/^, 17^516 c^//// (^^Y Cornell University Library PR4174.B931896 Poems, 3 1924 013 441 534 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/cu31924013441534 POEMS POEMS J. R SELKIRK t-^""- ^tjj AUTHOR OF * ETHICS A'ND v^STHETICS OF MOllfcRN POETRY 'bible TRUTHS WITH SHAKESPERIAN PARALLELS' ETC. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS BOINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCXCVI All Rights reserved hA^x\S\^ CONTENTS. Songs of ganofa anto tj&e JSorticr. A SONG OF YARROW . A reiver's ride THE VALE OF ETTRICK PAST AND DEATH IN YARROW . GATHERING THE FRAGMENTS THE HOMEWARD MAIL THE LAST EPISTLE TO TAMMUS LOVE IN YARROW LOOKING BACK IN YARROW A BORDER RAID AN APPEAL FROM YARROW . AUTUMN LEAVES SELKIRK AFTER FLODDEN . RETREAT IN YARROW PAGE 3 6 10 II 14 IS 24 33 4' 48 50 S3 57 62 VI Contents. PARTED IN YARROW SAINT MARY'S LAKE (YARROW) A BORDER MAN CONVALESCENT IN LONDON 64 66 68 iLoiie Poems. HER BEAUTY 73 LOVE'S EXPOSITORS .... 74 A SUMMER SONG .... • 76 ENDYMION ..... 77 THY RADIANT FACE . 80 REFLECTION ..... 81 A RELIC ..... 82 "TILL DEATH DO US PART" 84 WHEN LOVE AND I WERE YOUNG . . 85 love's flame .... 88 PRITHEE, MADAM .... 90 love's EXCHANGES .... 91 PROMISES ..... 93 TIME .... 100 LOVE IS ENOUGH .... 102 I SAT WITH HER HAND IN MINE . 104 ELECTIVE AFFINITY .... . IDS CAROLINE ..... . 107 A FAREWELL PROPOSAL 112 AFTER THE HOLIDAY • 113 Contents. Vll DEBT OF HONOUR • "5 lOD-BYB 119 1 NEjERA . 120 FAREWELL 122 VB QUESTIONINGS 123 VE'S FETTERS . 124 ive's rejoinder . • I2S lAUTY THOU HAST . 128 aEN I AM DEAD . . 129 iKtacellanetrita Poems. OTTOS CAMPANILE AND BELLS OF FLORENCE 133 [E flower's MESSAGE 136 .IN . • 137 [E DAUGHTER .... 143 lEDE ..... I4S RING ..... ■ 147 I EXILE IN SIBERIA 148 ESY ..... • ISO lRLY SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN • 152 MODERN MISERERE . 158 R THE DEFENCE .... . 162 [E MODERN SPHINX 169 [E SINGER TO THE CRITIC . 172 viii Contents. ON A PAINTING OF "A SPRING DAY," IN THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY ....•• '74 THE END OF THE ARGUMENT . . . -175 A NOTE OF CONDOLENCE . . . -178 THE BISHOP BXHORTETH THE SICK IN HOSPITAL . 182 SOUL SUSTENANCE .... . 187 TWO SERMONS — NO. I. . . . . 188 NO. II. . • 190 LONDON . . .192 HONOURS . . . 196 CREEDS ... -197 "CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN" . . 2O4 WORK — I. .... . . 205 WORK — II. ... . 206 TIME AND ETERNITY . . . 207 A POPULAR CHARACTER . ... 208 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW . . 210 REST ..... 2l8 GIFTS ..... . 219 money's WORTH .... 221 THE MAN WITHOUT AN ENEMY . . . 222 A SONG OF THE SEA . . 224 PROVE ALL THINGS . . 227 SNOWDROPS IN A STORM ..... 228 Contents. IX IN MEMORIAM ..... 229 A LITTLE GIRL IN A GARDEN 231 VITA UMBRATILIS ..... 233 EUPHROSYNB . ... 234 COMPENSATION . ... 236 THE GLOWWORM . . . . 237 WHERE TWEED FLOWS DOWN 238 CARLYLE ...... 239 AT Darwin's grave .... 240 TO ANDREW LANG ..... 241 BROKEN CISTERNS ... 242 TO THE REV. ROBERT BORLAND 243 RIGHTEOUSNESS ..... . 24s PARTING WORDS . . . . 246 MARAH SECOND-SIGHT FORSAKEN BROKEN STRINGS "NOTHING IS HERE FOR TEARS" THE REST THAT REMAINETH THE DEATH OK SUMMER AUTUMN SONG PLAITED THORNS 249 250 252 254 2SS 257 258 261 262 Contents. THE DOUBTING HEART FOOTSORE THE soul's ATLANTIS LAY NOT THY TREASURE THE BLACKBIRD MATER DOLOROSA HEIMWEH .... "SHOW MB THY WAY" A LEAVE-TAKING "he SHALL BE FOR A SANCTUARY" WHEN APRIL COMES. A MESSAGE .... OUT OF THE DARKNESS THE TWO SEAS 265 266 268 275 277 278 280 282 283 284 285 286 291 Songg of Parroto antr tfft Mox^tv " There is the famous stream twinkling in the sun. What stream and valley was ever so be-sung! You wonder at first why this has been, but the longer you look the less you wonder."—' Horse Subsecivse,' Dr JOHN BROWN. A SONG OF YARROW. September, and the sun was low, The tender greens were flecked with yellow, And autumn's ardent after-glow Made Yarrow's uplands rich and mellow. Between me and the sunken sun, Where gloaming gathered in the meadows. Contented cattle, red and dun, Were slowly browsing in the shadows. And out beyond them Newark reared Its quiet tower against the sky, As if its walls had never heard Of wassail-rout or battle-cry. O'er moss-grown roofs that once had rung To reiver's riot. Border brawl. The slumberous shadows mutely hung. And silence deepened over all. Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Above the high horizon bar A cloud of golden mist was lying, And over it a single star Soared heavenward as the day was dying. No sound, no word, from field or ford. Nor breath of wind to float a feather. While Yarrow's murmuring waters poured A lonely music through the heather. In silent fascination bound, As if some mighty spell obeying. The hills stood listening to the sound, And wondering what the stream was saying. What secret to the inner ear, What happier message, was it bringing. With more of hope, and less of fear, Than men dare mix with earthly singing ? Earth's song it was, yet heavenly growth — It was not joy, it was not sorrow — A strange heart-fulness of them both The wandering singer seemed to borrow. A Song of Yarrow. Like one that sings and does not know, But in a dream hears voices calling, Of those that died long years ago, And sings although the tears be falling. Oh Yarrow ! garlanded with rhyme That clothes thee in a mournful glory, Though sunsets of an elder time Had never crowned thee with a story, — Still would I wander by thy stream. Still listen to the lonely singing. That gives me back the golden dream Through which old echoes yet are ringing. Love's sunshine ! sorrows bitter blast ! Dear Yarrow, we have seen together ; For years have come, and years have past. Since first we met among the heather. Ah ! those, indeed, were happy hours When first I knew thee, gentle river ; But now thy bonny birken bowers To me, alas, are changed for ever ! Songs of Yarrow and the Border, The best, the dearest, all have gone, Gone like the bloom upon the heather, And left us singing here alone. Beside life's cold and winter weather. I, too, pass on, but when I'm dead Thou still shalt sing by night and morrow. And help the aching heart and head 'To bear the burden of its sorrow. And summer's flowers shall linger yet Where all thy mossy margins guide thee ; And minstrels, met as we have met, Shall sit and sing their songs beside thee. BOWHILL. A REIVER'S RIDE. Oh day of days, when we were young ! With hearts that laughed at wind and weather That day, the gathered guests among, When you and I, while songs were sung. Each to a ready saddle sprung, And rode into the rain together. A Reiver's Ride. An endless, fruitless feud, I wot. With vengeance vowed in every weather, Between the Cessfords and the Scott, A foolish quarrel, long begot, Had barred our love ; we argued not. But rode into the rain together. What though the skies were frowning black. And dark and sunless was the weather. And heaven was filled with driving rack, We thought not once of turning back. That day we left the beaten track, And rode into the rain together. Loud clanged the windy gates above. And yet through all the howling weather. Soft as the murmur of a dove, We only heard low words of love, As foot to foot and glove to glove We rode into the rain together. Our way was long, and bleak, and bare — A trackless road in wintry weather ; We swam the Tweed beyond Traquair, And follow will, who follow dare ; One tried it and we left him there, And rode away in rain together. Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Though tempests blew and waters beat, We heeded neither wind nor weather, But held our way through driving sleet. O'er rocky stream and sinking peat. For love was strong and life was sweet. That day we rode in rain together. Right onward in a wild delight, For few could follow in such weather, We never slacked our steady flight. Till down from Minchmuir's misty height Fair Ettrick Forest lay in sight. As we rode in the rain together. Where Yarrow's reddening waters roared — A rugged ride in stormy weather — Where late our gallant king restored The outlawed lands of Newark's lord. By Hangingshaw we crossed the ford, Still riding in the rain together. Till on by Ettrick's deeper flood, While fierce and fiercer raged the weather, We reached the Chapel in the Wood,^ And there beneath the holy rood Our sacred promises made good. That night we rode in rain together. ^ Seleschirke. A Reiver's Ride. Once more to saddle, for our ride Was eastward yet through darkening weather, Till home beyond sweet Teviot's tide We rode in moonlight side by side, And happier bridegroom, happier bride. There never rode in rain together. But days have come and days have gone. With summer suns and winter weather ; When now I ride, I ride alone — The grass upon your grave has grown. And many a weary year has flown, Since we two rode in rain together. Young Norman has the eyes and brow — His mother's Son in any weather ; And Lilian has your lips, I trow ; And oh, how oft their faces now Bring back the day we made our vow. And rode into the rain together. lO THE VALE OF ETTRICK PAST AND PRESENT. Four hundred years ago, this lovely morn, Fair Ettrick Forest, in her sylvan prime. Lay basking in the sunny summer clime. Here where I stand, among the ripened corn, One might have heard the royal bugle horn. Or some bluff hunter-poet of the time Chanting aloud his latest ballad rhyme Of hero done to death, or maid forlorn. The Forest's gone ! the world's improved since then 1 A forest now of chimneys. Babel-high, Belch out their blackened breath against the sky. Take off your hats to Progress, gentlemen ! So runs the world ; but as for me, heigh-ho ! I should have lived four hundred years ago. II DEATH IN YARROW. It's no' the sax month gane, Sin' a' our cares began — Sin' she left us here alane, Her callant and gudeman. It was in the spring she dee'd, And noo we're in the fa' ; And sair we've struggled wi't, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. An awfu' blow was that — The deed that nane can dree ; And lang and sair we grat For her we couldna see. I've aye been strong and fell, And can stand a gey bit thraw ; But the laddie's no' hissel' Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 12 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. III. In a' the water-gate Ye couldna find his marrow — There wasna ane his mate In Ettrick Shaws or Yarrow. But he hasna noo the look He used to hae ava ; He's grown sae Httle buik Sin' his mother gaed awa'. I tak' him on my back In ilka blink o' sun, Rin roun' about the stack, And mak'-beheve it's fun. But weel he kens, I warrant. There's something wrang for a'. He's turned sae auld-farrant Sin' his mother gaed awa'. V. For when he's played his fill, I canna help but see How he draws the creepie-stool Aye the closer to my knee ; Death in Yarrow. 13 And he turns his muckle een To the picter on the wa', Wi' a face grown thin and keen, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. VI. I mak' his pickle meat — And I think I mak' it weel ; And I warm his Httle feet, When I hap him i' the creel ; And he kisses me fu' couthie. For he downa sleep at a' Till he hauds up his bit mouthie, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. VII. And then I dander oot. When I can do nae mair, And walk the hills aboot, I dinna aye ken where ; For my hairt's wi' ane abune. And the ane is growin' twa. He's dwined sae sair, sae sune, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 14 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. VIII. And noo the lang day's dune, And the nicht's begun to fa', And a bonnie harvest mune Rises up on Bourhope Law. It's a bonnie warlt this, But it's no' for me at a', For a' thing's gane amiss Sin' his mother gaed awa'. GATHERING THE FRAGMENTS. A LITTLE faded photograph, And a curl of golden hair. With half a dozen broken toys Beside an empty chair. — O God ! is this the whole that's left Out of a life so fair ? IS THE HOMEWARD MAIL. (a letter from a SCOTTISH EMIGRANT TO HIS FRIEND IN ETTRICK.) Dear Tarn, yestreen I got yer letter, And thank the Lord it fand us better ; For tho' to you I mak' a rhyme o't, Gude kens we've had an unca time o't. If after a' that we've come thro' I were at hame in Ettrick noo, The final vote for emigration Wad stand some reconsideration. And yet we're maybe nane the waur o't ; Things on the whole are haudin' forrit. Oor land allotment's noo fenced roun', And bit by bit we're settlin' doun ; We've broken grund, we've in oor seed, We've got a hoose abune oor head. 1 6 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Sin' last I wrote. My faix, we're busy ; There's wark oot here for man and hizzie ; Ane hardly kens what first to rin to, For a' thing here's just to begin to. Ye mind yon little speakin' body That got sae fu' on Fauldshope's toddy, The emigration folk sent roun'. That gaed about frae toun to toun, Enlairgin' on that land o' Goshen Awaitin' us ayont the ocean. Eh, Tam ! sic lees that crater tell'd (Paid for't, nae doot) when he upheld That everybody comin' here Had naething i' the warlt to fear — That ilka family wad be guidit. An' a' their needfu' wants providit. Oor wants, indeed ! when first we landit We might amaist as weel been strandit On some wild coast, where nae ane kenn'd us, Wi' naether bite nor bield to fend us ; Oor every bite, the sma'est portion, Was made a han'le for extortion ; And as for aught like bield or bed. The women were aloo'd a shed. The Homeward Mail. 17 Thank God that's past ; but even yet We're no' inclined just to forget The words on emigration's meerits O'er honest Simson's halesome speerits ; The promises the agent made us, And a' that wad be dune to aid us, — " We'd want for naething, gude nor gear ; " The ill deil claut him for a leear ! If ye should come across the body, Ye'd better warn him weel that should he Wi' ony o' oor lads fa' in, I winna answer for his skin. Justice at hame he may hae jookit ; Had he been here his neck wad yeukit. Tam, ye're an elder ; tell me how Ye let that crater wag his pow I' the parish kirk ? Ay, i' the poopit Ye let him scrauch till he was roopit ! Whatever tempted ye'r kirk-session To put God's hoose in the possession O' sic a crater ? Was't the yammer, The cant o' pheelanthropic glamour, The sleek, glib-gabbet gospel smirk Prevailed on ye to gie 'm the kirk ? B 1 8 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. A bonnie place to air his lees in ! If yon black hole that leears bleeze in Should in the lang-run no' trepan him, The deevil hasna got what's awn him ! Eneuch ! — nae mair o' him henceforth ; He's taen mair paper than he's worth. And now that we've got by the worst, I'll answer a' your queries. First, The question o' oor daily breed, " Is't a' we like ? Is't a' we need ? " Second, " How decent folk can thole Without proveesion for the soul ? " " God-fearin' folk without a kirk ; We're surely sittin' i' the mirk." Thirdly, the subject o' the land — Is't light or heavy ? till or sand ? Wi' endless questions round aboot it. And last, can we mak' siller oot o't ? Weel, to begin wi' what's maist needfu'. Our meat at first was something dreedfu'. To get your constitution shaken, Just try twal weeks on tea and bacon. If that should fail to pu' ye doon. My word for't, ye're a sturdy loon ; The Homeward Mail. 19 Wi' naething else for weeks thegether, Ye'd need an inside made o' leather. Ye mind yon muckle toosy yokel, WuU Tamson's callant frae the Brockhill ? At first young Wullie, thinkin't fine To breakfast every day and dine On rowth o' bacon ham, and tea, Devoored it wi' avidity ; And ilka day, or it cam' nicht, Had putten punds o't oot o' sicht. Weel, when he'd played his knife and fork Six weeks on naething else than pork, Wull fell into a kind o' dwam ; When, strange ! the very name o' ham Was puzzen till him. Day by day And hour by hour he pined away, Till white's a sheet, and lean's a hadda', He crined into a perfect shadda'. But now, though no' just yet the same, Oor meals are growin' liker hame. Of course there's things awantin' here To Scots folk bred will aye be dear ; A haggis, Tam, wad just be manna, And mony ane wad sing hosanna O'er barley broth and gude pease-banna. 20 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. However, after what we've seen We've little reason to compleen. We've grand wheat bread, the very wale ; But eh, man, Tarn, it's wersh to kail ! Last month we got our first aitmeal, And aye sin' syne we're doin' weel ; E'en Wullie's dwam's a'maist forgot, — His cure lay i' the parritch pot ; Sae wi' an aith he's undertaken Never again to fash wi' bacon, And half in anger, half in shame (For, 'deed, he had hissel' to blame), WuU swears he'll never hae the grace To look another soo i' the face. Oor aliment at length dismiss't. The Kirk comes next upon the Ust ; And no' without a thought ye reckoned When ye assigned its place the second. No' that we gie the speerit's need A lower rank than daily breed, Or that we've ever aince forgot The God abune us ; but oor lot At first was wi' sic needy craters, A common thing wi' emigraters. The Homeward Mail. 2 1 The bulk o' them as I can vooch Without a ha'penny in their pooch ; An' some, to aggravate their waes, Were no' just o'er weel afif for claes. Ay, tell't in Ettrick, Tarn, my man. And tell't wi' a' the force ye can ; Send word to every shiel an' shaw Frae Cossarshill to Carterhaugh, That emigration, here or there, It's hard on them that come oot bare. To tell the truth, in mony an instance It's just a scram'le for existence. Noo Tam, in sic a state o' things, Amang " the airrows and the slings," As Wullie Shakespeare wud hae said it — When penniless privation's made it A' but impossible to think On higher things than meat and drink, — When destitution's hungry plug Has cloggit up the speerit's lug, Afore ye ask the sowl to fecht Ye first maun put the body richt. And sae we thought it Httle guile To let the Kirk stand by a while. 22 Songs of Yarrow ana the Border. But stop, I've maybe run my heid Against the cleric's caulder creed, That seeks the immortal pairt to cherish, Although the body pine and perish ! Like mony a creed, it's fu' o' grace Till ance it's seen starvation's face, When Providence ordeens the wrestle 'Tween yerthen creed and yerthen vessel ! Ay, Tam ! had ye been here to see'd Wi' me, I think ye wad agreed Ye canna graft the higher thocht, Wi' every limb and nerve o'erwrocht. On him that wars a deadly strife Wi' the necessities o' life. It's no' religion, Tam, it's cant. To preach to gapin' rags and want ; A man wi' naething in his wame, If sowl he has, it's no' at hame. It stands to reason, common-sense, And poverty's experience, Afore ye ply him wi' the Carritch Ye'd better start him wi' his parritch. If we've dune wrang, I'm wae to grieve ye, Sae noo I'll hasten to relieve ye. We've just secured accommodation The Homeward Mail. 23 To baud a gey bit congregation. The otber nigbt we bald a meetin' To gie tbe ha' it's first hoose-heatin'. Eh, man ! it was a happy nicbt ; I never saw a finer sicht When man and maid stood up to sing That grand " Auld Hunder " ! Tam, by jing, Ye never made the rafters ring In Ettrick Kirk wi' sic a birl ; 'Twad dune ye gude to heard tbe skirl, — The Uke o't's no' been kenn'd for praise In Ettrick-head sin' Boston's^ days. What maybe help'd to blaw the flame, Tbe auld tune bad the sough o' hame. How is't, Tam, when I write to you My news is never halflins through, Till a' at ance the paper's dune ; And though the muse be in sic tune That I could sit and rhyme a mune, I e'en maun stop and fauld my letter, And for the rest remain your debtor. Aboot the Kirk I've lots to say That maun be said some other day ; •^ Boston, the minister of Ettrick, and author of ' The Fourfold State,' used on occasion to conduct the psalmody himself. 24 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. If what's been said on't seems uncertain, What yet's to come may prove divertin'. We send ye a' oor kind regairds ; May a' the luck that's on the cairds Attend your Hfe and life's concerns ; Oor love to Jenny and the bairns. The Lord maintain your cruse and creel, And, for the present, fare ye weel. THE LAST EPISTLE TO TAMMUS. (five years after.) Dear Tam, last mail the wife wad tell That I had had a gey bit spell O' wakish health. It's no' like me. That a' my life hae aye been free Frae troubles, and was never kent To hae a serious complent. I never tuke to bed but wance, And that was but an orra chance. The last Epistle to Taminus. 25 Ye mind o' fishin', you and me — We had been catchin' twae or three — Among the rocks ahint Brigend, When, castin' oot, wi' extra bend I shppit off a muckle stane, And brak', ye mind, my collar-bane. I've never been laid up sin' syne. Nor yet afor'd, that I can min'. But this is waur ; I'm off the streicht, Week after week I'm losin' weicht, Until at last, it stands to raison, I'm just a thing for hingin' claes on. We've had a doctor, clever man. And he's dune a' that doctor can, — A man respeckit near and fer ; His grannie was a Sprouston Ker. Ye see I'll no' forsake my order ; Till daith, I'll aye uphaud the Border. We've some grand specimens oot here. For still they come, frae year to year. Ane disna need to hear them talk, Ye ken them by their very walk. There's Gibbie Elliot, Kinmont Rob, Aye rouch and raucle for a job ; 26 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. They'll sleep as sound ahint a dyke As row'd in blankets on a tyke. There's Telfer, Douglas, Learmont, Scott, And thaim that joined the Ancrum lot. Wi' siccan names there's little fear That Border bluid will fail oot here. The Border ? Hoots ! I'm off the Stot. Where was I ? for I've clean forgot. I have ye, — I was skin and bone, It was the doctor we were on. Weel, every time he cam' alang He couldna find oot what was wrang, And yet when he took stock o' me He didna like the look o' me. Although nae doot I had a teasick, It's no', said he, a case for pheesick ; So there the doctor's treatment ends, But guess ye what he recommends ? "What say ye to a voyage hame ? " Oh, Tam, it set my heart aflame ; And as for answer, I was dumb, — The word was there, it wadna come. I fand my senses turnin' dizzy; I glower'd at him, and then at Lizzie. The last Epistle to Tammus. 27 Out spak' the doctor, fair and square, " Gudeman, I can do naething mair. It's after carefu' keen reveesion I've come at length to this decision. I've had some cases like your ain Where a' my treatment's been in vain. Wi' lads and lassies naething's wan tin', But auld folk dinna stand transplantin'. I'll bate a shilling, when ye're there, Ye'll rally in your native air.'' A week's gane by ; the maitter's settled, I'm comin' hame : I'm better fettled. Fresher lookin', no sae yallow, — That doctor chield's a clever fallow. However, Tam, 'tween me and you. To shame the deil and say what's true. My trouble's been — the greater pairt — A rush o' Ettrick at the hairt. Ye think I shouldna fashed mysel' Wi' thoughts o' hame, but nane can tell What little things may yet torment ye Till ance ye've left them a' ahint ye. My hairt, though ye may ca' me fule. It's a' in Ettrick but the hule. 28 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. The country here's a perfit staw, It's no' the least like oors ava ; A level plain without a bend on't, Wi' nae beginnin' and nae end on't ; As fer's the eye can look upon, The land's as flat's a barley-scone. It's no' like oors, wi' heichs and howes, Wi' shelter'd neuks and grassy knowes. The water tae, sae douf and dule. No' here a stream and there a pule ; Until ye test it wi' a straw, Ye hardly ken it moves ava. Ah, Tam ! gie me a Border burn That canna rin without a turn. And wi' its bonnie babble fills The glens amang oor native hills. How men that ance have ken'd aboot it Can leeve their after lives without it, I canna tell, for day and nicht It comes unca'd for to my sicht. I see't this moment, plain as day. As it comes bickerin' o'er the brae, Atween the clumps o' purple heather, Glistenin' in the summer weather, The last Epistle to Tammus. 29 Syne divin' in below the grun', Where, hidden frae the sicht and sun, It gibbers hke a deed man's ghost That clamours for the licht it's lost. Till oot again the loupin' limmer Comes dancin' doon through shine and shimmer At headlang pace, till wi' a jaw It jumps the rocky waterfa', And cuts sic cantrips in the air. The picture-pentin' man's despair ; A rountree bus' oot o'er the tap o't, A glassy pule to kep the lap o't, While on the brink the blue harebell Keeks o'er to see its bonnie sel'. And sittin' chirpin' a' its lane A water-waggy on a stane. Ay, penter lad, thraw to the wund Your canvas, this is holy grund : Wi' a' its highest airt acheevin'. The picter's deed, and this is leevin'. When at my warst, my sairest plichts Took aye the form o' sleepless nichts. Then what mair nat'ral than look back, And wander o'er the beaten track ? 30 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Sae in my mind, when a' was mirk, I just begude wi' Ettrick Kirk. Eh man ! I like yon bonnie corner — For buildiness it's maist byor'ner. If back again to Ettrick spared, Beheve me, Tarn, in yon kirkyaird I'd rather lie within the year Than be Methuselah oot here. It's weel, when through this vale o' tears, To think we'll lie wi' oor forebears ; To have oor ain folk side by side Mak's daith itsel' less ill to bide ; And could we rest wi' hairts mair leal Than Jamie Hogg and Tibbie Shiel, And mony mair we baith could name. As dear, though little ken'd to fame ? Then in my mind I tak' a turn Frae Thirlestane House to Rankleburn. On tufty Tushielaw's hillside The thick-ribbed ruins still abide Where Adam Scott, that menseless thief- Scourge o' the Border — cam' to grief. But I must up and off again. By Crosslee, Newburgh, Deloraine, The last Epistle to Tammiis. 3 1 And doon through Hyndhope and the Shaws, Past bonnie hazel banks and haws, To Singhe burn ; the spot near by Where Jamie Telfer lost his kye, Till wi' the help o' bold Buccleuch And Wat o' Harden's retinue They soucht a prey wi' muckle speed, Twice coontit, back to fair Dodhead, And show'd Bewcastle's bold bravado The metal Ettrick men were made o'. And then, is there a bonnier bit On ony water, head to fit. Where, tumblin' doon the rugged streams. The lashin' water froths and creams, Till o'er the saumon-loup it spins 'Tween green Helmburn and Kirkhope linns, Where Ettrick rins ? Then past Brigend And fair Howford it tak's a bend, And wanders through wi' gentler turn The quiet haughs o' Hutlerburn ; Then on its way it gi'es a ca' At Fauldshope, Aikwood, Carterha', Where fairy-fettered young Tamlane Through Love's great pow'r was freed again. 32 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. And noo we've broucht oor wanderin' feet To where the Forest waters meet, Where Yarrow's sorrow-laden sang, That 'mong her hills has linger't lang, At length yields up her soul — at rest, A maiden on her lover's breast. That meeting-pule to me was dear, I mind its waters deep and clear ; I've fish't it often as a callant, Wi' muckle zeal and little talent. The native floo'rs, the auld-worlt stories, The lyric love, the Border forays, Its whisperin' eddies, ins and oots, Spak' ever mair to me than troots. Fair Water ! fairer though it be Clad in its daithless minstrelsy. Yet though its sang shall never wane, It has a beauty o' its ain : I see its banks, I hear its voices, As wanderin' onward it rejoices, And though its music's far frae me. And though I ken it canna be, The tear my een a moment blin's, I hear the linties in the whins Where Ettrick rins. Love in Yarrow. 33 But there, I'm dune. D. V. I'll hae a crack wi' sune. The wife sends love to you and yours. I'm glad to say we're leavin' oors Contentit, doin' weel, and happy. There's plenty room here ; naething scrappy. If man's chief end be gatherin' gear, There's nae doubt ye can mak' it here. But post-time's up, sae I'm awa. Fareweel, and joy be wi' a'. LOVE IN YARROW. You tell me I am losing time, I'm taking life too lightly. My lamp let flicker into rhyme Which should be burning brightly ; That I have left Ufe's serious call For something more alluring, Mistaking the ephemeral For that which is enduring, c 34 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. This change, my friend, that you have seen. May seem to you mysterious ; With me, however, it has been Well thought upon and serious. I too have burned the midnight oil, In painful soul-debating ; I too have turned the stubborn soil You now are cultivating. I gave it up because I found 'Twas mostly self-delusion, — Word-spinning in an endless round, That yielded no conclusion. I'm sick of philosophic search Into the roots of being. The strain to see from earthly perch What lies beyond earth's seeing. I've dropped life's riddles, every one, That wind and warp the soul of lis ; The children, dancing in the sun. Are wiser than the whole of us. Love in Yarrow. 35 You tell me, too, that thought is thin That knows alone life's gladness ; " Eyes cannot rightly see within Till sanctified by sadness." There's less of wisdom, friend, than sound. In the pedantic folly That deems those views of life profound Because they're melancholy. Whence is the source of all our life, Whence has been, shall be ever ? The sweetener of our mortal strife, The Godhead's living river ? The eternal waters from above No taints of sadness borrow ; The perfect wisdom, perfect love, It never knew a sorrow. God's gladness is but light afar. That streams the wide world over ; It washes now the farthest star. And gilds this field of clover. 36 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. What man, depicting heaven's abode, Would give it sorrow's features ? On earth, too, they are hkest God, The happiest of His creatures. In this our morbid, meddling age Of peevish introspection, We feed too much upon the page That nourishes dejection. You're gaining something from your books. No doubt ; but in addition. You're losing, too, your old good looks And happy disposition. Where, think you, will this brooding end ? Already you look phthisical ; You're paying with your health, my friend, For studies metaphysical. Then take an older man's advice Come out into the garden, Leave morbid self-analysis And psychologic burden. Love in Yarrow. 37 For who would burrow like a mole, And seek the dark in day-time, Or rest content with winter's dole When he could laugh in May-time ? Come out and rest your wearied eyes, — Trust me you'll never rue it ; Read nature's book in field and skies. As happier creatures do it. Throw up, my friend, your fallacy That gladness must be shallow ; Come, close your books for once with me. And let your mind lie fallow. There's Galawater, Yarrow's vale. Or Ettrick near beside us ; We're but an hour from Teviotdale, Tweed's pleasant stream to guide us. Come, one or other let us choose, — Sound health demands these pauses ; And possibly your gloomy views Have but material causes. 38 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. 'Twixt want of health and doleful thought There's often correlation ; Solemnity sometimes is nought But sluggish circulation. Life's highest glimpses still are caught Where blood is warm and wealthy ; Unhealth begets unhealthy thought — The thoughts of health are healthy. A truce to preaching. Let us go, We'U talk no more of sorrow ; We'll get the horses out, and know Once more the braes of Yarrow. He met his fate on Yarrow braes. Small blame to me or credit ; I could not move him from his ways,- An unseen trifle did it. Love's eyes with dewy light suffused. Dealt out from silken lashes, The fire that always has reduced Philosophy to ashes ! Love in Yarrow. 39 Philosophy, said I ? Alas ! The girl but gave a toss of her Delightful head ; then presto, pass ! And where was our philosopher ? No knight that ever lived in song, Or groaned beneath love's arrow. More keenly felt the fatal prong In ballad-haunted Yarrow. By sweet St Mary's slopes of green The god waylaid and tricked him. And on my word I've seldom seen A more ridiculous victim. Philosophers are easily crazed ; At first he did not show it. But wandered for a week half-dazed. And then he turned poet. Such poems too, for workmanship — Much worse than ever I did — Two rondeaus on her upper lip, And one upon her eyelid. 40 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. He tried again his studious joys When comfortably married, But when his pretty wife brought boys, Philosophy miscarried. 'Twas that which dealt the final blow, And fairly closed the portals On his philosophy ; and now He's much like other mortals. For out of books, from which before He built his melancholy. His boys build castles on the floor, And play at roUy-poly. Oh, great are the Philosophies ! But deep are Nature's Forces ! — To-day I saw him on his knees, They said the game " was horses." 41 LOOKING BACK IN YARROW. A GOLDEN WEDDING. GuDEWiFE, we're gettin' auld ; It's fifty years and mair Sin' I was young and yald, And you, Jean, young and fair. We started for the manse. The road lay through the heather That day we took oor chance As man and wife thegither. Ye mind the dance at e'en, We muster'd thirty-seeven ; I sometimes wonder, Jean, Hoo mony o' them's leevin' ; The dancers and the singers. The whole o' them that's spared Ye can coont them on your fingers — The rest's in the kirkyaird. 42 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. A fifty years' recruit Leaves married couples few ; Death rings the auld anes oot, And Time rings in the new. Auld freends asunder drift, Like leaves in autumn swirl'd, Until to them that's left It's like another world. Years bring new names, new blude. To fill the empty places, And wash oot like a flude The auld fameeliar faces. New houses, tae, hae sprung Around us, cauld and peekit Wi' slates. When we were young The feck o' them were theekit. In sawin', sheerin', kirnin'. Machines noo bear the gree, — But what's the use o' girnin' ? They'll no fash you and me. Yet gude auld ways and true It's sad to see negleckit. When what's ta'en up for new Sae muckle o't's affeckit. Looking back in Yarrow. 43 Just look at oor new schulin' — I carena hoc it's honour't ; A hantle o't's just fulin', And knocks the bairn donnart. I'll grant ye ane in ten The system forces forrit : It suits the few, but then The bulk o' them's the waur o't. No' every change we make Can aye be for the better ; In some we but forsake The speerit for the letter. The mind may cram and feed On endless information — Unless some sense gang wi'd It's no richt eddication ! We buird schules round us set, Where ilka little bantam Maun gape his gab and get The regulation quantum. Wi' their diploma'd lair, Inspector for adviser. They'll maybe stap in mair. But deil a ane's the wiser. 44 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Sic trash oor young folk read ! Wae's me ! the worlt maun alter Sair for the waur indeed That disna ken Sir Walter. There's Thacker'y at his best, We'll no deny he's thorough, But after him the rest Are puir beside the Shirra. But, Jean, are they the gainers Wi' a' their booin', keekin'. Their Anglicees'd fine mainners. And clippit ways o' speakin' ? LoVd ! hoo can auld folk bend To their new-fangl't bustle ? The very tunes oo' kenned Are no' the tunes they whustle ! And oh ! the siller wared On Sunday claes, bates a' ; Jock dresses like the laird, And Kirstie just as braw. If she but wadna roose That tongue o' hers sae ready, Naebody wad jalouse She wasna born a leddy. Looking back m Yarrow. 45 Warst change o' a' that's made ! Yarrow's sequester'd byeway, Oor ain romantic glade, Turn'd to a common highway. The noisy vulgar thrang, They've gliff'd awa' the fairies, Sin' a' the worlt maun gang And picnic at St Mary's. The laverock i' the lift, That tuned " the Shepherd's " lay, Noo stints his gudely gift, Or talc's it far away, — Leavin' his lowly berth, Till, by their clamour driven. The song once heard on earth Is only heard in heaven. Langsyne, aboon the brig, Nae wheel but on a barrow, And Dr Russell's gig, Was ever seen in Yarrow. Noo coaches, cadgers' cairts. And carriages galore, Hailin' frae a' the airts, Gang rumlin' by the door. 46 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. An endless noisy roon' The lee-lang simmer day ; Ane's glad when nicht comes doon, And sends them a' away. But some o' them, puir things, Are shilpet-like and spare, — It's that, nae doubt, that brings Them here for caller air. Nor can we baulk their cause. Or blame them a' thegither ; For Where's the wund that blaws Like what comes o'er the heather ? Sae, Jean, we'll haud content. For changes aye maun be ; There's maybe mair gude in't Than auld folk weel can see. And whether richt or wrang. To flyte on them, or fleer, It's hardly worth a sang For a' the time we're here. Argy-bargy to the last, Ye'U find there's aye twa ways in't ; The young lauch at the past, The auld anes at the present. Looking back in Yarrow. 47 But pittin' what we've seen Wi' what we see thegither, Is't no' a mercy, Jean, We're spared to ane anither ? When auld, and laid aside, The changes that attack us Are no' sae ill to bide When we've a friend to back us. And then, when comes the change That comes to a' the same, — For, far as we may range, "The gloamifi brings us hame," — There's aye this blessin' in't For auld folk, Jeanie, woman — The ane that's left ahint Canna be lang o' comin'. Sae we'll just dander doon : The first that gets the ca' We'll leave to Him aboon, Wha kens what's best for a'. 48 A BORDER RAID. (under queen victoria.) A DARK-EYED daughter of the South Across our northern border came, With quiet brow, and most sweet mouth. And eyes that held a tender flame. The Saxon stopt his merry troll To look at her — ay, lack-a-day ! He looked at her, and for his soul He could not turn his eyes away. That speechless parley, years ago. Between the black eyes and the blue. But why repeat what all men know ? — The old, old story, ever new. And so they lived, and loved, and died. And passed away into the night ; Like names upon the sand, the tide Came up and washed them out of sight. A Border Raid. 49 Their girls are women ; stalwart sons Are seeking each his own career ; And so the restless world runs From day to day, from year to year. Lord, what a speck of time is life ! 'Tis but a children's holiday ; We play at houses, man and wife, Till, one by one, we're called away. It is not long for any ; some Have hardly tried an earthly flight Before their little faces come To kiss us for the long "good night." There must be life beyond earth's bound, — Its very briefness here compels Our faith to seek a surer ground : Life would not have a meaning else. Oh break for me, thou second birth ! The bar that keeps us from our dead ; For I am weary of the earth, And fain would have the riddle read. so AN APPEAL FROM YARROW.^ And is it true ? And will they come With pick and spade and barrow, To dig a grave beneath the hills For thy dear waters, Yarrow ? Where Scott and Wordsworth sang the songs Whose echoes still are ringing ; The valley where " the Shepherd " heard His deathless " skylark " singing, — Oh, touch it not ; it fills the heart With memories that harrow, To think that we shall hear no more Thy babbling music. Yarrow. Where every step is holy ground. Enshrined in Border story ; Here, sacred to a lover's vows. And there, to battle gory. 1 Written whilst a Bill to supply Edinburgh and district with water taken from Yarrow was before Parliament. An Appeal from Yarrow. 51 Where, down by Deuchar's dowie houms, The bravest knight in Yarrow Fell, fighting on the bloody sward, All for his " winsome marrow." Where Cockburn's widow sat beside Her murdered hero weeping, " The moul' upon his yellow hair " Her woman's fingers heaping. Where Margaret and her lover fled — Black Douglas and the seven On ringing hoofs behind them roared Their mad appeals to heaven. Where not a stream that glides between Gray rocks with mosses hoary, But seems to babble to the air The burden of its story. The Lake ! oh let not that be made A thing of pipes and sluices ; Let something live for beauty's sake, Unmixed with baser uses. S 2 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Still let it live in fancy's heart, A haunt for happy fairies, And make no wretched reservoir Of lovely lone St Mary's. Disturb not thou its silent deeps. Nor yet its gleaming shallows. The heavenly rest upon its breast. The memories it hallows. The place is more to us than you, Who have been goers, comers ; For we have lived our lives in it — Its winters and its summers. We knew it all when we were young. And that sets memory sighing, For now, with bairns about our knees. The valley where we're dying. Oh, touch it not ! but let it be As nature has arrayed it ; As softening time has sanctified, And poet's fancy made it. Autumn Leaves. 53 A vale where world-worn weary feet May come to rest or roam in ; Where pilgrim love has found so much, And we have found a home in. AUTUMN LEAVES. What sadness clothes the falling year When skies are red and woods are sere, And joys are fled that late were here. And only mournful winds are caUing. When sorrow's song is heard for mirth, — For saddest thoughts have sweetest birth When autumn leaves are falling. 'Twas down beside the Fairy Well Alone came gentle Isobel To meet her lover in the dell. When evening winds were softly calling. No other sound in earth or air Disturbed the silence everywhere, While autumn leaves were falling. 54 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. And where she came the golden sheen Of arrowy sunset struck between Thick autumn branches red and green, While through them all the winds were calling ; And all around her and above — Dead symbols of a summer's love — The autumn leaves were falling. Whatever way she chose to take, The woodland for her beauty's sake Showed lovelier, and strove to make (While gentle winds were softly calling) A picture that might well beseem The vision of some Danae dream, The gold about her falling. At length, beside the Well she came, And there with trembling heart aflame, 'Twixt maiden love and maiden shame (The whispering winds around her calling) She listen'd, till through lips apart She heard the beating of her heart, MHiile autumn leaves were falling. And waiting in that lonely place, A trouble falls upon her face. For evening shadows grow apace. Autumn Leaves. 55 And murmuring winds are round her calling. The hour is past ! why comes he not ? Can love like summer be forgot When autumn leaves are falling ? Ah never ! never ! love abides Through life and death, though all besides Should perish in earth's shifting tides, And restless winds for ever calling. Love bears a life from May to May Beyond the reach of earth's decay, Though autumn leaves be falling. " The way is long that he must ride, The Tweed is running deep and wide Where he must pass " — she will not chide Though darkling winds are round her calling. " Has he not waited many a night For her, and watched the waning light While autumn leaves were falling ? " Thus as she pleaded, through the wood A horse sprang riderless, and stood Splashed to the girths in foam and blood. The shuddering winds about it calling : With quivering flanks and face of pain It shook a broken bridle rein Where autumn leaves were falling. 56 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. She gazed until there seemed to rise A blinding mist before her eyes, While overhead, far up the skies, She heard the winds of heaven calling, Till sound and sight and all did seem To mix and melt into a dream Where autumn leaves were falling. Where restless waters whirl and rave In foam around the Druid's Cave, They found him by the lonely wave, The moaning winds about him calling, — And her through morning light they trace To where upon her upturned face The autumn leaves are falling. Beneath the quiet churchyard sod. Where shadowy beeches wave and nod To winds that are the breath of God, Through Life and Death for ever calling. Where all our loves and sorrows run. Their graves are lying in the sun. And autumn leaves are falling. 57 SELKIRK AFTER FLODDEN. (a widow's dirge, OCTOBER 1513.) It's but a month the morn Sin' a' was peace and plenty ; Oor hairst was halflins shorn, Eident men, and lasses denty. But noo it's a' distress — •Never mair a merry meetin' ; For half the bairns are faitherless, And a' the women greetin'. O Flodden Field ! Miles and miles round Selkirk toun, Where forest flow'rs are fairest. Ilka lassie's stricken doun, Wi' the fate that fa's the sairest. A' the lads they used to meet By Ettrick braes or Yarrow Lyin' thrammelt head and feet In Brankstone's deadly barrow ! O Flodden Field ! S8 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Frae every cleuch and clan The best o' the braid Border Rose Uke a single man To meet the royal order. Oor Burgh toun itsel' Sent its seventy doun the glen ; Ask Fletcher^ how they fell, Bravely fechting, ane jto ten ! O Flodden Field ! Round about their gallant king, For countrie and for croon, Stude the dauntless Border ring. Till the last was hackit doun. I blame na what has been — They maun fa' that canna flee — But oh, to see what I hae seen, To see what now I see ! O Flodden Field ! The souters a' fu' croose, O'er their leather and their lingle, Wi' their shoon in ilka hoose, Sat contentit round the ingle. ^ The name of the man who brought an English flag back to Selkirk from Flodden. Four brothers of that name are said to have perished in the battle. Selkirk after Flodden. 59 Noo there's naething left but dool, — Never mair their wark will cheer them ; In Flodden's bluidy pool They'll naether wait nor wear them ! O Flodden Field ! Whar the weavers used to meet, In ilka bieldy corner, Noo there's nane in a' the street. Savin' here and there a mourner, Walkin' lanely as a wraith. Or if she meet anither, Just a word below their braith O' some slauchtered son or brither ! O Flodden Field ! There stands the gudeman's loom That used tae gang sae cheerie, Untentit noo, and toom, Makin' a' the hoose sae eerie. Till the sicht I canna dree ; For the shuttles lyin' dumb Speak the loudlier to me O' him that wunna come. O Flodden Field ! 6o Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Sae at nicht I cover't o'er, Just to baud it frae my e'en, But I haena yet the pow'r To forget what it has been ; And I listen through the boose For the chappin' o' the lay. Till the scrapin' o' a moose Taks my very braith away. O Flodden Field ! Then I turn to sister Jean, And my airms aboot her twine, And I kiss her sleepless e'en, For her heart's as sair as mine, — A heart ance fu' o' fun. And hands that ne'er were idle, Wi' a' her cleedin' spun Against her Jamie's bridal. O Flodden Field ! Noo we've naether hands nor hairt— In oor grief the wark's forgotten, Tho' it's wantit every airt. And the craps are lyin' rotten. Selkirk after Flodden. 6i War's awesome blast's gane by, And left a land forlorn ; In daith's dool hairst they lie, The shearers an' the shorn. O Flodden Field ! Wi' winter creepin' near us, When the nichts are drear an' lang, Nane to help us, nana to hear us. On the weary gate we gang ! Lord o' the quick an' deed. Sin' oor ain we canna see, In mercy mak gude speed. And bring us whar they be. Far, far frae Flodden Field ! 62 RETREAT IN YARROW. dobb's linn. In the green bosom of the sunny hills, Far from the weary sound of human ills, Where silence sleepeth, Where nothing breaks the still and charmed hours, Save whispering mountain stream that 'neath the flowers For ever creepeth. In the green bosom of the sunny hills, There let me live : where dewy freshness fills The stainless sky, — Where, out of very love, the mighty breeze That wildly wanders over heaving seas Lies down to die. There let me live, there let me watch on high Wild winter send adown the stormy sky His howling crew. Or when from heaven in the perfect time Great summer sheddeth in her rosy prime Joy-tears of dew. Retreat in Yarrow. 63 My teachers are the hills ; no truth that feigns A subtle wisdom drawn from weary brjiins With laboured care, But nature's teaching, that from daisied sod To lark-sung heights can find the love of God Plain written everywhere. My God is in the hills ; and men have left Earth's temples, when of house and home bereft In truth's despair. To seek among the hills, in hunted bands, God's higher temple never built with hands, And found it there. Oh silent Hills ! oh everlasting Hills ! Whether the summer clothes or winter chills Thy holy brow ! Worshipping God for ever, while the breath Of man dies out on meat that perisheth. How beautiful art thou ! The restless fevered wave of human life Is echoing down the ages, but the strife Disturbs not thee. Oh mountain ! sending up thy ceaseless prayer. Fervently silent, through the charmed air Of heaven's blue sea. 64 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. The birth, the glory, or the fall of nations Is naught to thee ! delirious generations Ceasing never ! Rave onward, and thou heedest not the chase, But lookest up serenely in the face Of God for ever ! BiRKHILL. PARTED IN YARROW. Poor Peggie sits beside the fire. Black sorrow at her bosom knocking, Till, fighting with her heart's desire, Above her busy knitting-wire The tear-drop falls upon her stocking. " Oh ! when will he come back to me ? " She sighs aloud, all hope forsaking ; Then, taking heart, she cries, " But he. My own true love, where'er he be. He was not born for promise-breaking." Parted in Yarrow. 65 Then back beside her work again, She sings some old-world song to cheer her : Some ballad, bitter-sweet with pain. Of banished lover, fond and fain, — Oh would, my heart, that I could hear her ! Fierce drifts the snow down Deuchar brae. The winter wind behind it snarling. O'er hill and valley, night and day : It tells me of the weary way That lies between me and my darling. But plighted hearts are hard to break, Though for a time they may be parted : Though friends may fail and fortune shake. We'll cling the closer for love's sake ; So, Peggie, never be down-hearted ! Sing on, sweetheart ! Misfortune's blast Will sometimes make the prospect dreary ; But fiercest storm is soonest past, — The day's at hand when firm and fast I'll clasp thee to my bosom, dearie ! 66 SAINT MARY'S LAKE (YARROW). Peace on the Lake, and peace within my heart : Each time I see thee gives a firmer hold To that sweet influence that made thee part Of my young life ; for now, when I am old, The impress deepens with the gathering years. Like some rich song, once heard, the soul for ever hears. Did ever Love's eternal pathos fill With fiercer fervour legends like to thine ? And now, what silence reigns ! — on every hill No sound but bleating sheep or lowing kine ; Or haply, when the summer noons afford. The quiet air resounds with praises to the Lord.^ Music is holy — the holiest is the best ; And thou hast been to me a quiet song, A fount of melody within the breast That would not mix its sacred source with wrong. Ah, men forget the infinite debt they owe To those undying mother-lights of long ago ! ^ The open-air service (the Blanket Sermon) is still an institution in the parish of Yarrow. Saint Mary's Lake ( Yarrow). 67 The flowers beside thy banks can I forget ?• — The red-veined vetch, the tender-stemmed bluebell, The fringed bog-bean, the purple violet, The trailing stag-moss, golden asphodel ? — Those untamed races of the virgin sod. That deck, untouched of man, the garden-ground of God. Nature becomes to him who loves her well No casual visitor, he seldom sees. But life's companion, come with him to dwell. To soothe his sorrows, share his hours of ease : A jealous lover she, that holds him fast, In one life-long embrace, till life itself be past. And so with thee, St Mary's : thou hast been No passing picture but a living scroll ; — A memory of still waters, pastures green. Feeding the lamp of God within the soul, The sweet Sabbatic silence of thy hills — I see them in my sleep, I hear their murmuring rills. Through darkened days, in friendless solitude. Such memories come like the returning dove, Hope's olive-branch in life's despairing mood, The soul's undying whisper, " God is Love," Till love has conquered ; for whate'er befall. The heart must save us, else we are not saved at all. 68 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Oh could the world but hear thy tranquil teaching, And in its disputations give less heed To those vain problems far beyond its reaching, That chase the troubled soul from creed to creed. When it might better rest its weary wings Beside God's holier temple of created things ! A BORDER MAN CONVALESCENT IN LONDON. (Husband loquitur^ Give me your hand, my darUng, and be near me. So, I've been ill, and raving too, they say ; I'm better and can speak now, sit and hear me — My head was clear when I awoke to-day. How strange ! through all my fever I've been dreaming Of days when we were children, you and I, Romping in sun and wind, with faces beaming By those sea-pastures 'neath a northern sky. A Border Man Convalescent in London. 69 It seemed so true, my soul must have been there, Leaving behind this fevered frame of mine ; I felt and saw things plainly, breathed sea air, And watched the light upon the far sea-line. How they have haunted me, these dear retreats ! A thought, a flower, a sound, would set me free. Beyond the reek and roar of London streets, To those sweet sUent pastures by the sea. ( Wife loquitur}) There !' there ! you must not talk. The dear old places, So full of memories for you and me. We'll see again — the old, the kindly faces, And wander in the fields beside the sea. (Husband loquitur^ How is it, growing old, that what we've seen In earliest days should cling to memory yet. When all the interval of life between, Compared to that, seems easy to forget? How hfe in which we've fought, and fagged, and striven. Looked back upon, should be but empty noise ; While far behind it, like the hills of heaven. Stand out the days when we were girls and boys ? 70 Songs of Yarrow and the Border. Happy the life whose youth was in the sun, And kept from canker in the budding tree ; I thank my God that ours was so begun On those dear sunny fields beside the sea. Our hopes are but our memories reversed ; 'Twere heaven enough, dear heart, for you and me To live again the life we once rehearsed In those bright stainless fields beside the sea. Well ! well ! I will be quiet, — calm your fears, A sick man with his nurse must needs agree ; Good-night, my darhng, kiss me — What ? In tears ? You too have loved the fields beside the sea. Albemarle St. (LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC) "A Crowd is not Company J And Faces are but a Gallery of Pictures; And Talke but a Tinckling Cvmball, where there is no Love.^' — BACON. HER BEAUTY. Beautiful? Nay, beauty's self! What with her can I compare ? Not all the light on Hebe's cheek, Or Daphne's golden hair : Her beauty so surpasses aught That poet-lover ever thought. Eyes that open slowly wide, Largely lit with tender blue ; Careless of the world beside, Eyes that read me through — Striking deep divinest chords Of most unutterable words. Eyes that have a richer flow Of richer words than words can tell : Would that it were ever so — Words might break the spell ; Eloquence that speaketh thus Maketh speech ridiculous. 74 Love Poems. But lo ! her voice ! my heart stands still, All life's leading pulses stop That hungry love may drink his fill, And never lose a drop. Oh ! I could sit by such a door And watch the steps for evermore. Voice that haunts me like a psalm When the singers every one. Ceasing, leave the soul behind Though the song be done : A chant in some cathedral pile That wreathes about the fretted aisle. BOWHILL. LOVE'S EXPOSITORS. How is it that in all the earth. All that is beautiful in birth Or being, seems a part of her ? The waters seem to lisp her name. Winds whisper it, and all things claim To be my love's interpreter. Love's Expositors. 75 The birds all sing of it. The flowers Must know these secret thoughts of ours. The very air seems laden so With music of unburdened speech, That lies for ever out of reach, Yet follows me where'er I go. Singing, she passed me in the wood But yesterday ; unseen I stood, And all things stood to see her pass. The wild-flowers laughed beneath her tread ; I thought the very earth was glad To have her shadow on the grass. Birds followed her, and all things bent The way her blessed footsteps went, And watched her to the very last. The winds sank down and only sighed. And eager daisies, open-eyed. Stared after her until she passed. BOWHILL. 76 A SUMMER SONG. Sitting on the breezy height Of the topmost bough, Bird ! O bird ! my bonnie bird, What singest thou ? What the secret of thy heart. Tell me, bird, now? I have come thy woods among, All alone here. Just to give my heart a tongue Without stint or fear, — Come to sing my soul out. Bird, where none may hear. My song is love, is love, is love ! Bird, what is thine ? A whisper falls, O bonnie bird, Down the sweet sunshine. That softly tells me word for word Thy song is mine. Endymion. yj O bird, but love is sweet, sweet, Sweet for me and you. So sweet that I could sit and sing A song for ever new, — Could sit beside thee, bonnie bird. The whole day through. The Haining, Beech-hill Wood. ENDYMION. Last night, on Latmos as I stood alone. With eyes uplifted on the jewelled height Of holy heaven, the golden dream came on — The dream that dims the sight. But opens other eyes, past life's extreme. On regions where the soul can rise unbound To those strange heights where earth becomes a dream. And dreams are solid ground. My soul was led into a silent land Of shadowy-thoughted beauty, still and sweet — Led ever onward by an unseen hand That brought me to her feet. 78 Love Poems. I knew she stood beside me, though my eyes To earthly things were blinded everywhere ; I knew when sight came back, without surprise That I should see her there. She spoke, and ere I knew my dream had grown To gorgeous melting masses, like the clouds That veil Olympus when the day lies down In gold and purple shrouds. Through gulfs of misty music darkness fled In broken waves that tumbled into space : A moon-like dawn struck upward overhead — And we were face to face. Assuredly, unless the gods had sworn To help man's weakness, sending from above A more than mortal strength, I had not borne That rapture of her love. But suddenly my nature knew a change — A subtle change. I drank at every breath The ether of a life all new and strange Beyond the grasp of death. Endyniion. 79 Beneath her eyes asunder broke the bars, My soul was Hfted up, as from deep caves The climbing ocean clutches at the stars With hungry heaving waves. From deeper depths than earthly bliss can know, I felt my life drawn upward like a flame, When, bending over me to kiss my brow, She called me by my name. " Endymion ! I am here ! Arise ! Rejoice ! " Ah then, the outstretched heavens, and this we call The earth, to me were empty, and her voice Was ringing through them all ! Hear me, ye gods ! while yet I offer up Another prayer for that hour ; for I — Since I have tasted the immortal cup — Must drink again or die. Oh gather up thy golden reins, and lash The hours to moments through the startled sky. Great Helios ! Strike till all thy team shall flash From maddened hoof to eye — 8o Love Poems. Till falls that blessed hour of fading light What time thy chariot in the western sea Hath cooled its wheels of fire, and holy night Brings back that dream to me. THY RADIANT FACE. Thy radiant face ! When all my darkened sky Was rent and haggard with the desolate cry, The bravest human heart could never quell, What time I lay in sorrow's prison cell. Death's dusk and awful image sitting by. I strove in prayer, till prayer without reply Became a madman's hoarse and empty yell, When suddenly across death's shadow fell Thy radiant face ! When all the world had left me, thou wert nigh With eager hands to save and sanctify; Oh love, my love, when death's dark waters swell Be near me, be the last to say farewell ! That I may see once more before I die Thy radiant face ! REFLECTION. Within my lady's eyes I find the whole Of love's sweet moods reflected perfectly. The rapturous rest, the deep felicity, That silent sweet serenity of soul Love only knows when it has reached its goal, With nothing left to think of, hear, or see, That does not answer to the master-key. Nor falls within love's golden aureole. Could anything that heaven itself could give her Make those still eyes of hers more heavenly fair ? Lo ! as I look at them, like summer air That wakens into flame a sleeping river, Laughter has taken them with light so rare It would content me well to look for ever. 82 A RELIC. Only a woman's right-hand glove, Six and three-quarters, Courvoisier's make — For all common purposes useless enough. Yet dearer for her sweet sake. Dearer to me for her who filled Its empty place with a warm white hand^ The hand I have held ere her voice was stilled In the sleep of the silent land. Only a glove ! yet speaking to me Of the dear dead days now vanished and fled, And the face that I never again shall see Till the grave give back its dead. An empty glove ! yet to me how full Of the fragrance of days that come no more, Of memories that make us, and thoughts that rule Man's life in its inmost core. A Relic. 83 The tone of her voice, the pose of her head — All, all come back at the will's behest ; The music she loved, the books that she read — Nay, the colours that suited her best. And oh ! that night by the wild sea shore. With its tears, and its kisses, and vows of love. When as pledge of the parting promise we swore, Each gave a glove for a glove. You laugh ! but remember though only a glove. And to you may no deeper a meaning express. To me it is changed by the light of that love To the one sweet thing I possess ! Our souls draw their nurture from many a ground ; And faiths that are different in their roots. Where the will is right and the heart is sound. Are much the same in their fruits. Men get at the truth by different roads, And must live for the part of it each one sees ; You gather your guides out of orthodox codes, I mine out of trifles like these. 84 Love Poems. A trifle, no doubt ; but in such a case, So bathed in the light of a life gone by. It has entered the region and takes its place With the things that cannot die ! This trifle to me is of heavenly birth ; No chance, as I take it, but purposely given To help me to sit somewhat looser to earth. And closer a little to heaven. For it seems to bring me so near, — oh so near. To the face of an angel watching above — That face of all others I held so dear. With its yearning eyes of love ! "TILL DEATH DO US PART." In every Love-treaty, Death goes to the reckoning ; And now he is closing on yours and mine ; We have battled him bravely from line to line. Till at last he is with us, his lean hand beckoning. When Love and I were Young. 85 Nearer and nearer his shadow is blackening, Slowly effacing our life's design ; In every Love-treaty, Death goes to the reckoning, And now he is closing on yours and mine. O Love ! though my hand on the helm be slackening. And a heart from a heart is hard to untwine, Our dark night of sorrow brings brighter awakening ; The conqueror carries a message divine, Of a treaty where Death has no part in the reckoning, And Love evermore shall be yours and mine. WHEN LOVE AND I WERE YOUNG. " Ces beaux jours, quand j'^tais si malheureuse." Oh starry nights and golden days ! Oh wondrous land of wild amaze ! Through which life's echoes rung ; Fierce fervours filled the earth and sky, We knew not whence, we cared not why, When Love and I were young. 86 Love Poems. But this we knew, the time was blest, That sweet was waking, sweet was rest. That earth's fair blossoms flung A dreamy fragrance through the land Where we two wandered, hand in hand, When Love and I were young. And all the wondrous world was new. And faith was strong, and love was true, Unskilled in heart and tongue ; Untaught of wrong in any wise. The heart lay open in the eyes. When Love and I were young. Let caution shake her callous head When all her weary rules are read. And moral maxims rung ! The wine of life, its tears, its mirth. Were glorious vintages of earth. When Love and I were young. I counsel not to any wrong ; In every life there's joy and song, If it be rightly sung ; Beshrew the blockhead that would teach That all is wrong within the reach. When Life and Love are young. When Love and I were Young. 87 The carping world may preach and cry, I care not how they buzz and lie, The stinging and the stung ; I hold their wisdom and their ways As hollow yet as in the days When Love and I were young. Let art and commerce, church- and state. All that the world holds good and great, Have each their praises sung ; I'll swear, denounce it as you please, That life was holier than these When Love and I were young. Good-bye ! good-bye ! they fade and die ; Out of the past I hear the cry. The hearts to mine that clung ! If all anathemas were hurled, I'd take their hand against the world. If Love and I were young. 88 LOVE'S FLAME. Come, Shepherd, now my lute's in tune, What would you I should sing or play ? Some measure laden sweet as June With langorous odours ? Tell me, pray. Some air to trickle through your soul. Like dewdrops in the rose's bowl ? No ! say'st thou so ? Ah then, love's tender flame. Perhaps thou hast not known, except in name ! At gloaming by that pleasant rill Which murmurs to the murmuring shore. Hast never waited on the hill Beneath the spreading sycamore. And, listening for her coming feet. Heard through thy lips thine own heart beat ? No ! say'st thou so ? Ah then, love's quivering flame. Thou hast not known it. Shepherd, but in name ! Love's Flame. 89 Hast never met by ford or field That maiden, fresh and free from blame, Beneath whose gaze thy pulses reeled With sense of unaccustomed shame ? And when to speak you would have come. Found suddenly that you were dumb ! No ! say'st thou so ? Ah then, love's conquering flame Thou hast not known as yet, except in name ! Say, hast thou never heard a voice That seemed to you so strange and new, It made all other sounds but noise Compared to that you listened to ? As if it held in every breath The issues of your life or death ? No ! say'st thou so ? Ah then, love's piercing flame. Thou never canst have known it but in name ! Shepherd, adieu ! my song is done ! Go to thy bacon and thy beans ; Why should I sing or play to 'one Who does not know what Music means ? 90 Love Poems. 'Tis love's own language, and as yet You do not know your alphabet ; No ! Shepherd, no ! To you, love's tender flame Has never been revealed, except in name ! PRITHEE, MADAM. Prithee, madam, what are you, That you accept with scorning Love that is honourable, true. And constant, night and morning. Exacting it as beauty's due ? Beauty lures, but love must bind ; And beauty's long unkindness, Although that love were ten times blind, Cures him of his blindness — Gives him back his lucid mind. Love's Exchanges. 91 Though love, it seems, less pleases you Than admiration endless, You'll find in such a retinue Much that is cold and friendless. Flatterers many, lovers few. With these I neither sigh nor weep, I only give you warning, That for the future you must keep For some one else your scorning ; I'm sick of it. Good-morning ! LOVE'S EXCHANGES. You praise my beauty, grace, and art, Love ; but you are much to blame ; In every line you leave a smart. That makes me bow my head in shame. Whate'er the world may choose to say, 1 look not for such words from you ; I'd throw them from my heart away. If you could even prove them true. 92 Love Poems. World's praise is but a passing mood, That shifts about with the occasion ; It serves as oft for envy's food, As that of honest admiration. In your regard, I set no store On what, by way of form or feature, I hold in common, less or more. With every other human creature. If Love be blind, as it is said, What can he know of outward graces ? I care not for the love that's led A facile slave of pretty faces. I would not have my love depend On beauty, were I ten times fairer. If beauty knew no change or end, Life asks for something deeper, rarer — Something that sets the world aside. Beyond the touch of time or season. If only love for love abide, I do not want another reason. 93 PROMISES. Raeburn's Meadow, 3^? October, Monday, midnight. Clara, dear, I can think I see you sitting, half in wonder, half in fear, With this letter I am writing, in your hand. Wondering what should make me write in the middle of the night. And you guess and guess, and cannot understand. And I will leave you guessing, dearest, till you guess it out What mightily important news I have to speak about. That at this unearthly season I should write ; Why I should find no better time to write my friend a letter Than just close upon the middle of the night. 94 Love Poems. III. Ah ! before I say another word, I can feel you guess it now, I can see the sudden thought that Ufts a finger to your brow. And kindles your sweet face with quick surprise : Yes ! darling, your good guessing has just saved me from confessing ; I can see the truth just dawning in your eyes. You remember of our promise to each other, Clara mine. When we came from school together, in the spring of sixty-nine (Oh that dreary Milburn Junction, where we parted, Where the heartless shrieking train bore you off in wind and rain. And left me on the platform broken-hearted). Our written vow that should be sacred, and in sacred honour kept. That we should tell our plighted hour, should tell '■^before we slept " Promises. 95 (These the words, for I remember every line) ; And now you know the reason why I write at such a season : You kept your promise, darHng ; I keep mine. VI. His name I need not tell you — you foretold it once before, Just a year since. You remember of that walk upon the shore, When on horseback he accosted you and me. When with faultless intuition, you then whispered your suspicion. You were right, though I said nothing — it is he. It is he. (Oh, yet the thought will haunt me, even in my bliss. Had God but ruled the issue to another end than this. Had his love upon another been to fall ; Oh to whom such fate is given, thou dear God send down from heaven Thine own comfort, for His sake that loved us all.) g6 Love Poems. Well, to-day his younger brother, Alexander, came of age. So at night they held a monster gathering down at Fernytage, Where, of course, he was dispenser of the cheer, With his way so frank and hearty, life and soul of all the party. Looking handsomer than ever, Clara, dear. IX. We had been dancing full an hour, when I, to have a rest. Took advantage of the Lancers going on (which I detest). When he came and stood beside me near the door — Asked if I would dance the next in a voice that seemed perplexed. And a manner I had never seen before. Well, we hardly had begun (it was a waltz : your aunt was playing) When he asked me I I pretended not to know what he was saying. Promises. 97 For the noise just at the time was running high, And you know how aunty jingles out that glorious waltz of Gung'l's : Oh, that tune will haunt me, Clara, till I die. XI. For with slow deliberate whisper he repeated it again, Till he knew that I had heard him and escape was all in vain ; Oh, I thought that every moment I would fall ; And I felt that had I spoken but one word I should have broken Into tears, and stood confessed before them all. XII. And as we danced along I hardly knew where I was going, — I seemed to hear the music of another wcirld flowing To the feet of shadows flitting to and fro ; And, far out of earthly reaching, seemed to hear a voice beseeching. Through the echo of a name that I should know. G 98 Love Poems. XIII. Till at length, with senses reeling, past the power of thought or feeling, Hearing ever but the accents of a passionate appealing, I entreated him that he would let me go ; But with firmer voice than ever he only whispered " Never, Till you answer me that question — Yes or No ? " At that moment any other word than "Yes" I could have spoken, Though what I said I know not — something meaningless and broken ; Yet all at once he ceased to ask me more. And I heard through noise and whirUng only " Thank you, thank you, darling," When suddenly he stopped just at the door. XV. I was up-stairs in a moment, where I locked the door behind me ; Oh, relief to be alone at last, where nobody could find me, — Promises. 99 To be again secure from every eye ; I could keep my heart no more, so sat down just on the floor, And, I hardly need to tell you, had a cry. XVI. Of course I never dreamt of going down again to dance, So put on my shawl and bonnet, waiting till I had a chance Of slipping down when nobody was there, When I found, to my amazement, he was sitting in the casement. Waiting for me at the window in the stair, — XVII. Waiting for me coat-and-hatted, so I could not choose but go. And in walking home together — well — I did not answer " No " ; O Clara, dearest Clara, how I love him ! I could lie in death's embrace leaning over that dear face. And shed my very soul in tears above him. lOO TIME. I. PRESTO. When we two meet, Time flies, Hours shrink to half their size ; Fast as an eagle's flight They pass into the night. Soon lost in darkening skies. Could we but close Time's eyes, Or coax the crabbed wight To turn away his sight When we two meet ! Alas ! to all our cries He never once replies ; And yet in his despite Love can assert its might : Time's power to harm us dies When we two meet. Time. lOi II. LARGO. When you are gone, Time creeps, Until he all but sleeps. Lets drop his drowsy head Like one on poppies fed ; Yes, Time that bounds and leaps When you are here, scarce keeps His feet in motion, weeps Because his feet are lead, When you are gone. His lazy sickle sweeps Life's fragrance into heaps Of flowers whose bloom is shed. His ways are sick and dead ; I care not what he reaps When you are gone. I02 LOVE IS ENOUGH. Oh, come away from earthly noise ; What are all its shallow joys When love has lit the heart ? — the light that renders Earth's best gifts but tinsel splendours, And all her prizes but the toys Of full-grown children. Unto you and me Love, love alone is the reality — All beside but empty roar, The barren billows of a bellowing sea Breaking for ever on a heedless shore — Mere noise ; no more, no more. Then come away and let it be ; Love is enough for you and me. Yea, though the world's foundations rock And stagger to the final shock, And earth be swallowed in the sea ; Though Nature's laws should break their trust, And bring the worlds to primal dust — If only love be left — as so it must — It is enough for you and me. Love is Enough. 103 Love that lifts us, love that dowers With purer riches higher powers ! That purges vision to the starry sight Of things immortal ! love that showers Upon the poorest life a grander light Than bathes this earth of ours. Oh, to be thus for evermore ! With her head upon my breast. My little bird in her chosen nest Of circling arms, at rest, at rest ; Forgetting all we have possest. Learning alone love's lore ; To hold for ever in embrace The speechless beauty of her face ; Ever striving to divine The heavenly things her eyes are saying. Looking into mine. Those eyes of hers, that are to me My arguments for immortality ; For what but something gifted, something crowned With godlike motive and eternal years. Could fill, without a word, without a sound, To shaking fulness Love's immortal cup I04 Love Poems. With language that the spirit only hears — Bringing its speechless treasures up From those unfathomable spheres That lie far down beneath the source of tears. I SAT WITH HER HAND IN MINE. I SAT with her hand in mine, Last night when the sun went down ; Our hearts were full of love's light divine, The light of life and the crown ; My soul spoke only to hers. And the listening heavens above. While up through her eyes for ever Answered the speechless river Of her love. No word between us arose — Wherefore at all the need ? For what are words to the heart that knows It loves, and is loved indeed ? Elective Affinity. 105 But I sware in my heart for her, To the listening heavens above, While up through her eyes for ever Answered the speechless river Of her love. ELECTIVE AFFINITY. Once, only once, he bent him low, And gazfed in mine eyes — oh bliss ! To feel the fainting overflow Of my soul falling into his. Silent as falling snow. His voice most tremulously touches My very furthest verge of mind ; And in his aspect something vouches Every utterance ; for behind His eye the spirit couches. His speech like music chaineth me, His words are not as other words. Oh blissfully ! oh peacefully ! They fall into my heart like white-winged birds That light upon the sea. io6 Love Poems. And from his lips' most careless flow A breath as if from heaven doth sweep Across my soul, as from below Great gulfs of harmony molten-deep, A voice doth come and go. His thought unconsciously awaketh Strange newly-born affinities Between my thought and his, and maketh A perfect unity of bliss, Till life within me shaketh. High-reaching thoughts, a flaming scroll Of living words, that gleam and flash Far up to reason's ultimate pole, Till in my blood I hear the clash Of his imperial soul ! Once, only once, he bent him low. And gazfed in mine eyes — oh bliss ! To feel the fainting overflow Of my soul falling into his. Silent as falling snow. I07 CAROLINE. Yes, that whisper you let fall In a flash revealed it all ; But your hint I must respectfully decline — For I still accept that " No " That you gave me years ago, As a final overthrow, Caroline. II. But your secret, never fear, I shall keep it. Carry dear, If 'twere only for the sake of " Auld Langsyne " ; I could never now abuse it. Only, if I should refuse it, I'm afraid you must excuse it, Caroline. io8 Love Poems. But you're sure to find, dear Carry, Some one else that you can marry. With a temper more compatible than mine ; You're superb in that pale pearl. And you're yet a pretty girl When your hair is well in curl, Caroline. IV. With that exquisite soprano. And your touch on the piano. Not to mention other talents quite as fine, Your success should be complete ; Then those eyes, when they entreat, Might bring emp'rors to your feet, Caroline. But you must not hope to see Further worship now from me. For I cannot kneel again at the old shrine ; Though the temple, I concede. Is still very fine indeed, ■ I have somewhat changed my creed, Caroline. Caroline. 109 Things are not with you and me What they were at twenty-three ; I'm now thirty {entre nous, you're twenty-nine) ; Youth is rash, and bHnd, and bolder, And you know as hearts grow older Life is slower, blood is colder, Caroline. VII. Then, again, folk's views will alter ; Now the matrimonial halter Looks to me, if not more earthly, less divine : Things look hardly quite so rosy ; Do you know I'm dropping poesy ? And — fact is, I'm getting prosy, Caroline. VIII. You think now I'll do you credit ; Tell me, has some gossip said it ? Or has the thought in any part been thine ? I am curious to know To whose ofifices I owe The good word that's changed you so, Caroline. no Love Poems. IX. I can't think what it can be That has brought you back to me, — I should like to hear the reasons you assign ; But we need not now debate What can ne'er affect our fate, For the change comes now too late, Caroline. X. Yes, too late. Love's not a flower One can grow at any hour (At any rate it is not so with mine) ; And when, reared with careful pain. It is killed with wind and rain. It will hardly come again, Caroline. XI. Ah ! the ghostly past, you see, Raises up 'twixt you and me A vague something that mere words will not define ; I can see through closfed lids Something standing that forbids (Hearts have eyes as well as heads), Caroline. Caroline. in XII. But, away with vain regret, You, I know, will soon forget ; As for me, about past days I can't repine ; Though they touched a tender string, I was honest, and they bring Not the vestige of a sting, Caroline. But, dear Carry, have a care In your next/^A7« affaire. For this little imp of Love we call divine ; This little high and mighty Wayward whelp of Aphrodite Will sometimes turn and bite ye, Caroline. 112 A FAREWELL PROPOSAL. Farewell ? but stay ! if words say what they mean, The spirit of this word defeats the letter ; For if 'twere not to say, 'tis plainly seen There's many a heart would doubtlessly fare better. It stands confessed, recorded in love's lore. Divided love's an undivided curse ; Let sighs and tears attest the wide world o'er That hearts compelled to say farewell, fare worse. Farewell ! 'tis but a phrase of mortal birth ; Heaven could not be where such a sound was heard Tell me, dear heart, shall we bring heaven to earth, And say farewell for ever to the word ? 113 AFTER THE HOLIDAY. What shall I do for the wrong I have done her ? Why did she hide her heart so long, And never gave warning or word I had won her, Till reading together that farewell song ? Oh, would that of parting we never had spoken ; She might have forgot it, and all been well. And the passion-cloud passed overhead unbroken— But how could I hinder it ? How could I tell ? How could I know what her heart was concealing ? She laughed at love-making the whole day long ; With never a hint of more serious feeling. How could I know I was doing her wrong ? Was she cheating herself with her own delusion Right up to that moment when reading alone ? To her maidenly shame and my utter confusion. The tear-gates burst and the mask was thrown. H 114 Love Poems. Then what could I do with her head on my shoulder, Her great grey eyes looking up into mine ? Oh, what was I thinking of not to have told her ? — Yet how to have done so ? She made no sign. I thought she was jesting, as I was doing ; That our walks and our talks and our readings in rhyme. Our stately politeness, and pastoral wooing, Were only employments for holiday time. Oh, heart of a woman ! for who can sound it ? How hard but to touch it, even in play, And leave it exactly the same as you found it. Without something added or taken away. To think that an unforeseen trifle like this Should hamper a soul in a serious sense. Propounding a question for bale or for bliss, So full of a deathless consequence. Is Love only Fate with a different name ? 'Twere better to know it before we begin. Than suddenly find that the carefullest game Is out of our hands when the heart comes in. A Debt of Honour. uc The act of a moment ! a word ! a touch ! Too kindly a look in the eyes — may be Just a scruple put into the scales too much, And the balance is struck in eternity ! A DEBT OF HONOUR. Stand back ! and let me forward there ; Stand back, I say ! I cannot brook The salaried stranger's well-meant prayer. And hackneyed phrases from the book. Across the corpse of him I loved ; Stand back, and keep official grief For those who need it, or approv't ; — To me it cannot give relief. One little moment I will crave. One little moment let me speak ; I cannot stand beside his grave In silence, or my heart will break. 1 16 Love Poems. Forgive me if I seem to take Your priestly office thus away; The sole excuse that I can make — I have the larger debt to pay. He stood beside me in my need, A tested friend when friendship breaks,- The test that shakes the Christless creed, Forsaking what the world forsakes. 'Tis right that I should tell, who know What few could know or understand. How great he was when here below. Who now sits down at God's right hand. For his was not the good that turns Its grandest side to earthly eyes — Rather the steady flame that burns Within the secret sanctuaries. No, friend, you could not know him much ; You judged him right, his views were broad ; He shunned the shackles — would not touch What circumscribed the Church of God. A Debt of Honour. 117 You did not see the heart that yearned Beyond the limits of your creed, But half suspected, half discerned, The sowing of the holier seed. The fire that leaps from heart to heart In silent lightnings flashed abroad, That worketh not by clerkly art, But soweth on the winds of God. 'Tis true, you could not well be friends In higher matters, you and he ; Too blind, perhaps, to present ends. He failed to see what you could see. He valued less those kinds of truth Creed-guarded, labelled well, and priced ; Trade-marked, and paid for ; no, in sooth. He had not so conceived of Christ. But where in wretchedness it lay, Struck dumb with lips and eyes aghast, His goodness gave him right of way Where you, friend priest, have seldom passed. ii8 Love Poems. Yes, Truth has many a carpet-knight — The wordy warrior in dispute May well look here on him whose fight Was hand to hand, and foot to foot. Who stormed a citadel of lies. Who cut his way through privileged wrong With that sublime self-sacrifice Of his, as pure as it was strong. Who, ready at the highest call. Rushed madly on opposing spears. And died upon the breaking wall, The victor's triumph in his ears, — The victor's shout, the victor's frown ; And yet I know, when this man fell, Truth shuddered, and a peal ran down Of laughter terrible in hell ! Sleep on, brave heart ! Thy soul has fled Where earthly arrow may not reach : When angels come to claim the dead. They'll find thy body in the breach. 119 GOOD-BYE. We stood together while the bell was ringing, There in the busy station by the sea ; Near us, a soldier's wife in tears was clinging Close to her husband's side. No word said we But looking both away, our own eyes met : A quick confusion took me, and a blush Went up her lovely eyes and face, but yet No word was spoken, till there came a rush Of hurrying feet, and in the buzz and crush I held her hand a moment ; I forget What then was said, for speaking was cut short By first the engine's whistle, then a snort — 'Twas off! O Lord, what trifles, more or less. Can block a lifelong contract, No, or Yes ! I20 TO NE^RA. (of the nineteenth century.) Good-bye, my love that was — my love that is, If love could live on earthly food alone. When all the starry wonder that is his Is faded out and gone ; For you his robes of light are worn away, A common creature now, made of the common clay. The word, the gesture, the unconscious touch, That love with such a meaning could endow. The little kindnesses that meant so much — All, all are vanished now; The haggard present, like a mocking fiend, Points at the past, and cries, " For you the fruit is gleaned." Stand still, and let me see once more the eyes That broke upon me like the dawn of day, The glorious creature, clad in angel's guise. That stole my heart away; The face that once looked fondly into mine. And set my clinging soul ablaze with love's new wine. To Necera. 121 Oh, was I robbed alike of sense and sight, These months, when every trifle gave a theme To keep love's altar burning day and night ; Or was it all a dream ? Can that which once was true be true no more ; Or was it but truth's mask some evil demon wore ? Those summer rambles with a favourite book. The music that made love an open scroll. Those swift interpretations of a look That flashed from soul to soul ; Those rapturous encounters of the mind, When thought leaps up to thought, and leaves the word behind. But wherefore speak ? Let's break the unholy ban. Since thou hast torn away the sacred root. Which makes the difference 'twixt the heart of man And instinct of the brute : Since love's most hallowed portion may not be. Give whom you will the rest, — Good-bye, 'tis not for me. 122 A FAREWELL. Farewell ! yet not for ever ! When at last The world has worn its weary servant out, A bait no longer worth its while to cast Across the seething rout, Come back to me. Though all the world should flout, Come back ! and I will help thee with thy load. The saddening years may yield the better thought, And tears for thy first love bring back thy heart to God 123 LOVE QUESTIONINGS. A SONG.^ Ask me no more, for Love can never show A reason why her heart should come or go ; That mine doth beat for thee is all I know — Ask me no more. Ask me no more, dear heart — Love reasons none ; Nay, Reason's self, beneath Love's mightier sun, Abandons all her reasons, one by one — Ask me no more. Ask me no more ; but say, if we could know Whence all Love's secret subtle sources flow — Answer me, sweet, would Love be sweeter so ? — Ask me no more. Ask me no more ; like flowers beneath the sod That wait for summer. Love in its abode Beyond our utmost will is moved of God — Ask me no more. 1 After Thomas Carew, 1580-1639. 124 LOVE'S FETTERS. How can you go ? What once you gave to me, How can you give to others ? No, love, no ! Ask at your heart if such a thing can be — You cannot go ! Where would you go ? Is there another hand Could help you, comfort you, or soothe you so Stand by you with more faith than I can stand ? Where would you go ? Think ere you go ! Should sickness fall on thee- If, when the lamp of life is burning low. Too late, O love, your heart should call for me. Think ere you go. 'Twere wrong to go. Look at the lowered life ! Your past will haunt you, taunt you, like a foe. And fill your heart with daily fret and strife — You should not go. Love's Rejoinder. 125 Why would you go ? Remember your first vow, Close by the door there, love's first overflow ! Your head upon my shoulder, you know how. You must not go. Say, would you go ? Can you, while life endures, Forget that hour when passion-pale as snow, Through love's first tears you whispered " I am yours.'' Say, would you go ? You could not go ! Reft of the sacred store Which life and love have taken years to grow. Our world were worse than blank. No more, no more ! You shall not go ! LOVE'S REJOINDER. " There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned." Why do I love you ? Why do rivers run ? Why does the north wind rage, the south wind sigh ? Why loves the earth to bask beneath the sun ? These follow but their nature, so do I. 1 26 Love Poems. How do, the flowers love — every flower its season? Why loves the far-ofi" hill its opal mist ? The birds sing out their love, but give no reason — It is enough for these that they exist. As comes in spring the murmur of the dove, As song of lark that cleaves the summer sky, My heart so sings, so clings to thee, my love, And I can give no better reason why. It is not for your beauty, nor for pleasure. Your matchless form, nor yet your balanced mind ; For each of these is but an earthly measure For that which leaves earth's measures all behind. Love, life, and death are of the things that come Without our will, our effort, or our art ; In their unbidden presence man is dumb. For these are masters never man could thwart. What do we know of love ? — its why, or whence ? We only know it flashes from the gloom Of things outside our sanction or our sense ; And when it does we stand beside our doom. Love's Rejoinder. 127 Under the rich man's roof, or poor man's rafter, When love has entered in, for ill or well, That moment stamps itself on man's hereafter. Whatever name he gives it — heaven or hell. For though it cannot be but love's first seed Should fall on earthly soil, and earth must handsel it, Transplanted into man's immortal creed, Time may defy eternity to cancel it. And though love lies concealed in blinding light That baffles reason, mocks the poet's prayer For power to tell its infinite depth and height. Content, we still can breathe its blessed air. Let it suffice for you and me, that each Heart knows its secret, loves it not less well. Because it lies too deep, too dear for speech — It would be less than love if we could tell. 128 BEAUTY THOU HAST. Beauty thou hast, but what is that to me More than to all the world, who are awake To beauty's power, and glad for beauty's sake ? Since every creature that has sight to see Must lift enchanted eyes to such as thee. As long as light shall play and pass and break Across God-fashioned faces, yours must take The world along with it, where'er it be. Yet, when I hear them praising to the skies Your marble throat, your bronze abundant hair Your lips, your brow, the light within your eyes ! Their words pass by me like the idle air. What is the glory of the outward wall. Beside the dear kind heart behind it all ? 129 WHEN I AM DEAD. When I am dead, and all my heart's distress Lies in the sweet earth's green forgetfulness, I care not, love, if all the world go by My quiet grave without a word or sigh, If thou but think of me with gentleness. World's praise or blame is nothing, hit or miss : Love is alone the measure of our bliss, And safe within love's heart my name will lie When I am dead. To thee, my darling, all will seem amiss. Till gentle time shall help thee to dismiss Death's gloom ; for that, too, has its time to die. And sorrow's thought grows hallowed by-and-bye. Take courage, then, dear suffering heart : Read this When I am dead. iWisaUatteous J3o«m!8; GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE AND BELLS 01 FLORENCE. What magic hangs about thee, dear old tower, That when I look upon thee, face to face, Thy beauteous presence wields a mystic power That binds me to the place ? Something beyond thy sweet and simple beauty — Something beyond thy more than human voice, That seems to speak to all of love and duty — Bidding the world rejoice. A something more than strikes the outward ear Wells through thy mellow music, driving hence All earthly thoughts, till heaven's voice I hear Touching the inner sense. A fitting voice for thee, thou white-robed angel. Standing in marble purity so fair, For ever sending forth thy sweet evangel Up through the summer air. 134 Miscellaneous Poems. Could I but tell the world what thou art saying, And in some strong undying way unload Thy rapture, — all that thou art singing, praying, In the sweet light of God ! Art thou of earth, or one of heaven's choir, Holding a consecrated soul up there. Uplifting to the heaven of thy desire Thy voice of song and prayer ? Tell us — for thou art nearer God than us. And hast communion of thine own — what balm Of hidden love is at thy heart that thus Attunes thy holy psalm ? Or say, art thou a poet, one who borrows The fire of heaven to wing his words with power, And sitteth, singing his immortal sorrows. Up in his heart's white tower ? Say, art thou one of that immortal throng — One giving all for nothing he can take ; Who thankless drains a bleeding heart of song For this poor world's sake ? Giotto's Campanile and Bells of Florence. 135 Thou hast a poet's power upon me, and, Beneath thy hallowed voice, sweet tears are shed ; And willing memory at thy command Gives back her buried dead. Again my soul is bathed as if with dew Of that sweet time that brings a heavenly mood, And gathers round it all it ever knew Of beautiful and good. Again the past, at thine enchantment, brings Her keys, and all my soul within me waits. While heavenly troops of long-forgotten things Pass through the golden gates. Ring on ! ring out your riches, holy bells ! The weary world has need of all your song ; Your soothing voice of saintly sorrow tells No tale of earthly wrong. Ring on ! ye lead us to the higher life ; Though hearts are sere, and sorrowing eyes are wet, We follow you, or, dying in the strife, Shall win the heavens yet. Florence. 136 THE FLOWER'S MESSAGE. A WANDERER once, flower-gathering in the land Where Proserpine, beside the midland sea, Wove garlands of the star-anemone, Descried the flower he looked for, close at hand, Yet guarded from him by a prickly strand Of wreathed acanthus' ; thorns of that same tree Men made a crown of once in Galilee, To mock the King they could not understand. Was it the red blood colour of the flower. So near the thorns, that crossed and interlaced it. That stayed his eager hand with unseen power. Bidding him leave the prize where God had placed it And hold more lightly every earthly dower That perishes when we have once embraced it ? Amalfi. 137 RAIN. Rain ! rain ! Oh, sweet Spring rain ! The world has been calling for thee in vain Till now, and at last thou art with us again. Oh, how shall we welcome the gentle showers. The baby-drink of the first-born flowers. That falls out of heaven as falleth the dew, And touches the world to beauty anew ? Oh, rain ! rain ! dost thou feel and see How the hungering world has been waiting for thee ? How every crack of the earth drinks down With lips that but late were haggard and brown ? How streamlets whisper, and leaves are shaken, And winter-sleeping things awaken. And look around them, and rub their eyes. And laugh into life at the glad surprise ; How the tongues are loosened that late were dumb, For " the time of the singing of birds has come " ; How every tender flower holds up. 138 Miscellaneous Poems. In trembling balance, its tiny cup, To catch the food that in sultry weather Must hold its little life together ? Oh, blessings on thee, thou sweet Spring rain, That callest dead things to life again ! Rain ! rain ! Oh, Summer rain ! Tell me why dost thou complain. And streak with tears my window-pane ? Say, sweet Summer, why disguise In Winter's garb thy bright blue skies ? Tell me, why shouldst thou be weeping, When all the world else is keeping Holiday ? When every sound Is calling on thee to keep the round. The chatter of swallows beneath the eaves. The breezy music of murmuring leaves ; While sitting unseen in the odorous larches The blackbird sends out through the tasselled arches That song of his, with the deep long note. As if pouring his soul through his open throat; And hark ! that voice, the sweetest of all The singers in earth's glad madrigal, The streamlet that dances down the hill, To her own sweet voice, at her own sweet will — Rain. 139 In again ! out again ! leaping along, Her music is motion, her motion a song. The stones about her feet rejoice, Touched by the magic of that voice. Through ferny-throated fissures gargling. Of waters into waters warbling. Nay, the sun himself, despite thy fears. Is peeping and laughing through thy tears. Come, come, sweet Summer, and dry thine eyes ; But still through her tears the Summer replies — " Alas ! 'tis not for me to know Why these sad tears of mine should flow. Why joy should fill the heart as full As. sorrow does, and overrule The soul like this. My life, as thine, Moves to an influence divine — Bound by the same mysterious bond To the life behind it, and life beyond, And so compassed about with its hopes and its fears, That looking for laughter it falls upon tears — Yea, and out of its sorrow and sore dismay Oft finding the path to a brighter day. Then suffer awhile these tears to flow, The after heavens will be clearer so." So sang the Summer as the sweet rain fell ; But the source of her sorrow she could not tell. 140 Miscellaneous Poems. Rain ! rain ! Wild Winter rain ! Hark at the winds how they howl again As the rushing waters come down amain, And lash, and wrestle, and writhe, and hiss — The fiends must be loose in a night like this. As for me, I am taking the grim delight Of facing the elements in their might. Up here alone, and at such an hour (It is near midnight in the minster tower), On the great cathedral wall I stand, Holding like death with either hand, Watching the stormy demons fight (God help the houseless in such a night). Though I cling to the feet of the hugely colossal Proportions of Angelo's giant apostle ; Though I stand by the base of the big stone piers That have borne the shock and the passion of years, The stones that have held, high up in the air, The great bell tower for centuries there, — Yet I tremble to think, as the storm grows apace. That some night the pillars will fall from their place And Merciful God ! what a flash was there ! How it seemed to leap out of the central stair. And light for a moment with lurid fire Every point of the great north spire, Rain. 141 Then danced down the roof from shelf to shelf, While I had not a hand to cross myself; And close on the back of it, over and under. Leapt up in a moment the quick, short thunder. Till the earth seemed to reel, as if inwardly shaken With dread at the thought of a life forsaken — As if God had thrown up the reins of the world, And given it away to be hustled and hurled Heedless along as the winds compel. Whether the road be to heaven or hell ! Like a maniac robbed of reason and will, With never a law of its own to fulfil ! But there goes my cowl ! and I stand headbare ; I durst not lift my hand to my hair, For should I let go for a moment — pshaw ! I'm over the roof like a bundle of straw For the storm-fiends to hoot at, and batter, and ban. And St Clement's is short of a sacristan. So I cling to the legs of St Peter, in stone (He's a rock up here, let the heathen rage on) ; Ay, would that I had the heretic here, With his mouthing omniscience and creedless sneer. An hour on the roof might bring to a pause His placid expoundings of Nature's laws, And teach him the diff'rence in heaven's own way 'Twixt God the potter and Man the clay. 142 Miscellaneous Poems. But hark up there, in the minster tower The big bell booms out the midnight hour, While the storm leaps up as if ready to fight. That none but himself shall be heard to-night ; For out of the twelve I heard but four — The wind ran away with the rest in a roar, And battered and beat them about the spire ; And, clashing and tossing them higher and higher. Tore them to shreds, far up in the air. Till they died out at last in a yell of despair ; And the torrent still pours on the roof like a river, As if heaven had decreed it should rain for ever, Till the grinning stone devil on the western spout Through his huge red throat sends the waters out With a glut and a gurgle that seems to say, " I like it, I like it — storm away ! " While over his head, in his niche up there, With eyes uplifted in endless prayer. Kneels godly Augustine, just as when He pleaded on earth for the souls of men. His gaze seems to pierce through the lurid levens Far into the plains of the restful heavens. With the greatness about him, and calm control. The silent repose of a sovereign soul. As I look on his face I seem to hear His grand old prayer, serene and clear — The Daughter. 143 " Blest be the storm, whatever it be, That drives us at last, O God, to Thee ! " And the words I so often have sung and said Seemed to strike anew as I bowed my head To the sweetest of saints and the best of men. And my heart responded " Amen ! Amen ! " THE DAUGHTER. My little daughter grows apace. Her dolls are now quite out of date ; It seems that I must take their place. We have become such friends of late — We might be ministers of state. Discussing projects of great peril. Such strange new questionings dilate The beauty of my little girl. How tall she grows ! What subtle grace Doth every movement animate ; With garments gathered for the race She stands, a goddess slim and straight. 144 Miscellaneous Poems. Young Artemis, when she was eight, Among the myrtle-bloom and laurel— I doubt if she could more than mate The beauty of my little girl. The baby passes from her face, Leaving the lines more delicate, Till in her features I can trace Her mother's smile, serene, sedate. 'Tis something at the hands of fate. To watch the onward years unfurl Each line which goes to consecrate The beauty of my little girl. Envoi. Lord ! hear me, as in prayer I wait : Thou givest all ; guard Thou my pearl ; And, when Thou countest at the Gate Thy jewels, count my little girl. 145 AOEDE. Bend thou thine eyes on me, Sweet Poesy, and give me of thy grace ; I leave the blustering world and turn to thee. To seek the holy smile upon thy face : Without thee life were wretched and forlore — Touch thou my heart once more. The world is heedless now, And careth not to watch thy beauteous ways ; They cannot see the light upon thy brow, As did thy worshippers in olden days : Gone, like a dream, thy sacred Helicon, And all the light thereon ! Thy grove, thy shaded well, No more remembered in the world's cold sense Oh teach thou me, thy servant, yet to dwell Within the reach of thy sweet influence ; Nor grovel down into the soul that feeds Only on mortal needs ! K 146 Miscellaneous Poems. If all thy songs be sung, The blame is ours : the world is changed and old But thou, a maid immortal, ever young. Thou changest not — thou wilt not yet be cold To such as love thee in the heart's true way — Then stay, sweet goddess, stay ! They live that love thee yet. Here, at thy feet, beholding such an one, Accept his vows : though all the world forget, He swears that while within his veins shall run The blood of life, that life is only thine, By all thy ways divine ! I'd rather live with thee A creedless life — like those that long ago Crowned thee with flowers in vine-trailed Thessaly— Than join with men that creep their creeds below Clothing in sanctity their mammon lies And hideous uncharities ! I'd rather live apart In poverty — of all the world unknown — Might I but hear thy voice within my heart The while I walked in summer woods alone. I care not what blind fortune shall assign If thou art only mine. h; SPRING. I STAND alone among the pines in May, In that sweet time when earliest bees are humming, And birds are loudest on the budding spray, And Summer sends in front a glorious day To tell the longing year that she is coming. Her heart is full because of her delay : So full that she must weep sweet dews, that fall In blissful tears through all the lonely night. Oh Thou Eternal Source of our delight, Creator and Controller of it all ! I thank Thee here, that I, Thy creature too, A world-worn weary heart, can rest awhile. And worship Thee, as Thy dumb creatures do. In silent thankfulness that knows no guile. BOWHILL. 148 AN EXILE IN SIBERIA. (The Kara Mines.^) He had a happy home, once on a time, A house made holy with the silvery chime Of children's laughter ; sounds that cling and climb About the shattered memories of men Once banished from them, never more again To come within their kindly human ken. So happy once ! Now, neither joy nor fear. Nor any sorrow life may bring him near. Can cheat him of another smile or tear. He had a fair and goodly garden too, Where he had mingled flowers of homelier hue With many, to his climate strange and new. Within its walls, seeds of a sunnier clime Made beautiful the blaze of summer's prime. And blent their odours with his rose and thyme. ^ Worked by convict labour for the benefit of the Czar. An Exile in Siberia. 149 Within its walls, love wandered hand in hand, Mother and children there, a happy band, None happier than he in all the land. But that is over ; wounded from within. Betrayed by men he sheltered from their sin. Men dead to ties of kindness or of kin. The very outcome of his mother's womb Rose up against him ; joined the common spume That sent him shackled to his living tomb. His house, wife, children, garden, all have fled ; He sees them now, like spectres from the dead That haunt his broken heart, his fevered head. At midnight, in the dim, dream-darkened air, He sees, within a garden, bleak and bare, A solitary cypress standing there ; And one lone man, made mad with death's delay, His hands uplifted, knees upon the clay. Pleading with God that he might pass that way. Upon his forehead stands the beaded sweat Of agony, while still his prayer is met With one returning word, " Not yet," " Not yet." ISO Miscellaneous Poems. See where he falls ! a mass of rags and shame, With none to pity, none that know his name, — Madness at last has seized his ruined frame. Look on him, fiends who fatten on his fate ! Join hands and dance, hell-hoofs, and hearts of hate God is not mocked, although His hour be late. POESY. Poesy, I love thee. Earth, in endless praise of thee. Of all the sweet wild ways of thee. Sings for ever ! And my song Is but another in the throng. To tell thee how we love thee. Listen to the singing now Pouring from the topmost bough That waves its green above thee ! Downward to thy dewy feet Where low voices mix and meet. And winds among the grasses sweet Whisper that we love thee. Poesy. 151 Minstrel mine, I hear thee ; All that loving praise of thine, All those liquid lays of thine, I have seen them, I have heard. Now I give thee thy reward, Poet, dost thou hear me ? I will not mock thee with a name. Thankless gifts of earthly fame, No other joy a-near thee. I will give thee love for love, I will keep thy heart above, And in thy sorrow cheer thee. I will give thee heavenly food To sustain the poet's mood. Wine and oil and holy meat. That will make thy memory sweet : Poet, never fear me. When the days are dark and drear I will keep thy vision clear ; And in the world's ungrateful fight I will keep thy heart aright : Poet, dost thou hear me ? 152 EARLY SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. Under the shade of an olive-tree, In a garden with flowers aglow, Whose terraces slope to the shining sea, Which lies like a mirror below, I lie full length on a tiger skin — With a skin of my own well browned — The palms of my hands tucked under my chin. And my elbows stuck in the ground. The garden where you, love, and I have been So many an hour together. Watching the blue sea's changing sheen In the bright Bas-Alpine weather. So soft an air creeps through the trees. The small leaves tremble none — Enough just to break with a tempering breeze The heat of a southern sun. Early Summer on the Mediterranean. 153 The grey old olive around me throws A glamour of golden gloom, And the air is rich with the breath of the rose, The jasmine, and orange bloom. You remember the walk you were wont to admire, With its roses each side of the way, Where the pathway ends in a fountain of fire — The golden acacia ? 'Tis there I lie, as in days before, And dream to the ocean's sound, As the billows come in on the tideless shore With a sea-voice deep and round. 'Twixt wave and wave, as the voices float. Such motionless pauses lie, I can hear the faint cicala's note. And the laden bee go by. And ever again a louder roll — A wave with a voice of his own — Comes in with the cry of its breaking soul. And dies in a long sea-moan. 154 Miscellaneous Poems. But out in mid-ocean, miles from the shore, It is still as still can be. Leagues upon leagues, an opal floor, Of the great unbroken sea — As fair as when creation's rod Rested from its employ, When the morning stars and the sons of God Sang together for joy. I rest my eyes where, thin and fine. And far as sight can see, The utmost belt of the faint sea-line Touches eternity. And the soul passing out, as it were in a dream, Sees all the world anew. And things unsought for flash and gleam Within its widened view. And I think of the kingdoms the sea has seen In the distant days of yore — Of the pomps and the splendours that once have been Now silent for evermore. Early Summer on tJte Mediterranean. 155 The long dead dynasties of old — Phoenicia, Greece, and Rome, And Tyre, that carried her purple and gold Athwart the Cyprian foam. Of Egypt's glory, great awhile. Ere she of passionate breath. The dread, sweet serpent of old Nile, Hugged Antony to death. Before the voice of Greece was hushed In war's discordant peal, And all her lyric heart lay crushed Beneath great Caesar's heel. Days when the tuneful world was peace, And happier deeds were sung, When all the golden isles of Greece With rhythmic numbers rung. Oh waters of the rich-isled East ! 'Twas thou that gave them birth. And rocked upon thy sunny breast The great ones of the earth. 156 Miscellaneous Poems. Where red ^gean fruits hang ripe, Or where the streamlet pours Soft music to a shepherd's pipe On fair Sicilian shores. 'Twas there the immortals spoke, and then The words that cling and cUmb, They echo yet in the hearts of men, And shall to the end of time. Thy song, wherever song takes root, Shall find a vernal birth With that great language which has put Its girdle round the earth. And all who use the mighty tongue Of England still look back Where thou across the sea of song Hast left thy shining track. Byron, and Landor, and Keats, have caught The glory of thy name. And Browning's segis richly wrought, Reflects the ancient flame. Early Summer on the Mediterranean. 157 Our laureate — melody's own mouth — By music pure and strong, " The palms and Temples of the South " Has wedded to his song. These sought thee, loved thee, sang of thee, Drank in thy purer air ; And thou — oh pearl-enamoured sea. We threw thee a jewel there ! When Shelley's soul, with wings unfurled. Weary of strife and strain. Like a thing of light sailed out of the world. And came no more again. But hark ! the nightingale's voice has come, And echoes on peach and pine. And a beetle goes by with the louder hum That tells of the day's decline. A breeze comes out of the cloudy tower Where the sky and the ocean meet, And the sea-floor breaks into blossom and flower At the touch of invisible feet. iS8 Miscellaneous Poems. My dream dissolves like the breaking light On the wind-struck mirror below, And I cry to the sea " Good-night, good-night ! ' As I rise to the feet and go. A MODERN MISERERE. (the bishop, returning from a science congress ruminates.) O Lord, our times are cold and dead. Religion but a world's show, Where truth is starved, and hope is fled. And faith is burning low. The wisdom of the sweet old days Is trodden in the common ways. Miserere Domine ! No doctrine but the kind that's grown To-day hath any man received : It must be noisy and new-blown Before it is believed. The ripened thought that ruled the past Is losing hold and falling fast. Miserere Domine ! A Modern Miserere. 159 Truth, Lord, is crucified afresh Upon the modern cross of science. If not with mangling of the fiesh, With all the old defiance, — With just the same ingenious art And moral blindness of the heart. Miserere Domine ! And we must join the vulgar fray. And e'en be taught how truth can grow By men who have forgot to pray In blind desire to know. Lord ! how the devil still can harden With that old apple of the garden ! Miserere Domine ! The garden, said I ? that, alas ! Has long been cast without the pale Of modern creeds ; effete and crass. At best an old wife's tale. With all its promise, all its glory. Pruned down to make a children's story. Miserere Domine ! i6o Miscellaneous Poems. They think to break Thy word, forsooth, By picking here and there a hole ; They scratch the husk of Eden's truth. And think to reach its soul. They do not see the sword of flame Still standing at the gate the same. Miserere Domine ! Good Lord ! that men should sit and burn Beneath the philosophic doubt. The learned logic that would turn Heaven's secrets inside out ! And rearrange our holy things In self-complacent vapourings. Miserere Domine ! To sit and listen by the hour (And feel half guilty by connivance) To bland concessions of God's power. His forethought and contrivance, — The maunderings of the pious hack Who pats creation on the back. Miserere Domine ! A Modern Miserere. i6i Or worse, stufifed out with science' saws, A boasted age's educator, God s creature proving from God's laws That there is no Creator ! The things that owe to Thee their force Turned round to spurn the primal source ! Miserere Domine ! Disciples of the modern schools, Whose culture scorns the common herd Of miracle-believing fools. That all along have erred. And still obstruct the world's advance With antiquated ignorance. Miserere Domine ! Philosophers, who laugh at faith. And all its miracles despise, Though miracles of hfe and death Stare daily in their eyes. In faiths that give Thy word the lie. How fond is their credulity ! Miserere Domine ! L 1 62 Miscellaneous Poems. Oh teach us, Lord, before we fall Too utterly away from Thee, That knowledge is not all in all, — That in our wisdom we May all things know, and yet for us Our souls be poor as Lazarus. Miserere Domine ! Lord, strike not yet. It cannot be But this is temporary froth, — Upheavings of a troubled sea : Earth-darkness, which the growth Of thy sweet hght will purge away. And chasten to the perfect day. Miserere Domine ! FOR THE DEFENCE. You ask me why I write in verse ? I cannot tell you why, except for pleasure ; And so your query, put in prose, I'll answer, friend, in measure. For the Defence. 163 I find it easy. There are those Who cannot help it ; hung on music's hinges, Rhyme follows thought like some old tune That all your memory tinges. I do not say their thought is good, Nor yet can see your reason for supposing That just because 'tis writ in verse It must be worse than prosing. There cannot be much difference Between the verse and prose that's put before us, If we are but agreed in this, That both the writers bore us. And surely there's enough of prose In life's steep road for those of us who climb it. Why should you deem it but a fault That one should try to rhyme it ? There is a happy power in rhyme — Laugh as you will — that keeps the blood in motion ; A sympathetic pulse, whose life Beats time to wind and ocean. 164 Miscellaneous Poems. A healthful spirit, wild and free, Though men materialistic may deride it : Their highest reach of stilted prose Is starch itself beside it. There is more virtue in a song Than all your high-souled scientific asses Will ever manage to reduce To its component gases. You say that every second man You meet is certain now to be a poet. I envy your acquaintance, and Am very pleased to know it. Statistics is your forte, I know ; You're scrupulously truthful in a high sense. (Tis sweet to catch a man of prose Taking poetic licence.) But never mind, we need them all, Though they may speak of things you take small heed of; The poet's wisdom is a kind The world now stands in need of. For the Defence. 165 The wisdom that reveres God's ways, And hates the modern self-sufificient 'folly, That would unravel holy things With fingering most unholy ; The heart that keeps the great broad faith, Pleading no special form or special gesture. Prepared to bow before God's truth. Whatever be its vesture ; Which feels as well as knows the truth, And does not trouble you with proof pedantic, Though it may follow it in ways The world will call romantic ; — We need them all in times like these, So niggard of disinterested action, Lest love degrade to bargaining. And truth be lost in faction. We need them all, we yield too much. Submit too meekly to the world's dominion, And smile and bow and dofif our hats Too humbly to opinion. 1 66 Miscellaneous Poems. We trust too much to rules laid down By domineering custom and tradition, Till thought and freedom fall asleep, Or die of inanition. We need some rugged natural souls Who will not trim to the prevailing fashion. Who must speak out their open thought. In wholesome, honest passion ; Who will not juggle with the world. Nor countersign her jaundiced arbitration. Who sit as loosely to her blame As to her approbation ; Who hate the creed that seeks itself. And worships God because the world has said it, — The holiness that draws on heaven To prop an earthly credit. 'Tis good sometimes to stand aside, And strip the world of all those earthly landings That make its life a heartless lie Of hollowest pretendings. For the Defence. 167 'Tis good to keep within the heart A room where only one's own soul shall enter, Yielding the outworks to the world, Keeping yourself the centre ; A little sanctum set apart. In which to think a thought or sing a measure, And stretch your legs and speak your mind. According to your pleasure. And if sometimes within the walls Of my soul's room old tunes will yet be ringing. Like ghosts that will not rest until You give them words for singing. 'Tis idle habit, I admit. And cannot boast of any special mission, Yet it has uses of a kind Worthy of recognition. It would not do if all of us Were grave professors deep and scientific. Each thrusting down the other's throat His favourite specific — 1 68 Miscellaneous Poems. Each vamping up his own pet view, And then some grand pretentious title give it, Till we've so many teaching life. There's no one left to live it. 'Tis right we should have some to sing, If but to set against the world's long faces, Lest human nature pine to death In circumspection's laces. Give me the sense of life and light, Of freedom's open air and mountain breezes, Surrounding all the wandering life That sings but what it pleases. It keeps the spirit fresh and young — God knows we soon enough grow old and cautious, When poetry, and youth, and fun, And all sweet things are nauseous. So I will rhyme, my friend, while young ; If I get old I'll promise you to prose it ; You think this letter long enough, I dare say, so I'll close it. I am — But that I scarcely need To tell to one that knows it. 169 THE MODERN SPHINX. O, RIDDLE hard of solving, ceaseless orb of life re- volving, All-creating, all-dissolving, whence and whither dost thou run ? Canst thou hear earth's song of gladness ; cry of pain, and death, and sadness ; All the mirth and all the madness of this world be- neath the sun? With its crowds deceived, deceiving, still the old false hopes believing, Every step beyond retrieving, leading downward to the grave ; With its endless life-stream flowing, myriads coming, myriads going. Death but reaps what life is sowing, as the wave blots out the wave. 170 Miscellaneous Poems. With its crowds believing nothing, taking earth with all its loathing, As the spirit's highest clothing, and the final end of all; Judging man's immortal nature but a dream's distorted feature, Seeing nothing in his stature over things that breed and crawl. Must we take the cold and bloodless creed of the con- tented godless. The fruitless, fiowerless, budless graft of Reason's boasted seed, While the old, "Yea, God hath spoken," stript of all its heavenly token. Is cast aside and broken to make room for man's new creed? Can we give our hearts' compliance to this fate-bound creed of science. With its sneer of cold defiance, holding prayer a wasted breath, While deaf to all appealing, every stroke the wheel is dealing Sends its crowds of victims reeling into dust of dream- less death? The Modern sphinx. 171 Or, shall we seek soul-quarter in the miserable charter Of a low, degrading barter — ^joys of heaven and pains of hell ? As if the God-given banner of a man's immortal honour, With a price affixed upon her, were a thing to buy and sell ! Shall we bow beneath the preaching of the church's garbled teaching, With its farce of heavenly reaching over lines it must not pass ? With its multiform complexion ; every fierce and wrang- ling section Self-asserting a perfection that's denied it in the mass. Quacks that pour their paid-for thunder through the gates of fear and wonder. Shall we tear their creeds asunder, toss the fragments to the skies ? Priests and preachers leave behind us, with the windy words that blind us, Till the light can hardly find us through the mesh of twisted lies ? ****** 1/2 Miscellaneous Poems. Silence, babbler ! close beside thee there's a higher word to guide thee, — All the creeds that chafe and chide thee are but dust of passing strife ; Over all earth's fleeting phases, clashing doctrine, swelling phrases, God the simpler standard raises of the creed that was a Life. That will stand though churches crumble; when the system-mongers stumble In their own distracted jumble, that at least will never fall. And when science-doctors scout thee, priests denounce, or bigots flout thee. Fold the simpler faith about thee, and act justly by them all. THE SINGER TO THE CRITIC. All that you say is fair, critic. Well meant, both your smile and your frown. But neither will alter a hair, critic. The rule I have long laid down. The Singer to the Critic. 173 My thanks for the kindness you've shown, critic, — Your work is most faithfully done ; Still I have a faith of my own, critic. That I can exchange for none. You can tell what the time demands, critic, The fashions that ebb and flow, — You will only receive at my hands, critic, Such fruit as I choose to grow. A free and a fetterless flight, critic. That fashion could never control, In the air of its own delight, critic, Is the law of the singer's soul. I shall sing from my inner, own heart, critic. And never ask any one's leave. And shall clothe with my uttermost art, critic. The thing I most love and believe. But the choice must be left to myself, critic. And whither I mar it or make it, I ask neither plaudit nor pelf, critic, — The world may leave it or take it. 174 Miscellaneous Poems. And when I have done my best, critic, I shall say to my song — " Adieu ! " To the winds I shall leave the rest, critic, And turn to my work anew. Though all that we say or do, critic. Should pass with us under the sod. We know that the good and the true, critic, Is safe in the hands of God. And the heart's true music will all be, critic. Caught up in men's hearts again, As it was, and is, and shall be, critic. World without end, amen ! ON A PAINTING OF "A SPRING DAY," IN THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. Again Spring's gentle warfare wins its way, And grim retreating Winter hangs afar His flag of truce on the horizon bar, Yielding his power to pale Persephone. Mark how the earth in every budding spray The End of the A rgument. 175 Conceals the ravages of Winter's war, In leaf and flower ; while many a golden star Of rich gorse blossom lets her perfume stray, Her well-armed body-guard around her set. The serried spearsmen of Plantagenet. God's benison be with the gracious art That, on the glowing canvas here unfurled, Can bring into the city's hungry heart The freshness and the fragrance of the world. THE END OF THE ARGUMENT. I AM a woman, you Have man's strong vision : yet it may be said What we see, we see clearly, though our view Be limited. I feel that I am right. And yet 'twere vain in me your creed to call In question ; I will hope, on closer sight. That after all 1/6 Miscellaneous Poems. We differ but in word, We recognise one God by different name ; And surely hair's-breadth reasoning is absurd Where faith's the same ? We bow to one great Cause, One all-pervading Power from sky to sod : You call it Nature, Force, Eternal Laws, — I call it God. You see Him in the power That guides the floating worlds through utmost space. And in their shining courses every hour Keeps all in place. You search His works about In ways we women scarce can understand. Till Earth and Air give all their secrets out At your command. Faith is enough for me. But men must know — must watch the Light that plays Under and over all things like a sea. I read His ways The End of the Argument. 177 In every bird that sings, In every tangled branch of budding twig, — For surely God is God of little things As well as big. The cold clear light men lay On things like these is more than ours ; but then, Though we grope darkly, we can find the way As well as men. God knows we cannot bring Such^light as yours to teach us what is true. And, knowing this, makes faith an easier thing For us than you. And if we reach one end. If we with all our searching find out Him, To fight about the road — and with my friend — Were idle whim. But should earth's wisest showing End not in this, where all true wisdom must, I leave it ; it is not of Heaven's bestowing. And I can trust. M 178 A NOTE OF CONDOLENCE. Your dead friend held no settled creed, You tell me, and " within your heart The thought still lies — a poisoned seed. That will not part." Your friend was mine as well ; well known, Well loved in memory yet ; be strong ! The poisoned seed is all your own — You do him wrong. His mind was not the facile clay That, heedless of all fault or flaw, Accepts the impress of the day As final law. From clearer heights he watched the needs Of ages, rather than of days. And saw creeds superseding creeds In endless maze. A Note of Condolence. 1 79 Too just a man in such a case, To claim that he had found a plan To fit all future time and place ! And every man ! He could no longer deem divine Those petty compacts that compel Men's thoughts within a given line On threat of hell. Where one would close the door on doubt, Another bursts the very locks Respectability points out As orthodox ! Thus two good men may cast abroad The seed of what seems rival growth. Yet each be working for the God That sent them both. We see too short a way, my friend. To give us title to impose Our special vision, and offend The sight of those i8o Miscellaneous Poems. Who boast like us both eyes and Hght ; Our daily path is clear and plain ; To fix what lies beyond his sight Man strives in vain. Turn how he will, life's limit mocks His power to pierce the hidden sphere, Cooped in his little clay-built box Of "now "and "here." Besides, what gain to me or you — What guarantee in all the fight That from the hundred creeds held true We choose the right ? Were it not better each to give The greater issues of his life In trust to God alone, and live Outside the strife ? So chose your friend the path he trod, Unmoved by either clique or clan — Abiding in that fear of God Which fears no man. A Note of Condolence. 1 8 1 But he was great, and wise, and good ; Think of the untold crowds by whom These things are hardly understood. And of their doom ! The unlearned thousands of the world, What fate to these would you accord ? Shall these without a thought be hurled All overboard ? The crew that mans this ship of earth — The vast, but little tutored host. That work their passage from their birth — Shall these be lost ? Believe me, there is many a road To church and priest alike unknown, Whereby the ever blessed God Brings home his own. 1 82 THE BISHOP EXHORTETH THE SICK IN HOSPITAL. (the semi-delirious one replieth.) " Audivit PharisEeum cogitantem.''— Aug. Serm. 99. Oh saintly soul-salver, I know you well ! You're a gospel prophecy come to light, The sign and the wonder the Scriptures foretell When Christianity's husk and shell Will threaten its heart like a blight. The day of false prophets who show the road, In a world deceiving and being deceived, When the truth shall be trampled and overtrod, When Mammon shall sit in the temple of God, And his lie will be believed. Nay, keep your temper, and hear me out — A word for a word, it is but fair-play — Since I've heard with attention most devout Your censure of me, — too true, no doubt, — You must hear what I have to say. The Bishop Exhorteth the Sick in Hospital. 183 If you're only amused there is something gained, And a debt is paid you have honestly earned ; For think of the times you have entertained Whole churchfuls of people who never complained, But suffered you unconcerned. To me you were better, you're as good as a play When the temper is up and the lungs are loud. And the bag-fox sinner is out and away, To be worried once more in the face of day Before an admiring crowd. But to fight an abstraction is no great game Compared to a sinner in concrete fact ; So I freely forgive the professional flame. And the roughness of tongue with which you blame. Though myself am the sinner attacked. A sinner, alas, I allow ; but then Wherever 'tis made is the charge not true ? Are there any exceptions ? Say one in ten ? No ! this is the jacket which fits all men. Then pray, sir, what are you ? 184 Miscellaneous Poems. Are you more than a man, and have you no share In the every-day dangers besetting us all ? Will you open your Bible and show me where Your warrant is found for the judge's chair, And exemption from the Fall ? Wherein is the likeness to Christ, I pray, In an act like this, in which you track A sick fellow-wayfarer's suffering clay, Till you've hunted him down, and brought him to bay. Helpless, and on his back ? And talk of his sins to the man you have tracked- Of whose prior existence you hardly knew ; Do the sinner's misfortunes absolve your act ? Or think you, because my body is racked, My soul is disabled too ? In health as in sickness my sins I avow. And pray for their pardon while flesh endures : They are more, far more, than enough, I trow ; But I shall not add to their number now By encouraging you in yours. The Bishop Exhorteth the Sick in Hospital. 185 Oh I wrong you not ! I know your place — You're a worldling doing the work of a saint ; But in me you have wholly mistaken your case : You must go elsewhere with your holy grimace And your sepulchre coat of paint. The Church as a part of the world you know : It's a business you have at your fingers' ends,— Its inward machinery outward show, How the funds are raised, and the side-winds blow, And the general policy tends. Its earthly competitors, how they are led — To interests like these you are more than awake ; In these you have work for your worldly head ; But here, as you sit by a sick man's bed. You are simply a huge mistake. I acknowledge your gifts, and your practical mind, — Your eloquence too in its proper field ; But the still small voice, and the words that bind, With Christ's own fetters, a man to his kind, To you is a secret sealed. '1 86 Miscellaneous Poems. Though you speak with the tongue of angels and man, Work wonders, move mountains, give all to the poor. There's a grace you want, shrinks them all to a span : Believe it or not, there's a flaw in your plan — Foundations are insecure. But who shall convince my Lord Bishop of sin ? What has he to repent of, or confess ? He's already attained — there is nothing to win : To the Church he is spotless without and within. And all men acquiesce. You are angry ? ah, well, as you go through the street. Though your brow is black, and your lip is curled. There is plenty to solace you, — words more sweet ; 'Twill be Rabbi ! and Rabbi ! from all you meet, — You are back to your Church in the world. i87 SOUL SUSTENANCE. Seek peace where you can find it. 'Tis not here, Amid the petty worries that beset Man's higher will, drowned in the daily fret Of small anxieties that peep and peer, And wear men's lives away from year to year. Our boasted civilisation spreads a net, 'Twere better man should labour to forget If he would keep his soul's high vision clear. Look there ! outside the rock-bound harbour bar. And watch the plunging breakers headlong hurled 1 White-crested horseman of the bloodless war. Declared from the foundation of the world ! In Nature's glee the soul forgets her load, — The fountains of refreshment dwell with God. Mount Edgcumbe. TWO SERMONS. " The church bell, which elsewhere calls people together to worship God, calls them together in Scotland to listen to a preachment." — Isaac Taylor. No. I. You take too much upon you, friend ; You speak in far too firm a tone Of others' sins, for one who has A human nature of his own. I highly prize your moral worth. Your sterling virtues pure and strong ; But whether these should give you ground To frown upon the weak and wrong I question much. Bethink yourself, — You still are human after all, And therefore should not quite forget You too are liable to fall. Two Sermons. 189 You need not preach a Christian creed With any hope men's souls to win, If in your heart you do not feel Some sense of fellowship in sin. And even although the bulk of men Were poor and weak where you are strong, You'd better try to lead them right Than scold them when you deem them wrong. You hurt your office and your power By taking ground so high as this ; The world will not be led by such Hard self-sufficing righteousness. You but provoke its criticism, And feed it with the very food That keeps it living in the wrong. Though you may think you're doing good. The truths you teach may be the best. And yet the teaching fail in merit ; Christ's truth itself may yet be taught With something of the devil's spirit. igo Miscellaneous Poems. No. II. (Ancien rigime : but not dead yet.) His text was one that gave him room To fume, and fulminate, and make The house of God a house of gloom,- — A text to make the sinner quake. Corruption was the theme of it. And Hell the lurid gleam of it. Mankind, he preached, were poisoned through ; Corrupt without, corrupt within, Black was the universal hue, — " In short," said he, " the rock of sin On every side has wrecked you all, Moral and intellectual." With Calvinistic pessimism He found all hopeful creeds unfit, And plucked, according to his schism. The sourest plums from Bible writ, And tried to palm them off on us. With solemn croak cacophonous. Two Sermons. 191 And as he argued — pulpit-perched — A gracious God indorsed his views, I turned my eyes away, and searched For children's faces in the pews. I felt I must not look at him For fear I threw the book at him. He proved each man from head to foot A mass of putrefying sore. Thoughts festering in a heart of soot, Sin oozing out at every pore. The body and the soul of us, The Devil had the whole of us. He loved his theme, 'twas clear enough. For all the rottenness and dirt And rank defilement of the stuff, — One felt he had the thing at heart ; He hugged it so, and handled it. And dressed it up, and dandled it. Then plunging past the gates of death. He mixed the sinner's awful cup, Till hot and red he stopt for breath. And mopped the perspiration up. If terror could re-fashion us, He did not spare the lash on us. 192 Miscellaneous Poems. I saw him when the task was done, His gown and morals packed away, His deep self-satisfaction won, His reeking supper on the tray ; And looking through the smoke of it, 'Twas then I saw the joke of it. The pious wrath, the wordy run, From every mouth too glibly poured, Which makes us feel that we have done Some special service for the Lord, — Oh the deceiving seed of it ! The tongue without the deed of it ! LONDON. "Gentlemen, you may make light of this danger now; but the danger of centralisation is one of the greatest dangers we have to fear in this country." — Lord Rosebeey. London, thou mightiest mass alive ! Great human forge ! the busiest hive Of work beneath the sun done. What power beneath thy daily load. Short of the very arm of God, Could keep thee moving, London ? London. 193 Men try to compass thee with speech, To prove with figures past their reach What's never been by man done. Statistics only more involve The miracle no man can solve, The throbbing world of London ! From east and west, from north and south, The earth is taxed to fill thy mouth, With work in every zone done. The myriad sails beside thee furled Have scoured the seas of all the world To fill thy maw, O London ! What endless labour here finds room. From work within the garret's gloom To work upon the throne done. Pauper and prince, and priest and cheat. Jostling each other in the street. All find their work in London. A motley world, of every race, Of every feature, form, and face. Black, white, and swarthy sun-dun. All sorts, conditions, ranks, degrees, Turks, Negroes, Tartars, Japanese, They're all at home in London ! N 194 Miscellaneous Poems. The bishop rolls along the street, Lazarus is lying at his feet — Salvation for each one done, Though still the nation's boasted creed, 'Tis cherished more in word than deed In many parts of London. What woe beneath the buzz and hum ! For here all wretched creatures come That faith and hope abandon. Misfortune's offspring, huddled, hurled. The broken wreckage of the world, Seeks harbour here in London ! And every nation pours its throng. Its cast-oflf crowd of sin and wrong. With hundreds that have none done. For many a kind heart shares the flight Of shame that shudders at the light. And hides its head in London. And gentle folks, once well-to-do, Who never dreamt, and never knew. That revenue could run done, — Brought up to everything but work, Half-housed ! half-starved ! half-mad ! they lurk By thousands here in London. London. 195 Ah ! well for you, who only know The sunny street, the outward show. The favour and the fun done. If you could see the hidden tears. And hear the sighs God only hears, Your hearts would sink in London. To every city under heaven. To every living thing is given Allotted time to run done. Then, earth to earth must pass away, As Babylon did, and Nineveh, — What of the night, O London ? Think, London, of that day ahead ! Thy noise for ever stricken dead, And all thy labour undone ; When foul birds flit from tomb to tomb For garbage in the ghastly gloom — The swamp, that once was London ! 196 HONOURS. TO H. A. B. He was thrown from his horse just a fortnight ago, Fractured his skull, and was killed on the spot ; And already, before the grass can grow On his new-made grave, he is quite forgot. So busy a man, too, in life's affray. With his time filled up to the hour and the minute ; There was hardly a thing in a public way But in some form or other his finger was in it. As borough town councillor taking the lead. If a bailie were wanted he stopped the gap : Now a new-made magistrate reigns in his stead. And his relict " receives " in her widow's cap. Out of common respect for his councillorhood, They might surely have waited a month, good Lord ! Ere his vacant appointments were all made good, And his place was filled at the council board. Creeds. 197 Is there never a world where the " unpaid " soul, Who gives labour for nothing, and that without stint, Receives something more for his place on life's role Than the blessing of seeing his name in print ? L'Envoy. You, friend, at your easel, and I at my rhyme. We must shun that pitfall at any cost ; Popularity's bait is the devil's birdlime, Where the object is gained and the man is lost. I had rather your canvas were finally furled. My verse in the fire there crumpled and curled. Than that either should trim to the tune of the world. CREEDS. " They have cast fire into Thy sanctuary." The truths that everybody sees. Dear friend, let's rather think on these Than dwell upon the differences. Why should religion run to seed Upon the borders of a creed On which no two men are agreed, igS Miscellaneous Poems. When there's so much of common land Where honest men can take a stand, And shake each other by the hand, — A blessed land of pastures green And quiet waters, where unseen The soul can rest herself between The struggles of life's battle-storm, And hide her from the earthly worm Of her distresses multiform ; — A land — earth's heritage — that lies In all men's hearts, in all men's eyes. An ever-smiling paradise ? Why labour so to ferret out Those arguments that writhe about. And nourish only strife and doubt ? Let's rather with a wise decision Stamp out the points that breed division. And bring God's truth into derision. They live but in the truth's disguise ; They have no savour of the skies. And feed no soul-necessities. Creeds. 199 The points on which we disagree Are but the fruits of that old tree That poisoned our humanity, — Diseases of an earthly state ; If we can only trust and wait, We'll lay them down at heaven's gate. Why then insist upon them here. Till all that honest men hold dear Becomes the butt of sceptic sneer ? We are not blameless : who can tell How much this sin of ours may swell The numbers of the infidel ? A sin not less the full of shame That it affects a holy flame, And preaches in Religion's name. Alas ! alas ! the early day Ere truth waxed wise enough to stray From her divine simplicity ; When men could say to one another. Where Christians first were wont to gather ; " Behold them ! how they love each other." 200 Miscellaneous Poems. If the reverse, men now should take For truth, although his heart should break. What answer could the Christian make ? 'Mid all this broken unity, This Devil's opportunity Of modern mock community, This creed idolatry, this thrall That nourishes an endless brawl, And lives on true Religion's fall, — Let's strike it out, it cannot be : But there is somewhere, could we see, A broader base of unity, — Some simpler test of good and true ; No subtlety that looks askew. And changes with the point of view, — A creed that does not strive or cry. Nor vaunt its own sufficiency By giving all dissent the lie ; That breeds no spirit rank and rife Full fed upon those seeds of strife. That poison all its highest life ; Creeds. 20 1 That urges not the greatest good Of greatest numbers, as it should ; But teaches rather to exclude, And lays upon the soul a load Unbearable : a human code That half obscures the truth of God, With systems crossed and counter-crossed, Where philosophic labours lost Feed only reason's fools at most. But more, if it were understood, The question is not " If we should ? " We could not do it if we would ; — We could not shape a standard creed To serve all time and every need. And be to all the truth indeed. For truth confined to mortal pages. Conforming still to different gauges. Is different truth in different ages. Judge by ourselves, dear friend, and say. Are the beliefs of life's young May The same with those we hold to-day ? 202 Miscellaneous Poems. Not so, alas ! they faint and fade, Or live in memory to upbraid For all the foolish vows we made. Yet think not, friend, your creeds among, That those fond faiths when we were young Are worthless things because unsung To psalms on Sundays, or because Your full-grown code of bloodless laws Has gained a longer-faced applause. Take care, in your creed-righteousness, Your head's best wisdom has not less Of God than your heart's foolishness. They were not lost, those early years, Ere faith had drawn on wisdom's fears, — I see them yet through half-shed tears. But mark, I do not justify Those fervent faiths of youth — not I ; It is but right that they should die. But, then, should he whose creed is made Of colours that can change and fade To something different each decade — Creeds. 203 Should he who cannot make a rule To guide himself be yet the fool Who hopes to put the world to school ? No, no, dear friend ; let others seek A short-lived fame amongst the weak Who live to hear each other speak In measured phrases smooth and bland. That prove conclusions out of hand On points fools only understand. But we — if we must build a creed — Let's base our faith on what we need, And not on niceties that feed The spirit's lust with earthly meat Of doctrines dipt all trim and neat. In which to glass our own conceit. And give to some particular view Applause so racked beyond its due, Its very truth is hardly true. We need not look so far abroad For ground select and seldom trod To caper in the sight of God. 204 Miscellaneous Poems. All that the wisest man can teach, Though he were gifted with the speech Of angels, lies not out of reach Of him who seeks the better part In the clear light and simple art God gives unto an upright heart. "CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN." Oft have I seen, in midmost heart of June, Day breaking in a rough and rugged morning, Black thunder-clouds, that gave the world a warning Of lightnings that would leap upon it soon. And then, anon, the winds fell down at noon. The clouds dispersed, the sun, all danger scorning, Sank in the peaceful west, the hills adorning, And through a breathless twilight rose the moon ! Not in the storm, O Lord ! or fire, or thunder. Dost Thou bring home to man his final choice. These are but screens of the eternal wonder That stand between us and Thy holier voice. When Thy strong Sun has drawn these veils asunder. Men hold their souls in patience, and rejoice. Bay of Napoule. 205 WORK. " In the sweat of thy face," &c. Blest work ! if ever thou wert curse of God, What must His blessing be ? Drier of tears, Man's surest comforter when his abode Is clothed about with sorrow and soul-fears, When clouds and darkness gather on the road Till all his land of promise disappears, And he sees nothing in the coming years But aimless wandering with a heavy load. He will not hear thy wiser counsellings Till all earth's counsel fails : then thou art known An angel, then, with healing on thy wings, Bringing from heaven a peace that is thine own. Before thy lesser cross his fears are dumb, — He sings and works whatever fate may come. 206 WORK. II. " If any man will i^o . . ■ he sbaM Mow." — John™. 17. Thou school of life, and only education Worth the having. All that is elsewhere taught Is but the dilettante fringe of thought : Thou art the centre of its inspiration. Wherever thou with holiness art sought, Men find in thee an onward revelation Clearing the way. Before thy busy hands Error — and error's friend, confusion — flies. And slowly lifting melancholy eyes. Through half shed tears, arrested Sorrow stands And smiles in thy sweet face : oh, who can tell The deep unspoken worship thou hast brought ; Praise, prayer, and duty sweetly interwrought : The idler is the only infidel ! 207 TIME AND ETERNITY. What matters it to us, who are immortal, Which side o' the grave we stand on, when we know That what the world calls death is but the portal Leading to life again ? 'Tis but to go Across a gurgling river in the dark. Hanging on God ; and but a moment so, Till we are over, where we disembark And enter life afresh. 'Tis basely wrong We should so meanly understrike the mark As measure life by years ; and all along Busy ourselves, arranging little schemes That death will dash to pieces, when we might Be building, far above these earthly dreams, Houses that stand for ever in God's light. 208 A POPULAR CHARACTER. A CLEVER fellow, wide awake, The world allows that he can take Measure of most things — no mistake ! Don't humbug him with moral prose ; Without the '■^wherewithal" it goes For next to nothing. Oh, he knows ! He knows the world and all its ways ; Your " theory " deserves all praise — " A pity that it never pays ! " Oh yes, he knows, sees through and through it. Admits you're right — the way you view it. He would advise you to pursue it. But he, you see, must gain his end. Although, in gaining, he offend Or even sacrifice a friend. A Popular Character. 209 There is not any one condition He will not swallow for position, And gratify a weak ambition. No ditch too dirty or too deep ; No means too humble, road too steep : For where he cannot walk he'll creep. Most courteous, too ; where'er he can, Becomes all things to every man — If it will only help his plan. Most affable, but all a trick ; Where he has power he'll bite and kick, — Where he has not he'll cringe and lick. And yet this wretched creeping creature Measures universal nature By the height of his own stature, And thinks, because he waits the tide For filthy scraps, all men beside Are similarly occupied. With those who not for golden shower Will stoop to dodge and serve the hour, — He puts it down to want of power ; o 210 Miscellaneous Poems. And yet, a man of means and place — A moral man, a man of grace — One reads it in the world's face ! Oh, friend, you are a great success — A man whom fortune seems to bless ; But just allow me to confess, If you could have a verdict found That all the world believed you sound : Look 1 there's the door — get out, you hound ! THE. VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. It was in the dreary winter, when the year is grey and old. That I sat beside my sorrow, in the darkness, lone and cold, — With my soul alone and cold. The cruel grief that pierced me through, oh, ask me not to tell, But let me hold it in my heart, hiding it where it fell, — Unspoken where it fell. The Valley of the Shadow. 211 Down relentless nights of darkness, from the golden heights of youth, Black sorrow hunted me, with silent {foot and steady mouth, — Slow foot and steady mouth. And gazing down the darkness of my life with madden- ing pain, I saw strange idiot fingers clutching upwards at my brain, — Crawling upwards at my brain. And I heard the whispered word come up the dreary realms of sadness, "The unintelligible sound that hinted coming madness, — The awful hint of coming madness. I smote the heavens with a cry, the last cry of my woe ; Black, utter silence only frowned into the dark below, — Dark above and dark below. iSo at last I lay me down, and, whispering to my sorrow, said — "We shall seek the blessfed peace that dwells beside the quiet dead, — Seek oblivion with the dead." 212 Miscellaneous Poems. While I spoke a light broke o'er me, with my soul's deliverance, — When the worst comes God comes with it ; and I fell into a trance, — A strangely conscious trance. I bethought me that some cataleptic seizure it must prove. For though I felt, and saw, and heard, I could not speak nor move, — Not a finger could I move. There I lay without heart motion and without a con- scious breath. As if struck to instant marble in the rigid grip of death, — In the stony grip of death. Trance or death? It kept my eyes so firmly fixed within my head That when they came they started back, exclaiming " She is dead ! "— In terror, " She is dead ! " I heard them walk about the room, with hushed and noiseless tread. And a solemn voice, with studied gloom, saying, " The spark is fled," — " The vital spark is fled." The Valley of the Shadow. 213 Then they stretched me out so softly, when they knew that I was dead ; They did not dream that all the while I heard each word they said, — Every heartless word they said. They discussed the many changes death would bring about the place, And then the gossip turned upon the jewels and the lace, — The money, and the jewels, and the lace. Some praised my generous dealings, ready help with hand or head, In the usual easy way such debts are settled with the dead, — With the creditor that's dead. Uttering words of seeming kindness, but they lied when I was dead ; I knew the tear was false as Hell that dropped upon my head, — Dropped on my fallen head. Then they spoke of what I speak not, words that seemed to taint the air. To good or bad when death arrives the foulest birds are there, — The carrion birds are there. 214 Miscellaneous Poems. Then back to fulsome praise, and again before death's face They could not help returning to the money and the lace, — To the jewels, and the money, and the lace. Their falseness wearied me ; I wished that they would veil my head, That I might lie and smile unseen, ay, smile at what they said, — Lie and smile at what they said. But surely they were cowards thus to praise me lying dead : They knew I could not answer them one word for what they said, — Not one word for what they said. They dared not praise me had I lived, in such a fulsome mood. They dared not then have praised me, lest I cursed them where they stood, — Yes, cursed them where they stood. But now all passion passes ; praise or blame, heart's grief or mirth. No more can reach me where I lie, at peace with all the earth, — At deep peace with all the earth. The Valley of the Shadow. 215 Three days and nights I lay alone, for the living kept aloof J I heard the winds moan in the night and the rain upon the roof, — The pattering rain upon the roof I heard the old clock in the stair, ticking within the wall, And I thought it ticked out in the dark that " God was over all, — God-God, God-God, God was over all." Only once a childish footstep ventured near me where I lay. Before the household was astir, about the break of day, — Near the dawning of the day. The child had doubtless been denied the chamber of the dead. Yet here God's fearless creature lay beside me, head by head, — Close together, head to head. She put her hand upon my face, then wondering if she durst. She kissed me, kissed me, kissed me, till I thought my heart would burst, — O, God ! I thought my heart would burst. 2i6 Miscellaneous Poems. And when she left I heard my name 'twixt her sobbing and her sighs, Till blessed tears came back to me, and fell from out my eyes, — Fell out of my dead eyes. At last they carried me away, with solemn pomp and slow, And all the way I heard them speak in strains of forced woe, — Words of hollow-sounding woe. They did not hear the laugh of scorn, nor yet the ghostly tread Of the indignant spirit walking with them at my head, — Close beside them at my head. Of all the crowd were only two whose words held not the stain; These two with callous honesty discussed the price of grain, — The markets and the current price of grain. But all the rest they thought it seemly so to praise the dead; Oh, this world ! it soundeth doubly hollow when the life hath fled, — Strangely hollow unto one that lieth dead. The Valley of the Shadow. 217 Then they cut a holy text upon the tombstone at my head ; They could not even let alone the quiet harmless dead, — They must blaspheme the dead. Oh ! I felt a speechless peace come down like balm upon my brain, When at last they turned away and left me lying in the rain, — In the soft and silent rain. And it fell so gently whispering, like a smile upon a frown, That I wondered if it knew a brutal hoof had struck me down, — That a brutal human hoof had struck me down. But my soul is now at peace, thanking God that all is past. That through the maddening surges I have reached the shore at last, — The silent shore at last. 2l8 REST. Passed into peace ; you shall not vex her now, Beyond the reach of all your idle breath ; Her aching heart is stilled, her troubled brow Is smoothed beneath the silent hand of death. Passed into peace ; all that she had she gave you. Poured her life's treasure through an open sluice, Did all she could, and all she knew to save you, And in return reaped nothing but abuse. Passed into peace ; her freedom now begins, — Life's slavery is over. There she lies. The woman, made the scapegoat of your sins : If you should shout to her sh6 will not rise. Passed into peace ; out of the friendless city. Where you had left her, homeless and alone. To fight her way without one word of pity. Flesh of your very flesh ! bone of your bone ! Gifts. 219 Passed into peace ! she thought the hand of death Was some old friend's she once had held before. " Ah, come at last ! " she said, then, one long breath, The broken heart, long-suffering, beat no more. GIFTS. Beware of gifts from men ; Examine them, and look them well i' the mouth, The caution of the proverb notwithstanding. Though clothed in words as balmy as the south, In accents of a heart with love expanding, — Beware of gifts from men. Say, would they give thee praise ? Take care of it ; there's poison in that cup, — Sweet at the first, it slowly closes up The source of that approval in the heart Which comes from God. Choose thou the holier part. And leave earth's meaner ways. 220 Miscellaneous Poems. Have friendship, if you must, But you must pay for it, and give, and give, and give; There, where the carcass Hes, the eagles live ; Where it is gone, past favours are forgot, Till friend shall pass old friend and know him not, — There is but One to trust. Is it some higher shelf Of honour men would give you ? Who are they That give it ? Are they made of different clay, That you must stoop and take what they allot ? A higher honour no man ever got Than that he gave himself. What would they give you ? Bread ? Touch not a bite. The crust that you have earned Is holier food than this. The wise have learned That bread unwrought for does but little good, — Possesses not the virtue of that food By work inherited. " Who then can help ? And what ? When you yourself are stricken in your place ? " Ah then ! my Friend will come and kiss my face. And take my hand in his (I know him well), And lead me through the fields of asphodel, His gift ! Thank God for that. 221 MONEY'S WORTH. Religion, did you say ? The man has none : 'Tis but reHgion's husk — a mere convention. He goes to church, and there the matter's done, — Rehgion is no part of his intention. He looks upon it as a priest's invention — A mere ecclesiastical spring-gun — To frighten silly folks to condescension. He joins the Church because he hates contention And, just to make his soul as safe as any. Takes out a policy against hell-fire : A shrewd investment, costing not a penny Either in shape of premium or duty. To him religion stands for nothing higher : The cheapness of the bargain is the beauty. 222 THE MAN WITHOUT AN ENEMY. A LITTLE shabby shuffling devil, Half a coward, half a drivel, To whom one hardly can be civil. A mind that every trifler leads. Whose thoughts, however good the seeds, Can never ripen into deeds. The first that stops him on the street Convinces him, until he meet A second, who will straight defeat The first ; and so he walks among Men's thoughts, till every change be rung Within the compass of the tongue. A mental mush of meek concessions. And blotting-paper half-impressions. Sum up the creature's brain possessions. The Man Without an Enemy. 223 His life's a sickly consultation, An endless, aimless alternation, A lukewarm hell of hesitation. Ransack the man from top to toe, His whole anatomy will show No certainty of Yes or No. Survey him round and round about, Look through him, turn him inside out, — There's nothing there but rags of doubt, And even these change with the wind, — Not one that's strong enough to bind The floating lumber of his mind. Buckets of watery locution, Infinitesimal dilution Of one weak drop of resolution. His mind can never keep its hold With strength enough to make him bold To strike, until the iron's cold. He stands at gaze upon life's brink, But dare not enter ; can but shrink, And wonder what the world would think. 224 Miscellaneous Poems. And there, amid his coward fancies, Whilst he is balancing his chances, We must leave him, — Time advances. A SONG OF THE SEA. In days of old our island home Was but the pirate's gain ; From either hand came o'er the foam The Norman or the Dane, Till good Queen Bess's time : 'twas then. With sailors of our own. Uprose a fleet, and fighting men, The world had never known. Who made the Spanish despot bow Beneath Britannia's star ? 'Twas the old sea-dogs of England, The sailor lads of England, The dauntless tars of England, That made us what we are. A Song of the Sea. 225 The tyrant thought that every sail Afloat upon the main Should dip her flag and pay blackmail To Philip, King of Spain. But Drake and Hawkins knew their ground, And well they laid their baits : They let his fleet pass Plymouth Sound, And caught him in the Straits. Who raked the Armada fore and aft A league from Calais Bar ? 'Twas the old sea-dogs of England, The sailor lads of England, The dauntless tars of England, That made us what we are. When Dutch Van Tromp, with all his crew— A broom at his mast-head — Swore he could sweep our Channel through, And that his foe had fled ; Outspake great Blake, our Admiral, — " We'll give that broom," said he, " To Davy Jones, to sweep the stones At the bottom of the sea." 226 Miscellaneous Poems. Who smote the Dutchman in the Downs, And chased him home afar? 'Twas the old sea-dogs of England, The sailor lads of England, The dauntless tars of England, That made us what we are. Then grudge no means to fix more sure These anchors of our hope, The men who wield, for rich and poor. The tiller and the rope. If British bounds must still contain A people bold and free, Our path is plain, we must retain The sceptre of the sea. Let not the record be forgot. Nor drowned in party jar, 'Twas the old sea-dogs of England, The sailor lads of England, The dauntless tars of England, That made us what we are. 227 PROVE ALL THINGS. You talk of soul, good sir, but where's the proof? The proof, I say, you have a soul at all ? Where is its visible action ? On what stuff Do you sustain it ? What if I should call Its life in question ? Body I can see, A mortal case that should contain a soul, And upon which you lavish all and whole, Your every thought. But think how you would be If fleshy life, with all its hungry roll Of wants, were struck away. No more again To eat, or drink, or sleep ; the remnant then, Is't not grotesquely inconceivable ? Can you imagine life of these bereft ? Your body gone, pray, what the devil's left ? 228 SNOWDROPS IN A STORM. Poor broken flower, in this vile tempest whirled, What prompteth thee to such untimely birth. To be so soon down-trodden in the earth ? Before thy pearly petals had uncurled The bells that ring in springtime to the world. Thou wouldst have brought us welcome, and with mirth Led all our thoughts away from winter's dearth, Had fate but left thy beauty unimperilled. In this sad world thine is a common fate, A world in which the gentlest heart fares worst, Borne down by the intolerable weight Of kindness unregarded, or accurst. Its labour spurned ; its love disconsolate As thine, fair flower ! the purest suffer first. 229 IN MEMORIAM. Wild winter morn, whose dawning brings The whisper, " Henry Renton's dead," Oh beat not thou thy sorrowing wings Because a gentle soul has fled. Though earth should groan from pole to pole In travail like a thing distressed, Far out beyond the storm his soul Hath entered on his quiet rest. A rest well honoured, nobly won. And yet, what loss to living men — In all their work beneath the sun Thy hand shall never help again. A death like thine hath called a truce, Heard round about thee many a mile. And men forget their daily use To stand beside thy grave awhile 230 Miscellaneous Poems. To pay that honour due to one Who bore the battle brunt of life, And^'ranked a second unto none Where conscience called him to the strife ; Who freedom's flag hath never bowed, But single-handed dared to stand Unmoved before the bellowing crowd In CafTre or in Christian land. Though strong within thy special sphere, No straitened cultus bound thee down, Or stained thy courage with a fear Of coward's caution, church's frown. Thy latest deed — when time was brief- Proclaimed aloud thy higher call To preach a union of belief. Through wider charity, to all. Great to the end, when Ufe's last ray Gave notice of impending doom. Thy dying effort was to lay Thy laurel on a brother's tomb : A Little Girl in a Garden. 231 A brother fallen on the field, — ^ That vaUant soldier, strong and true, Who hid behind his dazzling shield A heart his comrades only knew ; Who strove to reach the higher law. The central light of all the creeds. And struck straight out at all he saw That robbed true freedom of her needs. Farewell, kind heart ! thy battle's o'er, Thy spirit gone to Him who gave ; 'Mongst honours paid thee many more. We lay a song upon thy grave. A LITTLE GIRL IN A GARDEN. There ! there she bounds ! a footstep light as wind. Unstained of earth, a daughter of the skies. Her floating hair with summer flowers entwined, The blue of summer's heaven in her eyes. >■ The late Alexander Russel, of the Scotsman, 232 Miscellaneous Poems. Around her every movement summer girds A sense of sunshine as she leaps along ; The sweet-brier hedge is full of singing birds, But not more full than is her heart of song. 'Twixt summer and her soul there seems to run A power to feel together, and confer, Binding their lives more closely into one By language known but to the flowers and her. The blackbird more than sings to her — it speaks ; The plane-tree whispers to her all it knows ; The secret of the rose is on her cheeks. And on her brow the lilies shed their snows. Oh mystery of mysteries ! Can it be That this fair soul must take the common way ? Learn what the world learns, taste life's bitter tree. And reach the gates of death by slow decay ? Oh Thou that took the children in Thine arms, And blessing them drew all men by the deed, Guide Thou her every step through life's alarms. And help her in her bitter hour of need. Vita Umbratalis. 233 Let some of the sweet summer of her days Remain with her to gladden life's last hour, Till passing with the sunset's dying rays She falls asleep in Thee, a sleeping flower. VITA UMBRATILIS. As men grown winter-weary close their eyes To give imagination stronger wing, Wherewith to paint a visionary spring. Invoking memory till pictures rise Of grass grown greener, flowers, and balmy skies— Beside the brook they hear the lintwhite sing, And in the stillness, wild bees murmuring. Till winter days are lost in spring's disguise. So in the widowed winter of his days The solitary mourner shuts his door. Where, brooding on the visionary store. Lost forms and faces pass beneath the rays Of light and love that cheered the gladsome ways Of what was once his summer ; his no more. 234 EUPHROSYNE. Because the gods have so apparell'd thee, Spirit of loveliness and light ! Sweet-lipped, blue-eyed, and golden-curled thee In sudden beauty, dazzling mortal sight ; Tell me, fine spirit — Is it right That thou, all heedless of another's pain, Shouldst bound through life, a crystal river, Leaping onwards to the main — Leaping, laughing ever ; Fast binding with a golden-linkfed thrall The charmed hearts and eyes of all ? I charge thee, answer me, fine sprite : Say — Is it right ? Letting thy level glances fall With sudden strength electrical ; Launching thy winged smile with arrowy power Through finest thrills of glittering laughter-shower, A slanting sunbeam through the summer rain. Piercing the blood and brain ; I charge thee stand and answer, thing of light Say — Is it right ? Euphrasy ne. 235 Dost thou not know- That oftentimes unconscious laughter flings Her silver fingers o'er the hidden strings, Or waketh with the rustle of her wings A silent sleeping woe ? Hast thou not heard That noblest souls, beyond a thought of guile, Pierced by the golden-shafted smile That heedless beauty gave. Have maddened from the bridle of control Through dark disaster, with the burning coal Of a devouring sorrow in their soul Chasing them to the grave ? Laugh ! laugh again, sweet spirit, laugh : I would not have thee sorrowful. But, oh ! Remember thou that in this world below. Hid in the cup of life that thou must quaff. Are bitter drops of woe, — That, when the dark day cometh, thou With trusting heart and quiet uplift brow, Dauntless and pure as now. Must take thy sister Sorrow by the hand ; And she will teach thee, in her holy fears, Earth's dearest joys, like heavenly rainbows, stand Upon a bridge of tears. 236 COMPENSATION. They took him from his fellows — marked him out For kingdom ; on a nation's worship set His glittering throne, and crowned him with a shout. But yet, alas ! but yet, God was not mocked. The world could not disarm The silent enemy within the breast, That undermining of the unseen worm, — The worm that will not rest. They cast him out in anger ; called him mad. Scorned him, and made his tender heart a whet To sharpen idle wit. Oh it was sad. But yet, thank heaven ! but yet. He was not friendless, for where'er he trod. Warm words fell round him in sweet summer showers, Down from the starry silences of God, Up from the lips of flowers. 237 THE GLOWWORM. By night a diamond in the grass, Its very light obscures its form ; When day's effulgence comes, alas ! What is it but a worm ? And what art thou on wings of light Threading with fire the darkness lonely ? A dazzling mystery by night ! — By day an insect only ! And thou, fair moon, that rul'st on high, When night's black curtains all are drawn, What seemest thou in sunlit sky ? An empty spectre, wan ! 'Tis thus the poet's thought is known By all who feel the mystic thrall, — Read me by light that is mine own, Or read me not at all. 238 WHERE TWEED FLOWS DOWN. Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee, And slowly seeks a deepening bed, I stand alone, a blighted tree. From me no more, as all men see. Shall bud go forth, or leaf be shed, Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee. Since that wild night of storm, when she From all her happy kindred fled, I stand alone, a blighted tree. Deep in the night she came to me. Hands clenched above her fallen head. Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee. And holding still the fatal key Of that grim secret, dark and dread, I stand alone, a blighted tree. Carlyle. 239 Before the black pool held its dead, I heard the last wild word she said ! — I stand alone, a blighted tree. Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee. CARLYLE. AFTER READING HIS POSTHUMOUS REMINISCENCES. Is this the ripened utterance of the Sage ? The voice made holier, coming from the sod. Of him we almost deemed a demigod. The Poet and the Prophet of his age, Could this great soul find room upon his page For all the petty venom of the road ? Uphoarding the unholy heritage Till he himself was safe in death's abode ? Oh ! let us prove these shafts that pierce and sting From some crazed loophole of his brain were shot, Blind arrows from the irresponsible string Of some wild marksman, mad, and knew it not. Let death condone the errors of a king — Lay them beside his bones, and let them be forgot. 240 AT DARWIN'S GRAVE. (WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 26TH APRIL 1 88 2.) Not many years ago, the popular shout Was " Atheist ! " and critics, well at ease, With such a godly-seeming world to please, Still found in all he wrote the dreaded " Doubt." A day, when every little pulpit spout Spat venom at our English Socrates : He heard them as one hears the wind i' the trees And turned to work his Revelation out. And now, the self-same world, true to its laws. Brings to his grave its tinsel and its strife. To blur a blameless name with rank applause. And make his death less lovely than his life : He should have sanctified earth's common sod. This quiet working worshipper of God. 241 TO ANDREW LANG. (on the occasion of his enrolment as a freeman of the burgh of selkirk.) Deem not our roll of honour aught the less Because no learned laurel it doth bear : Prince's and politician's names are there, But these, beside the poet's power to bless, Are names we hardly know that we possess. 'Tis not with these that we would have you share The honour Scott was not too proud to wear, In all his greatness, sweetness, nobleness ! 'Tis as a poet, then, we claim thee here. And bid thee welcome with thy sheaves returning, Gathered from many a field, both far and near. On plains of Troy, or Border hills sojourning. Wherever led, may thee the Muses cheer, And keep within thy heart the home lamp burning 242 BROKEN CISTERNS. If thou art honest, do not seek repose Upon the world's approval. Do not stir To gain her smile. She only flatters those Who stoop to flatter her. The wanton mistress of a godless race, Whose love is lies, whose heart is dead and cold, Whose slippery favour and whose foul embrace Is daily bought and sold. If thou art honest, heed not thou her blame. But let her grind her teeth, and foam, and shriek Her power to bless or curse an honest name On either side is weak. Yet strong enough to be a deadly snare To him who fears her hate, loves her applause. And waits upon her judgments : oh beware, And trust not thou her laws. To the Rev. Robert Borland. 243 If thou art honest, then thou hast a law That is thine own ; listen to that alone. Hold thou the world's opinion at a straw, And scathelessly pass on. TO THE REV. ROBERT BORLAND, MINISTER OF YARROW, Author of ' Yarrow : Its Poets and Poetry.' Yarrow ! dear Scotland's Helicon, There's music in the name of it. Was ever stream more widely known ? Had ever stream the fame of it ? A treasure-house of old romance, The glamour and the gleam of it, Is Yarrow's by inheritance. In every pool and stream of it, Till " Yarrow " has become a word That, in the simple ring of it. Awakens in the heart a cord That throbs through every string of it. 344 Miscellaneous Poems. Whence is this hidden power derived ? What secret feeds the flame of it ? That all the Muses have connived To guard the sacred claim of it. Those grand old " makers," would their names Were written in the roll of it ! Though lost to earth, their deathless claims Still live within the soul of it. And yet, not sung by these alone. Beneath the potent spell of it, Each poet seems to find his own, With something new to tell of it. Our much loved Scott, great Wordsworth's lyre. The Ettrick Shepherd's lays of it, — Could river find a sweeter choir To sing the bonny braes of it ? Dear Borland, may your Yarrow lays Bring peace, without alloy in it : Yours is a dearer thing than praise, — Love's labour, and the joy of it. 245 RIGHTEOUSNESS. It is an easy thing to side with those, In politics, rehgion, anything, Whose inconsiderate opinion throws Their faith to fierce extreme. Or quarrelUng With such unreasoning madness, rashly bring Your forces to an argument that grows To equal discord on the opposite string : But to remain self-centred, and to cling To one's own conscience, and uphold the right 'Gainst friends and foes alike ; to take a stand And be suspected upon every hand. Unloved, forsaken ; yet in hell's despite To strike for truth. Though heaven should pass away. This is the man of God, the world's true stay. 246 PARTING WORDS. In that last bed beneath the sky, Where earth's outworn and wearied quest Finds peace at length and quiet rest ; If you should come to where I lie, Remembering that you gave increase To loneliness and misery, Waste not on me a single sigh, — I have forgiven you, go in peace. But yet, forget not those glad years. Before the cheerless shadow fell. Which brought with it our sad " Farewell," And taught my feet the way of tears. God grant it yet may be our lot To live again our happier past In that new country, far and vast. Where heaven may heal what earth could not. JWarag " That we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble^ by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God!' MARAH. When Miriam's timbrels struck the chords of faith And all the joyous world was glad with her, I gathered up my grief without demur. I would not be the heart that hindereth The happy world by one unhappy breath, So took my way into that land of Shur, Where every well that man may touch or stir Is bitter with the bitterness of death. Footsore by day — in dreams by night — I trod That dewless desert. In its treacherous calms Death shadows fell upon me, deep and broad. Till, struggling on, I reached the golden palms Of Elim. Singing there, some men of God Bound up my bleeding feet and gave me alms. 2SO SECOND-SIGHT. There cometh a time in the life of man When earth's realities strike him less, When the facts of the senses seem nothing, and when The matters that move him beyond his ken Are the only things that impress. Some sorrow perhaps has searched him through. And burned away in its cleansing fires Life's baser belongings, and kindled anew Those higher life-lights that strike out of view The earth and its low desires. When life but lives for its holier sake. The lamp in a temple where no voice sings But in prayer and praise ; those wings that make That wafting about us, which keeps us awake To the sense of invisible things. Second Sigh t. 251 A time when a man in the world's keen eyes Seems fallen behind on the busy road, — Seems making a senseless sacrifice ; And yet he knows that his heart is wise In the sight of the searching God. The world's weak wisdom has taken flight ; Things earthly near him, and heavenly far, Are suddenly seen in an equal light. And divested of argument, dumb in his sight, Stand out for what they are. SUnk out of his way, ye vendors of lies ; By a light not yours he can read you through, Oh hollow of heart ! and oh worldly wise ! The things you would carefully screen from his eyes Are the things that are thrust on his view. And to you, O soul, where the vision is shown. It may come but once in your earthly strife ; Mark well what it says to you, make it your own, Beat it out into prayer, ere the angel has flown. And gird it about your life. 252 FORSAKEN. We built our nest in the sun, Where the sweet west winds were blowing, We counted our nestlings every one, — What wonder glad tears would sometimes run ? We could not help their flowing. We dreamt no sorrow was near. And in all the glad earth's showing We saw no thing in the world to fear, For we held our love as the one thing dear Of all the world's bestowing. Child, and mother, and wife, — What care they how the world is going ? We closed our doors on the outward strife. The closer to cling to the heart's own life, And set it in fairer showing. Forsaken. 253 So fair was our path and sweet, So daily the dearer growing, We heard not the march of the muffled feet, Nor thought of the shadow we soon should meet, Or the death-dart he was throwing. Alas for the years that lie Between Love's reaping and sowing ! A tender flower 'neath a smiling sky — Then clouds and darkness, and it must die, Though it rend a heart in the going. Oh God ! Is it wrong that we Should follow our soul's best knowing? That we should have prayed for light from Thee, And, choosing the way that was fair to see. Chose not the path of Thy showing. Or, Lord, did the edict go forth, From an infinite mercy flowing. To order for us a desolate hearth. And pluck by the roots love's life upon earth. That in heaven it might be growing ? 254 Marah. Oh help us to bear Thy will ; And whatever Thy hand be strowing, Give us power to endure it, and strength to sit still In the rooted assurance it cannot be ill Since it comes of Thy bestowing. BROKEN STRINGS. My harp is turned to mourning, And all we've sung and said, The joyous words, sung o'er and o'er. We may not sing them any more. My harp is turned to mourning — For gladness, tears instead. And all its echoes answer me, =' My Love is dead ! " We sit together sorrowing. My fingers o'er thee spread. But all in vain ; they will not come — The old chords now are dead and dumb. We sit together sorrowing, And bow the fallen head, — The only song that we can sing, " My Love is dead ! " " Nothing is Here for Tears!' 255 Oh harp ! why are we Hving ? Why should we longer tread The songless world ? but hasten on, And follow where our hearts have gone. Oh harp ! why are we living When all our song has fled ? Thy strings are broken, and my heart, — " My Love is dead ! " "NOTHING IS HERE FOR TEARS." — Samson Agonistes. Why should we walk in sorrow day by day. Because from all our paths thy life hath fled ? That life is more than ours in every way ; Yet knowing this, we speak of thee as " dead," And pitying, sigh " Alas ! " and shake the head : Our words but touch the surface, the appearing, — How strangely must they sound in thy new hearing 2S6 Mar ah. Keep sorrow for ourselves, 'tis not for thee ! " Holier and Happier ! " were the words that passed Thy dying lips, when from thine agony The loving Lord on whom thy cares were cast Stretched out His arms and took thee at the last ! — Thy words, when earth was fading into night, And heaven was breaking on thy new-born sight. " Holier and Happier ! " from the lips of one Whose soul, half-way to heaven while it spoke, Heard through the golden gates the Lord's "Well done," And smiling in death's face, laid down its yoke ; Not all thy great heart's sorrow, nor the stroke Of death's dark utter agony, could quell The deep unshaken faith that all was well. " Holier and Happier ! " — now thy pain is o'er — Are words that speak of peace, and breathe a balm Enshrining all thy memory, more and more. In such unclouded rest of heavenly calm ; They come to us like words from some high psalm Begun on earth, but ending otherwhere. Where sorrow follows not, nor any care. The Rest that Remaineth. 257 Within thy great new kingdom, oh my Love ! Forget not those that, waiting, stand without ; We are so poor, and thou so far above The cares of Time and all the earthly rout, The purest cannot utterly cast out,— Oh keep thy promise, bear with us and wait. Thou first that we shall look for at the gate. THE REST THAT REMAINETH. I FRET no more, — wherever death shall take thee, There must be heaven about you where you go ; Nothing can change, nor death itself unmake thee. And God that made thee good will keep thee so. Thy heaven was not to seek in some far region Apart from what on earth thy heart had known. For even here we named thee with the legion Of those whom God hath chosen for His own. No fancied heaven was thine, of unknown fashion, Cut off from life, but near us every day; Thy love and truth, and God-like great compassion, Shed light divine upon our common way. R 25 8 Mar ah. And simple things men daily set their eyes on Were vassals in the kingdom of thy love, To bring within earth's lowliest horizon Remembrance of the nobler life above. Some glad, God-chosen place beyond death's danger, Some holier, happier home, is surely thine : Where goodness is thou canst not be a stranger, Whilst there is room in heaven for stars to shine. No light like thine can die in God's dominion ; And though He summon thee to worlds unknown, Wherever thou art borne on death's dark pinion. The resting-place must still be near the Throne. THE DEATH OF SUMMER. Summer is dead ! Last night the northern blast Smote into ice within her dewy eyes The light of life. And as her spirit past. The breaking morn, struck through with death's surprise, With passionate tears and burdensome sad sighs. Called her by name, and raised her fallen head — But called in vain ; too late ! — Summer is dead ! Th(, Death of Summer. 259 Yes, she is dead that was so beautiful ; She that had love for ever in her face, And mirth that could betray the wisest fool To laughter, — she that filled so sweet a place In all our hearts, — has run her earthly race. All that is left of her on earth lies low. Waiting her winter winding-sheet of snow. And now there is such silence in the air, It seems as if the pulse of all that is Were stricken suddenly with mute despair. Knowing that she is dead ; and all things miss, In some blind way, their long accustomed bliss. Earth's voices, all — the winds, the waterflow, The song of all her bjrds — is hushed and low. Silence upon the hills : and on the mere Motionless shadows of the silent trees ; If any wind there moves, it moves in fear,- A sharp short shudder, waking memories That fall like falling leaves upon a breeze,- So gently moving, it might be earth's sigh That so much lovehness should ever die. 26o Marah. So with Thy sorrowing world we plead, O Lord ! Because of joys that come but do not stay ; Our waiting hearts are sick with hope deferred, — Bright hope that turns to miserable clay. And gives us nothing but it takes away. Speed Thy good time, O Lord ! when all shall know The summer that shall come, and shall not go. PiCK-MAW-MoSS, HAINING. 26l AUTUMN SONG. Wearily wails the winter wind, With the sad dead leaves before it flying, As it mourns for the summer it leaves behind In all its beauty dying. And wearily sighs this heart of mine, With its life's dead hopes around it falling. And its brief bright hours of sweet sunshine Gone past beyond recalling. But hark ! I hear through the moaning hours A whispered hope of a bright day coming. When the world again will be clothed with flowers, Glad bees about them humming. Be still, my soul, and strong thy hand Beneath the cross thou meanest under, For we yet shall stand in the new God-land, When the world has broken asunder. The Haining. 262 PLAITED THORNS. ' ' By these things men live, and in all these things is the life of my spirit." — Isa. xxxviii. i6. I SUFFERED Pain, — such pain as takes the soul, And wrestles with it, as it were the prey Of struggling devils, mad beyond control ; — Such pain that in its pauses night and day, I clung to God in prayer, and a sigh That He would let me die : And lo ! while yet I cried in my distress That even in death my soul might be released. Pain seemed to sicken in its own excess. For then it stalked away, a thing appeased ; And sainted smiling of a heavenly face Filled up the empty place. I suffered Doubt, — those pangs of deep disgrace Stinging the faithless soul that has allowed Loose fiends to point their fingers in his face. Till he forgets God's goodness in a cloud Of foul suggestions — ^pride's presumptuous leaven. That shuts the door of heaven. Plaited Thorns. 263 Worn out with pain of endless questionings, I fell asleep, and in a dream-like show Saw d)dng faces straining after things It were no profit any soul should know : I cried to God ; my tempters fled away Like devils in dismay ! , I suffered Loss, — loss inconsolable. I could not reason it, or think it out. Or ask God anything, — could only feel That Ufe had passed away in one wild shout, And left me dumb for ever, sitting there. Stroking his yellow hair. The past was gone : the very chairs seemed new ; FamiHar things upon the walls and floor Looked strange. The western window's well-known view Had light upon't I never saw before. And all things spoke to me in one low breath. That only whispered, " Death." I sat with heavy heart and idle hands. Feeding on memory many a weary night. When lo ! across the darkly gleaming lands Of wondrous death, clad all about with light. My loss came back, and gave me joy for tears, Consuming all my fears. 264 Marah. I suffered Hate, — slow hate that bides its time, Watching occasion with the famished eyes Of brutes that watch for prey ; suckhng in slime Its hideous offspring, black -mouthed calumnies. Surely, I argued, this is evil seed, A wrong without remede. So, looking not for comfort out of this. Think how I gladly welcomed him who showed That even here I was not profitless, — Man's wrath but wrought in me the will of God Yea, that the smiling heavens could find a use Were hell itself let loose ! I suffer Death, — where all earth's suffering ends. But now I fear not, for I know heaven's way. Behind black sorrow's night God's angel stands, Waiting the dawn of an eternal day. Since these dark doors but open into light, Come closer, Death, and smite. 26s THE DOUBTING HEART. Oh weary life, so dark, so difficult. Were ever thy fair promises made good ? Why scatterest thou, and with a breath so rude, The hopes that bade our youthful hearts exult ? Oh Power Supreme, that work'st in ways occult. Why bring to dust the fruit that was our food. Making a desert where such sweet things stood ? — Why tempt us on to life's so poor result, Through this all-sickening gulf that lies between The will to do, and the accomplished deed ? Down, doubting heart, whate'er thy cross has been ; Have faith, if nothing else should form thy creed. What are thy deeds to whom thy heart is seen ? Trust Him who leads thee, and He still will lead. 266 Marah. Faith, wider faith, alone will give thee peace ; Only believe it is His way with thee, And in that light constrain thy soul to see Life's crosses. Then, but not till then, shall cease Their power to make the burden of life's lease A weight of weary years. Still it is He Even when thou canst not read the dark decree. For blinding tears that evermore increase. The greater sorrow shall more greatly win ; 'Tis not for nothing that the soul is driven Through God-appointed fires of doubt or sin ; The best-loved souls may be the most forgiven. With Him who guardeth well the life within. And breaks the heart on earth, to make it His in heaven. FOOTSORE. "We look for another countrj'." O HEAVENLY rcfuge of my soul, Jerusalem ! I come to thee, A fainting wanderer at thy gates, A weary soul that would be free. Footsore. 267 On every side cast down, oppressed, A breaking heart within my breast, Would God that I could reach thy rest, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O thou the spirit's only home, Jerusalem ! to thee I cry ; The thought of thee alone can give The power to live, the strength to die. Through earthly snare, past sorrow's night, Till faith be merged in perfect sight, O lead me by thy higher light, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O holy mother of us all, Jerusalem ! that I were there, — That I could lay my burden down. And reach at last thy blessfed air ; Where weary feet no more shall stray, And grief and pain shall melt away In splendour of thy perfect day, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O city of the Christ of God, Jerusalem ! to thee I come : In thee alone the rest is found Where death is dead, and sorrow dumb ; 268 Marah. Where God Himself shall wipe away All tears, and change our bitter lay To singing in thy courts for aye, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O gladdening vision of my soul, Jerusalem ! Within the skies Thy streets of gold, thy gates of pearl. Are evermore before mine eyes. Where'er I go, in church or street. The Ught above thy mercy's seat. The deathless song about thy feet, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! THE SOUL'S ATLANTIS. Earth-weary and earth-worn, I laid me down with prayer for heaven's safe keeping, And tossed upon my bed, till in the morn God's answer came with sleeping. The Soul's Atlantis. 269 I dreamt earth's fight was done, The evil vanquished, and the battle over, And I lay resting 'neath a summer sun. Half hid in waving clover. Deep in the heart of things, And outward to the spirit's infinite longings, God's gift of peace came down on blissful wings, Filling with happy throngings The great glad pulse of life, Till not a thought was left of earth's bequeathing : The very winds forgot their ancient strife. And moved with holier breathing, — A rest so deep and sweet — No more again for ever to be broken — For wrong was dead, and sealing its defeat The Almighty God had spoken. The prophet's word was truth. And all the good of holiest books we read in Had come to pass, and earth's immortal youth Begun again in Eden. 270 Marah. The promised land at last ; The pledge of a new earth and a new heaven Stood now fulfilled, and all earth's bitter past Forgotten and forgiven. Beneath the smile of God Earth's strife was dumb, and all its doubt and error Fled from before His face, a broken cloud Of guilty things in terror. And all was His again. Perfect and pure as in its first creation ; A world baptised anew with holy rain Of His regeneration. Old things had passed away ; No creature but possessed some inward token That made him heaven's for ever from that day, In words that were not spoken. One heart in all the world. One worship without taint of earthly leaven, Whose one great cloud of altar incense curled Far up the fragrant heaven. The Soul's A tlantis. 27 1 One voice, and one alone, Flowing right onward in a mighty river Of one clear song to Him upon the throne, For ever and for ever. And bliss was so complete I wept for joy, to think the world's weeping Was done at last, and that the weary feet Were safe in heaven's keeping. While heavenly echoes yet Were in mine ears, sleep changed to bitter waking ; As in upon a trusting heart's blest heat The world's cold light is breaking. And all my dreaming ceased, — I rose and drew aside the window awning ; Far outward in the shivering iron east A grey cold day was dawning. The world's dead wall of stone Beside me yet, with all its old hard features, The bloodless rock we break our hearts upon, Earth's miserable creatures. 272 Marah. Down in the hurrying street I joined the silent faces workward setting. No time to dream for us, for we must eat And feed our own begetting. No time to dream for us, Life's grim necessities around us gaping, With tongues that are for ever clamorous, Whate'er our souls be shaping. But yet for me and you, Oh burdened friend unknown, wherever breathing. Somewhere a world must be whose good and true Is not of earth's bequeathing, — Somewhere a life unseen With nobler strife than but to clothe and feed us ; These hopes that lighten sorrow's dark demesne Are sent not to mislead us. And though the world should mock, Still guard the hope, believing God doth send it, Let thou no demon doubt of earth's vile stock Enter thy heart to rend it. Lay not thy Treasure. 273 God promises no dreams : The heavens are true, — it is the earth that's dreaming. To earth again return her wisest schemes, To dust her fairest seeming. And when the end shall come, When rending heavens from reeling earth shall sever, That dream shall rise from out the final doom. To set no more for ever. LAY NOT THY TREASURE. Lay not thy treasure at my feet ; I cannot give thee love for love : My life with all it had of sweet Belongs to one in heaven above. The heart that with the strength of youth Has truly loved in days before, Can love again on earth in truth No more, no more, — On earth again no more. s 274 Marah. The flower that's dying at the root, Though summer woo it o'er and o'er, Can never yield its flower or fruit, — 'Twill bud again on earth no more ; And love whose root is in the grave, Thpugh love may seek it as before. Can give what once on earth it gave No more, no more, — On earth again no more. Then take thy treasure unto one Who yet can fitly love bestow. And with it all that I can give Of blessing wheresoe'er it go. But as for me, I wait for him Who waits me on life's farther shore ; For once again on earth I love No more, no more, — On earth again no more. 275 THE BLACKBIRD. AT SUNSETTING. Lonely singer, tell to me, What is it that aileth thee. And makes thy song so dreary ? Tell me, am I right or wrong, Art thou singing sorrow's song ? Is thy heart a-weary ? Dost thou hold within thy breast Longings of a wild unrest That never can be spoken ? Has some bird-angel of thy love Taken wing, the heavens above, And left thee here, heartbroken ? How comes it that thy lonely lay Gives but to the dying day All its sweet sad singing ; And that thy music, gentle bird. Is silent, or but faintly heard, When all the woods are ringing ? 2'j& Marah. Say, does thy heart, like mine, but sing Of others' earthly suffering, And pity's accents borrow, That thou, to all the world unknown. May clothe a suffering of thine own, And soothe an inward sorrow ? Oh sacred be the soul's regret : It brings the sweetest singing yet, — Deeper than love's laughter. The highest bliss is incomplete That is not made more heavenly sweet By tears that follow after : From secret sources strangely fed, The singer's heart is comforted Beyond this world's dreaming : Behind earth's curtain of seen things He hears a voice that ever sings, And sees the flutter of glad wings Through darkest shadows gleaming. 277 MATER DOLOROSA. I HAVE a memory deep in my heart, Clinging aye close to me, never to part. Sweetly a little face peers into mine, — I know that little face every line. Oh that my day were come, death is so slow. Keeping me waiting here, ready to go. I would not wait alone, here in the cold, — I do not want to live here, and grow old. If I go back to him now, he will know me, Now that the world has no more to show me. All that it has of mine, all that it gave, Lies with that little face, down in the grave. There with the chilly grass growing above him, While I am left without, I, that would love him. 278 Marah. There where I cannot stretch hands out to guide him Oh that my heart were there, lying beside him. Come then and take me, death, me, and no other, — Who should be nearer him than his own mother ? HEIMWEH. There lies a valley lost to sight, Yet dearer far than all we see ; Its memory makes earth-darkness light, And sets the prisoned spirit free ; — A valley with a purer sky Than earth's serenest air can show. Where not a sorrow, not a sigh, Can enter from the world below. No weary world of strife and sin. With death's dread shadow at the close ; But once those blessed fields within Life leaves behind its earthly woes. Heimweh. 279 The valley where our loved and lost Are waiting for us till we come, When life's dark ocean-path is crossed, And heavenly voices call us home. Oh sacred sorrow ! sacred love ! Twin guardians of the higher life, Teach me, and lift my soul above The world's distracting cares and strife. Watch thou the gateways of my heart, Lest evil angels enter in, And rob me of the better part, The higher place my soul would win. Oh save me from the world's desires ; In all its paths that lie in wait, Oh shame them with thy holy fires. And purify and consecrate. And when heaven's higher light is screened, - When sick at heart I faint and fall. And life seems but a mocking fiend, A hollow mask deluding all, — 28o Marah. Oh then let memory enter in And take possession, heart and head, To purify from self and sin, And keep me worthy of the dead. Until that valley lost to sight Shall rise unto the perfect day. And heaven's renewed and conquering light Shall chase the clouds of death away. "SHOW ME THY WAY." A LENTEN HYMN. Show me Thy way, O Lord ! All else I now resign : I ask no other word Or way, O Lord, but Thine. Of earth's bleak road and rough My soul has seen enough. " Show Me Thy Way." 281 I've proved this poor world's worth All that its ways afford ; I ask no more of earth — Show me Thy way, O Lord ! In all the vain world's best My soul can find no rest. Show me Thy way, O Lord ! Whate'er the warrant saith, Send peace, or send a sword, Send life. Lord, or send death. If they but show Thy way, I shall not say them nay. Earth-guides I leave behind. With all their ways abhor'd, — Blind leaders of the blind ; Show me Thy way, O Lord ! I care not what men name it, Whether they praise or blame it. Show me Thy way, O Lord ! And from Thy throne above. Oh bind me with the cord Of Thy redeeming love. That I may know at last Thou hast forgiven the past. 282 Marah. And when, at Death's decree, I cross the frowning ford, My prayer still shall be. Show me Thy way, O Lord ! Till the sweet heavens restore My loved ones evermore. A LEAVE-TAKING. Once more I leave The land that holds thy dear dead heart ; And though it cannot be but I should grieve, We do not part. These tears I shed Make sorrow's vision strong and clear. The dead are not far from us : Thou art dead. And thou art near. And though I go Where sunny southern waters wave. While northern winds shall beat the blinding snow About thy grave, — " He shall be for a Sanctuary'' 283 My heart is fed By faith that tempers every tear. The living may forsake us : Thou art dead, And thou art near. "HE SHALL BE FOR A SANCTUARY." When I am there ! beside my secret Friend, Of all my earthly friends beyond compare, A Friend no earthborn soul can comprehend Till press'd to earth with more than soul can bear ; The burden of its sin and sin's despair ; — When I am there, my burden I unbend ; Oppression cannot follow or offend. Nor poisoned arrow pierce me unaware, When I am there. Behind His shield, the world is fresh and fair, Though sin contest possession to the end. I know my safety ; Evil may not dare To cross the inner line that I contend : The devil himself can only stand and stare, When I am there ! 284 WHEN APRIL COMES, When April comes through sun and gloom, And tempts from winter's willing womb The life that gladdens flower and tree, The frisking lambs are on the lee, And linnets in the budding broom. All happy living things for whom Our kindly mother-earth makes room, Seem happier in their new-born glee When April comes. Alas ! alas ! its fairest bloom Is poor and powerless to illume The darkness which it brings to me : Henceforth, in all my years to be, I plant fresh flowers about a tomb When April comes. 28s A MESSAGE. I LAY awake the whole night through, With that old sorrow at my breast, Which, spite of all that I could do, Still came between me and my rest. Thinking of those that are no more. My soul went back to death's wild wonder, Sounding the gulf from shore to shore, That keeps our hearts asunder ; — Bearing the burden life assigns To him who spends his dearest breath Upon the land where no sun shines. And faints beside the gates of death. Worn out and weary of the night, I watched the eastern window awning, Where first would come the welcome light To tell me day was dawning. 286 Marah. And as I watched, a little bird Came twittering to my window-sill, And sang as if its happy word Would make me glad against my will. It gave a voice to what was dumb. And quenched in tears my burning sorrow : It seemed some unknown heart had come To bid my own good-morrow. And loud and louder as it sang, I seemed to hear a holier strain When from the east the dawning sprang, And smote the glittering window-pane. I questioned not, I rose from bed, I felt my life new courage taking : That bird was sent me from the dead, To keep my heart from breaking. OUT OF THE DARKNESS. What means this wondrous world of ours ? In heaven she wanders night and day, The circuit of her ceaseless powers, With suns to light her on her way. Out of the Darkness. 287 Now all her mighty mountain towers Roll into darkness, one by one, And now her bosom decked with flowers Is heaving upwards to the sun ; Now floating through the azure lake Of summer ; then anon she hears The brooding tempest rise and wake The crashing thunder of the spheres. Can all this grandeur cease to be ? And can this world have only been. By some inscrutable decree, The herald of a world unseen ? Can we, earth's creatures of a day, Who live and die upon her breast, — Men formed and fashioned of her clay, — Alone have life beyond the rest ? Strange thought ! Oh who can understand That voice — a whisper at the most — Which brings, as from a far-off land. The sense of something we have lost ? 288 Marah. Is earth itself not rich with dreams Of unknown oceans, golden-isled, For those who hold the holier gleams And elder instincts of the child ? Turn where we will, 'tis all the same, — The trackless wind, the heaving sea, The mighty rivers : all we name Are emblems of eternity. Ask of the snow-clad mountain peak What means the world ? no voice replies ; The hoary summit does not speak. But points thee mutely to the skies. Nay more ; stand there amid the snows. And strain to listening all thy powers, And hear the language no man knows, The murmur of a world not ours. Until these outer voices find The inner hearing of the man. And wake that power within his mind. That bridges more than reason can. Out of the Darkness. 289 The thoughts within our hearts all move To one conclusion : Life must lead To higher ground than we can prove ; Else wherefore should these voices plead ? For this is truth, all truths above : He never held the sacred fire Who knew the limit of his love, Nor wished it vaster, holier, higher. And then, when death takes those away Who stood beside us in the strife, Ah then ! shines out the great new day. The one reality of life. At that dread touch the threatening cloud. Once black with doubt, dissolves in dew. And all earth's voices sing aloud The song that maketh all things new. Roll on with all thy mortal freight ! Roll upward in the heavenly blue. Oh wondrous world ! By day and night We know the land we travel to. T 290 Mar ah. In every sunset's golden flight, The purple domes, the shining spires, The long sweet fields of level light, We see the home of our desires. 291 THE TWO SEAS. " When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee." Each night we are launched on a sea of sleep ; No doubts disturb us, no fears annoy. Though we plough the waves of the darkened deep, We know we are safe in the Master's keep, And the morning brings us joy. What dread, then, should daunt us, what doubt distress When on Death's dark sea we are launched alone ? In that deeper sleep, should we trust Him less ? Shall we limit to earth His power to bless ? Will the Father forsake His own ? He made us His children ; He bears us to bed ; And whether our sleep be the first or last. What matters it where our souls are led. If our trust in the God of the living and dead Should only hold us fast ? PRINTED BV WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.