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CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 In compliance with current 
 
 copyright law, Cornell University 
 
 Library produced this 
 
 replacement volume on paper 
 
 that meets the ANSI Standard 
 
 Z39.48-1992 to replace the 
 
 irreparably deteriorated original. 
 
 1996 
 
Parables and Tales. 
 
" Not yet to her was Nature's age 
 In gnarled and hollow shapes re\ealcd." 
 
 p. 63 
 
Parables and Tales. 
 
 BV 
 
 THOMAS GORDON HAKE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MADELINE," ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR HUGHES. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY. 
 
 1872. 
 
Co 
 
 Mother and Child 
 The Cripple ... 
 The Blind Boy ... 
 Old Morality 
 Old Souls 
 
 NTENTS. 
 
 Pane 
 II 
 
 22 
 
 35 
 
 46 
 
 The Lily OF THE Valley 60 
 
 The Deadly, Nightshade ... ... 77 
 
 The Poet 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 (I ) 
 
 HE day its sultry course had run, 
 The blaze was out, but not the glow ; 
 Still burned the embers of the sun ; 
 
 The stifled air had lost its flow: 
 A hot and fevered summer's night, — 
 The fire of day without the light. 
 
 1 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 (2) 
 
 Within the city, stony, vast. 
 
 The streets with ruddy lamplight shine, 
 With gleams from flaring windows cast 
 
 Where thirst is slaked with frothing wine. 
 Outside, small knots of women wait. 
 Throwing their line, with eyes for bait. 
 
 ,.( 3 ) 
 Beneath the Opera Colonnade, 
 
 Mother and child, coiled up as one. 
 Sat in the mingling light and shade, 
 
 And loved as in an undertone ; 
 Both deaf to all the roaring street. 
 To clanging wheels and pattering feet. 
 
 (4) 
 The child leans back as if he slept; 
 
 His hair is wavy in its fall ; 
 His eyes dream sideways, open kept 
 By loosely gazing on the wall. 
 " Poor thing ! " says one, and toward them leans ; 
 "She looks but halfway through her teens." 
 
Mother and Child. 3 
 
 (S) 
 
 Heard she the breeze of lofty song ? 
 
 Welling, it seemed, from faery cave, 
 Or holy place where voices throng 
 
 And pour sweet sounds through aisle and nave; 
 Now rising to its richest swell, 
 Now lost as through a broken spell. 
 
 (6) 
 
 The doors unclose, and wreathed girls, 
 Bounding with life, now press outside; 
 
 A blaze past child and mother whirls 
 Of silks, and gems, and purple pride. 
 
 Does no fair face among the gay 
 
 Look on the helpless with dismay? 
 
 (7) 
 
 Through wide-flung doors, with sudden gush, 
 The rays of light a nimbus place 
 
 Upon the infant's brow, and flush 
 With hectic rose the mother's face. 
 
 To one the light a halo seems 
 
 That round an infant Saviour beams. 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 (8) 
 Through this girl's soul the picture thrills: 
 
 To generous impulse she is led ; 
 But slowly as a pitcher fills 
 
 With water on a shallow bed. 
 Too slowly did her pitying sight 
 Absorb this vision of the night. 
 
 (9) 
 Her lover's voice her thoughts beguiled, 
 
 And turned them in an eddy round: 
 'Twas but a woman and a child — 
 
 She left them on the stony ground ; 
 Yet felt the appealing moment fly. 
 And sting her breast in passing by. 
 
 ( lo) 
 
 Through dreams, that night, she seeks in tears 
 Something through all the stony street; 
 
 'Tis lost, but wailing in her ears, 
 An infant's cry directs her feet. 
 
 Yet, strange! she finds in every place 
 
 Her lover's, not the infant's, face. 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 (II) 
 
 Next morn one thought her being sways- 
 One great 'desire— one longing wild — 
 
 To search the streets, the narrow ways, 
 For that lone mother and her child. 
 
 Ah! she has let the hour depart; 
 
 Her feet cannot o'ertake its start. 
 
 (12) 
 
 As long-loved features reappear 
 Across the tearful gulf of death, 
 
 Mother and child seem ever near: 
 
 Stone arch above, stone steps beneath. 
 
 She paints this to relieve her heart. 
 
 Hoping the vision may depart. 
 
 (13) 
 Like one^who Child and Mother met 
 
 Unheeding, in the olden day. 
 To dream with after-born regret 
 
 On heavenly beauty passed away, 
 Her soul yearned for a vanished sight, — 
 The tender vision of that night. 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 ( H) 
 One morn, at church, aloud she cried, 
 "Oh, help me, help me, that I find 
 The vision which I once denied. 
 
 Or take it from my weary mind!" 
 Whilst asking for the aid of grace. 
 The vision met her face to face. 
 
 ( IS ) 
 Close at the mother's bosom, bare 
 
 That it might suck, the infant lay; 
 The mother, worn with toil and care, 
 
 Knelt on the chequered stone to pray. 
 The lady's heart leapt with a bound ; 
 Her prayer was heard, the lost were found! 
 
 ( i6) 
 She bade the trembling mother come. 
 
 And on her way rejoicing went. 
 Leading the lost ones to her home. 
 
 On acts of love and mercy bent; 
 And yearned, as in old days seemed meet. 
 To stoop and wash the stranger's feet. 
 
Mother and Child. 7 
 
 ( 17) 
 She clothed and laved the wandering pair, 
 
 Smiling upon them as they smiled. 
 Never was seen a sight so fair — 
 
 This lady hanging o'er the child ! 
 Now in her arms the child she took, 
 Thinking to see a Saviour's look. 
 
 ( 18) 
 
 But as she gazed, dreams flitted by. 
 In which her lover's face appears — 
 
 His rounded brow, his bright blue eye. 
 Surely this child his aspect wears ! 
 
 Ah ! what wild instinct bids her trace 
 
 A likeness to his well-known face .' 
 
 ( 19) 
 
 What thoughts, what doubts, what spectre-fears 
 Now through her trembling soul defile.' 
 
 What darkening horror now appears "i 
 What is it in the baby-smile? 
 
 His lips, his eyes confront her gaze — 
 
 Lover and child in what strange maze ! 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 ( 2°) 
 
 The mother notes the lady's pain: 
 " I was the wretched one till now ; 
 Has the slow anguish of my brain 
 
 Thus in a moment tinged your brow ? 
 My miser)' I must e'en endure ; 
 But whence the anguish of the pure ? 
 
 ( 21 ) 
 
 "Though I have erred, still on the base 
 Less blame than pity you bestow. 
 
 Why then this anguish on your face, 
 This dreadful look, this crimson glow ? 
 
 Lady, you fill my soul with fears ! 
 
 Ah ! now you turn away in tears ! " 
 
 ( 22) 
 
 "What child is this?" the lady cried. 
 
 Through clasped hands that hid her face. 
 "A child whose father has denied 
 
 The loveliest flower of all his race ! 
 Ah ! he its smile has never known. 
 Yet is the mouth that smiles his own. 
 
Mother and Child. 9 
 
 (23) 
 " But he a nobler woman seeks, 
 
 And lets me beg from door to door." 
 "Her name? her name?" the lady shrieks. 
 
 "The Lady May of Alton Moor." 
 " Woman, get hence ! " the lady cried ; 
 " I know thy wicked tongue hath lied ! " 
 
 (24) 
 Lip-words that came not from the heart. 
 
 Where maddening whispers said, " 'T is true ! " 
 She stood and quivered, for the dart 
 
 Struck through her cherished love, and slew. 
 Was it for this, while others slept, 
 Her feet had roved, her eyes had wept? 
 
 (2S) 
 
 She turns away with one low wail. 
 
 Pity had fled ; but now, to rack 
 Her heart, the mother's sobs assail 
 
 Her ears, and bring her pity back. 
 The infant raised his arms and sprang 
 Towards her, unconscious of her pang. 
 
Mother and Child. 
 
 (26) 
 
 The sunlight dancing round the boy, 
 
 He seemed the type of heavenly love, — 
 Pure, holy, without earth's alloy, — 
 Bearing a message from above : 
 "Have I not saved you?" As he leapt. 
 That question to her bosom crept. 
 
 (27) 
 The picture filled her soul with awe, 
 
 Yet gave she thanks to Heaven, whose grace 
 Through that sweet child at last she saw; 
 
 And, clasping it in her embrace, 
 Cried : " Be it mine to palliate 
 Wrongs that avert my threatened fate ! 
 
 (28) 
 
 "To him that gave me love in words 
 
 May Heaven with mercy temper blame, 
 Who pity to us all accords. 
 
 Even in the depths of burning shame. 
 My saviour is this little child; 
 Through him my heart be reconciled!" 
 
The Cripple. 
 
 (I ) 
 
 BROOK beneath the hill-side flows 
 Amid the downs, whose chalky sweep 
 A scant though tender herbage grows, 
 
 Cropped close by scattered flocks of sheep. 
 And there a group of huts is seen 
 Dotted along a village green. 
 
The Cripple. 
 
 (2) 
 
 Yet, buildings of a statelier look 
 That poor sequestered valley grace: 
 
 An inn beside the village brook; 
 A church beside the burial-place. 
 
 Save at the park, the trees are few; 
 
 Still the old graveyard has its yew. 
 
 (3) 
 Beyond the park, the ring-dove's haunt. 
 
 Red bricks insult the smokeless sky: 
 There stands the workhouse, bare and gaunt, 
 
 Like the drear soul of poverty, 
 And frowns upon a mossy fen, 
 Where willows crouch like agdd men. 
 
 (4) 
 
 All life surrounds the road-side inn. 
 The home of welcome and good cheer. 
 
 Where barmaid scores the gill of gin 
 And oft-repeated pot of beer: 
 
 Unlike the fashion of the town — 
 
 To drink and fling the money down. 
 
The Cripple. 13 
 
 ( S ) 
 The wife, with eggs and milk for sale, 
 
 Wrapt in the coat of her good man, 
 Stops there and takes her drop of ale 
 
 While waiting for her empty can, 
 And, nodding at the landlord's sport. 
 Keeps for the last her smart retort. 
 
 (6) 
 
 The good man, always on his mare, 
 Stops with familiar nod and wink, 
 
 And bids the landlord with him share 
 His amber draught of foamy drink ; 
 
 With chuckling joke concludes his say, 
 
 And laughs when out of hearing's way. 
 
 (7 ) 
 
 There with his team the carter stays. 
 The water-trough his horses find ; 
 
 Worn out himself, he little says — 
 No fun has he to leave behind. 
 
 To slake his thirst no means at call, 
 
 His team he follows to their stall. 
 
14 The Cripple. 
 
 (8) 
 The squire, addicted not to chat, 
 
 But seldom draws the rein or speaks ; 
 Seeing the landlord touch his hat, 
 
 Into a quiet trot he breaks; 
 Save at election, when he stops 
 To praise the children or the crops. 
 
 (9) 
 Between the horse-trough and the door 
 
 A widow's son was wont to stand. 
 He was a cripple, crutched and poor. 
 
 Yet always ready with a hand. 
 Pleased when on trifling errands sent, 
 With little recompense content. 
 
 ^ ( lo) 
 
 So oft a copper coin the boy 
 
 Would earn, that helped to buy him bread, 
 Too glad to get such light employ : 
 
 Thp parish all his mother's dread. 
 Hard had she worked to earn him food 
 Through all her weary widowhood. 
 
The Cripple. 15 
 
 (") 
 More did that mother love her son 
 
 Than had he been the fairest born ; 
 He was her pride to look upon, 
 
 Though shrunk of limb and feature worn : 
 Maybe she loved him all the more 
 For that his legs were crookt and sore. 
 
 ( 12) 
 As a wrecked vessel on the sand, 
 
 The cripple to his mother clung: 
 Close to the tub he took his stand 
 
 While she the linen washed and wrung ; 
 And when she hung it out to dry 
 The cripple still was standing by. 
 
 ( 13) 
 When she went out to char, he took 
 
 His fife, to play some simple snatch 
 Before the inn hard by the brook. 
 
 While for the traveller keeping watch, 
 Against the horse's head to stand, 
 Or hold its bridle in his hand. 
 
1 6 The Cripple. 
 
 ( 14) 
 Sometimes the squire his penny dropped 
 
 Upon the road for him to clutch. 
 Which, as it rolled, the cripple stopped. 
 
 Striking it nimbly with his crutch. 
 The groom, with leathern belt and pad. 
 E'en found a copper for the lad. 
 
 ( IS ) 
 
 The farmer's wife her hand would dip 
 Down her deep pocket with a sigh ; 
 
 Some halfpence in his hand would slip. 
 When there was no observer nigh ; 
 
 Or give him apples for his lunch. 
 
 That he loved leisurely to munch. 
 
 ( i6) 
 
 But for the farmer, what he made, 
 At market table he would spend, 
 
 And boys who used not plough or spade 
 Had got the parish for their friend ; 
 
 He paid his poor rates to the day, 
 
 So let the boy ask parish-pay. 
 
The Cripple. 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 
 Yet would the teamster feel his fob, 
 The little cripple's heart to cheer, 
 
 Himself of penny pieces rob, 
 
 That he begrudged to spend in beer ; 
 
 His boy, too, might be sick or sore, 
 
 So gave he of his thrifty store. 
 
 ( i8) 
 
 A sheep-worn walk along the brook 
 The cripple loved to trace : the gush 
 
 Of water thralled him as it shook 
 The ragged roots of the green rush. 
 
 Which with its triple flowers of pink 
 
 Stood ripe for gathering at the brink. 
 
 ( 19) 
 
 The heather bristles round the knoll. 
 Where inlaid moss and leaflets blend : 
 
 'Tis there he sits and ends his stroll, 
 His crutch beside him as his friend. 
 
 And looks upon the other bank. 
 
 Where blue forget-me-not grows rank ; 
 
1 8 The Cripple. 
 
 (20) 
 
 Where purple loosestrife paints the sedge ; — 
 Where bryony and yellow bine, 
 
 Locked in blush-bramble, climb the hedge. 
 And white convolvulus enshrine. 
 
 Nestled in leaves, they all appear 
 
 Each other's flowers to nurse and rear. 
 
 ( 21 ) 
 There mused he like a child of yore. 
 
 With sense not trammelled or misled 
 B}' cog and wheel of human lore : 
 
 On Nature's simple teachings fed. 
 The Shaper of his destiny 
 He felt was smiling from the sky. 
 
 (22 ) 
 
 There with soft notes his fife he filled — 
 A mere tin plaything from the mart. 
 
 With holes at equal distance drilled. 
 To which his fingers grace impart, 
 
 AMiile it obeys his lips' control, 
 
 And is a crutch unto his soul. 
 
The Cripple. 19 
 
 (23) 
 
 At church he longed his fife to try, 
 Where oboe gave its doleful note, 
 
 Where fiddle scraped harsh melody. 
 Where bass the rustic vitals smote. 
 
 Such music then was all in vogue. 
 
 And psalms were sung in village brogue. 
 
 (24) 
 
 His cheerful ways gave many cause 
 
 For wonder; nay, his very joy 
 To others' mirth would give a pause : 
 
 His soul so like his body's toy, 
 So childish, yet with face of age. 
 Beginning at life's latter stage. 
 
 (25 ) 
 
 Dead is his crutch on moping days — 
 
 'Tis so they call his sickly fits. 
 When by his side his crutch he lays, 
 
 And in the chimney-corner sits. 
 Hobbling in spirit near the yew 
 That in the village churchyard grew. 
 
The Cripple. 
 
 ( =6) 
 
 Ah! it befell at harvest-time, — 
 
 Such are the ways of Providence, — 
 
 That the poor widow in her prime 
 Was fever-struck, and hurried hence; 
 
 Then did he wish indeed to lie 
 
 Between her arms and with her die. 
 
 ( 27 ) 
 
 Who shall the cripple's woes beguile ? 
 
 Who earn the bread his mouth to feed ? 
 Who greet him with a mother's smile ? 
 
 Who tend him in his utter need ? 
 Who lead him to the sanded floor? 
 Who put his crutch behind the door? 
 
 (28) 
 
 Who set him in his wadded chair. 
 And after supper say his grace ? 
 
 Who to invite a loving air 
 
 His fife upon the table place? 
 
 Who, as he plays, her eyes shall lift 
 
 In wonder at a cripple's gift ? 
 
The Cripple. 
 
 (29) 
 Who ask him all the news that chanced — 
 
 Of farmer's wife in coat and hat, 
 Of squire who to the city pranced — 
 
 To draw him out in lively chat ? 
 This flood of love, now but a surf 
 Left on a nameless niound of turf 
 
 {30) 
 
 Some it made sigh, and some made talk, 
 To see the guardian of the poor 
 
 Call for the boy to take a walk. 
 
 And lead him to the workhouse door : 
 
 With lifted hands and boding look 
 
 They watched him cross the village brook. 
 
The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 N dark ascent the pine-clad hills 
 
 Repose on heaven their rocky crest, 
 Lit by the flash of falling rills 
 
 That in the valley seek for rest, 
 Chafing in rainbow-spray when thrust 
 Into the sunshine by the gust. 
 
The Blind Boy. : 
 
 (2) 
 
 Clouds folded round the topmost peaks, 
 Shut out the gorges from the sun 
 
 Till mid-day, when the early streaks 
 Of sunshine down the valley run ; 
 
 But where the opening cliffs expand. 
 
 The early sea-light breaks on land. 
 
 (3) 
 Before the sun, like golden shields, 
 
 The clouds a lustre shed around ; 
 Wild shadows gambolling o'er the fields ; 
 
 Tame shadows stretching o'er the ground. 
 Towards noon the great rock-shadow moves, 
 And takes slow leave of all it loves. 
 
 (4) 
 Then beam-shot clouds dissolve apace ; 
 
 Stray shades, yet lingering, like a scroll. 
 Drawn nearer to their craggy base, 
 
 Into its clefts and caverns roll ; 
 The light falls down the rocky piles ; 
 The vale a lake of glory smiles. 
 
2 4 The Blind Boy. 
 
 (5 ) 
 There dwell two orphans : Heaven ordains 
 
 The sister's eyes shall live in light : 
 Her brother in the shade remains 
 
 ^^'hen morning bursts upon her sight. 
 Sister and" brother, far and wide 
 They wander ever side by side. 
 
 (6) 
 
 When to the shore through woods and fields 
 The brother has a wish to stray, 
 
 The sister takes the hand he yields ; 
 She by fond habit leads the way. 
 
 Skipping along, oft face to face, 
 
 Her hand directs his timid pace. 
 
 (7) 
 The plains that strike the gre\'-white line 
 
 Where earth's mild curve in distance fades ■ 
 The streams that near the dwelling shine ■ 
 
 The quiet meads ; the rustling glades ; 
 The sand-dunes waiting on the shore, 
 The sister's eyes for him explore. 
 
The Blind Boy. 25 
 
 (8) 
 'Tis all his own, yet her loved" hand, 
 
 Her gentle voice, her sayings dear. 
 Are choicer gifts than all the land 
 
 That he inherits far and near, 
 For all his light is in her mind, — 
 The path he loses she can find. 
 
 (9) 
 At early morn, embraced by her, 
 
 He sits within the shadow's dip 
 To list to his sweet minister. 
 
 And paint his visions from her lip. 
 He sees the waters, earth, and skies 
 Only through her enchanted eyes. 
 
 ( 10) 
 
 She owns the soul-illuming fay! 
 
 Her eyes are bright — his now are blind ; 
 As morn and eve join hands in day, 
 
 The sister's seeks the brother's niind. 
 Darkness he bears and she bears light; 
 Hers is the morn and his the night. 
 
26 The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( " ) 
 She tells him how the mountains swell, 
 
 How rocks and forests touch the skies ; 
 He tells her how the shadows dwell 
 
 In purple dimness on his eyes, 
 Whose tremulous orbs the while he lifts, 
 As round his smile their spirit drifts. 
 
 ( 12) 
 
 More close around his heart to wind, 
 She shuts her eyes in childish glee, 
 "To share," she said, "his peace of mind; 
 To sit beneath his shadow-tree." 
 So, half in play, the sister tries 
 To find his soul within her eyes. 
 
 ( 13) 
 
 His hand in hers, she walks along 
 And leads him to the river's brink ; 
 
 She stays to hear the water's sorig. 
 Closing her eyes with him to think. 
 
 His ear, more watchful than her own, 
 
 Caught up the ocean's distant moan. 
 
The Blind Boy. 27 
 
 (14) 
 "The river's flow is bright and clear," 
 
 The blind boy said, "and were it dark 
 We should no less its music hear : 
 Sings not at eventide the lark ? 
 Still when the ripples pause, they fade 
 Upon my spirit like a shade." 
 
 (IS ) 
 " Yet, brother, when the river stops, 
 And in the quiet bay is hushed. 
 E'en though its gentle murmur drops, 
 
 'T is bright as when by us it rushed ; 
 It is not like a shade the more. 
 Except beneath the wooded shore." 
 
 ( 16) 
 
 Now the resounding beach, wave-swept, 
 Greets them ; now silence softly bears 
 
 The likeness of the waves that leapt 
 Unseen, and broke upon their ears. 
 "Dear sister, tell me once again 
 
 The wonders of the sea's domain ! " 
 
28 The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 Down the moist sands she guides his way, 
 
 And gazes on the lonesome shore, 
 Where desultory waves at play. 
 
 Rivet her looks ere they explore 
 The far off deep : ere those quick eyes 
 Rove o'er the waters, cliffs, and skies. 
 
 ( i8) 
 
 " The farthest seas bend as a bow 
 Into the light, o'er-arching sky; 
 There, curdled breakers row on row 
 With scarce a motion, distant lie ; 
 Or if one vanish from the rest, 
 It shows again its snowy crest. 
 
 ( 19) 
 "But nearer, midway toward the sands, 
 I see long lines of billows creep; 
 One stops and into froth expands, 
 
 Then fades away upon the deep ; 
 Close to the shore the waves contend, 
 And shouting reach the journey's end." 
 
The Blind Boy. 
 
 (20) 
 
 When her bright tones upon him broke 
 The curtain from his soul was drawn ; 
 
 His spirit quickened as she spoke, — 
 And flashed as at a sudden dawn, 
 
 With visions of a world once known, 
 
 That for the moment seemed his own. 
 
 ( 21 ) 
 " O tell me of the changing sky, — 
 
 Sunless and dreary now ! " " 'T is blue, 
 Save where loose clouds float slowly by, 
 
 Of orange, white, and inky hue. 
 The shifting waves in green unrest 
 Beneath the heavy gusts are pressed. 
 
 .( 22 ) 
 " Now warmth is pouring from the sun ; 
 The sea's sky-blue skims o'er the green. 
 Even up its billows while they run 
 
 And drip their foam in troughs between. 
 O could you see them as they roar — 
 Scooping a^yay the glistening, shore ! " 
 
The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( 23 ) 
 " The waves with mingling echoes fall ; 
 And memories of a long-lost light 
 From far-off mornings seem to call, 
 
 And what I hear comes into sight. 
 The beauteous skies flash back again, 
 But, ah ! the light will not remain 1 " 
 
 (24) 
 
 Awhile he pauses ; as he stops, 
 Her little hand the sister moves 
 
 And pebbles on the water drops, 
 As it runs up the sandy grooves, 
 
 Or to her ear a shell applies, 
 
 With parted lips and dreaming eyes. 
 
 (25 ) 
 "That noise!" said he, with lifted hand. 
 "The sea-gull's scream and flapping wings. 
 Before the wind it flies to land. 
 
 And omens of a tempest brings." 
 She tells him how the sea-bird pale 
 Whirls wildly on the coming gale. 
 
The Blind Boy. 31 
 
 (26) 
 
 "And is the sea alone? Even now 
 
 I hear faint mutterings." "Tis the waves." 
 " It seems a murmur sweeping low 
 
 And hurrying through the distant caves. 
 I hear again that smothered tone. 
 As if the sea were not alone." 
 
 (27 ) 
 
 " Heaven slopes above on every side, 
 And shuts us from the distant land. 
 
 The waters only here abide, 
 
 And we who sit upon the sand. 
 
 A porpoise revels in the spray. 
 
 And purple vapours veil the bay. 
 
 (28) 
 
 " Come, hasten to the shivering woods, 
 Where twisted boughs are thickly set. 
 For soon the rain must fall in floods. 
 
 Let us seek shelter from the wet. 
 While like a sea the sky upheaves. 
 We'll watch beneath the matted leaves." 
 
J 2 The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( 29) 
 " Stay, sister ! Listen to that sound ; — 
 It thunders^ — did the flash appear?" 
 "It hghtens now, and, whirling round, 
 The gull dips low, as if in fear." 
 The boy now turns his floating eyes. 
 Though not the way the sea-bird flies. 
 
 (30) 
 " The wind is balmy on my cheek, 
 
 But now I feel the rain-drop plash. 
 Let us," he said, "the woodland seek, 
 
 And hear it on the foliage dash. 
 There the ground-ivy we will tread. 
 And through the grove its perfume spread. 
 
 (31 ) 
 And so they prattle as they leave 
 
 The sandy beach, in pensive mood, 
 His ear turned to the billows' heave, 
 
 Her vision leaning on the wood, 
 While, as the honeysuckle clings. 
 About his neck her arm she flings. 
 
The Blind Boy. 33 
 
 (32) 
 Better than she the blind boy hears 
 
 The whispers of the patient shore, 
 While yet the wave its crest uprears 
 
 To break once more, — and evermore. 
 Better than she the blind boy feels 
 The simple pictures she reveals. 
 
 (33) 
 Clapping her hands, she spies above 
 
 Rich elms, the turrets grey and old, — 
 But love of home was only love 
 
 When to her darling brother told. 
 Thus ever to his soul replies 
 The infant passion of her eyes. 
 
 (34) 
 While they return, the dwelling near. 
 
 One word must yet the sister say. 
 She lifts her voice: "O brother dear, 
 
 If good my eyes have been to-day. 
 Kiss them for every new delight 
 That kindles in your spirit's sight ! " 
 
The Blind Boy. 
 
 ( 35 ) 
 Deep in his eyes the love-lights strove ; 
 He clasped her in a close embrace : — 
 With lips that shook with grateful love, 
 
 He kissed her eyes — he kissed her face- 
 He wept upon that tender brow ; 
 " Dearest, the darkness leaves me now ! 
 
 (36) 
 
 " I view all beauty through your eyes ; 
 
 I see within, you see outside. 
 Your love has raised me to the skies, — 
 
 Once narrow, — lofty now and wide. 
 And not, as once, of sombre hue; 
 For I can dream the dark to blue. 
 
 (37) 
 " The upward-toiling hill ; the stream ; 
 The valley ; the wide ocean's sweep ; 
 All take the colours of a dream, — 
 The glories of the land of sleep. 
 You are my soul, my eyes, my sight ; 
 'Tis dark no more, for you are light." 
 
Old Morality. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 I HE earth, save here and there where stones 
 May turn the edge of sexton's spade, 
 Is a receptacle for bones, — 
 
 A grotto for the wayworn made. 
 One key unlocks its doors — the steel 
 Under the sexton's heavy heel. 
 
36 Old Morality. 
 
 (2) 
 
 A mortal warning damped the town, — 
 
 The uncaged spirit's pilot-bell! 
 Though known the Squire was stricken down, 
 
 'T was vouched-for he was doing well ; 
 Some said they saw him riding out 
 The hour his death was noised about. 
 
 (3) 
 
 When fully warned that all must die. 
 Which meant the Squire, a spot of soil 
 
 He chose, and asked in peace to lie 
 
 Where rest the poor from sweat and toil. 
 
 Them he forgot not, them he gave 
 
 All he could carry to the grave. 
 
 (4) 
 
 The folk were touched; this, after all, 
 
 Brought human feelings to their door. 
 Forth went the sexton to instal 
 
 This loving Squire among his poor. 
 Muttering the thought that next him lay: 
 " All that he gives he takes away." 
 
Old Morality. 37 
 
 (5) 
 Some joined the sexton in a chat ; 
 
 Some shunned him for a churchyard fool ; 
 Yet earnest at his work, he spat 
 
 Upon his hand and grasped his tool, 
 Then chopping out the narrow span, 
 Bade earth precedence yield to man. 
 
 (6) 
 
 His frame was strong; for 'six spit deep' 
 The earth gives out a wholesome scent : 
 
 Yet would his blood within him creep, — 
 For his mind's eye, on death intent, 
 
 Most ghostly visions now and then 
 
 Turned over with the bones of men. 
 
 (7) 
 ' Six spit besides the crumbs ' he gave 
 New comers, on their journey bound. 
 Who rested half-way at the grave. 
 
 There would he linger by the mound 
 Till peace seemed mingled with the clay, — 
 And, lo ! a dream of yesterday ! 
 
^8 Old Morality. 
 
 (S) 
 
 What marvel if the sexton's talk 
 Ran in trite sayings of the dead ? 
 
 If in their midst his daily walk, 
 
 Their annals needs must crowd his head. 
 
 His path in life at best was dull, — 
 
 Just here a rib, just there a skull. 
 
 (9) 
 He pitied bones that had no breath; 
 
 He blamed the body-snatcher's trade. 
 That showed no mercy unto death ; 
 
 He spared the worm beneath his spade. 
 Stray, worn-out bones he hid away 
 When corpses came in bright array. 
 
 ( lo) 
 
 The church was smeared with frosty dew; 
 
 The frozen clock discounted time; 
 With hoar were fretted tombs and y&vf, — 
 
 The wintry graveyard white with rime. 
 Fresh-broken earth of fading red, 
 By streaks of ice was riveted. 
 
Old Morality. 39 
 
 ( II ) 
 The sexton little mourns his loss 
 
 Whose dust must soon that grave bestrew. 
 With bone on bone he forms a cross, 
 
 And plants a skull between the two, 
 Then emulates the Squire's address, 
 In terms befitting this recess. 
 
 ( 12) 
 Again the tolling bell was heard, 
 
 As into rhapsody he broke. 
 The rime had gathered on his beard ; 
 
 His breath was thick as curling smoke ; 
 The sky frost-bitten, hard and dun, 
 And ice-spots on the glittering sun. 
 
 ( 13) 
 
 ' O skull, dishabited and nude, 
 
 When will this earth be scalped like thee .' 
 Thou bearest strange similitude 
 
 To a round globe without a tree. 
 Without a grass-blade, or a tide 
 Ridges and hollows to divide ! 
 
40 Old Morality. 
 
 ( 14) 
 "Were thy revolving thoughts of old 
 False satellites that lit thy way? 
 Lustrous, conspicuous and bold, 
 
 They once were visible by day ! " 
 But here his speech, cut short by fear, 
 Dropped, — as though listeners were near. 
 
 ( IS ) 
 
 Close to him seemed the distant Hall. 
 
 The startling sight his musings stayed : 
 The leafless elm trees, gaunt and tall. 
 
 Stood up in vapoury shroud arrayed ; 
 They hung in mist their deeper gloom, 
 Like spectres at the house of doom. 
 
 ( i6) 
 
 The fog grew denser with the thaw; 
 
 He raised his spade to shoulder it. 
 When by the new-dug grave he saw 
 
 A stranger gazing in the pit : 
 The fresh-dug grave, no tenant yet ; 
 Upon a lease of ages let. 
 
Old Morality. 41 
 
 ( 17) 
 Dense as a cloud the stranger's breath 
 
 Was hanging in the sexton's way. 
 Was it the Company of Death 
 
 Had sent a message, "Cold to-day!" 
 Though filled with terror and surprise, 
 The sexton's talk got weatherwise. 
 
 ( 18) 
 
 Then said the stranger, " Pray how soon 
 
 Is the Squire's burial to be?" 
 The sexton said, "This afternoon 
 
 At half-past two o'clock, for three. 
 I shall be ready at my post. 
 For none so punctual as 'mine host.' 
 
 ( 19)- 
 "' At once to bed proceeds my guest ; 
 He lies not down by candlelight. 
 To get for once a thorough rest, 
 He fixes on the longest night 
 He cares not where his head is laid, 
 Nor bears in mind the chambermaid." 
 
42 Old Morality. 
 
 ( 20 ) 
 
 "As an old sexton, truly tell," 
 
 Observed the stranger who stood by, 
 "Where lie the bones, remembered well, 
 Of one named Old Morality ? 
 Among these stones, maybe, a trace 
 Is left to mark his resting-place." 
 
 ( 21 ) 
 
 As one set guessing in the dark. 
 The sexton had a puzzled eye 
 
 When asked, as of a man of mark. 
 Where tarried Old Morality; 
 
 Yet did the name some meaning bring; 
 
 It had a half-familiar ring. 
 
 ■( 22 ) 
 "For twenty years, or thereabout," 
 
 The sexton said, "I've turned the sod, 
 And seen a generation out. 
 
 Still to my mind the name sounds odd. 
 It stands not on the register; 
 But if you wish it, pray refer. 
 
Old Moralitv. 43 
 
 ( 23) 
 " No vestige here remains to tell 
 Aught of his sepulture or fate: 
 But there are ciphers some can spell 
 
 On tombstones, once articulate ; 
 For there are scholars hereabout 
 Can read a name clean blotted out. 
 
 (24) 
 
 "Mayhap of better bones than rest 
 
 In common graves, the news you seek : 
 
 Within the church we keep our best ; 
 The flagstones with their virtues reek. 
 
 There lie our parsons b}' the score; 
 
 Yet none that name exactly bore. 
 
 (25 ) 
 " There is the porch ; the wicket-gate 
 Within is free to him who knocks — 
 On holy days; but, not to wait. 
 
 This private key the door unlocks. 
 There, thick as coral-reefs, men's bones 
 Lie matted underneath the stones." 
 
44 Old Morality. 
 
 (26) 
 
 "Then is all record lost, all trace? 
 
 Does no fond shade in memory rise, 
 Bringing to mind his burial-place ? 
 
 No yearning, not a last surmise ? 
 Ere now a scudding glimpse of thought. 
 Things long forgot to mind has brought." 
 
 ( 27 ) 
 These words rang through the sexton's head. 
 
 He looked at vacancy like one 
 Who pondered o'er some page he read 
 
 Until he found all meaning gone. 
 Brought to a stand, a skull he took 
 And turned it over like a book. 
 
 (28) 
 
 Then said the sexton, "By my spade! 
 
 None such among us ever thrived. 
 Or by his acts disciples made, 
 
 Though many through this turf have dived. 
 Mayhap some other yard contains 
 The bones you seek as his remains." 
 
Old Morality. 45 
 
 (29) 
 
 "No; I have crossed in vain the bounds 
 
 Of many lands," the stranger said, 
 "And searched the consecrated grounds 
 Where bones of other ghosts are laid. 
 To me great men their lineage trace, 
 But who can show my resting-place ? 
 
 (30) 
 
 " The earth my very name hath lost, 
 
 Though bristling with memorial stones : 
 
 I go its round, the only ghost 
 
 That knows not where to find his bones. 
 
 Yet surely did I once exist " — 
 
 This said, he melted into mist. 
 
Old Souls. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 HE world, not hushed, lay as in trance ; 
 It saw the future in its van, 
 And drew its riches in advance. 
 
 To meet the greedy wants of man ; 
 Till length of days, untimely sped. 
 Left its account unaudited. 
 
Old Souls. 47 
 
 (2) 
 The sun, untired, still rose and set, — ; 
 
 Swerved not an instant from its beat ; 
 It had not lost a moment yet, 
 
 Nor used in vain its light and heat ; 
 But, as in trance, from when it rose 
 To when it sank, man craved repose. 
 
 (3) 
 
 A holy light that shone of yore 
 He saw, despised, and left behind : 
 
 His heart was rotting to the core 
 
 Locked in the slumbers of the mind : 
 
 Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife. 
 
 Could rouse it to a sense of life. 
 
 (4) 
 
 A cry was heard, intoned and slow. 
 Of one who had no wares to vend : 
 
 His words were gentle, dull, and low, 
 And he called out, " Old souls to mend ! " 
 
 He peddled on from door to door. 
 
 And looked not up to rich or poor. 
 
48 
 
 Old Souls. 
 
 (5 ) 
 
 His step kept on as if in pace 
 With some old timepiece in his head, 
 
 Nor ever did its way retrace; 
 
 Nor right nor left turned he his tread 
 
 But uttered still his tinker's cry 
 
 To din the ears of passers-by. 
 
 (6) 
 
 So well they knew the olden note 
 Few heeded what the tinker spake, 
 
 Though here and there an ear it smote 
 And seemed a sudden hold to take ; 
 
 But they had not the time to stay, 
 
 And it would do some other day. 
 
 (7) 
 
 Still on his way the tinker wends. 
 Though jobs be far between and few; 
 
 But here and there a soul he mends 
 And makes it look as good as new. 
 
 Once set to work, once fairly hired, 
 
 His dull old hammer seems inspired. 
 
Old Souls. 
 
 (8) 
 Over the task his features glow ; 
 
 He knocks away the rusty flakes; 
 A spark flies off at every blow; 
 
 At every rap new life awakes. 
 The soul once cleansed of outward sins, 
 His subtle handicraft begins. 
 
 (9) 
 Like iron unannealed and crude, 
 
 The soul is plunged into the blast; 
 To temper it, however rude, 
 
 'T is next in holy water cast ; 
 Then on the anvil it receives 
 The nimblest stroke the tinker gives. 
 
 ( lo) 
 
 The tinker's task is at an end : 
 
 Stamped was the cross by that last blow. 
 Again his cry, " Old souls to mend ! " 
 
 Is heard in accents dull and low. 
 He pauses not to seek his pay, — 
 That too will do another day. 
 
 49 
 
Old Souls. 
 
 ( II ) 
 One stops and says, " This soul of mine 
 
 Has been a tidy piece of ware, 
 But rust and rot in it combine. 
 
 And now corruption lays it bare. 
 Give it a look : there was a day 
 When it the morning hymn could say." 
 
 ( 12) 
 
 The tinker looks into his eye. 
 And there detects besetting sin, 
 
 The decent old-established lie. 
 
 That creeps through all the chinks within. 
 
 Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots, 
 
 And like a worm's nest coil the roots. 
 
 ( 13) 
 Its flowers a deadly berry bear, 
 
 Whose seed, if tended from the pod. 
 Had grown in beauty with the year, 
 
 Like deodara drawn to God ; 
 Not as the dank and curly brake. 
 That fosters venom for the snake. 
 
Old Souls. 
 
 ( 14) 
 The tinker takes the weed in tow, 
 
 And roots it out with tooth and nail ; 
 His labour patient to bestow, 
 
 Lest like the herd of men he fail. 
 How best to extirpate the weed, 
 Has grown with him into a creed. 
 
 (IS) 
 His tack is steady, slow, and sure : 
 
 He plucks it out, despite the howl, 
 With gentle hand and look demure, 
 
 As cunning maiden draws a fowl. 
 He knows the job he is about. 
 And pulls till all the lie is out. 
 
 ( i6) 
 
 'Now steadfastly regard the man 
 
 Who wrought j'our cure of rust and rot ! 
 You saw him ere the work began : 
 
 Is he the same, or is he not.' 
 You saw the tinker; now behold 
 The Envoy of a God of old." 
 
52 Old Souls. 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 
 This said, he on the forehead stamps 
 The downward stroke and one across, 
 
 Then straight upon his way he tramps ; 
 His time for profit, not for loss; 
 
 His task no sooner at an end 
 
 Than out he cries, "Old souls to mend!' 
 
 ( 18) 
 
 As night comes on he enters doors, 
 He crosses halls, he goes upstairs, 
 
 He reaches first and second floors. 
 Still busied on his own affairs. 
 
 None stop him or a question ask ; 
 
 None heed the workman at his task. 
 
 ( 19) 
 Despite his cry, "Old souls to mend!" 
 
 Which into dull expression breaks. 
 Not moved are they, nor ear they lend 
 
 To him who from old habit speaks ; 
 Yet does the deep. and one-toned cry 
 Send thrills along eternity. 
 
Old Souls. 53 
 
 ( 20) 
 He gads where out-door wretches walk, 
 
 Where outcasts under arches creep; 
 Among them holds his simple talk. 
 
 He lets them hear him in their sleep. 
 They who his name have still denied, 
 He lets them see him crucified. 
 
 (21 ) 
 
 On royal steps he takes a stand 
 To light the beauties to the ball; 
 
 He holds a lantern in his hand, 
 And lets his simple saying fall. 
 
 They deem him but some sorry wit 
 
 Serving the Holy Spirit's writ. 
 
 ( 22) 
 
 They know not souls can rust and rot, 
 And deem him, while he says his say, 
 
 The tipsy watchman who forgot 
 
 To call out "Carriage stops the way!" 
 
 They know not what it can portend. 
 
 This mocking cry, " Old souls to mend ! " 
 
54 Old Souls. 
 
 ( 23 ) 
 
 While standing on the palace stone, 
 He is in workhouse, brothel, jail; 
 
 He is to play and ball-room gone. 
 To hear again the beauties rail ; 
 
 With tender pity to behold 
 
 The dead alive in pearls and gold. 
 
 ( 24) 
 
 In meaning deep, in whispers low 
 As bubble bursting on the air. 
 
 He lets the solemn warning flow 
 Through jewelled ears of creatures fair, 
 
 Who, while they dance, their paces blend 
 
 With his mild words, " Old souls to mend ! " 
 
 (■^5 ) 
 
 And when to church their sins they take. 
 And bring them back to lunch again. 
 
 And fun of empty sermons make. 
 He whispers softly in their train ; 
 
 And sits with them if two or more 
 
 Think of a promise made of yore. 
 
Old Souls. 55 
 
 (■26) 
 
 Of those who stay behind to sup, 
 And in remembrance eat the bread, 
 
 He leads the conscience to the cup, 
 His hands across the table spread. 
 
 When contrite hearts before him bend, 
 
 Glad are his words, " Old souls to mend ! " 
 
 ( 27 ) 
 
 The little ones before the font 
 
 He clasps within his arms to bless ; 
 For Childhood's pure and guileless front 
 Smiles back his own sweet gentleness. 
 "Of such," he says "my kingdom is, 
 For they betray not with a kiss." 
 
 ( 28 ) 
 
 He goes to hear the vicars preach: 
 They do not always know his face, 
 
 Him they pretend the way to teach, 
 And, as one absent, ask his grace. 
 
 Not then his words, "Old souls to mend!" 
 
 Their spirits pierce or bosoms rend. 
 
Old Souls. 
 
 ( 29) 
 
 He goes to see the priests revere 
 His image as he lay in death : 
 
 They do not know that he is there; 
 They do not feel his living breath, 
 
 Though to his secret they pretend 
 
 With incense sweet, old souls to mend. 
 
 (30) 
 
 He goes to hear the grand debate 
 That makes his own religion law ; 
 
 But him the members, as he sate 
 Below the gangway, never saw. 
 
 They used his name to serve their end. 
 
 And others left old souls to mend. 
 
 (31 ) 
 Before the church-exchange he stands. 
 
 Where those who buy and sell him, meet 
 He sees his livings changing hands. 
 
 And shakes the dust from off his feet. 
 Maybe his weary head he bows. 
 While from his side fresh ichor flows. 
 
Old Souls. 57 
 
 (32 ) 
 From mitred peers he turns his face. 
 
 Where priests convoked in session plot, 
 He would remind them of his grace 
 
 But for his now too humble lot; 
 So his dull cry on ears devout 
 He murmurs sadly from without. 
 
 ( 33 ) 
 He goes where judge the law defends, 
 
 And takes the life he can't bestow, 
 And soul of sinner recommends 
 
 To grace above, but not below ; 
 Reserving for a fresh surprise 
 Whom it shall meet in Paradise. 
 
 (34) 
 
 He goes to meeting, where the saint 
 Exempts himself from deadly ire, 
 
 But in a strain admired and quaint 
 Consigns all others to the fire. 
 
 While of the damned he mocks the howl, 
 
 And on the tinker drops his scowl. 
 
58 Olo Souls. 
 
 (35) 
 Go here, go there, they cite his word, 
 
 While he himself is nigh forgot. 
 He hears them use the name of Lord, 
 
 He present though they know him not. 
 Though he be there, they vision lack, 
 And talk of him behind his back. 
 
 (36) 
 
 Such is the Church and such the State. 
 
 Both set him up and put him down, — 
 Below the houses of debate, 
 
 Above the jewels of the crown. 
 But when " Old souls to mend ! " he says. 
 They send him off about his ways. 
 
 (37) 
 He is the humble, lowly one. 
 
 In coat of rusty velveteen. 
 Who to his daily work has gone ; 
 
 In sleeves of lawn not ever seen. 
 No mitre on his forehead sticks: 
 His crown is thorny, and it pricks. 
 
Old Souls. 59 
 
 ( 38) 
 On it the dews of mercy shine; 
 
 From heaven at dawn of day they feii ; 
 And it he wears by right divine, 
 
 Like earthly kings, if truth they tell ; 
 And up to heaven the few to send, 
 He still cries out, "Old souls to mend!" 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 HERE was a wood, it does not change, 
 ^^ Not while the thrush pipes through its glades. 
 And she who did its thickets range 
 
 Has willed her sunbeam to its shades. 
 There still the lily weaves a net 
 With bluebell, primrose, violet. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 6i 
 
 ( 2) 
 The wood is what it was of old, 
 
 A timber-farm where wild flovvers grow. 
 There woodman's axe is never cold, 
 
 That lays the oaks and beeches low. 
 But though the hand of man deface, 
 The lily ever grows in grace. 
 
 (3 ) 
 Of loving natures, proudly shy, 
 
 The stock-doves sojourn in the tree, 
 With breasts of feathered cloud and sky, 
 
 And notes of soft though tuneless glee : 
 Hid in the leaves they take a spring. 
 And crush the stillness with their wing. 
 
 (4) 
 
 The wood is deep-boughed, and its glade 
 Has ruts of waggon to and fro ; 
 
 Yet where the print of wheel is made 
 The bracken ventures still to grow; 
 
 And where the foot of man maj;- goad. 
 
 The ants are toiling with their load. 
 
62 The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 5 ) 
 The wood, even old in olden days, 
 
 No longer alters with the year. 
 The gnarled boughs, to Nature's ways 
 
 Inured, their honours mildly bear. 
 And she who there has fixed her beam 
 Is still remembered as a dream. 
 
 (6) 
 
 There many a legend of the wood 
 Has hovered from the olden time. 
 
 When, with their sooths and sayings good, 
 Men told not of its youth or prime. 
 
 The hollow trunks were hollow then, 
 
 And honoured like the bones of men. 
 
 (7) 
 
 There like nine brethren, Nature's own, 
 Nine trees within a circle stand, 
 
 And to a temple's shape have grown. 
 Each trunk a column tall and grand. 
 
 And, there, a raven-oak uprears 
 
 Its dome that whitens with the years. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 63 
 
 (8) 
 
 'Mid these, while on the earth at play. 
 She, the true beam of living, spring, 
 
 The playmate of the lily's ray, 
 
 Learnt of the piping thrush to sing. 
 
 The lily's leaves were then her nest, 
 
 Its buds half-nestled in her breast. 
 
 (9) 
 To her whose beam was lily-bright 
 
 'Neath brakes that hide the sky above, 
 A primrose seemed a holy sight: 
 
 Loveless itself, it taught her love. 
 It was her welcome to the bowers, 
 And lured her fingers to its flowers. 
 
 ( 10) 
 
 Not yet to her was Nature's age 
 
 In gnarled and hollow shapes revealed : 
 
 The buds and leaflets stamped her page, 
 And all that Death could say concealed. 
 
 To gnarled and hollow Nature cold. 
 
 She had not caught the sense of old. 
 
64 The Ljly of the Valley. 
 
 ( II) 
 When folk who gossipped thereabout 
 
 Asked the child's name,— the child so pale,- 
 VVith looks that gave a sweetness out. 
 She answered, "Lily of the Vale." 
 . Not then her eyes had dew-drops shed 
 In early tribute to the dead. 
 
 (12) 
 
 Alas ! her parents came to die ; 
 
 She was not then too young to weep. 
 Through all the wood was heard her cry ; 
 
 At length with sobs she fell asleep. 
 Changed in that slumber was her beam ; 
 Changed was the import of her dream. 
 
 ( 13) 
 The lilies in their nest had died, 
 
 Violets were closed, their petals crushed. 
 The bracken-stalks were parched and dried, 
 
 The flowers she loved no longer blushed. 
 Now did her soul its scale ascend ; 
 Her dawn of joys was at an end. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 14) 
 While 'neath the oak she lay asleep 
 
 She saw its gnarled and hollow form ; 
 The riven branches seemed to creep, 
 
 Loosed was their long-enchanted storm. 
 The raven-oak, the tree she loved, 
 Through all her soul in ruin moved. 
 
 ( 15) 
 That oak, oft seen by her before. 
 
 But heeded not as weird and bald. 
 Had been laid up in memory's store. 
 
 In all its gloom to be recalled. 
 When tutoring sorrow should impress 
 The lesson of her first distress. 
 
 ( 16) 
 
 Then, too, she saw, o'ersnowed with age, 
 Her grandsire's face, so sad yet kind. 
 
 Smiling on her, his heritage. 
 
 The child his son had left behind. 
 
 Old was she now, for she could see 
 
 Her grandsire, aged like the tree. 
 
06 The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 
 As flowers her eager heart once fired 
 With love for things of joyous cast, 
 
 These visions in her soul inspired 
 
 Love for the sadder things tliat last : 
 
 The sire by age and trouble bent, 
 
 The tree by winds and lightnings rent. 
 
 ( i8) 
 Sleep left her eyes, but fixed them still ; 
 
 The living oak above her gleamed. 
 She gazed at it with wondering thrill 
 
 As when beneath its boughs she dreamed. 
 She looked about, but could not see 
 The face that smiled beside the tree. 
 
 ( 19) 
 Forthwith she to the cottage ran. 
 
 To catch the sire in his retreat, 
 She found him there, — the aged man, — 
 
 Calm-sitting on a mossy seat. 
 'Twas then a keener sense awoke 
 And to her soul in visions spoke. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 67 
 
 (20) 
 
 He tells how once the raven reared 
 Her young upon the leafy crest; 
 
 How now the oak by lightning seared 
 Affords no shelter for a nest. 
 
 With this her simple thoughts he led 
 
 To how the bird the prophet fed. 
 
 (21 ) 
 
 Then did she feel that he was poor; 
 
 That on a scanty crust he fared. 
 She longed to see within his door 
 
 The frugal meal she oft had shared, 
 And prayed the raven in her need 
 To do for them the loving deed. 
 
 (22) 
 
 Through every grove she poured her lay, 
 
 This drooping Lily of the Vale ; 
 As through the brakes she took her way 
 
 She told the thrush her touching tale, 
 And bade it in her service press 
 The bird that waits on man's distress. 
 
68 The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 23) 
 
 So, like a creature on the wing, 
 
 She spoke her griefs to all she met. 
 
 The thrush had taught her how to sing. 
 And to his note her plaint she set 
 
 As 'neath the trees her footsteps pass. 
 
 The coneys peep from out the grass. 
 
 (24) 
 She thought the thrush's mellow strain 
 
 Was answering with a note of joy. 
 She thought he led his feathered train 
 
 To listen to her sad decoy, — 
 But not to her the raven sped 
 Who brought from heaven the prophet's bread. 
 
 (25 ) 
 Meantime her grandsire day by day 
 
 'Mid hunger-pangs still hopeful smiled, 
 Trying to hide his pains away 
 
 From her, the watchful, loving child. 
 She saw him sink upon his bed. 
 But by no raven was he fed. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 69 
 
 ( 26) 
 
 Again through brake and bush she flew; 
 
 Beyond the wood there lay the field : 
 Though unknown paths broke on her view, 
 
 To childish fears she would not yield, 
 But looked at heaven and saw its scope. 
 Taught by her mother where was hope. 
 
 (27 ) 
 
 And then she to her mother said, 
 "Can God the prophet's raven spare? 
 For grandsire lies upon his bed. 
 
 And cannot earn his daily fare. 
 All father's work he leaves undone. 
 And says I soon shall be alone." 
 
 (28) 
 
 She took the road, and seemed to tread 
 The buoyant air that past her blew. 
 
 She cast her looks about in dread. 
 As on the unknown path she flew. 
 
 At last she stopped and gazed in fear,— 
 
 The place was strange, and no one near. 
 
yo The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 (29) - 
 
 And then she to her father said, 
 " Can God the prophet's raven spare ? 
 For grandsire lies upon his bed. 
 
 And cannot earn his daily fare. 
 He leaves the work you left undone. 
 And says I soon shall be alone." 
 
 (30) 
 Her slack'ning pace now plainly told 
 
 The path was long for timid feet. 
 She felt her heart no longer bold : 
 
 Oft she looked back the wood to greet. 
 Her wood from sight a moment gone, 
 She felt herself indeed alone. 
 
 (31 ) 
 
 She stood where hills and valleys blend ; 
 
 One struggle more, and heaven seemed nigh. 
 Beyond where fields and woods ascend, 
 
 She saw a mansion towering high, 
 A noble lady's home, that seemed 
 To her the heaven of which she dreamed. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 32 ) 
 ■ Could I," she thought, " that hill ascend, 
 
 Then should I see the lady's face. 
 She lives above, where troubles end, 
 
 And I have found her heavenly place. 
 God gives her plenty for the poor, 
 Who come home laden from her door." 
 
 She looked till flashed across her dreams 
 A sight that all her spirit fired ; 
 
 A form behind the window gleams, — 
 Could it be she so long desired ? 
 
 Through windows in that stately pile. 
 
 She thought she saw a human smile. 
 
 ( 34) 
 
 And then she to the lady said, 
 " Can God the prophet's raven spare .' 
 For grandsire lies upon his bed. 
 
 And cannot earn his daily fare. 
 All father's work he leaves undone. 
 And says 1 soon shall be alone." 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 ( 35 ) 
 The mansion stood against the sun : 
 
 There long she looked for her reply. 
 The ball of fire whose course had run, 
 
 Filling with red the western sky, 
 Seemed awful to her childish sight : 
 She turned her troubled steps for flight. 
 
 (36) 
 
 Dared she but enter at the gate 
 
 To reach that mansion vast and fair. 
 
 Then could she all her tale relate 
 To that sweet lady dwelling there. 
 
 But all her little hope had fled: 
 
 With fainting steps she homeward sped. 
 
 (37) 
 
 First slowly, then with swifter pace 
 She outran terror at her heels, 
 
 As if to win with Death the race, 
 
 Whose shroud now brushing by she feels. 
 
 She starts at every rugged bank. 
 
 For with the sun her spirit sank. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 (38) 
 
 The orb, yet vast beyond the height, 
 Had set more early in the wood ; 
 
 But o'er the trees the lingering light 
 Spread floating in a rosy flood. 
 
 The birds sank one by one to rest, 
 
 As pale and paler grew the west. 
 
 (39) 
 
 She spied her cot, O vision sweet! 
 
 A rushlight through the lattice flamed. 
 And threw its radiance at her feet. 
 
 As it the grudging twilight shamed. 
 Through diamond panes a glimpse to snatch. 
 She held her finger on the latch. 
 
 (40) 
 
 No sound, no breath she heard above. 
 
 Where grandsire in the garret lay. 
 But one was there whose looks of love, 
 "Poor little orphan," seemed to say. 
 She knew the chaplain's kindly face; 
 The bearer of the lady's grace. 
 
 73 
 
74 The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 (41 ) 
 " Where hast thou been, my darling maid ? 
 
 Reply to one who likes thee well." 
 "To warble to the birds," she said; 
 "The raven all my wants to tell. 
 I sang to them their pretty note, 
 Oft heard, and learned at last by rote." 
 
 (42) 
 
 "Why call the raven to thy door. 
 
 Thy little heart's distress to share } " 
 " Because," said she, " the sire is poor. 
 And has not earned his daily fare. 
 All father's work he leaves undone, 
 And says I soon shall be alone." 
 
 (43) 
 
 "To kiss thee, child, he would have stayed. 
 For oft he called thee to his side. 
 Where didst thou wander, little maid .? " 
 " I went across the world so wide. 
 I looked at heaven and saw its scope, 
 Taught by my mother where was hope. 
 
The Lily of the Valley. 75 
 
 ( 44; 
 " I looked for mother in the sky : 
 
 She taught me there my wants to tell ; 
 I looked for father standing by, 
 
 For both among the happy dwell; 
 I cried to them with heart of care, 
 Can God the prophet's raven spare ? 
 
 (45) 
 "Then I came nigh a stately pile. 
 
 Where those who ask seek not in vain. 
 I looked, and saw a human smile. 
 
 And thought a lady looked again. 
 Through windows I beheld her face. 
 As* she looked from her heavenly place. 
 
 (46) 
 
 "And then I to the lady said, 
 
 ' Can God the prophet's raven spare .' 
 For grandsire lies upon his bed. 
 
 And has not earned his daily fare. 
 My father's work he leaves undone. 
 And says I soon shall be alone.' " 
 
■j(, The Lily of the Valley. 
 
 (47 ) 
 
 "Thou art not all alone, my child; 
 
 Thy griefs that righteous lady hears : 
 She loves a spirit undefiled; 
 
 Her heart is open to thy tears. 
 Thy father's work at last is done. 
 And thou shalt never be alone.^' 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 HERE was a haunt, it does not change, 
 Not while the fiend its path invades ; 
 And he who did its alleys range 
 
 Has willed his penance to its shades. 
 There still the nightshade breathes its pest 
 On fallen spirits not at rest. 
 
■jS The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 ( 2) 
 
 It is the haunt it was of yore, 
 
 A den where thieves and harlots creep : 
 
 The voice of Nature heard no more 
 
 Where guilt-stained men night-vigil keep, 
 
 And crimes like months afresh appear, — 
 
 Ere one runs out, another near. 
 
 (3) 
 A haunt where all in common share 
 
 The sleepless hour, the murderous toil ; 
 Where Death on all has set his stare. 
 
 To mock their gain, to grasp their spoil. 
 And drag them quivering from their den, 
 A hardening sight for other men. 
 
 (4) 
 
 This is the charnel that doth hide 
 A frantic woman who has gamed 
 
 And lost young Nature's virgin pride ; 
 Who walks the squalid streets unshamed, 
 
 Wearing the soil of her disgrace : 
 
 Her soul's infection on her face. 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 79 
 
 (5 ) 
 O what a theme in evil dwells ! 
 
 Not pain, not penury can supply 
 A theme so wide, for it foretells 
 
 An ever-weeping progeny, 
 A brotherhood whose awful chief 
 Was Sin, the ancestor of Grief 
 
 (6) 
 
 A theme more sad in evil dwells 
 
 Than anguish from the mother wrings. 
 
 Its fruits' this woman's life foretells 
 Ere at her breast her infant clings. 
 
 From purest founts the new soul came 
 
 To nestle in her lap of shame. 
 
 (7 ) 
 
 Where only shadows rose and set. 
 And love at morn awakened not. 
 
 This child of woe his being met. 
 To share in love his mother's lot. 
 
 His very innocence a charm 
 
 To turn her heart from pending harm. 
 
So The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 (8) 
 
 The moaning mother through the gloom 
 Saw him draw in his early breath ; 
 
 Her soul too conscious of his doom : 
 On one side life, on one side death ! 
 
 She saw what portion then befell 
 
 A child of heaven new-born to hell. 
 
 (9) 
 His place of birth the skies deplored, 
 
 No trees, no brooks, no meadows seen ; 
 But still his heart the skies adored 
 
 Before he saw the fields were green. 
 Born amid broils, in squalor bred, 
 How knew his soul to where it sped .' 
 
 ( lo) 
 
 Now many hands the infant train 
 To shed with sobs the guileful tear, 
 
 Reared as a prodigy of pain 
 
 That gentle natures pay to hear. 
 
 And many listened and bestowed ; 
 
 For younger tears had never flowed. 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 8i 
 
 ( II ) 
 Held at his mother's hand, he hung 
 
 A broken spray with misery's drip ; 
 As often to the ground he clung, — 
 
 His passion bursting at his lip. 
 Dragged at her arm along the stones, 
 His feet grew tender to the bones. 
 
 ( 12) 
 
 Her eyes of prey like fangs she laid 
 
 On all who gave a hurried look. 
 In her child's name she whined for aid, 
 
 Not pausing till the coin she took. 
 When rushing to the public store, 
 She vanished through the slamming door. 
 
 ( 13) 
 
 With spreading nostril, eyes, of flame. 
 Before the shrine of death she stands, 
 
 The infant by her, sick and lame, 
 The lava trembling in her hands. 
 
 She drinks the fire, with rapture frowns ; 
 
 In it the fiend of sorrow drowns. 
 
 6 
 
82 The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 ( 14) 
 
 This is Dorado, and it yields 
 A golden harvest to the State. 
 
 A pious nation reaps its fields. 
 But buries there the profligate. 
 
 Why then the meagre fine compel ? 
 
 Why shut the drunkard in a cell? 
 
 (15) 
 Locked up in prison, left to rage, 
 
 A soul burned by its inward fires, 
 Hope is not present to assuage 
 
 The anguish of her fierce desires. 
 Such was the mother that befell 
 This child of heaven new-born to hell. 
 
 ( 16) 
 
 Not far away from infancy — 
 
 Through weary time a single stage. 
 
 The livelong years had hustled by 
 But left him still of tender age. 
 
 When from the frequent blow he fled. 
 
 Outside the doors to make his bed. 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 83 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 Where odours wander, dank and foul, 
 
 Through crowded streets and dwellings lone, 
 By day and night his footsteps prowl ; 
 
 His wants, not many, asked by none: 
 The roads were new he hourly crossed, 
 Yet was his way not wholly lost 
 
 ( 18) 
 When hunger came and need of bread, 
 
 He asked but of the stinted few: 
 Afraid to raise his drooping head 
 
 Except to those who famine knew; 
 These he believed their crust would break. 
 And share with him for pity's sake. 
 
 ( 19) 
 
 Hopeful, he glides into a den 
 
 Up whose dusk path a shudder flew. 
 
 And asks of sick, half-famished men 
 Whose strength no plenty could renew. 
 
 Yet with what startling oaths they rave. 
 
 And bid him run his neck to save ! 
 
84 The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 (20) 
 
 Still to the poor is his appeal. 
 
 And they his mild entreaty spurn : 
 
 Some whisper, Be a man and steal ; 
 Some bid him to the gallows turn. 
 
 Child-like he credits all he hears. 
 
 And rests his troubled heart in tears. 
 
 (21 ) 
 
 He sleeps, but oft starts up in fear, 
 For his dark mother's shadow coils 
 
 About his visions ; ever near. 
 
 It dogs his steps, his slumber foils. 
 
 Yet are there moments in his dreams 
 
 When air-piled plenty on him gleams. 
 
 (22) 
 
 Hope, 'mid those shapes of famine sent, 
 Smiled on him; — she is Childhood's bride! 
 
 The mother's image, o'er him bent, 
 Could not the angel wholly hide, — 
 
 Kind Hope; — her halo o'er him plays. 
 
 And all but hunger's pang allays. 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 85 
 
 (23) 
 Then did he long for once to taste 
 
 The reeking viands, as their smell 
 From cellar gratings ran to waste ; 
 
 Whose gusts the passing crowd repel. 
 Like Beauty with a rose regaled, 
 The grateful vapour he inhaled. 
 
 ( 24) 
 
 Less favoured than the dog outside, 
 He lingers by some savoury mass ; 
 
 He watches mouths that open wide, 
 
 And sees them eating through the glass. 
 
 Oft his own lips he opes and shuts, 
 
 And sympathy his fancy gluts. 
 
 (25 ) 
 
 So, oft a-hungered has he stood. 
 
 And yarn of fasting fancy spun. 
 As wistfully he watched the food 
 
 With one foot out prepared to run. 
 In vague misgiving of his right 
 To revel in the dainty sight. 
 
86 The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 (26) 
 
 Harmless, yet to the base akin, 
 He feels a blot no eye could see, 
 
 And drags his rags about his skin 
 To hide from view his pedigree. 
 
 He deems himself a thief by birth. 
 
 An alien on the teeming earth. 
 
 (27 ) 
 
 He begged not, but as one entranced 
 Admired the gay and wealthy throng; 
 
 But if on him the curious glanced, 
 He was abashed and slunk along; 
 
 He cared no more, the spell once broke. 
 
 Scenes of false plenty to invoke. 
 
 (28) 
 
 The man of charity beholds 
 
 The vagrant with a pent-up grief; 
 
 He stops reprovingly, he scolds. 
 But fails to give the child relief; 
 ' So sad to see the idle thrive 
 
 Who on another's earnings live.* 
 
The Deadly Nightshade. 87 
 
 (29) 
 Then comes the child, this ill-sown seed, 
 
 To sweep the purlieus and the Avynds, 
 But few bethink them of his need, 
 
 And scanty is the help he finds. 
 At times he walks upon his head : 
 A form of prayer for daily bread. 
 
 (30) 
 Now seem his days for sorrow made! 
 
 He hears that men on Sunday pray ; 
 A world's proud secret on parade 
 
 To him appears the Sabbath-day. 
 Though some stray truths may on him shine, 
 They have not hands or voice divine. 
 
 (31 ) 
 Lights sometimes reach him from afar. 
 
 But how is he their paths to keep.' 
 Though lit in heaven, the falling star 
 
 Burns out, is buried in the deep. 
 Must he then sink beneath a spell 
 Forged in the alphabet of hell? 
 
88 The Deadly Nightshade. 
 
 (32) 
 Must he then sink, this homeless child ? 
 
 Brothers he hath, a mighty host 
 Who shun him as a thing defiled. 
 
 Saying, "'Tis sad, but he is lost." 
 "Are we our brother's keeper?" "Yea"- 
 A voice shall answer on that Day. 
 
The Poet. 
 
 ( I ) 
 
 REY locks, the banner of the wise; 
 Their pride discharged by bleaching age ; 
 Inscribed with worn-out destinies, 
 
 With battle's sign without its rage; 
 The dregs of earth from them effaced, 
 And Time's pale hand upon them traced. 
 
9° 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 (2) 
 
 Grey eyes that look their evening dreams, 
 Glittering with memories unspoke ; 
 
 Wan cheeks, that bear the many seams 
 Of trouble's shock and ending stroke, 
 
 Whereon fixed pallor waits the call 
 
 That, from the darkness, comes to all. 
 
 (3) 
 
 A man of heart and aim so matched, 
 They journeyed on as two in one ; 
 
 The heart and aim each other watched, 
 And ever asked what each had done : 
 
 The noblest end of Nature served. 
 
 And never from their purpose swerved. 
 
 (4) 
 
 He mused ; he wrote ; he slowly aged ; 
 
 Sung as no other singer dared ; 
 While nations their grim battles waged. 
 
 To him her face veiled Nature bared ! 
 This grace alone sufficed to bless : 
 Deep was his love but passionless. 
 
T^E Poet. 91 
 
 ( 5 ) 
 While stirred by every wayside flower 
 
 Blooming amid the lakes and hills. 
 He lived a martyr to that power 
 
 Which only bursts the heart it fills ; 
 Which scales, for nought, emotion's height, — 
 Crushed through its own returning might. 
 
 (6) 
 
 Imagination's tidal wave 
 
 He governed with a kingly mind, — 
 Held it to heart, to thought a slave. 
 
 Though hard its flood to stem and bind ; 
 Would let it wash the universe ; 
 Then with its ebb again disperse. 
 
 (7) 
 
 The world went on its noisy round : 
 He held his calm unvarying way, 
 
 As, step by step o'er even ground, 
 
 Day gains on night, and night on day. 
 
 The spring would come, and come once more ; 
 
 None knew it from the spring before. 
 
92 The Poet. 
 
 (8) 
 
 But he whom Nature smiled upon, 
 Beheld a trail of light, a ring, 
 
 Left in the pathway of the sun ; 
 
 To him the spring was a new spring. 
 
 The opening leaves were newly green — 
 
 New-burnished were the skies between. 
 
 (9) 
 He ranged, unheeding of the hour, 
 
 The hills, the glades, the forests' night; 
 Crossing the paths where sunbeams pour 
 
 Through walls of leaves a river's light ; 
 Halting, some curious sight to see. 
 If but how ivy climbed the tree; 
 
 ( lo) 
 
 Or how the oak some leafless fork 
 Shot out, a memory of the scene 
 
 Where the blind lightning did its work. 
 Branching like antlers, mossed and green, 
 
 From out the cave of verdurous shade ; 
 
 Pointing weird shadows down the glade. 
 
The Poet. 
 
 93 
 
 ( II ) 
 One knoll he loved, the chestnut-strand ; 
 
 Leaves spread like fingers — arms that hung 
 In feathering sweep, and, flower in hand, 
 
 Dandled the blossoms as they swung ; 
 Their rising slopes a sunny field 
 Deep-hollowed for the shade they yield. 
 
 ( 12) 
 
 There stood he where leaf-chambers rang 
 With thrush and linnet's mingled song, 
 
 While, out of turn, the blackbird sang, 
 Eager the concert to prolong, 
 
 Scattering rich music, sweeter set 
 
 Than warbled throb of clarionet. 
 
 ( 13) 
 
 Faint waves of sound would come and go, 
 Where far-off elms the sunset spanned, 
 
 That seemed the rooks, then seemed the flow 
 Of waves upon a pebbly sand ; 
 
 While visions floated o'er the woods 
 
 Of distant shores and grating floods. 
 
94 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 ( H) 
 Can Nature fill the heart's desire ?— 
 
 To look on beauty made it his : — 
 Yet, in him lived a growing fire ; 
 
 With others he would share his bliss- 
 Share it, and reap immortal fame, — 
 Share it, and leave a deathless name. 
 
 (15) 
 Thus dreamed he; yet for trial's sake, 
 
 The vision came but to betray : 
 'Twas his, it seemed, the paths to take 
 
 That in the shadow pass away, — 
 To be rejected by his kind. 
 To leave no living name behind. 
 
 ( i6) 
 
 Then towards the evening of his rest. 
 Stung by his foes of meaner race. 
 
 He seemed man's uninvited guest; — 
 The gates of fame shut in his face! 
 
 Still vain his hope the goal to win : 
 
 Must he, then, die ere life begin.' 
 
The Poet. gc 
 
 ( 17 ) 
 Proudly he drifted on, — his age. 
 
 His genius full for fortune's tide. 
 Then he began his life to gauge. 
 
 With his austere and lofty pride. 
 Yet did the forest hear the sigh 
 His great soul breathed when none was nigh. 
 
 ( 18) 
 
 He asked was his the common lot, 
 To trace his name on shifting sand, — 
 
 The purpose of his toils forgot, 
 And vain the cunning of his hand. 
 
 Was the lone faculty divine 
 
 To burn, but not on men to shine.? 
 
 ( 19) 
 
 Why, with its advent ever near. 
 
 Had he not seized the wreath of fame. 
 
 Though others, with their noise and gear. 
 His own pure note had put to shame. 
 
 A voice, it seemed, an answer bore : 
 "These things .shall trouble thee no more." 
 
96 The Poet. 
 
 (20) 
 
 In thoughtful mood, his steps he turned, 
 To seek his rustic home again ; 
 
 Then came a light, and in him burned. 
 Gilding the meaning of his pain. 
 
 It was a ray through darkness shot : 
 
 It broke the secret of his lot. 
 
 (21 ) 
 
 Brooding before the fire, his gaze 
 Hangs vacant o'er its ember-cell. 
 
 Yet sees there many a vanished face 
 That glows as in a pensive hell, — 
 
 Shrinking away to less and less. 
 
 Then fading into nothingness. 
 
 (22) 
 
 Soon, two opposing mirrors glow, 
 Where shine the future and the past. 
 
 And image after image show 
 
 In the red light the embers cast : 
 
 Deep in the glow the pageant shines ; 
 
 The poet all its truth divines. 
 
The Poet. 97 
 
 ( 23 ) 
 His past as one long present glares. 
 
 In it he lives his life again, 
 To glory in his former cares ; — 
 
 He finds not one that was in vain. 
 On their bright gallery intent, 
 He sees the term of trial spent. 
 
 (24) 
 That is not all, — the mirror thrown 
 
 Upon his future, shows that Time 
 Has marked the poet for his own ; 
 
 That, in his destiny sublime, 
 Upon his soul these trials came 
 To feed, to purify its flame. 
 
 (25) 
 
 The purblind foes he knew of old 
 Distorted o'er those mirrors drift. 
 
 Compelled their purpose to unfold 
 To all who minds and motives sift — 
 
 The fountain of the poisoned jet. 
 
 The sting that in his flesh was set. 
 
 7 
 
gS The Poet. 
 
 (26) 
 
 While he had read for human kind 
 
 What breathes from Nature's sacred face, 
 
 They saw it not — for they were blind — 
 This gift for all the human race. 
 
 These he beholds borne down at last, 
 
 By the same flood that whelms the past. 
 
 ( 27 ) 
 
 Becalmed on her divinest height, 
 Lives Nature's ever-musing sage, 
 
 New orders calling into light ; — 
 The masters of a grander age. 
 
 To Nature true, and true to Art, 
 
 Thus the great poet played his part. 
 
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DR. HAKE'S POEMS. 
 
 MADELINE; 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY THOMAS GORDON HAKE, M.D. 
 
 Crown 8vo, Js. 6ci. 
 
 " The structure of the verse (in * Madeline ') is even exceptionally grand and well combined. 
 The form of expression adopted in this poem (* Old Souls ') is of the highest order 
 of homely pathos, to which no common word comes amiss, and yet in which the sense of 
 reverence and appropriateness is everywhere perfect Many of these [the shorter 
 
 poems] reveal the same tender thought for human «ufrering which is the great charm of the 
 'Parables.' It appears to us, then, that Dr. Hake is, in relation to his own time, as original 
 a poet as one can well conceive possible. He is uninfluenced by any styles or mannerisms of 
 the day to so absolute a degree as to tempt one to believe that the latest English singer he may 
 have even heard of is Wordsworth ; while in some respects his ideas and points of view are 
 newer than the newest in vogue ; and the external affinity frequently traceable to elder poets 
 only throws this essential independence into startling and, at times, almost whimsical reUef." 
 — Academy. 
 
 " The book has the charm of true poetry. The coming of Daphne and her meeting with 
 Madeline are described with exceeding power and delicacy. The mournful plaint of Madeline 
 to Daphne cannot be too highly praised, and there is pathos of the truest sort in the portrayal 
 of her heartrending woe. . The ' Lily of the Valley ' and * The Deadly Nightshade ' — 
 
 parables, the one of virtue, the other of vice — are both charming. . Dr. Hake gene- 
 
 rally succeeds best in slight touches of description, apt similes, and striking metaphors, that 
 at once attract the reader's notice, and that straightway make a home for themselves in his 
 memory." — Bjcamitier. 
 
 "The ministry of the angel Daphne to her erring human sister is frequently related in strains 
 of pure and elevated tenderness. Nor does the poet who can show so much delicacy fail in 
 strength. The description of Madeline as she passes in trance to her vengeance is full of vivid 
 pictures and charged with tragic feeling. The individuality of the writer lies in his 
 
 deep sympathy with whatever affects the being and condition of man. , . , Taken as a whole, 
 the book has high and unusual claims.'*— ./I ^^7/^a;«. 
 
Dr. Hakims Poems. 
 
 " Classical lore has had considerable influence upon the author of ' Madeline '. »t 
 
 exhibits a great deal of true poetic feeling." — Moniing Post. 
 
 " It [* Madeline '] is full of pure and noble thought and of fine imagery. . . There is 
 
 great power in * Old Souls," the teaching of which, inexpressibly tender and solemn, pierces 
 through the grotesque form employed by the author, . Their originality, their fire and 
 
 their quality, no less than their sustained nobility of aim and effort, will secure for them [the 
 poems] a select circle of educated readers.'' — Sunday Times. 
 
 " The poem of ' Madeline ' is evidently the production of a practised pen. The conceptions 
 are those of a true poet. Mr. Hake is an attentive student of the deep problems con- 
 
 nected with human life and nature. This is very noticeable in his tales. . .'' — Gjtenisey 
 
 Mail and Telegraph. 
 
 " That he (the author) possesses a considerable share of the * vi^on and the faculty divine ' 
 we might give many extracts to prove. . . There are many smaJler poems of much beauty 
 in the volume, which, taken all together, show Dr. Hake to be a poet of no inconsiderable 
 powers." — Mortting Advertiser. 
 
 " There are four (* Parables ') altogether, and to read any of the four is to read something 
 that will dwell long on the memorJ^ . . As a thinker Di. Hake is original and careful ; as a 
 teacher h^ is genial, sympathetic, and earnest ; as a poet he is musical, finished, and sure-footed. 
 He is humorous without being coarse, feeling without being sentimental, and quaint without 
 the affectation of quaintness." — Nezu Monthly Magazine, 
 
 *' It Is a rare pleasure to take up a volume of verse by an author who has hitherto 
 
 been unknown to us, and find that his faculty of expression, though very considerable, actually 
 halts behind his faculty of thought and feeling. Dr. Hake must be congratulated on 
 
 having produced a book of poems which places him beyond all doubt within an exceeding select 
 circle of writers. One of Dr. Hake's Parables, called ' Old Souls to mend,' is most art- 
 
 less, most audacious, or both. . . . Ideas and images are grouped together according to some 
 law which the ordinary reader fails to detect, though he can recognize the beauty of the effect 
 produced. We bid a farewell, which we hope is not final, to Dr. Hake, with a confident sense 
 that there is another really original poet among us." — Guardian. 
 
 *' It is no common mind that could have written that quaint poem called * Old Souls * and we 
 venture to say that those who read it once will read it twice." — Saturday Reviciu, 
 
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