TR +71+ P R POEMS AND ODES LAURENCE GIFFORD HOLLAND. ^.* $ribatcls iarititrU BY WATSON & HAZELL, LONDON AND AYLESBURY. 1875. aA Class _P_.R. 4r1g\4 r DOBELL COLLECTION POEMS AND ODES. POEMS AND ODES LAURENCE GIFFORD HOLLAND. $nbatelg ^rititar WATSON & HAZELL, LONDON AND AYLESBURY. 1875. 205449 ■j 13 CONTENTS. PAGE THE SPECTRAL MARCH : A LEGEND OF THE LAKES ... 7 MARINA : A DIALOGUE 26 THE DAUGHTERS OF CLOOD : A TALE OF NORTH WALES . 32 ODE ON THE FALL OF NAPOLEON III 37 LINES ON PASSING THE GUARDS'. MONUMENT AFTER THE BLACK SEA CONFERENCE '"'V \' . . . . 41 THE MUSIC OF THE "WATERS . . . . .42 BETTWS REVISITED . . . . . .. . .45 WATERSMEET, LYNMOUTH 48 CHRISTMAS ECHOES . .49 THE LANDSCAPE 52 THE AFTERTHOUGHT 53 ALONE : ON VISITING A DESERTED HOME . . . 55 ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MORN 58 NEVERMORE . '. .60 ODE TO SUMMER 61 THE CHIMES . 65 THE LAST SUMMER DAT .67 "WORSHIPPED WITH HER" .69 A NIGHT AT SEA . . . .' • 70 " A LITTLE WHILE " . . . . . . .74 Contents. REGRET THE TORRENT THE CATHEDRAL . TO A , ON LEAVING F JANAFRA " ONE THOUGHT OF ME TO HOPE ABSENCE TO SPRING . TO ON RECEIPT OF HER PORTRAIT 80 M 85 86 87 89 90 SONNETS. I. THE SHADOW ON THE PATH 92 II. THE COLD LOVE 93 in. LOST OPPORTUNITY 93 IV. AUTUMN SONNET TO MY MOTHER 94 V. BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE 95 VI. TO THE " UNRETURNING BRAVE " 96 VII. " THE VTTND HAS SUNK TO REST " .... 97 VIII. TO KEATS 97 IX. ON MEMORY . . .98 X. SCOTLAND REVISITED .99 XI. TANTALLAN CASTLE 100 XII. STRATHEARN 101 XIII. A LETTER FROM GRASSMERE 101 XTV. EARTHLY GREETINGS . . . . . . . ] 02 XV. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE DOG . . . .103 XVI. FINIS 103 POEMS AND ODES. Poems. THE SPECTRAL MARCH. A LEGEND OF THE LAKES. Time— 174:5. DEDICATION. ToE. Elsie ! the sun is shining on the hill That shelters thy fair home beneath his brow ; I feel the gentle lake is rippling still, And thou art feasting on its quiet now. Land of wild beauty ! swift thy scenes did fly From tranced eyes, that seem to wake again ; Or have I wandered as in days gone by Through fairy paths, like Knight of Triermaine ? 8 The Spectral March. Elsie ! There is a charm remembrance weaves Dearer for this — it never may return, Like the bright colours of autumnal leaves, Like the last hues that linger on the fern : So have I caught this vision of the past, Borne as the voice which haunts the mountain Fell, An echo from the torrents — and the last Regretful note was breathed in thy farewell : Then — as thine eyes may glance upon this tale, Our thoughts — perchance our sighs — may meet at Grassmere Yale. Sir Beaumont de Brathay will forth to-night, And he tells not where he roam ; With gloom on his brow — yet his eyes are bright, " whither away from home ? " No word from his lips shall his hopes unfold, But a glance of impatient speed, For he must away ere the noon be old, 'Tis a race 'twixt sunlight and steed ! " Whither so fast ? " still no answer he gave, Nor checked his bold courser's career. Only he turned with a light-hearted wave, On the banks of Windermere. " I fear me some ill awaiteth the race, And the heir of Brathay Hall, The Spectral March. I liked not his mien — I liked not his pace, And I heard the Crier's * call Last night as the tempest scattered the leaves Over my lattice and under the eaves : Startled I woke at its echoing shrill 'Cross the lone waters, till sunk ; neath the hill, And thou know'st 'tis death to list to his cry," Quoth the old steward as his lord flew by. But whilst old Adam stood aghast The Brathay's stream beside, Winandermere thy meads are passed Upon that lonely ride. Away ! away ! by mount and fell The mystic vale to find ; But hark ! — he starts — for down the dell There soundeth hoofs behind. His horse too swerved, though no one near, And pricked his ears on high ; Was it the wind on Rydal Mere ? Was it the rushes' sigh ? A sudden tremor ran along, His hand one moment shook, A thousand tales unbidden throng His thoughts — he dared not look. * " The Crier of Windermere," v. Old Cumberland Legends, see note 2. io The Spectral March. Each rustling bough his fancies shape A skeleton's outstretched arm, "Waved from 'neath a shadowy cape — Strange and fantastic alarm ! Yet still that sound of two who ride, At the spirit's silent call, Steeds of no mortal birth astride, To the feast of Armboth Hall* " Ho ! ho ! " Their hollow laugh alone Hath hushed all other sound ; The fleshless forms of skull and bone Must course again their round. Away ! brave Bayard, start no more ! The wind is taint with breath Of fiends who ride to Thhiemere's shore, Away ! their chill is death. As sweeps the storm on EasedaWs breast, t As thunder o'er Nab Scar, Those phantom shadows of unrest Arise from caves afar. From haunted glen and darksome ghyll, Helm's Crag and Mickledore, From giant Pyke, and brackish rill, They tramp the earth once more. Away ! where Kothay late o'erran Sweet Grassmere's lowly vale, * See Cumberland Legends, " Skeletons of Colgfirtn Hall.' Sec note 3. + See note 4. The Spectral March. Till far behind Helvellyn man * Is reared against the gale. 'Tis past ! The lights of dreaded Hall Shine faintly o'er the lake, While from their brows that cold-damp thrall Both horse and rider shake. A lurid light hangs o'er the sky, The range of mountains seemed Shrouded in twilight, still more high, As sunset nearer gleamed. Slower, to cool his heated brain, Sir Beaumont checked his pace, Yet bowed in thought he loosed the rein, And mused upon the chase, Where he was as the stag, — the hounds, Those phantoms of the air ; But all is still, — no step rebounds From forth the shadow's lair. The hour has come to enter now St. John's enchanted vale, Where dwells on steep ascending brow, The Seer, Michael Dale. Yea ! — 'twas the calm that ushers best The soul's secluded dreams, When earth prepares to sink to rest, Yet clings to heaven's pure beams : * See note 5. 12 The Spectral March. And who can ever paint their glow Who ne'er ascends to gain Th' unruffled peace of vales below, Locked in a mountain's chain ? Now Bayard lodged in hostel near, Is resting from his toil ; The path to hermit's cell lies here, With many a winding coil, Till lost amid the torrent's bed, Where the wild chaos overhead Hath hurled each shattered fragment down, That dared to brave the tempest's frown. From rock to rock young Beaumont sped ; Till to the spot seclusion found, To hide its grief in thought profound, Betraying feet of shepherds led. There by his rustic bench — a stone Wreathed with red fern — the old man stood, In pensive yet expectant mood, And keenly watched the path alone. what a noble view displayed ! Misshapen crags and boulders lay, Heaped in a wild discordant way, Yet all a harmony obeyed. The Spectral March. 13 'Mid varied scene no link was lost To fill the void where eye could trace Some blot, which might have marred their grace, Eanges that weird confusion crost Only to add a charm more deep, When from each spur to peak the gaze Grows dim beneath the golden rays, Which set a crown on yonder steep ; Spirit of twilight, linger now, For thou hast touched Blencathra's brow ! Then, as the Knight approaching bade " God speed, " the seer slowly rose, And pointing down the silent glade, Where Greta's silver offspring flow?. " These are my comrades in the hour When hope seems vanished with the sun, When gloomy doubt or griefs o'erpower ; When still the web of life is spun With many tangled threads of woe ; W T hen cheeks are pale as driven snow : Then comfort lingers on the hill, And pours from purple cloud her balm ; Drinks then my soul from yon sweet rill A dear relief — a perfect calm. Ah ! many a chill and bitter groan, Thou know'st not of — if ne'er alone ! 14 The Spectral March. I too — ah well ! — once loved and yearned For nobler life, for higher aim, And oft those laden thoughts returned, Burdening till years one blank became. Oft have I longed for some dear smile Once more my weary days beguile, And only this worn seat hath known What hours have left me — still alone ! " " I sent for thee this night to tell The signs and omens overcast By yonder clouds o'er Nathdale Fell, p Pregnant with issues from the Past. For, ere the su*t hath stooped to-night, Thou'lt read perchance thy future doom, For if the stars have told aright, The eve is fraught with death and gloom. Aye ! 'twas just when Autumn, creeping With its reddening twilight by, Tinges o'er the forest, reaping Crests of trees still loth to die ; When the fleecy clouds, escaping From the coming clasp of night, Clung round peak and headland, shaping Strange and wizened forms of white ; — 'Twas such an eve, ten summers gone, Gazing dow r n the pass, as now, The Spectral March. 15 Watched I long one star alone, Risen o'er Blencathra's brow. Sudden, as a sunbeam, dying, Caught the precipice below, Darted stag, from hunter flying, From a cleft within the glow. Only one lone rider followed, And I marked his headlong speed, To his hounds ne'er turned nor hallooed — Silent, on a snow-white steed. Ne'er he stayed for torrent streaming, Paused not for the deepest dell, Till I thought mine eyes were dreaming — - Who could ride from Souther Fell ? Who could thus in venture fearless Course the hill without a track, Crossing there, all lone and cheerless, Darkest gorge of Saddleback ? * One more chasm, — Heav'n defend him ! For the stag haih bounded o'er ; — He waits one moment on the brim, Leaps — and falls — I saw no more. Then with lights and ladders guiding Up the heights I led them all ; Searched in vain each nook and hiding ; Not a trace of that wild fall. Stag — nor steed — nor rider found there, Not a hoof-mark on the heath, * i.e. Blencathra. 1 6 The Spectral March. Vain were all our shoutings — nowhere Answered voice or groan beneath. Backward then we hastened, fearing That some evil fate had sped, And when this still valley nearing Came the news — thy sire was dead : Aye ! and death like that — Forgive me That my tale hath brought thee pain, 'Twas strange — heavens ! as I live — See ! See ! he seems to ride again." Yes ! a horseman surely prancing As the bard had told of yore, On the rocks ; where sunlight glancing Lingered yet ; and showed still more ! Horse and foot, — the sporran wearing, Broadswords bared in war's array ; Sudden, like a serpent rearing Coil on coil they wound their way. Darkness all around, and thunder, Lurking in the clouds below, Served to light that living wonder Flashing from the last weird glow. Troop on troop in gallant splendour, Marching — where no feet could tread, Souther, Bowscale Tarn surrender All their terrors as they sped. The Spectral March. 17 Down the steep the flocks fled bleating, Checked not by the collies' bound, Who — without their wonted greeting — Crouched, or trembling slunk around : While their masters gathered staring, With no word from man to man. Haggard faces grimly bearing, Whilst a sort of murmur ran, " Heard ye not the bagpipe screaming ? Heard ye not the roll of drum ?" " No ! but where the sun is gleaming O'er the pass I saw them come. Saw the chieftain's banner waving, Marked the tartan's chequered fold, Wondered at their horses braving Cliff and gorge and crater's hold." " What undaunted hearts are marching Where no Cumbrian dared before, By the fallen stones o'erarching Torrents wilder than Lodore ? What are these, the Highland foemen '? What are these, the Stuart's band ? Heath with ensign interwoven Glittering from a rebel's hand ?" Still they wind from Tro»tbeck's water, Still they flow from Derwent's side, Thirsting for revenge and slaughter, Marching with a conqueror's pride. 1 8 The Spectral March. First a prickly show of lances, Fearless vanguard of the clan, From the deep ravine advances, While their glittering pennons fan Breath to kindle martial glory, Floating o'er each gallant file, Crimsoned as with vengeance gory Wreaked in scorn of stout Carlisle. See ! against the forest shining Plume and honnet, kilt and plaid, Fainter now for day declining, With a pall of mist o'erlaid, Sinks into a hearse of mountains, Closing in their darksome line, While the streams from secret fountain;; With their mournful dirge repine, Still fresh forces ever moving Follow those who disappear, Wliile their leaders seem reproving Laggard footsteps in the rear. Aye ! a host in battle order, Breasts impatient for the fray, Pouring from the Scottish Border — 'Tis their Prince who leads the way ! what stirring charms enlighten Hues that wreathe the front of war ! Gleaming o'er the hills tojbrighten Homes in trembling pride afar. The Spectral March. ig Glory beckons to the altar Where a patriot's heart is vowed ; What faint breast — thus decked — can falter ! To her gilded service bowed, With the thrill of trumpet ringing : Strange it seems so silent there. Listen ! winds may yet be bringing Some far notes — nay ! still the air ; Nor rumbling car, nor tramp of feet Sounds from that ghostly show ; But still, as if Death's winding sheet Already laid them low. And now the darkness seems to blend Those streaming ranks of light, That ne'er to Threlkeld's Hall descend, — Lost in the shroud of Night ! " Let me join them," cried Sir Beaumont, " Let me fly to yonder force ! All my heart is beating towards them — Men or ghosts ! To horse ! To horse ! ' He starts — the seer biddeth " Stay, Frenzy-madness thus should speak, Wouldst thou ride to phantom armies ? See ! the blood hath left my cheek, And not mine alone — your hand too Trembles 'neath some unknown spell ; The Spectral March. - See ! the coward shepherd crouches, Muttering charms in yonder dell. See ! the cattle herd together, Hear the startled infant's cry ; Stands aghast the cotter breathless, All afeard — yet scarce knows why. Go not ! 'twas an awsome vision, 'Twas a warning note of harm ; Stay and hear me, for the spirit Bodeth now some dread alarm." As he spake, the whirlwind rushing 'Mid the roll of thunder shocks, Swept across the pathway, brushing Michael's long snow-waving locks. Nerve and pulse were stirred — eyes glaring, Seemed he prophet of the wild, Till the stricken knight up staring Could but listen like a child. Now was every valley round them, Wrapped by mantling hand of fate, Stretching o'er the heights that bound them, Silver How to Ormathwaite. On th' horizon regal Skiddaw Reared his head above the rest,- While rampart Pyke and towering Scaw Guard lone empire in the West. The Spectral March. There — where crag, with forest changes, Guardians of the cleft ravine, Or where graceful upland ranges Hid the chasm — nought was seen. Darkness hung on tree and meadow, Through the narrow pass — a storm Breaking from the mountain shadow Lit the aged seer's form. First in tones that feebly striving Sunk upon the blast unheard ; Till, .the roar of winds subsiding, Dying gusts bore out his words. " Wraiths of heroes marching silent, These forebode the soldier's bier, Fading in abyss of mountains, Where no mortal eye may peer. Yea ! their very shadow sendeth Chill forewarnings of dismay : 'Tis the outward sign that bendeth To the voice which all obey ; Voice of riven spheres, where storm-clouds, Omens of hereafter, roll ; Voice of spirit forms new risen ! Voice of Nature and the Soul ! One life -breathing note hath sounded, One stern Voice its curse hath hurled ; 22 The Spectral March. One redeeming Light of Heaven Bindeth mortal to the World. Thence the deep revealings flutter Ghostly, grimly through the glen, Lake and woodland vale o'erteeming With the coming doom of men. What are we but Nature's vassals ? Trembling when her breast is stirred, Or in lovelike rapture living On the music of her word. Hues of sunset ! voice of torrents ! Ye are gods, as well as we, For a little while in passing To the dim eternal sea, Shall the breath which floats between us, Shall the bonds of love be vain ? Though we grow in life together, Shall we never meet again ? Yea ! for these frail spirit visions Are the promise of new birth, In more golden twilight shining With the hopes stillborn on earth. Aye I I feel these phantom shadows O'er the pass will gleam again, With thine own brave spirit gathered In the mysteries of — then." XIII. " Woe to all the race of Stuart ! Woe to Scotland's sons who brave The Spectral March. 23 Cumbria's lordly wrath, advancing From their Highlands to their grave. With thy horsemen Death is riding, Last of most ill-fated line, Derwent- Tweed in grief o'erflowing, Mingled streams of blood entwine. Woe to all the hearths of mourning, Who have bid ' God speed ' to those Sworn to right Queen Mary's offspring, Scion of a Martyr's* woes ! Fired with all that hope allures with — All the nobler dreams of life, Youth and stalwart age combining Greet th' infectious call to strife. Mother ! draw thy son towards you, As you never clasped before, Kiss his brow, for unreturning He shall tread the heath no more. Widowed bride ! who watched thy chieftain Gaily turn to hide a tear ; Thou hast given all to Scotland ; Welcome home his honoured bier. From th' ancestral glen of beauty March the sons of warlike race, Prompt to hear the call of duty, Fierce to meet the steels embrace. Last of knighthood's proudest glory ! Last of feudal love of King ! * Charles I. 24 The Spectral March. Fitly end those ages hoary With the deathless deeds they sing. Cold rebuffs and colder glances Strike th' enthusiast's glowing heart, And the only ray which crowns him Shines — when soul and body part. Thou too, Knight, whose blade is leaping From its tingling sheath half bare, See ! what fields grim war is reaping — Beaumont de Brathay, thou art there ! " From that night of mystic vision Scarce a year had rolled away, Michael Dale, as if still sleeping, In his lonely cottage lay. For a simple herdsman found him On his wonted seat of old, Marked his drooping head — and touching Dropped his hand — for it was cold. Mourn, Brathay Hall ! old Adam, mourn ! Watching for return of day, That is long in coming — darkness Dwells upon the house for aye ! There, with hand yet round the banner He had given life to save, Lies your lord, where desperate valour Sought and found a common grave. Dying for his King's lost honour He has fought and bled in vain,* The Spectral March. 2 Smiled upon by scornful mountains, Heights he never may regain. There the heart of youth lies breathless ; While a stain is on the sod, Purple as the heath that crowned him With the face upturned to God. Finis. November 4. 1871. NOTES. 1. — The Spectral March over Saddleback (or Blencathra) is mentioned by Miss Martineau. Though the characters and story of this poem are imaginary, such a vision was actually seen by several persons before the rebellion in 1745 ; as also an army was seen marching over Helvellyn before Marston Moor (vide Wordsworth). I have only taken the popular tradition in making such wraiths as these the forerunners of death to the spectator. 2. — " The Crier's call."' — The Crier of Windermere was a phantom that used to be heard calling across the water for '• A boat ! a boat ! " and when the ferryman went, in obedi- ence to the supposed traveller, he returned but to die, with a face whose horror alone depicted what he had met with on the other side, for he never spoke again. It was continually heard on stormy nights hailing the "ferry." 3. — " Armboth Hall." — This hall, on the shore of Thirlmere, was often seen mysteriously lit up on certain nights, when the goblins held their revels. The skeletons of Calgarth Hall, on Windermere, were those of two who had been cruelly and unjustly executed for the sake of their lands by the lord of Calgarth. Their skulls for ever remained in the niche of the 26 Marina, windows, except when they were reclaimed by the skeletons at the unearthly summons to attend the Armboth feast. 4. — " Easedale's breast." — Easedale Tarn is a small moun- tain lake about two miles from Grassmere. 5. — ; ' Helvellyn Man." — Man is the name for the top of any mountain, as The Old Man. Skiddaw Man. etc. MARINA. A DIALOGUE. Scene — A chamber. Lorenzo — (solus) [Storm without. (loquitur) " There's a lighter touch than feeling, There's a further view than sight, When the evening bells are pealing, And a song rings through the night. There's .a presence none descrieth, Which rustles behind my chair— There's a whisper that low dieth ; Come in ! for I know thou'rt there. Come in ! for the winds without, love, Are scattering death around, Waking the silent street ; above Their wild blasts I heard the sound, As a step beside the doorway That feareth to enter in, Marina. 27 Whilst a cloud my forehead wore ; say What peace thou bringest within. (Spirit of Marina appears.) Tis a shipwrecked soul that straying All along the world's rough way, Had launched on the ocean — playing With a human heart for prey. Yet the wave hath eased thy sorrow From the thought of those afar, And thou com'st to bid " Good morrow " To the life beyond the star ! (Marina whispers.) Thou comest to say the billow No longer did roar so loud, And thy deep, deep sea-blue pillow Was tenderer than a shroud. Thou sayest the storm-clouds thunder — The rending of mast and sail — Was unheard amidst the wonder, At the land beneath the gale." Maeina. " There sleep was endless ; lullabies From the breasts of sounding shells Hymn to the nutt'ring soul that lies Where the pearl of beauty dwells — Where eternal rest is lightened By the babbling dreams * of the Past — :; Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls." Richard III., Act y. 28 Marina. Where remembrance is full brightened, For there no regrets o'ercast : There the azure waves were mingling With the voices of — Elsewhere ; And the old, old chimes were jingling From the belfries of the air. There the music of youthful years Was poured from a- rock's caved lair, Whose melody sang not of tears* Till I felt a god was there. The pure embrace of a spirit, Borne on white lips of the foam, Drove pain from the eyes that were lit With the glistening thought of home." Lorenzo. " Didst weep for that love which was thine, In those days of girl and boy ? " Marina. "Oh, no S for that kiss was divine, And Heaven can breathe but joy." Lorenzo. " Marina ! Remember the days You would stay in yonder glen, * ■" Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought." Shelley. Marina. 29 Waiting long for the twilight rays To flit over my path. Ah, then ! When the branches of elms o'erhead With dirge of our sighs bewailed." Marina. ' ' Aye ! Memory gleamed o'er my bed With smiles of deep love unveiled ; No longer darkened by shadows Of bitterness — shunned in vain ; No thought of clouds o'er the meadows — Omen of parting in pain. No ! but on halo of brightness Shed o'er the scenes that we knew, She sails with ineffable lightness, Our earthly loves to renew." Lorenzo. " Marina ! Eemember the hills — The rays of the sunset there, Which, gaily reluming the rills Seemed in our pleasure to share. Did not the vows that we plighted Come back o'er that lonely deep ? Did not the looks that you slighted Break on those visions of sleep T' Marina. " Oh, no ! yet the light of those eves — The glow that we used to feel — $o Marina. New reaped in a harvest of sheaves, Sun-rays of Heaven reveal. That throbbing which revelled in light — Felt with the soul of the glen : That peace — the clear joyance of sight Still purer, illumined again." Lorenzo. "Marina ! I touch not thy hand, Nor gaze on those eyes of delight ; Yet I paint their hues, as I stand In the golden presence of light ; And I feel that their hope is mine Whilst I bow to the Heavenly will, And, borne by the fathomless brine, Come happy, soft warnings, Be still. blessed rewakenings of life, Which call to my heart when alone, With nature no longer at strife, With memories carved not on stone, Or worn by the fretting, the aching Of thoughts that will hive in our breast To steal the sweets of Love's making, And leave but a craving unrest ! Tears ! that flow from life's portal To swell the deep river of years Back from the tomb — ye are mortal ! Death's gate is not opened for tears. Our days indeed ye shall cumber With beatings from waves of despair ; Marina. 3 1 But 'neath the surf there is slumber — The dreams of our life shall be there. Beauty no longer shall wither, Fast bound by the reach of our prime, Darting thus hither and thither To perch on frail blossoms of time ; But there 'neath the voices of bells, With the notes of a soul-born rhyme, 'Mid all that was purest she dwells, Eternally resting sublime ; Tell me ? the halo of twilight Was never reclaimed by the shade '? But silence interpreted right, Her thoughts were not destined to fade. The murmurs that Nature hath blest, Through the heath and the woodclad vale, Will flow through the land of our Rest, And. ripple once more with Love's tale ? hear me ! 'tis chilly, this room Besieged by the armies of storm ; Light flickers — no stars — but a gloom Which mantles thy wave-bedewed form. Yes ! you smile, you whisper once more, {Chimes heard.) As chimes from the silvery bell, They call thee — those voices of yore ! Marina! Marina! Farewell!" (Spirit disappears as Lorenzo Advances.) 32 THE DAUGHTEKS OF CLOOD. a tale of north wales. Argument. The men of Ardudwy, having carried off the daughters of the neighbouring yale of Clood, are pursued and slain by the men of Clood. But they have so won the love of their brides, that on their death the latter prefer to throw themselves into Lyn Morwynion (the Maiden Lake) rather than return home. I. Still are thy waters, lonely Morwynion ! Beneath the wild shelter of mountain and mere ; Thou art their offspring, loving Morwynion ! So placidly nestling 'mid wilderness here. ii. All silent and dreary — Seclusion thy home, The glow of the heather — the purple is thine ; Yet who could have recked of the high-lifted foam t Which covered thy breast with the fierceness of brine ? in. Now resting in sadness, deep coloured by age, Thy bosom hath welcomed the peace that comes last ; Now fled the loud beatings — the lightning of rage That flashed o'er thy waters and died in the Past. IV. Ah ! but thou lovest still yet to remember The days that are sweetened though shadowed by Time ; The Daughters of Clood. 33 Blossoms of spring were the seed of December, And dear is the dawn to the flush of our prime. Down by the banks of thy deep hidden waters Wailed to bleak Manod Clood's fairest of daughters, Mourning by streams that were swollen in sorrow, Chilled by the thought of their doom on the morrow : Theirs was the grief that no comfort could smother, Robbed of the aid both of husband and brother. Wild the revenge that was deam-to their pleading, Bitter the anguish when loved ones lay bleeding ; Low shrank those frail sisters in kinship of woe, And watched the fierce battle wane faintly below ; Closer and closer their tears knit together Hearts whose lone home was the mountain and heather, That dear bond of grieving was all they possest — The silence that follows despair was their rest ; For now from the clamour of triumph or wail The cry of their fathers was borne on the gale. Choeus of Men of Clood. " Back to us ! back to us ! maids of the vale, We have won ! we have triumphed o'er those Who scattered our blossoms and left in their trail But the leaves and the thorns of our rose. Back to us ! back to us ! all is forgot ; Wronged honour hath taken its due : Restore to our valley its once happy lot ; Come again ! they are fathers that sue." 3 34 The Daughters of Clood. Then from those maidens fair Elsie arose Calm in the strength of despair ; yet of those, Torn from their home hut to cherish the foe, She was most fearful — now truest in woe ; With heart throbbing fast, with eyes kindling fire, She hurled forth rebuke on the head of a sire. Elsie. " Return ! nay ! we cannot again ; No Present or Future is ours, — The past is uncleansed from the stain Of the dead that lie thickly as flowers! Here hope has departed, and love Hath fled from the doom- stricken door, To seek on far mission above The balm for that sad ' Nevermore.' The breath ye think gone is but still ; For life was not wholly their own, 'Twas caught by each echoing rill, And borne where the swallows have flown. 'Tis fresh on the tremulous heath ! 'Tis lit on the motionless dome, That links what is lovely beneath To the life of a spirit's home. Ye have but driven the gladness, The tender affections of earth, From the chill threshold of sadness, To the goal of a purer birth. ; Tis ye who the roses scattered ! The clusters that joyed in the spring: The Daughters of Clood. 35 The porch with its branches scattered* No more with our voices shall ring. Beauty now freed from its sorrow, And wreathed with a circle of green, Shall crown an endless to-morrow With bloom that we longed for unseen. Life is new opening before us, Which hath dwelt by our side unknown, Hailed by the forest's pure chorus, In Heaven its notes are full grown. Then why should we pine for more years At the hand of a cheerless Time ? Who holds but a cup full of tears, Embittered by knowledge of crime. But there, where our childhood drew breath, The void of hushed voices must dwell ; The quiet, the shadow of death Looms dark o'er that once happy dell. The spirit of woodlands is sad, The murmurs of rivulet still, The gorge and the uplands are clad In peace which descends from the hill : For now where are those which have made The hills and the valleys rejoice ? Now only the leaves in bare glade That are tossed by the winds have voice. sisters ! we dare not recall, — There's sleep meath the waves of the lake, Whose bosom alone shall enthral The passion which sorrows awake. 36 The Dangl iters of Clood. Its ripples shall seem to the mere The sighs of our bitter farewell, Soft winning the sympathy near, Which lies in each heather-bound dell. Though ties of our kindred be fled, Our hearts shall be laid at their shrine, Who fell, like the beams that are red, To rise in the east more divine." Chokus of Daughtees of Clood. " Sigh for us, sigh for us, gentle Morwynion, Sigh for the lovers who rashly have wooed, When o'er thy bosom the eagle's stern pinion Sweeps to his home o'er the silence of Clood." Scarce the last notes of their music had died, Wild as if bittern in solitude cried ; Scarce the last sun rays had tinged with red flame Lake and lone mountain — thy breast was the same - As I looked on it now, yet beneath there lay The sorrows of Clood's fairest daughters for aye. Keep their fell secret then, lonery Morwynion, For thou, when all else was deserted, wert dear : Thou wert the tomb of their hopes, sad Morwynion ; Here mingled the wave and last ebbing tear. Still over thy surge may the story be told Of hearts that refused to surrender the Past ; To ears of fond Nature thy burden unfold, How Love found her rest 'neath thy waters at last. Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 37 gentle Morwynion ! beguiling the lonely, The winds seem to whisper in life weaned mood ; " Ah ! though we love like the men of Ardudwy, The world is devoid of a daughter of Clood." 1872, ODE OX THE FALL OF NAPOLEON III. 1870. Again and yet again the trumpet blast Wakes the shrill echoes o'er the peaceful fields ; Challenge and haughty answer fiercely cast From shore to shore proclaim that neither yields. The trump of war, With cannon's roar, Startles the blood from cheek of peasant pale, And shakes the happy pastures of the vale, By stream that flows, Foredoomed to woes, Foredoomed to see Ambition do its worst, Leading the despot line by battle curst. Hast thou perchance seen eagle on his course Swoop with a fiery onslaught on his prey ? Or marked the restless pawing of the horse That champs the bit all eager for the fray ? When Europe slept, So Gallia swept, 38 Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. Snorting a proud defiance on her foe , Endured so long— at length her might to know. The last note rung, Forth warriors sprung, Nor longer shall the warhorse vainly prance, The rein hangs loose on frenzied mane of France. God of battles ! what a world is.ours ! Yirtue with vice confused, and right with might. These are all Thine, Thy instruments these powers, Working Divine intentions in the fight Of empty fame And sinful aim. How long, how long, shall Christians stand aghast ? As each day brings its tale of thousands past, On whom the guilt Of blood thus spilt ? France, is it thine ? Away, o'erwhelming thought ! Judgment to him that judgeth shall be brought. Listen, France ! the wailing from thy fields ; Listen, France ! thy challenge back returns ; Cannon with hoarse-mouthed tempest vainly shields Despairing flight, while farm or hamlet burns. Listen, France ! the tramp of thousand feet, Stern in their vengeful task thy foes are come. Listen, France ! thy scattered hosts retreat, Leaving the track of many a ruined home. Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. 39 But where is he who should have led the van '? Where is great Caesar, when his legions charge Into a reeking grave ? in vain we scan The fast thinned host that desperate line the marge Of stream that flows with corpses * — stream of blood. No ! nor there where late some rallying band, 'Mid panic-stricken herd have dauntless stood To stem the ruthless waves that sweep their land. Lo ! here see one so coldly placed aside, His words unheeded — orders disobeyed ; No friend to soothe the pangs of fallen pride — Tis he ! who feebly moans, "Betrayed! betrayed." f Say, shall we now call Caesar great, Who fell so sudden and so low, Reproach him with usurped, estate, And turn unpitying from his woe ? Yet no ! our hand is not in thine, Inconstant fickle-hearted France ; G-o, Folly ! every wreath untwine Thou lavished on him — sing and dance. * " The Meuse is full of corpses, and the inhabitants are flying panic-stricken."— Daily Nens. f "On m'a trompe ! on m'a trompe ! " — Napoleon after ma. 40 Ode on the Fall of Napoleon III. England forsakes no fallen friend, She ne'er forgets the deeds of yore ; She joys not when the darkening end Whispers to greatness, " Nevermore ! ' A throne ! and what a throne was this ! . Built in a day, and gone e'en now ; No crown of peace, no reign of bliss, Have marked the bold adventurer's brow. x. The rule that's built on love shall live, From sire to grandson handed down, Firm rooted in the soil, and give A sacred halo to the crown. XI. Such was not thine — thy race arose, The brand of Cain upon its sword, From rampant crime and reckless blows, By Freedom's trampled sons abhorred. Doomed is thy line ! " Baptized with fire," * The youthful offspring calmly stood Where slaughter breathed, and now the sire Falls 'mid a hetacomb of blood. * " Louis a re§u la bapteme de feu," The Guards' Monument, 41 " Curse him," cries Gaul's anguislied mother, " Curse him for my darling boy : Low he lies, and now another Marches where the foes deploy. - " Curse him for my hopes perverted, Curse him for my plundered store, Curse him for my home deserted, Curse him " Stay — He is no more ! LINES ON PASSING THE GUARDS' MONUMENT AFTER THE BLACK SEA CONFERENCE. I passed beneath the shadow of the stone, Sad in its deathlike silence, — yet one ray, With the last pulsing of its life- had flown, To chase the marble chill of death away. " Too true," I sighed, "this stone has e'en more life Than England's slothful sons, with honour fled, And tear-dewed glory, won in noble strife, Sold by pale fear ! Oh, now is England dead ? " Cold grew the stone again, and Alma's name, j£&j»- a Which late seemed glowing in memorial feme, * Chislehurst, January, 1873. 42 The Music of the Waters. Had faded into gloom now gathering round, While warriors looked with shame upon the ground, Shamed that their country could so soon forget, Content to register a foeman's threat. March, 1871. THE MUSIC OF THE WATEES. " The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion. " WOBDSWOETH. I. ii The music of a conquered land ; the harp that once was free ! " Speak thus to sons of Caradoc — Breathe only peace to me. For Beauty here is conqueror, each fairy glen * her 'slave, And Nature weaves a sylvan wreath over a Druid's grave. Voices of Cambria's rugged clefts, in ye shall Freedom raise The melodies of rivulets, the thankfulness of praise. Imprisoned by the wooded heights, yet free shall ever roll The offspring of a mountain's breast in one harmo- nious whole : * Fros Noddyn, Bettws j Coed. The Music of the Waters. 43 Where the green woods and deep ravine have barred the outer world, Where through the centuries of Time the cataracts are hurled, Where the lone sound of waters, the murmuring of streams, Have lured the poet's wandering thoughts to share a wood-nymph's dreams. These are thy haunts, Freedom, where thou harpest evermore The song of cherished hopes and fears, the sympathies of yore, The rest that speaks of Heaven — the peace that we ne'er may know, Till the wrangling of the nations — the cry of toil and woe — Is banished from the woodlands ; till the melody of sound Hath wooed the restless thunder, and Elysium is found ! Yet words sound hollow as our breath, for how can they express The Spirit's sweet communion with Solitude's recess ? When on the lake and the moorland the sunset loves to rest, Where the soft-sounding waterfall leaps from a Gly- dwr's crest : 44 The Music of the Waters. When on the glen and the mountain a deepening shade hath crept, And valleys — pillowed on the hills — in loveliness have slept : O'er many a pass Seclusion has drawn her hallowed veil, And the lull of inland waters has fallen on the dale. Sink on my heart, thou Silence, that strikest the secret chord Of Love which has caught in stillness the voice of Na- ture's Lord. Yet hark ! again the cataract has broke the twilight's charm, And moving strains roll down once more — they bear a streamlet's psalm. Then heart, that sighs and lingers in forgetfulness, enjoy The music of the waters, where no jarring notes annoy ; That through the vista of the Past their Spirit's sooth- ing power May ripple o'er those stones again, and murmur through the bower ; Their voices breathe of Freedom, but the hymn of Love as well Shall re-echo, in sad absence, the chorus of the dell. Bettwsy Coed, 1871. 45 BETTWS REVISITED, 1872. • It is not now as it has been of yore ; Tarn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more." Wordsworth. Once again hath my ears caught the sound of the streams ! — yet once more I stand in the valley of Beauty — I hear the Conway roar. It seemed but yesterday I stood — now all is changed to me, There's a discord in their music — there's a shadow on each tree. Still roll the 'whelming cataracts over the rock and stone ; But now their many voices recall but one that has gone. The Present is as lovely, but the Past must e'er remain To bind the links of Sorrow's forge in one unbroken chain. Through bloom, returned to deck the woods which wreathe this happy vale, The sighing zephyrs breathe again — but with a sadder tale. 46 Bettivs Revisited. Ah ! wherefore swells wfthin my breast the fount that I thought was dry ? Fond memory lingers round the spot, and pierces heart and e) r e : 'Xeath the rippling of the streamlets, on the purple" heights above, By the still retired cottage, comes the thought of one we love. Life, thou art bosomed in Nature ! her soul encom- passes thine, And with the garlands of Earth, our joys and our sor- rows entwine ; Yet sunshine gleaming through clouds, that gather and pass away, Brings no dawn for the heart that is crushed by bur- dens to-day. For, when returned to the places our yearnings have hallowed, Dearer — far dearer to us — are those which are sha- dowed By the sweeping of Sorrow's dark mantle. Ah ! then at last Comes sweetly and sadly o'er woodlands the voice of the Past. Each cliff and each turn bears the seal which Time marked on its brow ; Down the flow of the stream steals the sense of soli- tude now. Bettws Revisited. 47 Valley of Beauty and shadows ! Valley of life and of death ! Here in the calm of seclusion, smiling 'neaih Nature's soft breath, The bend of thy hills winneth love, but memory claims the tear, For the wind brushing past me hath whispered, " His spirit is here." in. Silent and sad were our steps, as we round the clus- tering wood; shall not his presence then greet us ? for we knew how he could. Wherefore these fears, these tremblings ? the home that we knew is the same ; Here, in the heart of the highlands, we'll joy to wel- come — a name ! A name that is lost to the living, but lives with the dead ! Lost ! aye indeed to these waters, but where'er it is said, In the humble prayer of the peasant, with sighs — nay, with tears, The name of the lost shall be found yet more hallowed by years. The hand that we longed so to greet us is cold, but the heart Which has kindled such warm love within us can never • depart. , 48 Watersmcet i Lynmouth. 'Mid these fair' valleys, affection closely retaineth it - still, Linked by that golden chain which Remembrance hath woven to fill The void that is chill on this mountain ; loved shrine of the dead, The bloom of whose heather recalleth the soul that has fled. 'Mid hues once bright to her gaze, grief- in her loneli- ness dwells Where the fond streams shall breathe the notes of eternal farewells. September, 1872. WATERSMEET,* LYNMOUTH, NORTH DEVON. Theee, in the closest glen that Devon knows, Amid the labyrinth of woodlands, flows United Lyn ; and through the merry dells The joy of meeting to the hillside tells ; There the twin streamlets rush to one another, Meeting once more as brother unto brother, "Whom absence long would part, and distance sever, Meeting once more in sweet embrace for ever. that two bosoms would for once unfold The rivers of the heart they frozen hold ! that for once our souls could cease to seem ! And pour each burdening thought, as this fair stream * Where the East and West Lynn join. Christmas Echoes. 49 Leaps in the fulness of its joy to know The spirit lightened of a kindred woe. One path rewards the trials of devotion, One dear embrace of all unchecked emotion ; Mingled for aye the chords which each had shaken, One hymn of praise the slumbering stones awaken. Ah ! there no secrets weigh upon the breast ! Each rising billow swallowed into rest, Each ripple broke in pearls of light to greet Responding waters e'en now turned to meet : Rapt in the bliss of winding forth together, One voice to tell of mossy bank and heather, No strange reserve best impulses to smother, One heart to feel the void of one another. CHRISTMAS ECHOES. 1. Boen but to die ! The stars proclaim The mystery of Christ again, And usher in the loud acclaim Which hails the birth to death of pain. Born but to die ! Earth's mingling bells Give back to starlit night the strain, That now were breathing forth farewells, And seek to change their notes in vain. 4 50 Christinas Echoes. Born but to die ! The ebb and flow Of human tides, of lingering years, Of all we sought to love and know, Of all the hopes which brought but tears. Born but to die ! through all their peals, Though joyous anthem mocks our ears, Through all the clamorous life, there steals The silent sadness of our fears. Born but to die ! our hearts' fond trust, Which grew as ivy round the tree, Till to the breast some heedless thrust Told friendship's hopes were not to be. Born but to die ! each generous thought That clung to faith, and would not see The cancer falsehood overwrought, Then woke to find it could not be. Born but to die ! the dream of fame That sported with ourSwi^so long, Doting upon some nobler aim, And chafed beneath its endless wrong. Born but to die ! Yes ! sailed away Upon the dwindling skylark's song ; Or frightened by the glare of day, The dream has faded 'mid the throng. Christmas Echoes. 51 Born but to die ! With life's deep glow Flushed in the fuller depth of prime, Now sets upon the clouds of snow The gold- encircled Sun of Time : Girt with the purple of far West, His tender hues too bright to last ; — ■ 'Tis o'er ! — and all the world had blest Adds but a shadow to the Past. Born but to die ! ye mingling bells ! Ye heavenly stars that dream of peace ! Betwixt your spheres one chorus swells, " The noblest aims of life must cease." Born but to die ! repeating still To one whom years have left alone, The wish to be, — yet not the will, A nerveless faith — a voiceless tone. Born but to die ! yet come again As phantoms o'er a haunted room, Still lingering where they once did reign, Our dearest wishes from their tomb. Born but to die ! they leave for aye A void — a vacancy of space, That still recalls, that will not die, The shadow of an empty/sgace. 52 The Landscape. VIII. Born but to die ! the strong, the gay, Those whom the fond enchanted eye Draws to its inner world as day Doth woo the sunlight from the sky. Life ! dear mystery of woe, Thy loves recorded in a sigh, Thy stings, thy burdens, only grow ; — God ! are griefs not born to die ? 1873. THE LANDSCAPE. SUGGESTED IN THE KOYAL ACADEMY. The poet and the painter's craft seems wed In one sweet luxury of Art, the touch Of undulating pencil speaks the heart With all the majesty of flowing verse. That silent roll of waters — the deep wave Gulfed in the narrow limits of the view, Are full of life to me ; the wild weird shore Is glowing with the spirit of the hour. Ah me ! ah me ! what solitude is here ! What grandeur to be all alone in this ! Here, where the quiet beauty of the scene Demands a heart subdued and feelings bent To one soft reverie, from which we wake Only to feel its sweetness come again : The Afterthought. 53 And musing, thus I cried, " No critics here May cavil at the colour of a cloud ; For in the heart the sense of beauty lies, And this alone a poet's eye may scan. May, 1871. THE AFTERTHOUGHT. ON SEEING LORD BYRON's MSS. {See Note.) I saw the hills and valleys range afar, I heard the rush of waters and of wind, Whilst the dim lustre of the evening star, 'Clipsed by the stragglers Day had left behind, Rose in the beauty of a modest love, Which raises all beneath by deeming them above. All this shall silence glean agen Still in the thought that comes not then. Ah, no ! not then the deepest light hath shone, Nor wakes th' enamoured soul to shout her joy : Not till the parting ray hath come and gone Returns again the freshness of a boy Who glories in the pleasures of the hour, And then forgets the scene, where loveliness had power O'er the pure feelings that arise in men, Yet to the poet's voiceless heart — not then. 54 The Afterthought. 'Tis sunk ! 'Tis hidden in a mine of gold, Which labouring sighs must bring again to air, Drawn from the labyrinth our bosoms hold, Shaped to perfection in the heart's close lair ; Where all th' impressions which a life hath made, Where all its landscaped thoughts lurk 'neath a hallowed shade. And then the waving moor and hill Return at call of poet's will ; Restored the light that hid forlorn, Now fresh with scent of some sweet morn, Twin-mated with our brightest dreams, And flushed with never-ending beams. Thus shall return to glad the glistening eye The visions won again by fancy's prisoned sigh, Inspired from on high, and fill The mind whose afterthought lay still. Borne as on wings of melody there steal, When nought but toil or sadness may oppress, The notes which once had rung in joyous peal Or smiles which shone upon a brief distress, And in a deeper chord of love renew The soft impressions whence a memory grew. The scenes we once had loved so well Allure with more enduring spell, Alone. 55 And to a more than transient gaze Bring back the light of golden days. Then glorified in poet's rite, The Past and Present re-unite ; The Past to shed a purer ^low Over the sorrows now we know. Note. — Most of Byron's best pieces being never written on the spot, but afterwards, in fragments on fly-leaves, etc. ALONE. ON visiting a deserted home. Bear with me yet a little while, Thou tree, thou flower, thou grassy knoll, As silent visions by me file, Whilst Memory's hands unroll The tearful vista of the Past, Where every hope dispelled the last, Where every sympathy has flown To find a broken link — alone. Desolation ! how expressed In stillness where all motion seemed $6 Alone. A spirit born to be caressed, A formless Peri that has gleamed, And knit the soul of man to Earth, Which bred his loves, and gave hope birth, Gleamed but a moment to make known The bitterness — to be alone. Nature ! nurse of comfort, hear The voice of Solitude, whose sigh Hath stirred the leafless branches near, And drawn a cloud across the sky. Mother thou ! as mother, feel The barrenness the winds reveal ; The vacancy ne'er truer shown Than by the bud which blooms alone. There is a Spirit lurking nigh, That lures me 'neath the shady grove, I feel a presence none descry, Save they who know what 'tis to love. The shadow of a something lost O'er each well-trodden path has crost, And part of every haunt has grown, Where I have lingered not alone. is it but ssffiBB^iengthened dream^ Which hangSo'er wakened senses still, Alone. 57 At every turn some phantom£seem^ With names beloved the air to fill ; Such name beloved, such sunlit scene Where youth fresh happiness did glean, Whose hour was joy — but never known How priceless then till now — alone ! Thou day that risest brightly clad On fresh-dewed Earth and Heaven's bright blue, There was a time when I was glad Because an unseen pleasure grew ; By thy sweet radiance love begun, Seemed blest by high ascending Sun, — I thought one ray should be my own, Where is it now ? I am alone. mother Earth ! thy soil shall feel The growth of love entwining round When soft embrace of Spring will steal The crispness from the yielding ground. But ah ! what Springtime is there here, When even hope has failed to cheer, To find the blossom Love had sown Thwarted — withered — -and alone ! 1872. ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF MORN. Beautiful Spirit of Morn Peering from dreamland's abyss, Earth with thy blessing adorn, But wake her not yet with thy kiss. Draw but the curtain aside, Centre thy gaze on her eyes, Closed in the sleep of a bride, WhofeJover's embrace shall surprise. Through the cleft paths of the sky Glide in the lightness of love ; Catch but the fall of a sigh, And set it in rays from above. Whisper — Ah softer ! lest fear Rob thy delight of its charm ; Breathe but a wish to her ear — Beware the coy glance of alarm ! Dews o'er her brow ; by her bed The leaf that unfolded to see Ode to the Spirit of Morn. 59 The stillness of beauty o'erhead ; Wake her not ! She's dreaming of thee. Not yet ! For the hour must fly, Treads on its heel the loud world Breaking through cloudlet and sky, Which the hand of a God unfurled ; VII. And hearts must awake to feel The peace of their memories flow Away from rude life, — and steal The freshness — the silence — the glow. And the past — the past is sweet, Though the dawn of day be wet With quiver of dews that greet The hope that is tinged with regret. Beautiful Spirit of Morn ! 'Censed by the breath of the Spring, From bloom of her azure born, The gift of pure loveliness bring. Come ! through the hush of the air, Brushing the crest of each hill, 60 Nevermore. As bridegroom to bride so fair, En wrapt in the love which is still. Speed not the dream that will break ; But with the opening of day Let visions of Night awake, Not lost — but fulfilled in a ray. The hues that first charmed the eyes,- The bird that beguiled with song, — The glow that was first to rise, — The dawn of real life would prolong. Come while the heart lifts above The founts of its grateful prayer, Beautiful Spirit of Love ! Life-giving Son of the Air ! January, 1874. NEVERMORE. When shall I learn to pluck the flower and feel No blight upon its blossom ? When shall Hope Burst from her chrysalis of sloth bright clad In all th' adornments that our fancy shed? Ode to Summer. 6r When shall return the spirit of a child, That on the threatenings of a storm has smiled ? When shall I love each friend as when we met, Ere faults were found and choice became regret ? When in the simpleness of Faith adore All that the eye beholds ? nevermore ! ODE TO SUMMER. i. Too long has she been adorning Her head with the circlet of flowers ; Heard she the call of the morning That chaseth away the dark hours ? Why tarry the wheels of her car, While her heralds are sounding afar, When the bird, the bud, and the prime Of the leaf awaiteth her time ? come, then, fair daughter of light ! In the glow of full radiance now, In pride of bestowing alight Where the stem 'neath the roses bow ; Where the gleam of thine eyes shall fill The meadow, thegorse, and the hill. 'Tis the beaming of youth and of joy, That spreads o'er the earth to destroy The shadows of winter's decay ; Light us then, thou Queen of the Day ! 62 Ode to Summer. But hark ! from yonder bough Familiar strains are breathing forth farewell ; wherefore, wherefore now, Those accents sad, sweet plaintive Philomel ? " I go with the past ; thou wilt list in vain, Thou shalt hear me no more," she cries ; " I shun the loud voices of summer's reign, With her clarion burst mine dies. My song was but trilled to rewake The lovely, the noble in men ; 'Twas but a vain effort to make The now as delightful as then. I sang when each tribute of spring Was fresh with the incense of love, From the bower of youth I take wing ; My song is recorded above, Where the moon o'er the arc silent creeping To the throne of imperial night Hath oft shone in the lustre of weeping, And glistened with tears of delight." " Hence, sad forerunner of a wealth of sound ! A melody of hues — a rose-strewed ground ; Hence ! voice of lonely woods ! thy mystic spell Hath died upon the quivering of ' farewell ! ' Come, Fairy Queen, assert thy sway ! For life should be an endless choir Ode to Summer. 6$ Of harmonies for ever gay, Of echoes from a deathless lyre. Bathed in sunlight, perfumed o'er With the dew from honeyed store, Flushed with beauties till the eye Lives with gazing on the sky, Till the heart's unbounded ease Loosens all its bolts, and frees Love, which o'er the world shall steal Till its fullest joys we feel ; Till each river of the breast Starts from slothful bed of rest, Meets the bold embrace of air, And joys with elements to share. Come ! and all thy gifts outpour To the waves of chestnut bloom, From a perfect Heaven's door, Where they never dream of doom. Float through ether, drive away All but what is bliss to-day." 'Tis vain ! for o'er the chimes will steal Voice of the silvery past ; In vain we seek to change the peal, Its cadence is overcast. Through the silence of eve will ring The melody heard of yore, And the waning of day will bring The tramp of some last " No more." 64 Ode to Summer. I hear but its echoing feet, The kneli of the passing year, Swift fleeing away till they meet With the sun's encircling sphere. v. Mighty splendour ! queen of light ! Melting distance — bounding sight, While the signs of evening fall, And in falling soft recall All the glowing thoughts that fled, All the loving words we said, Treasured in the purple sky Whilst the darkness waiteth nigh ; Whilst each ray in transient gleams Fades upon our broken dreams, Still we fondly linger o'er Shadows that have gone before. Now thy wearied steeds the West, Enriching fold on fold, Hides within her mantled rest, And thy swift course is told. O'er the horizon creeping Now peers the stealthy star While the clouds are reaping Their golden sheaves afar. Stored in realms of beauty The harvest of the past, The Chimes. 65 Love — affection — duty Garnered there at last. Gather in thy glory The fresh delights of day, Handing down each story Emblazoned on a ray, Till within thy splendour We lose the inner woe, Till thy stillness render Her peace to us below. I gaze upon thy orbed sphere Till not one streak is seen, Thou'rt gone ! and sighs are swelling here For all that once hath been. Yet not for aye thy clustered lights Have sunk beneath the hill, They will return to hallow nights When all but dreams are still. July, 1874. THE CHIMES. 1. "Good night ! " The chimes from neighbouring tower Are ringing out the midnight hour. Thou and I still awake, Bell. " Good night." I will not bid farewell. Thy voice is like some warning friend That speaks of rest where yew trees bend, 5 66 The Chimes. That tells of many a long good night ; Yet still I watch beneath the light Of stars soft arching o'er the glade, Through the impassive, mystic shade Of elms and ivy round the tower, That sleeps within their sombre bower. " Good night." The echoes linger still On the dark outline of yon hill ; Yet in those words the numbered day Glides back upon a moonlit ray, And all the quiet joys that sped Rise as the ghosts of churchyard dead ; Rise with the thoughtless uttered breath, And ring the chimes, " There is no death." The hours which love hath crowned her own Come back when most we feel alone : The words — the hand — the smile that shone On life's young path can ne'er begone ; Each moment vanished into space Recalls some dear, some wistful face, Rekindling with new- wakened power The silence of the midnight hour. Aye ! for the thought's eternal fane Shall ring with the chimes of life again, That mingle with thy tones, Bell ! Good night ! I will not bid farewell. ShoreJiam Rectory, August, 1874. 6/ THE LAST SUMMER DAY ON THE THAMES BELOW EICHMOND. " Eemembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is drest." Collins. i. What is more lovely than a winding stream, Over whose quiet throbbiugs dance the waves, Pulseless, yet bearing in their lithesome touch The spirit-stirring ecstacy of joy; While on the sloping marge sweet Art has grown, As 'twere in sympathy with Nature's charms, Where in the calm of verdant earth we find A solace from the ruffling world behind ; The fleecy clouds — the placid blue horizon Seem knit together for our dream's ascent. ii. summer, could thy shining months endure For ever and for ever through the years ! If the revolving seasons could not bring Aught that might dim the smile of life with tears, Should we grow weary of eternal joy, Or listless sink upon a mossy bank, Watching the silver of the eddies curl, And dream our petty life of sunshine by, Impatient of the rays and glowing shore ? Could we but drown thy call, restless soul ! 8 The Last Summer Day. Whom beauty lures not save by seeming new, Unperfect in thy parts when change, decay, Must balance half to make the other gay : Yet sweeter are the moments such as these, When only sighs disturb the evening breeze, Dearer by far because they are so few. We loved not Zephyr ere rude Boreas blew. ye fond hearts that woo these sunny hours ! Gliding athwart the bosom of fair Thames, The sunshine of your forms remains to me Like the grouped setting of a lovely view. To be together in a scene like this Enkindles the deep love those only feel Whose eyes are open to the hidden life That pours its sultry offering to Heaven Under the gentle slope of hill and field. Comrades in joy ! the dancing of the rays, The sparkling of the waters in the sun, The sympathies of river and of sky, Speak to your hearts, as they have breathed on mine, The blessed happiness of mutual love ; And may the holy calmness of their power Join us in spirit through the wintry hour, Melt in our breasts the fellowship of tears, Bear our joint hopes as gently through the years, As the soft current ripples past our prow : Then may we greet each other e'en as now, " Worshipped with Her!' 69 Though it be long ere we may while away The pensive moments of a summer's day. Farewell, farewell ! ye fleeting joys, farewell ! The time is come of darkness and of clouds : The gleam of smouldering embers linger still, Piercing the twilight of the dying hour ; The last fond vision of a summer day Is fading 'mid the yellow leaves away ; The last dear glance from yonder hillock's brow, All, all is o'er, and solitude reigns now. Why should I turn ? and turn again to sigh O'er scene which seems to mock the parting eye ? The tree must wither and the leaf must fade, Ere summer bloom again on forest glade, Yet the long winter's night alone can tell How hard to reconcile the last farewell. November, 1871. "WORSHIPPED WITH HER." 1. God is love. Let incense rise Unseen by all save angels' eyes, No myrrh with odorous savour lave The taint of sinful ether — save The purity of hearts that own A mutual melody of tone. jo A Night at Sea. ii. those are joys ! which o'er us steal, When by our side the dearest kneel ; With adoration unexpressed The sacrifice of love is blessed, In the full thankfulness of soul Which heavenly innocence hath stole. in. " Worshipped with her ! " The. prayer ascends Mingled with hers ; devotion blends One vow to Heaven — one hope to earth ; , One sigh which hallowed joy gave birth, A feeling that the hour is one To mark a lifetime — and 'tis gone ! December, 1871. A NIGHT AT SEA. i. The height of Eternity's arching is crowned by circlet of night, The mysteries born of the sea are bathed in a halo of light ; While ceaseless waves of unrest seem becalmed by the passage of Love, Till roll of billows respond to the Spirit of Silence above. A Night at Sea. yi Flushed with the might of ascending, the moon in a volume of fire Hath scornfully spurned the clouds, that in sullen seclusion retire ; Yet o'er the setting of planets the beauty of strength seems diffused ; And o'er the silvery paths that are gleaming — so broken and bruised By rude upheaving of waters — she rules in her mys- tical power, And claims the wide ocean her own — entranced by the hush of the hour. List ! Her message is speechless, but revealed in the glitter of foam, Which lines the dark skirting of azure, "till sky and sea have one home. ii. I ask not to scan her secrets, but feel the pure longing of Faith To bound with the leaping of snowflakes, to gaze on each spray bedewed wraith Dancing afar to the sunset till lost with the fading of Day; Know but the glory of motion — the freedom of speeding away \ Only to list for the trailing of natures that rustle un- seen, Cleaving the air with bright wings, as they follow the train of their Queen, 72 A Night at Sea. As meekly she greets the hoarse welcome of spirits who live to revere The whispering kisses of Heaven — the message of love from a sphere. New worlds are gleaming before us, new feelings, which only can tell Their joys in the voiceless emotion of an endless fall and swell. It seems not the same blue heaven that reigned o'er the quiet of home. It seems not the same pure moon that over the nrtops did roam, And shine on the tameness of Earth, or smile on the temperate zone Of man and his petty belongings ; Queen now of waters alone ! The glittering road of the Sea seems to vie with the passage on high, Lit ifi&m'by the planet's reflexions, that linger refus- ing to die. Though ris'n encrimsoned with anger, the moon in the beauty of rest Now sheds the light of forgiveness — till wind, wave, and storm-cloud are blest ; Then glancing back on her progress e'en memory's tear will surprise The look that rekindles the star, whose glory first spurred her to rise. A Night at Sea. 73 So we seek to retrace the paths now lost in a turmoil of spray, And yearn for the dim horizon that was reft from us yesterday, So shall we sigh for life's footprints illumined by rays from that star, Which beckoned our hopes o'er the waves to fade in the shadows afar. would I might course on those billows away to the distant shore ! And glow in the cycle of sunsets ; feel their last glances once more : Dearer to human affections the ties of each moment of space Sealed by the lips of a parting — the hallowing touch of embrace. • Farewell ! farewell to your sparkling ; ye will-o-the- wisps of the seas That lure the soul till its sorrow is lost in the scent of the breeze, Till, 'mid its lonely repinings, the thought that oppresses the mind Flies o'er the vastness of Ocean to Eternity uncon- fined, Where a new' moon shall regather the glories of those which have shone, Besprinkling the dome of new heaven with gems that we fancied had gone. E'en now 'mid those wastes of wild waters I feel that the soul is free, 74 "A Little While? When the beauty of Night, betrothed to the depth of a lovely sea, Doth call to the heart within, which is beating to wit- ness the rite, To joy in those mystical joys when spirit to spirit unite. London to Aberdeen, 1874. "A LITTLE WHILE." Fancy spreads her golden train O'er the wealth of hope's domain A little while. Sun and breeze conspire to win Some frail buds from blight within A little while. Constant visions absence weaves Of the love that ne'er deceives A little while. Wreaths, by fleeting triumph thrown, Strive to make life's path their own A little while. Brief the glow of flying years, Sown in glory — reaped in tears. Summer bids the spring away, Autumn trippeth to decay And the stealthy hours defile, With that knell " a little while." Regret. 75 Only this in parting tell, When thou whisperest farewell, "O'er my lone dreams fondly smile, Till it seem a little while." May, 1874. REGRET. WEITTEN IN POET'S WALK, ETON PLAYING FIELDS. To S. L. H. i. could I dream for ever here ! Beneath the rustling trees, Or 'mid those crystal circles steer, My guiding helm the breeze ; And leave no trace of where we cleft The feathery wave in spring To haunt our minds when May has left, And swallows taken wing : The memory of the wind that now Is playing 'neath the shade Shall seem again to fan our brow When all that's bright doth fade. ii. Sport on ! sport on, thou happy boy, While all thy paths are spread With flowers that wreathe a holy joy, Which Innocence hath shed. 76 The Torrent. From these dear realms of fairy-land How many launched from shore, And drew their anchor from the strand, Only to sigh for yore ! Yet though they may return to gain The pleasures boyhood made, They ne'er will feel its life again, For all that's bright must fade. in. who would not have lingered here ! Where on this flowery sod Some bard perchance hath vowed to rear A shrine for nature's God. Yet why this sadness stealing all The sweets of Springtime's bliss ? The charm is broke ere lips let fall " There is an end to this ; " There is a doom of toil and woe, That points beyond this glade, And now must soon be long ago, For all that's bright must fade. May, 1871. THE TOKKENT. I sat me down upon the sloping bank Under the leafy cover of the ash, And watched the river winding 'neath the rocks, Which by their height uplifted from the shore The 7 "