LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. \ Shelf . UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. LATE ENGLISH POETS. THE GOLDEN LEAVES SERIES. I. Golden Leaves from the Britijh Poets. II. Golden Leaves from the American Poet3. III. Golden Leaves from the Dramatic Poets. IV. Golden Leaves from the Late English Poets IN UKIFOllS VOLUMAk #T^a \f. #'4' ~~~ ^/fc&&5fr ROMANCE. THE LATE ENGLISH POETS EDITED BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS, New York : GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE. /3 Entered according to Act of Cougress, in tbc year iBftj, By Bunce and Huntington, In the CJerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Sovithe- District of New York. zz-izi-yj PREFACE, IF I have accomplished the object I had in view, this volume is a faithful representation of the late Poets of England. Not of the great- est, as Tennyson and the Brownings, whose works are in the hands of all, and whose fame is fixed for the present, however it may fluctuate in fu- ture ; but of their younger brothers and sisters, to whom fame is not yet assured, although they have already won reputations of greater or lesser worth. Who among their number are likely to rank with the Immortals, Time alone can decide. My busi- ness with, my duty to, them, is to present all at their best, giving each the place he seems entitled to, so far as it can be done in a volume of this size. No recent poet, with whose works I am acquainted, has been overlooked, but several not so widely known as they should be are brought to the notice of American readers. The chief of these are the two brothers of the Laureate, Frederick Tennys ,n and Charles Turner (why the latter has changed his name I have not learned, but doubtless for family vi PREFACE. reasons, such as obtain in England, — possibly the inheritance of an estate), Edwin Arnold, a brother of Matthew Arnold, William Morris, George W. Thornbury, George Meredith (better known as a novelist than a poet), Thomas Westwood, and Frederick Locker. Robert Buchanan and Alger- non Charles Swinburne are largely quoted from, because they appear to me the most promising, as they are certainly the most prominent, of the later Poets of England. As regards the last, I have departed from the rule which I laid down at the start, and which was rigidly observed until he was reached, — not to make extracts from poems, but to give entire poems : in his case the rule was not practicable — his writings, so far as I know them, consisting of productions of considerable length, viz., the tragedies of Rosamond and The ®)ueen Mother, and Atalanta in Calydon. From the last named I have selected six Choruses, which in a certain sense are complete in themselves, enough so, at least, to be read as separate poems, without doing violence to their sense. R. H. S. New York, November 18, 1865. CONTENTS. VIatthew Arnold. pag« Sohrab and Rustum. An Episode I Tristram and Iseult a 9 The Neckan 55 The Forsaken Merman 57 Obermann 62 Edwin Arnold. The Egyptian Princess 6 9 The Sirens 7* Flowers 74 Death and Sleep 75 Alexander Smith. Squire Maurice 79 The Night before the Wedding; or, Ten Years after 99 Gerald Massey. Love's Fairy Ring io 3 Now and Then io 5 Hunt the Squirrel Io6 Little Willie Io8 When Christie comes again io 9 Christie's Portrait * * 3 Sir Richard Grenville's Last Fight "5 On a Wedding Day 1 20 Robert Bulwer Lytton (Owen Meredith) Madame la Marquise I2, 3 Aux Italiens I2 5 The Portrait I2 9 viii CONTENTS. Robert Bulwer Lytton (continued). rAna Babylonia 133 The Castle of King Macbeth 140 King Solomon 14 1 The Chess-Board 143 Song 1 44 Changes 146 Sydney Dobell. How's my Boy? i-17 Tommy's Dead I4 8 The Little Girl's Song 15 2 Afloat and Ashore 155 For Charity's Sake 158 Lady Constance i$9 William Allingham. The Messenger 163 Lovely Mary Donnelly. (To an Irish Tune) 164 The Cold Wedding 165 The Fairies. A Child's Song 167 Wishing. A Child's Song 169 The Sailor. A Romaic Ballad 170 Would I knew! 172 Nanny's Sailor Lad 173 Song 174 Robin Redbreast. A Child's Song 175 Old Master Grunsey and Goodman Dodd 1-6 These Little Songs i8j William Morris. The Defence of Guenevere 181 A Good Knight in Prison 192 Frederick Tennyson. First of March 197 Noon 199 CONTENTS. \x Frederick Tennyson (continued). PAGB A Dream of Autumn 2 oi The Golden City 204 To the Cicala 208 The Blackbird 212 Charles Turner. The Lion's Skeleton 216 To the Robin 217 Bird-Nesting 217 The Lachrymatory 218 The Buoy-Bell 218 On the Statue of Lord Byron, in Trinity College, Cam- bridge 219 The Same (continued) 220 The Charming of the East Wind 220 The Forest Glade 221 Morning 221 Harvest-Home 222 Time and Twilight 222 Coventry Patmore. Honoria 223 The Chase 226 Frost in Harvest 229 Rejected 230 The Mistress 231 The Wife's Tragedy 232 The Paradox 233 Night Thoughts 235 By the Sea 236 Womanhood 238 Arthur Hugh Clough. Qua Cursum Ventus 239 The Song of Lamech 240 The New Sinai 244 u Across the Sea " 248 x CONTENTS. Arthur Hugh Clough {continued), PXGt Jacob 249 "O stream descending" 252, Charles Kingsley. Andromeda 253 Saint Maura » 284 The Sands of Dee 292 Earl Haldan's Daughter. A Ballad 293 The Last Buccaneer. A Ballad 294 The Three Fishers 296 William Makepeace Thackeray. The Chronicle of the Drum 297 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 315 The Mahogany-Tree 319 At the Church Gate 321 The Age of Wisdom 322 The End of the Plo, 323 William Edmondstoune Aytoun. The Execution of Montrose 326 The Heart of the Bruce 334 George W. Thornbury. The Three Troopers. (During the Protectorate) 344 The White Rose over the Water. (Edinburgh, 1744) 346 La Tricoteuse 348 The Old Grenadier's Story. (Told on a Bench outside the Invalides) 350 George Meredith. Will o'the Wisp 353 Love in the Valley 356 W. C. Bennett. Baby May 359 Spring Songs • 360 From Sea 3 64 CONTENTS. xi Thomas Westwood. FA( , b Little Bell 366 The Moorland Child 368 Under my Window 371 Maud 372 The Proudest Lady 373 The Baby's Thoughts 375 David Gray. In the Shadows 376 Miscellaneous Sonnets 385 The Anemone 387 An Illusion Dispelled 389 In the Storm 39s My Little Brother 391 Frederick Locker. On an Old Muff. 393 A Wish 396 Old Letters 397 Unfortunate Miss Bailey. (An Experiment) 399 The Widow's Mite 401 My First-Born 402 Adelaide Anne Procter. A Woman's Question 403 A Doubting Heart 405 A Shadow 406 Recollections 407 Hush ! 409 The Requital 410 Three Roses 412 A Dream Sent to Heaven 413 414 A Woman's Answer 416 A Tryst with Death 41S xii CONTESTS. Dinah Maria Muloch. rM Philip my King 4.2,0 Plighted 4*1 Now and Afterwards 422 A Dead Baby 4-3 Over the Hills and Far away 424 An Evening Guest 4 2 5 Too Late 426 Jean Ingelow. A Dead Year 4 2 7 The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 43a Songs of Seven +-38 Christina Rossetti. Love from the North 447 At Home 44^ Maude Clare 449 Up-Hill 45 1 A Peal of Bells 45* Noble Sisters 453 Robert Buchanan. A London Idyl 455 The Naiad 4 66 Penelope 468 Willie Baird. A Winter Idyl 473 Poet Andrew 488 Lord Ronald's Wife 504 The Legend of the Stepmother 508 The Faery Foster-Mother 51a Algernon Charles Swinburne. Chorus — "When the hounds of spring," etc 514 Chorus — "Before the beginning of years" 516 Chorus — "We have seen thee, O Love," etc 518 Chorus — "Who hath given man speech?" etc 523 Chorus — "O that I now, I too were," etc 529 Chorus— " Let your hands meet," etc , 53a THE LATE ENGLISH POETS, fttattljeu) 3lrnolb. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. AN EPISODE. AND the first gray of morning filled the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in sleep : Sohrab alone, he slept not : all night long He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; But when the gray dawn stole into his tent, He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, And went abroad into the cold wet fog, Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere : Through the black tents he passed, o'er that low strand, And to a hillock came, a little back From the stream's brink, the spot where first a boat, THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crowned the top With a clay fort : but that was fallen ; and now The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood Upon the thick-piled carpets in the tent, And found the old man sleeping on his bed Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man's sleep; And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — " Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ?" But Sohrab came to the bed-side, and said . — " Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa : it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army marched ; And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou knowest if, since from Ader-baijan first I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy's years, the courage of a man. This too thou know'st, that, while I still bear on The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, And beat the Persians back on every field, I seek one man, one man, and one alone — Rustum, my father — who, I hoped, should greet, MATTHEW ARNOLD. Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day : but I Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man : if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumour of a common fight, Where host meets host, and many names are sunk : But of a single combat Fame speaks clear." He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said : — " O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's common chance with us Who love thee, but must press forever first, In single fight incurring single' risk, To find a father thou hast never seen ? Or, if indeed this one desire rules all, To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young, When Rustum was in front of every fray : But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorred approaches of old age, Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. T HE LATE ENGLISH POETS. There go : — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart forebodes Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us : fain therefore send thee hence, in peace To seek thy father, not seek single fights In vain : — but who can keep the lion's cub From ravening ? and who govern Rustum's son ? Go : I will grant thee what thy heart desires." So said he, and dropped Sohrab's hand, and left His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay, And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat He passed, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he took In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; And on his head he placed his sheep-skin cap, Black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; And raised the curtain of his tent, and called His herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun, by this, had risen, and cleared the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands : And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain ; so Haman bade — Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they streamed As when, some gray November morn, the files, In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes, Stream over Casbin, and the southern slopes Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound For the warm Persian sea-board, — so :hey streamed. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 5 First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; Large men, large steeds, who from Bokhara come And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. Next the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came From far, and a more doubtful service owned ; The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, Kalmuks and unkemped Kuzzaks, tribes who stray Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. These all filed out from camp into the plain. And on the other side the Persians formed : First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seemed, The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind, The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshalled battalions bright in burnished steei. But Peran-Wisa with his herald came Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, He took his spear, and to the front he came, And checked his ranks, and fixed them where they stood.. And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man." As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of peddlers, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow, Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake their parched throats with sugared mulberries — In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows — So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up To counsel : Gudurz and Zoarrah came, And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host Second, and was the uncle of the King ; These came and counselled ; and then Gudurz said :- " Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, Yet champion have we none to match this youth He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ! But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart: Him will I seek, and carry to his ear The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. MATTHEW ARNOLD. Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up." So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and said : — " Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turned, and strode Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, And crossed the camp which lay behind, and reached, Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, Just pitched : the high pavilion in the midst Was Rustum's, and his men lay camped around. And Gudurz entered Rustum's tent, and found Rustum : his morning meal was done, but still The table stood beside him, charged with food ; A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, And dark-green melons ; and there Rusmm sate Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, And played with it ; but Gudurz came and stood Before him ; and he loolced and saw him stand ; And with a cry sprang up, and dropped the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said :-— " Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink." But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and said : — " Not now : a time will come to eat and drink, But not to-day : to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze : For from the Tartars is a challenge brought To pick a champion from the Persian lords To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name- THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose." He spoke : but Rustum answered, with a smile : — " Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I Am older ; if the young are weak, the King Errs strangely : for the King, for Kai Khosroo, Himself is young, and honors younger men, And lets the aged moulder to their graves. Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? For would that I myself had such a son, And not that one slight helpless girl I have — A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, And I to tarry with the snow-haired Zal, My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, And he has none to guard his weak old age. There would I go, and hang my armour up, And with my great name fence that weak old man, And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more. He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply : — " What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 9 Hidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should say, Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, And shuns to peril it with younger men." And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply : — ' ' O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? Are not they mortal, am not I myself? But who for men of naught would do great deeds ? Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame. But I will fight unknown and in plain arms ; Let not men say of Rustum, he was matched In single fight with any mortal man." He spoke, and frowned ; and Gudurz turned, and ran Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to his tent door, and called His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, And clad himself in steel : the arms he chose Were plain, and on his shield was no device, Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, And from the fluted spine atop a plume Of horse-hair waved, a scarlet horse-hair plume. So armed, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, Followed him, like a faithful hound, at heel — Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, The horse whom Rustum on a foray once Did in Bokhara by the river find, A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, And reared him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest ; Dight with a saddle-cloth of broidered green lo THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Crusted with gold, and on the ground were worked All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know : So followed, Rustum left his tents, and crossed The camp, and to the Persian host appeared. And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts Hailed ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyes Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale of precious pearls, Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, And Sohrab armed in Haman's tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swathe Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, And on each side are squares of standing corn, And in the midst a stubble, short and bare ; So on each side were squares of men, with spears Bristling, and in the midst the open sand. And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast His eyes towards the Tartar tents, and saw Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge Who with numb, blackened fingers makes her fire — At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's mom, When the frost flowers the whitened window-panes — And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed The unknown, adventurous Youth, who from afar MATTHEW ARNOLD. Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth All the most valiant chiefs. Long he perused His spirited air, and wondered who he was. For very young he seemed, tenderly reared ; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, Which in a queen's secluded garden throws Its slight, dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, And beckoned to him with his hand, and said : — " O thou young man, the air of heaven is soft, And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. Heaven's air is better than the cold, dead grave. Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron, And tried j and I have stood on many a field Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe : Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? Be governed : quit the Tartar host, and come To Iran, and be as my son to me, And fight beneath my banner till I die. There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." So he spake, mildly : Sohrab heard his voice, The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Has buildcd on the waste in former years Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, Streaked with its first gray hairs : hope filled his soul ; And he ran forward and embraced his knees, I THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And clasped his hand within his own, and said : — " Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! Art thou not Rustum ? Speak ! art thou not he :" But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turned away, and spoke to his own soul : — " Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean. False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, And hide it not, but say, ' Rustum is here' — He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-day, in Afrasiab's hall In Samarcand, he will arise and cry — ' I challenged once, when the two armies camped Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight ; but they Shrank ; only Rustum dared : then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.' So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.' And then he turned, and sternly spake aloud : — " Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast called By challenge forth : make good thy vaunt, or yield Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee ! For well I know, that did great Rustum stand Before thy face this day, and were revealed, There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I zi\\ thee this : MATTHEW ARNOLD. *3 Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt, and yield, Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away." He spoke : and Sohrab answered, on his feet : — " Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so. I am no girl, to be made pale by words. Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand Here on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. Begin : thou art more vast, more dread than I, And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know ; For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, Poised on the top of a huge wave of Fate, Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall, And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea, Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, We know not, and no search will make us know : Only the event will teach us in its hour." He spoke ; and Rustum answered not, but hurled His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came, As on some partridge in the corn a hawk That long has towered in the airy clouds Drops like a plummet : Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash : the spear Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw 14 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. in turn, and full struck Rustura's shield : sharp rang, The iron plates rang sharp, but turned the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield : an unlopped trunk it was, and huge, Still rough ; like those which men in treeless plains To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs; so huge The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke. But again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came Thundering to earth, and leaped from Rustum's hand. And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his ringers clutched the sand. And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — " Thou strik'st too hard : that club of thine will float Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I ; No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou sayst, thou art not Rustum : be it so. Who art thou, then, that canst so touch my soul ? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too ; Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; But never was my heart thus touched before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart ? MA TTHE W ARNOLD. » 5 O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Mayst fight ; fight them, when they confront thy spear. But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me !" He ceased : but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage : his club He left to lie, but had regained his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn star, The baleful sign of fevers : dust had soiled His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. His breast heaved ; his lips foamed j and twice his voice Was choked with rage : at last these words broke way : " Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands ! Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! Fight ; let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance ; But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war : I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! Remember all thy valour : try thy feints And cunning. All the pity I had is gone, Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." 16 TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword : at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west : their shields Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees : such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone ; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out : the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horse-hair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust ; And Rustum bowed his head ; but then the gloom Grew blacker : thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the horse, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 17 Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry ; No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand : — The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, And struck again ; and again Rustum bowed His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in his hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head : his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted, " Rustum !" Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed : back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing Form ; And then he stood bewildered ; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and staggering back, sank to the ground. And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud ; the two armies saw the pair — Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — "Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee 20. l3 THE LATE EXGLISH POETS. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — " Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I matched with ten such men as thou, And I were he who till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that beloved name unnerved my arm — That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall j and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce Man, tremble to hear ! The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee !" As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And followed her to find her where she fell Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short, uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams MATTHEW ARNOLD. IQ Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers : never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by : — As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss — So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said : — " What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? The mighty Rustum never had a son." And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied :— " Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. Surely the news will one day reach his car, Reach Rustum, where he sits and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce Man, bethink thee, for an only son ! What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ! Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old King her father, who grows gray With age, who rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. But a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; ) THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; But that in battle with a nameless foe, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." He spoke ; and as he ceased he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke ; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought. Nor did he yet believe it was his son Who spoke, although he called back names he knew; For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should take the boy, to train in arms ; And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deemed he ; yet he listened, plunged in thought ; And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore At the full moon : tears gathered in his eyes ; For he remembered his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries A far bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds; — so Rustum saw His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; And that old King, her father, who loved well His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. They three, in that long-distant summer-time- •- The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt MATTHEW ARNOLD. 2: And hound, and morn on those delightful hills In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks to be his own dear son, Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass ; — so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : — " O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved ! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false ; — thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son : one child he had — But one — a girl : who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — Of us she dreams not,, nor of wounds, nor war." But Sohrab answered him in wrath ; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die ; But first he would convince his stubborn foe — And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — " Man, who art thou who does deny my words ? Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And Falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore." He spoke : and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks ; 12 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand Against his breast — his heavy, mailed hand, That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud : And to his heart he pressed the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — " Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked : as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands : — So delicately pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that Griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks. Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved — Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, And then he touched it with his hand, and said : — " How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" He spoke : but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless ; and then he uttered one sharp cry — " Boy — thy Father /" — and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. MATTHEW ARNOLD. 2\ But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips, And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life : and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair, His hair, ard face, and beard, and glittering arms : And strong :onvulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him ; and he clutched his sword, To draw it, and forever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said : — " Father, forbear : for I but meet to-day The doom that at my birth was written down In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, I know it : but Fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel ; Fate, Fate engaged The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. But let us speak no more of this : I find My father ; let me feel that I have found. Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say, ' My Son!' Quick ! quick ! for numbered are my sands of life, And swift ; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away — Sudden and swift, and like a passing wind. But it was writ in Heaven that this should be." 24- TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. So said he : and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast His arms around his son's neck, and wept aloud, And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts When they saw Rustum's grief: and Ruksh, the horse. With his head bowing to the ground, and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one then to the other moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : — "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, When first they bore thy Master to this field." But Sohrab looked upon the horse and said : — " Is this, then, Ruksh ? How often, in past days, My mother told me of thee, thou brave Steed ! My terrible father's terrible horse j and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; For thou hast gone where I shall never go, And snufred the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine, And said — ' O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well !' — but I Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, MATTHEW ARNOLD. Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream : But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream — The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied : — (l Oh that its waves were flowing over me ! Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head !" And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied — " Desire not that, my father ; thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I died too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age. Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come : thou seest this great host of men Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these : Let me entreat for them : what have they done ? They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all : z6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and say — ' Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there. Whom his great father did in ignorance kilV — And I be not forgotten in my grave." And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : — - " Fear not ; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be : for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all : And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host : yea, let them go : Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. What should I do with slaying any more ? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes, And they who were called champions in their time, And through whose death I won that fame I have ; And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown ; So thou mightest live too, my Son, my Son I Or rather would that 1, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; MATTHEW ARNOLD. z; And say — '0 son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou mefst thine end.* — But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age ; And I shall never end this life of blood." Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — " A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful Man ! But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now ; Not yet : but thou shalt have it on that day, When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying thy dear Master in his grave." And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said : — " Soon be that day, my Son, and that deep sea ! Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure." He spoke : and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish : but the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flowed with the stream : all down his cold white side The crimson torrent poured, dim now, and soiled, Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, By romping children, whom their nurses call Fom the hot field at noon : his head drooped low, His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, And fixed them feebly on his father's face : Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs ! THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-reared By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side — So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog : for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal The Persians took it on the open sands Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge : And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon : he flowed Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunje, Brimming, and bright, and large : then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents ; that for many a league The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — MATTHEW ARNOLD. 2q Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, A foiled circuitous wanderer : — till at last The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. "In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at this time resided at the Castle of Tyntagil, Tristram became expert in all knightly exercises. The king of Ireland, at Tristram's soli- citations, promised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, during the re- mainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of the lovers. . . . " After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with their contrivances to procure secret interviews. — Tris- tram, being forced to leave Cornwall on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands. — He married her — more out of gratitude than love. — After- wards he proceeded to the dominions of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits. "Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he dispatched a confidant to the queen of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her ta accompany him to Brittany," &c. — Dunlcp's History of Fiction. 30 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. i. TRISTRAM. TRISTRAM. TS she not come t The messenger was sure. "*■ Prop me upon the pillows once again — Raise me, my Page : this cannot long endure. Christ ! what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane ! What lights will those out to the northward be ? THE PAGE. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. TRISTRAM. Soft ! — Who is that stands by the dying fire ? THE PAGE. Iseult. TRISTRAM. Ah ! not the Iseult I desire. * % % * What Knight is this, so weak and pale, Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head Propped on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the light Of some ship that fights the gale On this wild December night ? Over the sick man's feet is spread A dark-green forest dress. A gold harp leans against the bed, Ruddy in the fire's light. I know him by his harp of gold, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 31 Famous in Arthur's court of old : I know him by his forest dress. The peerless hunter, harper, knight — Tristram of Lyoness. What Lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire ? The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying With the clasp of burnished gold Which her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are mild, her fingers slight As the driven snow are white ; And her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic Sea On this coast of Brittany, Nips too keenly the sweet Flower ? — Is it that a deep fatigue Hath come on her, a chilly fear, Passing all her youthful hour Spinning with her maidens here, Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seaward many a league From her lonely shore-built tower, While the knights are at the wars ? — Or, perhaps, has her young heart Felt already some deeper smart, Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair ? — Who is this snow-drop by the sea ? I know her bv her mildness rare, 12 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Her snow-white hands, her golden hair ; I know her by her rich silk dress, And her fragile loveliness : The sweetest Christian soul alive, Iseult of Brittany. Iseult of Brittany ? — but where Is that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen ? She, whom Tristram's ship of yore To Tyntagil from Ireland bore, To Cornwall's palace, to the side Of King Marc, to be his bride ? She who, as they voyaged, quaffed With Tristram that spiced magic draught, Which since then forever rolls Through their blood, and binds their souls, Working love, but working teen ? — There were two Iseults, who did sway Each her hour of Tristram's day ; But one possessed his waning time, The other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient Flower, Who possessed his darker hour ! Iseult of the Snow White Hand Watches pale by Tristram's bed. — She is here who had his gloom, Where art thou who hadst his bloom ? One such kiss as those of yore Might thy dying knight restore — Does the love-draught work no more ? Art thou cold, or false, or dead, Iseult of Ireland ? MATTHEW ARNOLD. 33 Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, And the knight sinks back on his pillows again. He is weak with fever and pain, And his spirit is not clear : Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, As he wanders far from here, Changes place and time of year, And his closed eye doth sweep O'er some fair unwintry sea, Not this fierce Atlantic deep, As he mutters brokenly. — TRISTRAM, The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails — Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — " Ak, would I were in those green fields at play, Not pent on ship-board this delicious day. Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, And pledge me in it first for courtesy.—" Ha ! dost thou start ? are thy lips blanched like mine ? Child, 'tis no water this, 'tis poisoned wine ! Iseult ! . . . . * * * * ■ Ah, sweet angels, let him dream ! Keep his eyelids ! let him seem Not this fever-wasted wight Thinned and paled before his time, But the brilliant youthful knight In the glory of his prime, Sitting in the gilded barge, At thy side, thou lovely charge ! 2* 34 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Bending gayly o'er thy hand, Iseult of Ireland ! And she ths fair. princess If her bloom be now less rare, Let her have her youth again — Let her be as she was then ! Let her have her proud dark eyes, And her petulant, quick replies ; Let her sweep her dazzling hand With its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hair With the old imperious air. As of old, so let her be, That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knight As he steers her o'er the sea, Quitting at her father's will The green isle where she was bred, And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand, Where the prince whom she must wed Keeps his court in Tyntagil, Fast beside the sounding sea. And that golden cup her mother Gave her, that her future lord — Gave her, that King Marc and she Might drink it on her marriage-day, And forever love each other, Let her, as she sits on board, Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly, See it shine, and take it up, And to Tristram laughing say — MATTHEW ARNOLD. 35 "Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy Pledge me in my golden cup !" Let them drink it — let their hands Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, As they feel the fatal bands Of a love they dare not name, With a wild, delicious pain, Twine about their hearts again. Let the early summer be Once more round them, and the sea Blue, and o'er its mirror kind Let the breath of the May wind, Wandering through their drooping sails, Die on the green fields of Wales. Let a dream like this restore What his eye must see no more. TRISTRAM. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear. Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here ? Were feet like those made for so wild a way ? The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day. — " Tristram! — nay, nay — thou must not take my hand- Tristram — sweet love— we are betrayed — out-planned, ply — save thyself— save me! I dare not stay"— One last kiss first !—" ' Its vain— to horse— away /' Ah, sweet saints, his dream doth move Faster surely than it should, From the fever in his blood. All the spring-time of his love HE LATE EXGLISH POETS. Is already gone and past, And instead thereof is seen Its winter, which endureth still — The palace-towers of Tyntagil, The pleasaunce walks, the weeping queen, The flying leaves, the straining blast, And that long, wild kiss — their last ! And this rough December night And his burning fever-pain Mingle with his hurrying drean. Till they rule it, till he seem The pressed fugitive again, The love-desperate banished knight With a fire in his brain Flying o'er the stormy main. Whither does he wander now ? Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here, and lets him find The lovely Orphan Child again In her castle by the coast, The youngest, fairest chatelaine, That this realm of France can boast, Our Snowdrop by the Atlantic Sea, [seult of Brittany. And — for through the haggard air, The stained arms, the matted hair Of that stranger knight ill-starred, There gleamed something that recalled The Tristram who in better days Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard — Welcomed here, and here installed, Tended of his fever here, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 37 Haply he seems again to move His young guardian's he^t with love; In his exiled loneliness, In his stately deep distress, Without a word, without a tear. — Ah, 'tis well he should retrace His tranquil life in this lone place ; His gentle bearing at the side Of his timid youthful bride ; His long rambles by the shore On winter evenings, when the roar Of the near waves came, sadly grand, Through the dark, up the drowned sand Or his endless reveries In the woods, where the gleams play On the grass under the trees, Passing the long summer's day Idle as a mossy stone In the forest depths alone ; The chase neglected, and his hound Couched beside him on the ground. — Ah, what trouble's on his brow ? Hither let him wander now, — Hither, to the quiet hours Passed among these heaths of ours By the gray Atlantic Sea — Hours, if not of ecstasy, From violent anguish surely free. TRISTRAM. All red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blow3. 3 8 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Upon us are the chivalry of Rome — Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. " Up, Tristram, up," men cry, " thou moonstruck knight ! What foul fiend rides thee ? On into the fight !" Above the din her voice is in my ears — I see her form glide through the crossing spean. — Iseult ! . . . . * * * ♦ Ah, he wanders forth again ; We cannot keep him ; now as then There's a secret in his breast That will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood They cloud the brain, they dull the blood. His sword is sharp — his horse is good — Beyond the mountains will he see The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor. There's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care : The march — the leaguer — heaven's blithe air — The neighing steeds — the ringing blows ; Sick pining comes not where these are. Ah, what boots it, that the jest. Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, Tf one's own heart beats not light n ^ the waves of the tossed fight, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 39 If one's self cannot get free From the clog of misery ? Thy lovely youthful Wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea tide With her children at her side For the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again ! To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain. TRISTRAM. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, But it is moonlight in the open glade : And in the bottom of the glade shine clear The forest chapel and the fountain near. I think, I have a fever in my blood : Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light. God ! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. — " Fair love," she says, " canst thou forget so soon, At this soft hour, under this sweet moon r" — Iseult! .... * * * * Ah, poor soul, if this be so, Only death can balm thy woe. The solitudes of the green wood Had no medicine for thy mood. The rushing battle cleared thy blood As little as did solitude. Ah, his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake. 4-0 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. What new change shall we now see ? A happier ? Worse it cannot be. TRISTRAM. Is my Page here ? Come, turn me to the fire. Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright ; The wind is down : but she'll not come to-night. Ah, no — she is asleep in Tyntagil, / Far hence — her dreams are fair — her sleep is still ; Of me she recks not, nor of my desire. I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my Page, Would take a score years from a strong man's age ; And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, Scant leisure for a second messenger. My Princess, art thou there ? Sweet, 'tis too late. To bed, and sleep : my fever is gone by : To-night my Page shall keep me company. Where do the children sleep ? kiss them for me. Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I : This comes of nursing long and watching late. To bed — good-night ! ***** She left the gleam-lit fireplace, She came to the bed-side. She took his hands in hers : her tears Down on her slender fingers rained. She raised her eyes upon his face — Not with a look of wounded pride, A look as if the heart complained: — Her look was like a sad embrace j The gaze of one who can divine A grief, and sympathize. MATTHEW ARNOLD. . 4 1 Sweet Flower, thy children's eyes Are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in sheltered rest, Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the Castle's southern side ; Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. Full on their window the moon's ray Makes their chamber as bright as day ; It shines upon the blank white walls, And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth play Turned to each other : — the eyes closed — The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close-set Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; Through the soft-opened lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet- One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have and this alone ; But else they are so still ! Ah, tired madcaps, you lie still : But were you at the window now To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night ; To see the park-glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day ; 42 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant bough Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves Are jewelled with bright drops of rain — How would your voices run again ! And far beyond the sparkling trees Of the castle park one sees The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, locked by the land, Long inlets of smooth, glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand All shining in the white moon-beams : But you see fairer in your dreams. What voices are these on the clear night air ? What lights in the court ? what steps on the stair ? ii. ISEULT OF IRELAND. TRISTRAM. "D AISE the light, my Page, that I may see her. — -*-^* Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen ! Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever : Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. ISEULT. Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried : I was bound, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present : I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. MATTHEW ARNOLD. 43 TRISTRAM. Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoined me ; Thou hast dared it : but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thy honour. I am dying: build — (thou mayst)— my grave ! ISEULT. Tristram, for the love of Heaven, speak kindly ! What } I hear these bitter words from thee ? Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — Take my hand — dear Tristram, look on me ! TRISTRAM. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage. Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult ! And thy beauty never was more fair. ISEULT. Ah, harsh flatterer ! let alone my beauty. I, like thee, have left my youth afar. Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers — See my cheek and lips, how white they are ! TRISTRAM. Thou art paler: — but thy sweet charm, Iseult! Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! I forgive thee, Iseult ! — thou wilt stay ? ISEULT. Fear me not, I will be always with thee : I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain ; Sing thee tales of true long-parted lovers Joined at eyening of their days again. +4 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. TRISTRAM. No, thou shalt not speak ; I should be finding Something altered in thy courtly tone. Sir — sit by me : I will think, we've lived so In the greenwood, all our lives, alone. JSEULT. Altered, Tristram ? Not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is altered in the breast. Courtly life is light and cannot reach it : Ah, it lives, because so deep suppressed. Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband — That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings — Those were friends to make me false to thee ! What ! thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled ? What ! thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold ? Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, Thee, a weeping exile in thy forest — Me, a smiling queen upon my throne ? Vain and strange debate, where both have suffered ; Both have passed a youth constrained and sad ; Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short space for being glad. Joined we are henceforth : nor will thy people, Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 45 That an ancient rival shares her office, When she sees her' humbled, pale, and still. I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, I, a statue on thy chapel floor, Poured in grief before the Virgin Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. She will cry — " Is this the foe I dreaded ? This his idol ? this that royal bride ? Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight ; Stay, pale queen ! forever by my side." Hush, no words ! that smile, I see, forgives me. I am now thy nurse — I bid thee sleep ; Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinds them — Nay, all's well again : thou must not weep. TRISTRAM. I am happy : yet I feel, there's something Swells my heart, and takes my breath away : Through a mist I see thee : near ! — come nearer ! Bend — bend down — I yet have much to say. ISEULT. Heaven ! his head sinks back upon the pillow ! — Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail. Call on God and on the holy angels ! What, love, courage ! — Christ ! he is so pale ! TRISTRAM. Hush ! 'tis vain — I feel my end approaching : This is what my mother said should be, When the fierce pains took her in the forest, The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 4 6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS "Son," she said, "thy name shall be of sorrow ! Tristram art thou called for my death's sake !" So she said, and died in the drear forest. Grief since then his home with me doth make. I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly ! Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save ! But, since living we were ununited, Go not far, O Iseult ! from my grave. Rise, go hence, and seek the Princess Iseult : Speak her fair — she is of royal blood. Say, I charged her, that ye live together : — She will grant it — she is kind and good. Now, to sail the seas of Death, I leave thee. One last kiss upon the living shore ! ISEULT. Tristram ! — Tristram ! — stay — receive me with thee ! Iseult leaves thee, Tristram, never more. You see them clear : the moon shines bright. Slow — slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground : her hood Had fallen back : her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hands : her head Is bowed, half buried, on the bed. O'er the blanched sheet her raven hair Lies in disordered streams ; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets heavy and rare Flash on her white arms still, The very same which yesternight MATTHEW ARNOLD. M Flashed in the silver sconces' light, When the feast was loud and the laughter shrill In the banquet-hall of Tyntagil. But then they decked a restless ghost With hot, flushed cheeks, and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips, on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance that over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door : That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scofEngly — " Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers ! But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as withered flowers ; And now to-night she laughs and speaks, And has a colour in her cheeks, Heaven keep us from such fantasy !" — The air of the December night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be. Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge gleam-lit fireplace, At the bright iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. 4.8 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say : — " What place is this, and who are they ne But cruel is she ; She left lonely forever The kings of the sea." OBERMANN. TN front the awful Alpine track "■" Crawls up its rocky stair ; The autumn storm-winds drive the "ark Close o'er it, in the air. Behind are the abandoned baths Mute in their meadows lone ; The leaves are on the valley paths ; The mists are on the Rhone — The white mists rolling like a sea ; I hear the torrents roar. — Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee ! I feel thee near once more. I turn thy leaves : I feel their breath Once more upon me roll ; That air of languor, cold, and death, Which brooded o'er thy soul. Fly hence, poor Wretch, whoe'er tho<' art, Condemned to cast about, All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, For comfort from without : OBERMAN. MATTHEW ARNOLD 6$ A fever in these pages burns Beneath the calm they feign ; A wounded human spirit turns Here, on its bed of pain. Yes, though the virgin mountain air Fresh through these pages blows, Though to these leaves the glaciers spare The soul of their white snows : Though here a mountain murmur swells Of many a dark-boughed pine, Though, as you read, you hear the bells Of the high-pasturing kine — Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, And brooding mountain bee, There sobs I know not what ground tone Of human agony. Is it for this, because the sound Is fraught too deep with pain, That, Obermann ! the world around So little loves thy strain ? Some secrets may the poet tell, For the world loves new ways To tell to deep ones is not well It knows not what he says. Yet of the spirits who have reigned In this our troubled day, I know but two who have attained, Save thee, to see their way. 64 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. By England's lakes, in gray old age, His quiet home one keeps ;* And one, the strong, much-toiling Sage, In German Weimar sleeps. But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken From half of human fate ; And Goethe's course few sons of men May think to emulate. For he pursued a lonely road, His eyes on Nature's plan ; Neither made man too much a God, Nor God too much a man. Strong was he, with a spirit free From mists, and sane, and clear ; Clearer, how much ! than ours : yet we Have a worse course to steer. For though his manhood bore the blast Of Europe's stormiest time, Yet in a tranquil world was passed His tenderer youthful prime. But we, brought forth and reared in hours Of change, alarm, surprise — What shelter to grow ripe in ours ? What leisure to grow wise ? Like children bathing on the shore, Buried a wave beneath, The second wave succeeds, before We have had time to breathe. * Written in November, 1849. MATTHEW ARNOLD. 65 Too fast we live, too much are tried, Too harassed, to attain Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide And luminous view to gain. And then we turn, thou sadder Sage ! To thee : we feel thy spell ; The hopeless tangle of our age — Thou too hast scanned it well. Immovable thou sittest ; still As death ; composed to bear. Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill — And icy thy despair. Yes, as the Son of Thetis said, One hears thee saying now — " Greater by far than thou are dead : Strive not: die also thou." — Ah ! two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood : One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude. " The glow" he cries, " the thrill of life— Where, where do these abound ."TpHE folds of her wine-dark violet dress ■** Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, As she sits in the air of her loveliness With a smile for each and for all. Half of her exquisite face in the shade Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings : Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid In the firelight are sparkling her rings. As she leans, — the slow smile half shut up in her eyes Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies, Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 124 T HE LATE ENGLISH POETS. As she leans, — where your eye, by her beauty subdued, Droops, — from under warm fringes of broidery white The slightest of feet, silken-slippered, protrude For one moment, then slip out of sight. As I bend o'ei her bosom, to tell her the news, The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her cheek, The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses suffuse With herself : and I tremble to speak. So she sits in the curtained, luxurious light Of that room, with its porcelain, and pictures, and flowers, When the dark day's half done, and the snow flutters white, Past the windows in feathery showers. All without is so cold, — 'neath the low leaden sky ! Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the gendarme Stalks surly : a distant carriage hums by : — All within is so bright and so warm ! Here we talk of the schemes and the scandals of court. How the courtesan pushes : the charlatan thrives : We put horns on the heads of our friends, just for sport : Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrilled mine, That at dinner I scarcely remark what they say, — Drop the ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine, Then go yawn at my favourite play. But she drives after noon : — then's the time to behold her, With her fair face half hid, like a ripe peeping rose, 'Neath that veil, — o'er the velvets and furs which enfold her, Leaning back with a queenly repose, — ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 125 As she glides up the sunlight ! . . . You'd say she was made To loll back in a carriage, all day, with a smile ; And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace . Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress ? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; But what the heart's like, we must guess. With live women and men to be found in the world — ( — Live with sorrow and sin, — live with pain and with passion, — ) Who could live with a doll, though its locks should be curled, And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 'Tis so fair ! . . would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood? ... Is it worth while to guess at all this ? AUX ITALIENS. A T Paris it was, at the Opera there : — *• And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore : And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in Purgatory. 126 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow : And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, " Non ti scordar di me ?" The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well ! there in our front-row box we sat, Together, my bride-betrothed and I : My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by, And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had ; So confident of her charm ! I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest, and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not to pass. I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. ROBERT BULWER LTTTON. 127 Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather : Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot) And her warm white neck in its golden chain : And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again : And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast : (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower !) And the one bird singing alone to his nest : And the one star over the tower. I thought of our little quarrels and strife ; And the letter that brought me back my ring. And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. And I thought ..." were she only living still, How I could forgive her, and love her !" And I swear, as I thought of her thus, m that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower Which she used to wear in her breast. 128 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled. And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there In a dim box, over the stage ; and dressed In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast ! 1 was here : and she was there : And the glittering horseshoe curved between : — From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien. To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade (In short, from the Future back to the Past), There was but a step to be made. To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more. My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be expressed, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast. She is not dead, and she is not wed ! But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again. ROBERT BULWER LTTTON. 129 The Marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass, She may marry whomever she will. But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face : for old things are best » And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast. The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say : For Beauty is easy enough to win ; But one isn't loved every day. And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back, and be forgiven. But O the smell of that jasmine flower ! And O that music ! and O the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, Non ti scordar di me, Non ti scordar di me ! THE PORTRAIT. TVT IDNIGHT past ! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs. 6* 130 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. A night of tears ! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet ; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet : Nobody with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love : And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control ; For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul. I sat by the dreary hearth alone : I thought of the pleasant days of yore : I said, " The staff of my life is gone : The woman I loved is no more. " On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to wear- Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. " It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there, my heart hath bled : . For each pearl, my eyes have wept.*' ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 131 And I said — " The thing is precious to me : They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay ; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding-sheet. There stark she lay on her carven bed : Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head. As I stretched my hand, I held my breath ; I turned as I drew the curtains apart : I dared not look on the face of death : I knew where to find her heart. I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love ; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead, — from the other side : And at once the sweat broke over my brow : " Who is robbing the corpse ?" I cried. Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white.. And neither of us moved. 132 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " What do you here, my friend ?" . . . The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. " There is a portrait here," he began ; " There is. It is mine," I said. Said the friend of my bosom, " Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." " This woman, she loved me well," said I. " A month ago," said my friend to me : M And in your throat," I groaned, " you lie !" He answered . . . "Let us see." " Enough !" I returned, " let the dead decide : And whose soever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love." We found the portrait there, in its place : We opened it by the tapers' shine : The gems were all unchanged : the face Was — neither his nor mine. " One nail drives out another, at least ! The face of the portrait there," I cried, " Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young Priest, Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled : For each pearl my eyes have wept. ROBERT BULWER LTTTON. 133 BABYLONIA. TTNOUGH of simpering and grimace ! ^^ Enough of damning one's soul for nothing ! Enough of Vacuity trimmed with lace ! And Poverty proud of her purple clothing ! In Babylon, whene'er there's a wind (Whether it blow rain, or whether it blow sand), The weathercocks change their mighty mind ; And the weathercocks are forty thousand. Forty thousand weathercocks, Each well-minded to keep his place, Turning about in the great and small ways ! Each knows, whatever the weather's shocks, That the wind will never blow in his face ; And in Babylon the wind blows always. I cannot tell how it may strike you, But it strikes me now, for the first and last time, That there may be better things to do, Than watching the weathercocks for pastime. And I wish I were out of Babylon, Out of sight of column and steeple, Out of fashion and form, for one, And out of the midst of this double-faced people. Enough of catgut ! Enough of the sight Of the dolls it sets dancing all the night ! For there is a notion come to me, As here, in Babylon, I am lying, That far away, over the sea, And under another moon and star, Braver, more beautiful beings are dying 134 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. (Dying, not dancing, dying, dying !) To a music nobler far. Full well I know that, before it came To inhabit this feeble, faltering frame, My soul was weary ; and, ever since then, It has seemed to me, in the stir and bustle Of this eager world of women and men, That my life was tired before it began, That even the child had fatigued the man, And brain, and heart, have done their part To wear out sinew and muscle. Yet, sometimes, a wish has come to me, To wander, wander, I know not where, Out of the sight of all that I see, Out of the hearing of all that I hear ; Where only the tawny, bold wild beast Roams his realms ; and find, at least, The strength which even the beast finds there. A joy, though but a savage joy ; — Were it only to find the food I need, The scent to track, and the force to destroy, And the very appetite to feed ; The bliss of the sense without the thought, And the freedom, for once in my life, from aught That fills my life with care. And never this thought hath so wildly crossed My mind, with its wildering, strange temptation, As just when I was enjoying the most The blessings of what is called Civilization : — ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 135 The glossy boot which tightens the foot ; The club at which my friend was black-balled (I am sorry, of course, but one must be exclusive) ; The yellow kid glove whose shape I approve, And the journal in which I am kindly called Whatever's not libellous — only abusive : The ball to which I am careful to go, Where the folks are so cool, and the rooms are so hot ; The opera, which shows one what music — is not ; And the simper from Lady but why should you know ? Yet, I am a part of the things I despise, Since my life is bound by their common span : And each idler I meet, in square or in street, Hath within him what all that's without him belies, — The miraculous, infinite heart of man, With its countless capabilities ! The sleekest guest at the general feast, That at every sip, as he sups, says grace, Hath in him a touch of the untamed beast ; And change of nature is change of place. The judge on the bench, and the scamp at the dock, Have, in each of them, much that is common to both; Each is part of the parent stock, And their difference comes of their different cloth. 'Twixt the Seven Dials and Exeter Hall The gulf that is fixed is not so wide : And the fool that, last year, at Her Majesty's Ball, Sickened me so with his simper of pride, Is the hero now heard of, the first on the wall, With the bayonet-wound in his side. 136 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Oh, for the times which were (if any- Time be heroic) heroic indeed ! When the men were few, And the deeds to do Were mighty, and many, And each man in his hand held a noble deed. Now the deeds are few, And the men are many, And each man has, at most, but a noble need. Blind fool ! . . . I know that all acted time By that which succeeds it, is ever received As calmer, completer, and more sublime, Only because it is finished : because We only behold the thing it achieved ; We behold not the thing that it was. For, while it stands whole, and immutable, In the marble of memory, — we, who have seen But the statue before us, — how can we tell What the men that have hewn at the block may have been ? Their passion is merged in its passionlessness ; Their strife in its stillness closed forever : Their change upon change, in its changelessness : In its final achievement, their feverish endeavour : Who knows how sculptor on sculptor starved With the thought in the head by the hand uncarved ? And he that spread out in its ample repose That grand, indifferent, godlike brow, How vainly his own may have ached, who knows, 'Twixt the laurel above and the wrinkle below ? ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. So again to Babylon I come back, Where this fettered giant of Human Nature. Cramped in limb, and constrained in stature, In the torture-chamber of Vanity lies ; Helpless and weak, and compelled to speak The things he must despise. You stars, so still in the midnight blue, Which over these huddling roofs I view, Out of reach of this Babylonian riot, — We so restless, and you so quiet, What is difference 'twixt us and you ? You each may have pined with a pain divine, For aught I know, As wildly as this weak heart of mine, In an Age ago : For whence should you have that stern repose, Which, here, dwells but on the brows of those Who have lived, and survived life's fever, Had you never known the ravage and fire Of that inexpressible Desire, Which wastes and calcines whatever is less In the soul, than the souPs deep consciousness Of a life that shall last forever ? Doubtless, doubtless, again and again, Many a mouth has starved for bread In a city whose wharves are choked with corn And many a heart hath perished dead From being too utterly forlorn, In a city whose streets are choked with men. Yet the bread is there, could one find it out : 13 s THE LATE E N G L I S H P E T S. And there is a heart for a heart, no doubt, Wherever a human heart may beat ; And room for courage, and truth, and love, To move, wherever a man may move, In the thickliest crowded street. O Lord of the soul of man, whose will Made earth for man, and man for heaven, Help all thy creatures to fulfil The hopes to each one given ! So fair thou mad'st, and so complete, The little daisies at our feet ; So sound, and so robust in heart, The patient beasts, that bear their part In this world's labour, never asking The reason of its ceaseless tasking ; Hast thou made man, though more in kind, By reason of his soul and mind, Yet less in unison with life, By reason of an inward strife, Than these, thy simpler creatures, are, Submitted to his use and care ? For these, indeed, appear to live To the full verge of their own power, Nor ever need that time should give To life one space beyond the hour. They do not pine for what is not ; Nor quarrel with the things which are ; Their yesterdays are all forgot ; Their morrows are not feared from far: They do not weep, and wail, and moan, ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 139 For what is past, or what's to be, Or what's not yet, and may be never ; They do not their own lives disown, Nor haggle with eternity For some unknown Forever. Ah yet, — in this must I believe That man is nobler than the rest : — That, looking in on his own breast, He measures thus his strength and size With supernatural destinies, Whose shades o'er all his being fall ; And, in that dread comparison 'Twixt what is deemed and what is done, He can, at intervals, perceive How weak he is, and small. Therefore, he knows himself a child, Set in this rudimental star, To learn the alphabet of Being ; By straws dismayed, by toys beguiled, Yet conscious of a home afar; With all things here but ill agreeing, Because he trusts, in manhood's prime, To walk in some celestial clime ; Sit in his Father's house ; and be The inmate of Eternity. 140 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH. THIS is the castle of King Macbeth. And here he feasts — when the daylight wanes, And the moon goes softly over the heath — His Earls and Thanes. A hundred harpers with harps of gold Harp thorough the night high festival : And the sound of the music they make is rolled From hall to hall. They drink deep healths till the rafters rock In the Banquet Hall ; and the shout is borne To the courts outside, where the crowing cock Is waked ere morn. And the castle is all in a blaze of light From cresset, and torch, and sconce : and there Each warrior dances all the night With h'.s lady fair. They dance and sing till the raven is stirred On the wicked elm-tree outside in the gloom : And the rustle of silken robes is heard From room to room. But there is one room in that castle old, In a lonely turret where no one goes, And a dead man sits there, stark and cold, Whom no one knows. ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 141 KING SOLOMON. l^ING Solomon stood, in his crown of gold, A *^ Between the pillars, before the altar In the House of the Lord. And the King was old, And his strength began to falter, So that he leaned on his ebony staff, Sealed with the seal of the Pentegraph. All of the golden fretted work, Without and within so rich and rare, As high as the nest of the building stork, Those pillars of cedar were : — Wrought up to the brazen chapiters Of the Sidonian artificers. And the King stood still as a carven king, The carven cedarn beams below, In his purple robe, with his signet ring, And his beard as white as snow, And his face to the Oracle, where the hymn Dies under the wing of the cherubim. The wings fold over the Oracle, And cover the heart and eyes of God : The Spouse with pomegranate, lily, and bell, Is glorious in her abode ; For with gold of Ophir, and scent of myrrh, And purple of Tyre, The King clothed her. By the soul of each slumbrous instrument Drawn soft through the musical misty air, 142 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The stream of the folk that came and went, For worship, and praise, and prayer, Flowed to and fro, and up and down, And round The King in his golden crown. And it came to pass, as The King stood there, And looked on the house he had built, with pride, That the Hand of The Lord came unaware, And touched him ; so that he died, In his purple robe, with his signet ring, And the crown wherewith they had crowned him king. And the stream of the folk that came and went To worship the Lord with prayer and praise, Went softly ever, in wonderment, For The King stood there always ; And it was solemn and strange to behold That dead king crowned with a crown of gold. For he leaned on his ebony staff upright ; And over his shoulders the purple robe ; And his hair, and his beard, were both snow-wftite ; And the fear of him filled the globe ; So that none dared touch him, though he was dead, He looked so royal about the head. And the moons were changed : and the years rolled on And the new king reigned in the old king's stead : And men were married and buried anon : But The King stood, stark and dead ; Leaning upright on his ebony staff; Preserved by the sign of the Pentegraph. ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. 143 And the stream of life, as it went and came, Ever for worship and praise and prayer, Was awed by the face, and the fear, and the fame Of the dead king standing there ; For his hair was so white, and his eyes so cold, That they left him alone with his crown of gold. So King Solomon stood up, dead, in the House Of The Lord, held there by the Pentegraph, Until out from a pillar there ran a red mouse, And gnawed through his ebony staff: Then, flat on his face, The King fell down : And they picked from the dust a golden crown.* M THE CHESS-BOARD. Y little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand : * My knowledge of the Rabbinical legend which suggested this Poem is one among the many debts I owe to my friend Robert Browning. I hope these lines may remind him of hours which his society rendered precious and delightful to me, and which are among the most pleasant memories of my life. 144 TEE LATE ENGLISE POETS. The double Castles guard the wings : The Bishop bent on distant things, Moves, sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle's done, Dispersed is all its chivalry ; Full many a move, since then, have we Mid Life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with Fortune played, — What is it we have won ? This, this at least — if this alone ; — That never, never, never more, As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grow« so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played, together ! SONG. TN the warm, black mill-pool winking, -*• The first doubtful star shines blue : And alone here I lie thinking O such happy thoughts of you ! ROBERT BULWER LTTTON. Itf Up the porch the roses clamber, And the flowers we sowed last June ; And the casement of your chamber Shines between them to the moon. Look out, love ! fling wide the lattice : Wind the red rose in your hair, And the little white clematis Which I plucked for you to wear : Or come down, and let me hear you Singing in the scented grass, Through tall cowslips nodding near you, Just to touch you as you pass. For, where you pass, the air With warm hints of love grows wise : You — the dew on your dim hair, And the smile in your soft eyes ! From the hayfield comes your brother ; There, your sisters stand together, Singing clear to one another Through the dark blue summer weather ; And the maid the latch is clinking, As she lets her lover through : But alone, love, I lie thinking O such tender thoughts of you ! 146 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. CHANGES. \\ 7"HOM first we love, you know, we seldom wed. Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is no* The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. And then, we women cannot choose our lot. Much must be borne which it is hard to bear : Much given away which it were sweet to keep. God help us all ! who need, indeed, His care. And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves his sheep. My little boy begins to babble now Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. He has Jiis father's eager eyes, I know. And, they say too, his mother's sunny hair. But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, And I can feel his light breath come and go, I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago. Who might have been . . . ah, what I dare not think ! We all are changed. God judges for us best. God help us do our duty, and not shrink, And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. But blame us women not, if some appear Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. Who knows the Past ? and who can judge us right ? SYDNEY DOBELL. 147 Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, And not by what we are, too apt to fall ! My little child — he sleeps and smiles between These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all ! Sgfrnen fltobell. HOW'S MY BOY? "TTO, Sailor of the sea! -*- A How's my boy — my boy ?" " What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he ?" " My boy John — He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor ? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. " How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Elue jacket or no, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no ! 148 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Sure his ship was the ' Jolly Briton' " — " Speak low, woman, speak low !" " And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy, John ? If I was loud as I am proud, Pd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor ?" — " That good ship went down !" " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor ? I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, Her owners can afford her ! I say, how's my John ?" — " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." — ( ' How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor ? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy ? Tell me of him, and no other ! How's my boy — my boy ?" TOMMY'S DEAD \7"OU may give over plough, boys, -*■ You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. SYDNEY D OBELL. 149 The seed's waste, I know, boys, There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead ! Send the colt to fair, boys, He's going blind, as I said — My old eyes can't bear, boys, To see him in the shed ; The cow's dry and spare, boys, She's neither here nor there, boys, I doubt she's badly bred ; Stop the mill to-morn, boys, There'll be no more corn, boys, Neither white nor red ; There's no sign of grass, boys, You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, The land's not what it was, boys, And the beasts must be fed ; You may turn Peg away, boys, You may pay off old Ned — We've had a dull day, boys, And Tommy's dead. Move my chair on the floor, boys, Let me turn my head : She's standing there in the door, boys, Your sister Winifred ! Take her away from me, boys, Your sister Winifred ! Move me round in my place, boys, • Let me turn my head ; . 150 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Take her away from me, boys, As she lay on her death-bed — The bones of her thin face, boys, As she lay on her death-bed ! I don't know how it be, boys, When all's done and said, But I see her looking at me, boys, Wherever I turn my head ; Out of the big oak-tree, boys, Out of the garden-bed, And the lily as pale as she, boys, And the rose that used to be red. There's something not right, boys, But I think it's not in my head ; I've kept my precious sight, boys — The Lord be hallowed ! Outside and in The ground is cold to my tread ; The hills are wizen and thin, The sky is shrivelled and shred ; The hedges down by the loan I can count them bone by bone, The leaves are open and spread — But I see the teeth of the land, And hands like a dead man's hand, And the eyes of a dead man's head ! There's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fed, And the summer's empty and cold ; Over valley and wold, Wherever I turn my head, SYDNEY DOBELL. 151 There's. a mildew and a mould, The sun's going out over-head, And I'm very old, And Tommy's dead. What am I staying for, boys ? You're all born and bred : 'Tis fifty years and more, boys, Since wife and I were wed; And she's gone before, boys, And Tommy's dead. She was always sweet, boys, Upon his curly head, She knew she'd never see't, boys, And she stole off to bed. I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he'd come home, he said ; But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy's dead ! Put the shutters up, boys, Bring out the beer and bread ; Make haste and sup, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead : There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, There's something ill wi' the bread ; I don't care to sup, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head ; I shall never more be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. What are you about, boys ? — The prayers are all said, The fire's raked out, boys, And Tommy's dead ! The stairs are too steep, boys, You may carry me to the head ; The night's dark and deep, boys, Your mother's long in bed. 'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy's dead ! I'm not used to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I'll rest my old head : 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead ! THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. P\0 not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain, ^-^ Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking with fear; Though the wild wild wind is hideous to hear, And I see the snow and the rain. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa? Somebody else that you love, Papa, Somebody else that you dearly love SYDNEY DOBELL. 153 Is weary, like me, because you're away. Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move. And I seem to know what they're going to say ; And every day, and all the long day, I long to cry, " O Mamma, Mamma, When will Papa come back again ?" But before I can say it I see the pain Creeping up on her white white cheek, As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the whit" wall, And then I am sorry, and fear to speak ; And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek, As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall. Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall, That I might throw my arms round her neck And say, " Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all That I see and see and do not see In your white white face all the livelong day ?" But she hides her grief from a child like me. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? Where were you going, Papa, Papa ? All this long while have you been on the sea ? When she looks as if she saw far away, Is she thinking of you, and what does she see ? Are the white sails blowing, And the blue men rowing, And are you standing on the high deck Where we saw you stand till the ship grew gray, And we watched and watched till the ship was a speck, And the dark came first to you, far away ? T wish I could see what she can see, But she hides her grief from a child like me. 154 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? Don't you remember, Papa, Papa, How we used to sit by the fire, all three, And she told me tales while I sat on her knee, And heard the winter winds roar down the street, And knock like men at the window pane ; And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more sweet To be warm and warm as we used to be, Sitting at night by the lire, all three. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? Papa, I like to sit by the fire ; Why does she sit far away in the cold ? If I had but somebody wise and old, That every day I might cry and say, *' Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget ? Was she always as white as she is to-day ? Did she never carry her head up higher ?" Papa, Papa, if I could but know ! Do you think her voice was always so low ? Did I always see what I seem to see When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet ; You used to say her hair it was gold — It looks like silver to me. But still she tells the same tale that she told, She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee, And the house goes on as it went long ago, When we lived together, all three. Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa, SYDNEY DOBELL. 155 And I feel as if I could be happy no more. Is she changed, do you think, Papa, Or did I dream she was brighter before ? She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa, That I forgot in thinking of you. The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew ! But I put it out of the sun and the rain ; It was green and white when I put it away, It had one sweet bell and green leaves four; It was green and white when I found it that day, It had one pale bell and green leaves four ; But I was not glad of it any more. Was it changed, do you think, Papa, Or did I dream it was brighter before? Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for pain. Do not mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking for fear ; Though the wild wild wind is hideous to hear, And I see the snow and the rain. When will you come back again, Papa, Papa ? AFLOAT AND ASHORE. ' I ^UMBLE and rumble, and grumble and snort, Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port ; Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort, And the steamer steams through the sea, love ! I see the ship on the sea, love, I stand alone 15 6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. On this rock, The sea does not shock The stone ; The waters around it are swirled, But under my feet I feel it go down To where the hemispheres meet At the adamant heart of the world. Oh, that the rock would move ! Oh, that the rock would roll To meet thee over the sea, love ! Surely my mighty love Should fill it like a soul, And it should bear me to thee, love ; Like a ship on the sea, love ! Bear me, bear me, to thee, love ! Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are won- dering, Low on our lee, love. Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over and over The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love, And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud The great ship is going to thee, love ; Blind to her mark, like a world thro' the dark, Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering, Thundering ever to thee, love. I have come down to thee coming to me, love, I stand, I stand On the solid sand, I see thee coming to me, love ; SYDNE Y D OBELL. itf The sea runs up to me on the sand, I start — 'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand And touched me through the sea, love. I feel as if I must die, For there's something longs to fly, Fly and fly, to thee, love. As the blood of the flower ere she blows Is beating up to the sun, And her roots do hold her down, And it blushes and breaks undone In a rose, So my blood is beating in me, love ! I see thee nigh and nigher. And my soul leaps up like sudden lire, My life's in the air To meet thee there, To meet thee coming to me, love ! Over the sea, Coming to me, Coming, and coming to me, love ! The boats are lowered : I leap in first, Pull, boys, pull ! or my heart will burst ' More ! more ! — lend me an oar ! — I'm through the breakers ! I'm on the shore ! I see thee waiting for me, love ! A sudden storm Of sighs and tears, A clinching arn», A look of years. In my bosom a thousand cries, A flash like light before my eyes, And I am lost in thee, love ! 58 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. FOR CHARITY'S SAKE. " /^\H, dark-eyed maid," ^^ The soldier said, " I've been wounded in many a fray, But- such a dart As you shoot to my heart, I never felt till to-day. " Then give to me Kisses, one, two, three, All for dear Charity's sake. And pity my pain, And meet me again, Or else my heart must break." Peggy was kind, She would save the blind Black fly that shimmered the ale, And her quick hand stopped If a grass-moth dropped In the drifted snows of the pail. Une, two, three, Kisses gave she, All for dear Charity's sake ; And she pitied his pain, And she met him again, For fear his heart should break. • The bugle blew, The merry Hag flew, The squadron clattered the town ; SYDNEY I) OB ELL. 159 The twigs were bright on the minster elm, He wore a primrose in his helm As they clattered through the town. Heyday, holiday, on we go ! Heyday, holiday, blow, boys, blow ! Clattering through the town. And when the minster leaves were sear, On a far red field by a dark sea drear, In dust and thunder, and cheer, boys, cheer The bold dragoon went down. Shiver, poor Peggy, the wind blows high ; Beg a penny as I go by, All for sweet Charity's sake : Hold the thin hand from the shawl, Turn the wan face to the wall, Turn the face, let the hot tears fall, For fear your heart should break. LADY CONSTANCE. MY Love, my Lord, I think the toil of glorious day is done I see thee leaning on thy jewelled sword, And a light-hearted child of France Is dancing to thee in the sun, And thus he carols in his dance. ■" Oh, a gallant sans peur Is the merry chasseur, With his fanfaron horn and his rifle ping-pang ! 160 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And his grand havresack Of gold on his back, His pistol cric-crac ! And his sword cling-clang ! " Oh, to see him blithe and gay From some hot and bloody day, Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows ' au rang,' With a wheel and a whirl And a wheeling waltzing girl, And his bow, ' place aux dames !' and his oath, ' feu et sang !' And his hop and his fling Till his gold and silver ring To the clatter and the clash of his sword cling-clang ! " But hark, Through the dark, Up goes the well-known shout ! The drums beat the turn-out ! Cut short your courting, Monsieur PAmant ! Saddle ! mount ! march ! trot ! Down comes the storm of shot, The foe is at the charge ! En avant ! " His jolly havresack Of gold is on his back, Hear his pistol cric-crac ! hear his rifle ping-pang ! ' Vive l'Empereur ! And where's the Chasseur ? " He's in Among the din Steel to steel cling-clang !" SYDNEY D OBELL. 161 And thou within the doorway of thy tent Leanest at ease, with careless brow unbent, Watching the dancer in as pleased a dream, As if he were a gnat i' the evening gleam, And thou and I were sitting side by side Within the happy bower Where oft at this same hour We watched them the sweet year I was a bride. My Love, my Lord, Learning so grandly on thy jewelled sword, Is there no thought of home to whisper thee, None can relieve the weary guard I keep, None wave the flag of breathing truce for me, Nor sound the hours to slumber or to weep ? Once in a moon the bugle breaks thy rest, I count my days by trumpets and alarms : Thou liest down in thy war-cloak and art blest, While I, who cannot sleep but in thine arms, Wage night and day fresh fields unknown to fame, Arm, marshal, march, charge, fight, fall, faint, and die, Know all a soldier can endure but shame, And every chance of warfare but to fly. 1 do not murmur at my destiny : It can but go with love, with whom it came, And love is like the sun — his light is sweet, And sweet his shadow — welcome both to me ! Better forever to endure that hurt Which thou canst taste but once than once to lie At ease when thou hast anguish. Better 1 Be often sad when thou art gay than gay One moment of thy sorrow. Though I pray 162 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Too oft, I shall win nothing of the sky But my unfilled desire, and thy desert Can take it and still lack. Oh, might I stay At the shut gates of heaven ! that so I meet Each issuing fate, and cling about his feet, And melt the dreadful purpose of his eye, And not one power pass unimpleaded by Whose bolt might be for thee ! Aye, love is sweet In shine or shade ! But love hath jealousy, That knowing but so little thinks so much ! And I am jealous of thee even with such A fatal knowledge. For I wot too well In the set season that I cannot tell Death will be near thee. This thought doth deflour All innocence from time. I dare not say " Not now," but for the instant cull the hour, And for the hour reap all the doubtful day, And for the day the year : and so, forlorn, From morn till night, from startled night till morn, Like a blind slave I bear thine heavy ill Till thy time comes to take it : come when 'twill, The broken slave will bend beneath it still, WILLIAM ALL INGHAM. 163 UVtlUam 2Wtngl)am. THE MESSENGER. A MESSENGER, that stood beside my bed, "**" In words of clear and cruel import said, (And yet methought the tone was less unkind), " I bring thee pain of body and of mind." " Each gift of each must pay a toll to me ; Nor flight, nor force, nor suit can set thee free ; Until my brother come, I say not when : Affliction is my name, unloved of men.' , I swooned, then bursting up in talk deranged, Shattered to tears ; while he stood by unchanged, I held my peace, my heart with courage burned, And to his cold touch one faint sigh returned. Undreamt-of wings he lifted, " For a while I vanish. Never be afraid to smile Lest I waylay thee : curse me not ; nay, love ; That I may bring thee tidings from above." And often since, by day or night, descends The face obdurate ; now almost a friend's. O ! quite to Faith ; but Frailty's lips not dare The word. To both this angel taught a praye: " Lord God, thy servant, wounded and bereft, Feels Thee upon his right hand and his left : Hath joy in grief, and still by losing gains ; — All this is gone, yet all myself remains !" 164 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. (TO AN IRISH TUNE.) /^\H, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! ^-* If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine ; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before ; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor ; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay ! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart awny. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 165 And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town ; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall ! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small ; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall I O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ' THE COLD WEDDING, B UT three days gone Her hand was won By suitor finely skilled to woo ; And now come we In pomp to see The Church's ceremonials due. l66 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The Bride in white Is clad aright, Within her carriage closely hid ; No blush to veil — For too, too pale The cheek beneath each downcast lid. White favours rest On every breast ; And yet methinks we seem not gay. The church is cold, The priest is old, — But who will give the bride away ? Now, delver, stand, With spade in hand, All mutely to discharge thy trust Priest's words sound forth ; They're — " Earth to earth, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'' The groom is Death ; He has no breath ; (The wedding peals, how slow they swing !) With icy grip He soon will clip Her finger with a wormy ring. A match most fair. This silent pair, Now to each other given forever, Were lovers long, Were plighted strong In oaths and bonds that could not sever. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 167 Ere she was born That vow was sworn ; And we must lose into the ground Her face we knew : As thither you And I. and all, are swiftly bound. This Law of Laws That still withdraws Each mortal from all mortal ken — If 'twere not here ; Or we saw clear Instead of dim as now ; what then ? This were not Earth, and we not Men, THE FAIRIES. A CHILD'S SONG. T TP the airy mountain, ^■^ Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather ! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam ; 68 THE LATE EN.GLISH POETS Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits ; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses ; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long ; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wakes. Bv the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, WILLIAM ALL INGHAM. They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig one up in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather ! WISHING. A CHILD'S SONG. T> ING-TING! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring ! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm^tree for our king! Nay — stay ! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay ! The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing. 170 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. O — no ! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go ; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till Winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing ! Well— tell ! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell ? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother's kiss, — sweeter this Than any other thing. THE SAILOR. A ROMAIC BALLAD. 'TpHOU that hast a daughter For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband With snow upon his head ; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea ! How luckless is the sailor When sick and like to die; He sees no tender mother, No sweetheart standing by. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 171 Only the Captain speaks to him, — Stand up, stand up, young man, And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can. Thou sayst to me, " Stand up, stand up ;" I say to thee, Take hold, Lift me a little from the deck, My hands and feet are cold. And let my head, I pray thee, With handkerchiefs be bound ; There, take my love's gold handkerchief, And tie it tightly round. Now bring the chart, the doleful chart ; See, where these mountains meet — The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet : Cast anchor here ; 'tis deep and safe Within the rocky cleft ; The little anchor on the right, The great one on the left. And now to thee, O Captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray ; — But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surfy sea-beach, Deep down into the sand. For there will come the sailors^ Their voices I shall hear, 72 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear ; And at hauling of the anchor The yo-ho and the cheer, — Farewell, my love, for to thy bay I nevermore may steer ! WOULD I KNEW! T)LAYS a child in a garden fair **• Where the demigods are walking ; Playing unsuspected there As a bird within the air, Listens to their wondrous talking : *' Would I knew — would I knew What it is they say and do J" Stands a youth at city-gate, Sees the knights go forth together, Parleying superb, elate, Pair by pair in princely state, Lance and shield and haughty feather : " Would I knew — would I knew What it is they say and do.!" Bends a man with trembling knees By a gulf of cloudy border ; Deaf, he hears no voice from these Winged shades he dimly sees Passing by in solemn order : " Would I knew — O would I knew What it is they say and do !" WILLIAM ALL INGHAM. 17'i NANNY'S SAILOR LAD. "^TOW fare-you-well ! my bonny ship, *" For I am for the shore. The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, They'll carry me no more. And all as I came walking And singing up the sand, I met a pretty maiden, I took her by the hand. But still she would not raise her head, A word she would not speak, -\nd tears were on her eyelids, Dripping down her cheek. Now grieve you for your father ? Or husband might it be ? Or is it for a sweetheart That's roving on the sea ? It is not for my father, I have no husband dear, But oh ! I had a sailor lad And he is lost, I fear. Three long years I am grieving for his sake, And when the stormy wind blows loud, I lie all night awake. 174 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. I caught her in my arms, And she lifted up her eyes, I kissed her ten times over In the midst of her surprise. Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny, And speak again to me ; dry your tears, my darling, For I'll go no more to sea. 1 have a love, a true true love, And I have golden store, The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, They'll carry me no more ! SONG r\ SPIRIT of the Summer-time ! ^^^ Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun ; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadow-lands at dewy prime ; — O bring again my heart's content,- Thou Spirit of the Summer-time ! WILLIAM ALLINGIIAM. 17$ ROBIN REDBREAST. A CHILD'S SONG. /^l OOD-BY, good-by to Summer ! ^* For Summer's nearly done ; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun ; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away, — But Robin's here, in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear ! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts ; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough ; It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear ! And what will this poor Robin do ? For pinching days are near. The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, 17b THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house ; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, — Alas ! in Winter dead and dark Where can poor Robin go ? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. OLD MASTER GRUNSEY AND GOODMAN DODD. STRATFORD-ON-AVON, A. D. 1597. G. /^ OD save you, Goodman Dodd, — a sight to see you ! VJ D. Save you, good Master Grunsey ! Sir, how be you G. Middlish, thank Heaven. Rare weather for the wheat. D. Farms will be thirsty, after all this heat. G. And so is we. Sit down on this here bench : We'll drink a pot o'yale, mun. Hither, wench ! My service — ha ! I'm well enough, i' fegs, But for this plaguey rheum i' both my legs. Whiles I can't hardly get about : O dear ! D. Thou see'st, we don't get younger every year. G. Thou'rt a young fellow yet. D. Well nigh three-score. G. I be thy elder fifteen year and more. Hast anv news? WILLIAM ALL1NGHAM. 177 D. Not much. New-Place is sold, And Willy Shakespeare's bought it, so I'm told. G. What ! little Willy Shakespeare bought the Place ? Lord bless us, how young folk gets on apace ! Sir Hugh's great house beside the grammar-school ! — This Shakespeare's (take my word upon't) no fool. I minds him sin' he were so high's my knee ; A stirrin' little mischief chap was he ; One day I cotched him peltin' o' my geese Below the church : " You let 'en swim in peace, " Young dog !" I says, "or I shall fling thee in." Will was on t'other bank, and did but grin, And call out, "Sir, you come across to here !" D. I knows old John this five and thirty year. In old times many a cup he made me drink ; But Willy weren't aborn then, I don't think, Or might a' been a babe on's mother's arm, When I did cart 'en fleeces from our farm. I went a coortin' then, in Avon-Lane, And, tho' bit further, I was always fain To bring my cart thereby, upon a chance To catch some foolish little nod or glance, Or " meet me, Mary, wont 'ee, Charlcote way, " Or down at Clopton Bridge, next holiday ?" — Health, Master Grunsey. G. Thank'ee, friend.- 'Tis hot. We might do warse than call another pot. Good Mistress Nan ! Will Shakespeare, troth, I knew ; A nimble curly-pate, and pretty too, About the street ; he growed an idle lad, And like enough, 'twas thought, to turn out bad : I don't justly fairly know, but folk did say He vexed the Lucys, and so fleed away. *8 178 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. D. He's warth as much as Tanner Twigg to day j And all by plays in Lunnon. G. Folk talks big : Will Shakespeare warth as much as Tanner Twigg — Tut tut ! Is Will a player-man by trade ? D. O' course he is, o' course he is ; and made A woundy heap o' money too, and bought A playhouse for himself like, out and out ; And makes up plays, beside, for 'en to act ; Tho' I can't tell thee rightly, for a fact, If out o' books or his own head it be. We've other work to think on, thee and me. They say Will's doin' finely, howsomever. G. Why, Dodd, the little chap was always clever. I don't know nothing now o' such-like toys ; New fashions plenty, mun, sin' we were boys ; We used to ha' rare mummings, puppet-shows, And Moralties, — they can't much better those The Death of Judas was a pretty thing, " So-la ! so-la !" the Divil used to sing. But time goes on, for sure, and fashion alters. Z). Up at the Crown, last night, says young Jack Walters, " Willy's a great man now !" G. A jolterhead ! What does it count for, when all's done and said ? Ah! who'll obey, let Will say "Come" or "Go?" Such-like as him don't reckon much, I trow. Sir, they shall travel first, like thee and me, See Lunnon, to find out what great men be. Ay, marry, must they. Saints ! to see the Court Take water down to Greenwich; there's fine sport! Her Highness in her frills and puffs and pearls WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 179 Barons, and lords, and chamberlains, and earls, So thick as midges round her,— look at such An' thou wouldst talk of greatness ! why, the touch Is on their stewards and lackeys, Goodman Dodd, Who'll hardly answer Shakespeare wi' a nod, And let him come, doffed cap and bended knee. We knows a trifle, neighbour, thee and me. D. We may, Sir. This here's grand old Stratford brew ; No better yale in Lunnon, search it through. New-Place ben't no such bargain, when all's done ; 'Twas dear, I knows it. G. Thou bought'st better, mun, At Hoggin Fields : all ain't alike in skill. D. Thanks to the Lord above ! I've not done ill. No more has thee, friend Grunsey, in thy trade. G. So-so. But here's young Will wi' money made, And money saved ; whereon I sets him down. Say else who likes, a credit to the town ; Though some do shake their heads at player-folk. D. A very civil man, to chat and joke ; I've ofttimes had a bit o' talk wi' Will. G. How doth old Master Shakespeare ? D Bravely still. And so doth madam too, the comely dame. G. And Willy's wife — what used to be her name D. Why, Hathaway,, fro' down by Shottery gate. I don't think she's so much about o' late. Their son, thou see'st, the only son they had, Died last year, and she took on dreadful bad ; And so the fayther did awhile, I'm told. This boy o' theirs was nine or ten year old. — Willy himself may bide here now, mayhap. 180 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. G. He always was a clever little chap. I'm glad o' his luck, an' 'twere for old John's sake. Your arm, sweet Sir. Oh, how my legs do ache ! THESE LITTLE SONGS. T HESE little Songs, Found here and there, Single, or throngs, Floating in air, Springing from lea, Or hid in the sea, — Somehow or other Have come together, I can't tell how, But certainly know I : never was wit on an inkstand begot 'em j Remember the place And moment of grace, Summer or winter, spring-time or autumn, By sun, moon, stars, Or a coal in the bars, In market or church, Graveyard or dance, When they came without search, Were found as by chance. A word, a line, You may say are mine ; But the best in the songs, Whatever it be, To you, and to me, And to no one belongs. WILLIAM MORRIS. l8l illtlltam HIoito. THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE. \y UT, knowing now that they would have her speak, She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek, As though she had had there a shameful blow, And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so, She must a little touch it; like one lame She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head Still lifted up ; and on her cheek of flame Tne tears dried quick ; she stopped at last and said : " O knights and lords, it seems but little skill To talk of well-known things past now and dead. " God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, And pray you all forgiveness heartily ! Because you must be right such great lords — still " Listen, suppose your time were come to die, And you were quite alone and very weak; Yea, laid a dying while very mightily " The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak Of river through your broad lands running well : Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak • " ' One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell, Now choose one cloth forever, which they be, I will not tell you, you must somehow tell .82 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS '"Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes, At foot of your familiar bed to see " A great God's angel standing, with such dyes, Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands, Held out two ways, light from the inner skies /' Showing him well, and making his commands Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too, Holding within his hands the cloths on wands ; " And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, Wavy and long, and one cut short and red ; No man could tell the better of the two. " After a shivering half-hour you said, e God help ! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, ' hell Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed, " And cry to all good men that loved you well, ' Ah Christ ! if only I had known, known, known ;' Launcelot went away, then I could tell, " Like wisest man how all things would be, moan, And roll and hurt myself, and long to die, And yet fear much to die for what was sown. " Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happened through these years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie." Her voice was low at first, being full of tears, But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, WILLIAM MORRIS. 183 A ringing in their startled brains, until She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk, And her great eyes began again to fill, Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair ! Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk, She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, With passionate twisting of her body there : " It chanced upon a day that Launcelot came To dwell at Arthur's court : at Christmas-time This happened ; when the heralds sung his name, "' Son of King Ban of Benwick,' seemed to chime Along with all the bells that rang that day, O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme. " Christmas and whitened winter passed away, And over me the April sunshine came, Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea " And in the Summer I grew white with flame, And bowed my head down — Autumn, and the sick Sure knowledge things would never be the same, " However often Spring might be most thick Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick, " To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through My eager body ; while I laughed out loud, And let my lips curi up at false or true, 1 8 4 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought : While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd, " Belonging to the time ere I was bought By Arthur's great name and his little love, Must I give up forever then, I thought, ei That which I deemed would ever round me move Glorifying all things ; for a little word, Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove " Stone-cold forever ? Pray you, does the Lord Will that all folks should be quite happy and good ? I love God now a little, if this cord " Were broken, once for all what striving could Make me love any thing in earth or heaven. So day by day it grew, as if one should " Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day ; Yet still in slipping was there some small leaven " Of stretched hands catching small stones by the wav Until one surely reached the sea at last, And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay " Back, with the hair like sea-weed ; yea all past Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast " In the lone sea, far off from any ships ! Do I not know now of a day in Spring ? No minute of that wild day ever slips WILLIAM MORRIS. 185 " From out my memory ; I hear thrushes sing, And wheresoever I may be, straightway Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting; " I was half mad with beauty on that day, And went without my ladies all alone, In a quiet garden walled round every way ; " I was right joyful of that wall of stone, That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, And trebled all the beauty : to the bone, ** Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad ; Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily, " A little thing just then had made me mad ; I dared not think, as I was wont to do, Sometimes, upon my beauty ; if I had " Held out my long hand up against the blue, And, looking on the tenderly darkened fingers, Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through, " There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, Round by the edges ; what should I have done, If this had joined with yellow spotted singers, " And startling green drawn upward by the sun ? But shouting, loosed out, see now ! all my hair, And trancedly stood watching the west wind run " With faintest half-heard breathing sound — why there I lose my head e'en now in doing this ; But shortly listen — In that garden fair 86 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS " Came Launcelot walking ; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, I scarce dare talk of the remembered bliss, " When both our mouths went wandering in one way, And aching sorely, met among the leaves ; Our hands being left behind strained far away. " Never within a yard of my bright sleeves Had Launcelot come before — and now, so nigh ! After that day why is it Guenevere grieves ? " Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever happened on through all those years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie. " Being such a lady could I weep these tears If this were true ? A great queen such as I Having sinned this way, straight her conscience sears ; " And afterwards she liveth hatefully, Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps, — Gauwaine, be friends now, speak me lovingly. " Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth ? Remember in what grave your mother sleeps, " Buried in some place far down in the south, Men are forgetting as I speak to you ; By her head severed in that awful drouth ' Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, I pray your pity ! let me not scream out Forever after, when the shrill winds blow WILLIAM MORRIS. 187 " Through half your castle-locks ! let me not shout Forever after in the winter night When you ride out alone ! in battle-rout " Let not my rusting tears make your sword light ! Ah ! God of mercy how he turns away ! So, ever must I dress me to the fight, "So — let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say, See me hew down your proofs : yea all men know, Even as you said, how Mellyagraunce one day, " One bitter day in la Fansse Garde, for so All good knights held it after, saw — Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage ; though " You, Gauvvaine, held his word without a flaw, This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed — Whose blood then pray you ? is there any law " To make a queen say why some spots of red Lie on her coverlet ? or will you say, ' Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed, " ' Where did you bleed ?' and must I stammer out, ' Nay, I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay " ' A knife-point last night :' so must I defend The honour of the lady Guenevere ? Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end " This very day, and you were judges here Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce When Launcelot stood by him ? what white fear :8 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, His side sink in ? as my knight cried and said, ' Slayer of unarmed men, here is a chance ! " ' Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head, By God, I am so glad to fight with you, Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead " ' For driving weight ; hurrah now ! draw and do, For all my wounds are moving in my breast, And I am getting mad with waiting so.' " He struck his hands together o'er the beast, Who fell down flat, and grovelled at his feet, And groaned at being slain so young — 'at least.' " My knight said, ' Rise you, Sir, who are so fleet At catching ladies, half-armed will I fight, My left side all uncovered !' then I weet. " Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight Upon his knave's face ; not until just then Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight " Along the lists look to my stake and pen With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh From agony beneath my waist-chain, when " The fight began, and to me they drew nigh ; Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right, And traversed warily, and ever high " And fast leaped caitiffs sword, until my knight Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, Caught it, and swung it ; that was all the fight. WILLIAM MORRIS. ^3 " Except a spout of blood on the hot land :, For it was hottest summer ; and I know I wondered how the fire, while I should stand, " And burn, against the heat, would quiver so, Yards above my head ; thus these matters went ; Which things were only warnings of the woe " That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent, For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent " With all this wickedness ; say no rash word Against me, being so beautiful ; my eyes, Wept all away to gray, may bring some sword " To drown you in your blood j see my breast rise, Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand ; And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise, " Yea also at my full heart's strong command, See through my long throat how the words go up In ripples to my mouth ; how in my hand " The shadow lies like wine within a cup Of marvellously coloured gold ; yea now This little wind is rising, look you up, " And wonder how the light is falling so Within my moving tresses : will you dare, When you have looked a little on my brow, " To say this thing is vile ? or will you care For any plausible lies of cunning woof, When you can see my face with no lie there 190 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Forever ? am I not a gracious proof — ' But in your chamber Launcelot was found' — Is there a good knight then would stand aloof, " When a queen says with gentle queenly sound : ' O true as steel come now and talk with me, I love to see your step upon the ground " ' Unwavering, also well I love to see That gracious smile light up your face, and hear Your wonderful words, that all mean verily " ' The thing they seem to mean : good friend, so deal To me in every thing, come here to-night, Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear ; " ' If you come not, I fear this time I might Get thinking over-much of times gone by, When I was young, and green hope was in sight ; " ' For no man cares now to know why I »igh ; And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie " ' So thick in the gardens ; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot ; that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs '* 'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me ? What thing could keep true Launcelot away If I said * come ?' there was one less than three "In my quiet room that night, and we were gay . Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea WILLIAM MORRIS. 191 " I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless too, for a little while ; Then I remember how I tried to shriek, " And could not, but fell down ; from tile to tile The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head, And made me dizzier ; till within a while " My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said — " By God ! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will — what matters it ? You know quite well the story of that fray, u How Launcelot stilled their bawling, the mad fit That caught up Gauwaine — all, all, verily, But just that which would save me ; these things flit " Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happened these long years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie ! "All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears." She would not speak another word, but stood Turned sideways ; listening, like a man who hears His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foes' lances. She leaned eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could At last hear something really ; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight who came was Launcelot at good need. 1Q2 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON. Sir Guy, being in the court of a Pagan Castle. * I *HIS castle where I dwell, it stands A A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen-trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees. But down the Valley of the Rose My lady often hawking goes, Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, Leaning towards the western wind Because it bringeth to her mind Sad whisperings of happy times, The face of him who sings these rhymes. King Guilbert rides beside her there, Bends low and calls her very fair, And strives, by pulling down his hair, To hide from my dear lady's ken The grisly gash I gave him, when I cut him down at Camelot ; However he strives, he hides it not, That tourney will not be forgot, Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, Whatever he says she answers not. Now tell me, you that are in love, From the king's son to the wood-dove, Which is the better, he or I ? WILLIAM MORRIS. 193 For this king means that I should die In this lone Pagan castle, where The flowers droop in the bad air On the September evening. Look, now I take mine ease and sing, Counting as but a little thing The foolish spite of a bad king. For these vile things that hem me in, These Pagan beasts who live in sin, The sickly flowers pale and wan, The grim blue-bearded castellan, The stanchions half worn-out with rust, Whereto their banner vile they trust — Why, all these things I hold them just Like dragons in a missal-book, " Wherein, whenever we may look, We see no horror, yea, delight We have, the colours are so bright; Likewise we note the specks of white, And the great plates of burnished gold. Just so this Pagan castle old, And every thing I can see there, Sick-pining in the marsh-land air, I note ; I will go over now, Like one who paints with knitted brow, The flowers and all things one by one, From the snail on the wall to the setting sun Four great walls, and a little one That leads down to the barbican, 194 THE LATE ENGLISH P E T 8 Which walls with many spears they man, When news comes to the castellan Of Launcelot being in the land. And as I sit here, close at hand Four spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand, The castellan with a long wand Cuts down their leaves as he goes by, Ponderingly, with screwed-up eye, And fingers twisted in his beard — Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard ? I have a hope makes me afeard : It cannot be, but if some dream Just for a minute made me deem I saw among the flowers there My lady's face with long red hair, Pale, ivory-coloured dear face come, As I was wont to see her some Fading September afternoon, And kiss me, saying nothing, soon To leave me by myself again ; Could I get this by longing : vain ! The castellan is gone : I see On one broad yellow flower a bee Drunk with much honey — Christ ! again, Some distant knight's voice brings me pain, I thought I had forgot to feel, I never heard the blissful steel These ten years past ; year after year, Through all my hopeless sojourn here, No Christian pennon has been near ; WILLIAM MORRIS. 195 Laus Deo ! the dragging wind draws on Over the marshes, battle won, Knights' shouts, and axes hammering, Yea, quicker now the dint and ring Of flying hoofs ; ah ! castellan, When they come back count man for man, Say whom you miss. The Pagans, from the battlements. Mahound to aid ! Why flee ye so like men dismayed ? The Pagans, from without. Nay, haste ! for here is Launcelot, Who follows quick upon us, hot And shouting with his men-at-arms. Sir Guy. Also the Pagans raise alarms, And ring the bells for fear ; at last My prison walls will be well past. Sir Launcelot, from outside. Ho 1 in the name of the Trinity, Let down the drawbridge quick to me, And open doors, that I may see Guy the good knight. The Pagans, from- the battlements. Nay, Launcelot, With mere big words ye win us not. (96 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Sir Launcelot. Bid Miles bring up la perriere, And archers clear the vile walls there, Bring back the notches to the ear, Shoot well together ! God to aid ! These miscreants will be well paid. Hurrah ! all goes together ; Miles Is good to win my lady's smiles For his good shooting — Launcelot ! On knights apace ! this game is hot ! Sir Guy sayeth afterwards. I said, I go to meet her now, And saying so, I felt a blow From some clinched hand across my brow, And fell down on the sunflowers Just as a hammering smote my ears, After which this I felt in sooth ; My bare hands throttling without ruth The hairy-throated castellan ; Then a grim fight with those that ran To slay me, while I shouted, " God For the Lady Mary !" deep I trod That evening in my own red blood ; Nevertheless so stiff I stood, That when the knights burst the old wood Of the castle-doors, I was not dead. I kiss the Lady Mary's head, Her lips, and her hair golden red, Because to-dav we have been wed. FREDERICK TENNYSON. 197 Jrebevick (Hennas on. FIRST OF MARCH. f T*HROUGH the gaunt woods the winds are shrilling * cold, Down from the rifted rack the sunbeam pours, Over the cold gray slopes, and stony moors; The glimmering water-course, the eastern wold, And over it the whirling sail o' the mill, The lonely hamlet with its mossy spire, The piled city smoking like a pyre, Fetched out of shadow gleam with light as chill. 11. The young leaves pine, their early promise stayed ; The Hope-deluded sorrow at the sight Of the sweet blossoms by the treacherous light Flattered to death, like tender love betrayed ; And stepdames frown, and aged virgins chide ; Relentless hearts put on their iron mood ; The hunter's dog lies dreaming of the wood, And dozes barking by the ingle-side. in. Larks twitter, martens glance, and curs from far Rage down the wind, and straight are heard no more ; Old wives peep out, and scold, and bang the door ; And clanging clocks grow angry in the air ; Sorrow and care, perplexity and pain Frown darker shadows on the homeless one, THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And the gray beggar buffeting alone Pleads in the howling storm, and plead s in vain. IV. The field-fires smoke along the champaign drear, And drive before the north wind streaming down Bleak hill, and furrow dark, and fallow brown ; Few living things along the land appear ; The weary horse looks out, his mane astray, With anxious fetlock, and uneasy eye, And sees the market-carts go madly by With sidelong drivers reckless of the way. The sere beech-leaves, that trembled dry and red All the long Winter on the frosty bough, Or slept in quiet underneath the snow, Fly off, like resurrections of the dead ; The horny ploughman, and his yoked ox, Wink at the icy blasts; and beldames bold, Stout, and red-hooded, flee before the cold ; And children's eyes are blinded by the shocks. You cannot hear the waters for the wind ; The brook that foams, and falls, and bubbles by, Hath lost its voice — but ancient steeples sigh, And belfries moan — and crazy ghosts, confined In dark courts, weep, and shake the shuddering gates, And cry from points of windy pinnacles, Howl through the bars, and 'plain among the bells And shriek, and wail like voices of the Fates! FREDERICK TENNYSON. 199 And who is He, that down the mountain-side, Swift as a shadow flying from the sun, Between the wings of stormy Winds doth run, With fierce blue eyes, and eyebrows knit with pride ; Though now and then I see sweet laughters play Upon his lips, like moments of bright heaven Thrown 'twixt the cruel blasts of morn and even, And golden locks beneath his hood of gray ? Sometimes he turns him back to wave farewell To his pale Sire with icy beard and hair ; Sometimes he sends before him through the air A cry of welcome down a sunny dell ; And while the echoes are around him ringing, Sudden the angry wind breathes low and sweet, Young violets show their blue eyes at his feet, And the wild lark is heard above him singing ! NOON ' i *HE winds are hushed, the clouds have ceased to sail, -** And lie like islands in the Ocean-day, The flowers hang down their heads, and far away A faint bell tinkles in a sun-drowned vale : No voice but the cicala's whirring note — No motion but the grasshoppers that leap — The reaper pours into his burning throat The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep. THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream Fleets by, and makes sweet babble with the stones The sleepy music with its murmuring tones Lays me at noontide in Arcadian dream ; Hard by soft night of summer bowers is seen, With trellised vintage curtaining a cove Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green, The glooming bunches, and the boughs above. in. Finches, and moths, and gold-dropped dragon-flies Dip in their wings, and a young village-daughter Is bending with her pitcher o'er the water ; Her round arm imaged, and her laughing eyes, And the fair brow amid the flowing hair, Look like the Nymph's for Hylas coming up, Pictured among the leaves, and fruitage there ; Or the boy's self a-drowning with his cup. Up through the vines, her urn upon her head, Her feet unsandalled, and her dark locks free, She takes her way, a lovely thing to see, And like a skylark starting from its bed, A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame, Or virgin waters gushing from their springs, Her hope flies up — her heart is pure of blame — On wings of sound — she sings ! oh how she sings FREDERICK TENNYSON. 201 A DREAM OF AUTUMN. I HEARD a man of many winters say, " Sometimes a sweet dream comes to me by night. Fluttering my heart with pulses of delight, In glory bright as day ; " 'Tis not the song of eve, the walks of morn, Nor hearth-lit jokes, nor lamp-lit revelries, That haunt mine ears, and flit across mine eyes, And mock my heart forlorn. in. " 'Tis not the memory of my school-day years, The hours, when I was a wild-hearted boy, Of stormy sorrow, and of stormy joy, That fills mine eyes with tears. " 'Tis not the stir of manhood, nor the pain, The flood of passions, and the pomp of life, The toils, the care, the triumphs, and the strife That move my soul again ; v. " Ah ! no, my prison-gates are open thrown, There is a brighter earth, a lovelier sun, One face I see, I hear one voice, but one, 'Tis She, and She alone ! THE LATE ENGLISH POETS VI. " It is a golden morning of the Spring, My cheek is pale, and hers is warm with bloom, And we are left in that old carven room, And she begins to sing ; VII. "The open casement quivers in the breeze, And one large musk-rose leans its dewy grace Into the chamber, like a happy face, And round it swim the bees ; VIII. "Sometimes her sunny brow she loves to lean Over her harp-strings ; sometimes her blue eyes Are diving into the blue morning skies, Or woodland shadows green ; IX. " Sometimes she looks adown a garden walk Whence echoes of blithe converse come and go, And two or three fair sisters, laughing low, Go hand in hand, and talk. x. " And once or twice all fearfully she gazed Up to her gray forefathers, grim and tall, With faded brows that frowned along the wall, And steadfast eyes amazed. XI. " She stays her song ; I linger idly by ; She lifts her head, and then she casts it down, One small, fair hand is o'er the other thrown, With a low, broken sigh ; FREDERICK TENNYSON. 203 XII. " I know not what I said ; what she replied Lives, like eternal sunshine, in my heart ; And then I murmured, Oh ! we never part, My love, my life, my bride ! XIII. " And then, as if to crown that first of hours, That hour that ne'er was mated by another, Into the open casement her young brother Threw a fresh wreath of flowers. XIV. " And silence o'er us, after that great bliss, Fell, like a welcome shadow ; and I heard The far woods sighing, and a summer bird Singing amid the trees ; xv. ** The sweet bird's happy song, that streamed around, The murmur of the woods, the azure skies, Were graven on my heart, though ears and eyss Marked neither sight nor sound. XVI. " She sleeps in peace beneath the chancel stone, But ah ! so clearly is the vision seen, The dead seem raised, or Death hath never been, Were I not here alone. XVII. M Oft, as I wake at morn, I seem to see A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade, Her blessed face, as it were loath to fade, Turned back to look on me." 204 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. THE GOLDEN CITY PART I. i. * I A WO aged men, that had been foes for life, -* Met by a grave, and wept — and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife ; Then wept again the loss of all those years. n. Two youths discoursing amid tears and laughter, Poured out their trustful hearts unto each other: They never met before, and never after, Yet each remembered he had found a brother. m. A boy and girl amid the dawning light Glanced at each other at a palace door ; That look was hope by day, and dreams by night, And yet they never saw each other more. IV. Should gentle spirits born for one another Meet only in sad death, the end of all ? Should hearts, that spring, like rivers, near each othei, As far apart into the Ocean fall ? v. Should heavenly Beauty be a snare to stay Free Love, and ere she hear his tongue complain, Forsake him, as a lily turns away From the air that cannot turn to it again ? FREDERICK TENNYSON. 205 VI. Ah ! hapless Zephyr, thou canst never part From the rare odour of the breathing bloom ; Ah ! flower, thou canst not tell how fair thou art, Or see thyself, or quaff thine own perfume. VII. Ah ! Lover unbeloved, or loving not The doomed heart that only turns to thee ; In this wide world how cureless is thy lot ; Who shall unwind the old perplexity ? PART II. Fond hearts, not unrequited shall ye be Forever — I beheld a happy sight, Heaven opened, and a starry company Far off, like Gods, and crowned Sons of Light. 11. On beacon-towers, and citadels sublime They stood, and watched with their unsleeping eyes Where two or three, across the sea of Time, Held on unto the shores of Paradise. All day they rocked upon the stormy Deep, Till night beset them ; and they could not tell The signal-lights — and they began to weep — And the dark waters smote them, and they fell. 206 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. IV. But oh ! they woke in wonder ! and behold A mighty City ! — 'twas a summer morn, And dazzling sunshine smote on walls of gold, And blessed voices on their ears forlorn. v. Soon as the gray prow touched upon the sands, Wild birds from fadeless woods, and inland streams, Showered o'er them those same notes of Faery lands, Which they had heard in far, forgotten dreams. VI. And on the morning breezes come and part Gushes of those enchanted melodies, Which for brief moments born within the heart Make sad the earth with echoes of the skies. VII. Odours from silent fields of Asphodel Breathe o'er them, steeping them in sudden bliss, That once had touched their sense, as with a spell, And made them yearn for parted lives in this. VIII. Visions, which some pale bard had seen afar Burn in the sunset, or the morning cloud, And then depart into the scornful air, Leaving his heart with earthly sorrows bowed. IX. From forth broad portals into daylight poured, While songs were pealed, and trumpets streamed above, And by those shores in triumph took their way, While he stood rapt in ecstasy and love. FREDERICK TENNYSON. 207 x. And men of sorrows, whose dejected eyes Had sought the earth, and looked for Death in vain, Lifted their heads unto the glorious skies, And sighed with perfect bliss, unthralled of pain. XI. And they were borne into a vale of bowers, And heard infantine voices, and those tones Linked in their hearts with the rejoicing hours Ere mortal anguish smit their weary bones. XII. Amid the tumult who are they that call In well-known tongues sweet welcomes ? Who are they Amid the multitudes that throng the wall, With well-known faces, now so young and gay ? XIII. Who are the foremost on the shore to find, And clasp those weary mariners, pale with woes ? Friends, lovers, tender children, parents kind, Lost soon as loved — or loved too long to lose. XIV. They took those storm-beat mariners by the hand, And through their worn and weary senses poured Sweet snatches of old songs, and to the land They led them, whispering many a tender word. XV. Up to the golden Citadel they fare, And as they go their limbs grow full of might, And One awaits them on the topmost stair — One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight ! 2o8 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Hark ! there is music, such as never flowed Through all the Ages — for the Lost are found — Sorrow is sitting by the throne of God — Justice and Mercy meet — and Love is crowned ! TO THE CICALA. i. "OLITHEST Spirit of the Earth, -*-* Happy as incarnate Mirth, Minion, whom the Fairies feed, Who dost not toil, and canst not need, Thine odorous ark a forest bough ; While Summer laughs as fair as now I will not feast, or drink of wine, But live with thee, and joys like thine. Oh ! who may be as blithe and gay As thou, that singest night and day, Setting the light and shadows green A-flutter with thy pulses keen, And every viny glen and vale A-thrilling with thy long long tale, And river bank and star-lit shore With thy triumphs flooding o'er. When the wild Bee is at rest, When the Nightingale hath ceased, FREDERICK TENNYSON. 209 Still I hear thee, reveller, still, Over heath and over hill ; Thou singest through the fire of noon, Thou singest till the day be done, Thou singest to the rising moon, Thou singest up the unrisen sun. Into the forest I will flee, And be alone with Mirth and thee, And wash the dust from Fancy's wings With tears of Heaven, and virgin springs ; Thou shalt lead me o'er the tops Of thymy hills, down orchard slopes, Past sun-lit dell, and moon-lit river, Thou shalt lead me on forever ! Lord of Summer, Forest-King, Of the bright drops the breezes fling Down upon the mossy lawn In the dim sweet hours of dawn, Clear as daylight, pure as Heaven, Drops which the Midsummer Even Weeps into pale cups silently, I will take, and drink to thee ! Just as I raise it to my lip, Plumed Oberon shall dip His sceptre in, and Puck shall dive And I will swallow him alive ; 210 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And on the vapour of that dew He shall rise, and wander through My brain, and make a sudden light, Like the first beam that scatters night. Then shall I hear what songs they sing Under the fresh leaves in the Spring : And see what moon-lit feasts they hold Under a Lily's roof of gold ; And, when the midnight mists upcurl, Watch how they whisk, and how they whirl. And dance, and flash from earth to air, Bright and sudden as a star. They shall dance, and thou shalt sing ; But they shall slumber, Court, and King, They shall faint, ere thou be spent, And each shall seek his dewbell tent, And Titania's self shall tire And sleep beneath a wildrose brier, Ere thou be sad, ere thou be still, Piper of the thymy hill. Oft, at the first still flush of morn, The soft tones of some charmed horn I shall hear, like sounds in sleep, Waft o'er the greenwood fresh and deep, From magic hold, where Giants thrall Beautv in some airy hall, FREDERICK TENNYSON. 211 And a plumed lover waits To burst the spell before the gates. When the sun is hot and high, I will rest where low winds sigh, And dark leaves twine, and rillets creep, And send me, with thy whir, asleep ; And softly on some prisoned beam Shall quiver down a noonday dream, Wherein thy ceaseless note shall tingle. And the sweet-toned waters mingle. XI. A dream of Faery, where a million Of winged Elves a rare pavilion Build for Love amid the green, The fairest Summer-house e'er seen ; While some their silver trowels ring, Others opal blocks shall bring, And with quaint laugh, and music fine, Pile them in the sunny shine. Monarch, thy great heart is more Than treasuries, if thou be poor ; Though few the days that to thee fal They are long, and Summer's all ; Minstrel, though thy life be brief, Thou art happier than the chief Of mortal Poets, for thy song Is fed with rapture all day long. 212 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. XIII. Thee, in thy fresh and leafy haunt, Nor Wealth can bribe, nor Penury daunt, Nor Glory puff, nor Envy tear, Thy drink the dew, thy food the air ; Oh ! could I share in thy delight, And dream in music day and night, Me thinks I would be ev'n as thou, And sing beneath a forest bough. Nor Pain, nor Evil canst thou see, Thou fear'st not Death, though it must be, Therefore no Sorrow lights on thee, Or mingles with thy melody, From want thy jocund heart is free, Thou livest in triumphant glee, Thou diest, shouting jubilee ! A God — save Immortality ! THE BLACKBIRD. T TOW sweet the harmonies of Afternoon ! A A The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and Summer boon ; Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering trees ; And birds of morning trim their bustling wing3, And listen fondly — while the Blackbird sings. THE BLACKBiKi> FREDERICK TENNYSON. 213 II. How soft the lovelight of the West reposes On this green valley's cheery solitude, On the trim cottage with its screen of roses, On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings Its bubbling freshness — while the Blackbird sings. The very dial on the village church Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest ; The scribbled benches underneath the porch Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ; But the broad casements of the old Three Kings Blaze like a furnace — while the Blackbird sings. And there beneath the immemorial elm Three rosy revellers round a table sit, And through gray clouds give laws unto the realm. Curse good and great, but worship their own wit, And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, Corn, colts, and curs — the while the Blackbird sings. v. Before her home, in her accustomed seat, The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid ; To her low chair a little maiden clings, And spells in silence — while the Blackbird sings. 214 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, While the far fields, with sunlight overflowed, Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings. VII. The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor-house, With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened with boughs, The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings, Lie in warm sunshine — while the Blackbird sings. VIII. The ring of silver voices, and the sheen Of festal garments — and my Lady streams With her gay court across the garden green ; Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love dreams And one calls for a little page ; he strings Her lute beside her — while the Blackbird sings. A little while — and lo ! the charm is heard, A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool kneels ; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear — while the Blackbird sings. FREDERICK TENNYSON. 215 The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of Eve begin to float Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire ; Half way to Sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings ; The Grandam nods — and still the Blackbird sings. Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel, And barking curs into the tumult run ; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings The merry tempest — and the Blackbird sings. On the high wold the last look of the sun Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream ; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun ; The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream ; Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; The Day is dying — still the Blackbird sings. Now the good Vicar passes from his gate, Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye Burns the clear spirit that hath conquered Fate, And felt the wings of immortality; His heart is thronged with great imaginings, And tender mercies — while the Blackbird sings. 2i6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. XIV. Down by the brook he bends his steps, and through A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands Awful beside the bed of one who grew From boyhood with him — who with lifted hands, And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings, And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings, Two golden stars, like tokens from the Blest, Strike on his dim orbs from the setting Sun ; His sinking hands seem pointing to the West ; He smiles as though he said, "Thy will be done :" His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings. (illjarlea burner. THE LION'S SKELETON. T TOW long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain ? A A What rapt thy fierce and thirsty eyes away ? First came the vulture: worms, heat, wind, and rain Ensued, and ardours of the tropic day. I know not — if they spared it thee — how long The canker sate within thy monstrous mane, Till it fell piecemeal, and bestrewed the plain ; Or, shredded by the storming sands, was flung Again to earth ; but now thine ample front, Whereon the great frowns gathered, is laid bare ; CHARLES TURNER. 217 The thunders of thy throat, which erst were wont To scare the desert, are no longer there ; Thy claws remain, but worms, wind, rain, and hea* Have sifted out the substance of thy feet. TO THE ROBIN. *HpHE ox is all as happy, in his stall, ■*■ As when he lowed i' the summer's yellow ev Browsing the king-cup slopes; but no reprieve Is left for thee, save thy sweet madrigal, Poor robin : and severer days will fall. Bethink thee well of all yon frosted sward, The orchard-path, so desolate and hard, And meadow-runnels, with no voice at all ! Then feed with me, poor warbler, household bird, And glad me with thy song so sadly timed, And be on thankful ears thy lay conferred ; So, till her latest rhyme my muse hath rhymed, Thy voice shall with a pleasant thrill be heard, And with a poet's fear, when twigs are limed. BIRD-NESTING. A H ! that half bashful and half eager face ! ■^"** Among the trees thy guardian angel stands, With his heart beating, lest thy little hands Should come among the shadows and efface The stainless beauty of a life of love, And childhood innocence — for hark, the boys 2i8 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Are peering through the hedgerows and the grove, And ply their cruel sport with mirth and noise ; But thou hast conquered ! and dispelled his fear ; Sweet is the hope thy youthful pity brings — And oft, methinks, if thou shalt shelter here When these blue eggs are linnets' throats and wings, A secret spell shall bring about the tree The little birds that owed their life to thee. THE LACHRYMATORY. T7ROM out the grave of one whose budding years Were cropped by death, when Rome was in her prime, I brought the vial of his kinsman's tears, There placed, as was the wont of ancient time; Round me, that night, in meads of asphodel, The souls of th' early dead did come and go, Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell, That long-imprisoned shower of human woe ; As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood, The heroes thronged, those spirits flocked to me, Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I stood ; Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ; The young Marcellus, young, but great and good, And Tully's daughter, mourned so tenderly. H THE BUOY-BELL. OW like the leper, with his own sad cry Enforcing his own solitude, it tolls ! CHARLES TURNER. 219 That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals, To warn us from the place of jeopardy ! O friend of man ! sore-vexed by ocean's power, The changing tides wash o'er thee day by day ; Thy trembling mouth is filled with bitter spray, Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour; High is thy mission, though thy lot is wild — To be in danger's realm a guardian sound; In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear, And earn their blessing as the year goes round ; And strike the key-note of each grateful prayer, Breathed in their distant homes by wife or child ! ON THE STATUE OF LORD BYRON, BY THORWALDSEN, IN TRINITY COLLEGE LIBRARY, CAMBRIDGE ,f I MS strange that I, who haply might have met A Thy living self — who sought to hide the flaws In thy great fame, and, though I ne'er had set Eyes on thee, heard thee singing without pause, And longed to see thee, should, alas ! detect The Thyrza-sorrow first on sculptured brows, And know thee best in marble ! Fate allows But this poor intercourse; high and erect Thou hold'st thy head, whose forward glance beholds All forms that throng this learned vestibule ; Women and men, and boys and girls from school, Who gaze with admiration all unchecked On thy proud lips, and garment's moveless folds, So still, so calm, so purely beautiful ! 220 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. THE SAME— (Continued.) A ND near thee hangs a page, in boyhood penned, When all thy thoughts were, like thy marble, pur: When thou hadst none but little faults to mend, In Lochnagar's cooi shadow still secure From praise or slander ; but thy brilliant youth And manhood soon took tribute of thy kind ; Great artists then thy lineaments designed, And, last, the Dane's fine chisel struck the truth ; And, when the current of the breath of fame Drew up all relics of the master's craft, This little page, — we know not whence it came, — Ran flitting forward in the mighty draught, And, placed at last, where it was fain to be, Shares our fond gaze between itself and thee. THE CHARMING OF THE EAST WIND. T ATE in the month a rough east wind had sway, ■*— ' The old trees thundered, and the dust was blown ; But other powers possessed the night and day, And soon he found he could not hold his own 5 The merry ruddock whistled at his heart, And strenuous blackbirds pierced his flanks with son £ % Pert sparrows wrangled o'er his every part, And through him shot the larks on pinions strong : Anon a sunbeam broke across the plain, And the wild bee went forth on booming wing — Whereat he feeble waxed, but rose again With aimless rage, and idle blustering ; CHARLES TURNER. 22: The south wind touched him with a drift of rain, And down he sank, a captive to the spring ! THE FOREST GLADE. \ S one dark morn I trod a forest glade, A sunbeam entered at the further end, And ran to meet me through the yielding shade — As one, who in the distance sees a friend, And, smiling, hurries to him ; but mine eyes, Bewildered by the change from dark to bright, Received the greeting with a quick surprise At first, and then with tears of pure delight ; For sad my thoughts had been — the tempest's wrath Had gloomed the night, and made the morrow gray- That heavenly guidance humble sorrow hath, Had turned my feet into that forest-way, Just when His morning light came down the path, Among the lonely woods at early day. MORNING. TT is the fairest sight in Nature's realms, To see on summer morning, dewy-sweet, That very type of freshness, the green wheat, Surging through shadows of the hedgerow elms ; How the eye revels in the many shapes And colours which the risen day restores ! How the wind blows the poppy's scarlet capes About his urn ! and how the lark upsoars ! TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Not like the timid corn-craik scudding fast From his own voice, he with him takes his song Heavenward, then, striking sideways, shoots along, Happy as sailor-boy that, from the mast, Runs out upon the yard-arm, till at last He sinks into his nest, those clover tufts among. HARVEST -HOME. T ATE in September came our corn-crops home, -*~ v Late, but full-eared — by many a merry noise Of matron and of maid, young girls and boys, Preceded, flanked, and followed, did they come ; A general joy ! for piles of unwrought food For man and beast, on those broad axles pressed, And strained those sinewy necks in garlands dressed ; The harebell and the ragwort wondering stood As the slow teams wound up that grassy lane ; All knew the husbandman's long task was done ; While, as they crossed his disk, the setting sun Blazed momently betwixt each rolling wain And that which followed, piled with golden grain, As if to gratulate the harvest won. TIME AND TWILIGHT. TN the dark twilight of an autumn morn ■*- I stood within a little country-town, W herefrom a long acquainted path went down To the dear village haunts where I was born ; C OVENTRY PATMORE. 223 The low of oxen on the rainy wind, Death and the Past, came up the well-known road, And bathed my heart with tears, but stirred my mind To tread once more the track so long untrod ; But I was warned, " Regrets which are not thrust Upon thee, seek not ; for this sobbing breeze Will but unman thee ; thou art bold to trust Thy woe-worn thoughts among these roaring trees, And gleams of bygone playgrounds — Is't no crime To rush by night into the arms of Time ?" (Hotmttrjj jJatmore. HONORIA. Ty ESTLESS and sick of long exile ^-^ From those sweet friends, I rode to see The church-repairs ; and, after a while, Waylaying the Dean, was asked to tea. They introduced the cousin Fred I'd heard of, Honour's favourite ; grave, Dark, handsome, bluff, but gently bred, And with an air of the salt wave. He stared, and gave his hand, and I Stared too : then donned we smiles, the shrouds Of ire, best hid while she was by, A sweet moon 'twixt her lighted clouds. 11. Whether this Cousin was the cause I know not, but I seemed to see, 224 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The first time then, how fair she was, How much the fairest of the three. Each stopped to let the other go ; But he, being time-bound, rose the first. Stayed he in Sarum long ? If so, I hoped to see him at the Hurst. No : he had called here on his way To Portsmouth, where the Arrogant, His ship, was ; and should leave next day, For two years' cruise in the Levant. I watched her face, suspecting germs Of love : her farewell showed me plain She loved, on the majestic terms That she should not be loved again. And so her cousin, parting, felt, For all his rough sea face grew red. Compassion did my malice melt : Then went I home to a restless bed. I, who admired her too, could see His infinite remorse at this Great mystery, that she should be So beautiful, yet not be his, And, pitying, longed to plead his part ; But scarce could tell, so strange my whim, Whether the weight upon my heart Was sorrow for myself or him. in. She was all mildness ; yet 'twas writ Upon her beauty legibly, " He that's for heaven itself unfit, " Let him not hope to merit me." COVENTRY PATH ORE. 225 And such a challenge, quite apart From thoughts of love, humbled, and thus To sweet repentance moved my heart, And made me more magnanimous, And led me to review my life, Inquiring where in aught the least. If question were of her for wife, 111 might be mended, hope increased : Not that I soared so far above Myself, as this great hope to dare : And yet I half foresaw that love Might hope where reason would despair. As drowsiness my brain relieved, A shrill defiance of all to arms, Shrieked by the stable-cock, received An angry answer from three farms. And, first, I dreamt that I, her knight, A clarion's haughty pathos heard, And rode securely to the fight, Cased in the scarf she had conferred ; And there, the bristling lists behind, Saw many, and vanquished all I saw Of her unnumbered cousin-kind, In Navy, Army, Church, and Law ; Then warriors, stern and Norman-nosed, Seemed Sarum choristers, whose song, Mixed with celestial grief, disclosed More joy than memory can prolong ; And phantasms as absurd and sweet Merged each in each, in endless chase, 10* 226 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And everywhere I seemed to meet The haunting fairness of her face. THE CHASE, i. QHE wearies with an ill unknown ; ^ In sleep she sobs and seems to float, A water-lily, all alone Within a lonely castle-moat ; And as the full-moon, spectral, lies Within the crescent's gleaming arms, The present shows her heedless eyes A future dim with vague alarms : She sees, and yet she scarcely sees ; For, life-in-life not yet begun, Too many are life's mysteries For thought to fix 'tward any one. ii. She's told that maidens are by youths Extremely honoured and desired ; And sighs, " If those sweet tales be truths, What bliss to be so much admired !" The suitors come ; she sees them grieve : Her coldness fills them with despair : She'd pity if she could believe : She's sorry that she cannot care. Who's this that meets her on her way ? Comes he as enemy, or friend ; COVENTRY P ATM ORE. 227 Or both ? Her bosom seems to say He cannot pass, and there an end. Whom does he love ? Does he confer His heart on worth that answers his ? Perhaps he's come to worship her : She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is. IV. Advancing stepless, quick, and still, As in the grass a serpent glides, He fascinates her fluttering will, Then terrifies with dreadful strides : At first, there's nothing to resist : He fights with all the forms of peace ; He comes about her like a mist, With subtle, swift, unseen increase ; And then, unlooked for, strikes amain Some stroke that frightens her to death And grows all harmlessness again, Ere she can cry, or get her breath. At times she stops, and stands at bay ; But he, in all more strong than she, Subdues her with his pale dismay, Or more admired audacity. All people speak of him with praise : How wise his talk ; how sweet his tone ; What manly worship in his gaze ! It nearly makes her heart his own. With what an air he speaks her name : His manner always recollects 228 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Her sex : and still the woman's claim Is taught its scope by his respects. Her charms, perceived to prosper first In his beloved advertencies, When in her glass they are rehearsed, Prove his most powerful allies. Ah, whither shall a maiden flee, When a bold youth so swift pursues, And siege of tenderest courtesy, With hope perseverant, still renews ! Why fly so fast ? Her flattered breast Thanks him who finds her fair and good ; She loves her fears ; veiled joys arrest The foolish terrors of her blood: By secret, sweet degrees, her heart, Vanquished, takes warmth from his desire She makes it more, with bashful art, And fuels love's late dreaded fire. The gallant credit he accords To all the signs of good in her, Redeems itself; his praiseful words What they attribute still confer. Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss, She's three times gentler than before : He gains a right to call her his, Now she through him is so much more ! Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, Behold his tokens next her breast, C OVENTRY PATMORE. At all his words and sighs perceived Against its blithe upheaval pressed. But still she flies : should she be won, It must not be believed or thought She yields: she's chased to death, undone, Surprised, and violently caught. 129 FROST IN HARVEST. ' I *HE lover who, across a gulf "*• Of ceremony, views his Love, And dares not yet address herself, Pays worship to her stolen glove. The gulf o'erleaped, the lover wed, It happens oft (let truth be told), The halo leaves the sacred head, Respect grows lax, and worship cold, And all love's May-day promising, Like song of birds before they pair, Or flush of flowers in boastful Spring, Dies out, and leaves the Summer bare- Yet should a man, it seems to me, Honour what honourable is, For some more honourable plea Than only that it is not his. The gentle wife, who decks his board And makes his day to have no night, Whose wishes wait upon her Lord, Who finds her own in his delight, Is she another now than she Who, mistress of her maiden charms, 230 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. At his wild prayer, incredibly Committed them to his proud arms ? Unless her choice of him's a slur Which makes her proper credit dim, He never enough can honour her Who past all speech has honoured him. REJECTED. '* OERHAPS she's dancing somewhere now !' A The thoughts of light and music wake Sharp jealousies, that grow and grow Till silence and the darkness ache. He sees her step, so proud and gay, Which, ere he spake, foretold despair; Thus did she look, on such a day, And such the fashion of her hair ; And thus she stood, when, stooping low, He took the bramble from her dress, And thus she laughed and talked, whose " No ' Was sweeter than another's " Yes." He feeds on thoughts that most deject ; He impudently feigns her charms, So reverenced in his own respect, Clasped dreadfully by other arms ; And turns, and puts his brows, that ache, Against the pillow where 'tis cold : If only now his heart would break ! But, oh, how much a heart can hold ! COVENTRY PATH ORE. 2$\ THE MISTRESS. IF he's capricious, she'll be so, But, if his duties constant are, She lets her loving favour glow As steady as a tropic star. Appears there naught for which to weep, She'll weep for naught, for his dear sane She clasps her sister in her sleep ; Her love in dreams is most awake. Her soul, that once with pleasure shook. Did any eyes her beauty own, Now wonders how they dare to look On what belongs to him alone ; The indignity of taking gifts Exhilarates her loving breast ; A rapture of submission lifts Her life into celestial rest ; There's nothing left of what she was ; Back to the babe the woman dies ; And all the wisdom that she has Is to love him for being wise. She's confident because she fears ; And, though discreet when he's away, If none but her dear despot hears, She'll prattle like a child at play. Perchance, when all her praise is said, He tells the news, a battle won, On either side ten thousand dead, Describing how the whole was done ; She thinks, v He's looking on my face ! " I am his iov ; whate'er I do, 232 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " He sees such time-contenting grace " In that, he'd have me always so !" And, evermore, for either's sake, To the sweet folly of the dove, She joins the cunning of the snake, To rivet and exalt his love. Her mode of candour is deceit ; And what she thinks from what she'll say, A. though I'll never call her cheat, Lies far as Scotland from Cathay. Without his knowledge he was won ; Against his nature kept devout ; She'll never tell him how 'twas done, And he will never find it oat. If, sudden, he suspects her wiles, And hears her forging chain and trap, And looks, she sits in simple smiles, Her two hands lying in her lap. Her secret (privilege of the Bard, Whose fancy is of either sex), Is mine ; but let the darkness guard Mysteries that light would more perplex. THE WIFE'S TRAGEDY. IV /TAN must be pleased ; but him to please ^" Is woman's pleasure: down the gulf Of his condoled necessities She casts her best, she flings herself: How often flings for naught ! and yokes Her heart to an icicle or whim C OVENTRY PAT MORE. '^33 Whose each impatient word provokes Another, not from her, but him ; While she, too gentle even to force His penitence by kind replies, Waits by, expecting his remorse, With pardon in her pitying eyes : And if he at last, by shame oppressed, A comfortable word confers, She leans and weeps against his breast, And seems to think the sin was hers : And while his love has any life, Or any eye to see her charms, At any time, she's still his wife, Dearly devoted to his arms. She loves with love that cannot tire ; And if, ah woe, she loves alone, Through passionate duty love flames highei As grass grows taller round a stone. THE PARADOX. HOW strange a thing a Lover seems To animals that do not love ! Look where he walks and talks in dreams, And flouts us with his Lady's glove : How foreign is the garb he wears ; And how his great devotion mocks Our poor propriety, and scares The undevout with paradox ! His soul, through scorn of worldly care, And great extremes of sweet and gall, *3-r THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And musing much on all that's fair, Grows witty and fantastical : He sobs his joy and sings his grief, And evermore finds such delight In simply picturing his relief, That 'plaining seems to cure his plight : He makes his sorrow, when there's none ; His fancy blows both cold and hot ; Next to the wish that she'll be won, His first hope is that she may not ; He sues, yet deprecates consent ; Would she be captured she must fly , She looks too happy and content. For whose least pleasure he would die; Oh, cruelty, she cannot care For one to whom she's always kind ! He says he's naught, but oh, despair, If he's not Jove to her fond mind \ He's jealous if she pets a dove, She must be his with all her soul ; Yet 'tis a postulate in love That part is greater than the whole, And all his apprehension's stress, When he's with her, regards her hah, Her hand, a ribbon of her dress, As if his life were only there : Because she's constant, he will change, And kindest glances coldly meet, And, all the time he seems so strange, His soul is fawning at her feet : Of smiles and simple heaven grown tired He wickedly provokes her tears, C OVENTR Y PATMORE. 235 And when she weeps, as he desired, Falls slain with ecstasies of fears ; He finds, although she has no fault, Except the folly to be his ; He worships her, the more to exalt The profanation of a kiss ; Health's his disease; he's never well But when his paleness shames her rose ; His faith's a rock-built citadel, Its sign a flag that each way blows ; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes ; And Love, in him, is fierce like Hate And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of Time and Fate, NIGHT THOUGHTS. , '"r*iS sweeter than all else below, ■** The daylight and its duties done, To fold the arms for rest, and so Relinquish all regards but one ; To see her features in the dark ; To lie and meditate, once more, Some grace he did not fully mark, Some tone, he had not heard before ; Then from beneath his head to take Her notes, her picture, and her glove, Put there for joy when he shall wake, And press them to the heart of love ; And then to whisper " Wife," and pray To live so long as not to miss i$6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. That unimaginable day Which farther seems the nearer 'tis ; And still from joy's unfathomed well To drink, in sleep, while, on her brow Of innocence ineffable, The laughing bridal roses blow. BY THE S EA. T WHILE the shop-girl fitted on A 9 The sand-shoes, looked where, down the bay, The sea glowed with a shrouded sun. "I'm ready, Felix; will you pay?" That was my first expense for this Sweet stranger whom I called my Wife : How light the touches are that kiss The music from the chords of life ! ii. Her feet, by half a mile of sea, In spotless sand, left shapely prints ; Then, from the beach, she loaded me With agate-stones, which turned out flints ; And, after that, we took a boat : She wished to see the ships-of-war, At anchor, each a lazy mote Dotting the brilliance, miles from shore. in. A vigorous breeze the canvas filled, Lifting us o'er the bright-ridged gul£ COVENTRY PATMORE. 237 And every lurch my darling thrilled With light fear smiling at itself: And, dashing past the Arrogant, Asleep upon the restless wave After its cruise in the Levant, We reached the Wolf; and signal gave For help to board : with caution meet, My bride was placed within the chair, The red-flag wrapped about her feet, And so swung laughing through the air " Look, Love," she said, " there's Frederick Graham, " My Cousin, whom you met, you know." And, seeing us, the brave man came, And made his frank and courteous bow, And gave my hand a sailor's shake, And said, (t You asked me to the Hurst : tf I never thought my luck would make " You and your wife my guests the first." And Honour, cruel, " Nor did we : " Have you not lately changed your ship ?" " Yes : I'm Commander, now," said he, With a slight quiver of the lip. We saw the vessel, shown with pride ; Took luncheon ; I must eat his salt ! Parting he said (I think my bride Found him unselfish to a fault), His wish he saw had come to pass (And so, indeed, her face expressed), That that should be, whate'er it was, Which made his Cousin happiest. 238 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. We left him looking from above, Rich bankrupt ! for he could afford To say most proudly that his love Was virtue and its own reward. But others loved as well as he (Thought I, half-angered), and, if fate, Unfair, had only fashioned me As hapless, I had been as great. v. As souls, ambitious, but low-born, If greatly raised by luck or wit, All pride of place will proudly scorn, And live as they'd been used to it, So we two wore our strange estate : Familiar, unaffected, free, We talked, until the dusk grew late, Of this and that ; but, after tea. As doubtful if a lot so sweet As ours was ours in very sooth, Like children, to promote conceit, We feigned that it was not the truth ; And she assumed the maiden coy, And I adored remorseless charms, And then we clapped our hands for joy, And ran into each other's arms. WOMANHOOD. T>E man's hard virtues highly wrought, J -' But let my gentle Mistress be, In every look, word, deed, and thought, Nothing but sweet and womanlv ! WOMANHOOD. ARTHUR HUGE G LOUGH. 259 Her virtues please my virtuous mood, But what at all times I admire Is, not that she is wise or good, But just the thing which I desire. With versatility to bring Her mental tone to any strain, If oft'nest she is any thing, Be it thoughtless, talkative, and vain. That seems in her supremest grace Which, virtue or not, apprises me That my familiar arms embrace Unfathomable mystery. / 7lvtl)uv Qugl) Clougl). QJJA CURSUM VENTUS. A S ships, becalmed at eve, that lay "**• With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried ; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so — but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 240 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered : — Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides, To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last ! One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare, — O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there ! THE SONG OF LAMECH. TTEARKEN to me, ye mothers of my tent: ^ -*• Ye wives of Lamech, hearken to my speech : Adah, let Jubal hither lead his goats ; And Tubal Cain, O Zillah, hush the forge ; Naamah her wheel shall ply beside, and thou, My Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string. Yea, Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string. Hear ye my voice, beloved of my tent, Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech. For Eve made answer, " Cain, my son, my own, O, if I cursed thee, O my child, I sinned, ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 241 And He that heard me, heard, and said me nay : My first, my only one, thou shalt not go." And Adam answered also, " Cain, my son, He that is gone forgiveth, we forgive : Rob not thy mother of two sons at once ; My child, abide with us and comfort us." Hear ye my voice ; Adah and Zillah, hear; Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. For Cain replied not. But, an hour more, sat Where the night through he sat ; his knit brows seen j Scarce seen, amid the foldings of his limbs. But when the sun was bright upon the field, To Adam still, and Eve still waiting by, And weeping, lift he up his voice and spake, Cain said, " The sun is risen upon the earth ; The day demands my going, and I go. — As you from Paradise, so 1 from you : As you to exile, into exile I : My father and my mother, I depart. As betwixt you and Paradise of old, So betwixt me, my parents, now, and you, Cherubim I discern, and in their hand A flaming sword that turneth every way, To keep the way of my one tree of life, The way my spirit yearns to, of my love. Yet not, O Adam and O Eve, fear not. For He that asked me, Where is Abel ? He Who called me cursed from the earth, and said, A fugitive and vagabond thou art, He also said, when fear had slain my soul, There shall not touch thee man nor beast. Fear not, 11 242 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Lo, I have spoke with God, and He hath said, Fear not; — and let me go as He hath said." Cain also said (O Jubal, touch thy string), — " Moreover, in the darkness of my mind, When the night's night of misery was most black, A little star came twinkling up within, And in myself I had a guide that led And in myself had knowledge of a soul. Fear not, O xA.dam and O Eve: I go." Children of Lamech, listen to my speech. For when the years were multiplied, and Cain Eastward of Eden, in this land of Nod, Had sons, and sons of sons, and sons of them, Enoch and Irad and Mehujael (My father, and my children's grandsire he), It came to pass that Cain, who dwelt alone, Met Adam, at the nightfall, in the field : Who fell upon his neck, and wept, and said, " My son, has God not spoken to thee, Cain ?" And Cain replied, when weeping loosed his voice, ■* My dreams are double, O my father, good And evil ; — terror to my soul by night, And agony by day, when Abel stands A dead, black shade, and speaks not, neither looks, Nor makes me any answer when I cry, Curse me, but let me know thou art alive ! But comfort also, like a whisper, comes, In visions of a deeper sleep, when he, Abel, as him we knew, yours once and mine, Comes with a free forgiveness in his face, Seeming to speak, solicitous for words, ARTHUR HUGH C L U G II. z« And wearing ere he goes the old, first look Of" unsuspecting, unforeboding love. Three nights are gone I saw him thus, my sire." Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech. For Adam said, " Three nights ago to me Came Abel, in my sleep, as thou hast said, And spake and bade, — Arise, my father, go Where in the land of exile dwells thy son ; Say to my brother, Abel bids thee come, Abel would have thee ; and lay thou thy hand, My father, on his head, that he may come ; Am I not weary, father, for this hour ?" Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear, Children of Lamech, listen to my speech : And, son of Zillah, sound thy solemn string. For Adam laid upon the head of Cain His hand, and Cain bowed down, and slept, and died. And a deep sleep on Adam also fell, And, in his slumber's deepest, he beheld, Standing before the gate of Paradise, With Abel, hand in hand, our father Cain. Hear ye my voice, Adah and Zillah, hear ; Ye wives of Lamech, listen to my speech. Though to his wounding he did slay a man, Yea, and a young man to his hurt he slew, Fear not ye wives, nor sons of Lamech fear : If unto Cain was safety given and rest, Shall Lamech surely and his people die ? 244 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS THE NEW SINAI. O, here is God, and there is God ! "^^ Believe it not, O man ! In such vain sort to this and that The ancient heathen ran ; Though old Religion shake her head, And say, in bitter grief, The day behold, at first foretold, Of atheist unbelief: Take better part, with manly heart, Thine adult spirit can ; Receive it not, believe it not, Believe it not, O Man ! As men at dead of night awaked With cries, " The king is here," Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet, Whoe'er shall first appear ; And still repeat, to all the street, " 'Tis he, — the king is here ;" The long procession moveth on, Each nobler form they see, With changeful suit they still salute, And cry, " 'Tis he, 'tis he !" So, even so, when men were young, And earth and heaven was new, And His immediate presence He From human hearts withdrew, The soul perplexed and daily vexed With sensuous False and True, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGK 24$ Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, And fain would see Him too : He is !" the prophet-tongues proclaimed ; In joy and hasty fear, ' He is !" aloud replied the crowd, " Is, here, and here, and here." " He is ! They are !" in distance seen On yon Olympus high, In those Avernian woods abide, And walk this azure sky : " They are ! They are !" to every show Its eyes the baby turned, And blazes sacrificial, tall, On thousand altars burned : " They are ! They are !" — On Sinai's top Far seen the lightnings shone, The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, And God said, " I am One." God spake it out, "I, God, am One;" The unheeding ages ran, And baby-thoughts again, again, Have dogged the growing man : And as of old from Sinai's top God said that God is One, By Science strict so speaks He now To tell us, There is None ! Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's A Mecanique Celeste ! And heart and mind of human kind A watch-work as the rest! 246 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Is this a Voice, as was the Voice Whose speaking told abroad, When thunder pealed, and mountain reeled, The ancient Truth of God ? Ah, not the Voice j 'tis but the cloud, The outer darkness dense, Where image none, nor e'er was seen Similitude of sense. 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense, That wrapt the Mount around ; While in amaze the people stays, To hear the Coming Sound. Some chosen prophet-soul the while Shall dare, sublimely meek, Within the shroud of blackest cloud The Deity to seek : Mid atheistic systems dark, And darker hearts' despair, That soul has heard perchance His word, And on the dusky air, His skirts, as passed He by, to see Hath strained on their behalf, Who on the plain, with dance amain, Adore the Golden Calf. 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; Though blank the tale it tells, No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, Is there, — within it dwells ; Within the sceptic darkness deep He dwells that none mav see, ARTHUR HUGH GLOUGH. 247 Till idol forms and idol thoughts Have passed and ceased to be : No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth, So stand the doctrine's half; On Egypt's track return not back, Nor own the Golden Calf. Take better part, with manlier heart, Thine adult spirit can : No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — Believe it ne'er — O Man ! But turn not then to seek again What first the ill began ; No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith God's self-completing plan j Receive it not, but leave it not, And wait it out, O man ! The Man that went the cloud withia Is gone and vanished quite ; " He cometh not," the people cries, " Nor bringeth God to sight:" " Lo these thy gods, that safety giv ;, Adore and keep the feast !" Deluding and deluded cries The Prophet's brother-Priest : And Israel all bows down to fall Before the gilded beast. Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, O Man, reject as sin ! The clouded hill attend thou stifi, And him that went within. 248 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. He yet shall bring some worthy thing For waiting souls to see ; Some sacred word that he hath heard Their light and life shall be ; Some lofty part, than which the heart Adopt no nobler can, Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe, And thou shalt do, O Man ! "ACROSS THE SEA." \ CROSS the sea, along the shore, •*"*• In numbers more and ever more, From lonely hut and busy town, The valley through, the mountain down, What was it ye went out to see, Ye silly folk of Galilee ? The reed that in the wind doth shake ? The weed that washes in the lake ? The reeds that waver, the weeds that float A young man preaching in a boat. What was it ye went out to hear, By sea and land, from far and near ? A teacher ? Rather seek the feet Of those who sit in Moses' seat; Go humbly seek, and bow to them, Far off in great Jerusalem. From them that in her courts ye saw, Her perfect doctors of the law, What is it came ye here to note ? — A young man preaching in a boat. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 249 A prophet ! Boys and women weak ! Declare, or cease to rave, Whence is it he hath learned to speak ? Say who his doctrine gave ? A prophet ? Prophet wherefore he Of all in Israel tribes ? — He teackcth with authority, And not as do the Scribes. JACOB. A TY sons, and ye the children of my sons, -!■▼<■■ Jacob your father goes upon his way, His pilgrimage is being accomplished. Come near and hear him ere his words are o'er. Not as my father's or his father's days, As Isaac's days or Abraham's have been mine ; Not as the days of those that in the field Walked at the eventide to meditate, And haply, to the tent returning, found Angels at nightfall waiting at their door ; They communed, Israel wrestled with the Lord. No, not as Abraham's or as Isaac's days, My sons, have been Jacob your father's days, — Evil and few, attaining not to theirs In number, and in worth inferior much. As a man with his friend walked they with God, In His abiding presence they abode, And all their acts were open to His face. But I have had to force mine eyes away, To lose, almost to shun, the thoughts I loved, 11* 2 5° T HE LATE ENGLISH POETS. To bend down to the work, to bare the breast, And struggle, feet and hands, with enemies ; To buffet and to battle with hard men, With men of selfishness and violence ; To watch by day, and calculate by night, To plot and think of plots, and through a land Ambushed with guile, and with strong foes beset, To win with art safe wisdom's peaceful way. Alas ! I know, and from the onset knew, The first-born faith, the singleness of soul, The antique pure simplicity with which God and good angels communed undispleased, Is not ; it shall not any more be said, Thai of a blameless and a holy kind, The chosen race, the seed of promise, comes. Tne royal, high prerogatives, the dower Of innocence and perfectness of life, Pass not unto my children from their sire. As unto me they came of mine ; they fit Neither to Jacob nor to Jacob's race. Think ye, my sons, in this extreme old age And in this failing breath, that I forget flow on the day when from my father's door, In bitterness and ruefulness of heart. 1 rrom my parents set my face, and felt I never more again should look on theirs, — How on that day I seemed unto myself Another Adam from his home cast out, And driven abroad unto a barren land Cursed for his sake, and mocking still with thorns And briers that labour and that sweat of brow He still must spend to live ? Sick of my days, ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 251 I wished not life, but cried out, Let me die j But at Luz God came to me ; in my heart He put a better mind, and showed me how, While we discern it not, and least believe, On stairs invisible betwixt His heaven And our unholy, sinful, toilsome earth Celestial messengers of loftiest good Upward and downward pass continually. Many, since I upon the field of Luz Set up the stone I slept on unto God, Many have been the troubles of my life j Sins in the field and sorrows in the tent, In mine own household anguish and despair, And gall and wormwood mingled with my love. The time would fail me should I seek to teli Of a child wronged and cruelly revenged (Accursed was that anger, it was fierce, That wrath, for it was cruel) ; or of strife And jealousy and cowardice, with lies Mocking a father's misery; deeds of blooi, Pollutions, sicknesses, and sudden deaths. These many things against me many times, The ploughers have ploughed deep upon my back, And made deep furrows ; blessed be His name Who hath delivered Jacob out of all, And left within his spirit hope of good. Come near to me, my sons : your father goes ; The hour of his departure draweth nigh. Ah me ! this eager rivalry of life, This cruel conflict for pre-eminence, This keen supplanting of the dearest kin. 252 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Quick seizure and fast unrelaxing hold Of vantage-place, — the stony hard resolve, The chase, the competition, and the craft Which seems to be the poison of our life, And yet is the condition of our life ! To have done things on which the eye with shame Looks back, the closed hand clutching still the prize ! Alas ! what of all these things shall I say ? Take me away unto thy sleep, O God ! I thank thee it is over, yet I think It was a work appointed me of thee. How is it ? I have striven all my days To do my duty to my house and hearth, And to the purpose of my father's race, Yet is my heart therewith not satisfied. O STREAM DESCENDING. f\ STREAM descending to the sea, ^^ Thy mossy banks between The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow, The leafy trees are green. In garden-plots the children play, The fields the labourers till, And houses stand on either hand, And thou descendest still. O life descending into death, Our waking eyes behold Parent and friend thy lapse attend^ Companions young and old. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 253 Strong purposes our mind possess, Our hearts affections fill ; We toil and earn, we seek and learn, And thou descendest still. O end to which our currents tend, Inevitable sea To which we flow, what do we know, What shall we guess of thee ? A roar we hear upon thy shore, As we our course fulfil ; Scarce we divine a sun will shine And be above us still. €l)arlc0 Kingslen. ANDROMEDA Z^lVER the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to ihe ^-^ southward, Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired ^Ethiop people, Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver. Skilful, but feeble of heart ; for they know not the lords of Olympus, Lovers of men ; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athene, Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle ; 254 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo. Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water, Fearing all things that have life in the womb of the seas and the rivers, Eating no fish to this day, nor ploughing the main, like the Phcenics, Manful with black-beaked ships, they abide in a sorrowful region, Vexed with the earthquake, and flame, and the sea-floods, scourge of Poseidon. Whelming the dwellings of men, and the toils of the slow-footed oxen, Drowning the barley and flax, and the hard-earned gold of the harvest, Up to the hillside vines, and the pastures skirting the wood- land, Inland the floods came yearly ; and after the waters a monster, Bred of the slime, like the worms which are bred from the muds of the Nile-bank, Shapeless, a terror to see; and by night it swam out to the seaward, Daily returning to feed with the dawn, and devoured of the fairest, Cattle, and children, and maids, till the terrified people fled inland. Fasting in sackcloth and ashes they came, both the king and his people, Came to the mountain of oaks, to the house of the terrible sea gods, CHARLES KIKGSLEY. 255 Hard by the gulf in the rocks, where of old the world-wide deluge Sank to the inner abyss ; and the lake where the fish of the goddess Holy, undying, abide; whom the priests feed daily with dainties. There to the mystical fish, high-throned in her chamber of cedar, Burnt they the fat of the flock ; till the flame shone far to the seaward. Three days fasting they prayed : but the fourth day the priests of the goddess Cunning in spells, cast lots, to discover the crime of the people. All day long they cast, till the house of the monarch was taken, Cepheus, king of the land ; and the faces of all gathered blackness. Then once more they cast; and Cassiopceia was taken, Deep-bosomed wife of the king, whom oft far-seeing Apollo Watched well-pleased from the welkin, the fairest of .iEthiop women : Fairest, save only her daughter ; for down to the ankle her tresses Rolled, blue-black as the night, ambrosial, joy to beholders. Awful and fair she arose, most like in her coming to Hebe, £)ueen before whom the Immortals arise, as she comes on Olympus, Out of the chamber of gold, which her son Hephaestos has wrought her. Such in her stature and eyes, and the broad white light of her forehead 256 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Stately she came from her place, and she spoke in the midst of the people. " Pure are my hands from blood ; most pure this heart in my bosom. Yet one fault I remember this day : one word have I spoken ; Rashly I spoke on the shore, and I dread lest the sea should have heard it. Watching my child at her bath, as she plunged in the joy of her girlhood, Fairer I called her in pride than Atergati, queen of the ocean. Judge ye if this be my sin, for I know none other." She ended ; Wrapping her head in her mantle she stood, and the people were silent. Answered the dark-browed priests, " No word, once spoken, returneth Even if uttered unwitting. Shall gods excuse our rash- ness ? That which is done, that abides ; and the wrath of the sea is against us ; Hers, and the wrath of her brother, the Sun-god, lord of the sheepfolds. Fairer than her hast thou boasted thy daughter ? Ah folly ! for hateful. Hateful are they to the gods, whoso, impious, liken a mortal, Fair though he be, to their glory j and hateful is that which is likened, CHARLES KIKGSLEY. 257 Grieving the eyes of their pride, and abominate, doomed to their anger. What shall be likened to gods ? The unknown, who deep in the darkness Ever abide, twyformed, many-handed, terrible, shapeless. Woe to the queen ; for the land is defiled, and the people accursed. Take thou her therefore by night, thou ill-starred Cassiopceia, Take her with us in the night, when the moon sinks low to the westward ; Bind her aloft for a victim, a prey for the gorge of the monster, Far on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges for- ever ; So may the goddess accept her, and so may the land make atonement, Purged by her blood from its sin : so obey thou the doom of the rulers." Bitter in soul they went out, Cepheus and Cassiopceia, Bitter in soul ; and their hearts whirled round, as the leaves in the eddy. Weak was the queen, and rebelled : but the king, like a shepherd of people, Willed not the land should waste ; so he yielded the life of his daughter. Deep in the wane of the night, as the moon sank low to the westward, They by the shade of the cliffs, with the horror of darkness around them, Stole, as ashamed, to a deed which became not the light of the sunshine, 258 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Slowly, the priests, and the queen, and the virgin bound in the galley. Slowly they rowed to the rocks : but Cepheus far in the palace Sate in the midst of the hall, on his throne, like a shepherd of people, Choking his woe, dry-eyed, while the slaves wailed loudly around him. They on the sea-girt rock, which is washed by the surges forever, Set her in silence, the guiltless, aloft with her face to the eastward. Under a crag of the stone, where a ledge sloped down to the water; There they set Andromeden, most beautiful, shaped like a goddess, Lifting her long white arms wide-spread to the walls of the basalt, Chaining them, ruthless, with brass ; and they called on the might of the Rulers. " Mystical fish of the seas, dread Queen whom ^Ethiops honour, Whelming the land in thy wrath, unavoidable, sharp as :he sting-ray, Thou, and thy brother the Sun, brain-smiting, lord of the sheepfold, Scorching the earth all day, and then resting at night in thy bosom, Take ye this one life for many, appeased by the blood of a maiden, Fairest, and born of the fairest, a queen, most priceless of victims." CHARLES KINGSLEY. 259 Thrice they spat as they went by the maid : but her mother delaying Fondled her child to the last, heart-crushed; and the warmth of her weeping Fell on the breast of the maid, as her woe broke forth into wailing. " Daughter ! my daughter ! forgive me ! O curse not the murderess ! Curse not ! How have I sinned, but in love ? Do the gods grudge glory to mothers ? Loving I bore thee in vain in the fate-cursed bride-bed of Cepheus, Loving I fed thee and tended, and loving rejoiced in thy beauty, Blessing thy limbs as I bathed them, and blessing thy locks as I combed them ; Decking thee, ripening to woman, I blest thee : yet blessing I slew thee ! How have I sinned, but in love ? O swear to me, swear to thy mother, Never to haunt me with curse, as I go to the grave in my sorrow, Childless and lone : may the gods never send me another, to slay it ! See, I embrace thy knees — soft knees, where no babe will be fondled — Swear to me never to curse me, the hapless one, not in the death-pang." Weeping she clung to the knees of the maid ; and the maid low answered — z6: THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Curse thee ! Not in the death-pang I" The heart of the lady was lightened. Slowly sh~ went by the ledge; and the maid was alone in the darkness. Watching the pulse of the oars die down, as her own died with them, Tearless, dumb with amaze she stood, as a storm-stunned nestling Fallen from bough or from eave lies dumb, which the home- going herdsman Fancies a stone, till he catches the light of its terrified eye- ball. So through the long, long hours the maid stood helpless and hopeless, Wide-eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkness. Feebly at last she began, while wild thoughts bubbled within her — " Guiltless I am : why thus then ? Are gods more ruthless than mortals t Have they no mercy for youth ? no love for the souls who have loved them ? Even as I loved thee, dread sea, as I played by thy margin, Blessing thy wave as it cooled me, thy wind as it breathed on my forehead, Bowing my head to thy tempest, and opening my heart to thy children, Silvery fish, wreathed shell, and the strange lithe things of the water, Tenderly casting them back, as they gasped on the beach in the sunshine, CHARLES KINQSLEY. 261 Home to their mother — in vain ! for mine sits childless in anguish ! Oh dread sea ! false sea ! I dreamed what I dreamed of thy goodness ; Dreamed of a smile in thy gleam, of a laugh in the plash of thy ripple : False and devouring thou art, and the great world dark and despiteful." Awed -by her own rash words she was still: and her eyes to the seaward Looked for an answer of wrath : far off, in the heart of the darkness, Bright white mists rose slowly; beneath them the wander- ing ocean Glimmered and glowed to the deepest abyss; and the knees of the maiden Trembled and sank in her fear, as afar, like a dawn in the midnight, Rose from their seaweed chamber the choir of the mystical sea-maids. Onward toward her they came, and her heart beat loud at their coming, Watching the bliss of the gods, as they wakened the cliffs with their laughter. Onward they came in their joy, and before them the roll of the surges Sank, as the breeze sank dead, into smooth green foam- flecked marble, Awed; and the crags of the cliff, and the pines of the mountain were silent. Onward they came in their joy, and around them the lamps of the sea-nymphs, 262 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Myriad fiery globes, swam panting and heaving ; and rain- bows Crimson and azure and emerald, were broken in star-showers, lighting Far through the wine-dark depths of the crystal, the gardens of Nereus, -Coral and sea-fan and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean. -Onward they came in their joy, more white than the foam which they scattered, 'Laughing and singing, and tossing and twining, while eager, the Tritons Blinded with kisses their eyes, unreproved, and above them in worship Hovered the terns, and the seagulls swept past them on silvery pinions Echoing softly their laughter ; around them the wandering dolphins Sighed as they plunged, full of love ; and the great sea- horses which bore them Curved up their crests in their pride to the delicate arms of the maidens, Pawing the spray into gems, till a fiery rainfall, unharming, Sparkled and gleamed on the limbs of the nymphs, and the coils of the mermen. Onward they went in their joy, bathed round with the fiery coolness, Needing nor sun nor moon, self-lighted, immortal : but others, Pitiful, floated in silence apart ; in their bosoms the sea- boys, CHARLES KINGSLEY. 263 Slain by the wrath of the seas, swept down by the anger ot Nereus ; Hapless, whom never again on strand or on quay shall their mothers Welcome with garlands and vows to the temple, but wearily pining Gaze over island and bay for the sails of the sunken ; they heedless Sleep in soft bosoms forever, and dream of the surge and the sea-maids. Onward they passed in their joy ; on their brows neither sorrow nor anger ; Self-sufficing, as gods, never heeding the woe of the maiden. She would have shrieked for their mercy : but shame made her dumb ; and their eyeballs Stared on her careless and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols. Seeing they saw not, and passed, like a dream, on the mur- muring ripple. Stunned by the wonder she gazed, wide-eyed, as the glory departed. ■* Oh fair shapes ! far fairer than I ! Too fair to be ruthless ! Gladden mine eyes once more with your splendour, unlike to my fancies ; You, then, smiled in the sea-gleam, and laughed in the plash of the ripple. Awful I deemed you and formless; inhuman, monstrous as idols ; 264 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Lo, when ye came, ye were women, more loving and lovelier, only ; Like in all else ; and I blest you : why blest ye not me for my worship ? Had you no mercy for me, the guiltless ? Ye pitied the sea-boys, Why not me, then, more hapless by far ? Does your sight and your knowledge End with the marge of the waves ? Is the world which ye dwell in not our world ?" Over the mountain aloft ran a rush and a roll and a roaring ; Downward the breeze came indignant, and leaped with a howl to the water, Roaring in cranny and crag, till the pillars and clefts of the basalt Rang like a god-swept lyre, and her brain grew mad with the noises ; Crashing and lapping of waters, and sighing and tossing of weed-beds, Gurgle and whisper and hiss of the foam, while thundering surges Boomed in the wave-worn halls, as they champed at the roots of the mountain. Hour after hour in the darkness the wind rushed fierce to the landward, Drenching the maiden with spray ; she shivering, weary and drooping, Stood with her heart full of thoughts, till the foam-crests gleamed in the twilight, Leaping and laughing around, and the east grew red with the dawning. CHARLES KING SLEY. 265 Then on the ridge of the hills rose the broad bright sun in his glory, Hurling his arrows abroad on the glittering crests of the , surges, Gilding the soft round bosoms of wood, and the downs, of the coastland, Gilding the weeds at her feet, and the foam-laced teeth of the ledges, Showing the maiden her home through the veil of her locks, as they floated Glistening, damp with the spray, in a long black cloud to the landward. High in the far-off glens rose thin blue curls from the home- steads ; Softly the low of the herds, and the pipe of the out-going herdsman, Slid to her ear on the water, and melted her heart into weeping. Shuddering, she tried to forget them ; and straining her eyes to the seaward, Watched for her doom, as she wailed, but in vain, to the terrible Sun-god. " Dost thou not pity me, Sun, though thy wild dark sister be ruthless, Dost thou not pity me here, as thou seest me desolate, weary, Sickened with shame and despair, like a kid torn young from its mother ? What if my beauty insult thee, then blight it : but me — Oh spare me ! Spare me yet, ere he be here, fierce, tearing, unbearable ! See me, 266 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. See me, how tender and soft, and thus helpless ! See how I shudder, Fancying only my doom. Wilt the shine thus bright, when it takes me ? Are there no deaths save this, great Sun ? No fiery arrow, Lightning, or deep-mouthed wave ? Why thus ? What music in shrieking, Pleasure in warm live limbs torn slowly ? And dar'st thou behold them ! Oh, thou hast watched worse deeds ! All sights are alike to thy brightness ! What if thou waken the birds to their song, dost thou waken no sorrow ; Waken no sick to their pain ; no captive to wrench at his fetters ? Smile on the garden and fold, and on maidens who sing at the milking ; Flash into tapestried chambers, and peep in the eyelids of lovers, Showing the blissful their bliss — Dost love, then, the place where thou smilest r Lovest thou cities aflame, fierce blows, and the shrieks of the widow ? Lovest thou corpse-strewn fields, as thou lightest the path of the vulture ? lovest thou these, that thou gazest so gay on my tears, and my mother's, Laughing alike at the horror of one, and the bliss of another ? What dost thou care, in thy sky, for the joys and sorrows of mortals ? CHARLES KINGSLEY. 267 Colder art thou than the nymphs : in thy broad bright eye is no seeing. Hadst thou a soul-as much soul as the slaves in the house of my father, Wouldst thou not save ? Poor thralls ! they pitied me, clung to me weeping, Kissing my hands and my feet-What, are gods more ruthless than mortals ? Worse than the souls which they rule ? Let me die : they war not with ashes 1" Sudden she ceased, with a shriek : in the spray, like a hovering foam-bow, Hung, more fair than the foam-bow, a boy in, the bloom of his manhood, Golden-haired, ivory-limbed, ambrosial;, over his shoul- der Hung for a veil of his beauty the gold-fringed, folds of the goat-skin, Bearing the brass of his shield, as the sun. flashed clear on its clearness. Curved on his thigh lay a falchion ; and under the gleam of his helmet Eyes more blue than the main shone awful, around him Athene Shed in her love such grace, such state, and terrible: daring. Hovering over the water he came, upon glittering: pinions, Living, a wonder, outgrown from the tight-laced, gold '■ of hii sandals; Bounding from billow to billow, and sweeping: the crests like a sea-gull ; 268 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Leaping the gulfs of the surge, as he laughed in the joy of his leaping. Fair and majestic he sprang to the rock ; and the maiden in wonder Gazed for awhile, and then hid in the dark-rolling wave of her tresses, Fearful, the light of her eyes ; while the boy (for her sor- row had awed him) Blushed at her blushes, and vanished, like mist on the cliffs at the sunrise. Fearful at length she looked forth : he was gone : she, wild with amazement, Wailed for her mother aloud : but the wail of the wind only answered. Sudden he flashed into sight, by her side ; in his pity and anger Moist were his eyes; and his breath like a rose-bed, as bolder and bolder, Hovering under her brows, like a swallow that haunts by the house-eaves, Delicate-handed, he lifted the veil of her hair ; while the maiden Motionless, frozen with fear, wept loud ; till his lips un- closing Poured from their pearl-strung portal the musical wave of his wonder. " Ah," well spoke she, the wise one, the gray eyed Pallas Athene, — " Known to Immortals alone are the prizes which lie for the heroes Ready prepared at their feet; for requiring a little, the rulers CHARLES KIN GSLEY. 269 Pay back the loan tenfold to the man who, careless of pleasure, Thirsting for honour and toil, fares forth on a perilous errand Led by the guiding of gods, and strong in the strength of Immortals. Thus have they led me to thee : from afar, unknowing, I marked thee, Shining, a snow-whit; cross on the dark-green walls of the sea-cliff; Carven in marble 1 deemed thee, a perfect work of the craftsman. Likeness of Amphitrite, or far-famed Queen Cythereia. Curious I came, till I saw how thy tresses streamed in the sea-wind, Glistening, black as the night, and thy lips moved slow in thy wailing. Speak again now — Oh speak ! For my soul is stirred to avenge thee ; Tell me what barbarous horde, without law, unrighteous and heartless, Hateful to gods and to men, thus have bound thee, a shame to the sunlight, Scorn and prize to the sailor : but my prize now ; for a coward, Coward and shameless were he, who so finding a glorious jewel Cast on the wayside by fools, would not win it and keep it and wear it, Even as I will thee ; for I swear by the head of my father> Bearing thee over the sea-wave, to wed thee in Argos the fruitful, 270 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Beautiful, meed of my toil no less than this head which I carry, jpeak Hidden here fearful— But the maid, still dumb with amazement, Watered her bosom with weeping, and longed for her home and her mother. Beautiful, eager, he wooed her, and kissed off her tears as he hovered, Roving at will, as a bee, on the brows of a rock nymph- haunted, Garlanded over with vine, and acanthus, and clambering roses, Cool in the fierce still noon, where streams glance clear in the moss-beds, Hums on from blossom to blossom, and mingles the sweets as he tastes them. Beautiful, eager, he kissed her, and clasped her yet closer and closer, Praying her still to speak — " Not cruel nor rough did my mother Bear me to broad-browed Zeus in the depths of the brass- covered dungeon ; Neither in vain, as I think, have I talked with the cunning of Hermes, Face unto face, as a friend ; or from gray-eyed Pallas Athene Learned what is fit, and respecting myself, to respect in my dealings Those whom the gods should love ; so fear not ; to chaste espousals Only I woo thee, and swear, that a queen, and alone with- out rival CHARLES KING SLE7. ZJ\ By me thou sittest in Argos of Hellas, throne of my fathers, Worshipped by fair-haired kings : why callest thou still on thy mother ? Why did she leave thee thus here ? For no foeman has bound thee ; no foeman Winning with strokes of the sword such a prize, would so leave it behind him." Just as at first some colt, wild-eyed, with quivering nostril, Plunges in fear of the curb, and the fluttering robes of the rider ; Soon, grown bold by despair, submits to the will of his master, Tamer and tamer each hour, and at last, in the pride of obedience, Answers the heel with a curvet, and arches his neck to be fondled, Cowed by the need that maid grew tame ; while the hero indignant Tore at the fetters which held her : the brass, too cun- ningly tempered, Held to the rock by the nails, deep wedged ; till the boy, red with anger, Drew from his ivory thigh, keen flashing, a falchion of diamond — " Now let the work of the smith try strength with the arms of Immortals !" Dazzling it fell ; and the blade, as the vine-hook shears off the vine-bough, Carved through the strength of the brass, till her arms fell soft on his shoulder. 272 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Once she essayed to escape : but the ring of the water was round her, Round her the ring of his arms ; and despairing she sank on his bosom. Then, like a fawn when startled, she looked with a shriek to the seaward. " Touch me not, wretch that I am ! For accursed, a shame and a hissing, Guiltless, accursed no less, I await the revenge of the sea- gods. Yonder it comes ! Ah go ! Let me perish unseen, if I perish ! Spare me the shame of thine eyes, when merciless fangs must tear me Piecemeal ! Enough to endure by myself in the light of the sunshine Guiltless, the death of a kid !" But the boy still lingered around her. Loath, like a boy, to forego her, and wakened the clifts with his laughter. " Yon is the foe, then ? A beast of the sea ? I had deemed him immortal Titan, or Proteus' self, or Nereus, foeman of sailors : Yet would I light with them all, but Poseidon, shaker of mountains, Uncle of mine, whom I fear, as is fit ; for he haunts on Olympus, Holding the third o*" the world ; and the gods all rise at his coming. Unto none else will I yield, god-helped : how then to a monster CHARLES KINGSLEY. 273 Child of the earth and of night, unreasoning, shapeless, accursed ?" " An thou, too, then a god ?" " No god I," smiling he answered, " Mortal as thou, yet divine : but mortal the herds of the ocean, Equal to men in that only, and less in all else; for they nourish Blindly the life of the lips, untaught by the gods, without wisdom : Shame if I fled before such!" In her heart new life was enkindled, Worship and trust, fair parents of love : but she answered him sighing. " Beautiful, why wilt thou die ? Is the light of the sun, then, so worthless, Worthless to sport with thy fellows in flowery glades of the forest, Under the broad green oaks, where never again shall I wander, Tossing the ball with my maidens, or wreathing the altar in garlands, Careless, with dances and songs, till the glens rang loud to our laughter. Too full of death the great earth is already ; the halls full of weepers, Quarried by tombs all cliffs, and the bones gleam white on the sea-floor, Numberless, gnawn by the herds who attend on the pitiless sea-gods, 12* 274 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Even as mine will be soon : and yet noble it scenu to me, dying, Giving my life for the many, to save to the arms of tlvei" lovers Maidens and youths for awhile : thee, fairest of all, shall I slay thee ? Add not thy bones to the many, thus angering idly the dread ones ! Either the monster will crush, or the sea-queen's self over- whelm thee, Vengeful, in tempest and foam, and the thundering walls of the surges. Why wilt thou follow me down ? can we love in the black blank darkness ? Love in the realms of the dead, in the land where all is forgotten ? Why wilt thou follow me down ? is it joy, on the desolate oozes, Meagre to flit, gray ghosts in the depths of the gray salt water ? Beautiful ! why wilt thou die, and defraud fair girls of thy manhood ? Surely one waits for thee longing, afar in the isles of the ocean. Go thy way ; I mine ; for the gods grudge pleasure to mortals." Sobbing she ended her moan, as her neck, like a storm- bent lily, Drooped with the weight of her woe, and her limbs sank, weary with watching, Soft on the hard-ledged rock : but the boy, with his eye on the monster, CHARLES KINGSLEY. 275 Clasped her, and stood, like a god ; and his lips curved proud as he answered — " Great are the pitiless sea-gods : but greater the Lord of Olympus ; Greater the ^gis-wielder, and greater is she who attends him. Clear-eyed Justice, her name is, the counsellor, loved of Athene ; Helper of heroes, who dare, in the god-given might of their manhood, Greatly to do and to suffer, and far in the fens and the forests Smite the devourers of men, Heaven-hated, brood of the giants, Twyformed, strange, without like, who obey not the golden-haired Rulers. Vainly rebelling they rage, till they die by the swords of the heroes, Even as this must die ; for I burn with the wrath of my father, Wandering, led by Athene ; and dare whatsoever betides me. Led by Athene I won from the gray-haired terrible sisters Secrets hidden from men, when I found them asleep on the sand-hills, Keeping their eye and their tooth, till they showed me the perilous pathway Over the waterless ocean, the valley that led to the Gorgon. Her too I slew in my craft, Medusa, the beautifui horror ; 276 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Taught by Athene I slew her, and saw not herself, but her image, Watching the mirror of brass, in the shield which a goddess had lent me ; Cleaving her brass-scaled throat, as she lay with her adders around her, Fearless I bore off her head, in the folds of the mystical goat-skin, Hide of Amaltheie, fair nurse of the ^Egis-wielder. Hither I bear it, a gift to the gods, and a death to my foemen ; Freezing the seer to stone ; so hide thine eyes from the horror. Kiss me but once, and I go." Then lifting her neck, like a sea-bird Peering up over the wave, from the foam-white swells of her bosom, Blushing she kissed him : afar on the topmost Idalian sum- mit Laughed in the joy of her heart, far-seeing, the Queen Aphrodite. Loosing his arms from her waist he flew upward, await- ing the sea-beast. Onward it came from the southward, as bulky and black as a galley, Lazily coasting along, as the fish fled leaping before it ; Lazily breasting the ripple, and watching by sandbar and headland, Listening for laughter of maidens at bleaching, or song of the fisher, Children at play on the pebbles, or cattle that pawed on the sandhills. CHARLES KIN G SLE7. 277 Rolling and dripping it came, where bedded in glistening purple Cold on the cold sea-weeds lay the long white sides of the maiden. Trembling, her face in her hands, and her tresses afloat on the water. As when an osprey aloft, dark-eyebrowed, royally- crested, Flags on by creek and by cove, and in scorn of the anger of Nereus Ranges, the king of the shore ; if he see on a glittering shallow, Chasing the bass and the mullet, the fin of a wallowing dolphin, Halting, he wheels round slowly, in doubt at the weight of his quarry, Whether to clutch it alive, or to fall on the wretch like a plummet, Stunning with terrible talon the life of the brain in the hind- head : Then rushes up with a scream, and stooping the wrath of his eyebrows Falls from the sky like a star, while the wind rattles hoarse in his pinions. Over him closes the foam for a moment ; then from the sand-bed Rolls up the great fish, dead, and his side gleams white in the sunshine. Thus fell the boy on the beast, unveiling th-e face of the Gorgon ; Thus fell the boy on the beast ; thus rolled up the beast in his horror, 278 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Once, as the dead eyes glared into his ; then his sides, death- sharpened, Stiffened and stood, brown rock, in the wash of the wander- ing water. Beautiful, eager, triumphant, he leaped back again to his treasure ; Leaped back again, full blest, towards arms spread wide to receive him. Brimful of honour he clasped her, and brimful of love she caressed him, Answering lip with lip; while above them the Queen Aphrodite Poured on their foreheads and limbs, unseen, ambrosial odours, Givers of longing, and rapture, and chaste content in espousals. Happy whom ere they be wedded anoints she, the Queen Aphrodite ! Laughing she called to her sister, the chaste Tritonid Athene, Seest thou yonder thy pupil, thou maid of the JEqs- wielder, How he has turned himself wholly to love, and caresses a damsel, Dreaming no longer of honour, or danger, or Pallas Athene* ? Sweeter, it seems, to the young my gifts are ; so vield me the stripling ; Yield him me now, lest he die in his prime, like napless Adonis." CHARLES KING SLEY. 279 Smiling she answered in turn, that chaste Tritonid Athene : " Dear unto me, no less than to thee, is the wedlock of heroes ; Dear, who can worthily win him a wife not unworthy ; and noble, Pure with the pure to beget brave children, the like of their father. Happy, who thus stands linked to the heroes who were, and who shall be ; Girdled with holiest awe, not sparing of self; for his mother Watches his steps with the eyes of the gods ; and his wife and his children Move him to plan and to do in the farm and the camp and the council. Thence comes weal to a nation : but woe upon woe, when the people Mingle in love at their will, like the brutes, not heeding the future." Then from her gold-strung loom, where she wrought in her chamber of cedar, Awful and fair she arose ; and she went by the glens of Olympus ; Went by the isles of the sea, and the wind never ruffled her mantle ; Went by the water of Crete, and the black-beaked fleets of the Phcenics ; Came to the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges forever, Bearing the wealth of the gods, for a gift to the bride of a hero. 280 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. There she met Andromeden and Persea, shaped like Im- mortals ; Solemn and sweet was her smile, while their hearts beat loud at her coming ; Solemn and sweet was her smile, as she spoke to the paii in her wisdom. " Three things hold we, the Rulers, who sit by the founts of Olympus, Wisdom, and prowess, and beauty ; and freely we pour them on mortals ; Pleased at our image in man, as father at his in his children. One thing only we grudge to mankind, when a hero, un- thankful, Boasts of our gifts as his own, stiffnecked, and dishonours the givers, Turning our weapons against us. Him Ate follows aveng- ing ; Slowly she tracks him and sure, as a lyme-hound ; sudden she grips him, Crushing him, blind in his pride, for a sign and a terror to folly. This we avenge, as is fit; in all else never weary of giving. Come then, damsel, and know if the gods grudge pleasure to mortals." Loving and gentle she spoke : but the maid stood in awe, as the goddess Plaited with soft swift finger her tresses, and decked her in jewels, CHARLES KINGSLEY. 281 Armlet and anklet and earbell ; and over hey shoulders a necklace, Heavy, enamelled, the flower of the gold and the brass of the mountain. Trembling with joy she gazed, so well Hsephaistos had made it, Deep in the forges of iEtna, while Charis his lady beside him, Mingled her grace in his craft, as he wrought for his sister Athene. Then on the brows of the maiden a veil bound Pallas Athene ; Ample it fell to her feet,, deep-fringed, a wonder of weaving. Ages and ages agone it was wrought on the heights of Olympus, Wrought in the gold-strung loom, by the finger of cunning Athene\ In it she wove all creatures that teem in the womb of the ocean ; Nereid, siren, and triton, and dolphin, and arrowy fishes Glittering round, many-hued, on the flame-red folds of the mantle. {n it she wove, too, a town where gray-haired kings sat in judgment ; Sceptre in hand in the market they sat, doing right by the people, Wise : while above watched Justice, and near, far-seeing Apollo. Round it she wove for a fringe all herbs of the earth and the water, Violet, asphodel, ivy, and vine-leaves, roses and lilies, 282 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Coral and sea-fan, and tangle, the blooms and the palms of the ocean : Now from Olympus she bore it, a dower to the bride of a hero. Over the limbs of the damsel she wrapped it : the maid still trembled, Shading her face with her hands; for the eyes of the god- dess were awful. Then, as a pine upon Ida when southwest winds blow landward, Stately she bent to the damsel, and breathed on her : under her breathing Taller and fairer she grew ; and the goddess spoke in her wisdom. " Courage I give thee ; the heart of a queen, and the mind of Immortals, Godlike to talk with the gods, and to look on their eyes unshrinking ; Fearing the sun and the stars no more, and the blue salt water ; Fearing us only, the lords of Olympus, friends of the heroes ; Chastely and wisely togovern thyself and thy house and thy people, Bearing a godlike race to thy spouse, till dying I set thee High for a star in the heavens, a sign and a hope to the seamen, Spreading thy long white arms all night in the heights of the aether, CHARLES KINGSLEY. 283 Hard by thy sire and the hero thy spouse, while near thee thy mother Sits in her ivory chair, as she plaits ambrosial tresses. All night long thou wilt shine ; all day thou wilt feast on Olympus, Happy, the guest of the gods, by thy husband, the god begotten." Blissful, they turned them to go : but the fair-tressed Pallas Athene Rose, like a pillar of tall white cloud, toward silver Olym pus; Far above ocean and shore, and the peaks of the isles and the mainland ; Where no frost nor storm is, in clear blue windless abysses, High in the home of the summer, the seats of the happy Immortals, Shrouded in keen deep blaze, unapproachable ; there ever youthful Hebe, Harmonie, and the daughter of Jove, Aphro- dite, Whirled in the white-linked dance with the gold-crowned Hours and the Graces, Hand within hand, while clear piped Phcebe, queen of the woodlands. All day long they rejoiced : but Athene still in her chamber Bent herself over her loom, as the stars rang loud to her singing, Chanting of order and right, and of foresight, warden of nations ; 284 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Chanting oflabour and craft, and of wealth in the port and the garner ; Chanting of valour and fame, and the man who can fall with the foremost, Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him. Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals : Happy, who hearing obey her, the wise unsullied Athene. SAINT MAURA. A. D. 304. 'T^HANK God ! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last -■* The guards are crouching underneath the rock ; The lights are fading in the town below, Around the cottage which this morn was ours. Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone ; Alone upon our crosses with our God ; While all the angels watch us from the stars ! Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign Of what awaits him ! Oh look on him, Lord ! Look, and remember how he saved Thy lamb ! Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, Never till now loved utterly ! Oh say, Say you forgive me ? No — you must not speak ■ You said it to me hours ago — long hours ! Now you must rest, and when to-morrow come? Speak to the people, call them home to God, A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church, CHARLES KINGS LEY. 28$ And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, To show them that the Son of God endured For them — and me. Hush ! I alone will speak, And while away the hours till dawn for you. I know you have forgiven me ; as I lay Beneath your feet, while they were binding rne, I knew I was forgiven then ! When I cried " Here am I, husband ! The lost lamb returned, All re-baptized in blood !" and you said, " Come ! Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more !" From that same moment all my pain was gone ; And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled Love — love ! Alas, those eyes ! They made me fall. I could not bear to see them bleeding, dark, Never, no never to look into mine; Never to watch me round the little room Singing about my work, or flash on me Looks bright with counsel. — Then they drove me mad With talk of nameless tortures waiting you — And I could save you ! You would hear your love — They knew you loved me, cruel men ! And then — Then came a dream ; to say one little word, One easy wicked word, we both might say, And no one hear us, but the lictors round ; One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, And both, both free ! And life had just begun — Only three months — short months — your wedded wife ! Only three months within the cottage there — Hoping I bore your child. . . . Ah ! husband ! Saviour ! God ! think gently of me ! I am forgiven ! . . . And then another dream; 286 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. A flash — so quick, I could not bear the blaze ; I could not see the smoke among the light — To wander out through unknown lands, and lead You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayed From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, Mingled of fire and honey — you would wake, Bend, save whole nations ! would not that atone For one short word ? — ay, make it right, to save You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord ? And so — and so — alas ! you know the rest ! You answered me , . . Ah cruel words ! No ! Blessed, godlike words ! You had done nobly had you struck me dead, Instead of striking me to life ! — the temptress ! . . . " Traitress ! apostate ! dead to God and me !" " The smell of death upon me ?" — so it was ! True ! true ! well spoken, hero ! Oh they snapped, Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. There was but one right thing in the world to do ; And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy ! Christ ■ Help through my womanhood : or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before ! . . . I could not speak — I could not speak for shame and misery, And terror of my sin, and of the things I knew were coming : but in heaven, in heaven ! There we should meet, perhaps — and by that tin- I might be worthy of you once again — Of you, and of my God. ... So I went out. ***** CHARLES KINGSLEY. 287 Will you hear more, and so forget the pain ? And yet I dread to tell you what comes next ; Your love will feel it all again for me. No \ it is over ; and the woe that's dead Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love ! Say, shall I tell you ? Ah ! your lips are dry ! To-morrow when they come, we must entreat, And they will give you water. One to-day, A soldier, gave me water in a sponge Upon a reed, and said, " Too fair ! too young ! She might have been a gallant soldier's wife 1" And then I cried, "lama soldier's wife ! A hero's !" And he smiled, but let me drink. God bless him for it ! So they led me back : And as I went, a voice was in my ears Which rang through all the sunlight, and the bre* .h And blaze of all the garden slopes below, And through the harvest-voices, and the moan Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, And round the shining rivers, and the peaks Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, And round the ancient stones about my feet. Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried " My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak To give thee strength to say so ?" Then my soul Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, While all the people made a ring around, And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly — " Well ? hast thou brought him to a better mind ?" " No ! He has brought me to a better mind !" — I cried, and said beside — I know not what — 238 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Words which I learned from thee — I trust in God Naught fierce or rude — for was I not a girl Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? I thought of that. She might be there ! I looked — Sbs was not there ! I hid my face and wept. And when I looked again, the judge's eye Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought — " She knows what shame is still; so strip her." " Ah '" I shrieked, "Not that, Sir! Any pain ! So young I am— a wife too — I am not my own, But his — my husband's !" But they took my shawl, And tore my tunic off, and there I stood Before them all. . . . Husband ! you love me still ? Indeed I pleaded ! Oh, shine out, kind moon, And let me see him smile ! Oh ! how I prayed, While some cried "Shame !" And some ""She is too young And some mocked — ugly words : God shut my ears. And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes, Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame. Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow : And yet no earthquake came ! And then I knew This body was not yours alone, but God's — His loan — He needed it : and after that The worst was come, and any torture more A change — a lightening ; and I did not shriek — Once only — once, when first I felt the whip — It coiled so keen around my side, and sent A fire-flash through my heart which choked me — then I shrieked — that once. The foolish echo rang So far and long — I prayed you might not hear. CHARLES KINGS LEY. 289 And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears Of humming bees around the limes at home ; And I was all alone with you and God. And what they did to me I hardly know ; I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, It was not after all so very sharp — So do not pity me. It made me pray ; Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, And you in God : and once, when I looked down, And saw an ugly sight — so many wounds ! " What matter ?" thought I. " His dear eyes are dark ; For them alone I kept this skin so white — A foolish pride ! As God wills now. 'Tis just." But then the judge spoke out in haste, " She is mad, Or fenced by magic arts ! She feels no pain !" He did not know I was on fire within : Better he should not ; so his sin was less : Then he cried fiercely, " Take the slave away, And crucify her by her husband's side !" And at those words a film came on my face — ■ A sickening rush of joy — was that That my reward ? I rose, and tried to go — But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge ; And all the buildings melted into mist ; So how they brought me here I cannot tell. Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that forever and forever ! Ah ! If I could but reach that hand ! One touch ! One finger-tip, to send the thrill through me I felt but yesterday ! — No ! I can wait : — Another body ! — Oh, new limbs are ready, 13 zoo TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, Kept for us in the treasuries of God. They will not mar the love they try to speak, They will not fail my soul, as these have done ! * * * * * Will you hear more ? Nay — you know all the rest • Yet those poor eyes — alas ! they could not see My waking, when you hung above me there With hands outstretched to bless the penitent — Your penitent — even like The Lord Himself — I gloried in you !— like The Lord Himself! Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow To make you like Him — show you as you were ! I told them so ! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earth— The throne of suffering, where the Son of God Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed ; All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud — You heard me ! You know all ! I am at peace. Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, And kept me happy, when they dragged me back From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, And bound my wrists and ankles — Do not sigh : I prayed, and bore it : and since they raised me up My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, Nor will, till death comes ! . . . Do I feel much pain ? Nnr much. Not mad n ening. None I cannot bear. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 2Q1 It has become like part of my own life, Or part of God's life in me — honour — bliss ! I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest ; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. I should be easy, now if I could move .... I cannot stir. Ah God ! these shoots of lire Through all my limbs ! Hush, selfish girl ! He hears you ! Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed ? Yes ; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, now — You said, one blessed night, they were too slender, Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife — Perhaps a martyr's : — You forgot the strength Which God can give. The cord has cut them through ; And yet my voice has never faltered yet. Oh ! do not groan, or I shall long and pray That you may die : and you must not die yet. Not yet — they to\d us we might live three days . . . Two days for you to preach ! Two days to speak Words which may wake the dead ! * * * * * Hush ! is he sleeping ? They say that men have slept upon the cross ; So why not he ? . . . Thanks, Lord ! I hear him breathe : And he will preach Thy word to-morrow ! — save Souls, crowds, for Thee ! And they will know his worth Years hence — poor things, they know not what they do !— And crown him martyr ; and his name will ring Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars Whose eyes ar~ sparkling through their tears to see His triumph — Preacher ! Martyr ! — Ah — and me ? If they must couple my poor name with his, 292 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Let them tell all the truth — say how I loved him, And tried to damn him by that love ! O Lord Returning good for evil ! and was this The payment I deserved for such a sin ? To hang here on my cross, and look at him Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven ! THE SANDS OF DEE. i. "f\ MARY, go and call the cattle home, ^^ And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. ii. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land — ■ And never home came she. in. " Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." CHARLES KINGSLE7. 293 They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! EARL HALDAN'S DAUGHTER A BALLAD— A. D. 1400. TT was Earl Haldan's daughter, She looked across the sea ; She looked across the water, And long and loud laughed she : "The locks of six princesses Must be my marriage-fee, So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! Who comes a-wooing me !" It was Earl Haldan's daughter, She walked along the sand : When she was aware of a knight so fair. Come sailing to the land. His sails were all of velvet, His mast of beaten gold, And " hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat, Who saileth here so bold ?" ^94 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " The locks of five princesses I won beyond the sea ; I shore their golden tresses, To fringe a cloak for thee. One handful yet is wanting, But one of all the tale ; So hey bonny boat, and ho bonny Furl up thy velvet sail !" boat ! IV. He leapt into the water, That rover young and bold ; He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, He shore her locks of gold ; " Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, The tale is full to-day. Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat ! Sail Westward ho, and away !" THE LAST BUCCANEER. A BALLAD— A. D. 1740. I. /^\H England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and W high* But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I ; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again, As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main. CHARLES KING S LEY. 295 There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about ; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung by cruel tortures from the Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Which flog men and keel-haul them and starve them to the bone. IV. Oh the palms grew high in Aves and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold ; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors a-sweeping in from sea. v. Oh sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside that never touched the shore. zg6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. VI. But Scripture sakh, an ending to all fine things must be, So the King's ships sailed on Aves and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night ; And I fled in a piragua sore wounded from the fight. Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping a Br'utol sail came by, And brought me home to England here to beg until I die. VIII. And now I'm old and going I'm sure I can't tell where ; One comfort is this world's so hard I can't be worse off there : If I might but be a sea-dove I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again. - THE THREE FISHERS '"T^HREE fishers went sailing out into the West, "** Out into the West as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. WIL LI AM MAKEPEACE TEA CK E R A Y. 297 Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown ! But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — And good-by to the bar and its moaning. lUilliam Makepeace Sljackerag. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM PART I AT Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, Whoever will choose to repair, Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors, May haply fall in with old Pierre. On the sunshiny bench of a tavern, He sits and he prates of old wars, And moistens his pipe of tobacco With a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, And as long as his tap never fails, 13* 298 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS Thus over his favourite liquor Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, " In my life's ninety summers, Strange changes and chances I've seen, — So here's to all gentlemen drummers That ever have thumped on a skin. " Brought up in the art military For four generations we are ; My ancestors drummed for King Harry, The Huguenot lad of Navarre. And as each man in life has his station, According as Fortune may fix, While Conde was waving the baton, My grandsire was trolling the sticks. " Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! What glories my grandfather won, Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders, The fortunes of France had undone In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, — What foeman resisted us then ? No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. " He died, and our noble battalions The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook ; And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, The victory lay with Malbrook. The news it was brought to King Louis ; Corbleu ! how his majesty swore, When he heard they had taken my grandsire, And twelve thousand gentlemen more ! WILL I A M MA KEPEA CE THA CKERA Y. 299 " At Namurs, Ramillies, and Malplaquet Were we posted, on plain or in trench ; Malbrook only need to attack it, And away from him scampered we French. Cheer up ! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 'Tis written, since righting begun, That sometimes we fight and we conquer, And sometimes we fight and we run. " To fight and to run was our fate ; Our fortune and fame had departed ; And so perished Louis the Great, — Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. His coffin they pelted with mud, His body they tried to lay hands on ; And so having buried King Louis They loyally served his great-grandson. '* God save the beloved King Louis ! (For so he was nicknamed by some), And now came my father to do his King's orders, and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, To hear Daddy drumming the English From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. " So wel! did he drum in that battle, That the enemy showed us their backs ; Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle The sticks, and to follow old Saxe ! We next had Soubise as a leader, And as luck hath its changes and fits, 3 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. At Rossbach, in spice of Dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. " And now Daddy crossed the Atlantic, To drum for Montcalm and his men ; Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic, To think we were beaten again ! My Daddy he crossed the wide ocean, My mother brought me on her neck, And we came in the year fifty-seven To guard the good town of Quebec. " In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — Full well I remember the day, — They knocked at our gates for admittance, Their vessels were moored in our bay. Says our general, 'Drive me yon red-coats Away to the sea, whence they come !' So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs. We marched at the sound of the drum. " I think I can see my poor mammy With me in her hand as she waits, And our regiment, slowly retreating, Pours back through the citadel gates. Dear mammy, she looks in their faces, And asks if her husband is come. — He is lying all cold on the glacis, And will never more beat on the drum. " Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys ; He died like a soldier — in glory j Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys, And now I'll commence my own story. WILLIAM MA KEPEA GE THA CKERA Y. 301 Once more did we cross the salt ocean ; We came in the year eighty-one ; And the wrongs of my father the drummei Were avenged by the drummer his son. " In Chesapeake Bay we were landed ; In vain strove the British to pass; Rochambeau our armies commanded, Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu ! how I rattled the drumsticks, The day we marched into Yorktown ! Ten thousand of beef-eating British Theii weapons we caused to lay down. ** Then homewards returning victorious, In peace to our country we came, And were thanked for our glorious actions By Louis Sixteenth of the name. What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drummed at Versailles To the lovely court-ladies in powder, And lappets, and long satin tails ? "The princes that day passed before us, Our countrymen's glory and hope; Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, D'Artois, who could dance the tight rope One night we kept guard for the Queen, At her majesty's opera box, While the King, that majestical monarch, Sat filing at home at his locks. " Yes I drummed for the fair Antoinette ; And so smiling she looked, and so tender, $02 TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. That our officers, privates, and drummers, All vowed they would die to defend her. But she cared not for us honest fellows, Who fought and who bled in her wars ; She sneered at our gallant Rochambeau, And turned Lafayette out of doors. " Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath No more to such tyrants to kneel ; And so just to keep up my drumming, One day I drummed down the Bastile ! Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine ; Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, And drink to the year eighty-nine, And the glorious fourth of July ! " Then bravely our cannon it thundered, As onward our patriots bore ; Our enemies were but a hundred, And we twenty thousand or more. They carried the news to King Louis, He heard it as calm as you please ; And like a majestical monarch, Kept filing his locks and his keys. " We showed our republican courage, We stormed and we broke the great gate And we murdered the insolent governor For daring to keep us a waiting. Lambesc and his squadrons stood by ; They never stirred finger or thumb ; The saucy aristocrats trembled As thev heard the republican drum. in. WILLIAM MAKEPEA CE TEA CKERA Y. 30; " Hurrah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! The day of our vengeance was come ; Through scenes of what carnage and ruin Did I beat on the patriot drum ! Let's drink to the famed tenth of August ; At midnight I beat the tattoo, And woke up the pikemen of Paris, To follow the bold Barbaroux. " With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches, Marched onwards our dusty battalions ; And we girt the tall castle of Louis, A million of tatterdemalions ! We stormed the fair gardens where towered The walls of his heritage splendid ; Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, That had not the heart to defend it ! " With the crown of his sires on his head, His nobles and knights by his side, At the foot of his ancestors' palace 'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. But no ; when we burst through his barriers, Mid heaps of the dying and dead, In vain through the chambers we sought him, — He had turned like a craven and fled. * * •* * * " You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 'Tis hard by the Tuilerie wall ; Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, There rises an obelisk tall. There rises an obelisk tall ; All garnished and gilded the base is ; 304 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. 'Tis surely the gayest of all Our beautiful city's gay places. " Around it are gardens and flowers, And the cities of France on their throne?, Each, crowned with his circlet of flowers, Sits watching this biggest of stones ! I love to go sit in the sun there, The flowers and fountains to see, And to think of the deeds that were done there, In the glorious year ninety-three. " 'Twas here stood the altar of freedom, And though neither marble nor gilding Were used in those days to adorn Our simple republican building, Corbleu ! but the mere guillotine Cared little for splendour or show, So you gave her an axe and a beam, And a plank and a basket or so. " Awful, and proud, and erect Here sate our republican goddess ; Each morning her table we decked With dainty aristocrats' bodies. The people each day flocked around, As she sat at her meat and her wine ; 'Twas always the use of our nation To witness the sovereign dine. " Young virgins with fair golden tresses, Old silver-haired prelates and priests, Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses, Were splendidly served at her feasts. WIL L I A M MA KEPEA CE TEA CKERA T. 305 Ventrebleu ! but we pampered our ogress With the best that our nation could bring, And dainty she grew in her progress, And called for the head of a king ! " She called for the blood of our king, And straight from his prison we drew him ; And to her with shouting we led him, And took him, and bound him, and slew him. 'The monarchs of Europe against me Have plotted a godless alliance ; I'll fling them the head of King Louis,' She said, 'as my gage of defiance. ' " I see him as now, for a moment, Away from his jailers he broke, And stood at the foot of the scaffold, And lingered, and fain would have spoke. ' Ho, drummer ! quick ! silence yon Capet,' Says Santerre, ' with a beat of your drum ;' Lustily then did I tap it, And the son of St. Louis was dumb." PART II. n The glorious days of September Saw many aristocrats fall ; 'Twas then that our pikes drunk the blood, In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady! I seldom have looked on her like ; And I drummed for a gallant procession, That marched with her head on a pike. 306 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Let's show the pale head to the Queen, We said — she'll remember It well ; She looked from the bars of her prison, And shrieked as she saw it, and fell. We set up a shout at her screaming, We laughed at the fright she had shown At the sight of the head of her minion ; How she'd tremble to part with her own ! " We had taken the head of King Capet, We called for the blood of his wife ; Undaunted she came to the scaffold, And bared her fair neck to the knife. As she felt the foul fingers that touched her, She shrunk, but she deigned not to speak, She looked with a royal disdain, And died with a blush on her cheek ! *"Twas thus that our country was saved; So told us the safety committee ! But psha! I've the heart of a soldier, All gentleness, mercy, and pity. I loathed to assist at such deeds, And my drum beat its loudest of tunes As we offered to Justice offended The blood of the bloody tribunes. '* Away with such foul recollections ! No more of the axe and the block; I saw the last fight of the sections, • As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock. Young Bonaparte led us that day ; When he sought the Italian frontier, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 507 I followed my gallant young captain, I followed him many a long year. " We came to an army in rags, Our general was but a boy, When we first saw the Austrian flags Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. In the glorious year ninety-six, We marched to the banks of the Po ; I carried my drum and my sticks, And we laid the proud Austrian low. " In triumph we entered Milan, We seized on the Mantuan keys ; The troops of the Emperor ran, And the Pope he fell down on his knees." — Pierre's comrades here called a fresh bottle, And, clubbing together their wealth, They drank to the Army of Italy, And General Bonaparte's health. The drummer now bared his old breast, And showed us a plenty of scars, Rude presents that Fortune had made him, In fifty victorious wars. " This came when I followed bold Kleber-— 'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; And this from an Austrian sabre, When the field of Marengo was won. " My forehead has many deep furrows, But this is the deepest of all ; A Brunswicker made it at Jena, Beside the fair river of Saal. THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it ; (God bless him !) it covers a blow; I had it at Austerlitz fight, As I beat on my drum in the snow. " 'Twas thus that we conquered and fought ; But wherefore continue the story ? There's never a baby in France But has heard of our chief and our glory, — - But has heard of our chief and our fame, His sorrows and triumphs can tell, How bravely Napoleon conquered, How bravely and sadly he fell. '* It makes my old heart to beat higher, To think of the deeds that I saw ; I followed bold Ney through the fire, And charged at the side of Mura ." And so did old Peter continue His story of twenty brave years ; His audience followed with comments — Rude comments of curses and tears. He told how the Prussians in vain Had died in defence of their land ; His audience laughed at the story, And vowed that their captain was grand ! He had fought the red English, he said, In many a battle of Spain ; They cursed the red English, and prayed To meet them and fight them again. He told them how Russia was lost, Had winter noi. driven them back ; WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 309 And his company cursed the quick frost, And doubly they cursed the Cossack. He told how the stranger arrived ; They wept at the tale of disgrace ; And they longed but for one battle more, The stain of their shame to efface ! "Our country their hordes overrun, We fled to the fields of Champagne, And fought them, though twenty to one, And beat them again and again ! Our warrior was conquered at last ; They bade him his crown to resign ; To fate and his country he yielded The rights of himself and his line. " He came, and among us he stood, Around him we pressed in a throng, We could not regard him for weeping, Who had led us and loved us so long. ' I have led you for twenty long years,' Napoleon said ere he went ; ' Wherever was honour I found you, And with you, my sons, am content. " ' Though Europe against me was armed, Your chiefs and my people are true ; I still might have struggled with fortune, And baffled all Europe with you. " ' But France would have suffered the while ; 'Tis best that I suffer alone : 1 go to my place of exile, To write of the deeds we have done. 310 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " ' Be true to the king that they give you ; We may not embrace ere we part ; But, General, reach me your hand, And press me, I pray, to your heart.' " He called for our old battle standard ; One kiss to the eagle he gave. c Dear eagle !' he said, ' may this kiss Long sound in the hearts of the brave !' 'Twas thus that Napoleon left us; Our people were weeping and mute, And he passed through the lines of his guard, And our drums beat the notes of salute. " I looked when the drumming was o'er, I looked, but our hero was gone ; We were destined to see him once more, When we fought on the Mount of St. John. The Emperor rode through our files ; 'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn ; The lines of our warriors for miles Stretched wide through the Waterloo corn. " In thousands we stood on the plain ; The red-coats were crowning the height ; * Go scatter yon English,' he said ; 'We'll sup, lads, at Brussels to-night.' We answered his voice with a shout ; Our eagles were bright in the sun ; Our drums and our cannon spoke out, And the thundering battle begun. WILL I A M MA KEPEA CE TEA CKERA Y. 311 u One charge to another succeeds, Like waves that a hurricane bears ; All day do our galloping steeds Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. At noon we began the fell onset ; We charged up the Englishman's hill , And madly we charged it at sunset — His banners were floating there still. " — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; You know how the battle was lost. Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine, And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. I'll give you a curse on all traitors, Who plotted our Emperor's ruin ; And a curse on those red-coated English, Whose bayonets helped our undoing. " A curse on those British assassins Who ordered the slaughter of Ney ; A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured The life of our hero away. A curse on all Russians — I hate them — On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; And, O ! but I pray we may meet them, And fight them again ere I die." 'Twas thus old Peter did conclude His chronicle with curses fit. He spoke the tale in accents rude, In ruder verse I copied it. 312 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS Perhaps the tale a moral bean (All tales in time to this must come), The story of two hundred years Writ on the parchment of a drum. What Peter told with drum and stick, Is endless theme for poet's pen : Is found in endless quartos thick, Enormous books by learned men. And ever since historian writ, And ever since a bard could sing, Doth each exalt, with all his wit, The noble art of murdering. We love to read the glorious page, How bold Achilles killed his foe, And Turnus, felled by Trojans' rage, Went howling to the shades below. How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, How mad Orlando slashed and slew ; There's not a single bard that writes, But doth the glorious theme renew. And while in fashion picturesque, The poet rhymes of blood and blows, The grave historian, at his desk, Describes the same in classic Drose. Go read the works of Reverend Cox ; You'll duly see recorded there The history of the self-same knocks Here roughly sung by Drummer Pierre. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Of battles fierce and warriors big, He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts, " Saint George for Marlboro w Take Doctor Southey from the shelf, An LL. D., — a peaceful man ; Good Lord, how doth he plume himself Because we beat the Corsican ! From first to last his page re filled With stirring tales how blows were struck. He shows how we the Frenchmen killed, And praises God for our good luck. Some hints, 'tis true, of politics The doctors give, and statesman's art ; Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks, And understands the bloody part. He cares not what the cause may be, He is not nice for wrong and right ; But show him where's the enemy, He only asks to drum and fight. They bid him fight, — perhaps he wins ; And when he tells the story o'er, The honest savage brags and grins, And only longs to fight once more. But luck may change, and valour fail, Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, And with a moral points his tale — The end of all such tales — a curse. 14 3H THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Last year, my love, it was my hap Behind a grenadier to be, And, but he wore a hairy cap, No taller man, me thinks, than me. Prince Albert and the Queen, God wot, (Be blessings on the glorious pair !) Before us passed, I saw them not, I only saw a cap of hair. Your orthodox historian puts In foremost rank the soldier thus, The red-coat bully in his boots, That hides the march of men from us. He puts him there in foremost rank, You wonder at his cap of hair : You hear his sabre's cursed clank, His spurs are jingling everywhere. Go to ! I hate him and his trade : Who bade us so to cringe and bend, And all God's peaceful people made To such as him subservient ? Tell me what find we to admire In epaulets and scarlet coats, In men because they load and lire, And know the art of cutting throats ? Ah, gentle, tender lady mine 1 The winter wind blows cold and shrill, Come, fill me one more glass of wine, And give the silly fools their will. w ILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 315 And what care we for war and wrack, How kings and heroes rise and fall ? Look yonder ;* in his coffin black, There lies the greatest of them all ! To pluck him down, and keep him up, Died many million human souls j 'Tis twelve o'clock, and time to sup, Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. He captured many thousand guns ; He wrote " The Great " before his name ; And dying, only left his sons The recollection of his shame. Though more than half the world was his, He died without a rood his own ; And borrowed from his enemies Six foot of ground to lie upon. He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his, And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des petits Champs its name is — The New Street of the Little Fields ; * This ballad was written at Paris, at the time of the second fune- ral of Napoleon. 316 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo ; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is ? Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able ? I recollect his droll grimace ; He'd come and smile before your table, And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter ; nothing's changed or older. " How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ?" WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 317 The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; — i( Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race ?" " What will Monsieur require for dinner ?" " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" "Tell me a good one." "That I can, Sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal." " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place ; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustomed corner here is, The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Can luoght, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days, here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — I'll pledge them in the good old wine The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace , Around the board they take their places And share the wine and Bouillabaisse ! 318 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; There's brave Augustus drives his carnage ; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; On James's head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! The world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place — but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me — There's no one now to share my cup. I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. — Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 319 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. 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. J20 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. 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 ? 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. WILLIAM MAKEPEA GE THA GKERA Y. 32 AT THE CHURCH GATE ALTHOUGH 1 enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her The minster-bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hushed the minster-bell : The organ 'gins to swell ; She's coming, she's coming ! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast : She comes — she's here, she's past— May Heaven go with her ! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly ; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, 14* THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Like outcast spirits who wait And see through Heaven's gate Angels within it. THE AGE OF WISDOM. T_TO, pretty page, with the dimpled chin^ -*• A That never has known the barber's sh< All your wish is woman to win, This is the way that boys begin, — Wait till you come to Forty Year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strain?, Under Bonnybell's window panes, — Wait till you come to Forty Yc::r ! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass, Once you have come to Forty Year. Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was passed away ? The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 323 May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away, and never be missed, Ere yet ever a month is gone. Gillian's dead, God rest her bier ; How I loved her twenty years syne ! Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine THE END OF THE PLAY. ^T^HE play is done; the curtain drop.-., ■*■ Slow falling to the prompter's bell A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And, when he's laughed and said his say. He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's any thing but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends,* As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; Good-night ! with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway ! * These verses were printed at the end of a Christmas Book (1! -49), "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends." 324 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Good-night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men ; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say, we suffer and we strive, Not less nor more as men than boys ; With grizzled beards at fortv-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred, youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design ? Blessed be He who took and gave ! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave ?* * C. B. ob. 29th November, 1848, aet. 42. WILLIAM MAKE PEA CE TEA OK Eli A T. 325 We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give, or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit ■ Who brought him to that mirth and state ? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen ! whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill. Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize ? Go, lose or conquer as you can : But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young ! (Bear kindly with my humble lays) , 3*6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days : The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men. My song, save this, is little worth ; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth. As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. tUUltam GEbmonbstcmne ^gtoun. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. pOME hither, Evan Cameron ! ^^ Come, stand beside my knee — I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, Tnere's war within the blast — Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, WILLIAM E. ATTOUN. 327 And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 11. 'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fall Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. in. A traitor sold him to his foes ;- - O deed of deathless shame ! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name — Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed men — Face him, as thou wouldst face the man Who wronged thy sire's renown ; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down ! IV. They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span, 328 TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. As though they held a lion there, And not a fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart — The hangman rode below — They drew his hands behind his back, And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, They cheered the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout,- And bade him pass along. v. It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords In balcony and bow; There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all a-row. And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see ! VI. But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye ; — WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 3 2 9 The rabble rout forbore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept. But onwards — always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant laboured, Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd Then, as the Gneme looked upwards, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold — The master-fiend Argyle ! The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turned his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side, She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clinched at him ; 330 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, " Back, coward, from thy place ! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face." IX. Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailed men — Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backwards then ! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there ! x. It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors filled the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warriston To read the murderous doom ; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 33* XI. "Now, by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross That waves above us there — Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — And oh, that such should be ! — By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me — I have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown ! XII. " There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have named for me Than by my fathers' grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might. This hand hath always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower- Give every town a limb — And God who made shall gather them : I go from you to Him !" The morning dawned full darkly The rain came flashing down, 33 2 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town : The thunder crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come ; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die. XIV. Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree ! Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — The bells begin to toll — " He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul !" One last long peal of thunder — The clouds are cleared away, And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. xv. " He is coming ! he is coming !" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 333 And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die ; There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man ! xvi. He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd ; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through : Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within — All else was calm and still. The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee ; And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away : 334 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. For he had ta'en his latest look Of earth and sun and day. XVIII. A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud. And a stunning thunder-roll ; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush and then a groan ; And darkness swept across the sky — The work of death was done ! THE HEART OF THE BRUCE I. TT was upon an April morn, •*- While yet the frost lay hoar, We heard Lord James's bugle-horn Sound by the rocky shore. ii. Then down we went, a hundred knights, All in our dark array, And flung our armour in the ships That rode within the bay. WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 335 in. We spoke not as the shore grew less, But gazed in silence back, Where the long billows swept away The foam behind our track. IV. And aye the purple hues decayed Upon the fading hill, And but one heart in all that ship Was tranquil, cold, and still. v. The good Lord Douglas paced the deck, And oh, his face was wan ! Unlike the flush it used to wear When in the battle-van. — VI. " Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight, Sir Simon of the Lee ; There is a freit lies near my soul I fain would tell to thee. VII. " Thou know'st the words King Robert spoke Upon his dying day : How he bade me take his noble heart And carry it far away ; VIII. " And lay it in the holy soil Where once the Saviour trod, Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, Nor strike one blow for God. 336 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. " Last night as in my bed I lay, I dreamed a dreary dream : — Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand In the moonlight's quivering beam. x. " His robe was of the azure dye, Snow white his scattered hairs,. And even such a cross he bore As good Saint Andrew bears. XI. "'Why go ye forth, Lord James,' he said, ' With spear and belted brand ? Why do you take its dearest pledge From this our Scottish land ? XII. " ' The sultry breeze of Galilee Creeps through its groves of palm, The olives on the Holy Mount Stand glittering in the calm. XIII. " ' But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart Shall rest by God's decree, Till the great angel calls the dead To rise from earth and sea ! xiv. " 'Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede ! That heart shall pass once more In fiery fight against the foe, As it was wont of yore. WILLIAM E. AYTOVN 337 xv. " ' And it shall pass beneath the Cross, And save King Robert's vow ; But other hands shall bear it back, Not, James of Douglas, thou !' XVI. " Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray. Sir Simon of the Lee — For truer friend had never man Than thou hast been to me — XVII. (( If ne'er upon the Holy Land 'Tis mine in life to tread, Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth The relics of her dead." XVIII. The tear was in Sir Simon's eye As he wrung the warrior's hand — " Betide me weal, betide me woe, I'll hold by thy command. XIX. "But if in battle-front, Lord James, 'Tis ours once more to ride. Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend, Shall cleave me from thy side !" xx. And aye we sailed, and aye we sailed, Across the weary sea, Until one morn the coast of Spain Rose grimly on our lee. J 5 338 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. XXI. And as we rounded to the port, Beneath the watch-tower's wall, We heard the clash of the atabals, And the trumpet's wavering call. XXII. " Why sounds yon Eastern music here So wantonly and long, And whose the crowd of armed men That round yon standard throng ?" XXIII. " The Moors have come from Africa To spoil and waste and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Must light with them to-day." XXIV. "Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, " Shall never be said of me, That I and mine have turned aside From the Cross in jeopardie ! xxv. " Have down, have down, my merry men all — Have down unto the plain ; We'll let the Scottish lion loose Within the fields of Spain !" XXVI. " Now welcome to me, noble lord, Thou and thy stalwart power ; Dear is the sight of a Christian knight, Who comes in such an hour! WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 339 XXVII. " Is it for bond or faith you come, Or yet for golden fee ? Or bring ye France's lilies here, Or the flower of Burgundie ?" XXVIII. " God greet thee well, thou valiant King, Thee and thy belted peers — Sir James of Douglas am I called, And these are Scottish spears. XXIX. " We do not fight for bond or plight, Nor yet for golden fee ; But for the sake of our blessed Lord, Who died upon the tree. XXX. " We bring our great King Robert's heart Across the weltering wave, To lay it in the holy soil Hard by the Saviour's grave. XXXI. " True pilgrims we, by land or sea, Where danger bars the way ; And therefore are we here, Lord King, To ride with thee this day !" XXXII. The King has bent his stately head, And the tears were in his eyne — " God's blessing on thee, noble knight, For this brave thought of thine ! 34° THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. XXXIII. " I know thy name full well, Lord James; And honoured may I be, That those who fought beside the Bruce Should fight this day for me ! xxxiv. " Take thou the leading of the van, And charge the Moors amain ; There is not such a lance as thine In all the host of Spain !" xxxv. The Douglas turned towards us then, Oh but his glance was high ! — " There is not one of all my men But is as bold as I. xxxvi. " There is not one of all my knights But bears as true a spear — Then onward, Scottish gentlemen, And think King Robert's here !" XXXVII. The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew, The arrows flashed like flame, As spur in side, and spear in rest, Against the foe we came. XXXVIII. And many a bearded Saracen Went down, both horse and man ; For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran ! WIL LI AM E. AY TO UN. 34 I XXXIX. But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through, For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few. XL. We might not see a lance's length, So dense was their array, But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay. XLI. " Make in ! make in !" Lord Douglas cried — " Make in, my brethren dear ! Sir William of Saint Clair is down ; We may not leave him here !" XLII. But thicker, thicker grew the swarm, And sharper shot the rain, And the horses reared amid the press, But they would not charge again. XLIII. " Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James, " Thou kind and true St. Clair ! An' if I may not bring thee off, I'll die beside thee there !" XLIV. Then in his stirrups up he stood, So lion-like and bold, And held the precious heart aloft All in its case of gold. 342 TEE LATE ENGLISH POETS. XLV. He flung it from him, far ahead. And never spake he more, But — '* Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart, As thou wert wont of yore !" XLVI. The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, And heavier still the stour, Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, And swept away the Moor. XLVII. " Now praised be God, the day is won ! They fly o'er flood and fell- Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well ?" XLVIII. " Oh, ride ye on, Lord King \" he said, "And leave the dead to me, For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree ! XLIX. '* There lies, above his master's .heart, The Douglas, stark and grim ; And woe is me I should be here, Not side by side with him ! L. "The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair, And all that I loved best on earth Is stretched before me there. WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 343 LI. " O Bothwell banks ! that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May, The heaviest cloud that ever blew Is bound for you this day. LH. w And Scotland ! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain: The sorest stroke upon thy brow Hath fallen this day in Spain ! LIII. t( We'll bear them back unto our ship, We'll bear them o'er the sea, And lay them in the hallowed earth, Within our own countrie. LIV. " And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure, The sod that drank the Douglas' blood Shall never bear the Moor !" LV. The King he lighted from his horse,, He flung his brand away, And took the Douglas by the hand, So statelv as he lav. " God give thee rest, thou valiant soul ! That fought so well for Spain ; I'd rather half my land were gone, So thou wert here again !" 344 T HE LATE ENGLISH POETS. LVII. We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore. LVIII. No welcome greeted our return, Nor clang of martial tread, But all were dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead. LIX. We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The heart in fair Melrose ; And woful men were we that day — God grant their souls repose ! (feorge U). Styornbtiri). THE THREE TROOPERS. (DURING THE PROTECTORATE.) TNTO the Devil tavern "*■ Three booted troopers strode, From spur to feather spotted and splashed With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they dropped a crust, And stared at the guests with a frown ; Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" GEORGE W. THORXBURY. 34$ A blue smoke rose from their pistol-locks, Their sword -blades were still wet ; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirred the crusts, And cursed old London town ; Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, " God send this Crum-well-down !" The 'prentice dropped his can of beer, The host turned pale as a clout ; The ruby nose of the toping squires Grew white at the wild men's shout. Then into their cups they flung the crusts, And showed their teeth with a frown ; They flashed their swords as they gave the toast, " God send this Crum-well-down !" The gambler dropped his dog's-eared cards, The waiting-women screamed, As the light of the fire, like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleamed. Then into their cups they splashed the crusts, And cursed the fool of a town, And leaped on the table, and roared a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down I" Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, And the troopers sprang to horse; The eldest muttered between his teeth, Hot curses — deep and coarse. In their stirrup-cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurred through town, i5* 346 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, " God send this Crum-well-down V* Away they dashed through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free, Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece sho None liked to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, " God send this Crum-well-down I" THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER (EDINBURGH.— 1744.) ^T*HE old men sat with hats pulled down, ■*■ Their claret cups before them : Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes, The tavern lamps shone o'er them, As a brimming bowl, with crystal filled, Came borne by the landlord's daughter, Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose That grew best over the water. Then all leaped up, and joined their hands With hearty clasp and greeting, The brimming cups, outstretched by all, Over the wide bowl meeting. " A health," they cried, " to the witching eyes Of Kate, the landlord's daughter ! GEORGE W. THORN BURY. 347 But don't forget the white, white rose That grows best over the water." Each others' cups they touched all round, The last red drop outpouring ; Then with a cry that warmed the blood, One heart-born chorus roaring — " Let the glass go round to pretty Kate, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, But never forget the white, white rose That grows best over the water." Then hats flew up and swords sprang out, And lusty rang the chorus — " Never," they cried, " while Scots are Scots, And the broad Frith's before us." A ruby ring the glasses shine As they toast the landlord's daughter, Because she wore the white, white rose That grew best over the water. A poet cried, " Our thistle's brave, Witn all its stings and prickles ; The shamrock with its holy leaf Is spared by Irish sickles. But bumpers round, for what are these To Kate, the landlord's daughter, Who wears at her bosom the rose so white, That grows best over the water ?" They dashed the glasses at the wall. No lip might touch them after ; The toast had sanctified the cups That smashed against the rafter; 348 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Then chairs thrown back, they up again, To toast the landlord's daughter, But never forgot the white, white rose That grew best over the water. LA TRICOTEUSE. nPHE fourteenth of July had come, And round the guillotine The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, Moved the red flags between. A crimson heart, upon a pole, — The long march had begun ; But still the little smiling child Sat knitting in the sun. The red caps of those men of France Shook like a poppy-field ; Three women's heads, with gory hair, The standard-bearers wield. Cursing, with song and battle-hymn, Five butchers dragged a gun ; Yet still the little maid sat there, A-knitting in the sun. An axe was painted on the flags, A broken throne and crown, A ragged coat, upon a lance, Hung in foul black shreds down. " More heads !" the seething rabble cry And now the drum's begun ; GEORGE W. THORN BURY. 349 But still the little fair-haired child Sat knitting in the sun. And every time a head rolled off, They roll like winter seas, And, with a tossing up of caps, Shouts shook the Tuileries. Whizz — went the heavy chopper down, And then the drums begun ; But still the little smiling child Sat knitting in the sun. The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, And every man a sword ; The red caps, with the tricolors, Led on the noisy horde. " The Sans Culottes to-day are strong," The gossips say, and run ; But still the little maid sits there A-knitting in the sun. Then the slow death-cart moved along ; And, singing patriot songs, A pale, doomed poet bowing comes And cheers the swaying throng. O when the axe swept shining down, The mad drums all begun ; But, smiling still, the little child Sat knitting in the sun. " Le marquis' " — linen snowy white The powder in his hair, Waving his scented handkerchief, Looks down with careless stare 35° THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. A whirr, a chop — another head — Hurrah ! the work's begun ; But still the little child sat there A-knitting in the sun. A stir, and through the parting crowd, The people's friends are come ; Marat and Robespierre — " Vivat ! Roll thunder from the drum." The one a wild beast's hungry eye, Hair tangled — hark ! a gun ! — The other kindly kissed the child A-knitting in the sun. " xA.nd why not work all night ?" the chik> Said, to the knitters there. O how the furies shook their sides, And tossed their grizzled hair ! Then clapped a bonnet rouge on her, And cried — " 'Tis well begun !" And laughed to see the little child Knit, smiling, in the sun. THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY (TOLD ON A BENCH OUTSIDE THE INVALIDES.) ''TWAS the day beside the Pyramids, It seems but an hour ago, That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares, Returning blow for blow. The Mamelukes were tossing Their standards to the sky, GEORGE W. THOR XB UR Y. 351 When I heard a child's voice say, " My men, Teach me the way to die /" 'Twas a little drummer, with his side Torn terribly with shot; But still he feebly beat his drum, As though the wound were not. And when the Mameluke's wild horse Burst with a scream and cry, He said, " O men of the Forty-third, Teach me the way to die /" " My mother has got other sons, With stouter hearts than mine, But none more ready blood for France To pour out free as wine. Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned, " Fair are this earth and sky ; Then, comrades of the Forty-third, Teach me the way to die /" 1 saw Salenche, of the granite heart, Wiping his burning eyes — It was by far more pitiful Than mere loud sobs and cries. One bit his cartridge till his lip Grew black as winter sky, But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third, Teach me the way to die /" O never saw I sight like that ! The sergeant flung down flag, Even the fifer bound his brow With a wet and bloody rag ; 352 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Then looked at locks, and fixed their steel. But never made reply, Until he sobbed out once again, " Teach me the way to die /" Then, with a shout that flew to God, They strode into the fray ; I saw their red plumes join and wave, But slowly melt away. The last who went — a wounded man — Bade the poor boy good-by, And said, " We men of the Forty-third Teach you the way to die /" I never saw so sad a look As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon In cloud and whirlwind passed. Earth shook, and Heaven answered : I watched his eagle eye, As he faintly moaned, " The Forty-third Teach me the way to die /" Then, with a musket for a crutch, He limped unto the fight ; I, with a bullet in my hip, Had neither strength nor might. But, proudly beating on his drum, A fever in his eye, I heard him moan, " The Forty-third Taught me the way to die /" They found- him on the morrow, Stretched on a heap of dead ; GEORGE MEREDITH. 353 His hand was in the grenadier's Who at his bidding bled. They hung a medal round his neck, And closed his dauntless eye ; On the stone they cut, " The Forty-third Taught him the way to die /" 'Tis forty years from then till now — The grave gapes at my feet — Yet, when I think of such a boy, I feel my old heart beat. And from my sleep I sometimes wake, Hearing a feeble cry, And a voice that says, " Now, Forty-third, Teach me the way to die /" ®eorge illerebttl). WILL O' THE WISP. T^OLLOW me, follow me, A Over brake and under tree, Through the bosky tanglery, Brushwood and bramble . Follow me, follow me, Laugh and leap and scramble ! Follow, follow, Hill and hollow, Fosse and burrow, Fen and furrow, 354 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Down into the bulrush-beds, Midst the reeds and osier-heads, In the rushy, soaking damps, Where the vapours pitch their camps, Follow me, follow me, For a midnight ramble ! Oh, what a mighty fog ! What a merry night O ho ! Follow, follow, nigher, nigher — Over bank, and pond, and brier, Down into the croaking ditches, Rotten log, Spotted frog, Beetle bright With crawling light, What a joy O ho ! Deep into the purple bog — What a joy O ho ! Where like hosts of puckered witches All the shivering agues sit, Warming hands and chafing feet, By the blue marsh-hovering oils : O the fools for all their moans ! Not a forest mad with fire Could still their teeth, or warm their bones, Or loose them from their chilly coils. What a clatter ! How they chatter ! Shrink and huddle, All a muddle, What a joy O ho ! Down we go, down we go, What a joy O ho ! GEORGE MEREDITH. 355 Soon shall I be down below, Plunging with a gray fat friar, Hither, thither, to and fro, What a joy O ho ! Breathing mists and whisking lamps, Plashing in the slimy swamps ; What a joy O ho ! While my cousin Lantern Jack, With cock ears and cunning eyes, Turns him round upon his back, Daubs him oozy green and black, Sits upon his rolling size, Where he lies, where he lies, Groaning full of sack — Staring with his great round eyes ! What a joy O ho ! Sits upon him in the swamps, Breathing mists and whisking lamps ! What a joy O ho ! Such a lad is Lantern Jack, When he rides the black nightmare Through the fens, and puts a glare In the friar's track. Such a frolic lad, good lack ! To turn a friar on his back, Trip him, clip him, whip him, nip him, Lay him sprawling, smack ! Such a lad is Lantern Jack ! Such a tricksy lad, good lack ! What a joy O ho ! Follow me, follow me, Where he sits, and you shall see ! 3$6 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. LOVE IN THE VALLEY. T TNDER yonder beech-tree standing on the green swards ^ Couched with her arms behind her little head, Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her ! Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow, Waking on the instant she could not but embrace me — Ah ! would she hold me, and never let me go ? Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow ; Swift as the swallow when athwart the western flood Circleting the surface he meets his mirrored winglets, — Is that dear one in her maiden bud. Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine-tops ; Gentle — ah ! that she were jealous as the dove ! Full of all the wildness of the woodland creatures, Happy in herself is the maiden that I love ! What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her r Can she truly doubt me when looking on my brows ? Nature never teaches distrust of tender love-tales, What can have taught her distrust of all my vows ? No, she does not doubt me ! on a dewy eve-tide, Whispering together beneath the listening moon, I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she faltered — Fluttered to my bosom — ah ! to fly away so soon ! When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, " Were this wild thing wedded, I should have more love, and much less care." GEORGE MEREDITH. 357 When her mother tends her before the bashful mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, " Were this wild thing wedded, I should lose but one for so many boys and girls," Clambering roses peep into her chamber, Jasmine and woodbine breathe sweet, sweet ; White-necked swallows twittering of summer, Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to feet. Ah ! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, When the petals fall and fierce bloom is on the leaves ? Will the Autumn garners see her still ungathered, When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping eaves ? Comes a sudden question — should a strange hand pluck her ! Oh, what an anguish smites me at the thought, Should some idle lord ling bribe her mind with jewels ! — Can such beauty ever thus be bought ? Sometimes the huntsmen prancing down the valley Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth ; They see as I see, mine is the fairest ! Would she were older, and could read my worth ! Are there not sweet maidens if she still deny me ? Show the bridal heavens but one bright star ? Wherefore thus then do I chase a shadow, Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar ? So I rhyme and reason till she darts before me — Through the milky meadows from flower to flower she flies, Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eyelids From the golden love that looks too eager in her eyes. 358 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face gazes Out on the weather through the window-panes, Beauteous she looks ! like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud on the rippled river-plains. When from bed she rises, clothed from neck to ankle In her long night-gown, sweet as boughs of May, Beauteous she looks ! like a tall garden lily Pure from the night and perfect for the day ! Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles Over the fields all fresh with bloomy dew; When the cold-cheeked dawn grows ruddy up the twilight, And the gold sun wakes, and weds her in the blue. Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, She the only star that dies not with the dark ! Powerless to speak all the ardour of my passion, I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweethearts ? Season after season tell a fruitless tale ; Will not the virgin listen to their voices? Take the honeyed meaning — wear the bridal veil. Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches ? Waits she the garlands of Spring for her dower ? Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower ? Then come, merry April, with all thy birds and beauties ! With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee; With thy budding leafage and fresh green pastures; And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon for me ! W. C. BENNETT. 3 $9 Come, merry month of the cuckoo and the violet ! Come, weeping Loveliness, in all thy blue delight 1 Lo ! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer ! Bring her to my arms on the first May night. ID. €. Bennett. BABY MAY. /^HEEKS as soft as July peaches; ^■^ Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness ; round large eyes Ever great with new surprise ; Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ; Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; Happy smiles and wailing cries ; Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; Lights and shadows, swifter born Than on wind-swept Autumn corn; Ever some new tiny notion, Making every limb all motion ; Catching up of legs and arms ; Throvvings back and small alarms ; Clutching ringers ; straightening jerks ; Twining feet whose each toe works; Kickings up and straining risings ; Mother's ever new surprisings ; Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under ; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings ; j6o THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning ; Breakings dire of plates and glasses; Graspings small at all that passes ; Pullings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table ; Silences — small meditations Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ; Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches ; All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing ; Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings That we'd ever have such dreamings , Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measure ; Pleasure high above all pleasure ; Gladness brimming over gladness , Joy in care; delight in sadness; Loveliness beyond completeness ; Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; Beauty all that beauty may be ; — That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. SPRING SONGS. i. "OW do tawny bees along, Plundering sweets from blossoms, hum Now do showers of joyous song Down from larks up-mounting, come ; N 1 17. G. BENXETT. 361 Every thing Now doth sing, Welcome gladness, welcome Spring. Now above and all around Songs are thronging earth and air ; Joy is loud in every sound, Every sound is mocking care. Every thing Now doth sing, Welcome gladness, welcome Spring. Now is every hawthorn-bough Burdened with its wealth of May ' Glistening runs each streamlet now, Gambolling through the golden day. Fount and spring, Hark ! they sing, Welcome sunshine, welcome Spring. Now do golden lizards lie, Sunning them on wayside banks ; Now with flowers of many a dye Spring the woods and meadows pranks. What say they ? This they say, Welcome gladness, welcome May. Now do those, in joy that walk Shadowed wood and checkered lane, Stay their steps and hush their talk, Till the cu:koo call again ; 16 362 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. Till anew, Hush — cuckoo, Hark ! it comes the wood-depths through. Now the woods are starred with eyes ; Now their weeds and mosses through, Peep the white anemonies, Daisies pied and violets blue. Flowers, they spring, Birds, they sing, All to swell the pomp of Spring. Now in poets' songs 'tis told How, in vales of Arcady, Once men knew an age of gold, Once the earth seemed heaven to be; Hark ! they sing, Years, ye bring Golden times again with Spring. 11. Now the fields are full of flowers ; Now in every country lane, Making mirth and gladness ours, Wild-flowers nod and blush again ; Now they stain Heath and lane, Longed-for lost ones come again. Now the mower, on his scythe Leaning, wipes his furrowed brow Many a song the milkmaid blithe Carols through the morning now ; W. C. BENNETT. 363 Clear and strong Goes her song With the clanking pail along. Blithely lusty Roger now- Through the furrows plods along, Singing to the creaking plough Many a quaint old country song ; Morning rings, As he sings, With the praise of other Springs. Children now in every school Wish away the weary hours ; Doubly now they feel the rule Barring them from buds and flowers ; How they shout, Bounding out, Lanes and fields to race about ! Now with shrill and wondering shout, As some new-found prize they pull, Prattlers range the fields about, Till their laps with flowers are full ; Seated round On the ground, Now they sort the wonders found. Now do those in cities pent, Labouring life away, confess, Spite of all, that life was meant One to be with happiness ; 364 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS Hark ! they sing. Pleasant Spring Joy to all was meant to bring. Poets now in sunshine dream ; Now their eyes such visions see That the golden ages seem Times that yet again might be. Hark ! they sing, Years shall bring Golden ages — endless Spring. FROM SEA. /^\ IT was not for my mother, Though dear she is to me, Though old she is, and poor she is. That I sailed the stormy sea ! But it was for my true-love, That dearer is to me Than father and than mother both, 'Tvvas for her I sailed the sea. The wind blows fair and freshly, Right fresh for Harwich Bay, For the cottage on its sandy cliff, That I think of night and day; That I think of, and I dream o£ And have dreamt of night and day, In calm and storm, and south the line, A thousand leagues away. Now, watch, look out to leeward ! The land must sure be near. FROM SEA W. C. BENNETT. 365 There looms the cape through the morning mist, That I've longed to see appear ; To see it rising from the waves, For it shields the quiet bay, Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands That IVe prayed for far away. Now, men, the sails be furling ! Now let the anchor go ! At our brown ship's side let our best boat ride, And the oars be shipped below ; And while the rope you're casting off, Take in my chest and me ; Now farewell, blustering captain, And farewell, roaring sea ! Now pull — pull with a will, boys, And beach right high the boat ; For dear, dear is the land to me That have tossed so long afloat ; And dear, dear is the girl to me, With each breath loved more and more — Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes, To see us pull ashore. She shades her eyes a moment — O that the beach were near ! Does she see my torn hat waving ? Does she catch my cry from here ? Yes; down the cliff she's flying; Pull — pull, my men, for life, That I may kiss again my girl, My bonny, bonny wife ! 366 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. <£l)omas lUcstiuoob. LITTLE BELL. " He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast." The Ancient Mariner. T)IPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, ■*■ " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name ?" quoth he. " What's your name ? Oh ! stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." " Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks, — " Bonny bird !" quoth she, " Sing me your best song, before I go." " Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. And the Blackbird piped — you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird ; Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while that bonny bird did pour His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, THOMAS WES TWO OD. 3 6 7 All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the brown, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade — Peeped the squirrel from the hazel-shade, And, from out the tree, Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold Blackbird piped, that all might hear, " Little Bell!" piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern : " Squirrel, Squirrel ! to your task return Bring me nuts !" quoth she. Up, away ! the frisky Squirrel hies, Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap drop, one by one — Hark ! how Blackbird pipes, to see the fun ! "Happy Bell!" pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade : " Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade, Bonny Blackbird, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me !" Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare, Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare ; Little Bell gave each his honest share — Ah ! the merry three ! And the while those frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, 368 THE LATE ENGLISH POETS. In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow, From her brown, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot, at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray. Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice, to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel-shape serene Paused awhile to hear. " What good child is this," the angel said, " That, with happy heart, beside her bed, Prays so lovingly r" Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, Crooned the Blackbird in the orchard croft, " Bell, dear Bell !" crooned he. " Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm ; love, deep and kind, Shall watch round and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee." THE MOORLAND CHILD. T TPON the bleak and barren moor *^ I met a wandering child ; Her cheeks were pale, her hair hung lank, Her sunken eves gleamed wild. THOMAS WESTWOOD. 3 6 9 " And have you no kind mother, child ?" I asked, with softened tone. " My mother went away lang syne, And left me here alone. " 'Twas in the winter weather, black, The night lay on the moor; The angry winds went howling by Our creaking cottage door. "My mother lay upon her bed, She shook and shivered sore ; She clasped me in her trembling arms, She kissed me o'er and o'er.