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Cornell University Library 
 PR 409g.B4W8 
 
 The worn wedding ring, and other poems. 
 
 3 1924 013 213 263 
 
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THE WOKN WEDDING-RTNG, 
 
 OTHEE POEMS. 
 
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/cu31924013213263 
 
WORN WEDDING-RING, 
 
 JinJj Dt^tt ^aim. 
 
 W. 0. BENNETT. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 198, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1861. 
 3 /t 
 
^Hv 
 
 O't. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PUIKTED BV WEBTHEIMER AND CO. 
 
 CIIJCUS PLACE, FINaBtJRY CIRCUB. 
 
TO 
 
 MY FKIEND, 
 
 H. M. TICKNOIi. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING RING . 
 
 FROM INDIA 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 ADORATION .... 
 
 THE GREEN HILLS OF SDKREV 
 
 O BONHT IS MY husband's SHIP 
 
 HOME AGAIN 
 
 A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY 
 
 HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE 
 
 JIT OWN EASY CHAIU . 
 
 MOTHER AND SON 
 
 BALLAD ..... 
 
 A SOLDIER AM I . 
 
 THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT . 
 
 OUR OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES 
 
 9 
 18 
 25 
 29 
 32 
 36 
 39 
 43 
 49 
 .52 
 55 
 68 
 61 
 
VIU CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 A LAMENT ..." 67 
 
 Mr NATIVE TOWN 69 
 
 GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND ! 73 
 
 BY THE SEA 78 
 
 the! TREASDKE-FINDER ... . . 83 
 
 TO THE AUTHORESS OF " ART-LIFE IN MUNICH " . . 87 
 
 JUANNA ... . . . 91 
 
 TO A. B. , . .... . . 94 
 
 SONNETS ... . . . . 97 — 185 
 
 CRADLE SONG . . ... . . 186 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING-EING. 
 
 YocK wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, summers 
 
 not a few. 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have pass'd o'er me 
 
 and you; 
 And, love, what changes we have seen — what cares and 
 
 pleasures too, 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 O blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, 
 When, thanks to God, your low sweet " Yes " made you 
 
 my loving wife ; 
 Your heart will say the same, I know ; that day's as dear 
 
 to you, 
 That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old 
 
 ring was new. 
 
 l^ B 
 
Z THE WORN WEDDING-MNG. 
 
 How well do I remember now your young sweet face that 
 
 day: 
 How fair you were — how dear you were — ^ray tongue could 
 
 hardly say, 
 Nor how I doated on you; ah, how proud I was of you, 
 But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was 
 
 new ! 
 
 No — no ; no fairer were you then than at this hour 
 
 to me, 
 And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer 
 
 be? 
 As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis 
 
 true, 
 But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was 
 
 new? 
 
 O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is 
 
 there, 
 For me you would not bravely face, with me you would 
 
 not share? 
 O what a weary want bad every day, if wanting you. 
 Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
THE WORN WEDDING-EING. 3 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife — young voices that 
 
 are here, 
 Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet 
 
 more dear. 
 Young, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more 
 
 like to you, 
 More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring 
 
 And, bless'd be God! all He has given are with us yet; 
 
 around 
 Our table, every precious life lent to us, still is found ; 
 Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst 
 
 we've struggled through ; 
 Bless'd be His name for aU His love since this old ring 
 
 was new! 
 
 The past is dear ; its sweetness still our memories treasure 
 
 yet; 
 The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now 
 
 forget ; 
 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart tmto heart still 
 
 true, 
 We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
4: THE WORN WEDDING-BING. 
 
 And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to 
 
 grow old. 
 We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine 
 
 grow cold ; 
 Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to 
 
 you, 
 And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast ; 
 O may my parting gaze be bless'd with the dear sight of 
 
 you, 
 Of those fond eyes — fond as they were when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
FROM INDIA. 
 
 " COME you from the Indies, and soldier can you tell 
 Aught of the gallint 90th, and who are safe and well? 
 O soldier, say my son is safe ; for nothing else I care, 
 And you shall have a mother's thanks — shall have a widow's 
 prayer." 
 
 " O I've come from the Indies — I've just come from the 
 
 war; 
 And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are ; 
 From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades 
 
 well. 
 And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade 
 
 me tell." 
 
b FROM INDIA. 
 
 " And do you know my Robert now? O tell rae, tell me 
 
 true, 
 O soldier, tell me word for word all that lie said to you, 
 His very words — my own boy's words— tell me every 
 
 one! 
 You little know how dear to his old mother is my son." 
 
 " Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were 
 
 there ; 
 In all the gallant 90th did, your Eobert did his share ; 
 Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or 
 
 ball. 
 And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him 
 
 safe through all." 
 
 " O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's 
 
 prayer. 
 The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! 
 bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot 
 
 away! 
 And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?" 
 
FROM INDIA. / 
 
 " Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was 
 
 done; 
 In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised 
 
 your son ; 
 A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say, 
 And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day." 
 
 " Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue ; O husband, 
 
 that you knew 
 How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone 
 
 through, 
 All I have done and borne for him the long years since 
 
 you're dead ! 
 But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said.' 
 
 " He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly 
 
 know him, dame, 
 We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the 
 
 same; 
 For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, 
 But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you 
 
 soon." 
 
8 FEOM INDIA. 
 
 " is he really coming home, and shaU I really see 
 
 My boy again, my o\yn boy, home ; and when, when wiU 
 
 it be? 
 Did you say soon?" — " Well, he is home ; keep cool old 
 
 dame ; he's here." 
 " O Robert, my own blessed boy!" — " O mother — mother 
 
 dear!" 
 
ENGLAND. 
 
 O England, awe of earth, how great art thou! 
 Mother of nations, filler of the lands 
 With freemen, free-born, who is like to thee, 
 Or hath been? Egypt and the vanish'd rules 
 Of Asia swept the earth, but desert winds 
 That blasted races, and, death dealt, were gone. 
 Their records, ruins. Greece arose and lit 
 The dark with glory, but a falling star. 
 How bright, how fleeting 1 save that yet her thoughts. 
 Less mortal than her gods, illume us still, 
 Kome came and saw and conquered, crush'd and pass'd, 
 Smitten by freemen, she and all her slaves. 
 Gone are the thrones that the eternal sea 
 Heap'd riches on and empire — billows huge, 
 B 5 
 
10 ENGLAND. 
 
 That roU'd, and roar'd, and burst upon her shores, 
 
 Tyre and the pomp of Sidon — Afric's boast, 
 
 Swart Carthage — Venice, and the ocean rules 
 
 Of Genoa and of Holland — all are gone. 
 
 Spain is the mock of nations once who shook 
 
 Even at the utterance of her iron name. 
 
 These and their glories are but mutter'd dreams 
 
 That by the past's dead lips are feebly told ; 
 
 But we endure, we, sceptred heirs of power. 
 
 Victory and empire, fated to endure, 
 
 Gathering fresh might and glory through all time. 
 
 Our glory is our safeguard. Wall'd we stand 
 
 With mighty memories — buckler'd with bright fames ; 
 
 Our present, still 'tis pillar'd on a past 
 
 That lifts it, glistening in time's marvelling gaze, 
 
 An awe and wonder to the trembling world. 
 
 Yes ; were we aged — did our great life die out — 
 
 Were England palsied, as the nations are 
 
 That once knew greatness, phantoms of the past 
 
 Would rule earth for us, and the subject seas, 
 
 So long our tributaries, at the thought 
 
 Of what we have been, still would crouch and cringe, 
 
 And fawn upon our footstool ; but, thank God! 
 
 Greatly we stand on greatness — rock-like, plant 
 
11 
 
 Feet adamantine through the flow of time, 
 No muscle loosening; ever widening still 
 Stretch the broad bases that uprear our strength. 
 And thrust us skywards ; the hot vines of Spain 
 Ripen beneath our shadow ; the green world 
 The barks of Palos bared to Europe's gaze, 
 That is our children's heritage ; the isles 
 That chafe the tropic billows feel our tread ; 
 Lo, other Englands gather in the south, 
 And 'neath the glare of India we tread out 
 The bloody wrath that writhes beneath our heel, . 
 And shield the maddening nations from themselves. 
 Where is the earthly air that has not borne 
 The record of our glory? What far race 
 But, naming greatness, to its children tells 
 Foremost our triumphs, all the mighty names 
 That are our greatness ? For what land on earth. 
 Sceptred or crownless, can bid glory count 
 Hero for hero with us — ^fame for fame ? , 
 
 Earth boasts one Homer ; we, one yet more high, 
 Shakespeare. If Florence hush her soul in awe, 
 Naming her Dante, hell, and heaven's sweet air 
 Were breathed by Milton. Who to wisdom taught 
 How to be wisest? Bacon. Newton lived, 
 
1 2 ENGLAND. 
 
 And God's dread secrets straight man wondering read, 
 
 And all the worlds revolved in order'd law. 
 
 Watt made the might of Nature's primal powers 
 
 Our toiling bondslaves. Drake and wandering Cook, 
 
 Parry and Park and all their fellows trod 
 
 Billow and land, and made them paths to man. 
 
 Look, knowledge lightens thought from land to land ; 
 
 That did our Wheatstone. Fame, to name our great. 
 
 Were weary ere the flaming roll were told. 
 
 And still she writes, what glories ! on the scroll, 
 
 Courage and wisdom kin to greatness gone, 
 
 Those that the blasting path to Lucknow trod, 
 
 And smote curst Delhi and its brood of hell, 
 
 Havelock and Lawrence — names fit mates to those 
 
 Who broke the dusky ranks at Plassj first, 
 
 And far Assaye, and crush'd Ameer and Sikh 
 
 At Meeanee and red Ferozeshah, 
 
 And crowned our brows with empire. Crecy's fame, 
 
 And mailed ^oictiers' and Agincourt's had heirs 
 
 In Blenheim and Corunna, and the fi.elds 
 
 Of Wellington — Vittoria and its peers, 
 
 And the wild, earth-felt shock of Waterloo. 
 
 O ye old sea-kings, to whom your tossed decks 
 
 Were thrones to rule the lands from, from you sprung, 
 
13 
 
 In us lives on your scorn of all that pales 
 Weakness — in us jour hunger of renown. 
 Sea-roamers — grapplers with the might of storms — 
 Stern tramplers of the billows, fitting sons 
 To you were Drake and Hawkins, and the hearts 
 That with fierce joy, for God and right, went forth 
 And wrapped the Armada — the Invincible — 
 In their red wrath, and whelm'd it in the deep. 
 Brother to you was he whom our proud lips 
 Name proudly — Blake, who, many a bloody day, 
 Grappled with Dutch Van Tkomp, and thundered down 
 The broadsides of De Ruyter. Kin to you, 
 O ye old Norse hearts, who dared look on death 
 And greet him loud if victory with him came. 
 Were later glories. From your fierce veins sprang 
 The fiery blood of Eooke, who gave La Hogue 
 To glory — Monk and Shovel — Benbow — Hawke — 
 Duncan of Camperdown — Howe — Eodnet — he 
 Who at St. Vincent thunder-calmed the winds — 
 And of him, mightiest, whose fierce voice of war 
 Nile and the Dane heard, crouching— he who gave 
 To us the ocean's rule at Trafalgar. 
 So triumph grows to triumph. From the fire 
 Of by-gone fames we light the glories up 
 
14 ENGLAND. 
 
 That sun the present. Oh, should danger threat, 
 
 New vauntings front us, and the shook of war, 
 
 In the red smoke of battle shall we feel 
 
 The awful presence of our living dead, 
 
 Steeling our hearts to conquer. Hellas heard, 
 
 At Marathon, and Salamis, heard clear 
 
 The roar of Ares, and the hero shout 
 
 Of Ajax pouring flight amid her foe. 
 
 The stern dead Douglas won at Otterbourne ; 
 
 So Wellington our charging ranks shall hurl 
 
 Through future triumphs ; through all coming time 
 
 Shall foes' masts crash and struck flags flutter down, 
 
 We conquering in the thought we can but win 
 
 Whose blood is Nelson's. Nor is fame alone 
 
 The bulwark of our greatness. Strong we stand 
 
 In surer strength that fates us not to fall ; 
 
 For we have breathed the breath that knows not death, 
 
 Hers in whose might we dread not the decay 
 
 That palsies nations. At the mighty breast 
 
 Of Freedom were we nurtured. At her knee 
 
 Have we drunk in the mighty lore that gives 
 
 To nations immortality and youth 
 
 Eternal. To our hands she gave the spell 
 
 That masters monarchs. From her lips were caught 
 
15 
 
 The charging cheer of Edgehill, and the shout 
 That at red Naseby thundered down her foes. 
 Strong in her strength, we strengthen — conquering 
 And still to conquer, while we do her wiU. 
 Us does she gift with wisdom. We are wise 
 In Courts and counsels — all that builds up States, 
 And from the clash of thought do we shock out 
 Fit light to walk by — truths, by which we walk 
 More and more wisely ; but, O island home 
 Of freemen, thee a future beckons on. 
 Lit with a glory thou hast never known. 
 And great with greatness that for thee shall be. 
 Lo, thou hast walked in sunlight that is night 
 Seen by the radiance of that perfect day. 
 Then shall thy homes know wisdom. Not a hearth 
 But thou shalt ring with knowledge, as a right 
 Dealt to thy children — to thy sons reared up 
 Fitly, self-ruled, to share, ungrudged, thy rule, 
 And walk the ways of greatness, wide to all. 
 Theirs shall be all the victories of peace. 
 The piercing eyes to whose all-fearless gaze 
 Nature gives up her secrets — Art reveals 
 Unrobed her beauties ; theirs the ears that hear 
 That voice divine that unto slavish ears 
 
16 ENGLAND. 
 
 Speaks not — that breathing of the airs of heaven 
 That the high Muse's lips give forth through man. 
 Then, mighty mother, then thy eagle brood 
 All shalt thou train to front the cloudless sun 
 Of blasting glory with strong eyes that drink 
 Its glare unshrinking, scaling with strong wing 
 Height beyond giddy height of fame's bright air 
 To seats of Gods and regions of the stars, 
 Where dwell the immortals wise in rule to man 
 And guidance godlike, there in light to dwell. 
 An awe and gladness to the eyes of earth. 
 O England, might that future now be thine ! 
 Then shall the fulness of thy greatness be — 
 In war, in peace, the fulness of thy fame. 
 Then shall a race, how godlike 1 walk thy ways, 
 Eating of fruit, forbidden now — the fruit 
 Of knowledge, making men like unto Gods, 
 Knowing of good and evil — good, to embrace — 
 111, shun — that earth may liker grow to heaven, 
 That heaven's full blessedness on earth may be. 
 That the all-righteous reign of love may come, 
 Of right and peace, that wrong may be no more. 
 So great thou art ; so greater shalt thou grow, 
 Doing the will of Him who bade thee be 
 
ENGLAND. 17 
 
 Foremost amongst the nations. Know thou right, 
 And do it. Be thy future, as thy past, 
 Built to His glory. On His awful breath 
 Are rule and empire. At His word they rise, 
 They pass. So walk thou, that He be thy staff 
 In this thy journey onward — ^that thou be 
 The earthly shadow of his power and love. 
 His strength and mercy— that thou lead the earth 
 Unto His altar-steps in whom thou art, 
 Thy strength and succour — that the nations see 
 How great are they who surely trust in Him, 
 And know thee for the chosen of thy God. 
 
 18.58. 
 
18 
 
 ADORATION. 
 
 Unutterable ! Thou whom thought 
 Dares not to strive to comprehend, 
 Thou who no tongue hast ever taught 
 To breathe Thee, Nameless, as it ought, 
 
 Whose glories speech transcend, 
 Fitliest might silence, trembling, to Thee bow, 
 Yet would my soul in song soar to Thee now. 
 
 What art Thou ? Thee no mortal eyes 
 Have look'd on, even in holiest dream ; 
 
 Imagination, cowering, dies 
 
 Blind before Thee. Thought may not rise 
 To Thee, Height Supreme ! 
 
 How may the frail creation of Thy hand, 
 
 Thee, who created'st all things, understand ? 
 
ADOEATION. 19 
 
 What art Thou ? We poor things of breath, 
 
 We come and, even as dreams, depart; 
 Before time was, or earth, or death, 
 Eternal Now ! Thought wondering saith, 
 
 " Thou wert as now Thou art.'' 
 Thou know'st not time. Thou art Eternity — 
 That wert, and art, and evermore shalt be. 
 
 What art Thou ? Endless, boundless Power 
 Thou art — eternal, changeless Might — 
 
 Felt in the growth of fruit and flower, 
 
 In earth and ocean, sun and shower, 
 And all the worlds of night ; 
 
 For blossom, insect, man and world are Thee, 
 
 Thou stiU in all that hath been — that shall be. 
 
 What art Thou? Wisdom, to the wise 
 Darkness ; even as an unknown tongue 
 
 Is to a wondering infant's eyes. 
 
 Thy mysteries are to him who tries 
 To read them. Who, among 
 
 The sons of men. Thy ways may comprehend, 
 
 Thou, of all things the Ruler, Source and End? 
 
20 ADORATION- 
 
 What art Thou ? O how goodly fair 
 
 Is all around, beneath, above ! 
 The shows of earth, and sea and air. 
 Day's glories, night's, alike declare 
 
 Thee boundless, changeless Love; 
 Sunrise and sunset, all the seasons see 
 Show forth the sumless goodness which is Thee. 
 
 Where art Thou ? Who shall girdle round 
 
 Thy dwelling ? Who but Thou shall dare 
 To span the limitless profound. 
 Systems and worlds that know no bound ! 
 
 Yet ever everywhere, 
 Throughout all worlds, throughout all endless space, 
 As in all time, there is Thy dwelling-place. 
 
 Before all worlds Thou wast. Thy word 
 
 Throng'd the void depths of primal night 
 With suns. Thy breath the darkness stirr'd. 
 And the bright hosts of heaven were heard 
 
 Marching sublime in light 
 Through the appointed ways Thy will hath set, 
 Through which, adoring Thee, they thunder yet 
 
ADORATION. 21 
 
 Thou spak'st. Earth was. Half gloom, half light, 
 
 On its ordained pathway hurl'd, 
 Forth from Thy hand it wing'd its flight; 
 Perfect as now, good in Thy sight, 
 
 Through night, through day it whirl'd. 
 Thou breath'dst; plain, mountain, valley, desert came, 
 Pasture and field, Thy goodness to proclaim. 
 
 Thou willed'st them; and, at Thy will. 
 
 Earth heard the voices of her seas. 
 Felt rivers their deep courses fill. 
 Felt forests shadow plain and hill. 
 
 Knew storm, and calm, and breeze; 
 And, at Thy breath, fed by Thy sun and showers, 
 Up-sprang the wonder of all herbs and flowers. 
 
 Then was all life. Thou bad'st them be ; 
 
 And every breathing form came forth 
 That creeps the ground, or cleaves the sea. 
 Or wings the air — all beasts that flee 
 
 Man, from the icy north. 
 To the hot south ; imnumber'd, at Thy call 
 They were; or huge, or small. Thou madest all. 
 
22 ADOBATfON. 
 
 Last, crown of all, Thy mercy bade, 
 Even from the dust, Thy creature rise. 
 
 Lord of all earth, Thy goodness made 
 
 Man, of Thyself the passing shade 
 Unto his fellows' eyes ; 
 
 Him did'st Thou gift with thought and speech, and raise 
 
 To the high power to feel, and tell Thy praise. 
 
 Her too Thou mad'st, man's fitting mate. 
 
 Woman, creation's boast and flower, 
 Awful with beauty, on which wait 
 Reverence and love. Thou didst create, 
 
 With subtlest, sweetest power 
 To soften man, and bid him in her see 
 What wondrous cause for love and praise to Thee 1 
 
 Nor stay'd from blessing us each day 
 
 Is Thy still re-creating hand ; 
 Still Thou re-givest all decay 
 Withdraws ; all that death bears away 
 
 Ee-lives at Thy command; 
 Fair now as when it first was at Thy call, 
 Creation bids us bless Thee still for all. 
 
ADORATION. 23 
 
 Thy rains and dews with greenness fill 
 
 The earth. Thy snows still bear the spring; 
 
 Thou paintest flowers on plain and hiU ; 
 
 Thou bid'st Thy autumns to us stiU 
 Fruits and their harvests bring; 
 
 Sunshine and shadow, wind, and cloud, and sky, 
 
 Thunder and storm. Thee ever glorify. 
 
 O let all praise Thee! Let all lands 
 
 Thy wondrousness, Thy blessings tell, 
 More countless than the ocean's sands ! 
 Let my soul praise Thee, from Whose hands 
 
 Is every good, and swell 
 With song creation's everlasting hymn 
 Unto Thy glory, by MTiom suns are dim. 
 
 Me Thou hast given Thy works to see 
 
 With heart that feels in all Thou art 
 Beyond man's thought. What love may be. 
 What praise an offering unto Thee, 
 
 All- wise, that shall impart 
 The awe with which I fling my soul before 
 Thy power, and wonder, tremble, and adore. 
 
24 ADORATION, 
 
 Creator, Saviour, God, Thy mil 
 
 Made me. Thy will from woe and death 
 
 Upholds me. Lord, give to me still 
 
 Thy law to know, and to fulfil ; 
 Make Thou my every breath, 
 
 My every act, word, thought, and moment be 
 
 A hymn of thanks, praise, worship, unto Thee 1 
 
 Live Thou in me ! Lord, what am I, 
 But as a leaf borne on Thy breath ? 
 
 From Thee, all thoughts are born and die ; 
 
 All good, all griefs that purify. 
 From Thee have birth and death ; 
 
 By Thee the knowledge and the strength are given 
 
 By which to know and serve Thee we have striven. 
 
 Thou, All-good, make Thou my will 
 Even as Thou would'st my life should be ! 
 
 Make pure my heart, that it may fill 
 
 My days with deeds and thoughts, that still 
 Are blameless unto Thee ! 
 
 O Lord, through life, through death, to Thee I cry ; 
 
 Be Thou mj strength, my hope, eternally ! 
 
25 
 
 THE GREEN HILLS OF SUKEEY. 
 
 AN EMIGEANT SOKG. 
 
 O FROM Box Hill and Leith Hill the prospects are fair, 
 You look o'er the sweet vales of green Surrey there, 
 And, than Surrey's dear green vales, you never saw lie. 
 Or sweeter or greener, beneath the blue sky ; 
 O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey, 
 The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
 O Farnham, green Farnham, what hop-grounds are there 
 That with Farnham's fair hop-grounds can ever compare! 
 And what pleasure it were once again but to lie 
 On Guildford's green hill-sides beneath the blue sky ! 
 the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Suirey, 
 The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
26 THE GREEN HILLS OF .SURREY. 
 
 O Dorking is pleasant, and Dorking is green, 
 And sweet are the woods and the walks of Deepdene, 
 But for Dorking's sweet meadows in vain I must sigh. 
 And Deepdene's green woods will no more meet my eye; 
 But the green woods of Surrey, the sweet woods of Surrey, 
 The dear woods of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
 Ken,t has fair orchards ; no pleasanter show 
 Than her apple-trees blooming in April, I know, 
 Save the orchards 'round Eeigate, sweet Eeigate, that lie 
 With their red and white blossoms so fair 'neath the sky. 
 the green fields of Surrey, the sweet fields of Surrey, 
 The dear fields of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
 O Surrey, green Surrey, that I had been born 
 
 To a farm 'mongst your fields, with its hops and its corn 
 
 That I'd not been forced far, my fortune to try 
 
 Across the wide sea, 'neath a far foreign sky ; 
 
 O the green vales of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey, 
 
 The dear vales of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
THE GREEN HILLS OF SURREY. 27 
 
 Minnesota's green prairies have plenty for all, 
 And comfort and wealth here my own I can call, 
 Yet often and often my thoughts, with a, sigh, 
 Far to Surrey's green hills, o'er the wide sea will fly ; 
 O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey, 
 The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
 But sighing avails not, and wishing is vain, 
 
 And the home of my childhood I'll ne'er see again ; 
 
 The acres my labour's made mine here, I'll try 
 
 To make dear to my heart, as they're fair to my eye ; 
 
 But the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey, 
 
 The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
 'Neath the park limes in Betch worth, 'tis there I would stroll ; 
 O to walk but once more by the clear winding Mole ! 
 But no more shall I hear the soft breeze rustle by 
 Through those lime-tops, no more by the Mole I shall lie ; 
 But the clear streams of Surrey, the sweet streams of Surrey 
 The dear streams of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
28 THE GREEN HILLS OF SUHREY. 
 
 By the gray ivied church, where my father is laid, 
 Where iny mother lies with him, my grave should be made, 
 But, far from them, my bones, when my time comes, must 
 
 lie 
 Neath the rain and the snow of a strange foreign sky; 
 O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey, 
 The dear fields of Surrey I'll love till I die. 
 
29 
 
 O BONNY IS MY HUSBAND'S SHIP. 
 
 O BONNY is my husband's ship, the ship that well I love ; 
 And welcome are its coming sails, all welcome sights above. 
 There's not a tarry rope, not a spar that there I see. 
 Not a deck-plank that he treads on, but it's O how dear 
 to me! 
 
 O bright, bright was the May-time through which he 
 
 sail'd away, 
 But to me more wan and dreary than November was the 
 
 day. 
 O wintry winds beat keen with sleet — O cold seas rage 
 
 and foam, 
 But calm will be, and bright to me, the day that brings 
 
 him home. 
 
30 BONNY- IS Mr husband's ship. 
 
 O Katie, playing on the floor — O Jock, beside my knee — 
 When father sits beside the fire, how happy we shall be ! 
 O babe unborn that, when he comes, shall bless my happy 
 
 breast, 
 God send my baby safe to me, to kiss him with the rest. 
 
 And many a pretty thing he'll bring for little Kate and 
 Jock, 
 
 Carved wooden man, and funny beast, and shell, and spark- 
 ling rock, 
 
 A monkey, perhaps, so clever, with Jock and Kate to play, 
 
 And a rainbow-colour'd parrot, that will chatter all the day. 
 
 O never be a sailor, Jock, to make the angry foam 
 The terror of a loving wife and babes you've left at home ; 
 And marry not a sailor, Kate, to be his weary wife. 
 Unless you get one dear as he who's dear to me as life. 
 
 Move swiflly on, you lonesome hours 1 tick quicker on, 
 
 O clock : 
 And bring the hour when, at my breast, my baby I shall 
 
 rock , 
 When in my arms my blessfed babe shall laugh and leap 
 
 and crow. 
 And I shall teach its little eyes its father's face to know. 
 
BONNY IS MY HUSBAND'S SHIP. 31 
 
 O Thou who guid'st the stormy winds, O Thou who rul'st 
 
 the sea, 
 O God lools down in mercy upon my babes and me ; 
 Through storms and perils of the deep, O hold him in Thy 
 
 hand, 
 That we may bless Thy blessed name, when safe he treads 
 
 the strand. 
 
 Wives who are blessed with plenty, how little do you 
 
 know 
 The blessings that, on such as I, your riches would bestow ! 
 O John, come back with half enough to keep you safe 
 
 ashore, 
 And day and night I'll work that you may go to sea no 
 
 more. 
 
32 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 A soldier's wife's song. 
 
 And O, but he's come home again, 
 Home, home, home again ; 
 
 And O, but he's come home again, 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 'Twas only yesternight I knew 
 The news — they broke it first to Sue, 
 And I — I said, " Can it be true. 
 And is my husband home again !" 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again; 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
HOME AGAIN. 33 
 
 Ah, but it seems long weary years, 
 My twenty njontlis of heart-sick fears, 
 Of nights I've wet my cheeks with tears. 
 To think, will he come home again ? 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again ; 
 And O, but he's come home again, 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 Ah, when upon his neck I hung. 
 While to his breast like life I clung, 
 I mind me well his angel tongue 
 
 Said, " Wife, but I'll come home again." 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again; 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 O, sore have ached both heart and head ! 
 How have I shivered as they read 
 The lists of wounded and of dead ! 
 
 Ah, would he — he come home again ! 
 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 Home, home, home again; 
 
 And oh, but he's come home again. 
 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 c 5 
 
34 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 O with what sighs is glory bought ! 
 O why must battles e'er be fought ? 
 O would kings give to wives a thotight, 
 Who wish their husbands home again ! 
 And O, but he's come home again, 
 
 Home, home, home again; 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 But now, why speak of sorrow more ? 
 His ship lies rooking at the Nore ; 
 Two hours, and he will be ashore 
 Whom I've so pray'd for home again. 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again ; 
 And 0, but he's come home again, 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 O bless'd be God 1 the prayers I pray'd. 
 
 The wild, wild words to heaven I said, 
 
 Were heard ! O God, had he been dead, 
 
 My husband, who is home again ! 
 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again ; 
 And 0, but he's come home again, 
 My husband dear, to me I 
 
HOME AOAIN. 35 
 
 For ever will I thank kind heaven 
 That gives the gift for which I've striven, 
 By whom to these glad arms is given 
 My husband who is home again ! 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 
 Home, home, home again ; 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
 No more, no more, to part no more ! 
 O bless'd be God 1 the war is o'er ! 
 O hours fly by, till he's ashore. 
 My husband, who is home again ! 
 And O, but he's come home again, 
 
 Home, home, home again; 
 And O, but he's come home again. 
 My husband dear, to me ! 
 
36 
 
 A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY. 
 
 A SEA SONG. 
 
 The wind is blowing fresh, Kate — the boat rocks there for 
 
 me; 
 One kiss and I'm away, coz, for two long years to sea; 
 Eor two long years to think of you — dream of you night 
 
 and day-r- 
 To long for you across the sea — a thousand leagues away, 
 A thousand leagues away, dear coz, 
 
 A thousand leagues away, 
 While round the pole we toss and roll, 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 
 I half could be a landsman, Kate, while, coz, those eyes I 
 
 see, 
 To hear the gale rave by, without, while you sat snug with 
 
 me; 
 
A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY. 37 
 
 But I must hear the storm howl by, the salt breeze whist- 
 ling play 
 Its weird sea-tnne amongst the shcouds, a thousand leagues 
 away, 
 A thousand leagues away, dear coz, 
 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 While south we go, blow high, blow low, 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 
 I'm too rough for a landsman's lot — his tame life's not for 
 
 me; 
 "What could I do ashore for you? my fortune's on the 
 
 sea; 
 The mate of winds and billows still, I must my fate obey, 
 And chase the whale, before the gale, a thousand leagues 
 away, 
 A thousand leagues away, dear coz, 
 
 A thousand leagues away, 
 
 The blubber boil, and stow the oil, 
 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 
 Something I have and more shall have, if luck my fortune 
 
 be, 
 Enough at last a wife to keep and children round my knee ; 
 
38 A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY. 
 
 And do you love me well enough, Kate, from your heart 
 
 to say, 
 " I'm yours, though you must win me. Will, a thousand 
 leagues away, 
 A thousand leagues away, dear coz, 
 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 For you she'll wait; go, win your Kate, 
 A thousand leagues away." 
 
 One kiss ; the tide ebbs fast, love ; I must no laggard be, 
 Upon the voyage I'll hope, coz, will give a wife to me. 
 Pray for us, Kate ; such prayers as yours God bids the 
 
 winds obey; 
 By fortune heard, your loving word will speed us far away, 
 A thousand leagues away, my love, 
 
 A thousand leagues away, 
 
 God will befriend the lad you send 
 
 A thousand leagues away. 
 
39 
 
 HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 
 How pleasant is the farmer's life ! away from smoky 
 
 towns 
 He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and 
 
 downs, 
 And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns ; 
 And it's I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
 No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and 
 
 book, 
 Or cribb'd within a shop all day, tiU white and wan's his 
 
 look, 
 Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our 
 
 Suke; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
40 HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 
 As to your white-faced tradesman wlio fawns and smirks 
 
 and smiles, 
 Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles, 
 What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and 
 
 stiles ; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
 Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red with 
 
 health. 
 We never gain a penny's worth by lying, trick or stealth. 
 Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share 
 
 of wealth ; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
 How pleasant is the Spring-time! 'tis then we plough and 
 
 sow. 
 And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we 
 
 go> 
 While in the fields the lambkins leap and frisk their joy to 
 show ; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. 41 
 
 How pleasant is the Summer-time ! 'tis then we make our 
 
 hay, 
 And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day, 
 'Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke 
 
 and play ; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
 Then comes the pleasant Autumn-time when sheaves are 
 
 reap'd and bound, 
 And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go 
 
 round, 
 And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails 
 
 resound ; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
 And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white with 
 
 sleet and snow. 
 When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we 
 
 know. 
 With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our 
 
 hearts aglow; 
 And it's O I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
42 HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE. 
 
 Then luck to all good farmers 1 God send them still, I say, 
 Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each 
 
 day, 
 Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, 
 I pray; 
 And it's I'd be a farmer — a farmer I would be. 
 
43 
 
 MY OWN EASYCHAIR. 
 
 A FIRESIDE SONG. 
 
 When business is done, and I home take my way, 
 To rest me at last from the cares of the day. 
 Fatigued — wearied out quite — what pleasure is there 
 In flinging me down in my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 A friend I love well is my own easy chair. 
 
 From morning till evening — till night's coming down, 
 I'm busy at work without rest in the town, 
 TiU body and brain no more labour can bear, 
 Till I thank God at home is my own easy chair ; 
 
 Then my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 How welcome to me is my own easy chair. 
 
44 MT OWN EAST CHAIE. 
 
 In winter, as entering I shake off tlie snow, 
 In the fender my slippers are toasting, I know ; 
 And, fronting the bright blaze, I'm sure to see there. 
 In the full ruddy firelight, my own easy chair ; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosj chair, 
 Still ready for me is my own easy chair. 
 
 What rest, when I'm quite to its comfort resign'd, 
 What gladness of ease in its old arms I find ; 
 To be tired right out is a joy I declare, 
 But to taste the full rest of my own easy chair ; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 What rest is like that in my own easy chair. 
 
 My bed is a blessing, for which God I bless. 
 But bed than one's own chair must comfort one less, 
 For, sleeping, one can't know how blest one is there, 
 The waking delight of my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 How I feel the fuU rest of my own easy chair. 
 
MY OWN EASY CHAIR. 45 
 
 If I with the crosses of life am perplex'd, 
 If with men and their doings I'm worried and vex'd, 
 In its quiet I learn soon to bear and forbear, 
 And peace comes to me in my own. easy chair ; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 It whispers me peace, does my own easy chair. 
 
 But my chair'.s a confessor and counsellor too. 
 If a wrong I have done, or a wrong I would do. 
 Its quiet old voice not a failing will spare, 
 And wisdom I learn from my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 What preacher is like you, my own easy chair. 
 
 Round my chair, little faces, how dear ! come and go. 
 To get kisses — ask questions — their lessons to show, 
 And to puzzle their father, though sage I look there. 
 As if all things I knew in my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 Long may those faces throng round my own easy chair. 
 
46 MT OWN EASY CHAIR. 
 
 In my chair as I dream, there looks up from my knee 
 The face of an angel 'tis heaven to see, 
 Golden curls — azure eyes — baby's small voice is there, 
 Prattling up to my heart in my own easy chair ; 
 
 O my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 God keep that small form by my own easy chair. 
 
 Then the boys, they are heard with their voices too high ; 
 Harold's loud in assertion — Will's shrill in reply — 
 And my voice must be raised, calming down the storm there, 
 The lawgiver speaks from my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 Is the judge over stern in my own easy chair? 
 
 Then Katie, or May, as night grows in the room, 
 With the sweetness of some dear old tune fills the gloom, 
 As she plays, through my brain steals its feeling till there 
 I could dream night away in my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair, 
 What dreams come to me in my own easy chair ! 
 
MY OWN EASY CHAIR. 4? 
 
 Then rhymes come unbidden ; as feeling grows strong. 
 Through head, lip, and pen, fancies hurry along, 
 And songs leap to birth, to some still voiceless air. 
 And a poet I seem in my own easy cha>r; 
 
 O my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 The muse loves me well in my own easy chair. 
 
 O Emma, my good, true, my own darling wife. 
 Through the worst cares of day how it gladdens my life 
 To think that at evening your face will be there. 
 Looking love to me stretch'd in my own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 How dear comes that voice to my own easy chair. 
 
 What memories cling to it ! what thoughts, of delights 
 Of past Christmas eves and of gone New- Year's nights, 
 Of faces we see not — shall only see where 
 We shall go when we're miss'd from our own easy chair; 
 
 O my own easy chair, 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 Where they're gone, may I go from my own easy chair. 
 
48 MT OWN EASY CHAIE. 
 
 My gladness to gladden — my sorrow to cheer. 
 Still, old chair, be my friend while in life I am here. 
 Be my comforter still till all white is my hair, 
 Till death steals my form from my own easy chair ; 
 
 O my own easy chair. 
 
 My own cosy chair. 
 One day we must part too, my own easy chair. 
 
49 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 " Mother, the storm, how it shrieks without!" 
 " Fit night for the work, son, we're about." 
 
 " Mother, the razor's smear'd with blood." 
 
 " Fling it fax where the river comes down in flood." 
 
 " Blood on these hands, blood will be seen." 
 " Water, my son, will wash them clean." 
 
 " What will whiten the sheets and bed!" 
 
 " I'll wash them in peace now your father's dead." 
 
 " They'll see where the new-turn'd earth looks brown.' 
 " Son, with my feet I trampled it down." 
 
50 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 " O that dead fase 1 O hide it, night !" 
 
 " The quick-lime I strew'd will soon eat that sight.' 
 
 " God! I can see his mangled throat !" 
 " Silence, boy ! how you drivel and dote." 
 
 " Mother, his blood, it sears my soul !" 
 " Son, on mine alone be the whole." 
 
 " would my father were here again !" 
 
 " Thank God I that wish is wish'd in vain." 
 
 " Here, even to drive us mad with blows." 
 
 " Thank God ! from his heart his life-blood flows !" 
 
 " Here, though, mad-drunk, to kill us he swore." 
 " Thank God ! such oaths he'll swear no more." 
 
 " Here again, though he starved us dead." 
 
 " Thank God ! now my work will bring us bread." 
 
 " Here again, to repent his sin." 
 
 " Thank God ! to heaven never he'll win." 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 51 
 
 " that he were living, and dead were we !" 
 " Sleep, sleep, my son, and comfort me." 
 
 " How dare I sleep ! how dare I dream !" 
 
 " Without him, our lives like heaven will seem." 
 
 " Heaven ! — hell, hell, is for you and me !" 
 " God help us ! there will your father be !" 
 
 " Hell hereafter ! hell here !" " Forgot 
 
 " Will be hell's pains if we're where he's not !" 
 
52 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 THAT I were lying still in the grave cold and deep ! 
 
 waking it is weary and I fain, fain would sleep, 
 
 1 fain, fain, would slumber and fain would have dreams 
 That true true, is friendship and love all it seems. 
 
 O false is the sea-wind and false, false the sea, 
 
 And false, false the friend, wind and wave brought to me ; 
 
 O had he but seen Scotland's cliffs never more. 
 
 Or I never welcomed his false face to shore ! 
 
53 
 
 O bonny is the red rose, the red rose on the tree, 
 And bonny was one sweet face, one glad face to vae, 
 But now sick I lie, sick to see it in vain, 
 And it's only in heaven I shall meet it again. 
 
 O weary's the world 1 O how dear, O how dear 
 Was that fair gentle face I shall see no more here ; 
 And how sweet was the voice here I listen for still. 
 Though a word from those red lips my worn heart would 
 kill. 
 
 Accursed be the wind and wave, and cursed be the ship, 
 That brought to her young ears a word from his lip ! 
 May its dark timbers grind and break upon a cruel shore, 
 That its false hammocks bring men such black freights 
 
 My curse on the false heart where'er it may be, 
 The cruel, cruel false heart that wiled her love from me ; 
 But blessings, blessings on her wherever she may be, 
 For, false or true, to me she's dear — she's dear, dear to me. 
 
54 BALLAD. 
 
 O love, it can cherish and love can stab and kill; 
 O happy was my heart once, but now it would be still ; 
 It now would be still in the grave dark and deep ; 
 O death give me rest, for I fain, fain would sleep! 
 
55 
 
 A SOLDIER AM I. 
 
 I'm a lad to war bred, who's proud to wear the red, 
 And this coat and this bearskin you see upon nay head, 
 By the Russians they were seen 
 On the Alma's slopes of green, 
 And when Inkermann's grey hill-sides we heap'd high with 
 
 dead; 
 To fight is my trade, and I never am afraid 
 
 For my queen, lads, to fight, — for my country to die ; 
 This medal at my breast and these clasps tell you best 
 Where I've been— what I've seen, that a soldier am I. 
 
 O my grand-dad, before, the red coat he wore; 
 At Corunna long ago well he fought under Moore ; 
 
 On Salamancha's plain 
 
 He beat the French again 
 And through Badajoz's breach, quick their best back he 
 bore; 
 
56 A SOLDIER AM I. 
 
 Now he has a wooden peg, for at Quatre Bras a leg 
 A round shot took off, so he'll stump till he die ; 
 
 At Chelsea, safe and snug, with his pipe and his niug, 
 He tells his old tales, and a soldier am I. 
 
 At the Cape in the bush with the Kaffirs I'd a brush ; 
 When Canton we storm'd, I went in with the crush ; 
 Under Campbell 'twas warm work, 
 But they never found me shirk, 
 And when Lucknow we took, I was first in the rush ; 
 Now I'm home safe and sound, though I've had many a 
 wound ; 
 This scar's not a beauty ; yet, as I pass them by. 
 Many a girl still I see looks a side-look at me : 
 O they dearly love the red, and a soldier am I. 
 
 If you'd trust now to some, the French soon will come 
 To invade us at home here, but that's all a hum ; 
 
 Do you think that they'll come here 
 
 To meet a British cheer, 
 And to taste English steel to the sound of the drum? 
 
A SOLDIER AM I. 57 
 
 Should they have a whim some day to see us in that way, 
 We know, boys, they'll come to our shores but to die ; 
 
 With Enfield and with steel, I for one will let them feel 
 That we're Englishmen yet — for a soldier am I. 
 
 D 5 
 
58 
 
 THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT. 
 
 AN EMIGRANT SONO. 
 
 O Kent's a pleasant count/y, and how heavy is his heart 
 Who from her breezy hills and downs and meadows must 
 
 depart, 
 Who across the heaving ocean to seek a home is sent, 
 Far, far from dear old England and the pleasant fields of 
 
 Kent 
 
 Fair Surrey, it has grassy hills, and Berkshire's lanes are 
 
 green. 
 But of all the counties England holds, our Kent, it is the 
 
 queen ; 
 And never one of all her sons far from her ever went 
 Without a heavy heart to leave the pleasant fields of Kent. 
 
THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT. 59 
 
 Green Maidstone, it has orchards sweet, and Farleigh it has 
 
 hops, 
 And grassy fields by Medway's banks full many a white 
 
 sheep crops ; 
 But from Maidstone's blooming orchards, and from 
 
 Farleigh's hop-fields sent, 
 I shall see no more the Medway flow through the green 
 
 fields of Kent ! 
 
 Lenham, it has pleasant woods ! dear to my heart are 
 
 they. 
 For there I've nutted, when a boy, full many an autumn 
 
 day; 
 But nevermore a day by me will in Lenham's woods be 
 
 spent, 
 For I am sailing o'er the sea, far from the woods of Kent ! 
 
 How pleasant are the Medway's banks — its waters flowing 
 
 clear, 
 And the cottage by its grassy side, where I dwelt for 
 
 many a year ; 
 But on far Australia's streamless plains my last years 
 
 must be spent. 
 Far from the Medway's pleasant side, and the winding 
 
 streams of Kent. 
 
60 THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT. 
 
 O Kent, the sigli is on my lip, the tear is in my eye. 
 
 To think no more my longing eyes will see you ere I die ; 
 
 Yet, with brave heart in my new land, I'll strive to win 
 
 content. 
 But often will my thought be yours, O my own pleasant 
 
 Kent. 
 
61 
 
 OUR OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES. 
 
 O MANY a river song lias sung and dearer made the names 
 Of Tweed and Ayr and Nith and Doou, but who has sung 
 
 our Thames ? 
 And much green Kent and Oxfordshire and Middlesex it 
 
 shames 
 That they've not given long since one song to their own 
 
 noble Thames. 
 
 O clear are England's waters all, her rivers, streanas and 
 
 rills, 
 Flowing stilly through her valleys lone and winding by 
 
 her hills, 
 But river, stream or rivulet through all her breadth who 
 
 names 
 For beauty and for pleasantness with our own pleasant 
 
 Thames. 
 
62 OUE OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES. 
 
 The men of grassy Devonshire the Tamar well may 
 
 love, 
 And well may rocky Derbyshire be noisy of her Dove, 
 But with all their grassy beauty, nor Dove nor Tamar 
 
 shames, 
 Nor Wye, beneath her winding woods, our own green 
 
 pleasant Thames. 
 
 I care not if it rises in the Seven Wells' grassy springs. 
 Or at Thames'head whence the rushy Churn its gleaming 
 
 waters brings, 
 From the Cotswolds to the heaving Nore, our praise and 
 
 love it claims. 
 From the Isis' fount to the salt sea Nore, how pleasant is 
 
 the Thames ! 
 
 O Gloucestershire and Wiltshire well its gleaming waters 
 
 love, 
 And Oxfordshire and Berkshire rank it all their streams 
 
 above ; 
 Nor Middlesex nor Essex nor Kent nor Surrey claims 
 A river equal in their love to their own noble Thames. 
 
OUR OWN GEEEN PLEASANT THAMES. 63 
 
 How many a brimming river swells its waters deep and 
 
 clear. 
 The Windrush and the Cherwell and the Thame to Dorset 
 
 dear, 
 The Kennet and the Loddon that have mtisic in their 
 
 names, 
 But no grandeur like to that in yours, my own mast- 
 
 shadow'd Thames, 
 
 How many a city of renown beside its green course 
 
 stands 1 
 How many a town of wealth and fame, how famous through 
 
 all lands 1 
 Fair Oxford, pleasant Abingdon and Reading, world-known 
 
 names, 
 Grown'd Windsor, Hampton, Richmond, all add glory to 
 
 our Thames. 
 
 But what wide river through the world, though broad its 
 
 waters be, 
 A London with its might and wealth upon its banks shall 
 
 see! 
 
64 OUR OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES. 
 
 The greatness of earth's greatest mart, that to herself she 
 
 ' claims, 
 The world's great wonder, England's boast, gives glory to 
 our Thames. 
 
 What hugest river of the earth such fleets as hers e'er 
 
 bore. 
 Such tribute rich from every land, such wealth from every 
 
 shore. 
 Such memories of mighty ones whose memories are 
 
 fames, 
 Who from their mighty deeds afar came homewards up 
 
 the Thames? 
 
 In Westminster's old Abbey's vaults, what buried greatness 
 
 Uesl 
 Nelson and Wellington sleep there where Wren's dome fills 
 
 the skies ; 
 Here stands proud England's senate-house with all its 
 
 mighty fames, 
 These are the boast of Englishmen, the glory of our Thames. 
 
OUE OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES. 65 
 
 How many a river of the earth flows tlirough a land of 
 
 slaves ! 
 Her banks are throng'd with freemen's homes, are heap'd 
 
 with freemen's graves ; 
 Name the free races of the earth, and he, who tells them, 
 
 names 
 Freemen of the free blood of those who dwell beside our 
 
 Thames. 
 
 How many a heart in many a land yearns to you with what 
 
 pride, 
 What love, by the far Ganges' banks, by the green Murray's 
 
 side! 
 By Ohio's waves, Columbia's stream, how many a free heart 
 
 names, 
 O with what love ! the old dear homes they left beside the 
 
 Thames. 
 
 Eiver of England, your green banks no armed feet, thank 
 
 God! 
 No hostile hosts, no stranger ranks for centuries past have 
 
 trod; 
 
66 OUR OWN GREEN PLEASANT THAMES. 
 
 O may no foemen ever come, to threat your homes with 
 
 s! 
 
 But should they come we'll show them soon what hearts 
 are by the Thames. 
 
 Flow on in glory, still flow on, O Thames, unto the sea. 
 Through glories gone, through grandeurs here, through 
 
 greatness still to be : 
 Through the free homes of England flow, and may yet 
 
 higher fames. 
 Still nobler glories star your course, O my own native 
 
 Thames! 
 
67 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 WHO will be a husband to me ! 
 And who will my baby's father be ! 
 Soon my babe will be born and I'm all forlorn, 
 And who will comfort me ! 
 
 Ah, war is a trade by which widows are made, 
 And sore, O full sore is my heart afraid 
 That, among the red slain, on some battle plain 
 My soldier will be laid. 
 
 Alone — alone, I must make my moan ; 
 No pity my father's heart has shown ; 
 My mother will scorn my babe when it's born. 
 And show it a face of stone. 
 
68 A LAMENT. 
 
 O born to shame — to no father's name, 
 My baby will bear its mother's blame ; 
 Only my love and its God's above 
 
 Will smile on my child of shame. 
 
 God send the day for which I so pray 
 When my child in his father's arms I shall lay! 
 O were he but here, my soldier dear! 
 O God ! to see that day ! 
 
69 
 
 MY NATIVE TOWN. 
 
 Kent has many a town and many 
 A pleasant village by stream and sea. 
 
 But more pleasant, more dear than any, 
 Is my native town where I dwell, to me, 
 And leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich, 
 Dear to my heart will it ever be. 
 
 My native Greenwich, there dwelt my father. 
 
 And work'd for you till his early death ; 
 on what spot of the wide world rather 
 
 Would I first have seen day or have first have drawn 
 breath 
 Than in leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich, 
 That dear will be to me tUl death. 
 
70 MY NATIVE TOWN. 
 
 My boyhood's Greenwicli, — eacli childish pleasure 
 In my old dear home in your streets I knew, 
 
 Each childish sadness, and thoughts I'll treasure, 
 Pleasant to think of my whole life through, 
 Of school- day times that long since in Greenwich 
 Sweet laughs and tears to my boy's eyes drew. 
 
 My manhood's Greenwich, — 'tis there the gladness, 
 The griefs and cares of my life I've known, 
 
 But, whether my days brought joy or sadness, 
 Thought of with all, you've but dearer grown, 
 And joy and sorrow, my. native Greenwich, 
 
 Have but drawn you more close to my heart alone. 
 
 'Tis there I've work'd to see those around me 
 Know wiser lives than their fathers knew. 
 With friends have labour'd that still have found me. 
 Through all my years, to your good still true. 
 And while I am with you, O pleasant Greenwich,. 
 Still will I work, my town, for you. 
 
MT NATIVE TOWN. 71 
 
 Medway, calm through your meadows winding, 
 Through blossoming hops that sweeten day, 
 
 O Darent, the shadows of orchards finding 
 Wherever your gleaming waters stray. 
 Who mates you with the royal river 
 
 That seawards by Greenwicli glides away ! 
 
 Oxford and Reading watch its flowing; 
 
 A pleasant stream to their wharves it shows ; 
 By Windsor and emerald Richmond going, 
 Yet, scarcely a river, it onward goes, 
 But, here, where to Greenwich her domes it shadows, 
 With navies its broad breadth ebbs and flows. 
 
 O pleasant lawns by your chestnuts bounded, 
 
 O shadowing elms rook-throng'd through spring. 
 To me, by London's deep roar surrounded, 
 
 What thoughts of stillness and peace you bring, 
 Of Mays when I've heard your hawthorns' blossoms 
 Rustled apart by some brown bird's wing! 
 
72 MY NATIVK TOWN. 
 
 And, fate, were my lot but summer dreaming. 
 
 The lot of the toilless, careless few, 
 Greenwich, how blest were it, to my seeming, 
 
 To dream away life, my town, in you, 
 Watching Autumn turning to gold your woodlands. 
 
 Watching Spring-time leafing your boughs anew. 
 
 Ah, should my future from you be parted. 
 
 Should I not leave you, my town, with pain ! 
 Sorrow here finds me less sad-hearted, 
 Joy more joyous than elsewhere; fain 
 Here would my age in peace glide deathwards. 
 Here in your earth a calm grave gain. 
 
73 
 
 GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND! 
 
 A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA. 
 
 A THOUSAND leagues below the line, 'neath southern stars 
 
 and skies, 
 'Mid alien seas, the land that's ours, our own uew England 
 
 lies; 
 From North to South, six thousand miles heave white with 
 
 ocean foam 
 Between the old dear land we've left and this our new- 
 found home ; 
 Yet what though oceans stretch between, though here this 
 
 hour we standi 
 Our hearts, thank Godl are English stUl; God bless the 
 
 dear old land ! 
 " To England!" men, a bumper brim; up, brothers, glass 
 
 in hand! 
 " England !" I give you, " England !" boys; "God bless the 
 
 dear old land !" 
 
74 GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LANDL 
 
 To some we see around us here, it may be, slie was stern ; 
 It may be, in her far-off fields they scarce their bread 
 
 could earn ; 
 But though we thought our mother hard, we know now 
 
 she was wise 
 To drive us out to this new land that every need supplies ; 
 We left her side with heavy hearts ; we hardly thought 
 
 that then 
 We left her, soon with honest work to make us happy men.; 
 Then to her name a bumper brim ; up, brothers, glass in 
 
 hand ! 
 " Our mother land !" here's " England," boys ! " God bless 
 
 the dear old land 1" 
 
 And what though far she's sent us from her side ! we love 
 
 her yet ; 
 Her love we think of more and more ; her coldness we 
 
 forget; 
 As northwards faint her dim cliffs died, how clung our 
 
 eyes to her; 
 Each league that thrust us farther off, the more her sons 
 
 we were ; 
 And now our new land's dear to us, dear as it is, we own 
 Yet dearer still is the old land, our native land alone ; 
 
GOD BLESS THE DEAE OLT) LAND! 75 
 
 Then to her name a bumper brim I up, brothers, glass in 
 
 hand! 
 ' ' Our native land 1" here's ' ' England !" boys ; " God bless the 
 
 dear old' land !" 
 
 It may be she would call us back, back to her side again, 
 And bid us bring the wealth to her we've won beyond the 
 
 main; 
 Sweet it would be her fields to see ; but, dear to me and you, 
 Although the far old home may be, dear too we'll make 
 
 the new; 
 True to the land we're treading, boys, that's now our own 
 
 we'll be, 
 Howe'ei our hearts may yearn to her, our mother o'er the 
 
 sea ; 
 We've love for both ; we're proud of both ; but up, men, 
 
 glass in handl 
 Here's "England — she that gave us birth ! God bless the 
 
 dear old land!" 
 
 what a greatness she makes ours ! her past is all our 
 
 own. 
 And such' a past as she can boast, and, brothers, she 
 
 alone ; 
 
76 GOD BLESS THE DEAE OLD LAND ! 
 
 Her mighty ones the night of time triumphant shining 
 
 through, 
 Of them our sons shall proudly say, " They were our 
 
 fathers too;" 
 For us her living glory shines that has through ages shone ; 
 Let's match it with a kindred blaze, through ages to 
 
 live on ; 
 Thank God ! her great free tongue is ours ; up, brothers, 
 
 glass in hand! 
 Here's " England, freedom's boast and ours ! God bless 
 
 the dear old land!" 
 
 For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such 
 
 priceless worth 
 As -make the races from her sprung the freemen of the 
 
 earth ; 
 Free faith, free thought, free speech, free laws, she won 
 
 through bitter strife, 
 That we might breathe unfetter'd air and live unshackled 
 
 life; 
 Her freedom, boys, thank God ! is ours, and little need she 
 
 fear. 
 That we'll allow a right she's given to die or wither 
 
 here; 
 
GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND ! 77 
 
 Free-born, to her who made us free, up, brothers, glass in 
 
 hand! 
 " Hope of the free," here's " England!" boys ; " God bless 
 
 the dear old land !" 
 
 They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots lour and 
 
 threat ; 
 What matters that ! her mighty arm can smite and conquer 
 
 yet; 
 Let Europe's tyrants all combine, she'll meet them with a 
 
 smile ; 
 Hers are Trafalgar's broadsides still, — the hearts that won 
 
 the Nile ; 
 We are but young; we're growing fast; but with what 
 
 loving pride. 
 In danger's hour, to front the storm, we'll range us at her 
 
 side; 
 We'll pay the debt we owe her then; up, brothers, glass 
 
 in hand ! 
 '• May God confound her enemies ! God bless the dear old 
 
 land!" 
 
78 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Thou myriad-billo-w'd, restless Sea, 
 
 Thou awe and terror of the lands 
 That match not thy immensity, 
 
 Blue trampler of their thousand strands. 
 With endless life — eternal power 
 
 Thou mock'st us mortal things of breath ; 
 Ages to thee but as an hour. 
 
 Thou know'st not time, or change, or death ! 
 
 Thy fellows are the eternal air. 
 
 The might of storms — the stars — the night, 
 The winds thy wastes of waves that tear. 
 
 The sun, and the great joy of light. 
 These share thy life ; these, but the nod 
 
 Of Him thou tremblest at, obey; 
 These tell with thee the power of God ; 
 
 His ministers, with thee, are they. 
 
BT THE SEA. 79 
 
 Awful art thou when thou dost lie, 
 
 Sun-tawny, crouch'd upon thy sands, 
 Breathing the stillness of the slcy. 
 
 Fawning upon the trembling lands ; 
 Then, from thy couchant vastness, man 
 
 Such dumb and wondering terror drinks. 
 As through Thebes, hush'd and ashen, ran, 
 
 Gazing upon the breathing Sphynx, 
 
 But when, beneath the awful skies, 
 
 Storm-darken'd, in thy chainless might, 
 White with wild wrath, thou dost arise, 
 
 How are men scatter'd in thy sight ! 
 Then woe to those, the things of breath. 
 
 Mortals by whom thy depths are trod ; 
 Thou giv'st them and their vaunts to death ; 
 
 They know thee for the scourge of God. 
 
 Dust of the dust, we come — we pass. 
 But fleeting shadows, of time born. 
 
 By time devour'd, shades thou dost glass 
 In thy eternity — thy scorn. 
 
80 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Earth changes ; ages are not ; thou 
 Wert, art, and still shalt ,be the same, 
 
 Vast, boundless, changeless, endless now 
 As when light first upon thee came. 
 
 And still, as when through brooding night 
 
 The first grey sunrise heard thee raise 
 Thy thunderous hymn, through gloom, through light. 
 
 On high goes up thy voice of praise. 
 Thou symbol of thy Maker's power, 
 
 Thou giv'st to man's eyes, faint s£nd dim. 
 His might — His majesty,; each hour,' 
 
 In calm, in storm, thou speak'st of Him. 
 
 Strength is in thy salt breath, Sea, 
 
 Empire and knowledge — wealth and sway; 
 The might — the glory born of thee. 
 
 The dull and shoreless lands obey; 
 Those whom the decks thou tossest throne. 
 
 These are to kingship crown'd by thee, 
 Heirs of the rule thou mak'st their own. 
 
 Theirs who dare home with thee, O Sea ! 
 
BY THE SEA. 81 
 
 Chainless thou art ; thy shores are free ; 
 
 Earth breathes in sternness with thy breath ; 
 Chainless resolves are born of thee, 
 
 High thoughts and proud strong scorn of death ; 
 Who face thy wrath, nor fear, have lost 
 
 The dread of aught that earth has borne ; 
 They who, on thy wild billows tost, 
 
 Pale not, man's terrors well may scorn. 
 
 World-girdler, how the earth's great hearts 
 
 Their awful greatness win from thee ! 
 Lo ! to what height their stature starts, 
 
 They who have been thy brood, O Sea ! 
 Thy might into their souls has grown ; 
 
 Thy vastness awes us in their names ; 
 They are thy mighty ones — thy own. 
 
 With all thy grandeur in their fames. 
 
 What are the glories earth has given 
 Unto her greatest, told with those 
 
 For which thy mighty ones hafe striven, 
 Those which thy mighty love bestows ? 
 
82 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Columbus — Nelson — these, thine own. 
 Hast thou not given their fames to be 
 
 Mightiest where'er thy might is known, 
 Sharers of thy eternity ! 
 
 We are the playmates of thy waves, 
 
 Eock'd into greatness on thy breast; 
 Thou giv'st us all things — riches, graves, 
 
 Conquests, and all thy wild unrest. 
 We feel thy salt spray in our veins. 
 
 Thy tameless spirit in our souls ; 
 Through the free thoughts of our free brains, 
 
 Through our free speech thy thunder rolls. 
 
 Yet thou art death's ; thou, too, shalt be 
 
 Its prey, with earth and time, at last. 
 We die to live ; the heavens shall see 
 
 Thy end; thou too shalt join the past. 
 Greater, O Sea, are we than thou: 
 
 I, when thy mighty life is o'er, 
 I, deathless, then shall be as now, 
 
 Immortal, when thou art no more. 
 
83 
 
 THE TREASURE-FINDEE. 
 
 " Wander forth, into the sunshine — ^go thou, wander in the 
 
 woodlands ; 
 For the forest's haunts of greenness, leave the toiling toivn 
 
 behind : 
 Here, O mortal, worn and wilder'd, thou art poorest of the 
 
 poorest — 
 There, in leafy ease and stillness, lo ! a treasure thou shalt 
 
 find." 
 
 So in dreams the voice spake to him; and the sleeper, 
 
 eager-hearted. 
 Woke, and from the dreary striving of the city took his 
 
 way; 
 Breathing hopes in with the sunshine — hopes as golden as 
 
 the morning. 
 With a light foot hastening onward — on, to where the 
 
 treasure lay. 
 
84 THE TREA3UEE-FINDEE. 
 
 Ah ! how want shall lie behind him ! in the streets' loud- 
 clanging mazes, 
 
 He no more shall lack his station in the thronging haunts 
 of men ; 
 
 He, now vainly seeking burdens that his spirit groans not 
 Tinder, 
 
 Searching vainly, scorn'd and hunger'd, shall be served and 
 honour'd then. 
 
 Quicker beat his pulse, and quicker ; ever pleasure swam 
 
 before him, 
 As he near'd the forest's shadows, as beneath its leaves he 
 
 laiigh'd. 
 As his heart went bounding onward through its glooms 
 
 and verdui'ous alleys, 
 As his soul, its calm and coolness, ever deeper, deeper 
 
 quaif'd. 
 
 On, through ferny dell and hollow — on, by oaken foliage 
 
 shaded — 
 On, through sun-fleck'd paths he linger'd, with the 
 
 woodbines tangled o'er; 
 
THE TREASURE-FINDER. 85 
 
 Under beechen boughs reclining, lapp'd in odours, songs, 
 
 and murmurs. 
 Spake the tongues of Nature through him, as they never 
 
 spake before. 
 
 Swell'd they out in clearest music — swell'd in tones of 
 
 murmuring sweetness, 
 Into harmonies transfusing all of beauty pour'd around ; 
 Hues and odours, forms and shadows, sunny bursts of 
 
 summer brightness. 
 All that ear and eye were drinking, pouring forth in 
 
 measured sound. 
 
 And the darkness of his spirit, to the glad tones of his 
 
 singing, 
 Pass'd, as pass'd the gloom when D^vid sang, from the 
 
 dark soul of Saul; 
 Lo ! a glory brightens round him — round him Heaven's 
 
 own hymns are ringing; 
 From his kingly thought, Earth's bitter cares and weary 
 
 burdens fall. 
 
86 THE TREASURE-FINDER. 
 
 Home returns he ; home returning, how the world's keen 
 
 scoffings meet him — 
 All the purse-proud scorn of riches — all the sneers of 
 
 titled birth ! 
 Ah ! he brings a treasure back, that makes him heedless 
 
 how they greet him ; 
 Poor, despised, the Poet knows himself God-chosen great 
 
 on earth. 
 
87 
 
 TO THE AUTHORESS OF " AKT-LIFE 
 
 IN MUNICH." 
 
 See — the ways of glory lie 
 
 Wide before thee ; shall not God 
 Give thy feet the strength to try 
 
 These bright paths that Guido trod ! 
 On ! be bold ! in faith there lies 
 Power that tracks high destinies. 
 
 Nature lives : her colours see ; 
 
 These the touch of Titian caught ; 
 Glooms and gleams are given to thee, 
 
 All with which dark Rembrandt wrought; 
 All from yfhich they reap'd a name, 
 Nature — life, are still the same. 
 
88 TO THE AUTHOEESS OP " ART-LIFE IN MUNICH." 
 
 In the strength of truth be strong ; 
 
 Doubt her never, though she be 
 Held at times of all men wrong — 
 
 To thyself, a mystery: 
 Trust in nature ; work and wait, — 
 All shall own her soon or late. 
 
 Work in worship; let not earth, 
 Low desires, thy strivings leaven ; 
 
 Prayer — thine art should have the worth 
 Of an incense unto heaven ; 
 
 So shall all Murillo saw 
 
 From thy canvas ask our awe. 
 
 Life hath angels at its tasks ; 
 
 Earth hath heroes — martyrs now : 
 Show us these ; the present asks 
 
 Unto its own saints to bow ; 
 Virtues, mask'd in poor disguise. 
 Give their whiteness to our eyes. 
 
TO THE AUTHORESS OF " ART-LIFE IN MUNICH." 83 
 
 Holiest beauty to us show, 
 
 Such as heaven's own radiance wears, 
 Daily sorrows doom'd to know, 
 
 ToU and all life's common cares, — 
 Love and pity, walking earth. 
 Knowing not themselves their worth. 
 
 Yet why so ? — -to thee, the past, 
 
 Unto us a thing of death, 
 Lives a life, through thee, to last, 
 
 Breathes, before thee, living breath ; 
 Place — time — garb — is either strange; 
 Life is life, howe'er they change. 
 
 Look not thou through others' eyes ; 
 
 Wiser, see thou with thine own ; 
 Paint thy fresh thoughts as they rise. 
 
 Beauty to thy vigils shown ; 
 Numa-like, coy Nature woo 
 For the charms she shows to few. 
 
90 TO THE AUTHOEESS OF "ART-LIFE IN MUNICH." 
 
 Welcome fame, if fame be won 
 Through the plaudits of the wise; 
 
 Though the many crown thee, shun 
 Plaudits which the few despise ; 
 
 Hast thou genius ? — thou wast born 
 
 God to serve, through praise or scorn. 
 
91 
 
 JUANNA. 
 
 " What is it ails me, mother? 
 
 Now tell me, tell me, pray. 
 Why I'm dreaming all the night long 
 
 And I'm musing aU the day ? 
 I never laugh as once I did ; 
 
 I'm silent, dull and shy, 
 And still I must be question'd twice 
 
 Before I once reply." 
 
 " What your dreams are of, Juanna, 
 
 You first must to me show; 
 What you muse about, Juanna, 
 
 That I must truly know ; 
 And where your thoughts are, you must i 
 
 When you do not reply ; 
 Tell me this and then I'll tell you 
 
 Why you dream and muse and sigh." 
 
92 JUANNA. 
 
 " my dreams are still of Juan, 
 
 Of Mm, by night and day, 
 And my thoughts are always with him. 
 
 From me when he's away; 
 I want him always by me; 
 
 Will it be always so ? 
 Day and night, no thought but Juan 
 
 Shall I for ever know ?" 
 
 " Ah, I felt like you, Juanna, 
 
 When I too was fifteen, 
 And weU I know, my daughter, 
 
 What your dreams and musings mean; 
 But, better than your mother, 
 
 Your heart to you can tell 
 What ails you so, and if again 
 
 You'll evermore be well." 
 
 "I've ask'd my heart, my mother. 
 
 And always its reply 
 Is to ache when Juan's absent. 
 
 And to flutter when he's by. 
 
JUANWA. 93 
 
 " But Juan says, but wed Mm, 
 I shall be changed he's sure ; 
 
 Now, mother, do you think so? 
 Will that surely work my cure ? 
 
 " Ah, sweet, my own Juanna, 
 
 That I cannot surely know, 
 Though, with half the wives of Cadiz, 
 
 Men say that it is so ; 
 But with some like your poor mother 
 
 All hope of cure is o'er ; 
 They whom they loved as lovers. 
 
 As husbands they adore.'' 
 
94 
 
 TO A. B. 
 
 ■WITH AN ALBUM. 
 
 Traced on the inkless whiteness of this book, 
 What, dearest Alice, would its giver see ? 
 "White thoughts, as stainless as itself, should be 
 
 All that on its pure leaves should meet your look. 
 
 May loving pens give to each page a voice 
 Of counsel or consolement or delight, 
 Wise words to guide all wavering thoughts aright, 
 
 Sweet tongues your listening fancy to rejoice. 
 
 Caged in these pages, here let poets bless 
 
 Your ears with songs that catch the music heard 
 Of angels, songs by which the heart is stirr'd 
 
 To truth and pity, good and gentleness. 
 
TO A. B. 95 
 
 Yes, let the birds that all the seasons hear, 
 The sweet-tongued poets, here rejoicing sing 
 Songs that amid the roar of streets shall bring 
 
 Nature and all the glory of the year. 
 
 Here be their sunshine that is always bright, 
 
 Their woods, how green, even in the city's gloom, 
 Their noons that glow, hot through the wintriest room. 
 
 Their landscapes, ever stretch'd before our sight. 
 
 A precious casket, Alice, be this book. 
 
 Of priceless memories, that you here may find 
 Dear tones, unheard, that you would call to mind. 
 
 And absent faces on which you would look. 
 
 Swiftly we pass ; it may be, some shall fill 
 The voiceless grave, yet in these pages live. 
 Speaking the love that they, alive, would give, 
 
 To guide, rejoice, perchance console you still. 
 
 Life has its griefs for all ; if sorrow come 
 
 On your life's path, even this poor book may hold, 
 So stored, a holy wisdom, more than gold. 
 
 Nor, ask'd for comfort, to your grief be dumb. 
 
96 TO A. B. 
 
 And may the beauty that your eyes here view, 
 The truth and gentleness that here you find, 
 Be written by it on your soul and mind, 
 
 And, loved of all, live evermore in you. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 Feiends, could I live a life of art alone, 
 
 Or, through and through, weave in its golden thread 
 
 With the poor cares of life, which win life's bread, 
 Then were my leaden hours for golden known. 
 O but my days — my thoughts, to call my own ! 
 
 That golden dreams might glisten through my head, 
 
 Unscared by meaner inmates, — that instead 
 Of stoniest streets, earth's charms were to me shown! 
 Florence and Eome and Venice you have seen. 
 
 And Alpine solitudes sublime, that hear 
 Above their clouds, snowclad, stiU, cold, serene. 
 
 The avalanche to the valleys thunder fear. 
 Bared to your eyes, how bless'd! such sights have been, 
 
 Henceforth, how often to them to appear ! 
 
1 00 SONNETS. 
 
 You shall be thought of with the scents of Spring, 
 Dim violets' odom-s and all blooms of May ; 
 All the sweet sights of that remember'd day, 
 
 The thought of you straight to my eyes shall bring. 
 
 In hedge and elm shall thrush and linnet sing. 
 And the rook's pleasant caw shall cross our way 
 Where chestnuts all their milky cones display, 
 
 And gold-green limes their tender shadows fling. 
 
 Then of the Fairy Palace shall there come 
 
 Eemembrance, — of all shapes of beauty there. 
 
 Goddess and nymph and hero, white and dumb. 
 Striking a stillness through the gazing air. 
 
 Awed with their sweetness. So you have become 
 Link'd in my memory with all things fair. 
 
SONNETS. 1 01 
 
 You cross my dusty patli with dreams divine, 
 
 And like Spring's sunbursts, light my hours to gold. 
 
 You bring all thoughts of beauty. I behold, 
 Looking on you, the noons of Venice shine, 
 And from the skies of Eome her suns decline. 
 
 The utterance of your names brings thoughts untold 
 
 Of art's high triumphs wrought by souls of old, 
 Babe and Madonna awed to love divine ; 
 With you come Titian's colours to my eyes, 
 
 Prophets and holiest ones that Eaphael drew, 
 Titans of Angelo, and gods arise, 
 
 White goddesses revealed to Phidias' view. 
 No common thought — no poorer sight, but flies 
 
 From fair imaginings that come with you. 
 
102 SONNETS. 
 
 Nor, Alchemists, turning to gold the lead 
 
 Of my dull'd days, alone your presence brings 
 Frescoed and aureoled saints about whom clings 
 
 The reverence that we owe their limners dead ; 
 
 To later triumphs are your names, too, wed 
 
 In my glad thought — names that Fame softlier sings 
 As yet than Leonardo's ; her trump rings 
 
 But with the centuries-aged; yet theirs are read 
 
 Clearlier and clearlier, as the fresh years come. 
 On her throng'd tablets. As I think of you, 
 
 Memory of these we love so is not dumb ; 
 
 I look upon the lives that Gainsborough drew; 
 
 Reynolds is with me, and, lo ! I become 
 Still'd into awe as Turner's world I view. 
 
103 
 
 With you, too, comes the Shakespeare of all sound, 
 
 Handel, whose glory was to us reveal'd 
 
 With last Spring's violets, when the organ peal'd 
 His mighty hymns — strains fittest to resound 
 With Heaven's hosannas the White Throne around. 
 
 While on the jasper sea archangels shield 
 
 Their eyes from the brightness that His glories yield. 
 Then swell'd for us his ocean-bursts of sound. 
 And myriad voices pour'd Miltouic praise. 
 
 And chorus answer'd chorus — choir to choir 
 Telling His majesty, who was ere day's 
 
 New glory was, or night's. On wing'd desire 
 Our souls stream'd upwards — in a hush'd amaze 
 
 Kapt, like the Prophet's, up to God in fire. 
 
104 SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of poet-homes was our delightful talk, 
 
 And of sweet singers o'er the Western seas, 
 Whose golden fancies, like our summer bees. 
 
 Swarm music round us wheresoe'er we walk, 
 
 And all our cares of their full triumph balk. 
 
 Of Holmes, well-loved, we spoke, who this day sees 
 Your Charles steal seawards by your home's dear trees. 
 
 Of Cambridge's dear poet was our talk, 
 
 Who gave Evangeline with us to dwell, 
 And \vild, sweet Indian visions to our eyes, 
 
 With their strange beauty, which we love so well. 
 Of him I ask'd, with thoughts as sweet and wise 
 
 As those of which dim Academe's groves tell. 
 
 And of strong Lowell, whom two worlds so prize. 
 
SONNETS. 105 
 
 vn. 
 
 Nor were those, breathing not your Boston air, 
 
 Forgotten — Willis, dear for tender grace, 
 
 And Bryant, who by Wordsworth's side has place 
 For solemn thoughts and tones and fancies fair. 
 Blessings, how priceless to our world of care! 
 
 Would I might look in reverence on his face! 
 
 Nor were we silent of your gentle grace, 
 Eead, my dear friend, so bless'd with genius rare. 
 The name of Whittier kindled in us praise, 
 
 Deep reverence for high life, and such fierce fire 
 Of Heaven as scorch'd black Egypt. Of our days, 
 
 Stoddard and Taylor named we, and desire 
 I had your dead great in your talk to raise. 
 
 Of thoughts of tliat sweet hour I never tire. 
 
 F 5 
 
106 SONNETS. 
 
 Till. 
 
 And as the glory of the still May moon, 
 
 Gathering to fulness, soften'd the sweet night, 
 With English fames we lit the shadowy light, 
 
 Fames, like her brightness, to be greater soon, 
 
 But not, like that, to wane, but know a noon 
 Of perfect radiance in the future's sight, 
 Names that shall all the centuries delight. 
 
 Sweet to all coming ears as brooks in June. 
 
 Of Tennyson you told me ; and the thought 
 That you had lived familiar in his home 
 
 Made you a wonder to me straight, and brought 
 More teeming fancies than your talk of Rome. 
 
 Then, too, my ear our Brownings' dear names caught. 
 Your friends in the shade of Peter's mighty dome. 
 
SONNETS. 107 
 
 IX. 
 
 So you have bcjcii with Severn, and have heard 
 The tongue that spoke to Keats the last farewell. 
 His on whose breast our darling's dear head fell, 
 
 When his great life sank from his latest word. 
 
 Sight of that face — what thoughts must it have stirr'd I 
 Sound of that voice — what memories must it tell 
 Of him who, lapp'd in glory, now sleeps well 
 
 'Neath Roman violets, where no critics gird. 
 
 Such is the doom of fame. Even as a saint, 
 Ere he be crown'd with heaven, devils abuse, 
 
 So bat-eyed critics as a devil paint 
 
 Genius, to hail whose greatness they refuse. 
 
 Need is there, friend, for those who, o'ertried, faint, 
 Of such as you, lest we some Keats, too, lose. 
 
108 SONNETS. 
 
 What pleasant talk you bear across the sea, 
 To make you famous in your Boston home. 
 Beyond your Venice nights and days of Rome, 
 
 Your tales of Paris and of Italy. 
 
 For you have known those whom alone to see 
 Renowns one in your world across the foam 
 Of the wild sea ; with such has been your home, 
 
 And, were you here, yours still their homes would be ; 
 
 You'U be as he of our great Queen's great reign, 
 
 " Rare Ben," great Jonson, who with Drummond sat, 
 
 And, while his Hawthornden rare sack he'd drain. 
 Told of his Mermaid nights — of this and that. 
 
 His fellows — Beaumont — Ford — and gave again 
 Shakespeare's wise wit and Fletcher's radiant chat. 
 
SONNETS. 109 
 
 And you have paced the streets that Csesar trod, 
 
 And breathed the air that throbb'd to Cicero's tongue, 
 That heard the sweet- voiced odes of Horace sung. 
 
 When Jove on all Eome's templed hills was God, 
 
 And earth, through all its nations, own'd her nod. 
 There where the mighty Consuls from her sprung, 
 When victory close the gates of Janus swung, 
 
 Led nations captive, girt with axe and rod. 
 
 There, in her marble dust, your western feet 
 
 In marvelling awe, their wandering steps have set. 
 
 Treading on annals that still make hearts beat, 
 On memories that the centuries pale at yet. 
 
 Fetter'd she fell. My friend, that to repeat. 
 In your free land, do not thou forget . 
 
no 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 On being told that Charles Dickens had said that " the bust of 
 Clytie must have been modelled from a real Greek girl, or it could 
 not have been so beautiful." 
 
 Yes, so, great master of our smiles aud tears, 
 
 So lived a real Clytie in the far past, 
 
 When grew the radiance that shall ever last, 
 And Athens' grandeur glorified the years. 
 Art then is highest when it humbly clears 
 
 The blots by life on perfect nature cast, 
 
 Gives her perfection, not by a line o'erpast. 
 And to mar that still reverently fears. 
 O Lady of the West, who art as fair 
 
 As she was, and wast born 'neath rule as free. 
 Perchance those eyes, in marble down-droop'd there. 
 
 Lit Salamis' red victors from the sea, 
 Or dropp'd from Alcibiades' bold stare. 
 
 So, snatch'd from time and death, you, friend, should be. 
 
SONNETS. 1 1 1 
 
 " Should not the truest Art interpret rather than daguerreotype ?" 
 
 Yet did Dione, sunning earth with smiles, 
 
 Kise radiant from the depths of Phidias' brain, 
 Nor Titian's colours for her sought in vain 
 
 Who netted the fierce Mars in her sweet wiles. 
 
 Say not that highest art one charm beguiles 
 
 From beauty, though its unshorn strength disdain 
 Aught earthly that would circumscribe its reign. 
 
 See, Ariel and the serpent who was Nile's, 
 
 These the fine brain of him who has no peer 
 Did re-create from nature. Truth alone 
 
 Is mighty ; yet a mightier truth is here, 
 
 A truth God-given through man, who so hath shown 
 
 Shadow'd in him the might with awe we hear 
 Creating always all things to us known. 
 
112 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 IN THE DITLWICH GALLERY — BEFORE GDIDO'S " ST. SEBASTIAN." 
 
 May 22iia, I860. 
 
 And on this very canvas Guido wrought 
 
 The Christ-like beauty of these sainted eyes, 
 
 Fill'd but with God, even in these agonies. 
 How to the mighty master were they brought ! 
 From his own brain was this great glory caught ! 
 
 Whence did the radiance, here before us, rise! 
 
 Truly a sacredness untold there lies 
 In such rare visions. Given to man's thought 
 Are all his highest works of hand and brain ; 
 
 They seem but his ; these God himself creates. 
 Unless He work through us, we work in vain. 
 
 He, with pure heart and open soul, who waits 
 To do His bidding, he the crown shall gain, 
 
 And pass, through prayer, through glory's temple-gates. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 113 
 
 IN LONDON. AT THE NATIONAI, GALLERY — BEFOEE MtTElLLO'S 
 " HOLT PAMILT." 
 
 " We are suola things as dreams are made of;" — yes. 
 Friends, seem we not as breathings upon glass, 
 As wind-swept shades of clouds, that swiftly pass, 
 
 Seen by these changeless ones who ever bless 
 
 With the great glory of their loveliness. 
 All generations. Even as the grass, 
 We come and are not, while our works, alas 1 
 
 Mock our mortality and nothingness. 
 
 Were earth otir all, and did no lustres He, 
 Of heaven, before our ever-aging eyes, 
 
 Well might we cry with him, who daily by 
 
 Great Leonardo's blest ones pass'd, " Man dies ; 
 
 " These radiant ones are of eternity; 
 " We are the shadows ; they, realities." 
 
114 SOKNETS. 
 
 ON A VIOLET-STAND. 
 
 On such a shape, Aspasia loved to heap 
 
 Hymettus' thyme, ILissus' violets. 
 
 To charm to softness Pericles, with frets 
 Of the Pnyx heated, — all his soul to steep 
 In hours of her and joy ; or, years to leap, 
 
 Some Eoman Lydia's hand, ere time forgets 
 
 Lost Pompeii, till some distant century lets 
 Life's light upon its deaths, in hyacinths, deep 
 In purple as the violet skies on high. 
 
 Might hide with Nature its as beauteous art, 
 Even on that morn when hideous death drew nigh 
 
 Those fair Italian homes, while her young heart 
 Dream'd not Vesuvius soon, 'neath the black sky, 
 
 Would from its womb the entombing torrent start 
 
SONNETS. 115 
 
 AT BOME — IKOM THE HILI. OF THE CAPITOL. 
 
 Look ! for this hill has visions ; hush, and see 
 Their passage; hark to that stiU nearing shout. 
 That thunder-burst of joy ; all Rome is out 
 
 To-day; to-day a holiday must be; 
 
 Pompeius triumphs. O'er that tossing sea 
 Of up-turned faces — o'er the surging rout, 
 See, the great conqueror, glory-girt about 
 
 "With gifts and treasures rent from victory, 
 
 With monarchs manacled — great Asian kings. 
 Rules and dominions crumbled in Rome's ire. 
 
 Hark to the blare of brazen trumpets ; things, 
 Unseen of Rome till now, her gazing tire, 
 
 Tower'd elephants and spoils of virhioh earth rings. 
 Can grander vision, friends, your thought desire ! 
 
116 SONNETS. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE COLISiEUM. 
 
 Here was the heart of Eome. Her lust of blood, 
 
 'Gainst which so long the nations of the earth 
 
 Cried vainly, here grew fiercer, or had birth, 
 Lapping in this vast murder-house the flood 
 Welling from veins of the wild savage brood 
 
 Of the strong North, here slaughter'd for her mir-th. 
 
 Yet not in vain arose that cry of earth. 
 The avenging angel at God's foot-stool stood. 
 Sin is decay. The pitiless shall meet 
 
 No pity. Comes the Goth ; the avenging day 
 Hastens to that fell call. The nations' feet 
 
 Quicken to hear it, on their road to slay. 
 To that, their hearts with lust of carnage beat ; 
 
 Smit by that cry, Eome's red life shrieks away. 
 
SONNETS. 117 
 
 What! you have look'd on Landor, and have heard 
 
 His agM lips utter Miltonic thought, 
 
 In tones that seem from Bacon's great tongue caught, 
 Rich, with what wisdom, in each weighty word. 
 Speech by which they, fit for such food, are stirr'd 
 
 To brace their lives to noblest acts, — are taught 
 
 The Spartan mood by which the strong are brought 
 To near all glory like Jove's dazeless bird,. 
 To know all is, for those who dare, endure, 
 
 And grasp success with hands that crush all stings. 
 O, old man eloquent, your place is sure. 
 
 Your place, how high, amid thought's sceptred kings, 
 The loftier lights and leaders of our race 
 
 To right and good, and scorn of meaner things. 
 
118 
 
 To tread Rome with him, did not your heart beat. 
 With him who so could raise its dead to sight. 
 With him who so with wonder and delight 
 
 Fills the fit soul whose eyes his great thoughts meet, 
 
 With Robert Browning ? Fittest are his feet 
 To tread the marble of Rome's dust aright. 
 Fittest his words to grow to the great height 
 
 Of the great memories of her every street. 
 
 Fit audience has his genius found, if few 
 
 Yet, for the souls of most are small and poor. 
 
 Many the years that died ere England knew 
 
 Her Milton, ere her Wordsworth's place was sure. 
 
 Slowliest the mightiest glory ever grew; 
 Slowly his grows — how surely to endure. 
 
SONNETS. 119 
 
 XXI. 
 
 BEEOBE WILKIE's " COLUMBUS." 
 
 So look'd the great world-seeker. In neglect, 
 In poverty and the world's scorn, erect 
 
 On the broad stand of the earth-changing thought 
 
 Which the dumb West from out the Past's night caught 
 To light and life. Yet, friend, how nearly wreck'd 
 Seem'd that great thought which God will'd should connect 
 
 The far, dim vast, which then his clear sight sought. 
 
 And the old world, first wed in his clear thought. 
 What at that moment was in that broad brow ! 
 
 The gleam of the white multitudinous sails. 
 The ocean-shuttles ever crossing now! 
 
 The march of man towards where the sunset pales ! 
 Of rules to which the coming times shall bow! 
 
 Friend, lo, a God-sent purpose never fails. 
 
120 SONNETS. 
 
 AT SOUTH KENSINGTON IN THE TTTENEE GALLEKT. 
 
 " Wisdom doth dwell with children round her knee," 
 
 And, looking on these glories, they are wise 
 
 Who gaze on them with child-like hearts and eyes, 
 Content to feel, not doubt of what they see. 
 Truly a reverent spirit there should be 
 
 In eyes that look on things the highest prize 
 
 The highest. If they see not all that lies 
 Before them, they bring not the souls to see ; 
 Therefore, dear Friends, has beauty unto you 
 
 Bared all her radiance, nor with any veil 
 Dimm'd her fuU lustre to your reverent view ; 
 
 Therefore, before her, could you never fail 
 To see the loveliness reveal'd to few, 
 
 Deep hidden from souls, than yours, more gross and frail. 
 
121 
 
 AT DULWICH. 
 
 Ah, the dear goodness of our gracious God ! 
 
 Oh what a glory gilds the fields to-day ! 
 
 The "glad light greeu'' of blithe old Chaucer's May 
 Gleams from the grass and laughs up as 'tis trod ; 
 There, to warm wooing airs sweet cowslips nod. 
 
 While, from their honey'd cups, bees boom away; 
 
 Bright is the lime; bright is the willow's spray; 
 Glory and joy are everywhere abroad, 
 
 Nor from our hearts that laugh aloud His praise, 
 His goodness who has made the Spring so fair, 
 
 Down scattering such bright blessings on our ways, 
 Painting His power and mercy everywhere. 
 
 O well our hearts may we in gladness raise 
 To Him who takes for us such gracious care ! 
 
122 SONNETS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL — BEFOEE MICHAEL ANGELo's 
 " LAST JUDGMENT." 
 
 So the last trump shall sound, and all earth's dead 
 
 Shall gather to the mighty angel's cry, 
 
 All souls that ever wore mortality, 
 All flesh, to death, that ever bow'd the head. 
 Then from the throne shall the awful words be said, 
 
 Utter'd by Highest Justice, crown'd on high, 
 
 Dooming the unrighteous everlastingly. 
 While into bliss the pure of heart are led. 
 
 O what a soul was his this sight who saw, 
 Who gave its terrors by us to be seen 
 
 To seize all living souls with trembling awe. 
 As if, with him, spectators they have been 
 
 Of the just vengeance of eternal law. 
 Or shook appall'd even now in the dread scene. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 123 
 
 AT DtTLWIOa. 
 
 Dear lie the meadows of full many a May, 
 
 Deep-grass'd and daisied, in my memory's sight ; 
 
 Elms of how many a Spring, my thoughts, delight; 
 Blooms of what vanish'd years make sweet my way ; 
 Dark hours are glorified with day on day 
 
 Departed, set into the past's dim night; 
 
 All lustres of my past, my present, light, 
 And dearer grow the longer that they stay. 
 
 Yet this glad day more dear will memory mark ; 
 This day more surely will oblivion spurn ; 
 
 Ne'er to be whelm'd in the pursuing dark. 
 But dearer, fairer, ever to return. 
 
 Till, cold, my ear can hear no more May's lark. 
 And suns no more for my closed eyes shall burn. 
 
124 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 AT ANTWERP — BEFOKE EUBENS' " DESOEKX FROM 
 THE CKOSS." 
 
 O holiest spirit, most bless'd that e'er wore 
 
 On earth these frail robes of mortality, 
 So for our human sake, Christ, didst thou die 
 
 The death that thieves and malefactors bore, 
 
 Making the Cross, how sacred ! evermore. 
 " God, why hast thou forsaken me 1" — that cry 
 
 Shrieks through all ages thy wan agony 
 As when, first heard, the accursed night it tore. 
 
 And Mary knew it by the abhorred tree, 
 And swoon'd from that wild wail in love and awe. 
 
 And thou who here hast given to man to see 
 What shuddering earth, darkening her darkness, saw. 
 
 Surely the tongue of God thou cam'st to be. 
 To tell how He was given to death's fell maw ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 125 
 
 Venice! Dear friends, how comes she to your eyes? 
 
 An Aphrodite rising from the sea, 
 
 Clasp'd half in waves — half in fierce glare, does she. 
 As Turner painted her, before you rise? 
 Or, nearer view'd, where the gondola plies 
 
 The oar through palaces that ruin see 
 
 Wan in their chambers, seems she, friends, to be 
 She who on Canaletto's canvas lies ? 
 
 " The Stones of Venice" you have brought away 
 For after- visions in your Boston air; 
 
 The halls where Titian's colours pale the day, 
 Which Veronese so throng'd with forms, how fair! 
 
 Which Tintoretto dyed — these with you stay 
 With the flush'd splendours of St. Mark's bright square. 
 
12B SONNETS. 
 
 On the Eialto, too, your steps have been 
 
 And press'd the stones that Shylock's garment swept, 
 
 What time, blood-thirsting, he the appointment kept 
 With him who spat upon his gabardine. 
 The white doge-haunted palace you have seen 
 
 Where Byron loved and wrote; your hearts have leapt. 
 
 Thinking, beneath those leads, what souls have wept 
 Whom from the awful Ten no love could screen. 
 
 And you have stilly cut her hush'd lagune, 
 Your gondolier low- chanting to the oar. 
 
 While the soft splendour of the quiet moon 
 Silver'd her palaces, peopled no more 
 
 With rule and grandeur. Friends, may God fuU soon 
 Unto her hands, freedom and strength restore. 
 
SONNETS. 127 
 
 Ah, those Italian lakes ! My town-dull'd eyes 
 Weary to see them, lapp'd in the blue shade 
 By the deep hush of their still mountains made, 
 
 Dark with the purple of their violet skies, 
 
 Or crimson-stain'd with all the thousand dyes 
 That flush their waters when their sunsets fade, 
 Or purpled with deep nights whose moons are stay'd 
 
 To glass them in their deeps till morning rise. 
 Ah me, what music is in each sweet name ! 
 
 Como — La Garda — what sweet sights they bring 
 To eyes that have not seen them, to their shame ! 
 
 What calming music to the soul they sing ! 
 
 Dear friends, their glassy sweetness with you came. 
 
 And with you ever to my thoughts wUl cling. 
 
128 SONNETS. 
 
 When the laburnum droops its golden rain. 
 And lilacs flush with gladness all our ways, 
 When red and white-hued hawthorns scent our days, 
 
 For you in thought we shall not look in vain ; 
 
 With the dear May-time you shall come again. 
 Violets shall whisper of you — daisies raise 
 Your forms, dear friends, your faces to our gaze, 
 
 As when we saw together field and lane. 
 
 And laugh 'd aloud in gladness at the Spring. 
 
 Come, let us please us with the dear-loved thought 
 
 That thrushes of you, friends, shall ever sing, 
 That by the larks' your voices shall be brought. 
 
 That, when each hedge and bough with twitters ring. 
 From each sweet sound, your dear tones shall be caught. 
 
SONNETS. 129 
 
 XXXJ. 
 
 BEFORE THE DULTVIOH GALLERY. 
 
 O cherry-tree, in my hush'd thoughts still white 
 
 As when we saw your sweet snows in the sun! 
 
 Bless God! the joy of beauty's but begun 
 When the eye sees it; bright and yet more bright. 
 It shines for ever in the memory's sight, 
 
 With gathering lovehness from fancy won ; 
 
 Therefore is beauty's value summ'd by none, 
 Its priceless endlessness of new delight. 
 
 Friends, as you speed across the summer sea. 
 Golden beneath the glory of the day, 
 
 Or silver'd by the night, that tree shall be 
 A haunting gladness which will not away ; 
 
 There inyour thought 'twill bloom eternally. 
 An endless memory of our hours of May. 
 
 G 5 
 
J 30 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXII. 
 IN THE CAPITOL — BEFORE " THE FAUN OF PkAXITELES," 
 
 Which suggested to Hawthorne the Donatello of his 
 " Transformation." 
 
 Look I From tUs Faun the teeming brain of him 
 
 Who is your glory, gather'd mystic lore, 
 
 Which a new birth of strange, sweet wonder bore, 
 Of airy shadows that before us swim. 
 Of teachings, through their veiling beauty dim, 
 
 Yet sweet unto our souls for eyermore. 
 
 So beauty ever adds to its dear store ; 
 Its sweets, the forms that hold them, overbrim, 
 
 And flow into the soul that for them waits, 
 Soon from its depths, new-born, to re-appear. 
 
 So beauty, beauty, evermore creates ; 
 Laugh on, O Faun ! for ever laughing here ; 
 
 Henceforth your mirth's sweet worth, man higher rates! 
 Henceforth, to all you shall be doubly dear ! 
 
SONNETS. 131 
 
 IN THE VATICAN— BEl'OBE THE APOLLO BELVEDERE. 
 
 Wonder and worship ! Lo, this place hath grown 
 
 Awful with the still presence of the god ! 
 
 Yonder, behold him, glorious as he trod 
 The air triumphant. There he breathes in stone 
 Immortal anger, but not wrath alone, 
 
 But radiance that rains violets on the sod, 
 
 And calls up amaranth where his feet have trod, 
 And hyacinths' purple, by his glory sown. 
 
 Utter no word ! The chamber's air is fill'd 
 Not with his glory only, but with theirs. 
 
 The great of centuries, who here have still'd 
 Their thoughts and dreams, ambitions, fears and cares. 
 
 Who, in the air those radiant splendours gild. 
 To give one thought to aught less heavenly, dares ? 
 
132 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 AT THE SOOTH KENSINGTON MtTSEUM — BEFOKE " THK TUUNEIiS.' 
 
 May 26th, IS60. 
 
 Look ! How his colours glorify the place 
 
 With lustres by no eyes of mortals seen, 
 
 Save his and such as his, whose sight hath been 
 Strengthen'd to look on Nature's robeless grace, 
 The awful beauty of her unveil'd face. 
 
 Yet seems she here transfigured in each scene — 
 
 Bright with a glory that hath never been ; 
 Immortal radiance shines from out all space, 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land," 
 Ideal splendours that his soul's eye saw, 
 
 Mash'd into colours from his radiant hand. 
 Scenes that seem sinning against truth's clear law 
 
 To grosser gazers who before them stand, 
 But stilling you, dear friends, to praise and awe. 
 
133 
 
 XXXV. 
 AT FLOKENCB — BEFOEE THE " TENDS DE MEDICI." 
 
 Bless'd was the soul to which this marble thought. 
 
 In its still perfectness, by God was given. 
 
 Which stood translated then from earth to heaven, 
 Up to the gods' high courts an instant caught. 
 By strong desire of that for which it sought. 
 
 The immortal grace for which its thought had striven. 
 
 And, lol the veiling clouds a moment riven. 
 He, to our eyes, eternal beauty brought. 
 
 The radiance of this glory, to all time. 
 There stands she with the eyes that ruin'd Troy ; 
 
 There looks she as she press'd hush'd Ida's thyme. 
 And smiled to love and death the Dardan boy. 
 
 Earth's beauty perfected to grace sublime. 
 The Queen of all the fulness of all joy. 
 
134 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 IX THE VATICAN — BEFOKE THE ITJESCOES OF THE 
 "STANZE Dl RAFFAELLO." 
 
 What dreams divine — what fancies not of earth, 
 What sweet imaginings, how heavenly fair, 
 Possess'd these rooms when Eaphael breathed their air 
 
 And to their blest walls gave eternal worth 
 
 With these fair forms which from his brain had birth. 
 Here is his presence round us ever3rwhere. 
 In the bright glory which these still ones share 
 
 With those whose grandeur girdles the world's girth, 
 The shapes of awfulness which hover near, 
 
 The Sistine's wonders, from the mighty thought 
 Of Angelo. Fitly the greatness here 
 
 Companions his, whose wondrous pencil wrought 
 There the dread scene that shakes all souls with fear. 
 
 With awe and horror from God's presence caught. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 135 
 
 ?xxvu. 
 
 IN ITALY — 1860. 
 
 Friends, you have dwelt not only in her Past, 
 
 But her proud Present, for 't was yours to see 
 
 The surging waves of tossing Italy 
 Stilling from tempest, with their sky o'ercast, 
 Foretelling storm, how soon, how long to last. 
 
 Ere the great land of bygone rules be free, 
 
 And know no fetterers but the engirdling sea 
 And the embracing mountains round her cast. 
 
 You to the freedom of your Western hearts 
 Caught the dear accents, alien to her tongue 
 
 So long, the shout that from her Florence starts, 
 The cry that, to her God, Bologna flung, 
 
 And in your prayers and praise all had their parts. 
 Who, when she rose to smite, to help her sprung. 
 
136 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 So this is yours, our Wordsworth's pictured face, 
 Great poet of the quiet lakes and hUIs, 
 Who with the gentle peace of nature stills 
 
 The fever of our lives. A peaceful place 
 
 God gave him 'mongst our toils, so the great race 
 He sprung from, 'mid their labours, cares and ills, 
 With the calm blessedness he felt, he fills. 
 
 With love of wisdom, beauty, good and grace. 
 When you last came, you held his living hand, 
 
 And, with what reverence, heard, his every word. 
 Through a sweet day, with you, he of your land 
 
 Of freemen talked, or thought or feeling stirred 
 With converse of his art, rolling his grand 
 
 Deep verse out. O that I that voice had heard ! 
 
SONNETS. 137 
 
 Whatlj Gad's Hill's haunted greenness you have seen." 
 
 There is a subtle spirit in its air; 
 
 The very soul of humour homes it there; 
 So is it now : of old so has it been ; 
 Shakespeare from off it caught the rarest scene 
 
 That ever shook with laughs the sides of care ; 
 
 Falstaff 's fine instinct for a Prince grew where 
 That hill — what years since! — showed its Kentish green. 
 
 Fit home for England's world-loved Dickens, here 
 How fitly first the breath of earth he drew. 
 
 Here did the spirit of Shakespeare linger near 
 His dreaming cradle, as the boy he grew. 
 
 Whispering what fancies into his young ear, 
 Bare wit, deep humour, O how dear and true! 
 
138 SONNETS. 
 
 XL. 
 
 IN THE DULWICH GALLERY — BliPOBB MCKILLO'S 
 " FLOWEE-GIBL.'' 
 
 So smiled she in the hour in which he drew 
 
 This gladness for us ; so still smiles she now. 
 
 That laugh that then he gave her does not bow 
 To time or death, immortal, ever new 
 Delight, as when beneath his hand there grew 
 
 That red arch'd lip, that mirthful swarthy brow, 
 
 On which Art's dear love never will allow 
 One aging wrinkle, to her darling true. 
 
 Ah me I before these ever-laughing eyes, 
 Ah me ! before these ever-blooming flowers. 
 
 What eyes have stood through vardsh'd centuries ! 
 What smiles have flitted through what bygone hours 1 
 
 What hearts have beat on which the sod now lies. 
 And daisies whiten in May's gentle showers ! 
 
SONNETS. 139 
 
 THACKERAY. 
 
 Your own home heard our Fielding call you friend ; 
 
 Here you have found what welcome in his home, 
 
 Have chatted with him of your hours in Rome, 
 Your Paris days, till night almost had end. 
 What light to the charm'd hours you 've seen him lend ! 
 
 What priceless memories over the far foam 
 
 You bear ! what flashes to illume your home, 
 That mirth through all your future days Shall send. 
 
 Drawn from the nights 'twas yours with him to see I 
 How you are stored with laughs for all your years! 
 
 His wit, his wisdom, shall your fellows be 
 With time, with time, who, as he flies, endears 
 
 Such gifts divine of gracious memory ; 
 What wit more wise has charm'd all living ears 1 
 
140 SONNETS. 
 
 Hers is the home of Art, beauty's own clime ; 
 
 Voiceless and whitest sculpture loves her well; 
 
 There painting's mightiest marvels ever dwell ; 
 There architecture's grandeurs skywards climb ; 
 Wan Dante makes her sweetest tongue sublime ; 
 
 Her words her Petrarch's softest sorrows tell ; 
 
 Through her tones, Ariosto's wonders swell, 
 And the great tale her Tasso told to time. 
 
 Boccaccio, Raphael, Angelo are hers ; 
 Hers are Cellini's, Machiavelli's fames; 
 
 Hers is that mightiest memory that stirs 
 The souls of men, when, Eome, our wonder names. 
 
 What lustre Venice on her tale confers ! 
 What glory she from radiant Florence claims ! 
 
141 
 
 MRS. BEOWNING. 
 
 And you who have known this Miriam of our days. 
 Who, with clear clash of cymbals and with song 
 Triumphant, grand sweet words to ring as long 
 
 Through time as Shakespeare's, flings up prayer and praise 
 
 Unto God's footstool, fittest souls to raise 
 
 From out the earthly sloughs of sin and wrong, 
 Up into heaven's clear aztire, borne along, 
 
 Wing'd by her words, to where heaven's lustre plays 
 Upon them, so to walk again the earth 
 
 With spirits that show still the light of heaven. 
 That have known henceforth always a new birth 
 
 Of meeker, lowlier hearts unto them given 
 
 By her great thoughts, to aU of what dear worth, 
 
 From whose raised hearts, they earthhest thoughts have 
 driven. 
 
1 42 SONNETS. 
 
 xLrv. 
 
 AT MILAN — IN THE CONVENT OF THE MADONNA DELLE 
 ORAZIE. 
 
 A Dream of Leonardo Da Vinci's " Last Supper." 
 
 Enter ! and, entering, still your souls with awe ; 
 
 Behold the blessed ones ! the Man Divine, 
 
 Even as he brake the bread and gave the wine, 
 And made His heart meek to obey the law, 
 The nearing doom even now His dear eyes saw. 
 
 " One of ye shall betray me.'' Those divine 
 
 Bow'd lips stiU utter it. Still, (0 how fine 
 Was thy great genius, Leonardo !) awe, 
 
 O what deep love, wonder and horror, here 
 On these bless'd faces, in these eyes, we see. 
 
 Eager for ever, while in shame and fear, 
 Judas' soul shrinks aghast eternally. 
 
 O mightiest master, as our Kaphael dear, 
 Matoh'd with this wonder here, what art may be ? 
 
SONNETS. 143 
 
 EDOAS ALLEN POE. 
 
 You knew him, friend, this wonder, ere the night 
 
 Received him, and he vanish'd, seen no more 
 
 Of men, he who into death's darkness bore 
 What radiance and what blackness from our sight. 
 He form'd for our bewilderment, delight. 
 
 Our admiration, loathing, praise. Death tore 
 
 Never so strange a page from life before ; 
 What wonder if we read it not aright? 
 
 His was a music tender, strange and wild; 
 The ghosts of many a weird, wan melody 
 
 Wailed from his lines ; wan faces through them smiled ; 
 The sense of horror there unceasingly 
 
 Haunts us, to terror and to awe beguiled 
 By what we know not — what we feel, not see. 
 
144 SONNETS. 
 
 AT ALFRED TENNTSON'S. 
 
 So you have breathed a week in the very home 
 
 Of our sweet dreamer of all golden dreams ; 
 
 As, thro' my thought, his name's bright radiance streams, 
 With it, what countless lustrous fancies come, 
 In whose bright presence well may men grow dumb 
 
 With love and worship. Wonder well beseems 
 
 The eyes, dear friends, on which their lustre beams. 
 Brightness, alas, dim to the eyes of some. 
 
 Ab me! what shapes of heavenly beauty rise 
 With the dear utterance of his world-loved name ! 
 
 What forms of majesty time lives to prize,. 
 Splendours that earliest from his rare brain came. 
 
 And grandeurs later lent to our blest eyes, 
 With whose eternal life shall live his fame ! 
 
SONNETS. 145 
 
 3CLVII. 
 
 AT KOME — IN THE FOKUM. 
 
 Hark to the clash of arms, the trumpets' blare ! 
 
 Through shouting streets, the out-pour'd city's roar, 
 
 By face-throng'd roofs, by every bough-wreath'd door, 
 By wide-oped temples flush'd with garlands fair, 
 Through the vast wonder of the gazing air, 
 
 The spoils and marvels of the triumph pour. 
 
 Boasts lost to Macedon for evermore. 
 Statue and vase emboss'd and paintings rare, 
 
 Great priceless cups her Philip loved to drain, 
 Ancestral gold, by Alexander worn, 
 
 Gems that flash'd glory on his mighty reign, 
 Treasures unsumm'd from her cleft phalanx torn 
 
 By Rome's fierce legions on loud Pydna's plain. 
 See, Perseus chain'd, — ^milius chariot-borne. 
 
146 SONNETS. 
 
 IN THE TOWEK OP LONDON. 
 
 These stones were trod by Ealeigli's prison'd feet ; 
 
 Think, then, what vast thoughts breathed within this cell, 
 
 What radiant fancies by your eyes loved well, 
 Fancies still in our souls, with music sweet; 
 How his great spirit's wings here vainly beat 
 
 These bars for issue, weak are words to tell. 
 
 For flight to that far unknown world, where dwell 
 Nations he planted — English hearts that meet 
 
 With reverence the grand utterance of his name 
 Who was the sun of our great Queen's bright reign 
 
 And oirr abhorrfed Stuart's worst of shame. 
 To hide whose baseness time must strive in vain ; 
 
 Link'd is that crown'd sin to his living fame 
 Whose mortal like earth yearns to know again. 
 
SONNETS, 147 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 WRITTEN IN NATHANIEL HAWTHOENB's " TBANSFOKMATIOW.' 
 
 1. 
 
 O mightiest name of death ! O awful Eome ! 
 
 How has he writ in marble on thy hiUs 
 
 His presence ! Death thy stony Talleys fills ; 
 There, with the ghostly past, he makes his home ; 
 Yet, in the shadows of thy mighty dome. 
 
 What life eternal lives, a breath that stills 
 
 His boasts to dumbness, and, thy conqueror, kills. 
 Who breathe thy air. deathless henceforth become ; 
 
 For ears that hear, thy lips have mystic lore : 
 To those who. question thee in the weird might 
 
 Of genius, lo, thy thousand tongues restore 
 The spells that scare Oblivion to flight. 
 
 Greatness is in thy touch. Lo, here, once more 
 To one thou giv'st thy glory as his right 
 
148 SONNETS. 
 
 WKITTEN IK NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE S " TEANSFOKMATION. 
 
 2. 
 
 Here is the life of Rome. The air of death,' 
 
 Silence and solitude and awe are here ; 
 Spectres of grandeur, at whose bygone breath 
 
 Earth still'd and trembled, from these leaves appear; 
 
 From these weird words steal wonder and strange fear. 
 An awful past, which he who listeneth 
 
 In solemn awe, with trembling heart may hear, 
 Hearing what from her stones the Bygone saith. 
 
 Here is the double life that haunts Eome's hills, 
 Power spelt in ruins — art that wreathes all time, 
 
 Beauty eternal which the rapt air fills 
 With reverence from fit souls from every clime. 
 
 Hawthorne, henceforth, here, with life's joys and ills, 
 Rome's thoughts are with me, and her dreams sublime. 
 
SONKETS. 1 49 
 
 LI. 
 WRITTEN IN NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE's " TRANSPOEMATION." 
 
 3. 
 
 " Prom evil, good ; from sin and sorrow, peace, 
 
 A holier future and a loftier faith." 
 
 This, to the sold, thy mystic volume faith, 
 Havrthorne, and bids Doubt's spectral night to cease. 
 Offering, from its dread gloom, what blest release ! 
 
 If any say, " Evil accuses Him, 
 
 From whom is all, of evil," here in dim 
 Wan characters is writ, " Good hath increase, 
 
 Even from the stifling ill with which it strives. 
 Grod's wisdom is not ours. From blackest ill. 
 
 Souls, sorrow-deepen'd, have won whitest lives. 
 Bless Him for all things. All things are His will : 
 
 His stroke the granite of our hearts but rives 
 That light may enter, and His ends fulfil." 
 
150 SONNETS. 
 
 JOHN EUSKIN. 
 1. 
 
 Our poet-priest of art you should have seen, 
 
 Who makes its voice one deep-toned hymn to God, 
 Who'd have its paths with feet the hoUest trod, 
 
 Such as where Pisa's time-smooth'd graves are green 
 
 And silent, in her Holy Field have heen, 
 And girt with tender beauty its dear sod, 
 Memmi, Orcagna, and he, dear to God, 
 
 Gaddi. Nor have such, by him, been unseen 
 Breathing amongst us, with whom art is prayer, 
 
 Each work is worship, where, nor faint nor dim 
 Glory to God is wrought in beauty rare. 
 
 In shapes and colours, through which upward swim 
 Sweet incense, which our awed souls skywards bear. 
 
 Hunt and Bosetti, so your hands praise Him. 
 
SONNETS. 151 
 
 LIII. 
 JOHN EUSKIN. 
 
 2. 
 
 His words, I know, are priceless thoughts with you; 
 
 You should have had his face, friends, in your sight 
 
 For your remembrance, wonder and delight ; 
 For he is one of England's rarest few, 
 Mating our days with the great times that knew 
 
 Our mother-tongue grow grander in its flight 
 
 From Milton's pen, pleading sublime for right, 
 And the rich organ-roll full pealing through 
 
 Our holy Taylor's strains of heavenly thought. 
 Then looking on him, in him, friends, your eyes 
 
 Had seen one who from Truth's own lips has caught 
 Wisdom and faith her lightest words to prize, 
 
 Knowing, through her, God's wondrous will is wrought 
 That art, a child uttering her words, is wise. 
 
152 SONNETS. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 When I remember how my hours go by, 
 
 My days to months, my months to dead years grow, 
 
 Then the swift shortness of my life I know, 
 How little I may do or ere I die; 
 Then do I feel how time I waste, and cry 
 
 " Art woos me lovingly her charms to show, 
 
 I, still thrust from her ; wUl it still be so ? 
 Will life be fruitless everlastingly ? 
 
 O will no season of sweet leisure be, 
 Release from all this care for things, how poor, 
 
 For my chain'd thoughts, so yearning to be free, 
 Doom'd still such daily task- work to endure. 
 
 Art gives you gold; O were it so with mel 
 That she would give my needs, were I sure! " 
 
SONNETS. 153 
 
 LV. 
 
 IN PAKIS. AT THE LOnVEE — ^BEFOKB MURILLO'S 
 " IMMACULATE CONCEPTION." 
 
 Half could I worsMp thee as pictured here, 
 O thou Maid-mother of the Child divine, 
 Around whose pathway heaven's own lightnings shine, 
 
 Filling thee with a love that conquereth fear, 
 
 Making thee to the heart of man, how dear! 
 Yea, sacred, even unto eyes like mine 
 That are not Rome's, sacred, nay all divine, 
 
 Until to bow to thee my soul is near. 
 
 O mighty master, light of thy great Spain, 
 
 Many thy canvasses that wake our awe; 
 
 But for one like this, eyes must look in vain, 
 
 Fill'd with the glory here thy bless'd eyes saw, 
 Eapt up on high to where the splendours reign. 
 
 Archangels worship, and but love is law. 
 
154 SOKNETS. 
 
 IN LONDON — BEFORE HOLMAN HTOfT S "FINDING OP CHRIST IN 
 THE TEMPLE." 
 
 So worsMpped Gaddi; so Masaccio sent 
 
 His heart up in a holy hymn to heaven ; 
 
 Such incense, from Ghiberti's spirit given. 
 An oiFering fair, up to God's footstool went. 
 These held their masteries but as talents lent 
 
 By their high Lord; not to His labour driven 
 
 Went they, of those to win His smUe who've striven, 
 To teU His power. His glory, ever bent. 
 
 To his work their reverent spirit has he brought, 
 For the vain praise of man having less care, 
 
 Than to refresh his soul with the blest thought, 
 His pencil has made righteousness more fair 
 
 Unto dull'd eyes. Friends, he this wonder wrought. 
 Like Fra Angelico, in the might of prayer. 
 
SONNETS. 155 
 
 LVU. 
 
 And of our great ones, him you should have known, 
 Kingsley, in whom fire of the altar burns, 
 The flame of God's old Hebrew ire, that turns 
 
 His words to lightnings, and the awful tone 
 
 Of thunders, kin to the wrathful wonders shown 
 To Pharaoh's hardness, so his spirit yearns 
 To smite out sin, while from his Lord he earns 
 
 Love, the blest guerdon which he seeks alone. 
 For him, we bless God. Of such have we need 
 
 In this our day, troubled with evil sore. 
 
 Great want of shepherds, such as he, to feed 
 
 Fitly our hungering souls. O had we more 
 Like him, not eaten up with earthly greed, 
 
 But with desire of Him the Cross who bore. 
 
156 SONNETS. 
 
 Lvni. 
 
 AT EOME — BBFOKE ST. PETEK S. 
 
 By the Jauiculum, how awful stands 
 
 The shadowing vastness of its mighty dome. 
 
 Fit fellow of the memories that home 
 In her who was the ruler of all lands. 
 Before this mightiest toil of human hands, 
 
 This glory of the glories of great Rome, 
 
 To stand, O well across the ocean foam. 
 Friends, have you come. Faith here high-throned 
 commands 
 
 Men's souls, as strength here once their spirits sway'd; 
 So is earth always subject to these hills; 
 
 Here art, subUme by the vast grandeur made 
 Of Angelo, heaven with his glory fills, 
 
 The while all lands bow to her as he bade, 
 And every soul before her greatness stills. 
 
SONNETS. 157 
 
 LIX. 
 
 AT BOMB — IN SI. PETEK S. 
 
 Enter and wonder. Here, in the might of art, 
 
 Would superstition chain men's prostrate souls ; 
 
 Here homes the soaring spirit that controls 
 The reason through the impulse of the heart, 
 Giving the brain in man's belief no part, 
 
 Faith wrought from feeling. But time forward rolls. 
 
 And more is needed by earth's hungering souls 
 Than beauty, at whose awfulness we start, 
 
 Can feed them with. Therefore of change men dream ; 
 Therefore, in the vast shadow of this dome. 
 
 Are fear and trembling, and the alien gleam 
 Of bayonets ; therefore does the soldier home 
 
 In thy hush'd palaces that peaceful seem 
 Until the breeding earthquake shake thee, Eome. 
 
158 SONNETS. 
 
 LX. 
 
 IN LONDON — BEFORE ST. PAUL's. 
 
 O ■would that men would treat this wonder right ! 
 
 Our own St. Peter's, this vast thought of Wren, 
 
 This marble marvel should not vainly then 
 Be fitly sought for by men's eager sight ; 
 Then were it thrown wide open to the light, 
 
 Throned in clear space, not prison'd in this den 
 
 Of houses mean that shut that up from men 
 Which should be aU men's wonder and delight. 
 
 O mighty art thou, London, but one thing 
 Thou laclcest greatly, souls to make thep great 
 
 Like those that bade great Brunelleschi fling 
 Grandeur o'er Florence and Ghiberti's gate 
 
 Crown her with glory ; then the earth should ring 
 With this world's wonder, fitly seen though late. 
 
SONNETS. 159 
 
 IN LONDON — IN TRAFALGAR-SQUABB — ^BEFORE THE STATUE 
 OP GENERAL SIR CHARLES JAMES NAPIEK. 
 
 We are the living Eomans of the earth. 
 
 Strong-nerved, high-thoughted, for that we are free ; 
 
 Therefore earth-rulers are we and shall be. 
 While we, self-ruled, still hold our great rights worth 
 The blood that won them. Free, there is no dearth 
 
 To-day of ancient greatness with us. We 
 
 Lack not great souls that give us deeds to see 
 From which our greater future leaps to birth. 
 
 Look, Csesar's spirit homed in that strong brain ; 
 That brow, that eagle-look — all Kome is there. 
 
 Strong the high wreaths of victory to gain. 
 But, greater than the Koman, quick to spare, 
 
 The stricken ask'd his mercy not in vain. 
 Bless God, O land, thy days such souls still bear. 
 
160 SONNETS. 
 
 Lxn. 
 
 QABIBALDI. 
 
 Did you not hear it ! Crept not that name by, 
 
 A muttering earthquake, through your Eoman air ? 
 
 Her new Eienzi, lo, his shadow there, 
 And the Sardinian victor's, gloom her sky, 
 To her soul-fetterers, everlastingly, 
 
 A terror and a horror everjrwhere. 
 
 Bom all things greatly to endure, to dare, 
 With antique greatness, ruin to defy, 
 
 Still held he on, still holds he on the same. 
 Ever alike, in failure and success ; 
 
 Unchanged alike, though baseness brand his name, 
 Or justice crown it. Italy, O bless 
 
 Him, through all time, through whom thy free life came, 
 Thy great free Ufe of strength and blessedness ! 
 
SONNETS. 161 
 
 Lxm. 
 
 AT FLORENCE — IN ERA ANGELICo's CELL IN THE CONVENT OP 
 ST. MARK. 
 
 Mighty was Launcelot, great Tristram strong, 
 
 Yet, stain'd with sin botli, strength might not avail 
 
 To help them venturing for the Holy Grail ; 
 To Galahad, spotless of all shame and wrong, 
 All white of heart, did that bless'd quest belong. 
 
 And strong in pureness, arm'd in the heavenly mail 
 
 Of holiness, he sought and did not fail. 
 And, God's own knight, shines radiant still in song. 
 
 So, strong the most bless'd vn-eaths of art to win, 
 Are holiest thoughts and blessMest desires. 
 
 Life that lives pure from spot of self or sin. 
 And, to show forth God's glory, never tires. 
 
 So fame, Angelico, thou findest in 
 Prayers that burn heavenward, in what holy fires. 
 
162 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 AT KOME — IN THE FOKUM. 
 
 Here grew her strength with whicli she trod down kings, 
 
 And came and saw and conqner'd the wide earth ; 
 
 Her might here from her free life leapt to birth, 
 Here the vast greatness with which time still rings, 
 Which dwarfs all rules else into lesser things. 
 
 Here o'er her stormy crowds' j&erce wrath or mirth 
 
 Thunder her Gracchi ; here, their blood soaks earth 
 O'er which the thought of Csesar glory flings ; 
 
 Still Cicero's words burn through this haunted air ; 
 Sylla's dread presence here appals us still; 
 
 For her high Consulships, Pompey pleads there. 
 There Marius' slaughtering words the scared hush fill ; 
 
 Nero, Vespasian, Titus, — everywhere 
 Is greatness, awing man with good or ill. 
 
SONNETS. 163 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Shall Eome not live again? Shall she not know 
 
 Days fit to fellow with her mighty Past ? 
 
 Her life, which now is death, this shall not last; 
 Hark ! from Palermo, volleys thunder "No ! " 
 Milan is fetterless ; Florence dare show 
 
 Her heart bared now, her tyrant from her cast ; 
 
 Bologna, Pisa, own free lips at last ; 
 Turin strikes strongly ; wiU it not be so, 
 
 O Etna, with your own green Sicily, 
 From which, like chaff, Italian swords have driven 
 
 Their tjrrant's hordes into the sundering sea? 
 Not for this only has our great one striven ; 
 
 Once more Rome's sword shall Garibaldi be ; 
 Once more to her shall her great life be given. 
 
164 SONNETS. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 ON A PHOTOGRAPH OP TASSO. 
 
 " They learn in suffering what they teach in song:" 
 
 So was it with the life we gaze on here ? 
 
 No ; the great glory of his tale is clear 
 From the deep shadow of his mortal wrong ; 
 Gladness and faith to his great strain belong, 
 
 Sung not alone to be sweet to man's ear. 
 
 But in the higher hope, the faith more dear, 
 That he who will'd it would approve his song. 
 
 Strange that this brow in awe we look on here, 
 God should have will'd such anguish to have known, 
 
 That madness, from its suffering and its fear. 
 Its heart's despair, could give it rest alone ! 
 
 Tet those eyes saw the mighty vision clear, 
 And made its glory his, its joy, our own. 
 
SONNETS. 165 
 
 LXVIl. 
 
 PLOKENCE. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beautiful Florence 1 many a name is sweet 
 
 In the world's ear, but thine is very song ; 
 
 Music and beauty's rarest charm belong 
 To its dear sound, and in its utterance meet, 
 And in thine Amo's, that, along each street, 
 
 Winds wooingly, fond loitering among 
 
 Thy palaces, on which Time's touch no wrong 
 Will lay, since they are sacred from the feet 
 That, treading, made them famous evermore. 
 
 Oh, that thy cypresses, these eyes might see ! 
 Thy statued walks, these feet might wander o'er ! 
 
 That to these ears thy fountains' plash might be 
 Gladness ! Oh, thy stiU goddess to adore. 
 
 Thy heaven of beauty lustrous from the sea ! 
 
166 SONNETS. 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 2. 
 
 Neri, Bianchi, Guelf and Ghibeline, 
 
 These iron-grated windows of them tell ; 
 
 These castled mansions of them whisper well. 
 And of the struggles which these streets have seen, 
 Fell wrath, and vengeful hate, which here have been, 
 
 And subtle brains, which here once tower'd or fell ; 
 
 Still in these palaces grim shadows dwell. 
 Whose names for ages on men's tongues have been. 
 
 Before their palace, the Riccardi, pause ; 
 There wrought the Medici their good and ill ; 
 
 Cosmo's grand presence here the eye still awes ; 
 Lorenzo's voice starts from the silence still ; 
 
 Great were thy tyrants, Florence. Equal laws, 
 Bless God! now rule thee by thy own great will. 
 
SONNETS. 167 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 3. 
 
 Yet lightlier reck we of their strength, and power. 
 Than of the greatness here that stamps them great. 
 Art's radiant glories which illumed their state, 
 
 And made them more than puppets of their hour. 
 
 Throned things the years create, the years devour ; 
 
 Hush'd are their schemes and plots, their pride, and hate, 
 The fear, the love, that on their pomp would wait. 
 
 Smile with their smile,, or with their frown would lour ; 
 What reck we of them? But we reverence still, 
 
 In each what makes us bow to each great name, 
 Their love for beauty whose bright glories fill 
 
 Their chambers with the forms which are their fame ; 
 For this, nor time, nor change, their names shall kill, 
 
 Or dim their memories, or their glories shame. 
 
168 SONNETS. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 I 
 
 ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF DANTE. 
 
 How changed from the young face Giotto drew ! 
 
 That surely the dread vision had not seen, 
 
 That scarcely through the torturing gloom had been, 
 Or known the sights this pain -worn visage knew ; 
 What do these deep lines and this woeful hue, 
 
 These features, cold and thin, and smileless, mean ? 
 
 Deep wrath and hate in those sad eyes have been, 
 In that aged brow, woes felt but by the few ; 
 
 What matters all 1 That sorrow-wrinkled brow 
 God's hand hath smoothed ; those weary eyes have rest ; 
 
 The peace it cried for, that tried heart has now ; 
 Anguish and ire no more disturb that breast ; 
 
 God bade him weep and sing, and now we bow 
 To his great glory, who through tears is blest. 
 
169 
 
 AT FLOKENCE — IS SANTA CROCE— BT THE TOMB OF 
 MACUIAVELLI. 
 
 Here lies his dust ; where is the spirit now 
 
 That, subtle as the serpent, here once wrought. 
 And train'd for hell how many a sceptred thought ? 
 
 Where is the soul that schemed 'neath that still brow, 
 
 That to all ill fuU action dared allow, 
 
 So that it grasp'd the glittering prize it sought. 
 So that the crowns of time to heads it brought 
 
 That here in dust before death's footstool bow? 
 
 Come here, ye kings ; ye subtle brains, come here, 
 Who, evil wrought for thrones, dare hold for good, 
 
 Doth not a voice here cry to you, to care 
 For heaven's hereafter ? rightly imderstood 
 
 Are earth and hell here. Death speaks everywhere; 
 Would ye would heed his still words as ye should ! 
 
170 SONNETS. 
 
 AT PISA — IN THE CAMPO SANTO— BEFORE THE FRESCOES 
 AND TOMB OF BENOZZO GOZZOLI. 
 
 Sleep on, Benozzo, in her Holy Field, 
 
 By thee made holier. From thy pencil here, 
 
 What prayers, what solemn hymns, full-toned and clear, 
 Unto thy God their praise and glory yield ! 
 These through the speeding centuries have peal'd 
 
 Strains to the raptured souls of men how dear, 
 
 Strains fit to rise in reverence to His ear 
 Before whose light, their sight, archangels shield. 
 Our God forgot, we work alone for men. 
 
 For man's poor praises now alone have care ; 
 So Art, that wore celestial radiance then. 
 
 And heavenly robes she may no longer wear. 
 She shall not know her olden power till when 
 
 She too our prayers to heaven again shall bear. 
 
171 
 
 Sni.AN, 1860. 
 
 Greatness dies not; from grandeur, grandeur springs; 
 
 From glory, glory evermore is born; 
 
 Therefore has she, who was the oppressor's scorn, 
 Found might in memory to tread down kings, 
 Making a present with whose deeds earth rings ; 
 
 Therefore sits she, chain'd 'mongst the lands, forlorn. 
 
 No longer ; in that strength rising, has torn 
 Her right to live greatly from the crowned things 
 That wrought her evil. She hath stung the heel 
 
 That crush'd the iron into her great soul. 
 Freedom is hers, grasp'd mid the clash of steel; 
 
 Tyrants no more her thoughts, her tongue control; 
 Free is the course ; her past does she not feel 
 
 Shouting her on again to glory's goal ! 
 
172 SONNETS. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 IN LONDOH — BEFORE MR. CKOPSEy's " AUTUMN ON 
 THE HUDSON." 
 
 Forgot are summer and our English air; 
 
 Here is your Autumn, with her wondrous dyes ; 
 
 Silent and vast your forests round us rise ; 
 God, glorified in nature, fronts us there, 
 In His transcendant works, as heavenly fair 
 
 As when they first seem'd good unto His eyes. 
 
 See, what a brightness on the canvas lies. 
 Hues, seen not here, flash on us everywhere ; 
 Radiance that nature here from us conceals, 
 
 Glory with which she beautifies deca,y 
 In your far world, this master's hand reveals, 
 
 "Wafting our blest sight from dimm'd streets away, 
 With what rare power I to where our awed souls kneel 
 
 To Him who bade these splendours light the day. 
 
173 
 
 TO MART HOWITT. 
 
 So should a life be lived, that genius lifts 
 To higher duties than life asks from all ; 
 So art in blessed influences should fall 
 
 Upon all hearts — using its mighty gifts 
 
 Man's thoughts and common acts to purify, 
 Breeding a loftier life and nobler aims, 
 A faith that liveth not in forms and names 
 
 But in the deeds that fit a soul to die ; 
 
 And well thy blessfed influence may we prize. 
 Moving about our paths in deeds of love. 
 
 In gentle words and household charities ; 
 Well therefore may our reverence, above 
 
 The glare of useless fames, thy memory raise, 
 
 Throning thee in our love as high as in our praise. 
 
174 
 
 TO MART KUSSELL MITFOED. 
 
 Out hcive I been this morning — out — away. 
 Far from the bustling carefulness of towns, 
 Through April gleams and showers — on windy downs, 
 
 By rushy meadow-streams with willows grey; 
 
 In thiok-leaf'd woods have hid me from the day 
 Sultry with June — and where the windmill crowns 
 The hills' green height, the landscape that renowns 
 
 Thy own green county, have I, as I lay 
 
 Crushing the sweetness of the flowering thyme, 
 
 Tracli'd through the misty distance. Village greens 
 
 All shout and cheerfulness.in cricket time, 
 Red wintur firesides — autumn cornfield scenes. 
 
 All have I seen, ere I my chair forsook, 
 
 Thanks to the magic of thy breezy book. 
 
SONNETS, 175 
 
 TO KEATS. 
 
 O nightingale, thou wert for golden Junes, 
 
 Not for the gusts of March 1 Oh, not for strife 
 With wind and tempest was thy Summer life, 
 
 Mate of the sultry grasshopper, whose tunes 
 
 Of ecstasy leap faint up steaming noons, 
 Keen in their gladness as the shrilling fife. 
 With smiles not sighs thy days should have been rife, 
 
 With quiet, calm as sleeps 'neath harvest moons ; 
 
 Thee, nature fashion'd like the belted bee, 
 Roamer of sunshine, fellow of the flowers, 
 
 Hiving up honied sweets for man, to see 
 No touch of tears in aJl thy radiant hours ; 
 
 Alas, sweet singer, that thou might'st not live 
 
 Sunn'd in the gladness that thou cam'st to give! 
 
176 SONNETS. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 " Spring flowers — spring flowers!" — all April's in the cry; 
 Not the dim April of the dull grey street, 
 But she of showers and sunbursts whom we meet 
 
 On dewy field-paths, ere the daisy 's dry. 
 
 And breezy hill-sides when the morning's high. 
 
 " Spring flowers — spring flowers!" — the very cry is sweet 
 With violets and the airs that stay the feet. 
 
 The showery fragrance of the sweetbriar nigh ; 
 
 Yet all and more than in that cry is found, 
 Eises before us with thy pleasant name, 
 
 Leigh Hunt; with the dear gladness of the sound, 
 Into my close room, all the country came; 
 
 Deep lanes and meadow-streams rose with the word, 
 
 And through the hush of woods, the cuckoo's call I heard. 
 
SONNETS. 177 
 
 LXXIX. 
 TO LEIGH HDNT. 
 
 How sumless is the debt to him we owe, 
 
 Little, perchance, unto ourselves is known ; 
 
 Little, perchance, how thickly he has sown 
 Our paths through time with pleasantness, we know; 
 His genial nature has not pulsed below 
 
 The loving teachings of his works alone ; 
 
 A thousand deeds of good in others, own 
 His thoughts and words their angel-prompters ; so. 
 Unrecognised, before our very eyes 
 
 His gentleness in that of others' lives. 
 And many a kindly look and tone we prize, 
 
 And many a smile that to our firesides gives 
 The charm the most endearing them, have caught 
 Their power to bless us, from his gentle thought. 
 
 I 5 
 
178 
 
 LXXX. 
 A KECOLLECTION OF THE FEKFOKMAKCE OF " ION." 
 
 Yes, I have sat before it ; I have heard, 
 
 Heard with the plaudits of delightfiil tears. 
 The heart's real praises of sweet hopes and fears. 
 
 Life give a breathing utterance to each word. 
 
 Each phrase that in the hush of thought has stirr'd 
 My pulse so often ; still to Fancy's ears 
 Wander low tones, in which again it hears 
 
 The gentle thoughts that have so oft recurr'd; 
 O dream of sorrow, ever be thy name, 
 
 Ion, a tender glory unto him 
 
 Who gave thy sweetness to the world's charm'd ears. 
 Grave thee, a thought to haunt the tongue of fame, 
 
 A sad sweet memory human eyes to dim, 
 A gentle moan of music wed to tears. 
 
179 
 
 WRITTEN IN MACAULAt's " LAYS 01? ANCIEHT HOME." 
 
 The plunge of standards, reeling to and fro. 
 Barks winter-tost upon a howling sea — 
 Rome's bucklers' conquering glare, I, battling, see, 
 
 Her swoop of death upon the warring foe ; 
 
 The thrust, the grapple, and the yell below 
 
 The gloom of dust — cries, now that on, now flee — 
 Fierce trumpets blaring aye tempestuously, 
 
 That thunder to the stormy battle blow, 
 
 And now the rushing roar of flight I hear, 
 Loading with awe the pulses of the wind— 
 
 Before — the shriek of death — the yell of fear — 
 The slaughtering shout of victory, behind. 
 
 O wondrous artl so giving one to look 
 
 On Rome's fierce life! O marvel of a book! 
 
180 SONNETS. 
 
 motheewell's geave. 
 
 " It is painful to be obliged to state, that Motherwell's grave cannot be 
 discovered without the assistance of a guide, not being marked by even 
 a headstone.'*— M'Conecht's Memoir of MoiherweU, 
 
 A memory writ in tide-swept sands, — a name 
 Graven on running waters, w^as the doom 
 That, from the dusky portals of the tomb, 
 
 Thou sawest, Motherwell, await thy fame ; 
 
 And who thy dark imaginings dare blame? 
 Upon thy nameless grave the wild-flowers bloom ; 
 Nature, the resting-place of him by whom, 
 
 •Unto the city where he dwelt, there came 
 A glory and a sanctity, alone 
 
 Hath deck'd with beauty. Oh, to Glasgow shame, 
 That to her poet hath not given a stone, 
 
 Graving her proudest honour in her claim 
 To him whose memory hath a life sublime, 
 Enlink'd unto the sweetest tears of time. 
 
 1850. 
 
181 
 
 AT KOME — ON THE PINCIAN HILL. 
 
 Sweet were those sunsets from the Piacian seen, 
 When day died westward from the hills of Home 
 To rise in glory on your far dear home 
 
 And the loved paths from which your feet have been 
 
 So long. Oh, then remember'd was the scene 
 Before you ? Did not, from its wonders, roam 
 Memory and love, across the wild far foam, 
 
 To nestle fondly 'neath your vines' dear green, 
 And the flush'd roses that hang traOing o'er 
 
 Your Boston casements, looking for each face 
 Familiar once there, now there seen no more ? 
 
 Ah, dear will be the hours that, the sweet grace 
 Of those loved rooms, to your worn eyes restore, 
 
 That in them find your feet a resting-place. 
 
182 SONNETS. 
 
 Would God had homed me near your fireside, friends, 
 
 Not sunder'd us by all the vasty sea, 
 
 Though nought to close-link'd hearts can distance be. 
 And friendship's power, the power of space, transcends. 
 If but to hear your tongues this brief while lends 
 
 Such dearness to the hours you talk'd with me, 
 
 What were each day, if everlastingly 
 Mingled our lives until their mortal ends. 
 
 What radiant hours, how swift-paced, then were mine, 
 Hours turning all they touch'd of life to gold, 
 
 Hours wing'd with converse of all souls divine, 
 Painters and poets given to earth of old, 
 
 And of those with us, spirits rare and fine. 
 Whose names by glory more and more are told. 
 
SONNETS. 183 
 
 Yours be a life of pleasure, lapp'd in ease, 
 
 Ease by the nobleness of labour won, 
 
 By service to man's tbouglit and fancy done. 
 Your calling gives you power men's souls to seize 
 And lift them skyward. Not alone to please 
 
 The sense, should art go forth beneath the sun. 
 
 But, by her beauty, that man may be won 
 To heights on earth from which heaven clear he sees. 
 
 Friends, yoii wUl nobly do God's bidding here ; 
 Your path be pleasantness, through which your feet 
 
 May journey onwards still in joy, not fear, 
 While love and friendship make your hours, how sweet ! 
 The radiance of the eternal day to meet. 
 
 And, with white lives, before The Throne appear. 
 
184 
 
 WITH SOME ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 In remembrance of the South Kensington Pictures, May 26th, 18G0. 
 
 Take these faint shadowings of divinest art ; 
 
 Dear Friends, if they some pleasant thoughts impart, 
 
 They do the bidding of a true friend's heart. 
 
 See here Death's shadow on Eome's sunlight thrown ; 
 Dark spectre of earth's mightiest rule o'erthrown. 
 So stands her Colisseum vast and lone. 
 
 Here Turner bathes his Venice's lagunes 
 
 In glare and shimmer, fiercer than fierce June's, 
 
 The fiery glory of his deathless noons. 
 
 Here see how Leslie, Irving of his art. 
 
 Makes Sterne's dear humour from his canvas start. 
 
 And the deep laughter of Cervantes' heart. 
 
185 
 
 Ocean's far glooms and glories stretcli between 
 
 Your home and nooks that, friends, we here have seen ; 
 
 See them in Gainsborough's landscapes always green. 
 
 Here WUkie, gentler Hogarth of onr day, 
 Scotland's rude life redeems from time's strong sway, 
 While laughs and tears his pencil's charm obey. 
 
 An English farm, such as our Mitford drew, 
 (0 finest heart, so dear to me — to you!) 
 See here a Constable, how rough, how true. 
 
 A Eeynolds — who with tenderer hand could draw 
 This sweet boy -prophet, rapt in love and awe. 
 Or this fair child his English genius saw. 
 
 " Beauty is joy for ever," says our Keats ; 
 Be these a gladness, every day repeats, 
 Stillness and calm, even in your busy streets. 
 
 Let us be link'd by beauty. Let these be 
 Whispers of hours, how happy, friends, to me. 
 Till yours again my eyes rejoicing see. 
 
186 
 
 CKADLE SONG. 
 
 Sleep I the bird is in its nest; 
 Sleep 1 the bee is hush'd in rest ; 
 Sleep! rock'd on thy mother's breast; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 To thy mother's fond heart press'd, 
 
 LuUaby I 
 
 Sleep ! the waning daylight dies ; 
 Sleep 1 the stars dream in the skies ; 
 Daisies long have closed their eyes ; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 Calm, how calm ! on all things lies ; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 
 Sleep, then sleep ! my heart's delight ; 
 Sleep ! and through the darksome night, 
 Eound thy bed God's angels bright. 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 Guard thee till I come with light ; 
 
 Lullaby ! 
 
W. C. BENNETT'S POEMS. 
 
 Price One Shilling, 
 
 BABY MAY, 
 
 And other POEMS on INPANTS. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 From the " Literary Gazette" 
 
 Mr. Bennett is well known to our readers as one of the most popular of 
 English, poets. "Baby May " is one of his very happiest efforts. Wliat again 
 can be more exquisite than the tenderness and pathos embodied in the poem 
 entitled " Baby's Shoes"? How many a mother's heart has been stirred by 
 these lines, which appeal to some of the holiest feelings of our nature ! "Baby 
 May, and other Poems on Infants, "is really, in its way, a little casket of jewels, 
 full of love and sweet sympathy for children — the genuine outpourings of a 
 manly and affectionate heart. 
 
 From the ** Examiner.^'' 
 
 The love of children few writers of our day have expressed with so much 
 naive fidelity as Mr. Bennett. 
 
 From the " Eclectic Review.'' 
 
 We confess, of all things small, we love babies ; and we derive more poetical 
 inspiration from baby-watchings and baby-nursings, than from any other 
 class of sub- adorations ; and we further confess, that we never met with more 
 truthful descriptions of themi than we find in this volume. Memory itself is 
 not so faithful, though it is capable of appreciating the fidelity of the artist. 
 
 From Miss Mitford^s " Recollections of a Literary Life." 
 
 Of all writers, the one who has best understood, best painted, best felt 
 infant nature, is Mr. Bennett. We see at once that it is not only a charming 
 and richly-gifted poet who is describing childish beauty, but a young father 
 writing from his heart. "Baby May "is amongst the most popular of Mr. 
 Bennett's lyrics, and amongst the most original, as that which is perfectly 
 true to nature can hardly faU to be. The " Epitaphs for Infants " are of great 
 sweetness and tenderness. "The Seasons" would make four charaiing 
 pictures. 
 
 From the " Leader" 
 
 Here we find the sweet song of "Baby's Shoes," which has been so fre- 
 quently quoted with enthusiastic recognition. 
 
188 w. c. Bennett's poems. 
 
 From the "* Atlas." 
 
 Would you have a poem on domestic subjects, oa the love between parent 
 and child ? How charmingly is that brought out in the little poem entitled 
 "Baby's Shoes"! 
 
 From the " Daily Telegraph." 
 
 " Baby's Shoes " is worthy to rank with " Baby May," which, from its com- 
 pleteness and finished charm as a picture of infancy, is one of the most ex- 
 quisite among the whole of Mr. Bennett's productions. 
 
 From the " Weekly Dispatch." 
 
 Some oi his poems on children are among the most charming in the 
 language, and are familiar in a thousand homes. 
 
 From the " Illustrated Times." 
 
 The poems about children (especially the charming one entitled "Baby's 
 Shoes ") are as good as anything of the kind that has ever been written. 
 
 From " Chamhers^s Edinburgh Journal." 
 
 In Mr. Bennett's descriptions, we seem, to hear the very jerk of the cradle 
 breaking the sweet monotony of the mother's song. Perhaps some of our 
 readers may be even yet unacquainted with our old favourite "Baby May," 
 in which case we could scarcely do them a pleaaanter piece of service than by 
 extracting it. It is a poem with which every woman, and every man with a 
 heart within him, is charmed at the first reading, quite apart from its perfect- 
 ness as a work of art, though it bears criticism of the strictest kind. Who 
 but a real poet could have made such a subject as the following ("Baby's 
 Shoes ") awaken thoughts at least deep enough for tears ? Have Waller or 
 Shenstone ever written anything, in. the same manner, more admirable than 
 these two " Epitaphs for Infants." 
 
 From the " Morning Star." 
 
 Mr. W. C. Bennett is unquestionably one of the most genial and unaffected 
 of modern poets. The love of children, which is one of his marked characteris- 
 tics, finds utterance in innumerable tender thoughts and graceful fancies. 
 His present volume will, we feel assured, become one of the most cherished 
 treasures of every English mother. ^ 
 
 From the " Illustrated News of the World" 
 
 We defy any parent, whose heart is not thoroughly steeled against ail emo- 
 tion, to read the piece entitled "Baby's Shoes,'' without a swelling of the 
 bosom and moistened eyes. These poems will be treasured by many a father 
 and mother as spells to revive the image of that sorrow, from which they would 
 not willingly be divorced, for the little ones in heaven, and, by happier parents, 
 as aids to the utterance of their hopes and joys in the presence of their chil-' 
 dren, when heaven lies about them in their infancy. 
 
 From the " Guardian." 
 
 Those readers who do not as yet know "Baby May," should make her 
 acquaintance forthwith ; those who have that pleasure lUready, will find her 
 in good company. 
 
OPINIOXS OF THE PRESS. 189 
 
 Price 3s. 6d. cloth. 
 
 SONGS BY A SOKa-WRITER. 
 
 From the " Leader." 
 
 Mr.W. C. Beunet lias been well advised to collect his various songs. He 
 has selected from his large store a hundred, and here they are in a handsome 
 volum.e, which ought immediately to become popular. We find here many old 
 acquaintances and some new faces, but everywhere the same grace, melody, 
 and Saxon purity of language. A little more accuracy and finish, and Mr. 
 Bennett might rank as the B^ranger of England. He is a genuine poet. 
 
 From the " Illustrated Times." 
 
 Mr. Bennett is quite right in calling himself a Writer of Songs." Nearly all 
 the lyric poetry in this volume is admirable ; but the songs are particularly 
 beautiful. When he writes in his own simple, natural way, we have no song 
 writer who can be compared to him. 
 
 From the " Athenceum.^^ 
 We always like his writing when he dares to be true to his own genius. 
 
 From the "Literary Gazette." 
 He bids fair to become one of our best English song-writers. 
 
 From the " Critic" 
 
 We hold Mr. Bennett to be amongst the best of our song-writers. We hope 
 Mr. Bennett will give the world the remainder of his songs. He is so genial, 
 so healthy, so purely Saxon. 
 
 From the " Morning Chronicle." 
 This volume will be a welcome addition to the poetic literature of the day. 
 
 From the " Guardian.*' 
 He is a song-writer of no common oi-der. 
 
 From the " Observer," 
 This volume ought to meet with public favour. 
 
 From the " Weekly Dispatch" 
 He writes like a true poet. 
 
 From the "John Bull." 
 They are conceived in the purest and most versatile vein of poetiy. 
 
 From the " Morning Herald" 
 Slost are very good indeed. Many are really beautiful. 
 
100 w. c. bes-nett's poems, 
 
 From the " Morning Adcertiser." 
 The volume will be acceptable to a vast number of readers — thLOHe to whom 
 the song sings to the heart. We can heartily commend Mr. Bennett's songs 
 to our readers. 
 
 From (he " Atlas." 
 Mr. Bennett has achieved a most decided success. 
 
 From the " Daily Telegraph." 
 To beautify and elevate the events and emotions of ordinary life through the 
 transfiguration of poetry is, we think, essentially Mr. Bennett's vocation. 
 
 From the " Economist." 
 Mr. Bennett is, as he truly calls himself, a song-writer. 
 
 From the "■ British Quarterly Review." 
 His heart is healthy. Man and Nature have their bright side for him. His 
 sorrows and his joys all have a true manliness in them. His sadness never 
 becomes a whine — his mirth never becomes frivolous. His sensibility, ima- 
 gination, and right use of words, give to his verses the ring of true songs. 
 
 In Fcp. Svo.f cloth 3s, 6d. 
 
 QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENaEANCE. 
 
 AND OTHEE POEMS. 
 
 From the " Critic." 
 W-e look upon Mr. Bennett as a landmark to indicate the way where lie the 
 strength of nature and the power of simplicity. He is one of those old- 
 fashioned poets — rare now, and valuable from their rarity— who wore not 
 ashamed to speak naturally like men, and who evinced power without the 
 exhibition of muscular throes. As a poem, " Queen Eleanor's Vengeance " is 
 admirable; it has the intensity of tragic fire. It is brief, but pointed and 
 defined as a poignavd. In conspicuous contrast to this poem we would place 
 another, entitled "A New Griselda." Here there is simplicity of style, 
 but neither bareness nor barrenness. The tender emotions, which are 
 best known to those who dive deepest below the surface of domestic life, are 
 employed in this poem as only a true poet can employ them. Mr. Bennett's 
 great triumphs, in our opinion, consist not only in the kingly manner in 
 which he walks tlie ttlassic regions of the "gods," but in the homely step 
 which carries him through the dwellings of men. He is known — and it is a 
 pleasing ackuowledgmsnt of his fame to say so— by thousands of little happy 
 folk, wingless, but no less on that account our nursery angels, and by thou- 
 sands of full-grown men and womeu. No wonder he is so well known, since 
 he has conversed with them iu a language ihey can understand — since he has 
 expressed to them home-delights and home-sorrows with the piirest Saxon 
 feeling. The volumy before us will serve still more to rivet the fellowship of 
 the poet and his readers. 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 191 
 
 From the " Weekly Dispatch." 
 
 Mr. W. C. Bennett is a poet of great power, and possessing a fine descriptive 
 faculty, especially when employed on subjects of a picturesque, rural cha- 
 racter. Some of his poems on children, too, are among the most charming in 
 the language, and are familiar in athonsaudhomes. The longest poem in the 
 book is " Queen Eleanor's Vengeance," a teirible tale, related with commen- 
 surate force. "Pygmalion" is an ambitious strain, finely conceived and 
 executed. Mr. Bennett has produced a charming and graceful book. 
 
 From the " Guardian," 
 
 Mr. Bennett writes with practised skill, and what is more remarkable in 
 these days, with unimpeachable taste. He is a man of taste and ability, who 
 will yield pleasure ana interest to every one who reads him. 
 
 From " Fraser^s Magazine." 
 
 It is impossible to deny the genuine pictorial power of the mind from which 
 this description, that might stand for a translation into words of Titian's 
 "Bacchus and Ariadne," in our National Gallery, proceeds . . . Perhaps a 
 famous song of Shelley's may have been echoing in Mr. Beiinett's brain 
 when he wrote this "Summer Invocation"; but no one that was not a true 
 poet could have reproduced the echo with such a sweet melody, and such 
 delicate touches of his own. Altogether, Mr. Bennett's volume appears to us 
 full of promise. 
 
 From the " Athenceum" 
 Many a tender thought and charming fancy find graceful utterance in his 
 
 From the " Examiner.'" 
 
 Mr. W. C. Bennett shares with Dr. Mackay the right to be popular ou the 
 score of simple unaffected utterauce. In his new volume we like the natural 
 tone of the "New Griselda" better than the ballad style — less suited to the 
 writer's genius— of the " Queen Eleanor's Vengeance," after which the book 
 is named. But there is everywhere unexaggerated expression, a pleasant 
 seuse of the joy of the primrose-bank, of blooming thorn-trees, and of summer 
 rain; and there is occasional expression of that love of children, which few 
 writers of our day have expressed with so much naive fidelity as Mr. Bennett. 
 
 From the " National Magazine." 
 
 Another volume has proceeded from the pen of Mr. W. C. Bennett. It is 
 entitled " Qaeen Eleanor's Vengeance, and other Poems.'" Amongst these 
 there are strains that bring Tennyson and Browning to mind, without abating 
 our respect for the immediate author. The ballad which initiates the collection 
 is written in stanza- couplets, and shows a power of dealing with the elements 
 of the terrible, perhaps not suspected by tlie author's admirers. On the Fair 
 Bosamond he dwells i3ut little ; the vindictive feelings of the jealous Eleanor 
 are those that have plainly fascinated the poet's genius. A dramatic poem, 
 entitled "A Character," manifests tbe same tendency. Tue Creole, Lina 
 Merton, is a Queen Eleanor on a small scale, and of a more metaphysical turn 
 of mind; but her vengeance is equally cruel, or rather more so. The Queen 
 only murders, but the Creole auuihilatcs. The piece, however, most to our 
 mind is "The Boat Race." The "New Griseld-i," which is evidently the 
 writer's favourite, has less of pure beauty, and the conventions introduced 
 
rj2 w. c. Bennett's poems. 
 
 disturb the ideal impresBions. Mr. Beunett's classic imitations are, as usual, 
 excellent. Theocritus writes again in such pieces as "Pygmalion," "Ari- 
 adne," and "The Judgment of Midas." The political pieces are vigorous, 
 satiricali and fully justify the reputation already acquired by the author for 
 compositions of the kind. But it is in his domestic moods that we best love 
 to encounter Mr. Bennett. Is not the following ("Baby's Shoes") exquisite? 
 Among the more ambitious efforts, we may note with especial commendation 
 the poems entitled " Columbus " aad "The Star of the Ballet." The last jsa 
 ballad in which simplicity, thought and sentiment, wrestle for the victory, 
 and lovingly unite, as it were, in a war embrace. 
 
 Price One Shilling. 
 
 WAR SONGS. 
 
 From the " A£henosum" 
 
 In the "War Songs" of W. C. Bennett, we recognize a poet who has fre- 
 quently merited and received our commendation. He is a writer who has 
 always preferred sense to sound. An earnest student of the poetic art aa 
 applicable to- the commonplaces of life, and the events of the passing day, 
 he has dealt with fugitive themes, but in a manner that will relieve his songs 
 and sagas from the epithet. His style, too, is his own; strong and vigorous, 
 never formal. His words are, for the most part, Saxon. Such is the character 
 of Mr. Bennett's genius. It is eminently patriotic also ; and these " War 
 Songs," both in their themes and treatment, come "as natural to him as 
 eating and drinking"; he had but to let his heart speak, and they existed. 
 " Occasional " poems are generally artificial ; with Mr. Bennett they are but 
 ' opportunities for spontaneous utterance. 
 
 From the " Examiner." 
 There is spirit and true instinct for poetry in these "War Songs." 
 
 From the ** Weekly Dispatch." 
 
 These Songs have vigour and fire about them. 
 
 From the "Dublin University Magazine," 
 
 These Songs have this great merit, that they are written in strong, vigorous, 
 manly English. 
 
 From the " Morning Advertiser,*' 
 
 Full of feeling, melody, and fire.