Ulrich Middeldorf Zbc Canterbury poets. Edited by William Sharp. THE PAINTER-POETS. FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES. SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK. HE PAINTER- POETS. SELECTED AND EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY KINETON PARKES. LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 24 WARWICK LANE. NEW YORK : 3 EAST FOURTEENTH STREET. TO JOHN ADD I N GTO N SYMONDS. PREFACE. ♦ The selections contained in the following pages are due to various causes. Had it been possible I should have liked each selection to have borne actually upon the subject of painting, but this was out of the question, for painters, when they ventured into verse, appear to have fought shy of their own goddess, and devoted their attentions to others. It will be observed that there are included the names of some who were not painters by profession, but if I had used the wider term Artist, which is generally understood to mean only painters, I should have escaped an apparent anomaly. I pre- ferred, however, to relinquish the word artist, for in doing so I was able to use it in my Introduction in a far wider and more comprehensive sense than if I had called the little volume " The Artist-Poets." Such a title would have been redundant, as poets are artists equally with painters. This is not a belief that is likely to startle any one, and it is only because the word as used in the pages which Vlll PREFACE. follow this is meant to include painters, sculptors, architects, musicians, and poets that I call any special attention to it. An anomaly then the title of this book is, for I have included specimens of the verses of architects, engravers, etchers, and sculptors. All the rest are painters, and have exhibited their pictures in ex- hibitions and printed their poems. Some will be known very much better than others, but I have tried to make the anthology comprehensive. I fear there may be names omitted that ought to have been included, and some there are included which many people may think should have been omitted. For my part, I believe that not one of those included could have con- veniently been left out. It may be thought too that the selections are unequal, and that an undue number of pages have been given to a man not so well known as another, to whom but few have been apportioned. I would have the minds of all at once divested of the idea that I have by quantity tried to make up the lack of quality in these less known names. Some very good verse will be found in the selections from the less known authors I have included. In the introductory essay on " Poetry and Paint- ing" I have not ventured to enter on a criticism of any of the pieces included in the anthology, but PREFACE. ix have confined myself to the more abstract view of the subject. I have here to offer my best thanks to those kind authors and their publishers who have been good enough to allow me to make selections from their works. KINETON PARKES. AUTHORS AND TITLES. Allston, Washington— page Art, a Sonnet ...... 1 On Rembrandt, a Sonnet ..... 2 On Michael Angelo . . ... 3 On Rubens ....... 4 Baldry, Alfred Lys— The Painter's Task ...... 6 Bayliss, Wyke— Studies for Pictures— St. Laurence, Nuremberg .... 6 To Adam Kraft ...... 7 La Sainte Chapelle ..... 8 Chartres Cathedral . . . . .9 St. Mark's, Venice . . . . .10 Westminster Abbey . . . .11 Treves Cathedral . . . . .12 Blake, William— From "Visions of the Daughters of Albion" . . 13 Raphael and Rubens . . . . .17 For a Picture of the Last J udgment . . .18 Dedication of the Designs to Blair's " Grave" to Queen Charlotte 19 Epigrams ....... 20 Orator Prig ....... 21 xii A UTHORS AND TITLES. Brown, Ford Madox— page Angela Damnifera . . . . .22 For the Pictures— The Last of England . . . ... 23 Work . . . . .24 The Love of Beauty . . . . . .25 O. M. B 26 Brown, Oliver Madox— Before and After ...... 27 Gipsy Song . . . . . . .28 Song . . . . . . .29 Stanzas ....... 30 Collin gwood, W. Gershom— The Aloe Blossom . . . . . .31 The Painter's Patron-Saint . . . .33 Lovers in Hiding . . . . . .34 The Brother of the Birds ..... 36 Collinson, James— The Child Jesus— The Agony in the Garden . . . .37 The Scourging ...... 41 The Crowning with Thorns . . . .43 Jesus Carrying His Cross . . . .44 The Crucifixion . . , . .45 Crane, Walter— To William Morris ...... 60 The Soul's Prism . . . . . .51 Sonnet for a Picture, " The Earth and Spring" . 52 For the Picture " The Bridge of Life " . . . 53 Across the Fields . . . . . .54 A Seat for Three ...... 55 A UTHORS AND TITLES. XI 11 Cunningham, Allan— page Nature ....... 56 The Town Child and the Country Child . . .59 Deverell, Walter H — The Sight Beyond .63 A Modern Idyl . . ... 66 East, Alfred— The Lark by Lake Bewa, Japan . . . .69 Evans, Sebastian— By the Sea 71 Song .72 Shadows 73 Faed, Thomas— Burns 74 A Dream ....... 76 Wee Auntie Jeanie . ..... 78 My Heart is Sair . .... 79 Greig, James— If Love were Dead . ..... 80 The Face I Saw To-day 82 Hamerton, Philip Gilbert— Industry ....... 84 A London Studio ...... 85 Turner ....... 86 Hood, Thomas— To a False Friend ...... 88 Song for Music . .89 Stanzas ...... .90 Song 91 xiv A UTHORS AND TITLES. Horne, Herbert P.— page Diversi Colores — The Daisy ..... .92 On Returning a Silk Kerchief . . .93 Lines . .... 95 Lines written in the Glen at Penkill . . .96 Hughes, Arthur— To William Bell Scott 97 On a Dot 98 Hunt, A. W.— In the Campo Santo, Pisa . . . . .99 Image, Selwyn— In Nomine Domini ...... 102 Vanity of Vanities . . . . . .103 A Prayer 104 Good Friday . . . . . . .105 INCHBOLD, J. W.— Life's Words .... . . 107 Love ....... .108 The Eastern Love-Song . . . . .109 Love's Wisdom ...... 110 Love's Wealth . . . . . .111 Love's Visions ...... 112 The Afterglow 113 Beauty's Power . . . . . .114 Jopling, Louise- Lux eTenebris . . . . . .115 Lines to . . . . . . .118 AUTHORS AND TITLES. xv Linton, W. J. — page Hymns at our Work— Wisdom ...... .120 Integrity . . . . . . .121 Industry . . . . . .122 Courage ....... 123 Faith 124 Our Cause , . . . . .125 Lover, Samuel— Serenade . . . . . . .126 The Dreamer 128 Listen . . . . . . ' . .129 'Tis better not to know . . . . .130 The Flying Cloud . . . . . .131 I can ne'er forget thee . . . . .132 Morris, William— Summer Dawn ...... 133 In Prison 134 Near Avalon ....... 135 Praise of My Lady . . . . .136 Nicholson, Peter Walker— Sonnet, prefixed to Pamphlet, "Beauty for Ashes" . 140 Vale! 141 Midnight Musings . . . . . .142 An Exhortation . . . . . .143 Orchard, John— On a Whit-Sunday Morn in the Month of May . . 144 AUTHORS A AD TITLES. Paton, J. Noel— page Light and Shadow ...... 147 The Prince Consort Memorial .... 148 Song 149 Proscribed 1690 . . . . . . 151 Requiem . . ..... 153 Amathea ..... .155 Reay, William— Epistle to Joseph Skipsey .... 157 Rossetti, Dante Gabriel— Sonnets on Pictures — For an " Annunciation" (early German) . . 165 For "Our Lady of the Rocks," by Leonardo da Vinci . . . . . . .166 For a "Venetian Pastoral," by Giorgione . . 167 For an " Allegorical Dance of Women," by Andrea Mantegna . . . . . . 16S For " Ruggiero and Angelica," by Ingres— I. and II. 169 For a " Virgin and Child," by Hans Memmelinck . 171 For a " Marriage of St. Catherine," by Hans Mem- melinck . . . . . . 172 For " The Wine of Circe," by B. Burne Jones . 173 For " The Holy Family," by Michael Angelo . 174 For "Spring," by Sandro Botticelli . . .175 Sonnets for Rossetti' s own Pictures and Drawings— " The Passover in the Holy Family " . .176 "Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the Pharisee" ...... 177 " Venus Verticordia " . . . . .178 "Pandora" 179 "A Sea-Spell" 180 " Astarte Syriaca " . . . .181 "Fiametta" 182 "Found" 183 "The Day-Dream' 184 AUTHORS AND TITLES. xvii Ruskin, John— page The Last Smile . . . . .185 Christ Church, Oxford— Night . . . .186 The Hills of Carrara . . . . .187 Scott, David— Written on Lake Maggiore, 1832 . . . 190 Farewell to Rome, 1834 ..... 192 Scott, William Bell— The Madonna di San Sisto . . . . .198 In Rome, a.d. 150 . . . . . . 200 Sandrart's Inscription ..... 201 To my Brother . .... 202 To the Artists called P. R.E. . . .203 An Artist's Birthplace . . . .204 Woodstock Maze . . . . . 208 Shee, Martin Archer— From "Elements of Art" ..... 213 From "Rhymes on Art" . . , . .215 Thackeray, W. M.— The Mahogany Tree . . , . . .217 Tomson, Arthur— The Witch-Ladyo . . . . . .220 An Autumn Garden . . . . . .221 Spring Song . . . . . . .222 Turner, J. M. W.— For the Pictures — Narcissus and Echo . . . . .223 The Temple of Jupiter Panellenius restored . 224 >J The Decline of the Carthaginian Empire . . 225 ^ The Field of Waterloo . . . . .226 The Eruption at St. Vincent . . . 227 The Battle of Fort Rock . . . .228 b xviii AUTHORS AND TITLES. Vanbrugh, John— page Songs from— "The Provok'd Wife"— I. and II. . . .229 "The Relapse." 231 Whall, C. W.— Two Babes (a Midwinter Bucolic) . . .232 Woolner, Thomas— Given Over . . . , . . .236 Will-o'-the-Wisp 238 Wild Rose 239 Notes 241 POETRY AND PAINTING. Art is the visible production of the thoughts of its creator, and its various forms are the means by which it appeals to minds of different qualities. There are few men equally affected by all its expressions — of the colour in a picture as of the vastness of a great architectural work ; of the subtlety of a sonata as of the stateliness of an epic ; of the form of the statue as of the symmetry of the vase. There are few artists, more- over, who produce great work in more than one department, for closely related as all the forms of art fundamentally are, the medium in which a work is produced differs widely in each case. In addition to his intellectual equipment, it is neces- sary for an artist, if his work is to be great, to be proficient in the manipulation of the medium through which he finds expression for his thoughts. To become proficient in more than one is likely to result in a lessening of the power in each. It XX INTRODUCTION. sometimes happens, however, that an artist finds it impossible to give all his thoughts expression in one direction only, and, perforce, they find an outlet in another. It is not necessary for an individual to be able to appreciate all the forms and expressions of art before he is able to ap- preciate one only of its expressions. A love of one form of art induces sympathy with all its forms and a desire to feel the influence of each. The Art of the Poet and the Art of the Painter are closely connected, and in many cases the inspiration of each is drawn from a like source. The same groundwork is given, and upon it two kinds of structure are built — Poems and Pictures. The mechanism of each must be perfect, and the knowledge of the medium of each must be perfect, if a perfect work of art is to be the result. It is produced firstly from the mind, for the mind ; the variation is in the medium. A picture or a poem to be great must contain the expression of its creator's thought, and in proportion as it does this is it an abiding monument of that thought. The greatest work of art is that which contains the most expression combined with perfect manipula- tion and selection of medium. Mere imitation is worthless ; it contains no expression and declares nothing great. A great work of art must have meaning, and that meaning must be INTRODUCTION. xxi expressed beautifully, chastely, and harmoniously ; clearly and without ambiguity. There is that within the mind of a great artist which will out; there is a power which will manifest itself in one way or another ; there is a flood which will well forth or burst forth and find for itself a channel in which to run or in which to rush. There are many channels along which this tide of genius may flow: Poetry and Painting, Architecture, Sculpture, and Music are some of them. Each one of these possesses some special characteristic of expression, and it is for the artist to discover in which of these forms of expression he can best cast his thought. Painting, architec- ture, and sculpture are most nearly related to each other, and there are instances where a man has been a master of all three forms, and in each of them has produced abiding works of art. There have been quite a number of painters who have sought the aid of the poetic muse to relieve them of the burden of their thoughts. In some cases it has happened that the verses of the painter have not been good poetry, but, for the most part, they have been sincere and worthy. An artist may employ words or pigments to express his thought and produce a work of art, but for this work to be great it is necessary that he should be both a poet and a painter, xxii INTRODUCTION. to use the words somewhat loosely. The two arts are so closely knit, that in all great work in either it is impossible to separate them. In every picture there should be the conception of the idea worked out poetically, and every poem should exhibit the painter's eye — that is, his power of selection, if the poem contains description ; it should also exhibit its author's power of word-painting. In all the best poetry written by painters this selective pro- cess may be traced. In such poems the vividness of the word-pictures enables the reader to call up a vision of the scene, or of the personage described in the poem. And in the case of pictures by poets, a correspondence may be noted in the fact that all or most of such pictures contain a higher intellectual value than many a one which, in execution, may be far superior to them. The greatest pictures have not been painted by poets, and the greatest poems have not been written by painters, but of all the works of the painter-poets, both plastic and poetic, there is a degree of thoughtfulness and intellectual beauty, while some of them approach within very short distance of the highest art. The arts of poetry and of painting may be learnt. The manipulative skill required to give expression to the idea is taught in schools, but the spirit which projects a great work and inspires its IN TROD UCTION. xxi ii maker is born. Instinct may prompt a child to draw rude figures with chalk or charcoal on the first plain surface he encounters, and instinct may prompt an inspired uneducated savage to sing rhythmical lines on the impulse of the moment. To produce a great picture, and a great poem, how- ever, the elementary principles of the arts must first be learnt. The painter must know how to use his brush and with what colours to supply his palette ; how to produce his distances and how to draw his figures naturally. The poet must be acquainted with the mechanism of verse and the value of the many forms ; the meanings of the words composing the language in which he is to write, and their various uses. To produce works of art, all these things must be known, and to the native impulse to paint or to write must be added the expertness, facility, and ease of the painter or poet accomplished in the accessories of his trade. The art of poetry and the art of painting correspond in many important respects, proving themselves to be not merely sisters but twin-sisters of the arts. We have historical pictures and histori- cal poems, pictures which depict a fair landscape, and poems which describe in words of colour as fair a scene. Allegories in painting and allegories in poetry are common ; portraits painted in pigments we have, and we have also elegies and odes which XXIV INTRODUCTION, are really portrait-memorials, cherished because of their subject, but afterwards cherished by posterity because of their beauty as works of art. We have the lighter descriptions of art too, the kinds we use for ornamentation and for easing life, decoration applied to making our surroundings sweet and cheerful, and vers de socUte which serves to lighten care. And again, there is the great subject picture, mythological mayhap, but still full of humanity, and this is matched in poetry by the epic; and, once more, we have the painting of a great incident, of which the canvas gives a vivid representation, which is all life, motion, and feeling, and this too is done in poetry, in the drama, in which life is condensed into great episodes and situation crowds on situation, and all is stir and rapid action ! In all these things the two arts correspond ; and in that each appeals to the mind, one through the eye, the other through the intellect, do they corre- spond also. Each, too, has its limits, and paint- ing can accomplish many things out of reach of the poem, and the poem can express much which the picture cannot attempt. A picture represents one point of time, and should therefore possess repose. In this one of the restrictions of painting is found, and in this it differs from poetry ; for poetry may record any number of INTRODUCTION. XXV impressions, as it is progressive and passes from one incident to the next with rapidity, and can represent an indefinite period of time. Another limitation of painting lies in the fact that the im- pression is instantaneous ; the picture represents, in one sense, all that it is intended to convey. The incident depicted is there on the canvas, the whole story is told, while in a poem the story develops and the scene changes. Instead of an instan- taneous impression, there is a series of continuous impressions, and the story progresses from its commencement to its culmination, all the time acquiring new interest and moving from scene to scene. A painting consists, of course, of one picture, but in a poem there are many, each follow- ing on the other in order to complete the accessories of the whole story. A painting is, however, more vivid than a poem ; it is more concentrated, and the whole interest is crowded into a space which can be seen by the eye at a glance, and which requires no progress or development for its proper understanding. In verse the interest is suspended, the story has to be followed from stage to stage, and the vivid and powerful impression of the paint- ing is entirely lost. A picture is, much more than a sonnet, "A moment's monument;" for although a sonnet is almost the shortest of recognised forms of verse, it is still unable to produce with its xxvi INTRODUCTION. fourteen lines the instantaneous impression to be obtained from one look at the story told in colour. All pictures are impressionist if we go to the extreme meaning of the term ; and all good poems must possess a carefully-worded conception of the author's idea, with every detail carefully placed and worked up. An impression cannot be obtained by words as it can with pigments or pencil. An idea must be scrupulously expressed so that its exact meaning shall be derived from its description, and nothing added which shall withdraw the attention from the main thread of the story or the chief incident of the word-picture. In the painting, however, the aim must be to catch a vivid expression and to convey it to canvas and fix it there for ever ; and if any impression whatever, of any value, is to be expressed in a picture, it will be done in this way. Although pictures and poems alike appeal to the intellect, there are differences even in this very process. Pictures do not appeal to the intellect so powerfully as do poems ; they are more sensuous, and affect largely the sense of sight alone, as it is an object of the painter to produce a work which will first of all do this. When it has fixed the attention of the senses it will influence the intellect through them. With a poem the case is entirely different ; the senses are appealed to, but not primarily. Poetry is an intellectual art even in INTRODUCTION. xxvii its mechanism, while painting is sensuous. Poetry first appeals to the intellect, then through it to the senses, while painting seeks the mind through the sense of sight. Here the differences and the likenesses of the sister arts are most clearly seen. Here, too, the difference between the poet and the painter makes itself apparent. The poet is filled with thoughts and feelings to which he must give expression, and he therefore proceeds to reproduce them in the medium of words; while the painter, having similar thoughts and feelings, produces things which give expression to them in the form of visible presentments of his ideas, In this respect the poet is an abstract and the painter a concrete artist. Another point of divergence con- sists in the fact that the work of the painter is more directly concerned with nature than is that of the poet, though indeed here is a point of incidence as well. The painter reproduces what he sees of nature in the form of coverings for his own ideas. With a mind stored with great thoughts, he turns to nature with a wish for help in expressing his thoughts, and in nature he finds his aid, for he is helped to the embodiment of his conceptions by the things he sees around him. Sometimes this is so with the poet too, but to a much less degree. A poet is inevitably influenced by his surroundings, but by the very qualities of the xxviii INTRODUCTION. medium in which he works, he is far more in- dependent of the outward symbols of nature than the painter, and is able to clothe his thoughts in the abstract, and without the aid of the realities he sees around him. As there is a difference in the arts themselves as well as a resemblance, so is there a difference in the mechanical parts thereof. The painter uses colours in which to embody his ideas ; the poet's pigments are words. The painter may possess an exquisite sense of colour, and the poet correspondingly of the choice of words. Each may be chiefly interested with form — the form of the picture and the form of the verse- The painter may strive to render his picture full of harmony, and be concerned that it shall exhibit the touch of his individuality, and the poet may desire to impart to his lines all the grace of rhythm and the music of rhyme which shall make its form dwell with men as well as its matter. Both, by the choice of their subjects, will so arrange that they will be able to produce the best that is within them. The brush and the canvas, the pen and the paper thus meet each other and thus part. The painter will treat his epic or his tragedy on canvas in oils, or his ballad story will be related in fresco or tempera; his religious moments he will record in stained glass, while his light and INTRODUCTION. xxix joyous ones he will sketch in black and white or water-colour. One thing, however, is necessary : that the painter should take care that he tries not to express in a picture what only a poem can do, and the poet that he endeavours not to make words serve the same purpose as pigments. A picture or a poem, to be perfect, must be balanced in drawing, in colour, as in rhyme and in rhythm ; in form and in structure, and in light and shade it must be complete, and, to include all, it must be natural, for, if natural, it will be all these things. The highest painting is the product of a poetical mind in perfect touch with nature, and the same may be said of a poem. There is no essential difference in the essence of a poem or a picture. The product of the artist's mind remains to tell of the working of that mind. This has been recognised in all its fulness in some phases of the arts of painting and poetry where the two have been as closely knit as their natures admitted. Poetry has no dimensions, and the forms of its creations are not defined and distinct as are those of a picture. It has no space, it is illimitable, and supplies stores of food for the imagination while it is itself the highest work of the imagination. Pictures satisfy the imagination, for the conception is placed before the eye in its outline and in its INTRODUCTION, embodiment, and it is there to be assimilated. Poems cannot be treated in this way. Pictures paint no words, have no voices, while poetry consists of the most beautiful combinations of words expressing noble thoughts and lofty concep- tions. The picture may reproduce one of these conceptions in the form of an illustration, and poems have given subjects for many a great picture. Sometimes poems have been suggested by pictures, but more often, when so closely con- nected, the poem is an interpreter — a translator of the painter's meaning. A picture, however, presents to the eye the conception of the painter with a vigour, a directness, and a vividness which is not possessed by poetry, but which places the two side by side — servants of art, manifesta- tions of genius, methods of expression of the beauty and sublimity with which the great men who have produced great pictures and poems were endowed. THE PAINTER-POETS. WASHINGTON ALLSTON * SONNET. Art. O Art, high gift of Heaven! how oft defamed When seeming praised ! To most a craft that fits, By dead, perspective Rule, the scattered bits Of gathered Knowledge; even so misnamed By some who would invoke thee; but not so By him, — the noble Tuscan* — who gave birth To forms unseen of Man, unknown to Earth, Now living habitants; he felt the glow Of thy revealing touch, that brought to view The invisible Idea; and he knew, E'en by his inward sense, its form was true : 'Twas life to life responding, — highest truth ! So, through Elisha's faith, the Hebrew youth Beheld the thin blue air of fiery chariots grow. * Michael Angelo. 723 2 WASHINGTON ALLS TON SONNET, On Rembrandt ; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream. As in that twilight, superstitious age When all beyond the narrow grasp of mind Seemed fraught with meanings of supernal kind, When e'en the learned philosophic sage, Wont with the stars through boundless space to range, Listened with reverence to the changeling's tale ;— E'en so, thou strangest of all beings strange ! E'en so thy visionary scenes I hail ; That, like the rambling of an idiot's speech No image giving of a thing on earth, Nor thought significant in reason's reach, Yet in their random shadowings give birth To thoughts and things from other worlds that come, And fill the soul, and strike the reason dumb. WA SHING TON ALLS TON 3 ON MICHAEL ANGELO. 'Tis not to honour thee by verse of mine I bear a record of thy wondrous power ; Thou stand'st alone and needest not to shine With borrowed lustre : for the light is thine Which no man giveth ; and, though comets lower Portentious round thy sphere, thou still art bright ; Though many a satellite about thee fall, Leaving their stations merged in trackless night, Yet take not they from that supernal light Which lives within thee, sole, and free of all. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. RUBENS. Thus o'er his art indignant Rubens reared His mighty head, nor critic armies feared. His lawless style from vain pretension free, Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea, High o'er the rocks of Reason's ridgy verge Impending hangs; but ere the foaming surge Breaks o'er the bound, the under-ebb of taste Back from the shore impels the watery waste. A. JL BALDRY. 5 A. L. BALDRY, THE PAINTER'S TASK. What is the Painter's aim ? To satisfy The cravings of coarse minds that have no love For Art, nor wit to lift themselves above The baser mire in which they grov'ling lie? Or his the task to stoutly hold on high A rallying flag for thoughtful men who move Weary and pained 'mid the sad signs that prove How gross the ills 'gainst which they testify ? What need for him of titles, honours, fame, The newsmen's notice or the people's praise ? What need to strive for profit, or to raise The vulgar adulation of his name? For him enough if Art's true sons acclaim His work, and hail the practice of his days. 6 WYKE BA YLISS. WYKE BA YLISS. * * STUDIES FOR PICTURES. St. Laurence, Nuremburg. Beautiful Shrine! that in the olden days Didst rise to guard the consecrated bread From violent hands, or the unhallow'd gaze Of eyes profane ; but now untenanted, With doors flung wide, a grave from whence the dead Hath passed — though still upon thy marble cross With pierced side, and thorn-crowned, drooping head, Christ suffers to redeem our souls from loss ! He is risen! hath rent thy bars; thou canst not hold The Lord, the Lord of Hosts — at whose command All things created were; before whose face The gates of Heaven or Hell alike unfold — Who, dwelling in the illimitable space, Holds all things in the hollow of his hand. VVYKE BA YLISS. 7 TO ADAM KRAFT. O Adam Kraft — with thy disciples twain — It needs strong shoulders and stout hearts to bear This burden, self-imposed ! Even Atlas fain Would rest sometimes, and get a friend to share His labour, else perchance, in sheer despair, He had fallen, and let the World go all to wrack : But neither he nor Hercules would care To poise a Church for ever on his back. See now! The incense climbs its snowy height; Can stone dissolve and vanish in a minute ? How like a ghost the thing slips out of sight! Ah, no ! 'tis but a dream, the mischief's in it ; The west door opens — puff! a little draught — Vanish the smoke, and lo ! poor Adam Kraft. 8 WYKE BA YLISS, LA SAINTE CHAPELLE. Like to a Virgin Queen in robes of state, August in presence, delicately fair As the fair girl that by her side doth wait Uncrown'd save by her golden-tressed hair; Regal in splendour, yet withal as chaste As among flowers the lily : as though some power The treasures of the whole world there had placed To build again Medea's blissful bower, With new enchantments. Soft the sunlight falls On the inlay'd floor; the groined roof hangs dim In its own splendour; on the emblazoned walls Glow shapes celestial, winged cherubim, With heraldries of heaven, occult, unknown — And, in the midst, One, on a sapphire throne. WYKE BA YLISS. 9 CHARTRES CATHEDRAL. A forest of tall pillars, autumn stained, Purple and russet grey, through which there glows A crimson splendour when the day hath waned And the great orb goes down in calm repose; High through the vaulted darkness the great Rose Drifts like a setting sun beyond a zone Of silvery light where a pale window shows The story of Christ's Passion writ in stone. O glory of Art ! not thou alone dost wear These sacred symbols of the Love Divine ; We are his temples also, and do bear His image on our hearts, as on a shrine Where the light burns for ever clear and bright, Though the world drift into eternal night. 10 WYKE BAYLISS. ST. MARK'S, VENICE. From Christ who sits upon the great white throne, To Christ in the little shrine where pilgrims kneel, It is Christ first, Christ last, and Christ alone : The dragon writhes beneath His bruised heel ; The Mother holds the Child in mute appeal For worship — veiled with incense, lost in light, Drowned in sweet music — till the mystic Seal Is broken, and there is silence in God's sight. This is none other than the House of God, This is the gate of Heaven ! The Apostles stand With Mary and Mark, Christ in their midst, to greet Those who will enter. Come — with naked feet — Fearless — while yet the golden measuring rod, And not the sword, is in the angel's hand. WYKE BA YLISS. ii WESTMINSTER ABBEY. When the first arrow from Apollo's bow Doth pierce the narrow casement of the east, And from the ghostly shade bright visions grow Transfix'd upon thy walls— king, saint, or priest; Or when the heights have all been scaled, and Day Shakes over thee its golden fleece of light; Or when, arrayed in robes of solemn grey, Thou dost await the footsteps of the Night And Dian's coming, bending down her face To thee, Endymion like: — If the dead rise, Why lie they now so still, each in his place, And wake not, nor arise, nor lift their eyes To see thee in thy beauty? They await The coming of the Lord, who tarrieth late. 12 WYKE BA YLISS. TREVES CATHEDRAL. Strong with the savage splendour of rude walls, And yet, with memories of a thousand years, Tender as the first flush of dawn that falls Silver and crimson on the massive piers : Argent and gules upon a field of gray — That is the vision — sounds are in my ears As of a river's tide — Beautiful Treves ! 'Tis the Moselle that thus doth lingering stay To kiss thy feet, and cool its restless wave Beneath the shadow of thy towers to-day. O treacherous stream ! to flatter and pass by, Nor whisper how the ancient gods were hurl'd From the strong altars of the Pagan world, And now forgotten in thy bosom lie. WILLIAM BLAKE. 13 WILLIAM BLAKE. # FROM " VISIONS OF THE DAUGHTERS OF ALBION." I cry Arise, O Theotormon ; for the village dog Darks at the breaking day ; the nightingale has done lamenting ; The lark does rustle in the green corn ; and the eagle returns From nightly prey and lifts his golden beak to the pure east ; Shaking the dust from his immortal pinions, to awake The sun that sleeps too long. Arise my Theotormon, I am pure Because the night is gone that closed me in its deadly black. They told me that the night and day were all that I could see; They told me that I had five senses to enclose me up, And they enclosed my infinite beam into a narrow circle 14 WILLIAM BLAKE. And sank my heart into the abyss, a red round globe hotburning Till all from life I was obliterated and erased. Instead of morn arises a bright shadow like an eye In the eastern cloud ; instead of night a sickly charnel- house. But Theotormon hears me not : to him the night and morn Are both alike; a night of sighs, a morning of fresh tears. And none but Bromion can hear my lamentations. With what sense is it that the chicken shuns the ravenous hawk ? With what sense does the tame pigeon measure out the expanse? With what sense does the bee form cells? have not the mouse and frog Eyes and ears and sense of touch ? yet are their habita- tions And their pursuits as different as their forms and as their joy. Ask the wild ass why he refuses burdens, and the meek camel Why he loves man: is it because of eye, ear, mouth, or skin, Or breathing nostrils? no: for these the wolf and tiger have. WILLIAM BLAKE, »5 Ask the blind worm the secrets of the grave and why her spires Love to curl around the bones of death : and ask the ravenous snake Where she gets poison ; and the winged eagle why he loves the sun ; And then tell me the thoughts of man, that have been hid of old. Silent I hover all the night, and all day could be silent, If Theotormon once would turn his loved eyes upon me ; How can I be defiled when I reflect thy image pure ? Sweetest the fruit that the worm feeds on, and the soul prey'd on by woe ; The new washed lamb tinged with the village smoke, and the bright swan By the red earth of our immortal river ; I bathe my wings And I am white and pure to hover round Theotormon's breast. Then Theotormon broke his silence, and he answered ; Tell me what is the night or day to one overflowed with woe ? Tell me what is a thought? and of what substance is it made ? Tell me what is joy? and in what garden do joys grow ? i6 WILLIAM BLAKE. And in what rivers swim the sorrows? and upon what mountains Wave shadows of discontent? and in what houses dwell the wretched, Drunken with woe forgotten, and shut up from cold despair ? Tell me where dwell the thoughts forgotten till thou call them forth ? Tell me where dwell the joys of old? and where the ancient loves ? And when will they renew again and the night of oblivion be past ? That I might traverse times and spaces far remote and bring Comfort into a present sorrow and a night of pain ! Where goest thou, O Thought? to what remote land is thy flight ? If thou returnest to the present moment of affliction Wilt thou bring comforts on thy wings and dews and honey and balm, Or poison from the desert wilds, from the eyes of the envier ? WILLIAM BLAKE. vj RAPHAEL AND RUBENS. Nature and art in this together suit, What is most grand is always most minute. Rubens thinks tables, chairs, and stools are grand ; But Raphael thinks a head, a foot, a hand. Raphael, sublime, majestic, graceful, wise, His executive power must I despise ! Rubens, low, vulgar, stupid, ignorant, His power of execution I must grant, — Learn the laborious stumble of a fool, And from an idiot's actions form my rule ! Go send your children to the slobbering school. 724 i8 WILLIAM BLAKE. FOR A PICTURE OF THE LAST JUDGMENT. Dedication. The Caverns of the Grave I've seen, And these I give to England's Queen ; But now the caves of Hell I view, — Whom shall I dare to show them to ? What mighty soul in beauty's form Shall dauntless view the infernal storm ? Egremont's Countess can control The flames of hell that round me roll. If she refuse, I still go on, Till the heavens and earth are gone ; Still admired by noble minds, Followed by Envy on the winds. Re-engraved time after time, Ever in their youthful prime, My designs unchanged remain ; Time may rage but rage in vain ; For above Time's troubled fountains, On the great Atlantic mountains, In my golden house on high, There they shine eternally. WILLIAM BLAKE. 19 DEDICATION OF THE DESIGNS TO BLAIR'S " GRAVE." To Queen Charlotte. The door of Death is made of gold, That mortal eyes cannot behold : But when the mortal eyes are closed, And cold and pale the limbs reposed, The soul awakes, and, wondering, sees In her mild hand the golden keys. The grave is heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait : O Shepherdess of England's fold, Behold this gate of pearl and gold ! To dedicate to England's Queen The visions that my soul has seen, And by her kind permission bring What I have borne on solemn wing From the vast regions of the grave, Before her throne my wings I wave, Bowing before my sovereign's feet, The Grave produced these blossoms sweet, In mild repose from earthly strife ; The blossoms of eternal life. WILLIAM BLAKE. EPIGRAMS. " O dear Mother Outline, of wisdom most sage, What's the first part of painting?" She said : "Patronage." " And what is the second to please and engage?" She frowned like a fury, and said : "Patronage." " And what is the third ? " She put off old age, And smiled like a siren, and said : " Patronage." * Some look to see the sweet outlines And beauteous forms that Love does wear ; Some look to find out patches, paint, Bracelets and stays and powdered hair. WILLIAM BLAKE. 21 ORATOR PRIG. I asked of my dear friend Orator Prig, 4< What's the first part of oratory?" He said : 1 * A great wig. " " And what is the second?" Then dancing a jig, And bowing profoundly, he said : "A great wig." " And what is the third ?" Then he snored like a pig, And puffing his cheeks out, replied : " A great wig." So, if to a painter the question you push — " What's the first part of painting?" he'll say " A paint- brush." "And what is the second?" With most modest blush He'll smile like a cherub, and say : 11 A paint-brush." II And what is the third? " He'll bow like a rush, With a leer in his eye, and reply : "A paint-brush." Perhaps this is all a painter can want, But look yonder, — that house is the house of Rembrandt. 22 FORD MADOX BROWN. FORD MADOX BROWN. * ANGELA DAMNIFERA. Could I have known, that day I saw you first, How much my fate lay coiled within your eyes ! How Nemesis spoke in your soft replies ! Could I have known — and so have shunned the worst ? Could I have known how for my bitter thirst Your coming brought but saltest tears and sighs, How going life seemed fled with you likewise. Could I have known — oh angel love-accurs'd ! And now how name you, slayer of my peace ? Life-giving basilisk ? source of gladdest woe ? Emblem of Fortune wrecked upon one throw ? O'er blessed and damned flame-hallowed Beatrice ? And cause of martyrdom without surcease ? Alas 1 Alas ! by me entreated so ! Finchleyt 1858. FORD MADOX BROWN. 23 FOR THE PICTURE, "THE LAST OF ENGLAND." Sonnet. " The last of England ! O'er the sea, my dear, Our homes to seek amid Australian fields, Us, not our million-acred island yields The space to dwell in. Thrust out ! Forced to hear Low ribaldry from sots, and share rough cheer With rudely-nurtured men. The hope youth builds Of fair renown, bartered for that which shields Only the back, and half-formed lands that rear The dust-storm blistering up the grasses wild. There learning skills not, nor the poet's dream, Nor aught so loved as children shall we see." She grips his listless hand and clasps her child, Through rainbow tears she sees a sunnier gleam, She cannot see a void, where he will be. February 1865. 24 FORD MA BOX BROWN. FOR THE PICTURE CALLED " WORK." Work ! which beads the brow, and tans the flesh Of lusty manhood, casting out its devils ! By whose weird art transmuting poor men's evils, Their bed seems down, their one dish ever fresh. Ah me ! For lack of it what ills in leash Hold us. 'Tis want the pale mechanic levels To workhouse depths, while Master Spendthrift revels. For want of work, the fiends him soon inmesh ! Ah ! beauteous tripping dame with bell-like skirts Intent on thy small scarlet-coated hound, Are ragged wayside babes not lovesome too ? Untrained, their state reflects on thy deserts, Or they grow noisome beggars to abound, Or dreaded midnight robbers breaking through. February 1865. FORD MADOX BROWN. 25 THE LOVE OF BEAUTY. John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn In service to all beauty, joy, and rest, — When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd To her smooth cheek his pale brows, passion -worn, — 'Tis said he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn By longings unattainable, address'd To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest Some madness in his brain had thence been born. The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning: — Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh ! they May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning : But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay ? 26 FORD MADOX BROWN. O. M. B. (Died November 1874.) As one who strives from some fast steamer's side To note amid the backward-spinning foam And keep in view some separate wreath therefrom, That cheats him even the while he views it glide (Merging in other foam-tracks stretching wide), So strive we to keep clear that day our home First saw you riven — a memory thence to roam, A shattered blossom on the eternal tide 1 O broken promises that showed so fair ! O morning sun of wit set in despair ! O brows made smooth as with the Muse's chrism ! O Oliver ! ourselves Death's cataclysm Must soon o'ertake — but not in vain — not where Some vestige of your thought outspans the abysm ! April 1S83. OLIVER MADOX-BROWN. 27 OLIVER MADOX-BRO WN. * BEFORE AND AFTER, Ah ! long ago since I or thou Glanced past these moorlands brow to brow, Our mixed hair streaming down the wind — So fleet ! so sweet ! I loved thy footsteps more than thou Loved my whole soul or body through — So sweet ! so fleet ! ere Fate outgrew the days wherein Life Sinned ! And ah ! the deep steep days of shame, Whose dread hopes shrivelled ere they came, Or vanished down Love's nameless void — So dread ! so dead ! Dread hope stripped dead from each soul's shame, Soulless alike for praise or blame — Too dead to dread the eternities whose heaven its shame destroyed. 28 OLIVER MADOX-BROWN. GIPSY SONG. " I LOVE very well The first blossoming (I love well I ween) That blooms in the spring ; Its purple and green Seem meet for some queen To bind in her hair's loosening. " I should love well to match me ! (The light of high heaven Burns in my eyes !) And I love well," she cries, " The young men to watch me, — But ah ! who can catch me ? For I run with feet fleeter than wind through the skies." OLIVER MADOX-BROWN. SONG. Lady, we are growing tired ! Lo ! our faltering breath Once with new-born love inspired, Holds the love we once desired, as weary unto death. Lady, Love is very fleet, All too fleet for sorrow : But if we part in time, my sweet, We'll overtake Love's flying feet, — If we part to-day, my love, we'll find new love to-morrow. OLIVER MABOX-BROWN. STANZAS. Oh, delirious sweetness which lingers Over the fond lips of love I Hair-tendrils clinging to the fingers Tangled in blossom above ! Intense eyes which burn with a light made No man knows whereof 1 Sweet lips grown more subtle than nightshade, More soft than plumes of a dove ! But love, like a fleet dream eluding The desire of a wakening sleeper, Love, grown too fondly excluding, Consumes the heart deeper and deeper In a passionate waste of desire ! Like the flame of a desert which rages Our love shall extend through the ages Though our souls blow asunder like fire. Oh, reluctantly lingering breath ! Oh, longing with sorrow requited ! Oh, blossom the storm-winds have blighted Deep down in the shadow of death I JV. GERSHOM COLLING WOOD. 31 JV. GERSHOM COLLING WOOD. # THE ALOE BLOSSOM. 1. There's a tree that the fruit-trees scorn, And plants that are scarce its peers ; For its very leaf is a thorn, And the tardy flower of it born But once in a hundred years. And the flower? — No flower I know, How magic so e'er its name, To southward or east, can show Such a glory of golden flame ! 11. There's a heart left alone in its gloom By lovers of every degree ; W. GERSHOM COLLINGWOOD, And it hides in a breast like a tomb, For the love of that heart could bloom But once for eternity. And that love ? — No passion whose powers Are prompt to a transient flare Can vie with its fiery flowers, Or the smouldering fragrance there ! W. GERSHOM COLLINGWOOD. 33 THE PAINTER'S PATRON-SAINT. Good spirit, now may thy celestial seat Be with the quiring seraphs, for this art Of rapt co-partnership of hand and heart To fix a fleeting smile before it fleet ! Such gain I find it, and a gift so sweet, That I could think, for my own special smart, Thy craft create, all other aims apart, Even to the intent my joy should be complete. For, thanks to this, while painting her I gaze Whole hours upon my cynosure, her face, While she must sit enthroned in full daylight; And on my heart each lineament I trace That shall return, no vague and shadowy sight, In dear, clear dreams and reveries of the night. 72s W. GERSHOM COLLINGWOOD. LOVERS IN HIDING. No eye so sly, so clever to spy, So cunning to peer o'er dale and down, Can rout us out, and tell it about, With cackle and shout, and never a doubt, Till we're the talk of all the town ! Across the moss fresh bracken I'll toss To make you a seat so sweet and soft ; Declare if there were ever a chair So proper to bear a true-loving pair, As this that bears us oft and oft. No ear can hear our chatter, my dear; The squirrels are wise and tell no tales ; The breeze agrees to leave us at ease ; It says to the trees, " Two lovers are these, So guard them here till daylight fails ! " One day you'll say, when you are away, Afar from meadow and moor and stream, " What bowers were ours, what delicate hours, What generous dowers of passionate powers 1 It must have been an empty dream ! " W. GERSHOM COLLINGWOOD. But no ! For oh, how little we know When life's mere water turns to wine ! We pass the glass from lover to lass, Nor think what it was, until it's " Alas! Our nectar's gone, our draughts divine!" For joy would cloy, without an alloy Of longing deferred or memory's pain; But here, my dear, our vision is clear; This minute we near the uppermost sphere, When love's unmingled cup we drain! W. GERSHOM COLLINGWOOD, THE BROTHER OF THE BIRDS. It's not alone that flowers are fair, That woods are fresh and green, That music haunts the breathing air, And sunlight gilds the scene: It's not for such delights alone I love to call these haunts my own. For in the town can I withstand Despair's environment? Shame or deceit on either hand — Pride, greed, or discontent : I see their seal on every brow, And hear a warning — " Such art thou ! My faults, my fears — a mocking host, I cannot pass them by ; Like him who met his very ghost, And knew that he must die — My soul in each sad soul I trace, And read my fate in every face. But here, — ah! joy transcending words To lose both self and sin, Acknowledged brother of the birds, To all the flowers akin ; And from His opened sanctuary God smiles upon them — and on me ! JAMES COLLIN SON. 37 JAMES COLLINSON. # THE CHILD JESUS. A Record typical of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries. " O all ye that pass by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow."— Lamentations i. 12. I. — The Agony in the Garden. Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus : One holy from his mother's womb. Both parents loved him : Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that God was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her ; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved JAMES COLLINSON. From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not ; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did ; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying : ' 1 These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to God ; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child. Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though God only heard her prayers through him Is he to be a prophet ? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes ! " But all their children made the boy their friend. Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth. Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs. Purple and yellow, verdure spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky ; In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea. JAMES COLLINSON. 39 Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child. A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front ; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves, Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit. And like the wreathed shadows and deep glows W T hich the sun spreads from some old oriel Upon the marble Altar and the gold Of God's own Tabernacle, where he dwells For ever, so the blossoms and the vine On Jesus' home, climbing above the roof, Traced intricate their windings all about The yellow thatch, and part concealed the nests Whence noisy close-housed sparrows peeped unseen. And Joseph had a little dove-cote placed Between the gable window and the eaves, Where two white turtle-doves (a gift of love From Mary's kinsman Zachary to her child) Cooed pleasantly; and broke upon the ear The ever-dying sound of falling waves. And so it came to pass, one Summer morn, The mother dove first brought her fledgling out To see the sun. It was her only one, And she had breasted it through three long weeks With patient instinct, till it broke the shell ; And she had nursed it with all tender care, 40 JAMES C0LLINS0N. Another three, and watched the white down grow Into full feather, till it left her nest. And now it stood outside its narrow home, With tremulous wings let loose, and blinking eyes ; While, hovering near, the old dove often tried By many lures to tempt it to the ground, That they might feed from Jesus' hand, who stood Watching them from below. The timid bird At last took heart, and, stretching out its wings, Brushed the light vine leaves as it fluttered down. Just then a hawk rose from a tree, and thrice Wheeled in the air, and poised his aim to drop On the young dove, whose quivering plumage swelled About the sunken talons as it died. Then the hawk fixed his round eye on the child, Shook from his beak the stained down, screamed, and flapped His broad arched wings, and, darting to the cleft I* the rocks, there sullenly devoured his prey. And Jesus heard the mother's anguished cry, Weak, like the distant sob of some lost child, Who in his terror runs from path to path, Doubtful alike of all ; so did the dove, As though death-stricken, beat about the air ; Till, settling on the vine, she drooped her head Deep in her ruffled feathers. She sat there, Brooding upon her loss, and did not move All through that day. And the child Jesus wept, And, sitting by her, covered up his face : JAMES COLLINSON. 4i Until a cloud, alone between the earth And sun, passed with its shadow over him. Then Jesus for a moment looked above; And a few drops of rain fell on his brow, Sad, as with broken hints of a lost dream, Or dim foreboding of some future ill. Now, from a garden near, a fair-haired girl Came, carrying a handful of choice flowers, Which in her lap she sorted orderly, As little children do at Easter-time To have all seemly when their Lord shall rise. Then Jesus' covered face she gently raised, Placed in his hand the flowers, and kissed his cheek, And tried with soothing words to comfort him ; He from his eyes spoke thanks. But still the tears, Fast trickling down his face, drop upon drop, Fell to the ground. That sad look left him not Till night brought sleep, and sleep closed o'er his woe. II.— The Scourging. Again there came a day when Mary sat Within the latticed doorway's fretted shade, Working in bright and many-coloured threads A girdle for her child, who at her feet Lay with his gentle face upon her lap. Both little hands were crossed and tightly clasped Around her knee. On them the gleams of light 42 JAMES COLLINS ON. Which broke through overhanging blossoms warm, And cool transparent leaves, seemed like the gems Which deck Our Lady's shrine when incense-smoke Ascends before her, like them, dimly seen Behind the stream of white and slanting rays Which came from heaven, as a veil of light, Across the darkened porch, and glanced upon The threshold stone; and here a moth, just born To new existence, stopped upon her flight, To bask her blue-eyed scarlet wings spread out Broad to the sun on Jesus' naked foot, Advancing its warm glow to where the grass, Trimmed neatly, grew around the cottage door. And the child, looking in his mother's face, Would join in converse upon holy things With her, or, lost in thought, would seem to watch The orange-belted wild bees when they stilled Their hum, to press with honey-searching trunk The juicy grape ; or drag their waxed legs Half buried in some leafy cool recess Found in a rose ; or else swing heavily Upon the bending woodbine's fragrant mouth, And rob the flower of sweets to feed the rock, Where, in a hazel -covered crag aloft, Parting two streams that fell in mist below, The wild bees ranged their waxen-vaulted cells. As the time passed, an ass's yearling colt, Bearing a heavy load, came down the lane That wound from Nazareth by Joseph's house, JAMES COLLINSON. 43 Sloping down to the sands. And two young men, The owners of the colt, with many blows From lash and goad wearied its patient sides ; Urging it past its strength, so they might win Unto the beach before a ship should sail. Passing the door, the ass turned round its head And looked on Jesus : and he knew the look ; And, knowing it, knew too the strange dark cross Lying upon its shoulders and its back. It was a foal of that same ass which bare The infant and the mother when they fled To Egypt from the edge of Herod's sword. And Jesus watched them till they reached the sands, Then, by his mother sitting down once more, Once more there came that shadow of deep grief Upon his brow when Mary looked at him : And she remembered it in days that came. III. — The Crowning with Thorns. And the time passed. And, one bright summer eve, The child sat by himself upon the beach, While Joseph's barge freighted with heavy wood, Bound homewards, slowly labored thro' the calm. And as he watched the long waves swell and break, Run glistening to his feet, and sink again, Three children, and then two, with each an arm Around the other, throwing up their songs, Such happy songs as only children know, 44 JAMES COLLIN SON. Came by the place where Jesus sat alone. But, when they saw his thoughtful face they ceased, And, looking at each other, drew near him ; While one who had upon his head a wreath Of hawthorn flowers, and in his hand a reed, Put these both from him, saying, " Here is one Whom you shall all prefer instead of me To be our king and then he placed the wreath On Jesus' brow, who meekly bowed his head. And when he took the reed, the children knelt, And cast their simple offerings at his feet ; And, almost wondering why they loved him so, Kissed him with reverence, promising to yield Grave fealty. And Jesus did return Their childish salutations ; and they passed, Singing another song, whose music chimed With the sea's murmur, like a low sweet chant Chanted in some wide church to Jesus Christ. And Jesus listened till their voices sank Behind the jutting rocks, and died away: Then the wave broke, and Jesus felt alone. Who, being alone, on his fair countenance And saddened beauty, all unlike a child's, The sun of innocence did light no smile, As on the group of happy faces gone. IV. — Jesus Carrying His Cross. And, when the barge arrived, and Joseph bare The wood upon his shoulders, piece by piece, JAMES COLLINS ON. 45 Up to his shed, Jesus ran by his side, Yearning for strength to help the aged man, Who tired himself all day with work for him. But Joseph said, " My child, it is God's will That I should work for thee until thou art Of age to help thyself. — Bide thou His time Which cometh — when thou wilt be strong enough, And on thy shoulders bear a tree like this." So while he spake he took the last one up, Settling it with heaved back, fetching his breath. Then Jesus lifted deep prophetic eyes Full in the old man's face, but nothing said, Running still on to open first the door. V. — The Crucifixion. Joseph had one ewe-sheep ; and she brought forth, Early one season, and before her time, A weakly lamb. It chanced to be upon Jesus' birthday, when he was eight years old. So Mary said, " We'll name it after him," — (Because she ever thought to please her child),— ' ' And we will sign it with a small red cross Upon the back, a mark to know it by." And Jesus loved the lamb; and, as it grew Spotless and pure and loving like himself, White as the mother's milk it fed upon, He gave not up his care, till it became Of strength enough to browse ; and then, because Joseph had no land of his own, being poor, JAMES COLLINS ON. He sent away the lamb to feed amongst A neighbour's flock some distance from his home ; Where Jesus went to see it every day. One late spring eve, their daily work being done, Mother and child, according to their wont, Went, hand in hand, their chosen evening walk. A pleasant wind rose from the sea, and blew Light flakes of waving silver o'er the fields Ready for mowing, and the golden West Warm'd half the sky : the low sun flickered through The hedge-rows, as they passed; while hawthorn trees Scattered their snowy leaves and scent around. The sloping woods were rich in varied leaf, And musical in murmur and in song. Long ere they reached the field, the wistful lamb Saw them approach, and ran from side to side The gate, pushing its eager face between The lowest bars, and bleating for pure joy. And Jesus, kneeling by it, fondled with The little creature, that could scarce find how To show its love enough; licking his hands, Then, starting from him, gambolled back again, And with its white feet upon Jesus' knees, Nestled its head by his: and, as the sun Sank down behind them, broadening as it neared The low horizon, Mary thought it seemed To clothe them like a glory. — But her look JAMES COLLINSON. 47 Grew thoughtful, and she said: " I had, last night, A wandering dream. This brings it to my mind ; And I will tell it thee as we walk home. " I dreamed a weary way I had to go Alone, across an unknown land : such wastes We sometimes see in visions of the night, Barren and dimly lighted. There was not A tree in sight, save one seared leafless trunk, Like a rude cross; and, scattered here and there, A shrivelled thistle grew: the grass was dead, And the starved soil glared through its scanty tufts In bare and chalky patches, cracked and hot, Chafing my tired feet, that caught upon Its parched surface; for a thirsty sun Had sucked all moisture from the ground it burned, And, red and glowing, stared upon me like A furnace eye when all the flame is spent. I felt it was a dream; and so I tried To close my eyes, and shut it out from sight. Then, sitting down, I hid my face ; but this Only increased the dread ; and so I gazed With open eyes into my dream again. The mists had thickened, and had grown quite black Over the sun ; and darkness closed around me. (Thy father said it thundered towards the morn.) But soon, far off, I saw a dull green light Break through the clouds, which fell across the earth, Like death upon a bad man's upturned face. Sudden it burst with fifty forked darts 43 JAMES COLLINS ON. In one white flash, so dazzling bright it seemed To hide the landscape in one blaze of light. When the loud crash that came down with it had Rolled its long echoes into stillness, through The calm dark silence came a plaintive sound ; And looking towards the tree, I saw that it Was scorched with the lightning; and there stood Close to its foot a solitary sheep Bleating upon the edge of a deep pit, Unseen till now, choked up with briars and thorns ; And into this a little snow-white lamb, Like to thine own, had fallen. It was dead And cold, and must have lain there very long ; While, all the time, the mother had stood by, Helpless, and moaning with a piteous bleat. The lamb had struggled much to free itself, For many cruel thorns had torn its head And bleeding feet; and one had pierced its side, From which flowed blood and water. Strange the things We see in dreams, and hard to understand ; — For, stooping down to raise its lifeless head, I thought it changed into the quiet face Of my own child. Then I awoke, and saw The dim moon shining through the watery clouds On thee awake within thy little bed." Then Jesus, looking up, said quietly : " We read that God will speak to those He loves Sometimes in visions. He might speak to thee JAMES C0LL1NS0N. Of things to come His mercy partly veils From thee, my mother; or perhaps, the thought Floated across thy mind of what we read Aloud before we went to rest last night ; — I mean that passage in Isaias' book, Which tells about the patient suffering lamb, And which it seems that no one understands/' Then Mary bent her face to the Child's brow, And kissed him twice, and parting back his hair, Kissed him again. And Jesus felt her tears Drop warm upon his cheek, and he looked sad When silently he put his hand again Within his mother's. As they came, they went, Hand in hand homeward. And the Child abode With Mary and with Joseph, till the time When all the things which should be fulfilled in him Which God had spoken by His prophet's mouth Long since; and God was with him, and God's grace. 726 5o WALTER CRANE. WALTER CRANE. * TO WILLIAM MORRIS. Dedicatory Sonnet to "The Sirens Three." The Mage of Naishapur in English tongue Beside the northern sea I, wandering, read, With chaunt of breaking waves each verse was said, Till, storm-possessed, my heart in answer sung ; And to the winds my ship of thoughts I flung, And drifted wide upon the ocean dread Of Space and Time, ere thought and life were bred, Till Hope did cast the anchor and I clung. The book of Omar saw I limned in gold, And decked with vine and rose and pictured pause, Enwrought by hands of one well skilled and bold In art and poesy and PVeedom's cause — Hope of humanity and equal laws — To him and to this hope be mine enscrolled. WALTER CRANE. 5i THE SOUL'S PRISM. Sonnet to a Picture by G. F. Watts, R.A. Star-stedfast eyes that pierce the smouldering haze Of life and thought, whose fires prismatic fuse The palpitating mists with magic hues That stain the glass of being, as we gaze ; And mark in transit every mood and phase, Which, sensitive, doth take, or doth refuse The lights and shadows time and love confuse When, lost in dreams, we thread their tangled maze. Winged, too, art thou with plumes on brows and breast, To bear thee brooding o'er the depths unknown Of human strife and wonder and desire ; And silence wakened by thy horn alone. Behind thy veil behold a heart on fire, Wrapped in the secret of its own unrest. 52 WALTER CRANE, SONNET. For a Picture— The Earth and Spring. Child Spring, escaped from harsh Dame Winter's rod, Upon a grassy mead stole forth to play, Glad in the sun's fresh smile that early day, Fresh daffodils upspringing as he trod ; Full softly, when, upon the tender sod, Amid the wakening flowers Earth sleeping lay ; Though Spring to her had many a word to say, Between the kisses of day's glorious god : Then on his pipe Spring made sweet noise that woke The singing fowl by every wood and hill, And soaring treble from the answering sky ; Until the sweet unrest Earth's slumber broke, Though, fearing it a dream, yet bode she still A little space — till Spring to her did cry. WALTER CRANE. FOR THE PICTURE— THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. What is Life? A Bridge that ever Bears a throng across a river ; There the Taker ; here the Giver. "What is Life ? In its beginning From the Staff is Clotho spinning Golden threads and worth the winning. Life beginning and Life ending, Life his substance ever spending, Time to Life his little lending. Life with Life, fate-woven ever, Life the web, and Love the weaver Atropos at last doth sever. What is Life to Grief complaining? Fortune, Fame, and Love disdaining Hope, perchance, alone remaining. WALTER CRANE. RONDEAU— ACROSS THE FIELDS. Across the fields like swallows fly Sweet thoughts and sad of days gone by ; From Life's broad highway turned away, Like children, Thought and Memory play Nor heed Time's scythe though grass be high. Beneath the blue and shoreless sky Time is but told when seedlings dry By Love's light breath are blown, like spray Across the fields. Now comes the scent of fallen hay And flowers bestrew the foot-worn clay And summer breathes a passing sigh As westward rolls the day's gold eye And Time with Labour ends his day Across the fields. WALTER CRANE. RONDEAU— A SEAT FOR THREE. Written on a Settle. ' * A seat for three, where host and guest May side-by-side pass toast or jest ; And be their number two or three, With elbow-room and liberty, What need to wander east or west?" " A book for thought, a nook for rest, And meet for fasting or for fest, In fair and equal parts to be A seat for three." ' ' Then give you pleasant company, For youth or eld a shady tree ; A roof for council or sequest, A corner in a homely nest ; Free, equal, and fraternally, A seat for three." ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. * NATURE. Nature ! holy, meek and mild Thou dweller on the mountain wild; Thou haunter of the lonesome wood ; Thou wanderer by the secret flood ; Thou lover of the daisied sod, Where spring's white foot hath lately trod ; Finder of flowers fresh sprung and new Where sunshine comes to seek the dew; Finder of bowers for lovers meet ; Smoother of sods for poets' feet ; Thrice-sainted matron ! in whose face, Who looks in love will light on grace ; Far-worshipped goddess ! one who gives Her love to him who wisely lives ; — Oh ! take my hand and place me on The daisied footstool of thy throne; And pass before my darkened sight Thy hand which lets in charmed light; And touch my soul, and let me see The ways of God, fair dame, in thee. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 57 Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads, Even as her child the mother leads; Where corn yet milk in its green ears, The dew upon its shot blade bears ; Where blooming clover grows, and where She licks her scented foot, the hare ; Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs The thistle with ten thousand stings ; Untrodden flowers, and unpruned trees Gladdened with songs of birds and bees ; The ring where last the fairies danced, The place where dank Will latest glanced, The tower round which the magic spell Of minstrel threw its latest spell — The stream that steals its way along To glory consecrate by song : And while we saunter, let thy speech God's glory and His goodness preach. Or when the sun sinks, and the bright Round moon sheds down her lustrous light ; When larks leave song and men leave toiling And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling ; When hoary hinds with rustic saws Lay down to youth thy golden laws ; And beauty is her wet cheek laying To her sweet child and silent praying : With thee in hallowed mood I'll go, Through scenes of gladness or of woe Thy looks inspired, thy chastened speech ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Me more than man hath taught shall teach ; And much that's gross and more that's vain As chaff from corn shall leave my strain. I feel thy presence and thy power, As feels the rain yon parched flower ; It lifts its head, spreads forth its bloom, Smiles to the sky and sheds perfume, A child of woe sprung from the clod Through Thee seeks to ascend to God. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD. Child of the Country ! free as air Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ; Born like the lily, where the dew Lies odorous when the day is new; Fed mid the May flowers like the bees, Nursed to sweet music on the knees. Lulled on the breast to that sweet tune Which winds make mid the woods in June. I sing of thee; — 'tis sweet to sing Of such a fair and gladsome thing. Child of the Townl for thee I sigh; A gilded roof's thy golden sky, A carpet is thy daisied sod, A narrow street thy boundless wood, The rushing deers, the clattering tramp Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp, — Through smoke, and not through trellised vii And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines; I sing of thee in sadness; where Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair. Child of the Country ! Thy small feet Tread on strawberries red and sweet. With thee I wander forth to see The flowers which most delight the bee ; ALLAN CUNNINGHAM The bush o'er which the throstle sung In April while she nursed her young ; The dew beneath the sloe-thorn where She bred her twins the timorous hare; The knoll wrought o'er with wild blue-bells Where brown bees build their balmy cells ; The greenwood stream, the shady pool Where t routs leap when the day is cool ; The Shilfa's nest that seems to be A portion of the sheltering tree. And other marvels, which my verse Can find no language to rehearse. Child of the Town! for thee, alas! Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass ; Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Glad streams come singing as they run. A May-pole is thy blossomed tree, A beetle is thy murmuring bee. Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where The poulterer dwells, beside the hare ; Thy fruit is plucked and by the pound Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round ; No roses twinborn on the stalk Perfume thee in thy evening walk. No voice of birds ; but to thee comes The mingled din of cars and drums, And startling cries, such as are rife When wine and wassail waken strife. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Child of the Country ! on the lawn I see thee like the bounding fawn Blithe as the bird which tries its wing The first time on the wings of Spring. Bright as the sun when from the cloud He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Now groping trouts in lucid streams ; Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, Now hunting echo's empty sound ; Now climbing up some old tall tree For climbing's sake. 'Tis sweet to thee To sit where birds can sit alone, Or share with thee thy venturous throne. Child of the Town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet ! Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Thy groves and hills are peaks and stiles; Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak. And thou art cabined and confined At once from sun, and dew, and wind, Or set thy tottering feet but on Thy lengthened walks of slippery stone. The coachman there careering reels, With goaded steeds and maddening wheels ; And commerce pours each prosing son In pelf's pursuit and hollos " Run" : While flushed with wine, and stung at play, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, Men rush from darkness into day. The stream's too strong for thy small bark ; Where nought can sail save what is stark. Fly from the Town, sweet child ! for health Is happiness, and strength, and wealth. There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and shower ; On every herb o'er which you tread Are written words which, rightly read, Will lead you from Earth's fragrant sod To hope and holiness and God. WALTER H. DEVERELL. 63 WALTER H. DEVERELL. * THE SIGHT BEYOND. 1. Though we may brood with keenest subtlety, Sending our reason forth, like Noah's dove, To know why we are here to die, hate, love, With Hope to lead and help our eyes to see Through labour daily in dim mystery, Like those who in dense theatre and hall, When fire breaks out, or weight-strained rafters fall, Towards some egress struggle doubtfully ; Though we through silent midnight may address The mind to many a speculative page, Yearning to solve our wrongs and wretchedness, Yet duty and wise passiveness are won, — (So it hath been and is from age to age) — Though we be blind, by doubting not the sun. WALTER H. DEVERELL. THE SIGHT BEYOND. ii. Bear on to death serenely, day by day, Midst losses, gain, toil, and monotony, The ignorance of social apathy, And artifice which men to men display: Like one who tramps along a lonely way Under the constant rain's inclemency, With vast clouds drifting in obscurity, And sudden lightnings in the welkin grey. To-morrow may be bright with healthy pleasure, Banishing discontents and vain defiance : The pearly clouds will pass to a slow measure, Wayfarers walk the dusty road in joyance, The wide heaths spread far in the sun's alliance, Among the furze inviting us to leisure. WALTER //. DEVERELL. THE SIGHT BEYOND, in. Vanity, say they, quoting him of old. Yet, if full knowledge lifted us serene To look beyond mortality's stern screen, A reconciling vision could be told, Brighter than western clouds or shapes of gold That change in amber fires, — or the demesne Of ever mystic sleep. Mists intervene, Which then would melt, to show our eyesight bold From God a perfect chain throughout the skies, Like Jacob's ladder light with winged men. And as this world, all notched to terrene eyes With Alpine ranges, smooths to higher ken, So death and sin and social miseries ; By God fixed as His Bow o'er moor and fen, 727 66 WALTER H. DEFER ELL. A MODERN IDYL. " Pride clings to age, for few and withered powers, Which fall on youth in pleasures manifold, Like some bright dancer with a crowd of flowers And scented presents more than she can hold : " Or as it were a child beneath a tree, Who in his healthy joy holds hand and cap Beneath the shaken boughs, and eagerly Expects the fruit to fall into his lap." So thought I while my cousin sat alone, Moving with many leaves in undertone, And, sheened as snow lit by a pale moonlight, Her childish dress struck clearly on the sight : That, as the lilies growing by her side Casting their silver radiance forth with pride, She seemed to dart an arrowy halo round, Brightening the spring-time trees, brightening the ground ; And beauty, like keen lustre from a star, Glorified all the garden near and far. The sunlight smote the grey and mossy wall Where, 'mid the leaves, the peaches one and all, Most like twin cherubim entranced above, Leaned their soft cheeks together, pressed in love. As the child sat, the tendrils shook round her ; And, blended tenderly in middle air, WALTER H. DEVERELL. 67 Gleamed the long orchard through the ivied gate : And slanting sunbeams made the heart elate, Startling it into gladness like the sound, — Which echo childlike mimicks faintly round, Blending it with the lull of some far flood, — Of one long shout heard in a quiet wood. A gurgling laugh far off the fountain sent, As if the mermaid shape that in it bent Spoke with subdued and faintest melody: And birds sang their whole hearts spontaneously. When from your books released, pass here your hours, Dear child, the sweet companion of these flowers, These poplars, scented shrubs, and blossomed boughs Of fruit trees, where the noisy sparrows house, Shaking from off the leaves the beaded dew. Now while the air is warm, the heavens blue, Give full abandonment to all your gay Swift childlike impulses in rompish play; — The while your sisters in shrill laughter shout, Whirling above the leaves and round about, — Until at length it drops behind the wall, — With awkward jerks, the parti-coloured ball : Winning a smile even from the stooping age Of that old matron leaning on her page, Who in the orchard takes a stroll or two, Watching you closely yet unseen by you. Then, tired of gambols, turn into the dark Fir-skirted margins of your father's park ; 68 WALTER H. DEVERELL. And watch the moving shadows, as you pass, Trace their dim network on the tufted grass, And how on birch-trunks smooth and branches old, The velvet moss bursts out in green and gold, Like the rich lustre full and manifold On breasts of birds that star the curtained gloom From their glass cases in the drawing-room. Mark the spring leafage bend its tender spray Gracefully on the sky's aerial grey; And listen how the birds so voluble Sing joyful poeans winding to a swell, And how the wind, fitful and mournful grieves In gusty whirls among the dry red leaves ; And watch the minnows in the water cool, And floating insects wrinkling all the pool. So in your ramblings bend your earnest eyes, High thoughts and feelings will come unto you, — Gladness will fall upon your heart like dew, — Because you love the earth and love the skies. Fair pearl, the pride of all our family : Girt with the plenitude of joys so strong, Fashion and custom dull can do no wrong: Nestling your young face thus on Nature's knee. ALFRED EAST. ALFRED EAST. # THE LARK BY LAKE BEWA, JAPAN. The motive of this little story, Told in the land of the rising sun, Is a tribute from me, and a feeling Of thanks for a sentiment won Back from the scenes of my childhood, A reflection of earliest days, A rush over time and of distance Through the cranks of life's rough ways. A vision of home and my mother Flashes out like a light in the dark, As I hear on this sweet May morning, In Japan, the voice of the lark ! The breeze brings song of the boatmen, Which ebbs with the rustle of reeds ; The water is laughing and flashing To the mill through its bamboo leads, While the hills across the water ALFRED EAST. Are changing from gold to dun As the fitful shadows wander O'er the land of the rising sun. But beyond the bright blue water, And beyond the changing hills, To my English home and birthplace I am borne by those wild trills. And the road and the wide green rice-fields And the grey-roofed cottages there, Melt into an English meadow And an English homestead fair : I lie again 'mid the daisies, Which bend in the soft-toned breeze That wafts the scent of the rich ripe flowers Through the branches of blooming trees. That's my dream while the lark was singing, But his song was, alas, soon done : Yet the dream was fair and pleasant In the land of the rising sun. SEBASTIAN EVANS. SEBASTIAN EVANS. * BY THE SEA. Sweet day, thy beauty doth unseal all springs Of pure delight, where even despair might slake Awhile his infinite thirsting, and partake In the deep gladness of all outward things. Yes, Sea and Autumn sit like crowned kings Over the revels of the world and make Awful rejoicings to the Lord ! Break, break, Thou prison-silence in the silver strings And blossom into song ! O day of days, Dying among the stars in breathless calm, With thine own tribute to the eternal psalm From nature's heart outwelling evermore, With all sweet voices of the waves and shore Give thou to God one hymn of human praise? SEBASTIAN EVANS. SONG. I look into the eyes I love And watch the old love beaming, And call from out the buried years The old, old lover's dreaming. Just here and there one line of grey Divides the raven tresses, I sigh : — youth fades apace — I smile, The love that blest, still blesses ! SEBA S II A N E VANS. SHADOWS. Lonely o'er the dying ember I the past recall, And remember in December April buds and August skies, As the shadows fall and rise, As the shadows rise and fall. Quicker now they flit and flicker On the dreary wall, Aye, and quicker still and thicker Through the fitful fantasies, As the shadows fall and rise, As the shadows rise and fall. Dimmer now they shoot and shimmer On the dreary wall. Dimmer, dimmer still they glimmer Till the light in darkness dies, And the other shadows rise, And the other shadows fall. 74 THOMAS FA ED, R.A. THOMAS FAED, F.A. * BURNS. Suggested by Alma Tadema's Painting, "A Reading from Homer." Royal Academy Exhibition, 1885. Not Homer's lays to ancient Greek On Sunium's marble lying, In sweeter, grander tones could speak To warrior bold or maiden meek, . Than Burns among his moorlands bleak Who sang in strains undying. The shepherd 'mid his mountain land, The cow-boy and the hind, The artisan with horny hand, All bless the peasant-bard whose wand With magic witched their native strand. — All own his master mind. THOMAS FA ED, R.A. Words gave he to the bashful swain : He sweeter made the May When lovers met — will meet again — The old, old song, the old refrain — The twilight hour that breaks the strain Of weary, toilsome day. The poorest cotter o'er his lays, Since life's hard strife began, Forgets its slavish, drudging ways, Forgets its dark and sunless days, And lifts his eyes to God in praise To feel he still is man. The sire bequeathed unto his son, True pride and manly sense ; — Could thrift and toil life's fight have won. That father, when his days were done, Could not have left his gifted one A nobler heritance. THOMAS FAED, R.A. A DREAM. A fairy land among the hills, 'Mid misty peaks and glancing rills ; Far, far away from human ills, In dreamland, I met thee, Fanny. O'er heath aglow with setting sun, Thy hand in mine, — our love begun, With hearts as fresh as when I won Thine own leal one to me, Fanny. Where did we go? — the twilight o'er us, Our love our guide ; the world before us : The murmuring wind through echoing corries Made music with thy voice, Fanny. Thine eye my star — Was ever light So soft, so witching, or so bright ? — The gloaming shading into night Was never felt by me, Fanny. The swift shrike's scream the silence broke, The homeward raven's eerie croak Ben Lloyal's solemn slumber woke, I felt thee cling to me, Fanny. The mournful owl, like gentle sigh, Fanned thy soft cheek in passing by, Clinging, with half-averted eye, The closer still, to me, Fanny. THOMAS FAED, R.A, It was our spirits' trysted meeting By yon grey stone, our wild hearts beating, The old, old tale of love repeating, So dear to thee and me, Fanny. Dreams of a time that would not stay, When youth was one long holiday, And tears our sorrows washed away, Ah ! would it were so now, Fanny. I woke — Alas ! the morning star Hung trembling o'er dark Ben Avar, And thy sweet spirit, dim, afar, In sadness left my view, Fanny. The envious dawn, on light wings borne, In purply plumage paints the morn, And I ? — all lonely and forlorn — My heart has gone with thee, Fanny. 78 THOMAS FA ED, R.A. WEE AUNTIE JEANIE. 'Twas wee Auntie Jeanie that sat by our bed — We had baith said our prayers at her knee — She was winsome and sweet, wi' a glad smile to meet My rosy wee brither and me. But she left us at last ; and sad, sad were our hearts ; And sair, oh sae sair, did we weep — Though we held by her sleeve, thinking she couldna leave Till our grip slid awa in our sleep. We are bairnies nae longer — Johnnie noo is a man Working hard for my faither and me ; Yet through monie lang years rose, unbidden, our tears, For baith auntie and mither was she. It's noo but a dream — a dim dream o' the nicht, As she glides to the foot o' my bed, But nae smile can I trace on her twilight-like face, Tho' her golden hair haloes her head. London, Oct, 1887. THOMAS FAED, R.A. MY HEART IS SAIR. My heart is sair, — I canna sew; My spinnin' wheel is still. The shades o' nicht are creepin' fast Up Bennan's whitenin' hill ; The cauld wind through the corrie moans, The drift is at the door — Wi' sic a merciless storm as this Shall I see Jamie more ? I canna greet — I canna pray — Poor rebel heart be still — Kind God ! oh watch my shepherd boy !— And bend me to Thy will. JAMES GRE1G, JAMES GRE1G. * IF LOVE WERE DEAD. I'd take my harp and break the strings That oft the sweetest music shed, And fly from earth on borrowed wings — If Love were dead. I'd never wander out at e'en To meet a certain dark-eyed maid Within yon waving plantin' green — If Love were dead. I'd never taste the pure delight Of kissing lips like roses red ; Our eyes would never beam so bright— If Love were dead. Kind words would never lighten woe, Nor gently hands be ever laid Upon the fever-tortured brow— If Love were dead. JAMES GREIG. 81 The flowerets fair would bloom in vain, Yon Trees would throw no welcome shade, Fair summer would unfruitful reign — If Love were dead. The sun would never gleam on high, Our lovely earth would shake with dread, And man, proud man, would pine and die — If Love were dead. 728 JAMES GREIG. THE FACE I SAW TO-DAY. I walked within the cool green shade Of yonder wood to-day, And there, beneath a stately tree, A lovely maiden lay. Unseen, I gazed in wonderment — My heart thrilled to its core ; So pure, inspiring loveliness I ne'er had seen before. Her hair was like the dusky gold Of yonder shady corn ; Her eyes were like the tender blue That tints the sky at morn; Her lips, like petals of a rose, Were parted in a song, And zephyrs passing through the wood Bore every note along. The sunbeams through the branches stole And kissed her peerless face, And flowerets fair waved all around Her form replete with grace. I envied all the sunbeams bright Those kisses pure and sweet, I longed to be the daisy white That grew beside her feet. JAMES GREIG. And yet a something held me back A reverential fear, She seemed so like a visitant From yon celestial sphere. So, with one long, regretful look, I turned and stole away; But while I live I'll ne'er forget The face I saw to-day. PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. PHILIP GILBERT HA MER TON. * INDUSTRY. My days are never weary, yet I toil Like a strong plough that turns a stony soil ; A harvest it shall bear ! My soul is precious land I hold from God — Early and late I furrow every sod, And drop the rich seed there. And still I feel no weariness nor pain Steal over me. My labour is not vain, For, reared with earnest care, Autumn will show her sheaves of golden grain ! PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 85 A LONDON STUDIO. They who love Nature best surround themselves With objects that recall her to the mind; And in great cities you will often meet Some treasured relic, an imprisoned thrush, Or, with their roots in water, hyacinths Flowering in narrow windows to the sun. But in an artist's painting-room, to aid His memories of fair landscapes far away, When by oppressive gaslight in the fogs Of winter he must labour for his bread, You see such relics most. A creeping plant Hangs on the gas-pipe — once above a stream It drank the ceaseless dew of scattering spray. Between the quaint old ceiling and the floor A falcon hangs suspended by a thread, A scarecrow blind and shrunken — not the same As when he used to hover in the wind, With wings outspread and quivering, and keen eye That watched the fields below, where not a mouse Could leave its hole and live. A heron, too, As sadly changed is on the mantelpiece, Dusty and foul — poor thing, it bathes no more Its grey, fine plumage, in the lonely pools It used to haunt ! Beneath its terrible beak A dim and broken snake-skin, badly stuffed, Lies stiffly coiled — how altered since it clothed A lithe and supple creature with a garb Of gleaming silver ! PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. TURNER. Turner had strength to bear that tempering That shatters weaker hearts and breaks their hope. He still pursued his journey step by step — First modestly attired in quiet grey, As well became sincere humility ; Then with a plume of colour he adorned His simple raiment and so walked awhile ; Until at last, like his beloved Sun, He set in forms of strangest phantasy, Coloured with gold and scarlet, and the lands Of his conception grew as dim and vague As shadows. So his mighty brain declined. Men have accused him of mean avarice Since, being rich, he lived in poverty ; Yet had they gone and tempted him with gold To sell the fairest children of his hand, He would have scorned their offers, and replied : " These are too precious for your galleries — They bear my spirit's image. I bequeath Them undivided to my country's care." So in that gloomy mansion where he dwelt, He kept those works around him till his death ; And so denied himself, and sacrificed More wealth by that reserve than feebler minds Might strive a lifetime to accumulate. Religious men have often lived from choice PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. In poverty, that wealth might not distract Their souls from contemplation. It was so With Turner the recluse, and rightly so ; For Art is a religion, and would scorn A soul's divided service. We respect The painter whom no pleasures could allure From his serene, laborious solitude; Who gathered wealth for painters after him, And only cared for Art and for his fame ! The tempting growth of riches neither changed His frugal habits into luxury, Nor hindered his devotion to his art. Better plain thrift than that improvidence Which ruins Art by making its pursuit A path whereby the debtor may escape By trick and speed the horrors of the jaii ! Turner bequeathed his riches unto Art, And to extend his fame — a noble wish ; And from the grave he challenged Claude Lorrai And still they try their prowess side by side, Living on canvas in strange rivalry. But you who would be judges in this cause Must go to Nature, the great law-giver, And having studied her eternal code, Give your decision without any fear Of prejudice or withered connoisseurs. THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS HOOD. * TO A FALSE FRIEND. I. Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain : I only know I loved you once, I only know I loved in vain; Our hands have met, but not our hearts ; Our hands will never meet again I II. Then farewell to heart and hand 1 I would our hands had never met, Even the outward form of love Must be resigned with some regret. Friends we still might seem to be, If my wrong could e'er forget Our hands have joined but not our hearts : I would our hands had never met ! THOMAS HOOD. SONG FOR MUSIC. A lake and a fairy boat To sail in the moonlight clear — And merrily we would float From the dragons that watch us here ! Thy gown shall be snow-white silk, And strings of orient pearls Like gossamers dipped in milk Should twine with thy raven curls ! Red rubies should deck thy hands, And diamonds should be thy dow'r — But Fairies have broke their wands, And wishing has lost its power ! THOMAS HOOD. STANZAS. Farewell Life ! my senses swim } And the world is growing dim : Thronging shadows cloud the light Like the advent of the night — Colder, colder, colder still, Upwards steals a vapour chill ; Strong the earthly odour grows — I smell the mould above the rose ! Welcome Life ! The Spirit strives ! Strength returns and hope revives ; Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn Fly like shadows at the morn, — O'er the earth there comes a bloom Sunny light for sullen gloom, Warm perfume for vapour cold — I smell the rose above the mould 1 THOMAS HOOD. SONG. The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail ; The moon is constant to her time ; The sun will never fail ; But follow, follow round the world, The green earth and the sea ; So love is with the lover's heart "Wherever he may be. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light ; The moon will veil her in the shade, The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day. HERBERT P. HORNE. HERBERT P. BORNE. * DIVERSI COLORES. THE DAISY : Imitated from Catullus, xlvii. Nay, had but you, most beautiful, most loved, Given me all my way; Thrown back your gorgeous head out of pure joy, Nor stirred at all, till I Had, with three hundred thousand kisses shut, Those honied eyes of yours ; My heart would not have sated been ; no, no, Not if our kisses' score Surpassed the infinite ears of ripened corn, Which summer looks upon. HERBERT P. HORNE. 93 , ON RETURNING A SILK KERCHIEF OF HER'S. Winged with my kisses go, go thou to her, And bid her bind thee round her faultless throat; Till thou, close-lying o'er the charmed stir Of her white breast, grow warm, and seem to float Away into the golden noon, the still, Deep sunlight of her. Oh, sleep on ! 'tis thine, Love's summer day. No, not June's thronged hours, So glad are, when the song of birds fulfil Earth, and the breezes in the grass decline, Held by the scent of many thousand flowers. Yet loose that flood of kisses, that thou hast, Into her bosom, and through all her hair; Whispering it is my utmost wealth amassed For her, being fairest; nor do thou forbear, Until she feel my spirit, like a blush, Steal by her shoulder and frail neck : for when The gorgeous scarlet burning shall have moved Over her cheek, the little after hush Will tell to her, that I am happy then, God ! for how short a time, and — she is loved. Loved? Wherefore loved, that never may be had, Never enjoyed ? Is it, that thus might grow From out a look, a touch, now past and sad, My Beatrice, and my perfect love; and so HERBERT P. HORNE. Dwell with me here ; although the while I guess 'Tis but a dream, which only does me wrong. O wretched thought ! and yet the hour, that girds My pensive nature with her loveliness, Would bitter be, as 'tis unto this song, To wed these thoughts too stern for dainty words. Would 'twere no dream this dream, this long, devout, Untiring worship, vainly yet essayed, This absolute love ; then were the torturing doubt, The troubled ocean of the soul allayed: Desire would have her lust, and we have ease Here from her everlasting thirst, nor pine Vainly, but feel the fret, the harrowed breath, The throbbing heart, that will not, will not cease, Stilled into marble, Greek like, calm, divine, Remembering not the past — Stay ! This is death! HERBERT P. HORNE, 95 LINES Suggested by the Omission of the Word " haereticisque " in the restored inscrip- TION on Sir Thomas More's Tomb at Chelsea. From Arius to Luther it was truth, They in this night Looked but diversely for the breaking east; Yea, Lord, in sooth All, all desired thy light And mourned sin had not ceased. " Light, light ! " they cried, and yet no light prevailed. What, stumbled they? They stumbled then where no man surely trod, Though Christ they hailed. Beautiful spirits ! Aye, I dwell in too much beauty, O my God ! HERBERT P. HORNE. LINES WRITTEN IN THE GLEN AT PENKILL. 'Tis nature's garden, that she made For love and noble thought, A wonder of green boughs and shade; Through which a stream she brought, With bubbling wells to cool the glade. It were a place, if any were, To tell the sacred sheaves Of garnered joys within this fair, This quiet church of leaves, Unto the good, the patient air. But love, and life, and holy song, Already fade, and lose Their early zest ; and soonest wrong, That which we most would choose, And mingle with the common throng. ARTHUR HUGHES. 97 ARTHUR HUGHES. # A LETTER TO WILLIAM BELL SCOTT AT PENKILL. Scotus never sends a line, Perhaps poor Scotus has no ink, Or reads in some wise book I think, He should not cast his pearls to swine. This was my thought the other day, When sick and sore from Fortune's bumps — And, fool-like, nursing doleful dumps, A silly state that does not pay. But now his letter comes along — To me in Cornwall, weather-bound, Wild storm and wind and rain all round — Clear Penkill sunshine cleaves the throng. And all my swine run down to sea, And drown themselves by Michael's Mount, It does not matter, does not count One penny, tho' so fat they be. 729 ARTHUR HUGHES. TO A CHILD. ON A DOT. My beloved is taller than I, But yet I'm above him ; He's not all himself without me, And therefore I love him ; He is I, while I am not he, But a part if he lets me ; Yet I am but a speck in his eye, And he often forgets me. A. W. HUNT. 99 A. W. HUNT. * IN THE CAMPO SANTO, PISA. " What bear ye homeward through the strife Of waves that round your prows are leaping? What other treasure than dear life Hold your frail argosies in keeping ? Silver or gold or jewels rare As pearls of dew-sprent morning?" " Not these we bear, nor any ware That fits life's use or life's adorning." " Ye bear the trace of many a scar, Your shields with cruel blows are dinted. Bring ye no trophies such as are With death's own grip in wrestle printed ? Something to fade in choir or nave, Or transept dimly lighted, While o'er the silence of your grave Your half-forgotten deeds are cited ? " IOO A. IV. HUNT. " Not these we bring nor anything Which tells of mortal joy or rapture — Time cannot brush with his harsh wing One film of splendour from our capture — O happy winds our sails that fill ! O happy waves around us leaping ! For blessed earth from Calvary's hill Is what our frail barks hold in keeping." No sweeter sunshine ever bade My heart full flower of joy unfold, Than that which down this long arcade Draws out in flecks of shimmering gold Upon the pavement worn and grey Each traceried arch's intergleamir.g. Across the grass-grown court-like spray Of sun wave beaten back, is streaming Its reflex, and lights up beneath Each cloister arch strange blurs of red, Azure, and scarlet, which still breathe Orcagna's life — whilst overhead The blue tides of a southern sky Set round a minster front of snow — Four cypresses stand silently At angles of the court below — A. W. HUNT. 101 Dust very God hath trodden ! — dust Which they who bore it o'er the sea Sought to be laid in, with fond trust Their sleep would thereby sweeter be — Dust — but the setting's wondrous fair ; Man's spirit owns not here death's shame — Death's horror, but not death's despair, Set those dim-frescoed walls aflame — And the same voice which bade me see (Reading their legend o'er their graves) Their galleys breasting steadily With strangest freight the mounded waves, Asks me whose spirit soars at best Before a great Unknown to bow, l< Where look you for your place of rest ? What earth is sacred to you now?" 102 SELWYN IMAGE. SELWYN IMAGE. * IN NOMINE DOMINI. Hark ! like a clarion rings the voice, " Arise! " Too long with wrangling talkers, mad for place, Suffers our England, now brought face to face With the despair of perishing thousands. Lies This day within our choice the immortal prize Of those who win salvation for their race : Yea, Lord, Thyself with Thine avenging grace, Strike for Thy servants, while each minion flies ! Who shall refuse to arm serene and strong For this last conflict, though Self's myriads scowl? The day of visitation is not long, Ere the light passeth, when hurled cheek by jowl The recreants hear above their pitiful throng God's scorn in judgment, " Go to, weep and howl ! " SELWYN IMAGE. VANITY OF VANITIES. Ah ! I know it my darling : but who can say nay to you? Who can say nay to those eyes, when they pray to you? Who can say nay to those lips, when they say to you "Ona rose, on a glove, on a jewel, I am thinking ? " Were we strong, were we wise, had but virtue the hold of us ; Were we cold, to behold such a love's face unblinking ; Were it aught, but such stuff as it is, sweet, the mould of us; Ah ! then we might smile, and suffice you with smiling : Yea, then were we proof against all the beguiling Of even those eyes, and that exquisite lip's curve. Great God ! what avails? where his honey Love sips, nerve Your soul to denial, Love will sip there again, And again, till the end : as it hath been, it will be : Aye, stronger, than strength of Death's fear, Love shall still be ; Cruel Love that but plays with you, fast in his chain. io4 SEL W YN IMA GE. A PRAYER. Dear, let me dream of love, Ah ! though a dream it be ! I'll ask no boon above A word, a smile, from thee ; At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me. Sweet, let me gaze awhile Into those radiant eyes ! I'll scheme not to beguile The heart, that deeper lies Beneath them, than yon star in night's mysterious skies. Love, let my spirit bow In worship at this shrine ! I'll swear, thou shalt not know One word from lips of mine, An instant's pain that sends through that shy soul of thine. SELWYN IMAGE. GOOD FRIDAY. He hangs a dead corpse on the tree, Who made the whole world's life to spring : And, as some outcast, shameful thing, The Lord of all we see. Darkness falls thick, to shroud the time : Nature herself breaks up, and cries : Even from the grave shocked ghosts arise, At this tremendous crime. Speak not : no human voice may tell The secrets, which these hours enfold : By treacherous hands to traitors sold, God's self submits to Hell. Speak not : draw close : through stricken heart Drink in the sense of all that's here : The shame, the cross, the nails, the spear, Rending His soul apart. Ah ! and far crueller, far, than they ; Tools and mere symbols, these ; our sin ! Breathe to thyself, soul, deep within, " 'Twas I, that caused this day ! " SELWYN IMAGE. Speak not : He speaks not : no reproach Falls from those dying lips on thee : No vengeance, muttering ills to be, Bars thy devout approach. Stricken, unmurmuring, dead, divine, This day He hangs, as He hung of old Only the dire sight cries, " Behold ! Was ever love like mine \ " /. W. IKCHBOLD. 107 J. W. INCHBOLD. LIFE'S WORDS. There is a book wherein we sometimes see A dim reflection of the face of God; Awful at times these writings seem to be, And oft they blossom forth as Aaron's rod, With flower of tender almond-breathing love, Such love as mortal of immortal dreams, And time itself is far too brief to prove, For though the seasons change, this ever gleams As an Eternal Will. — But most we find In this wide book writ by the human soul, In deeds that last, or music of the mind, A voice august to man for self-control, That he may reach the utmost strength of bliss When hope and deed renew blessed harmonies. /. IV. INCHBOLD. LOVE I sing of love that has been sung before, I tell the oldest tale of all the world; But new or old, I sing yet more and more, For passion's force within the heart once hurled, Can but be stayed by passion's Potentate, Nor can he his own innocents destroy. And while I feel of love the sweetness great, I nurse the pain as an impatient boy The future, knowing not what grief must be : Thus love exists by interchange of pain With painful bliss, for both are given to me ; Love changing bliss to woe, and then again Love's woe to bliss is changed, until at last Love's passion conquereth, and pain is past. /. W. INCHBOLD. 109 THE EASTERN LOVE-SONG. Rise up, my Love, my fair one, come away, For lo ! the winter's past, the rain is gone, The flowers of earth have come with birds and May, The turtle cooeth sadly left alone: — O rise, my love, my sweet one, come away, The figs are green, the vines are fair and young, O Love, my Love, my dove! where art thou, say? Hast heard in rocky clefts the song I sung ? O answer me again, thy voice is sweet, Rejoice my sight, my Love, with face of thine, O cease thy shyness, come with love's quick feet, For thou, my love, art tender, thou art mine: Beloved, come, among the lilies feed, By stream and lotus flower and whispering reed. no /. W. IXC II BOLD. LOVE'S WISDOM. Sweet Love forgive, if when I deemed me wise, I doubted what I could not understand. With time has come the opening of mine eyes, And all thy ways prove good as years expand.— Strange torture is but test of lover's truth, Sad doubt Love crowns at last with certainty. Our tears are reaped again in smiles, as Ruth, Reaped all, when love was ruled by Love to be : — 111 memory is lost in sight of Love, Love's looks make words tell all the wondrous tale, And silent presence shall be prized above All joys, that wanting her in all things fail. — O Love beneficent, once more forgive, Make me thine own, whilst I thy true life live. / W. INCHBOLD. Ill LOVE'S WEALTH. The white sea-foam still plays on golden shore, The sun through tears makes many a jewelled bow, The trees around the home have leaves no more, Though tenanted by ever cheery crow ; The fragrant hawthorn groves that bloom like snow. And sometimes shed their blossoms with the wind Upon the face of wondering flowers below, Are deeply flushed with fruit, that birds may find No lack for winter, now not far away: — The moist and amber leaves keep warm the earth That it may leap the sooner to the day, When radiant Spring is born all fresh with mirth: And I by this fair world enriched, for thee Such wealth put forth to loving usury. 112 J. IV. INCHBOLD LOVE'S VISIONS. At last are fled the leaves that lingered long, The sun at last withholds his parting glow, The clouds move onward like a funeral song, Or hopeless hang o'er all the water's flow. I know the flowers, that joined sad days to bliss, Shall die by this night's keen and piercing frost; For sweetness fades, though sadness ever is ! So rare are joys to find, so soon are lost ! I could contented be, almost to yield My joy like latest flowers to Winter's sting, And sullen scorching moan from wood and field That saddens life, and mars our harvesting, But then I close mine eyes and thou art near, Coming as violets come when Spring is here. /. W. INCHBOLD. "3 THE AFTERGLOW. I thought my simple tale was fully told, My joys and sorrows settled into peace, I thought my thraldom had received release, Since with fair love I had been overbold — But no ! Love's passion lures me to the main Immeasurable, fairer after storm That thundered, and through cloud that darkened morn : Pale Love and unrequited still has pain, Which Hope transforms to some sure coming bliss, And laughing watches every throb of heart. Certain there is no fatal fear, if he Direct the lover to that sealing kiss, Which then becomes of life the noblest part, Giving it sweetest strength and harmony. 730 ii4 / W. INCHBOLD. BEAUTY'S POWER. O power of beauty on a woman's brow ! What strength is like to thine for good or ill? Who dares attempt thine awful throne to fill When Death's wind scatters all thy blossom'd bough And strength and sweetness both have passed away? O what a power has hell with such fair face What foul ambition goads thee in the race That drives from God's calm voice and guiding ray ! Do men now give thee hate, or still does love Retain them, as when on thy quiet throne The angels held thee scarce a breath apart ? — 'Tis piteous hatred now men's passions move That should to an imperial love have grown T^ed captive by the strength of manly heart. LOUISE JO P LING. LOUISE JOPLING. LUX E TENEBRIS. Day dies; and Night, its mourner, Wrapp'd in sombre robes of woe, Enthrals us with the mystery Of her mission here below. Filling our souls with yearning For a higher life than ours, And crying still the warning That our stay is but of hours. I listen to her teaching, And I rise to kiss her feet ; But from beside her, Memory Comes, and chains me to my seat. Unbidden rise before me Mocking phantoms of the past : They shiver me, they chill me With the shadows that they cast. LOUISE JOPLING. Why should thy face for ever Haunt and scare me with fierce eyes Wild with the pain and mis'ry Of despair's unuttered cries? I know I wrong'd thee living. Were thy death, too, at my door, Thou, beholding my repentance — Even thou would'st spare me more. And for ever shall the Night Wipe with gentle hand the sign Of the sin — and of the anguish — From every face but mine ? I shriek unto the heavens, And they send me back my cry ; The stars shine out and mock me As they hear me ask to die. What can I do or suffer, What heavier burden bear ? To rid me of the presence Of the nameless terror there ? Of eyes that once gazed fondly Into mine, and found reply — No, not those eyes — I know it — 'Tis a friend's own mockery : LOUISE JO P LING. Yet I strive and struggle vainly 'Gainst its influence and might. Who will save me from the terror Of this silence and the night ? Now, now, oh God ! I thank thee,. Comes the brightness of the Day : The hell- born shadows vanish, And my spirit dares to pray. u8 LOUISE J OP LING, LINES TO I often wonder where we two shall meet, By woodland, vale, or in the busy street. Sometimes my heart is shaken when I hear A sudden step of some one drawing near. love ! what will you do ? will your face change ? Or will your eyes meet mine with looks grown strange? Can love then die? Within your mighty heart Have I for ever lost a share, a part ? No, no, a thousand times ! Love such as ours Time cannot strangle ; no, nor days, nor hours. Deep in your heart the smould'ring passion stays One breath of mine, it leaps into a blaze ! Our eyes have but to meet for each to know That years have had no power, nor friend, nor foe, One little touch of hands so long apart Would send the life-blood throbbing to your heart. The perfume of my hair across your cheek, Would rob you of your strength and make you weak. What matter where we meet ? I know, O friend, That thus it shall be to the bitter end. Our hearts are true, though both are bound by ties We cannot break. Not that way duty lies. Oft in the lonely chamber where I rest 1 think of all the love we once possessed. Do you remember, dear, the day we met ? The glamour of it lingers round me yet. LOUISE J OP LI AG. Without — the breath of Spring was in the air; Within — we knew it not —young love was there ! Long time we passed in silence, then I spake ; My voice the slumber of your heart did break. Its sound, you told me since, had power to thrill Your very being. Love, could it so still ? I know not . . . Enough, what matters now, since you and I Are sundered farther than the earth from sky ? 120 W. /. LINTON. W. / LINTON. HYMNS AT OUR WORK. WISDOM. Let us be wise ! Nor sort with policies of present wrong, Which serve none long : We have no leisure for expediencies. Let us be wise ! Nor mate with men unworthy of our cause ; Nor win applause Of fools by being their accomplices ! Let us be wise ! Prudent as truthful: our determined course Shall hold such force, Nor Time nor Chance shall bar us from the prize. W. J. LINTON. 121 INTEGRITY. Let us be true i Our cause is holy and our purpose pure: Let us be sure The means we choose hide not our aim from view ! Let us be true! Our hope can not consent to doubtful deeds : Our strong will needs None but clean hands our righteous work to do. Let us be true ! Thought, word, and deed, even as our cause, is pure; And so endure Firm to the end whatever fate ensue ! 122 W. /. LINTON. INDUSTRY. Let us work on ! Truly and wisely ; ever persevere ; Nor faint, nor fear : True, prudent industry hath ever won. Let us work on ! Work bravely; prove our faithfulness by deeds. Sow wide the seeds Of toil, if we would reap ! Let us work on ! Let us work on ! Work through all barrenness, nor count the cost : No toil is lost ; Work prophesieth triumph : on 1 aye on ! W. /. LINTON, 123 COURAGE. Let us be brave ! What use to flinch ? We have no ground to spare. Flinch not but dare ! Outstep slow time audaciously, and have ! Let us be brave ! Bold, not foolhardy; bravely self controlled To strike or hold, To advance or bide — howe'er the headstrong rave. Let us be brave ! The true man falters never : come what may He treads alway The same straight path towards his hero-grave. W. J. LINTON. FAITH. Let us have faith ! Faith, which is patience when Time lags behind The faithful mind Works calmly in the certainty of faith. Let us have faith ! Faith which o'erbridges gulfs of wide disaster ; Which can o'er master Most desperate odds; which doeth all it saith. Let us hold Faith ! Even in our own attempt, our victory's pledge: The mighty wedge That rives the toughest obstacle is faith. W. /. LINTON. OUR CAUSE. So, Freedom thy great quarrel may we serve, With truest zeal that, sensitive of blame, Ever thy holy banner would preserve As pure as woman's love or knightly fame ! And though detraction's flood we proudly breast Or, weakening, sink in that unfathomed sea, Ever we'll keep aloft our banner, lest Even the black spray soil its purity. My life be branded and my name be flung To infamy; — beloved, I will wear Thy beauty on my shield, till even the tongue Of falsehood echo truth, and own thee fair. SAMUEL LOVER, SAMUEL LOVER, * SERENADE. Hark to my lute sweetly ringing ! List, love, to me ; Dearest, thy lover is singing — Singing to thee ; Yet, to thy balcony stealing, No mantled beauty I see, No casement is dimly revealing Thy fair form to me. Perhaps thou art sleeping — my strain, love, Meets not thine ear, And visions, in shadowy train, love, Haply appear. Wake thee ! and hearken to me, love, If fancy should whisper of ill ; But if thy dream be of me, love, Oh ! slumber still. SAMUEL LOVER. Their bright watch in heaven now keeping, Beams ev'ry star, But the sweet eye that is sleeping, Brighter is far : For when the pale dawn advances, Tremulous star-fires decay, While, e'en at noontide, thy glance is Bright as the day. SAMUEL LOVER. THE DREAMER. 1 1 Dreaming— dreaming — dreaming !^ Dreamer, what dreamest thou?" " I dream of a mountain valley, I dream of a mountain brow, I dream of a mouldering ruin, I dream of a turret tall, And I dream of the verdant ivy That clings to the castle wall ; And I think as I gaze Through Fancy's haze, Of a fairy hand so fair, That pluck'd the bright leaf In an hour — too brief, And wreathed it in her dark hair." " Dreaming — dreaming — dreaming ! — Dreamer, awake and rise ! For sparkling things are round thee, To win for thine own bright prize. Of the past there is no returning, The future uncertain gleams. Be thine, then, the joys of the present. Away with thy bardic dreams ! " " No — the dream is more sweet Of those hours — too fleet, When that fairy, so fair, Did pluck the bright flow'i From her own sweet bow'r To wreathe in her raven hair." SAMUEL LOVER. 129 LISTEN. How sweet 'tis to listen when some one may tell Of the friend that we love and remember so well, While, 'midst the soft pleasure we wonder if thus The friend so beloved ever thinks upon us ; While the eye with the dew of affection may glisten How sweet to the praise of the loved one to listen ! Sweet, sweet 'tis to listen ! How sweet 'tis to listen when soft music floats O'er the calm lake below, in some favourite notes, Whose intervals sweet waken slumbering thought, And we listen — altho' not quite sure that we ought ; While in soul-melting moonlight the calm waters glisten, How sweet, but how fatal it may be to listen ! Sweet, tho' fatal to listen ! How sweet 'tis to listen, with too willing ear, To words that we wish for — yet tremble to hear, To which " No" would be cruel, and "Yes" would be weak, And an answer is not on the lip, but the cheek. While in eloquent pauses the eyes brightly glisten, Take care what you say, and take care how you listen. Take care how you listen — take care ! 73 1 SAMUEL LOVER. 'TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW. You say you love me : — can I trust That she, by many woo'd, By me, at length, has had her heart To constancy subdued ? Perhaps some other love is there ? But do not tell me so : When knowledge will but bring us grief 'Tis better not to know. Perhaps that eye has beam'd with love In days I knew not thee, That ruby lip hath bent in smiles For others than for me ; But let that lip in silence keep, I'll trust its love-like show : Since knowledge would but bring me grief, 'Tis better not to know. Oh ! what a simple love is mine Whose wishes makes its creed ; But let me think you love me still, And I'll be blest indeed : 'Tis better that the eye ne'er see Than that its tears should flow : When knowledge would but bring us grief, 'Tis better not to know. SAMUEL LOVER, THE FLYING CLOUD, The flying cloud, the flying cloud, Is coursing o'er the sky ; The flying cloud, the flying cloud, Is sparkling bright and high ; The soaring lark, on matin wing, Is singing high and loud, But e'en the soaring lark can't reach That lofty flying cloud ! Oh, once my heart was like that lark, And sang as bright and loud, And hope was high in youth's fair sky Just like yon flying cloud ; By fancy fired, this heart aspired More high than Fate allov/'d ; But now its weary wing is tired, And gone Hope's flying cloud. SAMUEL LOVER. I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE. It is the chime ; the hour draws near When you and I must sever; Alas ! it must be many a year, And it may be for ever. How long till we shall meet again ; How short since first I met thee ; How brief the bliss — how long the pain — For I can ne'er forget thee. You said my heart was cold and stern, You doubted love when strongest ; In future years you'll live to learn Proud hearts can love the longest. Oh ! sometimes think when press'd to hear, When flippant tongues beset thee, That all must love thee when thou'rt near. But one will ne'er forget thee ! The changeful sand doth only know The shallow tide and latest ; The rocks have mark'd its highest flow, The deepest and the greatest : And still the flood -marks grow; — So, since the hour I met thee, The more the tide of time doth flow, The less I can forget thee ! WILLIAM MORRIS. 133 WILLIAM MORRIS. * SUMMER DAWN. Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, They are patiently waiting for the dawn : Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises ; the roses are dun ; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn, Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. WILLIAM MORRIS. IN PRISON. Wearily, drearily, Half the day long, Flap the great banners High over the stone ; Strangely and eerily Sounds the wind's song, Bending the banner-poles. While, all alone, Watching the loophole's spark, Lie I, with life all dark, Feet tether'd, hands fetter'd Fast to the stone, The grim walls, square letter'd, With prison'd men's groan. Still strain the banner-poles Through the wind's song, Westward the banner rolls Over my wrong. WILLIAM MORRIS. 135 NEAR AVALON. A ship with shields before the sun, Six maidens round the mast, A red gold-crown on every one, A green gown on the last. The fluttering green banners there Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair, And a portraiture of Guenevere The middle of each sail doth bear. A ship with sails before the wind, And round the helm six knights, Their heaumes are on, whereby half blind, They pass by many sights. The tatter'd scarlet banners there, Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare. Those six knights sorrowfully bear, In all their heaumes some yellow hair. WILLIAM MORRIS. PRAISE OF MY LADY. My lady seems of ivory Forehead, straight nose, and cheeks that be Hollow'd u little mournfully. Beat a mea Domina I Her forehead overshadow' d much By bows of hair, has a wave such As God was good to make for me. Beata mea Domina ! Not greatly long my lady's hair, Nor yet with yellow colour fair, But thick and crisped wonderfully : Beata mea Domina ! Heavy to make the pale face sad, And dark, but dead as though it had Been forged by God most wonderfully. — Beata mea Domina I — Of some strange metal, thread by thread, To stand out from my lady's head, Not moving much to tangle me. — Beala mea Domina /— WILLIAM MORRIS. Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, The lashes a clear shadow throw Where I would wish my lips to be. Beata mea Domina ! Her great eyes, standing far apart, Draw up some memory from her heart, And gaze out very mournfully ; — Beata mea Domina ! — ■ So beautiful and kind they are, But most times looking out afar, Waiting for something, not for me. Beata mea Domina ! I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, For always half tears seem to be — Beata mea Domina ! — Lurking below the under lid, Darkening the place where they lie hid — If they should rise and flow for me ! Beata mea Domina i Her full lips being made to kiss, Curl'd up and pensive each one is ; This makes me faint to stand and see. — Beata mea Domina ! — WILLIAM MORRIS. Her lips are not contented now, Because the hours pass so slow Towards a sweet time : (pray for me), — Beat a mea Domina I — Nay, hold thy peace 1 for who can tell ; But this at least I know full well, Her lips are parted longingly, — Beat a mea Domina ! — So passionate and swift to move, To pluck at any flying love, That I grow faint to stand and see. Beat a mea Domina ! Yea ! there beneath them is her chin, So fine and round, it were a sin To feel no weaker when I see — Beat a mea Domina !— God's dealings ; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me, — Beata mea Domina ! — Of her long neck what shall I say ? What things about her body's sway, Like a knight's pennon or slim tree — Beata mea Domina I — WILLIAM MORRIS. Set gently waving in the wind ; Or her long hands that I may find On some day sweet to move o'er me ? Beata mea Domina ! God pity me, though if I miss'd The telling, how along her wrist The veins creep, dying languidly — Beata mea Do?nina ! — Inside her tender palm and thin. Now give me pardon, dear, wherein My voice is weak and vexes thee. Beata mea Domina ! All men that see her any time, I charge you straightway in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be, — Beata mea Domina ! — To kneel before her ; as for me, I choke and grow quite faint to see My lady moving graciously. Beata mea Domina I 140 PETER WALKER NICHOLSON. PETER WALKER NTCH0LS0N SONNET, Prefixed to Pamphlet, "Beauty for Ashes." The people dwell in prison : evermore Heavily gazing o'er the dreary main, Saying, ' ' The dawn will never come again ; " Sighing, " The ghastly East is as the door Of a vain dream ; " and murmuring o'er and o'er Some half- remembered prayer that has lain About the memory since their faith was slain, And piteous bondage silenced love's sweet lore. O watching, waiting multitudes forlorn, Take courage ! for beyond the darkened gate Of dawn, above the dusk of wandering sea, The obscure mists take flight tumultuously, Breaks the supreme great glory of the morn, Of these lone years the flower ultimate. PETER WALKER NICHOLSON. 141 VALE! Pure crimson splendour of the sunken sun, Dim purple, telling of the clay that's done, And pale blue glory gleaming overhead. Strange fires are burning o'er the westward trees, Soft sob of waters from the eastern seas. The world is fair, but my true love is dead. 142 PETER WALKER NICHOLSON. MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. Slowly the surges fall, and the pulse of the billowy music Throbs in the stillness of night, sobbing with infinite pain: So on the shores of the Present murmurs the Ocean Eternal, Each tide a cycle of years, with the sigh of numerous souls; Souls from the depths of that calm where all live in God and are God-like, Souls thrown forth into Time from the unknown home of the All. And, as the waves rush back, bearing the foam and the sea-weed, Filled with the earth and the clay, impure with the froth of the sand, So are we drawn in the darkness, stained with the sin of the creature, Back to the bosom of God, made pure by His infinite love. PETER WALKER NICHOLSON 143 AN EXHORTATION. Where, oh ! where, on what moor do stray your wan- dering footsteps ? Far to the south, mayhap, in wild trans-Clydean places; Far o'er scaur and ben, so far as the flight of the wild duck, Flying on all day from the dews of morning till mid-day, Eke all afternoon, till the tremulous glory of even Falls and glows from the heavens — a gleam translucently splendid. So far off from Nigg do you point the dire death-winged Pin-fire, central also, or, mayhap, antique muzzle-loader. Here, far North, we abide in hyperborean remoteness, Over the ferry of Nigg, one mile from Cromarty ; passive And slow, and provincial very, with a shop and a small post-office— Albeit the county town, with three kirks and a police- man — Furtively festive, we in a boat row over the ferry, Buy pepperment drops at the shop and have a nip at the public ; Then, having gone the whole length of debauchery possible to us, Return again to our porridge and vesper pipe in our lodgings. 144 JOHN ORCHARD. JOHN ORCHARD. * ON A WHIT-SUNDAY MORN IN THE MONTH OF MAY. The sun looked over the highest hills, And down in the vales looked he; And sprang up blithe all things of life, And put forth their energy ; The flowers creeped out their tender cups, And offered their dewy fee ; And rivers and rills they shimmered along Their winding ways to the sea ; And the little birds their morning song Trilled forth from every tree, On a Whit-Sunday morn in the month of May. Lord Thomas he rose and donned his clothes; For he was a sleepless man : And ever he tried to change his thoughts, Yet ever they one way ran. He to catch the breeze through the apple trees, By the orchard paths did stray, Till he was aware of a lady there Came walking down that way : Out gushed the song the trees among Then soared and sank away, On a Whit-Sunday morn in the month of May. JOHN ORCHARD. 145 With eyes downcast care-slow she came, Heedless of shine or shade, Or the dewy grass that wetted her feet, And heavy her dress all made : Oh trembled the song the trees among, And all at once was stayed, On a Whit-Sunday morn in the month of May. Lord Thomas he was a truth-fast knight, And a calm -eyed man was he. He pledged his troth to his mother's maid, A damsel of low degree: He spoke her fair, he spoke her true, And well to him listened she. He gave her a kiss, she gave him twain, All beneath an apple tree : The little birds trilled, the little birds filled The air with their melody, On a Whit- Sunday morn in the month of May. A goodly sight it was, I ween, This loving couple to see, For he w T as a tall and a stately man, And a queenly shape had she. With arms each laced round other's waist, Through the orchard paths they tread With gliding pace, face mixed with face, Yet never a word they said : Oh ! soared the song the birds among, And seemed with a rapture sped, On a Whit- Sunday morn in the month of May. 732 JOHN ORCHARD. The dew-wet grass all through they pass, The orchard they compass round ; Save words like sighs and swimming eyes No utterance they found. Upon his chest she leaned her breast, And nestled her small, small head, And cast a look so sad, that shook Him all with a meaning said : Oh hushed was the song the trees among As over there sailed a gled, On a Whit-Sunday morning in the month of May. Then forth with a faltering voice there came, " Ah, would Lord Thomas for thee That I were come of a lineage high, And not of a low degree." Lord Thomas her lips with his fingers touched, And stilled her all with his e'e : " Dear Ella! Dear Ella! " he said, if Beyond all my ancestry Is this dower of thine — that precious thing, Dear Ella, thy purity. Thee will I wed — lift up thy head — All I have I give to thee — Yes— all that is mine is also thine — My lands and my ancestry." The little birds sang and the orchard rang With a heavenly melody, On a Whit- Sunday morn in the month of May. /. NOEL PA TON J. NOEL PA TON, * LIGHT AND SHADOW. Life, thou wert once so sweet, so bright, I grudged each hour that slumber stole From happy Day — though happy Night Brought ever dreams of new delight To haunt the chambers of my soul. Now thou art all so dark, so drear, I pray for sleep to drown the pain, Though in his grisly train appear A thousand phantom-shapes of fear To wring the heart and sere the brain. /. NOEL PA TON THE PRINCE CONSORT MEMORIAL. (A Caveat. January 14, 1865.) Nor Theban obelisk, nor Attic fane, Perched far from men in solitary pride, On inaccessible crag or bleak hill-side, Swathed half the year in mist and blinding rain ! He loved the people — for the people toiled — Lived 'mongst the people — in whose grateful heart The memory of his goodness lives : a part Of each man's life. Let not such love be foiled In its due utterance. Be his monument Reared in our midst, where ever ebb and flow The human tides : that eyes unborn may grow Familiar with each noble lineament Of the True Man, beside whose sterling worth As merest tinsel seemed earth's loftiest state and birth. /. NOEL PA TON. 149 SONG. 1. With the sunshine and the swallows and the flowers She is coming, my beloved, o'er the sea ; And I sit alone and count the weary hours Till she cometh in her beauty back to me. And my heart will not be quiet, But in a purple riot Keeps ever madly beating At the thought of that sweet meeting, When she cometh with the summer o'er the sea; — All the sweetness of the south On the roses of her mouth ; All the fervour of its skies In her gentle northern eyes As she cometh, my beloved, home to me. 11. No more o* nights the shiv'ring north complains, But blithe birds twitter in the crimson dawn; No more the fairy-frost flowers fret the panes, But snowdrops gleam by garden path and lawn; And at times a white cloud wingeth From the southland up and bringeth A warm wind odour-laden /. NOEL PA TON P'rom the bowers of that fair Aiden Where she lingers by the blue Tyrrhenian Sea ; And I turn my lips to meet Its kisses faint and sweet, For I know from hers they've brought The message rapture fraught, " I am coming, Love, with summer, home to thee." /. NOEL PA TON. PROSCRIBED 1690. Long are the clouds this night above us, dear : Long are the clouds ! Few now on earth the hearts that love us, dear ; Foemen in crowds ! But while thy loving heart, Weak maiden as thou art, Beats warm and true, Friendship may pass me by, Life bring but infamy — Nothing I rue! Cold is the wind this night around us, dear: Cold is the wind ! Colder the words of hate that wound us, dear — False as unkind. But while those gentle eyes, Scorning the world's loud lies, Look in my face Faith-full, as now they look, Lightly my pride may brook Any disgrace. Dark is the way this night before us, dear: Dark is the way! No kindly star in the black heaven o'er us, dear, To lend its ray. / NOEL PA TON. But thou art by my side: Thy love my trusty guide : Thou my life's star, Lighting my woe-worn soul On to death's quiet goal — Still— ah! so far! /. NOEL PA TON. REQUIEM. Withered pansies faint and sweet, O'er his breast in silence shed, Faded lilies o'er his feet, Waning roses round his head, Where in dreamless sleep he lies — Folded palms and sealed eyes, — Young Love, within my bosom — dead. Young Love that was so fond, so fair, With his mouth of rosy red, Argent wing and golden hair, And those blue eyen, glory-fed From some fount of splendour, far Beyond or moon or sun or star — And can it be that he is dead ? Ay ! his breast is cold as snow : Pulse and breath for ever fled; — If I kist him ever so, To my kiss he were as lead ; If I dipt him as of yore He would answer me no more With lip or hand — for he is dead. /. NOEL PA TON But breathe no futile sigh ; no tear Smirch his pure and lonely bed. Let no foolish cippus rear Its weight above him. Only spread Rose, lily, pale forget-me-not, And pansies round the silent spot Where in his youth he lieth — dead. /. NOEL PA TON. AMATHEA. (From an Epigram of Theon of Samos.) I gazed into her deep, dark eyes : Gazed down, I thought into her soul ; And my heart leapt with glad surprise As through their limpid darkness stole A starry radiance — like the gleam Of Hesper, when at blush of even Fond Psyche first in raptured dream Clasped her young Eros fresh from heaven. I took the glowing hand that played In dusky tangles of her hair; I drew her closer — half afraid Her form would melt in rosy air. You love me, O my queen ! — I cried ; She stared with wide eyes, cold and dead ; Then, with a low, soft laugh of pride, Turned from me. — I arose and fled / NOEL PA TON In wrath and shame. — The dawning light Of love that in those dark eyes shone, With such sweet presage of delight — Was but the reflex of my own ! Yet still their baleful splendour burns To lure me, moth -like, as of yore; I hate, — and love, alas! by turns; But they shall fool me never more ! WILLIAM RE A Y. WILLIAM RE A K EPISTLE TO JOSEPH SKIPSEY. 'Tis three and twenty summers past Since you and I apart were cast To fight the cold world's bitter blast, As some folk call it ; But let's be cheerful till the last, Whate'er befall it. I know this world has many a jar, As rugged as the flinty scaur Which drives the poet's raptures far Beyond his guiding ; And yet the heart that knows no war Has little biding. It needs but little wit to know it ; This is no land for musing poet : The cricket ball, the people show it To be their glory ; Or how some boatman's skill " be blow it " Fills all their story. WILLIAM RE A Y. Yet what's the good of whining, wailing, Or gathering evils for retailing ! Our vessel's whole ! let's keep her sailing All weathers past ! We'll find some worthy pilot hailing Us safe at last. Here we are still ; then let us know There's pleasure in all winds that blow O'er summer hills or winter snow, By night, by day ; And glory in the western glow Stealing away. And in the silent hours of night, When moon and stars are shining bright, With whom our souls in raptured flight, Loves oft to roam : Seeking amid their sacred light A lasting home. And golden morn with glittering train, When Phoebus wakes to light again — The nibbling flocks, the whistling swain, The woodman strong, And reapers 'mong the golden grain Chanting their song. WILLIAM RE A Y. A heart-felt song, high up ascending, A charm unto the landscape lending, And birds in joyous mirth contending Among the trees; While Autumn tints, harmonious blending, Wave in the breeze. Through such fair visions would I stray, Till wandering by the Wear's green way, Where thy fine harp was wont to play, Beneath those walls, Whose towering heights, like giants grey, Old time recalls. To hear thy tales of ancient times, Of holy men and kingly crimes, The while the grand cathedral* chimes, Would pour their song, Like poet's flights in loftiest rhymes, Floating along. There many a theme did once engage Thy thoughts upon that antique page, Where holy men and bearded sage Their legends pour, A city full of hoary age — Grim ancient lore. * Durham Cathedral. WILLIAM RE A Y. But yet amid that busy throng Of ancient saints in shadows long, Or heroes moved by passions strong In byegone times ; The sweetest theme should be thy song In graphic rhymes. Such quiet joys I'd seek with thee, That's found by lonely lake or lea, Where spells that fall from tower and tree And flowerets fine, Might swell thy songs, so dear to me, To many a line. Two pilgrims still ; we'd cross the Tyne, Past wooded glens and castles fine, To see the Wansbeck waters shine — Sweet be their flow ! As dear to this fond heart of mine Long years ago. Dear Cousin Rob and Ephraim too, Whose simple hearts were kind and true, Oft wandered with us, through and through Those pleasant rambles : When tired, we drank till we were fu', At Colin Campb'll's.* * Hotel at Choppington, near Bedlington . WILLIAM RE A Y. I like a joyous hour to spend With social glass and genial friend, For then our darkest cares will wend We know not whither, To see our happiest feelings blend With one another. Were we among our native hills, Where bonnie Coquet stream distills, And Wansbeck, queen of sparkling rills, And hawthorns scented — We'd whet again our blunted quills, And live contented. We'd muse upon each place and time, Where all things bear the glow of rhyme, Where every bush and tree can chime The raptured story, Which fire the youth in every clime To love and glory. Whose mountain summit, glen, and cave, Speak of the glories of the brave, Who marched forth like the stemless wave, 'Mid battle's clang; Laying down the tyrants, and the slave, In layers alang. WILLIAM RE A Y. O I then, sweet muse, harmonious maid, Could I for once but win thine aid, To touch those glorious scenes portrayed In ancient story, Where sternest warriors deep did wade Through blood to glory ! Fair, gentle Muse, take thou my hand, Lead me to that bright fairy land Where near to Nature I may stand In musing mood, And every natural charm command, . By field and flood. Or to some calm immortal shrine, Where those who loved and sang recline, The glory of the radiant Nine, In sweet repose; Where every art in grace combine And genius glows. Yes ! were I young, I might aspire, To touch that mighty swelling lyre, That wins all hearts ; the heart-felt fire, Which all men know, Should be my theme, should me inspire, In joy or woe. WILLIAM RE A Y. 163 But ah ! I fear that time's gone by That lit the flame in you and I, Which gave a light to every sky And streamlet glancing, And sent the spirits dancing high, Like coursers prancing. Now like a barque with folded sail I drift before life's rustling gale; Still would I chant some cheerful tale, As long's I may, And with my genial friend still hail Each closing day. To sit with thee beside the fire, When day with all its toils retire, To hear thee sweep the passionate lyre, The heart revealing, Warming the soul till it inspire The holiest feeling. What then were courts, kingdoms, and state, The gilded name that sounds so great, The boiling wine, the costly plate, The dazzling glare, Have oft been found, alas ! too late — Not worth their care. WILLIAM RE A Y. Keep to thy muse, my gentle crony, Still weave those lines so soft and bonnie Of lovers' woes and gossips funny Until we meet, When o'er each tale, dearer than money, We'll laugh and greet. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 165 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI, SONNETS ON PICTURES. For an " Annunciation." Early German. The Lilies stand before her like a screen Through which, upon this warm and solemn day, God surely hears. For there she kneels to pray Who wafts our prayers to God — Mary the Queen. She was Faith's Present, parting what had been From what began with her, and is for aye. On either hand, God's twofold system lay : With meek bowed face a virgin prayed between. So prays she, and the Dove flies in to her, And she has turned. At the low porch is one Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile. Heavy with heat the plants yield shadow there; The loud flies cross each other in the sun ; And the aisled pillars meet the poplar-aisle. 166 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. For "Our Lady of the Rocks." By Leonardo da Vinci, Mother, is this the darkness of the end, The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustained In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while He Blesses the dead with His hand silently To His long day which hours no more offend ? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen are these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 167 For a " Venetian Pastoral." By Giorgione (in the Louvre). Water, for anguish of the solstice: — nay, But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush ! beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day: Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, — Life touching lips with Immortality. i68 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. For an "Allegorical Dance of Women." By Andrea Mantegna [in the Louvre). SCARCELY, I think; yet it indeed may be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning towards them, he Just felt their hair carried across his lace As each girl passed him ; nor gave ear to trace How many feet ; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To know the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A secret of the wells of Life: to wit : — The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 169 For " Ruggiero and Angelica." By Ingres. A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim : One rock point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim: -A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock : a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heart-sick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt : Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She does not hear nor see — she knows of them. i7o DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. ii. Clench thine eyes now, — 'tis the last instant, girl : Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all : thy life is keen awake, — Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee ? — or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache ? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh? — or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence : for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 171 For a "Virgin and Child." By Bans Memmelinck [in the Acade?ny of BfUges). Mystery : God, man's life, born into man Of woman. There abideth on her brow The ended pang of knowledge, the which now Is calm assured. Since first her task began She hath known all. What more of anguish than Endurance oft hath lived through, the whole space Through night till day, passed weak upon her face While the heard lapse of darkness slowly ran ? All hath been told her touching her dear Son, And all shall be accomplished. Where he sits Even now, a babe, He holds the symbol fruit Perfect and chosen. Until God permits, His soul's elect still have the absolute Harsh nether darkness, and make painful moan. 172 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL For a " Marriage of St. Catherine. " By Hans Memmelinck (in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges). Mystery : Catherine the bride of Christ. She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child Now sets the ring. Her life is hushed and mild, Laid in God's knowledge — ever unenticed From God, and in the end thus fitly priced. Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought Of angels, have possessed her eyes in thought : Her utter joy is hers, and hath sufficed. There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book, That damsel at her knees reads after her. John whom He loved, and John His harbinger, Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, The light is starred in gems and the gold burns. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 173 For "The Wine of Circe." By Edward Burne Jones. Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. Doth Helios here with Hecate combine (O Circe, thou their votaress ?) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name Till pitiless night give day the countersign ? Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, Wait; who with them in new equality To-night shall echo back the sea's dull roar With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore Where the dishevelled sea-weed hates the sea. 174 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. For "The Holy Family." By Michael Angelo (in the National Gallery). Turn not the prophet's page, O Son ! He knew All that thou hast to suffer, and hath writ. Not yet thine hour of knowledge. Infinite The sorrows that thy manhood's lot must rue And dire acquaintance of thy grief. That clue The spirits of thy mournful ministerings Seek through yon scroll in silence. For these things The angels have desired to look into. Still before Eden waves the fiery Sword, — Her Tree of Life unransomed: whose sad Tree Of Knowledge yet to growth of Calvary Must yield its Tempter, — Hell the earliest dead Of earth resign, — and yet, O Son and Lord, The seed o' the woman bruise the serpent's head. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 175 For tfc Spring." By Sandro Botticelli (in the Accademia of Florence). What masque of what old wind-withered New Year Honours this Lady? Flora, wanton-eyed For birth, and with all flow' rets prankt and pied. Aurora, Zephyrus, with mutual cheer Of clasp and kiss: the Graces circling near, 'Neath bower-linked arch of white arms glorified : And with those feathered feet which hovering glide O'er Spring's brief bloom, Hermes the harbinger. Birth-bare, not death-bare yet, the young stems stand This Lady's temple-columns : o'er her head Love wings his shaft. What mystery here is read Of homage or of hope? But how command Dead Springs to answer ? And how question here These mummers of that wind-withered New Year ? 176 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. SONNETS FOR ROSSETTI'S OWN PICTURES AND DRAWINGS. "The Passover in the Holy Family." {For a Drawing.) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. " Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel,''— did God say By Moses mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families, — Lo ! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest ? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose ; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 177 " Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the Pharisee." {For a Drawing.) " Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house,— that banquet-house we seek ; See how they kiss and enter; come thou there. This delicate day of love we two will share Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one, — hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair." " Oh loose me! Seest thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him ? For His feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves to-day: — and oh ! What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His ? He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me go ! " 734 178 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL " Venus Verticordia." {For a Picture.) She hath the apple in her hand for thee, Yet almost in her heart would hold it back ; She muses, with her eyes upon the track Of that which in thy spirit they can see. Haply, " Behold, he is at peace," saith she ; 11 Alas ! the apple for his lips, — the dart That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,— The wandering of his feet perpetually ! " A little space her glance is still and coy ; But if she give the fruit that works her spell, Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell, And her far seas moan as a single shell, And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 179 u Pandora." ( For a Picture. ) What of the end, Pandora? Was it thine. The deed that set these fiery pinions free ? Ah ! wherefore did the Olympian consistory In its own likeness make thee half divine ? Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign For ever ? and the mien of Pallas be A deadly thing ? and that all men might see In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine ? What of the end ? These beat their wings at will, The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill,— Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. Aye, clench the casket now ! . Whither they go Thou mayst not dare to think : nor canst thou know If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. i8o DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL "A Sea-Spell." {For a Picture. ) Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree, While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell, The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. But to what sound her listening ear stoops she ? What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear, In answering echoes from what planisphere, Along the wind, along the estuary? She sinks into her spell : and when full soon Her lips move and she soars into her song, What creatures of the midmost main shall throng In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune, Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry, And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die? DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 181 " ASTARTE SyRIACA. ?> * ( For a Picture. ) Mystery : lo ! betwixt the sun and moon Astarte of the Syrians : Venus Queen Ere Aphrodite was. In silver sheen Her two-fold girdle clasps the infinite boon Of bliss whereof the heaven and earth commune : And from her neck's inclining flower-stem lean Love-freighted lips and absolute eyes that wean The pulse of hearts to the spheres' dominant tune. Torch-bearing, her sweet ministers compel All thrones of light beyond the sky and sea The witnesses of Beauty's face to be : That face, of Love's all penetrative spell Amulet, talisman, and oracle, — Betwixt the sun and moon a mystery. 1 82 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. u Fl AM ETTA." {For a Picture. ) Behold Fiametta, shown in Vision here. Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth she stands ; And as she sways the branches with her hands, Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer, In separate petals shed, each like a tear; While from the quivering bough the bird expands His wings. And lo ! thy spirit understands Life shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near. All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air: The angel circling round her aureole Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole : While she, with reassuring eyes most fair, A presage and a promise stands; as 'twere On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the soul. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 183 " Found." {For a Picture. ) " There is a budding morrow in midnight ": — So sang our Keats, our English nightingale. And here, as lamps across the bridge turn pale In London's smokeless resurrection-light, Dark breaks to dawn. But o'er the deadly blight Of Love deflowered and sorrow of none avail, Which makes this man gasp and this woman quail, Can day from darkness ever again take flight ? Ah ! gave not these two hearts their mutual pledge, Under one mantle sheltered 'neath the hedge In gloaming courtship ? And, O God ! to-day He only knows he holds her ; — but what part Can life now take? she cries in her locked heart, — " Leave me — I do not know you — go away ! " 1 84 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL "The Day-Dream. " (For a Picture. ) The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore Still bear young leaflets half the summer through ; From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core, The embowered throstles urgent wood-notes soar Through summer silence. Still the leaves come new ; Yet never rosy-sheathed, as those which drew Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore. Within the branching shade of Reverie, Dreams even may spring till autumn ; yet none be Like woman's budding day-dream spirit-fann'd. Lo! tow'rd deep skies, not deeper than her look, She dreams ; till now on her forgotten book Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand. JOHN RUSK IN. JOHN RUSK IN. * THE LAST SMILE. She sat beside me yesterday With lip, and eye, so blandly smiling, So full of soul, of life, of light, So sweetly my lorn heart beguiling That she had almost made me gay — Had almost charmed the thought away — (Which, like the poisoned desert wind, Came sick and heavy o'er my mind) — That memory soon mine all would be, And she would smile no more for me. JOHN RUSK IN. CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. Night. Faint from the bell the ghastly echoes fall, That grates within the grey cathedral tower ; Let me not enter through the portal tall, Lest the strange spirit of the moonless hour Should give a life to those pale people, who Lie in their fretted niches, two and two, Each with his head on pillowy stone reposed, And his hands lifted, and his eyelids closed. From many a mouldering oriel, as to flout, Its pale, grave brow of ivy-tressed stone, Comes the incongruous laugh, and revel shout — Above, some solitary casement, thrown Wide open to the wavering night wind, Admits its chill, so deathful, yet so kind, Unto the fevered brow and fiery eye Of one, whose night hour passeth sleeplessly. Ye melancholy chambers ! I could shun The darkness of your silence, with such fear, As places where slow murder had been done, How many noble spirits have died here Withering away in yearnings to aspire Gnawed by mocked hope — devoured by their own fire ! Methinks the grave must feel a colder bed To spirits such as these, than unto common dead. JOHN RUSK IN. 187 THE HILLS OF CARRARA. Amidst a vale of springing leaves Where spreaJs the vine its wandering root And cumbrous fall the autumnal sheaves And olives shed their sable fruit, And gentle winds, and waters never mute, Make of young boughs and pebbles pure One universal lute. And bright birds, through the myrtle copse obscure, Pierce with quick notes, and plumage dipped in dew, The silence and the shade of each lulled avenue. If. Far in the depths of voiceless skies Where calm and cold the stars are strewed, The peaks of pale Carrara rise. Nor sound of storm, nor whirlwind rude, Can break their chill of marble solitude ; The crimson lightnings round their crest May hold their fiery feud — They hear not, nor reply ; their charmed rest No flow'ret decks, nor herbage green, nor breath Of moving thing can change their atmosphere of death. i88 JOHN RUSKIN. in. But far beneath, in folded sleep, Faint forms of heavenly life are laid With pale brows and soft eyes, that keep Sweet peace of unawakened shade, Whose wreathed limbs, in robes of rock arrayed, Fall like white waves on human thought, In fitful dreams displayed ; Deep through their secret homes of slumber sought, They rise immortal, children of the day, Gleaming with godlike forms on earth, and her decay. IV. Yes, where the bud hath brightest germ, And broad the golden blossoms glow, There glides the snake and works the worm And black the earth is laid below. Ah ! think not thou the souls of men to know ; By outward smiles in wilderness worn ; The words that jest at woe Spring not less lightly, though the heart be torn, The mocking heart, that scarcely dares confess Even to itself, the strength of its own bitterness. Nor deem that they whose words are cold, Whose brows are dark, have hearts of steel, The couchant strength, untraced, untold, Of thoughts they keep and throbs they feel, JOHN RUSK IN, May need an answering musing to unseal, Who knows that waves may stir the silent sea. Beneath the low appeal From distant shores, of winds unfelt by thee ? What sounds may wake within the winding shell, Responsive to the charm of those who touch it well. 190 DAVID SCOTT. DAVID SCOTT, * WRITTEN ON LAKE MAGGIORE, 1832. With thee, Lake Maggiore ! I'm in love This morning while the mist is grey above, On thy calm waters drowsily outspread I stretch my heart to Heaven, and lay my head — How long I know not — till the sun looks out Between two clouds a moment as in doubt. Silent and slowly now the mountains raise The endless coverings of vapoury haze From each grey head, and bending down they greet Their ancient brethren, as their shadows meet In thy clear ample face, Maggiore. Doth not thy beauty seem a type to me Of the commanding eye and gentle power Which in my longing heart, hath many an hour Held holy presence? Now, in thought, I go With thee, my sun, my mirroring lake ! The flow Of time forgotten, on the tide we fly ; Our oars are strong, our boatmen — can they die? DAVID SCOTT. 191 No! says the trembling blue between the clouds- Yes ! says the vapour, that the clear blue shrouds, But while with pleasure skims our barge along, Come let us join the spirit-boatman's song, Glide while we may, while morning shines, And the glad earth an answer chimes; Tipped with gold are the citron trees, And bright is all the drowsed eye sees ; Every oar-drop while we pull, Now turns into a spangle ; dull Is naught ; our bark is bright of colour, And our sails can ne'er be fuller; The waters, they too with us glide, Turning in our course the tide, All in service of our skill, Bearing onward with good will, To guide the way 'mid morning shine, To meet our hopes — hopes thine and mine. And theirs who with us skim the wave That flows 'twixt childhood and the grave. 192 DAVID SCOTT, FAREWELL TO ROME, 1834. Farewell to her who sits upon seven hills — To call her by no other or worse name; The Apocalypse has told of all her ills, I, coming after, only wish the fame Of all her denes, for the which I came : And, going, I take leave of her in rhyme— If it should be for aye, 'tis all the same — I am indifferent whether Father Time Shall ever lead me back to this delightful clime. Some by their constitution formed to think Wonders of most things, find their hopes all cheated, And often with a misanthropic shrink Turn round and curse their passion overheated ; While still their disappointment, many fated, Keeps up with them and only parting gives Small recompense for mischiefs they have greeted ; Till knowledge their anticipation shrives, And turns them out to lead 'mong grass and weeds their lives. That I've been disappointed thus, or pleased, May to myself more clearly hence appear ; That I've been oft sore, satiated, and teased, I know; but that is different ; more severe DAVID SCOTT. 93 Question I make than these brief feelings bear An answer to. Meantime I hold my breath While Time doth weave around, for me to wear, A robe that in its hidden meshes hath A power of living life — a darker power than death. Then farewell, first, to first of bangled fabrics, The Turnkey's Dome ! next, farewell ring for slaughter — Or what was so — now magazine of bricks The largest, and an echo for loud laughter ! Next ground to lay one's flesh and bones in, after Their use is past, farewell ! and unto thee By some called yellow, and I muddy, water, The same farewell I freely wish all ye Houses and dirty streets, called whatsoe'er ye be 1 Ye temples ruined, or of present doing, Farewell ! I look at all religions, past And present here, as much the same — their viewing Soon becomes irksome — one or two may last To write their moral. Briefly then I cast My hat upon my head — M Ye men of Rome," Farewell ! and ye fair donnas, kindly haste Your long adio 1 else it will not come More strongly on my ear than would a grey fly's hum. I'm done with both — a forestiero more They find me not — in peace with both I go. 735 DAVID SCOTT. Whate'er I think, or thought a year before This date, of you, 'twere little worth to know, Or difficult ; there's much that's just so-so About you — "no respect, no admiration" — Although there is good style about the flow Of lines in the dark faces of the nation, But soulless 'tis, mere physical conformation. Farewell to moss-chaunts, rubric histories, and Long-waited benedictions, festas ! all Living, because they did live ere Time's sand Had run these last five centuries : the call Of many voices in your deaf ears brawl — But deafness is your wisdom — so be still As an old granite God, or move to fall. Sphynx found her riddle read, and so yours will Ere long be read ; your numbered cycles fill ! Pictures and statues, great and small, farewell ! It must be we thus part — maybe forever ! But some with memory shall always dwell, Till ceases flowing the heart's rapid river : Nor with the many is it pain to sever, — Happy 'tis so. Oh, Spirit of these few ! Dweller in light, where the unworthy never Can come to darken ! thou the always true ! Grant thou to light my path! — my only prayer to you. DAVID SCOTT. 195 My studio, to thee farewell ! thy walls Are again bare ; those months I've past with thee I've done my best to mark, if fruitless falls My effort : so, if Fate says it must be, Fate is the palliation ; rests with me The present duty, and its pleasures, pains, Joyance or sadness, gloom or revelry, That plague the heart and agitate the brain, As comes or flees the good — the visionary gain. Farewell to other studios, British first ; There may be one, or two, or three, to see Which art hath visited ; but 'tis a curst Country they appertain to, in the free Aiding of those who stake their peace to be The strugglers in the unrequited way : Shops of the trade in art, where — mystery ! Gold leads forth what's called "mind" to light of day, And reputation grows, as grows its gainer's pay. Critics (all here are such), farewell! but no, Enough of thy pretensions otherwheres We have. One hydra I now leave, to go Where there exists another, spreading snares, Talking at second-hand, both corn and tares Rooting up as he goes ; the vulgar eyes Shut up all quietly the monster bears, In his Pandora-box, whence ever flies A varied host abroad, and each its story cries. 196 DAVID SCOTT. Old picture copiers, and old picture makers, I go where both your trades are little known; Spectacled friends of Titian, Claude, and rakers Of lumber rooms and halls, where dust hath sown A soil o'er nameless pictures, by you grown Into the labours of the greatest names, They come forth patched and varnished, and are shown Authenticated by well managed claims And passed from prince to count, as best the story frames. I part with both, and am well pleased to part; A sufferer one I've found, and seen him toil In galleries, working for life's lowest mart Among the highest things, in ceaseless moil. The other, a low trickery, a coil For foolish judges in their self-esteem, Who spreads his nets upon a fruitful soil Of knavery, and smoothly drives the team Of simple souls, that ne'er of being driven dream. And last farewell, thou band of artist brothers- Fathers, men-mid wives; you may call them either — Creators they of thoughts, or thoughts of others Helping to live. Ah, perhaps Spirit-breather Some one prefers being called, as through the ether O' the Scalinata he may deftly soar, DAVID SCOTT. i Riding his Pegasus, till the mighty nether World of common sense is lost i' the roar Of plaudits only heard voting life all a bore. But I forget the Glees and Bon Gout, With their best samples of the best of deeds, Where throng the smoking, coffee-drinking crew Of various nations, but the artist breeds Most numerous — a slough wherein the seeds Of idleness may ripen ; but where knowing Critics of tazzas, mezzo-caldos, T ds, Plentiful are, or seen, indeed, just growing, As they are elbowed round its ample tables flowin But I must end. In short, farewell to all That I have met ! Now I look round and view From where I stand, the glorious Capitol ; It answers more than words, and I renew My ancient sympathies and hopes, though few Realities have equal'd them, they come Back on me fair, but not like those I knew Beckoning me on, before I left the home To which I now return, rejoicing I know Rome. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. * THE MADONNA DI SAN SISTO. Once and once only and no more, Art hath reached the topmost bough, The goodliest fruit of all the store Our well-filled garner holds till now. Out of a life-filled atmosphere She comes with silent step, with mild And plaintive eyes bent sadly here, Holding her prize of prizes, her man-child, King of the world-expected year Safe within her queenly arms Above all harms. Once and once only and no more, Above the sensuous classic night, Born of the dusk mid-christian lore, Into our midday's questioning light : WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. Behold ! Ideal womanhood, Maternity supremely good, Self-sacrificing, without stain ; Goddess eternally serene Yet robed in thoughtful mortal mien ; And once, no more the painter's art Hath touched this mystery on the heart. Behold her here, untouched by pain, But with foreknowledge of the day Still far away In darkness on the mount of death Defiled by malefactor's breath — When, ' ' It is finished ! " he shall cry And the immortal seem to die. Finished ? nay, but just begun Beneath the sun Look at him here, a child to-day. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. IN ROME, a.d. 150. {For a Picture.) Face against face the New Faith meets the Old : The New with its inspiring hopes of life Beyond the Agape and all earth strife, God-guided through an alien world, with cold Postponement of the triumph-crown of gold The Old irresolute and faint of heart, But loving all sweet things, and flowers, and art That deifies nature's fashions manifold. Sceptre and wreath, they ask for : " Now, this hour Be kind to us, O Gods ; let us not dare And lose the prize ; let the sun shine to-day, The song be heard ! " but gone is all their power ; Their eyes are dark ; a cry is in the air : " Awake ! arise, arise, and come away ! " WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 20I SANDRART'S INSCRIPTION ON ALBERT DURER'S GRAVE, NURNBERG. Rest here, thou Prince of Painters, thou who wast better than great, In many arts unequalled in the old time or the late. Earth thou didst paint and garnish, and now, in thy new abode Thou paintest the holy things overhead in the city of God. And we, as our patron saint, look up to thee ever will And crown, with a laurel crown, the dust left here with us still. 202 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. TO MY BROTHER, On Publishing His Memoir. My brother, latest of so many, passed Across the unknown dark sea, where we all Must follow, as our days and hours are cast : I speak to thee, I touch the dreadful pall, To lay thine own bay-leaves upon thy bier. It may be in the arcane truths of God, Thou still dost feel this touch, dost feel and hear, And recognisest still the cold green sod, Immensely far yet infinitely near ! Thou who hast shown how much the steadfast soul Bears abnegation, how an ideal goal Robs life, how singleness of heart hopes long, And how, by suffering sanctified, the song From the inner shrine becomes more just and strong. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 203 TO THE ARTISTS CALLED P.R.B. 1851. I thank you, brethren in sincerity, — One who, within the temperate climes of Art, From the charmed circle humbly stands apart, Scornfully also, with a listless eye Watching old marionette's vitality ; For you have shown, with youth's brave confidence, The honesty of true speech and the sense Uniting life with 4< nature," earth with sky. In faithful hearts Art strikes its roots far down, And bears both flower and fruit with seeded core ; When Truth dies out, the fruit appears no more, But the flower hides a worm within its crowr, God speed you onward ! once again our way Shall be made odorous with fresh flowers of May. 204 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. AN ARTIST'S BIRTHPLACE. This is the statement's country: every man Hath his own steading, his own field, his garth And share of common and of moss, wherefrom He cuts his winter fuel, building up The russet stack above his gable thatch. Look through that straggling unpruned hedge, you'll see One of those sinewy Saxons, such an one, From sire to son, perhaps, hath tilled that mould, For these five hundred years ; that rough-hewn block Of timber plays the part of harrow here. And now we reach the turn I told you of, Close to our journey's end. The violets Are just as thick as ever, and beneath The rooty sand-bank those white embers show A gipsy's bivouac has but late been here. And there is this old village, with its wide Irregular path, its rattling streamlet bridged Before each cottage with loose planks or stones, And all the geese and ducks that have no fear Of strangers, the wide smith's shop, and the church Whose grey stone roof is within reach of hand. A fit place for an artist to be reared ; Not a great Master whose vast unshared toils, WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. Add to the riches of the world, rebuild God's house, and clothe with Prophets walls and roof, Defending cities as a pastime — such We have not! but the homelier, heartier hand That gives us English landscapes year by year. There is his small ancestral home, so gay, With rosery and green wicket. We last met In London : I've heard since he had returned Homeward less sound in health than when he reached That athlete's theatre, well termed the grave Of little reputation. Fresh again Let's hope to find him. Thus conversing stept Two travellers downward. The descending road Rough with loose pebbles left by floods of late : Straight through the wicket passed they, and in front The pent-roofed door stood knocking: all was still: Through the low parlour windows books were seen Upon the little settle, and some pots With flowers, a birdcage hung too without song. Close to the window; round them noontide glowed So gladsomely, the leaves were every one Glistening and quivering, and the hosts of gnats Spun in the shadows; but within seemed dark And dead. A quick light foot is heard, and there 2o6 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. Before them stood a maiden in the sun That fell upon her chestnut hair like fire. How winsome fair she was 'tis hard to tell ! For she was strong and straight like a young elm, And without fear, although she halted there Answering with coy eyes scarce turned to us, Yet not embarrassed, while she told the tale Of the sick man. Then felt the strangers free To look upon her : her tall neck was tinged With brown and bore her small head easily Like that of a giraffe ; her saffron jupe, Girt loosely round her long waist, fell in folds From her high bosom, — but, as hath been said, How winsome fair she was 'twas hard to tell — Untaught and strong, and conscious of no charm ; I might describe her from the head succinct, Even to the high-arched instep of her foot, And all in vain : the soul sincere, the full Yet homely harmony she bore with her, Moved me like the first sight of the sea, And made me think of old queens, Guenevere, Or maid Rowena with her " waes-hail," or Aslauga whom the Sea-king chanced upon, Keeping her sheep beside Norse waves, the while She combed her hair out mirror'd in the stream. The artist was not there to welcome them, That much was plain ; and more, the life of home Was not for him; Elspeth, the crazed beldame WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 207 O' the village, shouted and sang by sometimes, And that he could not bear. This and much else, At the hedge ale-house, while the friends regaled By the wide chimney where the brown turf burned, And daylight glinted down, they heard. But still As of the damsel thought they most, one cried — * ' I could have ta'en her head between my hands And kissed her, — she's so wise and frank and kind, I'm sure she never would have thought it strange/' WILLIAM BELL SCOTT, WOODSTOCK MAZE. £i O never shall any one find you then ! " Said he, merrily pinching her cheek ; " But why? " she asked, — he only laughed,— " Why shall it be thus, now speak ! M " Because so like a bird art thou, Thou must live within green trees, With nightingales and thrushes and wrens, And the humming of wild bees." Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. " Nay, nay, you jest, no wren am I, Nor thrush nor nightingale, And rather would keep this arras and wall 'Tween me and the winds assail. I like to hear little Minnie's gay laugh, And the whistle of Japes the page, Or to watch old Madge when her spindle twirls, And she tends it like a sage." Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, Fall and fall over churchyard or hall, " Yea, yea, but thou art the world's best Rose, And about thee flowers I'll twine, WILLIAM BELL SCOTT, And wall thee round with holly and beech, Sweet-briar and jessamine." " Nay, nay, sweet master, I'm no Rose, But a woman indeed, indeed, And love many things both great and small, And of many things more take heed." Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. " Aye, sweetheart, sure thou sayest sooth I think thou art even so ! But yet needs must I dibble the hedge Close serried as hedge can grow. Then Minnie and Japes and Madge shall be Thy merry mates all day long, And thou shalt hear my bugle-call For matin or even-song." Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, Fall and fall over churchyard and hall. M* THACKERAY. W. M THACKERAY. THE MAHOGANY TREE. Christmas is here; Winds whistle shrill Icy and chill, Little care we : Little we fear Weather without Sheltered about The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs, Birds of rare plume Sang, in its bloom ; Night-birds are we: Here we carouse, Singing, like them, Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. 218 W. M. THACKERAY. Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit ; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but short — When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree. Evenings we knew, Happy as this; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust ! We sing round the tree. Care like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait ; Happy we'll be ! Drink every one; Pile up the coals Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree ! Drain we the cup. — Friend, art afraid? W. M. THACKERAY. 219 Spirits are laid In the red sea. Mantle it up ; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree. Sorrows, begone! Life and its ills, Duns and their bills Bid we to flee. Come with the dawn, Blue devil sprite, Leave us to-night, Round the old tree. ARTHUR TOM SON. ARTHUR TOM SON. * THE WITCH-LADYE. When mortals rest, When the owl leaves her nest, And the earth lies still, And the moon's on the hill, Wakes the Witch- Lady e. There comes a hush — Then a sudden rush Of things of the air That have left their lair With the Witch-Ladye. In a cloud bedight, Through realms of light, And valleys of gloom, On her flying broom Sails the Witch-Ladye. ARTHUR TOM SON. 221 AN AUTUMN GARDEN. Come, let us linger here a little space, While red clouds glimmer in the jewelled sky, And low winds whisper where the dead leaves lie; Our life to-day to-morrow will efface ; The winged hours speed for ever in their race, Bearing us blindfold to eternity; The roses droop and fall, — all joys pass by, Torn by relentless Time from our embrace. In that dim world of which no mortal knows, Bloom there our faded flowers for other eyes? Or does earth claim them as the winter snows ? — Of the hereafter know we Nature's lore. O let us love, dear love, till life denies Lest we meet not on Death's eternal shore. 222 ARTHUR TOM SON. SPRING SONG. Yellow, green, and dappled white, Meadows sparkling in the light ; Wrapped in emerald and gold, Nature smiles from brook and wold. Bird on the willow-tree, Sing to me — sing to me, My heart is glad with thee. Tinkling sheep-bells, shepherd's song, Breezes echo all day long; Hawthorn bushes gay with flower Form again a lovers' bower. Bird on the willow-tree, Sing to me — sing to me, My heart is glad with thee. Black wings glitter in the sky, Fleecy clouds seem scarce as high ; Toilers laugh for Spring drives Care With the dead leaves from her lair, Bird on the willow-tree, Sing to me — sing to me, My heart is glad with thee. /. M. W. TURNER, 223 / M W. TURNER. FOR THE PICTURE " NARCISSUS AND ECHO." " So melts the youth and languishes away ; His beauty withers and his limbs decay; And none of those attractive charms remain To which the slighted echo su'd in vain. She saw him in his present misery, Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she griev'd to see : She answered sadly to the lover's moan, Sighed back his sighs, and groaned to every groan : 1 Ah, youth belov'd in vain !' Narcissus cries ; 1 Ah, youth belov'd in vain ! ' the nymph replies. ( Farewell ! ' says he: the parting sound scarce fell From his faint lips, but she replied ' Farewell ! ' " 224 /. M. W. TURNER. FOR THE PICTURE "THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER PANELLENIUS RESTORED." " 'TWAS now the earliest morning ; soon the sun, Rising above ^Egina, poured his light Amid the forest, and, with ray aslant, Entering its depth, illumed the branching pines, Brightened their bark, tinged with a redder hue Its rusty stains, and cast along the ground Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect Like pillars of the temple." /. M. IV. TURNER. 225 FOR THE PICTURE "THE DECLINE OF THE CARTHAGINIAN EMPIRE." . . . At Hope's delusive smile, The chieftain's safety and the mother's pride, Were to the insidious conqu'ror's grasp resign'd ; While o'er the western wave th* ensanguin'd sun, In gathering haze a stormy signal spread, And set portentous," 737 226 /. M. W. TURNER. FOR THE PICTURE "THE FIELD OF WATERLOO." ' 1 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life; Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ; The morn, the marshalling of arms — the day, Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse — friend, foe, in one red burial blent !" Byron. /. M. W. TURNER, 227 FOR THE PICTURE "THE ERUPTION OF THE SOUFFRIER MOUNTAINS," in the Island of St. Vincent, at Midnight on the 30TH of April, 181 2. {From a Sketch taken at the time by Hugh P. Keane, Esq. ) There in stupendous horror grew The red volcano to the view, And shook in thunders of its own, While the blaz'd hill in lightnings shone, Scatt'ring thin arrows round. As down its sides of liquid flame The devastating cataract came, With melting rocks and crackling woods, And mingled roar of boiling floods, And roll'd along the ground ! 228 /. AL W. TURNER. FOR THE PICTURE THE BATTLE OF FORT ROCK, VAL D'AOUSTE, PIEDMONT, 1796 " "The snow-capt mountain, and huge towers of Ice Thrust forth their dreary barriers in vain ; Onward the van progressive forc'd its way, Propell'd as the wild Reuss, by native Glaciers fed, Rolls on impetuous, with every check gains force By the constraint uprais'd ; till, on its gathering powers All yielding, down the pass wide devastation pours Her own destructive course. Thus rapine stalk'd Triumphant; and plundering hordes, exulting strew'd Fair Italy, thy plains with woe.*' Fallacies of Hope, MS. SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. 229 SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. * TWO SONGS. From " The Provok'd Wife.' ; 1. Fly, fly, you happy shepherds, fly ! Avoid Philira's charms, The rigour of her heart denies The Heaven that's in her arms j Ne'er hope to gaze and then retire, Nor yielding to be blest; Nature who form'd her eyes of fire, Of ice composed her breast. Yet lovely maid, this once believe A slave whose zeal you move ; The Gods, alas ! your youth deceive, Their Heaven consists in love ; In spite of all the thanks you owe, You may reproach 'em this; That where they did their form bestow They have denied their bliss. SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. ii. Not an angel dwells above Half so fair as her I love ; Heaven knows how she'll receive me, If she smiles I'm blest indeed; If she frowns I'm quickly freed ; Heaven knows she ne'er can grieve me. None can love her more than I, Yet she ne'er shall make me die ; If my flame can never warm her, Lasting beauty I'll adore; I shall never love her more, Cruelty will so deform her. SIX JOHN VANBRUGH. SONG. From "The Relapse; or, Virtue in Danger." I smile at love and all its Arts, The charming Cynthia cried ; Take heed, for Love has piercing Darts, A wounded Swain reply'd. Once free and blest as you are now, I trifled with his Charms; I pouted at his little Bow, And sported with his Arms : Till urg'd too far, Revenge he cries, A fated Shaft he drew, It took its passage through your Eyes, And to my Heart it flew. To tear it thence I try'd in vain ; To strive I quickly found Was only to increase the Pain And to enlarge the Wound. Ah ! much too well, I fear you know What pain I'm to endure, Since what your Eyes alone could do Your Heart alone can cure. And that (grant heaven I may mistake) I doubt is doomed to bear A burden for another's sake Who ill rewards its care. 232 C. W. WHALL. C. IV. WHALL. * TWO BABES: A Midwinter Bucolic. [A stable on a MIL The Virgin and Child: to them enters the Old Year.] The Old Year. I have gathered all my sheaves, I have scattered all my leaves, All my flowers have fallen down, Only thorns my forehead crown ; It is time I were away, Leaving youth the lengthening day, Little else than boughs for burning Take I with me in returning : Men have filled me with their sin ; May a better time begin ! Infant God at Mary's knee, I leave the infant year to Thee. [He passes Westward ; and the New Year returns from the East.~\ C. W. WHALL. 233 The New Year. A moment born, but giant strong To roll the toiling orbs along, I hold for twelve months in my hands Lives outnumbering the sands. On me the world's whole hope is set, — Christ {aside). And not on Me, — do men forget ? The New Year. But I tremble at my load And the cold, untrodden road, The wandering crowds that press and throng, Where lust is rife, and drink is strong ; 'Till drifting down the broadening vale, Like Autumn leaves upon the gale, The sere lives are swept along, Leaving destined chairs unprest In the circle of the Blest, And chords imperfect in their song. I am sent these souls to win, How shall I my task begin ? Christ, Begin with Me. Oh ! take My hand, That here beseech, who might command. C IV. WHALL. Let us wander forth together In this dark and wintry weather: Now you've come we can begin Asking who will take us in. Mother, I must go away To play once more My passion-play; Once more in Gethsemane To go through mine agony ; And once more to climb the road, Carrying for men My load, Up the hill to Calvary. The Virgin. I will wait in heaven and pray Until your ascension day. The New Year. Thou are the Christ ! my Lord and God, Let me accompany Thy road. With Thee I do not shrink to go Into the wintry world: but lo! The grey spirit gone before, Amongst his footprints at the door Has thrown something on the snow, A token left to speed, — or warn: Look what it is — a crown ! C. W. WHALL. Christ. Of thorn, Like the one that I have worn. But come with Me and do not grieve ; Men's hearts are open to receive The Hope you bring to help their woe, For I bring Love. The New Year. Ah ! let us go. THOMAS WOOLNER. THOMAS WOOLNER. * GIVEN OVER. The men of learning say she must Soon pass and be as if she had not been. To gratify the barren lust Of Death, the rosen in her cheeks are seen To blush so brightly, blooming deeper damascene. Ail hope and doubt, all fears are vain, The dreams I nursed of honouring her are past, And will not comfort me again. I see a lurid sunlight throw its last Wild gleam athwart the land whose shadows lengthen fast. It does not seem so dreadful now, The horror stands out naked, stark, and still : I am quite calm, and wonder how My terror played such mad pranks with my will : The North winds fiercely blow, I do not feel them chill. THOMAS WOOLNER. 237 All things must die : somewhere I read What wise and solemn men pronounce of joy; No sooner born they say than dead : The strife of being but a whirling toy Humming a weary moan spun by capricious boy. Has my soul reached a starry height Majestically calm ? No monster, drear And shapeless, glares me faint at night; I am not in the sunshine checked for fear That monstrous shapeless thing is somewhere crouch- ing near ? No ; woe is me ! far otherwise : The naked horror numbs me to the bone ; In stupor calm its cold blank eyes Set hard at mine; I do not fall or groan, Our island Gorgon's face has changed me into stone. THOMAS WOOLNER. WILL-O'-THE-WISP. ' Gone the sickness, fled the pain, Health comes bounding back again, And all my pulses tingle for delight ; Together what a pleasant thing To ramble while the blackbirds sing, And pasture lands are sparkling dewy bright. ' Soon will come the clear spring weather, Hand in hand we'll roam together, And hand in hand will talk of springs to come As on that happy day you played The necromancer with my shade, And senseless shadow gazing darkly dumb. ' Cast away that cloudy care, Or I vow in my parterre You shall not enter when the lilies blow, And I go there to stand and sing Songs to the heaven- white wondrous ring ; Sir Would-be Wizard of the crumpled brow 1 " THOMAS WOOLNER. 239 WILD ROSE. To call my Lady where she stood " A wild rose blossom of the wood/' Makes but a poor similitude. For who by such a sleight would reach An aim, consumes the worth in speech, And sets a crimson rose to bleach. My love, whose store of household sense Gives duty golden recompense, And arms her goodness with defence : The sweet reliance of whose gaze Originates in gracious ways, And wins that trust the trust repays : Whose stately figure's varying grace Is never seen unless her face Turn beaming toward another place. For such a halo round it glows, Surprised attention only knows A lively wonder in repose. Can flowers that breathe one little day In odorous sweetness life away, And wavering to the earth decay, 240 THOMAS WOOLNER. Have any claim to rank with her, Warmed in whose soul impulses stir, Then bloom to goodness ; and aver Her worth through spheral joys shall move When suns and systems cease above, And nothing lives but perfect love ? NOTES. 738 NOTES. Allston, Washington, was born in South Carolina in 1779, but arriving in England in 1801 he entered the Academy School. He exhibited in 1802 and 1803 ; and in 1804 he went to Paris for study, after which he spent four years in Italy. He died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in July 1843. Allston was on very friendly terms with Coleridge ; his life was spent, partly in America and partly in Europe. He was an Associate of the Royal Academy. His literary work is comprised in several volumes. The selections are from Lectures on Art and Poems, published posthumously in New York in 1860. Baldry, Alfred Lys.— Mr. Baldry as a painter belongs to the school of painting known by the name of " Naturalistic," the pictures of which are, for the most part, exhibited at the annual exhibition of the New English Art Club. The sonnet by Mr. Baldry is taken from The Artist, to which journal its author contributes some valuable technical criti- cisms of pictures. Bayliss, Wyke, P.R.B.A., F.S.A.— Mr. Baylissis the President of the Royal Society of British Artists, founded in 1823, and incorporated in 1878. He is the author of three books on Art, called respectively The Witness of Art, The Higher Life in Art, and The Enchanted Inland. From the latter work, the seven sonnets, "Studies for Pictures," are taken. In 244 NOTES. the volume these sonnets are accompanied by illustrations drawn by Mr. Bayliss. Mr. Bayliss has written several songs, which have been set to music by various composers. Blake, William.— One of the most remarkable of the men who participated in the romantic revival in painting and poetry in this country. His career was one long-sustained revolt against the current ideas concerning life, painting, and poetry. His methods in painting and design were alto- gether new, and the manner in which his poems were published— if published they can be said to have been at all— was strange as well as new. No other painter-poet has so closely united the two arts as did Blake, and his methods have been allowed to remain his exclusive property. Tt hardly remains to be said at this time that his poetry is fine poetry, and his designs wonderful. So much is admitted, though in some instances reluctantly. However, looking back through the years that have passed since his death, no more remarkable a figure in poetry or painting can be discerned. The fragment from The Visions of the Daughters of Albion is given as being less known and less accessible than the lyrics. Born 1757 ; died 1828. Brown, Ford Madox.— Mr. Ford Madox Brown is little known as a poet, but he has written a number of sonnets, which have appeared in various places, and which indicate a considerable poetic power. The sonnet "The Love of Beauty" appeared in No. 1 of The Germ; those for the pictures " The Last of England" and " Work," in the cata- logue of the exhibition of his pictures in 1865.