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Cornell University Library PR 4728.G18S9 Studies in verse. 3 1924 013 459 320 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013459320 STUDIES IN VERSE Now ready, Second Edition, &vo. BY THE SAME A UTHOR THE CHARM AND THE CURSE A Tale DRAMATISED FkOM THE EDDA. STUDIES IN VERSE BY CHARLES GRANT LONDON JOHN PEARSON YORK STREET COVENT GARDEN 1875 Hi K^T273« DEDICATION TO H. B- I scarcely know if you will care lo read the verses that I send, Will like a passage here and there, And feel " the writer is my friend." Mere studies they from art and life, A woodland dream, a breeze of song, A wave-watched peace, scenes in the strife Of human souls with sin and wrong, Chance things that thrill'd me with delight, Like broken strains of melody, Half heard in a tempestuous night Through all the turmoil of the sea ; Which thus I roughly sought to draw, Even as they faded from my view, They are the visions that you saw, And so I send my book to you. However small its worth-may be, 'Twill speak of things you used to praise And whisper to your memory A kindly thought of other days. Naples, December 1874. CONTENTS The White Witch 5 Little Willie 7 Little Annie — Reflections . . 13 Expectation 15 Looking for the Fairies 16 Love's Triumph, a Tale in Songs- Part I. IN ENGLAND. I. The world was full of noise and dust . . 21 II. Beneath my eyes, as thought to thought re- plying 21 III. I would not have you love me, dear, . . 22 IV. Thy soul is sad — I must not seem to know it ; 23 V. Fear not to trust me, though thou hear from some 23 VI. To-day has been a festival to me ... 24 VII. Thy soul is as sweet music set to mine . 24 VIII. 'Tis not for thy silken hair .... 25 IX. In the wood beneath the beeches ... 25 X. Sweet is the evening, when from the hedges 26 XI. When the golden moon is beaming . . 27 XI I. We two could find in all the world . . 27 II CONTENTS Part II. IN ITALY. I. I smile to think how great their care and vain ........ 28 II. We push'd from shore, the moon was high . 29 III. Brightly the sun sets: isle and mountain . 33 IV. Forget not me, forget not me • • ■ 33 V. O dream not I forget thee .... 34 VI. In the night I sit alone 35 VII. When the winds in waitings low 35 VIII. There is but one, the eternal Love who knoweth 36 IX. Over the mountains and over the sea . . 36 X. Life has grown a fairy story .... 37 Mother and Daughter 39 A Man's Choice 57 Our Lady of the Sea 75 Stray Thoughts and Poems — Life's Loss 95 The Poem of Life 96 The Joys of Life 98 Father and Mother .100 The Soul's Ritual 102 The Past .... ... 103 Poland 107 STUDIES IN VERSE THE WHITE WITCH " O what have you seen, my son, my son, That your eyes are so wild and bright 1 Or what have you heard in the eerie woods, 'Twixt the gloaming and the night 1 " " I have met a witch, a white white witch, My mother, mother dear ; The glamour of earth is on my eyes, And its music in my ear. " For we are deafen'd by angry words, Are blinded by tears of woe, But she has garner'd the secret joys That only the genii know ; — " Has learn'd from the voice of the fern-hid stream Where all sweet thoughts abide, And the violets have told her how they dream In the quiet eventide ; " And they fancy, mother, the world above Where the baby cloudlets play Yearns down to the earth in mystic love That shall never pass away. " The greenwood knows it ; of this sweet thought Its murmuring tunes are made, And the strange wild tale that is ever wrought Through its sunshine and its shade. " And the holy moon, as she moves along From star to star on high, Pours forth her light as a bridal song And a tender lullaby. " O mother, my mother, mother dear, Who may the white witch be 1 She has heard the things we cannot hear, She has seen what we cannot see ; "The beauty that comes in fitful gleams, That comes, but will not stay, The music that steals across our dreams From a region far away ; " What vainly I sought in pain and doubt, The light, the form, the tone, At a single glance she has found them out, And made them all her own. " And with all the music we cannot hear, The beauty we cannot see, O mother, mother, my mother dear, She has wrought a charm on me." LITTLE WILLIE 'Twas good St. John's, and the mountain woods Were gay with summer sheen, A mother wept for her little Willie, All in his grave so green. 'Twas Yule, and on the mountain-side The wind was shrill and cold ; The mother wept for her little Willie, Who lay within the mould. O cold, cold is a winter grave, O but a shroud is thin — A wee hand tapp'd upon the door, " O mother, let me in." " I dare not let thee in, Willie," The sister up and said, " For mother's away at Jane's lykewake, — Go to thy graveyard bed." " O cold and lonely is the night, Madly the fierce winds rave ; How should I sleep ? — The shroud is wet That wraps me in the grave." She sign'd the cross upon her brow, The cross upon her breast, With : — " Avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee, ghost, And get thee to thy rest." 'Twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth, The wind howl'd down the lin ; A wee hand tapp'd upon the door, " O mother, let me in." Up sprung the father to his feet. And many a cross sign'd he, With : — " Angels defend us from thee, child, And from the like of thee." " O cold, cold is the winter snow, That drifts adown the steep, But colder far this clammy shroud Which will not let me sleep." The wind had swept away the clouds, But still its laugh was wild ; Before the father slept, he pray'd The saints to ban his child. Ah ! who shall help a houseless soul ? What refuge shall it win ? Again the hand tapp'd on the door : " O mother, let me in." Quick was her ear to catch the cry, Her foot upon the floor, Her hand to draw away the bolt, And open wide the door. " Come in, come in, thou child of mine , Right welcome unto me, Come in, and warm thee in the breast That ere while suckled thee.'' She took him up within her arms Or ere a word was said, She set him down before the hearth, All wan and damp and dead. " Cold was the snow that beat on me, The grave that let me out, O take away this wet wet shroud That wraps me round about. " Your tears fall on my face, mother, Your tears fall on my feet, Your tears drip through the coffin-lid Upon my winding-sheet. "Now weep no more for me, mother, It lets me in my rest, But wrap me in another shroud And warm me in thy breast.' - 10 The sister peep'd from out her bed, Her face was pale with fear, — " mother, give him nought of mine Or I shall die this year." Out spoke the father from his bed, Harsh was his voice and wild, — " O woman, take not aught of mine, To wrap about the child." A strange strange smile was on her lips, But ne'er a word she said ; Her best seem'd hardly good enough To wrap around the dead. She bore him to and fro, and sang Old songs and lullabies ; He laid his hands upon her cheeks And smiled into her eyes. 'Twas good St. John's, and the mountain woods Were gay with summer sheen, The mother slept with her little Willie All in the grave so green. LITTLE ANNIE 13 REFLECTIONS Grown up people are so stupid, Dolly dear, Now sit still and don't be frighten'd, No one's near, And they will not come to fetch us ; They will call ;— Well, I'm out of patience with them, One and all. There's papa now ; — if he wish'd it He might play, Yet he reads, and writes, and ciphers All the day. And mamma, when no one's looking, You should see, Only takes one lump of sugar In her tea. M Now, if I were big, Miss Dolly, Do you think I would look at nasty paper, Pens, and ink } I would scamper through the greenhouse, Chase the cat, And I'd live on sugar-candy, Think of that ! i5 EXPECTATION My sixth birthday comes to-morrow, Dolly, O how glad you'll be If you had a friend, you'd borrow Something, dear, and give it me. Well, you must remember clearly When we wake up what to say : " Dear, I wish you most sincerely, Such a happy, happy day." And, just fancy, I've been peeping ; And what, think you, did I see ? — Such a lovely dolly sleeping, And I'm sure she's meant for me. But we will be friends for ever, None shall come between us two, I will never, never, never, Love her half as well asyou. i6 LOOKING FOE THE DAIRIES Now be very quiet, Dolly, So that we may get away To the green-wood, while they fancy We are sitting safe at play. For the butterfly that circled Round about my head at morn Told me, told me most distinctly That I was a Princess born. I must go to find my kingdom, We must both be strong and brave And if any evil happens, A great Prince will come and save. He will bring us to my palace, All our troubles will be past, We will both be married to him, Dearest Dolly, and at last i7 We'll return to those that love us, Dress'd in pearls, and lace, and gold, Being greater in our childhood Than they are, though they are Old. We are safe, and now, you know, We must find a wonder-flower ; In the deepest woods they grow, Blossom but a single hour. Brightest birds and insects hover O'er the meadows where they stand, And who finds one shall discover Just the way to fairy-land. I am rather tired and lonely, Dolly, how are you ? If some little bird would only Tell us what to do. That, when we had done it duly, We this flower might find, We would do it — O so truly, And be — O so kind. x8 Dolly, Dolly, you are naughty Are you hungry ? so am I : We must learn to bear our hunger, And we mustn't cry. The great Prince may come to seek us, He would come if he but knew ; And if he should find us crying, That would never do. good woman, will you kindly Take me to papa again? I've been wandering through the forest All my seeking was in vain : I'm so hungry, I have eaten Not one bit the livelong day ; 1 went out to find the fairies, But I think I've lost my way. LOVE'S TRIUMPH A TALE IN SONGS 81 PART I. IN ENGLAND I. The world was full of noise and dust That deafen'd, vex'd, and blinded me ; What wonder that I could not trust In God, until I gazed on thee 1 But now a light is on the cloud, A dream upon the summer sea, The music in my heart is loud ; I need not trust, I hear and see. II. Beneath my eyes, as thought to thought replying, Beam those deep eyes of thine ; I read them through, I feel thy dear hand lying Thus trustfully in mine. If thou should'st guess all I am now concealing, If thou indeed should'st see How every thought I have and every feeling, Is passion full of thee, Would'st thou, with sudden lights of girlish laughter, Sharp shafts of girlish scorn", Mock the dark night that dares to sorrow after The brightness of the morn ? Would'st thou, indeed, since thou art tender-hearted, Pity a love so vain, — With scornful pity 1 — Yet we should be parted, And never meet again ; Thou nevermore would'st yield, for all my sighing, Those clear frank eyes of thine ; I nevermore might feel thy dear hand lying Thus trustfully in mine. III. I would not have you love me, dear, I am too sad and old ; My brightest hope is half a fear, My warmest kiss is cold, my dear, My warmest kiss is cold. 23 I only ask to love you, dear, And do whate'er you will, I cannot choose, but year by year Must love and love you still, my dear, Must love and love you still. IV. Thy soul is sad — I must not seem to know it ; I know of comfort — dare not tell it thee ; I read thy heart, although thou would'st not show it, I see there is no place in it for me. But what of that ? — The passion that thou fearest Is silent — shall remain so to the end ; Trust what is greatest in thee — trust me, dearest, Be brave enough to take me for a friend. V. Fear not to trust me, though thou hear from some That my past life was wild ; The love of thee, dear friend, has made my heart Pure as a three-years' child. I have no other wish but to become What thou would'st have me be, To understand more fully all thou art, And to be nearer thee. 24 VI. To-day has been a festival to me, One of the god-lit moments which transcend The common years that bear us wearily On to the hidden goal to which we tend ; To-day you call'd me ' friend.' In all these years I could not find a name By which to call myself ; I durst not bend To my low use the poet's sacred fame And yet to earn it was my only end : But now I am your ' friend.' A new land opens up before my feet, New depths to fathom, mountains to ascend, New aims, new struggles, and in all the sweet New strength and comfort that your trust will lend, Now that I am your ' friend.' VII. Thy soul is as sweet music set to mine, For my best thoughts are but the paltry words That gain new meanings from the full accords Of thy great nature. Let the praise be thine, 25 If anything I think, or do, or say, Appear not worthless ; if a distant sound Of nobleness in word or deed be found, It comes from thee, with thee must pass away. VIII, Tis not for thy silken hair Or thy dreamy eyes, For thy face so pure and fair Or thy soft replies. Not for any part of thee That I love thee so ; All that thou hast been to me Thou canst never know. All that I have felt for thee Words can never tell : If thou art but true to me, All shall vet be well. IX. In the wood beneath the beeches, You may hear the thrush's song, And the tune the brooklet teaches To the ferns it hides among. 26 Honeysuckle, bramble-roses, Heap'd before a mossy seat You may find, the woodland posies That I scatter'd round her feet. And if something stranger, dearer, Than all summer sweets befel ; If our lips drew near and nearer As our hearts did, who can tell J X. Sweet is the evening, when from the hedges The shadows lengthen across the grass, And through the trees on the river-edges, The lights and tones of the water pass ; When, pale with their love, light clouds lean over The wan white face of the rising moon, And full of the scent of the new-mown clover Are the hawthorn lanes, in the month of June. Sweet is the evening ; for thou, O dearest, Who art the sweetness of every sweet, Hast lent thy tones to the tones that are clearest, And the meadows are bright with the trace of thyfeet. O the light of the presence that hovers round me, O the voice more sweet than the wild birds' tune, O the joy of my life that at length has found me, O the hawthorn lanes in the month of June ! 27 XI. While the golden moon is beaming O'er the mountain's distant height, And the tiny waves break gleaming Into showers of silver light, Do the beech-trees murmur lowly, Strange old dreamings, half-awake, As we glide beneath them slowly O'er the forest-girdled lake ? Happy dreams of summer weather, When it seem'd, they know not how, That two lovers dream'd together, As we two are dreaming now. XII. We two could find in all the world No dearer spot than this, Nought fonder than each other's eyes, Nought sweeter than our kiss. The hills are high and hard to climb, The sea is broad and deep ; Yet one must wander forth alone, And one must stay and weep. 28 PART II. IN ITALY I smile to think how great their care and vain To part us, dear, For my great loss is still their little gain ; — Thou art not near ; I am a stranger in a stranger land, Banish'd from thee ; I may not read thine eyes, nor touch thy hand, Nor hear, nor see All that grows music, beauty where thou art ; I am alone, Yet still thy soul is near me, and my heart Is all thine own. 2 9 And thou wilt not forget me, wilt not let, Rude chances sever The sacred ties that bind thee to me yet, My friend, for ever. II. A NIGHT AT SEA We push'd from shore, the moon was high, There was no ripple on the sea ; The stars beam'd faintly from the sky, The night was sweet with dreams of thee. My heart was full ; I seem'd to hear Once more the words thou once didst say, Last night it seem'd thou wert so near — So near, and yet so far away. We sat and talk'd of life and art, What sages said and poets sung ; Thy form kept watch within my heart, Thy thought was glowing on my tongue. 3° We spoke of all that makes our life Great as a choral ode, and then Of the vain discord and the strife, The vulgar cares of common men. " They strive for might, for wealth, for fame," Said one, " for things that only seem, The hollow echo of a name, The empty shadow of a dream ; " They plough the sea, they break the sod, They gain their purpose and repine ; But truth is still the bread of God, Beauty his sacramental wine. " Quicken'd by these, we may rejoice Mid every passing cloud of ill." I thought upon thy wondrous voice, Thy wondrous eyes, and I was still. They slept ; nought but the plashing oar Broke the deep silence of the sea, The lights shone faintly from the shore, I sat alone, and dream'd of thee. 31 Thou hast laid a charm on the starry sky, A charm on the moonlit sea, On the pale white cloud that hovers by, And the headlands bold and free ; Thou hast laid a charm on the waves that sing Their old, old melody, And on every great and lovely thing To make it speak of thee. The rnoon shone clear upon our right, Upon our left the morning star ; The deepest silence of the night Was thrill'd with music from afar. Music so wild, so full, so deep, No sinful man shall ever hear ; It seals our human sense with sleep, It falls like silence on the ear. Thy soul was on me, so I stood In the pure moonlight free from blame ; I felt, I heard, I understood ; — Its fullest concord was thy name. 3 2 6. The morning dawns ; behind, the sea Brightens to violet, while before, Beneath the rocks, it seems to be An ebon silveiM. On the shore, Veil'd in light haze, the mountains stand Dreaming above a dreaming deep ; The very picture of a land Lull'd by a wizard's charm to sleep. The morning breaks ; the golden light Is flash'd upon the kindling sea ; — So didst thou rise upon my night, So did my spirit wake to thee. O wide expanse of azure sea, O mighty rocks, and tiny bays In which the lucid water dreams, Or, waking into gladness, plays In rainbow hues and lightning gleams, How dull ye are ! How full would be Your joyance, were she here with me ! 33 III. Brightly the sun sets : isle and mountain Pile up their purple upon the sea, While, from the valley, the silver fountain Flashes through orange and ilex-tree ; Brightly the glad sea gleams and changes From the setting sun to the rising moon ; — But, woe is me, my fancy ranges Far, far away, to another June. Brightly by day the blue waves lighten, Brightly at night the full stars shine, But where are the eyes that used to brighten ? The hand that used to be held in mine ? Greenly the beech-boughs broaden over The seat where we listen'd the thrush's tune, And sweet is the scent of the English clover In the hawthorn lanes, in the month of June. IV. A MESSAGE. Forget not me, forget not me Whose cheeks are wet with tears, For want of thee, for want of thee, In all these lonely years. 34 Though gay they be, though gay they be Who now would charm thine ears, Forget not me, forget not me Whose cheeks are wet with tears. V. AN ANSWER. O dream not I forget thee Whose cheeks with tears are wet, O dream not I forget thee, Or ever can forget. Those who have known the gladness Of converse sweet as thine, Those who have felt the madness Of passion deep as mine, If they, indeed, be parted From whom they love by fate, Must wander, broken-hearted, Alone, and desolate. To them come changeful sorrow. Vain hope, and vain regret ; But no returning morrow Can teach them to forget. 35 VI. In the night I sit alone Mid the rocks beside the sea, And I listen to the tone Of the ocean's melody. And while all the night is fill'd With the music of the sea,, Voices that have long been still' d Seem again to speak with me ; Lips I how shall kiss no more Seem again to smile on me, And they murmur o'er and o'er Still the same old melody. And along the rocky shore The sad waves sigh mournfully ;- " Never, never, never more, Shall the past return to thee." VII. When the winds in waitings low Come and go, And the waves with sobbings vain Moan their pain, 36 Do I feel within my heart All thou art, And how lone the years must be Void of thee. VIII. There is but one, the eternal Love, who knoweth The fond-eyed hopes we bury silently ; He knows the graveyard where the violet groweth, He knows the graveyards too of memory. There blooms no violet, there no lamp is burning, No priest shall pray for these poor souls' release;— Be thou the priest, O Lord, and stay their yearning, Speak thou the word, O Lord, and grant us peace. IX. Over the mountains and over the sea Thy letter hath found out its way to me, And the lone years fled at the sound of the line ; " Come to me, dearest, I am thine." In the passionate heaven the glad sun glows, While the world unfolds like a budding rose, For my spring hath come in the year's decline, And I and the springtide both are thine. 37 X. Life has grown a fairy story ; Through the pearly haze, Hill and headland watch the glory Of the silver bays. On the deck I lie and ponder, While they glimmer by, And the summer clouds that wander Through the moonlit sky Like a dream of vanish'd sorrow Fade into the sea ; And to-morrow, love, to-morrow, I shall be with thee. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 41 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER Upon the uplands, where the forests cease, And the soft verdure of the meadow green Breaks into patches of anemones, Hid from the village by the circling woods, But not too far above it for the sound Of sabbath bells to pierce the leafy hum Of summer ; 'neath a humble cottage roof, Anna was born. While she was still a child Her father died ; the mother, from her youth Used to hard fare and patient toil, bore up Against her sorrows, met her poverty In cheerful guise, and labour'd as she might To gain an honest living for her child. The world, a stern but righteous taskmaster, Paid her her due. Even when the times were hard, Anna ne'er wanted bread, though oftentimes Her mother's heart misgave her as she view'd The shortening loaf, and with a care-worn sigh She cut her own piece thinner than the need Of constant toil demanded. When the work Of harvest brought into their cottage home 42 A transient plenty, she would count her gains, And taking from the smallness of her store The utmost she could spare, would hasten forth To buy a frock or riband for her child. Then proudly Anna at her mother's side Would toddle down the shady mountain-ways Next Sunday to the church, or pause awhile To see her splendours mirror'd in the pool, And laugh aloud for very joy of heart And childish vanity, or run before And play around her mother's slower steps, Or in and out the wood, a very ray Of sunshine in dark places. At the church She sat demurely quiet, peeping round To note if others mark'd her finery, And on their homeward way the neighbours pausec To praise her beauty, knowing it would please The mother, whom they honour'd. Day and nigh The two were still together. To the moors They went to stack the peat, on summer days, And while the mother work'd, the child would bui A score of tiny houses, gather flowers, Or sit and babble to the babbling brook That turn'd her mimic wheels, and when the deep Full lights of June were heavy on the hills, She play'd beside her mother as she toil'd Amid the new-mown grass, toss'd it on high, And caught the fragrant shower upon her head, Or kittenlike coil'd-up amid the ricks, 43 She slept away the sultry noon, and woke And play'd at working, with her little hands Spreading the grass abroad or heaping it . In pigmy hillocks, and it often chanced The farmer passing by would pat her head Or pinch her rosy cheek, and now and then Give her a penny in a generous mood, Calling it wages for her useless work. And of long winter evenings, when the snow Fell noiselessly without upon the pines, She sat and watch'd her mother as she spun, And listen'd to the stories that she told Of cruel stepmothers, and little maids That suffer'd patiently a thousand wrongs, Till a prince came to save them from their griefs. And Anna ponder'd o'er the tales, and oft Relived their joys and sorrows in her sleep, Dreaming herself a wretched little maid, Beaten and hungry, and sent forth alone To wander barefoot through the winter woods Till a prince came at last and wedded her. And thus she lived and throve from day to day In childish ignorance, mid want and care, Safe as a nestling in a thorny nest. The village schoolmaster, a crabb'd old man Whose churlish ways belied a tender heart, Was gentle with her, praised her daily tasks, Smiled as he chid her for the frolic tricks 44 That fill'd the schoolroom with a sudden peal Of boisterous laughter, and forbore to blame Too harshly what he saw and could not praise. And she was quick at learning all that pleased Her fancy, and had soon outstripp'd her peers And grown the model of the school, could read And write and figure better than the rest, And from her seat beside the master's chair Look'd down upon the curly-headed rows Of puzzled boys and maidens, as a queen Benignly smiles upon a lower race. Her pride was pretty, and the master smiled To note it ; he himself was proud to show Her knowledge when the clergyman appear'd, And pleased to have a scholar to his mind. He kept her when the rest had left the school, And told her tales of heroes and of kings, Of strange adventures amid savage men, And noble ladies smiling as they pass'd To torture and to death. These things she mark'd, And pondering on them in her solitude, She wove them into strange fantastic dreams ; At times she seem'd the maid that rescued France, Breaking the plumed ranks of mighty knights With a tempestuous onset, and at times The noble lady standing all alone, But unappall'd, above the shrieking crowd That clamour'd for her blood : but then she changed The tragic ending : when all hope was gone, 45 A prince appear'd, a thousand armed knights Broke through the crowd, he clasp'd her hand in his And, as they pass'd, heroes with bended knees Greeted their prince's bride. Lost in such dreams, Or poring o'er the books her teacher lent, She oft forgot her humble household tasks ; Her mother, coming weary from the field, Would find her lost in idle reveries, The house unswept, no evening meal prepared, And sighing "Youth is thoughtless,'' or "She still Is busy with her tasks," would do the work Herself, and call her in without reproof When all was finish'd. Then the wayward child Would prattle of her lessons, and repeat The stories she had listen'd to, and speak Of the wild world of dreams in which she lived : And when her mother answer'd by a piece Of village gossip she had heard, or broke Her story with a question as to things Irrelevant, it grated on her ear And she shrunk back, as one who in the dark Stretches his hand undoubtingly to meet A warm and friendly hand, and grasps a cold And senseless stone ; so by degrees there rose A dim and baleful mist between the two, Vague, undefined, thin and impalpable, But damp and chill. As Anna's years increased 46 She grew in beauty. Strangers when they pass'd Would pause to gaze upon her as she came Out of the church, or trod the mountain-ways Firm-footed as a creature of the rocks, And say; — "The mountains have the loveliest flowers, " A.nd she is of them." At the village dance Her step was lightest, and the country songs Gather'd a deeper pathos from her tones, So that old eyes would oft-times fill with tears When she was singing. On the mountain side Were many youths that loved her, but she check' d Their wooing with light shafts of girlish wit And merry peals of laughter, for she scorn'd The narrow limits of her mountain home, And shared its toil and mirth but from afar, As if she were a princess in disguise. Her heart was in the city, she had fed On the sweet poison of ambitious dreams, Till simple pleasures, while they pleased her, seem'd But coarse and tasteless. So for months she teased Her mother, whom she ruled in other things, To let her go as other girls had gone To gain a living in the town. At length, Unwillingly, her mother gave consent Against her better judgment, sore at heart To think her child should thus neglect her love, And pondering, " Is it but a selfish fear 47 Of the long, lonely and laborious days That are in store for me when she is gone, Or prudence and an instinct sent from God, That makes me dread this journey 1 It may be, If I give way, her wish to go will change Like a mere childish whim, or she will find No chance of leaving, or that after all Her heart may soften in the parting hour, And she repent and still remain with me : Or, at the worst, when she has eat the bread Of strangers, and has felt the bitterness Of work unsweeten'd by the sense of love, She will return to me again, and God Is there as well as here. Why do I doubt ?" So she consented. Anna wrote at once -To afar-distant city, begging work At a great factory ; and in due time Received an answer bidding her to come. The mother took the money she had saved Out of her scanty earnings year by year, And carefully laid in a drawer apart To pay for her own burial, that her child In that sad hour might have no lesser cares To break the holiness of sacred grief, And bought her clothes, and gave her what remain'd . To take her to the town, and help her through Her earliest needs, and as she pack'd the box 4 8 She dropp'd on its contents her tears, and thought ;- " This is an earlier parting than I dream'd, And one more bitter to me ; " but her child, Exulting in the splendour of her dreams, Saw not her grief, or would not seem to see. So the last evening came and all was done, And as they sat before the door she said ; — " My daughter, I have many things to say, Now hear my words, and then depart in peace. It may be we shall meet no more on earth, And this is a sad parting, to my heart Bitter, with all the bitterness of death ; For eighteen years we two have been as one, In all my thoughts you have had a part, and now I think I have no wish but for your good. Next Michaelmas, it will be fifteen years Since your poor father died, a strong hale man Struck down by fever in the prime of life ; He wander'd long, but when his end drew near, He knew me as I sat beside his bed, And knew that he was dying, and his mind For your sake and for mine was ill at ease ; But I knelt down beside him, took his hand, And said, ' Be of good comfort, for as long As God does grant me strength she shall not want, And for her sake and thine I will not wed, And He, the father of the fatherless, Will be our friend.' The vow was on my lips 49 Even as he pass'd ; and from that day to this It has been kept, or, if indeed I fail'd, It was not from a want of earnestness. I oft have hunger'd that you might be fed, And borne the cold to see you warmly clad, And God has help'd us. Till the other day I thought I had done William's will in all, But now I cannot tell if I am right To let you go ; till then I did not think That you would leave me till you wed, or till God took me, for I hoped that you would be The comfort of my age, that I should watch Your children playing as you used to play About my feet ; and I am growing old And sometimes long for rest. But you, my dear, Have will'd it otherwise. I ariger'd you Sometimes I know with foolish talk — nay, love, Indeed I would not vex you, and I know That you have loved and love me. Let us part Only with tender feelings, you have been A good and clever child, and I was glad And proud to have you near me ; but you wish To go and see the world — then go, my child — But sometimes think of me, for you can tell What I am doing every hour, and know That none will pass when you will not be miss'd ; And I shall pray for you. Remember God Is there as here, and often think of him. And should we never meet on earth again, 5° Come back once more to look upon the house Where we have lived together, and the grave Where stranger hands have laid me, and may God Be with you — O my daughter." Then she fell Upon her daughter's neck, and wept aloud And Anna's heart was soften'd till she wept And kiss'd her mother. For a little while She waver'd in her purpose, but her heart Was full of hopeful visions, so she coax'd Her mother into seeming cheerfulness Oft times repeating ; " Do not doubt but I Will come again to comfort you in age." And so they slept, and woke, and it was morn, And thus they parted. To her wonted work The mother went, and labour^ all day long, And then return'd in utter loneliness. Meanwhile, her daughter journey'd on until She reach'd her destination. There she stood Amid the noise and hurry of the town, Confused and frighten'd, sad and sick at heart. O how unlike the city of her dreams Was this dark mass of houses ! She could see No grandeur in the throng'd and narrow streets ; The sallow sunken faces, and the eyes Eager for gain that pass'd her fill'd her soul With vague and formless dread : a consciousness Of utter solitude, she had not felt 5* In the green woods or on the mountain side, Descended on her. As she hurried on She saw a woman with a shameless face, And tawdry dress, and haggard weary eyes, And shudder'd, feeling that an evil thing Was near, and passing, found a street that seem'd More wretched than the last. Pale women stood At doors and windows, and beside their feet And at their breasts were wither'd joyless babes And careworn children, cursing as they play'd On heaps of refuse. Ere her walk was done She would full fain have woke and found that all Was but a frightful dream, and she was safe Within her mountain dwelling, as of old She started from the horrors of the night To find her mother sleeping by her side, And hear the old clock ticking on the wall. At last she reach'd the workshop, where she found The place appointed for her in a room Long, hot, and narrow. Many girls were there Who bent above their work with blood-shot eyes And fallen cheeks, pale faces, void of joy, And youthful lips forgetful of a smile. The master beckon'd one of these to go With Anna, and to seek her out a room Where she might dwell. High, in a narrow street, They found a chamber. On the dusky panes, 52 The fervid sun on summer afternoons Glared sultrily, and standing there you saw A little strip of cloud, or cloudless sky, O'er which by night the stars pass'd, and the moon Glided in silence. Comfortless the place According to the coarse and sordid use Of loveless poverty, the slave of need, That has no time for beauty, grace, or joy. Much Anna's heart misgave her as she view'd The homeless home before her ; but the poor Have little right of choice, and she was sick Of seeking, so she said that it was well, Thanking her guide, who left her. Then she sat Her down upon the chair beside the bed, And bent her head upon her hands, and wept. The days pass'd by in utter weariness, In wearing toil, and lonely joyless rest, For her heart shrunk from the companionship Of those around her ; but from week to week She laid a portion of her earnings by With patient resolution, purposing To leave the city and return again Unto her mother. 'Twas a weary task But almost done, when one day, as it chanced, She met an old acquaintance who had been A playmate of her childhood, and was glad In all her loneliness to call her friend. 53 So they were much together. Fanny lived Lightly and gaily, and she coax'd and teased Her friend to come, if only for a night, Where there was dancing. For a day or two Anna resisted, but her own young heart Craved eagerly for some re-taste of joy, And so she yielded. To her simple eyes The gaudy room seem'd wondrous, and the light And music flash'd through all her youthful frame A sense of life and gladness. In a week She went again, and yet again. Her gains, So hardly saved and hoarded, soon were spent ; But Fanny had a friend who readily Supplied her wants, since she too had been young. And more and more the music and the light Became a need to Anna, and she feared To sit alone, and dared not face her thought. So week by week her work grew worse and worse ; She was dismiss'd, then Fanny kept away, Her creditors were clamorous, none was near To counsel or to save. She was in want, Hungry, and cold, and fearful ; she had now Nothing but debts, and there remain'd but one Sad way to pay them,— and the debts were paid. Then came the weariness of listless days And nights of joyless mirth, the fever'd craving For more and more excitement, and the need, Not now of joy, but self-forgetfulness. 54 But on a night it chanced that in a dream She saw her mother dying, and awoke Breathless with terror, and could sleep no more. Then in the silent watches of the night She held communion with her soul, and saw All that she was and all that she had been, And loathed her sin, and loathed herself, nor found One hope of rescue. When the day was come She rose and clad her in her meanest dress And wander'd forth, unheeding where she went, And came unto a church with open doors, And enter'd ; but the women as she pass'd Shrunk back before her, even though she chose The lowest place. Then did the clergyman Begin to read : — " I will arise and go Unto my Father," and she heard no more, For all the loneliness of her despair Lay in those words. But when the prayers were done And all the rest were gone, they turn'd her out. Sobbing and weeping she stood there, and then Her soul cried out ; — " I also will arise, And leave my sin and all it earn'd behind, And go unto my mother, if I may ; For she perchance in pity will entreat The good God to forgive me." So she went, Nor turn'd again into her house, nor paused, Till she had left the city far behind. Long, sad, and very weary was the way ; 55 And oftentimes she stopp'd to beg, and oft Was answer'd harshly, but a few were found To help her, so when many days were done, She came unto her home, and it was night. Then long she stood and trembled, and would fain Have turn'd away, but durst not ; so she knock'd, And hastily her mother came to her, And Anna said ; — " O mother, I have sinn'd, God knows that I have sinn'd, I am not fit To be your daughter." But her mother cried ; " My daughter yet, dear daughter," and she kiss'd Her lips, and hung upon her neck, and wept. Again they dwelt together as of old For many years, until the mother died ; Then Anna dwelt alone, and she was meek And humble, very diligent in work, And kind and helpful to the sick or such As were in need or trouble, so that they Had joy in her, and thank'd God for her sake ; And when she died, the country-people said ; — " Christ call'd her ; she has gone to rest with him.'' A MAN'S CHOICE 59 A MAN'S CHOICE And so you were surprised to find me here, And doubtless thought, although your courtesy Forbade the words ; — " How one may err in men ! We took him for a genius in his youth And were mistaken." Maybe it was so, Perhaps not quite so. Other lives appear Such simple matters to us, to be summ'd Just in the one word, failure or success, Evil or good, when it may suit our mood To point a moral. Yet the simplest man Finds in his own a realm of mystery, Conflicts that often verge on the sublime, And sorrows fraught with pathos. The result Of mine, you think, is poor compared with all That once I hoped. I might join issue there, And say that I have prosper'd in the world : This sunny sweep of daisied pasture-land, Engarlanded by hedgerows, down to where Yon clump of alders frets the brook with shade, Is mine, and mine the upland farm you praised; 6o And sons and daughters have been born to me, Who all are doing well. This has been gain'd, Mark you, by no long years of carking toil Amid the noise and squalor of a town, But in the open face of heaven, the lark's Clear song above me, and the fields around. Now, have not great men been accounted wise Who chose the very life that I have led, Instead of honours, wealth, and rule ? — Nay more, Which of us two comes nearer to the mood Of highest art — of Mozart, let us say, Or Goethe — I who calmly live my days, Kept sane by constant patient intercourse With Nature, with my health and senses sound, — Who find in every hedgerow that I pass Matter for thought, — in every common sight — The mother knitting at her cottage-door, And prattling to the babe upon her knee Nonsense that bears the whole significance Of untold love : two lovers at the well Who see life mirror'd in each other's eyes, And know at once that it is beautiful : The wide-eyed child a-wonder at the world : The aged man that feeds its heart with tales Of the old time — in every common sight, A source of joy — who see that it is good, Even as the good God did when he had done His six days' work, which you and many more 6i Think but a sorry matter after all ; — Or Schumann, pouring out the whole intense Might of his soul in wild and broken strains Of sweetest madness, great and desolate ? " Ay, but," you say, " the anguish of a world, Fever'd and restless, sick unto the death, Found utterance in the passion'd wail that came Up to the very throne of God himself, Mellow'd by distance, till to him it seem'd As is the moaning of a pain-rack'd child Unto its mother ; though the man is dead, His wild complaint shall ring through centuries, A revelation of the abysmal depths Of human woe, and teach thus much at least, Man is not wholly dust, since he can feel Such woe as this !" I know your theory ; Yes, I have read your books. You hold that this Is the great meaning of our life, that mind Should here declare itself, and thus assert God, its great author. Though, I must confess, I do not greatly trust in theories, I let yours pass, and then I say ; I chose The life I lead, and still, in truth, I hold. Not that it is the best, but best for me. You wish to hear the story of my choice ; It is the story of my life. It takes 62 Some five-and-sixty years to live such tales, Some half-an-hour to tell them. Let me see. — It seems but yesterday, the bright June morn When I and Lizzie sat beside the brook, Under the hazels, with our bare brown feet Deep in the sunny water, and she said ; — " When we are big, Fred, will you marry me V And I said, " Yes," and so we turn'd and kiss'd As children do, and straight were off to catch A spangled butterfly that floated past, With all the joy of childhood in our hearts, And all the brightness of the earth around. One autumn day, we found within the woods A blind old fiddler, whom we coax'd and teased Until he play'd to us. Then up and down We gamboll'd to the music, and his tune Grew wilder still and wilder, till I sank Breathless upon the moss, but Lizzie flew Backwards and forwards o'er the forest glade, In changeful circles, like an autumn leaf Toss'd on a storm of song. Her tiny arms Quiver'd with every movement as she caught The passion of the music, her loose hair Now glow'd within the sunlight, and then gleam'd Through the sun-litten shade, her eyes were wild, Her bosom heaved ; it seem'd as if a soul That was not hers were wrought to form in her, 63 As wildly whirling through the light she flew ; Until at length with a low eerie cry She flung herself upon me, clasp'd her hands Around my neck, and pour'd upon my lips A storm of kisses ; then outstretch'd she lay Silent beside me, folded in my arms. And still the old man play'd, but now his notes Grew softer still and softer, till there woke Something within all that undream'd before ; It seem'd as if the woods had taken voice, As if the trees were whispering to my heart Of summer secrets, far too sweet for speech : That, sir, was the first time I ever felt The might of music. Ere the next time came I might be ten years old. One winter night, I know not why, there was a festival, And many guests were bidden to our house, With them the fiddler. All the day my heart Was glad with expectation ; 'twas so strange To see our barn deck'd out with holly-boughs And laurel ; then there came the noise, the light, The sound of gathering guests. I sprung about, Laughing and joyous. Suddenly a change Came over me ; for, as the fiddler play'd, All that was round me vanish'd from my sight I seem'd to lie within the summer woods Silent by Lizzie, and to hear the trees Talking together. Then upon me came 64 A longing, sad, sweet, indescribable, So that I crept away, and hid myself In a dark corner, weeping there alone. My mother miss'd and found me ; when she saw My eyes were fill'd with tears, "What ails thee, child, She said, and I sobb'd ; — " Let me go to her, Send me to Lizzie." Lizzie, sir, had left Our country-side more than a year before ; Her father met with troubles. I had thought About her only as such children think Of playmates who are absent. How I came To long for her that night I cannot tell. My mother kiss'd and soothed me, with the tact Of mothers, left me then to dream alone. — what a night it was ! I still can feel The music quiver through me, the delight That throbb'd like pain, the yearning of my heart For what I knew not. So I fell asleep, And dream'd that I was soaring like a lark Through morning's golden sunlight, and the vast Blue depths of heaven. From that night I resolved To be a fiddler, and I made my plans In my own childish way. One morning-tide, 1 wander'd out to seek the old man's house, Which lay some three miles off amid the furze, 65 And came to it at noon, and found him there, And said ; — " I'm come to live with you, and I Will lead you by the hand when you go out, And wait on you in all things, and be good, And you shall teach me how to play." He smiled But not unkindly, talk'd about my plan But put me off, bid me go home and wait, And he would fetch me when the time was come : So I went home and waited. How it was My father ever yielded to my wish, I cannot guess. He was a hard-work'd man, Stout-hearted, honest, frugal of his time And money, just and stern, without a touch Of love for music or for gaiety. He held that children should be children, kept In their own proper places, fed and clothed Well, but according to their elders' taste, Be merry at the proper time, and grave When they were bid, and he considered life A weighty matter, not to be enjoy' d But borne : the God he served, a task-master Severe, but not ungenerous, who set men To do his work, would make advances, weigh Every excuse most justly, give them time, And yet demand a strict account at last. Well, sir, he yielded ; the old fiddler came And gave me lessons. Then my life began, E 66 The life that was my life, that is so still, Though I have never bask'd in the serene Light of its fullest heaven, and now can catch But distant glimpses of it in my dreams. I do not think I was a clever boy ; At school they call'd me stupid, I had not A facile talent ; it was difficult For me to learn the things that best I liked ; But my soul throbb'd to music, so I learn'd With pains at first, and afterwards with ease All that my teacher knew, then more and more, Saving my pence to buy the newest piece Of German music. So the years pass'd by Until my eighteenth spring. My play had grown The neighbour's marvel, afterwards a thing To be accepted like the summer sun We do not care to praise for what he brings, Nor greatly notice, save perhaps to curse When he may scorch us. Why should we give thanks ? Has he no joy in shining ? All these years, I only lived in music, for the time I spent at school or work, in talk or play Dropp'd from my life like that I pass'd in sleep. But music brought me rapture, noble pains And sweetest consolations, dreams that glow'd 67 With more than life's reality to me, And yet were fair. Ah could I now play out What then I felt, you would not count the time You spent in coming to me wholly lost. I heard that Lizzie had return'd again, But heedlessly ; it was a part of things That did not touch me nearly ; when they said ; — " Her father died and left her penniless, She is ill treated," it was sad, I thought ; But then there is much sadness in the world Where we may yet be joyous ; I dream'd on. My purpose was to save by any means A hundred pounds, when that was done to go, In spite of all my father might object, To some great German master, tell him all, And ask his counsel; so I set to work And learnt your language, not an easy task, But done at those spare hours when the night Hinder'd my practice, which my father now Forbade at home, except at certain hours. But with the earliest dawning, I arose And hasten'd through the meadows to the wood, And play'd and play'd, until indeed it seem'd That all the sweet things of the lovely earth Found utterance through me. ' Twas from such a dream I started to behold a maiden stand, 68 With deep brown eyes that brighten'd, and a breast That wildly heaved beneath its scanty veil, Tremulous, passionate, drinking the joy Of all my music. As I look'd I knew That it was Lizzie, and with one wild cry We rush'd upon each other. Breast to breast And mouth to mouth we stood, quenching all thought In kisses. O the passionate delight Of love's first dawn, when on our narrow life God breaks in sudden splendour, and behold ! All things are made anew, when soul and sense Are one, and nothing is as it has been. What man can pause or reason, when a word, A casual touch, an unexpected glance, Can flash wild throbs of gladness through his frame And kindle life to passion, when fond lips Are close to his, when — O, not I— not I. I spread my sail to passion's fiercest storm Nor sought to guide it, without thought or will Borne wildly, dreamily, I knew not how Through unknown heavens. All that is sweet in life, And all the bitter that attends the sweet Had come upon me, and my heart was full To breaking, but a voice was given me To tell of all I felt, and as I play'd, I knew my art was growing, like my life, Deeper and fuller than it erst had been. Once more the neighbours marvell'd, and my fame 6 9 Was noised abroad. The country people said My music helped to fill the village church More than the Vicar's preaching, I was bid To all festivities for miles around, And then to distant towns. On such a trip, I met you, sir, the German connoisseur, With good Lord Burton. You were pleased to praise My playing, and you know he offer'd me A competence to study where I would For five long years. You left. Exultantly I hasten'd home, glad as the peasant boy In fairy tales, who bears within his hand All he has long'd for after nameless griefs. What could the whole world give but only this, The right to live for music, and to try, UnfetterM by low wants and common cares, How much in me could mould itself to song ; And now, I thought, since this is granted me, Let God judge of me as I shall succeed, Not in the eyes of men, but in his sight. Ah, sir, you know not what a poor man gains When he can say ; — ' I have a right to live A year, a month, a week, nay but a day For what is best in me — to let my soul Be free to do the bidding of her lord.' On my return, I told my father all; yo He sat in thought awhile, and then he said ; — " My son, you are of years, and you must choose The life you wish to lead, for you must bear Its troubles, neither I nor any man Can bear them for you. Therefore make your choice ; I will not urge my wishes, though in truth I have work'd long and hard, and oftentimes Denied myself my wishes for your sake ; My father's father dwelt upon this land, And I have held it as a sacred trust, And done my best that when it came to you It should be better for me. It is vain To run away from duty. Everywhere Pain finds us out, and grief, and cherish'd hopes Are disappointed. But when we can say, ' I stand where God has placed me,' we are strong To bear our troubles, and to do our work, And that is much. You think the life we lead Is poor and dull ; it seems a splendid thing To be a lord's retainer. For my part, The crust I earn is sweeter to my tongue Than dainties I must beg for. Those who take The rich man's gifts become the rich man's slave, And even golden chains weigh heavily On those that bear them. He who is content With what he has, though poor, is strong and free. Then think upon the sorrows of the world, Its grief, and pain, and sin — Is this a place 7i Where any earnest man would wish to pass His life in fiddling? Think this over well And then do as you will." I was too glad To note my father's sadness, and I went Silently from him. With the dawn of day I hasten'd out into the autumn woods To talk with Lizzie. The October mist Was heavy in their branches, and the air Was moist and chill. Leaning against a tree, I found her, with pale cheeks, imploring eyes, And a pathetic patience in her face That touch'd me to the heart. She did not speak, She scarce return'd my kiss. I did my best To comfort her. At last, she threw her arms Around my neck, and with her head bent down Upon my shoulder, weeping bitterly, She told me all. Then, sir, I made my choice ; I knew how much it meant, I saw it all In that one moment, all that I might be, All that I must be, for I felt at once How I must choose*. I could not let that child, The mother of my babe that was to be, Bear all the shame and anguish of my sin ; I could not leave them in the cold hard world, Robb'd of all joy, and go myself to drink My fill of joyance. So I press'd her cheek 72 Closer to mine, and whisper" d in her ear : — " Trust in me, Lizzie." Then there came a gleam Of love through all the sadness of her eyes, Low broken words, and kisses long and fond, But different to those we kiss'd of yore. Then I return'd into my father's house, And all day long consider'd in what way 'Twere best that I should break my mind to him, That I might seem submissive to his will Yet gain my end, for much I fear'd his wrath. But when I saw his face, my mind was changed, And I said ; — " Father, I have ponder'd well All that you said last night, and though I yield — Nay more, because I yield my dearest wish, I first must speak to you as man to man The simple truth. You cannot understand What music is to me. I cannot feel In all things as you feel — God made us so : And I must lead my life as I think best, And take what comes of it, and I would go ; But, father — Lizzie — I must marry her." And so I told him all. He stood awhile In silence, and about his lips there moved Something that look'd not like a smile or sneer, Before in a low husky voice he said ; — 73 " My son, God saves you now against your will :. Yet, surely it is well that you should feel You must do right, rather than have your wish, Nor will I hinder you in any way ; Go — do your duty — marry — she shall be To me as is a daughter, but at last Earnestly settle down to honest work, And leave your fiddling.'' From that moment forth I and my father understood the love That each bore to the other, though we felt Much was in each we could not understand. Thus, in due time, my marriage-day came round, And Lizzie was my wife, and so we stood Alone within our chamber, hand in hand, And then for the first time I told her all That I have told you of my choice, and she Was silent for awhile, and then she sigh'd, And answer'd ; — " You have given much for me, Too much, dear love, but I will do my best That you may not repent it." And in truth, I never have repented. God sl>all find, In his due time, another man, I think, To give expression to the dreams that come, Like the sad ghosts of unborn melodies Crving to me to lend them life in sound, 74 When the clear dawn is grey behind the elms, Or amber deepens in the western skies ; And for the soul he gave into my hand, I have not lost it, nor the gentle face, But treasured them, and kept them in his name. OUR LADY OF THE SEA 77 THE LEGEND OF OUR LADY OF THE SEA Part I. Hail, blessed Mary, I begin, Pray that our weakness and our sin May be forgiven : when we die Be with us in our agony. And if, in telling this thy tale, In anything I chance to fail, That pardon too, and strengthen me, For surely I have need of thee ! There was an island far away, But where, the story does not say, As fair as any that the sun From his blue home may smile upon, With groves, and hills, and meadow-land. There did primeval forests stand, Mossy and vast, the clear-voiced streams Fill'd all their solitudes with dreams Of the cool uplands ; but no oar Was heard along the rocky shore, 78 Or in the coves, but there the sea Bewail'd its old woe dreamily. A simple and a quiet race Had this fair land for dwelling-place : They thought the sea that circled round Their islet was the wide world's bound, Nor knew they aught of war or strife, Or bitter need : a peaceful life Was theirs. Yet sin and pain were there, And weeping eyes, and fretful care ; Nor knew they of a rest to come When we have reach'd our father's home, And all that now we bear shall be A tale to talk of smilingly. Now, in that land, in ancient days, A young king dwelt who had great praise Of all the people, for his sway Was mild and just ; but on a day It chanced great longing on him fell For what sweet thing he could not tell, But to his own sad heart it seem'd That in the silent night he dream'd Of some great joy, a vision full Of nameless gladness, beautiful With unknown beauty, but no thought Remain'd of what his dream had wrought When he awaken'd, save the dim 19 Vague yearning that took hold of him For that untried felicity, That something that might never be. Yet, day by day, that longing grew Upon him, till no rest he knew, Nor could find joy in anything ; But most men vex'd him, arguing With weighty mien and foolish-noise Of senseless work and empty joys. Therefore he sought the silent woods, And in their greenest solitudes, It seem'd as if the trees did know Of the great joy that grieved him so, As if the murmur of the stream Were musical with his lost dream, And all this soothed him ; so he lay There in the gloaming of the day And dream'd again, or really heard 'Mid those sweet sounds, the whisper'd word ;- " Across the sea, across the sea There cometh one that loveth thee." Next dawn, within a rocky bay, A goodly ship at anchor lay, And those who first the marvel saw Gazed on it, pale with fear and awe, Thinking, " This monstrous beast hath come To desolate our quiet home." 8o And straightway they made haste to bring The weighty tidings to the king ; But suddenly he did uprise, — New hope made beautiful his eyes, Old longing made his footsteps light, For at the news of that strange sight, His glad heart whisper'd ; — " Thus hath she, Whom I have long'd for, come to me." So, fearless and unarm'd, he pass'd Through the pale crowd of men aghast At that new terror, and alone He sprung from off the sea-wash'd stone And reach'd the goodly vessel's side Breasting the waves, and loudly cried ; — " Behold I come ;" but when no sound Made answer, climb'd the deck and found Great store of wonders, new and fair, And, as he thought, within the air Soft music hover'd, and the tone Of distant bells, but yet alone On all that goodly ship he was. Uncheck'd his eager feet did pass On to the cabin, but deep awe Fell on his spirit when he saw Upon a carven altar stand Six tapers, three on either hand, And by their saintly radiance shown, A pictured lady on a throne, 8i With soft sweet eyes, and bearing mild ; Upon her knees she held a child Of strangest beauty ; from the deep Blue heaven above, as cloudlets sleep In our low quiet summer skies, Fair childish faces, with fond eyes, And silent gladness, dimly gleam'd ; Then all the joy that he had dream'd O'ercame him : bending low, he said ; — " O mother, fairer than a maid, O lovely Lady of the Sea, What may I do to welcome thee ?" But when no word she answer'd him, His heart grew faint, his eyes were dim With very longing, but he thought ; — " Truly some wonder should be wrought In reverence of her, would I might Read those sweet looks of hers aright ; For never can my heart be glad Except in pleasing her, or sad But if I grieve her, or she goes, And leaves me in this world of woes ; But surely she will stay with me, Since she has come across the sea." So, straightway he return'd to land, And to his people gave command To build a stately house, that there His love might dwell, and everywhere 82 To seek for rich and lovely things To be their bridal offerings. And each man went upon his way, But he in the same place did stay, Nor dared again to gaze upon The lovely face till all was done, When having seen that it was good, He knelt before the carven wood, And the six tapers, with bow'd head, And in a humble voice he said ; " Come, take my gift and dwell with me, O soft-eyed Lady of the Sea." Soon as he reach'd the land, a sleep Fell on him, dreamless, soft, and deep ; But when he woke to gaze upon His dearest joy, the ship was gone. The happy careless waves did play Around the borders of the bay, The happy sunlight shone upon The distant mountains : she was gone. Wild was his grief, and yet in nought He wrong'd her, nor complain'd in aught Save thus : — " If thou indeed didst know How great my love, how deep my woe, Thou surely hadst not gone from me> My long-loved Lady of the Sea." Then he arose and pass'd along 83 The ways, where erst with dance and song He hoped to bring her, till at last The threshold of her house was pass'd, And there he saw the altar stand, The tapers, three on either hand, And in their soft and sacred light His vanish'd love, his lost delight : And there, with bended head and knee, He said ; "lam not fit to stand Beside thee, nor to touch thy hand. Yet stay awhile and dwell with me ; I will not vex thee, nor draw nigh Thy sacred place irreverently ; Stay and command me still, and I Will never wed for love of thee, O gracious Lady of the Sea," In sooth, I have no art to tell The wondrous joyance that befel The happy land from that day forth, Nor of the king's exceeding worth ; This only am I taught to say That every morning he would pray ; — " Teach me to act as if I knew In all what thou wouldst have me do." And every evening ; — " Sweetest bliss, Forgive what I have done amiss, Help me indeed thy slave to be, And do not go away from me.'' 84 But all sweet things to sadness turn That, haply, we the more may yearn, When heavy-laden and distress'd, For him who gives the weary rest. So here it chanced. A sickness fell Upon the king who ruled so well, Which greater grew day after day Till senseless on his bed he lay, And all men felt that he must die ; Then, starting with a sudden cry, He said ; — " Behold ! my death is come, Now rise and bear me to her home, That I before I die may see Once more the face that loveth me.'' So through the sad heart-stricken crowd Of men who sobb'd and wept aloud, They bore him to her house, and there Beneath the carven altar, where Unspent the waxen tapers shone Before the lady on the throne, They set him down, and e'en as was His bidding, mournfully did pass Into the outer court, and sore Their weeping was, for nevermore They thought his well-loved voice to hear. But he they left, with many a tear, And word half broken to a moan, Said ; " All my gladsome days are flown, 85 And thus I come again to thee, lovely Lady of the Sea. " For, though my years of happiness Have ending in this sore distress, Though all my former joy seems vain In this new wretchedness and pain, The love of thee endureth still, Nor does it cease my soul to fill With sweetest comfort. Thanks and praise 1 give to thee, that thy sweet face Has dwelt beside me all these years ; But now, if looking on my tears, And on this bitter woe of mine, Thou feelest pity, make some sign, Or speak some gentle word to me, O lovely Lady of the Sea." Scarce had he spoken, when a sleep Fell on him, restless still but deep, And then once more old dreams return'd, Once more for unknown joy he yearn'd, And once again he seem'd to hear A low voice breathing in his ear ; — " Across the sea, across the sea, There cometh one that loveth thee." •86 Part II. That evening, when the minster bell Was tolling vespers, in his cell Amid the mountains bleak and cold, A grey-hair'd hermit, weak and old, Knelt down to pray as God commands, And slowly through his wither'd hands Let fall the brown beads one by one Until the last of them was done, And then arose, and sat in thought Of the great deeds good men have wrought In many countries, by the grace Of her whom angels love to praise ; Then in a faltering voice he said ; " O Virgin mother, spotless maid, All these by deeds of worthy fame Have glorified thy gracious name, But I no service render thee, Though thou art all in all to me.'' Then with some sadness he lay down And slept, but when the distant town Was hush'd to silence by the night, Around him shone a sudden light, And in that glory, by his bed The blessed Virgin stood, and said : — "Lorenzo, rise, and follow me ; At length I have a need of thee." 87 So he arose and follow'd. Down The hill, and through the sleeping town, Our Lady led : he, rapt the while By the remembrance of her smile, Took note of nought, but follow'd where Her robe, the glory of her hair Made the night lovely, till at last, When to the white sea-sands they pass'd, He knelt and kiss'd her garment's hem, For there a boat awaited them Which thus they enter'd. From the shore, Without a sail, without an oar, It glided : by the helm on high She sat in her sweet majesty And he lay quiet at her feet ; What need of question and reply When never doubt could vex him more ? She smiled upon him from her seat. I know our earthly joys are sweet, But which of them if used aright, Can shadow forth his great delight ? This haply — Some who vainly loved Have not been scorn'd, but unreproved In the loved presence durst abide ; Such, maybe, on a mountain-side, Or in the fragrance of a wood, Have felt as if they understood, With her beside them, all the vast Glad hope that now is overpast, 88 Have cast the bitter and the sweet Alike before those well-loved feet ; — " What am I that I should repine At any thought or word of thine 1 If so thou wilt, then be it so, Thy joy my joy, thy woe my woe." They know those eyes are not for them, They may not touch that garment's hem ; All — all is past — is lost — and yet, How sweet one moment to forget The loneliness of coming years, The unheaved sighs, the unshed tears, The fruitless craving, just to sit And watch the summer shadows flit Adown the silken lengths of hair, Only to know that she is there, To feel the eyes that coldly shone Grow kinder now all hope is gone, To crowd into a single hour All the vast wealth of true love's dower, And silently with looks to say : — " After the years have pass'd away, Wilt thou not sometimes think of me Not all unkindly V and to bless With fullest heart her loveliness ; — All this and more than all its sweet, Without its bitter, at those feet Lorenzo felt, as silently He gazed, in rapturous surprise, 8 9 On all that makes those human eyes The theme of angels' minstrelsy. I cannot tell what heaven shall be, But surely one such hour as this Were worth a whole eternity Of earthly love and earthly bliss. O holy Mary, grant that we May some day pass such hours with thee. How long they sail'd I cannot say, But ere the dawning of the day They reach'd that island. She arose ; He follow'd, silent, pressing close To her bright garment, till they came Unto the house that bore her name But knew her not, and there they pass'd Through the sad crowd of men aghast At their king's sickness, who in awe Gave way before them, when they saw That old man in his foreign guise, With such strange gladness in his eyes, Walking among them silently, For her, indeed, they could not see. She came unto the sick man's bed, She laid her hand upon his head, And, like a mother, when for some Poor foolish grief her child will come And clamour to her, sore distress'd, 9° She smiled upon him, and his rest Grew quiet in her smile, and so She pass'd, nor might Lorenzo know The manner of her going. There Her altar stood, but she was gone ) Yet, in the rapture of his prayer, He did not feel himself alone, For still the memory of her smile Gladden'd his spirit. For awhile With bended knee and humble head Silent he pray'd, but then he said ; — " How shall we praise thee, when we bless Thy name in our great thankfulness Whom for his mother Jesus chose? — We call thee star, we call thee rose, But what thy glory shall express ? What fitly tell thy graciousness 1" With that the king awoke, and there He saw him kneel, and heard his prayer, And "Who art thou, old man 1" he cried : Lorenzo rose, and then replied, Pointing with lean and wither'd hand To where the pictured Queen did stand ; — " I am her servant, king, and she This day hath sent me unto thee." Then did the king arise, and know That he was heal'd of all his woe, " Her servant, then my lord," he said : 9i " Over my body and my soul Her might extends, who from the dead Hath led me back, and made me whole. Be thou my lord, rule over me, But tell, I pray thee, who is she Whom I have loved so constantly And call'd the Lady of the Sea?" Surely there is no need to tell That good Lorenzo taught him well, Nor how that folk received the faith And held it truly unto death. Long did Lorenzo live without A murmur, for, " Beyond all doubt," He used to say, " or there or here, 'Tis heaven to know she holds me dear. So let me do my work, that when God calls me from the midst of men, I once again that face may see Bent with a gracious smile on me." And thus the story makes an end. O holy Mary, be our friend, Our advocate, that we may see Thy face, and dwell at last with thee. STRAY THOUGHTS AND POEMS 95 LIFE'S LOSS Of all sad things in life, this seems to me The saddest ; when the heavy-footed years Bear in at length the harvest of our tears, They do not find us as we used to be. For as thought ripens, and the hasty flame Of fancy deepens to a steadfast glow, Our bodies fail us, and our wills are slow In word or deed our being to proclaim : Or this : when we are rescued from the wave, Snatch'd from the passion'd anguish of the storm, We can but view a brother's sinking form, And have no might to counsel or to save. Each man must bear his spirit's agony In solitude, and when the weary years Bear in at last the harvest of his tears, Thev do not find him as he used to be. 9 6 THE POEM OF LIFE Ere a babe is born to its bliss or harm God takes the naked soul on his arm, And whispers a great word in its ear, So that it cannot choose but hear. In whatever land that babe shall grow, Whether the world will hear or no, If he be strong, or if he be weak, No other word his soul shall speak. If the time be ripe, and he doth succeed, In speaking the word in a noble deed, With illumined fires, and loud-peal'd bells, We say : — " In our land a hero dwells." If in colour or music he breathe it out, Each soul responded:, and none shall doubt That this is indeed the very word Which before his birth from God he heard. 97 But alas ! our human tongues are slow, And the world is fill'd with the noise of woe, And seldom amid the din is heard Clearly and loudly God's own word. But when each soul shall fully speak In its own accent, strong or weak, The discord shall melt into music sweet, And the poem of God shall be complete. 9 8 THE JOYS OF LIFE As when across that splendour of the moon A long thin rack of summer clouds is driven, And each becomes a wonder in the heaven, And gleams, and glows, and fades away as soon As it has pass'd that brightness, and is nought But a grey streak upon the midnight sky, So doth each gladness of our life pass by, A dream, a joy, the phantom of a thought. And we, like children who indeed suppose That each doth of its very virtue burn, Stretch out our hands, and cry to each in turn And vainly seek to stay it as it goes. 99 They are but damp cold mists ; O heart of mine, Be still, and wait, and trust that when the last Of all that strange and glimmering train has past, Then shall the moon in spotless splendour shine. FATHER AND MOTHER Earth is our mother, and her rarest joys She casts into our laps, the childish toys We cry for, play with, break and throw away ; But God our Father watches us at play, Nor chides our doting mother's lavishment ; Yet, well he knows, though all her store were spent, She should not find in it a single bliss That long could satisfy a child of his. Seldom we note him, for our eyes are full Of our bright playthings or, it may be, dull With eager angry tears, if one be lost, Or some poor foolish whim of ours be cross'd ; But yet sometimes it chances that a child Looks up, and sees the face so calm and mild, And runs up to him, clings about his knee, And says ; — " O Father, Father, pity me, I've lost the pretty plaything Mother gave." 101 And then he bends his head down, and in grave But loving tones doth speak such tender things That child shall need no other comfortings ; And those whom thus he talks to find it sweet To sit and dream for hours beside his feet. And oftentimes he stretcheth out his hand Where one of these his little ones doth stand, And takes its toy, and at his touch is wrought A wonder ; for not even in our thought Can we conceive of such a joy as he Can make the smallest gift of Earth to be ; Nor shall that gladness ever pass away, For still it grows in beauty day by day ; Or if, indeed, the outward form be broken, Yet is it as a sweet word fondly spoken. O Father, Father, take this joy of mine, This broken joy, in that strong hand of thine, That it may grow a bright and tender star To lead me to the heights where angels are. THE SOUL'S RITUAL When we have anything to say, We have no rest by night and day, But seek through earth, and sea, and air, For everything that's rich and rare, Till we have found a fitting dress To body forth its loveliness. But he, the Man who meekly trod Our earth, the human Son of God, Did deepest mysteries consign To simplest symbols : — bread and wine, The common need, the common good, That were his hearers' daily food. And thus he gives to great and small A sacred daily ritual, For e'en the coarsest claims of Earth, If duly paid, surpass in worth The brightest vision we can dream By violet bank or lilied stream. Of all our duties, there is none So small that, if 'tis truly done, With simple heart and pure intent, It shall not be a sacrament. io3 THE PAST I call'd the Past fond names ; — " O dear, dear Past," I said, " O matron with the tender eyes, And lips attuned to soothing lullabies, Sing me to sleep that I may rest at last, O dear, dear Past. " O wise and gentle nurse, upon thy knees Let me weep out my sorrow ; soothe thy child With ancient tales, with ballads sweet and wild, And the soft notes of solemn litanies. Upon thy knees, " Let me forget, O mother (while thy hand Turns from caressing thy beloved dead To linger for one moment on my head), This vain vain strife to act or understand, Soothed by thy hand." T04 But, as I spoke, came Love, in girlish guise, Smiling upon me, in her clearest tone A world of beauty yet undream'd, unknown, A heaven of sweetest music in her eyes ; O wondrous eyes ! And then I cried : — "O foolish, foolish Past, Mumbler of dreary songs and senseless tales, In this bright light thy borrow'd glory pales, By these deep glooms thy gloom is overcast, O foolish Past." But she, arising, stretch'd her hand and said ; " Behold, vain dreamer, she is all my own, My lips shall gather sweetness from her tone, The brightness of her locks shall crown my head, Shall crown my head." And so I call the past fond names ; — " Dear Past," I say, " O matron with the tender eyes, And lips attuned to soothing lullabies, Sing me to sleep ; bring me in dreams at last To her, dear Past." POLAND io7 TO We had talk'd of the weather, and dwelt On the wonders of Nature and Art, On the rapture we often had felt In gazing on beauty, the free Boundless beauty of mountain and sea, That quiets and strengthens the heart. Then we rose and pass'd on ; all around Was joyous, and careless, and bright, In the pause of the music, the sound Of jesting and laughter was heard, And we caught here a thought, there a word, As we turn'd from the talk and the light To mark how the full stars were beaming, And the far lights were fitfully gleaming In the silence and beauty of night. io8 Then you spoke, and I thought that your breast Heaved slightly, I thought that your tone Quiver'd somewhat ; — " You see that the rest Are lost in their mirth and their glee, They will leave us an hour all alone, And so, if you wish, you can see The pictures we spoke of." Your tone Said more than in words was express'd. So we sat, and you show'd them ; but lo The sound of the music and laughter Died away in my ear, and the glow Died away in my heart, and I heard In its stead the wild music that stirr'd The dark woods of Poland, the low Sad wailing that followeth after The dead who return not : their woe Grew great in my heart : on my eyes Rose a mist as of tears, and their sighs Seem'd nearer to me than the laughter. Would you know what I dream'd, what I thought, While I sat there so still by your side, The question to which I then sought, Though vainly, a hopeful reply, As I heard the fierce passionate cry Of a nation that rose and defied The wrongs that her tyrants had wrought ? 109 Take the pictures, and I will unfold, If I can, what they said to my heart ; But the words of a poet are cold, Are dull, when compared with the light Of swords flashing out on the night. And the far-vaunted magic of art Is weak, when compared with the might Of an oath sworn in secret, the wild Loud weeping of mother and child, Or the low sighs when exiles depart ; And these you have heard from of old. Berlin, May, 1872. INTRODUCTION More than all nations of the earth . Is Poland like unto the Lord, Who came, although his name was Love, To bring no olive, but a sword. Kings give their servants ease and power, Honours and boundless wealth ; but he, Gave to the men whom most he loved, The martyr's raptured agony. And Poland's gift to those who fought, Too brave to bear, too weak to save, Is endless heartbreak, fruitless tears, An exile's lot, a nameless grave. ITI IN POLAND There is woe in the land, and the loud voice of wailing Goes up from the homesteads of Poland, and keen Are the heart-rending moaning and sobs ; unavailin The wild parting struggle at midnight has been. They have taken the bravest, the noblest are taken, And those who relied on their manhood are left ; The widow's last trust in the future is shaken, The maiden of lover and brother bereft. No more, with gay laughter, returning from roaming Through forest and moorland, shall mothers behold Their light-hearted hunters; no more, in the gloaming, The maiden await him who woo'd her of old. The stables are still, and the wolf-hounds are sleeping The bear and the wild-cat may fearlessly play ; But the mothers and sisters are loud in their weeping For those whom the Russians have drafted away. IN A CHAMBER A MOTHER SPEAKS. Why seek to comfort 1 — Let me be — My son is gone ; My joy is turn'd to woe. — Ah, me ! The years run on, But what good can they do mc now ? Slowly they grow to desert years, Mark'd only by my falling tears, And deepening furrows on my brow. The boy I nursed upon my knee, He loved me so, And women live by love — ah, me ! In youth, you know, Men love us lightly, call us fair But love in age is far to seek ; Who now will kiss the wither'd cheek ? Who gently smooth the whitening hair t "3 God of the lone, I cry to thee, Hear thou my call. They name thee Love, and yet — ah, me — Thou seest it all ; Thou seest the anguish, wrong, and woe, And dost not save. — God, I pray, Deal with these rulers, even as they Have dealt with me — no worse, but so. ii 4 JN A SMITHY THE SMITHS SPEAK. When the woods are still, And the night is dark, Here we work for good or ill, Pausing when the lark Wakes the morning grey and chill. Though they think her dead, Poland forges here Of her wrongs a purpose dread, Of the scythe a spear : Night is dark, but dawning red. Long and sad is night, Let us blow the spark Till it glows from red to white, Flaming through the dark On the lands a signal light. "•S IN A COTTAGE A WOMAN SPEAKS. Hush, my babe, the wind is loud, Darkly drifts the passing cloud, But the light shines full and clear On his form and thine, my dear. Baby, hush, our dream of joy- Turns to sadness and annoy ; Which is stronger, love or fate ? We must watch, and we must wait. Hark, upon the window-pane Something struck : — it taps again : Love is stronger far than fear ; — Poland calls : awake, my dear. If I loved thee less, I would bid thee stay, Dreaming in one long caress Life away. n6 But I love thee so I can part from thee, Poland calls thee, dearest ; go, Trust in me. I will do my part, Do thou thine, And I know, where'er thou art Thou art mine. Words and tears are vain ; May God keep thee well, — Turn and kiss me yet again, So, farewell. Hush, my babe, for father's gone, Thou and I are left alone ; Baby, hush, my baby, sleep, While I weep, while I weep. 1. 1 7 IN THE WOODS The stars are quench'd, across the moon Drifts heavy cloud on cloud, Arid mid the darkness of the woods The wind is fierce arid loud. But where to night a ray of light May cast its fitful sheen, By rock or stream, the answering gleam Of burnish'd steel is seen. And where to-night the tempest's might Is hush'd, no voice of bird, But low yet dread, the measured tread Of gathering bands is heard. n8 JN A VILLAGE A MAIDEN SPEAKS. Hide thee, O hide thee; the wound on thy brow, And thy dark flashing glances betray thee, and thou Wilt be slain if they find thee. Hide thee, I love thee ; I hid it of yore, There is hope in the future — O linger no more, Death hastens behind thee. Hide thee, O hide thee ; adown thy pale cheek The red blood is streaming, thus wounded and weak Hide, and wait till to-morrow. Hide thee, I love thee ; will tend thee, and yet, My smiles and my kisses shall make thee forget Our land and her sorrow. A YOUTH SPEAKS. It is past, love ; we must part, Thou and I, Gentle face and tender heart, I must die. ii9 Thou wilt weep, dear, for awhile, That I know, Till a new love wakes thy smile, Better so. In the spring-tide of new years Love shall wake, Drying up these bitter tears For my sake. Hush, no vow, dear, so 'tis best, Best for thee, Be thy love and children blest, Blest of me. We had each a cross to take, Thou and I, Mine is this for Poland's sake, I must die. So I chose, dear ; if amiss Can I tell ? With this first, last, only kiss, Fare thee well. MO- IN A CASTLE A MAN SPEAKS. Hold the door ! I can hear them on the stair, Pray — in half an hour, no niore_ There will be an end of prayer : — Pray to God beneath your breath, Pray to die, the best is death. A CHILD SPEAKS. Why does papa stand at the door ? And why does mamma grow still and pale 1 And why do you stop, grandma, before You've finish'd half your tale ? We both have been good the whole day long, I did not cry when nurse comb'd my hair, And I learnt my tasks, -and I sung the song About Poland bold and fair. Then why do you stop ? Papa says' *' Pray," When I rose I pray'd, and I spoke quite plain- Ask nurse, and when I'm sent away I'll say my prayers again. Shall I say them now? O Queen. of Heaven, Pray to thy Son for my friends and me, Pray that our sins may be forgiven, And make our country free,- A MOTHER SPEAKS. O Christ, if that the faith I hold Be not a priestly lie, If thou wert scourged, and crown'd with thorns, If thou didst love and die, If thou hast promised thou wilt hear All who shall cry to thee, O keep thy word, and rescue now These helpless babes and me. 122 A GRANDMOTHER SPEAKS. Christ, my Lord, why fruitless woe Is sent us, thou alone dost know. 1 do not ask thee to restrairr Our foes — to make thy love more plain ; But by thy birth and by thy death, By Calvary and Nazareth, In anguish and in agony, Lord, give us grace to trust in thee. 123 IN THE RUINS Inc names are (jurat out ; on the fair woodland stand The dark heaps of ruin ; the scythe and the plough Lie still in their places, uncared for, for now When the shield has been cleft, and within the strong hand The sharp sword is broken, Who cares for the harvest ? In silence and dread The peasants are working, are bearing away The wreck of their homesteads ; they pause as to pray When they lift from the rubbish the forms of the dead, But no word is spoken. They lay them together upon the damp ground, The charr'd mangled corpses : their beauty and pride Have pass'd ; man and master repose side by side, But wherever a torn Polish riband is found, That is kept as a token. 124 IN A COTTAGE . A- WOMAN SPEAKS. Shadows come, and shadows go, But the flame burns still and red, And my tears perforce will flow, In this weariness. and dread; Weeping so, When the, garish -sun is high, When the quiet woodlands sleep, That a man may love and die, While we only love and weep. Thus I fashion one by one Bulletsof the harmless lead, When shall the sad task be done, And my heart be comforted 1 There is none With me when the sun is high, Or the quiet woodlands sleep ; Those we cherish love and die, We can only love and weep. 125 None but baby ; when the low Sad wind moaneth — hush, my dear !- Shadows come, and shadows go, I am faint with care and fear, Can I know Who beneath the midnight sky Moans as sadly — baby, sleep ! — Since a man must love and die, While we only love and weep. IN THE WOODS 127 A YOUNG MAN SPEAKS. We are the last, all hope is past, But not with faltering breath 111 luck divining, With slow resigning, And sad repining, We'll meet our death. Not sadly, coldly, but gladly, boldly, As 'twere a bridal, we'll greet the morn, In joyous seeming, With bright swords gleaming, And young eyes beaming In pride and scorn. Sing — the ball hisses ; sharp are thy kisses, Poland ; yet sweet is thy coming through dread, They bought, and they sold thee, Our weak arms enfold thee, Our strong hearts uphold thee, O welcome thy dead ! ALL THE POLES SING. Though the word of doom be spoken, Though our faithful ranks be broken, Be our death a living token That our Poland is not dead. t*8 Tyrants wasted and malign'd her, Cowards doubted and resign'd her, Banded nations mock and bind her, But our Poland is not dead. Witness years of yearning sadness, Witness homes bereft of gladness, Still despair and raging madness, That our Poland is not dead. Witness love for her neglected, Joy and hope for her rejected, Life despised and death accepted, That our Poland is not dead. THE END. ~x