Grove, hillock, and meadow-land green ; 
 
 Come back to me now and for ever 
 
 The pleasures — the joys that have been." 
 
 When twilight's pale shadows come stealing, 
 
 And beauties of eventide throng, 
 How Nature's sweet harmony pealing 
 
 Breaks forth in a grand evensong, 
 Till the soul echoes back the sweet chorus, 
 
 And carols the lays of the spring ; 
 
 The spell of its grandeur steals o'er us 
 
 And hallows the words as we sing, 
 
 " O childhood, despoiler of sadness, 
 Say not that thy sweetness is o'er, 
 But lisp one refrain of the gladness 
 That is sung in the evermore." 
 
 When the shadows of life are declining, 
 
 And we sit in the firelight's glow, 
 Shall the sad heart, in silence repining, 
 
 Go back to the years long ago ? 
 Or shall love, clasping hope's cherished token, 
 
 Repose beneath faith's sheltering wing, 
 And the heart, with a sweetness unspoken, 
 Go out in that hour and sing, 
 
 " Arise, my soul, rise up where sighing 
 And sorrow for ever shall sleep, 
 And the future, bright, beauteous, undying, 
 Is safe in the angels' keep ! " 
 
C Si ) 
 
 GIVE BACK THY DEAD, SEA !" 
 
 Beside the heaving waste 
 
 Of waters, boundless, free, 
 I sit and watch the ebb and flow 
 
 Of thy proud waves, O sea. 
 What wealth thou hast engulfed ! 
 
 What riches thou dost keep ! 
 What untold treasures thou dost hold 
 
 In thy unfathomed deep ! 
 
 What courage thou hast mocked ! 
 
 What mightiness o'erthrown ! 
 What countless unrecorded lives 
 
 Thou claimest as thine own ! 
 The love of loving hearts 
 
 A message asks of thee ; 
 The widow and the orphan cry, 
 
 " Give back thy dead, O sea ! " 
 
 A vessel rides the main — 
 
 Unfurl the white-winged sail ; 
 " Adieu ! " her pennons proudly wave — 
 
 Now speed before the gale. 
 
52 "GIVE BACK THY DEAD, O SEA!" 
 
 Glad sunset gilds her path, 
 
 The bark is plunging free, 
 Yet still the winds unceasing moan, 
 " Give back thy dead, O sea ! " 
 ***** 
 
 A flash from sullen skies, 
 
 A thunder storm-cloud riven, 
 The unloosed waters burst their bounds, 
 
 Upon the breakers driven ; 
 A cry from out the deep, 
 
 A murmur on the shore, 
 A signal of distress, and then 
 
 The cry is heard no more. 
 
 A hurrying to and fro 
 
 Upon the crowded beach — 
 Hurrah ! the lifeboat dares the storm, 
 
 And bravely strives to reach 
 The doomed, ill-fated wreck, 
 
 That drifts with sail-less strands 
 Toward the reefs where hidden lie 
 
 St. Aubyn's fatal sands. 
 
 But hark ! from out the deep, 
 
 Above the breakers' roar, 
 A cry, "All well," is faintly heard, 
 
 And answered from the shore, 
 Where mothers, sisters, wives, 
 
 With dauntless courage stand 
 To reach the lifeboat as it reels 
 
 Upon the shifting sand. 
 
"GIVE BACK THY DEAD, O SEA!" 53 
 
 Thrice to the helpless ship 
 
 The lifeboat bravely toils, 
 And thrice her gallant crew returns 
 
 With freight of human spoils. 
 Age, youth, and beauty crowd 
 
 In one confusing heap ; 
 The weaklier fall, the stronger soothe 
 
 The fears of those who weep. 
 
 The dark ship has gone down 
 
 Into the darker sea, 
 Whose whelming waters proudly roll 
 
 In pride of victory. 
 'Tis done, the peril past, 
 
 And every danger braved ; 
 'Tis nobly done on land and sea, 
 
 And all — but one — are saved. 
 
 "But one?" the seamen ask, 
 
 While women whisper low, 
 " But one ? " — the loud hurrah is hushed 
 
 And triumph melts in woe ; 
 " But one ! " the sea replies, 
 
 With wild tempestuous glee, 
 And still the winds unceasing moan, 
 " Give back thy dead, O sea ! " 
 
 At daybreak on the shore, 
 
 A fisherman espied 
 A remnant of the scattered wreck, 
 
 And stranded there beside 
 
54 "GIVE BACK THY DEAD, O SEA!" 
 
 A wreath of matted hair, 
 
 A tiny jewelled hand, 
 A burthen that the tide had left 
 
 Half buried in the sand. 
 
 Her fair sweet face was turned 
 
 Toward the ebbing tide, 
 Her slender hands outstretched, as if 
 
 To turn the waves aside ; 
 Unsheltered by the strong, 
 
 Unfriended by the brave, 
 Her youth was powerless to help, 
 
 Her beauty could not save. 
 
 So young — her tender years 
 
 Had perished in their pride, 
 By angry waves wooed, courted, won, 
 
 Proud Ocean's peerless bride. 
 Smooth back the raven hair, 
 
 Unclose the clasped hand, 
 Unloose the slender robe that folds 
 
 Her beauty in the sand. 
 
 Yestreen I heard her voice 
 
 In mirth and festive song, 
 At night, among the maze of feet, 
 
 I bore her through the throng 
 Of circling dancers fair, 
 
 All laughing, gay, and bright ; 
 But now that life from love's sweet morn 
 
 Has passed to silent night. 
 
" GIVE BACK THY DEAD, O SEA!" 55 
 
 No more those pale cold lips 
 
 Will part in welcome smiles, 
 No more those pallid cheeks will glow 
 
 With beauty's winning wiles ; 
 Oh, never, nevermore, 
 
 To hear that voice again, 
 To watch for one who never comes, 
 
 To watch and wait in vain ! 
 
 The waters lave my feet 
 
 With tidal ebb and flow ; 
 Afar the good ships proudly come, 
 
 And ever proudly go ; 
 But I am left alone, 
 
 O cruel, cruel sea ! 
 I asked thee to give back thy dead, 
 
 And thou hast answered me. 
 
( 56 ) 
 
 'I SAW HER IN THE GLOAMING:' 
 
 I saw her in the gloaming, 
 
 When the chastening storm had ceased, 
 The air was filled with vesper songs 
 
 Of joyous birds released ; 
 Cool and calm was the silent hour ; 
 
 The winds in the waving trees 
 Sighed to my soul the music sweet 
 
 Of wondrous melodies. 
 
 Only a village maiden, 
 
 In a rustic garment drest ; 
 A slender chain of springtide flowers 
 
 She wore upon her breast ; 
 Only a simple song she sang, 
 
 Yet it came on the evening calm 
 Like an angel's voice to a dying saint, 
 
 Or chant of holy psalm. 
 
 It came to my soul's repining 
 
 With a message sadly sweet, 
 As the after-glow of contending clouds 
 
 When storm and sunshine meet ; 
 
I SAW HER IN THE GLOAMING." 57 
 
 It came to my heart's great longing, 
 
 At the close of a weary day, 
 And stilled the strife of rebellious thoughts 
 
 That would not pass away. 
 
 The night's dull shadows deepened, 
 
 Yet still I lingered there, 
 For "the strains of that undying song 
 
 Hung round me everywhere ; 
 Till I felt the haunting sweetness 
 
 That wooing lovers prize, 
 As the merry glance of a maiden's glee 
 
 Looked from her laughing eyes. 
 
 Only a village maiden, 
 
 In a rustic garment drest ; 
 A slender chain of springtide flowers 
 
 She wore upon her breast ; 
 Only a simple song she sang, 
 
 Yet it came on the evening calm 
 Like an angel's voice to a dying saint, 
 
 Or chant of holy psalm. 
 
 But the maid has ceased from singing, 
 
 The voice is silent now, 
 And the night that came with joyous song 
 
 Now comes with lowering brow ; 
 But the thoughts that song awakened 
 
 Live on through good or ill, 
 And the flower she wore in the gloaming, 
 
 I'll guard and keep it still. 
 
58 " I SAW HER IN THE GLOAMING? 
 
 I'll keep and guard it fondly, 
 
 Though I nevermore shall see 
 Her fair sweet face again, nor hear 
 
 The song she sang to me ; 
 The years may come and linger 
 
 And seasons hold their sway, 
 But the maiden and her simple song 
 
 Shall never pass away. 
 
( 59 ) 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE ABBOT. 
 
 The languid lights burned pale and dim 
 
 Within a hall of regal state, 
 Where, undisturbed by festive rites, 
 
 An Emperor and an Abbot sate. 
 
 The night was dark, and through the gloom 
 No radiant star illumed the sky ; 
 
 With angry dirge the tempest moaned, 
 The lowering clouds rolled darkly by. 
 
 But gloomier than the gathering storm 
 Are hearts by ceaseless doubt opprest, 
 
 And wilder than the tameless winds 
 Rebels the storm-rent soul's unrest. 
 
 And on that night the Emperor's brow 
 Was rife with unconcealed disdain ; 
 
 Ambition sought what Fame desired, 
 And roused his restless heart again. 
 
60 NAPOLEON AND THE ABBOT. 
 
 For in his youth's proud dreams he saw 
 A host of suppliant nations meet 
 
 To render homage to the might 
 And glory of his kingly seat. 
 
 And now his fame through many lands 
 Was borne by conquest, writ in blood ; 
 
 Proud nations now submissive lay, 
 
 Where once all free and fair they stood. 
 
 But one — unbowed by burdening fears — 
 A distant land of serfs and snows, 
 
 Defied his power, and disturbed 
 The sweets of victory's repose. 
 
 Thus goaded by unsated pride, 
 The Emperor, pregnant with success, 
 
 Had summoned Gaul to gather then 
 Her strength in all its mightiness. 
 
 But oft of late came anxious friends, 
 
 Perplexed with doubt, opprest with pain, 
 
 To wean him from his erring self 
 With sager counsels, but in vain. 
 
 And last of all an Abbot came, 
 One of his lowly kindred line, 
 
 A goodly priest, who spared no words 
 To guide him by the writ Divine. 
 
NAPOLEON AND THE ABBOT. 61 
 
 And thus, with many a secret prayer, 
 
 His hand upon the Holy Book, 
 The good man oft reproved his liege 
 
 With faltering voice and pleading look. 
 
 Yet still the Emperor's sullen brow 
 
 Revealed the spirit unsubdued ; 
 His rude, uncourteous answers shook 
 
 The Abbot's grave disquietude. 
 
 Thus, far into the night they talked, 
 The saintly priest, the man of blood, 
 
 Until the Emperor strode between, 
 And, standing where the Abbot stood, 
 
 He threw the window open wide, 
 
 And said, in tones subdued but stern, 
 
 " Sir Abbot, gaze upon the sky, 
 And see if thou canst aught discern." 
 
 The priest looked out upon the night, 
 Where all was dreary, dark, and still, 
 
 And answered, " Naught I see, my lord, 
 Except the clouds, foreboding ill." 
 
 The Emperor, silent, stood awhile, 
 
 Then, pointing through the gloom afar, 
 
 Replied, " Where thou canst naught discern, 
 Undimmed through all, I see a star." 
 
62 NAPOLEON AND THE ABBOT. 
 
 Then, turning to the priest, he said, 
 
 " Good man, thou hast my answer now ; 
 
 Go, pray for those who need thy prayers — 
 Keep for the sick the Church's vow.'' 
 
 Thus did his faith unfaltering pierce 
 The secret future, dark and drear ; 
 
 Beyond the gloom he deemed he saw 
 His glory-star shine bright and clear. 
 
 And thus men ever must aspire 
 
 Whose labours called to greatness are ; 
 
 And they to whom Fame's voices call 
 Shall see, through faith, a guiding star. 
 
( 63 ) 
 
 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 We had loved, but we had parted 
 
 In the old, old long ago, 
 When youth's first affections started, 
 When love's restless passions darted, 
 
 And their purest feelings flow. 
 
 Though we parted, still undying 
 
 Did affection changeless prove ; 
 Through regrets and secret sighing 
 Came a voice to mine replying, 
 And its echoes answered, " Love." 
 
 Long years after, as I chided 
 
 Sadly, by a rivulet, 
 Where its winding waters glided, 
 We — whose love had lived divided — 
 
 In the gloaming strangely met. 
 
 Time had brought a secret token 
 With its sacred, kindly touch ; 
 Only looks of love unspoken, 
 Thoughts unuttered, vows unbroken, 
 Only this — and yet how much. 
 
64 AFTER LONG YEARS. 
 
 Why that love had lived indebted 
 
 To the old, old long ago ; 
 Why we parted, why we fretted, 
 Neither knew, yet both regretted 
 In that sunset's afterglow. 
 
( 65 ) 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Child — the year's last hour is stealing, 
 
 And the bells— merry bells — 
 Ring an echo sweetly pealing, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 Of a morn' that now is breaking, 
 
 Of a life that is to be, 
 Pleasures from the past awaking, 
 
 Child — a New Year comes to thee. 
 Comes with carol, song, and blessing, 
 Comes with light and love caressing, 
 Comes with strains of mirth and gladness, 
 Comes to banish aught of sadness ; 
 Listen how their joyous ringing 
 Comes Hke angel voices singing, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 With the swinging of the bells, 
 Newer joys and sweeter pleasures, 
 Fairer hopes and richer treasures ; 
 From the hidden depths of learning 
 Clearer truths more clear discerning ; 
 
66 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 And it bids thee, with the dawning 
 Of thy childhood into morning, 
 Take them, cherish, and enjoy them, 
 Time is watching to destroy them. 
 Like the grass 
 Fair and fresh around thee springing, 
 Child — the joys this year is bringing 
 Soon may pass. 
 
 Youth — the year's last hour is speeding, 
 
 And the bells — restless bells — 
 Ring an echo wildly pleading, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 Of a morn that now is breaking, 
 
 Of a life that is to be, 
 Knowledge from the past awaking, 
 
 Youth — a New Year comes to thee. 
 Comes by stealth with folly's fashions, 
 Comes with pride and stronger passions, 
 Comes with ease and hours of leisure, 
 Comes to fawn and lure to pleasure ; 
 Listen how their tones untiring 
 Fill the soul with fame's aspiring, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 With the swinging of the bells, 
 Larger hopes and fuller meanings, 
 Garnered in from patient gleanings 
 Of the harvest minds of sages, 
 Living on through broadening ages ; 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE. 67 
 
 And it bids thee, with the warning 
 Of thy youth's fair promise morning, 
 Take them, prove them, use, employ them, 
 Time is eager to destroy them. 
 
 Like the grass 
 Withered by the sun that woos it, 
 Time is passing ; do not lose it 
 Ere it pass. 
 
 Maid — the year's last hour is fleeting, 
 And the bells — joyous bells — 
 
 Ring an echo gaily greeting, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 
 Of a morn that now is breaking, 
 Of a life that is to be, 
 
 Beauties from the past awaking, 
 
 Maid — a New Year comes to thee. 
 
 Comes with childhood's visions vanished, 
 
 Comes with fairy dreamlands banished, 
 
 Comes with brighter truths' divining, 
 
 Faith and virtue intertwining ; 
 
 Listen how their sweet pursuing 
 
 Woos thee with a lover's wooing, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 With the swinging of the bells, 
 
 Newer hopes and sweeter graces 
 
 Than the fashions Time effaces ; 
 
 Holier love and sterner duties, 
 
 Nobler virtues, rarer beauties ; 
 
68 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 And it bids thee with the scorning 
 Of a woman's false adorning, 
 Take them, let not pride alloy them, 
 Time is anxious to destroy them. 
 Like the grass, 
 Reapers come and it must perish ; 
 Maiden — beauties thou dost cherish 
 Change and pass. 
 
 Man — the year's last hour is waning, 
 And the bells — mocking bells — 
 Ring an echo, ring complaining, 
 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 Of a morn that now is breaking, 
 
 Of a life that is to be, 
 Actions from the past awaking, 
 
 Man — a New Year comes to thee. 
 Comes with fickle youth's repenting, 
 Comes with folly's late lamenting, 
 Comes with promised harvests scattered, 
 Comes with gilded idols shattered ; 
 Listen how their mystic pleading 
 Comes with mercy interceding, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 With the swinging of the bells, 
 Of the reaping and the sowing, 
 And the tidal ebb and flowing 
 Of the gifts thy youth has wasted, 
 Of ambition's fruits untasted ; 
 
NEW YEAR'S EVE. 69 
 
 And it bids thee, with the warning 
 Of thy manhood's mis-spent morning, 
 Take them, prize them, do not lose them, 
 Time is passing ; take them, use them. 
 
 Like the grass, 
 Strong to-day and strewn to-morrow, 
 Man — thy strength to age and sorrow 
 Soon will pass. 
 
 Age — the year's last hour is dying, 
 And the bells — solemn bells — 
 Ring an echo, ring replying, 
 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 Of a morn that now is breaking, 
 
 Of a life that is to be, 
 Memories from the past awaking, 
 
 Age — a New Year comes to thee. 
 Comes with custom's harsh enchaining, 
 Comes with hoary Time's complaining, 
 Comes with chill reproachful kindness, 
 Comes with love to lead thy blindness ; 
 Listen how their distant blending 
 Comes like hope and fear contending, 
 And it tells — echo tells — 
 With the swinging of the bells, 
 Lengthening shadows loom behind thee ; 
 Time's avenger soon will find thee 
 All unarmoured, weapons bended ; 
 Strike, the fight is not yet ended ; 
 
70 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 And it bids thee, with the dawning 
 Of thy life's eternal morning, 
 Gird thy armour, love commands thee, 
 Time is striving to disband thee. 
 Like the grass 
 From a keen-edged sickle falling, 
 Age — a " still small voice " is calling, 
 Thou must pass. 
 
( 71 ) 
 
 "THIS IS THE POETS HOUR." 
 
 This is the poet's hour ; to this belong 
 
 Half the world's mysteries ; this is the time 
 Of untaught metre and untutored rhyme, 
 
 That mould the grand sweet melody of song. 
 
 How still the night is, and how weird the scene ! 
 The winds are hushed, the trees in whispers speak, 
 And where the church tower rears its ivied peak 
 
 The trembling stars unclouded glance between. 
 
 The moon proclaims her proud luxuriant reign ; 
 
 Myriads of stars reflect the encircling light ; 
 
 Like sentinels upon the queen of night, 
 With glittering robes they follow in her train. 
 
 O lovely night, how beautiful thou art, 
 
 Draped in the shroud of moonlight's braided thrall ; 
 
 O'er silent waters angel voices call, 
 Whispering solace to the weary heart. 
 
72 "THIS IS THE POET'S HOUR." 
 
 On such a night as this, theme waking theme, 
 My thoughts go back to other scenes and years, 
 Where love still lingers, and where memory rears 
 
 The broken hopes of youth's ambitious dream. 
 
 There is a beauty in the lambent light 
 Reflected where the winding river bends, 
 That saddens e'en the loveliness it lends 
 
 One fair sweet face that watches through the night. 
 
 For one this night will sorrow and will weep, 
 Weep with the tears unwelcome and in vain 
 For love that was, but will not come again — 
 
 Dull waking hopes and thoughts that will not sleep. 
 
 And for her sake let no rebellious mirth 
 
 Unloose its bridled tongue, and for her sake 
 Let no unhallowed revelry awake 
 
 The travail of that sad heart's wasted worth. 
 
 But my thoughts wander — the familiar spot 
 Through haunting memory fills my fancy still ; 
 The past, th' undying past, for good or ill, 
 
 Is ever present, nor will be forgot. 
 
 O aching heart, be still ; O passions, rest ; 
 
 For one brief hour let peace and beauty bear 
 
 A solace for the travail of despair, 
 That riots in the conflict of unrest. 
 
"THIS IS THE POETS HOUR." 73 
 
 Not in the perfumed breath of idle praise 
 Which fawns to flatter, seeking but to please 
 And lull the soul to that dull fatal ease, 
 
 Which stills its song, and dims its stirring lays. 
 
 Unwritten words ; thoughts, feelings unexprest, 
 A language that the poet only knows, 
 A glory that the pen cannot disclose — 
 
 These are the poet's joys, and these are best. 
 
( 74 ) 
 
 ONE MISSING. 
 
 Roll call, after a skirmish, " — killed, — wounded, one missing 
 
 The war-notes have sounded, 
 
 Afar o'er the hills 
 Their echoes have bounded ; 
 
 The battle-cry fills 
 The plain with its rally, 
 
 The land with its breath, 
 And darkens the valley 
 
 With shadows of death. 
 
 The sun brightly beaming 
 
 Glanced down on the fight, 
 Where weapons were gleaming 
 
 Like stars in the night ; 
 The valiant victorious 
 
 Came back o'er the plain, 
 But one of the glorious 
 
 Returned not again. 
 
ONE MISSING. 75 
 
 The turf was his pillow, 
 
 The winds were his sheet, 
 And weirdly the willow 
 
 Waved over his feet ; 
 No priestly confessing, 
 
 No rest for his head. 
 No comrades caressing, 
 
 No tears for the dead. 
 
 The cold night dews kissed him, 
 
 The stars in their course 
 Grew pale as they missed him ; 
 
 A sigh of remorse 
 Arose from the river, 
 
 Careering along, 
 But it shall be ever 
 
 His death-glory song. 
 
 His hair in dark tresses 
 
 Encircled his brow ; 
 Unwarmed by caresses, 
 
 His pallid head now 
 Upon its rude pillow, 
 
 Lay bared to the breeze 
 That sighed with the willow 
 
 And moaned in the trees. 
 
 And there, where uncounted 
 
 The waters swept by, 
 His war-steed, unmounted, 
 
 Stood riderless nigh, 
 
76 ONE MISSING. 
 
 Impatiently prancing 
 
 And neighing afar, 
 Where comrades advancing 
 
 Sang truces of war. 
 
 The tents are all scattered, 
 
 The bugles unblown, 
 The war-hosts are shattered, 
 
 Their triumphs o'erthrown ; 
 The weapons which blasted 
 
 With myrtle are wreathed, 
 And swords that have wasted 
 
 Are silently sheathed. 
 
 But far o'er the hissing 
 
 Wild waves of the sea, 
 A footfall is missing, 
 
 A home by the lea 
 Is dark with the sorrow 
 
 And travail of pain, 
 For one that the morrow 
 
 Restores not again. 
 
( 77 ) 
 
 "TO I ET MO I, MON AMI." 
 
 What shall I wish thee, friend, this Christmas morn 
 Of carol, song, and season of good cheer ? 
 
 How may I sing the wealth of joys newborn, 
 To crown with gladness all the coming year. 
 
 There is a beauty in the thought which lends 
 To Christmas morning bells a sweet refrain, 
 
 Wherein we hear the voices of our friends, 
 Like old love-songs, come back to us again. 
 
 We may not meet to tell the overflow 
 Of kindly feelings at this festive time, 
 
 We may not clasp each other's hand, and so 
 I send this greeting writ in simple rhyme. 
 
 May health be yours, and every season give 
 Its rarest fruits with Plenty's willing hand ; 
 
 May each new joy that makes life worth to live 
 Attend thy years, and wait on thy command. 
 
78 "TO/ ET MO/ MOJV AM/.' 
 
 Around thee may an angel-presence keep 
 
 Its sleepless watch, when threatening dangers throng ; 
 May no dark storm arise, while thou dost reap 
 
 The hopes which hallow life with love's sweet song. 
 
 All this — yet more — the love of loving hearts 
 To share thy joys, and solace thee through ill ; 
 
 The kindly smiles that genial worth imparts, 
 And blessings rare remaining to thee still. 
 
 Thus do I greet thee, friend, with right goodwill, 
 And as I hold thy treasured friendship dear, 
 
 May every Christmas find thee happier still, 
 And joy and gladness crown each coming year. 
 
( 79 ) 
 
 A CHRISTMAS BALLAD. 
 
 Wild and dark was the wintry night, the old year faded 
 
 fast, 
 As high and bright the yule-log's fire its fitful shadows 
 
 cast, 
 While Christmas bells with merry chime rang out the 
 
 ages past. 
 
 Cold and pure as a spotless shroud the snow untrodden 
 
 lay, 
 Where keen north winds swept rudely on their bleak 
 
 and barren way, 
 And the storm-king reigned exultant with undisputed 
 
 sway. 
 
 It was the feast of Christmas-tide, and, full of life and 
 
 light, 
 From a thousand homes a thousand hearts beat high and 
 
 warm and bright, 
 While carol, song, and Christmas mirth rang out upon 
 
 the night. 
 
80 A CHRISTMAS BALLAD. 
 
 But there, by a latticed window, out there in the cheerless 
 snow, 
 
 A child had wandered, and, shelterless, stood in the gas- 
 light's glow, 
 
 And, listening to the chimes, forgot his hunger and his 
 woe. 
 
 Only a little outcast — urchin, waif, stray — what you 
 
 will, 
 He is one of the race we boast of, one with us, one of 
 
 us still — 
 A child of the great unnumbered poor, with us for good 
 
 or for ill. 
 
 Who had sinned, this child or its parents ? — if sin it be 
 
 to be poor, 
 While the godless thrive unpunished, and hoard their 
 
 worldly store ; 
 What wonder if the child had wept for the weight of woe 
 
 he bore ! 
 
 The music ceased, the dance was done, the portal opened 
 
 wide, 
 The host looked out where the fitful storm had paused to 
 
 fret and chide, 
 And, crouching near the window seat, the outcast he 
 
 espied. 
 
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD. 8 1 
 
 " Come in, my child," the good man said ; " come in 
 
 from the wind and sleet, 
 My gladsome hall shall guard thee from the tempest's 
 
 pitiless beat ; 
 It seemeth good at Christmas time that rich and poor 
 
 should meet." 
 
 And seated, filled with wonder, by that fireside warm and 
 
 bright, 
 As merry guests moved to and fro in that room of dazzling 
 
 light, 
 It seemed as if the angels came and sang to the child 
 
 that night. 
 
 So sweetly the hallowed music arose from that happy 
 
 throng, 
 Like a beauteous anthem filling the dreamland of wonder 
 
 and song, 
 For which through childhood's visions he had watched 
 
 and waited so long. 
 
 The feast is o'er, the guests are gone, the lights burn pale 
 
 and dim, 
 And drearily dawns the morrow, but that child in the 
 
 darkness grim 
 Rejoiced, for he knew on that Christmas Eve Christ had 
 
 spoken to him. 
 
A CHRISTMAS BALLAD. 
 
 Somewhere in the crowded city, out there in the busy 
 
 street, 
 Cold, sunless lives are borne along by shoeless, willing 
 
 feet, 
 Yet brave, warm, generous hearts beneath their tattered 
 
 garments beat. 
 
 In the great wide world of sorrow, who'll heed their 
 
 Lord's command ? 
 Who'll speak a word for the children ? who'll take them 
 
 by the hand ? 
 More sinned against than sinning are the waifs of this 
 
 Christian land. 
 
 Go, think of it, ponder it, stranger, friend, hope of the 
 
 fallen, and ye 
 Of the purple robes, go, succour them, and thy reward 
 
 shall be — 
 " Inasmuch as ye did it to one of these, ye did it unto 
 
 Me." 
 
( 8 3 ) 
 
 LINES TO 
 
 This is thy wedding-day, and from this hour 
 
 My thoughts must ever cease to blend our names 
 
 Through hope's unspoken and mysterious pow'r, 
 Which faith supplies and lingering love proclaims. 
 
 It may he that I did thy heart some wrong 
 To ever dare to hope with thee to wed ; 
 
 It may be that I erred to list so long 
 To what my restless spirit inly said. 
 
 Yet if my fault to aught of guilt belongs, 
 It is some solace to have erred for thee ; 
 
 And if upon the scroll of human wrongs 
 To err is sin, this shall my solace be. 
 
 Thou hast with no regrets for me to cope, 
 
 Since thou knowest not, nor ever now shall know, 
 
 All my unbridled fancy dared to hope — 
 All that I felt, but never deigned to show. 
 
84 LINES TO 
 
 Ah ! it is woe to hear the sad heart speak, 
 
 When no responsive echo in return 
 Comes back to answer what we vainly seek, 
 
 Nor soothe the hopes that now must darkly burn. 
 
 And must it ever be, what most we prize 
 Is taken from us, and what most we hate 
 
 Is ever in the path before our eyes, 
 A Lazarus unwelcomed at our gate. 
 
 Yet I'll repine not ; if I seem to chide, 
 
 I'll chide in solitude ; if it must be 
 That I still feel the throes of wounded pride, 
 
 I'll mourn in secret, thinking still of thee. 
 
 For I scorn pity, as the fallen scorn 
 
 The pompous offerings charity would give ; 
 
 My bruised heart would bless the unplucked thorn, 
 'Twere sweeter far to die than — pitied — live. 
 
 But now 'tis o'er, and love's fair-promise past 
 Must be for ever as a mocking dream, 
 
 Wherein the heart's great hopes were doomed at last 
 To fade into the nothingness they seem. 
 
 And thou, by whom my life is strangely bowed, 
 Shall come and shed the smiles I cannot share 
 
 And gaze on me among the passing crowd, 
 Nor see the ruin that lies hidden there. 
 
LINES TO . 85 
 
 Well, thou art happy — why should I regret 
 And count the ills that I have borne for thee ? 
 
 Each fond remembrance I must now forget, 
 And sever all that bound thee unto me. 
 
( 86 ) 
 
 OLD KEPLER. 
 
 Among the rural toilers grouped 
 
 Upon the village green, 
 Who nightly talked of harvest themes, 
 
 And politics between, 
 
 None held a worthier place, or ruled 
 
 The peasants of St. Main's, 
 Than Kepler, who had lost an arm 
 
 On Crimea's battle-plains. 
 
 And though his deeds of valour were 
 
 But known to rustic fame, 
 He held a village hero's place, 
 
 And justified his claim. 
 
 For oft, when twilight's shadows waned, 
 And day's rude work was done, 
 
 The old man, musing, loved to sit 
 And watch the setting sun. 
 
OLD KEPLER. 87 
 
 He knew his country's martial themes, 
 
 And many tales told he 
 Of knights renowned for love and war 
 
 In days of chivalry. 
 
 And children, tired of their play, 
 Grouped near his seat, and when 
 
 The old man came, they raised a shout 
 And gathered round him then. 
 
 They loved to hear of Crimea's fields, 
 
 The dangers which befell, 
 And what the childen loved to hear 
 
 He never tired to telL 
 
 He praised the 9th, a gallant corps 
 
 From colonel to cadet; 
 Told how they broke a Russian line 
 
 Or scaled a parapet 
 
 And thus he oft beguiled the hours 
 
 With tales of duty done, 
 But most of all they loved to hear 
 
 How Alma's heights were won. 
 
 For then the old man's withered cheeks 
 
 With ready fervour glow, 
 And as they cheer with childlike glee 
 
 He marches to and fro ; 
 
S8 OLD KEPLER. 
 
 Till once again with measured tread, 
 
 Erect with martial mien, 
 He sees the hated foe advance 
 
 Across the village green ; 
 
 And with his trusty oaken staff 
 
 He wildly cleaves the air, 
 As if, in sooth, before his eyes 
 
 The Russian foe was there. 
 
 But, though he talks of war and wounds, 
 From such rude scenes of strife 
 
 He draws a moral, points his tales 
 With useful rules of life. 
 
 On rugged ground his words may fall, 
 
 But shall not fall in vain ; 
 The lessons that rude teacher tells 
 
 Shall spring to life again. 
 
 And still when twilight's hour declines, 
 And day's rude work is done, 
 
 He tells the tale, oft told before, 
 How Alma's heights were won. 
 
LOVE AND DUTY. 
 
 " O lassie, ere the bugle-call 
 
 Shall summon us to part, 
 Accept a soldier's love, and cheer 
 
 A Highland laddie's heart ; 
 For I have brought from sunny climes, 
 
 Across the distant sea, 
 This costly scarf of Indian silk 
 
 To pledge my love to thee." 
 
 "I cannot seal our plighted troth," 
 
 The maiden coyly said ; 
 " Till I have proved thy love to-night, 
 
 I may not with thee wed. 
 To-morrow is St. Andrew's Day, 
 
 And where thy banners wave 
 My sire was slain, and I must plant 
 
 A flower upon his grave." 
 
 The church bell chimed the midnight hour 
 
 As, through the -falling snow, 
 A soldier kept his lonely watch 
 
 With measured steps and slow ; 
 
90 LOVE AND DUTY. 
 
 But 'mid the gloom, a maiden sped, 
 
 In secret, hurried flight ; 
 She waved her lover's scarf, and passed 
 
 Unchallenged through the night. 
 
 At daybreak in the snow were traced 
 
 Strange footprints where she stept, 
 And through the camp a murmur ran, 
 
 " Some traitor guard has slept." 
 At night another soldier's grave 
 
 Was measured in the snow : 
 For love's sweet sake his duty failed, 
 
 Yet love would have it so. 
 
( 91 ) 
 
 A VISION OF NIGHT. 
 
 The dreamy night o'ershadowed where 
 
 The crowded city slept, 
 And countless stars of trembling light 
 
 Their silent vigils kept, 
 As on the cool unbroken calm, 
 
 From meadow, stream, and tree, 
 The voice of night arose with strange 
 
 Mysterious melody. 
 
 But as I stood and gazed upon 
 
 That solemn, tranquil scene, 
 The gloomy clouds unfolded, and 
 
 An angel passed between — 
 A beauteous form, O wondrous fair, 
 
 Of love, and life, and light, 
 That watched above the city's sleep 
 
 And guarded through the night. 
 
 Beside her flowing garb, she held 
 The harp whose wondrous strains 
 
 Awoke the shepherds as they watched 
 By Judah's lonely plains ; 
 
92 A VISION OF NIGHT. 
 
 And as her robes through clouds of space 
 Were trailed in circling flight, 
 
 Her voice stole on the stilly air 
 And hymned the praise of night. 
 
 The hours rolled by — afar and near, 
 
 With sweet, unbroken swell, 
 The music of unearthly notes 
 
 Like wavelets rose and fell ; 
 But as the sullen night-clouds fled 
 
 The echoes fainter grew, 
 Until their sweetness left the air 
 
 As on the angel flew. 
 
 I watched the cloudlet's radiant guest 
 
 In robes of pureness clad, 
 I gazed upon the angel's face, 
 
 But it was nobly sad ; 
 The morn's awakening glories glanced 
 
 Upon her streaming hair, 
 Yet now she sang not, and the harp 
 
 Hung strainless in the air. 
 
 The mystic melody had ceased, 
 
 The noblest and the best 
 Of heavenly songs was heard no more, 
 
 And, as the angel guest, 
 With lingering look and pensive brow, 
 
 Paused in her upward flight, 
 I took a scroll whereon to trace 
 
 That vision of the night. 
 
A VISION OF NIGHT. 93 
 
 But as I wrote, the angel came 
 
 And gazed with pleading look ; 
 The harp was silent, in her hand 
 
 She held an open book 
 Wherein were writ mysterious words, 
 
 The language of the dead, 
 And ere she turned to pass away 
 
 I touched her harp, and said — 
 
 " If language to immortals may 
 
 By mortals here be given, 
 If man may hold communion 
 
 With messengers from heaven, 
 I pray thee, tell why thou didst come 
 
 In holy garments clad ; 
 Oh say, why hast thou ceased to sing, 
 
 And wherefore art thou sad ? " 
 
 The angel turned her beaming eyes 
 
 All radiant on me then ; 
 " I came to sing of Christ," she said, 
 
 " Goodwill and peace to men; 
 A thousand years from heaven to earth 
 
 My harp hath borne the strain, 
 A thousand years the angel hosts 
 
 Have sung to men in vain. 
 
 " Unheard I sing of human themes 
 
 In human language writ, 
 To teach the many how to rise — 
 
 The fallen, how submit; 
 
94 A VISION OF NIGHT. 
 
 Unheeded have I sought to strike 
 
 At bondage — turn the free 
 Towards the Truth, that was, and is, 
 
 And ever is to be. 
 
 " And high above the city's din 
 
 I watch and weep and pray, 
 Awaiting at the heavenly gate 
 
 The dawning of that day 
 When love shall lead, and right shall rule, 
 
 The bugle's war-blast cease, 
 And nations meet to consecrate 
 
 The universal peace. 
 
 " Then heaven and earth shall nearer seem, 
 
 And Christ shall be their King ; 
 Through faith the wounded soul shall hear 
 
 The anthems angels sing ; 
 Rejoicing, as they sing of man 
 
 More noble, true, and good, 
 And woman striving ever toward 
 
 More perfect womanhood." 
 
( 95 ) 
 
 THE BYRON CENTENARY, 1 788-1 
 
 A.S some wild bird of song in tameless flight 
 
 With soaring pinion cleaves the morning light, 
 
 Until the fowler with alluring snare 
 
 Arrests its flight, and makes it captive there — 
 
 Caught in the net from whence it seeks to rise, 
 
 The stricken songster flutters, falls, and dies ; 
 
 so his proud soul, exulting in the might 
 
 3f daring genius poised to sunward flight, 
 
 Though baffled oft, despising every pain, 
 
 soared from control, then drooped to earth again ; 
 
 Enslaved by passions, prone to darkly brood 
 
 D'er fancied wrongs in sullen solitude, 
 
 Till from each effort, bruised, faint, and low, 
 
 He probed the wounds that let his life's blood flow. 
 
 Let others chant his praise, or rudely chide 
 The faults that to his virtues were allied, 
 He gave us of his best ; and shall the wrong 
 survive the right, and mar his sweeter song ? 
 His gifts are ours, his follies were his own, 
 \nd for each error let his worth atone, 
 Until the sun of his immortal fame 
 Dispels the clo«ds which gather round his name. 
 
( 96 ) 
 
 THE RA VEN WINGS OF NIGHT. 
 
 The raven wings of night 
 
 Are darkly drooping fast, 
 The weary round of toil has brought 
 
 A welcome rest at last ; 
 And I am left alone, 
 
 While memories, one by one, 
 Adown the past unbidden stray, 
 
 As I sit dreaming on. 
 
 I cannot read to-night 
 
 The old historic lore, 
 Nor muse upon the poet's themes 
 
 I loved so well of yore ; 
 I cannot tell to-night 
 
 The stories children love, 
 Nor mingle in their mirth, which fills 
 
 My chamber-loft above. 
 
 But from an oaken shelf 
 
 Beside the creaking door, 
 A volume old and worn I take, 
 
 And scan its pages o'er ; 
 
THE RA VEN WINGS OF NIGHT. 97 
 
 Only a faded book 
 
 Of old familiar songs, 
 A relic of remembered joys 
 
 That to the past belongs. 
 
 The words, the words are there, 
 
 As they were there of old, 
 But through the mist of sorrow-clouds 
 
 The darklier memories fold 
 Their shadows round the book, 
 
 And dim each unread page, 
 Until the music seems to chant 
 
 A monody of age. 
 
 O'er each recorded leaf 
 
 Sad memory, musing, lingers, 
 Till through the dimming mist of years, 
 
 A child's unwearied fingers 
 Stray o'er the violin, 
 
 That hangs all strainless there — 
 The poet's words with sweet refrain 
 
 Come back on the still night air. 
 
 Was it the poet's art 
 
 With sadness strangely blent ? 
 Or the plaintive melody which broke 
 
 From that old instrument ? 
 Was it the far-off years 
 
 That came and lingered long ? 
 Or the music of a voice which gave 
 
 A sweetness to the song ? 
 
 H 
 
98 THE RAVEN WINGS OF NIGHT. 
 
 Was it a child's fair face ? 
 
 Nay, nay, I cannot tell ; 
 The open book reveals unchanged 
 
 The song I loved so well, 
 But words cannot restore 
 
 The beauty of my choice, 
 Since Time removed the player's hands 
 
 And stilled the singer's voice. 
 
 And I am left alone, 
 
 While memories, one by one, 
 Adown the past unbidden stray, 
 
 As I sit dreaming on ; 
 The raven wings of night 
 
 Are darkly drooping fast, 
 But joy shall banish sorrow's cloud 
 
 When morning breaks at last. 
 
( 99 ) 
 
 A LAST ADIEU. 
 
 " O say good night, but not good-bye,'' 
 
 The maiden sweetly said, 
 And from her lips escaped the sigh 
 
 Of love uncomforted ; 
 The lover bowed his martial frame 
 
 Beside that lady fair, 
 While trysting words unchallenged came • 
 Upon the still night air. 
 
 " Good night, good night, my love ! " he cried ; 
 " Good night, but not good-bye ! " she sighed ; 
 Again, "Good night I" though neither knew 
 That " Good night " was their last adieu. 
 
 At break of day, along the shore 
 
 Was heard the distant drum, 
 Whose warning war-notes sounded o'er, 
 
 " The foe, they come, they come ! " 
 And when the lowering clouds o'erspread 
 
 The battle's waning might, 
 Amongst the dying and the dead, 
 
 A voice stole through the night. 
 
A LAST ADIEU. 
 
 " Good night, good night, my love ! " he cried ; 
 " Good night, but not good-bye ! " she sighed ; 
 Again" " Good night, my love ; be true ! " 
 But echo answered, " Love, adieu ! " 
 
 Cold on the chill unguarded plain 
 
 A wounded soldier lay, 
 Who heard in dreams that voice again 
 
 Reply, and sweetly say, 
 " O say good night, but not good-bye, 
 
 For I will near thee stay ; '' 
 But ere the spldier could reply, 
 The vision passed away. 
 
 " Good night, good night, my love ! " he cried ; 
 "Good night ! " the winds alone replied; 
 " Good night, good-bye ! " — for now he knew 
 That " Good night " was their last adieu. 
 
( ioi ) 
 
 "FAIR LADY, WHEN I LEFT THESE 
 HILLS." 
 
 Fair lady, when I left these hills 
 And bade my native land adieu, 
 
 I did not think to leave behind 
 A heart so constant or so true ; 
 
 And when we parted on the shore 
 With words unbittered by regret, 
 
 I knew not that our friendship held 
 One tie thou wouldst not soon forget. 
 
 When others wept and thou wert gay, 
 I thought thee callous, insincere ; 
 
 Nor did I deem those laughing eyes 
 Would e'er be dimmed with pity's tear. 
 
 I saw no anguish on thy brow ; 
 
 Thy voice betrayed no parting sigh ; 
 I felt no pressure through the hand 
 
 That mine held in that last " good-bye." 
 
102 "FAIR LADY, WHEN I LEFT THESE KILLS." 
 
 'Twas love, you say, that taught you thus 
 
 To hide regret, your feelings veil, 
 And told you to withhold the kiss 
 
 That might have told a lover's tale. 
 
 Then 'tis well written, " Love is blind," 
 And my heart echoes, " Cruel too ; " 
 
 The strength deceives that is so strong — 
 Love is not kind that is so true. 
 
 When Fortune's handmaid darkly frowned, 
 When foes assailed and friends were few, 
 
 It would have solaced my sad heart 
 To have remembered one so true. 
 
 I have oft sorrowed, when thy words 
 More prone to censure than to bless, 
 
 Rebuked me coldly, and I thought 
 Pride lurked beneath thy loveliness. 
 
 Yet thou didst weep, thou, whom my heart 
 In secret sorrow learned to hate, 
 
 And darkly nurse the hopeless hope 
 Of love, ambition, desolate. 
 
 And I have wronged thee, while thy heart 
 For my unworthy love was riven ; 
 
 Yet, deeply as I wronged thee, now 
 I deeply plead to be forgiven. 
 
FAIR LADY, WHEN I LEFT THESE HILLS." 103 
 
 For me thou hast repined, for me 
 Thy life was bowed with anxious fears ; 
 
 Henceforth my love shall live to thee, 
 And strive to recompense thy tears. 
 
( 104 ) 
 
 " YOU ASK A SONG." 
 
 You ask a song, of lighter theme 
 
 Than ever I was wont to sing, 
 The offspring of some brighter dream, 
 
 As if it were a little thing 
 To change the current of a life, 
 
 And bid its feelings backward flow, 
 Or chant amid the din of strife 
 
 The peace that I have ceased to know. 
 
 Friend, I'll not murmur, nor complain 
 
 Of thy upbraidings, kindly meant ; 
 I'll not rebuke thee, for in vain 
 
 Thou chidest, though with good intent ; 
 But ask the seasons, as they come, 
 
 Why summer fills the fruitful tree — 
 Why are the woods in winter dumb ? 
 
 And say, how will they answer thee ? 
 
 Who strikes the zither, and then lists 
 To hear it sound a clarion blast ? 
 
 Who walks among the morning mists, 
 And marvels at the sun o'ercast ? 
 
"YOU ASK A SONG." 105 
 
 The oak tree cannot yield a rose ; 
 
 A fig tree planted in the sand 
 Will droopj ere summer's blossom shows, 
 
 As flowers wither in the hand. 
 
 Go, ask the rugged mountain's peak 
 
 Why verdure takes no rootage there ; 
 Ascend its barren heights, and seek 
 
 A flower among the snowdrifts bare. 
 Upon some rockbound islet stand, 
 
 Bid ocean stay its ceaseless tide ; 
 The cliffs will echo thy command, 
 
 The waters laugh, the seas deride. 
 
 Ask of the birds whose summer song 
 
 With sweetness fills the woodland way, 
 Why shelter they the leaves among ? 
 
 Why is their plumage not more gay ? 
 Go, quench the fountain at its source, 
 
 Seek to control the running stream, 
 Entreat the river change its course, 
 
 But ask me not to change my theme. 
 
 My friend, if thou couldst read my heart ' 
 
 And fathom what is written there, 
 Thou wouldst not marvel long, nor start 
 
 In wonderment at my despair. 
 As pines the flower for the plant 
 
 When torn from whence its beauties spring, 
 So in my sorrows I must chant 
 
 My heart's own song, or cease to sing. 
 
106 "YOU ASK A SONG." 
 
 Perchance in some remoter years, 
 
 When passions rule with gentler sway, 
 Unclouded by their darker fears, 
 
 My themes may brighten and be gay ; 
 But til! that time's full tide shall flow, 
 
 Though every gentler tie be riven, 
 My heart shall seal its secret woe, 
 
 Forgiving, e'en though unforgiven. 
 
( io7 ) 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 !nice ! — the world's cathedral, and the shrine 
 Where pilgrim bands from many nations meet 
 In praise and worship at thy queenly seat — 
 inger at thy threshold, to resign 
 spray of poesy in faltering line, 
 Historic heroes, martyrs, kings, to greet 
 That pass before me with unwearied feet, 
 irsed at thy breast, children of thee and thine. 
 
 ly marble palaces adorned with deathless art ; 
 Thy watery aisles, the oft-disputed way ; 
 ich frescoed niche where beauty's eyes would dart 
 With love or hate to view some deadly fray ; — 
 nese are the themes which stir the pulseless heart, 
 The spoils which Time has ransomed from decay. 
 
 Venice, 1887. 
 
( io8 ) 
 
 AFTER WAR— PEACE. 
 
 Beneath a drooping willow tree 
 
 That skirts the village brook, 
 An old man sate, and at his side 
 
 An open, unread book 
 Lay fluttering on the rustic bench, 
 
 Stirred by the loitering breeze 
 That fanned his white locks as it paused 
 
 To whisper in the trees. 
 
 And listening, worn and weary, to 
 
 The brooklet's murmuring tones, 
 As here it smoothly ran, and there 
 
 It rippled o'er the stones, 
 He saw not down the garden path, 
 
 Returning from their play, 
 A group of eager rustics, till 
 
 They stole his book away. 
 
 To fight the luckless Stuart cause 
 
 He left the vales of Kent, 
 When England was divided for 
 
 The King and Parliament ; 
 
AFTER WAR — PEACE. 109 
 
 And now he fought his foes again 
 
 Beneath the willow tree, 
 Until the children's merry laugh 
 
 Disturbed his reverie. 
 
 They clutched the old man's martial cloak 
 
 That still he loved to wear, 
 And made him captive, as they thronged 
 
 Around his rustic chair, 
 Entreating him with eager words 
 
 And looks of sweet intent, 
 To be their prisoner, till they won 
 
 The aged man's consent. 
 
 Girt by their arms like slender chains 
 
 In kindly bondage spread, 
 With faltering steps and feeble gait 
 
 He followed where they led, 
 Until they reached a leafy nook 
 
 On Naseby's battle-ground, 
 Where, 'mid the ivy, lay concealed 
 
 The treasure they had found — 
 
 A cannon, lying where it fell, 
 
 Beside a broken tree, 
 Half-hidden by the sheltering leaves 
 
 In friendly canopy. 
 While from its iron mouth, a bird 
 
 Escaped with fluttering flight, 
 The joyous rustics thronging near 
 
 With undisguised delight. 
 
AFTER WAR — PEACE. 
 
 They thrust the clustering boughs aside, 
 
 And, peering through the breach, 
 Espied a robin's nest, concealed, 
 
 Within the children's reach ; 
 And one, a merry, wayward lad, 
 
 With mischief-lurking eyes, 
 Outstretched his eager hand, and sought 
 
 To seize the tempting prize. 
 
 "Nay, nay, my child," the good man- said ; 
 
 " 'Twould be a grievous wrong, 
 Hark how the bird on yonder bough 
 
 Appeals with plaintive song 
 To stay the ruthless hand, that would 
 
 In wanton sport or jest, 
 Destroy the parent-love that binds 
 
 The bird-mates to their nest." 
 
 Then from this simple theme he led 
 
 Their thoughts to higher things, 
 And showed them, where man's jealous hate 
 
 On War's avenging wings 
 Had issued from the cannon's mouth, 
 
 With Death's destroying strife, 
 The birds had sung their morning song 
 
 And sunned the wings of life. 
 
 Next morn, and each returning day, 
 
 Adown the woodland height 
 The children wandered, till the birds 
 
 Had ta'en their timorous flight ; 
 
AFTER WAR — PEACE. 
 
 And though the old man came no more 
 
 Along the leafy way, 
 His words shall linger with them still, 
 
 For ever and for aye. 
 
( U2 ) 
 
 JUBILEE COMMEMORATION ODE, 1887 
 
 Victoria ! Empress Queen, beloved ! 
 
 Our hearts rebound to thee 
 In loyal praise and loving song, 
 
 To sing thy Jubilee ; 
 From rural heath and city throng 
 
 Proud Albion wakes to sing, 
 From Scotland's heights and Erin's homes 
 One chorus sweet shall ring — 
 " Hail ! hail ! Victoria ! 
 
 Britannia's song has been 
 On land and sea, and still shall be, 
 ' Our country and our Queen ! ' " 
 
 O'er pathless seas, afar, yet near, 
 
 Canadian voices blend 
 With Australasian hearts, so true 
 
 To succour and defend ; 
 From India's loyal countless hosts 
 
 And Afric's dusky kings, 
 From boundless Oceana's isles, 
 
 The swelling paean rings — 
 
JUBILEE COMMEMORATION ODE, 1887. 113 
 
 " Hail ! hail ! Victoria ! 
 
 Britannia's song has been 
 On land and sea, and still shall be, 
 
 ' Our country and our Queen ! ' " 
 
 From children's voices lisping sweet, 
 
 And loving hearts of youth ; 
 From manhood's sterner tones, the song 
 
 Of freedom, love, and truth 
 Awakes a nation's patriot pride, 
 
 Victoria's praise to sing ; 
 From every creed, and every clime 
 One grand refrain shall ring — 
 " Hail ! hail ! Victoria ! 
 
 Britannia's song has been 
 On land and sea, and still shall be, 
 ' Our country and our Queen ! ' " 
 
( U4 ) 
 
 A RIVERSIDE REVERIE. 
 
 By the river-side I wander, 
 
 Where in childhood oft I stood, 
 As the laughing sunlit wavelets 
 
 Woo the shadows from the wood ; 
 Stately elm and leafy beeches 
 
 Spreading to the river's brink, 
 Autumn's sunset interlacing 
 
 Every branch with crimson link. 
 
 Where the pasture skirts the woodland 
 
 Bleat the lowing cattle near, 
 And the yellow fields are laden 
 
 With the harvest in the ear ; 
 From its nest among the clover 
 
 Leaps the lark with soaring song, 
 And the village church bells chiming 
 
 Call to prayer the rustic throng. 
 
 But my thoughts flow with the river 
 Down the tideless waste of years, 
 
 Where each idol that I worshipped 
 From its ruin reappears ; 
 
A RIVER-SIDE REVERIE. IIJ 
 
 Childhood's faith and youth's ambitions, 
 Manhood's hopes, where are they now ? 
 
 Just a memory Time's rude fingers 
 Have engraven on my brow. 
 
 As the streamlets through the valley 
 
 Down their sunny courses glide, 
 Flow the happy hours of childhood 
 
 On their unreturning tide ; 
 Nurtured with the heart's affections, 
 
 Lispen with unbridled tongue, 
 Love and faith are sweetest, purest, 
 
 When the years of life are young. 
 
 But the waste of broken waters 
 
 Rudely battling at my feet, 
 Are the shattered hopes of manhood 
 
 Struggling on against defeat ; 
 Met — resisted — baffled — beaten, 
 
 Still the weary onward throng 
 Where the many fall, forgotten, 
 
 And the few are scarcely strong. 
 
 Further down the winding river, 
 
 Where the waters feebly flow, 
 Pass the footsteps of the aged 
 
 With unsteady gait and slow ; 
 Comes a voice upon the surface, 
 
 Burdened with a sighing tone, 
 Of the many passed for ever 
 
 To the distant and unknown. 
 
n6 A RIVER-SIDE REVERIE. 
 
 And I muse on God's great purpose 
 
 Wrought in His mysterious way, 
 Of the few who guide and govern, 
 
 Of the many who obey ; 
 Silent hopes and subtle sorrows, 
 
 Some discovered, some are not — 
 Fleeting joys and futile longings 
 
 That make up our common lot ! 
 
 And a solemn sadness fills me 
 
 As the ceaseless waters glide, 
 Ever coming, ever going, 
 
 As the stream of human-tide ; 
 And the restless sighs and longings 
 
 Of that surging human mass, 
 Are the eddies on the surface 
 
 Which they fashion as they pass. 
 
( H7 ) 
 
 THE MINSTER BELL. 
 
 Somewhere hid in the ivied tower, 
 
 The old cathedral bell 
 O'er Father Time, with measured beat, 
 
 Keeps waking sentinel ; 
 For rich and poor, for young and old, 
 
 Unceasing day or night, 
 It counts the moments as they fly, 
 And tells their ceaseless flight. 
 
 Ding-dong merrily, ding-dong cheerily, 
 Tolling the hours as they steal along, 
 Marking old Time with unwearied chime, 
 Tracking its steps with a loud ding-dong, 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. 
 
 The keen north winds may whistle shrill 
 
 Around the beetling eaves, 
 The summer sun may hide its warmth 
 
 Among the ivy leaves ; 
 
n8 THE MINSTER BELL. 
 
 Yet still, through tempest, storm, and calm, 
 
 While ages come and go, 
 Above the old cathedral porch 
 
 The bell swings to and fro. 
 Ding-dong merrily, etc. 
 
 Adown the worn uneven aisles 
 
 It calls to praise and prayer, 
 And benedictions sweet it tells 
 
 To all who enter there ; 
 While high above the city's throng. 
 
 Where climbing tendrils cling, 
 Enthroned within its ivied court, 
 
 The minster bell is king. 
 Ding-dong merrily, etc 
 
( "9 ) 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 ATE PRINCE LEOPOLD, DUKE OF ALBANY, TO WHOM 
 THE AUTHOR'S FIRST WORK WAS, BY PERMISSION, 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 Lush the loud revel ; cease the bitter strife ; 
 
 For one brief hour let friend and foe unite 
 'o mourn a loved and loving soul, whose life 
 
 No cloud could darken and no sorrow blight. 
 
 'hrice through the conflict of surviving pain 
 He journeyed — broken — to the verge of death, 
 
 >nd thrice redeemed, his strength returned again ; — 
 But now men speak his name with whispered breath. 
 
 t seems but yesterday we did rejoice 
 
 That he was with us ; vanquished were our fears ; 
 .nd now a nation seeks, with sorrowing voice, 
 
 To soothe a mother's grief, a widow's tears. 
 
 . little while, we saw his virtues flow, 
 And heard how much of honour he had won ; 
 
 . little while, his glory ceased to glow — 
 His life seems incomplete, and yet 'tis done. 
 
IN MEM0R1AM. 
 
 Moved and ennobled by that grand unrest 
 Which ever labours and aspires to give 
 
 An impulse t'ward the noblest and the best, 
 Nor ever tires to teach men how to live, 
 
 He strove for victory. Alas ! the strife 
 For him has now for ever passed away ; 
 
 The morning of his fair great-promise life 
 Has broadened to the Light of Perfect Day. 
 
 Of princely birth, of high and lofty aim, 
 Yet with us in our daily life he trod ; 
 
 His country's glory, this shall be his fame — 
 He loved its people and revered its God. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 TO A CHILD VERY DEAR TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 leep, dearest one ; in pure, sweet slumbers sleep ! 
 
 The world's great sorrows were not meant for thee ; 
 'hy life was tuned to gladness, not to weep — 
 
 To sing in heavenly choirs, and wait for me. 
 
( 122 ) 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S 
 WRITING ALBUM. 
 
 Within this volume let the curious gaze, 
 
 And critics coldly censure, blame, or praise, 
 
 Yet each may something learn — the learned find 
 
 Food for reflection, matter for the mind ; 
 
 And since whate'er within its leaves is traced 
 
 As living words shall never be effaced, 
 
 Write here the echoes of that sweet unrest 
 
 Which ever seeks the noblest and the best, 
 
 Uprising through each thought which upward springs, 
 
 As living ivy ever climbs and clings. 
 
( 123 ) 
 
 MUSIC AND SORROW. 
 
 How sad is the sadness when music mocks, 
 And the heart unmanned, forsaken, rocks 
 Helplessly, hopelessly, wildly free, 
 As a helmless ship on a stormy sea ! 
 And where is the beauty of love's sweet song 
 If it helps not the sorrowing soul along ? 
 
( 124 ) 
 
 LINES TO . 
 
 Time was when love was erring, blind, 
 
 And as the winds inconstant, free ; 
 But now in after-years I find 
 
 My life, my love, complete in thee. 
 
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SHAKSPERE'S WORKS. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF TYPE. 
 
 4 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE Act i 
 
 Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
 And see my wealthy Andrew, dock'd in sandj 
 Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church 
 And see the holy edifice of stone, 
 And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, 
 Which touching but my gentle vessel's side^ 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream, 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
 And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought 
 To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
 That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad ? 
 But tell not me : I know Antonio 
 Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 
 
 Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 
 Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year : 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
 
 Salar. Why, then you are in love. 
 
 Ant. Fie, fie ! 
 
 Salar. Not in love neither ? Then let us say you 
 are sad, 
 Because you are not merry ; and 'twere as easy 
 For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry, 
 Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed 
 
 Janus, 
 Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time : 
 Some that will evermore peep through their eyes 
 And laugh like parrots at a bag- piper ; 
 And other of such vinegar aspect 
 
 London :. Kegan -Paul, Trench & Co., i, Paternoster Square.' 
 
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