.£.:mM£MT'mmsm:sioj\F sow w^^s ^ * \ \ k ^ , \ A.N A \ V" CTJ^JZ POEMS mBMMr smcaALi /) ,|VJW2JJ' M/'V^?^ Cornell University Library PR 5473.S16H4 Aheart>.obsession;_sonne^^^^^^^^ 3 1924 013 553 296 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/cu31924013553296 A HEART'S OBSESSION. A HEART'S OBSESSION. SlonnetB ot the (Eitg, AND OTHER POEMS. BY ROBERT STEGGALL, AUTHOR OF 'EVENSONGS,' 'JEANNE D'aRC,' ETC. LONDON : ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1886. MY DEAR FRIEND CHARLES KENT. CONTENTS. PAGE A heart's obsession - - I THE OLD MILL - - - - 20 IN' THE FOREST ... . 22 THINKING ... 29 THE AVENUE'S LAMENT .... 40 DANTE AT THE CONVENT OF SANTA CROCE DEL CORVO 46 THE BUILDING OF THE BOATS - - . 47 DOROTHY {a portrait) - - 52 TO VESPER - ... t;7 AU SALUT ...... 68 THE NAMELESS FLOWER - - . - 74 DEPRECATION - - 79 THE SCOUT - - - . - 82 FATE AND THE FOUNTAIN - - . .90 ADELINE .... 94 THE FISHER-WIFE'S DREAM - - 96 FROM MY PORTFOLIO {an etching) - - 100 THE REVENGE - - I05 via Contents. SEA GULLS CUI 130N0 ? - WATCHING - WILD FLOWERS ICHABOD ! - PAULUS ^MILIUS TEDIUM VIT^ MARIE ANTOINETTE OLIVER CROMWELL- THE RUINED SHRINE LUCY EVENTIDE THE WORLDLING - THE HEIR DE PROFUNDIS A NEW YEAR VIGIL MY TREE SONNETS OF THE CITY : I. ST. PAUL'S II. THE RIVER IIL THE BRIDGE IV. TEMPLE BAR V. AVARICE VI. ONE WAIF - VII. TO THE SUN VIIL THE SKYLARK PAGE ii6 119 120 121 124 136 138 139 146 ISO 158 161 163 167 179 i8s 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 Contents. IX SONNETS OF IX. X. XI. JCII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. xvni. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. xxni. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. THE CITY : PASSERS-BY.— I. PASSERS-BY.— II. PASSERS-BY.— III. - AN APPARITION THE POOL PATERNOSTER ROW - RETROSPECTIVE NIGHT.— I. - NIGHT. — II. DREAMS. — I. - DREAMS. — II. DREAMS. — III. DAWN SUNDAY an old bookstall- underground cleopatra's needle domine dirige nos ' guy's ' a flower girl alter ego LORD mayor's DAY- ST. martin's LE GRAND ' BLIND ' NEWGATE 193 194 19s 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 X Contents. rhGE SONNETS OF THE CITY : XXXIV. RUS IN URBE t - 2i8 XXXV. THE TOWER - - 219 XXXVI. NAMES - 220 XXXVII. A DAY IN THE COUNTRY - 221 XXXVIII. CHRIST HOSPITAL - - 222 XXXIX. 'BIG BEN' - - 223 XL. ' FIRE !' - 224 XLI. A SPARROW - - 22S XLII. LOST - - - 226 XLIIL THE MINT - 227 XLIV. FINIS- - 228 ' In all worlds there are secrets, only known, And justifiable, to Him Who laid Their sure foundations, trembling though they stand Upon the countless coltimns of the air.' Bailey. A HEART'S OBSESSION. |E were so happy — thrice happy! — in those days long gone by. There, in our nest 'mid the pinewood, my own loving lord and I — Lovers as children who had been, growing with lapse of the years Fonder and fonder past measure of whatso entwines and endears, When the all that made up our whole world, round about and above And within us, naught was save sweet loveliness only and love. Yea, loved we with love of such fulness, mind, body and soul, Mingling together, did blend into one pure superlative whole. Heart of both so inform'd of a faith and devotion so rare, So of all truest and tender, beyond wherewithal to compare, 2 A Heart's Obsession. That either, though, self-reproved, conscious of the impious boast, Felt it must be one's own love was greater, that each did love most. Ne'er heart to heart came thus together, since hearts to each other inclined. Never yet twain of the fondest so fondly and firmly entwined ; Oh ! it was heaven upon earth ! or if aught for a moment could seem To cast but the shade of a shadow over our beautiful dream, 'Twas makebelieve only, lovers' self-teazing, false doubt and mock fear, Lest either divine not just wholly how each to the other was dear. Then was it always morning and middle of month of May; Never darkness or winter came near us, and every day — Else hardly discern'd, so soft gliding, but differing each from the last By rich store ever growing of memories sweet of the past — Was full of delight and all happiness under the sun. As seven days' impletion of gladness and glory in one ! A Heart's Obsession. 3 Ah ! how well I remember ! so full, more than over- replete Of all riches of joy that could gladden, or sweeter make sweet — When, for mere pastime of playing at trouble that ne'er could be true, Of all things impossible tenfold, impossible most well we knew, To wanton with fancy of pain in our very redundance of bliss, We would feign little pique and pout, ending quick with embrace and a kiss ! Beguiled of enchantment so perfect, no marvel, for- sooth ! if we Lived but each happy rounded hour, with no thought of a morrow to be ; Least of all that dread morrow which came with such startling affright. As wrought of the spirit of evil, in envy and spite Of our bliss — who yet knew from the first, tho' shutting it out from our heart. War, long looming, already begun, needs must be we should part 1 Then, how I wish'd he had chosen some other career than his own, I — 2 4 A Heart's Obsession. Not lessworthyand noble, a path to as brilliant renown; Anything rather than that, worse than either and all of the rest, Hearts rending asunder ! — no, no ! — for the bravest are ever the best, — No, his face bending o'er me at parting, scarce had I will'd, woman-wise, To stay him, as proudly I gazed on the pride of those wonderful eyes ! Oh ! thus was it ever ! — it must be that something is wrong — for, alack ! Joy, heedless, ne'er trips on before, but sorrow is close on its track ; They may journey a little together, pass and repass, each but scann'd Of the other askance, or even in fellowship go hand in hand, — But ere far they proceed on life's highway, or ever they reach the first bend, Joy, fitful, returns, leaving sorrow to hold on alone to the end. We parted,— O God! I oft wonder how ever I dare Think of it, ponder upon it— full in the face of de- spair ! A Hearfs Obsession. 5 Even as one, in sheer horror and wilful defiance of death. Draws near to the brink of a precipice, fearfully hold- ing his breath, And escaping, of mercy, uncured of his daring inane. Heeding no longer the peril, returns yet again and again. Straight — war long time a-smoulder, now broken out sudden, and fast Following contingents one after another — o'er ocean he pass'd With one of the foremost, and swiftly^O me, what a change From our loves and the roses ! — right into the fray, fell and strange. Merged, and was lost — swallow'd up — as a drop in the vast of the sea, — Yet, yet how a hundredfold more than the hosts all together to me ! To me, so forlorn ! thus waking at once out of rap- turous dream Of May morning, to find it mid-winter, cold ruthless extreme. And groan in the dismal dawn, for numb wonder and bitter of pain : 6 A Heart's Obsession. ' Oh ! would I had slept yet awhile, and could dream it all over again 1 Or is it that this is but only some horrible nightmare ? —yea, It must be, and I shall awake, to smile at my needless dismay !' By-and-by came a letter, at last — his own writing! Ah ! how I press'd It unopened, and hugged it, so wildly, for hours to my breast ! Safe— he was safe — was alive! joy enough, in all conscience, thrice o'er. For long lifetime of greed, without yearning to feast upon more. Finding, it might be, instead, some sad truth, or some lack, for surmise, — At length, I opened and read it, far more with my heart than mine eyes. Now and again in the journals I lit with a start on his name. For some deed of desperate daring aglow with blazon of fame ; Yet none of those heroes, he, who love laud of their prowess, and are A Heart's Obsession. 7 Full fain to shed innocent blood for the sake of a riband or star — He, bold and as brave from the flames or the waves, of the strife Ne'er counting the cost or the danger, to save but a little child's life ! That made the peril more great — he, of need, would be foremost, I knew ; Besides, 'tis so different now — they fight no more as they used to do. In the olden days — bad enough, doubtless, then, to endure ; All is changed — for the better, they say — I don't know, I am sure — Then, at least, there were none of those engines, contrived on purpose to tear A whole regiment to pieces, or blow a fleet into the air ! Yet letters came still — all I lived for 1 — but oh ! such ages between ! Though each, on the instant, annuU'd them, as interval never had been ; For joy I remembered no more the yearning and passionate pain — Soon as the sunshine returns, we forget the long days of the rain ; 8 A Hearfs Obsession. And hope nestled still in my heart, brooding sweetly, if sadly, alway. As the longest and darkest night in its bosom bears ever the day. If,as in truthfell out often, delay, even double and thrice Longer than wont, intervened, love was ne'er at a loss for device To baffle its terrors, vanquishing, over and over again Its horrible enemy, fear, ever ready and fain. Despite forebodings proved groundless, a ruthless belief to instil Of sure hap of the worst my poor heart ever boded of cruellest ill. Not were there good and fair reasons, counselling patience and trust ? Had I not oftentimes proved how foolish my fears, how unjust The doubt, half unmeant, of God's goodness .' again had sore longing, engross'd, Misled me, made weeks appear months .' — or his letter, for certain, was lost, Fall'n, with everything else, into hands of the enemy — or, 'mid the heap Of a mail, haply now was lying at bottom of bay or the deep. A Heart's Obsession. 9 Or, — so sweetly fond love can fancy! — it might be, who could gainsay ? Such rare transports have been — fortune-favour'd, past hope's utmost daring, yea. By some happiest hazard sped homeward, it might be that even then Was he well on the way-^planning, once in dear England again. Blest surprise for his darling ! — a day, or an hour — any instant — a start, A voice, and oh, joy ! he might fold me once more in his arms, to his heart ! We met ! long, long after— lapse woeful of longing and wonder, and great Weariness scarce to be borne ! yet my one ceaseless solace to wait. Ever finding some berries of hope on despondency's winterly thorn. Some glow lurking still in the ashes of misery's hearth forlorn, Each day with its dawn bringing life, that at nightfall would die, My morning prayer almost a psalm, my evensong only a sigh. lo A Heart's Obsession. We met ; nevermore, out of heaven — ah ! never again shall I know Joy like unto that, come what may of unearthly delight here below ! Joy gather'd, distill'd of the years of all blisses under the sun. Sweet of all sweets that are sweetest united and mingled in one — That my heart — 'twas the whole of me — with such infinite rapture ran o'er. It had fill'd a wide world, nor so much as miss'd one little drop from its store ! Oh ! the unthought of, undreamt rapture wild of that first embrace, As, speechless, I only could cling, gazing greedily up to his face ; No room left for any one wish — one alone could have enter'd my heart. Thus to be blended for ever, beyond death itself us to part — That face — oh ! so God-like it looked, ay, more than for mortal were meet, For I fain had slid down from his arms, and worshipp'd him there at his feet ! Days passed — though I knew not, too happy, living on still in a dream — A Heart's Obsession. 1 1 Or as fairyland sure were return'd, and myself thereof Queen supreme ; Till, on a sudden — great God, that fell hour ! or that ever it loom'd, Would the world had been shatter'd to atoms, and every vestige consumed ! — More than light from the day, or than stars from night's clear summer skies. With shuddering wonder I miss'd that ineffable love from his eyes ! Conscious at once, in its stead, of what, nathless, my own would not see — What ne'er had escaped them at first, but that God, in His mercy to me, So blinded love's vision with joy, and beguiled my fond heart of its fate ; Yet, how scarcely had innocent love discern'd it, knowing not hate. But that, waiting and watching his chance, malignant of envy, the old Serpent himself made it plain, and its meaning, hissed into me, told. Then, in wild tumult and swift — as they also, with cruel intent, 12 A Hearfs Obsession. Had been biding the moment to take me, helpless, alas ! to prevent, A full sure and an easier prey — rushed a furious demon-like brood Of ill thoughts all unthought till that hour, glance or word of his, not understood, Conjuring up to my mind, or some smile, that, seeming not made Of happiness wholly, at last to very discomfort would fade. Sharper than sword the remembrance of how, once or twice, in the deep Of the night, I awake at his side, he mutter'd strange words in his sleep ; Or when, as in days ere the parting, taking our after- noon rest In the garden — I feigning to slumber, with head on his breast, Only to be there and list but his breathing — there pass'd with his breath What, though startled, I deem'd but sad echo from out those grim valleys of death. All came back upon me at once, each hissing its horrible tale ; A Heart's Obsession. 13 Yet, for a time I defied them, albeit 'twas of little avail. Minding me well of a hundred things, simple acts, in themselves not much. Still, proofs of kind heart and true love — at least my own held them for such — His great nature, so foully beset with the powers of darkness and hell, Striving awhile to conceal what he could not ex- tinguish or quell. Ah ! that could not last ! He, perceiving his secret no longer unknown — For what if my tongue, held of horror and awe, remain'd silent as stone, How bribe my undisciplined eyes, or an instant their candour enthrall ? — Such secret there, gnawing his heart day and night, straight he told me all ! And never yet words of mouth, meant of God for blessing and prayer. Wrought such accursed malediction as fell on my soul then and there. Calm, then, deliberate, tremor nor pause in his speech, he confess'd 14 A Hearfs Obsession. How, day by day, had he been on the point to deliver his breast Of its burthen : That, from the first — yea, soon as he threw in his life 'Mid the havoc and fury and fume of the terrible strife — Enthrall'd and absorb'd of the carnage, he felt his love droop and fail fast, Fade, and at length die out wholly, not one dead joy left as it pass'd ! Vanish'd ! and left his soul void and all darkness, bereft of its sun — Wherefore and how, a mystery still — cause, that he knew, there was none ; Unless, as most like, it was taken of poisonous taint in the air. Deadly foul reek of the battlefield steaming up every- where. From valley and plain, that, quick slaying all tender- ness, bred Some unnatural instinct, akin to the brute, in its stead. Or, if remain'd yet of solace, amid all the slaying and slain, A Heart's Obsession. 15 Even so much as one thought, to preserve from de- spair and sustain, 'Twas that, once safely returned, far removed from the horror and harm, Very first sight of me would from his soul the unclean spirit charm ; That pure love, softly breathed in afresh from my heart, would requicken his own, — Alas ! it proved only as summer that comes when the roses have blown ! All vain the soft shower and the sunshine to blossoms wither'd and shed ; What profit fair morning of June and the sweet song of birds to the dead ? Woe is me ! had he, only for token, back in his bosom but borne Naught save cold ashes of love, whence the last gleam of fondness was gone. Mine, of its ardour intense, fann'd of longing to seven- fold glow. Had rekindled them quick, yea, had swiftly brought dead love to life, well I know ! Once the fell secret divined, cause no longer for fraud or restraint. i6 A Heart's Obsession. Lo, ceased all the kindness, he grown of dissembling impatient and faint. Ceased from that moment — but, O my God ! there, in his face, in its stead, What, more than rack'd of all tortures that kill, made me pray to be dead, — For never heart knew of dire anguish its pang the most bitter and keen, Unpierced of the sting of cold scorn on loved lips where love one time had been ! Naught else to bear after that, come what may of the uttermost height Of agony scarce to be borne, but by contrast were comfort outright ! Who, e'en in frenzy, had dream'd, though the powers of darkness malign. To invent a worse horror than e'er had yet been, should combine, That loved object, disloved, unto eyes and the heart which erewhile Held it so dear, might become but a thing to abhor and revile ! That, of all fair to pure vision, what once had seem'd fairest to see. A Heart's Obsession. 17 View'd again, of soul bias'd and blurr'd, should of all things most horrible be ! Would I had died or yet ever than death 'twas worse, tenfold, to live. Seeing the sin my devotion but nurtured — that hate now did thrive Whereon erst had been sweet food to love ; and that love, still unchanged, but made whole And more utter the dread transformation of that supreme beautiful soul ! Past all understanding ! for, still, the scorn and the hate seem'd inspired Half of self-hatred, for hate of what still his sad soul half desired. Now not far off the end — what ending ! — I grew day by day more afraid Of what he, too, did seem to fear, as beset of fiends not to be laid : One moment we stood face to face — gazed in eyes of each other — and straight Parted, with nevera word, — and Hive onbutonlyto wait. Waiting, e'er waiting, in trust, and hope, — for the Lord, He is good, and, sure. Would not suffer a heart to be lost He had made so noble and pure ; 2 1 8 A Heart's Obsession. Only thus waiting and longing — hopeful, whatever befall, For still through all trials I love him — how else had I loved him at all ! Yea, could such be, most I loved when bemoaning love's loss, fain to cling E'en to his hate, with a might that had drawn yet a sweet from its sting. Waiting, trusting, alway ; for oft in my dreams I be- hold him, and oft Hearken his voice, feel the glow of his breath, breath- ing, tender and soft, In mine ear, as of old, Anthie ! my Anthie ! — Oh! why do I wake ? — God forgive him — and bless him ! — if but for the love- liness' sake Of sin pardon'd, so fair past all virtue more pure of all stain than the dove. For it bears plain and sterling upon it His mint-mark of mercy and love. Yet who shall dare say it was sin .' — not of will of his own, but wrought In despite of revulsion of feeling and passion and thought. He victim himself, for a season, spell-bound of im- placable fate ; A Heart's Obsession. 19 So am I patient, still hopeful — fain alway to pray and to wait, Until, in God's own good time, harm'd no whit of the ill overpast. Some angel hand gently shall lead him back to my bosom at last. 2 — 2 20 THE OLD MILL. (ONE on the hill, Staring stark out like a goblin grim. Stands the old Mill ; Shapeless shape all awry, Only one half of a mangled limb Left out-thrust at the sky. Wind it may blow. Blow high or low, north or south, nevermore Round it will go ; There's no grist in the bin. No meal-white Miller at dusty door, — Black and hideous as sin ! Wizen and worn. Ne'er lifeless thing, alive seeming to be, Look'd so forlorn ; So dark, dismal, and weird. Gallows nor gibbet nor blasted tree E'er on hill-top appear'd. The Old Mill. 21 Always the same, Summer and winter and autumn and spring, There in its shame. Fell and foul to behold, Haggard and hollow great horrible thing, As e'er startled the bold ! Menacing scare, Shun'd of the sheep and beasts freed from the yoke, Birds of the air. And all children of men. And every sound, save the yelping croak Of the frogs in the fen. Lonely and still. Evil thing, monster of earth nor of air, Looms the old Mill ; And for many a day, Desolate dismal and dsemon-like there. Hath all good kept at bay. Yet, years gone by, North wind or west, it went whirring round, Toy of the sky, Of earth's travail a part. Or ever the Miller's fair daughter was found, Stab'd, love's hate, to the heart ! 22 IN THE FOREST. [OVEMBER, and a wood in the Ardennes. First, a mere sketch, or study, of a glen Right in the midst, and taken on a day What time the morning mists had clear'd away, Revealing, round about, the elfin glade, In dense interminable colonnade. Stems of all growth, dense underwood between. And here and there, the only live thing green, A frond of feathery fern. As yet, far down. No flake had fallen in the nestling town ; But, first pale earnest of the winter, snow. On that side whither the north wind did blow. Working its lovely marvel in the night. Had touch'd the rounded trunks, as artist might. To show what double beauty can be made Where lichen lends such admirable aid. I view'd it after — scarce did intervene A morrow on the morrow — but the scene Was as by spell transform'd : O glorious sight ! O world of wonder of the whitest white ! In the Forest. 23 Unearthly, unsubstantial, dazzling, grand, As were a fairy's dream of fairyland ; That, downward gazing, as I caught by chance Merely a momentary thoughtless glance Of my uncouth and most incongruous gear, I started, as half shameful to be there, Like mortal who should find himself within Heaven's golden gates, but still clothed on with sin ! For hills and trees — and there were naught beside. Save my own self, throughout the landscape wide — Were all as only of snow wonder made, Looking as in the sunshine they must fade, And melt away, — and yet it was not so ; Since even then the sun was sinking low That all day long had shone, and now, where hung, In shrine-like nooks, festoons of tendrils young, And branching sprays spread out their feathery plumes, Touch'd them aslant and through white woodland glooms. Until the crystal kindled into glow, As with internal fire, and seem'd as though. One instant more, 'twould burst out into flame. But now it was'before that vision came Of peace and purity ; whereof, indeed. The utter stillness that did supersede, 24 In the Forest. Though feigning to be prevalent alway, Was deeper for the whirlwind that, all day And night, had storna'd and raged with violence grim, Rending full many a giant limb from limb. Or wrenching by the root ; nor need to go Wide wandering for proof thereof, for, lo. There, hardly further than a fell'd pine's reach. Hung the huge arm down-stricken from a beech, Shattered, distorted, all its mighty length. And only held from falling by the strength Of its torn sinews, which, although too lithe For aught to sunder, still did seem to writhe With torture of the strain ; while on each hand. Athwart and all among the vistas grand. In strange confusion, scatter'd or up-piled. Lay myriads overthrown ; — all else re-smiled, So soon oblivious of all changes sped, Forgetful of the summer that lay dead And buried in its cradle for a grave, With all the blessed guerdon that it gave. Though seeming to exert an influence still. O'er all the landscape — even as one's own will. Our very gestures, and the sound, self-caught, Of one's own voice, yea, e'en our inmost thought. At times do seem as yet in some sort sway'd Of some one dead at whose feet once we laid ; In the Forest. 25 Forgetful, too, of 'autumn's glorious boons, Ere well they were all over ; and eftsoons, Though hardly yet recovered from its fears, And with a smile more bright for quenched tears. Forgetful of the whirlwind and the rain : The sweetest pleasure is surceasing pain. But rather I did love it when, whilere. Autumn's dear voice still linger'd everywhere. In dulcet echoes that were loth to die. And all the forest answered with a sigh ; Or, haply, in mysterious undertone. That, as I stood and listened there, alone, As to an oracle, would grow and grow. Albeit the evening wind had sunken low. Till it did mount and swell, and awe my whole Of being with the grandeur of its roll, Sublimest of creation ! and withal, I could but heed, though each one, great or small. Of the arboreal multitude scarce stirr'd Its flexile summit, nor might well be heard, Even as only to some zephyret Answering in softest whisper, yet, ah ! yet. In one vast brotherhood of grand accord United, to one dominance, as lord, Subject, and breathing all together, they Were thunder, — and to my spirit seemed to say. 26 In the Forest. What might not men accomplish, were mankind Throughout the world, but of one goodly mind ! . Right pleasant was it also to behold, After awhile, when yet some leaves of gold, Each crusted over like to frosted fruit With crystal sheen, and shining richly through't. Still lingered on the branches, as if fain To wait till summer-time should come again. And wild flowers blow, and birds, back wafting, pour Forth ditties sweet, and they themselves once more Be young and fresh and fair ; what time the wood, Wrapt in the fervour of its solitude, So deep, so awed, seemed hearkening now, intent. The far- ofi" coming of some grand event. Heedless of all beside, nor stirr'd by aught Of sound or motion : by what once methought The growing rumble of still distant train, That, ere it wax^d to a noise, did wane. Fainter and fainter, into naught again, And for the very murmur it had made, Though too like silence e^en to make afraid Or startle Echo from her trance lovelorn. Left deeper hush behind ; by woodman's horn. Or lowing kine, home wending, or the note. Peaceful, of piping finch or yellow-throat, Or birds of broader wing that passed o'erhead. With whirr of seeming laughter as they sped ; In the Forest. 27 Nor by the merry streamlet that did glide And leap and gambol, down, down, down, to hide Among dark ravines and in secret dells, Where, unto listening ear, the voice that tells In softest whisper of its ambush deep Sounds as the wood were mumbling in its sleep. And pleasant, surely, was it to behold At winter's greeting, as at first I told (Or but in feeble outline did portray). When I stood gazing o'er the scene that lay Around me : the hollow, girt about with trees, Invarious, and of manifold degrees Of growth — one, a broad oak, outstretch'd athwart, Of statelier form and from the rest apart. As lord of a dominion of its own. Near-by, half buried, and all overgrown With ling and lichen, leant a mouldering stone. Shapeless and signless, as with naught to say Unto the generations of to-day ; Yet ^hereunto, for ages, as is told. Hath clung the phantom of a legend old, Woeful and strange, which, peradventure, I May put in rhymed story by and by. For suchlike hearers as would care to list ; Where, too, I trow, hath been full many a tryst Of happy lovers 'neath those sheltering boughs. If only they their secrets Avould disclose. 28 In the Forest. As, on its furrow'd and palimpsest bark, Carven or ill or deftly, many a mark Of blended names, with gentle artifice Encircled by significant device. Doth vouch, forsooth ! Where now, I wonder, where. And in what blessed mercy do they fare. Or cruel fate forlorn ? Small need to guess Their dooms whose emblems of a sweet distress, Or blissful hope, amid the wrinkled rind, Now, cracked and crook'd, are hard enough to find ; But where be they who whisper'd 'neath the leaves This bygone summer on sweet silent eves ? What are they now, and whither are they flown ? Still dwell they in a summer of their own. Nor weet of winter weather ? — yea, 'tis best To deem them of the happy happiest ; And for their whisperings beneath the shroud Of those accomplice leaves, the vows they vow'd, The sighs that heart to heart made audible. Who, base, would listen, though the tree should tell ! The rest, in serried ranks, to depths profound, Growing from dim to dark, were ranged around. An all-impervious barrier, whence I stood, Save where a gap reveal'd beyond the wood, Down in the valley, a meandering track. Which went, slow-lessening, like a streamlet slack, Towards a distant spire, and seemed to say. Ere long I, also, would there wend my way. 29 THINKING. ' Le mot de libertd et d'inddpendance, que le tentateur mur- mura k I'oreille du premier homme, allume encore I'i'magina- tion exaltde de ses derniers descendants.' |ID the night-watches on my lonely bed, Or musing to the murmur of the sea, And many an empty hour, or fancy fed, Thoughts various and unbidden come to me, Pass like to shadows o'er a field of grain, Yet something leave of sadness in their train. To think that nations in their wanton ease. Or fatal trust their strength and chance between, Should suffer treason's venomous disease Even in their midst to fester and gangrene. Should tolerate but for a single hour Such deadly danger to their peace and power ! Till from too generous soil of lenient rule, Nourish'd of that strong compost of the brain So freely spread by its inventive school. And sun'd of license in a time profane. Hath sprung of ills a species all unknown, Scaring the very wights by whom 'twas grown ! 30 Thinking. Unnatural haters of the lawful light, And lovers of the darkness of dismay ; Oh ! hungry jackals of anarchic night, Stealing with wily pads upon your prey ! Oh ! pests, engender'd of corruption gross, Purulent ulcers of a State morbose ! Yet worse, as who administer are worse Than the foul poisons working dreadful death. Or as who menace than the odious curse Hearts innocent that blights and withereth. Are they who bribe the bravoes, whet the blades. And watch behind their craven ambuscades. Man-monsters, e'en Beelzebub were proud To claim as new-crime-coiners for his own, Yet in this age of progress are allowed To work, unlet, their murder-mints well known. And gloat o'er their fell deeds ere they be ripe, Advertised, world-wide, in the largest type ! How is dominion changed when such as these. Who erst their heads had but attainted worn. Now stalk the public places as they please, And laugh all due authority to scorn. Yea, of authority itself do own Freedom to plot against their country's throne ! Thinking. 3^ And there, where Liberty's grand standard waves, And flings its shadow to our flattering shore, What is it but a lie ? What else than slaves, Those who help'd raise it to the winds all four. And, lost in admiration, fail'd to see 'Twas but the upside-down of Tyranny ? Thus, inverse, and distorted of the wind. That into forms fantastic blew the folds. The many-headed monster, undivined. Assumed a shape, and still for frenzy holds, Like unto maiden fair of graceful mien, Crown'd of a coif, but every inch a Queen. Yet, in the shadow of that oriflamme. What cruel wrongs, what irnpious crimes are wrought, In Liberty's dishonoured, outraged name. Thus made the gloss of deeds else only thought ; What persecution, what base theft, what lust. What gags and chains, and banishment unjust ! With such abominations in their breast, How shall the nations stand ! And England, thou, Once first and foremost of the strongest, best. What art thou better than the sickliest now. Thy Constitution undermined, and all Thy peerless beauty grown historical ! 3 2 Thinking. Is it not written and unquestion'd both, By its fruit alway shall you know the tree ? And when we contemplate this age's growth, What kind of moral product do we see. What upon every branch of every bough Save such vile crop as ne'er was seen till now ? Shades of fair loyalty and patriot fire. With what indignant scorn, what sore dismay, Must ye behold the machinations dire Of creatures who on this poor Empire prey. Overt fierce foes, and traitors whose disguise Deceives not any save who have not eyes ! To think what kind of place this earth would be. Were all upon it, so they had their way. Like to themselves as berries on a tree. All fell and loathsome and corrupt as they ! How would the nether world begin to quake. In fear and trembling for its empire' sake ! The dregs are risen to the top, and there Seethe in the sun of pestilential power, Engendering, amid the noxious air, A swarm of things that poison or devour, — Some, wing'd to buzz about, and blight and blow. Others which crawl, or on their belly go. Thinking. 33 Some take a form so like the human shape, They pass with many, maugre all disproof, Who count for speech the jabber of the ape. Nor in their gait detect the cloven hoof ; Oh ! fools and blind ! who thus for friends alone Welcome the curse of Kingdoms, and your own ! England, thy day is past, thy sun is set, Or setting, low and lower, even now ; Nor save so little while shall linger yet, Unless, like him who stood o'er Gibeon, thou. In this thy hour, command it, with a will. To stand there, 'mid thy heaven of greatness, still ! Unless thou rid thee of these plagues and pests, That taint thy systems and thy rights consume, Within thy very temples make their nests. And over all thy beauty spawn and spume, — Yea, and thou arm not 'gainst thy foes a-field, God and the Throne fair blazon'd on thy shield ! ***** ' Sans I'ob^issance, plus de religion ; tout croule dans I'ordre spirituel ; la confusion la plus funeste rfegne dans les intelligences et dans les coeurs.' To think that mortals, for immortal souls Destined to answer, should from first to last Sport with the years as they would play at bowls. Their stake Salvation, with such freedom cast, 3 34 Thinking. Satan for backfriend, and arch Death, so staid, Recording umpire till the games are play'd ! Seems it but yesterday that they were young, And all the world but for their pleasure made, Who now gaze back those sunny scenes among, From forth the present's uncongenial shade, — How oft our good we know for what it was. But when we view it in the past, alas ! So judge we better this or that one's worth. His all of goodness or of mind or heart. Who moves no more amongst us on the earth. For that we henceforth are a world apart, — Our globe itself, with all things there that are, View'd from the welkin, were a shining star ; Despite all manifold misdeeds and woes. Its hates and wars and lust and blasphemy. The darkness that as light is unto those Who wantonly pursue what they should flee, The light that's darkness unto souls whose pride Doth follow human wisdom for their guide. To think no abject of the hulks or jail. No hapless wretch who on the scaffold dies, But smiles and joyful tears his birth did hail, And fond caresses lull his welcome cries ; That some born heir to all a grand estate Now stands a beggar at its alien gate ! Thinking. 35 Dragged ever downward by their lengthening chain, Each link a sin, more heavy than the last, Wrought of rough evil with a might and main Of practised will, and clinch'd of scorn full fast, — Down to the shadow of the gates of Hell, Whence what may rescue short of miracle ? Yet, ah ! how different all might have been ! For, certes, there be many who are more Disfigured of foul fate, and rags obscene Of fretted passions, than corrupt at core. As underneath the grime and rust and mould Lurks oft a thing of silver or of gold. While virtue oft is but a fine disdain, A self-deluding selfishness ; free will, That shrinks from evil, fearing more the pain Than for its own sake loving goodness still ; Philanthropy, that with a hand so close Retails the bounties it received in gross. There are, forsooth, such natures have I known, Who for the poor a modest meal provide. Thereby the better to enjoy their own. Made all of dainties of the world supplied; — Compounding thus, as they do deem, for God's Full plenty by a largess of the pods ! 3—2 36 Thinking. To think what victims fall to that fell pair, Envy and hatred, once within the soul's Clean garnished room they make their loathsome lair, Twin fiends whose shafts, tho' certain of their goals, Or ever they be launch'd first rend the heart. And leave a mortal poison as they part. Envy of riches, whose insatiate thirst But owns from much a craving want for more ; The dread of being accounted least or worst, Man's restless pique and heartache to be poor, Who fain his soul would barter for a mess Of mercenary pottage, or for less. Bane of the world is that insensate love Of pride, and hatred of humility; Man's yearning to be one with and above His betters, who, no more content than he, Still, childlike, hanker for some moon or star, And to be something other than they are. There are who rather make believe to live Than of existence aim and end fulfil ; Who scorn or miss its great prerogative, And none of all its sweetnesses distil, Feigning vitality that's naught at all. Like withered leaves which flutter as they fall. Thinking. 37 Who labour look with envy and distress On those who still, unseen, wear oft a chain, Doom'd to the galleys of hard idleness, More irksome far than toil of hand or brain ; Fortune, who seems to favour but a few, Is no such partial jade, if we but knew. Not unto all are this world's goods ; to all As little is it given to be wise. Even in what we mortals wisdom call, That oft is only folly in disguise ; Wealth, wisdom, honour, so they fell to one And all alike, in very sooth were none ! Let demagogues their nightmare programme plead, Philosophers their theories uncouth Of life and living, doom'd to supersede And triumph o'er the old ; but this for truth : Say they that man of his own destiny Is First and Last, I tell them that they lie ! Not every plant is born to be a flower. While some are only weeds, though one and all Be portion'd ever with a various dower. Sometimes unown'd, and often deemed but small ; Full many a herb, with healing virtue stored, By man is trodden under and ignored. 38 Thinking. Co-equal, and humanity were o'er, Love's fountains would dry up, Hope droop and fade, And Charity, God's proxy now no more. Wing back to Heaven its all superfluous aid ; Mutual dependence is the bonds that bind Together all the millions of mankind. To think that men the living God forswear, Who yet set up another worse than dead. And worship it, and count for fools whoe'er. At sound of trumpet, fail to bow the head Before the hoisted calf — made, burnish'd, deck'd. All out of naught save their own intellect ! Men of the mighty mind, that doth create New worlds of wonder and the old destroy, Them leaving tenantless and desolate, — ' Creeds, knowledge, aspirations, instinct, joy. All were corrupt and wrong,' cry they, ' and we Have framed the new true Order. Q. E. D.' Minds of the gorgeous intellect, that hues Of strange and striking brilliancy displays. Envy of many a wight, who wide-eyed views Their gaudy splendours with a fond amaze ; Yet less to love than flowers not half so fine. For lack of perfume of a grace Divine. Thinking. 39 Gods of the boundless will, resolved to rear A Babel to a heaven of their own, Rising from firm foundation, tier on tier, Of concrete reason and fact-flints alone, — What if a breath, breathed whence they least had thought. Topple it over, with themselves, to naught ? O foolish bee ! though free of every flower By wood and stream, or that in garden blows. With honey-scented bosom for thy bower, Choosing the nettle rather than the rose ! Yet is thy folly less than theirs, who shun The sweetest, wisest wisdom 'neath the sun. O foolish mortals of the pagan hive, Preferring sense to soul ! who life consume, Feigning to solve themselves and all alive. And every secret of creation ; whom No spirit moves to thought or fond desire Of more than earth can give, far lovelier, higher. Oh ! greatness of the littleness of man ! Oh ! godless godhead of perfections frail ! Fronting the universe, as he would scan Its utmost limits, and its depths unveil Of their unfathomable mysteries — he, A puny infant staring at the sea ! 40 THE AVENUE'S LAMENT. O tem^ora ! O mores ! jUST we, then, perish, and no more be known, Who here have thus from very saplings grown ? Yea, since our tender shoots were from the first In guardian cradles from all dangers nursed, Till waxen of the seasons strong to stand Assault of wind and storm or harmful hand. Have through long years of variable weather Grown up in thickening fellowship together ; Until, upon a time, ere well aware, Maugre our constant watch and hopeful care. With yearning outspread arms drawn each to each, Still finding one another out of reach, Rewarded for our patience of the past, We met and mingled, all our length, at last, For ever after, day and night, through all Of peril or of change that might befall, The Avenue's Lament. 41 But only one ! One, or for weal or woe. We trembled when the angry wind would blow, Or rolling thunder shook all heaven and earth ; For though we often, with affected mirth. Laugh, as to scorn, the tempest, distant still, Ere yet the first low moan be audible. First raindrop felt, we hold our fitful breath. And straight, for very fear, are still as death. We joy'd and grieved alike at everything ; Now numb'd of winter, and now thrill'd of spring. Hearkening the blackbird's song, who pipes his best With all a coming summer in his breast ; Or, year by year, listening the selfsame tale, Over and over, of the nightingale, His tender ditty trilling from the grove, T want you ! want you ! want you ! O my love ! Or startled by the redbreast's changeful note. Plaining of autumn near. From time remote Yon orchard have we viewed each year repeat Its punctual practice as a primal feat. From earliest snow-white blossom till with show Of red and yellow fruitage all aglow ; When bevies oft would come of damsels fair, To dance, in flowery rings, and feast them there. Amid the pleasaunce, roof'd of golden fruits, Sending a rapture to our very roots. To watch and hearken all their pretty glee ! 42 The Avenue's Lament. How often, also, to our tips, have we Tingled o' summer nights, when, round about. From mossy nook and knoll came skipping out, With prankings wild, such troops of tricksy elves That we felt almost fairylike ourselves. And danced with them, in shadow, on the grass Full many an hour, that did unheeded pass ; Till, as Night stealthily her veil withdrew. They trip'd it quickly o'er the trackless dew, Back to their hollows where the star-moss grew. Alas ! all that is ended ; and no more, For ever and for ever, as of yore. Shall come and go the happy days, indeed. That came and went, with, ah ! so little heed. Such poor appreciation, on our side. Who let them pass, nor sorrow'd as they died, And only now, they gone for ever, see How fair and fond they were, how thankless we ! Long after we ourselves had ceased to grow. We watch'd whole generations come and go, The rich, the poor, and all kinds that belong To human nature's variegated throng ; Beheld the sad funereal cavalcade Of elders, who as little children play'd 'Neath our protection, — while still came and went Their children's children in unstay'd descent. The Avenue s Lament. 43 And oh ! what pageants have we gazed upon Of queens and kings, which through our umbrage shone Like flooding sunlight of invarious hues. And wending, they and their long retinues, With here and there a casual upturn'd eye Of friendly greeting as they pass'd us by, Grew faint and fainter, and at length did fade, As might a rainbow of soft music made. Right welcome, too, when, oft, on summer eves, Soft came the poet, and beneath our leaves (They of his spirit e'er at once imbued) Assured of sympathetic solitude. Pacing in pensive thought, or as he sank Him listless at our roots on mossy bank, Poured out the burthen of his heart, or dream'd Visions of beauty that more actual seem'd. Yea, were, to his rapt soul, than all the strife Of pomps and vanities that men call life 1 While now and then, slow gliding unaware. For twilight dim, would pass some happy pair. Who yet for more than for the dusky shade Seem'd only one, and but one shadow made — What time the moon, we fain had kept at bay. Stole, peeping, as they held their heedless way : But oh ! that deed, which fill'd us with affright, And from its slumber roused the wondering night 44 The Avenue s Lament. With startling horror, and for ages long Left the weird echo of a nameless wrong ! Thus have we shared, through length of lapsing years, Our joy and laughter, and our sighs and tears. But what availeth with this worldly age All that we are or have been to assuage ? Our venerable presence, and our store Of memories of days that are no more ? What though to myriads from the stall and street We were a grateful and a loved retreat. And through the stress of summer fervours made For young a freedom, and for old a shade ? Vain that we still our ancient right perform Of cooling rest, or shelter from the storm ; Men come not now but with malignant aim Our ruin to encompass, name and fame, And all of any worth in us, as naught Save wherewithal to make their wanton sport. And feed their love of lucre uncontroll'd. The age, alas ! is growing grim, too old For joy and laughter, and for love too cold ; We see it in the folk who pass us by, The plodding footstep and the anxious eye, As they were wholly, body, soul and mind. Bent on some business of no goodly kind. Indeed, what losses have we not lived out Already, in this region round about, The Avenue's Lament. 45 Beholding, one by one, with aching heart. Full many a neighbour brotherhood depart — The hoary Elm-row, and the Poplars tall, Spinet and Grove and Orchard, all gone ! all ! And they are coming who, from end to end, Will strike us down, and by the roots uprend, And hack and hew and mangle limb from limb. Sateless, remorseless, with bravado grim, Till we be dead, and, in a little space. Vanish for ever from our pride of place ; Then no more hither, as in days gone by, Shall poet or sad solitary hie, Nor timorous lovers our still shades among Seek refuge from the hurly-burly throng ; The nightingale no more, at evening hour, His fond melodious miserere pour. While fragrant odours from near fields combine With milky wafts of heavy-udder'd kine. As through our alley, listless, soft and slow. Homeward they wend in desultory row. Yea, all will be transform'd in grievous sort. As by some spell of evil genius wrought ; But oh ! we will not ponder, woe the day ! When we for ever shall have pass'd away, Here in our place, still bless'd by votaries' tread, And doubly hallow'd of the ages fled, What hideous forms will rise up in our stead ! 46 DANTE AT THE CONVENT OF SANTA CROCE DEL CORVO. [AYWORN and weary at the gates he stood, An exile-pilgrim, long of blind despair Led, his poor heart ne'er ponder'd, reck'd not, where,- Till stay'd, in musing and distemper'd mood, By that blest refuge from the world so rude : 'What wouldst thou?' ask'd the Frate, — answer fair None made he ; and again, ' What wouldst thou ?' — ne'er Save one word. Peace, breathed he at last, subdued. There, on the peaceful hill o'er Spezia's bay, Nor anywhere in this world, his to find, Though seeking, sore and sorrowful, alway, What no one ever found of all mankind, But only they, with last strength that remained, Who at heaven's door did knock, and entrance gain'd. 47 THE BUILDING OF THE BOATS. jjRON, all iron and steel, stem to stern, — and all of the best ; Batter each bar for a flaw, thunder the plates as a test ; Rare times for us, boys ! war or no war, we must win in the main. And such rare times in our time will never come over again. Work, day and night, while it lasts ; and let others sleep, if they can. Ne'er such a chance of making a fortune since fighting began ! Lay on, then, with mallet and sledge, ring on her ribs till they roar ; 'Tis music to us, for it means ever so much money more- Means swinging good wages J"orj/(72^ — though ye didn't do well to ' strike ' — Sundays and overtime, double, and all day and night, if you like ; 48 The Building of the Boats. What matters to us what they're meant for, so the business but thrives. And we make more money in a year than our fathers made all their lives ? And isn't it fifty times better than toiling the whole of your life, Digging and dibbing, that ne'er brought enough for new gown for the wife ? And what do they go to war for, now a days, but to make or abjure Treaties, and get something out of it — ay, in hard cash, to be sure ! Rivet, rivet, rivet right home, put out your strength at each blow ; Deaths, and not lives, depend on it, — think of the bolt from her prow. That shall shatter the bomb-proof walls of some floating fort of the sea. When, presto ! a fan of fire and blood, blown to the winds will it be ! For the victory now is no more to the valiant and strong. As of old, nor to champions romantic of right against wrong ; The Building of the Boats. 49 But to the clever and cunning, who keep out of danger, and mark The foe still afar-; or, close creeping, pounce on him plump in the dark ! Talk of honour in war, and all that — rubbish, of ages remote, Ere civilization began ! now, 'tis cutting the enemy's throat From behind, or in any way safest and sure — chance of fame And reward just as great as when men hand to hand overcame. Enemy, said I ? well, I don't know ; they enemies all to us Who don't order our boats, or who make so confounded a fuss Because others do, ay, and pay for them down on the nail, — States just now, as it happens, at odds with our own, — bah ! let them rail ! Let patriots prate about country, and that sort of thing — 'tis cheap ; But we have money to make, and make, if we can, in a heap. 4 50 The Building of the Boats. And who knows which is right after all? and why should we be distress'd, So we work while the lucky time lasts, and hasten to feather our nest ? Then hammer away with a will, my boys ! heed not that every thud. Each rivet, sent home, means death and deluge of in- nocent blood, Ottoman, Russian, or British — life's but life, and must end — Their concern, that, and not ours — and we shall have plenty to spend. Better than th' olden times, with their boast of their ' bulwarks of oak,' Fleets which fronted the foe, and did battle 'mid fire and smoke ; Now, a mere midge, such as this, some great ironclad takes unaware, And blows it all up, hi-yi ! with a thousand men, into the air ! Russians, or Turks, or — no matter! in war, as in love, all is fair. And what if the launches we build become foes to each other out there ? The Building of the Boats. 5 1 Nations, like men, will fall out, say and do what one will ; and we, Why we're right thus to make a good thing of it, if it must be. Batter, then, thunder away, my boys ! such times are too good to last ; Work, day and night — no more 'striking'! — turn them out finish'd and fast ; Soon they will weary of war, and when all is over and done. We shall have made the money, and then will enjoy the fun. 4—2 52 DOROTHY. (a portrait.) HE sweetest little face that e'er look'd out From frame of golden hair, beyond a doubt, Is Dorothy's, whoever may aver With equal oath, nor, haply, greatly err. Others there are, though in a different way. As pretty to be met with every day ; Still hers is sweetest of all faces sweet. Wherein such manifold perfections meet. To make but one all-comprehending grace ; Yea, there are dainties in that single face Enough for Beauty's Album, where each one Should be a paragon to look upon. The whole such lustre, one might well dispense. Winter or summer, with all influence Of solar light ; for wheresoe'er her face Shows but an instant, is a shiny place Long after. And all day, too, from the first Unfolding of her eyes — those buds that burst So timidly, nor ever hardly dare Dorothy. 53 Open full wide and show how blue they are — If blue they be, or purple, or a hue Of both, or neither, but some wonder new, A favourite shade among the angels — clear Sweet violet eyes which blossom all the year. And in the morning ever sparkling bright, As she had up in heaven been all the night ; Yea, from their first unfolding, even until They close in slumber, she is never still : Ere yet the day hath fairly opened out Each nook and corner, and all round about Is bright and blithe of her, till when she sleeps, And all becomes not instant dull, but keeps Aglow with her last smile, and for hours after Thrills with soft echo of her happy laughter ! Her mouth — did ever painter paint the dew, Or fragrant flower ? how then depict for you Her pretty mouthlet, prettier far that shows Than rosebud just about to be a rose ? So delicate, so pure, so lovely is it, An angel well might hardly dare to kiss it ; Her lips, nor red nor purple, but a hue. Incomparable blending of the two ; As for her cheek, well, haply it might seem The transformation of a poet's dream, Who dreamt of pleasant arbours, where entwine Roses and myrtle and the eglantine. 54 Dorothy. While over all the starry ' passion ' creeps ; Or the dream's self of one who sweetly sleeps, Full of the happy ramble side by side With his own darling yester eventide, And dreams of their fond love, then told, unheard, Nor witnessed save of Love's own raptured bird, Breathing soft plaint hard by, and their delight, Long lingering where beds of lilies white And roses red beside each other grew, — Even so, reflecting each the other's hue. Blending, yet twain, they blossom there, and eke Do make a pretty garden of her cheek. But more than utmost I have sung or said. More than her loveliness of white and red. Alike beyond description and all praise, O me ! the wonder of her winsome ways 1 With scarce a difference, she had not been Earthling or angel, but a nymph between ; She is so sweet, and debonnair, and pure. That when the shadow of some thought demure Settles an instant on her joyous face. Event full rare, it seems all out of place — Though naught availing or to hide or mar Its sheen, more than a shadow blurs the star Down a still water — and eftsoons doth pass, Like Beauty's breath off-fading from her glass ; Dorothy. 55 Thoughtful of others, for herself no care, Too innocent to know that she is fair, So full of fun and frolic, yet withal Gentle as snowflake in its vagrant fall ; Wilful, but tender, with a grace, indeed Beyond her years — the glow that doth precede The sun's uprising 5 in her arch replies Confounding oft the wisdom of the wise. With wit intuitive ; though sometimes she will say The merest nothings in the sweetest way. Than knowledge goodlier far. Oh 1 what delight, If God of Heaven but only deemed it right With immortality to pre-endow Her, nymph or angel, just as she is now ! Oh ! what sweet blessing, to myself I say. Could she be always thus ! yet every day Watch, wistful, for the changes that must be, Since everything is mutability. Thus morn to eve ; and, had we eyes to see The wonders that surround us constantly. Doubtless we should behold Night's imps and elves, All huddled up in corners by themselves, Awaiting but the hour when they may creep Into the pleasant precincts of her sleep. Where they will play such pranks as few would guess, Them viewing in their present wretchedness. 56 Dorothy. Brooding, as nothing could e'er reconcile Or force them to their doom,— though all the while But longing for her advent, who the night Shall make a very May-day of delight ! Ay, sleeping or awake, still, still must she The life and soul of all about her be. Rendering the night as joyous as the day. Mid-winter sweet as summer, when the hay Breathes in the meadows, and a myriad hums Make music in the air . . . but here she comes. Her veritable self, the dazzling maid, And puts my would-be portrait in the shade ! 57 TO VESPER. |HE shepherd, standing.kans upon his crook, His faithful partner sitting him beside; Yet wary both, who do so heedless 190k, Watching their fleecy charge, spread far and wide O'er the smooth Down, this heavenly eventide ; The joyful lark is singing in the sky. His sad sweet strain the nightingale, deep hid, Breathes in the valley ; and lo, too, there on high Art thou, O beauteous Vesper, as in days gone by ! II. Almost the first-felt prompting of my Muse Was breathed into mine ear one summer's eve. What time I wander'd, as I oft did use. Lonely through woodland glooms, to fondly grieve In boyhood's meditative make-believe. Up-gazing at thee. Love's own lovely star ! The while my fancy o'er and o'er did weave Dreams of all sadness, but more sweet by far Than real delights or veritable pleasures are. 58 To Vesper. III. There, as I paced the soft and sombre glade, Or, wending, pensive, to the rivulet, Down on its mossy, bank me listless laid. Full of feign'd sorrow and unknown regret Of withered hopes and joys, untasted yet, How did I thee importune of my woe, My pains and wrongs, the frenzy and the fret. Wherewith my tender heart was tortured so — Loth of its burthen jot or tittle to forego ! IV. With what sweet patience, yea, how earnestly Seem'd thou to hearken, waxing vex'd nor faint, And eyes of love and pity bent on me. The while, withouten mercy or restraint, I pour'd forth all my melancholy plaint, Unending, and that well had tried full sore Endurance of good angel or of saint ; Or if I seem'd to make an end, 'twas more That \, beginning, might repeat it o'er and o'er. V. Pleasant in lifetime's Spring to wanton wight. When everlasting Summer, whole of days Made all of song and sunshine and delight. Outspread before him, to his raptured gaze Fair visions of its loveliness displays — To Vesper. 59 Beguiled therewith, and dreams that fancy weaves, To picture Autumn sad, its miry ways, The rain, the glamour, and the falling leaves, That to the sweets of May yet greater sweetness gives. VI. Yea, half man's pleasures and enchantments still Are negative, and no true joys at all ; But take their hue from some or ended ill, Or overpast, that threaten'd to befall. Or falling harmless as a spended ball ; Some vanish'd ache, that may return again. Or conscious freedom from another's thrall : Ease is the shadow of departing pain. And to be blest oft but exemption is from bane. VII. Not that his days but few and fugitive Are laden of happiness, or low or high, Is he so anxious and concern'd to live, But that he fears, or lothful is, to die. And bid farewell to earth's perplexity; So he but only may inbreathe the air, And eat and drink, content is he to lie Among the potsherds of disease and care, Nor dreads save he should cease his burthen sad to bear. 6o 71? Vesper. VIII. But I not always, in those bygone years, To sadness did incline and wanton moan, Turning, to visionary wrongs and fears. From pleasures youth e'er claimeth for its own, Or such, at least, as in my path were strewn ; For I, by nature, or God's gift of grace, Was light of heart, and wholly apt and prone To look on joy as on a loved one's face. And take unto, my bosom, clasp'd in fond embrace. IX. Happy and sad by turns, and always most, Extreme of either, or deject or gay. Yet causeless, both, of longing crown'd or cross'd, And each alternate as the night and day ; Not very one or other, sooth to say ; — But, certes, I not since, through life's replete Realities, have felt of pain to weigh For utter anguish with that counterfeit, Nor aught of joy and gladness tasted half so sweet. X. A generation since that time hath sped ; Who now are bearded men were then unborn. Yea, naught as gossamers whose iilmy thread Years hence shall glisten on some wintry thorn, To Vesper. 6i Or as the shadows that o'er fields of corn Will pass in summer ; but, O me, my fear. The tale to number of the dead and gone ! What troops of friends, what loved ones yet more dear. Whose forms and voices I no longer see and hear ! XI. Save when I close mine eyes that I may see, And from the outer world withdraw the sense And every feeling of reality. That with the innermost intelligence I may perceive the immaterial, whence Come forth the dead in all their wonted guise. As they, indeed, had ne'er departed hence, — For little doth he dream, who never tries, What wonders are to see without our mortal eyes ! XII. Ah ! what a various scene, while looking back Along life's journey, do I now behold, With oft a sigh and many a lack-a-lack ! What hills and vales and plains, what manifold Lets and preventions ! then fair fields of gold. Still fairer, as doth seem, viewed hence again ; What pitfalls, 'mid whose shards and miry mould I fell, with serious hurt, whereof remain Full many an ugly scar and ineffaceable stain ! 62 To Vesper. XIII. But when I turn my gaze the other way, To scan whatso of onward tract may be As yet to traverse, and my course survey, Little there is, or so it seems to me, Ere I shall come upon the great dread sea, (Whither all pathlets and the whole wide tend) Whose murmur even now, o'er wastQ and lea, Falls on mine ear, and, deepening aye, must blend With every thought and feeling henceforth to the end. XIV. How changed am I, but ah ! how changeless thou. Bright wonder ! since those days when I was young, And gazed on thee, as I am gazing now, Charm'd of thy beauty, and, in strains forth wrung From my unpractised soul, thy praises sung, And told thee all the burthen of my woes, Even as a child who on thy pity hung, My every thought revealing as it rose ; And communed with thee long, until the evening close. XV. In strains, if sad, that did but only take Their hue from happiness too great for mirth, Feigning fond grief for sheer redundance' sake Of joy else hardly to be borne on earth ; To Vesper. 63 Such sadness as we forge for very dearth Of rain or cloudlet through long-lasting sway Of summer weather, from each morning's birth Unmitigated sunshine every day, A discontent the growth of satiate ease alway. XVI. Then life's whole summer, with its woods and streams, And happy vales, and beauty everywhere, Lay spread before me like a fairy dream's. Albeit a pleasaunce whither I should fare ; The cuckoo and the nightingale were there. And sunny damsels dancing in the shade. While floating roundabout and 'mid the air. Soft wind-wing'd odours a sweet music made, Less heard than felt one's all of being to pervade. xvir. Oh ! the divine thief, Time ! who doth pretend As he were but our slave, to work our will. Or showing as at least for goodly friend, From whom naught farther than to work us ill ; Yet his own gain, not mail's, intent on still ; What hopes and smiles and joyous tears, what wealth Of happiness, wherewith his hoards to fill, What aims and ends, what fervour, strength and health. With cruel boldness hath he taken, or by stealth ! 64 To Vesper. XVIII. What hath he left me of no meagre store. Once counted mine, forsooth, in simple trust. Save memories of decades now no more Than kings and queens long ages done to dust ? Save treasures, moth-corrupted, or of rust ? These, and repose as of a tranquil sea, Long toss'd by tempest, driven, and re-percuss'd. That even in its slumber restlessly Doth sigh, as dreaming of past conflict, or to be. XIX. What of the land of golden promise } where Its courts of fame and arbours of delight, And all the wonders that he showed me there ? Pass'd as a shadow seen of vulgar wight Long years ago to fade o'er field or height ! Yet wherefore murmur at avenging fate. That of my folly I am served aright. Who, gazing backward, now do contemplate, Mournful, what erst I view'd with unconcern so great ? XX. We can but live an instant at a time. Though fain to blend the after and before ; Restless below, life's toilsome mount we climb, Then would we in the valley were once more ; To Vesper. 65 Because the summer and its charms are o'er, And autumn winds the woods and groves deplume, Why scorn the present and its boons ignore. As whoso, wailing his adopted doom, Should sit and brood alway beside his empty tomb ? XXI. For every moment is eternity; And every breath, it is the life, to live Aye all in all, past, present, and to be ; No more nor less is our prerogative, Howe'er we travail, and succumb or thrive. But in each moment doth a duty lie, And, of fulfilment, joy thereunto give, Straightway for ever to be known thereby ; So henceforth let me live, till God shall bid me die XXII. Each moment to employ, and every breath. As durable for ever, yet no less Living alway as if the next were death, This is man's only perfect happiness ; No room for care to enter or distress ; For thereby he a host of joys doth raise Around him, and from first to last possess, Despite the world and few or length of days. Aye wholly, and whose worth all joys beside outweighs 5 66 To Vesper. XXIII. We have within us, if we understood The power conceal'd and unsuspected there, To be or do e'en whatsoe'er we would Of good or great that answer is to prayer ; Ours to move mountains, but that, unaware Of might it needs not save of faith to know. We fail to do because we will not dare ; How small a spark might set it all aglow, Whereby such signs were wrought, and greater things also ! XXIV. What serves the perfect eye without the light ? The light itself, each mental attribute. And all five senses, to the slumbering wight } What the great tide-wheel, water-destitute. The unfired beacon, or the breathless lute ? Nor boots it but to mock with nerveless will Our high desire, as moves, in vain pursuit. The bird's flat shadow over field and hill. Never a whit more near, though alway following still ! XXV. And gazing thus on thee, O star serene. So bright, so tender, so unchanged, so pure ! Source were there none beside — though well I ween Whoso should seek of finding were full sure — To Vesper. 67 Whence one might learn in this world to endure, Heart-upward, and of grace his end achieve. Yet in thyself were I of aid secure, Who thus e'er come not, nor behind me leave The burthen of my cares, and hope and joy receive. XXVI. Farewell, whom I were far more fain to greet, Once more farewell ; I thank thee, heavenly friend,, For this blest respite of communion sweet. That now, alas ! must come to lothful end. The sheep, up-gather'd, in their folds are penn'd ; The Downs are waxen grim, and mountain-tall. High o'er the hamlet whither I must wend ; Hush'd each last lingering sound, and over all Begins night's curtain now to slowly, softly, fall. S— 2 68 AU SALUT. |ITHIN these hallow'd walls, so hush'd, so wholly Shut in from all the cares and strife, The glooms and echoes of the world of men, 'Mid peaceful dreams of deathless life, Where sight nor sound, save of devotion solely. Of sacred, chant and symbol'd grace, Falls on the raptured ear or ken ; Oh, wherefore in this holy place. Where I do feel so alien, The only thing unholy — Why am I here ! The ghostly Rood, image and emblem quaint. Each with its warning or reward Of everlasting palms and penalties. That all shall gather as they strawed ; The tonsured abbot, and the vesper chant. Au Salui.- 69 Such, maybe, as the angels use, From this grave-mantled sisterhood — all these Tell of monastic life recluse. Of life that rendered earthly ease For heavenly restraint, — Why am I here ! All things around, that should to prayer provoke. The mystic altar's dazzling sheen. These lessening aisles, that end in darkling light, The soaring frankincense serene, Angels o'er shrines and saints in many a nook. And there, apart, on bended knees. The holy women in their wimples white ; Yea, all one hears or breathes or sees. Falls on my troubled sense and sight With soft, sweet, sad rebuke, — Why am I here ! Elysian oasis 'mid mundane sands, Sweet inner room all else apart, Kept alway swept and garnish'd for the Lord, Whom they do love with all their heart ; Fair temple, seeming as scarce made with hands. So dim, so visionary pure, And with entrancing dreams in blest accord. For these meet refuge, who endure 70 An Salut. Alone by faith and Christ adored ; But my own soul demands — Why am I here ? Who came not, sore in need to be made whole, Hopeful of such transcendent grace, Nor seeking that wherefor my heart doth pine, And hunger and grow faint, alas ! Who came not here as to a bounteous goal. Where I might freely slake my thirst At purest fount and feed on food Divine, And lay my load of sins amerced Down at the all-redemptive shrine. And there assoil my soul, — Why am I here ! Oh, that sweet music, that soft heavenly strain, Of voices that in hymned prayer And praise such blessed exhalations yield As, mingling with the holy air, Floating and fainting, and now breathed again In tender fervours, melt and spread, As though a choir of angels unreveal'd Were hovering above my head, Steeping my spirit unannealed In ecstasy of pain, — Why am I here ! Au Salut. yi Yet ah, years gone 'twas even as to-day, The chant uprose in strains as sweet From voices that are hush'd for evermore, And they whose bones are 'neath my feet Knelt where these kneel, and worshipp'd as they pray ; A little longer, and, ah me, These too, the long night come, life's vespers o'er. To others yielding place, will be As those already gone before. Silent and past as they ! — Why am I here ! But no such thoughts their tranquil hearts invade, Too happy in their hopes of bliss, In faith too trustful of the world beyond, To feel one care or thought for this ; Of these alone their happiness is made. And therewithal they well may shun, And count as worse than worthless, all the fond And fair delights that soon are none, But lures that lead to dark despond. Where is no hope nor aid, — Why am I here ! Yet am I moved — even I ! — to raise my voice. If but in wordless plaint and prayer, That haply so it might, among their own. Direct to heaven ascend, and there 72 Au Salut. Some good quick angel, finding it, rejoice At quest so meek and mortified ; Then lay it, straight, before the sapphire throne, Pleading with Him Who ne'er denied, — But in my mouth my tongue, like stone. Is fix'd — no help, no choice ! — Why am I here ! Sweet Spirit, or whate'er thou art, for I Am conscious of some ghostly care, Ineffable, around me and anear. Allay my soul ; and whatsoe'er In other haunts, time past or by-and-by, Have been and may be mine, Let no dark heresies assail me here ; But rather my whole heart incline To thoughts so blest and hopes so dear, And hush that inward cry — Why am I here ! Nor, while it seemeth I do feel them grow Within me, let the serpent doubt With poisonous trail among the tender shoots. And buds keep crawling in and out, Corrupting them or ever they full blow ; That when I fain would deem they spring From truth, to strike hereafter steadfast roots. And, haply, in due season bring Au Salui. 12) Forth flowers of faith and godly fruits, May cease that hissing ' No,' — Why am I here ! In utter helplessness I bow my head, And close mine eyes, that still do see. For all my presence 'mid this faithful band, I am not what I seem to be ; Yet am I fill'd with reverential dread. And feel the prayer I cannot say ; And oh, it may be God will understand, Who hears our voiceless hearts alway. Nor count it more to be disdain'd Than if 'twere meetly said, — And bless me here ! And who may know but in an after day — Oft come to pass things less forethought — Within my spirit, of the grace divine. Shall e'en such goodly change be wrought. That I, back wending to the spot my way. Where I have first found earthly rest. Hither shall come as to my votive shrine. My heart rejoiced, my soul full bless'd. With these hosannas mingle mine, And, ah ! no longer say. Why am I here ! 74 THE NAMELESS FLOWER. |LL day she sat from morn to eve, And oft would watch the long night through, With naught to vary or relieve The weeks and months and years ; Her one fond care, meek maiden fair. To guard a tender plant that grew There in her chamber, and bedew Its pallid leaves with tears. II. Only a weak wan plant to see, In eyes of others, but to her Fairer than fairest flower could be Of earthly ones that blow ; And aye she sigh'd, ' Ah ! let them chide ; More precious art thou, lovelier far, To me, than summer roses are. Or were, long, long ago ! The Nameless Flower. 75 III. ' Mine, only mine ! my very own ! What if thy leaves look pale, sweet friend, But moisten'd of my tears alone, So frequently that fall, And folk declare thou art not fair. Nor worthy maiden's task to tend, Because they do not comprehend Our secret love at all ?' IV. She called it not by any name Of blossom that in garden grows, And lifts its head, or hides for shame Under its greeny leaves, Or flowerless plant, whose fancied want No loss or lack is unto those Blest of the gentle grace that knows What seldom sense perceives. V. She only felt that, more than all To see in garden beds or bowers. Her every thought it could forestall. Each secret of her heart. Whene'er, as oft, she whisper'd soft The burthen of her lonely hours. Less as to aught that sprouts or flowers Than of herself a part. 76 The Nameless Flower. VI. Yea, so supreme and positive A part of heart and mind and soul, She had that instant ceased to live, Had her sweet fondling died ; Her varying mood it understood. Caught and up-treasured, as its dole, Each tear that from her eyelids stole, And murmur'd when she sigh'd. VII. Its leaves were pale, though not for blight. Were dim with more than deathly hue. As they had never seen the light. Nor been with dew clothed on, But from the first, in darkness nursed, Had grown where naught of verdure grew. With sighs and tears for winds and dew. And sadness eke for sun. VIII. She cherish'd it from day to day, And often in her lap would hold. And fondle it in doleful way, Sweet burthen meekly borne. As she had fain its roots have ta'en Into her bosom, there, for mould, All round about its depths to fold Of her fond heart forlorn. The Nameless Flower. 'j'j IX. Awake or sleeping — if she slept, Or, waking, ceased to brood the while — No more than when she watch'd and wept It faded from her sight ; But very near, to touch for fear. Lodged her beside, and shared the smile, Inconsequent and volatile. Or vision of the night. X. Despite the fall of frequent tears. And gleams, though sad, of smiles but brief. It grew not green through months of years. Slow lingering hour by hour ; Till as she, weeping, watch did keep, From death to guard it or from thief, What seem'd at first new frond or leaf Broke forth a rounded flower. XI. Pale as its leaves, and some had said No flower at all, no more than they Were leaves of living plant or dead, Wont here on earth to thrive ; That naught which blooms in cells or tombs, From musty mould or mortal clay. E'er look'd so wan, so ghostly, yea As kept by death alive ! 7? The Nameless Flotver. XII. And yet, for all it showed so pale, Whiter than snow-drift or than flake, She did a fragrance thence inhale. Past all of sweet e'er guess'd ; That more and more, full fond before, She loved it for that sweetness' sake. Her only dread lest aught should take Away the boon so blest ! XIII. Though well she knew naught evermore, Not even death itself, could part Its roots from round her bosom's core, Its fragrance from her soul ; And that if love in Heaven above Be earth's made pure and free from smart, She there within her angel heart Would keep it aye and whole. 79 DEPRECATION. H ! well I know 'tis wrong of me, who fain Would hold my darling from the Lord, Who gave. Of His great love, the boon my heart did crave. And now would take unto Himself again. Yea, yea — 'tis very wrong — I know, I know ! But my heart's agony, and all the plann'd Sweet joy laid out, ye cannot understand. Who ne'er gave up what me you bid forego. Nay ! ask not human mother, who hath known The bitter blissful birth of him, if she Not more were glad he should an angel be Than live. still but a child to call her own ? No more with those soft locks of golden hair To dally, and my fondling fingers weave ; No more to hearken every morn and eve The pretty lisping of his infant prayer ! 8o Deprecation. No more to soothe his little aches and cries, Watch him in gambol or at rosy rest ; No more to snatch him wildly to my breast, And see all heaven within his deep blue eyes ! Ah ! never, never more to feel the fond Soft tendril arms around my neck entwine. And strain him in my own, all mine ! — all mine ! Fill'd with a joy all earthly joys beyond ! Me miserable ! who with God thus dare To plead ! — and yet, O Father, could he be, In heaven with all the angels and with Thee, Liker themselves than now, more pure, more fair ? Take him not from me ! or bereavement's bane Might slay my soul with cruel hopeless grief, And poison of rebellious unbelief, — So should I never see his face again 1 For strongest faith is tried by fondest love, That to its idol clings with heedless hold. Dumb, blind, and callous to the manifold Warnings below or whispers from above. Lord, pardon me ! That Thou shouldst yearn to take Thy blessed guerdon back, it is most meet ; Thyself it was Who madest him so sweet Thou well mayst crave him for the sweetness' sake ! Deprecation. 8 1 Yea, Lord, Thy will be done ! — yet, if it be Thine own good pleasure, Who didst freely give What I so grudge to render, let him live, That I may know Thou art not wroth with me ! Yea, if but for a season. Haply I, Sore striving, and in very overflow Of my unbounded gratitude, may grow Better, O God ! and stronger, by-and-by. Unless — ay, who may know ? save Thou, most dread, Most merciful ! — albeit 'twould seem but right. According to our poor weak human sight — Unless it please Thee to take me instead. Nay, do not heed me. Lord ! Thy will be done ! Take to Thyself, or suffer yet to live ; And — for Thou knowest all my heart — forgive The mother in the child of Thy dear Son ! 82 THE SCOUT. (an incident in the FRANCO-GERMAN WAR.) |HE dawn was breaking on the wooded heights O'er Gravelotte, slumbering still ; a con- scious, yet Half-doubtful glimmer in the orient hung, Such as, when sinks the moon, oft lingers there. And softly soothes the abandon'd night forlorn ; But ever grew more clear, and more and more Spread out and upward, breaking into bloom Of pinks and purples and all gorgeous hues. Ineffable of splendour ; unaware Its glory touched the hills, as God Himself His hand was laying on their happy heads. And blessing them ; and from its colourless trance Did wake the mist, that, like a sea, reposed Them round about and o'er the region all. To the horizon's marge ; straight, coil on coil. And flush'd with ruddy fervour as it rose. It mounted slow, earth's incense pure, full soon The Scout. 83 Catching soft splendours cast athwart the air Through blazon'd casements of the sacred morn ; Higher and higher, and in volume vast, Rose from the broad campaign, and roll'd in cloud On cloud still upward in a wondrous way, Revealing sombre wood and village spire, Gravelotte and Vionville and Malmaison, Ravine and road, until at length there loom'd Soft shadowy hills from out the distance dim. And the sweet-breathing valley waked and smiled. Meanwhile, lone standing on the bosky height O'er Gravelotte's hush'd repose, in shelter'd nook. And leaning on his musket at his ease. An outpost kept his watch ; stout Breton lad. With all of Breton blood within his heart, And of its faith unfaded in his soul. Long hours had he his solitary stand Made in that selfsame spot, nor once had aught Beheld in all the void him round about. Save darkness and the everlasting stars ; Nor sound had heard, save roll of distant drum. From bivouac to bivouac that gave The frequent challenge ; or when, from time to time. The village clock slow mumbled as in dream. Him startling from his own ; — for oft his thought — From vague and varied pondering o'er all The imaged wonder of the day to come, 6-2 84 The Scout. With rush and roar of battle, and to end (Naught else could patriot chivalry forebode) In bloody splendour for his country's arms — Would wander to the scenes his eyes, perchance. Never should look on more : his village home. And where, so brief a life-span since, did seem, His happy childhood play'd ; the Angelas, And horn-blown call of cattle from the hills ; The Mass, the Fair, the seashore and the sea ; The clatter on the cobbles of the clogs, And simple //^g champitre on summer's eve. With laughing loving Nannette at his side. Naught had he seen of living thing, nor heard, And grew aweary of his bootless watch ; Till, as went up the lark — who first would be To pour his paean at heaven's gates of pearl. Yet ever in his flight, of rapture sweet Full to o'erflow, down-scattering it in showers, To speed his upward way — and, through the gap^ Forth gazing from his ambush, unconcern 'd, Lo, with a start, that set the militant blood All tingling in his veins, as every drop Had been an eager scout on the alert. And every nerve and fibre of his frame Grew rigid, and the whole of him shrank up To espionage incarnate — there ! full nigh. Scarce thrice a dozen paces, where a growth The Scout. 85 Of wood and thicket form'd propitious lair, Now by the dawn made instant visible. Glimpse caught he, just a moment, as it moved. Or so he deem'd, glimpse of a living hand ! Which, ere he well might know for very deed If hand it were or fancy, disappear'd, And yet again behind the thicket stirr'd, Till he could doubt no more ; man's hand, full sure ! And stealing forth — still screen'd by bush and brake, But so without a sound his very breath Was as a would-be traitor — to a spot Few paces off, whence he might gain, perchance. View less obstructed — 'neath a tentlike tree. And half-conceal'd by bramble at the root. Spied he an adverse scout ! Bavarian, he. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, and featured like a girl ; Who, as the other scann'd him, in his pouch Made search of somewhat with that tell-tale hand — ■ Hand his warm heart had taken in his own. But that his honour held it for a foe's ; Duty said. Fire ! and to his shoulder straight Up went the musket, though he own'd, forsooth, A qualm of conscience, without instant warning To shoot him, dog-like, thus ! But now 'twas ere That day of added darkness to the rack Of compass'd evil that shall roll through time 86 The Scout. In volumed horror till the shock of doom, When in Bazeilles the Bavern play'd the beast. His maw already glutted, and, with scorn Of warfare's liberal stint, him yielding up To wanton with infuriate lust 'mid all The ruddy ruin and the stifling reek Of desolation dire ; and, as the flames Themselves had utterance, there upwent a cry. The like whereof for prodigy of pain Was ne'er by woe from mortal heartstrings wrung Since that great wail in Rama ! — a cry, nor words Of ruth might tell, nor groaning thought conceive ; Which to have heard with heart unmoved and torn Of anguish, and with eyes that wept not tears. For pity sake, of bitterness and gall, Had augur'd heart of steel and eyes of stone. And such fell nature, so devoid of all Mere instinct of humanity, yea, sunk In brutal grossness so beneath the brute, As none e'er own'd who wear the human shape. Save that grim horde, cross'd evils' monstrous pack. Whose deeds, that day, which devils themselves had well With envy hail'd and wonder, shall their name And shame a hissing and a byword make Throughout the world for ever ! The Scout. 87 But now, the war's Veil'd wrongs and woes, undream'd, as yet between, 'Twas ere that day of infamy, or he. Soldier nor patriot else, or more than man. Viewing his victim through infernal fires Of ravaged homes, and writhing arms, outstretch'd, Of shrieking mothers to their writhing babes. On point of bloody bayonets held up And waved with fiendish glee before their eyes ; Nor longer waiting than the chance might bring Of sending straight a bullet to his heart. Had counted him thrice blest, as instrument Of Heaven's own justice and his frferes' revenge ; Yet Duty, of its dictate, clear and stern. That bates no jot, him bound no less, as he Brought up his weapon to a line direct. But stay'd, that, haply, he his foe might catch Full front, now half conceal'd, when lo, the hand Forth from the wallet straight a chaplet drew. And to his lips upraised ; then, gazing round. Less as in fear than with assurance full Of absence of all cause, on brow and breast The sacred sign he made, and knelt him down. In prayer among the herbage — there, at last, Him fronting now ! — he ranged his gun. And with its muzzle cover'd all his heart, — What but true kindness, after all? indeed. "88 The Scout. Right goodly act, to shoot him then and there, Him sending thus direct to his account, God's name, or Holy Virgin's, on his lips ! With needless aim, a lightning glance he ran Along the lurid barrel, at its end Arrested straight by that uplifted face, Bright as an angel's, while about the brow A radiance gather'd in his dazzled gaze, Like to the circling glory of a saint, — Quick ti'emor seized him, as of ghostly awe At sudden vision apparitional, Seized him, no craven ! and with giant strength. Fast held in helpless thrall, and through and through. To every atom of the utmost whole Of all his being, thrill'd and overwhelm'd With fascination strange ; his apt right hand, Ere, with but feeble and instinctive touch Of ready finger, it could hurtle forth The lethal horror home, by that same spell, Resistless, superhuman, was restrain'd ; Vain, frustrate, will'd attempt ! disabled, awed, And thus possessed, his hand relax'd its hold, Down droop'd the musket, and he inly groan'd, O God ! I cannot kill him while he prays ! — More breathed not, ere, that moment — nay, so close Came it upon his wonder that it seem'd As therewith blending — a bugle from afar The "Seoul. 89 Sounded the glad rappel; at once he turn'd, No longer spell-bound, and, quick hastening, join'd The glittering host afield and all astir With busy preparations, — for the sun, Joyful that rose to greet that happy morn, Blest hills and vales, soft waking as from dreams Of peace to pastime sweet of loveliness. Was doom'd to set, untimely, o'er the reek And gory glamour of a battle-day ; All stain'd and stifled, to retreat behind The great dread cloud, half murderous fume, and half The yielded breath of foes unnumber'd slain ! 90 FATE AND THE FOUNTAIN. I ID the forest, when summer lay faint with deh"ght, Listless whither, I wandered alone. Through alley and aisle, though the sun in the height Of his radiance meridian shone ; Athwart bole and shade of the dense colonnade Like to lightning asleep slept each ray. That, passing between, had to emerald sheen Touch'd a leaf here and there on its way. Deep set in a hollow, closed in all around From the glare of the burnish'd skies, A motionless hyaline fountain I found. Fringed with blossoms of glimmering dyes ; By its margent I lay me down, listless alway, Weary head on my pillowing palm. Gazing dreamily down the pure lymph, where my own Still visage reflected its calm. Fate and the Fountain. 91 Softly and silent, as shadow of snow Or of cloud, rose a Shape to the knee. Spectre or Spirit I knew not nor know. White it was and a wonder to see ; From the midst of the lymph, were it siren or nymph, Rose, and there, first to last, it remain'd, And forefinger did raise, as directing my gaze. To a mirror upheld in its hand. Yea, with never a sound and no single sign, Save only the sign I have said, Linger'd there, thing so strange, that my wondering eyne Could but look, as by witchery led ; And lo, at a glance, I beheld, as in trance. All within and without of the whole Mingled evil and good that I would not or would Of my being, mind, body and soul ! I gazed, nor content nor confounded the while. Naught of gay or of grave of all there Me so much as did move to a tear or a smile. With joy gladden or daunt with despair. Then, with changes grotesque, from the grim to burlesque. Began the farrago to fade. Till never a ghost of it all, in the most Inner limbo, there linger'd unlaid. 92 Fate and the Fountain. But the phantom remain'd, still as stone as before, With never a sign nor a sound, Not a sign, save that finger upraised, though no more Dwelt there aught in the mystic profound ; Till a gleam, like the dawn, 'mid the darkness was born. And from out the weird vacancy grew Visions fair and more bright as the day is than night, And more pure as than dross is the dew. Type, emblem and image of beauty and worth. There reveal'd as at wave of a wand ; All of loving and noble and pure on the earth, 'Mid the glow of a glory beyond. Then I started, at view thereof thrill'd through and through. And a voice, to arouse and appal, ' Lo, of graces divine which had ever been thine, Free to ask and receive all in all.' But straightway the shade began slowly to fade. As I uttered sore piteous cry, ' Shall my soul of its yearning be ever allay'd ? Show me what I shall be by-and-by 1' Sank the Vision, with eyes on me fix'd, glassy-wise, Empty eyes, sad nor sweet to explore ; While the mirror, as blurr'd by the breath of my word, Darken'd over, went down, — nothing more. Fate and the Fountain. 93 Then I wander'd away and away, from the chill Haunted hollow, through alley and glade. Where on either hand shone, sleeping, leven-like, still, Sunny shafts round about in the shade ; But ever I heard, and oft hear, word for word, And behold, all that startled me there. Of what more than did seem more than phrensy or dream, — And I wonder, and yearn, and despair ! 94 ADELINE. HE sweetest sound fond heart may hear Is voice of maiden in her teens ; The sweetest voice of damsels dear Is balmy-breathing Adeline's. The brightest stars of darkling night Shine in the depths of beauteous e'en ; The darkest eyes of loveliest light Are those of pensive Adeline. The sweetest odour summer knows Exhales from rosy lips, I ween ; The sweetest rosebud mouth that blows Is that of tempting Adeline. The softest light of darkness made Is raven tresses' temper'd sheen ; Of jettiest gloss are those that shade The brow of radiant Adeline. Adeline. 95 The purest grace of earth or air Is gentle girlhood's winsome mien ; No fairest form of maiden fair Were match for dainty Adeline. Fond love's far more than all the rest Of wealth and pride of Courts and Queens; And fondest heart that beats in breast Dwells within tender Adeline's, 96 THE FISHER-WIFE'S DREAM. j HEY laugh'd when I told them my dream — they, mothers and wives, same as me, All waiting and watching, hour after hour, for the boats out at sea ; One by one they came in — a good ' take,' too, in every hold! Ah, such waving and hailing, and meeting of young and old — Such clatter of happy voices, and kissing and wringing of hands, And merry go-round of the capstan, as they haul'd up the boats on the sands ! My heart couldn't bear it — for all, one after another, came in. All except mine ! and their joy and laughter seem'd almost a sin ; Though they bad me be patient: 'All had gone well — they couldn't be drown'd ;' — Easy to preach, when they'd got their own darlings all back safe and sound ! The Fisher- Wife's Dream. 97 Patient ? when never yet went »a-trawling, in lugger or hoy, Husband so good, so loving as mine, and brave boy like my boy ! They could afford to be happy, nor vex their good fortune with mine ; ' Scatter'd, some hove out o' ken — and the night,' they said, ' had been fine ; They would return, who, no doubt, drifted further a-sea for a draught. Sly Boots,* as everyone knew, was a trim and tight little craft.' They did not know! but I knew, for I saw it all in my dream — Oh, God ! I saw it go down — and awoke in the night, with a scream ! Frightening my babe at my side, — and I saw it all still as I lay ; Never, ah, never again will they come back to Brixham Bay! * Run down by an American steamer off Torbay, on the same night that the master's wife dreamed her husband's vessel had been run into and sunk, and she woke up screaming, ' Richard, save my boy !' one of her sons as well as her husband being on board. Early next morning another son came into her room, and said he had heard his father come home in the night, and go upstairs with his sea-boots on. — Daily Telegraph, loth January, 1881. 7 ^8 The Fisher-Wife s Dream. I know it, I ■ know it ; but still, it is hard to under- stand, •A hundred boats, yet not one of them there to lend a helping hand ! Just as if there weren't room enough, to think that it needs must bear Down on that poor little boat, with all the whole ocean to spare ! Ah, the great horrible thing, that came with its glaring red eyes. Out of the darkness upon 'em — no warning, no heed of their cries. As it crushed 'em ! Save me ! Oh, save me ! Shut it out from my sight ! I see it all over again — I see nothing else day and night ; All day I see it, and every day — and I dream it each night, and awake. As that night I woke, shrieking, ' Father 1 our boy! — save our boy, for God's sake !' There, as I lay in the morning, striving in vain to for- get— For 'twas only a dream after all — came rushing in father's pet. Calling, ' Father, father 1' — but stay'd in the midst of his innocent glee, The Fisher- Wifes Dream. 99 Startled, not seeing father, but only baby and me ; For he said that he heard him come home — naught could shake the child there — Heard him come home, in the dark, and his heavy sea-boots on the stair. Father nor brother — O me ! — will ever come back to us more — Kill'd by that murderous monster, which smother'd their cries with its roar ; And pass'd on, as nothing had happen'd — save that ' a something ' went down. Raff from the shore, or a spar, or anything else that would drown. They laugh no more at my dream — but look sad — as they pass me by. For they think me dying — alas, my poor babes ! I must live, and not die ! 7—2 100 FROM MY PORTFOLIO. (AN ETCHING.) SEASIDE sketch, taken one afternoon Last summer, on the coast of Normandy. How plain and instantly it conjures up The scene itself before me ! Here am I, (And whoso lists may come and gaze on, too), Here on this emerald height, which hastens down, As fain to meet its yonder vis-a-vis. Descending also, and more headlong still, Towards the village nested in between — Once more within my nook, regarding all : Lo, to the left, from where the wandering edge Of sequent scollops, each a little bay, Makes a green margin to the azure sea, The headland ever rises in a range Of rounded hillocks, at the utmost top Crowned with pied cattle standing out so clear. So motionless, recumbent or erect, Against the pure blue sky, they of themselves Might be but models — save that now and then They bellow, as for pastime or in dream. From my Portfolio. loi Or with no other humour than to list The answering echo. See, how the milk-white goats. To all besides indifferent, keep right on, Nibbling their endless meal ; nor overlook Yon dusky creature of ignoble fame — Though worthy of a better as the best — The patient piteous ass, who, heedless all Of outrage past or future, wisely takes The boon of ease and plenty of the hour. Below, the crescent beach ; one half thereof (The other hidden by the slope) bestrewn With smacks and cobbles of the fishermen, Them hauling up, with creaking round and round. Each to its separate capstan, and with song. That lightens labour to a make-believe Of pastime sport itself — song rather guess'd Than hearken'd, thus remote, where faintest sound. Despite the stillness, fails to reach the ear ; Nor vain their arduous toil, for oft have I Watch'd the long billows break upon the shore. Each roller a Niagara ! — even now. Whiffled but gently by the breeze, the offing Is flecked with foam far off as eye may ken. As Neptune there were holding grand review Of his trooped Tritons, with a pageantry Not often witnessed in a hundred years ! Column on column open and deploy. I02 From my Portfolio. Form, defile, and off wander various ways,- -\ Then prance, with streaming pennons, to the strand, ■ To break in halting ease. The town — a village, save in flattering name — Lies hidden at our feet, except yon sparse And glowing villas that so sun themselves The livelong summer halfway up the slope. Each in its pleasaunce, and above whose base Soft curls a filmy azure from below. Naught higher, save yon chapel at the top — Up whither by what desultory ways. Some as at timorous distance from the brink. Others so near, as bent on gazing o'er, Down the sheer strata of the precipice, Those zigzag pathlets lead 1 — a toy-like shrine. Albeit to hearts sea-weary, wafting home. Glad landmark many a league ; of suppliants there. Within its miniature precinct, fewer, forsooth ! Than twenty leave but scanty room for more ; Along the walls, and from the rafter'd roof Dependent, hang ex-voto offerings, Pictures and model. ships, and images Of patron saints, and curious nameless things, By homeward-bound rough toilers of the deep Brought from afar as dedicatory gifts • To Holy Virgin, Guide-star of the sea. Once, as I pondered in the hallowed place, From my Portfolio^ 103 Before me knelt a shepherd, who had left. For just few moments' interval of peace, His nibbling charge hard by ; his head low-bow'd. His knees well-nigh as threadbare as the flags They bent upon, and either poor stark heel Slipped from its cruel sabot, stuffed with straw ! Ah ! fain, methought, him viewing thus beguiled, Had I for those rough shoes exchanged my own, And gone forth, glad, to tend his harmless sheep, If with the transfer it had only been For him to yield me of his simple faith. More than all riches and more worth than all The world can give beside ! — Naught else beyond, save where the bluff descends, And thrusts a white arm out into the sea. Arch-wise, so best the picture to complete ; For there it ends, and nothing more remains, Except some slighted detail here and there : First, yonder linnet, perched upon the tip Of golden gorse, and swaying to and fro, Fearless, or glad, of our proximity. The while he trills his ditty of delight ; Dotted about the beach move living men — What specks they seem 1 what atoms, each to hold Within the tiny specklet of its eye, And as existing for none else beside. This rounded glory of sea, earth and air ! 104 From my Portfolio. Yet very truth withal ; for 'tis the light Or darkness there of each particular soul That to one's vision makes it what it seems, And to no twain alike — else would there be Throughout all generations no such thing As individuality. And lo ! How, striving to outstrip the clouds themselves. Their trackless shadows down the hillside run. To float upon the sea ; the while, near shore. Slow swirls that white-winged seamew, round and round, As 'twere a vagrant flecklet of the foam, Blown upward and held buoyant by the breeze. I fain had shown the valley, which, for miles And miles of ever-varying loveliness. Winds inwards from the sea, but that it lies Hidden of yonder intervenient hill ; Still have I made thereof a picture too. And, haply, were not otherwise than glad To bring it forth hereafter, if so be My friends, on this one gazing, cared to see. I OS 1 THE REVENGE. LOOK'D not, nor had will'd, to find him thus! Asleep — up-muffled in his frock of frieze, Mid stifling odours of stale Paternosters — Sleeping, while yet the world is still awake, And smiling in his sleep ; ay, even now Dreaming, no doubt, of souls in purgatory, Whilst he himself, safe roosted up in heaven. Looks down complacent on their piteous pains. I hate him that he is a Nazarene, Who hates me for my infidelity. For ever carping, with his texts and threats Of God Almighty's vengeance and all that, He, sexless saint ! at what he calls my sin — Sin, in his timorous eyes and craven heart, Grown wheezy by long effort to propel A sluggish dribble of some watery humour Through his thin wilted veins ; who never felt The glow and tingle of a lusty blood Bound with untameable impulse, and inflame His whole of being, heart and sense and soul. io6 The Revenge. To such a pitch of wondrous ecstasy As, had the body twice a hundred souls, Each soul thereby imperill'd to be damn'd. Would brook not so much as a halting breath. To pause between 'I will not ' and ' I will ' ! Sin ! what sin ? — is it sinful to be fond. To love and cherish, obedient to the one Impulse resistless every human heart Was e'er imbued withal ? Himself doth own At the beginning the Almighty made The first pair man and woman ; why at all Created ? — for whose pleasure ? — and to what end, Save the one end so plainly certified ? Else, vain of purpose, had they lifeless lived Their little empty day upon the earth, Barren of e'en the momentary heat And function of the frail ephemera ! True, I had shadows of mistrust at times. As summer transient clouds — qualms faint and vague, A sort of baseless wanton discontent. As, may be, happiness were happier still, Pursued to different end some other way, A passing weariness, or fretful mood. That I could harbour but an instant while Thoughts shifting but a shade ! — plethora, bred Of surfeit dainties, that, to the palate grown The Revenge. 107 Familiar, lose of savour by excess, — Since never mortal yet — hard fate, forsooth ! And wrong, too, somewhere, that it should be so — Could live on joy alone for months and years, Unsated, any more than on a diet Of manna dropp'd from heaven. What right had he, In face of Nature's mandate — he himself, Of wilful purpose or anility, Spurning her goodly universal gift — To judge another's fealty, and hurl Curses upon him who, at once, but fain Fulfils the duty of her plain behest. Himself unheeded, and the bounty knows Of what his madman folly had forsworn ? Out on his canting tongue, and all his tribe. His meddling insolent affront, and that Indomitable self-sufficiency ! I might have lived a fairly honest man. Who e'er at least had own'd a God above. With yearnings, once, towards his own fond creed, Till barren faith brought forth indifference-^ Content, so I were left alone, to choose And follow my own pleasure as I please ; But he, who sniff'd our lusted secret out, Whetted of my derision, or because I flung an oath at Savonarola, The day he lit up Florence in his flames. io8 The Revenge. Needs come, with venom'd fangs and prurient eye. Upon us in our peace, and poison'd all ! And all for what, all said and done ? what sin, What cause for shame ? Men like unto himself — If such as he be men — up-trump a law. An evil, infamous, unnatural law. Then call for heaven's damnation and hell-fire To blast and burn whoe'er the wrong condemn, And blench to place their neck within the yoke. Fetter'd were Eden's pair aught more than we. Or save but in the bonds of heart to heart. More fast that bind than priest or parrot vows ? Yet was it ne'er surmised but they did live In lifelong union of all sweet accord. How like a grave-defrauding hunks he looks ! — Albeit I came up hither with intent To beard him face to face, here in his cell, 'Mid its foul reek of holy horror — fierce To fling his cursed scandal in his teeth. And slay him after — who hath slain my all Of joy and gladness and my more than life ! — I will be merciful, make prove his dream Its own fulfilment, with a difference Of transposition ; or at least will give Him prompt and easy passage from a world He wearied never with exhaustless scorn To blacken and upbraid. . . . He shall not live. The Revenge. 109 His vanity to batten on my wrongs, My pains and woes, and roll a lickerish tongue O'er the choice morsels of accomplish'd ill ; The while he ruminates, in sweet contentj How he upon us hath his utmost wrought, Poison'd the springs of love, and dammed them up With scare and scath of God's anathema, — So that she fled, wing'd wildly to the snare. Spread for her taking, and now broods, past hope. For ever convent-caged — henceforth to be Drudge-general, and sister Magdalen ! I would not kill him, could he die alive, Slow of hell torments he hath wrought in me. Too pitiless, malignant, to destroy Outright, or save with its own flame to fan To pangs more fierce the unconsuming soul ; — For when 'tis done, I shall the fuel lack Whereon to feed my hate, — naught else will serve Long to sustain its fury, and 'twill shrink And deaden down to cold and dark despair, . . . Out on these thoughts and foolish vapourings ! Else 'twill dissuade me from my ripe resolve, To dally thus ! ... It is not cowardly. Awake, he were as impotent to stay The raging hunger of my lion wrong ; Nay, but to gloat on him at bay would whet Still more the impulse to revenge ! Besides, no The Revenge. Did he not, ruthless, from my sheltering heart Lure its fond idol, who to his decoy, Insidious, half in terror, half beguiled. Fell but an easy and deliberate prey ? Did he not worse than slay me sleeping ? — then Why not thus smite him in his sleep ! . . . and thus ! — ***** Ah ! why did he not perish in his dream, Die, without sign or sigh, and so an end ! Or yet a little on life's border pause, Back'd by grim Death and with his terrors arm'd, Dread and abhorrent, frenzy-fierce, and there Hurl curses at me with damnation charged, All hot and hissing from the mints of hell ! I had not budged, unmoved of faintest fear, Nor felt one qualm of passing mock remorse ; Nay, rather, had it flatter'd mine intent, Thus fairly sped, and been as oil and balm Unto my wounded soul ; — but oh ! that smile, Past all to see of sweetness, all to know Of Godlike good, me holding fast in thrall Of awful supernatural arrest — Smile, wounding far more deeply, with a pang - Tenfold more sharp, than keenest dire reproach ! And oh ! that look of love within his eyes, Where I had pictured hate — so deep, so pure. The Revenge. 1 1 1 Tender and all unearthly ! — as he turn'd Their gaze upon me, full of wondrous light Ineffable, as they, indeed, had caught Somewhat already of the world beyond. And with soft gentle lips, ere well I knew, Kiss'd the red hand that murder'd him, and, dying, Call'd down God's blessing on my guilty head ! — Heaven save me ! — am I mad ? — It cannot be My hand hath struck at some real saint instead. Sent but to thwart me in his stolen place. And cover his deliverance ? I have heard Tell of such wonders, and them laugh'd to scorn ; — Or am I dreaming? — Ah ! would I were ! — and yet One sometimes dreams a dream within a dream, . . . No, no ! — 'tis all too true ! — ne'er one so blest. To waken out of such reality. And find it but foul vision of the night ! Strange, a strong nature, such as mine, so proud, So confident, should thus, against my will, Andj in an instant, be completely changed, — Yea, by the very means that well had made Sure forfeit of my soul ! It is as I Had slain him and my inner self together. Or he had slain it with that angel smile. And ta'en a grand revenge. Perchance 'tis naught. Save the relaxing and rebound of all My being, overstrained awhile, eft-soons 1 1 2 The Revenge. Its wonted tone and tension to regain ; A passing horror at mere sight of blood, I all unused, who ne'er shed drop till now ; Or the strange dread — oh ! horror worse than all ! Horror of horrors ! the devil's masterstroke ! — To gaze on death of one's own making ! — Nay, Then had I swiftly fled, nor linger'd here. To play and tamper with my torment thus ! . . . — Why still that strange dread smile? — It needs must be. As well I hope, for shame and sorrow sake, He long had grown aweary of his life. Tired of a world to him a wilderness Of nought save everlasting ills ; And thus prepared, yea, eager, so it be God's pleasure to relieve him, even now Hath found his long'd-for rest. Had he surviv'd Yet other decades, sure they had but proved Sore prolongation of his woes ; indeed. Who kens but, with the changing times and years Of new-born heresies and wilding growth Of human wisdom, they had so increased Still more and more, to such a bitterness Unbearable of rivalries malign, Deceptions, scandals, mockings, and a swarm Of troubles that assault and vex the soul, He, peradventure, had been found at last The Revenge. 113 In lesser grace than now ? — no slander, that ; For dangers and temptations so do beat About the bulwarks of the virtuous soul, That e'en a saint may fall ! Thus is he spared At least full many a combat with the sins Of others, and a load of waxing cares, God's mercy, maybe, I the instrument ; How vile a pne doth man not oft employ For noble ends of purpose or of art ! Wherefore, then, hot his Maker ? therewithal To bless him, thus, with premature release, And me, too, with salvation ? Of grace divine. He so but takes away that He may give Far greater in refurn — a holy life. That He may save a guilty soul from death — The goodly life not lost, but only sped A little ere the fleeting of the years. Wherein, perchance, .he had less grandly wrought. With boundless zeal in all his works and will. Than by this one and crowning sacrifice, And haply reaping for himself to boot More perfect. rich reward. > He sleeps in peace. Yet smiles upon me as in pity still ; With something, too, of warning, lest I grow, In self-delusign, half to love the sin 114 The RevengL Which led me to the act that saved my soul. ■ Sweet smile so strange ! at whose dumb fiat fell The scales of blinding hate from off mine eyes, With instant wonder ; while unsuspected streams Of spiritual yearning and a tender grace Rush'd through the floodgates of my heart, at once Re-opening wide ere well I was aware, And freshen'd all the garden of my soul ; Streams, long dried up, methought, as well might be, By suns and heats and many a wasting wind Of passion doubts and scoffs, now pouring forth, Impetuous, startling memories of old. No longer dammed by my prodigious sin ! I know it now, the hideous thing it is ; Yet aught less mortal, such as saints conceive Not hopeless of atonement in the end. And I a sinner might have lived and died ! I will repent me of the past . . . 'twas sweet, God knows ! nor deemed I in my folly, or My ignorance, the wickedness so great As all too sure it was — and, haply, that Will weigh with Him, so bounteous ! at the last. If but a little, and for something count. When He shall judge between my good and ill ; Yea, with a penitence, wrought out with all My heart and soul to very utmost end Of penalties and pains, will I ne'er cease The Tlevenge, 115 Him to importune, and so ply with prayer For mercy and forgiveness at His feet, Who died that sinners such as I might live, That, may be. He shall hearken, and at length. With gentle, loving hand, thence lift me up, As I were newly risen from the dead. I must not linger here ; yet oh ! what realms .Would I not gladly barter, yea, my life, My all and utmost, save my soul itself. Not him to bring back to a wicked w^orld, • But that I only might undo the deed That sent him thence ! — And yet, oh ! despite all, Did I but dare, and deem'd I God, just once. Would suffer me with my polluted lips To touch a thing whereon His plain right hand Hath set His holy seal, I would draw near — Ah ! how it seems as it did beckon me, While the dread eyes me hold in ghostly thrall, Transfixing me which way soe'er I move ! — I would draw near, even now, unto his side. Yea, though fiends held me back, and, on my knees, Kiss that sweet smile so awful ere I go! 8—2 ire SEA GULLS. |LEASANT it is from my window here, There on the slope of the velvety hill, Standing up boldly against the sky clear, To watch the sea-gulls at their morn- ing drill, How without ceasing they caper and glide, Crossing and changing and mingling alway. With more than the art so all art that doth hide, "Like to a ballet which seems but all play. Beautiful bevy with breasts of snow, Mouette and Mauve and the ' Great black-back,' With here and there also a big black crow, Just for the charm of variety' sake ; Now they begin, and go through with a will, The programme entire of a grand State Ball, ' Circular,' ' saraband.' 'country,' ' quadriile,' With * minuet ' ending, the best of all. Ending, as many a damsel were fain Dances, and more of them, ever should end, Only for all to come over again, And again, and to end but pretend ; Sea Guils.. nj? Done though it be with such order complete,,' j Happy their hearts in their own happy ways, ) Their laughter I hear as. they meet and greet, Over and over, in midst of the maze. Never cotillon, quadrille, or gavotte, Stepp'd of fine princes and ladies fair, \ Could vie with their grace aiid I know not what i Of a something more than a courtly air ; Slip nor trip slightest from first to last, Their music their motion whereto they go. Curtsey and bow, as they pass or are pass'd — What would the girls give their secret to know !. For grace of the freshest and 'haviour bland. And true heart at once tender and free. Seldom, they say, are the lords of the land Any match for the sons of the sea ; Is it, I wonder, they also, as these, Become of the ocean imbued of its own Ardour and brightness and exquisite ease. Bred of none yet save of ocean alone ?, Where among men of the shows that allure. Halls of enchantment and ' stars ' of the age. Where would they match me, for perfect and pure, Yonder achievement on nature's own stage ? t.i8 Sea Gulls. All for the love of it, heedless, as 'twere, Of favour and fame as the flowers or the wind, Beauty untouch'd of a breath that may blur. Skill beyond reach of the arts of mankind ! Ah, 'tis all over ! Still, full of delight, Joy of to-day and to-morrow between. Back, the sea calling, they all wing their flight, Never one left on the tapestry green ! Now will they swirl to and fro the day long. As only for pastime, o'er cliff and the main. But, when to-morrow comes, yonder will throng. And go through their pretty performance again. Thus, day by day, to their tryst as they make Faithful return, and the lesson bestow Of peace and contentment — for always they take Kindly the w^nds when unkindly they blow, — Free as the air, yet as fain to obey Each and laws all of their destiny — what, What is man's worldly-wise wisdom, I say. What his philosophy after that ! 119 GUI BONO? ILMIGHTY in his mightiness is man, Waxen to fulness of triumphant will, That what he would he lord is to fulfil, Godlike of awe and wonder ! pith and span Of all the ages since the world began. He moveth mountains, bids the sea stand still. And sways the lightnings and the winds, until All heaven and earth do daunt him not, nor can. Yet our sweet one wee darling lies there dead ! Nor science, nor philosophy, nor all Man's art and conjuration, in utmost strain Blended of desperate effort, may recall Life's tiny spark, new-kindled, scarcely fled. And make that little body breathe again ! I20' WATCHING. jE watched her, I and Life and Death, we three, Through the long night forlorn — her gentle head, With all its gblden tresses wide outspread. By fondling hands soft-pillovv'd, but, ah ! me. Restless as moonlight on a troubled sea ! And yet, I bless'd it so, for very dread, Since, while it moved, I knew she was not dead, WhOj any moment, well might cease to be ! All nightj though night and day all one to me. For what are times and seasons unto pain ? Till the grim dawn, as still afraid to see, Peer'd at the casement — sought her sweet face wan, And grew less grave ; — then Death retired ; and we Our watch continued, Life and I, we twain. 121 WILD FLOWERS. HE larks were up, the fields were gay, Around me as I went. Gathering wild flowers by the way. In wanton mood of blind intent,. Mid merry month of May. The stream beside me sang for joy. Myself for joy did sing. Blithe as I were again a boy, Too glad of heart with everything For any least alloy. A glory dwelt o'er all the earth. Peace brooded in the air. And a pure gladness more than mirth Was all of me and everywhere. Pledging fair Nature's birth. The dreamy hum of insect things Was music in mine ear, A murmur soft of myriad wings. Softer than lute or dulcimer. Or harp of golden strings., 122 Wild Flowers. Such fervours as, the earth distils Rose shimmering from the ground, While sweet did blend with gurgling rills, Making the silence more profound, Low tinklings from the hills. And Freedom with her pinions vast, Wide o'er the land and sea. In light of her own splendour, cast, Winnow'd the air to wafts of glee. That fann'd me as they pass'd. One little hour, and, oh ! the change Sad memory oft recalls ! I stood within the double range Of city and of prison walls. Urged of some fancy strange. Grim crouching forms there met my gaze. Which seem'd as long ago Done with the outer world and ways. Or as they ne'er had aught to do With light, of golden days. By something stay'd of harsh and hoar, Some evil in his face. E'en sterner than his fellows wore, I stood and communed for a space With one of past three score. Wild Flowers. 123 To all my speech, as thoughts would rise. Pursued with kind intent Of ministering sympathies. He gave but gruff or dumb consent, Or cold and curt replies. Remain'd he like to stone, unmoved By hinted wished-for end, Nor any faintest feeling proved At mention of e'en foe or friend. Or, haply, fond ones loved. At length, as he did silent stand. Of instinct more than thought I tender'd him, with gesture bland, The bunch of wild flowers I had brought, And held in heedless hand. He waved them back in scornful wise. And turned his visage dark. As one who grimly fate defies, — Yet not so soon, but I did mark The tears were in his eyes. 124 ICHABOD ! me ! what times we live in ! what o'er- throwing Of ancient idols we so loved, unknowing ; Yea, with what simple faith, but pure and strong, So worshipp'd, inscient if 'twere right or wrong ; Them holding sacred and for what they seem'd. Ne'er doubting they were other than we deem'd 1 How are they shattered by the ruthless hand, Once dear to us as home or fatherland, And all things dearest unto souls still able To find delight in legend or in fable ; With what malignity iconoclastic Have they not been demolish'd by those drastic Purgers of many a temple of romance. From every vestige of what might, perchance, Be cherish'd of our so-call'd ignorance ! Who, having sent them to the right-about. With exclamations not the most devout, Set not up other and more excellent gods In place of them — because, indeed, the odds Ichabodl 125 Are ten to nothing they would boast, o'er-joy'd, Of having gods of every sort destroy'd — But leave the niches and the altars bare. Past restoration and beyond repair, — And all for what ?— for truth, all, all for truth, For very truth's sake, is their cry, forsooth ! Yet who may know their truth itself is not About the biggest fiction of the lot ? As for myself, I've come to the conclusion The whole round world is only all delusion, That truth and falsehood are but 'tis and 'tisn't, And nothing is that is, except what isn't. But with a reverence for things sacred — though These latter-day philosophers, who know Just all and everything that ever was And is and will be, and heaps over, pos' ! Tell us, with somewhat of an unctuous zest. They're not a whit more worthy than the rest, — Let us, I say, for form' sake, and as best. Begin at the beginning, or what we Were wont to call the world's nativity, Till it was proved we had been all along On that point, as all others, in the wrong, Hoax'd and deluded by the lore we learnt ; For it is no use saying that we weren't. Since they who tell us they themselves have been Behind the curtain of Creation, seen 126 Ichabod I How it was made, with what sort of machine 'Tis work'd, et csetera, avow the earth Was very old at what we deem'd its birth, In fact had grown quite ancient, when, instead Of dying, it turned over in its bed, And straight, renewing thus its youthful lease, Began again to flourish and increase. Man is not man, he is a monkey — so Said Mr. Darwin, and he ought to know ; And what if — I will not say he, it might Not be consider'd perfectly polite — But what if / once had for apposite Progenitor, in late or distant years, A certain docile creature man but sneers And laughs at, with a tail and pointed ears, Who, in his turn, could trace his pedigree To protoplasm, puddle, or larvae ? What if 'twere thus, or his descending line Traced unmistakably to me and mine ? Backward or forward, 'twould not make me worse Or better, less than nothing, or a horse ; And who can tell, but he, too, would lament What he might hold degenerate descent } So let it pass ; and we will over-ride The ages which dim periods divide, Ever so many, at a single stride. Alighting at the epoch, say, of Homer — Tchabod !. iz'j Who ? what ? — naught but a mythos, a misnomer For somebody else, or half a dozen fellows, Compatriots, never heard of, bards of Hellas ; The only one thing certain of old Dad Is that he never wrote the ' Iliad ' : All true enough, for, actual poet apart, It was not written at all, but got by heart. While whoso will'd to learn was free to approach The rostrum, with its author for a ' coach.' False though the story that it tells of Troy, Naught truer than that, whilom, when a boy, Fugaces anni labuntur ! I, for one. Was made to understand and stand upon Its authenticity as just the very Thing of all others too assured for query ; Its bounds and bulwarks I had quick defined. By bearing yesterday's assault in mind. Yea, told the very number of its stones, School'd of my back and certifying bones ! And hasn't Dr. Schleimann, wondrous man ! Of prescient grasp almost American, ' Struck ' Ilium ? them putting to the rout Who that it e'er existed used to doubt- — Indeed had long been given to decry The whole thing but a myth, and 'all my eye,' According to their phraseology — Refuting and confounding them by — whatf 128 Ichdbocf! Producing Troy itself upon the spot ! I wonder will succeeding generations, Juvenile; profit by the revelations Of all this latter-day profound research ? Will truth abolish both the bull and birch ? He were a bold man who of this or that, Or anything, from Consols to the great Sea-serpent or new Parliament, should dare Predict what will befall of foul or fair ; Bolder than Marcus Curtius — I forgot. The first authorities say he did not Perform that memorable wondrous feat. Which no one ever after could repeat, Because the gulf — whereinto, all bedight With armour on his charger, as for fight. Burning with more than martial zeal, in sight Of men and gods, and flinging loose the.rein, He ne'er plunged headlong down — closed up again. Or would have done, it may be, only it Was never e'en a crack, much less a pit ! Bolder than stern Virginiiis, as he stood Confronting Claudius, who, in lustful mood, With damned judgment to far worse than slaughter Had doom'd his innocent young lovely daughter, Who, like 3. dove escaping from the snare And winging to the grove, had fled, full-scare. Into her father's bosom — nestling there Ichabodl 129 Her pretty little head, which he, affected. With fondling hands so tenderly protected — And breathed at last ; yet still aquake with fear. Afraid to let her very hearing hear, To steal a timorous glance around the place. Or even look up in her father's face, And read there all, the pity, all the love. She felt within his heart, — afraid to move, To think — afraid almost to feel alive. And tangible of rude hands which might strive To tear her thence— and praying she might there Shrivel to nothing, from that hideous pair Of fiendish eyes, whose loathsome leer, unseen, Still held her, trembling, in its power malign ; Whereat her father, moved to phrensy wild By such foul insult to his^ darling child, Snatch'd from the crowd, that round about him press'd, A glittering blade, and plunged it in her breast ; And — as, infuriate, Claudius loudly call'd Upon his lictors, standing by, appall'd. To seize upon him — leaving on the floor The beauteous body weltering in its j[ore, Oh, sad sight sweet ! and fleeing for his life. Cut his way through them with his bloody knife. Into a pretty fable ! for 'twould seem The whole is all mere nothing but a dream ; Who ever heard of innocent fair maid 9 1 30 Ichabod I By libertine tormented or betray'd ? Fiction, all fiction, may be of the best, But only pure invention like the rest. Whence Rome itself was made — its very name A riddle, save that we know it never came From Romulus or Remus, the twin brothers, Whom, with a tenderness of mortal mothers, The she-wolf nurtured at her paps uncouth — Because there's not one particle of truth In the whole story — so 'tis said by those Who know, or say they do, and I suppose It were the very height and utmost reach Of arrogant assumption to impeach The proofs themselves whereby it is refuted. As open equally to be disputed. So let us drift again from ground so vague, Where nothing ever happened, but a plague Of deadly doubts, denials, contradictions. Annihilate it, and of our convictions Make their grim sport ; let us came further down The ages to the period of renown Call'd medizeval, of romantic story Full to repletion, and aglow with glory Beyond all other after that befell ; Let's hear awhile what that may have to tell — Tell ? hi-hi ! William of that ilk, who shot [I've stood and ponder'd on the very spot] Ichabod ! 131 The apple from the forehead of his son, Too full of fear to mark what he had done, Too full of love paternal to be sure Of his proud feat, — yet, finding him secure, Caught up his darling cherub in his arms, And rush'd o'er flood and fell, beyond alarms Of Gesler's vengeance ; where, in mountain haunt, Join'd him such patriots as no task could daunt. No terror frighten and no danger stay. When liberty and justice led the way. Brave spirits, kindled with a kindred rage, Sworn to wring back their stolen heritage ! And so, he working on the goodly plan That whatso valour would do, that it can, All obstacles o'ercome and spurn'd aside, He wrought his country's freedom e'er he died, — Who never lived at all ! who, so 'tis said. Ne'er shot the apple from his urchin's head ; Indeed, 'twould not surprise me to be told That apples did not grow there to behold ; Or, though I've seen and traversed, I could swear. The spot itself, that I was never there. For, really, after all one reads and hears Of how poor mortals through the sumless years Have been deluded where they trusted most, Until there's not a fairy or a ghost Now left of what was once a goodly host, 9—2 132 Ichabod I To leaven life's monotonous subsistence, It makes one even doubt his own existence ! I should not wonder in the least, not I, Were somebody to tell us by and by That Valentine and Orson the renown'd Ne'er dwelt outside the tale where they were found : Or that — for, scorning Christendom all round. Bold unbelief in blasphemy doth revel^ — Luther ne'er flung his ink-pot at the devil, Spite of the proof which in the sight of all Still lingers in its stains upon the wall. Among a thousand other things, I've learnt Cremated Joan of Arc was never burnt At Rouen after all ; somehow or other, 'Tis proved on evidence of her own mother, While very sage historians have persisted. That, as a matter of fact, she ne'er existed ! No marvel either, seeing that the last Discovery, at present, of the past. Is that Napoleon Buonaparte may be Holden scarce less apocryphal than she. Shakespeare is not the Shakespeare of old days, At least 'tis settled he ne'er wrote his plays — His famed ' sweet woodnotes wild ' a Milton myth, The actual author being one Will Smith ; Although on that point savants are divided 'Twixt him and several others undecided. Ichabod 133 Content to leave the rest an open question, So they but raise a doubt for our digestion, Torment us as it may. Ah me ! farewell. Farewell the idols at whose feet we fell ; The lares and penates, which from youth Upward we cherish'd, as nought less than truth In every goodly influence that controls And betters our poor planet as it rolls 1 Yet why should we abandon them because Certain almighty-mongering monitors Pronounce them spurious, and our faith naught else Than foul corruption, bred of those twin spells, Malarious, superstition and romance. Born from the wastes of stagnant ignorance ? As for myself, who do not think it right of them, I shall go on believing just in spite of them ; Yea, fast as ever, though it prove to be The most abominable heresy, Shall cling, with orthodox clutches, to my creed. And live a so-called bigot ! — for, indeed. What life worth living, were there no such cleaving, No call for simple faith, and fond believing ? 134 PAULUS ^MILIUS. (In camera^ IE gods ! ye gods ! Hear mine ears aright ? Oh ! Paulus ^milius, Sagest in council, Foremost in fight ; Good, too, as brave, Of a spotless life — Have you, oh, have You divorced your wife ? Ah, no ! ah, no 1 It is not so, By Jove I swear, By Juno, Venus, And her son and heir ! Was she not chaste. Was she not fair ? And fruitful to bear True sons to their sire ? Was she not everything Man could desire ?' Paulus ySmilius. 135 ' Cato, go to ! Fools, they are many, Wise men are few ; None knows, how can he ? Other man's rue ; — Look at my shoe, Is it not handsome. Seems it not true Fit, as my foot on Wondrous it grew ? Is it not everything Perfect to view ? But do I not know Where it pinches me so, Better than you ?' 136 TEDIUM VIT^. [EARY of living, yet still fond of life,' Say you, less faint than fond, In spite of your despond, Who, vex'd for decades of what empty strife, Shrink from the peace beyond. Yea, life at longest is but all so brief; And e'en the worst below, Made all of pain and woe. And death alone assured relief, Too precious to forego ! There is a grace a sadness fond begetting In gloomiest day that grows . From dawn to loitering close ; And oft the sun but when it nears the setting With fires unlook'd-for glows. Joy, then, poor heart ! is, haply, yet for you. Some comfort is for all ; No flower or weed so small. But it may hold the sunshine and the dew, And feel some raindrops fall. J 37 MARIE ANTOINETTE. [INCE Sappho sigh'd, or Helen wept fof Troy, Ah ! sure the world ne'er gazed on sad- ness yet Sad as the tomblike eyes of Antoinette ! Full of dead sorrow and the ghosts of joy, And such sweet loves as vile hate could destroy ; Weird as fair landscape whence the sun hath set, While day and night, 'mid spectral glamour met. Forlorn, seem each the other to accoy. O France, her blood still stains thy beauteous shield ; Ay, and shall linger till thy course be sped ; No glory of the tribune or the field Shall hide, with dazzle o'er its dulness shed, Or ever wear away, that blood-stain dread, Yea, though all else to time or lustre yield ! U8 OLIVER CROMWELL. [ROMWELL, thou rebel regnant, would-be king! Yea, of the people born and bred, yet fain, In spite of all thy politic disdain, To mount the branded throne ! Thou swaggering Ventripotent usurper ! O thou dread thing Of hates and oaths, who, squab, didst look to attain To kingly stature on thy sovereign slain, What moves me thus my scorn at thee to fling ? Haply the thought that in our own sad day Lik6 upstarts are abroad, who emulate Thy rancorous enmity 'gainst Church and State, Demagogues, bent on wrested power, that they Their fall may compass, and themselves feel great. For all of grace and goodness swept away ! 139 THE RUINED SHRINE, (written in FRANCE.) I. |,ONESOME the road beside, where oft I wend- In pensive mood, between tall elms which bend Above me, and, in serried colonnade. From scorching sunshine make a cooling shade, Or shelter from cold sea-breeze or the land's — A little chapel all in ruin stands, With ivy clad. Green fret, the one thing only during undecay'd. II. A pathlet vague and overgrown with weeds Up to some broken steps, moss-cover'd, leads. Or led, the broken steps to crumbling door ; Ne'er opening now, since none e'er enter more, In simple worship at the altar there To bend the knee and offer heartfelt prayer To God on high, As weary souls did use in lowlier days gone by. 140 The Ruined Shrine. III. Still on the beam-bare roof, in turret quaint. Hangs the old bell, as brooding its complaint In silence through long listless lingering years ; Once wont to call the honest villagers Each early morn, and cheer on darkening eves The herdsman homeward wending with his beeves. Who still would stay. Hearkening the sound, then, soothed, hold on his toil- some way. IV. Yet, maugre mouldering beam and crumbling stone, Seems it as time, of pity moved to atone For evil wrought upon it unaware. Had long while hursed it with a tender care, Rather than, envious of all things that dure, Compass'd its ruin and destruction sure. Till not one trace Remaineth of its pride in days of bounteous grace. V. Save only, though the years have wrought their will, A dream of holiness pervades it still : There the worn flags by generations trod. There the dim altar where they own'd their God, Adoring side by side ; the broken bowl, The Ruined Shrine, 141 Whence they drew freshening sprinkle for the soul; And every sign And symbol of their faith in Providence benign. VI. Often, as through the rusty grill I gaze, I hear sweet voices that in concert raise The anthem still, and see the white-robed choir. And swaying censer with its golden fire, And fleecy odours floating solemnly Up round about the Host, — while every knee, In stillness awed, And every head, bends low, in presence of the Lord. VII. I watch them, after, issue from the door, With still an alms for the accustom'd poor, There lingering sad to see, and through the maze Of meadowy bye-paths wend their various ways, To their far homes, half-hid in bowery trees; Till, left alone, left unobserved of these, A little while Once more I, museful, turn towards the empty aisle. VIII. And lo — ^where hallow'd shadows hushful brood About the peaceful place, before the Rood — Bent through his spirits' fervour to prevail, A knight down kneeling in his coat of mail, 142 The Ruined Shrine. Asking of Heaven its faith-defending aid To sword and shield in far-off fierce crusade. Whither away He, through the gates of dawn, would fare the morrow day. IX. Humbly — he, first in foray or at tilt — His folded hands upon his broadsword's hilt. Praying God's mercy, should he fall before The heathen foe, and never kneel there more ; And breathing vow to seek his soul's assoil At sainted shrine, with gifts of goodliest spoil In warfare ta'en, Wherefrom if he return to be perform'd full fain. X. Or I behold, there standing side by side, Wedded, the happy Bridegroom and his Bride, Dazed of their joy : Ah ! blissful vision fair, Of Vouth and Beauty link'd together there, While pretty children scatter sweetest flowers From osier baskets in all-coloured showers, For earnest sake Of love that all their life one pleasant path shall make ! XI. Comes then, alas ! sad shadow o'er the scene, A mournful dimness where but now had been The Ruined Shrine. 143 Such pure and joyous light, and in its stead Darkness and solemn wailing for the dead, The catafalque high-lifted, and the pall, Surrounded grimly with great tapers tall — Yet soft, though plain, Sweet with the dismal dirge there breathes hope's sootheful strain. XII. Then fades it all away in dreamful wise, With sudden absence from my wondering eyes. That straightway, as whilere, naught else behold Save crumbled altar deck'd with damp and mould. And all the rot and ruin — haunt, full rare. Where undisturb'd the coney makes its lair. And, fearless all. The stone-still lizard basks its length upon the wall. XIII. The peasant as thereby he wends his way. Bows not the head as in a lowlier day ; Nor makes, with gesture meek, the sacred sign. In token of the Sacrifice Divine ; Ne'er turns accustom'd sideglance, nor e'en nods Up at the Virgin's niche, as past he plods — Niche empty now, Save what of image, shatter'd, there may lie belowv •144 The Ruined Shrine. XIV. Heedless he hies, oft passing to and fro, Scarce wistful if there be a God or no ; Content, so he but live from day to day. Like to his betters, and no worse than they, Who all the old religion laugh to scorn. As foolishness no longer to be borne Of men too wise. To trust save in themselves and what their wits devise. XV. There, by these fancies and our sad time led, Pondering, I often to myself have said : With all their wonder and their wealth untold, These new days, are they better than the old ? These godless days, wherein man's boastful creed Is Man — his worship and religion. Greed — Better than those, When at such shrines he found hope, comfort, and repose ? XVI. They who the Christian's Heaven of angels fair Have striven their best to prove but empty air, What would they offer in its stead, save odds And ends of pagan or their self-made gods, Sham cast and copy of strange idols, bust The Ruined Shrine. 145 And bird and beast, long ages done to dust, And images, Fashion'd in their own likeness, still more grim than these ! XVII. Yea, is it better in these days that dawn. Startling of fires, upon the earth forlorn, Perplex'd of nations noising impious oaths ^Gainst Heaven and all of good that evil loathes. And working dreadful deeds without a name, Harvest abundant in due course that came, — As now they find. Who are the whirlwind reaping, having sown the wind! XVIII. Alas ! and will the days no more return Of simple faith, nor men the lore unlearn Of worldly wisdom ? in those consequent Ruin'd memorials of an ardour spent Dwells there some sacred fire, that, smouldering still, Shall kindle into flame, and work God's will, That man may cease To strive against His love, and, bless'd; all hearts have peace ? 10 'r46 LUCY. ^tat. 15. N the sweet time of roses, too ! Good angels, 'twas not kind of you. To let our Lucy die ; So young, so fair, yet, ah, so soon To weary, long before the noon. And put her lifetime by. Forgive me, pray, the wrongful word ; Rather, oh ! let it not be heard. For pity's sake, since we Are all too full of grief to-day. And well may know not what we say, Or do, or think, or see. That all must die full well we know. It is the common lot below, Alas ! from first to last ; But this it is we sorrow so. That one should die ere yet the glow Of childhood's day was past ; Lucy. 147 Should thus amid her artless play, And happy dreams, be called away, Forever from the sun, The flowers that should have made full fair A chaplet for her youth to wear, Wither'd, her tasks undone. Her voice still breathes about the place ; At every turn her dear sweet face With dreadful joy we see, And, as impell'd by strange alarms, Incline to clasp her in our arms, Yet know it ne'er can be ! Is it that with our latest sigh Our all of being doth not die At once away from earth, Like flowers that on the gentle wind Leave oft a fragrance still behind, As 'twere death's afterbirth ? Oh ! 'tis so strange, as dream'd in dreams, Wherefrom we shall and must, it seems. Awaken by-and-by ; Ah, would we could ! but everything. The very thoughts fond fancies bring, Such mocking hope belie ! 10—2 148 Lucy. Dear Lucy ! just to name thy name Seems for the moment to disclaim Thy death, and bring thee back ; Our voice thou hear'st not — nor the moan. That henceforth we shall hear thine own No more, alack — alack ! How we recall and love to tell Each trifling act remember'd well, Each little word you said ; And oh ! with what forlorn despair We gaze upon your empty chair. Your work, the book you read ! Would we could call you back again, If but to kiss away the pain In thoughtless jesting dealt ; And speak in words more plainly, too, Than, maybe, we were wont to do. The fondness always felt. But for ourselves, not thee, sweet child ! Pure nursling of a world defiled, We thus do wail and weep ; Thy taking could but be for good, If mortals only understood God's ways, so all too deep. Lucy. 149 Who knows, despite our impious plaint, But angels stood in love's constraint. To thwart our will of you, Watching alway about your bed. And whisper'd something only said To sister spirit new ? The sweetest flowers that summer knows All die ere come the winter snows, Sweetly, as death were fond ; As they, so thou, and, as for them, With chant of birds for requiem, — For us, the hope beyond. T50 EVENTIDE. HAPPY stillness, as of play asleep, Reigns in the air and o'er the landscape bold Of heathery heights and hollows ; even the sheep, From daylong nibble of or field or wold, Are gather'd safely up in wattled fold. Whence comes no sound, save of some one wee lamb, Soft bleating as in slumber to its dam ; No faintest murmur else, but of the rills' Low lilting lullaby, as from the hills Great shadows down into the valley creep, And, softly gliding, hide themselves to sleep ; Or of the skylark, who, where spreads between Two clouds the glory of a golden sheen. For just few moments more of lingering day Bribes the fain nightfall with his sweetest lay, — Ah ! with what startling flutter, as he flew Upward from poppied field and cornflowers blue, Or, youngling, with what joyous unsurprise. Did he, I wonder, first essay the skies. Sing of pure instinct, and of impulse rise. Eventide. 151 And, soaring to the zenith, there prolong His overflowing and spontaneous song ? — Or when, from time to time, with long wings white. An alien seamew slowly wheels its flight Hither and onward, and, as meant for me. Utters, twice o'er, the pass-note of the sea — For, though the eye, beyond and o'er the crown Of undulating variegated down, Naught else behold, yet, by the hazy air. That feigns a void, one feels it must be there, The false but fascinating fell fair sea, So full of dread, and mirth, and mystery ! Yea, not an echo or soft breath beside. Of earth or air, in all the landscape wide ; For over all, long wont at hour like this O'er Bretagne's vales to hearken it, I miss. As some dear voice were dead, that sound most sweet And peaceful of the eventide complete. The gentle angelus ! still, soft and low, Soothing it is to feel that even now 'Tis floating, voice-like, as it then did use. The while I, hearkening, lay me here and muse Of what I am and what I might have been. Of life and death, things ghostly or terrene. And the great mysteries Evangeline, Long as we mortals here on earth draw breath, 152 Eventide. Life ever plays into the hands of death, Yet feigning, oh ! most base deceiver ! e'er From first to last as on our side it were. And only when too late we find, dismay'd. How miserably we have been betray'd ! Seldom I contemplate a scene like this, Yea, or but simplest flower or thing that is, Durant for ages, or from time to time, Or year by year, recurrent in its prime, But I am humbled, pondering the span And petty greatness of ephemeral man. Who treads with lordly heel the earth which knows Him nor his footprints ere few decades' close ! Nature but mocks us of our short life here, Renewing her own youth from year to year : The germ \ye plant so lightly in the mould, Succeeding generations shall behold — Even as I myself view book or bust Wrought of some hand long ages done to dust; And wherefore should we plain ? nor flower nor weed, Bird, beast, nor venom'd reptile, and, indeed. No smallest living thing, seen or unseen. But, rightly judged, great marvel is, I ween. As man — save alway his one gift, I wis. Of wonder at the wonder that he is. And awe of God who made him, — though 'twould seem — Eventide. i53 In these our days, when boldly to blaspheme, To laugh all creeds to scorn, and God deny, Is counted progress and philosophy — Of that his one advantage, sole to attest His altitude sublime o'er all the rest, He would make free surrender. What of worth In all things else, of wealth or rank or birth. Or that which men call wisdom, though naught, may- be, Save utmost human self-sufficiency ? What of their greatness ? ' We are gods !' they cry. Who build, hoard, revel, sway peoples, kings, and — die! What of their knowledge ? crass as mule or mole To sound but e'en the shallows of the soul ; To solve the problem of their own frail breath. Tell whence it comes and whither vanisheth ; Ay, or so much as to divine what goes To making of the meanest flower that blows ! What their ambition and their boasted aim ? Their real dominion or their fancied fame. Content, yea, counting them full blest, with e'er A hope that, dead and buried, they may wear A wither'd laurel round a crumbling brow ? At best, and pre-crown'd with its afterglow, Gay garlanded of fortune's favours here. Life needs must be a yearning and a fear ; 1 54 Eventide. Alway for something we have not we crave. While dreading still to lose the good we have, — Else were I perfect happy in my nest There in the valley so inform'd of rest, Pleased, or complacent, with such daily round Of simple pleasures as may there be found, Nor with one wish of earthly good beyond. Oft do we murmur, Ah ! were days that last Less made up of the future and the past, Unhaunted by the ghosts of young dreams fled, Dead as the dead leaves of a year long dead. Nor fill'd with doubt at what of woe or weal The hidden time hereafter may reveal ; Could we but breatlie the air God's grace distils, Unvitiated by man's hundred ills. Enjoy the good that is our portion yet. Shut out the world, live, thank God, and forget ! Nay, but these thoughts, nor wholly nor in part. Are verily my own, and wrong my heart. Whereto the spirit is all alien To feel save truly for my fellow-men, Who toil and groan 'neath fortune's frown morose, Or, in soft coils of self-indulgence, close Its tender ruth against their wrongs and woes ; To look for graces and a standard high. Beyond the reach of poor humanity, Which ever hath been and for ever will Eventide. 155 Be blended complement of good and ill. And, after all, it may be better so, Perfection might but chill us with its awe, Man, to be lovable, must have a flaw ; And whoso loves him, and would undertake Aught, for his own or for his Maker's sake, To comfort, help, to better, or forgive. Must learn himself, in doing, how to live, For who lives only, is already dead To all that makes life worthy to be led ; Must gravitate, strike root, and ramify. Deep in the subsoil of humanity, Ere he may aught of any worth portend. To crown his days with honour and his end. Or leave behind, with just and hopeful heed, The germ of any good thing to succeed ; Else are we like to trees which, rather placed Than planted in the earth they should have graced Through many a genial summer, take no root, And therefore bring forth neither flower nor fruit, Nor save some poor sparse leaves, that catch the light And glory of the noonday, or, by night, Haply the lesser lustre of the moon ; But, for a season still unchanging, soon Fade and decay, and are no longer seen, And leave the earth as though they had not been. Needless, one's duty to perform, I ween, 15^ Eventide. The crowd to frequent, and him mure among The dismal alleys of the dreary throng In noisome city pent, where souls do fade And dwindle, and the hearts of men are made Sordid and callous ; how, 'mid the roar and reek, Hearken God's undertone, when He would speak To mind us of our duty, when 'tis drown'd Of thunder wrought of every godless sound ? Yea, better may we listen and incline Our hearts to hear that ' still small voice ' divine. In suchlike solitude and hushful hour Of overwhelming and mysterious power As this, the soft pure air but only stirr'd By fitful passage of some peaceful bird, And ne'er a sound, the very faintest, heard, Save but such seeming sound of stillness deep As silence well might hearken in her sleep. — Yea, for whate'er beside, of great and good, God must be Silence, too, and Solitude ; Else wherefore is it we are overawed In their dread presence, as before the Lord, Thrill'd with strange yearnings of an impulse high. Unknown 'mid haunts of men ? Here, then, will I Devoutly listen, very patiently. And often as I may; that, if so be, He deigns but whisper one soft word to me. Or touch my heart, attuned, with gentlest hand. Eventide. 157 I may quick hear, and feel, and understand ; And striving, by my all of strongest, best. His yoke to bear, and do His known behest, Doing it meekly — for, through wanton will, The good we sometimes do we do but ill — Give back some measure of the grace thus won. As bubbles do the glory of the sun ; Make light of burthens as the sea, that smiles And ripples, heedless of its shadowy isles, Cast but of vapours in the harmless air, Me counting happy so I may but fare Like to some flower that, now in evening's chill. Once caught the morning sun, and holds it still. 158 THE WORLDLING. ' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we shall die.' LAVE of a slave in bonds self-wrought, Sub-slaveling of the sordid mind, A mortal of most mortal kind, Thus in his heartless heart he thought ; ' I will prolong my days with care Of health, and what I eat and drink. And do, the very thoughts I think, And every tittle whatsoe'er ; ' That naught may quicken or arrest Life's even flow of tranquil ease. No foul unsightly images Its placid surface e'er infest. ' And, sure, it were much better, too, If all men did the same, and less Depended for their happiness On one another than they do ! The Worldling. 159 ' Who forfeit thus the sole content And chance of pleasure 'neath the sun, To share with others, or with one, What only for themselves was meant. ' For me, I will not trifle so With what they treat as common pelf, But keep it wholly to myself, Not letting others even know. ' None of their so-call'd joys for me, E'er only purchased at a price Of some supreme self-sacrifice. More worth than all such joys could be ! ' Nor of their low pursuits or high, Wherein men squander strength and health For filmy fame, or rank, or wealth, And let the golden years go by. ' I will not love a living thing, Lest I should lose it and bemoan, But live but for myself alone. Myself my world, and Lord and King. ' I will have store in many lands. Laid up for aught that may befall, And laugh at Revolutions all. As of each realm I wash my hands. 1 60 The Worldling. ' Ere comes the winter frost and snow, I far away will wing my flight To regions where 'tis warm and bright, And roses in December blow. ' Naught on your paupers will I spend. Alms only breed yet more and more ; Besides, there always will be poor. And poor there will be to the end. ' No creed of all the sects at strife Shall vex my soul with hope or dread Of what may be when I am dead. Thus spoiling all the charms of life. ' Of all good things the fates provide Will I enjoy my utmost fill, And make the most of life, I will !' Thus spake he in his heart and died. For so it is ; men often say ' Let's eat and drink and laugh at care. To-morrow we shall die ' ; — but ne'er ' It may be we shall die to-day .'' l6i THE HEIR. HE standard waves on the castle-keep, Born is the son and heir ! New born to the lord of lands rich and broad, Of his gentle ladye fair. Now wake the old halls, glitter turrets and walls. Up goes the lark with his lay. And each busy wight dons a sudden delight. Proud is the good Earl to-day ! The bells they ring out, blare trumpet and shout. Noising it far and near : Yea, never, I ween, such May morning hath been, This many and many a year. Hopes cherish'd for years, slow dying of fears. Till worn to a deathless despair. Sped at last, in delight beyond fancy's flight, And fairer than dream'd of all fair. II 1 62 The Heir. Now will the sire, home from battle returned, Dandle his babe on his knee, Oft the warrior, for joy, play the boy with his boy, With his stripling a stripling be. O wist ye his pride, when they twain, side by side, Forth to the foray shall fare ! But proudest of all when the bridegroom tall Back his beautiful bride shall bear ! By-and-by on his knee will he take, happy he ! Child of his child where all blend ; Till, blessing and blest, he shall go to his rest^ Leaving a line without end. The banner it waves on the castle-keep, And another dawn breaks unaware. All the revel and rout hardly yet dying out, — Dead is the son and heir ! 1 63 DE PROFUNDIS. JEAWEED or flower or whatever they call thee, Stranded at last, Here at my feet, flower or weed of the sea, All perils past ! Whence, never dreaming of what might befall thee. Forth of what wonderland's glory and glee, Wert thou upcast, And on these billows borne hither to me ? Ah ! couldst thou tell of the beauty and wonder Where thou didst grow, ,Down on some bank gem'd of jefwels marine. Richest that glow, Haply where sea-nymphs, up over and under, Turning the lymph into emerald sheen. Glide to and fro. Lustre still leaving where late they have been ! Toss'd by the waves as a fleck of foam only, Up with it flung, II — 2 164 De Profundis. Or with the glittering ripples at play, All the day long, All the day long, and throughout the night lonely, What hast thou seen on thy wandering way ? Or of strange song Hearken'd what voices by night and by day ? League after league drifting onward, receding, Hither and thither. Riding the surges with never a care. More than they, whither. Chance might have borne thee, to distant shore leading, Stranded thee lonely and desolate there. Where, months together. All is but night that of day doth despair. Where thou hadst been, 'mid the stillness and starlight. Fain to repose, Only the voice of the deep, as it aye Sank or uprose. Mingling with dreams of thy haunt, whence the far light. Like to a sun in the night, at noonday Tenderly glows. There where all slumbers or dallies alway. De Profundis. 165 Now hath it borne thee and on these sands golden, Here at my feet, Lain thee and left thee, still half disinclined, Loth to retreat ; Yet as consoled, that, of me thus beholden, Sure were the grace that is in thee to find Homage, and meet Welcome of wonder, thou truth undivined ! Wherefore and whence, at what mystical motion, Waved of Life's wand, Hadst thou thy being, all its future e'en then Portion'd and plan'd, Growing so lovely there down in the ocean. Far from all knowledge and vision of men ? Useless demand — All the world's mystery over again ! Why should I vex me with quest unavailing Wherefore thou art ? Curious to know what man never may move Thee to impart, An his omnipotent faculties failing Even that one little problem to prove ! Nearest, whose heart Whispers, The key to Creation is Love. i66 De Profundis. Rather would fancy, than wisdom oft wiser, In thee behold Spray from the garland of sea-maiden's sheen Tresses of gold, Shed, as sea-urchin, who, rogue ! to surprise her. Into her ear some sly secret, I ween, Breathing full bold. Made her to start joy and terror between. So, with thy beauty such legend entwining, Poesie's way, Union years fleeting nor fortune shall break. Happen what may. Thus will I set thee, e'er pink and sea-shining, Seeming a gentle sea-murmur to make. Here in my lay, All for sweet love and pure loveliness' sake. 16; A NEW YEAR VIGIL. JEEP in the tremor-silence of the night, While strong men sleep, unarmour'd of their strength, Warriors and statesmen and philosophers, Sages and magnates, lying all no more Than little children in their helplessness ; Here, while the old year dies, in pensive mood Fronting the fire, sole partner of my watch, I sit and ruminate, hearkening no sound. Save of the wind, the peevish mumbling wind, That ever at unlook'd-for intervals. And when I hoped for certain it was gone. Returns unto the casement, nor content With entrance gain'd, still brings its moan inside. And, stealing round the chamber, whines and frets. And hurts itself in holes and crevices ; Or, in the pauses, that dull monotone Of my unrestful heart, which, like the craik. Its voice to render audible, repeats Its one sad note when all the world is still ; Or, doubtfully, from time to time, I hear The sullen murmur of the drowsy chimes 1 68 A New Year Vigil. In the far city, that, half wakening, loth. As from deep dream of peace, like sentinels O'ermaster'd at their post by watch prolong'd Beyond all strength of fealty or fear, Drawl out their admonition to the night. And sink to rest again. Now myriads dream. Or, dreamless, slumber on, and all the while Are calmly drifting to another year ; Yea, have already drifted, unaware. Oblivious of the old. The minster tower Its knell booms forth to the responsive air. With mournful mock, that, ere the echo dies. Shall laugh among the merry-making peal. To usher in the new ! Alas, 'tis gone ! and even now begins To wear a gentler aspect than it wore While yet 'twas here ; and, in the days to come, I, peradve^iture, gazing back, with sad Remorseful yearning, shall make hapless moan, ' If only were the present half so sweet And goodly as the past !' and marvel how I ever deemed it anything but fair ; Yea, even its uttermost austerity. In the receding whilom far away. Haply shall soften into what will show For very gentleness and more than kind — A New Year Vigil. 169 Like as a discord, twang'd upon the harp, By gradual vague resolventy, and soft Diminishing vibrations, more and more Grows to a dulcet murmur as it fades. Who may e'er hearken to an infant's lisp, And in its dimple-cradled smile survey. The big bass voice of censure and command. The dark frown pregnant with what fury dire. Whereto, as time shall ripen, they may grow ? So, with this new-born year, who dare predict Its destiny, what seer prognosticate, Ere yet but few blank moons shall wax and wane. The source of good or evil it may prove. With what of joy or sorrow to the world, Hush'd in whose lap it now soft slumbering lies ? — — O rest thee, rest thee, melancholy wind ! What strange sad voices in the darkness breathe. That silent are by day ! and who may know But each and every sound some meaning hath To the quick ear of apprehensive night. Though senseless to our own ? The lambent log Builds up a florid temple of all hues. Roseate and amber and bright emerald. Golden and purple, in the midst whereof, Lo, the fair face of Florence in the tale I read an hour ago and laid aside, In sadden'd fear and trembling ere the close — I/O A New Year Vigil. Unless, forsooth, unconsciously I slept, All in the middle of Boccaccio, And dreamed what now it thinketh me I read. And where the reading ceased, meseems, awoke. Tale, dream, or vision, all is one to me. Who, come what, henceforth shall remember how Fond Basil, his young heartstrings all attuned To wild vibrations of a bliss to be. Caught up the gentle whisper, blown abroad With springlike odours, of her soft sweet name. As it had been the echo of his thought. His heart's own incantation, — heard of all • Her girlish beauty and meek maiden mirth. And loved ere he beheld her. But, eftsoons. In the first flush of his new joy, they met — He, no way startled, but as both had been Playmates in childhood, when they oft would grow Of play aweary, and, nestling each to each. Among the new-mown swath, or, in the woods, Mesh'd in fleck'd sunshine at some mossy root. Amuse themselves as only childhood may. While he, full proud, and calling her pet names, And crowning her Queen Flora of the flowers, Deck'd her with daisy-braid and coronel. What time the roses breathe of love they met. And gazed upon each other ; and at once All his fond soul yearn'd wholly unto her, A New Year Vigil. 171 As, erewhile, it had dwelt in Paradise And mingled with her own, rejoicing now In rapturous recognition, — who may know ? Days came and went — as only made, indeed, To minister unto his happiness Supernal — and he loved her more and more, If more on most may follow, — with a love Beyond the love of ordinary men. With all of poet-passion, temper'd still Of that so tender diffidence, the growth Of solitary natures, that is never. Save of the gentle grace of kindred souls. Understood wholly. She, scarce more than child. As yet but rosebud-promise of the rose. Full of upfolded sweets, first said she loved. Then that she loved him not, or save with love As only of a sister ; so there rose. Big-looming in his firmament of bliss, A dread despair, as mounts the arch'd black cloud With practised eye the mariner surveys Up-crawling from the horizon, and therein Beholds a hundred shatter'd masts and spars ! Oh ! these old stories ! one could make them up, Hap-hazard, by the score, and each and all Of many a mortal destiny should be True to the life ! So Florence went her forth, To unknown regions from her village home. 172 A New Year Vigil.. Kindred and playmates and companions all, And piteous Basil, on the shore who stood, Watching the fell great bark which bore her thence Grow, for a little, more portentous still. Then shrink and die into another world — As love-lorn Hindu maid, by Ganges' stream, Might watch, beneath the stars, her floral lamp Dwindle and fade away, with dwindling hope. Into the darkness ; — left her happy nest Among the vineyard valleys, and the haunts To her the rounded earth from childhood up, And went forth simple maiden in her pride. And passed within the shadows of beyond. Nor other tidings ever came of her, Save that she dwelt in fairyland, and bask'd In smiles of fairy princes — beams all too bright, Too sudden fierce, for flower thus forced to show Too soon its loveliness, and earnest faint Breathe of its sweetness to the amorous air. Then there went forth a murmur ; and again The places her young feet had once for all Made hallow'd ground among her native vales Glowed with her coming beauty ; and she returned, Wax'd fair of wisdom, who had found the world, Its wonders and delights, not all that she, But simple country girl, and used to breathe The air as pure from happy hills it blows, A New Year Vigil. 173 Perfumed of odours gather'd on the way, Had imaged in her dreams. Again they met, And gazed upon each other ; and he read In her sweet eyes — soft lid-leaved violet eyes, Which stirr'd within him as it were the thrills Of a returning spring, stifling the while. Or flattering, his inner consciousness That rather they were tokens of a spring Never to come back more ! — read secrecies. That once had made him happy as a god, Now of men miserable most forlorn ! For, half in anger, and mad wholly, he, Left to his loneliness, and day by day The gulf between them widening more and more. As never never to close up again. Himself had yoked — fate's baleful utmost, that 1 — • In helpless thrall for ever, and did strive The woe within his breast to keep conceal'd By turning a bland visage to the world. As flowers that bloom in chinks of crumbling walls Make fair the ruin whereupon they grow ; But to himself in sadness he would say. The past was past, and he had lived his life. Its story, that once promised something fair, Had come abruptly to a mournful end. And what remained was only epilogue. 174 A New Year Vigil. Days, weeks and months moved on, and pass'd him by, Plodding, heart-sore, along life's dreary road. Then tidings came that Florence, too, was wed ! News harder still to realise, that he — Though, with a daring hope that fear defied. And held predestined what should never be, He once had looked to call the prize his own — Had yet scarce dared, at bottom of his heart, Dream of her love and loveliness divine As glorious portion of a mortal man ! Once more they met ; and straight she told him all, With here and there dread breathless interval. Portentous as the pauses in a gale : How she was wed to one she could not love, A frigid faithless churl of meanest mind. An eye for ever on his paltry pelf, Like to the knave of diamonds in the pack ; And that already her life-rivulet. Which from the very mountain-top of hope Did glide with joy and laughter, now, alas ! Through dreary waste was drawling on forlorn Towards the great dread ocean, — and they wept. And there the story ended, or there it was. Sleeping, perchance, I ceased to dream ; or else The vision fades, unfinish'd, in the fire ; — The fire, down-sunken, weary of our watch, A New Year Vigil. 175 Waiting the advent of this young year old, That still lies slumbering in the arms of night. . Ah ! to what future born of fair or foul, I wonder ? But little time for play, methinks ; A world of doing to its hand is ripe, Destined, even from its cradle, to go forth, And face the brunt of whirlwind, pest, and storm, Far off as ever from that golden reign Men picture in their dreams, when brother-hands, From all four corners of the world held out. Shall in one grasp of peace and love unite ! Even now of random circumstance is wrought Precarious murmur, Is it peace or war ? Yet who shall say that war not less than peace Oft works a kingdom's weal ? that, for some ills. Bred and developed by excess of good, It is not potent more than aught beside, Yea, is the one all needful antidote. Sharp purge and counter-irritant severe ? Blood-letting for plethora, surgeons say ; For grave diseases desperate remedies. Nations, like mortals, oftentimes do wax Too fat and feeble for their health and ease ; Contract sore maladies, the natural growth Of surfeit and inordinate delights, Whereof, to remedies not yielding, they Perish, the prey of folly or of sin. 176 A New Year Vigil. And tenfold better for this England now, Better, far better, for its health and strength, A seven years' war, with all its grim results. Than broadening the road to Hurlingham ! The pest of pelf prevails o'er all the land. And greed, that odious Circe of the age ! Is turning mortals into swine ; no thrift. No laudable ambition, no meek faith, No true nobility — the one sole cry, ' Let'? eat and drink, to-morrow we shall die. And so an end.' .... But ah 1 what vision, strange and dread, is this. That, past all wonder, doth appal my sight ? What fell enchantment overpowers me quite. And whirls my spirit into upper air, More plainly to behold it from afar ? Lo, from yon mighty mountain, thrice three leagues Shot upward through the dark, a fiery shaft. Which, striking at the zenith, spreads and rolls, In ruddy fumes o'er half the quivering vault ; While other mountains, visible remote. Take up the signal, and shoot forth on high Pillars of flame, that spreading, palm-like, meet And mingle, till the whole, from verge to verge, Is one vast incandescent canopy. Whence, upon all below, o'er man and beast. Kingdoms and continents, and ships at sea. A New Year Vigil. 177 Pours down a red rain that in fiery floods Deluges plains and hills ; — earthquakes and blast — Over and under mighty thunders roll ; Yawn chasms, hell-like, and close up again, Whole realms within their maw ! and boiling springs Spout Babel columns in the air, which burst. And fall in founts of flaring quenchless oils Upon the waters, kindling them to flame ; Till all four corners of the earth, red hot, Break sudden into blaze and shrivel up, Lost in great billows of tempestuous fire ! Now to the din of deafening sounds succeeds Silence more dreadful, of dead thunder made ; The lurid vault glows ever more intense, And here and there a star gleams crimson through ; — Space trembles to the centre, as the trees Quake at the coming of a ruthless wind. For, through infinity, reverberates A voice of woe and wonder, and behold, God shakes the rounded universe, and worlds Fall, like to ripened fruit, and are no more ! — While I, I only, here am left — alone. Musing, this cock-crow hour, with eyes intent Upon the pallid embers in the grate ; The log, slow dying, all but dead, makes moan. Sinks, and expires amid an upshot shower 12 178 A New Year Vigil. Of ruddy sparks, that in an instant more Go out, and all its obsequies are o'er ! But, sure, the herald of this royal year, Hastening its reign to publish, must be near, Or tarries by the way ; not yet doth gleam Shimmer of plume or banner's golden stream Along the orient, — for first inkling, late. Here, at the casement, I will stand and wait. 179 MY TREE. STOOD once more beneath the tree. Old beech-tree broad and high. Where oft I came at evening hour, In days long, long gone by, There at its mossy foot full fain To lay me down and weave Fond fancies into poesie, And fancies fond conceive. Fair oasis 'mid wilds of life, Calm refuge from the whirl And worry of the haunts of men, Where song of thrush or merle Soon charmed away all thoughts of them From willing mind of me, And made the distant city's hum A murmur of the sea. Ah, dear old beech-tree! just the same. Though ruthless years had wrought Sad change in me since last we met, Of hopes and aims and thought ; 12 — 2 i8o My Tree. Since to thy shelter I returned With each declining day, And in sweet dreams of joy to come, Dreamed all the past away. There, on the old familiar scenCj I stood and gazed once more, As 'twere but only yesterday I thus had gazed before ; The shadowy glade, the colonnade, With glinting gleams between, The still sheep near, the distant mere, Were as life had not been. The same sly nooks in bank and brake, Arbours of tangled bines, Dark vistas, with an eye of light. And there the stately pines, Amid whose sable tops the sun Burned down upon his pyre. Till they themselves were all aflame With unconsuming fire., Upgazing through thy flickering leaves, A sunny shade that shed. Waving, as for remembrance sake. Fond welcome o'er my head. My Tree. i8i Again was I half lost in dreams Of thine own pristine day, When, haply, lovers sought-thine aid. Long ages passed away ! Musing, I wondered o'er anew Thy lengthened secret span. Since thou a slender sapling grew. Ere that sweet time began ; Came something of the sweetness, too, Of my own youthful morn, Soft as a fleeting springlike breeze Of autumn stillness born. Then as I, sad, in pensive mood. Surveyed the .changeless scene, While yet the truth, how vain were wish To be as I had been. From half-unconscious consciousness Did waken gentle moan, Methought the tree, too, breathed a sigh, Responsive to my own. I hearkened, more in doubt than fear. Yet how distrust, or why ? Again, soft echoing back my thought. It answered sigh for sigh, 1 82 My Tree. As full well feeling, sure as I, Yea, to its inmost core. Those tranquil hours of days gone by For us would be no more. Once more my footsteps sought the spot, And straight, unguided, found ; The grand old beech-tree, reft in twain, Lay prostrate on the ground, All its brave branches, erst that waved So fondly o'er my head, And laughed and sung when I was young, Shattered and rent and shed ? What blight or blast, since we met last, What ruthless vengeance fell. What fiendish might, for sport or spite, Had done its work so well ? Ah, dear old friend, though all must end. Ne'er dreamed I it could be The spot thy boon so charmed so soon Would know nor me nor thee I SONNETS OF THE CITY. i85 SONNETS OF THE CITY. ST. PAUL'S. |R AND EUR sublime ! heaven-daring^ dreadful Dome ! Thou mighty splendour of the earth and air, Lord of thy subject Temples far and near, Which fain would hide them in the mantling gloom, As half afraid of thee, thou Vastness ! whom Not words of more than wonder may declare, So solemn brooding and o'erwhelming there, Wotless of one, thy more than peer, in Rome ! As beat the waves, back driven, yet more and more Raging, contending with tumultuous roar. Around some mid-sea tower of watch and ward. Even so doth surge the never-ending strife Of all the boisterous going on of life Round thee, thou Beacon, in their midst unawed ! 1 86 Sonnets of the City. II. THE RIVER. Oh ! light and glory of Earth's Capital ! Life-current, through its great heart coursing, yet Thrilling each utmost limb, sustaining it. Which else were powerless and nought at all, Save slow corruption. Oh ! bland interval Of sootheful shine amid the fumes and fret. And ceaseless din, as of all noises met Around thy stillness in protesting brawl ! What, what couldst thou not tell us, who didst flow For ages and for ages as to-day. Or ever London was, and watch'd it grow From nothing to the wonder of the world ; Ay, and wilt flow, when, to the four winds hurl'd, Its very ashes shall have passed away. Sonnets of the City. 187 III. THE BRIDGE. Blest mediator, as 'twixt friend and friend, Whom erst the ruthless river did divide ; Them joining hand in hand who wander'd wide, And heart to heart, that thenceforth they should blend, Twain seeming, yet one after to the end, Albeit of dower unequal — wealth and pride, And every good upon one only side, Save what doth more than all all else transcend. O me, to ponder now, from shore to shore, Along that surcharged channel, night and day, Of swoU'n humanity what streams alway, Bifluent, in opposite directions pour ! And shall time be when they will flow no more. But deathlike solitude there reign for aye ? 1 88 Sonnets of the City- IV. TEMPLE BAR. Double-faced Janus ! with like aspect grim, Turned eastward and to westward all the days And generations of life's chequered ways, Since thou wert wont to bristle at thy brim With many a reeking head and rended limb ; What desolation, in its every phase, What worlds of wealth and wit, what proud displays, Through thee, tri-archal, streamed, in years grown dim ! Still flows the ceaseless flood, and still will flow, Aye changing and alway the same to see ; Yet all in vain would any seek thee now. Vanished forever ! But though one stone be Not left upon another, long shalt thou Linger for fancy's eye upturned to thee. Sonnets of the City. 189 V. AVARICE. Insatiate greed ! Oh ! terrible abuse Of precious privilege ! what wealth and waste, And hunger, touching what it ne'er may taste ; What penury, in all its sickliest hues, With opulence commingles or pursues. Travails and groans and starves from first to last. Its fare the crust between the lengthen'd fast, Whose deathly breath to miscall life we use ! Ay, thousands upon thousands never know Sweet change of comfort upward from their birth, See sights more fair, or feel the fresh winds blow. Who, bound to poverty, and pent in woe. Do linger, dreary as the under earth, Which feels the flowers upon its surface grow. 190 Sonnets of the City. VI. ONE WAIF, ' Cigar lights, sir, a penny a box ; I've ne'er Sold one all day, not one ; my name is Ged, And I'm so cold, so cold ; — and mother said We had been better off— yes, once we were. She said so — but I mustn't speak of her ; And father died of drink. We had no bread, Mother and I — but mother, too, she's dead. Do buy a box, for oh ! I am so hungry, sir.' His plaint, who, maybe, of pure childhood's joy Once tasted, though of sign was none to see In that wee face so wan — once played with toy, And lisped ' Our Father,' at fond mother's knee, Alas, my brothers, that it thus should be, — And, ah ! what man may bred be in the boy ! Sonnets of the City. 191 VII. TO THE SUN. There, where thy beams were goodly most, to chase, Remorseless, with expulsion prompt and sure, All mischiefs from man's soul, and make it pure, As did the Christ, bright Sun of cleansing grace, Those money-changers from the sacred place ; There, 'mid the courts and alleys, which immure Thousands who bribe^ and juggle, and usure, How seldom dost thou deign to show thy face ! Or is it that men have not eyes to see. Buried too deep the while in tare and tret, With not one thought beyond their drudgery ; No leisure to enjoy thee, or regret. Aye plodding, bent and blind, as light were dead, All heedless of thy glory overhead .' 192 Sonnets of the City. VIII. THE SKYLARK. Poor minstrel of the sky, in dreary street Held captive thus ! who whilom wont to soar Up from the earth to heaven's cerulean floor ; Or midway float, in ecstasy complete, There where the shadows of both realms do meet, And, the while hearkening to some angel choir. Thyself with joy o'erflowing, down didst pour Soft echoes of the strains so heavenly sweet. Sure thou art singing with some lingering yet. In thy sad heart, of cageless memory, And, vex'd to passion by long ruthless fret. On fluttering wings, flight feigning, soar'st on high. Far, far away, and in enchanted song Dost lose thy sorrow and forget thy wrong. Sonnets of the City. 193 IX. PASSERS-BY. I, Amid the throng of motley forms that fleet Aye to and fro, one yet distinctive shows, Whose face I know by heart from all of those ; Oft hath he passed me, in the selfsame street, And whatsoe'er he be of just and meet, I'd vow him so town-bred he hardly knows Song of the throstle from the sparrows' tweet. Nor eke a garish poppy from the rose. More learned he in stocks and merchandise ; His thin lips rough-worn at their ridges grim, As with much clipping of hard words ; his hair. Black-frosted ; amber sacs beneath his eyes, Wattled and flecked ; and under his broad brim A brow up-puckered as of thought and care. 13 1 94 Sonnets of the City. X. PASSERS-BY. II. Another marked I once among the crowd, Long, long ago ! a girl, whose fair young face Had well made marble envious of its grace. It was so perfect pure, so meekly proud ! But oh ! she might have been there in her shroud, Save for those large dark eyes, those rags, too base E'en for dead pauper up-risen from his place, And that sad look, so silent, yet so loud ! Why is it thus .■' penniless, 'mid hoards untold, Starving 'mid surfeit's savours ; numbed and bare. Surrounded by all comfortable wear, By art invented or procured for gold, — Yea, done to death, and at the very door Of all that's life to all except the poor ! Sonnets of the City. 195 XI. PASSERS-BY. III. But the main stream of faces — in full force Me rushing swiftly by on either side, As I were stock or stone that did divide The chafing current in its headlong course — Vainly I wonder what the depth and source Of looks so stern, so cold 1 from far and wide Whence come they, whither, to augment or hide Their talents, haste ; what each one's bent, and cross ? One passing glance, no more ; for on they speed, Eager, whom motives manifold constrain, All ages, and of many a cast and creed ; An ever-varying throng, that moments twain Doth ne'er alike in everything remain, Throughout the generations that succeed. 13—2 196 Sonnets of the City. XII. AN APPARITION. In dim far corner of an alley blind, Still as the grave amid the seeming blare Of angry ocean, found I, in despair, The place I sought, but scarce had looked to find So utterly forlorn : the doorway signed Free entrance, yet no bode of life was there. Only grim stillness and a quaint old stair. And dust that long-gone years had left behind. I smote the lettered lintel — voice nor stir Responded ; but athrough the darkness dread. Startling as sunbeam in a sepulchre, Lo ! a sweet angel child with golden head, Slid halfway down ; and, standing there, she said. Or faltered, ' Do you want anybody, sir ?' Sonnets of the City. 197 XIII. THE POOL. Oh ! million-masted wonder, past all grand Sights else of pomp and pride ! England's renown, Proof of her empery from zone to zone, Her strength and wealth and worth ! On either hand, Leagues more than farthest vision may command. Like wintry forests when the wind hath blown Its fury out, and ceased e'en faintest moan, Lo, as there rooted, still and straight they stand Yet, presently, shall one and all of these. Bent on emprise, with eager sails unfurled. Their devious courses o'er familiar seas Pursue : and, as their wakes are round it swirled. Oh ! may they knit all nations of the world In one fair union of the bonds of peace! 198 Sonnets of the City. XIV. PATERNOSTER ROW. Who, though with soul that else were scarce divined, But feels it flutter as he lingers here, And looks around .' The very atmosphere Seems redolent and mineral of mind ; Within ten thousand thousand cells enshrined, From every flower that blows what sumptuous store, From every various vein of mental ore Riches of riches of what wealth combined ! ' Our Father,' certes, of the heaven of thought. Dispensing wide imperishable food To hungry souls; full fount that knows no drought; Illimitable power of sovereign good. Binding strange peoples in close brotherhood, With bonds ne'er yet by guilds or kinship wrought. Sonnets of the City. 199 XV. RETROSPECTIVE. Whither are fled the voices wont to fill, And filling e'en but now, these thoroughfares With hurly-burly tenfold worse than theirs Of Babel .' streets and stores all instant still. As by enchantment, and the air grown chill Of awe and wonder, which the moonlight shares ; Yea, everything an altered aspect wears, With my distracted mood conformable. , Thus lonely wending these historial ways. Full of vague dreams and fond imaginings, While each stone flag, resounding 'neath my tread, Moans of some doing of the olden days, I see but shades of faded Queens and Kings, Nor hear save echoes of the deathless dead. 200 Sonnets of the City. XVI. NIGHT. I. Ah ! wondrous transformation ! everywhere These empty streets, these leagues of once bright homes, Now dark and desolate as catacombs. Where whilom dwelt the grave, the gay, the fair, When glowing was each hearth now cold and bare ; What scenes have they not witnessed, those grim rooms, Of life and death ; even now, amid their glooms. What ghosts of other days are brooding there ! Nathless, few hours agone, hereby did course That rolling tumult which had scorn'd all force To quell its clamour or arrest its might ; Though now the watchman goes his weary round, Through darkness dread amid the hush profound, And no one calleth, 'Watchman, what of the night?' Sonnets of the City. 201 XVII. NIGHT. II. He roams the dark sepulchral void — no sound From end to end of his unending beat. Save the dull echo of his haunting feet ; No sign of any living thing around, As he alone were left above the ground, And all the world were dead ; looms here and there Some towering horror in the ghostly air — Till e'en a shriek right welcome would resound ! Yet to and fro he paces unafraid ; Haply is dreaming of green fields and hills, Where, long ago, his happy childhood play'd Among the buttercups and daffodils, His heart now heedless of all irks and ills, Or phantom shapes that round him rise and fade. 202 Sonnets of the City. XVIII. DREAMS. I. Elsewhere in slumber, 'neath the doubtful moon, That melts and welters in the watery sky, 'Mid its own effluence, still and prone men lie. Full of strange dreams, or visionless dead swoon ; Alike the petted darling of Fortune, And they whom she doth scornfully pass by, One little hour upon equality — To some, alas ! their one and only boon. This very hour, in that vague land of dreams, Where nothing is save whatso only seems, Of good or ill to body, heart and soul. May be the rich are penniless — the sane Sore rack'd with terrible disease and pain. And the all-suffering of their ills made whole. Sonnets of the City. 203 XIX. DREAMS. 11. Not all their 'isms and their 'ologies Avail the Nestors now ! some play the fool, And some are once more little boys at school, Turn'd in their task ; while thousands, whose uprise Each morn is but an opening of the eyes. Continue still, in scarce less dreamful way, Their humdrum occupations of the day — ■ All as babes helpless, and no whit more wise. The pure in heart, as in despite, conceive Things foul, do deeds too infamous to name, Which to have only dream'd will seem to leave A loathsome taint and cover them with shame Some dream of mournful yesterdays, and some Of happy morrows that will never come. 204 Sonnets of the City. XX. DREAMS. III. Almighty Midas, ' self-made/ as it goes. Feasts with his guests to-night. Gold, naught but gold. In dazzling dreadful splendour to behold, Where'er the eye may wander or repose ; The very air is heavy with the glows ; Gold vibrates in his talk, and thoughts untold, And glimmers in his yellow cheek and old — And gold it is the all of him, to those. The banquet over, and each envious guest Departed, he, the lord of million-power, Left 'mid his gorgeous halls, with visage wan, Seeks his lone chamber as one fain to rest. And there, it may be, just one little hour, Will half forget he is a beggar'd man. Sonnets of the City. 205- XXI. DAWN. Like to a sleeper mumbling out of sleep, As yet 'twixt sleeping and awake ; who lies With motionless mock effort to arise. And shake the fetters from him, ere he leap Into fresh life — but first doth only peep. Then slowly opens his reluctant eyes — Even so, with kindling gleams, and drowsy cries, The City wakens from its slumber deep. Day scans the darkness through his broken bars ; Flush'd clouds, the watchword giving to the stars. Move swiftly on, with his insignia dight, To herald forth his coming ; and, ah me ! Lo, here and there, a something weird to see. Goes trailing homeward at the skirts of night. 2o6 Sonnets of the City. XXII. SUNDAY. Sad the autumnal forest, whence have flown . All summer birds to more congenial clime, Leaving it silent — save from time to time. The while it dreams of sunny song-days gone, Of ceaseless song and suns that alway shone. And rills that to the music made a rhyme, Stirr'd in its sootheful trance by inkling dim Of dull days come, it breathes low doubtful moan. So thou, in this thy solitude forlorn. Of all deserted that few hours ago Flooded thy courts. Where now the tumult, where The life stream coursing every thoroughfare. Quick heart-blood "of the world, that yet shall flow, Full fast as ever, with to-morrow's dawn ? Sonnets of the City. 207 XXIII. AN OLD BOOKSTALL. Motley assemblage ! some but in their teens, And others centuries old ! contrasts combined — The magnum opus of a sovereign mindj Rubbing against plebeian magazines ; Pulpit and stage, too close for go-betweens ; Greek, cheek by jowl with Cockney ; every kind Of raff in company the most refined ; While Faith on Doubt and Heterodoxy leans ! Could they but speak, themselves might, haply, tell Full many a story, preach more wisdom, more Of human wont, than all the literal lore Therein compacted ; what quaint haunts have they Not known — what various friends — what change, decay — Witnessed what joy and woe ineffable! 2o8 Sonnets of the City: XXIV. ' UNDERGROUND.' O Earth ! Earth ! Earth ! and what shall be the end Of all this mighty mastery of man, Who, whatsoe'er he would do^ that he can ? Impossibilities but only tend The more to urge him ever to transcend Each triumph wrought of thee since both began : Thus to thy depths, Give place I his mandate ran, And, lo, through solid ages now we wend ! What would our fathers say, could they but rise, Beholding what with unconcern we see ? How would they marvel, with mistrustful eyes. At what is since their day ! as haply, we, Quitting our graves, whereto we went so wise. Should wonder at the wonders yet to be. Sonnets of the City. 209 XXV. CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE, Petrified past ! Concrete antiquity ! iVEarmoreal mummy, that wast far from young When Hector battled or old Homer sung ; Scorner of ages as they fleeted by, Like shadows when the clouds ride fast on high ; Would thoUj scarce greater marvel, hadst a tongue, To tell of days when, as they passed along, Moses and Aaron would oft lift the eye 1 More plainly than articulated words Thy presence brings all back : I watch thee goal'd, Raised to great Thothmes, — hark the startling chords Struck of Apollo, in grand cadence roll'd O'er slumbering Thebes, — and face to face behold Sesostris, king of kings, and lord of lords ! 14 2IO Sonnets of the City. XXVI. DOMINE DIRIGE NOS. Right goodly blazon of a full fair field ! Yet, of the busy burgesses, though nice To claim thee for a primitive device. Throngs of the 'Change and Mart, who e'er doth yield One thought to thy admonitory shield ? Nay, rather, but would scout the mere surmise That every dealing, when he sells or buys Or barters, from above is unconcealed 1 As of a voice long faded, past recall. Thou lingerest still, an echo from afar. From distant times as from an ended star, Even in this our day so sceptical. Times when men walk'd the paths that grass-grown are, Meekly, and pray'd, ' O God, direct us all ' Sonnets of the City. 2 1 1 XXVII. 'GUY'S.' So still, so solemn, for the constant roar Around thee, centred, grimly, in the heart Of strenuous life, thyself in every part Fill'd with all forms of suffering most sore ; Where sinking breath still hears, or hears no more. The vital waves surge round about thy walls, With ceaseless thunder, and in whose hushM halls Death aye keeps watch, and glides from door to door. Among the myriads ever to and fro Passing, who e'er doth lift a tender eye, Up to those piteous casements, dim'd with woe. Yea, but a moment, as he hurries by, Intent upon his losses or his gains, Who gives one thought to all that pile contains t 14—2 212 Sonnets of the City. XXVIII. A FLOWER GIRL. Did lack of choice or thy fond fancy meek Suggest, I wonder, thy sweet merchandise? Which seem'd to lend a lustre to thine eyes, A rural freshness to thy faded cheek ; Who, haply, naught has known beyond the reek And gloom and squalor of the streets and sties, Naught of the fair green fields and clear blue skies. Whereof thy posies were so fain to speak. "the busy merchant, as he hurries by. Turning a moment his worn visage wan, Bethinks him of his childhood, with a sigh, When he was wont in flowery meads to play, And, while the fond dream lingers, wends his way. Perchance a better and a happier man. Sonnets of the City. 213 XXIX. ALTER EGO. Yon bearded giant, with great horny palms Rounding the tankard's bulk, about to drink A drench-draught ere it quits his lips — to think He once was but a little child in arms. Frighted at shadows with unfeigned alarms, Scarce bigger, then, than is that lifted hand ! Whereon if now the tiny form could stand, What were his thoughts, I wonder, and his qualms ? Thus, waxen gross of worldly sins and cares, Oh ! often, yea, how often, if so bentj Might we not conjure from the misty years The spirit of our childhood innocent. And sadly ponder upon what we were. And what we might have been, and what we are ! 214 Sonnets of the City. XXX. LORD MAYOR'S DAY. Putting all travail and distemper by, For this one day, still grandest of the year, The grim old City dons its gala gear, And shows in formidable bravery — Tarnished, it may be, fray'd and faded ; ay. And scarcely with our age in character, Penurious grown, and busy, and austere ; Yet fair to see, so not too close we pry. When years have wrought their wonted way of him Till waxen old and grey, and vision-dim, And his poor heart is filled and overlain With burthens, man, too, on occasions rare. Discards his destiny for happier wear. Dreaming the while he is a boy again. Sonnets of the City. 215 XXXI. ST. MARTIN'S LE GRAND. Thoughts, fancies, feelings, of all various hue Mind can imagine and the heart may know ; What tears congealed, that at a touch will flow ; Suspended sighs, brief respite will renew ! What a whole world thereof in transitu. In heaps up-huddled, for no more that show Than bags of rags and bales of calico. Yet sway the land from end to end, they do ! In odd companionship, what loves and hates, What joys and woes, what honour and disgrace 1 How truth to falsehood, sense to folly, clings. Virtue to vice, while youth and beauty mates With age ! but, stranger than all strangest things. What wealth and beggary in fast embrace ! 2 1 6 Sonnets of the City XXXII. 'BLIND.' Living, he moves with slow unlifelike tread Among the busy crowd who pass him by. Yea, e'en do shun him, out of charity ; Who still were grateful more, more comforted, For just one moment's fellowship, instead Of alms or pity, — for mere contact, ay, But for one touch, though rude, of hands so nigh. Yet far off as the living from the dead ! Were he but owner of such envied prize. Fain would he give a gem of costliest worth But to behold the meanest thing on earth. Him counting bless'd ; — and we, too, were we wise. How should we yearn, who only think we see. For light whereto we are as blind as he ! Sonnets of the City. 217 XXXIII. NEWGATE, Thou hideous charnel-house of crimes decay'd ! Fell monument of infamy, amass'd Of deadly deeds, that, at themselves aghast, Of ages long the bloody annals made ; Black haunt of horrors' gibbering ghosts unlaid. Concrete of death ; so grim, so foul, so vast. Thy very walls seem wrought of all thy past. Each stone a murder, clinch'd of forfeit paid ! May the sweet growth of grace, all else above Of virtue and the wisdom of the wise. Speed on the time when thou shalt be no more, But in thy stead, and from thine ashes, soar A goodly temple, pointing to the skies. Symbol of peace, and best of sovereign love ! 2i8 Sonnets of the City. XXXIV. RUS IN URBE. Garden of wonder and the peaceful shade ! Here, in the heart of uproar upside down, As Flora had her Season, too, in town. And her grim haunt a very pleasaunce made ; Blest oasis, whose precincts may invade Naught of the mirk and moil, save ceaseless moan, A murmur, like to ocean's undertone. That gentle thoughts doth less disturb than aid. Thus, from life's frets and cares, may we retreat Into the garden of the soul, and there Ourselves beguile with meditation sweet, Weave- happy fancies and see visions fair, Lull'd as we list, and vaguely understand. Soft echoes vibrant of a better land. Sonnets of the City. 219 XXXV. THE TOWER. I ne'er behold thee but I'm half afear'd, Moved of strange awe, and gaze on thee aghast, Thou everlasting terror of the past, Four-face defiant to the world, — so weird, So worn, yet so immortal ! Thou appear'd E'en thus, when witness to such deeds of old As but to think on makes one's blood run cold. In this our day by Liberty endear'd. Yet is there something in thy dreadful look Of scorn and indignation and rebuke. That we are grown so tender, so to spare ; When rampant rebels, erst whose fortunes thou Hadst promptly seal'd, unlet or hinder'd now, Do shout high treason in the open air ! 2 20 Sonnets of the City. XXXVI. NAMES. Slow wandering, in mood contemplative, Through miles of shops of every craft and trade Caprice e'er prompted or man's want e'er made. Oft have I marvell'd how their inmates thrive ; And whence, too, many did their names derive : Grief, vending toys ; Merry, perchance oft sad ; Both Hill and Dale upon a level grade, — And more than this my narrow verse may hive. I wonder up in heaven if they do call The angels by sweet names, than softest lute Sweeter, far sweeter than e'er sound may fall On mortal ear — symbol of some minute Perfection, or transcendent attribute, Whereby the Lord, Good Shepherd ! knows them all .' Sonnets of the City. 221 XXXVII. A DAY IN THE COUNTRY. To the benevolent this fond Appeal : ' Only a trifle wanted, to convey A hundred children, for a holiday, Into the country !' And what hearts but feel The whole sad story those few words reveal, Of little ones in city pent alway, Who but once yearly in sweet meadows play. Nor know, save once a year, a generous meal ! Children there are, too, of a larger growth. Who with first vision of the boundless sea Breathe in their first breath of eternity ; Then, richer by a world, new-born to both. They go their way rejoicing, better made For all days after of or sun or shade. 2 22 Sonnets of the City. XXXVIII. CHRIST HOSPITAL. Strange as fair isle amid the ocean drear, That round about it rolls and roars alway, Art thou, bright court of blue boys at their play- Centred in city moil ; old hostel dear, Full of young hearts, fun-full, from year to year, Where oft the busy burgher, fain to stay. Lingers awhile, and through thy portals grey. Watches their gambols, and their glee doth cheer. But by-and-by, and they themselves, too, grown Familiar with the world, and all the ill As little dream'd of now as then well known, Haply shall pause, and, peering through the grille Play o'er their boyish romps again, and thrill With happy laughter as it were their own Sonnets of the City. 223 XXXIX. 'BIG BEN.' Less of each ended hour art thou the knell Of solemn warning unto souls that, dense, Do let them perish with indifference ; Less of aught past or present dost thou tell, Than, with dread voice, to ears less audible Than hearts, that hearken to the ages hence, Proclaim even now are casting the events. Of England's future of or fair or fell !* Roll'd all in coils of awe, thy thunder-boom Yet hangs, lugubrious, in the midnight air, As great with doubt, and wonder, and despair, In fear and trembling for the Empire's doom. As yet unseal'd, and what shall sure be done Before the rising of the morning sun ! * The passing of the Franchise Bill (1885). 2 24 Sonnets of the City. XL. ' FIRE !' Splendour of awe of Hades' sun now set, Or setting, 'mid the grim thick tops of yon Black forest by the marge of Acheron, Beneath whose snaky coils of eddying fret, Its depths infernal, as in glistening jet, Mirror the ghostly shades who haunt its lone Weird bank, aye moving to and fro thereon, — Thus phantasy might feign, and fear forget ! No dream ! but ruddy ruin, and the scare Of hapless mortals out of midnight sleep Into white arms of flame — wild shouts, the glare. The roar, and stifling reek, — and good men brave, Each one as six^ their own lives holding cheap, From the fierce fire-fiends but a child to save ! Sonnets of the City. 225 XLI. A SPARROW. Little cock puff Pepys-sparrow, free-born cit, Amid the dear old haunts and customed ways Content to pass the measure of thy days ; Full happy on the gutter rim to sit, Preening thy dusky plumes, or frequent flit, To take the meal, and chirrup give for praise, All times and seasons, be it month of May's, Or Lent, and just the leanest part of it ! The wide, wide world before thee, free to fly Forth to the woods or groves, and breathe the air Of heaven untainted, feast on daintier fare, And scenes more beautiful behold, than now, Yet is thy choosing here to live and die ; — Of men what myriads no more wise than thou ! IS 2 26 Sonnets of the City. XLII. LOST. Lost ! the last can-be of things possible ! Lost — ^just one blue-eyed little maiden, mind, And millions, too, of people her to find ! Each with a tongue, yet dumb as death to tell Where now, forlorn, she wanders, or doth dwell ; Where those sweet eyes so blue, or if now blind With tears, for thoughts of home and fates unkind. Or what fear shudders but to think of fell ! Needs must fair flower so frail soon droop, 'mid all The poisonous reek and deadly atmosphere, And soil most rank ; soon wither, and let fall Its petals in the spring-time of the year, Ere yet displayed — die, and none know died so One loveliest blossom that on earth doth blow ! Sonnets of the City, 227 XLIII. THE MINT. God of the world, its worship, wonder, boast, Up-huddled in a hole ! As yet thou still Innocent worker of all deadliest ill ; Moloch new-made, for whom what holocaust Of souls shall frequent to the flames be toss'd ! Thou promise fair and earnest of goodwill. For some, perchance, rescue from bales that kill, And might-be saviour of what myriads lost ! Would thou wert even as the mint of mind. Whence, through the land, to its four corners all, Such wealth now flows that e'en to every hind At least some tittle of its boon doth fall, Somewhat of that inestimable store Whereof free use but makes yet more and more ! IS- 228 Sonnets, of the City. XLIV. FINIS. Ah ! the sad story one day to be told, Lay of the crumbling of an ended time ; When ruin, unremember'd save in rhyme. No longer shall be awful to behold. Clad in thick-clustering parasites, that fold It round about, and o'er it fondly climb. Till desolation wear an air sublime. And beauty beams from out the dusty mould. Then shall the river, nametess, wend its way Peaceful, through banks with blossomy gems im- pearl'd ; And thither drifting, with tired wings up-furl'd. The vulture pause, then elsewhere seek for prey ; And the lone pilgrim, gazing, pensive, say, ' Here stood the mightiest city of the world !' Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London. BY THE SAME A U THOU. EVENSONGS. (Prict sj.) ' Mr. Steggall is a genuine singer, fully in harmony with the spirit and thought of his age.' — Standard. 'There is not a poem in the collection that has not a soothing, purifying influence.' — Literary World. JEANNE D'ARC, AND OTHER POEMS. (Price S^.) ' Mr. Steggall has much descriptive power, and he knows exactly the sort of language to employ to set off^hls facts.' — Public Opinion. ' This, beyond all doubt, is a work of extreme power and beauty, on a subject imperatively demanding both for its just treatment.' — Durham County Advertiser, .^"