AND OTHER POEMS 
 
A>ltf Irpf/ 
 
 f/P/i9^^ 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5834.W98Z2 
 
 Zaimoxis, and other poems. 
 
 3 1924 013 572 908 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013572908 
 
Z ALMOXIS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 JAMES H. WILSON. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 1892. 
 
^A1^<o^ 
 
TO • 
 ROBERT SPENCE WATSON, LL.D., 
 
 AND 
 
 ELIZABETH SPENCE WATSON, 
 
 to whose encouragement to work (most given when 
 
 most needed) I owe so much, this volume is ivith 
 
 much gratitude and affection inscribed. 
 
 J. H. II'. 
 
 March 1st, 1692. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MOONLIGHT 
 
 ZALMOXIS 
 
 TWO FIGUBES AT DELPHI - 
 
 GANYMEDE 
 
 CALYPSO - 
 
 MACARIA 
 
 ORESTES - 
 
 HECUBA - 
 
 BLOISA, ABBESS 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OP MYCERINUS 
 
 IGHABOD 
 
 SUICIDE IN DURHAM GAOL 
 
 WILLIAM PEPPER , 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 3 
 
 19 
 34 
 
 38 
 44 
 49 
 56 
 59 
 70 
 75 
 78 
 81 
 
vi. CONTETrS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FIRST WIFE 84- 
 
 COMRADES y,S 
 
 THE CAVERN" 91 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 94 
 
 CURFEWTIDE 96 
 
 DAYBllEAK 100 
 
 THE LAST DREAM 102 
 
 ON THE BOKDERS. 
 
 THE fairies' glen AT MELROSE 103 
 
 DRYBUEGH 105 
 
 COLDSTREAM 108 
 
 THE JED 110 
 
 THE BOWMONT 115 
 
 THE TWEED 119 
 
 KIRK YETHOLM 123 
 
 ELSIE SHAW 127 
 
 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 I. PRELUDE 136 
 
 II. TRUST 137 
 
 III. WORDS 138 
 
 IV. ALWAYS 139 
 V. SOMETIMES 140 
 
CONTENTS. vii. 
 CLODS OF THE YAl^-LFTi-Coniinw^L 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vi. how long 141 
 
 vii. forebodings 142 
 
 viii. winter come 143 
 
 ix. the village 145 
 
 x. the torrent 147 
 
 xi. the storm - 148 
 
 xii. the sukbeam 1.50 
 
 xiii. the dark road - 151 
 
 xiv. outpourings 1 ,53 
 
 xv. the mountains 15.5 
 
 xvi. the dream 157 
 
 xvii. miswandbred 159 
 
 xviii. listen 160 
 
 xix. winter gone 161 
 
 xx. side by side 162 
 
 l'envoi 164 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 From KEENER : — 
 
 THE RICHEST PRINCE 169 
 
 THE TWO TOMBS 171 
 
 THE OLD HOME 173 
 
viii. CONTENTS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS— C'oTi^mMffZ. 
 
 From LENAU :— p^gk 
 
 the postillion 175 
 
 From HEINE:— 
 
 Nacht lag auf meinen Augen 179 
 
 Aus meinen Thrdnen spriessen 182 
 
 Du hist 21'ie eine Blume 183 
 
 Sie hahen heut' Abend Gesellschaft 184 
 
 From EICHENDORFF :— 
 
 In einem kiihlen Grunde 185 
 
 From UHLAND :— 
 
 JUs zogen drei JBurschen wohl Uber den 
 
 Bhein 187 
 
 From WILHELM MULLER :— 
 
 Am Brunnen vor dem Thore - 189 
 
 From FREILIGRATH :— 
 
 lieV so lange du liehen Jcunnst 191 
 
 From MOSCHUS : - 
 
 bion, a loving herdsman 194 
 
 From BION :— 
 
 adonis 207 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Above those hills and toward that stream 
 Whose waters murmur soft and low, 
 
 Lost in a long unwaking dream 
 Alone with falling steps I go. 
 
 Mysterious voices whisper uigli, 
 And fill my soul with joy divine. 
 
 " Thine is the world of dreams " they cry, 
 "And youth and song and love are thiue." 
 
 But if I cry : "0 ever stay, 
 Companions of a lonely heart ! " 
 
 The shadows darkly pass away ; 
 
 The voices cease ; the forms depart. 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The glory of that dream is o'er. 
 
 I follow with beseeching eyes, 
 To where lamenting evermore 
 
 The river dark and bridgeless lies. 
 
 The moaning night wind calls around. 
 
 I wake. Far off the woods are still — 
 The shadows in soft slumber drowned — 
 
 The moonlight dreaming on the hill. 
 
 The moonlight falls in beauty there, 
 
 Where all is beautiful and blest. 
 And seems to fade on wings of air, 
 
 Beneath the window of thy rest. 
 
 And then I know my weak song hath 
 
 Thrilled thine own dreams with rapture deep, 
 
 Discovering some melodious path 
 
 Of entrance through the gates of sleep. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 
 
 Time— 500 B.C. 
 
 Scene — The country now called Eoumania. 
 
 The Thracians worship Zahnoxis, a runaway slave from 
 Samos. 
 
 LuciAN, (scornfally) . 
 
 What of that? a slave? I know it; slave am I, 
 
 and slave was he. 
 Yoii're from Athens, and a poet 1 Are songs only 
 
 for the free? 
 
i ZALMOXIS. 
 
 Why, I guessed you in a seconr], though my years 
 
 are near fourscore; 
 Poets — fools — I've always reckoned; noisy boasters, 
 
 nothing more. 
 
 Poets — full of wails and whimpers — doleful loves 
 
 and misty dreams — 
 Courtiug praise with girlish simpers — pouring odes 
 
 in floods and streams. 
 
 Odes to clouds and stars and thunder — windy 
 
 Muses hovering nigh — 
 What has Thrace worth Athens' wonder, which you 
 
 poets come to buy? 
 
 Athens — Athens — crammed with sages. — How you 
 
 talk and praise the place ! 
 Athens' thoughts are for the ages; we're barbarians 
 
 here in Thrace. 
 
 What can Thrace tell such a city? — (though 'twas 
 
 here that Orpheus dwelt, 
 Whose sweet lyre by power of pity made the heart 
 
 of Hades melt. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 5 
 
 Ev'n in death his sorrow stirred him; still he 
 
 called his twice-lost bride — 
 Till these Thracian rocks which heard him Ah 
 
 Eurydice ! replied.)* 
 
 Dreary fables ! (Dotards love them.) Myths for 
 
 Attic bards to sing ! 
 Think, my soul ! what heights above them, in his 
 
 beauty stands ow King. 
 
 Not your goat-god. Pan the giver — not your 
 
 Phoebus, called divine, — 
 Not your Nymphs of wood and river — nor wild 
 
 Bacchus,! flushed with wine — 
 
 * In Virgil's description of the lament for Eurydice, 
 this particular nation is specially mentioned by name : 
 
 flSrunt Ehodopeioe arces, 
 Altaque Pangoea, et Ehesi Mavortia tellus 
 Atque Getie, atque Hebrus, atque Actias Orithyia. 
 
 Georgio iv. 461-3. 
 
 t The Scythians upbraid the Greeks for holding festivals 
 to Bacchus, and say it is shocking to believe in a god who 
 drives men to madness and frenzy. 
 
 Hebodgtus, lib. iv., cap. 79. 
 
6 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 But a god, these gods transcending, who in deep 
 
 compassion gave 
 To rude hearts a hope unending ; — yet himself a 
 
 man — a slave. 
 
 Ah ! your wish % 'twas no derision ? then forgive 
 
 my speech uncouth, 
 You shall hear how first the vision came upon me 
 
 in my youth ; — 
 
 When his own lips told the story, — how he woke 
 
 and left the dead. 
 And the skies were flames of glory, and the 
 
 Autumn woods were red. 
 
 Here he lived — a man with mortals. In these 
 
 lanes and streets he taught. 
 That there waits behind death's portals fuller joy 
 
 beyond our thought. 
 
 Eoses at the storm's subsidence sunwards turn 
 
 with eyelids wet, — 
 So — our dark minds to the guidance of his perfect 
 
 life we set. 
 
ZALiWXIS. 7 
 
 On from height to height he took us — night behind 
 
 and day hefore; 
 But he failed us and forsook us, closed his lips 
 
 and taught no more. 
 
 When each year, its slow coui"se keeping, brought 
 
 again that day of doom, 
 All the land with sound of weeping watclied and 
 
 gathered round his tomb. 
 
 On this third gi-eat fast I wandered from the noisy 
 
 crowds apart. 
 Through the woods alone, and pondered all his 
 
 teachings in my heart; 
 
 Till I turned, (a voice was calling) and a stranger 
 
 by me stood. 
 Long we talked. The leaves were falling, and the 
 
 birds sang through the wood. 
 
 And I told what pain had stung us — why this day 
 
 for grief was kept — 
 One we loved, who walked among us, now three 
 
 years in darkness slept. 
 
8 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 Questions more — and more replying — till he bade 
 
 me answer sooth, 
 If we knew, past all denying, that this man was 
 
 dead in truth. 
 
 All at onoe strange thoughts possessed me, and I 
 
 turned my head aside. 
 But persistent long he pressed me, asking thrice 
 
 ere I replied. 
 
 ''Master" — then — (my eyes -svere filling) "see, the 
 
 fading woods are red. 
 Autumn comes with footstep chilling. All my 
 
 thoughts are with the dead. 
 
 " Speak and tell me, I implore thee ; where these 
 
 three years hast thou dwelt? 
 ilaster, see, I kneel before thee." (Low then at 
 
 his feet I knelt.) 
 
 " We shall follow all thou bid'st us. Stay on 
 
 earth, and leave the dead. 
 Dwell again, dear lord, amidst us. Drink our wine 
 
 and eat our bread," 
 
ZALMOXIS. 9 
 
 Poet, days and nights were numbered, ere they 
 
 found me in that wood — 
 Where, they said, in trance I slumbered — heard 
 
 them not — nor understood. 
 
 But in truth my soul had drifted into thoughts 
 
 beyond their reach — 
 By the strength o' the god uplifted, and the 
 
 largeness of his speech. 
 
 Days and nights ! but never heeding glare of 
 
 noon nor midnight dim — 
 Only knew his hand was leading, and my feet 
 
 were following him. 
 
 Only prayed, (and this with weeping): "Master, 
 
 bring thy guests with thee. 
 Call the dead and bound and sleeping. Shout to 
 
 wake them. Set Ihem free.'' 
 
 Poet, when the shores are barest, comes the tide 
 
 with weeds and foam ; — 
 When the leaves and flowers are rarest, reapers 
 
 bring their harvest home ; — 
 
10 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 So, to me — old, weak, forsaken — still he comes and 
 
 whispers low. 
 Oft at dead of night I waken. Forth into the 
 
 dark I go. 
 
 And I feel the god is near me, and I fill tlie 
 
 streets with cries. 
 
 Till the startled sleepers hear me — from their beds 
 
 the slumberers rise. 
 
 One by one strange sights come to me, and the 
 
 rapt crowd breathless stands, 
 For tliey know the god speaks through me, when 
 
 I shout and stretch my hands: 
 
 " Who are these so pale and trembling, scourged 
 and goaded throvigh the street? 
 
 Cursing crowds like wolves assembling — jeering 
 mouths and trampling feef? 
 
 "Shall I moclv you, bruised and panting, young- 
 eyed martyrs for the truth 1 
 
 Onward — courage — no recanting. Strength befits 
 the years of youth. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 11 
 
 " Sons, I come to die beside you. Comrades, press 
 
 your lips to mine. 
 Take my hand in yours to guide you, straight 
 
 through death to the divine. 
 
 " From earth's tumult and affliction, human hate 
 
 and writhing rod, 
 To the peace and benediction and the dear smile 
 
 of the god. 
 
 " Never give me tears for liisses. No soul's hope 
 
 was yet destroyed. 
 Ne'er one life its purpose misses. No man's death 
 
 is waste and void. 
 
 "Woman in the darkness weeping, cease that pierc- 
 ing cry of pain. 
 
 Close thy swollen eyes for sleeping. Springtime's 
 joys shall come again. 
 
 "What? A tvoman's smile undid thee? lured thine 
 
 own love from thy breast? 
 Seek no vengeance. / forbid thee. Only fold thine 
 
 hands and rest ; — 
 
12 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 "Fearing not the blind worm's fretting, nor Corrup- 
 tion's wasting tooth, 
 
 For the sweet gift of forgetting loves which can- 
 kered in their youth. 
 
 "Oh the darkness! oh the sleepers! Shall they 
 
 wake not when we call? 
 Sing your song's commencement, reapers. Summer 
 
 goes. The brown leaves fall. 
 
 "What! Old man? so gaunt and shrunken? bone- 
 heap flung aside to die? 
 
 Palsied limbs and cheeks deep sunken — who and 
 what and whence am I? 
 
 "Why, thy son — thy child^— thy daughter, on thy 
 
 knees in old times nursed. 
 Drink, my father! Here is water in abundance for 
 
 thy thirst. 
 
 " Shrink not when sharp pangs assail thee. Fear 
 
 not that last gasp for breath. 
 Not for weakness shall I fail thee — not for any 
 
 pains of death. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 13 
 
 " ^Mother, in old ago neglected — left in darkness — 
 
 cast away — 
 (Once tliine arms a child protected. Ou thy breast 
 
 a sweet son lay). 
 
 "Old and sick — yet vmforgetting — lift thy failing 
 
 eyes to me. 
 By these tears thy white hair wetting — speak — 
 
 forgive me. I am he. 
 
 "Who art thou with loud repenting, beating at the 
 
 doors of graves ? 
 Waste no more this wild lamenting. Thou art 
 
 mad. Thy white mouth raves. 
 
 " Hark ! I call — my voice is soothing — they have 
 
 heard — they will not stay — 
 And the daylight's hands are smoothing every print 
 
 of death away. 
 
 "Lie in tombs no more — forsaken — lost to life, and 
 
 deaf to love. 
 Else. Unfold your hands and waken. See the 
 
 dawn. It breaks above. 
 
U ZALMOXIS. 
 
 "Come and bring your dear' dead faces — move — and 
 
 smile — and talk — and see. 
 Come and walk in sheltered places through the 
 
 Autumn woods with me. 
 
 "Oh the daylight! oh the sleepers! Look I They 
 
 come. They were not dead. 
 Sing your song's conclusion, reapers. Harvest glows. 
 
 The woods are red." 
 
 Then I hear the listeners talking: " 'Tis the 
 
 slave who loved the god. 
 Hand in hand together walking, once the forest 
 
 paths they trod. 
 
 " Three long years the god had slumbered. 
 
 Then he woke and left the dead. 
 Eight and fifty years are numbered, and the 
 
 Autumn woods were red." 
 
 Then I shout in exultation, — then I dance and 
 
 leap and sing, — 
 And he hides my desolation in the shadows of his 
 
 wing. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 15 
 
 And the whole crowd joins unbidden,- and they 
 
 leap and dance with me — 
 Singing of the clear life hidden by the darkened 
 
 life we see. 
 
 Still I lead with shout and gesture, and my heart 
 
 grows young and gay. 
 And my years drop like a vesture, which men 
 
 fold and put away. 
 
 Till at last the god forsakes me, and my lips are 
 
 sealed by sleep. 
 When the next day's dawn awakes me, patient to 
 
 the fields I creep. 
 
 Slave again — old tasks fulfilling — now my feet the 
 
 wine-press tread, — 
 Now ray hands the soil are tiJliug, — now I grind 
 
 the corn for bread. 
 
 But despite the toil and distance, 1 shall yet see 
 
 face to face 
 Him whose fathomless existence deep in all Earth's 
 
 signs I trace — 
 
16 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 Present in the \Yhite sun's burning, in the valley's 
 
 flashing streams, 
 In the daylight's soft returning, in the dimness of 
 
 our dreams. 
 
 Yes ! The slave is god. I know it. And my 
 
 slave's heart bursts in flame. 
 Tell them all in Athens, poet. Spread abroad 
 
 Zalmoxis' name. 
 
 Not Poseidon, nor Apollo — Zeus above, and Dis 
 
 below. 
 Thracians knoiv the god they follow. Tell the 
 
 Athenian sages so. 
 
 [And before Darius reached the Ister, he first subdued 
 the Getans, who believe in inunortaUty. Now the Thracians 
 who hold Salmydessus, and those who dwell above ApoUonia 
 and the city of Mesambria, and those who are called 
 Scyrmianians, and Nypsoeans, submitted to Darius without 
 fighting. But the Getans, who are the most heroic and 
 upright of all the Thracians, made a stubborn resistance 
 before being conquered. 
 
ZALMOXIS. 17 
 
 And this is the sort of belief they have about im- 
 mortality ; they think that they will never themselves die, — 
 but that when one of them dies, he has gone to be with 
 the god, Zalmoxis, whom some believe to be the same as 
 
 Gebeleizes These are the same Thraoians, who 
 
 shoot arrows at the sky, when it thunders, as if threatening 
 then- god; — and they fuUy believe that there is no other 
 god but theirs. 
 
 Now as far as I could learn from the Greeks inhabiting 
 the Hellespont and the Euxine, this Zalmoxis was himself 
 ■ft man, and Uved in slavery at Samos under Pythagoras 
 son of Mnesarohus; but having obtained his liberty, and 
 acquired great wealth, he returned to his native land. There 
 he found the Thracians leading evil lives, and grossly 
 ignorant. But Zalmoxis himself had been accustomed to 
 the Ionian mode of life, and to manners superior to those 
 of the Thraoians, such as were in vogue with the Greeks, 
 and with his master, Pythagoras, who was not the feeblest 
 sage of Greece. 
 
 He therefore prepared a, large chamber, to which he 
 invited the leading men of the cities, and gave them every 
 entertainment, and taught them, that neither he himself, 
 nor they, his guests, nor even any of their descendants, 
 should ever die; — but that they would go to a land where 
 they would dwell for ever, in the enjoyment of all blessings. 
 
 Now while he acted in this way, and taught these 
 things, he was at the same time building a subterranean 
 house ; and when the house was finished, he disappeared 
 from the Thracians. And having gone down into his house 
 under the ground, he lived there three years. 
 
18 ZALMOXIS. 
 
 But they were much distressed, and mourned for him, 
 supposing him to be dead. But in the fourth year he 
 appeared to the Thracians.. 
 
 Then they believed those things which Zalmoxis had 
 told them. 
 
 These are the things which they say that he did. 
 
 For my own part, I do not dispute the story about 
 this man and his subterranean house; at the same time 
 1 have no strong faith in it; but I certainly think that this 
 Zalmoxis must have lived many years before Pythagoras. 
 But whether there ever was such a man as Zalmoxis, or 
 whether he is simply the god whom the Getans worship, 
 I have now iinished with him. 
 
 These people then, who hold this belief, were subdued 
 by the Persians, and followed the army with the rest. 
 
 Heeobotus, lib. iv., cap. 94-96.] 
 
 Although " Zamolxis" is the spelling generally received, 
 that adopted in the text is thought to be a nearer approach 
 to the original name. See Falconer's notes to his translation 
 of Strabo. 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 
 
 As NARRATED BY SOLON TO CrcESUS, KiNG OP LyDIA. 
 
 With the tumult of great shouting long the temple's 
 
 walls did ring. 
 Well was done the deed, past doubting. (I myself 
 
 was there, O king.) 
 
 " Happy mother," all exclaiming — " since such sons 
 
 obey thy voice; — 
 When her heroes Greece is naming, let her heart 
 
 for these rejoice." 
 
20 TWO FIGURED AT DELPHI. 
 
 Then the lady smiling proudly; "Argive sons and 
 
 daughters, hear; 
 Ye applaud my sons so loudly; (truly Argos holds 
 
 them dear.) 
 
 " Lo, I ask the gods above them, that their deed 
 
 this day be blessed. 
 Tell me, ye who praise and love them, of the gods' 
 
 gifts which were best." 
 
 Then while all the people wavered, doubting much 
 
 what choice to make, 
 Forth stepped one by Fortune favoured, richly 
 
 robed, who gaily spake. 
 
 "Ask for life;" he urged upon her; "Pray for years 
 
 that they may live. 
 Youth for joy and age for honour — these the best 
 
 gifts gods can give. 
 
 " Oh the mirth of youth ! the madness ! Fill the 
 
 goblets. Joy is free. 
 Bacchus comes to crown our gladness. Bacchus is 
 
 the god for glee. 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 21 
 
 "Hark! the music louder swelling — Oh the harp, 
 
 the singer's voice ! 
 Troops of guests come to our dwelling. Comrades, 
 
 lovers, friends rejoice. 
 
 " Life is sweet. May life be lengthened through 
 bright paths for pleasure made. 
 
 Pray thou that their youth be strengthened, and 
 the steps of age delayed." 
 
 Thus, the praise of life declaring, freely he his 
 
 counsel gave. 
 Next spake one, renowned for daring — bold as 
 
 Ajax, proud and brave : 
 
 " Ask not years for vacant pleasure. Courage is 
 
 life's noblest crown. 
 Strength is man's sublimest treasure. Valour clothes 
 
 him with renown. 
 
 " Oh the shout, to battle calling ! chariot-crash and 
 
 warriors slain ! 
 (Native land ! See tyrants falling. We have saved 
 
 thee. Smile again.) 
 
22 TWO FIGUBES AT DELPHI. 
 
 " Homewards then, the trophies bringing ;— see the 
 
 frantic crowd's delight — • 
 All the world, with praises ringing, hails the victors 
 
 from the fight. 
 
 " Who are these with blood-stained vesture, foremost 
 
 of the conquering ones. 
 Bold of front and proud of gesture? . . . Lady, 
 
 these shall be thy sons." 
 
 Thus he praised the brave man's daring, and the 
 
 people's heart grew glad. 
 Next spake one of feeble bearing, hollow-cheeked 
 
 and meanly clad : 
 
 "What is fame? the torch we kindled bums its 
 
 heart's own life away. 
 All the warriors' deeds have dwindled. All the 
 
 thoughts of kings decay. 
 
 " Strength for brutes ;— the oxen need it, and the 
 
 slaves that dig and grind. 
 Thought and Reason far exceed it, — Knowledge, 
 
 Wisdom, power of Mind. 
 
TWO FIGUBES AT DELPHI. 23 
 
 "If with these thy sons be gifted — lady, they shall 
 
 search and know 
 How the great hills were uplifted — whence the 
 
 mighty rivers flow. 
 
 " How the loud storm rolls its thimder, and the 
 
 white flash flies afar, — 
 How the rosebuds burst asunder, and the light 
 
 comes to the star. 
 
 "How the clouds, in bright showers breaking, on 
 the parched fields pattering fall, — 
 
 How the winds, like ghosts awaking, through the 
 woods at twilight call. 
 
 "How the daylight glory lingers round the hill-tops 
 
 of the west, — 
 How the dawn with rosy fingers wakes the shepherd 
 
 from his rest. 
 
 "How the seed, its thin sheath rending, in the 
 
 black gloom spreads its root — 
 Then to sunlight slow ascending waves high boughs 
 
 and leaves and fruit. 
 
24 TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 
 
 "How the stork in fir-trees hiding for her young a 
 
 nest hath spread, — 
 How the worm with dull brain guiding in the 
 
 darkness makes its bed. 
 
 " How the flowers derive their sweetness, — and the 
 
 small bees bear in mind 
 All through summer's long completeness, bitter 
 
 days must come behind. 
 
 "How the wild young birds are fashioned, sailing 
 
 high on slender wing, 
 How they pour their songs impassioned, when the 
 
 green earth wakes in spring. 
 
 "How the babe, though small we found him, day 
 by day in growth expands. 
 
 Whether Scythian snows surround him, or the sun- 
 scorched Libyan sands. 
 
 "Whence came man through all the ages — what the 
 
 Persian thinks, or Mede — 
 Or what old Assyrian sages carved on stones for 
 
 men to read. 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 25 
 
 "Beauteous form, yea shapen finely — face to dream 
 
 of — eyes of flame — 
 And a voice which cries divinely ' From the gods — 
 
 the gods — I came.' 
 
 " See his works — the bridge — the city — noble statues 
 
 — temples fair; — 
 Then his soul — what wrath and pity — song and 
 
 discord — hope — despair. 
 
 "If the gods should grant these brothers power 
 
 such secrets to discern, 
 Write them on the rocks that others in all future 
 
 times may learn. 
 
 "Let them make their wise inscriptions, as the 
 
 priests and magi did 
 For the kings of the Egyptians, slumbering in 
 
 the pyramid. 
 
 "Till high wisdom shall be treasxu:ed, pomp and 
 
 wealth accounted nought. 
 And the meanest life be measured by the greatness 
 
 of its thought." 
 
26 TWO FWUBES AT DELPHI. 
 
 Then he ceased, his white face glowing for neglected 
 
 Learning's sake. 
 Last, a youth, with long hair flowing, and large 
 
 dreaming eyes thus spake : 
 
 "Lady, pause a while, and hearken, ere thy prayer 
 
 be past recall. 
 Autumn grows. The sweet days darken. What is 
 
 knowledge after all ? 
 
 " When the brain which learned and wondered 
 
 crumbles into senseless earth, 
 When the soul and flesh are sundered, what is all 
 
 this wisdom worth? 
 
 " Oh the wine, the lamps, the laughter ! but the 
 
 slaves toil in the sun. 
 What becomes of man thereafter, when both feast 
 
 and toil are done ? 
 
 " Should his sweetest friend and lover by his bed 
 
 lamenting stand, 
 And his cheeks with kisses cover, would he speak 
 
 and wave his hand ? 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 27 
 
 "Shall the noise of arrows shake him, when the 
 
 foes are in the field ? 
 Doth his children's weeping wake him, when his 
 
 mouth and ears are sealed ? 
 
 " If we cried : ' friend, thou starvest. See the 
 
 pleasant banquet spread, 
 And the meUow fruits of harvest;' — would he 
 
 smile and turn his head? 
 
 " Oh the love ! the long embraces ! Oh the bUss ! 
 
 the deep content ! 
 What becomes of all sweet faces, when the last 
 
 sweet smile is spent? 
 
 " Oh the wine ! the dance ! the chorus ! shout and 
 
 revel unrestrained ! 
 Tell us now what lies before us, when the wine's 
 
 last drop is drained. 
 
 "Lady, let the gift thou cravest for thy sons whom 
 
 all extol, 
 (Fairest youths and best and bravest) be renewed 
 
 life for the soul. 
 
28 TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 
 
 " Hence with death ! No pile's fierce firing ! Raise 
 
 no mounds and break no sods. 
 Utmost Hfe is our desiring — life, the raiment of 
 
 the gods ! 
 
 " Vaster life than man's dull dreaming — mingling 
 
 with the far immense — 
 Softly in the star's light gleaming — in the tempest's 
 
 voice intense ; 
 
 " At the dayspring's purple portal — 'mid the cham- 
 bers of the deep, 
 
 Breathing breath of youth immortal — if they waken 
 — if they sleep. 
 
 "Life to fail and sicken never — calm and godlike, 
 
 wide and free — 
 Ask for life which flows for ever as the waters fill 
 
 the sea." 
 
 When he ceased, the people gazing stood a space, 
 
 and no one spoke. 
 Till her voice the lady raising, calmly thus the 
 
 silence broke : 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 29 
 
 " ye gods for ever living, whilst all time its 
 
 circle runs, 
 
 Whate'er gift of all your giving is your best — give 
 
 to my sons." 
 
 Then with merry noise retiring, to their games the 
 
 people went — 
 Sport and pleasant song desiring, all that day in 
 
 joy they spent. 
 
 But while these the feast were keeping, I myself 
 
 withdrew to look, 
 Where those tired youths now lay sleeping in the 
 
 temple's shadiest nook. 
 
 Faces such as heaven-born sculpture strives with 
 
 cunning hand to make 
 For dark places of sepulture and for dreaming 
 
 memory's sake. 
 
 Soft white feet and limbs well moulded, twining 
 
 lightly in their rest, 
 Arms about each other folded — face to face, and 
 
 breast to breast. 
 
30 TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 
 
 Now as if the distant shouting caught their ears 
 
 from hill and vale — 
 Now as though disturbed by doubting ' shall we 
 
 win or must we fail?' 
 
 And the younger murmured : " Brother, are we 
 
 near? Shall all be well?" 
 So they woks and kissed each other and once more 
 
 to sleep they fell. 
 
 But at last the sun descended through red flames 
 
 which round him rolled, 
 'Twas the hour when sports are ended, shepherds 
 
 lead their flocks to fold. 
 
 Then the joyous crowd advancing to the temple 
 
 came once more — 
 Came with harp and song and dancing — (garlands 
 
 in their hands they bore.) 
 
 Song. 
 
 Brothers, wake. The day is sinking ; 
 
 And the gods have heard the prayer. 
 Here are wine-cups for your drinking — 
 
 Laurels for your brows to wear. 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 31 
 
 Waken to the voice of singing. 
 
 Waken to the setting sun. 
 Crowns of lilies love is bringing. 
 
 All our merry games are done. 
 
 Soon shall stars their watch be keeping. 
 
 Soon abroad shall nightwinds roam. 
 'Whilst we revelled, ye were sleeping. 
 
 Waken for the gathering home. 
 
 But no answer these did make them, till anon the 
 
 people wept — 
 Calling all the gods to wake them, but they lay 
 
 and smiled and slept. 
 
 Then I spake myself unfearing, as a Greek should 
 
 talk with Greeks : 
 " Sons of Argos, give me hearing. Solon the 
 
 Athenian speaks. 
 
 "Glory of the valorous-hearted — splendour of the 
 
 fighter's fame — 
 High renown by song imparted — honour to the 
 
 wise man's name — 
 
32 TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 
 
 " Every good by life intended — all its joys and 
 
 meanings deep — ■ 
 In the gods' best gift are blended — whom they 
 
 love receiving sleep. 
 
 "Cease your tears, not worth the shedding. Wail 
 
 not in this sacred place. 
 See the smile divinely spreading on each sleeper's 
 
 radiant face. 
 
 "On them both, the light still shining, whilst without 
 
 the world grows dim — 
 Never break that soft entwining— hand from hand 
 
 and limb from limb. 
 
 " Choose a spot where trees grow shady — where the 
 bird's wild voice beguiles . . . ." 
 
 Then came whispers Hiish 1 the lady ! 
 
 ********* 
 So I left them . . . (tears and smiles) ! 
 
 [Cleobis and Biton were Argivea by birth, and enjoyed an 
 ample fortune and such superiority oJ bodily strength that 
 they had both of them been crowned as conquerors at the 
 
TWO FIGURES AT DELPHI. 33 
 
 public games. And this is the story that is told about them. 
 When the Argives were holding a feast to Juno, it was 
 specially important that their mother should be conveyed 
 in her chariot to the temple. But the oxen did not arrive 
 from the field in time. Then these youths, putting them- 
 selves under the yoke, drew the chariot, in which their 
 mother was seated ; — and after a journey of forty-five furlongs, 
 they arrived at the temple. 
 
 Then after they had done this, and the deed had been 
 witnessed by the whole of the multitude that was assembled 
 for the feast, their lives were terminated in a most auspicious 
 manner ; — and by the fate of these young men, the deity 
 plainly showed, that death is a far greater blessing to man 
 than life. 
 
 For the Argive men who stood round praised the 
 strength of the youths ; and the Argive women congratu- 
 lated their mother, that she had brought up such children. 
 And the mother, being greatly delighted both with the 
 deed itself, and the glory which had followed it, stood 
 before the shrine and prayed that the deity would grant to 
 Cleobis and Biton, her two sons, whatever gift was the best 
 which could be bestowed on mankind. 
 
 And after this prayer, when the sacrifices had been 
 offered, and the feasting was over, these young men lay 
 down to sleep in the temple itself. 
 
 But they never rose again, and in this way ended their 
 lives. 
 
 And the Argives caused images to be made of them, 
 and set them up at Delphi, as of men who deserved to be 
 honoured. 
 
 Hebodotcs, lib. i., cap. 31.] 
 
GANYMEDE. 
 
 Zeus. 
 
 What see'st thou, Ganymede, my little slave ? 
 Why stand'st thou at the portal, gazing long? 
 
 Ganymede. 
 
 I see the green earth far below my feet 
 Make ready for the vintage. Let me go. 
 
 Zeus. 
 
 The fields shall lose their beauty. Men will search 
 In vain thereon for aught save bitter herbs, 
 And leavings of the sickle. Do not weep. 
 
GANYMEDE. 35 
 
 Ganymede. 
 
 The voices of my comrades ! They explore 
 Mountain and cliff and crag, and call my name, 
 And cvirse thy dreaded eagle. Let me go. 
 
 Zeus. 
 
 Thou dost behold but shadows, and those sounds 
 Are only empty winds which fill thine ears. 
 
 Ganymede. 
 
 I am too young to be thy cupbearer. 
 I need my mother's face to comfort me. 
 My sister's voice is sweeter than the lyre 
 Of Hermes. Many are the friends I love. 
 
 Zeus. 
 
 Ev'n these in time shall perish — put away 
 With all the old dead winters. Weep no more. 
 
 Ganymede. 
 
 The splendour of these banquets chills my soul. ' 
 I tremble in the presence of the gods. 
 
36 GANYMEDE. 
 
 Thy thunder stuns me with its deafening roar. 
 I fear thy lightning, as the strayed lamb fears 
 The lean wolf's glittering eyeballs. Let me go. 
 
 Zeus. 
 
 Drink first of all this cup, sweet Ganymede. 
 
 It is the cup of parting, and will give 
 
 Thy young limbs strength through all thy perilous 
 
 flight 
 And long steep passage to the shadowy earth. 
 
 Ganymede drinks. 
 
 that my mouth were as a harp, to make 
 Strange music in the hearing of my king ! 
 The gates of life are opened ; new thoughts flow, 
 And crowd my mind, as bearers of bright lamps 
 Come, when day darkens, to some temple's doors. 
 
 Drinks again. 
 
 The pillars of this palace are of gold. 
 
 My steps are on the clouds. The tempest makes 
 
 Obeisance at my coming. When I filled 
 
 My horn with music, then the stars of heaven 
 
GANYMEDE. 37 
 
 Gathered to hear me ; and I took theh- flames 
 For fillets to my temples, and I wove 
 Their glimmering lights for girdle to my loins. 
 The darkness is my prey. I chase it far 
 With showers of crystal arrows. When I wake, 
 My chariot bears me on the winds of dawn 
 To usher in the sunrise .... 
 
 Stay — look there ! 
 Those pleading faces — sick as earthly hope 
 And pale as earthly passion ! They would lay 
 These halls in ruins. Drive them from the gates. 
 
 I poise the thunder on my small white palm. 
 I spread my limbs at evening on the wings 
 Of far-off sunsets ; ev'n the lightning fawns 
 About the naked gleaming of my feet. 
 ************ 
 
 Again they come ! They beckon ! They beseech ! 
 Who brought them to the feast? Who showed the 
 
 way ? 
 Why do they weep at banquets? Hear them not. 
 I know no Ganymeds, the sons of Tros. 
 Forbid their lingering. Tell them we are gods ! 
 
CALYPSO. 
 
 Calypso, when the gods had given decree 
 That she should hold no longer from his home 
 The hero, great Odysseus, sought his face. 
 And thus addressed him, using wingfed words : 
 
 "Odysseus, long before thou saw'st this isle, 
 
 I dwelt in peace among these woods and hills, 
 
 A goddess in my godlike solitude. 
 
 Thee by the hate of vengeful gods pursued, 
 
 And sinking in the storm, my pity saved. 
 
 Now I complete my bounty. I bestow 
 
 Life without end, and make thee as the gods. 
 
 Only be joyous. Only think no more 
 
 Of Ithaca. Forget the ancient days. 
 
CALYPSO. 39 
 
 "For, (hear me) — when the traitorous Sirens sang, 
 Thou did'st entreat thy mariners to unbind 
 The coiling cords — forgetful of thine home ; 
 Yet had thy will prevailed, thou long hadst lain 
 Unwept and tombless on the sea-washed rocks. 
 But my high gift is priceless, and my heart 
 Was ne'er perfidious ; (thou hast oft confessed) ; 
 And greater songs I know than ever sang 
 Siren, or Nymph, or that enchantress dire, 
 ^aean Circe in her marble halls. 
 I am of loftier lineage — fairer name — 
 Daughter of ancient Atlas, all-revered, 
 And surely worthy of a piortal's love. 
 
 " For mortals, howsoe'er renowned in life, 
 
 Yet in the end are driven with slavish steps 
 
 To dreary Hades — listening to the wail 
 
 Of sad Cocytus ; — light deserts their eyes. 
 
 But thine shall be undarkened ; thou shalt grow 
 
 In youth and strength and beauty through all 
 
 time ; — 
 In knowledge broadened and in kingly grace. 
 And radiant in thy presence as a god. 
 
40 CALYPSO. 
 
 I will attend thy footsteps — ceasing not 
 To fill thy cup with nectar ; thou shalt wear 
 Resplendent garments, and shalt comprehend 
 With a god's grasp the sources of the world, 
 The depth and centre of all wondrous things — 
 Of dawns and twilights and the song of birds. 
 
 "Odysseus, when I hear thy lips recite 
 
 The famous deeds done on the plains of Troy, 
 
 My famished soul is feasted with the soiuid ; 
 
 This lonely isle seems peopled, and I cry 
 
 Tlwu art a god already ; — often then. 
 
 These hills and forests and near-floating clouds, 
 
 Taking new shapes, have grown to my rapt gaze 
 
 The very walls of Ilion ; then I hear 
 
 The shout of armies, and in visible form 
 
 Achilles rises ; Hector's towering plume 
 
 Waves in the breeze ; Patroclus leads the fight, 
 
 Or peerless Ajax, son of Telamon ; 
 
 And high-born Helen on the walls I see, 
 
 And Priam bringing on his mule-drawn car 
 
 The countless ransom. 
 
 " Then, as day departs, 
 
CALYPSO. 41 
 
 Come darker scenes — tlie last, dread, fateful night — 
 Pallas exults ; Apollo is dismayed. 
 
 " Hatli thy voice ceased? Oli yes, for see— they 
 
 fade — 
 Those air-built phantoms, ships and tents and towers : 
 The battle's maddening music dies away. 
 Only the love-lorn nightingale's low call 
 Comes from the cedars, making soft accord 
 With the long rhythmic rollings of the sea. 
 
 This is Ogygia. Troy was but a dream." 
 
 She paused, and then Odysseus since he saw 
 The passion gathering in her face, replied : 
 " Immortal in thy beauty and thy days ! 
 I do not hold that none except the gods 
 Are deathless. In some sort I reckon man 
 Immortal also. In our sons we live. 
 For see mine heir, Telemachus, ev'n now 
 Perchance an exile, wastes his life in wo. 
 I must restore him to his kingly place, 
 Establishing a noble hue of chiefs 
 
42 CALYPSO. 
 
 For endless ages. For 'twere shame indeed 
 
 If any, speaking in the after-time, 
 
 Should tell how base Odysseus, house and race 
 
 Betrayed and bartered for the lustrous eyes 
 
 And rosy lips of godhood — (spousal gifts 
 
 Of bright Calypso). Thou, oh unsurpassed 
 
 In beauty and in moving and in voice. 
 
 Immortal always from thy lip's first breath. 
 
 Hold high thine heritage. Man must face night — 
 
 In toil and peril, and through cloudy death. 
 
 Keeping unmoved the purpose of his soul." 
 
 He ceased. The goddess awed withstood no more. 
 Then after four days' toil, a raft was built, 
 And when the fifth dawn touched Ogygian hills. 
 Forth sailed the hero, seeking his own shores. 
 
 With steadfast gaze Calypso watched the bark 
 Eising and falling on the restless wave, 
 Then climbed the highest peak of all the isle, 
 And marked with straining sight that faint dim 
 
 speck. 
 The wide-winged birds might reach it, (only they). 
 
CALYPSO. 43 
 
 Anon it vanished, swallowed in the mist, 
 But still Calypso watched the empty waves 
 Till the stars rose, and all the hills were dark. 
 
 Why should she weep ? The isle was all her own, 
 
 The forests and the mountains, and the seas. 
 
 Lifting their voices in one common song — 
 
 The sweet grot with its speaking silences. 
 
 The birds still loved her, and the flowers now dim 
 
 Would spread their folded leaves at next day's 
 
 dawn. 
 A dim speck on the ocean ! What was that 1 
 All that she now was, she had been before — 
 A goddess in her godlike solitude ! 
 
MAC ARIA. 
 
 Up from undated time they come, 
 The martyr souls of heathendom, 
 And to His cross and passion bring 
 Tlieir fellowship of suffering. 
 
 Whittiek. 
 
 AVheii all the oracles had given one voice 
 That nothing but a guiltless virgin's life 
 Uould save the city, and appease the gods — 
 Macaria, when she knew all hearts dismayed, 
 (Macaria, which being translated, means 
 The "blessed one") offered herself to death. 
 
 Then, while all waited silent for the priest, 
 One famed for fluent tongue assayed to speak, 
 But bruised his brave speech by his quavering 
 
 voice, 
 And said this only, ' Pray thou to the gods. 
 
.VACAEIA. 45 
 
 Then with these words he wakened deep desire 
 And yearning in Macaria's heart to speak. 
 As when a river, bound by winter's frost 
 In a long silence, wakes at last from sleep. 
 And melting at the potent call of Spring 
 Floods all the valley, filling it with sound — 
 So melted into speech Macaria's thoughts. 
 And overflowed in words, which ))rought relief : 
 " The gods ? oh never name them ! Wrong is done. 
 Truth is a trembling suppliant. Fraud exults. 
 The oppressor's throat is hoarse with bitter jest. 
 All day the sinless suffer ; and the priest 
 AValks in the temple ; and the gods are glad, 
 Heeding no victims. Take from me these shrines 
 And rites and incantations. I would speak 
 Only as children, sad to say last words 
 To fellow-children. All the ways of death 
 Are dark and searchless. Can the priest show 
 more? 
 
 " Hear these few wishes then, (0 bosom-friends. 
 Who gather at the parting of the ways, 
 Eeady with each last office) — build a tomb 
 Within the green wood's verge; it will not wrong 
 
46 MACAmA. 
 
 The gentle Dryads ; let the place be called 
 The 'Virgin's Best;' ye know the haunts I love 
 And in all seasons, how those woods are fair; — 
 Whether -when Summer makes the old trees gay, 
 Clothed to the girdle in full festive robes: 
 When Autumn drops its burden of sad leaves ; 
 Or Winter sweeps them to the drifting clouds^ 
 (Soon to descend, pale showers from paler skies) : 
 Or Spring approaches, and the warm winds kiss 
 The wings of swallows, and the barren boughs 
 Melt into leaf, as waves melt into foam. 
 
 " 'Tis nothing. Do not look so. If I paused. 
 
 Indeed I was not weeping. I but thought 
 
 How soon for me the gods have laid their hands 
 
 On all my seasons. As the harper smites. 
 
 The strings must answer. What can children do. 
 
 If night dismays them, and no friends are near ? 
 
 I pray you, if ye love me, gather still 
 
 In those old woods, and say on festal days. 
 
 One to another, ' Let us keep the feast. 
 
 And hold our merry-makings round her urn — 
 
 The Virgin's Rest,' and let the place resound 
 
MAC ASIA 47 
 
 With song and smitten cymbal and sweet lyre, 
 
 And fill the pauses of the music well 
 
 With happy greetings and auspicious words. 
 
 Forbid sad songs and thoughts. Let no one say : 
 
 ' Her eyes are dark. Our sister sees no more 
 
 The holy daylight,' — while content I sleep 
 
 In my small chamber, though scant room be left 
 
 For bidding guests to banquet, and no sound 
 
 Of showers that beat the roof, or bird which sings 
 
 Loud on the lintel, shall awake me more. 
 
 " And one word yet. I pray j'ou, hand this down 
 To children's children. Teach your little ones. 
 And if some prattlers doubt your tale — ' they thought 
 That only men with helmets on their hair 
 Saved cities ' — oh rebuke them not ! (tears come 
 So soon to little eyelids), — but reply : 
 ' Children, the heart's dust in this urn was once 
 Strong as the bow of Phoebus. They who die 
 For home and country have no cause to dread 
 The forces of the darkness. They shall walk 
 Through the deep shadow and shall fear no wrong. 
 And if with pangs of heart and life-blood drops 
 
4S MACASIA. 
 
 One tender maiden saved us, when the sword 
 And helmet failed, doubtless in her last hour 
 A glory as of sunrise wrapped her soul. 
 Or gods themselves came down with golden lamps, 
 Making death's darkness brighter than high noon.' " 
 
ORESTES. 
 
 For she too, though she was a Grecian woman, and the 
 daughter of the king of men, yet wept sometimes, and hid 
 her face in her robe. 
 
 De Quincey. 
 
 ojxjxa Oeicr ' 'iuTd) ireirXoyv 
 
 EUKIPIDES. 
 
 Bright and brighter ! how it falls 
 That sweet sun on these grey walls. 
 How the storm-cloiids and the gloom 
 For the blessfed light make room. 
 From my mind the darkness dies ; 
 From my brain the madness flies ; 
 Sister, raise my head awhile ; 
 T will talk, and you shall smile. 
 
50 OBESTES. 
 
 Brighter still ! it sends again 
 
 Summer memories through my brain ; 
 
 When in tender days, we two 
 
 Laughed and played, as children do, 
 
 And the sunshine round us spread 
 
 Showed us pleasant paths to tread. 
 
 In the woods sweet sounds were heard ; 
 
 In the woods dwelt every bird. 
 
 Up among the branches green, 
 
 Where the small brown nests were seen. 
 
 Biit the birds sang best of all 
 
 In oiie island, green and small. 
 
 In the stream that island stood. 
 
 Bright with flowers and thick with wood. 
 
 And we said in childish joy 
 
 That charmed spot was famous Troy. 
 
 xVt the edge where willows grew, 
 
 Stood the sacred walls, we knew. 
 
 And the tall reeds round the coast 
 
 Were the countless Troian host. 
 
 We were valiant heroes then — 
 
 Children of the king of men. 
 
ORESTES. 51 
 
 If we once that stream could ford, 
 Troy would tremble at our sword, 
 We wovild search each nook so green, 
 We would reign there — king and queen — 
 And would sing such pleasant words 
 lu the simshine with the birds. 
 
 So we waded, I and you, 
 Naked-limbed the waters through. 
 But midway your courage died. 
 "Brother, bear me back!" you cried. 
 Yo\i forgot your greatness then — 
 Daughter of the king of men. 
 Sharply then I blamed your fear : 
 ' Priam's sons your cries would hear. 
 How would Hector laugh for scorn, 
 And the chiefs in Ilium born ; 
 Our own heroes would deride, 
 Yea, the king, our father chide — 
 In his child dishonoured then, 
 Agamemnon, king of men. ' 
 
 Then you wept, because I chid ; 
 In your robe your face you hid : 
 
ORESTES. 
 
 (That small robe so white and fair, 
 Which in Argos children wear.) 
 
 Ah, you smile ! that mimic Troy 
 Soon we reached with shouts of joy. 
 And we sang there pleasant words 
 In the sunshine with the birds. 
 When we told our fancies wild 
 To our mother — hoiv she smiled ! 
 
 Mother Mother . (I forgot) 
 
 Furies — hence ! Approach me not. 
 Hideous hags with snake-twined hair, 
 Oet you iione — dei)ai-t — forbear. 
 Dismal faces, mad with wo, 
 Sick \vith I'.'irrow — let me n'o. 
 Savage scorpions, dread to name, 
 Tongues like swords, and eyes like flame, 
 (iursing mouths and scorching breath, 
 Hate and horror, 1)1 ood and death ! 
 Crawling monsters red with gore, 
 Writhing shapes, oh writhe no more. 
 Ravenous fangs ! that flesh is hot. 
 
ORESTES. 53 
 
 Hear it shriek ! oh, tear it not. 
 
 Shew no streaming wounds to me. 
 
 Close them. Hide them. Let tliem be. 
 
 If I sinned — if blood I spilt, 
 
 It was vengeance due to guilt. 
 
 His wronged ghost beset my path, 
 
 Filled my soul with sleepless wrath ; — 
 
 Then I did — oh what a deed ! 
 
 But the gods that crime decreed. 
 
 Would such deed had ne'er been done ! 
 
 No such mother ! no such son ! 
 
 Ah ! j-ou fade, as phantoms do ; — 
 Gone . past . vanished 
 
 Sister ? you ? 
 Why, I thought that far away 
 You had fled nor dared to stay. 
 Nay ? your arms were rouud mo 1 what 1 
 And you spoke ? I heard you n(jt. 
 Called me ' brother ' soft and low 1 
 Gentle girl, I did not know. 
 Fixed and stony, did yoa. see 
 Glaring eyes which glared on me ? 
 
54 OBESTES. 
 
 Pray the gods they come not back — 
 Foul and fierce and filthy black. 
 
 Yes, my talk is wild indeed. 
 
 I was sick. 'Tis sleep I need. 
 
 If I sleep, I shall forget. 
 
 Lean your face down — closer yet. 
 
 Are those tears, which mark your cheek? 
 
 Nay, I know. You need not speak. 
 
 Though, you fled not, when they came. 
 
 Though you stood here, all the same. 
 
 Yet you wept ; I know you did. 
 
 In your robe your face you hid : 
 
 (That large robe, so queenly fair. 
 
 Which in Argos, maidens wear.) 
 
 Daughter of the king of men, 
 
 Weep not. All is well again. 
 
 Yes, I'm wearied. Sleep at last ! 
 
 What good sleep brings ! all seems past. 
 
 Wake me if he comes. — If who? 
 
 Why, the King. I thought you knew. 
 
 Far in Troy — but you forget; 
 
 Such long years, and not come yet ! 
 
ORESTES. 55 
 
 I can scarcely hear you now. 
 
 Yes, draw nearer. Stroke my brow. 
 
 Tell the watchman when the ships — 
 
 No tears needed ! Kiss my lips. 
 
 If the King should come — the King — 
 
 Sister, how those birds do sing ! 
 Walk beside me on the shore. 
 Children cross the stream no more. 
 Deep and wide the waters rush . . . , 
 Let the birds sing .... Sister . . . hush. 
 
HECUBA. 
 
 Son of all my sons most dear, 
 Hear me but this once — nay, hear. 
 Tvirn not from my prayers away. 
 These are words I needs must say. 
 
 Three nights since, Cassandra came 
 To my couch and called my name. 
 Long she tallied of swords and graves, 
 Blazing homes and weeping slaves. 
 " T>;uiyliter, dnil-iitrrl art thou wild? 
 (iot thee to thy rest, my child. 
 Hector lives. The foe shall flee. 
 Hector fears not. Why should we ? '' 
 
IfECVBA. 
 
 Vaiu my words, while she distraught 
 Still in piercing tones besought : 
 " Ilion falls. The flames are hot. 
 Spare us. Spare us. Slay us not." 
 
 Hector, be thou ne'er so brave, 
 
 Mock not if my heart misgave. 
 
 Pallas with Achilles stands, 
 
 Gives him conquest in his hands. 
 
 Therefore, by the gods above. 
 
 By thy mother's fears and love, 
 
 By this bosom where my child 
 
 Lay in safety once and smiled, 
 
 By thy father's whitened hairs, 
 
 By thy young wife's grief and prayer's. 
 
 By the sons of strong-built 'I'roy, 
 
 Whom this wolf-heart shall destroy, — 
 
 Hear me. Hector, do not wait ; 
 
 Stand no more without the gate. 
 
 Let us seek A|icillo's shrine. 
 
 Bringing gifts and pouring wine. 
 
 If Troy's high defender heed. 
 
 If the kind gods have decreed, 
 
58 HECUBA. 
 
 On some happier-fated day, 
 This dread slaughterer thou shalt slay, 
 And the Argive ships shall yet 
 Sail to far-oif Argos set. 
 So shall Troy triumphant raise 
 Songs in all her gates of praise ; 
 So shall future bards proclaim, 
 Steeped in splendour Hector's name. 
 When our tale of grief is made, 
 None of thy great deeds shall fade. 
 Mixed -with all the woes we bear. 
 But renowned and good and fair — 
 Burdened much with tears and wrong. 
 But immortal made by song. 
 
ELOISA, ABBESS. 
 
 "Lord, when prostrate at Thine altars, i I confessed 
 
 my guilt and shame, 
 Wherefore would'st Thou not consume them iu 
 
 Thy spirit's fervent fiame ? " 
 
 " There's my soul's faith proved " I answered ; 
 
 "love like ours is hard to kill,^ 
 Through the fast and scourge and penance and 
 
 the black years burning still." 
 
60 ELOISA. 
 
 Then he penned that last epistle, (sadder message 
 
 could not be) : 
 " Write no more, for God forbids it,-' Write no 
 
 more, no more to me." 
 
 God, oh God, if wife and husband sitting in the 
 
 hearth-fire's light. 
 With the blessed children round them are found 
 
 worthy in Thy sight ; — 
 If for love's sake they are joyful, and at last come 
 
 to Thy rest, 
 Why are we for love's sake tortured, left in exile 
 
 and distressed ' 
 Doubtless, God, Thou art our ' Father, hast Thou 
 
 joy to hear us moan?* 
 ^lust our hearts to gain redemption freeze and 
 
 harden into stone ? 
 
 Oh my prince, my king, my teacher, are the old 
 
 times all forgot % 
 blaster, come ; the lamp is kindled. Come, for 
 
 God forbids it not. 
 Fling aside your cowl and cassock. Shake the 
 
 sandals from your feet. 
 
ELOISA. Gl 
 
 Come and sing the happy lovesongs'' which you 
 
 made when love was sweet. 
 Ere yoiu" flesh was worn with fasting,'^ ere your 
 
 face greAv white with pain, 
 Eve the sea-foam smote the convent-windows in 
 
 yoiu' wild Bretagne." 
 
 When I read fons amori.% (blessed saints, forgive 
 
 my sin !) 
 Or the nuns sing De profundis, your love-rhymes 
 
 come chiming in, 
 Till your voice drowns all the chanting,^ anil I 
 
 leave this dreary place, 
 And I feel your arms close round mc,'' and the 
 
 smile comes to my face. 
 Oh you love me ! how you love me ! and the 
 
 lanes are white in Mav, 
 And I pour my soul before you as in old times 
 
 far away. 
 
 Dropping on the sacred missal then my tears like 
 
 rivers flow.'" 
 Satan hath desired to have me. Satan sifts as 
 
 wheat I know. 
 
62 ELOISA. 
 
 De Profundis / De Profundis / from the depths ! 
 
 (the depths indeed !) 
 From the depths of all my sorrows — from the 
 
 depths of love and need. 
 
 But the nuns thinki^ : ' holy abbess ! 'tis her 
 
 heavenly home she sees. 
 Now its light her face transfigures. Now she weeps 
 
 on bended knees.' 
 
 Heaven ? oh yes. I saw heaven opened, waving 
 
 palms and jasper sea, 
 And the saved in bliss ecstatic far too rapt to look 
 
 tow'rds me. 
 But some women-saints beheld me and their eyes 
 
 grew soft and dim, 
 And they prayed to God Eternal : " Let her write 
 
 once more to him." 
 
 Ah, but Hell ! in Hell I wakened — chains and 
 
 darkness, hate and wrong — 
 Though I scarcely felt the torments — (I am used 
 
 to pain so long) ; 
 
ELOl^A. 63 
 
 But the lost ones, singing, shouting, wild and fierce 
 
 and mad with pain. 
 Cried for ever and for ever : " Write no more, no 
 
 more again ! " 
 
 ■Who hath told you? ■\Mio hath told you? Who 
 
 hath breathed hh words in hell ? 
 Fiends ! beasts ! devils ! 
 
 a; * * * * AS * -:.- * *i 
 
 What ! good sisters ? wherefore 
 
 crowd ye to my cell ? 
 Nay, not sick. What screams ? I called not — (only 
 
 somewhut loud in praj-er) 
 Watch and pray for by temptation ev'n the saints 
 
 fall unaware. 
 Hell is near us — very near us — I can hear the noise 
 
 of flames — 
 Omnes Sancti ! Omnes Sancti .' call the saints by 
 
 all their names. 
 Virgo virginum prmdara ! we must pray more than 
 
 we do.'^ 
 If we said ten thousand Credo's, thrice those 
 
 thousands were too few. 
 
64 ELOISA. 
 
 Dust and sackcloth — deep confessions — matins — 
 
 vespers — penance sore — 
 Salve, Mater ! (load — pray louder). Break the idols. 
 
 Write no more. 
 i)/V.s irce, dies ilia ! sleeping sinners, wake and 
 
 pray. 
 Day of midnight desolation ! light and hope shall 
 
 flee away. 
 Midnight ? Yes. The bell sounds. Hearken 1 Is it 
 
 storm and wind and snow ? 
 Trim j'our lamps, ye foolish virgins ! Go to meet the 
 
 Bridegroom, go. 
 Tarry not for dawn or cockcrow. / will lead. He 
 
 knows me best. 
 Darkness ? nay, the lamps are lighted. Cold ? a 
 
 fire is in my breast. 
 
 (Bridegroom, come by all compassion 1 Come with 
 
 pardon flowing sweet. 
 Long we've watched and wept and waited in the 
 
 house o' the Paraclete. 
 
E LOIS A. 65 
 
 I have drunk the bitter waters. Through the 
 
 floods alone I passed.) 
 Shout and sing, make joy and music; see, see 
 
 there, he comes at last. 
 " Write no more ! " — that voice ! sisters, pray 
 
 again for mercy, pray. 
 Who comes from St. Gildas' Abbej', clothed in 
 
 monkish garments gray ? 
 Xot my Spouse, my own, my loved one ! {he may 
 
 come not to this door.) 
 Sisters, 'tis the Mocker — Satan — crying always Write 
 
 no more. 
 Call the saints, apostles, martyrs ! Make the blessed 
 
 signs with me. 
 * ♦ ♦ if * * * * 
 
 Run for oil ! The lamps are darkened ! 
 
 Miserere, Domine ! 
 
NOTES TO ELOISA. 
 
 1. Lord, wMn prostrate at Thine altars, die. 
 
 I continually think of you. I constantly call to mind 
 
 that day when you bestowed on me the first marks of your 
 
 tenderness. In this condition, Lord, if I run to prostrate 
 
 myself before thy altars, if I beseech thee to pity me, why 
 
 does not the pure flame of thy spirit consume the sacrifice 
 
 that is offered to thee? 
 
 Abblakd to Eloisa. 
 
 2. love like ours is hard to kill, dec. 
 
 O vows ! convent ! I have not lost my humanity 
 
 under your inexorable discipline. You have not made me 
 
 marble by changing my habit. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelabd. 
 
 Since I have been shut up within these walls, I have 
 done nothing but weep for our misfortunes. This cloister 
 has resounded %vith my cries. ihid. 
 
 Even here I love you as much as ever I did in the 
 world. iliid. 
 
 Among the heroic supporters of the cross, I am a poor 
 slave to a human passion ; at the head of a religious 
 community, I am devoted to Abelard only. ihid. 
 
ELOISA. 67 
 
 Your letters have indeed moved me. I could not read 
 with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. I 
 sigh, I weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to 
 conceal my weakness from my pupils. 
 
 Abelaed to Eloisa. 
 
 And yet are we so weak that we cannot now help 
 writing to each other covered as we are with sackcloth and 
 ashes. 
 
 ibH. 
 
 3. II riti' vo more, for God forbids it, d-c. 
 
 Write no more to me, Eloisa ; write no more to me. 
 
 Abelabd to Eloisa. 
 
 May the idea of your loving Abelard always present to 
 your mind be changed into the image of Abelard truly 
 penitent, and may you shed as many tears for your salva- 
 tion, as you have done during the course of our misfortunes. 
 
 ibid. 
 
 4. hast Thou joy to hear us moan ? c&c. 
 
 When I am distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even 
 against Heaven itself, I shall not soften it by my prayers, 
 but rather provoke it by my cries and reproaches ! 
 
 Eloisa to Abelabd. 
 
 5. Come and sing the happy love-songs, itc. 
 
 With what ease did you compose verses ! The smallest 
 song, nay the least sketch of anything you made for me 
 had a thousand beauties capable of making it last as long 
 as there are love or lovers in the world. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelabd. 
 
fts E LOIS A. 
 
 6. Kri' your flesh was u-orn xcitli fasting, dx. 
 
 If you could see me here with my meager face and 
 melancholy air, surrounded with numbers of persecuting 
 monks, who are alarmed at my reputation for learning, and 
 offended at my lean visage, what would you say of my base 
 sighs, which deceive these credulous men ? Alas ! I am 
 humbled under love and not under the cross. 
 
 Abelakd to Eloisa. 
 
 7. A'ci' the seafoaiii smote the coiivi'iit-windoics in yovr trild 
 
 Bretagiie. 
 
 The duke of Bretagne, informed of my misfortunes, 
 named me to the abbey of St. Gildas, where I now am, 
 and where I suffer every day fresh persecutions. I live in 
 a barbarous country, the language of which I do not under- 
 stand ; I have no conversation but with the rudest people. 
 My walks are on the inaccessible shore of a sea, which is 
 perpetually stonny. Could you see the abbey, Phihntus, 
 you would not call it one. The doors and walls are without 
 any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds' 
 feet with the hides of frightful animals which are nailed 
 up against them. 
 
 Abelakd to Philintus. 
 
 [The abbey of St. Gildas is seated upon a rock, which 
 the sea beats with its waves.] 
 
 8. Till your voice drowns all the chanting, dc. 
 
 Even into holy places before the altar, I carry with me 
 the memory of our loves. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelakd. 
 
E LOIS A. 69 
 
 D. And I fed your arms close round me, ilsc. 
 
 I tMnk I am still with my clear Abelard. I see him, 
 I speak to him and hear him answer. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelakd. 
 
 10. Then my tears like rivers flow. 
 
 I am here, I confess, a sinner — but one who far from 
 weeping for her sins weeps only for her lover. 
 
 Eloisa to Abelabd. 
 
 11. But the nuns think, (6c. 
 
 All who are about me admire my virtue, but could 
 their eyes penetrate into my heart, what would they not 
 discover ? 
 
 Eloisa to Abelaed. 
 
 12. we must pray more tlian we do, cCc, 
 
 With my heart full of the love of man I exhort them 
 at least to love only God. 
 
 Eloiha to AUHLAIUI. 
 
THE 
 DAUGHTER OE MYCERINUS. 
 
 Davighter of princes, awake ! We have brought 
 thee again to the sunshine. 
 
 Sad were thy kin on the day when thou enter'dst 
 the chamber of darkness, 
 
 Putting the wine-cup away from thy lips, and for- 
 bidding the music, 
 
 Dropping thy timbrel to earth, and forgetting the 
 face of thy parents. 
 
 Daughter of princes, awake ! Cdiuo forth fj-om the 
 house of thy bondage. 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF MYCERINUS. 71 
 
 Come from the desolate place, from the land of the 
 
 stranger and exile. 
 Long hath the ibis returned, and the river for joy 
 
 of her coming 
 Covers the shores with its waves and the noise of 
 
 abundance of waters. 
 Come thyself with the Spring, with the flow of the 
 
 Nile, with the ibis ! 
 Hast thou no memory now of the palm and pome- 
 granate and lotus? 
 Lift up thine eyes ; on the river-banks the papyrus 
 
 and bulrush 
 Whisper their joy to the wind, and are bending 
 
 their heads to his bidding. 
 Fowls are abroad in the air; tliey ha\'e builded a 
 
 nest in the fig-tree. 
 Still in the reedy fens as of old the herons are 
 
 wading. 
 
 Daughter of princes, awake ! Come forth in the 
 
 steps of thy beauty. 
 Come with the bloom on thy lip, and the smile on 
 
 thy cheek, and the sunlight. 
 
72 THE DAUGHTER OF MYCERINUS. 
 
 Call to thy maidens again ; they shall leap at thy 
 
 voice to obey thee. 
 Take up thy harp once more, the harp which is 
 
 hushed in the palace. 
 Smite all the dirges away from its chords, and 
 
 reviving its gladness, 
 Lead us again in the dance, in the song, in the 
 
 feast, in the music. 
 
 Daughter of princes, again to the chamber of 
 
 shadow we bear thee. 
 Slowly we move in the march to the sound of the 
 
 dulcimer's wailing. 
 Night with her gentle step is at hand, the bringer 
 
 of darkness, 
 Mother of stars and dews, and the giver of sleep 
 
 and of silence. 
 Sleep, unafraid. All night a lamp is burning beside 
 
 thee. 
 All day long is thy chamber filled with the odour 
 
 of incense. 
 Sleep, ^[ay Osiris himself, the Immortal, the lover 
 
 of mercy, 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF MYCERINUS. 73 
 
 Send thee the light of his smile to ilhiminG the 
 
 gloom of thy dwelling, 
 Wiping the tears from thine eyes, and investing 
 
 thy slumber with visions 
 Sweeter than spices and myrrh, or balm from the 
 
 valleys of Edoni. 
 
 [And Mycerinus, the son of Cheops, reigned next over 
 vEgypt . . . and was of all their kings the most just. 
 . . . And upon Mycerinus, who was thus indulgent to 
 his subjects, misfortunes began to come ; and the first of 
 these was the death of his own daughter, the only child 
 which he had. 
 
 And he was afflicted beyond measure at the blow which 
 f«ll upon him, and he desired to bury his daughter more 
 sumptuously than others are buried. 
 
 He therefore built a hollow wooden image of an heifer, 
 and having covered it over with gold, he buried within it, 
 his daughter who had died. 
 
 Now the heifer was not hidden in the earth, but it is 
 shown to this day, and I have seen it myself. It is kept in the 
 city of Sais, and lies in the royal palace there, in a chamber 
 very curiously ornamented. And they burn all manner of 
 incense beside it, the whole day long. And every night a 
 lamp is kept lighted all through the night 
 
74 THE DAUGHTER OF MYCERINUS. 
 
 And the heifer is hidden with a purple cloth, except 
 the head and neck which are seen, and which are covered 
 over with gold of extraordinary thickness. And an imitation 
 of the sun's orb made of gold is placed between the horns. 
 
 The heifer is not standing, but rests on its knees, and 
 its size is that of a living one. 
 
 And every year it is carried out of the chamber. When 
 the iEgyptians beat themselves for that god, whom I dare 
 not now name, then they also carry the image of the heifer 
 out to the light. 
 
 For they say that the daughter herself, when she lay 
 a-dying, prayed this boon from her father, Myceriuus, that 
 onoe in every year they would allow her to see the sun. 
 
 Hbbodotus, lib. ii., cap. 129 — 132.] 
 
ICHABOD. 
 
 Un broad fields of death and slaughter looked the 
 
 setting sun that day, 
 But forsook not one small chamber, where a sweet 
 
 life ebbed away. 
 Not by age or suffering wasted — only human love 
 
 and bliss 
 Lead her through the gates of sorrow to so dark 
 
 a doom as this. 
 Ended now the child-birth labour : quenched those 
 
 shooting darts of pain, 
 And a mist resembling slumber rests upon her 
 
 wandering brain. 
 
76 ICH'ABOD. 
 
 Round her bed the women weeping oft have said, 
 
 her soul to cheer : 
 " You have borne a son ; 'tis over ; let your heart 
 
 no longer fear." 
 But she moved not, nor regarded, nor that infant's 
 
 cry forbids : 
 Not a word she spake in answer — lifted not her 
 
 clouded lids. 
 Through the gate, outside the city, still in thought 
 
 she seemed to go, 
 Gazed upon a face of marble, smoothing back the 
 
 hair of snow ; 
 Aged eyes which death has darkened, long by 
 
 watching dimmed, and tears ! 
 Head which sleeps beneath the burden of its eight- 
 
 and-ninety years ! 
 Then a horror swims before her — clash of arms and 
 
 battle strife, 
 And one corpse amid the carnage, dearer than all 
 
 else in life. 
 " Oh my husband ! / can help you. Tell your 
 
 darling of the pain. 
 
ICHABOD 11 
 
 Only look not so, I pray you ! Kiss me ! Love 
 
 me ! Speak again ! " 
 Gone ! — and not a word of parting, or of blessing 
 
 which she could 
 Day and night repeat for comfort all the years of 
 
 widowhood. 
 
 Suddenly the dream is ■ broken, hy n feeble wail 
 
 pierced through. 
 And a baby's face was pressing close (so close !) 
 
 to hers she knew. 
 'Tis his son and thine entreats thee ! Thine and 
 
 his that soft warm breath 
 Would recall thy failing spirit from the very arms 
 
 of death ! 
 With her eyes she looked a welcome — but the 
 
 tears were fain to flow — 
 Tried to kiss the face which never else a parent's 
 
 kiss could know. 
 And with faintest gasps she murmured : " Call 
 
 him — call him — lohabod — 
 For the glory — all — departed — father— husband— ark 
 
 of Uodl" 
 
SUICIDE IN DURHAM GAOL. 
 
 Autumn AasiZES, 1883. 
 
 'Twas one act of maddened fury born of vengeful 
 
 rage and strife, 
 And the felon hears his sentence, Penal servitude. 
 
 for life. 
 Life with all its dreary winters, bnt without one 
 
 hope of spring ! 
 Surely death's long tranquil slumber were a sweeter 
 
 holier thing. 
 So thought he, for when the warder came to call 
 
 the man next day. 
 Death, self-sought, had brought him pardon in 
 
 the twilight cold and grey. 
 
SUICIDE IN DURHAM (fAOL. 79 
 
 What a sudden calm has touched him ! — him with 
 
 soul one blaze of wrath, 
 Slave to fiercest hate and passion — fiends and 
 
 demons in his path ! 
 Fellow-man, I come to greet you ; — so, despite 
 
 men's wants and sins, 
 When despair is worst and deepest, mercy's healing- 
 work begins. 
 Quenched is nil your thirst for vengennce--all your 
 
 feverish struggle done — 
 Judge and Jury — home and children — hate und 
 
 love — are all as one. 
 Speak not when the gaoler calls you. Stir not in 
 
 your narrow cell. 
 Rest, perplexed and brolcen spirit. If ynu sleep, 
 
 you shall do well. 
 
 You my lord, too, wise and famous, throned on 
 judgment's highest seat. 
 
 Title-honoured, wrapped in ermine — j'ou ton, fellow- 
 man I greet. 
 
 Did you weigh this man's temptation, make his 
 bitter case your own. 
 
80 miCIDE IN DURHAM GAOL. 
 
 Ere you doomed him to a darkness which could 
 
 end with life alone r 
 You may talk of acts and statutes, but small 
 
 blessing comes, I fear. 
 On the souls to iron hardened which disdain the 
 
 suppliant's tear. 
 What avails your pomp and learninir, and these 
 
 lawyers' flattering tones 1 
 Those who crush the wronged and suffering, (lod 
 
 despises and dis 'wns 
 [>et not brutal-hearted vengeance in the place of 
 
 judgment dwell. 
 Kindle not the torch of jiistice at the fiery flames 
 
 of hell. 
 Smite no more dumb men and brothers with the 
 
 tyrant's cursed rod. 
 Let compassion mix with justice, love of man with 
 
 fear of God. 
 
WILLIAM PEPPER, 
 
 (Murdered at Sea, December, 1881, and January, 
 1882.) 
 
 Nouglit around save brutal tyrants — winter skies 
 
 and winter sea — 
 Yet he cried in deepest anguish : " God in heaven 
 
 look down on me.'' 
 Fearful cry for months of children in this human 
 
 world to make. 
 Where the dear Christ through the ages suffers for 
 
 our human sake ! 
 Tortured on the very morning of the blessM 
 
 Christmas time, 
 Tortured when on shore the church-bells rang the 
 
 " Happy New Year " chime. 
 
82 WILLI A2f PEPPER. 
 
 Beaten in the very death-paug, when with wild- 
 stretched arms he seeks 
 
 For his mother to come near him and to kiss his 
 sunken cheeks. 
 
 Cursed be the hireling lawyers, who the murderers' 
 
 cause could plead. 
 Cursed be the law of England, which two guilty 
 
 demons freed. 
 Yet strong hands were clenched in anger — stoutest 
 
 hearts were roughly stirred — 
 Teai's were shed l)y winter firesides when the fearful 
 
 tale was heard. 
 
 Dear my child, my son, my brother, could we find 
 
 your ocean-bed — 
 Bring to land your stone-bruised body, lying silent 
 
 there and dead — 
 (Tender in its naked softness, but with frightful 
 
 scars to see. 
 And a look of piercing terror which in young eyes 
 
 should not be) 
 We should close those eyes and kiss them, fold the 
 
 hands and smooth the hair, 
 
W2LLIAM PEPPJSR 83 
 
 And with scalding tears of sorrow bathe those poor 
 limbs, swoll'n and bare. 
 
 Let none say such grief avails not, and such pity 
 useless call ; 
 
 Love is never never wasted in a world which needs 
 
 it all. 
 AVhen we learn what fellow-creatures, weaker than 
 
 ourselves, endure, 
 Gentler shall we grow with children, kinder to the 
 
 sad and poor ; 
 Hidden springs shall flow of mercy, and the slow 
 
 world understand, 
 That the martyrs still are with us, as long since 
 
 in Holy Land. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE. 
 
 Soon after my second marriage, I thought one night 
 
 in my sleep, 
 That I saw the wife I had buried, in the grave 
 
 where she lay so deep. 
 She never stirred to meet me, nor moved her head 
 
 in its place, 
 Bnt I saw her features working, and the tears 
 
 came down her face. 
 She was not angry, nor blamed me, but between 
 
 her sobs she said : 
 " I'm glad — you're happy — it's better — far better — 
 
 you should be wed." 
 
THE FIRST WIFE. 85 
 
 Then I spoke to her : " Annie, iny darling, you 
 
 mustn't, you mustn't cry so. 
 I always loved you, my darling, I always loved you, 
 
 you know. 
 If ever I spoke unkindly, forgive me, my darling, 
 
 do. 
 I don't know what I was made of to be unkind to 
 
 you. 
 I'm making the fondest of fathers to the precious 
 
 babes you bore. 
 And they're growing so good, my darling, you 
 
 mustn't cry any more. 
 Little Kobin has not forgot you, (but Mary, you 
 
 know, was small) 
 In his prayer he prays always for ' mother,' and 
 
 ' send her back quick to us all.' 
 If he gets a new frock or a plaything, or they 
 
 dress him up tidy and clean. 
 He says ' that's because mother is coming, so they 
 
 must make him fit to be seen ' 
 Then 'will she come soon after breakfast,' or 'won't 
 
 she come long before tea ? 
 
86 THE FIRST WIFE. 
 
 Just the same same mother as always and take us 
 
 again on her knee? 
 And I'll show her my horse and my engine and I'll 
 
 ask her the right way to play. 
 Because all of our games have seemed different, 
 
 wliile mother's been lieeping away.' 
 And he talks of the last walk you took him when 
 
 I met you that time at the gate — 
 You wei'e wearied with stooping for daisies. (I'm 
 
 sorry I came so late). 
 
 ' Be quiet, be quiet, now, Annie ; I never could 
 
 bear you to cry ; 
 And I wept like a child, my darling, that day 
 
 when I saw you die. 
 You tried so hard to say something and you clung 
 
 so to my hand, 
 And you gazed and gazed, but ' kiss me ' was all I 
 
 could understand. 
 And I never ceased to kiss you, and your eyes 
 
 seemed so to plead. 
 Till I saw that you didn't know me — then I knew 
 
 you were dead indeed. 
 
THE FIRST WIFE. 87 
 
 And some one came in for the children — you used 
 
 never to want them to go — 
 But my darling, I couldn't bear them to see you 
 
 lying so ; 
 I couldn't have watched them climbing to get up 
 
 and pat your cheek, 
 And calling you 'mother' and 'motlier' — and you 
 
 there never to speak ! 
 And the neighbours came in tallung, but I heard 
 
 not what they said. 
 I only knew my darling, my darling, that you 
 
 were dead. 
 And we laid such flowers about }'ou, and before 
 
 they fastened the lid, 
 I kissed and kissed and kissed you, my darling, 
 
 indeed I did." 
 
 Methought her sobs grew calmer and calmer and 
 
 died away ; 
 But the sorrowful vision lingered in my thqughts 
 
 for many a day. 
 
CO MR A DES. 
 
 Spirit with your thirst unslaked, 
 Earnest heart, laid bare and naked, 
 Comrade, from the first I knew you. 
 Take the kiss which I give to you. 
 
 Time is ours. Come forth and wander 
 
 Through the world, the sweet world yonder. 
 
 All the mouutains stretch before us. 
 
 All the rivers sing in ohoras. 
 
 All the trees, their joy expressing, 
 
 Wave their full arms, wide with blessing. 
 
 Homeward comes the silent reaper ; 
 
 Uttered thought grows calm and deeper. 
 
 Whilst around the shadows darken, 
 
 I will speak and you shall hearken. 
 
COMRADES. 89 
 
 Dream no more in any fashion 
 
 That our hearts so hot with passion, 
 
 When we're graver, wearier, older, 
 
 Must to lifeless ashes smoulder. 
 
 Nothing left but dust and embers, 
 
 (Though the soul — the soul— remembers.) 
 
 Thought I thus, I would not cherish 
 
 Froth-like hopes ; they now might perish. 
 
 But my creed is, all endeavour 
 
 Bears a fruit which blooms for ever : 
 
 And each mystic warm emotion 
 
 Hath some source, deep as the ocean, 
 
 High as all the heavens above us — 
 
 Those sweet heavens, which know and love us. 
 
 Was it truth we urged and pleaded — 
 Truth desired not and unheeded ? 
 Was it tyrant-wrong which stirred us — 
 Crying loud though no one heard us ? 
 Was it love — the heavenly vision — 
 Chilled by failure and derision ? 
 (Not the less divine and saving 
 For the pains of want and craving) 
 
90 COiMRADEf^. 
 
 These our longings shall' be sated — 
 We who loved and dreamed and waited — 
 We who called, persuaded, beckoned, 
 When the jewels shall be reckoned. 
 
 Therefore show me, unforbidden. 
 Secrets from the cold world hidden. 
 Be my friend, companion, brother; 
 Let us love and trust each other. 
 What I give is worth bestowing ; 
 What I teach deserves your knowing ; 
 Are there struggles, strivings, yearnings. 
 Loss of heart and hope, soul burnings? — 
 Comrade, by these signs I knew you. 
 Take the kiss which I give to you. 
 
THE CAVERN. 
 
 The tide the cavern's mouth has left, 
 The seaweed strews the sands, 
 
 And through the narrow wave-worn cleft 
 I grope on knees and hands. 
 
 For vanished foot-prints here I trace 
 And memory glows and burns ; 
 
 I will not leave the enchanted place 
 Till the slow tide returns. 
 
 I count each dark recess and nook 
 Your eyes that morning scanned; 
 
 All round the dear grey walls I look. 
 And feel them with my hand. 
 
92 THE CAVERN. 
 
 I stir the pebbles with my feet, 
 I watch the blue waves roll, 
 
 And oft your blessed words repeat 
 And tell them to my soul. 
 
 Till slowly this familiar spot 
 
 A haunted cave is grown, 
 By other feet forsaken not — 
 
 I seem no more alone. 
 
 I stoop to catch a whispering sound, 
 Calm as some hermit's hymn ; 
 
 I wonder what is changed around, 
 And why my eyes grow dim. 
 
 These empty arms I almost raise 
 Your sweet face to caress, 
 
 And bow my head like one who prays 
 For your dear hands to bless. 
 
 No more I marvel how those tides 
 Flow on with ceaseless change ; 
 
 The secrets which the ocean hides. 
 No more to me are strange. 
 
THE CAVERN. 9:5 
 
 Dim Avorlds move tlinnig-h the skies alxive ; 
 
 Deep wonders fill the sua ; 
 But nothing is as strani;e as Love, 
 
 The one, vast njystery. 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 A picture hangs upon my wall. 
 
 I knew her years ayo — so now 
 (Before my day's work) will recall, 
 
 If it be like, her lips and brow. 
 
 'Tis well all anger long is dead. 
 
 No bitterness is left nor pain. 
 And yet, methinks, when all is said, 
 
 The years —the lonely years — remain. 
 
 I also dreamed that if the heart 
 Could utter but one passionate cry, 
 
 Two souls would meet, that once did part. 
 And go together — live or die. 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 95 
 
 Dream foolisli, and vain fancies all, 
 Amid life's work soon put away, 
 
 And yet still hangs upon the wall 
 
 That old, old picture .... Let it stay. 
 
CURFEWTIDE. 
 
 I dreamed Death called me, and I smiled 
 To hear so sweet a voice, and rose. 
 
 And took his hand, as doth a child 
 Who with his strongest brother goes. 
 
 And through the quiet roads we went, 
 And all who met us, stood and cried : 
 
 " Trust not the stranger " but content 
 I heeded nothing nor replied. 
 
 Then wliispers gathered on the breeze 
 To warn me, but I cared not what; 
 
 And the birds shouted from the trees : 
 " 'Tis Death ! " But I believed them not. 
 
CVRFEWTIDE. 97 
 
 " Tliy face is beautiful and sweet, 
 gentle comrade ! but thine hand 
 
 Trembles a little, and tliy feet 
 
 Are bruised with jovimeying through the land. 
 
 " Yet rest not. Lead me far away 
 O'er the wide moor and wold and hill ; 
 
 Through glen and forest all the day 
 Further and further lead me still. 
 
 " Only when curfew sounds, and gloom 
 Hides the long road with shadows deep, 
 
 Find me some lodging-place and room 
 Where pilgrims (tired as I) may sleep." 
 
 He answered not by simple words. 
 
 But into strange wild chant he broke — 
 Now soft as song of far-off birds — 
 
 Now loud as though the tempest spoke. 
 
 Till all my soul grew slowly strong, 
 
 And to my mind a blessfed calm 
 Came from the pathos of his song, 
 
 And from the pressure of his palm. 
 
98 CURFEWTIDE. 
 
 And wrapped in thought, I never heard 
 The bees among the fragrant vines, 
 
 Nor sound of soothing -winds which stirred 
 The sombre shadows of the pines. 
 
 Nor marked I, when the dayhght sank, 
 
 How heaven and earth waxed pale and dim- 
 So deeply from his song I drank, 
 So full of peace I walked with him. 
 
 And when at last he ceased, 'twas grown 
 
 Too dark in any wise to see 
 The hand still trembling in mine own. 
 
 The lips which sang no more to me. 
 
 But as we blindly walked, behold ! 
 
 A clear light in the distance gleamed. 
 And all at once the curfew tolled. 
 
 " They call me to my home " I dreamed. 
 
 " I love thee, whosoe'er thou art, 
 Dear comrade, who hast melted thus 
 
 The bitterness which vexed my heart." 
 (And still the curfew called for us.) 
 
CURFEWTIDE. 99 
 
 " Kiss me with kisses on my cheek 
 And both my lips, and let me place 
 
 ^Sline arms aroimd thee, whilst I speak. 
 And lay thine hands about my face. 
 
 " Whether that same bright beacon glow 
 From some brave city filled with men 
 
 And throbbing lives — or onlj' show 
 
 Some sweet lone dwelling in the glen — 
 
 " Sing softly ! — one gray roof and tiles — 
 
 Stone walls and porch and half-latched door — 
 
 Windows .... tvho watches? what face smiles? 
 . . . (So dark a valley !) Sing once more. 
 
 " The river bathes our bruised feet ; 
 
 And just beyond the low gate stands. 
 The shallow ford is cool and sweet. 
 
 (What love does !) Give me both thine hands. 
 
 " Sing softly. We shall rest anon. 
 Nor wander more o'er wold and hill. 
 
 Oh sing then !".... But my guide was gone, 
 And when I woke, I called him still. 
 
DA YBREAK. 
 
 The sounds of early morning break 
 Upon my too long slumbering ear. 
 
 I will no longer sleep, but wake, 
 
 And talk with thee, for thou, art here. 
 
 The roads we climbed were rough and long. 
 
 The solitary hills were steep. 
 The birds filled all the woods with song. 
 
 After such toil 'twas well to sleep. 
 
 The house is strange — the friends unknown- 
 Yet know we each the other best ; 
 
 For me — I know but thee alone, 
 
 And thou wilt teach me all the rest. 
 
DAYBREAK. 101 
 
 Yes, brother, search and thou shalt find 
 About my heart no thought of pain — 
 
 No trace of sorrow in my mind : 
 Nor shall I grieve thee, dear, again. 
 
THE LAST DREAM. 
 
 Give me no signs when I must die — 
 No warning ; (how could I prepare ?) 
 
 With step unheard, Death, draw nigh, 
 Come (when thou comest) unaware. 
 
 Speak to me softly till the end, 
 Of mortal flesh, of human ties, 
 
 Of smiles, of kisses from my friend, 
 Faces I love, and lips and eyes. 
 
 As daylight steals from skies above. 
 Let me to gradual slumber fall. 
 
 So dreaming of the things I love, 
 As wakinc', to remember all. 
 
ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 THE FAIRIES' GLEN AT 
 MELROSE. 
 
 A morning in spring ! and the glory 
 Of rivers which seawards run ! 
 
 A joy in the glade and the woodland ! 
 The lifting of leaves to the sun ! 
 
 And birds in the branches are singing 
 
 As gaily as ever they can : 
 And what do you ivant in our forest, 
 
 You lonely and sorrowful man I 
 
104 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 " I' have wandered in shadow and tempest ; 
 
 The skies have been clouded and gray ; 
 Sing on, little birds, in the sunshine ; 
 
 The winter is past and away." 
 
DRY BURGH. 
 
 We waded through the rushing Tweed, 
 Nought better could content us ; 
 
 It seemed to grow in depth and speed, 
 On purpose to prevent us. 
 
 It comes back like some pleasant dream. 
 
 We're never long forgetting ; 
 How vain our hopes to cross the stream 
 
 With neither fall nor wetting; 
 
 With wha,t light wings and mocking tones 
 Swallow skimmed past and plover ; 
 
 How sharp the edges of the stones 
 Our naked feet walked o-\-er ; 
 
106 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 How glad we reached the soft green bank, 
 
 Safe after all our slipping ; 
 Down on the warm dry grass we sank, 
 
 Bare-legged and garments dripping. 
 
 With merry sounds all Dryburgh rang. 
 The broad Tweed flowed before us. 
 
 And long we lay, and loud we sang, 
 Both in and out of chorus. 
 
 'Mid crowded streets I still can smile 
 On times like these to ponder, 
 
 In far sweet places for a while 
 Can lose my way and wander. 
 
 Discover still, joyous lark, 
 Blue depths beyond our gazing, 
 
 Seek low green nooks in Ancrum Turk 
 Where timid deer are grazing. 
 
 I know the gleaming trout will leap, 
 Whilst I in towns am dwelling ; 
 
 The river, if I wake or sleej), 
 Its dreamy tale is telling. 
 
DRYBURGU. 107 
 
 The Kaeside sqviirrel in the tree 
 
 From branch to branch is darting — 
 
 What were those words you said to me, 
 Those fervent words at parting ? 
 
 Bright things ai-e slow to die — friend, 
 So much my thoughts possessing. 
 
 Hid in these idle rhymes, I send 
 My love and thanks and blessing. 
 
COLDSTREAM. 
 
 I see no changes since the day 
 
 When thi'ough this land came you and I. 
 I almost wish the woods would lay 
 
 Their greenness and their glory by. 
 
 Methinks I hear the selfsame bird 
 
 Which sang that day on yonder bough — 
 
 And not a single leaf seems stirred. 
 'Twas April then. 'Tis April now. 
 
 'Twas also Easter. Long we walked. 
 
 In deepening gloom the village laj'. 
 Our hearts were softened as we talked, 
 
 And burned within us by the way. 
 
COLDSTREAM. 109 
 
 To me this road is hallowed ground, 
 
 And mixed with thoiights of life and death, 
 
 And Coldstream hath a sacred sonnd, 
 Like Bethlehem or Nazareth. 
 
THE JED. 
 
 From Otterburn I journeyed forth, 
 And crossed the Border range, 
 
 Descending where the road ran north 
 Through places new and strange. 
 
 There pleasant fields and woods were seen ; 
 
 The bleak bare hills were gone. 
 At nightfall glimmering through the green 
 
 The lights of Jedburgh shone. 
 
 The mor'row, when the fresh dawn glowed 
 
 On Carter Fell's high ridge, 
 I wandered where the wild Jed flowed, 
 
 Ever towards Jedfoot Bridge. 
 
THE JED. Ill 
 
 The sun in its broad heavens did shine. 
 
 The wind did softly play, 
 As though some messenger divine 
 
 Were breathing round my way. 
 
 I dreamed of faces dear to me, 
 
 Till on deep trance I fell. 
 Close by my side they seemed to be. 
 
 Those whom I love so well. 
 
 They came in old familiar style. 
 
 They called me, one by one. 
 They hailed me, each with shout and smile. 
 
 As they had always done. 
 
 The friends and comrades whom I love. 
 
 Their hands in mine they laid. 
 And still the same heavens shone above, 
 
 The same wind softly played. 
 
 We talked about the rushing Jed, 
 
 The gentle thoughts it brings. 
 Its grassy shore, its shallow bed. 
 
 The lonely song it sings. 
 
112 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 We wondered when it all began, 
 When that sweet cry first came, 
 
 And if, before the daj-s of man 
 Its song was still the same. 
 
 Perchance in some hushed twilight dim, 
 These hills with echoes rang, 
 
 And all the listening seraphim 
 Shouted for joy and sang. 
 
 The dreary earth took heart and smiled, 
 (And flowers and leaves were seen) 
 
 And spread soft grass to please her child 
 And keep its pathway green. 
 
 All beaut}' in this sweet world found 
 To our own souls bears kin, 
 
 And echoes of Earth's voices sound 
 From deeper worlds within. 
 
 So, ere we knew, our talk forsooth 
 Flowed into tenderer themes : — 
 
 The burnings of our hearts of youth ; 
 Our passions and our dreams ; 
 
THE JED. 113 
 
 The pathos of our daily strife ; 
 
 The trust of friend in friend ; 
 The mysteries of Thought and Life ; 
 
 The darkness of the end. 
 
 Thus, waxing warmer, on we talked 
 
 Till slowly I was 'ware 
 That one more dear companion walked 
 
 With us in silence there. 
 
 The fervent love of youth is strong ; 
 
 And if I kissed his face, 
 And if I held him somewhat long, 
 
 (Too long) in my embrace ; — 
 
 If close my heart on his I leaned, 
 
 It was for fancies dim, 
 That great wide years had intervened 
 
 Since last I walked with him. 
 
 O daylight visions which beset 
 
 So much my thoughtful way, 
 Pray you, come oftener to me yet, 
 
 And longer with me stay. 
 
114 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 Life to the frozen lips impart, 
 
 Sweet fragrance to the dnst, 
 And wake all memories in my heart 
 
 Of kindness and of trust ! 
 
 And you, pure souls, in prayers immersed, 
 
 Chide not my tender dream, 
 Because the draught which heals my thirst 
 
 Flows from an earthly stream. 
 
 Is Earth all mortal t (Whilst I muse. 
 The kindled flame grows hot.) 
 
 Suffer me still its love to choose. 
 Pray you, forbid me not. 
 
 For since all thought of heaven (with me) 
 
 From human love first came, 
 I mix " the greatest of these three " 
 
 With " Hallowed be Thy Name ! " 
 
THE BOWMONT. 
 
 In the midst of a lone, deep valley, 
 With the Cheviots heaped round high, 
 
 I heard the Bowmont rushing, 
 With a loud and troubled cry. 
 
 A few stray, wandering swallows 
 Were haunting its noisy shore, 
 
 And their fitful notes kept mingling 
 With the hoarse stream's endless roar, 
 
 Till I fancied the birds' soft music 
 
 Did answer the restless tide. 
 "What ails you, and what are you seeking, 
 
 river ?" I thought they cried. 
 
116 ON THE BOEDERS. 
 
 "You have come from the heart of the moimtains ; 
 
 They are vast, and wild, and drear ; 
 No wonder your life is lonely, 
 
 And j-our voice so sad to hear. 
 
 " Kirk Yetholm is closo beside you, 
 
 You can almost hear its chimes — 
 Half stands in a broad, green valley, 
 
 And half up the steep hill climbs. 
 
 "You must flow through that merry village. 
 
 Leave, leave this place so lone. 
 You must sing to the gipsy children. 
 
 In a cheerier, happier tone. 
 
 " Then away you must wind to the northward, 
 
 Then eastwards and loiter along. 
 Till the Colledge comes down to join you, 
 
 All smiling, and full of song. 
 
 " It was born in the same wild regions, 
 But your paths have been wide apart ; 
 
 You must meet it witli shouts of welcome, 
 And singinii-, and blithe of heart. 
 
THE BOW 210 NT. 117 
 
 " Telling many a tale of the mountains, 
 
 Of Cold Law or Windy Gyle, 
 You may prattle like gleesome children, 
 
 And wander together a while. 
 
 "Then the sweet calm Till shall take you 
 Through a land all fair and green. 
 
 Where armies and old-world battles 
 In long-gone times were seen : 
 
 "Through Flodden and Ford, to Tillmouth, 
 Where the Tweed's dark waters flow. 
 
 At times like a rushing torrent, 
 And stately at times, and slow. 
 
 " Past many a smiling village, 
 
 We have watched it calmly glide ; 
 
 There are castles and ancient abbeys 
 Look out on its brimming tide. 
 
 " It has been, too, in lonely places — 
 
 (Cease, cease that mournful song). 
 It will bear you to Twizell and Norham ; 
 
 It is brave, and grand, and strong. 
 
118 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 " It will open its arms to receive you ; 
 
 It will clasp you to its breast. 
 You are lonely and sad and troubled — 
 
 To live and love is best.'' 
 
 Then I woke from my wayward musings ; 
 
 It was fancy alone had heard 
 A song with a human meaning 
 
 From the throat of a wandering bird. 
 
 What voice or speech had the echoes 
 Which loud through the wild glen rang? 
 
 It was only a river that murmured — 
 Only some swallows sang. 
 
THE TWEED. 
 
 I mused thus with myself, and talked, 
 In tranquil mood and free. 
 
 As from fair Kelso's town I walked 
 To Berwick by the sea : 
 
 " I will not take the rugged way 
 To Yetholni lone and high, 
 
 Nor shall I seek the fields to-day, 
 Which round sweet Jeddart lie. 
 
 " I hear the rushing of the Tweed, 
 
 I watch its waters glide, 
 I follow where its footsteps lead 
 
 On to the ocean wide. 
 
120 ON THE BOBDEBS. 
 
 " The river winding to the sea 
 Broader and deeper grows, 
 
 And every little brook is free 
 To join it as it flows. 
 
 " So, in my spirit every day, 
 Love more and- more expands. 
 
 And leads me on my pilgrim way 
 Through green and sunny lands. 
 
 " Methinks no blessing comes to man, 
 Though boundless as the sea, 
 
 Nor hath done, since the world began, 
 But also comes to me. 
 
 " I walk the earth without one fear 
 To mar my peace complete, 
 
 And every human joy is dear, 
 Each human hope is sweet. 
 
 " And more and more my kindred race 
 
 I love and understand : 
 I gaze into a brother's face ; 
 
 I clasp a comrade's hand. 
 
THE TWEED. 121 
 
 " The human voice my soul doth thrill ; 
 
 I lay my whole heart bare, 
 That they may see my thoughts who will, 
 
 My inmost secrets there. 
 
 " The radiance of a gentle life 
 
 Will joy to others spread, 
 Because ambition's foolish strife. 
 
 Envy and pride are dead. 
 
 " Because the warm heart's warmth alone 
 
 The hopeless spirit cheers, 
 And, though I shed none of my own, 
 
 Will dry another's tears." 
 
 #**♦*• * * 
 
 Old Duddo on the right 1 passed, 
 
 Saw Norham worn and grey ; 
 The red tiles of the town at last 
 
 Beneath the steep slope lay. 
 
 Behind me, lilie a vision blest, 
 
 Stretch'd fair broad lands in view, 
 
 And far, far in the glimmering west 
 The Eildon hills I knew. 
 
122 OX THE BORDERS. 
 
 The Eildons faded in the sky ; 
 
 Night fell ; the sun was gone, 
 But in my heart it could not die, 
 
 Its red light lingered on. 
 
 I cared not how the gloom increased, 
 How grey the heavens had grown ; 
 
 The world was darkest in the east, 
 Whither I walk'd alone. 
 
 " My path lies dim ; but all the same. 
 Bright dawns," I said, " shall be," 
 
 And like a full, deep answer, came 
 The great voice of the sea. 
 
KIRK YETHOLM. 
 
 As I rambled around Kirk Yetliolm, 
 Ere the evening shades came down, 
 
 I met with three cheerful natives 
 
 Of the quaint old thatch-roofed town. 
 
 We talked of the vievif from the mountains, 
 How the ocean is seen quite plain. 
 
 And yon clump of trees was in England, 
 But the rest was all Scotland again. 
 
 It were easier climbing the Storrheugh 
 In the heat of a summer's day. 
 
 Than pronouncing its name, as they ga^"e it 
 In the proper native way. 
 
124 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 We stopped at the small white cottage, 
 Where the Queen of the Gipsies dwelt; 
 
 As I gazed ou her wrinkled features, 
 Half pity, half awe I felt ; — 
 
 To think that this restless people, 
 
 This tribe of mysterious birth, 
 Like a remnant of ages forgotten, 
 
 Should be wandering still on the earth. 
 
 Then we raced down the hill to the kirkyard. 
 And peeped through the iron door. 
 
 And a green path led to the valley 
 And the Bowmont's pebbly shore. 
 
 Then ho ! for a bathe in the river ! 
 
 What mattered the time and the clock 1 
 The late evening air made us shiver, 
 
 And the plunge was a horrible shock. 
 
 But with well-counterfeited enjoyment 
 We floundered and floated and swam ; 
 
 When I said it was warm and delicious, 
 I'm afraid I was tellin'' a cram. 
 
KIRK YETHOLM. 125 
 
 And when ended our feats of natation, 
 
 'Twas a difficult task to revive 
 The longed-for and lost circulation 
 
 Which took its own time to arrive. 
 
 Then with spirits renewed and fresh vigour, 
 We laughed and we shouted and sang, 
 
 Till the clump of trees in old England 
 With the clamourous echoes rang. 
 
 And away to the town in the gloaming 
 
 We set off with joyous strides : 
 Through the field where the cloth lay bleaching, 
 
 Past the mill went my merry guides. 
 
 And the darkness gathered and gathered, 
 
 And silenced each noisy tongue. 
 And the light from the school-house glimmered 
 
 So faintly the trees among. 
 
 And the breath of the hills descended 
 And stirred in the grass at our feet. 
 
 And the branches above moved softly, 
 And the river sang low and sweet. 
 
126 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 Till a power in the darkness thrilled me, 
 
 And I felt and I understood 
 How it passes all comprehension — 
 
 Our mysterious brotherhood : 
 
 The same loTe for the fields and the mountains 
 And the rush of the cooling streams ; 
 
 The same fervour of youth with its laughter 
 And the warmtli of its rosy dreams : 
 
 And the deep deep human yearning 
 
 In all human breasts concealed 
 Was expressed in part by our silence, 
 
 And in part by our words revealed. 
 
 Till I wondered (but only a moment) 
 
 If ever there would be room 
 In my soul which so loves existence 
 
 For sorrow or sadness or gloom. 
 
 But I ended as usiial by saying 
 
 That whatever might be the truth, 
 
 All the days of my life I would cherish 
 The hopes and the dreams of youth. 
 
ELSIE SHAW. 
 
 It was all ill sweet Kirk Yetholm 
 (The roofs are thatched with straw), 
 
 And alone with her gipsy mother, 
 Lived the little Elsie Shaw. 
 
 She lived in that row of houses 
 
 \\'hich is built on the kirkyard bound, 
 
 Where the low back-windows open 
 
 h'carce a toot from the kirkyard ground. 
 
 The road in the front of their cottage 
 Leads straight through the village-green, 
 
 And away to the Cheviot mountains. 
 Where a world of hills is seen. 
 
128 ON THE BORDERS. 
 
 But behind the sloping kirkj'ard, 
 The valley spreads broad and fair, 
 
 And the wandering Bowmont water 
 With a murmur of song flows there. 
 
 On the other side of the river, 
 
 Just over the bridge of stone. 
 That's the village they call Town Yetholm, 
 
 Where the smoke through the trees is shown. 
 
 It was there lived Willy Laidlaw, 
 
 The weaver's apprentice bold, 
 Who so often to little Elsie 
 
 The love in his heart had told. 
 
 And merry would ring the kirk bells 
 
 (He had vowed it many a day). 
 When the light grew long in summer, 
 
 And they mowed the summer hay. 
 
 Then up spake Willy's father. 
 
 With wrathful words and wild : 
 " Ye shall wed no little Elsie, 
 
 And no gipsy woman's child." 
 
ELSIE SHAW. 129 
 
 And slow spake Willie Laidlaw, 
 
 (His heart ^yithin was sore) 
 "If I lose my little Elsie 
 
 I must see her face no more. 
 
 " I shall ne'er come back to Scotland, 
 
 I will sail across the sea, 
 Though Elsie shovild find a new love. 
 
 And forget her love for me." 
 
 11. 
 
 It was all in sweet Kirk Yetholm 
 (The roofs are thatched with straw) 
 
 And awake at night in her chamber 
 Lay the little Elsie Shaw. 
 
 She had waited and watched in the gloaming, 
 
 Since the last song of the lark, 
 Till the valley grew dim and silent 
 
 And the roads and the fields grew dark. 
 
 The lights had gone out in the village, 
 
 She had heard the closing door. 
 And in her heart had nuirmured : 
 
 " Willy Laidlaw will come no more.'' 
 
130 OX THE BORDERS. 
 
 And now, through the open window, 
 As she lay in her chamber small. 
 
 She heard strange whispers passing 
 Through the rooking elm trees tall. 
 
 All hidden away in the darkness, 
 
 The river so softly cried : 
 "It is long till to-morrow's gloaming, 
 
 And the waiting is sore to hide." 
 
 And far down the sleeping valley 
 
 The echoes replied in song : 
 " Bat love is to-day's and to-morrow's, 
 
 Though the waiting be sore and long." 
 
 There came three seagulls flying 
 Through the window to her bed : 
 
 " We have seen your true love, Elsie, 
 You must weep no more,'' they said. 
 
 "To-morrow by old Ford Castle, 
 Where Flodden's fields smile gay, 
 
 If you stand by the gate, we shall see you, 
 And guide you the wearisome way." 
 
ELSIE SJfA W. 131 
 
 Then up rose little Elsie, 
 
 Ere ever the cock had crowed, 
 And away down the Bowmont valley, 
 
 Where the Bowmont water flowed. 
 
 Ere ever she came to Mindnim 
 
 The light broke faint and gray. 
 Ere ever she came to Crookham, 
 
 It was the morning daj'. 
 
 She left the road at Crookham 
 
 And trod the soft grccnswiuTl, 
 She crossed the Till at Etal, 
 
 She followed the Till to Eord. 
 
 She stood by old Ford Castle, 
 (And Flodden's fields smiled gay). 
 
 There' came three seagulls flying, 
 To guide her the wearisome way. 
 
 She travelled uphill to Barmoor, 
 
 (The sea-gulls flew before), 
 Through Lowick and Beal she wandered. 
 
 Till she came to the great sea-shore. 
 
132 O.V THE BORDERS. 
 
 Across three miles of ocean, 
 
 Old Holy Island stands, 
 But the ebb-tide had loft only 
 
 Three miles of flat wet sands. 
 
 The seagtills skimmed across them. 
 
 She followed and would not stay, 
 Till she came where Willy Laidlaw 
 
 Asleep on the wet sands lay. 
 
 Oh ! it's " Willy, pray you waken, 
 And come with Elsie home. 
 
 Do you see the dai'k black waters. 
 And the white streaks of the foam ? " 
 
 " I only see mj' true love, 
 
 I see her glad and fair. 
 And they twine \Yhite wreaths of lilies 
 
 In the locks of her dark black hair. 
 
 " She is walking through the valley, 
 And the lilies bloom so white. 
 
 But \\c part till to-moiTow's gloamiiiu'. 
 It is late, and dark. (iood night.'' 
 
ELSIE SHAW. 133 
 
 Oh ! it's " Willy, pray you waken, 
 
 And listen close with me, 
 You will hear the rush of breakers. 
 
 And the sound of the rising sea." 
 
 " I only hear the Bowmunt, 
 
 I hear as in a dream, 
 And the birds shout down the valley 
 
 All by the murmuring stream. 
 
 " I only see the Cheviots, 
 
 I see them as in sleep, 
 And making long, far echoes 
 
 Comes the soft cry of the sheep. 
 
 " There is singing in the school-house. 
 
 There is laughter from the mill. 
 And I hear the reapers' voices 
 
 From the farmstead on the hill." 
 
 Oh ! it's " Willy, pray you waken, 
 
 Your heart is cold as stone. 
 And your sweet young lips seem frozen 
 
 When I press them with my own." 
 
134 ON THE BOBBERS. 
 
 " The summer sun is blazing, 
 The summer hay smells sweet, 
 
 There are daisies and grass and clover 
 And wild ferns at my feet. 
 
 " It is all in sweet Kirk Yetholm, 
 The roofs are thatched with straw ; 
 
 And I stand at the kirk-gate waiting 
 For my true love, Elsie Shaw. 
 
 " It is ho ! for the gipsy v?eddiug. 
 
 And the gipsy town is gay, 
 And the merry kirk-bells ring near me, 
 
 And the river sings far awaj'.'' 
 
 III. 
 
 It was all iu sweet Kirk Yetholm 
 (The roofs were thatched with straw) 
 
 And it was the village joiner 
 
 With hammer, and planks, and saw. 
 
 It was the village sexton. 
 
 And he digged so straight and neat. 
 And the robins sang as tlicy watched him. 
 
 And the suull of thf liav was sweet. 
 
ELSIE SHAW. 135 
 
 The robins sang in the elm tree, 
 And he digged so straight and wide, 
 
 That two might have room for resting 
 In their love-sleep side by side. 
 
 Close up to the wall of the houses, 
 
 Close under the windows small, — 
 There were daisies and grass and clover. 
 
 And the blue skies over all. 
 
 And the river fills all the valley 
 
 With verdure, and beauty, and growth, 
 
 As life is made tender and fragrant 
 By the passion of love and troth. 
 
CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 PREL UDE. 
 
 The swL-utiicss of the flower^j of Spring, 
 The beauty of the dawning light, 
 
 ])(! always haunt your face, and cling 
 And hover o'er it, day and night. 
 
 ^^'hen Sleep retards uiy labouring breath. 
 Not even then is Love forgot. 
 
 I scai'ijc would call it Sleep, but Death, 
 If in uiv dreams I saw ^•(JU not. 
 
TRUST. 137 
 
 II. 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 My soul is strengthened, when I mark 
 The boinidless faith you hold in me ; — 
 
 If all my way of life grew dark, 
 
 Blighted and shamed, in days to be ; — 
 
 You still would see \\ith quenchless trust 
 Green life beneath eternal snows, 
 
 And in the crumpled leaves and dvist 
 The earliest beauty of the rose. 
 
138 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 III. 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 Delirious language would be weak 
 To tell you half the love I bear. 
 
 My heart flows iu the words I speak, 
 But the full meaning comes not there. 
 
 Yet fear not. Let me kiss again 
 Those sweet lips as I always do. 
 
 My wildest passion holds no stain 
 To cloud those perfect eyes of blue 
 
ALWAYS. 139 
 
 IV. 
 
 ALWA YS. 
 
 The love that glows withm my breast, 
 I sometimes think had scarce been such, 
 
 Had you not always so confessed 
 
 That you do love me, and how much. 
 
 You always lift your heavenly face, 
 Seeking caresses, when we meet. 
 
 The silence of your close embrace 
 
 Thrills more than words could — how so sweet. 
 
 You alway.s pray me to return, 
 And wonder why so late I came. 
 
 It is the pleading tones that burn. 
 
 The words are air. The thoughts are flame. 
 
UO CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 V. 
 
 SOMETIMES. 
 
 I sometimes in my foolish way, 
 When on my bosom you. recline 
 
 A head which fairer grows each day, 
 Nestling a tender hand in mine,- — 
 
 I sometimes, as I smooth your hair, 
 Kissing the dear white brow the while, 
 
 \'\i\\ softly ask you to declare 
 
 That yuu will never die; — you smile. 
 
 No wonder ! Who can tell us now 
 If I this same sweet hand shall hold. 
 
 When the long years have marked your brow 
 And left you gray and worn and old. 
 
HOW LOXG. 141 
 
 VI. 
 
 HOW LONG. 
 
 Love me not, dear, " till death us part," 
 
 Short union of a fragile life. 
 Keep me far longer in your heart. 
 
 Closer than husband is to wife. 
 
 So when our souls have laid aside 
 
 This home of flesh, these robes of clay. 
 
 The bridegroom still shall know his bride. 
 And love her in that far-off day. 
 
142 CLODf^ OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 VII. 
 FOREBODINGS. 
 
 If coldness e'er your love should cross 
 In davs to come, by evil chance — 
 
 Oh softly tell me of my loss, 
 
 Wake me not rudely from my trance. 
 
 A heart, which love like yours has blessed, 
 Such bitter tidings well might break. 
 
 And freeze the gladness in my breast, 
 And silence all the songs I make. 
 
 Unless some few sad notes should flow, 
 As I have heard in winter wood 
 
 Poor birds forsaken in the snow, 
 
 But singing all the songs they could. 
 
\'IXTER COME. 143 
 
 VIIT. 
 WINTER COME. 
 
 I tried to love yon not— -to drown 
 All memory of each word and look, 
 
 And forth I wandered from the town, 
 
 And through strange lands my way I took. 
 
 'Twas Autumn with its changing hues, 
 But here and there were shades of green, 
 
 As though the trees were loth to lose 
 The long sweet summer which had been. 
 
 With me, no summer lingered yet. 
 
 My heart, was withered to the core. 
 Its only wish was to forget. 
 
 I could not — would not — love you more. 
 
144 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 The winds came forth with mournfiil sound. 
 
 " The Wiutei- comes " they seemed to say. 
 Coldness and twilight closed me round. 
 
 The skies were dim. The roads were grey. 
 
 What matter for the dreary wind, 
 
 The moaning woods, the gloomy rain ? 
 
 A sadder winter filled my mind. 
 
 I could not — would not — love again. 
 
THE YILLAOE. ur, 
 
 IX. 
 THE VILLAGE. 
 
 At nightfall through the little town, 
 Whither my lonesome path had led, 
 
 Forlorn I loitered up and down. 
 
 " All Autumn days are sad " I said. 
 
 Lo, music in the marketplace ! 
 
 I stood and listened as they sang, 
 And strove behind a careless face 
 
 To hide my sorrow's bitter pang. 
 
 "Flow on" I cried, "sweet music flow. 
 All voices full of song should be. 
 
 And heavenly lips still sing, I know. 
 Which never more shall sing to me." 
 
146 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Then strange weird fancies crossed my breast. 
 
 I almost thouglit I saw you stand 
 Listening in silence with the rest, 
 
 And lift vonr face and wave vnur liand. 
 
THE TORRE XT. \i\ 
 
 THE TORRENT. 
 
 I heard a foaming torrent rave 
 
 With endless sound and plnnt;^ and fall, 
 And right beneath its roaring wave 
 
 Stood one great rock unmoved through all. 
 
 The tempest thundered o'er its head. 
 
 It oared not how the floods might roll. 
 -Vnd softly to myself I said : 
 
 "Be patient also, O my s<ml. 
 
 " Be calmer in thy deep distress. 
 
 'Tis not unfitting that the few 
 Who drain love's rapture to excess 
 
 Should taste excess of sorrow too," 
 
148 CLOBfi OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 XL 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 1. 
 
 spirit of the blast and storm, 
 Heart of tlie tempest ! let me be 
 
 Dissolved from mortal flesh and form 
 And changed, and mingled into thee. 
 
 The flaming thimderbolts to forge, 
 To ride the clouds on dusky wing, 
 
 To smite the rugged mountain-gorge. 
 To shake the crags where eagles cling. 
 
 And in the tumult and the throe, 
 The wail along my wasting path. 
 
 To find an echo to my wo, 
 
 A voice for ray consuming wrath. 
 
TILE STORM. 119 
 
 Soul of the tempest ! when is heard 
 Thy furious challenge from afar, 
 
 Are heaven and earth more fiercely stirred 
 Than we, when passion blinds us, are ? 
 
 I know my madness. I would fain 
 Strive to be gentler, smiling on ; 
 
 But that sweet face returns again, 
 
 And all my calmer thoughts are gone. 
 
150 CLODii OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Xil. 
 
 THE SUNBEAM. 
 
 .\t times a buum of suushiue falls 
 Athwart the prisouer's floor of stone, 
 
 And suiites \Xw ,u'loom froia dungeon walls 
 Wlicre the poor captive toils al(,ine. 
 
 •So, on my soul enthralled and dumb 
 Old joys look back and smile anew ; 
 
 Delightful thuuglits, like dieams, still come: 
 And all are memories of you. 
 
 That prisoner's darkened ejes may fill, 
 Though steel-nerved lips no murmur make 
 
 His shaekles find him hardened still : 
 His tears ^\'el■e for the sunbeam's sake. 
 
THE DARK BOAD. 151 
 
 XIII. 
 THE DARK ROAD. 
 
 Oh why, when Love's deep dreams are fled 
 Because the house of deatli is strange, 
 
 Should we its silent gates so (h'ead. 
 
 And tremble at the thought of change — 
 
 AVhilst they who d\\ell beneath the sods, 
 ^A'ithin the green mound's daisied hem, 
 
 Find happy slumlier and the clods 
 Of that dim valley sweet to them 1 
 
 Or is it that darl<; road we fear ? 
 
 The hands close held — the lips long kissed- 
 The pitying faces — disappear. 
 
 And voices call us in the mist. 
 
152 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Yet dauntless men of old and brave 
 
 Who breathed the dungeon's poisoned breath 
 
 With scarce a sigh for freedom, gave 
 The beauty of their youth to death. 
 
 And patient martyrs e\'en wore 
 Bright faces at the burning stake, 
 
 And felt the leaping flames, and bore 
 And moaned not, for the Master's sake. 
 
 And earlier still in heathen lands, 
 Some took the hemlock's bitter bowl. 
 
 Held in the shuddering gaoler's hands 
 And drank it, undisturbed of soul. 
 
 ^'et none the less I fear to part 
 From wearied days of inward strife, 
 
 Because a memory fills my heart, 
 A thonglit--a life within a life. 
 
 ( )\i wherofoi'e should I dread to cross 
 'J'he waters of that Lethean sti'eam ? 
 
 Behold, a shadow is n}y loss. 
 
 And all my grief is for a dream ! 
 
OUTPOURINGS. 153 
 
 XIV. 
 
 OUTPOURINGS. 
 
 A dream — a shadow — (let ine pour 
 The torreut of my sorrows wild) : 
 
 A face which came, but comes uo more : 
 An image which took breath and smiled : 
 
 A joy in days which dawned and died : 
 A light which on ray darkness stole : 
 
 A phantom formed to open wide 
 The gates of passion to my soul : 
 
 A footprint on tlie common road, 
 Lending its sweetness to the clay : 
 
 A deep diviueness which abode 
 
 In all things, (but it passed away) : 
 
154 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 A presence mingling with the sky, 
 
 And earth and sea and all things fair : 
 
 A vision with no power to die: 
 A sense of rapture everywhere • 
 
 A voice whose lightest tones and least 
 May never reach these ears again, 
 
 Yet left me, when its music ceased, 
 A world of echoes in my brain. 
 
THE JIObWTALYS 15.") 
 
 XV. 
 
 TN£ MOUNTAINS. 
 
 These lonely uiountaius ! how they steal 
 The torture from my sorrow's core — 
 
 A place to close mine eyes and feel 
 This, life of passion throb no more. 
 
 If only, a.s I silent lay 
 
 The bitter doubts which A-ex m}' brain 
 ^VouId roll like mists and melt iiway, 
 
 And r.,ove, without the clouds, remain. 
 
 The memory of those gracious days, 
 Which you and I in Kdcn spent, 
 
 A\'oukl sul'tcn all lieath's perilous ways, 
 And j;ivc nie light, wherc'ci- I went. 
 
156 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Nay, to my musing hoarb would Death 
 Full of compassionate comfort seem, 
 
 A voice of hope, a gentle breath 
 
 To waft me on from dream to dream. 
 
THE DBEAM. 
 
 XVI. 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I thought that all these things came true, 
 And in this lonesome gorge I lay, 
 
 Pallid and dead for love of you, 
 
 '.Mid wild-shaped rooks and boulders gray. 
 
 And in my dieam you came and knelt. 
 And told me mvich and whispered low 
 
 About the places where we dwelt, 
 The things we did such years ago. 
 
 But I believed not in my mind, 
 
 Thinking 'mid all those boulders gray, 
 
 Some bush but trembled in the wind. 
 Though lifeless and as cold as the}'. 
 
15,'^ CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Then once again, behold you came 
 
 And stood, and rent your robes, and cried, 
 
 And called me bj' mv honsehold name, 
 And leagnos of pohoint;' cliff's replied. 
 
 But still I lay entranced and dumb. 
 Yet knew that all the hills were bare, 
 
 And thought j^our cry was : "Change hath come 
 And Waste and Winter everywhere. 
 
 " Summer is past, and brown and thin 
 Are all the woods where foliage waved. 
 
 The harvest-sheaves are ,L:athered in 
 
 And garnered. How shall we be saved 1 " 
 
MIS WA NDERED 1 5 9 
 
 XVII. 
 MIS WANDERED. 
 
 We saved? not I alone then lost? 
 
 Oh love, my love, if this same wo 
 The glory of your youth hath crossed 
 
 With equal blight, I did not know. 
 
 Have patience. I will rise and come 
 And my miswandered ways confess — 
 
 So far astray — so dark — so dumb — 
 And pray you to forgive and bless. 
 
 Though Winter's freezing storms begin. 
 And waste the fields where foliage waved- 
 
 Though all the wheat be gathered in. 
 Oh love, my love, we shall be saved ! 
 
160 CLODS OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 XVIII. 
 LISTEN. 
 
 Oh dear for ever, loved nnd sought, 
 
 And hoped and yearned for — since this air 
 
 Seems with your fragrant presence fraught, 
 Listen, oh listen to my prayer. 
 
 Draw near me. Trust my heart to know 
 Your footstep from the rustling sheaves. 
 
 Your breath from all the winds that blow, 
 And all the voices of the leaves. 
 
WINTER GONE. 161 
 
 XIX. 
 WINTER GONE. 
 
 Once more your throbbing lips were pressed 
 Hungered and thirsted for to mine ; 
 
 I felt your sweet face on my breast, 
 Your losing arms my neck entwine. 
 
 I could not tell you of mj' fear, 
 
 What I had thought nor where liad been, 
 How Winter's dim approach was near, 
 
 Nor of the lingering shades of green. 
 
 I only knew Love could not die, 
 
 And Doubt was wrong, aud Faith was deep. 
 And in my heart I wished that I 
 
 Were some young child, that I might weep. 
 
162 QLODS OF THE VALLEY, 
 
 XX. 
 
 SIDE BY SIDE. 
 
 I dreamed that in the silent mould 
 Both of us, side by side, were laid — 
 
 Fearing no wrong. The bell was tolled. 
 
 The hymns were sung. The prayers were prayed. 
 
 And some one said 'twas meet that they 
 Who loved so wildly had found rest 
 
 Spirit with spirit — clay with clay — 
 
 Face laid by face — and breast by breast. 
 
 " Dear heart " 1 said, " sweet soul, divine, 
 So longed for — on your gentle brow 
 
 Where heavenly light was wont to shine, 
 Must there be al ways darkness now 1 " 
 
SIDE BY SIDE. 163 
 
 "Dear heart" — again — "sweet soul, divine, 
 liOved always — all the years that roll 
 
 Are ours for ever — yours and mine 
 To love in — clinging soul to soul. 
 
 " Kiss me once more. If slumber fall 
 
 Upon us — fear not : be not loth 
 To sleep. The trumpet cannot call 
 
 One spirit without wakening both." 
 
L ENVOI. 
 
 Desert so wild and gi-ay — bare rocks — and "wilderness 
 
 places, 
 Here friends ! let me stray, tbotigli far from the 
 
 sight of yoar faces. 
 Whence were those bitter wails, 'those cries which 
 
 awoke us from slumber, 
 Tears from the darkness of jails, and sorrows which 
 
 no man can number ? 
 These from the victims of hate, from the outcast 
 
 sons of oppressiou, — ■ 
 
L'EJVOI. 165 
 
 Vengeance — the creed of the State ! and Law — the 
 
 fierce Eight of Possession ! 
 Lawgivers hard as the stoue ! have ye joy of the 
 
 wrecks ye are making? 
 Flesh and blood like your own, but hearts that 
 
 are broken and breaking ! 
 
 Onward the light crowds tread ; men are gay, 
 
 and the feaster carouses ; 
 Poets still dream of the dead and embalm them 
 
 and build for them houses. 
 Therefore I trampled my lute in the dust, and in 
 
 silence I ponder ; 
 Powerless to help, I am mute, and alone through 
 
 the wolds I would wander. 
 What shall I find in the \\ilderness gray, save the 
 
 dove and the swallow ? 
 Shaken about by the wind, there are reeds for the 
 
 mouth, smooth and hollow. 
 Each to his task ! Ye are strong for the strife 
 
 and ye never did fear it. 
 I shall return with a song. Remember my words 
 
 when ye hear it. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM KEENER. 
 
 THE KICHEST PRINCE. 
 
 'Twas at Worms, four German princes 
 Told their tales and made their boast, 
 
 Feasting in the royal palace, 
 
 Praising each his own realm most. 
 
 Spake the Prince of all the Saxons : 
 
 " Where's the land like mine for worth ? 
 
 Silver in its hills is hidden, 
 
 Heaps of treasure in its earth." 
 
170 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 " Where's a land like mine for plenty V 
 Spake the ruler of the Ehine, 
 
 " Golden harvests fill the valleys. 
 All the hills are rich with wine." 
 
 Then spake Ludwig of Bavaria : 
 " In my realm is wealth as great ; 
 
 Spacious cities, sumptuous abbeys, 
 Castles built for pomp and state.'' 
 
 Wiirtemberg's beloved monarch. 
 Bearded Eberhard then cried : 
 
 " In my realm are no great cities. 
 And its hills no treasure hide ; 
 
 " But one charm that land possesses : 
 
 I can lay my head to rest. 
 Wandering through each lonesome forest, 
 
 On my humblest subject's breast." 
 
 Then each Prince (Bavarian — Saxon — 
 And the Rhine-lord) shouted free : 
 
 "Bearded Count! Your laud grows jewels, 
 You are wealthier far than we ! " 
 
FROM KERNER 171 
 
 THE TWO TOMBS. 
 
 Two coffins are deeply buried 
 'Neath the old cathedral stones : 
 
 The one holds proud King Ottmar, 
 And the other a singer's bones. 
 
 The King once sat in splendour 
 On a throne of old renown ; 
 
 The sword in his right hand glitters ; 
 On his head is a golden crown. 
 
 Yet, near to the haughty monarch 
 
 The gentle singer sleeps ; 
 And the harp he loved to waken 
 
 Still in his hand he keeps. 
 
172 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The noise of battle thunders, 
 The war-cry shakes the land : 
 
 But the sword hath never trembled, 
 Which the King holds in his hand. 
 
 Flowers bloom ; and all the valleys 
 Are glad with murmuring gales : 
 
 And the singer's harp is trembling 
 With a song which never fails. 
 
FROM KERNER. 173 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 Once in a shady glen 
 
 Asleep I laj' and dreaming : 
 
 I saw my home again 
 
 With glory round it gleaming. 
 
 In morning's ruddy light 
 
 Shone forth my father's dwelling. 
 Oh how the heavens were bright ! 
 
 The cornfields fair past telling ! 
 
 Garden wheie roses grew — 
 
 How glad my heart to find it ! 
 
 But soon the vision flew, 
 
 And left such pain behind it. 
 
174 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Now through dark lands I roam. 
 
 I yearn, awake and sleeping. 
 Always I seek that home, 
 
 And find it not for weeping. 
 
FROM LENAU. 
 
 THE POSTILLION. 
 
 Lovely was the night in May ; 
 
 All Spring's joys seemed blended 
 In the woods and moors which lay 
 
 'Neath warm skies extended. 
 
 All the land was hushed in night, 
 
 Every road forsaken ; 
 Nothing but the Moon's clear light 
 
 In the streets did waken, 
 
176 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Not a murmur save the breeze, 
 
 Its delight expressing, 
 Breathing on the fields and trees 
 
 Springtime's cheer and blessing. 
 
 Soft and still the brooklet crept, 
 In the moonlight gleaming. 
 
 Not to wake the flowers which slept 
 From their blissful dreaming. 
 
 My postillion driving fast, 
 Blithe and jovial-hearted, 
 
 Blew a merry bugle-blast 
 Till the echoes started. 
 
 Four fine steeds he smartly drove, 
 Loud their hoofs resounding. 
 
 On by meadow, hill, and grove, 
 And broad vales surrounding. 
 
 Just a glimpse, and out of view 
 Fields and farms past number, 
 
 And small hamlets, not a few, 
 Wrapped in dreams and slumber. 
 
FROM LEXAU. 177 
 
 Lo, in sight a churchyard stood, 
 
 (Shadows dark did fold it) 
 Built where every passer could 
 
 In its place behold it. 
 
 Leaning on the mountain side 
 Stretched the gray wall grimly, 
 
 And the cross of Him who died 
 Towered in moonlight dimly. 
 
 My postillion stopped the chaise 
 
 In that place so lonely. 
 Fixed a long and earnest gaze 
 
 On the churchyard only : 
 
 " Here must wheels and horses rest, 
 
 (Sir, with your complying) 
 Yonder in the earth's cool Lrcast, 
 
 Is my comrade lying. 
 
 " Such a friend, so bold and true. 
 
 Brisk and gay and clever ! 
 None like him the bugle blew, 
 
 Till he ceased for ever. 
 
ITS TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 "Here I always stop to send, 
 With true brother-greetings, 
 
 Music to remind mj' friend 
 Of onr h;ippy meetings.'' 
 
 Then a travelling song he gave 
 On his horn completely, 
 
 Which his brother in the grave 
 Played in old times sweetly. 
 
 And the hills re-echoed clear 
 
 Every note so truly. 
 Just as if his friend could hear, 
 
 And was answering duly. 
 
 On we flew past vale and hill, 
 Loose our bridles flinging. 
 
 But those mountain-echoes still 
 In my ears are ringing. 
 
FROM HEINE. 
 
 Nacht lag aiif tneinen Augen. 
 
 Night lay Tipon my eyelids ; 
 
 My mouth was closed with lead ; 
 I lay in the deep graveyard — 
 
 Wounds in my breast and head. 
 
 How long it was, I know not, 
 
 That I had lain in sleep ; 
 I woke and heard a knocking 
 
 At my grave's door so deep. 
 
180 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 " Wilt thou not get up, Henry 1 
 Day breaks, and night is clone. 
 
 Tlie dead are all now risen — 
 The endless joy begun." 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling ; 
 
 Sight from my eyes hath fled, 
 They are indeed quite blinded 
 
 By all the tears they shed. 
 
 " I kiss thy blind eyes, Henry ; 
 
 I kiss the night away. 
 Thou still shalt see the angels, 
 
 And Heaven's eternal day." 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling ; 
 
 My heart bleeds more and more, 
 Wliere once thy own words pierced it ; 
 
 The wound is sharp and sore. 
 
 " I lay so gently, Henry, 
 
 I lay my hand thereon ; 
 Thy heart shall bleed no longer; 
 
 The wound is healed and gone," 
 
FROM HEINE. l6l 
 
 I cannot rise, my darling ; 
 
 Blood still flows from my head ; 
 'T^Yas there I aimed the weapon 
 
 When thy farewells were said. 
 
 " I bind thy head up, Henry ; 
 
 I bind it with my hair ; 
 I will staunch all the bleeding, 
 
 And leave no aching there." 
 
 So tenderly she pleaded, 
 
 She begged, she prayed mc so, 
 I could resist no longer, 
 
 But must to the loved one gu. 
 
 Then, like a bursting torrent, 
 
 My wounds broke forth again 
 From bleeding breast and forehead, 
 
 And woke me with the pain. 
 
182 TRANSLATIOJS. 
 
 11. 
 
 A us meinen Thr'dnen spriessen. 
 
 FroDi the tears my ej-es are shedditig,. 
 
 Flowers of sweet odour spring, 
 And my sighs are changed to music 
 
 For nightingales to sing. 
 
 And to thee, if thou lov'st njc, maiden, 
 Shall all these flowers belong, 
 
 And ever before thy window 
 Shall nightingales make song. 
 
FROM HEINE. 183 
 
 III. 
 
 Du bist wie eine Bliune. 
 
 Like some fair flower tliou secmest, 
 So good, so sweet thou art ; 
 
 I gazed till a striiugo feeling 
 Of sadness filled my heart ; 
 
 Methought my hands in blessing 
 On tliy fair head were laid, 
 
 And " May God always keep thee 
 So sweet, so pure," I prayed. 
 
184 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sie Iiaben heu£ Abend Gesellschaft. 
 
 There are guests at the house this evening ; 
 
 They are gay with dance and song ; 
 And above at the shining window 
 
 A shadow flits along. 
 
 Thou seest me not ; in darkness 
 
 So friendless I stand below ; 
 Still less can'st thou see the passions 
 
 Wliieh in my dark heart flow. 
 
 Aly heart, my darlc heait, loves tliec — 
 
 Uncared for and forgot — 
 It bleeds and l.ireaks and Joves thee, 
 
 And yet thou seest it not ! 
 
FROM EICHENDORFF. 
 
 In einem kiihlen Grumie. 
 
 Cool flows the rushing water. 
 
 The mill-wheel turns apace. 
 The miller's fair young daughter 
 
 Has vanished from the place. 
 
 She gave a ring for token 
 
 How true her heart would be : 
 
 The ring in twain fell broken 
 When she turned false to me. 
 
186 TRAJSLATIOA^S. 
 
 I fain would wander gaily 
 
 With minstrel folk that roam, 
 
 And sing my own songs daily 
 In strange lands far from home. 
 
 I fain would join the tramping 
 Of soldiers armed for fight, 
 
 And heap the watchfires, camping 
 On battlefields by night. 
 
 I hear the mill-wheel rolling. 
 
 I know not what I need. 
 Would my death-bell were tolling ! 
 
 Then it would stop indeed. 
 
FROM UHLAND. 
 
 Es zogen drei Burse hen wohl ilber den 
 Rhein. 
 
 Over the Rhine came travellers three, 
 They were riding apace to the hostelrie. 
 
 " Good hostess ! have you sweet ale and wine ? 
 And where is your daughter so fair and fine ?" 
 
 " My ale and my wine are fresh and clear, 
 My daughter is laid on a wooden death-hier." 
 
 When into the chamber they came and stood, 
 The daughter lav there in a coffin tif wood. 
 
188 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 The first — the veil from her face he took ; 
 And he gazed at her long with a pitiful look : 
 
 " Were you only alive with that sad sweet brow, 
 I would love yoLi the rest of my days from now ! " 
 
 The second — he covered the face once more, 
 And he wept aloud as he turned to the door : 
 
 " Oh why do you lie on that hard death-bier 1 
 I have loved you for many and many a year." 
 
 The third — he lifted again the veil, 
 
 And kissed her close on the mouth so pale : 
 
 " I always loved you. I love you still. 
 
 I will love you for over and ever, I will ! " 
 
FROM WILHELM MULLER. 
 
 Am Brunnen vor dein Thore. 
 
 A little brook — a door-porch — 
 
 And a linden-tree bet'n-ecn, 
 Where dreaming in its shadow 
 
 Aly happiest hours have been. 
 I marked its rind in boyhood, 
 
 With loving names and true, 
 And both in joy and sorrow 
 
 To its cool shade I drew. 
 
190 TRAX^LATIONS. 
 
 I was compelled to wander 
 
 One day in darkness deep, 
 And in the gloom and shadow 
 
 I closed my eyes to sleep. 
 Again its branches whispered ; 
 
 Again they Cidled to me : 
 " Come back, old friend and comrade 
 
 Here all thy rest shovdd be." 
 
 The cold winds blew about me ; 
 
 My head and face were bare ; 
 The way was far to travel ; 
 
 No shelter found I there. 
 Now many a league divides me 
 
 From that old linden-tree, 
 But still its branches whisper : 
 
 "Here all thy rest should be." 
 
FROM FREILIGRATH. 
 
 O lieU so lan<re du lieben kannst. 
 
 <b 
 
 Oh love as long as e'er thou canst, 
 Oh love as long as e'er thou mayst, 
 
 The hour shall come, the hour shall come, 
 When friends are in the graveyard placed. 
 
 And let love ever rule thy mind, 
 
 And draw thee with its power divine, 
 
 As long as e'er one other heart 
 
 Beats in warm sympathy with thine, 
 
192 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 And love him changelessly and true, 
 Who e'er his breast to thee shnll show, 
 
 And make him happy all his days, 
 
 Nor grieve him when he loves thee so. 
 
 And ever guard thy hasty words ; 
 
 Thou canst not call them back again ; 
 God knows thou didst not wish him wrong, 
 
 And yet they gave thy comrade pain. 
 
 Oh love as long as e'er thou canst. 
 Oh love as long as e'er thou mayst, 
 
 The hour shall come, the hour shall come, 
 When friends are in the graveyard placed. 
 
 Then kneel'st thou down beside the vault, 
 And hid'st thy wet eyes, weeping sore, 
 
 There in the long damp churchyard grass ; 
 (Those eyes shall never see him more). 
 
 And criest : " Oh look upon me now. 
 Here weeping thy dark grave above, 
 
 God knows I never wished thee wrong. 
 Forgive me that I grieved thy love." 
 
FROM FB.EILIGRATII. ]93 
 
 He hoars thee not, nor sees, nor comes. 
 That thou upon his neck niay'st fall, 
 
 The lips, -ffhich kissed thee once so much, 
 Reply not : " I forgave thee all." 
 
 He long ago forgaye thee all. 
 
 But many a burning teardrop fell 
 
 About thee, and thy bitter word. 
 
 But hush ! He rests, and all is well. 
 
 Oh love as long as e'er . thou canst. 
 Oh love as long as e'er thou niayst, 
 
 The hour shall come, the hour shall come. 
 When friends are in the graveyard placed. 
 
FROM 
 
 THE IDYLS OF MOSCHUS. 
 THE SICILIAN. 
 
 FROM THE EPITAPH ON 
 BION, A LOVING HERDSMAN. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 
 Nightingales making lament in the thick-covered 
 
 trees of the forest, 
 Tell the Sicilian fountain, the fountain of famed 
 
 Aretliusa, 
 
FROM MOSCHUS. 195 
 
 Bion the shepherd is dead, the singer, the bard, 
 
 the musician ; 
 Harmony ceases with liim, and the Dorian measure 
 
 is ended. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 needed. 
 
 Never again shall he play to his flocks, our ever- 
 beloved one ; 
 
 Lonely the oak-trees stand, for he sings no longer 
 beneath them ; 
 
 Only in Pluto's house he chants the song of 
 oblivion. 
 
 Now not a sound in the hills is hoard, but beneath 
 in the valleys, 10 
 
 Wander the bellowing oxen astray, and neglecting 
 the pasture. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 
 Bion, Apollo himself for thy sudden destruction 
 
 lamented ; 
 Satyrs and fauns made moan and the black-robed 
 
 gods, the Priapi ; 
 
196 TRAKSLATIOKS. 
 
 Echo, that dwells in the dells and the rocks 
 
 lamenting thy silence, 
 Mimics no longer thy lips,^ and the flourishing trees 
 
 of the orchard 
 Wasted their fruit at thy death ; and the flowers 
 
 of the forest are faded. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Mnses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 
 Who shall now play on thy pipe, dear shepherd, 
 
 our ever-beloved one ? 
 Who is so bold as to put Ids mouth to the reeds 
 
 thou hast handled, — 20 
 
 Breathing the melody still of thy lips in their 
 
 innermost chambers 1 
 Echo too feeds in the reeds on thy lost song's 
 
 tremulous music- 
 See, 'tis to Pan himself that I offer thy pipe; when 
 
 he takes it, 
 Let him beware of its touch, lest he fail, though 
 
 a god, to surpass thee. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 needed, 
 
FROM MOSGHVS. 197 
 
 Fair Galatea too weeps for thy song, whom once 
 
 thou delightcd'st, 
 Seated entranced at thy side by the sandy shores 
 
 of the ocean. 
 Not like the Cyclops' voice was thine ; him fair 
 
 Galatea 
 Loathed, but she beckoned to thee from her home 
 
 iu the foam of the sea-caves. 
 Now forsaking the deep, she sits on the desolate 
 
 sandbanks, 30 
 
 Sits in disconsolate mood, or gathers thy herds to 
 
 the feeding. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 needed. 
 
 Herdsman, the Muses no more shall bestow any 
 gifts upon mortals. 
 
 And with a bitter wail at thy tomb the Loves are 
 lamenting. 
 
 Tliis is a second sorrow for thee, most tuneful of 
 rivers !^ 
 
 Meles ! another grief is tliine ; one perished afore- 
 time, 
 
198 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 That sweet mouth of the Muse (of Calliope), Homer 
 
 Aoidos. 
 Then for thy beautiful son, they say that thy 
 
 waters lamented. 
 Filling the whole wide sea with thy voice and 
 
 the sound of thy sorrow. 
 Now for another son is thy murmur so sad in the 
 
 twilight. 40 
 
 Both to the fountains were dear; the fount Pegasean 
 
 loved Homer ; 
 Biou appeased his thirst at the waters of sweet 
 
 Arethusa. 
 Homer sang of the fame of Tyndarus' ill-starred 
 
 daughter : 
 Atreus' son, Menelaus : Achilles, the offspring of 
 
 Thetis. 
 Never of war nor of tears was our Bion's song, 
 
 but of sheepfolds, 
 Telling in clear-toned strains of the labours of Pan 
 
 and of herdsmen, 
 Milking the Idne us he sang, and making the 
 
 reeds for his music. 
 
FROM 2I0SCUUS. 199 
 
 Yes, and he sang too of love, troth-plight and the 
 
 tender embraces. 
 Nursing desire in the bobom of youth and appeased 
 
 Aphrodite. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 50 
 
 Bion, this famous city, indeed all cities bewail 
 
 thee : 
 Asora, resounding the fame of her Hesiod, xlscra 
 
 deplores thee : 
 Yes, and Bceotian forests lament for thee more 
 
 than for Pindar : 
 Lesbos, the pleasant isle, was not so sad for 
 
 Alcaeus : 
 iSTor doth the Teian city* weep less for thee than 
 
 her own bard : 
 Paros regrets thee more than Archilochus : ev'n 
 
 Mitylene 
 Mingles her tears for thy death with her grief for 
 
 the silence of Sappho. 
 
 All our pastoral singers, clear-voiced, the friends 
 of the Muses, 
 
•300 TRANSLATION'S. 
 
 Weep for thy death : Sicelidas mourns, the glory 
 
 of Samos : 
 Lycidas too sheds tears as he sings among the 
 
 Cydoniaus, 60 
 
 (Lycidas, fair to behold and of joyous face)^, and 
 
 Philetas 
 Weeps in the islaiul of Cos by the banks of the 
 
 murmuring Halens. 
 Here in .Syraeuse, mourning thy fate, , Theocritus 
 
 sorrows ; 
 I too join his lament and I sing in Ausonian 
 
 measure 
 This sad dirge for thy death — I who learned from 
 
 thy lips in the old time 
 Those sweet pastoral strains thou wast wont to 
 
 teach thy disciples, — 
 Honoured by thee, since heirs of the Dorian iluse 
 
 thou hast made us ; 
 Others may take thy wealth, but to me thy song 
 
 thou beijueathest. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 needed. 
 
FROM MOSCIIUS. 201 
 
 Woe is me ! in the gardens the flourishing mallows 
 
 have faded, — 70 
 
 Withered the soft curling anise and verdant bloom 
 
 of the parsley ; — 
 Yet shall they all revive in another year, when 
 
 the Sjjring comes.'' 
 We who are great and strong and wise, when 
 
 death hath destroyed us, 
 Deep in the hollow earth must lie, never hearing 
 
 the least sound, 
 Sleeping a long long sleep without end, from which 
 
 none shall awake us. 
 Thou shalt remain in the eartli for ever and ever 
 
 in silence ! 
 
 Yet doth the croaking frog live on," for the 
 
 Nymphs have decreed it. 
 Little I envy such lives and their voices are harsh 
 
 and discordant. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses, a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 
 
 Bion, the poison entered thy mouth. ^ Thou 
 
 drankest the poison. 80 
 
202 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 How could it touch thy lips and fail to grow 
 
 sweetened and harmless ? 
 AVhere could a mortal be found to give thee the 
 
 cup,' when thou bad'st it ? 
 Kuthless and hard of heart ! but he hated song 
 
 and the minstrels. 
 
 Help me, Sicilian Muses ! a dirge of sorrow is 
 
 needed. 
 Justice hath reached them all. But none the less 
 
 is my sorrow. 
 Would that the power were mine to enter the 
 
 gates of Avernus, 
 xVs did Alcides of old, as Orpheus did, and Odysseus ! 
 Then for thy sake forthwith would I speed to the 
 
 mansions of Hades, 
 Eager to see for myself if thou siug'st in the 
 
 hearing of Pluto — 
 but to learn that song ! But I charge thee, 
 
 sing only to Kora 90 
 
 Some soft pastoral strain, some plaintive Sicilian 
 
 measure. 
 
FROM MOSCUVS. 203 
 
 She too played upon Etuean shores. She herself 
 
 is Sicilian.^" 
 Loving the Dorian song, she will not fail to reward 
 
 thee. 
 And as Eurydice once she mleased for the singing 
 
 of Orpheus, 
 So may she send thee, Bion, again to these 
 
 mountains and valleys, 
 Pleased' with thy lyre ! but had I such skill to 
 
 delight with my music. 
 Even in Pluto's honse'^ I would sing myself to 
 
 redeem thee. 
 
NOTES TO MOSCHUS. 
 
 1. Echo .... mimics no longer thy lips. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, 
 
 And feeds her grief with his remembered lay .... 
 
 Since she can mimic not his lips. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 2. Hcho too feeds in the reeds on thy lost song's tremulous 
 
 music. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Death feeds on his mute voice. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 3. This is a second sorrow for thee, most tuneful of riuers ! 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew. 
 
 AilONAIS. 
 
XOTES TO MOSCHUS. 205 
 
 4. Nor doth the Teian city, dc. 
 
 In Teos I saw a likeness of Anacreon, pre-eminent, if 
 ever man was, among bards of old. 
 
 Theocmtus. Eeigeams. 
 
 According to some readings it should be the " Ceian " 
 city, when Simonides would be the bard referred to, but as 
 Cos or Ceos is mentioned later in the idyl, (in the list of 
 contemporary poet-mourners) the other reading has the 
 advantage of variety. 
 
 5. Lycidas fair to behold and of joyous face. 
 
 A favourite with the Muses, a man of Cydon, whose 
 
 name was Lycidas and laughter played upon his 
 
 lip. 
 
 Theochitus. Idyl VII. 
 
 6. Yet shall they all revive in another year, dc. 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
 But grief returns with the revolving year. 
 
 AnoNAis. 
 
 7. Yet doth the croaking frog live on. 
 Compare a similar idea in Shakspeue : 
 
 Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, 
 
 And thou no breath at all ? 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 And in Shelley: 
 
 and many worms 
 
 And beasts and men live on. 
 
 Alastok. 
 
 8. Biov, the 'poison entered thy month. 
 Of. Shelley : 
 
 Our Adonais has drunk poison. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
206 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 9. Where could a mortal he found to give thee the cuj>, d:c, 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 What deaf and viperous murderer could orown 
 Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 10. She herself is Sicilian, dc. 
 Cf. Matthew Abnold : 
 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, 
 Some good survivor with his flute would go, 
 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate ; 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, 
 And relax Pluto's brow. 
 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air. 
 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. 
 
 easy access to the hearer's grace 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine ! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine. 
 
 She knew each lily white which Enna yields. 
 
 Each rose with blushing face ; 
 She loved the Dorian Pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 
 Thyrsis. 
 
 11. Even in Pluto's house I ivould sing myself 
 
 Cf. W. Savage Landor : 
 
 Plutonias tedes iidirem 
 Et canerem Stygias ad undas. 
 
 Ad LiBEIiTATEM. 
 
FEOM 
 
 THE IDYLS OF BION^ 
 THE SYMRNyEAN. 
 
 FROM THE EPITAPH ON ADONIS. 
 
 'Tis for Adonis I wail. He is dead, the beauteous 
 
 Adouis. 
 Dead is the lovely Adonis ; the Loves have joined 
 
 the lamenting. 
 Sleep no more in thy beautiful robes, thou fair 
 
 Aphrodite ! 
 Walk in the garment of tears, and beating thy 
 
 hand on thy bosom. 
 
208 TRAXSLATIOXS. 
 
 Cry unto all : " Ho is dead ; he is dead, the lovely 
 Adonis." 
 
 'Tis for Adonis I wail. The Loves have joined 
 
 the lamenting. 
 
 Dead on the mountains he lies to the grief of fair 
 
 Aphrodite. 
 Woinided in his white thigh hv a boar's white 
 
 tusk was Adonis. 
 Hardly he draws his breath, and the black blood 
 
 pours in a torrent 
 Over his snow-white flesh, and his bright eyes under 
 
 his eyelids 10 
 
 Darkened are grown and dim, and the red from 
 
 his lips hath departed. 
 Leaving no trace of the kiss which the Cyprian 
 
 will not relinquish. 
 Ev'n ^^•hen he lived no more, to kiss him pleased 
 
 Aphrodite. 
 Ah, but Adonis died not knowing the lips Avhich 
 
 had kissed him ! 
 
 Woe is me, Cytherea ! the lovely Adonis hath 
 perished. 
 
FROM BIOK. 209 
 
 When she perceived and saw the incurable wound 
 
 of Adonis 
 When she beheld the blood, she stretched forth 
 
 her arms to embrace him, 
 Crying in doleful voice : "0 stay, my unhappy 
 
 Adonis ! 
 Stay till I reach theei for this last time and clasp 
 
 thee, Adonis ! 
 Kissing thee lip to lip and folding thee close for 
 
 a moment. 20 
 
 Waken a little while, (live me one last kiss, my 
 
 Adonis. 
 •Deep would I drain thy love ; and this parting 
 
 kiss would I cherish 
 As 'twere Adonis himself ; ^ since I know thou 
 
 preparest to leave me. 
 Far is thy flight; thou m^ist go to the mansions 
 
 of Hades, Adonis, 
 Unto the dismal and ruthless king — but I am a 
 
 goddess. 
 Needs must I live, alas ! and remain to my sorrow 
 
 behind thee.^ 
 
210 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Take, Persephone, this my spouse ! Thou art stronger 
 
 than I am, 
 Stronger by far, and to thee must descend all 
 
 things that are lovely.* 
 Joy of my heart, thou art gone ! my desire like 
 
 a vision hath vanished. 
 Love is for ever fled. Oh why in thy youth and 
 
 thy beauty 30 
 
 Would'st thou so madly contend with the tameless 
 
 boars of the desert ?"= 
 Thus did the Cyprian wail, and the Loves all 
 
 joined the lamenting. 
 
 Woe is me, Cytherea ! the lovely Adonis hath 
 
 perished. 
 Fast flow the Paphian's tears, as fast as the blood 
 
 from Adonis. 
 All as it falls oia the ground is transformed into 
 
 blossom and fragrance. 
 Roses arise from the blood;" from the tears springs 
 
 the bloom of the wind-rose. 
 'Tis for Adonis I mourn. He is dead, the lovely 
 
 Adonis, 
 
FROM BIOX. 211 
 
 Weep uo longer, C^'pris. Lament liim no more 
 
 in the forest. 
 Pair is his bed in tlie glades. Soft leaves are 
 
 strov\-n for Adonis. 
 He hath a couch, Cytherea. Tliy couch hath the 
 
 lifeless Adonis. 40 
 
 Ev'n though dead he is fair. He is lovely in 
 
 death, as though sleeping. 
 Robed in a garment of purple he lies, the tender 
 
 Adonis. 
 Round him the weeping Loves utter wails in the 
 
 glades of the woodland. 
 Shorn are their locks for iVdonis," and one on his 
 
 arrows was trampling. 
 
 One on his bow,^ and another his well-winged 
 
 quiver hath emptied. 
 One hath Adonis' sandal unbound ; one is carrying 
 
 water 
 Cool in a caldron of gold, \vhile his limbs^ another 
 
 is bathing. 
 One with the waft of his wings is fanuiug the 
 
 brows of Adonis.^" 
 
212 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Now 'tis for Cypris herself that the Loves have 
 
 raised their lamenting. 
 Hymen at every door hath extinguished the flame 
 
 of the torches, 50 
 
 Wasting the bridal wreath, and no longer the song 
 
 of rejoicing 
 Hymen ! Hymen, ! is heard ; but Alas ! is the dirge 
 
 they are chanting. 
 
 Now do the Graces weep for the death of Kiuyras' 
 
 offspring. 
 Ou(.' to another they sing : " He is dead, the lovely 
 
 Adonis !" 
 
 Now do the Muses themselves commence their 
 
 dirge for Adonis — 
 Seeking to charm him back into life by their song, 
 
 but he hears not. 
 (Fain would he hear if he could, but Kora is loth 
 
 to release him). 
 
NOTES TO BION. 
 
 1. Stay till I reach thee, dbe. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again 
 Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 2. this parting kiss . . . as 'twere Adonis himself. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 that kiss shall all thoughts else survive . . . 
 
 Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
 
 Of thee, my Adonais! 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 3. Needs must I live, c&c. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
214 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 4. and to tJie-c must descend all things that are lovely. 
 Gs. Shelley : 
 
 For he is gone where all things wise and fair 
 
 Descend. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 5. Oh why in thy youth and thy beauty, djc. 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, , 
 Why did'st thou leave the trodden paths of men 
 
 Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart. 
 Dare the un^Dastured dragon in his den? 
 
 AnoxAis. 
 
 6. Roses arise from the Mood, eta. 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Whose sacred blood lilse the young tears of May 
 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 7. Shorn are tlieir locks for Adonis. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
 The wreath upon him, hke an auadem, 
 Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 8. and one on his arrows was trampling. 
 
 One on his bow, etc. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 Another in her wilful grief would break 
 Her bow and winged reeds. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
NOTES TO BION. 215 
 
 9. vihiln his limbs another is bathivg. 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 One from a lueid urn of starry dew 
 
 Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 10. One with the waft of his wings is farming the broios oi 
 
 Adonis. 
 
 Cf. Shelley : 
 
 And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, 
 And fans him with her moonlight wings. 
 
 Adonais. 
 
 Compare also the following passage in Keats : — 
 
 Hard by, 
 Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
 One, kneeling to the lyre, touched the strings, 
 Muffling to death the pathos with, his wings ; 
 And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
 At the youth's slumber ; while another took 
 A willow bough, distilling odorous dew, 
 And shook it on his hair ; another flew 
 In through the woven roof, and flutteringwise 
 liain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 
 
 EmiYjtioN Book II. 
 
Newcastle-on-Ttne : 
 Printed by Wm. L. Large, SS, Shields Road.