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Sita, and other poems, mostly adapted fo 
 
 3 1924 013 459 221 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013459221 
 
SITA, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
S I T A, 
 
 IND OTHER POEMS, MOSTLY ADAPTED 
 FOR RECITATION. 
 
 MRS. AYLMER GOWING 
 
 (EMILIA AYLMER BLAKE) 
 
 ^M> 
 ^^W 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 189.S. 
 
I'd 
 
 MY HUSBAND 
 
 BEYOND THE BOURNE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 SITA r 
 
 THE queen's I,ETTER ■ 9 
 
 TO THE PRINCESS OF WAI,ES lO 
 
 OUR BABY PRINCE 12 
 
 H.M.S. 'VICTORIA' 15 
 
 TENNYSON 19 
 
 ' BECKET ' 20 
 
 SWINBURNE 22 
 
 KHARTOUM 23 
 
 THE MAHDI'S DOOM 29 
 
 THE FATE OF AI<I,AN WILSON 35 
 
 ISANDHI<WANA 42 
 
 I<OUIS NAPOLEON 48 
 
 AT THE BATTLE OF BRONKER'S SPRUIT - 50 
 
 THE LITTLE HERO OF THE THAMES 53 
 
 THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE ALBATROSS 58 
 
 THE GLACIER-BED 66 
 
 THE CITY OF SILENCE 73 
 THE PEASANT'S VISIT To THE CZAR , yg 
 
viii Contents. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 TO MEET AGAIN ^ §5 
 
 I,AST KISSES - 
 
 S6 
 
 AI<ONE 87 
 
 INSOMNIA 88 
 
 UNDIVIDED tOVE 89 
 
 OUR EDEN go 
 
 I,OVE NEVER FAII,KTH 91 
 
 THE BROICEN COI,UMN 92 
 
 TIME FWES 93 
 
 THY DESIRE SHALI, BE TO THY HUSBAND 94 
 
 TOO I,ATE 95 
 
 MUCH I,OVED 96 
 
 I,OVE I<ETTERS 97 
 
 ST. MARY ABBOTS 98 
 
 OF THE DUST OF THE GROUND 99 
 
 HEIMWEH 101 
 
 ALBERT VICTOR, DUKE OF CI,ARENCE IO3 
 
SITA. 
 
 FOUNDED ON A MAHRATTA STORY BY SIR EDWIN 
 ARNOLD 
 
 In Poona's plain beneath the Orient spread, 
 
 Sita the beautiful, an Indian rose. 
 Sprang into life and love, as tender red 
 
 Of morning breaks and grows. 
 
 Two brothers, like in feature, form and fate, 
 Loved her past measure — most alike in this — 
 
 But one, Govind, her chosen lord, could mate 
 The maid with bridal kiss ; 
 
 The other, unbeloved, Wittoba, fain 
 
 To look and long, consumed beneath her eyes, 
 From the sweet sin, with passionate strife and pain, 
 
 Wrenches his heart and flies. 
 
Sita. 
 
 Both, soldiers in the army of Bombay, 
 
 'Neath British colours served ; Govind nigh home 
 Was stationed, while Wittoba marched away 
 
 Panting to change and roam. 
 
 'Twas summer, and the nights of burning heat 
 Curtained the wrath of India's sons ; ' the fire 
 
 Was on the hills ' ; Mahratta spearmen meet 
 To mutter and conspire. 
 
 Low thunders shake the circling hills around 
 Fair Poona's village homes ; the lab'ring Earth 
 
 Writhes in her agony from underground 
 With war's detested birth. 
 
 Then, like a hideous crater long asleep, 
 Breaks forth red Mutiny, with fiery flood 
 
 Of hell, and scorpion stings that rend, and steep 
 The land in flame and blood. 
 
 That time Govind was taken in a fault. 
 
 Punished, and sore with sense of wrong and shame, 
 Gave ear to treason, faithless to his salt — 
 
 Debased a soldier's name : 
 
 And deadly swift as lightning from the sky 
 
 Fell eyes upon him — proofs for judgment —doom — 
 
 The night before the morn he was to die 
 He felt the shadows loom. 
 
Sita. 3 
 
 While Sita waited, rocking to and fro, 
 
 Her heart crushed out, and watched the minutes fly, 
 A stony semblance of embodied woe 
 
 That could not weep nor cry. 
 
 And, lo 1 there stood, her dazzled eyes before, 
 A crimson turban and a form in white — 
 
 Was't he, come back to his own cottage door 
 A spirit of the night ? 
 
 He glided through to his familiar place 
 
 By curtained screen — Wittoba, not her lord — 
 
 Sate on the floor against her, face to face. 
 And neither spoke a word. 
 
 After long silence fell his whispers, wrung 
 Like life-drops by the mortal thrust of steel ; 
 
 So slowly, fatally, the faltering tongue 
 Broke the dark spirit's seal : 
 
 ' Sita, the husband of thy love hath sinned 
 
 Past pardon : well thou know'st to-morrow's sun 
 
 Shall see the traitor to his salt, Govind, 
 Blown from the fatal gun.' : 
 
 ' Oh me, 'tis true. Why, why did he give ear 
 To traitors who have taught him to betray ? 
 
 Would I could die this night, nor live to hear 
 The doom that comes with day !' , 
 
Sita. 
 
 ' I have seen, Sita, by the cannon's breath 
 The form of man dissolved to dust and air : 
 
 No funeral rites attend that hideous death ' 
 
 ' Spare me, Wittoba, spare ! 
 
 'What words, what words are these? what need to break 
 The shattered pitcher ? None can help me now.' 
 
 ' Yea, I can save thy husband for thy sake.' 
 ' Nay, lie not to me : how ?' 
 
 ' 'Tis truth : I can and will. He bides to-night, 
 Chained and alone, beside the artill'ry ground : 
 
 And I am on the guard : with morning light 
 I'll enter on my round. 
 
 ' His fetters I can open, and exchange 
 
 His prison raiment for my uniform 
 And soldier's arms ; no eye will note him strange. 
 
 So like in face and form. 
 
 ' Not one will know us, bartered man for man ; 
 
 The gun will boom, and I, Wittoba, be 
 As chaff that's shaken from the winnowing fan — 
 
 Whilst he shall live for thee.' 
 
 ' Is't possible ? Why do you say all this. 
 My husband's brother, to a wretched wife ?' 
 
 ' For love of thee — to buy an hour of bliss 
 With my eternal life. 
 
Sita. 5 
 
 ' Listen, and hear what I am come to say : 
 Sita, this night we are alone — we two — 
 
 What I have promised — so thou let me stay — 
 That will I surely do.' 
 
 ' Thou wilt ? Wittoba, this is deadly sin.' 
 ' I will abide that : I have weighed the cost : 
 
 My life, my soul, but once to hold thee in 
 My arms, were dearly lost. 
 
 ' Think of thy husband ; how the cannon's roar 
 Shall rend the flesh thou dot'st on, limb from Hmb, 
 
 And leave no shape, but only shreds of gore ! 
 And yield thyself for him. 
 
 ' I say this shall be my sin — thou art pure.' 
 
 ' Govind, Govind ' ' Only one hour, and by 
 
 Thy sacrifice his safety is made sure — 
 Say, shall he live or die ?' 
 
 ' Oh, pity, pity ! let him live, the rest 
 
 Undone — the sin unsinned ' 'But once to slake 
 
 The torment of my passion on thy breast, 
 
 And perish for thy sake.' 
 
 ' But if thy promise fail to-morrow morn ?' — 
 ' Nay, I am mad for love of thee, yet by 
 
 The mighty mother, Sita, I would scorn 
 To cheat thee with a lie. 
 
Sit a. 
 
 ' At the gun's mouth, to-morrow, stern and stark 
 I'll stand for thy Govinda — yea or nay. 
 
 And let that be which must be, for the dark 
 Is fleeting fast away.' 
 
 ' Yea, then — for my dear lord, that he may live, 
 
 I sin this grievous sin ; if I do ill, 
 The enforced infamy may heaven forgive — 
 
 My husband never will.' 
 
 As yields the widow on the funeral pyre 
 Her tender body to the tongues of flame, 
 
 Sita the chaste beneath his kiss of fire 
 Consented unto shame ; 
 
 And as the ravished snows of Himalay 
 In summer's fever heat dissolve and roll 
 
 Through earth's pollution, Sita cast away 
 The whiteness of her soul. 
 
 Wittoba left her, when the beasts of prey 
 Stole to their coverts, ere the«red daybreak ; 
 
 By the doomed prisoner in the early gray 
 Whisp'ring he stood : ' Awake ! 
 
 ' Rise, brother, and be silent ; thy relief, 
 
 I come to break thy chains, and change with thee 
 
 Our fate, for we are like as leaf to leaf 
 Plucked from a single tree. 
 
Sita, 
 
 ' Go, take my arms, march forth to keep the ground. 
 While I shall stand, thy forfeit, by the gun ; 
 
 The muffled drums shall beat, the bugles sound — 
 Speak not, it must be done. 
 
 ' Deny me not, nor thank me : quick ! they come. 
 
 Go forth to live, I stay to die : thou'lt know 
 The cause hereafter — hist ! the muffled drum ! 
 
 Go forth, my brother, go 1' 
 
 And radiant with the triumph of his crime, 
 Stood Sita's conqueror at his fatal post, 
 
 Guilt-laden, but in sacrifice sublime, 
 This man who loved her most : 
 
 The rapture of a boundless love possessed 
 Smiled on his lip with more than mortal joy ; 
 
 Erect, unbound he stood, and bared his breast, 
 And bade dark death destroy ! 
 
 Govind looked on and fled. By Sita's side, 
 That night he sheltered in a holy fane 
 
 Far in the mountains, and she scorned to hide 
 Her wounded spirit's stain. 
 
 Her lips could frame no answer but the truth 
 That widowed her, for her great love's reward 
 
 Left lone on earth, rejected without ruth, 
 Spurned by her living lord. 
 
Sita. 
 
 Divided by a bitter sea of shame, 
 
 Her eyes, her ears, upon his utterance hung : 
 ' I curse thee not, nor bless thee : praise nor blame 
 
 Thy guerdon from my tongue. 
 
 ' Until we meet in Swarga, who can tell ? 
 
 I know not, I, to which of us thou art 
 The wife — and so from henceforth, fare thee well, 
 
 For life on earth we part.' 
 
 And so he left her ; driven forth to earn 
 
 Her bread of sorrows with her hands — alone ; 
 
 Till memory of lost love shall cease to burn 
 The bosom chilled to stone. 
 
 She seemed a widow, swathed in mourning white : 
 Yet, as a wife, upon her arm she wore 
 
 Her bangle yet unbroken — hid from sight 
 Of eyes that knew no more — 
 
 Save when she lifts her hands, and, loath to live, 
 Entreats the heavens to rain their shafts that kill. 
 
 With supplicating cry : ' Forgive, forgive ! 
 My husband never will.' 
 
THE QUEEN'S LETTER. 
 
 ' I cannot find words to tell you how my widow's heart bleeds for 
 you, and what dismay and horror I feel at the crime that has robbed 
 you of a beloved husband. . . . May God give you the strength and 
 courage, and also the resignation, so necessary to enable you to bear 
 such a misfortune.' — The Queen to Madame Carnot, _/«<!«« 27, 
 1894. 
 
 Tender and true God made thee, Royal Queen, 
 To wipe with hands of balm the eyes that flow, 
 
 Taught of thy joy, thy passion that hath been. 
 The touch of human woe. 
 
 Words fail thee, when thy widowed heart would bleed 
 Drops of compassion for another's loss : — 
 
 That wife's, in France, on whom a murderer's deed 
 Hath laid the bitter cross. 
 
 Thou bid'st her courage from thy sovereign throne. 
 Brow-bound with glory, and the thorns that bide 
 
 With life-long memory, where thou sitt'st alone. 
 No husband by thy side. 
 
 To those who suffer bends thy queenly head, 
 Whisp'ring of changeless love to earth's despair, 
 
 Healing the ear of misery, comforted 
 In God to live and bear. 
 
10 
 
 TO THE PRINCESS OF WALES. 
 
 MAY, 1893. 
 
 Lady of England's love, come back again 
 
 From sorrow's chambers, and the Grecian Isles 
 
 Where Nature balms the sting of human pain 
 With her eternal smiles. 
 
 Come with the rose of May ! The wedding-feast 
 Waits for the advent of thy light from far, 
 
 And eyes of hope expect thee from the east. 
 Our radiant morning star ! 
 
 Thus Grecian fancy in a mirror bright 
 Revealed the fairest goddess gently won 
 
 To give young Psyche with espousal rite 
 The god of love, her son. 
 
 So, Princess, shall thy fair Imperial race 
 Reign in the land, and blossom and abide, 
 
 Even though their living love may not efface 
 The shadow by thy side. 
 
To the Princess of Wales. ii 
 
 Forget thou canst not one, thy first-born joy — 
 How tender hands, the day he should have wed, 
 
 Strewed hiies o'er the beautiful dead boy, 
 Cold in his silent bed. 
 
 There seemed he, sleeping in his martial dress. 
 Like a young warrior on the field of strife ; 
 
 And so God took him from the angry stress 
 And agony of life. 
 
 Lady, the measure of thy grief I know : 
 In one dark hour God gave us fatal part — 
 
 Woman to woman do my lips o'erflow 
 From broken heart to heart. 
 
 The same dark Presence carried from thy door 
 The gem in all thy crown of dearest worth, 
 
 And reft me with a stroke for evermore 
 Of love and hope on earth. 
 
 But thou art Royal, and the bitter cross 
 
 Shall England's love upbear with faithful hands. 
 
 And millions bid thee comfort for thy loss 
 From all her subject lands. 
 
12 
 
 OUR BABY PRINCE. 
 
 Come with the rose in June, sweet bud of joy, 
 Fresh with the promise of immortal love 
 
 To great Victoria's Royal line, fair boy, 
 Our treasure from above. 
 
 Comfort and hope upon thy baby brow 
 
 Sit radiant, 'neath thy angel's kindred smile ; 
 
 In far-ofT years, we see thee even now, 
 A star to light our Isle. 
 
 Grow as the lily, tender blossom dear, 
 
 Rich with all gifts the golden summers bring ; 
 
 A man of men, proud Nature's Prince and peer. 
 More noble than a king. 
 
13 
 
 H.M.S. 'VICTORIA.' 
 
 A MIDDY S STORY. 
 
 Two brothers we were of our father's house 
 
 In the great Victoria s crew, 
 And light across her iron bows 
 
 Our merry laughter flew. 
 
 Right proud was our mother's heart that day 
 When she watched our ship from land, 
 
 Like an island moved o'er the water-way, 
 By gallant Tryon's command. 
 
 Abaft our turret ribbed and steeled 
 
 Our Admiral stood tall, 
 To guide the Fleet o'er the sea's broad field. 
 
 The grandest man of all. 
 
 And now, full seventy fathom deep 
 
 Beneath the Syrian tide. 
 Good Sir George Tryon lies asleep 
 
 With my brother by his side. 
 
14 H.M.S. 'Victoria: 
 
 For he was human, and once he erred, 
 
 By the fate of mortal lips, 
 Yes, once mistook, when he gave the word 
 
 To turn the giant ships. 
 
 Who could misdoubt his wisdom, his skill ? 
 
 Not ours to disobey ! 
 Had he bade us perish at his will. 
 
 No voice had said him nay. 
 
 ' It will be all right,' we whispered, ' who knows 
 His secret that sways the Fleet ? — 
 
 Nay, surely, not as deadly foes 
 Shall our consort warships meet' 
 
 One long, long minute before the crash. 
 We knew it — the worst must come — 
 
 ' Back, back !' Too late — in a lightning flash 
 Destruction smote us dumb. 
 
 Not a lip was moved or uttered a sound 
 While the quivering ships lay still ; 
 
 They part — our splintered decks whirl round, 
 Our sinking port-holes fill. 
 
 And calm as the calm of that summer's breath 
 Our Chief's commands ring clear : 
 
 Every face set firm in the eyes of death, 
 We stand, we await, we hear. 
 
H.M.S. 'Victoria.' 15 
 
 Every hand fought hard for the great ship's life ; 
 
 We headed for the shore 
 Ten measureless minutes of mortal strife, 
 
 While down and down she bore. 
 
 Still on we ploughed, till the rush of the flood 
 
 Had choked our labouring helm, 
 And caught us, man by man, where we stood 
 
 As a prey for the seas to whelm. 
 
 A lurch to starboard — a. sudden surge — 
 
 I was struggling deep to my neck — 
 ' To port, to port for your lives !' we urge. 
 
 As they piped all hands on deck. 
 
 Four deep they fell in, nor shrank, nor stirred 
 
 One man from his place, not one. 
 Till the last command, ' Leap, leap !' was heard, 
 
 And we knew that all was done. 
 
 ' Every man for his life, leap, leap !' Not so 
 
 Was our Chief's last word obeyed. 
 Till the prisoners unbound, and the sick from below 
 
 Upborne, on deck were laid. 
 
 And then I saw — oh, how shall I speak 
 
 Of the godlike sacrifice ? 
 How the strong man yields his chance to the weak. 
 
 How the nameless hero dies ! 
 
i6 H.M.S. ' Victoria.' 
 
 And last I saw, on the bridge above, 
 
 Our gallant Chief stand tall ; 
 Till he sank with his ship not a step would he move, 
 
 The one who died for all. 
 
 ' It was all my fault,' he whispered low, 
 
 As a wretch unfit to live 
 Might hear his sentence falling slow 
 
 From a judge who dared not forgive. 
 
 We had pardoned all to the friend we knew. 
 
 As we gathered to his side ; 
 Not a man was there but, stanch and true, 
 
 For his sake had gladly died. 
 
 Beneath the bridge a coxswain swung 
 
 With a life-belt in his hand : — 
 'No, save yourself,' the answer rung, 
 
 In tones of proud command. 
 
 My brother met that sovereign eye 
 
 For once — to disobey. 
 As our last despairing signals fly : 
 
 ' Go, boy, you must not stay. 
 
 ' You youngsters, 'scape, I bid you both — 
 
 The boats are at hand to save.' 
 Then I thought of my mother's sorrow, loath 
 
 To waste the life she gave : 
 
H.M.S. 'Victoria: 17 
 
 But my brother stood and made answer : ' Sir, 
 
 I will follow where you go.' 
 And neither spoke more, nor would either stir, 
 
 And I saw them perish so ! 
 
 One hand held hard with a mighty grip — ♦ 
 
 One hid the sight from his eyes, 
 As our Chief went down with his battle-ship, 
 
 And in her grave he lies ! 
 
 'Twas scarce a moment — and I was aware 
 
 Of a wild and desperate fling, 
 A sinking, rushing through the air — 
 
 And I heard the waters sing. 
 
 Once I rose, and battled for breath 
 
 With a sea of men, sucked down 
 By the- strangling ship in her throes of death — 
 
 Ah God ! was this to drown ? 
 
 Deep, deep, I sank through the crystal clear, 
 Till the light came green and dim ; 
 
 And a wind and wreckage swept me near. 
 And many a severed limb. 
 
 A boom of thunder — up, up quick ! 
 
 A few faint struggling men ; 
 Where the stream of sinking life fell thick 
 
 We rose but nine or ten. 
 
i8 H.M.S. 'Victoria: 
 
 And, lo ! before our failing sight 
 The vanished ship has fled ; 
 
 Down, down she beats in frantic fight 
 The hollow of her bed. 
 
 Up fly the waters' wrath and roar ; 
 
 We toss, we sink, we float ; 
 We were but left some three or four, 
 
 Snatched by the rescuing boat : 
 
 But dead or living, no, not one 
 Had spoken a word of blame. 
 
 To cast a coward's reproach upon 
 Our brave Sir George's fame : 
 
 And when in face of England's foes 
 Her dear old flag we bear, 
 
 God grant us shipmates true as those 
 Who sank beside him there ! 
 
1 9 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 OCTOBER 6, 1892. 
 
 All glorious with the mystery subhme 
 
 Thy eyes shall fathom soon, 
 Night's bosom pillows thee, O son of Time ! 
 
 In splendours of the moon. 
 
 Cometh thy daybreak — there shall be no night 
 
 In that far heaven, — untrod 
 By course of quenching suns or stars, whose light 
 
 Shall be the face of God. 
 
 True seer, from thy heart the lamp of faith 
 Glowed clear through storm and shine, 
 
 And clothed the fearful majesty of Death 
 In robes of grace divine. 
 
 And thine the hand of might, the tender touch 
 
 That rnakes our pulse thine own 
 By love's eijchantments, for thou hast loved much, 
 
 And grief's excess hast known. 
 
 Sweet singer, by thy voice of huma:n love 
 
 And sorrow, pure and strong, 
 Teach us to find our God, while thou, above, 
 
 Art singing a new song. 
 
20 
 
 ' BECKET.' 
 
 PRODUCED BY MR. HENRY IRVING, FEBRUARY 6, 1 893. 
 
 One desire — the last — accomplished, one more jewel of 
 
 renown 
 Breaks in splendour through the shadows on our silent 
 
 singer's crown. 
 Once again the lips of music stir our souls with burning 
 
 breath 
 As the living touch the living through the mystery of death. 
 Tore our eyes the curtain rises — we behold the acted scene 
 Of the birth-throes of our England, of her glory that hath 
 
 been ; 
 Ay, the magic mirror shows us how the Norman ruler 
 
 preyed 
 On the rose of Saxon beauty, on the true heart-wife 
 
 betrayed ; 
 How the woman, bowed and broken, in her shame and 
 
 anguish ran 
 To the refuge of her people, to the one great Englishman, 
 Stout of heart and firm and tender, with the pardoning 
 
 grace of God 
 Flowing from his lips of mercy, by the tyrant's wrath un- 
 
 awed. 
 
' Bechet: 21 
 
 Becket, as we see and know him by the player's vivid art, 
 Thrills us with the cry of nature through the pulses to 
 
 the heart ; 
 Loud and long the people's answer shakes the roof with 
 
 ringing cheers, 
 Heralds of the greater glory that shall grow through all 
 
 the years. 
 Later come of Shakespeare's kindred, Tennyson, thy 
 
 happy birth 
 Cradled thee, a wondrous nursling, in the lap of English 
 
 earth ; 
 'Midst the croon of fairies' voices, through' the meadows 
 
 gold and green, 
 And their swirl of circles dancing o'er the dewdrops' 
 
 diamond sheen. 
 Tune and measure caught thee lisping ; unto thee the 
 
 roaming bees 
 Gathered secrets of sweet speech among [the^^heather by 
 
 the seas ; 
 And the delicate wild roses dropped their kisses on thy 
 
 mouth, 
 Where the summer winds lay charmed about the Island 
 
 of the south. 
 This was life, its joy and treasure ; richer now, he gives 
 
 us more : 
 Dead, we hear our poet speaking as he never spoke before. 
 
22 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 Heir of thy mother sea, deep troubled soul, 
 Stirred by the shafts of day and winds of night 
 To many-rippled fire of dancing light. 
 
 To sounding fury of foam and thunderous roll ; 
 
 In splendour or in darkness, joy or dole, 
 Consummate utterance of thy Maker's might. 
 Made clear in vision to thy spirit's sight. 
 
 Mirror of life and vast creation's whole. 
 
 Oh, singer, wrapt in music of the stars, 
 
 Drawn down by human passion in her throes. 
 Doth not the strife of Nature find surcease? 
 Shall not thy voice of power unlock the bars 
 That hedge us in with flesh and mortal woes, 
 And through immortal longings rise to peace ? 
 
23 
 
 KHARTOUM. 
 
 The river half-way on its course 
 Pauses to link its double source ; 
 
 The White Nile, wedded with the Blue, 
 Thenceforth one seaward track pursue. 
 
 Here rose a city, like a dream, 
 The birth of Egypt's mystic stream, 
 
 Charmed into life by magic power 
 To sway the land its little hour, 
 
 Perish, and leave a name of doom, 
 A cry from earth to God — Khartoum : 
 
 A city shrined in stately palm 
 
 And citron shade, where fragrant calm 
 
 Brooded in quiet, day and night, 
 O'er gardens rich for man's delight 
 
 With ev'ry flower of essence sweet, ' 
 With rose-leaf fall of beauty's feet. 
 
24 Khartoum. 
 
 With birds of jewelled plumage rare, 
 Low twittering in the love-warm air. 
 
 Here wedded peace and joy of life, 
 Shut from the world's rough sea of strife, 
 
 Moved hand in hand to music dear 
 Of babes' lips telling, heaven is near. 
 
 Without, the peopled city stirs ; 
 The prosperous merchant ministers 
 
 To Teuton, Frank, Italian, Greek, 
 The great mixed multitude that seek 
 
 Man's promised birthright far away 
 In happier clime and fairer day. 
 
 'Neath Egypt's rule, in fear and awe 
 Of Britain, rose the power of Law : 
 
 Palace and Christian Mission stand 
 God's beacon-lights above the land, 
 
 And Gordon waits at duty's post 
 The hostage pledged at honour's cost 
 
 To die, or save the people, bound 
 By savage foes beleaguering round. 
 
Khartoum. 25 
 
 Alone, by England's hest sent forth, 
 His lightning message swept the North 
 
 With stern appeals of voiceless fear — 
 A life-time pent in one brief year ! 
 
 The promise fails, the hope is' past : 
 
 Once more his eyes keep watch — their last. 
 
 This Sabbath eve he sits aloof, 
 In vision clear, on his palace roof : 
 
 The passing scene, as daylight dies. 
 Portends the assault, the night surprise. 
 
 The creeping swarm of the Arab horde 
 O'er dyke and wall, with spear and sword, 
 
 In silent fury overbold 
 
 With lust of beauty and of gold. 
 
 Beneath him lies the helpless prey. 
 His charge, to keep and lead away ; 
 
 'Twere done, could sight or sense divine 
 But one red speck of the English line : 
 
 With one true Briton by his side 
 
 To man the breach and stem the tide, 
 
26 Khartoum. 
 
 Gordon had won the match from Fate, 
 And mocked her lying boast, ' Too late !' 
 
 'Twas not to be — with blood-red haze 
 The gloaming cheats his hungry gaze, 
 
 Till through the faded after-glow 
 
 The flickering lamp of faith burnt low : 
 
 A hand unseen with curtains dim 
 Of doubt and darkness shrouded him. 
 
 The young Moon veiled her face and fled j 
 Black Night put on her crown of dread ; 
 
 Beneath the walls, the Arab hosts 
 
 Through thickening shadows steal like ghosts ; 
 
 No sound of living feet or breath 
 Betrays the hastening steps of Death ! 
 
 One weak, dismantled spot they find 
 By ebb of waters left behind, 
 
 Where at the height the Nile's o'erflow 
 Knocked down an access to the foe — 
 
 The roaring of a fiercer flood 
 
 Breaks o'er the walls submerged in blood. 
 
Khartoum. 27 
 
 With frantic howls of greed and hate 
 They surge against the palace gate, 
 
 Burst through, and sweep the garden fair 
 With deadly besom of sabre bare, 
 Then rush on Gordon up the stair ! 
 
 They find him, like a captain true, 
 Alone, the last of all his crew ; 
 
 Calm, to the storm-fiend's murderous shriek 
 He lifts his eye, he strives to speak ; 
 
 The thrusts of Arab spears replied — 
 Face forward, 'mongst them all, he died. 
 
 Not thus betrayed, had England's Queen 
 The arbiter of honour been ; 
 
 Had statesmen hearkened to her word, 
 'Midst her high Council idly heard, 
 
 Victoria had not mourned in vain 
 A hero's loss, a nation's stain. 
 
 That Sabbath morn the risen sun 
 Burned wrathful o'er the slaughter done : 
 
 A second day — the EngUsh host, 
 Mocked by the conqu'ring Mahdi's boast. 
 Looked on Khartoum, a city lost ! 
 
28 Khartoum. 
 
 Too late when Gordon's head hung high, 
 A show to ev'ry passer-by, 
 
 Swung on the lying prophet's tree. 
 The sign and spoil of victory. 
 
 In scorn of England's flying ships, 
 Foul outrage marred the silent lips, 
 
 Parted, as with the Godlike breath, 
 To speak the ecstasy of death ! 
 
 The Queen wrote to Miss Gordon : 
 
 ' Osborne, 
 
 ' February 17, 1885. 
 ' Dear Miss Gordon, 
 
 ' How shall I write to you, or how shall I attempt to express 
 what I feel ? To think of your dear, noble, heroic brother, who 
 served his country and his Queen so truly, so heroically, with a 
 self-sacrifice so edifying to the world, not having been rescued ! 
 That the promises of support were not fulfilled — which I so 
 frequently and constantly pressed on those who urged him to go 
 — is to me grief inexpressible, and what I so keenly feel, the stain 
 left upon England for your dear brother's cruel though heroic fate.' 
 
29 
 
 THE MAHDI'S DOOM. 
 
 Death of the Mahdi Mohammed Ahmed. — ' He complained of 
 pain in the heart, and died on June 22, 1885, of fatty degeneration 
 of the heart. Some say that he was a victim to the vengeance of a 
 woman who had lost husband and children in the fall of Khartoum, 
 and who repaid the Mahdi's outrage on her own person by giving 
 him poison.' — Father Ohrwalder, Ten Years in the Mahdts 
 Camp. 
 
 The Mahdi rests ; his head is laid 
 On pillows rich with gold brocade ; 
 
 O'er his loose limbs his wives have drawn 
 Attire of silk and finest lawn ; 
 
 Officious hands of many a slave 
 Great ostrich feathers o'er him wave : 
 
 They press his foot and smooth his palm 
 With flower-soft touch and kiss of balm ; 
 
 He turns, he breaks their luscious coil 
 To batten on a fresher spoil. 
 
30 The Mahdi's Doom. 
 
 With hands that red-wet gore imbrues 
 The victors set apart and choose 
 
 The fairest captives ; man by man 
 Emirs and chiefs the quest began, 
 
 Their Prophet first — to preach so fain 
 The grace of poverty and pain, 
 The stroke of war, the soldier's gain, 
 
 Heir to vast worlds of boundless bliss. 
 Dying, to make him Lord of this. 
 
 One woman, loveliest of them all. 
 They led before him, white and tall. 
 
 With red flecks through her tangled hair. 
 With gleaming arms of ivory bare. 
 
 There in her silken robes she stood. 
 Fresh dabbled in her husband's blood, 
 
 The blow that stilled her baby's cries 
 Still hideous in her ears and eyes. 
 
 He looked, and, hungering for her charms. 
 With cords of silk he binds her arms, 
 
 The grand wild creature's wrath to tame, 
 And stoop her haughty grief to shame. 
 
The Mahdi's Doom. 31 
 
 His loathed lips quenched the ruddy streak 
 Burnt like a brand upon her cheek, 
 
 But in her heart fierce fires of hate 
 Kindled the hell his soul shall sate. 
 
 The English fled, he rules alone 
 O'er Nile and desert world — his own. 
 
 His vast encampment hides the plain, 
 As fleets o'ersway the rolling main. 
 
 When evening's golden glow expires, 
 The sands break forth, a sea of fires, 
 
 Lost in bright labyrinths afar. 
 
 With mingling kiss of earth and star. 
 
 The Prophet-chief, the Lord supreme. 
 Lies flushed with wine and passion's dream. 
 
 He wakes athirst, with sudden leap — 
 There, by the pillow of his sleep, 
 
 His slalve, his trampled captive, stands, 
 A goblet in her willing hands. 
 
 He drinks — he grasps at air — he falls : 
 AVhat crushes through his curtained walls ? 
 
32 The Mahdi's Doom. 
 
 The nightmare of a murder done, 
 With tiger-grips of hell begun ? 
 
 Or is't the fire in heart and brain 
 
 Thus wrings and thrills each nerve and vein ? 
 
 With humbled eye, that slave hath slaked 
 His longings, ever as he waked, 
 
 And strength and heart, the pride of man. 
 Have sunk to sleep in weakness wan. 
 
 Once more he lifts his hands to taste 
 Her charmed cup, to clasp her waist — 
 
 And life, with all its powers, for him. 
 Fades to a maze of shadows dim. 
 
 Lo ! with the peeping eyes of morn 
 His heralds blow the mighty horn : 
 
 The hollowed tusks of ivory sound. 
 The feet of horses shake the ground ; 
 
 They know the call, they neigh, they prance 
 In tune to clashing spear and lance ; 
 
 The war-drums rouse the march of pride, 
 This day the Prophet-chief shall ride 
 
The Mahdi's Doom. 33 
 
 Attended by the countless horde 
 Of warrior-priests that hail him Lord, 
 Triumphant by his conquering sword ! 
 
 Horseman and steed, they answered all — 
 Save one — no glory lifts the pall 
 
 Of deaf and cold oblivion spread 
 Upon the silent Master's bed. 
 
 The last faint breath of life scarce stirs 
 His lips, beneath those eyes of hers 
 
 Fixed on their motion, with the spell 
 Of spirits wrought to mutual hell ! 
 
 Loud laughed she now with mocking cry : 
 ' Thou human god that couldst not die ! 
 
 ' Thou didst not fear this little hand 
 Should quit thee for the ruined land, 
 
 ' Mixing thy drink with mortal bane, 
 To writhe and burn each nerve and vein, 
 
 ' Foul phantom of a power divine. 
 Slain like a rat for me and mine ! 
 
34 The Mahdi's Doom. 
 
 ' A tender woman's wrath has done 
 This, justice, for her lord and son. 
 
 ' These eyes of sorrow, hard and dry, 
 Gloat on thy pangs and watch thee die ; 
 
 ' Then go I hence, with veiled head, 
 To weep for my belovfed dead — 
 
 ' Through long, long nights, when silence stills 
 Earth's murmurs, shall the distant hills 
 
 ' From height and hollow lift my moan 
 To nature and to God alone.' 
 
35 
 
 THE FATE OF ALLAN WILSON. 
 
 Oh, proud though pitiful the tale of Afric's young 
 renown, 
 
 Of Wilson's gallant thirty-five like summer grass cut 
 down ; 
 
 The boast of Britain's daughter land, her choice of man- 
 hood's flower, 
 
 Not one returned alive to speak the story of that hour ! 
 
 The treacherous Kaffir king had fled before the touch of 
 
 fear. 
 And left the panting land at rest from savage raid and 
 
 spear ; 
 Before the white man's face he turned, and crossed the 
 
 river ford. 
 To set the rising stream between our handful and his 
 
 horde. 
 
36 The Fate of Allan Wilson. 
 
 Upon the brink we stood at fault, a chafing, baffled 
 
 pack : 
 'Go,' said our Captain, 'stalk the wolf; cross quickly 
 
 and come back. 
 Go, Allan Wilson, take a few, the pick of all our men, 
 One hour of sun is left to do your work, and come 
 
 again.' 
 
 Rider and horse, they chose each one, the bravest of the 
 
 brave. 
 With eager feet to leap the bank and breast the swelling 
 
 wave : 
 Then Wilson turned a lightning glance, a flash of sudden 
 
 pain 
 Upon one face — his other self that rode beside his rein. 
 
 Young Bowen, first in trust and love with that true 
 
 warrior breast. 
 Had left behind a mated dove upon her new-made nest ; 
 Should he bear forth a double stake upon that desperate 
 
 ride, 
 A happy life to cast away, and leave a widowed bride ? 
 
The Fate of Allan Wilson. 37 
 
 Even for her sake, the brave man turned and bade the 
 
 husband, ' Go ; 
 Take back my message to our chief; one hour, and we 
 
 will know 
 Where to set hands upon the king, and then the war is 
 
 done : 
 Bid him not follow yet — I will return at set of sun.' 
 
 Light flew the words upon his lips, but in his heart he 
 
 knew 
 To win or lose the cast of war he sallied with those few : 
 Enough to dare and hazard all, to seize the wolf, and 
 
 make 
 Peace sure through all the borders round, or die for 
 
 England's sake. 
 
 Forward ! the boundless fields of heaven break forth in 
 
 rosy bloom ; 
 The changing mantle of the night drops down in purple 
 
 gloom : 
 The giant sun has grandly died, and through his memory 
 
 pale 
 The stars stand out like diamond drops upon a broidered 
 
 veil. 
 
38 The Fate of Allan Wilson. 
 
 Forward ! with many a savage camp the hillsides glow 
 
 and teem ; 
 The dusky forms, men, wives and babes, swarm thick as 
 
 in a dream ; 
 Who stirs a finger to gainsay the words of peace we 
 
 bring ? 
 Oh, but to rush the pass, and bind the murderous wild 
 
 king! 
 
 Through a deep valley darkly set with woods on either 
 side 
 
 They follow onward, questioning their prisoner and 
 guide ; 
 
 Through leafy depths and secret night the fitful camp- 
 fires glare ; 
 
 Forward ! the captive points the way : ' The king, the 
 king is there !' 
 
 Right up the perilous pass ihey ride : who whispers of 
 
 return ? 
 All the long night, through rain and wind,: they watch 
 
 the bale-fires burn. 
 The rustling and the clash of arms in ominous motion 
 
 told 
 Of warriors gathering to the fray, in multitude o'erbold. 
 
The Fate of Allan Wilson. 39 
 
 Our spokesman's summons hails the camp : ' Let him 
 
 come out, your king : 
 The message of the white men's chief in words of peace 
 
 we bring. 
 We promise life and freedom — so he yield into our hand 
 To fight and kill no more : enough of blood has stained 
 
 the land.' 
 
 No answer but the gunlock's click — the shadows through 
 
 the bush, 
 Impatient for the peep of day to man the deadly rush ; 
 Athwart the first faint morning-red the stealthy glints of 
 
 flame 
 Flashed from the narrowing circle whence the whirring 
 
 bullets came. 
 
 The death-trap shut on man and horse : they struggled 
 
 to break through ; 
 As neck and neck they raced with Fate the maddening 
 
 chargers flew : 
 The dead and dying choke the path, the living shelter, 
 
 fain 
 To point their volleys from behind their steeds and 
 
 comrades slain. 
 
40 The Fate of Allan Wilson. 
 
 They might have broke the closing ring — a few— and 
 
 left the rest ; 
 But these were not the men to fail their wounded mates 
 
 hard pressed : 
 United by a triple bond in one sublime despair, 
 True hand clasped hand for auld lang syne, and ' fought 
 
 it out right there.' 
 
 ' Keep your hearts up, boys ; we will fight our way out of 
 
 this yet !' 
 And Scotland's lion wrought with Death as equal wrestlers 
 
 met; 
 Till wave on wave, with crest of spears, the great wide 
 
 sea of foes 
 Sweeps on, resistless to the last, in one dark moment's 
 
 close. 
 
 And dear they sold the passage there o'er pierced and 
 bleeding limb : 
 
 ' God save the Queen ' with song and shout went up Old 
 England's hymn — 
 
 The watchword of a thousand years their latest battle-cry : 
 
 Once more they told the wondering world how English- 
 men can die. 
 
The Fate of Allan Wilson. 41 
 
 Alone, he saw them fall — save one, sent back before the 
 
 strife 
 To spare the bride a widow's tears, the husband to the 
 
 wife : 
 O Allan Wilson, friend of friends, the tenderest, dearest, 
 
 best. 
 Shall not her joy and blessing hve above thy glorious 
 
 rest? 
 
4^ 
 
 ISANDHLWANA. 
 
 Lo, a cry is heard in England, 
 Bitter wailing for the slain, 
 
 Nigh a thousand of her bravest 
 Dead on Isandhlwana's plain. 
 
 Far away in burning Afric, 
 For the name of Motherland, 
 
 And the rights of peaceful dwellers, 
 British soldiers took their stand, 
 
 'Gainst the thunder-browed barbarian. 
 Lord of Zululand's fierce brood. 
 
 With his hordes of naked athletes 
 Hot to wash their spears in blood. 
 
 Not to them have dusky mothers 
 Tender nurslings bred and borne, 
 
 Nor the rites of heathen marriage 
 E'er their shaggy locks have shorn. 
 
Isandhlwana. 43 
 
 What reck they of human passions ? 
 
 Lust of gore is their life's breath, 
 Skilled to slay, as gladiators 
 
 Taught to play a match with death. 
 
 Broad and deep the frontier river 
 Fenced us with its rushing tide. 
 
 Stout and true men kept the passage, 
 ' Rorke's Drift ' on the British side. 
 
 Bridging o'er the swollen waters. 
 Dashing boldly through the bush. 
 
 Where their dark foes swarm in myriads. 
 On the hnes of scarlet rush. 
 
 As the thin rays of the sunlight 
 Through a rift amidst a wall, 
 
 On ten thousand living atoms 
 In fierce darts of splendour fall. 
 
 'Neath the rock of Isandhlwana, 
 
 Half our columns pitched their tent. 
 
 Halted there, while, with their leader. 
 Towards the foe their comrades went. 
 
44 Isandhlwana. 
 
 Many a lure the crafty savage 
 Played around the guarded rock, 
 
 Till, beguiled without their order, 
 Britain's handful met the shock. 
 
 Twenty against one ! Surrounded, 
 
 Every man stood up to die ; 
 Each slew ten before he perished 
 
 'Neath the murderous assegai. 
 
 Not a cartridge left ! Ho ! charge them 
 With fixed bayonets ! 'Twas vain. 
 
 'Gainst their points the desperate savage 
 Hurled the bodies of the slain. 
 
 Stewart Smith, though faint with bleeding, 
 Spiked his guns ere he lay low : 
 
 ' 'Gainst the comrades left behind us. 
 They shall never serve our foe.' 
 
 Then cried out the gallant Pulleine, 
 ' We are here, and here we stand : 
 
 Aylmer Coghill, go, and Melville, 
 Take the Colours in your hand. 
 
handhlwana. 45 
 
 Make your way with them to safety — 
 
 To the British lines, and say 
 How the Twenty-Fourth, outnumbered, 
 
 Fight on till the end this day.' 
 
 Hand grasps hand, foot swings in stirrup, 
 On their desperate race they start, 
 
 Cut their way forth with the Colours 
 Folded round young Melville's heart. 
 
 Right and left their sabres flashing 
 
 Pierce the Zulus' deep array. 
 Back to Rorke's Drift, where their comrades 
 
 Hold the savage foe at bay. 
 
 Driven thence, o'er stony chasm. 
 
 Rock and gully, lightning-swift, 
 On they spurred, and gained the river. 
 
 On — they reached the lower Drift. 
 
 Headlong 'midst the roaring torrent 
 On they plunged, where gallant men 
 
 Wrestled with the flood, and perished, 
 But those two men rose again. 
 
46 Isandhlwana. 
 
 Almost saved ! when Aylmer Coghill, 
 Bleeding from a deadly wound, 
 
 Dropped exhausted from his saddle, 
 But to die on English ground. 
 
 Melville flung himself beside him. 
 Gently watched his soul depart. 
 
 Struggled to remount — fell backwards 
 With the Colours round his heart. 
 
 On to Rorke's Drift ! Smoking ruins 
 Greet the friends who came too late ; 
 
 All cry ' Lost !' but no, stern valour 
 Has endured and conquered fate. 
 
 Ringing o'er the frontier river, 
 British cheers glad tidings tell. 
 
 From that place whose young defenders 
 Did so gallantly and well. 
 
 Chard and Bromhead, with their hundred. 
 Stood to hold a shattered wall : 
 
 ' They will hear of it in England, 
 They will boast in Thurlby Hall, 
 
Isandhlwana. 47 
 
 ' How a son of brave Sir Edmund, 
 
 All the long night through till morn, 
 With that little band of heroes 
 
 Mocked three thousand foes to scorn.' 
 
 Yet the day has gone against us. 
 
 If the exulting foe may boast, 
 How the dearly-cherished Colours 
 
 Were at Isandhlwana lost. 
 
 No ! they found them by the river. 
 
 Safe within the British land ; 
 Crimsoned with young Melville's life-blood, 
 
 Ere he dropped them from his hand. 
 
 Men were weeping at the story. 
 
 While they brought them back with pride ; 
 Then they told of Chillianwallah, 
 
 Where the men who bore them died. 
 
 Never did they nobler duty 
 
 Than when clasped to Melville's breast, 
 Till he fell beside his comrade. 
 
 Gone together to their rest. 
 
48 
 
 LOUIS NAPOLEON. 
 
 Weep not for him, the bright heroic boy 
 
 Slain in wild Afric, 'midst the waving grass, 
 Born to Imperial France in pride and joy, 
 So earthly glories pass. 
 
 Weep not for him who died so young, of such 
 
 Heaven's kingdom is, for him the angels come 
 In life's fair morn, because God loved him much. 
 To take him home. 
 
 In his death happy ! But for her, even hate 
 
 Might melt to pity, and her bitterest, foe 
 Weep in compassion for a mother's fate 
 Unparalleled in woe. 
 
 How is her beauty changed that could entrance 
 
 A world in admiration ! On that brow 
 Erewhile was set the diadem of France — 
 A crown of sorrows now ! 
 
Louis Napoleon. 49 
 
 What should she hope for, pray for, but the end ? 
 
 A widow, of her only child bereft. 
 O Death, deal tenderly with her ! Last friend, 
 And best, to misery left. 
 
 Mock not her grief with comfort ! be it His, 
 Who never rent love's dearest ties in vain. 
 To give her back her son in heavenly bliss : 
 There they shall meet again. 
 
50 
 
 AT THE BATTLE OF BRONKER'S SPRUIT. 
 
 [Mrs. Smith, wife of a bandmaster, is the heroine of this incident of 
 the Battle of Bronker's Spruit.') 
 
 Who hath seen the day of battle ? 
 
 On the tramping columns go, 
 Step by step to warlike music 
 
 Proudly marching towards the foe. 
 
 Charge ! ere yet the word is given, 
 'JVTidst the cannon's smoke and boom, 
 
 Banners veil their glittering terrors, 
 And the tuneful notes are dumb. 
 
 Then the hands so skilled in music 
 Cease their soul-compelling sound, 
 
 Search and save God's broken image 
 Marred by many a hideous wound. 
 
At the Battle of Bronker's Spruit. 51 
 
 Foremost in the ranks of mercy 
 Next the husband works the wife, 
 
 Strong in hope that, undivided. 
 War might spare their mingled life. 
 
 Near her crept her blue-eyed daughter : 
 Yea, the tender three-years child, 
 
 Wandering from the camp, unnoted. 
 Looked on- death and, fearless, smiled. 
 
 Lo, a bullet wildly hurtling 
 
 Glanced upon the mother's head : 
 
 Down her husband sank beside her — 
 ' God of Mercy ! is he dead ?' 
 
 True, too true ! no human language 
 Lent grief words, while, fixed as stone, 
 
 She could still her heart's first anguish, 
 And her frightened infant's moan. 
 
 Eyes can pour no healing waters 
 For such sorrow : hard and dry, 
 
 Utter woe looks up to heaven. 
 Lifts no voice and hath no cry. 
 
52 At the Battle of Bronker's Spruit. 
 
 Woman, to the dying round thee 
 Turn thee from thy slaughtered love. 
 
 And thy work of holy duty 
 Shall have great reward above. 
 
 To the parching lips her fingers 
 Laid the cooling water's brim : 
 
 For their wounds she ripped her garments. 
 Stanched and bound the bleeding limb : 
 
 Bringing to the pangs of others 
 Comfort from her broken heart : 
 
 Thus, in mortal pain and sorrows, 
 Do the angels bear a part — 
 
 Saving life for wives and mothers 
 When her joy had passed away ; 
 
 Not until the fight was ended 
 Could she give her sorrow sway. 
 
 Comfort thee with love and honour, 
 
 Widow, desolate and lone ! 
 With the praise of England's people — 
 
 Of the Widow on her throne ! 
 
53 
 
 THE LITTLE HERO OF THE THAMES. 
 
 JULY 21, 1894. 
 
 A tablet recording the story of John Clinton, the Little Hero of 
 the Thames, has been erected by the Rev. A. W. Jephson, Vicar of 
 St. John's, Walworth, in the national schools of his parish. 
 
 Look there ! You may read on the Tablet, let into our 
 
 schoolhouse wall, 
 That name you've heard, ' John Clinton ' — our Jack — 
 
 the lad they call 
 The Little Hero — of Walworth — our scholar, ten years 
 
 old: 
 The short life's noble story, 'tis briefly, proudly told. 
 
 We knew him, our keen, bright pupil, in earnest at work 
 
 and play ; 
 Steady, and never failing : he came to us one day 
 With burns on his wrists and fingers — at school, though, 
 
 all the same — 
 The marks of a gallant rescue, a baby snatched from the 
 
 flame. 
 
54 The Little Hero. 
 
 One morning, his place was empty ; I knew the cause — 
 and then 
 
 I broke it to the children : he never would come again. 
 
 I had stood on the Bridge yest'reven, to watch the sunset 
 glow, 
 
 And Jack with his merry comrades at play on the fore- 
 shore below. 
 
 As I heard the rippling laughter, the whisper of waves 
 as they pass, 
 
 Touched by the glory of heaven to fire and golden glass. 
 
 By the charm of the happy voices, the spell of the croon- 
 ing stream, 
 
 The years rolled back from my forehead, and life was a 
 fairy dream. 
 
 Then a shriek went up from the river, that stopped my 
 
 heart and breath — 
 The cry of a maddened creature in pain and terror of 
 
 death : 
 Jack's pet, a frolic urchin, had wandered like a fool 
 Where the wild troop revelled barefoot, and splashed the 
 
 wavelets cool. 
 
The Little Hero. 55 
 
 Past his depth the child had ventured ; — then straight to 
 
 his side went Jack, 
 Where he strove hke a fly in the water, and caught, 
 
 and dragged him back ; 
 Held up his head from drowning, and lifted his life to 
 
 the bank : 
 'Twas done : — and the Little Hero slid back from the 
 
 edge — and sank. 
 
 I trod on fire that flung me down to the water side : 
 I saw him caught like a feather upon the rushing tide : 
 With stony eyes of horror, I saw him disappear. 
 Swept on by the current, resistless, beneath the Old 
 Swan Pier. 
 
 ' Help, help ! the boy is drowning !' the cry of my 
 
 despair 
 Went up in vain appealing : no timely boat was there. 
 Oh my God ! those long, long minutes — the toiment of 
 
 hope and dread — 
 Till the wash of a passing steamer cast back his body — 
 
 dead. 
 
56 The Little Hero. 
 
 ' It cannot be,' I faltered — he lay there, cold and pale. 
 A kindly doctor was passing, and sought, without avail, 
 To move the breath in the body, with long, unyielding 
 
 strife, 
 To wrest the form from corruption, and call back the 
 
 sweet life. 
 
 The summer sun was dying — the boy lay still : I knew 
 God loved him, so He took him : and all that man could 
 
 do 
 Helped not the hour of darkness, the light of earth 
 
 struck down. 
 When the jewel we hoped so much of was set in the 
 
 Saviour's crown. 
 
 'Neath the flood of the moonlight splendour, upon a 
 
 pallet bare. 
 With tender hands and reverent we laid the casket fair : 
 The smile of the parted spirit spoke peace through the 
 
 marble calm. 
 And I knew by the river of heaven he bore the martyr's 
 
 palm. 
 
The Little Hero. 57 
 
 Our boy gave his life for his playmate: the glory of a 
 man 
 
 Shines on his course accomplished in ten bright sum- 
 mers' span ; 
 
 For England, crowned with honour, among her living 
 gems 
 
 Shall set the Little Hero, John Clinton, of the Thames. 
 
58 
 
 THE LAST FLIGHT OF THE ALBATROSS. 
 
 FOUNDED ON A STORY BY PHIL ROBINSON 
 (^SUNDAY times). 
 
 Ay, comrades, 'tis by wondrous chance 
 
 That 'mongst you once again 
 I moist my lip with wine of France, 
 
 And sun-ripe fruits of Spain. 
 
 The harsh cold taste is in my mouth 
 
 Of salt seas pitiless, 
 Of famine and drouth in the far, far South, 
 
 Man's uttermost distress. 
 
 God's creature 'twas, a great white bird, 
 That saved our souls from death ; 
 
 Ear never heard so wild a word 
 As shall compel your faith. 
 
The Last Flight of the Albatross. 59 
 
 From fair Bordeaux we sailed last year, 
 
 'Fore summer wind and sun ; 
 With merry cheer the port we clear, 
 
 And glide o'er swift Garonne. 
 
 The river bore our gallant craft 
 
 Down to the broad blue sea ; 
 The shiinmering waters danced and laughed. 
 
 And blithe and bold were we ! 
 
 With many a shout and gay sea-song 
 
 Our mainsail flew, unfurled 
 In Biscay's breezes warm and strong 
 
 To sweep round half the world. 
 
 Down to the vast South sea we rove, 
 
 And pass the rock of doom 
 Where great Napoleon's spirit strove 
 
 To burst its prison-tomb. 
 
 Fair weather with us, we round the Cape, 
 
 Veer east, and tack again ; 
 High hope leads on — our course we shape 
 
 To plough the Indian main. 
 
6o The Last Flight of the Albatross. 
 
 Fair in the golden light of morn, 
 The mighty ocean's breast 
 
 Heaved like a field of waving corn, 
 And sang our hearts to rest. 
 
 At eventide, the dying light 
 
 Showed wonders new and strange : 
 
 We asked not if the glorious sight 
 Portended ill or change. 
 
 Sudden we saw the heavens turn black ; 
 
 With low and angry swell 
 The fierce white crests pursue our track, 
 
 Lashed on by fiends of hell ! 
 
 They seize the ship in their deadly grip ; 
 
 Out of our hurrying hands 
 They tear the hauling ropes, and rip 
 
 The sails to fluttering bands. 
 
 Crack through the hurly went spar and mast 
 Like the snap of a broken limb : 
 
 From port to gunwale rising fast, 
 The hungry waters brim. 
 
The Last Flight of the Albatross. 6i 
 
 Each bolt and stanchion groans and strives, 
 
 As hold and cabins fill ; 
 And hand to hand with our bravest lives 
 
 Death fought, and had his will. 
 
 The broken ship — but half a wreck — 
 
 Drifts on, a castaway ; 
 And lashed to fragments of a deck 
 
 Our helpless remnant lay. 
 
 On, onward ! Whither, God, Thou know'st ! 
 
 Still onward, far and fast^ 
 Against an island's rocky coast 
 
 The seas their burthen cast. 
 
 With little else but our bodies worn, 
 Cast up on that wild land 
 
 Of human step and voice forlorn, 
 We roam o'er rock and sand. 
 
 In want of all things, tempted sore 
 To curse our God and die, 
 
 We hear the ripples lap the shore, 
 The chasing sea-birds cry. 
 
62 The Last Flight of the Albatross. 
 
 We search through shoals and creeks, to feed 
 
 Where shelly sea-fruits cling ; 
 With hands bestirred by utmost need 
 
 The hook and line we fling. 
 
 Sparely we sup— and, maddening, gaze 
 Up to the Southern Cross : 
 
 Lo, yonder, in the silver rays. 
 Gleams white — an albatross. 
 
 Waking, we saw the wondrous bird 
 
 Its snowy wings unfold, 
 And woo the blush of morning, stirred 
 
 To fluttering rose and gold. 
 
 Down to the sea, the baited hook 
 
 We cast with cunning skill : 
 The great bird rises — stoops — look, look ! 
 
 The barb has caught his bill ! 
 
 Now with the slackening line we play. 
 Now pull with might and main, 
 
 Now cross the wings and bind our prey 
 From frantic struggles vain. 
 
The. Last Flight of the Albatross. 63 
 
 And must thou die, fierce king of air 
 
 And sea ? We starve for food — 
 No ! God shall help us, so we spare 
 
 The grand wild creature's blood ! 
 
 The bird of hope about its neck 
 
 To living men shall bear 
 The message of our woeful wreck 
 
 And uttermost despair. 
 
 We scratched the words on a broken cup ; 
 
 ' Ship sunk, with all her crew 
 But us, on Crozet Isles cast up, 
 
 A wretched, starving few.' 
 
 We gave unto the sea-bird's charge 
 
 This last chance desperate ; 
 We loosed his wings, to fly at large, 
 
 The bearers of our fate. 
 
 O'er fields of air those pinions ride. 
 
 From tip to tip outspread 
 Six paces, as the country side 
 
 Counts by the landsman's tread. 
 
64 The Last Flight of the Albatross. 
 
 Up, up he soars in boundless height — 
 Now wheels in circling rings, 
 
 Now on the rushing storm-wind's flight 
 Poises with moveless wings. 
 
 No helmsman closer to the wind 
 
 Can steer the swelling sail 
 Than those far-sweeping pinions find 
 
 Their course to ride the gale. 
 
 Straight as an Indian's spear sent forth 
 
 To kill, our rescuer bore 
 Three thousand miles to East by North, 
 
 And touched Australia's shore. 
 
 There, near Perth harbour, by the sea 
 The faithful bird was found, 
 
 The white neck, writhed in agony. 
 Still with our message bound. 
 
 The cruel cord that bore our fate, 
 
 But too securely tied. 
 Choked the first morsel that he ate — 
 
 And so the brave bird died. 
 
The Last Flight of the Albatross. 65 
 
 And we were saved ! Sir Napier Broome 
 
 Sped out a ship that day, 
 With press of steam and spread of boom 
 
 To seek us far away. 
 
 So hearken, mates all, in the watch by night, 
 'Neath the Bear or the Southern Cross, 
 
 How our lives were saved by that last flight 
 Of the gallant Albatross ! 
 
66 
 
 THE GLACIER-BED. 
 
 In a village in Switzerland, a young guide, on the way back from 
 his wedding, met a party of tourists, who were looking for a guide 
 to explore a glacier. The bridegroom left his bride at the chalet 
 door, as they returned from the church, she promising to keep a 
 light in her window until he should come home ; but he fell through 
 a ravine upon a glacier-bed, and was lost. The widowed wife, 
 having learned that in the course of fifty years the glacier would 
 emerge from the ravine, waited, and her lost husband was found 
 frozen in the ice all those years after his wedding-day. 
 
 Burning, burning, burning for ever, by night and day — 
 Let be the light in my window — don't touch it — don't 
 
 take it away : 
 With the sap of my life I have fed my lamp that its flame 
 
 should burn 
 Till the morn of our bridal night, till my love, my husband 
 
 return. 
 
The Glacier-bed. 67 
 
 What say you? he is dead !— I will not believe it; no ! 
 We were wedded — who can remember that ? 'tis so long 
 
 ago— 
 At the church of our mountain village : the morning 
 
 light shone down 
 From the glittering peaks of the Alps to circle my bridal 
 
 crown. 
 
 Oh me, the joy of us two that blessed day made one ! 
 The song of the happy children — the flowers — the 
 
 dancing sun — 
 All these were about us that time he led me home as his 
 
 bride — 
 When the strangers crossed our path, and he heard them 
 
 call for a guide. 
 
 And duty o'ermasters love — and he dared not deny that 
 
 call, 
 For among our Alpine heroes they knew him the 
 
 bravest of all : 
 With a foot, and an eye, and an arm to match with his 
 
 dauntless heart ; 
 And I knew where his honour led — though loath we were 
 
 to part. 
 
68 The Glacier-bed. 
 
 But his honour, his choice, his desire was mine, for I 
 
 loved him so : 
 When I looked in my darling's face I was brave, and I 
 
 bade him go ! 
 I stayed at our chalet door, and he tore himself away 
 From the virgin kisses of love, and the joy of our 
 
 marriage-day. 
 
 ' I'll come back to thee, dear,' he said, ' when the moun- 
 tain is veiled in night : 
 
 Set a lamp in thy window to shine as my star, my guid- 
 ing light ; 
 
 Through the winding paths of the ice, from beneath, 
 from above. 
 
 Let my eyes be fixed on thy bridal chamber, my new- 
 wedded love.' 
 
 And fixed as ice was my gaze that followed him as he 
 
 went ; 
 And yet, when I saw him go, I was more than happy — 
 
 content : 
 The warmth of his arms was around me, my lips had 
 
 thrilled to his kiss : 
 My soul . had tasted his love — could heaven be sweeter 
 
 than this ? 
 
The Glacier-bed. 69 
 
 And I knew that nothing could part us more, in life or 
 
 in death : 
 I saw him not — and I saw him again, far down beneath, 
 In the bravery of his gay wedding clothes — and my eyes 
 
 grew dim 
 With the strain and the dizzy height, as they looked 
 
 their last on him. 
 
 I knew he would hold to his promise^ — I never would 
 
 fail of mine : 
 That was our bridal night when I trimmed my lamp to 
 
 shine 
 Till he came from the fields of ice, to our chalet safe 
 
 and warm, 
 Closed in from the thickening night, and the smiting 
 
 blast of the storm. 
 
 That was our bridal night — hist ! the fiends of the 
 
 mountain dance 
 To the shrieks of the lost, as they grope their way 'neath 
 
 the lightning's glance ; 
 Till the dark and the dawn bring the day, and I wait at 
 
 the chalet door 
 For my bridegroom of yester-eve, for my joy that returns 
 
 no more. 
 
70 The Glacier-bed. 
 
 But the sun shines on, and the path is clear from valley 
 to peak : 
 
 Whence come ye to look in my face the tale that ye dare 
 not speak ? 
 
 All the rest were safe — he had led them bravely through, 
 they said : 
 
 But my own true-hearted husband was lost in the glacier- 
 bed. 
 
 He will come again, I whispered, and, pitying, they 
 
 turned away : 
 And that light still burns since we parted — it seems but 
 
 yesterday. 
 So long ago ! What ? 'Tis fifty years to-morrow, you 
 
 said : 
 That was the time, I heard, when the ice should give 
 
 back the dead : 
 
 When the glacier that froze his young blood, in the 
 
 depth of the dark ravine, 
 Where he fell through the rift and perished, should work 
 
 its way unseen 
 Towards the mouth of the icy gulf, through the years of 
 
 creeping days : 
 Now, now, 'tis the time — let me go, for I know that my 
 
 bridegroom stays. 
 
The Glacier-bed. '/i 
 
 My lamp is alight — I have toiled — I have starved to 
 
 feed its fire, 
 Through a long life slowly wasting in pangs of one 
 
 desire : 
 I thought it was never coming, and now the end is nigh : 
 I shall look on his face that I loved in my youth, before 
 
 I die. 
 
 I go to seek him now, where he lies in the glacier-bed — 
 Ah, cold and flinty pillow for my darling's golden head ! 
 In his beauty and strength of manhood, frozen to 
 
 changeless stone : 
 There, there ! I have found him at last ! oh, my love, 
 
 my love, my own ! 
 
 Now, bear us forth together, the bridegroom and the 
 
 bride. 
 To the church of our mountain village, and lay us side 
 
 by side 
 'Neath the stone where God joined us, and bound our 
 
 souls in eternal truth, 
 And the virgin widow shall rest with the husband of her 
 
 youth. 
 
72 The Glacier-bed. 
 
 How long have I wearied for this since that day of bliss 
 
 and woe ? 
 Do the children laugh, as they say it was fifty years ago ? 
 What has time to do with our love ? for the spirit within 
 
 me saith : 
 I shall meet him for evermore, when I change this body 
 
 of death. 
 
 He is calling me now by my name in the voice of the 
 
 vanished years, 
 And my life in its tender music dissolves to a passion of 
 
 tears — 
 The shadows fall from the heights — the lamp in my 
 
 window burns dim — 
 The silence quenches my breath as I pass away to him. 
 
73 
 
 THE CITY OF SILENCE. 
 
 Know ye the ancient city by the sea, 
 
 That sleeps for ever at Vesuvius' foot, 
 Yet speaks of those that were to those that be. 
 By signs and tokens mute ? 
 
 Forth o'er Sorrento's waves, the breeze of morn 
 
 Wafts hither the rich breath of orange blooms ; 
 The young day laughs and leaps, in gladness born 
 Above a people's tombs : 
 
 And even as w;e discern with joyful eyes 
 
 The sweet and pleasant light of day begun, 
 So they, who lived in this fair paradise 
 Their hour beneath the sun. 
 
 Lo ! here we look on many-visaged death, 
 Seized in fixed form by miracle almost : 
 Shall these charred fragments stir with living breath ? 
 O God ! Thou know'st. 
 
74 The City of Silence. 
 
 The secret grave has yielded up its dead, 
 
 In semblance as they sank to earth and slept ; 
 Their burning shrouds within that fiery bed 
 Their faithful image kept. 
 
 Ashes returned to ashes ; but the mould 
 
 Receives its molten casting, soft and warm, 
 And from each hollow in the ground, behold 
 Raised up a human form 1 
 
 Naked they left this world, even as they came ; 
 
 The robes of pride that strength and beauty wore, 
 Consumed i' th' instant by the touch of flame, 
 Float round these forms no more. 
 
 Sudden and violent was their awful doom. 
 
 To lie here as they fell — the young and fresh, 
 The aged and withered — till the heat consume 
 Life, with the blood and flesh. 
 
 Yet on these images of dreadful death 
 
 Broods peace eternal, in the plastic clay 
 Given from the darkness of the earth beneath 
 Back to the light of day. 
 
The City of Silence. 75 
 
 The Roman on his folded arm doth sleep 
 With eyelids closed, as of a soul awake 
 To many thoughts, whose meditation deep 
 Out of destruction spake. 
 
 Not as a stranger came swift death to him, 
 
 That met the stroke without the fear of it ; 
 But who lies yonder, delicate of limb. 
 And beauty exquisite ? 
 
 She turns from cold decay her sweet young face ; 
 
 The untouched ripples of her crispfed hair 
 Betray no struggle in his foul embrace 
 Of one so pure, so fair. 
 
 She knew not of a dearer bridegroom's kiss, 
 
 Nor felt corruption's loathsome tooth devour 
 The promise of a lover's earthly bliss. 
 Reft in the virgin flower. 
 
 No time of love shall warm the heart's deep root 
 Beneath the snow of that soft-budding breast ; 
 From that fair stem shall spring no living fruit 
 To call the mother blest. 
 
76 The City of Silence. 
 
 Voices of earth ! — hope, passionate desire, 
 
 Blush of the morn on sky and sea and shore, 
 Call her again ! Yet from her bed of fire 
 She rises nevermore. 
 
 Silent for ever lies the maiden's heart 
 
 And warrior's trumpet, muffled in the dust ; 
 And happy thus they died, to bear no part 
 In scenes of blood and lust. 
 
 City of shame, Pompeii the accurst, 
 
 Men read upon thy stones — have such things been ? 
 And shuddering pass, yet know not of the worst 
 These crumbling walls have seen. 
 
 Men sinned here, till the angry heaven grew black 
 With smoke from burning hell and deathful hail. 
 And every creature groaned for Nature's wrack, 
 That day and night should fail. 
 
 Merciful God ! how quietly they lay 
 
 Asleep amidst Thy terrors, whom Thy call 
 Bade to long rest amidst the dark — till day 
 On the dead past should fall. 
 
The City of Silence. 77 
 
 These only whisper : ' All things pass away, 
 
 And perish in the heyday of their joy.' 
 But, lo ! what yonder ? See, the plastic clay 
 Yields forth a baby boy. 
 
 And what of that ? Was he not taken hence 
 By painless death — a blessed little child— 
 To look on God in fearless innocence, 
 His angel reconciled ? 
 
 If this were all, so best — but search again 
 Those marble chambers daintily inlaid 
 With sculptured imag'ry and pictured pane. 
 Where joy and beauty played. 
 
 There stood a frantic mother — on those stones, 
 
 Down from that window, dropped her infant son 
 Out of her arms — see there ! the stiffened bones 
 Stretched towards her little one. 
 
 Might he but live — ah, no ! for inch by inch 
 
 The seething slime creeps on before her eyes ; 
 She feels the tender body writhe and flinch. 
 She hears her baby's cries. 
 
78 The City of Silence. 
 
 Was it for this the fondly cherished wife 
 
 Longed for the mother's rapture ? Could she know 
 She purchased with the joy of giving life 
 This ecstasy of woe ? 
 
 Oh pity, pity ! thus to die ! to die, 
 
 Not by the fate of every living thing, — 
 For nature in her young one's agony 
 Lent death its sharpest sting. 
 
 The passion of that moment in that woman 
 
 Speaks through the dust of ages to the heart 
 In anguish such as hers, as we are human. 
 We bear a feeling part. 
 
79 
 
 THE PEASANT'S VISIT TO THE CZAR 
 
 .(^ALEXANDER 11.). 
 
 I WAS but an earth-born peasant, 
 All my life a trampled slave, 
 
 Till there came a joyful message 
 Of the gift our father gave ; 
 
 We were free ! the golden sunrise 
 On us, bondsmen of the clod, 
 
 Opened in a field of glory, 
 We were free ! then prayed we, God 
 
 Bless our sovereign Alexander 
 For the good gift of his hand ; 
 
 Though too late for us, our children 
 Shall be freemen of this land. 
 
 Twenty years had aged and bowed me 
 
 Since that joy of long ago. 
 When I saw the blood-red sunset 
 
 Glare upon the field of snow ; 
 
8o The Peasant's Visit to the Czar. 
 
 When there came a sound of wailing 
 To the village of the plain, 
 
 To our holy city Moscow, 
 
 When our lord the Czar was slain. 
 
 Then our eyes that ne'er beheld him 
 Wept for sorrow, and we said : 
 
 ' We will travel forth together, 
 We will look upon him dead.' 
 
 To the city of Saint Peter, 
 
 All the long and weary way, 
 With my mates I journeyed sleepless. 
 
 All the night and all the day. 
 
 When we neared the great cathedral, 
 Where they watched him as he lay. 
 
 Priests in sable robes and silver. 
 Warrior chiefs in bright array, 
 
 They made way for us, poor peasants. 
 
 And we fell beside his bier ; 
 Thrice our foreheads struck the pavement. 
 
 Wet with many a bitter tear. 
 
The Peasant's Visit to the Czar. 8i 
 
 Then they swept aside the garlands, 
 
 Where his coffin lay beneath ; 
 On the bosom of our father 
 
 Did we place our humble wreath, 
 
 On the heart of our deliverer, 
 Of our martyr ! Sore we wept — 
 
 From his face the veil was lifted. 
 And we saw him as he slept. 
 
 Long we gazed, in stone-like wonder, 
 As cold fear had stopped our breath ; 
 
 Thrice we bent the knee in homage. 
 And we kissed his hand in death. 
 
 Snows had blanched his beard, his temples 
 Wreathed about with snow-white flowers ; 
 
 Cares of Empire pressed upon him 
 With a heavier load than ours. 
 
 Traces of the crime that slew him 
 Seamed his eyelid and his cheek ; 
 
 But those lips had met destruction 
 With a smile so calm, so meek ! 
 
 6 
 
82 The Peasant's Visit to the Czar. 
 
 He was glad to burst the harness 
 That had galled hitn in the strife ; 
 
 For the grave and birth hereafter, 
 Toexchange the worn-out life. 
 
 They who did that cruel murder 
 Might have melted at the sight; 
 
 They. may call him an oppressor, 
 They may talk of human right ! 
 
 In that day when all the accursed 
 Shall depart from God's right hand, 
 
 'Gainst the faults of power and nature 
 One blest deed of his shall stand. 
 
 Yes, I "knew the fire had tried him 
 By the look on his dead face ; 
 
 Twice he bore the curse of Adam, 
 Thronfed in the highest place. 
 
 Yes, these eyes have seen our father ; 
 
 Where the holy lamps burn dim, 
 I, who ne'er beheld him living. 
 
 Looked upon the last of him. 
 
SONJVETS. 
 'Thoughts and remembrance fitted.' 
 
85 
 
 I. 
 TO MEET AGAIN. 
 
 Past noon of night, the glow of summer heat 
 
 Lapped me in sleep ; I dreamed a dream — he came. 
 Mine own one, as a spirit, yet the same 
 
 I knew him, and my soul flew out to meet 
 
 The kiss of deathless passion, strong and sweet 
 As life's new wine, or the eternal flame 
 Of burning seraphs' lips, which name the Name 
 
 Supreme, and bow their glories at His feet. 
 
 Too much, too much as yet ! that fond embrace 
 Out of the body, mingling soul with soul, 
 Loosed from the bonds of flesh, and sharp control 
 
 Of time and sorrow. Yes, I saw thy face, 
 
 And then my cry went up : wilt take me home ? 
 Oh, husband of my love, I come, I come ! 
 
86 
 
 II. 
 
 LAST KISSES. 
 
 So didst thou call me with thy mortal breath 
 To take thy last, last kisses, and thy smile 
 Of heavenly joy — as 'twere to reconcile 
 
 Me to the anguish of my life in death. 
 
 Smiling, I met thy seal of changeless faith. 
 With eye and lip enforced to beguile 
 Our parting of its sting — my heart, the while, 
 
 Pierced by a sword-thrust, bled with inward scath. 
 
 The waning moon, all through that awful night. 
 Looked on my torment, as I watched her rise, 
 Then fade into the dawn thy closing eyes 
 
 Discerned not ; and I knew that last sun's light 
 Should kiss thee to thy rest — remembering fain 
 Thy promise : ' Darling, we shall meet again.' 
 
87 
 
 III. 
 ALONE. 
 
 Alone, alone ! I sit with my despair, 
 
 And look with altered eyes on heaven and earth 
 And face of human kind : creation's girth 
 
 Of glorious beauty, grace of all things fair. 
 
 Spring's tender green, rich gold the summers bear, 
 Warm thrill of sunbeams, cheer of friendly mirth, 
 Bright childhood's silver laugh— the whole world's 
 worth. 
 
 What is it now to me ? Thou art not there. 
 
 Ah, love for love was sweet, and life was dear, 
 Tasted with thee in perfect unison 
 Of wedded faith, our portion 'neath the sun 
 
 Whom God hath joined : it seems but yester-year 
 We two began good days together — one 
 Has dropped my vacant hand, and all is done. 
 
IV. 
 
 INSOMNIA. 
 
 Sleepless, or dream-tossed through the cruel night, 
 Ere daybreak, when my lamp of life burns low, 
 My sorrow meets me, weak, like a strong foe 
 
 Whose creeping steps forebode the painful light. 
 
 Armed with a thousand bitter thoughts to smite 
 And harrow up my bosom with the stings 
 Of loss and separation from all things 
 
 That were my joy, now past from living sight. 
 
 A prisoned bird, whose mate has sought the skies, 
 My heart pants fluttering — it cannot rest. 
 
 O Death, tender and true, come, close these eyes. 
 And give them sleep within the mother-breast 
 
 Of earth with him — come, come, my soul is sick 
 
 For thee and freedom ; come, sweet Death, come quick ! 
 
89 
 
 V. 
 
 UNDIVIDED LOVE. 
 
 Ay, as the written page with ink undried, 
 
 I mind me how thou camest to recall 
 
 My soul from the dark shadow of the pall 
 That drew me earthwards when my mother died. 
 Then flushed the promise of the new springtide, 
 
 And thine, most true, most dear — I gave thee all — 
 
 My undivided love. Whate'er befall, 
 I have been blest ; my heart was satisfied. 
 
 Locked in thy arms, its yearning was at rest ; 
 
 For nature's severed roots, for father, mother. 
 Close kindred, and the babe upon the breast, 
 
 Woman's sweet need, God gave me thee, none other- 
 For every sorrow thou didst comfort me, 
 But who can comfoirt me bereft of thee ? 
 
go 
 
 VI. 
 OUR EDEN. 
 
 My solace is, I was thy happiness ; 
 The gates of forfeit Eden open wide 
 To holiest love of bridegroom and of bride 
 
 Wed in the Lord, whose words endure to bless 
 
 The hallowed mystery, the dear caress ; 
 The golden years we journeyed side by side 
 Atoned to each for all that Fate denied — 
 
 Ah, were the gap of time between us less ! 
 
 Could I have taken from my sum of life 
 To fill the measure of thy mortal days, 
 
 Content, so I had kept thee, as thy wife. 
 To see our silver wedding ! But God's ways 
 
 Grant not such gifts ; best so, for I remain 
 
 To suffer in thy stead this bitter pain. 
 
gr 
 
 VII. 
 LOVE NEVER FAILETH. 
 
 My maimfed life, as 'twere a tale half told, 
 Reft of its purpose, lingers incomplete ; 
 Ah, too, too full and strong its ruddy heat ! 
 
 Fain to have shed upon thy human mould 
 
 The last dear drops to warm thy heart clay-cold, 
 My all the world, my eyes' desire, my joy 
 No time nor change could alter or destroy ; 
 
 Nor ever in my sight couldst thou seem old. 
 
 Our love, immortal as our souls, still grew 
 And welded us together, for we knew 
 
 The spirit ripens as the red rose dies ; 
 Two natures blent in one eternal flame 
 Of passion pure from earthly taint, the same 
 
 God joined them here, may enter Paradise. 
 
92 
 
 VIII. 
 THE BROKEN COLUMN. 
 
 Death tarries long for those who live in hate, 
 
 And hastes to part us. Through our happy home — 
 No home to me — my thoughts and longings roam ; 
 
 For ever hungering and insatiate, 
 
 I move about thy place left desolate ; 
 Alone, I eat my meal in pain, and sup 
 The sorrows mingled in my bitter cup. 
 
 Senseless of fear — and mock the wrath of Fate. 
 
 For all is lost to me by loss of one, 
 
 No more but as a wanderer in strange lands ; 
 
 Many are kind, but I am first with none. 
 What is my sum of life ? Thus idly stands' 
 A broken column 'midst the desert sands. 
 
 The speechless witness of a day that's done. 
 
93 
 
 IX. 
 
 TIME FLIES. 
 
 Why fret and chafe against this passing hour ? 
 
 Whisper me patience, wind-swift Time, that flies 
 
 For joy and moan. Weeks, months, and years surprise 
 Our reckoning — vanished : dost thou not devour 
 The root of sorrow with the opening flower 
 
 Of spring's fresh rose ? O Time, so soon to cease, 
 
 Bid my strong agony of yearning peace, 
 Till vast eternal seas shall quench thy power. 
 
 Why should I care to live ? What's left me now ? 
 
 Work day by day ; though nothing can restore 
 The broken heart, with travail in the light 
 Cometh sweet balm to passion's throbbing brow, 
 Nepenthe to the Ups — and then good-night 
 
 To all that perisheth, for evermore. 
 
94 
 
 X. 
 THY DESIRE SHALL BE TO THY HUSBAND. 
 
 Ay, but each hour my occupation brings 
 Thy image closer, with remembrance of 
 Our Hfe together : once I had a love, 
 
 A most dear husband. Tender woman clings 
 
 For comfort and sweet counsel in all things 
 To one she owns her consort and her lord. 
 Present to speak the wise and gentle word. 
 
 Chide anxious care, and nerve the drooping wings. 
 
 Thy soft low laugh I shall for ever miss, 
 Jocund as day to hearten me depressed ; 
 My soul was like a bird upon her nest. 
 
 Fed by the honey of thy long, long kiss ; 
 For all I could achieve, my uttermost, best 
 
 Fulfilled thy pride, and my reward was this. 
 
95 
 
 XI. 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 But now, if 'neath my feet the whole world lay 
 At 'vantage, and the triumph of my song 
 Gave earnest I had spoken, true and strong, 
 
 Such words as living lips shall teach alway 
 
 To those who shall be born, why should I stay 
 To hearken ? Can they break his marble sleep, 
 Chambered apart in earth and hidden deep, 
 
 Whose smile was all my heaven — yesterday ? 
 
 They are but passing echoes of a globe 
 
 Fast spinning from my tread, the outworn robe 
 
 Of Time and Fancy, fleeting madly by ; 
 While my heart's heart until the trump of doom 
 Is dust of death, and through the mediate gloom 
 
 Our life's rich music, voiceless misery. 
 
96 
 
 XII. 
 MUCH LOVED. 
 
 Thou knowest, Lord of life, who joined us twain 
 
 With stronger bonds than Death, my loss, how much : 
 From every meeting hand, a gentle touch 
 
 Of kindness speaks compassion of my pain. 
 
 Even for his sake ; enduring tokens, fain 
 To make me sure how greatly he was loved : 
 And life-long friends of his, assayed and proved. 
 
 Most steadfast in affliction, are my gain. 
 
 Tender thou wast to every living thing : 
 
 Nor didst thou count one foe, nor envy's sting 
 
 Could scath thee, sweetheart, and with me, thine own, 
 Havened from life's wild tempests on thy breast. 
 Our halcyon days were counted happiest 
 
 Of all the seasons by thy manhood known. 
 
91 
 
 xiir. 
 LOVE LETTERS. 
 
 Leaves writ so fair those springtide months that flew 
 Hope-winged, when by lover unto maid 
 The words that knit us life to life were said ; 
 
 Words that remain in faith unchanging true : 
 
 My treasures garnered for this day I knew 
 Might come upon me with a sudden stroke — 
 Lines from the husband to the wife, that broke 
 
 The seal of death, our troth-plight to renew — 
 
 Have I but these to stay the yearning pain, 
 The bitter sweetness of a love enjoyed, 
 The stress of separation's bleeding void ? 
 My eyes ache at the hand's familiar trace, 
 I faint, I sicken for the dear embrace, 
 
 The daily food my soul desires in vain. 
 
98 
 
 XIV. ■ 
 ST. MARY ABBOTS, 
 July 3, 1877— 1892. 
 
 Here in this church, this self-same day, were we 
 United ; even as then, my bridegroom stands 
 Waiting for holy words to join our hands — 
 
 As in the vision of a dream, I see 
 
 Myself pass, as I never more may be, 
 Up to the altar, in procession dim 
 Towards life's high feast. But One had need of him, 
 
 And here again, bereft, I bow the knee. 
 
 Can my lone prayers reach heaven, and mix with thine ? 
 Didst thou not say, 'twas my affection led 
 Thy heart to God? and more than when we wed, 
 
 Closer and better in the heart divine 
 
 Thou lovedst me ? Haply, I am as one dead, 
 
 Thou hving — past the throes of passion — mine. 
 
99 
 
 XV. 
 OF THE DUST OF THE GROUND. 
 
 The pulse of joy, the passionate throb of Spring, 
 The heart's desire, the shooting bloom-bud's swell. 
 Heave from dull earth, by Nature's miracle, 
 
 Touched with creative fingers of her King. 
 
 The voices of the dust break forth and sing 
 Eternal hope, and mix with operant spell 
 The rich red wine ecstatic, loved too well. 
 
 To stay the lip of every living thing. 
 
 I turn mine eye from glories of the sun, 
 
 As all fair forms were naught but shows that seem, 
 And tread the shadowy land of sleep I deem 
 
 Reality, for there, in union 
 
 Dearer than hearts of flesh and blood, I dream 
 
 I am gathered to thy spirit — we two are one. 
 
lOI 
 
 H E I M W E H. 
 August, 1S93. 
 
 Down by the sapphire sea 
 I am seeking rest, and, lo ! I stand 
 O'er the laughing waves, in the sweet south land 
 
 Where the pulse of health beats strong and free- 
 Down through the shadowy groves of pine 
 Where the golden glow of the noon-day fire 
 
 Burns incense of their balmy breath, 
 In the joy of life and its gifts divine — 
 I taste their charm, and my heart's desire 
 
 Is unto thee, O Death ! 
 
 Droppeth the gentle rain 
 In a crystal veil from the vault of blue, 
 And the earth-born blossoms their sweets renew 
 
 At the easeful cool to their fever pain : 
 And the lush warm scents of the grass new-rnown 
 Steal through the ice-bound senses of grief, 
 
 With nature's pause from the rack of care : 
 It is good to spring like the ripe seed sown, 
 To flourish and burn as the rich red leaf 
 
 In the light of all things fair. 
 
102 Heimweh. 
 
 Why should the tendrils cling 
 When the branch is cut from the heart's deep root ? 
 When the sap is dried from flower and fruit ? 
 
 When the life is bound with no living thing ? 
 Gather me to my love, mine own, mine own. 
 Thou silent Reaper, unlock the door 
 
 To the Spark of God from the prison of breath- 
 The sick soul's thirst thou canst quench alone : 
 There is home with its pleasures for evermore 
 
 In thy embrace, O Death ! 
 
103 
 
 ALBERT VICTOR, DUKE OF CLARENCE. 
 January 14, 1892. 
 
 Clarence, young Clarence, with the troth-plight kiss 
 Warm on his lip, gone down to barren death ! 
 
 The joy of life, the crown of bridal bliss. 
 Spent with a mortal breath ! 
 
 \Vas it a fairy dream of far away 
 
 Told of our Prince's love and changeless truth ? — 
 Of how he wooed his darling Princess May, 
 
 The day-star of his youth ? 
 
 The weeks were speeding towards the flush of spring, 
 Whern the glad song-bird rounds the glowing nest. 
 
 When she, his royal maid, with marriage ring 
 Should flutter on his breast : 
 
 But, lo ! a moment, and the heart is crushed 
 in every race that owns the English tongue ; 
 
 The rose is widowed now — the music hushed 
 That made the world feel young. 
 
104 Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence. 
 
 Clarence, young Clarence ! hope and fond desire 
 Of Albion's many nations and their Queen, 
 
 Of tender bride, sweet mother, royal sire — 
 Passed, as he ne'er had been. 
 
 Yet he shall live ; the broken harp shall tell 
 Its sweetness from the chambers of the King, 
 
 Whisp'ring the sorrow-laden : ' Ye who dwell 
 In dust, awake and sing.' 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Elliot Stocky Paternoster Rovt, London.