V' v X } , M' f)sS l " GARIBALDI 9u5 otijtv $cems. GARIBALDI AND OTHER POEMS. BY M. E. BR ADDON. v^^r^flfcMe^r LONDON : BOSWORTH & HARRISON, 215 Regent Street. 1861. LONDON: Strangeways and Walben, Printers, Cajile St. Lckcfter Sq. PREFACE. In fubmitting a volume of Poems to the critical Public, the inexperienced author can only appeal to the generous indulgence of that ever-generous tribunal. The wonderful Sicilian campaign, which has made this departing year of i860 one epic poem, has fuggefted the brief record here offered to the reader. CONTENTS. GARIBALDI . OLIVIA UNDER THE SYCAMORES THE SECRETARY i 9 1 *75 215 jFugttibc ipiecfg The Laji Hours of the Girondijls . foanna of Naples Loulfe de la V allure £hieen Guinevere .... Si and No ..... By the Sea-Shore .... At Lajl 255 260 266 269 272 274 278 Vlll Contents, Tired of Life ..... 284 Waiting ...... 288 Under Ground ..... 292 Vale 294 Going Down ..... • 2 97 Gabriel ...... . 299 Farewell ...... 301 Waking ...... 302 A Shadow ...... 3°4 Life is a Child ...... 306 To a Coquette ..... 308 77>* Loft Pleiad 3°9 After the Armiftice . 312 Among the Hyacinths . 3 J 5 *><& GARIBALDI. T LIVED amongft a race of men who faid, " There is no good beneath the weary fun The dead for ever burying the dead, Great things for ever doing — never done ; All life without one purpofe — without one : We, burning the brief candle of our years For a dull game we have no ftake upon, Mocking our fouls with acted hopes and fears, Blind puppets dancing to the mufic of the fpheres. 2 Garibaldi. 2 " Not to our own — to mufic that we know not ; Not to our own, — no, not our own at beft ; Our fouls in other hands we go, or go not, Hither or thither, at a ftrange beheft. Better the bird that broods upon her neft, And quefKons not the initincl: fhe obeys, — Better the wave with foam upon its creft, Whofe changelefs courfe the tyrant moonbeam fways, Than we who wander blindfold through life's tracklefs ways, — 3 " Which lead us — where ? we know not, only on : Or what if death be but a fecond birth, Making us what we were before the fun Lit up for us the ftage of this great earth ? Oh, weary drama ! Strife fo little worth, In which the hero gains a painted prize, And only values it by others' dearth, Fame comes fo late in anfwer to his fighs, That ere he clafps the lovely fhade, the victor dies. Garibaldi. 3 4 " Thrice hail, then, to the lotus-flowers of life ! Thrice hail, then, to the Moflem's eafy creed, Who, fitting on a carpet, fees the flrife, And wonders at the hearts that burn and bleed ! Oh, fool, to hold a world's applaufe thy meed ! Oh, fool, to ftrive, to weep, to do, to dream, And perifh failing in fome mighty deed ! The wife men idly fit befide the ftream, And laugh to fee the foolifh wreck, the futile fcheme." 5 With words like thefe we wore the long years out, So, without faith or hope, the days went by, And in our minds the fhadow men call — Doubt, On life and after life fell gloomily, That darkened all. They talked of Liberty ! — We fneered, and pointed to their hidden chains : The loud laugh broke into the fmothered figh ; We with falfe pleafures mafked too real pains, — Slaves round Life's chariot-wheels, while Folly held the reins. 4 Garibaldi. 6 We had the day ftill, and the dark-blue night Yet rofe in all her olden myftery : We had the tracklefs ftars, whofe awful light Had travelled to us through Eternity, Smiling when earth was chaos. Tyranny, That (hut men from the things that made their joy, Taking life from them to forbid them die, Could not, though ftrong, that Infinite deftroy, That fhone down heaven's gold on earth's moft dull alloy. 7 We heard of Italy, and in that name Still the old witchery j but the lyre feemed dead From which that found of bygone magic came ; Only the echo lived — the hymn was fled : By all the blood in holy caufes fhed, — By the dead hero and the deathlefs fage, — By every noble foul in battle fped, — By deeds that made her paft one facred page, We, in Italia's name, recalled the Roman's age. Garibaldi. 5 8 And me was dead ! In beauty as of yore, Unchanged her lovelinefs — undimmed her fmile, Sweet flept the Zephyrs on her fertile fhore, — Still waved the vines about Sicilia's ifle : And in her lonely grandeur all the while, Venice ftill funned her beauties in the fea, — A purple mirror for each ftately pile, That crowned her Queen of lovely Lombardy, — So fair — yet dead in this — no more could me be free ! 9 We tolled her death-knell in that common phrafe — No more ! Her Carbonari — where were they? Dead of the ficknefs of their wafted days. Her poet-patriot? — Oh, how ftill he lay, Low in the Englifh churchyard, far away From the loved land whofe fkies illumed his life, — Whofe wrongs confumed his heart ! That bright array Of eager fouls once burning for the ftrife, — How dwindled by defpair, the prifon, and the knife ! 6 Garibaldi. 10 A thoufand noble words her fons had fpoken, — A thoufand lovely dreams her fons had dreamed, — A thoufand oaths, — loud, fervent, and yet broken, — A thoufand fwords were fheathed or e'er they gleamed, — A thoufand lamps of theories that beamed And died, — and nothing done but this. Their woes Were doubled by their ftruggles, fince it feemed Their efforts changed mere tyrants into foes, When, as of old fome war-god, Garibaldi rofe ! 1 1 We wait for fuch men, — Born of what ? The hour ! The incarnation of a people's prayer, They come at laft — Invincible ! With power Wide as our want, and great as our defpair, — Born to uphold the burden of our care, They come, and we believe, and gather near, And fun ourfelves beneath the forehead, where God writes, " The crown of Victory is here, And where this man comes never yet came fear ! " Garibaldi. 12 We wait for fuch men — they, like living light, Come when the hour is darkeft. It may be, They, with the ftars, mine ever, but the night Alone reveals their fulleft majefty. Then through the darknefs, fuddenly we fee The pole-ftar of our blind and troubled way Shining in grand and awful myftery Beck'ning us onward with unchanging ray, TiJl groping through the night we reach a fairer day. God had not hid Himfelf from Sicily ! The night was not for ever ! Lo ! the morn Glimmered a fpeck acrofs the lowering fky, Half doubted by the eyes fo wan and worn, Quite doubted by the tyrant's fceptic fcorn, But not the lefs the morn ! The ftandard rofe — Hope, Arrange as welcome, beamed on the forlorn; The fword took up the chorus of men's woes, And Sicily's Deliverer came forth to meet her foes. 8 Garibaldi. H Her wrongs had been too deep for words, too vile For mortal tongue to tell their villany ; Ills had been heaped on the long-fuffering ifle, Which made men traitors, only ftanding by And not protefting 'gainft fuch treachery ! Hell militant on earth had held its reign Here on the fertile treafure of the fea, With kings for minifters, and human pain The holocauft to glut the matter of the fane. Her children had been flain in churches — hid, Rotting alive behind a palace wall ; Starved — tortured — all that devils ever did Conceive of horror had been acted, all That in a favage country could befall A lonely wretch. Here in a Chriftian land Deeds that a Dionyfius might appal Were daily done, while all along the ftrand Men curfed the cruel heart, falfe foul, and ruthlefs hand. Garibaldi. g 16 The women waited, watching from the walls — Watching for the Deliverer they flood, " Oh ! will he anfwer to the voice that calls A people's want of him acrofs the flood ? Above, about us, death and murder brood, And none but God and he can help or fave, Our matters drown us in our kinfmen's blood, Our lovely ifle is one Italian grave, What wonder that we wait his advent o'er the wave ? 17 " Send him, O Lord, oh, fend thy fervant here, Our fons' right arms want ftrength in wanting him, Send him, whofe glance difpels the coward's fear, And puts new life into the feeble limb. Death at his fide will lofe his afpect grim ! No longer death, but glory ! Send, oh, fend ! Light up the horizon where hope is dim, That following the creft. that cannot bend Sicilia at the leaft may win a glorious end, I O Garibaldi. 18 " If not a triumph — let our children die, So they but die declaring they are free ! There have been fuch death-homes in Sicily, That fiends in Hell may ficken as they fee Their king outdone in hellim cruelty ; There have been horrors hidden from the day, So vile — the vile might doubt if they could be ! And yet no earthquakes heave the lovely bay, No fires from Heaven come down to fweep the land away." l 9 The women on the walls with earner! eyes Looked feaward for the anfwer to their prayer : " Oh, hear us, Thou, enthroned beyond the ikies, Thou, who alone canft fathom our defpair, We confecrate our children young and fair, — Our fons, whofe downy cheeks have yet their bloom, So that they track the tyrants to their lair, And by one moment hafte the day of doom, [tomb." We will not grudge the tears that dew our loved ones' Garibaldi. 1 1 20 He heard Who hearkens to the defolate, He lit the flame that fired the hero's foul, Until it burned with all his country's hate And fwept earth's petty barriers of control, — Though o'er his path all Etna's fires mould roll To ftay the ftep that goeth forth to fave, They would not hold him from the glorious goal ; Swiftly he journeys o'er the purple wave To raife Sicilia's children from their living grave. 21 And thus he anfwers them : — " Italia's fons, Ye glorious remnants of old battles fought, Your wrongs are mightier than your matter's guns, United, all things — difunited, nought ; — Ye need no foreign help, too dearly bought, No, — let your children to their children tell Alone their fathers' death, or freedom fought, Alone they conquered, and alone they fell, Their war-cry this — ' Italia and Emmanuel !' 12 Garibaldi. 22 They gathered in the flillnefs of the night, 1 They came from all the corners of the land, They met and mingled in the ftarry light In filent groups upon the ocean ftrand ; There were no fhouts — they had a deed in hand Whofe depth of purpofe ftilled the loud acclaim, And folemnly they went — that earneft band, Heedlefs of fortune, honour, laurels, fame, To fight, or fall and die, unknown in Freedom's name. 2 3 They were of every province, every grade, Nobles, phyficians, foldiers, artifts, — all, The ftudent left his lamp, one left his trade, And one his plough, the cobbler left his ftall, Where'er free ears had heard Sicilia's call ; Each came to do his part, at leaft to die — The pooreft gave a life nor feared to fall — Falling acrofs the path to victory, Shouting in death " Emmanuel and Italy ! " For Notes fee end of the Poem. Garibaldi. 1 3 24 There flood upon the beach a goodly throng, There flocked a hoft on the Sardinian fhore ; Around the band they came, five thoufand ftrong, Strangers, who ne'er had looked on them before, — Dear friends, who deemed they ne'er might fee them more : They came to watch the brave go forth to bleed, To mark the afpecl: that their leader wore, Whofe genius never failed in time of need, — Forth came the thoufands, crying, with one voice, " God fpeed!" 2 5 Men's minds held nothing elfe — men's hearts were filled With but one thought, and beat but to one theme, — A loud, impetuous throb, not to be {tilled : And fome defpaired, and called the hero's dream A dream of madnefs, — recklefs, too, his fcheme. A cloud of fear o'erfhades the Turinefe. What if he fail ? He fail ! Oh ! could they deem That victory went not with him o'er the feas ? — Could they fo foon forget Velletri and Varefe ? 14 Garibaldi. 26 The cruifers watch to keep him from the coaft ; The die is caft — he's gone ! — but will he land ? Will Naples cower before that flender hoft, And all an army fall 'neath fuch a band ? A thoufand volunteers, with fword in hand, Some, Grangers to the foldier's trade, — will they Rear the three colours on that hoftile ftrand, And plant Sardinia's ftandard in the bay ? How will they land ? — They landed in the open day ! 27 Who fays the age of miracles is paft ? Who talks of Marathon — Thermopylae ? They by Marfala's more their anchors caft, Laughing to fcorn the watchful enemy, Whofe vefTels ftudded all that fouthern fea ; They difembarked beneath the midday fkies ; None queftioned them, — the glorious — the free ! Their very prefence feemed to paralyfe : Unchallenged, thus they landed 'neath their foeman's eyes. Garibaldi. 15 28 Throughout the Ifle their coming noifed abroad, And " Victory and him !" the young men cried. The groups of peafants on the dufty road, The armed Guerillos on the mountain fide, Shouted his name, till, echoing o'er the tide, That found appalled the Bourbon's heart of ftone. Afar then flew the tidings, far and wide, Till the weak tyrant fhivered on his throne, Every free foul allied againft him — he, alone ! 29 Alone, with the worn 1 caufe that ever man Dared to uphold againft his fellow-men — Unpitied, fcorned, beneath Earth's general ban, The world awaiting that blefb moment when His foes mail drive him from his blood-ftained den ; And rid the infected land of death and fhame, By ridding it of him. Then let him, then, Deprived of all except his hateful name, Drag out his days unfcathed, too pitiful for blame. 1 6 Garibaldi, 3° A warning to pofterity — a mark For the fool's wit — a blot upon his kind — A vile example ! He who would not hark The warning voices — deafer than the wind, Than the black night lefs pitying, more blind - Let him be this; or let him be forgot, Excufed as mad by crookednefs of mind : So with his duft his memory may rot, And even Italy's dark records name him not. 3i A fecond Dionyfius, with the will, But not the power, to work a nation's woe ; Inheriting his father's thirft for ill, But not his father's nerve to ftrike the blow; Below the worft of tyrants, far below An Agathocles of old time, as one Who midft an army feared a fingle foe, Who dared not finifh that he had begun, — A would-be tyrant, the bafe father's bafer fon. Garibaldi. 17 3 2 Thus to his foldiers doth their leader fpeak : — " Brave ChafTeurs of the Alps, your miffion now, As ever, is to battle for the weak ; I hold no hopes of laurels for each brow, Nor promife fpoils of peaceful homes laid low, No rank, no recompenfe rewards the brave ; When paft the danger and when dealt the blow, You will regain your hearths acrofs the wave, But when the battle hour {hikes, ye rife to fave." 33 The watchfires blazed upon the heights, and drew A fiery femicircle round the bay, Reflected in the ocean's purple hue. Deepening in fplendour with the clofe of day. Low in her golden fhell Palermo lay, Breathlefs, but hopeful all the waiting land ; While from the mountain-ranges far away, The armed Sicilians flew to join the band, And an electric thrill ran round their ifland ftrand. c 1 8 Garibaldi. 34 Thus Garibaldi's name became a link, Trapani, Corleone, fent their fons 2 — And gathering round that Captain, will they fhrink ? Though from the mouths of all their foemen's guns Hell thundered on them, — by their little ones, Their devaftated homes, their kindred flain, Vile be the portion of the wretch who fhuns To lead the headlong charge, to fire the train, And die lamenting that he cannot die again. 35 Forth from Marfala comes the fwelling hoft, 3 Paffing Salerni, down the terraced flope, Bold though each foul, the proud lip fpeaks no boaft, Though each determined face is lit with hope — They know with thrice their ftrength they have to cope, But fhrink not as acrofs the vale they go — (Was this hour in their leader's horofcope ? ) Heaven help the free ! They reach the broad plateau, And face to face they meet the clofely-ferried foe. Garibaldi. ig 36 Four guns and four battalions there arrayed, With Landi for their leader. O'er the plain Their glittering arms a blinding glory made, Down poured their mufketry in fiery rain ; The fquadri fhuddering o'er their brothers flain 4 — Then rofe the ChafTeurs of the Alps ; — the fray Chilled not their hearts. On, on, they charged, again, Againft all odds, beneath the burning iky At the fharp bayonet's point they drove the foe away. 37 A ftudent lad from Pavia, fcarce eighteen, Laid firft his hand upon the foeman's gun, His fouthern nature fired by the fcene, Proud to do fomething where fo much was done. (Oh, happy mother, calling fuch her fon ! ) Oh, wondrous Leader ! 'neath whofe ftandard rife Men's fouls above themfelves ! The day is won -, Calata Fimi's triumph greets the fkies, And Naples' walls are plaftered with official lies. 20 Garibaldi. 38 And Partenico faw thefe Regii fly 5 And rofe as one ftrong man acrofs their way ; For here had children felt their cruelty, — Thefe warriors againft women, ftrong to flay, And murderous hands upon the helplefs lay. Here had they warred upon the feeble, here Laid low the head on which the hairs were grey, Making their names the fynonyme for fear, Now thofe fo long unpitied pitilefs appear. 39 Palermo watched the diftant fignal lights As hangs the Parfee o'er the holy fire, They flare and flicker on the rugged heights, Now mount towards the fkies, or now expire In fitful darknefs, and then blazing higher Their red glare mingles with the mellow beams Of the May moonlight, as it would afpire To melt incorporate with thofe purer gleams, And kindle in Sicilian breafts high hopes and dreams. Garibaldi. 21 40 Loud beat men's hearts within Palermo's walls, They only ftrike not yet, becaufe they wait : They wait to hear the well-known bugle calls — Wait their Deliverer thundering at the gate With the ftrong voice whofe every tone is fate ; 6 " Oh, come," they cry, " free Leader of the free, Come to redeem us ere it be too late ! What though the foe is ftrong by land and fea, Legions of mining angels watch and fight with thee !" 4i Still blazed the fignals, watched by but a few, And watched by the deluded foe, they burned, Deep crimfon 'gainft the ether's deeper blue, The ftars to which the weary eyelids turned — But he — the Leader — where was he ? He fpurned The upland mofles with his chofen band, Swift haftening to the fouls that for him yearned, O'er mountain chains and peaks on which men ftand And ficken looking down. He flew acrofs the land, 22 Garibaldi, 42 And rofe at Parco, where the aftonifhed foe Beheld him, as by magic, in full force, This Bandellero, this Diavolo, Who with the eagles took his lofty courfe, And with the chamois trod the mountain gorfe ; Again the Regii and the Free engage, — Again a treble hoft of foot and horfe Turn on the patriot-bands their bootlefs rage, And then on peaceful homes their baffled fury wage. 43 The chief retired. Some watching that retreat, Trembled. Weak hearts ! What, would they, cou ] Had he e'er led the way for flying feet ? [they doubt Were his the foldiers for paid flaves to rout ? Let the fools lie, and let the boafters fhout, Calling defeat a victory. His foes Follow his track, Piano's roads about, While o'er the mountains once again he goes, And Mifilmeri's reached or e'er the fun has rofe. Garibaldi. 23 44 Above the ruins of a feudal hall Which mouldering ftands upon the mountain's fide, (A caftle once, now with white limeftone wall, A bleaching fkeleton of perifhed pride), There is a plateau ftretching fmooth and wide, From whence the traveller looks towards the plain, And that long range o'er which the fhadows glide, Stretching towards Taffarana and the main, Acrofs luxuriant fweeps all green with waving grain. 45 Majeftic rifing, fternly, darkly royal, There where for ages paft its peaks have frowned, Cafting long fhadows on the fertile foil, The Gebel Roflb, o'er the broken ground Looks threateningly, with evening funfhine crowned A rugged king. — Mazzagna's pafs is feen Like an extinct volcano, while around The vines feftooned in garlands fondly lean Upon the gloomy olive's deeper, darker green. 24 Garibaldi. 4 6 Here were they gathered, the Guerillo bands, Here weary heads were pillowed on a ftone, While o'er the tired frame fbme comrade's hand A cloak or fheepfkin here and there has thrown, But this is luxury almoft unknown. Four lances and a blanket made a tent, To whofe blefl made the Sybarites had flown ; While fome above a fmoking kettle bent, [Lent. Whofe favoury fumes proclaimed thefe foldiers kept no 47 Amid a little group the hero flood, Turr, the Hungarian Colonel, ever by When danger threatens, or when noble blood Is needed in the caufe of Italy ; Bixio, Carini, they were near, to die With the old leader whom they loved fo much ; The General's brave and youthful fon was nigh With wounded wrift : one leaning on a crutch — Illuftrious land that midft thy champions numbers fuch ! 7 Garibaldi. 25 48 No mercenary cut-throats bribed to flay, No blind machines to work a tyrant's will, No bafe-born hirelings in a daftard's pay, White-coated harbingers of death and ill, Drunk and infuriate with the blood they fpill : Not fuch as thefe — but men of noble foul Who hold the fword to fave and not to kill ; Who afk no recompenfe, but to enroll Italia's proudeft names on Fame's immortal fcroll ! 49 They gathered round their Leader. " Now," he faid, " The hour has come to ftrike for Sicily ! For one brief coup-de-ma in that will decide The fate of all the ifle. The people cry To us to give them life and liberty. — Why mould we linger ? though our numbers be A handful 'gainft the foe. We can but die ! Think what three hundred did — and why mould we Fear to eflay a deed Ihall pale Thermopylae ? 26 Garibaldi. 5° They need fmall time for preparation, thefe Soldiers of liberty. The tidings run Swift through the camp — Hungarians, Genoefe, The ChafTeurs of the Alps — each grafps his gun, Ready for any fate beneath the fun. The avant-garde in brave Turkori's care — Clofe following the Sicilians, led by one La Maga. Next the Genoefe, and near The ChafTeurs of the Alps their far-famed ftandard bear. Up to the pafs in {lender file they go, Great cactus hedges border all the way — A mountain-gap reveals the fcene below, The glittering villa walls, the blufhing bay, Bathed in the beauty of the dying day. — The rugged mountain-peaks for ever red Drank in the fun, whofe laft expiring ray Dwelt a warm halo on each ftately head, Lingering around the loftieft ere it fped. Garibaldi. 27 5 2 Here might the hounds for ever lofe their fcent, As of famed Enna's plain the bards have sung ; A thoufand of fpring's faireft bloflbms blent Into one fragrance, o'er the ifland hung j All tenderly the timid flow'ret clung, Neftling around the crag, as if it owned, A love for the rough bofom whence it fprung, Wreathing the breaft whereon the clouds were throned, And creeping to the bafe by the blue ocean zoned. 53 The echoes of the evening gun had died Amidft. the mountains. Clear the moon arofe, Flooding with filver all the brown hill-fide, A fairy lamp to light them to their foes. Wild, rude, and dangerous, was the way they chofe, Across a mountain torrent's ftony bed ; Now in the track of the cafcade it goes, Now o'er great rocky mafles ; but one led That band, who had well-nigh made foldiers of the dead, 28 Garibaldi. 54 And led them on to victory. The men Scarce knew their Captains in the doubtful light. Singly they went, and only halted when They reached the plain below. The quiet night Beheld them arrayed there, in gathered might ; Thence to the road, then onward towards the gate, — Dawn on the Squadri's lances glimmers bright, Another hour had been perchance too late — " Strike, brothers, on each blow depends a brother's fate." 55 Roufed by the Squadri's loud evvivas rife The guard upon the bridge, then hot and fail, O'er every head the whiftling volley flies ; Loud founds the alarm, fhrill peals the trumpet blaft ; Scathelefs as yet the Band — the road is paft — Acrofs the torrent bridge the mafTes pour — Paft fire from loopholed walls, whence fhells are cart — Yet few are wounded, as they hurry o'er, Heedlefs of foes behind or ordnance ranged before. Garibaldi. 29 56 Turkori, firft to crofs the barricade, 8 And gain the town, falls wounded in the knee, The avant-garde a furious charge has made Along the pathway leading to the fea. Driving the foe before them, — 'gainft the Free, The hireling foldiers of Bombino's force Are reeds againft a rock, the colours three, Sardinia's enfign waves, and loud and hoarfe Peal the evvivas as they hold their onward courfe. 57 Now paft the cannon's roar, and hiffing balls, Within the market-place unharmed he {lands, 9 — Low at his feet a refcued people falls, He, the Deliverer, Captain of the bands, Whofe deeds go forth to all the wondering lands, He, the Avenger, he, their hope, is here ; They cling around his knees, they clafp his hands, Oh, friend ! oh, champion ! never more mail fear Or flavery approach, with Garibaldi near ! 30 Garibaldi. 58 Their Liberator ! Forth the furging crowd Pours like an ocean gathering round his feet, And he, their centre, gravely, fadly proud, Watches the thoufands rufh from fquare and ftreet, With but a look the conqueror to greet, The conqueror of tyranny — the foe, Who with a hundred, can a legion meet, Whofe fingle arm can lay the opprefTor low, And crufh a dynafty with one decifive blow. 59 Guerillo ! Bandit ! — they have called him thefe, The nations Handing by to watch him fail Or triumph friendlefs. Over all the feas Goes forth the record of his work. Then, hail ! Hail for the man for whom hope feemed fo frail, The fober called him mad — now loud and long Men's paeans for the glory that may pale The days of Chivalry, the deeds of fong ; All hail to him, the brave, the dauntlefs, and the ftrong ! Garibaldi. 3 1 60 And ftrong by what ? By numbers or by arms ? Strong by the aid of a full treafury ? By hope of gain, which many a bofom warms, Tempting the foldier on to do and die, For fome fair glittering bauble feeming nigh ? Strong by fuch things as thefe ? — no, ftrong in faith, In boundlefs love for trampled Italy, In finglenefs of purpofe, ftrong as death, What cared he for applaufe from man's moft fickle breath ? 61 He was no actor on a petty ftage, No gladiator fighting for a prize, No paid deftroyer fimulating rage, Urged on by the fpectators' eager cries. — His ftage the earth, his audience in the fkies, And for the world — what though the thumbs go down? He failing to fet free the Sicilies, What though the umpire fhould withhold the crown, The caufe which he believes in is its own renown. 3 : Gar ibaldl. 62 Oh ! we who cry cut bono, let us own Thefe are Earth's great ones — thefe who can — Men who have died on feeing overthrown [believe Some noble work they lived but to achieve, — Who in all dreams one changelefs purpofe weave, Born to redeem the land that gave them birth — Men who an age of daftards will retrieve With one immortal deed, — who hold it worth One earneft life to break the chains of all the Earth ! 63 We, the fpedtators, — we, who dropping back Bet on the race we have not ftrength to run — We, who abjure the torture and the rack Which wait on thofe who in that race have won, — We, liftlefs idlers, weary of the fun, — We, who with epigrams aflail the fkies, And trifle round the queftions which we fhun To afk or anfwer ; — we — are we the wife ? Or he who dreams and hopes, who loves,believes, and dies ? Garibaldi. 64 Still the fame climax, — Death alike to all. Be ftrong, achieve, O Warrior ! while ye may, Or ere the pitcher by the fountain fall, While yet the fun has his familiar ray, While yet the ftarry night fucceeds the day, Ere God reclaim the fpirit which He gave, To light the perifhing and feeble clay. Death, hold ye back awhile, — he comes to fave — Pale horfe and paler rider, fpare the true and brave ! 65 Yet hold aloof, and pafs by him as one Thou dar'ft not touch ; who, marvellous as great, Has yet a work that muft and mail be done, However far the end — however late The day of perfect triumph. He is Fate, Italia, Union, Glory, Freedom, Life : Extinction of a race beneath men's hate, The future with all hopeful vifions rife, All hang on him who leads and glorifies the firife. D 33 34 Garibaldi. 66 O coming day, fore-fhadowed to the eyes Of all who love the cities of their birth, When from her fcattered allies mail arife The undivided glory of the earth, — Her voice regaining all its olden worth, Her influence extended through the world, Her vine-clad hills and valleys loud with mirth, On every fea one facred flag unfurled, And to their native Chaos all her tyrants hurled. 67 Ere noon Palermo is well-nigh their own : 10 Then pours the vengeance of the pitilefs, And the weak hand whofe power to hold hath gone, Knows ftill it hath the power to opprefs, And to the laft will ufe it. Loud diftrefs, The wail of defolated homes, the cry Of thofe whofe hearths are as a wildernefs Of ruin and deftrudtion, greet the fky, While wounded women feek a fpot where they may die. Garibaldi. 35 68 Oh, mercilefs ! was it not brave to wreak The maddened hate of thy malignant foul, With weak and foolifh vengeance on the weak? — Thou couldft deftroy, though powerlefs to control. Over the lovely town thy thunders roll, Thy cannons rain deftrucl:ion upon all, Through ruined ftreets War's dreadful tocfins toll, The red-hot fhells aiTail the mattered wall, And ftill on Garibaldi's name the dying call. 6 9 And feeing what thou art, his fheltering arm Takes a new ftrength to fet the wretched free. Thou harbinger of death and every harm, 'Twere fomething to have freed mankind of thee ; There, in thy lovely lair befide the fea, Which thou haft made a charnel-houfe, there yet An awful day of reckoning mail be, — Then fhalt thou fee the free-born nations met, And the wide world in one array againft thee fet. 36 Garibaldi. 70 Over the broken roofs, the fhivered walls, Shrouding the mroudlefs dead, all mournfully The dufky fhadowed fouthern twilight falls, And the low fun's laft lingering glories die. There, where a fountain babbles to the fky, 11 There Garibaldi lleeps, or refts, for fleep Falls feldom on that grave and earner!: eye ; His dreams are trances more than dreams, fo deep The thoughts which haunt him in each night-watch he doth keep. 7i Through the Italian evening foftly beams, By every cafement a low feeble flar, Dim as the doubtful glories of our dreams, And tremuloufly glittering ; while afar Lamps fhimmer {lender as fome cryftal fpar, While through clear ether blazing fhells ftill rufh, And beautify the fcene they cannot mar — Loud joy-bells on the evening breezes gufh, And faved Palermo mocks the tyrant's power to crufh. Garibaldi. 37 72 Morn breaks above the fleeplefs town. The cries Of liberated prifoners, — left to rot In dungeons 'neath the Bourbon's rule, — arife To teftify againft. the tyrant. What ! Can it be thus, men free^ and chains are not ? The prifon-doors break down before the mob ; Men whom their fellow-men had half forgot Embrace their altered children. Who would rob The General's heart of one exultant throb ? This fun that gilds the ruined ftreets is not As other funs, — it mines upon the free ! New lovelinefs adorns the lovelier! fpot, The changing cloud, the opal-tinted fea, The waving vine, the fheltering olive-tree, All, all are fairer, the blue heavens fmile New ikies upon a new-born Sicily, Sardinia's colours creft each ftately pile, And Freedom reigns in the regenerated Ifle. 38 Garibaldi. 74 And men may breathe, — aye, even think andfpeak! Oh, wondrous ftrange ! and can fuch things be true ? Can there be kings who trample not the weak, Nor ftain with murder their imperial blue ? — Kings men may truft, nor live that truft to rue, — Kings who rejoice not in the blood they fpill, Kings yet not butchers, who in all they do Confult the fubjec"T.s whom they love, and ftill Bear in their own free breafts a free-born people's will ? 75 King of the prifoners ! fcarce one little year Since thou wert new to the Sicilian throne, To thee the eyes long dimmed with many a tear, Were turned as to the dawn. The tyrant gone, The future was before thee. Thou, alone, With power to tread the path thyfelf fhouldft choofe, Oh, rifing ftar ! how mighteft thou have {hone, — How mighteft thou have fet the prifoners loofe, And with thy power redeemed that power's bygone abufe ! Garibaldi. 39 76 It was fo eafy for thee. Thou wert young, And fhouldft be pitiful, and might be kind. How hopefully on thee the wretched hung, O bafe, O heartlefs, pitilefs, and blind, O given over to the infenfate mind ! Couldft thou not fee the courfe that feemed fo plain, Know'ft thou the golden crown thou haft refigned ? Thou who difdaineft o'er the free to reign, And deem'ft thy higheft blifs thy trampled people's pain. 77 If thou hadft had one fpark of mercy, thou, Succeeding one fo truly mercilefs, Thou might'ft have won men's warmeft love ; and now, So haft thou revelled in thy kind's diftrefs, So haft thou loved to torture and opprefs, Thy very father is preferred to thee, As not the worft. His direft foes confefs Thou haft furpafTed e'en him in villany, Paling his blackeft deeds by blacker treachery. 40 Garibaldi. 78 Stayed in the very torrent of fuccefs, The General grants the foe an armiftice. What ! Lanza and his compeers ! they confefs, They come to him, the bandit, crying, " Peace ! Let the humiliating ftruggle ceafe — We have but numbers, cannon, force, and might, An army which we every hour increafe Gathering in ftrength to crufh thee. Thou haft right, Andmenwhofe hearts are in the caufe for which they fight." 79 Oh, wonder-working hero ! thou haft fwept An army from thy path as fweeps the blaft The leaves that check its courfe, and thou haft ftept Forth from the chaos of the troubled paft, Gathered thy little band, thy gauntlet caft In the pale tyrant's teeth ; and in the field Spell-bound by thine old preftige, feared, aghaft, Divifions crumble, the trained captains yield, And leave the people thine to fave, to rule, to fhield. Garibaldi. 41 80 Then Garibaldi re-collects his force, Difcards the ufelefs, and arrays the brave. With (lender arms that fuit the mountain courfe O'er which their path will lead them by the wave, On to Meffina. Little do they crave To fit them for the war — thefe Spartans hold Hardfhip and famine in contempt — they have Small need of heavy knapfacks, recklefs, bold, As they who fought by Ariftomenes of old. 81 He has no need to ftrike upon the ground, His ftandard is the centre of the ille. New foldiers gathering every hour around, Catch valour from the luftre of his fmiie, And truth from thofe proud eyes that know not guile, And make themfelves his flaves. What art is this ? What cunning power or what enchanter's wile, Which wins each heart until it beats as his ? And the worft death for him feems but a foldier's blifs ! 42 Garibaldi. 82 The genius of the captain, in whofe breaft Beats the wide heart of nations, not of man, Who feels each hope that animates the reft, Fulfils what others only dream, — who can Breathe in one word a trodden people's ban And make that word a thunderbolt. Who dares What without him a thoufand ne'er began — Whofe fleeplefs ears can hear a nation's prayers, And fathom all their woes, and pity all their cares. " The Wamington of Italy ! " Ah, well He chofe thy name, who called thee, hero ! 1C fo Like his, thy deeds are fuch that thofe who tell Of thee or him fpeak poetry, nor know How to find words which do not fall below Thy deeds, as other deeds do fall. Thou art ! Why mould we wonder why thou art, although Thou art fo wonderful ? It is thy part To be the living anfwer to each anxious heart. Garibaldi. 43 84 Above man — as an inftrument of God — A Mofes to thefe children of defpair, Leading them through tempeftuous deeps dry-mod ; Hafte, Champion, to that more fo lovely fair That wants alone thy ftandard on the air To make its perfect lovelinefs fublime. Onward, immortal one ! The fword ye bear Is not for reft, — through life's departing prime Thou with eternal glory vanquimeft dull Time. Thou teftifieft God's unfailing truth, Thou, coming to us in our hour of need — Thy humble birth, thy unregarded youth, Thy fhipwrecked comrades faved. Each daring deed An embryo hero's ! With how little heed The loud world paiTed thee by, unheard thy name, Till, lo ! the chains are loofed, the Haves are freed, The days of all the Caefars put to fhame, And Earth refounding with the thunder of thy name. 44 Garibaldi. 26 They go, the troops of Francis ; ere they part, O'er every roof Sardinia's colours float ; The church, the convent towers, the palace, mart, The caftle walls, the fifherman's frail boat, All have their enfigns, while from every throat Swells the loud welcome of the refcued feven, And fome few murmurs in the crowd devote That parting force to — anywhere but Heaven : They go — the white fails fpread — and all our chains an riven. 87 The prifoners meet their friends. 13 Oh, wildly glad They gather round thefe loved ones, nearly loft, And all the city, as one man gone mad, Shrieks its farewell to that departed hoft, And will rejoice although forbade to boaft. From every cafement women throw down flowers, The very air is thick with bloflbms toft About the prifoners' heads — the ftreets are bowers, And the free foldiers march beneath the fragrant fhowers. Garibaldi. 45 88 And he, their faviour, clafps them to his breaft, Thefe feven. Folded to that noble heart, Are they or he the moft entirely blefl ? Up to the General's eyes unbidden ftart The tears he cannot check. His lips juft part, But will not form the words that he would fpeak. This — Jofeph Garibaldi's only art Befide which Caefar's genius had been weak ; His heart is theirs, with theirs muft beat, with theirs muft break. 89 Happy Palermo ! glancing from thy more, Look to the other Sicily, where lie The prifoners, waiting — waiting evermore The looked-for trial — in their agony Waiting man's mercy to permit them die. Look to fair Naples, where the high-born rot In ftony vaults, deep hidden from the iky — Thy very lovelinefs earth's fouleft fpot, While crowded dungeons undermine thy lovelier! fpot. 4b Garibaldi. 90 Oh, Naples ! thou haft been thy children's grave, Italia's charnel-houfe ! Thy kings have reigned O'er gaolers and their victims — while the brave Caught terror in thy precincts, and reftrained Each word that fpoke of freedom. Thought enchained, Dwindled and fhrunk, dwarfed by thy fatal air, Thy wifeft fled. The wretches who remained Sank in a deathlike torpor of defpair, Lofing the very memory of what once they were. 9 1 Thought was forbidden. Men who walked abroad Glanced round to fee the fpy that fkulked behind ; The ruftling trees upon the dufty road Had ears and could betray — the wandering wind Seemed as the reft, a traitor. Till the mind Grew mad from brooding thoughts it gave not breath, And none could truft his brother, but might find His hearth a neft of fcorpions, and beneath The facred roof of home the plotters of his death. Garibaldi. 47 9 2 This is thy paft, O Naples ! Canft thou rife, And from fuch afhes phcenix-like afcend, Ruftling thy re-plumed wings athwart the Aries, Bird of great promife ? Can thy forrows end ? Can man from memory's book thofe pages rend That tell of what thou haft been, and forget, And dream of peace within thy walls, and bend The knee before thy king, whofe robes are wet With the life-blood of all thy martyrs dripping yet 93 Can men forget ? Can they return and fay, " We truft thee, Sovereign ; blotted be the paft, It was — it is not. Welcome to the day That breaks on night's black terror at the laft. We will forget thofe dungeons where were caft Our nobleft countrymen. We will erafe The memory of the blood that flowed fo faft, (This was our grave and not our dwelling-place) And bafk in this new funfhine of unlooked-for grace. 4.8 Garibaldi. 94 " Nay, more. We will believe thee ! Though thy fire And all thy race have held their oaths as air, We will believe thou hold'ft thine honour higher, . And that thefe promifes, fo new and fair, Will be regarded ; — though to our defpair We trufted him, — in thee we frill will truft ; Nay, we will fay it was thy people's prayer, And no bafe terror flayed thy cruel luft, Making thee wondrous kind when trampled in the duft. 95 " We'll look for purple grapes upon the thorn, For figs from thirties, and for truth from thee ; Though all the world mould hold thee up to fcorn, We will believe, and thou, O King, fhall be The guardian, not the murderer, of the free. The prifons fhall be clofed, and thou fhalt tread No more above the wretched, nor fhalt fee Thy fhadowy victims hovering round thy bed, Colouring thy (lumbers with the blood that thou haft fried." Garibaldi. 49 9 6 Meffina ftill remained unto the foe j And gathered there, in concentrated force, Bofco awaited the decifive blow That mould reveal the Liberator's courfe. Here were collected troops of foot and horfe, Artillery and Riflemen, and ftill They hold Melazzo j while o'er mountain gorfe, O'er dufty winding roads, o'er peak and hill, Approach the bands united by one common will. 97 All Europe ftanding by to watch the ftrife, Feared to foretell its iflue, — " Can it be This new-born freedom will have fo much life As to furvive a fummer ; mail we fee It fade, this brief exotic Liberty ? Is this loud triumph only an endeavour ? Or mail thefe fometime (laves indeed be free ? And was that charge by the Ticino's river But the prophetic grandeur of a great for-ever ?" £ 50 Garibaldi. 9 8 Time only anfwers questions fuch as thefe. Oh, fair Italia ! men have called thee dead, A lovely corpfe entombed amid thy feas ; Thy morning glories, thy noon fplendours fled, Thy fun gone down, and o'er thee only ftied Memory's cold moonlight. Why mould this be fo ? Have all the holts that all thy heroes led Left not one drop of blood ? Art thou fo low Thou canft not count one honeft arm to ftrike the blow, 99 That mail achieve thy refurrection ? — not One arm to ftrike for Freedom ? Tims they cried Who faw thee filent. Hadft thou then forgot, And wert content unhonoured to abide ? Couldft thou indifferent ftand, and watch the tide That, ebbing paft thee, bore thy pride away ? Oh ! blind dull World, fo eager to decide On that thou knoweft not ! The feeming clay Holds yet eternal Freedom's animating ray, Garibaldi. 51 100 And fhall arife and cry aloud, " I live ! I flept, it may be, while the others ftrove, And patted me in the race. All earth could give, She gave to me ; fhe fet my throne above The wondering nations, powerful to move The wide world with my fceptre's carelefs wave. Mine the rich dower of beauty, wealth, and love, Genius my offspring, every art my Have, Imperifhable, I arife from out my grave ; — 101 " And here reclaim my long-abandoned place. Reftore to me the glories that are mine, And let my fons' regenerated race — As once their ancestors — in deeds outfhine All other nations. Let them once more twine Fame's deathlefs garland round Italians brow, While purified by fuffering, more divine Than in her proudeft day, the world fhall bow, And own me never yet was half fo fair as now." 52 Garibaldi. 102 Her beauty mall be union ! Lovely ! One ! Her fcattered laurels bound into one wreath, Her parted ftars in one immortal fun, Her myriad voices in one mighty breath, Her many creeds in one devoted faith ! This — this mail be her concentrated might, This her new life, that from the realms of death And darknefs fhall uplift her to the light ! Her trampled ftates for triumph need but to unite. 103 And thou, Emmanuel, be our warrior King; So mighty is thy miffion, thou mouldft rife To grandeur more than mortal ! Thou didft bring Hope with thine advent. On thee Europe's eyes Are turned to worfhip, pity, or defpife ; — We afk fo much from greatnefs ; do not make The world's faith in thee ! Fearlefs, true, and wife, Hold the bright courfe it was thine own to take, And ere thou bend'ft thy fceptre, let that fceptre break. Garibaldi. 53 104 Be that thou haft been, — be thyfelf alone ! Not great on fufferance ; let no other hand Hold the foundations of Sardinia's throne, Now, willing it to totter, now to ftand, Thou viceroy, and not monarch of the land. Let none fupport thy fplendour, nor declare Thine Empire built upon the mifting fand Of great allies — who, where they help muft mare, And only let thee hold what their ftrong grafp can fpare. 105 July beheld Sicilians ftruggle end In glory at Melazzo. Here the foe Were gathered. Here had Bofco fworn to fend Medici's columns where the waves mould flow Above the patriots' heads, and level low Rebellious Barcellona's mattered wall. 14 Here Garibaldi ftruck the final blow, Led the free troops collected by his call, And haftened the vaft climax of the tyrant's fall. 54 Garibaldi. 106 There had been brief encounters ere they met On that great day that ended the campaign ; The foe had charged Medici, the fun fet And faw them try to take the flopes in vain ; Againft all force, his columns could maintain Their General's pofition. Tidings flew Telling the ftrife — the number of the flain — And in Palermo the Dictator knew Melazzo's work remained for him alone to do. 15 107 This is the infpiration of the great, The inborn refolution of the ftrong, That fets a man abrcaft with paufelefs Fate — Far, far before the undecided throng That halt to dream and ponder on a wrong Before they ftrike to right it. Like the fun, He holds his courfe, nor weighs his purpofe long To paufe is half to fail. Great works begun Can know no refting-place until the work be done. Garibaldi. 55 108 And he is with them ! Victory with him Hath fped acrofs the mountains and is here — Here, where the foe are gathered, and where grim Melazzo's citadel o'er plain and mere Frowns on their {lender columns. He is near ! What though Medina's ftrength, but half confer!, Outnumbers theirs fix-fold ? They proudly rear His ftandard, and await the coming teft That mail declare if they or royal Haves be beft, 109 On the free battle-field. The fummer morn Peeps o'er the mountain-tops. The dewy fod Trembles with flowers, lonely, not forlorn, In folitudes where men have feldom trod, And where the flender ftems, dew-laden, nod — Killing their fhadows. Drifting o'er the fea, The fun comes forth from ocean as a God ; Wrapped in fea-robes of regal purple, he Comes from the rippling deep to mine o'er mount and lea. 5 6 Garibaldi. 1 10 And is it well to ftain the tender grafs o And drown the flowers in blood, and hand to hand Die, rolled together in the mountain-pafs In hate's lafr wild embrace ? Is this free band, Here met to fall or to maintain its ftand, A troop of martyr-heroes ? Surely, yes, Think of the horrors of this tortured land ! Think ! yefterday they were ! And then confefs, Ye who cry " Peace ! " no true-born men could well do lefs, 1 1 1 Than thefe men have done. Let the morning fhine, This is no fhame the orb of day doth fee ! He never yet beheld men more divine Than when they die to fet their brothers free. Has he not looked on hopelefs mifery ? And fmiles he not on thofe who would redeem The forrows of their fillers ? What ! mail he, Who (hone on Marathon, withhold his beam From thefe whofe deeds recall that old and hallowed dream ? Garibaldi. 57 1 12 Where by Melazzo many roads are met And form one centre, had the foe arrayed His forces. There his riflemen were fet In gardens covered by the olive's made, And trailing vines whofe verdant garlands made An ambufh whence they fcattered death unfeen — Divided here, the guns, upon whofe aid Bofco relied for victory, between The loopholed walls peeped from the foliage green. Here, ftrong in a concentric battle-ground, The foe was gathered. Then Sicilia's might, Half formed of peafants from the country round, And their free leaders, met beneath the light, And fet themfelves in order for the fight. The left by Malenchini led — a band Of Tufcans and recruits. Then on the right, At Arelis, Fabrizo took his ftand, While Malenchini fkirted by the ocean ftrand. 16 58 Garibaldi. 114 Advancing on Melazzo's guarded town, The centre, by Medici marfhalled, bent Its way to meet the right, ftill bearing down Upon Melazzo. Santa Lucia fent One more battalion, while from Miri went Medici's brave Lombardian troops ; thus they Went forth to meet their enemies, content To die to fwell the glory of the day, And from his latefi ftrongholds drive the foe away. But ere they parted, thus their leader's heart Burft forth into the mufic of the fcene ; And with that unpremeditated art, Which in fuch natures ever fleeps ferene, Cradling the poet 'neath the warrior's mien, He wove the glorious moment in a fong, Whofe clear notes rang the open ranks between ; Fufing new ardour in the ardent throng Until the ftrongeft there felt more than ever ftrong : Garibaldi. 59 " Defcencfants of the Roman age ! Your foes mail fly before your rage, Since God is with the war ye wage For life and liberty. He, 'neath the thunder of whofe breath, Ere IfraePs fword had left its fheath, The fierce Aflyrian funk in death, Shall fight and watch for ye. " Then by that pair whofe days are flown, By that fair future all your own, By yonder Defpot's falling throne, Italia mall be free ! By all your kinfmen foully flain, By every tortured prifoner's pain, By every vow believed in vain, Onward for victory ! " Your fhivered chains re- forged mall make The fwords which other chains mail break ; Your concentrated might mail make The tyrant from his throne. 60 Garibaldi. The land your God hath made fo fair, He made not for the foe to mare, And will not ye fome danger dare To claim and keep your own ? " But mould there live amidft thy fons, One traitor who the conflict fhuns, One wretch who fears the foeman's guns, No foldier fhall he be. Leave him his diftaff ! Let him fly From thofe who ftrike for Italy, And hold it little lofs to die, So that they perifh free. " Sleepers, awake ! Show other lands, The Roman fword within your hands Can ring old mufic round your ftrands, As when the eagles fpread Their wings above the Eaftern dome, O'er Afric's fands, o'er Britain's home, Till all the world was only — Rome! And they have called ye dead, Garibaldi. 6 1 Thefe conquerors of yefterday, O'er whom thine Emperors held fway, Defpifing their barbaric prey, In centuries gone by. Oh, fons of glory, rife ! Once more Be what ye were in days of yore, And from the mountain to the fhore Re-conquer Italy ! " 116 At dawn the columns ftarted, and ere long 17 The earliefl mots were heard. Upon the beach The foe's artillery poured amid the throng With terrible effect. Within the reach Of cannon mouths that peeped through every breach In the long garden walls, the troops advanced And gained the gardens, where each, hid from each — Fighting with phantom foes whofe bullets glanced From out their leafy cover — ftruck where'er he chanced. 62 Garibaldi. 117 And he, the Leader, where was he ? Where'er The fight was thickeft and the danger moil: ; Where'er there was fome recklefs chance to dare, Some peril paft all perils, which might coft His life who mould efiay it — here the hoft Was led by Garibaldi ! He was not In one place, but a hundred places — loft Now for an inftant — rifing on fome fpot [(hot. Where none looked to behold him, 'neath the ftorms of 118 He was the fpirit of the fight, although Medici's orders marfhalled all the men. His was the foul that prompted every blow ; He was amidft the battling centre, when The tidings came the left was threatened, then Taking the fole referve, in the command Of Colonel Dunne, he flew to turn again The tide of victory — and with this fmall band, Half Englifh, half Italian, fought them hand to hand. Garibaldi. 63 119 Onward they hurried, though the cannon fwept The road before them — firft to crofs the wall An EngliiTi failor through the melee ftept And feized a gun; when rofe the frantic call, Whofe found the younger troops could frill appal, " Cavalry ! Cavalry ! " They fpring afide Opening the way, where, trampling over all, The ChafTeurs a Cheval in triumph ride, And threaten once again to ftem the battle's tide. 120 Sabring to right and left, they tried to gain The gun and to recapture it. Then rofe, Recovering, the infantry — and vain The wafted efforts of their mounted foes ; Thick fell on either fide the clanging blows Emptying the faddles. Few remained to fly After that rapid conflict's bloody clofe ; Thofe, Garibaldi met on foot, none nigh Save MifTori, to mare the hard-won victory. 64 Garibaldi. 121 Alone, with fword in hand, acrofs the way He flung himfelf, there where the Chafleurs rode — Holding the flying chargers all at bay, Defpite their frenzied rider's frantic goad ; Ere well Miflbri could his piftols load, He bade the foe furrender — but in vain ; In fierce defiance of each warlike code The captain ftruck at him — he feized the rein, And parrying clove the traitor's crefted helm in twain. 122 With one more effort of his conquering arm — Miflbri flew the others, and fo brief The fanguinary conteft, no alarm Spread through the ranks, although awhile their chiei Stood in fuch peril. One more laurel leaf Was gathered here to grace his laden brow ; But who fhall doubt there fell a made of grief E'en o'er this victory, he remembering how Thefe were his countrymen his prowefs had laid low ? Garibaldi. 65 123 This fired the troops upon the left, who came Up with the centre ; but the hardeft part Of this hard ftruggle yet remained, and Fame, That lauds the brilliant ftroke — the Captain's art, May here fet down the foldier's dauntlefs heart, „ The changelefs purpofe-of the meaneft there, Th' indomitable fpirit, which the dart Of Death could not extinguish, but would glare Out of the glazing eyes of thofe he would not fpare, » 124 Here, hand to hand for weary hours they ftrove ; Here was it brave Migliavacca fell, In the mad torrent of the fight, where love Stays not to found the parting fpirit' s knell — The battle-field one wild, chaotic hell ; — On poured the Cacciatori, in whofe grafp The bayonets did their fatal purpofe well, Here, fword in hand, entwined in War's fell clafp, They fmile hate's horrid fmile to mark the dying gafp. 66 Garibaldi. 125 There, where the thicket's fhades were darkeft, rufhed, Driving the foe before, the Genoefe ; From many a fearlefs breaft the life-blood gufhed, Shot by the Regii hid beneath the trees. Mad with wild rage againft fuch foes as thefe, Who flew their comrades from the olive's made, Onward they fprang upon their prey to feize, Cafting afide the mufket for the blade, They broke through fcattered vines 'neath which the flain were laid. ^ 126 And charging, 'gainft their Captain's orders, gained A loopholed wall, from which the pelting mot, Now grape, now canifter, above them rained. On fped they towards fome vulnerable fpot, But only neared the guns, whofe mouths their hot Death vomited upon them. Still defying, They leapt upon the foe, who waited not Their bayonets, but to their ftronghold flying Left the abandoned ground whereon their dead were lying. Garibaldi. 67 127 The day was won — Melazzo's fight was o'er ! Here the falfe Defpot's braveft foldiers fell : And, fadly failing from the fatal more, Bofco returned, the dire defeat to tell. Here, buried Tyranny's departing knell Was tolled in War's hoarfe thunder : fhivered here The laft link in the chain. From citadel, Barrack, and fortrefs, the troops difappear, And glad Meflina fees the Conqueror draw near, 128 And as a city rifing from the dead, Moft lovely in her refurrection, wakes From fimulated apathy, for dread Had fealed her people's lips ; but now me breaks The fpell that bound her filence, till fhe makes The welkin with the tempeft of her blifs : " Oh, thou Redeemer, for our children's fakes, 18 The foot that trampled tyranny we kifs, — Proud but to kneel about thee in an hour like this ! " 68 Garibaldi. 129 They gather round : the love they fcarce can fpeak Is elocfuent in fobs and outcries wild ; Warm glows the rapture in each fouthern cheek, The ftrong man weeping with the little child, — The weak grown ftrong, — the fterneft foldier mild As the pleafed infant he lifts up to fee The glory round the hero ! Undeflled By coarfer prizes, thefe, — yes, thefe mail be, O Jofeph Garibaldi, Heaven's reward to thee ! 130 God, and not man, thy paymafter. He pays Thy love by love ! A refcued people's tears, — The very children's voices lifping praife, — Thefe be thy tribute ! Through the lengthening years, When beautified by diftance, worth appears Lovelier as more remote, thy name mail rife, And by man's ignorance fading in thefe fpheres, In cloudlefs majefty adorn the fkies, — Thou counted with the Gods in Time's adoring eyes ! Garibaldi. 69 Thy ftory blended with the mythic deeds Of old Homeric heroes; fo, the Earth, Through all her varying phafes, changing creeds, Shall yet retain the record of thy worth, Part of her poetry ; and in the dearth Of others like to thee, thy fame mail mine, Till poets frame a fable for thy birth, — The fupernatural with the true entwine, And fay, thou hadft not been, hadft thou not been divine ! 132 Land of the Bloody Vefpers ! can it be Thy wrongs, thy fufferings are as things gone by ? Regenerate, reorganifed, and free, How fhall we know thee, funny Sicily, Inverted in this crown of liberty, One man's deep love hath won for thee ! We gaze Backward o'er many a painful century, And fee again thine old heroic days, When every legend told, thy lord, Count Roger's praife. 70 Garibaldi. «33 Or further back : the Greek ufurps thy foil, And lords it in thy Syracufan ftreet ; The claffic tyrant makes thy wealth his fpoil, And Athens prays afiiflance of thy fleet To cruih the Perfian ; while the heathen meet Within thy temples, and thy market-place Is bufy with the helots' hurrying feet, While gazing on each dark and glowing face The ftranger marks thy citizens' Hellenic race. *34 For lovely from the firft, thou wert the prize Grafping ambition yearned to feize upon : When Etna's earlieft thunders met the fkies, And mocked with fiercer fires the blazing fun, Thy fod was trampled and thy ftrife begun : The Carthaginian's mercenary horde, On that great day when Salamis was won, Met on thy foil ftern Syracufa's lord, And fled before the might of Gelon's vengeful fword, Garibaldi. 7 1 135 Again the Carthaginian fought thy ftrand And found thee — as thou wert but yefterday, 111 governed, difunited, through the land War's ravage fpread, Selinus owned his fway ; Yielding Himera fwelled the invaders' prey, When, haftening to thee with his (lender fleet, Mooring his triremes in MefTana's bay, Hermocrates returned thy foes to meet, And die by Faction's hand in Syracufa's ftreet. 136 In later years Count Roger gave thee laws, Thy Norman constitution was thy boaft, Thy voice was loudeft then in Freedom's caufe, Till Benevento's blood-ftained field was loft, And Manfred flain amidft the fallen hoft. Then by the Roman hierarch wert thou given, A prey to the fierce Angevin, tumult-toft ; Till on one dreadful night thy bonds were riven, And thy loud Vefpers rofe to tell thy wrongs to Heaven. 72 Garibaldi. 137 The Spaniard ruled thee. In Palermo's fane, The Auftrian Casfar pledged his faith to thee, And kept his vow. Nor Charles' nor Philip's reign Saw thy laws broken. Beautiful and free Wert thou among the nations, Sicily, When, for thy fins of ages, on thee fell God's wrath, incarnate in the Bourbon, he Who rang in blood thy boafted Freedom's knell, Until thy woes wrung pity from the deeps of Hell. 138 The wanderers by the Styx might pity thee, For they deferved their tortures, thou didft not, Abandoned to the ftudied cruelty Of thy firft Ferdinand, whofe follies blot Even a Bourbon fcutcheon. Unforgot Thy new Commodus vending peafants wine ; Leaving his wife to fcheme, to kill, to plot, Till execration learned to intertwine His hated name with that of Auftrian Caroline. Garibaldi. 73 »39 And fhe, thy female fcourge, than man more vile, Peopled thy mores with fpy and parafite, Lured thee to ruin with her fatal fmile ; Until her little hand, fo lovely white, Was dreaded as the deadlier! to fmite. An exile from thine outraged mores fhe died, And ftill they tell the horrors of the night, When, ftricken in her blind unpitying pride, Her vile heart broke to find her biood-ftained claims denied. 140 And freed from her, fo ftrong in hope wert thou, Thou deem'dft thou might' ft be happier — to find Another foot upon thy neck, to bow To a new tyrant, eager but to bind Thy chains afrefh, and to the wandering wind Fling princely promifes. u How long, O Lord ! Have we not fuffered, yet have been refigned ; This fecond Ferdinand had we adored, But when we prefTed around, he met us with his fword." 74 Garibaldi. 141 Thy fin has been thy guilelefsnefs ; the bafe Won thee with lies to fheathe thine eager blade : Meffina's devastated market-place, — Her palaces — her lovely temples laid In ruins o'er the fpot that once they made Sicilia's glory, — in fuch figns as thefe, The hand that only terror ever ftayed Wrote its eternal fhame. Thine agonies Brief by man's lading fcorn for thy vile enemies. 142 And thou art free ! Shall all in this be faid, And wilt thou not be glorious befide ? — By all thy patriots numbered with the dead, — By all thy youngeft fons who proudly died, And drifting down the fwift and darkening tide, In the loud clamour of the hurrying fight, The hot blood gufhing from the wounded fide, — Still held thine image in their fouls, fo bright, Its fplendour drowned the darknefs of approaching night. Garibaldi. 75 H3 If not for thofe who live, for they who fell, Be glorious, oh, Sicilia ! Yes, for thofe Who loved thee in thy mifery fo well, They deemed thee dearer, with thy crown of woes, Than happier iflands crowned with flowers ! rank grows The grafs above Melazzo's graves. Oh, how Wilt thou not break thy patriot's repofe, If thou fhouldft fail to grace thy glory now, .Or tarnifh the new laurels gathered for thy brow ! 144 Thine hour has dawned, Italia ! Long and late This wondrous morning, but behold the beam ! Seize, ere it turn, the flood-tide of thy fate, And drift to glory down the rufhing ftream. Thou haft but to drift backward. Did men deem Thou couldft not be again what thou haft been, Or hadft fo fallen in thine own efteem, Since on the confines of the world was (een The grandeur of thine Imperator's haughty mien ? 7 6 Garibaldi. '45 And fhall thy modern ftandard wave o'er deeds Lefs glorious than thine eagles faw of yore ; Or fhall the Pontine Marfhes' trembling reeds Never by warlike feet be trampled more ? Hath glory fled from Thrafymene's more, Though hofts of heroes fleep befide her waves ? Hath Rome forgot to wield the fword fh e bore ? Is her foul buried in her children's graves ? And mall the Caefars' duft be trod by priefTly flaves ? 146 And wilt thou only, while the reft are free, Still wear thy fetters ? Still forbear to break The bands that hold thy ftrength from victory ; Wilt thou ftill carry for tradition's fake The chains thou needft but to arife,-to make From ofF thy loins ? Oh, thou, of old fublime, Wilt thou of all be lateft to awake, And in new-born Italia's modern prime, Wilt thou alone recoil from the proud march of Time ? Garibaldi. 7 j Shall all the world be glorious — yet thou, Thou mother of all glory, wilt thou ftand Aloof to watch the laurels from thy brow Fall to be gathered by a meaner hand ? Shall deeds once thine, uplift a lower land ? Arife and cry aloud, " Emmanuel, come ! Peal the loud blaft along the Tiber's ftrand, Sound thy war-trumpets 'neath St. Peter's dome, Till the old days return and Rome again be Rome." 148 Italians ! Brief as bright has been your glory, Ye have recalled the old heroic days, And better pens than mine will leave to ftory, Your modern triumphs, your new blooming bays : To me your deeds are fo above all praife, My heart's throb flays the hand with which I write ; But with the million voices mine I raife, And fhape that magic word for thee, " Unite ! " Let one heart prompt the blow, though every arm mayfmite. 78 Garibaldi. 149 " To-day be foldiers, ye mall be to-morrow Free citizens of a free land," he faid, Whofe heart turned to thee in thine hour of forrow, Who by Ticino's wave his legions led, And ftruck the blaft that raifed thee from the dead. The world would have thee doubt him — it may be Infcrutable the workings of that head ; But if his precepts help ye to be free, Count fomething his this Pallas-birth of Liberty. 150 And he who has redeemed thee — he has rifen So far beyond man's greatnefs, words were vain ! The vacant throne — the funlight in the prifon Streaming through open doors — the fhivered chain — The long farewell to Francis and to pain, — The mattered wheel, which erft, to wide Earth's fhame, Marked in the judgment-hall the Bourbon's reign, — Thefe be the only records of his fame, Since titles would but mar the Liberator's name ! Garibaldi. 79 I 5 I Princes and Emperors have been before, And have been fcourges. He mall ftand alone, As one who on men's lips no title bore, But graved his name a nation's heart upon ! All bafer circlets may his brow difown, Heavy with garlands he himfelf hath weaved : Lo, when his fum of victory is done, Only by kingly hands (hall be received That fword whofe blade Italia's Freedom hath achieved. kl 5 2 Let that, Emmanuel, be thy talifman, And double glory glimmer on the blade, — Italia's conquefts may be but begun ; As fwiftly as th' immortal blue-eyed maid Sprang forth in armed majefty arrayed, So fuddenly Italian freedom fprings, Jove-born, triumphant ! Let this new decade Replume the Roman eagle's fhivered wings, Thou, firft of a long line of free Italian kings ! 80 Garibaldi. And mightier than the Roman potentate, Whofe wide dominion was the world, be thou, Who from thy boyhood, by an inftincl: great, Shalt reap the laurels fown fo long ago, And wear them ere the wrinkles line thy brow. — Oh, dream of glory ! Every bygone flight The land ere fuffered, is avenged now ! Once more me claims her long-abandoned right, And bids the world allow her re-eftablifhed might. J 54 What fhall be faid of her ? Why, only this : Too long (he flept, — this mould have been before. Oh, wafted centuries, though new-born blifs Laughs through the land to change to tears no more, Long ere to-day her tears mould have been o'er ! Her champions had not come to her. They came, — The deathlefs peal refounded on the more, And echoed in the mountains ! — Wrong and fhame Melted like fnow before the blaze of Freedom's flame ! Garibaldi. 8 1 Were thefe the people men had called — debafed ? Was this the land the world had chriftened — dead ? Too long by prieftly tyrannies defaced, Too long enchained by the bafe hands they fed, Too many a year that mould have freed them fled, Their name become a byword : — they arofe, — Shook off the ftupor of long years, and, led By the infpired Leaders whom they chofe, Bore down with one great truth the lies of all their foes. 156 That truth is one inftinctive yearning, which Ufurps each heart, and beats in every breaft. What ! Did God make this lovely land fo rich, To be by aliens to the foil poflefTed ? One anfwer fets all queftionings at reft ; Italia, to be mighty, mult be one, North, fouth, and eaft, the centre and the weft, Each yearns to each ; the work is but begun ; The foldier-king's wide love can fpare no freeborn fon. G 8 2 Garibaldi. 157 Not one ! While Auftria holds a rood, a ftain Sullies the luftre of th' Italian fhield. Emmanuel, thine the glory to regain The fceptre an Auguftus fighed to wield : Lo, Victory calls thee to the conquering field, Thou, the elect of man's unerring foul, Thou who the wounds of ages paft haft healed, Around thee fhall the Imperial purple roll, The crown lies at thy feet, fo near thee is the goal. 158 Till thou art crowned in Rome, we wait, we wait ; Through the dim future glorious fhadows loom : Onward ! with Fortune for thine handmaid, Fate Thy flave, cries, " Haften ! " all the Gods fhout, Since firft they fet our images in Rome [ u Come ! Till now, we have not feen fuch glory." Light A thoufand lamps to gem St. Peter's dome, And throne thyfelf beneath them, on thy right Let him ftand whofe great deeds have led thee to thy might. Garibaldi. 83 l S9 And earth fhall hold than this heroic twain No greater heroes. Oh, immortal end ! Children, ye have not wept or bled in vain ! O King ! O Father ! and thou more than friend, Who deem'dft thy life too fmall a thing to fpend, And therefore gave thine all for Italy ! — Your double glories in one halo blend : Plant the three colours and the crofs on high, Ye glorious authors of Italian Liberty ! NOTES TO GARIBALDI. Note i. Page 12. They gathered in the Jiillnejs of tie night. (( r pHEY affembled in a beautiful night at a villa on the fea-fhore, at fome leagues from Genoa. They were, I am told, about two thoufand in number; but what is certain is, that all the alleys of the immenle garden were filled with volunteers, who moved down to the beach laden with muflcets and cafes of ammunition, which they placed on board boats for conveyance to the veffels in the offing, and all this without a word being ipoken, except a few neceffary orders, given almoft in a whifper." — Letter in the Opinion Nationale. Note 2. Page 18. Trapani^ Corleone, fent their fons. . " Scarce had the news of his [Garibaldi's] landing fpread, when the bands from Trapani, Corleone, and one or two other places joined." — Times- 86 Notes to Garibaldi. Note 3. Page 18. Forth from Mar Jala comes the fwelling hofi. u The road from Marfala, after pafiing Salerni, defcends one ofthofe long, terraced plateaux, which are a characteriftic feature of this part of Sicily, and, after cromng a little valley, rifes up the other plateau, where Calata Fimi is fituate." — Times. Note 4. Page 19. The Squadri Jhuddering o'er their brothers Jlain. Squadri (bands) of piccioli (youngfters). Note 5. Page 20. And Parter.ico Jaiv thej'e Regit Jiy. The Neapolitan foldiery were called by the Sicilians " Regii." Note 6. Page 21. With the fir 011 g 'voice ivhcfe every tone is fate. " The Secret Committee informed Garibaldi that Palermo was ready to rife, but it impofed the condition that he fhould appear before the gates of the town." — Times. Note 7. Page 24. Illufirious land that midfi thy champions numbers fuch. " Colonel Turr, the Hungarian ; Colonel Bixio, of the ChafTeurs of the Alps j Colonel Carini, alfo of that corps. . . . The fon of Daniel Manin, wounded in the thigh." — Special Cor refpondent of The Times. Notes to Garibaldi. 87 Note 8. Page 29. Turkori^frji to crofs the barricade. " Major Turkori, and three of the guides, were the firft acrofs the fand- bag barricade in the town, but the leader was wounded by a fhot, which /nattered his left knee." — Ibid. Note 9. Page 29. Within the market-place unharmed he Jlands. " Clofe to the Porta di Termini is the Vecchia Fiera, the old market- place. This was the firft place where Garibaldi flopped. One muft know thefe Sicilians to have an idea of the frenzy, fcreaming, fhouting, crying, and hugging; all would kifs his hand, and embrace his knees. Every moment brought new maffes, which debouched in troops from one of the ftreets, anxious to have their turn." — Ibid. Note 10. Page 34. Ere noon Palermo is ivell-nigb their cwn. " The entrance was effected about half-paft 5 a.m. (27th of May), and by noon more than one-half of the town was clear of the troops. But two hours before this was effected the citadel had opened its fire on the town. About noon or fo the fhips in the harbour opened their fire, and between the two they contrived to deftroy a great number of houfes in the lower part of the town, killing and wounding a large number of people of all ages and both fexes. Two of the large fhells were fent right into the hofpital, and exploded m one of the wards. Everywhere you perceived ruins and conflagrations, dead and wounded, not a few of whom muft have perifhed among the ruins of their houfes." — Ibid. 88 Notes to Garibaldi. Note i i. Page 36. There, ivhere a fountain babbles to the Jky. " The General himfelf is repofing on the platform which furrounds the large fountain in the Piazza del Pretorio, where the Committee is fitting en permanence.'"'' — The Times' Ccrrefpondent. Note 12. Page 42. " The Wajh'ington of Italy." " The Wafhington of Italy is confolidating his conqueft." — The Times, heading Article. Note 13. Page 44. The prifoners meet their friends. " Seven political prifoners, who were detained in the Caftellamare as hoftages, until the laft of the Neapolitan troops had departed from Palermo. The releafed prifoners, all young men from twenty to thirty, went up, together with their families, to thank their Liberator. He embraced them all round, and was himfelf fo overcome with emotion that he could fcarcely utter a word, and foon after withdrew." — The Times' Correfpondent. Note 14. Page 53. Rebellious Barcelona's Jhattered •wall. " Bofco had boafted that he would drive Medici's troops into the fea, and deftroy Barcellona, the head-quarters of the revolution in the province of Mefiina." — Ibid. Notes to Garibaldi, 89 Note 15. Page 54. Afelazzo's ivork remained for him alone to do. "Garibaldi, apprifed by telegraph of the ftate of things, took one of thofe fudden refolutions, dictated by inspiration, which mows bolder than anything elfe his genius as a military commander. He faw that there was a chance of ftriking a great blow, and a few hours were fufficient to conceive, mature, and carry out his plans. Entrufting General Sirtori, the chief of his ftafr, with full powers as pro-Dictator, he united whatever he could collect in men, put them on board the City of Aberdeen, a Britifh fteamer, which had been freighted, embarked with his ftaff, and, with a reinforcement of about I2CO men, was the next morning, the 19th of July, at Patti, where he difembarked, and marched on to Men." — Ibid. Note 16. Page 57. While Malenchini Jkirted by the ocean Jlr and. "The left, under the command of Colonel Malenchini, confirming of two battalions ofTufcans and a battalion of Palermitans, was to advance on the road clofe to the fea-fhore, and go right at the town of Melazzo. The centre, under the orders of Medici, and compofed of his ift Regiment of four battalions — all old troops, fome from Lombardy — was to advance by the direct road from Miri ; one battalion of the 2d Regiment was to take the main road to Meffina, Starting from Corioli, and was to be joined by the battalion from St. Lucia. The centre and right were to unite by the crofs- road neareft to Melazzo, and then work up their way united towards Melazzo. A body of Sicilians, under Colonel Fabrizi, was to take pofition on the extreme right at Arelis, fo as to oppofe any attempt made from Geflb to aflift the force at Melazzo. A fecond line and referve, the troops arrived with Garibaldi, were placed together with the troops that had come up with Cofenz." — Ibid. 9 o Notes to Garibaldi. Note 17. Page 6 1. At daivn the columns Jiar ted. " Melazzo. At dawn the columns ftarted, and by 6 a.m. the firft firing was heard upon the left." Note 18. Page 67. " Oh, thou Redeemer, for our children's fakes I*' " I can find no words to defcribe the ovations that are given to Garibaldi. Imagine a long-expected Meffiah greeted by the people he has delivered, — the heart of the whole people poured out before the man of the people, who feels and lives with the life of the mafles ! They feem at his afpecl to feel inftinclively a being who thoroughly comprehends them, and who loves them, even with all their weaknefs and all their faults, and who has facrificed his life to their redemption. . . . People, realTured about the future, are returning 5 the ftreets, which I left two months ago dead and filent, are thronged and noify. It is all life where I left death." — The Times' Corrcfpondent. OLIVIA. YN all the room, in all the crowd, She was the centre and the ftar ; They flocked around her from afar, The rich, the noble, and the proud. They hung around her chair, — they bent Low o'er the light and flowing hair, That waved upon the heated air, And made an atmofphere of fcent. 92 Olivl via. She was all falfehood, — not a glance Whofe aim fhe could not calculate ; To every fmile fhe lent a weight, Whofe power fhe meafured in advance : And if you were a younger fon, But feldom were you fhone upon. But I was rich, had rank, had power, — All that fhe played for in the game Of life ; and fhe without a dower, Without high birth or honoured name — She, with the world to lofe or win, Fair heaven without, black hell within, — She met me in my early youth, And laid all at my feet — but truth. I half doubt if fhe ever heard Of earned: thought, or truthful word ; She may, perhaps, have fomewhere read, How it fometime by one was faid, Olivia. 93 In darker ages people fpoke Truths that upon the nations broke Like a ftrange kind of thunder, — new To terror almoft, being true. The atmofphere in which me dwelt Made up of fhams unto the core, You might have fearched for evermore For one true heart. Although there knelt In many a church, at many a fhrine, A feeming crowd of the devout, Believing not enough to doubt, Ready to call the God, Divine, Who is the world's, and thine, and mine ; The fafhion of the day, and worn As lightly as we wear our drefs, — ■ Nay, with far lefs of earneftnefs. In this mam world, a liftlefs fcorn Curled on each lip, drooped in each eye ; Enough for them the hours went by, Morn rofe on night, night followed morn ; 94 Olivia. And on the fcene o'er which they paft Dropped Death's green curtain at the laft. It was from thefe I chofe to take my fate : I chofe ? — Pfhaw ! Was I not from the firft glance A puppet in the hands 1 knew too late ? Was it my pleafure when me made me dance ? Had I from her (I will not call my wife, Although for many years fhe bore that name, Until fhe dragged it down to fuch ill-fame, I learned of later days to fay, " My fhame ! ") — Had I from her, Olivia, in my life, One word that made me happy, or one fmile I drank, not drinking poifon all the while ? By all my foul, not one ! For if fhe fmiled, I knew the falfehood even when beguiled. I knew her falfehood ? — Nay, I did not know ; I felt that fhe was falfe — God warns us fo ! Her waving hair upon the fouthern breeze Floated a golden veil that reached her knees ; Olivia. Her eyes, a clear and fcintillating blue, Had every lovely look, and not one true ; Her Grecian features delicately fine, Her flender figure like the mountain pine, Swaying before the ftorm with fragile grace ; And all the Naples' funlight in her face. It was in Italy I faw her firft, — Moment for evermore to hold accurft ! With every glory of the flanting ray That tinged the fleeping fhadows on the bay ; With every fouthern air, and leaf, and flower, That made the paffing picture of the hour, — Where every hour is as a painter's dream, With Claude Lorraine furpafTed in every beam. I, with my tutor, in the Italian ftreet Stood, off the track of the fwift-pafling feet Of citizen and peafant. Went and came A guft of bells upon the crimfon flame 95 g6 Olivia. That fhrined the death-bed of the waning day : They went — thefe Neapolitans, to pray ; Their Ave Marias through the open doors We heard, and fhadowy on the marble floors Could fee the kneeling figure and bent head, Praying the interceffion of the dead ! The town and bay all blufhed one rofy red, When fhe on horfeback by her father's fide, Returning from fome lengthened evening ride, Came up the ftreet. The glory in her eyes Shone back that other fun in the low fkies : She fhook more funfhine from her wavy hair And feemed to be all light. Yes, fhe was fair ; But hers a, beauty that efcapes all words. We cannot paint the finging of the birds, Though we may paint the branch on which they fing, And every light and fhadow on their wing. So I might fet her eyes down in a book, But have no power to tranflate one look With which her foul fhone out of them. I think I knew I flood that night upon the brink Olivia. 97 Of fate and life. She filled the flreet, fhe grew Out of the fky, it feemed, and filled that too. The world was only her, when once fhe came Through purple fhadows into crimfon flame ; She was the picture, all the earth the frame, Worthlefs v/ithout the picture — words are lame And impotent to tell the tender fadnefs, Which made the firft phafe of my life's great madnefs. I learned her pedigree. Well, it was not A noble lineage from which fhe fprang. One anceflor was but I quite forgot His fate, while bending o'er her as fhe fang. Another died in Pfhaw ! had thefe but been The only blots upon her name ! The fcene On which fhe'd played the drama of her life, Had been in every ftage of worldly ftrife. Her father, one of thofe the harfh world names "- Adventurers !" and tolerates, and blames, As fomething which in cheating may amufe, And is, with other villanies, of ufe. H 98 Olivia. His falon held each night a motley crowd, Where play was high, and oaths were fometimes loud. This was his daughter's court, and fhe a queen, Eager for homage e'en in fuch a fcene. Eafy to gain an entrance to the fhrine Of her all Naples furnamed "the Divine." Her father knew the wealth of my eftate, For fuch a prey, his daughter faireft bait. Thus was I welcomed with her fweeteft word, In my dazed brain ftrange harmonies I heard In every accent of her voice, yet knew Even from the firft, no tone, no word, was true. They were French — German — Spanifh, as fome faid. It was his will in Naples to give out They came of a high Norman race. Long dead Had been his wife. They wandering about, Now here, now there, had dragged through the long years, In every land in the two hemifpheres. Olivia. 99 His daughter always with him, ever fair, Star of her father's heaven everywhere. In fuch an atrnofphere this flower had grown, Small wonder that her heart had changed to ftone, That me had come to be her father's tool, And count each creature not a knave — a fool. How could fhe other be than what me was, A dark effect of a moft hideous caufe ? What mould fhe know of honour, but to hold That jewel, as all jewels, to be fold To the beft bidder : and I knew all this, Yet fet her love againft my hopes of blifs, And fitting down to play the game of life, Staked all my foul to win her for my wife. I was juft twenty, learned in a heap Of claflic authors no one ever read ; In mathematics I had plunged, and deep Had waded through the logic of the dead. What was I then to her who knew mankind, Whofe place in life's great fcene had been — behind ? I oo Olivia. On whom all wcrldlinefs had left its taint, Who held each virtue as a kind of paint To hide the natiye vices of the earth, And valued all the world by her own worth. Through the wide-open windows the ftiil night And all the ftars ftrove with the garifh light Of modern antique candelabra, fet On inlaid tables — ivory, marble, jet, Parian, and malachite — o'er which was fpread The green cloth of the gambler's altar — red, Now black, now red again, each changing hue, Changing the faces of the players too. Amongft thefe men her father fat, while me, In the arched cafement, talked apart with me. The melted moonbeams trembled in her eyes, Their light put out the funfhine in her hair ; Framed by the background of thofe purple fkies, She leant againft a pillar, gleaming fair Olivia. 101 As alabafter ftatue, in the light And glory of the foft Italian night. Her drefs was velvet of the emerald's hue, Dark in the made, with brightnefs breaking through As in the facets of the precious ftone ; O'er one white moulder careleflly was thrown A mawl of lace, black as the long thick lames Through which (hone forth her blue eyes' lightning flames ; Her beauty had a ftyle which fought from drefs All it could lend of pomp and gorgeoufnefs : Diamonds, not violets, mofr adorned her face, — Nay, flowers near her feemed always out of place. White robes did not become her — gems and gold Set off her lovelinefs — at beft fo cold, At belt fo much a light, and not a fire, And always leaving in the mind defire For fomething — if not fairer, at leaft, higher. She held a fprig of myrtle in her hand, And leaf by leaf its lovelinefs fhe rent ; 102 Olivia. She had a reflleflhefs — fcarce difcontent, Hard to defcribe as hard to underftand : An eagernefs to conquer, to attain, Quickfilver more than blood ran in each vein Of this ftrange creature ; and fhe mould have been Some Circe of the feas, fome falfe Lurline, She would have reigned a queen, her throne of thrones 'Midft fhipwrecked gold and foolifh feamen's bones. Oh ! how me would have fung them to their fleep, And lured the world down to the deadly deep ; Then laughed clear laughter through her ocean caves, To fee the nations rot below the waves. I think I felt this even on that night, Though her blue eyes drowned fenfe and foul in light : Her voice, flraight as the ball, mot through my heart, Each word fhe planted there becoming part Of the dull heart it pierced ; each accent fent A thrill, like mufic through an inftrument, I trembling to what harmony might pleafe The mafter-hand that wandered o'er the keys, And woke from the old firings new melodies. Olivia. 103 She was three years my fenior, and to me A goddefs more than woman. Still I fee The fmile in the blue eyes, that feemed to fay, " He is my glove, I wear him any way, Stretch him to any fhape. A pliant glove, Eafy to bend, to lead, to pleafe, to move, Fooled by that paffword of the foolifh, Love ! " She was three years my fenior — three! three years ! By thofe too brilliant eyes undimmed by tears, By that dull heart outworn for hopes or fears, By that dark lifetime in two hemifpheres, By every lie her lips had learnt to fpeak, By every tutored blufh upon her cheek, Whofe rofes ever went and came at will, By the fmall hand, which, flutteringly unftill, Could fimulate the tremulous diftrefs Of love that dares not to itfelf confefs That it is love — By every cruel thought That kept her brighter!: fmiles back to be bought, 104 Olivia, And would her life, and foul, and mind have fet Againft the winning of a coronet ; By thefe, and by a thoufand falfehoods, fhe Was as my elder by a century ! What was I but her puppet, then ? She held The firings. Each mad, impafiioned thoughtthat welled Up from my heart (and which my words were poor To render in one fentence — I adore, Adore you, my Olivia) fhe could read, Count every drop my tortured heart might bleed While fhe played out her comedy ; and mark Each change from grave to gay, from light to dark, In her fnared bird. " Lord Reginald," £ne faid, " You've all the world to anfwer when you wed ; I am no mate for you. Seek ancient blood, And beauty that can date back to the flood, Tracing its pedigree through all the ages ; I have no ftory in Burke's facred pages. My father is a Frenchman ; they do fay That we were great in Normandy one day, Before the Revolution fwept away Olivia. ioq High heads, and fpilt the beft blood in the land. Or drove its children to a foreign ftrand, To feek what they had never fought before — Their daily bread within the Arranger's door. But I'm no wife for you. Your noble breaft, With all its wealth of love and truth confeft, Is not for me ! Nay, better fo — far beft That we mould part." She turned away her face To hide the tear fhe did not fried. The lace, Through which her moulders gliftened ivory white, Trembled upon the warm air of the night. " My foul ! Olivia ! not the wife for me \ Show me that other, whofoe'er fhe be, As worthy for a monarch. Angels came From heaven once, and pledged their fouls of flame 'Gainft mortal maidens' hearts. So runs the tale, I once believed ; but now belief doth fail In the old legend : for could angels be Seduced to earth, they would defcend to thee." Her filver laugh rang clear upon the air, Like mufic ftruck from glafs. Upon my hair 106 Olivia, She laid her little hand, and idly twined Her fingers in the tangles that the wind Had made of my brown curls. " My foolifh boy, You will forget me ! " " Yes, with all the joy And pain called living ; when my lateft breath Flutters beneath the ftifling hand of Death ! Ah, deareft, lying in my laft, low bed, Your image melting out of heart and head, I then fhall know that I, indeed, am dead ! " * She plumbed my foul down to its loweft deep, The while her fweet words rocked my mind to fleep ; Sounding this fea of love that fpread fo faft, To find out if its ftormy ftrength would laft. She had been woo'd a hundred times before, Had heard all voices fpeak that word, " Adore !" Some of thefe old admirers had been poor, Some had been wary, and had read her through; Some like myfelf — poor fools ! — had been all true, But had been fickened by her want of truth, And gone to feek lefs beauty, frefher youth ; Olivia. 107 Some had fhrunk back before her father's fhame, Though not one fhadow refted on her fame, And left her ftill to bear the branded name ; But none had been fo rich a prize as I, Or fo far gone in love's fatuity. I was an only fon — an earldom's heir, Heir to eftates as wide as they were fair ; Olivia's father, trickfter, gamefter, cheat, Laughed in his heart to fee me at her feet. The Southern planters out in Mexico Had never loved fo well, or knelt fo low As I — the heir to an untarnifhed fhield, Whofe anceftors had feen the Frenchman yield, That awful Sabbath-eve on CrefTy's field — When autumn fkies were black with arrowy rain, And only earth was blacker with the flain. I, whofe forefathers with the fea-kings came — Old in the land, when new the Norman's fame — Knelt blindfold to her guilty father's fhame, — 1 08 Olivia. Blindfold to that — to all — to gain her heart. Heart ! that high temple of confummate art, Where all diihonours held their fhameful feat ; That living lie — that bafe, incarnate cheat — That fet a price upon its every beat. Why mould I rail at her ? Was it not I Who fwore to win this woman or to die ? Was it not I who cried, though hell mould rife Through earth, and upward reel to meet the fkies, Till Satan fat among the ftars, I'd ftill Hold to this purpofe with unbending will, To win her or to die ? I made the words The burden of my life, until the birds Seemed, as they interwove them in their fong, And fkylarks took them up to heaven ere long, Trilling their mufic through the wide blue fky, Till all creation's varied harmony Melted in this,— " I'll win her or I'll die !" My father died — and I in Italy ! Was this the firft curfe that came down on me, Olivia, 109 In anfwer to my impious prayer, to win This woman of all women ? Well, my fm Bore noble fruits ! My father died, and I Became Lord Avonly of Avonly. I told her of his death. Up to her eyes There flamed the fudden lightning ! All her lies Could not reprefs that one glance of delight, And then her face grew mournful. All that night Mourning with me with penfive tendernefs, In tearful harmony with my diftrefs. O God, and my dead father, pardon me ! Of the long Paft I could forgetful be, And crowding all my life into one kifs, Drown heart, brain, memory, in tempeftuous blifs. It was the eve before our wedding-day — The long faloon was empty — for the play Had ceafed at my requeft. I gave him what He would have won from others ; I could not Live, knowing that the father of my bride Cheated at cards ! I paid him, and he lied, Saying, he'd play no more. no Olivia . We were alone, I fitting at her feet. The birds had flown Home to their nefts. Upon the purple deep The wandering zephyrs lulled the waves to fleep : Far in the weft, one veffel, only one Sailed towards the centre of the finking fun ; Clofe by the more there pafled one lonely boat, One nightingale trilled out her penfive note ; One ftar, the pioneer of all the night, Slow mounted, pale in the declining light, Fairer than all her fifters, though lefs bright, And mournful in her lovelinefs. The might And majefty of earth, in this ftill hour, Fades from the mind, and we forget her power, Remembering her beauty. It may be Lefs fair than day, lefs grand than night ; to me It holds the mingled beauties of the two ; All colours melting in one neutral hue, All lights and fhadows meeting in one mift, In this, the fun and moon's brief hour of tryft. Olivia. ill So I fat at her feet. O'er other eyes There comes a fhadowy foftnefs in this hour ; Not tears, but dewy mifts, as thofe that rife To fparkle on the leaf and bend the flower. Moft bofoms hold a melody in tune With every tide of time from night to noon, And with each changing madow changing too, Take their own colouring from nature's hue. The fweeteft laughter feems a difcord made, When the clear note rings through the mournful (hade. At that firft finking of the fun, to me The day lies dead upon the earth, and we By the unburied corpfe watch filently, Till the laft ray drops down behind the wave, And flanting moonbeams tremble on his grave. Not fo to her, fhe melted to no phafe Of nature's lovelinefs. To her the days, (Stanzas in God's vaft world-poem's pages,) Were only as the halting, lingering ftages That bore her flowly to the golden goal, The winning poft, for which fhe trained her foul. 112 Olivia. How fhould we two be happy, then ? There lay A wider gulf 'twixt us than night and day, "Which have one hour of meeting. We had none — Not one point where our fouls met ; no, not one : But as two circles, floating fide by fide, Might fpread and widen over all the tide, Until they touched and broke in one embrace, So died my foul, when in that laft difgrace, It met her naked nature face to face. And I had won her. Was I happy ? no ! We, with the animals, have inftincls which We are too proud to heed. A fenfe of woe — And yet not woe — more terror. Some ftrange hitch In my foul's mechanifm jarred my breaft, Where every joy feemed cradled — except reft ; In the full chord of life one note was wrong, What note I could not tell. But in the fong — The pfalm of joy — fome wanting word was not ; What word I knew not. On my heaven one blot Olivia. 113 So fmall I could not track it ; yet To vaft, Its fhadow over all that heaven was caft. I fay, God's warning whifper in my ear Darkened each blifs, fuggefted every fear, But could not hold me from the gulf — fo dear I held this woman. He who in this clay Infufed that glimmering Promethean ray I call my foul, placed it beneath her fway, All helplefs, fave to worfhip and obey. The ftrongeft tides will bow to Dian's rule, So I to her — the blind god's blindeft. fool. This thought — no, inftincl: — deep within my mind, This, and the influence of the dying light, Had kept me filent ; now a cool frefh wind Swept o'er the fea, calm breathings of the night ; The moon lit up her face, fo wan before, And all the ftars came round her to adore. Still 'twas no time for words, the beft are cold Befide that eloquence. The heavens hold 1 H4 Olivia. A filent mufic of their own, and weak All human voices, when they deign to fpeak. "With ftars for words, God writes upon the Iky The mining poem of Infinity. I turned from heaven to her. Oh ! wide and far Lay that great gulf betwixt her and the ftar From which I took my gaze, and in her eyes Sought for the light Pd left upon the fkies. She looked out on the fea, far, far away, Her gleaming eyes mot paft the purple bay, Out to the difrant trail of rippling beams, That feemed to part reality from dreams, And light the threfhold of the land of fleep, So peacefully profound that diftant deep. She had no fancies like to thefe, fhe fchemed And calculated, where another dreamed. So I broke not the filence, neither fhe. She fat, her face half turned away from me; Beneath the windows ftretched a leafy fcreen Of lemon-trees, and olives darkly green, Olivia. 115 That, bordered by a low and broken wall, Some ftraggling myrtles and a waterfall, Made the wild garden ; where in fair decay, Languifhed the ghofts of a dead yefterday. From out the made of the luxuriant trees There fudden fwept upon the evening breeze A ferenade's firit notes. Rich, deep, and grave, Floated the finger's voice o'er grove and wave, Till, mingling with the night, it feemed to be Part of creation's own great melody ; So well did every accent harmonife With that unuttered mufic in the fkies. The words ran thus — I'd need remember well, The firft faint murmur of my foul's death-knell : " There's a witch beneath the founding fea, More fatal than the wave, And with every fmile fhe fmiles to thee She lures thee to thy grave. She is falfe as the ocean where (he dwells, More falfe is fhe than her coral cells, 1 1 6 Olivia. But fhe crowns her hair with gliftening (hells, Her waving hair with wet Tea fhells ; And the ftars die out beneath her eyes, And the low winds liften when fhe fighs ; And all on earth that's fair and bright Derives from her a lovelier light ; But oh, beware, beware her fpells, For he who loves her, dies ! Yes, he who loves thee dies, Lurline ! Loft, loft in loving thee ; And I am loft for thee, Lurline, As thou art loft for me, Lurline! Lurline! Lurline!" The voice grew nearer — he who fang thus, played On a guitar, wild wandering notes, that made The plafh and fall of waters ; mingling well With the bafs voice whofe cadence rofe and fell, Now loud, now low — Lurline ! Lurline ! Lurline ! A chord that founded like a fob between Each repetition of that name — Lurline ! Olivia, 117 So fad the notes, it almoft feemed to be As though one wept in mufic. Prefently The finger came through the low boughs that drooped On the wet grafs. He pufhed them back and frooped Under rain-dropping branches, while their dew Fell glittering on his hair — of inkieft hue, So black, his pale face by the contrail fhone White as a mafk in monumental ftone. A flight of fteps led from the balcony On which we fat, down to the grafs where he Stood, ftriking idle chords on his guitar Some paces from the fteps, yet not fo far But I could every line and feature trace That made the foreign beauty of his face. He fpoke. Cf Good evening, Signorina ! " " Oh ! It is you, Signor Carlo Angelo ; I recognifed the voice." She knew him then, Olivia ; 'midft the varying crowd of men Who thronged her father's houfe, I had not met This man. His face was not one to forget ; More Eaftern than Italian — thofe dark eyes, That took their beauty not from hue, or fize, u8 Oh ivia. Or fhape, though all were perfect, but from light That broke through all, as Mars breaks through the night ; Perpetuating in each glance of flame The love, the hate, the pride, the fallen fame Of a great people, now become a name. It pleafed me not — Olivia's knowing him, This man whom I knew not — and darkly dim That cloud, no larger than a human hand, Stretched its great fhadow over all the land, Prophetic of the future. He flood now On the firfb ftep. Up from his broad white brow The lifted hair waved trembling round his face, Fie leaning one arm with a carelefs grace Upon the baluftrade ; fhe looking down, The fea before, behind, the fleeping town, The garden at our feet, and filent all, But the low whifper of the waterfall. " You have returned to Naples, then," fhe faid ; " I thought you were in Rome. I've furely read That you've been finging there." " You're very kind To bear me merely thus much in your mind ; Olivia. 119 I fcarcely thought you would remember me, Even by fight. 'Tis three long months, — yes, three, Since laft we met, Signora ; and, you know, Few ladies can recall fo long ago." She laughed her lighteft laugh. " But, then, you fee, (Small credit have we from your gallantry,) The Opera-houfe is clofed when you're away, And the dull night fucceeds the liftlefs day ; Cecilia hides her fainted face, and we Hold you, by felfifhnefs, in memory." " Good, good, Signora ; why, that's almoft true ! " " Believe me, yes, all Naples mourns for you." " And you with Naples ? " "I with Naples ! No, I've no felf-intereft, Signor Angelo, In faying I am glad of your return, For I leave Italy " " I've not to learn The news, Signora. That I heard to-night ; It was my welcome home. My deep delight, Hacknied congratulations cannot fpeak, All words are idle, and all phrafes weak ; But when you number thofe who joy to fee 120 Olivia. Your joy to-morrow, Lady Avonly, Spare but one paffing thought to reft on me." An opera- finger — Carlo Angelo ! I'd often heard of him ere this, I know ; Strange, looking back, to marvel how a name, Now linked, perhaps, to grief, death, madnefs, fhame, Was once a found that fmote upon the ear And made no echo ! Love, nor hate, nor fear, Stirred the dull pulfes of the heart. We heard That burning name, an unfamiliar word Without a meaning ; or, it may be, we Drew in our minds a pictured phantafy To fit the found. Always to find that what Soe'er we painted, that the man was not. She introduced me to him. Coldly grave And dignified the frigid bow he gave — Cold as an Englishman's. " Pray, do you know Our fog-bound England, Signor Angelo ?" " Yes, I fang there a year or two ago : Olivia. 121 A noble land, my lord, the proud and free Antithefis of trampled Italy. I go again next March." " What fong was that You fang juft now ? " From off his dripping hat He fhook the raindrops ; fmiling, paufed, then faid, " That fong ? Oh ! one made to be fung, not read : It has no name." " It is a mournful air, A very burfr of mufical defpair — Beautiful, as you fing it." Here he bowed. " I am too carelefs ever to be proud, But if I could be proud, perhaps 'twould be This very moment, my Lord Avonly. Mere idle notes I ftrung into a fong, The words and mufic both to me belong — Nay, not to me, but to the moment — born Of that one night-hour, vanifhed ere the morn. Our thoughts and dreams are fairies, which we raife Not as we will, but as it pleafe the fays Themfelves to rife. A conqueror might gain The world, but never conquer his own brain ; Thoughts, true republicans, are free as winds, And laws may fetter nations, but not minds." 122 Olivia. " The fong was improvifed, then ?" " Wert not wife To fay, that all who live muft improvife ; We think more poetry in one ftill night Than would take poets half a year to write. " " You do not write ? " " Write ! no, let write who may, To fnine to-morrow, fo I live to-day. I never look beyond the hour, and hold Him worit of fools who prays when he lies cold As the dead ftone that's laid above his grave. New men may fay, c This man was great or brave,' While pleafure-feekers come each fummer's morn To fee the houfe in which he was not born ; And parrot-guides point out refpecl:fully The very room in which he did not die, And gravely mifpronounce his honoured name ; While oppofition critics praife or blame, Not giving praife or blame where both are due, But each to fuit the tone of his review, Exalting him, not for his own renown, But by the dead to keep the living down. Oh, Heaven help your earneft man, to me The verieft fool of all mortality ! Olivia. 123 His days are labours and his nights unreft, Scorned by the bad, mifconftrued by the beft, Neglected by the million. Glad to place His hope of payment in a wifer race, Deeming himfelf the beft thing in the land, Too great for lefTer fouls to understand, Down Time's black gulf he truftful leaps, to be The Marcus Curtius of pofterity, And heal the ills of all the future world To unborn fwine, poor wafted jewel, hurled. Better he'd lived his little life, and been The carelefs Touchftone of the pafiing fcene." " You're a philofopher ! " " We'd need to be Philofophers to live in Italy. Defpoiled of all, we've ftill the glowing fkies, And to be happy, need but fhut our eyes. I was not born to fet fick Time aright. I weary you, I fear, my lord. Goodnight ! Good night, Signora ! This for comfort take, My lord, Italian hearts are hard to break : Italian fouls, though quick to flame and burn, Have fomething womaniih, and turn, and turn, 1 24 Olivia. And turn again. Indeed, Italian hate Is the fole fteady fire : that — that is fate ! — As Fate holds to its courfe whate'er betide, Will wade through blood, but will not turn afide. It breathes no curfe. Why wafte itfelf in breath ? It has no voice but one, and that is Death ! Keen-eyed, and watchful of its victim's woe, It tracks his footfall for the fatal blow. We in the world alone know how to bate : Our fecret lies in this, my lord — we wait ! Signora, fare you well, iince I muff, be Below the fphere of Lady Avonly. But when you mine, proud flar, in prouder fkies, Dream ftill we mark you with admiring eyes ; There, where you reign, in heavens whofe height fublime We fee, yet know not, watch, but may not climb. Good night, good night ! " Upon the air again Rofe the laft ftanza of his carelefs ftrain — " Yes, he who loves thee dies, Lurline ! Loft, loft in loving thee ; And I am loft for thee, Lurline, Olivia. 125 As thou art loft for me, Lurline ! Lurline ! Lurline ! " A year ! We were in London. She and I — I and my wife. Oh, bitter memory ! Where the Nepenthe that will wafh away The black remembrance of that byegone day ? Time only adds acutenefs to the pain, And deeper darknefs to fhame's unworn ftain. I hate myfelf — not her. She was — my Fate, Too mean for vengeance, far too low for hate. We do not hate the reptile, though it ftings, We do not rend the wrinkled vulture's wings, But, loathing, leave him to his hideous prey; — Hate would have honoured her too much, I fay. Where loftieft trees are ftricken, weeds, exempt, Are left to flourifh, fheltered by contempt. I was not happy! No — fair words, fweet looks, And pretty phrafes, learned, perhaps, from books ; All thefe are charming — exquifite, when youth And beauty lend them grace, but are not — truth. 126 Olivia. Oh, fpurious gold ! How hard I tried to dream Thou wert, indeed, the thing that thou would'ft feem ; How gladly let her bind my willing eyes, And lull my charmed ear with tuneful lies ; Taking the outfide colour for the true, I would not look beneath that furface hue ; With burnifhed coin of empty compliment She paid my fterling truth ; and I, content, Took — all fhe had to give — not quite deceived ; At moft, I but believed that I believed. A year ! the London feafon at its height, And (he furrounded by a motley throng ; In crowds fhe paries every day and night, And queens it over all. It was not long Before fhe took her ftand, and wore her crown So newly won, as hers by right of birth, The fovereign of the world — at leaft, the town. To her, I think, Mayfair was all the earth, The heavens a canopy to roof Mayfair, And fcarcely atmofphere paft Belgrave Square. Olivia. 127 What, then, was I ? Her fatellite — her groom, When fhe received, to walk about the room And talk to thofe too dull for her regard, Or to fill up an invitation card ; Read her new books before fhe read them, and Form a rough view, that me could underfland, Retail and paraphrafe at fecond hand ; At her grand levees ftand behind the throne ; Hand her to dinner when we dined alone ; And be, in fhort, what fhe would have me be, Her favourite footman out of livery, — For ever ready, anfwering to her beck, To hold her lap-dog or to fign a cheque. One night in every week fhe fet apart For mufic. The befr. matters of the art, With crowds of the diitinguifhed amateurs, Flocked every Friday to her open doors. Gluck, Beethoven, Mozart ! oh, how each name Can bring back the old dead unburied fhame ; Slave to aflbciation, how I hate Each detail in the background of my fate, — 128 Olivia. A book, a flower, a paper on a wall, A patch of garden glimmering through a hall, A picture — nay, a fentence, will recall That period, with its torture ftamped on all. I hate the ftreets, the fquares, the atmofphere, One month of all months in the hateful year ; And never feel fo truly defolate As when the lingering days drag round that date. One Friday night — the windows to the ground Were opened. Thofe afTembled crowded round The grand piano, at which fome one fang, Whom, I know not. The high foprano rang Up to the lofty roof, clear, filver, fweet, And fhowered refrefhing mufic on the heat, Until its very clearnefs founded cool As falling water. Heaven knows the fchool To which the air belonged — their jargon was An. unknown tongue to me. They lectured, as Mufic had been geometry, and made With rule and compafs — like the builder's trade- Done by arithmetic, and ftri£t control Of facls and figures, not by heart and foul, Olivia. 129 As when a man fays, " Let all ages drink This melody and feel the thought I think, Which I think thus — I cannot give them more ; My foul, heart, felf, are fet down in the fcore." And thus we've fome " Hope told a flattering tale," Some " Moonlight," or fome earneft funeral wail, Like the " Dead March in Saul," which feems to weep For every foldier carried to his fleep, Such tears as foldiers may. Olivia flood Near the piano. Her mofl brilliant mood I think fhe wore that night. Her fparkling face, Her darning raillery, her perfect grace, Made her the centre of admiring eyes ; While eager lifleners waited her replies, And caught them with a laugh before they fell, As filver tongue that ftrikes a filver bell. She flood behind the finger, I before ; She, facing the wide open drawing-room door, I facing her. Behind her fpread one meet Of looking-glafs, in which from head to feet All entering were reflected. When thefong Was done, there was a flutter in the throng, 130 Olivia. A gentle ruftling of filken drefs And compliments, whofe graceful carelefTnefs Was infolently charming. Then they drew Round Lady Avonly. " You'll fing. Ah ! you Will fing that fong I've dreamed about fince when You fang it laft — Oh, let us hear again The mournful mufic ! " " Nay, Lord Lionel, The enthufiaft's tone, indeed, becomes you well," She anfwered, laughing : " 'Tis an idle thing, That fong of mine — but, at your wifh, I'll fmg." They crowded round the inftrument. Still I Stood facing it. Heaven knows, I know not, why My attention wandered from my wife, the crowd, The fymphony, the fong ; though I was proud To have her fo admired, and feldom took My eyes from her on duller things to look. That night, I fay, I wandered, and a gloom Strangely at variance with the brilliant room, And ftill more brilliant crowd, came over me. Wrapped in that ftrange and fudden reverie, I leaned my head upon my hand, and let My fancy wander back to when I met Olivia. 131 Olivia firft ; and with that moment came The foreign ftreet, the clouds of crimfon flame Low in the evening fkies ; her golden hair Streaming like funfhine on the fouthern air. As this came back fhe fang. I let her fong Mix with the tide that carried me along, Until her words — thatfcene — the finking fun — Mufic and memory melted into one. " Oh ftars, that fhine on diftant waves ! Oh ftars, that light unhonoured graves ! Alone ye faw departed years, And ye alone mall watch my tears. " Oh ! tender, filver rays, that fell Upon the head I loved fo well ; Ye know the paft, eternal beams, And ye alone can read my dreams. " So guard my fecret till the laft, Stars of the prefent and the paft, Unchanged where all are changed, remain Sole filent records of my pain. 132 Olivia. " Then ftill look down on diftant waves, For ever light unhonoured graves ! For few the years, before ye fhine, Lamps of the quiet night, on mine !" " Lamps of the quiet night, on mine ! " She raifed Her eyes with the laft note, and fudden gazed With one brief glance of terrified furprife ; Only one lightning flam in the blue eyes, And the fun back again, ere you could fay The lightning had eclipfed the fairer ray. I looked up at the ending of the fong, And faw that glance that fhot acrofs the throng Out towards the door — then looking to the glais In that beheld who the new comer was. Italy — Naples — all the fummer fcene, And that low, mournful {train — " Lurline ! Lurline ! I Flafhed back, as, framed before me, tall and proud, O'ertopping with dark head the Englifh crowd, Stood the Italian — Carlo Angelo. Was it at fight of him fhe ftarted fo ? Olivia. 133 No, furely ; for how careleflly me faid, — " I think I fee, my lord, above your head, An old Italian friend. You don't forget The finger whom one night, you know, you met At Naples, and whofe finging charmed you fo ? What, you in London, Signor Angelo ? You fing this feafon, then, I fancy ? " " No. No, Lady Avonly, I do not fing; I'd other motives ftrong enough to bring Me fuddenly to England " " And they are ? " " Not worth alluding to. I would go far To hear you fing that old fong to the ftar." When firft he entered, why — why did me ftart ? Confummate miftrefs of confummate art ! I did not know her then, and it might be, I thought, fome old, old chord in memory Was ftruck upon by fight of Angelo ; And, if I doubted, let the fhadow go. I was too proud to doubt. Poor fool ! I thought My love had won the thing my gold had bought. 134 Olivia. I faw no more of Angelo — he went Back, as fhe told me, to the Continent. I felt a ftrange relief in knowing this. We feldom fpoke of him. The precipice On which I ftood, with flowers and funfhine crowned, Fair to the eye as an enchanted ground, Gave no hint of the gulf beneath. The light, Born of the vile miafmas of the night, I took for funfhine. Once, indeed, I faid — (DrefTed for a ball, with flowers about her head, She ftood before a glafs, the dufky room Lit only by two tapers, through the gloom She glittering like a gem) — " This Angelo, When did you know him firft ? " " When did I know- When did I know him firft ? So long ago, I fcarce can tell how long. He ufed to come So often to my father's ; 'twas his home Almoft in Naples. Ah, poor Carlo ! he Is, as the world fays, his own enemy ; Gambles and lounges through the idle day, Flinging his chance of name and fame away. Olivia. 135 I am fo forry for him ! " Oh ! if Heaven Had ftruck her dead as fhe faid that, and given Her foul back to the hell from whence it came — How fcornfully infouclante ! " Name and fame He throws away, poor Angelo ! " A fmile On her falfe, rofy lips, and all the while One idle finger twirling- round her wrift. A coil of glittering gold, that with each twirl Jingled and made a mufic. " Let us go, We wafle our time, to talk of Angelo," She faid ; " there are fome men who never rife, For whom earth holds no better, higher prize Than idle hours and cloudlefs fummer fides ; And he is one. But you, Lord Avonly, Spring from another race than fuch as he ; For yours is ancient blood, whofe fanguine fount May fail in death, but while it flows muft mount." (Poor fool ! whom tinfel fuch as this could blind, Never to guefs the bafenefs hid behind). My lovely ftatue ! well, and thou wert fair, Heaven in thy deep blue eyes and golden hair ! 136 Olivia. What had I loved thee for ? Thy lovelinefs ! That never changed, or faded, or was lefs Than when it fhone on the Italian ftreet. Yes, that was true, though all the reft a cheat. And was not that enough ? "What though thy feet Were bafeft clay, my iratue — it were meet I learned through thee mere beauty's worth, my fweet. I learned that lovely lips can utter lies, And cruel glances look from funny eyes ; I learnt the fteriing worth of golden curls, Teeth glittering, twin rows of peerlefs pearls ; A Grecian nofe and chin, a {nowy brow, Smooth, alabafter, claffical, and low. Strange ! Thefe things do not form a perfect whole, And feem to want a fomething — wanting foul ! I had been out of town. 'Twas in July, Hot mifts obfcured the bright meridian fky, The ftreets were thin, the pavements hot and dry ; No breath of air, not one cool, pitying breeze, Stirred the fcorched leaves upon the dufty trees, Olivia. 137 When I rode homewards in a cabriolet, Through the metropolis that fummer's day. The bufmefs that had fummoned me away — Some trivial matter touching an eftate (Left by an uncle's will to me of late) My agent could not do — had been achieved With lefs delay than I could have believed It could be done. So I returned before I was expected ; driving to the door, I pafTed the porter : ere I was aware, I flood upon the landing of the flair ; An icy horror lifted up my hair, My heart turned cold and flopped, and then I knew I never really thought this woman true. That quick revulfion told me all — I had Been blinded — but not blind — I had been mad, Not duped — falfe to my foul and fenfe, as fhe, Although fo true to hell, was falfe to me. I leaned againfl the pale, medallioned wall — The flairs, the glimpfe of garden through the hall, 138 Olivia. With orange-trees that never blew, and flowers That withered flowly through the hot noon hours, The drawing-room doors before me, and the light Down-mining, foftened by the lofty height Through a glafs dome above my head. All thefe, As pictures painted upon raging feas Might feem to a man fea-fick, feemed to me. This but a moment — I had need to be Myfelf — myfelf — if in my chequered life Once only — now — for now I knew my wife. Olivia and the man whofe voice I heard — Death, fhame, and madnefs in each poifoned word — Were in one drawing-room, that they called the blue. To gain this you might pafs another through, And enter by an archway, not a door, A velvet-curtained archway, and no more Between the two rooms. This I ftood behind And heard And yet I'm not out of my mind, Piftols are in the world, dark rivers run, And ftill I live to look upon the fun. Olivia. 1 39 " What if I fhould fpeak out ? By Heaven, I will ! Your pretty phrafes fhall not keep me ftill." 'Twas Angelo who fpoke — cc Nor yet my gold?" " No, keep the paltry price for which you fold Your paltry foul. You only wafte your breath In bribing me. Go, afk old age or death To keep aloof, and fhun your lofty door : When they mall liften, I will — not before. You faw the Duke to-day. You want to wear His ftrawberry leaves upon your yellow hair." She laughed a fhort triumphant laugh — her eyes Shone with a wicked light, like lurid fkies, That fmile, and yet mean death. " What if I fpeak, And give my heart one joy before it break — Die of a furfeit of hate's deadly luft, (You, lovely lady, crawling in the dun 1 ) What if I fpeak ? " " You will not, Angelo ; Your hate fays yes, but ftill your love fays no ; For you do love me, Carlo Amico ! " I faw her, and I did not kill her, reft Her golden head upon the young man's breaft, 14° Olivia. And look up with fuch tender, trufting eyes As little children lift up to the fides When told Who reigns above the ftars. She took His ftrong right hand in hers, and on it fhook A rain of tears. She cried, I've faid, at will. u Will you betray me, Carlo ? You can kill, But to the lair, my foul, you'll love me (till." He looked down at her, and I pitied him, I — I, his deadliefl foe j his eyes were dim With mifls that fwam their blazing fires above, And drowned revenge and hate in depths of love. " I love you llill ! Alas ! alas ! my fate, Unlefs I loved you ftill, I could not hate. Thofe fires together die, together burn, And hate is only love without return. Have I not loved you ? thrown my life away ? Wafted a year to be with you a day ? Spent fleeplefs nights in pondering your words, Outwatched the ftars and rifen ere the birds, To pace long hours beneath your window-fill, And know you and creation flumbered ftill ? Olivia. 141 Am I not beggared for your father's fake ? With open eyes I caft all on a flake ; Glad to be cheated when he held the dice, And deaf to friendly warning and advice. And now, the Duke, the Duke ! Upon your head You'd wear that coronet when he is dead Whom for his coronet you pleafed to wed." " Pfhaw, Carlo ! if the Duke has dared to fay " " Dared ! " He laughed bitterly. " I mind the day When meaner men have thought they honoured you, Stooping the gamefter's lovely child to woo. Well ! if the Duke has dared to lift his eyes Up to my lady, that is, to the fkies — What then, Olivia ? " " Only, nothing then ; Why more to me the Duke than other men ? I never loved but you." u Your hufband ?" " He ? " One fmile of concentrated mockery Lit up her face. " Carlo, I think you do Love me a little, though you hate me too ; And yet your love is not the love men know Who win the thing they cherifh, Angelo." 142 Olivia, She looked him in the face. His back was turned To me. On her pale cheek there hotly burned One crimfon fpot, — a hectic fever flufh, A fire, a flame, a blaze, but not a blufh. Her hand — hers — trembled, as fhe laid Her fingers upon his. " When he is dead I fhall be free — but until then " he caught His hand from hers. " Oh, if I read your thought, You are — worfe than — yourfelf ! Olivia, no, I am not that you take me for, although I fhould be capable of all, 'tis true, In being capable of loving you." She fneering faid, " I fummoned you to-day To end a farce, and not to act a play ; So keep your powers for La Sonnambula^ And your reproaches for your Amina ; Your handfome face becomes this haughty rage, And your loud anger only lacks — the ftage. Say that you love me not, fo be it, go ! But if you love me, Carlo Angelo, Prove that your love Is love. Ay, Carlo, prove The wideft meaning of that wide word — love." 01 ivia. H3 " Speak out," he faid, " I'll take no hints from looks And wicked flames from your cruel eyes ; You've read of Southern villains in your books, And peopled Italy with villanies. You think I hide a dagger in my breaft, And murder fkulks beneath my filken veft ; You have read wrong — we do not kill — we fight, And hold our only foes the foes of right. I will not flay your fair-haired boy, nor be One blot the more on fallen Italy." " Who talked of flaying him ? you choofe your phrafe From old Minerva novels and ftage-plays ; If you would have me fpeak out, and be told What would have told itfelf to one lefs cold, And have been — done — ere this. You and the Earl Might quarrel, might you not ? Say he fhould hurl Your opera-finging in your face, and you Call it an infult — bitterer, being true ; And then — and then — that place they call Chalk Farm, Where trodden grafs revives beneath the warm Life-blood of better men. You know the reft. A bullet piercing to the left the breaft — 144 Olivia. A nine days' wonder — then old Italy, Fortune, and all the world for you and me ! Ah, if you love me as you fay, I know We might be happy, Carlo Angelo." She laid her head upon his moulder, and Twined in his waving hair one tiny hand, Standing on tip-toe till fhe caught the curls Through which her fingers gliftened white as pearls. " Lurline ! Lurline ! " Ah, fifhermen, beware The cruel fyren with the golden hair ! They made a pretty picture, with the light Flickering about their heads. Her brow was bright, Her cheek was flufhed, her rofy lips apart, Her white drefs fluttering with her beating heart ; With upturned look towards his darkening face She flood befide him in unftudied grace, All purity without, all guilt within — A lovely image of incarnate fin. But fuddenly he flung her hand away. " Thank God, I know you now ! thank God," he faid, " My eyes are opened, late though come the day, I know you, and know why you'd have him dead ! Olivia. 145 It flafhes on me with a fudden light That ferves to fhow the darknefs of the night ; You'd have him dead, you'd fee him fall, and you So falfe to him, to me would ftill be true, — To me, whom you betrayed a year gone by : And left to curfe your falfehood — or to die ! I fee it all, and looking through your look, I read beneath it as I'd read a book : You'd have me kill him — and you'd wed the Duke ! Love me ! You never loved ! Your wicked heart, Choked up with perjury, brimful of art, Never had room for love to hold its place — Love is a lie you wear upon your face : Go choofe elfewhere your tool ; I am not he, To be lieutenant in your treachery. I know you — -and I've loved you. Do you know The oath I registered a year ago, When I returned from Rome and heard them fay The morrow was to be your wedding-day ? I fwore to drag you down into the mire, To ftrip your veil off, and to mow your fire 146 Olivia. And you were in one plot, he, — trickfter, thief; You, guilty, willing tool, and he the chief. I fwore to do this !" " Which you did not do ; In loving, Angelo, I trufted you : We cannot love the thing we do not truft " " That's falfe ! " he faid, " I love you ftill, and muft, Although I know you ; yes, I know, I know ; And through the morning in your face, below See the black night concealed within your breaft, Yet for the lovely mafk give up my reft. It is not you I love — your golden hair, Your deep blue eyes, fweet fmile, and ftately air ; Your Grecian nofe a ftraight line from the brow, • to Your mouth that fteals its mould from Cupid's bow ; I have gone mad for thefe. I might as well Die for a picture done by Raphael ; The painted canvafs would be quite as true And full as capable of love as you." " Rail on," fhe faid, "your love is like the reft ; A noify torrent, impotent at beft, And wondrous loud from very fhallownefs. I've dreamed of other love I do confefs — Olivia. 147 A love that deals in deeds, that will achieve, And pointing to its work, cry out, ' Believe — Believe by this — in this — through this behold Whether my arm be weak, or heart be cold ! ' I've dreamed of love that overthrew the world And all the nations into chaos hurled ; Then built a palace on the wreck to dwell With her it loved, not wifely, mind, but well. But there were giants in thofe days, I thought A lover was a Hercules who brought Nemaean lions to his miftrefs' throne, And threw them down for her to tread upon. And yet, and yet " She, paufing fuddenly Turned to a window with an aviary, In which the birds flew loofe 'midft hothoufe flowers, Singing their foreign fongs in genial bowers ; With one white finger through the bars fhe played With a green parroquet's gay plumed head, She leaned her curls againil the gilded wires, Her drooping lames veiled the vivid fires That had illumed her eyes ; one carelefs hand Twined in and out a purple curtain band. 1 48 Olivi ivia. The diamonds on her ringers glittering bright Until they feemed on fire with the light ; Drawn through the wires by the fummer air, And flickering in the fun, her tangled hair Blew in upon the bird. A lazy fmile Slept on her rofy, parted lips the while, And juft above her head one heavy rofe Drooped down to kifs her hair. In fair repofe A model for a Titian me reclined 5 In beauty leaving all the flowers behind, That trembled round her in the fummer wind. Up to his fouthern face, in hues of flame, The fouthern torrent of his paflion came : " Oh, what if Death come down," he faid, " for you ? Why queftion whether you are falfe or true ? Why queftion aught — enough to know — you are — You are, and I adore you. Ah, my ftar, My lode-ftar, meteor, ignis fatuus ! Why do I rave and rail about you thus ? What can I do but follow where you lead, And blindly ferve you, fovereign, in your need ? Olivia. 149 Do with me what you will — but only mine — Your light for weal or woe alone is mine, And I unutterably more than thine." She drew her white hand from the wires, and laid The flender fingers in his palm, then faid : — " How the old time comes back with the old phrafe — Your words reanimate departed days, While galvanized by paffion, youth returns, And from life's afhes, Love, the Phoenix, burns — Ah, truft me, Angelo, when I am free, I'll prove how well I can be worthy thee." " You fhall be free," he faid. " Since, at the worft, For you I fcarcely can be more accurft ; My creed, career, my honour, and my name, My country, kinfmen, fortune, peace, fair fame, — All thefe, long fince, for you I flung away, And ftand before you reft of all to-day; Only from blood, at leaft, my hands are free ; But vain the boaft — they fhall be ftained for thee ! " His voice was hoarfe, he ftaggered to the door — " Farewell ! " he cried. " Nay, Carlo, au revoir." 150 Olivia. She waved her white hand with the parting words, And then refumed her trifling with the birds. The blufh-rofe ftill dipped down to kifs her hair, Her curls ftill wantoned with the fummer air j Upon her rounded cheek another rofe . Bloomed frefher than the flowers, and fair as thofe ; The red lips never parted with their fmile, And yet her thought was — murder — all the while. She built air-caftles 'thwart a fea of blood, And would have waded through the crimfon flood To reach her worldly foul's fupremeft good. . He met me on the flair. His cheek grew white, (1 little doubt I was a ghaftly fight,) He reeled againft the gilded baluftrade, While from his eyes the fever feemed to fade — Their light all dying out — and thus we met ; As then I faw that man I fee him yet ; Still fee the young, the pale Italian face, With that dark fomething of an Eaftern race Darkening its beauty. Still I fee the change In which each lineament feemed new and ftrange, Olivia. 151 So that his brother might have pafled unknown That livid mafk of animated ftone, I faid but this : " Signor, 'twixt you and me, What need of words, the blood of one muft be An offering to the other's injury. We have no quarrel. Nay, are friends in this, Both on that fair-haired fiend have fet our blifs, Both have been dancing puppets in her hand, Building life's palace on the fickle fand ; Now amidft ruin both together ftand, And muft until one falls." He bowed his head. " Let it be fo, 'tis beft, 'tis well," he faid, " In her Delilah prefence I have grown A loathfome thing I fhrink to look upon ; And mould again become the fame ; her fpell Would lure me down into the depths of hell, Or fried a wicked glamour round the place Till hell feemed heaven, and damnation, grace ; You, dancing puppet ! — you ! You never were What I was to that witch with golden hair ; She never loved you — and to you, her eyes That caught their colour from Italian fides, 152 Olivia. Have been the fkies without the ftars — they (hone Full conftellations upon me alone, Becaufe, with all her falfehood, fhe was true In loving me, but never loving you. Such love as hers, unlit by fpark divine, Fickle and falfe at beft, yet ftill was mine. Poor boaft — nay, rather burning fhame to be Worthlefs enough to pleafe with fuch as fhe ; The fomething me could underftand ; the thing She loved to look at, liftening when 'twould fing, Accepting all its vouthful worfhipping Until the incenfe grew a want, and thus A bond of feeming love united us. Pfhaw ! let us end this farce, and if it be Thought for its climax half a tragedy, May the laft dying fpeech be made by me !" " That reils with Heaven ! When the fun goes down, At eight, you'll meet me northward of the town." He bowed. " At eight," he faid ; n fay, fomewhere near The place Jhe named, — Chalk Farm ; the light is clear At eight o'clock, and then the finking fun Is fo much handier than the rifing one ; Olivia. 153 It could not well be better, we do not Want friends to choofe the weapons ; name the fpot, And yet " "And yet," I faid, " Jhe is leaft worth Of all the creatures on this crowded earth A man mould rifk his life, or leave his name, To bear e'en more than its allotted fhame ; For the furvivor's fake it were far beft To put ourfelves in other hands " " Au rejle" He faid, " It faves us trouble, I mall be Happy, my lord, whoe'er you fend to fee And introduce him to my deputy — The choice of weapons refts, I think, with me, But I decline that choice. I fence, it's true, (As rnoft. Italians, as I fancy, do) And thus might have advantage over you. I would not have it fo ; no, let us fight In the old Englifh fafhion Till to-night !" He bowed, went down the ftairs and crofTed the hall. We had not raifed our voices once, through all This hurried dialogue, while to and fro Patted and repafled the fervants in the hall ; 154 Olivia, The footman lounging in the window, read The morning paper, and ne'er raifed his head To wonder what we talked of. Nodding, flept The porter in his chair. Unfeen I crept Down flairs, then reafcending, let my boot Give noify warning of my coming foot, And went into the drawing-room. Still her hair, Drawn through gilt wires by the fummer air, Blinded and vexed her peevifh tropic birds, She, foothing them with pretty nonfenfe words — The broken mufic made to pleafe a child. She heard me enter, ftarted, turned and fmiled A gentle welcome, lifting up her eyes And eyebrows with the prettier! furprife. " What joy to have you home before I dreamed, And yet not foon, fo long the days have feemed — Why do you take your hand away ? " {he faid, Then tried to lean her graceful drooping head Down on my moulder as Pd feen it lay On Angelo's, beneath that fame bright day. " Nay, check the fervour of your welcome," I Replied — " I have returned, but hurriedly, Olivia. 155 En route, into the North " " Is fomething wrong?" " Something — fcarce worth the naming. You, ere long Shall know the worthlefs fomething that is wrong. And now, one word, Olivia, you have been More than my wife, — my idol, goddefs, queen ! We might part fuddenly. Life is at befl A journey fraught with danger and unreft, And travellers who fet out fide by fide Are apt to part ere they return. My bride, I've trufted you, and all my foul have given Up, with fuch faith as good men place in Heaven ; If — if your early teaching — or your youth, Spent with bad men, perchance have dimmed your truth ; If you look back and fay, ' In life's ftrange fcene There is a better part that might have been Mine to have played ' Or if your father's fhame Left half its taint on you, till you became Something you were not born, loft child, to be ; Your guilt, lefs guilt than dark fatality, — If this, Olivia, were our dying day, Both yours and mine, what is it you would fay ?" 156 Olivia. With a feared face fhe looked at me, and then With one brief paufe looked all herfelf again ; " What mould I fay ?" " Olivia, think — we might Neither furvive this day, outlive this night Have you no word — no word ? Though liftening Fate That one decifive whifper might await Ere the recording angel wrote c too late,' And clofed your book of fin — not one — not one ?" " Not one," me faid. " So be it ! I have done ! " Red in the weft the fun went down, I riding northward of the town, The mingling city voices, blent Into one deep-toned chorus, fent Their diftant murmur on the air ; The fuburb garden-flowers bloomed fair, The tired citizen at reft Sat blinking at the crimfon weft, That made his wine fo golden bright His glafs feemed filled with liquid light ; The laughing children on the grafs Peeped out to fee the horfeman pafs ; Olivia. 157 Red fun on the fuburban fcene, — Red funfhine on the village green, The purple diftance like a Tea Lay wrapt in fhadow filently — The town receding as I rode Paft fcattered lamps that feebly glowed, Lit ere the fun went down, and dim In the great light that came from him — The vaft blue dome behind me rofe As watching o'er the town's repofe, The winding river peeped between The roofs in gleams of golden fheen, The faint lights twinkling here and there Seemed diamonds hung on fapphire air. The voices of the bufy crowd, Melted in one, now low, now loud, Loft all their earthlinefs of tone, — Nay, had a mufic of their own, Till, even London feemed to be That night a fairy town to me. 158 Oik via. God's evening peace was on the land, On all the imprefs of His hand ; The fun gone forth to other ikies, That finking here he there may rife, And prove Death is not to the wife. Silence and Shadow, angels twin, Brooded o'er earth ; yet Death and Sin, Thofe darker angels, ftill were nigh, And did their work as filently. What did I think of as I rode Away from man and man's abode, Acrofs the hill, till at my feet The meadow greens lay dewy fweet ? — What did I think of? It might be That never more would beam on me God's picture, Earth, to which is given Beauty to whifper that of Heaven, — A fane, that bv induction mows The mafter-hand by which it rofe ; And by induction feems to fay How more than fair that Far-away, Olivia. 159 Which, in its beauty wide and high, SurpafTes earth unfpeakably, As that incalculable iky (Where myriad conftellations beam, Remote as lamps that light a dream, — - A golden fand to common eyes, But worlds and fyftems to the wife,) PafTes all power of thought to mount, Or e'en its tracklefs realms to count. A thoufand years leave fcarce a trace Of change upon that fpangled face ; For from the fpot where Egypt's lore Firft tried to tell the mighty law (That ruled the orbs me nightly faw) How by the tomb, acrofs the door, One fhone — we fee it as of yore : It beamed on kings whofe names are dead ; It fhone on fhrines whofe gods are fled, It glaffed its beauty in the Nile, Ofiris wandering by the more ; And with the fame eternal fmile, Still looking down upon the door, 160 Olivia, The modern favant tells with pride How much its rays have moved afide, And how, long ages paft, its light Shone further to the left or rio-ht ; And, tracking time and fpace by this, Fights with creation's myfteries. To me, th' AfTyrian's creed were beft, And faith to me feemed fomething — reft ! So while I faw the heavens mine With light that could but be divine, I by the effect believed the caufe, Nor fought, nor prayed to learn its laws, Content to know but this — It was ! Content to pray that there might be Amongft thofe ftars fome home for me ; Where, purified by faith and tears, More fit to walk thofe mining fpheres, I might forget my earthly years ! He was before me, lying at the foot Of a great oak-tree's gnarled and rugged root ; Olivia. 1 6 1 His fecond, an Italian, pacing near ; He finging — his rich low voice rifing clear Between the puffs of his cigar, — a fnatch Of fome anacreontic drinking catch ; One folded arm beneath his ruffled hair, The thin fmoke curling in the balmy air, One idle hand entwined in the long grafs On which the breezes tremble as they pafs ; His drooping eyelids (hutting out the fkies Kept the dark fecrets of his eaftern eyes. Handfome, infouciant, in the dying day, Upon the brink of night and death he lay. How could I kill this man ? My cautious friend Had brought a carriage to a green lane's end, So the furvivor might efcape and fly Beyond the reach of law. The quiet fky Still gave clear light enough for each to trace The lineaments of his opponent's face, But no time could be loft. I never meant, God knows, to kill this man — I never fent, Of my own will, this carelefs foul away To that dread land beyond the night and day. 1 62 Olivia. I would have fpared him. 'Twas my wifh to fpare, And yet I would not fire in the air ; But fo my barrel I had meant to guide That the dread bullet fpeeding by his fide Should whiftle paft him, but yet harm him not — So face to face upon that grafTy fpot, Ten paces only diftant, we were placed : Upon his brow a made of gloom I traced ; Something, fcarce forrow, more of difcontent, As at a wafted life ignobly fpent, Which might have been Ah ! in that evening fcene Arofe, perhaps, that ghoft. The " might have been" — Death o'er life's landfcape brooded darkly grim, And earth had no perfpecl:ive now for him \ Behind, a tracklefs wafte of recklefs years, Before, the myfteries of all the fpheres ; Shut in by darknefs as a wall of ftone, Some fhuddering dread the braveft heart might own, And Alexander fhrink from — the unknown ! The white glove fluttered as it fell ; the prayer Died at my heart. He fired in the air. Olivia. 163 My hair-fpring was not fet. The touch that ferved To fire, now failed. A ftronger pull — it fwerved, My piftol fwerved — a trifle it may be — But all a lifetime's mifery to me Lay in that fwerve fcarce wider than a hair — Oh, God ! that I had fired in the air ! Oh, wafted agony ! oh, futile prayer ! Up to the heavens arofe my great defpair, As he fell bleeding to the ground He died ! In all his recklefs beauty, recklefs pride. I told him how I held myfelf to be His murderer — told all my agony — What I had meant. He fmiled. " Thank God ! " he laid, His fecond raifing up his feeble head, His wandering hand ftretched blindly towards my own, In which it lay, cold, heavy as a ftone, With that laft deadly dampnefs in its grafp That holds life fpell-bound in death's lingering clafp ; Faft-gathering dews upon his pallid brow, For ever faded that faint crimfon glow 164 Oliv 1a. Which through the pallor of his cheek had fhone Like fhadowed rofes upon marble thrown, He lay half in my arms, half on the ground ; I ufed my handkerchief to ftaunch his wound, The foft white cambric fcarcely flayed the flood That fteeped and dyed it in his welling blood. The doctor we brought with us, fhook his head As two light fingers on his wrift he laid ; There was no hope. I tried in vain to trace One gleam of hope in that averted face ; He, Carlo, fpoke, the life-blood ebbing faft, And every accent weaker than the laft : " Oh, God be praifed, you've killed me ! this will reft On that vile golden head ! If in that breaft The bad heart holds one throb — I'll not fay, human, — If in this dreadful creature, mifcalled woman, — In this incarnate curfe, if yet there be Anything — fentient ! fhe will think of me ! Not weep for me — fhe keeps her tears for fhow. Not grieve for me — fhe knows but acl:ed woe : But me may yet — remember ! May my face, Olivia. 165 Ghaftly before her through all time and fpace, Her fhuddering, loathing dread, in every place, Haunt her, till, dying after weary years, My words ftill ring upon her deafened ears ; Before her fading fight my features rife, Hate on my lips and horror in my eyes ; While o'er her drowning life my curfes roll, And I difpute with Satan for her foul — Tell her, I curfed her, with my lateft breath Hoarded for that anathema in death ! " They tried to hurry me away — they faid That I muft fly. I bade them bear the dead Home in the carriage they had brought for me ; I would ride back alone — then crofs the fea j Would ftart that night for Dover, but muft do Some bufinefs ere I went. The darknefs grew Out of the evening — night arofe. Oh, where (While their ftifF burden with the cluftering hair And white ftill face, the quiet feconds bear), Where was the foul, gone forth upon the night ? No faith to guide its wings, no lamp to light 166 Olivia. The dark, dark way. — Would God heard the prayer I concentrated in that dread word — Where ? I turned my horfe towards the din-ant dome, And through the darknefs filently rode — home ! Lights in the drawing-rooms. Lights upon the flair, The bufy fervants hurrying here and there ; The notes of a piano on the night, Through the confervatory's rofe-hued light, Stole out upon the ftreet. A joyous fong, Trilled in the clear notes I had known fo long, Came ringing on my ear. A gay refrain Mixed with a hoarfe voice that took up the ftrain In tones that marred the melody — before Thofe who admitted me had clofed the door, I afked, « Who's with her ladyfhip ? " " The Duke Of Lindefmere, my lord.'' A pitying look, Half forrow, half contempt, I feemed to trace On this man's — an old fervant's — quiet face. " He dined here with my lady." « Tete-a-tete ?" Your lordfhip, yes." iC Tell them my horfe may wait." a Olivia. 167 I ftrode up-ftairs, and in a moment more Stood by the inner drawing-room's curtained door j She fat at the piano — 'neath a globe Of ground-glafs filled with chaftened light — her robe, Rich velvet of the fapphire's changing hue, Light in the light, in fhadow darkly blue, In contraft with her waving yellow hair, Made the fair falling locks more golden fair, And colour warmed the beauty fomething cold Until fhe fhone enfhrined in blue and gold ; Like fome mediaeval faint behind a glafs, Which all the faithful bow to as they pafs. The Duke, a roue, fixty years of age, Stood nodding, as fhe fang, above the page — This was the game fhe played then — this the prize, The end and aim of all her villanies ! I let the curtains fall behind me, and Stood oppofite the group ; her rapid hand Running a brilliant fcale, fo fudden flopped, So fuddenly the Duke the mufic dropped, 1 68 Olivia. So fuddenly I broke upon the two With tumbled hair, and brow of amen hue, (I faw my face reflected in a glafs, And in my madnefs wondered whofe it was), So fudden all the fcene, it well might feem Some painter's fancy of a dreadful dream, In gaudy colouring and lurid light A pictured vifion of unreal affright. Olivia was the firft to fpeak. " You play A fort of comedy, my lord, to-day, I fcarcely thought " " You fcarcely thought," I faid, " I mould return ; you're wrong, 'tis he is dead : Give me your hand, I've fomething for you — this ! A handkerchief. You afk not what it is ; 'Tis that you prayed for, if I underftood Your words to-day ; 'tis blood, my lady, blood ! Your will is done, you've worked your wicked fpell ; And yet your plot has failed ! — The wrong man fell !" The blood-ftained handkerchief was in her hand, — " Whofe blood ? " fhe fhrieked ; " Oh, let me underftand : Olivia, 169 There's fome one mad here ! — Angelo !" fhe faid, Clafping two frantic hands about her head, — " Oh, let me underftand — he is not dead ! — He dead ! And you alive ! " " Olivia, yes ! Who would not fympathife with your diftrefs ? Not for his death your anguifh, but my life ! — His Grace there cannot have you for a wife, You think perhaps, — you're wrong, — the law unties Such knots as ours. My lord, behold your prize 1 If you can take this mafs of guilt and lies, — If charms that fmell of charnel-houfes pleafe, And you find light in eyes as falfe as thefe, — If you can lull your dying head to reft, And figh your foul out upon fuch a breaft, — If that bright head and wealth of golden hair, With every crime upon it, ftill feem fair, — Take her! — worft hatred fcarce could wifh you worfe : In having her, your Grace has every curfe ! " Beating wild hands on her difhevelled head, And crying out, " 'Tis falfe ! he is not dead ! — Carlo — adored — Amico ! Dead ! — no, no : Come and difprove them, Carlo Angelo ! " 170 Olivia. Irra mad rage me flung the Duke afide, And rufhed towards the door. " My life ! " fhe cried, " I never loved but you ! I lied — I lied ! Only my lips were falfe ; my heart was true, And never trembled in its faith to you. Carlo, come back — come back, and let me be A beggar by your fide ; but come to me ! " Foam at her lips, and madnefs in her gaze, Her light hair, glittering with her diamonds' rays, Shaken in tangled fh ewers upon her drefs, In very wafte of wanton lovelinefs, Her moulders gleaming through the mining blue, Like fnow-clad mountains through night's purple hue, She rufhed to where I flood acrofs the door, Tottered, and fell down death-like on the floor ; The Duke, affrighted, leaning wildly o'er This fallen fiend ! I never faw her more, Except in dreams or fever, — ne'er again, With waking eyes and unbewildered brain, Olivia. 171 Beheld the fatal lovelinefs that made The terror andtfhe madnefs of my life ; And only knew by that one darkening (hade That blighted all my days — I had a wife ! There was a trial. I was free, they faid, — Free, with that young man's blood upon my head, — Free from the chains that bound me to her — free ! She and the Duke in Paris, where, they fay, He is the Have before her footftool, fhe The toaft, the wit, the beauty of the day, — The unfunned fnow itfelf for purity ! — I, prince of Machiavellian villany ; She victim of a vile confpiracy ! " So runs the world away," the poet fays, And " fome mutt weep ;" and by the Naples fhore, Where I drag out the remnant of my days, There is a grave, wild myrtles trailing o'er, 'Tangled with arbutus flowers ; the grafs White with fpring's fnow, the wood anemone : The fun and moonbeams kifs it as they pafs ; 172 Olivia. The diftant murmurs of the founding fea Whifper the fecrets of Infinity j / While all creation's myriad voices blend To fpeak God's comfort, " Death is not the end ! " Here, retting from the world's great puppet-ihow, His fhort hour flitted, Carlo Angelo Lies in that (lumber, of whofe quiet eafe Only the angels keep the awful keys. Thus runs the world away ! I fometimes hear Some wandering echoes from my lady's fphere, — The lift of guefts at the laft ball fhe gave, I read, low lying by her lover's grave — " His Grace's diplomatic dinner, where His Majefty " The wandering fouthern air Fluttered the leaves, while high above my head The woodlark fang, — they did not wake the dead ; Her heartlefs triumph touched him not : the bird Might fing its loudeft, but he never ftirred ! I made a picture of her in my mind, And painted this upon the fummer wind. Olivia. 173 A wicked woman, — weary of her life, Herfelf, her foul, her wickednefs ; at ftrife With God and Heaven, for Hell watched to claim And hold her by her felf-forged bonds of fhame ; A wretch, whofe every hour and every day Was falfely brilliant as a long ftage-play, — Who dragged her fteps beneath a golden chain, And made contortions fmiles to hide her pain, — Who hated all the world, and defolate Turned on herfelf the remnant of her hate. I faw her, after fome great day, let fall The lovely mafk fhe'd worn At fete and ball ; I watched her frightened ftart and fhudder, as She looked on her firft wrinkle in the glafs ; Linked to a man fhe openly defpifed, Self-fold for glories fhe no longer prized ; Care by her pillow brooding through the night, And memory waking earlier than the light ; Old age, her terror, ever creeping near, And ftealing fome new beauty every year ; Abandoned to a reftlefs difcontent, Too wicked to have courage to repent ; 174 Olivia. With frequent opiates foothing her falfe breaft, And cheating Time, her torture, with falfe reft ; Counting the hours by length of agony, Still forced to live, becaufe afraid to die ; Dreading to glance behind, but dreading more One fearful look to the black gulf before ; With neither faith in God nor hope in Heaven, Tearlefs, impenitent, unbleft, unmriven, — Her only prayer to outraged mercy this, That God, beholding all her miferies, Would, in His fcorn for one too low to hate, Be pitiful, and but — annihilate ! I thought not of his Grace, — for what was he, That I mould number him my enemy ? Why mould one vengeful pulfe my bofom ftir ? What need have I of vengeance ? — He has her ! UNDER THE STCAMORES. God guard that fpot beneath the fycamores Where blood was med once by a woman's hand ! Man fhuns the dark made of thofe fycamores : There night is blackeft — there the winter's wind Shrieks fhrilleft — or in loud prophetic voice, With fitful wailings through the fhort'ning days, Seems as it knew the ftory of the place And tried to tell it in harm fyllables, To fcare all fentient things from fheltering there. The fmiling fummer there can only frown, 176 Under the Sycamores. For the thick trees fhut out the funny fkies, And the damp ground will not be fhone upon, Will only nourifh rank and poifonous weeds, And will proclaim with black and hideous looks Here once was murder done. The records tell How a chiefs daughter, one Menamenee, Was left an orphan in her early years, And was proclaimed the Princefs of her tribe, Male iflue failing to her father's line. Thus the tribe faid, " She fhall felecl: a mate, Dauntlefs and handfome as her glorious felf ; Shall choofe from all our people him that is Swiftefl of foot, boldeft of heart and mien, Wifefl: and greateft. They fhall have a fon Whom they fhall rear to be our children's chief, And to recall the virtues of her fire — The brave Dark Eagle." Young Menamenee Is ftraight and flender, graceful, light and free, As fhadows thrown by flowers on funny grafs Under the Sycamores. That flicker as they fall j her deep black eyes Have the Dark Eagle's radiance in their glance, And can command as his were wont to do. Her hand can wing the arrow to its home In the bird's heart that flies above the trees ; She has all his imperious grace ; a queen In every geff ure, word, and thought, and deed — What a ftrange fight to fee fuch pride brought low, Such regal beauty proftrate in the duff, And fuch a warm and noble heart abafed For man with recklefs foot to trample on. She met a ftranger in the foreft. path, Who turned afide to note her Indian grace j She met a ftranger — and his deep blue eyes, Through the dark night, were with her in her dreams, And fhone on her, till changing into ftars, She woke, and gazing upward to the fky Still faw their light in depths of azure blue. Again fhe met him in the forefl: glade, And this time in diftrefs ; thrown from his horfe. ij8 Under the Syca?nores. In danger ; fo they bore him to her home, And laid him on a couch of foft dried herbs, Brown mofs, and withered flowers. There he lay For weeks, fhe watching by him through the long Still days and nights, of fever and unreft, — Delirious wanderings of the burning brain, Through black defpair to glimmering hope, until A change came o'er him, and he grew to know His tender nurfe. To liften to her voice That foothed him to his reft with Indian airs Sung in a plaintive minor. Well he knew The touch of the light hand that fmoothed his hair, Or laid cool fimples on his burning brow, And had a power to foothe, apart from them, By very virtue of its tendernefs. All fuffering paft, he lay as in a reft ; So deep, it might be death — and all fo fweet And heavenly peaceful, it could not be life. And fhe — alas ! She fang a mournful fong, That fhe had mufed out in her heart of hearts, Night after night, when watching in his face The ftrife of death to quench the light of life. Under the Sycamores. 179 " I met my fate down in the foreft glade ; I met my life in the deep foreft made, And each wild impulfe of my heart obeyed The mafter of its fate. It may be death I met in the deep fhade, It may be that he icorns the Indian maid, But never can this foul in grove or glade SelecT: another mate. " I met my foul down in the wild wood deep, His eyes are ftars that light me in my fleep ; His image graven on my heart I keep, To cherifh till I die. It may be vainly that I watch and weep ; This light of life I may not burning keep, But oh ! if he muft fleep the laft long fleep, No other reft will I ! " This pale-faced ftranger came from other lands, The blue fea brought him to the Indian home ; The treafure that he fought was only this : 180 Under the Sycamores. A temple for the worfhip of his God, Where perfecution could not come between Heaven and his prayers — for in his native land His Sabbath had been kept 'mid ftrong, ftern men, Armed to the teeth, in Highland faftneffes, Ready to change the Bible for the fword, And (words of Jefus frefh upon their lips), Drown the blue heather in the foeman's blood. He had feen the hearth-tree in the Scottifh home Dyed with the blood of thofe who made it dear ; The father powerlefs to fave the child, The child to fhield the father ; all the while The war-cry ringing through the ftricken land Was fafhioned from the Evangel's peaceful words, Tortured by bigots to a foreign fenfe, And made a call for bloodfhed. So he came, Leaving his young wife to his father's care, (Till he mould build the neft for his fweet bird), Came to erect a home, and in the wilds Of the dark foreft to hew out a fpot Where he might rear an altar to his God ; Under the Sycamores. iol Where he, in the long peaceful future years, Might watch his children grow to ftalwart men, And die the founder of a fettlement. One evening, in a warm and crimfon haze, That changed the foreft deeps to lakes of light, She, with grave eyes uplifted to his face, Sat at his feet, while his low, ferious voice, Told the fweet ftory of the Chriftian faith, Unto this fimple Indian Princefs, new As tale of fairy-land to lift ening child. She pondered o'er each fentence, and once faid, " Say that again, for then I did not hear Your words, but loft them liftening to your voice. Methinks this ftory I have fomewhere dreamed, Or dreamed that fuch a ftory might have been, To finifh the completenefs of the earth With a more fair beyond. That fharp blue line, Brink of the grave to which the fun goes down, You call the horizon, breaks too fuddenly 182 Under the Sycamores. The glory and the beauty of the world ; So, oft I dreamed there was a path beyond, Could we but learn the way. The pale fad made, Whofe touch ftrikes youth and valour into duft, Is then an enemy whom we may mock, Knowing our triumph cometh in the fkies. But tell me, Paleface, in that quiet land Of the Hereafter — fhall we ever be Together — fide by fide as we are now ?" " Ay, happy fouls meet in the fields of heaven, And tender greetings on the fapphire airs Of the Eternal City, rife and fall In low harmonious cadences of joy. There fhall we meet, thou, maiden, and my wife ; Whom thou wilt meet on earth, fo Heaven allow To me the blifs to live to fee her here." " Your words are ftrange unto Menamenee : Your wife ! 1 think that means another love — Another fharer in your great, brave heart : So be it ; it is wide enough for all : Under the Sycamores. 183 A foreft-tree, beneath whofe fhade may reft Others befides your poor Menamenee. Why mould I weep becaufe the ftars I love Shine down into the fouls of other maids, And are by them beloved ? Yon pale cold moon, So pale fhe feems the fhadow of herfelf, Sleeps on the breaft of other lakes than that — Yet fee how peacefully the waters flow Pillowing her inconftant beauty to calm reft, Not rending it in a wild, jealous ftorm. So fleeps your image deeply in my heart, Entire, unbroken : and fo may it lie, As deeply in the tranquil heart of her, Whom you fo tenderly do call your wife." " Hold, Princefs !" With one gefture of his hand He ftopped the torrent of her fimple words, Then lapfed in filence deep as the ftill hour, And quiet as the red and purple weft ; He hid his face upon his folded arms And prayed ; how earneftly, God looking down On the weak foul by love of Him made ftrong, 184 Under the Sycamores. Knew, and not man. The red and withered leaf Dropped from the bough had hardly reached the ground, The long cry of the bittern fcarce was broken, Yet he had fought the battle of a life, And rofe with whitened cheek, the conqueror. " Ah, wild flower, little know you what you fay — Here in your far and lonely foreft home Little thou knoweft of the world's cold ways — How man's long life can know one only love, Forfaking which, he gives his foul to death \ How hearts once given can never be reclaimed, Though they may break and perifh in the florm That wrecks their peace, or ere they are aware. That fky, Menamenee, that golden land, Of which I fpoke to thee awhile gone by, Is won by pilgrims ftrong to toil and climb Under the hot fun of long fummer days, Whofe fcorching rays muft tempt them not to turn To the green haven in the wild wood fhade ; Through fnows and dorms that have no power to change The fteady purpofe pointing to the height ; Under the Sycamores. 185 Paft foes who, though they wound, cannot defeat, So that man's armour be his faith in God, And not in his own ftrength. I have been weak, I have been falfe to honour and to thee, Have lingered in this deep and dear retreat, Though a dull voice, to which I fhut my ears, Has bade me break the chain that bound me here. Sweet words of thine, Wild Rofe, have bound the chain, Thy tender eyes have riveted each link, And now the iron, eating in my foul, Rufts all the hopes and dreams of life away j Old purpofes and projects that I deemed As hewn in ftone, fo ftrong to hold and laft, Or to be broken only by my death, — All broken now ! I only tell thee this, To tell thee that it muft no longer be. God tries His children by a fiery teft, The which furviving, purified by pain, Their fouls pafs from the fire to the light ; So, if I loved thee — as I muft not love — Or if I held thee — as I dare not hold thee — 1 86 Under the Sycamores. Dearer than earth, till growing blafphemous, I dared to fet thy fmile above the ftars, And fee their light more lovely in thine eyes, — If I were weak as this — which I am not — There ftill could be no word 'twixt you and me, That would not mafk a poifon in its mufic, Save this death in two fyllables — Farewell !" She caught the death-blow in that word, " Farewell !" And laid upon his arm a cold, firm hand, Not to be fhaken off". " I cannot tell How, in thy journey to that tracklefs Iky, I mould be hindrance to thy upward path ; Let me go by thy fide, — be thou to me The teacher and the champion of the truth ; And when thou ftand'ft by God's eternal throne, Thine offering mail be, not one foul, but two, — Mine, dark until illumed by light of thine, As by the fun the world ; and faved through thee. And for my love, that fhall not hinder thee, Since I none other know for thee but this, — Under the Sycamores. 187 The love that hath no thought except to watch Through the long day the changes of thy face — Through the ftill night the fhadows on thy fleep, Till I can read thy dreams on lip and brow, Weaving a hiftory for every fmile ; When thou art abfent, liftening to thy ftep Making foft mufic through the crackling leaves ; When thou art filent, waiting for thy voice Until I half imagined that you fpoke, — Imagining fo much what you would fpeak — Or calling back the tones of yefterday To mufe and brood upon. Such love as this Would be my glory through the long, flow years, Until I laid me down upon thy grave, (For I could die of nothing but thy death, Taking fuch life from every look of thine) And died of joy, not forrow ; fince by thee I 've learned the faith which is the death of death ! — Such love as this can fcarcely hinder thee, — Shall never let thee from the golden goal ! So, on my knees, I pray thee to remain ; 1 88 Under the Sycamores. Build thy fair home in the wide foreft here, Where'er thou wilt; for thou, that art my world, Canft make a world for me where'er thou art. Bring thy young wife : I will for her and thee Be handmaiden and fifter." " No, Wild Rofe, Sifter thou canft not be to fuch as I ; Nor canft thou e'er be more. All love of mine Is due to one ; and fhe fhall have her due ! — Love, fanctified by grave and holy men Through the long ages of the Chriftian faith, And regiftered by vows ordained by God ; The which departing from, to fin and death He leaves the fouls rebellious to His word." " And, Pale-face, in your foul, your thought, your heart, There is no place for any love but this ? " c< For none but this. Philofophers have lied, Falfe to the life-blood of their beating hearts, And found their madnefs to be madnefs, but When it has driven them mad, — have wrecked their fouls On fome chimera of the Grecian fage, Going down blindfold to the depths of fin. Under the Sycamores. 189 Look up, fweet wild flower, to that deep blue heaven, Purple enamel, gemmed with golden lamps, God's jewelled breaftplate ! Poor, that mighty type — Albeit it feems fo infinite to us — Of His infinity, and of the home He keeps for thee beyond thofe ftarry worlds ! — Bright fentinels of that far land, as far Beyond their light, as they beyond our ken. Angels, Menamenee, await thee there, Keeping thy beft fmiles, which are all too bright For common wear on earth, to give to thee, The jewels of thy bridal day, in heaven. And think, dear child, when Earth's poor hopes are dark, This is the dream, and that will be the waking ; This the black night, that the unbroken morning ; This life the death, — that death we dread, the gate That opens on true life ! Oh, falfe, falfe world, Mocking us with wild tears for griefs unreal, — Tortures that are but fhadows, — heart-breaks, pains, Paffions, and madneiTes, that mould not be By us, whofe faith refts in a future blifs, 190 Under the Sycamores. Further regarded than a fitful dream ! " " It is your voice ! — 'tis fweet to hear you talk ! When you fpeak thus to me, my heart is rent By two emotions, — happinefs and pain ; Your accents bring delight, and always mull To me, albeit your words convey defpair. Oh, tell me, Pale-face, — pale, cold, dead of heart, You fay that if you loved (as you do not — c As I do not love ! ' — well I marked the words, That ftined hope or ever it was born !) That future home your God has promifed me I mould not enter, — that eternal life, The gift of heavenly love, were loft to me, — Loft, having won thy love ! " " What then, Wild Rofe ? " " I would refign that gift. I will not fay I would exchange it, Pale-face, for thy love j For there is nothing that my foul can dream, Or that my mind can fathom, I could fet Againft the value of thy love to me ; But I would throw that heavenly hope away To win this earthly blifs, — as would a child, Under the Sycamores, 191 Who, wondering, fees the ftars he cannot reach, Barter them for the wild flower at his feet : For what to him the glory of the ftars, So that he loves the frail wood-bloflbm molt ? The prize we feelc for from the hand of God Is not the bejl, but that which beft we love." f Menamenee, thou know'ft not what thou fay'ft !" J I cannot fay what I have in my heart, Or, if I could, I think 'twould touch thine own; But well I know what I do fay, and know How powerlefs it is to tell my thought. Oh, what a broken mirror of the foul Is the beft language that the tongue can frame ! If, as thou fay'ft, beyond this hope of heaven, There is a wild fear of a punifhment For love, which thou call'ft fin " " Menamenee ! " u Thou canft not check me ! — Then I 'd brave that fear, Defy that punifhment, — as little heed Its coming, while thou held'ft me in thine heart, As I would fear the gloom of night, while day Shone glorious on the world ! " " Menamenee !" 192 Under the Sycamores. " I '11 fay no more ! If thou canft love me now, Take me, — thy (lave, the weed beneath thy feet To trample out of life, if fo thou wilt !" Still filently he ftands j with thoughtful eyes, That look on the wild maiden's wild defpair, With tearlefs, hopelefs grief as great as hers, But calm as fome old Roman's agony. He muft not take her in his fheltering arms, He muft not fight the battle by her fide, O'er Life's wide fea fhe muft go forth alone ; He, powerlefs to fhield her from one wave, Or warn her from one rock, upon the more Muft leave her, — fo abandoned, wild, and loft, He cannot doubt her fhipwreck in the ftorm. All this was in his heart, and yet he turned, And left her with the black night coming down, Her only comforter ; chill, rifing winds, The tendereft friends fhe had to dry her tears ; And nothing nearer her than — God ! and He Under the Sycamores. 193 Seemed fo far off to this poor helplefs child, Who feeing him on earth, fhe loved above All heaven and earth, fo deaf to her defpair, Thought God Himfelf would fail to hear her cry, And pitying fend His pitying angel — Death. He read her thought. A light was in his heart, By which he faw the darknefs within hers ; And yet he left her. But he read that night — The Indians peeped in at his doorlefs hut, And, wondering, faw him poring on the page — He read, how Abraham gave his only fon, While God fmiled on the facriflce of faith, Sparing its confummation. And he read Of One in all things tempted like to us ; Who, above all things, purely paffed through all, To prove man could be fpotlefs to the laft, And going through fire, would never fcorch his robes, So, through the flame, he went ftraight on to God. She leaned againfr. a tree, with (lender hands Clafping the trunk. " Would I were rooted here ! o 194 Under the Sycamores. Would they would chain me in this lonely fpot, Or lay me, living, under the dull earth. So, though I did not reft, I could not ftir, And thus I could not follow him. Oh, where. Where is the pride of the Dark Eagle's race, That I fhould make my love into a prayer, And cry that out aloud which mould be ftill, Dying unfpoken in a woman's breaft ? I cannot change my heart. Oh, Thou, who rui'ft Its every throb, know'ft that it cannot change Until Thy pity ftills its pain in death. I well may doubt his God is merciful ; When he, the mercilefs, can leave me here To fight this ftrife of my dark foul alone. But I will cure me of this wild difeafe ; Will pluck this rooted ferpent from my heart, Will not be conquered, will not hear the voice Of the dark waters in the long ftill night That cry to me, c Come to our pitying breaft,' — Will not obey, upon the mountain-tops, The winds that fhriek — ' Leap o'er yon precipice, Under the Sycamores. 195 And thou fhalt find a quiet reft below.' The gun, whofe ufe he taught me, mail not tempt My hand to turn the muzzle to my brow, And from my brain blot love and life at once ; I will not dafh my head againft the rocks, As I have darned my heart out in this love For one, far colder than the coldeft rocks ; I will not die, but will be conqueror In this great battle of the breaking; heart. " So many days fhe wandered through the deep And wildeft pathways of the black pine-woods, Where night for ever dwells ; and where the fun, Whofe light was pain and wearinefs to her, Came not to mock her with thofe golden rays She would not know, as mefTengers from heaven. Her long loofe hair, in damp and tangled locks, Veiled her wan face, and vexed her bloodfhot eyes Which were more mournful for their tearlefTnefs, And the redoubled luftre of their gaze ; Fever and madnefs mingling in their light, Until their brightnefs made them well-nigh blind. 196 Under the Sycamores. Her drefs hung loofe, and torn by branching fhrubs, Through which fhe roamed unconfcious where fhe trod ; Each Indian trinket, tarnifhed, fcattered, rent ; Wampum, and beads, and trophies, once revered By the Dark Eagle's race, unheeded hung In wild confufion 'midft her falling hair. So well fhe fhunned the wigwams of her race, That the tribe fought her long, and vainly fought, Till one, her favourite in the good time gone, — One who had held her in his arms a child, Met her by nightfall near a difmal pool On which the made of many fycamores Fell, deepening the waters' unknown depth With fhadows darkening the fhadowy ftream : He met her here, implored her to return, Knelt, prayed, — nay, wept ; recalled her father's love, Urged in her father's name her coming back To her old place of honour in the tribe. She looked at him with ftrangely earneft gaze, And faid, " I try to know you, but can not Remember where I faw vou. Yet, I know Under the Sycamores, 197 Your face was once a folace to my eyes ; Your voice was once familiar to my ears j Your hand that now clafps mine with grafp fo ftrong It hurts my wrift, had once a friendly touch : It muft have been before I died " " Wild Rofe, You are not dead. Sweet flower, you are not dead ! The leaves are fcattered in their fummer pride > Their fragrance lavifhed on a wanton wind That cannot know the glory they have loft. The ftem remains — the flower will blow again, For kindlier breezes to inhale its breath, And warmer funlight to revive its bloom. " " You fay I am not dead — this, you call me, A weary body, fuffering and cold, Foot-fore and weak, may be, indeed, alive, If it be life, to fuffer endlefs pain. But this " She lays her hand upon her breaft, " But this is dead — this life within my life — This life, the Pale-face bade me call my heart, Is dead and cold. I weary with the weight Of the dull corpfe I carry to and fro. 198 Under the Sycamores. I do not know you — though athwart a mifl I fee a face that once was known to me ; A muffled voice ftrikes on my wondering ear, But of its import nothing do I know Save that it would do that which no one can Henceforth achieve for me — 'twould make me weep - The birds have fung to me fweet, mournful notes To melt the ice that freezes o'er my tears ; The river, with a diftant murmuring voice, Would have beguiled another's grief; the flowers Have held their fair heads up beneath my feet For me to crufh, and given in their death Fragrance to chide me, till I mould regret them, And thus be won to weeping. All in vain, No voice of earth or fky can touch my heart Save one — I mall hear that before I die !" He faw that fhewas mad. She would not go Back to her home with him. With a flrange laugh, She faid, " My home is in the foreft now, Wider and ftatelier than my old abode, More fitting for a Princefs fuch as I ; Under the Sycamores. 199 Here will I wander till I meet the friend I feek through all my wanderings." II And he ? " " Is known for his unerring hand, And is a leech efteemed through all the world : Ne'er known to fail to cure. He will but lay- One finger on the pain I carry here, And pain and patient will alike be ftill. I wait the echo of his lingering foot ; When I have met him, you mall take me back To my old home ; and in your fongs that night You fhall give thanks for loft Menamenee, Whom the Great Spirit hath reftored to peace — Till then, farewell : thou'lt find me 'neath thefe trees ; It is our tryfting-place. At fet of moon, When the ftars fade, and death is in the heavens, His fhadow on the earth fhall fall on me ; On the tenth day from this, come here to feek Your withered Rofe ; till then, again, farewell ! " She flung his grafp from off her {lender wrift, And fprang into the thickeft labyrinth. Long time the Indian fought her through the pines ; 200 Under the Sycamores. He fought in vain, and fad and flow returned To tell the tribe the ftory of her woes, Which had obfcured her brain and driven her mad. So, frill fhe wandered on until the morn Arofe upon the feventh day from that On which fhe met the Indian. She fet forth Bending her way toward the well-known fpot, Where Roderick Graham had hewn out the wood And built the framework of his rough abode ; She came with tottering footfteps through the made, And came upon him unawares, and flood Long, filently, ere fhe made known her coming. She faw him, leaning, with his axe in hand, Againft a monfter tree he had hewn down, Loft in grave thought ; his dark-blue eyes were clofed, As if he would fhut out a world he loathed, — As if he would fhut out the weary fun ; And, turning his eyes inward on his heart, Die of the tortures locked within its depth. Under the Sycamores. 201 The Indian girl fprang towards him with one bound, — One fhriek of triumph from her fevered lips, — One flam of mad delight in her wild eyes : " You lied ! you lied ! — you fuffer, and for me ! You are — you are, indeed, my other foul ! The madnefs that hath driven me mad, is not Unfhared by you ; the deadly, poifon cup, So deeply drained by me, you, too, have drunk ; The fell difeafe that fcorches through my brain, Burning my fenfe out, fears your brain as well ; And we are one ! — one, by the dreadful bond Which binds us both with madnefs until death ! — Roderick, is this not love ? Oh, falfe of tongue ! Think you that little golden trinket-ring, A child might break, is fuch a bond as this ? — Think you the God who made our fouls alike, Hath ftamped that likenefs on them for their curfe ? I could not love you as I do, if God Had not ordained that I mould love you fo. His am I, with this fin upon my head, And His the fin if there be fin in this ; 202 Under the Syca?nores. For He who made myfelf hath made my love, Since that is more myfelf than I. I fay My love for you is wider than the feas, And higher than the heavens ! — Yet what am I ? A woman, feeble as the drooping reeds That tremble on the river. I can bend, But not my love ; I tremble — I am faint, But not my love ; I weary — not my love ; And I can die, but deathlefs is my love ! " He faw that fhe was mad. " Menamenee ! " " Oh, do not fpeak to me ! " fhe cried ; " I bore To look on you, but cannot bear your voice. That mufic fends the blood into my brain, Until the burning furges make me reel, As if the feas were toiling in my head ! — You fee I'm not too mad to know I'm mad ! — Let me fly far from you, that I may die ! I cannot die while I am near you : Life To me is — you ! And while you're by, I live ! Farewell ! I go from you — I go from life !" She fprang back through the brum wood, and was gone. Under the Sycamores. 203 She had the thread of every foreft path, And only by a quivering of the ferns Knew he which way me wandered. Then he fpoke : l( By Heaven and Earth !" he cried, " though both were loft In faving her, fhe mall be faved by me ! Is my breaft fo impure, it cannot be A holy fhelter for this ftricken fawn ? Is my heart, then, fo vile, that it can beat, And yet not feel one throb it dare confefs Refponfive to a love as deep as this ? " Menamenee ! " he called ; " Menamenee ! " Only the echoes, taking up his voice, Deceived him with the thought that he was heard, And mocked him with his own defpairing cry, — " Menamenee ! " The pine-woods lay before ; Behind, the little homeftead he had raifed To fhelter her — that other — whofe bright face And pure confiding eyes rofe up between The Indian girl he followed, and himfelf ; And would not change from the eternal fmile 204 Under the Sycamores. That took its funfhine from her faith in him. " Oh, my young wife, whom I am bound to love,- Oh, my fweet wife, whom I have loved fo well, — Fair, trufting girl, whom ftill I fondly love, Come not between me and this wretched one, Whom I would only — fhelter ! Let me be Her guide, to lead her to the living Rock, From whofe deep fhadow confolation falls Upon the foul, as evening falls on earth ! " Thus cries his heart, he calling through the trees, " Menamenee ! — come back, Menamenee !" Through labyrinths of fhrubs and trailing weeds, That hang about his feet and hinder him, He feeks her in the foref} ; till, at laft, Through the deep made, he fees a funbeam glint And fhimmering, dance upon a fringe of beads, That he remembered hanging round her drefs, — The fimple Indian ornaments ! He knew The glitter of the worthlefs glafs ; he cries Once more, cc Menamenee ! " and following The glancing fhadow through the ruftling leaves, Under the Sycamores. 205 Breaks through the foreft out upon the more Of a great lake, and fees her far away- Fluttering upon the fummit of a crag, Like fome bright bird with wild, difordered wings, That fmoothes its ruffled plumes before it foars. Swiftly he fprang acrofs the reedy wafte That lay between them, and with one ftrong hand Caught at her garments. " Child, thou fhalt not die \" He faid. " Thou fay'ft ! Indeed, I cannot die, While thou art here ! Why do you haunt me ? you, You crofs my path, now I have fled from yours ! I do abjure you, and the love I bore For your dark, cruel face ! Why do you ftretch Forth your ftrong arm to ftay me from the waves ? — Where, gazing down, I fee my own wan face Look up at me, and cry, c Lo, here is peace ! ' u Becaufe I would not fee thee fo much fin ; For He who holds the keys of life and death, Curfes the mad intruder whofe rafh foot Through the dark threfhold of His myftery Unbidden enters." " Am I bound to live ? 206 Under the Sycamores. Is that," fhe faid, " the law of your juft God, Whofe mercy you have told of ? My foul laughs At mercy that refufes me a grave ! — Let go your hold ! "* cc Oh, heavenly Father, Thou The more than father of the ftricken, hear My prayer, and ftrengthen my bewildered foul With power to help this wretched one ! " " You pray ! I fee it in your eyes, although your lips Move filently. Pray that I may fall dead, Low at your feet ! — Pray nothing elfe for me ! " He drew one arm around her fhivering frame, And led her gently — as one in a fleep, Who walks not knowing where — into the wood, Until they flood beneath the maple-grove Where laft they had parted. " Now, Menamenee, Wilt thou be calm and liften ?" " Ay ! " fhe faid, One little, reftlefs hand upon her gun, With the incefTant motion that betrays The unhinged mind \ "I'm calm enough," fhe faid. " The ftorm is paft : look into thefe dry eyes, Under the Sycamores. 207 No rain of tears will ever drown again ; And do not fear the fhower. — Shall I rave ? Hear my hoarfe voice, — fo weak, I fcarcely hear Its tones myfelf : the power to ftorm is gone — Gone, with the power to weep ! — What wouldft thou fay ?" f But this, Menamenee. My wife, ere long, Will join me here ; thou fhalt, as once thou faidft, — Thou fhalt a fitter, wild one, be to her ; And me mail teach thee with that tender love Woman, who loves and has her love returned, Can feel for her who loves, yet loves in vain " " Thy wife ! — Thy wife my fifter ! Yes, I faid We could be fitters. Through the filent nights I 've brooded many things within my breaft, And that amongft them. No, that cannot be ! — Pale-face, I've found the fecret of my grief!" — Her hand upon the gun the while me fpeaks, The left hand on the barrel, and the right Driving the ramrod down upon the charge, — " I've found the fecret of this agony — Thy life ! " She laughed aloud the maniac's laugh, 208 Under the Sycamores. Thy life ! For wert thou dead, then might I reft ; I could not track thy footfteps, nor could creep And peer in through the crevice in thy hut, To watch the outline of thy gloomy face Againft the lurid glow of the low fire. I could not liften to thy voice, that calls Once in an hour, perchance, to horfe or dog, And (hivers in my heart as though one fent A frozen arrow through it. I mould be At peace, fo thou wert dead ! Lo, here we ftand ; The tall funereal trees about us frown Like ghofts of the dead chieftains of my race, And each points to thee j they would have thee dead ! The flow, long waves upon the river banks Curl upwards through the reeds, and then recoil With a dull found that calls to me, as they, With all the reft, would have thee, Pale-face, dead ! In the grey fky one dark and threatening cloud Aflumes the outline of a human hand, And points to thee ! " " Menamenee, thou'rt mad ! " " No, Scottifh ftranger, only defperate ! " Under the Sycamores, 209 The little clicking found betrayed the hand With which me cocked the gun. " Menamenee ! " " Stand off! — away ! — or I fhall flay thee. Fly ! Truft to thy fwiftnefs through the winding paths ; Hide thyfelf from me and my wild defpair, There's fomething here within my broken heart, Stronger than even love. Away ! — begone ! Go, meet thy wife, the fair, the delicate ! Her little feet about the craggy mores Of our wild land, will wander till they fail, Lacking thine arm : Go, — go to her you love, And leave me, left I flay you ! " He had met With madnefs ere to-day. His ftern, dark glance Caught hers, and fixed it, till her frenzied gaze Trembled and wandered from him reftleffly ; Her hand relaxed its grafp, until the gun She had juft lifted, Aid towards the ground. " Menamenee ! " He knew that life and death Hung on the power of his dauntlefs glance To hold at bay the wild and fhipwrecked foul p 210 Under the Sycamores. So eager for deftrucl:ion. Thus they flood, — Stood face to face beneath the waving boughs, While through his mind a thoufand hurrying thoughts Rofe o'er the fatal prefent, and fwept back The pictured memories of days long dead : — His wife, his Highland home, his friends, his kin, The clan, the broad claymore, the heathery hills ; The fkirmiih with the foe befide the lake ; The fhivering harebells holding in their cup A tiny drop of dew, which children faid The good folk who had lodged a night in them, Left in the flower for fairy recompenfe ; The mifts upon the mountain-tops ; a voice — His mother's — calling to him through the dufk ; The white fheep framed againft the blackening iky, Upon the fummit of a craggy pafs ; The baying dogs, the pibroch's fhrilly found, Piercing the mountain air. His love — firft love, That firft dear meeting by the rippling burn, When the blue eyes that dared not look in his, Told their fweet ftory, though they veiled their light. Under the Sycamores. 2 1 1 All thefe thoughts in his heart, while his grave eyes Still fix the flame in hers, and quench the fire Madnefs has kindled there ; but while he looks, His life depending on his power to gaze, The Devil loofed within her fpirit, down, One quiver in his glance reveals a hand That leaves the gun, to flutter at her breaft And clafp a bunch of withered grafTes, tied With a blue faded ribbon. He had plucked And bound them thus, the day when firft fhe led His feeble footfleps out into the air, After the fever. Thrown afide by him, But treafured ever afterwards by her, She wore them in her bofom — when moll mad, Still fane enough to guard them tenderly — He guefTed the ftory of them. " Loving heart, To cherifh even this ! " He glanced afide To wonder at this love. Too fatal glance ! Up to her fhoulder went the gun — to fire, And drive the deadly bullet through his heart, Was but a moment ! 212 Under the Sycamores, So he fell, his face Half buried in the rank growth of the grafs ! From the dull fkies the thunder-clouds had rolled, Uncurtaining a flood of fummer light That rippled through the dark aifles of the wood, Revealing at the end of an arcade, Framed by a back-ground of green fluttering leaves, Two figures bathed in funfhine — one, a girl, Whofe fhowery curls of gliftening golden hair Floated about a cloak of homefpun grey j While at her fide, a knapfack in his hand, A failor pointed onwards pafl the fpot On which the Scotchman lay. A hundred birds Rejoiced in the new funfhine, and her voice, Scarcely lefs joyous, prattled as fhe walked Befide the failor. " He has built a hut, My proud young hufband — ah, you've heard of that ? I had his letter bidding me to come ; I have it here upon my heart, a charm I wore againft the peril of the fea ; So that, if fhipwrecked, I might take to death Under the Sycamores. 213 A fcrap of writing fhaped by that dear hand ; And I have left the only world I know To come to this ftrange world to follow him, As I would follow him to death." " To death ! " The Indian Princefs caught the words, and mocked Their mufic in a wild, difcordant fcream, Then pointed to the dead ! The radiant curls Of the young wife above his cluttering hair Fell, as fhe dropped befide him on her knees ! She lifted up his face with muddering hands, Inftincliive terrors freezing all her heart, And looking in that dead face, ftraightway faw It was the only face earth held for her — This was her welcome to her Weftern home ! Alas, for grief that will not kill ! me lived — Lived to return to her dear Scottifh land, But never more to fee as once fhe faw The blue fky and the mountains. Dead in life, For years, the duties of a loving child, A tender friend, a miniftering foul, 214 Under the Sycamores. Were done by her — but more than dead in life, Even the joy of feeing others joy, Could not win fmiles from her, nor tears ! She lived. If living death like this, be life — It is to me fo much to fay — fhe lived ! They buried him beneath the pines, and reared A rough-hewn wooden crofs above his head — On the third day from that on which he fell, They fet it up, the failors from the fhip, — The Englifh fhip, — and coming the next morn To fee if any had difturbed it, found The Indian Princefs lying at its foot ; Her arms twined round that emblem of All Love, Her head low buried on the frefh-turned fod, And like him, laid beneath it, cold in death. THE SECRETART. T WAS his Lordfhip's fecretary then, Groping in dufty blue books half the day, Scratching, with tired hand and rapid pen, Letters, — hard things in courtly phrafe to fay ; Refufing this or that with lordly grace, Or granting now a penfion or a place : Searching for claffic reference half the night, Scribbling ftatiftics till my fight was dim, And rifing often earlier than the light, To work, and wait, and drudge, and think for him : My days were hardfhips and my nights were pain, To foothe my foul I dreamed. Wild dream and vain ! 216 The Secretary. Wild dream ! Oh, wilder looking back than then ! — And then, oh, wilder than I dared to think ! I knew my ftation 'mongft my fellow-men, And yet fo near the fount, I could but drink : So, knowing it was poifon all the while, I drained the poifon of my lady's fmile, — His daughter, Lady Lucy. I would not Paint the dark face, — fo dark, and darkly bright; So pale, yet with a rofy glow that fhot Through the pale cheek and flufhed it into light ; The deep grey eyes — long-while I thought them black I loved her — I — I, my Lord's hired hack ! — His drudge ! — the dull machine ! — the man he paid To dig out from the ruins of old dreams, Gems of high thought, which might, refet, be made To light his laft dull fpeech with borrowed beams,— I, whofe tafk was it to correct a proof, Revile an efTay, work, and keep aloof ! — The Secretary. 217 Yes, keep aloof, — outfide the high, bright fphere, Which was not, and which never could be, mine ; A diftant world, however feeming near ; Wide gulfs betwixt the portal and the fhrine : Yet, Lady Lucy, well you might have known, You had no other foul fo near your own ! Who thought with you as I did ? Who of all, Perfumed Lifeguardfman, Marquis, Lord, or Duke, — Which of the fpaniels coming at your call, To whom your foul was as an open book ? Whofe words came trembling over yours, and who Drew back to let his thoughts be told by you ? Who laughed at what you laughed at, — who could tell In every page of the laft book you read The very phrafes which would pleafe you well, Where you would fmile, where tofs your fcornful head ? We have but half-fouls, lady, and my foul Muft have joined yours to make a perfect whole ! 218 The Secretary. Perhaps you knew this — perhaps never knew, But there has been a trembling in your voice, That every vein of mine went fhivering through, While all my mounting blood cried out, " Rejoice ! " Till its fwift torrent, hot in throat and cheek, Stifled the words I vainly tried to fpeak. Whether me led me on, or whether I Had but my own mad felf alone to blame, I cannot tell ; but love grew agony, The world's cold barriers fell before the flame, And words I would have died to keep unfpoken, Told her the heart that fhe had won — and broken ! u For hearts are toys, and why not matter them ? The bracelet on your round, lace-fhrouded arm, With fairy dangling gold and glimmering gem, You break in pretty petulance. What harm To crufh out hearts not of your own degree, And trample on a low-born worm like me ?" The Secretary. ll() I know the very hour I fpoke all this : The gilded clock — -where Cupid, all in gold, Stole from his mother, golden too, a kifs — With a low melody the half-hour told : The fcent of flowers upon the balcony Came blowing in. All this is ftill with me. The hot fun, fhut out by Venetian blinds, Drew ftreaks of light upon the velvet pile ; And in the fquare without, warm fummer winds Fluttered the leaves. I fee my lady's fmile ; She fat in a low chair, with cufhions piled ; No one was near, — perhaps that's why fhe fmiled. Too early for the Duke — the Marquis, too, He would not call fo foon. I brought a book Which me had afked me for. I knew — I knew / could not caufe that bright, quick, ftartled look, That mot into her eyes before they fell, And fhot into my heart of hearts as well. 220 The Secretary. She thanked me for remembering her requeft ; I laughed a bitter laugh. Remember ? Yes, Remember ! Oh, the tortures, the unreft, — The long, long hours — the dreams, the wild diftrefs, — Waking to find how falfe they were ! I bowed ; My heart might have told all, it beat fo loud. It beat againft my breaft ; with ftormy cry It faid, " Why do I fuffer thus ? Fool, fpeak ! No longer filence. Tell her all, — and die ! In one great rapture let me burn and break. The worft is paft, the torture deep and dumb ; I have died daily, let the laft death come. " Tell her, and hear her ftorm of pride and fcorn ; Bare the rent breaft to brave her worft cold word — Than life has been, can it be more forlorn ? Though heard with fcorn, 'twere fomething to be heard. Tell the great love, the ftruggle of your life, And come defeat, it will but end the ftrife. The Secretary. 221 " You know what fhe will anfwer. Have you not A hundred thoufand times rehearfed this fcene ? Her fancied fcorn has made your cheek grow hot : Can the real pain be worfe than that has been, When you have conjured up her angry eyes, And gone half-mad with pictured agonies ? " We talked about the weather and the town. She faid, how full it was. Oh, wondrous art ! To fpeak of thefe things — keep the paflion down — Hold the ftrong tempeft raging in my heart, And anfwer her, — " Yes, town, indeed, is full ; And Brighton, as you fay, no doubt was dull." " You drive to Richmond ? — No ! Ride in the Row ? The laft new novel ? — Good ! I think fo, too. You've read thofe poems by Lord So-and-So ?" And thus I held the ftorm, although I knew The wild, mad words would break forth at the laft : The gilt clock chimed another half-hour paft. 222 The Secretary. And as it ftruck, I {landing lingering there, She, looking up, cried out, " How pale, how white You grow ; are you not well ? " Down by her chair I fell, half on my knees. A painful light Glared in my eyes — the blood rufhed to my head — The pictured walls fpun round. " Oh ! to be dead ! " Dead, Lucy ! Dead, and gone to burning flame, For one brief kindnefs from thofe deep dark eyes ! " In words like thefe the fpoken madnefs came : " Oh, hear the great voice of my miferies, Hear the ftrong language of the breaking heart, Which, ere it breaks, would tell how loved thou art. " This little moment is my life. The reft, The fever, and the madnefs, and the pain, Was living death. Oh, Lucy, to be bleft ! To live ! Though I go back to death again ; For one wild rapture barter length of days, And burn out all my foul in one fierce blaze ! " The Secretary. 223 She did not fpeak. A white imploring hand Fluttered before me, as 'twould bid me rife ; I rofe, and ftood as drunken men that ftand Thinking the earth reels, and not they. Her eyes ! Was it the mift on mine ? or were they wet ? I knew not then, nor know I truly yet. The Earl's hand on my moulder ! A ftrong grafp ! A riding-whip that whittled through the air ! I tried to ftrike him down — but the light clafp Of two white arms, fo fragile and fo fair, Entwined in mine, I could not difengage : I could not hurt her in my wildeft rage. I felt the hot blood trickling on my face ; The whip had blinded me — I could not fee ! Great crimfon waves furged up and filled the place, I could not tell whether it was for me Or for her father, that long fearful fcream — I tried again to ftrike him then, a dream ! 224 c H }e ^^cretary. Dreams that were madnefs ; yet I knew I dreamed, Having at intervals a dim, dull fenfe, Of fomething horrible : not all it feemed, Being a ghaftly horror too intenfe To be a thing of flefh and blood vitality, Its darkeft terror being unreality. For the vile creatures glaring round my bed, Were vileft, and moft hateful to my eyes, Becaufe I knew that from my own hot head Sprung forth thefe perfonated agonies ; Aye, the worft fiend that tortured me, I knew Out of my own hell-haunted fancy grew. After the Earl's whip cut me in the face, After the rage that would have ftruck him dead, I have no memory of time or place ; Lying on, what all thought, a dying bed, A terror to the houfe that heard me rave, While doctors — pitying — ftrove my life to fave. The Secretary. 225 Oh, the long hours ! Oh, the eternal nights ! The problems on the hideous papered wall, The ftrange bewildering founds, conflicting fights, Now drawing-room, prifon-houfe, or fenate-hall, The Strangers' Gallery, the Park, the Ring, I, everywhere at once — and everything. Labouring always — always growing near To the dear objecl: of my heart and life ; Purfuing ftill through every doubt and fear, Now vanquifhed, now a victor in the ftrife, But never, never, never once to gain The end that had rewarded all my pain. Never to fee her, clafp her in my hand, Hear her dear voice ; in one long dream I know Without her boudoir door I feemed to ftand, And knocking, heard her anfwer fweet and low ; Yet though fo near my heaven of heavens to win, Even in dreams I could not enter in. 226 The Secretary. Sometimes I was a king, and my hot brain Seared by a golden crown, that Teemed to be The glittering caufe of my undying pain : Sometimes, far out upon a loathfome fea, Floating 'midft weeds that changed into dead men, Now whelm'd I funk, now ftruggled on again. So, through delirium's worft and darkeft forms, I battled with the only friend I had ; Battled with Death . The haven from all ftorms, I was fo near, yet entered not ; fo mad As never in my agonies to know The friendly hand I had entreated fo To lay its foothing touch upon my heart, And lull it into reft — and fo he palled, The pale-horfe and his rider fo depart — The loaded ferry-boat fpeeds onward faft, And I left fhivering on the unfriendly more, Hear the laft echo of the old man's oar. The Secretary. 227 They told me I was faved, the crifis o'er — Two packets lay upon my table — one, In the Earl's hand, a haughty mandate bore, That my old talks might be again begun When I was equal to them, — this was all ; He thought me ftill then at his beck and call ! The fecond was a daily journal, wet, And folded upwards a long paragraph, Marked with a dafh of ink. A Baronet, One of our gracious Sovereign's houfehold ftaff, Was, they had heard, about ere long to wed The Lady Lucy . Oh ! weak heart and head, That could not fee the fhipwrecked paffion fink Without that wild cry for the treafure loft, Which, after all, could we but wifely think, Was never worth the racking pain it cofr. — The pang that ends love's dream mould move our ruth No more than parting with an aching tooth. 228 The Secretary. 'Tis gone — the torture, and the waking hour — Gone with the pain ; we fhall fleep found to-night' No more the plaything of a woman's power ; Our heart is empty, but our heart is light ; Send the cold corpfe of dead love to the tomb, And fweep and garnifh forth the vacant room For the next comer ; Vive la Bagatelle ! And if we cannot dream as we have dreamed, If life has loft a funlight and a fpell, It never was the golden thing it feemed ; We only mourn a phantom, and are made Wretched, becaufe we could not grafp a made. Yes, we have played Pygmalion's foolifh part, Created beauty, and believed it fair, But could not give the marble, foul or heart, And fo forfake the ftatue in defpair, Becaufe it is a ftatue. Let it go, We have learned wifdom from love's overthrow. The Secretary. 229 " Amare et fapere" — yes, the fage Said well, for God concedes that gift to none — Strike out the pitiful and puerile page, Love dies from life ere life is well begun ; And I've a purpofe left to live for yet — Some things, my lord, we do not foon forget. There is a reckoning yet 'twixt you and me, Which you, no doubt, fuppofe I fhall forego ; For from the height of ariftocracy, You, looking down on the poor worms below, May think we have not paflions, rage, or pride, And that blows do not fling through our thick hide. I can afford to wait — I am not one That can forget — I have no gentlenefs, Or if I ever had, it now is gone — Gone with my wafted love. I do confefs I can remember fcorn or infult long, And never yet forgave a fancied wrong. 230 The Secretary. But I can wait. I've fomething in my blood That may be madnefs, or that may be hate ; I watch the tide, and when it gains the flood, That hour is mine, though it come long and late. I may not ftrike you openly, but when You are ftruck down where mod you trufted, then, Then know it is my hand that prompts the blow, However far I be, however long Ere I avenge that fcene of which we know, And whencefoe'er appear to come the wrong — In the meanwhile, my lord, as heretofore, I am your fecretary, and no more. So weeks grew into months. Lucy was gone — Married, and travelling on the Continent ; And months grew into years, and I, alone, Had no companion, but that ftrong intent, That one great purpofe, — vengeance upon him^ Befide which every other dream grew dim. The Secretary. 231 And fo farewell to Love, my miftrefs now Was Hate — and yet fhe feemed fo little changed, My goddefs, that I fometimes wondered how .Her true name mould not have been " love eftranged." The old, old fever : yes, indeed, her name Alone was new, her attributes the fame. The fame long fleeplefs nights, the fame defpair, When the dark end appeared fo far away ; I know the Fury's face was not fo fair As the dear Pfyche of the bygone day; The old griefs were far purer, I confefs, But the old pain, I think, was fcarcely lefs. So months grew into years, and he, the Earl, Married a fecond time. I faw his wife, She might have been his daughter, a fair girl — What ! could he dare the tempeft and the ftrife, Give his calm days into a woman's power, And live the life that changes every hour ? 232 The Secretary. Now happy, now accurfed ; now doubt, now fear, Ufurping the once proud and peaceful breaft ; Only more wretched as fhe grows more dear, And knowing every joy but that of reft : Yes, he was now the Have to woman's whim, I could almoft afford to pity him ; But that I had that purpofe to achieve — I think for fome time they were happy. Yes, And at the firft me loved him, I believe, And the fair face and floating golden trefs, Her filken robes, her jewels, feathers, lace, Fluttered like funfhine through the gloomy place. A year had pafTed after their bridal tour, And we were flaying at his country-feat, A park upon the margin of a moor, The politician's favourite retreat, Where, far from the dull labours of the ftate, He had a haven from the ftorms of fate. The Secretary. 233 Here, by her fide, he feemed to me to change, — To be transformed into a better man ; Even his voice would have a mufic, ftrange To its old cadence. Love, perhaps, which can Work miracles at will, did this. I know That even I faw it — I, his bittereft foe ! He changed to me — the ftern and haughty air Subdued. He never thought of that black day On which he ftruck me ; deeming I could bear (As formed, no doubt, of quite a different clay To the fine porcelain of his rank and Irate) An infult, and not pay it back in hate. And fo, he fmiled ; and I, poor wretch, might bafk In the new funfhine of his princely grace ! He gave me, too, a well-bred lacquey's tafk, — To be my lady's guide about the place, Her mediator with the parifh poor — Her envoy to the ftarving peafant's door. 234 e H }e Secretary. I know not how, but thrown together thus, It feemed as though we had been friends from youth ; A likenefs of the mind united us : Her fpirit mirrored mine with fatal truth, And trembling on her lips, furprifed, I've heard The echo of my own unfpoken word. She was not no, 'tis hard to fay the word, — She was not that the fternly juft call good ; High fentiments from thofe fweet lips I 've heard, And feen the fair face fluih with noble blood, When me has marked th' oppreffion of the ftrong, — A glowing proteft againft want and wrong. Alas ! (he was not all fhe might have been ! She had not that high ftrength of mind, that takes Its own pure ftanding-place upon life's fcene, And guards a heart, all virtue's, till it breaks ; She was a thing of impulfes, and made Ever by outward influence to be fwayed. The Secretary. 235 And I, grown bitter from that olden wrong — The avenging Furies muft have willed it fo — I, — whofe each word was harm, contemptuous, ftrong, Dark with fuch doubts as only bad men know, — Reigned in this ftormy foul, fo like my own ; And for his flave, my lord was overthrown. Heaven knows I never wooed her, never fought This vengeance, till it fell acrofs my path ; The ready-fafhioned thunderbolt I caught, And feized the power it gave to wreak my wrath : So came the flood-tide of my darkening fate, And blindfold Love took up the arms of Hate. One fair June morning, when departed May Yet left her white wraith in the hawthorn flower, Blue violets ftarred the bloom-enamelled way, Pale cowflips trembled deep in grove and bower, She — Eleanor, the Countefs — walked with me Home through a wood. We had both been to fee 236 The Secretary. A Tick man, — dying, as he proved to be : The dull eyes glazed before us in the room, And the dark fhadows of mortality Rofe in his face and filled the place with gloom. Oh, deep relief, in the bright fummer air, To find that even yet the earth was fair ! How fair to-day ! Beneath the dark arcade The waving hyacinths, in one azure meet, Deepening to richer purple in the made, Trembled, a fea of flowers at our feet, O'er which the fairies only mould have trod. " The poor old man is gone, then ? " " Yes. O God ! u To be where he is now, and to be free From all the torments and conflicting throes, The immortal tortures of mortality, — To be with him, it may be in repofe, — To go from under yonder weary fun, — To go — aye, even with my work undone !" The Secretary. 237 She, Eleanor — I knew fhe loved me, yet I knew the ftrong retraining woman's pride ; Love, ftrong to conquer when that power is fet Againft the power to die : down by my fide, Deep in the hyacinths, fell on her knees The Aphrodite of thofe purple feas. Her head fank low upon her flender hands, And all its wealth of heavy cheftnut hair Uncoiled itfelf from claffic plaited bands, And fell about her throat. So, kneeling there, Midft wild hyfteric fobs, whofe paffion broke Above the paffion of her words, fhe fpoke, — " Why do you fpeak thus ? — What, you wifh to die r You ! and with you death means, indeed, the End ! Have you no pity, then ? You know that I Live for you, by you ; and the pang muft rend My life from out my foul, when yours is reft ! — Lionel ! you mail not go, and I be left 238 The Secretary. " To die upon your corpfe, for there would be, In that one moment before I could die, The tortures of a lifetime ; I mould fee Your face without the light ; your dark deep eye With no foul looking out, and I alone, The hideous earth ftill Handing, and you — gone ! " No, no, if life be wearifome to you, Give me your hand, and lead me where you will, The road can have no fears, though wild and new The path, if I am with you, near you ftill ; The cup you drink, what draught foe'er, can be Nothing but ne£tar, Lionel, to me. " Perdition has no dread — the beft, the worft That dim beyond can give to you and me ; My curfe 'twere to be bleft were you accurft, And mifery with you, not mifery ! The drearieft circle in that lower world Were heaven to me, fo I with you were hurled. The Secretary. 239 " And fell with you, with you to fink or rife, To be that which indeed I almoft dream I am — yourfelf ! In thofe myfterious fkies, If, as Pve fometimes almoft dared to deem — There is a better home from which we came, There, Lionel, we muft have been the fame. w You think I'm mad. Oh, Lionel, condemn, Defpife me as you will. The tale is told — My foul has found wild words, and yet in them, My thoughts' tranflation founds but dull and cold ; There is no language the ftrong heart can fpeak, It can but inarticulately break." Oh, to have had a better, purer heart, However ftricken, to have fet her right, To have loved, yet had the power to depart, And leave her journeying onward to the light. To have faid. " Let us lift our tearful eyes, And find a holier madnefs in the fkies ! " 240 The Secretary. She fhould have had the ftrong old Roman faith, And firmer will than hers to guide her way : She, ftrong for felf-abandonment, for death, But oh ! fo wandered from the light of day ; So given over to the wild, brave foul, Great in all facrifice but felf- control ! I loved her ! Could I lefs when fo beloved ? And in my younger, purer, better days, Out of this depth of love, whofe depth is proved Beft by renunciation — which gainfays Its own wild promptings for another's blifs, I could have told her all the wrong of this : I could have fpoken, in thofe earlier years, Good words, whofe holyftrength might make her ftrong; I could have pointed through all doubts and fears To that one road, however lone and long, Which is the only pathway for the bleft, And whofe fure end is in a heavenly reft. The Secretary. 241 But all was darkened, all had long been blind ; The deep blue iky was now but deep and blue, I recked no longer of a home behind, Or faw a promife in the rainbow's hue, The great undying ftars were only ftages In the vaft mechanifm of the ages. There was no heaven, the earth was but a ihow, And we, fo lefs than nothing ! Let us live ! Poor at the beft the utmoft joys we know — All we can fnatch is little j what they give, Thefe gods, is ours : " My Eleanor, my foul, The unknown oceans round us rave and roll ; u The unknown mores beyond, if mores there i>e, Are diftant, and they may be dark and cold ; But we, we know but this, — for you, for me, Is but one certainty when all is told ; That you, life of my heart, alone are mine, And I, in fpite of heaven and earth, am thine." R 242 The Secretary. She yielded to my prayers, that fhe mould fly With me, far from the falfe life which fhe led ; The mockery of truth, the acted lie, Were to be hers no more. That night we fled — He, reading in his ftudy fat till late, While we met by a lonely orchard-gate, That led into the wood, thence to the road, Where a chaife waited for us. Through the night The fummer lightnings, palely trembling, mowed Eleanor's beauty, calm but deadly white. The die was caft, the Rubicon was paft, And fhe was free, and I avenged at laft ! How fhall I tell the reft ? — my life has been A poor, mad record even at the beft : But now I come upon that dreadful fcene, The which once a£t.ed, fleep, and peace, and reft, Fly from my foul ; and, burning in my brain, Blaze the firft fires of eternal pain. The Secretary. 243 He overtook us. I had thought of this, And wifhed it might be fo — I wifhed to fay, cc Behold, my lord, her who once made your blifs : We are avenged. I've waited for to-day; Amongft your other dogs, fome few fharp hits Your lordfhip one day gave me. We are quits !" It would be thus, I faid. It was not fo ! He overtook us at a village, where We had changed horfes ; nothing do I know Of how he traced us, only he was there, Shaking his feeble threatening hand on high, And fcreaming curfes to the ftormy fky, Calling the lightnings down to ftrike her dead — She flood a little way apart from me ; Great raindrops fell on her uncovered head, I tried to lead her to the chaife, but fhe Refufed to ftir from where fhe flood ; " I own The wrong I've done you — it is mine alone. 244 C ^ 3e Secretary. " Not his," me faid, " the blame ; I will not fpeak Of why I love him. He who made my foul Knows that, not I. I have been wild and weak, Wicked, degraded, loft ; a dreary goal Muft end the race I run ; all this I know, You can but curfe my madnefs, and then go — " Go to the world, and tell it what I am, And that I dare proclaim my guilt aloud ; Tell how I fpurned the falfehood and the fham, The farce, the painted mow, the hireling crowd, Ready to crawl before the guiltieft name, And only mercilefs to open fhame." I could not fee his face. I threw my arm Round Eleanor, to draw her to my fide, To fhelter her from his wild rage. She, calm, Repelled protection, and with fearlefs pride Stood as a ftatue, waiting for the end, And as a ftatue feemed as like to tend. Tloe Secretary. 245 The threatening hand I faw was raifed again, But faw no more, when fhe, with one wild cry, Sprang in my arms — a bullet pierced her brain, — It was my heart he aimed at — and then I Felt the warm life-blood trickling on my breaft ; 'Twas hers — and fhe was dead. She is at reft ! She died for me, for me fhe gave her name, (Oh, do not fay fhe gave her foul as well,) Up to eternal and undying fhame ; For me, by murd'rous hands in youth fhe fell ; She caught the ftroke that fhould have fet me free, And took the deadly ball defigned for me. And never mine in life, but mine in death, Iiaid her corpfe in the rude Inn's beft room, Watched the blood-dabbled lips from which no breath Should ever come again ; while through the gloom The pale face fhone out from the tangled hair With ghaftly beauty, terrible as fair. 246 The Secretary. They took the Earl, and bound him, mad and raving, Like fome wild thing which fills men's minds with dread, Now for fome means to end his torments craving, Now crying out, that it was / was dead, " Not her," he fhrieked, — "it was not me who fell, — It could not be, I took my aim too well." Through the long night that feemed to know no morning, Through the long hours that feemed to know no clofe, I watched her till her face grew on the dawning Out of the pillows, where in calm repofe She lay, and through the dufky, flickering light, Her profile gleamed, one fhadowy ftreak of white. It was not I, but he, then, that went mad ; Or was it me they bound, and him they left ? I cannot tell, fome fever that I had, Of that laft day my memory has bereft. I cannot tell. They tore me from the bed — They mould have buried me alive inftead. The Secretary. 247 They fhould have laid me under the cold earth ; They laid her there — what me could fuffer, I Could fuffer too — oh, what was my life worth ? They laid her under the unpitying fky, The tempefts beating down on that fair head, But I will not believe that me is dead : If me were dead me could not watch with me Through the long nights, as- me has done. Yes, has They tell wild tales of my infanity, But they are mad, not I — I've feen her, as In the old days, with love in her blue eyes, Too felf-abandoned to affect difguife. If me were dead I mould not feel her breath Warm on my lips, as I do night and day ; All that we underftand in that word Death, Is that the thing we love fhall be — away — And by this rule fhe lives, and never died ; For never have I miffed her from my fide : 248 The Secretary. Now in her olden lovelinefs, and now With fmears of blood upon her whitened cheek, — With damp, entangled hair, and ghaftly brow, And dabbled lips, no more to fmile or fpeak, But never abfent — never, never gone, And my worft lonelinefs has not been lone ! Why do they let her haunt me thus ? — 'twas (he Who firft loved me— -I read it in her face ! Love ! Something more than love, — fome devilry That made perdition of each tender grace ; As though fhe faid, " We both are mad, then why Fight with a love, lefs love than deftiny ?" I know our bond was madnefs, and not love ; The old, uncured pamon drove me mad ; And her wild words, that feemed my heart to move, But galvanifed that dead dream : thus me had Only from me that fhadowy, fecond madnefs, — A new-born love, born dead from bygone fadnefs. The Secretary. l\<^ Though all the nights are darknefs, ftill fhe'll come; And in the thick, black blindnefs fhe is there : She adds new horror to the difmal gloom, And makes more darknefs with her falling hair ; So when that man who guards me fays fhe's dead, I point to where me fits befide my bed. One day they let me out into the air, — Into a garden, where thick groves of trees Shut out the world. Oh, God ! how fair — how fair The place feemed to me ! How the balmy breeze Sent life and rapture thrilling through my breaft ! — I half believed in that mad word called reft. And wandering through thick fhrubberies, left at large By him who guarded me, I came upon A fpot where fat a keeper with his charge, — An old, white-headed man. The hot fun fhone Full in his face : fo imbecile, fo wild, So childifh, yet fo little like a child ! 250 The Secretary. I knew him ! — Yes, this ghoft of days gone by, — This fhadow of the thing that I had hated, — This was the Earl ! 'Twas lit, indeed, that I Should meet him thus. Poor puppets, it was fated ! This blind, wild mifery, from firft to laft, In planets untranflateable was caft. He fat and gibbered at fome foolifh game, With painted pafteboards in his weak, white hands : I know the day he played for name and fame, And when his cards were nations, crowns, and lands ; Now with the toys of that poor, mad French king, Well pleafed, he played, as loft and mad a thing. Oh, to have met him in his day of power In this deep, filent grove, — with one ftrong hand To have wreftled with him in this lonely bower, And left his black blood to pollute the land On which we ftood ; that future years might know, By poifonous weeds, the fpot where fell my foe ! The Secretary. 251 But not for me this triumph. He was dead ! This poor, refufcitated corpfe was not A thing to hate ! Upon this paliled head What curfes could I heap ? That it might rot, And the crazed brain go back again to clay ? To wifh this were to blefs him. From that day I never faw him more, nor wifh to fee : What further vengeance can the Furies give ? The once proud Earl, who fcorned and tortured me, To change to this poor puppet, and to live ! I left him as I heard his fhrill laugh ring, Harm and difcordant, while he played a king ! His keeper fooled him. Thank God, I was poor J They never lied to me : they let me be ; A harm voice muttering at the grated door (That was enough of outer life for me), A furly order to me to be ftill, — Was my laugh, then, like thofe, fo wild and fhrill, 252 The Secretary. That rang through the long galleries in the gloom ? Or was it I who laughed ? It may have been, — When horrid fhapes rofe up and filled the room, I may have mrieked ; or when cold hands, unfeen, But loathfome to the touch, plucked at my breaft, It may be that I broke the keeper's reft. Oh, for that lingering death that will not come ! — Is it a lie, then ? Do men never die ? I have borne more in my life's little fum Than might have made a nation's agony ; And yet I live, — or is this, after life. The fierce commencement of eternal ftrife ? Xhat thought has come to me, — that is the worft Of all my torments. Since I met with him, I think that (he, and he, and I, accurft, Wander for ever here, where all is dim ; And horrid fancies haunt my burning head, That we are dead, but know not we are dead ! The Secretary. 253 If there is any peace or any heaven, If on fome diftant fhore there fhould be — reft ; If e'er was wretch from fin by fuffering fhriven, May I not have fome title to be bleft, — My only crown of joy in Paradife, Oblivion of my earthly miferies ? I do not afk to live — that dream is o'er ; I do not afk to love — that lie has fled In all the tortures of this hither fhore, And all the pangs of which my heart is dead ! The blifs of heaven were fcarcely blifs to me, And all I pray is, only — not to be ! THE LAST HOURS OF THE GIRONDISTS U /^UILTY !" One wild, indignant fhout ! One of the band Falls at his comrade's feet. " What, brother, weak ? " Dead, by his own and not the hangman's hand ! The only cowardice the records fpeak Is this, recorded in that marble cheek — " Valaze, couldft not thou like us await ? One common heart is ours ; and it mould break Beneath one blow. The traitor's venomed hate Will but immortalife us with a martyr's fate." 256 The Laji Hours of the Girondijis. One — Sillery — has caft afide his crutch : " Oh ! this, my day of glory, this ! " he cries. Then all, with one laft, lingering, pitying touch, Approach where coldly, dead Valaze lies. Thus they depart — the glorious, the wife — And with them fades the dream fo pure and bright : And Freedom's ftar, new rifen in the fkies, They fee o'erfhadowed. While a thick, black night Reigns hideous in the land, and blood obfcures the light. Back to their dungeon, with the infpired fong Of freedom fwelling on the midnight air ! Back to their dungeon — Oh ! but not for long Thofe darkening walls together will they fhare. But friendly hands have fpread a banquet there : Great waxen lights are fhimmering in the gloom, While flowers, antithetically fair, Upon the oaken prifon-table bloom. What, is this revelry to mock their haftening doom ? The Laft Hours of the Girondifls. 257 No ; but the high of foul, and pure of heart, May fmile upon the brink of that abyfs : And, ere for brighter hemifpheres they part, Catch a laft funbeam from the light of this. To-morrow, death ! Dark fynonyme for blifs \ To-night, wine, friendfhip, — aye, mirth if they will. One voice alone from the proud band they mifs, One vacant place the dead was meant to fill — To-morrow night, oh, brother, we mail lie as ftill !" Thus feated round the board, with eyes illumed With the forefhadowed glory of their fate, They talk, the young, the brave, the good, the doomed. The immolation of inferior hate May lay them low ; it lays them low too late — They cannot be extinguifhed. They have been, And even in death will be for ever great ! So, with proud prefence, and the conqueror's mien, They play the laft fad act upon their life's dark fcene. s 258 The Laji Hours of the Glrondijls. And in their talk there gleams the undying wit, Which even the darken: fubjec~r.s fparkles o'er, As a black fky with fummer lightning lit ; But mirth feems difcord, and they evermore Return to whifperings of that unknown more To which they go. Genius with them is faith. u Whatnhough we float there in a fea of gore, So that we reach the land ; the ufelefs fheath Flung from the immortal fword, fet free in death. " And we mail meet, and meeting there, fhall be What we have not been in this mortal life, Except in dreams. We fhall be free ; yes, free ; Regenerate by the baptifmal knife, Far from this land of murder, hate, and ftrife, We fhall be there, where Liberty is Peace ; Where patriots win a crown with glory rife, Where falfehood enters not, where difcords ceafe; The pang thefe traitors chriften death is but releafe. The Lafl Hours of the Girondljis. 259 " Releafe from what ? A land whofe foil is red With innocent blood that crieth to the fkies ; Where the axe reigns, nor fpares the holieft head ; Where glorious truths are made the mafks for lies, Where widows' curfes, helplefs orphans' cries, And all the voices of the defolate From morn till night up to God's throne arife ; Where men breathe but one tongue of rage and hate, And all, to ftrike a neighbour's death-blow, watch and wait." So the dawn finds them — earnelt yet ferene, Thoughtful not mournful. Peace has fet a feal On every brow. Life and the world have been, And have been glorious. Their looks reveal The calmnefs of repofe that heroes feel ; The long campaign is o'er, the day is done, They have fought nobly for a nation's weal, The mighty caufe they ftruggled for have won, And in a bed of glory redly finks their fun. 260 JOANNA OF NAPLES. A SHRIEK ! one lingering difmal fcream, — The fleepers blend it with their dream, And turn and fleep again ; The fwallows hear it in the eaves, It trembles through the foreft leaves, And fhakes the fields of grain. The fentry by the outer wall, The houfe-dog dozing in the hall, Lift fhivering to the found ; The courtiers in each turret room Hear dreadful echoes pierce the gloom, And fear to look around. Joanna of Naples. 261 But ere it dies — that lingering fcream — Men ftartled from a broken dream, Spring wakeful to their feet ; And through the corridors they go, With hurried footfteps to and fro, While loud the tocfins beat. One hears the voice, to whom each tone, From its firft accents fondly known, Muft yet familiar be : His faithful nurfe, upon whofe breaft, Prince Andreas once was hufhed to reft, Now cries, " I come to thee ! " My lord ! my lord ! " That hideous fhriek That chilled each heart and blanched each cheek, From Andreas' chamber came. She points the way — me goes before — She leads them to the lofty door, While red the torches flame. 262 Joanna of Naples. They draw their fwords — they enter. What ! Nothing but filence ? He is not ! His vacant couch befide, With fhadowy face and falling hair, Beneath the moonlight purely fair, She ftands — his fometime bride. No more ! The lady and the light, The ftillnefs of the fummer night, The murmur of the trees ; Far off upon the mountain-fide, Like white-robed ghofts the fhadows glide, And tremble on the feas. No more ! Her pale face meets the glare, The gleaming torch, the courtiers' flare, The wonder of the crowd. She ftands — a queen upon her throne Ne'er ftatelier flood than fhe, alone, As beautiful as proud. *Joanna of Naples. 263 " Why do you break upon my fleep r What mean thefe vigils that ye keep About my chamber- door ? " Abafhed, the fquires and courtiers ftand, Waved back by that imperious hand, And by the look fhe wore. Then fpake the nurfe : " Your leave to fpeak, My lady ! By that amen cheek, From which the blood hath flown, Where is the hufband long abhorred ? I afk thee, woman, for thy lord, — Why art thou here alone ? " She laughed : " 'Tis ftrange you afk me this, I never made his woe or blifs ; Nor was it mine to know Whither he went, or why he ftaid ! " Thus gravely, then, the other faid, " Cain, madam, anfwered fo ! " 264 yoanna of Naples. " Look through the chamber, fquires, and find Your lord. It was no wandering wind That called me from my bed ; A whifper in the heart that nurft The prince, through love of her, accurfl, Has told me, he is dead. " Search, fquires, and find your lord," me cried, Then flung the grated cafement wide, And wildly gazed below : Above the grafs the bloflbms bend, — The fhadows of the lime-trees blend, And flicker to and fro. Here, with his face towards the fky, She fees her murdered mafter lie, With flowers about his head ; His blood upon the trampled fod, His foul, unfhriven, gone to God : "I knew that he was dead : Joanna of Naples. 265 " I knew that he was flain," me cried, " Heaven yield him joy of fuch a bride ! And all the powers above, Look down upon the next who woos, And fhield and profper him who fues For fuch a lady's love." 266 LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE. Yf NCIRCLED by the deep black Convent fhade, So clofe the fhadows on my clofing life, And fo all earthly joys, all worldly ftrife, Mix with the fhadows, and to fhadows fade. Unto this quiet end, my weary feet Have bent their toilfome way through mafque and fete; Late come I here, but cannot come too late ; God's hand flill beckoning to this calm retreat. This quiet end, with an unquiet mind, Have I forefeen through mifts of hindering tears, Forefhadowing, for many ftormy years, That day when I fhould leave the world behind. Louife de la Vall'iere. 267 So, Louis, once mine Idol, Faith, and Shrine, Sole creed and hope — fole madnefs, thought, or dream, Thine image fadeth from me, in the beam Of images, eternally divine. And be my penance the deep Convent made, Far from thy ftar-like eyes' too fatal light ; So through the fhadows of the dark, long night, May I yet reach thofe ftars that cannot fade. And in God's land of the Divine For-Ever, Whofe days and nights are as a thoufand years, That poor, brief Pari, atoned by many tears, Shall be remembered, Kingly Louis, never. But from the ruin of that broken dream, Unftained, ferene, thine image ihall arife ; And in the ftormlefs world beyond the fkies, Our fouls may melt in one immortal beam. 268 Louife de la Failure. One ftar, one cloud, or one wild wandering breeze, Part of the mighty myftery of the fpheres, May link and mingle, through the eternal years, The undying fouls of Louis and Louife. 269 QUEEN GUINEVERE. T WEAR a crown of gems upon my brow, Bright gems drop down upon my yellow hair, And none can tell beneath their grandeur, how My brain is racked with care : How wicked love my loft foul is enchaining, — As finful men are chained to torture's wheel, So I, the prifoner of my griefs remaining, My own dark doom do feal. There is a figure that I mould not faftiion, Whofe form I fhape from every changing made ; The fhadow of my wild and wicked paffion, I meet in grove and glade. 270 ^ueen Guinevere. There is a voice, whofe mufic ever changing, I hear in ev'ry murmur of the fea, In ev'ry wind o'er moor and mountain ranging, In ev'ry ruftling tree. There is a face I fee in mournful fplendour, In each ftar-jewel of the crown of night, Whofe lineaments all nature's beauties render, In (hadow and in light. There is a dream that I mould perifh, dreaming, A dream that haunts me ftill by night and day ; But yet fo fubtle am I in fair feeming, None dare my fame gainfay. And thus I murmur : Oh, my Lancelot ! Firft of all warriors breathing heaven's breath, I pray to die, that thou mayft be forgot; If we forget in death. Queen Guinevere. 271 Oh, my loft foul ! Oh, my loved Lancelot ! My broken faith ! Thofe deep and dreaming eyes ! I cannot hide me where thou comeft not, To fhut me from the fkies. Oh, weary earth without my Lancelot ! Oh, dreary life bereft of end or aim ! Save to feek out fome folitary fpot, Wherein to hide my fhame. Oh, fatal paffion, that abforbs my life ! Oh, dreadful madnefs, that confumes my foul ! A queen, aye, worfe ; oh, mifery, a wife ! God give me felf-control ! > God give me ftrength to bear, and filence keep ; Angels, once women, pity woman's pain, And hum me to that {lumber, calm and deep, From which none wake again ! 272 SI AND NO. THE NEAPOLITANS VOTING FOR ANNEXATION WITH PIEDMONT. T TNDER the funfhine the urns are fet, Under the funfhine the crowds are met, The mighty, the humble, the haughty, the poor, Never fo met or fo mingled before. Speak, oh wondrous and gathering crowd ! Soul of the nation, fpeak aloud ! Shall Naples, your birthplace, be great and free ? Hearts of the people, anfwer " Si." Men, whofe lives have been fpent in chains, Men, grown old 'neath the torturer's pains, Women, whofe beauty has faded away, Shut from the light of the beautiful day, Si and No, Children, whofe fathers the headfman flew, Fools, who have fancied a Bourbon true, Know ye this day-dawn of Liberty ? Refcued populace, anfwer, u Si." Anfwer, oh, people ! oh, citizens, come ! Blind and grey, and ftricken and dumb, The beggar that crawls from the hofpital door, The invalid, never fo ftrong before ; The voices of children, that fcarce can fpeak, The voice of the dying, though never fo weak ; Every voice in the land fhall be Mixed in the might of this anfwering " Si." Who would recoil on a day like this, Who would fall back from the national blifs, Who would be traitor, and coward, and fool, Let him cry " No " to Emmanuel's rule. But, oh, free-born fons of the Southern race ! Rufh to be bound in this vaft embrace, Italia, united, regenerate, Free, Souls of the populace, anfwer, " Si ! " T 2 73 274 BT THE SEA-SHORE, QHE tore the black fea-weed in her hand, He looked down the long glittering fand, Her eyes roamed far o'er the wandering fea : " Oh, fhe is all ocean and earth to me, All heaven and earth, and fky and fea, — More than creation/' he faid, " to me." Her lovely lips had a fcornful grace, A haughty glory lit up her face, Her eyes (hone out o'er the billowy tide, But their light was veiled by a cloud of pride : " She reigns o'er my heart as the moon o'er the tide I live by her beauty, I die of her pride. By the Sea- Shore. 275 " I die of the fcorn in her glorious eyes, I die of the pride in her cold replies ; But I live in her lovelinefs, breathe in the light That gleams through the clouds in her eyes' dark night ; Her pride is the fhadow, her beauty the light, And the wide world fleeps in her eyes of night. My love is as vain as her words are cold, And my dream will die when my dream is told ; Her heart is as hard as this beaten more, That the lonely furges are wandering o'er ; Yet I linger here on this difmal more, And I cannot go till my dream is o'er." " Why do you linger ? " at laft me said ; " The low fun dies in an opal bed, The low fun fades in the purple fea." " Yes, all the world is at reft but me : Oh, thou that art more than earth or fea, Have pity — have pity," he cried, " on me ! " 276 By the Sea-Shore. " Hear my words, if you mock my prayer, Let me not die of this dumb defpair ; I love you — I fear not your pitilefs fcorn — I love you better than night or morn, I laugh at your pride, and I fmile at yourTcorn ; But I love you — I love you by night and morn. " I love you in fpite of my wifer thought — I love you with love that can never be bought — But alone in your pride I leave you here, Where the defolate more is dull and drear ; For a prouder mate do I leave you here, And a lovelefs life with its grandeur drear." Has fhe no word on her curling lips, No anfwering glance from her eye's eclipfe, But the darknefs of night, as he turns away, To leave her under the dark'ning day ? " Oh, life of my life, why turn away ? I love you better than night or day. By the Sea-Shore. 277 " Was it my part," fhe faid, " to fpeak ? Better my heart mould in filence break : Looking but now o'er that fhadowy fea, Little cares he, I thought, for me ; More than heaven, or earth, or fea, Am I, indeed, beloved by thee ? " 278 AT LAST. He. A T laft, at laft ! My hand refts on your hair, Through the deep fhadows in your eyes, I look, There was a time I read them as a book ; Life drifts away, and all life's long defpair, And lo, I reft my hand upon your hair. At laft ! How fhould you guefs that it was fo ? I poring at my ftudies in the fhade, You, in the funfhine, glitteringly arrayed, Flitting, embodied brightnefs, to and fro j I fay, how mould you guefs it could be fo ? At laft. 279 How fhould you know I loved you ? there was not One link between us \ not a thought of mine That had one made in harmony with thine ; In your bright million, and my quiet lot, One unifon, one concord, there was not. And yet, and yet — apart from all the reft, I Ve watched you till the watching grew a pain, And yet I lingered, watching you again, — Love, a dull anguifh, ftifled in my breaft, But in all outward feeming, as the reft. So I grew mad, not what the world calls mad, But that flow madnefs of the foul, that broods Under the graveft and the ftilleft moods ; And fome have called me churlifh, others, fad, They all were wrong, they mould have called me mad. If there had been a hope, a thought, a chance Of your love, I had, hand to hand with fate, Fought that great battle which makes manhood great, 280 At laji. And walked through fire to win one gentle glance ; But oh, my Nemefis, there was no chance. And fo my life ebbed, purpofelefs, away, As fome flow river through a defert flowing -, Enough to me that weary life was going -, The pall of night fell dark on every day, And I was happy, fo life ebbed away. Life held no purpofe underneath the fkies, Earth held no prize but one, and that was you, And that could not be mine, — I knew, I knew, I was not born to win fo great a prize, Then what was there for me, below the fkies ? At laft, at laft ! My hand is on your hair, Deep, deep, I gaze into thofe tender eyes ; Low in their depths fome hidden forrow lies ; Tell me, whofe life has been one long defpair, Speak, as I reft my hand upon your hair. Atlafl. 281 Shi At laft, at laft ! That forrow in my eyes Has brooded there for melancholy years ; At firft their light was drowned in hopelefs tears, But there was comfort in loud agonies ; It is the quiet grief has dimmed my eyes. At laft, at laft ! And yet you cannot read The forrow that has fhadowed all my youth : What ! can the foul not fathom the foul's truth, With the fame forrow could vour true heart bleed, And yet the pain in my heart never read ? I loved you. With that wondering regard I fcarce dared own unto myfelf ; I thought My pride debafed, to love, and love unfought ; Where others knelt, where others prayed, 'twas hard Never to win one wandering regard. 282 At iajl. And yet, and yet — how often have I turned To the ftill fhade, where bending o'er fome book, You, the grave fcholar fat, with earneft look That never anfwered mine ? my cheek has burned , That my heart owned a paflion unreturned — And fo I married, and have been I'll not Reproach you with that mifery ! My chain Wore its flow length, though every link was pain. Let the dead paft be buried and forgot, But, oh, to have been loved, yet known it not ! I do reproach you with a blighted life, I do accufe you for our wafted years, Your ruined manhood, all my hidden tears, My life-long lie as an unloving wife, Thefe on your head, with all a wretched life. Dying, you fend for me, to tell me this, Which told before — I might have been. Oh, God ! Teach me to bow beneath the bitter rod ; At loft. 283 It was Thy will to hold me from fuch blifs, So, from his dying lips I gather this. Yet, by Love's immortality, we may, In fome ferener fphere united yet, This lower lofs, thefe lower griefs, forget In the great glory of eternal day. The fulnefs of the foul refponds, " We may." So reft thine hand in blefling on my hair ; I have been loved, I have been loved — at laft ! This wondrous prefent blots out all the paft j Life drifts away, and all a life's defpair — So die, beloved, thine hand upon my hair. 28 4 TIRED OF LIFE. \ X 7E have drunk the wine of life, We have drained the cup to the lees, And after the ftruggle, the battle, the ftrife, We laugh at man's miferies. Yes ! we, too, were paffionate fools, Loving, and dying for love ; Ours once the heart no philofophy fchools, And the bofom a prayer could move. Yes ! we at a changing fhrine Once knelt, and adored, and prayed ; And the fhort-lived goddefs was always divine, In the light of our love arrayed Tired of Life. 285 Yes ! we, too, fuffered and wept, And hope's gay vifions were ours ; And the dreams that came to us while we ilept, Were decked in young Fancy's flowers. But oh ! how the glory died, From our love, and our hope, and truft, And how, borne down by Time's pitilefs tide, Our goddefles crumbled to duft. And the prize, when the race was done, With its torturing hopes and fears ; Was it worth the anguifh it coft, when won, In thofe foolifh, early years ? We have drained the wine of life, To the goblet's bitterer! lees ; And we look back after the turmoil and ftrife To laugh at our miferies. 286 Tired of Life. Then we're wondrous witty and gay, And we mock every earneft heart, While we marvel that ever, in life's dull play, We played fuch a paffionate part. But we fometimes paufe in our jeft To note its ungenial mirth, And wonder fometimes if it really is beft, To be carelefs of heaven and earth. To have loft our belief in truth, To have loft our deep faith in love, To have out-lived each dream of our golden youth, And our hope in a Heaven above. iVnd neither to live nor to die, But to drag out the length of our chain, With a mirth that muft always end in a figh, And laughter allied to pain. Tired of Life. 287 To be favant, punfter, and wit, And fought for at dinner and ball, To wear the laft fafhion, and under it To hide from the eyes of all, The weary, diflatisfied breaft, So empty, and joylefs, and cold ; While we fneer at man's folly, and wild unreft, In the battle of life fo bold, To be older in foul than years, To be heavily bearing our life ; Oh, better the haraffing hopes and the fears Of that byegone tempeft and ftrife. Oh, better the earlieft death, Ere the frefhnefs of childhood had paft, Than years to drag on of flow lingering breath, And to die fo tired at laft. 288 WAITING. / | v WO women flood upon the yellow fand, The waves and fea-weeds curling round their feet,- One maded with a brown but {lender hand Her dark eyes from the heat. I afked, " Why watch ye thus befide the deep, Whofe rife and fall the hidden moon controls ?" cc We wait a touch fhall wake us from our fleep ; We're waiting for our fouls." " Are not your fouls within your breafts ?" I cried, A bitter laugh ran down the ftretching fands ; " My foul went forth," one faid, "with him who died Far off in unknown lards. Waiting. 289 " And from that day I've been the fhadow only, Of what I was before that day came down ; The dead, than I, could never be more lonely, In yonder peopled town." I wept to hear her. cc You are broken-hearted, By lofs of him you loved fo well ! " I faid. " Not fo, both heart and foul with him departed, And I am only — dead. " I knew his death-hour, though none other knew, — The world between us ; but I felt him die — A fhiver pierced my inmoft being through — That was his parting figh ! " His comrades waited for the fhip's return, And hoping, fearing, lingered on the more ; I had no fear, no hope, — c Go back and mourn, You will not meet him more.' u 290 JVaiting. " I laid — they called me mad, and went their way ; I watched the waves come up, and rave, and roll, But never faw his face unto this day ; And thus I loft my foul." The other woman neither fpoke nor moved. " And fhe ? " I afked. " I know her not," fhe laid, " I only know that fhe has loft and loved, And fhe like me, feems — dead." u Love" comes not once," I faid, " but till the laft, The foul's dead winters change to living fprings, God wakes the lyre to mufic of the Paft — " " But not the broken firings ! " But not the broken ftrings," fhe cried, a Go to, Why do you ftand to argue with a ghoft ? We fee not thefe things as they feem to you Becaufe our fouls are loft. Waiting. 291 " Leave us ; why wafte your comfort on the dead r We with our hopes were wrecked on yonder tide ; We afk no pity, neither tears," me faid, cc We did not weep — we died !" And fo I left them — more I could not learn : Still ftood they where the furges round them broke, But evermore my memory would return To her who never fpoke. 292 UNDER GROUND. />|H, let the fcornful lip be loud, Though every word were once a wound ; Rail on, beloved ! be cold, be proud; I can defy you — under ground ! Pafs by my grave with carelefs tread, Spurn the low grafs and crufh the weed : The turf may fade above my head, The heart beneath will never bleed. I loved you, as men love, who ftake Their foul upon one caft, — I loft. Your common hearts can only break, And life was all my madnefs coft. Under Ground. 293 I did not curfe you when you fold Your wicked heart ; and when you lied, And bartered all your foul for gold, I let you go, and only — died. So laugh, and tell them how I threw Name, honour, creed, beneath your feet \ Tell all I loft in loving you, And how you flung me off, my fweet ! But keep this in your memory : When all is told, when all is faid, The triumph ftill remains with me, And I am victor — being dead ! So laugh your loudeft ! — fay your worft ! — Ring o'er my grave the filver found ! Through you in life and death accurft, I yet efcape you — under ground ! 294 VALE. (^ O down into the grave of all the Paft : Leave me alone. Oh, paflion, wide and deep and firft and laft, Thank God thou 'rt gone ! Go back into the dreary gulf of Time ; Thy reign is o'er ; Thou, once fo lovely in thy golden prime, Lovely no more. But evermore a hideous, ghaftly fhape, From fhadows made ; This fo-called grief is only — an efcape ! Good fpeed, falfe made ! Vale. 295 Go back ! With all things like thee, fair and lying, Go to the dead ! Thou, fo fhort-lived, and yet fo long a-dying, Back to thy dead ! Bright years I've loft for thee and thy delufion, Which at the beft, Was mingled joy and pain, in much confufion, But never reft. Manhood's high hopes through thee and for thee blighted, Dear haft thou coft j Thou that canft leave me in the end benighted, Homelefs, and — loft. But go, for of no more canft thou bereave me ; All haft thou had : One good thing only canft thou do, — to leave me, Leave me not mad ! 296 Vale, Then go, go, take thy phrenfies and thy raving Out of my mind. Go with thy fever and infatiate craving, Leave me — refigned. Struck by thy bitter lightnings, hopelefs, Wafted, Lovelefs, unbleft ; Shorn of that life which I for thee have wafted ; Only — at reft ! 297 GOING DOWN. A SONG. T^\EATH in the fky, death on the wave, In fight of our native fhore, No power can help, no arm can fave, We mail never reach it more : Then fire one gun, for a laft farewell To the diftant lighted town ; Though they cannot aid, they will hear the knell, For we're going — we're going down. There's a girl who loves me, that will mark Every cloud in the changing fky, Whofe heart will fink as the heavens grow dark, And the raging furf rolls by ; 2 9 8 Going Down. I can almoft fee the light that me burns In that fwift receding town, And I know in her grief to her God {he turns ; But we're going — we're going down. Yet you fee my face by the lightning flafh, And you cannot fee me blench ; There's a fpirit o'er which the waves may dam, And a fire they cannot quench ; So let's breathe one prayer that our God may hear, Look once at our native town, And thofe glancing lights that feem fo near, While we're going — we're going down. 299 GABRIEL. A LAZY SONG. /%H, men may ftrive with heart and brain, ^^^ To mend the nation's woes ; But I who know they ftrive in vain, On thyme and turf repofe. So let them work, and let them weep, No toil, no tears will I, But lie afleep in wild wood deep, And dream until I die. The gipfy fmiles to fee the wiles, By which the world is won ; And dickering in the foreft aides, Laughs at the golden fun. 300 Gabriel. Ob, wife men v/ork, and wife men weep, Beneath the burning fky ; But I will fleep in heathery deep, And dream until I die. The fun has his allotted tafk, Each bee his work to do, But in the funbeams I can bade, And fcent the flowers too. And if I hear of fouls that burn, Or hearts that break in vain, Why, in the fern, I drowfy turn, And go to fleep again. 3oi FAREWELL. T ET others run the toilfome race ; and win, So will not I ; Too old am I the ftruggle to begin ; Then let me lie, Where on the waving grafs the fhadows glide, And only mark The ebb of Time's too flow receding tide, That drifts me to the dark. And thou, beloved, pafs onward on thy way, Live down thy fliame ; I curfe thee not for that dead yefterday, Why mould I blame ? Had we been happier, though in feeming bleft, Ah, who can tell ? Farewell, adored, that word is almoft — reft, Then but that word — Farewell ! 302 WAKING. 7\ /TY life is over ere my days are done, The crown is withered ere the race is won, The veil hath fallen ere the fhrine is neared, And the fair ftatue which my love had reared Is mattered to the ground. Thy beauty was the beauty of my mind, Which with thine outward image I entwined, Till every thought that God made fair in me I fhaped and fublimated into thee, And with thy likenefs bound. I made thee all the purer! tell of truth, About the glowing beauty of thy youth, Waking. 3°3 I fhed the light of every lovely dream, And feeing thee in that reflected beam, Beheld thee more than fair. Thou wert to me, th' incarnate Beautiful, Befide which all the ftars of Heaven were dull ; I fet thee high above all earthly ftrife ; Into one dream of thee I made my life, And waking, I defpair. 3°4 A SHADOW. T MET a ghoft under the fummer fky, That turned and mocked me as he parted me by ; " Know you me not ?" this pale, fad phantom faid, " I am the fhadow of thy good days dead, Thou canft not fly from me." He took the fafhion of a face once dear, He ftole the voice I once fo loved to hear, He called me back to hopes and dreams long fled, Fair fcenes of life for ever vanifhed, And pitilefs was he. cc See, fee," he cried, " I take her by the hand, And lead thy loft love from the fhadow-land ; A Shadow, 305 Look well upon each beauty and each grace, Dwell on the dear and long-remembered face, — For ever loft to thee. " Then go into Life's thronged and bufy ways, And bury in thy heart the bygone days; Bury the difcontents thou canft conceal, But in their filence doft the deeper feel, — Thou canft not bury me. " I am thyfelf, — linked to thy mortal frame, I am thy fadden'd foul's immortal flame; I am thy youth, thy hopes, thy dreams, thy Paft, O'erfhadowing thy life, while life fhall laft : — My name is Memory." 305 LIFE IS A CHILD. " Life is a child, which muft be rocked in a cradle till it falls afleep. Voltaire. /^\H } lull the infant, Life, to fleep, Upon the breaft of Time ; Hum it to (lumber foft and deep, And foothe it with a rhyme. Oh, little Sleep ! Oh, tranfient Sleep ! So full of fevered dreams ; For fhades we ftrive, for fhadows weep, Where nought is what it feems. But lull this weak child, Life, to reft, The little fleep will pafs, Life is a Child. 3°7 And, ere the dreamer's hopes are bleft, The fands fall through the glafs. The low fands fall — the laft fands fall — The fands too fwiftly run, And, ere we know we dream at all, Both dream and ileep are done 3 o8 TO A COQUETTE. ADY, in thy radiant eyes, A depth of deadly falfehood lies ; Lady, from thy low replies Bitter memories arife That recall paft agonies ; When I hung upon thy fighs, When I deemed thee true as wife ; But Time's wings, as faft he flies, Sweep youth's ftars from manhood's fides And I know thy faireft guife Only mafks thy cruelties. 3^9 THE LOST PLEIAD. /^\H, tell me what madnefs betrayed thee, Loft ftar of the beautiful feven ? Still lovely, though fin doth degrade thee, Poor outcaft from home and from Heaven ! Oh, haft thou no dream of thy childhood, No memory that fpeaks to thy breaft, No vifion of meadow or wild wood, That now were a haven of reft ? And even the love that allured thee, Can the mem'ry of that be no more ? Though the dark clouds of guilt have obfcured thee, Gleams no light from thy pure days of yore ? 310 The Loft Pleiad. Oh, pitiful wandering goddefs, Poor merchant of graces and wiles ! Dark, dark the fad path thou haft trod is, And mournful the light of thy fmiles ! As I watch thee, a vifion arifes, Of what thy paft days may have been ; And, loft in a hoft of furmifes, I fee, as perchance fome have feen Thee, a babe at the knees of thy mother, — A child, amidft fummer flowers ftrayed — A £irl, pride of father and brother, In innocent beauty arrayed. So, why mould I, wandering goddefs, Pafs thee by with fuch fcorn in my breaft ? It may be the cold churchyard fod is Sole haven thou knoweft of reft. The Loft Pleiad. 3 1 1 Then weep, ay, weep, wandering goddefs ! Weep, loft one, thy tears may atone ; Though bitter the ftroke of the rod is, It falls not for vengeance alone. At that day when all wrongs mall be righted, In that land where all fecrets are known, Even thou, now fo loft and benighted, The angels may claim as their own ; While there fhall be more joy in Heaven, Than over the pure ninety-nine, Reftored of the beautiful feven, When thou, midft thy fifters, {halt fhine. 3 12 AFTER THE ARMISTICE. 1859. QO the brief fummer days have departed, The fummer day's warfare is done ; And the noble and leonine-hearted, Rejoice in the battles they've won. There are laurels, light, fplendour, and glory, In the gorgeous firft city of France ; For we've beaten the heroes of flory, As the rifle eclipfes the lance. Let us throw up our caps in the funlight, Let us welcome the Prince we adore ; But let us remember there's one light, Our Emperor cannot reftore : — After the Armiftice. 3 1 3 The light of young lives juft departed, The light of love loft in the grave ; Paft joys to the now broken-hearted, The light of the fouls of the brave ; The fair, only fon of the woman, The newly-betrothed of the bride ; , Hofts, who fell hand to hand with the foeman, Intermixed in death's terrible tide. Few pictures there are without two fides, The funftiine gives place to the cloud ; And e'en glory's brightnefs has new fides, Unknown to the hearts of the proud. For the wail of the defolate woman, And Rachel's loud cry of defpair, In the triumph we've won o'er the foeman, Arife on the clear fummer air. 3H After the Armiftice. So the river rolls on to the ocean, So the fun towards the Weft ftill doth tend, So grief, glory, joy, forrow, devotion, Muft go on fide by fide to the end. 3 J 5 AMONG THE HYACINTHS. TI7E have left the world behind — We have loft the beaten track, And the hum of the city upon the wind We have only to guide us back. Oh ! this is indeed to live, To be free to dream and to dare, When all that the bufy world can give, Is a murmur on the air. In the wood where the hyacinths grow ; And the earth is as blue as the fky, We wander to-day till the fun finks low, And the rofy fhadows die ; 316 Among the Hyacinths. Till the day, with its foul of flame, Till the beautiful day fhall die ; To return, but not to return the fame, With one cloud in the changing fky. So but once we may live thefe hours, So recklefs, and radiant, and gay ; But once may gather thefe wild-wood flowers, That wither ere clofe of day. For the bright fpring moments die, As the bloflbms perifh and fade ; And the carelefs jeft, and the low reply, Are paft with the light and (hade. And through life, ah ! never again Will the fame brief hour return, With alternate throb of joy and pain, In the hearts that beat and burn. Among the Hyacinths. 317 Oh, weary, and flat, and ftale, Is the life we throw away, The talents and powers of no avail To fhorten one fummer's dav. But, who leaves the world behind, To go from the beaten track, Should hear low voices upon the wind, That fweetly call him back : That breathe from the wild-wood flowers — That cry in the murmuring ftream, " This mortal and earneft life of ours, Was given us not to dream ; " To queftion its depth and truth, Or to fear its darkening clofe : But to do great deeds in our golden youth, And to fcorn the Have's repofe : 3'« Among the Hyacinths. " To fcorn the Have, who lies, And bafks in the fummer fun, Who leaves to lament him, when he dies, On the wide world's face, not one. " Then up from amongft the flowers, The path is wide and free, And earth claims of man his nobleft powers, To conquer her mifery." Strangevvays & Walden, Printers, 28 Caftle St. Leicefter Sq. Recently Publiilied Bosworth & Harrison, 215 Regent Street. Lectures, chiefly on Subjecls relating to the Ufe and Management of Literary and Scientific and Mechanics' In- Jiitutes. By H. Whitehead, M.A. Curare of Clapham ; T. C. Whitehead, M.A. Incumbent of Gawcott, Bucks ; and W. Driver. Fcap. 8vo. cloth, 3/. 6d. " We cannot hefitate to pronounce it one of the moft really important contributions ever made to focial fcience. It is full of profound thought and practical information." — Literary Gazette. Speeches in Parliament and Mifcellaneous Writings of the late Henry Drummond, Efq. Edited by LordLovAiNE. 2 vols. 8vo. cloth, 2 1 j. " The Speeches, dating from Mr. Drummond's return to Parliamentary life in 1847, are brilliant, original, and entirely unaffected by ordinary pre- judices and conventionalities. In many inftances they muft have been befide the purpofe of the debate ; but they contain more ftriking aphorifms, more pregnant epigrams, more pointed ftatements of abftract truth than the collec- tive eloquence of a dozen minifters and leaders of oppofition. It might be ex- pected that fo acute and original a mind would provide for itfelf a fuitable mode of expreffion j and Mr. Drummond's language is remarkable for its idiomatic felicity and force." — Saturday Review. Some Memorials of Renee of France, Duchefs of Ferrara. Second Edition, i vol. crown 8vo. cloth, with Portrait and Frontifpiece, 6s. " The author has evidently been at confiderable pains in fearching out particulars of her life, and has executed a felected tafk with a zealous fidelity." — Times. The Art of Extempore Speaking: Hints for the Pulpit, the Senate, and the Bar. By M. Bautain, Vicar- General and Profefibr at the Sorbonne. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. cloth, \s. 6d. 11 A book of fuggeftions for men who would pradtife extempore fpeaking. .... Eloquent, forcible, full of appofite illu Orations." — Atkenaum. Old Styles' s. By Henry Spicer, Efq. Author of " Sights and Sounds," *' The Lords of Ellingham," &c. Poll: 8vo. cloth, 6s. " This capital ftory is, in a great meafure, a reprint from ' Houfehold Words, 1 and held, in its earlier form, a defervedly high rank among the con- tributions to that periodical. Mr. Spicer's flyle is the happieft imitation of Mr. Dickens's own ; the pathos is efpecially fo. ' Old StylesY has merit enough of its own to eftablifh a wide popularity." — Literary Gazette. Handbook of the Geography and Statifiics of the Church. By J. E. T. Wiltsch. Tranflated from the German, by John Leitch ; with a Preface by the Rev. F. D. Maurice, M.A. Vol. I. fmall 8vo. cloth, ioj. 6d. To be completed in two volumes. The Works of King Alfred the Great: now firft collected and publifhed in the Englifli Language, with Intro- ductory EfTays, Notes, Illuftrations, &c, by fome of the principal Anglo-Saxon Scholars of the Day. 2 vols, royal 8vo. cloth, 2/. 2/. London : Bosvvorth & Harrison, 2 1 5 Regent Street.