LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Shelf >M*i-_ <* >a UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST AND OTHER POEMS ERIC^MACKAY SPECIAL COPYRIGHT AMERICAN EDITION NEWLY REVISED BY THE AUTHOR NEW YORK / / 703 X LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 43, 45 AND 47 EAST TENTH STREET \% V- ft7 XVI. E'en so I thee. O Lady of my heart ! O Lady white as lilies on the lea, And fair as foam upon the ocean free Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart ! E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art, And with my soul's desire I compass thee. XVII. For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense Of true endowment, and a bride indeed Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need : To be a beacon when the air is dense, A bower of peace, a life-long recompense — This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed. XVIII. And what is Man the while ? And what his will? And what the furtherance of his earthly hope ? To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope A drowning sailor ; all his blood to spill For one he loves, to keep her out of ill — This is the will of Man, and this his scope. XIX. 'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon It can be wild, and keep away from home A thousand shins — and lash itself to foam — And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon — And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome. Io8 LOVE LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST. XX. This is the will of Man, and this is mine. But lo ! I love thee more than wealth or fame, More than myself, and more than those who came With Christ's commission from the goal divine. Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine, I cling to thee, my Life ! as fire to flame. GLADYS THE SINGER. GLADYS THE SINGER. CANTO FIRST. Ye who have known the pangs that lovers know, The tears, the tremors, and the sovereign glow Of some enthralment fresh from Fairyland, And, therewithal, the sprites, who in a band Uphold, unseen, the courtship of true men, — ye bright souls ! for whom, with faltering pen, 1 trace, e'en now, this tale of love and pride, Accept, I pray you, safe and sanctified, — My lovers twain who fared not righteously ! For you have loved as they, in their degree, And hoped as they, and sighed as they have done, And sought the folly which is barred to none, But stands and smiles and w r aits for us alway. And lo ! I note the things, that, day by day, You guard and foster with enravished eyes, And how you count the toys of your emprize : — The keepsake flower — the curl that's passion-dear— The scented scroll that's read from year to year. And while I note these things and muse thereon, I think of those sweet souls beyond the dawn Whose love was flame. O deathless ! O ye dead ! Are ye well met ? Have ye no tears to shed, I I 2 GLADYS THE SINGER. Not e'en for joy ? Is love not worth a kiss Up there in Heaven ? A mere seraphic bliss, Fit for a saint ? God help us then, each one ! And you my brothers — you, this side the sun, Who love true-love — believe this much of me, That I have worshipp'd Love upon my knee And almost fear'd it. I have trembled too, In my much joy ! A glove — a ribbon's hue — Have moved me strangely ; and in lonely hours, In empty chambers, and in starlit bowers, I have as 'twere enthroned a sainted Grief And paid it homage. Have you found relief In tears and dreams, — as I have done full oft, — And not been proud or perjured, when, aloft, A lark has seemed to trill the loved-one's name ? I pray you all, by Love's resistless flame, Accept of me this tale which now is told. For there's no shame in Truth ; and Hope's a-cold That has no dreams to feed it Far away There stood, in years gone by, athwart the spray That dashed the sea-born crags, a lordly tower ; And, down the valley — offshoot of its dower — A lowly cot embowered in such a nook As lured Apollo when, with pipe and crook, He wooed Acantha. And within its walls A nymph was sheltered whom a Legend calls Gladys the Singer — one of those elect And fond fair women whom the world has decked With Dead Sea laurels. He who owned the land Was young and rich and lavish of his hand, And well he knew the bower, aye ! as the kite May know the dove-cot ; and a-down the height GLADYS THE SINGER. 117, He strode one day, one lustrous autumn-day, Brain-sick with fancies such as warp the sway Of Eros' children ; and his steps he turned To where the cottage stood amid the burned And withering foliage. But, beside the same, He paus'd in doubt ; and, with a kindling shame, Half glad, half sad, he heard a matin song Sung, as it seem'd, by One who did belong To angel-choirs. And as he drain'd the draught Of that sweet voice — as soul and body quaff d The nectarous notes — a something from his eyes Fell like a film; arid all the earth and skies And all the frondage of the forest way Re-took the raptures of the month of May. And in his thought he roamed beside the stream Where she had led him — where the golden gleam Of her bright hair had crown'd the tender grace Of her lithe body — and her matchless face Had made him mad ! For, vision-like, he stood Alone with her in heaven, and found it good, — Found it the one sweet thing of all things known, To sit with her at twilight, all alone, In halcyon spots — the universe their own. A bowery nook, a sea-side lonely cave, These were his Heaven, and more he did not crave ! But now he loitered near the very shrine Of this lov'd soul, and heard her voice divine Peal out supreme. — He open'd with a smile The querulous door, and stood, a breathing-while, Straight in her sight. She rush'd into his arms Tear-lit with joy, and glowing in the charms Of white surrender ; "O my Love ! my Love ! So true, so gentle, so insured above 114 GLADYS THE SINGER. All time and distance ! I have yearn'd for thee As earth for summer, as the lonely sea For midnight stars ; and now thou'rt here at lasl I to cling" to thee, and hold thee fast, mean Aye ! as a chain might do, I mean to cling Fast round thy soul, and sphere thee like a ring. What ! not one word? And gloomy, too, and chill, On this bright day ? O Roland ! thou art ill, And wilt not tell me ! Thou'rt convulsion-pale, And in thy gaze I read the dismal tale Of some foreboding. O my dearest one ! My life, my death, my All beneath the sun ! In God's good name I charge thee make it clear What makes thee sad ? And if thou need a tear Seek it in me, — for I have learnt the way To shed more tears than thou wilt need to-day." "Nay, Gladys, nay!" with smiles he answered her, "'Tis much ; 'tis nothing ! Some unwonted stir In household matters. — Words are empty things; Why should they hurt ? If Faithfulness ha4 wings 'Twould quit me now ; 'tis here, and thou art She. Nay, sit thee down, and I will yield to thee My sure confession." Gladys, with a look Half frown, half smile, obey'd him ; yet she shook As shakes an aspen when the winds are hush'd, And all the meadow-lands are sunset-flushed. And he ? Remorse was with him ; and apart He stood absorb'd. Should he consult his heart? Or serve ambition ? He had won the soul Of this sweet woman, and to his control His words had sway'd her. Should he put to scorn The threats and frets and sneers which, all the morn, Had marr'd his peace? — Aye ! should he, as a knight GLADYS THE SINGER. II5 In olden time had done for his delight, Accept, revere, enshrine, and re-endow This blue-eyed wonder with his marriage- vow ? He still'd a sigh, and turn'd to her, and spake : — v 'Thou know'st, O Gladys ! for thine honour's sake, And for thyself that art as Heaven to me, I would not break the oath which unto thee My lips have sworn. But I, too long I fear, Have stood between thy life and that career Which waits for thee, — as Silence in the dales Waits, after dark, for songs of nightingales ! I should have warn'd thee. In my heart I knew That tedious hours, and sorrows, not a few, Would be thy meed, if here thou didst prolong Thy tell-tale absence from the world of song." She heard abash'd. Was he indeed possess'd Of foregone knowledge, though so late confess'd? Or was he wearied of their sylvan bliss ? She mused an instant in the fear of this ; And then, without a sign, she droop'd her head And wept outright, — such tears as children shed When, 'mid a storm, they hear their parents pray. Women are stronger than we care to say, And when they weep the}'' conquer more than men With sword or sceptre ; and they bind us then With weak, warm hands, as with a festal wreath. Let those who draw the sword from out its sheath, And those who sit and stare on gilded thrones, Beware of Woman ! She, in all the zones And all the courts of earth, and all its bowers, Is queen elect of all the golden hours. She is the ruler whom the rulers know, And when she wills a thing, in joy or woe, In health or sickness, or remorse or sin, The high-born Knight must bow to her therein. n6 GLADYS THE SINGER. 'Twas so to-day when, with a mute caress, She spake her trust, and clothed in courtliness, Made known her fears, — and this with such a mien, And such sweet fervour, and so bright a sheen Of pout and blush, that, for a moment's space, He gazed, relenting, on her radiant face, And loath' d himself ; and trembled at her glance, And vow'd to God that his was evil chance To do this thing, and in his very shame To fear to name it, though in Honour's name. He eyed her face, the brighter for the rush Of those quick tears ; and kiss'd away the blush That warm'd her cheek as with a rose's stain, And then re-kiss'd it to its place again, So weak she seem'd, and yet so strong withal, And so exacting, that, within her thrall, Man as he was, he felt the force in him Melt into misery, and a tear bedim His traitorous gaze ; for he was one of those Who fear the scoffs of beauty more than blows. But she could mark the menace and the drift Of thoughts unuttered, and her soul could sift Sound from the sense thereof ; and thus she spake : "O Roland ! O my master ! for thy sake I have been stabb'd by doubts and lain awake Night after night, to dream of wayward things, — A moth's lament, a flower with folded wings, An April daisy turn'd into a screen For elfin lovers, and the face serene Of my dead sister, who, though like to me As flakes of snow are like the foam at sea, Would thrust me back, full soon, could she behold My fall'n estate, and all my promise-gold Turn'd into dust, — I mean the pride I had In mine own self, ere doting made me mad. GLADYS THE SINGER. HJ Ah, gracious God ! how glad were I to pass Young as I am, beneath the churchyard grass, If, but an instant ere I went that way, I might re- win the right I had to pray ! '"' But he, soft-smiling, gazed on her, and stood Silent apace, as one, within a wood, Haunted by pixies at the swooning-hour Of birds and bushes, when the moon has power. Aye ! as a man entranced when night is done, May note the world's betrothal to the sun, E'en so he watch'd her, with a pent up-sigh, And thus addressed her: — "Thou'rt too young to die, And much too fair. Who knows it more than thou ? Nay, hear me, Gladys ? for I lie not now, Nor have I lied to thee at any time, Or wrong'd in thought the holy wedding chime, Or spurn'd an oath, or fear'd a promise-ring. No ! I have thought no lie, nor would I bring Sorrow to thee or shame, or make thee rue The rapt, confession of thine eyes of blue, When first I saw thee in the Long-Ago Of last year's May, — as blameless as the snow Which makes its eyrie on the mountain's crest. Beauty is thine, and Music, and the quest For power and wealth, and all the joys of fame, And all the rhapsodies that round a name Burst into splendour to possess a world ! Glory is thine, and, on thy lips impearl'd, A smile so sweet, so lustrous in its mirth, That none hath known, till now, upon the earth, A dream so true, a joy so fair to see." " A dream, — a joy ? Ah, thou canst flatter me ! " She rippled forth in answer to this speech, But I am here, to hide me, out of reach, I I 8 GLADYS THE SINGER. If thou upbraid me — as I know thou wilt — For too much trust, — itself a kind of guilt. Am I attaint, or guiltless in thy sight, For my day-dreams ? " He answered her aright : — " I am not worthy of so proud a boon As thy great love ; for not the sun and moon, And not the stars, in all their course, have known Such gem-like joy ; and I would fain atone, If thou permit me, by a prompt assent To all thy dreams for Art's aggrandisement ; Aye ! have thee robed, and see thee crown'd again, As Music's Queen, — return'dto her domain." ''Music's domain?" she cried. "Nay, that is done. But lo ! I love thee as a kneeling nun Loves, in the circuit of her little cell, The pictured face of Christ who conquered Hell. E'en so I love thee, Sweetheart ! and I swear, By God's own mouth, and by His auburn hair, That I will slay thee if thou'rt false to me ! " This said, she flush' d as red as roses be And sprang to him, and quavered in her voice. " O Love ! " she cried, ft O Roland ! O my Choice ! Sorrow be mine, not thine, if I offend. It seems I vex thee. Shall I make an end, Here, in this place, with this thy jewell'd knife, At once of loving and of loveless life? Winter is wild. The storm may want a wife. And I am friendless as a foundering ship ! The hours recoil ; the monstrous moments slip Fast through my fingers, while I count the beads Of my poor life, — the rosary of my deeds Good, bad, and selfish, and the joy therein Which oft I found, undaunted by the sin — GLADYS THE SINGER. I 10 If sin it be — which brought me to thy side. I lov'd thee, Roland ! as, at eventide, The lowly daisy, in her hood of green, Loves the set sun, — and keeps her face unseen Through all the drowsy hours of sainted night, Till dawn restores the Lov'd One to her sight. Oh ! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire. I can be made to feel the pangs of death, And yet be constant to the quest of breath. — Our poor, pale trick of living through the lies We name Existence, when that 'something' dies Which we call Honour. Many and many a way Can I be struck, or fretted, night and day, In some new fashion, or condemned the while To take for food the semblance of a smile, The left-off rapture of a slain caress, And ' Yes ' for ' No,' and ' No ' perchance for ' Yes/ Ah ! well I see, of comfort there is none, And no completion of the faith begun, When moon and star, and swift-ascending sun, Brought joy to me, and made me, as I wis, The thing I am, soul-famish'd for a kiss."' He rais'd her hand, and kiss'd it, as a king, For some cold vow, may do so staid a thing. But as he kiss'd her, — careful as the snow Which falls on flowers, — she frown'd, and murmur'd low : — "Too kind, — good Sir ! " and dashed away a tear And waved him back, as heedful to appear Nor grave nor gay, nor bashful in her mind ; And, far away, the wailing autumn wind Sobb'd o'er the sea, alone and un confined, Like some poor lover whom the nights and days Have robb'd alike of triumph and of praise. 1 20 GLADYS THE SINGER. " O friend ! " he answer'd, " I am much to blame. I taught thee this ; I taught thee how to name Sorrow and sin and suffering ; and for thee I brought myself to sue, aye ! on my knee To my proud sire. O Gladys ! wouldst thou guess His rude retort, his smile of bitterness ? He curs'd thee, Gladys ! With a frown she drew A quick, hot breath, and look'd him through and through, And then replied : — "I gave thee all I had, — My youth, my truth, my life, and all things glad, All thoughts of love, all hopes of peace to come, And only kept away my sorrows' sum, — My tears, and fears, and sighs, and all the shame That burnt the bays of what I deem'd my fame. If still remember d in the world of men, If honour'd still beyond this desert-glen Where now we've met, I care not. I am dead To all delights with which my soul I fed, And all ambitions in the realm of art, And all the fond desires that were a part Of my young life, before I came to thee. " "What need," he answer'd, " here beside the sea, Where Art and Nature have the world for friend, What need, my Love ! of tears that come to end Full soon for lovers, —and for women first ? What need hast thou for rancour, or for thirst Of things withheld unkindly — who shall say ! — Or hid from sight, or haply kept away For some good purpose ? " And he bent his head And moved his lips, and, with a word unsaid, Look'd at her straight. "O God ! " she stammer'd out, "Can such things be? Nay, Sir, beyond a doubt, GLADYS THE SINGER. 121 You men are just ; but, by your tardy leave, We women, too, may learn, while we deceive, To preach like you ! — 'Twas Adam tempted Eve ! He bade her eat. He tempted her to fall, And then denounced her ! " And, with this recall Of her past life, she lifted up her face, As one who sees a snake a-near the place She thought secure ; and flash'd a proud disdain On his mute wonder and the look of pain With which he eyed her ; and she spake again : — " Men have their rights, I know, and thou hast thine, To break the bowl, and squander all the wine ! But tell me, quick, thy father's final word, And what, in shame, to-day thine ears have heard ? " His faltering lips made answer to her quest : — " He was unjust, and stern, and ill at rest, But clear, emphatic, certain of his power. ' Thou must dismiss, ' he said, ' this very hour, All thoughts of love till I permit the same. ' And, with a cold aspersion on thy fame, He wrung my heart with words I will not name." Sudden as fire she started to her feet : "And thou ? " she cried, " Thine answer to the heat Of this distemper? " Like a craven man He hung his head, and blush'd as he began Some stuttering words. " I am controll'd," he said, " By claims of kindred, which the quick and dead Alike have bow'd to. For my father's sake, For mine and his, I must at once partake Of his fell purpose, and restore thy troth, And claim of thee mine own mistaken oath. This, and no less." " No less ? " she swift replied. "This, — and no less? Well, well, I must have died Some time to-day ! I must have met my death 122 GLADYS THE SINGER. Some minutes since, or, with thy cruel breath, Thou hadst not dared, — in presence of my corse, — To rack my soul with word of this divorce. But leave me quickly, for the dead are proud, And murder'd oaths are safest in a shroud ! I hate thee, Roland ! and my hate is such I would not soil my finger with a touch Of thy white body, though to touch it now Made me an Empress. O thou traitor, thou ! Traitor to me and mine. — if mine there be In days hereafter, — thou sad-to-see, And dark and dread pale spectre of the thing I lov'd and fear'd and reverenced as a king ! Nay, I have eyes. I see thee. I can trace The coward blush that lurks about thy face, And fears its colour, — fears to show itself, Lest it should wear the livid look of pelf, Or mark thy cheek with some detested blot. I know thy purpose, though thou tell it not : — To wed hereafter, for Ambition's sake, A high-born dame with gold enough to slake Thy thirst of power. " He made a quick retort : " No bride for me, in good or ill report, — ■ In all the round of all my nights and days." But with a withering look she met his gaze, As she would stab him with that very knife Whereof she spake, ere yet a word of strife Had sprung between them ; and she raised her head And flash'd contempt. " Thou art some serf," she said, " Stol'n in the night from some marauder's shed, And made to take the place, — a' place belied, — Of son and heir, — a castle's foolish pride ! But One who knows all things beneath the sun Hath frowned on thee, and sees what thou hast done ; GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 23 And all thy heart is bared to Him to-day, And all thou say'st, — and all thou still wouldst say." She paused an instant with a weary thought That he might scatter all her doubts to nought, — All her distress, and all the throbs of pain That work'd within her ; and she spake again : — '• thou dried soul whom long I deem'd a man, Monarch of men, and mine for all the span Of our two lives, in this world and the next, thou weak boaster of a brainless text, Fitter to fill a trench than be the curse Of one more summer, or to move me worse Than now thou mov'st me ! Nay, I hate thee not. Who hates the worm ? Who hates the canker-blot On some poor tree r I see thee as thou art. 1 sound thy depths. I read thee to the heart. I find thee shallow as a clamorous rill That wends its way, uncall'd for, down a hill ! " As thus she spake, his face from white to red, And red to white, as of a man half dead, Grew famine-featured while he look'd at her, And own'd the mastery, and the fitful spur Of her wild anger ; and was nigh to sue For absolution, as his passion-due. But. like a standard-pole whose flag is down, Or like the base usurper of a crown, He stood erect, and, clothed in his deceit, Eyed her aghast, as one who would retreat In some sleek way, if, ere proceeding thence, He might be pardoned for his love's offence. ' ' One word ! " she answer'd to his mute appeal, "One further word ! " And then, as she would reel, Or swoon, or die, or do some deadly thing, She clutch'd the air, as men at sea may cling, Wreck'd as they are, to some discarded rope. 124 GLADYS THE SINGER. She ached towards him with a kind of hope, And then dismiss'd it, and in accents weak, And tears held back, continued thus to speak : — ' ' Thou knows t all women well, — thou oft hast sa'd ! Thou know'st not me. Go, know thyself instead, — What man thou art, how false and how unjust To Nature's test, and Knighthood's holy trust. I lov'd thee not ! I lov'd a foolish dream That look'd like thee. I saw thee in the gleam Of some bright thought, and deem'd thee such an one As minstrels sing of, when they drape the sun, And make him Man, and crown him with a crown ! Thou wast the flower of all the world's renown In my glad sight ; but now, to see thee there, I seem to see the wraith of some despair, — A thing so rude, so robber-like in plan, I would not have thee for my serving-man ! Aye, aye, 'tis so ! — I swear by God's delight When with His hand He parted day and night, And by the stars, and by the saints of heaven, That I repent me of my girlhood given To thy rude touch ! All evil thee beset, Thou blight of morning ! All remorse and shame Possess thy soul, and sap the ancient fame Of thy great house ! I was too frail a thing, Too quickly won — too impotent to sting — A fair-hair' d frailty with attractive eyes, — A doll, — a puppet, — something from the skies For thy caressing, and belike in time For thy denouncing, as a minute's crime Done up in silk ! But should'st thou, for thy peace, — If peace it be, — should'st thou, ere autumn cease, Require a toy, a heart to play withal, An unwed wife to answer to thy call, — Say I was proud, and spurn'd thee from my side ; GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 25 Say that the love between us snapp'd and died, As dies a tune, as snaps the strained chord Of some wild harp, — too weak to be restored. Nay ! say this, too : I claim no part in thee, For I would liefer trust a wave at sea, A pent-up fire, a raging famish'd bear, Than thy false heart !— I lov'd thy raven hair ; I hate it now. I lov'd thy hand so white, Thy face, thy form, — thy flattery, day and night, — And thy dark eyes and alabaster brow ; Be God my witness how I hate them now ! " He stood transfix'd ; he quiver'd as he heard. He made as he would speak some ruffian word, Some word uncased by torture from his soul, Beyond the boundaries of his blood's control. But with a groan he conquered this intent, And smiled on her, as some reflex is sent From westward skies, at waning of the day, When winds of winter spurn the clouds away. " Let us be friends," he urged, with lifted head, " For Love's sweet sake, for Love that was not dead That night in June ! — for Love that lured us on To deeds that wreck'd us on the shores of dawn 1 E'en for that love, I say, be generous now, And grant some liking, though the Fates allow Small time for rapture. Say ! shall this be done, And we forget the dream that made us One ? " * ' Hence ! Quit my sight ! " she cried, as with her hand She waved him back — white-heated, fair and grand, As some sweet lady whom a clown has vex'd — "Away, — thou boor ! " One moment, and the next, He stood full-height ; and then, with half a stare, And half a scowl, out-saunter' d in the air. ' ' She must be mad, " he thought ; and, slow, retraced 126 GLADYS THE SINGER. His measured steps, athwart the shingly waste. But she leapt foward, like a stricken deer, With one great cry, brow-beaten in her fear, And yet transformed to something half divine. For Love had torn the darkness for a sign, And, sharp within her soul, a something stirr'd Like wounded wings of some imprison'd bird. ' ' Come back ! Come back ! " she cried, and open flung The near-shut window, where the roses hung In their torn wreaths, " Come back and learn from me What no man knows, — what haply unto thee May bring content." But, shuddering tamely there, The wild cry fell ; and through her gold-like hair Her face look'd out, as, on a winter's night, The icy moon looks down through vapours white. ' ' Come back ! " she cried to that retreating form - Which heard her not ; and weird, and wan, and warm, She craned her neck to note the path he took, And sway'd herself, as sways beside a brook A lonely willow on a breathless day ; And with her lips she made as she would say : — " I was thy faithful wife, though wed in sport, As wives were wedded once in Arthur's court. Yet heed my plea ! Two hearts are knit in one In my poor frame." But utterance found she none ; And, ere ecstatic she could shape the words, And waft them forth as Summer wafts the birds, For joy, for memory, or for griefs control, Her face convuls'd and o'er her tottering soul The storm-cloud burst ; and tears shut out the light And so it came to pass, in her despite, That he ignored the secret, sad but sweet, Wherewith she ached at every pulse's beat. GLADYS THE SINGER. I ?>] And, later on, the breezes told the flowers How One who must have wept for many hours Fled through the wood. It was some sprite, — they said, — A nymph, a naiad, — One who, as she fled, O'er-ruled her grief, and watch'd, with aching sight, The blood-red moon go down into the night. 12:3 GLADYS THE SINGER. CANTO SECOND. Again the spring-time with its songs of love Had come and gone ; again the cooing dove Had called its nestling on the sheenful breeze ; Again the waves of the careering seas Had storm'd the coast with shouts of loud acclaim, What time the winter- wind, in ocean's name, Hurled out defiance ; and the queen of heaven, The maiden- moon, entranced or in a sweveu, Had paced the sky, from autumn unto spring, Unclaim'd of men, uncrowned of any king, And only lov'd aright by loveless maids. And once again the rapture of the glades, — The rout and revel of the spring-decades, — Had fill'd and thrill'd the air with such delight As makes a tourney of the day and night When gale confronts with gale at equinox, And all the cliffs, and all the seaward rocks Have thuds of joy ! Again the forest yearn'd For sight of summer, and the roses burn'd On many a hedge, whereon the mounting sun Pat forth his trophies. For the world had won Full right to cling thereto, as golden-fleeced, The rapt Hyperion leapt from out the East. Earth and the sky had call'd him ; and the land Had smiled, expectant ; and the ocean-strand GLADYS THE SINGER. I 29 Had bared her bosom to the sun's caress : And wind and wave had counted tress on tress Of his long hair, and made a chant thereof Warm, aye ! and wanton as the songs of love Which sibyls sing. And soft the breezes crept From rock to rock, where over-night had slept A white sea-fog, and where, in summer days, The blue hare-bell would sound the Maker's praise In chimes unheard by pedants, but aright Guessed-at by bards. — The hill was all alight With blazing furze, that keeps the sun in sight, And seems to thrill with sunshine after dark ; And, far away, the lilting of the lark, The prophet-bird, the singer of the dawn, Invested Heaven, as if its mate had gone Straight through the sky, and must be ravish'd back. And lo ! dishevell'd on the upland track, A weary woman with a load of joy : — • A Phceban gift — a bright-eyed baby-boy, With clustering curls ! And she who bore the child Was fair and comely, though with something wild In her blue eyes, and something in her gait That spoke of watchfulness endured of late, As if the ghost of terror had pursued Her faltering steps, and agony, at feud With fairer things, andsapp'd within her mind The girlish thoughts that link'd her to her kind. " Here let us rest," she cried, as on a knoll She bent her down, " and I will ease my soul Of half its weight, and ease my body, too, Of its fond burden. For I tell thee true, Mine own sweet babe ! that, in this heart of mine, Are tears unnumber'd, sharper than the brine Of salt sea- winds, and fiercer than the flames Of twenty fires; and there are fitful names, — 9 I3O GLADYS THE SINGER. If I could find them, — for my many blames. Dost see, my Roland ! yonder on the ridge, This side the forest, near the broken bridge, That princely tower ? The keys thereof are ours, — If we demand them, — all the roofs and towers, Yea, all the landscape, all the shining land, All ours for ever, if we lift a hand. But shall we lift it ? Shall we make appeal To one who hates us — one who will not kneel For God's high quittance — and beyond his pelf, Hath nought to love, or pray for, but himself ?" While thus she parley 'd with the tender elf Who call'd her " Mother," and was all she had, This side eternity, to keep her glad, Shudders oppressed her, and there came a sound Of leaves and twigs in ear-shot of the mound Where she was throned. And lo ! towards her came A faggot-woman, old and cold and lame, Who seem'd the ghost of some dead winter's day Return'd to life, to lead the world astray, And mar good thoughts. The beldam looked at her. And snarled, aggressive, as a famished cur Which no man loves. "Wilt do a deed for me," The girl inquired, "and earn a golden fee This happy morn ? I see thou wilt do this ; For thou art pleased, as when a dream of bliss Comes to a child. Aye ! aye ! the world is sad. I know 'tis so ! But gold will make thee glad." With this she tore a leaflet from a book, And wrote as follows, while her bosom shook With fears untold : — " If thou remember now A dream long dead, — a broken, foolish vow, — A poor, pale ghost who, in the years gone by, GLADYS THE SINGER. 131 Was known as Gladys, — quit thy turret high, And seek, this day, the place thou knowest well : The Witches' Cave, the ante-room of Hell, — If Heaven and Hell be one thing and the same, And hope a snare, and misery but a name ! I have a lustrous jewel here with me Which bears thy mark ; a thing so fair to see That many a man of pride would sell for this All things he hath, and all his chance of bliss In worlds far off. But yet, oh ! read me right, And heed me well. This is no fools delight, And no poor treasure from the marts of men, That now I speak of; for a poet's pen, A painter's brush, a sculptor's art divine, Alone were fit to vaunt this gem of mine. A rapturous burst of music at a shrine Might make it clear, and earth would understand ! But I must place it in a surer hand Than this I write with ; and I pray thee now, If thou remember still a midnight vow Which once was thine — which God and I alone Heard thee pronounce, albeit in under-tone — Come with the dame ; but come as comes a man Who clears a path for Caesar in the van Of utmost truth." Herewith she tied the scrip, And kiss'd it fondly, with revering lip, As one, in prayer, may kiss a holy thing, — - And therewithal she smiled as dryad Spring May smile on Winter when the months are young, And re-addressed, with her persuading tongue, That aged dame : — "Go, take with thee, I pray, This scroll I give thee, and in haste convey To yonder tower. Its master knows I'm here, And he will come to where the sea-weed sere 132 GLADYS THE SINGER. Thrills to the blast, and hisses to the sea : — But make no further talk of mine or me, Save this alone : — Thou'st seen me on my way To find a cavern where, from day to day, Strange things were plann'd. He knows what I would say ! Hence, then, and quickly ; and return with him." The ancient woman, cold in every limb And twitch'd by palsy, with a feeble laugh, Made mouths at her, and fumbling with her staff, Did name high God ! The world's a-full of such : — Women and men, unseemly to the touch, Unkempt, uncanny, girt about with woe, And smirch'd with mud, who yet are proud to know Some far-off Duke, who threats them with a rod And claims their toil. E'en so she talk'd of God ! But when she'd gone, that other caught the boy Quick in her arms, as one may catch a toy, And caird it " King," and " Sweetheart, " and enlaced Her fair, fond arms around him, tender-faced ; And he, whose eyes in rapture seem'd to float, Caught at the chain that pended from her throat, And played therewith, and seiz'd, and open'd wide, A golden trinket, where a face of pride Look'd out in smiles, as faces in a dream Invest the darkness and absorb the beam Of some set sun ; and thus that woman fair Resumed her talk, and covered with her hair The baby-face which look'd into her own : — " He is thy father, child ! though all unknown, Thine unkind father who, in summers flown, Made me his plaything ! Oh, he'll make thee great, And treat thee as a lord of high estate ! There ! weep not, Sweet ! My tears are foolish ones. All hopes are sound ; all fathers love their sons, GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 33 And thine will love thee when he comes to-day And scans thy face, and mine so far away ! " These latter words she spoke beneath her breath, And as she paus'd a pallor, like to death, Came o'er her cheek. There seem'd to surge to her The far-off sound of some sea-sepulchre, The thud of waters, and the thrill of tides In lonely haunts, where Ocean over-rides Her ghastly wrecks. She swoon 'd into herself, With eyes out-staring to a broken shelf Of piled-up cloud, on which the sun had smiled ; And then, with feverous haste, she snatched the child Forth from its couch among the flow'rets fair, And bore it seaward, and was quickly there In that same nook whereof she wrote the name — The Witches' Cave — the landmark of a shame She lov'd more dearly now the worst was known Than halcyon bards, or kings upon a throne Love their dominions ; and within the niche, All poor with weeds, she placed the jewel rich Whereof she spake. The child into a trance Of loveliest sleep had fall 'n ; and now, askance She gazed upon it, as she wrapp'd it round In her red scarf, and laid a packet bound With golden thread beside it ; and, with tears, Kiss'd it in silence — lest the dimpled fears, There hush'd in slumber, should awake to pry And thwart her purpose. Ah ! 'twere sweet to die, To save from drowning, or to snatch from fire This life-long treasure ; but, in penance dire, To leave it thus ! To thrust it on its sire, And then to shun it ? And for what ? A dream, — 134 GLADYS THE SINGER. A chance, — a hope, — a certitude, — a beam Of far-off light ! " He will be poor," she thought, " If I live on ; but rich, and richly taught, And fondly cared for, if I die for him. So let me fare, O God ! where none may dim Dead people's eyes, and let Thy will be will'd, E'en as the tempest in the night was still' d At Thy Son's coming ! " And she bow'd her head, And wept afresh, as weeps, when day is dead, A sunset cloud ; and, shuddering and abyss'd In her own soul, re-touch'd the child and kiss'd, With desolate dull moaning of wild pain ; And, like a woman with the curse of Cain Full in her heart, out-leapt into the sun And sought the ocean. All her hair undone, And pale and proud, with bosom-folded hands, She stood in water on the woeful sands; And, ankle-deep, survey'd the glittering sea, What time the wind uprose upon the lea. " O God ! " she murmur'd, as she waded in, " Take Thou my soul ; absolve me of my sin, And make me fit to join, when I am gone, The ranks of those who wait, unfrown'd upon, In deathful shades, in hope to reconcile Their clamorous past with Thine eternal smile ! " She turned her face to shoreward, and awhile Shed tears that scathed her, as they struggled through Their eyelids' fringe ; and, for a space or two, Paused there inert. "I will be brave," she said, And journey'd on, "I will confront the dead, In true-love fashion ! I will smile to-day, And sing the songs of madness born in May, The mirth of madness when the world was young, And flower and field and ford had found a tongue ; GLADYS THE SINGER. I35 And each created thing had tuned its voice To praise its Maker. For I die by choice. I go to meet the ghosts of my despairs. My murder'd hopes, my unregarded cares ! No man has wrought my death ! — no woman's guile Has sear'd my soul.'' Then, with a kind of smile, That twitch'd her mouth, and sadden'd all her face, She sang the song of Death's abiding-place, — A song of sorrow which, in days gone by, Her lute had thrill'd to, — sigh with cadence-sigh New knit in chorus. But to-day the sea, The wind-struck sea, made all its chords agree With that one rapture ; and the sounds thereof Were sad to hear as sighs that speak of love. Song. There is a land beyond the rising moon, A land of glory which the angels know ; — A floating wonder like a dream of June, The joys whereof will greet me in my swoon. 11. A white sea-bird, a sea-gull overhead, May chirp at me to twit me with a doubt, But I shall smile upon my foamful bed, And all the waves will know that I am dead. 136 GLADYS THE SINGER. III. The sun, all day, will see me where I go, And, one by one, the stars will peep at me, And I shall soon be whitened like the snow, Though weird and wild with wandering to and fro. By this the water, bubbling to her knees, Broke into ripples, which the venturous breeze Edged as with lace — so dainty was the foam. A wintry wind had comb'd it like a comb ; But this light breeze, careering o'er the spray, Turn'd it to silver 'mid the crooning lay Of that lone creature on her foam-ward way. Song. Love, my Master, O my Chosen One, O thou to whom my thoughts, to-day, are turn'd ! 1 stand out here with all my cravings done, And all my fevers quench'd beneath the sun. 11. I am not mad ; nor am I — as I seem — The ghost of gladness, or the bane thereof. I hear the shouts of men, as in a dream, And, far away, the sea-bird's sudden scream. in. I am the wicked rose that lov'd the Dark, And lost its color, aye ! its blushing power, And therewithal its kinship to the lark ! I am the night- wind's, and I bear its mark. GLADYS THE SINGER. I37 But now the water— clamoring to the ends Of her long hair — appear'd to make amends For its late calm ; and lashed her on the side. It was the buffet of the clamorous tide, The full tide, ebbing now, that sought the sea, As late the beach was sought — a moment's glee Whipp'd into foam ! But, unaffray'd at this, She smiled and said : — " It was an ocean-kiss ; This, and no more. " And, with an aching heart, She sang — with rapture that was once a part Of her stage life by men remembered well — The silvery cadence of her ocean-knell. Song. 1. O sweet my Son ! my darling ! dead to me, But saved for him, as flowers are saved for God ; How like a fete-day will thy finding be When I'm at rest out yonder in the sea. 11. Thou art the one sweet thing on all the earth, The pride of summer,and the winter's balm ; A glimpse of Heaven, a glory from thy birth, Without a peer in sadness or in mirth. in. Had I a thousand lives instead of one, A thousand deaths to die to cancel thine, I'd give them all, aye ! freely as a nun Gives all she hath for great Jehovah's Son. And, fever-fraught, with wildly streaming hair, She flung these notes ecstatic through the air. i38 gladys the singer. Song. 1. This is the end of all my many fears. And this the charter of my right to die — To seek a solace, out beyond the spheres, And kill the scandals of my twenty years. . 11. This is my penance, this ! and my delight, To sail the deep for searching of a tomb — And through the mirk, the madness of the night ! Up to the waist she stood in that expanse Of wan sea-water, piteous in her glance, And weary-limb'd, and shuddering to the soul. For, far away, she eyed the ocean-goal Whereto she thirsted with so wan a lip — The straight sea-line whereto a fleecy ship E'en now made way with homeward-sailing men ; And all the blood within her falter'd then. ' ' Shall I go back, " she thought, ' ' and claim my boy, And dare the worst of all the world's annoy — ■ And front his father, and confide in him ? Shall I do this and turn me from the rim Of this dark wave now bearing full on me, And seek a dwelling far from any sea — Unknown to him ? " She stagger'd from the wave That reel'd about her like a rolling grave, And swerv'd aside to give it passage clear. " O God ! "she mused, half palsied in her fear, GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 39 "I have o'erstepped mv doom; and now for this I shall be tumbled in the seething hiss Of tides tumultuous, and a Nothing be, A wide-eyed Nothing on the doubtful sea ! " Therewith she met the breakers' dark advance Which seem'd to tilt and turn to her, askance. And one of these assail'd her with the shocks Of foam-fed wrath, and hurl'd her at the rocks, And dragg'd her down, low-gurgling in the strain Of imminent death, and roar'd at her amain ; And made more havoc of her shining hair Than lovers' hands w r hich murder while they spare: Wild, wanton hands of wooers like the one For whom, to-day, she died beneath the sun, In fierce enthralment. But she rose anew Prone on her back, aghast, and pale of hue, And out to sea— a lifeless thing, and mild, With oozing lips, and eyes that ever smiled — She slowly drifted — soon to face the stars, And soon to front the moon athwart the bars Of feathery cloud and opal-tinted mist. But nevermore on earth should she be kiss'd, And never more be seen in any lands, And never more be touch'd by baby-hands ! Meantime the child, abandoned in the cave Lay lock'd in slumber, spared by wind and wave, And snugly-housed as eaglets in the bliss Of their nest-thrall, though near a precipice, Or rock-suspended in an Alpine wood. And lo ! at entrance of the cave there stood A silent man, with white and wistful face, Who seem'd to know the secrets of the place And all the hopes which lit it, lantern-wise. He paused an instant, and, with eager eyes, Peer'd in the grot, but saw no woman there, I4-0 GLADYS THE SINGER. Only the child, which gave him stare for stare, And clench'd its fist, new-waken'd out of sleep ; And, as he enter'd, he was like to weep, With thoughts contentious. He undid the scroll, And read these words : " O Roland ! O my soul ! Lord of my life, my Liege, my King of Men ! If thou be he who met me in the glen, And not a dream, a phantom, or a fiend, Accept of me this boy that I have screen'd From birth till now, and take him to thyself, And love him as a Ghibelline, or Guelf, May love his heir. Our Saviour said, of old, ' ' Forbid them not ! " and took into His fold All tender babes, and bless'd them with His steven, And call'd them God's elect, the lov'd of Heaven, Whom none on all the earth should drive away Prom His anointing, nightly or by day ! In life I err'd ; in death I make it clear How much I lov'd thee — more than honor dear, And more than wealth, which is the bane of youth, When, canker-like, it makes a lie a truth, And truth a lie, and hope a thing morose. I am not brave ; and yet, if one so close To Death's domain may dare to speak of Life, I know not fear. I am the Ocean's wife. I am the wife of every wanton wave That cares to touch me, though it may not save. Yet hear, oh, hear my plea ! My time will come. This babe of ours will speak when I am dumb, This baby-face will urge thee, with a smile, To think of me, and pray for me the while, As one enduring things that will endure. And, O my love ! of this, at least be sure : — I love thee still — for I will call thee mine GLADYS THE SINGER. 141 One moment more ! The place beyond the brine, The place that I shall know when I am dead, Will not affright me when my breath is sped. And lo ! I ask thy pardon ere I die. Meekly I crave it. For I made reply In words unseemly ; and I pray thee now Forget, forgive ! All wrongs I disallow ; Yea, all my griefs, and all the blame thereof, And all the pangs that seem'd to wait on love. Oh, heed me, Roland ! Heed me, and, to-day Let me be glad, and cast my doubts away, As all unfit to share my dreams of thee. And do thou pause ere thou condemn in me The headlong fault which guides me, Is't a sin ? If so, God help me ! Is't a fury-din Of mere mad waves, and no assured repose Beyond all these ? I know not ; for the shows Of life and death and darkness touch me not, As they did touch me ere I trod the spot Of our first meeting. But I yearn at last To this one hope — new-looming from the past — That thou It remove all scandal from the boy, When — by my death — I rid thee of annoy Henceforth for ever ! He will win his peace And thou thy comfort ; and, till summers cease, And winters weary of their woful chase, .He will be thine. Oh ! when he grows apace Let him be shown the picture of my face — The face I wore when I was lov'd of thee — And say I died, unhurt, beside the sea, Not in the sea itself — 'twould injure him To know too much ! In cloisters cold and dim Let laggards frown, but let the wise be gay ! I want my boy to laugh from day to day, And smile at Fear, and torture not himself 142 GLADYS THE SINGER. With baleful thoughts. And yet, to bring him pelf, I die unblest, unpray'd-for, in the flash Of one wild moment ! If the deed be rash, I do't in pity — not uncomforted ; For God, they say, protects when one is dead One's only child ! And thou ? Forgive me, Dear ! And love my boy — when I'm no longer here Aye, tell him, Roland ! tell him that I died A natural death, — and bless'd thee like a bride, And call'd on God to guard thee evermore ! " A shuddering sob convuls'd him to the core At these last words. " My wife ! my winsome wife ! Mine and not mine ! My wife ! " and then, at strife With his own grief, he fell before the child, And kissed and clasped him, and, in accents mild, Call'd him his angel, his predestined one, And bore him out triumphant to the sun, And stilled his cries by clamoring to the blast : — ' ' Come back ! Come back ! and turn'd a face aghast To that old hag who croaked upon the sands. And what the sequel of the love-demands Of that lorn letter ? Day by day, for weeks, The wifeless man, with sad and sunken cheeks, Sail'd o'er the deep ; and sought, in silent bays, And lonely creeks, the wooed and wish'd for gaze Of stranded Gladys ; but he gain'd thereby Naught but remorse, and shame that cannot die — Shame and despair and blistering of the soul Burnt through by tears — as though some burning coal Had fallen therein ! He was the fool of time And — like a man for whom in every chime Outrings a knell — he quaff d the wine of hope And found it poison. All his thoughts did grope In undug graves ; and, earthward and by sea, GLADYS THE SINGER. 1 43 No man was found on foot, or on his knee, At home — abroad — in sanctum or in pit Of lowliest labour, so untimely knit To thoughts of dole. And still the large-eyed corse Veer'd out to sea, as blind as his remorse — As deaf as danger, and as stiff and cold As lopp'd-off limbs of trees upon the mould. Yet she was hallow'd by the nights and days Of heavenward calm, and redden'd by the rays Of pitying suns, and look'd at, after dark, By Lady Dian in her crescent-bark. Aye ! she was cradled, for a week and more, On Ocean's breast, and then, amid the roar Of waves up-shuddering to the star-lit skies, Torn down in wrack, where Silence underlies All hopes and fears and frailties of the sod, This side the sanctum of the joys of God ! A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, man's Delight ! Fairest and first art thou in name and fame And none shall rob thee of thy vested right. Where is the man, though fifty times a king, Shall stay the tide, or countermand the spring ? And where is he, though fifty times a knave, Shall track thy steps to cast thee in a grave ? ii. Old as the sun art thou, and young as morn, And fresh as April when the breezes blow, And girt with glory like the growing corn, And undefiled like mountains made of snow. Oh, thou'rt the summer of the souls of men, And poor men's rights, approved by sword and pen, Are made self-certain as the day at noon, And fair to view as flowers that grow in June. in. Look, where erect and tall thy Symbol waits,* The gift of France to friends beyond the deep, *Bertoldi's Statue of Liberty in New York harbour. I48 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. A lofty presence at the ocean-gates With lips of peace and eyes that cannot weep ; A new-born Tellus with uplifted arm To light the seas, and keep the land from harm — To light the coast at downfall of the day, And dower with dawn the darkening water-way. IV. O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, stern of vow! Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, And thou shall wear the lightning on thy brow! v. Who dares condemn thee with the puny breath Of one poor life, O thou untouched of Fate ! Who seeks to lure thee to a felon's death, And thou so splendid and so love-elate ? Who dares do this and live ? Who dares assail Thy star-kissed forehead, pure and marble-pale And thou so self-possessed 'mid all the stir, And like to Pallas born of Mulciber ? VI. Oh, I've beheld the sun, at setting time, Peep o'er the hills as if to say good-bye ; And I have hailed it with the sudden rhyme Of some new thought, full-freighted with a sigh. And I have mused : — E'en thus may Freedom fall, And darkness shroud it like a winter pall, And night o'erwhelm it, and the shades thereof Engulf the glories born of perfect love. A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 1 49 VII. But there's no fall for thee ; there is no tomb ; And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand. Thy face is fair with love s eternal bloom And thou shalt have all things at thy command. A tomb for thee ? Aye, when the sun is slain And lamps and fires make daylight on the plain, Then may'st thou die, O Freedom ! and for thee A tomb be found where fears and dangers be. VIII. O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, keen of sight ! Fairest and first art thou in natne and fame, And thou shalt tread the tempest in the night / IX. There shall be feasting and a sound of song In thy great cities ; and a voice divine Shall tell of freedom all the winter long, And fill the air with rapture as with wine. The spring shall hear it, spring shall hear the sound, And summer waft it o'er the flowerful ground ; And autumn pale shall shake her withered leaves On festal morns and star-bespangled eves. x. For thou 'rt the smile of Heaven when earth is dim — ■ The face of God reflected in the sea — The land s acclaim uplifted by the hymn Of some glad lark triumphant on the lea. I50 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. Thou art all this and more ! Thou art the goal Of earth's elected ones from pole to pole, The lute-string s voice, the world's primeval fire, And each man's hope, and every man's desire. XI. O proud and pure ! O gentle and sublime ! For thee and thine, O Freedom ! O my Joy ! For thee, Celestial ! on the shores of time A throne is built which no man shall destroy. Thou shalt be seen for miles and miles around And wield a sceptre, though of none be crowned. The waves shall know thee and the winds of Heaven Shall sing thee songs with mixed and mighty steven. XII. sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, ■ Mother and maid, immortal, unconfined I Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, And thou shall speed more swiftly than the wind! XIII. Who loves thee not is traitor to himself, Traitor is he to God and to the grave, Poor as a miser with his load of pelf, And. more unstable than a lee-ward wave. Cursed is he for aye, and his shall be A name of shame from sea to furthest sea, A name of scorn to all men under sun Whose upright souls have learnt to loath this one. A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 151 XIV. A thousand times, O Freedom ! have I turned To thy rapt face, and wished that, martyr- wise, I might achieve some glory, such as burned Within the depth of Gordon's azure eyes. Ah God ! how sweet it were to give thee life, To aid thy cause, self-sinking in the strife, Loving thee best, O Freedom ! and in tears Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years. xv. For thou art fearful, though so grand of soul, Fearful and fearless and the friend of men. The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control, And rich and poor shall take thy guidance then, Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar The fading lamp of some night- weary star, Which, prophet-like, has heard amid the dark The first faint prelude of the nested lark ? XVI. O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, prompt of thought ! Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, And thou shall lash the storm till it be nought/ XVII. O thou desired of men ! O thou supreme And true-toned spirit whom the bards revere ! At times thou com'st in likeness of a dream To urge rebellion, with a face austere ; I52 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY, And by that power thou hast — e'en by that power Which is the outcome of thy sovereign-dower — Thou teachest slaves, down-trodden, how to stand Lords of themselves in each chivalrous Land. XVIII. The leagued fleets and armies of the law, Which once were synonyms of pride and hate, Shall serve, ere long, to keep thy name in awe, And then collapse, as old and out of date. Yea ! this shall be ; for God has willed it so. And none shall touch thy flag, to lay it low ; And none shall rend thy robe that is to thee As dawn to day, as sunlight to the sea. XIX. O Freedom ! O thou grand and gracious thing ! • For love of thee all seas, and every shore, And all domains whereof the minstrels sing, Are linked to Man's requirements evermore. And there shall be, full soon, from north to south, From east to west, by Wisdom's word of mouth, One code of laws that all shall understand, And all the world shall be one Fatherland ! xx. sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, Mother and maid, immortal, sweet of breath 1 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, And thou shall pluck Redemption out of Death > f MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ANTEROS. This is the feast-day of my soul and me, For I am half a god and half a man. These are the hours in which are heard by sea, By land and wave, and in the realms of space, The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span, ^.nd give me power to sway the human race., ii. I am the king whom men call Lucifer, I am the genius of the nether spheres. Give me my Christian name, and I demur. Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice. Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice. in. I am old Anteros ; a young, old god ; A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch. But I can turn my crutch into a rod, And change my rod into a crown of wood. Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch, And plays with poisons till he makes them good. i 5 6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. The sun, uprising with his golden hair, Is mine apostle ; and he serves me well. Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare, Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought, Has pined for love ; and wanderers out of hell, And saints from heaven, have known what I have taught. v. Great are my griefs ; my joys are multiplex ; And beasts and birds and men my subjects are; Yea, all created things that have a sex, And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere ; All these, and more, proclaim me from afar, And sing my marriage songs from year to year. VI. There are no bridals but the ones I make ; For men are quicken'd when they turn to me. The soul obeys me for its body's sake, And each is form'd for each, as day for night. 'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee To win the wisdom of a fool's delight. VII. Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down, And birds have babbled it to the winds of heaven. The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town, Lovers have sung the songs that I have made. Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven, Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 57 VIII. O men ! O maidens ! O ye listless ones ! Ye who desert my temples m the East, Ye who reject the rays of summer suns, And cling to shadows in the wilderness ; Why are ye sad ? Why frown ye at the feast, Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press ? IX. Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove, A joy that crushes and a love that stings, A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove, A thing of nothing, born of less than naught — Why in your hearts do ye desire these things, Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought ? See, see ! I weep, but I can jest at times ; Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away. The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown. I am the god for whom all maidens pray, But none shall have me for herself alone. XI. No ; 1 have love enough, here where I stand, To marry fifty maids in their degree ; Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band, And every bride the proxy of a score. Want ye a mate for millions ? I am he. Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore. I58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XII. O men ! O masters ! O ye kings of grief ! Ye who control the world but not the grave, What have ye done to make delight so brief, Ye who have spurn' d the minstrel and the lyre? I will not say : "Be patient. " Ye are brave ; And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire. XIII. There shall be traitors in the court of love, And tears and tortures and the bliss of pain. The maids of men shall seek the gods above, And drink the nectar of the golden lake. Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake. XIV. They shall be taught the songs the syrens know, The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry, The secrets of the south and of the snow, The wherewithal of day, and death, and night. O men ! O maidens ! pray no prayer for me, But sing to me the songs of my delight. xv. Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear, And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven. And let the singers, with a voice of cheer, Announce my name to all the ends of earth ; And let my servants, seventy times and seven, Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 59 XVI. Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame, Seize all the souls of men for sake of me. For I will have Contention put to shame, And all the hearts of all things comforted. There are no laws but mine on land and sea, And men shall crown me when their kings are dead. l6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MY LADY IN WRATH. i. O fairest and fondest of nymphs, whom the birds and the breezes adore, Be patient with me for a space, ah ! be loving and true as of yore ; For if thou art slow to forgive and quick to recall an offence, Remember at least I am thine to the uttermost throb- bing of sense ! ii. I am thine in the light of the past, in the light of the future I'm thine ; And I kneel to thine image to-day, as a hermit may kneel at a shrine. And I know there is safety therein for a man who is stricken of Fate, And a comfort for one of us twain in the timely sup- pression of hate. in. Thou didst call me thy singer of old, and, indeed, I was proud of the name, But to-day I have fashioned a song as a victor may fashion a fame. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6l And behold ! it is marred in its flight as a bird that has broken its wings, And the chords of the lute are entranced with the weight of the wonder of things. IV. And yet it is true, as 1 live ! I was chosen by thee and ordained ; I was girt by the gleam of thy hair ; in the meshes thereof I was chained. At the sound of thy voice I was thrilled, and the thrilling thereof was astir With the meanings of many delights that the summer was soon to confer. Love ! by the token of tears and the touch of a vanished content, By the arrow that flies to the mark when the bow of the spoiler is bent ; By the dreams I am loth to discard, by the woes I am fain to rehearse, 1 implore thee, be gentle in time, that my life may be freed of thy curse ! VI. I remember how cold it became when I saw thee in silence depart ; And I felt as I bade thee adieu that the linnet was breaking my heart. 1 1 I 62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For the song that it sang- was a dirge, though it seemed to be singing of June, And the breezes had caught the despair that was hid in the depths of the tune. VII. I was moved ; I was like to go mad ! I was learning my lesson by rote ; And I wondered how soon I should die, as I stifled the sob in my throat. For a dove may be angered — I learned — and a saint may forget to be kind, And a lily may dream of the snow while the summer's afloat on the wind ! VIII. It was shown in the days that are gone, it was known in the nights that are passed, It was proved in the pomp of the sun and the mystical moan of the blast ; But now it is also revealed that a rose may remember its thorn — And I weep when I think of it all in the hush of the coming of morn. IX. I will turn to the truths that endure, for the sake of thy love I will turn, To the sweetness and comfort of tears, — and the teachings thereof I will learn. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 63 For a man must be hard as a rock and callous as one who is dead If he cannot be thankful at last for the tears he is prompted to shed. x. Aye, lady! believe it of me : I would rather be slain in the night, I would rather be thrown in the sea when the hurri- cane's ready to smite, I would rather be hunted of wolves, in a winter of havoc and dearth. Than endure the disdain of an hour from the sweetest of women on earth ! XI. So come to me, come, O my Joy ! in the morrow that waits for us both, And the Future will pardon the Past for the seeming collapse of an oath ; And the hope that is centred in thee, when the right to invest it is won, Will illumine and gladden the world with a glory sur- passing the sun ! 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE WAKING OF THE LARK. O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, does pre- pare thee — As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee — Oh ! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ? Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows ? 11. Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow, And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow ; But thou art not a prophet, thou, If naught but joy can touch thee now ; If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish. in. Oh ! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted, The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6z But thou art still the slave of dawn, And canst not sing till night be gone. Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver. IV. Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splen- dour, And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her. The moon, so sad and silver-pale, Is mistress of the nightingale ; And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness. v. For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring ; And thou'rt as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring. The daisy, with its hood undone, The grass, the sunlight, and the sun — These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing. VI. Oh, hush ! Oh, hush ! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance — A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assistance ; A sound that wells from happy throats, A flood of song where beauty floats, And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river. 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VII. This is the advent of the lark — the priest in grey apparel — Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer carol ; This is the prelude to the lay The birds did sing in Caesar's day, And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation. VIII. O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated, Oh ! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be con- secrated ; Till from the gateways of the morn, The sun, with all his light unshorn, His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l6j A BALLAD OF KISSES. There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing - their secrets as I go. The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow. ii. The second kiss, ah God ! I feel it yet, And evermore my soul will loathe the same. The toys and joys of fate I may forget, But not the touch of that divided shame : It clove my lips ; it burnt me like a flame. in. The third, the final kiss, is one I use Morning and noon and night ; and not amiss. Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse ! And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss, Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss. 1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MARY ARDEN. O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days And parted nights, long - sped, we lift our gaze, Behold ! I greet thee with a modern rhyme. Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, To solemnize the feast-day of thy son. ii. And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles Of thy fair face ? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles, Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone Of all the seas and all the lands of earth. in. He was unfamous when he came to thee, But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, A week before the wondrous month of May ; And God therein was gracious to us all. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 69 IV. fie lov'd thee, Lady ! and he lov'd the world ; And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd ; And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn, In all the far-off cycles yet to come. v. He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, A hundred mottoes from immortal lips ; And, year by year, we smile to keep away The generous tears that mind us of the sway Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof. VI. His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece Of grand endeavour ; and the thunder-roll Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, Have borne the tidings of our English tongue. VII. He gave us Hamlet ; and he taught us more Than schools have taught us ; and his fairy-lore Was fraught with science ; and he called from death Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath Of their great passion that has rilled the spheres. JO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VIII. He made us know Cordelia, and the man Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban • And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd Maidens and men and myths who were revered In olden days, before the earth was sad. IX. Aye ! this is true. It was ordained so ; He was thine own, three hundred years ago ; But ours to-day ; and ours till earth be red With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead, And days and nights be scattered like the leaves. x. It was for this he lived, for this he died : To raise to Heaven the face that never lied, To lean to earth the lips that should become Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb, And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay. XI. He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives, And gave them each a space wherein to dwell And for his mother's sake he loved them well And made them types undying of all truth. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 XII. O fair and fond young mother of the boy Who wrought all this — O Mary ! — in thy joy Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best Of all men's chanting since the world began ? XIII. Did'st thou, O Mary ! with the eye of trust Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, And all the pride therein that should be won By toilsome men, content to be his slaves ? XIV. Did'st thou, good mother ! in the tender ways That women find to fill the fleeting days, Behold afar the Giant who should rise With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, To write his name, and thine, among the stars ? xv. I love to think it ; and, in dreams at night I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, As if to draw him back from out the storm — A child again, and thine to nurse withal. 172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XVI. I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, And big, bright eyes — far-searching in the air For thy sweet babe — and, in a trice of time, I see the boy advance to thee, and climb, And call thee " Mother ! " in ecstatic tones. XVII. Yet, if my thought be vain — if, by a touch Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch — Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit ! and endow My heart with fervour while to thee I bow Athwart the threshold of my fading dream. XVIII. For — though so seeming-bold in this my song — I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar, The famed effulgence of that eastern star Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens. XIX. In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Endowed with life, but with the look of one Who knows the nearest way to some new grave. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 73 XX. And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of thy full beauty, while the mother's " Hush ! Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith ! XXI Oh ! by the June-tide splendour of thy face When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace Did leap and laugh — O Mary ! by the same, I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, And call thee England's Pride for evermore ! 174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SACHAL. A WAIF OF BATTLE. Lo ! at my feet, A something pale of hue ; A something sad to view ; Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet. ii. Not white as snow ; Not transient as a tear ! A warrior left it here. It was his passport ere he met the foe. in. Here is a name, A word upon the book ; If ye but kneel to look, Ye '11 find the letters " Sachal " on the same. IV. His Land to cherish, He died at twenty-seven. There are no wars in Heaven, But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish. • MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 75 V. Where was he born ? In France, at Puy le Dome, A wanderer from his home, He found a Fatherland beyond the morn. VI. 'Twas France's plan ; The cause he did not ask. His life was but a mask, And he upraised it, martyr d at Sedan ; VII. And prone in death, Beyond the name of France, Beyond his hero glance — He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath. VIII. O thou dead son ! O Sachal ! far away, But not forgot to-day, I had a mother too, but now have none. IX. Our hopes are brave. Our faiths are braver still. The soul shall no man kill ; For God will find us, each one in his grave. I76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A land more vast Than Europe's kingdoms are — A brighter, nobler star Than victory's fearful light — is thine at last. XL And should'st thou meet Yon Germans up on high — Thy foes when death was nigh — Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat. XII. For all are just, Yea, all are patriots there, And thou, O Fils de Pierre ! Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust. XIII. Oh, farewell, friend ; My friend, albeit unknown, Save in thy death alone, Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end. XIV. In realms of joy We'll meet ; aye, every one : Mother and sire and son, — And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 77 XV. Death leads to God. Death is the Sword of Fate. Death is the Golden Gate That opens up to glory, through the sod. XVI. And thou that road, O Sachal ! thou hast found ; A king is not so crown'd As thou art, soldier ! in thy blest abode. XVII. Deathless in death, Exalted, not destroyed, Thou art in Heaven employed, To swell the songs of angels with thy breath! 12 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE LADY OF THE MAY. O stars that fade in amber skies Because ye dread the light of day, O moon so lonely and so wise, Look down, and love my Love alway ; Salute the Lady of the May. 11. O lark that soarest in the light To hail thy lord in his array, Look down ; be just ; and sing aright A lover claims thy song to-day To greet his Lady of the May. in. " O lady ! lady ! " sings the lark, " Thy lover's hest I do obey ; For thou art splendid after dark, And where thou smilest, there is day ; And thou 'rt the Lady of the May. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV " The nightingale's a friend of mine, And yesternight she flew my way. 'Awake,' she cried, ' at morning shine, And sing for me thy blythest lay To greet the Lady of the May. ' v. " 'And tell her, tell her, gentle one, While thou attun'st thy morning lay, That I will sing at set of sun Another song for thy sweet fay, Because she's Lady of the May.' VI. "And, lo! I come," the lark in air, Self-pois'd and free, did seem to say, " I come to greet thy lady's hair And call its beams the light of day Which decks thy Lady of the May. " VII. 179 Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well ! For all thou say'st and still would'st say And for the thoughts which Philomel Intends to trill, in roundelay, To greet my Lady of the May. l8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VIII. We two (my Love and I) are one, And so shall be, for aye and aye. Go, take my homage to the sun, And bid him shine his best to-day, To crown my Lady of the May ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. l8l AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN. I who have sung of love and lady bright, And mirth and music and the world's delight, Behold ! to-day, I sound a sterner note To move the minds of foemen when they fight. n. Have I not said : There is no sweeter thing, And none diviner than the wedding-ring ? And, all intent to make my meaning plain, Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King ? in. Yea, tjiis is so. But lo ! to-day there comes The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums ; And I must parley with the men of toil Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums. IV. I must arraign each man ; yea, all the host ; And each true soul shall learn the least and most Of all his wrongs — if wrongs indeed they be ; And he shall face, the flag that guards the coast. I 82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. V. He shall salute it ! He shall find therein Salve for his wounds and solace for his sin. Brother and guide is he who loves his Land ; But he is kinless who denies his kin. VI. Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend, And will not trust his country to the end ? If this be so, God help him to a tear ! He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend. VII. Bears he a sword ? I care not. He is base ; Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place Than tongue may tell of, in the Senate House And he shall find no balm for his disgrace. VIII. O men ! I charge ye, in the name of Him % Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim, I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim. IX. Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons, The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns, And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea ? Your country ! through her lov'd, her chosen ones. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 83 Oh, ye are dastards if ye lift a hand, Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a band, Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm. Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand. XL I have a sword, I also, and I swear By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair, That I will strike the first of ye that moves, If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear. XII. In Freedom's name, in hers to whom we bow, In her great name, I charge ye, palter now With no traducer of your country's cause. Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow i 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, ZULALIE. 1. I am the sprite That reigns at night, My body is fair for man's delight. I leap and laugh As the wine I quaff, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 11. I curse and swear In my demon-lair ; I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair. I madden the old, I gladden the bold, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. in. Of churchyard stone I have made my throne ; My locks are looped with a dead man's bone. Mine eyes are red With the tears I shed, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 85 IV. In cities and camps I have lighted my lamps, My kisses are caught by kings and tramps. With rant and revel My hair I dishevel, And I am the queen of Astrofelle. My kisses are stains, Mine arms are chains, My forehead is fair and false like Cain's. My gain is loss, Mine honour is dross — And I am the queen of Astrofelle ! 1 86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO. See where Beethoven sits alone — a dream of days elysian, A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision — The man who strikes the potent chords which make the world, in wonder, Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouth- piece of the thunder. ii. He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is breaking ; He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no forsaking ; And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a token, He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever spoken. in. He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his seclusion, Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad confusion ; But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a declamation That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of their nation. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 87 IV. He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him, And, Romeo-like, he sought to die that she might then adore him ; But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not been proven, And would not change her name for his — Guiciardi for Beethoven. v. O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a world has treasured ! O sovereign of a grander realm than man has ever measured ! Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd in glory, The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal story. VI. Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all men discover To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover ; A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring ocean, And bid the stars discourse to tree's in words of man's emotion. VII. A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the seasons, Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's im- mortal reasons ; I 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A bard who knows no life but this : to love and be rejected, And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the elected. VIII. O poet heart ! O seraph soul ! by men and maids adored ! O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid forehead ! We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our gladness, To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown thee in thy sadness. IX. An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance, Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made Despair a science. Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large vibration, It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubilation. x. O Sire of Song ! Sonata-King ! Sublime and loving master; The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in dis- aster ; In thee were found the fires of thought — the splen- dours of endeavour — And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and for ever ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 89 A RHAPSODY OF DEATH. That phantoms fair, with radiant hair, May seek at midnight hour The sons of men, belov'd again, And give them holy power ; That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go, Is true as death, the prophet saith ; and God will have it so. 11. I For who be ye who doubt and prate ? O sages ! make it clear If ye be more than men of fate, Or less than men of cheer ; If ye be less than bird or beast ? O brothers ! make it plain If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain. in. You say there is no future state ; The clue ye fail to find. The flesh is here, and bones appear When graves are undermined. But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame — Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the same ? I9O MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. Ah ! facts are good, and reason's good, But fancy's stronger far j In weal or woe we only know We know not what we are. The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid ; The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd. v. But these, ye urge, are outward signs. Such signs are not for you. The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd By diamonds of the dew. The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete ; He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet ! VI. The sage can kill a thousand things, And tell the names of all ; And wrench away the wearied wings Of eagles when they fall ; And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree, And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea. VII. But can he set, by day or night, The clock-work of the skies ? Or bring the dead man back to sight With soul-invested eyes ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 191 Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death, And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath ? VIII. If he could do such deeds as these, He might, though poor and low, Explain the cause of Nature's laws, Which none shall ever know ; He might recall the vanish' d years by lifting of his hand, And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd. IX. But God is just. He burdens not The shoulders of the sage ; He pities him whose sight is dim ; He turns no second page. There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one ; The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun. x. The other needs a poet's eye, Like that of Milton blind ; The lieht of Faith which cannot die, Though doubts perplex the mind ; The eyesight of a little child ; a martyr's eye in dole, Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul ! 192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A PRAYER FOR LIGHT. Oh, give me light, to-day. or let me die — The light of love, the love-light of the sky — That I, at length, may see my darling's face One minute's space. 11. Have I not wept to know myself so weak That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold Her locks of gold ? in. Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed ? The soul can see — for souls are seraphim — When eyes are dim. IV. Oh, hush ! she comes. I know her. She is nigh. She brings me death, true heart, and I will die. She brings me love, for love and life are one Beyond the sun. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I 93 This is the measure, this, of all my joys : Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise. Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know Which path I go. VI. I cannot die if thou be not a-near, To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere. O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath Kiss me to death ! 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MIRAGE. 'Tis a legend of a lover, Tis a ballad to be sung, In the gloaming- — under cover — By a minstrel who is young ; By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue. n. I, who know it, think upon it, Not unhappy, tho' in tears, And I gather in a sonnet All the glory of the years ; And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears. in. Ah ! I see her as she faced me, In the sinless summer days, When her little hands embraced me, And I saddened at her gaze, Thinking, Sweet One ! will she love me when we walk in other ways ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 95 IV. Will she cling to me as kindly When the childish faith is lost ? Will she pray for me as blindly, Or but weigh the wish and cost, Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd ? Oh ! I swear by all I honour, By the graves that I endow, By the grace I set upon her, That I meant the early vow — Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now. VI. But her maiden troth is broken, And her mind is ill at ease, And she sends me back no token From her home beyond the seas ; And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees. VII. Yes, for pardon freely granted ; For she wrong'd me, understand. And my life is disenchanted, As I wander through the land With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band. I96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VIII. Hers was sweetest of sweet faces, Hers the tenderest eyes of all ! In her hair she had the traces Of a heavenly coronal, Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall. IX. She was fairer than a vision ; Like a vision, too, has flown. I, who flushed at her decision, Lo ! I languish here alone ; And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own. x. Not for her. sweet sainted creature ! Could I curse her to her face ? Could I look on form and feature, And deny the inner grace ? Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place. XI. And I told her, in mad fashion, That I loved her — would incline All my life to this one passion, And would kneel as at a shrine ; And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I97 XII. Now in dreams alone I meet her With my lowly human praise : She is sweeter and completer, And she smiles on me always ; But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days. 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS A MOTHER'S NAME. I love the sound ! The sweetest under Heaven, That name of mother — and the proudest, too. As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue, We still repeat the word, with tender steven. Dearest of friends ! dear mother ! what we do This side the grave, in purity of aim, Is glorified at last by thy good name. 11. But how forlorn the word, how full of woe, When she who bears it lies beneath the clod ! In vain the orphan child would call her so — She comes not back : her place is up with God. The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow ; The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod. Ah, lose not heart ! Some flowers may fade in gloom, But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 99 A SONG OF SERVITUDE. This is a song of serfs that I have made, A song of sympathy for grief and joy : — The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed, All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed. 11. There are no tyrants but the serving ones, There are no servants but the men who rule. The Captain conquers with his army's guns, But he himself is conquered by his sons. in. What is a parent but a daughter's slave, A son's retainer when the lad is ill ? The great Creator loves the good and brave, And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave. IV. The son is servant in his father's halls, The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work. The welkin wonders when the ocean calls, And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls. 2CO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. There are no " ups " in life, there are no "downs," For "high and " low " are words of like degree ; He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns, He is a king though nameless in the towns. VI. None is so lofty as the sage who prays, None so unhigh as he who will not kneel. The breeze is servant to the summer days, And he is bowed-to most who most obeys. VII. These are the maxims that I take to heart, Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own ; Love well thy work ; be truthful in the mart, And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart. VIII. None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate, Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth. Make friends with death ; and God, who is so great, He will assist thee to a nobler fate. IX. None are unfit to serve upon their knees The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear. The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees, And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201 X. All things are good ; all things incur a debt, And all must pay the same, or soon or late The sun will rise betimes, but he must set ; And man must seek the laws he would forget. XI. There are no mockeries in the universe, No false accounts, no errors that will thrive. The work we do, the good things we rehearse, Are boons of Nature basely named a curse. XII. "Give us our daily bread ! " the children pray, And mothers plead for them while thus they speak. But ' ' Give us work, O God ! " we men should say, That we may gain our bread from day to day. XIII. 'Tis not alone the crown that makes the kine; Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind. The lark who soars so high is quick to sing, And proud to yield allegiance to the spring. XIV. And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall, Athwart the dangers of the day's behests, Oh, let's not shirk, at joy's, or sorrow's, call, The service due to God who serves us all ! 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. SYLVIA IN THE WEST. What shall be done ? I dare not pray ; Nor shall I stint the pangs I feel. If prayers could alter night to day — Or black to white — I might appeal ; I might attempt to sway thy heart, And prove it mine, or claim a part. ii. I might attempt to urge on thee At least the chance of some redress An hour's revoke — a moment's plea — A smile to make my sorrows less. I might indeed be taught in time To blush for hope, as for a crime ! m. But thou art stone, though soft and fleet- A statue, not a maiden, thou ! A man may hear thy bosom beat When thou hast sworn some idle vow. But not for love, no ! not for this; For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 IV. I mean, thy friends will sell thy love, As loves are sold in England, here. A man will buy my golden dove — I doubt he'll find his bargain dear ! He'll lose the wine ; he'll buy the bowl, The life, the limbs, — but not the soul. So, take thy mate and all his wealth, And all the joys that wait on fame. Thou'lt weep — poor martyr d one ! — by stealth, And think of me, and shriek my name ; Yes, in his arms ! And wake, too late, To coax and kiss the man you hate. VI. By slow degrees, from year to year, From week to week, from night to night, He will be taught how dark and drear Is barter' d love — how sad to sight A perjured face ! He will be driven To compass Hell — and dream of Heaven. VII. But stand at God's high altar there, With saints around thee tall and sweet, I'll match thy pride with my despair, And drag thee down from glory's seat. Yea, thou shalt kneel ! Thy head shall bow As mine is bent in anguish now. 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VIII. What ! for thy sake have I forsworn My just ambition — all my joy, And all my hope from morn to morn, That seem'd a prize without alloy ? Have I done this ? I have ; and see ! I weep wild tears for thine and thee. IX. But I can school my soul to strength, And weep and wail as children do ; Be hard as stone, yet melt at length, And curb my pride as thou canst, too But I have faith, and thou hast none ; And I have joy, but thine is done. x. No marriage-bells ? No songs, you say ? No flowers to grace our bridal morn ? No wine ? No kiss? No wedding-day ? I care not ! Oaths are all forsworn ; And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white, I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night. XL And so I shall — Oh ! doubt not that. At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice. When screams the owl, when swoops the bat, When ghosts are out, Til curse thee thrice. And thou shalt hear ! — Aye, by my troth, One song will suit the 'souls of both. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 XII. I curse thy face ; I curse thy hair ; I curse thy lips that smile so well, Thy life, thy love and my despair, My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell ; My soul and thine ! — Ah, see ! though black, I take one half my curses back. XIII. For thou and I were form'd for hate, For love, for scorn ; no matter what. I am thy Fere and thou my Fate, And fire and flood shall harm us not. Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken, And fiends will sing thy requiem then. XIV. Yet think not Death will serve thy stead ; IT1 find thy grave, though wall'd in stone. I'll move thy mould to make my bed, And lie with thee long hours alone : — Long, lifeless hours ! Ah God, how free, How pale, how cold, thy lips will be ? xv. But graves are cells of truth and love, And men may talk no treason there. A corpse will wear no wedding-glove, A ghost will make no sign in air. But ghosts can pray ? Well, let them kneel ; They, too, must loathe the love they feel. 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XVI. Ah me ! to sleep and yet to wake, To live so long, and yet to die ; To sing- sad songs for Sylvia's sake, And yet no peace to gain thereby ! What have I done ? What left unsaid ? Nay, I will count my tears instead. XVII. Here is a word of wild design. Here is a threat ; 'twas meant to warn. Here is a fierce and freezing line, As hot as hate, as cold as scorn. Ah, friend ! forgive ; forbear my rhymes, But pray for me, sweet soul ! sometimes. XVIII. Had I a curse to spare to-day, (Which I have not) I'd use it now. I'd curse my hair, to turn it gray, I'd teach my back to bend and bow ; I'd make myself so old and thin That I should seem too sad to sin. XIX. And then we'd meet, we two, at night ; And I should know what saints have known. Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright, Or shriek to meet me there alone. I should not then be spurned for this Or want a smile, or need a kiss. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 XX. I should not then be fierce as fire, Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife ; My heart would throb with no desire, For care would cool the flush of life ; And I should love thee, spotless one, As pilgrims love some holy nun. XXI. Ah queen-like creature ! smile on me ; Be kind, be good ; I lov'd thee much. I thank thee, see ! on bended knee. I seek salvation in thy touch. And when I sleep, I watch thee come, And both are wild, and one is dumb. XXII. I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart ; I kiss thy lips and call thee mine. Of thy sweet soul I form a part, And my poor soul is part of thine. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! But let me be thy servant now. XXIII. What ! did I curse thy golden hair ? Well, then, the sun will set at noon ; The face that keeps the world so fair Is thine, not his ! he darkens soon. Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn, And day departs when thou art gone. 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XXIV. Oh ! had I groves in some sweet star That shines in Heaven the whole night through — A steed with wings — a golden car — A something wild and strange and true : — A fairy's wand — an angel's crown — I'd merge them all in thy renown. xxv. I'd give thee queens to wait on thee, And kings to kneel to thee in prayer, And seraph-boys by land and sea To do thy bidding — earth and air To pay thee homage — all the flowers — And all the nymphs in all the bowers. XXVI. And this our love should last for aye, And we should live these thousand years. We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day, And make the tour of all the spheres. We'd do strange things ! Sweet stars would shine, And Death would spare my love and thine. XXVII. But these are dreams ; and dreams are vain ; Mine most of all — so heed them not. Brave thoughts will die, though men complain, And mine was bold ! 'Tis now forgot. Well ; let me bless thee, ere I sleep, And give thee all my joys to keep. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 20Q XXVIII. I bless the house where thou wast born, I bless the hours of every night, And every hour from flush of morn Till death of day, for thy delight ; I bless the sunbeams as they shine, — So like those golden locks of thine ! XXIX. I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes, Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair, The light that shines in summer skies — In garden walks when thou art there— And all the grass beneath thy feet, And all the songs thou singes i, Sweet ! XXX. But blessing thus — ah, woe's the day ! — I know what tears I shall not shed, What flowers will bloom, and, — bright as they,- What bells will ring when I am dead. Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! But let me be thv minstrel now. 2 10 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ELEANORE. The forest flowers are faded all, The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, Eleanore ! I turn to thee, as to a bower : — Thou breathest beauty like a flower, Thou smilest like a happy hour, Eleanore ! ii. I turn to thee. I bless afar Thy name, which is my guiding-star, Eleanore ! And yet, ah God ! when thou art here I faint, I hold my breath for fear. Art thou some phantom wandering near, Eleanore ? in. Oh, take me to thy bosom fair ; Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, Eleanore ! There let me lie when I am dead, Those morning-beams about me spread, The glory of thy face overhead, Eleanore ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211 THE STATUE. See where my lady stands, Lifting her lustrous hands — Here let me bow. Image of truth and grace ! Maid with the angel-face ! Earth was no dwelling-place For such as thou. n. Ah, thou unhappy stone, Make now thy sorrows known Make known thy longing. Thou art the form of one Whom I, with hopes undone, Buried at set of sun — All the friends thronging. in. Thou art some Vision bright Lost out of Heaven at night, Far from thy race. 2 12 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Oft, when the others dance, Come I, with wistful glance, Fearful lest thou, perchance, Leave the dark place. iv. No ! thou wilt never flee, Earth has a charm for thee Why should we sever ? Years have I seen thee so, Making pretence to go, Lifting thine arms of snow- Voiceless for ever ! Here bring I all my cares, Here dream and say my prayers While the. bells toll. O thou beloved saint ! Let not my courage faint, Let not a shame, or taint, Injure my soul ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213 PABLO DE SARASATE. 1. Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, But are not sad with sadness of the years, Or hints of tears ? 11. He is a king^ or I mistake the sign, A king of song — a comrade of the Nine — The Muses' brother, and their youngest one, This side the sun. in. See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, His violin, which trembles like a lyre, And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, Belov'd so much ! iv. He stands full height ■; he draws it to his breast. Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest — A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end — To be his friend. v. And who can doubt the right it has to lie- So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, And there to shake its octaves into notes With bird-like throats ? 214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VI. Ah ! see how deftly, with his lifted bow, He strikes the cords of ecstasy and woe, And wakes the wailing of the sprite within That knows not sin. VII. A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands, A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, And, like a storm-wind hurrying- from the north, A shout breaks forth. VIII. It is the welcome that of old was given To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven The angel-choirs of those who serve aright The God of Light. IX. It is the large, loud utterance of a throng That loves a faith-employ 'd, impassion'd song ; A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad — Yet keeps us glad. x. For look I how bearded men and women fair Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer, And half are shamed in their so mean estate, • And he so great I XL This is the young Endymion out of Spain Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again, To re-intone the songs of other times In far-off climes r MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 2I 5 XII. To prove again that Music, by the plea Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea All shores of earth in one serene and grand Symphonic land. XIII. Oh ! hush the while ! Oh ! hush ! A bird has sung, A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue, And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight For sheer delight. XIV. A phantom bird ! 'Tis gone where all things go — The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd— All dreams at last. xv. The towers of light, the castles in the air, The queenly things with diamonds in their hair. The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art — All these depart. XVI. They seem'd to live ; and lo ! beyond recall, They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall, And : wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd, Though glory-kiss'd. XVII. O pride of Spain ! O wizard with a wand More fraught with fervours of the life beyond Than books have taught us in these tawdry days, Take thou my praise. 2l6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XVIII. Aye, take it, Pablo ! Though so poor a thing, 'Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring, When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all, Obey'd thy thrall. XIX. The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud Is God-inspired and glad, — but is not proud, — And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze, As thou dost these. xx. The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim, That men have brought to magnify thy name, Affect thee barely as an idle cheer Affects a seer. XXI. But thou art ours, O Pablo ! ours to-day, Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway ; And we must urge it by the right that brings Honour to kings. XXII. Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line ! * Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high. Good-night ! Good-bye ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 PRO PATRIA. AN ODE TO SWINBURNE. ["We have not, alack ! an ally to befriend us, And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. Let the German touch hands with the Gaul, And the fortress of England must fall. 3f» ths «F TJr $J? tJ» Louder and louder the noise of defiance "Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance, And bids us beware, and be warn'd, As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd." A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Swinburne.] Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again, And curb the tumults that are born in thee, That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain. 11. Are we not Britons born, when all is said, And thou the offspring of the knightly souls Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head ? in. O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath Did'st find the way to flout thy fathers' flag! Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith, To seem to triumph in thy country's death ? 2l8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. If none will speak for us, if none will say How much thy Muse has wrong'd us in its thought, 'Tis I will do it ; I will say thee nay, And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay. We own thy prowess ; for we've learnt by rote Song after song of thine ; and thou art great. But why this malice ? Why this wanton note Which seems to come like lava from thy throat ? VI. When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell ; We knew he feared us more than he contemned, He necked with fire each sentence as it fell, And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell VII. And we were proud of him, as France was proud ; Aye ! called him brother, though he loved us not. And we were thrilled when, ruthless from a cloud, The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud. viii. Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, But less than he as spokesman of his Land, For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong, And call'd it coward though its faith is strong. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 21 9 IX. England a coward ? O thou five foot five Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest ! Is she not girt with glory and alive To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive ? x. Thou art a bee — a bright, a golden thing With too much honey ; and the taste thereof Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing. XI. Oh, thou hast wrong'd us ; thou hast said of late More than is good for listeners to repeat. Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate, For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great. XII. We are not vile ! We, too, have hearts to feel ; And not in vain have men remember'd this. Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel, And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal. XIII. The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assail'd By wave and wind ; for bluster kills itself, But rocks endure. And England has prevail'd Times out of number, when her foes have failed. 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. XIV. And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found, Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun. And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round, And he was king of men, though never crown'd. xv. He lov'd the gracious earth from east to west, And all the seas thereof and all its shores. But most he lov'd the home that he possess'd, And, right or wrong, his country seem'd the best. xvi. He was content with Albion's classic land. He lov'd its flag. He veil'd its every fault. Yes ! he was proud to let its honour stand, And bring to light the wonders it had plann'd. xvn. Do thou thus much ; and deal no further pain ; But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth, And sooner let the life in thee be slain, Than strike at One who strikes thee not again. XVIIT. Thy land and mine, our England, is erect, And like a lordly thing she looks on thee, And sees thee number'd with her bards elect, And will not harm the brow that she has deck'd. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 221 XIX. She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird May make much music in the summer air, And how a curse may turn into a prayer. xx. Take back thy taunt, I say ; and with the same Accept our pardon ; or, if this offend, Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name. We have our country still, and thou thy fame ! 222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE LITTLE GRAVE. A little mound of earth Is all the land I own : Death gave it me — five feet by three- And mark'd it with a stone. ii. My home, my garden-grave, Where most I long to go ! The ground is mine by right divine, And Heaven will have it so. in. For here my darling sleeps, Unseen — arrayed in white — And o'er the grass the breezes pass, And stars look down at night. IV. Here Beauty, Love, and Joy, With her in silence dwell, As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves Of kings remember'd well. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 223 V. But here let no man come, My mourning rights to sever. Who lieth here is cold and dumb. Her dust is mine for ever ! 224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A DIRGE. Art thou lonely in thy tomb ? Art thou cold in such a gloom ? Rouse thee, then, and make me room,- Miserere Domine ! ii. Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep, Nameless things around thee creep, Yet be patient, do not weep, — Miserere Domine ! in. be faithful ! O be brave ! Naught shall harm thee in thy grave ; Let the restless spirits rave, — Miserere Domine ! IV. When my pilgrimage is done, When the grace of God is won, 1 will come to thee, my nun, — Miserere Domine ! v. Like a priest in flowing vest, Like a pale, unbidden guest, I will come to thee and rest, — Miserere Domine ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 225 DAISIES OUT AT SEA. These are the buds we bear beyond the surf — Enshrined in mould and turf — To take to fields far off, a land's salute Of high and vast repute — The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire, Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire, But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire. 11. O bright and gracious things that seem to glow With frills of winter snow, And little golden heads that know the sun, And seasons half begun, How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair, In this their prison on the seaward air, On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer ! in. Have they no memory of the inland grass — • The fields where breezes pass, And where the full-eyed children, out at play, Make all the land so gay ? Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear, Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier, In far-off English homes, belov'd by all men here ? 15 226 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. O gems of earth ! O trinkets of the spring- ! The sun, your gentle king, Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace, In many a sacred place, The godlike summer sun will miss ye all, For he has foster' d all things, great and small, Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball. v. But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene The kirtles, tender-green, And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers, How will he throb for hours, And wish the lark, the laureate of the light, Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight, And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write. VI. Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told, And deem'd it fairy-gold — And fairy-silver — that ye bear withal ; Ye are so soft and small, I weep for joy to find ye here to-day So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with spray. VII. Ye are the cynosure of many eyes Bright-blue as English skies, — The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row, As if intent to show MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 327 That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower Which sails the sea, in sunshine and in shower, Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not de- vour. VIII. She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, As one may send a toy To children's children, bred in other lands, By love-abiding hands. And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam. IX. In England's name, in Shakespeare's — and in ours, Who bear these trusted flowers — There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, A rush and roar of notes, As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds ; And they who till the ground and tend the herds Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words. x. For England's sake, for England once again, In pride, and power, and pain, For England, aye ! for England in the girth Of all her joy and worth, A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human- kind! 228 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE KING'S REST. Here lies the King, within his tomb — a shrine for men to cherish, The landmark of a nation's love, whose fame shall never perish — Our Shakespeare's Rest ! — the grave of him whom all were proud to follow, Because he joined to Plato's brain the frenzies of Apollo. ii. Aye, there he lies on English soil, the chief of all the singers, Highest and best in honour's quest among the pas- sion-bringers. And o'er the stone a warning-word, as if, in kingly- sorrow, He had foreseen the vulgar touch of some demented morrow. in. So many boons he left us here, so many golden verses, That, had he cursed us once a year, we might have borne his curses. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 229 But he was just. He cursed but once, as to the grave he wended : — " Accurst be he who moves my bones \" and there the fury ended. IV. Oh ! he was great, and wise as Fate, and, by the pen he wielded — Yea, by the pen that was his sword — he loved the cause he shielded. He loved the children of the poor, the maiden and the mother, And all who toil by land and sea, and all who help each other. He found that, as the years declined — as one by one they vanished — The earth was robbed of many joys, and Chivalry was banished. And so, to dower the world again — to fill the place vacated, — He thronged the air with ecstacies which he alone created. VI. He built a palace out of naught, for Love to come and win it, — A dome of pride and pageantry, and only breath within it. But when he touched it with his hand, behold ! from out the portal, A thousand goodly shapes advanced, — and they were all immortal. 23O MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VII. These are the men we know to-day, the friends we cannot sever, Women and men of Shakespeare's pen who dwell with us for ever. We may forget the present hour, and facts around it clinging. But not the grand eternities of his emphatic singing. VIII. And when- he doffed his robe of clay, to prove amid the dying That death was meant for meaner men, and not for his descrying, At least he earned the common right which others, still, have taken, To turn his face to mother earth, belov'd, and not for- saken. IX. He cannot die ; but he has passed to Nature's holy keeping, Happy in sleep below the sod, and guarded in his sleeping. Oh ! peace be his, by night and day, — his spirit with the Giver, — His dust within the Land he loved, beside the Avon river ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 23 I HYMN TO THE RISING SUN. 1. O mighty Orb that on the Morning's brow Dost shine, all-seeing, in the plentitude Of thine up-rising ! O thou joy of earth ! Look down and bless the day that's now ordained, And let the pseans, let the pomp of spring Be thine for ever, O thou Lordly One, That hast the Orient for thy crowning-place And all the welkin for thy way of grace. 11. The sea is thine, the shores thereof are thine, And all the haunts of men, all through the zones ; Yea, each created thing through all the years, All things are thine to make thee paramount ; And there's no essence known, by sea or land, That is not quickened by the sight of thee ; No ! there is nothing, earthward or in air, Which loves thee not with love beyond compare. in. O holiest on the mountains ! O thou sun That art a portent and a prodigy, And evermore dost measure time and space ! We turn to thee to see thee what thou art — 232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. How fair, how constant, and how girt with beams, And how exultant in thine azure tent, When, one by one, the stars confess thy power And leave thee all the landscape for a dower. IV. Bless thou the hills, the rivers and the plains, The founts, the forests, and the foaming sea ; And each and all thy suppliants on the earth ! All through the seasons of thy setting-time Bless thou the winds which are thy messengers ; And in thy rising bless thou every field, And every harvest which thou shinest on And every soul who claims thy benison. v. O planet-prince ! O glory born of night That, out of night, dost come to sway the world ! Behold, we love thee as the Titans loved, When thou did'st bear a god's name under Heaven. For thou'rt the Regent of the King of Kings, And his exponent through the centuries ; And all thy ways are wondrous as of old When Sappho praised thee with her harp of gold. VI. A laureate bird is thine in every grove ; In all the fields thou hast thy troubadours. A thousand times the lark has trilled to thee, And waked the woods in April and in May ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 233 A myriad times and more his skyward notes Have drenched the summer with the dews of song-, And made, as 'twere, a feast-time overhead For bards to boast of when the days are dead. VII. Thou proud and pure ! Thou keeper of the keys Of East and West, which are thy heritage, Where thou — at soaring and at setting-time — Dost hold a mansion, well-beloved of men, Whereof the roofs are jasper and red light. O jocund king ! transcendent, un-afraid, And unassailed by storms throughout the land, Look down and bless the oceans thou hast spanned. VIII. Bless thou the workers and the men of thought, The work they do, the wonders of the lute, And all the whisperings of the woods and streams ! For thou'rt the wearer of the clouds of morn, And where thou art the hours are golden-winged, And where thy servants are thy fame is great, And where thy singers are, in bower and town, The hearts of men respond to thy renown. IX. Hear us, Light-Giver 1 and, from dawn to dusk, Be thou the fiery signal of much joy ! Unfurl thy banners beauteous on the hills, And let the flash thereof — thy blazonry — 234 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Be hope's fore-runner in the reddening meads. O Sire of Seasons ! Monarch of the Months ! Illume, uplift us, here upon the sod, And lead our Lives through Nature up to God. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 235 LYRICS FROM " NERO AND ACTEA."* THE SONG OF SELIUS. It is the kiss of Love that conquers death ; And all the world is quickened by his breath ; And day by day, and nightly, as of yore, With smiles and tears and tricks from out his store, The wanton god renews his rhapsodies. 11. With raging breast the tiger to his mate Leaps, fell and fierce, affamished and elate ; But more than he for fierceness of attack Is Woman's lover when, on wonder's track, He lays her low in Love's enravishment. . . . * A five-act tragedy. 236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE SONG OF PETRONIUS. Oh, tell me not that Love is lord of all, Or that the moon is mistress of the spheres. It is great Caesar has the world in thrall ; And what he sings in these eventful years Is necked with fire or sanctified by tears. 11. It is the golden god who sways the heart, And what he wills is law from land to land. He has his portion in the poet's art ; And grief and joy are merged at his command To re-endow the raptures he has planned. in. He is the sovereign of the welkin's height, And from the disk of his resplendent throne He doth control the seasons in their flight ; And all the stars are his from zone to zone, And Dian's eyes are turned to him alone. S O N N ETS I. ECSTASY. I cannot sing to thee as I would sing If I were quickened like the holy lark, With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. A thing of splendour do I deem him then, A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. He fills me with such wonder and despair ! I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. Oh ! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright ! 24 O SONNETS. II. VISIONS. The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, And infant naiads bathing in the rill, And dryad maids that dance upon the green, And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen They wear in summer, when the air is still. He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, And sees Creation through its mask terrene. The dead are wise, for they alone can see As see the bards — as see, beyond the dust, The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just. There is no comfort in the bitter fee That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust. SONNETS. 24 1 III. THE DAISY. See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon — A mimic sun to light a true-love bower For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon, Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon. It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour, As if endowed with nympholeptic power — Then shuts its petals like a folding tune ! I love it more than words of mine can say, And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer. Methinks the lark has made it still his care To brag of daisies to the lord of day. Well ! I will follow suit, as best I may, Launching my love-songs on the summer air. 242 SONNETS. IV. PROBATION. Could I, O Love ! obtain a charter clear To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days, I would consult the stars, from year to year, And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways, And why the nymphs so seldom now appear In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze ; And I would learn of thee why Joy decays, And why the Fauns have ceas'd to nourish here. I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas ! " Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight ; I would peruse the writing on the grass Which flowers have traced in blue and red and white ; And, reading these, I would, as from a pen, Read thoughts of thine unguess'd by other men ! SONNETS. 243 V. DANTE. He liv'd and lov'd ; he suffer'd ; he was poor ; But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven, And those of all the week-days that are seven, And those of all the centuries that endure. He bow'd to none ; he kept his honour sure. He follow'd in the wake of those Eleven Who walk'd with Christ, and lifted up his steven* To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure. He knew the secrets of the singing-time ; He track'd the sun ; he ate the luscious fruit Of grief and joy ; and with his wonder-lute He made himself a name in every clime. The minds of men were madly stricken mute, And all the world lay subject to his rhyme ! * Steven, a voice ; old word revived. 244 SONNETS. VI. DIFFIDENCE. I cannot deck my thought in proud attire, Or make it fit for thee in any dress, Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire, In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire, Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless. For I have scann'd mine own unworthiness, And well I know the weakness of the lyre Which I have striven to sway to thy caress. Yet I must quell my tears and calm the smart Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's surge. I must control the beating of my heart, And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art, Has press'd, too long, a suit I dare not urge. Ik SONNETS. 245 VII. FAIRIES. Glory endures when calumy hath fled ; And fairies show themselves, in friendly guise, To all who hold a trust beyond the dead, And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise, With cheerful hearts, or wildly-weeping eyes. They come and go when children are in bed To gladden them with dreams from out the skies And sanctify all tears that they have shed ! Fairies are wing'd for wandering to and fro. They live in legends ; they survive the Greeks. Wisdom is theirs ; they live for us and grow, Like things ambrosial, fairer than the freaks Of signs and seasons which the poets know, Or fires of sunset on the mountain peaks. 246 SONNETS. VIII. SPIRIT LOVE. How great my joy ! How grand my recompense I bow to thee ; I keep thee in my sight, I call thee mine, in love though not in sense, I share with thee the heritage immense Of holy dreams which come to us at night, When, through the medium of the spirit-lens, We see the soul in its primeval light, And Reason spares the hopes it cannot blight. It is the soul of thee, and not the form, And not the face I yearn to in my sleep. It is thyself. The body is the storm, The soul the star beyond it in the deep Of Nature's calm. And yonder on the steep The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm ! SONNETS. 247 IX. AFTER TWO DAYS. Another night has turn'd itself to day, Another day has melted into eve, And lo ! again I tread the measured way Of word and thought, the twain to interweave, As flowers absorb the rays that they receive. And, all along the woodland where I stray, I think of thee, and Nature keeps me gay, And sorrow soothes the soul it would bereave. Nor will I fear that thou, so far apart, So dear to me, so fair, and so benign, Wilt un-desire the fealty of a heart Which evermore is pledg'd to thee and thine, And turns to thee, in regions where thou art, To hymn the praises of thy face divine ! 248 SONNETS. X. BYRON. He was a god descended from the skies To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave, And consecrate a hope he could not save ; For he was weak withal, and foolish-wise. Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies, And oftentimes his life he did deprave. But all do pity him, though none despise. He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave. He ask'd for tears — and they were tinged with fire He ask'd for love, and love was sold to him. He look'd for solace at the goblet's brim, And found it not ; then wept upon his lyre. He sang the songs of all the world's desire — He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim ! SONNETS. 249 XI. LOVE'S AMBITION. I must invoke thee for my spirit's good, And prove myself un-guilty of the crime Of mere self-seeking, though with this imbued. I sing as sings the mavis in a wood, Content to be alive at harvest-time. Had I its wings I should not be withstood ! But I will weave my fancies into rhyme, And greet afar the heights I cannot climb. I will invoke thee, Love ! though far away, And pay thee homage, as becomes a knight Who longs to keep his true-love in his sight. Yea, I will soar to thee, in roundelay, In shine and shower, and make a bold assay Of each fond hope, to compass thee aright. 250 SONNETS. XII. LOVE'S DEFEAT. Do what I will I cannot chant so well As other men ; and yet my soul is true. My hopes are bold ; my thoughts are hard to tell, But thou can'st read them, and accept them, too, Though, half-abash'd, they seem to hide from view. I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell ; And why ? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, And when I count the woes that must ensue. But for this reason, and no other one, I dare to look thy way, and bow my head To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, Unnumberd tears, till life or Jove be done ! SONNETS. 25I XIII. A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT. The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos ; and 1 read the same As one may read the writing of a name — As one in Hell may see the sudden form Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame. How weird the scene ! The Dark is sulphur-warm With hints of death ; and in their vault enorme The reeling stars coagulate in flame. And now the torrents from their mountain-beds Roar down unchecked ; and serpents shaped of mist Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads ; And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, And shake the air like Titans that have kiss'd ! 252 SONNETS. XIV. IN TUSCANY. Dost thou remember, friend of vanished days, How, in the golden land of love and song, We met in April in the crowded ways Of that fair city where the soul is strong, Aye ! strong as fate, for good or evil praise ? And how the lord whom all the world obeys — The lord of light to whom the stars belong — Illumed the track that led thee through the throng? Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, How all the air was flooded as with wine ? And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, Peal'd out sweet notes ? I live to tell the tale. But thou ? Oblivion signs thee with a sign ! SONNETS. 253 XV. A HERO. The warrior knows how fitful is the fight — How sad to live — how sweet perchance to die. Is Fame his joy ? He meets her on the height, And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry ; His eyes are wet ; our own will not be dry. Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, When he survives to serve his Land aright And make his fame the watchword of the sky. In all our hopes his love is with us still ; He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve. His acts are just ; his word we must believe, And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill : — Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve ! 2 54 SONNETS. XVI. REMORSE. Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear ; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, My doom is this : my joy was quick to die. The chain of custom, in the drowsy lair Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, And both abhorr'd it — thou as well as I. Ah, God ! 'tis tearful-true ; and I repent '; And like a dead, live man I live for this : — To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, And be mine own most piteous monument. What ! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss ? There, take it back ; and frown ; and be content ! SONNETS. 255 XVII. THE MISSION OF THE BARD. He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring Of Art and Nature ; and his voice is bold. He should be quicker than the birds to sing, And fill'd with frenzy like the men of old Who sang their songs for country and for king, Nothing should daunt him, though the news were told By fiends from Hell ! He should be swift to hold And swift to part with truth, as from a spring. He should discourse of war and war's alarm, And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, And warlike men subdued by tender thought, And grief dismiss'd, and hatred set at nought, And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm ! 2^6 SONNETS. XVIII. DEATH. It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, And not a serpent with a look of guile, But one who greets us with a seraph's smile — An angel-guest to tend us after strife, And keep us true to God when fears are rife, And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile. He walks the world as one empower' d to fill The fields of space for Father and for Son. He is our friend, though morbidly we shun His tender touch — a cure for every ill. He is the king of peace, when all is done. Earth and the air are moulded to his will. SONNETS. 257 XIX. TO ONE I LOVE. Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, A garden nook, not far from thy domain, That there, with harp, and voice and poet-book, I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain, Rehearse the songs of nature once again : — The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook To sooth the raptures of a lover's pain, And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook ! I die to serve thee, and for this alone — To be thy bard-elect, Irom day to day — I would forego the right to fill a throne. I would consent to be the famine-prey Of some, fierce pard, if ere the night were flown I could subdue thy spirit to my sway. 17 2 5 8 SONNETS. XX. EX TENEBRA. The winds have showr'd their rains upon the sod, And flowers and trees have murmur' d as with lips. The very silence has appeal'd to God In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod. 'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse Had dull'd the skies — as if, on mountain-tips, The winds of Heaven had spurn'd the life terrene, And clouds were foundering like benighted ships. But what is this, exultant, unforeseen, Which cleaves the dark ? A fearful, burning thing ! Is it the moon ? Or Saturn's scarlet ring Hurl'd into space ? It is the tempest-sun ! It is the advent of the Phceban king Which tells the valleys that the storm is done ! SONNETS. 259 XXI. VICTOR HUGO. Victor the King ! alive to-day, not dead ! Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, But all unfit to deck so grand a head. It is the outcome of a neighbour land Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years. It is the token of a nation's tears Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again. Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain — These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse. We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse ; We call thee friend ; we ratify thy reign, Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne ! 26o SONNETS. XXII. CYNTHIA. Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, 1 charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, And by thy face, the oracle of brides, Why evermore Remorse with thee abides ? Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer With ghosts and shades ? Perchance thou dost aspire To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be ? Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns ? Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter Hath many moons — his daughters and his sons — And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee ? SONNETS. 26l XXIII. PHILOMEL. Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, Thrills into rapture ; and the stars above Look down, affrighted, as they would reply. There is contagion, and I know not why, In all this clamour, all this fierce delight, As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, Had drawn some wild confession from the moon. Have wrongs been done ? Have crimes enacted been To shame the weird retirement of the night ? O clamorous bird ! O sad, sweet nightingale ! Withhold thy voice, and blame not beauty's queen. She may be pure, though dumb : and she is pale, And wears a radiance on her brow serene. 262 SONNETS. XXIV. THE SONNET KING. Petrarch ! I am here. I bow to thee, Great king of sonnets, throned long ago, And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me, And miser-like, enamoured of my woe, I reckon up my teardrops as they flow. 1 would not lose the power to shed a tear For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign. I would not be so base as not complain When she I love is absent from my sight, No, not for all the marvels of the night, And all the varying splendours of the year. Do thou assist me, thou ! that art the light Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere, To make a May-time of my sorrows slain. SONNETS. 263 XXV. TOKEN FLOWERS. Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God ! Take not the daisy ; let it bloom apace Untouch'd alike by splendour or disgrace Of party feud. Its stem is not a rod ; And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod. It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face, And everywhere doth fill a lowly place, Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod. 'Tis said the primose is a party flower, And means coercion, and the coy renown Of one who toil'd for country and for crown. This may be so ! But, in my Lady's bower, It means content — a hope — a golden hour. Primroses smile ; and daisies cannot frown ! 264 SONNETS. XXVI. A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND. Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call — By whom we live — on whom our hopes are built — Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt, Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall ! Do thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt, When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt, Ajid keep it strong when traitors would appal. Uphold us still, O God ! and be the screen And sword and buckler of our England's might, That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene, May fade away, as fades a winter's night. Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen. Wilt Thou not help us, Lord ! to find the Light ? SONNETS. 265 XXVII. A VETERAN POET. I knew thee first as one may know the fame Of some apostle, as a man may know The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow. I hail'd thee prince of poets ! I became Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show, And ail the splendours. Master ! of thy name. But now, a man reveaFd, a guide for men, I see thy face, 1 clasp thee by the hand ; And, though the Muses in thy presence stand, There's room for me to loiter in thy ken. O lordly soul ! O wizard of the pen ! What news from God? What word from Fairyland? ITALIAN POEMS. By ERIC MACKAY. LA ZINGARELLA. Dimmi, dimmi, o trovatore, Tu che canti sul liuto, Bello e bruno e pien d' amore Dalla valle in su venuto, Non ti fermi sull' altura Per mostrar la tua bravura ? Non mi canti sul burrone Qualche lieta tua canzone? ii. — Zingarella, in sulla sera Canta bene il rosignolo, Piange e canta in sua preghiera Salutando un dolce suolo. Ma il liuto al mio toccare Pianger sa, non sa pregare . . . Deh ! che vuoi col tuo sorriso, Tu che sai di paradiso ? in. — V6 sentire in tuo linguaggio Come e fatto un uom fedele, Se 1' amor lo fa selvaggio, Se il destin lo fa crudele. 2 JO ITALIAN POEMS. Parla schietto ; son profana Ma ben leggo 1' alma umana. Parla pur del tuoi vi'aggi Nei deserti e nei villaggi. IV. — Canterotti, o zingarella, Qualche allegra mia ballata, Qualche estatica novella D' una dama innamorata . . . — Dimmi tutto ! — Canterotti D' Ungheria le meste notti. — D' Ungheria? — Del Bosco Santo Dove nacque il gran Sorranto. v. Sappi in breve, son marchese Castellano e cantatore, Cattivai con questo arnese D' una maga un di 1' amore. — D' una maga ? — Si, di quelle Che san legger nelle stelle. — E fu bella ? — Non v' e guari Dama, oh no, che le sia pari. VI. Come parca in fra le dita Essa tenne il mio destino, Fu la sfmge di mia vita Col sorriso suo divino. Avea biondi i suoi capelli, Occhi neri e molto belli, Braccia e collo in puritade Come neve quando cade. ITALIAN POEMS. 2J I VII. — Taci, taci, o castellano ; Qui convien pregar per essa. — Io 1' amai d' amor sovrano ! Pronta fu la sua promessa. L' aspettai ; mi fu cortese, Ma fuggi dal mio paese, Travestita un di di Maggio Come biondo e giovin paggio. VIII. Oh, giammai non fu sognata Cosa uguale per bellezza ; Chi la vide incoronata Sorridea per tenerezza. Chi la vide di mattina La credeva una regina, Qualche sogno di poeta, Qualche in canto di profeta ! IX. — Traditor ! col tuo liuto Tu 1' hai fatto innamorare ! — Io giurai per San Bernuto, E pel Cristo in sull' altare, Per Giuseppe e per Maria, Che farei la vita pia. — E il facesti ? — I sacri voti Ricantai dei sacerdoti ! x. — Or m' ascolta, o trovatore, Or rispondi, e dimmi il vero : 272 ITALIAN POEMS. Hai veduto il mesto fiore Che si coglie in cimitero ? Hai veduto i fior di rose Che s' intreccian per le spose, Quando cantan desolati Gli usignoli abbandonati ? XI. Crolli il capo ; impallidisci ; Stendi a me la bianca mano ; Non rispondi ; e forse ambisci Delia sposa ormai 1' arcano ? Qui mori la Gilda, maga Sotto il nome di Menzaga ; Qui mori, nel suo pallore, Per 1' amor d' un trovatore ! XII. Stravolto F amante s' inchina ; Ei mira la mesta donzella. Velata e la maga, ma bella, Coll'occhio che pianger non sa. — donna, T amor t' indovina . Tu, Gilda, t' ascondi cola ! XIII. Nel mondo non v' e la sembianza Di tale e di tanta beltade ! Non cresce per queste contrade Ne giglio ne spirto d' amor. Tu sola tu sei la Speranza Che tenni qua stretta sul cor. ITALIAN POEMS. 273 XIV. Tu sola tu sei la mia dama, La gioja e 1' onor della vita; Tu sola, donzella romita, Del mondo la diva sei tu. L' amor ti conosce, e la fama ; Ne manca Y antica virtu. xv. Ma dove e la fe del passato Che tanto brillo nella festa? L' amore, 1' onore, le gesta D' un tempo che presto fuggi ? Fu vero ? L' ho forse sognato ? Tu pur 1' hai sognato cosi ! xvi. La maga intenta ascolta il suo galante ; Ride, si scioglie il velo e guarda il Sire. Rossa diventa e bianca in uno istante, E poi s' asconde il viso e vuol fuggire. Corre nei bracci suoi lo fido amante ; E favellar vorria nel suo gioire . . . XVII. — Deh ! taci, oh taci ! Al mondo ovunque e doglia. Gilda son io. Ti bacio e son contenta. Pianger non so se non per pazza voglia Come la strega allor che si lamenta . . . 274 ITALIAN POEMS. XVIII. Cosa vuoi tu ? Che vuoi che si mi guardi ? Diva non son, ma donna ; e fui crudele. — Baciami in bocca. O Dio ! mi stringi ed ardi Tanto d' amore e piangi e sei fedele ? XIX. — Ugo ! M' ascolta, io son la tua meschina, Forte ben si, ma doma in questi agoni ; Sono la schiava tua, la tua regina, Quel che tu vuoi purche non m' abbandoni ! xx. . ^ — O cara, o casta, o bella, o tu che bramo, Dammi la morte unita a un tuo sorriso. Eva sarai per me. Son io Y Adamo ; E quivi in terra avrassi il paradiso ! ITALIAN POEMS. 275 IL PONTE D' AVIGLIO. O mesto bambino col capo chinato, Rispondi ; rispondi ! Che fece Renato ? Fu vinto Morello ? Fu salvo Lindoro ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Son padre di loro. 11. Non veggo tornare dal Ponte d' Aviglio Renato superbo del vinto periglio. U han forse promosso ? Risorge la guerra ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — L' han messo sottera. in. O ciel ! tu lo senti, tu vedi 1' oltraggio ; Renato fu prence del nostro villaggio ! . . . Ma dimmi, piccino. Che fece Morello ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Lo chiude 1' avello. IV. Ahi, crudo destino ! Si grande, si forte, Morello nasceva per vincer la morte. Ma 1' altro ? Che fece sul campo serrato ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Mori da soldato. 276 ITALIAN POEMS. Gran Dio ! che mi narri ! Pur desso m' e tolto ? Renato m' e morto ? Morello sepolto ? E piangi, . . . tu pure ? Gentile bambino ! Che dici ? Rispondi ! — Vi resta Giannino. VI. Oh si, del figliuolo 1' ignoto tesoro, 1/ incognito figlio del biondo Lindoro. Ma dove trovarlo nel nome di Dio ? Rispondi ; rispondi ! — Buon padre, son io ! ITALIAN POEMS. 277 I MIEI SALUTI. 1. Ti saluto, Margherita, Fior di vita, . . . ti saluto ! Sei la speme del mattino, Sei la gioja del giardino. 11. Ti saluto, Rosignolo Nel tuo duolo, . . . ti saluto ! Sei 1' amante della rosa Che morendo si fa sposa. in. Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio Col tuo raggio, . . . ti saluto ! Sei 1' Apollo del passato, Sei 1' amore incoronato. IV. Ti saluto, Donna mia, Casta e pia, . . . ti saluto ! Sei la diva dei desiri, Sei la Santa dei Sospiri. THE END, I