Cornell University Library 
 
 PR 5909. Y4B3 
 
 Basil Ormond, and Christabel's love. 
 
 3 1924 013 577 113 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 35771 1 3 
 
BASIL ORMOND, 
 
 AND 
 
 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
BASIL ORMOND, 
 
 CHRISTABELS LOVE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LAYS OF IND.' 
 
 JTonbon : 
 
 W. TRACKER & Co., 87, Newgate Street. 
 
 Calcutta : THACKER, SPINK, & Co. Bombay : THACKER & Co. (Ld.] 
 
 MDCCCLXXVIII. 
 
UNWIN BEOTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, CHILWORTH AND LONDON. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 An Eastern County nook ; a gentle vale ; 
 
 A river, born in hollow of soft meads, 
 Slow winding through the curves of hill and dale. 
 
 Broad-breasted here, anon half hid in reeds. 
 
 Trees frequent on the slopes ; old farm and Hall, 
 And hamlet with church tower now and then ; 
 
 Antiquity on every bridge and wall, 
 
 And manner of the women and the men. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A street of cottages, laid straggling out 
 
 Beside the river, some in garden set ; 
 A green ; a gabled inn, with landlord stout, 
 
 And propp'd oak ruin, where the cross roads met. 
 
 Upon the farther bank, a quaint old pile. 
 Within a bowshot of the village, stood ; 
 
 A medley of design and tint and style, 
 
 A marvel of old stone and brick and wood. 
 
 And in it Basil Ormond, painter, spent 
 
 The after sixty passage of his days, 
 His love of art and love of nature blent 
 
 With love of rustic life and quiet ways. 
 
 The quaint old house had been bequeathed to him. 
 With competence for taste of modest range. 
 
 Its origin, to trust tradition dim, 
 
 Was Spanish, and its name was " Spanish Grange." 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Folk said 'twas founded by some Don of Spain 
 Who came with Philip to our Mary's court, 
 
 And built it to indulge in vicious vein, 
 
 Or learn the joys of English country sport. 
 
 A trace of Spanish in the step-shaped roof, 
 
 The crest-crown'd porch that shield Castilian show'd, 
 
 The strange devices carved in oak, age proof, 
 But all the rest bespoke a later mode. 
 
 In front of it a lawn, whose velvet rim 
 
 The water kiss'd, sloped down with gentle fall. 
 
 And, skirting it, a flower garden trim. 
 
 Closed from the meadows by vine-sheltering wall. 
 
 A pond, with lilies and brick marge, beyond, 
 And arbor with thatch'd top, and robin's nest ; 
 
 And here the painter wove his fancies fond. 
 Gazing, on summer evenings, at the West. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 And he — a burly, grandly-statured man, 
 
 Broad-shoulder'd, grizzly-bearded, with a face 
 
 Through which the lines of waning manhood ran, 
 But could not rob of its majestic grace. 
 
 And nobleness of nature breathed from it, 
 
 If ever face reveal the maze behind ; 
 Benignity, truth, fearlessness were writ 
 
 All over it, and singleness of mind. 
 
 A secret what his past, or whence he came. 
 
 'Twas only known he painted, and was lone, 
 And lived a life beyond the breath of blame. 
 
 Making his neighbours' joys and griefs his own. 
 
 His closest was the rector of the place, 
 A plain God-serving worker, Ernest Grey ; 
 
 And with him his sweet spouse and helpmate, Grace, 
 Ruling the narrow home with thrifty sway. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 They loved the painter, as he honour'd them ; 
 
 They loved his art, as all things pure, refined, 
 And, let them laud his limning, or condemn. 
 
 He loved to hear them argue out their mind. 
 
 And they in turn sought his, when any case 
 Of parish difficulty brought them doubt ; 
 
 While he, logs crackling on the old fireplace, 
 
 Would smoke his pipe, and shape the matter out. 
 
 And thus, one night, the couple said their say, 
 Or rather Grace ; she had the readier tongue. 
 
 " Death has been busy with us here to-day, 
 
 And orphan'd our sweet May Queen, Phoebe Young. 
 
 " The child is penniless, she has no kin. 
 
 At least not known ; we love her as our own. 
 
 Yet, what to think of ? " Basil here broke in : — 
 " We cannot see her on the rude world thrown. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 "That point assured, proceed." Said Grace — "We think, 
 Sage Counsellor, and feel the same as you. 
 
 Our precious village beauty must not sink 
 For lack of guarding, as such beauties do. 
 
 " Your model, sir, has a surpassing face. 
 
 Too fresh a mouth to breathe the world's foul breath. 
 Beauty and poverty oft mean disgrace." 
 
 Said Basil : " Yea — too oft. Far better death. 
 
 " Her face is on my canvas and my heart. 
 It must not be that she should come to ill. 
 
 Protect her, teach her ; I will bear my part, 
 And portion her, or do what else you will." 
 
 And so the pair went home that winter night, 
 
 After a warm farewell and grip of love, 
 With hearts brim full of a new-born delight. 
 
 And thankfulness for their new treasure trove. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 They had no child, and on this orphan'd one 
 
 They oft had look'd, with love and wonder blent, 
 
 Thinking her beauty, like the summer sun, 
 
 Must shed, on those it shone on, sweet content. 
 
 Henceforth they took her to their humble roof. 
 And guarded her and taught her, and she grew 
 
 More beautiful and graceful, and with proof 
 Of soul and wit, and disposition true. 
 
 Thus two years pass'd, and she was seventeen. 
 
 Then rose the question of her coming life. 
 The village worthies toasted her as Queen, 
 
 The rich young farmers thought of her as wife. 
 
 But close they guarded her, the anxious twain. 
 Confessing hardly to themselves the truth. 
 
 And from each other hiding all the pain 
 Of losing her, in her full budding youth. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 And so again they sought the painter's aid, 
 Facing at last the issue fronting them, 
 
 And spoke about the future of the maid, 
 
 And how the graft should sever from the stem. 
 
 With voice of bated tone, and moisten'd eye, 
 Grace laid the matter bare before the third. 
 
 And Basil blew a cloud, and heaved a sigh, 
 And look'd away, but never spake a word. 
 
 Long thus he sate. At last, with husky voice. 
 Said, " Thinking for the morrow, much, we err. 
 
 The girl shall choose a husband to her choice. 
 And when she chooses, I will portion her. 
 
 " Perchance her home may be in some near place ; 
 
 Perchance the wife will mind her of old friends ; 
 Perchance we still may look upon her face, 
 
 We may not moan, howe'er the matter ends." 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Yet with a sound not all unlike a moan 
 He finish'd, and a crystal in the eye; 
 
 And Grace, conceiving he would be alone, 
 Arose, and made excuse and said good-bye. 
 
 He led them out upon the yew-girt walk. 
 And home the couple wended, talking low. 
 
 And this the burden of the good wife's talk, 
 " He loves the maiden. I am sure 'tis so." 
 
 Then Basil took his staff, and, striding fast. 
 Strove, as a waker strives to oust a dream. 
 
 And as beyond the village skirts he pass'd. 
 He saw the maiden, sitting by the stream. 
 
 Upon the bank, beside a weir, she sat ; 
 
 Ferns curling round her feet ; above, tall trees ; 
 Her brown hair falling loose, her gipsy hat 
 
 Beside her, and hands clasp'd about her knees. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Her eyes were fix'd, as if some vision drew, 
 
 Her head advanced, as though she heard some strain, 
 
 Her lips apart, as if some joy she knew, 
 While her sweet bosom rose and fell again. 
 
 He drew behind a willow's leafy mesh, 
 
 And through the parted branches gazed, conceal'd ; 
 Rapt at the marvellous tinting of her flesh, 
 
 And moulding exquisite of form reveal'd. 
 
 The rich profusion of the nut-brown hair. 
 
 The luscious curving of the cheek and throat, 
 
 The gleaming softness of the arm half bare, 
 The grace that seem'd about each limb to float. 
 
 Awhile he drank the vision. Then a prayer 
 
 Breathed tenderly, that God the child would bless. 
 
 And, treading lightly, lest she should be ware, 
 He went back to his art and lonehness. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 13 
 
 He painted in a chamber, large, antique, 
 With oriel windows looking south and east, 
 
 Whose beams and oaken panels seem'd to speak 
 A world of old romance and custom ceased. 
 
 Old portraits peering downwards, antler'd heads, 
 And cabinets in cunning fashion form'd, 
 
 Stuff'd birds, and snakes, and scaly quadrupeds, 
 And chimney where a dozen might be warm'd. 
 
 Old slouching hats and feathers, old costumes, 
 Old helmets and old breastplates here and there. 
 
 Old pikes, and bits, and spurs, and knightly plumes. 
 Old chairs, and easels showing stain and wear. 
 
14 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 And in a niche, a painting of a maid, 
 
 Brown-hair'd, and crown'd with crown of flowers of 
 At feet of which by Basil's hand was laid [Maj-, 
 
 A bunch of roses every summer day. 
 
 'Twas known to her, and oft the girl would trip 
 And gather them, and place them in his hand, 
 
 While he would say, with quivering voice and lip, 
 " Thou art the fairest rose in all the land." 
 
 And, since he saw her sitting by the weir, 
 
 He set his mind on painting her anew. 
 Thinking the losing of her might be near, 
 
 And so the more confirm'd the longing grew. 
 
 Yet, underneath the longing, was a smart 
 
 Of fear of all the trial it would be, 
 A questioning if he were strong of heart 
 
 To see unmoved what he would have to see. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 15 
 
 For Basil, in his heart of hearts, was ware 
 He held the child as precious as his life. 
 
 But held the thought as like to be a snare. 
 " She is my child. She cannot be my wife." 
 
 Therefore he school'd himself against the thought, 
 Meaning to love her as a guardian may ; 
 
 But to the fond caprice the will was wrought, 
 And the conceit of painting had its way. 
 
 Then, on one winter afternoon, he said— 
 
 " I fain would paint thee, child, in alter'd pose. 
 
 As sitting by a river, fancy fed. 
 
 I have the bud. I want the opening rose. 
 
 " And when the sweet reality is gone, 
 
 The semblance will remain with me, to fill 
 
 The house thy sunshine used to smile upon. 
 With light, and I shall see thee with me still." 
 
i6 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 She laugh'd and blush'd, and, rising on her feet, 
 With kiss, light brush'd across his brow, replied. 
 
 So, oftentimes the man and girl would meet. 
 He paint, she pose, as by the river's side. 
 
 And as the painting grew, his wonder grew. 
 His glorying in her beauty, day by day 
 
 Unfolding to him rapt some marvel new, 
 Some subtlety that did not dawn alway. 
 
 He painted silent, mostly, but would tell 
 Anon some quaint old legend of the place, 
 
 While she would sit enthrall'd beneath the spell 
 Of his myth weaving, and his tone, and face. 
 
 Or, as he puft'd the smoke-wreaths from his lips. 
 The girl would warble out some simple song ; 
 
 Or, in a mood of frolic and coy quips, 
 
 Affi-ont the work, and cry that it was wrong. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 17 
 
 Then he would toss away his brush and paint, 
 And, holding her at arm's length, gravely nod, 
 
 And swear that human art could give but faint 
 Similitude of such a work of God. 
 
 And she would seal his mouth up with her palm. 
 Chiding his earnest vein and solemn speech. 
 
 And pour upon his trouble flattery's balm, 
 
 And press his hand, and glide beyond his reach. 
 
 Thus day by day, and each succeeding night 
 He sought the chamber ere to rest he went, 
 
 Unveil'd the picture, and regaled his sight 
 Upon it, fingers clasp'd and head low bent. 
 
 On one such night the strong man yielded him; 
 
 The passion of a pent-up manhood burst. 
 He felt his reason reel, his senses swim, 
 
 A yearning and a craving, like a thirst. 
 
i8 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 In a wild whirl of agony, he cried,— 
 " I love the maiden, sorely, my God ! 
 
 Why should I thrust a passion pure aside ? 
 
 Why should I humbly bow, and kiss the rod ? " 
 
 Then came a shame, and rising of hot tears, 
 A sharp remorse, and then an inward voice : — 
 
 "Three score and three the measure of thy years ; 
 Thou canst not be the husband of her choice." 
 
 And next a stern resolve, with chasten'd heart. 
 To love the child, by loving what were best ; 
 
 To stamp the passion out, and bear his part. 
 And guide her well, and leave to God the rest. 
 
 Thenceforth he hasted with the painting much. 
 Steeling himself, and giving not a sign, 
 
 And thought, when loitering o'er the crowning touch. 
 The folly great, the punishment condign. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 19 
 
 The days wore on. To spring the winter pass'd. 
 
 The painter loved the child, but curb'd his will ; 
 When suddenly their lives were overcast 
 
 With a great shadow of unlook'd-for ill. 
 
 Death came into the village once again, 
 
 And Grace, sweet Grace, was gather'd to his sheaf. 
 
 'Twere vain to dwell upon the rector's pain, 
 To tell the doubly orphan'd maiden's grief. 
 
 Then, when she faced the future, what to face ? 
 
 'Twere plain her home had vanish'd, and what next ? 
 The world of strangers and some serving place. 
 
 She thought. The other twain were sore perplex'd. 
 
 At last fond Basil, conquering his shame. 
 
 Unfolded to the rector thus his mind. 
 " friend, will God or man hold me to blame. 
 
 If I a refuge for the maiden find ? 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 " I love her, how, God knows, and He alone ; 
 
 I strove to cast the passion out, He knows ; 
 I master'd it, hut she must not be thrown 
 
 A plaything to the world and its rough blows." 
 
 To which the rector : " Basil, if the maid 
 Can love thee as a true and loving wife. 
 
 Why, take her, and her sorrow will be laid 
 In the new joy of brightening thy life." 
 
 And so our Basil wooed, and she was won. 
 
 She honoured him and loved him, and she thought 
 Her owing half repaid, her duty done. 
 
 In yielding him the happiness he sought. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A year has pass'd o'er grey old Spanish Grange ; 
 
 Sweet Phoebe Ormond has grown lovelier, 
 For in her mien and face there is a change, 
 
 A tinge of pensiveness, enhancing her. 
 
 Her walk is slow and stately, not the gait 
 Of a young matron in whose heart is light. 
 
 Or the o'erflow of gratitude to fate, 
 Or looking onward to the ever bright. 
 
 The bearing rather of a chasten'd one 
 Who has a task in life, a secret load, 
 
 A sacrifice that must be daily done. 
 Who plods, without a smile, along the road. 
 
22 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 No child has thrown a radiance on her lot, 
 No baby fondlings in the antique room, 
 
 No murmurings beside a curtain'd cot, 
 A sombreness about, and all but gloom. 
 
 One winter morning, Phcebe, to and fro 
 
 Upon the pathway leading through the meads 
 
 From Grange to village, paced with pacing slow, 
 As one who things beyond her little heeds. 
 
 A dull grey day, with melancholy breeze, 
 Low sighing o'er the woodlands and the stream, 
 
 Scarce swaying the wet reeds and leafless trees, 
 And sluggish clouds denying e'en a gleam. 
 
 The painter in his room and painter's blouse, 
 And worn old fez, hard toiling with his brush. 
 
 No sound of voices in the grim old house, 
 And nothing but his sigh to break the hush. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 23 
 
 Hark ! suddenly a sound to yeomen dear ! 
 
 The distant swelling music of the pack ! 
 It came upon the air to Phoebe's ear, 
 
 As, with set face, she paced the pathway back. 
 
 She stopp'd and listen'd, and her eyes grew bright 
 As the rare music louder, louder grew. 
 
 And presently the hounds swept into sight, 
 And men and horses, close to them, but few. 
 
 Then, over all the slopes bright dots of red, 
 And grey, and brown, as far as eye could reach. 
 
 She clasp'd her hands, and toss'd her shapely head, 
 And flew towards the bounding fringe of beech. 
 
 A fence and yawning chasm mark'd the line 
 Beneath the trees, a tomb for horse and man ; 
 
 Down to the fence a narrow sharp incline, 
 And over it the hounds in chorus ran. 
 
24 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A bunch of horsemen bore away to right ; 
 
 One only held the short and desperate course, 
 And dashing at the fence with halloo light, 
 
 Came crashing down, a jumble, man and horse. 
 
 A thud that shook the earth ! a rolling mass ! 
 
 Hoofs fighting in the air, a moan of pain ; 
 Then iron dully smiting on the grass, 
 
 And risen steed away with flying rein 1 
 
 She hid her face and gasp'd ; then, with a strength 
 Of desperation, ran towards the spot. 
 
 Upon the ground the bold one lay his length, 
 And, as she raised his head, he answer'd not. 
 
 Between his teeth a little anguish'd sound. 
 Upon his brow a bruise, and crimson spray, 
 
 The lips relax'd and still. She look'd around. 
 But hounds and horsemen, all, had swept away. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 25 
 
 She wrung her hands in blank distress of mind, 
 
 Calling aloud for help, but no reply. 
 Only the music fading on the wind. 
 
 " Help, help ! " she cried again, " or he will die ! " 
 
 Then, suddenly, she sprang upon her feet. 
 And with her long hair streaming like a trail. 
 
 She sped along the pathway, madly fleet. 
 And burst upon the painter, panting, pale. 
 
 " A man lies dying in our meadow, there. 
 His face all white and bloody with a wound, 
 
 I saw him leap — such a leap to dare ! 
 
 Quick, Basil, quick and help him!" Then she swoon'd. 
 
 The quiet of a house o'er which flaps death. 
 
 Uncertain to pass on, or to alight; 
 The inmates speaking with abated breath ; 
 
 And watching in a chamber day and night. 
 
26 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A stern old man, the sufferer's father, came, 
 And bode the issue with a stony face. 
 
 A neighbour he, Sir John Carew by name, 
 A baronet of means and ancient race. 
 
 And Hugh,, his son, he call'd a headstrong boy. 
 Who wore the soldier's red against his will ; 
 
 And when at home seem'd fated to annoy 
 With debt and escapade and other ill. 
 
 " But bold and manly," Phoebe softly said. 
 To bend the bias of the old man's mind. 
 
 " Ay," growl'd Sir John, " the lad was stoutly bred- 
 Ay, madam, bold enough, as you may find." 
 
 And stoutly bred he was. For death's black wings 
 Went swooping off o'er other roof to soar. 
 
 And life came bubbling up from pent up springs. 
 And Hugh awoke, and look'd around once more. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 27 
 
 His gaze first lighted on a gentle form 
 
 Close bending over him, and then he knew 
 
 His temples touch'd by fingers soft and warm 
 That curls too forward straying backward drew. 
 
 Sweet breath about him floated, and low sighs, 
 And murmurings, " Poor youth, unconscious yet." 
 
 He moved. She knew him conscious. Then his eyes 
 Two eyes, like eyes of doe, all startled, met. 
 
 A quick withdrawal of the hand, and blush ; 
 
 A rising up erect beside the bed ; 
 A gentle gliding to the door ; a " Hush — 
 
 You must be quiet," — and the vision fled. 
 
 The crisis past. Sir John not long delay'd 
 To offer lofty thanks, and homeward wend ; 
 
 And pledge of moving Hugh was duly made, 
 Whene'er the move no peril should portend. 
 
28 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Then follow'd days of tending in the room, 
 
 The ministry of woman at her best, 
 She moving hke an angel through the gloom, 
 
 Soothing alike his waking and his rest. 
 
 And as his strength return'd, and brain grew clear, 
 All being told him by the painter's wife, 
 
 He would repeat, " I trouble you both here ; 
 It seems I trouble often in my life." 
 
 To which the painter : " Thank us with your love. 
 If you are thankful. That is all we need. 
 
 But give your highest thank to God above." 
 And Hugh replied, abash'd, " I do, indeed." 
 
 Then Basil went and plodded at his art, 
 Bidding his wife be heedful, kind, and free, 
 
 Well pleased at Hugh, and satisfied at heart 
 That other men were honest-soul'd as he. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 29 
 
 And Phcebe was most heedful, free, and kind, 
 
 Hugh thankful, at the same time weak and young, 
 
 And thoughts, to Basil false, rose in his mind, 
 As over him the lovely woman hung. 
 
 They talk'd and read together, and one eve, 
 "When Basil went to gossip with friend Grey, 
 
 Hugh told her, " I am well enough to leave, 
 " I would I had pretence to longer stay." 
 
 Then over her there crept a sudden chill, 
 And all her blood seem'd burning in her face, 
 
 As she replied, '' Return to us ! You will ? 
 " We are so lone, and this a sombre place." 
 
 " I will, and soon," he said. Next day he left, 
 O'erwhelming, with his thanks profuse, the twain. 
 
 And Phcebe thought the Grange at once bereft 
 Of light and life till he should come again. 
 
30 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Full soon he came, and, after, constant grew 
 His comings, and the wishing he would come. 
 
 And honest Basil ne'er a doubting knew 
 
 Why life to Phoebe seem'd less burdensome. 
 
 It pleasured him to hear the young man's tread 
 Upon the walk, to feel his grip o' hand, 
 
 To pose him, and to paint his comely head, 
 
 While she, behind his chair, would watching stand. 
 
 And when, the sitting done, the wife and Hugh 
 Would ramble past the window, talking low, 
 
 He'd rise and gaze at them the lattice through. 
 And think how beautiful she seem'd to grow. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 31 
 
 The spring had closed the winter's icy mouth, 
 The buds and blossoms heralded bright May. 
 
 The breeze came gently breathing from the south. 
 The sombre house put sombreness away. 
 
 The jasmine clamber'd up its hoary side, 
 The roses cluster'd, smiling, at its base ; 
 
 The bright-hued willows sway'd across the tide. 
 And brush'd the water-lilies in the face. 
 
 And by the water's edge, upon the lawn. 
 
 The pair would stand, and all the spring spell own ; 
 And in sweet Phoebe's consciousness would dawn 
 
 A spring of fancies she had never known. 
 
 The sympathy of youth, and warmth, and sun. 
 The spell of genial tone, and spirits gay. 
 
 The rapture of a dalliance, begun 
 
 In innocence, yet deepening day by day. 
 
32 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 For day by day the mesh grew tighter round 
 The woman's heart, scarce wotting of the coil ; 
 
 Till suddenly it knew that it was bound, 
 
 And then scarce made resistance to the toil. 
 
 It was so sweet to writhe in such a chain ! 
 
 To bask in daze of passion new to her ! 
 To swim in current of mix'd bliss and pain ! 
 
 To dream ! O could such dreaming be to err ? 
 
 She meant no harm. What harm in standing there ? 
 
 In tasting of such nectar, just a while ? 
 Breathing an incense wafted in the air 
 
 Upon a gallant phrase, or courtly smile. 
 
 'Twas but a little toying after all ; 
 
 An hour or two of pleasure, in a life. 
 A friendship. Sure a woman's free to call 
 
 A man a friend, although she be a wife. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 33 
 
 Hugh came and went, and every time he came 
 
 The poison floated to her in the air, 
 Feeding insidiously the smouldering flame 
 
 That a chance gust might cause to leap and flare. 
 
 And so, they in the arbour 'sconced one day, 
 The gust came suddenly, the flame burst out. 
 
 Said Hugh, " This is with me no idle play. 
 " I love you, and you know it, past a doubt." 
 
 " Oh, hush ! " — " I cannot, I must speak my mind. 
 
 I thought, perchance I fear'd, 'twould come to this. 
 My darling ! " Then their arms were intertwined. 
 
 And their lips lock'd in one consuming kiss. 
 
 A kiss, a lip embrace ; like clasp of hand. 
 As quickly given ; just a kiss ; no more. 
 
 But to her soul a searing scorching brand. 
 That scorch'd the whiteness from it evermore. 
 4 
 
34 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A hectic flush was burning in each cheek, 
 Her Uthe form trembled, mist before each eye. 
 
 Came surging from her throat in gaspings weak, 
 " I cannot face him now. O let me die." 
 
 Another kiss, and murmuring, " My own. 
 My sweet, I love you only, and you me." 
 
 And then his arms again about her thrown, 
 And all forgot in passion's ecstasy. 
 
 Forgot all bitter in the moment's sweet. 
 Forgot all faithfulness, forgot all blame ; 
 
 Hark ! on the gravel, sound of heavy feet, 
 And Basil calling lustily her name. 
 
 She struggled up, and fronted him. He said, 
 " The air is chilly yet, my child; go in." 
 
 " You look unwell." — " Perchance," she said, and fled 
 To hide her, and her guilty love, within. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 35 
 
 Sat Basil in the antique room that night 
 Alone, and late, sore troubled in his mind ; 
 
 Oft saying to himself, " Did I aright 
 
 Judge what I saw ? How long have I been blind ? " 
 
 About his heart an icy terror came. 
 
 What saw he after all ? A look. Of what ? 
 Of fear, surprise, annoy ? Could it be shame ? 
 
 He cursed the thought, and yet it vanish'd not. 
 
 It clung about him. O the look ! the mien ! 
 
 The eyes that droop'd, the half-averted face ! 
 These had he seen. What that he had not seen ? 
 
 What fooling, ay, what sinning and disgrace ? 
 
 And then ; " I wrong them. O my pure fair dove, 
 I wrong thee with the blackness of my doubt. 
 
 I trust in thee as in my God above," 
 
 But still he could not cast the demon out. 
 
36 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 He paced the room. He knelt him down, and pray'd, 
 Then straightway over him a calmness crept. 
 
 He said, " I wrong'd, mistrusted, was afraid. 
 'Twas mine, and not her faithfulness that slept." 
 
 He strode up to the chamber overhead, 
 The while some distant belfry toll'd midnight. 
 
 And gazed upon her lying on the bed. 
 Unconscious of his gaze, and taper light. 
 
 She slept. One flexile arm was curl'd around 
 Her head, one hand on bosom lightly laid ; 
 
 Her hair, unloosed, from pillow to the ground 
 In weird dark wavings, like a shadow, stray'd. 
 
 Below the eyelids' fringes stood the dew 
 
 Of tears, half dried. Of bliss ? he thought, or pain ? 
 Anon some shade the lips together drew, 
 
 Then some sweet fancy parted them again. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 37 
 
 And tendei'nesses from between them came 
 
 In shapes, scarce sounds, soul-bubblings to the air. 
 
 He heard no word, but yet he grasp'd a name 
 As plain as if 'twere whisper'd to him there. 
 
 He stole away, a sickness in his soul, 
 
 Down to the antique room, like cowering thief. 
 
 And all that night he heard the belfry toll 
 His heart peace out, toll in his dawn of grief. 
 
 Alas ! the torturing days ! The death in life ! 
 
 The living with a ghost in every room ! 
 A shadow standing between man and wife, 
 
 No open broil, but cold mistrust and gloom. 
 
 For, how to act ? To say he watch'd her sleep ? 
 
 And fancied ? yes, perchance 'twas fancy mere ! 
 He clutch'd the hope against misgiving deep ; 
 
 Perchance 'twas fancy, and he did not hear. 
 
38 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 And then misgiving drove the hope aside, 
 
 And instinct spake with boding voice too late : — 
 
 " Thou shouldst have stayed the bursting of the tide ; 
 It flows, and thou canst only watch, -and wait." 
 
 Thus sped a week, he watching. Hugh came not. 
 
 She restless, shunning Basil, musing much. 
 Her heart with its new deadly passion hot. 
 
 And yearning once again to see and touch. 
 
 One morning Basil sought his old friend Grey, 
 
 May be to lay his sad suspicion bare. 
 And Phoebe by the river bent her way 
 
 Towards the weir. Lo, Hugh ! ere she was ware. 
 
 He hasten'd up, and seized her either hand. 
 
 Fast blurting out mad greetings in strange voice. 
 
 And said, " We on the river brink now stand, 
 
 " And on another. You must make your choice." 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 39 
 
 She tore her hands from his, and hid her face, 
 And cried, hard pleading, " Hugh — it cannot be. 
 
 " I cannot bring him sorrow and disgrace ; 
 I honour him, and love you. Woe is me ! " 
 
 He clasp'd her in his arms, and held her fast, 
 And kiss'd her, urging, " Come, this very day ; " 
 
 Conjuring her to trample on the past. 
 To fly the sacrilege it were to stay. 
 
 " To-night, on yonder bridge, at ten, I wait. 
 
 'Twere safer there, than nearer to your doon 
 One plunge, quick taken, and we link our fate ! 
 
 If not, you look upon my face no more." 
 
 A deadly pallor, and a piteous moan. 
 
 No answer. Hugh, with pleading and caress 
 O'erwhelming her, and chiding her for stone. 
 
 Until at last she feebly axiswered, '■' Yes." 
 
40 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 A peaceful eve. All quietude around. 
 
 The meadows sleeping in the mild moonbeam. 
 Save nightingale's sad melody, no sound; 
 
 An eve for purpose pure, or lofty dream. 
 
 Sat Basil in the antique chamber, lone. 
 
 Not noting moon, or meadow, or bird's song ; 
 
 Lost in a night all shadowy of his own, 
 And seeing only outline of a wrong. 
 
 He noted not the glory of the eve. 
 But its sad essence enter'd into him. 
 
 Making his spirit mournful fancies weave, 
 And drain the cup of doubt, full to the brim. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 41 
 
 Of doubt of self, how he had borne his part, 
 
 As well as of the issue of her plight ; 
 If he had guarded well the child's young heart. 
 
 And kept it from the evil, and the blight. 
 
 And conscience whisper'd, " Thou hast fail'd therein ; 
 
 Thou shouldst have kept thy rosebud from the wind. 
 To trust too little, husband, is a sin ; 
 
 And so to trust too much. And thou hast sinn'd. 
 
 " What right hast thou to murmur, or upbraid ? 
 
 Thou shouldst have kept the tempter's voice away. 
 If she hath stray'd, perchance she hath but stray'd 
 
 For lack of guiding, not from bent to stray." 
 
 Then leap'd his heart, off heaving half the weight ; 
 
 His patient love her straying love should win. 
 He did not hear the belfry toll, " Too late; 
 
 Another hour, more straying, and more sin." 
 
42 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 She heard it overhead, with falling tears, 
 And a sharp anguish gnawing at her heart. 
 
 Before her rose a wilderness of fears, 
 
 And horror. God ! 'twould soon be time to start I 
 
 Time to leave innocence, and home, and name ; 
 
 To break a good man's heart, or slay with woe ; 
 To wander, passion hardened, forth to shame. 
 
 " Too late," she moan'd. " 'Tis nearly time to go." 
 
 She wrung her hands in agony of soul, 
 And, falling on her knees beside the bed, 
 
 Sobb'd into it with sobbings past control. 
 " I am too vile to stay with him," she said. 
 
 She rose, and took her writing desk, and wrote, 
 " Farewell. I leave you, Basil, past recall." 
 
 She placed it on the bed, where he would note 
 It lying. Then she donn'd her hat and shawl. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 43 
 
 One look around at the familiar room ; 
 
 Adieu to all its pleasures and light cares ! 
 And then she glided out, to face her doom, 
 
 And crept, hard breathing, down the silent stairs. 
 
 Along the hall, and by the studio door ; 
 
 'Twas just ajar, and as she, cold with fear, 
 Pass'd by, she saw him bending down before 
 
 A painting, hers, the maiden at the weir. 
 
 She sank against the wall, a throbbing wild 
 Within her breast, as if 'twould burst apart; 
 
 And on her ear fell slowly, " Here, child. 
 How innocent and beautiful thou art. 
 
 " Art thou still pure ? O God in heaven above. 
 If she hath dallied, turn her ! Keep her pure 
 
 As beautiful, and bend her to my love." 
 
 She heard no more. No more she could endure. 
 
44 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 She stagger'd on. She softly turn'd the key, 
 The old hall door swung open : out she pass'd. 
 
 She stood beneath the pure bright moonlight, free ! 
 Ay, free ! Her soul had burst its chain at last. 
 
 She raised her hands to Him beyond the light, 
 And murmur'd, " O forgive, and make me strong ; 
 
 I do renounce the sin I meant to-night, 
 I am so vile, but cannot do this wrong." 
 
 Then fell a joy upon her, and she paced 
 
 A little way to give her joy the rein. 
 When from the trees Hugh started out, and faced 
 
 Her pacing, and her heart stood still again. 
 
 He grasp'd her hand, and dragg'd her to the shade. 
 And whisper'd, " Quick, lest you be miss'd within ! 
 
 My love, 'tis I, your Hugh 1 why so afraid ? " 
 She gasp'd, " I cannot, will not do this sin." 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 45 
 
 He loosed his hold, and stared in blank dismay. 
 
 " You trifle, sweet," he said. " Strange hour for this. 
 The die is cast. Come. Throw regrets away. 
 
 Think only of your promise, and our bliss." 
 
 " I promised you," she said, " Ah ! why did I ? 
 
 I was so weak. I loved you, so much. 
 I dare not sin. O Hugh, I dare to die 
 
 Before I dare again your hand to touch." 
 
 He chafed, reproaching, " Child, you drive me mad. 
 
 You play'd with me. You did not mean your vow." 
 Then answer'd she in accents low and sad, 
 
 " I meant it then. I do not mean it now. 
 
 " I saw the gulf, but misty in the haze 
 
 Of guilty love, behind its blinding flame. 
 But now it yawns all clear before my gaze ; 
 
 Would you lead there ? " He bow'd his head, for shame. 
 
46 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 " Oh, let me go. I love you, and you me. 
 
 Hugh, let it be a love that is not sin. 
 Let me be pure." " Thou art," he cried, " and free ! 
 
 Go back. We both are saved. Farewell ! Go in." 
 
 He sobb'd aloud. Then tum'd. Then tum'd again, 
 And flung his arms about her, mad with love. 
 
 And grief, and whirl of blood and brain ; 
 
 Then plunged among the trees that sigh'd above. 
 
 She heard his footfall dying as he went. 
 And at each step a pang her bosom tore. 
 
 Then came a flood of weeping. Then she bent 
 Her way towards the quiet house once more. 
 
 She enter'd in. The studio was dark. 
 
 Along the hall she groped with a dull dread 
 Of all the stillness, and some evil. Hark ! 
 
 A noise as of a falling overhead. 
 
BASIL ORMOND. 47 
 
 She scream'd. Then up the stairs, with frenzied strength, 
 She flew; went in ; the chamber swiftly scann'd, 
 
 And, on the floor, lay Basil at his length. 
 Unconscious, with the letter in his hand. 
 
 A heart-broke woman henceforth kept her place 
 Beside the bed, where Basil dying lay. 
 
 They told her life was ebbing out apace, 
 The brain in stupor, eye rejecting day. 
 
 In those long hours the misery of years ! 
 
 Youth's folly ending in an age of woe. 
 Each breath of his sharp torture to her ears. 
 
 Oh, if he only could awake and know 1 
 
48 BASIL ORMOND. 
 
 Could know what fate, swift smiting, gave no time 
 For knowing, and for ever might conceal : — 
 
 That she had loathed and put aside her crime, 
 And lived, for him, fire scathed, but pure and leal. 
 
 If he could only wake, so she might fall 
 And grovel at his feet, and tell him how 
 
 She left, 'twas true, but not " beyond recall," 
 How the words lied, and how she suffer'd now. 
 
 To think that his last thought of her should be 
 Of a lost soul, a wanton ! his fair wife ! 
 
 That she, so trusted and so cherish'd, she 
 Should first destroy his honour, then his life ! 
 
 A traitress, and a murderess. — " O God ! 
 
 Restore his reason, ere he die ! " she cried. 
 " Too fierce my punishment, too sharp thy rod! " 
 
 And Basil's reason came before he died. 
 
BASIL OR MONO. 49 
 
 He heard her tell her straying, from its source, 
 
 Her shame, her check, her soul's escape from death, 
 
 The latter time of horror and remorse ; 
 
 And then he slowly said, with failing breath : 
 
 " My child, my day is setting to its night ; 
 
 I give my blessing, sweet one, ere I go. 
 The furnace scorch'd. I did not shield thee right, 
 
 But from the furnace thou must purer grow. 
 
 " O love, my maiden sitting by the weir ! 
 
 My pure fair maiden, weaving bright day-dream ! 
 God grant I see thee, with thy soul sin-clear, 
 
 Sitting, an angel, by the Living Stream." 
 
 All said. A silence. Then the final change ; 
 
 And Basil" Ormond, painter, breathed his last. 
 Since then, long years have roll'd o'er Spanish Grange, 
 
 And there a pensive widow mourns the past. 
 
 5 
 
CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 }ji 
 
CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Down in a village in Cornwall, remote from the noise, 
 The sin, and snares of the world, by the solemn sea. 
 
 Dwelt, in love and exchange of simple joys. 
 Two women, as fair as mother and child could be. 
 
 Lovely as morn were they both. The mother, sweet, 
 Gentle, and graceful, with wealth of golden hair ; 
 
 A soft sad smile, that ever seem'd to entreat, 
 And timid eyes, that seem'd to embody prayer. 
 
54 CHRISTABEDS LOVE. 
 
 Mellow her beauty and rich, bright-tinted, warm — 
 A peach with the bloom still velvety fresh on the rind — 
 
 Harmony utter'd in every line of her form. 
 Tokening fitly the harmony chaste of her mind. 
 
 Rose Monteith had pass'd from a turbulent life 
 Of fashion and falseness and glitter, anon of debt, 
 
 Of tempest and cloud, and little of sun as wife. 
 To widowhood's calm, to forgive, if not forget. 
 
 For the sharer of woman's youth and her first delight. 
 Cause though he be of her sorrow and shame and tears, 
 
 Speaks to her, out of the grave, of the days that were bright. 
 And all of the evil he did her disappears. 
 
 Colonel Monteith was a wayward and passionate man, 
 Loving her much, but loving himself still more; 
 
 Wooing her now, as a penitent Sybarite can. 
 Wounding her next, when the penitent fit was o'er. 
 
PEACE. 55 
 
 Ever in gaiety, ever in trouble — a wild 
 And restless meteor, dazing society's eye ; 
 
 Till, on a sudden, he died, and Rose, with her child, 
 Vanish'd, and all forgot her by-and-by. 
 
 Far in the quiet village she buried her days, 
 Loving its solitude more than the giddy crowd, 
 
 The roar of the sea than society's hollow praise, 
 The thanks of the poor, than the gallantry of the proud. 
 
 Evenly flow'd the days, and her past career 
 
 Seem'd to her now to be almost a feverish dream. 
 Steadily growing more dreamlike year by year, 
 . Fading away as a mist in the morning beam. 
 
 And the beam that made the gloom of her life abate, 
 The dawn that made her night as a dream, the spell 
 
 That cast a mystic happiness over her fate. 
 
 Was the love that she bore her child, sweet Christabel. 
 
56 CHRISTABEUS LOVE. 
 
 Fair as the mother the maiden, a rose in the bud ; 
 
 Roses both, but a tenderer rose the girl. 
 A glory of tresses rippling down in a flood 
 
 Of wavy auburn over a bed of pearl. 
 
 Eyes that told of passion and earnestness. 
 Truth and candour shining out from the blue. 
 
 Pouting lips that promised a rare caress 
 To the lips of him she should hold for good and true. 
 
 And over the face entire a flush of light, 
 A luminous fervent pallor, oft, at a breath, 
 
 Gone in a rush of colour, exquisite, bright. 
 Hardly significant more of life than death. 
 
 Under that delicate brow, behind those eyes 
 Perfect innocence dwelt ; no shade of guile, 
 
 No thought that might not be written all over the skies, 
 Burden'd the graver mood, or lurk'd in the smile. 
 
PEACE. S7 
 
 Peerless was Christabel's form, tall, supple, and slight, 
 Slenderness hardly of earth, pervading the whole,— 
 
 And her voice as a distant bell on a quiet night 
 Sinking insensibly into the listener's soul. 
 
 Never a sound in the world so sweet as that tone 
 
 To the ear of the mother that tingled with love and pride. 
 
 Never a being on earth, to Christabel known, 
 So sweet as the mother she almost deified. 
 
 Link'd together in love and beauty, the pair 
 
 Dwelt by the quiet village, doing good, 
 And even the roughest villager mutter'd a prayer 
 
 Trudging by where their little cottage stood; 
 
 Thatched, and moss o'ergrown, with shadowy eaves, 
 Latticed windows and porch of rustic skill, 
 
 Little of wall to see for ivy leaves. 
 And jasmine framing every window-sill. 
 
5 S CHRISTABELS LO VE., 
 
 Bosom'd it was in trees, o'ertopping a dell 
 
 Which widening ever sloped to the rocky shore, 
 
 Looking down on the grand Atlantic's swell 
 Rolling in from the west with muffled roar. 
 
 While to the east, a hundred feet beneath, 
 Uprose the curling smoke of the fishers' cots ; 
 
 And the village seem'd to peacefully smile in a wreath 
 Of leafy lanes and sunny garden plots. 
 
 And round the cottage, bedight with various hue 
 Of flower and lawn and shrub, a garden went, 
 
 Hedged with roses which nigh untended grew. 
 Lading the air with sense-assailing scent. 
 
 And out of the garden, through the blooming hedge, 
 Wound a precipitous path adown the dell. 
 
 Under the trees, almost to the water's edge, 
 
 Lone, and the mother and daughter loved it well. 
 
PEACE. 59 
 
 For here of a summer's morn they would drink the breeze, 
 Gathering flowers that cluster'd about their feet, 
 
 Noting early songsters up in the trees. 
 
 Welcoming day and them with carol sweet. 
 
 Or, on the peaceful and slowly-dying eves. 
 
 When ocean changed its blue to gold, and burn'd. 
 
 Gaze at the sunset glory athwart the leaves. 
 Resting on rocky ledge, mute, seaward-turn'd. 
 
 Leaving the dell, a pathway skirting the shore 
 Straight to the village o'er sand and shingle led, 
 
 Whither they often rambled, at every door 
 
 Hail'd with a blessing, and welcome as daily bread. 
 
 For never a sorrow within not cast on the twain. 
 Never an honest pleasure they did not share, 
 
 Never a little boon entreated in vain. 
 
 Never a shameful word when they were there. 
 
6o CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Behind their cot, like the waves of another sea, 
 
 Bidden to motionless fixity ages past, 
 Slumber'd the silent moor, beloved by the bee, 
 
 Yellow-furzed, in undulations vast. 
 
 Mile upon mile no habitation of man. 
 
 Never a roadside hovel or herdsman's hut ; 
 
 Only on one far slope the eye might scan 
 
 Tower and hall, untenanted, lone, and shut. ' 
 
 And a history clung, in the villagers' talk, to the pile, 
 A tale of passionate love and sudden loss. 
 
 Of a widower broken in heart, there mourning awhile, 
 Then sailing away to the seas of the Southern Cross. 
 
 Years had pass'd, and the wanderer never return'd, 
 Sent no tidings, left of his steps no trace. 
 
 And all those years in the hall no fire had burn'd. 
 One old servitor only bode in the place. 
 
PEACE. -61 
 
 Many a time, when pacing the moor alone, 
 Christabel gazed at the tower with wistful eye ; 
 
 Nursing a secret awe for the stately stone 
 Rearing its purple mass in the evening sky. 
 
 Sorrowing much for the lover and her who died. 
 Wondering whether he ever would come again. 
 
 Live a recluse, or take him another bride, 
 Or if he haply slumber'd under the main. 
 
 , And the thought, as a vague romance, grew into her life. 
 
 And her mother in playful humour said one day, 
 " Perchance he will come, and Christabel be his wife, 
 And dwell in the tower, and we will all be gay. 
 
 " For yesternight, as the moon rose up behind 
 The desolate towers, I stood at my lattice anddream'd. 
 
 And a vision of what might be stole over my mind, 
 And waking, 1 scarce could credit it only seem'd." 
 
62 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Bright did the maiden blush at the words, and creep 
 Close to her mother, murmuring into her ear, 
 
 " He loved the lady he loved with a love too deep 
 To love a woman again, mother dear! 
 
 " And if I loved him enough to part from you, 
 I should hate myself, and hold my love for a sin." 
 
 Return'd her mother : " Perchance ; but still it is true 
 That a maiden who loves a man forgets her kin. 
 
 " And a man can love though he carries a seam in his 
 Surer than love the first, the second may be ? [heart. 
 
 And some day, Christabel, you and I will part, 
 But, hark ; the wind is surging up from the sea ! 
 
 " The trees in the dell begin to quiver and wave, 
 Rocking their lofty heads in anxiety dumb, 
 
 With a sigh, like the sighing of cypresses over a grave ; 
 Into the garden, ere the storm be come ! " 
 
TEMPEST. 
 
 Into the garden they went. 'Twas the fall of the year. 
 
 Yellow leaves came fluttering down to the ground ; 
 While from the beach below there rose on the ear, 
 
 Dull, through the rustle of trees, the surge's sound. 
 
 Fast scudding over their heads drove flakes of cloud, 
 Rent, as it were, from the growling bank behind, 
 
 Which, slowly forging over the sun, as a shroud, 
 
 Cover'd the heaven with gloom. Then gusts of wind, 
 
 Angrier each as they came, swept in from the west, 
 ChiUing the blood and whitening all the sea. 
 
 Scaring the villager home, the rook from his nest 
 Wheeling disconsolate over his trembling tree. 
 
64 CHRISTABEES LOVE. 
 
 Closer the ladies drew, and, facing the gale, 
 Hurried along, held each by the other's arm ; 
 
 And drops of rain fell now on their faces, pale, 
 
 Half with excitement and half with a vague alarm. 
 
 For they fear'd for the fate of the little fishing smack 
 Which yesterday put to sea from the village beach. 
 
 And they peer'd through the mist, in search of it sailing 
 But never a sail as far as the eye could reach. [back, 
 
 Only a knot of anxious folk on the strand — 
 
 Children and wives, and a crippled fisher or two — 
 Looking seawards, with tears and wringing of hand, 
 , And sinking hearts, as the squalls intenser blew. 
 
 Skirting the dell, they bore to a grass-crown'd bluff. 
 Which jutted into the ocean, bold and sheer. 
 
 Whence burst on the view a spectacle grand enough 
 To agitate even a mariner's soul to fear. 
 
TEM,PEST. 65 
 
 For the huge Atlantic rollers, swelling apace, 
 Like hills of brine, with valleys of death between, 
 
 Dash'd themselves in with a crash on the headland's face. 
 Flinging the spray hke snow high over the green. 
 
 And out at sea, with a curling front of fleece, 
 Nearer and nearer forging, the bank of cloud, 
 
 Splitting with flashes that never seem'd to cease, 
 And thunder booming now distinct and loud. 
 
 Behind the vapoury curtain the siin sank down, 
 
 Dyeing the sky o'erhead with lurid light, 
 Such as the glare of a distant burning town 
 
 Sheds on a leaden sky at the fall of night. 
 
 And frighten'd birds with a scream flew landwards by. 
 And others dash'd at the gale with saucy breast, 
 
 As if 'twere sport to them to be whirl'd on high. 
 Or toss'd to the tip of the angry breaker's crest. 
 
66 CHRISTABEL'S LO VE. 
 
 Suddenly, through the mist, which seem'd to lift 
 For a moment over the waters like a veil, 
 
 Shewing the black horizon as through a rift 
 Torn in the lower air, behold — A sail ! 
 
 Then descending, the mist conceal'd it again. 
 
 Blacker the clouds, and fainter the light of the sun. 
 Said Christabel, " Mother, I saw a sail on the main, 
 
 Perchance 'tis the village smack, the missing one." 
 
 " God in His mercy permit it," whisper'd Rose ; 
 
 " And see, the people below have mark'd it too. 
 For some are down on their knees, and one of them goes 
 
 Running back to the village, as if it were true. 
 
 " But we from the cliff can see far better than they, 
 And it seem'd to me too grand for a fishing boat. 
 
 Heaven have pity on sailors all, I pray. 
 For this is a terrible night to be afloat. 
 
TEMPEST. 67 
 
 " Come, let us back to the cottage. The storm comes on : 
 The wind is rising ; the sleet is driving hard ; 
 
 The last faint glimmer of day is nearly gone ; 
 Women can only pray for the evil starr'd." 
 
 Sadly they turn'd, and sped vi\\\\ stumbling feet 
 Back to the path, all slippery now with the rain, 
 
 Driven along in a whirl of icy sleet 
 
 And whistling blast, for it blew a hurricane. 
 
 The trees in the dell groan'd as they hasten'd by. 
 Bowing like chidden spirits, muffled in black. 
 
 Hark ! from the sea a gun ! and each with a cry 
 Stopp'd, and clung to the other, looking back. 
 
 Another gun ; and soon a sulphurous blue 
 Over the heavens, reflected up from below. 
 
 And shouts from the village borne, and then they knew 
 'Twas a ship in jeopardy, human beings in woe. 
 
68 CHRIST ABEnS LOVE. 
 
 "Mother, I cannot go in," pale Christabel saidj 
 
 " 'Tis a ship in distress, and gallant hearts on the rack. 
 
 For they know that the cliff and the rocks and death are 
 And the irresistible tempest at their back. [ahead, 
 
 " I heed not the cruel wind, or the sleet, or the dark, 
 I could not rest in my bed on my pillow of down, 
 
 For shuddering all the night for the sinking bark, 
 And the fancied cry of the women and men who drown." 
 
 Quickly, with catching breath and timid look 
 At the ghostly trees, they hurried down to the shore. 
 
 The sea swept in with a hiss, and, receding, took 
 Foam and shingle back with a grinding roar. 
 
 Darkness had settled intense, and only the glare 
 Of the flashes, fitfully lighting 'up the gloom, 
 
 Show'd them the village folk collected there, 
 Waiting in helpless awe for the vessel's doom. 
 
TEMPEST. 69 
 
 For, drifting, drifting, ever and ever, borne 
 Now on a towering wave, now lost to view, 
 
 Nearer and nearer held that ship forlorn. 
 
 Firing the funeral guns, and burning the blue. 
 
 Hull and spars were merged in the murky night, 
 But the vessel was large, so said the fisher men. 
 
 As they look'd at the long low streak of cabin light. 
 Lying atop the water now and then. 
 
 Suddenly all was darkness. The light went out. 
 Eyes were strain'd, but never a glimmer came. 
 
 Then from watcher to watcher there pass'd about 
 Wails for the dying, and prayers to the Holy Name. 
 
 Soon came whirling pieces of wreck to land. 
 And batter'd corpses of seamen, one by one, 
 
 Pitch'd by the gibing wind and wa ^es on the strand, 
 Saying to earth, " Behold, what we have done ! " 
 
70 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Only of all that hapless vessel's folk 
 
 One strong man lay alive on the beach that night. 
 It vi^as almost dawn when he open'd his eyes and spoke, 
 
 Faint and ghastly, under the lantern's light. 
 
 And he murmur'd, as Rose and Christabel caught at his 
 breath. 
 
 And his gaze fix'd, growing clear, on the girl's fair face, 
 " The hand of God, that has lifted me out of death, 
 
 Has brought a wanderer back to his native place." 
 
 Turn'd at the words the mother, and look'd at her child, 
 Turn'd the maiden, and strange were the glances that 
 met, 
 
 And the mother, bending over the bruised man, smiled, 
 As she thought of her vision, which might be reality yet. 
 
DAWN. 
 
 Moons had waned, the chills of winter were o'er, 
 Spring had come, and caroll'd the birds in the dell ; 
 
 No longer the tower frown'd with fasten'd door, 
 Blithe was the old domestic, and all was well. 
 
 For Roger Delaine sat now by his ancient hearth, 
 Pluck'd from the jaws of death, and the hungry main. 
 
 Wearied of wandering over an aimless path. 
 Yearning for rest and home and love again. 
 
 Swart with the manly bronze of travel and sun, 
 Roger Delaine's was a face of majestic mould; 
 
 The front of a man in verity, such an one 
 As a maiden loves who loves a man that is bold. 
 
72 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Stalwart of frame, with broad and massive chest, 
 And limbs of steel that the strongest would dread in strife; 
 
 Yet gentle so, that a girl might long to rest 
 
 Lull'd in the sinewy arms that could crush her life. 
 
 Earnest in speech, thoughtful, and grave of mien. 
 With a voice sonorous, deep, and anon a smile 
 
 That seem'd to reflect a sorrow that once had been, 
 As well as symbol the pleasure he knew the while. 
 
 Oft, as his strength return'd, would he visit the cot. 
 And the inmates joyfully heard his step on the walk, 
 
 For he seem'd like a knight of romance in the quiet spot, 
 And they gave him happy greeting and grateful talk. 
 
 As the glacier melts in the vale's voluptuous clime. 
 The lone man bent to the artless spell of their ways. 
 
 And he told them all the tale of his early time. 
 And the stirring scenes of his wild and later days. 
 
DAWN. 73 
 
 Of how no lover had wooed a fairer bride, 
 Or clasp'd a tenderer heart, and how his love 
 
 Outran all other loves, his pride all pride. 
 And how she was suddenly beckon'd away above. 
 
 How that his pride was humbled, his suffering sore, 
 His anguish of soul to a reckless frenzy grew. 
 
 And he vow'd he would never look on the cursed spot more 
 Which cover'd his bride, and cover'd his dead heart too. 
 
 Of how he had sail'd the round of the southern world. 
 Hiding himself in the isles of the ocean vast. 
 
 Desolate strands, where never a flag was unfurl'd. 
 Never a shadow of greedy man had pass'd. 
 
 Then to Africa's shores and the wastes behind. 
 Haunted by fever and beasts, and savage men, 
 
 Seeking in mad adventure for peace of mind, 
 Fierce content in front of the lion's den. 
 
74 CHRIST A BEL'S L O VE. 
 
 Tracing a half-known river up to its fount, 
 
 Standing amazed on the marge of some giant lake, 
 
 Giving a name to a grand cloud-canopied mount, 
 Fighting for life with some strange leviathan snake. 
 
 Passing then to the violent lands of the West, 
 Over the southern sea by the Cape of Storms, 
 
 Regions of labour and contest and golden quest, 
 Babels of race and tongue and creeds and forms. 
 
 Then to the pestilent tangles of forests dense, 
 The Andes' gloomy chasms and snowclad peaks. 
 
 The old looking frowningly down on the new — and thence 
 To the pathless plains, where nothing but nature speaks. 
 
 Onward next to the teeming homes of the North, 
 
 The mighty arena of cosmopolitan toil, 
 Where every hardy worker, who ventures forth 
 
 With his axe in his hand, can be a lord of the soil. 
 
DA WN. 75 
 
 But the axe he found had been angrily flung away, 
 The sword and rifle grasp'd instead in the hand ; 
 
 The workers only labour'd to burn and slay : 
 
 Two nations at strife, instead of one happy land. 
 
 War's intoxication arose in his soul, 
 
 Mad, exulting, he strove at the dazzling game, 
 
 Hardly recking if death should prove the goal, 
 Battling for fancied right, and soldier's fame. 
 
 But a bullet stretch'd him among the dying and dead, 
 And six long months of suffering changed his heart, 
 
 And he thought, as he lay on his woe-surrounded bed, 
 That war was after all but a devilish art. 
 
 For the moans of the crippled living smote on his ear. 
 And he saw the quivering muscles beneath the knife, 
 
 He mark'd the orphan's distress, the parent's tear, 
 The agony mute of the early widow'd wife. 
 
76 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 And he vow'd, if Heaven should spare, by Heaven's good 
 grace, 
 
 He would never again in wantonness wield an arm, 
 But in deeds of mercy and pity essay to efface [harm. 
 
 The wrongs of the past, and his deeds of thoughtless 
 
 So, when the demon of war, with panoply new 
 Of man-destroying contrivances, cried afresh 
 
 That another batch of innocent victims was due, 
 Another tribute of mutilated flesh, 
 
 Tying the cross of scarlet about his arm, 
 
 Straight he flew to the battle, and oft the thanks 
 
 Of the wounded and dying seem'd to his soul as a balm, 
 As he smooth'd the hospital pillow or knelt by the ranks. 
 
 Wearied again of men and their deeds, he pass'd 
 To the solitude grim and grand of the barren land 
 
 Where the vulture-haunted mount of Sinai cast 
 Its iron shadow over the simmering sand. 
 
DA WN. 77 
 
 Dwelling in tents, like the patriarch dwellers of >ore, 
 Knowing no friend but his horse and a swarthy son 
 
 Of the desert, edging along to Jordan's shore. 
 Thence to the relic splendour of Babylon. 
 
 Last, through perils of road and robber and beast, 
 Down by the plains of Persia and cities rare, 
 
 He stood by the waves of the gulf that divides the East, 
 And yearn'd for his ancient home and native air. 
 
 Rapt would Christabel sit as she heard him speak,— 
 Hands tight clasp'd, ears draining every word, 
 
 While the crimson flush would come and go on her cheek, 
 And her eyes shone big, and only her bosom stirr'd. 
 
 And when he had ceased, all hush'd was the little room. 
 Mother and maid deep lost in reverie long. 
 
 As if they could muse on his words till day of doom, 
 Or a prophet had spoken, and speech of theirs were 
 wrong. * 
 
78 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Many a day came Roger Delaine from the tower, 
 Loving better the cot each time that he came ; 
 
 And welcome to Christabel chimed the evening hour, 
 When she heard his foot, and his voice pronouncing her 
 name. 
 
 Little she spake. 'Twas enough to her to hear, 
 
 To drink his resonant tones, and treasure his speech, 
 
 As they rambled, he and Rose — she following near, 
 Down the dell or on to the breezy beach. 
 
 And oft, as they went, he chancing to toss her a jest, 
 Or seeking her mind on a legend rare of the place. 
 
 She would stand confused, as a child awoke from rest, 
 And stammer a poor reply, with changing face. 
 
 Then she would lag, reserved, and vex'd at heart. 
 
 Till Rose would rail, " Why, child, what ails thee now ?" 
 And Roger, softly laughing, would take her part ; 
 
 The shadow then would pass away from her brow. 
 
DA WN. 79 
 
 And gladdening under his smile, as a flower in the sun, 
 Gaily tripping, she led them home through the wood, 
 
 Making the hollows ring with her girlish fun, 
 And Rose and Roger marvel much at her mood. 
 
 Entering in, she would sit and sweep the keys. 
 
 Putting all her being into her voice. 
 Pouring melody forth with artless ease. 
 
 Joining ballad to ballad at random choice. 
 
 Till, as it were abash'd at being so gay, 
 
 Suddenly frozen into reserve again ; 
 Timidly rising up, she would turn away, 
 
 And praise and entreaty of theirs alike were vain. 
 
 For the thought of what he thought had flash'd on her mind , 
 Flash'd as she sang, and choked the song in her throat. 
 
 The fear that he half approved, as he sat behind, 
 Or lauded out of pity her simple note. 
 
So CHRIST ABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 And then again his kind words murmur'd close, 
 Making her bosom leap, her eyes flash wet. 
 
 And all her face would lighten up, as a rose 
 Sparkles after the shower, with raindrops set. 
 
 Days flew by. More strange and fitful she grew, 
 Seeming to cherish something hid in her heart ; 
 
 Stealing into the dell, when no one knew, 
 Or in her chamber meditating apart. 
 
 And soon the child all vanish'd out of her mien, 
 A seed from the tree of knowledge had taken root. 
 
 And she knew that she was no longer as she had been, 
 As Eve was ware, when she had tasted the fruit. 
 
 Conscious of something passing into her soul. 
 
 Real, yet indefinable, from above. 
 Like to a subtle essence of joy and dole. 
 
 Gladdening, saddening, lighting, blighting, love ! 
 
DARKNESS. 
 
 Gently the grateful shades of the summer night 
 Closed on the village and dell and placid sea ; 
 
 Sweetly thrill'd eve's songsters adieu to the light, 
 Out the melodious depths of some cool tree. 
 
 One by one the diamond stars peep'd out, 
 Clustering over the sapphire here and there. 
 
 And the spirit of calm came softly stealing about, 
 Lulling the flowers to rest in the quiet air. 
 
 Then the majestic moon uprose from the deep. 
 Shedding effulgence abroad on wave and sky, 
 
 Lighting up the face of the headland steep. 
 Gilding the roofs of the village slumbering by. 
 7 
 
82 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 And every leaf in the porch and garden grew 
 
 Glistening into a gem-besprinkled spray, 
 As if it were powder'd with brilliants, or brush'd with dew 
 
 Which changed to brilliants under the magic ray. 
 
 Christabel lean'd at her lattice and wove sweet dreams, 
 
 Golden visions of youth and fancies fair. 
 While on her pensive features the fond moonbeams 
 
 Quiver'd, and toy'd the breeze in her lustrous hair. 
 
 And in the beams a vision there seem'd to glide, 
 And in the breeze a refrain that seem'd to say, 
 
 " Perchance he will come, and Christabel be his bride, 
 And dwell in the tower, and we will all be gay." 
 
 And then the blood came into her face with a rush, 
 
 The full lips moved, as a dreamer's move at a thought, 
 
 And a deadly pallor succeeded the tell-tale blush. 
 As if the fancy her strength had overwrought. 
 
DARKNESS. 83 
 
 Roger pass'd close beneath on the garden walk, 
 
 Paused, then enter'd the porch, and soon through the 
 
 Came his voice with Rose's in gentle talk. [night 
 
 Christabel closed her lattice with finger light. 
 
 Then, descending noiselessly, stood without, 
 
 Under the moon, nursing her love alone, 
 Seeming, as slowly she paced the garden about. 
 
 Rather an angel musing than flesh and bone. 
 
 Long she paced by the window to and fro, 
 Stopping anon with soft unconscious sigh. 
 
 As the murmur of mellow bass in converse low 
 
 Came through the leaves, and silver tones in reply. 
 
 "Why should she grasp the ivy with sudden start ? 
 
 Why should she crouch and listen there, like a child ? 
 Why should she pant and tremble ? why should her heart 
 
 Beat with a beating so strangely quick and wild ? 
 
CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Rose and Roger had near'd the window ; Rose 
 Standing full in the light, and looking down ; 
 
 He with the craving look of one who knows 
 
 Every moment will bring him a death or a crown. 
 
 Only the words " I will," in accents sweet, 
 
 Broke the hush. Then some passionate blurt of his, 
 
 And the sound, which is scarcely a sound, when two mouths 
 meet. 
 And past and future are nothing to that which is. 
 
 Further nought. For Christabel rose and crept 
 Faintly away, lest her presence might be reveal'd ; 
 
 And only a sob, at which a fiend would have wept. 
 Forced itself from her lips, all white and seal'd. 
 
 Then she ran, half staggering, under the trees, 
 Into the deepest shadow of trunk and leaf, 
 
 And there, with a cry, she flung herself down on her knees. 
 Spending her soul in a flood of bitter grief. 
 
DARKNESS. 85 
 
 " Cruel world, and oh, cruel mother ! " she moan'd; 
 
 " This is the dream that was dream'd, mother, by 
 Cruel ; ay, and unmaidenly I," she moan'd ; [thee ? 
 
 " What is Roger Delaine and his love to me ? 
 
 "Why should I reck that another his heart has won ? 
 
 Why should I trouble what ear receives his vow ? 
 He is free to choose, what matter ? as he has done. 
 
 Yet, mother, oh, why should it be thou ? 
 
 " ' A man may love though he carries a seam in his heart ; 
 
 Surer than love the first the second may be ; 
 And some day, Christabel, you and I will part.' — 
 
 Mother, false mother, I fear you were mocking me." 
 
 Then she arose, and her eyes flash'd angry flame, 
 Her hands were clench'd, her quivering lips upcurl'd, 
 
 And a bitterness into her voice and nature came, [world. 
 As she said, "Our paths must be separate hence in the 
 
CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 " Would I were dead ! " Then gently an inner voice 
 Spake to her soul and said, " Thou must live to bear, 
 
 For earthly sorrows and joys come not to choice 
 God sends them all, and sorrow is now thy share." 
 
 Came a fragrant breath of the fluttering breeze, 
 As if night, pityingr breathed to cool her brow ; 
 
 And a golden beam shot down through the parting trees. 
 Like a message of comfort sent from Him to her now. 
 
 Slowly the flame of anger paled in her eyes, 
 Slowly the tinge of bitterness pass'd from her look ; 
 
 While the welling tears began afresh to arise. 
 And, in her anguish, all her body shook. 
 
 Long she wept ; then humbly she raised her face, 
 Wan and changed, and, straining fervently up, 
 
 Pray'd with choking voice to Heaven for grace, 
 And patient courage- wherewith to drink the cup. 
 
DARKNESS. 87 
 
 Clomb the tremulous moon to her zenith's height ; 
 
 Sharper the shadows grew, and chill the air ; 
 Hush'd were all the sounds that usher the night ; 
 
 Musing, motionless yet, stood Christabel there. 
 
 And when the lover and Rose approach'd behind, 
 Hand-in-hand, seeking her, still she stood. 
 
 As if from out the body had fled the mind. 
 
 Gone aloft to speak with the souls of the good. 
 
 Hearing their steps, she turn'd with a frighten'd start, 
 Tottering nigh, for her limbs seem'd numb and weak, 
 
 And they could almost catch the pulse of her heart. 
 Throbbing wild and loud, as she strove to speak. 
 
 Only a murmur came, and so to their quest, 
 What ail'dher, nought but a scarcely smother'd gasp. 
 
 Suddenly, full she fell on her mother's breast. 
 Clinging fast to her neck, with passionate clasp. 
 
88. CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 Fondly they lavish'd upon her love and fears, 
 Soft caresses, and words of gentle blame, 
 
 Making her raise her head and smile through her tears, 
 And, after a space, her speech and calmness came. 
 
 " I am faint with the heat, and fancied to be alone ; 
 
 I love to watch the moonlight over the dell." 
 Taking their hands, she join'd the two in her own. 
 
 Saying, " I know the thing you came to tell." 
 
 Then she kiss'd her mother, and press'd his hand. 
 Bade them a low good-night, so — swift to her room ; 
 
 And round her tear-dew'd pillow the heavenly band. 
 Watching, whisper'd, " Joy comes after gloom." 
 
REST. 
 
 Rose and Roger were wed, and a happy wife 
 And happy husband dwelt in the ancient tower. 
 
 Vanish'd at last had the ghost of her former life, 
 In present love forgot was his darksome hour. 
 
 Hardly without a certain twinge of remorse 
 
 Rose at first had given her heart away. 
 Idle her words to Christabel, yet perforce 
 
 Troublesome echoes they stirr'd for many a day. 
 
 And she fear'd that to Christabel's mind the words might 
 Rousing a sense of betrayal, a shade of scorn, [recur, 
 
 Putting a distance between the child and her ; 
 Bright as her chaplet bloom'd, it held its thorn. 
 
90 CHRISTABEDS LOVE, 
 
 But by degrees, as her own new love wax'd strong, 
 And Roger laid his passionate heart at her feet, 
 
 Fainter became her fears, and her thoughts of wrong. 
 And she gave herself up to her love in an ecstasy sweet. 
 
 Christabel dwelt with the pair, but never a word 
 Told of the woe that she suffer'd, gnawing her life ; 
 
 Daily and hourly wrung by the things she heard 
 And saw betwixt the man she had loved, and his wife. 
 
 Soft endearments of look, and speech, and tone, 
 Nameless trifles of love, from morn to night, 
 
 Making her almost pray that her heart were stone, 
 Or heaven would strike her deaf, or rob her of sight. 
 
 For bitter it is for a maiden to love in vain, 
 
 Bitter to know that another has won the prize ; 
 
 But harder than either an unconcern to feign, 
 With prize and winner for ever before the eyes. 
 
REST. 91 
 
 Still, with a brave resolve she silently bore 
 All the suffering, all of the words that slew, 
 
 Hidden close to her breast the cross she wore, 
 Happy only in knowing One only knew. 
 
 Fighting with all her might with the weakness within. 
 Saying, " They love, and I must not mar their delight. 
 
 The greater their love, the greater would be my sin, 
 And dawn must come, however obscure the night." 
 
 Patiently thus she struggled, and but for a shade 
 
 Of deeper reticence over her pensive air, 
 'None could iave guess'd that the heart of the quiet maid 
 
 Held a canker within it, or knew a care. 
 
 For she school'd her manner, and bridled her tongue and 
 her look. 
 
 Meeting his glance with a glance that no longer shrank, 
 Naming the cot with a voice that never shook, 
 
 Smiling his humour back with smile as frank. 
 
93 CHRISTABEL'S LOVE. 
 
 But a change in time stole over her, mystic, slow. 
 And scarce perceived as it grew, yet growing sure ; 
 
 As if the life were numb'd with a secret blow, [endure. 
 Or the spirit had ask'd more than the strength could 
 
 Into her countenance rarer beauty crept. 
 
 Blent with a most celestial holy grace, 
 As though the little of bad within her slept, 
 
 And all the good were breathing out of her face. 
 
 And with the beauty a deadly delicate hue, 
 
 Whiter white, and hastier flush of pink ; 
 Slenderer, too, her slender figure grew, 
 
 Causing Rose and Roger to pause and think. 
 
 Troubled they were at first, but after a space 
 Sank misgivings, making light of the thing ; 
 
 Thinking a. little change of sky and place 
 
 Health again to her fading cheek would bring. 
 
REST. 93 
 
 So, on a sudden, they turn'd their faces from home, 
 Hurrying down to the Mediterranean shore : 
 
 Nice and Genoa, Naples, Florence, Rome, 
 All the resorts of fashion and arks of lore. 
 
 Dragging her into the giddy, wandering crowd ; 
 
 Churches, palaces, galleries, gardens ; still 
 Amid the pleasure and bustle there seem'd a cloud 
 
 Over her life, as a blight, foreboding ill. 
 
 For deadlier grew the hue, and day by day 
 Deeper the flush, brighter the fire of the eye ; 
 
 The once lithe rounded limbs seem'd melting away. 
 The bosom rent with sore and frequent sigh. 
 
 Then one day they woke to the pitiful truth, 
 Saw the brand on her cheek, the sign of death, 
 
 The maw of decay fast eating into her youth. 
 
 Sucking her tender flesh, and stealing her breath. 
 
94 CHKISTABEUS LOVE. 
 
 And Christabel also read their faces, and felt [tomb. 
 
 That the change was the change whose ending is in the 
 For something spake to her soul as one night she knelt 
 
 Praying, and told her, all at once, of her doom. 
 
 Peacefully heard she the summons. A holy calm 
 Came to her spirit, like a refreshing dew ; 
 
 For in her sorrow sustain'd there seem'd a balm. 
 Out of her trial a joy ineffable grew. 
 
 A bliss she had never known in her rosiest dreams ; 
 
 A sense of triumph, of self subdued at last ; 5^ 
 Of having a light about her of heavenly beams 
 
 Shining in place of the fire through which she had pass'd. 
 
 All that night she watch'd, and knew that her grief, 
 Her shadow of yesterday, led to the calm of to-day. 
 
 Serving to pilot her soul, through a tempest brief, 
 Out of the fleshly into a purer way. 
 
Ji£ST. 95 
 
 And she thank'd God now for the past, with a happy mind, 
 Feeling a positive joy in the love of the pair. 
 
 And the thought that neither the one nor the other opined 
 That their love had been to her for a grief and a snare. 
 
 Then, in the morn, she told them, saying, " I know 
 That my sickness will only cease when I too cease. 
 
 And that will be ere the winter ; so let us go 
 
 Back to the tower, that there I may die in peace." 
 
 Back they went. Then the unavoidable close, 
 A sombre eve at the yellow fall of the year ; 
 
 Christabel lay by her lattice, Roger and Rose 
 Holding her either hand, and kneeling near. 
 
 Just as the last red glow of the dying sun 
 
 Faded over the sky, and sank the day, 
 Murmur'd the maiden, " Mother, the goal is won ; 
 
 See how happy I am ! " and pass'd away. 
 
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 LAYS OF IND. 
 
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 REVIEWS OF THE EARLIER EDITIONS. 
 
 " It is quite refreshing to read this lively and spirited little book, consisting 
 of a series of ballads and other rhymes descriptive of Anglo-Indian life. The 
 author is, we hear, an officer in a favourite regiment, stationed in one of the 
 hottest spots in this country, but the climate certainly has not dulled his talents. 
 The 'Lays of Ind ' are distinguished by their admirable rhyme and rhythm, 
 which throughout seventy-seven well- filled pages never halt ; but the most 
 striking characteristics of the work are the genuine fun and laughter-moving 
 wit, which fully keep pace with the admirable rhyme and rhythm, and are not 
 indebted to the meretricious aid of puns, on which too many entertaining 
 writers are prone to rely. . . . For rollicking fun we would instance the 
 'Two Thumpers,' a lay wherein Major Corker and Captain Goak vie with 
 
 8 
 
REVIEWS OF THE EARLIER EDITIONS. 
 LAYS OF IND:— 
 
 each other in the narration of incredible anecdotes ; ' Jinks's Leave,' which tells 
 how Cornet Jinks circumvented Colonel de Fierie Phlaime, and married his 
 pretty danghter. Satire abounds in these ' Lays,' but generally appears only as 
 a rough cloak in which a good-natured thought is enveloped. The book is 
 admirably adapted for the amusement of many a party round the mahogany, 
 or by the camp fire." — Times of India, on the First Series. 
 
 "No literary announcement that we could make will be received with more 
 general delight by our readers than that ' Aliph Cheem' has just published 
 a second series of his ' Lays of Ind.' Than the first series, few if any works 
 ever printed in India have won so wide a popularity. This success was well 
 deserved. Rarely indulgent to indigenous poetry, the attention of the whole 
 Anglo-Indian public was arrested by the 'Lays of Ind.' It was at once 
 discerned that a new vein of intellectual enjoyment had been struck by a writer 
 whose talents were far above the common level, and the verdict then passed 
 upon the book has never since been revoked. It is stiU as great a favourite 
 as ever, and we have good grounds for believing that it is more frequently 
 quoted and referred to in ordinary conversation than any other work of light 
 literature that has been produced in India." — Times of India, on the Second 
 Series, June lyh, 1873. 
 
 " Probably the characters satirized are well known in upper-class Indian 
 society ; but so genial is the humour, that even the victims might be expected 
 to join in the general laughter. . . . The majority of the pieces are treated 
 humorously, although there are several others of a pathetic character." — Church 
 and School Gazette, Marih 26th, 1874. 
 
 "Relating chiefly to the peculiar incidents of Anglo-Indian lite, they abound 
 in words that would puzzle most readers ; but some compensation for this 
 drawback is found in the thorough local colour of the effusions. ... Of 
 course the 'Lays' present us with the 'Garrison Belle,' who maybe either 
 wedded or single. We have verses on the 'Griffin,' a pitiable being, who is 
 new to the country and ignorant of the slang ; the ' Boys, ' many of them grey- 
 bearded men, whose duty it is to wait upon the sahibs ; and the European 
 ' loafer, ' a begging pest and scandal unequalled in any other country. Trivi- 
 alities like the morning ' tub ' come in for notice, and a number of the ' Lays ' 
 reflect very correctly the sort of scandal that sets wagging the idle tongues of 
 the cantonment. Altogether, the ' Lays of Ind ' may afford, at all events to 
 an Anglo-Indian, a good deal of amusement." — The Scotsman, Aprilz%th, 1874. 
 
REVIEIVS OF THE EARLIER EDITIONS. 
 LAYS OF IND:— 
 
 "The author of ' Lays of Ind'— Aliph Cheem— says in his introduction- 
 Critics ! in a bag of chaiT 
 Don't look for grain too nearly ; 
 
 but we have found a good many grains. The comic pieces are distinguished by 
 genuine humour, without vulgarity, and the few more serious verses show pathos, 
 especially ' The Loafer ; ' whilst the versification is easy and flowing. Amongst 
 the humorous poems the best are ' Perfide Albion,' ' The Contented Sub," and 
 ' The Sensitive Fakeer,' which might have been written by the author of ' Bab 
 Ballads.' We shall not be sorry to meet with Aliph Cheem again some day." — 
 Graphic, May loth, 1 874. 
 
 "Being almost exclusively local in spirit and colouring, these 'Lays' will 
 appeal more especially to those who may be conversant with Oriental manners 
 and customs, than to English readers in general. There is, notwithstanding, a 
 vivacious sprightly tone pervading these little sketches, which will render them 
 pleasant pastime for a spare hour to any reader whose digestive organs are not 
 in so hopaless a condition as to prevent his enjoying a good-natured harmless 
 laugh, without peering too curiously for a deep moral lying underneath the 
 humour." — Frre West, Feb. 1874. 
 
 "There is scarcely a ballad in either of these volumes which is not amusing ; 
 and while the general public will welcome them as clever and sprightly verses, 
 old Anglo-Indians who will understand them best will appreciate them most 
 highly." — Court Circular, Feb. 14th, 1874. 
 
 ' ' This unpretentious little book contains a collection of tales, in verse, chiefly 
 of a facetious character, and relating exclusively to Indian life, with the details 
 of which the author is obviously well acquainted. . . . The ' Lays ' are for the 
 most part of a humorous character, but one or two are semi-sentimental, and 
 one, 'The Loafer,' shows some tragic power. To our mind, the best of the 
 lighter stories are those called 'Those Niggers,' 'Le Beau Sabreur,' and the 
 • Painting of the Statue. ' Aliph Cheem has considerable sense of humour, and 
 a decided turn for neat versification. " — Volunteer Service Gazette, Feb. \\th, 1874. 
 
 " If any of our readers have not yet seen the ' Lays of Ind,' we advise them 
 to beg, borrow, steal, or buy a copy forthwith. Does this read like a puff? We 
 are sorry if it does, but it is meant for an honest recommendation to our readers 
 to get and read the very amusing 'Lays of Ind.' We have heard that the 
 author is Captain Yeldham, of the i8th Hussars." — Madras Mail. 
 
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