i--rx'uw^:^i}: ajotnell Unioeraitg ffithtarg atltaca. Slew lacti BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 PR 1221.W737857"''''' ^^""^ H Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013295377 TPIE POETS NINETEENTH CENTUEY. LOUDON : — PniKTED BY RICUAaD CLAY, BR£AJ} &TKE£T HIIX. THE POETS NINETEENTH CENTURY. SELECTED AND EDITED BY THE EEV. KOBEET AEIS WILLMOTT, IWCUMBKNT OF BKARWOOD. ILLUSTRATED -WITH ONE HUNDKED ENGEAVINGS, DRAWN BY EMINENT ARTISTS, AND ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL^. LONDON: GEOEGE KOUTLEDGE & CO. FARRINGDON STREET. NEW YORK : 18, BEEKMAN STREET. iR.'ir. P E E P A E. Very suggestive of musical and pleasant thoughts is the Picture- gallery which this Preface opens ; and among them is the recollection of the manner in which these choice Word-paintings have been con- tributed by the Authors, or their representatives ; always with liberal promptness, and sometimes with expressions of personal good-will, to be gratefully treasured. Nor can I forget the generous enterprise of the Publishers, and the tasteful skill of the Brothers Dalziel, by whom the grace and the beauty of the pencil have been translated into the popular language of their own Art.. The Vohime embraces a period of about eighty-five years, for the first Canto of the Minstrel appeared in 1771 ; Beattie survived Cowper only three years ; while Percy, exchanging the friendship of Goldsmith for that of Scott, lived into the eleventh year of this century. The dates of these poets might seem to exclude them from our calendar; but, in truth, the fancy of the present age was largely inspired and moulded by the past ; and the sentiment of the Minstrel, the naturalness of the Task, and the simplicity of the Eeliques, very strikingly reappear in Campbell, Wordsworth, and Scott. Nor has the embellished landscape of Darwin been without imitators; while the footprints of Eogers are easily traced in the trim garden-paths of Hayley. One member of the classic band will be less familiar to general readers : I allude to Professor Crowe, whose descriptive poem is written with fine taste, and in choice numbers. The traveller, walking from Charmouth to Lyme, discovers Lewesdon Hill on the vi PREFACE. right hand, and forming one of the boundaries to a rich vale chequered by enclosures. Our Poetry owes many beauties to womanly genius, and in the following pages some specimens of it will be found. The " Psyche " of Mary Tighe yet lives in the memory of Taste ; but Scotland furnishes a greater name : " If you wish to speak of a real poet," Scott said to Ballantyne, "Joanna Baillie is now the highest genius of our country." He numbered the description of Orra's madness with the sublimest scenes ever written, and compared the language to Shakspere's. The Songs of Mrs. Hemans afford a lively contrast. It was her misfortune that she wrote to live, instead of living to write. Her compositions, therefore, are unequal ; but in her best pieces the eye is delighted by the glow and colour, and the ear is soothed by the varied cadence — often delicious, never harsh. The visionary tenderness and romance of Mrs. Eadoliffe are breathed over the Address to Melancholy, and the Song of a Spirit. The quotation from Hannah More was chosen for the subject which it offered to the Artist, who has so happily embodied it in his genre sketches. The chaste elegance of Mrs. Barbauld is of a higher order ; and very true poetic feeling and utterance are conspicuous in the local pictures and the tender Sonnets of Charlotte Smith, which Miss Seward, clever in her spite, called "everlasting duns upon pity." One name in the tuneful Sisterhood has a home-interest for me. It seems but yesterday that the shutters were shut in " Our Village," and Mary Eussell Mitford went from amongst us. While turning over the leaves of this book, I have thought of the kindly welcome with which she would have greeted the illustration of her own "Rienzi," if I had taken it to her on one of these soft autumn days which she loved so much, and when her familiar lanes and dingles wear their sweetest colours. She had .compared her old abode to a bird-cage that might be laid on a shelf, or hung upon a tree; and her latest dwelling was hardly less odd, or dwarfish. But there, also, she had a cool retreat out-of-doors, in the shade of her garden, and I see her sitting in it now with table and book ; constant to all her PREFACE. vii little heresies of taste ; reading the iuterminable Richardson every year, preferring wood-embers to the fairest moonbeams that ever lighted lovers, and panegyrising the nightingale's song, if accompanied by the moan of the pigeon. But the Brotherhood has names, also, to be remembered by me with very sincere regard. When I read the description of the dying Adam by James Montgomery, — a passage exquisite in conception, imagery, and language, — the author is before me as I saw him in my early youth. Lisle Bowles is another name to be marked with a white stone. A delightful spot was Bremhill — indeed, is still — with the quaint garden, and the swans. Snow-drop and Lily, sailing up to the parlour window to inquire after their dinner, and Peter the hawk, and the Vicar holding his watch to his ear, to make sure that he had not grown deaf since breakfast. Southey visited the Parsonage when the loveable old man was in his seventy-third year, and presented to the eye of his friend the most entertaining mixture that could be of untidiness, simplicity, benevolence, timidity, and good nature ; but nobody smiled at his oddities more heartily than the owner. The poetical merits of Bowles are great. His sonnets delighted Coleridge, and even Byron acknowledged the excellence of The Missionary. Of all the elder poets of our time, my examples are less numerous than I had hoped to give. The lines of Wordsworth on Tintern Abbey are omitted from want of room ; and the most striking effort of Southey's imagination, the agony of Kailyal at her father's flight, was ill-adapted for pictorial use. The fame of Coleridge, however, will not suffer loss by resting on Genevieve, who has caught a new grace from the hand of Millais. Among these earlier poems, the reader will be attracted by the Legend of Kilmeny, which, for a moment, lifts the Shepherd to the side of Burns ; by the sunshiny morals of Praed, who reminds me of an Ariosto brought up in England ; and by the sea-views and the Dutch painting of Crabbe. If I could have turned my Preface into an illustrated catalogue, these poems would have furnished agreeable notes ; for to many some viii PREFACE. little story is attached ; as in the case of Keats, whose Ode to the Nightingale was written in the spring of 1819, when the fatal disease lay so heavy at his heart, that Coleridge, meeting him in a lane near Highgate, remarked, — "There is death in that hand." The stanzas beginning " The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill " become more afiFecting, when we are told that Scott composed them during the languor of sickness, and that they mark the very spot of their birth, now clothed by rich woodlands, the work of the Poet's hand. The Elm Tree might also claim a paragraph, to tell of the solemn Avenue which inspired it ; and certainly " Umbrageous Ham " has not been mused in by a more genial visitor, since the frequent feet of -Thomson broke the shadows. The noble verses — " Wine of Cyprus " — should recall the memory of the blind Scholar to whom they were addressed; and the compositions of Frances Brown will lose a charm if the shadow on her eyes be forgotten. But of living Poets I may not speak. They are here to speak for themselves in tones of harmony, grandeur, and pathos, to which few ears, I suppose, will be deaf. The list might have been enlarged, but a great Constituency can only be represented by a few Members. E. A. WILLMOTT. St. Catherine's, OcMer 2, 1856. CONTENT S. JAMES BEATTIE. THE POET IN TOHTII .... MORNING LANDSCAPE . . • • CALM AKD STORM » VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS RETIREMENT . WILLIAM COWPEE. I'ARPLEY OAK . . • • LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE . WILLIAM HAYLEY. THE VISION or SERENA . .... JAMES HURDIS. RURAL SOUNDS ... CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE SWALLOW SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OP SPRING SOSSET SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE . -, • • PROM BEACHY HEAll ANNA SEWARD. ERASMUS DARWIN. MARCH OP CAMBYSES . . THREE IMPRESSIONS OP ANTIQUE GEMS . TASTE . . ■ .... Page 1 4 5 11 17 31 24 26 29 30 31 35 36 38 39 WILLIAM CROWE. LEWESDON HILL THOMAS PERCY. THE PRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY . . GENTLE RIVER ... GEORGE CRABBE. A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT ... MARINE VIEWS . . . A GOOD VILLAGER . . THE PARTING LOOK . MARY TIGHE. PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD . ANN RADCLIFFE. TO MELANCHOLY SONG OF A SPIRIT Paf/e 4] 47 Bl 55 57 62 66 69 71 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. A SUMMER evening's MEDITATION . 73 A PETITION . 77 HANNAH MORE. FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND . . ... 78 W. LISLE BOWLES. RETURN TO OXFORD 88 ON THE RHINE H- THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY .... 90 THE HOME OE THE OLD INDIAN ... 92 LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH 97 THE BURIAL PLACE . . 98 SUNRISE . . . . 100 SAMUEL ROGERS. THE OLD HOUSE 102 MOTHER AND CHILD . ... 104 CONTENTS. Faun AMELIA OPIE. THE ORPHAN BOY's TALE . . . AVILLIAM SPENCER. TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON . . LORD BYRON. THE PRISONER OP OHILLON . . . THE DREAM . . . ... PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES TO NIGHT . . . ... SPRING JOHN KEATS. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. WILLLA.M WORDSWORTH. THE GLORY OP IMAGINATION . . , A CLOUD PICTURE INCIDENT AT BRUGES A JEWISH FAMILY . lOG 108 109 121 129 131 133 133 137 141 142 144 148 150 CHARLES LAMB. HESTER. — A REMEMBRANCE VERSES POR AN ALBUM . HENRY KIRKE AVHIl'B. THE HERB BOaEMARY SMA ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT . . . WALTER SCOTT. THE SUN UPON THE WEIBDLAW HILL MARMION — DYING . . THE BURNING OP ROKEBY THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE soldier's DREAM . . . THE EXILE OP ERIN DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH . lochiel's WABNING . . hohehlinden . . .... battle of the baltic . . YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND . . . JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE DEATH OF ADAM JOANNA BAILLIE. THE PHRENZY OF ORRA . Page 152 153 164 165 157 169 161 165 166 168 169 172 174 176 179 182 JAMES GRAHAME. THE SABBATH 186 SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED .... 188 A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER .... 190 ROBERT BLOOMPIELD. LAMBS AT PLAY 194 THE farmer's BOY IN THE FIELDS . . 196 THOMAS MOORE. THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA 199 NOURMAHAL 301 t CHARLES WOLFE. TJiE BURIAL or SIK. JOHN MOORE ■ . 202 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE poet's ERIBAL-DAT SONG .... 204 A WET SHEET AMD a. ELOWINe SEA . . 206 SIDNEY WALKER. TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR . 208 JAMES HOGG. THE RAPTURE 01 KILMENY . . 210 CONTENTS. FELICIA HEMANS. THE COKONATION OE INEZ DE CASIRO THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD . . THE RETURN . . MARY RUSSELL MITEORD. RIENZ[ AND HIS DAUGHTER , SONG ... 217 222 224. 227 REGINALD HEBER. THE PASSAGE OE THE RED SEA . . . 228 ROBERT SOUTHEY. THE "^nSIT OF MADOC. — A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH HILLS . . . 233 THE WORLD OE WOE 235 THAIABA IN THE TENT OE MOATH . . 237 SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN .... 242 JOHN LEIDEN. TO THE EVENING STAR . . TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN . . . BBRNAB.D BARTON. TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE . 243 245 247 PdffC WILLIAM SOTHEBY. RHINEPIELD, — A LODGE IN THE NEW rOREST ... 249 SKIEID, A II ILL NEAR ABEEGAVENNT . . 250 ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BjVNGOR at midnight . ... ii. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS .... 251 THE VICAR 253 A CHARADE . ... 256 THOMAS HOOD. THE ELM TREE. — A DREAM IN THE WOODS 258 THOMAS PRINGLE. APAR IN THE DESERT ... WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. THE WATEB-NYMPU APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD . . .... RODERIGO AND JULIAN . . JOHN KEBLE. THE LILIES OE THE EIELD .... children's THAUKTULWESS . . . . HENRY HART MILMAN. THE HEBREW WEDDING . , THE COMING OE THE JUDGE . LEIGH HUNT. AN ITALIAN GARDEN AEOU BEN ADHEM . GEORGE CROLY. THE ALHAMBRA FLORA . . . JOHN MOULTRIE. THE THREE SONS " EORGET THEE P " 273 277 279 281 283 286 288 290 293 294 296 297 300 CONTKNTS. Fnyn THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. THE SPANISH ARMADA 301 HBNBY TAYLOR, ARTEVELDE IK GHENT . ERNESTO . . . . . 304. 311 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. THE SPILT PEARLS . . 314 HENRY ALEORD. HYMN TO THE SEA . . . . 316 ALFRED TENNYSON. THE HAY QUEEN ... . . . 319 ROBERT BROWNING. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA ... . 326 EVELYN HOPE . . 329 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. WINE Ol CYPRUS 331 CHARLES KINGSLEY. THE THREE EISHERS . . THE SANDS OE DEE THOMAS DAVIS. THE SACK OE BALTIMORE .... EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 337 338 339 342 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. THE HISTORY OE A LIFE . . WITHIN AND WITHOUT EDWIN ATHERSTONE. BATTLE SCENES MARY HOWITT. THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL ALEXANDER SMITH. THE BANKS OE A RIVER . . . PICTURES . ... PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. A SUMMER NIGHT WORDS ... ... PORTRAIT or A LADY . SHERIDAN KNOWLES. THE APPEAL ADD THE KEPROOE GERALD MASSEY. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE . . . THAT MERRY, MEERY MAY BABE CHBISTABEL WILLIiM ALLINGHAM. AUTUMNAL SONNET . . . . . CHARLES MACKAY. YOUTH AND SORROW ... FRANCES BROWN. THE HOPE OE THE RESURRECTION . , OWEN MEREDITH. THE NEGLECTED HEART. .... Page 351 362 355 358 372 374 377 378 379 380 384 390 391 394 397 LIST OF ILLUkSTRATIONS. ENGRAVED BY THE BIIOTHEES DALZIEL. SUBJECT. The Poet in Youth Beattie A Valley amons the Hills .... Retirement Ditto Yardley Oak Limes to my Mother's Picture . . The Vision of Serena Rural Sounds .... .... The Swallow . . . '. . Prom Beachy Head . .... The Shepherd's Home . . . . Taste Lewesdon Hill . ... ... The Thirsty Lamb . . . . Tee Friar or Orders Gray Gentle Riter A Gipsy Encampment . . Orabbe Marine Views: — Calm Storm A Good Villager . To Melancholy . . A Summer Evening's Meditation Florio and his Friend : — The Lounge . The Opera ... On the Rhine The Home op the Old Indian Landing at Tynemouth author. DRAWN BY PAGE Beattie . B. Foster . . . . . 1 Ditto . W. Harvey . . . . 6 Ditto . . . Ditto . . S Cowper . Ditto . . 11 Ditto . J. Gilbert . 17 Eal/ley . . A. Hughes . . 21 H'tirdis . . . H. Weir . . . . . 24. Charlotte Smith B. Foster . . . . . 26 Ditto . . Ditto .... 31 Ditto . Ditto . . . 33 Darwin . . T.Dakiel. . . 39 Crowe B. Foster . 41 Ditto .... Ditto . . . . 44. Tercy J. Temiitl . 47 Ditto. . . . Ditto .... . . 53 Crabbe . . B. Foster . . . B5 Ditto . . E. Dimcati . B9 Ditto Ditto .... . 61 Ditto . /. B. Clapton . . . 62 Ami RadcUjfe . B. Foster . 69 A. Z.Barbauld, Ditto 73 Hannah More . J. Godwin . 78 Ditto Ditto 86 Bowles J. D. liardiiic) 89 Ditto if. Harcey 95 Ditto T. Dahiel . 97 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. SUBJECT. SUHRISE ... . . The Old House . The Orphan Boy's Tale . The Peisonek oe Chillon . The Dkeam . . . "Writtem in Dejection neak Naples . Ode to a Nightingale Tub Stkeam . . . Love . ... The Gloky oe Imagination Incident at Bruges . The Sun upon the Weiedlatv Hill . Mabmion— Dying . . . The Buknimg or Eokeby . The Exile oe Erin hoheslinden Ye Majuners op England . The S.ubbatii A Sabbath Walk in Summer . Lambs at Play . The Farmer's Boy in the Fields The Lament op the Peri for Hinda . The Burial oe Sir John Moore A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . To A Girl in her Thirteenth Tear . The Uapture oi' Kilmeny : — The Land op Thought The Lanely Glen ... The Coronation op Inez de Castro . rlenzi and his daughter . The Visit op Madoo . THALABA in THE TENT OP MOATH . . . To the Evening Star . . To the Evening Primrose .... RiiiNEPiELD, — A Lodge in the New Fokest The Vicae. . . The Elm Tree : — The Avenue . . The Woodman Afar in the Desert .... author. DRAWN BY PAGE Bowles . W.Harvey . 101 Rogers . . G. Dodgson . . 103 Amelia Opie T.Dahiel . . . 107 Byron . . F. M. Brown 111 mto . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. 123 Shelley . . W. Z. Leitch . 129 Keats B. Foster . . 133 Ditto Ditto . 136 Coleridge . J. K Millais, A.R.A. . 137 Wordsworth . B. Foster . 141 Ditto . J. R. Clayton . 149 Seott B. Foster . . 157 Ditto . J. Tenniel . . 159 Ditto . . Ditto . . . . 161 Camjahell . . , T. DaUiel . . . . 167 Ditto . J. Gilbert . . 173 Ditto B. Dimcan . . . 177 Grahame B. Foster . . . 187 Ditto Ditto . . 191 Bloomjield . W. Harvey . . 195 Ditto . . . B. Fester . . . 197 Moore W. Hartley . 199 Wolfe . J. Gilbert . . . 203 A. Cunningham E. Duncan . 206 Std/ney Walhr. J. R. Clayton . . . 209 Hogg . . . W. Harvey . . 213 Ditto . . . Ditto . 216 Felicia Seinans J. Gilbert . . 217 M. R. Mitford. J. Tenniel . . . . 225 Southey J. Gilbert . 233 Ditto . . . W. Harvey . . . 237 Leyden . G. Hodgson . . . 243 B. Barton . . Ditto . 247 Soiheby . . W. Harvey . . . 249 Praed /. Gilbert . . 253 r.Hood . G. Dodgson . . . 259 Ditto Ditto .... 265 Pringle . . . W. Harvey . . . . 273 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. SUBJECT. The Water Nymph appealing to the Shephekd. The Lilies op the Field The Hebkew Wedding An Italian Qakden ... The Alhambiia The Thkee Sons . The Spahish Armada Artetelde in Ghent . The Spilt Peakls Hysin to the Sea The May Queen New Year's Eve Conclusion Tailpiece Two in the Campagna Wine op Cyprus . . The Three Fishers . The Sack; op Baiiimore Eta: — The Maiden's Home . The Stranger Suitor The Return The History of a Life Within asd Without Battle Scenes Richard Burnell ; — Young Burnell and Alice The Marriage of Alice Burnell and Alice in the Temple Gardens The Banks of a River . . Pictures . . A Summer Night The Appeal and the Reproof . . . . Our Wee White Rose That Merry, Merry May Autumnal Sonnet Youth and Sorrow .... The Hope of the Resurrection . . . . AUTHOll. DRAWN BY page Landor . . . F. R. Pictersgdl,A.R.A , 2V7 Keble . B. Foster 381 Milman . E. 11. Corbould . 287 Leicih Hintt G. Dodgson . 291 Cmly . W. Harvey 294 Moultrie J. Gilbert . 297 Macmday Ditto . 301 Taylor . J. R. Clayton . 307 Trench W. Earvey . 314 Alford E. Duncan 317 Tennyson T. Dahiel . 319 Ditto . . Ditto . 321 Ditto . Ditto 323 Ditto . Ditto . . . 325 R. Browni7!g E. A. Goodall . . 337 E. B. Brownincf 3. R. Clayton . 331 Mfujsley . T. Dahiel. 337 Davis James Godwin 339 Biilwer hytton . J. Gilbert . 342 Ditto . T. Dahiel . . 345 Ditto . Ditto . . . 348 Procter D. Edwards . . . 351 Ditto James Godnin . 353 Atlierstone E. H. Corbould . 355 Mary Ilowitt James Godwin . 359 Ditto . Ditto . . . 365 Ditto . Ditto 371 J. Smith . B. Foster . 373 Ditto . . Ditto ... 375 Bailey Ditto 377 Knowles J. Tenniel . . . 380 Massey . . /. R. Clayton . . 385 Ditto . D. Edwards . . . 387 Allingham . . G. Dodyson . 390 Macliay . , . E. H. Corbould 393 Brown . . Ditto 395 .- ^ BEATTIE. THK POET IN YOUTR. Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'orliung witli pine, 1 THE POET m YOUTH. And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves, From cliif to cliff the foaming torrents shine ; While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? Ah ! no j he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey. When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey. And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn : Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn. Where twilight loves to linger for awhile ; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn, And villager abroad at early toil, But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean smile. And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost. What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime. Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast. And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round. Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight ; Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. E'en sad vicissitude amus'd his soul ; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear so sweet he wish'd not to control. 2 BEATTIE. See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower, The yisionary boy from shelter fly ; For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. And, lo ! in the dark East, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting sun ! Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh ; How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run. When the long-sounding curfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale. Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star. Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. There would he dream of graves and corses pale. And ghosts that to the charnel- dungeon throng, And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed. Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted streams, remote from man, he hied. Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; And forth an host of little warriors march. Grasping the diamond lance and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. And green their helms, and green their silk attire ; And here and there, right venerably old, 3 MORNING LANDSCAPE. The long-rob'd minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; The little warriors doff the targe and spear. And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze ; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along : with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. MORNING LANDSCAPE. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell j The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide. The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love. And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings ; The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs j i BEATTIE. Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. CALM AND STORM. Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High towering, sail along th' horizon blue : Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new. Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries. More wildly gi'eat than ever pencil drew — Eocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size. And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way, Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day ; E'en then he hasten'd from the haunt of man. Along the trembling wilderness to stray. What time the lightning's fierce career began. And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. A VALLEY AJIONG THE HILLS. Thither he Lied, enamoiir'd of tlio scene ; For rooks on rocks pil'd, fis by magic spell, Here soorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green, Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. Southward a mountain rose with easy swell, Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made : And toward the westei-n sun a streamlet fell, Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey 'd fUuo hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd BEATTIE. Along this narrow valley you might see The -wild deer sporting on the level ground, And, here and there, a solitary tree, Or mossy stone, or rook with woodbine crown'd. Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; And from the summit of that craggy mound The piercing eagle oft was heard to cry, Or, on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sky. One cultivated spot there was, that spread Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head. And herbs for food with future plenty teem. Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream. Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ; When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole : " Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose ! Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest, And whisper comfort to the man of woes 1 Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes. When lucre lures him, or ambition stings. Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs." RETIEEJIENT. AVhen ill tlie crimson cloud of oven, The lingering light decays, And Hespor on the front of heaven His glittering gem displa3's ; Deep in tlie silent vale, unseen, Beside a lulling stream, A pensive 3-outli, of placid mieu, ludnlg'd this tender theme : Yc cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd, High o'er the glimmering dale ; Ye woods, along whose windings wild Murmvirs the solemn gale : Where Melancholy strays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow Iiorn (tloams on the western deep : S BEATTIE. " To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, Soap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, Leans on her ivied shrine. " How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair 1 Thy heavenly smile how win 1 Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within 1 O, wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing ? " Oft let Eemembrance sooth his mind With dreams of former days. When, in the lap of Peace reclin'd. He fram'd his infant lays ; When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care Nor cold Distrust alarm'd. Nor Envy with malignant glare His simple youth had harm'd. " 'Twas then, Solitude ! to thee His early vows were paid, From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah ! why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam. Remote from all congenial joy ? — 0, take the Wanderer home ! RETIREMENT. " Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, Thy charms my only theme ; My haunt the hollow cliif, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; — Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray Breaks from the rustling boughs. And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose. " 0, while to thee the woodland pours Its -wildly warbling song, And balmy, from the bank of flowers, The zephyr breathes along ; Let no rude sound invade from far. No vagrant foot be nigh. No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye. " But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallow'd bowers explore, guard from harm his hoary head. And listen to his lore ; For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe. And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below. " For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread ; No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled ; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain ; For present pleasure soon is o'er. And all the past is vain." 10 COWPER. I'AKDLEY OAK. Survivor sole, aii'l hardly such, of all Thfit once livM here, thy bvethreii, at my hirtli, 11 YARDLEY OAK. (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-truuk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Rehcs of ages ! could a mind, imbued With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worshiiD thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse. When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once — a cup and ball, Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss. Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! Thou fell'st mature ; and in the loamy clod. Swelling with vegetative force instinct. Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, 12 COWPEB. Now stars ; two lobe^ protruding, pair'd exact ; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy p\my growth Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. Who liv'd, when thou wast such? could'st thou speak. As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not ciirious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth. Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft. The clock of history, &cts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts RecoTering, and misstated setting right, — Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again ! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave For owls to roost on. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm. Xo flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thuB through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry roll'd Slow after century, a giant-bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cvishion'd root Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose — ^tUl at the last The rottenness, which Time is charged t' inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. 13 TABDI.EY OAK. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability, in all That we account most durable below ! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man. And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. Fine passing thought e'en in her coarsest works. Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates, not unimpair'd ; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence. Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to thy root — and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms. The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load ! But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands to supply The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee awa_y 14 COWPEE. With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbhng edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, Achiev'd a labour which had far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee gtill erect. So stands a kingdom whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild. With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white ; And some, memorial none where once they grew. But life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The Spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. YARDLEY OAK. But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none. Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, With mute uuconsciousness of what he saw. On all around him ; learn' d not by degrees. Nor ow'd articulation to^ his ear ; But, moulded by his Maker into man. At once upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, jiVoperties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fiU'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heav'n In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excus'd the penalties of dull Minority : no tutor charg'd his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course. Eventful, should supply her with a theme. LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE, THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine— thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solac'd mo ; Voice only fiiils, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! " 17 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected here ! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not wilhngly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And, while that face renews my filial grief. Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life's journey just begun 1 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it suchi It was. — Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd ; By ■ expectation every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 18 COWPER. I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day. Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known. That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; — All this, and, more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interpos'd too often makes ; All this still legible in memory's page. And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scom'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them heje 1 I would not trust my heart ; — the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. — But no — what here we call our life is such, 19 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below. While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, " Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ; " And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. Always from port withheld, always distress'd, — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell ! — Time unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine Without the sin of violating thine j And while the wings of Fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself retnov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left. HAYLEY. THE VlblU^' OF tS>:it£N_\ " Well may'st tliou bend o'er this oongcniul ^^pherc For Sensibility is Soveroiga here. Tlioii seest her train of sprightl}' damsels sport, Where the soft spirit holds her rural court ; But fix thine eye attentive to the plain, And mark the varying \youders of her reign.' As thus she sjioke, she pois'd her airy seat High o'er a plain exhaling ever}' sweet ; For round its precincts all the flowers that IiLhiui Fill'd the delicious air with rich perfume ; And ill the nddst a verdaut thri'UC appfaf'd, 21 THE VISION OF SERENA. In simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd, And deck'd with flowers ; not such whose flaunting dyes Strike with the strongest tint our dazzled eyes ; But those wild herbs that tend'rest fibres bear, And shun th' approaches of a damper air. Here stood the lovely ruler of the scene, And beauty, more than pomp, announced The Queeu, The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose, The simple circle of her crown compose ; Roses of every hue her robe adorn, Except th' insipid rose without a thorn. Of that enchaflting age her figure seems. When smiling Nature with the vital beams Of vivid youth, and Pleasure's purple flame, Gilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame, With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild, And just between the woman and the child. Her fair left arm around a vase she flings. From which the tender plant mimosa springs ; Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends, The youthful fair her vacant hand extends With gentle motion, anxious to survey How far the feeling fibres own her sway ; The leaves, as conscious of their Queen's command. Successive fall at her approaching hand ; While her soft breast with pity seems to pant, And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant. Around their sovereign, on the verdant ground, Sweet airy forms in mystic measures bound. Unnumber'd damsels different charms display, Pensive with bliss, or in their pleasures gay. But, the bright triumphs of their joy to check. In the clear air there hangs a dusky speck ; It swells — it spreads — and rapid, as it grows. O'er the gay scene a chilling shadow throws. The soft Serena, who beheld its flight, Suspects no evil from a cloud so light ; 22 HAYLEY. But, ah ! too soon, with pity's tender pain, She saw its dire effect o'er all the plain : Sudden from thence the sounds of anguish flow, And joy's sweet carols end in shrieks of woe. Here gloomy Terror, with a shadowy rope, Seems, like a Turkish mute, to strangle Hope. But pangs more cruel, more intensely keen, Wound and distract their sympathetic Queen. With fruitless tears she o'er their misery bends ; From her sweet brow the thorny rose she rends, And, bow'd by grief's insufferable weight. Frantic she curses her immortal state : The soft Serena, as this curse she hears. Feels her bright eye suffus'd with kindred tears. The guardian Power survey'd her lovely grief, And spoke in gentle terms of mild relief: " For this soft tribe they heaviest fear dismiss. And - know their pains are transient as their bliss : Eapture and agony, in Nature's loom. Have form'd the changing tissue of their doom ; Both interwoven with so nice an art, No power can tear the twisted threads apart ; Yet happier these, to Nature's heart more dear. Than the dull offlpring in the torpid sphere. Where her warm wishes, and affections kind, Lose their bright current in the stagnant mind. Here grief and joy so suddenly unite. That anguish serves to sublimate delight.'' She spoke ; and, ere Serena could reply. The vapour vanish'd from the lucid sky. The nymphs revive, the shadowy fiends are fled, The new-bom flowers a richer fragrance shed, — ■ While on the lovely Queen's enchanting face. Departed sorrow's faint and fainter trace Gave to each touching charm a more attractive grace. IITTRDTS. RURAL SOUNDS. Bi') notliing beard Save tlie fiu'-distant muniiur of tlic deep — 2i HUllDIS. Or the neav grasshopper's incessant note, That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits, And chirping imitates the silvery chink Of wages told into the ploughman's palm — ■ Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night To the spent villager, or ere his hand The cottage taper quench — or grazing ox His dewy supper from the savoury herb Audibly gathering — or cheerful hind From the lov'd harvest-feast returning home, Whistling at intervals some rustic air. Such rural sounds, If haply notic'd by the musing mind, Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve The solemn luxury of idle thought. If not abroad I sit, but sip at home The cheering beverage of fading eve. By some fair hand, or ere it reach the lip, With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock. As from the window studious looks mine eye. Steal fold-ward nibbling o'er the shadowy down — Let the reluctant milch-kin e of the farm Wend slowly from the pasture to the pail. Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript. Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed. Eager to gratify his famish'd lip With taste of herbage and the meadow-brook. CHAELOTTE fr^MTTH. THE SWALLOW. The gorse is j'cllow on tlie heath, Tho hanks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are hudtliiig ; and heiieatli, The hawthorn soon will bear tho wrcatli, The silve)' wi'oath of May. CHARLOTTE SMITH. The welcome guest of settled Spring, The Swallow, too, is come at last ; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing. And hail'd her as she pass'd. Come, summer -visitant, attach To my reed-roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch. Low twittering underneath the thatch. At the grey dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian Sage, The Hindustani woods among. Could in his desert hermitage. As if 'twere mark'd in written page. Translate the wild bird's song. I wish I did his power possess. That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess. And know from what wild wilderness You came across the sea. I would a little while restrain Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds that bring the rain, You sail'd above the western main. The wind your charioteer. In Afric, does the sultry gale. Through spicy bowei-, and palmy grove. Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale 1 Dwells there a time, the wandering Kail, Or the itinerant Dove ? 27 THE SWALLOW. Were you in Asia ? relate, If there your fabled sister's woes She seem'd in sorrow to nan-ate ; Or sings she but to celebrate Her nuptials with the rose ? I would inquire how, journeying long The vast and pathless ocean o'er, You ply again those pinions strong. And come to build anew among The scenes you left before ; But if, as cooler breezes blow, Prophetic of the waning year. You hide, though none knew when or how, In the cliff's excavated brow. And linger torpid here ; Thus lost to life, what favouring dream Bids you to happier hours awake ; And tells, that dancing in the beam, The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, The May-fly on the lake? Or if, by instinct taught to know Approaching dearth of insect food, To isles and willowy aits you go, And crowding on the pliant bough. Sink in the dimpling flood : How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Your deep and oosy couch above, The time when flowers of promise bloom, And call you from your transient tomb, To light, and life, and love 1 28 CHARLOTTE SMITH. Alas ! how* little can be kuowu, Her sacred veil where Nature draws ; Let baffled science humbly own. Her mysteries understood alone By Him who gives her laws. SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew. Anemones, that spangled every grove. The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell. Or purple orchis variegate the plain. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell. And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so fraU, so fair. Are the fond visions of thy early day. Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care. Bid all thy f£|iry colours fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; Ah ! whj has happiness no second spring ? SONNETS. SONNET. Should the lone wauderer, fainting on his way, Eest for a moment of the sultry hours, And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers. Wearing gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day. Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come. Her pencil, sickening. Fancy throws away. And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb. And points my wishes to that tranquil shore. Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew. And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest ; And shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird, who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 30 FROJr " BEAC'HY HEAD." I oxcE was Iiayjpy, when, while yet a chil( I leani'd to love these iipland solitudes, A]i(l when, clastic as the mountain air, To my li^ht sjiirit cai'o was yet uukuowu, And evil unforeseen : — early it carne, FROM "BEACHY HEAD." And childhood scarcely past, I was condemu'd, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew The contrast ; and regretting, I compar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hiUs, That, to the setting sun their graceful heads Eearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide. When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth ! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scatter'd thorns ; whose spring branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain. And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still. The prospect widens, and the village church But little, o'er the lowly roofs around. Bears its grey belfry, and its simple vane ; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring, When on each bough the rosy tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit. Console them for the vineyards of the South, Surpass not these. Where woods of ash, and beech. And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, 32 CHARLOTTE 8MJTH, The uplaud shepherd rears his modest home ; There Tvanders by a little nameless stream Tliat from tlie liill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture grey, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; And pansies ray'd, and freak VI and' mottled pinks 3'i FROM "BEACHY HEAD." Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue ; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultur'd : some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white ; Others like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. — With fond regret I recollect e'en now In Spring and Suinmer what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid. Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleas'd, An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, I lov'd her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine, 'Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch With bittersweet and bryony inweave. And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups, — I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil ; And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, Lending in Summer from the heats of noon A whispering shade ; while haply there reclines Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, Who from the tumps, with bright green mosses clad. Plucks the wood sorrel with its light thin leaves, Heart-shaped, and triply-folded, and its root Creeping like beaded coral ; or who there Gathers, the copse's pride, anemones, With rays like golden studs on ivory laid Most delicate : but touch'd with purple clouds. Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. ANNA SEWARD. SONG. From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly ; From the rooks, that are lash'd by their tide ; From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they. Has wreok'd my warm, hopes by her pride ! — Yet lonely and rude as the scene, Her smile to that scene could impart A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale — But away, thou fond dream of my heart ! From thy rooks, stormy Lannow, I fly ! Now the blasts of the winter come on, And the waters grow dark as they rise ! But 'tis well ! tliey resemble the sullen disdain That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. Sincere were the sighs they represt. But they rose in the days that are flown ! Ah, nymph ! unrelenting and cold as thou art, My spirit is proud as thine own. From thy rooks, stormy Lannow, I fly ! Lo ! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread To escape the loud storm by their flight ; And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat From the winds and the billows of night ; Like them, to the home of my youth. Like them, to its shades I retire ; Eeceive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, From the pangs of insulted desire ! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! 35 DAEWIN. MARCH OF CAMBYSES. When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrowu The blood-nurs'd tyi'ant on his purple throne, Gnomes ! your bold forms unnumber'd arms outstretch, And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wretch. Thus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts From Persia's rocks to Egypt's trembling coasts. Defiled each hallow'd fane, and sacred wood, And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with blood ; Wav'd his proud banner o'er the Theban states, And pour'd destruction through her hundred gates ; In dread divisions march'd the marshall'd bands, And swarming armies blacken'd all the lands. By Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains. And those to Ainmon's sand-encircled fanes. Slow as they pass'd the indignant temples frown'd, Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground ; Long aisles of cypress wav'd their deepen'd glooms, And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs ; Prophetic whispers breath'd from Sphinx's tongue, And Memnon's lyre with hollow murmurs rung ; Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd cones, Day after day their dreadful rout they steer. Lust in the van, and rapine in the rear. Gnomes ! as they march'd, you hid the gather'd fruits. The bladed grass, sweet grains, and mealy roots ; Scar'd the tired quails, that journey o'er their heads, Eetain'd the locusts in their earthy beds ; Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill. Loud o'er the camp the fiend of Famine shrieks, Calls all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks m DARWIN. O'er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand, And twilight swims upon the shuddering sand ; Perch'd on her crest the griffin Discord clings, And giant Murder rides between her wings ; Blood from each clotted hair, and horny quill, And showers of tears in blended streams distil ; High poised in air her spiry neck she bends, EoUs her keen eye, her dragon-claws extends. Darts from above, and tears at each fell swoop With iron fangs the decimated troop. Now o'er their head the whizzing whirlwinds breathe. And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath ; Tinged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise Of eddying sands, and war amid the skies. In red arcades the billowy plain surround, And whirling turrets stalk along the ground. — Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, To demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. — Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square, And now they front, and now they fly the war. Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries, Press their parch'd lips, and close their bloodshot eyes. — Gnomes ! o'er the waste you led your myriad powers, Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers ! Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge. Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge ; Wave over wave the driving desert swims. Bursts o'er their heads, inhumes their struggling limbs ; Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush. Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush, — Wheeling in air the winged islands fall. And one great earthy ocean covers all ! — Then ceased the storm, — Night bow'd his Ethiop brow To earth, and listeu'd to the groans below, — Grim Horror shook, — awhile the living hill Heaved with convulsive throes, — and all was still ! S7 ANTIQUE GEMS. THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS. THE EASLE. So, when with bristling plumes the bird of Jove Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes, And grasps the lightning in his shining claws. THE CHILD SLEEPING. No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, So soft no pillow as his mother's breast ! — — Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers. The Cherub Innocence, with smile divine, Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. LOVE BIDING ON THE LION. So playful Love on Ida's flowery sides With ribbou-rein the indignant lion guides ; Pleased on his brindled back the lyre he rings, And shakes delirious rapture from the strings ; Slow as the pausing monarch stalks along, Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song. Soft nymphs on timid step the triumph view, And listening fawns with beating hoofs pursue ; With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts. And love and music soften savage hearts. TASTE. If the wide eye the wavy lawns explores, The bending woodlands, or the winding shores. Hills, whose green sides with soft pi'otuberance rise, Or the blue concave of the vaulted skies ; — Or scans with nicer gaze the pearly swell Of spiral volutes round the twisted shell ; Or undulating sweep, whose graceful turns Bound the smooth surface of Etrurian urns, When on fine forms the waving lines impress'd Give the nice curves, which swell the female breast ; The countless joys the tender mother pours Round the soft cradle of our infant hours, In lively trains of unestinot delight Rise in our bosoms recognised by sight ; Fond Fancy's eye recals the fjrm divine, And Taste sits smiling upon Beauty's slirine. Where Egypt's pjyramids gigantic stand, And stretch their shadows o'er tlie shuddering sand ; Or wliere high I'ocks, o'er ocean's dashing floods, Wave high in air their panoply of woods ; 3fl TASTE. Admiring Taste delights to stray beneath With eye uplifted, and forgets to breathe ; Or, as aloft his daring footsteps climb. Crests their high summits with his arm sublime. Where mouldering columns mark the lingering wreck Of Thebes, Palmyra, Babylon, Balbec; The prostrate obelisk, or shatter' d dome, Uprooted pedestal, and yawning tomb, On loitering steps reflective Taste surveys With folded arms and sympathetic gaze ; Charm'd with poetic Melancholy treads O'er ruin'd towns and desolated meads ; Or rides sublime on Time's expanded wings, And views the fate of ever-changing things. When Beauty's streaming eyes her woes express, Or Virtue braves unmerited distress ; Love sighs in sympathy, with pain combin'd, And new-born Pity charms the kindred mind ; The enamour'd Sorrow every cheek bedews. And Taste impassion'd woos the tragic Muse. The rush-thatoh'd cottage on the purple moor. Where ruddy children frolic round the door. The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak. The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke. The bearded goat with nimble eyes, that glare Through the long tissue of his hoary hair. As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall And crops the ivy, which prevents its faU ; With rural charms the tranquil mind delight. And form a picture to th' admiring sight. While Taste with pleasure bends his eye surpris'd In modem days at Nature unchastis'd. f!ROWE. LEWESl.WN HTLL. How changed is thy appearance, licauteons Hill ! Thou hast put off thy wint)-y gai-b, brown heath And russet fern, thj' seemly-colour'd cloak, To bide the hoary frosts and dripi)iiip rains LEWESDON HILL. Of chill December, and art gaily robed In livery of the spring : upon thy brow A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick Of golden bloom ; nor lack thee tufted woods Adown thy sides : tall oaks of lusty green, The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath ; So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up Against the birth of May ; aud, vested so. Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd Than fashiou-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows, Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams. From vanity to costly vanity Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress, From sad to gay returning with the year. Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change. These are the beauties of thy woodland scene At each return of Spring : yet some delight Kather to view the change ; and fondly gaze On fading colours, and the thousand tints Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: I like them not, for all their boasted hues Are kin to sickliness ; mortal decay Is drinking up their vital juice ; that gone, They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise Such false complexions, and for beauty take A look consumption-bred ? As soon, if grey Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown, I'd call it beautiful variety, And therefore doat on her. Yet I can spy A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes The yellow Autumn, and the hopes o' the year Bring on to golden ripeness ; nor dispraise The pure and spotless form of that sharp time, 42 CROWE. When January spreads a pall of snow O'er the dead face of th' undistinguish'd earth. Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath, And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast From the thick North comes howling ; till the Spring Return, who leads my devious steps abroad. To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top. From this proud eminence on all sides round Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view, On all sides large ; save only where the head Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen : So call (still rendering to his ancient name Observance due) that rival Height south-west. Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade Of some wide-branching oak ; there goodly fields Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine. Returning with their milky treasure home. Store the rich dairy ; such fair plenty fills The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now. Since that the Spring hath deok'd anew the meads With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun Their foggy moistness drain'd ; in wintry days Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath In the dank pusturage. Yet not the fields Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named Of the White Horse, its antique monument Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth Might equal, though surpassing in extent. This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 43 LEWESDON HILL. Extended to the sea, and water'd well By many a rill ; but chief with thy clear stream, Thou nameless llivulet, wlio, from the side Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip Adowu the valley, wandering- sportively. Alas ! how soon thy little course will end ! How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow To name or greatness ! Yet it flows along Untainted with the commerce of the world, 44 CROWE. Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men; But through sequester'd meads, a little space, Winds secretly, and in its wanton path May cheer some drooping flower, or minister Of its cool water to the , thirsty lamb : Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure As when it issued from its native hill. How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen, The Tor of Glastonbury ! Even but now I saw the hoary pile cresting the top Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now A cloud hath pass'd on it,., and its dim bulk Becomes annihilate, or if not, a. spot Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. And even so fares it with the things of earth Which seem most constant : there will come the cloud That shall enfold them up, and leave their place A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken Beaches too far, when all that we behold Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings (Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem To foster what they touch, and mortal fools Kejoice beneath their hovering. Woe the while ! For in that indefatigable flight The multitudinous strokes incessantly Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all His secret injury : on the front of man Grey hairs and wrinkles ; still, as Time speeds on. Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat With ceaseless violence ; nor overpass. Till all the creatures of this nether world Are one wide quarry ; following dark behind. The cormorant Oblivion swallows up The carcases that Time has made his prey. 45 LEWESDON HILL. But hark ! the village clock strikes nine — the chimes Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make False-measured melody on crazy bells. wondrous power of modulated sound ! Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade The yielded avenues of sense, unlock The close affections, by some fairy path Winning an easy way through every ear, And with thine unsubstantial quality Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all, — All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits Who feel no touch of sympathy or love. Yet what is music, and the blended power Of voice with instruments of wind and string 1 What but an empty pageant of sweet noise ! 'Tis past ; and all that it has left behind Is but an echo dwelling in the ear Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside, A void and countless hour in life's brief day. Now I descend To join the worldly crowd ; perchance to talk. To think, to act as they : then all these thoughts, That lift th' expanded heart above this spot To heavenly musing, these shall pass away, (Even as this goodly prospect from my view,) Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares. So passeth human life : our better mind Is as a Sunday's garment, then put on When we have nought to do ; but at work We wear a worse for thrift. <^^^^!4K^^4.^^*:te-G64!^-€?^ PEECY. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. It was a friiir of orders gray Walkt fortli to tell his beadcs ; 47 THE FRIAll OF ORDERS GRAY. And he met with a lady faire, Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. " Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see?" " And how should I know your true love From many another one?" " 0, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone ; "But chiefly by his face and mien. That were so fair to view ; His flaxen lodes that sweetly curl'd. And eyne of lovely blue." " lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at his head a green grass turfe. And at his heels a stone. " Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed. Lamenting of a ladye's love. And, 'playning of her pride. " Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall ; And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall." " And art thou dead, thou gentle youth. And art thou dead and gone ? And didst thou dye for love of me ? — Break, cruel heart of stone!" 48 PERCY. " weep not, lady, weep not soe : Some gliostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne teares bedew thy cheek." " do not, do not, holy friar. My sorrow now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest yonth That e'er won ladye's love. " And no we, alas ! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh : For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye." ' Weep no more, lady, weep no more, I'hy sorrowe is in vaine : For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. " Our joys as winged dreams doe flye ; Why, then, should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse. Grieve not for what is past." " say not soe, thou holy friar ; I pray thee, say not soe : For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my teares should flow. " And will he never come again 1 Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. For ever to remain. " His cheek was redder than the rose ; The comeliest youth was he ! 49 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. But he is dead and laid iu his grave : Alaf3 ! and woe is me!" " Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea and one on land. To one thing constant never. " Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy." " Now say not see, thou holy friar, I pray thee, say not soe ; My love he had the truest heart : he was ever true ! " And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth. And didst thou dye for mee ? Then farewell home ; for evermore A pilgrim I will bee. " But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green grass-turf That wraps his breathless clay." " Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile Beneath this cloyster wall : See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. And drizzly rain doth fall." " stay me not, thou holy friar ; stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away." 50 PERCY, " Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears ; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy owne tnie-love appears. " Here, forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought ; And here amid these lonely -walls To end my days I thought. " But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away. Might I still hope to win thy love, Xo longer would I stay." " Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part." GENTLE RIVER. Gentle river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore. Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. All beside thy limpid waters. All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 51 GENTLE RIVER. Lords, and dukes, and noble princes, On thy fatal banks were slain : Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain. There the hero, brave Alonzo, Full of wounds and glory, died : There the fearless Urdiales Fell a victim by his side. Lo ! where yonder Don Saavedra Through their squadrons slow retires ; Proud Seville, his native city, Proud Seville his worth admires. Close behind, a renegado Loudly shouts with taunting cry : " Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ; Dost thou from the battle fly ? " Well I know thee, haughty Christian, Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; Oft I've in the lists of glory Seen thee win the prize of proof. "Well I know thy aged parents, Well thy blooming bride I know ; Seven years I was thy captive. Seven years of pain and woe. " May our Prophet grant my wishes, Haughty Chief, thou shalt be mine ; Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow. Which I drank when I was thine." 52 Lite a lion tui-ns the ■n-amor. Back be sends an angry glare : "Whizzing came the Moorish jarelin. VainlT Trliizzin;; through the air. GENTLE RIVER, Back the hero, full of fury, Sent a deep and mortal wound : Instant sunk the Eenegado Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded. Brave Saavedra stands at bay : Wearied out, but never daunted. Cold at length the warrior lay. Near him fighting, great Alonzo Stout resists the Paynim bands ; From his slaughter'd steed dismounted. Firm intrench'd behind him stands. Furious press the hostile squadron. Furious he repels their rage : Loss of blood at length enfeebles : Who can war with thousands wage ! Where yon rook the plain o'ershadows. Close beneath its foot retir'd. Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd. CBABBE. A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. Again, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side ; Wliere, ]o ! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a Oijjsy trilje tlieir tent had renr'd A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun. When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet : While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, He saw their sister on her duty Stand ; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try ; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes; Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd The vice implanted in her youthful breast : Forth from the tent her elder brother came, Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could ouly trace The looks of pity in the Trav'ller's face : Within, the Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by. On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed. And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Eeclin'd the Wife, an infant at her breast ; In her wild face some touch of grace remain'd, Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate Were wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state. Cursing his tardy aid — her Mother there With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair ; Solemn and dull her look : with such she stands And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, Tracing the lines of life ; assum'd through years. Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; With hard and savage eye she views the food, And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 56 CRABBE. Last in the group, the -worn-out Grandsire sits, Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : Useless, despis'd, his worthless labours done, And half protected by the vicious Son, Who half supports him ; he with heavy glance Views the young ruffians who around him dance ; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To trace the progress of their future years : Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, Must wildly wander each unpraotis'd cheat ! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — Ere they like him approach their latter end. Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! MARINE VIEWS. Be it the Summer-noon : a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above. Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends. And with the cooler in its fall contends) — Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps. Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand. Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand. Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 57 MARINE VIEWS. Ships in the calm seem anchor'd ; for they glide On the still sea, urg'd solely by the tide : Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Where all beside is pebbly length of shore. And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more 1 Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; As an awaken'd giant with a frown Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloiid, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud : Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before. Had roU'd in view of boding men on shore ; And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form. Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam. The breaking billows oast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change; the waves so swell'd and steep. Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : But nearer land you may the billows trace. As if contending in their watery chase ; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force. And then, reflowing, take their grating course. Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Roll'd by their rage, and shall to ages last. Far ofi' the Petrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She rises often, often drops again. And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. High o'er the restless deep, above the reach Of gunner's hope, vast flocks of Wild-ducks stretch ; Far as the eye can glance on either side, In a broad space and level line they glide ; 58 ^ ^f^^^^ All in their wedge-like figures from the north, Dfiy after day, flight after flight, go forth. Ill-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge. And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, AVJiile to the storm they give their weak complaining cry ; 69 MARINE VIEWS. Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest. Darkness begins to reign j the louder wind Appals the weak, and awes the firmer mind ; But frights not him whom evening and the spray In part conceal— yon Prowler on his way : Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, As if he fear'd companion in the chase ; He sees his prize, and now he turns again. Slowly and sorrowing — " Was your search in vain ? " Gruffly he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight ! — A seaman's body : there '11 be more to-night ! " Hark to those sounds ! they 're from distress at sea . How quick they come ! What terrors may there be ! Yes, 'tis a driven vessel ; I discern Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern. Others behold them too, and from the town In various parties seamen hurry down; Their wives pursue, and damsels, urged by dread. Lest men so dear be into danger led ; Their head the gown has hooded, and their call In this sad night is piercing like the squall ; They feel their kinds of power, and when they meet, Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat. See one poor girl, all terror and alarm. Has fondly seiz'd upon her lover's arm ; " Thou shalt not venture j " and he answers " No ! I will not : '' — still she cries, " Thou shalt not go." No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float ; Yet may they view these lights upon the beach. Which yield them hope whom help can never reach. From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws On the wild waves, and all the danger shows ; But shows them beaming in her shining vest. Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress'd ! 60 (.'RABBE. This fur a luumeut, and tliuu clmuls again Hide every beam, and fear and (larkness veign. But hear we not those sounds ? Do lights appeal- i I see them not ! the storm alone I hear : And lo ! the sailors homeward take their way ; Man must endure — let us submit and pra3^ A GOOD VILLAGER. Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, A noblo peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Nolile he w;is, contemning all things mean. His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene ; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd ; 62 CRABBE. Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; Truth, simple truth, was written in his fece : Yet while the serious thought his soul apYjrov'd, Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd ; To bliss domestic he his heart resign' d. And with the firmest had the fondest mind ; Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, iVnd gave allowance where he needed none ; Oood he refus'd with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that catis'd Reflection's sigh ; A fHend to Virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; (Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker miud, To miss one fevour, which their neighbours find :) Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd ; He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd . I mark'd his action, when his infant died, And his old neighbour for offence was tried ; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek, Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride. Who, in their base contempt, the great deride ; Nor pride in learning, — though my clerk agreed, Tf fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few : — But if that spirit in his soul had place. It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace ; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd. In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride in the jjower that guards his country's coast. And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied, In feet, a noble passion, misnam'd Pride. He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim ; Christian and countrymen were all with him : True to his church he came ; no Sunday shower A GOOD VILLAGER. Kept him at home in that important houi- ; Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, By the strong glare of their new light direct : — " On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze. But should be blind, and lose it, in your blaze." In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide, And feel in that his comfort and his pride. At length he found, when seventy years were run, His strength departed, and his labour done ; When he, save honest fame, retain'd no more, But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : 'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : — " Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied). That in yon House, for ruin'd age provide, And they are just ; — when young we give you all, And for assistance in our weakness call. — Why then this proud reluctance to be fed. To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ? But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : On some old master I could well depend ; See him with joy and thank him as a friend ; But ill on him, who doles the day's supply. And counts our chances who at night may die : Yet help me, Heav'n ! and let me not complain Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grew ; Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view ! But came not there, for sudden was his fate. He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate. I feel his absence in the houi-s of prayer. And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : CRABBE. I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head ; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while. Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile ; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer. Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : — But he is blest, and I lament no more A wise good man contented to be poor. THE PARTING LOOK. One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so, " Perhaps he will not sink : " A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden -vigour in his voice was heard; — She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. The friendly many and the favoxirite few : Not one that day did he to mind recal But she has treasur'd, and she loves them aU ; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people, — death has made them dear. He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd. And fondly whisper' d, " Thou must go to rest." " I go," he said ; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! Then gazed afifrighten'd ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, — and all was past ! 65 s JIARY TIGHE. PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. • Allow'd to settle on celestial eyes, Soft Sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway. From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The Powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went. The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam. As though it warn'd her from her rash intent ; ^nd twice she paus'd, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still iix'd with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show ? And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? Ah ! well I ween that, if with pencil true MARY TIGHE. That splendid vision could be well exprest, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest. All imperceptible to human touch, His wings display celestial essence light ; The clear effulgence of the blaze is such. The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright, That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years. Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, Each golden curl resplendently appears, Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears ; Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, That front than polish'd ivory more white ! His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow : While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews, (Those lips divine that even in silence know The heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse, Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway, But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray, Which o'er his features exquisitely play, And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light ; Thus through some narrow space the azure day. Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, Wi'le darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. His fatal arrows and celestial bow Beside the couch were negligently thrown, er PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; The gloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire, Could well proclaim him Beauty's oherish'd son ; And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire. And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost, Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; Her limbs immovable, her senses tost Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy. She hangs enamour'd o'er the deity — Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls The fatal lamp. — He starts — and suddenly Tremendous thunders echo through the halls. While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, A mortal chillness shudders at her breast ; Her soul shrinks fainting from Death's icy dart. The groan scarce utter'd dies but half-exprest. And down she sinks in deadly swoon opprest ; But when, at length, awakening from her trance, The terrors of her fate stand all confest, In vain she casts around her timid glance, The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. No traces of those joys, alas ! remain ; A desert solitude alone appears. No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain. The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers. One barren face the dreary prospect wears ; Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye To calm the dismal tumult of her fears. No trace of human habitation nigh, A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. AXX RADCLIFFE. TO MELANCHOLY. Spirit of love and sorrow, — liail ! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Minglu^cr with Evening's dying gale, Hail, with this sadh'-pleasiug tear ! Oh, at this still, this lonely hour. Thine own sweet honr of closing day. Awake thy lute, whose charmful power Sliall Call np Fancy to obej' ; «9 TO MELANCHOLY. To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As on the bank of shadowy stream He breathes to her the fervid sigh. lonely spirit ! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt j The minster's moonlight aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. 1 hear their dirges faintly swell ! Then sink at once in silence drear. While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell. Dimly their gliding fonns appear ! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high. Whose pathless sod is darkly seen. As the cold moon, with trembling eye. Darts her long beams the leaves between. Lead to the mountain's dusky head. Where, far below, in shades profound. Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound. Or guide me where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale : As slow it tracks the winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail : To pebbly banks that Neptune laves. With measur'd surges, loud and deep ; Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of Autumn sweep. There pause at midnight's spectred hour, And list the long-resounding gale ; And catch the fleeting moonlight's power O'er foaming seas and distant sail. ANN EADCLIFKE. SONG OF A SPIRIT. In the sightless air I dwell. On the sloping sunbeams play ; Delve the cavern's inmost cell, Where never yet did daylight stray. I dive beneath the green sea waves, And gambol in the briny deeps ; Skim every shore that Neptune laves. From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. Oft I mount with rapid force, Above the wide earth's shadowy zone, Follow the day-star's flaming course. Through realms of space to thought unknown ; And listen to celestial sounds That swell in air, unheard of men. As I watch my nightly rounds O'er woody steep and silent glen. Under the shade of waving trees. On the green bank of fountain clear, At pensive eve I sit at ease. While dying music murmurs near. And oft, on point of airy clift That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift. And twilight veil the liquid plain. 71 SONG OF A SPIRIT. Then, when the breeze has sunk away, And Ocean scarce is heard to lave. For me the sea-nymphs softly play Their dulcet shells beneath the wave. Their dulcet shells ! — I hear them now ; Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; Now faintly falls — now warbles low. Till rapture melts into a tear. The ray that silvers o'er the dew. And trembles through the leafy shade. And tints the scene with softer hue, Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; Or hie me to some ruin'd tower. Faintly shown by moonlight gleam. Where the lone wanderer owns my power. In shadows dire that substance seem ; In thrilling sounds that murmur woe. And pausing silence make more dread ; In music breathing from below Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move — unknown am fear'd ; — Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; And oft by bards my voice is heard To die along the gales of eve. ANNA LETITIA EAEBAULD. A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. " One sun bj' day, l)y night ten tlionsand shine." — Yot'NG. 'Tis past, — tlie sultry tyrant of the SoutL Has spent liis sliort-liv'd I'age ; more grateful hours A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. Move silent on ; the skies no more repel The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams Of temper'd lustre, court the cherish'd eye To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow, New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns Impatient for the night, and seems to push Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood Of soften'd radiance with her dewy locks. The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd Eve, Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires Through the Hesperian gardens of the West, And shuts the gates of Day. 'Tis now the hour When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts. The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth Of unpiero'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, And fed on thoughts iinripen'd by the sun, Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine. Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether One boiindless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires, And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye. Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field. And worthy of the Master : He, whose hand With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile Inscribed the mystic tablet ; hung on high To public gaze, and said, Adore, man ! The finger of thy God. From what pure wells Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn. Are all these lamps so fill'd — these friendly lamps, For ever streaming o'er the azure deep To point our path, and light us to our home ? 74 ANNA LETITIA BAEBAULD. How soft they slide along their lucid spheres And, silent as the foot of Time, fulfil Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd, And, but a scatter'd leaf, which rustles through The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard To break the midnight air ; though the rais'd ear, Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise ! But are they silent all 1 or is there not A tongue in every star that talks with man. And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : This dead of midnight is the noon of thought. And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. At this still hour the self-collected soul Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine, Which must burn on for ages, when the sun (Fair transitory creature of a day !) Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, Forgets his wonted journey through the East. Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods ! Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, Eevolving periods past, may ofi look back, With recollected tenderness, on all The various busy scenes she left below. Its deep-laid projects and its strange events. As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd Her infant hours — be it lawful now To tread the hallow 'd circle of your courts. And with mute wonder and delighted awe Approach your burning confines ! Seized in thought. On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail. From the green borders of the peopled earth, And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant j From solitary Mars ; from the vast orb 75 A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system. Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence I launch into the trackless deeps of space, Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light From the proud regent of our scanty day ; Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, And only less than Him who marks their track, And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop ; Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen Impels me onward through the glowing orbs Of habitable nature, far remote. To the dread confines of eternal night, To solitudes of waste unpeopled space. The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; Where embryo systems and unkindled suns Sleep in the womb of Chaos? Fancy droops, And Thought, astonish'd, stops her bold career. But oh, thou mighty Mind ! whose powerful word Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were. Where shall I seek thy presence 1 how unblam'd Invoke thy dread perfection ? Have the broad eye-lids of the mom beheld thee ? Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion Support thy throne 1 Oh, look with pity down On erring, guilty man ; not in thy names Of terror clad ; not with those thunders arm'd That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd The scatter'd tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice, That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker ! 76 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her powers In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, And seeks, again the known accustom'd spot, Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, A mansion fair and spacious for its guests. And all replete with wonders. Let me here. Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time. And ripen for the skies : the hour will come When all these splendours bursting on my sight Shall stand un^eil'd, and to my rayish'd sense Unlock the glories of the world unknown. A PETITION. If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads. Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And -vernal beauty paints the flattering scene. Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare. And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware ! With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way. Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee ; With equal eye my various lot receive, Eesign'd to die, or resolute to live ; Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod. While God is seen in all, and all in God. lip - - iv'i w ^-N| HANNAH MORE. FLOrao AND HIS FRIEND. TWO PORTRAITS. Florid, a j-outh of gay renown, Who figur'd much about the town, Had pass' J, with general approbation, The modish fornis of education ; HANNAH MORE. Knew what was proper to be known, Th' establish'd jargon of Bon-ton ; Had learnt, with very moderate reading, The whole new system of good breeding : He studied to be cold and rude, Though native feeling would intrude : Unlucky sense and sympathy Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be. For Flobio was not meant by nature, A silly or a worthless creature : He had a heart dispos'd to feel. Had life and spirit, taste and zeal ; Was handsome, generous ; but, by fate, Predestin'd to a large estate ! Hence, all that grao'd his op'ning days Was marr'd by pleasure, spoil'd by praise. The Destiny, who wove the thread Of Florio's being, sigh'd, and said, " Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold. More than my shuttle well can hold. For which thy anxious fathers toil'd, Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : 'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth From sense, simplicity, and truth ; Thy erring fire, by wealth misled. Shall scatter pleasures round thy head. When wholesome discipline's control Should brace the sinews of thy soul ; Coldly thou 'It toil for learning's prize. For why should he that's rich be wise?'' The gracious Master of mankind. Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind. In mercy, though in anger, said, That man should earn his daily bread ; His lot inaction renders worse, While labour mitigates the curse ; The idle life's worst burdens bear, 79 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. And meet, what toil escapes, despair ! Forgi-ve, nor lay the fault on me, This mixture of mythology ; The Muse of Paradise has deign'd With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; And though the Bard that would attain The glories, Milton, of thy strain. Will never reach thy style or thoughts, He may be like thee — in thy faults ! Exhausted Florid, at the age When youth should rush on glory's stage. When life should open fresh and new, And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; Of youthful gaiety bereft, Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left ; He found already to his cost, The shining gloss of life was lost j And Pleasure was so coy a prude, She fled the more, the more pursued; Or if o'ertaken and caress'd, He loath'd and left her when possess'd. But Florio knew the World ; that science Sets sense and learning at defiance ; He thought the World to him was known. Whereas he only knew the Town ; In men this blunder still you find. All think their little set — Mankind. Though high renown the youth had gain'd. No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd, No tool of falsehood, slave of passion. But spoilt by Custom, and the Fashion. Though known among a certain set, He did not like to be in debt ; He shudder'd at the dicer's box. Nor thought it very heterodox That tradesmen should be sometimes paid. And bargains kept as well as made. 80 HANNAH MORE. His growing credit, as a sinner, Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner ; Made pleasure and made business wait ; And still, by system, came too late ; Yet 'twas a hopeful indication On which to found a reputation : Small habits, well pursued, betimes May reach the dignity of crimes ; And who a juster claim preferr'd Than one who always broke his word? His mornings were not spent in vice, 'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice ; Walk up and down St. James's Street, Full fifty times the youth you'd meet ; He hated cards, detested drinking, But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking ; 'Twas doing nothing was his curse, — Is there a vice can plague us worse ? The wretch who digs the mine for bread. Or ploughs, that others may be fed. Feels less fatigue than that decreed To him who cannot think, or read. Not all the peril of temptations, Not all the conflict of the passions. Can quench the spark of Glory's flame. Or quite extinguish Virtue's name. Like the true taste for genuine saunter, Like Sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter. The active fires that stir the breast Her poppies charm to fatal rest ; They rule in short and quick succession. But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession : Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd, Th' usurper Eage is soon depos'd; Intemperance, where there 's no temptation. Makes voluntary abdication ; Of other tyrants short the strife, 81 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. But Indolencje ia king for life : The despot twists, with soft control, Eternal fettei-s round the soul. Yet though so polish'd Florio's breeding, Think him not ignorant of reading : For he, to keep him from the vapoui-s, Subsorib'd at Hookham's, saw the papei-s; Was deep in poet's-corner w^it ; Knew what w.os in italics writ ; Explain'd fictitious names at will ; Each gutted syllable could fill. There oft, in paragraphs, his name Gave symptom sweet of growing fame ; Thougb yet they only serv'd to hint That Florio lov'd to see in print His ample buckles' alter'd shape, His buttons chang'd, his varying cape ; And many a standard phrase was his Might rival hore, or banish quiz. The man who grasps this young renown, And early starts for Fashion's crown. In time that glorious prize may wield. Which clubs and ev'u Newmarket yield. He studied while he dress'd, for, true 'tis. He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties, Ahreges, Dictionnaires, Benteils, Mercures, Joumaux, ExtraiU, and Feidlks . No work in substance now is follow'd. The chemic extract only's swallow'd. He lik'd those literary cooks Who skim the cream of others' books ; And ruin half an author's graces By plucking hon mots from their places. He wondere any writing sells But these spic'd mushrooms and morells. His palate works aJone can touch Where every mouthful is honne bouche. HANNAH MORE. Some phrase that with the public took Was all he read of any book ; For plan, detail, arrangement, system. He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. Of each new Play he saw a part, And all the anas had by heart : He found whatever they produce Is fit for conversation-use ; Learning so ready for display, A page would prime him for a day : They cram not with a mass of knowledge, Which smacks of toil, and smells of college, Which in the memory useless lies. Or only makes men — good and wise. This might have merit once, indeed, But now for other ends we read. A friend he had, Bellaeio hight, A reasoning, reading, learned wight ; At least, with men of Florio's breeding, He was a prodigy of reading. He knew each stale and vapid lie In tomes of French philosophy j And these, we fairly may presume. From Ptebho down to David Hdme, 'Twere difficiilt to single out A man more full of shallow doubt : He knew the little sceptic prattle. The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance, Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; Admir'd the system of Lucbetius, Whose matchless verse makes nonsense specious ! To this his doctrine owes its merits. Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits ; Though sceptics dull his scheme rehearse, Who have not souls to taste his verso, Bellabio founds his reputation FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. On dry, stale jokes about Creation ; Would prove, by argument circuitous. The combination was fortuitous. Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, And prey on bigots who believe ; With bitter ridicule could jeer, And had the true free-thinking sneer. Grave arguments he had in store. Which had been answer'd o'er and o'er ; And us'd, with wondrous penetration. The trite, old trick of false citation ; From ancient authors fond to quote A phrase, or thought, they never wrote. Upon his highest shelf there stood The Classics, neatly cut in wood ; And in a more commodious station. You found them in a French translation : He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, But keeps the French — just for the notes. He worshipp'd certain modern names Who history write iu epigrams, In pointed periods, shining phrases. And all the small poetic daisies Which crowd the pert and florid style. Where fact is dropt to raise a smile ; Where notes indecent or profane Serve to raise doubts, but not explain : Where all is spangle, glitter, show, And truth is overlaid below : Arts scorn'd by History's sober Muse, Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use. Whate'er the subject of debate, 'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; Begin whatever theme you will. In unbelief he lands you still : The good, with shame I speak it, feel Not half this proselyting zeal : 84 HANNAH MORE. While cold their Master's cause to own, Content to go to heav'n alone, The infidel, in liberal trim, Would carry all the world with him ; Would trust his wife, friend, kindred, nation. Mankind — with what 1 Annihilation. Though Flokio did not quite believe him, He thought, why should a friend deceive him ? Much as he prized Bbllaeio's wit. He lik'd not all his notions yet ; He thought him charming, pleasant, odd, But hop'd one might believe in God ; Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue. He knew not how to think him wrong. Though Flobio tried a thousand ways, Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze : Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt If ever it go fairly out. Yet, under great Bellaeio's care, He gain'd each day a better air ; With many a leader of renown. Deep in the learning of the Town, Who never other science knew. But what from that prime source they drew ; Pleas'd, to the Opera they repair, To get recruits of knowledge there ! Mythology gain at a glance. And learn the Classics from a dance : In Ovid they ne'er car'd a groat How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut; Yet charm'd they see Medea rise On fiery dragons to the skies. For Dido, though they never knew her As Maeo's magic pencil drew her, Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted. Her pious Vagabond departed, Yet, for DiDOKE how they roar ! 8.5 And Cara ! Cara ! loud encore. One taste Bellaeio's soul possess'd, Tlic mastei'-passion of his breast; It was not one of those frail joys, Which, by possession, quickly chiys ; This bliss was solid, constant, ti'ue, 'Twas action, and 'twas passion too ; For though tiic business niiglit be finishM, SO HANNAH MORE. The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd ; Did he ride out, or sit, or walk. He liv'd it o'er again in talk ; Prolong'd the fugitive delight, In words by day, in dreams by night, 'Twas eating did his soul allure, A deep, keen, modish Epicure ; Though once this name, as I opine, Meant not such men as live to dine ; Yet all our modern Wits assure us, That 's all they know of Epicurus : They fondly fancy, that repletion Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian. To live in gardens full of flowers. And talk philosophy in bowers. Or, in the covert of a wood. To descant on the sovereign good, Might be the notion of their founder, But they have notions vastly sounder : Their bolder standards they erect, To form a more substantial sect ; Old Epicurus would not own 'em, A Dinner is their summum bonum ; More like you'll find such sparks as these To Epicurus' deities; Like them, they mix not with affairs. But loll and laugh at human cares. To beaux, this difference is allow' d, They choose a sofa for a cloud. Bellario had embrac'd with glee This practical philosophy. BOWLES. RETURN TO OXFORD. CHERWELL. Cheewell ! how pleased aloug thy willow'd edge Erewhile I stray'd ; or when the morn began To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan. Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge, And now, reclin'd upon thy banks once more, I bid the pipe fabewell, and that sad lay Whose music on my melancholy way I woo'd, beneath thy willows waving hoar. Seeking to rest — till the returning sun Of joy beam out, as when Heaven's humid bow Shines silent on the passing storm below ; Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Of solace, that may bear me on serene, Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinking scene. ON THE RHINE. 'TwAS morn, and beautiful the mountains' brow — Hung with the clusters of the bending vine — Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow In murmurs parting ; varying as we go. Rooks after rocks come forward and retire, As some grey convent-wall, or sunlit spire Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow. Here castles, like the pris'jns of despair, Frown as wo pass ! — Tiiore, on the vineyard's side, The ?)ursting sunshine pours its streaming tide ; "WJiilo Okief, forgetful amid scenes so fair, Counts not the hours of a long summer's day. Nor lieods liow fast the y)rospoct winds away. THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. Frontixq the ocean, but beyond the ken Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men, — Of unhewn roots compos'd, and gnarlSd wood, A small and rustic Oratory stood : Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross, The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss ; A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side — One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide ; This, to impress how soon Ufe's race is o'er ; And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray, The clust'ring copu weav'd its trellis gay : Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove Their aged and fantastic arms above. In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, A dial counted the departing hours. On which the sweetest light of summer shone, — A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone : — " To count, with passing shade, the hours, I plao'd the dial 'mid the flowers. That, one by one, came forth, and died. Blooming, and with'ring, round its side. Mortal, let the sight impart Its pensive moral to thy heart ! " Just heard to trickle through a covert near. And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the stone, — And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. Intent his fairy pastime to pursue. And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, 90 B(J\VLES. The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song Heedlessly murmur'd all the summer long, And when the winter came, retir'd to rest, And from the myrtles hung ite trembling nest. Xo sounds of a conflicting world were near ; The noise of ocean faintly met the ear. That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast. But dying sounds of passions that were past ; Or closing anthems, when, hx off, expire The lessening echoes of the distant choir. Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest. His pale hands meekly cross'd upon his breast, AxsELMo sat : the sun, with west'riug ray, .Just touch'd his temples, and his locks of grey. There was no worldly feeling in hia eye ; — The world to him " was as a thing gone by." Now, all his features lit, he rais'd his look. Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book ; And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, A tame opossum lick'd his wither'd hand. That sweetest light of slow-declining day. Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray, Resting a moment on his few grey hairs, Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his piay'r.- Wben the trump echo'd to the quiet spot. He thought upon the world, but moum'd it not ; Enough if his meek wisdom could control, And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul ; Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod. He led one erring Indian to his God. THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes ; high, overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring fires. A glen beneath — a lonely spot of rest — Hung, scarce disoover'd, like an eagle's nest. Summer was in its prime ; — the parrot-flocks Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks ; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs. With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs. The woodpecker is heard with busy bill. The mock-bird sings — and all beside is still. And look ! the cataract, that bursts so high As not to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews. Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine. The purple cogul threads from pine to pine. And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, 92 BOWLES. And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illumes, With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. So smiles the scene ; — ^but can its smiles impart Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart? He heeds not now, when, beautifally bright, The humming-bird is circling in his sight ; Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still. Hears the green woodpecker's resounding biU ; But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, Eock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd To the Tolcano's cone, that shoots so high Grey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless sky. He cries, " Oh ! if thy spirit yet be fled To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead, — In yonder track of purest light above. Dear, long-lost object of a father's love. Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come, Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home. And passing with the breeze ? or, in the beam Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream? Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard, In the sad notes of that melodious bird, Which, as we listen with mysterious di-ead, Brings tidings from our friends and fethers dead 1 Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away. Thine eyes yet view the living light of day ; Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain A weary life of servitude and pain. With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam. And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream, Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, Or weep upon thy father's distant grave." Ye, who have wak'd, and listen'd with a tear. When cries confus'd, and clangours roll'd more near; With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, 3 THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. As War's black trump peal'd its terrific blast, And o'er the wither'd earth the armed giant pass'd. Ye, who his track with terror have pursued. When some delightful land, all blood-imbued, He swept ; where silent is the champaign wide. That eoho'd to the pipe of yester-tide. Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong The last deep echoes of his parting gong ; Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot, Save livid corses that unburied lie, And conflagrations, reeking to the sky ; Come listen, whilst the causes I relate That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate. And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate. In other days, when, in his manly pride, Two children for a father's fondness vied, — Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield. Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade, Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd. Brother and sister : She, along the dew, Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew ; Blue rushes wreath'd her head j her dark brown hair Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare ; Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made. That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. Light was her form ; a clasp of silver brac'd The azure-dyed ichella round her waist ; Her ancles rung with shells, as, tmconfiii'd, She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind. With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, — So, beautiful in youth, she bounded by. Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, — The tame alpaca stood and liok'd her hand ; She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck With flow'ry twiue his tall and stately neck, 9i kijy\\ \V hilst he with silent gratitude rephes, And bends to her caress his large lilue eyes. These children danc'd togetlier in the shade, Or stretcli'd theii- hands Id see llie rainlmw fadr THE HOME OP THE OLD INDIAN. Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, The paroquet, that laugh'd froin tree to tree ; Or through the forest's wildest solitude, From glen to glen the marmozet pursued ; And thought the light of parting day too short, That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport. In that fair season of awak'ning life, When dawning youth and childhood are at strife ; When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands Tip-toe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands ; With airy look, and form and footsteps light. And glossy looks, and features berry-bright. And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away ; A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung. With slender lance, and feathers blue and red, That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head, — Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy : Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow. Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow ; Startled the condor on the craggy height ; Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight, Lessening in ether to a speck of white. But when th' impassion'd Chieftain spoke of war, Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar, — Spoke of the strangers of the distant main. And the proud banners of insulting Spain, Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke. And his red gods, that, wrapp'd in rolling smoke, Roar'd from the guns, — the Boy, with still-drawn breath, Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death ; Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried, " ! LET ME PERISH BY MY FATHER'S SIDE ! " 96 ^^-^*|?=^^^*^^^ I.AXDINV; AT TYNE^FOUTll, As slow 1 cliiiili tlie cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past, "When o'er the dark wave rode the howling Idast- I'leas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide That laves the pebldod shore : and now tlie beam Of evening smiles on the grey liattlcmcnt Of 3'on forsaken tower that TuiE has rent ; The lifted oar fir fiff with transient gleam Is touoh'd, and husji'd is all tlic liiljowj' deep, 97 o THE BURIAL PLACE. O'er-spent j oh ! wheu on wakeful Memory's breast Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest ? Then some sweet harmonies might sooth her sleep, Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre, Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire. THE BURIAL PLACE. Thk Indian, sad and still, Pac'd on from wood to vale, from Tale to hill ; Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd awhile to rest, SmU'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast ; The pensive mother grey Anselmo led : Behind, Lautaro bore his Father dead. Beneath the branching palms they slept at night ; Tlie small birds wak'd them ere the morning light. Before their path, in distant view, appear'd The mountain-smoke, that its daik column rear'd O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky. Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. Fom- days they onward led their eastern way : On the fifth rising morn before them lay Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green The Warrior's lov'd and last abode was seen. No smoke went up, — stillness was all around. Save where the waters fell with soothing sound. Save where the Thenca sung so loud and clear. And the bright humminp;-bird was spinning near. P? BOWLES. Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ; The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene, — And in his ear the falling water's spray Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. — " Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, There shall my father's bones in peace be laid." Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the ground ; The small and sad communion gather'd round. Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, And broke the spear, and cried, " Farewell ! — farewell ! " Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd " Adieu ! " As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw. The little child, that to its mother clung, With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound. And dropt its flow'rs, unconscious, on the ground. The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild, Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child, Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze, Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days, When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland, And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand ! And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd, The Wari'ior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, " Eteenam pacbm dona, Dominb." Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book, And lifting in the beam his lighted look, (The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) — " Here, too," he cried, " my bones in peace shall rest ! Few years remain to me, and never more Shall I behold, Spain, thy distant shore ! 99 SUNRISE. Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave O'er the poor Curistian's and the Indian's grave. Then may it — (when the sons of future days Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze) — Then may it teach, that charity should bind, AVhere'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear Thy voice, Christ ! and drop the slaught'ring spear.'' SUNRISE. 'Tis dawn : — the distant Andes' rocky spires, One after one, have caught the orient fires. Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight. His wings are touch'd with momentary light. Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads, A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads, That o'er the champaign, stretching far below, Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising eIow, Till all the living landscape is display'd In various pomp of colour, light, and shade ; Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain, Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main. The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew ; The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew ; 100 * S;^t'' ¥» - t -LIB^-r^ And see, where yonder stalks, in oi'imson pride, Tlie tall flamingo, by the river's side, — Stalks, in his ricliest plumage bright array'd, With snowy neck superb, and legs of Icngth'uing shade. ROGERS. THE OLD HOUSE. Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees. Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd w^ith ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court, Ouce the calm scene of many a simple sport ; When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new. And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew. See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd. Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest — Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest ! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall, where once in antiquated state. The chair of justice held the grave debate. Xow stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture mug ; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the cu-cling jest, And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound ; And tum'd the blind-fold hero roimd and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And Fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. 102 Giants and gfinii claimed each wndering ear ; And o)7jhan-Horrowrs drew tlie ready tear. Oft «-it,l, the babes ^ve wauderVl in the wood, Or view'd the fbreht-fei.t-: of llobm JJood: MOTHER AND CHILD. Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour With startling step we scal'd the lonely tower ; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievements charms the wilder'd sight ; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest. On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. When soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near ; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time ? The massive beam, with curious carving wrought, Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thouglit ; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust ; Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast. Starting to life — all whisper of the Past ! MOTHER AND CHILD. The day arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd : The child is born, by many a pang endear'd : And now, the Mother's ear has caught his cry ! Oh ! grant the cherub to her asking eye. He comes !— she clasps him ! To her bosom prest, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows ; How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 104 ROGERS. As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; And ever, ever to her lap he flies, When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, (That name most dear for ever on his tongue.) As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! But soon a nobler task demands her care, Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there : And now the volume on her knee has caught His wandering eye — now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet. His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. Eeleased, he chases the bright butterfly ; Oh, he would follow — follow through the sky ! Climbs the gaunt mastiif slumbering in his chain. And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain- side. Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can, If now he wears the habit of a man. Flings off the coat so much his pride and pleasure. And, like a miser digging for his treasure. His tiny spade in his own garden plies. And in green letters sees his name arise ! Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight. She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. 106 AMELIA OPIE. THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. Stay, Lady, stajj for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless Orphan's tale : Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake ; 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride. And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud fight he died — And I am now an orphan boy. Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, And see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy ; For with my father's life 'twas bought. And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud, — My mother, shudd'ring, closed her ears ; " Rejoice ! rejoice !" still cried the crowd, — My mother answer'd with her tears. "Why are you crying thus,'' said I, "While others laugh and shout with joy?" She kiss'd me — and, with such a sigh ! She call'd me her poor orphan boy. 106 " What is an orphan boj' 1 " I cried, As in her face I look'd and smiled ; My mother through her tears replied, "You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!" And now they've toll'd my mother's knell. And I'm no more a parent's joy, — Lady, — I have learnt too well What 'tis to be a,n orphan boy. 1(17 TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! — Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, — Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep ! — ha ! — this to me ? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents ! look, and see Your happy, happy orphan boy. WILLIAM SPENCER. TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime. Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his gla^, When all its sands are diamond sparks That dazzle as they pass ! Ah ! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage for its wings ? BYEON. THE PRISONER OF OHILLON. Mt hair is grey, but not with years ; Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears : My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil. But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; But this was for my father's faith I suffer'd chains, and courted death; Tlmt father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake ; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling-place. We were seven — who now are one. Six in youth, and one in age, Finish'd as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage ; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have seal'd ; Dying as their father died. For the God their foes denied r Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the liist. 109 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; There are seven columns, massy and grey. Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, — A sunbeam which hath lost its way. And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left, Creeping o'er the floor so damp. Like a marsh's meteor lamp : And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain ; — That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, TiU I have done with this new day. Which now is painful to these eyes. Which have not seen the sun so rise For years — I cannot count them o'er ; I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died. And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a column stone. And we were three — yet, each alone ; We could not move a single pace. We could not see each other's face. But with that pale and livid light, That made us strangers in our sight ; And thus, together— yet apart, Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 'Twas still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech. And each turn comforter to each, With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold ; 110 But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of tlie dungeon stone, A grating sound — not fnll and free, 111 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, As they of yore were wont to be. It might be fancy — but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do — and did — my best ; And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved Because our mother's brow was given To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — For him my soul was sorely moved : And truly might it be distrest To see such bird in such a nest ; For he was beautiful as day — (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free) — A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light. The snow-clad offspring of the sun : And thus he was as pure and bright. And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills. And then they flow'd like mountain rills. Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below. The other was as pure of mind, But form'd to combat with his kind ; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy : but not in chains to pine : His spirit wither'd with their clank ; 112 BYRON. I saw it silently decline — And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ; But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthrals : A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, — We heard it ripple night and day ; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky ; And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pin'd, I said his mighty heart declin'd ; He loath'd and put away his food ; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare. And for the like had little care : 113 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisteu'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den ; — But what were these to us or him 1 These wasted not his heart, or limb. My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side. But why delay the truth? — He died. I saw, and cou.ld not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died — and they unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine — it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought. That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer — They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love. His empty chain above it leant. Such murder's fitting monument ! But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, 114 BYRON. The infant love of all his race, His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free : He too, who yet had held, untir'd, A spirit natural or inspir'd, He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood : — I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread : But these were horrors — this was woe Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak. So tearless, yet so tender — kind. And griev'd for those he left behind ; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray — An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur — not A groan o'er his untimely lot, — A little talk of better days, A little hope — my own to raise. For I was sunk in silence — lost In this last loss, of all the most ; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, 115 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. More slowly drawn, grew less aud less : I listen'd, but I could not hear — I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I call'd, and thotight I heard a sound — I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him : I found him not ; I only stirr'd in this black spot, I only liv'd — I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon dew ; The last — the sole — the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath — My brothers — both had ceas'd to breathe : I took that hand which lay so still, Alas ! my own was full as chill ; I had not strength to stir, or strive. But felt that I was still alive — A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die ; I had no earthly hope — but faith. And that forbade a selfish death. What next befel me then and there I know not well — I never kuew ; First came the loss of light, and air. And then of darkness too : I had no thought, no feeling — none — Among the stones I stood a stone. And was, scarce conscious what I wist. As shrubless crags within the mist ; 116 BYRON. For all was blank, and bleak, and grey : It was not night — it was not day, It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight. But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness — without a place ; There were no stars — no earth — no time — No check — no change — no good — no crime- But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death ; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! A light broke in upon my brain — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceas'd, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard ; And mine was thankful till my eyes Ean over with the glad surprise. And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery ; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track : I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done. But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch 'd, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree ; A lovely bird with azure wings. And song that said a thousand things. And seem'd to say them all for me ! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more : It seem'd, like me, to want a mate. But was not half so desolate, 117 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free. Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity. Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise ; For — Heaven forgive that thought ! — the while Which made me both to weep and smile, I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me ; But then at last away it flew. And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly lone, — Lone — as the corse within its shroud ; Lone — as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a summer day. While aU the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate. My keepers grew compassionate ; i know not what had made them so. They were inur'd to sights of woe. But so it was : — my broken chain With links unfasten'd did remain, And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part ; 118 BYRON. And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun, Avoiding only, as I trod. My brothers' graves without a sod ; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profan'd their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall. It was not therefrom to escape. For I had buried one and all. Who loved me in a human shape ; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me : No child — no sire — no kin had I, No partner in my misery. I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad ; But T was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them — and they were the same. They were not changed like me in frame ; I saw their thousand years of snow On high — their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; I saw the white-wall'd distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down ; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, 119 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. The only one iu view ; A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing. And on it there were young flowers growing. Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem'd joyous each and all ; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly ; And then new tears came in my eye. And I felt troubled — and would fain I had not left my recent chain ; And when I did descend again. The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load ; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save, — And yet my glance, too much opprest. Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days, — I kept no count — I took no note ; I had no hope my eyes to raise, , And clear them of their dreary mote ; — At last men came to set me free, I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where : It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus, when they appear'd at last. And all my bonds aside were cast. These heavy walls to me had grown 120 BYRON. A hermitage — and all my own ! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home : With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade ; Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they 1 We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race. Had power to kill ! yet, strange to tell ! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — - My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are : — even I Eegain'd my freedom with a sigh. THE DREAM. OuB life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnam'd Death and existence ; Sleep hath its own world. And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath. And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. They take a weight from off our waking toils. They do divide our being ; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity ; They pass like spirits of the past — they speak Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 121 THE DREAM. The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; They make us what we were not — what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? Is not the past all shadow ? What are they 1 Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own AVith beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms that can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream'd Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour. I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Grreen and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd Not by the sport of nature, but of man : These two, a maiden and a youth, were there. Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her j And both were young, and one was beautiful : And both were young — yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one belovSd face on earth, V>-2 And tLat was shining on him; he had look'd Upon it till it could not pass away ; He had no breath, no being-, but in hers : She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, But tremljlcd on her words : she was his sight, 125 THE DREAM. For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, Which colour'd all his objects :— he had ceas'd To live within himself; she was his life. The ocean to the river of his thoughts, AVhich terminated all ; upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow. And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share : Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was Even as a brother — ^but no more ; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name Which pleas'd him, and yet pleas'd him not — and why ? Time taught him a deep answer— when she loved Another ; — even now she loved another. And on the summit of that hill she stood, Looking afar if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed capavison'd : Within au antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone. And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon He sat him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of j then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere « With a convulsion — then rose again. And with his teeth aud quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm himself, aud fix his brow Into a kind of quiet : as he paus'd, 124 BYRON. The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; She was serene and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him belov'd, — she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retir'd, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And, mounting on his steed, he went his way ; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home. And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not Himself like what he had been ; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer ; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all ; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had surviv'd the names Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. While many of his tribe slumber'd around : And they were canopied by the blue sky, 12.5 THE DREAM. So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in heaven. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better:— in her home, A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! Upon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye. As" if its lid were oharg'd with unshed tears. What could her grief be ? — She had all she loved. And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. What could her grief be ? She had loved him not. Not given him cause to deem himself beloved. Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wand'rer was return'd.^ — I saw him stand Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; Her face was fair, but was not that which made The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood Even at tlie altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook His bosom in its solitude ; and then — As in that hour — a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced — and then it faded as it came. And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 12fi BYRON. The fitting vows, but heard uot his owu words, And all things reel'd around him ; he could see Not that which was, nor that which should have beeu- But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, And the remember'd chambers, and the place, The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, — All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light : What business had they there at such a time ? A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth ; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things ; And forms impalpable and unperceiv'd Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; What is it hut the telescope of truth 1 Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real ! A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore ; The being.s which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him ; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compassM round AVith Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 127 THE DREAM. In all which was serv'd up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, He fed on poisons, and they had no power. But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived Through that which had been death to many men. And made him friends of mountains : with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues ; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries. To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd A marvel and a secret. Be it so. My dream was past ; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thiis traced out Almost like a reality — the one To end in madness — both in misery. SHELLEY. WRTTTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES, The sun is warm, tlio sky is clear, The waves arc daiicin,<;' fast and lii-iglit, ISlue isles and snowy iiifHintajus Avcar 1211 WRITTEN IX DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The purple noon's trauspareut light. The breath of the moist earth is light Around its uuespanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. I see the deep's untrainpled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown. I sit upon tlie sands alone. The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measur'd motion. How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown' d — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, uor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild. Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear. Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow wet, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 130 SHELLEY. Some might lament that I was cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan : — They might lament, — for I am one Whom men love not — and yet regret ; Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set. Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. TO NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave. Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gi'ey. Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long-sought ! When I arose and saw the Dawn, I sigh'd for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 131 TO XIGHT. Aud noon lay heavy on flower and tree And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like uu unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee. Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me? And I replied, No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — ■ Sleep wUl come when thou art fled : Of neither would I ask the boon, I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight. Come soon, — soon ! SPRING. Spring ! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, White-wing'd emblem ! brightest, best, and fairest ! Whence comest thou, when with dark Winter's sadness The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest ? Sister of joy ! thou art the child who wearest Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet ; Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet. 132 KEATS. OJJE T(J A NIGHTINGALE. My heai't iiclies, auil a drowsy immljiicbs paiiiS My sense, ,as tlioii^li of licmlock I had dnmk, 1.33 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One miuute past, and Lethe -wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delv§d earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green. Dance, and Provengal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale and speotre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow. And leaden-eyed despairs ; Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards 134 KEATS. Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster' d around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light. Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child. The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen ; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mus§d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : OPE TO A NIGHTIXGALE. Perliaps the sc4f-.sanie song that found a path Throucfli the sad heart of lUith, when, sick for home, She stood iii tears amid the alien corn ; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on tlie foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is lil^e a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self I Adieu '. the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the nest valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? ^ .^ij^ CIJLERIDGE. LOVE, All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatevei- stirs this mortal frame, 137 LOVE. All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame, Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! She lean'd against the armid man, The statue of the armSd knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song that suited well That ruin wild and hoaiy. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace j For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. 138 COLERIDGE. I told her how he pined : and, ah ! The low, the deep, the pleading tone, With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listeu'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn * Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — There came, and look'd him in the face. An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ; And how she wept and clasp'd his knees. And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; 139 LOVE. His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. An undistinguishable throng; And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherish'd long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved — she stept aside ; As conscious of my look, she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half inclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And, bending back her head, look'd up And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calm'd her fears; and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride ! liO WOEDSWORTH. THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION. The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, On the green turf, a dial — to divide The silent hours ; and who to that report Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, Throughout a long and lonely summer's day, His round of pastoral duties, is not left With less intelligence for moral things Of gravest import. Early he perceives, Within himself, a measure and a rule. Which to the sun of truth he can apply. That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. Experience daily fixing his regards 141 A CLOUD PICTURE. Ott Nature's wants, he knows how few they are. And where they lie, how answer'd and appeas'd : This knowledge ample recompense affords For manifold privations ; he refers His notions to this standard ; on this rock Bests his desires; and hence, in after life. Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content. Imagination — not permitted here To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares. And trivial ostentation — ^is left free And puissant to range the solemn walks Of time and nature, girded by a zone That, whUe it binds, invigorates and supports. Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top. Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred (Take from him what you wiU upon the score Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes For noble purposes of mind : his heart Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. A CLOUD PICTURE. So was he Hfted gently from the ground. And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, A single step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! Th' appearance, instantaneously disclos'd, 142 WORDSWORTH. Was of a mighty city — boldly say A -wilderness of building, sinking far And self- withdrawn into a boundless depth, Far sinking into splendour — without end ! Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold. With alabaster domes and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted : here, serene pavilions bright. In avenues dispos'd ; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky. Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! — Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf. Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confus'd, commingled, mutually inflam'd. Molten together, and composing thus. Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapp'd. Eight in the midst, where interspace appear'd Of open court, an object like a throne Under a shining canopy of state Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified ; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe. This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 143 DION. I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the reveal'd abode Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart Swell'd in my breast. — " I have been dead," I cried, " And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ? " And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! DION. (see pldtarch.) Serene, and fitted to embrace. Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace Of haughtiness without pretence, And to unfold a still magnificence. Was princely Dion, in the power And beauty of his happier hour. And what pure homage then did wait On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere. Fell round him in the grove of Academe, Softening their inbred dignity austere — That he, not too elate With self-sufficing solitude. But with majestic loneliness endued, Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate. Five thousand warriors — the rapturous day ! Each crown'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield. Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, To Syracuse advance in bright array. 144 WORDSWORTH. Who leads them on 1 The anxious people see Long-exiled Dion marching at their head ; He also crown'd with flowers of Sicily, And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad ! Pure transport, undisturb'd by doubt or fear, The gazers feel j and, rushing to the plain, Salute those strangers as a holy train. Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear), That brought their precious liberty again. Lo ! when the gates are enter' d, on each hand, Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine In seemly order stand. On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — And, as the great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ; And flowers are on his person thrown In boundless prodigality ; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer. Invoking Dion's tutelary care, As if a very Deity he were ! Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! — and mourn, Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic ui-n ! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades ! For him who to divinity aspired. Not on the breath of popular applause, But through dependence on the sacred laws Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, Intent to trace th' ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight; But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars ; And, following guides whose craft holds no consent With aught that breathes th' ethereal element, Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 146 II DION. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, The heaviest plummet of despair can go — But whence that sudden check? that fearful start? He hears an uncouth sound — Anon his lifted eyes Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, A shape of more than mortal size And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! A woman's garb the phantom wore, And swiftly swept the marble floor — Like Auster whirling to and fro. His force on Caspian foam to try ; Or Boreas when he scours the snow That skins the plains of Thessaly, Or when aloft on Msenalus he stops His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping. The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd. Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — No pause admitted, no design avow'd ! " Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!" Exclaim'd the Chieftain — "let me rather see The coronal that coiling vipers make ; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. And the long train of doleful pageantry Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne ! But shapes that come not at an earthly call. Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, 146 WORDSWORTH, Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent ! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere ; But should She labour night and day. They will not, cannot disappear ; Whence angry perturbations, — and that look Which no philosophy can brook ! Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt. Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! matchless perfidy ! portentous lust Of monstrous crime ! that horror-striking blade, Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust ! Shudder'd the walls — the marble city wept — And Sylvan places heav'd a pensive sigh j But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. As he had fall'n in magnanimity ; Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change ; too just To his own native greatness to desire That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Eeleas'd from life, and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his Fate : — " Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends. Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends.'' WORDSWORTH. INCIDENT AT BRUGES. In Bruges town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled ; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet The grass-grown pavement tread. There heard we, halting in the shade Flung from a convent-tower, A harp that tuneful prelude made To a voice of thrilling power. The measure, simple truth to tell. Was fit for some gay throng ; Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords. The strain seem'd doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet, — for English words Had fall'n upon the ear. It was a breezy hour of eve ; And pinnacle and spire Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave, Oloth'd with innocuous fire ; But, where we stood, the setting sun Show'd little of his state ; And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 'Twas through an iron grate. Not always is the heart unwise. Nor pity idly borne. If even a passing Stranger sighs For them who do not mourn. 148 Sad is tliy doom, self-solaced dove, Captive, whoe'er thou be ! Oh ! what is beaut}', vi'hat is love, And opening life to thee ? Such feeling press'd upon the soul, A feeling sanctified By one soft trickling tear that stole From the INIaiden at my side : Less tribute could she pay than this, Borne gaily o'er the sea, Fi-esh from the beauty and the bliss Of Kn-lish liberty? ]4fl WORDSWORTH. A JEWISH FAMILY. IN A SMA.LL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE. Genius of Kaphael ! if thy wings Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things To pencil dear and pen, Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine, And all his majesty — A studious forehead to incline O'er this poor family. The Mother — her thou must have seen, In spirit, ere she came To dwell these rifted rocks between, Or found on earth a name ; An image, too, of that sweet Boy Thy inspirations give — Of playfulness, and love, and joy. Predestined here to live. Downcast, or shooting glances far. How beautiful his eyes, That blend the nature of the star With that of summer skies ! I speak as if of sense beguil'd ; Uncounted months are gone. Yet am I with the Jewish Child, That exquisite Saint John. 150 A JEWISH FAMILY. I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, The smooth transparent skin, Refin'd, as with intent to show The holiness within ; The grace of parting Infancy By blushes yet untam'd ; Aye faithful to the mother's knee. Nor of her arms asham'd. Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet As flowers, stand side by side ; Their soul-subduing looks might cheat The Christian of his pride ; Such beauty hath th' Eternal pour'd Upon them not forlorn. Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, Nor yet redeem'd from scorn. Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Of poverty and wrong. Doth here preserve a living light. From Hebrew fountains sprung ; That gives this ragged group to cast Around the dell a gleam Of Palestine, of glory past, And proud Jerusalem ! LAMB. HESTER.— A REMEMBRANCE. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate. That flush'd her spirit — I know not by what name beside I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule. Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. Ye could not Hester. 152 LAMB. My sprightly neiglibour, gone before To that uuknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? VERSES POK AN ALBUM. Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light. Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care. And friends, and foes, in foul or fair. Have written " strange defeature " there. And Time, with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall. Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. And Error, gilding worse designs, Like speckled snake that strays and shines- Betrays his path by crooked lines. My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. Go — shut the leaves — and clasp the book! 168 KIRKE WHITE. THE HERB ROSEMARY. Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume ! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. And I will bind thee round my brow ; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song. And sweet the strain shall be, and long. The melody of death. Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb. And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful, and so deep. And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. Moans hollow in the forest-trees. And sailing on the gusty breeze. Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, 154 KIRKE WHITE. The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. Comb, Disappointment, come ! Not in thy terrors clad ; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine. And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread. Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead ; And though the tear By chance appear. Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here ! What is this passing scene 1 A peevish April day ! A little sun, a little rain. And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss' d) Yields up his trust. And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 16.5 ODE TO DISAPPOIXTMEXT. Oh, what is Beauty's power I It flourishes and dies ; "Will the cold earth its silence break, To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek Beneath its surfiice lies ? Mute, mute is all O'er Beauty's fall ; Her praise resounds no more when mautled iu her pall. The most helov'd on earth Not long survives to-day;. So music past is obsolete. And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet. But now 'tis gone away. Thus does the shade In memory fade, Wlieu in foi-saken tomb the form belov'd is laid. Then, since this world is vain. And volatUe, and fleet. Why shoe hillnck clirnli. Where every mole-hill is a l>cd of thyme. Tfiere panting stop ; yet scarcely can refi-aiu ; A bird, a leaf, will --et tliem off again . Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow. Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow. Their little limlis irjcreasing efforts try. Like the torn flower the fair asscmlilaire tlv. BLOOMFIELD. THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below, The nodding .'wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, With milky kernels starting full, weigh'd down. Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown ; Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay. Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day. And from the mazes of the leafy thorn Drop one by one upon the bending corn. Giles with a pole assails their close retreats. And round the grass-grown dewy border beats ; On either side completely overspread, Here branches bend, there com o'ertops his head. Green covert, hail ! for thro' the varying year No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees His frequent intervals of lonely ease, And with one ray his infant soul inspires. Just kindling there her never-dying fires, Whence solitude derives peculiar charms, And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. Just where the parting bough's light shadows play. Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed. Where swarming insects creep around his head. The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain O'er the smooth plantain-leaf, a spacious plain ! Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd, He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade. And flirts his filmy wings, and looks around, Exulting in his distance from the ground. 196 Tlie tender speckled moth here dancing seen, The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, And all prolific Summer's sporting train, Their little lives by various powers sustain. But what can unassisted vision do 1 What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; His patient gaze but fmisli with a sigh, When music waking speaks the sky-lark nigh ! 197 THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. Just starting from the com she cheerly sings, And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings ; Still louder breathes, and in the face of day Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark her way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light. And place the wandering bird before his sight ; Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along. Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, Again she stretches up the clear blue sky ; Her form, her motion, undistinguish'd quite, Save when she wheels direct from shade to light : The fluttering songstress a mere speck became, Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream ; He sees her yet, but yielding to repose. Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. Delicious sleep ! From sleep who could forbear, With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care 1 Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting : He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, And takes his pole and brashes round again. MOORE. THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA Farewell, — farewell to thee, Aruljy'is tlaugliter ! (Tims wai-bled a Peri lieneatli the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's grceu water, Jlore pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing. How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowiuij And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! But long, upon Araby's green smniy highlands. Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom I'.r.) THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA. Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning. And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day. Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero ! forget thee — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We '11 dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling. And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave. They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. 200 MOORE, NOURMAHAL. THE BEAUTY OF EXPRESSION. There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's hght, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty, — oh ! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bhss ; But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams. Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams ! When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry — for ev'n in the trauquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in sirring ;- lUum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages. Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages. While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighteu'd all over, — Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it V)reaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 201 D D WOLFE. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning. By the struggling moon-beam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said. And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; And we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed. And smooth'd down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 202 »,^& ''^'" And wo licai'd the distant and random gun Of the enemy siillenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; AVe carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- But we left him alone with his glorj' ! 2ii3 ALLA^" CUNXES'GHAM. THE POET'S bridal-Day song. Oh ! my love 's like the stead&st sun, Or streams that deepen as they run. ^OT hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between light and tears. Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Xor dreams of glory dream'd in vain ; Xor mirth, nor sweet€st song that flows To sober joys, and softer woes. Can make my heart or lancy flee. One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit ; Fair, gentle as when first I sued Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee, As when, beneath Arbigland tree. We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon. Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew. When looks were fond, and words were few. Though I see smiling at my feet Five sons and one fiiir daughter sweet. And time and care and birthtime woes Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose, 204 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong Whate'er charms me in tale or song. When words descend, like dews unsought, With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, And Fancy in her heaven flies free, They come, my love, they come from thee. Oh, when more thought we gave, of old, To silver, than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower ; 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for that brow of thine : A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow, and woods grow green. At times there come, as come there ought. Grave moments of sedater thought. When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light ; And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like a rainbow through the shower. Oh then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye, And proud resolve and purpose meek Speak of thee more than words can speak. I think this wedded life of mine The best of all things not divine. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys. While, like the eagle free, 206 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. " Oh for a soft and gentle wind ! " I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free.— The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There V tempest in yon hornSd moon. And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my boys. The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. SIDNEY WALKER. TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, So beautiful approve thee, So wimiing light are all thy ways, I cannot choose but love thee. Thy balmy breath upon my brow Is like the summer air. As o'er my cheek thou leanest now, To plant a soft kiss there. Thy steps are dancing toward the bound Between the child and woman, And thoughts and feelings more profound, And other years are coming : And thou shalt be more deeply fair. More precious to the heart, But never canst thou be again That lovely thing thou art ! And youth shall pass, with all the brood Of fancy-fed affection ; And grief shall come with womanhood, And waken cold reflection, '["hou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep O'er pleasures unreturning. Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep Unto the cares of morning. Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun Of joyous expectation, Ordain'd to bless the little one. The freshling of creation ! 208 in i,i/'<'^«^V' .Vor doubt that He tvLo thus doth ff-r-. Her early lamp ■5\-ith gladness, Will he her present Help in need, Her Comforter in sadness. Smile on, then, little -^vinsome thing \ All rich in Nature's treasure, Thou hast within thj' heart a spring Of self-renewing pleasure. Smile on, f:dr child, and take tliy fill Of mirth, till time shidl end it; 'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will — And who shall reprehend it '! 209 HOGG. THE EAPTURE OF KILMENY. Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; But it wasua to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye. And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree ; For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw ; Lang the laird of Duneira blame. And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame ! When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-bell rung, Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still. When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill. The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ; When the ingle low'd with an eiry leme, 210 HOGG. Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! " Kilmeuy, Kilmeny, where have you been t Lang ha'e we sought baith holt and den ; By linn, by ford, by green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen? That bonny snood o' the birk sae green ? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? " Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; As still was her look, and as still was her e'e. As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where. And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew. Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew; But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue. When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen. And a land where sin had never been ; A land of love and a land of light, Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; Where the river swa'd a living stream. And the light a pure celestial beam : The land of vision it would seem, A still, an everlasting dream. In yon green-wood there is a walk. And in that waik there is a wene. And in that wene there is a maike. That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. In that green wene Kilmeny lay. Her bosom happ'd wi' the flowerets gay; 211 THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. But the air was soft, and the silence deep, And bonny Kilmeuy fell sound asleep ; She kend nae mair, nor open'd her e'e, Till waked by the hymns of a far conntrye. She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim, All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; And lovely beings round were rife, Who erst had travelled mortal life ; And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, " What spirit has brought this mortal here ? " — They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair, They kissed her cheek, and they kerned her haii-, And round came many a blooming fere. Saying, " Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here ! " Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind Aye keep the holy truths in mind That kindred spirits their motions see. Who watch their ways with anxious e'e. And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer. And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! And dear to Heaven the words of truth, And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! And dear to the viewless forms of air, The minds that kythe as the body fair ! O bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain, If ever you seek the world again — That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear — Oh, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.'' They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day ; The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 212 '^a.'lj I III ,- ^'S^^"" The fonutniu of vision, and fountain of light , The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Tfien deep in tlie stream her Vjody they laid. That lier youtli and beauty never might fade : Ami they smiled on Leaven, when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wandcr'd by. And she heard a song, slio heard it sung, She kend not where ; but sac sweetly it rung, It fell on her ear like a dream of the moin, 213 THE RAPTURE OP KILMENY. " Oil ! blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! Now shall the land of the spirits see, Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrow'd gleid of the fountain of light ; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day. When the sun and the world have elyed away ; When the siuner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom ! " Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been. And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; To warn the living maidens fair. The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. With distant music, soft and deep, They luU'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; And when she awakened, she lay her lane, All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene. When seven long years were come and fled ; When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! And oh, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her e'e ! Such beauty bard may never declare. For there was no pride nor passion there ; And the soft desire of maiden's een 214 ?Torjn. In that mild faco could never be seen. Her seyinar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower, And her voice like the distant melodyo, That floats along the twilight sea. ^ip; But she loved to raike the lauely glen, And keeped afar frao the liaunts of men ; Hor holy hymns imheai'd to sing, To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. But wherever her peaceful foi-ni appear'd, The wild beasts of Hie hill were cbeer'd ; THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. The wolf play'J blithely rouud the field, The lordly bison low'd and kneel'd ; The dun deer woo'd with manner bland. And cower'd aneath her lily hand. And when at even the woodlands rung, When hymns of other worlds she sung In ecstasy of sweet devotion, Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! The wild beasts of the forest came. Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And goved around, charmed and amazed ; Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, And murmur'd, and look'd with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; The corby left her houf in the rock ; The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; The wolf and the kid their 'raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret i-an ; The hawk and the hern attour them hung. And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young ; And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd ; — It was like an eve in a sinless world ! When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; There laid her down on the leaves sae green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But 0, the words that fell from her mouth, AVere words of wonder, and words of truth ! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead ; It wasna her hame, and she couldua remain ; She left this world of sorrow and pain. And return'd to the Land of Thought again. 216 FELICIA flEMAN.S. THE CORONATION OF INKZ DE r'ASTT!0 Therr wns inusiif, on the riiii1tiit;-l[t : From a voyal fane it roll'd ; -IT ■ r V THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. And a mighty bell, each pause between. Sternly and slowly toU'd. Strange was their mingling in the sky. It hush'd the listener's breath ; For the music spoke of triumph high, The lonely bell, of death ! There was hurrying through the midnight, A sound of many feet; But they fell with a muffled fearfulness Along the shadowy street : And softer, fainter grew their tread. As it near'd the minster gate. Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state. Full glow'd the strong red radiance In the centre of the nave. Where the folds of a purple canopy Swept down in many a wave ; Loading the marble pavement old With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, Like a shadow of the tomb. And within that rich pavilion, High on a glittering throne, A woman's form sat silently, 'Midst the glare of light alone. Her jeweU'd robes fell strangely still — The drapery on her breast Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill. So stonelike was its rest ! But a peaJ of lordly music Shook e'en the dust below, 218 FELICIA HEMANS. When the burning gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow ! Then died away that haughty sound, And from the encircling band Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound. With homage to her hand. Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering Over each martial frame. As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came ? Was not the settled aspect fair ? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair, Sit on the pale, still face ? Death ! death ! canst thou be lovely Unto the eye of life ? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife ? — It was a strange and fearful sight. The crown upon that head. The glorious robes, and the blaze of light. All gather'd round the Dead ! And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale. And white lips rigidly compress'd. Lest the strong heart should fail : King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done By the land's flower and chivalry To her, his martyr'd one. But on the face he looked not, Which once his star had been ; 219 THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. To every form his glance was turn'd, Save of the breathless queen : Though something, won from the grave's embrace. Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place. It was not for him to .bear. Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, Alike of wasted worth ! The rites are closed : — bear back the dead Unto the chamber deep ! Lay down again the royal head, Dust with the dust to sleep ! There is music on the midnight — A requiem sad and slow, As the moiu'ners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go ; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down. With her, that queen of clay ! And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train ; But his face was wrapt in his folding robe. When they lower'd the dust again. 'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above — Hymns die, and steps depart : Who call'd thee strong as Death, Love ? Mightier thou wast and art. FELICIA HEMANS, THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. Thou 'rt passing hence, my brother ! my earliest friend, farewell ! Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, In a lonely home to dwell ; And from the hills, and from the hearth. And from the household tree, With thee departs the lingering mirth. The brightness goes with thee. But thou, my friend, my brother ! Thou 'rt speeding to the shore Where the dirge-like tone of parting words Shall smite the soul no more ! And thou wilt see our holy dead, The lost on earth and main : Into the sheaf of kindi-ed hearts Thou wilt be bound again ! Tell, then, our friend of boyhood That yet his name is heard On the blue mountains, whence his youth Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. The light of his exulting brow. The vision of his glee, Are on me still — Oh ! still I trust That smile again to see. And tell our fair young sister, The rose cut down in spring. That yet my gushing soul is fill'd With lays she lov'd to sing. 221 THE RETURN. Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, Tender and sadly sweet ; — Tell her my heart within me burns Once more that gaze to meet. And tell our white-hair'd father, That in the paths he trod. The child he lov'd, the last on earth. Yet walks and worships God. Say, that his last fond blessing yet Rests on my soul like dew, And by its hallowing might I trust Once more his face to view. And tell our gentle mother. That on her grave I pour The sorrows of my spirit forth, As on her breast of yore. Happy thou art that soon, how soon. Our good and bright will see ! brother, brother ! may I dwell, Erelong, with them and thee ! THE RETURN. ' Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back ! The free, the pure, the kind?" — So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, As they play'd to the mountain-wind. Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" Whisper'd my native streams; 222 FELICIA HEMANS. " Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" " Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Of the child in his parent-halls?" Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, From the old ancestral walls. " Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, Whose place of rest is nigh ? With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, With the mother's trusting eye 1 " Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, As I answer' d — " ye shades ! I bring not my childhood's heart again To the .freedom of your glades. " I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams ! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. " And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd- The prayer at my mother's knee ; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee ! " But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears. To soften and atone ; And oh ! ye scenes of those bless'd years. They shall make me again your own." MAKY EUSSELL MITFORD. EIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. Rienzi. Claudia — nay, start not ! Thou art sad ; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale As marble ; those unseeing eyes were fix'd On vacant air ; and that fair brow was bent As sternly, as if the rude stranger. Thought — Age-giving, mirth destroying, pitiless Thought — Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain. Claudia. Nay, father, Mock not thine own poor Claudia. Himi. Claudia used To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice. Prattling ; and that light busy foot astir In her small housewifery, the blithest bee That ever wrought in hive. Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! Eien. What ails thee, lady-bird? Cla. Mine own dear home ! Father, I love not this new state ; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids, Whose service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home ! My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle Woven round the casement ; and the cedar by. Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields ; 224 My pretty snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; And old Camillo. Oh ! mine own dear home ! Rien. Wliy, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse, And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves. Thy myrtle flowers, and eedars ; a wliole pi-ovinre 225 G G RIEXZI AXD HIS DAUGHTER. Laid in a garden, au' thou wilt. My Claudia, Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient gems. Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit Around thy stately bower ; and, at a wish. The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo ! Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings, Electors, princes ! not a bachelor In Chi-istendom but would right proudly kneel To my fair daughter. Clo. Oh ! mine own dear home ! Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet ! If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them Whose was the shadow on the sunny waU? And if, at eventide, they heard not oft A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice. Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments ; and then A world of whispers, mix'd with low response, Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains Of nightingales. Cla. Oh, father ! father ! Rien. WeU ! Do?t love him, Claudia ? Cla. Father ! Rie. Dost thou love Young Angelo ? Yes 1 Saidst thou yes ? That heart. That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, I cannot hear thy words. He is retum'd To Rome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one. And now — Is there no casement myrtle- wreath'd, Xo cedar in our courts, to shade to-night The lover's song ? 226 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Ola. Oh, father ! father ! Rien. Now, Back to thy maidens, with a lighteu'd heart, Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first In Rome, as thou art fairest ; never princess Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate From out an eagle's nest. Cla. Alas ! alas ! I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, And the inconstancy of power, I tremble For thee, dear father. Eien. Tremble ! let them tremble ; I am their master, Claudia ! whom they scorn'd. Endured, protected. — Sweet, go dream of love ! I am their master, Claudia ! SONG. Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove High nested in the column's crest ! Oh, welcome as the bird of love. Who bore the olive-sign of rest ! Hail to the gentle bride ! the flower Whose garlands round the column twine ! Oh, fairer than the citron bower, More fragrant than the blossom'd vine ! Hail to the gentle bride ! the star Whose radiance o'er the column beams ! Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar — A silver shine on trembling streams ! 227 HEBEE. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. ^ViTH heat o'erlabour'd and the length of way. On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. Twas silence all, the sparkling sands along ; Save where the locust trill'd her feeble song. Or blended soft in drowsy cadence feU The wave's low whisper, or the camel's bell. — 'Twas silence all ! — the flocks for shelter fly "U'here, waving light, the acacia shadows lie ; Or where, from far, the flattering vapours make The noontide semblance of a misty lake : While the mute swain, in careless safety spread. With arms enfolded, and dejected head. Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high. And, late reveal'd, his children's destiny. — For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour. Had sped from Amram's sons the word of power ; Nor fail'd the dreadful wand, whose godlike sway Could lure the locust from her airy way ; With reptile war assail their proud abodes. And mar the giant pomp of Egypt's gods. Oh, helpless gods ! who nought avail'd to shield From fiery rain your Zoan's favour'd field ! — 228 HEBEK, Oh, helpless gods ! who saw the curdled blood Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood, And fourfold night the wondering earth enchain, While Memnon's orient harp was heard in vain ! — Such musings held the tribes, till now the west With milder influence on their temples prest; And that portentous cloud, which all the day Hung its dark curtain o'er their weary way, (A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) Eoll'd back its misty veil, and kindled into light ! — Soft fell the eve : — But, ere the day was done. Tall waving banners streak'd the level sun ; And wide and dark along the horizon red, In sandy surge the rising desert spread. — " Mark, Israel, mark ! " — On that strange sight intent. In breathless terror, every eye was bent ; And busy faction's fast-increasing hum, And female voices shriek, " They come ! they come ! " They come, they come, in sointUIating show O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow j And sandy clouds in countless shapes combine. As deepens or extends the long tumultuous line ; — And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace The threatening aspects of each mingled race : For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear. The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. From distant Gush they troop'd, a warrior train, Siwah's green isle and Sennaar's marly plain : On either wing their fiery coursers check The parch'd and sinewy sons of Amalek : While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. 'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold. Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd 1 Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates, Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her hundred gates, 229 THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. Mother of armies ! — How the emeralds glow'd, Where, flush'd with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode ! And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; And, still responsive to the trumpet's cry. The priestly sistrum murmur'd — Victory ! — Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom 1 Whom come ye forth to combat t — warriors, whom 1 — These flocks and herds — this faint and weary train — Eed from the scourge and recent from the chain ? — God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! — North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly. The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. On earth's last margin throng the weeping train : Their cloudy guide moves on : — "And must we swim the main?" 'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood — He comes — their leader comes ! — the man of God O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, And onward treads. — The circling waves retreat, In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; And the chased surges, inly roaring, show The hard wet sand and coral hills below. With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell — Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd, The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, And caves, the sea-calves' low-roofd haunt, are seen. Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; The beetling waters storm above their head : While far behind retires the sinking day. And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them or cheerless came the night. 230 HEBER. Still iu their Tan, along that dreadful road, Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God. Its meteor glare, a tenfold lustre gave, On the long mirror of the rosy waTe : While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply. Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye — To them alone — for Misraim's wizard train Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine, And tenfold darkness broods above their line. Yet on they fare, by reckless vengeance led, And range unconscious through the ocean's bed : Till midway now — ^that strange and fiery form Show'd his dread visage lightening through the storm ; With withering splendour blasted all their might, And break their chariot- wheels, and marr'd their coursers' flight. " Fly, Misraim, fly ! " — The ravenous floods they see. And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. "Fly, Misraim, fly!" — From Edom's coral strand Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : — With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep — Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past. As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast ; And strange and sad the whispeiing breezes bore The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. Oh ! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood In trustless wonder by th' avenging flood ! Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below ; The mangled limbs of men — the broken car — A few sad relics of a nation's war : Alas, how few ! — Then, soft as Elim's well. The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. And he, whose harden'd heart alike had borne The house of bondage and th' oppressor's scorn, 231 THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude — Till, kindling into warmer zeal, around The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound : And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest. The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's breast. She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky The dark transparence of her lucid eye, Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. "Where now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian spear? On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where 1 Above their ranks the whelming waters spread. Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphSd ! " And every pause between as Miriam sang, From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang. And loud and far their stormy chorus spread, — " Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed ! " SOUTHEY. THE VISIT OF MADOO. — A SCENE A^rOI^ifi THE WELSH I-TILLS. Now hnth Prince Mafloc left tlio holy Jsle, And liomcward to Aherfraw, tlireiigli tlie wilds Of Arvon, bent Ins course. A little w;iy 233 THE VISIT OF MADOC. He tum'd aside, by natural impulses Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. That lonely dwelling stood among the hills By a grey mountain-stream ; just elevate Above the winter torrents did it stand, Upon a craggy bank ; an orchard slope Arose behind, and joyous was the scene In early summer, when those antic trees Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. But save the flax-field and that orchard slope, All else was desolate, and now it wore One sober hue ; the narrow vale, which wound Among the hills, was grey with rooks, that peer'd Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes Clatter'd adown the steep, beneath the foot Of straggling goat dislodged ; or lower'd with crags. One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them. To thunder down. All things assorted well With that grey mountain hue ; the low stone lines, Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man, The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn. The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees. Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe, The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash Whose knotted roots were like the drifted rock Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale, Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, Eoll'd the loud mountain-stream — When Madoc came, A little child was sporting by the brook, Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven Down the descent, now on the smoother stream m SOUTHEY. Sail onward far away. But when he heard The horse's tramp, he raised his liead aud watuh'd The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh. The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him, His bright blue eyes ; the wind just moved the curls That cluster'd round his brow ; and so he stood, His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand. And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt There in the hut ; when from that cottage-door A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt With such a fear — for she- had cause to fear — As when a bird, returning to her nest, Turns to a tree beside, if she behold Some prying boy too near the dear retreat. Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired If on his wayfare he had lost the track, That thither he had stray'd. " Not so," replied The gentle Prince ; " but having known this place, And its old inhabitants, I came once more To see the lonely hut among the hills." THE WORLD OF WOE. Whoe'er hath loved with venturous step to tread The chambers dread Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam Lost in the arch of darkness overhead, And mark'd its gleam Playing afar upon the sunless stream. Where from their secret bed. And course unknown, and inaccessible, The silent waters well ; 235 THE WORLD OF WOE. Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night, He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way. With what delight refresh'd his eye Perceives the shadow of the light of day, Through the far portal slanting, where it falls Dimly reflected on the watery walls : How heavenly seems the sky ; And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up, Eager again to greet The living world and blessed sunshine there. And drink, as from a cup Of joy, with thirsty lips, the open air. Far other light than that of day there shone Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. They too in darkness enter'd on their way j But far before the car, A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, Fill'd all before them.> 'Twas a light which made Darkness itself appear A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd. Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. Their way was through the adamantine rock Which girt the World of Woe ; on either side Its massive walls arose, and overhead Arch'd the long passage ; onward as they ride, With stronger glare the light around them spread ; And lo ! the regions dread, The World of Woe before them, opening wide. There rolls the fiery flood. Girding the realms of Padalon around. A sea of flame it seem'd to be. Sea without bound ; For neither mortal nor immortal sight Could pierce across through that intensest light. 236 THALABA IN THE TENT OF AlDATH. It was the wisdom mid the will of Heaven, That iu a lonely tent had cast The lot of Thalaba; There might his soul develop liest Its strcugtheiiiiig eiiej'gies ; There might he from the world 237 THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate. Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled In that beloved solitude ! Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze Flow with cool current o'er his cheek 1 Lo ! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore, With lids half-closed, he lies, Dreaming of days to come. His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, Now licks his listless hand ; Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, Courting the wonted caress. Or comes the Father of the Eains From his caves in the uttermost West, Comes he in darkness and storms 1 When the blast is loud ; When the waters fill The traveller's tread in the sands ; When the pouring shower Streams adown the roof; When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds ; When the out-strain'd tent flags loosely : Within there is the embers' cheerful glow. The sound of the familiar voice, The song that lightens toil, — Domestic Peace and Comfort are within. Under the common shelter, on dry sand, The quiet camels ruminate their food ; The lengthening cord from Moath falls. As patiently the old man Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the hearth The damsel shakes the coffee-grains, 238 SOUTHEY, That with warm fragrance fill the tent ; And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. Or when the winter torrent rolls Down the deep-channell'd rain-course, foamingly, Dark with its mountain spoils. With bare feet pressing the wet sand, There wanders Thalaba, The rushing flow, the flowing roar. Filling his yielded faculties, A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. Or lingers it a vernal brook Gleaming o'er yellow sands 1 Beneath the lofty bank reclined, With idle eye he views its little waves, Quietly listening to the quiet flow ; While in the breathings of the stirring gale, The tall canes bend above. Floating like streamers in the wind Their lank uplifted leaves. Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath ; God hath given Enough, and blest him with a mind content. No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams ; But ever round his station he beheld Camels that knew his voice. And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call, And goats that, morn and eve. Came with full udders to the damsel's hand. Dear child ! the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt It was her work ; and she had twined His girdle's many hues ; And he had seen his robe 2Sfl THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. Grow in Oneiza's loom. How often, with a memory-mingled joy Which made her mother live before his sight, He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof ! Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm, Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity. 'Tis the cool evening hour : The tamarind from the dew Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. Before their tent the mat is spread ; The old man's solemn voice Intones the holy book. What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome. Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth. Azure and gold adornment 1 Sinks the word With deeper influence from the Imam's voice Where in the day of congregation crowds Perform the duty-task ? Their Father is their Priest, The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer, And the blue Firmament The glorious Temple, where they feel The present Deity. Yet through the purple glow of eve Shines dimly the white moon. The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance, Rest on the pillar of the tent. Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow The dark -eyed damsel sits ; The old man tranquilly Up his curl'd pipe inhales The tranquiUising herb. So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 2i0 SOUTHEY. While his skill'd fingers modulate The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. Or if he strung the pearls of poesy. Singing with agitated face And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, A tale of love and woe ; Then, if the brightening moon that lit his face, In darkness favour'd hers. Oh ! even with such a look, as fables say. The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg. Till that intense affection Kindle its light of life. Even in such deep and breathless tenderness Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth. So motionless, with such an ardent gaze. Save when from her full eyes She wipes away the swelling tears That dim his image there. She call'd him Brother ; was it sister-love For which the silver rings, Kound her smooth ankles and her tawny arms, Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother's eye Were her long fingers tinged, As when she trimm'd the lamp. And through the veins and delicate skin The light shone rosy ? that the darken'd lids Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye 1 That with such pride she trick'd Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day Wreath'd the red flower-crown round Their waves of glossy jet ? How happily the days Of Thalaba went by ! Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! 241 I SOUTI-IEY. SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound ; Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff; The canvas swells before the breeze, the sea Sings round her sparkling keel, and soon the Lord Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. There was not, on that day, a speck to stain The azure heaven ; the blessed sun alone In unapproachable divinity Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light. How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse. Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck Assumes its proudest tiut of amethyst, Embathed in emerald glory. AH the flocks Of Oceau are abroad ; like floating foam The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; With long protruded neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling ; even the insect swarms From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, To sport through one day of existence more ; The solitary primrose on the bank Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores, The forest and the everlasting hills. Smiled in that joyful sunshine, . . . they partook The universal blessing. 2i2 LEVDEN. TO THE EVEN IK Ti RTAK. How sweet tli}^ modest light to view, Fair Star, to love and lovei's dear ! 24a TO THE EVENING STAR. While trembling ou the falling dew. Like beauty shining through a tear. Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream. To mark that image trembling there. Thou seem'st to smile -with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so feir. Thoi^h, blazing on the arch of night. The moon thy timid beams outshine As fiir as thine each starry light ; — Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine are the soft enchanting hours When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flowers. That soon the sun wUl rise again. Thine is the breeze that, miirmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh. And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasy. Fair Stab ! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mis'd with pain, Ah ! stiU I feel 'tis sweet to love ! But sweeter to be lov'd again ! LEYDEN. TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! What vanity has brought thee here t How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear 1 — The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm ; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Chgrical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot lov'd, chill, still, and mild, Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship smil'd, Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave 1 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade 1 The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime. That once so bright on fancy play'd, Eevives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine thy yellow light Gleams baleful on the tomb-fire drear — A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer ; 24 r. TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine : Her fond heart throbs with many a fear !- I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that lov'd me true ! I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave. To roam in climes unkind and new : The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart : — the grave Dark and untimely met my view — And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! Ha ! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's bauish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey, Vile slave, thy yellow dress I scorn ! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! -n^' BEENARD BARTON. TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE, Fair floTvcr, tliat shunn'st the glare of day, Yet lov'«t to open, meekly bold, To evening's hues of silver grey Thy cup of pnlj' gold ; — Be thine the offering, owing long To thee, and to this pensive liour, r)f one Vjrief trifiutavy song, Thougii transient as thy flower. 247 TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. I love to watch at silent eve Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive The influence of that sight. I love at such an hour to mark Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill. And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark. The garden's glory still. For such 'tis sweet to think the while. When cares and griefs the breast invade. Is friendship's animating smile In sorrow's dark'ning shade. Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup — Glist'ning amid its dewy tears. And bears the sinking spirit up Amid its chilling fears — But still more animating far, If meek Religion's eye may trace Even in thy glimm'ring, earth-bom star, The holier hope of Grace. The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom Expands to glad the close of day. So through the shadows of the tomb May break forth Mercy's ray. SOTHEBY. RHIN'EFIEI.P, — A LOPGF. IN THE NEW FOREST. Rhinefield ! as tlirough thy solitude I rove, Now lost aniifl the deep wood's gloomy night, Doubtful I trace a ra.y of glimmering light ; Now where some antique oak, itself a grove, Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the simuy glade, Stretclied on its mossy roots n.t early dawn While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn, I count tlie lierd that crops the dewy blade : Frequent a,t eve list to the hum pj'ofound That all around upon the chill bj-ecze floats. Broke by the lonely kee)icr's wild, strange notes, At distance followed by tlie lirowsing deer ; Or the bewilder'd stranger's plaintive sound That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear. 249 K K SOTHEBY. SKIKID, A HILL NEAR ABBEGAVBNNT. Skibid ! remembrance thy loTed scene renews ; Fancy, yet lingering on thy shaggy brow, Beholds around the lengthened landscape glow. Which charmed, when late the day-beam's parting hues Purpled the distant cliff. The crystal stream Of Usk bright winds the verdant meads among ; The dark heights lower with wild woods o'erhung ; Pale on the grey tower falls the twilight gleam. And frequent I recal the sudden breeze. Which, as the sun shot up his last pale flame, Shook every light leaf shivering on the trees : Then, bathed in dew, meek evening silent came, While the low wind, that faint and fainter fell. Soft murmured to the dying day — Farewell ! ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT. 'TwAS night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave. Where I had wander'd, tranced in thought, alone 'Mid Cromlech's and the Oarnedd's funeral stone, Pensive and slow I sought the Menai's wave : Lulled by the scene, a soothing stillness laid Each pang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless brow The moon, that full orb'd rose, with peaceful glow Beamed on the rocks; with many a star arrayed, Glitter'd the broad blue sky ; from shore to shore O'er the smooth current stream'd a silver light, Save where along the flood the lonely height Of rocky Penmaenmaur deep darkness spread ; And all was silence, save the ceaseless roar Of Conway bursting on the ocean's bed. 250 PRAED. CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. Once on a time, when sunny May Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair Childhood hard at play Upon a bank of blushing flowers ; Happy, — he knew not whence or how ; And smiling, — who could choose but love him ? For not more glad than Childhood's brow, Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. Old Time, in most appalling wrath, That valley's green repose invaded ; The brooks grew dry upon his path. The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; But Time so swiftly winged his flight. In haste a Grecian tomb to batter. That Childhood watched his paper kite. And. knew just nothing of the matter. With curling lip, and glancing eye, Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute. But Childhood's glance of purity Had such a holy spell within it, That the dark demon to the air Spread forth again his baffled pinion, And hid his envy and despair. Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 251 CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, Pale, cypress-crowned. Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup, Full to the brim of bitter water : Poor Childhood bade her tell her name, And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow," He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." The Muse of Pindus thither came, And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; Though sweet the music of the lay, To Childhood it was all a riddle. And " Oh," he cried, " do send away That noisy woman with the fiddle.'' Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball. And taught him with most sage endeavour, Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall, And why no toy may last for ever : She talked of all the wondrous laws Which Nature's open book discloses. And Childhood, ere she made a pause. Was fast asleep among the roses. Sleep on, sleep on ! — Oh ! Manhood's dreams Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure. Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes. Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : But to the couch where Childhood lies A more delicious trance is given. Lit up by rays from Seraph-eyes, And glimpses of remembered heaven ! 252 THE VICAR. Some years ago, ere Time and Taste Had tuni'd our Parish topsy-turvy, Wlion Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as sourvj^, The man, who lost his way between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's wicket. 253 THE VICAR. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected. Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, " Our master knows you ; you 're expected." Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down. Her husband clasped his ponderous Ban-ow : Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or Papist,, saint or sinner. He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend. And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; — If he departed as he came. With no new light on love or liquor, — Good sooth, the traveller was to blame. And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs AMth rapid change from rocks to roses ; It slipped from politics to puns ; It passed from Mahomet to Moses : Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels, or shoeing horses. 264 praed; He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; And when, by dint of page and line, He 'stablished Truth, or started Error, The Baptist found him far too deep ; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said nor show'd That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious. Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and heart that penn'd and plann'd them, For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage. And praise the farmer's homely wit. And share the widow's homelier pottage ; At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter. The clan)my lips of Fever smiled The welcome, which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus : From him I learned the Rule of Three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus ; I used to singe his powder'd wig, To steal the staif he put such trust in ; And make the puppy dance a jig, When he began to quote Augustin. 255 A CHARADE. Alack the change ! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,- The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : The church is larger than before ; You reach it by a carriage entry ; It holds three hundred people more ; And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear. Whose style is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid 1 Look down, And construe on the slab before you, " Hie jacet Guliblmds Beown, Vir nulla non donandus lauro." A CHARADE. (the word is "CAMPBELL," THE POET.) Comb from my First, ay, come ! The battle-dawn is nigh ; And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum Are calling thee to die ! Fight as thy fathers fought. Fall as thy fathers fell ! Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought ; — So — forward ! and farewell ! 256 PEAED. Toll ye, my Second ! toll ! Fling high the flambeaux' light ; And sing the hymn for a parted soul, Beneath the silent night ! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; So — take him to his rest ! Call ye, my Whole, ay, call ! The lord of lute and lay ; And let him greet the sable pall With a noble song to-day ; Go, call him by his name ; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame, On the turf of a soldier's grave. HOOD. THE ELM TREE.— A DREAM IN THE WOODS. ' And this our life, exempt from public haunt, ]?inds tongues in trees!" — Ai you Like it. Part I. 'TwAS in a shady Avenue, Wliere lofty Elms abound — And from a Tree There came to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground. Amongst the leaves it seem'd to sigh, Amid the boughs to moan ; It mutter'd in the stem, and then The roots took up the tone ; As if beneath the dewy grass The dead began to groan. No breeze there was to stir the leaves ; No bolts that tempests launch, To rend the trunk or rugged bark ; No gale to bend the branch ; No quake of earth to heave the roots, That stood so stiff and staunch. 258 But still the sound was in mj- car, A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd oveiliead, 2r,<:> THE ELM TREE. And sometimes uudergrouiid — 'Twas ill a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. From poplar, piue, and drooping birch, And fragrant linden trees ; No living sound E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird, Or hum of busy bees. But busy bees forsake the Elm That bears no bloom aloft — The finch was in tlie hawthorn-bush, The blackbird in the croft ; And among the firs the brooding dove, That else might murmur soft. Yet still I heard that solemn sound. And sad it was to boot. From ev'ry overhanging bough, And each minuter shoot ; From ragged trunk and mossy rind. And from the twisted root. From these, —a melancholy moan ; From those, — a dreary sigh ; As if the boughs were wintry bare. And wild winds sweeping by, — Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud Was steadfast in the sky. No sign or touch of stirring air Could either sense observe — The zephyr had not breath enough 2iiO HOOD. The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers To take another curve. In still and silent slumber hush'd All Nature seem'd to be : From heaven above, or earth beneath. No whisper came to me — Except the solemn sound and sad From that Mystbbious Teeb ! A hollow, hollow, hollow sound. As is that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bound Along a shingly shore — But the ocean brim was far aloof, A hundred miles or more. No murmur of the gusty sea, No tumult of the beach. However they may foam and fret, The bounded sense could reach — Methought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each ! — Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Of greenwood love or guilt. Of whisper'd vows Beneath their boughs ; Or blood obscurely spilt ; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. With wary eyes and ears alert. As one who walks afraid, I wander'd down the dappled path 26] THE ELM TREE. Of miugled light and shade — How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue Bevoiid the green arcade ! How cheerly shone the glimpse of H&\t"u Bevoud that verdant aisle ! AU overarch'd with lofVy elms. That quench^ the light, the while. As dim and chUI As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile ! And many a gnarled trunk w;v5 there. That ages loug had stix^d. Till Time had wrought them into shapes Like Pans fantastic brood; Or still more foul and hideous forms Thai Pagans ftu-ve iu wood ! A crouching Satyr lurking here. And there a Goblin grim — As staring full of demon life As Gothic sculptor's whim ; A marvel it had scarcely been To hear a voice from him ! Some whisper from that horrid mouth. Of strange, unearthly tone : Or wild inferr.al laugh, to chill One's marrow in the Kiue. But no — it grins like rigid Deatli. And silent as a stone ! As silent as its fellows be. For all is mute with them. — The bronch th.u climbs the leafv roof— HOOD. Tlie rough and mossy wtem — The crooked root — And tender shoot Where hangs the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, Of sad and solemn sound — That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground — In all that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. Part II. The Scene is changed ! No green Arcade, No trees all ranged a-row — But scatter'd like a beaten host. Dispersing to and fro ; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before the foe. The Foe that down in yonder dell Pursues his daily toil ; As witness many a prostrate trunk. Bereft of leafy spoil, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon The adder loves to coil. Alone he works — his ringing blows Have bauish'd bird and beast; The hind and fawn have canter'd off A hundred yards at least ; And on the maple's lofty top. The liuuet's song has ceased. 263 THE ELM TREE. No eye his labour overlooks, Or when he takes his rest ; Except the timid thrush that peeps Above her secret nest, Forbid by love to leave the young Beneath her speckled breast. The Woodman's heart is in his work, His axe is sharp and good : With sturdy arm and steady aim He smites the gaping wood j From distant rocks His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. Aloft, upon his poising steel The vivid sunbeams glance — About his head and round his feet The forest shadows dance ; And bounding from his russet coat The acorn drops askance. His face is like a Druid's face. With wrinkles furrow'd deep. And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown As corn that 's ripe to reap ; But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin, Is white as wool of sheep. His frame is like a giant's frame ; His legs are long and stark ; His arms like limbs of knotted yew ; His hands like rugged bark ; So he felleth still With right good will. As if to build an ark ! 264 .^-, -^f , Oh! well to /(/)" the tree might breathe A sad and solemn sound, A sigh that murmur'd overhead, And groans from underground ; As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound ! But calm and mute the maple stands, The plane, the ash, the fir. Sfifi THE ELM TREE. The elm, the beech, the drooping birch, Without the least demur ; And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf Makes no unusual stir. The pines — those old gigantic pines. That writhe — recalling soon The famous human group that writhes With snakes in wild festoon — In ramous wrestlings interlaced, A Forest Laocoon — Like Titans of primeval girth By tortures overcome, Their brown enormous limbs they twine, Bedew'd with tears of gum — Fierce agonies that ought to yell, But, like the marble, dumb. Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands So like a man of sin, Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad To feel the worm within — For all that gesture, so intense. It makes no sort of din ! An universal silence reigns In rugged bark or peel. Except that very trunk which rings Beneath the biting steel — Meanwhile, the Woodman plies his axe With unrelenting zeal ! No rustic song is on his tongue, No whistle on his lips; But with a quiet thoughtfulness 266 HOOD. His trusty tool he grips, And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint He spreads the fatal gash ; Till, lo ! the remnant fibres rend, With harsh and sudden crash. And on the dull resounding turf The jarring branches lash ! Oh ! now the Forest Trees may sigh, — The ash, the poplar tall. The elm, the birch, the drooping beech. The aspens — one and all. With solemn groan And hollow moan, Lament a comrade's fall ! A goodly Elm, of noble girth. That thrice the human span — While on their variegated course The constant Seasons ran. Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt — Had stood erect as Man. But now, like mortal Man himself, Struck down by hand of God, Or heathen idol tumbled prone Beneath th' Eternal's nod. In all its giant bulk and length It lies along the sod ! — The echo sleeps : the idle axe, A disregarded tool. Lies crushing with its passive weight 267 THE ELM TREE. The toad's reputed stool ; The Woodman wipes his dewy brow Within the shadows cool. No zephyr stirs : the ear may catch The smallest insect-hum ; But on the disappointed sense No mystic whispers come ; No tone of sylvan sympathy — The Forest Trees are dumb. No leafy noise, nor inward voice, No sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground — As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound ! Pabt III. The deed is done : the Tree is low That stood so long and firm ; The Woodman and his axe are gone, His toil has found its term ; And where he wi'ought the speckled thrush Securely hunts the worm. The cony from the sandy bank Has run a rapid race. Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern. To seek the open space ; And on its haunches sits erect To clean its furry face. 268 HOOD. The dappled fawn is close at hand, The hind is browsing near, — And on the larch's lowest bough The ousel whistles clear ; But checks the note Within its throat, As choked with sudden fear ! With sudden fear her wormy quest The thrush abruptly quits ; Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern The startled cony flits ; And on the larch's lowest bough No more the ousel sits. With sudden fear. The dappled deer Effect a swift escape ; But well might bolder creatures start And fly, or stand agape. With rising hair, and curdled blood, To see so grim a Shape ! The very sky turns pale above. The earth grows dark beneath ; The human Terror thrills with cold, And draws a shorter breath — An universal panic owns The dread approach of Death ! With silent pace, as shadows come, And dark as shadows be, The grisly Phantom takes his stand Beside the fallen Tree, And scans it with his gloomy eyes. And laughs with horrid glee — 269 THE ELM TREE. A dreary laugh and desolate, Where mirth is void and null, As hollow as its echo sounds Within the hollow skull : " Whoever laid this Tree along, His hatchet was not dull ! The human arm and human tool Have done their duty well ! But after sound of ringing axe Must sound the ringing knell ; When elm or oak Have felt the stroke, My turn it is to fell ! No passive unregarded tree, A senseless thing of wood. Wherein the sluggish sap ascends To swell the vernal bud — But conscious, moving, breathing trunks That throb with living blood ! Ah ! little recks the Royal mind, Within his Banquet-Hall, While tapers shine, and music breathes, And Beauty leads the ball, — He little recks the oaken plank Shall be his palace wall ! Ah ! little dreams the haughty Peer, The while his falcon flies — Or on the blood-bedabbled turf The antler'd quarry dies — That in his own ancestral Park The narrow dwelling lies ! 270 HOOD. But haughty Peer and mighty King- One doom shall overwhelm ! The oaken cell Shall lodge him well Whose sceptre ruled a realm — While he who never knew a home Shall find it in the Elm ! The tall abounding Elm that grows In hedgerows up and down, In field and forest, copse and park, And in the peopled town. With colonies of noisy rooks That nestle on its crown. And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, In forest, copse, and wooded park, And 'mid the city's strife, — For every hour that passes by Shall end a human life ! " The Phantom ends : the shade is gone ; The sky is clear and bright ; On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, There glows a ruddy light; And bounding through the golden fern The rabbit comes to bite. The thrush's mate beside her sits, And pipes a meri-y lay ; The dove is in the evergreens ; And on the larch's spray The fly-bird flutters up and down, To catch its tiny prey. 271 THE ELM TREE. The geutle hind and dappled fawn Are coming up the glade ; Each harmless furr'd and feather 'd thing Is glad, and not afraid — But on my sadden'd spirit still The Shadow leaves a shade : A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, As though by certain mark I knew the fore-appointed Tree, Within whose rugged bark This warm and living frame shall find Its narrow house and dark. That mystic Tree which breathed to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground — Within that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. PKINGLE. AFAR IN THE DESERT. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, AVith the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the sorrows of life the sonl o'ercast, And, sick of the Present, I chug to the Past ; When tho eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; 273 AFAB IN THE DESERT. And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; And my Native Land, whose magical name Thrills to my heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; — All — all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone. Aweary of all that is under the sun, — With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the Desert, afar from man ! Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, aud strife, — The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh ; Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride. Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed. And to bound away with the eagle's speed. With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — The only law of the Desert Land. Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; Away, away from the dwellings of men, By the wild-deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 274 PRINGLE. By valleys remote, where the Oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartSbeest graze. And the kMu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood. And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood. And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gTey ; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scoop'd their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parch'd Karroo. Afar in the Desert I love to ride. With the silent Bush-boy alone • by my side ; Away, away in the Wilderness vast Where the White Man's foot hath never pass'd, And the quiver'd Coranna or Beohufi,n Hath rarely cross'd with his roving clan : A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandon'd from famine and fear ; Which the snake and -the lizard inhabit alone. With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root. Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; 275 AFAR IN THE DESERT. And the bitter melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : A region of drought, where no river glides. Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount. Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread — void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night winds round me sigh. And the stars bum bright in the midnight sky ; As I sit apart by the desert stone. Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone ; " A still small voice " comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying — " Man is distant, but God is near ! " »* -^'^^l^/f LANDOR. THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEI'HERD. 'TwAS evening, though not sunset, and the tide, Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD. 'Twas pleasant ; and I loosen'd from my neck The pipe you gave me, and began to play. Oh that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! It always brings us enemies or love. Well, I was playing, when above the waves Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ; I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed, — Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine ! I cannot wait describing how she came. How I was sitting, how she first assum'd The sailor ; of what happen'd there remains Enough to say, and too much to forget. The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank Before I was aware ; for with surprise Moments fly rapid as with love itself Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, I heard a rustling, and where that arose My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. Her feet resembled those long shells explored By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. Even her attire Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art ; Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. "Shepherd," said she, "and will you wrestle now. And with the sailor's hardier race engage '( " I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived How to keep up contention ; could I fail, By pressing not too strongly, yet to press? " Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem. Or whether of the hardier race you boast, I am not daunted ; no, I will engage ! " "But first," said she, "what wager will you lay?" 278 LANDOR. "A sheep," I answered; "add whate'er you will.' " I cannot," she replied, " make that return ; Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : Shake one and it awakens; then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear. And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. And I have others given me by the nymphs, Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend, — This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next." RODEKiaO AND JULIAN. THE EEPBOACH OP THE BEREAVED. Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates — Plainly I see it — death to me : pursue The dictates of thy leaders ; let revenge Have its full sway ; let Barbary prevail, And the pure creed her elders have embraced : Those placid sages hold assassination' A most compendious supplement to law. Jul. Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear ; 279 RODERIGO AND JULIAN. Her form, her voice, all hast thou banisht from me, Nor dare I, wretched as I am ! recal Those solaces of every grief erewhile. I stand abased before insulting crime, I falter like a criminal myself; The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As molten statues on some palace-gate, Shakes as with palsied age before thee now. Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever. Without a father, mother, friend, or name. Daughter of Julian ! — Such was her delight — Such was mine too ! what pride more innocent, What surely less deserving pangs like these, Than springs from filial and parental love ! Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth To meet the balmy breath of early life, Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless. Will stretch before her their whole weary length Amid the sameness of obscurity. She wanted not seclusion to unveil Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell ; She found it in all places, at all hours : While to assuage my labours, she indulged A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye, Still to avert my perils there arose A piety that even from me retired. KEBLE. Sweet nur.sling.s of the veraal skies Bath'd in .oft air., and fe,l ^,tj, 'd,,, 2S1 THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. What more than magic in you lies, To fill the heart's foud view? Ill childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, ou Life's downward way, How soothing T in our last decay, Memorials prompt and true. Relics ye are of Eden's bowers. As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fall'n all beside — the world of life, How is it stain'd with fear and strife ! In Eeason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare ! But cheerful and unchang'd the while Your first and perfect form ye show. The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought ; Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our paths and homes. Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams. Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meet — But we may taste your solace sweet, And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide — Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 282 KEBLE. Your silent lessoiLS, undescried By all but lowly eyes : For ye could draw th' admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt yoiu- Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and own'd you good His blessing on earth's primal bower, Ye felt it all renew'd. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form 1 Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, — Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress. How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness ! " Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light To-moiTow's cares shall bring to sight ; Go sleep, like closing flowers, at night, And Heaven thy mom will bless." CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. " A joyful and a pleasant thing it is to be thankful." Why so stately, maiden fair, Rising in thy nurse's arms With that condescending air ; Gathering up thy queenly cbarnih., 283 CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. Like some gorgeous Indian bird, Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirr'd, Turns the glowing neck to chide Th' irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide Again its lustre deep Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep ! Not as yet she comprehends How the tongues of men reprove. But a spirit o'er her bends, Train'd in heaven to courteous love, And with wondering grave rebuke Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look. — Graceless one, 'tis all of thee, Who for her maiden bounty, full and free. The violet from her gay And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay. Therefore, lo, she opens wide Both her blue and wistfnl eyes, — Breathes her gratefiil chant, to chide Our too tardy sympathies. Little babes and angels bright — They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night. How th' all-holy Hand should give. The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. We see it and we hear. But wonder not : for why ? we feel it all too near. Not in vain, when feasts are spread, To the youngest at the board Call we to incline the head, And pronounce the solemn word. Not in vain they clasp and raise The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise, — Taught, perchance, by piotur'd wall 284 KEBLE. How little ones before the Lord may fall, How to His lov'd caress Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. Children in their joyous ranks. As you pace the village street, Fill the air with smiles and thanks If but once one babe you greet. Xever weary, never dim. From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. Babes and angels grudge no praise : — But elder souls, to whom His saving ways Are open, fearless take Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. Save owe blessings, Master, save From the blight of thankless eye : Teach us for all joys to crave Benediction pure and high. Own them given, endure them gone. Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won : Prize them as rich odours, meet For Love to lavish on His sacred feet ; — Prize them as sparkles bright Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing weU of light. MILMAN. THE HEBREW WEDDING. To the sound of timbrels sweet, Moving slow our solemn feet, We have borne thee on the road. To the virgin's blest abode ; With thy yellow torches gleaming, And thy scarlet mantle streaming. And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceast ; And now we set thee down before The jealously-unclosing door ; That the favour'd youth admits, Where the veiled virgin sits In the bliss of maiden feai'. Waiting our soft tread to hear, And the music's brisker din. At the bridegroom's entering in : Entering in a welcome guest To the chamber of his rest. Chorus of Maidbxs. Sow the jocund song is thine. Bride of David's kingly line ; How thy dove-like bosom trembleth. And thy shrouded eye resembleth Violets, when the dews of eve A moist and tremulous glitter leave 2&6 On the bashful sealed lid ! Close -n-ithin the hride-veil hid, Motionless thou sitt'st and mute Save that at the soft salute Of each ente7-)ng maiden friend. Thou dost rise and sofrlv bend. Hark : a brisker, merrier glee ! The door unfolds, — 'tis he ! 'tis }je ! Thus we lift our lamps to meet liim. Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, Thou shalt give a tenderer gi-eeting. 2S7 MILMAN. THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. Even thus, amid thy pride and luxury, Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, That secret coming of the Son of Man. When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan, Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away : Still, to the noontide of that nightless day, Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street. The buyer and the seller still shall meet. And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : Still to the pouring out the Cup of Woe ; Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, And mountains molten by his burning feet, And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat. The hundred-gated Cities then. The Towers and Temples, nam'd of men Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings ; The gilded summer Palaces, The courtly bowers of love and ease. Where still the Bird of Pleasure sings ; — Ask ye the destiny of them ? Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem ! Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd ; The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll. And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. Oh ! who shall then survive 1 Oh ! who shall stand and live ? 288 THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. When all that hath been is no more : When for the round earth hung in air, With all its constellations fair In the sky's azure canopy ; When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, Is but a fiery deluge without shore, Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, A fiery deluge, and without an Abk. Lord of aU power, when thou art there alone On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne. That in its high meridian noon Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon : When thou art there in thy presiding state. Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom ; When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb. The dead of all the ages round thee wait : And when the tribes of wickedness are strown Like forest-leaves in th' autumn of thine ire : Faithful and True ! thou still wilt save thine own ! The Saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire. Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. Even safe as we by this still fountain's side, So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Bride, Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines ; We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam. Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 289 LEIGH HUNT. AN ITALIAN GARDEN. A NOBLE range it was, of many a rood, Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood : Indeed, the whole was leafy ; and it had A winding stream about it, clear and glad. That danced from shade to shade, and on its way Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. There was the pouting rose, both red and white, The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light. Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box, Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks, The lady lily, looking gently down, tit-^i^ Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, Jhe daisy, lovely on both sides, — in short, All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine. With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit, And look as if they shade a golden fruit ; And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade Of cu'cling pines, a babbling fountain play'd, And 'twixt their shafts jo\i saw the water bright, Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering light. So now you walk'd beside an odoraus bed Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; And' now turu'd off' into a leafy walk, Close and continuous, fit for Ibvers' talk ; 290 And now pursued tlie stream, and as you trod Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet, And a new sense in your soft-liiilitin;::- feet ; 2;)] AN ITALIAN GAEDEN. And then, perhaps, you enter'd upon shades, Pillow'd with dells aud uplands 'twixt the glades. Through which the distant palace, now and then, Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken, — A land of trees, which reaching round about. In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out, With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks. Where at her drink you startled the slim deer, Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. And all about, the birds kept leafy house. And sung and darted in and out the boughs ; And all about, a lovely sky of blue Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through ; And here and there, in every part, were seats. Some in the open walks, some in retreats With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, — Places of nestling green, for poets made, Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light. But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way, And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : It was a shallow dell, set in a mound Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees — The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees; Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, (You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill, Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said Something eternal to that happy shade. The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay 292 LEIGH HUNT. And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day, Lnrk'd a pavilion, — a delicious sight, — Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white, With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more,- And a young orange either side the door. The door was to the wood, forward and square ; The rest was domed at top, and circular; And through the dome the only light came in, Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin. ABOTJ BEN ADHEM. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it jich, and like a lily in bloom. An Angel writing in a book of gold : — Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" — The Vision rais'd its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer'd, " The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," EepUed the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee then. Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'' The Angel wrote and vanish'd. The next night It came again with a great wakening light. And shoVd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. CROLY. THE ALHAMBRA. Palace of Beauty ! wliRrc tlie Moorish Lord, King of the bow, tlie bridle, and tlie sword, Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. Oh ! to have sceu thee in the ancient dajs, When at thy morning gates the coursers stood, The "thousand" milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood. In pearl and ruljj' harncss'd for the King ; And through thy portals pour'd tlie gorgeous flood Of jewell'd Shells, and Emir, hastening, Before the sk)' the dawning purple show'd. Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. Lovely thy morn — thy evening lovelier still, When at the waking of the first blue star That trembled on the Atalaya hill, The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose, CROLY. Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war ; But summoning thy beauty from repose, The shaded slumber of the burning noon. Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone. Shooting the sparkling column from the vase Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, And the rich bordering beds of every bloom That breathes to African or Indian sky. Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone ; Then was the harping of the minstrels heard. In the deep arbours, or the regal hall. Hushing the tumult of the festival, When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rear'd, And told of Eastern glories, silken hosts, Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd ; Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts Of the far Western sea, — the sons of blood. The iron men of tournament and feud. That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarm'd, Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall. Till the Ked Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun. That had no rival, and no second 1 — gone ! Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd, Like the great day-star to the ocean dim. The billows of the ages o'er thee swim, Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. Where is thy horn of battle ? that, but blown. Brought every chief of Afric from his throne ; Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; Brought every charger barbed from the stall. Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore ; Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour The living deluge nn the fields of Spain. 295 FLOEA. Queen of Earth's loveliness, there was a stain Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore : Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous — and 'tis o'er. The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! FLOEA. The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth She decks her Summer beauty ; Primrose sweet, With blossoms of pure gold; enchanting Eose, That, like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun, Dew-diadem'd ; the perfumed Pink, that studs The earth with clustering ruby ; Hyacinth, The hue of Venus' tresses ; Myrtle green. That maidens think a charm for constant love, And give night-kisses to it, and so dream ; Fair Lily ! woman's emblem, and oft twined Eound bosoms, where its silver is imseen, Such is their whiteness ; downcast Violet, Turning away its sweet head from the wind. As she her delicate and startled ear From passion's tale ! MOULTRIE. THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, AVitli eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of g'cntle mould ; They tell me tliat unusual grace iu all his waj's appears. That my child is grave and wise of heart lievond his cliildish years. I cannot say how this may be, — I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air : 297 QQ THE THREE SONS. I know his heart is kind and fond^ I know he loyeth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind ; The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find : Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next ; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray. And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I '11 not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling. And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love re- vealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone. Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth. To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 298 MOULTKIE. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given. And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. ■ I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now. Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel. Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest. Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever. But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, — Oh ! we 'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. MOULTRIE. '■FORGET THEE?" " Forget thee ? " if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day, If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay. If prayei-s in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power. If winged thoughts that flit to thee, — a thousand in an hour. If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, — If this thou caU'st " forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot ! "Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune; " Forget thee 1 " Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; Bid the thirety flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine own " dear land," and its " mountains wild and blue." Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot, — When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot ! Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free, For God forbid thy gladsome heai-t should grow less glad for me ; Yet, while that heart is still unwou, oh 1 bid not mine to rove. But let it nui-se its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; — K these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not. Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot ! 300 MACAULAY. THE SPANISH ARMADA. Attknd, fill ye who lint to hear our noble England's praise ; I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that gi'eat Fleet Invincible against her bore iu vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm suninier day, There came a gallant nierclj ant-ship lull sail to Plymouth Bay j THE SPANISH ARMADA. Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ; At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall ; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall ; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast ; And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inward many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound the drums ; His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Csesar's eagle shield : So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously — ye breezes, waft her wide ; Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy fold, The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold ; Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread ; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone ; it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire ; The fisher left his skiff to rrtok on Tamar's glittering waves : 302 MACAULAY. The rugged miners poured to war from Meudip's sunless caves : O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Ci-anbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew : He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu : Eight sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light. Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires ; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires ; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer ; And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet. And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street : And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din. As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went. And roused iu many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, — All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang from hill to hiU: Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rooky dales, Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair counties saw the' blaze on Malvern's lonely height. Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light. Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane. And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent. And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile. And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. 303 TATLOK. ARTETELDE IN GHENT. TllE PLATIORM AT THK TOP Ot TITE STEEPLZ OP ST. XICHOLAS' CnrRCH.— TIME— BAT-BKE.4K. ARTETELDE (aloTle). There lies a sleeping city. God of dreams ! What an unreal and fantastic world Is going on below ! Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, How many a lai^e creation of the night, Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, Peopled with busy ti-ansitory groups. Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd ! — If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes They should float upward yisibly to mine, How thick with apparitions were that void ! But now the blank and blind profundity Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion. — I have not slept. I am to blame for that- Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food, Must needs impair that promptitude of mind. And cheerfiilness of spirit, which, in him Who leads a multitude, is past all price. I think I could redeem an hour's repose Out of the night that I have squanderd, yet. The breezes, laimch'd upon their early voyage, Play with a pleasing freshness on my face. I will enfold my cloak about my limbs. And lie where I shall front them ; — here, I think. [He lies down. 304 TAYLOR. If this were over — blessed be the calm That comes to me at last ! A friend in need Is nature to us, that, when all is spent, Brings slumber — bountifully — whereupon We give her sleepy welcome — if all this Were honourably over — Adrian a — [Falls asleep, but staiis up almost inUantly. I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I '11 swear. Upon the road from Bruges, — or did I dream? No ! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed. VAN DEN BOSCH {llnthout). What ho ! Van Artevelde ! AETEVBLDE. Who caUs? VAN DEN BOSCH {entering). 'Tis I. Thou art an early riser, like myself; Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? AETEVBLDE. What are thy tidings ? VAN DEN BOSCH. Nay, what can they be ? A page from pestilence and famine's day-book ; So many to the pest-house carried in, So many to the dead-house carried out. The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. AETEVBLDE. Be quiet ; listen to the westerly wind. And tell me if it bring thee nothing new. VAN DEN BOSOH. Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog That hears the house is stirring — nothing else. AETEVBLDE. No, — now — I hear it not myself — no — nothing. The city's hum is up — but ere you came 'Twas audible enough. 305 B E ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. VAN DEN BOSOH. In God's name what? ARTEVELDE. A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges. VAN DEN BOSOH. Why, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce ! If once he reach the city we are lost. Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. What terms so bad they would not swallow now 1 Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once To cross his way, ARTEVELDE. And send him back to Bruges ? VAN DEN BOSOH. Send him to hell — and that's a better place. ARTEVELDE. Nay, softly. Van den Bosch ; let war be war, But let us keep its ordinances. VAN DEN BOSOH. Tush! I say, but let them see him from afar, And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot, Be on our way to Bruges. ARTEVELDE. Not so, not so ; My rule of governance has not been such As e'er to issue in so foul a close. VAN DEN BOSCH. What matter by what rule thou may'st have goveru'd? Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens Shall stay the fury of their empty maws Because tliou'st ruled them justly 1 ARTEVELDE, It may be That such a hope is mine. 306 VAN HEX BOSCn. Then tliou art luad, And I must take this matter oii myself. [/s .'/""///. ARTEVELDE. Hold, Van den Bosch ; I say this shall not ho. 307 ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. I must be madder than I think I am Ere I shall yield up my authority, Which I abuse uot, to be used by thee. VAN DEN BOSCH. This comes of lifting dreamers into power. I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famine, The people, but to pave the way for peace. Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges. Once and again I warn thee that thy life Hangs by a thread. ARTEVELDE. Why, know I not it does ? What hath it hung by else since Utas' eve ? Did I not by mine own advised choice Place it in jeopardy for certain ends ? And what were these ? To prop thy tottering state ? To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed, To cater for our joint security? No, verily ; not such my high ambition. I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal ; I looked to give it victory and freedom ; And working to that end, by consequence From one great peril did deliver thee — Not for the love of thee or of thy life. Which I regard not, but the city's service ; And if for that same service it seemed good, I will expose thy life to equal hazard. VAN DEN BOSOH. Thou wilt? ARTEVELDE. I will. VAN DEN BOSOH. Oh, Lord ! to hear him speak. What a most mighty emperor of puppets Is this that I have brought upon the board ! But how if he that made it should unmake 1 308 TAYLOR. ARTEVELDE. Unto His sovereignty who truly made me With infinite humility I bow ! Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch ; Part of the curious clock-work of this world, We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns ; And if by twitches moved from wires we see not, I were to toss thee from this steeple's top, I should be but the instrument — no more — The tool of that chastising Providence Which doth exalt the lowly, and abase The violent and proud : but let me hope There's no such task appointed me to-day. Thou paasest in the world for worldly wise : Then, seeing we must sink or swim together, What can it profit thee, in this extreme Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus For my supremacy and rule ? Thy fate, As of necessity bound up with mine. Must needs partake my cares : let that suffice To put thy pride to rest till better times. Contest — more reasonably wrong — a prize More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck. VAil DEN BOSCH. Tush, tush. Van Artevelde ; thou talk'st and talk'st. And honest burghers think it wondrous fine. But thou might'st easilier with that tongue of thine Persuade yon smoke to fly i' th' face o' the wind. Than talk away my wit and understanding. I say yon herald shall not enter here. ARTEVELDE. I know, sir, no man better, where my talk Is serviceable singly, where it needs To be by acts enforced. I say, beware. And brave not mine authority too far. 309 ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. VAN DEN BOSCH. Hast thou authority to take my life 1 What is it else to let yon herald in To bargain for our blood 1 ABTBVELDB. Thy life again ! Why, what a very slave of life art thou ! Look round about on this once populous town ; Not one of these innumerous house-tops But hides some spectral form of misery, Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother, Some aged man that in his dotage scolds, Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it. Look round, and answer what thy life can be To tell for more than dust upon the balance. I, too, would live — I have a love for life — But rather than to live to charge my soul With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these, I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall. VAN DEN BOSOH. I'd like to see thee do it. ARTEVELDE. I know thou wouldst ; But for the present be content to see My less precipitate descent ; for lo ! There comes the herald o'er the hill. [Exit. VAN DEN BOSCH. Beshrew thee ! Thou shalt not have the start of me in this. [He follows, and the scene closes. TAYLOR. ERNESTO. Thoughtfully by the side Ernesto sate Of her whom, in his earlier youth, with heart Then first exulting in a dangerous hope, Dearer for danger, he had rashly loved. That was a season when the untravell'd spirit. Not way-worn nor way-wearied, nor with soil Nor stain upon it, lions in its path Saw none — or seeing, with triumphant trust In its resources and its powers, defied — Perverse to find provocatives in warnings, And in disturbance taking deep delight. By sea or land he still saw rise the storm With a gay courage, and through broken lights. Tempestuously exalted, for a while His heart ran mountains high, or to the roar Of shatter'd forests sang superior songs With kindling, and what might have seem'd to some, Auspicious energy ;— by land and sea He was way-founder' d — trampled in the dust His many-colour'd hopes — his lading rich Of precious pictures, bright imaginations. In absolute shipwreck to the wind and waves Suddenly render'd — By her side he sate : But time had been between and wov'n a veil Of seven years' separation ; and the past Was seen with soften'd outlines, like the face Of Nature through a mist. What was so seen ? In a short hour, there sitting with his eyes Fix'd on her face, observant though abstracted, 311 ERNESTO. Lost partly in the past, but miiing still With his remembrances the life before him. He traced it all — ^the pleasant first accost. Agreeable acquaintance, growing friendship, Love, passion at the culminating point When in a sleeping body through the night The heart would lie awake, reTeRes next Gnawing the mind with doubtfulness, and last The afiFectionate bitterness of love refused. — ^Rash had he been by choice — ^by wanton choice Deliberately rash; but in the soil Where grows the bane, grows too the antidote ; The same young-heartedness which knew not fear Eenounced despondency, and brought at need With its results, resources. In his day Of utter condemnation, there remain'd Appeal to that imaginative power Which can commute a sentence of sore pain For one of softer sadn^s, which can bathe The broken spirit in the balm of tears. And more and better to after days ; for soon TJpsprang the mind within him, and he knew The affluence and the growth which nature yields After an overflow of loving grief. Hence did he deem that he could freely draw A natural indemnity. The tree Sucks kindlier nurture from a soil enrich'd By its own &Ilen leaves ; and man is made In heart and spirit from deciduous hopes And things that seem to perish. Thro' the stress And fever of his suit, from first to last. His pride (to call it by no nobler name) Had been to love with reason and with truth. To cany clear thro' many a turbulent trial A perspicacious judgment and true tongue. And neither with fair word nor partial thought r.i2 TAYLOR. To flatter whom he loved. If pride it was To love and not to flatter, by a breath Of purer aspiration was he moved To sufier and not blame, grieve, not resent ; And when all hopes that needs must knit with self Their object, were irrevocably gone. Cherish a mild commemorative love, Such as a mourner might unblamed bestow On a departed spirit — ■ Once again He sate beside her — for the last time now. And scarcely was she alter'd ; for the hours Had led her lightly down the vale of life. Dancing and scattering roses, and her face Seem'd a perpetual daybreak, and the woods, Where'er she rambled, echoed through their aisles The music of a laugh so softly gay That spring with all her songsters and her songs Knew nothing like it. But how changed was he ! Care and disease and ardours unrepress'd. And labours unremitted, and much grief, Had written their death-warrant on his brow. Of this she saw not all — she saw but little — That which she could not choose but see she saw And o'er her sunlit dimples and her smiles A shadow fell — a transitory shade ; And when the phantom of a hand she clasped At parting scarce responded to her touch, She sigh'd — but hoped the best. When winter came She sigh'd again ; — for with it came the word That trouble and love had found their place of rest And slept beneath Madeira's orange groves. 313 |T, ; . i.*S'|«!ifiiii(araim,ii,i r If iiiSaiiiiiiiB* TllENCH. THE SPILT PEAIILS. His courtiers of the Calipjh crave, — " Ob, say liow this may be, That of thy slaves, this Ethiop slave Is best beloved by tliee ? " For he is ngly as the Night ; But when has ever chose A nightingale, for its delight, A hucless, scentless rose ? " Tiie Caliph, then : — " No features fair. Nor comely mien, are his ; Love is the beauty he doth wear, And Love his glory is. " When once a camel of rny train There fell in narrow street. From broken casket roll'd amain Ricli pearls before my feet. 314 TRENCH. " I winking to the slaves that I Would freely give them these, At once upon the spoil they fly, The costly boon to seize. " One only at my side remained — Beside this Ethiop none : He, moveless as the steed he reined, Behind me sat alone. " ' What will thy gain, good fellow, be, Thus lingering at my side 1 ' ' My king, that I shall faithfully Have guarded thee,' he cried. " True servant's title he may wear He only who has not, For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er, His Lord himself forgot." Bo thou alone dost walk before Thy God with perfect aim. From Him desiring nothing more Beside Himself to claim. For if thou not to Him aspire. But to His gifts alone. Not Love, but covetous desire, Has brought thee to His throne. While such thy prayer, it climbs above In vain — the golden key Of God's rich treasure-house of love, Thine own will never be. ALFORD. HYMN TO THE SEA. Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, Thou old companion of the circling earth? And having marked with keen poetic sight Ere beast or happy bird Through the vast silence stirred, Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night? Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; Whose ancient awful form, With inly tossing storm. Unquiet heavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. Till the life-giving Spirit moved above The face of the waters, with creative love Warming the hidden seeds of infant light : What time the mighty Word Through thine abyss was heard. And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright. Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say. In the old prime were fashion'd in the day, And therefore thou delightest evermore With her to lie, and play The summer hours away. Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. She is married, a matron long ago. With nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 316 Each 3'env ; but thee no husband dai'es to tame ; Thy Tvild will is thine own, Thy sole and virgin throne — Tliy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. Suidight and moonlight minister to thee ; — O'er the broad circle of tlic shoreless sea Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise ; While the I'ound vault above, In vast and silent love, Ts gazing down upon thee with his iiundrcd eyes. .317 HYMN TO THE SEA. All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, Counting thy weary minutes all alone ; Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, Deep blue, ere yet the sun His day-work hath begun, Under the opening windows of the golden sky. The spirit of the mountain looks on thee Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie Storm-mists of infant cloud, With a sight-baffling shroud Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky. Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast. Whose stiff' breath, whistling shrill, Pierces with deadly chill The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered mast. Foam-white along the border of the shore Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar ; While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide Cloaked figures, dim and grey, Through the thick mist of spray. Watching for some struck vessel in the boiling tide. Daughter and darling of remotest eld — Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld ; His arm is feeble and bis eye is dim — He tells old tales again — He wearies of long pain ; — Thou art as at the first : thou journeyedst not with him. TEXNYSOX. THE MAY QUEEN. You must wukc and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-uiorrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad Xew-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to l)e Queen o' the ilay. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as nhue ; Tiiere's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begiijs to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gaj'. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to bo Queeu o" the May, 319 THE MAY QUEEN". As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to xnel There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little EfEie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you '11 be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd-lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 320 NEW- YEARS EVE. If 3' Oil 're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see tlie sun rise ujjon the glad New-year : It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day : Beneath the hawthorn on the Green they made me (^)ueen of Maj' ; And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse. Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall wliite chimnej'-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is ou the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high : I long to sec a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree. And the tufted jilovcr pipe along the fidlow lea, And the swallow 'ill oonjo back again with sununer o'er the wave, — l)ut I shall lie alone, mother, withiji the mouldering grave. 321 T T THE MAY QUEEN, Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, — you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Though 1 cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother ; call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would sue the sun rise upon the glad New-yuar, So, if you're waking, call mc, call me cai'lj', mother dear. 322 I thought to pa.-s avray before, and yet ahve I am : And in the fields all round I heoj the bleating of the lamlj. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the xiolet's here. sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the sliies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and fdl the floorers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leo.ve the blessed sun. And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I thirik it can't be Ions; before I find release : And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace blessings on his kinflly V'-Ace, and on his silver hair ! And ble.ssings on hi.s whole life lona". until lie meet me there ! blessinjfs on his kindly- heart, and on Ijis silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside riiy Ijed, 323 THE MAY QUEEN. He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin : Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. T thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Eobin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 324 TENNYSON. look ! tlie sun begins to rise, the heavens arc in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the vallej' for other hands than mine. sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is lifc, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come ; To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. ROBERT BROWNING. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt, since, hand in hand. We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land. This mom of Rome and May ? For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantahsed me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path,) for rhymes To catch at and let go. Help me to hold it : first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed Took up the floating weft, Where one small orange-cup amassed Five beetles, — blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal, — and last Everywhere on the grassy slope T traced it. Hold it fast ! 326 Tlie cLampaign with its endless fleece Of feathery gi'asses everywhere ! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air — Rome's gliost since her decease. Such life there, through snch lengths of hour> Such miracles performed in play, Snch primal nah-ed forms of flowers. Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers. 327 TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. How say you 1 Let us, my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul. As earth lies bare to heaven above. How is it under our control To love or not to love 1 I would that you were all to me. You that are just so much, no more — Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! Where does the fault lie ? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be ? I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, — your part, my part In life, for good and ill. No. I yearn upward — touch you close. Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak, — Then the good minute goes. Already how am I so far Out of that minute ? Must I go StiU like the thistle-ball, no bar. Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star ? Just when I seemed about to learn ! — Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick ! Only I discern — Infinite passion and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. ROBEKT BROWNING. EVELYN HOPE. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ; Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think — The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died ! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — It was not her time to love : beside. Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares. And now was quiet, now astir — Till God's hand beckoned unawares. And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? What, your soul was pure and true. The good stars met in your horoscope. Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told ? We were fellow-mortals, nought beside ? No, indeed ! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make. And creates the love to reward the love, — I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 329 EVELYN HOPE. Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through -worlds I shall traverse, not a few — Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come, — at last it will, — When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still. That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red — And what you would do with me, in fine. In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times. Gained me the gains of various men, Eansaeked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. Either I missed or itself missed me — And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue 1 let us see ! I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; My heart seemed full as it could hold — There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep — See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; You will wake, and remember, and understand. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. WINE OF CYPRUS. If old Bacchus were the speaker, He would tell J'ou, with a sigh, Of the Cyprus in this beaker I am sipping like a fly, — Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of gohlet-pledge. By queen Juiio brushed aside, a Full white arm-sweep, from tlie edge. 3.31 WINE OF CYPRUS. Sooth, the drinking should be ampler, When the drink is so divine : And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler Wotdd become your Cyprus wine ! Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in. While his one eye over-leered — Nor too large were mouth of Titan, Drinking rivers down his beard. Pan might dip his head so deep in, That his ears alone pricked out. Fauns around him, pressing, leaping. Each one pointing to his throat : While the Naiads, like Bacchantes Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry, — " earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste ! " But for me, I am not worthy After gods and Greeks to drink ; And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink. Since you heard them speak the last time. They have faded from their blooms. And the laughter of my pastime Has learnt silence at the tombs. Ah, my friend ! the antique drinkers Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers In the forms they thought of, now 1 Who will fetch from garden-closes Some new garlands while I speak. That the forehead, crowned with roses, May strike scarlet down the cheek? 332 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Do not mock me ! with my mortal, Suits no wi-eath again, indeed ! I am sad-voiced as the turtle Which Anacreon used to feed ; Yet as that same bird demurely Wet her beak in cup of his, — So, without a garland, surely I may touch the brim of this. Go ! — let others praise the Chian ! — This is soft as Muses' string — This is tawny as Ehea's lion. This is rapid as its spring, — Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met ua, Light as ever trod her feet ! And the brown bees of Hymettns Make their honey not so sweet. Very copious are my praises. Though I sip it like a fly ! — Ah — but, sipping, — ^times and places Change before me suddenly — As Ulysses' old libation Drew the ghosts from every part. So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, Stirs the Hades of my heart. And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings. Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise. While a girlish voice was reading Somewhat low for ai's and ois. 33n TVIXE OF CYPRUS. Then what golden houi-s were for us ! — While we sate together there. How the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a live air ! How the cothurns trod majestic Down the deep iambic lines ; And the rolling anapeestic Curled like vapour over shrines ! Oh, our Jilsehylus, the thunderotis ! How he di-ove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath. Oh, our Sophocles, the royal. Who was bom to monarch's place — And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace. Our Euripides, the human — With his droppings of warm tears ; And his touches of things common, Till they rose to touch the spheres ! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And oiu" Pindar's shining goals ! — These were cup-bearers undying Of the wine that's meant for souls. And my Plato, the divine one, — K men know the gods aright By their motions, as they shine on With a gloriouB trail of light ! — And your noble Christian bishops. Who mouthed grandly the last Greek : Though the sponges on their hyssops Were distent with wine — too weak. 334 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him, With his liberal mouth of gold ; And your Basil, you upraised him To the height of speakers old : And we both praised Heliodorus For his secret of pure lies j — Who forged first his linked stories In the heat of ladies' eyes. Do you mind that deed of Ate Which you bound me to so fast, — Eeading " De Virginitate," From the first line to the last 1 How I said at ending, solemn, As I turned and looked at you. That St. Simeon on the column Had had somewhat less to do ? For we sometimes gently wrangled ; Very gently, be it said, — Since our thoughts were disentangled By no breaking of the thread ! And I charged you with extortions On the nobler fames of old — Ay, and sometimes thought your Persons Stained the purple they would fold. For the rest — a mystic moaning Kept Cassandra at the gate, With wild eyes the vision shone in — And wide nostrils scenting fate. And Prometheus, bound in passion By brute force to the blind stone. Showed us looks of invocation Turned to ocean and the sun. 33.5 WINE OF CYPRUS. And Medea we saw burning At her nature's planted stake ; And proud CEdipiis fate-scorning While the cloud came on to break — While the cloud came on slow — slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned ! — But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him blind ! Ah, my gossip ! you were older, And more learned, and a man ! — Yet that shadow — the enfolder Of your quiet eyelids — ran Both our spirits to one level, And I turned from hill and lea. And the summer-sun's green revel, — To your eyes that could not see. Now Christ bless you with the one light Which goes shining night and day ! May the flowers which grow in sunlight Shed their fragrance in your way ! Is it not right to remember All your kindness, friend of mine. When we two sate in the chamber And the poets poured us wine ? So, to come back to the drinking Of this Cyprus, — it is well — But those memories, to my thinking, Make a better oenomel j And whoever be the speaker. None can murmur with a sigh — That, in drinking from that beaker, I am sipping like a fly. 336 KINGBLEY. THE THREE FISHERS. TiiEEE fishers went sailing down to the west, Away to tlie west as tlie siiu went down ; Each thought of the womnn who loved him the hest, And the children stood watching them out of the town : For men must work, and women must weep, And here's little to earn, and many to keep. Though the harbour bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimmed the lamjjs as the sun went down ; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, "While the uiglit rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; ])ut men must work, and w(jmen must weep. Though storms be sudden, and w^aters deep, And tlic harbour bar )je moaning, Three corpses lie out on tlie shining sands, lu the morning gleam as the tide "went down. And the women are weeping and wringing their hands. THE SANDS OF DEE. For those who will never come home to the town. But men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's oyer, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. THE SANDS OF DEE. " Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home. And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home. Across the sands o' Dee ; " The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam. And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand. And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand. As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land — And never home came she. " Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair. Above the nets at sea "i Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam. The cruel, crawling foam. The cruel, hungry foam. To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. Across the sands o' Dee. 338 D7VVIS. THE SACK OF BALTIUfORE. Baltimore is a sea-port ]u Soiitli Mimster, and was plundered by a band of Algprincs in tlie nigbt of June 20th, ]G31, under tbi' guidanee of Haekett, a Diingarvan fisberman. The summer sun is falling soft on Caiii'ry's liuudrcJ isles, Tlio summer suu is gleaming still tlirougli GJabviel's rough defiles Old Inisherkin's oruniblcd fane looks like a moulting bird, And iu a calm and sleepy swell tlie ocean tide is heard. 330 THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. The hookers lie upon, the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray, — ■ And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er — Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seera conscious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide. Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing- tide — Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet — A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! — " The roof is in a flame ! " From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall. And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl — The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand agaiflst the shearing sword ; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store. There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore. Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing — They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town, — 340 DAVIS. These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadowu ; They only fouud the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, — Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, — This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — She's safe — she's dead — she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai. And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled — O'Driscol's child — she thought of Baltimore. "Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band. And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen — Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, — he, who steered the Algerine ! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer. For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — Some muttered of !Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Xorman o'er — Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimoi-e. BULWER LYTTOX. EVA. THE MAIDED' ,S HOME. A COTTAGE iu ii peaceful vale ; A jasmine round tlio door ; A liill to slieltcr fi-om the galo A silver l)rnok bofme. 3J2 BULWEK LYTTON. Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, In mornings soft with May ; Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, Reflecting heaven, away ! A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth Rejoicing Nature gave ; And heaven was mirror'd in her truth More clear than on the wave. Oft to that lone sequester'd place My boyish steps would roam, There was a look in Eva's face That seem'd a smile of home. And oft I paused to hear at noon A voice that sang for glee : Or mark the white neck glancing down. The book upon the knee. THE IDIOT BOY. Who stands between thee and the sun ? — A cloud himself, — the Wandering One ! A vacant wonder in the eyes, — The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll ; — The light was in the laughing skies. And darkness in the Idiot's soul. He touch'd the book upon her knee — He look'd into her gentle face — " Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. I know not why, but where I pass The aged turn away ; And if my shadow vex the gi-ass, The children cease from play. My only playmates are the wind. The blossom on the bough ! Why are thy looks so soft and kind ? Thou dost not tremble — thou ! " 343 EVA. Tliovigh none were by, she trembled not, — Too meek to wound, too good to fear him ; And, as he linger'd on the spot. She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him. a'HE YOUKG TEACHER. Of wonders on the land and deeps She spoke, and glories in the sky — The eternal life the Father keeps For those, who learn from Him to die. So simply did the maiden speak — So simply and so earnestly. You saw the light begin to break, And Soul the Heaven to see ; You saw how slowly, day by day. The darksome waters caught the ray. Confused and broken — come and gone — The beams as yet uncertain are. But still the billows murmur on. And struggle for the star. THE STHANGER-SUITOn. There came to Eva's maiden home A Stranger from a sunnier clime; The lore that Hellas taught to Eome, The wealth that Wisdom wins from Time, Which ever, in its ebb and flow. Heaves to the seeker on the shore The waifs of glorious wrecks below, The argosies of yore ; — Each gem that in that dark profound The Past the Student's soul can find. Shone from his thought, and sparkled round The Enchanted Palace of the Mind. How trustful in the leafy June, She roved with him the lonely vale ; How trustful liy the temler uuion, Slio LIusli'il to lieai- a toiulorer talo. happy Eartli ! tlie dawn T'cvivos, Day aftov day, eacli drooping' flowi^r — Time to the lieart once o\i\y o-i\os The joyouB Moi-uing-linur. " To him — oh, wilt thou pledge thy yoiith, For whom tlie world's hdse bloom is o'er? 345 EVA. My heart shall haven in thy truth, And tempt the faithless wave no more." Her hand lay trembling on his arm, ■ Averted glow'd the happy face ; A softer hue, a mightier charm, Grew mellowing o'er the hour — the place ; Along the breathing woodlands moved A presence dream-like and divine — How sweet to love and be beloved, To lean upon a heart that's thine ! Silence was o'er the earth and sky — By silence Love is answer'd best — Her answer was the downcast eye, The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast. What rustles through the moonlit brake % What sudden spectre meets their gaze ? What face, the hues of life forsake, Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays ? You might have heard his heart that beat. So heaving rose its heavy swell — No more the Idiot — at her feet The Dark One, roused to reason, fell. Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought. The lightning broke upon the blind — The jealous love the cure had wrought, The Heart in waking woke the Mind. THE HERMIT. Years fly ; beneath the yew-tree's shade, Thy father's holy dust is laid ; The brook glides on, the jasmine blows ; But where art thou, the wandering wife ] And what the bliss, and what the woes, Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life ? 346 BULWER LYTTOX. For whether life may laugli or weep, Death the true waking— life the sleep. Who tenants thy forsaken cot — Who tends thy childhood's favourite flowers- ^^'ho wakes, from every haunted spot, The Ghosts of buried Hours 1 "Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrow From thee the Vision and the Sorrow — To whom the Reason's golden ray, In storms that rent the heart, was given ; The peal that burst the clouds away Left clear the face of heaven ! And wealth was his, and gentle birth, A form in fair proportions cast ; But lonely still he walk'd the earth — The Hermit of the Past. It was not love — that dream was o'er ! No stormy grief, no wild emotion ; For oft, what once was love of yore, The memory soothes into devotion ! He bought the cot : — The garden flowers — The haunts his Eva's steps had trod. Books — thought — beguiled the lonely hours, That flow'd in peaceful waves to God. DESERTION. She sits, a Statue of Despair, In that far land, by that bright sea ; She sits, a Statue of Despair, Whose smile an Angel's seem'd to be. She knows it all — the hideous tale — ■ The wrong, the perjury, and the shame ; — Before the bride had left her veil, Another bore the nuptial name. The infant woke from feverish rest — Its smile she sees, its voice she hears — 347 'I'lio mai'ble melted from the lireast, And all the Mother R-ush'd iu teart: THE RETUriN. Tiio cottage in tlie peaceful vale, The jasmine round the door, 'I'lic hill still shelters from the gale, The lirook still glides before. BULWEB LYTTON. Without the porch, one summer noou, The Hermit-dweller see ! In musing silence bending down, The book upon his knee. Who stands between thee and the sun 1 — A cloud herself, — the Wand'ring One ! — A vacant sadness in the eyes. The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; The light is in the laughing skies, And darkness, Eva, in thy soul ! Yet still the native instinct stirr'd The darkness of the breast — She flies, as flies the wounded bird Unto the distant nest ; O'er hill and waste, from land to land, Her heart the faithful instinct bore ; And there, behold the Wanderer stand Beside her Childhood's Home once more ! LIGHT AND DARKNESS. When earth is fair, and winds are still. When sunset gilds the western hill. Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, Or by the brook, with noiseless feet. Two silent forms are seen ; So silent they — the place so lone — They seem like souls, when life is gone, That haunt where life has been : And his to watch, as in the past Her soul had watch'd his soul. Alas ! her darkness waits the last, The grave the only goal ! It is not what the leech can cure — An erring chord, a jarring madness : A calm so deep, it must endure — So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness ; 349 EVA. A summer night, whose shadow falls On silent hearths in ruin'd halls. Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to feel His presence like a happier air ; Close by his side she loved to steal, As if no ill could harm her there ! And when her looks his own would seek. Some memory seem'd to wake the sigh, Strive for kind words she could not speak, And bless him in the tearful eye. sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, In mornings soft with May, And silver-clear the waves that flow To shoreless deeps away ; But heavenward from the faithful heart A sweeter incense stole ; — The onward waves their source desert, But Soul returns to Soul ! PEOCTEE. THE IirSTOTJV OF A LIFE. Day dawned ; — Within a cui'taincd rnmi Filled to faintness with perfmno, A lady Iny ;il, |iiiiiii of doom. 3:-,l " WITHIN AND WITHOUT. Day closed: — A Child had seea the light; But for the lady, fair and bright, She rested in undreaming night. Spring rose : — The lady's grave was green ; And near it oftentimes was seen A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. Years fled : — He wore a manly face, And struggled in the world's rough race, And won, at last, a lofty place. And then — he died ! Behold, before ye, Humanity's poor sum and story ; Life — Death — and all that is of Glory. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. The winds are bitter ; the skies are wild ; From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain Without, — in tatters, the world's poor child Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain ! No one heareth her, no one heedeth her : But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand Grasps her throat, whispering huskily — " What dost Thou in a Christian land ? " 352 Tlie skies are "nMld, ami tlie bla'it is cnld ; Yet riot and luxw-y lirawl witliin : Slaves are •n-aitiiif;', in silver and .S'jl'l) Waiting; the in id of a child of sin. The fire is crackling, wine is hubhling Up in each glass to its beaded brim . The jesters are langliing, the parasites cpiaffing " Happiness," — "hoimnr," — and all for liim ' WITHIN AND WITHOUT. ■WITHOUT. She who is slain in the winter weather, Ah ! she ouoe had a village fame ; Listened to love on the moonlit heather ; Had gentleness — vanity — maiden shame : Now, her allies are the tempest howling ; Prodigals' curses ; self-disdain ; Poverty ; misery : Well, — no matter ; There is an end unto every pain ! WITHIN. He who yon lordly feast enjoyetli, He who doth rest on his couch of down, He it was, who threw the forsaken Under the feet of the trampling town : Liar — betrayer, — false as cruel. What is the doom for his dastard sin 1 His peers, they scorn ^ — high dames, they shun him? — Unbar yon palace, and gaze within. There, — yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded, There, upon silken seats recline Maidens as fair as the summer morning, Watching him rise from tho sparkling wine. Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters ; Men of high honour salute him " Friend ; " Skies ! oh, where are your cleansing waters 1 World ! oh, where do thy wonders end 1 ATHJCRHTONK. B A T T L E S C EXES. O'eb all thu plain th' A.ssj'i-iau camp-fiixw now Blaze liigli ; ami willi the darkness a druar rod Strangel)' cmnniingle. Like a burning gulf, Sleeping till stirrM I)}' winds; the iicaving mass Of warriurs at tlie nimmtain's fnot appears ; Breast-plates, and sliiclds, ami helms, and gonfdnns, (.dow blood-red Iierc and there ; but doubly dark I'Jbcwhoro the night. Now, toward the bids all liaste If ^ledes alone, nr with Assyrians mixed, I cannot know ; but rajiid is tho speed. The light increases : n[) tlic mountain's side, BATTLE SCENES. In the red darkness faintly I discern The shimbering myriads ; and toward its foot Onward they come ; like billows of dark fire. But farther off, in one bright blaze, the camp Shines out : a countless multitude I see, In flaming armour pouring o'er the plain. Like ocean glittering 'neath the ruddy sun. The wide field flashes ; like the ocean's roar Their clamoxu's rise. Among the trees a crash I hear, — a heaving of the branches. Lights Are thickening near the hill. Ha ! now I see They rend the boughs for torches. In his hand Each soldier bears a branch of blazing pine. They speed toward the heights : they shake the torch They wave the sword : like running flame they seem. Now up the steep they urge. A cloud of darts And arrows from the Medes upon them pours, — A fiery cloud ; and stones are hurled — and spears ; — Yet upward still they come. The watch-fires now Are flaming on the hills : distinctly gleams The battle forth. Their torches they cast down ; Not needed now. Ha ! by his star-like helm, Assyria's king appears. He shouts : he flies . He points towards the rocks ; — he waves them on. A warrior meets him : sword with sword they fight — Arabia's monarch, sure. — But both are lost, — The waves of fight roll o'er them — iNIeantime, along the sapphire bridge of heaven, Far, far beyond the canopy of cloud That mantled earth, the day-god's lightning steeds Through the pure ether rapt his chariot-wheels. Sounding harmonious thunder. To the height They had ascended ; and the steep decline 356 ATHERSTONE. Half-way had measured ; yet the hard-fought field Still was contested ; for, like men resolved On that one day to peril all to come — To die, perchance, but never to submit — The Assyrian captains strove ; and, with like fire, Their soldiers' hearts inflamed. Aid too had come — Chariots, and horse, and foot j who, when the scale. Charged with Assyria's doom, was sinking fast. Twice had its fall arrested. Once again, When seemed that utter ruin hovered nigh. The chariot of Assyria's beauteous queen From rank to rank flew on : and, as they saw. The warriors' breasts, as with new soul infused, Like beacons freshly kindled, burst at once Into intensest flame. Unhelmed, unarmed, Her ebon hair loose flying in the wind, She raised aloft her arms, her voice uplift. And bade them on to glory. As the star Of morning, while the sun yet sleeps below, And the grey mist is on the dewy earth, Her face was pale and radiant. Like a shape From heaven descended, and to mortal harm Impassive, gloriously and fearlessly Through the death-laden air she flew along. Her spirit fired the host ; with deafening shouts Onward they bore ; and, for a time, the Medes Compelled, though slowly, backward. JIAEY HOWITT. THE BALLAD OF EICHARD BUENELL. Paet I. From his bed rose Richard Buruell At the early dawn of day, Ere the bells of Loudou city Welcomed in the morn of May. Early on that bright May morning Eose the young man from his bed, He, the happiest man in London, And thus to himself he said : — '• ' When the men and maids are dancing, And the folk ai-e mad with glee, In the Temple's shady gardens Let me walk and talk with thee ! ' " Thus my Alice spake last even. Thus with trembling lips she spake. And those blissful words have kept me Through the live-long night awake. " 'Tis a joy beyond expression, When we first, in truth, perceive That the love we long have cherished Will not our fond hearts deceive ! 358 " Nevei' durcd I to confess it — Deeds of liumage spoke iustcrul ; 'I'l'uc love is its own revealer, Sliij must know it ! oft I said. " All my words, and all my actions, But cue meauiug ciuld impart ; Love can ]]eic wbat bo liegan. 371 ALEXANDER SMITH. SCENE — THE BANKS OF A RIVER. 'Tis that loveliest stream. I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course By frequent tracing, as a lover learns The features of his best beloved's face. In memory it runs, a shining thread. With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls. From yonder trees I've seen the western sky All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat A spreading wave of light. Where yonder church Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede For sinful hamlets scatterd at its feet, I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down. And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, " Behold ! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide." The ghost of one bright hour Comes from its grave and stands before me now. 'Twas at the close of a long summer day. As we were sitting on yon grassy slope, The sunset hung before us like a dream That shakes a demon in his fiery lair ; The clouds were standing round the setting sun Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles, Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light, Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame. Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and peaks Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas — All these were huddled in that dreadful west. All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light, .fS^ And from the centre blazed tbe angry sun, Stern as the unlash'd eye of God a-glare O'er evening city witli its boom of sin. I do remember, as -n-e journeyed liome, (That dreadful sunset burnt into onr brains,) ^\ ith what a soothing came the naked moon. She, like a swimmer who has found his ground, •"'avne )'i[i|)liiig np a silver strand of cloud, PICTURKS. And plunged fi-om the other side into the night, I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, Did wander up and down these banks for years, Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths, How sin and weeping all should pass away In the calm sunshine of the earth's old age. Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse ; 'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt Breezes of love, and joy, and melody, Blow through us, as the winds blow through the sky. Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams, O'er which the air hung silent in its joy ; With a great city lying in its smoke, A monster sleeping in its own thick breath ; And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks, Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs, And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played, To us unheard ; till, gradual, all was lost In distance-haze to a blue rim of hills. Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. PICTURES. The lark is singing in the blinding sky, Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, He decorates her tawny brow with shells, 374 Retires a igpace, to see how fair slic looks, Tlieij, ijroud, runs up to kiss ber. All is fiiir — All glad, from grass to svui ! 375 ■ PICTrRES. — One nymph slumbering Ijit. A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbs Sinking full softly iu the violets dim ; When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green. One in each fountain, riched with golden sands. With her delicious foce a moment seen. And limbs faint gleaming throtigh their watei-y veil. — A grim old king, ■\Vliose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds. Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day ; But in the sunset he was ebbing fast. Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood. That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head ; His right, his broken brand ; and in his ear His old victorions bannei-s flap the winds. He called his faithful herald to his side — '•Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile, The warrior with a stab let out his soul, AVhich fled, and shrieked through all the other world, "Ye dead I my master comes!" And there was pause Till the srreat Shade should enter. f:.&JfX'' PIIITJP ,L\1\IE,S BAIJ.F.Y. A SU.Mjri'R MGJI'!'. Tllio lust liigli upwiirJ Klaut of .siui on thu irccs, Like a dead soldiei-'« sword upon Jiis pull, Seeing to console curth for the gloi-y donc. Oh ! I could weep to see tlic day die tlms ; The death-ljed (jf a day, how lieantilul ! Linger, ye clouds, one luomcnt longer there ; Fan it to slumher with your golden wings! Like pious (jrayers, ye seem to soothe its end. WORDS. It will wake no more till the all-revealing day Wlien, like a drop of water, greatened bright Into a shadow, it shall show itself With all its little tyrannous things and deeds, Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,- Straight — ^like an infant's spirit, or a mocked And mourning messenger of Grace to man. Would it had taken me too on its wing ! My end is nigh. Would I might die outright, — So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse Their glory, heightening to the starry blue Of all embosoming eternity. Who that hath lain lonely on a high hill, In the imperious silence of full moon, With nothing but the clear dark sky about him. Like God's Hand laid upon the head of earth, — But hath expected that some natural spirit Should start out of the universal air. And, gathering his cloudy robe around him, As one in act to teach mysterious things. Explain that he must die 1 WORDS. The poet in his work reflects his soul. As some lone nymph, beside a woodland well. Whose clear white limbs, like animated light, Make glad the heart and sanctify the sight. The soft and shadowy miracle of her form. The bard's aim is to give us thoughts ; his art Lieth in giving them as bright as may be. 378 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more. Words are like sea-shells on the shore ; they show Where the mind ends, and not how far it has been. Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, And roughly looked over. The dress of words, Like to the Koman girl's enticing garb, Should let the play of limb be seen through it, And the round rising form. A mist of words, Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less Doubly. It is the thought writ down we want, Not its effect, — not likenesses of likenesses. And such descriptions are not, more than gloves Instead of hands to shake, enough for us. As in the good the fair ; simplicity Is Nature's first step, and the last of Art. PORTRAIT OF A LADY. Her form was all humanity. Her soul all God's ; in spirit and in form, Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though She lived, one half might deem^ on roses sopped In silver dew ; she spake as with the voice Of spheral harmony, which greets the soul When at the hour of death the saved one knows His sister angels near ; her eye was as The golden fane the setting sun doth just Imblaze ; which shows, till Heaven comes down again. All other lights but grades of gloom ; her dark, Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave Might search for gold, and, searching, find. 379 SIIEEIDAN KNOWLES. THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. JL'LIA ANLi MASTER WALTER. Wa/tci: Wlmt ! lun thti waves so high ? Not ready yet ! Your lord will soou be here ! The g'uests collect. Juliji. Show mc some way to 'scape these nuptials ! Do it ! Some opening for avoidance or escape, — Or to thy charge I '11 lay a bi-okcn heart ! 38U SHERIDAN KNOWLES. It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour ! Or else a mind distraught ! Walter. What's this? Julia. The strait I 'm fallen into my patience cannot bear ! It frights my reason^— warps my sense of virtue ! Religion I — changes me into a thing I look at with abhorring ! Walter. Listen to me. Julia. Listen to me, and heed me ! If this contract Thou hold'st me to — abide thou the result ! Answer to Heaven for what I suffer ! — act ! Prepare thyself for such calamity To fall on me, and those whose evil stars Have link'd them with me, as no past mishap, However rare, and marvellously sad, Can parallel ! lay thy account to live A smileless life, die an unpitied death — Abhorr'd, abandon'd of thy kind, — as one Who had the guarding of a young maid's peace, — Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it ; And when she saw her danger, and confess'd Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin ! Walter. Hast done 1 Julia. Another- moment, and I have. Be warn'd ! Beware how you abandon me To myself ! I 'm young, rash, inexperienced ! tempted By most insufferable misery ! Bold, desperate, and reckless ! Thou hast age, Experience, wisdom, and collectedness, — 381 THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. Power, freedom, — everything that I have not, Yet want, as none e'er wanted ! Thou canst save me. Thou ought'st ! thou must ! I tell thee, at his feet I '11 fall a corse — ere mount his bridal bed ! So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave ; — And quickly too ! The hour of sacrifice Is near ! Anon the immolating priest Will summon me ! Devise some speedy means To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it ! Nor leave the task to me ! Walter. Hast done 1 Julia. I have. Walter. Then list to me — and silently, if not With patience. — [Brings chairs for himself and hn: How I watch'd thee from thy childhood, I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom — Whose humble instrument I was — directed Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy, From your apt mind, that far outstripp'd your years, Fearing the taint of an infected world ; — For in the rich ground, weeds, once taking root. Grow strong as flowers. He might be right or wrong ! I thought him right ; and therefore did his bidding. Most certainly he loved you — so did I ; Ay ! well as I had been myself your father ! [His hand is resting upon his knee. Julia attempts to take it. He withdraws it ; holes at her. She hangs hvr head. Well ; you may take my hand ! I need not say How fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness, — That hope could scarce enjoy its golden dreams, So soon fulfilment realized them all ! 382 SHERIDAN KNOWLES. Enougli. You came to womanhood ; your heart Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, That's new unfolded by the smiling sun, And ne'er knew blight nor canker ! When a good woman Is fitly mated, she grows doubly good, How good soe'er before ! I found the man I thought a match for thee ; and, soon as found, Proposed him to thee. 'Twas your father's will. Occasion offering, you should be married Soon as you reach'd to womanhood. You liked My choice — accepted him. We came to town ; Where, by important matters, summon'd thence, I left you, an affianced bride ! Julia. You did ! You did ! Walter. Nay, check thy tears ! Let judgment now, Not passion, be awake. On my return, I found thee — what ? I '11 not describe the thing I found thee then ! I '11 not describe my pangs To see thee such a thing ! The engineer Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower It cost him years and years of toil to raise, And, smiling at it, tells the winds and wa^es To roar and whistle now — but, in a night. Beholds the tempest sporting in its place — May look aghast, as I did ! GEEALD MASSEY. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. All in our marriage gixrJon Grew, smUiug up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; O beautifu] unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. From out a balmy bosom, Our bud of beauty grew : It fed on smiles for sunshine ; On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling wai-m and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled. So close and close, about oiu- wee White Rose of all the world. With mystical faiut fmgi-ance Our house of life she filled — Revealed each hour some fairy tower Wliere winged hopes might build ! ^^'e saw — though none like us miulit se( Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world. 3S4 But,, evorrnoro tlio halo or Angcl-liglit iuorcascd, [/ilcc tho mystery of inoonliglit Thiit folds somo fiiiry foast. Suow-wliito, Rnow-Roft, Biiow-silontly Our (liiHiiig liud up-cui'loil, Ati'l (Iropt i' tliO griivc — God's lap — our wee White RoKO of all the world. 385 THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. Our Rose was but ia blossom ; Our life was but in spring; When down the solemn midnight We heard the Spirits sing — " Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled ! " And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world. You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large ; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world. THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. Ah ! 'tis like a tale of olden Time, long, long ago ; When the world was in its golden Prime, and Love was lord below ! Every vein of Earth was dancing With the Spring's new wine ! 'Twaa the pleasant time of flowers, When I met you, love of mine ! Ah ! some spirit sure was straying Out of heaven that day. When I met you, Sweet ! a-Maying In that merry, merry May ! 3S6 Little heart ! it shyl_y opeii'd Its rerl leaves' love-lore, Like a rose that must lie ripeiiM To the daintj', dainty core. But its beauties daily brighten, And it Idiioms so dear, — BABE CHRISTABEL. Tho' a many Winters whiten, I go Maying all the year. Aud my proud heart will be praying Blessings on the day, When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, In that merry, merry May. BABE CHRISTABEL. In this dim world of clouding cares, We rarely know, till wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skies, The Angels with us unawares. And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death ! Shall light thy dark up like a Star, A Beacon kindling from afar Our light of love, and fainting faith. Thro' tears it gleams perpetually. And glitters thro' the thickest glooms. Till the eternal morning comes To light VIS o'er the Jasper Sea. With our best branch in tenderest leaf. We 've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; And, ready for the harvest-home. His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf. Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled : Awhile she sat with folded wings — Sang round us a few hoverings — Then straightway into glory sped. 388 GKRALD JIASSEY. And white-winged Angels nurture her ; AVith heaven's white radiance robed and orown'd, And all Love's purple glory round, She summers on the Hills of Myirh. Thro' Childhood's morning-land serene She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love ; While, in a robe of light above, Her better Angel walkt unseen, Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild ; Then, lest her starry garments trail In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, The Angel's arms caught up the child. Her wave of life hath backward roU'd To the great ocean, on whose shore We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old : And aye we seek and hunger on For precious pearls and relics rare. Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart, for love of her that's gone. weep no more ! there yet is balm In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles, — ^spread O'er desert pillows some green palm ! God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; The best fruit loads the broken bough ; And in the wounds our sufferings plough. Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. ALLINGHAJiI. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autiimu's fire burns slowly along the woods. And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its nmods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve. Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes, It may be, .somewhat thus we shall have leave To waliv with memory, when distant lies Poor Earth, whore we were wont to live and grieve. 3H0 MACKAY. YOUTH AND SORROW. " Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright, My limbs are full of health and strength. My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light. So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! Consort with age, but not with me ; Why shouldst thou follow on my track 1 I am too young to live with thee." " foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend ! To harm thee wherefore should I seek 1 I would not dim thy sparkling eyes, Nor blight the roses on thy cheek. I would but teach thee to be true ; And should I press thee overmuch, Ever the flowers that I bedew Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch." " Get thee back. Sorrow, get thee back ! I like thee not ; thy looks are chill. The sunshine lies upon my heart. Thou showest me the shadow still. So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! Nor touch my golden locks with grey ; Why shouldst thou follow on rdy track ? Let me be happy while I may." " Good friend, thou needest sage advice ; I '11 keep thy heart from growing proud, I '11 fill thy mind with kindly thoughts. And link thy pity to the crowd. TOTTTH AXD SORROW. Woiildst have a heart of pulseless stone ? Wouldst be too happy to be good ! Xor make a human woe thine own, For sake of human brotherhood 1 " '•Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! Why should I weep while I am young t — I have not piped — I have not danced — yiy morning songs I have not sung : The world is beautiful to me, Why tarnish it to soul and sense 1 Prithee begone ! I '11 think of thee Some half a hundred winters hence." " foolish Youth, thou know'st me not ; I am the mistress of the earth — 'Tis / give tenderness to love ; Enhance the privilege of mirth; Befine the human gold from dross ; And teach thee, wormling of the sod. To look beyond thy present loss To thy eternal gain with God.'' • Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! I '11 learn thy lessons soon enough ; If virtuous pleasure smooth my way, Why shouldst thou seek to make it rough ? Xo fruit can ripen in the dark. No bud can bloom in constant cold — So, prithee, Sorrow, miss thy mai-k, Or strike me not till I am old." " I am thy friend, thy best of friends ; No bud in constant heats can blow — The green fruit withers in the drought, But ripens where the waters flow. 392 Wifm<' ^■:^ The sorrows of tlij^ youthful day Shall make thee wise in coming years ; The brightest rainljows ever play Ahove the fountains of our tears." Youth fi-owned, but Sori'ow gently smiled Upon his Iieart her hand she laid, And all its Ijidden syuipatliies Tlirulibcd to tlie liiigci's id' the Maid, And when his head grew grey with Time, He owned that Sorrow spidio tlic trutli, And that tjje liarvest of his [irime NVas ripened by the rains "f Youtii. FEANCES BKOWN. THE HOPE OF THE RESUREECTION. suggests;!) by the kemakk or ak ATKiciN chief to a missionary. Thy voice hath filled our forest shades^ Child of the suuless shore ! For never heard the ancient glades Such wondrous words before. Though bards our land of palms have filled With tales of joy or dread, — Yet thou alone our souls hast thrilled With tidiugs of her dead. The men of old, who slept in death Before the forests grew, Whose glory faded here beneath. While yet the hills were new, — The warriors famed in battles o'er. Of whom our fathers spake, — The wise, whose wisdom shines no more, — Stranger, will they awake ? The foes who fell in thoiisand fights Beneath my conquering brand, — Whose bones have strewn the Gaffer's heights. The Bushman's lonely land, — 394 The young, who shared my wai-rior-^TaT, But found an early urn, — And tlie roses of ray youtii's bright day- Straneer, nill they retnrn ? My motlier'.s face vras fair to see — My father's ghtuce Tvas bright. — But long ago the grave from me Hath hid their blessed light ; Still sweeter was the sunshine shed By my lost children's eyes. That beam upon me from the dead. Stranger, will they arise ', 395 THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION. Was it some green grave's early guest, Who loved thee long and well, That left the land of dreamless rest, Such blessed truths to tell ? For we have had our wise ones, too. Who feared not death's abyss, — T'he strong in hope, in love the true, — But none that dreamed of this ! Yet, if the grave restore to life Her ransomed spoils again, And ever hide the hate and strife That died with wayward men ; — How hath my spirit missed the star That guides our steps above ; — Since only earth was given to war, — That better land to love ! OWEN MEREDITH. THE NEGLECTED HEART. This heart, you would not have, I laid up in a grave Of song : with love en wound it ; And set sweet fancies blowing round it. Then I to other.s gave it ; Because you would not have it. " See you keep it well," I said ; " This heart 's sleeping — is not dead ; But will wake some future day : See you keep it while you may.'' All great Sorrows in the world, — Some with crowns upon their heads. And in regal purple furl'd ; Some with rosaries and beads ; Some with lips of scorning, curl'd At false Fortune ; some, in weeds Of mourning and of widowhood, Standing tearful and apart — Each one in his several mood. Came to take my heart. 397 THE NEGLECTED HEART. Then in holy ground they set it : With melodious weepings wet it : And revered it as they found it, With wild fancies blowing round it. And this heart (you would not have) Being not dead, tho' in the grave, Work'd miracles and marvels strange, And heal'd many maladies : Giving sight to seal'd-tip eyes, And legs to lame men sick for change. The fame of it grew great and greater. Then said you, "Ah, what's the matter? How hath this heart, I -would not take, This weak heart, a child might break — This poor, foolish heart of his — Since won worship such as this 1 " You bethought you then . . . "Ah me. What if this heart, I did not choose To retain, hath found the key Of the kingdom ? and I lose A great power 1 Me he gave it : Mine the right, and I will have it." Ah, too late ! For crowds exclaim'd, " Ours it is : and hath been claim'd. Moreover, where it lies, the spot Is holy ground : so enter not. None but men of mournful mind — Men to darken'd days resign'd ; Equal scorn of Saint and Devil ; Poor and outcast ; halt and blind ; Exiles from Life's golden revel 398 OWEN MEREDITH. Gnawing at the bitter rind Of old gfiefs ; or else, confined In proud cares, to seiTe and grind, — May enter : whom this heart shall cure. But go thou by : thou art not poor : Nor defrauded of thy lot : Bless thyself : but enter not ! " THE END. LONDON : FEINTED BY RICHARD ClAY, BEEAD STEEEl' Hltl.. IMMMRMRSIBIflGIITTTA. '