PR4878.L17G2""'"""'""'"'^ Gaslight and stars; a book of verse. 3 1924 013 496 264 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013496264 GASLIGHT AND STARS MY MOST ENTHUSIASTIC, AND THEREFORE (l AM BOUND TO BELIEVE) MOST CANDID AND ENLIGHTENED CRITIC, iHg MiU, THESE VERSES ARE MODESTLY DEDICATED. ADVERTISEMENT. OF the poems contained in this volume, about five- and-twenty have appeared in periodicals, and one in a little book of verse of which a small edition was printed five or six years ago; seventeen have been published with music ; the rest are now printed for the first time. The Author wishes to express his gratitude to the Proprietors of Good Words, The Sunday Magazine, London Society, Cassell's Family Magazine, The Graphic, Tinsleys' Magazine, St. 'jFames's Magazine, All the Year Round, The Day of Rest, Aunt Judfs Magazine, and Excelsior, for permission kindly given to reprint the pieces which have appeared in their respective pub- lications; and to Messrs. Boosey & Co., Messrs. Enoch & Sons, Messrs. Chappell & Co., Mr, Lamborn Cock, Messrs. Duncan Davison & Co., Mr. Joseph Williams, Messrs. Ashdown & Parry, Messrs. Cunningham Boosey & Co., Messrs. Ewald & Co., Mr. Louis Diehl, Mr. William Smallwood, Mr. Frederic Rivenhall, Mr. W. H. Eayres, and Mr. Benjamin Wells, for a similar courtesy with respect to the words of songs of which they are the proprietors. Glen Alla Parsonage, Ray, Letterkenny. Oct. 15, 1879. CONTENTS. PAGE II Prelude, . J^arratibe ana IBesctfjrttbf. One June Morning, 13 Wasted Love, . . 16 A Vision of War, . . 19 A Coquette, . . .26 An Every-day Tragedy, . 29 Joe's Bespeak, . . -33 C5rpress-Shadows, 35 A Sigh from the City, . 37 The River of Years, . 40 Under Sentence of Death, . 42 Circumstance, . . 46 Livingstone : Apostle and Pioneer, . . -49 " They that go down to the Sea in Ships," . . 57 A Rose in November, . 59 A Forsaken Soul, . . 62 A Rose on the Altar, . . 65 Ravenna, ... 67 Egrtcal. Ah, Little Maiden ! . -77 Spell-bound, ... 78 A Child's Heart, . 80 Joe to the Rescue, 81 Ah, May-time, Green and Tender! ... 82 Oh, my Love ! . . 83 Before Parting, . . .84 The Magic Key, . . 85 Snowflake and Avalanche, . 86 The Lady of my Dreams, 87 A Good-bye, ... 88 Come to me. Maiden, . 90 A Charm, . . . .91 Your Presence makes the Spring, ... 92 Words 94 Nest in my Heart, my Wild- Bird, ... 95 My Star, ... 96 You'll Never Guess, . 97 Some One Thinks of Me, . 98 'Tis Love that makes the Summer, . . . 100 The Matter Ended There, . loi An Old Man's Thoughts, 102 No Admittance, . . 103 A Pair of Lovers, . 104 The Heart's Summer, . 105 Dead Love, . . . 106 The Love we Leave Behind, 107 The Bloom of the Heart, 108 Hand and Glove, . . 109 If I must Love, . no Contents. PAGE Queen of all the Roses, III So Shy, 112 My First Offer, . "3 All about a Little Bird, . 114 Fie on Lovers ! . "S In the Valley, ii6 My One Friend, 117 Can she make a Pie ? ii8 Twilight and Dawn, . 119 Whirligig, 120 My Heart's Nest, 121 Before the Storm, . 122 A Silly Little Maiden, 123 The Birds' Lesson, 124 A Sailor's Sweetheart, 125 Roses and Orange-Blossoms , 126 The Lover's Moon, 127 Black and White, 128 The Last Tryst, . 129 Happy Memoi-ies, 130 The Lark's Message, 131 Jock, . . . . 132 A Song of Labour, 133 Freedom's Shrine, 135 Sea-Pictures, 136 PAGE Summer Voices, . . 138 Let the World Wag, . 139 The Shrine beside the Sea, 142 A Song for the Girl I Love, 143 Bird of the Flickering Wing, 144 Under English Daisies, . 145 A Song for the Land I Love, 137 SacreB. The Little Maid that Slept, A Sunday-Morning Rhap- sody, .... A Snowdrop gathered by God, Thronging and Touching, A Gathered Lily, To a Mourning Mother, Come unto Me, . Two Views of Death : A Dead Child, Death's Changed Face, Led by a Star, . Easter Emblems, . Finished Sweet Prince of Peace, . Christmas Emblems, . The Key of the Golden Gate, 146 151 IS3 154 155 156 157 161 163 164 165 168 170 172 GASLIGHT AND STARS. PRELUDE. OH to «ing one mighty strain, One prophetic burst of song, Full of an immortal pain, Deep and tremulous and strong; Quivering with the bitter cry. With the yearning agony, Breaking forth for evermore From men's wounded hearts and sore ! That should travel through the years. Blend its music with the spheres, Live for aye, and have its part In the throbbings of the heart ! Even in the voiceless grave, That sad grave to which I go, Though the wintry winds should rave, And the air be thick with snow; 12 Prelude. Though the boughs should sigh above, And the hearts of those I love Be beginning to forget Any lingering regret, Should the music of that strain Warm my frozen heart again. But, ah me ! it may not be — Still the mocking music slips, And the soul's deep melody Dies in sobs upon the lips. In the grim grave shall I lie, With shut lips and sightless eye, And the world will laugh to scorn That sweet hymn that died unborn. Sarratir^ and §Htr^Uvt ONE JUNE MORNING. I'M thinking now of a time, m-y friend — How many summers ago? In the morning's dewy prime, my friend. The June's young glow. That mom when I and the girl that died, Happy-hearted, tender-eyed, Sat side by side, sat side by side. And whispered low. Oh, those young June days ! God never made aught so rare; Glamour of silvern haze, Fragrance in earth and air; Each bird a fountain of praise, Each flower a pray'r. And those hearts of ours, those hearts of ours ! They were gladder than birds, they were sweeter than flowers; God looked not down that summer day On aught so tender and pure as they. B 14 One June Morning. O'er her work my darling bent, Lowly, lowly; Waited while the minutes went, Slowly, slowly. Ah, she knew I loved her well — Knew I had a tale to tell In her pinky ear. Why, ah why, are lovers shy. When maidens wait with downcast, eye, And none is near? Ah yes, there was not a thing but knew : The harebell tinkled its bell of blue. And looked away; But the saucy thrush on the bough that swung, Boldly he stared, and archly sung, And babbled the tale with wanton tongue To every bird on the spray. At length they came, a word or two — Simple words — Which none o'erheard but a bird or two — Flowers and birds. Slowly my darling raised her head; Never a word the sweet lips said, But the flower-cheeks blossomed a riper red, And the lashes were bright and a-tremble with tears, As two young souls in a long kiss met — A kiss whose melody haunts me yet Through all the years. One June Morning. 15 And then, from his nest hard by, A lark upsprung. And quivered into the sky, And sung — and sung. The noisiest babbler held his breath. And the wind and the trees stood still as death, To list to the rapture deep and strong Of that skylark's song. Ah me, that strain, that trancfed strain! It shivered and died and shrilled again, In yearning and bliss and exquisite pain ; It pierced my heart, it stung my brain. It waked the tears like summer rain. It made me long to die, Her hand to the last held fond and fast. And my rapt face turned to the sky. I heard the lark sing yesterday; From his grassy nest hard by. He quivered away in the morning grey. And lost himself in the sky. He sang once more that self-same air; But ah, for the rapture, the vast despair, The passionate pain ! it had passed from there j His heart was sere and dry. He never will sing again, ah no ! As he sung in that summer of long ago. For the world grows old, grows old, my friend. And the Junes have turned so cold, my friend, 1 6 One June Morning. And there lingers a smell of mould, my friend, And rotting leaves ; And he thinks of those days of gold, my friend, And grieves, and grieves. Ah, never again will he sing such a strain Of passionate strength and glow, As the strain he sung when we both were young- How many summers ago? As the strain he sung in the blithe Junetide, When I and my darling sat side by side, I and the dear little heart that died — How many summers ago ? Ah, fifty summers ago, my friend, Fifty summers ago ! WAST ED LOVE, WOE for Love's rich-blooded wine, Spilt on earthen floor! Woe for that full heart of thine, Empty evermore ! Once a woman saintly-sweet Broke, without restraint or dole, On my heedless head and feet All the spikenard of her soul. Wasted Love. 17 Yea, her holy maidenhood, All too pure to seek disguise. Unashamed and naked stood At the lattice of her eyes. Every night, aye, every night. Kneeling, with bright waves of hair Rolled in ripples infinite Over neck and bosom bare. And the great eyes' brimming glance Lifted in a steadfast trance. She in murmurs pure and soft My smirched name did bear aloft To that heaven far away Round her prayers so close that lay. Every morning, when she woke, All her soul in dimples broke. That she had my hand to touch, And my voice to hear so much; , Yet I smiled, and turned away. Deeming it a foolish play. Meet to while an empty day. Once I' poured into a bowl, Just to slake a woman's thirst. Every passion of my soul. All my best and all my worst. Not one brief embalmed bliss, Not one aureoled grief divine. Kept I from her, sighing, "This, This is only God's and mine." "Take," I said, "the misty heights, Whereunto I, groping, climb; Wasted Love. Take the vale of soft delights In the far sweet morning-time. Take the strong hopes, dauntless-eyed, And the tender dreams that died : All I have been, am, may be, Sweet, I render unto thee. To thy lips I hold the cup — Darling, drink my being up." She, with sound of laughter light, Reaching forth her fingers white. Broke the goblet in my sight. Woe for Love's rich-blooded wine. Spilt on earthen floor ! Woe for that full heart of mine. Empty evermore ! Cheer thee, heart, nor blame thy lot, Holy love is wasted not. Though it make no meadows bright " With its waters of delight, Though no feet of childish trip In its sparkles dance and dip. Though that stream it fain would find Down another channel wind — Oh, be sure its flood at last Gains the open sea above, Blended in the waters vast Of the Universal Love. A Vision of War. 19 A VISION OF WAR. A DIM, forsaken spot; I know not where; Mine eyes were holden that I should _ not know; An earthy odour filled the heavy air; No bird did sing of hope or of despair; Yea, and no wind did blow. Nor lightest breath, to rustle in their lair The dead leaves to and fro. Only an adder, gliding smooth and slow O'er slippery stones, where rank green slime did grow. Gazed at me long, with sad unstartled stare. Then slid below. Wearily gazing on each chilly, lone, Moss-mantled, lizard-haunted, rotting stone. From my whole life broke forth a shuddering moan, As from a heart that breaks for lack of tears. Into my soul the piteous truth had grown — sweet discrowned King ! O fallen throne ! Lo, in the elder years. Here had man knelt in raiment white and clean. In pure heart-worship of the Nazarene, Who (deemed the simple folk earth no more rears). A Vision of War. Having once shed His soul in anguish keen (On either side a thief, and He between), Sat thronbd in the turquoise deeps unseen. Amid the hissing spheres ; Whom now (His day of Godhead having been) No man or loves or fears. Lo, falling spent and prone, I clung to one cold stone, While tearless sobs my heart shook to and fro; " Tho' no man call Thee King, Lord, to Thy skirt I cling — I cling and sob, and will not let Thee go. Oh, from Thine awful place, Stoop Thy calm, gracious face. And soothe my spirit's aching, breaking woe; I will not let Thee go. " Tho' at Thy fallen shrine no suppliant bow, Tho' no man bring Thee gift or pra/r or vow, Numb on the chilly sod I lie and pray; Yea, tho' they tear the halo from Thy brow. And shriek in shrill white wrath, 'No God art Thou, I yearn my soul away — Oh soothe my spirit's aching, breaking woe. Sweet Lord, and let me go." From the far careless sky Came no reply ; Only the cold white mist My cold limbs kissed, A Vision of War. While the sun sank, and the grim night 'gan roll Its still black billows o'er my empty soul. From my long sleep, or swoon, I woke with dazfed eyes, for a great blaze. As of the sun at noon, In straight unfended rays. Smote on their balls ; and now, in all amaze, I saw, where erst the ruined shrine lay strown. Fairer than thought, too wonderful for praise, A great gold throne. Too wonderful for praise, fairer than thought, By diamond steps the dazzling dais rose ; Nor there had hammer rung or chisel wrought; Dreamlike, it soared to Heaven, born of naught. Only thine eyes, Eliseus, faintly caught. Ere God's great gates did close. Some flitting phantom of the light unknown That flashed from the great throne. And on the throne one sate, Crownfed, a queen; Clothed in apparel very fair and sheen, Exceeding dehcate; But of her form not any whit was seen By reason of a veil that, to her feet Falling, shed forth a radiance most sweet And gracious and serene ; Yea, and the poorest gem, Starring her vesture's hem, A Vision of War. In price surpassed exceedingly, I ween, The Persian's diadem — Such was the glory of the veiled queen. Then came some great one forth, And put a trumpet to his lips, and blew; And straight from East and West and South and North, Yea, from all lands where seed of Noe grew, Lo, an innumerous crew. There were young Japhet's eyne of fearless view. And silky tress, and eager, restless face; There Shem's mute, patient, immemorial grace; And swart and bestial-browed. Lecherous, fierce, and cowed. There Ham's accursed race. There frisked the urchin wild, Held by the hand of him for age that bowed ; The mother sighed and smiled. And kissed her sleeping child; While maidens undefiled. Lifting soft eyes askance. Blushed 'neath the amorous glance Of staunch mid-manhood, straight and tall and proud. Then was all murmur stilled. And in clear tones that thrilled, That one outspake, and on this wise did say : "O ye, the goodly birth Of the fair teeming earth. Where'er the all-beholding sun hath sway, Hearken my words this day. A Vision of War. 23 "To many a god, I ween, Have ye your hands in supplication spread — Astarte, hornfed queen, And Zeus, and Vishnu, and the Nazarene — But these are dead or fled; Their empery hath been, And lo ! a greater holdeth sway instead — None other now can bless your bowM head; Yea, and her praise is blown Where'er the winds make moan. See how she sitteth high, with marble mien, Motionless, calm, and lone. On the great golden throne! A veil doth screen her face; To none of mortal race May her unshrouded majesty be shown, Lest its resplendent rays Should strike you dead with rapture and amaze. Now shall her name be known. Ye nations, hurl you prone, And worship War, the veiled queen, that sitteth on the throne." As when, on a great crowd Smites a sharp cry of Fire, and straight a loud Shrill, bitter cry Of things that hate to die, Goes up to God's still sky. And all the God in each mad heart is cowed. And all the beast glares in each bloody eye. While the man forward springs. And smites the babe that clings. 24 A Vision of War. And o'er the woman swooning on the floor, Treads to the door — So rushed they on, and at the throne Fell prone. Hearken ! the heavens were blue, The winds were hushed beneath a drowsy charm, And now, the calm deeps through. The flash of a great arm (Each eye did see, and every cheek grew pale, Yet none did utter plaint or any wail) — The flash of a great arm, all bright and bare. That from the face of her enthroned there. Did lift the shrouding veil. Each soul waxed pale. And none had heart to utter any wail. O God ! the fleshless head Of one a great while dead ! Fat were the worms upon the cheeks that fed, And dragged their length through each eye's empty room. O Lazarus ! wakened from thy four-days' tomb. Thy face was comely with the white and red, The delicate April bloom Of a young virgin to the bridegroom led, Beside the grinning head. O earth ! O heaven ! O God ! No world- quake came to make the mountains nod And burst the loud heart of the throbbing sea. And spill the stars in ashes o'er the sod. And blend all things that be. A Vision of War. 25 O earth! O heaven! O God! Not a dead leaf did drop from any tree, Calm was the sky's blue .smile, I heard a linnet twitter all the while, And get, ah me ! ah me ! (O my hushed heart that saw such things of late, O Thou alone Who art and didst create. Who boldest in Thine hand life, death, and fate. With Whom no thing is either small or great, With Whom the West is even as the East !) Lo ! the thick-millioned throng Of loud fierce hearts and strong — Yea, all the pageantry and all the state, And the great throne, and she thereon that sate. Without one breath of wonder, love, or hate, Without one sign or sound the most or least, (O my hushed heart that saw such things of late !) Ceased. No hand did stir, no footstep went or came, Yet now, where erst the sad forgotten shrine. Yea, builded of those scattered stones, the same Whereon was reared the great gold throne of shame, Mouldering no more, but clean and fair and fine, An altar, carven with the blessfed Name, And on the altar, lo ! the holy sign Of His great love divine; Yea, the dear cross, and now from God's mid-height, Floating above, it, wonderful and white. As a dream floats upon the veiled eyne In visions of the night, 26 A Vision of War. A nameless light, Exceeding soft and bright; Embathed wherein, my every thought did cease, And my soul sank in a most perfect peace. A COQUETTE. NAY, darling, do not hide your face, But brush the foolish tears away; I would not for a moment's space Dim those dear eyes, divinely gay. There now, you smile the rare old smile ; The little dimple lightly plays; So let me hold your hand awhile. And talk to you of those dead days. My darling, think of me no more As one whose peace you lightly slew; Who would not waste it o'er and o'er On such an ecstasy as you ? Nay, higher price who would not pay. Eternity of rack and groan. To dream for one delirious day God's fairest fancy all his own? God made you, sweetest, what you are, He formed you in a golden hour; With all the splendour of a star. The dewy pathos of a flower ; A Coquette. 2 7 Falser than false, fairer than fair, A dream made flesh, but wanting soul — Nay, had He planted spirit there, God knew that spark had marred the whole. As children chase a butterfly From bush to bush, from flower to flower. No heart went lightly dancing byl But you must have it in your power. In trembling haste, with reckless clutch, You grasped the foolish fluttering things. And could not trouble overmuch For shattered limbs or bruised wings. And I — I read by many a sign — The face that brightened when I came, The eyes that rose to glance in mine, Then sudden droppfed in maiden shame, The cheek that burned with fitful blaze. The little tremor in the tone, The thousand shy, unwilling ways Whereby a maiden's heart is known. I said, " She loves me — even me, Who never dared her love to seek. Who seemed shut out by heaven's decree From winning woman's heart or cheek. But God leaned softly from above. And looked with gracious eyes divine; He saw the greatness of my love, And, in His mercy, made her mine." 28 A Coquette. I go to claim my peerless prize — Your crowning rSle is acted now; Oh, perfect pity in the eyes ! Oh, wondrous wonder on the brow ! Softly you rise, and smiling stand ; " Not lovers, no, but truest friends ;" I take your cordial proffered hand, And leave you, and the drama ends. Nay, nay, no tears, no shallow tears ! What soul have you whence tears should leap? E'en now you think, "Each drop endears — I look so lovely when I weep!" We'll have no thinking on the past With flimsy, futile half-regret; Nay, sway your sceptre to the last. Our soulless goddess, queen-coquette. Still keep your path, and take no thought; Drop the dark lashes, smile and kill; If breaking hearts be such sweet sport. Oh, break our hearts, and sate your will. Our hearts of solid English stuff — Coarse common hearts, yet wearing true — Oh, homespun hearts are rife enough. But God will make no second You. An Every-day Tragedy. 29 AN EVERY-DAY TRAGEDY. "TTERY happy ever after"— V So, it seems, the story ends; Flute and tabor, song and laughter, Loving children, troops of friends. So the love-tale is complete ; Shut the book, and at my feet Nestle in your wonted seat. Push the ringlets oflf your face; Bind this wee rebellious pet That comes dancing from its place. Scoffing still at band or net; There, you little saucy waif, Now we have you prisoned safe. Sweet white cheeks my hands enfold. Where are all your roses fled? Oh, so bright they bloomed of old. Ere the day that we were wed! Is there naught that we can do. Naught to make them bloom anew? Little hand mine prisons tight, You are all too thin and white; Wedding-ring, how light you slip Over joint and finger-tip ! c 30 An Every -day Tragedy. Sweet, and is it all they- need, All the roses lack? Would that simple charm indeed Bring their blossom back? Could we toss the ring aside, Blot the day that made you bride, Give you back, a maiden free. To your father's old roof-tree. Would they bourgeon forth again, Brighter for your tears' thick rain? Sweetest, from the day we wed. From your pure and flower-like presence, All around you you have shed Some divine and subtle essence. Permeating every place With a calm and gentle grace. You have spared no little task That exacting love could ask ; Naught that wifehood can bestow-^- Save the love that would not flow. • You have tried, with noble pride. In your heart of hearts to hide That old love we deemed had died; Careful that no sign should slip From the tale-tell eyes or lip. Whence observance might divine That your spirit's inmost shrine Held an efiigy not mine. Kiss me, sweet, on cheek and brow; Little one, I know it now. An Every -day Tragedy. 31 Nay, my sweet, a month ago. You had gone before to bed — Just a httle chilled, you know. Fevered hands and throbbing head — While I sat in chimney-nook. Smoked my pipe, and read my book. Softly up the stairs I crept, Thinking long ere then you slept; Noiselessly the door undid. Through the chambers lightly slid, While the lamp my fingers hid. Then I stood and gazed. O'er your shoulders white and bare Fell the heavy dead-brown hair. And your eyes were heavenward raised In a wrestling pang of pray'r. Sweet, your eyes were drowned in tears. And your voice was choked with sobs. And tumultuous on my ears Fell your great heart-throbs ; And agdn, again, again, In a long-drawn gasp of pain. Broke the piteous refrain : "Oh, dear God, I try to love him — Well Thou knowest how hard I try — None is worthy love above him, But my heart, my heart is dry. That old love I counted dead Wakes to stronger life instead. Oh, dear God, his cruel wrongs! 32 An Every -day Tragedy. I have longed for love to give, As for milk a mother longs That her child may live. Give me love than his more deep — Make me love him ere I sleep." Like a phantom from the tomb, Forth I slid into the gloom, Paced in stunned surprise and doubt While the night wore wanly out Morn was breaking, drowsy-eyed. When again I sought your side. To the weary heart and brain Sleep had come to deaden pain; But I saw that even yet Heavy tears your lashes wet. And your bosom rose and fell With a troubled after-swell. Sleep had dropped your heart above — Sleep had come — ^but not the love. Sweetest, do I seem to chide you For the love that is denied you? Nay, wee wife, I love you wholly. That you loved so well and solely. Pouring without stint or stop All your full-heart's blood-red wine, So that now no lingering drop Damps these fevered lips of mine. Love him, love him, wedded wife. Love him with your breath of life. Joe's Bespeak. 33 Love such hearts as yours bestow Never can extinction know. Three days in the grave love lies, With the napkin round his head, With the drear and drownbd eyes, And the pale lips of the dead. In the third day's throbbing calm, Lo, we come with spice and balm, Softly seek the rock-hewn prison. Where they laid the love that died- Love is risen, love is risen, Calm, immortal, glorified! Love him, love him, wedded wife. Love him with your breath of life. Kiss me, lips that cannot love; Touch me, little listless hands ; God leans softly from above, God looks down and understands. JOE'S BESPEAK. A Pantaloon's Story. THERE wasn't a place for gold nor pray'rs — We'd six big bobbies to keep 'em back — They was nursin' each other in stalls and chairs. And the pit was a reg'lar sardine-pack, A chap got dazed with the din and glare, And the sea of faces ev'rywhere. 34 Joe's Bespeak. And now and agen a woman 'u'd shriek — It was always so at Joe's Bespeak. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I hought to know. Why, he'd more reppertee in them bandy shins Than parties I know in their bumptious brains; He'd tip you one of his rummy grins, And you'd suffer from hawful hintemal pains; Look in his face, and you'd laugh and cry; Twig him wink, and you'd want to die; 'Ear him do the Little Pig's Squeak, And bed was your place for the rest of the week. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I hought to know. The 'ouse was one continooal roar — When he tumbled in for his third recall, They rose, on massy, from roof to floor, And bellered like Bedlam, nobs and all. The curtain fell, and they stopped to shout, And 'oiler "Joe!" till the lights was hout. There was ninety pound, sir, silver and gold — More nor we reckoned the 'ouse 'u'd 'old. There was never a clown a patch on Joe — I've played with the lot, and I hought to know. Joe never stopped to reckon the blunt, Nor change his togs, nor nothin' o' that, But he buttoned his long old coat in front, And hover his heyebrows jammed his 'at. Cypress Shadows. 35 We'd counted on glasses — or fizz, may'ap, For Joe was a hopen-'anded chap — But through the 'oUerin' roughs houtside, I twigged him wriggle and dive and slide, And 1 says to myself, I says, just so, "I doubt there's summat amiss with Joe!" I collared my 'at, and I foUered him straight, And I see him stop at the door, and stand (Old Mother Cobble's, at number height), ^ And he pulled the bell with a shaky 'and. The light from the lamp on the door fell slick, And I watched his face turn white and sick; But he never spoke, as the woman said, " Dead, sir — mother and child — just dead !" Well, Joe went to 'em a year ago — There was never a clown a patch on Joe. CYPRESS SHADOWS. SHADOWING my window, Droops a cypress-tree ; All the day doth it say Wondrous things to me ; Though no wind be out at play, Though no bird have moved the spray. All the day, all the day, I can hear it shake and sway ; And each leaf of shivering gloom Is a whisper from the tomb. 36 Cypress Shadows. But at midnight, lying On my sleepless bed, O'er my soul fiercer roll Cypress-voices dread. Lo, the grim tree hath its will — Now no more a whisper chill, But a roar of deepening might As of seas that wax by night. All the darkness pulses loud, And the moon behind a cloud Staggers on through whirling space With a sick and swooning face. Once a little song-bird. Wanderer from his nest. Seeking food to fill his brood, Lighted there to rest. All unconscious lighted he Midway in the cursfed tree; And from out his full heart's store Sang he songs for evermore. Oh, it pierced my soul forlorn With a sharp and stinging scorn, That the bird, with heart elate, Thus should sing of home and mate, Sitting in that tree of fate. Once a little sunbeam, That had lost its way. Falling free, touched the tree With its tender ray. A Sigh from the City. 37 Then my spirit swooned outright With the horror of the sight; For I thought with sickened brain How a mocking hand profane So might tint with rosy streak Foul corruption's clammy cheek. How can I be hymning Love in leafy lanes, Sweet eclipse of mingling lips, Happy bridal strains ? Can my spirit e'er rejoice While the cypress hath a voice. While the earth is all a grave. And a charnel-house the wave. And my foot, wherever thrust. Treads a brother's heart to dust? A SIGH FROM THE CITY. PENT in the town's foul prison, I fret through the feverish hours, While Spring from her sleep hath risen. And wakened the wondering flowers; While primroses jewel the bank. And violets peep by the way. And maidens wear in their wind-swept hair A sprig of the new-born May. 38 A Sigh from the City. Forth on the swirling street I gaze with a hopeless eye — Tramp of myriad feet Hurrying endlessly by; Onward ever and aye, A joyless, soulless crowd. Faces worn with passion and scorn, Figures stunted and bowed. Carriages clashing along; Babel of clamorous cries — Beggars' monotonous song. Hucksters' importunate lies. Never a moment's hush For the heart to beat aright; But fever and fret, and blood and sweat. From morn till the dead of night. Onward, young and old, Rouds with satjT-leer, Women who sell for gold The souls God bought so dear. Children haggard and worn, With faces that might be fair. Who never have heard a loving word. And never have lisped a pray'r. God, Who dwellest above, On this hell-thrallfed town. Never with eyes of love Thou lookest serenely down. A Sigh from the City. 39 Stunned by the deafening din, The curses and groans that arise, Thou hidest afar in some tranquil star Away in Thine own pure skies. Shut out the devilish sight, Deaden the maddening roar ! Oh, let me dream to-night I walk in the woods once more. Home of my heart, I come — I come in the breeze's track j Bird on the bough, welcome me now. Welcome the wanderer back. Murmurous mazy bowers, Delicate daisy-dips. Winds that have kissed the flowers Till fragrance breathes from their lips. Brooks that with old-world song Their wandering way beguile, Gladness and calm that are sweeter than psalm To God, who lists with a smile. God doth not linger apart. Stooping from Heaven His face; He holds the earth to His heart In a fatherly fond embrace. His cheek on hers is prest. His arms are around her thrown, And, beat for beat, with music sweet. His heart-throbs answer her own. 40 The River of Years. Forth from this dungeon of death In the might of a dream I burst, To quench with the Spring's pure breath My spirit's anguishing thirst It fades, it melts into mist. The dream that was all too sweet, And, dull and drear, there throbs in mine ear The muffled roar of the street THE RIVER OF YEARS. " Thou earnest them away as with a flood." — Psalm xc. 5. ONWARD it rushes, the river of years, Rapid and strong and free, While aye and anon there floats to our ears The roar of the far-oif sea. Oh, rest thee, river, we pray ! Nay, river, rest thee awhile ! Thy banks are green and gay. And God looks down with a smile ; Here would we stay till the close of day. And sun us in God's good smile. Yon little linnet, with heart so great. How blithely he carols to heaven and his mate ! The willows droop to the water's brink. The great-eyed kine are coming to drink, And here would we tarry, to dream and think. The River of Years. 41 Oh, rest thee, river, awhile ! Around our boat The lilies float, Tender and white as a girl's sweet throat ; Oh, rest thee, river, awhile ! Nay, let us pluck one blossom fair. One little lily to treasure and wear, A star for the bosom, a gem for the hair ; Alas, it may not be ! Swift and swifter the current flows. Broad and broader the river grows, Hark to the roar of the sea ! Fades into mist the shore. Tumble the waves in glee, And evermore with louder roar Thunders the voice of the sea. O river, faster flow ! Flow, river, deep and dark ! ■ Faintly the sad-voiced breezes blow. One fading flush is left to show Where the sun lies dead and stark. O river, faster flow ! The night is coming, the world is cold ; No longer would we stay. Rush on, O river, with current bold, And carry our bark on its way ; Greatly we long for the salt sea song And the dash of the blinding spray. O river, faster flow! Ah, yonder, see, there breaks on the sight 42 Under Sentence of Death. A foam-flecked ripple, a line of white, The sea and the river are blent in fight, The wind blows salt and free. Down like a raven swoops the night ; One star, one star, shines steady and bright- The sea, O God, the sea ! UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH. DARLING, yes, the doom is said. And the last poor hope is flown. Mother's eyes, with weeping red. Father's strange and broken tone. Gave their cheery words the lie ; All is over — I must die. Nay, consumption slowly kills. 'Neath some heaVn serene and blue. Safe from English damps and chills, I may live the winter through ; But when next the daisies peep, They will deck my churchyard sleep. Oh, to die ! how hard it seems ! Life's bright bowl of nectar spilled, All my gay and golden dreams Now for ever unfulfilled. Gathered to the sullen tomb In my beauty's rosy bloom. Under Sentence of Death. 43 " God knows best," I try to say — Does He, darling ? is it truth ? Would He tear me thus away In the May-day of my youth — Tear me from this earth so dear To that heav'n I only fear ? There are maidens lily-white. Tender, shrinking spirit-flowers. That can never thrive aright In this garish world of ours — Oh, so glad when hands of love Bear them to the bowers above. But with me it is not so — I was made for only earth, For the laughter's ripply flow, For the music and the mirth ; How my heart will shrivel there, In that bleak celestial air ! Good and true I tried to be. Innocent and pure of heart; Being happy seemed to me Acting my appointed part ; Deep I drank the joy He gave, Loved the sun, forgot the grave. Have I not been frank and free With my beauty's royal dower? Tenderly and graciously Have I swayed my sceptre's power ; 44 Under Sentence of Death. Never yet, an hour to while, Slew I heart's-peace with my smile. Blossom-lips and dew-dark eyes Are a gift of sacred worth ; Golden gleam tljat glorifies All the common things of earth ; Rain that makes the meadows bright. Music ministering delight. Well you know, love, every place Was the gladsomer for me ; For the magic of my face. For my ever-glancing glee. Laughter lightened every eye ; None was sad when I was by. Gaze, love, in my face to-night. Did I ever look so fair — With these lilies starry-bright In the midnight of my hair? How the great eyes glance and glow ! How the dimples come and go ! There are beauties coldly grand, Queenly head and brow divine, Sculptured faces, calmly scanned, Freer from a fault than mine ; But who looks in these dark eyes Will not stay to criticise. Under Sentence of Death. 45 Darling, I can bide my chance — Oh, this heart of mine is brave ! I can look with steady glance On the winding-sheet and grave. But, O love, to fade away. Droop and die by slow decay ! Oh, to feel the fell disease Seizing daily surer hold. Making fiercer ravages In my form's delightsome mould, Drinking up with deadly drouth All the bloom of cheek and mouth. And, when strangers stop and speak, Oh, to see the shocked surprise, As they mark the wasted cheek And the purple-caverned eyes ; Homage, admiration, dead, Pity, pity, left instead. Yes, and you, love, even you — You, who love me best of all — You, who fain would be so true, Though the last grace fade and fall — You will one day stab my soul With your pity's deadly dole. Darling, now, to-night, to-night — Kiss me on the mouth again — Ere my beauty feels the blight Will we tear our souls in twain ; D 46 Ciraimstance. See no more each other's face Till the end draws on apace. For they say that ere we die, We whom slow consumption slays, Come to faded cheek and eye All their olden bloom and blaze ; Yea, a light that was not there. Such as life may never wear. Then as lovers will we greet — I will list no seraph-psalms ; Only hear your true heart beat, Only feel your folding arms. See your eyes, and drink your breath. As I gently swoon to death. CIRCUMSTANCE.* A Fragment. OH, men by bigot pride betrayed, Who stop your ears, and shut your sight. And deem the darkness ye have made The noonday blaze of God's own light. Grope in your midnight, blinded men. Ye cannot dim your Maker's ken. * I have thought this poem — ^written several years ago — worthy, on the whole, of preservation, though I have long ceased to sympathise with its pronounced fatalism. Circumstance. 47 Ye judge, nor in your judgment weigh That all-compelling iron power That presses on you day by day, That shapes your lives from hour to hour. That fixed fate, which ye call Chance, That mystery of Circumstance. Ye Pharisees, whose lofty place Secure above temptation stands, Ye kneel, with sanctimonious face, And thank your God, with outstretched hands, " I am not like my brother man, This fallen, sin-stained Publican." Upon your mother's breast you lay, A blood-bought child, an heir of love ; She taught your baby-lips to pray, She winged your baby-thoughts above, And hovered o'er your dawning years With tender hope, whose voice was tears. That other — crime the milk he drew. His earliest words a curse and lie ; A father here he never knew. He never heard of one on high ; He felt the hunger gnaw his breast. And stole to ease it — like the rest. And so he grew, in years and crime, Cursed with the deadly curse of life, And, in the due, appointed time. He plied the midnight murderer's knife ; 48 Circumstance. Ye hanged him, and our cleric friend Pointed a moral from his end. And then, for her, the hapless maid, Who, under sore temptation, fell. Her trusting innocence betrayed, Her fatal fault, she loved too well — Ah, stainless ladies, would that ye Were, in the spirit, pure as she ! O God, her tears, her heart-wrung tears. Her tears that fell by morn and night ! " Pity my love, my childish years, Pity, and lead me to the light ; A poor lost lamb, with many a stain. Lord, take me to Thy fold again." And He looked down, with sweet, sad eyes, And clasped her in His mercy strong. But, ladies, ye are pure and wise, And cannot feel for maids gone wrong ; Ye, in your virtue, stood apart, And desperation seized her heart. And so she went the old, old way. And wandered on from sin to sin, While fainter whispered every day The voice of womanhood within. The deepest depths of shame she trod ; She died — oh, leave her to her God ! Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. 49 LIVINGSTONE : APOSTLE AND PIONEER. {Supposed to be written on the day of his interment in West- minster Abbey.) THROUGH the long street, in order sad and slow, With dismal pomp, with grim funereal show — Through the long street, where dense on either hand The surging multitudes expectant stand. Waiting, with straining eyes and bated breath. To see the obsequies of honoured death — Whom are they bearing thus, with muffled tread, To his long sleep among the deathless dead ? A mighty king hath laid his sceptre down ? A warrior fallen in his red renown ? A bard, that moved at will to smiles or tears, Shall sleep to-day among his glorious peers ? Truly a king of men ; a king whose birth Sprang not from kings or great ones of the earth ; Bare of the might that sceptred splendour brings, The faithful servant of the King of kings. Truly a warrior ; one whose path is traced Not in razed cities, smiling lands laid waste ; Who only warred that war and hate might cease, Beneath the banner of the Prince of Peace. Truly a bard; a bard who sang no song Flooding Heav'n's gates in stormy tides and strong. Yet left one strain with lofty purpose rife^ The simple record of a noble life. so Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. The rite is o'er ; the solemn ritual read ; The low, deep prayer of weeping faith is said. Lo ! with close-lidded eyes and pulseless breast He sleeps at length in God's unbroken rest. Calmly he lies in slumber kind and deep ; No sound shall mar that pure, untroubled sleep. Till over earth shall shrill the summons dread, The pealing trump that wakes the dreamless dead. Then on his ear shall fall the welcome blest, " Servant of God, partake thy Saviour's rest." Yes, he is gone, the gentle soul and true; The dauntless will no more shall dare and do ; The loving lips shall never more let fall Those tender words that touched the hearts of all ; The kindly face shall never melt again With sweet compassion for his fellow-men. Through the long day he toiled with purpose deep. And now the gracious night hath brought him sleep. Yes, he is gone j and, as we turn away, Leaving to hallowed rest the sacred clay, Check we awhile the fond regretful tear, And muse upon our hero's grand career. A Scottish village, and the midnight hour — Darkness and peace hold universal power ; The weary craftsman sleeps that full repose That health, begot of labour, only knows ; Darkness and peace, unstirred by any sound, Save the long baying of some watchful hound. Yet in one chamber, through the stilly night, One tiny taper sheds a feeble light, Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. 51 And one lone student in his garret-nook Cons, with unwearied eyes, the treasured book. Night after night, when all the world is still, That pale-eyed scholar toils with steadfast will ; Only at night, when daybreak blushes red, That scholar's hands must earn his daily bread. A poor, pale lad, crowned with no winning grace, No conquering gift of speech, or form, or face ; A poor, pale lad, sprung from a lowly sire, . Yet strong of soul to struggle and aspire. Deep in his heart a ceaseless yearning lies, A wondrous phantom floats before his eyes, A silent voice is whispering in his breast. In accents still and small that will not rest, " Work, and be patient, tender, brave, and true — I have a worthy task that thou must do." So toils he stoutly on from day to day. And waits to hear what that strange voice will say. Again that village, and a morn of spring — Sunshine transfigures each created thing : The grass shoots upward from the quickened sod. Smiling beneath the great good smile of God j Hedgerows have shimmered into leafy pride. Where happy birds their scarce-fledged younglings hide; Bright primrose-eyes laugh forth from meadows dank, Shy violets peep from every mossy bank. And oh ! the birds ! how have they slaked their drouth In the pure nectar of the springtide's mouth ! From thick-laced covert and from winding ways Those winged Bacchants chant their frenzied lays ; 52 Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. Up from the emerald corn the skylark springs, Shaking the dewdrops from his quivering wings, And pours in seas of song that surge and roll The pent-up rapture of his bursting soul. Fragrance and music, innocence and glee, And over all a waveless sapphire sea. And yet, while all without is fair and gay. One humble home is wrapt in gloom to-day ; A father moves about deject and sad, A mother sorrows for her absent lad — Her lad gone forth over the waste of foam. From kirk and fatherland, from friends and home. Never, perchance, to glad her vision more, To preach the Gospel on that far-off shore. Yes, the strange voice hath spoken plainly now. And the young student with the thoughtful brow. Leaving on Scottish soil his earthly all, Goes forth obedient to his Saviour's call. A lapse of years, a wondrous change of scene — No longer Scotland's valleys fair and green, Her breezes blowing fresh from woodland ways — Afric's hot sands and Afric's burning rays ; A humble preacher, with an earnest face, Speaking to rude disciples words of grace. Day after day, with love that cannot fail, He tells again that tender Gospel-tale — Tells of a suffering Jesus sent to save, A port of peace beyond life's troublous wave. Day after day, in that fair fallen land, Stretching in every task a helpful hand. Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. 53 Tending in sickness, prompt in every need, That patient sower sows the blessed seed. Ah ! much he knows must fall on barren earth, Much must rank thorns choke in its tender birth ; Yet doubts not some shall light on favoured ground, And in God's time the harvest shall abound. A world of umbrage, and a cloudless sky — The palm floats upward like a spirit's sigh ; The vast baobab, clothed in leafy pride. Spreads its gigantic branches far and wide ; Bright insects frolic in the sunshine free, Wild winged rainbows flit from tree to tree ; Up from the random footstep darts the snake, Seeking safe shelter in the crackling brake ; In the great marshes by the water's edge The river-horse lies wallowing in the sedge. Land of the lion, of the fleet gazelle. The pathless jungle and the torrent-swell; Land of whate'er is wild, and free, and brave. And yet, ah woe ! land of the cowering slave. Yes, even here, in this wide waste of earth. In Freedom's stronghold and her place of birth, In the abysmal forest vast and dread. The monster Slavery rears his hydra-head. E'en that apostle whose transcendent soul No fear could fright, ho obstacle control, For one brief moment falters in dismay Before that giant curse's deadly sway. How can he tell of hope beyond the tomb To souls o'ershadowed by that hopeless gloom ? 54 Livingstone : Apostle and Pioneer. How can he preach Christ's freedom given to all To hearts whom brothers hold in iron thrall ? Lo, he sends forth a great and bitter cry — A cry of horror shrilling loud and high, A cry for help, whose soul-wrung anguish fills England's green vales and freedom-loving hills : "O free-born brothers, speed across the wave, And strike the fetter from the helpless slave." And they come forth in answer to his call ; From gallM limbs the shivered shackles fall. And the poor negro, falling on the sod, Lifts his free, bursting heart to freedom's God. Yet once again that vast untraversed land, That brave apostle and his faithful band. Sickness and sorrow, time and ceaseless care. Have touched with silver-grey the dark-brown hair ; The slight, strong frame has lost its vigour now. Sunken the cheeks and deeply-seamed the brow. Great exploits hath he wrought for man and God; Trod where no foot of white had ever trod. Stricken the fetter from the soul-crushed slave, And preached a risen Christ from wave to wave. No nook of earth but echoes with his fame ; Science hath heaped proud honours on his name ; No burning letters on the glory-roll Thrill with a nobler throb the wondering soul. But, ah ! the partner of his high emprise — Long since hath slumber sealed her placid eyes. Of all he loves, no loving soul is near To whisper words of comfort in his ear. Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. 55 Yes, he is weary now ; day after day The deep home-sickness gains resistless sway — After the years of danger and of toil, Only to breathe his last on Scottish soil. But no, not yet that placid port of rest — Stifling the yearning in his weary breast. Still he toils onward to his mission true ; Yet one more task remains for him to do. Let him but solve that mystery of time, Whence rolls the Nile his lordly waves sublime. And death's grim face will sweet and tender seem As his own mother's, hallowing a dream. With failing frame, with all undaunted soul, Still he strains onward to the hopeless goal. Still he strains on — almost before his eyes His life's desire, his land of promise lies. Ah, woe ! to feel the pitiless disease With tightening grip upon his heart-strings seize j To count the sands of life, and day by day Feel the few precious grains ooze fast away ; To know that he must slumber with the dead, The goal unreached, the mystery unread ! Still he strains on, till brain and senses swim. And infant weakness palsies every limb. Now through the marsh, the reeds and grasses great. Strong loyal arms must bear his wasted weight. At length they reach a little lonely town, And in a poor bare cabin lay him down. With listless limbs, with shut unconscious eyes. In a deep, dreary lethargy he lies, While they who love him wait with hearts forlorn. As the grim night wears slowly toward the morn. 56 Livingstone: Apostle and Pioneer. Then with a voice of fear the dark is stirred, " He lies quite still, he will not say a word." Behold ! the master kneels beside the bed, His hands are clasped behind his drooping head. No word they speak, a trembling, awe^struck crowd, While the great heart of silence pulses loud. Yea, even so, the end of all is come — Nerveless those limbs, those lips for ever dumb. When o'er his heart he felt the anguish roll. The fierce convulsion rending flesh and soul. Reeling and faint, by agonised degrees, Forcing death back, he struggled to his knees ; Then the head bowed, and on the midnight air The great, pure spirit passed to God in prayer. World-weary waif, thy wanderings are o'er ! Storm-beaten mariner, at last the shore ! Soldier, the fiery fight is ended now ! Martyr, the golden crown inwreathes thy brow ! Thy rest is won — a slumber all profound Kisses thy weary limbs and laps thee round ; That pure repose, that deep and dreamless rest. They only know who sleep on Jesu's breast. " They that go down to the Sea in Ships." 57 "THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS." A SHATTERED bark, and an angry sky, And the storm-wraith shrieking fierce and high ; And, aye and anon, from the murky cloud. The thunder echoing hoarse and loud ! O little ship, that at dawn of day Didst gaily sail from thy native bay, While the fond, proud eyes of friends at home Beheld thee dance o'er the sparkling foam. With starting timbers and canvas torn. Thou drivest, a dreary wreck forlorn. Thou art lifted aloft as the billows rise, Till thy form is whelmed in the pitchy skies ; Then, downward plunged, thou art lost to sight In the dread abyss of seething white ! O gallant sailors, the dauntless heart And the stalwart arm have done their part ; The heart bore up, and the strong arm strained, While the faintest glimmer of hope remained. With an open sea and a vessel stout. Ye yet might weather the tempest out ; But your crippled craft all helpless rolls On a treacherous coast of rocks and shoals. Except the Ruler of wind and wave Stretch forth in pity an arm to save. 58 "T/tey that go down to the Sea in Ships." Each soul aboard of your hapless bark Must sink to-night in the waters dark. O wives, and mothers, and maidens true, Whose hearts are bound to those jackets blue, At midnight roused from your slumbers warm By the awful voice of the shrieking storm, Lift, lift your hands to the God above. And pray for the lives of those ye love ! The wind howls on, and the vessel drives — Oh, pray, ye maidens, and mothers, and wives ! — Till, quivering through with the mighty shock. She strikes her bow on a lurking rock. A helpless hulk, she is filling fast. And the mariners cling to shroud and mast. While still the voice of their distant friends In an agonised prayer to God ascends. And hark ! away on the storm-lashed shore, A shout bursts over the breakers' roar — All undismayed, o'er the boiling wave The lifeboat is coming to seek and save. The shoals are passed, and she nears the wreck, And the sailors spring from the parting deck ; Through the flying foam and the midnight black. Safe, safe to the shore she battles back ! ***** The storm roars on with its thunder deep, But the weary women have sunk to sleep. And a smile plays over each pallid face, For their prayer has been heard at the throne of grace. A Rose in November. 59 A ROSE IN NOVEMBER. I LOOKED deep down in my heart, And lo ! 'twas a fair young rose, Just pushing its petals apart In June's voluptuous glows; A delicate rose, dew-fed, By winds kissed tenderly o'er, And red, red, passionate red, Through to its dainty core. And I know that whatever is deep and true. And tender and holy and calm and grand — The sky's great ocean of waveless blue. The sob of the sea, the laugh of the landj The promise of morn, the triumph of noon, The white wan light of the mystic moon; That sweet making-up after summertide rain. When Nature, dear, loving, impulsive child. Breaks forth into dimples and dances again. By gentle endearments at length beguiled. Kissed and forgiven, smiles up to the skies. And happier seems for the tears in her eyes ; That marvellous moment when up to the west. In mighty masses of grandeur rolled, Obedient aye to High God's behest, Rush changing clouds of purple and gold ; 6o A Rose in November. When Heaven is filled with such wondrous light (All sounds of Nature are hushed to rest), That man may traverse with blinded sight The garden of God, the home of the blest — May hear the rushing of angel-wings, The murmurous rapture of angel-strings ; May see faint forms of luminous things. Where, in the awful distance shown, They circle around the great white throne; The silence of lovers, the voices of birds, — The thrill of the skylark, the plaint of the dove. The nightingale's wail of bleeding love. Her song may utter, but not our words ; — The dancing of brooks in the golden light, The murmur of bees, The sighing of trees. The sweet low voice of the heart-broken breeze. That wakes and wanders alone by night; The sky's great ocean of waveless blue. The sob of the sea, the laugh of the land — Whatever is soulful and deep and true. And tender and holy and calm and grand — They all were given by God, I know. To fill with a rapture, a joy divine, A tearful bliss, and an exquisite woe. That fair young rose of a heart of mine. That passionate heart of mine. I look deep down in my heart — Ah me ! 'tis a faded rose, A Rose in November. 6i Drooping, unloved, and apart In the year's funereal close. My leaves lie scattered around — Those leaves that were summer's delight — Forgotten of each sweet sound, Forsaken of each sweet sight. Ah me ! in that blithe summer That went so "young to death, How every casual comer Drank fragrance from my breath \ O dews, ye quenched my thirsting With nectar fine and rare; O birds, your hearts were bursting To see me grow so fair. And now, ah! now, There is not a bird on the bough. For bleak is the wind and bare the nest. And frozen the song in the homeless breast. The skies look down With a sullen frown. The shivering trees are lank and brown, No murmur arises from field or town. Thou wilt come to the earth, O spring ; O flowers, ye will jewel the plain j O bird of the glancing wing, Thou wilt wheel thy glad circle again ; O children, the green, green ways Will ring with your shouts of glee ; O brook, through thy murmurous maze Thou wilt leap in the sunshine free. 62 A Forsaken Soul. Thou wilt come to the earth, O spring, In thy virginal bloom divine ; But alas for this faded thing, This poor dead heart of mine ! What joy canst thou bring to this faded thing, This scentless heart of mine. Ah me ! This hopeless heart of mine? A FORSAKEN SOUL* 1STEPT into the sheer night- There was no light. Not one little ray to guide O'er the waste waters wide. Alone, alone, O God, alone ! I did shiver and make moan ; Alone in the measureless night and sea, Alone amid the up-piled years. Foul with blood, blurred with tears. All that have been or shall be — Alone amid Eternity ! * The genesis of this poem was somewhat singular. One summer morning, just after daybreak, three years ago, the author, having passed a night of almost sleepless pain, rose and looked out of the window. He was strangely impressed by the appearance of the heavens — one heavy, sombre cloud hanging solitary in a waste of pale yellow sky. On his returning to bed, about half of the above poem (since slightly altered) was beaten out by an almost unwilling mental process. A Forsaken Soul. 63 Oh, the pitiless brute night In my torn ear shrieked outright, Till I sent a wail of fright, And a sob of sickened pain Again, again Over the weltering main. But in all the blackness wide. Rolled in a slow, massy tide. Above — ^beneath — on every side. Was none replied. Only the echo of my cry. Faint as a sigh. Crawled over the dead sea^ Mocking me. Then did I grope and climb Back to Time — Back to where my body lay. My yet warm clay. With the sightless eyes all wide. And that smile wherewith I died. (Yea, I smiled, for there was wrought In my soul a most rare thought : "Lo, the sweet woman who full oft did swear She loved thee better than her haloed hair. Will somewhere stand and smile and light the sea. Welcoming thee !") Alas for the fleshly frame Wherein I dwelt so long ! There came a rout to lay it out. And show it the uttermost shame. And do it the crowning wrong. 64 A Forsaken Soul. Yea, in mockery of rest, They crossed the hands on the still breast, While their most false tears alway Did profane my dear dead clay. Yea, they shut the stark blind eyes, Softly kissed the clammy brow, And, in cruel woman-wise, Muttered o'er it their sleek lies, Saying, I was "happy now" — Happy, while I waited there In my anguish and despair. Shivering in the midnight air, And cried, and shook the street with din. And none would let me in ! So with ribald tears and sighs. And foul and blasphemous sophistries. They drove me shuddering forth again Into the night and the main ; Leaving my poor flesh to rot In some weed-grown churchyard plot. Dishonoured — dead — forgot. Ah, woe that this should be ! None Cometh forth to me. The grim night breatheth heavy and dead. And the dead sleep. Alone, alone, O God, alone ! I shiver and make piteous moan, Alone in the measureless night and sea, Alone amid the up-piled years, Foul with blood, blurred with tears, All that have been or shall be — Alone amid Eternity ! A Rose on the Altar. 65 A ROSE ON THE ALTAR. LO, on my bed I tossed and turned, Alway I tossed, and startled sleep, Because my spirit greatly yearned. With yearning very sore and deep, Some worthy fruit of life to give To Him by whose dear death I live ! But lo ! in Heaven's supremest place. He sat for ever calm and great; My spirit swooned upon her face In picturing His awful state; And I was altogether weak As those poor tears which stained my cheek. Not mine to chant in mighty rhyme A strain should break the trance of time. And make men's listless hearts and cold Throb with the hero-pulse of old. Not mine, brute stonesoft life to give. To bid a frozen rapture live, With chaste bare limbs and far-off eyes That lull the heart like melodies. Nay, I had nothing fair or meet To lay at those belovbd feet. My love must shrivel in my breast, All impotent and unexpressed. 66 A Rose on the Altar. Then I bethought me in that hour — Within my garden-plot there grows, In maiden bloom, a perfect flower, Tea, a right red and royal rose. I cannot sate my utter drouth Of the rich breathing of her mouth. It is not much to give my King, Yet knowing it to be my all. He will accept the offering. Nor count it wholly poor and small. Then I arose, and lingered not. But sought in haste my garden-plot. And plucked my rose in darkness, led By the full fragrance that she shed ; Clomb the low wall, full light did pass Over the heavy dew-drenched grass. And pushed the great church-portal wide. With heart that fluttered once and died : Then on with faint and tottering pace; But now a moonbeam lit the aisle, And lol the blessfed bleeding Face Did look with a most tender smile. So, falling prone before Him there, I gave Him all my soul in pray'r; Then calmly rose, and did not quail. But, passing through the altar-rail, Just where, amid the shadows deep. One little moonbeam lay asleep. Forth from the bosom of my gown I took my rose and laid it down. Ravenna. 67 Next morn I sought the holy spot, And lo ! my rose — my rose was not ; But while the glory of the sun The pictured panes did overrun, Upon the altar slumbered still That little moonbeam white and chill — Mine own sweet beam, my dear Lord's sign That He of His great love divine Would keep that little rose of mine. So now deep peace my spirit knows. Yea, very calm and gracious rest ; As being sure my blessed rose Is treasured in my Saviour's breast ; And that sweet heart whereon 'tis laid Will keep it that it never fade ; Yea, one day I shall see it there. And therefore death seems \yholly fair. RAVENNA. [The author has taken the liberty, in the following poem, to group the various monuments of Ravenna pictorially, without regard to the order in which they would naturally be visited.] LO, with hushed heart and crouching tiptoe tread, I pace thy streets, gray city of the dead ! Through grass-grown squares, by courts that day by day Moulder in still unglorified decay. By mildewed palaces and fallen fanes, Where now in glistering state the lizard reigns, 68 Ravenna. Bowed 'neath the thoughts of eld, I slowly creep As one that fears to waken them that sleep. Almost I dread to see on either side Faint spectres start, with great pale eyes that chide :— " And who art thou that to our urned gloom. The passionless dim silence of the tomb, Bringest brute echoes from the living years ? Bringest a loud hot heart with hopes and fears — A throbbing heart, that through the changing days Rejoices, weeps, yearns, anguishes, and prays ? Lo, we have ceased from these, and ceased from all ; Thick on our eyes did the great blackness fall ; Yea, and we hate the sun. Thou and thy schemes, Pass on, pass on, and leave us to our dreams." Rest you, immortal dead, and have no fear ; I will not wrong you by my presence here. I come not, I, to criticise and peep ; Rather to dream, to muse — perchance to weep. I come all-weary of the ceaseless strife. The cark, the moil, the vast unrest of life, To bathe my bleeding spirit, faint and sore, In the deep healing memories of yore. No paltry thought shall bring your spirits qualm ; Rest you, oh, rest you, in your coiSned calm. Be still, tumultuous thoughts that surge and roll, And thou put oif thy sandals, O my soul ; Yea, bow thy head in reverent awe profound. The place whereon thou stand'st is holy ground. Ravenna. 69 Here Dante sleeps — ^yea, sleeps — the sleepless breast, That groped amid piled chaos, seeking rest* — Like Noah's raven, thrust from out the ark To droop her tired wing o'er the waters dark — The lidless soul, that gazed with naked eyes On the dread blessedness of Paradise ; That trod unscathed black Hell's reverberate deeps,t The vast, unfathomed soul — yea, here he sleeps. O face of Dante, gaunt and travail-worn, With thy dumb yearning and thy deathless scorn — Pale prophet-face, where, e'en in childhood, fell A gleam of Paradise, a shade of Hell — Thou wilt not grudge that I, the stunted birth. The last-born, sickliest son of feeble earth. Who, in the smoke-wrapt city's feverous fret, Pour out my life in blood and tears and sweat, Toiling to grip, to grip, but not to hold. Price of a sunless soul, the sallow gold — Drink at the fountain of thine eyes and brow Diviner thoughts than earth can give me now ? O life of Dante, grant me this to learn — The fire-tried souls, that anguish, faint, and yearn. Not souls that bask in flattery's shadowed light. Are those that climb to song's supremest height. The courted bard, soft Fashion's perfumed pet, May deftly weave the dainty canzonet ; • Dante was bom at Florence, 1261, and died, in banishment, at Ravenna, 1321. ■)" " The people of Verona, when they saw him in the streets, used to say, 'Eccovi I'uom ch'i stato alt Inferno; See, there is the man that was in Hell.'" — Hero Worship. 70 Ravenna. The ageless, shoreless strain the world that shakes Throbs shuddering forth from a strong heart that breaks. Then, Florence, weep no more beside his urn Whose living body thou didst doom to burn ;* For whose dead dust, which gold nor blood could buy, Thou mourn'dst so long with that great Esau-cry. t God's law, not thine, drove Dante from his home. Lonely as Cain, 'mid stranger-crowds to roam, That, having drunk at the deep fount of tears, His song might blend immortal with the spheres. And now I roam, with dazfed heart and eyes, 'Mid San Vitale's orient pageantries % Onward from pomp to pomp, as in a dream, My footsteps wander, till almost 1 deem A magic wand has wafted me away To some hoar realm beside the gates of day. Whoso shall linger, pensive and alone, 'Neath thy vast vault, O minster of Cologne, Shall feel an effluence of tender balm Sink on his soul with a great Christ-like calm, Till hate that blights, and bitter scorn that sears. Shall melt away in a glad mist of tears. * "In 1772 was discovered, in the archives at Florence, a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive; Talis perveniens igne comburatur sic quad moriatur." — Notes to Ckilde Harold, + ' ' But the next age paid homage almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned his image in a church, and his picture is still one of the idols of their cathedral." — Notes to Childe Harold. X This magnificent basilica, in the pure Byzantine style, was built in the reign of Justinian, on the spot where S, Vitalis suffered martyrdom. Ravenna. 71 Here — marble pomp, rare sheen of golden rays, Priceless bequeathings of embalmed days, Fair phantoms born of chisel and of brush. Splendour to daze, immensity to crush ; But not one breath in all the heavy air To whisper peace, and touch the heart to pray'r. Lo, here old Neptune and his monsters lie ;* Yonder, Augustus lords it in the sky;t There, girt about with pomp of martial pride, Justinian, his fair courtesan beside ;% Honours with gifts of right imperial worth The homeless One who left His peace on earth. Wearied, I turn away, and now, hard by, A monumental column holds mine eye ; A broken pillar, sometime fair to see, But now defiled with all impurity. Gaston de Foix, young darling of romance, Beleaguered with the chivalry of France Ravenna's bristly walls, and backward aye Watched his fierce war-waves burst in shattered spray ; Then, foiled, against united Rome and Spain, Whose succouring hosts now held the fair champaign, * The famous bas-reliefs, in Greek marble, called the "Throne of Neptune," are near the high altar, on the right. + The "Apotheosis of Augustus" is in the vestibule of the sacristy. X The mosaic— singularly well preserved— representing Justinian, surrounded by courtiers and soldiers, and Theodora, with her ladies, presenting consecration offerings, adorns the choir. "The features of Theodora — of that comedian who passed from a theatrical throne to the throne of the world— have still a wanton air that recalls her long debaucheries."— Valery. 72 Ravenna. Rushed to the battle o'er the wind-swept corn, On the dear Saviour's Resurrection-morn.* Yea, Easter-morn, — a world of murmurous bowers j The warm wind fainted with the breath of flowers. And every new-born leaf on hedge or tree Fluttered its wings in a green ecstasy. No sheltered nook, but o'er her fledgeling young Some happy mother softly chirped and sung, And one half feared the lark from Heaven's mid-height Had dropt stone-dead, slain by his sheer delight Yea, leaf and flower and wild-bird understood God made them all, and saw that they were good. God's fondling arms round His fair earth were flung. And she laughed up to Him as glad and young As when, beside the brink of Pison's stream. The two first lovers wandered in a dream. Then o'er the murdered flowers, 'neath the scared sky. Massed myriads clashed in earthquake, and a cry Quenched the birds' carol, and the blue vault rent — A great and terrible cry, wherein were blent All sounds that thrill the clamorous void of Hell — Sob, curse, and groan, and wail, and manaic-yell. Then lances thrust, and sabres swept and shore, And ravens sniffed afar the sweet fresh gore. And goodly lives, dear-bought by mothers' pains, Sank into the soft earth like April rains ; Yea, twenty thousand souls God died to save, Cain-smitten Cains, weltered in one heaped grave. Easter Day, April nth, 1512. Ravenna. 73 Then, when in order from the charnel-plain, Beaten, not broken, moved the hosts of Spain, As some wild beast that sees its longed-for prey, Wounded to death, creep to its hole away, With clenchfed teeth, and in his eyes a glare Of bloody lust and devilish despair, Full on the moving mass of human rock Broke young De Foix in one last frenzied shock ; Then, backward hurled upon the trampled sod. His lightning soul flashed forth to meet its God. Onward I pass, and dream, and muse, and gaze. While deepen aye my wonder and amaze. I view the palace-wall, massy and great, Where once Theodoric held barbaric state. And afterward, with ever-weakening sway. The exarchs ruled until the Lombards' day.* Lo, o'er the Alps, in dense, innumerous bands. Streamed the wild Goths into the lush lowlands. And broke in many a fratricidal fight Bold Odoacer's myriad-millioned might, Whose locust-swarms had conquered and possessed Honorius' card-built empire of the West. I visit the fair shrine by Galla vowed [loud, (When the waves hissed, and the mad winds shrieked And Death glared in her face, hungry and stark) To him who steered to port her shattered bark.t * "The building at Ravenna called Theodoric's Palace, but more probably that of the late exarchs."— ^u/c. ■t* The Basilica of S. Giovanni Evangelista was founded in 425 by the Empress Galla Placidia, in fulfilment of a vow made in a tempest during her voyage from Constantinople to Ravenna. 74 Ravenna. I see the Arian Church of the Gold Sky,* And softly tread where the Polentas lie.f I scan the crucifix, so quaintly swathed, { That oozy gouts of bloody sweat embathed, That day when cannon-roar and battle-shout Thundered and thrilled Ravenna's walls without. At length the great Goth's tomb is left behind. Fades the hoar city, and the freshening wind Blows on my fevered face, wet, salt, and free — Dusk umbrage overhead ; before, the sea. O pine-tree gloom, O immemorial wood, § That through the changing years unchanged hast stood, Beside whose eld our oak of patriarch might Is but the upstart fungus of a night ; Ravenna's pines, whose pennons flutter brave On soil hard won from the all-conquering wave, Where in old time Augustus' galleys lay. Slow-moving with the motion of the bay ; || * Chiesa de Cielo Aureo, built by Theodoric in the beginning of the sixth century, as the cathedral of the Arian bishops. + The Polenta family, so celebrated for their hospitality to Dante, and for the fate of Francesca da Rimini, are all buried in the Church of San Francesco. X In the Church of S. Domenico is an ancient wooden crucifix, curiously covered with fine linen in imitation of human skin, which is said to have sweated blood during the battle of Ravenna under Gaston de Foix. § The Pineta, the oldest forest in Italy, extends along the shores of the Adriatic for a distance of twenty-five miles. 11 At a very early period alluvial deposits from the Po began to accumulate upon the coast. The port of Augustus gradually filled up, and the forest of pines which supplied the Roman fleet with timber usurped the spot where that fleet had before anchored, and spread far along the shore, now becoming more and more distant from the city. Ravenna. 7 5 Ravenna's pines, amid whose sombre boughs Dante hath walked, and felt upon his brows,* Hot with the thoughts that made the scared world reel, Heaven's sweet dank breath in blessed dalliance steal, And, deep-embathfed in thy shadowy calm, Thy silence sweet as any chanted psalm. Hath flung him down beside some gnarlM bole. While the world-weight that crushed upon his soul (As when his mother's fingers smoothed his hair) Hath passed in tears and some unspoken pray'r ; Ravenna's pines, whose murmurings fill the page Of rare Boccaccio, fancy's master-mage ; t That, after him, our Dryden's strong light line Hath made for aye a glory and a shrine ; Ravenna's pines, where England's tropic bard. Lonely and tempest-tossed and passion-scarred, Hath trod so oft the green elastic turf. And sniffed the salt, fresh odour of the surf, And watched the waves of Hadria gleam and dance — Ocean his one true love and life's romance — And as his listless footsteps lounged along. Hath woven snatches of the flippant song, Through whose gay music ofttimes, with a start. We catch the throbbings of his hot quick heart j J * One part of the forest still retains the name of the Vicolo de' Poeti, from a tradition that it is the spot where Dante loved to meditate. \ Boccaccio made the Pineta the scene of his singular tale, Nasiagio degli OnesH, the incidents of which have been appropriated by Dryden in his Theodore and Honoria. % Byron stayed at Ravenna for more than two years, and loved the Pineta with the deepest devotion. During his sojourn at Ravenna he wrote, among other poems, Canto V. of Don Juan. 76 Ravenna. Ravenna's pines, voiceful and wide and wild, To your dusk arms I come, like a tired child. 'Neath its great freight of awful thoughts oppressed, My spirit yearns for thy green shadowy rest. Screen the sharp light from my bewildered eyes. Croon in mine ears thy leafy lullabies. Till kind forgetfulness my spirit steep, And my heart sink in a deep dreamless sleep. Igppl AH, LITTLE MAIDEN! AH, little maiden, frank and fair, With rosy lips apart, With sunbeams glinting in your hair. And sunshine at your heart ! Glad sounds about your senses rise, That have no voice for me; Blithe visions dance before your eyes, That mine may never see. And are the flowers so rare, love? And is the day so bright? For me the boughs are bare, love. And chill descends the night. Ah, me ! I mind me of a time, Deep in the buried past. When I, too, dwelt in that sweet clime. Wherein your lot is cast; When fragrance floated on the breeze, When heaven bent blue above, And every wild-bird in the trees Sang still of hope and love. 78 Spell-Bound. Dead are those flowers so rare, love, And dimmed that day so bright. For me the boughs are bare, love, And chill descends the night. Grim clouds came up, and overspread The heavens with sullen grey; The roses drooped, the fragrance fled, The breezes died away. And now, of all the happy throng. One bird is left alone. To sing a broken-hearted song Of joys for ever flown. Dead are those flowers so rare, love. And dimmed that day so bright. For me the boughs are bare, love. And chill descends the night. S P E L L-B O U N D. OVER a shoreless ocean. Over a waveless sea. Urged by a mystic motion, Psyche, I float with thee. Never a sail is granted. Never a helm to guide — Only the bark enchanted. Only the charmbd tide. Spell-Bound. 7 9 Ocean to us discovers All that his caverns hide. Greeting the spell-bound lovers, Phantoms about us glide. Flickering deeps are dimming Faces as sea-flowers fair. Syrens in opiate hymning Harp on their azure hair. Light of unearthly seeming Mingles the wave and sky. Isles in a poppied dreaming Dawn on the sight and die. Winds that, with faint caresses. Hover about our ship. Swoon on your drowsy tresses. Die on your languid lip. Over a shoreless ocean. Over a faery sea. Urged by a mystic motion, Pysche, I float with thee. Never a sail is granted, Never a helm to guide — Only the bark enchanted. Only the charmed tide. 8o A Child's Heart. A CHILD'S HEART. GIVE me thy heart, O little child, Just for one golden hour; Thine eyes by passion undefiled, Thy soft cheek's peachy dower. Give me thy curls that float and fall In tangles sweet and wild; But more than all, oh, more than all, Give me thy heart, O child ! Oh, glad child's heart! Give me thy heart of careless sun, And I will give to thee My present schemes, my triumphs won, My dreams that might not be. My precious hoard of garnered thought Piled in the fruitful years. My worldly wisdom, dearly bought With blood, and toil, and tears. Oh, glad child's heart! He gives his curls a saucy shake. And blithely darts away; Not all the promises I make Will tempt the child to stay. Joe to the Rescue. 8i For if he lent for one sweet hour That priceless boon I lack, Full well he knows no earthly power Could make me give it back. Oh, glad child's heart ! JOE TO THE RESCUE. I SHALL never forget till I say good-bye How the darned old tinder did blaze and fly ; It was touch-and-go for me and Brown To carry the poor young mother down — Stiff as a statter, all deadly white. Yet hugging her new-born baby tight ; And my heart stopped short when I heard 'em cry, " There 's another little 'un left to die." The smoke rolled up like the reek of hell, And the rotten rafters cracked and fell. I clears my eyes, and I looks, and lo ! One foot on the ladder, I sees old Joe. 'Twas a madman's game, and me and Jack We grips his arm, and we holds him back : " It's death, old feller — " " It may be so, But it ain't no harm to try," says Joe. Lord ! it was summat to split your ears, The laughing and sobbing, the shrieks and cheers. 82 Ah, May -time, Green and Tender ! As, blackened and bruised, but safe and sound. Steps Joe with the little 'un round by round. He kind o' sighed, and he kind o' smiled, And he says to himself, as he kissed the child, " Dead, twenty years, my youngest Jim, And he 'd just the curls and the cheeks of him." AH, MAY-TIME, GREEN AND TENDER! AH, May-time, green and tender, Dear May-time in thy tomb! — After the dark, the splendour, After the blight, the bloom — When through the perfect weather. Beneath the trancfed sky. We wandered on together, My love, my love and I. Upsprung the lark, and drowned us In floods of mystic mirth ; The wild flowers all around us Burst into fragrant birth. But oh! what anthem swelling. What breath of holy flowers. So rich as love-thoughts welling From those pure hearts of ours? Oh, "my Love ! 83 O winter icy-hearted ! I watched the last rose die ; The sunshine has departed, The fount of song runs dry. And still from dark to day-time, My heart and I commune Of joy that came in May-time, And vanished ere the June. OH, MY LOVE! OH, my love, my queen, my fay ! With the glamour of her eyes. She has looked the blue away From the summer skies. In no flower that blossometh Cares my soul for scent to seek. Since in little pants her breath Wandered o'er my cheek. Skylark, with thy Bacchant lay Cleave no more the dome apart. Every word I heard her say Trembles at my heart. Oh, my love, my queen, my fay! In the meshes of her hair She entrapped my heart one day — Sweetest ! keep it there. 84 Before Parting. BEFORE PARTING. OH, love me with your soul, ray sweet, Just for a little space ; Let our two spirits, shuddering, meet In fast and fond embrace. That I, when memories o'er me roll, May say — For one sweet hour She loved me — loved me, flesh and soul. With every pulse's power. For love's a flower of rare perfume. That bourgeons free and well. But ah ! they wrong its dainty bloom Who call it immortelle. For when to-night your lips are free. And all our kisses o'er. Oh, we will love eternally — For three long months or more. Then I shall find that other eyes Can melt, and glow, and shine; And you, that other lips have lies As passionate as mine. For love's a flower of rare perfume, That bourgeons free and well. But ah ! they wrong its dainty bloom Who call it immortelle. The Magic Key. 85 THE MAGIC KEY. RIPPLE and foam, O streamlet, Dimple and dance along ! Your accents are familiar As mother's cradle song. Cloudlet, wandering lonely Over the waste of blue, You tell me all your secrets, And I tell mine to you. Ah, little maiden linnet. Embowered in yonder tree, D' ye think to hide your love-thoughts From one who loves like me? O sunshine and starshine. And tender twilight hour, And wide-eyed cottage-children, And tree and hedgerow-flower. You know that I love my darling, And love is the magic key That opens the heart of nature, And bares her soul to me. 86 Snowflake and Avalanche. SNOWFLAKE AND AVALANCHE. A Parable. ONE winter morning, blank and cold, A seed is buried in the mould; And now from out the heart of earth A slender emerald shoot hath birth. It sucks the sun, it drinks the dew, It ripens to the russet hue ; Then comes the reaper, blithe and fain. And gathers in the blessed grain. Then, sow, my lads, ay, sow, my lads; The gentle thought will grow, my lads ; Small at first and little worth, Sunned by heaven, and fed by earth. Downward root, and upward shoot, Lo ! it ripens into fruit ! Sow the seed, and let it lie — Not a single grain shall die; Fair and yellow, full and mellow. Waves the harvest by-and-by ! Behold, on some chill Alpine height, A little snowflake, soft and white. Slides downward in its silent course. And, sliding, ever gathers force; The Lady of my Dreams. 87 It gathers force, it takes a form, And now, a voice of wreck and storm. It rushes, crushes, thunders down In earthquake on the doomed town. E'en so, my lads, e'en so, my lads, The little fault will grow, my lads; SHght at first, and soft and white, Lo ! it gathers day and night, Gathers, hardens, shapes, and grows; Solid ice, not phant snows. Massy, dread, beyond control, With mountain-weight and thunder-roll, Shaking, quaking, bursting, breaking. It crushes down the hapless soul. THE LADY OF MY DREAMS. 0' ^NLY in dreams she is mine. My marvellous lady bright; She is born of the breath divine That breathes from the lips of night; She dwells in the phantom land. Where the body hath no control. And she leads me along by the river of song. Through the Eden of the soul. To what shall I liken her face? There is nothing of earth so fair; In its simple and tender grace It falls on the heart like a prayer. 88 A Good-bye. I gaze in her great child's-eyes, And lo ! in my sin-soiled years, I am washed again from each shadow of stain In the fount of repentant tears. Her voice hath a golden chime, As a river that, long ago, Through a fair forgotten clime, Slid with a charmed flow. And the laugh on my lady's lips Is music dainty-dear, As wild flower-bells in the dreaming dells That only the fays may hear. In the work-day ways I tread, She hath neither place nor part; Never her soft dove's head Shall nestle against my heart. But I know when the pang is past. And the flesh is flung aside, [day, She will walk with me aye through the deepening Psyche, the one, my bride. A GOO D-B YE. FARE-THEE-WELL, my sweetest sweet ! Fare-thee-well, my dearest heart ! Love me, sweet, till next we meet, Kiss me, love, before we part, Kiss before we part. A Good-bye. 89 One upon the dainty brow, One upon the ripe-red lips, (Oh, the rosebud mouth !), and now Where the little dimple dips. Where the dimple dips. Ah, but it is sweet to woo Such a winsome pet as you ! Sweet to meet, and sad to part — Fare-thee-well, my dearest heart ! Fare-thee-well ! 'Tis hard to go — What, the tears ? how fast they spring ! Sweet, and do you love me so? Little faithful-hearted thing, Darling little thing ! Is it then such cruel pain ? Closer, closer to my breast; Kiss, and kiss, and kiss again. Kissing stanches tears the best, Kissing stops them best. Still one more, and one more yet — Fare-thee-well, my little pet. Sad to part, and glad to meet — Fare-thee-well, my sweetest sweet ! 9° Come to me. Maiden. COME TO ME, MAIDEN. MAIDEN, ah ! why dost thou linger so long. Breath of my minstrelsy, pulse of my song, Vurginal birth of the soul divine. To purify, perfect, and blend with mine? Sweet, I have sought thee in vain — in vain, In the floating dance, and the dreaming strain, When the amorous air was faint to death With the drowsy waftings of hair and breath. I have sought thee, sweet, in the wood's great calm, In the silence holy as seraph-psalm. And my heart cried out, if the wind but passed, " My love, she cometh, at last — at last !" Sweet, I have sought thee in every spot. Yearned for thee, prayed for thee, found thee not ; And my heart is a rose that droopeth chill. When the wind is loud and the birds are still. Come to me, maiden, this May-morn prime, In the nesting season, the mating time. When the fields around and the sky above Are all a-tremble with happy love ! Come to me, sweet — I have sought thee long — Breath of my minstrelsy, pulse of my song, Virginal birth of the soul divine. To purify, perfect, and blend with mine ! A Charm. 91 A CHARM. DEEP in yonder drawer's recess Lies a little silken tress, Just a tiny thread of gold, dipt in dear dead days of old. Ere I seek my bed at night, Forth I take that ringlet bright. Dream, and sigh, and breathe a pray'r O'er my lock of maiden-hair. Through the garish hours of day, I can mingle with the gay. Bask in rays from shining eyes. Lightly whisper light-love sighs. But when day is dead and past, And I sit alone at last. Spectre-like, I ponder there O'er my lock of maiden-hair. Ghostly-grey before mine eyes, Waste and wan, the future lies. Present pleasure — that has flown. But the past is still mine own. Phantoms, gliding from the tomb. Press my fingers in the gloom. Blessbd ghosts my musings share. As I hold my lock of hair. 92 Your Presence makes the Spring. Back the mist-wreaths furl and fly, That obscure my spirit's sky; Glad and green the landscapes glow In the land of long-ago. Deep in verdure I recline, Warm white fingers clasped in mine; Life is young, and hope is fair, As I kiss my lock of hair. Dear old fellow, when the call Comes for me, that comes for all, — When the tired heart, forced to roam. Hears the welcome summons home, — Ere they lay me down to rest, Place my ringlet on my breast; Evil dreams that charm will scare. Simple spell — a lock of hair ! YOUR PRESENCE MAKES THE SPRING. IT was the birth-morn of the Spring, The young year's festal-day. Uprose the laureate lark to sing His wonted triumph lay. "Ah, lark," I said, "in vain you try. You lack the heart to sing. Like me, you feel she is not by — The Springtide is not Spring." Your Presence makes the Spring. 93 Ah, sweet, my own, my darling. My bonny winsome thing! Your absence makes the Winter, Your presence makes the Spring. No cloud, no cloud in all the sky, A world of waving green ; Hedgerow and tree all silently Had shimmered into sheen. One little violet raised its head. The first-born of the year; "Go back, go back, poor flower," I said, " Our darling is not here." Ah, sweet, my own, my darling, My bonny winsome thing ! Your absence makes the Winter, Your presence makes the Spring. In bitter gusts swept through the wood November's tyrant breeze; Shivering, and lank, and hopeless, stood The poor discrowned trees. A boding frown hung black and drear On Nature's mother-brow. I only said (for you were near), "Ah, yes, 'tis Springtime now!" Ah, sweet, my own, my darling. My bonny winsome thing ! Your absence makes the Winter, Your presence makes the Spring. G 94 Words. WORDS AH me ! these terrible tongues of ours ! Are we half aware of their mighty powers ? Do we ever trouble our heads at all Where the jest may strike or the hint may fall? The latest chirp of that " little bird," That spicy story "you must have heard" — We jerk them away in our gossip rash, And somebody's glass, of course, goes smash. What fames have been blasted and broken, What pestilent sinks been stirred, By a word in lightness spoken, By only an idle word ! A sneer — a shrug — a whisper low — They are poisoned shafts from an ambushed bow ; Shot by the coward, the fool, the knave, They pierce the mail- of the great and brave. Vain is the buckler of wisdom or pride To turn the pitiless point aside ; The lip may curl with a careless smile. But the heart drips blood — drips blood the while. Ah me ! what hearts have been broken. What rivers of blood been stirred, By a word in malice spoken, By only a bitter word ! Nest in my Heart, my Wild-bird. 95 A kindly word and a tender tone — To only God is their virtue known ! They can lift from the dust the abject head, They can turn a foe to a friend instead ; The heart close-barred with passion and pride Will fling at their knock its portal wide, And the hate that blights and the scorn that sears Will melt in the fountain of childlike tears. What ice-bound griefs have been broken. What rivers of love been stirred, By a word in kindness spoken. By only a gentle word ! NEST IN MY HEART, MY WILD-BIRD. NEST in my heart, my wild-bird. Nest in my heart's green tree ! Sing till the bough and blossom Drop with thy melody. There is the fragrant covert. There is the shrine for thee ; Nest in my heart, my wild-bird, Nest in my heart's green tree 1 Breathe on my heart, my zephyr, Breathe on the sleep-bound strings ! Wake them to tender throbbings, Wonderful whisperings; 96 My Star. Soft as a cushat's bosom, Strong as a skylark's wings; Breathe on my heart, my zephyr. Breathe on the sleep-bound strings ! Flow through my heart, my brooklet, Flow with a faery tide ! Willows shall droop to kiss thee. Birds on thy banks shall hide; Spirits shall hover round thee — Flowers that for love have died ; Flow through my heart, my brooklet. Flow with a faery tide ! MY STAR. THERE shines a star in )'onder sky For me, and only me; In all the world none other eye Its tender light may see. Though every fire of prouder boast Forget or fear to shine. It will not leave its faithful post. That little star of mine. For ere God called my love that day. And took her for His own, She promised me to watch alway From His great jewelled throne; You'll Never Guess. 97 And every night she lights that star, And hangs it in the dark — A beacon shining clear and far To guide my storm-tossed bark. I have no thought, no fear, no care, Whatever chance betide — My own sweet star is shining there. Serene and tender-eyed. E'en on my shut and dreaming eyes I feel its radiance shed — Such mystic gleam as glorifies The white face of the dead. YOU'LL NEVER GUESS. 1KN0W two eyes — two soft brown eyes, Two eyes as sweet and dear As ever danced with gay surprise, Or melted with a tear. In whose fair rays a heart may bask — Their shadowed rays serene — But, little maid, you must not ask Whose bonny eyes I mean. I know a voice of faery tone, Like brooklet in the June, That sings, to please itself alone, , A little old-world tunej 98 Some One Thinks of Me. Whose accents haunt the listening ear, And will not leave it free; But I shall never tell you, dear, Whose accents they may be. I know a golden-hearted maid For whom I built a shrine, A quiet nook of murmurous shade. Deep in this heart of mine ; And in that leafy cool recess To make her home she came ; But oh! you'd never, never guess That little maiden's name. SOME ONE THINKS OF ME. FAR away, far away, O'er the dim waste sea, When the morn breaks, cold and gray. Some one thinks of me. When she lifts her trustful eyes To her Father in the skies. True and tender thoughts arise — Some one prays for me. Ah ! I see her as she sits. Knitting on her knee; O'er her face a soft smile flits — Some one thinks of me. Some One Thinks of Me. 99 Now the shadows round her creep, And she lays her down to sleep ; Peaceful is her rest and deep — Some one dreams of me. Toiling hard throughout the year For my meagre fee, How can I be sad of cheer? Some one's true to me. Every penny that I earn Hastes the hour of my return To the cot beside the burn — Some one waits for me. Chafe, O sea, in sullen pride. Bound in boisterous glee — Can your world of waves divide Some one's love from me? Speed, O Time, with fleeter flight, Haste that morn of dear delight. When, in robes of maiden-white. Some one marries me. 'Tis Love that makes the Summer. 'TIS LOVE THAT MAKES THE SUMMER. 1SIT within this perfect mom, This morn of golden hours, While ever to my sense are borne Sweet wafts from hidden flowers. But June for me hath no rare sound, Nor gladsome sight to see. For ah ! the bark sails outward-bound That bears my love from me. Oh, give me one dear comer. And let bird and bloom depart; For 'tis love that makes the Summer, In the fond, true heart. Yet, heart o' mine, look up and sing ! The days will hurry past ; His bonny bark with wet white wing Will waft him home at last. And, sitting near the true and dear, No more, no more to part, For me will bloom the live-long year. Glad summer in the heart. Oh, give me one dear comer, And let bird and bloom depart; For 'tis love that inakes the Summer In the fond, true heart. The Matter Ended There. THE MATTER ENDED THERE. WHEN the lavish Spring had squandered All her wealth of bloom and shade, Down a leafy lane I wandered, And I met a little maid. Oh, she set my bosom burning With her modest, winsome air! But she left me at the turning — And the matter ended there. But I grew a frequent comer In that little lonely lane, And, ere Spring joined hands with Summer, I had met the maid again. But, O tranquil sky above me. You beheld a life's despair, For she said she could not love me — And the matter ended there. There were dainty frost-flowers freighting Every blade of churchyard grass, And the village-girls were waiting For a bridal-train to pass. And they had not long to linger Ere there came a blushing pairj And the ring was on her finger — And the matter ended there. An Old Man's Thoughts. AN OLD MAN'S THOUGHTS. OH, give me fifty years ago, The world's ecstatic spring — The joy, the mystery, the glow. The bloom in every thing : Give me a plough or shepherd's crook, A suit of home-spun stout, And you shall have my banking-book. My wisdom, and my gout. Ah me, the lanes in olden time ! The hawthorn's magic breath. The luscious waftings of the lime. The violet's rapturous death ! The songsters' hearts were drunk with June, They swooned on wing or bough ; Alas ! the birds are out of tune, The flowers are scentless now. Ah me, the girls of long ago ! How tender-bright they were 1 What wafts of fragrance used to bow From mouth and floating hair ! What magic in their dew-dark eyes ! What thrill in touch and tone I Ah, maiden's smiles and maiden's sighs. Where has your meaning flown? No Admittance. 103 Aye, you and I grow old, poor earth ; Our gladsome days are done. Our Christmastide has lost its mirth, Our June has lost its sun. Our eyes are dim, our pulse is low. Our songs are all unsung — Ah me, for fifty years ago, When both of us were young ! NO ADMITTANCE. OLD friend, my heart is sick and sore Of things beneath the sun; The oily knave, the kindly bore, The never-weary dun. Thank heaven! there's one small corner still Where, come what must or may, We two can shut ourselves at will. And keep the world at bay. The world may smile, the world may sneer — It 's all the same to me ; I've double-locked my heart, my dear. And given you the key. They peer at crevices and chinks. They knock, and ring, and roar- In vain; for no one ever thinks Of answering the door. I04 A Pair of Lovers. And so we take our ease, we two, And smoke our yard of clay, And laugh to hear the baffled crew Go sulkily away. The world may smile, the world may sneer- It 's all the same to me ; I've double-locked my heart, my dear, And given you the key. A PAIR OF LOVERS. 'IVTEATH vistas green and shady, i\ I watch them wandering now — As sweet a knight and lady As ever whispered vow ; A youth with eager flashes From blue, undaunted eyes ; A maid 'neath whose long lashes A tender dream-world lies. The air with love is laden This luscious eve of May; Well may he urge the maiden To speed the bridal-day. Shall caution's cold upbraiding Two loving souls dispart Till spring is past, and fading The bloom of cheek and heart? The Heart's Summer. 105 He argues well and bravely, With swift impulsive tongue ; She answers, smiling gravely, "We're both so very young. You know I love you dearly, But, darling, we must wait. For I'm not seven nearly, And you are only eight !" THE HEART'S SUMMER. 1 ROAM ED 'neath fragrant arches, 'Neath twinkling colonnades, Of limes and tender larches, And whispering chestnut-shades. Right joyous sang on every spray Some bird whose heart was full of May ; My feet sank deep in golden bloom. My senses fainted with perfume ; And yet to me 'twas winter drear — Thou wert not near. The streams and meres were lying Fast-bound in icy death; The weary wind was sighing A dirge beneath his breath; The shivering trees were lank and bare ; No strain of songster stirred the air; io6 Dead Love. Poor Nature's heart with woe was bowed For Summer sleeping in her shroud ; — But oh ! to me 'twas Junetide cheer — For thou wert near ! DEAD LOVE. AH, woe that Love is dead, Young Love that was wholly dear! Mute he lies on the bed; The light from his eyes hath fled, And the cheek that was blossom-red Is shrunk and drear. Call him — he will not hear. O Love, thou wert warm and sweet, And life is cold and stern ! We kiss thy listless feet, And thy breast that hath no heat, While our quivering lips repeat, "Return, return To the empty hearts that yearn." Alas, our hearts are dry; We have no more tears to weep ! There cometh no reply; The fringe of his faded eye Dead on his cheek doth lie. Bury him deep; He will not wake from sleep. The Love we leave Behind. lo-j THE LOVE WE LEAVE BEHIND. THERE 'S a glamour of turquoise around and above, A-flash in the wave and a-dream in the dome; Ah me, for the silvery wings of a dove To waft me away to the land that I love ! Ah me, in the green lanes of England to roam, Or to sit in the old chimney-corner at home ! Ah me, for the true and fond and kind ! Ah me, for the love I leave behind ! Blithe childhood fleets by like the swallows that dart In the splendour and bloom of the first summer da:y ; 'Tis over — and now from the dear ones to part ; With their kiss on our lips and their looks in our heart, We shoulder our knapsack, and up and away — It 's only the cowards that linger and stay. But ah, for the true and fond and kind ! And ah, for the love we leave behind 1 There's a mission for each of us under the sun — God gives us a part in His purpose and plan ; In the battle of life there are deeds to be done, There are heights to be scaled, there is fame to be won, And each with the high-beating heart of a man Will long for the peril and praise of the van. But ah, for the true and fond and kind. The yearning hearts we must leave behind ! io8 The Bloom of the Heart. As, toiling and trusting, our way we pursue, New friendships will breathe o'er it bloom and delight ; Thank God, there are eyes with the soul looking through, There are voices whose ring tells the metal is true, The heart-throbs are tender and fearless and right ; May none of us lack them in danger or spite ! But ah, for the old and true and kind. The first best love that we left behind ! THE BLOOM OF THE HEART. UNDER the blue of the mid-May sky. Under the shadow of beech and lime. Watching cloud-shallops drift idly by. Free from the thraldom of fate and time ; Lulled by the murmur of breeze and stream, Twitter of songster, flutter of spray. That sweetly blend with the waking dream, And whisper one magical word alway ; Held by the spell of an exquisite face, A voice that is dearer than all things dear. Ah, but the world is a fairy place In the bloom of the heart, the May of the year ! Sitting alone in the waning light, In the dead November's leaden dearth, Watching the mists rise ghostly-white. And blend with the shadows, and quench the earth ; Hand and Glove. 109 Musing for aye on the Might-have-been — Sweet Might-have-been that may not be ! — The tender hopes and the fancies green That faded and fluttered from life's fair tree ; Haunted alway by a vanished face, A voice that is hushed in the midnight drear, Ah, but the world is a weary place In the gloom of the heart, the gray of the year ! HAND AND GLOVE. IN the casket of my treasures. In my hoard of miser-gold — Ghosts of gladness, wraiths of pleasures, Wrecks of sunken hopes of old — With my mother's words of blessing. And my sister's ringlet bright — Dear beyond my heart's assessing. Lies a little glove of white. Ah, wee white glove, ah, wee white glove, I kiss you o'er and o'er! Ah, whiter hand of my lost love, I ne'er shall kiss you more ! Tears may flow for friends departed — Gracious, tender, easeful tears Consecrate the faithful-hearted Passed beyond the bourn of years ; H no If I must Love. But what comfort can I borrow From that fountain kind and free, For the love I meet to-morrow, Who is dead, ah, dead to me? Ah, wee white glove, ah, wee white glove, I kiss you o'er and o'er ! Ah, whiter hand of my lost love, I ne'er shall kiss you more ! IF I MUST LOVE. IF I must love as lovers love in story, Let no false witch-fire tempt my soul astray ; Let me adore the star of purest glory That ever hushed the night to gaze and pray. Be her young heart a shrine of tender greenness. Where glad hopes sing, mild charities breathe sweet ; Stained by no high-road dust of pride or meanness. But dimpled o'er with prints of children's feet. Fair, too, must be the casket for my jewel — Sweet hair, sweet eyes, lips sweet all sweets above ; Then, be the maiden kind or be she cruel, I shall have loved the thing God made for love. O Queen of all the Roses. 1 1 1 O QUEEN OF ALL THE ROSES. QUEEN of all the roses, Red marvel of the May, Breathing in sighs ecstatic Thy luscious heart away; There's only one thing sweeter In all the fragrant South — The mouth of my belovfed, Her sweet, sweet mouth, O star of my devotion, Of softer, purer light Than all thy lustrous sisters That consecrate the night; Two orbs I know diviner — But two beneath the skies — The eyes of my belovfed. Her sweet, sweet eyes. O voice of deathless passion, O bird with strain of gold, That mourn'st through all the ages Thy hapless love a-cold; One only thing more faithful In life or love hath part — The heart of my belovbd. Her true, true heart. 112 So Shy. SO SHY. AH, bonny golden-throated bird, Embowered in hawthorn-spray, I know your little' heart is stirred With ecstasy to-day; And well I know what makes your song With rapture overflow — Your own true-love has loved you long, And now he's told you so. " Sweet, my sweet, I love you " — Whisper low and dear. How its tender music Rippled in your ear ! Oh, happy little song-bird. More happy than you know, To have a love that loves you. And dares to tell you so ! O little bird, a love is mine. With heart of loyal gold. As ever made itself a shrine One sacred name to hold. But oh! he is so shy, so shy. So young and shy, sweet bird ! He follows me with downcast eye. And never says a word. "Sweet, my sweet, I love you" — Whisper low and dear. My First Offer. 113 Will its tender music Ripple in my ear ? Oh, wretched little maiden — How wretched none may know- To have a love who loves her, And dares not tell her so! MY FIRST OFFER. MY love ! by all beholders She was courted, petted, graced; She had lace about her shoulders. And a sash enshrined her waist. And I'm well aware, in saying That her eyes were deeply blue, I'm a long way from conveying Any notion of their hue. My peerless, peerless prize, My dainty, dainty fair, With the red, red lips, and the blue, blue eyes. And the yellow, yellow hair! When I told her of my passion, She would listen all the while In a sweet complacent fashion. With a never-changing smile. So I said, "It's wrong oi you, love. Thus to torture me with doubt," And I shook my placid true-love Till her big blue eyes fell out. 114 -All about a Little Bird. My peerless, peerless prize, My dainty, dainty fair, With the red, red lips, and the blue, blue eyes. And the yellow, yellow hair! One bright orb I keep as token, In my trouser-pocket yet. Of the vows that I have spoken. And can nevermore forget. But I feel 't were morbid folly Any longer to adore — O my love ! she was a dolly, And her price was three-and-four. My peerless, peerless prize. My dainty, dainty fair, With the red, red lips, and the blue, blue eyes. And the yellow, yellow hair ! ALL ABOUT A LITTLE BIRD. IT was not in the bloomy May, It was not in the dimply Spring, But deep in the leaden gray Of the new year's bitterest day, That a sweet little bird that had lost her way, A tiny feathery thing. Lightly perched on my heart's bare spray (Poor little bird, she had lost her way !) And folded her downy wing. And chirruped and sung on my heart's bare spray. Folding her soft wee wing. Fie on Lovers! 115 Sitting alone and apart, Her notes rang clear and keen, And lo ! with a strange sweet start. An exquisite shuddering smart, Each unborn bud in my frozen heart. Pent in its deeps unseen. Flashed to the light, a quivering dart (Each yearning bud in my frozen heart), And thrilled into poignant green ; And now she nests in my leafy heart. Embowered in the shadowy green. FIE ON LOVERS! OH, such troops of gallants gay. Vowing faith to little May! May, the laughing brown-eyed witch, Orphan of the banker rich. Billets-doux by every post, Verses (worse than mine almost). Rings — for which she hopes they pay — Shower upon the heiress May. Hark! a little bird makes moan, "Gold hath wings, and May's is flown!" Out on lovers ! Fie, oh, fie ! Erst so bold, and now so shy! ii6 In the Valley. Twenty whispered, "Bid me hope, Else to-night I buy a rope ! " Now but one is left to say, "Be a poor man's treasure, May." Soft in his her wee hand liesj Laughter brims her roguish eyes; While her accents lightly run, "Wear the love your faith has won; But, the whisper people heard — 'Twas a fibbing little bird. Darling, do not turn away, Though I'm still the heiress May." IN THE VALLEY. OH, come with me, my darling, for there is no light, And I shiver weakly, standing on the verge of night; And I want a hand to lead me, and to press my own. Oh, I cannot face the blackness alone, alone. Oh, come with me, my darling, and I will not fear. For your strength has propt my weakness for many a year. Though not one poor star-beam quiver on the coal-black tide, I will walk the waters smiling at my brave love's side. My One Friend. 117 Oh, clasp me closer, closer, I slip from your hold. There are hands that clutch me, drag me, in the mist and cold. Dear God in Heaven, have pity; nay, hearken my moan; He hears not — O my darling, alone, alone. MY ONE FRIEND. I LOVED him in my dawning years. Far years divinely dim ; My blithest smiles, my hottest tears, Were evermore for him. My dreaming when the day began, The latest thought I had. Was still some little loving plan To make my darling glad. They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles That other children wear; To me his face in frowns or smiles Was never aught but fair. They said that self was all his goal. He knew no thought beyond ; To me no living human soul Was half so true and fond. Full many a love was mine ere now, In life's capricious May, And many a lightly-whispered vow The breezes bore away. ii8 Can she make a Pie? But, looking back on friends betrayed, And sweethearts left to rue, I yet can say, " In shine or shade He ever found me true." In love's eclipse, in friendship's dearth, In grief and feud and bale. My heart has learnt the priceless worth Of one that cannot fail. And, come what must, or come what may. Nor love, nor praise, nor pelf Shall tempt my faith from thee to stray, My sweet, my own — Myself. CAN SHE MAKE A PIE.? A MATTER-OF-FACT LYRIC. YOUNG friend, before you make your choice, And people wish you joy. Pray, listen to the warning voice Of quite a gray-haired boy. A maid so rare, I'm well aware. Ne'er left her native sky; She is so sweet, she is so fair — But can she make a pie? I know that language owns a check In trying to disclose The rapture of her arm and neck, The magic of her nose. Twilight and Dawn. 119 I know the tints of cheek and hair Make painters long to die; She is so sweet, she is so fair — But can she make a pie? I know it's too enchanting quite, By several degrees, To watch her fairy fingers white Flit o'er the gleaming keys. The voice that thrills the spell-bound air Is like a spirit's sigh; She is so sweet, she is so fair — But can she make a pie? Yes, can she make a pie, my lad. For fairy forms grow stout. And rosebud lips (though quite too sad) Can cutting things rap out. The wife whose charms resist the shock Of rude years jostling by, Can nurse a cold, and darn a sock, And make a wholesome pie. TWILIGHT AND DAWN. YEARS of my young heart's sinless beating, Sweet Summers silent in your grave, Whose longest day was all too fleeting To hold the joy existence gave ! 120 Whirligig. Lo, o'er my spirit's fevered aching, Mem'ries of you breathe cool and dank, Like gentle winds at eve awaking From violet-bed and primrose-bank. Years of gay hopes so lightly minted — Clear-ringing hopes of metal true — When rainbow-dreams were hardly tinted With brighter hues than waking knew ! Oh, for one brief bright hour to capture The bliss wherewith ye dowered my breast- That careless heart, whose crown of rapture Was, not to know that it was blest. WHIRLIGIG. I SING of Phyllis' beaming eyes The livelong summer day. But Phyllis from her Damon's sighs Turns listlessly away. Alexis yonder fires her brain. Whom Chloe holds in thrall. Who treats him with supreme disdain. And loves me best of all. Cupid, you stupid, You drive a body wild ! 1 '11 take you, and shake you, You naughty, tiresome child. My Heart's Nest. Had I Alexis' shares and stocks, His house in Eaton Square, Had he my brow, my flowing locks. My grand impassioned airj Were Chloe Queen of Mincing Lane, And Phyllis fair to see. What joy, what popping of champagne. What speeches there should be ! O Cupid, you stupid, You drive a body wild ! I'll take you, and shake you. You naughty, tiresome child. MY HEART'S NEST. UP through the columns of cloudland white, and up through the vaulted blue, The great lark shoots, in the quickening light, his keen wings gemmed with dew ; And ever his song-waves surge and flow, till they flood heav'n's high domain, And roll on the breathless fields below in tingling golden rain. Then down he drops from the morning's gate to the nook he loves the best. To his five brown eggs, and his waiting mate, and his corn-embowered nest. 122 Before the Storm. Well, I am a lark, my little one, and I must sing and soar — There's a wonderful world moves round the sun for lark-wings to explore. So I leave my love for a little while, but, wherever I wing my way, There's a soft wee hand, there's a darling smile that haunts me night and day ; And they bring me back, fond eyes and true, caressing hand caressed. For the heart that carols the wide world through flies home to its love to nest. BEFORE THE STORM. LO, o'er the universal sky The clouds rush fast and thick j A gloomy fire lights every eye. And every heart beats quick. And only He who rules the wave. And bends it to His will. Can calm the angiy seas that rave, And bid the winds be still. O English hearts, be true and strong. Though all beside despair! Let nothing false or faithless wrong The noble name ye bear. A Silly Little Maiden. 123 Though thunder answer thunder-call, And forked flashes play, Have faith in God, whate'er befall. And watch and hope and pray. Though stormy rumours blare and blow, Shall England be dismayed? O Christian land, be slow, be slow To bare thy battle-blade! Yet if, to guard thy homes from dread. Thy fleets must sail the sea. Be sure thy sons will freely shed Their hearts' best blood for thee ! A SILLY LITTLE MAIDEN. LITTLE Mary, sitting Trifling with her knitting. Lets her thoughts go flitting. Oh, so far away ! Hopes of fairy seeming, Plans of airy scheming. Dear delicious dreaming. Hold her all the day. Now (in thought) she's gliding, 'Neath the darkness' hiding, To her knight abiding. Under budded boughs. 124 The Birds' Lesson. Oh, the blissful meeting ! Hearts accordant beating, Lips for aye repeating Thrice-eternal vows. Tend your flowers, my Mary, Feed your pet canary. Check your thoughts' vagary. Clear the pensive brow. Lovers' licensed treason, Vows that murder reason. All will come in season — Mind your stocking now. THE BIRDS' LESSON. A LAD had wooed a lassie dear Through all the dead-time of the year, Yet ever, as he blushed and sighed, " I love you, sweet," in silence died. But when she sat, with fading cheek. And mused, "He will not, will not speak," Her mother whispered, "Never fear — He'll tell you when the Spring is here." Ah, May, she wooes the buds apart On every shimmering spray. And where 's the lad but opes his heart. And wins his lass in May? A Sailor's Sweetlteart. 125 Rosy, and fresh, and debonair, Came May, with hawthorn in her hair, And springing com and budded boughs Were all a-thrill with true-love vows. Young Bashful caught those warbled words. And learned a lesson from the birds. And ere the swallow spread his wing, The lassie wore a wedding-ring. Ah, May, she wooes the buds apart On every shimmering spray, And where 's the lad but opes his heart. And wins his lass in May? A SAILOR'S SWEETHEART. "I^OD bless you, lass !" once more they kissed, vJ And straight aboard he sprung ; The sails shook out, the glad waves hissed, The quivering cordage sung. She watched the vessel round the pier, And waved her last good-byes, And turned away with spirit drear. And hard, unmoistened eyes. She sat within, forlorn and weak — There came not any sound. And yet his kiss was on her cheek, His strong arms clasped her round. I 126 Roses and Orange-Blossoms. " Ah, little heart I love the best, No more we part for aye !" She leant her head against his breast. And let the tears have way. ROSES AND ORANGE-BLOSSOMS. TILTING, tripping, on dainty toes, A maiden climbs for a bright wild-rose j Breaking away from the net's control, Over her shoulders the ripe curls roll. An indolent stranger, sauntering by. Stands still to gaze with a startled eye ; And oh ! the blush on her cheek that glows Has shamed the hue of that poor wild-rose. The bud that May discloses July's hot breath will sear, But a bonny lassie's roses Bloom through the year. The last lone rose in the garden grieves. Dropping to earth its scentless leaves. And far and wide o'er the russet land The yellow stocks of harvest stand. But the blush on the maiden's cheek to-day Is bright as the rose of the ripened May, Though orange-blossoms faint and fair Entwine the sheen of her ripply hair. The Lover's Moon. 127 The bud that May discloses July's hot breath will sear, But a bonny lassie's roses Bloom through the year. THE LOVER'S MOON. THE last faint primrose flushes Fade in the solemn sky; The blackbird's good-night gushes Deep in the woodland die. And, where the beech-bough covers The little winding way, Stroir happy pairs of lovers. Whose hearts are full of May. While bleak winds moan and mutter. The blithest lass is coy, And timid fancies flutter The heart of every boy. But girls grow ripe to listen. And lads to say their say. What time the dank boughs glisten Beneath the moon of May. O lads, be bold in wooing, For May's glad hours are fleet, And soon September's strewing Will rustle 'neath your feet. 128 Black and White. Then be no timid hinter, But win the lass to-day, Whose love shall make the Winter As cheery as the Ma}'. BLACK AND WHITE. A GLOOMY world," says Neighbour Black, " Where clouds of dreary dun, In masses rolled, the sky enfold, And blot the noonday sun." " Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White ; " But haply you and I Might shed a ray to cheer the way — Come, Neighbour, let us try." " A vale of tears," says Neighbour Black, " A vale of weary breath. Of soul-wrung sighs and hopeless eyes From birth to early death." " Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White ; " But haply you and I Just there and here might dry a tear — Come, Neighbour, let us try." " A wilderness," says Neighbour Black, "A desert waste and wide. Where rank weeds choke, and ravens croak, And noisome reptiles hide." The Last Tryst. 129 " Aye, so it is," says Neighbour White ; " But haply you and I Might clear the ground our homes around — Come, Neighbour, let us try." THE LAST TRYST. H" ' IS brave blue eyes are dry. But his voice is full of tears. For this is his last good-bye To the love of his boyish years. One hour of blissful pain. The last fond tryst to keep. Then hey for the leaden rain, And the harvest sabres reap ! Roll loud, O drums, and trumpets, blare, O flags, float out on the summer air ! O mothers and maidens, smile and sigh, And kiss your hands as the lads go by ! ***** Hurrah for the little isle That breeds true Britons still ! 'Twas done in the rare old style, Twas done with a right good will. The bells shall clash to-night Till the steeples reel and swoon. And a thousand flares of light Shall startle the maiden moon. '3° Happy Memories. O hero-heart, sleep sound and well, 'Neath the trampled sod where you fought and fell ! O maiden, crushed with your aching woe. Pray God that the healing tears may flow ! HAPPY MEMORIES. SCENES of my childhood's bright existence, Blooming in Summer's changeless smile, Lapt in the tender haze of distance. Ye shine like some enchanted isle. The little porch, with jasmine clinging. The clover-field, the noisy mill. The copse with childish voices ringing — How fondly Memory keeps them still ! Home of my youth ! I 'd gladly squander All else beside as nothing worth, Might but my pilgrim footsteps wander Back to the scenes that gave me birth. Vain wish ! Time's hand, profanely sweeping, Has laid in dust those shrines of love. Yet smile, sad heart, amid thy weeping — A changeless home is thine above. The Lark's Message. 131 THE LARK'S MESSAGE. ONE dewy April mom, I wandered by the river; Up from the twinkUng corn I watched a skylark quiver. I listened to his song, And full clear I heard it say, "Thou hast waited for her long, But thy love will come to-day. Sweet, wee, and dear, O wee and dear and sweet ! Thou wilt know her — have no fear — Thou wilt know her when ye meet." I reached the bridge of wood. And there — a rapt beholder — A maiden listening stood To tales the river told her. Shy, 'neath their fringes dark. Rose eyes of wondering blue. And my heart cried out, "O Lark, Thou hast told me, told me true!" Sweet, wee, and dear ! Oh, I knew her when we met. The love each dawning year Makes sweeter, dearer yet. 132 Jock. JOCK. OJOCK, what are ye doing This golden eve o' May, With happy birdies wooing On every sunlit spray? A likely lad o' twenty, And you your father's son, And winsome girls in plenty. Just waiting to be won. O Jocky, don't you mind 'em. The lasses sweet and sly, And how they glance behind 'em Whene'er they pass you by? With shame my cheeks are burning To see a shapely lad Stand lounging at the turning So lonesome and so sad. O Jock, we've all our duties, And fine young fellows grown Must see that bright-eyed beauties Aren't forced to walk alone. And — what! the wicket clinking — The flutter of a shawl — And blushing, lad, and blinking — O Jock, I see it all ! A Song of Labour. 133 A SONG OF LABOUR. NO lack of work, O friend, No lack of work in the land ! Till the dews of night descend, Not one need stay his hand. There 's never a man too great. There 's never a man too small ; For each in his state, early and late, There 's a worthy task for all. There 's work for every one of us, For every mother's son of us. And labour is the crown of life, its meaning and its zest ; We '11 have no paltry shirking, lads. But right true manful working, lads, The honest toil of sturdy hands that frankly give their best. Humble the work may be, Not an3rwise great or grand. But that is the task for thee, Marked out by the Master's hand. Then do thy work with a will. Wherever thou find'st it lie. Steady and still, with care and skill. As under the Master's eye. 134 A Song of Labour. There 's work for every one of us, For every mother's son of us, And labour is the crown of life, its meaning and its zest ; We '11 have no paltry shirking, lads. But right true manful working, lads. The honest toil of sturdy hands that frankly give their best. Pure is the pride and true That dares to the world out-tell, " He gave me that work to do. And I strive to do it well. Stoutly I bear my part, Giving a true man's best. And I soothe my heart in ache and smart With thoughts of the evening rest." There 's work for every one of us. For every mother's son of us. And labour is the crown of life, its meaning and its zest ; We '11 have no paltry shirking, lads, But right true manful working, lads, The honest toil of sturdy hands that frankly give their best. Freedom's Shrine. 135 FREEDOM'S SHRINE. WITH ceaseless sound and motion, And dash of flying foam, Full throbs the' heart of ocean Round England's rocky home. Above, on strong, still pinion The wild birds soar and sweep; The air is their dominion, And hers the rolling deep. Where'er the green earth boundeth, Where'er the great winds blow. Where'er the salt sea soundeth, Her mighty navies go; And slothful souls awaken, And slaves forget their shame, And tyrants' hearts are shaken At sound of England's name. O Britons free and chainless, Still hand from sire to son The noble name and stainless, That English blood has won. Keep, keep through all the ages Your glorious England free. While round her ramparts rages The thunder of the sea. 136 Sea-Pictures. SEA-PICTURES.* AH me, the wet wind, and the bar that chafed and muttered, The dwindling line of misty lamps along the crowded quay ! And, ah me, the light words, the false wild words I uttered, The while my soul yearned out to him across the broadening sea ! Ah me, my weary heart that found not where to rest — Poor heart that knew its only home was close against his breast ! Ah me, the still sea that lapped on beach and boulder. The gleam on every brick-red sail far out across the bay! And, ah me, my flushed cheek that drooped upon his shoulder. While showers of glad repentant tears washed all the past away ! Ah me, my happy head that found its shrine of rest — Blest head, that nestled safe and warm against his faith- ful breast ! * Reprinted from Cassell's Family Magazine by kind permission of Messrs. Cassell, Fetter, & Galpin. A Song for the Land I Love. 137 A SONG FOR THE LAND I LOVE. A SONG for the land I love, A song as fresh and free As the breezes strong that sweep along A thousand leagues of sea. Aye, full and bold be the strain out-rolled, For I sing of the rock-bound shore, Where the galling chain is snapped in twain, And the slave is a slave no more. O rock-bound land, O sea-girt shrine, . Dear England, Freedom's home and mine, Free hast thou been through good and ill. And free thy sons will keep thee still. A song for the land I love — The land of stainless fame. Where shadow of fear no heart draws near, Save fear of wrong and shame. Though long her blade in sheath hath stayed, If leap to the light it must, Her foes shall feel that the good old steel Hath known no stain of rust. O rock-bound land, O sea-girt shrine. Dear England, Freedom's home and mine, Free hast thou been through good and ill, And free thy sons will keep thee still. 138 Summer Voices. SUMMER VOICES. 1SIT at the open window, This jubilant August day, And a thousand blended voices Float in on my dream alway. The sparrows cheep and twitter From their nest in the hanging eaves, And the thrush makes fuller music. Embowered in the rustling leaves. The breeze hath a soothing whisper. That dies and comes again. And the bee, at his fragrant labour, Still hummeth a drowsy strain. But oh ! the rarest music That comes to my heart this day, Is the shout and the golden laughter Of the children at their play. The heart that is pure and gentle. The soul that hath ears to hear, Wherever the step may wander. Finds music glad and dear. The earth hath myriad voices. And tuneful voices all — Light prattle of shingly brooklet, Full rush of torrent-fall. Let the World Wag. 139 The organ's deep-souled rapture, The flock's far-tinkling bell, The hum of the summer midges. The ocean's thunder-swell; But oh ! the rarest music That comes to my heart this day, Is the shout and the golden laughter Of the children at their play. LET THE WORLD WAG. HOW strange to think in the heart of the throng. Elbowing, jostling, struggling along. That a few more years and mine eyes must close, And my heart be hushed in that long repose ! That the billows of life will surge and roar. When my poor shallop has gained the shore ! Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground, That dreamless rest, with daisies crowned. While ever and aye, By night and day, The world wags on in its olden way ! The curate will rattle the service o'er, And hurry away to a wedding next door ; The mourners will talk of the news in town, The shares gone up and the ships gone down ; 140 Let the World Wag. And the widow's blue eyes will be rapidly dried When the Captain, in sympathy, sits at her side. Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground. That dreamless rest, with daisies crowned. While ever and aye. By night and day. The world wags on in its olden way ! The tradesman will leer, with servile head. O'er his sanded sugar and alumed bread ; The savant will patiently pore and plod To explain the laws of the force called God ; And parsons will wrangle, and publicans swell, And shrieking drunkards sink to Hell. Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground, That dreamless rest, with daisies crowned. While ever and aye, By night and day, The world wags on in its olden way ! The genius will shiver with rags on his back. And honours and gold will be heaped on the quack ; The sempstress will toil through the weary week, With poor worn fingers and faded cheek. And turn to gaze, with a desperate eye. As the courtesan's coach rolls softly by. Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground, That dreamless sleep, with daisies crowned, Let the World Wag. 141 While ever and aye, By night and day, The world wags on in its olden way ! The statesman will bluster, and scheme, and lie. And ding to office, though honour die ; The doctor will base his medicinal claims On his pompous air and his sounding names ; And the grim undertaker will crouch at his back. As the jackal sneaks in the lion's track. Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground. That dreamless rest, with daisies crowned. While ever and aye. By night and day. The world wags on in its olden way ! The play that has run a million years, With its hollow laughter and maudlin tears. Its glaring gaslights foul and hot, Its feeble cast, and its hackneyed plot — The lovers will weep, and the villains rage, When I 've fretted my hour, and left the stage. Ah, sweet and sound, 'Neath churchyard ground. That dreamless rest, with daisies crowned. While ever and aye, By night and day. The world wags on in its olden way ! 142 The Shrine beside the Sea. THE SHRINE BESIDE THE SEA. CAST forth by every nation, With fair discrowned head, In woe and desolation To England Freedom fled. With tresses wildly sweeping. And lips that wanly prayed, Britannia found her weeping. And cheered the hapless maid. Her grateful bosom swelling, She cried, "O kindly shore. My chosen shrine and dwelling Be thou for evermore. No power our fates shall sunder While England's walls of rock Hurl back in foam and thunder The sea's eternal shock." Forlorn and undefended. She kept the maiden fair. And, keeping her, befriended An angel unaware. And now that gentle stranger Her strength and stay shall be, To guard from wrong and danger The shrine beside the sea. A Song for the Girl I Love. 1 43 A SONG FOR THE GIRL I LOVE. A SONG for the girl I love- God love her ! A song for the eyes of tender shine, And the fragrant mouth that melts on mine ; The shimmering tresses uncontroll'd That clasp her neck with tendril gold ; The blossom mouth and the dainty chin, And the little dimples out and in — The girl I love — God love her ! A song for the girl I loved — God love her ! A song for the eyes of faded light. And the cheek whose red rose waned to white ; The quiet brow, with its shadow and gleam. And the dark hair drooped in a long deep dream ; The small hands crossed for their churchyard rest, And the lilies dead on her sweet dead breast. The girl I loved— God love her ! 144 Bird of the Flickering Wing. BIRD OF THE FLICKERING WING. HE Cometh, the bird of the flickering wing, The prophet of sunshine, the priest of the Spring ! The primrose wakes by the river-track, And the violet welcomes the wanderer back. Beautiful bird of the flickering wing, Prophet of sunshine and priest of the Spring ! Ah, rich and ripe is the blackbird's note, And rapture thrills in the skylark's throat ; But thine is the magical voice that dowers The heart with gladness, the earth with flowers. Beautiful bird of the flickering wing. Prophet of sunshine and priest of the Spring ! The boy's heart blossoms with fancies bright. And the maiden's eye hath a tender light, And bitter indeed is the soul that grieves. When the swallow is twittering under the eaves. Beautiful bird of the flickering wing, Prophet of sunshine and priest of the Spring ! Under English Daisies. 145 UNDER ENGLISH DAISIES. FAINT blue line of distant hills, Green lanes and pastures fair ! idle brooks and busy mills, And blessfed wholesome air ! The blood goes singing through my veins. The glad tears flood my eyes, To tread once more on English plains. And look on English skies ! English earth gave me birth, Dear beyond all praises ; On her breast let nie rest. Under English daisies. Lo, in the days of mastering hopes, I strayed to Southern bowers; 1 dwelt amid the vine-clad slopes. And sniffed the orange-flowers. But oh, this English heart of mine, Amid the fairy scene. Did yearn and faint, did droop and pine For English valleys green. Enghsh earth gave me birth. Dear beyond all praises; On her breast let me rest. Under English daisies. ^a([^£d. THE LITTLE MAID THAT SLEPT. SOMBRE folds the windows shroud, Phantom figures come and go — Hearts that must not break too loud, Muffled footfalls, whispers low. Cool deft hands — about a bed Where, 'neath fever's scorching sway. Lies a little restless head. Tossing, tossing, tossing aye. But the hour of fate draws nigh, And the mid-sun overhead Shrieks' and drops from out the sky — Yea, the child is dead! But she lies so dimpling-fair, In her bed-gown long and white, With her waves of heavy hair Drowning neck and shoulder bright. With the flower-lips just apart. Half-way budded to a smile — Pure young heart, O sweet child-heart. Hardly smirched with human guile ! The Little Maid that Slept. 147 Life so bright on cheek and brow And those thin white lids of hers — Fancy whispers, "Softly now, Softly — see, she stirs!" But the twin hands fairy-small, Crossed above the bosom's snow, Never rise and hang and fall With the breath's soft ebb and flow. Yea, the breaking mother-heart, Throbbing close, in anguish prest. Vainly would its warmth impart To the blue-veined marble breast; Kisses win no kissed reply. Yea, the pet-name softly said Lures no smile to mouth and eye — Truly, she is dead. First to Heaven He turns His eyes One long moment, as in prayer^ Then upon the maid that lies Lapt in slumber still and fair. Lo, His hands just touch her clay; "Little maiden, wake, arise!" And the sharp sweet light of day Smites in lightning on her eyes. And the blood's swift tide again, Like a stream its chain that breaks. Sings through every tingling vein. As she sighs, and smiles, and wakes. 148 A Sunday-Morning Rhapsody. Lips that laugh and eyes that weep, Throat that thrills with stifled scream ! Little maiden, thou didst sleep — O to know thy dream ! A SUNDAY-MORNING RHAPSODY. A QUIET Autumn morn ; Wrapt in a happy day-dream, earth and sky ; Scarce-swaying trees, wide tracts of whitening corn ; Deep m the grass we lie. My bosom-friend and I. Ah, dear old heart, companion true and tried, Mute are thy lips, thine eyes how full of speech ! Come, nestle closer, closer to my side ; We two, old dog, are all the world to each. A little while ago. Over the corn-fields and the dreaming dells. Now loud, now sinking low, I heard the music of the minster-bells. But that has ceased, and not a sound is heard. Save languid hum of insect, chirp of bird. And the light wind, that, in its wayward track, Kisses the trees that murmur love-tales back. A weaver of fancies, a dreamer of dreams. Little absorbed in mammon-schemes. A Sunday-Morning Rhapsody. 149 A wanderer lone by woodland streams That mirror in trembles the white moonbeams When shadows deepen slowly. Away from the chant and the organ-roll, Hither I come to this grassy knoll, With a peaceful pulse and a sentient soul. To keep my Sabbath holy. Dear Nature's God, Thou knowest well How yearns my lonely soul to Thee ! Yea, how its founts will leap and swell In gazing on Thine awful sea, Dim type of Thine immensity ; And when I fix my dazzled view On Thy great arch of burning blue, And vainly try With straining eye Its soundless deeps to travel through, Thou knowest thoughts of Thee will rise That flood with tears my heart and eyes. Yea, God, in every leaf and blade. The slightest thing Thine hand hath made, I feel an atom of that soul Of which Thou art the sum and whole. But most, dear God, on star-lit eves, When I have wandered forth alone. And, save the ever-fluttering leaves, The veil of sleep o'er all was thrown. Oh, I have felt the silence roll In widening billows o'er my soul ! ISO A Sunday-Morning Rhapsody. No word my lips have uttered there — My very being was a pray'r. Blithe, blithe, and dear, The spring is here ; The world hath drunk of her breath's new wine. How fair it is. How rare it is, How green it is, this earth of Thine ! O beauteous, bounteous, blooming earth ! When Thou didst call her into birth. And morning-stars together sung, She did not smile more glad and young. Earth and sky and ambient air — There 's music, music everywhere. In bush and brake. For the Spring's sweet sake, The blackbird is carolling lusty and strong ; Lost, lost to view In the ether blue. The skylark is flooding the world with song. A myriad tiny tuneful things Are fluttering by on gauzy wings. The happy hills that the sun hath kissed Breathe forth their souls in a musical mist From budded bough and quickened sod A glad Te Deum floats up to God. The river sings on through her merry green mazes. And kisses the lily she wears in her breast ; The little ones shout as they gather the daisies. Or dive in the copse for the wood-pigeon's nest. A Snowdrop gathered by God. 151 Earth and sky and ambient air — There 's music, music everywhere. For, blithe and dear. The Spring is here, The world hath drunk of her breath's new wine ; How fair it is, How rare it is. How green it is, this earth of Thine ! With all the blended notes that rise. With all the holy harmonies Of earth and sky and sea. In shuddering love and streaming eyes. My heart goes up to Thee ! A SNOWDROP GATHERED BY GOD. W ITH wee hands crossed on his bosom. Chill cheeks and faded eyes, And a heart that has ceased its flutter. Her soul's one darling lies. Over the sweet dead body She bows in her anguish wild : " Dear God, I have none beside him ! Oh, give me back my child !" 152 A Snowdrop gathered by God. There cometh nor sign nor whisper, And never a tear will flow ; But now on her broken spirit Hath fallen the sleep of woe. And lo ! from the shadowy silence, What phantoms are these that rise ? 'Tis the might-have-been of the future Grows clear on her dreaming eyes. The baby has grown to manhood. That lies in his shroud to-day. And the brown of her own thick tresses Has faded in weary grey. And ah, for the heart in her bosom ! It is dead ere the death of her prime ; For the child of her soul's devotion Has sunk in the gulf of crime. And she knows in its bitter fulness The crown and the flower of pain — The love that returned to her empty. The prayers that were all in vain. " O God, that Thy love had granted To lay him to churchyard rest While the baby-lips were loving. And sinless the baby-breast !" Thronging and Touching. 153 At the cry of her heart's loud yearning The shadowy shapes have fled, And lo ! on his little pallet Her baby, pure and dead. Flow, founts of blessed healing. Flow warm o'er the sleeping child — The snowdrop that God's own fingers Have gathered undefiled. THRONGING AND TOUCHING. ON through Capernaum, dense and loud, Slow rolls the shifting, surging crowd; For He whose fame fills all men's breath E'en now will wake a child from death. With noisy tongue and eager face. They throng the Rabbi in His place. "Should this be He whom God shall send?" "I know not — tarry till the end." The sick, the impotent are there — Mark those white eyeballs' sightless glare ! How sharply rings yon cripple's crutch ! Oh, stretch your hands, poor souls, and touch ! Alas, but one in all the band. Reaching, in faith, a trembling hand, 154 -^ Gathered Lily. Hath drawn from out His garment's hem Virtue disease's tide to stem. Alas, alas, that ulcerous sin Should throb and gnaw each heart within. And only one sore-vexfed soul Should hear, "Thy faith hath made thee whole!" Dear Lord, to-day Thy people meet, And throng in prayer Thy mercy-seat. Oh, whisper words of sweet release; Grant each to touch, and go in peace. A GATHERED LILY. GONE, in her morning's prime. Our dearest, our first, our best; But gone o'er the billows of time To the haven of endless rest. Shrouded in earthly night, Those eloquent eyes of love; But filled with the perfect light That breaks from the dawn above. Hushed to the mortal ear. The voice that we loved so well ; But rising fresh and clear In the angels' anthem-swell. To a Mourning Mother. rs5 Slumber, with placid brow, Slumber, with pulseless breast ! In meekness our heads we bow — O Father, Thou knowest best! TO A MOURNING MOTHER. ONCE when in Judah's coasts the Saviour taught, Lo, growing bold beneath the tender smile, Mothers to Him their little children brought, That those kind hands might rest on each awhile. And when piEcious zeal began to chide The wistful love that to His presence led. He would not have the children thrust aside. But kissed them oft, and blessed each baby-head. Kneel, empty heart, beside the empty cot. Smile up to God, meek eyes that overbrim ; Christ's arms are round the child — forbid it not ; Suffer the little one to go to Him. 156 Come unto Me. COME UNTO ME. HARK, in the dense, loud city, Hark, in the whirl and din. Accents of yearning pity Whisper the heart within : "Come to Me, ye that languish, Ye that are sore oppressed, Come in your ache and anguish, Lo, I will give you rest. "What is the world's bestowing. Ye that its smile pursue? Roses, a brief June blowing. Thorns the long winter through. Hearts that with ceaseless fretting, Throb in the weary breast — Oh for a sweet forgetting. Oh for an hour of rest! "Break from its false caresses, Come unto Me, to gain Comfort in all distresses. Peace in the midst of pain — Peace in the soul transcending All that the world deems best, Yea, and when earth hath ending, Heaven's eternal rest !" Two Views of Death. 157 TWO VIEWS OF DEATH. 1. — A Dead Child.* VERY, very still, With close-shut lips and eyes. Sweet and white and chill, Our little Alice lies. While the night breathed heavy and deep, How we prayed that she might sleep ! Now a slumber wraps her round All too peaceful and profound. Touch her — she will not speak; Call her — she will not rise; Rain kisses on her cheek — She will not ope her eyes. Little happy elfish thing. Once she was wild as a bird on the wing; How she would laugh and dance and sing ! And now how still she lies! Over her form I bow. My darling dead and sweet. My heart is beating now Just where her heart would beat ; * This poem is the dramatic expression of a longing that most hearts must have felt at some time or other of bereavement and dejection. The folldwing poem, "Death's Changed Face," gives what I believe to be the only satisfactory answer to the great riddle. L iS8 Two Views of Death. My clinging lips are pressed to hers; And yet she never speaks or stirs. Mouth to mouth, heart to heart, And yet, O God, how wide apart ! My Alice, yesternight At the least of my caresses, If I but touched your ringlets bright — Those poor shorn tumbled tresses — You knew me, darling, all the while, . And in your anguish tried to smile; And now your cold heart presses mine, Oh, won't you give one little sign? My Alice, is it you. This cold and callous clay? Or is it the weed which aside you threw For comelier array? O Alice, down in the deepest deeps, Or aloft in some shining star, Give, give some sign to my soul that weeps To tell me where you are. Nay, God, if Thou dost hear. Let my dead darling speak; Let but one flush of warm blood rush Across the chilly cheek; Let her but lift a moment's space Her sweet eyes' fringfed pall — A token blest that this grim rest Is not the end of all. Two Views of Death. 159 Lo, black eclipse, Senseless, dumb ! From those pallid lips Ne'er will answer come. From the chaos void and black Throbs my prayer unheeded back. Yea, that secret dread and vast. None may know it till the last, When he lies with pulseless brow. As my little one lies now. O God, that dim Hereafter, It crushes the world's soul ! 'Tis discord in our laughter, 'Tis poison in our bowl. It presses round us in our dreams; The year-old baby wakes and screams, Because the horror of that night Hath swooped across his veiled sight. All the tears of all the years. All their prayers and groans and fears. Daring Science, soaring Thought — All are naught, and less than naught; None hath thrown a ray of light O'er that blackness infinite. At the graveyard's cypress-gloom. At the threshold of the tomb. Trembling Knowledge stops afraid. Fancy staggers back dismayed. i6o Two Views of Death. And yet if we could know This life our being's whole, — That the kiss of death, which steals the breath, Quenches alike the soul — Then life should merrily float apace On tides of love and song, And we would meet that chill embrace With courage calm and strong. Or did we know this life One chord of a full strong strain. Little we 'd reck of its calm or strife. Its pleasure or its pain; For the anthem would be ringing For ever in our ears That the mighty dead were singing Beyond the spheres. Ah woe ! ah woe ! If we could only know ! Idle hope ! vast despair ! Outer darkness everywhere ! And lo! your childish eyes, My little simple maid, Behold that sight for which the wise Have vainly wrought and prayed. You stand beyond the curtain That shuts our vision out. And all to you is certain. Where all to us is doubt. Two Views of Death. i6i Oh speak, my little one, speak. Cry out from the mid-eclipse, And the mouth divine shall breathe through thine A true apocalypse ! II. — Death's Changed Face. SWEET Saviour, since the time Thy human feet Trod thirty years our parched and dusty ways, How hath the wilderness of life grown sweet With flowers and warbled praise ! How hath the heavy mist that wrapt us round, The weary mist of tears and soul-wrung sighs, Lifted, and bared to us the blue profound Of God's far quiet skies ! And more than all, how hath a gracious change. To poor scared men that slunk with fluttering breath, Passed o'er the face, that erst was stern and strange, Of Thy strong angel, Death ! Lo, through the mazes of a tangled wood, Nowhither bound, we groped through vistas dim. While shadowlike amid the shadows stood Old Death, the archer grim. We deemed his face was pitiless and blind ; Shot all at random seemed each whirring dart, Yet none did fail a resting-place to find In some wrung, quivering heart. Two Views of Death. And there, with writhen limbs and sightless stare, Down in the drenchfed grass the victim lay, What erst was man, erect and tall and fair, Now shrunk and fading clay. And over him in dull and hopeless pain The mourners stood, sore stricken and perplext ; " He lieth prone j he will not rise again ; And who shall fall the next?" O sweet changed face ! We see, we know him now. Rent the thick mist that blurred our straining ken — Death : of all angels round the throne that bow Most pitiful to men ! Through the dusk chamber where the watchers weep. Slowly he moves with calm and noiseless tread, And o'er the weary one that longs for sleep He bends his gracious head. "Poor eyes !" he saith, "long have ye wept and waked; I come to bid your tears and vigils cease." "Poor heart!" he saith, "long hast thau yearned and ached ; I come to give thee peace." " Be of good cheer," he saith, " world-weary waif, One short swift step, and all the way is trod : Through the heaped darkness I will lead thee safe To the great light of God." Led by a Star. 163 A sharp sweet silence smites the tingling ears. How snow-like falls the peace upon his brow ! Hark ! happy mourners, smiling through their tears, Whisper, " He sleepeth now !" LED BY A STAR. " T O' ys ill Salem's streets that stand JL/ In outland garb antique, Now why do ye come from your far-off land, And what is the thing ye seek?" "A King is born — all kings that are The blaze of His name shall dim; We have followed afar His guiding star, And are come to worship Him. "Lone watchers of the skies of night. And the mystic things they hide, Lo, into our sight, serene and bright, A strange fair star did glide. And over the desert harsh and wild, And over the mountain's rim, It shall lead us safe to the wondrous child. Till we kneel and worship Him." O star, of all stars in heaven that shine, Serenest, purest, best. That leddest the seers to the Child Divine On His human mother's breast, 164 Easter Emblems. Shine clear and far o'er cleft and scaur, Illumine the Valley grim, Till thy needless light is quenched, O star, In the light that beams from Him. EASTER EMBLEMS. Not Among the Dead. " TT E is not here !" O quickening words of grace, 1 1 That thrilled the morning gray, When, stooping down, they viewed the empty place. Where late the Master lay ! O saving words, what blessfed balm ye shed O'er the bruised spirit yearning for its dead ! From each calm grave to wistful memories dear, Your echo whispers still, " He is not here." The Great Stone. Shutting out light, massy and hard and cold. The great stone. Death, against our hearts was rolled. Lo, chill and silent breaks the Easter day ; Jesus hath risen — the stone is rolled away. Light in the Valley. No more, no more, with loud and shuddering breath, We tread thy bourn, O shadowy Vale of Death ; For all along thy deeps of throbbing night . The Saviour's feet have left a track of light. Finished. 165 FINISHED. When Jesus, therefore, had received the vinegar. He said. It is finished; and He bowed His head, and gave up the ghost.— John xix. 30. YEA, it is finished ! Quaffed the brimming chalice To its last lees of bitterness and pain ; There lingers not one drop of scorn or malice For the pale, patient lips to dumbly drain. Cowardice, envy, treachery accurst, On soul and shrinking flesh have wreaked their worst ; There is no more to bear ; now may He die — Droop, listless head, and film, O faded eye ! Yea, it is finished ! Yea, it is finished ! Oh, the dream was golden, The fair proud dream that in their hearts had grown — Numb, empty hearts ! whose eyes have now beholden The Master shed His soul in pangs unknown ; In dreams they saw Him, robed in purple pride. Judging the tribes, themselves enthroned beside ; Ah, waking woe ! He hangs the thieves between — Let them forget such dream hath ever been. For it is finished. Yea, it is finished ! "Subtle arch-deceiver," Exult the priests, " How did he lure astray The ribald mob ! And now one sole believer* Hath he for whom loud thousands strawed the way. * " The thief was, perhaps, the only individual who believed on Jesus when Jesus died, and certainly it was an amazing thing that he who was hanging beside Christ should believe, while he who had laiii in His bosom had doubted." — Melvill, Sermon on the Penitent Thief. L 2 i66 Finished. Sharp were his words, but — retribution sweet ! — Sharper the nails that tore his hands and feet. Dead is the Nazarene ; his doctrine's spark, Ground 'neath our heel, hath twinkled into dark ; Yea, it is finished !" Yea, it is finished ! Ye whose hearts are leaping With strong, fierce joy for a bold foe o'erthrown ; Ye whose bruised spirits long for balm of weeping ; Stand still, and see God's awful mystery shown. Living, Christ Jesus preached that self must die Ere life can bourgeon forth and fructify ; Dying, He preaches still God's changeless way — Through death to life, through darkness to the day Where night is finished. Yea, it is finished ! Meek and tender-throated. Slain is the Lamb that did not strive or cry. No more, in sacrificial pomp devoted. Shall bulls and goats, vicarious victims, die ; No more, no more for aye, the priestly knife Shall shed before the Lord the poor dumb life. These were but empty types and shadows dim, Through the far distance pointing unto Him Whose work is iSnished. Yea, it is finished ! Seers, with vision burning. Pierced the thick mists that shrouded human ken, Foreseeing One for whom, with dim, deep yearning, Cried in the dark the groping souls of men. Finished. 167 Lo, He is come — God drawing mortal breath, The smitten Victor, triumphing in death — Shiloh, the Christ, Emmanuel is come ; O prophet-voices, cease ye, and be dumb ; Your task is finished. Yea, it is finished ! On from Bethlehem-manger To Calvary-rood, trod is the thorny track. Soft pleasure lured Him ; fierce, affronting danger Strode o'er the path,' and shrieked to fright Him back. Yet calm and dauntless, onward, onward aye, With torn, unflinching feet He held His way. And patient lips, that only murmured still, " Father, I come, content to do Thy will. Till all be finished!" Yea, it is finished ! Lo, the clouds are riven. The sin-born clouds, that veiled God's quiet skies, And happy sinners, contrite and forgiven, Rest on the wide, deep blue their tear-bright eyes. Yea, children's hands, clasped heavenward in pray'r, Can touch the loving Father dwelling there. And He who blessed them once upon the earth, Blesseth them alway — even from the birth. Till life is finished. Yea, it is finished ! Death, whose throne of glory Unshaken stood amid creation's throes ; Thou Grave, whose world-dominion waxed not hoary . Though Babel-empires tottered and arose ; 1 68 Sweet Prince of Peace. Ye great twin-brethren, at whose name of might The proud knee bent, the valiant cheek grew white, No terror now on your black brows is set — The frailest saint smiles at your empty threat Whose reign is finished. Yea, it is finished ! Ye who love the Master, Who, through the wildering mazes of the years, Are fain to tread in joyance or disaster Where'er the print of His sweet feet appears, Be of good cheer ! Lo, from His thronfed place. The Saviour stoopeth down soft eyes of grace ; His gentle arms are mighty to defend, Yea, and His love shall lead thee to the end. Till all be finished. SWEET PRINCE OF PEACE. A Litany in War-Time. STERN-EYED and pitiless. Sitting alone. Red War, dread War, Towers on his throne. Fierce and fanatical. Blessing his sway. Mad hearts, glad hearts Rush to the fray. Sweet Prince of Peace. 169 Crucified, Glorified! Prone at Thy cross we fall; Sweet Prince of Peace, Oh, hear us call ! Lord, on Gennesaret, Hurled through the dark. Shivering, quivering. Staggered thy bark. Death, like a maniac, Shrieked in each ear; Old hearts, bold hearts Melted with fear. Roused from Thy slumbering. Thou spakest, " Peace, be still ! " On dreaming seas The moon shone chill. Pitiful Saviour, Stoop from Thy sky ! Shrinking, sinking, " Save, Lord," we cry. Speak to the elements, Bitter and blind. Rushing, crushing, Whelming mankind. Speak in our consciences, O Voice of tender balm ! And, lo, o'er earth A great sweet calm. 170 Christmas Emblems. CHRISTMAS EMBLEMS. ' ' Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them." — Rev. xxi. 3. LO, God with men shall dwell ! The Ruler of the whirlwind and the storm, The dread Controller of the billows' swell, Shall wear a human form ! What glittering hall of Kaiser or of King Shall hold the Holy Thing? O height and depth of love ! He in whose presence angels veil their eyes, The Bearer of the Name all names above, In yon rough manger lies 1 Brother, make pure thy heart; thy King shall deign On that poor throne to reign. "When they had opened their treasures, they presented unto Him gifts — gold, and frankincense, and myrrh." — Matt. ii. 11. HUSH ! before the Infant tender, See the sages' hoards unrolled ! Each in turn, a suppliant bender, Offers gifts of royal splendour. Tokens of the heart's surrender. Treasures fair and manifold — Heavenward incense, healing myrrh, and all-compelling gold. Christmas Emblems. 171 Where the Saviour intercedeth, Earthly gifts no more are doled; Yet our offerings still He needeth — Clear-eyed Faith that upward leadeth, Love, to bind the heart that bleedeth, Hope that nothing may withhold; Bring Him these, the spirit's gifts of incense, myrrh, and gold. "0' "Ye have done it unto Me." — Matt. xxv. 40. ^H, to kneel as they who knelt On that first sweet Christmas Day ! Oh, to feel as Mary felt, At whose blissful breast He lay ! To grace His feet, like her in later years. With costliest ointment and with deepest tears!" Though the heavens hold Him now Whom the manger held of yore, Breaking heart and aching brow Earth shall bear for evermore. Bring one faint smile to weary eyes and dim — Brother, thou, too, hast ministered to Him. 172 The Key of the Golden Gate. THE KEY OF THE GOLDEN GATE. THOU that didst for man's relief Don our earthy weeds of woe, Bear our griefs, and many a grief Only Thou could'st know ; Thou within Whose life-woof ran Scarce a thread of joyous light ; Man of Sorrows, Son of Man, By Thy sorrows' right; Thou Whose feet our pathways trod, Prompt to pity every ill; Jesu, throned Son of God, Canst Thou pity still? Never sorrow beat and cried At Thy heart with trembling din. But the gates, flung open wide, Freely let it in. Every homeless want and woe. Every man-forsaken care, Having nowhere else to go. Found a shelter there. The Key of the Golden Gate. 173 Pangs of Thine, a clamorous train, Sternly didst Thou thrust aside. Whispering every other pain, " Enter in, abide." Earth for Thee no room could spare, Save a manger cold and rough; Thou for every earthly care Mad'st room enough. Oh, Thy feet our pathways trod, Prompt to pity every ill! Jesu, throned Son of God, Canst thou pity still? Pride and lust and greed and hate, Least alloy of human sin, At Thy Heaven's shining gate. Entrance may not win. Tears of anguish, cries for grace — Say, are these forbidden too? Will the gate no briefest space Ope, and let them through? Faith, slow-born in pangs of doubt. Yearning breast and burning brain- Saviour, must they stand without, Knocking all in vain? 1 74 The Key of the Golden Gate. Nay, they shall not wait indeed — God's great portals spring apart, Answering the humblest need Of the weakest heart. Unreproved, they steal along Through the armies of the blest, (Jarring not the triumph-song), To the Saviour's breast. Welcomed, tended, healed, caressed, There the happy woes abide. By the nail-torn hands close-pressed To the wounded side. Marcus Ward & Co., Printers, Royal Ulster Works, Belfast. The following is a list of the songs in this volume which have been published with music : — Song. Composer. Putlisher. Ah, Little Maiden) (tinder the title of J.A. S. Gatty BOOSEY & Co. Withered Roses). J Joe to the Rescue) (under the title of VLouis DiEHL Joseph Williams. Brave Old Joe). J The Magic Key BoYTON Smith Ashdown & Parry. A Charm ) (under the title of V LouiS DiEHL BoosEY, Patey, & Co. Maidenhair). ) Your Presence makes ) tt o t-. t-. o ^ the Spring |Henry Smart Duncan Davison & Co. Nest i^^^'^y Heart, Uoyton Smith my Wild-Bird. ) You'll Never Guess CiEO PiNSUTi Lambohn Cock. """thriumme'^'Ic-oPiNSUTi Lamborn CocK. So Shy W. H. Eayres Riviere & Hawkes. Before the Storm A. S. Gatty Enoch & Sons. The Last Tryst Eric Ewald Ewald & Co. Happy Memories W. Smallwood Francis Bros. & Day. The Lark's Message.. .W. C. Levey. .Joseph Williams. °"l Love.^ ^" }^- Smallwood Chappell & Co. The Shrine Beside^J tiSrof^Tttme of >EKic Ewald Ewald & Co. Freedom). ) A Gathered Lily Michael Watson.. .Enoch & Sons. Come unto Me LiTf US'^™ you 5^^°™"* S"'™ Ashdown & Parry. Rest). Uniform with "Gaslight and Stars." Among the Flowers, and other Poems. By Fkakcis W. Bottkdillon. 6/- Waifs and Strays. Verses by Mrs. Alfred M. Mttnstbe. 6/- Songs in Exile, and other Poems. By H. E. Clabke. 6/- The Frithiof S aga ; or , Lay of Frithiof. Translated in the original metres, from the Swedish of Esaias TegniSr, Bishop of Wexib, hy the Rev. W. Lewbet Blackley, M.A. With Forty-three Original Woodcut Illustr£|,tions. Demy quarto, gilt edges. 25/- English Echoes of German Song. Translated by Dr. E. E. Wallis, Dr. J. D. Mokbli,, and F. d'Anvebs. Edited hy N. b'Anvbes. With Twelve beautiful Steel Engravings. Small quarto, cloth elegant, gilt edges. 10/6 The Latin Year: a Collection of Latin Hymns, Ancient and Modern. Edited by the Rev. W. J. Loftie, B.A., F.S.A. With numerous Old Style Woodcut Illustrations hy R. Batbman. Rough edges, quaint binding, octavo. 10/6 Bards and Blossoms ; or, the Poetry, History, and Associations of Flowers. With Eight Floral Plates, Illumi- nated in Gold and Colours. By F. E. Hulme, F.L.S., F.S.A., Marlborough CoUego. SmaU 4to, cloth elegant, gilt edges. 10/6 THE NEW PLUTARCH: Lives of Men and Women of Action who have made the History of the World. Coligny ; the Failnre of the French Reformation. By Walter Bbsant, M.A. 2/6 Judas Maccabaens ; the Revival of the Jewish Nationality. By Lieut. C. R. Conder, R.E. 2/6 Abraham Lincoln ; the Abolition of Slavery. By Charles G. Leland. 2/6 Victor Emmanuel ; the Attainment of Italian Unity. By Edward Dioby, M.A. 2/6 Joan of Arc ; the Expulsion of the English from France. By Janet Tttokby. 2/6 OTHER VOLUMES ARE IN PREPARATION.