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OLD YEAR LEAVES. 
 
By H. T, MACKENZIE BELL. 
 
 Oetses Of QarieD life. 
 
 " The most noticeable feature of Mr. Mackenzie Bell's work is descriptive of 
 external nature in remote and unfamiliar places ; he has obviously travelled 
 extensively. His verses bear witness to considerable powers of observation, 
 and some capacity for original thought. The scenes described are_ chiefly 
 Spanish, but sometimes they are Italian, and occasionally even African. — 
 Academy^ Nov. 25, 1882. 
 
 "There are some pretty lines and stanzas; perhaps the worthiest poem is 
 'Heart-Echoes.' Our old friend, 'Waiting for the Dentist,' appears in an 
 extended form." — Gra^kic, Dec. 15, 1882. 
 
 " 'Waiting for the Dentist* is humorous." — Morning Post, Dec. 7, 1882. 
 
 " Many of the poems have been written during travels in Spain and elsewhere ; 
 and Mr. Mackenzie Bell sings agreeably of the changes that have overtaken 
 places once famous in history. — Bibliographer, Dec. 1882. 
 
 *' In the interval between his first and second books, Mr. Mackenzie Bell has 
 assuredly made much progress with his art. * Verses of Varied Life ' bears 
 evidence of much quiet and obtrusive thought on many themes. If he had 
 appeared just at that juncture at which Mrs. Hemans was taking hold of popular 
 sympathies, he would have stood an excellent chance of establishing his name." 
 —Liverpool Mercury't Nov. 27, 1882. 
 
 Cf)e keeping of tf)C Ooto, 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES, 
 
 " The principal piece, which lends its title to this volume, relates to the 
 well-known story of Robent 'Bruce sending his heart to the Holy Land. The 
 episode is narrated with much fire and rough vigour. There are also a number 
 of highly patriotic poems on stirring^ events in history, and, besides -tliese, there 
 are some graceful fancies expressed in very felicitous language. Mr. Mackenzie 
 Bell has a fluent style, and writes with some imaginative fire. We congratulate 
 Mr. Bell on having produced a volume of verse which certainly deserves to find 
 readers, and which holds out promise of still better things to come." — Austraiian 
 and New Zealand Gazette, April 7, 1879. 
 
 " The principal p'ece, whence this volume of verae takes its title, relates to the 
 well-known bequest by King Robert Bruce of his heart to Sir James Douglas, 
 to carry it to the Holy Land. The episode is managed with some skill, and told 
 in verses of not a little vigour and picturesqueness. . . . The Lyrics entitled 
 ' The Late Autumn is D^mg ' and ' The Warblers' Mission ' are sweetly expressed 
 and perfectly poetical fancies." — Brief, April 10, 1879. 
 
 IN SPRING, 
 A FORGOTTEN GENIUS: 
 
 CHARLES WHITEHEAD. A CRITICAL MONOGRAPH. 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
OLD YEAR LEAVES. 
 
 iDlD mzt0z& metJiteO^ 
 
 
 y 
 
 H. Xr' MACKENZIE BELL. 
 
 rionDoiq : 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 1883. 
 
 [Hiffhts Reserved.} 
 
/\.^^s'b^'^ 
 
33 .CARLTON ROAD, 
 
 PUTNEY, S.W. 
 
 
 
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The leaves which in the autumn of the years 
 Fall auburn-tinted from their parent trees, 
 Swept from dismembered boughs by ruthless breize, 
 
 Through IVinter's weary reign of want and fears 
 
 Will lie in drifts; and when the snowdrop cheers — 
 Frail firstling of the flowers — they still are there, 
 There still, although the balmy southern air 
 
 And budding boughs proclaim that Spring appears. 
 
 So lost hopes severed by the stress of life 
 Unburied lie before our wistful eyes, 
 
 Though none but we regard their fell decay ; 
 And ever amid the stir of worldly strife 
 Fresh aims and fuller purposes arise 
 
 Between the faded hopes of yesterday. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I ^ H E present generation of young poets 
 seems to have taken very earnestly 
 to heart the observation of a very old and 
 honoured poet, that at the feet of the greater 
 singers there is always room for the humbler 
 ones who are content to echo their voices 
 without aspiring to rival their compass. 
 Surely never since the days of the celebrated 
 Mr. Merry, who founded the august 
 Academy of - Delia Crusca, has there been 
 so numerous a race of minor poets as at 
 present, and he would indeed be a skilful 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 statistician who could compute the sum 
 of money spent in producing what is called 
 minor poetry during the last twenty-five 
 years. The future historian of English 
 poetical literature has a pregnant and 
 assuredly an amusing theme in store for him 
 in recording the doings of this minor 
 poetic fraternity. Beginning perhaps with 
 the seventeenth century, when every gallant 
 gentleman who wore a sword sang the 
 praises of his " fayre," he will come down 
 to the eighteenth century, when every fine 
 gentleman, in a powdered periwig and gold- 
 laced coat, lisped in numbers of " Phyllis " 
 and " Phoebus '' and " conscious swains ; " and 
 from the earliest poetasters of Benjamin 
 Stillingfleet's order of Blue-Stockings, down 
 to the veriest butterflies that flourished in 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 the dalliance of the Cockney muse, he 
 will find food for amusing comment, if not 
 for instructive record. It was perhaps a 
 cruel thing of Gifford to burn up, in his 
 " Baviad and Maeviad," the fond family 
 of small poets that imped their little wings 
 in his time, and perhaps it was in pursuance 
 of a just revenge that Leigh Hunt in his 
 " Feast of the Poets " burnt up the bats 
 of small critics ; but most persons of sober 
 judgment will agree that in this world folly 
 is immortal, and whether it takes the form 
 of minor poetry or minor criticism, is 
 perhaps not very important after all ; and 
 no succession of " Baviad and Maeviads " 
 or " Feasts of the Poets " or " Sessions of 
 the Poets " is likely to exterminate either 
 the races of poetasters or of criticasters. 
 
X Preface. 
 
 The historian of minor poetry who under- 
 takes to traverse the forgotten verse of the 
 Victorian era will assuredly have a prodigious 
 task before him. Who shall even count 
 the volumes of minor verse that have been 
 published during the past twenty years ? 
 or yet the number of minor poets who did 
 not exist as such a decade ago ? It is 
 said that the cellars of one well-known 
 publishing house are literally walled (perhaps 
 paved) with the unsold copies of the 
 " effusions " of already forgotten living poets, 
 and that each shelf of the literary mauso- 
 leum is duly labelled and ticketed in some 
 symbolical fashion — Sacred to the Memory 
 of a Minor Bard. Relating to this fact, 
 I well remember an infinitesimal poet who 
 was so straitened to obtain one of the 
 
Preface. xi 
 
 first necessities of his calling — rhyme — that 
 he was obliged to "pave" his weary way 
 to a grave. He might have utilized the 
 unsold copies of the first and only edition 
 of his poems for that purpose. It requires 
 little effort of the imagination to picture 
 the long-suffering historian at the British 
 Museum. The preparatory labour he must 
 undergo in determining the myriad volumes 
 he has to ask for ; the arduous work 
 involved in writing so many book-tickets ; 
 the appalled and affrighted air of the 
 unfortunate officials as they plaintively re- 
 present to him that their hand-carts are 
 quite unequal to the task he would impose 
 on them, and then that he would require a 
 whole section of the Reading Room to him- 
 self in order to accommodate the literary 
 
xii Preface 
 
 loads he demands ! To the smaller bard, 
 therefore, no hope is left of immortality — 
 nay, such a remark needs qualification ; there 
 still remains the immortality conferred by 
 a line in the British Museum Catalogue, 
 and by a forgotten and concealed place on 
 the British Museum shelves. 
 
 But despite this metaphorical wet blanket of 
 well-nigh inevitable oblivion, of minor poets 
 there is no lack, and the varieties of the 
 species are infinite. There is, first, the minor 
 poet who is the liegeman of the greater poet, 
 and who out-herods his particular Herod in 
 every excess of sentiment or of manner that 
 distinguishes, or perhaps disfigures his proto- 
 type. Thirty years ago he must have been 
 a follower of Mr. Tennyson, and then he 
 was sweet and gentle down to the very 
 
Preface. xiii 
 
 lowest depths of sweetness, or perchance of 
 silliness. Ten years ago he must have 
 imagined himself to be a follower of Mr 
 Swinburne, and then he revelled in the 
 rhapsodies of rhythm, and — on paper at least 
 — in the raptures and roses of vice. The 
 neophyte usually so far resembled his proto- 
 type as to be an amiable and excellent 
 gentleman in his exemplary private life, 
 but in poetry he was a terrible creature, 
 who bit when he kissed, and loved hate 
 more than he loved love, and death more 
 than life ; who laughed at such simple weak- 
 nesses as piety and religion, and held all 
 kings and queens to be tyrants, and all 
 deities to be demons. The lesser poet of 
 this by no, means extinct species was a por- 
 tentous personage indeed, whose conception 
 
xiv Preface. 
 
 of his own importance was only commensu- 
 rate with the world's indifference to his 
 existence. 
 
 Then there is the minor poet who supposes 
 that he is a great poet : that he has only to 
 throw down his gage, and the Universe must 
 perforce come to a general pause as the 
 result of his challenge. The airs this species 
 of poetaster gives himself are usually too 
 ludicrous to be irritating ; and what becomes 
 of him when he finds that the world is so 
 stubborn as not to fall beneath his powers 
 none can rightly say. Perhaps he quietly 
 buttons up his breeches-pocket and settles 
 down into a Common Councillor ; perhaps, as 
 Disraeli hints, he avenges his wrongs on his 
 race by the illogical expedient of becoming a 
 critic himself, and in that capacity scourging 
 
Preface. xv 
 
 the similar pretensions of the ambitious bard- 
 lings who come after him. 
 
 Then there is the minor poet who talks 
 about his personal loves, and dreams, and 
 aspirations ; who takes all men into his 
 confidence with a noble ingenuousness, and 
 unlocks for the vulgar gaze the dearest 
 secrets of his soul. How far he is rewarded 
 for wearing his heart on his sleeve one can 
 hardly be sure when one notes the playful 
 banter of those cynical scribes who persis- 
 tently shout on the house-tops what might 
 not always be conveniently whispered in the 
 closet, and who fail entirely to respect the 
 well-meant but ill-judged pathos of the 
 lesser writer. 
 
 But in truth there is one class of minor 
 poet which, in my judgment, has a right to 
 
xvi Preface. 
 
 exist, if only because it is a modest class, and 
 because, being modest, it is true to its name, 
 — I mean the minor poet who sings the songs 
 of minor life, leaving the " larger utterance " 
 to higher voices ; who lives on the lowly 
 plains of every-day experience and does not 
 pretend either to the sweep of vision or 
 compass of voice of those who dwell on the 
 heights. Such a minor poet was Hartley 
 Coleridge among the writers of verse of 
 the generations just past ; such, top, were 
 Eliza Cook and J. E. Carpenter ; and of 
 the same class we have still not a feW. 
 Need I say that for myself I claim no such 
 distinction, for distinction it is rightly to 
 know the functions of the minor poet, and 
 modestly to practise them ? One thing I trust 
 I can claim, and one only — namely, that I 
 
Preface. xvii 
 
 have neither fallen into the error of imagining 
 that I am myself an individual voice nor of 
 supposing that I can lay claim to be an echo 
 of any voice that is individual. I am old- 
 fashioned enough to believe that the simple 
 loves, and hopes, and aims, the simple faith 
 and creed that were enough for our fathers in 
 that simple England which seems to have 
 gone by for ever, are still surviving among 
 us, and that with all our modern artificiality 
 in letters as well as life, there are in more 
 than one corner of the country simple people 
 who will be glad to have these things written 
 about in a simple way. To such an old- 
 fashioned audience I now once more address 
 myself, — modestly, I know, hopefully, I 
 believe, reasonably, I trust. 
 
 H. T. Mackenzie Bell, 
 f,ondon, October, 1883. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE RIVER OF THOUGHT 3 
 
 A RALLYING SONG 6 
 
 WHISPERING WINDS .... ... 8 
 
 HELPFULNESS 10 
 
 THE SOURCE OF SONG II 
 
 A STORM SONG -13 
 
 A SONG FOR POLAND IN 1878 ...... 16 
 
 WHAT ALL MAY DO 18 
 
 WAITING FOR THE DENTIST I9 
 
 REWARD OF PARLIAMENTARY DOCILITY .... 22 
 
 SONNETS ON THE POWER OF THOUGHT .... 23 
 
 SONNET IN MEMORY 27 
 
 DECEMBER DAISIES AND DECEMBER DAYS .... 29 
 
 VIOLET 30 
 
 HEART ECHOES 36 
 
 THE poet's POWERLESSNESS 39 
 
 THE poet's thoughts 40 
 
 THE OMNIPRESENCE 'OF POETRY^ 42 
 
XX 
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FRAGMENT FOR MUSIC 44 
 
 AN EVENING LANDSCAPE 47 
 
 THE GUERDON OF TRIBULATION NOT INCURRED BY GUILT 48 
 
 BY AND BYE 50 
 
 THE TRUE TREASURE 51 
 
 A mother's soliloquy on HER NEWLY DEPARTED CHILD 53 
 
 A MATIN MELODY ... • • ■ SS 
 
 LORD, TEACH US HOW TO PRAY 57 
 
 ASPIRATIONS .... .... 59 
 
 EDGAR VANNING— A SKETCH 
 
 6i 
 
 VERSES OF TRAVEL 
 
 A BISCAYAN SUNSET .... 
 
 AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC, FRANCE . 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF THE PYRENEES 
 ON SEEING SOME PYRENEAN WILD ROSES 
 THE SOUTHERN NIGHT .... 
 
 A DIRGE OF DECAY 
 
 LINES, — ON AOOKING UP THE VALE OF BAREGES 
 FROM LA RAILL^RE TO PONT d'eSPAGNE 
 ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF CAUTERETS BY NIGHT 
 AT ORTHEZ ... ... 
 
 THE CITY OF THE CID .... 
 
 91 
 
 93 
 
 94 
 
 96 
 
 98 
 
 lOO 
 
 I02 
 
 104 
 
 107 
 
 109 
 
 IIO 
 
Contents. 
 
 XXI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE ESCORIAL . , II3 
 
 TOLEDO IN 1879 116 
 
 LINES ON PASSING THROUGH BADAJOZ . . . . II9 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE TAGUS 121 
 
 CINTRA IN 1879 122 
 
 VERSES ON A VASE FILLED WITH BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS . I24 
 
 A LESTfe SUNRISE IN MADEIRA 1 27 
 
 MADEIRA— MOONLIGHT I2g 
 
 AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE 13I 
 
 SUNDAY MORNING OFF MAZAGAN, MOROCCO . . . 1 33 
 
 GIBRALTAR, l88o I3S 
 
 GRANADA I38 
 
 PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE . . . . I40 
 
 A SPOT IN SWITZERLAND I42 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A SMALL GREY STONE ON 
 
 THE SUMMIT OF THE SIMPLON .... I43 
 
 THE CERTOSA OP PAVIA I46 
 
 SONGS AND LYRICS. 
 
 THE LATE AUTUMN IS DYING ISI 
 
 UNFULFILLED YEARNINGS 153 
 
 NO SUN EVER ROSE WITHOUT SETTING .... ISS 
 
 GLAD DREAMS OF THE FUTURE COME o'eR US . . IS7 
 
 A SONG OF HOPE IS9 
 
xxii Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HOW OFT ARISE TO SOOTHE OUR WOE . . . . l6l 
 
 THE puritan's farewell TO HIS BETROTHED . . 163 
 
 HAPPINESS HERE 1 65 
 
 A SONG ^N THE SOUTH I66 
 
 TWILIGHT MEMORIES 168 
 
 A WINTRY MOOR AT NIGHT I70 
 
 A SEA SONG 172 
 
 WHY DO I TRACE 174 
 
 A PRACTICAL THEORY OF LIFE I76 
 
 EVENING THOUGHTS 182 
 
 "1 WONDER WHEREFORE" I84 
 
 THOUGHT-LINKS l8S 
 
 JOY AND GRIEF 186 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF FREQUENT FAILURE . . . 188 
 
 AFTER FIVE YEARS 189 
 
 A SONG OF COMFORT I9I 
 
 PASSION 193 
 
 SOLITUDE 194 
 
 TRUE INSPIRATION I95 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF OUR FEELINGS .... 196 
 
 THE HAWTHORN SPRAY I97 
 
 MATERNAL LOVE . I99 
 
 PARTING WORDS 200 
 
 HOMEWARD 201 
 
 AN OCEAN GLOAMING 207 
 
 A SUMMER SCENE 2IO 
 
Contents. 
 
 xxiu 
 
 PAGS 
 
 SUMMER SORROW 212 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING IN THE WOODS . . 2I3 
 
 TWILIGHT THOUGHTS 21$ 
 
 THE heart's SUMMER 21? 
 
 a lesson in the gloaming 2i9 
 
 meadow musings 221 
 
 flower-gathering . .... 223 
 
 garden musings . . .... 224 
 
 a comparison 22s 
 
 quietude . . 227 
 
 in tenebris lux 229 
 
 a morning meditation . .... 23o 
 
 the warblers' mission 232 
 
 midnight musings 234 
 
 "'tis gone" 235 
 
 A life's EPITOMij . . 236 
 
 ACROSTICS, — BURNS . . . 237 
 
 COWPER 238 
 
 HOOD . . . 239 
 KIRKE WHITE . . ... 24O 
 A LIFE-CHRONICLE ... . 24I 
 A DREAM OF LONG AGO . .... 24S 
 APOSTROPHE TO AN INK-BOTTLE IN AN HOTEL COFFEE- 
 ROOM 250 
 
 imagination's harvest . , , 252 
 
xxiv Contents, 
 
 HISTORICAL PIECES. 
 
 FAGS 
 
 HUBERT 257 
 
 THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL 267 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE BATTLE OF FUENTES d'HONORE . 276 
 
 AN EPISODE AFTER THE TAKING OF BADAJOZ . . 279 
 
 DEVOTION OF PRINCE PONIATOWSKI . . . . 281 
 
 ADMIRAl, HOPSON'S FIRST EXPLOIT .... 285 
 
 DEATH OF CAPTAIN HUNT 289 
 
 DUTY STRONGER THAN PAIN 292 
 
 A SEA ENCOUNTER 294 
 
 THE KEEPING OF THE VOW 297 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI . . 307 
 
 AN AUTUMN REMINISCENCE 308 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE RIVER OF THOUGHT. 
 
 The strong River of Thought has an aye- 
 changeful course, 
 
 Yet for ever it springs from the same changeless 
 source 
 
 Where God-given Truth in its grandeur doth 
 reign, 
 
 The regal physician of Man's mental pain. 
 
 Sometimes in high joyance it glideth along 
 With glamour of music and gladness of song : — 
 While borne on its bosom gay pleasure-boats sail, 
 Rejoicing a while in the light laughing gale. 
 
4 Miscellaneows Pieces. 
 
 Sometimes like the stream which has sunk under 
 ground, 
 
 Yet still keeps its course mid the darkness pro- 
 found, 
 
 Unknown and alone it must hold on its way, 
 
 Till emerging at length in the full light of day. 
 
 Sometimes like the mountain's fierce torrent it 
 
 flows. 
 And all that can hinder its progress o'erthrows ; — 
 Possessing the power of immutable right, 
 And strong in the strength of invincible might. 
 
 Crass Ignorance surely succumbs to its sway. 
 As boldly it takes its all-conquering way, — 
 While keen-sighted Knowledge appears in its train,. 
 The sweetener of pleasure, the soother of pain. 
 
 Unceasingly hated by many, yet some 
 Unceasingly love it, though oft they are dumb. 
 Yet whatever betides, and wherever it flows, 
 'Tis the noble who love it, the weak who oppose 
 
The River of Thought. 5 
 
 Great River of Thought ! our strange world doth 
 
 not know 
 The evil you check, and -the good you bestow : — 
 May Time teach the lesson, 'twill then comprehend 
 How well and how often you prove its true friend. 
 
A RALLYING SONG. 
 
 Doubting, trusting, hoping, fearing, 
 
 Are we in this world of wrong — 
 Yet whilst o'er. Life's ocean steering. 
 Let this be our rallying song — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 And in gladness, 
 Nobly act, in God's strength strong. 
 
 When oppressed by deep soul-sorrow, 
 
 Joy departing like a dream, 
 Let us still some brightness borrow 
 From this heart-sustaining theme — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 As in gladness. 
 Nobly act, whate'er may seem. 
 
A Rallying Song. 
 
 When to stain our honour tempted 
 
 Some ignoble end to buy, 
 From such cowardice exempted 
 Let us resolutely cry — 
 Evil sow not, 
 That it grow not, 
 Nobly act, for God is nigh. 
 
 For, befall what may, with Conscience 
 
 Satisfied shall we be blest ; 
 So mid all Life's strange mutations 
 Still this motto must be best — 
 Aye, in sadness 
 And in gladness. 
 Nobly act, and trust the rest. 
 
WHISPERING WINDS. 
 
 Whispering winds strange musings carry 
 To our hearts as they sweep by : — 
 
 Thoughts that often thrilling tarry 
 Though the winds may wailing die. 
 
 To the sailor, watchful pacing 
 On the deck of ship at sea, 
 
 Bring they dreams of danger facing, 
 Mid the tempest's mockery. 
 
 To the exile, hoping, fearing, 
 Wandering on an alien strand. 
 
 Bring they memories endearing 
 Of his much-loved Father-land. 
 
Whispering Winds. 
 
 To the weary heavy-hearted 
 
 Often bring they thoughts of peace, 
 Of the peace where, pain departed, 
 
 Woe and weariness shall cease. 
 
 Sometimes bring they only sorrow 
 To the stricken in their train, 
 
 Imaging a dread to-morrow 
 Which will but augment their pain. 
 
 Bring they unto some new pleasure 
 And each trace of care destroy, 
 
 While to others yield a measure 
 Of distress that mars their joy. 
 
 Yet these forms of varied feeling 
 In this feature all agree, 
 
 That o'er every soul is stealing 
 Thought of an Eternity. 
 
HELPFULNESS. 
 
 Behold a fine tree growing in a field, 
 Apart from any other, and alone, 
 With nothing to preserve it or to shield 
 It from the wind, yet it is ever known 
 To thrive as well as trees whose lot is thrown 
 In sheltered woods, saved from the wintry blast. 
 And first from it in spring is heard the tone 
 Of singing birds ; for, while its branches last. 
 It is a blessing where its lonely lot is cast. 
 
 How well if often thus with man it were, 
 For surely cheering others on their way 
 Would wondrously relieve our ceaseless care, 
 And dissipate the gloom of Life's drear day. 
 By teaching us that Love will truly pay 
 All hundredfold again what we bestow 
 Upon our brother toilers ; none can say 
 The blessings that we reap when thus we show 
 O r sympathy for men by sharing in their woe. 
 
THE SOURCE OF SONG. 
 
 What maketh the true poet sing ? 
 
 Is it sense of deep injuries thrown 
 On the weak by the strong, which sting 
 
 His heart, till to song he is prone ? 
 
 Is it sight of some beautiful lake 
 
 All aflame with the dying sun's rays, — 
 
 O'er whose breast the acacias shake 
 Soft tresses of feathery sprays ? 
 
 Is it thought of some beautiful form 
 That fays well might deign to assume ; 
 
 Displaying with ardour full warm, 
 How noble is youth's early bloom ? 
 
 Is it thought of his dear mother-land, — 
 The deep longing that she be supreme : 
 
 Aspiration as loyal as grand, 
 
 Which to sons should be more than a dream ? 
 
1 2 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Is it pleasure in physical health — 
 The supreme unacquirable dower, 
 
 Far greater in blessing than wealth, 
 And almost as mighty in power ? 
 
 Is it simple desire to excel ? 
 
 Or ambition that 's highest and best. 
 Which longs among mankind to dwell, 
 
 To show by true life what is blest ? 
 
 With such things the poet must strive. 
 And sometimes they impel him to sing. 
 
 Till in fortunate hour they may drive 
 Him for aid to re-touch his lute's string. 
 
 But the primary cause which impels, — 
 More resistless than aught of these things,- 
 
 Is this : that within him there dwells 
 A soul which but lives when he sings. 
 
A STORM SONG. 
 
 The surges in anger are beating 
 
 On the rocks and the shingle-strewn shore, 
 And though with a hiss aye retreating. 
 
 They come in fierce fury once more. 
 
 Most sternly the billows^are breaking 
 In wreaths white with purest of spray ,- 
 
 Still further their great wrath awaking, 
 As forward they dash on their way. 
 
 The wild wailing wind that is blowing, 
 The dreariness far out to sea. 
 
 The feelings that come without knowing 
 In truth what their nature may be. 
 
14 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 All these, and much more now oppress me 
 As musing I gaze on the strand : — 
 
 Yet though in some sense it distress me. 
 How noble a storm is, — ^how grand ! 
 
 The ships in the bay are so swayi'ng, 
 Their cables can scarce bear the strain : 
 
 Their beams with the water are playing 
 While sailing is utterly vain 
 
 As the gale is against them completely ; 
 
 The rain how it ceaselessly falls. 
 Clouds scud o'er the sky, ah how fleetly ! 
 
 And harsh are the sea-birds' shrill calls. 
 
 The storm is now spent and departed 
 And yet its effects still remain, — 
 
 Two mothers are made broken-hearted, 
 Their boys will not greet them again. 
 
A Storm Song. 15 
 
 How wondrous it is that Creation 
 
 Is aye in perpetual strife, 
 And shows not, for man's emulation, 
 
 How calmness should regulate life ! 
 
 Can it be that when Man in his madness 
 To Evil at first became thrall, 
 
 All Nature was forced with sore sadness 
 To join his ilnspeakable fall ? 
 
A SONG FOR POLAND IN 1878. 
 
 Ah, how cruel the thraldom and bitter the bonds 
 
 Of our wretched and down-trodden nation ! 
 Not a throb of our hearts but in anguish responds 
 
 To the sight of such dire desolation : 
 And in scarce-spoken words we are heard to 
 declare 
 
 Woe hath made us wellnigh broken-hearted. 
 Dark and dreary the prospect; dear Poland, 
 despair, 
 
 Since thy liberty now hath departed. 
 
 Other peoples get freedom, while we in the dust 
 
 Alone and forsaken are lying ; 
 Ever lower and lower continually thrust, 
 
 Men's love of their country fast dying. 
 While the Government check with malicious 
 intent 
 
 Any change for our good which is started. 
 Dark and dreary the prospect ; let Poland lament, 
 
 Since her liberty's light hath departed ! 
 
A Song for Poland in 1 878. 17 
 
 Nq! Revenge on the tyrants who work us such 
 ill 
 
 Mid their bland hypocritical prating •} — 
 And arouse ye, undaunted, remembering that still 
 
 Retribution is certainly waiting. 
 Let our nation awake which now slumbering lies ! 
 
 Not a moment be longer down-hearted ! 
 For rejoicing may come if proud Poland arise. 
 
 And her freedom return which departed. 
 
 1 The writer had in his mind when writing these lines the 
 many protestations of the Russians in favour of Freedom on 
 commencing the war with Turkey. 
 
WHAT ALL MAY DO. 
 
 Our past life must perish, 
 
 Our future arise, 
 And oft what we cherish 
 
 Most speedily dies : — 
 There are griefs for whose changing 
 
 We helplessly long. 
 Though we feel our arranging 
 
 Is hopelessly wrong : — 
 But if we live rightly, 
 
 We have in our power 
 To gather up brightly. 
 
 From each fading hour, 
 A thought-woven treasure 
 
 Of justly-earned joy. 
 Whose bountiful measure 
 
 No grief can destroy. 
 
WAITING FOR THE DENTIST. ^ 
 
 Though many dismal years I've been 
 To dull old Care apprenticed, 
 
 The worst of the small woes I've seen 
 Is — waiting for the dentist ! 
 
 How dreary is the cheerless room 
 In which you bide his pleasure, 
 
 The very chairs seemed steeped in gloom. 
 And sorrow without measure. 
 
 As if so wild mute-molar grief, 
 So uncontrolled its swelling, — 
 
 That its fierce tide had sought relief 
 By deluging the dwelling. 
 
 ' As lines have recently been added, this piece is here re- 
 printed. 
 
20 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 What though of literature a store 
 
 Is lying on the table, 
 You only think the books a bore ; 
 
 To read you are unable. 
 
 What from the window, though, perchance. 
 
 You see forms full of graces^ 
 They merely make you look askance. 
 
 And think how sore your face is. 
 
 On many chairs and sofas, too, 
 More martyrs round you languish. 
 
 You glance at them, they glance at you, 
 And give a groan of anguish. 
 
 You deem it hard, their turn arrives 
 
 Before you in rotation. 
 Or they wax wroth that your's deprives 
 
 Their case of consolation. 
 
 You muse upon the ruthless wrench 
 Which buys a tooth's departing — 
 
Waiting for the Dentist. 2 1 
 
 Or how the stopping-pangs to quench, 
 In which you may be starting ; 
 
 Or haply on these ivory chips 
 Harsh Nature may deny you, — 
 
 But which the ' golden key' equips 
 Man's genius to supply you. 
 
 No words your mood of mind express, 
 'Tis a state devoid of quiet, — 
 
 In which pain, pleasure, and distress 
 Mingle in hopeless riot. 
 
 Yes, though much sorrow one must know. 
 While to old Care apprenticed, 
 
 The greatest unheroic woe 
 Is — waiting for the dentist. 
 
REWARD OF PARLIAMENTARY 
 DOCILITY. 
 
 A Brother to a Sister. 
 
 My dear 
 
 As words though sincere, 
 Are at best but ' small beer,' 
 My party (in office) have made me a peer : 
 A step which the press I do hope won't deem queer, 
 Nor question its justice, nor slightingly sneer, 
 (What I've done to deserve it is not very clear, 
 Save doing as bid, when divisions were near — 
 Thus causing our Whip's drooping spirits to cheer,) 
 But be that as it may, I subscribe myself here 
 John Anthony Snobbins, 
 
 (^Qw) Lord Abinmere. 
 
SONNETS ON THE POWER OF 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 In Converse. 
 
 Who can predict what power for distant days 
 Toward good or ill lies centred in a Thought 
 Which flashing through the mind unmeant, 
 
 unsought, 
 Is uttered suddenly in careless phrase i" 
 111 that no future good can stingless make 
 In the effects wrought by its blighting force ; — 
 Great good that floweth from the all-good Source, 
 The Fount from which all purity we take. 
 Sometimes thought's mighty aims in secret lurk 
 And labour silently, their aim concealed. 
 Until the crisis comes ; sometimes revealed 
 They zealously pursue their varied work. 
 Reflecting wisely thus may we be taught 
 Not rashly to express each flippant thought. 
 
In Writing. 
 
 If so it be with speech, how much the more 
 With written language ! Speech perforce decays, 
 'Neath Time's destroying touch. Ere many days 
 Gone is mayhap the fruit which wise words bore : 
 That written doth remain, — its import not 
 Dependent on frail Memory's brittle thread 
 To keep it safe, or number with the dead 
 At her capricious will. None can say what 
 Momentous destiny may be assigned 
 To some brief trivial letter. Authors too 
 Who lightly pen, to please the public view. 
 Works strenuous and yet stained with vice, will 
 
 find 
 A day of certain retribution come 
 When all their loud excuses will be dumb. 
 
In Art. 
 
 The power of Thought in art ! Who has not 
 
 found 
 And marked its subtle influence ? We see 
 Its magic in a picture wondrously, 
 Whose canvas by its presence made renowned 
 Bears witness to the fact. When we behold 
 A stately building, and perceive the skill 
 Which shapes each column at the sculptor's will 
 Till it attains at length th' exquisite mould 
 That he has long desired. When we are thrilled 
 By some soft cadence rippling on the ear 
 Of sweetest music, — as though far and near 
 With a celestial choir the air were filled : — 
 Then, and then always, may we truly find 
 What power of thought lies in the human mind ! 
 
In Proverbs, &c. 
 
 The power of Thought in Proverbs ! — oftentimes 
 We find its glittering essence centred there, 
 All crystallized, as if indeed it were 
 A bright and flawless diamond. — Silly Rhymes 
 Which oft we hear repeated are not dross 
 Entirely,— here and there rare pearls of thought 
 Appear upon their surface, genius-wrought ; 
 Had they not been, we must have borne a loss. 
 O mighty power of Thought, it may not be 
 Within the sphere of any man to find 
 Thought undiscovered by a brother-mind. 
 Though deep and' boundless is thy shoreless sea : — 
 And yet thy potent pathway is the groove 
 In which, by thee propelled, the change-girt world 
 doth move. 
 
IN MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 The gallant men who fell fighting at Isandhlwana, 
 
 South Africa, in a surprise by the Zulus, 
 
 ZT^d January 1879. 
 
 Steadfast they stood, — nor feared to face the 
 
 foe 
 Though twenty-fold outnumbered, — calm, alone 
 They bore the brunt of battle on them thrown. 
 And bravely strove against the ignoble blow : 
 Yet doubtless mid the din of deadly strife 
 Came softened thoughts of home and loved ones 
 
 dear: 
 And many a prayer was prayed in faith sincere 
 That they might meet anew in deathless life. 
 We mourn their loss (a wound Time scarce can 
 
 heal)— 
 
28 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yet we are proud such courage doth remain 
 
 Among us. May we soon efface the stain 
 
 From England's flag, — while more and more we 
 
 feel 
 A sense of joy, which in our hearts will stay, 
 That Britain still can boast these ' heroes of to-day.' 
 
 Feb. 22d, 1879. 
 
DECEMBER DAISIES AND DECEMBER 
 DAYS. 
 
 December 3^, 1881. 
 
 Ah, how the sight of fair untimely flowers 
 Awakes a subtle sentiment, and fills 
 The soul with quiet pleasure. Something thrills 
 Our being to the core and softly showers 
 Strange yearning thought upon us. When the 
 
 close 
 Of a December day is stirless, mild 
 As is this twilight hour, we are beguiled 
 By its seductive softness : and there grows 
 (As one by one from out the placid sky 
 The tranquil stars appear), the half-formed doubt 
 Whether the scene be real. For without 
 A question kindly Auster cannot try 
 To bring a greater boon. Joys that arise 
 All unexpected we most keenly prize. 
 
VIOLET. 
 
 ' A TALE of sorrow ' ? Ay, I know, 
 One fraught with sharp and sudden woe, 
 A story of undoubted truth, 
 Beclouding all my sunny youth ; 
 And though with arbitrary sway 
 Stern Time has turned my locks to grey. 
 Though furrowed wrinkles on my brow 
 Proclaim that I am aged now, 
 Though signs of trouble you may trace 
 In the expression of my face, — 
 Though trembling is my bloodless hand, 
 And scarcely under due command. 
 Though devious is my tottering tread, 
 Though bent with weight of years my head ; 
 Though my whole look, my gait, my air, 
 Show sad though common signs of care, 
 Yet fadeless, unforgotten, clear, 
 To mental sight its scenes appear. 
 
Violet. 3 1 
 
 Of sisters I had only one 
 
 As playmate, — brothers I had none. 
 
 A lovely rose-lipped child was she, 
 
 Dear as my very life to me ; 
 
 Now, almost mournful in their birth, 
 
 Rise thoughts of these dead days of mirth ; 
 
 I see her framing daisy-chains 
 
 While I assist, and for my pains 
 
 Receiving, as repayment meet. 
 
 The chaplet from her when complete. 
 
 And as o'er both the restless years 
 
 Resistless rolled their hopes and fears, 
 
 They only bound us by a bond 
 
 More durable and just as fond. 
 
 O happy he who thus hath known 
 
 Such union ere his lot was thrown 
 
 Amid the changes and the strife 
 
 And heart-wounds of the world's strange life ! 
 
 Even dreams of such communion to the bruised 
 
 and wearied soul, 
 Are ever found the truest balm to make it 
 
 strong and whole. 
 
32 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yes; years rolled on, with little change 
 
 For us in Duty's daily range. 
 
 My sister — ^Violet her name, — 
 
 In beauty grown, remained the same 
 
 In character. Her guileless grace. 
 
 Almost a proverb in the place. 
 
 To those she loved exceeding fond, 
 
 And gentle unto all beyond. 
 
 Ever for right most firm and strong. 
 
 Aye valiantly rebuking wrong, 
 
 And seeking in whatever mood 
 
 To shun the ill and do the good. 
 
 Her figure pleasing as her mien. 
 
 Her summers numbering seventeen ; 
 
 Her rippling hair of darkest hue. 
 
 Her eyes not oft described blue. 
 
 But some rare tint, — and pen can ne'er 
 
 Portray the radiance glowing there. 
 
 There was a youth whom Violet thought 
 Worthy her love, and he had caught 
 A kindred flame of chaste desire ; 
 A truer love could none require, 
 Parents and friends were satisfied, 
 And well they might be ; all descried 
 
Violet. 33 
 
 That union of such virtuous worth 
 Would prove the happiest on earth. 
 
 Our lawn stretched to a deep broad stream : 
 On summer eves 'twas like a dream 
 To watch the gentle moonbeams play- 
 Across its wide and glittering way ; 
 To trace the tremor of the trees 
 Slow moving in the soft night breeze, 
 And as on either side they bend 
 Each towards the other as a friend 
 Talking with comrade dear, — to think 
 These trees, converse they, on this river's brink ? 
 
 On the stream's tide we kept a boat, 
 
 Not often did it idly float 
 
 In peace near to the summer shore ; 
 
 For one alone could ply its oar 
 
 With pleasure. In the sultry noon, 
 
 With bees and birds and trees in tune, 
 
 How sweet to glide in it, and screen 
 
 'Neath willows from the scorching sheen ; 
 
 Thus Violet full oft had been. 
 C 
 
34 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 And so one day — the heat was great," 
 And, we conjecture, to abate 
 Its force, she to the water dipped 
 To lave her hands, — in quickly slipped 
 The boat's light oar ; that then she tried 
 To reach it, bending on one side, — 
 Till gone too far to stay, 'twould seem. 
 She slid into the treacherous stream. 
 
 Too late an oarless boat was found, 
 And near, a maiden, soul-less, drowned. 
 In whose fair face and gloomless mien 
 Death in his gentlest form was seen. 
 One lover more o'erwhelmed with grief. 
 Whose tears as yet brought no relief. 
 Who, righteous and untouched by guile, 
 Ne'er sought another maiden's smile ; 
 A brother who through all his coming years 
 Will strive to dry his brethren's bitter tears. 
 
 ' A common story, this,' I hear one say, — 
 
 ' Not worth the telling.' Nay, stern critic, nay ; 
 
Violet. 35 
 
 Each man's heart-tragedy, if truly told, 
 Will interest some, although to most 'tis cold 
 And commonplace. No case of mental pain 
 Which crushes not, but strengthens, can be vain. 
 
HEART ECHOES. 
 
 While the sunlight's glory dying 
 
 Tints the pebbly sea-kissed strand, 
 And the night-chilled breezes sighing, 
 
 See the shadows wrap the land — 
 Faint, yet powerful, sad, yet tender, 
 
 Come fond thoughts of vanished years^ 
 Waking sweet soul-thrills that render 
 
 Joy that is akin to tears. 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 Visions of a gentle maiden 
 Beautiful and pure as fair, 
 
 And of eves whose gales love-laden 
 Wanton with her auburn hair ; 
 
Heart Echoes. 37 
 
 For 'twas when soft summer's beauty- 
 Made the earth with gladness rife 
 First I felt, as well as duty, 
 
 What deep joy might be. in life : 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 Memories are swiftly thronging 
 
 Of that span of treasured past. 
 When the joy to me belonging 
 
 Was, alas ! too bright to last : 
 Still do I remember clearly 
 
 What I asked with trembling voice, 
 And her words, ' I love you dearly. 
 
 And am proud to be your choice.' 
 Ah, how real are these dreams ! 
 And the past the present seems. 
 
 We were ' wedded, happy-hearted,' 
 
 And our future path seemed bright. 
 
 Who could tell we should be parted, 
 Love's glad sun obscured in night .■' 
 
38 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Yet before another spring-tide 
 
 Shed abroad its myriad charms, 
 
 Bitter blow ! my darling left me, — 
 
 Dying calmly in nfy arms. 
 
 Ah, how real, fraught with woe, 
 
 Rise these dreams of long ago ! 
 
 Still amid my sore dejection, 
 
 In its comfort ever new. 
 Comes the soothing, sweet reflection. 
 
 To each other we were true. 
 For some end God sendeth sorrow. 
 
 And when this at length is gained 
 I shall meet my bride in Heaven 
 
 Happy, holy, and unstained. 
 There no longer fraught with woe 
 Rise the dreams of long ago. 
 
THE POET'S POWERLESSNESS. 
 
 Unto the poet's mental eye how clear 
 Appears a scene he would in wise words weave 
 Into the varied texture of his verse ! 
 A scene it is of beauty unsurpassed, — 
 Of hoary mountains whose gigantic peaks 
 Approach the sky, — of a fair wooded vale, — 
 And of a rushing rivulet, whose sound 
 Re-echoes in his ears. A simple theme 
 Methinks to handle, yet at once he finds 
 How hard it is to choose the magic words 
 With which to make the spell he trusts will bind 
 The senses of his readers. Ever thus 
 He feels it in description, — also when 
 Depicting subtle feelings of the soul, — 
 Indeed in every subject meet for song : — 
 And so he feels that words are at the best 
 Most ineffective colours to paint well 
 A theme Imagination-glorified. 
 
THE POET'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 That dotard soul I cannot comprehend, 
 
 Nursing no hope that, after many years, 
 
 His name should be preserved by other means 
 
 Than by an entry in the parish-books — 
 
 A man who harbours in his heart no hope 
 
 To be remembered in the unborn days 
 
 By some good deed accomplished, that should 
 
 leave 
 A blessing and a benefit behind 
 To such as follow after. 
 
 Therefore now 
 I make this sacred resolution strong : 
 I shall redeem the time, and though the days 
 Are evil, yet it shall be my delight 
 To labour patiently : that when I reach 
 My goal of pilgrimage it shall be seen 
 That I at least have lived not all in vain. 
 
The Poet's Thoughts. 4 1 
 
 Most men but live, as sacred Scripture saith, 
 ' They eat, they drink, are merry, and they die.' 
 Few daily doings are of much account 
 In fifty years ; then let my mind be set 
 On themes more fit to fill the soul of man. 
 
THE OMNIPRESENCE OF POETRY. 
 
 There's poetry in everything, 
 
 If poets could but find 
 How best its subtle power to bring 
 
 To breathe upon the mind. 
 
 It lurks in all of Nature's store, 
 
 Alike on land and main, — 
 Where far from shore the breakers roar, 
 
 And on the quiet plain. 
 
 'Mid lofty mountains whose proud peaks 
 
 Appear to pierce the sky, — 
 In valleys where the farmer seeks 
 
 His busy tasks to ply. 
 
 'Mid scenes where babbling brooklets haste. 
 
 Engirt with flowery strand ; 
 Where man's harsh turmoil makes a waste 
 
 Of erst a beauteous land 
 
The Omnipresence of Poetry. 43 
 
 In mighty cities never dumb 
 
 With sounds of human life, 
 In villages where seldom come 
 
 Cares born of human strife. 
 
 'Mid friends and kindred everywhere, 
 In talks with those we love 
 
 When happy intercourse we share ; — 
 In thoughts of things above. 
 
 Enwove with every feeling here, 
 Part of each joy and pain, 
 
 And permeating love sincere 
 Which never can be vain. 
 
 For Poetry's white hands can mould, 
 From all of Earth, pure leaven ; — 
 
 And who shall say it will not hold 
 A noble place in Heaven ! 
 
FRAGMENT FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Softly swaying 
 
 Are the flowers. 
 Scents betraying 
 
 'Mid the showers : 
 Gently moving 
 
 Are the trees, 
 Not reproving 
 
 The rude breeze. 
 
 Stars shine quiet 
 
 Though the storm's 
 Cloudlets riot 
 
 O'er their forms : 
 Mopnrays mildly 
 
 Shed their light, 
 Though still wildly 
 
 Wails the night. 
 
Fragment for Music, 45 
 
 Mountains never 
 
 In their might 
 Care if ever 
 
 Lost to sight : 
 Plants must wither 
 
 And be lost 
 When comes thither 
 
 Biting frost. 
 
 Lower creatures 
 
 Scarce complain, 
 Nor their features 
 
 Change with pain ; 
 Though Toil's burden 
 
 Ne'er is done, 
 Though no guerdon 
 
 Can be won. 
 
 At each season 
 
 Man makes moan 
 Though glad reason 
 
 Is his own ; — 
 
46 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Notwithstanding 
 In his might 
 
 Earth commanding, 
 Wrong or right. 
 
AN EVENING LANDSCAPE. 
 
 The sun has set, and shades of evening close, 
 And all around there reigns profound repose ; 
 And not a sound is heard, save when the breeze 
 In fitful gusts comes rustling through the trees ; 
 And with its facile force their branches sways, 
 Like spectres moving in the moon's faint rays. 
 
 Ah, little change the face of nature knows, 
 Compared with life's oft-changing joys and woes, 
 And while poor, puny man departs as fast 
 As smoke is scattered by the wintry blast ; 
 Its aspect will continue as of yore. 
 Till God decrees that Time shall be no more. 
 
THE GUERDON OF TRIBULATION 
 NOT INCURRED BY GUILT. 
 
 Oh say not that the world is sad 
 Without redeeming feature, 
 
 Oh say not that the world is glad 
 And holds no hopeless creature. 
 
 No life Is ever filled with woe 
 
 However great its sadness, 
 No lot can be all joy, although 
 
 Most glorious seems its gladness. 
 
 With endless grief Life is not fraught, 
 Nor with all bliss and beauty, 
 
 By varied influence we are taught 
 How to fulfil our duty. 
 
The Guerdon of Tribuiation. 49 
 
 If happy be our lot assigned. 
 
 Of sorrow slight our burden. 
 Yet work on still with steadfast mind 
 
 Assoied shall be our guerdon : 
 
 But a crown more rich to those shall be 
 From pain much less exempted. 
 
 If conquering the same foes as we. 
 Although more sorely tempted. 
 
 Thus every woe our souls within. 
 Though stem its present sadness. 
 
 If meekly borne, nor caused by sin. 
 Augments our future gladness. 
 
BY-AND-BYE. 
 
 How oft our course in life is fair and gay, 
 And full of happiness from day to day ; 
 
 But by-and-bye 
 Will bring some grief to cast its shadow on our 
 way. 
 
 And then our path proves drear and dark as night, 
 For happiness, our sun, is lost to sight ; 
 
 But by-and-bye 
 Will bring a time when all the way again grows 
 bright. 
 
 Swiftly we travel through Earth's joy and woe. 
 Though rough our path, even there the flowerets 
 
 grow; 
 
 And by-and-bye 
 Will bring a Restful Life where nought of change 
 
 we know. 
 
THE TRUE TREASURE. 
 
 Living brings us bitter sorrow, 
 Oft our hearts refuse submission, 
 
 While we yearn for a to-morrow 
 
 Which shall change our dark condition. 
 
 Love may bring us bitter sadness 
 When we find our love can never 
 
 More impart the sense of gladness 
 Which we thought it would for ever. 
 
 Joy may bring us bitter trouble. 
 
 Faith give place to Falsehood's anguish, 
 Hope may prove an empty bubble 
 
 When bereft of it we languish. 
 
52 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Worldly peace may bring us only 
 More of pain and less of quiet, — 
 
 And departing leave us lonely, 
 Battling in the world's rude riot. 
 
 Faith in man may bring delusion, 
 Oftentimes, when it has perished. 
 
 We discover with confusion 
 
 'Twas a phantom that we cherished. 
 
 Trust in God is truest treasure, 
 
 For of change it holds no leaven, — 
 
 If we live aright, its measure 
 Makes us holy, worthy Heaven. 
 
A MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY ON HER 
 NEWLY-DEPARTED CHILD. 
 
 My darling dead ! Is all the long endeavour 
 For life-restoring vain ? These wistful eyes, 
 
 So Truth-illumed and loving, will they never 
 Check by a glance again my futile sighs ? 
 
 And shall I weep — although for him the gladness 
 
 Of human life for ever now is o'er, 
 And I am left with anguished sense of sadness, 
 
 A sadness which on earth is lost no more ? 
 
 A cripple's lot were his, had he, remaining. 
 Striven to take his part in earth's stern strife, 
 
 Thus less of sinless happiness obtaining, 
 While feeling all the woe of mundane life. 
 
54 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 The Master, seeing this, hath gently made him 
 Fitter among His ransomed ones to be, — 
 
 And day by day more fully hath arrayed him 
 In Christ's rich blood-bought robe of purity ; 
 
 So shortening the period of probation 
 Which otherwise were necessary here, 
 
 And raising him to an immortal station 
 
 Where maimed and suffering ones no tauntings 
 fear. 
 
 Then shall I cherish an abiding sorrow 
 For him whom God in mercy takes away ? 
 
 Nay, rather let me muse on that blest morrow 
 Which joins our severed souls in bliss for aye. 
 
A MATIN MELODY, 
 
 Sweet-voiced songsters softly singing, 
 
 Tell a new day is begun,' 
 -Its appointed portion bringing 
 
 Of fresh duty to be done. 
 
 Last day's deeds have gone for ever, — 
 Seems it not most passing strange 
 
 Their results remain, and never 
 
 Can be touched by time-wrought change.^ 
 
 Like a child who, pebble throwing 
 From a streamlet's sedgy marge, 
 
 May not mark the ripples growing 
 Though they one by one enlarge. 
 
 ' It is possible to reverse the results of one day's deeds by the 
 action of another, but the results of one day, as far as their effect 
 on subsequent ones is concerned, are immutable. 
 
56 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 So with influence increasing, 
 Widening o'er Life's mystic sea, 
 
 Are effects of actions, — ceasing 
 Only with eternity. 
 
 Many yesterday, unthinking, 
 
 Chose the path which leads to doom,-^— 
 While a few with souls unishrinking 
 
 Sought the road which cleaves earth's gloom. 
 
 Thus I muse with rapt devotion 
 Whilst the moments speed away, 
 
 Till I feel with meet emotion 
 All the issues of to-day. 
 
LORD, TEACH US HOW TO PRAY. 
 Luke xi. i. 
 
 A VAST enigma is our life 
 
 Without Thy guiding ray ; 
 But Thou, who willed, canst calm its strife. 
 
 By teaching us to pray. 
 
 Prayer ! true solution of the fears 
 
 And doubts along our way ; 
 Whose influence, coming, sweetly cheers, — 
 
 What bliss it is to pray ! 
 
 So when its mysteries distress, 
 And gloom enshrouds Life's day. 
 
 We plead that Thou wouldst make them less. 
 By teaching us to pray. 
 
58 Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Dark is the path of weary woe, 
 Whilst in Earth's night we dwell, 
 
 Yet prayer will prove a sun to show 
 That still Thou leadest well. 
 
ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 O FOR the feelings which abide 
 
 Within the poet's mind, 
 That softly through his bosom glide 
 
 And leave strange joy behind ! 
 
 O for a little of the power 
 
 Strong, piercing, pure and clear, 
 Which is his ever-potent dower, 
 
 To reach the cold world's ear ! 
 
 O for a little of the fruit 
 
 Untinged with earthly leaven, 
 
 Not fame alone, nor vain repute, 
 But something caught from Heaven. 
 
6o Miscellaneous Pieces. 
 
 Assurance that one's strain has cheered 
 Even though it be but one, 
 
 And shed on the dark path he feared 
 A little glimpse of sun. 
 
EDGAR VANNING 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
EDGAR VANNING 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Edgar Vanning. — A young man near the close 
 of a successful University career, 
 
 Alethea Stanton, — His betrothed. 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Edgar's college rooms. Epgar seated at a table, holdingin his hand 
 an open letter, which informs him that he has succeeded in 
 obtaining a much-coveted University honour. 
 
 Edgar. 
 Truly a grand — a noble thing is life, 
 And with what joy a young man's life is fraught, 
 When, with a mind matured, a happy heart, 
 And resolution firm, he gazes forth 
 Upon the boundless world 1 He knows its snares. 
 
64 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Its pitfalls, and its quicksands ; yet to him 
 
 'Tis given to avoid them. He is not 
 
 A foolish simple boy fired with strange thoughts 
 
 Of schemes impracticable, which should cure 
 
 The ills that are the bane of social life 
 
 In these our modern days. 
 
 Yet though he feels 
 Not youth's enthusiasm, nor its sense — 
 So all-absorbing that success is sure : 
 Though conscious of his failures and his faults, 
 Though knowing well his many weaknesses,; — 
 Yet hath he self-respect, and knoweth too 
 His capabilities ; — and hopes, ay, longs 
 By steadfast effort to effect sonie good, 
 Which shall, however small, still' serve to show 
 That all his life hath not been barrenness. 
 But these are stern thoughts — ^let them pass — 
 
 there flows 
 The fresh untrammelled blood of buoyant life 
 Full joyous throiigh my veins ; my mind is clear, 
 My intellect is cultured, and I hope 
 My heart is happy. I have lately said 
 That life to such is gladness, let me not 
 Belie so recent words. 
 
Edgar Vanning. 65 
 
 Ay, when I think 
 Of that great love which nfestles in my soul, 
 Like a fair darling child of three years old 
 On her fond father's breast :— when it is true 
 That this love hath its guerdon, I should be 
 For ever gladsoine : Ireniember well 
 The retinue of unretutning years 
 And many a 'day and hour which made them up, 
 Since she, who is my heart's desire, and I 
 Had our first meeting. We were children both — 
 Our parents were firm friends, and we were thrown 
 Often together : and as Dante loved 
 His Beatrice, so I Alethea, — 
 Save that his Beatrice was proudly cold, 
 While my Alethea was meek and kind ; — 
 And that as children we ne'er thought of love, 
 Although we loved so young we cannot tell 
 When love at first began. What subtle joy 
 It is to think that we are one in heart. 
 Together soon to tread Life's hardened ways ! 
 What peace to me to think — a brief time past — 
 There comes to me a help-meet truly meet. 
 No speaker of sham sentiment, or words 
 Of mawkish weary platitudes, but one 
 
66 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Who strengthens me to do the right, who strives 
 
 To urge me on to goodly deeds and great. 
 
 O how refreshing oft it is to leave 
 
 My studies stern, and theories dim and cold. 
 
 To commune with reality so bright ! 
 
 How sweet to bring at last the rich reward 
 
 Of lengthened brain-wrought labour, and to say 
 
 ' Thy sympathy hath helped me to succeed.' 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 A quiet summer evening. Alethea standing in a secluded fart of 
 
 the garden of her home adjacent to an old plantation. 
 Time. — A few days before the day fixed for her marriage. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 A FEW days more ! Ah what a change for me, 
 A happy change ! O kind few days that bring it — 
 A blissful change ! Speed swift bright days that 
 
 bring it, — 
 A change the sense of which thrills through my 
 
 soul, 
 And makes it burst its bonds and soar in song. 
 
 A few days more, a few days more. 
 Ah what a change for me ! 
 
 Thett I shall enter through Love's door 
 To full felicity. 
 
68 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 No more alone to bear one fear, 
 Or have an untold dread. 
 
 To leave my path, his sweet voice hear 
 And choose his path instead. 
 
 A few days more, then it will be 
 
 My duty to obey J — : 
 A duty pleasant, joyous, free 
 
 As warbler's winsome lay. 
 I'll seek to do each fond behest. 
 
 To merit each fond smile, — 
 I 'II strive to m.ake his life more blest 
 
 His sadness to beguile. 
 
 He praises oft my sunny hair, ,.. 
 
 And lauds my peach-bloom cheeks, - 
 I would I were far far m.ore fair 
 
 When thus my dear one speaks. 
 I feel unworthy him, and yet 
 
 He takes me for his wife, — 
 I'll yield to him — to pay my debt — 
 
 The service of my life. 
 
Edgar Vanning. 69 
 
 How calming is this tranquil evening hour 
 
 Of sylvan solitude ! The tall old oaks 
 
 Near which I stand have seen full many a year, 
 
 And sheltered many a maiden such as I 
 
 Beneath their branches, and in future time 
 
 Will shelter many more. My favourite flower, 
 
 The white convolvulus, climbs in the hedge 
 
 In spotless beauty as it used to do 
 
 In summers long gone by ; and as it will, 
 
 Fanned by the breath of summers yet to come ; 
 
 Nature is all unchanged,, and yet to me 
 
 How changed it seems to-night! Despite my joy 
 
 A curious sense of sadness steals upon me, 
 
 When I reflect that guileless happy days 
 
 Of thoughtless youth are now for ever past. 
 
 That though life's grandest, highest, gift is mine-, 
 
 A love returned tenfold, yet doubtless too 
 
 A share of sorrow is appointed me ! 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 A dull autumn morning. Alethea at a window looking out on 
 the depressing prospect. 
 Time. — Several months after. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 The blow is softened now by kindly Time, 
 And I can breathe again. On this the day 
 Poor Edgar starts for clearer sunnier skies 
 I first can ponder on these dreary weeks 
 Which lately heavily have passed away. 
 How different from the glad and trustful days 
 I thought they would have proved ! 
 
 When first I heard 
 That he was stricken by a sickness sore, 
 A sickness nigh to death, I scarcely felt 
 Deep sorrow, but a paralysing pain 
 My senses dulled. I had no power to think, 
 And life seemed dead within me ; but at length 
 Came slowly back to me the happy thought, 
 
Edgar Vanning. 71 
 
 Yes — happy even 'mid such grief as mine : 
 
 My loved one needed help, and oh what joy 
 
 Was mine to give it, and I almost blessed 
 
 The form of his distress, that at the least 
 
 It did not keep me from him. For what woe 
 
 Unspeakable must be endured by those 
 
 Whose loved ones have been smitten, and who 
 
 know 
 That they are suffering helpless and alone, 
 And that the same disease which tortures keeps 
 Apart from them the dear ones whose kind voice 
 And sympathetic touch is their chief stay. 
 If such a case of misery were mine, 
 Contagion's direst mischief I would brave 
 If I could thereby comfort those I love. 
 
 A chill received when heated and fatigued 
 
 One day in Summer's youth-time (when the breeze 
 
 Had Winter's breath still on it) was enough 
 
 To lay my Edgar low. Physicians came 
 
 And went, with faces grave and measured tread ; 
 
 The case was serious, they said, and none 
 
 Could tell the issue. They were clever men 
 
72 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Nor meant to be unkind ; yet when I saw 
 
 Them watch his pangs of pain and laboured 
 
 breathing 
 With interest all professional and cold, ' 
 
 It wellnigh made me mad. 
 
 The crisis came 
 And passed ; — the point once turned, he slowly 
 
 gained 
 A little strength. The cautious doctors said 
 His youth would grapple on the side of life, IS": 
 And he might yet recover. But for him 
 Should be no more of hard and brain-wrought toil 
 Or anxious eager thought : — his life must pass 
 In quiet, — and his winters he must spend 
 For several years abroad. Thus he will leave 
 Chill England's shores to-day. Ah cruel blast 
 And muddy cold grey sky that drives him from me ! 
 Oh callous North-wind, couldst thou not restrain 
 Thy blighting force and let my darling live 
 In the same land as I ? Life-giving Sun, 
 Oh why dost thou not shine, when, if thou didst^ 
 Ijt would rejoice so many yearning hearts ! 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 Early morning. Edgar standing on a balcony enjoying the 
 fresh balmy air and watching the last traces of the sunrise 
 die away in the sky. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 So yesterday was Christmas-day, and yet 
 Such weather joyous and unwinter-like, — 
 In truth such weather as in recent years 
 We northerners but rarely have received 
 In sunless seasons which we summer call 
 Merely from force of custom. 
 
 . .Many trees 
 Retain their leaves — and fair it is to see 
 Green leaves at Christmas-time, while gorgeous 
 
 flowers. 
 Which never bloom in Britain save when placed 
 In houses cramped and stifling with damp heat. 
 Display their beauty in the open air. 
 A few days since I saw — exquisite sight ! 
 
74 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 An avenue of fine camellia plants, 
 
 And all in fullest flower ! and as I looked 
 
 Up the long vista while the luscious red 
 
 Commingled in my vision with the white, 
 
 And as I further gazed upon the scene 
 
 Of which they were the centre, and drank in 
 
 Its wondrous loveliness, I felt deep joy 
 
 That still amid its mingled pain and grief 
 
 Such sweetness is preserved on earth to soothe 
 
 And elevate men's thoughts. They who have 
 
 lived 
 Only in climates where the fickle weather 
 Is changeful as the winds, can never know 
 The bliss of living where, come calm or storm. 
 No blighting blast can reach to wither up 
 Our vital energies and make our life 
 A miseiry. This is not such a clime 
 As Italy's in winter, where the sun 
 Makes summer as its warm rays penetrate. 
 But in the shade the cutting searching wind 
 Blows keenly from the snowy Apennines ; 
 Nor such a clime as that whose azure waves 
 Reflect with dazzling force the Day-king's heat 
 Upon the olive-groves and pine-clad crags 
 
Edgar Vanning. 75 
 
 Of the gay Riviera ; — but whose warmth 
 
 Dies with the day, and night is damp and 
 
 cold. 
 Here winds are never cold nor ever harm 
 With treacherous touch the trustful invalid, 
 Who, lured by the soft sunlight, walks abroad. 
 Here balmy night is pleasant and as mild 
 As is the day, while the defiled sea-shore 
 Appears, at least at night, most beautiful 
 Viewed from a distance ; and the dotted lights 
 From many a cottage on the lone crag-sides 
 Vie with the stars from out the deep blue sky 
 In forming a fair circlet round the bay 
 Like flashing jewels round the shapely arm 
 Of youth-dowered maid. 
 
 What were the lines I strung 
 Together, to employ an idle hour ? 
 
 Christmas in the summer sunshine ! O how beauti- 
 ful it seems, — 
 
 Clothed in gladness are its moments, realiziiig poet£ 
 dreams. 
 
76 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 While its hours pass swiftly from us, how we wish 
 
 they were for aye. 
 That their bright and buoyant pleasure with its 
 
 guilelessness might stay. 
 
 Christmas in the summer sunshine! softly blows 
 the scented breeze 
 
 And its coming stirs the frondage of 'the stately 
 staid palm-'trees. 
 
 Calm the noble realm of Ocean, fair the dotted fish- 
 ing skiffs, . 
 
 And the verdant- cactus growing on the gaunt up- 
 rising, cliffs. 
 
 All of Fiords cultured beauty freely is revealed to 
 
 view. 
 And among the vine-clad ridges of sweet wild-flowers 
 
 not a few, 
 Soft azaleas, rich gardenias, ope their blossoms to the 
 
 air, 
 With the rose, and trained geranium : — while its 
 
 wild type too is there. 
 
Edgar Vanning. 'jy 
 
 Fitting the moon's glorious radiance for the people 
 
 as they pass 
 On the eve of merry Christmas, to and from the 
 
 midnight mass ; 
 And for strolling serenaders who invade the silent 
 
 hours 
 With what doubtless they consider some of musics 
 
 choicest flowers. 
 
 Christmas in the summer sunshine ! neither snow 
 
 nor frost are here. 
 Which, though they may charm the healthy, fill the 
 
 invalid with fear ; 
 A nd in sooth, with dear ones round him, spends he 
 
 happily the day, 
 Pining not for that loved treasure — his chill home 
 
 so far away. 
 
 Yet ! 'tis the far away that makes me sad, 
 For distance is indeed a barrier, 
 Let bards say what they will ; for though I hope 
 Hale health is coming back, I sometimes /^^/ 
 
78 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 As though I had not very long to live ; 
 And if 'tis so, it seems a cruel fate 
 To have to spend my few remaining days 
 So far away from those my heart holds dear, 
 But chiefly from the one my whole soul loves. 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 A quiet spot in the garden of Edgar's home. Several months afler- 
 ivards, Edgar and Alethea., 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 The doctors think that I shall ne'er be well. 
 They do not say so openly, but still 
 It is not hard to understand the drift 
 Of their calm-spoken diplomatic phrases 
 About ' much care ' and ' quiet ' and ' escape 
 From English winters to the sunny south ; ' 
 And when I asked if my complaint were cured, 
 They hesitated, hemmed, then, smiling, said, 
 ' Alleviated were the better term.' ' 
 Ah, it is hard to hear a cruel fate 
 Thus subtly hinted at in civil words 
 And courteous commonplaces, and to have 
 One's hopes annihilated in soft tones, 
 Meant to be pitiful, perchance, but which 
 Seem by their wily softness but to scorn 
 
So Edgar Vanning. 
 
 And counterfeit a kindness not heart-felt. 
 'Tis bitter to reflect my roll of years 
 Will probably be briefer than of those 
 My comrades — and no better men than I 
 (And this when life to me was ever sweet). 
 'Tis bitter to reflect that theirs may be 
 The bright career of steadfast earnest toil 
 Towards some right worthy goal, which, gained 
 
 at last, 
 Rewards them with a name, while unto me 
 'Tis given but to spend in listless calm 
 My few remaining days. 
 
 But bitterer still 
 It is, that I must loose you now, my love. 
 From cherished vows which we have interchanged. 
 For 'twere- not right that I should link your fate 
 With ftiine as now it is, and bring perchance 
 On others — innocent— the hopeless bane 
 Of cureless sickness which I feel myself 
 Grief is the rule of this our earthly life, 
 And joy but the exception ; wherefore then 
 Should I expect of joy a greater shai'e 
 Than is apportioned unto thousands who 
 Have suffered, still are suffering, or will suffer 
 
Edgar Vanning. 8i 
 
 As helplessly as I : — and surely too 
 
 My mind should be far calmer than is his 
 
 Who sowed himself the seeds of his disease, 
 
 Whose every pang is now intensified 
 
 By keen remorse, and seething in whose soul 
 
 No thought save one — the ever-gnawing thought 
 
 But for himself what he would now have been. 
 
 Yet oh, Alethea, 'tis crushing grief 
 
 To lose you, darling, were it not my duty. 
 
 My duty thought and prayed about for weeks, 
 
 I could not say the word to set you free. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 The word to set me free ! that were indeed 
 Most difficult to say, for we are bound 
 Indissolubly : — and though, Edgar dear. 
 You tell me that for us all hope is o'er 
 Of earthly union : yet there still remains 
 A radiant future seen through mists of tears. 
 Since present life is not our whole existence. 
 Your name means ' happy honour,' and mine own 
 ' Truth : ' — if we live our little span of days 
 Worthy of such high names, it will be well 
 
82 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 With us, whate'er may come. Yet when I look 
 On your poor face and mark the touch of pain, 
 Then, though I feel that doubtless you are right 
 In that you say, it makes me doubly sad 
 To think the fate that miakes you suffer so, 
 Remorseless and unsatisfied, compels 
 You thus to blight your life ; but if fond love 
 And sympathy can cheer, you yet may find 
 Some earthly joy remaining even to you. 
 
SCENE VI. 
 
 Midwinter in a certain little island abroad. A pretty room with 
 opened windows overlooking a lovely garden, and a still love- 
 lier prospect beyond. 
 
 Time. — A few years afterwards, towards sunset, and only a few 
 days before Edgar's death. Edgar and Alethea. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 Truly a grand, a noble thing is life — 
 
 This most I feel when I am passing from it ; 
 
 And life is fair, whatever cynics say. 
 
 But yesterday I lay upon my couch 
 
 And looked upon the clear wide-stretching bay, 
 
 Far, far beneath me shimmering in the sun. 
 
 I saw th' exquisite azure of the sky. 
 
 The dainty outlines of palm-branches shown 
 
 More clearly by the strong light showered upon 
 
 them. 
 The countless clustering vines and varied trees 
 In all the gentle ever-pleasing glow 
 
84 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Of vegetation almost tropical, 
 
 Which makes each cultivated garden here 
 
 Appear a paradise. Banana-trees 
 
 I saw with all their load of luscious fruit 
 
 The graceful guava-trees with light-green leaves 
 
 The loquats with their deeper verdant tints, — 
 
 The little plant they call ' Brazilian cherry,' 
 
 With bright green leaves, and fruit of strawberry 
 
 size, — 
 The stately yam-tree with its blossoms white 
 And lily-like ; — fair to the eye indeed, 
 A tree whose oval leaves afford good shade 
 In summer. Surely it is strangely sweet 
 To loiter in such gardens when cool Night 
 Has conquered the fierce ardour of the day, — 
 And see the meek moon rise o'er azure seas, — 
 And view the tranquil heavens don their jewels, 
 And hear mach^tes^ swift tingling forth an air 
 Of music, — haply a soft mazy dance. 
 Yet, dear Alethea, it is decreed 
 That I must leave you, darling, but although 
 'Tis sad to leave you and this beauteous world, 
 'Tis sweet to die amid such loveliness. 
 ^ Portuguese guitars. 
 
Edgar Vanning. 85 
 
 And daily I thank God that He hath not 
 Condemned me to this sickness slow and sure 
 Immured in one close room from day to day, 
 Through the long, lagging, weary winter-time. 
 But given me the means wherewith to dwell 
 In climate such as this where balmy air 
 And sunshine even in winter, are not wanting ; 
 A climate where the invalid can pass, 
 However languid, many happy hours 
 Communing with God's fair earth out of doors. 
 Do you remember, dear, some years ago 
 You told me if fond love and sympathy 
 Could soothe me that I surely should be cheered ? 
 And you have kept your word : I have been 
 
 cheered, 
 And comforted, and though no marriage-bond^ 
 Has been between us as we once had hoped, 
 Our souls have been as one. Take my poor thanks 
 For coming thus to sojourn where I dwelt 
 And giving me your loving tireless care 
 'Mid all my pain and suffering, made less hard 
 To bear by your kind presence. 
 
86 Edgar Vanning. 
 
 Alethea. 
 
 I am glad 
 It was my lot to render you this service, — 
 A service small indeed compared with love 
 Such as I bear you, darling. 
 
 Edgar. 
 
 When I die, 
 Let me be buried in my native land, 
 Not here, although I love this sea-girt shore. 
 Where graveyards are embowered mid beauteous 
 
 trees, 
 And overlook mayhap light rippling waves 
 As blue as the deep azure heavens above them, 
 Round whose rude tombs the scented roses cling. 
 And still bloom on throughout the sunny year. 
 But Jet me rather lie where chilling rain 
 And bitter sleet shall in the winter-time 
 Beat on my resting-place. For what care I 
 Though placid snows spread o'er my quiet grave 
 Their spotless mantle, though wild wintry winds 
 
■Edgar Vanning. 87 
 
 Sweep o'er it, be it only undisturbed. 
 
 And if 'twere here, perchance it would not be 
 
 For ever left in peace. Alethea, 
 
 For Time we shall be separated soon, 
 
 But do not grieve b'ermuch. For me 'twill be 
 
 A glad release from pain, and you and I 
 
 Shall meet in yon pure Home of Love at last. 
 
VERSES OF TRAVEL. 
 
VERSES OF TRAVEL. 
 
 A BISCAYAN SUNSET. 
 April 17TH, 1879. 
 
 A GOLDEN halo gilds the sky, 
 And the wind-unruffled sea, 
 A scene it is where poet's eye 
 Could subtle loveliness descry 
 Unweariedly. 
 
 Hark ! from afar the deep-toned roar 
 
 Of the Atlantic surge — 
 Yon sail will soon be seen no more 
 Now light-illumed : 'tis fleeting o'er 
 The sea-scape's verge. 
 
92 Verses of Travel. 
 
 The stars appear — strange visions rise ; 
 
 Of man's dim destiny 
 How typical are these calm skies ! 
 While like to man the sad sea lies 
 Troubled though free. 
 
 No winged wanderer slowly cleaves 
 
 The silence in his flight ; — 
 His burning throne the Warmth-King leaves 
 While the fair firmament receives 
 
 The crown'd Queen Night. 
 
AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC, 
 FRANCE. 
 
 April i8th, 1879. 
 
 Day hath departed, save a few faint streaks 
 Of light that fleck the bosom of the sky ; 
 These, and these only, stay to testify 
 Of proud Night's conquest. Hark ! that sound 
 
 bespeaks 
 Our nearness to the Ocean, and I see 
 Its ripples at my feet ; — a soft clear song 
 Is breeze-borne from a vessel's deck along. 
 The crew with musical monotony 
 Raise anchor swiftly, and the ship doth glide 
 In silence, save for the chant growing low 
 Wave-wafted landwards. Little doth she 
 
 know 
 If calms will come, or fiercest storrns betide : — 
 Alas, o'er life's strange sea we all must sail 
 Like her, nor know if calm or tempest will pre- 
 vail. 
 
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF THE 
 PYRENEES. 
 
 Majestic snow-crowned mountains distant far, 
 Yet to man's seeming near ! How oft we feel 
 In life 'tis even thus ! though there the view, 
 That seems so close before us full and fair. 
 May ne'er be realized, while here it needs 
 But purpose long-sustained to gain the goal 
 And prove the seeming real. 
 
 Whilst I gaze 
 Upon your cloud-capt summits, thoughts arise 
 Telling of eager spirits not a few 
 Who like to me have looked in ages past, 
 Filled with the selfsame dream of human change, 
 And your immutability compared 
 With man's brief mundane course. How many too 
 Have lounged and looked on your cloud-piercing 
 
 peaks, - 
 Nor felt the deep reflection such a scene 
 
On a distant Prospect of the Pyrenees. 95 
 
 Is fitted well to give ! Strange ! but 'tis so, 
 And will be ever while the world endures ; 
 That which to one seems passion-fraught, sublime, 
 Another views, — deems fine, — and passes on. 
 
ON SEEING SOME PYRENEAN 
 WILD kOSES. 
 
 May 17TH, 1879. 
 
 How sweet the sight of roses 
 In an English lane in June, 
 
 When every flower reposes 
 Beneath the tranquil moon 1 
 
 How strange the sight of roses, 
 Albeit they are wild, — 
 
 Seen where a valley closes, 
 And mountains huge are piled I 
 
 Upon whose sides remaining 
 Is strewn the purest snow, 
 
 Still by its presence chaining 
 The tide of Spring's soft glow. 
 
On seeing some Pyrenean Wild Roses. 97 
 
 Yes, wondrous seems completely 
 
 A contrast such as this, 
 And yet, 'tis ordered meetly 
 
 And cannot be amiss ; — 
 
 For God has kept the pureness 
 Of snow upon the hill, 
 
 The roses in secureness 
 To flourish, too, at will. 
 
THE SOUTHERN NIGHT. 
 
 Ah ! how unlike the Southern night 
 
 To that of Northern skies, 
 Where tedious twilight mocks its flight 
 
 And day but slowly dies ! 
 For there pale Eve's star-studded veil 
 
 O'er all is swiftly cast, 
 Peace seemeth wafted on the gale ; — 
 
 Care for a while is past. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, 
 
 How sweet it is to stray 
 Mid scenes which the moonbeam's fairy light 
 Makes lovelier far than day ! 
 
 How fair the widely-stretching woods, 
 That clothe the spacious plain ; 
 
 While Silence, queen-like, o'er them broods 
 In .solitary reign : — 
 
The Southern Night. 99 
 
 How fair the river's crystal thread, 
 
 Seen faintly from afar, 
 And glimmering pure as on it shed 
 
 Are gleams from many a star ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, etc. 
 
 How fair perchance the mountains lie, 
 
 Though distant wondrous clear, 
 Their snow-wrapt peaks against the sky 
 
 Viewed dimly tier on tier ; — 
 How fair the sleeping landscape seems, 
 
 While here and there are heard 
 Sounds breathing music's softest dreams 
 
 Or laughter-laden word ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O ! the mellow Southern summer's night, etc. 
 
A DIRGE OF DECAY. 
 
 Near Argelez in the Department of the Hautes Pyrenees, France, 
 are several ruins of old castles said to have been built by 
 the English in the isth century. 
 
 Within these walls 
 Now half-forgotten, lonely and decayed, 
 Only the birds their resting-place have made, 
 And scarce a step within them ever falls. 
 
 Yet doubtless here 
 Stupendous deeds of valour have been wrought, — 
 Deeds that to many thousands then were fraught 
 With heart-felt weal or deep and direful fear. 
 
 Brave of the brave 
 Our soldiers must assuredly have been. 
 So long to hold for our proud Island-queen 
 This land which then seemed far across the wave. 
 
A Dirge of Decay. lOi 
 
 Yes, far from aid, 
 From friends, from home, must have appeared their 
 
 lot, 
 And yet (O courage great !) they faltered not. 
 Nor, filled with craven terror, were afraid ; 
 
 Not even though 
 Full oft encompassed, like unto a stag 
 By "hounds engirt; but rallied round their flag. 
 And kept its honour stainless from the foe. 
 
 Why is it then 
 That low in ruins are these castles laid ? 
 It is because old courage had decayed, — 
 It is because old fire had left our men. 
 
 This should we learn 
 While earth remaineth thus, — wars cannot cease ; 
 That everything hath limits, — even peace ; 
 So let the lamp of ancient courage burn. 
 
LINES ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF 
 
 BAREGES FROM ST. SAUVEUR, HAUTES 
 
 PYRjfeN^ES, FRANCE. 
 
 Lo ! what a glorious prospect is revealed 
 Of mountains, snow, and verdant loveliness ; 
 Upon the sloping sides of monarch heights 
 Reposes now the mist, most gracefully, 
 In wreaths almost transparent ; presently 
 Its mass divides, and clear against the sky 
 Appears each giant summit grandly calm. 
 And seeming proud that its lone God-wrought 
 
 strength 
 So long defies decay. One ever feels 
 In gazing on such scenes how weak is man. 
 Yet still how much his art hath made increase 
 To this rare store of beauty. Each small patch 
 Perceived upon the mountain-side, reclaimed 
 
Lines on looking up the Vale of Bardges. 103 
 
 From barren wilderness, hath wondrous power 
 To cheer the eye: To me it often seems 
 As though no prospect were indeed complete 
 Without some trace of toil to leaven it. 
 
FROM LA RAILLfeRE 
 TO PONT D'ESPAGNE AND LAC DE GAUBE. 
 
 O PATH which seems to have a loveliness 
 
 More than of Earth, 
 How can one who has viewed thy scenes express 
 The thoughts that unto them have owed their 
 
 birth ? 
 
 How can he tell of all the wondrous way 
 
 Where grandeur vies 
 With beauty, rich and rare, to bear the sway 
 In winning and retaining ravished eyes ? 
 
 How can he tell of rocks and ridges wild 
 
 Which lie around ? 
 Of mighty mountain-peaks on high up-piled ? 
 Of ceaseless cataracts' majestic sound ? 
 
From La Raillere to Pont dJEspagne. 105 
 
 How can he well describe rich-foliaged trees 
 
 That screen the sides ? 
 Blown to and fro by gentle summer breeze, — 
 In chasms where the vale the rocks divides. 
 
 How can he well describe the stately pines 
 
 Steadfast and strong ? 
 (True type of one whose sun not always shines, 
 And yet who bravely bears griefs load along.) 
 
 High-foaming C6rizet can he portray ? 
 
 Beyond the power 
 Of language even feebly to convey 
 Its peerless beauty, wonder-working dower. 
 
 Much less the wilder falls at Pont d'Espagne 
 
 Truly sublime, — 
 Whose weird white floods sing songs of sturdy 
 
 strain. 
 For aye the same in nature-ordered time. 
 
io6 Verses of Travel. 
 
 When Lac de Gaube is reached, how can he tell 
 
 The silent sight 
 Of snow and glaciers ? Soon our bosoms swell 
 With feelings half of fear, half of delight. 
 
 The fairy rainbow tints which o'er the falls 
 
 Glimmer and play, 
 The stilly clearness of the lake enthralls, 
 Yes this and all, in us soon holds full sway. 
 
 Though none can well describe these scenes, shall 
 not , 
 
 They in the mind 
 Remain to bring forth fruit, a gladsome spot 
 In memory, a gift for good designed ! 
 
ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF 
 CAUTERETS BY NIGHT. 
 
 The Night is here, 
 Yet gazing pensively 
 Into its gloom, a vista strangely clear 
 In outline soft we see. 
 
 The mountain forms 
 In solemn grandeur rise, 
 Each summit still the strength of countless storms 
 For countless years defies. 
 
 The dark-green pines 
 Clothe nearly all around. 
 How lone the slopes on which each cold star 
 shines ! 
 Nor doth a single sound 
 
l,o8 On looking up the Vale of Cauterets. 
 
 Invade the calm, — 
 Or by its presence melt 
 The sense of awe and vastness, like a charm 
 Deeply, profoundly felt. 
 
SONNET 
 
 On seeing a Sham Fight of French Troops at Orthez, in exactly the 
 same position as those occupied by the English and French 
 Armies in the memorable action of February 14th, 1814. 
 
 A February day in years long fled, 
 
 A fiercely raging battle hour by hour, 
 
 At length gained by a mind of mighty power 
 
 Through wonder-working skill. 
 
 French troops are spread 
 Along the ridge of hills and fertile vales 
 Where that stern strife was once. For mimic war 
 They are arranged precisely as of yore, 
 Is the result as in the old men's tales 
 Who saw the real conflict .■' Nay, not so, 
 The French now hold the heights. Fictitious foes 
 Are beaten by the patriots who oppose. 
 'The English hounds who wrought our pride's 
 
 o'erthrow,' 
 Doubtless thinks many a soldier, ' now would feel. 
 If they were here once more, the force of French- 
 men's steel,' 
 
THE CITY OF THE CID.— 1879. 
 
 Burgos, once city of the Cid, all hail ! 
 Tho,u standest in the plain of old Castile, 
 An interest in the land which one can feel 
 
 Although no more is heard the clang of mail 
 
 Within thy grass-grown streets. For though no 
 doubt 
 The hand of Change is working, yet it seems 
 To me as if thou wert but in my dreams 
 
 Inwove with sound of arms and warlike shout. 
 
 How noble thy cathedral's gorgeous pile ! 
 
 How quaint its frescoed front ! These carved 
 forms. 
 
 Here sculptured, had their life as many storms 
 Of care as ours throughout its weary while ? 
 
The City of the Cid. 1 1 1 
 
 These images of saints within, whose life,. 
 Judging but from their features, seemed all 
 
 calm, 
 Had they than we more nearly reached that 
 balm 
 Which Christians find the antidote of strife ? 
 
 No ! Life was doubtless then a darker thing 
 Than now it is. For certainly our lives 
 Are moulded by our faith. He -only thrives 
 
 Whose faith is true of flight and strong of wing. 
 
 And theirs though firm could never have been 
 true. 
 Since it forbade the only Light to shine 
 Which shows the truth on Earth, that Light 
 divine, 
 By which God means that man his course 
 shall view, 
 
 And haply change if needful. Thoughts like 
 these 
 Come as strange fruit seen first 'neath alien 
 skies, 
 
1 1 2 Verses of Travel. 
 
 As now I gaze around. Rich musings rise 
 While looking on thee, Burgos, — ^some which 
 please 
 
 And some which sadden. When at close of day 
 I stand in thy cathedral's solemn shades 
 Among its peerless chapels, none invades, 
 
 To break the sacred calm of aisle and bay. 
 
THE ESCORIAL, 1879. 
 
 The Esoorial, a ^oamag p3e, standii^ at &ut foot of the Gnad- 
 airama xange of moimtains, is the buxjal-place of the Spanish 
 Kings, and it is S9 vast tliat it loc^ impoang eren amid 
 natural gcandenr. 
 
 How sternly the Escorial stands, — 
 
 The burial-place of kings. 
 Who at disloyal Death's commands 
 
 Must leave their princely things. 
 
 And hie to this stupendous pile. 
 That looks so cold and lone, — 
 
 Where nature scarcely dares to smile,^ 
 And verdure seems unknown, — 
 
 ' The Sierra de Gnadarrama are immediately behind the 
 Escorial, Their peaks are arid and bare, and the adjacent 
 conntrjr is almost treeless, and burnt tip by the siin in sammer. 
 H 
 
114 Verses of Travel. 
 
 To this sad spot where Summer's glare 
 Beats fiercest and most strong, — 
 
 Where swooping from his mountain lair 
 Winter abideth long. 
 
 Ah, yes, it must be change indeed 
 From grandeur^ such as theirs 
 
 To such a spot to come with speed, 
 To be Corruption's heirs. 
 
 For evermore to lay aside 
 
 Insignia of power, — 
 All-humbled stately monarch pride 
 
 In death's still awful hour. 
 
 And yet 'twere better thus to be 
 Entombed 'mid marble^ walls, 
 
 ' The royal palace of Madrid is reputed to be the finest in 
 Europe. 
 
 ^ Each king and queen's coffin is placed in a niche in the wall of 
 a chamber reserved for the remains of sovereigns who have reigned 
 and -their wives. 
 
 A slab is placed over the niche, and name and date inscribed on it. 
 
 The chamber, whose walls are of marble, is shown to visitors. 
 
The Escorial. 1 1 5 
 
 Where even his foot who comes to see 
 In seeming reverence falls, 
 
 Than to be huddled with the rest 
 In some dank burial-ground, 
 
 Where in a few years' time at best 
 One's place could not be found.^ 
 
 Men prate that Nature ne'er obtains 
 
 Her long-predestined dues. 
 And show that we with mighty pains 
 , Should alter all our views 
 
 On points of sepulchre. For me, 
 Though o'er it fall Oblivion's frost, 
 
 I trust for aye my grave shall be 
 Neither disturbed nor lost. 
 
 ' On the Continent — infamous custom ! — unless the ground is 
 purchased in perpetuity, the remains of those interred are removed 
 after five or ten years, — where, it were not well to say, — and the plot 
 of land prepared for others. 
 
TOLEDO IN 1879. 
 
 Toledo ! what a mint of memories, 
 
 Of olden tale and legend, round the name 
 
 Are clustered ! Mingled with 'such dreams as these 
 Come flashes of its brilliant blades of fame. 
 
 How proudly must old kings in joy have thought 
 
 Of their fair city fitted to be great. 
 Placed on a hill, by streams surrounded ! Naught, 
 
 Deemed they, can alter now its high estate. 
 
 Ah ! most imperial it must once have seemed. 
 When capital of many a mighty power. 
 
 And Spanish sunshine in its fierceness, gleamed 
 On lofty battlement and soaring tower. 
 
 In days when from the ' Sun-gate '^ oft at morn 
 Issued a goodly Moorish martial train 
 
 ' The ' Puerta del Sol,' a still-remaining Moorish gateway, is one 
 of the finest relics of old Toledo. 
 
Toledo in 1879. 117 
 
 Of turbaned knights, ere starting sternly sworn 
 To conquer for the Crescent more of Spain. 
 
 With scimitars unsheathed swift rode they forth, 
 Not seldom causing terror all around 
 
 Among the peasants, — as towards the north 
 They rode, with Burgos^ as their utmost bound. 
 
 Then afterwards returning, Victory 
 
 Attendant on their standards, with what joy 
 
 Would comrades greet them who had come to see 
 Night's cooling wings Day's sultriness destroy ! 
 
 And when the sixth Alonso^ conquered it, 
 Forcing it back into the Christian fold, 
 
 Made statelier still, 'twas deemed the seat of wit. 
 Its people's speech the nation's purest mould.^ 
 
 ' Burgos was then the Christian capital of Spain. 
 
 ^ There is an anachronism here which it is hoped will be 
 pardoned for the sake of the symmetry of the piece. Alonso VI. 
 flourished in the eleventh century, Cervantes in the fourteenth. 
 
 ' ' To speak en propro Toledano has since the time of Cervantes 
 been equivalent to the best Spanish,'' 
 
1 1 8 Verses of Travel. 
 
 When in more recent days the Spanish name 
 Hdd grown the most renowned of all the world, 
 
 St. Quentin and Lepanto knew the aim 
 Of keen Toledan darts at foemen hurl'd. 
 
 All these reflections come in ceaseless train, 
 While gazing sadly on its fell decay. 
 
 I feel not shame that it has given me pain 
 To think its relics soon must pass away. 
 
 Farewell, far-famed Toledo ! I shall ne'er 
 
 Forget thy mien, — appearing as indeed 
 Plunged in the deepest sleep. Few could repair 
 , Spain's ancient cities ; Life is what they need. 
 
LINES 
 
 ON PASSING IN AN EXPRESS TRAIN THROUGH BADAJOZ, 
 
 NOTED FOR ITS FAMOUS SIEGE DURING THE 
 
 PENINSULAR WAR. 
 
 And is this Badajoz ? where once was heard 
 The clash of arms, and breaching cannons' roar, 
 Where from the dim-lit parallels came forth 
 The forlorn hope at Duty's stern command ? 
 Where swords and bayonets bristled on cold walls. 
 And multitudes of marksmen sought to stay 
 The assailing columns in their onward course ? 
 Where, when the town was gained, grim Plunder 
 
 stalked 
 Amid its devastated streets, and made 
 Them ghastlier even than War ? 
 
 Years yield strange fruit 
 Of alteration in forsaken paths ; 
 Yet was I strangely struck with the great change 
 Wrought here in Badajoz. 
 
 Can it be true 
 That here a most prosaic railway-station 
 Is now erected, with its telegraph. 
 
120 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Poor restaurant, and porters to be ' tipped. ' ? 
 And that of travellers, who tread its platform 
 When trains a moment stop, scarce any think 
 Of that bold siege which for all coming years 
 Has blazoned ' Badajoz ' on Fame's high scroll ? 
 
MOONLIGHT ON THE TAGUS. 
 
 'TiS moonlight on the Tagus ! A full flood 
 
 Of soft-spun sparkling radiance dowers the whole 
 
 With dazzling splendour, — save where shadows lie 
 
 Upon the river's bosom, sheltering 
 
 The coward Darkness now a while dethroned 
 
 By the Moon's great, though seeming gentle might. 
 
 Ah me, how beautiful ! Deep azure sky, 
 
 Deep azure sea, and steadfast-beaming stars, — 
 
 A dreamy blissful languor stealeth fast 
 
 Over my soul, whilst gazing musingly 
 
 Upon this prospect steeped in rapt repose, — 
 
 And I forget the busy throng of life 
 
 Which it presents by day, — and almost now 
 
 I could imagine it some magic realm 
 
 Enchanted in far fairy land, beyond 
 
 The power of mortal reach. 
 
 But soon a voice 
 Says, ' Supper's come at last, let's eat and then to 
 bed.' 
 
CINTRA IN 1879. 
 
 ClNTRA,^ our Byron gave thy name to fame 
 
 By his description grand, and sweet, and true ; 
 
 But though thy ' mountain's ever beauteous brow ' 
 
 And many other objects are unchanged, 
 
 Yet altered are full many of the scenes 
 
 On which the poet looked, and mused and sang. 
 
 No ' frugal monks their little relics show ' 
 
 To strangers at ' Our Lady's house of woe.' 
 
 One sees their tiny cells, their cork-wood walls, 
 
 Honorius's cave, and that is all. 
 
 The former home of ' England's wealthiest son ' 
 
 No longer has its ' portals gaping wide,' 
 
 Its * halls deserted,' or great ' giant weeds ' 
 
 Within its garden ground : — but it is fair, 
 
 Fair as the lordly traveller declared 
 
 It was of yore. While ' Marialva's dome ' 
 
 Is changed in that 'tis now historical, 
 
 ' See Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, canto I. 
 
Cintra in 1879. 123 
 
 Its fame a lasting one, whilst in his day 
 
 Its interest was eclipsed by other themes 
 
 Of ever-varying War : — the deed performed 
 
 Within its gates too recent not to be 
 
 Left unto record of the daily gossip, 
 
 And comments of the press which rarely live. 
 
 All now is different : — a classic scene 
 
 Thou standest, Cintra, clothed with more of fame 
 
 (To English minds at least) from Byron's words 
 
 Than from thy matchless beauty, could that be. 
 
 And mayhap, in the years to come, some poet 
 
 Treading the self-same scenes will tell how one, 
 
 A writer of poor verses, tried to tell 
 
 What changes there had been since Byron wrote ; 
 
 And he, in turn, with glowing eloquence 
 
 Will paint with poet's art the tide of Change 
 
 On Cintra since these lines were given forth. 
 
VERSES 
 
 On a vase filled with beautiful Roses, Camellias and other flowers, 
 ■with different sprays of plants, grown in the open air at 
 Madeira, in December. 
 
 Exquisite flowers ! 
 Come ye to tell of summer hours, 
 Of balmy breeze, of lengthened days, 
 Of warblers' wondrous lays ? 
 
 Thus come ye not, 
 For not in summer lies your lot, 
 No lengthened days attend your birth 
 Nor songsters' merry mirth. 
 
 Yet gentle gales 
 Are near, and sunshine stills prevails. 
 As in frail loveliness ye lie 
 Too soon, alas ! to die. 
 
Verses on a Vase filled with Flowers. 125 
 
 Ah fair, how fair, 
 Here nature worketh everywhere, — 
 If thus in winter sweet to see, 
 
 What must the spring-time be ! 
 
 And yet, although 
 All plants enchant in tropic glow. 
 Upon the zephyrs is not spent 
 The wealth of fragrant scent 
 
 Of England's flowers. 
 Only the rose from Britain's bowers 
 Retains its perfume. No ! oh no ! 
 Naught equals the pure glow 
 
 Of England's spring ! 
 When every floweret seems to bring 
 New sweets to blend with the soft breeze 
 Among the blossoming trees. 
 
126 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Yet 'tis a powef, 
 This grandeur of each plant and flower, 
 To make the poet's heart rejoice 
 And sing with gladsome voice. 
 
 Of what he feels ; " 
 Yet rarely even he reveals 
 The radiant wealth of blissful thought 
 Such flowers to him have brought. 
 
A LESTfii SUNRISE IN MADEIRA. 
 
 MANY-hued the sky this morn, 
 Beautiful the day is born, 
 Fleecy clouds on every side 
 Sunshine's coming seem to hide, 
 But the other cloudlets stand 
 Ready waiting its command. 
 
 Ay, they are a gorgeous group, 
 Almost each tint in the troop, 
 Red, and light blue, and maroon. 
 And some white appearing soon, 
 And a glorious purple shade 
 Over all is deftly laid. 
 
 ' The Leste is a south-east wind felt in Madeira, and frequently 
 prevalent for several days. At the beginning or close of a Leste 
 the sunrises and sunsets are superb. 
 
128 Verses of Travel. 
 
 O'er the mountains purple clouds 
 Of deep colour hang, like shrouds ; 
 Purple masses faint are shed 
 O'er the Ocean's wave-strewn bed, 
 Fine the light which now one sees, 
 On the palms and tropic trees. 
 
 Swiftly fades the splendid sky 
 To, a dimly purple dye ; 
 Genfly stirs the landward breeze 
 Shapely-formed banana-trees. 
 Dawn's first freshness wears away, 
 And begins the balmy day. 
 
MADEIRA— MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Stealing softly o'er the mountains, 
 
 Skirting Funchal's scattered town, 
 To the eastward, comes the moonlight 
 
 Flinging its effulgence down ; 
 Making every object glitter 
 
 In its clear and tranquil sheen, 
 While the Ocean lately troubled 
 
 Seemeth lapt in peace serene. 
 
 Subtle moonlight ! how thy radiance 
 
 With a magic often shown 
 Touches and refines a landscape 
 
 With a glamour all thine own ! 
 So thou causest here the houses 
 
 Mean, nay squalid, in the light. 
 To appear a pearly pureness 
 
 Rather than a dirty white. 
 
Verses of Travel. 
 
 For the filth and streets so narrow, 
 With vile odours bred by day, 
 
 Save for Nature's glorious grandeur, 
 , Takes admiring thoughts away ; 
 
 But the moonbeam maketh all things 
 Gain at least a semblance meet, 
 
 Till at length the wide-spread prospect 
 Has an aspect almost sweet. 
 
AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE. 
 
 Feb, 19, 1880. 
 
 'TiS fashionable now to say 
 That skill displayed in war is wrong, 
 
 That they who formed our England's sway, 
 And made her empire firm and strong, 
 
 Were callous cut-throats nothing less, — 
 Who joyed in war for its own sake, — 
 
 Who yearned to banish happiness, 
 Who loved with blood their thirst to slake. 
 
 And yet while landing here to-day. 
 On the same shore which years ago 
 
 Saw from its crag-encircled bay 
 Our Nelson's only overthrow, 
 
132 Verses of Travel. 
 
 I thought, Do those who grub and prose, 
 And by their lights their betters try. 
 
 Perform their life-tasks more than those 
 Whose task is but ' to do or die ' ? 
 
SUNDAY MORNING OFF MAZAGAN, 
 MOROCCO. 
 
 March 14, 1880. 
 
 Strange spreading town of gleaming white 
 Girt round with sand and seething spray ! 
 
 A magic city, Fancy-dight, 
 Thou seemest this calm Sabbath-day. 
 
 Within thy walls can be discerned 
 The flat-roofed orient dwelling-place, — 
 
 And near are wells, whose wheels are turned 
 By pensive camel's steadfast pace. 
 
 Dark Moors in their fantastic dress, 
 In haste to reach us, leave the shore, — 
 
 And soon they make the distance less, 
 So strong the stroke of their long oar. 
 
 Now they have gained us, most with pride 
 Disdain the aid that steps afford, 
 
1 34 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Bare feet from heel-less slippers glide, 
 And, cat-like, swift they spring on board. 
 
 All speak at once with gestures quaint. 
 And few but in an unknown tongue. 
 
 Those in the boats take up the plaint, 
 And on the deck still more have sprung. 
 
 Ours is the only ship, save one, 
 That near to us at anchor rides, 
 
 And she content with work well done 
 Is waiting till to-morrow's tides. 
 
 And from her mizen-mast there floats 
 That flag so dear to British heart,— 
 
 The flag whose mingled hue denotes 
 A union naught should ever part. 
 
 A welcome standard ! it appears 
 A pleasant sign, that even here 
 
 Are some who share our hopes and fears. 
 Who pray like us, like us revere. 
 
GIBRALTAR. 
 1880. 
 
 ' Sweet Seville ' ^ has been sung — and Cadiz too 
 By Byron,^ for the beauty of her girls, — 
 
 Yet know I not that one hath given thy due 
 To thee on whose proud crest the cloud-wreath 
 curls. 
 
 Let me attempt thy praise, then, for I know 
 That worthier pens will write of foreign towns,- 
 
 For now no place has praise with us, if so 
 It be mayhap a jewel of our Crown's. 
 
 ' Sweet Seville's ' Guadalquivir, famed in song. 
 Is nothing save a nearly stagnant stream.^ 
 
 » See ' Seville,' by J. E. Carpenter. 
 
 ' Vide Lord Byron's song, ' The Girl of Cadiz.' 
 
 ° Except when in flood. 
 
136 Verses of Travel. 
 
 The beauty of the Cadiz maiden throng 
 Exists, — but in a ' poet's airy dream.' 
 
 Here in Gibraltar all retains an air 
 
 Of honest truth. Odourless streets are clean, 
 And everything is made the most of, where 
 
 Man's art avails to soften down the scene. 
 
 The gardens of the Alameda, full 
 
 Of semi-tropic plants and shady trees, 
 
 Pleasant to lounge in their recesses cool 
 
 On summer eves to catch the soft sea-breeze. 
 
 Yet great the toil and patience must have been 
 Before at last was made such rocky ground 
 
 To nourish shrub, or plant, or aught of green. 
 Cheering it is to hear the home-like sound 
 
 Of English tongues, — to see our cared-for men, — 
 Contrasted with the Spaniards wan and weak, 
 
 Guarding their posts, as they with eager ken 
 Look on our cannon, which have but to speak — 
 
Gibraltar. 137 
 
 To put their lines to rout.^ How lovely gleams 
 The Rock at sunrise ! The grey looming clouds 
 
 Glow in the new-born light like glorious dreams, 
 While Shadow still the tranquil bay enshrouds. 
 
 Ay, grim Gibraltar, thou indeed art fair ! 
 
 And more than that, a place in which one may 
 Live with true home-like comfort, and a share 
 
 Of a good climate, brightening Life's dull day. 
 
 ^ A conspicuous row of white stone sentry-boxes are erected at 
 the extremity of Spanish territory, and from them Spanish soldiers 
 continually watch us. Doubtless they are within easy range of our 
 artillery, and it is equally certain that were we to fire on them, 
 they have no guns in position with which to answer us. 
 
GRANADA. 
 
 Fair Granada, our masters of the pen 
 
 Have written much of thee, and not a few 
 
 Who ne'er have seen thee, hold dream-wrought 
 
 and fair, 
 A city in their fancy by thy name 
 Seen clearly in their mental eyes, as if 
 'Twere mirrored in their senses. Thus with me ; 
 But when I saw, my fond ideal fell. 
 It was not that thy famed Alhambra hill 
 Lacked grandeur, or its silent courts were void 
 Of architectural wealth, or that the Vega,^ 
 Shut in by mountains, and the silent snows,^ 
 Was aught save fair; yet still the impression 
 
 stays 
 Unceasingly within me, caused perchance 
 By narrow Spanish streets, dull, dirty, white, 
 
 ' The plain of Granada. 
 ' Of the Sierra Nevada. 
 
Granada. 139 
 
 Or likelier that the sight of scaffoldings 
 And fresh-wrought antique work amid the old 
 In the Alhambra's courts^ destroy their charm. 
 
 ' The Spanish government long neglected the Alhambra, but, 
 finding it a source of revenue by the attraction of visitors, they 
 have begun to renew it. Doubtless therefore, in a few years, much 
 of what is thought to be ancient will in reality be quite modem. 
 Two examples will suffice. I myself saw a boy putting up some 
 frescoes in exact imitation of the Moorish workmanship, and new 
 ears have been given to some of the stone lions so recently (April, 
 1880) that the colour has not yet had time to assimilate to that of 
 the other portion of the images to which they belong. 
 
PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE. 
 
 Palms by moonlight ! Waving palms, 
 How each thought of you embalms 
 In memory the spot whereon I saw you last ! 
 
 Wonderfully, softly clear, — 
 Did you on that night appear, 
 Each branch, each leaf, distinct in strange ethereal 
 sheen. 
 
 Scarce like Europe seemed that scene, — 
 Where the eye rich hues could glean, 
 Cheering the mind as doth a gentle soothing 
 dream. 
 
 But like mellow Eastern tale, 
 In which genii ride the gale, 
 Stealing among such trees on mystic errands sent. 
 
Palms by Moonlight at Alicante. 1 4 1 
 
 Soon the sweet and glowing sight 
 Made romantic with delight 
 My heart, as on its radiance I fondly gazed. 
 
 Whilst 'mid heaven of purest blue 
 The calm moon her glances threw 
 Upon these palms, soft visions floating came, — 
 
 Orient sentiments that stole 
 Swiftly, thrilling through my soul. 
 Their keenly subtle power how deeplj- strongly 
 felt ! 
 
 And with ravished eye and heart 
 Wished I never to depart 
 Looking, I longed to live, and see such scene 
 for ever. 
 
A SPOT IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 A. SILVERN haze is over all. At hand 
 
 Are gently swaying poplars, rippling larches 
 
 And firmly rooted firs, — while further off 
 
 Gleam azure waters of a waveless lake. 
 
 Beyond again are mountains ; not, as oft, 
 
 Gaunt snow-capped monarch peaks, — but bright 
 
 with verdure. 
 The rocks cast shadows quaint upon the grass, 
 White chilets peep from mid close clustering 
 
 vines ; 
 Gay boats glide gently on with buoyant sail 
 Widely outspread. The scene though not 
 
 sublime 
 Seems full of happiness and calm content. 
 
LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY SEEING A SMALL GREY STONE ON THE ROAD, 
 AT THE SUMMIT OF THE SiMPLON PASS, 
 
 September 14TH, 1880. 
 
 Quaint little common stone ! Strange may have 
 been 
 Existence with you for full many a year. — 
 
 A world of changes you perchance have seen, — 
 Although tormented by no heart-wrought fear, 
 No soul-distress, nor sorrow's blinding tear. 
 
 What direful tempests may have passed you by 
 When mid the riven mountains thunder rolled, 
 
 And sent his messengers athwart the sky, — 
 The rushing storm-clouds of shapes manifold 
 Which in deep darkness the horizon hold 
 
 Until his wrath is o'er. The silent snows 
 May oft have lain upon you, when the hands 
 
 Of winter framed his lofty couch, and chose 
 The glaciers for his ,lair. His dread commands 
 How ghastly ever make the higher lands 
 
144 Verses of Travel. 
 
 Doubtless in midnight hour, when tranquil stars 
 Shine down on snow-drifts, on the glaciers lone, 
 
 And on snow-laden pines : when nothing mars 
 The wondrous scene to human eye scarce known : 
 Where Nature rears mid rocks her frost-bound 
 throne. 
 
 Yet for how many ages year by year 
 
 Such prospects you have seen ! Perceiving too 
 
 Sun-risings and sun-settings the most clear 
 And most magnificent, the loveliest hue 
 Of Nature never hidden from your view. 
 
 Near you, may be, have wandered weary men 
 Mid fierce storm-battles fought on wintry 
 nights ; — 
 Near you, perchance, have happened now and 
 then 
 Most wondrous things, more strange and curious 
 
 sights 
 Than sages know who are the world's most 
 lustrous lights. 
 
Lines on Simp Ion Pass. 145 
 
 Yet now you're broken up to make the road, 
 A poor despised chip ! And haply too 
 
 You will be useless in your new abode, 
 
 And in the nook, where heedlessly man threw 
 You as he passed, shrink from his callous view. 
 
 K 
 
THE CERTOSA OF PAVIA ; 
 
 A GREAT ITALIAN CONVENT, AND GRAND WORK OF ART. 
 
 Great monument of human skill ! 
 How vast must be the power and scope 
 Of minds which can conceive, — of hands 
 That shape such edifices rare ; — 
 And doth the splendid sight not show 
 Convincingly how wondrous is 
 The grandeur, mightiness of Man, 
 Despite his body frail, and train 
 Of weary woes, which almost ever 
 Attends him, ere King Death with sway 
 Imperious demands his spoil ? 
 And do such sights not educate, 
 If we may phrase it thus, the soul, 
 Leading us far more to believe 
 In the proud majesty of Art ? 
 The marble cuttings exquisite 
 
The Ceriosa of Pavia. 147 
 
 Near the high altar, the mosaics 
 
 Gorgeous ; yet though so finely wrought, 
 
 Designed in truly simple taste, 
 
 The stately stalls of workmanship 
 
 Replete with loveliness and rich 
 
 In cunning inlaid work. The aspect 
 
 Of the exterior, the carvings 
 
 So realistic near the door — 
 
 The outer door — of Roman coins 
 
 (Though strange to see these Pagan heads) 
 
 At entrance to a Christian church. 
 
 All, all make up a noble whole, 
 
 And fill the heart with feelings which 
 
 'Twere better that it ne'er forgot. 
 
SONGS AND LYRICS. 
 
THE LATE AUTUMN IS DYING. 
 
 The late Autumn is dying, 
 
 Dead leaves strew the land — 
 Signs of sorrow now lying 
 
 On every hand ; 
 While I walk full of sadness' 
 
 In a garden once fair, 
 Where before all was gladness, 
 
 I, find trouble there. 
 
 In a hedge-row wind-shaken 
 
 To wildest unrest, 
 Forlorn and forsaken, 
 
 I see a bird's nest, — 
 Its soft down decaying — 
 
 Its fledglings all flown, — 
 Nought save the shell staying 
 
 Deserted and lone. 
 
152 The Late Autumn is Dying. 
 
 Then the thought cometh cleaving 
 
 The depths of my mind — 
 Soon we too must be leaving 
 
 Our loved homes behind, — 
 The drear tomb will enclose us, 
 
 Life's pilgrimage o'er, — 
 " And the place that now knows us 
 
 Shall know us no more." 
 
UNFULFILLED YEARNINGS. 
 
 When Summer's sweetest influence 
 Is shed o'er plain and hill, 
 
 And Nature gains her recompense 
 For working Winter's will, 
 
 We feel a void — a weary sense 
 Of something wanting still. 
 
 In Autumn, when each searing leaf 
 With sorrow aye is fraught, 
 
 And every garnered golden sheaf 
 Yields fruit for saddest thought, 
 
 We feel a void — our spirits' grief 
 For something vainly sought. 
 
154 Unfulfilled Yearnings. 
 
 When Winter with his ice-cold hand 
 Grasps giant-like the ground, 
 
 And stiff and stark hes all the land 
 In frost's firm fetters bound, 
 
 We feel a void — we understand 
 'Tis something still unfound. 
 
 When Spring returns with fairest face, 
 Filling the earth with song. 
 
 And gladness seems in every place. 
 And love and life are strong. 
 
 Ah me ! even then we fail to trace 
 The dream for which we long. 
 
NO SUN EVER ROSE WITHOUT 
 SETTING. 
 
 No sun ever rose without setting, 
 At eve giving place to the night ; 
 
 No night ever stayed, but begetting 
 The dawn, it evanished in light. 
 
 No joy ever came without bringing 
 Some shade to remind us of grief ; 
 
 To sorrow there ever is clinging 
 A something to render relief. 
 
 There is nought on the Earth but containeth 
 
 A power its effects to efface, 
 And therefore in Life there remaineth 
 
 For grief and rejoicing a place. 
 
156 No Sun ever rose without Setting. 
 
 Then gird on the armour of gladness 
 To combat Despair with true scorn, 
 
 And live through thy night-time of sadness 
 In hope of the glories of morn. 
 
GLAD DREAMS OF THE FUTURE 
 COME O'ER US. 
 
 Glad dreams of the Future come o'er us, 
 All radiantly spotless and bright, 
 
 And bid us look up — for before us 
 Are vistas of boundless delight. 
 
 O come when our bosoms are weary, 
 Life-burdened and longing for rest. 
 
 And point through the darkness still dreary 
 To a land which by sunlight is blest. 
 
 O come when the world has been gaining 
 O'er our souls an insidious sway, 
 
 Our fickle rash footsteps restraining 
 From wandering out of the way. 
 
158 Glad Dreams of the Future come o'er us. 
 
 O come, that o'er all of Earth's changes 
 Your light as a guide may be shed, 
 
 Whether like unto others, or strange is. 
 The path that in Life we must tread. 
 
 And when finished at length is Life's story, 
 Completed its words and its acts. 
 
 Then burst on our sight in your glory 
 Not as dreams, but immutable facts. 
 
A SONG OF HOPE. 
 
 The vinery's foliage 
 
 In Autumn grows sere, 
 For its wealth of bright beauty 
 
 Fades out with the year : 
 All its branches, where lately 
 
 Grape clusters were spread, 
 Become barren and sapless 
 
 And seem as though dead. 
 
 But long ere the soft Spring 
 
 Clothes the land in glad green, 
 On its boughs beauteous blossoms 
 
 Are lavishly seen, 
 As it uses the warmth 
 
 Which is placed in its power, 
 And so rallies more swiftly 
 
 From Winter's rude hour. 
 
i6o A Song of Hope. 
 
 Thus if we, when some sorrow 
 
 O'erwhelming appears, 
 And which threatens to banish 
 
 The light of our years, 
 Would the blessings still left 
 
 In our service employ. 
 Then whate'er be the issue, 
 
 'Twould bring us but joy. 
 
HOW OFT ARISE TO SOOTHE OUR WOE. 
 
 How oft arise to soothe our woe, 
 
 And dissipate our sadness, 
 Fond dreams of faces long ago 
 
 When life was love and gladness. 
 Like,* yet unlike the lights that guide 
 
 The storm-tossed o'er the ocean, 
 They in our secret souls abide, 
 
 Cherished with deep devotion. 
 
 The halcyon Past seems to possess, 
 
 When we review its story. 
 One radiance of happiness, 
 
 Nor cloud to dim its glory ; 
 
 * Like, because they lead us on to joy. Unlike, because they are 
 ever with us, and not as a beacon, having their influence felt merely 
 at one spot of our voyage. 
 
 L. 
 
1 62 How oft Arise. 
 
 So ah, 'tis well, when lonely lies 
 Life's pathway girt with sorrow, 
 
 That sometimes visions fair should rise 
 Which from our Past we borrow. 
 
SONG. 
 
 THE puritan's FAREWELL TO HIS BETROTHED, 1642. 
 
 She 
 
 When gladly long ago my heart 
 
 Was given to thy keeping, 
 I never thought that we might part 
 
 In apguish or in weeping. 
 Then wherefore cause this wanton woe — 
 
 Such lavish love betraying — 
 Even though harsh duty bids thee go, 
 
 Thy faction's call obeying ? 
 
 He— 
 
 Nay, speak not so, my peerless love. 
 Fond words the truth perverting ; 
 
 Wouldst thou not have me proved above 
 A wretch his post deserting > 
 
1 64 Song. 
 
 And if on earth we meet no more, 
 
 When now in grief we sever, 
 We'll surely greet on that Bright Shore 
 
 Where all is bliss for ever. 
 
 There, when each feeling is confessed, 
 
 Thou'lt know my crushing sorrow — 
 The burning pangs which pierced my breast 
 
 Ere leaving thee to-morrow. 
 Lo, listen to the distant chime. 
 
 To us a note of sadness ; 
 Then let us spend our little time 
 
 In calm if not in gladness. 
 
 She (after a pause) — 
 
 Right, darling, thou must rush to arms. 
 Destroying dreams of staying ; 
 
 I'll strive to soothe my heart's alarms 
 By patience and by praying. 
 
HAPPINESS HERE. 
 
 There is happiness, dearest — 
 
 True happiness here, — 
 Though the troubles thou fearest 
 
 Perchance may appear : 
 For mid every emotion, 
 
 Of weal or of woe, 
 Our depths of devotion 
 
 No respite shall know. 
 
 Yes, — in Life's twisted tissue 
 
 Of gladness and grief, 
 Love, whate'er be the issue, 
 
 Still renders relief. 
 So there's happiness, dearest — 
 
 True happiness here, — 
 Though the troubles thou fearest 
 
 Perchance may appear. 
 
A SONG IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 The proud sun is setting, most fair to behold, 
 Going down to his rest in a garment of gold, 
 And, like a young maiden who wishes good-bye 
 To her dear chosen lover, deep blushes the sky, 
 All its beautiful tints, ah ! how fair to behold 
 As the sun goeth down in his garment pf gold. 
 
 Light blue and dark blue and purple are there. 
 Red, brown, and golden with bounty how rare ! 
 Black clouds o'er the mountains, white clouds o'er 
 
 the sea. 
 And a landward breeze cometh soft, joyous, and 
 
 free. 
 A prospect how glorious in truth to. behold 
 As the sun goeth ^down in his garment of gold. 
 
A Song in the South. 167 
 
 All wondrpusly blent as He only can do 
 Who gives to each tint its own delicate hue, 
 Who makes Nature's paintings so gorgeously 
 
 grand, 
 That man can but copy, not daring to stand 
 In rivalry open. Yes, fair to behold 
 Is the sun going down in his garment of gold. 
 
TWILIGHT MEMORIES. 
 
 How once I loved the twilight hour 
 
 Of Summer's blissful day, 
 While watching from each leafy bower 
 
 The daylight die away, 
 And clasping in mine own the hand 
 
 Of one I loved the best, 
 Whose converse soothed, as the sight of land 
 
 Doth mariners distressed. 
 
 Right bravely he had borne his part 
 
 In Earth's incessant strife. 
 Still labouring on with dauntless heart 
 
 Amid the ills of Life. 
 Had known adversity and pain, — 
 
 Hopes blighted — bitter wrong, — 
 Yet all to sour his soul were vain : 
 
 In Heaven-born strength 'twas strong. 
 
Twilight Memories. 169 
 
 And oft he talked of his vanished years 
 
 In the gentle gloaming tide, 
 Bidding me. all my joys and fears 
 
 Implicitly confide, 
 And wisely would my future trace. 
 
 Then leaving things of Time, 
 In raptured tones and with upturned face 
 
 Would speak of themes sublime. 
 
 His that strange wordless eloquence, 
 
 Always a wondrous power, 
 Which sways the soul with a force intense 
 
 In the calm of such an hour. 
 And when I walk where shadows steal 
 
 O'er Summer's fairy view, 
 I never, never fail to feel 
 
 That influence anew. 
 
A WINTRY MOOR AT NIGHT. 
 
 My way led o'er a wintry waste 
 
 When evening shades were falling, 
 And the soft sheep-bells rung in haste 
 
 The fleecy flocks were calling, — 
 For still a few had strayed afield 
 
 To wander mid the heather. 
 Seeking the food the hill-sides yield 
 
 Despite such withering weather. 
 Chorus. A wintry moor ! A wintry moor ! 
 
 Alone at dark of night, 
 Where in the world may one procure. 
 
 More desolate a sight ? 
 
 Black barren rocks were on the right. 
 
 Uprising bleak and lone, 
 Like the fabled forms of men of might 
 
 Fast petrified to stone. 
 
A Wintry Moor at Night. 171 
 
 And far and wide on every side, 
 
 The mazy niist extended, 
 Slowly its mass did upwards glide, 
 
 Till with the sky it blended. 
 Chorus. A wintry moor ! etc. 
 
 I thought of deeds of darkness done 
 
 On that drear waste so lonely ! 
 That there had perished many an one 
 
 For lack of succour only. 
 And I strode along with swifter pace, 
 
 A thrill o'er my bosom stealing. 
 Reaching at last my resting-place 
 
 With pleasurable feeling. 
 CJtorus. A wintry moor ! etc. 
 
A SEA SONG. 
 
 I COULD not as a landsman live, 
 
 Pursuing his poor pleasure, 
 Each dull delight his course may give 
 
 Has nought in it to measure 
 With the true transport of the soul, 
 
 O'er every sense prevailing, 
 When 'neath our feet the wild waves roll. 
 
 We o'er the ocean sailing. 
 
 Chorus. A sailor's life ! a sailor's life ! 
 Upon the swelling sea. 
 Whose surges roar in ceaseless strife — 
 A sailor's life for me. 
 
 I love it when in summer-time 
 
 It lies, all ill concealing. 
 And o'er its ripples comes the chime 
 
 Of church-bells softly stealing. 
 
A Sea Song. 173 
 
 I love it when in grandest storm^ 
 Like some great monster playing ; 
 
 It spurns on high the vessel's form, 
 To mock it ere its slaying. 
 
 Chorus. A sailor's life ! etc. 
 
 Then, as our voyage is nearly gone. 
 
 And soon to port returning, 
 I love the waves which waft me on 
 
 To soothe my constant yearning. 
 And when the dear land is espied — ■ 
 
 Dispelling all our sadness — 
 I bless the swiftly flowing tide 
 
 Which bears me on to gladness. 
 
 Chorus. A sailor's life ! etc. 
 
WHY DO I TRACE. 
 
 Why do I trace 
 
 On your loved face 
 Such weary wealth of sorrow, 
 
 Where late beamed joy 
 
 With nought to cloy, 
 Caused by the cares to-morrow ? 
 
 The world I know 
 
 Is full of woe, 
 Encircled round with trouble, — 
 
 Yet merely sighs 
 
 And mournful eyes, — 
 But make our griefs redouble. 
 
 Look up in haste ! 
 Nor longer waste 
 Your life in weak bemoanings ; — 
 
Why do I Trq,ce. 175 
 
 Cast grim Despair 
 From out his lair ! 
 You've known enough of groanings. 
 
 No skies o'ercast 
 
 One whit more fast 
 Because we thus are cheerful, — 
 
 Clouds come apace 
 
 With frowning face 
 Full oft when we are tearful. 
 
 Then may we here 
 
 Spurn foolish fear, 
 Nor let fond Hope forsake us, 
 
 So having joy 
 
 With nought to cloy 
 Until the storm o'ertake us. 
 
A PRACTICAL THEORY OF LIFE. 
 
 When musing on the course of Life 
 How many seem its phases, 
 
 Yet every one of them is rife 
 With trebly tangled mazes. 
 
 And though our prospects all are fair, 
 A scene made for enjoying. 
 
 Some canker-worm intrudeth there 
 Our perfect bliss destroying. 
 
 One man is strong and has delight 
 Merely in Life's possessing. 
 
 But pinching Poverty's bleak blight 
 Marreth his every blessing. 
 
A Practical Theory of Life. 177 
 
 Another's wealth and friends agree 
 
 To lavish pleasures on him, 
 Yet look, alas ! 'tis clear to see 
 
 Disease's curse upon him ; 
 
 Disease — for which weak human skill 
 
 Gives scant alleviation, — 
 He is doomed to dread Existence still 
 
 Despite his smiling station. 
 
 A third has pulse of purest health 
 
 Which yields him nought save gladness, 
 
 But private griefs amid his wealth 
 Impart a sense of sadness. 
 
 If we the daily deeds recite 
 
 Which form Life's present measure. 
 
 The wrong preponderates o'er the right, 
 And suffering over pleasure. 
 
 And thus whate'er our lot may be. 
 
 Our life is but a bubble. 
 Blown from some bleak and cruel sea 
 
 By the tornado Trouble. 
 
 M 
 
1 78 A Practical Theory of Life. 
 
 Ah ! what a mystery is this ! 
 
 And yet if we revolve it, 
 Perchance we may not muse amiss, 
 
 But find a clue to solve it. 
 
 It oft appears absurd to believe 
 In a God of infinite kindness. 
 
 Who, seeming paradox, can leave 
 Us in such woe and blindness. 
 
 In perfect Goodness — omnipotent Power, 
 
 Permitting Evil to enter 
 Its fair dominions, and to shower 
 
 Such griefs on man, their centre. 
 
 But if we accept the sceptic view. 
 Denying a God and Life's fruition, 
 
 What do we gain even were that true ? 
 For it is merely demolition 
 
 Of many hopes which man holds dear 
 Of a swiftly coming morrow, 
 
 When we shall know with joy sincere 
 No sense of sin or sorrow, 
 
A Practical Theory of Life. 1 79 
 
 Without revealing to our sight 
 
 A future fair and clearer : 
 Nay, leaving all in deepest night— ^ 
 
 Far darker, lone and drearer. 
 
 For we still must bear the woes of Life 
 With the longings which oft come o'er us 
 
 Whilst seeing no rest beyond its strife. 
 Save nothingness before us. 
 
 While a Heavenly hope amid our woe 
 Will cheer our Life's endeavour, 
 
 And yield us nought save good, although 
 At death it may fly for ever. 
 
 Thus, even if we set aside 
 
 Religion's proofs completely. 
 It gives more joy our minds to guide 
 
 Till, apprehending meetly 
 
 That doubtless though upon the earth 
 
 Our path is oft perplexing. 
 Its lack of love and chastened mirth 
 
 Our spirits sorely vexing. 
 
i8o A Practical Theory of Life. 
 
 There must exist a place which gained 
 Through faith and strong endeavour, 
 
 What seems unjust will be explained, 
 Or rectified for ever : — 
 
 That there's a God who made Man's mind 
 With certain comprehension, 
 
 But yet Who has seen fit to bind 
 Its limits of extension. 
 
 Who also deemed it best for Man 
 
 Here to experience sadness. 
 As training for a higher plan 
 
 Of grandly growing gladness. 
 
 Thus human Reason's utmost sphere 
 Of thought is reached full early ; 
 
 And thus to us men's. lots appear 
 So often dealt unfairly. 
 
 That Life's dark mysteries but transcend, 
 
 Not contradict our reason. 
 And so when earthly life shall end 
 
 There comes a sun-lit season. 
 
A Practical Theory of Life. 1 8 1 
 
 When with enlarged God-given powers 
 
 And intellects commanding, 
 One bliss of Heaven's bright halcyon hours 
 
 ^hall be the understanding 
 
 Of problems which distressed the, sage 
 
 Of deepest skill and learning, 
 But now that we have burst our cage 
 
 Are easy of discerning. 
 
 While "themes with which we cannot cope" 
 Fade 'neath our Heavenly vision, 
 
 " And Earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope. 
 Will mar not Hope's fruition." 
 
EVENING THOUGHTS. 
 
 It was evening, and sadness 
 
 Around me was cast — 
 For rejoicing and gladness 
 
 Too swiftly were past. 
 Then methought with deep anguish, 
 
 In Life's dreary day. 
 All we love must soon languish 
 
 And wither away. 
 
 Ah ! how futile each token 
 
 Of love given here. 
 Merely made to be broken 
 
 When friendships grow sere ; 
 Though sweet youth's summer morning 
 
 Dawned balmy and bright, 
 Yet our sorrow soon scorning. 
 
 It darkened to night. 
 
Evening Thoughts. 183 
 
 Thus in bitter bewailing 
 
 I poured forth my grief, 
 When this glad hope prevailing 
 
 Gave richest relief : 
 As the blossoms of May-time 
 
 Must fade and grow sere, 
 Ere the ripe Autumn gay time 
 
 Of fruit can appear. 
 
 So Love's bright buds immortal 
 
 Must seemingly die. 
 Ere within Heaven's portal 
 
 They blossom on high, 
 In fruition for ever 
 
 To each constant soul 
 Who through faithful endeavour 
 
 Gains Life's glorious goal. 
 
"I WONDER WHEREFORE." 
 
 " I WONDER wherefore ?" is the soul-stirred cry 
 Which wells up from the depths of human hearts 
 In every sphere of life. From lowly homes 
 And princely palaces — from hermits' nooks 
 And seething crowds — from youth and riper age 
 And longest length of years — from rich and poor, 
 From all who have the manliness to think. 
 In health or sickness — happiness or woe — 
 Mid Life's momentous moments or its trifles, 
 From whence spring ofttimes our profoundest 
 
 thoughts. 
 This ceaseless questioning is surely meant 
 As greatest food for hope, a token given 
 That notwithstanding its abyss of sin, 
 Within Man's soul abide the germs of good. 
 
THOUGHT-LINKS. 
 
 Mysterious are the links that firmly bind 
 Our trains of thought together. First we brood 
 On some small trivial matter — tiny gerrh 
 Of somewhat grander musings^ — then we find 
 A thread is woven with our thought, and lo 
 It leads to higher themes ! — vast vistas new 
 For serious contemplation : — and we gain 
 Sublimest heights, while God-reflected thoughts 
 Transcending Reason flood our human mind. 
 
JOY AND GRIEF. 
 
 Nought gives true happiness unless it touch 
 Some chord of subtle feeling in the soul, 
 And thus what oft appear most trivial things 
 Impart such great delight : — a kindly phraste, 
 A friendly greeting in the street, or snatch 
 Of melody but for a moment heard : — 
 Or even some phrases in a general talk 
 Addressed to others, heard through being near. 
 Each of us is an instrument, but each 
 Is in some notes at least diversely strung 
 From all our fellows. The musician Joy 
 With mystic power can play upon our hearts. 
 And through the heart can ope the hidden door 
 That guards the sanctuary of the soul. 
 
 Grief has an equal power, and quickly finds 
 The portals of the soul, but having found. 
 
Joy and Grief. 187 
 
 He enters not to play with skilful touch, 
 But roughly beats with rude untutored hand 
 Upon responsive tender notes, and so 
 Instead of music only discord comes. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF FREQUENT 
 FAILURE. 
 
 In youth's bright morning hours of buoyant life 
 
 Grand contemplations often fill the mind 
 
 With noblest aspirations. While it seems 
 
 To us, as yet scarce touched by sordid care 
 
 And blighting prejudice, quite possible 
 
 Through our unaided efforts to attain 
 
 Some lustrous goal which glitters in our sight : 
 
 A goal which when 'twas won would benefit 
 
 The Universal Brotherhood of Man. 
 
 But as the years roll on we find the dream 
 
 Less easy of fulfilment, — for we feel 
 
 Our ardour less intense, while weary feet 
 
 Glide gently into the poor old-world groove 
 
 We so despised of yore, — and we are fain 
 
 To use fa_st-failing energy in strife 
 
 'Gainst daily troubles : higher aims forgotten. 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 After five years ! 
 
 What changes will have come 
 Among the circle of our firmest friends ! 
 Some will have gone to widely severed lands, — 
 While others — than whom none seemed closer 
 
 bound 
 In silken chains of love — will then perchance, 
 Urged by some paltry source of petty feud. 
 Made greater by their pride, have ceased to meet 
 In harm,ony. And silent callous Death 
 Will certainly have stayed the mortal course 
 Of hot a few, though friends we have not now 
 We shall know then. 
 
 In circumstances also 
 What changes will have dawned ! The man 
 
 esteemed 
 Almost a pauper now may then have wealth 
 
igo After Five Years. 
 
 Unbounded, — he whose store of riches seems 
 Limitless now may be a beggar then. 
 He who enjoys the bliss of nerveless health 
 May then be broken down and weak of limb, 
 While he who now an invalid, though dowered 
 With youth, his ills all conquered, may be strong. 
 
 What alterations will have come to pass 
 Throughout the world ! Peace in the place of war 
 Or war in place of peace ; and the appearance 
 Of present party strife in politics 
 Will then be altered quite, — while topics new 
 Will eagerly be canvassed. Many names 
 Novel to us will then have sprung to fame 
 In Life's inconstant whirl, while designations 
 Notorious now may even be then forgotten. 
 Yet there is one thing while the Earth remains 
 That will not change, and that one thing is — Change, 
 
A SONG OF COMFORT. 
 
 We feel not always sadness^ — there are seasons 
 When the heart beats in ecstacies of joy, 
 
 Times when our thoughts of sorrow seem but 
 treasons, 
 Which truth destroy. 
 
 We feel not always daily cares and troubles, — 
 And sonietimes even life-griefs appear no more, 
 
 All gone as on a lake the rain-drop bubbles 
 When showers are o'er. 
 
 We feel not always that our hopes are blighted. 
 They oftentimes a glad fruition gain, 
 
 And we perceive the good are aye requited 
 Who conquer pain. 
 
192 A Song of Comfort. 
 
 We should not always grieve, each tribulation 
 Is sent to purify and raise the soul, 
 
 And fit it for its glorious destination: 
 An Heavenly goal. 
 
PASSION, 
 
 Blind passion ever proves a maddening power 
 Enthroned within us — a sin-garnered dower 
 Of quenchless loves and longings — a fierce storm 
 Breaking the beauteous boughs, where sheltered 
 
 warm 
 Repose, like unfledged nestlings, Life's chief joys. 
 Its wave sweeps o'er the soul and swift destroys 
 Our store of peace — what years of labour cost 
 Perchance by one false step for ever lost. 
 
SOLITUDE. 
 
 Whilst mid the throng, 
 Which restkss moves along 
 With eager footsteps o'er the earth, 
 But few their noblest thoughts have known. 
 Most often when alone 
 Come thoughts of worth. 
 
 It needs the balm 
 Of soul-restoring calm 
 To purge the mind of Life's alloy ; 
 Thus yielding back Man's highest power, 
 His blessM pristine dower 
 Of peace and joy. 
 
 And thus do men, 
 With keen enraptured ken. 
 Their grandest themes fruition give 
 In solitude. Truth seems to them 
 A more resplendent gem 
 While so they live. 
 
TRUE INSPIRATION. 
 
 True inspiration ever seems, 
 
 By causing passion-pain, 
 To purify the poet's dreams. 
 
 And elevate his strain. 
 
 The common thought, the hackneyed rhyme. 
 
 Its touch can glorify, 
 Till men con o'er the dulcet chime 
 And scarce such faults descry. 
 
 And thus it is, though oft we find 
 
 Imperfect chords like these 
 Within the works of a master-mind, 
 
 That rarely they displease. 
 
 Whereas though versifiers gain 
 
 A smooth melodious roll. 
 Their grandest stanzas flow in vain, 
 
 Nor stir the secret soul. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF OUR FEELINGS. 
 
 'TiS strange that what seems grief to-day 
 Should bring us bliss to-morrow, — 
 
 That present joy should pass away 
 And be in future sorrow. 
 
 Yet of events we ever find 
 
 This the unvarying measure, — 
 
 According to our mood of mind 
 They yield us pain or pleasure. 
 
THE HAWTHORN SPRAY. 
 
 Enraptured with the loveliness 
 That Spring spreads o'er the land, 
 
 A little maiden and a boy 
 Are walking hand in hand. 
 
 In gladsome tones they gaily talk, 
 
 Nor think of coming care, 
 The proud boy plucks a hawthorn bud 
 
 To deck the girl's fair hair. 
 
 " Now let this spray a token be," 
 
 He merrily exclaims, 
 " That in the years to come we know 
 
 Nought else save mutual aims. 
 
198 The Hawthorn Spray. 
 
 " For spotless 'tis ; a symbol meet 
 Of this our treaty pure ; 
 
 So may our compact bring us bliss, 
 And evermore endure." 
 
 Now many years have wearily 
 
 And slowly sped away, 
 But still these two are true of heart, 
 
 As on that dear dead day. 
 
 And so together oft again 
 Amid the spring-tide's glow 
 
 They walk, remembering thankfully 
 Their love-pledge long ago. 
 
 A pledge which did not prove in vain. 
 And never once was slighted ; 
 
 For after tedious years of toil 
 In joy they are united. 
 
MATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 Maternal love is ever tender and kind, 
 
 From sinful dross of selfishness refined ; 
 
 In infant years it is a tender guide 
 
 To keep us safe from harm on every side ; 
 
 And when our cherished childhood's days are 
 
 past, 
 It nerves us to endure the world's rough blast. 
 
 Its mellowed memory is with us still. 
 
 In joy or sorrow, happiness or ill, 
 
 And like some beauteous flower of growth sublime 
 
 Transplanted for awhile to this chill clime. 
 
 It sheds its sweetest fragrance on our way, 
 
 Reviving drooping hearts in Life's dark day. 
 
PARTING WORDS. 
 
 How oft the parting words of loved ones dear 
 Are cherished fondly all our lifetime here, 
 And Memory, in calm reflection's hour, 
 Recalls them to the mind with vivid power ; 
 And frequently most bitterly we feel 
 The impotence of Time our grief to heal. 
 
 Ah ! tender parting words, how soon is felt 
 Your influence the hai^dest heart to melt — 
 And as a babe upon its mother's breast 
 Is soothed unconsciously to quiet rest, 
 So gradually it steals o'er each sad soul, 
 And holds our feelings in its firtti control. 
 
HOMEWARD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Each moment nearing fast her home, 
 A ship is cleaving through the foam, — 
 
 Home ! ah, how sweet to those 
 Who in strange lands have absent been, 
 But still recalling each loved scene — 
 
 Their heart, with rapture glows. 
 Thus there is boundless joy on board, 
 And jocundly with one accord 
 
 Are all prepared to land ; 
 For when this last long night is done 
 Their hopes rise with the morrow's sun,— 
 
 Their haven is at hand. 
 Some sense-o'erstrainSd cannot sleep, 
 And through the watches wakeful keep,- 
 
 Longing for dawn of light ; 
 
202 Homewara. 
 
 The deck is paced by dauntless men, 
 
 The night is dark, save now and then 
 
 When stars appear in sight. 
 
 .II. 
 
 What was that crash ! that dismal sound 
 Which echoes through the darkness round — 
 
 That sharp soul-stricken scream ? 
 The glance doth on confusion fall. 
 Those on the deck are wild, and all 
 
 Is like a dreadsome dream. 
 The ship has struck not far from shor^, 
 But boisterously the billows roar. 
 
 Along a rock-bound bay; 
 Two boats are manned to put to land, 
 And struggling hard to gain the strand, 
 
 Pull through the blinding spray. 
 Leaving the rest to face their fate as best they 
 may. 
 
 III. 
 
 The scene so lately still and calm 
 Seems nothing now save loud alarm, 
 And dread and direful woe — 
 
Homeward. 203 
 
 One sight of sorrow meets the eye 
 
 On deck or down below. 
 While wind and seething waters vie 
 
 In working ill around, 
 Like sorcerers resolved to try 
 
 Their secret arts profound. 
 Shrill shrieks are heard on every side, 
 And none now aid nor seek to guide 
 
 The mad unresting crowd. 
 Who, scarce aware of what they do, 
 Pace passionately the deck ; a few 
 Murmur a prayer heartfelt and true. 
 Or bitter moans — or curses too 
 
 In accents lewd and loud. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Down in a cabin lies a child 
 Heedless of death or tumult wild. 
 By sleep with blissful dreams beguiled : 
 A man reclines, removed a space. 
 
 Scarce entered middle life — 
 Yet in whose face you well may trace 
 
 Sad signs of care and strife. 
 
204 Homeward. 
 
 V. 
 
 Now to the infant's side he springs, 
 
 And very speedily he brings 
 
 His charge from down below. 
 » 
 He casts one glance upon the storm, 
 
 Then tightly grasps the tiny form — 
 
 Nor shrinking seems to know. 
 
 VI. 
 
 His thoughts revert to long ago, 
 When fragile as this little child, 
 A mother's love upon him smiled 
 As it assuaged each infant woe : — 
 And taught him to be true and brave 
 In this weak world of sordid strife, 
 And even content to part with life 
 Did it perchance another save. 
 And then he prays to One above 
 To guide him in this deed of love. 
 
 VII.' 
 From the doomed ship without delay 
 Through the wild waves he cleaves his way, 
 Needing surpassing strength 
 
Homeward. 20= 
 
 And dauntless courage thus to dare 
 To hold his burden and to bear 
 A swim of such a length. 
 The ruthless waters round him roll. 
 He well-nigh loses all control — 
 
 - Yet still he struggles on ; 
 And clasping to his breast the child, 
 He grapples with the billows wild 
 Till strength is almost gone. 
 
 VIII. 
 But see ! his task is nearly o'er, 
 If he can swim a few yards more, 
 They surely reach the longed-for shore ; 
 Brief moments now their fate will show 
 Whether it be of weal or woe. 
 
 IX. 
 And still he shapes his steadfast course 
 
 Straight onward to the land, 
 Yet with each stroke makes less the force 
 
 Which he can still command. 
 But all seems well — an instant more 
 Will see them safely on the shore. 
 
2o6 Homeward. 
 
 Sudden a gasp — a gurgling sound — 
 
 A short convulsive groan, — 
 And nothing now is heard around 
 Save the fierce storm alone. 
 For he has sunk to rise no more, 
 Exhausted with the conflict sore. 
 And as a rain-drop falling on a lake 
 Ripples its surface, yet can scarcely break 
 The depths beneath, so softly thus sinks he 
 Into the Ocean of Eternity. 
 
AN OCEAN GLOAMING. 
 
 I PRAY you, hark, — 
 What is it that each seems to crave, 
 As over each mid-ocean wave 
 
 It groweth dark ? 
 
 The angry gale 
 Strikes our stout ship in mockery, 
 And now they fiercely fight to see 
 
 Who shall prevail. 
 
 The seething spray 
 Dashes on high, and has the whole 
 Range of the deck without control 
 
 Under its sway. 
 
2o8 An Ocean Gloaming. 
 
 Our sturdy ship's 
 Tossings and creaks are like to pain, 
 And ofttimes in the surging main 
 
 Her beams she dips. ^ 
 
 Look, just in sight, 
 Two creamy piles of foam between, 
 A little barque is rolling seen 
 
 Mid gathering night. 
 
 A signal goes 
 Quick up her mast and there remains ; 
 " Where now she is," the mate explains, 
 
 " She scarcely knows. 
 
 And asks that we 
 Should tell her." Swiftly our reply 
 Runs up the mast, and then we try 
 
 To find if she 
 
 Perceives the sign. 
 Ere yet she's out of sight. Full slow 
 Pass the dread hours ere Morning's glow 
 
 Makes Night to pine, 
 
An Ocean Gloaming. 209 
 
 And die away. 
 But when the light is come at length, 
 We're sheltered safe' from Ocean's strength 
 
 Within the bay. 
 
A SUM-MER SCENE. 
 
 Bright beams of sunlight gild the lawn, 
 And the whole landscape seems as, drawn 
 
 From some enchanter's treasure ; — 
 The songsters carol loud and clear, 
 Ah, how I dearly love to hear 
 
 Their sweet melodious measure. 
 
 And while I loiter 'neath the trees, 
 Delicious perfumes by the breeze 
 
 Are wafted from the hay- field. 
 Where village urchins pleasure court, 
 And making round the ricks their sport. 
 
 Transform it to a play-field. 
 
A Summer Scene. 2 1 1 
 
 Must this fair vision fade away ? 
 It must — and for its death to-day 
 
 I feel a sense of sorrow ; 
 But gladness comes to fill its place 
 When Hope reminds with smiling face — 
 
 " 'Twill live again to-morrow." 
 
SUMMER SORROW. 
 
 Each season hath its sadness, and for me 
 Summer not least of all. I know not why, 
 But though its sylvan beauty soothes my soul 
 Into delicious reveries ; while birds, 
 Discoursing music, fill my dreamy mind 
 With melodies, and thoughts, and deep delight, 
 I never felt before — yet still there lurks 
 Within my heart a strange unfathomed grief, 
 Which, even amidst harsh Autumn's ravages. 
 Or grim old Winter's stqrms, I rarely feel. 
 
A SUMMER EVENING IN THE WOODS. 
 
 How beautiful the forest looks to-night, 
 The trees just moving in the still calm air ; 
 And very many of the birds delight 
 In warbling, forth their notes without a care. 
 The graceful boughs which erst were gaunt and 
 
 bare 
 Have donned their fairest dress; the insects 
 
 keep 
 A dreamy, murmuring revel everywhere ; 
 But in the woodland glades, so dark and deep, 
 Save but for these few sounds, all nature seems 
 
 to sleep. 
 
214 -^ Summer Evening in the Woods. 
 
 The stars come slowly out, and very soon 
 The summer day in peace and calmness ends ; 
 - And by-and-by, as rises slow the moon, 
 Her light with splendour on the scene descends : 
 While she amid the clouds her pathway wends 
 Majestic as a queen, and they stand near 
 Like courtiers round her throne ; each object 
 
 lends 
 Fresh beauty to the landscape dim, yet clear 
 Enough to let its wondrous loveliness appear. 
 
 Scenes like to this exert a mighty power 
 
 To soothe us, and to cause our minds to 
 
 stray — 
 If only for a brief and transient hour — 
 From weary cares which fill them day by day ; 
 And soon our thoughts fly swiftly far away 
 To some bright reminiscence of the past. 
 And for a while engrossed with it they stay ; 
 And when our reverie is done at last, 
 IIow deeply we regret such moments fly so fast ! 
 
TWILIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 How charming is tiie summer eve, removed from 
 
 cities far, 
 Where Nature's spotless loveliness nought inter- 
 venes to mar ; 
 Where wild-rose and convolvulus are woven in 
 
 the hedge. 
 And buttercups and foxgloves gay rise from the 
 
 brooklet's edge; 
 Where zephyrs waft their sweetest scents adown 
 
 the waving wood. 
 And the soothing songs of Nature's choir impel 
 
 us to intrude : — 
 When shadows creep across our path, and Day is 
 
 well-nigh dead, 
 'Tis then that Summer ever seems her glamour 
 
 best to spread. 
 
2i6 Twilight Thoughts. 
 
 Where in this weary world can more of perfect 
 
 peace be found, 
 Than when on such a scene we gaze in sympathy 
 
 around ? 
 And often will some fair wild flowers more truly 
 
 touch the heart 
 Than the resplendent trophies of rare botanic art ; 
 The sweet-briar which, perchance unseen, pours 
 
 perfume on the air, 
 I would not barter for what proved the florist's 
 
 proudest care ; 
 I'll leave the rich their bowers of art in which to 
 
 rear rare flowers, 
 Enough for me each common plant in Summer's 
 
 gloaming hours. 
 
THE HEART'S SUMMER. 
 
 Sweet is the noon of a summer day 
 While low the bees are humming, 
 
 And the village sounds seem far away 
 When through the woodlands coming. 
 
 Sweet are the hours of a summer night 
 When the diamond dews are falling, 
 
 And dreams come with the fading light. 
 Soft, soothing, and enthralling. 
 
 Sweet are the tones of a friendly voice, 
 Speaking sympathy in sorrow, 
 
 Whilst bidding us once more rejoice, 
 And from Love's store-house borrow. 
 
2iS The Heart's Summer. 
 
 Sweet is the wondering world's applause 
 When fame at last hath found us, 
 
 And (guerdon for toil in a righteous cause) 
 Flings victory's wreath around us. 
 
 But sweeter far is a heart at rest, 
 A heart ne'er soured by sadness — 
 
 Which throbs within a blissful breast 
 With a God-imparteci gladness. 
 
A LESSON I.< THE GLOAMING. 
 
 One even of a summer's day 
 I walk scarce whither knowing, 
 
 Save by a river's side I stray 
 
 Where balmy winds are blowing. 
 
 'Tis the loved hour of twilight's close, 
 When o'er the landscape stealing, 
 
 The last faint ray of sunset glows. 
 Its beauty half revealing. 
 
 Rich foliage hides the rippling stream 
 From the fair view completely, 
 
 And gently as in halcyon dream, 
 Its murmur softly, sweetly. 
 
 Comes zephyr-borne, as on I move 
 With light heart void of sadness. 
 
2 20 A Lesson in the Gloaming. 
 
 Nor caring what to-morrow prove, 
 So that to-day be gladness. 
 
 Sudden is heard the plash of oars, 
 A sense of pleasure bringing, — 
 
 While plaintively a rower pours 
 His soul thus out in singing : 
 
 In Summer's choicest day, 
 When round each fragrant spray 
 The blithesome breezes stray — ■ 
 
 Ah, what delight ! 
 But brightest days contain 
 The seeds of future pain, 
 And Winter comes again, 
 
 Their bliss to blight ! 
 
 Not so the joys of Mind, 
 Unfathomed, unconfined, 
 They soar and leave behind 
 
 Trammels of Earth : — 
 They teach mankind to face 
 Both honour and disgrace. 
 And gain at last the Place 
 
 Which gave them birth. 
 
 The boat sweeps on, — the words depart 
 
 In cadences alluring, — 
 But they have pierced my iiippant heart, 
 
 And left a mark enduring. 
 
MEADOW MUSINGS. 
 
 While treading with purest of pleasure 
 The pathways grass-grown of the fields, 
 
 The thought that will come without measure 
 Is strange as the fruit that it yields. 
 
 We dream that on spot we are standing 
 To gaze on the glorious view — 
 
 Perchance some stern Druid commanding 
 Performed his orisons due, 
 
 Ere vengeful and fierce as his foeman. 
 And eager for spoil and applause, 
 
 He ventured to meet the bold Roman 
 To fight in his dear country's cause. 
 
222 
 
 Meadow Musings. 
 
 Some Saxon, it may be, with sadness 
 
 Here mourned the mailed Norman's advance, 
 
 And on the morrow he ended his madness 
 At the point of the enemy's lance. 
 
 Perchance after great baron's wassail — 
 In days when such doings were rife, 
 
 With feudal foes here fought each vassal 
 In bitter inglorious strife. 
 
 Or the Roundhead recounted the glory 
 
 Of routing the gay Cavalier, 
 Nor wept, while reciting the story. 
 
 For former companions a tear. 
 
 And still as the swiftly, winged Ages 
 
 Press on with impetuous pace, 
 The fools of the Earth and its sages 
 
 May pause for a while in this place. 
 
 Then darting away, will commingle 
 
 In the turmoil with which Life is fraught. 
 
 And never again will they single 
 
 This spot out for care or for thought. 
 
FLOWER-GATHERING. 
 
 Two merry children in a meadow see, 
 
 With faces all aglow with Childhood's gle^r — 
 
 While finding fragrant flowrets here and there 
 
 To weave into a chaplet fresh and fair, 
 
 Till of the sweet wild flowers they gaily make 
 
 A guerdon to reward the pains they take. 
 
 So 'tis, methinks, amid Life's tedious toil, 
 And sordid strife and harassing turmoil ; 
 As surely as we seek, we pleasures find, 
 Which bring kind Hope to cheer each mournful 
 
 mind : 
 And our attempts to seize them oft repay 
 By showering blessings on our weary way. 
 
GARDEN MUSINGS. 
 
 Ah, what a sadness wells within our soul 
 Whilst loitering in garden where erewhile 
 We used to hold sweet interchange of thought 
 With a dearly lov^d lost one ; and to know 
 Such days are dead for ever ! That for lis, 
 Though May-time blossoms make the orchard 
 
 trees ' 
 
 Most beauteous to behold, and every sense 
 In bliss is saturated by the wealth 
 Of Nature's charms profusely spread around, 
 There yet remains enthroned within our heart 
 A deep, dull void, which nought on earth can fill. 
 
A COMPARISON. 
 
 The landscape bright is very fair to see, 
 
 And all around the birds are blithely singing ; 
 
 And yonder to that venerable tree 
 
 Tenaciously the ivy's boughs are clinging. 
 
 But soon the tree is felled and ta'en away, 
 
 And each slight tendril from its trunk is taken ; 
 
 And now the ivy's beauty will decay, 
 Bereft of its support, lone, and forsaken. 
 
 So frequently it happens with us all. 
 
 Round some lov'd object twin'd is our affection, 
 But soon 'tis snatched away beyond recall, 
 , And leaves us nothing save its recollection, 
 p 
 
226 A Comparison. 
 
 Then deepest grief and anguish rend the breast, 
 And oft we seem to hear a voice repeating : 
 
 " Our life is but a shadow at the best, 
 
 And nought abides, but all is brief and fleeting." 
 
QUIETUDE. 
 
 " Quietude, O quietude," 
 
 My soul is sadly sighing ; 
 For thee, in a mournful mood, 
 
 I ceaselessly am crying ; 
 But a voice murmurs softly clear, 
 " True quietude is never here." 
 
 Quietude, O quietude. 
 
 Come while Life's waves I'm breasting. 
 Bringing with thee all things good, 
 
 Pure peace, and joy, and resting, — 
 Yet still the voice — " No, never here 
 Can perfect quietude appear." 
 
 Quietude, O quietude, 
 Grant me a single token 
 
228 Quietude. 
 
 That sometimes Life's conflict rude 
 
 By perfect peace is broken ; 
 But a voice whispers in my ear, 
 " Trtie quietude is never here." 
 
 Quietude, O quietude, 
 
 Mine earthly course is ending. 
 
 Come, and now within me brood, 
 Each sin-stained fetter rending ; 
 
 Breathes then the voice with silver sound, 
 
 " In Heaven true quietude is found." 
 
IN TENEBRIS LUX. 
 
 'Tis night, and darkness as a pall 
 
 Enwraps the sable scene, 
 Nor doth one glimmering ray recall 
 
 Where sunshine erst hath been. 
 
 Till the moon peereth 'neath a cloud 
 'Mong floods of borrowed light, 
 
 And piercing through the landscape's shroud, 
 Dispels the gloom of night. 
 
 So 'tis in life ; mid deepest woe, 
 
 Oft drawing nigh despair, 
 God-borrowed beams alone still show 
 
 That joy abideth there. 
 
A MORNING MEDITATION. 
 
 Now the black night will speedily be gone, 
 And the delicious dawning draweth near — 
 Charming each sense, while calmly gazing on 
 The freshly budding beauty which is here ; 
 Almost a paradise doth soon appear. 
 Dowered with a glittering flood of dewdrops 
 
 bright ; 
 As the sun's radiance from a higher sphere 
 Seems to produce, even by its gladsome sight, 
 In careworn human hearts a wonderful delight. 
 
 Ah ! who at sunrise could be aught save glad ! 
 For 'tis a prototype of perfect day. 
 When we shall wake to bliss, no longer sad, 
 And feel the glowing God-begotten ray 
 
A Morning Meditation. 231 
 
 Which bids us iling aside all fears which may 
 Still cleave to us ; and with enraptured soul 
 Speed to the land where trouble flees away 
 Before His presence, that long-Iooked-for goal, 
 Where all Earth's weary wounds 'for ever are 
 made whole. 
 
THE WARBLERS' MISSION. 
 
 One bright day, sad and weary, 
 
 I wandered the fields, 
 Which often, when dreary, 
 
 Much happiness yields, — 
 Yet not softest of sighing 
 
 Of sweet summer breeze, 
 Nor the beauties near lying, 
 
 My burden could ease. 
 
 But a bird's note of gladness, 
 
 Clear borne on the air, 
 Changed my sense of strange sadness 
 
 And sorrowful care ; — 
 And full soon o'er me stealing, 
 
 In place of my grief, 
 Came a rapturous feeling 
 
 Of peace and relief. 
 
The Warblers Mission. 233 
 
 Then I wondered if pinions 
 
 Were given birds thus 
 To work, mid God's dominions, 
 
 A mission to us ; — 
 Of shedding, midst sadness. 
 
 Rejoicing and love, 
 And through soothing and gladness. 
 
 To guide us above. 
 
 So perchance they flew ever. 
 
 Devoting their days 
 With ceaseless endeavour 
 
 To carolling praise : — 
 As true types, though terrestrial. 
 
 Till song-time be o'er, 
 Of the angels celestial 
 
 Who chant and adore. 
 
MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 
 
 The moonbeams' pure brightness 
 
 Has entered my room, 
 Thus shedding some lightness 
 
 Where late all was gloom. 
 Yet it leaves much uncertain 
 
 Which Day would make clear, 
 For the Night's darksome curtain 
 
 Still lies dim and drear. 
 
 So, methinks, as in sadness 
 
 I restlessly toss, 
 'Tis with dreams of past gladness 
 
 Our spirits that cross : — 
 Though oftentimes cheering 
 
 Our souls by their light. 
 We by their appearing 
 
 Perceive our deep night. 
 
"'TIS GONE." 
 
 " 'Tis gone," with mournful voice we say, 
 When some great joy departs ; 
 
 And we pursue our weary way 
 With sad and heavy hearts. 
 
 " 'Tis gone," with gladsome voice we cry, 
 When grief or pain is o'er : — 
 
 And all the prospect far and nigh 
 Is brighter than before. 
 
 Seems it not strange that keenest woe 
 This phrase can thus express, 
 
 And yet be often used to show 
 The highest happiness ? 
 
A LIFE'S EPITOME. 
 
 A COTTAGE home : a peaceful place 
 Where sorrow hides her dreaded face ; 
 Husband and wife, a happy pair, 
 Who thankfully Life's blessings share ; 
 And living far from towns' turmoil. 
 They simply crave a " leave to toil ! " 
 * * * » 
 
 A workhouse full of reckless din. 
 Where gladness rarely enters in : ■ 
 A dying man now sinking fast, 
 Yet doubtless conscious to the last. 
 His senses steeped in wrathful woe, 
 Such as alone the poor can know. 
 When spite of struggles long and brave 
 Their death but fills a pauper's 'grave. 
 
ACROSTIC— BURNS. 
 
 Born of the people with a dower of song ; — 
 Unlearnt in academic lore, yet strong ; 
 Ranging each chord of lyric minstrelsy 
 'Neath genius-tutored fingers grandly free ; 
 Still sweet and clear thy tones for Time 
 eterne shall be. 
 
ACROSTIC— COWPER. 
 
 Calm and clear-toned the music of thy song, 
 
 Of depths diviner than to bards belong, 
 
 Who scale Parnassian heights with sordid aim :• 
 
 Pure as a ray of brightly flashing flame 
 
 Eradiating from Truth's torch to show 
 
 Rash Man a heavenward path amid Life's woe. 
 
ACROSTIC— THE ELDER HOOD. 
 
 How brilliant and Tiow versatile art thou, — 
 Of every style a master. Deep-souled thought 
 On many themes is here, rare puns, and now 
 Disports a freak of fancy genius-fraught. 
 
ACROSTIC— KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Kind and true-hearted was thy youthful life, 
 In every manly attribute most rife ; 
 Rich in a mind rare cultured, and which sought 
 TCnowledge with pursuit keen, and ever thought 
 Each effort well repaid that learning brought. 
 
 Wise thought on such as thee doth cheer the 
 
 heart, 
 Having their course before us as a chart, 
 In which is shown a way whereby each one, 
 Though sore the toil and scorching be Life's sun, 
 Elated shall receive God's glad " Well done." 
 
A LIFE-CHRONICLE. 
 
 Long years ago a peasant boy 
 Lives as his widowed mother's joy, 
 
 Her cherished firstborn son ; 
 For though her love the others share, 
 They are but babes — for them the care 
 
 Of life has scarce begun. 
 While the brave brother manfully 
 
 Strives steadfastly to gain their bread, 
 Resolved to do as well as he 
 
 Is able in their father's stead. 
 Q 
 
242 A Life-Chronicle. 
 
 II. 
 
 He little learning could acquire, 
 
 Except when sitting at the fire, 
 
 When work was done on a wintry night, 
 
 But then it was his chief delight 
 
 To linger o'er some well-conned page, 
 
 Dowered with the wisdom of the sage. 
 
 His thought for every lesser one 
 
 How charming 'twas to view ; 
 And often would he join the fun 
 
 As leader of the crew. 
 Yet sometimes when apart from man. 
 
 Upon the lone hill-side, 
 His future anxiously would scan, 
 
 And long for one to guide 
 His steps to higher spheres of life. 
 If even through severest strife. 
 
 III. 
 
 But soon his mood would grow more gay. 
 Like lark which soars at dawn of day ; 
 And then before his eyes would play 
 Visions of regions far away. 
 
A Life-Chronicle. 243 
 
 Yet calmly he resolved to stay 
 
 Till some brief years were o'er, 
 And then a fond farewell to say, 
 
 And leave his native shore,. 
 Boldly to seek his fortune there, 
 And never yield him to despair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The time now comes to say farewell, 
 
 That word how full of sadness ! 
 And yet for aught which one may tell 
 
 The harbinger of gladness. 
 At least to think so sore he tries 
 When with stout heart but wistful eyes 
 
 He bids them not to grieve, 
 Saying they soon shall have surprise 
 
 Whic^ they will scarce believe. 
 Then gently doth bright dreams unfold 
 Of his return with wealth untold. 
 
244 ■^ Life-Chronicle. 
 
 Long years have passed, and now once more 
 
 He views again his native shore ; 
 
 Nor has his stay been spent in vain, 
 
 For ere he crosses now the main 
 
 He has of gold an ample store, 
 
 And better still a well-earned name 
 
 For honest worth, with nought of sha,me. 
 
 His now indeed a bright career. 
 
 In which each blessing given man here 
 
 Is granted to him, as if sent 
 
 As guerdon for his past content. 
 
 While amid much labour patiently 
 
 He strove against grim poverty ; 
 
 And suEcouring the deep-distressed. 
 
 Proved now the passion of his breast. 
 
 So when at length in death he slept 
 
 Many a mourner for him wept. 
 
A DREAM OF LONG AGO. 
 
 A DREAM of youth comes o'er me — 
 
 A dream of long ago, 
 When life was light before me, 
 
 Nor knew the taint of woe. 
 
 'Tis of a sun-lit village 
 
 Built by the bright sea's strand. 
 With widespread fields in tillage 
 
 Stretching on every hand, — 
 
 Save on one side where moorland 
 
 The landscape closes in. 
 Which, though men deemed it poor land, 
 
 Was dowered with blooming whin. 
 
246 A Dream of Long Ago. 
 
 Here there were boundless pleasures 
 For me, a town-bred boy ; 
 
 Here first I found the treasures 
 That country-folk enjoy. 
 
 Great was my bliss bird-nesting, 
 When butterflies I sought, 
 
 Or when in quiet resting 
 
 On turf with fragrance fraught. 
 
 Its charms indeed were legion, 
 With its odours of wild flowers ; 
 
 It seemed a fairy region 
 
 To spend the halcyon hours. 
 
 Once with a strange emotion, 
 I found a blackbird's brood. 
 
 And watched the dam's devotion, 
 Yet dreaded to intrude. 
 
 I loved this moorland dearly, 
 
 With its spots for rest and play — 
 
 And in my day-dreams clearly 
 Still see it day by day. 
 
A Dream of Long Ago. 247 
 
 How pretty looked the river — 
 Which gave the sppt its name — 
 
 As its wavelets used to quiver 
 Beneath the sunset's flame, 
 
 Which dyed them with a lightness 
 
 That soon must disappear, 
 Fit emblem of the brightness 
 
 Which human life has here. 
 
 What sport to. watch the fishers 
 
 As they left their homes at morn — 
 
 Surrounded with well-wishers. 
 
 Holding dread and fear in scorn ! 
 
 And how gladsome were the greetings 
 
 When they returned at nightj 
 And merry were the meetings. 
 
 For faces all were bright. 
 
 Life here had much of gladness 
 Despite its dull day's round, — - 
 
 And less of care and sadness 
 Than oft in cities found. 
 
248 A Dream of Long Ago. 
 
 How great was my diversion 
 (I was but eight years old) 
 
 When I went a short excursion, 
 A cart my chariot bold. 
 
 As onward thus I travelled 
 Mid balmy summer air, 
 
 Life's skein for me was ravelled 
 With bliss in place of care. 
 
 I saw them cutting fuel 
 To feed their wintry fire, 
 
 And, ah, I thought it cruel 
 When bidden to retire. 
 
 How pleasant the postman meeting, 
 With his merrily sounding horn. 
 
 And his grave yet gladsome greeting 
 Bestowed on me each morn. 
 
 While the village people ever, 
 Though rude and unrefined. 
 
 To me seemed good and clever 
 Because they all were kind. 
 
A Dream of Long Ago. 249 
 
 Ah, vision calm and cheering ! 
 
 Soul-soothing none the less, 
 Despite the callous sneering 
 
 Cold cynics may profess. 
 
 Thy memories shall not perish 
 
 Whate'er betide of grief — 
 Yes, evermore I'll cherish 
 
 This dream to bring relief. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO AN INK-BOTTLE IN 
 AN HOTEL COFFEE-ROOM. 
 
 'Tis strange to think how oft your aid 
 
 Has been invoked by men ; 
 And what a confidence was made 
 
 Of secrets to you then ! 
 
 Prosaic words of business life 
 By you have been expressed ; 
 
 And you have told the sorest strife 
 That burns in lover's breast. 
 
 Perchance a little girl or boy 
 
 Employs you for a letter, 
 About new scenes, or of their joy 
 
 When loosed from school's firm fetter. 
 
Apostrophe to an Ink-Bottle. 251 
 
 A husband forced, though leal and true, 
 
 In distant land to dwell, 
 To his loved wife indites by you 
 
 A tender last farewell. 
 
 And sometimes, too, a seeming '' swell " 
 
 Enters, and half afraid, he 
 Impresses you for a billet doux 
 
 On business rather " shady." 
 
 " Commercials " pen a dazzling dream 
 
 Of greatly grown connection ; 
 And next you aid the swelling stream 
 
 Of filial affection. 
 
 Which flows in sadness, as a son. 
 
 From his fond mother parted. 
 Grieves that his course, alas, has run 
 
 So far from whence it started. 
 
 And so all use you day by day 
 
 In high or humble station ; 
 Then each departs upon his way. 
 
 Feeling no obligation ! 
 
IMAGINATION'S HARVEST. 
 
 Oh, how powerless we seem to secure fancy's 
 dream, 
 Though before our rapt gaze it be floating ; 
 And to garner a mine of the rich gems that 
 shine. 
 Yet are lost for the lack of our noting. 
 
 Thus in sickness sometimes, like strange musical 
 chimes. 
 Come sweet visions enchanting to meet us ; 
 But they pass from bur sight like a bird in its 
 flight, 
 And are gone ere their gladness can greet us. 
 
Imagination's Harvest. 253 
 
 Then, if buoyant in health, they deny us their 
 wealth. 
 And leave us to commonplace duties ; 
 Though with bliss Life is fraught, we scarce 
 harbour a thought 
 Of their wondrous though swift-fleeting beauties. 
 
 While oft in our mind when their traces we find. 
 We would pen their pure brilliance for others, 
 
 But the glories we see, though entrancing they be. 
 Are as nought in the eyes of our brothers. 
 
HISTORICAL PIECES. 
 
HUBERT. 
 
 Scene I. — The garden of a Manor House on a summer evening. 
 Dramatis Fersonce, — Sir Ralph Harton, a frail old man, whose wife 
 
 had been dead for years. Hubert, his only child in opening 
 
 manhood. 
 Time. — Immediately after the breaking out of the Civil War, 1642. 
 
 Hubert. Hurrah ! at length the people spring 
 
 To vindicate their right, 
 And vainly now shall strive the King 
 
 To vanquish them in fight. 
 At last Laud's long despotic course. 
 
 Draws ruin in its train, 
 Soon Hampden's words of frenzied force 
 
 The victory shall gain — 
 While Charles will rue with deep remorse 
 
 The part which he hath ta'en. 
 For England's might shall rise in fight 
 
 Throughout the groaning land — 
 R 
 
258 Hubert. 
 
 And War's harsh sound be heard around 
 
 Our homes on every hand. 
 Our wrongs shall be wiped out in gore, 
 
 We'll vanquish what was vaunted, 
 And so it shall be said once more 
 
 That Britons are undaunted. 
 Then shall we hold a Parliament 
 
 Untrammelled, true, and free ; 
 The Stuart's line will aye repent 
 
 Their deeds of tyranny. 
 Secret intrigues shall not affright. 
 
 Nor unordained taxation — 
 And life will prove a dear delight 
 
 To each one in the nation ! 
 Sir Ralph. And yet, my son, this coming strife 
 
 Will yield us grievous woe ; 
 Though risking life where death is rife, 
 
 God grant you ne'er may know 
 The agony a father feels 
 
 When from his fond child parted ; 
 Wounds such as these Time seldom heals. 
 
 But leaves him broken-hearted. 
 What anguish 'tis to Separate 
 
 When Nature's ties are nearest ! 
 
Hubert. 259 
 
 Ah ! cruel is the withering fate 
 
 Which tears me from my dearest. 
 Still go, my son, nor lingering stay, 
 All private wishes must give way 
 When the public weal in a righteous cause 
 Demands a defence for our ancient laws. 
 Yet even when the cause is one 
 
 To which my thoughts respond. 
 How hard it seems to lose thee, son; 
 I long to gaze beyond 
 The darkness which enshrouds thy lot 
 
 Amid the surging strife — 
 Of Gertrude, Hubert, think'st thou not ? 
 
 Gertrude thy promised wife. 
 Her father hastes with all his men 
 
 To take the monarch's side; 
 Will he permit his daughter then 
 
 To be a traitor's bride } 
 Hubert. Lately on evening calm as this 
 
 We met in woodland yonder, 
 Sealing our troth with fervent kiss, 
 
 Knowing we had grown fonder. 
 
 Yet 'twas our lot to ponder 
 On what, alas ! we now must do ; 
 
26o Hubert. 
 
 So sadly passed our interview, 
 
 Feeling it was our parents' due, 
 
 At least, that we should meet no more 
 
 Until the present strife was o'er. 
 
 And thus our pressing grief we strove to 
 
 smother, 
 By vowing constant faith to one another. 
 So still to me is Gertrude dear, 
 
 We do not part for ever ; 
 Then, father mine, thy spirit cheer, 
 
 Though now we're forced to sever. 
 
 Scene II. — A room in the Manor House. Hubert and Gertrude 
 
 alone. 
 Time. — Three years afterwards. 
 
 Hubert. Alas ! my honoured father dead, 
 A blighting blow indeed has sped 
 When I was absent ; Gertrude, love. 
 Thou seem'st a being from above 
 Sent to relieve my crushing woe, 
 By bliss which mortals rarely know. 
 Few words may tell why I am here, 
 In thy dear face delighting, 
 
Hubert. 261 
 
 Blessed be the cause which brings thee near, 
 
 Our severed ties uniting. 
 How weary is this woeful time 
 
 Of pillaging, and slaughter ! 
 No party deeming war a crime, 
 
 Blood flowing fast as water. 
 The golden grain one rarely sees 
 
 That all are now requiring, 
 Few buds upon the orchard trees, 
 
 Which ruthless foes are firing, ^ 
 
 Shrieks of despair borne by the breeze 
 
 Whence peasants are retiring. 
 The hurried tramp of arm^d men, 
 
 The musketry's rude rattle. 
 The cries and imprecations when 
 
 Amid the brunt of battle. 
 Such are the sounds which greet mine ear, 
 
 Till, saddened with the fray, 
 I come, my love, to rest me here. 
 
 If only for a day. 
 Gertrude. My story too is very brief. 
 But 'tis a tale of truest grief. 
 Ah ! Hubert, I felt lone and drear 
 
 When thou went'st forth to fight the foe. 
 
262 Hubert. 
 
 And none were left my soul to cheer 
 
 Along its path of loveless woe. 
 The links seemed loosed which brightly bound 
 Our hopes and hearts in love profound. 
 My father grew morose and stern, 
 And harshly swore that I should learn 
 My folly thus to thwart his will 
 By loving a rebel Roundhead still, 
 And that he would go forth and bring 
 
 For me another lover — 
 Who dauntlessly would serve the King, 
 
 As I should soon discover. 
 While thus beset on every side. 
 With none to counsel or to guide, 
 I scarce knew what I ought to do. 
 Then to Sir Harton's house I flew. 
 
 Craving protection there ; 
 And graciously with features pale 
 He gravely listened to my tale. 
 
 Granting me all my prayer. 
 He let me take a daughter's part — 
 Loving me dearly from his heart ; 
 But feebler grew he day by day, 
 Dreaming of thee who wert away, 
 
Hubert. 26 
 
 Endangered in the deadly fray ; 
 And oft he longed as erst of yore 
 To mount his stately steed once more 
 
 To join thee in the field. 
 But lacking strength, " Heaven's will be done, 
 Though strong the yearning for my son, 
 
 Whom God protect and shield." 
 I need not tell thee how his strength 
 Stole stealthily away : at length 
 
 He knew that death was near, 
 And like a wan and sickly child. 
 By sleep when blissfully beguiled, 
 
 He died without a fear. 
 Hubert. Thanks, Gertrude darling, for thy care. 
 Ah ! had I but been near to share 
 Thy deep devotion to my sire. 
 It had been more mine own desire, 
 Than that by deeds of might my name 
 Should win in war a soldier's fame. 
 This is no time for honeyed word, 
 Yet what from thy sweet lips I've heard 
 Has bid me bless and love thee more 
 Than in the peaceful days of yore. 
 But, Gertrude, I must leave thee now — 
 
 a 
 
?64 Hubert. 
 
 I may no longer tarry ; 
 For I my good steed must allow 
 
 Three hours in which to carry 
 His master unto his command 
 
 Of Levellers the nearest band. 
 The struggle now is nearly done, 
 
 With Cromwell none can cope — 
 When a great conflict has been won 
 
 Gone is each royal hope. 
 Thy sire and mother are in Spain 
 (Having in safety crossed the main) ; 
 Then with my vassals still abide, 
 
 Nor from my home depart — 
 Until I come to call thee bride 
 
 With blithely beating heart 
 Oh ! give me now a last embrace. 
 
 One glance of thy bright eye 
 Will nerve me aught on earth to face. 
 
 Even though it be to die. 
 
 Scene ///.—Interior of a wretched hovel. Hubert lying 
 
 wounded. Group of soldiers. 
 Time. — A few days later. 
 
 \st Sol, 'Tis sad our captain too should feel 
 The stroke of the Malignants' steel, 
 
Hubert. 265 
 
 In fight so fearless, brave, and bold. 
 
 He scarcely seemed of mortal mould ; 
 
 And yet among the wounded he 
 
 Would tender as a woman be. 
 
 The dying heard with joy his tread, 
 
 Invoking blessings on his head. 
 
 So kind to all, so gentle too, 
 
 He gave to each his proper due. 
 
 And ever exercised his power 
 
 To check us in a wanton hour. 
 2nd Sol. Cease, ere he wakes — 
 Hubert. {Opening his eyes — ) 
 
 Why am I here. 
 
 In this abode so bare and drear 1 
 
 Why this strange mist before mine eyes, 
 
 Whence phantoms of the past arise t 
 
 Why this weak trembling of the frame, 
 
 And feelings which I cannot name ? 
 \st Sol. Thou'rt wounded. Captain, but we feel 
 
 Assured our leech thy hurt can heal. 
 Hubert. Nevermore, my race is run. 
 Here I shall not long remain. 
 
 All my life on earth is done — 
 
 Save, perchance, some hours of pain. 
 
266 Hubert. 
 
 {Delirious') Gertrude darling, come to me, 
 
 Even mid the din of strife. 
 When shall I the dear day see 
 
 When I rapturous call thee wife? 
 
 {Again he is conscious) 
 ' Approach, my men, I grow more weak. 
 
 My strength speeds swift away,' 
 Then promise me while yet I speak 
 
 My mandate to obey. 
 When I am dead, with charger fleet 
 
 Unto my home repair. 
 And tell the lady Gertrude sweet, 
 
 My last thoughts were of her. 
 And lay me where my fathers sleep, 
 
 Within yon lone churchyard, 
 Where the weird willow seems to keep 
 
 A solitary guard. 
 Farewell ! I thank you from my heart 
 For all the kindness on- your part, 
 
 May God • 
 
 1st Sol. See the celestial light 
 
 Illume his features, as his spirit takes its flight. 
 
THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL. 
 
 June ist, 1679. 
 
 The Scottish Presbyterians, forbidden by the arbitrary enactments 
 of Charles II. to hold religious services according to their much- 
 cherished manner, were fain to do so in secret. Graham of Claver- 
 house, Viscount Dundee, has earned iramortaj infamy by the 
 cruelties he exercised while dispersing these assemblies with his 
 troopers. It is one of those occasions which is here attempted to 
 be described. 
 
 'TiS Sabbath morn^ — fair Nature's face 
 Showers smiles of freshly glowing grace 
 
 On mountain, crag, and glen, — 
 As if to prove to Him above 
 Its silent share of lowly love 
 
 Amid proud sullen men ; ' 
 And blithely birds chant loud their lays 
 Of adoration and of praise. 
 
268 The Battle of Loudonhill. 
 
 II. 
 
 Much people from around are here, 
 Yet with a mien of awe and fear, — 
 But oft their faces seem to cheer 
 As though some blessed boon were near. 
 Women and men with one accord 
 Are gathered now upon the sward. 
 
 Vanished at once each petty feud, — 
 They are resolved to serve the Lord 
 In way which unto them seems good. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Have ye heard of that rash raid 
 Ruthless Claverhouse has made ? " 
 Thus in accents firm yet low 
 Oft they murmur to and fro — 
 " He has ta'en of us the best, 
 But he shall not seize the rest — 
 Until at least we struggle sore 
 
 To hold our own in fight, 
 And pray amid the conflict's roar 
 
 'For Scotland and the right.' 
 
The Battle of Loudonhill. 269 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Why should the King dictate to us 
 
 An alien way to serve the Lord ? 
 We will not bear such thrall, and thus 
 
 Are met this day with one accord ; 
 Place sentinels on every hill 
 
 To give us all fit warning due : 
 Then put good trust in God's wise will 
 
 And in our cause and weapons true." 
 
 V. 
 
 " If our sweet sisters see the sign 
 
 Of danger passed along the line 
 
 Of distant scouts, they quit the glen, — 
 
 The strife not left to craven men." 
 
 So speaks a patriarch in the midst, and now 
 
 The congregation at God's footstool bow. 
 
 And with united voices humbly there 
 
 They plead for pardon and for peace in prayer. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then plaintively they sing a psalm, 
 And hear the " Word of Life ;" 
 
270 The Battle of Loudonhill. 
 
 Yet bodes around a baneful calm 
 
 Presaging coming strife. 
 For see ! there hastes a messenger, 
 Of toil-worn form but dauntless air : 
 " Look to your ranks, rouse ye like men,-^ 
 The black dj-agoons have gained the glen." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Full speedily the men divide 
 In companies, on either side 
 
 According to their arms ; 
 A motley host indeed they seem, 
 As now the sun's meridian beam 
 Makes scythes and mattocks burnished gleam 
 Among the weapons soldiers deem 
 
 Fitter for war's alarms. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The aged minister with head made bare 
 Amid a solemn silence offers prayer ; 
 "Lord, spare the green and take the ripe; we know 
 Thou rulest all things in this world of woe ; 
 Then grant but this and Scotland's just demand, 
 Aught else we leave in Thy Almighty Hand." 
 
The Battle of Loudonhill. 271 
 
 IX. 
 
 The pleading ends ; each peasant hies 
 
 His proper place to fill ; 
 Along their front a marsh there lies — 
 
 Behind their post a hill. 
 While resolutely thus they tread, 
 
 Of father, mother, wife, 
 Doubtless they think, yet dare the dread 
 
 And danger of the strife. 
 Feeling its issue will restore 
 Freedom to their down-trodden shore. 
 
 X. 
 
 Lo ! list to the sound which now bursts on the ear, 
 A sound that full oft hath begotten wild fear — 
 The prelude to plunder and rapine and woe, 
 As all in the bold little army well know. 
 Pricking swift as the billows when ploughed 
 
 by the gale. 
 While their steeds spurn the turf as they dash 
 
 up the vale. 
 The dragoons are seen moving, and every man 
 Views the dark crest of Claverhouse leading 
 
 the van. 
 
272 The Battle of Loudonhill. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Now look to your carbines," cries he with a 
 
 laugh — 
 " And each ranting rebel you'll scatter like chaff, 
 The harvest is over, the thrashers are come. 
 With . swords for their flails, for their music 
 
 a drum, 
 And your famous leech-craft will certainly heal 
 The festering wound of the Covenant's zeal." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Sharp comes the volley — from the vale 
 
 Shrouded in sable smoke 
 Strange sounds arise ; and when a wail 
 
 Pierces its cloud-wrapt cloak. 
 Perchance it is a sign that one 
 
 Ends there his earthly strife — 
 His lowly race at last hath run. 
 
 Entering eternal life. 
 Perchance a sign that one of those 
 
 Who scoffed and had no fear. 
 His summons come, reluctant goes 
 
 Before God to appear. 
 
The Battle of Loudonhill. 273 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet still the peasants ne'er o'erthrown 
 
 With patient courage hold their own ; 
 
 Try as they may, the soldiers see 
 
 They win not thus the victory. 
 
 So Claverhouse recalls each man 
 
 Till he direct some further plan, 
 
 The lines upon his stubborn face 
 
 Showing he feels the dire disgrace 
 
 That well-tried troops — false Charles's boast — 
 
 Should vanquished be by peasant host. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But soon enraged he orders all. 
 The cavalry within his call 
 Full at the charge with frenzied force 
 Across the moss to take their course, 
 Seeking to make the rout complete 
 By crushing all beneath their feet. 
 And gallantly the men advance 
 With pointed sword, and glittering lance. 
 And crests which in the sun-beams dance. 
 S 
 
2 74 1^^ Battle oj Loudonhtti. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But .every effort is in vain, 
 
 And steeds, though guided by the rein, 
 
 Are all around fast falling ; 
 And their fiercfe foemen now are closing 
 Thick in upon them, and opposing, 
 
 Their ranks now past recalling. 
 The marsh has stopped their march indeed 
 
 There can be no denying, 
 And many a man and many a steed 
 
 Dyed darkly now lie dying. 
 And all their splendour melts away 
 Like dew-drops at the dawn of day. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Like as a vulture when bereft of prey 
 Long hovers ere it baffled soars away. 
 Stern Claverhouse had waited thus in vain. 
 Till now he turns his rampant charger's rein ; 
 Shouting, in his rough voice, the loud command, 
 " Retreat," unto the remnant of his band 
 
The Battle of Loudonhill. 275 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And thus the victory is won, 
 
 And many hearts made glad — 
 Yet grieving that a Sabbath's sun 
 
 Should see a sight so sad. 
 And well they know they have not broke 
 The rigour of the Despot's yoke, 
 And oft they pause and ponder wearily 
 On what must hap ere Scotland can be free. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Loudon ! thy fame shall ne'er be lost. 
 Even if it only showed the cost 
 Our fathers paid for Liberty, 
 That priceless jewel of the free. 
 Thus nerving us with effort strong 
 To combat Tyranny. and Wrong. 
 
AN EPISODE IN THE BATTLE OF 
 FUENTES D'HONORE. 
 
 The horse of the armies, in hostile array, 
 
 Haste to prove their proud prowess in mortal 
 
 affray^- 
 And the soldiers' fierce oaths that are bandied 
 
 around 
 Add a fresh sense of horror to battle's stern 
 
 sound. 
 Thus the squadrons are nearing each other, 
 
 when lo ! 
 An hussar leaves our line and makes straight for 
 
 the foe, 
 And stung by his tauntings to furious force, , 
 Direct at one soldier he urges his horse — 
 Who, seeing such frenzy of hate with sore fear, 
 Sets spurs to his steed, and swift speeds for the rear. 
 
Battle of Fuentes d'Honore. 277 
 
 While the other his charger gives rashly the rein, 
 
 And both gallop recklessly over the plain. 
 
 Our men greet their comrade with cheers long 
 
 and loud, 
 While the French are struck mute as he flies 
 
 through their crowd ; 
 So the chase is continued far, far, in advance 
 Of the glancing of bayonet or glittering of lance ; 
 Yet our gallant hussar is in perilous plight. 
 The enemy near him — no friends now in sight ■: 
 And to reach his companions perforce he must go 
 Through the densely ranged ranks of the furious 
 
 foe — 
 Who, deeming their victory a certainty, vow 
 Though he passed their line once, he will not 
 
 pass it now. 
 And hard they press on him — escape seems in 
 
 vain, 
 Though he spur his steed onward with loose 
 
 slackened rein. 
 
 But the mfen of his regiment are anxious to save 
 A comrade, though reckless, thus daring and 
 brave ; 
 
278 Battle of Fuentes d'Honore. 
 
 So, drawing their sabres, swift forward they dash 
 And charge on the cowards with crest-cleaving 
 
 crash. 
 Thus the moment which seemed his sad fate to 
 
 have sealed 
 A goodly array of our soldiers revealed. 
 And amid the mad mel^e of general strife 
 He regained his companions with honour and 
 
 life. 
 
AN EPISODE AFTER THE TAKING OF 
 BADAJOZ. 
 
 1812. 
 
 The sun, reluctant, rises o'er a field 
 Heaped high with corpses, ghastly in their gore. 
 Where Horror holds her court and reigns supreme 
 Whilst revelling in the scene. A woman wends 
 Her weary way, and wildly views the slain, 
 Powerless to doubt, yet dreading to be sure 
 Of what may prove her loss. 
 
 She has a babe 
 Clasped firmly to her breast, while at her side, 
 Held by the hand, there walks her first-born son. 
 Alas ! she pauses by a prostrate form. 
 Which fascinates her gaze ; then hesitates 
 In sore suspense and torture. Till at length. 
 
28o After the Taking of Badajoz. 
 
 Raising the fallen man, she marks the face. 
 
 It is her husband's features ! Then a wail 
 
 Of awful anguish rends the silent air, 
 
 And, sinking on her knees upon the sward, 
 
 She is convulsed in speechless agony. 
 
 Thus moments pass, until the child who clings 
 
 Close to the woman's raiment lifts his head, 
 
 And softly murmurs, " Mother !" Then when sobs 
 
 Appear his sole response, he loudly cries, 
 
 " Oh, mother, speak to me ; do speak to me ; 
 
 Is this my father lying thus so still } 
 
 I'll wake him for you." Seizing the cold hand, 
 
 He seeks to raise it, but, with awe-struck fear. 
 
 He looses swift his hold. " 'Tis icy cold, 
 
 Its weight like lead." 
 
 Then suddenly she starts, 
 And in despairing accents thus exclaims — 
 " My God, my heart will burst ! I cannot cry ; 
 My brain is burning, yet my heart seems hard. 
 I used to grieve when I displeased him ; now. 
 When he is gone, I cannot shed a tear ! 
 Oh, my poor children, what will come of you. 
 Left in this weary wilderness of woe. 
 Lonely and friendless in a foreign land !" 
 
DEVOTION OF PRINCE PONIATOWSKI. 
 Leipsic, 1813. 
 
 Bravely the French have fought, but all by 
 
 treachery is lost, 
 And nought is left save to retreat, though now 
 
 at fearful cost ^ 
 In gloomy tones Napoleon gives the unfamiliar 
 
 word — 
 With curses on the enemy it everywhere is heard ; 
 "And you. Prince Poniatowski, keep the Southern 
 
 Faubourg, while 
 Across the Pleisse and Elster the vanguard can 
 
 defile." 
 " My men are few, your Majesty ; they must in 
 
 time give way." 
 " Still you will surely strive to hold the post as 
 
 best you may." 
 
282 Devotion of Prince Poniatowski. 
 
 " Doubt us not, sire, we'll keep good guard," 
 
 speaks he with a deep sigh. 
 " None of my Polish legion but for you would 
 
 gladly die." 
 
 The morning light soon growing bright, shows 
 clearly to the foe 
 
 The French retreat has now conimenced, though 
 sad and strangely slow ; 
 
 And columns of the Allies advance to do their 
 duty 
 
 By dashing on to devastate a scene once filled 
 • with beauty ; 
 
 But gallantly their rushing ranks the brave rear- 
 guard restrain. 
 
 Full long their valiant charge is vain an entrance 
 to obtain. 
 
 And when, but step by step, the bold defenders 
 are retiring, 
 
 'Tis whilst resisting steadfastly with still con- 
 tinued firing ; 
 
 All their companions now have crossed a broad 
 bridge which is mined — 
 
Devotion of Prince Poniatowski. 283 
 
 If they can pass securely o'er, they soon may 
 safety find. 
 
 Hark to the sudden hellish crash ! these heroes' 
 
 hope has gone I 
 Th^ mine has prematurely burst — the careless 
 
 stream rolls on ; 
 The people fire from off the roofs, the foe press 
 
 on the, rear, 
 A moment 'tis of agony, of overwhelming fear. 
 , Proud Poniatowski sees the flash of hostile sabres 
 
 rise, 
 And to his Polish cuirassiers, he petulantly 
 
 cries — 
 " 'Tis best to fall with honour now while each 
 
 his weapon plies," 
 
 Turning his horse, he shapes his course 'mong 
 
 bayonets all opposing. 
 Around his stalwart martial form the enemy are 
 
 closing — 
 One shot has smote him in the arm, another 
 
 midgt his dress. 
 
284 Devotion of Prince Poniatowskt. 
 
 Striking the gay insignia which his great renown 
 
 express. 
 He plunges madly through the Pleisse, the 
 
 strength at his command 
 Is perfectly exhausted ere he feebly gains the 
 
 land ; 
 Alas ! 'tis but to mark the foe thronging the 
 
 Elster's shore, 
 And leaping swift into its tide, he sinks to rise 
 
 no more. 
 
 Farewell, lost Poland's noble son ! how meet 
 
 the day would be 
 Whereon the land which gave thee birth once 
 
 more was rendered free. 
 
ADMIRAL HOPSON'S FIRST EXPLOIT* 
 
 The dawning light 
 
 Hath banished Night, 
 And Ocean lieth calm — 
 
 Yet all around 
 
 Is heard the sound 
 Of war and wild alarm. 
 
 The Dutch and we 
 
 Are met at sea 
 On this sweet summer day; 
 
 At direful length 
 
 To try our strength 
 In battle's bloody fray. 
 
 * Vide Sea Fights, page 73. 
 
286 Admiral Hopsons First Exploit. 
 
 See ! on the right 
 
 Two ships in fight 
 Are struggling long and hard ; 
 
 And though so near. 
 
 They know not fear, 
 Close grappling yard to yard. 
 
 With eager joy 
 
 An orphan boy 
 Speaks mid the battle's roar— 
 
 " Since morning's sun 
 
 The fight has run, — 
 Oh, when will it be o'er ? " 
 
 It will not lag 
 
 Until his flag 
 The foe at last pulls down ; 
 
 Along our line 
 
 'Tis held a sign 
 Of conquest and renown. 
 
 " If thus it be, 
 Then swift," quoth he 
 With brightly flashing eye ; 
 
Admiral Hopsons First Exploit. 287 
 
 " 'Twill soon be past, 
 Nor longer last, 
 Though if I fail, I die." 
 
 Hid by the cloak 
 
 Of sable smoke, 
 Full noiselessly he goes ; 
 
 Nor does he wait, 
 
 But springs elate 
 Among our fiercest foes. 
 
 And up their mast 
 
 He clambers fast 
 And gains his precious prize ; 
 
 Then from aloft 
 
 He glides down soft. 
 In glad and gallant guise. 
 
 And through the roar 
 
 He bounds once more 
 To his appointed place ; 
 
 Calmly serene 
 
 Was now his mien. 
 And noble looked his face. 
 
288 Admiral Hopsons First Exploit. 
 
 Our men with glee 
 Shout " Victory ! " 
 
 Waving the standard gay ; 
 And from each gun 
 The Dutchmen run 
 
 In wonder and dismay. 
 
 And while their chief 
 Seeks, wild with grief, 
 
 To rally them in vain. 
 Our sailors board 
 With one accord, 
 
 And soon the vessel gain. 
 
 And of the youth 
 Who thus, in truth, 
 
 Had won a worthy name. 
 Men spoke aloud 
 In accents proud. 
 
 And world-wide was his fame. 
 
DEATH OF CAPTAIN HUNT.* 
 
 Jan. 8th, 1761. 
 
 The bold crew of the Unicorn discern at dawn 
 
 of light, • 
 Their longing is fulfilled at length — they see the 
 
 foe in sight. 
 Full swiftly now the order comes with speed to 
 
 give them chase, 
 Their captain knows the French are lost if they 
 
 can gain the race. 
 
 Hurrah ! the dastard's flight is vain, the vessels 
 
 drawing nigh, 
 Each man with eager hope prepares to vanquish 
 
 or to die. 
 
 * See Battles of the British Navy, vol. i., p. 210 
 T 
 
290 Death of Captain Hunt. 
 
 And soon the cannons' ruthless roar is rolling 
 
 all around, 
 For two iierce hours with fiendish hate is heard 
 
 its hellish sound ; 
 Strange scene of wild delirious joy, yet desolating 
 
 woe, 
 For now a shot the captain strikes, and he is 
 
 borne below. 
 Two seamen bear him softly down, and bleeding 
 
 sore he lies. 
 While carefully to bind his wound the skilful 
 
 surgeon tries. 
 The strife ne'er stays — the bearers bring another 
 
 blood-stained man. 
 " Surgeon," at once the captain speaks, " go, 
 
 save him if you can. 
 My wound is mortal ; thus for me your efforts 
 
 kind are vain ; 
 Not so with him ; then use your power to miti- 
 gate his pain. 
 Nay, murmur not, but meetly now obey my 
 
 last behest ; 
 God soon shall soothe my sufferings where ' the 
 
 wearv are at rest' " 
 
Death of Captain Hunt. 291 
 
 Alas ! how soon the span of life which to him 
 still remained 
 
 Stole swift away ; yet ah ! 'twas well he con- 
 sciousness retained, 
 
 For in a while his heart grew glad — his men had 
 won the day — 
 
 His grandest earthly guerdon — ere his spirit 
 sped away. 
 
 Hero ! as filled with thoughtful love, as thou 
 wert true and brave, 
 
 Receive in heaven thy rich reward from Him 
 who died to save. 
 
DUTY STRONGER THAN PAIN* 
 
 1795- 
 The good ship Rose with thirteen men and but 
 
 eight guns is steering 
 Along the gay Italian coast, in quest of pri- 
 vateering, 
 When at the breaking of the day before upon 
 
 the lee 
 What gallantly her crew have sought at last 
 
 they gladly see. 
 Three armed feluccas are in view, and soon begins 
 
 the fight, 
 And the ruthless Rose her broadside fires with 
 
 overwhelming might, 
 For valiantly her noble crew with vigour ply 
 
 each gun, 
 When suddenly a shot lays low of their small 
 
 number, one ; 
 
 * See Battles of the British Navy, vol. i, , p. 424. 
 
Duty Stronger than Pain. 293 
 
 His foot is crushed, and eager hands would bear 
 him from the deck, 
 
 But with a voice which falters not he seeks their 
 care to check — 
 
 " I shall not leave you, comrades bold," heroically 
 he cries, 
 
 " For I can use a musket still, although I cannoc 
 rise ; 
 
 Then to your posts, nor think of me, our num- 
 bers are too few 
 
 To spare even one, and readily my duty I can do." 
 
 The battle rages bravely on, and soon 'tis clear 
 
 to see 
 That gallantly our doughty men have gained 
 
 the victory — 
 And was it aught of wonder that so it should be 
 
 when 
 Such fearless hearts impelled the hands of our 
 
 staunch sailors then ? 
 God grant that if once more our tars should fight 
 
 upon the wave. 
 They may be then as free from fear, as generous, 
 
 and as brave. 
 
A SEA ENCOUNTER. 
 
 1758. 
 
 The gallant ships Southampton and Melampe 
 brave the gale 
 
 In noble guise, as mutually they forth together 
 sail, 
 
 With massive mast bent to the blast, and canvas 
 full and free, 
 
 A stirring sight they seem — befitting well an 
 English sea — 
 
 With many blithesome hearts on board as heed- 
 less and as gay 
 
 As if Life were merely made for mirth — nought 
 save a holiday. 
 
 And now, behold, off Yarmouth roads there burst 
 upon their sight 
 
 Two Gallic frigates in full sail, which they re- 
 solve to fight. 
 
A Sea Encounter. 295 
 
 The Melampe is the swifter barque, and fastest 
 
 gains the foe, 
 Who to return her fusillade with interest are not 
 
 slow — 
 So ere the crew of the Southampton reach the 
 
 strife, they learn 
 In a distressed disabled state she has been forced 
 
 astern ; 
 Then, like a dastard, one French ship in dread 
 
 doth steer away, 
 But madly the Southampton's guns upon the 
 
 other play' 
 Like, monsters of destruction, who cannot brook 
 
 delay. 
 
 The French engage with reckless rage — the fight 
 
 grows hour by hour. 
 Each vessel's crew, with purpose true, striving 
 
 with passion's power ; 
 Each seaman seeking still to keep the honour of 
 
 his nation 
 By carrying mid the hostile ranks dire woe and 
 
 desolation ; 
 
•296 A Sea Encounter. 
 
 And the hissing roar of rushing shell and the 
 
 blinding red-hot hail, 
 All demonstrate what dreadful force they now 
 
 use to prevail. 
 Hour after hour thus passes swift in unremitting 
 
 strife, 
 And of the French full eighty men have yielded 
 
 up their life — 
 But as the sixth hour draweth on they suddenly 
 
 give way. 
 Their falling flag prdclaiming wide that they, 
 
 have lost the day. 
 
 We trust such times as these shall ne'er again 
 
 mar Britain's story. 
 Yet bravery, howe'er displayed, shall aye retain 
 
 its glory. 
 
THE KEEPING OF THE VOW.* 
 1330- 
 
 King Robert Bruce is dying, uncertain comes 
 
 his breath, 
 And the last strife for failing life will soon be 
 
 won by death ; 
 Around his couch the courtiers stand, and heave 
 
 full many a sigh, 
 In dire dismay and grief are they to see their 
 
 monarch die. 
 
 "Sir James of Douglas, come!" he cries, "thou 
 
 ever wert my friend. 
 And though we part, 'tis well thou art with me 
 
 unto the end. 
 
 * When I versified this incident, I was not aware that the subject 
 had been already dealt with under the title of " The Heart of the 
 Bruce " by Professor Aytoun, or I should not have challenged an 
 unenviable comparison. 
 
298 The Keeping of the Vow. 
 
 When in great straits, I vowed to God if He 
 
 would grant to me 
 That War should cease in perfect peace, and 
 
 Scotland should be free. 
 His blessed banner I would bear to sacred 
 
 Palestine, 
 With arms to quell the Infidel : such my supreme 
 
 design. 
 And grieved am I that here I lie, life ebbing fast 
 
 away. 
 This gnawing pain now proving vain the hope 
 
 my vow to pay. 
 Then promise me right faithfully, when I am 
 
 laid at rest, 
 That with my heart thou wilt depart to do my 
 
 last behest ! " 
 " I pledge my knightly word, my liege, thy 
 
 bidding shall be done, 
 And though so sad, yet am I glad such favour to 
 
 have won ! 
 Safe in my bosom shall thy trust abide with me 
 
 for ever, 
 Unless perchance in peril's hour 'twere best that 
 
 we should sever." 
 
The Keeping of the Vow. 299 
 
 The king smiles faintly in reply — then gently 
 
 falls his head, 
 And on his gr^nd old follower's breast bold 
 
 Robert Bruce lies dead. 
 
 With pennons gay and proud array doth Douglas 
 
 then depart, 
 And in a casket carefully he keeps the kingly Heart. 
 Crossing the main and sighting Spain, he hears 
 
 of that wild war 
 WJiich Moor and Christian long have waged with 
 
 ceaseless conflict sore ; 
 I<"orthwith he deems that here it seems his mission 
 
 first should be, 
 And with his host soon swells the boast of 
 
 Spanish chivalry. 
 The armies twain on Tebas'* plain extend — a 
 
 splendid sight ! 
 In armour dight with weapons bright, impatient 
 
 for the fight ; 
 The summer sunbeams on the shields of warriors 
 
 brave are glancing, 
 
 * On the borders of Andalusia. 
 
500 The Keeping of the Vow. 
 
 And o'er the plain spurs many a man with 
 
 charger proudly prancing, 
 Whose gallant crest, stirred by the breeze, full 
 
 gaily now is dancing. 
 While each Moslem there with scimitar, upon 
 
 his Arab horse. 
 Moves with a calm courageous mien, unswerving 
 
 in his course : 
 And thus at length the stately strength the 
 
 Cross and Crescent wield. 
 As deadly foes now darkly close upon this fatal 
 
 field. 
 The Spaniards' stroke hath bravely broke the 
 
 dense opposing line ! 
 Yet none the less both armies press around their 
 
 standard-sign. 
 And though many a Paynim late so proud lies 
 
 lifeless on the plain. 
 While good Castilian jennet's seen unguided by 
 
 the rein. 
 First in the van the Douglas rides, with all his 
 
 men-at-arms, — 
 A valiant company they are, inured to war's 
 
 alarms, 
 
The Keeping of the Vow. 301 
 
 The veterans of a hundred fields, for whom it 
 
 had its charms, — 
 With spur and rein they onward strain on the 
 
 retreating foe, 
 And in the chase can scarcely trace the road by 
 
 which they go, 
 Till, looking back upon their track, with horror 
 
 now they see 
 The ranks opposed once more have closed — they 
 
 , are in jeopardy ! 
 " We find full late the danger great," Sir Douglas 
 
 cries. " Return ! 
 And charge the foe like Scots who know th& 
 
 rout at Bannockburn ; 
 Surely the men who vanquished then vain 
 
 Edward's vast array 
 No caitiff Moor can e'er o'ercome on this vic- 
 torious day !" 
 Thus speaking, swift he turns his steed, and 
 
 gallops to the rear. 
 Mid battle's tide his dauntless ride as gallant 
 
 doth appear. 
 As the swimmer's strife who strives for life, yet 
 
 feels no craven fear, 
 
302 The Keeping of the Vow. 
 
 And as they passed the blows fell fast : stern was 
 
 the conflict wild, 
 With steeds and men, who ne'er again would 
 
 rise, the field was piled. 
 Yet Douglas true, with still a few, have almost 
 
 cut their way 
 With wondrous force — resistless — straight through 
 
 the grim array. 
 When glancing quickly round, he sees, still strug- 
 gling in the fight, 
 The noble Walter St. Clair, a very valiant 
 
 knight. 
 They oft were nigh in days gone by, on many a 
 
 bloody field, 
 And oft had they in tournay gay their chargers 
 
 swiftly wheeled, — 
 " Ride to the rescue ! " Douglas shouts, " dash 
 
 on and do not spare. 
 To save yon matchless comrade which man of you 
 
 will not dare !" 
 Urging his horse with headlong force, he rushes 
 
 to his aid, 
 And many a tunic's fold is cleft by his resistless 
 
 blade ; 
 
The Keeping of the Vow. 303 
 
 Yet he is left of friends bereft — fierce foemen all 
 
 around, 
 And mid the roar of mortal strife of succour not 
 
 a sound. 
 Now snatches he the jewelled casque in which 
 
 the Heart reposes 
 ('Twas strange to see how lovingly his hand 
 
 upon it closes). 
 And flings it forward 'mong the foe around him, 
 
 with the cry, 
 " Press on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont : I 
 
 follow thee or die !" 
 With lifted lance he makes advance to where 
 
 his treasure fell, 
 Each crash of blow — now fast, now slow — like 
 
 a rude requiem knell. 
 And left alone, yet ne'er o'erthrown, he grapples 
 
 with the foe. 
 Until a sword-thrust piercing him at last doth 
 
 lay him low ; 
 Then gallantly he fights a while, half kneeling 
 
 on the plain, 
 And there, exhausted by his wounds, he finally 
 
 is slain. 
 
304 The Keeping of the Vow. 
 
 So died this grand old hero ! In Douglas kirk 
 he sleeps, 
 
 While History the record proud of his achieve- 
 ments keeps. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 u 
 
AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE 
 GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 9TH April, 1883. 
 
 There is a tomb, all monumentless yet 
 
 Hard by a moss-grown church's Gothic door^ 
 Within the hearing of the ocean's roar, 
 
 Where lies a man the world can scarce forget : — 
 
 And here the world's extremes are surely met. 
 
 For round about him are the tombs of those 
 Who led long lives obscure until their close, 
 
 And when their days were done their suns were- 
 set. 
 
 Wild thyme and violets grow upon his grave. 
 
 Summer's fair heralds ; and a stranger now 
 Visits with reverence his resting-place, 
 A harbinger of many who will crave 
 On each sad anniversary to avow 
 
 True love's regret that ne'er they saw- 
 his face. 
 
AN AUTUMN REMINISCENCE.* 
 
 -A RADIANT garden rises in my view 
 
 Replete with loveliness j there sunrays fall 
 Softly through boughs of eld ; a brooklet's 
 brawl 
 Rumbles o'er pebbly beds of grey and blue, 
 And deftly carved in calm they never knew 
 
 Heroes of old the green slopes keep in thrall — 
 Whereon grow lilies, and proud dahlias tall, 
 And shapely ferns, and flowers of varied hue. 
 
 .Small wonder that these storied warrior forms 
 Should now in sculptured stone have peace : 
 when I, 
 Oft battling in the surge of Life's loud sea, 
 IFind here surcease of all tempestuous storms — 
 Where still and silent 'neath a placid sky 
 All nature in repose lies tranquilly. 
 
 * Reprinted from the Academy.