^WJUUAAJuuuuMAA^UA^ u aamam/ The (JoD 0F Foots aj^d gtheii Poems nrmrrr FRO Hmvmitg | Sitag rHE )M THE INCOME OF ' FISKE ENDOWMENT THE BEQUEST OF tUillni 5 m*k* FUND Librarian of the University 1 868- 1 883 ftlWaf 1905 3184 Cornell University Library PR 6003.E28G5 The god of fools, and other poems. 3 1924 013 584 150 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013584150 THE GOD OF FOOLS THE STANDARD WORK ON AUTHORSHIP The Author's Manual A Complete, Practical Guide to all Branches of Journalism, Literary Work generally, and Book-producing, with Special Advice in Reference to Imaginative Literature. By Percy Russell. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s. (Fifth Edition, New and Revised.) SPECIAL NOTICE. The New and Revised Edition contains Prefatory Remarks by the RIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P., who has read and approved the volume. "The aspirant to literature may certainly read Mr Russell's book with proQt. 'Spectator. *' Mr. Russell has got up his subject with much care, and supplies a great deal of useful information. His advice and suggestions are Bound and to the point." — Graphic. " Cordially recommending Mr Russell's vade mecum."— Literary World. Miss M. E. Braddou writes: — "Your counsel both to the journalist and the imaginative writer is -full of wisdom." . - LONDON : DIGBY, LONG & CO., 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. THE GOD OF FOOLS AND OTHER POEMS X HAROLD BEGBIE F ( ftonbon DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. 1892 A PL Between two worlds life hovers like a star 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are, How less what we may be ! the eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar Our bubbles ; as the old burst new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages ; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves. Bybon. BY PERMISSION THIS VOLUME, THE YOUTHFUL EFFORT OF A GRATEFUL TYRO IS Deofcateo to HIS GRACE THE DUKE OP AKGYLL, K.T., Etc., Etc. - INTRODUCTION The plea of youth cannot avert the critic's lash. And this is just. But may I ask the readers of this immature work, remember- ing that crudities are the inevitable sins of a youthful writer, to give me that encourage- ment of which the aspirant stands in such need, should they consider that, despite much that is weak, this little book contains a slight hope of better things in the future. London, 25iA July 1892. CONTENTS 1/ The God of Fools, PAGE 1 The Storm, . 28 Reverie, 33 Stray Chords — To Arundel, .... 44 Sweet Elaine, 46 The Dreamer's Awakening, . 51 Good-Night, .... 61 Charlotte Cordat, 63 An Elegy, ..... 71 THE GOD OF FOOLS PROEM I sing of those who flicker round the flame Of tinselled worldliness and vulgar fame, Who live their hollow lives in quest of joys As useless as a nursery of Toys. Content to gratify their lust for these, Their souls lie rotting with a fell disease ; Whilst, 'neath the painted mask they laughing wear There lurks, ignored, the skeleton of Care. Their fashionable Pantheon is wide, Upheld by pillars formed of human pride; The altar where they kneel, select and chaste, Is jewelled o'er with counterfeits and paste ; 2 THE GOD OF FOOLS, The priests, in robes denoting so much Eank, Move to the music of their fetters' clank, — Whilst o'er the altar, panoplied and bold, Flashing its ornaments of dazzling gold, Sits in self -constituted majesty The God of Fools, yclept Society. Destiny ! eternal and sublime, Stoop earthward and inspire this faltering rhyme ; That with thine aid, illimitably vast, 1 may arise the new Iconoclast. Thus — breaking down this idol Man hath built, Burning its sanctuary of costly gilt, Striking the blindness from deluded eyes, And dragging from a World its gay disguise — This song, resounding thro' the years to be, Shall find an echo in Eternity. AND OTHEE POEMS. S I. Those who hope for no other life are dead, even for this. — Goethe. O canting Age of gilded falsity, Clothed in respectable hypocrisy, When thou art dead, th' untravelled years shall damn Thy whole entirety, one horrid Sham. Awake ! behold the end of all draws nigh, When there availeth not the well-schemed lie ; The Future dawns, and thou must quit the scene, And be a retrospect of what has been. True Science knows sufficient to impress The human mind with its own littleness; But that poor sophistry, that quasi-Science Which sets a world's Creator at defiance. Which lectures learnedly on Cause and Chance, Knows just enough to prove her ignorance, And rears her head in this great Age of Thought, And seeks to teach what she hath ne'er been taught. What hath she done, or what to Man hath giv'n In place of Hope to merit rest in heav'n ? 4 THE GOD OF FOOLS, What matters it tho' proudly she defy The proof of centuries, — if Man must die ? Answer it, ye who boast yourselves renowned, Take up the gauntlet thrown upon the ground. Can ye, who look at God with logic eyes, See nought of Him in blue empyreal skies? Are all creation's beauties, earth and sea, But hard, dry terms in your Cosmogony ? Have ye no souls, but only logic-minds; Or say, is it your own conceit that binds Those souls to earth, which else might fly to heav'n, And love, not lecture on, what God hath giv'n? Man of this era, living but to die, Hating obedience, loving to defy, Lectures on wonders logically conn'd, Perceives the stars, but fails to see beyond. Could he but pierce yon sky of ■ loveliness, Solve the deep problem of true happiness; Could he the pinions of his spirit preen, And soar to giddy heights of love serene, What would the knowledge of his Science give, AND OTHER POEMS. 5 But a wild craving of no more to live? Yet, born to grope in ignorance of soul, Earth and its knowledge he would make his goal, Nor seeks to sweep the darkness from his eyes, And on the outspread wing of Faith to rise. Faith of a Newton — simple, yet sublime, Far mightier than Eternity or Time, Faith which all trusts the pow'r of Him who made, Self-conscious of its worth, without parade, Rising above the quibbles of an Age Where God is but three letters on a page, Scorning the so-called Wise, as ocean wave Would scorn the Fool who cries, — " Behold, my slave ! " Faith, like a star which by a cloud concealed, Still shines, and in a twinkling is revealed, Faith ever present, Faith which loves to pray, Faith such as this is proudly scorned to-day, And Man will not believe, but seeks to prove Creation's God, Whose attribute is Love. Yet as he lectures, lo ! his face grows pale, He seeks to finish, ending in a wail, b THE GOD OF FOOLS, Then sinks to earth, and there all trembling lies, And 'midst the clangour of his era dies: His mighty Intellect, behold, is slain, And worms digest his philosophic brain, This God-destroying being, proudly just, Is what? A carcase of but loathsome dust! II. Wealth is a good handmaid, but a bad mistress. — Bacon. Mammon, thou fruitful source of most our ills, Subjecting unto thee the noblest wills, What art thou but a despicable thing, A slimy serpent with a deadly sting. Yet art thou a great pow'r which man may use, Either for good or ill which e'er he choose, But love of thee is hell's most subtle art Which soothes, then lacerates the victim's heart. Behold the man, whilom a healthy youth, Who scorned the bastard lie and held to truth, AND OTHER POEMS. 7 Till in his heart thou settedst up thy reign, Inciting him to ought for sake of gain; Not bowed with years, but bent with filthy lust, He clings to nothing save the gleaming dust — His god, his all, he lives not for himself, But thou his master, soul-destroying pelf. His wealth acquired by wretched clerks who strive On wretched pittances to keep alive, Yet recks he little of their humble grief, Nor that perchance he makes a man — a thief; Sufficient 'tis for his weak mind to know That stocks are either high, or, may be low, That gold is good, and oh, how cheap is work, And then to damn that heretic the Turk. Proud of sharp-practice, boasting of his stealth, Thinking of nothing save his petty wealth, Acknowledging a God he cannot love, He tries to contemplate the world above, But bleeding falls, and grovels on the earth, To calculate exactly what he's worth ; Till o'er life's stream the Spectre shall command 8 THE GOD OF FOOLS, The soul of him before the Throne to stand, And the Eternal, He who gave it birth, Shall then proclaim exactly what 'tis worth ! Go, mark our capital where humans cheat, And each with each in knavery compete, Mark how they wrangle, how they toil and slave, Like foam -flecked waves, that envious, fret and lave The rugged rocks which o'er their seethings frown, Nor in the fiercest gale can crumble down. thou, who liv'st for wealth and wealth alone, Till of thy mortal self the dross hath grown, Pause on thy downward course to degradation, Put on thy soul a higher valuation, The moth is fretting, and corrupts the rust Thy costly ermine and thy gleaming dust, While time's frail scaffolding in terror shakes, As o'er the far Ionian hill there breaks Th' Eternal Light which melts with fervent heat The glittering hoard of thy long life's conceit. AND OTHER POEMS. i) Awake ! poor slave of lust, 'tis not too late, Build thine immortal soul a nobler fate, Love not thy wealth but as a talent given, Gird all thy strength to give account in heaven, Dispense with bounteous hand to those who weep, Help them to climb who stagger up life's steep ; The sick, in prison, dying, all arise, Canst thou not hear their lamentable cries, "Bread, bread," and yet once more they cry for bread, Haste with thy gold ere these are of the dead. III. Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare. — Bybon. mother mine, when thy dear eyes shall read This scornful song, let memory intercede, Nor think thou that I hold all women weak, But let the childhood, not the manhood speak. How oft on thy forgiving breast I breathed The simple prayer that heav'n to earth bequeathed, 10 THE GOD OF FOOLS, How oft thy gentle hand hath soothed this brow, (No other hand than thine would I allow). How oft thy voice hath woo'd my soul to rest, When by some pulsatory thought distrest, How oft has thy dear comfort soothed my heart, When back I fell the baffled child of art. Would I had pow'r to give the world thy life, The loving mother and consoling wife, Pure as the snow on yon bright minaret, Thy love upon thy house for ever set, Nor ever happier, sweeter than when all Thy children throng thee in our humble hall. And there are holy women on this earth, In lordly mansion and by humble hearth, Whose lives I dare not praise for very shame, Let their own purity secure them fame. I here attempt to censure those who live But for the world and self, who never give A thought to nobler actions, deeds sublime, Who are of earth, the cringing serfs of time. AND OTHER POEMS. 11 O Woman* thou incarnate platitude, With soul as feeble as thy mind is crude, In this decaying age I sing of thee, And hand thee down to all posterity ! Born with the gracious pow'r to please and bless, She thinks of nothing save the latest dress, The fashion of the hair, her neighbour's ways, The smallest shoes, or smartest thing in stays. Full oft on scandal she will vent her spleen, Then show the faults of those she well might screen, Or else will grieve o'er some dark deed of vice, Then doing something wrong will say, " How nice ! " Gyrating like a weather-cock she spins From harmless follies to some greater sins; Proud of the beauty she hath never made, Her form in every passing glass surveyed, Making of her small mind but little boast, Her only literature the Morning Post. * By " Woman " is here meant those described in the four preceding lines. 12 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Freed from the governess, and the schoolroom's thrall, Shakespeare gives place to county race or ball, Content to think of bodices and skirts, She reads her Zola and full oft she flirts; The mind lies dormant while the body thrives, And these are England's daughters, England's wives. Man weds a woman not for lovely looks, Nor for her knowledge of French grammar books, But looks into that deeply hidden mind, To see if there his anxious heart may find Some tokens of what woman ought to be, — The simple student of true constancy, Holding her virtue as her God above, And striving to make earth a scene of love. Oh say, fair maiden, is life but to thee A fashionable fMe of gaiety ? Is there no scope for higher rage or passion, Than just to be the slave of changing fashion ? AND OTHER POEMS. 13 Canst thou not rise above earth's littleness, Society's poor sterile nothingness ? Say, canst thou not burst thy bonds asunder And revel in the works of love and wonder, Seeing that life is but a great decay Where all, save souls divine, must pass away. IV. The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none. Caklylb. Of all the sins that mar our fallen race, And mark us bondmen of a huge disgrace, There is a greatest, Satan's favourite son, — The sin which is the consciousness of none. Eeligion is a life, a silent tear, Possessor of a voice that none can hear, A mystic feeling pregnant with a love That wafts the weary soul to realms above; Denouncing none, but helping those who strive To keep the flick'ring flame of faith alive ; 14 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Pointing the way that she herself hath trod, And bearing laden souls to Nature's God, Content to suffer till the fight is o'er, And feeble Time is lost in ever more; Proof against little Scepticism's sneer And cheap Philosophy's still cheaper jeer, Living her life in argument 'gainst those Who call themselves with pride Eeligion's foes. These foes are many, but the worst arise Within the camp, before her very eyes, Self-Righteousness, more powerful than them all, Holds thee, Religion, in its hated thrall. Born where no sin had ever chance to come, And where Temptation's syren voice was dumb, The narrow bigot scoffs at power of evil And worships in mistake for God — the Devil! Loving on dark forbidding texts to dwell, He sweeps all human nature into Hell, An everlasting fire, deep down below, Where, if sin goes, the bigot's sure to go. AND OTHEK POEMS. 15 Proud of his virtue, prouder of his sect, Calling his puny self of God's elect, Censuring those whom Heav'n thinks fit to try, His prayer a blasphemy, his life a lie, Holding himself as pure as ought on earth, A stranger to all harmless joy or mirth, Spurning the mighty means that God hath giv'n, He thinks his own great worth will win him heav'n. Clinging to his own righteousness as tho' 'Twere worthy Him, whom angels bending low, Acknowledge all too pure for e'en their eyes, Almighty, Universal, and all Wise: This great Infinity of mighty love Whom all eternity can never prove, Is to the bigot but a god who sits Eternally admiring hypocrites. Self-righteous fool, probe deep into thy heart And see thy wretched self e'en as thou art, Look not upon the surface, but within, And stagger at the blackness of thy sin: 16 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Know that thou art the Sceptic's strongest plea That God is not, that heav'n can never be, For — if in Heaven thou shouldst chance to dwell, 'Twould be to man — eternity of Hell. And who art thou to damn the souls of all Who 'neath temptation's weight should stumbling fall ? When He, the perfect Man, divinely human, Condemned not e'en the poor degraded woman, Bidding her sin no more, whose sins were such That thou would'st loathe her slightest touch: Frail worm, thou art an able judge in sooth, If never in the prurience of youth, Thou fell'st a victim to bewitching vice, And paid to folly her demanded price; Judge not of that which thou hast never known, Judge of thy sinful self and that alone, Forsake the prayer of Pharisee, and learn Not e'en the filthiest wretch to spurn, But in "thou hypocrite'' thyself perceive, And in a God-forgiving love believe. O prayer! that quits this scene of many tears, That prayer, which He who bade us pray, still hears, AND OTHER POEMS. 17 Whene'er thou leav'st these sinful lips of mine, Bear on thy soaring wing to ears divine This pleading cry, — "God grant that I may be From earth's self-righteousness for ever free." V. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human. — Buens. The day is o'er, and from its hiding-place Creeps flagrant vice with bold and painted face, Jostling 'gainst virtue with a mocking laugh, Raising the cup of shame, its dregs to quaff. In some far English village there may dwell An aged man, who might the legend tell Of that poor woman plying now her trade, Ere by the villain's lie she fell betrayed: A humble grave may to the thoughtful prove Not a last curse, but oh, a mother's love ; B 18 THE GOD OF FOOLS, And one may see that grave with pallid face, Who wrought a mother's death, a child's disgrace; Courted by virtuous men he lives his life The honoured husband of an honoured wife, While she, whom he seduced from virtue's seat, Condemned by all, a woman of the street, Stands in the crowd with face no longer fair, The friend of none, the victim of Despair. Mark those bright eyes which once a father blessed, Those painted cheeks a mother once caressed, That voice which cheered the home with songs of light, Now but the hideous laugh of London's night: All changed she stands, while righteous women sneer, And fail to see in that loud laugh — a tear! Ye streets of London ! vice's gilded throne, If on your stones the light of truth were thrown, Would not the righteous tremble at the sight And seek to stay the progress of that light. Ah me ! when thro' thy streets I pass along, Sad grows my heart, till breaking into song AND OTHER POEMS. 19 I seek to rouse the nation from her rest, To see thee as thou art and stand confest, And I would also strive to work reform, Tho' o'er my head should break a virtuous storm, Reform of these thy streets, where purity Must view a sister's shame and misery. Ye legislators, boasting your M.P., Is it two letters only, and must we Work our own reformation, while you prate Merely the talkers of a talking State? Can ye not purge these streets' revolting shame, And prove yourselves a something more than name? Make them a place where innocence may see Nought that will shock her silent purity, Cleanse them from their dark, damnable disgrace, Yet — for the fallen find some resting-place. Tis not a poet's dream I crave of you, Nor an impossibility ye cannot do, For other- nations point the hand of shame, And sneer at Christian England's honoured name, They hide their vice, and shall our Empire be The open grave of her Impurity? 20 THE GOD OF FOOLS, And ye self-righteous, who'll denounce this song, Who draw your own fix'd line 'twixt right and wrong, If ye should pass down London's streets at night, Gaze o'er your work with Christian's fond delight, Yes, but for you in Exeter's crude hall, Who to some self-made god in worship fall, These streets of vice had been almost as pure As ye in your own virtue sit secure; But when reform was mooted, ye arose, Rending almost, with rage, your well-cut clothes. And talked of hell, and a delighted devil, Saying, "There is no necessary Evil.' Now, holy matrons, rabid youths and boys Go, see the work of your unholy noise, Gloat o'er each erring sister's shame, and then Call yourselves Englishwomen, Englishmen, Call yourselves Christians, and then kneel to pray To him ye worship so throughout the day, Pray not to Him who said in days of yore, " Neither do I condemn thee, sin no more." AND OTHER POEMS. 21 For ye condemn — and see: ye also hurl To degradation many a foolish girl, Who, tempted by the bright and glittering din Barters her virtue for the gilded sin. Poor outcast ! but for sight of so much glare Thou mightest know God listens to all prayer, But now condemned, forsaken and alone, Thou cursest Him, who gazes from His throne In deep compassion on thy stricken heart And sees thee, not as man, but as thou art. Perchance this humble song may reach thine eye, And oh, I would entreat thee, hear my cry, If to some loving breast thou yet may'st turn Rise from thy haunted sleep, thy folly spurn, Know that thou hast not sinned — not worse than they Who in their narrow chapels rant and pray ; Know that the God of Love would save thee still, And then let Peace thy wounded bosom fill. But oh 'tis hard to leave thy life of sin, Not that 'tis sweet, but hard 'tis to begin 22 THE GOD OF FOOLS, A nobler life in this unchristian land Where virtue brands thee with her righteous brand, Yet, would I bid thee fly in prayer to Him Who sees thy heart is sad, thine eyes are dim, Ay, tho' thou cling'st to vice for very fear, Pray to thy Father, and His Love shall hear, Then will an angel watch thy guilty bed, And softly kiss — perchance — thine aching head. VII. None are for being what they are in fault, But for not being what they would be thought. Quoted by Fielding. Illiterate, ill-bred, and very proud, An actor in each fashionable crowd, Fawned on by those who pride themselves on birth, Worshipp'd by all the world for what he's worth, Sneering at those whose incomes are but small, Tracing his ancestry from e'en the fall, Speaking of toiling millions as "the mob," There thrives in this our age the Modern Snob. AXD OTHEB POEMS. 23 At curing bacon, say, he's an adept, And that from poverty to wealth he's stept, His wife objecting to his city trade, Not to the wealth that there he's made, Persuades him to retire, altho' his heart Is wrapped so deeply in his useful art, And so he quits his work, his wife to please, And, thinking only of a pompous ease, Buys silver spoons, but lest he should abuse 'em, Goes down to Clapham and learns how to use 'em. Having acquired this art, he starts a crest And quits the suburb to be nearer west, To find himself received with an ovation As empty as a strikers' demonstration. Then carriages are bought and dinners giv'n Till Kensington becomes a very heav'n, And titled-folk accept each invitation And listen to his high-flown conversation With a respectful awe, which, when it's finish'd, Means that his income is a bit diminish'd For sycophants must all expect to lend To impecunious lords, who condescend 24 THE GOD OF FOOLS, To shake the hand of any such plebeian In this progressive democratic iEon. Thus from obscurity he rises, till The daily journals their great columns fill With all the doings of his hyphen'd name And lo ! the unletter'd is a man of fame, Changed by the magic wand of some magician From low plebeian to a great patrician. I do not sneer because he rais'd himself, E'en tho' it be by questionable pelf, All honour I would give to those who win Station and wealth if not thro' flagrant sin, Ay, if he be unlearn'd I won't abuse, Nor will my classic Muse slight praise refuse. But what I censure is that mad pretence Of being something better than his sense, By which I mean, that e'en a gilded knob In spite of gilt and polish still's a knob. And if the novus homo would but see That wealth, 'spite what Society decree, AND OTHER POEMS. 25 Is not a sign of overburden'd brains But just a simple heap of city gains, And that, altho' the counter is forsaken The man is still the man who once cured bacon, He would not be offensive to my sight More than an ordinary parasite, Who is a harmless toady, as a rule, His only crime that he should be — a fool ! world ! thou small preparatory school, Where painted clown is not the only fool, When thou hast past away with all thy creeds, A long-forgotten scene of human deeds, How the poor man who worshipp'd earthly rank Will wish of that gilt cup he ne'er had drank, But rather educated mind and soul To fit them to appreciate their goal, Rather have liv'd away from man and wealth, His only thoughts for his great spirit's health, Rather have meditated on the sky And fondly listen'd to the sea-mew's cry, 26 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Rather have pray'd to God than worshipp'd Man During Life's ever changing, mortal span, But now too late ! the die for ever cast, And he must stand, a record of his past. O crass stupidity, if earth alone The aspirations of a man should own, And folly worse, if soul and mind should lie Neglected in stagnation till they die, For Time must lose itself in life to be, Either of Joy or Pain — Eternity The brutes that perish, knowing nought, contend 'Tis best to eat and drink until the end, Unconscious of a higher nature, lo! They cling to bestial appetites below, And in the midst of viciousness they cry: — "Enjoy the transient pleasures ere you die." And this is natural; but with man, whose mind Can comprehend the planets, earth and wind, How different ! yet, behold this Thing sublime Is he not oft the meanest slave of Time ? AND OTHER POEMS. 27 Is he not worse than yon bespattered swine, More brutish than this honest dog of mine ? Ay: worse, and doubly worse, because his goa] Lies far beyond the earth, because his soul Is formed by God to prove a Strength and Pow'r And pluck Eternity — as I this flower. Oh say, is Kank or Wealth the worthy goal Of thine undying, God-created soul ? Nay ! spurn the bastard tempter from thy side, A thousand centuries of pomp have died. The gold Man longs for, and the Eank he claims Are what? Two monosyllables, two names, And fathom, weigh, or twist them as he will Two sounds they are, two empty Nothings still. Conceive Eternity, and raise thine eyes To yon cerulean dome, beyond there lies A heritage for thee, if thou but choose To take it nobly. Wherefore then refuse? 28 THE GOD OF FOOLS, THE STORM I am more fit to die than people think. Byron, on his deathbed. He stood where the sun in its solemn decline Shed a wealth of gold light o'er the view, And he watched the tir'd toiler his labour resign And envied the peace that he knew. In the distance he heard the dull boom of the sea As she angrily chafed at the shore, And sullenly gathered her strength to be free Of the calm which her countenance wore. Far over the mountain a grey shadow fell And darked the green plain with its frown, While, prophetic, the wind broke into a yell, And the sun in its silence went down. Then dark grew the heavens, still darker the earth, As the clouds dropp'd their warning of wrath, And the furious thunderstorm shatter'd his girth, And the tempest in grandeur burst forth. A>"D OTHER POEMS. 29 Xow flash'd like a sapphire the lightning above, 'Gainst the black of a mad restless sky, And loud roar"d the thunder as tho' he would prove How weak was the ocean's wild cry. Magnificent battle of awful discord ! When the Poet awoke with thy crash, And struck on his lyre a sympathy's chord He was trembling at action so rash. Perchance as he gazed there arose in his heart Inspiration he could not restrain, For he cried on the Muse of his mystical art And he sang to the thunder's refrain : — "Tempestuous sea, when thy terrors awake And Destruction is borne on each wave, The empires of earth in their majesty quake And cry to their deities — Save ! " The rage of the storm hath no terrors for me When alone on the mountain I stand.. In its deep ringing battle I only can see A magnificence noble and grand. 30 THE GOD OF FOOLS, " Hath the world any music diviner than his, Or can pomp with his grandeur compare ? Can fame give an hour of such ravishing bliss Or can love give a moment so rare ? " Ah, no ! I have mix'd with my fellows to learn That bitter is quafFd with each sweet, Oh rather would I all life's happiness spurn Than reign with a world at my feet. "The tongue that once flatter'd, now whispers abroad The lie that has blasted my fame, And the beautiful soul that I madly adored Now sneers at my once honoured name. " Rage, rage all ye elements ! battle and whirl Tho' your music is breaking my heart : Burst open black heav'n, thy thunderbolts hurl Till the world from her lethargy start. " Ye waves that are flinging your foam to the wind And storming the cliff with your spray, AND OTHER POEMS. 31 Oh would that my head on your bosom reclin'd That the world in the storm pass'd away. " Ocean, how sweet is thy sorrowing wail, And the noise of thy lashing how great ! Behold, how the earth at thy fury grows pale And trembles, where I am elate. "The Past is behind, but the Present is here With its future untravell'd, unknown, Then why should I tremble, or why should I fear, The storm which is mine — mine alone." He ended his song — the loud tempest was still, And hush'd was the thunder's dark tread, While the moon glimmer'd faintly o'er valley and hill And the Ocean sank down in its bed. Nature! thou friend of the spirit distrest, How oft to thy bosom men flee, And pour in thine ear, each sadden'd request Heard only, Nature, by thee: 32 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Perchance when Mortality sinks in the grave And Eternity springs to its birth, The voice of thy pleading some spirit may save, Whom the Eighteous denounced upon Earth ! AND OTHER POEMS. 33 REVERIE The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Await alike the inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Gkat's Elegy. Tis morn ; the glorious hour of summer morn When whiten'd locks and tott'ring limbs feel young, And youthful rustics whistling past the corn Mark with delight how much the grain hath sprung. The lilies floating o'er the vagrant stream Betray their graceful beauty to be kiss'd, And children waking from the elfish dream Unclasp, in timid fear, the tight-clenched fist. The sturdy plough-boy trudges o'er the field, The lark exulting mounts the azure height, Th' awaken'd sun by dewy hills conceal'd Flushes the firmament with vernal light. c 34 THE GOD OF FOOLS, From yonder kennels bark the eager hounds Impatient for the yeoman's early ride, The startled leveret quits the lawn, and bounds With quiv'ring muscles to the covert-side. Now lattices are ope'd, and dames prepare The simple breakfast 'gainst their men's return, While ruddy prattlers lisp the morning prayer, Then loudly clamour round the hissing urn. Beneath an aged oak, whose classic shade The long-forgotten dead had oft-times blest, A hoary grandsire, and a slender maid Pause to derive the charm of tranquil rest. Conceal'd beneath the fustian coat repose Two honour'd medals that might well proclaim The vet'ran's prowess 'gainst his country's foes, And herald to mankind a martial fame. But little recks he now of loud applause, Sufficient 'tis for his brave heart to know He did his duty in the toilsome wars, And freed his country from rebellious foe. AND OTHER POEMS. 35 The gentle maiden pleads the oft-told tale And gazes eager in the furrow'd face, But as he speaks, her eyes roam o'er the vale With childhood's sweet and melancholy grace. The flash of sabres, and the cannons' roar, Th' insensate charge magnificently wild, Describ'd in language, as how oft before ! Yet new and thrilling to the artless child. And he, his pallid face flush'd by the light Of days that vanished as a falling star, Pictures each incident with fresh delight And proudly points the honourable scar. The story ended, homeward turn the twain With thoughts unutter'd as they tread the wold, Yet, should the Muse her melody restrain Or to the world those reveries unfold ? Might not the thoughts of venerable age To thoughtless youth some homily convey? And childish phantasies divert the sage, Yet teach the boasting scientist to pray? 36 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Th' enfeebled patriarch with halting stride And sunken cheek, and enervated mind, Rears his bow'd head with military pride To meet with open front the fresh'ning wind. To him the Future is a village grave Where children frolic with regardless tread, And but a wooden cross the sigh will crave And shadow forth the dwelling of the dead. 'Tis in the Past his mind is wont to stray And revel 'midst the clash of gleaming steel, To fight again the now historic fray And 'mongst the serried columns bravely wheel. The all-irrevocable Past appears When Life's futurity holds only death, And idle drones review the wasted years And plead for mercy with their dying breath. The prostituted genius, and the slave To prurient passion or degrading crime, In terror stand before th' awaiting grave And fully prove the littleness of Time. AND OTHER POEMS. 37 But to the childish mind, the present joy- Is all to love and all to be endur'd, A tale fantastic, or a new bought toy, And hours of happiness are quick secur'd. Trusting a mother's love, a father's arm, The laughing child sports o'er the daisied sod, Nor fears that she can come to sorry harm Placing implicit faith in man and God. And thou who scoffst at faith in One above, Who smil'st to hear the child's unconscious prayer, Behold the majesty of infant love And from thine heart the obscuration tear. If bent with age, thou e'er should'st view the scene Where thy fond mother taught thee first to pray, Thou wilt not deem those hours had better been In proving centuries of faith away. And when the sun shall rouse .thee from thy bed To gaze upon the landscape in its bloom, Thy feeble steps by Mem'ry gently led May stand before that mother's solemn tomb. 38 THE GOD OF B'OOLS, Then, ask thyself if ne'er her voice shall greet Thy home return with welcoming of love, Or ask, will that sad smile thou deemedst sweet Awake to meet thy wond'ring eyes above ? 'Tis early morning now, and o'er the vale Aurora sheds a flood of golden light, Yet as I gazing stand, the sky grows pale And day is vanish'd into deepest night ! The opportunity of Youth is — Now, . And wider scope the noble passions crave Yet, ere the pleading voices we allow Dark at our feet there yawns the silent grave. To-morrow is for childish faith alone: To-day is Man's, whate'er his duty be, And can for wasted. yesterday atone And in its course sweep toward Eternity. AND OTHER POEMS. 39 STRAY CHORDS ( With apologies to the shade of Robert Burns. ) Not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offences. Could we but stand, a human band Each caring for his brother, The world would be to you and me A place to love each other. But righteous folk don't care to yoke With such disgraceful sinners, And as we go from woe to woe, They pray for better dinners. I do not care to list their prayer, For it's so full of phrases That seem to me to merely be Their own poor narrow praises. 40 THE GOD OF POOLS, They rant and preach, but never teach The lesson that's worth learning, That He was slain to ease the pain Of those they now are spurning. This mortal life is full of strife, But all the noise comes solely From clashing sects o'er little texts, Who fight, because they're holy. It may be right that they should fight, But it is plain to many That with their din they'll scarcely win A single soul, if any. Then let us learn to humbly turn In prayer to Him who made us, Nor seek His throne with worth our own, It only can degrade us. To us is giv'n a way to heav'n Which tho' the saints despise it, Still waits for all, e'en those who fall, Then let the sinner prize it. AND OTHER POEMS. 41 O let us try, before we die, To help each erring brother And bravely stand a human band All loving one another. 42 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Always there is a black spot in our sunshine ; it is the shadow of ourselves." — Cakltle. And art thou sad poor child of earth ? And would'st thou be away From happy joy and childish mirth And Pleasure's bright array? Has Life been only pain to thee Since first its paths were trod ? Be brave, it is a just decree Thou are more fit for God. The hand that bows can raise as well And when it pleaseth Him He'll take thee in His arms, to dwell Where eyes are never dim. Till then, seek only to obey Without one 'plaining sigh, AND OTHEK POEMS. 43 And learn to live and live to pray And thou shalt never die. Prayer is the best and purest gift That God to Man hath giv'n, It is a pinion that can lift The soul from earth to heav'n. 44 THE GOD OF FOOLS, TO ARUNDEL Glide, my barque, glide Soft with the tide, Bearing me on as you go; On river ride, River so wide, Banishing trouble and woe. Let me forget Ere the sun set Her I have loved these long years, Let me regret That our lips met, Let me not sorrow in tears. Why do I weep ? And shadows creep, Must I remember her kiss ? Oh let me sleep While angels keep A watch o'er my dreamings of bliss. AND OTHER POEMS. 45 Wind in the west! Be not distrest, What, O my barque, dost thou see? Ah! sight so blest, Soul now at rest, Hurry, O barque, for 'tis she. THE GOD OF FOOLS, SWEET ELAINE Yes, I will quite thy side for ever, Kelinquish all my claims on thee, But to forget, oh never, never, For thou art all the world to me. This heart that thou hast won in jest, Now trembles in thy lover's breast, And thro' the night, In mem'ry's flight, I still shall love thee, sweet Elaine. When thro' this world I sadly wander With thoughts for ever turned to thee, Oh wilt thou on another squander The kisses once thou gav'st to me? The heart is not a thing to break, A toy to play with, then forsake; Oh learn to know The depth of woe, And thou wilt pity, sweet Elaine. AND OTHER POEMS. When cruel Time's relentless finger Hath turned thy sunny hair to grey, Within thy heart a thought may linger Of him thou turnest now away. Yet weep not for this broken heart, For tho' thou bidst me to depart, Thro' weary night, In mem'ry's flight, I still shall call thee — sweet Elaine. 47 48 THE GOD OF FOOLS, We understand death for the first time when he puts his hands upon one whom we love. — Madame de Stael. 'Tis night, and from the wintry sky A misty moon shines o'er the sea, A million stars but vainly try To make the world more dear to me. The silence of the night alone, Strikes not a discord in my heart, For here, beneath the silent stone, Thou sleepest from my life apart. The mournful waves their requiem chant, And weeping fall upon the shore, While in the vale and up the slant The wind but whispers — nevermore ! Upon the simple stone I read That thou hast fought the bitter strife, But words to me have little heed, I feel that thou hast left my life. AND OTHER POEMS. 49 Shall never more this hand clasp thine, In more than lover's gentle grip ? Nor pass the glass of sparkling wine, To touch ere mine, thy loving lip ? Shall ne'er thy songs entrance mine ear, . Shall ne'er thy footfall glad my heart, Or is it but a dream, a fear, And canst thou from thy sleeping start? The answer comes from o'er the sea, Deep, sonorous is its dreaded tone, And whispers nought my love of thee, But tells me I am here alone. Alone ! then thou indeed art dead, My soul, my life, my one desire! Husht be th' wild impetuous tread, And husht the music of my lyre. I cannot say that word farewell, The ocean would but mock my cry, And thou must know, where'er I dwell, The word is in each plaintive sigh. 50 THE GOD OF FOOLS, To me the world has nought to give, Nor all its honours would I crave; For 0, 'tis bitterness to live While thou art in the lonely grave. AND OTHER POEMS. 51 THE DREAMER'S AWAKENING . . . dreams, in their development, have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; . they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity. — Byeon. Upon a narrow bed he lay Sleeping a dream of sighs. Whilst the moon's refulgent ray Fell o'er his weary eyes. Sleeping he lay, and yet it seem'd, His ever daily fears Assail'd him as he sadly dream'd, And caus'd th' unconscious tears. A garret 'neath heaven's canopy, Where never friendly form Disturb'd his hopeless misery, Or shar'd misfortune's storm, 52 THE GOD OF FOOLS, This was the home where genius slept Forsaken and alone, This the abode where oft he wept, Uncared for and unknown, Here had he long'd for poet's fame, Here sorrow's path had trod, And yet the starving scribbler's name Was known alone to God. Here he had prayed for heaven's aid, Then curs'd the aid he sought, As his despairing spirit swayed With doubt's destroying thought. And oft upon a dreary night, His mind in dreams would roam, Until upon his inward sight Was flashed the thought of home. Then would the present blackest seem, And death most welcome be, Then would the poet's vaunting dream Before the shadow flee. AND OTHER POEMS. 53 This then, the hard and bitter life Of him who lies asleep, Who e'en in darkest hour of strife A noble front would keep. This was the life of one who might Have held imperial sway, Or charm'd away the restless night With sweet and dulcet lay. And now he sleeps ; poor wretched youth, Sleep peacefully and well, For sleep must be thy heav'n in truth, If waking be thy hell. Sleep on, and in thy dreams forget That thou hast brains and power, Why need'st thou know thy cheek is wet In this regardless hour. He smiles: then sleep indeed is blest, For trouble and despair Have slain the lips' alluring guest That dwelt so often there. 54 THE GOD OF FOOLS, A smile was wont to light his face And charm the watcher's eye, Before a melancholy grace Had swept the glimmer by. But destitution's aching woe, All bitterness of soul, The dark despair that seem'd to grow Before the spirit's goal : All these sad ever- wearying fears That late his being tost, Are left behind as vanished years, And all in sleep are lost. Within a noble marble hall In richest raiment drest, And leaning 'gainst its sculptur'd wall He sees a youth distrest, The form as of a glorious Greek Who death might e'en defy, And as he opes his lips to speak, The dreamer cries — 'tis I. AND OTHER POEMS. 55 A crowd of lovely women stand To mark whate'er he say, His eVry wish is their command, His smile the light of day. An ever-surging, eager throng, Upon the poet gaze, And speak of his impetuous song In awe and whisper'd praise. He sees the noble, and the fair, The learned, the renowned; He sees the statesman's silver hair Bow'd humbly to the ground. He hears his genius prais'd and blest, He tastes the joy of fame, And yet his heart is but distrest, His anguish is the same. " And this is fame ! " the poet cries, "In mercy end this night, For what are e'en cerulean skies Without the sun's gold light ? 56 THE GOD OF FOOLS, And what this soul with praise elate, Thou Unseen One above, Creator of all things create, My soul without her love ? This praise but wearies and appals, It grates upon mine ear, While within these marble halls Love is not by to hear. Oh take me to her, let me tell That I have wealth at last, And deeper than the deepest hell Lies buried all the past!" He quits the hall, while they within Bow low at his approach, And seek from those proud lips to win Some word — e'en of reproach, He heeds them not, but passes out From scenes intensely bright, And of his wild delirious doubt Discourses to the night. AND OTHER POEMS. 57 The moon glints o'er the sleeping earth, The stars their vigil keep, And holy night gives blessed birth To still more blessed sleep. The peaceful valley and the hill Forget the morning glare, And all is silent, all is still, To list the poet's prayer : — " O callous moon, divinely cold, How wondrous that thy light Shone o'er this mighty world of old E'en as it shines to-night. How strange that Csesar courted sleep That Homer had his day, And Shelley's fretful soul did weep Beneath this silent ray. Poor Byron learn'd to love thee well, Great Milton felt thy light, And Newton lov'd thy joys to tell, And Shakespeare sang to night. Yea, giants of this world have known 58 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Thy sweetness silver moon, And watch'd thee from thy distant throne, Play o'er the still lagoon. Where are they now, these men of fame, Where dwells each honour'd soul ? Say are they but a breath — a name, The grave their only goal ? Is there re-union, moon, above ? And is there hope for me, That her I learnt on earth to love . I shall in heaven see ? " He ceases, and a silence breaks The melancholy chords, And in his heart despair awakes As echo of his words. Then at his feet upon the stone A silent shadow falls, He starts to think he's not alone, And to the darkness calls. Then gazing round, there at his side A spirit of the night AND OTHER POEMS. 59 Stands silent, as with death allied Yclad in purest white; She speaks, yet in his wondering eye Is neither fear nor dread: — " If thou wouldst love me thou must die, For I am of the dead; Thy wealth, thy fame, have come too late, I waited but in vain, Until I grew disconsolate And crav'd a rest from pain ; It came, and now an angel, I Have lov'd thee from ahove And heard thy ev'ry heart-felt sigh And prov'd the pow'r of love. Thy fame has come, but not the rest That thou must ever crave, Oh, if thou longest for this breast Fear not the silent grave ; I give thee choice of Love or Fame, Thou must an answer make, A lonely grave, an honoured name, Which will you, Mortal, take?" 60 THE GOD OF FOOLS, He cries — "I only ask to die I have no wish to live, Far better in the grave to lie Than have all fame can give. Oh, I have loved thee, take me now I long to dwell with thee, Oh kiss this sad and aching brow And set my spirit free." The dream was ended, he awoke But not to carking care, Nor to the poet's weary yoke, Nor to a wild despair; That night an angel kissed his cheek, And when he woke from sleep His spirit found what all must seek — The land where none need weep. AND OTHER POEMS. 61 GOOD-NIGHT Good-night, my dearest one, good-night, Across the, sea I take my flight, And crested waves shall mean to me But sainted memories of Thee. Good-night, my dearest one, good-night, The moon sheds o'er the world her light, And plays upon the rippling sea And storms my soul with thoughts of thee Good -night, my dearest one, good-night, Thy flashing eyes can still excite My soul upon the midnight sea With passion and with love of thee. Good-night, my dearest one, good-night, Tho' hidden from thy lover's sight Upon the starry sky I see None else in all the world save Thee. 62 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Good-night, and if for aye good-night, Still all thy beauties I'll recite: Tho' all the world should prove to me That there is perfidy in Thee Still always will my soul delight In Thee my love, good-night — -good-night. AND OTHER POEMS. t)3 CHAELOTTE CORDAY I have slain one man to save a hundred thousand : a wretch to preserve the innocent ; a savage monster, to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the Revolution — Charlotte Cokday The crime makes the shame, and nut the scaffold. — Corkeille. Beyond this gloomy cell a flashing sun Irradiates with gold the blushing west, Yet ere his splendour fade, his course be run, My spirit shall recline on death's clod breast. And never, — never more these eager eyes Will watch his glories gild the morning skies : No more for me a world of stars will shine, And deck the heavens with their light divine : No more the wind will frolic with my hair, No more the streamlet babble at my feet, No more the roses that I deem'd so fair Will bloom for me, save in their fond despair When, wet with dew they wake, the sun to greet 64 THE GOD OF FOOLS, And find that o'er their sweetness none will say, — " Thou art more lovely than on yesterday." Beyond this gloomy cell, — this city's roar, My father's home stands dormant 'gainst the sky. And oh it little knows that nevermore My vagrant feet shall tread its winding halls ! No voice disturbs that rest, no echo calls, — "This night thy weary child rides forth to die." Home, where I wander'd as a careless child And little thought of death, but smil'd To see all Nature smiling, and survey 'd The misery of Man with thoughtless gaze: My little world was centred in the glade Where thou, Belzunce, my beauty learnt to praise : There, where the violets grew, the shadows fell, How oft we loiter 'd, loving but to dwell Upon each other's whispers. Ah ! that night When idly ling'ring 'neath the pale moonlight That weirdly glimmer 'd thro' the list'ning trees, We felt upon our brows the glamour breeze, We breath'd the scented air, and sought to tell In what far tree the unseen Philomel AND OTHER POEMS. 65 Pour'd forth enchanting music, there we stray 'd Till, pausing once again beneath the shade — Thy loving arm stole gently round my waist, Thy kisses play'd upon mine upturn'd face, And from the stars that shimmer'd far above An Angel taught two spirits how to love. And then the happy bliss and peace of heav'n, Such happiness to mortals ne'er was given, Till! sudden came the news — Belzunce is dead, Murder'd by zealots mad, his proud young head Borne on a pike with all its beauty fresh Is thro' the streets paraded, and the hounds, The filthiest mongrels gnaw his bleeding flesh. — The spell was broken, vengeance knew no bounds, I swore by Him, Who from the realms above Sees justice done on earth, that Marat's blood, The instigator of thy murder, my love, Should stain these hands, and with its crimson flood Awaken France: awaken worlds to see A patriot in the maid who was to be The wife of Belzunce. Hush ! the key is turn'd : Back, kindly priest; the scripture I have learn'd G6 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Proclaims my self-wrought crime of all, the least : Marat is dead, let Conscience be my priest : I took one life, that thousands more might live, — That is my comfort, more thou canst not give. Now is he gone, — once more this dismal cell, Dark with long absence from God's ambient light, Casts o'er my soul its solitary spell. Alone with solemn thought. I cannot tell Where I shall be when fast approaching night Hath roll'd Cimmerian darkness o'er the world : Yet, should I fear? Thy Will, God, is right, Thou didst ordain a woman's hand should take The life of Sisera, Thine anger slake : Thou madest me a woman, and I hurl'd A murderer to his Eternity, My blood for his, his blood for my lost love : Am I more guilty, am I worse than he Whose duty 'tis to send my soul above ? Such is the law, it is a just decree, And I but speed from Man, God, to Thee : My blood for his, his blood for my lost love. When falls the knife, Eternity will rise, AND OTHER POEMS. 67 And, as my spirit wings the op'nins: skies, Belzunce shall plead his murder'd life for mine, And Thou, holy Virgin, standing by, Will vindicate Thy child, Thou art divine, Thou art my Hope : I shall not fear to die If Thou but plead to Him Thyself didst bear, Oh plead, He will not scorn a Mother's prayer. France, there was a time when Europe held No brighter jewel in her crown than Thee : When, foremost 'mongst the nations, virtue quell'd The tainted whisp'rings of depravity. There was a time when purity repell'd The flaunting fiend of vice, grim child of hell : There was a time when France the world compell'd : A time when in thy beauty men beheld Th' eternal germ of earthly godliness. And then ! Ambition rising, Virtue fell, And Thou, whose star no brightness could excel, Didst sink beneath thine own fair loveliness. Sink, while around thee Empires rock'd and sway'd Sink, while beneath thee Hell her anguish stay'd, 68 THE GOD OF FOOLS, Sink, while above thee wond'ring Heav'n survey'd, And gazing trembled : angels grew afraid. Behold, thy king the royal Louis slain, His blood cries out for vengeance, Regicide ! And o'er thy greatness wanton harlots reign, They scorn thy temples, and thy God deride : Whilst o'er thy sunny fields dark Murder flies, And blood is on thy streets : thy hands are stain'd With blood of Innocence : thy stricken eyes Are blind to all thy sins, nor can they see That Thou art fallen, damned eternally, A shatter 'd wreck of all the Past e'er gain'd ! Steep'd in debauchery and fiend-like lust, Thou liest trampled in thine Empire's dust. The time draws near: my life ebbs to its close, The shadows fall without, and list ! I hear The convent bell, ringing for what? God knows, 'Tis not for praise of him, 'tis not for prayer. O France, I love thee, love thee to despair, Thou art so lovely, so divinely fair, AND OTHER POEMS. 69 Thou hast been my delight. On verdant mead Whilom, I'd lay me down and proudly read The record of thy glories, and my cheek Would glow: ay, deem a woman not too weak To revel in thy chivalry, and find Man on the pages, Heaven in her mind. Such was my fate: I learnt to love thee then, I gloried in thy glory, and the Men Whose valour had made France proud Europe's throne Inspired my zeal, I liv'd for thee alone, Liv'd but for thee, and now my heart shall try For thee, France, unflinchingly to die. The hour is come ! I hear the tramp of men Wending their way to bind a woman's arms: 'Twill soon be o'er, these eyes will once again Behold the world and all its thousand charms. Yes, once again my loving eyes, adore The world of light, then close for evermore. Oh, I am young to die ! the world is fair Its beauties are so beautiful ! But now Soul, for undreamt mysteries prepare, 70 THE GOD OF FOOLS, The earth is for the living not the dead. Farewell, lonely cell, for ever: thou Hast been my friend, and now these stones I tread Shall miss my footfall, I go forth to death, God! I am too young, too young to die, — But hush! they come, I feel the ev'ning breath, Tears ill-become the maid whom Belzunce lov'd, No, I will meet them with unclouded eye, And all the world shall know my heart was prov'd That I, a woman, bravely went to die, And dying bent to earth her tearless glance And cried, — "For thee, for thee, my country, France." AND OTHER POEMS. 71 AN ELEGY WRITTEN AT AN OPEN WINDOW Tis that calm hour when o'er the world is cast A dormant darkness, subtle in its light, When wand'ring thro' the maze of actions past We scarce perceive th' impending gloom of night. The spectral shadows of the leafless limes Flit solemnly upon the lawn below, While from the distant abbey, floating chimes Harmonious music on the night bestow. Swept thro' immensity of boundless space, The vivid moon sheds consecrating light: The whisp'ring lovers in the stillness pace, Lost in an ecstasy of rapt delight. Far in the unseen distance, I can hear The city's turbulent, incessant din, And to mine eye their springs th' impetuous tear, Pleading remission of a vanish'd sin. 72 THE GOD OF FOOLS, In that far city some o'er-burden'd heart, Before the darkness fade, is doom'd to break, And many spirits from the clay shall start, And to the great unseen their journey take. Perchance, to-morrow's sun shall never greet The envied statesman courted by the fair, Nor glad the outcast on the chilling street, Nor plead to those who scorn the means of prayer. To-night, — a few brief hours of mortal time — Shall rob some home of what it lov'd the best, Yea, e'en as now I spell my halting rhyme, An only child has gain'd unending rest. A maiden's piercing cry breaks on the air, (A wave of anguish, solace ne'er can stay) For he, of all the world she deem'd most fair, Has pass'd into the silent night, for aye. In some mean garret starving Genius sleeps, In some foul court the murd'rous blow is dealt, AND OTHER POEMS. 73 Whilst to the river's brink a woman creeps And braves the God to whom she ne'er has knelt. E'en now a gallant ship her canvas furls, Toss'd on the summit of some madden'd wave, Till dashed upon a hidden rock, she hurls A thousand beings to a random grave. And yet beneath my gaze the world is still: The breezes murmuring a holy calm Steal gently round about my window-sill, And chant weird music to an earthly psalm. I love the universe : 'tis held by One Whose gaze is bent upon the heart within, Whose purpose, 'spite the laws of man, is done, Whose love shall conquer myriad worlds of sin. And thou, who point'st to misery and crime, Demanding with a sneer if God is love, I answer not, beneath the reign of Time, But thou shalt answer when we meet above. 74 THE GOD OF FOOLS, I do not scale grim Scepticism's height, Nor pierce the gloom that Science* seeks to prove, But, mounting on the wing of Faith, I light Upon the further side — where angels move. Beyond that frowning cliff, that mountain pass, O'er which the lurid clouds in terror low'r, There springs the testifying blade of grass, There blooms eternally the heav'n-born flow'r. Those stars above were fix'd by Reason's hand, And witness to the majesty of pow'r, Nor heard they Evolution's mute command, Springing from chaos in the natal hour. Man manufactures, God alone creates! His mysteries exist when worlds are still : And mighty Empires, — far-extending States Obey unconsciously His gradual Will. * By Science ia here meant the quasi-Science of a logic-loving deism, not that true Science which is the reflex of God's own majesty. Else- where I have said — True Science knows sufficient to impress The human mind with its own littleness. AND OTHER POEMS. 75 No human eye may mark His wondrous plan, No foot may tread where He alone hath trod : For, does the mind created think to scan, Or argue with a soul-creating God ? We cannot prove, we only may believe, But by our faith as angels we become, And tho' the world perplex, the eye deceive, We feel that He is love: and we are dumb. The hours wear on, yet dreamingly I sit Enravish'd by the mystic charm of night: My taper scarce remembers it was lit And leaves me but the Moon's unsullied light. Adieu, sweet Night, that oft hast watch'd me weep, And heard the cry no mortal soul could hear, Adieu ! yet ere I seek the world of sleep, Hallow the weakness of a human prayer. The Pbayee Father with all my sins I seek Thy throne, Yea, all my follies I would bring to Thee 76 THE GOD OF FOOLS. For Thou art loving, Thou God alone Canst set the sinner from his bondage free. The world is redolent with thoughts of Thee, Thy Being breathes upon the midnight air, Thou art For Ever, and for aye must be, Yet — stoop'st to list the fragmentary prayer. Father, forgive my sins, my trust increase, And aid me till angelic faith is won, Flood all the Present with Thy lavish peace, And in Futurity Thy will be done. THE END. London : Digbt, Long & Company, Publishers, 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. 1 8 Bouverle Stbeet, Fleet Stbeet, London, E.O. 1892. A SUPPLEMENTARY LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY Messrs DIGBY, LONG & CO. THE NEWCASTLE DAILY CHRONICLE (the great Newspaper of the North) in speaking of good and wholesome fiction refers to the "high re- putation that Messrs DIGBY, LONG & CO. enjoy for the publication of first-class novels." the Brighton gdardian says i— " we can heartily compliment Messrs DIGBY, LONG & CO. upon the uniform excellence of work- manship displayed in the production of their publications." FICTION. IN TWO VOLUMES, Price 21s. The Heiress of Beechfield. By M. E. Baldwin. Two Vols., crown 8vo, price 21s. " A thoroughly healthy story, fall of well-sustained interest and earnest purpose. Beatrice Leslie is a careful study of character." — Pictorial World. "Well written and interesting, and the tone is full of a quiet harmony. The erring hero is not all evil, and the heroine is very feminine and attractive. Well told and full of effect and excitement." — Life. " It is a book to- be recommended to all readers." — Black and White. Wildwater Terrace. By "Reginald E. Salwey. In 2 vole., crown 8vo, cloth, 21s. (Second Edition.) u We strongly advise novel-readers to make the acquaintance of * "Wildwater Terrace.' An eminently readable and interesting book."— Court Circular. " A powerful story, with some peculiarly dramatic situations and. a good deal of descriptive skill." — Literary World. IN ONE VOLUME, Price 6s. Rex, The Black Sheep. By M. E. Hall. Crown 8vo, cloth, with frontispiece, 6s. " The story is well told and the characters interesting. . . . ' Rex ' will be worth reading, andno one will get anything but good fromit." — Daily Chronicle. My Suitors. By Ella March. Large crown 8vo, cloth, Qs. "A pretty story, abounding in incidents that are well conceived and well described. What is generally believed to have been an elopement fills a por- tion of the book, and the village tattle about this affair is delightful. Other love affairs are related with spirit, and those chapters are particularly interest- ing which tell how the heroine became Lady Fane. The writer has the imagination to conceive a story that interests, and has told it carefully and well. "— Scotsman. " The dainties that are bred in a book" — Shakespeare. Supplementary List of Books FICTION— Continued. In Sin or Folly ? By Arthur Nestorten, Author of " Syringa." Crown 8vo, cloth, 65. " A cleverly -written tale . . . Filled with incidents that never fail to interest. Told with remarkable skill and with a literary power that at once arrests attention, and merits high commendation." — Scotsman, "'In Sin or Folly?' is a true story. One may dip into the hook with a frequent laugh at the somewhat forced smartness of the author. . . . But the story is not to he dismissed with a few light laughs— it takes hold of the reader. ... In a word, it is original enough to he read." — Athenseum. Hamtura. A Tale of an Unknown Land. By H. S. Lookhart- Ross. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. (Second Edition.) " A work of considerable promise. . . . His descriptions of the island and people of Hamtura are excellent. . . . The idea of the Eaven iB excellent, almost epic ; and the scenes in the temple of Hamtura are very impressively done. The book is distinctly promising." — Saturday Review. Won iu Spite of Him. By the Rev. Charles Houghton. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. " A story which displays considerable Bkill . . . delivered with a degree of skill far above the average of what one finds in modern fiction."— Liverpool Post. "Mr Houghton writes well and vividly." — Literary World. Leslie. By the Author of "A Modern Milkmaid," etc., etc. In handsome pictorial binding. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. " ' Leslie/ like all its author's former works, is very much out of the common run of novels. . . . The author is evidently in the deepest earnest. . . . Scenes powerful. There ia pathoB in Leslie's wild devotion to her poor little dying mother ; there is humour and also poetry in Lallie and his music, and in the sad old tutor. Her work is strong and sensational."— Queen Legend and Romance : A Tale of the Channel Islands. By George Motley. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. " We should strongly advise novel readers to make themselves acquainted with ' Legend and Romance,' because it is a story which retains one's interest from start to finish." — Public Opinion. Where Honour Sits. By W. B. Home-Gall. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. [Just Published. Tom Buxton's Aim. By Smith-Robertson. Crown 3vo, cloth elegant, 6s. " A story well worth the giving. The portrait of the hero is well drawn. . . Smith-Robertson has plenty of shrewdness and some humour." — National Observer. "A very clever character-study of a man. . . . admirably portrayed." — Whitehall Review. A Strange Trio of Artists. By Cecil R. Cramer. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. "Full of interest and rich delineation of character ... a delightful Btudy." — Liverpool Mercury. '• Readable and entertaining "—Yorkshire Post. " Books are the legacies that genius leaves to mankind." — Addison. Published by Digby, Long & Co. FICTION— Continued. True to the Prince. A Tale of the Sixteenth Century, 1567- 1575. By Gertrude Bell. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. [Just Published. Dick, or the Doctor. An Australian Tale. By Rex Raynor. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6a. [Just Published. New Novel by the Author Of " In Sin or Folly ? " Syringa. By Arthur Nestorien. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. [Just Published. IN ONE VOLUME, Price 3s. 6d. Chapters in My Wife's History. By H. S. K. Bellairs, M.A. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. " A well-written story. . . . This is a story over which one may spend an hour with pleasure." — Scotsman. " The heroine is interesting, and the other characters, including the gallant young bridegroom, are very well drawn." — Birmingham Gazette. Beauty and the Witch. By the Rev. J. H. Rees. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Just Published. The Disintegrator. A Romance of Modern Science. By Arthur Morgan and Charles R. Brown. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. . " So absorbing is the interest, so gradual the unfolding of the story, that during its perusal the whole thing seems quite natural. . . One of the most interesting, almost thrilling, stories published for some time." — Glasgow Herald. A Precious Jewel. By Dora Murray, Author of " Over the Brink," " A Modern Peri," etc. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Just Published. The Haunted House of Chilka. By Col. C. E. J. Skottowe. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Just Published. Our Hands have Met. By J. Tempest-Blanch. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. "A racy story with much that will interest. Modern life is cleverly depicted. .... It might be said to approach realism." — N. B. Daily Mail. Sir Vinegar's Venture. By John Tweeddale. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. [Just Published. Norah Grey. By L. Hartley. Cr. 8vo, cloth, elegant, 3s. 6o!. [Just Published. Laura Montrose. By Adela May. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. (Second Edition. ) ■' The story is well conceived, and is related with much fluency and not a little vivacity." — Public Opinion. " The true university in these days is a collection of books." — Carltlb. Supplementary List of Books FICTION— Continued. IN ONE VOLUME, price 2s. 6d., 2s. and is. My Cousin's "Wife. By Eat Mekton. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. " A promising novel, which conducts the reader quietly and pleasantly through the still waters of English country existence into the whirlpool of African travel and exploration." — Daily Telegraph. Forreston. By Newton Tempest. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. (Second and Cheaper Edition.) " Agreeably written. ... A successful work of Action."— Scottish Leader. A Modern Milkmaid. By the Author of " Commonplace Sin- ners." "Leslie," &c. Picture Boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d. (Fourth Edition.) " Remarkable and powerful, and it certainly ought to be read, and read atten- tively." — National Observer. "An interesting story, very cleverly worked out." — Saturday Review. Scenes in the Life of a Sailor. By Lawrence Cave. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. " The story of his engagement and the account of the wedding are prettily told." — Saturday Review. Mrs Smith's Craze, etc. By Henkt Boss. In striking pictorial cloth binding, crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. {Just Published. Up Stream and 'About Town. By a Boating Man. In striking pictorial cover, printed in colours. Crown 8vo, Is. (Second Edition.) "'TJp Stream and About Town,' abounds with humour, and is very far from wanting in wit. . . . The style of the book throughout reminds one very forcibly of, and compares most favourably with, that excellent jeu d'esprit, ' Three Men in a Boat.' " — Yachtsman. BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. Wilful Peggy. By Kuth E. Smtthe. In handsome cloth bind- ing, crown 8vo, 6s. " This is a story for girls, and as such it may be wannly commended." — Academy. "Certainly a success. Few will care to lay down this lively history of Peggy'B adventures till they end happily. The whole story is fresh, vivacious and cheery." — Literary World. This Working-day World. A Story for Girls. By H. Hands. In handsome pictorial cloth binding, 6s. [Just Published. Ida's Mistake ; or, Realities and Trivialities. A Story for Girls. By V. G. Finney. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, with Frontispiece by Eobebt Springett, 5s. {Just PublisJied. " Books are a guide in youth and an entertainment in old age.'- — Collier. Published by Digby, Long & Co. BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG— Continued. Life Threads. By K. E. V., Author of "A Circle of Saints," "No Night," "The Circle of the Seasons," etc Crown 8vo, cloth, with Frontispiece by E. F. Shebie, 3s. 6d. [Just Published. Where the Sea Birds Cry. By Castle Hill, Author of "A Trip Bound the World. " Crown 8vo, cloth, with Frontispiece by E. E. Shekie, 3s. 6<2. [Just Published. Hume Nisbet's Latest Romance. The Jolly Roger. A Tale of Sea Heroes and Pirates. By Hume Nisbet, Author of "Bail Up," "A Colonial Tramp," "Eight Bells," "The Land of the Hibiscus Blossom," "The Black Drop," "The Savage Queen," "The Bushranger's Sweetheart," etc., etc. In handsome pictorial binding, printed in Colours, with frontispiece and vignette Title-page by the Author. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. (Second Edition.) " Sorcery and tbe sea are deftly combined. Since Captain Marryat's impres- sive story of Vanderdecken and the fair Amine ihese elements have never been handled as in Mr NiBbetf s brilliant romance of Elizabethan times. In hiB hand- ling of the supernatural the author's power is most convincingly proclaimed." — Saturday Review. " Among a number of stories of travel and adventure which will delight the hearts of the young, and, indeed, of older people, at this season of the year, we give the place of honour to ' The Jolly Roger.' It is a narrative full of dash and spirit, and the author is as inventive in his way as Mr Eider Haggard himself. . . . The reader is in no danger of going to sleep ; all Mb faculties will be kept at their full tenison." — Daily Chronicle. Two Country Stories. By Geobgina M. Squire. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3s. 6d. " The Old Violin ' is charming in plot and execution, full of pathetic sweetness. ' Brother Tom,' the second tale, is a touching picture of childish love. Mrs Squire has the art to show what real romance underlies the most ordinary of lives." — Literary World. " These two stories are pretty, pathetic and simple. They are quietly and gracefully told in good English and with perfect refinement of tone. The book would be much appreciated in parish libraries." — Queen. Ups and Downs of an Old Tar's Life. In handsome pic- torial binding, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. " A. series of lively l yarns ' by an old salt, which boys will eagerly devour." — BcoUman. For Hal's Sake. By Amy Manifold. In handsome pictorial cover, crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. fioJ. {Just Published. My Childhood in Australia. A Story for my Children. By Mrs F. Hughes. Beautifully illustrated throughout with Original Drawings by the Author. Crown 8vo, cloth, picture cover, 2s. 6d.