ifiPiillP^h%^^^!i%'^!^«^^ /-,- /,'/'/■ r^ r'.": — r' " 9} >9 IL HER HOME .... III. " JESUS WEPT." (St. John xi. .35) IV. A REQUEST STANZAS WRITTEN AT OPORTO TO D- TO D. H. Page 45 47 48 49 50 51 52 54 56 60 61 62 63 64 67 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 84 85 CONTENTS. vii Page TO MRS. HARRISON 86 TO A YOUNG LADY 87 LINES TO MRS. DUNLOP, FOR ROTHA .... 88 TO MISS 90 TO MARY, DANCING . 91 MAY LUTTRELL 92 TO A LADY OF SUPERCILIOUS AIR 95 ladies' EYES. TO MISS 98 TO THE POET . . 101 LEE PRIORY, IN MAY 103 CHILD LOST 106 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH MAY SOUTHEY, WHO FORBADE COMPLIMENT 108 IN A lady's ALBUM 109 IN AN ALBUM Ill IN THE ALBUM OF MARGARET . . , .112 IN AN ALBUM GIVEN TO MISS BAY LEY . . . . 113 SONG. — AMBLESIDE VALE 115 SONG ALTERED FROM MOORE 116 LOW WOOD, WINANDERMERE 119 MELANCHOLY 120 NEPTUNE AND MEDUSA 121 STANZAS 122 TENSES 125 THE TWO RINGS 127 viii CONTENTS. Page '^HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTORUM " 129 ADDRESS TO A PONY 135 ON THE REPORTED VISIT OF QUEEN ADELAIDE TO WORDSWORTH 139 MORALS FROM THE STARS 141 THE SPELL 143 INTERIOR OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL, AS SEEN BY MOONLIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30, 1841 . . . • 145 VERY UNFINISHED VERSES SUGGESTED BY THE SERRA OF GERES 148 ''n'eveillez pas le chat qui DORT'' . . . . 151 THE ROSE-WREATHED HOUR-GLASS 152 THE OLD MAN AND HIS DAUGHTERS 153 FIRST LOVE 156 AT A BALL 157 AVONDALE • . . .158 AGNES OF HOLMGARD 160 THE LEGEND OF ST. MEINRAD 168 VAL DE LUZ ••.-..... 173 DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOOR OF GRANADA AND HIS SPANISH PRISONER ZELINDA THE ZEGRI LADY TO HER LOVER SONG OF THE ABENCERRAGE DISCONTENT .... CONTENT 175 178 181 183 185 189 CONTEIS^TS. ix Pag:e CONFIDENTIAL 192 TRANSLATION OF BORGES DE BARROS VERSES " A FLOR saudade" 194 ''A FLOR SAUDADE" 195 THE DUKE OF ALBA 200 O DUQUE d' ALBA. 201 THE DUKE OF ALBA. SUGGESTED BY THE PORTUGUESE BALLAD PRECEDING ....... 208 THE GROVES OF ENTRE QUINTAS 213 EPITAPH ON COLONEL GEORGE HOLMES, C.B. . . . 215 EPITAPH ON J. K. E. HOLMES, DROWNED IN THE WYE, JUNE 16, 1848 216 FUNERAL OF ROBERT SOUTHEY 217 ELEGY ON G. M. B 221 ELEGY ON E. W. G. B. 227 SHORT POEMS IN MEMORY OF JEMIMA A. D. QUILLINAN . 232 IL NEAR LAUFFENBERG 235 III. NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN — HER FAVOURITE FLOWERS 236 IV. SOCIETY. BERNE 236 V. SCHWYTZ 237 VL THE LAKE OF LAUWERTZ 239 VII. BERNE . .240 VIII. LAUSANNE 241 ELEGY ON THE SAME, WRITTEN TWELVE YEARS LATER . 243 ELEGY ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DIED AT TORQUAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1833 253 CONTEiSTTS. Pasre O' TO THE CITY OF FLORENCE 255 LINES COMPOSED IN THE ENGLISH BURIAL-GROUND AT OPORTO 257 DIALOGUE WITH THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF A FRIEND'S CHILD 259 A DREAM OF DEATH AT SEA 261 STANZ^.S 262 ALONE ..... . ^ . . . . 266 MEMOIR OF EDWARD QUILLINAN, BY WILLIAM JOHNSTON. It was the opinion of the accomplished and amiable man of whom a brief memoir is now to be written, that the task of a biographer is a much more difficult and delicate one than is generally supposed — that there^ is on the part of candid biographers a danger that they may tell the public more than the public have any right to know, and that in the biography of authors especially, there is no more reason to acquaint the public with their private weaknesses, than with their private or pecuniary affairs. "I have sometimes felt," he said, ^^ that the epitaph to Grray's elegy rather marred than improved it, yet the last stanza suggests a good rule for bio- graphies of students : — ' ' No farther seek his merits to disclose ; Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they aUke in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his Grod." xii MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLUSTAIS'. Whatever may be thought of the soundness of this critical canon, no one had less occasion to desire the practical application of it than himself. Possessed of a keen and critical ludgment, and of a temperament con^jaJJitaona lly Jrr itable, he was yet the general friend. His prudence was trusted, his integrity was relied on ; and every one who knew him felt that whatever demand they might make upon his courtesy and kindness would be willingly and cordially re- sponded to. Had he indeed been as active for his own advantage as he was in promoting the wishes of his friends, he might have achieved more fame as a literary man, and better fortune as a man of the world ; but let us not regret that he sacrificed these things, or rather the better chance of them, for the sake of being what he was. Let us regret rather that he was not longer spared in a world wherein men of his unselfish character are not too abundant. _By profession a soldier, the passion of his life was literature. One of tlie probable reasons why be did not obtain a place in the world of autborsbip com- mensurate with his abilities has just been hinted at ; others are pointed out in a letter addressed to himself by Mr. Wordsworth, long before any family con- nection subsisted between them. " This very day," writes the great poet in 1827, " Dora has read to me your poem again:* it convinces me, along with your * The poem here referred to is supposed to be that written at Oporto in 1837. See p. 75. MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLINAN. xiii other writings, that it is in yonr power to attain a permanent place among the poets of England. Tour thoughts, feelings, knowledge, and judgment in style, and skill in metre, entitle you to it, and if you have not yet succeeded in gaining it, the cause appears to me merely to lie in the subjects which you have chosen. It is worthy of note how much of Gray's popularity is owing to the happiness with which his subject is selected in three places, his ' Hymn to Adversity,' his ' Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College,' and his^ ' Elegy.' I ought however, in justice to you, to add that one cause of your failure appears to have been thinking too humbly of your- self, so that you have not reckoned it worth while to look sufficiently round you for the best subjects, or to employ as much time in reflecting, condensing, bringing out, and placing your thoughts and feel- ings in the best point of view, as is necessary." In order to give its fair value to this testimony, we should bear in mind that Mr. Wordsworth was, as he admitted of himself, ' slow to admire,' and by no means^'forwamto express approbation even when he felt it. Not that he morosely withheld praise which he believed to be deserved, but he was scrupulous in the expression of his judgment, and he would scarcely condescend to the language of mere com- pliment. In the paper of the " Quarterly Eeview " upon the xiv MEMOIE or EDWAED QUILLIKAK. memoirs of Wordsworth* there is honourable mention made of Mr. Quillinan as ^^an amiable and accom- plished gentleman, the author of some very elegant verses, and probably the first Portuguese scholar in this country.'' The short poems of which the present volume is made up, will, it is hoped, at least justify the praise which has been awarded to their author for elegance of versification. t To his biographer they have a peculiar interest for the reason which Mr. Q,uillinaii unconsciously pointed out in his poem upon the pre- served wild-flowers of the North, which stands first in this collection — ''Thus sun-dyed fancies, airy reveries, Freaks of imagination, waking dreams, Ephemeral fantasies of playful hues. Fade into nothing if uncropt, and die Forgotten ; but if seized on while yet fresh In their rich tints of light, and so consign' d To the bland pressure of judicious thought, And chaste constraint of language, they become Heirlooms for after times ; and when the door Of life has closed upon their parent mind. They tell us of the garden where they grew." All this is strictly applicable to the poems of the present volume. They will be fonnd of varying literary merit ; but they are true records of the man in his diflferent moods of mind, sometimes lighted up by joy and a playful fancy, more frequently showing * No. 183, December, 1852. f ^x- gr., see Poems, pp. 185—189. MEMOIR or EDWAED QTJILLTNAN. xv him plunged in the deepest gloom of grief, but always giving evidence of kindliness of heart, or of strong and tender affections. ^ -K- * * * Edward Quillinan was born at Oporto on the 12th of August, 1791. His father was an Irishman of an ancient but impoverished family, who early in life settled in Oporto, where his iadustry and talent for business w^ere such as enabled him to realize a moderate fortune. His mother, whose maiden name was Mary E^yan, was also of an Irish family, but was born at Oporto. She died at the same place while the subject of this memoir was at school in England. He always spoke of her with much fondness, describing her as fair to look on, and good and gentle in disposition. He could however recollect but little of her, for before he was seven years of age, he was shipped off for England to go to school, and he never saw her more. She died a few years afterwards in the month of May, and, as he said, still in the May of her youth and beauty. Among Mr. Quillinan' s papers were found a few pages of autobiography, not coming down however further than 1810, when he w^as only nineteen years of age. Erom these pages the following passages are taken : " I have never forgotten my parting with my mother, who, with my father, accompanied me down >' ' xvi MEMOIE or EDWAED QUILLINAN. the river in a boat. My mother was in tears ; I hung upon her neck at the ship's side, till my father bade me go, and hurriedly gave me his blessing. I mounted the ship's side ; the boat pushed off; I watched my mother till the boat was out of sight, and never saw her again. I think of her as I last saw her, when she last saw me, a little boy committed to the winds and waves, and to the care of a captain of a merchantman as rough as they, to be landed at Liverpool and forwarded into Staffordshire to the Catholic school of Sedgley Park, there to take my chance among a hundred and fifty schoolboys. I have nothing to say about this school, except that I made as much progress as my companions in what I was taught. I became very devout and religiously scrupulous ; made my confessTonT with the most painful anxiety, lest I should omit even a venial sin, though the most mortal that I could muster on my list was the occasional abstraction of a turnip from the field to appease the wolfish hunger of a youth when we walked abroad. I remember a Mr. R., a mean and teasing pedagogue, whom we called Mr. Trimmer, from his constant use of the ferula ; and another usher, who taught French and Latin, a great surly brute, whose large ponderous fist would descend vdthout mercy on our heads. " After a few years I was removed to Carshalton, near London, to a Dominican school under the MEMOIR OF EDWARD QVlLIjlK^liL^^^^^iy^ XVli superintendence of the Hev. J^^J^jSU^od. Here I was ^^PP7 5 1 was well taken care of — encouraged, not bullied — and I had not been long in the school before I was at the head of all the classes. The under masters all treated me with kindness. The Eev. E. Dios Santos, a priest who resided in the village, was also exceed- ingly kind to me. He gave me books, applauded my verses which I even then had begun to write, and cheered me on most generously. My verses obtained play days for my schoolfello\^^s, and never was there a more popular poet. I occasionally spent my holidays with Mr. A. of Grower-street, my father's partner, and there was a family in the village from whom I received invitations to pass the Sundays and holidaj^s. I was, upon the whole, very happy at this school. " At the age of fourteen I was removed from school, being destined for the counting-house at Oporto. Being a Catholic^ I was imfortunately not sent to either of the Universities, which I bave ever since taniehted. -I- returned to Oporto. The yells of the Portuguese pilot and sailors, the roaring of the surge on the bar, the dashing of the waves on the sand, the foam and the dark rocks, the horrible creaking of the carts on the shore, astonished me ; and might have given me the idea of a descent into Tartarus but that the scene was so fair, the river so gracious, the river- banks so rich with woods and white buildings, the city on both sides climbing up so stately. Soon after we t*. xviii MEMOIE OF EDWAED QUILLINAN. anchored, among the numerous boats which came alongside was one containing mj father, my step- mother (for he had married again), and my sister. " The invasion of Portugal by the French drove all the English families out of Oporto before I had been there six months, but not before I M^as heartily sick of the counting-house, for mj43assion was for books very unlike ledgers. We left for England. My mother-in-law, a Portuguese, though far advanced in pregnancy, could not bear to be left behind with a Portuguese family. This was very natural, but very unfortunate. It was in winter and we had a long and rough passage. She was prematurely taken in labour, and died on the passage.* We went to London, and after we had been there a year and a half, the accident of my father's forming an intimate acquaintance with an officer of the Carabineers, led to my father's asking me whether I should like to go into the army ? I at once answered ' yes,' and the affair was soon settled. Ijyas gazetted, 1808, as a cornet by purchase in the Queen's Bays (2nd Dragoon Guards) and soon after joined my regiment at Hastings, and from thence went to Canterbury. Tli^^llfe suited me extremely well, and I had plenty of time to read. A boutTwoT years ^ This lady had several children, but only one survived infancy, and he is still living — John Thomas Quillinan, Esq., who succeeded his father in business at Oporto. At his house Mr. Quillinan was a guest during the visits he paid to Portugal ; and since his decease his children have been much indebted to the kindness of their father's only surviving relative. MEMOIR or EDWARD QUILLINAlSr, xix later * a lieutenancy was purchased for me in the 23rd Light Dragoons, at my own request ; for though I was very sorry to leave my first regiment, of which all the officers, from the Colonel (Lord Gr. Beresford), to my brother cornets, were as kind to me as possible, I was anxious for promotion, and saw no chance of it then in the Bays. I was not lucky in the selection of my regiment, which I joined at Canterbury soon after its return from its gallant affair at Talavera. It was a good and brave corps, but there were dissensions among the officers which were not lessened by the unlucky wight who now entered it. I had just, very indiscreetly, published ' The Ball Eoom Votaries,' a poem by no means flattering to several of the gentry in the neighbourhood. It ran through two editions in about a month. The first was exhausted in a week. ' Blen scandaleux bien bon ; le style n'y fait rien ; Pourvu qu'il soit mechant, il sera toujours bien :' — a couplet which I quoted in the preface to the second edition, for I was even then aware of the great indecorum of publishing such personal satire at all. It was not all satire. There was a great deal more praise than blame, and the object in writing the poem was to have the opportunity of praising two young * In the interval Mr. Quillinan went with his regiment upon the Walcheren expedition, and witnessed the bombardment of Flushing. His biogi-aphical paper does not however touch upon this. 62 XX MEMOIE OE EDWAED QUILLINAIS'. ladies of the neiglibourliood, of whom I admired one^ and a friend of mine, a brother officer, another. He suggested the publication. The poem was written in three days, and published by Mr. Oolburn in less than a fortnight after it was commenced. I got into no difficulty by this foolish achievement, though the name of the author, which did not appear on the title page, was far from being a secret, and Colburn told it, with m}^ consent, to the first person that asked him. " But another publication now set on foot by Lieutenant Gr. of the 23rd Dragoons, Captain J. H. and Mr. "W. of the Bays, and myself, got us all into trouble. To this thing, called 'The Whim,' it happened that I was but a very slight contributor. All the things I wrote were harmless enough, except the first, which unluckily gave offence to Captain C. of the 23rd Dragoons, who was foolishly ridiculed in it for his pompous dealings as stage manager of a theatre, got up at the expense of the garrison for the amusement of the neighbourhood. There was some very good acting by the officers at that theatre, and Captain C. was unquestionably the best actor of all — our first- rate tragedian. Captain D., of the 23rd, also was the best in comedy and farce, and hardly excelled by John Bannister, who, on one night, acted there for us. But it was not C. only that was angry, nor was I tlie only off'ender. My friends H. and G. had amused them- selves at the expense of some officers, and, to make a MEMOIE or EDWARD QUILLHSTAIN'. xxi long and idle story short, we found ourselves with several duels on our hands. I had three for my share ; W. had had nothing to do with it, and we insiste.d on keeping him out of it altogether. H. was absent on leave, but came down to meet his man, an artillery officer, when called upon. I was recruiting in Essex at the time the first challenges came, and Gr. was the only one of the four editors still in Kent. I joined him at Stonar barracks, and we agreed to divide the duels between us. My only personal antagonist was Captain C. I met him on Barham Downs, Gr. being my second. We exchanged two shots without eifect, and C. declared himself satisfied. The next day I met Captain Co of the 23rd and Captain M. of the artillery, behind the cavalry barracks of Canter- bury. I was not the writer of the things that had brought them into the field, and only met them as editor, and responsible for things that I had never seen till they were in print. Co and I exchanged two shots ; both missed, and he was satisfied. G-. was here my second again. Then came M., but his second, an officer of his own corps, and mine. Lieutenant Q. of the 23rd Dragoons, after loading the pistols, measuring the ground, and placing us on it, proposed to each other a compromise. They asked M. to with- draw an offensive note he had written; he said he would if I would withdraw my offensive answer. This was of course, and M., a brave and a good officer, was xxii MEMOIE OF EDWARD QUILLIlS^AlSr. quite right, for he could not even pretend to have been personally offended in the first instance, and had thrust himself into the quarrel in his zeal for an absent friend." Here the autobiographical paper abruptly closes. Had it been continued we may surmise from Mr. Quillinan's character in after life, that these latter passages would have been commented upon in strong terms of self-condemnation. His excuse liowever was, that he was little more than a boy, and that the fashion of duelling was then so prevalent, especially in military circles, that not only young men but men of all ages perilled their lives every now and then in personal quarrels grounded upon very frivolous causes of offence. The passage of the autobiography has however been given, not only because such circum- stances may have had some effect upon the formation of Mr. Quillinan's character, but that it affords a rather interesting glimpse of the military manners of the time. Evils of some kind or another exist at all times, and the writer of this memoir does not know enough of the subject to be able to decide whether, upon the whole, the practice of life in the British army is more elevated in its moral and intel- lectual aspects now, than it was forty years ago, but it is impossible to entertain a rational doubt that a very great evil was got rid of, in getting rid of the system of personal rencounter. It was a system which MEMOIR or EDWARD QUILLINAN. xxiii encouraged the ebullient impertinence of frivolous youth, reckless of personal danger, and gave confidence to the ferocious insolence of mature bullies, who calculated on their murderous experience. But, worse than this, it prevented men, who were willing enough in their hearts to do so, from making reasonable and frank reparation for ofl:ences hastily and inconsiderately given. So long as it was open to belief that an offending person apologised only to save himself from personal danger, it was at least natural, although wrong, that apologies weie withheld until after the danger had been undergone. Such a circumstance, however, as that of the officers of the same regiment fighting duels among themselves, could scarcely, even forty years ago, escape the animad- version of the higher military powers, and it is not surprising that we find Mr. Quillinan to have ex- changed soon after into the 3rd Dragoon Guards. He joined that regiment in Spain, and was with it through the latter part of the Peninsular campaign to the end of the war. In 1816 we find him — peace being restored — in the field of literature again, and publishing a poem called " The Sacrifice of Isabel" Of this performance the ''Critical Eeview" for October, 1816, gives a lengthened notice, the introduction to which may fittingly find a place in this brief biography: " The poem before us deserves considerable praise, xxiv MEMOIE OE EDWABD QUILLIXAN. and though not of the highest order in its kind, it gives evident proofs of talent. The name of the author is perhaps not unknown to many of our readers — not indeed as a writer merely, but as a young officer of a dragoon regiment, who in consequence of his propensity for the muse was involved in some disputes in an eastern county of the kingdom, where his regiment w^as quartered ; from which, however, we have every reason to believe he extricated himself with higli honour, in a sense exclusively military, and with great credit in the ordinary acceptation of the word. The conduct of Lieutenant Quillinan upon that occasion, we are informed, introduced him to the acquaintance and friendship of Sir Egerton Brydges, to whom the ' Sacrifice of Isabel ' is dedicated by its author, who says that it is ' an endeavour to describe with energy and simplicity, natural feelings in trying situations.' " These expressions indicate that the Wordsworth- ianism that was so decided in the poetical sentiment of Mr. Quillinan' s maturer years, had even then found its way into his mind, and this appears also in the praise of the reviewer, who places his avowed design of following simplicity and nature, in contrast wdth the Byronic poetry of the day, which had a run of fashion that no poetry has had since. " The object," says the reviewer, " that Mr. Quillinan has stated is indeed a legitimate object, and may be fairly put in MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLINAN^. xxv opposition to a modern system introduced by a noble lord (wliose talents would deserve more approbation were they properly directed) , according to which all feelings and all situations but those which are natural and probable are described and employed." The versification^ however, of the poem of 1816 appears to have been modelled not on that of either Wordsworth or Byron, but on that of Pope, which Mr. Quillinan admired to the last, notwithstanding his veneration for the "Wordsworthian Muse. In 1817 Mr. Quillinan was married to Jemima A. D. Brydges, second daughter of Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart., of Denton Court, near Dover. Soon after his marriage he joined his regiment in Ireland, where it was for some time quartered, and there, in the neighbourhood of Dublin in 1819, his eldest daughter was born, Jemima K. Quillinan, whose portrait by T. Stone, which still hangs in^Words- worth's drawing-room at Hydal Mount, has been made famoiisHSy the ^' Lines suggested by a Portrait."* Prom Ireland, Lieutenant Quillinan went to Scotland, and when he visited Edinburgh, it was not (according to the authority of Mr. Gillies in his ^^Eeminis- cences ") altogether without some hostile intention towards the supposed author of a bantering yet severe critique upon one of his early poems, called " Dunluce Castle," which appeared in Blackwood's * Wordsworth's Poetical Works, vol. v., p. 131, xxvi MEMOIE OF EDWAED QUILLINAN. Magazine for February, 1819. The magazine article had the taking title of " Poems by a Heavy Dragoon/' and it expounded with great gravity and force, the reasons why the heavy dragoon was not likely to be a good poet ; as, for example, that he had to ride in the rear of a troop, to visit stables, peep into camp kettles, and to take care that a certain number of men should periodically parade in clean shirts and pipe-clayed breeches, all of which occupations were rather the reverse of favourable to the developement of the poetic faculty. It then proceeded to ridicule certain passages of the poem, which were certainly open enough to that sort of treatment. The poem had been printed so early as 1814 with the author's name, at the Lee Priory private press, and edited by Sir Egerton Brydges. Mr. Quillinan's own recorded opinion of it in after years was that it was never worth printing. Whatever might have been his intention about the criticism when he went to Edinburgh, it is certain that he soon became on terms the very reverse of hostile with Blackwood's marvellous band of contributors of that dav, and the author of the animadversions on the Heavy Dragoon became his friend and neighbour in the Windermere locality. In the year 1821, being quartered at Penrith, he came over to Rydal with an introduction from an Edinburgh friend to Mr. "Wordsworth, of whose genius he had long been an ardent admirer, notwith- MEMOIR or EDWAED QUILLINAN. xxvii standirig a way of life rather unfavourable, as the Blackwoodean critic showed, to poetic taste in any shape, ajad more espe^cially to a taste for such poetry as that of Mr. Wordsworth. And it must be mentioned, to Mr. Qiiillinan's honour, that, while the ordinary crowd of young men with whom in his military life he had to associate, were accustomed to speak, as "witlings""^ still speak, of Wordsworth's poejfcry;, and to jest at what they^had not heart to feel, nor capacity to understand, our thoughtful dragoon had been able, in spite of adverse circumstances, to feel and nourish admiration of a great, though not as yet a popular, poet. Singularly enough, as Mr. Quillinan approached Eydal Mount he became ashamed of presenting himself with a letter which he was aware spoke of him in rather flattering terms, and he rode back again to Penrith with the specific object of his journey unaccomplished. However, he shortly afterwards returned without the letter, and introduced himself. Such was the commencement of his friendship with the great poet — a friendship which as l^ng a^the^ir lives. ^ In this same year (1821) he quitted the army, and partly for the love of that romantic land of lake and mountain and fresh-bounding streams, and yet more for love of the society of the poet who so long had * *' Witlings, brisk fools, curst with half sense, That stimulates their impotence. " — Gay. xxviii MEMOIR OF EDWARD QUILLINAN. dwelt among them, and in such noble strains had sung their beauty to the world, he established himself by the banks of the Eotha, between Ambleside and Ejdal. This abode was called Spring Cottage, the next, on the Rydal side, to Loughrigg Holme, where he passed the latter years of his life, and where he died. There his second daughter was born, to whom, in a spirit more poetical than ecclesiastical, he gave the name of the river on whose bank she first saw the light, and Mr. "Wordsworth was her godfather, as his well-known sonnet testifies : — '^ Roth A, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : Too late I feel, sweet Oqihan ! was the day For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil ; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain stream, Whose murmur soothed thy languid mother's ear After her throes, this stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme For others ; for thy future self, a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell." Mrs. Qiiillinan became so ill after the birth of her second daughter, that she was removed to Lancaster for better advice, and returned to Ivy Cottage, just beneath Rydal Mount, w^hich had been taken during her absence. There a most sad fate aw^aited her. MEMOIE or EDWAED QIIILLINAIS'. xxix Her dressing gown caught fire, and so serious were the injuries she received, that after lingering a few days, she died on the 25th of May, 1822— *' Fate's blameless victim in her bloom of youth." ^" Miss Wordsworth, the poet's sister, constantly at- tended the dying bed of her friend, and after her death the flimily took great interest in her children, for many a year before I)ora Wordsworth bec^ame their father's wife. Mrs. Quillinan was buried in Grrasmere churchyard * and there is a monument to her in the church from a design by Chantrey. The shock and passion of grief with which so sad a bereavement as this afflicted the heart of Mr. Quillinan, was more than words can tell. His children were taken into Kent, and he himself went abroad and passed many months on the continent, endeavouring to dissipate by change of scene the burden of sorrow which it had pleased Heaven to lay upon him. The state of his feelings at that time is sliown by the elegiac poems written abroad, which will be found in this volume. Upon his return he went to reside at Lee Priory, near Canterbury, which belonged to his brother-in-law, Col. Brydges Barrett of the Grrenadier Guards, and there, or at his house inJBryaus;^n;^treet^ ^.gfin£j[:ally lived tULlS^ During this time he continued * See p. 74. **ti5ft^- XXX MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLINAK- his intimacy with Mr. Wordsworth's family, sometimes receiving them in Kent, and sometimes visiting them m AYestmoreland. In 1832 he gave up his house m London, and resided partly in Paris and partly in Boulogne till the death of his brother-in-law, Col. Barrett, in 1834, when he again visited his brother in Portugal. He returned to England at Christmas, 1835, and remained in the neighbourhood of London till November, 1836, when he took his eldest daughter with liim to Portugal and remained there a year. Prom the time of his return until his second marriage in 1841, his residence was at Canterbury, Nineteen years, all but a few days, had elapsed since the death of his first wife, when the long ^ attachment between him and Dora Wordsworth, which first sprang out of the root of grief, was crowned_by their marriage. It took place at Bath, on the 11th of May, 1841, in the presence of her father, her mother, her brothers, and his brother John Thomas Quillinan. They w^ere oja a visit to Miss Penwick, a dear and - * most valued friend of the whole party. After a short tour in Somersetshire to the scenes where Mr. Wordsworth had passed some of his early life, w^hen he and his sister and Mr. Coleridge walked ^together and talked poetry all through the summer days, Mr. and^JVirs.^, Quillinan^ into Westmore- land, and passed some weeks atHydal Mount. Prom thence they went to Canterbury for a few months ; MEMOIR OF EDWARD QUILLiyAlS". xxxi and then resided in London, until the winter of 1843-4, when they took np their residence at Ambleside. This is the date given in the short notice of Mr. Quillinan's life published in Dr. "Wordsworth's memoirs of the poet, but Mr. Quillinan's letters in the winter of^l842-3_ap|)ear to haye_been^ ritten in Amblgsiile, and it was there that he wrote the dialogue between Walter Savage Landor and the Editor of " Blackwood's Magazine/' which was published in " Blackwood " for April, 1843. That paper, which made some noise at the time in literary circles, was provoked by Mr Lander's paper in the same Magazine, published December, 1842, being an imaginary conversation between Person and Southey, in which the poetry of Wordsworth was handled in a way that~couTd~not but be verj^arTnoying lEo KTs admirers^" and friends'. Quillinan appealed to theM^agi^zine to aUow to him, " whose purpose was neither unjust nor ungenerous, as much liceuse in its columns as had been accorded to Mr. Landor when it was his whim, without the smallest provocation, to throw obloquy upon the venerated author of the ' Excursion.' *' The Editor of the Magazine, witli com- mendable fairness and boldness, answered the appeal by at once inserting the dialogue by which it was accompanied. The artifice of this dialogue consisted in selecting for Lander's portion of it all the severe and sarcastic things he had said iu his numerous ^ xxxii MEMOm OF EDWAEJD QUILLINAN. critical writings, respecting eminent persons both of ancient and modern times, and thus causing him to appear as the very Thersites of literature. Had the object of the writer of the dialogue been the opposite of what it was, such passages might doubtless have been culled from Landor's writings as, wlien viewed bv themselves, would have made him seem the blandest or most eulogistic of critics. Mr. Landor however deserved the use which had been made ofthe most ill- natured parts of his critical commentaries,^"lor~^TD attack on Wordsworth was a piece of wanton mischief on his part, and grossly inconsistent with the praise which on other occasions he had bestowed. It is not necessary to notice this matter further, except to show the sincerity of the feelings Mr. Quillinan expressed in j^rint, by quoting a passage from a letter written shortl}^^ after the publication, to his and Mr. Wordsworth's old and valued friend, Mr. Crabb Eobinson. '' Please to tell Mr. K.," he says, ''with my kind regards, that I shall be well content to be let off so easily by Mr. Landor as by a pun on my Quill- inanities^ if Mr. L. is content to take no rougher notice of my comments on his ciitilUinsanities. It is gentle revenge, considering that the man has a powerful hand ; for no one who knows me can suppose that I am so inane as to be insensible to Lan dor's powers, though the odious misapplication of them in his gross attack on Wordsworth compelled me, as MEMOIR OF EDWABD QTJILLINAIS'. xxxiii the son-in-law of the calumniated poet, to treat Mr, Landor with more appearance of contempt than I can ever feel for a man of genius.'' Mr. Quillinan then goes on to mention that the pun on his name was one he himself had mentioned in conversation with Mr. Landor at Bath so far back as 1811. In reply to a satire which the Lieutenant of Dragoons had written the year before, some newspaper correspondent remarked in doggrel verse, that dragoons now fight with pens instead of sabres — that they cease ^ ^ To be deadly with steel but are terrible still, For thougb blunt are their swords, very keen is their Quill.''^ And this was signed " Inan." Major Groulburn retorted in print, and his lines were: ^ ^ That your lines are extempore all must confess, For the work has been published six weeks and no less, In spelling, howe'er, you corrected must be, For your name is Inane^ which is spelt with an ^." r Mr. Quillinan (he was only twenty at the time) had repeated this local wit to Mr. Landor, and now in his I letter to Mr. E;obinson, two-and- thirty years later, he I compliments Mr. Landor on his memory of such a 1 trifle. The summers of 1843 and 1844 were passed by Mr. and Mrs. Quillinan at "the Island " in Windermere, Delonging to Mr. Curwen of Workington Hall, with c xxxiv MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLINAN. whose family the "Wordsworths were connected by the marriage of the poet's eldest son with Miss Curwen. Mr. Curwen frequently lent this residence to his friends, which led Mr. Wordsworth to perpetrate a pun upon the place (the only levity of the kind perhaps that he ever fell into), and to propose that it should be called the Borrow-me-an Island. Mr. Quillinan appears to have thoroughly enjoyed this residence, ^fn August, 1843, he writes to Miss Fenwick — " This island-house is certainly — that is without any question from my personal taste and experience — the most delightful residence in the world, and I every day lament your absence, because I feel indebted to your happy suggestion for our being here, and because you would so very much have enjoyed the lake with us in all its variety of fine weathers — fine smooth fine, rough, fine mist, fine rain, fine storm, and fine^/z^, the last having prevailed. We have been blest with many sunny days and serene moonlights, and we have lived quite as much on the water as on the shore, gliding about the islands as familiarly by night as by day." He then proceeds to speak with great amiableness of Professor Wilson, and other friends who had paid thein visits at their island-home, anH'^^alT^e^says indi- cates contentment and a happy state of mind. But he enjoyed, as only a good man does — he tJioronghly ei^ojed^he cpu^ His heart was thankful for the beauty poured out around him, and he could take an ^se^^ MEMOIR OF EDWARD QTJILLINAN. xxxv interest in matters which persons of a haughtier or less cordial disposition would stand aloof from. In the May of next year (1844), writing from Ambleside to Mr. Crabb Eobinson, he says : " Dora's best love to you. 1 wish you couia nave seen our good neigh- bours, and C.'s pleased smile when lie saw his name included among the friends to whom you sent greetings. Mr. and Mrs. W. started off to-day for Brigham to see the grandchildren. Dora remains at Eydal Mount in care of her aunt till they return. My girls are7)n a visit with a young friend at Grrasmere for a few days. What a heavenly-earthly season it is ! It is enough to live and breathe such air, see such flowers, such stars, such moonlight, such variety of vegetation, and \ vapour, and shadow on lake and mountain, and to hear such joyous carolling from every bush." He never afterwards had such happy days as those ; \ for^wrfcB^'TEe'^ext year there came anxieties about Mrs. ;ui]Jinm's health, ^'hich had long been delicate, and as it was considered that a voyage to the South of Europe might be beneficial to her, they both, accom- panied by Mr. Quillinan's youngest daughter, left Westmoreland in the spring of 1845 for Portugal. An account of their journey, which occupied more than a year, including a visit to the South of Spain, was published by Mrs. Quillinan after their return. These volumes, called '^ A Journal of a few Months' Eesidence in Portugal and Glimpses of the South of Spain," c2 \ jxxxvi MEMOIR OF EDAYAED QUILLI>\ilS^. J^ abound in graceful description, and indicate that ^Health was restored and cheerfulness maintained, during their pilgrimage in the sunny South. In Jul j, 1846, they returned to Loughrigg Holme, a cottage belonging to Mr. Wordsworth's assistant, Mr. Carter, who had it enlarged during their Portuguese excursion, with a special view to their accommodation at their return. It is on the right bank of the Eotha, built almost in the rock which forms the base of Loughrigg, and half way between Ambleside and Kydal Mount, This beautifully situated residence was much to the taste of both, and they promised themselves much happiness, unconscious of the grief that was so near at hand. Meanwhile they both became unusually busy with literary matters. Mrs. Quillinan had to prepare for the press her " Journal,^ which appeared in two volumes early m the ensuing year ; and he published in the October^ and November numbers of " Tait's Magazine " for 1846, ^' The Belle: Adventures at a Portuguese Watering-place,'' which gave a minute description of the marine suburb of Oporto, and was quoted by his wife in her Journal, as the best topo- grax3hical account of " the Poz " which she could find. In the December number of tlie " Quarterly Eeview" for this year (No. 157) he published an elaborate criticism on the works of Gril Vicente, and the ancient Portuguese drama. This essay is worthy of the pains which he no doubt bestowed upon it. It is I MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLHSTAIS'. xxxvii elaborate without being prolix or dull ; and full of learning on the subject under discussion^ without any tincture of pedantry. Just before Christmas in this year Mrs. Quillinan made a journey to Carlisle, in order to prepare the house of her brother William for the reception of his bride, to whom he was married on the 20th January, 1847. The weather was severe, and she caught cold : this never was shaken off. She had gone to reside at Rydal Mount, during the absence of her father and [ mother on a visit to London, and she became so much worse that they were sent for early in April, to Dr. Wordsworth's house in Westminster, where they * were then staying. They returned immediately to the north, but the patient never rallied. By the end of April tbe physicians had declared that all hope of saving her life was at an end. Upon the agony which this announcement caused to her husband and her family, it is unnecessary and it would be painful to dwell. She lingered — sometimes suffering much from pain and exhaustion — until the 9th of July : then came her release. If would be ' an improper disclosure of domestic privacy to quote tlie letters •^/\: wriften by ber busband during that time of misery : let it suffice to say that nowhere, either in works of fiction or records of actual life, has the writer of this memoir ever seen letters more distinctly marked by manlv sense, combined with almost feminine tender- e^r^"^' xxsviii MEMOIR OF EDAVAKD QUILLINAN. ness. It was a fortnight after the communication made by her medical attendants to her family that she herself was made aware of the fatal character of her illness in consequence of her own questions upon the subject. Possibly it may be useful, in respect to matters of the highest consideration, and certainly it will serve to display the characters of both husband and wife, if a few words of his account of this over- whelming communication be here transcribed : ^' She asked me several particulars, to every one of which I answered faithfully : so she was put in full possession I of the truth. The spirit with which she received the awful intimation, and with which she continues to bear to look it in the face, is in every respect admirable ; so humble, so self-censuring for faults of temper which the delicacy of her conscience magnifies, yet so cheerful ; so hopeful of the mercy of God, so willing to live, yet so resigned to die ; and so loving withal, and so considerate:" — then follows a burst of the writer's grief, which could no longer be I kept down. And there she lay dying for many days, in her father's house, where she so long had happilyTived. I ^She lingered on : her father's prayers, her husband's \ bitter sorrow, her mother's constant and affectionate care, the tender attention of affectionate friends and neighbours, all were in vain, and at last death gave her rest, and she was laid in Grrasmere churchyard. MEMOIR OF EDWARD QUILLIIS^AK. xxxix There is a tombstone at the head of her grave in the preparation of which her husband took deep interest.^ Upon it is inscribed her name, with the text, " Him that Cometh to me I will in no wise cast out," St. John, vi, 37- The " Suspiria," t and other poems of this collection, tell the depth of sorrow with which he lamented her, and which during the remainder of his life he never wholly shook off. In literature, it appears that he was still labouring, when his spirits permitted him, at the translation of the " Lusiad,'' and also3^. txaiislatioa-jof. the^^Hk^^ " by Senor Herculano- In August of the next year, 1848, he published in ^^Blackwood's Magazine" an article with the title of " Laurels and Laureates," which is a curious piece of poetical history or anti- quarian research connected with English poetry; wherein the various laurelled worthies who sweetened royal toils with verse are brought under review. Mr, Quillinan continued to live at Loughrigg Holme with his daughters. He walked about more than ever with Mr. "Wordsworth. They had now a new sym- pathy, though a sad one. It pointed to a grave in Grasmere churchyard. The months and years rolled on. I was at Ambleside, and Mr. Quillinan's guest at Loughrigg Holme for a few days, in the autumn of 1849, and I could not but observe the respectful tenderness that appeared to subsist between them. * See the Poem, p. 70. t See pp. 71—74. xl MEMOIE OE EDWARD QUILLINAISr. The last evening I was in that neighbourhood, we remained with Mr. "Wordsworth at Eydal Mount till ten o'clock, and when we rose to go, he proposed to accompany us a part of the way. I begged him not to expose himself to the night air, but he seemed to scorn the suggestion that any such care was necessary, and he walked with us. At the bridge which crosses the Eotha, he parted from us, and startled me by the I solemnity of his farewell. ^^ I am an old maJV-1 he I said, " nearly four score, and perhaps may not live to see you again — farewell! God bless you." His figure soon disappeared in the darkness, and I saw him no more. I thought him looking well for his years, and not differing very much from what I had known him three-and-twenty years before, except that he now was apt to sit silent, wJbich had not beenJiis wont in former years. Mr. Quillinan knew more of the sadness of his heart, but he also had hopes that " the old man eloquent " had still some years of life before him. In the succeeding March, however, he fell ill, and in April, about a fortnight after the com- pletion of his eightieth y;^^ he died. Mr. Quillinan' s letter to Mrs. Henry INTelson Coleridge announcing this event is as follows : — " We had known for two or three days at least that there was no hope ; but we were led to believe that the end was not yet. At twelve o'clock this day, however, he passed away, very, very quietly. Mrs. Wordsworth is quite resigned. MEMOIE OF EDWAED QUTLLHSTAlsr. xli There is always some sweetening of the bitterest cup ; it was expected that he would linger perhaps for some weeks, and that his suiFerings would be extreme ; but the mercy of Grod has shortened the agony, and we fondly hope that he did not suffer much pain — that he had not reached that stage of suffering which the medical men apprehended. Last night 1 was with ' •iueew M- 1 him for about half an hour up to ten o'clock ; he lay quite still and never spoke, except to call for water, which he often did. " Drink, drink,'' was all he said. William (his younger son) sat up with him till past five o'clock, and was then relieved by John (his elder son), who had only returned from Brigham (his parish) at nine last evening. He remained to the last in the same quiet state, never moving ; yet as this had been the case so long, and he had always been most unwilling to move, or to have his position altered, it was by no means supposed that the last hour was so near. He is gone ! You know well the distress at Eydal Mount. "^ * * It is said that Shakspeare ^eiTon his birthday, April 23rd.* This^reat man, Wordsworth, was no Shakspeare, and the dramatic power, perhaps, was not in him ; but he had a grand and a tender genius of his own that will live in the /^ heart ^f his country, and these mountains will be^his noblest monument. His life was a long and prosperous life, and he was rewarded, in the latter part of it at * This was the date of Mr. Wordsworth's death. xlii MEMOIR OF EDWAED QUILLIKAIS'. least^ for the virtuous use he had made of the great power intrusted to him, with ' honourjlove, obedience^ troops of friends, and all that should accompany old age.' He has no doubt now a higher remair d. He is gone to Dora." This letter, not intended ever to meet the public eye, shows the grave sincerity of the feeling with which the writer regarded the illustrious friend whom he had lost. A few days after, he writes to the same accomplished and now lamented lady an account of the funeral. It is written in very touching terms, especially as regards Mrs. Wordsworth, for whom Mr. Quillinan's respect and affection were as the respect and affection of a dutiful son to a kind and careful mother. When I visited him afterwards, his chief care, beyond his own household, appeared to be for her. But his own end was now at hand. In the spring of 1851 he went upon a fishing excursion, in the course of which he exposed himself to wet and cold, of which the result was inflammation. On the 1st of July he was seized with decided pleurisy, which would not yield to the remedies suggested by his medical friends, Mr. Fell, of Ambleside, and Dr. Davy. On the third day delirium came on, and, with slight intervals of consciousness, continued till the 8th, when he sunk. The ruling passion — his love of literature — was indeed with him '^strong in death;" for, in all his MEMOIR or EDWARD QUILLINAN, xliii delirium, his talk was of Milton and Sbakspeare, and Wordsworth, and other poets, in whom he de- lighted when in health. It is remarkable that but an hour before he died, though he did not recognise even his children, he requested them to bring him the book in which he was writing his translation of the " History of Portugal ;" aud, with pen and ink in hand, up to the very last, he endeavoured to pursue the occupation which, in the latter part of his life, had so much interested him. He said to his good friend " James/' the domestic of Eydal Momit, who was standing by his bedside, '' I want to finish, or it will be of no use to them," meaning his daughters. And yet, though tliey stood by him also, he knew them not, or. was unconscious of their presence. Mr. John Wordsworth, who had himself been very dangerously ill but a short time before, and Mr. "William Words- worth were with him at the time of his death. Mr. Quillinan always spoke and wrote of himself as a Koman Catholic^ "anSTno doubt believed that he was so. How far he was a Eomanist in doctrine and practice, according to the usual tests of such matters, may be judged from this — that in the latter years of his life, at all events, it was not only his practice to attend the public services of the Church of England at Ambleside, Eydal, and Grasmere, but the prayers he \ used with his family at their morning and evening devotions, were the prayers of the Church of England, xliv MEMOIE OE EDWAED QUILLINAlSr. to whicli his children belong. He was brought up at a time when among educated laymen it was the habit to regard the distinction between Eomanist and Anglican rather as a political than a religious distinction. The Eomanist laboured under political and civil disabilities because he was a Eomanist. This alone was looked at ; and it was a point of honour with men of spirit, belonging to Eomanist families, not to make a chauge which might wear, at least, the appearance of having been made from motives of selfish advantage. If Mr. Quillinan ever had any thought of joining the Church of England in the earlier part of his life, he was the sort of man to have been deterred from doing so by the consideration just adverted to. At a later period, he appeared practically to conform to the Church of England, while nominally he continued a Eomanist. His fond belief that both his wives had gone to the place of blessed spirits may be said to have formed part of his religion ;'^ yet they were both faithful members of the Church of England. On one occasion, when it w^as more logically than kindly suggested to him that, as a Eoman jCatholic^ it was necessary for him to believe that those he had loved best on earth were w excluded from Heaven, and that any Eoman Catholic priest would tell him so, he exclaimed with indie:- nation, that if any such thing were said to him by an • "^ See Poems, pp. 72, 73. f /I MEMOIR OF EDWARD QUILLINAIST. xlv ecclesiastic, he would answer as Laertes is made to answer in the plaj of '^ Hamlet," when the priest forbids the completion of the religious ceremonies at the grave of poor Ophelia. In politics Mr. Quillinan was a Tory, though very willing to allow to every one the indulgence of such political views as best pleased himself. He was indignant with the Whig leader, however, for the movement which he excited in 1850 — 51, against Eomanist aggression. Mr. Quillinan considered that the apprehension entertained on that subject was nonsense. Grreat was the shivering of lances between 1 him and his tried friend, Mr. Crabb Eobinson, on this point. At length, he condensed his ire, as was his wont, into sarcastic verse, which found its way into print, but it has not been thought advisable to preserve verses of that kind in the present collection. Of my friend's general character I have briefly stated my view at the commencement of this little memoir. I shall conclude with a communication on the same subject made to me by Mr. Carter, whose close connection with Mr. "Wordsworth, as well as his knowledge of Mr. Quillinan, gives great weight to what he says : " During Mr. Quillinan' s residence here he was chiefly employed in writing some few poems and reviews, and in his translation of Camoens, and of the ' History of Portugal.' Through all that period he enjoyed the unintemigtedjfr^ and Ntafcrwusw**' xlvi MEMOIR or EDWAED QUILLUSTAN'. society of the great poet, who had a very high opinion, I know, of Tiis al^ilities. Mrs. Wordsworth was much attached to him, and indeed he was a favourite w^ith every one who knew him, and his society was much courted by every one in this neighbourhood. Probably ( his failing was an excitability and restlessness which ) indicated that Irish blood was in his veins. But I believe, upon the whole, that a more noble, generous, and high-minded creature never breathed." He was buried on the 12th of July, 1851, in Grras- mere churchyard, in the spot he himself desired, between the graves of the two he had loved best on earth. ^ ' Between those graves a space remains for me, Oh lay me there, wherever I may be When met by Death's pale angel ; so in peace My dust near theirs may slumber, till the day Of final retribution or release For mortal life's reanimated clay." ^ "^ Sonnet, p. 74. POEMS. POEMS. ERRATA. Page 34, line 4, for '' fiendish '' read ''horrent." 40, lines 11 and 12, for '' seem to quake at" read **all awake to." 41, line 13, for '' vaUant " read '' salient." 44, line 3, for '' caravans " read '' caravels. " Page xii of the Memoir, line 26, for '^ 1827 " read '' 1837." Where these were born and Thou, — For these dried flowers Are Fancy's passports to their native land ; And though so far from home, and never more To nod and balance to the mountain breeze And sparkle through the spangles of the dew, B POEMS. WILD-FLOWEES OF WESTMOEELAND. — ♦ — "WiLD-FLOWEES from England's Arcady ! — By these, Dear Eotha, thanks to Her whose gracious hand Grather'dj and with hermetic skill preserved For us the delicate treasures — we may yet, Ev'n in the tame South, repossess the fells, The dingles, and the haunts of water-falls That cleave ^Hhe flowery rocks/' and we may roam By lake and cataract along the banks Where these were born and Thou, — For these dried flowers Are Fancy's passports to their native land ; And though so far from home, and never more To nod and balance to the mountain breeze And sparkle through the spangles of the dew, 2 WILD-FLOWEES OE WESTMORELAND. Tet is their summer glory but prolonged "Within this dainty Herbal, and the bloom That would have quickly shrivell'd into dust. Here in perennial loveliness survives, Breathing the breath of voices from the North. — Thus sun-dyed fancies, airy reveries, Preaks of imagination, waking dreams, Ephemeral fantasies of playful hues, Pade into nothing if uncropt, and die Forgotten ; but if seized on while yet fresh In their rich tints of light, and so consigned To the bland pressure of judicious thought And chaste constraint of language, they become Heirlooms for after-times ; and when the door Of life has closed upon their parent-mind. They tell us of the garden where they grew : Helics of Eden-land, with fondness prized After the gates of paradise are shut. What have we here ? The Muse's own plant first: Grass of Parnassus^ with its lofty flowers In silver lustre poised, each on its stalk, A tall thin pillar leafless ; while the leaves, Each on its separate stem, dwell near the ground. Like poor and lowly relatives, abash' d, WILD-FLOAVEES OE WESTMOEELAND. 3 Yet clinging conscious to their common root. Or, rather, those aspiring flowers are symbols Of minds that soar to fancy's altitudes, And live in radiance for a little while, And wither in the sun ; while the green leaves. Content to 'bide near home, caress their roots, And thence imbibe sure nurture. — "What comes next? The Silver Dew ! so euphonouslj named ! A simple flower enough, in gilding rich. But with such lovely foliage as might task An Indian carver's skill on ivory — Fan'7noss as delicately elegant : — And Lacly^s Mantle^ fairer flowers and leaves Than ever lady's fingers finely work'd ; Lo, deadly NigJitshade^ and its mate th' Enclianter^ Perfidious lurker in the rocky woods ! And baleful Sejulock ! — Kindlier herbs are near. — The Sarelell blithe — pensive Forget-me-not ; — And gay Hearfs-ease^ " the pansy freakt with jet," " The little western flower" of many names. And sweeter none than " Love in Idleness." Behold a stately wand, the Golden Rod That waved o'er Stockghyll Force, as if to charm The waters' tumult. — The Wild-tTipne that stills b2 4 WILD-rLOWEES OF WESTMOEELAND. With bribes tbe wild bees' murmurs^ and when crusli'd By upland wanderer's foot, for evil good Eeturning, greets the oppressor with its balm. The Bird's-eye Primrose ^ of pink flowers minute. That flush the Kendal meads in stem and leaf Expansive as the redbreast's outstretch' d wing. Bird'S'foot^ wing-heel'd like Hermes ! A tress or two Of Maiden-liair : and Cotton-grass has lent A carded whitelock from its elfin head. Here Bagged Bobin^ undespised, finds place ; And here the Bramhle^ though its touch be rude. Culhrahe and Barsley-fern^ and many a fern Besides, and many a heath : and Sweet-gale^ too, Both for its balmy name, and flower-like cones Diminutive. Stone-hramhle, from the top of Silverhow, Eor Barber's* memory (and a yew-tree sprig "Were welcome from his grave on Grrasmere side). This purple bell is of the Foxglove tall, ''A weed of glorious feature," the delight Of rocky Westmoreland's melodious bees, The glory of its craggy wildernesses, And fondly designated " Fairy's Love." * Mr. Barber, a former friend and neighbour. WILD-ELOWEES OF WESTMORELAND. Flower of the wind^ the wild Anemone ^ Queen of the meadows, the tall Meadow-sweety Oppressive sweet on Eotha's banks, are here ; And here from soft "Winander's, the Livelong ^ A bud of EUeray ; for Wilson's sake, For Hamilton's and gentle Farquhar's sakes, Welcome and kindly welcome ! — The Mush-mallow^ Blue Viold^ and Summer Violet blond ; Here is White heather from Winander's isle ; And Lily of the Vale of Windermere, Blue glistening Eye-hright^ delicate of stem, Fibre, and leaflet, with consummate flowers. Fit wreath for Ariel's self, to match his eyes. Look at the fen-born lady. Pimpernel^ The purple Money -loort^ whose sentient petals Close to the touch of damp, (although its roots, In fine thread cables clinging to the joints Of its prone stems, cast anchor in the moist And spongy turf,) and so th' aflected flower, Nurtured in moisture yet, with low-bred airs Fastidious, shrinking from the external damp. Has yet its use — ^^the Shepherd's Weather-glass." The pretty Speedwell^ and of larger leaf Though bud as small, its namesake, also call'd 6 WILD-FLOWEES OF WESTMORELAND. '' Man's Faith " by rural maidens: would' st thou know Wherefore ? then listen to the veriest tale Of falseness, and the saddest. Patient hopes Sustain' d the heart of Emily for years, While in the Babel upon Thames afar, The vicar's son, her lover, tried his way To wealth, whose distant prospect was his heaven, Up through the slippery mazes of the Law ; That hollow, hideous, slime-cemented pile Which ends in jargon. Poor as he began. He long remain' d ; but honest not so long. Keen student in a circumventive school, Villain he soon became, and when that word Was writ in ink Satanic on his mind, Saint on his breast he labell'd. He became So smooth all over : sentiment, voice, look, Were so quicksilvery smooth ; and then his eye. Demurely bland, would ever and anon, Upturning, roll and quiver with a zeal So sanctimonious, and he so would make The trembling vowels bleat between his lips. And make some consonants so strangely twano-, That many a worthy soul, devoid of guile, WILD-FLOWEES OF WESTMORELAISTD. 7 Was wheedled into confidences rash And treacherous toils of law : a fleecing caitifl*, Fleece-clad, he keenly prowl' d among the flocks. Such was true Emily's false love ! but how ? Her passion was the prejudice of chance Ingrafted on her childhood. They were mates Who hunted butterflies, and daisies pick'd, And laugh' d and wept together, trifle-moved, In infancy's sweet spring. Through youth they lived By neighbourhood allied, just not so near But that a blank of absence now and then, Made itself felt : and when the hour was come That call'd the slender youth of silvery voice To charm his way to fortune in the south, He hung upon her neck, and kiss'd her cheek, And vow'd a hundred vows, and all sincere : For he was yet a novice, and believed Himself, and Emily believed him too. She was the daughter of a Cumbrian squire, A luckless man, whose acres were but few. And children many : this, the fairest girl Of all his household, not uncultured grew Like the wild shoots among the rocky clefts Of those Arcadian moors and pastures, green 3 WILD-FLOWEES OF WESTMOEELAND. Por flocks as wildly devious as the rills That filter slowly through the grass, or leap From stone to stone at random. Careful hands Had train' d her up to womanhood : and home To her had been a plain domestic school Of duties strictly taught and aptly learnt : And, being one of many, she had miss'd A share undue of those caresses fond, And cares minute, and praises undeserved. Which suffocate young virtue with a warmth To nought but folly genial, and conceit. Thus nurtured, mind and frame together grew In health and strength, each fortifying each, And each supplying to the other, grace And beauty, or perpetual interchange With gain to both ; substance and spirit freshening Each other, as the broad-leaved branches fan And cool the air that fans and freshens them. Hers was a temper less by nature tuned Than harmonised by discipline to rule, And by religion sanctified to peace. Through the small trials of a crowded home. And all the petty interests that jar. She soothed and smiled her way to happiness. WILD-PLOWEES OF WESTMORELAND. 9 From eyes that seldom wept, that youth's farewell Drew virtuous tears : but she was happy still, For she was true and trustful. ISTow and then, While yet a struggler in the jostling crowds That haunt the dens impure misnamed of Law, He homeward turned his course, rebraced his pale And dissolute frame among his native hills. And sunn'd the wretched thing he call'd his heart In Emily's clear loveliness. At last He came in triumph : the attorney's clerk Was now a partner in the Belial-house, Where he had served apprenticeship to guile. He came to ask a bride : the parents heard Without dissent, for poverty's shrewd pinch Eebuked the faint suspicion that disturb' d Their tenderness by whispering, Lurks there not Beneath this smooth mind's varnish something false ? It could not be ! They knew him from his cradle, And he was ever gentle. JNTot a fear Speck'd the serene security of bliss. The heaven in Emily's bosom. One fair noon They saunter' d up a dingle of gray rocks With oaken wildwood crested to a bank Alive with Speedwell flowers, whose bright blue eyes 10 WILD-FLOWEES OF AVESTMORELAISTD. Glisten' d in welcome, as it seem'd, to greet The happy lovers. On that slope they sat, And while he wreathed a garland of those flowers Sportive around her neck, as if she were A lamb for sacrifice, he told her how '' A Grerman maiden saw a tuft of Speedwell More beauteous than its fellows, half-way lodged Down a steep margin of the Danube flood. ' Pluck me that Avild germander ! ' to the youth She said, whose place was at her side. He stoop' d And pluck' d it, but the slippery ground betray 'd His feet, and deep into the stream he sunk ; He rose and struggled towards the bank, and threw The prize ashore, and to the maiden cried ^ Forget-me-not^^ and sunk to rise no more. And hence that flower was call'd Forget-me-not^ The name we give a smaller flower as blue, A floweret golden-eyed : — behold! " — And here He show'd a ring whereon were radiant stones, Five sapphires, and a beryl in the midst, Set in the likeness of that well-known flower Of memory ! Saying thus, her hand he took — It trembled unresisting — and that ring Upon the bridal finger as he placed, WILD-FLOWERS OE WESTMORELAIS^D. 11 " Wear this, dear Emily/' he added, " till, A few weeks hence it be displaced by one Of simpler structure, but of force to link Thee and thy fate to me and mine for ever." — Think you the brook that warbled to that bank A mountain melody, was half so sweet As was the voice of him who thus addressed The observant heart of Emily ? "Was he A traitor the7i ? — oh, no ! he yet believed His spirit true to S^e)% although he knew 'Twas false to all things else of pure and good. That night they parted : — and they never met Again ! — To London journeying, he paused To seek at Harrogate a dwelling where He and his bride-elect might shortly pass Their earliest weeks of wedlock. There indeed His honeymoon was pass'd : but the betroth'd Was not the bride ! A golden dupe he found, A serious heiress : she was charm'd to see His grave peculiar smile, and charm' d yet more To hear his voice, still sweeter than his smile. He smiled, and talk'd, and snared the splendid prize. The twain were quickly one, JSTo word was sent To Emily ; no friend was interposed 12 WILD-ELOWEES OE WESTMOEELAND. To break the tidings ; 'twas a perfidy Too gross for explanation. "When she read The strange announcement mix'd with common news, iShe lifted up her soul to Heaven and pray'd For strength to bear the trial : strength was given. Her spirit droop'd not in its gentle pride ; But, for the agony was sharp, the rose Was stricken out for ever from her cheek, For ever and at once ; and in a night, Strange freak of suffering and yet true, one lock Of her rich hair, and one alone, was blanched ; And gleam'd among her auburn tresses dark In signal contrast, like the first snow-flake That nestles on a copper beech-tree's bough. Her rounded form, too, by degrees refined To such sylph-like tenuity, that it seem'd A plaything for a zephyr, yet endured The mountain blasts, unshatter'd, many a year. And years had pass'd away, and never word Had she of him once utter' d ; till, one day. Upon that very bank, enamell'd still With flowers of wild germander, a small child. Her pupil, holding up a flower new-pluck' d, Inquired its name. The marble cheek and brow A ELOWER or FAIEPIELD. 13 Of Emilj to paler whiteness turn'd : — Her eyes commerced witli memory ; the string That tied the tongue of agony was snapt ; She wrung her hands and wept aloud, and cried '^ Man's Faith !" — The name is constant to the flower. A FLO WEE OF FAIEFIELD. As once I roam'd the fells, to brood, In silence and in solitude. On fancies all my own, In one of Nature's hiding spots I found a flower as shy as thoughts That love to be alone ; A primrose in a nook enshrined ; A rocky cleft with mosses lined, And over-arch' d with fern ; And guarded well from wandering hoof. By two rough sentries arm'd in proof — A bramble and a thorn. 14 A PLOWER OF EAIRFIELD. Wrens hide not in more jealous cells Their precious hoard of speckled shells, Than that where hidden blew This golden treasure of the Spring, As brightly delicate a thing As ever Eden knew. This is the very type, said I, Of yon fair nymph, so lone and shy, Whose spirit charms the wild ! And hither from her laurell'd nook. On this her floral self to look, I led the Poet's Child. Together on the vernal gem. That seem'd to tremble to its stem "With trouble not its own. We gazed as silent as the flower ; But never from that happy hour My heart has been alone. Rydal Mount. 15 THE HELIOTEOPE AND THE SNOWDEOP. — ^— That flower, in scented garments fine. Came first from regions of the mine, And soon its worth is told : — Oppressive in its rich pretence, Its very sweetness hath a sense Analogous to gold. A thing of luxury, worldly-wise ! A true sun-worshipper, whose eyes Pursue the God of Day : — But if a cloud deface his beam, 'Twill drop its cunning lids, and seem A worshipper of clay. Begone, thou type of summer friends ! The flower that winter's death-bed tends Grive me^ in spite of scorn ! 16 THE IsriGHT-SCElSrTEI) STOCK. Begone, Peruvian Heliotrope ! Give me the snow-born Plower of Hope, The Flower of Hope forlorn. THE NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK. — > — Othee flowers are not content, Yestal-like, to live and die. Prodigal of hue or scent, They must bloom for passers-by. Bright-eyed triflers kindly scattering Smiles for all, in vain display ; Or with incense sweetly flattering Good or bad that cross their way ! Not like them this Stock, that only Seems to wake when sunbeams sleep ; (Skill' d in close reserve, and lonely. All its balm till night to keep). THE BIECH OF SILYEE-HOW. 17 Then its subtle sense unsheathing, "With it pierces to the brain Of the lonely poet, breathing To the stars his midnight strain. THE BIECH OF SILVEE-HOW. WRITTEN FOR MR. BARBER OF GRASMERE. I'll doubt no more that Fairies dwell At least in one enchanted place. Though wisdom long since rang the knell Of Oberon and all his race : They haunt Kehlbarrow's woody brow Amid the rocks of Silver-How ! And if you chmb beyond the wood You'll there a Eairy chapel see ; And there, in spite of wind and flood, Beside it find a goodly tree : Of upright stem and flexile bough, The Fairy-tree of Silver-How. 18 THE EIRCH OF SILYER-HOW. A night of tempest sliook the hills That circle Grrasmere's lovely lake; To torrents swoln, the flashing rills Went chafing down o'er stone and brake : When morning peep'd o'er Fairfield's brow Low lay the birch of Silver-How ! The red-breast that was wont to sing His matins on its topmost spray, Now wheel' d aloof his fickle wing To chaunt elsewhere his roundelay : To thriving trees his court he paid So well he knew the poet's trade. The Sun went down, but when again He rose and look'd on Silver-How, The red-breast trill' d his morning strain Upon his old accustom' d bough : Tor lo ! the tree that prostrate lay, Erectly stood in face of day. It rose, imtouch'd by human hands. And now a living wonder stands On that enchanted Fell ! CHESNUT TEEES ISTEAR BEAGA. 19 Wise sceptic, you deny in vain To wild Kelilbarrow's fairy fane . A priestess and a spell : Go profit by my elfin creed, And lift tlie fallen in their need As secretly and well ! Rydal Mount, October 27, 1829. CHESNUT TEEES NEAE BEAGA. WRITTEN BEFORE THE ABOLITION OF MONASTERIES IN PORTUGAL. Old sy Ivans in a land of monks, Tour moss-furr'd boughs, and wrinkled trunks All hollow from their roots, Would speak you worn-out serfs of Time ; Tet fresh, as if in tree-hood's prime, Tou bear your leaves and fruit. Yon Elders of the Cowl, who dwell Like worms within the kernell'd shell, In choice monastic nooks, c2 20 THE CANARY GOLDFUSTCH. This moral of your green old age, Might deign to learn from Nature's page, The second-best of books. THE CANAEY GOLDFINCH. At Paris, in the month of June, Within the square of Carrousel, We heard as blithe a voice in tune, As ever trill' d from wiry cell. A hundred songsters dinn'd the wall With music — 'twas a bird- slave mart ; But one pied hybrid o'er them all Sang triumph in his strength of heart. He reign' d by innate power of voice O'er all his rivals sweet and shrill. Their Monarch self-acclaim' d by choice No other than his vocal will. THE CAlfARX GOLDFINCH. 21 To sing him down thej oft broke out In vain they one and all rebell'd ; Prolong'd through " many a winding bout " His roundelay the triumph held. Born in a cage, to reach his throne, A perch, was all his use for wings : Happier than He who made his own Ton palace of the Bourbon Kings. But birds no more than men can long Evade Parisian glory's fate : This golden-feather' d lord of song Was now compell'd to abdicate. By foreign hands was he deposed. By foreign hands to exile borne ; We brought him to a vale enclosed By mountains that delay the morn. How fared he then ? at such a change Perhaps at first his taste revolted ; These rocks and quiet meads were strange, But soon his city feelings moulted. 22 THE CANAET GOLDriNCH. No bird vidian to lament His Tiber in a wearj strain, He sang on Eotha's banks content As if he ne'er bad known the Seine. He found in Her wbo brought bim tbence, A nature be could understand, Endearing to bis subtle sense Of barmonj, a foreign land. Tet once, as if ber cheerful care But tantalised caprice, away He flitted to the cHffs, and there He play'd the truant half a day. We thought him lost, and sigh'd to think On what might be the rover's doom, Por hawks o'er-eye the craggy brink, And owlets haunt the woody gloom. Who knows not danger knows not fear : — But soon he found his freedom pall ; Ere eventide his carol clear Announced him at the garden-wall. THE CAIS^AEY GOLDri]S"CH. 23 A moment's pause — a sudden whirr And loj the prize was ours again ! He could not tarry long from her For whom he had forgot the Seine. But when her voice no more was heard, But when her smile no more was seen, He ceased to be the glossy bird. The bright-eyed warbler he had been. From day to day, from week to week, He miss'd his friend and pined away ; His note became a sound to seek, A fitful effort at a lay. Though now and then he plainly strove. By little fond familiar ways, To thank us for the watchful love That fain would have prolong' d his days. And when he died, this very morn. Of moss I made his winding-sheet. And, in a mood the wise may scorn, Her bird I buried at her feet. February 26, 1848. 24 WANSFELL. It was only yester-eve, "While tlie sun was taking leave Of the mountain he loves best, Tawny Wansfell seem'd to grieve — • For I saw the brackens heave On his breast. And I heard his firs bewailing, With a shudder first, and quailing From the tidings of the breeze ; Then in a chorus firmer. With a long and sweeping murmur. Like the sea's. It was not for daylight's setting, That his russet ferns were fretting, While his groves were thrill' d with fear, WANSEELL. 2 For the light returns to-morrow, But not he for whom they sorrow — The Old Year. The last hour was drawing nigh^ Of the mountain's true ally. In the merry seasons past : — As a friend about to perish. With a fonder love we cherish At the last : So the mountain seem'd revealing A regret like human feeling While the twilight round it hung ; But ere night had pass'd away, And the dawn of New-Tear's Day Upward sprung, What had changed the mourner's face ? Not a feature can we trace ! We behold a giant white, Erom whose robe of silver tissue, Ten thousand sparkles issue. Jewel-bright. 26 WAlSrSFELL. After all his rustic nurture^ The old mountain has turn'd courtier, And to greet the JSTew- Year's Day He has deck'd his shoulders proud, From his wardrobe in the cloud, All so gay. AU night on silent Wansfell A shower like down of swans fell, A shower of frosted dew : And the shroud of the Old Tear, Is the mountain's festal gear Tor the New. January 1, 1843. 27 KYDAL-BECK, WESTMOEELAND. A MOUNTAIN stream that descends through Lady Fleming's park, forming two waterfalls on the mountain side, and then flows leisurely through the lower grounds into the Rotha. Foal of the well-spring and the cloud. The young white horse, so fierce and proud, Has broken forth from home ! What turf-train' d courser but would shun With such a Colt a race to run On such a Hippodrome ? O'er shelving reef, down craggy wall, EuU gallop comes the waterfall, Then lights on glass-like ground ; The beauteous pool beneath him quakes, But thence away — away — he breaks, With a disdainful bound. 28 RYDAL-EECK, WESTMOEELAISTD. Fresh ferns, soft mosses, wild buds gay. In vain are waiting by bis way. To tempt bim to a cbeck ; Tbe trees' litbe arms are stretcb'd in vain To stop bim, till be reacb tbe plain ; No lassd^ for bis neck ! Tbe Dryad ecbo, bid aloof, Lurks list'ning, till bis sonorous boof Approaches ber retreat ; Tben forth, and leaps upon bis back ! A rash equestrian, if she lack Tbe skill to keep ber seat. And bark ! akeady she is off. Sent shrieking, to tbe mimic scoff Of lordly mountains round ! From that light weight the insulted steed A single vigorous plunge has freed, A headlong plunge profound. But where is now that steed of force ? Or was it but a spectral horse ? * Lasso, the South American noose with which wild horses are caught. DALEGAETH TOECE. 29 Or whither did he pass ? I see a narrow streamlet take Its course through Eydal Park — a snake Of silver in the grass. Strange transformation ! oft we see Blind Passion fall from high degree, "With headlong noisy pride ; TheUj changed in nature as in place. Through life's low vale, with sinuous grace. In quiet meekness ghde.* DALEGAETH FOECE. What great voice of Birker Moor, With a loud and louder lure, Tempts us up this stony brook ? Dalegarth's haunted Ghyll is near! 'Tis the Water Spirit's call! * These lines were suggested by a walk in Rydal Park, Decem- ber 15, 1837, but composed on May Day, 1838, at Canterbury. 30 DALEGAETH FOECE. Onward, stranger, see and hear — Hearken to the "Waterfall ; — Hearken and look ! Fairer scene was ne'er beholden ; Wilder Fall thou wilt not Kst : There the mosses, green and golden, Bathe in brightening showers of mist ; Wild flowers there, in motley dresses, Careless dip their colours gay ; There the birch tree droops her tresses, Shining through the web of spray, — While the Water Spirit presses Through the granite chaos grey ; Yet, as his own shout confesses. Cannot get away ; Flinging off, with vain endeavour. Chains that leave him chainless never, — There he chafes and foams for ever JN'ight and day. 31 A SEA LYEIC. In Three Parts. — ^ — The first part, except the seventh and ninth stanzas, was rhymed on board the ''Manchester '' steam-ship m the bight of the Bay of Biscay, November, 1836, when the stoiTn was rising, but before the sense of danger was t/iorou^^^i/ roused by its violence and the damage to both engines. The rest was written at Canterbury, April 23, 1838, from memory. PART I. I. I'ye stood a gale before now ; And do I shrink at last, Where wind and wave but roar now Their old accustom' d blast ? II. Te gusts and seas of Biscay, And thou Atlantic main, Te oft have served me this way When I have steer' d for Spain. 32 • A SEA LIBIC. % in. Old friends expect, at meeting, A welcome fair or fonl ; You give a clinrlisli greeting — A bluster and a growl ! IV. Yet all your rant and railing, Till noWj I ever heard With spirit as unquailing As any ocean-bird : V. The Grull, of constant pinion, The "Willock, sleek of form. Your little fearless minion The Petrel of the Storm ; VI. Or any winged skimmers That ride the leaping foam, Or e'en the deeper swimmers Beneath the tides at home. A SEA LYRIC. 33 VII. But noWj appaird, I hear ye^ Te stunning voices wild ! Ye winds and waves, I fear ye I tremble for my child. VIII. Bold wave, thy salt lip kisses A cheek whose rose it frets ; Shrewd wind, thy sharp tongue hisses In ears unused to threats ! IX. Be hush'd, thou angry giant, And sleek thy bristling hair ; O sea, for once compliant, hear a Father's prayer ! D 34 A SEA LYRIC. PAET II. I. '' Ha, ha ! the "Wanderer's Daughter Is mine ! " the Demon said ; The Demon of the water, With fiendish laughter dread. II. " Blow, blow, ye merry Tritons, Blow, blow with all your might, And call the cloud that lightens, For dark will be the night ! III. '' On yon Iberian breakers This vapour-ship must strike, That ploughs the ocean's acres As free as Thames's dyke. A SEA LYEIC. 35 IV. '' But first, stout billows shackle The power that rules her keel ; Eair play to sheet and tackle, But down with work and wheel !'' V. The surge obey'd its warrant, And wheel and engine crashed ; A hulk on Biscay's current, The steam-bark landward dash'd. VI. And nought can helm avail her To keep her head to sea ; All evil blasts assail her, And force her to the lee. VII. And still she sinks and rises. And pants along at speed ; Ten minutes bring the crisis — God help her in her need ! d2 36 A SEA LTEIC. VIIT. And by the light of liglitning, To tliose on deck who stand, The breakers dimly whitening. Seem to beckon from the land. IX. " A sail, a sail to wear her, Or she her last has cruised ! " And twice they tried to wear her. And twice the ship refused. PAET III. I. The Father sought his Daughter, And drew her from her berth. And in his arms he caught her. And held her in that girth. A SEA LTEIC. 37 II. And, in her eyeballs gazing, He whisper' d all the truth ; O Grod ! the doom amazins:, It shook her heart of youth. III. Her lips were white with wonder, She sank on trembling knees ; Her prayer, through ocean's thunder, Christ heard, who walk'd the seas. IV. Again was rigg'd the canvas, — That effort seem'd despair's ; How sweet the voice of man was, That cried ^^She wears ! she wears !" 'V. A counter-breeze from Finisterre, Of Grod's own under-breath, Was now the blessed minister Of rescue from the death ! 38 A SEA LYRIC. VI. Away the crippled vessel Went limping from the coast, With manv a wave to wrestle, And little strength to boast. VII. And when the sun was risen, And show'd the waste profound, It seem'd agaiQ a prison Of mountains quaking round ! VIII. But when did Christ deliver With vacillatLQg hand ? We gain'd the Golden Eiver, And touch' d the Lisbon strand ! 39 A MOST EICH AND PERFECTLY DEFINED EAINBOW ON THE OCEAN. One lady on the tall white cliff! One boat upon the sea ! That little solitary skiff "Why watcheth Emma Lee ? The heavens with sulphm^ous clouds are black : As black the billowy plain ; And wildly flies the stormy rack Above the stormy main. The winged ships their wings have spread, For safety far from land ; The sea-birds from the sea have fled For shelter, to the strand. 40 EAINBOW OlST THE OCEATiT. Then why intent on yonder shell That scuds before the gale ? Why like a lone coast sentinel, Stands there that lady pale ? Perhaps a brother's life to threat, Those mighty waters rise ; Perhaps some object dearer yet, The treasure of her eyes ! And as the waters heave and break. Her breast keeps fearful time ; Her very heart-strings seem to quake At that tremendous chime. And on that cliff, so far above. She stands in beauty pale, To be the beacon-light of love, To guide his daring sail. No brother in that lonely boat Is menaced by the strife ; No cherish'd lover there afloat, Eights with the surge for life. EAIISTBOW 0]sr THE OCEAIS". 41 Her brow is pale with fear and hope, With holy hope and fear, Which high as heaven direct their scope, While humbly trembling here. That boat to Iter the type presents Of man's immortal soul, Struggling through turbid elements, The passions — to its goal. The sun is hid behind the clouds. But is not gone to sleep. For now a ray has touch' d the shrouds, A rainbow spans the deep. And now the valiant canvas shines, All boldly out in white, Beneath its glorious arch of lines Of many-colour' d light. Thus from behind the curtain dark Will flash a beam of grace, When terrors shake the sinner's bark, And tears are on his face. 42 A PAETIIS^G EENISON And see ! the boat is safe within The strong protecting mole ; So safely from the gulfs of sin, A refuge finds the soul. But only through the saving woe Of Him whose precious blood Supplied the colours of the bow That spans the clouded flood. Ramsgate, Monday Evening, July 30, 1838. A PARTING BENISON TO THE MEDEA STEAMSHIP. GOj sink or swim, thou punt of evil name, And rightly call'd, from Jason's barbarous dame ! Lured by thy signal-flag, descried afar, Eive home-bound English cross'd Oporto's Bar ; Rude winds they heard, and rampant waves they met, But found thy blufi* Commander rougher yet. TO THE MEDEA STEAMSHIP. 43 They ask'd admission at that vessel's side : " The mail ! the mail ! '' the imperious Triton cried. " We seek a passage to om* native shore ! " " Hand up the mail ! " he answer'd with a roar. " But here are passengers — a female one — " " The mail I want," responded IS'eptune's son. " There take the mail ! " (the devil take your manners, And Eate embark us under gentler banners !) " Thanks, very sorry ! now shove off! " he cried ! " Shove off ! " and left us on the weltering tide ! Eor this, thou vapouring punt of evil name, We wish thee — a good voyage all the same ! San Joao da Foz, Oporto, September, 1837. ii CLOUDS. LINES SENT TO A FRIEND, AFTER WATCHING WITH HER ONE SUMMER'S EVENING THE PASSAGE OF CLOUDS AT DIFFERENT ALTITUDES SUCH AS ARE HERE DESCRIBED. Fair is Earth, a goodly substance — fair with things of every hue ; But yon vapour- world is fairer, haunting the cerulean blue. First the rain-clouds float above me, slow, like caravans of freight ; Higher are the central sailers ; then the cirri, higher yet. These are eastward slowly wending ; o'er her grave their shadows pass, While, in rapid retrocession, westward flies the central mass.* * The passage of clouds at different altitudes in different and even opposite directions, swayed by different currents of aii', is quite a common, if not commonly observed, characteristic of them ; but I ought not to say it is not commonly observed, for every seaman, and every shepherd, and every other habitual sky -gazer, must be familiar with it. The three several fleets of clouds yesterday sailed just as I have described them. The chapter on clouds in Mr. Kuskin's ''Modern Painters" probably suggested something of the above. OlS" A POETEAIT BY COMEEEOED. 45 But the highest and the brightest, linger in their stately march : These are they that bear the Angels, near the zenith of the arch ; And among them, poised or wafted, sit the Spirits of the Blest, Looking down on us, the mourners, of their presence dispossest. Oh for wings, that I might seek Her! Something whispers She is there, — Yonder, up among the brightest of those floating isles of air. Grasmere Church-yard, 1848. ON A POETEAIT BY COMEEFOED. Unjust to Nature, though not all untrue, A skilful hand these cherish'd features drew ; The general lines with faithful touch it gave, And so secured some triumph o'er the graye. 46 OlJiT A POKTEATT BY COMEEFORD. But with, the lineaments of age, to trace The fine expression of benignant grace, And yet to mingle with the charm serene The venerable dignity of mien, — Impart the loftiness, yet not impair The courtly softness by the regal air ; To give the eye the tempered light that spread A sort of glory round the reverend head ; — This was beyond the artist ; all it could His pencil furnish'd ; and the work is good. But memory's power a better likeness gives; She still by that among her offspring lives ; 'Regret recals her, till her form appears — Seen through the pensive mist of filial tears — Such as she was ere life's last flame declined, Cloudless of brow, and passionless of mind ! Such as she was when kindred seraphs came, Her gentle spirit for the skies to claim. 47 THE MAGDALEN. Paint me a Magdalen With violets in lier hair, Sucli as she gave her Lover Near his aching heart to wear — On that frail Lover's bosom As she had fared, to fare ; To love him and to lose him "When crush' d and wither' d there. - Just when to heaven upturning Her dark eyes bright with tears. She bade farewell for ever To passion's hopes and fears ; — To all the mortal yearning That woman's bosom sears, And scores her heart with burning Whose traces last for years : — 48 " WHAT HAYE TOU SEEI^r IN WICKLOW ? '' Just in that awful struggle, Which fiends and angels share^ When sorrow saves the victim Of passion from despair, Paint me that Magdalen Eedeem'd — but let her wear A wreath of dark-blue violets About her jet-black hair. ^^WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN IN WICKLOW ? 5? All that the heart has ever charm' d or awed ; Scenes for Salvator ; landscapes fit for Claude ; Banditti's glens ; monks' temples ; hermits' cells ; Lone streams where nuns might bathe; and lovers' dells ; Tall hills whose swelling bosoms heave with woods ; And rocks with their rude children, the fresh floods, Plunging and leaping from their parents' arms — These have I seen — with aU the added charms Of tint and shade that Autumn could impart To captivate the eje, and fix the heart. — SONNETS. ^ 49 TO a S. H. GrLiDE, spirit benign — for such our guest lias been, In presence with us for too brief a tide — Back to thy sadden' d home that claims thee, glide ! — A lingering vision of that tranquil mien Inform' d with virtue shrinking from display, A dim reflection of that soul serene, Although the visitant be far away Will yet be ours amid this Eden scene. The whitest cloud that ever light refined Above us floating where the angels hide. Sheds a dark shadow on the mountain-side : So the bland image of thy stainless mind From far will reach us, dear to memory's sight, A pensive shadow of angelic light. Rydal, October 12, 1849. E 50 SONISTETS. EMMA. How like a soul on her chaste way to heaven The moon is climbing up yon azure hill ! Clouds by rude gusts athwart her path are driyen. Then pass away, and leave her spotless still : Thus o'er the good pass clouds of worldly ill ! Soft, serious Emma ! like that moon wert Thou ! Lovely in youth and goodness as thou wert ; EeUgion's lambent light was on thy brow. And on thy cheek, and in thy gentle heart, Shedding mild lustre on thy heavenward way, Spite of those earthly clouds that cross'd its ray. Virtue in thee refined upon her part, And seem'd to buoy thee upward, free from taint : 'Serene Enthusiast ! meekly soaring saint ! SOISTNETS. 51 THE AMERICAN SHIP PAULINA, The sinking moon, her herald to the west, At midnight left her motionless in port : Day is but two hours old, and round her sport The Atlantic billows, welcoming their guest Whose red-striped flag is by the breeze carest. Home from the vine -land for her far-ofi* mart, She bears the bacchant juice that cheers the heart. And sometimes maddens. For an exile's breast — For him whom she is wafting far away From Douro's banks, where all his fancies grew, That now must wither in ungenial air — Where is the flattering balm that can allay The yearning of a heart in vain so true, At sea upon a voyage of despair ? Foz, NEAR Oporto, Sunday, July 13, 1845. E 2 52 SONNETS. HERO-WORSHIP. I. '^ Ceomwell ! our chief of men ; " thy surest praise Is this, that He, a greater far than thou, Crown'd with immortal verse thine iron brow. O '' fallen on evil tongues and evil days," And blind already in the horrent blaze Thy torch enkindled, he who could endow Thy blood-red star with seraph light, and vow Upon an idol shrine his sacred bays. — Though none denies thee grandeur in thy crime, That struck the realm as with a thunder shock, Though Milton's organ peal'd applause sublime. That trunkless visage haunts thee from the block, Nor unrebuked vrill evil fame rejoice. While honour in the island hath a voice. S0]S■^"ETS. 53 HERO-WORSHIP. II. Disceown'd misfortune trampled in the dust ; Admired disorder canting in the phrase Of holiness ; a Stuart (for after days A lesson how a King ^ benignly just. Weak to resist though faithful to his trust, Should perish) murder' d in the public gaze ! Creeds topsy-turvy, statutes in a blaze, And all to deify a will robust ! Tongue-saintly Cromwell in his stalwart clutch Seizes the sceptre, knocks the gilding off. And makes it homely as a grandam's crutch : But woe to the malignants if they scoff At him who wields it ; Oliver, the Man ! Save us from Lord- Protectors Puritan ! * Louis XVI. 54 SOIS'NETS. MEDUSA, I. Theee is a pensive sweetness on her cheek, And in her eye a melancholy lustre, Complaining of the living snakes that cluster Among her golden tresses. How, to wreak Such vengeance on the lovely and the weak. Could the Parthenian Goddess, for her shrine Profaned, forget that mercy was divine ? Fair victim ! I know one as fair as thou. Whose foot, like thine, at Wisdom's altar stumbled, And who, forsaken and forgotten now. In spirit broken, as in beauty humbled, Peels shame's keen vipers on her aching brow. While they whose ears are shut to misery's groan. View the poor wretch with eyes and hearts of stone ! SONNETS, 55 MEDUSA. — 4 II. Beautiful Maniac of the locks enchanted, Whose golden net enslaved the Lord of Ocean! Is this the end of all his false devotion ? Is this the crown upon thy temples planted By him whose bosom for thy beauty panted ? 4 Alas ! frail Woman yields to soft emotion, And love beguiles her with some airy notion : And then the tempter's fatal suit is granted ; And then, away are wing'd the days of gladness With him who sipp'd the nectar of her breath ; And then succeed the pains of guilt and sadness : Love's flowery braid becomes a snaky wreath. And then the serpents hiss her into madness : Thus pleasure's garland turns a crown of death ! 56 SONNETS. THE GAULS AT ROME. A.D. 1849. I. License for Graul, and Liberty for Eome ! The Frank Eepublic on its banner waves. And marches forth to tell the Pontiff's slaves That new-born Freedom shall not find a home Within the precincts of St. Peter's dome, Until in blood baptised, with Glallic knaves Por sponsors : such the rite their glory craves Egregious warning for all time to come — The faith of Paris ! Eomans, ye have heard The Chanticleer of Prance out crow the bird That smote on Peter's heart when he denied His Master. Lo ! the Graul is at the gate ; Gro forth, but weep not, duped Triumvirate, Embrace your friend, philosopher, and guide ! SONISIETS. 57 THE GAULS AT ROME. A.D. 1849. II. What ! in tlie breach, amid the roar of guns, Te meet him hand to hand in deadly strife ? The heart of ancient Eome is come to life ; The Eternal City owns you for her sons, And Tiber, flushed with angry triumph, runs Incarnadined with patriot gore, and rife "With airs of death ; while " war unto the knife," As in Saguntum, maid nor matron shuns To echo and re-echo from his banks. Mazzini, Saffi, Garibaldi, now, Stand ye or fall, enroll' d in valour's ranks Te live ! "Who love ye least will most avow Tour Curtian spirit, dreadless of the Gulf— The Eoman courage nurtured by the Wolfe* - Written and published in the ''Morning Post," before the Surrender. 58 SONNETS, THE GAULS AT ROME. A.D. 1849. III. The battle, though not always to the strong. Was too unequal : Eome submits to Gaul ; The great republic hath disarmed the small, And, by that unimaginable wrong, Confess'd itself a bubble, that ere long Should burst by its own lightness. If the fall Of men whose frantic minds the wise appal, Be just, by Gallic hands, let choral song King wide for Papal royalty restored. That song, in France, should echo to recal The long-descended heir of him whose sword The pontiff-throne establish' d. Prom the thrall Eeleased of blind delirium. Prance again Should hail the regal lily of the Seine. SONNETS. 59 THE GAULS AT ROME. A.D. 1849. IV. Up with the Oriflamme, most Christian France ! That long-lost title wouldst thou yet regain, Up with the golden wand of Charlemagne, The banner of Saint Louis, and the lance That, like the seraph's, glitter' d in advance Of sacred armies on the Syrian plain, When Paladins were champions of the Fane, And Christian chivalry was true romance. If this thy new crusade in Holy Land, Be genuine zeal for desecrated law, Look for its cause at home : for there is spawn' d The speckled pest whose breath the nations draw ; That glozing cheat at dreaming Freedom's ear. Would start a fiend, touch' d by Ithuriel's spear. 60 SONjS'ETS. SONETO DE CAMOENS. Que me quereis perpetuas saudades ? Com qu' esperan9as inda me enganais ? O tempo, que se vai nao torna mais E se torna, nao tornam as idades. Eazao he ja, o annos que vos vades, Porque estes tao ligeiros que passais, Nem todos para um gosto sois iguias. Nem sempre sao conformes as vontades. Aquillo a que ja quiz he tao mudado Que quasi he outra cousa, porque os dias Teem o primeiro gosto ja damnado- Esperan9as de novas alegrias, Nao m' as deixa a Fortuna, e o tempo irado Que do contentamento sao espias. SONNETS. 61 TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING SONNET. Why haunt you me, fond wishes ever yearning ? With what new hopes of visionary good ? Time, onward gliding, turns not : — if it could, The light of youth is never more returning. Speed then, O years ! for reason — now discerning, How seldom ye content, how oft delude. How swiftly fly by happiness pursued — Tour flight deplores not, from experience learning. So changed is all I loved to look upon Each object seems some other to my eyes, Because the freshness of my soul is gone ; For angry times and fortune, evil spies, "Wherever pleasures for a moment shone, Have left me not a hope of future joys» 62 SOIS^NETS. SONNET SEVENTY-TWO OF CAMOENS. DINAMENE. Wheist, wearied out witli sorrows still my theme, To sleep I yield my fancy prisoner, In dreams I then behold the shade of Her Who while in life to me was but a dream. There, in a solitude whose verge extreme Fades from the scope of vision into air, I chase her : forced to shun me even there, Her steps for my pursuit the fleeter seem. '' Spirit benign," I call, " oh do not fly ! " She turns on me a sweet and troubled glance. Like One who says, ^^ Alas, it cannot be ! " And hastens onward. '' Dina ....'' then I cry. But ere I can add mene^ from my trance I wake — for even illusion flies from me. The Foz, near Oporto, Juli/ 7, 1845. SONNETS. 63 TO A CAGED NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO BARBOSA BACETXAR. Impeison'd bird, thy song is unconfined. And trills in rich redoubling sweetness now, As when a warbler free of wing wert thoii, The grove's Amphion, Orpheus of the wind ! By thee the charms of freedom were resign'd, Where guile in yonder copse had limed the bough, Hard by the rill whose pleasant waters flow Bright as thy life, ere thou wert thus purloin' d. So too was I with art insidious taken. Where love his fraud had ambush' d in the gleam Of eyes whose dazzling beauty hid the snare. Tet thou art happy : I am joy-forsaken ; As one thy fate and mine, sweet bird, should seem. But oh, how different a heart we bear ! The Island, Windermere, Nov. 28, 1844. 64 so]S':n^ets FIELD-FOOT CEDAR. PLANTED BY WORDSWORTH, SEPTEMBER 18, 1849. I. MusE-EAYOUEED Scion, flourish like thy peers The solemn growth of orient peaks sublime. And trust thy glorious destiny to Time : Por, though thy lot may lowlier seem than theirs, The man who plants thee, one of Nature's seers, Above their height has built enduring rhyme. Among these rocks thou canst not choose but climb And prosper, hallowed by his fourscore years. Man's life, extended to its utmost length, Is shorter than the crescent youth of trees ; Not so the life of genius, by the strength Of virtue cherished in the sun and breeze. When thou art old, his name will cling to thee. And awe the spoiler, — thou art Wordsworth's Tree ! SONNETS. 65 FIELD-FOOT CEDAR II. IN'oT MenaluSj* with all his sylvan throng, Waving applausive to the reed of Pan While nymphal feet the dancing measure scan, — ]^or Yal di JSToto, though its forests rung With Doric harmonies ere Maro sung,t — 'Not Monte Mario, though the PineJ be there That owes its menaced Kfe to Beaumont's care. Its glory to the Lute by Wordsworth strung, — Outcharms these wild wood-rocks to Fancy's eye, While she beholds this Himalayan plant A stately cedar, potent to enchant Beneath its umbrage, in a future age, Some Poet destined to a mission high, A Weird successor of the Eydal Sage. * Menaliis, famous in classical lore for its pine-trees, and as the favourite haunt of Pan, and his company of Nymphs and Fauns. t The Greek Poet was bom in Syracuse, which is in the Val di Noto. J See Wordsworth's Sonnet : — '* I saw far off the dark top of a Pine," and the note to it. P ^6 SONNETS. FIELD-FOOT CEDAR. III. On Indus' banks and Ganges/ near the fane Wherein sits Deva on his mystic throne, The Brahmin sows the Deodarean cone ; * And crouching myriads — for whose sires, in vain A warning voice proclaim' d Messiah's reign, t Hereditary thralls to stock and stone — Eevere their Grod-tree in the seed thus sown. Grrow thou, secure from ministry insane. — An English river near a purer shrine, Plows by the rocks that will protect thy youth, And thou art planted here but to record A date that cleaves to sympathies benign In hearts that trust the promise of the Woed, And rest their solace on Eternal Truth. * The Pinus Deodara, the Cedar of India, is held as ''a sacred tree by the natives, deodara meaning the tree of Siva or Deva, who is one of the most important divinities in the Hindii Mythology. As the tree of the Gods, the deodara is planted near the Indian temples, and comes in for a share of the worship. " t Frances Xavier, Missionary of the East in 1547, was popularly styled *' the Apostle of India. '* SOISTNETS. 67 FIELD-FOOT. The crags of Loughrigg to the rising sun Oppose a jealous aspect : and his beam (From Wansfell glancing o'er the charmed stream Of Eotha grateful for the glory won Prom orient light) those sullen barriers shun, Forbidding with a sylvan veil the gleam That would awaken from their morning dream The cavern' d Oreads, who disporting run Among those cliffs till dawn, and weary then Hide in their fern-screen' d coverts. — Footing there To sprites of Fancy only, not to men, Is free — So deems the pilgrim, unaware How powers severe to strenuous art relent. And passes, seeking a less coy ascent. * As laid out by the owner, William Crewdson, Esq. r2 ti8 SONIS'ETS. FIELD-FOOT. II. A HUMAN instinct, breathed into the soul By Him who out of chaos Eden made, Has work'd unseen behind yon leafy shade. — The sense of beauty, stealthy as the mole But like the lynx keen- vision' d, upward stole Along the frowning walls, and there essay' d The more than wizard power of axe and spade, To lift the aspirant to a lofty goal. The bird-like spirit of hope from bough to bough, From rock to rock, incited labour on : Eeluctant nature smoothed her angry brow, For not a line of savage grace was gone, From lowly Field-foot to the crowning Fell ; So shrewdly work'd the Master of the Spell ! Rydal, July 18, 1849. SONNETS. 69 CAVE OF MEDITATION, FIELD-FOOT. A MAN, whose sorrows veil'd him from the crowds Wandering incautious of a tempest near, At nightfall chanced to seek a shelter here, And stood and listen' d from this stony shroud To spectral voices hailing him aloud, To woods and waters thundering in his ear. While all was hidden but one eastern star Serenely shining through a riven cloud- Anon the placid star assumed the form Of Her whom he had followed to the grave : The momentary vision, poised in air, Grlanced with a pity that rebuked despair ; Then all the brightness vanished in the storm, And Sibyl Night mused with him in the cave. 70 SONNETS TO ANGUS FLETCHER. Akous, this fond Memorial, that we raise To One all worthy of the sculptor's art, Is but a simple tribute of the heart ; No costly lure to take the stranger's gaze. Yet, if some mourner, through the tender haze Of tears, contemplating this modest stone, By sympathetic grief shall soothe his own, Be his the solace, and be thine the praise. The frame of ivy, faithful to the dead, The Cross, the Lamb that watches o'er her grave, The words of life ^ that to the dying gave The peace of faith upon an anguish'd bed, This love, this mystery, this hope, are there. Evolved, yet guarded, by thy sentient care. ^ ''Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out/' St. Johiiy vi. 37. GRA.SMERE Church-yard, Sepiemher 22, 1849. SON^^ETS. 71 SUSPIEIA. I— WORDSWORTH'S HOME. The fairest bowers in this enchanted land. To me are darkened by a fate severe. And most yon terraced bower of Eydal-mere, That long-loved mount, where oft some pilgrim band, Won by the genius of the place, will stand Lingering, as now, ia many a distant year. Alas ! the Delphic " laurels never sere," Undying trophies of their planter's hand, To Him were blighted, though they yet be green, For me were withered, when no more was seen The light that fed her aged father's heart, And shed the tenderest glory on his fame. The living forms of his creative art Por us are shadowy, — Dora but a name. August, 1849. 72 SONNETS. U.-'HER HOME. Oh for a glance into the world above ! Enfranchised trembler, thou art surely there ! Not mine the gloom fanatic to despair Of grace for thee : but, reft of thy pure love, So dread a conflict in my soul I prove, So lost I feel in solitary care, So frail, forlorn, and worthless, that I dare Aspire to no such height, unless the dove Of peace, descending, teach my hope to soar. Pond heart ! thy wounds were heal'd, thy sins forgiven; I saw thee die ; I know that thou art blest. Thou, dying sufferer, wert wing'd for heaven ; And when thy spirit mounted to its rest My guardian angel fled, to come no more. SONN"ETS. 7j o III.— '^ JESUS WEPT." (St. John xi. 35.) Cheist, Thou hast wept ! Forgive the tears I shed ; I know Thou wilt upraise her. But I fear This captious questioner within. The tear That falls so oft upon her grave is bred Of doubt and horror. When her Spirit fled 'Twas sanctified in Thee : but I am here, On this bleak earth, a lorn probationer, Struggling against myself — She is not dead, But sleepeth : — shall I ever see her more, Or see her as she was, the soul, the Kfe, Of mj life's being ? I shall sleep and wake, But will the waking unto me restore. Or find me doom'd for ever to forsake. The glorified immortal, once my Wife ? Wednesday, Aitgv^t 22, 1849. 74 SONNETS. IV.— A REQUEST. Two graves, in G-rasmere Yale, yew-shaded both, My all of life, if life be love, comprise. In one the mother of my children lies, Fate's blameless victim in her bloom of youth : The other holds the constancy and truth That never fail'd me under darker skies, When subtle wrongs perplex'd me. Her whose eyes Saw light through every wildering maze uncouth. Between those graves a space remains for me : O lay me there, wherever I may be When met by Death's pale angel ; so in peace My dust near theirs may slumber, till the day Of final retribution or release Por mortal life's reanimated clay. 75 STANZAS Written at Oporto, January, 1837, and addressed to the sister of Lieut. Robert Cockburn, of the Royal Artillery, who perished in the *' Tigris" steamer, which sank in a hurricane on the Euphrates, a little below Annah, on the 21st of May, 1836. Deem not the Bard ungentle of his kind, Though due so long his promised tribute be. Pure pearls of fancy are but hard to find, And meaner gems are all unworthy Thee. — Tain would I summon now the Muse of glee To chant the paean of the new-born year. And give thee greeting : but, believe the plea, — No Muse of joy will answer to my cheer. Though Thou art one of those to Fancy's Daughters dear, I see a youthful Hebe-matron, clad In raiment sacred to a stern distress, And thoughts, that would be gay, perforce are sad. To see her cheek, too, wear the mourner's dress. 76 STAlsrZAS WKITTEN AT OPOETO. The shade of sorrow, deepening loveliness ; The pensive trace of anguish that has past, But with it taken from her life no less Than youth's fond hope that ev'n on earth might last Serene delights for them whose hopes on Heaven are cast. Lady of Albyn, never northern flower. Transplanted to a garden of the sun, Found in the fervent south a fairer bower Than Chance for Thee, by Taste directed, won. Where Douro's waters near the ocean run ; There, rich in pleasures that the good esteem. And far from revels that the happiest shun, Thy lot, young wife and mother, well might seem A proof that earthly joys were not indeed a dream. Tet might thy distant home at times intrude Its dearer image on the sunnier land ; Thy soul might hearken, in some anxious mood. To well-knovni voices from a Scottish strand, Though borne on softer gales than ever fann'd The cheek of beauty on thy native shore : — Then would thy spirit yearn till fancy's wand STAKZAS weitte:n^ at opoeto. 77 Hestored thee to that household hearth once more, With all thy kinsmen there to greet thee as of yore. Perhaps among them, thy retm^n to hail, A soldier stood embrown'd by torrid skies, Safe from the ocean- storm, the desert-gale, The breaker's menace, and the shoal's surprise ; Safe from the savage foe in friendly guise, The dank miasma, the sirocco's breath, And every chance that lurks with evil eyes To waste adventurous Errantry beneath Its subtle glance malign, and mock his toils with death. Perhaps that very month, that very day Such home-wing'd thoughts from yon '^ Mirante " * flew. That very noon — while rich delicious May Shower'd orange-odours on thy head, and threw About thy feet bright buds of every hue : — Heedless that Spring's aroma round thee breathed. Perhaps even then, thy mind the portrait drew * Mirante, a look-out tower fitted up as a garden summer-house, over- looking the river Douro. 78 STAISrZAS WRITTEN AT OPOETO. Of one witli visionary laurels wreath' d — Alas, the soldier's sword for evermore was sheath' d ! Him (by those shores where Judah's captive daughters On Babel's willows hung their harps and wept), Him, even then, embark' d on fatal waters, Down to their depths the Syrian vortex swept. — Their gliding course two ships of Britain kept,"^ Bound on a desert-pilgrimage to Ind ! Fraught with a Band whose brave impatience stept To strait conclusions ; with the island-mind That spurns its billowy chain, and marches unconfined. No more round scowling Afric's stormy Cape, Where Lusian Vasco led the Hope forlorn, Need western messengers remotely shape Their track to reach the birth-land of the Morn, — Eor lo ! a Power in the west is born That, wingless, mocks the flight of winged ships. And laughing old impediments to scorn, Eight to the goal, as Arab courser leaps. Meets o'er the iron lines, or steams along the deeps. •* The iron steamers the '' Euphrates '* and '' Tigris, " sent out by Govern- ment with the expedition under Colonel Chesney, KA., to ascertain the possibility of navigating the Euphrates river as a short route to India. STANZAS WEITTEN AT OPORTO. 79 That giant-child of science, cradled on Britannia's waves, the Band of Britons take To grapple with the flood of Babylon ; At Bir,* their Infant-Hercules thej wake To try his prowess on the Desert Snake, t — The dusky Bedouin, near his swarthier tent, Saw vessels strange with stranger flag opaque Of streaming vapour, lengthened as they went, And watch' d the breathing omen, wondering what it meant ; Or horde of Arabs group' d beneath the shade Of clustering date-trees, gazed with jealous ire ; Lords of the parched wastes, they saw, dismay' d. Intruders leagued with their own flood and fire ; Their founts of naphtha with their streams con- spire To serve the white magicians from the West, Who came, with charms and occult courses dire, To force the burning wilds, perhaps to wrest Their sway, in nature's right, by Ismael's sons possest. * The two iron steamers the ** Euphrates" and the "Tigris" were launched at Bir. t '' Desert Snake," so called from the winding course of the river. v> 80 STANZAS WEITTEN AT OPOETO. Brave minds, at war with Time and Space they think They now have made that Eiver proud their slave, Have made Euphrates the bimarian link Of Persia's gulf and the Levantine wave ! But, when the current friendliest promise gave He kept barbaric faith with his allies : He bade them welcome, and prepared their grave, — While they, rejoicing in their hard emprise, Assured fruition saw with Valour's trusting eyes. 'Twas noon : the sun from his meridian quiver^, Pelted the waves with arrows, in his play ; The shallow ships, adown the olden river, Skimm'd o'er Is Greria's reef their earnest way : — At once, a rushing Midnight blacken' d Day ! Midnight ! in sweltering sandy mantle clad, Borne on the wings of winds that scented prey, And storm'd the waters with their barkings glad : The panting Eiver heaved, and reel'd with joyance mad. Blind Passion works its furious purpose fast ; 'Twas but a transient fit of Nature's spleen ; Almost ere one could cry ^^it comes," 'twas past, — Light look'd again on that unalter'd scene ; STAIS^ZAS WEITTElsr AT OPOETO. 81 The brushwood-banks of Annah were as green. The sylvan isles as graceful as before ; The Babylonish Eiver was serene As if one hapless ship it lately bore Lay not, a wreck ensnared, beneath its treacherous floor ; As if its Arab gripe did never clutch, And crush stout hearts within its fierce embrace ; Nor held, that moment, in its grasp so much Of worth and daring that had toil'd to grace A rugged enterprise, and earn a place On Honour's lists. — They wrote their names in sand ; They penn'd their glory with a watery trace ; They reap'd the whirlwind, where they sought the bland Eewards of ripe success for projects nobly plann'd. And Thou — that gentle breast was sore assail'd. When from thy vision of the bright May-morn The flattering mist that soothed suspense exhaled. And Hope, so oft to human love forsworn, Show'd, through her orient veil abruptly torn, 82 STANZAS WRITTEN AT OPORTO. The dull perspective of Ambition crost, Of frustrate skill, of courage overborne ; And, in the midst of all, a Brother's ghost — A Brother doubly dear because for ever lost. No, not for ever ! to thy constant faith That hope at least in saintly trust is given ; For, those who tread like Thee the narrow path, The arduous line of light that leads to Heaven, AVith hopeless sorrow never yet have striven, Nor known the heart's immedicable pain. — lady, if by mournful fancies driven My verse has pierced a recent wound again, Forgive the rash misdeed, forget the offending strain But no — the trembling sympathies that waken Such strains, were never ministers of wrong : To soothe the spirit though the heart be shaken Is the emollient privilege of song : Not with the griefs that all to pain belong The mourner sits beneath the cypress tree Whereon the melancholy lyre is hung That turns to sighs the breeze's minstrelsy : When tears to music flow their fall is anguish-free. STAKZAS WRITTElSr AT OPORTO. 83 And thou hast listened to this verse of mine^ Although its melody in sooth be rude, Not with the fever' d feelings that repine At sorrow's violated solitude. Thou still wouldst listen, if the theme pursued Thy lonely kinsman, from his watery lair Uplifted, (for the wave in milder mood Resign' d its victim,) and by Christian care Committed dust to dust — no kindred witness there ; No Sire at hand ; no Mother (half whose heart Was yet there buried wdth her gallant boy) ; Nor Brother, nor the Sister- counterpart Of all his gentler qualities, stood nigh. Nor, haply, ever shall a kinsman sigh Over his sand-swathed reliques, far removed From native scenes, from every social tie Of Childhood, every haunt where first he proved The blessed charm of life, to love and be beloved. A stone, 'twas all they could, his comrades rear'd To mark his grave — Oblivion's desert shower Will quench the dim memorial: but the endear' d By worth ev'n in the grave retain a power g2 84 TO D . Tenacious over memory. The hour Of doom, the fondliest-cherish'd blossom reaves, But they who knew the sweetness of the flower Store in their breasts the crush' d and withered leaves, Whose root in earth is hid, whose essence Heaven receives. TO D Friend of my heart ! — for thus my heart Has named its dearest earthly friend — Though distant far we dwell apart, True minds can still in absence blend. Where'er I wander on the earth, I know that thou wilt think of me ; While every scene shall call to birth • Some fond and touching thought of thee. I ne'er shall climb a mountain's side. Nor steer across a glistening lake, Nor through romantic woodlands ride. Nor roam where billows wildly break ; TO D. H. 85 But memory still within my breast To soft regret will heave a sigh ; Por every scene will still suggest Some dearer scene where thou wert nigh. TO D. H. Blithe bird of the wood-nook, thy flight we deplore ; Fair flower of the Green Bank, we see thee no more ; Mild star of the moor-land, where now is thy gleam That so softly gave light to the lake and the stream ? If a bird be thine emblem, a passage-bird thou ; Those warblers of summer, where carol they now ? They were friends of the summer, from winter they flee. And the sweet winged sy Ivans have vanished like thee. If a star be thy symbol, yon star in the west. That peeps in at my casement, resembles thee best : It haunts me, it sends me a light like a smile, Tet is distant, alas ! and is setting the w^hile. If a flower be thy type (but where now are the flowers? Not a bud, scarce a leaf, cheers this winter of ours) 86 TO MRS. HARRISOlSr. If a flower be thy type, 'tis the simplest, the dearest, The bright little primrose, whose advent is nearest : That flower will I call thee, the herald of spring ; 'Twill announce thy return, and the season will bring. JNTo rose in all England, no lily of Trance, Or in summer or spring against thee has a chance : Such a primrose is worth all the tulips of Holland — How I envy and hate longitudinal Bolland. TO MES. HAERISON, OF THE SHRUBBERY, BARHAM. The lark salutes thy May-day mom From yonder fleecy cloud, The blackbird from the dewy thorn His welcome pipes aloud. So we in early strains unite To greet thy natal day — Without the lark's ethereal flight, Or blackbird's music gay. TO A YOUNG LADY. 87 But not without the songster's glee, That in thy " shrubbery '^ sings, And not without the prayer for thee That lark-like heavenward springs. And with us in accordance sweet Thy children's children pray That we may all together meet In an eternal May. May-daif, 1839. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO RESIDED BETWEEN THE RIVERS LEE AND BRIDE, NEAR CORK, » A EiVER by thy bower is flowing, Lady of the Lee ! Tell me, maiden, is he going Lonely to the sea ? Lovely lady, not alone^ For soon the Bride will be his own. 88 TO MES. DUIS^LOP, FOE EOTHA. Below thy sire's abode^ behold, The gentle Bride has join'd the Lee, Till noiv alone, and pure, and cold. The Bride was but a type of tJiee^* Lovely lady, who is he Whose symbol is the wedded Lee ? Por him life's stream will fairly glide ! And joy be his, whoe'er he be ! So farewell now the Lee and Bride, Whose flowery banks are not for me : Banks there are as fair to see. But where' s the nymijli like her of Lee ? LINES TO MES. DUNLOP, FOE EOTHA. COULD I lay as fair a chain LTpon that neck of thine As thou, to make my birthday vain. This morn hast laid on mine. TO MRS. DU]SrLOP, FOR ROTHA. 89 Sweet lady, nor of gold nor pearl My fairy gift should be ; The feeble fancy of a girl Should prove too strong for thee. And wert thou e'er so far away. My chain should hold thee still, A charm upon thy spirit lay, Thy memory and thy will : A charm to make thee, when we part, Pull oft of her to think Who would have bound thee to her heart "With love in every link- The Foz, near Oporto, September 15, 1845. 90 TO MISS — Thoti wert to me a mystery of not unpleasing dread ; Thou art to me a history that I have quickly read ! There is a spell upon thee which I would not read aloud, To any but thy secret ear within an arbour's shroud. For though it might be quickly said, thy cheek would change its hue If 'twere exprest by more than one^ or heard by more than two. It is not guilt, it is not shame ; tho' leading oft to both In breasts where sensibility is prodigal of growth. Thou art not happy, thoiigh thy smile would fain the truth deny ; I know too much of sorrow's guile to trust a laughing eye: TO MAET, DANCIIS^G. 91 Thine is a genuine woman's heart ; all woman to the core ; Beware ; be warn'd before we part ! for we shall meet no more. (Though not perchance without a sigh shall memory oft retrace That fine pale air of intellect and melancholy grace.) Farewell;, forget me if thou wilt, while pleasures round thee bloom, Kemember me when thou art left in solitude and gloom. TO MAEY, DANCING. Diaista's queenlike step is thine. And when in dance thy feet combine They fall with truth so sweet, The music seems to corne from thee. And all the notes appear to be '^ The echoes of thy feet." 92 MAT LUTTRELL. And every limb with all the notes In that accordant beauty floats And careless air of chance, That 'tis a rapture to behold Thee thus, with waving locks of gold, The very soul of dance. The loveliness so rich before Puts on a thousand graces more In that inspiring maze ; Like jewels brighter when in motion, Or sunshine on the waves of ocean, Alive with dancing rays. MAY LUTTEELL. A Christmas Day on Biscay's Bay Is sorry cheer. May Luttrell ! A roaring breeze and raging seas Are music drear, May Luttrell ! MAY LTJTTEELL. 9 Our moaning bark like Noah's ark Is all alone, May Luttrell ! The waste of surge to Ocean's verge Seems all our own, May Luttrell ! Skies, sea, and wind were fair and kind But yesterday. May Luttrell ! But now astray they force our way On Biscay's Bay, May Luttrell ! The sea and wind are like thy mind, A fickle pair, May Luttrell ! The changing skies are like thine eyes, So false and fair, May Luttrell ! Within Oporto's orange shades And citron bowers. May Luttrell, Are maids of beauty dark, and maids As fair as flowers. May Luttrell ! And one there is above them all With charms endow' d, May Luttrell ! A maiden dark and pale and tall, Of spirit proud, May Luttrell ! Her eyes are as the lightning bright In arrowy freaks, May Luttrell ! o 94 MAT LUTTEELL. Enkindling blushes with their light On her own cheeks, May Luttrell ! And then the magic of her smile, That smile of smiles, May Luttrell ! Which still invites and still delights And still beguiles, May Luttrell ! Though far away from sunny shores And sunnier eyes, May Luttrell ! I toss where angry ocean roars To blackening skies, May Luttrell ! That stately form, with all its warm Array of grace, May Luttrell ! Before me glitters through the storm ! I see her face, May Luttrell ! But mark, the gale has ceased to rail ; The wind has veer'd, May Luttrell ! Our bark so gay now knows her way, Northeastward steer' d. May Luttrell ! I fill the glass, a health to pass Though far at sea, May Luttrell ! A health to Porto's fairest lass ; — And that's to TJiee, May Luttrell ! 95 TO A LADY OF SUPERCILIOUS AIR Why should thine eyes look daggers ? sheathe Their pride within those silken lids ; And listen^ lady, while I breathe The tale thy haughty stare forbids. Is it a tale of love ? why how Those orbs dilate with wondering scorn ! j^o, think to hear no lover's vow, Proud daughter of the ^^ son of morn ! " 'Tis true while I regard that brow My deepest feelings trembling wake ; Like leaves upon the aspen bough They seem without a cause to shake. 96 TO A LADY OF SUPEECILIOUS AIR. But thou art less than half the cause, So toss not thus the head superb ; Although thy form my memory awes^ Although thy traits my dreams disturb I watch thy course in fashion's train, Where most thy gaudy beauty flares ; And hate thy spirit cold and vain, But love too well the form it wears. Thou art to me as if the Dead Had shaken off her mortal trance, And glided round my board and bed With icy, strange, mysterious glance. As if, unchanged in shape, she came From out her dormitory damp, But with the mind's informing flame Kekindled at another's lamp. Thou wilt die young, perchance, like her Whose breathing effigy thou art ; Death's angel may delight to mar The beauty that deforms thy heart. TO A LADY OP SUPEECILTOUS AIE. 97 'No : not o'er thee will early wave The shadow of that angel's wings ; The hearts which find the earliest grave Are those that feeling deepest stings. No^ livO; till by the crooked share Of time, thy brow and cheek are ploughed. And, scant and gray, thy feeble hair Thy palsied head shall faintly shroud. Alas, if I misjudge thee ! — soul And feature often disagree ; Beneath the ice that guards the pole Unnumber'd living things there be. TJnnumber'd germs of loveliest flowers Lie slumbering under winter snows, Awaiting vernal sun and showers To rouse them from their drear repose. Like birds that nestle among leaves Of thistle, holly-tree, and thorn, There's many a heart that warmly heaves Within its prickly hedge of scorn. H 98 LADIES' EYES. TO MISS 55 The common song of " Ladies' Eyes Is not the song for me ; And flattery is too coarse a prize To be received by tbee. Then shade not thine with anger's cloud Although a friend complain Of eyes that captivate the proud, And persecute the vain. Palse tongues have ruin'd many a heart, False eyes have ruin'd more ; Thine eyes are false, and full of art, The modern lady's lore. Forgive me, if I rudely preach ; But thou art fair and young, And few will beauty's eyes impeach With truth's impartial tongue. ladies' eyes, to miss . 99 A generous spirit like to thine Should scorn the juggler's play, That teaches ladies' eyes to shine. To flatter, and betray. If only fools and fops were stung By that hyblean smile, I scarce could grudge thee, fair and young, The triumph of thy guile. The victims of their own conceit May serve a lady's mirth ; But there are hearts that warmly beat On this unfeeling earth. Such, by delusive kindness caught. To looks confide their peace ; And, when they find their hopes were nought But trophies for caprice. They will not let thee hear them sigh. JS'or let thee see them weep ; They will not sue, for pride is high Where tenderness is deep. h2 100 ladies' eyes, to miss They will not wear tlie lover's chain Exposed upon their breast ; Nor make a spectacle of pain That thou and thine may jest. Nor will they dreary woods explore, Nor pace in lonely halls ; Nor linger on the river shore, To gaze upon thy walls. But they will join the social walk, And fare as others fare ; And thus thy pride of conquest balk, By their contented air. But not the less, oh not the less. Though well they act their part, May be the patient mind's distress, The blight upon the heart. Eemember then, for true love's sake, False looks are worse than words ; And play no more the bright-eyed snake That fascinates the birds. 101 TO THE POET. I. WoEDSWOETH, the nightingales are come ! They love the pleasant groves of Lee ; 'Tis budding, billing, singing vt^eather; " Birds of a feather Mock together." And where they are 'tis fit that yoii should be, II. Poet, the nightingales are come ! Their throats are now in perfect tune ; « Yet yoii are gone away, Though after May These vernal melodies are almost dumb ; And seldom shall we hear in June These shy, inconstant, poets of the moon. 102 TO THE POET. III. Though passing fair is Eydal-mere, Nor Eotha's groves in music fail : They only boast throughout the year One solitary nightingale. IV. Wordsworth is that dainty bird ; But scores of nightingales are heard Among the pleasant groves of Lee : And where they are, 'tis fit that he should be ; Yet he is gone away Upon the very day They flock to greet the bard, and welcome in the May. Lee Priory, ApHl 30, 1824. 103 LEE PRIORY, IN MAY. WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF R. Q. When squirrels dance, and humble-bees Come murmuring out of hollow trees To rifle primrose flowers ; "When cuckoos come o'er southern seas. And with them bring the genial breeze. That wakes the drowsy hours — When colts are frisking in the glade, Lambs racing in the light and shade. On green and woody slopes, Where daisies, violets, spread their treasures, As pure, as rich, as children's pleasures. As lively as their hopes — Then is the seasonable time, When all things sweet are in their prime, To ramble and to see 104 LEE PRIOEY5 IN MAT. Fair sights and hear delightful sounds. Where every woodland charm abounds, Among the groves of Lee. Then tender leaves on tree and bush, Scarce hide the blackbird and the thrush, The linnets green and brown. The ^vren, and every shyest bird Whose madrigals from morn are heard, Until the sun goes down. Then that fond bird, the sylvan dove, Whose name and nature chime to love, Sends forth his long low call ; And all are sweetly heard in spite Of clouds of rooks, from morn till night, Discordant over all. But when the vernal daylight fails. Then is the time for nightingales, The air is all their own — Save when the gray-owl shrilly sends His shout abroad, or sheep-bell blends A soothing pastoral tone ; LEE PEIOET, IlSr MAT. 105 Save when the distant Minster clock * Distinctly breathes with solemn shock The oracles of time, "Which sleepless echo loves to mock, "While faintly crows the pheasant-cock, Awaken' d by the chime. They who thns in star-lit vales Listen to the nightingales ; They may sometimes fairly doubt That far more cunning sprites are out Than ever taught the little throats Of birds to trill melodious notes. They may believe such strains to be The songs of ladies of the Sea, Mermaidens come from Thanet's coves To pass the night in Ickham groves, And stud with pearls the flowering thorn, To please the curious eye of Morn. "^ Of Canterbury Cathedral, four miles off. Lee Priory, May, 1833. 106 CHILD LOST. IN A lady's album. ♦ Let prosing souls on eartlily steeds To earth their foggy rides confine : Aloft, aloft, where fancy leads, To ride the winged horse be mine ! He bears me far, from sordid crowds ; He leaps the welkin's crystal bars ; His pinions cleave the sullen clouds ; His hoofs strike sparkles from the stars, Last night alone and unregarded, I canter' d up the milky way. And found heaven's suburbs all placarded- " Child lost. A cherub gone astray ! " A flaxen-headed blue-eyed treasure, A rosy minion, round and merry, Who laughs, the very soul of pleasure, And answers to the name of Cherry. CHILD LOST. 107 " Supposed that a terrestrial dame, Seen lurking near some time ago, Seduced the child, to change its name. And pass it for her own below. " The lady's face was pale and fair, Her wit was lively, keen, and bright ; And oft 'tis said to Cynthia's car She climb' d to pilfer rays of light. " Whoever brings to Cherub Square, The small Angelic, shall be paid Ten tlioiisand thanks^ in coin of air ; No further offer will be made." Oh ho ! said I, if that's the pay Tour Cherubim-retrievers earn. Yon urchin where it is may stay, And bloom on earth as Marion Burn. 108 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH MAY SOUTHEY, WHO FORBADE COMPLIMENT. Aet thou a creature to enchant, Exquisitely elegant, And delicately fair ! Form'd in the spirit of the plan Of nature, when she made a swan, A lily, and a star ! Is thine that union undefined. Of harmony, of form, and mind, AYliose type was Beauty's zone ? The voice and smile that charm together ; Like sun and breeze in vernal weather At play with flowers new blown ? Hast thou the glory of a name, Pamiliar to melodious fame, And dear to Pancy's lyre ? IN A lady's album. 109 Do streams and birds from rock and brake Proclaim tliee nympb of Derwent Lake, In honour of tby sire ? And must I on this page of thine, Without one laudatory line, Poetic tribute pay ? Well — thou art not to be denied, Though Skiddaw frown, though Grreta chide. Sweet Edith, I obey. IN A LADY'S ALBUM. SoiSiGSTEESS, when at dew-fall. Wandering in May, I shall hear the warblers Singing down the day, While the yellow " May-fly " Hovers o'er the brook, Watching its own shadow With a lover's look ; 110 IN A lady's album. Wlieresoe'er it be, Often tlius and long, I shall think of thee, And thy grace of song. When in vernal hedge-banks, Under hawthorn trees, " Pansies " archly ask me, Is your Jiea7'f at ease ? Then thy verse remembering, Yerse in Music's dress, Verse that scents those flowers, I shall answer — ^^ Tes.'' Bird and quivering insect. Flower and " Jioiiey-lee^'^ All shall be memorials Of thy song and thee. Ill IN AN ALBUM. LadYj are you dark or fair, Owner of this pretty book ? What's the colour of your hair ? Are you blithe and debonnaire, Or demure of look ? If your eyes are black as sloes, And your locks of ebon hue ; O'er your cheeks if nature throws Only just enough of rose, Why, I think you'U do. If with pretty mouth you sing, Void of all extravaganza, Tender melodies that bring Hearts around you fluttering. Ton are worth a stanza. 112 i:n^ the album of makgaeet If you be in soul a child Lively as a meteor, Tet with a discretion mild, Tempering the spirit wild, You're a charming creature. Rydal Mount, October 28, 1829. IN THE ALBUM OF MAEGAEET Both meanings of La Marguerite, The daisy or the pearl, For once in perfect concord meet, And suit the very girl ! Some prophet surely gave that name At the baptismal hour Of one who sparkles like a gem, Though modest as the flower. 113 IN AN ALBUM Given to Miss Bay ley (Allan Bank, Grasmere), by ''An Old Man, C. W.," and in which Mr. Wordsworth had wi^itten a stanza from his Dedication of the Duddon Sonnets. An old man gave this little book To young and blooming Fanny Bayley ; That fancies, brightened by her look, Might decorate its pages gaily : An older man, the Wizard Chief Of Eydal's HeKconian Mount, Is first to grace a favour M leaf With fancies born of Duddon's Fomit. But he has quaff*' d of Hippocrene ; Then who to follow him shall dare, Whose laurels are in age as green As those that deck'd Apollo's hair ? 114 IN AN ALETJM. I too am old, but never drank The frenzy of that subtle spring ; Xor dare to smg for Allan Bank, Where he, when young, was wont to sing ; Where every tree, and rock, and hill, Were cheer' d by Wordsworth's voice so long ; Where every grove is haunted still With sadden' d echoes of his song. Let youthful bards his footsteps trace. And cull the wreath for maiden brows ! Yet why should I refuse to place A sprig thereon from Loughrigg boughs ? Such tribute, from December's bower's, I yet may borrow without folly : Though wintry age is bare of flowers, 'Twill yield at least a Christmas holly. Loughrigg Holme, D€cembe7^ 26, 1849. 115 SONG.— AMBLESIDE VALE. Am — '' The Meeting of the Waters. There's a vale in tlie lakeland, a Westmoreland vale, "Where a bright river runs the Winander to hail ; With a voice from Helvellyn ^ it warbles along, But reserves for that valley the pride of its song. As it winds out of Eydal, in mazes it steals To the rock of Eieldfoot,t that so shyly conceals How the spirit of nature, though ever so wild, By the genius of taste may be led like a child. Flowing on, the bright river sweeps round by the Grhyll, J Where the fairies by moonlight yet wander at will ; Then turns to the How,§ — there the rings may be seen Where the feet of the Eairies have danced out the green. * The source of the Rotha is on Helvellyn. t Fieldfoot. Mr. William Crewdson's. X Foxghyll. Mr. Roughsedge^s. § Foxhow. Mrs. Arnold's. Fox is here a corruption from Folk : in north country language the Folk means the fairies ; consequently Fox- ghyll is the fairies' ghyll (or glen). Foxhow is the fairies' how or knoll. i2 116 SONG ALTEBED EEOM MOORE. Now it takes to its bosom the nympli-hauiited brook, That to Lesketh * comes down from the wells of the Nook, Loth to leave its green hills, and that exquisite brow Where it brawls through the oaks by the lawns of Scale How.t Sweet vale of the Botha ! no beauty like thine ! Even sorrow but lends thee a grace more divine ; There's a light from the past on thy meadows and streams, And this Garden of Eden is more than it seems ! SONG ALTEEED FEOM MOOEE. Come tell me, says Eosa, (and who could resist The wishes by Eosa expressed ?) Come tell me the number, repeat me the list, Of those you have loved and caress' d. * Lesketh. Dr. Davy's. f Scale How. Mr. Benson Harrison's. SONG ALTEEED EEOM MOOEE. 117 Oh Eosa ! 'twas only my fancy that roved, My heart at the moment was free ; But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved, And the number shall finish with thee. Wjjirst love was Chloe, the proud and the coy, Who shrank from the flatterer's tone. But smiled on the innocent love of a boy, Whose heart was as pure as her own. The next was Maria, a beauty and flirt, Who smiled upon twenty and more ; We loved and we quarrell'd, and neither was hurt, For the heart was left out of the score. Cassandra, the preacher, is third on the roU, She reign' d for a year and a day ; But the dear theologian so puzzled my soul, That at last I ran fairly away. The fourth had a foot for the slipper of glass. An eye all comparison mocking, A shape for an angel of light, but alas, There was always a hole in her stocking. 118 so:n^g alteked eeom mooee. The next was a damsel all trouble and tears, The sibyl of sorrow was she, Por ever disturbing the present with fears Of the woes that might possibly be. The flower that would fondly have lived in her smile. She water' d to death with her eyes ; The bird that would near her have caroll'd awhile, She frighten' d away with her sighs. Then came Angelina, an angel in name, A mortal in temper was she ; Yet her nature was noble, and I was to blame, But in sooth we could never agree. The first was the dream of my childhood : the rest Were visions as fleeting for me ; My fancy was vagrant, the heart in my breast, Sweet Eosa, was waiting for thee. 119 LOW WOOD, WINANDEEMEEE. Ik sucli a scene, on sucli a daj, I crown' d my bride the queen of May With wreath by Erin's daughters braided ; The hills were grand, the bowers were gay, Eoughly bold, and softly shaded ; The lake was calm, and bright, and clear, Like the lake of Windermere. Tears since have past of joy and pain, I've never heard her voice complain. In sickness and in sadness ; In health I've never known her vain, JN'or arrogant in gladness. Would that I now her voice could hear By the lake of Windermere. May 1, 1824. 120 MELANCHOLY. Theee is a kind of soothing sorrow Whicli vulgar minds can never know ; There is a feeling that can borrow Its w^ildest sweetest thrill from woe. 'Tis felt at that lone hour of night, When sadly smiles the silver orb, When witching gleams of shadowy light The sighs of misery absorb. There is a tear of doubtful birth, By sorrow claim'd yet joy resembling, Though unallied to ruder mirth, 'Tis still 'twixt grief and pleasure trembling. That feeling with its foster tear, Though human earth-worms deem it folly. Is yet to pensive fancy dear, And poets call it Melancholy. 121 NEPTUNE AND MEDUSA. He ask'd the simple nympb. to roam, And view his sparry grot so rare, And promised her a coral comb, To bind her long refulgent hair. He lured the nymph of golden locks, To dive beneath the gurgling foam, But told not that the ocean rocks Conceal' d another bride at home. Nor told her of the green sea-snakes, That watch' d about the sparry floor ; She knows them now, and never shakes The serpents from her tresses more. X *iJ j^ STANZAS. IN ALLUSION TO SOME WORLDLY ADVICE IN CLEVER VERSE BY A LADY TO HER YOUNGER FRIEND, THE FOLLOWING WAS WRITTEN : — Each verse is as acute in wit, Each turn of thouglit as keenly clever, As if with not a pen 'twas writ But arrow from Apollo's quiver. And yet to me those stanzas shine Like wintry stars whose brilliance freezes, So shrewdly wise each cautious line 'Twould suit a grey logician's thesis. Then, maid, dissolve, (like Egypt's Queen Her pearl,) though more than pearls they glisten, Dissolve those icicles serene, Those gems of hard advice, and listen. STANZAS. 123 I'll offer counsel quite as just Though dull of point and rude in measure Beware in youth of cold distrust That clogs the springs of sinless pleasure. Suspect not all — if thou art fair,- Of flattery whom thy converse pleases ; But yet their praise as lightly bear As flowers the touch of passing breezes. If small thy dower — round Mammon's cave Disdain to watch with lures of beauty ; Nor seek to be a glittering slave In golden chains of bridal duty. The fault of Atalanta shun, Who lost the race with sordid leisure ; The goal of happiness unwon, Of what avail is senseless treasure ? If wealth be thine, with prudent care But not idolatrously keep it : There never yet was spendthrift heir Whom sorrow did not force to weep it. 124 STAlsrZAS. But, beiug rich, in scale too nice Weigh not thy gold against affection ; Earth has no ore of half the price Of love refined by fond reflection. If thou hast mind as well as wealth, When strangers gladly round thee hover, Oh do not then insidious stealth In each admirer's glance discover. Think not the ruling lust of pelf Sets every head in scheming action — Trust that thy mind's magnetic self May have some share in the attraction. maiden, be reserve thy stay ; 'Tis youthful Hope's unfailing anchor : But throw suspicion far away ; 'Tis Feeling's bane, and Beauty's canker. 125 TENSES. • Past, be thou forgot ! Present, vanisti fast ! Puture, thou art not, Would that thoti wert past ! So in peevish moods, Youth impatient said, Later sorrow broods Thus o'er wiser dread. Past, be thou not dumb ! Present, be not deaf! Lest the future come Like a sudden thief. Age, within thy brow. Grave the deeds of youth ; So shall then to now Teach severest truth. 126 TENSES. So shall folly's page rurnisli wisdom's text, Youth instructing age Ever when perplext. Sins are memory's thorns^ Lay them to thy soul ; Every puncture warns Wanderers from the goal : ' Him who wore their crown. Truant, thou must meet (0 beware his frown !) On his judgment seat.' Present, let the past Therefore be thy tutor ; Welcome then the last Trumpet to the future ! 127 THE TWO EINGS. One contained hair, which, had been set by mistake in a black- bordered ring, with a butterfly enamelled on it — On the other was engi^aved the Portuguese word Saudade. So, Dora, 'tis tliy chance to wear Thy living lover's pledge of hair, Upon a Mourning Eing ; Say could the Grenius of Despair A darker omen bring ? Well, wear it thus in fortune's spite ! Perhaps the omen read aright With bland injunction saith, ^ In absence be thy spirit bright, Por he is true till death.' And that Greek emblem, wing'd for flight Through mortal darkness to the light Which gleams afar, above, May hint that even thus his soul Prom death may rise to thee, its goal, Its beacon light of love. 128 THE TWO EINGS. But lest thy courage take alarm. Wear this Eing too, a counter-charm In fancy's drooping hour ; An amulet to guard from harm The faith that trusts its power. A simple offering ; lady's hand Was ne'er with golden finger-band Of less pretension deck'd ; Yet more than wealth of Ophir-land Thy heart will there detect. Blank as the superfice appears, Within, the ripen' d gems of years. Love's diamond quarry, shine ; Truth, feeling, memory, hopes and fears, One word is all the mine. 129 "HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTOEUM.'' King Edwaed held a stately feast Eor England's peace restored; Unarmed knight and rosy priest Were jovial at the board. He sate on Scotia's Lia-Eail, The mystic Chair of Eate^ Whereon, ere Erin's star grew pale. The crown'd of Cashel sate. The harpstring and the pliant voice Were chiming in accord, And made th' heroic heart rejoice Of England's aged lord. K 130 " HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTOEUM." The minstrels sang of Cambria tamed, Her prince, her bards, a dream : (0, how was minstrel honour shamed By that unholy theme !) They sang of Scotland, and the death The traitor "Wallace died ; The monarch glanced on pale Monteith, And laugh' d out in his pride : They sang of Bruce, a broken reed, Of Scotland's hopes the last, A waif on ocean, or a weed. On Erin's breakers cast: 'No more the dew of homage fails To Britain's triple throne ; JN'o more shall vassals reign in Wales, JN'or slaves be crown' d at Scone ; King Edward reigns o'er hills and dales Unrivall'd and alone. They sang — but hark, another strain, A cry from Cheviot's warders, " The Scots are up in arms again. Prom Carrick to the borders." '' HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTOEUM." 131 The barons started to their feet : The King sate fiercely still, Hard-tempering, in the furnace heat Of rage, his iron ^dll. His heel on Scotland's neck to plant, Arising then, he swore ; He vowed it by the Saxon saint "Whose crown and name he bore. The Liege of Albion by his right, Of Scotia by his wrong — Woe to the weak who dare to plight Their cause against the strong ! A hunting-field shall Scotland be ! And, like a knightly lord. He comes with England's chivalry To keep his royal word. Through old Carlisle, the merry town Of trouble and turmoil, A city out of chaos grown Por border-carls to spoil ; k2 132 '^ HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTORUM." Through Carlisle, merry with alarms. What dread procession flows ! What force of mounted knights in arms. What press of bills and bows ! That very tramp of cavahy Might quail the Lowland thanes, That show alone of archery Dry up the Highland veins. Lo, in advance of targe and lance, King Edward, on a rock, Surveys the north with such a glance As eagle eyes the flock. His look devours the Scottish land, It seems within his clasp ; He stretches forth his threatening hand As if the prey to grasp : That hand is grappled suddenly By one who beards his wrath ! What madman dares a jest so free ? Hush — 'tis a greater King than he, The King whose name is Death ! ^' HIC JACET MA.LLEUS SCOTOEUM." 133 Like him wlio took his lingering stand On NebOj to explore Gilead, with all the promised land From Napthali to Zoar, But thither came a dying man, His entrance disallow' d : Thus, though no guide Ms way foreran, No seraph in the cloud — Thus came the haught Plantagenet, To see, but not possess, A land that in his fury yet He doom'd a wilderness. For, ev*n in death, a tyrant brave, He felt his heart enlarge With despot passion, and he gave His son a solemn charge : '^ When I am dead, if thou would' st thrive. In earth depose me not ; Thy father, breathless, as alive. Would yet appal the Scot. 134 "^^ HIC JACET MALLEUS SCOTOEUM." "With fire and water seethe my corse Until my bones are bare ; Then fix me on a gallant horse In front of England's war ; My very skeleton shall force The rebels to despair." That ghastly mandate on the wind Spent its delirions sting ; In London's Minster were enshrined The relics of the King. In that grand pile of memories, Whoever seeks the spot May read his epitaph — " S^ere lies The Hammer oftlie BcotP But what of all the dread array The invader led so far ? Gone ; but, as tempests pass away, To gather fiercer war. ADDEESS TO A PONT. 135 The southern wind comes roaring; loucL The stormy hosts return ! Who now shall brave the thunder- cloud ? — The Bruce at Bannockburn. ADDEESS TO A PONY. ClimBj pigmy steed ! strain up each rocky ledge ! Ambition browses on imperial heights ; Groodwill and courage are the plumes that fledge Small hippogrifi^s like thee for daring flights. Dwarfs conquer giants by their strength of heart ; If thou art emulous of like renown, Climb, Pony, climb ! achieve a glorious part, And plant thy hoof on proud Helvellyn's crown. Almost as light a freight is thine to-day As thou art wont to bear on many a hill. Although for once 'tis not thine own blithe Fay, The sunny sylphid of the smiless ghyll. 136 ADDEESS TO A PONT. Thou bear st an Oread panting for tlie gales That blow so purely there twixt fell and sky ; Eegion forbid to Her, unless avails Thy might to lift her weaken' d frame so high No vulgar charge is she for equine back, The very daughter of the Moorland Bard, Who, murmuring verse, now follows in thy track : (Oft has he climb'd Parnassian steeps as hard !) Ev'n now his song is of a deathless horse ■^' That bore the victor on the Belgic field : — Climb, Pony, climb ! and thine heroic force A theme as worthy of his lay shall yield. Achilles' steeds survive in Homer's voice ; Olympic racers live in Pindar's breath : — Is immortality like theirs thy choice ? CKmb, Pony, climb ! and save thy name from death. * The horse Copenhagen, who carried the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. Mr. Wordsworth composed his sonnet on Haydon's picture of that subject, while we were ascending Helvellyn. ADDEESS TO A POKY. 137 So — halt and breatlie — the first ascent is won, Hark, infant Eotha crows applausive glee ; * Now start again — now zig-zag — bravely done ! Crop now the herb, scant earnest of large fee. Now for another stubborn tus: — take heed- A bright green swamp before thee lies — come round — These crags, though rude, may better serve our need ; Oft are the roughest friends the truest found. Climb, Pony, climb ! bend well the limber knee, Ton aged Poet watches thee with joy ; And haply meditates that thou shalt be Matched with the Pony of his Idiot Boy- How now, ungracious Imp ! what means that kick ? Forelegs at stand ! hind heels aloft in air ! AVould'st thou dislodge thy rider by a trick. As if elusive of reward so fair. ^ The Rotha was gurgling down at our right hand near this point, and was both seen and heard. 138 ADDRESS TO A POKY. Would' st thou then forfeit ages of acclaim For present ease, void saddle, and free rein ? Perish the thought ! tenacious of thy fame, Thy rider sits unmoved — that plunge is vain. Earth and her feet are strangers till thou reach The elastic sward on yonder topmost head ; Be wise and gentle, Pony ! all and each, Both man and beast, must toil for praise and bread. Ev'n while I moralise, we touch the end ; Down, freshly winnowing now, the breezes come, Like angels that invisibly descend To tempt man upward, whispering of their home. ISTow, Dora, now, thy palfrey's task is o'er ! The wide commanding ridge of peaks is gain'd; The very crowning pinnacle, no more A fancy sigh'd for, but a prize attain'd ! August^ Z\st, 1840. 139 ON THE EEPOETED VISIT OF QUEEN ADELAIDE TO WOEDSWOETH. That ancient "Wizard of the Cumbrian Meres Hath won, 'tis said, a meed to poets rare, A visit from a Queen. If so, 'twas well ; And unabased was dignity, howe'er August, in stooping at that poet's door. Him, the High Druid of the oak-clad fells And aqueous vales of oiu* romantic North, The breasts of thousands, yea of millions, own To be the Seer whose power hath o'er them most A sway like that of conscience. One whose keen Mysterious eye peruses minds aright Ev'n in their shyest depths, and best rebukes The workings of that intricate machine Eor evil, most accelerates the springs That are the pulses of ingenuous deeds. 140 VISIT OE QXTEEIS" ADELAIDE TO WOEDSWOETH. He, in his sunny childhood, sported wild Among the wild-flowers and the pensile ferns That fringe the craggy banks of waterfalls, Whose pools were arch'd with irises enwoven Of spray and sunbeams : these into his mind Pass'd, and were blent with fancies of his own ; And in that interfusion of bright hues His soul grew up and brighten' d. On the peaks Of mighty hills he learnt the mysteries That float 'twixt heaven and earth. The strenuous key Of cloud-born torrents harmonised his verse To strength and sweetness : but the voice that brake The cedars upon Lebanon — none else — Taught him to rend more stubborn stocks than they, Tlie obdurate hearts of men : that awful voice, Which exorcised the serpent-haunted tree Of knowledge ; and the perilous fruit, matured And chasten'd in the light of gospel- truth, Forbade not to that old man eloquent. July, 1840. 141 MOEALS FEOM THE STAES. How few, on life's vain stage, enjoy their part ! Witli her own torch pale Envy burns her heart. The low would rise ; the high would soar ; and still Dwarf Eortujie lags behind the giant Will. Go, wiser thou, — however small thy state, — Peruse the stars, and then forgive the great. The stars in glory differ as in place : Some show a dim, and some a dazzling face ; Some shine in groups, where each, by union strong, Appropriates splendours that to all belong ; Myriads, too crowded for a separate sway, Merge in a lucid stream, — a Milky Way. Some, wandering, seem to dance from sphere to sphere. But timed by laws of harmony severe. Others in clusters interweave their rays, Trembling in air like floating wreaths of haze. 112 MOEALS EEOM THE STAES. Some fix'd in power, and jealous neighbours, dart Their rival beams ; while others rule apart. Of these, One reigns superior and alone, A keen-eyed lustre on the polar throne, Lord of the magnet that compels the steel To guide o'er trackless seas th' adventurous keel. Ton azure wall, with starry sentries mann'd, Hides worlds, perhaps more wonderfully plann'd. Could sight prevail, with Gralileo's glass, Athwart that flaming boundary to pass, Man might descry, beyond his prison bars. On every side a paradise of stars ; Yet nowhere find exact proportion given : 'Tis not in earth, or sea, or air, or heaven. Eead thou the earth in heaven, and things below By those above, in their unequal show. Look on the scattered difference of things. Content that few are nobles, fewer kings ; That most are fated homely garb to wear, And mean the livery that thyself must bear ; Content to live obscure, unknown to die. And in the poor man's grave forgotten lie ; No mourner's love engraven o'er thy head. But starlike daisies on the turf instead. THE SPELL. . 143 Stars of the grave, to hope and daylight true. Those flowers at nightfall shroud themselves from view ; At dawn unclose their lids, and all day's space Look up to heaven with bright undoubting face : Simple expounders of a text sublime O'er sleeping dust that sleeps the night of time, They shut their eyes against the charnel gloom, And preach the Resurrection from the tomb* THE SPELK Jemima ! not that she is fair, And yet her beauty is excelling ; ]^ot for the mildly winning air, Her native sweetness gently telling ; Not for the azure veins that streak Her neck and rounded arms so lightly ; JSTot for the modest cheerful cheek, "Where rosy blushes live so brightly. lU . THE SPELL. jN'ot for tlie liarmony of face, Of form, of manner, or of stature ; Oh, not for any outward grace, She seems to me the pride of nature. Hers is a charm that thought may paint, But words are weak for its revealing : The temper of a gentle saint, Euled by a matchless heart of feeling. 'Twas this that bade me seek my bride. When dreams were o'er of first affection ; 'Tis this that, now her truth is tried, Sets reason's seal on love's election. 'Tis this, beyond the boast of birth, Beyond her beauty far excelling, That makes a paradise of earth. And home a dear Elysian dwelling. 145 INTERIOR OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL, AS SEEN BY MOONLIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30, 184L A SPIRIT haunts to-night this reverend pile. The moon, the ghostly vestal of the aisle ; Spirit of power, and not o'er hearts alone ; She sheds a tender charm on glass and stone ; The pillars of the temple, sign'd with light, Attest the beauty of the soul of night ; The solemn arches, dehcately fleet, Smile with a grace that thanks its architect. A semicirque of yonder oriel shows As soft an arch as sunlit showers disclose ; Tet all the heighten' d colours of the prism Are glowing there, distinct without a schism. Ton sumptuous window sparkles like a mine Of votive gems, restored to Becket's shrine ; L 146 IJS'TEBIOE OP CANTEEBURT CATHEDEAL, Stray flakes of light to kiss the floor come down. Like jewels shaken from the martyr's crown. The monumental effigies confess The presence of her touching loveliness : Ton pair, where Life and Death their moral teach," Informed by her, more eloquently preach : Beneath a gorgeous canopy, with all Official gauds of pomp pontifical, The robed and mitred hierarch overlays The grim anatomy of what he was ; So falls the gleam that in their silent strife Attenuate Death shines more than swelling Life. Lo, one who stands those forms supine beside, More like a vision than an earthly bride ; Her pale cheek hallow' d by the lambent ray That streams its effluence on the sculptured clay. Oh wherefore lingers she at such a tomb, She whose May- wreath was twined of orange-bloom ? '' My own beloved ! in life and death my own, What say those fearful monitors of stone, Proud Chicheley and his skeleton beneath ? " " That in the midst of life we are in death." ^* Monument of Archbishop Chicheley. AS SEEN ET MOONLIGHT. 147 "^o more ?" — '' Aye more/' replied tlie stedfast wife, " That in tlie midst of death we are in life ; The nearer death the nearer life are we, That only to allure us seems to flee.'' What strain comes floating up the length of nave, A chaunt that might be music from the grave, The wail of Shades as if in cloistral gloom Confined, and longing for the trump of doom ? One living voice supplies the teeming strain, Which choral echoes dreamily sustain. Pale listeners feel, but hardly know they listen, And tearless eyes with more than feeling glisten : Hush'd hearts are rapt beyond the lunar sphere. By faith transported to the eternal year, With all their wrongs and sorrows, every pain Of dear regret, too, following in her train. And catching as she soars a glory won From Sim who kindles moonlight from the sun. Whose blazing orb itself is but the dim Reflection of a glance benign from Him. l2 148 VERY UNFINISHED VERSES SUGGESTED BY THE SERRA OF GERES. Were I an idol to adore, Nor glittering gems nor golden ore Could so pervert mj mind ; Nor man, nor woman, nor the moon ; Nor sun, tlie most divine-like boon That cheereth mortal kind. The moon, than woman lovelier far, Is yet but an unsteady star, In growth, or on the wane ; Like woman's too, her smiles are sad. And make the earnest gazer mad At springtide of the brain. The dazzling god of olden days, Yeil'd in a mystery of rays. Hath still too many a shrine ; YERT UNFINTSHED VERSES. 149 Por many a poet's heart supplies A vainly burning sacrifice To Phcebus and the Nine. The strange iinmeasurable deep, Low panting in his awful sleep, A god benign might seem ; But I too oft have seen him wake, With every wave a hissing snake, More dreadful than a dream. So none of these, Moon, Sun, nor Sea, The idol of my choice should be. Though all have had their praise ; I'd ask of Nature to supply Some fix'd transcendent majesty. Like Thee, sublime Geres ! Grirt vdth a stedfast cloud of pines, His star-loved head above them shines Serener than a star. While eagles with a desert-voice, Around their father-king rejoice, Or hail him from afar. 150 YEET UNFINISHED VERSES. Behold tlie mighty Serra stand ! Grrim patron of a smiling land, His bounty never fails ; But freely from his generous veins He yields the streams that feed the plains, The life-blood of the vales. When stormy uproar round him raves. When winds howl wolf-like in his caves, And through his forests chide, A type he stands of sufferance meek ; — The peevish tempests smite his cheek, The lightnings pierce his side ;• And when their idle rage is o'er, More like a god he seems to soar, And shine with all his fountains — Tet, lip to earth, on height like this, 'Tis but di footstool that I kiss Of Him wlio made tJie moitntains. 151 "N'EVEILLEZ PAS LE CHAT QUI DOET." I SAW a pale and silent maid From all around her coldly turn. As if slie were a lonely shade With whom the world had no concern. Was this a maid of bosom cold ? — TVho puts his trust in cloudless skies ? Or ocean's calm ? or fortune's hold ? Or wavering woman's tranquil eyes ? Though soft as snow the swan may glide, 'Tis peril to provoke her wing : And lamblike woman's soul of pride May sleep to wake with tiger-spring. You gaze as on a statue there, Nor fear her quiet beauty more — But there's a heart within — beware ! N'eveillez pas le chat qui dort. 152 THE EOSE-WEEATHED HOUE-GLASS. Poets while away tlieir leisure. Culling flowers of rhyme ; Thus they twine the wreath of pleasure Eound the glass of Time, Culling flowers of rhyme. Fancy's children, ever heedless, Why thus bribe the hours ? Death to prove the trouble needless Withers all your flowers ; Why then bribe the hours ? Like the sand so fast retreatins:. Thus your hopes shall fall ; Life and fame are just as fleeting ; Poets, flowers, and all : — So your fancies falL 153 THE OLD MAN AND HIS DAUGHTEES. Theee came an Elder from the nortli, A shrewd and crabbed carl was he. And muttering threats, he hurried forth To seek his truant daughters three. Three daughters as the Grraces fair, Whom he would never trust from home, But who in spite of all his care Will each in turn contrive to roam. The earliest out of bounds was Spring, A nymph with violet-colour' d eyes : Her head with snowdrops covering, She stole away in that disguise. And meeting in her doubtful flight The Sun, she paused, and blush' d, and said, " If thou art brave as thou art bright. My sisters free from prison dread ! '' 151 THE OLD MAK AISTD HIS DATJGHTEES. A smile he gave her in reply. Too fervent for her bloom so frail ; It shamed the violet in her eye. And turn'd her hectic cheek to pale. But heedful of the maiden's word, He went and thaw'd the gelid door ; Whence out rush'd Summer like a bird, And lightly bounded on before. Then linger' d, and at Spring look'd back, Spring laugh' d to see her panting there. Then vanished by a woodland track, Abash'd at Phoebus' saucy stare. But Summer eyed him like a queen Accustom' d to resplendent rays. While bkishes through her brown cheek seen Were ripening in his ardent gaze. But where was Autumn ? While their sire Was tracking Spring across the snow. She thought upon her father's ire, And hardly dared, yet long'd, to go. THE OLD MAIS" A.1^D HIS DAUGHTEES. 155 At last she rose and ventiired out, And slilj took the other way ; But Winter now had turn'd about, And saw the traitress go astray. He follow' d her with crouching gait, Who, all unconscious, slack' d her pace, And meeting Summer, down they sate, And Summer slept in her embrace. But on her shoulder soon she felt Their father's rigid fingers cold: He bound them both with frozen belt, And dragg'd them to his icy hold. And hither too had Spring retraced Her way, for, wandering to and fro, Bewilder' d on a border waste, She knew not whither else to go. But though' he has them all again In durance numb — the hard old man ! Be sure, in spite of bolt and chain, Apollo their release will plan. Canterbury, August^ 1838. 156 FIEST LOYE. When jBrst I saw her by the bleak sea-shore, Like the strong wave I felt mj heart to leap It left me then and dwelt with me no more, But lived with Tier^ a dweller by the deep. She was my muse while yet my life was May, That soft serene, half melancholy girl ! T^ature had form'd her of no vulgar clay. Or if of dust, 'twas dust of ocean pearl. Her cheek was colourless ; grave Passion there And smiling Innocence together strove ; With one white rose-bud in her jet-black hair, She seem'd the spirit of unworldly love. Even now I scarce can look upon a star, xl water-lily, or a passion-flower. But with a sigh that wafts my memory far Back unto lier in youth's romantic hour. 157 AT A BALL. Let us go to some place of rest, my soul ! Why do we linger here ? Where the night- winds pant, and the dull waves roll, An([ the sound and sight are drear ; It will suit the worn spirit best, my soul ! Then why should we linger here ? What avail the gay notes and light foot of young pleasure, When the heart's not in tune to keep time with the measure. Not for us is the festive hall, my soul ! Its groups like spectres grin ; And music and dance as the death-bells toll In the ear of the child of sin ; Ev'n thus on my heart they fall, my soul ! And jar on the strings within. When the heart's out of tune, oh how harsh seems the measure. To which giddy groups whirl in the circle of pleasure ! 158 AVONDALE. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND, AN ADMIRER OF AN ITALIAN LADY. ♦ Boy ! would' st thou have thy suit prevail ? Gro lead thy heart's enchantress o'er The woody steeps of Avondale, That guard the stream of Avonmore. Howe'er her partial mind pourtray The graces of her bard's Yaucluse, She'll there as charmed haunts survey As ever soothed the Tuscan muse. For there from every zephyr's wing A fairy spirit gently calls, And there the waters wildly sing, And there a mimic Sorga falls : Though Arklow's woodlands proudly sweep. And Aghrim boasts its golden ore ; Though wild is Cronroe's rocky steep. And wilder yet is lone Glenmore ; AYONDALE. 159 Tliougli Vartrey Hglitlj bounding goes, As coy yet playful childhood strays ; Thouo:h sweet Avoca sweeter flows Since young Catullus sung its praise ; Let lovers roam o'er hill and vale, Yet never shall their eyes explore A fairer glen than Avondale, A lovelier stream than Avonmore. Then warmly while thy lips repeat The liquid verse she loves so well, Be sure her heart will kindly beat, Be sure her breast will softly swell : Dull must the lover be to fail. Or else a frozen nymph implore. Among the groves of Avondale, Beside the stream of Avonmore. 160 AGNES OF HOLMGAED. Keep in shore by moonlight, ladies ! Ocean's marge is spread with wiles. Heed the Ennic tale of Agnes, echoed from the Baltic Isles : By the light that witches Fancy, roving in a moon- light mood, She beheld a gallant merman rising from the tideless flood- Down his neck and o'er his shoulders gleam'd his hair like threads of gold ; Bright his eyes ; his comely features were a marvel to behold. On his breast he wore sea-armour, scales that shone as burnish' d ore ; Shining through that shallow cover, love was burning evermore. AGNES OF HOLMGAED. 161 He began with notes prelusive, trying many an artful change ; Then his passion boldly chaunted, in a music sweet and strange. '^ Listen, Agnes, I implore thee, listen, lovely as thou art ; I, an Ocean King, adore thee ; pity thou a breaking heart." ' Weave the mermaid-dance without me ; gentle Mer- man, I am wed ; Silver sands in spangled grottoes, foot of mine must never tread.' " Lo,'' he sang, and two small sandals floated to the pebbled beach, Karely wrought of golden tissue, ruby-gemm'd the ties of each ! " These bright sandals, rare in beauty as thy feet, I give to thee ; Never was an earthly princess bravely shod as thou wilt be.'' ^ Mark my blessed amber-necklace ; this my pious mother gave, Ave Mary ! should I leave her, grief would press her to the grave : ' M 162 AGISTES OF HOLMGAED. " Lo/' he sang, and from his bosom drew a string of pearly beads ! " Take it, Agnes, never princess wore on neck such ocean-seeds." ' This gold circlet on my finger binds me to an earthly lot; I have two and loving daughters ; gentle Merman, tempt me not ! ' " Lo/' he sang ; and from his finger drew a wondrous jewell'd ring : "Take it, Agnes, never princess gain'd the like from earthly king. Take it, Agnes, beauteous AgneS; take it as my pledge of love ; Caves of ocean nurture passion deeper far than earth above. Listen, Agnes, I implore thee, listen, lovely as thou art, I, an Ocean- King, adore thee ; pity thou a breaking heart." ' Bright-eyed Merman, I have listened ; I am thine for weal or woe, Thou hast conquer' d, bear me with thee to the dreamy halls below.' AGIS'ES OF HOLMGAED. 163 Then he seal'd her ears and bade her close her lips, and through the waves Hand in hand thej plunged together, down to the mysterious caves. Two years there, beneath the waters, Agnes dwelt from sorrow free ; Two fair sons she bore, and proudly nursed her princes of the sea. One day, near their cradle seated, spinning at the crystal wheel, Hark ! she heard the bells of Holmgard booming forth a solemn peal. Up she started from the cradle, left her wheel and elfin thread, Instant sought her Triton-lover, and in tender accents said : ^ Let me go, my gentle Merman, ere the hour of mid- night toll. Back to Holmgard at the altar to petition for my soul ! ' "Go,'' he said "I will not stay thee; go, beloved Agnes, go, Back to these thy babes returning, ere the beams of morning glow.'' M 2 164 AGNES or HOLMGAED. Then he seal'd her ears and bade her close her lips and dart away Upward through the verdant waters^ shoreward to the pebbled bay. On she hastened; backward started, just as she had reach' d the church, For she saw her pious mother standing in the temple- porch. " Wherefore wouldst thou fly, my Agnes, why thy mother's love forsake ; Whither, whither hast thou wander' d, leaving earnest hearts to break ? " ' I have lived below the Ocean, underneath the coral tree ; I have wed the gallant Merman, father of my sons is he. Leave me, mother, let me enter, leave me in the church to pray ; I must cleave the depths of ocean ere the comiDg break of day.* '' Hear me, Agnes, wait and listen ; if thy mother's love be scorn' d. For thy two deserted daughters, hear me, and at last be wam'd. AGNES OE HOLMGARD. 165 Day and night the wretched orphans wail and weep and waste away ; Grief will kill them, they will perish ; calling on thee night and day." ' What should ail them ? let their Tather keep his growing plants from harm, Mine are ears that cannot hear them, guarded by a Merman charm ! ' "If thy daughters are forgotten, whom thy purer bosom fed. Yet, in pity for their father, be their solace, — he is dead. Madden' d by thy flight he lingered, raving for a faith- less wife, Eushing then amidst the billows quench' d the sacred light of life ; And the billows in compassion gave him to the shore again : Christian burial not denied him, here he sleeps within the fane/' * Mother, be to them a mother ; let me pass thee, I must pray ! I must cleave the depths of ocean ere the coming light of day.' 166 AGNES OF HOLMGAED. Now tlie iron tongue was knelling midnight with a clang profound, And the unprevailing mother vanished with the closing sound ! — Agnes in the holy water dipped her finger, cross'd her brow, Brow and finger were unmoisten'd, all things holy shunn'd her now. She advanced, and every image, every type of holy things. Saintly statues, pictured martyrs, cherub groups with painted wings. Swam before her, glided from her, all at her approach recoiled. Agnes sprang to touch the altar with a sudden terror wild: But the very altar shunn'd her, fast and faster it retired; Pyx and crucifix receded; one by one the lamps expired : Save one silver lamp suspended o'er a newly graven tomb ; Thither Agnes flew despairing, goaded by a present doom ; AGISTES OE HOLMGARD. 167 By that lamp the name engraven on the marble's face she read, 'Twas her mother's ! — at the portal she had communed with the dead ! One shrill cry she gave of horror, on the marble falling prone, And the lamp went out and left her stretch' d on the sepulchral stone. There were young and tender voices, wailing on the sadden' d shore ; Wailing for the fickle mother who must never see them more. There were feeble infant voices, deep beneath the ocean swell, Moaning for the hapless mother who had loved them but too well. 168 THE LEGEND OF SAINT MEINEAD. — ♦ — Beside the Lake of Wallenstadt I saw a damsel fair and young, Beneath an asli-crown'd rock she sate, ' And thus the Maid of Grlaris sung : On Etzel's Mount Saint Meinrad's hands His hut remotely rear'd, "Where now the painted chapel stands That bears his name revered. In vain he made that lonely peak His home among the clouds ; Eude Etzel's Mount, so bare and bleak, Was soon the goal of crowds. Eepentant sinners thither came, His blessing to implore ; He bless'd them in his Master's name, And bade them sin no more. THE LEGEND OP SAINT MEINEAD. 169 Nor dead to Nature's yearniiigs then With mortals he conferr'd ; The voice and social helps of men His human feelings stirr'd. Yet, having vow'd to stand apart, Unpropp'd by human aids, He plunged into the deeper heart Of black Einsidlen's shades. And there again his patient hands An humble dwelling raised, Where now our Lady's chapel stands : (Her holy name be praised ! ) A sparkling well refreshed the place Where shines her altar now ; (Whose pure unfailing fount of grace Eewards the pilgrim's vow.) That crystal spring his drink supplied ; Its cresses were his food, With berries that the mountains hide. And fruits unsunn'd and crude. 170 THE LEGEND OE SAINT MEINKAD. Saint Meinrad knelt one early morn Beside the crystal fount ; He heard a raven's croak forlorn Each pater-noster count. He heard a raven's dismal cry At every bead he told ; '' Now, Grod be praised! for I shall die," Said he, " ere I grow old." He look'd about, nor long he search' d. Making the Cross's sign. Before he saw two ravens, perch' d Above him on a pine. Saint Meinrad knelt upon the floor That eve within his cell. When angry sounds besieged his door ; He knew their meaning well. He cross' d his breast and thank' d the Lord Who died upon the Eood ; He calmly then the door unbarr'd, And there two ruffians stood. THE LEGEND OE SAIIS'T MEIISTRAD. 171 They rush'd upon the sacred man, Who meekly met his doom ; About the floor his life-blood ran, Exhaling sweet perfume. A golden chalice (used to hold The host, the spirit's health) They seized, and crucifix of gold. Their victim's only wealth. The ravens came and flapp'd their wings O'er each assassin's head ; Then, struck with inward shudderings, The ghastly wretches fled. In vain they fled to cavern' d rocks, And sought the loneliest gulf Where, ever, crouch' d the nursing fox, Or lurk'd the grim she-wolf. In vain the white-furr'd mountain hare They startled in their flight. And roused the chamois from his lair On Schindeleggi's height. 172 THE LEGEN^D OP SAINT MEINEAD. In vain they tried the otter's den, By watery Eichterswyl ; Or hollow trees in Teuffel's glen, Among the owls so shrill. Aye followed by those ravens twain, Bewilder' d with heaven's wrath. To right, to left, they turn'd in vain ; The ravens cross' d their path. They cross' d them with denouncing shrieks ; They doom'd them with their eye ; Their feathers brush' d their bloodless cheeks, So closely swoop' d they by. In vain they left those wild retreats. And tried the peopled town. Through all the throng of Zurich's streets The ravens chased them down. They flew at them with piercing shrieks, They tore them with their claws. They bit them with their horny beaks. Till they confess' d the cause : VAL DE LUZ. 173 Till they confess' d their mortal guilt, And, guarded, forth were led ; And for the saintly blood they spilt. The cruel ruffians bled. VAL DE LUZ. In Val de Jjiiz^ the vale of light, A hamlet neither fair nor bright That valley's title bears — (As honours oft by merit won, Descend to some ignoble son, Or wealth to worthless heirs.) A narrow street of squalid huts, Fierce visaged men and fiercer sluts With eyes and elf-locks black, And earth-brown features, grinning scorn. The passing stranger seem'd to warn, '^ Beware of an attack ! " 174 YAL DE LUZ. Sucli hints are spurs, but yet the last Ill-oinen'd shed was scarcely past When check' d was every bridle ! What halts us here ? — a torrent strgng, A mighty flood of glorious song — (It wafts me back to Eydal.) The nightingale of lusty lungs, The bird that has the gift of tongues, The key to every breast, 'Twas he that, as we rode along. Waylaid us with a flood of song That held us in arrest. No wanderer thro' a dark pine wood To brigand mandate ever stood More suddenly than we ; Stopt by a bird in open day. An attic bird that ambush' d lay Behind an oKve tree ! 175 DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOOR OF GRANADA AND HIS SPANISH PRISONER. MOOR. Cheistian captive, heed not fortune. Tell thy name and true degree ; Boldly speak, and frankly answer, Then light ransom sets thee free. CHRISTIAN. Moor ! my name is Quinonero, Lorca is my native spot, Knight and warrior, though thy captive, Fortune's malice daunts me not. Such are war's accustom' d chances, Fate to day declares me thine, But a change may come to-morrow. And the change may make thee mine. 176 DIALOGUE BETWEElSr A MOOE OF GRANADA Tet, if thou hast further question, I have no unwilling ear ; Ask, and I will answer freely, XJnrestrain'd at least by fear. MOOR. Yonder then are trumpets sounding, Pennons yonder wave in air ; Turn thine eyes to yonder ohves, Horse and foot are marshall'd there. I would have then, Quinonero, All the truth by thee avow'd : What the standards yonder glanciag, Who the warriors thence advancing, With a gait so brave and proud ? CHRISTIAN. That red flag superbly bearing Six embroider' d crowns of gold, That leads on the men of Murcia ; Need their fame to you be told ? AND HIS SPANISn PRISONER. 177 On tlie next a king is blazon' d, Armed in mail to front tlie foe : Ask yonr troops ! Granada's people Lorca's standard well should know. Lorca, nearest to your borders, Ever too is first in fight ; Hers are men by nature martial. War is their supreme delight. Art thou answered ? What remains then But for battle to provide ? See with what good haste they press thee^ Of thy prize to dispossess thee, And thy destiny decide. MOOR. Yes, I see them onward bearing, Bold their speed : but not a man Steps beyond yon stony causeway, By the sacred Alcoran ! N 178 ZELINDA. If, by prowess unexampled. That important line be cross 'd, Well I know of such their triumph, We shall dearly pay the cost. There's the trial ! let them come then ! We are ready for the game ! Sound and loudly sound the zambra ! Let it reach our own Alhambra, And our chivalry proclaim ! ZELINDA. " What says my lord ? " Zelinda cried, '' From yonder pine-tree spring! " " Alas ! " the woeful prince replied, " Thy lover's scarf I bring." " I know then well for whom," she said, " The Houris now rejoice : " And not a tear the mourner shed, The woe was in her voice. ZELIISDA. 179 She thank' d the prince with tearless eyes. And, when his tale was told, She turn'd to hide her blood-stain' d prize, As miser hides his gold. That night the Queen, by pity sway'd, Would go and vigil keep Beside Zelinda's couch, the maid Whose sorrow would not weep. Within her own alcove she found The maiden laid to rest ; A scarf across her bosom bound, One hand upon it prest. The gracious Queen with pity smiled, With joy and pity meek, To see the sleeper's woe beguiled, And gently kiss'd her cheek ; And softly as a mother moves. Who fears the dew to shake Of slumber from the flower she loves, Who fears her babe to wake, n2 180 ZELIKDA. So softly did the Moorish Queen Lie down to share repose With her who slept in such serene Oblivion of her woes. The royal dame to slumber's yoke Her own thoughts bent in vain. And daylight's earliest glimmer broke Her dream's transparent chain. Zelinda still lay placidly As in the last night's gloom, Just as a sculptured efl&gy Keposes on a tomb. Her dark locks round her fair face curved, As round the moon a cloud ; And from her bosom had not swerved That scarf's ensanguined shroud. And by the fine lids, darkly fringed, Her eyes half-curtain'd were, And though her lips with blood were tinged, A heavenly smile was there. THE ZEGEI LADY TO HEE LOYEK. 181 The royal lady shuddering cried, " Zelinda, how is this ? Wake, smiling sleeper! " and she tried To wake her with a kiss. She prest the clay-cold cheek in vain ; Last night 'twas faintly warm — All night the gentle Queen had lain Beside a lifeless form. THE ZEGEI LADY TO HER LOVER FROM THE SPANISH. Maek, Almanzor, that I charge thee Not to linger near my door ; Nor my handmaids seek to question, Nor molest my servants more. Ask no more what friends approach me, Nor what festivals invite, Nor what work my hands embroider, Nor what colours please my sight. 182 THE ZEGEI LADY TO HEE LOTEll. 'Tis enough, that through thy folly Scornful eyes can do me wrong ; 'Tis enough that I have trusted One so little wise of tongue. I confess that thou art valiant, Dreadful on the troubled plains ; Christians thou hast kill'd unnumber'd As the red drops in thy veins. Thou art too a perfect horseman, Skiird in music, dance, and song, Courteous grace and high demeanour Passing thine to none belong. Unexcell'd in shape and feature. Spirit, wit, and noble birth. Thou art no unvalued bauble ; Why should I deny thy worth ? Much dominion o'er the gentle Lovers like thyself may hold ; Wooers ever win their ladies By a bearing gay and bold. SOIS-Q OF THE ABEISTCEERAGE. 183 But remember, J a Zegri, Was no mark for vulgar eyes, Hadst thou known but how to value Half so well as win the prize ! Now farewell ! but mark, Almanzor, When your talking gallants feast, Boast no more of ladies' favours, Mercy to their names at least. SONG OF THE ABENCEEEAGE. FROM THE SPANISH. Go saddle me the long-maned Barb, the colt of supple joints, And fetch the shield of Eez, and fetch a lance with double points ! And let me have my shirt of mail, of closely platted wire ; And casque of steel infolded by a turban red as fire ! My casque of steel where gaily flaunts a parti-coloured crest Of feathers from the egret's wing, and from the heron's nest ; 184 SO]S"G OF THE ABENCEEEAGE. Of feathers green and silver graj, with plumes of yellow mixt With fluttering banderoles of silk in white rehef betwixt. And bring me too, to tie my casque, that blue embroidered band, The curious w^ork and gracious gift of young Zulema's hand : And with it bring, that it may shine a star upon my crest, Her medal rare of finest ore from Araby the blest ; 'Tis set Avithin a golden wreath of workmanship refined. With purest gems of emerald for laurel leaves en- twined. And bid the lady climb the tower, if she would see the sight Of the Abencerrage combating against a Christian knight : And tell her that the Moor has nought from Christian arms to fear, While young Zulema's eyes regard Grranada's cavalier. 18 r DISCONTENT. FROM THE BRAZILIAN POET GONZALO, AND IN THE ORIGINAL METRE. ♦ I. Cajs" these be the bowers Delightfully seated, Where years were as hours, So gaily they fleeted ? Can those be the pastures Where lately were straying, JNfow browsing, now playing. The flock by Alceus Bequeath' d to my care ? Are these the same places ? They are as they were. Am I the same ? no — Tou call me, Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! 180 DISCONTENT, II. From the cliff that is yonder The water came falling ; How oft has it luU'd me To sleep with its brawling ! jN'o more it comes whitening: The rocks in its plaj. With bubbles of spray ; It seems that the river Has found a new way. Are these the same places ? Not alter' d are they. 'Tis I who am so ! You call me, Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! III. 'Twas here that I caroU'd The strains that were heard, And thrice would the echo Repeat the last word ; But now if I call From her hiding-place shy, JSTot an answer have I. DISCONTENT. 187 So even the echo Is wearj of me. Are these the same places ? JN'o other I see. Am I the same ? no — Toil call mCj Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! lY. Here, border' d by flowers, A streamlet serenely Was gliding, refreshing The grasses so greenly. On the left was a bower, JN'one closer and coyer, Which Time the destroyer, Insulter of all things. Already has changed. Are these the same objects ? Tes, nought is estranged. Am I the same ? no — Ton call me, Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! 188 DISCONTENT. V. But how do I suffer My reason to stray ; Could all be so changed In the space of a day ? Flowers bloom in the meadows, The ash trees are growing, The fountains are flowing, The source of the water-fall Never was dry. Are these the same groves then ? They are — but 'tis I That am alter'd, I know. Did you call me, Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! VI, My spirit, that never Knew care for the morrow, Already is drooping With love and its sorrow. Yes, yes, these fair bowers That lately delighted. Are fresh and unblighted, CONTENT. 189 9nn' Tis grief that disfigures The landscape to me. Ire these the same bowers ? JN'o change do I see. I am alter' d, I know. You call me, Marilia ? Wait, wait, for I go ! CONTENT. FROM THE SAME. Maeilia, I am no untutor'd swain. The hireling guardian of another's fold, Of coarse demeanour and uncivil strain. Burnt by the heat and blasted by the cold. The fertile land I farm is all my own ; It yields me fruit, and herbs, and oil, and wine ; The small white ewes whose milk I drink are mine. And clothe me too from fleeces finely grown. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. 190 COKTENT. I've seen my face reflected in a fountain. It does not wear an old or withered look; The neighbouring swains, the natives of the mountain, Eespect the vigorous hand that holds my crook : From out the pastoral pipe such tones I bring Alceste himself is jealous of my skill, To this I add a voice superior still, And all my own is every verse I sing. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. Yet all of fortune's gifts that I possess I value only for the sake of Tliee^ Whose smile assures me, gentle shepherdess. That thou the mistress of them all wilt be. A flock and herd that cover hill and down Are good to look at in their master's eyes. But thou, Marilia, art a richer prize Than herds and flocks, or ev'n a kingly crown. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. The poppy, or the dainty rose, yet finer, Mantles in blushes on thy cheeks of snow : CONTENT. 191 O gentle shepherdess ! a light diviner Those eyes emit than even the sun can throw. Of golden thread thy shining hair is wove, Thy beauty is all sweetness without measure, Never did Heaven send down so rare a treasure To be the glory of triumphant love. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. Let, let the river rise and bear away The hopes of harvest from my flooded fields ; Let all my stock with pestilence decay. Till not a sheep or steer my pasture yields ; Marilia, all these riches I despise ; I am not one with sordid passions blind ; 'Tis bliss enough for me that thou art kind, 'Tis bliss enough to watch thy smiling eyes. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. Thou to the woods shalt go to gather flowers, Thine arm with pressure soft in mine entwining ; And I will there beguile the sultry hours. In slumber light upon thy lap reclining. 192 COISTIDENTIAL. Or while with lutes thine ear the shepherds please, Or while at distance through the fields they fare, I'll twine a wreath of blossoms in thy hair, Or carve thy praises on the barks of trees. Marilia, maid transcendent, I thank my star resplendent. CONFIDENTIAL. FROM THE FRENCH. rEiEND, let me breathe a whisper in your ear, But mind you guard the tender secret wtII : A change of love is pleasant once a year, 'Tis New Tear's day — I love a foreign belle. Her face is perfect, her complexion brown ; Her eyes are two enchanted balls of jet; Her tresses black in rings redundant down Her polish' d neck descend. — I love Suzette : COISTFIDENTIAL. 19? And I have dared to tell her of my love, And she has thank' d me with a sweet caress ; A prude like you her candour will reprove, And call it guile's ridiculous excess. Ev'n here in spite of her ingenuous brow, A hundred tongues proclaim her a coquette ; And all they say but binds me to my vow. The more they rail, the more I love Suzette ! What though she listens with an arch assent To all who praise her, whosoe'er they be, And ev'n from other lips endures, content, The same endearments she permits to me. Should I for this my selfish heart withhold, Or even view my rivals with regret ? In ten years more, ten years ! I shall be old. And just sixteen will be my French brunette. 194 TRANSLATION OF BORGES DE BARROS' VERSES ^^A FLOR SAUDADE." Come hither, my companion, Thou graceful flower of woe ! If sorrow's name thou bearest, Sorrow's pains I know. Eeceive this frigid greeting, This melancholy kiss ; It has all affection's sweetness, But not the fire of bliss ; Where did Marilia touch thee. Where did she kiss thee ? Tell ! Show me the place, — that I too May kiss thee there as well. 195 ^^A FLOR SAUDADE." Yem ca, minha companheiraj Yem^ triste e mimosa flor, Se tens de saudade o nome Da saudade eu tenho a dor. Eecebe este frio beijo, Beijo de melancholia;, Tern d'amor toda do9ura, Mas nao o ardor d'alegria. Onde te pegou Marilia ? Dize, onde nm beijo te deu ? Mostra o lugar, nelle quero Dar-te eu outro beijo meu. o 2 a A ^T /^nr. r. a ,x^ . -r^ ^ 5J 196 TEAKSLATIOIS' OF "A FLOR SAUDADE. Art thou Marilia's token Of what she feels for me ? "Why fade then ? To remind me That love as soon may flee ? Marilia's graces match thee, In all things, fairest flower, But woe, if in her bosom Love bloometh but an hour. 'Twas thy glad hope, when gather' d By her for whom I sigh, On that delightful bosom — Where I have breathed — to die. Par from the stem where with thee Pavonius play'd of late, Instead of dew thou feelest Of human tears the weight. Poor flower ! yet my misfortune Is more severe than thine ; Say, did she tell thee nothing Before she made thee mine ? "a eloe saudade/' 197 Se Marilia quer que exprimas O qu'ella sente por mim, Porque murclias ? nao me lembres Que amor tambem passa assim. Marilia em tudo te iguala Linda e delicada flor, Mas infeliz se em seu peito Quanto duras, dura amor ! Tu venturosa cuidavas, Quando meu bem te colheu^ Que morreras em seu seio, Qual morri outr' ora eu. Longe d' baste, em que Favonio la comtigo brincar, Em vez d'orvalbo, te sentes So de lagrimas banbar. Flor infeliz ! . . .Por em eu Quanto mais infeliz sou ! Nada te disse Marilia Quando ella a mim te enviou ? 198 TEANSLATIOiS' OF '' A FLOE SAUDADE." Alas, if all tlie fondness Of love could be expressed ; If thou couldst know our raptures, Our sorrows miglit be guess' d. What have I said ! believe not ! Betray no heedless word ; Shame on the Love, oh Elower. Whose mysteries are heard ! U . -,^-r^T^ ri » -rnr. i -i^-r> " A ELOE SATJDADE. 199 Ah ! se tu saber poderas Qiianto amor, quanta ternura, Se souberas das delicias, Julgaras da desventura. Mas que digo ! nao me creias, Nao me vas atrai9oar5 Saudade, he crime d'amor Seus mysteries divulgar. 200 THE DUKE OF ALBA. OLD BALLAD. A RUMorE in the City Of Seville is gone forth, That weds the Duke of Alba With one of lofty birth. 'Twas known to all the ladies But Lady Anne alone : Her sister heard, and quickly Thus made the tidings known. " Oh know you, Donna Anna, Oh know you, sister mine, That weds the Duke of Alba A dame of noble line ? '^ 201 O DUQUE D'ALBA. BALLADA VELHA. E DEiTADO hum voato Na Cidade de Sevilla, Que casa Duque d' Alba Com Dama de grande linha. Todos as Damas o sabem^ So Donna Anna nao sabia : Sua Mana que ouvia Logo assim Ibo dizia : '' Saberas, O Donna Anna, Saberas o Mana minha, Que casa Duque d' Alba Com Dama de grande linha?" 202 THE DUKE OF ALBA. And Lady Anne thus answer'd, Offended answer'd she: " Or if he wed or wed not, What matters that to me ? '' Within the house secluded With wonder troubled sore. She bade her doors be fasten' d, Thing never done before. The very walls were conscious And trembled with her fears ; The table that she lean'd on Was flooded by her tears. Then looking from a window That open'd on the Square, She saw, with friends surrounded, The Duke of Alba there. She waved a pink-flower towards him : '' Come hither,'* said the sign — " What would you, Donna Anna ? What would you, life of mine ? " O DUQIJE d' alba. 203 Donna Anna por desprazer Assim Ihe respondia : " Que case, que nao case, A mim que se me daria ? '' Poi Donna Anna para casa Mui triste da marayillia : Mandou fechar suas portas, Cousa que nunca fazia ! Os suspires erao tantos Que toda a casa tremia. As lagrimas erao tantas Que pela mesa corriao. Foi se por a huma janella Que para a praca saliia ; Vio estar Duque d' Alba Com outros em companhia. Assinalava-lho cum hum cravo Logo elle alii yiria. " Que quereis, 6 Donna Anna, Que quereis, o vida minha ? " 204 THE DUKE OF ALBA. " I would that you would tell me About a falsehood rife ; They say a noble lady Is your affianced wife ! " '' 'Tis true, my Donna Anna, 'Tis true, my life's delight. To-morrow is my wedding. Tour presence I invite." Down, when the words were spoken, Dead at his feet she fell ! He bade lay bare her bosom, That it the cause might tell. He found three drops of blood there, The least of which exclaim' d : '' And so, my love, you marry, And leave me lost and shamed." He bade in gold encase it, And wore it for the dead ; "When seven years were over, His mother-in-law said : O DUQIJE d' ALEA. 205 " Quero que me digais Huma tarn falsa mentira ; — Dizem que sois casado Com Dama de grande linha." " Nao e mentira. Donna Anna, IN'ao e mentira, vida minha ; Que a manliaa sao minhas vodas Eu convidar vos queria." Ao dizer estas palavras Aos pes morta Ihe cahio ! Mandou llie abrir o peito, Para ver do mal que morria. Achou Ihe tres pingas de sanque Que a mais xequita dizia " Pois deveras, amor, casas, E a mim me deixas perdida ! " Mandou encastoar em euro, Ao seu peito o trazia, — Passado sette annos, Sua Sogra Ihe dizia : — 206 THE DUKE or ALBA. " Leave now your bitter sorrow, For life's sake, cease your woe ! " " How can I leave my sorrow For her who loved me so ? " ^^ Tes, still you love her, Alba, Tour wife, my child, above." '' No, 'tis too late to love her ; But oh, I did so love ! " O DUQUE d' alba. 207 ^' Deixai agora o do, Deixais por vossa vida ! " — '' Como hei de deixar o do, Por quern tanto me queria ? " — '' E verdade, Duque d' Alba, Lhe queres mais que a minlia filha/' " Ora eu mais nao lhe quero ; Mas, sim, tanto lhe queria ! '' 208 THE DUKE OF ALBA. SUGGESTED BY THE PORTUGUESE BALI.AD PRECEDING. RuMOTJR through the city carries Evil news for gentle dames, That the Duke of Alba marries One of Seville's highest names. Evil rumour seldom tarries : Woe for Donna Anna's dreams ! Tet the busy tidings miss'd her, Tidings all the town had heard, Till her little laughing sister Eunning brought the fatal word ; Saying, as she sweetly kiss'd her, Merry as an April bird. Saying, " Know you, Donna Anna, Know you what is soon to be ? Wed will be the Duke of Alba THE DUKE OF ALBA. 209 AVith a dame of high degree." Coldly answer' d Donna Anna, " Prattler, what is that to me ? " But her knees beneath her falter, But her heart within her burns ; Woe and wonder both assault her, To her chamber as she turns. Alba's Duke before the altar ! Woe for love that honour spurns ! Sadly in her room she paces. Sadly paces to and fro ; Then about the mansion chases Cruel thoughts that will not go ; Then again her steps retraces, Now above, and now below. Then she bade the gates be fastened, Never closed by day before ; Upward then again she hasten' d. There to pace her chamber floor. Tears in vain her sorrow chasten'd. Sighs but fann'd her grief the more. p 210 THE DUKE OE ALBA. Weary then she took her station Where her casement show'd the square ; Saw with fearless trepidation, Saw the Duke of Alba there : Sign'd him, waving a carnation, 'Neath her balcon to repair. " What would you, my Donna Anna, What would you, my life, with me ? " " I would have you, Duke of Alba, Though 'tis false and cannot be. Tell me if the Duke of Alba Weds a dame of high degree ? " " 'Tis not false, my Donna Anna, 'Tis not false, my love and life : For to-morrow will an heiress Be the Duke of Alba's wife ; And I bid you to the brida]. Wish me joy, my love and life ! " Duke of Alba, words are crushing ! Senseless fell she to the ground : Doors were burst, and men came rushing TUE DITKE OE ALBA. 211 To the maiden prostrate found ; Blood from forth her lips was gushing. Blood that well'd without a wound. By a golden chain snspended Lay a treasure next her heart ; Noble features finely blended By the painter's mimic art ; 'Twas the Duke of Alba's portrait, And she wore it next her heart. Yet she lived, nor deign'd accuse him. When she woke, the gem she spied. " What is this, if I must lose him ? Take it to the bridegroom's bride, Let her wear it in her bosom, Though with blood of mine 'tis dyed ! " Hearts abused by heartless follies Seek their peace in convent shades ; Donna Anna finds her solace With Saint Clara's holy maids : Tet — for 'twas a bitter chalice — Memory oft her peace invades. p 2 212 THE DUKE OF ALBA. Seven years are gone and over ; Comes her mother to the grate : " Oh ! forget your worthless lover, Pass with me the convent gate." " How forget him ! Mother, mother ! Once for me his love was great." " Still you love the Duke of Alba, Love him with a passion wild, Love him as I love you, Anna, As a mother loves her child ; Oh i forget the Duke of Alba ! " Weeping, said the mother mild. " Yes, I loved him, mother, mother ! More, alas, than lips can tell ! ]N^o, I love him not, my mother : Oh ! I loved him passing well ! Duke of Alba wed another ! Leave me, leave me to my cell ! " San Joao da Foz, Juhj 9, 1845. 213 THE GEOVES OF ENTEE QUINTAS. Wheee scenes so sweet the Douro greet Before lie joins the main. Where nature hails from Porto's vales That truant child of Spain ; Where many a green and golden screen Adorns his banks romantic, Ere yet he glides among the tides. And tastes the salt Atlantic ; Though many a muse might pause to choose 'Twixt Ereixo and Avintes, No bowers can strike my fancy like The groves of Entre Quintas. 214 THE GROYES OF ENTRE QUINTAS. There stands the tree of lordly grace. Of all Magnolias grandest ; And there I saw the fairest face. The fairest and the blandest. I saw a smile, alas the while, It was not meant for me ! I saw a cheek whose beauty meek I never more shall see. A voice I heard, and every word Was music soft and clear ; That thrilling tone till life is flown I ever more shall hear. Farewell ! the bowers of orange flowers From Porto to the sea ! Farewell thy blooms of rich perfumes, Superb magnolia tree. Farewell the rills on sunny hills Ten thousand flowerets laving ; And fountains bland to coolness fann'd By willows o'er them waving. EPITAPH ON COLOiS^EL GEORGE HOLMES, C.E. 215 Arcades of vines, and groves of pines That clothe each rocky fell ; And every shrub that greenly shines. And every bud, farewell ! And fare thee well, thou fairest grace Beside the western sea ! Thy form will haunt me to my place Beneath the cypress-tree. EPITAPH ON COLONEL GEOEGE HOLMES, C.B. TRANSCRIBED ON A MONUMENT (BY WESTMACOTT) CAUSED TO BE PLACED BY HIS WIDOW IN THE PARISH CHURCH AT DONCASTER. Heaet ever steady to a manly mind, Good, gallant heart, repose in honour shrined ! Stern are a soldier's duties ; and but few Like Holmes accomplish'd, and yet smoothed them too His cordial voice the tasks of peace endear' d : And war's severest toils and perils cheer' d : And many a veteran's hand may grateful wave A Spanish laurel o'er his English grave. 216 EPITAPH ON J. K. E. HOLMES. The martial chief — the gay and social friend Words cold as this sad marble may commend, Sacred to silent memory and tears, And yearning hopes to meet in purer spheres, And to lone anguish in a widow' d breast, The brother's, father's, husband's merits rest. EPITAPH ON J. K E. HOLMES. DROWNED IN THE WYE, JUNE IG, 1848. — 4 — In joyous youth on Wye's green verge he stood, And in a moment perish' d in the flood ; The fatal river of the wealth it stole Grave back the casket, gone the precious soul. Dread Lord of Life ! taught by thy blessed Son, A wife, a mother, say, '' Thy w^ll be done." On them hath sorrow set an awful mark : But Heaven looks brighter as this world grows dark. Teach them to show their infant charge the way To find her father on that final day, When earth and all its waters shall restore The dead redeem' d in Christ, to part no more ! 217 rUNEEAL OF EGBERT SOUTHEY. Ceossthwaite Tower sends forth a knell ; Skiddaw knows its meaning well ; And the mountain veils its head. As they bear away the dead ; Scawfell hides his towering height ; Grlaramara shrinks from sight ; All the solemn steeps around Hide their faces at the sound ; Derwent hears it ; Grreta hears ; And, while the clouds supply their tears. The troubled rivers as they swell Hoarsely chide that funeral bell. * Mr. Southey was buried on the 24tli of March, 1843, in the north-west corner of Crossthwaite Church-yard, Keswick, about lialf a mile from Greta Hall, the house which had been his home for forty years, when he there died. 218 PUIS^EEAL OF EOBEET SOUTHET. Herbert's haunt, on Keswick-mere, Feels the ghost of genius near ; Lodore sends a deeper wail To the rough heart of Borrowdale ; Stream and lake, and force and fell, Sylvan isle and rocky dell, Their part in this day's sorrow bear ; And heavier make the gloom they share ; For our human feehngs give Sympathies that in them live. Where a hedge of blackthorn blooms Close beside the place of tombs. As the Bearers bear the Dead, Pacing slow with solemn tread, Two feather' d choristers of spring To the dark procession sing : Heedless of the driving rain, Tearless of the mourning train, Perch' d upon a trembling stem They sing the poet's requiem. Some sacred frenzy has possest These warblers of the russet breast, EUNEEAL OF EOEEET SOUTHET. 219 To honour thus with friendship brave, A Poet's passage to his grave/^ Poet, what avails it now That the laurel graced thy brow ? — What avail' d it years before The angel death thy summons bore ? When thy noble mind o'erwrought Stranded lay, a wreck of thought ? Thy bruised spirit, all that while, Was blind to fame's approving smile. Deaf and careless wert thou then To the plausive tongues of men, As now to notes — more sweet than words — Plowing from the hearts of birds ; As now to the sepulchral bell Which smites the vale that loved thee well. Honour built on virtue's rock Nor disease nor death can shock. Poet, virtue's priest wert thou ! So yet the laurel decks thy brow\ ■^ The writer, who was present at the funeral, can apologise for the introduction of so trifling, but not unafiecting, an incident as that related of these birds, by assuring the reader that their prolonged singing in the situation, and under the circumstances alluded to, is a fact which attracted his own notice. 220 rUlS'EEAL OF EGBERT SOUTHEY. This avails thee now and ever, Gruerdon of thy high endeavour ; Love and honour ne'er forsake thee. Till the trump of doom awake thee : Tolls the bell for vanished worth — Earth to earth surrenders earth. Life has lower' d death sublime Down the shallow pit of time ; Thence, when ripen' d in that mine, A gem on heaven's brow to shine : Hid, till then, its precious light By the jealous miser night. And yet play'd on all the while By the deep supernal smile That can pierce the stone and lead, Which o'erlay the virtuous dead — Just as well as it can reach ^ Planets in their gulfs of air, Lending brightness due to each In its duly portion' d share: To the sun its light creative, To the moon its borrow' d force. To the stars a lustre native From the One Eternal Source ! 221 ELEGY ON G. M. B. ADDRESSED TO LADY B. Thy cliild was lull'd on death's cold coucli to sleep. Tears since have pass'd, and yet I see thee weep ; Yet, yet, by busy memory kept alive. The heart- struck mother's griefs, alas ! survive. Is there no blessed spell, no opiate blest. To cheat a mother's memory to rest ? Look on the lovely treasures that remain Let these seduce thee from regrets so vain. Oh no : by links too powerful are allied The joy for these that live, the woe for him that died. In life's young season, when the world was new, And love adorn' d it with enchantment's hue, He, the first pledge which love awoke to light, "Was more than angel in thy partial sight. 222 ELEGY ON G. M. B. Ah ! who can tell the youthful mother's joy, When first her arms received her infant boy ? When first she saw, what fancy help'd to trace, The father's features in his little face, When first she gave her first maternal kiss, Ah ! what are words to paint a mother's bliss ! Ted from thy breast, in charms the infant grew, Fresh as the May-morn flower that drinks the dew. Then, as the term of boyhood just began. How well the Boy gave promise of the Man ; When, warm for enterprise, and pall'd with ease. The gallant child went forth, and dared the seas ! What serves it here in long detail to tell The proving chances that the child befell ; Each toil and watch endured by day and night. Each rough assault of tempest or of fight ; To tell what lands he saw ; how oft he bore Some classic relic from the famous shore : How oft return' d (ah why again to roam ?) To taste the dear felicity of home ; And pause awhile from ocean's rude alarms ; The harbour of his rest a mother's arms. I saw, ere last the wanderer left thy side, This cherish'd object of thy pain and pride. ELEGY ON G. M. E. 223 I saw him clad with beauty as a vest, His graceful form the graceful mind express' d. I mark'd that mind, so young, yet so matured By painful trial, manfully endured. Talent's strong sun had forced the vernal shoot, At once it bore the blossom and the fruit ; Then friendship too, in sympathy with thee, Was idly dreaming what the youth would be. A Hero, diadem' d with glory's crown. To gild his ancient name with new renown. AVhere is he now ? thus gifted and thus fair. Could not the hand of Heaven the stroke forbear ? So good, so young, so beautiful and brave, Was it not hard to doom him to the grave ? To bid disease assail with jealous tooth The rich unfolding roses of his youth. And blighting them, the mother's hope to blight. The hope that promised such a long delight ? Yet, it were something still if o'er the clay Of him thus early snatch' d from life away. Maternal love but now and then might keep A little sacred interval to weep. Alas ! fond mother ! this too is denied ; Far, far away, from home, from thee, he died. 224 ELEGY ON G. M. B. Minorca's air received Ms latest breath ; Its earth too gave his narrow cell of death. To dew his fading cheek with pious tear, 'No parent, brother, sister, tended near : No sister, brother, parent, e'er must weep Beside the bed wherein his ashes sleep. Child of the Ocean ! had the troubled wave, Thine own proud element, become thy grave, When all thy soul with generous rage was warniM, Hadst thou been struck while gallant battle storm' d. Then by thy fall had fame at least been bought : So whispers fancy to a mother's thought. Delusion! could that mother's thought have borne The bosom gash'd, the limb asunder torn, The hfe-blood, none perhaps its tide to check, Eflusive o'er the horror-drenched deck, The form convulsed, the shriek of torment wild. The last dull moaning of her dying child ? No, no, though doom'd to fall, poor boy, 'twas well That not in battle's hideous fray he fell. Thy tears, fond mother, though so long they flow. Are not the rash impiety of woe. Eebellion brands not the afflicted mind — Eegret may deeply mourn, yet be resign' d : ELEGY OlS" G. M. B. 225 And heaven, in mercy to a mother's grief, Permits those tears to lend a sad relief. Perchance at times 'tis e'en allow'd thy boy To quit for thee his Paradise of joy ! Perchance, e'en now, the disembodied saint Is hovering near, to silence grief's complaint, Breathe comfort to his mother's aching heart. And act at once the son's and angel's part. I do believe, that when the good ascend, To live the empyreal life that ne'er shall end, 'Tis not denied them in that world to meet Those for whose sakes e'en this bad world was sweet ; That friends and kindred are allow'd above Each to know each again, in purer love ; That in the presence of the Great Adored, Again the spouse may meet the spouse deplored ; Sister and brother form the ring again^ And parted lovers bind the broken chain ; Fathers amidst their gather' d children rest. And tender mothers bless them and be blest. I do believe, to mothers such as thou Will Heaven this perfect blessedness allow. While seraphs up to heaven thy soul translate, Thy child shall meet thee at the Golden Gate ; 22G ELEGY OlS" G. M. B. Shall bid thee welcome to the Promised Land, Shall guide thee in through all the glorious band ; While all the angels clap t-heir wings with joy, And hail ye both, the mother and her boy ! And these, yet left to her who gave them birth. To cheer her further sojourn upon earth, These, who with youth elate and blind to care jNTow romid thee wanton, shall rejoin thee there. There too, where never the high heart is rack'd, Where never cares the noble mind distract, Where feeling, fancy, genius unrepress'd May thrill, expand, exalt the unburthen'd breast, There shall the generous lyre, that here below Wafts scarce a note beside the note of woe, jSTo more by sorrow warp'd, by envy jarr'd, Breathe all the lofty spirit of the bard. Whom, while thine offspring listen to that lyre. Their eves and hearts shall know, and bless their sire. Lee Priory, Septemiber Wth, 1S15. 097 ELEGY ON E. W. G. B. ADDRESSED TO LADY B. Ais'OTHEK blow from Heaven ! and wherefore thus Shall human woe the act of Heaven discuss ? Shall roused affliction lift to Grod her eye. And, knowing that He will'd it, question why ? Tried raother, bow thy head, and quell tliy breast, And check the unholy murmur ere exprest ; There was too much of good about thee still, Baffling the jealous counterpoise of ill. The draught of life was yet too strong for care, Schemes were too quick, and hopes too busy there ; So grief again, as bubbles mantled up. Was sent to tame the spirit of the cup : Ask thine own heart — descend into that cell Where lives the Priestess of Truth's Oracle, Conscience, that breathes self-knowledge ; She will say, A mother's pride too deeply rooted lay q2 228 ELEGY ON E. W. G. E. AVithin thy bosom ; giving thoughts of earth More room than aught terrestrial should be worth. The love of thine own lovely race was such As held thee fetter' d to the world too much : So death was made thv visitor ao:ain, To break another rivet of the chain, That to thy rfiind's ambition might be given A freer aspiration after Heaven. Twice on the treasure of thy soul the hand That lent it has enforced a stern demand. Yet think, afflicted parent, for thy peace, How may the seeming loss thy wealth increase. If both so early in the grave they lie. They both were innocent and fit to die. Fairer than stars their spirits glow above ; xlnd from their sphere depends a chain of love, A chain of light to thee and thine descending, Whereby riven hearts in mystic links are blending ; And the pure fires with which those spirits glow Can thrill and lighten on the hearts below. Direct thy gaze, thou cherisher of woes. Where yon meek spire the hamlet's temple shows : Is there no comfort in that place of prayer ? Alas, those tears deny all solace there. ELEGY OK E. W. G. B. 229 Fuller and faster at the view they fall, As though that sight were bitterer than all. Well ; who shall censure those o'erflowing eyes ? Eeligion's self will scarce refuse her sighs, We all remember when each Sabbath morn Saw thy young group that humble fane adorn ; With liim^ among the rest, of guileless brow — Where is that dear and guileless Edward now ? When then ye glanced upon that vault beneath, No echo warn'd you from that seat of death, Whose shade at last must shroud you all, that doom Adjudged him next into that cold dark room. Death stole upon thee in a doubtful mask ; The black destroyer wanton' d with his task ; And mock'd with promise thy maternal hope ; And gave, — that's some relief — thy virtues scope. We all remember — how can we forget — ? Those nightly vigils, that should soothe regret ; Those daily cares, and duties overpaid. While the youth wasted to a bloodless shade. We all remember, how, until the last. Clung by his side this mother unsurpass'd ; Caught every tone, consulted every look, Eead every thought, and every wish o'ertook : 230 ELEGY CIS* E. W. G. E. And, in despite of pain's exerted fangs, Foil'd the tormentor of his keenest pangs. Propp'd on his pillow as the victim lay. While Life jnst pruned her wings to fleet away, Cheer' d by her flutter, it was sweet, he said, To lie thus careless on a tranquil bed ; And thence behold the trees in tender green, And all the freshness of a vernal scene ; And feel the breeze that sometimes flew bv stealth To fan his cheeks and warble words of health. Then came the hour ! — the spirit waxing dim, The helpless, hopeless feebleness of limb ; The wandering hands that quarrell'd with the air, The glance that flicker' d round, but knew not where ; The language wilder than the trackless wind ; The last delirious energies of mind ; The cheeks like wither' d aspen leaves in hue. And like those leaves all coldly shuddering too ; The quivering throat's half-choked and struggling cry; And last, that fix'd expression of the eye ! Not yet ; not yet ; it cannot yet be o'er ; The soul still lights that face — gaze no more. Unhappy father ! wherefore didst thou stay. Watching the progress of thine own decay. ELEGY ON E. W. G. B. 231 The dread mortality of thine own fleshy That seems in those that yet remain so fresh ? Away ! even she who watch' d as none liave watch' d, She, the poor mother with the heart unmatch'd, Dragg'd by the arm of friendship from the room, Has left him — to the agents of the tomb. Take thy last look, and let it linger not ; And let ns lead thee from the blighted spot. In your sepulchral chamber, corse to corse, Ye still shall meet, in spite of this divorce ; In the eternal kingdom, soul to soul, Te still may live, when planets cease to rolL 232 SHOET POEMS IN MEMORY OF JEMIMA A. D. QUILLINAN, WHO DIED IN MAT, 1822. ♦ I. Madness, if thou wilt let me dwell "With Thee in some fantastic hell, Some chaos of the mind, For Thee I'll quit the friends of years, The loves of youth, the hopes and fears About the heart-strings twined. For joy has dried, for me, her springs. And Death has shadow'd with his wings An Eden to a waste. And I am left in lone distress, Mark'd with a curse of hopelessness Too deep to be erased. SHOET POEMS. 233 I had a friend — Where is she now ? I mock thee with my placid brow, I mock thee with my smile: But search, wild Power, my heart's despair ; Her epitaph is written there, There woe is without guile. Griefs have o'erwhelm'd me oft before, But then my buoyant spirit bore Against their stormy tide : I listened to the voice of men ; Some cheer d me from the shore, and then I struggled through with pride. Oft have I been perplex' d with woes, But then there was a dear repose From trouble and from pain : I look'd in Beauty's tender eyes. And there encounter' d sympathies That soothed the aching brain. I went abroad among the hills ; I traced the streams and humming rills That through the woodlands stole ; 234 SIIOET POEMS IN MEMOET OF I walk'd with JSTature, and communed With all her birds, and they attuned Tlie jarrings in my soul. 1 cannot pray — I still have pray'd, In weal or woe, for mercy's aid To guide me on my way ; But this too heavily hath prest ; And there is hardness in my breast, And now I cannot pray. Then make me thine ! I fear thee not. Better the shrieking maniac's lot Than this wild sense of gloom ; These thick still thoughts of full distress, Brooding o'er blighted happiness Like yew-trees o'er a tomb. Then make me thine ! I love the tune Of the starved dog that bays the moon, While angry echo jars : Make me thy priest, and let me chaunt. From some rent fane that spectres haunt. Strange anthems to the stars. JEMIMA A. D. QUILLINAIS^ 235 II. Near Lauffenberg. On Lauflen's river, green and swift, The rays of morning shine ; Bright mists are on the hills adrift, The breathing of the [Rhine. The flood, the hills, the hazy veil, Of other scenes remind, AYhere shines a lake in Loughrigg dale- AVhere Eotha's waters wind : An ivied cot by Eotha's side, Beneath a rocky knoll ; And Her, its ornament and pride, The treasure of my soul : Her store of all the heart could crave To make her beauty dear, Her sorrows, and her early grave. The cause that I am here. 236 SHOET POEMS IX MEMORY OF III. Near Schaffhausen. HER FAVOURITE FLOWERS. I CANNOT bear those brilliant flowers So blue among the corn, With which she used in festal hours Her tresses to adorn. I cannot bear that thej should still Be beautiful and gay, When she who loved their bloom so wtII Has past in hers away. IV. SOCIETY. BERNE. 4 The sad must wear the jester's mask ; And surely 'tis the hardest task That can the sad employ : Grrief has no privilege to ask For sympathy from joy. JEMIMA A. D. QUILLINAN, 237 It is a melanclioly art To take the theme the gay impart With a complacent smile : They little think the secret heart Is aching all the while. V. SCHWYTZ. The relics of her human charms Are lock'd in earth's maternal arms By Grrasmere's quiet shore ; Her spirit, ever bright and pure, Is where there are no ills to cure, Where pain torments no more. An exile from a blighted home, From land to land I vainly roam. And seek, but cannot find In nature, nor in powerless art, Some charm to lull an aching heart, To soothe a troubled mind. 238 SHORT POEMS IIS" MEMORY OF Severe it seems, and only seems, To rouse from life's delusive dreams The beautiful and young : If, like Jemima good as fair, They wake, we trust, in purer air, Immortal joys among ; Theirs is the harder lot who mourn, Who, with a vain compunction, burn To expiate faults that grieved A breast they never more can pain, A heart they cannot please again — The living, the bereaved. vain complaint of selfislmess ! Weak vdsh to paralyse distress ! The tear, the pang, the groan, Are justly mine, who once possessed, Tet sometimes pain'd, the fondest breast Where love was ever known. JEMIMA A. D. QUILLIIS'AIS'. 239 VI. THE LAKE OF LAUWERTZ. Like Eydal with its sister-isles The little lake of Lauwertz smiles ; If less exquisitely fair. Yet the very character ; The very road along the shore. And tufted rocks projecting o'er ; Straggling orchards like the same. Plots of green that kindred claim : E'en the lilies float and lave, And the reeds are on the wave ; And the lights of morning make Mimic lines across the lake. All but Groldau's ruins seem Eydal in a faithful dream. Groldau's ruins ! — more than all The resemblance they recall. Tell they not the o'erwhelming doom Of soft beauty in its bloom ; 240 SHORT POEILS IN MEMOEY OF Virtue, joy, and tenderness, All that happy homes could bless. In a moment's awful fate Crush'd beneath a mountain's weight ? A'Vhy should Rydal seem like this ? Let the memory of bliss. Let its ruin, answer why — Let Jemima's grave reply. VII. BERNE. I SAW to day a roseate cheek, A soft blue eye, and tender air ; Her very traits appear'd to speak, But only seem'd not quite so fair. I never see a roseate cheek, A soft blue eye, and tender air, But that the features seem to speak Of early death and lonely care. JEMIMA A. D. QUILLI:N^A]S'. 241 VIII. LAUSANNE. Time slowly knits the strongest ties^ JSTo ardent lieat at first I felt ; But slowly did her tender eyes To love the snow of friendship melt, I play'd no wild enthusiast's part ; Her outward beauty scarce address' d; She charm' d me by the noble heart That beat beneath her modest breast. In after years of wedded life Her virtues taught me all their claim ; 'Twas not the mistress, but the wife Of whom the lover I became. Yet — shall remorse the truth avow ? Her form is now but mouldering earth ; And now, alas ! and only now, I know Jemima's utmost worth, B 242 SHORT POEMS. « So when the sacred light of Heaven Has first illumined infant eyes, The child enjoys the blessing given, Unconscious how divine a prize. As reason wins by slow degrees DominioQ o'er the ductile mind. Delighted more the more he sees, He blesses God he is not blind. But, if the curse of blindness seals His orbs, and blots the world from sight, then the victim fully feels The value of the blessed light. 243 ELEGY ON THE SAME, WEITTEN TWELVE YEAES LATER TO SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. I CROTO" tliee, Brydges, with a baleful wreath, And raise another deeper cry of death ! I seem ordain' d by mystery and fear To breathe sepulchral horrors in thine ear, And deck thee victim of some mortal curse, With sullen garlands of funereal verse. When Thou and thy two boys were wrench'd apart, I raised the death-lament that thrill' d thy heart. Yet soothed thy pride. It seem'd a stern decree That let the tempest loose to shake thy tree. And bear the crude fruit down, — but wild and rough Though blew those angry gales, 'twas not enough ! A fiercer hurricane was yet to come : It came ; I heard, and shudder' d, and was dumb ; It swept away the best of all thy race. And there was darkness in Jemima's place. r2 244 ELEGY ON THE SAME. My loss was then severer far than thine : I felt at first too stupid to repine : But soon was roused to consciousness of pain By stormy thoughts and tumults of the brain ; And then by lawless wretchedness betray'd, I did but outrage mild Jemima's shade ; Por, driven by passion to rebellion's verge, I caird the Furies to perform her dirge. No Furies answer' d, but a little child Look'd in my face and like her mother smiled. As waters from the stricken rock devolved. Smote by that look, my eyes in tears dissolved, Wild bursts of tears, yet powerful to assuage The fever and the impiety of rage. My anguish now was calmer, not less keen : I sought, afar, diversity of scene ; All heart-sick wretches hope to flee from care, And still they flee to find her everywhere. I stood beside the E/hine's chaotic fall : What did that pomp of bounding waves recall ? Lone cataracts, and coy unnamed cascades. And modest waterfalls in woody shades, Among the hills of Westmoreland, where long And oft Jemima listen' d to their song. ELEGY ON THE SAME. 245 In Zurich's Grove at Gressner's tomb I wept Not him, who there, but her who distant, slept, And but for 7^^r sake wish'd to me bequeathed The adorning spirit that in Gessner breathed ; The double tribute of a painter-bard Might so through time her sacred memory guard ; So might those features eloquently meek Still to the heart with sure persuasion speak ; So might the world her sweet example save, And Art be twice triumphant o'er the grave. I climbed the Kamor mountain ridged with fir, To be a little nearer Heaven and Her. In vain the Eheinthal smiled with all its vines : The rocks of Appenzel, the gloomy pines, And lonely ice-beds pleased my alter' d mind. And the wild howling of the glacial wind. How still in yon far mountain clefts, my soul, Eeposed the eternal snows of the Tyrol ! Thus still in death, as pure, as cold, as white, She slept in the grim fold of breathless night. I see her yet in that familiar room Where last she lay, apparell'd for the tomb. Trick'd out with sweet fantastic flowers she lay, Cold to the touch that press' d the life-like clay. 246 ELEGY ON THE SAME. Blind to the eyes that rivetted their gaze, Deaf to the voice she loved in other days. I bear to think, I bore to brood on this ! With lingering lips the passive brow to kiss, And o'er the hush'd unsympathising corse To stand in blank despair and vain remorse, "While all my faults, held light in happier times, From death's pale shadow took the hue of crimes. ]^ot to a father need I tell her worth Who saw its growth, to womanhood from birth ; Her lucid sense, without a stain of pride ; Her taste with pure simplicity allied ; Her tranquil manners, so reserved with ease ; Her care unwearied, not to shine, but please : Her graceful truth, the ornament and bond Of coy affections exquisitely fond ; Her temper, human nature's precious ore, In sorrow's crucible refined the more. Whether she graced her own paternal home. Or shared a soldier's restless fate to roam ; Whether by blind adversity opprest, Or worn by sickness, late her frequent guest ; Through many a trying year I never saw Her will rebellious to her duty's law. ELEGY OlSr THE SAME. 247 Nor e'er beheld an evil passion chase Love from her lips nor beauty from her face. Some minds repose in apathetic rest, Without a feeling, negatively blest : Patient because untempted to transgress ; But hers was sensibility's excess ; A nature quick, too full of hopes and fears, All turn'd to smiles and tenderness and tears. She sleeps in Britain's Eden, on the shore Of mead-fringed Grasmere girt with mountains hoar ! Par from her native Kent : yet not forsaken Of friends found faithful when my heart was shaken ; True friends as e'er appalling sorrow tried, In-dwellers of the valley where she died. Her relics too are of that earth a part, "Whose meanest flower has school' d its poet's heart ; And the same airs that stir the grass around Her tomb, are agents to his thoughts profound ; Deepening the murmurs musically strong Of Wordsworth's grand and philosophic song. Brydges, remote from where thy fathers sleep, While other hands than thine thy harvests reap, Par from the hearth of Wootton and the hill Whose greenwoods whisper thy young fancies still, 248 ELEGY ON THE SAME. Thine age is whitening where Helvetian snows From glowing sunsets catch the tints of rose ; Thine age embellish' d too with colours caught i'rom Fancy's richly- setting orb of thought. Thine ear is greeted by the rushing Ehone, And liquid voices of yet grander tone. Lake, river, cataract, ravine, and glen, Rock, forest, pike, are all within thy ken. Charm' d land ! which Nature in some frantic fit Heaved to the skies, in monstrous masses split, Nor blush' d to view the havoc she had made. But gulf and chasm with dauntless eye surveyed : And, here, with glaciers bridged the headland gaps, There, flung her snows into the mountain laps ; Push'd the pale fQuntains down the stony fells, And brimm'd with inland seas the nether dells ; And tossing verdure up and down the wild, Exultant on her glorious chaos smiled ! Charm' d land ! yet dearer to my longing heart Our own wild North, its humble counterpart. More dear for bliss and anguish, and the sake Of that lorn grave by Grrasmere's beauteous lake. — vale Elysian, and ye bosky nooks Of Eydal, and thou pride of mountain-brooks, ELEGY 01^ THE SAME. 249 Thou Eotha, lin'king with, thy sonorous chain Of argent, three Lake JSTaiads who sustain A threefold mirror, where the wood-crown' d rocks And ferny mountains sleek their shagged locks. O haunts romantic, how could you betray ? And thou perfidious blossom-kirtled May, "What had I done to win thy smiling hate. And make the loveliest of the months my fate ? Already had my mother sunk in death, Kiird by the sweet caresses of thy breath. She, too, died young ; and I remember well, Child as I was, her beauty's healing spell ; And how her angel-smile could soften down, To my young heart, a sterner parent's frown. Palse May ! I loved thee much and hate thee more. How could I trust thy smile so false before ? 'Neath the close texture of thy flowery woof Our hlest seclusion seem'd disaster-proof. ISTever did bland insidious beauty lm*e Like thine the soul to dreams of peace secure ; As when thine evil-eye the signal gave. That doom'd Jemima to her early grave ! Time files away in every human heart The points acute of sorrow's barbed dart ; # 250 ELEGY ON^ THE SAME. Twelve years have pass'd^ and their balsamic wings Have fann'd my bosom and appeased its stings. But she, whose spirit hover' d in the skies, Could she oblivious be of earthly ties ? Oh, no ; if ever nuptial love was true, Not time alone, but she consoled me too. I've seen her oft in solitude and night, And she has o'er me waved a wand of light ; Cheer' d by her smile when fainting on my way, I've seen her in the broad unconscious day ; Have heard her whispers, soft as dreams of song, Clear through the tumult of the human throng. Her spirit, though beatified, unchanged In nature, proved the woman not estranged. A surge-tost voyager on Biscay's bay, I've seen her rise resplendent from the spray. In Cintra's palace, in that ancient hall, Where pomps heraldic blaze along the wall, Brydges, of thee, her sire, I mused and sigh'd In mood censorious of thy lordly pride, And fond solicitude of jealous birth That earth should glitter o'er its kindred earth. Sudden her voice arose in soft reproof From tesselated floor to pillar' d roof; ELEGY ON THE SAME. 251 Back on my heart the meek remonstrance fell, And hush'd the censure with its filial spell. Where curved Mondego rolls through Coimbra's plains I read the tenderest of Camoens' strains ; By that famed rock where Inez' fountain flows, And letter' d marble breathes in verse her woes. A well-known form was near me when I read, And tears were gushing from the spectral dead ; Grriefs snatch' d by genius from the urn of years, Drew tears that fell into " the Fount of Tears." Thus still she haunts me wheresoe'er I roam. And cheats my exile with the ghost of home. One eve, again in Cintra's charmed bourne, Land of enchantment even for those that mourn, Midway I loiter' d up the craggy steep, A¥here myrtles bloom, where infant fountains leap ; Where the rich orange blends its flower and food, And rugged cork trees dwell on rocks as rude. In that dread humour of the prostrate mind When plaintless grief is but despair resign' d. Lorn as I sate, beside the Afric bath, She glided by me up the mountain-path ! ImpeU'd, I follow' d where the vision led, Clad as she was in raiment of the dead. 252 ELEGY ON THE SAME. On the tall peak she linger' d in her shroud, 'Tween Earth and Heaven like a silver cloud. When near I drew, with w^atchful look upraised, With eyes refidgent on the peak she gazed, A crag with lichens stain' d and hoary moss, And on its centre stood a reverend Cross ! One moment from my visionary guide The type of mercy drew my glance aside. And she had vanished ! I was all alone On the grey summit of that pile of stone ; Below, the sea expanded from the beach. The Cross of Marble stood within my reach — Emblems august for wretches that despond, Salvation near, Eternity beyond ! 253 ELEGY ON A YOUNG LADY WHO DIED AT TOEQUAY, FEB. 2, 1833. We weep with soften d grief the aged dead ; When the young die more bitter tears we shed : We quiver when the shroud- wrapt sleeper wears E/ich glossy locks instead of thin white hairs. Does startled Pity chide, then. His decree, Who said to Marian's soul, " Eeturn to me ? " Alas ! we mourn in impotence, we rave In ignorance and folly o'er the grave ! 'Tis selfish guilt to grieve for one so good. Though summon' d in the bloom of womanhood. Yet if so good, so modest, pure and kind, The harder lot for those she leaves behind : Her thoughts reflected all things fresh and fair ; Why so soon broken was that mirror rare ? Why was so just a standard thus denied To our observance ? We have lost a guide. Again we question, and in sin demur In sorrow for ourselves lamenting her. 254 ELEGY 0:N^ A YOUNG LADY. Eut Mercy, sentient to each human tear, Porgives, perhaps, what AYisdom frowns to hear. It was so lately in the month of June — June's leafy month, when birds were all in tune, All sweetest flowers in blossom, all sweet words, Pure as those flowers, and blithesome as those bnds, Mingling in gay confusion in the bowers Of Bronsil, haunt of children's happiest hours — It was so lately that I saw her j^r^jJ, "Where tender minds were by her virtues nurst ; There I beheld her to all hearts en dear' d. And fresh in health as the young plants she rear d. It was more lately, in the harvest moon, I last beheld her, to be mourn' d so soon ! Her cheek was mantled with a floral bloom, — Perfidious roses, blossoms of the tomb. A few short weeks ; the bland breath of Torbay Play'd on her brow as treacherous breezes play. A few weeks yet — she sleeps on Devon's shore The sleep that never shall be broken more, Till the dread voice of Judgment cries, " Behold ! How on your lives has l^er remembrance told ? In vain your words bewail' d her laid in earth. Unless your deeds exemplified her worth." 255 TO THE CITY OF FLOKENCE. — > — FlorEjS'ce — in mj waking dream, Arcli'd with rays through tears of gladness. Spanning Arno's famous stream — Florence, thou hast lost the gleam, The bow of Promise fades in sadness. For me no more shall Fancy's fingers Trace on Arno's silyer sands Names of heaven-inspired singers ; Painters old whose spirit lingers On the wonders of their hands ; Lords of art who gave to marble Form and voice and love divine, Faith that sceptics cannot garble, — Seraphs, iris-wing'd, that w^arble Eound the Medicean Shrine. 256 TO THE CITY OY FLORENCE. Nouglit but clouds on fancy thicken !From tliy once alluring vale, Where our northern blossoms sicken, Where the hope of love lay stricken, And the mother's heart grew pale. Where my friend, an English stranger. Had his dearest heart-strings wrench' d- Italy ! thou smiling danger, Could thy breath so darkly change her ? Can that loveliest light be quench' d ? When will Time this memory harden ? riorence, what to me art thou ? What but a forbidden garden. By a dread angelic warden, — Asrael of the placid brow, — Gruarded with a flaming sword, On whose sky-wrought blade is scored One bright name, too bright for me. And that name is " Emily." 25 Hr LINES COMPOSED IN THE ENGLISH BUEIAL- GEOUND AT* OPOKTO. I WEAE a smile upon my lip, I teacli my voice a careless tone. My cup of woe I lightly sip, JNor let its harsh contents be known. I will not droop to worldly eyes As if my grief their pity craves, Though here I breathe my lonely sighs, Within this solemn field of graves. Por mine are woes that dwell apart, And human sympathy reject ; Too sacred to the jealous heart To seek compassion's cold respect. 258 LINES COMPOSED AT OPOETO. But when such shades as these I find, Where nature fondly smiles on death, It checks the pulse, and soothes the mind To humour sorrow's plaintive breath. Praised be the hand whose skill contrived To make a Golgotha so fair ; While nature at the fraud connived, And lent her robe for deatli to wear. Within this pensive place of trees, This green elysimn for the dead. If I might now my fancy please I'd choose my own sepulchral bed. I think my spirit less forlorn Would feel, if it were certain now That when my heart should cease to mourn 'Twould sleep beneath a greenwood bough, Yain fancy ! can religion draw N'o thoughts of healthier sorrow bred, No life of death from nature's law. Within this garden sown with dead ? DIALOGUE- 259 That ill due season every seed. However deeply hid it lie, Will yet come up a flower or weed, Is seen by faith's prophetic eye. Weeds only are we all, alas ; But hence, by Christ's transforming power, No weed so mean but it may pass Through death to life and be a flower. DIALOGUE WITH THE DEPARTING SPIRIT OF A FRIEND'S CHILD. '' Emily, thou fair white child, Whither goest thou, Smiling as thy father smiled When he kiss'd thy brow ? " Thou art yet too young to roam, Tell me, maiden, whither ? ' ' " I but go from home to home, Hence ascending — thither : 260 DIALOGUE. (Heavenward with those light clear eyes Griancing, she replied :) " I go yonder to the skies, Marian my guide.'' '' Where is Marian, fair child ? " (Still she look'd above :) " "Waiting yonder with her mild Cheering face of love." '' Think how lone will Anna be — How forlorn thy brother — Wilt thou from thy father flee ? Wilt thou leave thy mother ? " (Downward then she look'd awhile Troubled and afraid ; But with arch and radiant smile Soon look'd up and said :) '' Tes, 'tis but one more good night- And when Grod gives warning, They will find me in the light Of eternal morning." 261 A DREAM OF DEATH AT SEA. Under tlie gannet's pillow Twenty fathoms deep, Under tlie dull green billow Of Finisterre I sleep. Be kind to my two young daughters For the sake of him who sends This voice from beneath the waters To all who were his friends. By Grrasmere's Lake their mother Eests among the dead ; Their father has found another And a wilder bed. Be the ban of a father's spirit, On those who would do them wrong ! And a blessing may they inherit Who are kind to his orphan young ! The Night of New Year's Eve, 1826. s 2 262 STANZAS. The clouds of wintry yesterday are gone ; The blue of Heaven is pale with light to-day ; Bright shines the morn as ever morning shone In southern vallies^ in the month of May. Green meadows bask beneath me ; all aroimd Are mountains brow'd with diadems of snow ; And Eotha dances w4th a silvery sound. At play with sunbeams, to the lake*^ below. Fair scene and sunny sabbath ! why this tear ? Alas, it is not Kydal Vale I see, Nor Eotha's spring-tide music that I hear, Nor Fairfield's crown of snow that shines for me. * Windermere. STANZAS. 26 Q Granada's circled plain is at mj feet ; Her monntains * tlieir eternal snows reveal ; And myrtled Darro t flashes down to greet And mingle yonder with the soft Xenil. And lo ! the magic palace of the Moor, The red Alhambra haunted by Eomance ; And Dora, spell-bound by delight as pure As ever trembled in a woman's glance. Hark to the nightingales ! they throng their lays ; JSTot one, but hundreds J hail the poet's child. O what a day was that ! Of Sabbath days The most divine that ever hope beguiled. * The Alpine range called Sierra Nevada, overlooking the City and Vega (plain) of Granada. t The Darro rises from the hill of myrtles, near Huetar, and ap- proaches Granada under the Monte Sacro. The walks on both sides of this swiffc arrowy river are dehcious. The Darro flows into the Xenil (pronounced Heneel with the li strongly aspirated — some WTite it Genii) below the Carrera, one of the Alamedas or public walks of Granada. The Xenil rises in the glaciers of the Sierra Nevada, and discharges itself, far away, at Ecija, into the Guadalquiver. X This is no extravagance : the groves on the banks of the Darro and Xenil are peojyled with nightingales, and the effect of their choirs of harmony in May is indescribable. 264 STAIN-ZAS. Strange contrast to the sound of Sabbath bells, That woodland music heard in Moslem halls ! Tet to her heart of holier things it tells, And dearer harmonies of prayer recalls. And where was Dora after one short year, "When flowers exhaled the May's delicious breath ? Not yet, not yet, on her untimely bier, But living, conscious, in the arms of Death.* flowers of Eydal, could ye bloom again ! The last lier mortal eyes were doom'd to see Were roses clustering at her lattice pane. The blossoms from her brother's funeral tree.f Ere three-score suns and ten, from May-day morn, Had risen and set on Kydal's lam^ell'd height. The radiant spirit which of Heaven was born, — For us too precious, wing'd to Heaven her flight. * That fatal illness began before Christmas, 1846, hardly six months after our return from Spain. In April, 1847, all hope was over, and she hneiv it! She expired on Friday, the 9th of July. t The rose-tree that climbs up the front wall of Rydal Mount to the windows of the room where she breathed her last, was planted there in memorial of her brother Thomas's death, and is called Thomas's tree. STANZAS. 265 "When thrice the folds in Grasmere Yale had vean'd,*' And April daisies bloom' d upon lier grave, A life broke down that would on hers have lean'd ; And sire to daughter , dust to dust, we gave. In these loved haunts, where all things have a voice That echoes to the bard's inspiring tongue, Where woods and waters in his strain rejoice, ^^ And not a mountain lifts its head unsung," Of Him the Tarns and Meres are eloquent ; The running waters are his chroniclers ; The eternal mountains are his monument. — A few frail hearts and one green mound are hers. " Mr. Wordsworth died in April, 1850, not quite three years after the loss of his beloved daughter, and was buried by h^ side in Grasmere churchyard. Kydal, Sunday, Feb'ruary 2ndj 1851. 266 ALONE. Alois^e ! no stir nor sound of life ; The house to day is all my own : And where art thou, my peerless wife ? Alas, alone. All joyous things are out among The flowers, this April morn so fair. And thou, whose heart was ever young, Art where, oh where ? A nest is in thy holly-tree, A red-breast chants amid the leaves ; The same that used to sing to thee On winter eves. The sunbeams through the casement peep And glint along thy chamber floor ; What seek they here ? thy morning sleep They break no more. ALONE. 267 A year ago so shone the spring Where faint mj blighted love was lying ; The buds could bloom, the birds could sing, "When thou wert dying. The river on Helvellyn born Euns, clear as at the fountain-head. Beside my door — as on the morn When thou wert dead. But with another voice it calls, A greeting to my soul addressed, Borne hither from the churchyard walls That guard thy rest. keen intolerable sense Of solitude in hopeless woe ! 1 will arise and bear me hence, But whither go ? Ah whither but to yonder knoll, So green beneath the dark yew-bough ? Whereof this river to my soul Is murmuring now. \ 268 ALONE. Eor thou art there, and thoughts are there That dwell not on less holy ground ; The lakeland knows no spot so fair As that green mound. There standings where I saw or heard The earth upon thy coffin thrown : I feelj so near my home deferr'd, Not all alone. April, 1818. THE END. BRADSUBY A>D K VAN S, PRI^TERS, WHITE IKIABS. J, R, TUTIN BOOKSRLLRR. 38, WATSfiwofiKS St. MUCL, I llf ^>i! I Wi