Cornell University Library PR 4735.H2M2 Madeline; with other poems and parables. 3 1924 013 476 902 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013476902 MADELINE OTHER POEMS AND PARABLES. THOMAS GORDON HAKE, M.D. LONDON- CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 1871. V. CONTENTS. MADELINE. Prologue Part I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. Epilogue PAGE I 13 '9 29 35 38 44 51 59 66 71 n 83 99 109 117 TALES. The Lily of the Valley The Deadly Nightshade Immortality Old Souls 127 140 149 157 Epitaph Contents. THE WORLD'S EPITAPH. I. On Art 169 II. On Music . . . . 171 III. On Poetry 172 IV. On the Storm of Life 173 V. On the Rainbow . . . • 17s Epode . . . . 176 VI. On the Sanctuary . . . 177 Epode . . . . 180 VII. On Nature 181 VIIL On Time 183 IX. On the Future . . . . 184 X. On the Soul . . . . 186 XL On the Soul 187 Epode 188 XII. On Glory .... 189 XIII. On Peace .... 190 XIV. On the Valley of the Shadow 191 Epode .... 192 XV. On Genius 193 Epode .... 19s XVI. On Departing Peace . 196 XVII. On Nature ■ 197 iVIII. On Life .... . 198 XIX. On Hope .... • 199 XX. On Thought . zoo Epode . 201 XXI. On the Seasons of Life . . 202 Epode . 204 XXII. On Passion . 205 Epode . 207 Contents. PAGE Epitaph XXIII. On the Nuptials . . . . 208 Epode . . . . ZO9 » XXIV. On the Siren . . . . 210 f9 XXV. On the Image . . . . 212 Epode . . . . . 213 „ XXVI. On the Infant at the Breast 214 JJ XXVII. On the Widow . . . . 215 Epode . . . . 216 jj XXVIII. On Pity 217 » XXIX. On the Bereaved 218 Epode 222 „ XXX. On Early Death 223 Epode . . . . . 224 J> XXXI. On the Deserted 225 )J XXXII. On Dissipated Youth . . . 227 Epode . . . . 228 ^J XXXIII. On Conscience . . . . 229 >^ XXXIV. On Slumber . . . . 230 „ XXXV. On the Pillow of the Wretched 231 Epode . . . . . 231 if XXXVI. On a Mother . . . . 233 Epode . . . . . 234 Epode . . . . 235 >y XXXVII. On the OxrrcAST . . . . 236 Epode . . . . 238 73 XXXVIII. On Charity . . . . . 239 Epode . . . . 240 XXXIX. On the Saint - - • • 241 Epode . . . . 242 XL. On the Sister of Mercy . . 243 vi Contents. PAGE Epitaph XLI. On the Statesman . . . 244 Epode . . . . . 245 XLII. On Old Age ... . 246 Epode . . . . . 246 XLIII. On Penitence .... 247 XLIV. On Madness . . . . 250 XLV. On Despair . . . .252 XLVI. On THE Struggle FOR Immortality 253 Epode . . . . . 253 XLVII. On Man 254 „ XLVIII. On Fate 256 „ XLIX. On Despotism . . . .258 „ L. On Pride ... . 259 „ LI. On the Prisoner . . .261 „ LII. On Remorse . . ... 262 „ LIII. On Hypocrisy .... 264 Epode ... . 265 LIV. On the Mask . . . .266 „ LV. On Self-Righteousness . . . 267 „ LVI. On Cunning .... 268 LVII. On Belief ... . . 269 Epode .... 270 LVIII. On the Death-eed of the Wise . 271 LIX. On the Philosopher . „ LX. On Delirium „ LXI. On the Close of Life . . 276 Epode . . ... 277 „ LXII. On the Chuchyard . . .278 LXIII. On the Tombs . . . . 280 LXIV. On Death . . .281 „ LXV. On the Resurgam . .283 273 274 MADELINE. MADELINE. PROLOGUE. VALCLUSA. A TWILIGHT breaks in tints of sober gray Between the last of night and first of day : The pallid dusk a straggHng horror brings On ebbing rush of midnight's ruffled wings. In Nature's absence^ by what hand is cleft This sleep asunder and this terror left ? Our eyeSj confused^ we all at once unclose^ To find each other severed from repose. What miss we wildly staring out of sleep While towards the dreamy side our senses keep ? 2 Madeline. The not long barren sky^ like spring-time, flowers; Its red and aureate bloom a perfume showers To mollify the scent of curdled gore, That what has been may seem to be no more. But no thin sorcery, skimmed off stagnant breath That fathoms deep lies gathered over death, Can put a deed aside and clear the track, Or drive the ghost-like memory of it back. Though silence bind the vale, the shining dews Have cleansed the sky and dropped the chilling news On silvery cobwebs, o'er the meadows spun To catch the fire-flies hatched upon the sun. The while we slept beneath the sorcerer's spell A deed was done that waked a wish in hell, A deed was done that startled paradise : Nor hell nor heaven recovers its surprise. The fresh done deed begins to canker time, Then be it fixed in some symbolic rhyme Ere yet too late, the traces too far spent To dedicate a song to its lament. Sweet as the pipe's, loud as the clarion's blast. There is a voice, heard oftenest in the past ; It warbles like a nightingale's whose thrill Shakes as a reed the honey-gurgler's bill, And sets the foliage rustling as it rings. While every bush has turned its leaves to wings : Madeline. 3 The voice of Nature^ never wholly spent ! Shall we invoke its notes for our lament ? Then throat to throat shall songsters rend the grove And share with us the trouble and the love ; Consenting rhymes shall touch the brink of bliss. And end each fairy couplet with a kiss. Ours be the rapture while to them belong The willing tones of this enchanted song. That so to distant streams the news disperse While culminates in love the modest verse. Or will the sickened Muse heaven's panpipe stop And in oblivion's mist the memory drop ? CHORUS OF NYMPHS. That voice, once heard, is mute. And stringless is the lute. The chords no more the note of love prolong That swept the cadent rhyme, And twice bemoaned a wrong : In pity and in chime. Lost too the choral lay Whose music once gave solace to the day. • Spirits no longer crowd the air That wistful bent, with finger on the lip, Sad thoughts to sip ; To cull the softer tones of harsh despair. B a 4 Madeline. VALCLUSA. A fearless sun rips up a crimson cloud. Of deeds fresh done in night the loosened shroud. He runs his course, too busy on his way To tell a tale of deeds not done in day, Or should he glare upon the hardening clot He plunges on, the secret heeding not. Though now man's blood attaints the breath of space Soon shall its fine evincement leave no trace : Be it assized, then, ere its aspect pale To match the simpler colours of the vale. Let us the heaving cause of conscience plead, Till the grand key-note sounded takes the lead ; The chorus lift till all the earth repeat To music's heart the palpitating beat. Let us evoke the souls whose bodies stay To yet identify the suflFering clay, Recal the voice that quivers like a tear Unable all its heaviness to bear, Recal the sobs all troubled as they fall ; Fragments of love, all feeling pain for all. CHORUS. What hand arrests the fire That lingers in the lyre ? Madeline. The nuptial strain of love and music wed Was rapture to the ear ; The fierce desires it fed To smite them with a tear. Who now partakes the spell ? Whom once it moved in sleepy marble dwell. A ripple dreams upon the rill Beside the Muses' tomb and murmurs not Of joys forgot, But to the dead imparts a deeper chill. Cold is the hand that smote The once melodious note Whose themeSj the pride and glory of the past, Yet stir the fount of love : The words that ever last In song immortal wove. O deep-toned Sympathy ! Where is the heart that cares for woman's cry ? A pity came from heaven of yore, When suppliant maid for safe asylum trod The floor of God, But now her hapless lot shall none deplore ! 6 Madeline. VALCLUSA. Be it our part, sweet nymphs, through second sight. To drag the deeds, now over, back to light. Let me declare the theme, while all around The hymn prolong, for this is hallowed ground. Here Sorga's stream is sacred as of old. Loved by the Muses : here the tale be told. But let us first to them address the vow : If they assist us smooth the verse shall flow. Should they impede us wayward must it stray. And gurgle wildly on its wavy way. CHORUS. ye who once redressed The wrongs of the distressed j Turned into pity by the crystal tear. Attune this verse to song 1 A sister's troubles hear. Ye who to heaven belong ! And may the anthem swell With deeper woe than that vexed child befel ! To terror may the strain arise. The warblings blended with her lover's cry As death sweeps by To claim him for the final sacrifice ! Madeline. The nymphs of Sorga sing : To heaven their voices cUng. Up to the Giver of all poesy Higher and higher wends The message through the sky. And Heaven the answer sends ! Who drink of Sorga's wave, Shall not in vain divine assistance crave. As eventide comes quickly on, The shade of sleep is followed by a beam. The shade of dream ; And Sorga's brook ascends to Helicon ! Sorga, O seat of Love 1 ^ The softest airs that rove The soul, with thee are set in unison ; But now by rustling waves That soul is hurried on ; A melody that raves Is mingled in its thrill. Not at the heart love's promise to fulfil. Thou noted brook that here abid'st, A rapture at thy brink thou waftest high. With frequent sigh, And to the heavens thy lowly lot confid'st 8 Madeline. VALCLUSA. Behold the ether opens clear and wide ; The mountain is before us in its pride. Above the pendant stream which glistens still, A torrent swells, now rushes o'er the rill ; Another spouts, it tracks the frothy way. To whence it fell returning back the spray. The joining waters through the forest dash, Torrents on torrents on the valley flash. Reclaim the dried-up gorge where pine and rock Lie under sentence of an earthquake's shock. Wedged in by stones and trees in mingled heaps, One billow eddies and another leaps ; One scoops the delf, another sweeps the wood, And bears all onward ; every wave a flood : A cascade now, and now a foaming spire. More fierce than flame these conquerors of fire. O glorious emblems sent us to display The human passions on their thoughtless way; Bent now on conquest, now with victory flushed. Now smooth as death — as motionless, as hushed. Yes, this is Nature, proudly as she chafes: The sign to her beloved the Muse vouchsafes. Heard is the prayer, deep-toned ; the answer felt ; Sent by the good before whose house we knelt. Madelirie. 5 Step forth, ungentle form. Who shak'st the unwieldy storm 1 Evoke thy actors marshalled to pursue Too far the lethal torch ; Its failing flame to rue At the sepulchral porch. Tread thou the troubled stage To move remorse, not anguish to assuage ! Graceless behind the scenes appear The mask, the timbrel, the wild fantasies Of wicked eyes. Is she divine who honours not the tear ? Shall her loose smile prevail, And none the lost bewail ? The woven thread of woe asunder snapped. Her hands above her head Like silent cymbals clapped To speed the youthful dead ! Shall slowly melting sorrow Be hustled into newly risen morrow ? Yet now the thong would one unlash. Let go the heart fresh leaping from its seat To freedom's beat; The soughingwinddrowned in the timbrel's crash. lO Madeline. CHORUS. Is now not heard a chaunt Within the sacred haunt ? A faltering echo falls into the pl^in To sweeten life below : The Muses wake again In its return and flow ! But why among the Nine Takes Comedy the lead in life divine ? Seen is her quaint and smiling face. While, as of old, her genial look extends O'er all that ends. To cheer the world with its bewitching grace. The grieving, absent gaze When lost in dreamy maze. She measures with the meaning of her eyes. If with the tear she pleads. The smile upon it lies. All joy in heaven she leads I She mimics human rage With cheeks that burn and shrivel up to age. While yet the holy laughter rings. And when with sorrow and its kindred ills Her mould she fills. About the cast her gladsome spirit clings. Madeline. Her tones an echo start Within the silent heart. The gnawing worm the warder of that cell Beneath her look recoils ; And, stiffening in the spell. Ends its eternal toils. She throws up souls at play, And wins them life for yet another day 1 She lights on truth as by surprise. What tongue-tied Nature artfully conceals Her laugh reveals : Mirth for the simple, wisdom for the wise. No cloud with fleecy rim Her face serene can dim, Nor give her brow a transitory shade. Nor, save in mockery. Can fear that face invade, Or sadness dull that eye. Prophetic is her gaze ; No portents sent as omens, her amaze. She takes the choice of loss and gain 1 Let human love be offered up to vice In sacrifice. She snatches pleasure from the bed of pain. II 1 2 Madeline. To the seduced who grieve Their error to retrieve, Yet sink in sin and sorrow till they die. She knows the magic art, Not Nature to deny. But rapture to impart. The deeper set the wrong. The nobler glow the thoughts that round it throng. The ills of life she reconciles. In scornful words that tragedy transcend. Yet oddly blend In the infection of her dubious smiles. All ending well at last. Into her net is cast. She tangles rage within the lyric strain : To some she gives the song, To some the soft refrain Its burden to prolong. They hymn the sister's fate ; The love-worn tale of terror they relate : They act the parts, to Nature true. Till sunset gathers and expiring day Breathes its last ray, This dream investing in its sombre hue. Madeline. 13 VALCLUSA. Were they the shadeless figures of a dream By fancy lighted at the silver beam ? A broken moon bends over us asleep ; One half above^ one sunken in the deep. Or were they shadows of the golden ray That graced our eyes at last decline of day ? Yet as the leaf and flower our vision stain And, once beheld, for evermore remain, So has this tale our senses overgrown, To be like Nature evermore our own. A maid too fair to own a better fate. Her thirst of love quenched in pernicious hate ; At eve seduced, upon the morrow roused To maiden shame amid the disespoused ; Was Madeline, whom all spirits glorify Above the vestals who unblemished die. 14 Madeline. This end achieved by him whose hidden arts A jealous power to intellect imparts : A sage who watched for Nature's fickle mood To bend her adverse attitude to good. But who of Hermes oft has not heard tell. The sorcerer whom this partial lot befel ? He knew all spirits, nymphs who still frequent These streams whose mainspring is the firmament. Or who, translated to another sphere, Still their lost world to ecstasy revere. One, Daphne named, he loved ; on one same field Pale-wise their hearts were set as in a shield. Her birth, eventful deemed by loving eyes That looked upon it through the anxious skies ; Her sudden flight, called up lest heart so fond So soon to love should reach the pang beyond ; All this, euphonious metre let express, And mortal ears with thoughts of her address. Let us recal, though little time below She stayed her first affections to bestow, Let us recal to life her happy face. That seemed with heaven for ever changing place ! CHORUS. This is the vale whose name, Dear to the lists of fame, Madeline. 15 Valclusa bears ; the secrets locked in sleep Are here divulged to all : How some in slumber weep Though ills may not befa! ; How some by dreams are bent On anger adverse to their soul's intent. How some with eyes fast shut converse ; How some with every sense but one confin'd Within the mind, Their lily hands in human gore immerse. VALCLUSA. Within this happy vale Is Sorga's bed — the tale Valclusa tells, herself a happy bride; Her time one joyous day. She lingers by its side And whiles her life away. Now hear Valclusa's dream : It shall light up the banks of Sorga's stream. Queen of the Nymphs whose fadeless charms Bathe in the spring that sparkles through her fields. She rapture yields In sweet embrace to Sorga's constant arms. Rocks that the blood congeal The river-god conceal. i6 Madeline. He rushes forth enamoured of her grove. In eddying light he glides, And ever with his love In ecstasy abides. Nymphs thence their days begin And life, not mortal, from her bosom win. Behold in every leaping beam That sucks the wave, a spark of life has clomb Valclusa's womb. Baptised at birth upon her native stream. Sorga is never still ; The banks partake its thrill. Enchanted clumps of laurel arch its sky. And cool the rushing glades, As souls from Nature fly To these protecting shades. 'Twas here a moon-lit wave Daphne, the laurel nymph, her being gave. With sighs that waft contagious fire, Hermes beheld her in the light of love That filled the grove ; And taught her earth^s affections on his lyre. Daphne her simple name. Not she of classic fame Madeline. 17 Whom the young god, beholding with desire. Pursued from east to west, ) And with too hot a fire The virgin charms carest. Dissolving her in flame, A laurel only to preserve her name ; Not she, but one as undefil'd ; In virgin thought and chastity of heart Her counterpart ; Of river-god and earth, like her, the child. CHORUS. The fiery god whose days Were scantier than his rays. No more with arts, though in full lustre orbed, Unwary nymph allures. Nor, in himself absorbed. Her simple love conjures j Let only to display His grace and beauty to the light of day. For Fate was crowded in the cast. Consigning gods to sepulchres divine. To ever shine As monuments of power that ruled the past. c 1 8 Madeline. As once, in heaven-fought wars, No longer clash the stars, But sweep the endless orbits, each apart, Still fiefs of hidden Fate, Whom nothing lives to thwart. Whom none can penetrate. Imaged in bold relief As more than Nature's independent chief. Is now the influx of a wave. Where floats a new and solitary throne, For One alone. His turn wide Nature's suffrages to brave. Madeline. 19 II. VALCLUSA. Why in that breast of tepid clay, whose shape The soul assumes to soon or late escape, Didst thou, O Hermes, thy affections train : For constant joy can never there remain ! In Daphne's image why thy soul attire. To waste away in impotent desire. To wait, as others wait whom death assails. For unreturning hope whose errand fails ? Thou diest, so canst not parley with the fair Who touch not what they tread on, earth or air : They see thy face, O Hermes, they admire Thy human vastness, thy enrapturing fire. They see thy form with eyes they cannot wean ; They hear thy voice, thy voice's cadence glean, Though not with ears that deafen in the blast. Though not with hearts that vanish in the past, c 2 20 Madeline. O Hermes, rather faint than so infect Thy soul with love's immortal dialect ! We die not who hold converse in its strain, Though like to thee beset with other's pain : But thou wilt in the midst of it expire And leave behind its uttermost desire. Shouldst thou the love of nymph immortal win, Thy loss exceeds the penalty of sin : That, time condones, erasing with a blot ; But love eternal man recovers not. Unless perchance he bear a thousand pains Before a foretaste of delight he gains. While we exist for only life's excess. Born happy to live on in happiness. Now are the hours alone ; They mourn for Daphne gone. Nature the silent obsequy attends When spirits pure depart, And some slight token sends Consoling to the heart. But Daphne's days begun, She took fond leave of earth at set of sun, , And went on the returning beams. With holy art to decorate above The dome of love, And paint its sober disc with coloured dreams. Madeline. ai Hermes loved her alone ; Daphne the only one. Ideal rapture, that consumes in fire All utterances of thought, All breathings of desire, The only dower she brought. Nature is sad around : A mourning voice that utters not a sound 1 Where w^as the tenant of his mind ? In every laurel with a love divine He saw her shrine : An empty heaven by Daphne left behind. CHORUS. But now was Daphne's part To tend the broken heart ! As in her hand a vase some vestal bears, — On its translucid glow Her finger's shade appears, As there to stanch the flow ; For love itself she saw Ooze at the irremediable flaw. And still against her breast she kept The broken heart, its bursting love to stay, Its smart allay. As at the well of sympathy it wept. 32 Madeline. Her sisters, fair and bright, Within the arch of light Depict earth's sorrow on the canopy, And graceful hours beguile. That angels, passing by. May sadden as they smile. Her sisters, born of day To gild humanity and pass away. Are there the well-known sigh to tend, — The earnest part of mortal man's alloy, Though not his joy, — And in the distant choir its sweetness spend. Begot as fancy broods In Nature's dreamy moods, On them the world imprints its early trace. They wear a look of love In sadness on their face. To plead man's griefs above. Like Daphne, good and fair, Children of joy though natives of despair. Art dwells in their seraphic eyes. Transposing all they gaze upon with pain. To that vast plain Which holds the drifted glory of the skies. Madeline. 23 VALCLUSA. These days in heaven begin Without a wish to sin. Thence Daphne^ by no wayward fancy led, Her wondering look bestows On tears by woman shed, And so all pity knows. O symbols of distress ! Why hide your meaning from the angel's guess ? But no repining heart replies, While anguish that no likeness has above. Is borne for love That brighter burns the surer that it dies. Her eyes meander long Her olden haunts among. At length they spy a woman on the road. With looks beset with fear : No place to rest the load That broken hearts must bear. Not one for pity's sake Her single sorrow willing to partake. Madeline the name the wanderer bore. Told to the sky above, to earth below. For all to know Her maiden name accorded her no more. 34 Madeline. CHORUS. Shall, then, no hand of love. Save only that above. Alight with healing touch the wound to hide ? No gentle breath be nigh, Like comfort at her side. With sigh to mingle sigh O'er the soul-setting blush ? That shadow virtue casts herself to crush ! O for a voice, a single tone To move the lover in his steadfast pride Toward that sweet bride, And soothe the power to vengeance slowly prone ! VALCLUSA. Not wedded to his lore Should man his help implore. Was Hermes, summoned now his prince to brave. To brook his cold disdain. The innocent to save From virtue's mystic stain. Unknown to earthly power. His utmost gift as yet the poet's dower, The prince in terror held his race. And barred at his approach the castle-gate. Until too late To snatch the victim of defiled embrace. Madeline. 25 Those turrets old as war Outvie the heights afar. A potentate wields all their dreaded power. Inherits all their frown ; Lord of a conqueror's tower : Upon his brow a crown. Armour, deserted shell. Behind whose vizor ghostly heroes dwell. Haunts every nook in mute array ; Skulls drive their antlers through the upper space. And hail the chase : Ensigns of peace and war on holiday. How long outlast man's life These weapons of his strife ! On iron arm the battered shield is slung That broke the axe's fall ; On iron hands are hung Spears pointing to the wall. The helmet's shivered crest Records the blow that gave a spirit rest. Here link to link of woven chain. There scale to scale, is mailed coat, akin To serpent's skin, Cast by the young in haste of battle slain. 36 Madeline. In carved and gilded case, Rare relics of a race^ Bestowed with care, their fabled story tell. The empty tankard stands. As if beneath a spell. In fast tradition's hands. The gentle crucifix With it and baser emblems deigns to mix. In panels hung, to likeness true. Are saints and soldiers, counting back their crimes To farthest times, With dauntless eyes that outrage still pursue. Oft there did Hermes' feet A lively welcome greet : Nor now the prince could long deny a name Whose praise the nations spoke. Whose words like waves of flame On every listener broke. But lawless love had lit The prince's breast, and yet must ravage it. Could words avert its blind intent. Could they instate, where fed a lustful fire. The just desire. Or set a bound to his impetuous bent ? Madeline. 37 Still at no distant day, — More earnest by delay, — The poet greets the despot face to face. With look that look refutes : With less than wonted grace His eye the crime imputes. And then comes sense of right To wrestle, singly, with a ruler's might. What though with honest prayer he try To touch the icy heart, as with the rays Of summer days ; A frozen shield can radiant souls defy. O Waste of Words ! how guile Can cross thee with a smile ; Thy storms repress, thy thunder-signs deride. Thy lightning-stroke repel. And turn its flash aside, Though vengeance it foretel ! But had some prophet raved His oracles had not the victim saved. So high the sphere of his estate. The prince heard, unabashed, the words that blame, To bring no shame. And Hermes he dismissed with courteous hate. a8 Madeline. What hand outstretched shall move The heart to beat in love ? This Hermes asks of tower-embattled skies. Beyond where banners float. Below he bends his eyes. A vision fills the moat : No hand outstretched to save ; Skies, tower-embattled, trembling with the wave. The absent hand he understood ; The sign was given, of it the portent found. That he should sound The bearings of a yet unfathomed flood ! Madeline. ig III. VALCLUSA. When sages speak how graceful is debate ; Their words the ministers, themselves the state. As heaven disposes so the work is done, The trust consigned to human hands alone. But where the prince, propped up with equal might For good or harm, who bends himself to right ? Yet on the meanest scenes that pass below May Heaven her utmost vigilance bestow. With constant aid the weaker may surprise. The more when man the wrong cannot chastise. Then Nature's rule may make a solemn pause. And Heaven insert her peremptory clause. So is it now ; the titled Sire who reigns. For one brief hour a puny struggle feigns. Not in a word his wonders he creates ; Not in a word his works he desolates. 30 Madelme. Yet if once slow to choose a fitting site For worlds that number now the infinite. There may be days when seeming to vacate A home so far, so kingly an estate. He journeys thence to cast a tyrant down. And turn to dust his sceptre and his crown. In storms of fire, as lightning's aspect stern That many orbs his orders may discern. In storms of light, the lightnings split in twain That man may seek his purposes in vain. Kind in his ire, the harmless dove he spares ; His bounty with the lone and helpless shares. When rains descend, when to and fro are driven Tempests of spray from kindred waters riven, When sulky night herself the earth invest. He turns the half-fledged sparrow in its nest. So now a harvest droops, now lowers a sky. And air sails under stress of sorcery. Meteors let loose, from their allegiance rush ; The paler planets like the redder flush ; The shut-up lava-spouts resume their scope. And mortal dread is in the place of hope. Yet farther off", beyond the golden belt Of habitable heaven, a doom is felt. Nymphs, angels now, who earth remember well. Are moved to tears by the prevailing spell. Madeline. 31 As when the wind from o'er the mountain flows Man weeps and yet no cause for sorrow knows, Tears from their sobered hearts, spontaneous flung, Course down their cheeks as fast as pearls unstrung. So dense the blight the very angels mope : And Daphne knows the sudden loss of hope. Unused before to feel the drag of doom. She paces heaven as in a convent-room, Till her sad thoughts towards Madeline oscillate. And point at her, the loadstone of her fate. By Eden's drooping site. Fit scene of many a rite. Freighted with doom by Nature's titled Sire, A star was on its road Bristling with quills of fire 'Neath its unwonted load, — As if the orb of day Drove night before it on the solar way. The magi, from their holy hill Looked up towards Oromasdes' paveless seat, — Unreached retreat ! Prompt to observe and minister his will. Then, mystic figures ran Across the talisman. 32 Madeline. While travelled past that meteor of fire^ The symbol pure and blessed Of Nature's titled Sire, To the elect addressed. They followed it with eyes Fixed on its glory as it clove the skies : At length the marvel, boding good. Rested above, enconing half its glow On all below, While over Hermes' lowly home it stood. " Since thy bright horoscope Reflects wing-gifted hope Where glory wanders ; where its toils expire For ever-growing j oy. And infinite desire That earth cannot alloy ; We bear thee great reward : ' From Oromasdes to the new-born bard !' We (so they spake) thy genius greet ! We, the proud magi of an ancient creed. To meet thy need, Lay now our priceless offerings at thy feet. " The East, that fades not, wears An aspect of old years. Madeline. ^2 The empty crater, the ash-littered mount. But more, the legend rife That here was Nature's fount, Her crucible of life. Ere yet extinct the spells Wherein the magic of creation dwells. To man in sad rehearsal plead j The more that now his days are hoary grown. And youth is flown : Gone first, the avant-courier to the dead. " Skies soft as amethyst, Where floats the golden mist, (As when the order of man's days began). Shower down the planet's rays To gild the talisman While the magician prays. And with their influent gleams Transfix the coruscating disc with beams. Through this the magian works the charm To speed a noble sorrow, or consign To stars malign The cruel heart that asks another's harm. " Skilled in all magic gear. The blazoned seal we bear. 34 Madeline. By its occult divinings, not for ill, The inmates of the grave Are subject to our will ; Beneath the naked wave The passionless who sleep, As past their bier the breaking waters creep. Give up their startled souls in fright At its enchantments ; hurried from their rest At our behest. And in pale terror visioned on the night. " On this true talisman. Fate's pre-concerted plan And the celestial circle harmonise. On it the clusters burn That nightly set and rise. And in their orbits turn. So let its magic spell Henceforth in thee as in the planets dwell !" Thus spake the magi and the prize Gave up that from a distant land they bore. Fraught with a lore Of times to come transcending man's surmise. Madeline. 35 IV. CHORUS. Can such a tale of love Fail human hearts to move ? Have not the old a tear for Madeline ; For the frail infant riven From virtue's ancient shrine And into exile driven ? A wanderer with her shame, In far-off lands she hides her maiden name ! The young may stray ; O break their fall, Not the weak soul its nursery expel If it rebel. But take it back ere lost beyond recal ! VALCLUSA. The watchful angels crave That lovely soul to save. D 2 36 Madeline. Said Daphne : " Hermes once my love desired : Nor would my wish deny, — By nobler love inspired, — To fetch her to the sky." This thought her peace devours ; It wings with sympathy the new-born hours. Nor vain the web of grace it wove : She held the thread that turned at ebb of tide A fate aside, To drag the drowning from the wreck of love. CHORUS. Let drop no word of scorn On Madeline the forlorn, But mourn her ; yet her name may be divine ; Her sin may be condoned : There is a Madehne Among the saints enthroned. This earthly flower, so fair. Exhaled a perfume as it rode the air ; In modesty was hung its head. But one who saw the early bud expand Put out his hand And plucked the nestled germ ere it had spread. Madeline. 37 VALCLUSA. Then Daphne's sweet desire Was flashed on Hermes' lyre^ Whose throb replied : To Madeline's succour hie ! She of celestial race Who wished for once to die, As saints have done in grace, Leaves heaven without a sigh To bear young Madeline back with her on high. Rejoicing in her course she chose The poet's soul for her nativity, To live and die Environed by his glory to the close. She long had pined in vain To share in woman's pain. With longings that in virtue only burn ; To taste for once of death, And share the poet's urn ; And share the withered wreath. Now, her loved task to keep A soul pursued in waking and in sleep. She blushed into the poet's sight. Born at the moment to the good decreed ; The hour of need ; Cleaving with luminosity the night. 3 8 Madeline. V. VALCLUSA. Now with a sense that opens on the space Of scenes too far for vision to retrace, Shall Hermes with his spells half Nature bind, At least where laws run counter to his mind. He bids the wheel of fate make half a round : How many hearts fall palsied on the ground ! But one which in its socket quivers still, Adverse to justice and its grinding will, Hermes reserves for yet one more appeal. Ere the last writ of fate receive its seal. Then shall the wheel, which at his order turns, Crush the hard heart that human nature spurns. It was the hour of night When stars defer their light. Madeline. 39 And moons to some far hiding-place retire, But in the poet's mind Leave all their dreamy fire. There, paths the comets find ; There, suns that rule the day- Extend the utmost uses of their ray. There angels, wont his soul to range. Pass in and out; perhaps to where they stray The nearer way; And in abstraction lost scarce note the change. Nor know they how to hide The thoughts on which they glide, Their inmost visions opened to his eyes With all the love they dream : Heaven's fondest reveries Allowed on him to gleam. The story in their face. The poet's simple task its plot to trace. It tells itself from first to last. And in their heart he reads the episode. Its blest abode, That bids them on their errand wander past. Though night all else devour It is the poet's hour. 40 Madeline. All sinking Nature singly to sustain, He things anew creates ; But haunted still by pain That never dissipates. And summoned still by sin. While rapt discourse and minstrelsy begin. As the world's splendour sinks away, And drowsy mortals in the drug of sleep Their senses steep, He gathers up the fragments of a day. Nor in those solitudes Madeline his sight eludes. She pensive leans against the baffling blast. While only he is left To watch, to pray, to fast. To mourn for the bereft. Sustained by love, he pours The wisdom of his soul along the hours To save her from a worse estate ; While her the warning mocks to sin no more. And long deplore The one false step that made her desolate. In that bewildering storm He viewed her half-nude form. Madeline. 4 1 She poured out no lamentj but sorely weptj As woman only weeps O'er others' vows unkeptj While hers she fondly keeps, And at her heart retains. The more another's pride her love disdains. To save her, not as man provides, For heaven to every human aim appends Her private ends, The envied task to Daphne he confides. So comes this sylph of song Where earth's fair daughters throng Their virgin hours in chastity to spend ; The passions, as they glow. With holiness to blend, And turn from life below. They breathe their first desire Like angels with an evangelic fire. But soon or late, with loving arms. Accept a partner in the dance of sin. To death begin. And drift away from heaven's dissolving charms. In tinted marble shaped, In tinted vesture draped, 42 Madeline. Leans Daphne's statue o'er her natal stream, When, like the northern light Filtering through evening's dream, Her face grows rosy bright. The wings irradiate, And ever as they glow new soul create. " Behold," said she, " I come again By thy consent, to beckon artless vice To paradise. And link by link whirl back its broken chain." The poet scarce replies. Yet thinks how soon the ties Are loosed that bind an angel to her home. Though with a silent pride. That echoes worlds to come. He sees her sorrov/s bride. " Ah ! sad," said he, " the day : Madeline, like thee, from home is far away. But, brooding over woes untold. She sits in mourning like a haughty saint Without complaint, Roofless as pilgrims in the time of old." Meantime his heart that strove With a seditious love, Madeline. 43 Did he deny its rapture to betray. To more tiian mortal gain The angel points the way : Nor his vexed heart in vain To charity had grown, And to another's woes subscribed its own. Enlisted in the sacred cause, His love is on the altar, where, like gusts, All mortal lusts. By holiness surprised, for ever pause. 44 Madeline. VI. VALCLUSA. Genius of heart, that fags and never tires, The source of all beneficent desires. That not for love's award in beauty lives, Or those delights wrhich wealth or glory gives; Not lured to sip an angel's tepid kiss Lest the mild rapture reach forbidden bliss : Why thus from selfish joys thy spirit turn. While yet for others' good its cravings burn ? Man for himself an ample treasure hides Ere for his meanest neighbour he provides. In charity both rise and set thy days. And so thy ways transcend all others' ways. Nature thy sister rather than thy spouse. In purity sustains thy noble house. Madeline. 45 Be there abodes above the untouched sky, Of these soft filtering vales the canopy. Beyond the lofty shrine whereby our eyes Are drawn up in half-conscious reveries Whereof we find no purpose, yet adore, Nor care, when freed, their meaning to explore ; Be there abodes for which must ever pine A sacred heart endowed with love like thine, May'st thou ascend, embalmed in sweets and spice. And better life attain in paradise ! Now that her sandalled feet The earth's chill surface meet, Is Daphne conscious of her heart's rebound. It pulsates in the fear. That hems a virgin round. Of dangers ever near, Some that the darkness hides. Some that the conscience to the soul confides. And she must shudder with the dread Of ghostly passions, visitants of sleep. In forms that weep j And do harsh penance in another's stead. On angel-errantry Proudly she takes the sky. 46 Madeline. Soaring she kens with large-eyed glance a seat Where steps like wave on wave A portal seemed to beat ; Where few admittance crave. There sat a girlish form Wrecked on a convent by the driving storm. Her fingers shaped in beauty's dream Languished in grief, of all their play bereft. As in their cleft They held a cheek, the bed of sorrow's stream. Her arms like columns fair Were shrouded by her hair. As the torn ivy hangs disconsolate, The locks were tossed and blown. And beat against the gate A music of their own. Youths hurrying by the spires That upward point the frigid nun's desires From cloistered hearths to skies that burn. Pause at her charms as things put in their way For pleasant play. Easy to take as easy to return. Before that convent gate No suppliant she sate ; Madeline. 47 Her sins as yet for penitence too few. Her lover's ciierished wiles On her their spell renew, And stop but when she smiles. An interval of pain, And they rehearse their witchery again. Deep lies the well of misery, But deeper still its spring that yet must flow Through rocks below. Till sorrow's source has run its waters dry. With gentle words that strove To feign the voice of love. Intoned in other tongues to pity's sound. Youths stopped their suit to press, To open wide her wound. To prey on her distress. Not long their wit they task To find she little dreams of what they ask ! No providence their steps decreed To solace or seduce the broken heart. And they depart ; Leaving to droop and die the bended reed. Vice in a tongue unknown Now claims her for its own. 48 Madeline. But on a rack her soul already lies Its torture to endure. Nor shall love's votaries Its tainted use procure. They feel for her distress Yet sigh to damn her more, themselves to bless. But to enticing gestures blind. Her eyes are fondly sunk in memory's pit, To fathom it. And in its cheerless gulf her lover find. And as she sits unmoved, So loving, so unloved. And lone as only love can lonely be, The youths walk to and fro. And turn her face to see. And ask for yes or no. Too mild in words to chide. With piteous glance her eyes she opens wide. See they in hers a sister's end ? The dread strikes home and they return no more, Smit to the core, Lest equal shame on their own house descend. CHORUS. And must she now, still pure. The shocks of vice endure ? Madeline. 49 O that her ears could to her soul disclose The one once loving sound 1 But farewell now repose Except in holy ground ! Let her the vigil keep Till at the grave her heart sinks into sleep, And her last tears put out its flame. Then shall the reddened eyes be turned to stone ; And grief alone In marble live to weep her mortal shame. VALCLUSA. Must the deserted one Be ever thus alone ? Not if her soul emerge again from night To face its former pride. To question it aright And its resolves abide ! Akin to her distress The weeping sky pours on her Its caress ; And she, so beautiful in form. Drips like a naiad watered by a cloud ; Her spirit proud Baited by gusts set at her by the storm. 50 Madeline. But why should she complain ? The lilies bear the rain. And courteous earth absolves the heaven of wrong. Will no kind sky restrain The lowering thoughts that throng To flood her breast with pain ? Above the mountain crests. Above the storm, the watchful angel rests. The mists aside their curtain throw j Her glance descends and like the lightning's ball Pursues its fall. And Madeline's face illumines in its glow. Madeline. 51 VII. VALCLUSA. Be memory the soul that dieth not Lest love, the only joy, should be forgot. Be memory the life beyond the grave That beareth hence the little it would save. Then Madeline surely saw all anguish close; Saw love as one who from the dead arose. Pure is the Alpine snow ; Not night can hide its glow : Self-luminous along the rayless waste 1 Yet eyes than frosted light More lustrous and more chaste. On Madeline pour their sight. Round her the angel flings Two loving arms, while droop two silvery wings. E 3 52 Madeline. Still Madeline all that love repels. Though it was missed beyond the firmament, Whence it was sent To save for heaven the favourite who rebels. Madeline, still sick and chill, Was prone to brood on ill ; But not for this an angel's love she spurned : A shame, with eyes abashed. Her cheeks to hectic turned. And through their pallor flashed. Then spoke with artless skill That draws a weaker to a firmer will, The looks that mourn a soul's distress. Nor words, though more than syren-like their strain. Can tell again The epithets that holy eyes express ! And these could Madeline bear, Still unreleased the tear ? Yet why renew the sympathetic tie If hope in her be dead ? Her soul's sad malady To one so taintless spread ? More easy to impart The sure infection than allay its smart ! Madeline. 53 So thought she volubly, so spoke Within her soul, that tablet which records The silent words. At length the noiseless dialogue she broke. " Not like to mine thy race ! Thy steps imprint no trace. Mine sink into the mire ; an outcast's feet Their naked stamp betray The curious eye to greet, Though lonesome be their way. Yet was I never poor Till he who loved me forced my father's door. Thou knowest the tale of my disgrace : The ruby ring that this wan finger wore His image bore. Now pale its glow and dim its living face. " O messenger of love Thy gentle arms remove ! Not all thy purity can re-engraft The flower that buds no more ; Not all thy heavenly craft Its virtue can restore. Ah blest were it to lie Upon thy neck, these eyelids close, and die ! 54 Madeline. Few tears these spendthrift eyes can spare. Alone the ways of confidence are sweet When equals meet : But joy and sorrow little have to share. " Leave me that I may rove Unwatched by others' love, And drag my load of life from all away, To every eye unknown. Leave me alone to stray. Till death shall take his own. No blush can then retrace The crimson cloud that drifts before my face. Nor more the pallid cheek assail. In kindness leave me to resign my breath Alone to death ; In solitude of soul his coming hail ! " From home I turn my face Where tears my name displace. Here is the vagrant welcome to a tomb, With her memorial shame Inscribed within her womb: Beyond the reach of blame. O leave me on this spot ; Or where I yet may wander, follow not ! Madeline. 55 For thou art decked in newest light ; A pity in thine eye that ever dwells Thy nature tells : Not death's cold angel on her downward flight ! " Leave me^ yet with thee take, For both my parents' sake, This broken heart, to them its love return. Be thou its sanctuary. Be thou its vital urn ; But leave me here to die. No child to them is left : Of honour robbed of all are they bereft. And if their prayer by thee be blest. And they their child have asked thee to restore. Return no more Till thou canst say her spirit is at rest. " guardian of my home, Say not that thou hast come To lead me hence : my father's voice I hear And dread its stifled tone ! My mother's love I fear When left with her alone ! On death my prayej remains. That they may weep once more then end their pains. 5^ Madeline. And couldst thou to the loved again His peace of mind restore, when I am dust, In heaven his trust ; Then should immortal hope my end sustain." As dreams o'er conscience sweep Ere closed the gates of sleep ; As winds the flooded meadow brush along Where water-blossoms bloom, She poured her raptured song, And wailed her maiden doom. Within the angel's ear ^ank deep the words, to her than heaven more dear. Madeline had told her tale again. But now the choking, intermittent sob With piteous throb. Drowns in its swell the current of her pain. As thus her heart repines On Daphne she reclines. Now with a gasp she yields her panting breath. Now in rehearsal slow Repeats the sigh of death : Life's ending ebb and flow. O'er her the angel bends To learn how ever-sobbing languor ends : Madeline, 57 She fears the life may suffer wreck, And gHde, unconscious, past its level brink, To sink and sink. Until the universe seem but a speck. Madeline has ceased to stray Along the conscious v^^ay. She sinking lightly on oblivion's car, With loosened reins her palm Entangled, as afar She skims the ethereal calm. Her yet tremendous fate No obstacles betray, no dreams relate : But hushed in that mysterious sleep. Her passions in unbroken billows rest, Nor foams their crest : Forbade to stir on the enchanted deep. Now safe across the bar. No shoals her course to mar. The soul has rest, that daily else must die. And as its living flame Within the tomb may lie -To answer to its name. Her body she enshrouds Beside the tempest in the passing clouds, — 58 Madeline. Those cerements of a troubled night ! So takes she part with universal rest, And like the blest Her inner temple guards with lamp and light. Becalmed the moments creep ; Her tears drop off, asleep. Her couching eyelids fringe the placid cheek. A holy fervour feeds Her bosom orbed and meek : The peace her spirit needs. The giver of all alms With thrill of strange delight her heart embalms. Like music on the wane^ she drops Into a wondrous pause, and, full of life Without its strife, Absorbs the bliss of heaven while being stops. Madeline. 59 VIII. VALCLUSA. Now clinging ice-like are those marble arms To Daphne's neck, while Daphne's bosom warms Both hearts, and both to sympathy confides : With twofold grace from death the dying hides. The bard exults in that benign embrace : Madeline with peace eternal face to face. He turns his eyes, obstructed by a tear. On scenes she shared, a stranger then to fear. Now such as in a dream the glance retakes When at a passing thought the past awakes : Returned from sleep again the pleasance seen, Yet still the past, the something which has been. But as in body she is far removed From him who robbed her, far from scenes she loved. So her seducer gives to her no thought, But masked in revels sets her woes at nought. 6o Madeline. Through her inured yet more to virgin pain, He plots the like immaculate to stain ; His riper vows on innocence to thrust : The purer found, the sweeter to his lust. So fresh affections dreams he to decoy, And swell the numbers ever lost to joy ! But now a warning hand is raised to strike, And Heaven, who governs justly all alike. Scatters a misty blight that gathers round. Than lust more deadly, denser than the ground ; A blight that in the east like fog begins, But is a remnant of man's early sins. No moon stands half-way towards the seat of war Unseen the lazulite and inlaid star, Along the sable-blue no spark betrays The candid halo of so many rays. Heaven has retired, mankind to stupefy Like heaps of wretches buried ere they die. As if despair had grown within the land Erect in night the bristled forests stand j The leafless boughs like arms dart into space, To feel their way while death comes on apace; The waters hide their flow, their murmurs hush, For silence hearkening, conscious of its gush. A one last light remembered, from that spot Irradiates the universal blot, Madeline. 6 1 That none may look upon their future home : The sky dismantled like a cindered dome. One heavenless depth where souls may laugh or pray : From God to man a silence all the way. Illustrious for crime Through centuries of time, Its sanctuary the moated castle rears ; But there no memory weeps : The drudgery of tears Scorned by the lord who sleeps. Dreams he a poet's powers Can rule him in his solitary towers ? Now summoned to atone for sin Harsh incantations reach him from afar With threats of war, Whose harbingers the sullen strife begin. To those who truly grieve The world yields some reprieve : It shares a slumber where all censures end. To those who ought to weep Can that same world extend The liberty of sleep ? Her once fond lord might tell ! As Madeline sank to rest a meteor fell 62 Madeline. From tower-embattled skies, and shone Upon the waters that his home intrenched ; Within them quenched : Circling the billows in their spreading zone. Within those towers remote The drowsy lord it smote ; The shores of sleep uprooting from repose. As Madeline sank to bliss. On him the waves arose. In their retreating hiss He hears the knell of fate, And its far echo, woman's dreaded hate. He listens to the distant chime : When its last tremor strikes the silent sense To impotence, He travels still the desert path of time. The warning strikes more deep Poured on him in his sleep. And as he hears the waves in their rebound. And feels their surging boom, He sees the spray surround The messengers of doom. Who stand in ranks to wage On him the menace, wrapped in choral rage. Madeline. 6^ And as his soul these scenes embroil, The serpents tangled in the Furies' hair Desert their lair. Fall to the couch and round his forehead coil. A deadly sweat bestrews His face with icy dews. Thick as the tears that wet a cavern wall. And race the dripping rain, From off his brow they fall ; Swell up and drop again. Like tendrils of a vine He feels the reptiles round his conscience twine And revel in a future state, The Furies mustered in the circling row. With looks that glow. And hearts that riot in the pangs of hate. Their eyes, that inly brood. Run down with molten blood, Whose splash corrodes the armour of his sleep : Bent over him like age, Not knowing that they weep, They empty out their rage. They curse him by the skies. They curse him by the towers whereinhe lies. 64 Madeline. He trembles at the words of fate. And draws the hot infection of their breath. Whose touch brings death His pride to blight, his house to desolate. They scatter in his path The emblems of their wrath. Aghast, his soul beholds their lurid brands Point out the exile's way To lone, untravelled lands That never look on day. Nor youth, nor beauty's charm, Their just intent can soften or disarm. What they dispose must needs befal ; More drear than the funereal pomp of man The work they plan : Lightning their torch and night their sable pall. They lay the fatal hand. They set its tightened band Upon his heart ; they barter nod for nod, And fix, with fingers tall. The fiat of a god Against his chamber wall. The shadow of his doom He gazes on till twilight spans the room. Madeline. 65 Across his heart a hand remains^ Whence hourly grows the superstitious fear That death is near ; A dread that to the end his soul retains. 66 Madeline. IX. VALCLUSA. Now from the orgies held at dead of night. By him contrived, the bard averts his sight. Loth long to watch how that malignant crew Performed a task best never to renew. The warning over, which unaided sleep Had not evoked, though left to phrensy's keep, There let it work and of the soul regain A seed of righteous love, a sand-sized grain ; There let it burst and strike, there bud and blow, And what its holy worth in blossom show. Meantime, — to where two flowers exude their light. Fluttering like burrs upon the edge of flight. Let us return, and with the Furies' hiss Contrast the silent scenery of bliss. Madeline. 67 On Madeline's peaceful eyes Drops fresh as from the skies A tropical affection with its rays. The angel's watchful face Leans over her and prays ; And like the moon in space With inspiration burns, Reflecting light whichever way it turns. The hour that Daphne waits is come : Two swan-like wings with equal grace expand At her command, To bear the sleeper to the poet's home. Where lie the hopeful lands On which his palace stands ? Whither now tends the flight of this fond pair ? Beyond the mountain chains, Those cities of the air ; Beyond the cereal plains. They reach the sky-blue clime That bubbles round a theatre of crime. The scenes expanding as they rise ; Above one star, under another stray ; And on their way. Not stopping, brush the verge of paradise. F 2 68 Madeline. Not from the azure dome Is seen his lowly home ; Yet where the poet finds an earthly rest Cones of prophetic light Obey his mild behest. As escorts of his sight ; Couriers that lead afar Into the colours of the double star. Else wasted in the ephemeral way, The wonders as they cease, like gusts that blew. In him renew The transient glories of their mild decay. That hour a message brings Fresh from the angel's wings Whose downy stroke has checked the tempest's stride. The problem it resolves, Why, moving side by side, A double sou] revolves Within the upper night. There all is dark, save where salutes his sight That shape, meandering as a cloud. Whirled like the driven snow athwart some heath. Where wintry death In wild perennial flowerets decks the shroud. Madeline. 69 His soul the vision greets ; In prayer the hour he meets. But whence his faith in holy courts to pray ? Can he the lost defend. The sentence passed, delay; The broken spirit mend ? Alas, in sober thought. What mortal yet a miracle has wrought ? Beyond a poet's utmost skill 1 Now slow revenge must Madeline's will controul. And bend her soul Some deed of utmost horror to fulfil. But this was a decree No prescience could foresee. The world of fate in distant darkness dwells. Its ways to vision sealed : Nor mortal ever spells What there lies unrevealed. But Madeline past it sweeps, She drowns within its ether while she sleeps, Unheard the breaking of its waves. Meantime, in mercy for affections riven. Is pardon given At heaven's high font to her whose soul it laves. 70 Madeline. And now knows Madeline A change to life divine. The ever-sure elixir that distils Through her, in rising dew. Condones all mortal ills ; Those who partake it few. Fate holds an empire here ; To all occult the marches of her sphere. The foe of life her virtue stuns, Incanting, in the passing of a breath, The sting of death. Which shrivels up before its poison runs. Immortal ecstasy Fills the all-bracing sky ; It clings to those who once its ether taste. That they to endless time May perish not, nor waste In energy sublime. But she who now has clomb The purple arch that overlaps the tomb. Is made amenable to fate. To be her own avenger ; not unscathed ! Her fingers bathed In human gore, the implements of hate. Madeline. n X. VALCLUSA. Like stars that settle in the firmament^ On Sorga's bank there glitters many a tent. In one lies Madeline yet in slumber stilled ; Those round about by guardian angels filled. Such was the poet's thought, though heaven's the plan : The holy scene invisible to man. For Madeline now has not a mortal's place But shares while yet on earth an equal grace With those whose tents her hospital surround, Left here till fully healed her smarting wound ! The indignant sense retained as just and fit To do the deed that best avenges it ; The human impulse held, and left to time ; Her soul no more responsible for crime. Even now on her oblivious eyes are shed, In mock appearance, joys for ever fled. That when her life may back to sense return The maddening wrong in her may deeper burn. 7 2 Madeline. Sleep in his sluggish folds The favoured captive holds, Till earth for the adopted of the sky Fit resting-place provides ; She, there unsensed, to lie As some pale cloud that strides, Belated on its way, The purple vault at early break of day. She dreads no sun whose arrows stream Along the east to pierce her eyes with light. And give to flight The now fair phantoms of her childish dream. Seven streams of light had run In glory from the sun, As open curtains over her who sleeps. Drawn by the sorcerer's hand Who at her slumber peeps To touch her with his wand. And at its magic stroke The morning dream ere waking to invoke. The early days which yet she knew. Like pictures in the spirit's looking-glass. Her gaze repass. And elder tidings of her love renew. Madeline. 73 Scenes fresh as yester-morn Her pleasant state adorn, As if the lovely hours, not wholly gone. But only overcast, In fresh enchantment shone. As evermore to last. Joys tiring of their urn. Too perfect in their parts, to life return. With them the play its curtain lifts. An instant scarce permitted to engage The airy stage. Lest in it melt the phantoms ere it shifts. Yet it wras like a play On some long holiday. The scenes once blest and once the raptures known. Return to her untold. As if they were her own. And purest days unfold. Not strange the poor pretence They oflFer back to her of innocence. The false to clasp, the true evade, Through Nature's mask she looks on paradise Without surprise; Trailing her soul alongside as her shade. 74 Madeline. CHORUS. What company is sleep For lonely hearts to keep ! The dream is day when truth walks out of sight ; When it comes back again, The dream sinks into night. Its pleasure into pain. Young memory runs away As in the sunny meads the children play. Is rapture, then, let out on hire. To sink into its sorrow like a tide In all its pride. And in its flush of ecstasy expire ? A chorus softly sang, The sober warning rang. But only joy could listen to the strain. And not the meaning catch. The warning rang again But not the sense to match. The penalty of sleep. To smile in sorrow and in joy to weep ! O magical deceiver, stay ; Illusion all, though true thy mocking mime. Except to time : Of all that happens thou canst change the day ! Madeline. 75 Why should the sleeper mourn ? All leads to sorrow's bourn ! She sees a youth like her of tender years. Is it his air of grace^ The charm her lover wears ? She gazes on his face ; The lineaments the same ; But when she hears his voice she knows his name. O beautiful deceiver, stay ! Illusion all, yet true, except to time. The mocking mime : Of all that happens thou canst change the day 1 Why are her eyeballs hid, Why downcast is their lid ? Her cheek is smarting with a lover's tear. Her lips the kiss retain, The ring he bade her wear Her finger takes again. Her glance he fails to find : She dares not look, lest it betray her mind. Oft while she listens to his tale. She feels her hand to touch the ring he gave. The blush to save : Does it desert her finger wan and pale ? 7 6 Madeline. Heard was the tinkling bell Before the curtain fell. The hidden chorus sang the warning strain But not the sense to reach ; It died away again. But not the sense to teach. O penalty of sleep. To smile in sorrow and in joy to weep ! And yet, O cold deceiver, stay 1 Illusion all, but true the mocking mime. Except to time : Of all that happens thou canst change the day I VALCLUSA. When sleep at length expires. The dream her eye attires And brings her lover with her to the light. But soon his image flies The rapture of her sight. And in her presence dies. Before her senses play The mists in which his phantom melts away. One scream, and she is heard no more; Unconscious left, and snatched beyond the scope Of one frail hope ; Nor all the angel's love can sense restore. Madeline. 77 XI. VALCLUSA. Strange are all toils^most strange the toils of breath To suck in being or succumb to death ! The weeds of thought about each other twin'd That grow as on a common o^er the mind^ Are by a breeze sustained, a breath of air. And this cut off no art can life repair. Precarious being, spark that scarce belongs To those in whom its world of passion throngs. Man^s days are few and yet how sad to some; What should be present always yet to come. Man living so, his life too soon begins ; What later is to be too late he wins. Better like us ere birth to lag behind Till all is fitted to delight the mind. 78 Madeliiw. CHORUS. Shall fate a passage shape That leaves her no escape ; Deathless is she that pain may yet endure ? A sickness hourly grows^ That time may reach the cure No sudden art bestows. Ah ! less than mortal prize Is that which sorrow would immortalise 1 What can avail the boon unblest If the eternal opens to begin With deadly sin ? While distance hides the city of her rest ! But justice is to be : Stamped is the hard decree^ Nor deem the law inequitable still When she, whom it requites. Is chosen to fulfil Its all-abhorrent rites. Love now its fealty keeps. Though on the gem exhausted passion sleeps. Far from her thoughts is hate removed : Its shape not yet has argued with her eyes Its heresies ; It points no poniard at the heart she loved. Madeline. 79 O smile of truth, betray^, How is thy loss repaid ? Whence comes new virtue, whence its fresh delight? In vain the soul shall fast. For deeper sinks the blight. The farther from the past ! The memory of sin Is nursed by famished thoughts that droop within. And Heaven in vain the lost deplores : Not all the coffered treasure of her grace A resting-place Provides, or fallen innocence restores. VALCLUSA. Daphne had seen and wept The joys of her who slept. She marked the smile disporting on the lip ; Beheld the bosom move. With sudden heave and dip In wantonness of love ; And with her softer sigh Strove to appease a jealous power on high. Though levity on slumber gain. Should there be due a debt of penitence Heaven takes offence : For stolen joy has its allotted pain. 8o Madeline. Now trance has boundless sway ; Madeline it bears away To share the thoughtless void. No rest she takes. But lingers low and faint ; Nor night nor day she wakes. Heard is her mournful plaint At every breath she plies^ To jar the cord of life until she dies ! From moan to moan the cruel spell Escorts her drowsy feelings as they move To strains of love, And in ^olian sighs to passion swell. Her arms of ease despoiled, Now on her bosom coiled, Now tossed about in turn from side to side. Like music softly rove : Their troubles they divide. Then meet again in love. Her gilded tresses blend ; In wild delirium on her breast descend To hide from shame its ravished lot ! The wasted hands no more, with nimble grasp, Those riches clasp : As emblems of despair their charms forgot. Madeline. 8 1 In trance from day to day Her sacred body lay. The eyes with fringing lash to heaven upturned, In lifeless beauty stare ; Butj like two lamps unburned, No ray with her they share. And only ask. the light. With blind appeal, to give them back their sight. Orbs unobservant, that appear On leave of absence, while the groping mind No path can find Through the blue rainbow of their parting tear. The pendule of the will Now vibrates now hangs still. Swayed like an incense, whose ecstatic fire Her smothered soul devours : Though still her fond desire Its plaintive note outpours. In moans subdued and slow Which murmur back her sorrow as they flow. Not conscious, her sweet body cries For yet a little love in its distress ; Her wretchedness Shrill to all hearts, benumbing to all eyes. G 82 Madeline. CHORUS. Has mercy, like the sky. For all one same reply ? One round of good that bends on none in vain. But deigns to none a choice, Though rueful he complain. Though hopeful he rejoice ! As well were it to plead Along the twilight pomp that shades the dead. As now of heaven a boon implore For her who launched upon the angered tide Must there abide The better morrow yet for her in store. Madeline. 83 XII. VALCLUSA. From mountain chain, snow-capped, to mountain chain. The encampment floats above the sacred plain. But now the standard droops in listless folds. Though every tent a watchful spirit holds : Hid in its azure plaits the signal star More sad in truce than spirit-stirring war. Now by the mountain side, Where thoughts like waters glide, Sits Daphne in a lustrous tissue draped, Knotted at either arm. In waving beauty shaped. It consecrates the charm While down her breast it gleams. And circles to her lap in fulgent streams. G 2, 84 Madeline. There on the eddying garment rests A woman's elbow, in its flood immersed, Ere thence dispersed Its floating fold the parted knees invests. Her nude right arm ascends And o'er the wretched bends Whose cheek the open palm its shadow yields ; An attitude divine ! Her love the helpless shields Who leans on her supine. With rounded shoulder shelved Upon the pliant breast where it had delved. Recumbent in the sultry shade, Madeline at length enjoys, in languid grace, A resting-place; Her truce awhile with feeble Nature made. The kiss still haunts her lip Its ecstasy to sip. And on voluptuous beauty hold a feast. Yet love might turn to hate Within a calmer breast. The past to expiate. What in that face so dear Whispers to Daphne, now, the thrilling fear ? Madeline. 85 Can love the longing lips divide, The listless features govern with its spell, And yet foretel The subtlety of hate, the lull of pride ? But though of placid mood. The Furies round her brood ; And, when she sleeps, they sleep beside their prey ; And when she dreams, her dream They urge her to obey. With rusted looks that gleam : Like hounds before the chase. Their instincts whetted for the hungry race. To Daphne's eyes not hard to prove. For love ranks foremost of prophetic powers. What tempest lowers, Held in the net necessity had wove. How gentle is she now ! No line disturbs her brow ; Her bosom pendant, like a setting orb. Its throb from anger weans. Thoughts holier to absorb. On peace her spirit leans Encircled by its wings. Like the paternal planet by its rings. 86 Madeline. Weak through affliction, in the bliss Of sympathy she revels like a dove Beside its love : And oft her placid cheek receives a kiss. But in the distance brood Thoughts not to be withstood, That to the virgin wound untimely haste. Is love or hate most dear Where sweet affections waste ? The mellow fruits they bear From one same bough may drip Their luscious poison on the thirsting lip. Hid from her vision, as she lies. Ascend high towers, her lover's ancient hold. With turrets bold. That furnish grandeur to the modest skies. The robe that round her flows Is stirred like drifted snows ; Its restless waves her marble figure drape, And all its charms express, In ever-changing shape. To zephyrs that caress Her limbs, and lay them bare, And all their grace and loveliness declare. Madeline. 87 Nor modesty itself could chide The soft enchanters as they past her breathe, And beauty wreathe In ripphng forms that ever onward glide. Breezes from yonder tower, Loosed by the avenging power, Her senses hurry, and a dread impart. In tremor she beholds Her fluttering raiment start In ribbed and bristled folds. Its texture close and fine With broidery sweeps the bosom's heaving line,- Then trickles down as from a wound, Curdling across the heart as past it steals. Where it congeals In horrid clots her quivering waist around. Now from her cincture weep. As limpid waters creep, The gentle folds that her sweet body bathe. Ere coursing to her feet The nether limbs to swathe. What charms the eye to greet ! The modest bosom's slant. The bended knees, the shoulder petulant. 88 Madeline. Can art midst all her marbles show Ideal orbs that rise like hill on hill With heaving thrill ; And vales that with a living vesture glow ? Sounds, as the cadence sweet When verse and music meet, Distract her ear; but in her clouded eyes. Where lash and shadow play, A sadness deeper lies Than dims their blue array ; A weary look that tells Of sorrow past, and on new sorrow dwells 1 She lists as Daphne's words express All that her love can utter save a tear. And that is near ; The accessory yet the soul's excess. " Oft didst thou hear me tell, — O mark my warning well 1 — Ere thou canst cross the purple dome again To touch the happy shore. Exempt from future pain And sinned against no more. To live where angels live, — The one ordeal yet is to forgive ! Madeline. 89 But at thine eyes the thought divine In one sad glance recedes from paradise, When it might rise To catch the glories destined to be thine !" Words not too mild to chide The weak one at her side. Prompted by hope that warbles as it sinks Into its own despair 1 How human nature shrinks From scenes than life more fair ! Madeline saw not the prize. Held not the hope its worth to realise. Her soul as earthly dew was cold. Glory broke on her, but with jagged ray. And turned away. When her despair in Daphne's ear she told : " How can I want to die And hie where spirits hie ? Thy tones my senses in their sweetness steep ; The transports of thy voice My soul from sinking keep. O that I had the choice To rest as now with thee, And as I am, thy own to ever be ! 90 Madeline. Safe by thy side I murmur not; No wish beyond, if it were mine to choose, Lest thee I lose : So blest thy love there is no better lot ! " Sad though my days may be, Am not I still with thee ? Thou wouldst recal how once my spirit clomb, While sleeping by thy side, To heaven, its living tomb : But monsters round me glide And snatch my hopes away. And mock my prayer the more I seek to pray. They drive my supplications hence. Combing their fingers through the snaky curls Their head unfurls. And crimson tears shed o'er my penitence." " Forgive \" the angel's word : Where thrilled its answering chord ? Heard was its echo as a sad farewell To all with love akin. A fluted ear the knell Heard strike and sink within : To memory it clung Like ill-timed syllables at random rung. Madeline, 9 1 As oft the drear, autumnal wind Whistles to ghosts to hear its doleful whine, On Madeline The warning fell, and died within her mind. In half eclipse her gaze Veiled by the filmy haze. Moves in its transit, as a glowworm meek. Her spirit goes alone The exiled hope to seek. That has already gone. Still, holding by one ray, — The last to linger in the wake of day, — She turns her captive look about That wanders like a trouble of the brain In search of pain, Before her dimmest light, despair, goes out. With Madeline's sinking sun The angel's course had run : What thence befel was like departing day. So Daphne drooped in night. And gave her soul away To hers that took its flight. Was her sad sister gone ? Yet not to wake and say she died alone ! 9? Madeline. But Madeline first the death-watch broke : A moan was heard, the fire within her burned, Her pangs returned ; The old despair once more the angel woke. In Madeline's mind she saw A dull, unringing flaw : Muffled the once ecstatic note of wo ! In sullen doubt and dread, With looks that come and go, The angel's soul she read. So that ill-fated love Receding through the past had yet to rove, And heavenly consolation spurn i Must vengeance, now at large, full length recoil, Balked of its spoil, And still unsated on the avenger turn ? CHORUS. O that a milder fate The past might expiate. And her unholy penance ever cease ! Alas, the hate that clings No penance can appease But human offerings ! These work a spell on pain When all appeal to justice is in vain. Madeline. 9j Fate then assumes tlie single sway, Lest the tried soul, to utmost fury wrought. Rend thought from thought, And on itself the debt of vengeance pay. VALCLUSA. Sleep, saucy, hovering drone. Can sceptred soul dethrone And rifle of its thought, ephemeral flower That loves the drowsy wing, And welcomes it to power, Oblivion though it bring. Yet to the soul deposed Clear sight, mysterious gift, may be disclosed To filch unwary thoughts that stray In other souls, and gambol in disguise, Nor fear surprise ; But deem all hid their solitary way. Clear sight on Daphne fell. The workings of the spell Transporting, as in trance, her senses keen To Madeline's inmost mind ; To gaze on worlds unseen With eyes else stOny blind. And secrets to descry Wondrous as scenes revealed in prophecy. 94 Madeline. sleep, thy wave, at best to tire. Breaks in successive dreams with night-long zeal. For woe for weal ; But now is tipped with phosphorescent fire 1 Daphne that sleep conjures. Daphne that sleep endures Whose hollow eyes survive to gaze at fate. The darkness to illume. The madness penetrate ; The misery to exhume Within the spirit's seat ; To watch the wail its monody repeat. For sympathy, divinely grand, Can bridge ethereal ocean and escort. From port to port. The visionary sleeper by the hand. To that ordeal set Daphne her trial met : The cup of sorrow crossed her ruby lip ; The dregs of earth she drained ! Who can that chalice sip By its contents unstained ? Yet did she drink it dry. To pledge her soul to human charity. Madeline. 95 To sink into the bitter death : Her glazing eyes dilated as they face, In chill embrace. The sharp concussion of its rimy breath. Where fury touched its prime, Not conscious of its crime. Her eyes in patient wonder fix their sight ; Like serpents on their prey On Madeline they alight. They see the will obey, Not long to oscillate. The final cast that dooms her soul to hate. They see with horror's bristled stare In angry shade the orb of conscience sweep The spirit's deep. And with the passion in its triumph share. Nor is her view confin'd To the tormented mind. Uttering as it ferments a tongue of flame. She sees what gestures dire Distort the suflferer's frame. And register its ire. Madeline in frantic rage Enacts these antics on a holy stage, 96 Madeline. An angel sleeping in her room. In its unbridled fires her soul finds vent. On murder bent ; Led surely on to meet her settled doom. Her hand a poniard holds Hid in the restless folds That from the cincture at her waist descend. To rustle as they flow ; And with her fury blend ; And with her phrensy glow. Lit by the vengeful mind, Their glare is tossed and maddened by the wind. The flashj with scintillating rays, Around her robe, asbestos-woven, sweeps; And as it creeps To her bright fingers, on the weapon plays. From Daphne's pallid lid, A full-grown tear had slid. Her cheek with sorrow's seed to early sow. And now the braided tress In curls begins to flow Stirred by the wilderness ; While trickle from each pore Dew-drops that stain their track with limpid gore. Madeline. 97 Sighs spread their fluctuating wings To call down pity on the present hour, As they outpour The melody of prayer from broken strings. Her hands are clasped in pain, A shrill, heart-rending strain Impinges terror on the startled air. Madeline aroused in fright Beholds her own despair The angePs visage blight ; The pangs her heart that rack, A face divine on her reflecting back. Her eyes transfixed in stony fear. Through horror's mask she gazes on the trance. Until her glance Is clouded over by a frozen tear. Such anguish well she knows From her own bosom flows : And it disarms the rage that gores her brain. On Daphne's neck she hangs j Her love implores again : Benumbed her recent pangs. She wipes away the tears One sorrow for another sorrow bears. 98 Madeline. And in mute agony relates ; Asks, in remorse, the angel to revive ; Once more to live. And look upon the one she consecrates ! As from a soul's repose The angel's eyes unclose. They open on their morrow ; thither led Lest present they deplore The vision that had fled. And sleep on earth no more. Those scenes had they outrun As fast as shadows dip before the sun. Though moth-like scorched those loving eyes,- Too sentient to endure the world of pain And life sustain, — Foreclosed in darkness were their agonies. Madeline. 99 XIII. VALCLUSA. So did the Furies in their rage abate. But left the soul adept though desolate. Tranquil once more in that too short release, Madeline regains an interval of peace. Like the vast ocean struggling fate behaves : Her course one stream, while intermit the waves. CHORUS. Who on the ruffled tides Before the tempest glides. No upward gaze to face the polar star That yet the bark had saved ? Whose end, now not afar Is on the tempest graved ? The bark with fluttering sail Still scuds along in lonely passion's trail ! H a TOO Madeline. Madeline, whom fate all chance denied. Had struggled as no other strove for love. Nor rose above The vulgar lot to suffer till she died. She long was drawn from harm ; No unavailing charm The angel's faith that long the wreck delayed ! With doom she wrestled on. And oft its anger stayed. And oft its pity won. Yet she who keeps her pure Scarce aids her soul its tortures to endure. Sad is the presence of a saint 1 Placed in its light is wailed the early sin. That shrinks within. Till self-repression chafes at all restraint. So time drags on the chain. The morn comes home again, The even rests upon the weary globe : The sun in spangles gay. The moon in vestal robe. Had each its holiday. The winds still gently blew. The groves their laurels wove in wreaths anew. Madeline. loi The rocks frowned o'er the stream untired, The bard still watched his Daphne not afar. His true lode-star ; And Madeline's wrong his quenchless anger fired. VALCLUSA. Reclining side by side Two loving hearts divide One peaceful beat, and share the self-same smile ; One time in breathing keep ; One dream along defile Within the world of sleep : Like symbols of the mind Their rosy arms around each other twined In this new sympathetic state They hold discourse, in question and reply. And oft say, Why ? As with closed lids and open hearts they prate. Each other's words they chase In aptly chiming pace, Then long they pause and cut the dream in twain ; Then, where they parted, meet, And recommence the strain. By absence rendered sweet. Ideas with trouble fraught Down in the filmy arms of sleep are caught ; 103 Madeline. IdeaSj by these displaced belowj Uprise and to the level surface speedy Like floating weed. And the translucent margin overflow. The spirit's ebbing tide With buoyant thoughts they ride. And take their pleasure to its listless falls. One to another's eyes A happy scene recals ; A happy scene replies ; One to another's ears Invokes a better world, and heaven appears. And now their steps the rise ascend : In prints of angels' feet they run away, At first in play ; But stop for breath before their journey's end. The will on nothing set, They turn without regret To give their lips and tongues a faster play. That lighter truth resolves ; And all they think they say As memory revolves : The future and the past In novel moulds of mingled feeling cast. Madeline. 103 " Once more to choose should it be thine^ Wouldst thou to earth this kindly visit pay ?" The answer. Nay ! But not with earnest smile although divine. " Born to diffuse the grace Of thy celestial race, Yet truly wouldst thou, man himself to save. Revisit earth and me ? To languish by the grave. Though brief the term might be. Then sum up all, above, In one deep sigh of unrequited love ! Oh, if to choose once more were thine, Wouldst thou, indeed, this tristful visit pay ?" The answer, Nay ! With yet less earnest smile, though more divine. " Thou who didst pine to know The pains endured below, Couldst never more to this sad scene return, To taste again of death ; To share the poet's urn. To share the poet's wreath ! Let fate the suppliant keep, And still pursue in waking and in sleep !" 104 Madeline. But as the thought o'er slumber crept The angel turned ; in her a jarring note Its utterance smote. And her bruised ear in silent reverie kept. On her begins to gleam A dream within a dream. An unborn slumber strangely felt in sleep Lies quickening in the mesh That drags oblivion's deep. Nor came its breathings fresh. It held her whom she served ; The dagger poised, the heart to vengeance nerved. But that blank look which gazer chides Ruled in the eyeball ; as a statue's, bold As it is cold : Madeline in that hereafter which it hides. And not less harsh a stream Ran through the other's dream. Her feet meandered with a pebbly shoal Whose waters, seen before. Were striving for some goal. Though beating on its shore. It was the golden beach She long had tried, she long had failed to reach. Madeline. 105 Then asked she, They who here begin, Strict to the hour of prayer, the hour of song, Lost in the throng. Can they forget the memory of sin ? She paused on that sad thought. For no response it brought. Then from the broken theme she tasked discourse Up to its babbling spring. Unguarded was the source, Nor thence 'twas hard to wring A secret safely kept Till wisdom in the angel's bosom slept. " Tell me who dwells in yonder tower ! The restless winds flow thence across my brain In gusts of pain : Who can express the terror of their power 1" Unwary in her rest. In thrilling tones addrest. The angel whispers the seducer's name. Now twangs the chord of hate : The hour designed for shame Struck by a watchful fate. Shame, with a sudden rush, Drowns the fair sleeper in its purple blush. io6 Madeline . Silent she lies, her efforts vain To speak or move ; too early or too late. For on her sate An incubus and bound her with a chain. A lifetime intervenes With its few chequered scenes ; And these begin, glide on, and touch her prime ; Take fortune's rapid turns; All in a flash of time That scarce a moment burns. An age appears its gleam ; The whole past blank relighted by a dream. She enters now an hour unborn, Bursting the future track that fate's decree Had ruled to be : The way untrod and yet for footsteps worn. After a lapse of time She utters thus her chime : " He walks a sea of blood with niby shore. All carmine to the sky. He sinks to rise no more. Will he be let to die ? He drowns as now I gaze : My eyes look on, intoxicate and glaze. Madeline. 107 I must be gone, not idle stand On these enchanted sands to count the beats My heart repeats ; The loud reveille tells the hour at hand !" At this a trumpet's sound The angel's heart winds round ; It echoes through her present memory To when her life began : In heaven was its reply. The ghosts that slumber span, Like voidings from the grave, In terror pass ; her soul becomes their slave. By their relentless power appalled. She looks on death, and to its dread event Her will is bent. As one whom fate had conquered and enthralled. She who had lived to bless. Gazed on the pitiless. In anguish clinging to her mortal state. Above her stood the Form, Her heart to immolate And scatter in the storm, To dust her beauty change : Her gratve to be the whirlwind's sunless range. iq8 Madeline. Yet, as she swooned in sight of Death, Her eyes saw heaven, not merciless or cold. Its clouds unfold ; And in that trance she sighed away her breath. CHORUS. Ah, not in wanton mood She gave up selfish good, When none had envied her, though rich her store ! She pined her heart to train In seats of human lore And minister to pain. Was there not much to learn ? The prize, now won, how hard alas, to earn ! But through her passport ran the grace To meet this hour, to triumph at its end As woman's friend. And better than she left, her path retrace. Madeline. 109 XIV. VALCLUSA. The trump of doom that Daphne's spirit rends From her sweet body^ and her trouble ends, Is heard along the camp, where, slumber-bound. The angels tremble in its piercing sound. Startled as one, they straightway strike their tents : It is the close of these divine events. Accomplished is their task ; the word of power Has visible possession of the hour. And to his last account has summoned hence, To expiate in death his deep offence. Him who knew passion yet no pity knew, And with his love its human ties withdrew. As they depart cloud-storms forthwith arise From hidden seas ; the frighted moon surprise. The blowing mists and their wild shadows fly Against the clinging colours of the sky. no Madeline. To now eclipse, now liberate their light : A scene resembling not the day or night. At length they rush before the heavenly queen Who falls behind and is no further seen. The angePs hour of peace Saw not the struggle cease. For it foretold the scarce less sudden close Of one yet sadder lot. Madeline in sleep arose Her slumber waking not. Bound to its purpose still The work of fate to prosper and fulfil. On Madeline's ear unnoticed fell Those dying moans, her sense towards one event Omnipotent, Held in the grasp of one resistless spell. Her tongue the silence keeps: Her voice for ever sleeps ; But her fierce dream the stirring impulse moves, With purpose blind and mute. To act as fate approves, And helps to execute. Low rustlings of a wind That in ravines remote had lagged behind. Madeline. Ill Attend her, mourning, on her path. Her arm outstretched to grasp the dagger's hilt, This slave of guilt Resigns her footsteps to the weapon's wrath. The poniard in her hand. Poised like a fiery brand. She glides to where it leads ; her naked feet In safety trace their way : No obstacle they meet Her journey to delay. While rising like a star The weapon lights her on her path afar. From danger's way she nimbly turns ; Swayed by the winds she overhangs the gap ; Her garments flap ; But on its destined track her spirit burns. She leaps from rock to rock Unconscious of the shock ; Her tender feet by crystals cut and bled ! She fords the raging flood, And leaves the ripple red With traces of her blood. She climbs the harrowing steep ; Now up, now down her wary footsteps creep. 112 Madeline. Along the brink, whose icy drip In the abyss a roaring torrent finds. Her course she winds. Nor shuns the glacier in its headlong slip. Again, her figure frail The howling gusts assail ; Beside her track the precipice outspread. But as in fairy dance The nymphs on music tread, Her well-timed steps advance. Her magic guide is mute; More safe to follow than the fulsome flute. The very storms whose sudden gush Thus vent aloud their undiscerning rage. The fates engage To poise her in the scale as past they rush. Within the thunder's peal. Her glory to reveal. She stops, unshaken by the aimless crash. She moves another pace Into the lightning's flash. Averting not her face. Old votaries of fate. Above her all the waters congregate : Madeline. T13 But not on heaven her eyes are bent, Though there, to devastate the earth again In ruin's train. The ancient deluge rears a monument. And where the Hghtnings smite A world of day they write. Then shut the page of their immortal book. They smite upon the rock. They smite upon the brook. The fountains to unlock. The hill-tops to display ; To show the night the equal of the day. The high despotic vault they rive ; They marshal clouds of thunder to advance And seize the chance To plunder heaven of its prerogative. With heavy fall and bound Rain sweeps the troubled ground ; The playing waters froth the busy mud Where amber-bubbles rush, And airy vessels scud; Their streams the gangway flush. The leafy vine is riven And from its moorings down the current driven. I 114 Madeline. Queen of the storm, the sleeper wends Along its van, and in the lightning's beam Conducts her dream. Disordered Nature on her rage attends. Now comes with sphinx-like face Ineffable in grace, The ample moon encircled by her spell, — Her own by right divine, — The elements to quell. They watch her glory shine. She seems to bear in state The secret of inexorable fate. Nor she the rising towers conceals. While Madeline, at the bridge that spans the moat. In robes that float, Walks in the flood of splendour she reveals. In light and shadow told. Are there the days of old. Unwelcome is the stranger at the gate. A watch-dog guardant lies That in unsleeping hate With mortal more than vies ; But when in measured grace The sleeper's fearless steps his threshold pace Madeline. 115 'Tis he who feels the mortal dread. He pours along the under-vaulted way His hollow bay. To warn the mighty living through the dead. When through the gate she flits. One at the portal sits Encased in mail and armed with shield and spear. As past his eyes she trips They follow her in fear. And silent are his lips. Others the passage line And with like awe logk 01^ her as divine. Along the ranks her poniard^s glare Conveys no threat : but only seen the ghost That threads the host, — She of their solemn i^uster unaware. The unclosed doorway leads To where the banquet spreads ; And on the dais, gay at the festal hour. The guests in knightly grace The red libation pour. Each in his bannered place. Why does the flowing wine Congeal like clusters hung upon the vine ? I % 1 16 Madeline. Why pass those looks of horror round ? Pale every face^ one pale no more to flush. They hear the gush. The blood that gurgles from a mortal wound. And in that self-same sleep. So mystic, wild, and deep, Madeline returns and by the angel lies. Nor has the wound that bled, Across her heavy eyes Its ruby lustre shed. That sleep, by justice sent With dreams that ever echoed its intent. Had worked for her its ample spoil. And the seduced, the once seductile maid. All hate allay" d, Resumes her virgin slumber through its toil. Madeline. iiy EPILOGUE. VALCLUSA. Is she unhappy ? No ! Hers is a hidden wo. She loves him still, now free of passion's snare. So let her conscience lie Coiled up exempt from care, As if uncast the die ! Heaven is at times content To hide from view what man might else repent, Though far removed from his controul : Whence, in this act, was memory set at rest, Not to attest To deeds committed in the dark of soul. Urged onward in her fate To dream her love to hate. Shall reason blame her in discourses vain. With its poor sayings why : 1 1 8 Madeline. A fester called the brain The laws eternal try ? These words the angels spake : We saw the wave of retribution wake With Madeline on its swollen crest, Pillowed in dream and mounted to disband. With guided hand. An unrelenting sinner to his rest. Fate was within all change; Far sweeping was its range ; When Madeline, conscious of her heart's repose, By Daphne's side reclined. Till from that tomb she rose. Two souls in death entwined No more to separate : Nor long they lay locked up in marble state. Then timely rent the mortal seam. That they at length in purity might vie, As once they die, And leave in sculpture their immortal dreafti. One silent day is all That bears in heaven their pall. They winter in its sunshine, though its fire Warm not their cold remains. Madeline. 119 On the funereal pyre, Set free all mortal pains, The relict Slander springs And consecrates to death his burning wings. Reluctant to survive the end ! That none the broken shaft hereafter throw, Or palsied bow Across the ashes of the dead distend. Unknown to them their sleep. As unborn Nature deep, The angel first broke through its solid gloom. Her gaze the dawn renewed Within the sleeper's room. When Madeline's breast she strewed With green-winged budded rose, Soon like her eyes its petals to unclose. And not to greet that joy aJone, Upon a mother's heart, then cold as clay, A babe she lay. Its smiles on her to shower when morrow shone. The angel early gave A signal at the grave : Morn's virgin ray had scarcely crossed the face Of her who held her breath 120 Madeline. In soft sepulchral grace, That figured early death, When she the trumpet blew. The bud once plucked in blossom to renew. Three angels in advance arise; They lead the narrow way, to earth unseen That lies between Immortalising forms and paradise. Their arms each other round. Those three in one are bound. And face to face they drag their comely rays Along a sunlit sky. That scarce their path betrays. Yet, like a galaxy, Vast wonders they display ; New heavens create for earths that pass away. And ever they reveal fresh charms. In circling beauty, to each other's love ; And float above Linked in the sweetness of each other's arms. CHORUS. Faith is the name of one : In soul the most alone. Madeline. 131 A cross her vision fills and unerased Within her ever burns : By her its symbol chased On cinerary urns. No doubt her being chills That with its raptures all creation fills. The elder of this triple throng, Her eyes as marble dim, and cold her sight To Nature's light. She seems scarce kin to those she dwells among. Then Hope with beams that dance Athwart her pearly glance ! As through the leaves the fitful glimmer plies. She lights the shades of love With sun-drops from her eyes. And draws all hearts above. They who desire to live. Though fleeting be the wish, in her survive. The voice of Nature calls on her From the round earth, and when she is not near Is she most dear ; And all aspire to be her passenger. And how less dreamy she The younger of the three ! 122 Madeline. She envies not, and all her bounty hides The more all hearts to move. She vaunts not, nor she chides. For all her words are love. Charity never fails. She all outlives and over all prevails. And she alone can never die ! With a career and destiny sublime That outstrips time. She lingers ever in eternity. VALCLUSA. Their path the pilgrims find. And with no careworn mind As when the euthanasia was at hand. For films of fancy spun By the sweet triple band. Are into traces run To drag a load of love ; The web by heavenly machinations wove. The gossamer in glistening strings Drawn out like ray from ray and thought from thought, So finely wrought, Waves to and fro on its ethereal wings. Madeline. 123 The three, with welcome, greet The way-worn pilgrims' feet. And bear them upwards as they pass the knell. Burst then was Nature's tie ; But garbs were left to tell Of those for once who die. Their stoles they leave behind. And in the phosphor clouds their members bind. There they abide the frisky team. Broke in the sun for pilgrims on their way To distant day, Whence earth seems gilded over like a dream. Soft beads of evening dew The jointed cords bestrew. And glisten with an image of a star. The loose, tenacious thread Gets tangled in the car Which holds the souls once dead. Who, through the realm of night. Take with the laughing babe their rapid flight. Bound for the verge of paradise. They give one look at earth before they move ; One look of love ; Then, like a wain, in right ascension rise. PARABLES. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. There was a wood, it does not change, Not while the thrush pipes through its glades. And she who did its thickets range Has willed her sunbeam to its shades. There still the lily weaves a net With bluebell, primrose, violet. The wood is what it was of old, A timber-farm where wild flowers grow. There woodman's axe is never cold, And lays the oaks and beeches low. But though the hand of man deface. The lily ever grows in grace. Of their sweet, loving natures proud The stock-doves sojourn in the tree : With breasts of feathered sky and cloud. And notes of soft though tuneless glee. Hid in the leaves they take a spring. And crush the stillness with their wing. 138 The Lily of the Valley. The wood is deep-boughed, and its glade Has ruts of waggon to and fro ; And where the print of wheel is made The bracken ventures still to grow ; And where the foot of man may goad. The ants are toiling with their load. The wood, so old in other days. No longer alters with the year. The gnarled boughs, to Nature's ways Inured, their honours mildly bear. And she who there transfixed her beam. Is still remembered as a dream. The wood to her was the old wood, The same as in her father's time ; Nor with their sooths and sayings good The dead told of its youth or prime. The hollow trunks were hollow then, And honoured like the bones of men. There like nine brethren. Nature's own. Nine trees within a circle stand. And to a temple's shape have grown. Each trunk a column tall and grand. And, near, a raven-oak outspreads A dome that to the ether leads. The Lily of the Valley. 139 'Mid these, while on the earth at play, She the true beam of living spring. And playmate of the lily's ray. Learnt of the piping thrush to sing. The lily's leaves were then her nest. Its buds half-nestled in her breast. And she whose beam was lily-bright 'Neath brakes without a sky above, A primrose thought a holy sight : Loveless itself it taught her love. It was her welcome to the bowers. And lured her fingers to its flowers. Not to her eyes was Nature's age In gnarled and hollow shapes revealed : The buds and leaflets stamped her page, And all that Death could say concealed. To gnarled and hollow Nature cold. She had not caught the sense of old. When asked her name, the child so pale, By folk who gossiped thereabout. She answered : Lily of the Vale, With looks that gave a sweetness out. But on her eyes now dew-drops shed Their early tribute to the dead. 130 The Lily of the Valley. Alas, her parents came to die, Nor was she then too young to weep. Through all the wood was heard her cry ; At last with sobs she fell asleep. Changed in that slumber was her beam ; Old was the import of her dream. The lilies in their nest had died, Violets were closed, their petals dim. The bracken-stalk was parched and dried. The rose she loved, no more was prim. All her first joys were at an end To let her soul its scale ascend. While on the moss she lay asleep She saw each gnarled and hollow form : The riven branches seemed to creep. Loosed was their long-enchanted storm. The raven-oak, a tree she loved. Through all her soul in ruin moved. The oak oft seen by her before And heeded not as weird and bald. Was laid up in her memory's store Too faint and pale to be recalled, Till tutoring sorrow should impress The lesson of her first distress. The Lily of the Valley. 131 She dreamed that on the oak old age Leant with a father's loving mind. And looked upon his heritage ; The child his son had left behind. Old was she now, for she could see A father aged like the tree. As flowers her eager heart had fired With love for things of lighter cast. This vision in her soul inspired Affection for the things that last : The sire by age and trouble spent, The tree by winds and lightnings rent. Sleep left her eyes, but fixed them still. For yet the oak her vision kept. Her open eyes its wonders fill As when across its shades she slept. She looks about the sire to see : His form no more leant on the tree. Forthwith 'she to the cottage ran, To catch the sire in his retreat. And there she found the ag^d man Too quiet to have left his seat. And then a keener sense awoke Than to her soul in visions spoke. K 2 132 The Lihj of the Valley. He tells hef how the raven reared Her young upon the leafy crest ; How now the oak by lightning seared Affords no shelter for a nest. With this her simple thoughts he led To how the bird the prophet fed. So when the sire^ so old and poor^ Had failed to earn his daily bread. She longed to see within his door The frugal supper still outspread. And prayed the raven in her need To do again the loving deed. Through every grove she poured her lay. This drooping Lily of the A^ale ; As through the brakes she took her way She told the thrush her touching tale. And bade it in her service press The bird that waits on man's distress. So, like a creature on the wing, She spoke her griefs to all she met. The thrush had taught her how to sing. And to his note her song she set. He was the charmer of the grove. And to his ear she pledged her love. The Lily of the Valley. 133 The thrush who heard his native strain, Its burden deemed a lover's joy, And so he led his feathered train To listen to the sweet decoy ; To her who bade the raven come Again to its forgotten home. Meantime the sire from day to day Found work too hard for sinking age, And he earned but a scanty pay To keep him and his heritage. He soon fell sick upon his bed. Nor by the raven was he fed. Through brake and bush the orphan flew ; Beyond the wood there lay the field. Than this no way she further knew, Yet did not to misgivings yield. She looked at heaven and saw its scope. Taught by her mother where to hope. And then she to her mother said : " Can God the pretty raven spare ? For grandsire lies upon his bed. And has not earned his daily fare. All father^'s work he leaves undone. And says, I soon shall be alone." 134 The Lily of the Valley. She took the road, and seemed to tread The buoyant air that past her blew. She cast her looks about in dread. As on the unknown path she flew. She stopped and gazed around in fear. For no one, not a soul, was near. And then she to her father said : " Can God the pretty raven spare ? For grandsire lies upon his bed. And has not earned his daily fare. He leaves the work you left undone. And says, I soon shall be alone." Her slackening pace now plainly told The path was long for timid feet. She felt her heart no longer bold : Oft she looked back the wood to greet. Her wood from sight a moment gone She felt herself indeed alone. She stood where hills and valleys blend ; One struggle more and heaven was nigh. Beyond where fields and woods ascend, She saw a mansion up on high. Can it be there the lady lives Who to the poor her plenty gives ? The Lily of the Valley. 135 " Could I," said Lily, " see her face She would the orphan's prayer sustain] Could I but reach her heavenly place And meet my mother once again, Then should I daily succour find. And drop the burden from my mind." She looked till in her hopeful soul She saw the sight she would obtain ; And so to fancy gave controul, She thought the lady looked again. Through sashes in the stately pile. She thought she saw a human smile. And then she to the lady said : " Can God the pretty raven spare ? For grandsire lies upon his bed. And has not earned his daily fare. All father's work he leaves undone, And says, I soon shall be alone." The mansion stood against the sun : There long she looked for her reply. The ball of fire its course had run, And filled with red the western sky. The twilight brought the shades of night ; She turned her troubled steps for flight. 1^6 The Lily of the FalLey. She must return, it was too late To reach that mansion in the air. Nor can she all her tale relate Though still she sees the lady fair. But all her little hope had fled : With fainting steps she homeward sped. First slowly, then with swifter pace She outran terror at her heels, As if to win with death the race. Whose shroud now brushing by she feels. She starts at every rugged bank, For with the sun her spirit sank. The orb yet vast beyond the height. Had set more early in the wood ; But still it gave her half its light. Her share of its abundant good. It left its sinking wick to burn ; The gleam sufficed for her return. She spied her cot, vision sweet ; A rushlight through the lattice flamed. And threw its splendour at her feet. As it the grudging twilight shamed. Through diamond panes a glimpse to snatch She held her finger on the latch. The Lily of the Valley. 137 JNo sound, no breath she heard above, Where grandsire in the garret lay. A man in black, with looks of love, " Poor little orphan," seemed to say. His was the curate's humble place. And well he loved sweet Lily's face. " Where hast thou been, my darling maid ? Reply to one who likes thee well." " To warble to the birds," she said ; " The raven all my wants to tell. I sang to them their pretty note, Oft heard and learned at last by rote." " Why call the raven to thy door. Thy little heart's distress to share ?" " Because," said she, " my sire is poor. And has not earned his daily fare. All father's work he leaves undone. And says, I soon shall be alone." " To kiss thee, child, he would have stay'd. For oft he called thee to his side. Where didst thou wander, little maid ?" " I went across the world so wide. I looked at heaven and saw its scope. Taught by my mother there to hope. 138 The Lily of the Valley. " I looked at mother in the sky : She taught me there my wants to tell ; I looked at father standing by, For both among the happy dwell ; I prayed and asked with heart of care, Can God the pretty raven spare ? " Then I came nigh a stately pile. Where those who ask seek not in vain. I looked, and saw a human smile. And thought the lady looked again. Through sashes I beheld her face. And then I knew her heavenly place." " Why for thy sire seek bread alone ? " Then said the friend of human kind ; " He needs it not, for he is gone ; His utmost wants has God divin'd. He now partakes his father's love. And with thy parents is above." " Has then the lady, she who gives Her food and raiment to the poor. And in the heavenly mansion lives. Called him up yonder to her door ? She saw the Lily of the Vale, And hearkened as I told my tale ! The Lily of the Valley. 139 " I soughtj and in my hopeful mind Beheld the sight I would obtain. God said that those who seek shall find ; On me the lady looked again. Within the sash of yonder pile^ I thought I saw a human smile. " So then I to the lady said : ' Can God the pretty raven spare ? For grandsire lies upon his bed. And has not earned his daily fare. All father's work he leaves undone, And says, I soon shall be alone.' " " Thou shalt not be alone, my child ; Thy griefs the righteous lady hears : She loves a spirit undefil'd ; Her heart is open to thy tears. Thy father's work at last is done. And thou shalt never be alone." 140 THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE. There was a haunt, it does not change. Not while the fiend its path invades : And he who did its alleys range Has willed his penance to its shades. There still the nightshade breathes its pest On fallen spirits not at rest. The haunt is what it was of yore, Home of the vile who justice fly : The voice of Nature heard no more Where guilty men seek sanctuary, And crimes like months afresh appear ; Ere one runs out another near. A haunt where all in common share The sleepless hour, the murderous toil ; Where Death on all has set his stare To mock their gain and grasp their spoil. Their doings soon or late to stop Upon the old-appointed drop. The Deadly Nightshade. 141 A charnel that may beauty hide — The frantic woman who has gamed And lost young Nature's virgin pride^ Who falls to guard the door unshamed : Unveiled the blemish of her face. Once passed the moan of her disgrace. That virgin wreck cast on the beach And part recovered, many share ; In her one joy of being reach, Until her womb gives up its care. And innocence its visit pays To coax her back to virtue's ways. A theme more sad in evil dwells Than trouble from the bosom wrings ; Its fruits the mother's life foretels Ere at the breast an infant clings : True to the meaning of its name. Its cradle still the lap of shame. A sadder theme in evil dwells Than pain and penury supply ; And wide its scope, for it foretels An ever weeping progeny, A brotherhood whose awful chief Is sin, the ancestor of grief 142 The Deadly Nightshade. Where only shadows rise and set^ And love at morn awakens not, A child of woe his being met, His nature noble base his lot. For whence the mother draws her pains The new-born soul its part obtains. That mother looked into the gloom As he drew in his early breath ; She only conscious of his doom : On one side life another death ! Such was the portion that befel A little angel born in hell. His place of birth the heavens deplored. No trees, no brooks, no meadows seen : But still his heart the skies adored Before he saw the fields were green. But born in broils, in squalor bred. How knew his soul to where it led ? Then many hands the infant train With sobs to shed the gushing tear ; To grow a prodigy of pain That gentle natures pay to hear. And many listened and bestowed ; For younger tears had never flowed. The Deadly Nightshade. 143 Held at his mother's hand he hung A broken spray with misery's drip, And often to the ground he clung His passion bursting at his lip. Dragged at her arm along the stones, His feet were tender to the bones. Her eyes of prey like fangs she laid On all who gave a hurried look. She asked the kind to render aid, Nor paused till she their money took. Now for the burning cup she craves, And now the deadly potion braves. With spreading nostril, eyes of flame, In front the shrine of death she stands, The infant by her, sick and lame. The lava trembling in her hands. She drinks the fire, with rapture frowns ; And so the fiend of sorrow drowns. Is this Dorado that it yields A golden harvest to the state ? A pious nation reaps those fields, But buries there the profligate. Why then the meagre fine compel^ Or shut the drunkard in a cell ? 144 The Deadly Nightshade. Locked up, in prison left to rage, A martyr burned in inward fires, Hope is not present to assuage The anguish of her fierce desires. Such was the mother that befel An angel born and bred in hell. Not far away from infancy — Through weary time a single stage, The live-long years that hustled by Had left him still of tender age. When from the frequent blow he fled Outside the doors to make his bed. Where odours wandered, dank and foul, Through crowded streets and dwellings lone. For days his prickling footsteps prowl ; His wants, not many, asked by none : New all the roads he hourly crossed. Not lost his way, himself not lost. When hunger came he begged for bread, But only of the stinted few : Not bold enough to raise his head Except to those who famine knew. Want, cried he, cannot want deny ! It has a face of charity. The Deadly Nightshade. 145 And now he glides into a den Up whose dusk path a shudder flew, And asks for bread of famished men Whose strength no plenty could renew. Yet with what startling oaths they rave, And bid him run his neck to save. Still to the poor is his appeal, But all his meek petition spurn : Some bid him be a man and steal ; Some bid him hang before his turn. Among so many hearts to die, And be the hangman^s legacy ! O what harsh will, what last bequest Affiliates his soul on crime ? Ah ! could he eat and be at rest. And not his hands with theft begrime ! Is this man's law, a wrath to pour On generations three and four ? He sleeps, but in delirious fear Feels his dark mother's shadow coil About his visions ; ever near The welcome state of rest to foil. For then he felt a hope benign. In halo set its blessed sign. L 146 The Deadly Nightshade. The hope benign in halo set Partakes of hunger at his side : The shadow wrestles with it yet, But cannot all its beauty hide. That with the young in trouble stays All but the starving pang allays. Then did he long for once to taste The reeking viands, as their smell From cellar gratings ran to waste. In gusts that sicken and repel. Like Beauty with a rose regaled. The grateful vapours he inhaled. So, oft a-hungered has he stood. And yarn of fasting fancy spun. As wistfully he watched the food With one foot out away to run. Lest questioned be his only right To revel in the goodly sight. Lest justice should detect within A blot no human eye could see. He dragged his rags about his skin To hide from view his pedigree. He deemed himself a thief by law Who stole ere yet the light he saw The Deadly Nightshade. 147 His theft, the infancy of crime. Was but a sombre glance to steal, While outside shops he spent his time In vain imaginings to deal. With looks of awe to speculate On all things good, while others ate. No better school his eyes to guide. He lingers by some savoury mass, And watches mouths that open wide. And sees them eating through the glass. Oft his own lips he opes and shuts ; With sympathy his fancy gluts. Yet he begs not, but in a trance Admires the scene where numbers throng j And if on him descends a glance He is abashed and slinks along ; Nor cares he more, the spell once broke. Scenes of false plenty to invoke. The man of charity beholds The vagrant with a pent-up grief; And, often as he stops and scolds. Abstains from giving him relief, So sad to see the idle thrive And on another's earnings live. h % 148 The Deadly Nightshade. Then is the child, this chosen seed, Picked out by fate to sweep the streets : When some bethink them of his need. Though scant the recompense he meets. At times he walks upon his head : A form of prayer for daily bread. There is a prayer whose word devout On king and queen a blessing calls : In it the beggar is left out Till he has reached the prison walls. The palace of the reprobate — For crimes not sanctioned by the state. As, true to force, the magnet bar Towards its dark polar sea must tend. As, true to force, the falling star Unhelped, must to the mire descend. So must the angel born in hell Like these obey the crushing spell. 149 IMMORTALITY. Grey locks, the banner of the wise ; Their pride discharged by bleaching age ; Inscribed with worn-out destinies. With battle's sign, without its rage ; The dregs of earth from them effaced. And Time's pale hand upon them traced. Grey eyes that look their evening dreams, A glittering memory unspoke ; Wan cheeks, that bear the many seams Of trouble's shock and ending stroke, On which fixed pallor waits the call Well-known to summon one and all. A man who mused till he was aged, Who Nature's eye at last outstared ; In science deemed occult engaged Till he had Nature's bosom bared ; A man who saw into the lies Of all forbidden mysteries. 150 Immortality. A man of love, superfluous dower ! For all around who pleasure wills, Himself a martyr to the power That only bursts the heart it fills ! That scales for nought emotion's height Crushed through its own returning might. A man of heart and thought so matched That they went on as two in one, For heart and thought each other watched. And ever asked what each had done. A common end they sought and served. And never from their purpose swerved. A man whom fancy, too, endowed With some divinity of mind. To heart and thought this fancy bowed. Though hard its flow to stem and bind. Oft it would wash the universe. And with an ebb again disperse. Such was he, but for trial's sake He bore these marks of finer clay The sunless half of life to take And in the shadow pass away. But though rejected, his own kind Preserved the words he left behind. Immortality. 151 Generous was made this soul, and yet To be the poorest of his race ; Ambition in this soul was set, Yet shut its gates were on his face. Vain was his hope the goal to win : The end on earth was, to begin. And so he drifted on to age, His genius ripe without success. Then he began his life to gauge. And measure out its wilderness. Then did the desert hear his sigh And bid him speak as death was nigh. He asked it why it was his lot To till those fields of arid sand ; The purpose of his toils forgot And vain the cunning of his hand. Why had the faculty divine Been let to burn but never shine ? He asked it why a mortal phase So fair had missed the click of fame ; Why Nature rather should erase Her work than sanctify his name ? The desert^s sigh far answer bore : These things shall trouble thee no more. 152 Immortality. And therij alone in soul, he turned His thought and heart to earth again. The light of reason in him burned To gild the meaning of his pain ; And, like a ray from heaven that shot, It broke the secret of his lot. Now two opposing mirrors glow. The Future opposite the Past, And image after image show While either way his eyes are cast. On every hand the endless shines, And this strange man its truth divines. His Past as one long presence glares, In it he lives his life again To glory in his former cares. He finds not one that was in vain ! On their bright gallery intent, His conscience gives its last assent. Not all, for lo ! the vista thrown Upon his Future, fills all time : His life is still to be his own ! And, in his destiny sublime. He learns that all his trials came To turn past days to others' shame. Immortality. 153 The Past he saw was not for fame, The tuneless clatter of an age : But for the contest when a name Is wanted on the eternal page. His life was done, but left its fire In living glory to expire. Not to enjoy a fame below That soon descends into the Past, But to partake the coming show : With all Futurity to last, Was work of genius to ascend. And be a touchstone to the end. To him is given the blended whole ; To him both v^istas are revealed ; They meet in him from either pole, So bright that nothing is concealed. Future and Past before him bared Are by the man of fate compared. The Future to his vision clings, He looks with an adoring sense, For though a life once sad he brings It is a life of innocence. To native joys his soul awakes. And pain his memory forsakes. 154 Immortality. Each image more distinct and clear Grows in his mind as time revolves^ And as the objects gather near. Itself the wondrous problem solves, For every former foe his state Exhibits to the man of fate. The faces that he knew of old Across the Future's mirror drift, Their purpose blindly they unfold, That he may mind and motive sift. The heart holds still its poisoned jet, The lip is still with honey wet ! The faces try his sight to shun Transformed to hideous teeth that gnash ; All from his hated presence run With lengthened ears moved towards the lash. As if his former words were sent To be their future punishment. At their own memory they start To yet, perforce, his pleadings spurn Till terror-smit their senses part And in a maze to earth return. Still poverty and genius plead, But speak the language of the dead ! Immortaliti/. 155 So more in wonder than dismay. He finds that all who cursed his life, Are grooved within one selfish way, To meet again in endless strife. While at each step they feel a shock ; The man of fate their stumbling-block. Not theirs to suffer for their kind. To help the sick, the naked clothe ; They saw the touchstone, and were blind ; They failed the heart and thought to soothe. These he beholds accursed and smit, As from his claims they strive to flit. But to identify their race Into the past he turned amazed. He there perceived each self-same face From him averted as he gazed. To meet these heirs of all his pain, Almost revives his grief again. Such was the life of this strange man. Such was the meaning of its end. And it was a consistent plan Thus first its value to defend. Then for a term its virtues nurse And through their fruits the worthless curse. 156 Immortality. His triumph this, that in his hand He finds the brazen trump of fame. Mouthpiece of an immortal band Whose shrillness starts the dead to shame. Lest in their sloth they ever rust. Soul unto soul, dust unto dust. So that one man has now command The high-born spirits' game to fight, And over myriads take his stand New ages calling into light. To nature true, not false to art. So did that man enact his part. 157 OLD SOULS. The worldj not hushed, yet lay in trance ; It saw the future in its van. It drew its riches in advance. To meet the unfelt wants of man ; But length of days, untimely sped, Left its account unaudited. The sun untired still rose and set, Nor swerved an instant from its beat ; It had not lost a moment yet. Nor used in vain its light or heat ; But, in his trance, from when it rose To when it sank, man craved repose. A light that once had gone before Was reached, despised, and left behind : The heart was rotting to the core Locked in the slumbers of the mind. Nor beat of drum, nor sound of fife. Could rouse it to a sense of life. 158 Old Souls. A cry was heard, intoned and slow, Of one who had no wares to vend : His words were gentle, dull, and low. And he called out. Old souls to mend ! He peddled on from door to door. And looked not up to rich or poor. His step kept on as if in pace With some old timepiece in his head, Nor ever did its way retrace, Nor right nor left turned he his tread. But uttered still his tinker's cry To din the ears of passers-by. So well was known the olden cry Few heeded what the tinker spake. Though here and there on passers-by A sudden hold it seemed to take. But these had not the time to stay ; And it would do some other day. Still on his way the tinker wends Though jobs be far between and few ; But here and there a soul he mends And makes it look as good as new. Once set to work and fairly hired. His dull old hammer seems inspired. Old Souls. l^g Over the task his features glow ; He knocks away the rusty flakes. A spark flies off at every blow; At every rap new life awakes. The soul once cleansed of outer sins, His subtle handicraft begins. Like iron unannealed and rough The soul is plunged into the blast : To temper it, however tough, 'Tis next in holy water cast. Then on the anvil it receives The nimblest stroke the tinker gives. The tinker^ s task is at an end : Stamped was the cross by that last blow. Again his cry. Old souls to mend ! Is heard in accents dull and low. He pauses not to seek his pay, That too will do another day. One stops and says. This soul of mine Has been a tidy piece of ware. But rust and rot in it combine. And now corruption lays it bare. Give it a look ; there was a day When it the morning hymn could say. i6o Old Souls. The tinker looks into his eye And there detects besetting sin, The decent old-established lie That creeps through all the chinks within. Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots. And like a worm^s nest coil the roots. Its flowers a deadly berry bear. Whose pip well-tended from the pod Had grown in beauty with the year, Like deodara drawn to God ; Not as the dank and curly brake That sucks up venom for the snake. The tinker takes the weed in tow, And roots it out with tooth and nail ; His labour patient to bestow Lest like the herd of men he fail. How best to extirpate the weed. Has grown with him into a creed. His tack is steady, slow and sure : He plucks it out, despite the howl. With gentle hand and look demure. As cunning maiden draws a fowl. He knows the job he is about. And pulls till all the lie is out. Old Souls. i6i " Now steadfastly regard the man Who wrought your cure of rust and rot ; You saw him ere the work began : Is he the same or is he not ? You saw the tinker^ now behold The Envoy of a God of old." This said, he on the forehead stamps The downward stroke and one across. Then straight upon his way he tramps ; His time for profit not for loss ; His task no sooner at an end That out he cries, Old souls to mend ! As night comes on he enters doors, He crosses halls, he goes up-stairs. He reaches first and second floors. Still busied on his own affairs. None stop him, or a question ask ; None heed the workman at his task. Despite his cry. Old souls to mend ! Which into dull expression breaks. Not moved are they, nor ear they lend To him who from old habit speaks. Yet does the deep and one-toned cry Send thrills along eternity. M i6a Old Souls. He gads where out-door wretches walk. And outcasts under arches creep ; Among them holds his simple talk. He lets them hear him in their sleep. They who his name have still denied, He lets them see him crucified. On royal steps he takes a stand To light the beauties to the ball : He holds a lantern in his hand, And lets his simple saying fall. They deem him but some sorry wit Who serves the Holy Spirit's writ. They know not souls can rust and rot. And deem him while he says his say. The tipsy watchman who forgot To call out. Carriage stops the way ! They know not what it can portend This mocking cry, Old souls to mend ! While standing on the palace-stone. He is in workhouse, brothel, jail ; He is to play and ball-room gone. To hear again the beauties rail ; With tender pity to behold The dead alive in pearls and gold. Old Souls. 163 In meaning deep, in wliispers low As bubble bursting on the air, He lets the solemn warning flow Through jewelled ears of creatures fair, Who while they dance, their paces blend With his mild words. Old souls to mend ! And when to church their sins they take. And bring them back to lunch again. And fun of empty sermons make, He whispers softly in their train ; And sits with them if two or more Think of a promise made of yore. Of those who stay behind to sup And in remembrance eat the bread, He leads the conscience to the cup. His hands across the table spread. When contrite hearts before him bend Glad are his words. Old souls to mend ! The little ones before the font He clasps within his arms to bless ; As long ago, so still his wont On them to lay peculiar stress. Besides, of such his kingdom is ; Him they betray not with a kiss. M 2 164 Old Souls. He goes to hear the vicars preach : They do not always know his face. But him pretend the way to teach. And, as one absent, ask his grace. Nor then his words. Old souls to mend ! Their spirit pierce, or bosom rend. He goes to see the priests revere The image of himself in death : They do not know that he is there ; They do not feel his living breath. Though to his secret they pretend With incense sweet old souls to mend. He goes to hear the grand debate That makes his own religion law ; But him the members, as he sate Below the gangway, never saw. They used his name to serve their end. And others left old souls to mend. Before the church-exchange he stands Where those who buy and sell him, meet : He sees his livings changing hands. And shakes the dust from off his feet. Maybe his weary head he bows While from his side fresh ichor flows. Old Souls. 165 On mitred peers he turns his face Where priests convoked in session plot ; He would remind them of his grace But for his now too humble lot. So his dull cry on ears devout He murmurs sadly from without. He goes where judge the law defends, And takes the life he can't bestow^ And soul of sinner recommends To grace above but not below ; Reserving for a fresh surprise Whom it shall meet in paradise. He goes to meeting, where the saint Exempts himself from deadly ire, And in a strain admired and quaint Consigns all others to the fire. While of the damned he mocks the howl. And on the tinker drops his scowl. Go here, go there, they cite his word While he himself is nigh forgot. He hears them use the name of Lord, He present though they know him not. Though he be there, they vision lack. And talk of him behind his back. 1 66 Old Souls. Such is the Church and such the State : Both set him up and put him down Below the houses of debate^ Above the jewels of the crown. But when Old souls to mend ! he says. They send him off about his ways. He is the humble, lowly one, In coat of rusty velveteen, Who to his daily work has gone ; In sleeves of lawn not ever seen. Nor mitre on his forehead sticks : His crown is thorny and it pricks. On it the dews of mercy shine ; From heaven at dawn of day they fell : And it he wears by right divine. Like earthly kings if truth they tell ; And up to heaven the few to send. He still cries out. Old souls to mend ! THE WORLD'S EPITAPH. THE WORLD'S EPITAPH. ON ART. What child of art, though genius flash Like daylight breaking on his house, With sunshine can the canvas dash. And Nature by the shock arouse ? Burns not in fancy's heaven a sun Unsparing of its light's supply, Whose hues through all emotion run, Its landscapes pendant from its sky ? Yet more than this, the child of art Can blue and silver light intone : The order of the stars impart To scenes the same as daily shone. 1 70 The World's Epitaph. Yet more achieves his graceful wand. Adept in Nature's mysteries : Shining on his creative hand The sun sits to him in the slcies ! Nor the chill moon his art eludes, Orb of the never-blushing ray. That skims the twilight solitudes Out of the reach of busy day. The IVorld's Epitaph. fj i II. ON MUSIC. Beyond the spheres, dwellers in harmony. To whom the instincts of the heart incline, A silent ocean inundates the sky, Choirless the waves, yet not the less divine. Though suns, the rolling-stock of heaven, may glow. As well becomes the bearers of the light. No other music of the spheres they know Save concert in the work of day and night. Music belongs to man, its empire here : It is the living word attuned to love. And holds the soul of man to be its sphere, Though only Heaven can all its rapture move. When mortals sing the worlds above are mute. They gather in the anthem^s mingled shout, They weave the notes, they shape the stringless lute, And vibrate softly to the sounds devout. Then Lyra's constellated embers burn, And look below on earth with envious eye As the soul's echoes to sad music turn, And serenade the ear of Deity. 172 Tlie IV(yiid's Epitaph. III. ON POETRY. Words let the pedagogue dispute His logic to express. Words let the perjurer pollute His fortunes to redress. But winnow from the pearls the chaff of thought. Lest sense and feeling be too lowly wrought. Words let the bard to fancy fling And at the peril scoff, Wild thoughts to catch while on the wing. The bloom not brushing off. Then the purblind may look through poet's eyes And see what things his sight beatifies. Words in the songster's voice are heard And rapture hails the shake. Words in the orator are fearM While wonder fills his wake. But when the voice has dropped its tone Where are the fitful visions gone ? The IVorld's Epitaph. 173 More true the sculptor's marble word. The soul is in the cast : Though but a feeling to record It is enough to last. Strong is the sculptor's marble thought, To solid life its beauty brought. Tough is the painter's sunny art Which brings the tale to light ; And can the poet not impart Such pictures to the sight ; With silent touch the veil remove That hides the birthplace of his Love ? IV. ON THE STORM OF LIFE. The heaving waters, quarried from the Deep, Are piled above in one Atlantine wave. Indented, lava-washed, the glairy steep Hangs doubting o'er its hollow, empty grave. And now like slimy serpents peak on peak Erects its crest to strike the creviced dawn, Then gnashed in foam before the billows break Scatters the barren valley with its spawn. 1 74 The IVm-Ld's Epitaph. Yet fall not. Soul ! thy pure and flaky form Touched by the briny tumulus were lost. Better for thee to drift before the storm And be along the waste of waters tossed. No aid accept, no aid to others tend : Through dusk and foam can only such descend. Myriads with thee across the darkness driven, Snatch at the phantoms howling in the wind. To share the crash of storms asunder riven. And at their lull no further morrow find. Gust after gust palls on the wretched ear. The shriek prolongs the whistle of the gale. Splash after splash, the graves are coming near. One burial flood the surf-encircled vale. Dark the horizon, lost its gentle line ! But He who stills the tempest walks the deck. A like ordeal passed the One divine To bear a world in safety through the wreck ; To reef the sails of Night, and through its shrouds Point out the dawn amid dispersing clouds. The World's Epitaph. 175 V. ON THE RAINBOW. Now spangled Iris springs her shaftless bow And with the soul a covenant unrolls. Poised in the light above^ in storms below. She opes her book of books, her scroll of scrolls. Her page, illuminated, spans the sun In lines red-lettered after ruby suit, With symbols round it that in clusters run Of interwoven orange, leaves and fruit. Now shines her golden tunic amber-bright; An emerald belt her glossy waist Veveals ; And amethyst, divinest of the light, About her as a blush of ether steals. Now faint, and mantled in that orient blue. She dies and sinks into the purple shades. Her mourning vesture fringed with violet hue, Which with her in the far horizon fades. 176 The IVorld's Epitaph. In every shade an emblem of her love. Pale be the tint or of the deepest dye : Saints in her coloured lights are robed above. And like the bow illumed by Majesty. Saints in her coloured lights are robed below Where rival banners in their glor}' rise. But to the presence all alike shall flow Beyond the floral arch of paradise. EPODE. The sea-weed proves an easy weather-glass. And surging tides an angered moon portend. Yet will the rapt of earth through whirlwinds pass Nor to prophetic signs and tokens bend. Hear how she reads her storm-drawn scimitar, Nought but the splitting up of solar showers, Yet its untempered blade must point afar And give safe escort to the blessed bowers ! The World's Epitaph. 177 VI. ON THE SANCTUARY. To play old ruin on a desert's site The rambling stones their chiselled features spread. And crumbled walls bestow their daily mite On sacred earth, the ash-pit of the dead. Home reared for solitude ! the cloister's pride Is roofless, jagged, ivy-cropped, and lone. No more the gravestones echo to the stride, The day of shrove and feast alike are gone. Within each chink the lichen guards its hold To ripen in the fervour of the moon. To draw a modest pension from her cold. And revel in the fulness of her noon. The pointed arches let her glory pass. Their faded beauty softened in her ray ; The walls see pity in her orb^d glass, And hail her as the ghost of ancient day ! 178 The World's Epitaph. Poised on the moonlit aisle tall columns cast Their meaning shadows on the floor of death. Mute is the chant except along the past. Where silent echo holds the courtly breath. The voice of monks and mitred abbot hushed. The table and its waxen lights effaced. The rich insignia on the altar crushed, In heaven is yet their holy record placed. The crucifix no longer is divine, For centuries adored in worship^s stead : Rent are the naked mullions o'er the shrine ; In dust the painted saint has bowed his head. The steadfast pines that date religion's birth. Set by some abbot once to story known ; That stand apart and measure girth to girth, Have now the stature of the earth outgrown. In straggling waters still the fishes leap And low the willow stoops to say its grace. An hourly service o'er the mouldering heap That sanctifies to time the honoured place. The World's Epitaph. 179 There is the crystal well ; a water-grass Stirs into emerald waves the liquid brink ; There thirst the longing lips of lad and lass, But never more the living spring to drink. With arch by buttress stayed the stately bridge Spans the fast stream, the stranger of the vale Whose noise enchants the overhearing ridge. Sole minstrelsy within the sacred pale. Tower, from all towers that bears aloft the palm ! There better saints poured out a soul of pain. But now the heavenward chanting of the psalm Is silence raining back on earth again. The truant boy, from overwhelming heights. Awe-struck stands gazing at it with dismay : He clambers down the thicket and alights, But dreadstheadder's-tonguethatguards the way. The man mature with sadder view admires, Catched in the wondrous reverie of the hour. He gives his living grandeur to the spires. And mourns the downfal of religious pow'r. N a i8o The IVorld's Epitaph. EPODE. Hut cracked and crazy, open to the blast That whines a dirge, and makes the sick man sad : By tumbling towers in ruin not surpassed. Nor less by slow compassion ivy-clad, Has it no simple wrong for thee to tell While the wan abbey works the sleepy spell ? Has he no charm, the poor old man inside ? To humble ruin close akin he stands. Though down his wrinkled cheek no moonlightglide. Though ivy cling not to his shrivelled hands ? His body wasted, and his senses dead. The hum of sorrow still runs in his head. O life monastic, story of the poor. The hut holds thy traditionary cells ; The fast is kept alone within the door Where self-denial through compulsion dwells. 'Tis there eyes open, and again are closed. Under the vow by poverty imposed. The World's Epitaph. i8i VII. ON NATURE. Cyclopean shelves from out whose granite base Basaltic columns and red porphyry wind. What volumes rest their lore within thy case ; What metaphysics of an elder mind ! Of old Silurian times, the rocky age, What well-kept registers the changes ring : But search through every cipher of the page, No plague of life the records say or sing. And thou Devonian era, and the clime Where erst the old red waters formed the lands. The hour-glass set upon a ledge of time Has piled upon thy tome its pleasant sands. Ye too, dark ages of the timber-graves. Now tell again how forests, undeplored, Went in a minute under half the waves, And, self-embalmed, for future use were stored. 1 82 The IVorld's Epitaph. Then comes the monster-folio, engraved On stone, the text of life to illustrate ; To show that no gigantic form was saved, By order of a then fastidious fate. Great Permian epoch, thou whose earthworks tell Such rack and ruin of thy middle age, With what a future does thy volume swell ! Now ended like unto thy heritage. Still the deep voices sound upon the beach. In waves that tread the golden sands of time, And to the passing soul a sermon preach Interpreted by none, to all sublime. Nor, high above, the burning lava posed With its volcanic torch these shelves shall light Until by Nature's hand the work is closed : Those flames the oldest record of her might. The JVorld's Epitaph. 183 VIII. ON TIME. Time immemorial^ ever-thoughtless dream, Failure of all alike from first to last, That swamps with desolating stream The long-enduring Past ! Who the lost tidings of thy day shall tell. Whose only welcome was to say farewell ? What of thy old endeavour yet survives. Told but on stone, shall also drift away : And so thy reliquary takes and gives To lead the foremost minds of man astray ! Better had all that yet escapes from rust Not ever been, or been restored to dust. Yet well perhaps thy deep devices fare. Since all thy works co-partners with the dead, May show the anxious mind how vain is care ; And disabuse the future of its dread ; May warn the hopeful of their scanty lot : The last to yield, the first to be forgot. 1 84 The IVm-ld's Epitaph. IX. ON THE FUTURE. And thou too, Future, sure and slow Com'st daily forth anew. With equal blessings to bestow And curses to bestrew ; Thy gifts the half-expired remains That breast the passing hour ; Baubles that death awhile disdains The later to devour ! Thy wiles acquire thee man's belief. The credit of the wise. Who thinks of thee in time of grief Thy promise to despise? For hope is thine ; scarce fledged, she springs From out her native east. Beats oflT the darkness with her wings, And nestles in thy breast. She mounts on the unrisen orb. Breathes its auspicious flame, Dreams how ere long she may absorb The riches of thy name. The JVm-ld's Epitaph. 185 Real seems the vision for a day, But ere slie ends her round The sun has shed its early ray, And autumn holds the ground. Eclipsed is thence her polar star. And distant is her dream ; Not as of late in heaven afar, But with receding gleam. Now from her eyes the scales are cast ; She throws her glance behind, And sees her image in the past As of another mind ! 1 86 The World's Epitaph. X. ON THE SOUL. Free as the soul^ the spire ascends. Heaven lets it in her presence sit; Yet ever back to earth it tends : The tranquil waters echo it. So falls the future to the past ; So the high soul to earth is cast. But though the soul thus nobly fails, Not long it borders on despair ; It still the fallen glory hails, Though lost its conquests in the air. While truth is yet above, its good Is measured in the spirit's flood. Though not its first, its holy light Is figured in that mirror's face, It scarce returns a form less bright Than fills above a higher place. The one was loved though little known. The other is the spirit's own. The JVorld's Epitaph. 187 XI. ON THE SOUL. Suitor of Heaven, then take of earth thy fill 1 Like languid waters in the path of shades. Reverse within thy depths the hanging hill. Beatify the harsh, the wild cascades. Look on and listen till thy breath be gone ; Be thou the place, the place be thou, alone. Stream and its hanging bough in whispers meet To gather kisses from the wreaths of foam ; Clouds find out pools their fleeting forms to greet. Or with their shadows over pastures roam. All join thee in the strolling players' mood, Soul of the fond, the lone old neighbourhood ! The World's Epitaph. EPODE. Like smoke arising from its smouldering fires. The love of Nature draws up discontent, And to the gangway of the clouds aspires. As if the world to it were banishment. To triumph and attain all earth can give Is proper for the gifted, it is less Than to the vulgar it may be to live. But solitude has not the power to bless. Then shun the love of glory, save to lift A needy world, and give it all the gain 1 Set little store on Nature's feathery gift Lest falling it shall eddy back amain. The World's Epitaph. 189 XII. ON GLORY. To what new land has Glory gone ? Her radiance, not less lovely, still invites The heart on which her presence shone, To mingle in her rites. But now with golden vase her arm outpours Along the crimson bank a yellow stream, And she behind the far horizon low'rs To shape the sorcerer's dream. With tears of light she pledged the mutual vow. In dewy lustre robed, at dawn of day ; A guilty hand she only offers now. Steeped in the bleeding, ruby-tinctured ray. A passion of the soul her likeness took. Only to watch her and to be forsook. igo The World's Epitaph. XIII. ON PEACE. Peace, let us keep thy natal day ! In us fulfil thy promised way. Yield to our suit, thy suppliants hear, O holy being, ever dear ! Be ours in silence, ours in death ; The solace of our parting breath ! Calm passion of the glassy deep, More than the lull that covers sleep. More than the still, uncancelled light, That tints the starry wake of night ; Known best in absence, like the one So loved when near but most when gone : Are we to ask of thee no sign, No vision of thy gift benign, And by thy memory overcast. To ply our sorrows in the past ? The World's Epitaph. 191 XIV. ON THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. There comes a breeze, not from the pole, Nor from the burning sand ; It comes as if its whiffs had stole Across a sunny land ; It has a softness in its dole. As if the deep when calm Had gust on gust with sea-weeds fannM To give it up their balm. Though Nature^s wily voice be glad, Playful the curling gale. And for the asking may be had Her most romantic tale, She sees the heart of man too sad. With sorrows overlaid, To rush again within her pale ; And triumphs like a maid. T92 The World's Epitaph. She seeks it in the Cedrus-glades At musings to connive ; She stirs the shrinking bough, whose shades Seem trodden on ahve. As grief the eye of man pervades And makes the lashes wave. She bids the boughs and breezes strive. And earth with sadness pave. EPODE. Finds man no rest ? Not lofty is his love : At most a lunar span above the ground ! Far statelier forms in higher orbits move Nor jar on Nature through their silent round. And act, these strolling monads, longer plays, Nor utter murmurs louder than their rays. The World's Epitaph. 193 XV. ON GENIUS. Thou one and inextinguishable spark That simmerest on the mossy swamp^ Bright though the earth be dark. And smothered be the sleeper's lamp : Genius, thou refuse of divinest light. Infatuate fire, self-burning amethyst. Whose visage beams when dingy night Calls up thy phantom through the mist : Star of the marsh and fen. Favoured of Nature, not of men ; How is thy place below so little known, With but the quagmire for thine own ? The earth its early course has run : No more an infant cradled in the air. Nursed at the bosom of the sun With taintless lips, or thou, O Spirit fair, Might'st, like thy ever-glorious kin of old. Have called it thine to dandle in thy arms ! But now the world is cold. Or man is sated with its charms, o 194 The JVorld's Epitaph. It may revive thy claims, may yet impart The secret of thy choicest art ; Then, though the stamp of hoofs may mark the mire. Thou shalt emerge and earth still feed thy fire ! Star of the swamp, thy day the night Where heaven vain wealth displays, And the waste drippings of her light Encrust thee round with rays. Thou shalt adjourn into the dawn. With it thy musings hlend. And on the azure of its lawn Thy dreamy being end ! Meantime grieve on where Nature grieves ; Heed not the blessings man achieves. Thou hast a shout far other lands to hail When his poor heart has ceased its wail. To fellow-suffering give an ear, In sorrow, thou, and not in glory, trained ; The spring, exuding ever, dwell'st thou near, Where breathless immortality is gained. Glory within a film of colour glows ; The bubble is its wreath ; But sorrow in an endless river flows, Not startled into death. The World's Epitaph. 195 Cling to thy mnt, O Genius bright ; Catch the waste drippings of the light ; Burn 'neath the hoof's unharming tramp ; From the morass renew thy lamp ! The forked lustre of the ray unveil, And through the dismal swamp thy fetters drag : A creeping glowworm lingers in thy trailj For those set fast within the troubled quag. Then, yet again the crutchless wanderers save : In vain to quit the sedgy waste they strive. But flounder through a water-venomed grave To touch no more its vanished bank alive. Be it the outlaw asks of thee his way, The devious torch shall take him not astray : Fateful thy lot, but mercy in thy gleam. Fulfil in others thy unfinished dream ! EPODE. But genius is not sought in every mart : One is not wise in lyrics to descant When once the wit of man rejects his art. And warns him coldly to desist from rant. The pleasant world would thus express its will : Let science march and poesy stand still. o 3 196 The fVorld'i Epitaph. XVI. ON DEPARTING PEACE. STROPHE. Peace^ why art thou ever on the wing With plumes that wave like branches to the sky. Thy bosom panting out the breeze of spring ! , Make answer, tell me why ? ANTISTROPHE. To take kind Nature to my fond embrace. And share my lot with all, For this my way I trace. By thee repulsed, I disregard thy call. STROPHE. And never to restrain thy wayward flight. Dear exile from this aching heart opprest ? Wilt thou no more alight And set the weary soul of man at rest ? ANTISTROPHE. 1 quit the earth and all the cares below, But leaving, tap it gently with my wand ; That those who love me, and sustain the blow. May follow to the distant land. The World's Epitaph. 197 STROPHE. Is not the heart, the stricken heart, thy home ? Bear not thy plumage from it to the skies ! Hither, relenting in thy anger, come. Nor tear-like float before our longing eyes. XVII. ON NATURE. Thou too, fair Nature, hast thy cloud. Peace is not ever thine. Thy plaintive cry is heard aloud As from some holy shrine. Thy murmurs, rocked upon the gale. Tell of immortal life a doleful tale. Thy chant alarms the troubled sky, Where late the sun has set. And the repining heavens reply In murmurs of regret. The prowling sun, though it return. Is tangled up in cloud ; Fierce flies the dust as from an urn Burst open with its shroud. The trees bend down to shed their leaves, Whose drifting circle thee a chaplet weaves. 198 The (For Id's Epitaph. XVIII. ON LIFE. Who would to early life return, Recount the days of youth in vain. The burnt-out fire once more to burn, To border on the tomb again ? Once is enough to be a slave ; Once is enough to touch the grave. A lease of seventy years at most Can Nature grant to dust ; The soul is fashioned at her cost, And back to darkness thrust. But, still, the universe is lent To it while seventy suns are spent. Meantime the soul attempts to learn How Nature first began, And thence immortal fame to earn Within the race of man. And, Nature's tenure to reverse. Claims to itself the universe. The World's Epitaph. 199 XIX. ON HOPE. Like waters from a sandy well, Hope bubbles through the mind : Her springs to troubled fountains swell, Ere scattered in the wind. The young draw rapture as she flows And all that dreams afford bestows. Why, as the waters run away Eloping with the hours, Has every bubble burst in spray ? So, Hope her own devours ! Thermal her spring in days of old. Nor now the kindly flow is cold. But, once fond youth no longer sports Save in the vale of years. Nor with a warmer spring comports Than wets the vale of tears. There when the fount its bubble throws. The licensed jet through marble flows. 200 The IVarld's Epitaph. XX. ON THOUGHT. Clad in a robe of snow, the Earth Proclaims herself a bride ; But scathing blasts and sounds of dearth Her nuptial feast deride. Stripped of the snow her limbs of clay And wintry breasts lay bared in day. No bridegroom enters at her gate, No handmaids are at hand, So solitary is her state, The festal hour so grand. Upon the bridal hearth a fire As from an altar lifts its spire. One is at hand who feeds the flame. And fans it with the hopeless sigh ; While thought consumes without a name. Though wedded once to one as high. But mindful of her brighter days The thought not faithless with her stays. The World's Epitaph. 201 Made fast to Nature, as a heart That throbs within her depths concealed, The thought must still subserve its part, The sigh, a breath, must be congealed. And in the inhospitable soil Be unrequited all their toil. Once did that thought for Nature live ; Once did that breath to fame aspire ! Shall not their memory revive. Though black the altar, dead the pyre ? Stripped but of their mortality. Thus offered up they cannot die. EPODE. Is not reality the surest friend ? Its solid hopes and aspirations please. And to the mental torment put an end : In it alone the world goes at its ease. Play with the young, their artlessness retain ; From whence they start a firmer footing gain. Pass on thy troubles to the curate's care ; His profits have their source in man's mischance. This life is at the best but meagre fare ; Let sadness not its poverty enhance. When death itself salutes thee, look away ; If it persists, take all it does in play. 302 The IVmld's Epitaph. XXI. ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE. A TREMBLING compass points to age. The winter's shortest day; Four seasons all our heritage ; Worn-out the beaten way. Though long the spring-tide, short its hours ; The years alone are slow ; For joy an endless torrent pours Upon the soul below. And lesser floods bring forth their joys, Which nothing clogs, and nothing cloys. A season swelled with many springs, A bud-time free from blight, That flies without the fabled wings Which help the angels' flight. To thee, fair youth, all this is sent, Pastime scarce changed in changing spent. The World's Epitaph. 303 To thee the burning heavens are cool. The faded forests green ; The blast that furrows up the pool Not to thy senses keen. To thee the iceljerg is a sun Reflecting days but just begun. On happy hours thou look'st not back As never to return. Drawn in the meteor's hurried track, Thy onward light to burn. To waste on summer's coming gleam The fancy of a truant dream. Nature, to thee scarce human yet 1 The winter in her rear. Where on the soul the ice must set So hard that it will bear ! Where, as the ploughed-up flood congeals A gelid wind its slumber seals. Unlike thy days, lascivious Spring, That give the bud its scope ; That suns, and showers, and rainbows bring, But not as once to hope. Season of many springs in one That seemed eternal, and was gone. 204 The IVorld's Epitaph. EPODE. Let man through every stage of being wend. Like empty barges down the river's slope, Untimely must his tour of pleasure end — With rock and shoal alternately to cope. Deem life a battle-field as pampas gay, Whose hues break lances with the laughing sun : A game of chess which god and demon play. To both of lucky moves an equal run. The World's Epitaph. 305 XXII. ON PASSION. O FAVOURED man, with glance above. To thee the heavens are bared ; They hold an atmosphere of love By every being shared. Then is he poor, is he alone To whom all heaven is nude ? He lives within a holy zone. Though else a solitude. Friends whom one half the globe divides. With seas upon its face. Feel what a balm between them glides To warm the old embrace. Their newer griefs they still compare ; Mourn for each other's sake ; Borne down with burdens of self-care. Each other's load partake. But love thus pure scarce feels its might The tempest to engage : An ocean's roll, a meteor's flight. The passion in its rage. 3o6 The World's Epitaph. Turn to the rapture of the sun. And read the lover's dream : There has the orb in heaven begun To wear a redder beam. A torrid orb is on its way. And, kindled in its glow. Two souls burst into mutual day ; Each other's passion know. Fear holds them back, enchanted fear ; Invisible its arm. A soft impulsion draws them near. But impotent its charm. In sorrow's melancholy stare A fever slowly burns. The eye emits a poisonous glare. Its gaze to phrensy turns. Meantime what clinging hopes sustain The lashing of the tides. And in their tender shells remain Unhurt till it subsides ! The World's Epitaph. 207 EPODE. And is not love a boon to all alikcj Be it of stranger or of kith and kin ? When fail the clinging roots to burst and strike Or draw the nurture to the heart within ? Though man desert, though want the exile face. Some tender spirit stands in stead between ; In times of worst disaster and disgrace There is a nest yet warm where love has been. 3o8 The World's Epitaph. XXIII. ON THE NUPTIALS. Thrice-happy, now, in silken cords The flowing knot is tied : A promise in the dream of words By scripture sanctified, The lovers in each other's sight Feel not as yet the cord drawn tight. All hearts have burst their icy shell And cast it like a skin, To revel in affection's spell And feel to love akin. Though not for them the torch was brought, The flame of love a thaw has wrought. Not to return, that day has shone A lifetime to bestow : Yet how unlike to pleasures gone Its yearly ebb and flow ! Balm for all ills that day should prove : Keep then the wedding gift of love ! The World's Epitaph. 309 EPODE. The great intent, the beautiful decree A woman's love, is law divine to thee, To rule perjiaps while wistful eyes express In full intensity the first caress. But let the bloom of youth be brushed aside And slower lips the languid passion guide. Can she the charm that once encircled her With power, to fickle man still minister ? 210 The Wvrld's Epitaph. XXIV ON THE SIREN. Her voice, so clear, in measured time Still pours its touching thrill, Joy of her childhood to her prime To modulate its trill. The song-bird warbles to its mate At early burst of spring ; In changeful tune and gurgling prate The loving couples sing. But she whose trembling note so long Has echoed love's refrain, Is moved by no responsive song That mingles in the strain. Yet when her warble fills the air All hearts its keeping crave, And all like song-birds with her pair To float on rapture's wave. The World's Epitaph. an Silence returns not as before. The echo is not laid ; The melody that speaks no more Within the heart has stayM. Oh, not in vain her days have sped. Sweet sounds around them throng. For she to harmony is wed. And lives in endless song. P 2 2IZ Tht' IVor Id's Epitaph. XXV. ON THE IMAGE. Once she was seen, and now is seen no more; Once was she found, and now is ever lost; Her beauty known not since, and not before ; Of all loved forms her image loved the most. Where is she now ? her image tarries here : Can two so like, so good, not meet again ? Is one of earth, one of a higher sphere ? A moment one, and then for ever twain ? Now in conjunction's ever-sweet delight. Her beauty vanishing her image left, One ever moving from the other's sight ; So happy one, the other so bereft. She lives, her image else had also slept. But is death catching, save as sad and lone ? Alive by her the image was not kept. And dead the image is not with her gone. The World's Epitaph. 313 EPODE. All women are alike, though not in type : All taste the same, at divers seasons ripe. A first affection, though on record kept. Falls out of date, is set aside unwept. No leisure for remorse, the pang postponed. The unkind parting felt but unatoned. To this account some penance still is laid, A debt that to the close is never paid. A second love this sacrifice requires : The first to bury ere it quite expires. A hundredfold the gain for every loss Should you once more the witches' circle cross. Still smiles usurp the seat of the caress And issue invitations to the lip ; Still sapid fruits each other's dimples press. And courtly flowers each other's nectar sip. 214 The World's Epitaph. XXVI. ON THE INFANT AT THE BREAST. Dot of humanity, thy rosy cheek Tints with its flush the breast to which it clings; Thy lips by industry a living seek, And pick up drink at virtue's famous springs. Nature the store provided for thy gain. It else within the frothy well had soured ; Then still thy mother of her goods distrain, By thee the font be looted and devoured. It will convey no poison to thy mind. It is thy booty won in honest strife ; No ratsbane with it shall a passage find. Churn it between thy lips, it saves thy life. The Wm-ld's Epitaph. 315 XXVII. ON THE WIDOW. O wiDOW-woMANj mourn the dead Whom still your homestead needs. Be crimped the muslin on your head, And watered be your weeds. All else, not only he, is gone ; Your life lay in his wake. All will return, though one by one, For old acquaintance sake. A babe its thoughtless prattle brings. Nor can it come amiss ; A child to every finger clings And asks of you a kiss. Smile at the little ones who say Is father coming back ? Explain his death another day, And take another tack. 3i6 The IVorLd's Epitaph. Ere then how little did you know What meant this pilgrimage ! Then own it vain the way to show To those of tender age. All will return, though not apace, And God among the rest; He can supply the husband's place. The widow-woman's Guest. The thoughts of the departed one As models still are rife. And bid you act as he had done Ere he gave up his life. Then all he did was not in vain Should you its purpose find ; The words he used will do again To speak your inner mind. EPODE. The orphans claim her ; if a younger dame She might in time have shared another name. The world is careless where no harm can come, But it is partial to the widow's home. It finds the boy the means to use his head, And shows the girl how best to earn her bread. The World's Epitaph. 217 XXVIII. ON PITY. From whose estate does pity flow? That ever-winding stream, Too gentle for the scenes below, And yet not all a dream ! Though of its healing dew deprived The thorny wild grows rank. The broken reed is soon revived That stands upon its bank. Is it a spring of human love, Its way by sorrow worn. Or flows its bounty from above To succour the forlorn ? 31 8 The JVorLd's Epitaph. XXIX. ON THE BEREAVED. STROPHE. Why was this blooming spray entwin'd In fresti festoons of grace, Around this inmost heart to wind And all its love embrace ? O that upon my troubled head Had come this mighty blow That numbers her among the dead, Thou Author of my woe ! ANTISTROPHE. Link not another's fate to thine Beyond the hour allowed. Nor in thy troubled heart repine Though low by sorrow bowed : Look only in thy chamber lone To emulate the grace That led her to the heavenly throne. The spirit's trysting-place. The IVorld's Epitaph. 319 STROPHE. O that my loaded heart had sunk At anchor on her breast ; That both the glacial stream had drunk At Nature's poisoned feast; That both the horn of bitterness Had tasted to the lee. In icy rapture's last caress At liberty to flee ! ANTISTROPHE. Vain man, thy fate to thus upbraid, Can it be less than just ? What if thus low thou hadst been laid And numbered with the dust ! Hadst thou been fit to take thy place Before the judgment-seat, Who thus devoid of heavenly grace These ravings canst repeat ? STROPHE. O that my body had been cast Into the common grave ; Thee, O my soul, thy trial past, I had not cared to save ! 230 The World's Epitaph. Can it be justice thus to rend The ties of holy love ; Can I to this affliction bend^ And the harsh will approve ? ANTISTROPHE. She was in heaven before she died, Confess it in thy love. She in her parting anguish cried : I am with Him above ! Then, over her a look of grace Stole like a ray of light ; A shadow only crossed thy face. Succeeding like the night. STROPHE. Was it the will Divine to see Her image in the child ? If thus fulfilled be his decree, My soul be reconciled ! It was ordained for her to give An infant being breath, To wait and see the helpless live, Then sink away in death ! The fVorld's Epitaph. 20,1 ANTISTROPHE. Few shun in life a rapid rise. An empty rank to gain ; A vacant place in paradise She suffered to obtain ! Thence keeps she watch on this abyss. And guards thee with a shield, Whilst thou art raving at the bliss It was not thine to yield. STROPHE. O Mother Earth, be desolate. All teeming Nature fail, And hear the orphan's voice narrate A father's bitter wail. To tell, perchance, how the bereaved Were taught to bear their lot ; The heart grief- stricken not aggrieved ; The lone deserted not ! ANTISTROPHE. In bloody concert fools engage. And struggle hand to hand ; But thou a sadder war shalt wage On this unholy strand. 232 The World's Epitaph. Then on the grave thy gauntlet cast ; With threats thy Maker greet ; And perish in the trumpet^ s blast, Thy loved no more to meet ! STROPHE. To take her in my arms and rise To scenes of heavenly peace ; To be with her in paradise Where human sorrows cease. To meet my Maker face to face ; His holy service hear ; And at the fountain of His grace, To wash away the tear. EPODE. What Heaven has planned, her means have blessed. Herself takes charge of the distressed ; She for their trial earth bea;an, Where tribulation is for man. She, more than all, a mourner loves, For broken heart her pity moves. He who best bears affliction's blow Shall more and more the giver know. To her resigned his tears shall cease, And Nature envy him his peace. The World's Epitaph. 223 XXX. ON EARLY DEATH. Age takes its turn to quit the ground ; Its life no further gain : But why are little children found To throng the funeral train ? Love they the company of years, Unmindful of their parents' tears ? Behold their tiny coffins set Alongside in the tomb, As if like twins again they met Within a mother's womb. Bears holiness such scanty fruit As thus midst sucklings to recruit ? Chilled by the winter's nipping snow The rose has cast its flower. And buds that shoot too late to blow Drop with it from the bower. 224 The World's Epitaph. The starving earth denies a home To orphans of the world to come. EPODE. Some deem it best the young should early die. They travel, then, but in advance of fate : They run away from schools of misery. And holidays in heaven anticipate. The IVwld's Epitaph. 225 XXXI. ON THE DESERTED. O LOVELY base-born, earthly child, Drop of the olden blood, Whose glorious soul the virtues wild And heathen graces flood ; From the bright roll of Honour's name No sponsors brave the font to bear thy shame. O lovely base-born, heavenly girl Whose mimic arts the dance inspire, To be its sad melodious whirl, And prompter of its lyre ; Thy feet are holy, not astray ; The world their path, but heaven their way. O lovely base-born, saintly maid Whose voice calls up the sudden tear ; On all alike that penance laid. For sanctity is near ; Thy song is sacred as thy love. Its pathway to the choir above. a 226 The IVorld's Epitaph. O lovely base-born, lowly one, Thy kin in court and camp abide; Thou trudgest through the earth alone. No trappings and no tramp of pride. They speak in whispers of thy fame, For it brings blushes on their name. O lovely base-born, chosen saint. Death looks out naked from thine eyes ! They send thee wine now thou art faint ; They send thee bread that with thee dies. Thy parted lips in pardon move ; Thy soul departs in perfect love. Hark ! the glad shout, and mighty crush ; How angels cheering come I Through miles of holy land they rush To bid thee welcome home ! They snatch thee up, in rapture wild They kiss, they kiss the heavenly child ! The World's Epitaph. 227 XXXII. ON DISSIPATED YOUTH. O Time, to whom the sands a temple raise To sink as fast as they build up the spire, The matin and the vesper tell thy praise. Thou who dost bless all rational desire. The wise adore thy chimes, the quarter's din, A melody that to the conscience pleads ; That moves an echo in the ears of sin. And warns it of the gulf to which it leads. Earth goes on slowly through the sacred way ; With steps exact it gains the purposed end : Man stakes eternity to win a day. Soon to a heavier weight than life to bend. The young are hastened from their brightest days To scenes beyond their puny powers to scan. And led to revel in dead pleasure's ways That ill befit the riper years of man. Too soon pale youth plays less than childhood's part: He scarce can to the bed of sickness creep. Thence early doomed to take his final start And poise no more his blooming limbs in sleep. Q 2 i28 The JVor Ill's Epitaph. The heir-presumptive to eternal grace Has not an hour of mercy at his claim. Too late a single mortgage to efface. Yet tell not youth that death is taking aim ! The dying look, a spectacle sublime, Is still on health restored and pleasure bent. Shall he not live and mourn thy loss, O Time ? The sands descend, the vail in twain is rent. EPODE. Why not in simple terms describe the school Where tutors strive to stultify the fool. To train the germs of self-conceit in grace. To polish up the faults but none efface ; To foster mockery in place of wit ; To teach false judgment on the world to sit ? Take him to court, give him his golden lace. His noble birth in all his follies trace ; Take him to church the common prayer to say And with a lisp the nearest beauty slay ; Then the last supper let him undergo, Since it is meet to do as others do : Thence into orgies he shall fondly glide. And through the sot attain the suicide. The World's Epitaph. 229 XXXIIf. ON CONSCIENCE. Harsh is the crown thy brow around^ Thou hapless beggar's child ! Why is thy head with prickles bound ? To make thy name reviFd ? Thy voice shall whisper why in vain, So feeble is its force : Can stony heart its beat regain And melt into remorse ? Pass on, poor child ; for thy name's sake Leave this infected place. Lest soon thy peace of mind partake The qualms it would efface. Nor in the crowd attempt a breach, Though more than warrior bold ; But to the babe thy lessons teach Before it is too old. 230 The World's Epitaph. XXXIV. ON SLUMBER. The lamp goes out, the eyelids close : Are angels then at hand To guard the spirit in repose. And at the pillow stand ; With curtained wing the watch to keep. And cast a shadow over sleep ? Is thence the wicked one less bold Who seeks his prey by night ? His eyes, to love and pity cold, Fear they the angels' light ? The peace of conscience, with its smile. Works it on man a charm To keep the spirit safe from wile. But not the soul from harm ? To hold the sleep in their embrace. Is this the guardian angel's grace ? The IVorld's Epitaph. 231 XXXV. ON THE PILLOW OF THE WRETCHED. Weary of life, in mind deprest, The eyelids droop but crave in vain ; The thinking part denies them rest, For it must cling to pain. The griefs of old as waters come That gather in a brook ; The thinking part has there no home. By every ripple shook. How like a dream ! and yet no sleep Assigns to it a resting-place ; It has a course that it must keep : The.ipillow shares the race. epode. The wide aiFections which a world assail. Not man^s vocation be it to bewail ! Weep for a sister, for a brother grieve, A child bemoan, for time is a reprieve. 332 The fVorld'.s Epitaph. Regret a neighbour even as a friend. In silence mourn a parent to the end. Lament a benefactor, oft deplore The early friend whom thou canst see no more. But, though the losses quickly may betide. Be prompt the mental conflict to decide. Divert the thoughts into a lively strain ; To dwell too long on trouble turns the brain. The World's Epitaph. 233 XXXVI. ON A MOTHER. The soul must not repine ! Not when a parent, perhaps the last In old affection's line Shall bear away the past ? She who once left us not a day, And now is loth to close her sight On those who yet may stay To fill the void with sorrow day and night ? The eye no more shall weep ! Not for a mother, though she wept Beside us in our sleep. And ghostly vigil kept When Sickness in pale garments lay Upon the pillow at our head To mark her quiet way Between us and the dead ? Not shed a tear to soothe the brain, Not yield the heavy sob ? The inward agony restrain. Despite the bursting throb ? 334 The World's Epitaph. Her dear and silent lips not press, Not kneel by her again ; Not utter in our last distress A prayer that she remain ? Let then the wounded spirit heal Ere it has time to smart; Let law the memory repeal When those we love depart ; Then may the heart its load defy, And with no muffled beat Strike up the note of victory At Nature's great defeat, EPODE. Whether the son be doomed to stay A mother's parting words to hear. Or by unlooked-for, sad delay She stops his obsequies to bear ; The mourner yet to themes shall wake In which no sorrow need partake. Nature confirms in all the right To dissipate the cloudy past. Lest when a blossom falls its blight The ills of death on others cast. Not all is lost while power divine Allows the day again to shine. The IVorld's Epitaph. 'i2>5 From human depths must suffering rise, Till it a burnt-out ember leave, Then shall its former peace surprise The home where old affections cleave : Then sleep the reddened eyes shall bind, And force the tears to lag behind. So love itself, not lost to thought. Its clinging is constrained to cease, And, not through vain repinings sought. Is with the past ere long at peace. Then with the dead, in memory blest. The heart shall be at perfect rest. EPODE. How beautiful is laughter's ring. It is the spirit's bell ; The siren's witching strain can bring No such ecstatic swell. The harp's delirious cord can fling No such assuring spell. Let not the ears to sorrow cling The spirit's single knell ; Let not the hands each other wring To bid the long farewell. 236 The IVorld', Epitaph. XXXVII. ON THE OUTCAST. O MiSERV, whose sorry way All steps must tread at last, Thy part alone how many play, With thee their portion cast : From morn to night on the check-mated board Theirs the lost game, its teachings theirs to hoard. And well may such the doubt address Why they were put to life for only pain, Their infant features modelled to express What others act for gain ! But, pledged the pleasant world and all its charms. No place to them remained except thy arms. The refuse of the sunny breeze Thou gatherest for thy poor ; The cutting hail in gusts that freeze Their limbs outside the door. Heaven's roof lets in the rain and wind. Where then can they a shelter find ? The IVorld's Epitaph. 237 Ask Heaven to bid the famine cease, Witli plenty at her beck ; Ask her to lend a hand to ease The millstone round the neck ; Relentless, she no help to such can tend Whose shaking limbs in worship never bend ! They laugh, but penury the more Is on their pointed cheek ; They sleep, and golden visions score : The windfalls of the weak. They, waking, clutch them in their hold, But with the dream departs the gold. Their sleep the riot of the dead Whose sins deny them rest ; A world with terror overspread. The soul by hell-hounds prest. The wave of dream heaves up and down. The floating sense in lava-floods to drown. Now to the rotten, herbless bank They drift and strike the shoal ; The stream is thick, the sedge is lank ; It is the common goal. All thence afresh their start shall take To run for the eternal stake. 238 The World's Epitaph. EPODE. The city of the poor, by fancy built, Stands on the mind that such a scene unfolds : Though growing wealth draws poverty and guilt. Suffering so massed no faithful eve beholds. To labour is a right, to beg a wrong ; They both are freely at the choice of all ; The sick and lame to their own mansions throng ; The public purse is open to their call. The World's Epitaph. 239 XXXVIII. ON CHARITY. CharitYj thou whose maiden name Was never changed for mortal love. Now as of old who art the same. To sorrow's home the holy dove ; Is all thy beauty dim and worn, Veiled since the hour when woe was born ? Charity, who with unshut ear Hast tended at the cripple's door. Thou art content to ask and bear The one-toned story of the poor ! Still the same tale, so often told. Creeps to thy bosom from the cold. Art thou perchance the long-lost star Not fallen but immortal still. Which missed and mourned by all afar Art here with souls who suffer ill ? Charity, hast thou left yon sphere To do the work of pity here ? 240 The World's Epitaph. EPODE. What, murmur still and still devoutly strain The feeling element from pain to pain ? If charity began at home, how few Were called upon its tributes to renew ! The fVorld's Epitaph. 241 XXXIX. ON THE SAINT. Saint, now in paths of light, Let drop awhile thy newly grafted wings. And, in the dead of night. Devote a leisure hour to earthly things ; Bear witness, once, how ill thy fellows thrive In haunts thou didst not visit when alive. Champions to hunger trained, these scenes engage ; The boards unlicensed, unapproved the play : One look of sorrow on the blackened stage Would break upon it like the invading day. Would show to thee how low is laid the plot. And from what depths is tragedy begot ! Invest with memory the lyric verse Whose accents stun the air ; The menace and the look rehearse ; And laugh the loud despair ! Fail not the thought and gesture to acquire. Then light up heaven itself with tragic fire ! R 442 The lV