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MARBLE ISLE 
 
 LEGENDS OP THE ROUND TABLE 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By 8ALLIE BRIDGES 
 
 :< c-F c©A 
 
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 PIIILADELPniA 
 
 J, W LTPPINCOTT k CO. 
 1864 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 
 Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 2. ^ ^ -^ <^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 /AGE 
 
 Past, Present, and Future 9 
 
 Woman's Sin 15 
 
 Noon 18 
 
 Alpine if lowers 21 
 
 The Stranger's Grave 23 
 
 The Mirage 26 
 
 The Legend of Errol 35 
 
 Laurel Hill 39 
 
 The Old Guard at Waterloo 41 
 
 Napoleon's Legacy 45 
 
 -The AVorld and the Dreamer 47 
 
 The Unwritten Elegj' 49 
 
 Born 52 
 
 Dead 53 
 
 The Saint-Esprit i....... 55 
 
 An Old Story 58 
 
 Prayer at the Pole 60 
 
 One Life 62 
 
 Calls and Responses 61 
 
 The Question 66 
 
 Died Young 68 
 
 Agnes 70 
 
 Graves by the Way 77 
 
 Origin of Gems :— 
 
 The Opal 83 
 
 Diamonds 85 
 
 Rubies 86 
 
 Emeralds 87 
 
 My Pearl 88 
 
 A Sound from the Bastille 91 
 
 Worship 93 
 
 7 
 
5 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 El Dorado 94 
 
 The Difference 100 
 
 The Talk 101 
 
 The Tomb in Aventicum 109 
 
 The Question of the Day in 1860 115 
 
 The Hesperides 117 
 
 After the Triumph 119 
 
 The Poet's Wife 122 
 
 The Sovereign of the Pampas 125 
 
 Chattcrton 131 
 
 Time and the Sea 134 
 
 After the Battle 136 
 
 A Letter Found in a Tent 140 
 
 The Curse of the Grape 143 
 
 An Experience 144 
 
 A Peruvian's Address to the Sun, after the Conquest 147 
 
 Stanzas suggested by Miss Cushman's Farewell to the Stage 149 
 
 The Reaper's Return Home .• 150 
 
 Mercy's Dream 152 
 
 A Summer's Memory of Berkshire, Mass 153 
 
 Italia 154 
 
 Legends of the Round Table : — 
 
 Excalibur 159 
 
 The Death of Lanceor 162 
 
 The Tomb of the Twelve Kings....... 165 
 
 The First Meeting of Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 167 
 
 Merlin's Grave 169 
 
 Sir Launcelot's Slumber 171 
 
 Beaumain's Vow 175 
 
 The King and the Bard 177 
 
 The Love-Drink.. 179 
 
 The Best Knight 184 
 
 The Quest of the Sancgreal 190 , 
 
 The Last Meeting of Launcelot and Guinevere 212 
 
 Launcelot's Vigil 217 
 
 Avilion 223 
 
 Martilelsle 241 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 Wildly dreaming sat I watching, watching the 
 
 bright sunset fade. 
 Saw its fairest colors mingling, till they met in eve's 
 
 dark shade, 
 And the twilight sadly veiling, veiling in the orb of 
 
 light, 
 Shutting from me all its glories, slowly leading in 
 
 the night; 
 Then the stars came, tiny twinklers, shining in their 
 
 distant home, 
 While the moon look'd cold and brilliant, hanging 
 
 in the azure dome. 
 
 Sounded near me then a rustling, rustling as of tru- 
 ant bird. 
 
 As there came a strain of music, softest that I e'er 
 have heard ; 
 
 9 
 
10 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 Then I turn'd, and there, beside me, was a strange 
 
 and gentle thing, 
 Seeming like a fairy spirit floating upon angel's 
 
 wing ; 
 And its face was very beauteous, beauteous, but with 
 
 marks of woe, — 
 With some sorrow o'er it stealing, shadow of the 
 
 First its soft dark eye was gazing, gazing deep into 
 my heart. 
 
 Stirring there the memories olden, of my former 
 life a part, 
 
 Calling up the buried treasures, treasures of the by- 
 gone years, 
 
 Till the dried-up fount was open'd by the gushing 
 of salt tears ; 
 
 Then it beckon'd me to follow, follow in its airy 
 flight, 
 
 And I grasp'd its gleaming garment, robe of crimson 
 edged with white ! 
 
 Onward, upward, then it bore me, bore me to the 
 
 scenes of yore, 
 Show'd me forms of dearly loved ones gone from 
 
 hence for evermore, 
 Brought before me brightest hours of my youth and 
 
 careless life, 
 Turned me from old dreams of pleasure to the 
 
 wrestlings strong of strife. 
 
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 11 
 
 Pictured forth my early musings, musings of my 
 
 future lot, 
 Stirr'd again past lonely yearnings, vanish'd thoughts 
 
 long, long forgot. 
 
 Onward still it led me slowly, slowly through the 
 perish'd years, 
 
 Mark'd my childhood's merry moments, girlhood's 
 •hopes and trembling fears, 
 
 Painted for my longing spirit scenes I grieved to 
 know had gone, 
 
 Ever leading memory onward to the point whence 
 we had flown ; 
 
 Then it softly, gently faded, faded from my anxious 
 sight, 
 
 Left me sighing, lonely pining for another vision- 
 flight. 
 
 Then upon my sad ears sounding, sounding came a 
 tuning gay. 
 
 Measure ringing, blithest, lightest ever chased dark 
 gloom away ; 
 
 And before me was a spirit, spirit of the Present 
 bright, 
 
 With a countenance all joyous, shining as from in- 
 ward light ; 
 
 And its wings wore golden plumage, richer than the 
 sunset dye. 
 
 With a smile of pleasure beaming, dancing in its 
 sparkling eye. 
 
12 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 So it quickly, tightly clasp'd me, clasp'd me with its 
 
 rose-hued hand, 
 Soaring over flowery pathways, through a restless, 
 
 merry band ; 
 Show'd me friends I dearly cherish'd, cherish'd with 
 
 a heart-felt love. 
 Made me mid their many groupings with a silent 
 
 swiftness move, 
 Laid before me all the hopings, hopings earnest that 
 
 I knew, 
 Whisj)er'd that my fancy's visions, fair illusions, all 
 
 were true ; 
 
 Then upon the rapid streamlet, streamlet of this 
 
 busy life. 
 Bore me on mid crested wavelet 'twixt its shores 
 
 with beauty rife, 
 Where upon the borders verdant Lotos-blossoms I 
 
 could see ; 
 Told me that the moments passing ever joyous thus 
 
 would be. 
 Chasing off the faintest shadow, shadow floating o'er 
 
 my brow ; 
 Murmuring still, with voice alluring, life would aye 
 
 be bright as now. 
 
 All the time its face was beaming, beaming with a ! 
 
 happy ray, 
 And upon the lips so gladsome changeless smiles ' 
 
 did ever play ; 
 
PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 13 
 
 Then the hours flew by so swiftly, swiftly ere we 
 
 knew they were, 
 That we had no pause for sorrow, not a moment's 
 
 thought of care ; 
 But suddenly its glory clouded, as it led me swiftly 
 
 home, 
 Then, with tones of wildest wailing, fled before the 
 
 great To Come ! 
 
 Soon around me flow'd the music, music of a gush- 
 ing strain ; 
 
 Fitful were its varied numbers, gleesome now, then 
 sad again ; 
 
 While towards riie, grandly moving on its wings of 
 sombre shade. 
 
 Came a figure that in nearing still a darker twilight 
 made ; 
 
 And upon my spirit fearful stole a feeling kin to 
 awe, 
 
 As this image large and wondrous, strangely looming 
 thus I saw. 
 
 At its gesture, gathering evening faded with its shades 
 
 away. 
 Leaving there the heavens shining clear as at the 
 
 noon of day ; 
 Soon upon the surface azure pass'd there oft a fleecy 
 
 cloud, 
 Then the gloomy storm rush'd o'er it with the 
 
 thunder dread and loud ; 
 
14 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 But these pass'd, and left it peaceful, peaceful and 
 
 with calmness rife, 
 While the angel seem'd to utter, " Emblem of thy 
 
 future life V 
 
 Then it call'd before me faces, faces that were new 
 and strange, 
 
 Others that were dear, familiar, but upon them all 
 a change ; 
 
 And amid the many groupings, groupings that be- 
 fore me fled. 
 
 Sought I many fondly loved ones; but the spirit 
 whisper'd, " Dead V 
 
 Closed I then my aching vision, that no longer I 
 might see. 
 
 For it brought an anguish piercing, learning thus 
 the yet To Be. 
 
 When my heavy eyelids raising, wishing more of 
 
 fate to know, 
 Saw I but the figure moving, like a shadow waning 
 
 slow ; 
 And the night came like a mantle, wrapping in its 
 
 mighty form. 
 While the wind and clouds were struggling like the 
 
 coming of a storm ; 
 But it pass'd, and left me sitting, sitting in the 
 
 moon's cold beam. 
 Thinking of the mystic spirits, pond'ring o'er my 
 
 waking dream. 
 
woman's sin. 15 
 
 Brought the Past its memories olden, olden scenes 
 of mirth and pain, 
 
 But had told me mid its teachings that 'twill ne'er 
 return again ; 
 
 Brightly shone the happy Present, si3irit ever light 
 and gay, 
 
 Still amid its fairest visions quickly fled its form 
 away ; 
 
 Darkness shrouded round the Future, half its mys- 
 teries unreveal'd : 
 
 Kow and Have Been both are open'd, only the To 
 Be is sealed ! 
 1852. 
 
 WOMAN'S SIN. 
 
 *' It is women who condemn the fallen of their own sex 
 without pity; knowing little of their sufferings, comprehend- 
 ing not their struggles and wretchedness ; only, like the Pha- 
 risee of old, they stand afar ofif, and thank God, in a loud voice, 
 that they are not like to them !" 
 
 'Tis women have no charity, — 
 
 Oh, bitter, mournful truth ! 
 'Tis they pursue the fallen ones 
 
 With never-ceasing ruth ! 
 
 Why dost thou pass with scornful mien, 
 
 woman of the world, 
 Yon smiling, wretched, outcast one 
 
 From Virtue's pathway hurl'd ? 
 
16 woman's sin. 
 
 Is it because her form is deck'd 
 
 In gaudy, soil'd array, 
 While on thine own the costly robes 
 
 Such faultless taste display ? 
 Does dress, then, so much difference make 
 
 Thy haughty mind within ? 
 Which dost thou hail with most contempt, 
 
 The garment or the sin ? 
 
 Or dost thou fear thy spotless name 
 
 Might suffer, shouldst thou dare 
 With kindly gaze thy looks to send, 
 
 Instead of chilling stare ? 
 Dost dread lest man might coldly sneer, 
 
 If thou shouldst gently speak 
 One loving word to that poor heart. 
 
 The tempted and the weak ? 
 Some might reproach thee for such act 
 
 Whose sympathy is dead ; 
 But He will mark the noble deed, 
 
 Whose Son for sinners bled ! 
 
 Remember how with earnest care 
 
 A mother watch'd thy youth, 
 To cherish free from earthly taint 
 
 Thy innocence and truth ! 
 Perchance upon that once pure brow 
 
 That bears the brand of shame, 
 No mother's lips have ever press'd 
 
 A token of the name. 
 
woman's sin. 17 
 
 No mother's heart has ever yearn'd 
 
 Above her child with prayer 
 That naught of evil's cankering weight 
 
 The little one should bear ! 
 
 Thou ne'er hast known Temptation's art, 
 
 Nor all the woe that springs 
 From loneliness and bitter want, 
 
 And poverty's sharp stings ; 
 Life has not taught thee how to feel 
 
 The miseries of the young, 
 When love and gold, with luring tones. 
 
 Their siren songs have sung. 
 While hunger stands beside the hearth, 
 
 A herald of the grave, 
 And not one warning voice to plead, 
 
 No kindred hand to save I 
 
 Dost think that thou couldst thus have gone 
 
 Through earth without a stain ? 
 Gouldst thou have borne its sneers and taunts, 
 
 Its crosses and its pain ? 
 Look well within, when thou wouldst scorn 
 
 An erring sister's path ; 
 Thou mayst have sins as dark as hers 
 
 To meet the future wrath : 
 And think that all thy loving words, 
 
 And every soften 'd look, 
 Effaces some remember 'd guilt 
 
 From Heaven's record-book I 
 2 
 
1 3 NOON. 
 
 The angels weep when human souls 
 
 From Virtue's pathway stray, 
 And joy in Paradise proclaims 
 
 "When sinning spirits pray ! 
 Then what art thou, that thou shouldst dare, 
 
 worm of little worth, 
 To crush a heart that yet might soar 
 
 Above its chains of earth ? 
 Ere long the tomb will hide from man 
 
 That thou hast ever been, 
 And death may make ye equals then, 
 
 Thou and the Magdalene ! 
 
 NOON. 
 
 At Summer noon the burning sunbeams pour 
 In one unbroken flood of golden light, 
 
 By quenchless warmth the beauty to restore 
 Of those fair blossoms hid hj Winter's night. 
 
 The green-robed trees, deck'd in their fresh attire, 
 Stand still and listless, wearied of the play 
 
 And murmur'd tales with which the breezes biro 
 A leafy resting-place from heat of day. 
 
 The clock tolls forth its loud, sonorous peals, 
 The sentinel that hails the morn's first rays 
 
 From towering steeple, trembling as it feels. 
 In all its dej^th, the warning it conveys. 
 
NOON. 19 
 
 For this old clock is but the city's heart, 
 
 And each hour's knell the slowly beating throbs 
 
 That send its solemn pulse through every part, 
 To mark how much of life time gives or robs. 
 
 The weary workman greets the welcome hour, 
 And stops his toil to wipe his dusty face: 
 
 Glad of a respite from the sun's strong power, 
 He leaves his labor for some shady place. 
 
 Where, drawing from his basket's little store 
 The humble meal by careful hands prepared, 
 
 The sunburn'd brow grows brighter than before, 
 Rememb'ring *' home," with loving spirits shared. 
 
 The cock, whose trumpet call had waked the day. 
 Has still'd the tones that swell'd his haughty 
 throat. 
 
 And struts not now through regions of his sway, 
 AVhile clucking hens applaud with flattering note 
 
 The bird is pining in his air-hung cage ; 
 
 His tiny voice no longer trills the song 
 That tells of distant woods to travell'd age. 
 
 For whose cool shades his drooping feathers long. 
 
 The buzzing flies have ceased their circling flight, 
 Hushing their sleepy hum, and on the pane, 
 
 Like black-mail'd soldiers after lingering fight, 
 Sink, one by one, as on the battle's plain. 
 
20 NOON. 
 
 The eloquence of silence fills the ah*, 
 
 Though life scarce seems alive in such still scene, 
 Save where yon humming-bird flits here and there, 
 
 A living, sparkling jewel set in green; 
 
 And where the bounding heart of yon fair girl 
 Flutters with each new dream 'gainst snowy vest, 
 
 Or where the balmy breath just stirs a curl, 
 
 Passing through parted lips from heaving breast. 
 
 The rounded limbs in careless grace repose. 
 The rosy mouth no impress bears of strife, 
 
 Where youth the glory of its sunlight throws, 
 And Noon of Day keeps watch o'er Noon of Life, 
 
 The book has fallen from the nerveless hand ; 
 
 A dawning smile breaks o'er the blushing brow. 
 As, half awake, her hopes, a maiden band. 
 
 The Future paint, unmindful of the Now. 
 
 And, nursing thus the children of the brain. 
 The glowing visions that young spirits bear, 
 
 She roams an Eden free from sin and pain. 
 
 And, trusting, thinks no serpent-trails are there. 
 
 May Heaven keep the glory of her way 
 
 As pure and brilliant as her inward dreams ! 
 
 May shades of night ne'er follow Joy's bright day, 
 And Life prove all the Paradise it seems ! 
 
ALPINE FLOWERS. 21 
 
 And evermore within the woman's mind, 
 May Summer's golden beauty ripen love, 
 
 Till Death, the farmer of the skies, shall bind 
 Its sheaf of fruits within the fields above ! 
 
 1855. 
 
 ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 Upox the mountain's frozen height 
 
 The Alpine Flowers bloom. 
 Like gems of purest light enclosed 
 
 In some dark cavern's gloom ; 
 And yet around their icy home 
 
 They yield their fragrance sweet, 
 Although their modest loveliness 
 
 No human eye may greet. 
 
 Amid the soft and fleecy clouds 
 
 That float like angels' wings 
 Athwart the rosy-tinted brows 
 
 Of Nature's snow-crown'd kings, 
 They grow, these fragile things of life. 
 
 Mid parks and slopes of sleet, 
 Like signs from heaven dropp'd to mark 
 
 The trace of spirit feet. 
 
 E'en as these lowly blossoms shed 
 
 Calm beauty o'er the rock. 
 That echoes but the wild winds' voice 
 
 And avalanche's shock, 
 
22 ALPINE FLOWERS. 
 
 As tliey survive ^neath mighty storms, 
 
 And mid eternal frost, 
 Where prouder plants soon fade and die, 
 
 Where lofty trees are lost ; 
 
 So ever in the mortal mind 
 
 Some gentle memory lives, 
 That mid the height of worldly lore 
 
 An unknown perfume gives, 
 That nestles 'neath grief's bitter storms 
 
 And disappointment's power, 
 A fadeless garden for the soul 
 
 In sorrow's chilling hour. 
 
 When high ambition's aims have fail'd, 
 
 And earthly hof)ings die, 
 Like mountain-flowers sending up 
 
 Their incense to the sky. 
 Spring lofty thoughts within the heart, 
 
 Its lonely way to cheer, 
 Till holy deeds, like seraph-tracks. 
 
 Shall deck the prospect drear. 
 
 Remember, then, in wandering o'er 
 
 The world's hard, changing path. 
 We stand full oft on danger's steeps 
 
 And near the whirlwind's wrath. 
 Ah ! cherish all the mossy spots 
 
 That memory's dew keeps green ; 
 For know, when souls bear tender dreams, 
 
 That angels there have been. 
 
THE stranger's GRAVE. 23 
 
 THE STRANGER'S GRAVE. 
 
 The fairies met in the church-yard old, 
 
 When the moon was shining bright: 
 They sat on the blossom-spangled sod, 
 
 In the shade of a tombstone white. 
 Their queen was throned on a snowy rose 
 
 That bloom'd o'er a quiet grave, 
 While her court was group'd in humble flowers 
 
 That amid the long grass wave. 
 
 They were tired of dancing on verdant lawn 
 
 With carpet of velvet moss, 
 And weary of flinging the moon-ray motes 
 
 With tlie chance of gain or loss ; 
 They had drain 'd their acorn-bowls of dew 
 
 In their secret banquet-hall, — 
 A hollow stump on the green hill-side. 
 
 Their table a toadstool tall. 
 
 And now they had come from revel and play 
 
 In the dead men's home to rest, 
 And each silent, star-watch'd mound had rung 
 
 With songs of a glad fay-guest ; 
 But soon they had hush'd each elfin lay : — 
 
 Their queen, Titania, spoke — 
 Her voice, like the warbling of far-off lark, 
 
 The reverent silence broke. 
 
24 THE stranger's grave. 
 
 Her robe was made of butterfly wings, 
 
 Of a glow-worm's gem her crown, 
 A humming-bird's plume her sceptre slight, 
 
 Her train of a moth's breast-down ; 
 She stood on the tintless, satin edge 
 
 Of a pure unfolding leaf, 
 That emblem'd the stainless heart of youth 
 
 Ere life's page is marr'd by grief. 
 
 She told of a tomb in that calm place, 
 
 A sunken and barren mound, 
 Where only lay on the cold, dead face 
 
 The chill sods of dark, damp ground ; 
 No flowerets shed their fragrant sighs 
 
 O'er that love-deserted spot, 
 A stranger's lonely and nameless grave, 
 
 Long by mortal souls forgot. 
 
 She bade them roam through the solemn aisles 
 
 And gather the ripen'd seeds. 
 To bring the sweets of forest and field. 
 
 The treasures of water'd meads. 
 And plant them over the dreamless head 
 
 That was lowly sleeping there : 
 Neglected by man, the stranger's grave 
 
 Henceforth should be fairies' care ! 
 
 So, night after night, the tiny band 
 Bore from the green wood and vale 
 
 Their precious things, from the creeping vine 
 To the snow-drop pure and pale ; 
 
THE stranger's GRAVE. 25 
 
 They "wreathed an arch of the woodbine wild, 
 And hung it with wind-tuned bells, 
 
 And wove festoons of sweet buds that bloom'd 
 In hidden, untrodden dells. 
 
 And they stole the spotless lily-cups 
 
 From the brook-shores where they grew, 
 Fit goblets to hold earth's sky-pledged wine, 
 
 The sparkling and cloud-born dew ; 
 The jessamine stars shed their silvery light, 
 
 And clematis clusters hung 
 Like censers of perfume rarely wrought 
 
 And by unseen spirits swung. 
 
 Thus toird each fay with unceasing skill, 
 
 The midnight's mystical guest, 
 Twining a bower of magical grace 
 
 O'er that dust-bound, pulseless breast : 
 Men wonder'd to see that desert mound 
 
 In such sudden splendor bloom. 
 And lovers made it a storied spot: 
 
 Forgot was its olden gloom ! 
 
 And still, through the long, calm summer nights, 
 
 When the moon, like blushing bride. 
 Spreads her veil of light, and fondly walks 
 
 By her groom the earth's proud side, 
 The fairies rest on its flowery thrones, 
 
 AVhere eve's trembling shadows wave: — 
 The brightest spot in that church-yard old 
 
 Is the stranger's nameless grave ! 
 
26 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 Once, years ago, in Araby's far land, 
 A weary caravan had wander'd long, 
 And one by one, in desperate extreme, 
 Its way-worn stragglers had lain down and died ; 
 While stronger frames still journey'd weakly on, 
 Though every smiburn'd brow but told despair ; 
 For Thirst and Famine stalk'd on each slow step, 
 And Hope had almost ceased to lead the way. 
 Upon our blood-streak'd eyes the light stream'd 
 
 down, 
 In one unquenchable, unshadow'd flood, 
 Till e'en its golden beauty seem'd a curse ; 
 And some, whose brains unpitying rays had pierced. 
 Knelt on the burning sands, and pray'd aloud 
 For Darkness that should never know a morn. 
 For Death, for aught to free them from the beams 
 That drown'd their senses in such molten waves, — 
 And, kneeling, perish'd in a Siinoon blast. 
 
 Behind, for miles of that scorch'd desert waste. 
 Were strewn the whitening bones of man and beast, 
 The landmarks showing Death's unsparing march. 
 Before was spread the same bright glittering scene 
 Of sparkling sand and blue unclouded sky. 
 North, south, east, west, that shining, arid field 
 Lay calm and still, and with the azure arch 
 
THE MIRAGE. " 27 
 
 Serenely smiled in mockery of our pain ; 
 Till fearful oaths and imprecations loud 
 Burst from the quivering lips that raving swore 
 No Heaven could be beyond such lurid skies, 
 Since God nor Heaven shed no mercy down. 
 
 But suddenly all blasphemy was hush'd : 
 
 And some that erst liad mutter'd cursing words 
 
 Now afler'd praises with repentant tone ; 
 
 And men that had not wept since childhood's hour, 
 
 Cold, harden'd men, like very infants sobb'd. 
 
 As if their hearts would break with weight of joy • 
 
 And failing voices raised a feeble shout, 
 
 And tottering, faltering steps grew firm and swift. 
 
 As onward rush'd our worn and ghastly throng 
 
 With arms outstretched to grasp a precious prize ; 
 
 For, lo ! before our eager gaze were spread . 
 
 The clear and placid waters of a lake, 
 
 With mossy banks enamell'd here and there 
 
 With groups of lovely flowers, whose Eastern hues 
 
 Seem'd like the remnant of some rainbow bright. 
 
 That dropp'd from its high home, and in the fall 
 
 Was broken, and its rich dyes scatter'd there ; 
 
 The stately palm-trees bow'd their lofty heads. 
 
 The token-promise of abundant fruit ; 
 
 And the calm waves where fell their lengthen 'd 
 
 shade 
 Cast up a dimpled smile of grateful love, 
 And wooed our panting haste with witching charms. 
 And like a herd of startled deer we flew. 
 
28 ■ THE MIRAGE. 
 
 On — on — with nimble footsteps wing'd by fear ; 
 For Death, the hunter, caught each lingering form, 
 And love of life still nerved each drooping limb. 
 Still on we strove, nor heeded heat or toil ! 
 On — on — the torrid earth beneath our feet 
 Sent up its hottest torture through our veins, 
 As if its central fire had upward cast 
 In one strong flame its genii-guarded might ! 
 On — on — and on — no matter what our speed, 
 That dreadful sun still shower'd piercing beams, 
 That found their focus on our blister'd heads ! 
 Yet onward — on — a fainting, wretched few. 
 We press'd with earnest zeal towards the goal 
 That still receded from our anxious view ; 
 Till sighs of grief and groans of deep despair 
 Told where some life-chord broke, or footstep fail'd ; 
 And they whose hope outsped their body's power, 
 "Whose faithless step could bear them on no more, 
 Sank yelling, moaning, crawling, on the plain, 
 And there unburied rest where last they fell, 
 Without a grave where mourning friends might 
 
 weep 
 Above the dust they had so loved in life ! 
 While others, clinging with their bony hands 
 To hands as wasted, with a vice-like grasp, 
 Pray'd, with an eloquence from terror born. 
 Their fellow-sufterers for a little aid. 
 Urging each plea that human pain could use 
 For sympathy from lips as parch'd as theirs. 
 And promised stores of gold and priceless gems 
 
THE MIRAGE. 29 
 
 To dying creatures but to heed their cry ! 
 But 'want knows no compassion ; and the men 
 Whose pity once would save a worm from harm, 
 With savage words, and murderous blows of hate. 
 Now dash'd their comrades from their side to die; 
 Forgetful of a time when they had shared 
 Each thought and feeling of old, happy hours, 
 And seeing not the disappointed glance 
 That told the bitterness and mute reproach. 
 That might have roused remorse or wrung a sigh ! 
 
 But when the hopes of those who struggled on 
 Were at their wildest height, and the fair scene 
 Seem'd nearer, more alluring, than at first. 
 It quickly vanish'd from our yearning sight, 
 And left no trace of its deceptive green ! 
 'Twas gone, — forever gone, — and with it Hope ! 
 We gazed upon each others' face, to read 
 Some token that the dream was not dispell'd, — 
 Some cheering sign that Faith might yet believe ; 
 But every brow was wither 'd with the blight 
 Of this terrific, horrible despair ! 
 Above was stretch'd that merciless blue sky, 
 Before, around, that hell of light and sand ! 
 Naught else, — no water pure, no waving trees, 
 No blossoms peeping from the dewy grass ; 
 That sweet Oasis was but false Mirage, 
 The Desert's treacherous, delusive scene ; 
 And now 'twas gone — our destiny was there ! 
 The wilderness our tomb, — the heavens our pall, — 
 
30 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 Our only couch that awful bed of sand ! 
 Stretching where'er we turn'd its glitterings keen, 
 It fiU'd our cracking skin, and stung each wound ; 
 It choked our throats, and coursed in every vein. 
 We would have slain a brother, in that hour, 
 Without compunction, and with barbarous glee 
 Have revell'd on the corpse, and drain'd each drop 
 Of boiling blood that gave our victim life. 
 Save that we had no strength to work our will. 
 And then — and then — we all went wholly mad ! 
 
 'Twas strange, 'twas terrible, to see the change 
 That suffering wrought upon those wandering minds , 
 To list the plaintive tones and frantic sounds 
 Utter'd by swollen tongues and blacken'd lips ; 
 To mark how Memory, strong in this dread hour, 
 Painted on each hot brain, with pencil true, 
 Her vivid pictures of each stage of life. 
 Some babbled of the bubbling brooks that spring 
 In shady forest-dells far, far away. 
 Beside whose murmuring windings they had roved 
 Wlien hope was young and all the future bright ; 
 Again they trod the gray and moisten'd stones 
 That broke the dimpling stream's calm, singing 
 
 course. 
 Or aided, with the untaught grace of love, 
 Some trembling maiden o'er the rustic bridge, 
 Plucking the waving lilies from their stalks, 
 That, seated in some lonely glade, her hand 
 Might weave the woodland wild-rose into wreaths 
 
THE MIRAGE. 31 
 
 Amid the snowy leaves of spray-born flowers, 
 While manly voice, in warm and tender strain, 
 Defied each lovely blossom e'er to match 
 The peerless beauty of her brow and blush ! 
 
 Those, too, there were that told of fearful scenes 
 Of bloody conflict, and war's carnage dread. 
 And, gathering all of life in one last breath, 
 Sprang forward shouting some proud battle-cry, 
 Then, falling, died with that triumphant gasp ! 
 
 And there was one that breathed an awful tale 
 Of secret sin and hidden, dreadful crime : 
 A high and honor'd man, his name of yore 
 Had been a country's rallying word of pride ; 
 Men bow'd before him, and fair women sued 
 To win one flattering look from his cold eye ; 
 He moved a star upon his shining path. 
 None deeming that the brilliant light of mind 
 But hid the darkness of a guilt-drown'd soul ; 
 But now, as rang upon the lurid air 
 His shrieks of terror or remorseful groans. 
 The men who once had bent before his power 
 Drew from his hated touch each dying limb. 
 And feebly cursed the hope-deserted wretch. 
 
 And some pass'd silently, with breaking hearts, 
 Thinking of watchful forms that long would yearn 
 To greet the wanderer would return no more ; 
 And all had ta'en a last farewell of life. 
 
82 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 There was a fragile youth with golden hair, 
 That all the day had journey'd at my side. 
 Amid the trials of our desert march, 
 Without a murmur, with unfaltering trust, 
 His boyish step kept even pace with mine. 
 His slender fingers lay within my hand 
 Calmly as if no anguish stirr'd his veins ; 
 Though ever and anon, as some new hope 
 To tumult roused the passions of my heart, 
 My throbbing pulse would leap against his own. 
 The cheering pressure of his gentle hand 
 Would check the raging burst of feeling's storm ; 
 Whilst, pointing with the other wasted arm 
 Tow'rd th' horizon's verge, our cheating goal. 
 He spoke such words that even those who fled 
 With swiftest speed would turn to look again. 
 And wonder at the childish shape which breathed, 
 Like one inspired, such promises of grace ; 
 With steadfast, shining eyes, that never bore 
 One trace of bitterness or shade of earth, 
 As if an angel exiled from its home. 
 And captive-bound within those walls of clay, 
 Was gazing from the windows of its cell. 
 Till it might soar from bars of human mould, 
 To meet, on shores of everlasting streams. 
 The seraph forms that hover round it now. 
 I do believe that mid that burning waste 
 One of God's spirits took me by the hand 
 And led me through its lava-floods of light. 
 Feeding my soul with manna from the skies ; 
 
THE MIRAGE. 33 
 
 For ever as he walk'd he chanted o'er 
 
 The lofty strains by Hebrew Psalmist sung, 
 
 Until the vision of that fairy isle 
 
 Perish'd amid those torrid waves of sand ; 
 
 And then his voice grew quivering, faint and low, 
 
 Like tlie last sighs of an Eolian harp, 
 
 After some sweet and glorious melody, 
 
 Before the strings are shatter'd by the blast. 
 
 He wreathed his arm about my blister'd neck 
 
 And feebly bow'd my head till my dark hair 
 
 Mingled its untrain'd length with his bright locks, 
 
 Casting one glance of those large, wondrous eyes 
 
 In sad reproach upon my foaming lip ; 
 
 And hand in hand, his breast against my own, 
 
 We sank together on the plain to die ; 
 
 And all around was suffering, sand, and death, 
 
 And silence scarcely broken, save by groans 
 
 And dying prayers for some who ne'er would know 
 
 That those they loved were faithful to the last. 
 
 And thus we waited Death. The hot svm stood 
 In heaven's broad expanse, and downward shone 
 With smiling radiance at humbled man, 
 Like conquering Titan gazing at the field 
 Where rest the tokens of a hard-won strife, 
 Then marching on his proud, triumphal course, 
 Whose s})lender mocks the victims of his might. 
 I could not faint, nor sleep, nor dream, nor die ; 
 Only from out the stupor which had wrapp'd 
 Each limb and feeling after anguish fierce, 
 3 
 
34 THE MIRAGE. 
 
 My glaring eyes still watch'd that cruel sun, 
 Till each red ball seem'd living orbs of flame ; 
 And yet I could not move them from the sky, 
 Or turn aside my weary, heavy head ; 
 And on my bosom lay that young, fair brow, 
 Stirless and pale, and wreathed with clustering curls, 
 Whose golden beauty seem'd like halo bright, 
 His glory's crown won ere his Heaven was reach'd ; 
 Still press'd the lovely head upon my heart, 
 Till vivid fancy pictured it a world. 
 That greater grew with each half-stifled breath. 
 Until my frame seem'd whelm'd beneath the mass ; 
 And once, when as his pale lips murmur'd out 
 With fleeting sigh one passionate, sweet tone, 
 The holiest, tenderest word, — a mother's name, — 
 Methought an earthquake, with swift, sudden 
 
 shock, 
 Had wreck'd the stillness of my forced repose. 
 I strove to cast my crushing burden off*, 
 But could not move a muscle of my form ; 
 I would have raved, but that my swollen tongue , 
 Lay parcli'd and blacken'd in my panting mouth, ' 
 Like some dead thing, without the power to move. 
 Visions of hideous shape o'er-rode my mind ; 
 The boy's soft ringlets each seem'd serpent-coils I 
 The clinging fingers, but a monster's grasp ! 
 And every grain of sand, a living sting ! 
 My brain was bursting ! how I wish'd for death. 
 As madness slowly banish'd longing thought, — i 
 For I was nearly mad 1 
 
THE LEGEND OF ERROL. 35 
 
 But, hark ! a shout ! 
 The hasty tramp of many coming feet! 
 The sound of human voices ! and, oh, joy ! 
 The flash of water on my spell-bound sight ! 
 
 Another caravan, whose ampler store 
 
 Had borne them safely o'er their desert route, 
 
 Had sought for ours, — urged onward by the bones 
 
 And speechless dead that mark'd our frantic course, 
 
 To save the few, and found its remnant, — me, — 
 
 Yes, — only me ! The angel in my arms 
 
 Had look'd farewell, and wing'd its homeward 
 
 flight. 
 E'en as the messengers of hope restored 
 My flying reason to its tottering throne ! 
 1856. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF ERROL. 
 
 The watch-dog whined the whole long night, 
 
 The wind went wailing past ; 
 Strange voices fill'd the castle-halls, 
 
 Strange shriekings swell'd the blast ; 
 The firelight flickering on the hearth 
 
 Made shadows on the wall ; 
 But mid the chamber's fearful gloom 
 
 Seem'd other shades to fall ! 
 
36 THE LEGEND OF ERROL. 
 
 From off the large and massive bed 
 
 Was drawn each curtain-fold, 
 Where lay a shrouded^ stiffening form, 
 
 That scarcely yet was cold : 
 The Miser of the Manor there, 
 
 Whose path the bairns would shun. 
 Had died with twilight's fading hues, 
 
 Beloved and blest by none ! 
 
 Within the wide, black chimney-place 
 
 The ruddy blaze burn'd bright: 
 'Twas many a year since that dark room 
 
 Had known so rare a sight ! 
 And crouch'd upon a little stool 
 
 Beside the fitful flame, 
 With skinny hands and shaking head, 
 
 There sat an aged dame ! 
 
 An arm-chair, deep and high and worn, 
 
 Held one as angels fair, 
 But half a child, with snowy dress 
 
 And shining, golden hair, — 
 The old man's niece, — the Ladye Maude, 
 
 The last of that proud race : 
 How ev6r came from such a stock 
 
 A flower so full of grace ? 
 
 And hovering o'er the embers red, 
 As lull'd the wind's sad wail. 
 
 That palsied hag, in solemn tones, 
 Told some unearthly tale 
 
THE LEGEND OF ERROL. 87 
 
 Of startling omens, potent spells, 
 
 Of graves at midnight robb'd, 
 Of trance-bound sleep, and buried forms 
 
 Wherein the life still throbb'd. 
 
 The Ladye Maude grew pale with fear, 
 
 Her eyes grew wild with dread, 
 Thus listening to that toothless crone, 
 
 Thus looking on the dead ; 
 She could not move a single limb. 
 
 But sat with lips apart, 
 And hands tight clasp'd upon her breast 
 
 To still her beating heart. 
 
 The clock struck twelve ; her blood ran cold, 
 
 As rang day's solemn knell. 
 And on her soul with each slow stroke 
 
 A greater terror fell ; 
 For, as each echo sank away, 
 
 The weird witch at her knee 
 An incantation chanted low, 
 
 Of ancient glamourie ! 
 
 A wild idea fill'd her brain. 
 
 And stopp'd her smother'd breath ; 
 She deem'd that mystic summons woke 
 
 The ghastly ranks of Death ; 
 She thought the corpse rose from its bed 
 
 And trod with muffled feet ; 
 The firelight through the shadowy gloom 
 
 Waved like a winding-sheet I 
 
38 THE LEGEND OF ERROL. 
 
 A sudden shudder broke the spell ; 
 
 Then, nerved with frenzied might, 
 She shrieking rush'd through those dark halls 
 
 Out in the cold, bleak night, 
 And left that withered demon there 
 
 To keep her watch alone, 
 To hide the miser's stolen gold 
 
 Beneath the broad hearthstone ! 
 
 The banner'd flagstaff crashing fell 
 
 Mid newly waken'd blast; 
 The mastiff ceased his warning howl 
 
 As that slight figure pass'd ; 
 And one who, sleepless, saw the storm 
 
 That gather'd in the sky, 
 Long after told, in humble homes, 
 
 How flew that vision by ! 
 
 Loch Errol's falls were white with spray, 
 
 Loch Errol lay below ; 
 The rough rocks on Loch ErroFs side 
 
 Were veil'd in stainless snow ; 
 And, pure as that unsullied snow 
 
 Fresh from its cloudy home, 
 A fair thing slept at morning's dawn 
 
 Amid Loch Errol's foam ! 
 
 With arms entwined with golden hair, 
 
 And cross'd on stirless breast. 
 She floated on Loch Errol's wave, 
 
 Unheeding its unrest ; 
 
LAUREL HILL. 39 
 
 The bride of Death, in white array'd, 
 
 With childish, angel face, 
 Loch Errol bore to Heaven's gate 
 
 The last of Errol's race I 
 
 LAUREL HILL. 
 
 In this cemetery, situated a few miles from Philadelphia, 
 are deposited the mortal remains of Joseph C. Neal, over 
 whose last resting-place a beautiful and emblematic monu- 
 ment has been erected to his memory, by friends " who had 
 loved him as a man and admired him as an author." 
 
 With chasten'd spirit wandering mid the graves, 
 I pass'd an hour afar from worldly sound, 
 
 Where earthly care no longer Toil enslaves. 
 
 Where silence only, and Death's types, abound. 
 
 The soothing stillness of the summer air. 
 
 The waving trees that shadow'd sculptured stone, 
 
 The unknown names of those who moulder'd there, 
 Subdued my soul like music's solemn tone. 
 
 I mark'd the token that Affection rears 
 Above the buried dust so loved in life ; 
 
 Where fragrant flowers, nursed by Sorrow's tears. 
 Adorn the sod where rests a child or wife ; 
 
40 LAUREL HILL. 
 
 And paused a moment by a lonely spot, 
 The unrecorded mound wherein may sleep 
 
 Some nameless waif, whose unremember'd lot 
 Found naught to hope and left no fi'iend to weep. 
 
 How many minds unconquer'd by their fate. 
 
 How many brains that throbb'd with feverish 
 thought, 
 How many wordless yearnings for the great, 
 
 Have found beyond this bourn the goal they 
 sought ! 
 
 What garner'd wisdom, what unwritten lore, 
 What glowing visions, and what noble worth. 
 
 Have shone unvalued, then dropp'd back once more 
 Like unset jewels into mines of earth ! 
 
 Here stately monuments of graceful art 
 Proclaim the virtues of the flatter'd dead : 
 
 How oft an epitaph exalts a heart 
 
 Whose deeds no lustre on its life-time shed ! 
 
 Yet here, apart, mid calm, sequestered glade, 
 A pathway winds, by pilgrim homage worn, 
 
 Where generous Love and Friendship's tasteful aid 
 Have shrined the relics whose repose they mourn. 
 
 Rough from the quarry hewn, in shapeless grace 
 Th' unpolish'd block of virgin marble stands. 
 
 And forms the massive but unmodell'd base 
 Where chisell'd urn admiring praise commands. 
 
THE OLD GUARD AT WATJ:RL00. 41 
 
 Expressive symbol of tlie mind unwrought, 
 Till Time to Labor's work perfection brings, 
 
 And kindred souls, fulfilling Nature's thought, 
 Undying laurels carve where ivy clings. 
 
 -Twas minstrel's truest type, that needs no words. 
 The stringless lyre leaning on thy grave ! 
 
 Death early loosed thy spirit's " silver chords," 
 And still'd the music that thy being gave. 
 
 Yet Hope's proud dreams might ask no more of 
 Fame 
 
 Than such a tribute for an honor'd tomb, 
 Where tears of grief bedew the cherish'd name, 
 
 And glory spreads her bays of fadeless bloom ! 
 
 THE OLD GUARD AT WATERLOO. 
 "La Garde Imperiale meurt, mais ne se rend pas !" 
 
 TiiEY were as " giants on the earth," those demi- 
 gods of France, 
 
 When their chieftain gave the signal for their eagles 
 to advance ; 
 
 For they knew their columns ever led the fortune 
 of the day, 
 
 And where their standard floated was the thickest 
 of the fray ! 
 
42 THE OLD GUARD AT WATERLOO. 
 
 Their comrades fell before their eyes, crush'd b}' 
 
 the iron rain, — 
 They trampled on their prostrate forms, and fiU'd 
 
 the ranks again ! 
 No time to grieve o'er loved ones then, no time for 
 
 tears to flow ! 
 They only dream'd of glory's wreath, their monarch, 
 
 and the foe ! 
 
 All Europe trembled as they march'd, their only 
 
 music, groans ; 
 For on their storied valor hung the safety of her 
 
 thrones ! 
 With stern, unfaltering footsteps they trod that 
 
 dreadful field. 
 Their motto graven on their minds, — to die, but not 
 
 to yield ! 
 
 Mid the roaring of the cannon, amid the flash of 
 
 swords. 
 Arose from falling warriors these dauntless, noble 
 
 words ! 
 Their gaping wounds were ruddy, they fought mid 
 
 waves of blood. 
 But the "Old Guard" yielded never, and each died 
 
 where he stood ! 
 
 What cared they that each onward step was nearer 
 
 to the grave. 
 When at their head rode fearless Ney, the bravest 
 
 of the brave ? 
 
THE OLD GUARD AT WATERLOO. 43 
 
 These victors of unnumber'd fights braved death 
 
 without a sigh ; 
 Wliat reck'd these heroes where they fell, if th' 
 
 Emperor saw them die ? 
 
 Mapoleon ! how they loved that name, their pride 
 
 in peace or war ! 
 That sound baptized in bloody shrines, full many a 
 
 ghastly scar ! 
 Its echoes rang from Lodi's bridge through every 
 
 age and land ; 
 It lived within the hearts and deeds of this adoring 
 
 band ! 
 
 As faster flew the countless shot, they fell by hun- 
 dreds then ; 
 
 Yet steady and unbroken stood that square of 
 valiant men ! 
 
 For when balls and charging squadrons some fatal 
 breach had made, 
 
 They, fighting, wheel'd, and form'd again, as though 
 upon parade ! 
 
 Their very foes look'd on amazed to see such des- 
 perate strife, 
 
 And sent a messenger to stay this reckless loss of 
 life,— 
 
 •To summon these proud veterans to acknowledge 
 their defeat ; 
 
 jBut they shouted, " Vive Napoleon I" and perish 'd 
 at his feet I 
 
4-1 THE OLD GUARD AT WATERLOO. 
 
 Cambronne, their leader, struggled still amid a 
 
 bleeding few, 
 The last of all the brilliant host that went to 
 
 Waterloo ! 
 The Allies ceased their murderous fire, the day was 
 
 nearly done, 
 When their herald bade him render up the glory he 
 
 had won ! 
 
 The warrior rear'd his wounded form, and, glancing 
 
 proudly round, 
 He pointed with his crimson'd blade where dead 
 
 men heap'd the ground ; 
 Then rang above the battle-plain the world-renown'd 
 
 reply, 
 " The Old Guard ne'er surrender ; the Old Guard 
 
 only die V 
 
 And thus they pass'd invincible, unvanquish'd save 
 by Death, 
 
 Napoleon in their dying thought and on their latest 
 breath. 
 
 They sprang to birth at his command, they vanish'd 
 with his fall, 
 
 As sunbeams always rise and set around their parent- 
 ball. 
 
napoleon's legacy. 45 
 
 NAPOLEON'S LEGACY. 
 
 Shortly before his death, the Emperor was asked by Madame 
 Bertrand, under whose protection he wished to leave his 
 son. "I will leave my son under the protection of the 
 French Army !" was the reply. 
 
 There, on the captive's barren rock, 
 
 Imprison'd by the sea, 
 The great man's heart bequeth'd to France 
 
 A precious legacy. 
 No countless store of hidden gold. 
 
 No secret worth a throne, 
 No priceless gem of sacred Art : — 
 
 These were no more his own ! 
 He left no crowns for traitor brows, 
 
 No lands his sword had won : 
 A nobler trust was thine, fair France, — 
 
 His darling, only son ! 
 
 Not from the Bourbon line of kings. 
 
 Not from the fickle crowd, 
 Not from the courtier train that once 
 
 Before his glory bow'd, 
 Not from the haughty Fleur de Lis, 
 
 O'er humbled Gallia flung, 
 The chain'd and dying lion sought 
 
 Protection for his young ! 
 
46 napoleon's legacy. 
 
 But to the army he had loved — 
 
 The Legion of the Brave, 
 The veterans of a hundred fields — 
 
 This solemn charge he gave ! 
 
 'Twas to the eagles he had rear'd 
 
 In Alpine eyries high, 
 And train'd " the Sun of Austerlitz" 
 
 To face with fearless eye ! 
 To whom he gave his sad embrace 
 
 At Fontainebleau's review, 
 And only saw their proud wings droop 
 
 At stormy Waterloo ! 
 'Twas but to these Napoleon left 
 
 His dearest, last bequest. 
 To guard their chieftain's child when he, 
 
 The sire, should be at rest ! 
 
 warriors of the Empire, 
 
 What answer shall ye make 
 To the well-known form that waits ye 
 
 By Acheron's dark lake ? 
 Will ye point to old Vienna, 
 
 Who saw his conquests there, 
 And bid him seek mid kindred foes 
 
 His kingdom's crownless heir ? 
 Oh, little worth the monarch's trust 
 
 In these, the tried and brave, 
 Who, living, left Napoleon's son 
 
 To fill a captive's grave ! 
 
THE WORLD AND THE DREAMER. 47 
 
 THE WOKLD AND THE DREAMER. 
 
 " Up and be doing \" cries the busy world, 
 
 Forever hastening to a golden goal : 
 " Why sitt'st thou idle thus, with folded hands, 
 
 While all around thee tides of action roll ? 
 Labor. to live! and live alone for work ! 
 
 This is man's destiny ! Come, take thy share! 
 Cast off the sloth of visions ! murder dreams ! 
 
 He conquers most whose will the most shall 
 dare V 
 
 Brave words, world ! I hear their cheerful tones. 
 And raise my looks where strives thy restless 
 throng, 
 Where Wealth and Power tread o'er prostrate necks. 
 Where Right falls wearied 'neath the blows of 
 Wrong ! 
 I see the many panting in the race 
 
 Up Gain's steep hill, Avith glittering baubles strewn, 
 Toil, ftiil, and sink, spurn'd downward by the few 
 Who smile at suffering from self's guilt-won 
 throne ! 
 
 I list the music of thy ceaseless work. 
 
 The anvil's sound, the steam-king's mighty breath, 
 The march of eager feet through learning's road. 
 
 And Triumph's song of names unknown to Death ! 
 
48 THE WORLD AND THE DREAMER. 
 
 Yet hear above the chorus of thy strain 
 The echoes which have fiU'd each age of time, — 
 
 The groans of serfs, the shrieks of martyr'd faith, 
 Oppression's shout o'er Freedom slain by crime ! 
 
 I will not enter mid thy wild unrest, 
 
 Nor bind my thoughts on Custom's grinding wheel, 
 Nor cringe to tyrant Pride, though purple-robed, 
 
 Nor yield my new-born dreams to Action's steel ! 
 God feeds my soul on visions, as of yore 
 
 He fiird his chosen ones with heavenly bread : 
 And shall I scorn this manna of the skies, 
 
 To be, like them, on earthly viands fed ? 
 
 Pass on, world : we have our separate paths : — 
 
 Thou to the busy battle-field of life, 
 The dreamer, I, to stay apart with peace 
 
 And mark the currents of thy endless strife ! 
 But mind shall labor, though my life be still, 
 
 My soul be brave, although my armor rust ; 
 And e'en thy warriors yet may turn aside 
 
 To hold communion with my sleeping dust ! 
 
 il 
 
THE UNWRITTEN ELEGY. 49 
 
 THE UNWRITTEN ELEGY. 
 
 Shelley, whose Elegy on Keats is one of the most exquisite 
 poems in the English language, has yet to receive the same 
 homage to his own genius. 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, 
 
 Bard of a magic lyre, — 
 Whose subtle music thrills high souls 
 
 With more than transient fire, — 
 Whose dreamy tenderness of song, 
 
 And delicate, rich tone. 
 Might win a wandering Peri's voice 
 
 To make the strain its own ? 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy ? — 
 
 No mourner at thy tomb 
 Cast down a single fadeless flower 
 
 To decorate its gloom ? 
 Not one ambitious minstrel-hand 
 
 To snatch a leaf of fame 
 To shine amid th' immortal light 
 
 Reflected from thy name ? 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, — 
 
 Whose eloquence of woe 
 Could o'er the broken-hearted dead 
 
 In such deep pathos flow, 
 
50 THE UNWRITTEN ELEGY. 
 
 That even they whose cruel scorn 
 
 The poison'd arrow sent 
 Have wept o'er Adonais' bier, 
 
 Subdued by Love's Lament ? 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, — 
 
 Whose spirit scaled the skies 
 Upon the ladder of sweet sounds 
 
 The lark rears as she flies, — 
 Who clairn'd companionship with clouds, 
 
 And, like their sparkling dew, 
 Whose freshening thoughts made many a flower 
 
 Of life spring up anew ? 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, — 
 
 Whose clear and brilliant mind 
 Had rent with fearless hand the veil 
 
 That Custom's minions bind 
 Upon the shining brow of Truth 
 
 To hide her glory's rays, 
 Then never from her halo's glow 
 
 Turn'd back thine earnest gaze ? 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, — 
 
 Who trod with reverent feet 
 Mid Nature's praise-resounding aisles, 
 
 Where man and mysteries meet, — 
 Who found in forest, mount, or sea 
 
 Thy soul's unending feast. 
 Till symphonies of ringing words 
 
 Proclaim'd Creation's Priest? 
 
THE UNWRITTEN ELEGY. 51 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegj^, — 
 
 Not even he whose hand 
 Unto thy classic funeral pyre 
 
 Applied the kindling brand, — 
 Whose poet-soul had shared with thine 
 
 The scorns and wounds of Fate, 
 And e'en whose last libation pour'd 
 
 To Friendship waken'd Hate ! 
 
 Has no one writ thine Elegy, — 
 
 None of thy kindred band ? 
 Ho ! Master Singers of the world ! 
 
 Ho ! Bards of every land ! 
 Ho ! ye whose words have sway'd the throng 
 
 When echoed from his lute ! 
 Because the nightingale is still, 
 
 Are other warblers mute ? 
 
 Will no one write his Elegy? — 
 
 Come, gather round his urn. 
 And each, like Magi at a shrine. 
 
 His share of incense burn ! 
 What nobler, prouder theme than this 
 
 Can human purpose find. 
 On which to string your gems of thought, 
 
 Ye monarchs of the mind ? 
 
 Will no one write his Elegy ? — 
 
 Laureate of a throne, 
 Forget the scenes of ages fled : 
 
 Immortalize thine own ! 
 
52 BORN. 
 
 From "Morte d'Arthur" turn thy dreams 
 
 To that one grave at Rome, 
 Till floats o'er England's modern dead 
 
 A requiem from home ! 
 
 Will no one write his Elegy ? — 
 
 Unsung his ashes wait 
 The tribute which the bard alone 
 
 Can render to the great. 
 Then hasten, troubadours of earth, 
 
 Thy gifts of song to bring. 
 Till unto Shelley's name all hearts 
 
 In answering echoes ring ! 
 1857. 
 
 BORN. 
 
 A REQUIEM and a jubilee ! 
 
 An infant born, a mother dead ! 
 A storm without, a wail within ! 
 
 A starless heaven overhead ! 
 A father's half-averted eye ! 
 
 Hot tears above a white robe shed ! 
 A flickering firelight in the room, 
 Strange shadows swaying mid the gloom, 
 A broken flower, a bud's fresh bloom, 
 A life that wrought its giver's doom ! 
 
DEAD. 53 
 
 Thus welcomed in an ominous hour, 
 A new soul waken'd on the earth, 
 
 "With snow and hail on striving winds, 
 With death and sorrow on the hearth ! 
 
 What fate is hid in coming years 
 Thus heralded by such a birth ? 
 
 A loveless childhood, wild and lone ! 
 
 A youth of yearnings crush'd, unknown I 
 
 A heart with idols overthrown ! 
 
 A woman's lot ! Moan, baby, moan ! 
 
 DEAD. 
 
 Dead ! 
 The damp, dark mould enwraps her form ; 
 
 The eyes are darkened evermore ; 
 The pallid hands hold wither'd buds ; 
 Dust gathers where was bloom before. 
 Life's joys, life's hopes, life's tears are o'er ; 
 For she is dead ! 
 
 Dead ! 
 The grave is Lethe for all care : 
 
 There dwells the peace her years knew not : 
 Regrets are hush'd, remorse is still : 
 Her very love will be forgot 
 By those who shared her shaded lot ; 
 For she is dead ! 
 
64 THE SAINT-ESPRIT. 
 
 Dead! 
 One stands beside the sculptured tomb, 
 And reads her name upon the stone : 
 In youth's proud hour she crush'd his dreams 
 And yet he comes, the last, alone, 
 To weep for her was ne'er his own 
 Till she was dead ! 
 
 Dead! 
 A stranger fills her place at home ; 
 
 The weeds grow thick around her grave : 
 One plucks a flower from the sod 
 That henceforth over land and wave 
 Will throb on heart that faithful gave 
 Love strong as Death ! 
 
 THE SAINT-ESrRIT. 
 
 The Saint-Esprit, or Flower of the Holy Ghost, is the small 
 hlossom of an air-plant, so called from the striking resem- 
 blance in its appearance to that of a dove with half-closed 
 wings sitting in the cup of a lily. 
 
 Afar on the waves of the blue Southern Ocean, 
 Like a beauty asleep on her lover's fond breast, 
 
 Lies the fairest of isles, while the sea's fond emotion 
 Swells in billowy kisses that brighten her rest. 
 
THE SAINT-ESPRIT. 55 
 
 For no water that rolls has foam-crest so golden 
 As these sun-lighted pulses that throb on her 
 shore ; 
 And no sage has e'er dream'd over mysteries so olden 
 
 As that fathomless deep could to ages restore. 
 And 'tis murmuring now, mid its love's wild em- 
 bracing, 
 Some rare legend to waken the silence of morn, 
 While on scent-laden wings of the winds, that are 
 chasing 
 Our snowy-sail'd bark, the sweet echoes are borne ! 
 
 Encircled by hills, a lone valley is hidden 
 
 In the midst of this isle, still untrodden by man, — 
 An emblem of Eden ere its fruit was forbidden. 
 
 Ere humanity's sin or creation began ! 
 Like some fleet, graceful Almee who wreathes, as 
 she dances, 
 Her many-hued scarf mid her loose, shining hair, 
 Then, bounding away from the slaves she entrances. 
 To a couch strewn with blossoms, sinks breath- 
 lessly there ! 
 Thus a spray-spangled stream, through the mossy 
 rocks winding. 
 Leaps suddenly down, with a gay, mocking tone, 
 The rainbow-dyes still mid its foam-tresses binding, 
 
 As it falls in a lake of queen-lilies the throne ! 
 Like armies of giants renown'd in old stories. 
 Here forests primeval spread their evergreen 
 glades, 
 
56 THE SAINT-ESPRIT. 
 
 Where birds with the plumage of sunsetting glories 
 Are sparkling like jewels mid the dim, dusky 
 shades, 
 Or warbling like Peris through Paradise straying, 
 
 Till with rapturous music the green arches ring, 
 While their leaf-hidden nests are gracefully swaying 
 On the wild, fragrant vines that so tenderly cling 
 Round these veterans of nature, their branches en- 
 twining. 
 Till a labyrinth of verdure o'er-roofs all the scene, 
 And the brightness of day, in scatter'd beams shin- 
 ing, 
 Makes a network below of shadow and sheen ! 
 
 And here 'mong the parasite plants that embower 
 
 The aisles of a temple whose sole incense is song, 
 There blossoms, air-nurtured, a delicate flower, 
 
 Round whose marvellous beauty rare fancies may 
 throng ! 
 In days that have vanish'd, there stood by the river 
 
 That rolls through the Orient its world-hallow'd 
 wave. 
 The Christ clothed in manhood mankind to deliver, 
 
 And John the Baptizer, with warning to save ! 
 When, lo ! from the cloud o'er the holy group 
 bending. 
 
 Floats the Spirit of God, in the form of a dove. 
 And there on the head of the Saviour descending 
 
 Lights a token of purity, promise, and love ! 
 
THE SAINT-ESPRIT. 57 
 
 Soon their steps from the shores of the Jordan 
 retreating, 
 The Prophet and Lord journey onward to die ; 
 While the messenger-dove, its mission completing. 
 Its si^otless wings spreads, o'er the wide world to 
 fly! 
 But where on this earth shall the heaven-born rover 
 
 Find a home all unsullied by traces of sin, 
 A shelter still guileless and worthy to cover 
 
 The pure breast that late harbor'd God's Spirit 
 within ? 
 It floats o'er the wilderness, sails o'er the mountain. 
 Skims the rivers and lakes, resting noonday nor 
 night. 
 Or longingly lingers by some wild-wood or fountain ; 
 But the taint of man's presence still urges its 
 flight ! 
 
 Its pinions, still stainless, had ceased not their 
 motion 
 
 Since they soar'd from the halo on His holy head, 
 Till over this isle in the far Southern Ocean, 
 
 Its pilgrimage ended, their flutterings are led. 
 Where, wheeling mid trees that through clouds 
 seem to tower, 
 
 It slowly sinks down, seeking refuge and rest, 
 Till at last the lily-leaved cup of this flower 
 
 Spreads a velvety coucli for its white, weary breast ; 
 And, with plumage half folded, it silently slumbers, 
 
 Now forever a part of this blossom so rare. 
 
58 AN OLD STORY. 
 
 While, harp-like, its tendrils vibrate with the num- 
 bers 
 Of melodies rich that the winds waken there ! 
 
 Its seeds, like the feathers of birds that are flying, 
 Float away, and find root in the soft, stirring 
 breeze. 
 That evermore thus near the waterfall sighing 
 Drapes the forest around, with entwined Saint- 
 Esprits, 
 Till the dark, shady woods are white with the glory 
 
 Of flowers untainted by contact with earth, 
 While the foam-crested waves repeat the strange 
 story 
 Of this wonderful nestling of heavenly birth ! 
 Thus murmur'd the Sea, mid its love's wild era- 
 bracing, 
 This new legend to waken the silence of morn, 
 And on scent-laden wings of the wind, that was 
 chasing 
 Our snowy-sail'd bark, the faint echoes were borne I 
 
 AN OLD STORY. 
 
 Once on an autumn day, in bygone years, 
 Two lovers stood beside a lonely grave ; 
 
 And, as they read the story on the stone. 
 Both throbbing hearts a sigh of sorrow gave. 
 
AN OLD STORY. 59 
 
 'Twas sad, — that record of an ended life : 
 
 It told of one, a woman young and fair, 
 Who sprang to meet the glory of her spring, 
 
 Then brought its faded, storm-crush'd blossoms 
 there ! 
 She loved, and died ; and o'er her shrouded form 
 
 The heavy sods lay black and damp and cold, 
 While crimson leaves, like her own glowing hopes, 
 
 Were falling tliick, and mingling with the mould ! 
 
 They read, and gazed into each other's eyes ; 
 
 Then spake the girl half sadly through her tears : — 
 *' And is this all that life can give to love, 
 
 And all that love accords to patient years ? 
 Rest for the wearied and broken heart, 
 
 And grave where only strangers stop to weep ? 
 And yet perchance 'twere better thus to lose, 
 
 Amid the dreamless quiet of death's sleep, 
 The bitter knowledge of affection lost, 
 
 Than live to mourn youth's perish'd love and 
 faith 
 My own beloved, should such fate e'er be mine, 
 
 Pray God mine too may be an early death !" 
 
 He still'd her new-born fear with tender words. 
 And swore, beside the stranger's warning tomb, 
 
 That Time should ne'er his fervent truth destroy. 
 And bade her chase her brow's prophetic gloom ! 
 
 ?he was but woman : so, with yearning heart. 
 She wept and listen'd, smiled and still believed ; 
 
60 PRAYER AT THE POLE. 
 
 And arm in arm they turn'd from that sad mound, 
 Forgetting all the thought that there had grieved ! — 
 But when the autumn leaves had changed their 
 shade 
 Once more from glossy green to falling gold, 
 Their fading glories deck'd another grave, 
 
 And she was young who shared that couch of 
 mould ! 
 
 PRAYER AT THE POLE. 
 
 *' Just before we started [on the return with the rescued 
 men], while the rest of the party surrounded the sledge, Dr. 
 Kane rendered thanks to the Great Ruler of human destinies 
 for the goodness He had evinced in preserving our feeble lives 
 while struggling over the ice desert, exposed to a blast almost 
 as withering as that from a furnace. The scene was exceed- 
 ingly solemn, as, deeply impressed by our situation, our com- 
 mander poured forth ready and eloquent sentences of gratitude 
 in that lonely solitude, whose scenery offered every thing to 
 depress the mind, nothing to cheer it. Not a word fell from 
 his lips that did not find a response in our hearts, when we 
 reflected upon the dangers we had vmdergone, and the certainty 
 of death which would have followed a continuance of ex- 
 posure for even a few hours." — (Quoted from the Narrative of 
 Wilson in Dr. Elder's "Life of Kane.") 
 
 A LITTLE group of worn-out men, 
 
 With weary limbs and shatter'd forms, 
 
 Whose stalwart wills and gallmt hearts 
 Were strong to face dark danger's storms ! 
 
PRAYER AT THE POLE. 61 
 
 And one amidst them, slight of frame, 
 And pale from strife with death and pain, 
 
 A hero's soul, whose martyr zeal 
 
 Bore nobly suffering's cankering chain ! 
 
 They met within the solemn aisles 
 
 Of ice-built shrine, a temple grand, 
 Alone upon a frozen sea, 
 
 The saving and the rescued band, 
 Mid crystal columns rear'd aloft 
 
 Against a gray and cloud-draped dome, — 
 The only thing — that shadow'd sky — 
 
 In all the waste that look'd like home ! 
 
 They stood with bow'd, uncovered heads, 
 
 With reverent mien and moisten 'd eyes, 
 Remembering scenes that long had pass'd, 
 
 Recalling love's most tender ties. 
 As softly on the keen, cold air 
 
 Their leader's voice rose calm and clear, 
 And raised, like prophet's tone, the hope 
 
 That in each heart had found a bier. 
 
 Few words of humble, grateful praise. 
 
 For guidance, life, and rest, a prayer, 
 A low "Amen" from quivering lips, 
 
 Were all the pomps of service there ! 
 It gave them strength to conquer death ; 
 
 It made them brave to dare and do ; 
 It kept them faithful to the end, 
 
 A band of brothers, tried and true ! 
 
62 ONE LIFE. 
 
 Then bless them, souls of Christian men 
 
 O'er all the earth who praise and pra\r ; 
 And bless him, most of all, their chief, 
 
 Who first in duty led the way, — 
 Who first upon those regions drear 
 
 Of frozen, unknown waters spoke 
 The name of Christ, whose world-bless'd sound 
 
 The solitude of silence broke ! 
 
 Those polar mounts of ice may melt 
 
 Beneath the Arctic's summer skies ; 
 May speed the nations' hoarded wealth. 
 
 And 'neath the tropics ebb and rise ; 
 Yet bear abroad, where'er they flow. 
 
 That baptism of the holy Name 
 They echoed from his voice who died 
 
 And left those bergs to spread his fame ! 
 1858. 
 
 ONE LIFE. 
 
 Low and lone in the church-yard corner 
 
 Is a grave we saw not before : 
 There's one who was restless and erring. 
 
 Will weary on earth nevermore I 
 There are feet that have ceased from straying 
 
 In paths of folly and shame, 
 Ked lips that the white worms are kissing, 
 
 An unwept and unhonor'd name ! 
 
ONE LIFE. 63 
 
 She had youth and beauty and fancy, 
 
 She had passions, tempting, and sin, 
 She laugh'd loudest at reckless revels, 
 
 While her heavy heart wept within ; 
 She fetter'd all men with her glances. 
 
 She thrill'd them with touch of her hand ; 
 She was fairest and highest and lowest 
 
 Of the city's Cyprian band ! 
 
 There, were those who scorn'd her for sinning. 
 
 Who " pass'd by on the other side,^' 
 Who shunn'd her as one that was leprous, 
 
 Unclean to their purified pride, 
 Who vetoed with sceptres of virtue 
 
 Her claims upon sympathy's care, 
 Who frown'd on her dawning repentance, 
 
 Or blush'd her back into desj)air ! 
 
 Her heart was the heart of a woman, 
 
 And her soul was a human soul ; 
 She had feelings, yearnings, and trials, 
 
 And a name for God's judgment-roll ! 
 It may be, in some soften'd moment, 
 
 Love's sisterly, winning tone 
 May have guided her steps from evil, 
 
 Till they paused by the great white throne ! 
 
 She heard not the calls that were murmur 'd 
 
 By those standing off and apart : 
 So she laugh'd defiance at preachers, 
 
 And strangled the pain in her heart ! 
 
64 CALLS AND RESPONSES. 
 
 And she died, society's outcast ; 
 
 But perchance, mid her life of shame, 
 Some charities secret and precious 
 
 In heaven have whiten'd her name ! 
 
 CALLS AND RESPONSES. 
 
 " Poet, upHfting thy soft, earnest eyes, 
 Looking w^ith lofty rapture o'er the earth, 
 
 What thinkest thou of this, the Avondrous sphere 
 Whereon thy strain melodious had birth V 
 
 " Earth is the mother of the Beautiful, 
 
 And vv^ears new glories every passing day ; 
 My soul grows drunken with her loveliness, 
 
 And longs forever mid her wealth to stay ; 
 My song interprets then to colder hearts 
 
 The mighty mysteries of her wordless tone, 
 And, priest-like chanting through the temple- 
 aisles, 
 
 Leads up the people to the Maker's throne.'^ 
 
 " True, Beauty's worshipper, thy world is fair, 
 But should be loved because 'tis sacred too ; 
 
 For God's own feet have trod its precious soil: 
 Jehovah hallow'd earth by passing through.*^ 
 
 " Philosopher, who countest heaven's bright orbs, 
 Thou lonely watcher of the moonlight night, i 
 
CALLS AND RESPONSES. 65 
 
 Wiiat seems to thee this planet of our own, 
 Whereon thy sense first saw the morn's rich 
 light V 
 
 " Earth moves upon her orbit in the skies, 
 
 A mite mid space, and yet a shining star, 
 Whereon all other constellations gaze, 
 
 And hail a sister in this speck afar. 
 And thus the lore which Eastern Magi taught 
 
 Of suns and systems fills this heart of mine, 
 Where evermore those distant, glowing lights 
 
 Shed o'er life's trial-storms a peace divine." 
 
 " Yet should they lift thy soul with purer joy, 
 Joy that the Orient sages never felt. 
 
 That, mid these myriads of brighter worlds, 
 On thine alone God the Redeemer dwelt !" 
 
 "0 weeper, sorrowing over broken hopes, 
 Who seest all things through a veil of tears. 
 
 Forget a little while thy mournful past; 
 Say how to thee thy parent globe appears." 
 
 " Earth spread before the vision of my youth 
 
 A vast, sweet garden fill'd with fragrant flowers. 
 Time taught me soon each blossom hid a thorn. 
 
 And pain repaid the bliss of happy hours. 
 Now look I forth, and see rare glories still, 
 
 Yet know the sting that lurks 'neath every prize ; 
 And so, mid earth's green fields and clustering 
 fruit, 
 
 My anguish'd spirit faint with sorrow lies !" 
 5 
 
bb THE QUESTION. 
 
 " 'Twas in the Garden of Gethsemane 
 Christ's agony and sweat of blood were borne : 
 
 The brows that bend 'neath weight of human cross 
 Wear never laurel, but are crown'd with thorn." 
 
 Sage, singer, sufferer, man, whate'er thou art, 
 
 Look proudly forth across this world of thine, 
 And glory in thy grand humanity : 
 
 'Twas made in image of the One Divine ! 
 'Tis higher, too, than highest angel forms ; 
 
 For ours, not theirs, the nature that was ta'en, 
 "When sinless Jesus died like mortal man, 
 
 And soar'd in human form to heaven again ! 
 And love thy earth ; 'tis sanctified for time. 
 
 Since she has held dead Christ within her breast. 
 These, moulds of dust, should make thy noblest 
 pride. 
 
 Since most in these thou and thy earth v»^ere 
 blest. 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 An angel ever stands 
 
 Beside the portals barr'd 
 
 Where spirits enter in 
 The kingdom of the King, 
 
 Enfranchised of their sin. 
 
 -, 
 
THE QUESTION. 67 
 
 He holds within his hands 
 The hook of human fate, 
 
 Wherein he marks each name 
 With signs that seraphs know 
 Of glory or of shame. 
 
 For 'tis his solemn place 
 To ask the newly dead 
 
 Who seek for entrance there, 
 • The question which decides 
 Their bliss or their desj^air. 
 Before his shining face 
 
 But truth can stand unveil'd ; 
 
 And all that hear his tone 
 Must answ^er justly then, 
 Uncounsell'd and alone. 
 
 That angel will not ask, 
 
 " What money hast thou won ? 
 
 What conquests hast thou made ? 
 What pleasure hast thou gain'd? 
 
 What homage hast thou paid ?" 
 No I his is sterner task : 
 The w'ords that he will say 
 
 Will quell each trembling soul. 
 Will waken mortal fear, 
 
 Reviewing memory's roll. 
 
 " What hast thou done with time V 
 Thus will the angel speak; — 
 " What of thy days of life, 
 
68 DIED YOUNG. 
 
 Returning nevermore, 
 With good or evil rife ? 
 Time lost is man's worst crime: 
 
 Well spent, it is the key- 
 That opens heaven's gate. 
 
 Art worthy ? or hast found 
 Time's value all too late ?" 
 
 What hast thou done with time? 
 Ponder it, fellow-man ; 
 
 Think of it, dust of earth : 
 God lends thee time till death ; 
 
 'Tis borrow'd at thy birth. 
 What hast thou done with time ? 
 When hours of breath are o'er, 
 
 Canst answer, " Faithful, Lord, 
 And see the gates of pearl 
 
 Unclose before the word ? 
 
 DIED YOUNG. 
 
 Died young ! About those little, common words 
 A mournful cadence ever seems to cling, 
 
 Like echoes of a broken song, that still 
 A sense of yearning to our spirits bring. 
 
 Died young ! The living who remain grow gray, 
 And yet these dead stand in our memories' light, 
 
 Unwither'd, fresh, untouch'd by time and care, 
 Or glorified, perchance, by faith's fond sight. 
 
DIED YOUNG. G9 
 
 Died young ! We think of tliein too oft as fruit 
 Blighted by frost before the ripening hour, 
 
 Or with a selfish pain that on our path 
 
 Should fade the beauty of an opening flower. 
 
 Died young ! They have escaped so much of sin, 
 So much of sorrow, and such stings of shame, 
 
 That gratitude should mingle with our grief, 
 
 Knowing these dear ones kept their youth's pure 
 name. 
 
 Died young ! They had not lost their eager hope, 
 Their glad, first trust in all that seemeth fair, 
 
 The power to dream, to revel in romance, 
 Or bring a guileless soul to God in prayer. 
 
 Died young ! Experience had never torn 
 The roseate veil from Nature's face away, 
 
 Forced tears for perish'd loves and friendships slain, 
 Or shown them that their idols were of clay. 
 
 Died young ! They left the bitterness of life, 
 Uncrown'd with thorns, unwearied by the cross ; 
 
 And, if we miss them on our own bleak road. 
 To us, to us alone comes thought of loss ! 
 
 Died young ! Leap'd warm into the vale of death, 
 Which we with solemn step shall one day tread, 
 
 And then, dear friends grown old with this world's ill, 
 We meet our youth again, with earth's young 
 dead ! 
 
AGNES. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 The fading glory of an autumn day 
 Flasli'd through the west, then died to dusk away, 
 Its red beams lingering, in a quaint old room, 
 On two that noted not the gathering gloom. 
 
 For they were lovers. She had yielded all, 
 HojDe, faith, and dreams, unto his passion's thrall ; 
 They both were young and fair, nor yet had seen 
 The freshness vanish from youth's early green ! 
 
 His arms were round her ; like a fluttering dove, 
 Her heart was folded in its nest of love ; 
 Her swimming eyes gazed up into his OAvn, 
 Meeting the wordless thoughts that there, too, 
 shone. 
 
 The world was nought to them : their love was life; 
 Each passing moment was with memories rife ; 
 And, as his hand play'd fondly mid her hair. 
 He pictured forth the home they both should share. 
 
 Drawing her blushing brow upon his breast. 
 His quivering lips then on her own he press'd, 
 Murmuring in broken accents, all the while. 
 How all through life his light should be her smile. 
 
AGNES. 71 
 
 And both were happy, — in each other's eyes 
 Watching the love-light art can ne'er disguise ; 
 A moment heedless of th' impending cloud 
 AVhose shadow soon their future must enshroud. 
 
 For they were parting, — he to seek once more 
 
 His distant home upon another shore, 
 
 And she to mourn in solitude and tears 
 
 O'er time's slow march, affection's tender fears. 
 
 He held her long in one close, wild embrace, 
 Both trembling on each other's brow to trace 
 The passing semblance of a bitter dread 
 Lest absence on their love some change should shed. 
 
 Her sudden sobs the boding silence broke. 
 While he in passion's whisper'd accents spoke : — 
 " Dearest, I love thee, — love but only thee : 
 Thou art the star that guides my destiny ! 
 
 " My best beloved, I will return once more. 
 And then — and then — our partings will be o'er ! 
 I will be true as though still at thy side, — 
 True as if thou wert all my own, my bride !" 
 
 Slowly she calm'd the tumult of her tears, 
 And cast aside the memory of her fears. 
 Answering, with trust unfaltering, " I too 
 Will be forever faithful, ever true !" 
 
72 AGNES. 
 
 Once more their bursting hearts together beat, 
 Once more their lips the parting kiss repeat ; 
 And then, with one last look, he turn'd away, 
 Leaving her weeping mid her hopes to pray. 
 
 Her days moved slowly by, and grew to years, — 
 A sad procession calendar'd with tears, — 
 And yet he came not. Still unwed and fair, 
 She learned her woman's lot, a silent grief to bear I 
 
 For months his letters cheer'd her lonely way : 
 Oft read, caressed, they on her bosom lay, 
 To lighten every evil life could bring, 
 And hours of sunshine o'er her path to fling. 
 
 At length she saw a shade of coldness steal 
 Amid their warmth, no language could conceal ; 
 She rent the veil of eloquence apart, 
 And read the naked truth with bleeding heart. 
 
 His life was brilliant ; mid its busy tide, 
 
 That dream of tenderness was drown'd and died ; 
 
 In gradual change his idol less became. 
 
 Till all remain'd was memory and a name I 
 
 He was not false, — but nature made him light ; 
 His fancy roved to each thing new and bright; 
 And, deeming that he truly loved the while. 
 He watch'd the passion fade, with fickle smile. 
 
AGNES. 73 
 
 She loved him, — loved as only women love, 
 
 Her thought of him all other thought above. 
 
 She saw her god lie shatter'd by a breath, 
 
 And crush'd with foot of pride her hopes to death ! 
 
 The years pass'd on ; and yet she still was young, 
 And fame upon her brows its bays had flung ; 
 Fortune with gold had paved her triumph's road ; 
 No trace of sorrow mid her beauty show'd ! 
 
 And then he came. Upon that distant shore 
 Her glory reach'd him ; and he longed once more. 
 With something of the olden love, to gaze 
 On lier whose power had won a world-wide praise. 
 
 They met ; and he, remembering, thought to see 
 The same slight girl his Agnes used to be. 
 With floating curls, and earnest, tender eyes. 
 And artless mien unspoil'd by worldly guise. 
 
 They met, — amid a ball-room's restless crowd. 
 With startled grace, as to a queen he bow'd. 
 "Surely," he mused, "that woman proud and gay 
 Cannot be her I parted from one day, — 
 
 "Cannot be her who wept upon my arm 
 In all the passion of love's fond alarm, — 
 Who clung to me, and prcss'd her lips to mine, 
 Murmuring, 'Beloved, I am only thine!' 
 
74 AGNES. 
 
 " It is not true ! She could not meet me so, 
 Without one mention of the long ago, 
 Without one change of color or of tone, 
 As though a stranger si:)oke to her alone. 
 
 " And yet 'tis she ! Her smile is still the same, — 
 Her glorious smile, — and, better still, her name. 
 How like an empress born upon the throne 
 She sways the crowd that see but her alone ! 
 
 '• She shall be mine once more : she loved me 
 
 then ; 
 Methinks old love Avill win new love again. 
 Perchance she loves me yet : a woman's heart 
 Loves rarely twice ; her love of life is part." 
 
 And so he stood beside her as of yore, 
 Talk'd low, look'd love, as oftentimes before. 
 She smiled for answer with a mien as cold 
 As though for her there were no days of old. 
 
 At length he spoke of that sad parting scene, 
 Recall'd the happy times that once had been. 
 His heart quick-beating with the hope to trace 
 Some sign of lingering love upon her face. 
 
 At last he ask'd her, " Dost remember, too, 
 Thy promised vow to be forever true ? 
 I've sought in vain thine image to forget : 
 May hope still dream thou dost remember yet?" 
 
AGNES. 75 
 
 She stood a moment like Nemesis crown'd 
 With all the glory of a vengeance found ; 
 Then turn'd with laugh as silvery as song, 
 And with the shaft of scorn repaid her wrong : — 
 
 " True unto thee ! I do remember now 
 What I had long forgot ! Some foolish vow, 
 Made — was't to thee? — when head and heart were 
 
 soft! 
 But vows, through life, are made and broken oft ! 
 
 " I do recall a scene where love-sick youth 
 Swore to romantic girl eternal truth. 
 But had forgotten both the vow and swain : — 
 I've been betroth'd some dozen times since then ! 
 
 " Didst think to find me scourged by memory's rod, 
 With all my life like Rome's old two-faced god, 
 Looking one way towards a bitter past. 
 While towards the other all my hopes were cast? 
 
 " Thou hast not learn'd, in all these years since fled, 
 
 Love is a hungry thing, and must be fed 
 
 With constant pleadings, hopes, prayers, dreams, 
 
 and sighs, 
 Or else he fades away, and, starving, dies ? 
 
 '"Tis strange that I, who practised my first spell 
 Of power and conquest upon thee so well. 
 Would still have this to teach, that absence e'er 
 Destroys and buries sentiment's desjjair ! 
 
76 AGNES. 
 
 " And now farewell ! we shall not meet again : 
 To-morrow sees me dashing o'er the main. 
 Ponder my lesson ! To thy love twice told 
 Perchance I yet may listen — when I'm old." 
 
 And thus again they parted, — he, to feel 
 A real, desi3airing love her vengeance seal ; 
 To mourn his folly, and to curse his fate, 
 That, loving well at last, he loved too late. 
 
 And she — and she — the golden moon that night 
 Look'd down from heaven on a piteous sight : 
 A woman kneeling with dishevelFd hair. 
 And pallid lips that murmur'd misery's prayer. 
 
 She had with words her nobleness belied, 
 
 And borne her bravely 'neath her mask of pride ; 
 
 But now, alone with sorrow and the past. 
 
 Her heart's deep wounds could bleed in tears at last 
 
 " God !" she cried, " have mercy ! let me die ! 
 Or quench these memories of the times gone by ! 
 Let me not curse him for my hopeless life. 
 My ruin'd peace, my hours of midnight strife ! 
 
 " And give me patience, my God, to bear 
 This veil of calmness which my days must wear ! 
 That he may never know the secret pain 
 That binds my soul wdth its resistless chain. 
 
GRAVES BY THE WAY. 77 
 
 "And yet — and yet, God, for my wreck'd youth, 
 My broken dreams, my constant, hidden truth, 
 Still keep my memory green within his heart, 
 To haunt his path of life, whence I depart!" 
 
 The morrow saw her speeding o'er the main ; 
 Ne'er press'd her foot her native soil again ; 
 Another land and other friends became 
 The willing donors of extended fame. 
 
 Yet Kumor brought him tidings of her fate. 
 Of homage render'd her by proud and great. 
 And how she moved among the courtly throng, 
 As one whose thoughts to higher things belong. 
 
 Yet knew he not that, ere at last she died. 
 Love conquer'd all those weary years of pride. 
 And that his name grew cold upon the breath 
 Whose blessing ended in the realms of death ! 
 
 GRAVES BY THE WAY. 
 
 Slow and alone up Life's oft travell'd road, 
 Bearing a cross, a weary woman trode, 
 
 And reach'd the turning-place. 
 Then paused beneath her burden's heavy weight, 
 ind, like one lingering near a closing gate, 
 
 Look'd back with earnest face; 
 
To GRAVES BY THE WAY. 
 
 Gazed yearning back with sadden'd eyes, that bore 
 The shadows of spent clouds, whose storms of yore 
 
 Had swept her travell'd way, — 
 Saw heaping there rich wrecl'i.s of lovely things, 
 Dead forms of wasted hours with folded wings, 
 
 And lilies soil'd with clay. 
 
 As o'er the cross that lean'd upon her breast 
 
 She eager bent, her crown's sharp thorns outpress'd 
 
 Blood-drops from each deep wound. 
 That chased her rapid tears' unheeded flow, 
 As o'er and o'er she counted, oft and slow. 
 
 Lone 
 
 First far adown, where fell Life's morning light, 
 Kose, blossom-deck'd, upon her misty sight 
 
 A little mound of mould ; 
 A new bud sever'd from its parent stem, 
 A jewel droi^p'd from home's bright diadem, 
 
 And all the tale was told. 
 
 A gentle darling from the household gone, 
 A sweet-voiced warbler with the angels flown, 
 
 To form within the skies 
 The first dear link in Death's heart-coiling chain, 
 That bound her memory with its cankering pain 
 
 To shores where nothing dies. 
 
 And, farther on, another resting-place. 
 Where damask-roses witlier'd in their grace 
 Within the yew's dark shade. 
 
GRAVES BY THE WAY. 79 
 
 Wliose solemn branches bow'd their mournful stato 
 Beneath the tender ivy's clinging weight, 
 O'er asphodel-strewn glade. 
 
 A doe, dart-stricken by a gushing spring, 
 
 A pure white cygnet with death-drooping wing, 
 
 The sculptured marble bore ; 
 For here, way-weary, quatf d of Lethe's stream 
 Her girlhood's early friend, and dream'd a dream 
 
 From which she woke no more. 
 
 Between the rocks and sea, then, lone, apart, 
 
 A plane-tree show'd where slept a bleeding heart, 
 
 That Genius had crown'd 
 With emblem-wreath of lotus, intertwined 
 With bright-leaved amaranth, whose flowers wind 
 
 The dark, sad cypress round. 
 
 Low bent adown the pilgrim gazer's head ; 
 For o'er the turf that hid the gifted dead, 
 
 O'ergrown with eglantine, 
 The carved device on fallen column shone 
 Of torch, whereon crush'd purple clusters thrown 
 
 Quench'd light with ruby wine. 
 
 Then changed the road from straight and level way 
 To crook'd paths, whose dark and miry clay 
 
 Still soil'd her robe with stains ; 
 ^Ko mossy turf the sharp rocks now outspread, 
 The dusky clouds hung lowering overhead, 
 
 And shadow'd brightest plains. 
 
80 GRAVES BY THE WAY. 
 
 Like lieated iron burning on her heart 
 She felt her crucifix, for just apart, 
 
 Through broken hawthorn hedge, 
 She saw two sepulchres together laid, 
 Whereon pale yellow leaves a pall had made, 
 
 The coming winter's pledge ; 
 
 Twin tombs, whereon were symboll'd in the stone 
 Each emblem-token of the Something gone 
 
 From earth and buried there. 
 Dead amaryllis strew 'd the grave of Pride ; 
 A shatter'd anchor show'd where Hope had died 
 
 In battle with Despair. 
 
 She wept o'er all these scenes with woman-woe, 
 Silent and patient, whose tears' swift flow 
 
 Awoke no noisy groan ; 
 But suddenly a shriek ran through the air, 
 As if her life's whole agony and care 
 
 Found voice in that one tone. 
 
 The cross, scarce noted mid her memory's pain, 
 Slipp'd slowly down, from where it long had lain, 
 
 Upon her weight-worn breast, 
 Striking, arm-stay'd, upon a wound scarce heal'd, 
 Just o'er the heart, from whence the blow unseal'd 
 
 Red streams that dyed her vest. 
 
 The while her fainting sight could dimly see 
 A phantom rise from 'neath an aloe-tree, 
 With drooping myrtle crown'd ; 
 
GRAVES BY THE WAY. 81 
 
 Whose spectral hands white poppies held enclosed, 
 Signs of the sleep wherein the heart reposed 
 Ere startled by that sound. 
 
 *• Dear Love, dost live again ?" she feebly said ; 
 " I buried thee ! methought that thou wert dead, 
 
 And conquer'd evermore ! 
 Why comes this ghost to mock my bitter fate ? 
 I deem'd, that day my soul grew desolate, 
 
 That all thy power was o'er." 
 
 "Thy love is dead," replied the fleeting shade; 
 " 'Twas like yon aloe where its couch is made, 
 
 That blooms but once, then dies ! 
 'Tis but thy fancy gives me passing life, 
 And haunting memory, with fond visions rife, 
 
 Thus mocks thy yearning sight !" 
 
 The shades had lengthen'd when once more she 
 
 stood. 
 With hidden wound, in brave yet solemn mood. 
 
 Ready to journey on ; 
 But ere again she pass'd upon her way, 
 That still untraced through unknown darkness lay, 
 
 She knelt beside the stone 
 
 That mark'd a new-made grave, that morn not 
 
 there, — 
 And thus breathed forth her soul's most earnest 
 
 prayer : 
 " God of the quick and dead, 
 
82 GRAVES BY THE WAY. 
 
 With mercy guide me through my coming life, 
 As once, of old, through deserts and through strife 
 Thy people safe were led ! 
 
 " As in the wilderness graves strew'd their way, 
 See, too, on my past road, where heaps of clay 
 
 Bury my dead from sight ; 
 And grant, Lord, to shine amid my lot, 
 Alone, heart-wounded, and by loA^e forgot, 
 
 This ray of pillar'd light ; 
 
 " That ne'er again Death's ghastly shape may sweep 
 Across vcij path, no more these poor eyes weep 
 
 O'er cherish'd graves to be. 
 Let me die first, ere those I love shall go. 
 To leave me madden'd by life's yearning woe ! 
 
 God, not them, but me ! 
 
 *' Here lies my perish'd youth that died to-day, 
 Earth's brightest thing forever fled away, 
 
 Ne'er to return again. 
 I mourn for it, last, saddest loss of all. 
 Believing through my years no more can fall 
 
 Such heavy, bitter rain. 
 
 " And yet — and yet, my God, I still implore 
 This one atonement for the griefs of yore. 
 
 To lighten this my cross : 
 Spare my beloved ones till myself be dead ; 
 Strike me, Lord, but let me never shed 
 
 More tears for mortal loss !" 
 
ORIGIN OF OEMS. 83 
 
 Then o'er her rood white rose-wreaths she en- 
 twined, 
 Emblems of silence, that henceforth should bind 
 
 The woes her soul might bear, 
 Then, rising, gazed once more adown the Past, 
 And towards The Future's night one long look cast, 
 
 Then bravely enter'd there. 
 
 ORIGIN OF GEMS. 
 
 THE OPAL. 
 
 O.vcE, ere man was, the gates of God's high heaven 
 
 Were closed ; and round the throne a rumor rose 
 
 That the lost Lucifer and all his host, 
 
 Grown madden'd in their mighty home of fire 
 
 By distant echoes of the bliss once theirs. 
 
 Would strive again to win their former seats I 
 
 And so on either side the portals barr'd 
 
 Gabriel and Michael lean'd upon their swords. 
 
 With pinions trailing on the court of gold ; 
 
 While stretching up the shore of Life's great stream 
 
 There thronged a myriad of shining wings. 
 
 The army of the Highest come to wage 
 
 Celestial war 'gainst evil and despair ! 
 
 And, like the suns that fill the universe, 
 
 Each one was silent, and with glory ray'd. 
 
 And but the leaders changed a single smile. 
 
 Part pity, partly sorrow, and part scorn, 
 
84 ORIGIN OF GEMS. 
 
 When up the blue their fallen brethren soar'd, 
 
 Still angel-like, yet scarr'd all o'er with sin, 
 
 With white wings soird and shadow'd brows un- 
 
 crown'd. 
 And each one bearing from the burning lake 
 A portion of its quenchless, blazing flame ; 
 Which casting down before the stainless gate, 
 They stood apart, and waited till its might 
 Should burst each crystal hinge and entrance show. 
 But when upon the empyrean soil 
 At last the glowing fragments crashing fell. 
 The sons of God came swarming to the breach. 
 With blades of Truth, bless'd by the Eternal One, 
 And drove them, shrieking, to their lowest hell, 
 And left them bound to torments evermore, 
 By chains of memory and hopeless grief. 
 And as the conquering spirits winged their flight, 
 With glad hosannas of triumphant praise, 
 Back to the radiance of Jehovah's face. 
 The arch-seraph Gabriel paused to raise 
 The scatter'd remnants of the shattered pearl, 
 That still was flashing with unhallow'd light. 
 And cast them down upon the new-form'd earth ; 
 Where evermore its lovely pureness keeps 
 Th' imprison' d splendor of that mystic fire. 
 And man, half angel and half demon, wears 
 The Opal, as an emblem of his soul. 
 1S59. 
 
ORIGIN OF GEMS. 85 
 
 DIAMONDS. 
 
 They stood just out of their lost Paradise, 
 
 Adiim and the Mother of All Living, 
 
 Still backward gazing, and yet seeing naught 
 
 For flashing of the flaming swords that hid 
 
 The gates of Eden closed 'gainst man and time. 
 
 The world was wide, — there was their bridal home ! 
 
 Earth's plants were many, — Eve's dear flowers were 
 
 there ! 
 There had they seen the light, and talk'd with God, 
 And there, a sovereign o'er created things, 
 Had fearless watch'd the beasts which he had named. 
 The tameless lion and the untamed stag, 
 Come meekly crouching unto Adam's call. 
 Now these had grown a terror or a grief, 
 The earth was cursed, and the death-angel born ! 
 And, half afraid to face their future fate, 
 The}^ linger'd yet around the cherish'd spot, 
 Each clinging to the other with such love, 
 Yet weeping w'ith such passionate, sad woe. 
 That the bright angels guarding its lone paths 
 Bow'd down their radiant and light-crown'd heads, 
 And shed great tears of pity for their lot, 
 That, falling, roll'd adown the glowing swords, 
 And caught their brightness ere they sparkling fell ; 
 Which Satan, wearing now his seraph-shape, 
 Did gather ere they touch'd th' illumined soil, — 
 Albeit that the precious drops became 
 Hard, shining stones within his fatal grasp, — 
 
86 ORIGIN OF GEMS. 
 
 And offer'd them to Eve with mocking laugh, 
 
 Telling her she might buy a world of slaves 
 
 With those fair things, or reign, like queen-like 
 
 night 
 Bedeck'd with stars, o'er every mortal hope, 
 If she would bind them on her perfect brow. 
 She listen'd not, nor knew the angels wept. 
 But, casting one long look from Adam's breast 
 Towards her bower of past bliss, bless'd God 
 That Love was left them still ; then hand in hand 
 They turn'd away from Eden evermore. 
 And then the Tempter cast the glittering gems 
 Into the rivers that from thenceforth flow, 
 And bade them bear his malison to men ; 
 And, as one woman heeded not their power, 
 All women else should yield them to their sway, 
 And Diamonds tempt the loveliest Eves on earth 
 To fancied Edens and to flaming swords. 
 
 RUBIES. 
 
 Abel was dead, and all the shuddering earth 
 Grrew still before the awful voice of wrath, 
 That thrill'd the angels at the stern demand, 
 *' Where is thy brother, Cain ?" and Cain uprose 
 From gazing on the dead man's pallid face 
 With the great terror of a first remorse, 
 And trembled when he saw the solid ground 
 Oped not to hide his deed and him from God : 
 Then heard with sullen fear liis future doom, 
 
ORIGIN OF GEMS. 87 
 
 And dared to plead for life with that great Judge : 
 *' All men will seek to slay me as I flee, 
 Outcast of heaven, and cursed amid my race. 
 Life will be terrible, but still 'tis life. 
 Life, life ! ah ! only life, with every ill V' 
 And from the forehead dark the red hand dash'd 
 The gathering drops of anguish and despair, 
 Leaving instead the crimson stains of guilt, 
 That grew and deepen'd as the answer came : — 
 "Go, murderer, forth: Omnipotence alone 
 Shall call thee when thy time to die is come, 
 And human power shall ne'er control thine end : 
 Therefore, henceforward bear this sacred stamp, 
 A mark to shield thee from the shafts of hate." 
 And, lo ! upon his brow the gory stains 
 Were bright and hard, and shone a crown of gems, 
 And th' undried blood his hand had lately spill'd 
 Sparkled, a mass of rubies, in the-sun. 
 And thus he lived apart from common fates, 
 Wearing defiantly his sign of shame, 
 Till mould conceal'd the symbol of his crime, 
 Wherein men seek for this unhallow'd gem, 
 Nor know, in groping for its costly light, 
 Whether or not they stir the dust of Cain. 
 
 EMERALDS. 
 
 When Eve came out of Eden, she still wore 
 Upon her grief-bow'd head a shining wreath, 
 Which Adam's hands had woven from the leaves 
 
88 MY PEARL. 
 
 Of that fair tree whose fruit soon wrought their 
 
 doom. 
 But when the curse of God thrill'd earth's deep 
 
 heart, 
 The breath of His most solemn, mighty voice 
 Pass'd o'er that love-made crown, whose trembling 
 
 green 
 Grew petrified with awe to sparkling stone. 
 ^Twas all of Eden that she bore away ; 
 And yet, whene'er she bent her drooping brow 
 To Adam's breast, to slumber or to weep, 
 It hurt her like the memory of her sin, 
 And scarr'd her forehead's fairness with red frowns. 
 Till Adam seized it as a thing accursed. 
 And dash'd it into fragments mid the rocks. 
 The ancient Magi, skill'd in secret lore. 
 Knew w^ell the value of its wondrous birth, 
 And bound the Emerald upon their hearts. 
 Engraven o'er with wisdom's mystic signs : 
 The talisman of knowledge gave them power. 
 
 MY PEARL. 
 
 Come talk with my lonely, sad soul to-night. 
 
 My Pearl from India's sea, 
 As white as the ocean's snowiest spray, 
 
 As round as its bright drops be. 
 
MY PEARL. ^9 
 
 Come tell me of wonderful things that live 
 
 In tlie wave's unmeasured blue, 
 Of all that is heaving and heaping there, 
 
 Far adown from mortal view. 
 
 Didst look from thy home in the tinted shell, 
 And watch the great monsters glide 
 
 With their monster-mates, stirring all the calm 
 Of the deeps beneath the tide ? 
 
 Didst hear the mermaidens wooingly sing 
 
 To mermen from other waves ? 
 Didst listen to love-stories even there, 
 
 In the hidden coral caves ? 
 
 Hast thou seen the ruins of gallant ships 
 
 With gallant crews coming down, 
 While shrieks for life rang wild through the storm 
 
 Death's quiet alone could drown ? 
 
 Hast thou seen the dead, in their mighty grave, 
 
 Astir mid the surging main. 
 As if the warm pulse of their living time 
 
 Was filling their veins again, — 
 
 While fishes swam over each pallid face, 
 
 And sea-weed tangled their hair, 
 And the cold, blank eyes look'd evermore up 
 
 With stony and sightless stare ? 
 
90 MY PEARL. 
 
 But what canst thou know, pure child of the wave, 
 
 Of the breaking human hearts 
 That, still waiting, die in their distant homes 
 
 When the light of hope departs ? 
 
 But most of all to mj'- yearnings unfold 
 
 The unfathom'd mystery. 
 Ah, hast thou not leai-n'd it these many years ? — 
 
 The great secret of the sea. 
 
 Has the ceaseless voice of the waters ne'er 
 
 Outspoken the marvellous pain 
 That upward wails from the innermost heart 
 
 Of the ever-restless main ? 
 
 No ; thou art silent, my beautiful Pearl, 
 
 Silent and white as the foam. 
 And canst utter no word of aught that dwells 
 
 In thy old, forgotten home. 
 
 Not the diver that brought thee out of the deep, 
 
 Nor thou, nor I, can e'er tell 
 The unlanguaged secret that strange, dark sea 
 
 For ases has fjruarded well. 
 
A SOUND FROM THE BASTILLE. 01 
 
 A SOUND FROM THE BASTILLE. 
 
 '' If, for my consolation, Monseigneur would grant me, 
 for the sake of God and the Most Blessed Trinity, that I could 
 have news of my dear wife, were it only her name on a 
 card, to show that she is alive, it were the greatest consola- 
 tion I could receive, and I would forever bless the greatness 
 of Monseigneur." — Letter signed Louis Deraery, dated "A la 
 Bastille, 7me Oct., 1752." — (" J/emo/rs of the Bastille:^) 
 
 Hear it ! the voice of that poor prisoner's love 
 
 Breaking all barriers of lone despair, 
 Of deep obscurity, rebellious pride, 
 
 In yearning utterance of this touching prayer. 
 A human heart made meek by human pain. 
 
 Suing to tyrant power, — but not for life. — 
 For more — for more, for one faint ray of hope, 
 
 To calm suspense and end doubt's maddening 
 strife. 
 
 There, in the silent darkness of his cell, 
 
 Shut in from sunshine and the fair blue sky. 
 Day after day would memory's skill repaint. 
 
 In richer dyes, life's precious tilings gone by ; 
 The while those gray stone walls, cold, damp, and 
 still, 
 
 Mock'd every dream of passion and the past, 
 Till rage and grief and solitude of soul 
 
 To burning tears forced manhood's strength at last. 
 
92 A SOUND FROM THE BASTILLE. 
 
 Day after day he walk'd with her he loved, 
 
 Touch'd her dear hand, look'd in her tender eyes, 
 Breathed her sweet name in dreams, and link'd it oft 
 
 With soft, endearing words, and answ^er'd sighs, 
 Until his heart seem'd but to beat with hers 
 
 Who gave to him each thought of her pure life. 
 And love o'erflow'd his spirit with a sense 
 
 Of true religion, as he calFd her "wife." 
 
 And then to wake — to wake from blissful hours 
 
 Of world-forgetting rapture, from a faith 
 In beauty, happiness, a home and heaven, 
 
 To this dark dungeon and a living death ! 
 To feel no more no more, that darling head 
 
 Nestling to his broad breast, and each white arm 
 Clinging to his proud strength, as there alone 
 
 Her woman's weakness shrank from no alarm ! 
 
 To rave 'gainst God and man, — to pray, to weep. 
 
 To fancy jealous fears with fever'd brain, 
 To groan imploring cries for her dear life. 
 
 Till dread of death became his keenest pain ! 
 He could not die while she was yet alive ; 
 
 Yet, living, surely her great love could pierce 
 Through bolt and bar, o'er guard and moat and 
 wall. 
 
 And by some token end this conflict fierce. 
 
 These rulers of the land who kept him there, 
 Accursed as they were, they still were men, — 
 
WORSHIP. 93 
 
 Hiici hearts, souls, passions, feelings like his own, — 
 Loved lovely women, and were loved again. 
 
 Perchance his voice, full of its yearning woe, 
 Would strike a chord of pity in their breasts, 
 
 And, answering with one word, more joy Avould thrill 
 His being than could sway their grandest guests. 
 
 And then he waited long, — till life and hope 
 
 Died out together, — and to coming time 
 Left but this faded letter and a name, 
 
 A broken heart's appeal to sceptred crime. 
 Those storied stones were witnesses of blood : 
 
 A nation w^ept when impotent to save ; 
 And earth responds to that poor captive's fate. 
 
 That love is free in realms beyond the grave. 
 
 WORSHIP. 
 
 My God ! my God ! how thrills my mortal frame 
 In tearful ecstasy of praise or prayer, 
 
 When, humbly lingering on the One Great Name, 
 My soul, aspiring, finds its limit there. 
 
 And ofttimes, kneeling, in mine utmost need, 
 With speechless awe my trembling spirit shrink.-^ 
 
 While bitterest cry of human pain or want 
 In adoration's reverent silence sinks. 
 
94 EL DORADO. 
 
 Yet, knowing Thee, the One forever true, 
 While earthly loves and earthly hopings end, 
 
 My heart in sorrow still sublimely yearns 
 Through all the universe to find its Friend. 
 
 And, childlike reaching to a Father's hand. 
 
 Unspoken thoughts creep upward to His throne 
 
 And though I stood companionless mid men, 
 My God, Thou knowest I am ne'er alone. 
 
 EL DORADO. 
 
 'TwAS autumn noon : beneath a lofty oak 
 I idly dream'd upon the hill-side green ; 
 
 And all around morn's golden veil of light 
 Had shed a glory o'er the harvest-scene. 
 
 Below there spread a field of ripen'd corn, 
 
 Half reap'd, half waving in the passing breeze, 
 
 Waiting a couch within the empty wain 
 
 That stood with drowsy team 'neath neighboring 
 trees. 
 
 The farmers, weary of their mid-day toil, 
 
 Had homeward turn'd their eager steps, to find 
 
 Some welcome rest ai'ound the groaning board. 
 Leaving their graceful sheaves, and me, behind 
 
EL DORADO. 95 
 
 And fixrther off, like sparkling, jewell'd belt, 
 The river shone, where stately ships went by, 
 
 Whose snowy sails, through clefts of verdure seen, 
 By fleecy clouds seem'd mirror'd in the sky. 
 
 The balmy air just stirr'd the yellow grain. 
 And, save the cattle's low, no sound arose, 
 
 But now and then an insect's droning chirp, 
 To stir the silence of the day's repose. 
 
 And, floating downward through my leafy screen, 
 A single ray like Jacob's ladder seem'd, 
 
 That upward reach'd to heavens of far-off years. 
 Where phantoms of the past, like angels, gleam'd ; 
 
 Hours that come no more, and hopes long gone. 
 The memories of lost loves, and friendships dead, 
 
 Pale ghosts of passionate meetings and farewells, 
 The shadows of old dreams, and tales oft read. 
 
 But most these last ; for from my listless hand 
 Had dropp'd the book my thouglits long linger'd 
 o'er, 
 
 A stirring chronicle of times gone by, 
 
 What men believed and did in days of yore. 
 
 Strange stories of the sea, and legends wild 
 As this one by the ancient Arabs told, 
 
 Of Satan's hand outstretching from the wave 
 To grasp the ship whose venture was too bold ; 
 
96 EL DOllADO. 
 
 And those long-clierish'd fables of the West, 
 The G-olden City, and the Fount of Youth ; 
 
 And all the list of brave, heroic men 
 
 AVho died in searching for their trusted truth ; 
 
 Till mine own fancy, set aflame by dreams 
 
 Of wonders hidden 'neath the Southern Cross, 
 
 In secret forests of that gorgeous land 
 
 Stay'd not of life and hope to count the loss ; 
 
 Saw only two brave Walters proudly sail 
 
 From shores whose giant-queen bade each "God- 
 speed," 
 And " wore them in her heart," while, outward 
 bound. 
 Their fearless minds to danger gave no heed ; 
 
 Forgetting all the while a foreign grave, 
 
 Where Raleigh's son slept 'neath a tropic sky, — 
 
 Whose sire's last words were on a scaffold spoke, — 
 " So hearts be right, what matter how heads lie V 
 
 For all my thoughts were busy with the tale 
 
 Of that old Spanish sailor who alone 
 Had walk'd through El Dorado's gilded streets. 
 
 And seen the Inca on his ivory throne. 
 
 Till in my vision I arose, and pass'd 
 
 Through opening ranks of plumed and bowing 
 grain, 
 
EL DORADO. 97 
 
 That like an army of raised dead closed up. 
 With warning whisper that the quest was vain. 
 
 And at the river's edge I found a shiji, 
 That swiftly bore me over distant seas, 
 
 Until the water freshen 'd 'neatli the keel, 
 The sails were wafted by a scented breeze ; 
 
 And up a widening stream, upon whose shore 
 Panthers and serpents, birds and lilies, drank, 
 
 As once in Eden by Euphrates' wave, 
 
 Untamed, untrain'd, they shared the same green 
 bank ; 
 
 Until at last we anchor'd in a lake. 
 
 Bearing an emerald island on its breast, 
 
 Whereon a marble structure stately rose. 
 Whose open gate seem'd waiting for a guest. 
 
 In front a fount of liquid gold sprang up, 
 In jewell'd basin sparkling still to fall. 
 
 And just beyond its porphyry columns rose. 
 Strewn o'er with precious dust, the palace-hall. 
 
 Within, four gorgeous lamps burn'd day and night 
 Before an altar, whereon dazzling shone 
 
 A burnish'd, golden sun, whose glowing rays 
 Circled the Emperor on his ivory throne. 
 
 In silver robes, the people of the land 
 
 Bow'd ever down before their hidden king, 
 
 7 
 
98 EL DORADO. 
 
 And each received a priceless crown whose hand 
 The tribute of a crystal heart could bring. 
 
 A stranger, 'wilder'd by the flashing light, 
 I turn'd aside where other galleries led. 
 
 Where pictures hung whose colors were of gems, 
 And topaz stars lit sapphire domes o'erhead. 
 
 Through piles of ingots and an India's wealth, 
 Out in the sunshine roved my tireless feet, 
 
 Met marvels at each step, until at last 
 
 I reach'd the entrance of the goldsmiths' street. 
 
 I cannot tell the lustre and the wealth 
 That dazzled all my senses in one maze, 
 
 Till sudden blindness struck my wondering sight, 
 In the swift flashing of a diamond's blaze. 
 
 And, stung with pain, I strain'd my smarting eyes, 
 Still darken'd by the brightness of the stone, 
 
 Till from the fabled glories of a dream 
 Came recognition of a scene well known. 
 
 The waving corn, the river winding past. 
 
 The shining scythes, the empty, waiting wain, 
 
 And the great tree through whose thick-cluster'd 
 leaves . 
 A noonday beam, straight darting, made my pain. 
 
 While pondering o'er the meaning of my dream, 
 I raised the book, and on the open page 
 
EL DORADO. 99 
 
 The rare, quaint author had his moral writ, 
 
 Answering my thoughts in warning to his age : — 
 
 " Lost, lost, forever lost the old belief 
 
 In golden quests that lured men o'er the seas. 
 
 Yet, readers dear, still keep an earnest faith 
 In distant mysteries more rich than these. 
 
 " For still the eternal fount of life and youth 
 
 Flows pure and fresh from out the great white 
 throne, 
 And still the gilded city waits for guests. 
 
 Whose streets are gold, whose walls are precious 
 stone. 
 
 " And but one mortal — Christ's beloved John — 
 Has seen this El Dorado's priceless state, 
 
 Wherein no sunlight but God's glory shines. 
 And ever open stands each pearly gate. 
 
 " weary wanderer through a desert world, 
 See that the heart be crystal clear from sin 
 
 Thou layest before thy Sovereign's dazzling throne. 
 That, crown'd with light, thy soul may dwell 
 therein !" 
 
100 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 Lv the parting glow of the summer sun, 
 I kiss'd her red lips ere the day was done, 
 
 Clasping her close to my heart, — 
 Close to the heart that had loved her so well, 
 
 Close to the heart that had loved her so long, 
 With such timid love it could only tell 
 
 Its hope in another's song, — 
 Speaking a verse that floated through 
 
 My memory as we watch'd the day 
 
 'Twixt crimson portals fade away 
 Into the dark of dusky blue ! 
 Her trembling hand fell away from my arm ; 
 The blood flush'd her cheek like the wine that fills 
 
 A transparent chalice of tinted pearl. 
 Madden'd by passion's unthinking alarm, 
 With my throbbing heart pulsing only thrills. 
 
 Fevering hopes and fears, in a sudden whirl 
 Of boldness and pain, 
 I seized her hand and look'd down in her eyes, 
 Dear eyes, that said more than only surprise, 
 Then hid their tears on my heaving breast. 
 
 Ah ! never again 
 Can life know moments so fleeting and blest! 
 
 In the parting glow of the winter sun, 
 
 I kiss'd her white lips ere the day was done, 
 
THE TALK. 101 
 
 Clasping her close to my heart, — 
 Close to the heart that was breaking with pain, 
 
 Close to the heart that grew gray with its woe, 
 Thinking that never! ah, never again 
 
 On earth I could hold her so, — 
 Thinking how soon the brown, damp mould 
 
 Would pillow the beautiful head, 
 
 And I alone, with my precious dead 
 Lying out in the bitter cold. 
 I murmur'd her name in passionate tones ; 
 But the i)ure, closed lids hid her eyes' soft light, 
 
 And no blushes mantled the marble cheek. 
 The chamber of death echoed only groans, 
 That rang through the silent shadows of night. 
 
 Till dawn found me tearless, quiet, and weak 
 As a conquer'd child. 
 Then I kiss'd once more her pallid, still brow, 
 Ere they laid her beneath the falling snow. 
 And took up my burden of life again ; , . 
 
 But mournful and wild 
 Ever sounds in my soul sad memory's strain ! 
 
 THE TALK. 
 
 Atitalie. — Oh, I am weary of this changeless round 
 Of dull monotony which men call life ! 
 Existence should be more than merely breath, 
 And sleep, and caring for the outward sense. 
 
102 THE TALK. 
 
 The mind, the kernel of this mortal shell, 
 
 Was ne'er intended thus to wither up. 
 
 And, rotting, perish in its darken'd home ; 
 
 Albeit 'tis true the nut must first be crush'd 
 
 Before the richness of the fruit is reach'd. 
 
 And often thus 'tis only suffering shows 
 
 The hidden ripeness of created souls. 
 
 But I would rather bear earth's fiercest pain 
 
 And walk amid the furnace of its wrath, 
 
 All scathed with wounds and sear'd with aching 
 
 scars, 
 Treading with burning feet its fiery rage. 
 Than drag my being calmly, tamely out, 
 As I iiave seen at shows some conquer'd pard 
 Viewing with patience his confining cage. 
 As though he cared not for his fetter'd state, 
 Nor raged that each new hour would pass the same 
 The while the world was wide for his wild steps. 
 I hate such inert ease, — just feeling now 
 As if the pulses of my heart stood still, 
 Waiting for some great shock to send the blood 
 In leaping buoyancy through each glad vein. 
 
 EuLALiE. — And yet, my friend, whene'er the heart's 
 
 red stream 
 Too long and swiftly bounds in such fierce course, 
 The uncheck'd throbbing of its fever'd beats 
 Destroys the very life 'twas form'd to give. 
 
 Athalie. — I care not: death's still peace is better far 
 
THE TALK. 103 
 
 Than these mad aspirations of my soul, 
 This restless impotence of striving thought, 
 Impatient doubts, and unreach'd speechless hopes. 
 Thy calmer nature cannot comprehend 
 How all the daring of Crusading sires 
 Fires mj'^ lonely dreams with bitter scorn 
 Of woman's weakness, woman's dull content. 
 Oh ! there are times when I could buckle on 
 Ancestral armor 'gainst a throng of foes. 
 And almost deem the world's arena small ! 
 
 EuLALiE. — Such field of action as your spirit seeks 
 
 Should never be a woman's battle-ground : 
 
 Her scene of warfare must be in her Home ; 
 
 Her foes, the daily trials that harass 
 
 And fight against each struggling Christian's soul; 
 
 Her spotless shield, her purity and truth ; 
 
 Her weapons, love and humble, holy faith ; 
 
 Her armor, innocence ; her leader, God ; 
 
 Her fortress, prayer ; her banner's sole device. 
 
 An open Bible with its Avell-worn leaves ; 
 
 Her greatest conquests, her own passions tamed ; 
 
 The highest captives by her triumphs won. 
 
 Her children's hearts, and husband's fond esteem ; 
 
 Her proudest trophy, her own happy hearth ; 
 
 And men will rise before her honor'd head, 
 
 " And call her bless'd," who strives and conquers 
 
 thus. 
 Ah ! I would rather be the placid star 
 That lights a good man's dwelling with its rays, 
 
104 THE TALK. 
 
 Than shine the brightest sun that ever shed 
 Its brilliant beams upon a dazzled world. 
 
 Atiialie. — And such should be your destiny, dear 
 
 friend. 
 Earth's sweetest flowers ever seek the shade ; 
 The fragrant violet hides its lowly head 
 Within the waving grass, just peeping up 
 To catch, 'twixt dewy blades, a glinij^se of heaven I 
 But the glorious Rose, the garden queen. 
 Sits proudly on its throne of green, and wears 
 Its sparkling coronet of cloud-born gems. 
 Only the King of Night and Song dare woo 
 The Sovereign of the Flowers ; and minstrel strains 
 Have ever told how vain his plaintive notes 
 Whose sweetness wins the adoration mute 
 Of every blossom save the one he sues. 
 
 EuLALiE. — And so the rose drops lonely from her 
 
 stalk, 
 Because she sighs for Zephyr: 'tis for him 
 To win the passing fancy of a god, 
 She scorns the bliss of kindred sympathy, 
 And turns aside from true and earnest love. 
 A woman's ideal's not a woman's fate ! 
 
 Atiialie. — Hush! you are all too cold for dreams, 
 
 while life 
 For me is woven through with fancy's threads. 
 Ah ! years ago the angels came from heaven 
 
THE TALK. 105 
 
 And lost their Paradise for woman's smile; 
 
 But now they come no more. Is it because 
 
 There is no being pure and high enough 
 
 Now in this world to win a spirit's love? 
 
 The sons of men are all too gross and low 
 
 To seek a soul ! they but the casket woo. 
 
 Eye worships eye, and sense adores the flesh ! 
 
 The jewel is not sought: perchance, if found, 
 
 The value is unknown, and it drops back 
 
 Into the olden darkness whence it shone. 
 
 And hides once more its brightness in the dust! 
 
 Spirit alone should e'er a spirit win ; 
 
 And those high natures that could fearless share 
 
 A god's or angel's love were worthy, sure, 
 
 To claim the homage that immortals yield. 
 
 Do angels fold their wings no more on earth ? 
 
 And, Eulalie, all lovely as thou art, 
 
 Methinks that thou shouldst gain a spirit's love. 
 
 E'en though he left an Eden for the prize ! 
 
 Eulalie, — Oh ! 'tis such dreams as these, dear Athalie, 
 That make thy heart like to the great, sad sea, 
 Forever moaning with a wild unrest 
 For Dian's unattainable, far shore. 
 Hast seen it upward heave its quivering waves, 
 Like hoping lover stretching out his arms. 
 To catch his mistress to his panting breast ? 
 Who sees them feebly fall with mocking gaze, 
 Knowing the witchery of her next bright smile 
 Will raise and swell the ebbing tide of hope ! 
 
106 THE TALK. 
 
 Thus ever j- earning for an unreach'd goal, 
 
 Thy restless soul-depths murmur with despair 
 
 Or sing with joy. True Happiness stands oft 
 
 Beside our very threshold, yet we spring 
 
 With eager footstep to pursue some shape, 
 
 Some visionary phantom that holds forth 
 
 The tempting semblance of alluring fruit, 
 
 Which when we strive to reach, we find but shades, 
 
 That ever fly, yet still excite desire, 
 
 While the real good we might have won at first 
 
 Has vanish'd in the turnings of our race. 
 
 Athalie. — Our happiness lies only in ourselves, 
 
 And how and where our inner selves expand. 
 
 And in the ocean's fathomless abyss 
 
 Are cavern'd mysteries and wonderous rare things ; 
 
 Bright heaps of priceless gems there hoarded up 
 
 Are gather'd by the foam of outer waves. 
 
 The sea is but the earth's great, throbbing heart, 
 
 Still rich in jewels, though the moon is far, 
 
 And pearls and rubies sleep within its depths, 
 
 Like lovely dreams in unroused human minds. 
 
 Yet as the vast Leviathan disturbs 
 
 The water's deep repose, so comes the hour 
 
 Of inspiration to the thinking brain, 
 
 Which, laboring with the burden that it bears. 
 
 Pants with a feverish pain til] tuneful words, 
 
 Like breezes music-laden from the land, 
 
 Bring quick relief by lulling to repose 
 
 The writhings of the sudden waken'd power. 
 
THE TxiLK. 107 
 
 And from its secret caves each storm's strong hand 
 Casts out its jewels on the world's wide shore, 
 To sparkle there. 
 
 EuLALiE. — Or else, perchance, to lie. 
 
 Trampled by careless feet, in graves of sand. 
 
 Thou readest thus a lesson from the sea, 
 
 Yet thou, with all thy yearnings and wild dreams, 
 
 Art voiceless to thy race, and cast no gems 
 
 Up fro.m the treasury of thy real soul. 
 
 The truest song springs from the deepest thought ; 
 
 And M'ouldst thou shake the sloth of visions off, 
 
 And chain their beauty unto kindred words, 
 
 The echoing Earth would bear thee in its arms, 
 
 A crown'd Corinna, mid its proudest fanes. 
 
 This is thy want, my friend, — the will to work. 
 
 Instead of waiting for a chance reward. 
 
 Ambition, Genius, like hidden fires, 
 
 Consume thine hours, whose upward-mounting flame 
 
 Is quench'd in idle tears of timid pride ! 
 
 Athalie. — 'Tis true ! 'tis true ! How, Eulalie, didst 
 
 thou 
 So read the passions of my lonely moods ? 
 I will be up and doing, as thou sayest, 
 jN^or longer in mere dreams thus waste my yoiith. 
 My precious gift of song, the breath divine 
 With which God waked my soul to higher life, 
 Henceforth I hold thee as a heavenly trust, 
 A stainless flower, to be guarded pure 
 
108 THE TALK. 
 
 From taint of worldly touch, the while it throws 
 Its wealth of odor upon every breeze. 
 Farewell ! farewell ! I thank thee that thy words 
 Have set the goal for which my spirit longs. 
 And now, whate'er may be my coming fate, 
 This thought of me shall still be thine, my friend: 
 Thou'st starr'd my solitude with one great hope ! 
 Farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 EuLALiE. — Oh, Athalie ! 
 
 She's gone ! she's gone ! I had not meant to rouse 
 
 Such energy of daring in her soul ! 
 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis well : the might is there. 
 
 And needed but a spur to show its strength. 
 
 'Tis strange that thus a summer evening's talk 
 
 Should grow from idle fancies to such end, 
 
 That one should read the purpose of her life 
 
 And forward spring to grasp a waiting crown. 
 
 While I — well, I will wait in patience here. 
 
 Till fate shall seek me in my quiet home. 
 
 Wherein, some day, perchance yon noble soul, 
 
 World-wearied by the very fame it seeks. 
 
 Will find a refuge from the praise of men. 
 
 And, coming back to youth's first friendly trust, 
 
 Say, " Eulalie, since long ago we talk'd 
 
 One eve together on this velvet knoll, 
 
 My life has learn'd this lesson from my thoughts : 
 
 That howsoe'er on earth we frame our hopes, 
 
 Whatever paths we tread, at last we know 
 
 No destinv is finish'd in this world !" 
 
THE TOMB IX AVENTICL'M. 109 
 
 THE TOMB IN AVENTICUM. 
 
 When the night was dark and dreary, and I sat alone 
 
 to read 
 Of many a martial history, many a gallant deed. 
 
 Then, amid the noise of battles, the strife of war- 
 riors bold, 
 
 Came the echoes of a story from the perish'd days 
 of old. 
 
 As the notes of gentler music stealing mid a warlike 
 
 strain, 
 All my feverish dreams of glory it restored to peace 
 
 again. 
 
 In an ancient, ruin'd city, where the ivy clothes the 
 
 wall, 
 Where the broken columns moulder, and the dust 
 
 is like a pall ; 
 
 Where the tottering arches tremble in the breeze 
 
 that passes by, 
 And where palaces and temples in dark, scatter'd 
 
 masses lie ; 
 
 Where, in roads where conquerors triumphed, only 
 
 stones and silence sway, 
 And where all that marks the Present is a shrine 
 
 where pilgrims pray ; 
 
110 THE TOMB IN AVENTTCUM. 
 
 Here they found who seek in ruins an inscription 
 
 unefFaced, 
 Touching record of dead ages, by forgotten workmen 
 
 traced ; 
 
 Tomb of Julia Alpinula, with her epitaph and fate, 
 The patriot's virgin daughter, victims both of Eoman 
 hate ; 
 
 Telling of a fearful struggle, of Helvetian valor vain, 
 Of the legions shouting "Victory!" o'er the red 
 couch of the slain ; 
 
 Of the city's humble message of submission and 
 
 despair. 
 Despatch 'd by reverent fathers with staffs and snowy 
 
 hair ; 
 
 Of the foeman's haughty answer, his unbending, 
 
 stern decree. 
 That the idol of the nation, rebellion's price must be. 
 
 This, with aged eyes o'erflowing, in trembling, broken 
 
 tones. 
 Told the sages in their council, mid a storm of sighs 
 
 and groans. 
 
 But the people — crush'd, dishonor'd, by the fetter 
 
 of defeat — 
 Walked, wrapp'd in sullen silence, through each 
 
 noise-deserted street. 
 
THE TOMB IN AVENTICUM. Ill 
 
 None had dared to curse the tyrant, none had sought 
 
 his guarded tent, 
 To plead the cause of innocence, of a life in virtue 
 
 spent. 
 
 But the doom'd one had a daughter, a pure priest- 
 ess young and fair, — 
 
 All her woman's timid nature render'd bold by fierce 
 despair. 
 
 Through the warriors' encampment, through the 
 
 mocking soldier-host. 
 With filial speed she hasten'd, like a white-robed, 
 
 fleeting ghost. 
 
 Till before the Roman general, with panting grace, 
 
 she kneel'd. 
 Like a snow-flake from the heavens on that dark, 
 
 ensanguined field. 
 
 There, with prayers like inspiration, she implored 
 
 her parent's life, 
 Kiss'd the conqueror's bloody hand, weapon-hard- 
 
 en'd in the strife, 
 
 Invoked in supplication the dear phantoms of his 
 dead, 
 
 Begg'd, for sake of living blessings, mercy's gene- 
 rous balm to shed. 
 
112 THE TOMB IN AVENTICUM. 
 
 All the while still looking upward with her tearful, 
 
 earnest eyes, 
 And her quivering lips low murmuring all her 
 
 heart's entreating cries ; 
 
 Till the leaders who were fathers, standing in the 
 
 general's tent, 
 Felt their anger melt to softness, and kind looks of 
 
 pity lent. 
 
 But she plead to sterner metal than his iron-hilted 
 
 sword ; 
 For he cast aside the weeper, and gave the fatal 
 
 word! 
 
 She clung to him like ivy, never loosen'd once her 
 
 hold, 
 Promised all that life could offer, — hidden stores of 
 
 secret gold, 
 
 Swore to pledge her whole existence as his hum- 
 blest, lowest slave, 
 
 To redeem this well-beloved one from the shadow 
 of the grave. 
 
 Once again he dash'd her from him, coldly bade the 
 
 herald fly 
 To proclaim that, ere the sun set, her rebellious sire 
 
 should die ! 
 
THE TOMB IN AVENTICUM. 113 
 
 Then arose with liaughty cahnness the patriot's 
 
 only child, 
 Her slight form rearing proudly, hushing all her 
 
 anguish wild. 
 
 And amid those armed warriors a sudden shiver 
 
 swept. 
 To see such lightning flashing from the eyes so 
 
 lately wept. 
 
 Then, clear as silver tocsin in a god's most holy shrine, 
 Rang her tones throughout the silence, like an oracle 
 divine. 
 
 As she call'd with solemn vengeance a great curse 
 
 from mighty Jove 
 On his household, on his kindred, upon all that he 
 
 should love. 
 
 Child, woman, priestess, prophetess, they quail'd 
 
 before the spell. 
 All their stubborn natures shuddering as the fearful 
 
 accents fell. 
 
 Then forth, like holy thing, unharm'd, with proud 
 
 mien and tearless eye, 
 Went to meet her martyr'd father, on his bloody 
 
 bier to die. 
 
 Fifteen hundred years had vanish'd, when, amid 
 
 the ruin'd state 
 Of Aventicum's dead glory, men read her noble fate. 
 8 
 
114 THE TOMB IN AVENTICUM. 
 
 Who there cared to know what monarch had trod 
 
 those stately halls, 
 Where now an echoing footstep breaks a quiet that 
 
 appalls ? 
 
 Who ask'd what chariots triumph'd, what name 
 
 was rallying word, 
 What shouts those walls had startled, what prayers 
 
 those altars heard ? 
 
 For 'tis not to these the stranger, when fresh from 
 history's page. 
 
 Turns, searching for the beauties of a buried, dis- 
 tant age ; 
 
 But, apart from meaner relics, seeks the sepulchres 
 
 of yore. 
 Till the urns where heroes moulder all the perish'd 
 
 Past restore. 
 
 Tomb of Julia Alpinula, what mute eloquence is 
 thine, 
 
 Filling all our hearts with fragrance like the in- 
 cense from a shrine ! 
 
 And our thoughts grow rich with rapture, recol- 
 lecting thy brave deed, 
 
 And we yearn across life's ruins with a newer, purer 
 need, — 
 
 Need to find amid its temples, mid its castles over- 
 thrown, 
 
 More of love's rare aloe-flowers, in the ages blooming 
 lone. 
 
THE QUESTION OF THE DAY IN 1860. 115 
 
 THE QUESTION OF THE DAY IN 1860. 
 
 Dissolve the Union, that the worn-out thrones 
 Across the sea may mock us as we fall, 
 And envious powers grow secure in ill, 
 And crush their peoples with an iron heel 
 To grind out gold and blood from subject-worms, 
 That they no more, uplooking from the dust, 
 May westward turn with hearts of yearning faith, 
 And murmur to their children, " Ah, 'tis there ! 
 The land of promise, wherein men may think. 
 And not be slain for speech or robb'd of right V 
 
 Dissolve this Union, and dear hope dies out 
 
 In all the eager souls that watch its stars 
 
 Rise steadfast o'er the earth with growing light. 
 
 Pray that they prove not meteors that fade, 
 
 When they should guide all steerless ships of state 
 
 To one great haven of ensampled peace. 
 
 Save our great eagle and her eyrie broad 
 
 From pecking crows, and vultures that await 
 
 Her parting struggles to usurp her nest. 
 
 Lest e'en the pure, white stripe of our proud flag 
 
 Be dipp'd by anarchy's foul hand in gore. 
 
 And wave no more the beacon of the world. 
 
 See how she sits, our young and lovely land, 
 Throned on two seas that crouch beside her state, 
 Queen mid the nations, lifting her fair brow, 
 
IIG THE QUESTION OF THE DAY IN 1860. 
 
 Serene with prosperous peace and plenty's smile, 
 Crown'd but with beauty o'er the heads of kings. 
 Shall we, her children, borne upon her breast, 
 Thus make her tremble with the awful dread 
 Lest we, her own, shall tear her limb from limb, 
 And shroud in mourning all the brilliant hopes 
 That wait upon her glory, while her knell 
 Shall be old Tyranny's glad, scornful laugh ? 
 
 In her deep heart she holds some mighty dead, 
 
 Who stirr'd the nations with their words, and bore 
 
 With Atlas strength a world of care and thought. 
 
 Alas that they, the giants of those days, 
 
 Awake not now to hurl upon her foes 
 
 The curse of God on parricidal sin, 
 
 And win with charmed eloquence of yore 
 
 The sluggish masses to a holy rage, 
 
 Would crush the serpents that now hiss and sting, 
 
 Crawling in highest places of the land I 
 
 Up, people of the States that love your homes ! 
 Up, gallant hearts that throb with pure disdain 
 Of traitorous arts ! Up, slumbering souls of fire ! 
 Build ye a Haman's gallows for these knaves 
 That dare to raise a voice or hand to break 
 The sweet relationship our fathers left 
 To bind us all, cemented with their lives ! 
 North and South, — two brothers of one birth, — 
 Meet ye again as they at Peniel met, 
 Jacob and Esau, thinking each of strife, 
 
THE HESPERIDES. 117 
 
 Yet, when they came anear, wept with pure love 
 Upon each other's neck ; that both may say, 
 *' Keep that thou hast, for God has dealt 
 Most graciously with each ; and thus we see 
 Each other's face, as 'twere the face of God, 
 Shining with blessing ; and the Lord of Hosts 
 Watch between thee and me for evermore !" 
 
 THE HESPERIDES. 
 
 " The Hesperides," or " The "Western Maidens," were three 
 celebrated nymphs. They are said to have been the daugh- 
 ters of Night, and to have had no father. Their home was 
 beyond the bright ocean. When the bridal of Jupiter and 
 Juno took place, all the deities came, bearing nuptial presents 
 for the bride ; among them came the goddess of Earth, bring- 
 ing with her branches having golden apples growing thereon. 
 Juno, being greatly pleased with the branches of golden fruit, 
 begged of Earth to plant them iu her gardens, which extended 
 as far as Mount Atlas. The request was granted, and the 
 Hesperides wei'e set to guard them. But, alas ! the fruit was 
 too tempting; and, like our first mother, they put forth their 
 hands and j^lucked for themselves. Juno waa so enraged at this 
 conduct, that she sent a great dragon to guard the pi-eeious fruit. 
 Hercules was sent by Eurystheus to bring some of it. On his 
 quest he came to the river Eridanus, and inquired of some 
 nymphs where the apples were to be obtained. They directed 
 him to Nereus, whom he found asleep : him he bound and 
 held fast till ho told him. He visited Egypt, roamed through 
 Arabia, over the mountains of Libya; he then reached the 
 
118 THE HESPERIDES. 
 
 eastern course of the ocean, which he crossed in the cup of 
 the sun-god. He now came to where Prometheus lay chained 
 with a bird feeding on his liver ; he shot the bird and delivered 
 Prometheus, who, out of gratitude, warned him not to go 
 himself after the apples, but to send Atlas, and in the mean 
 time support the heavens in his stead. Atlas, accordingly, 
 went for the apples, and, when he returned, proposed to carry 
 them to Eurystheus himself. This Prometheus seemingly 
 acceded to, but asked him to take hold of the heavens while 
 he put a pad on the head of his friend Hercules. The un- 
 wary Atlas threw down the apples and resumed his burden, 
 when Hercules snatched up the fruit and went on his way. 
 
 We seek it in our glowing youth, — 
 
 That wondrous garden far away ; 
 We deem its golden fruit still waits 
 
 For us alone each passing day. 
 We close our eyes to see them shine, 
 
 We wake to strain our utmost speed, 
 Forgetful of the dragon-guard, 
 
 The tempting branch our sorest need ! 
 
 We cross the changing foam of life, 
 
 Nor pause to measure depths below : 
 The sun-god's radiant cup upbears 
 
 Our hot hearts o'er the wave's dark flow. 
 We scale the mountains, pass the waste, 
 
 Yet linger, mid the earnest quest, 
 By murmuring streams, 'neath harvest-moons, 
 
 Of siren nymphs the willing guest ! 
 
AFTER THE TRIUMPH. 119 
 
 We free the cliain'd Promethean thought 
 
 From tyrant Custom's gnawing beak ; 
 Yet, strong in faith, the heavens rest 
 
 Upon the dreams we never speak. 
 The years grow gray ; unwither'd still 
 
 The golden apples sparkle there ; 
 We know some path must reach the gates, 
 
 Mount Atlas bounds our worst despair ! 
 
 Alas, alas for all our hopes ! 
 
 Our heart-beats fainter throb at last ; 
 We droop our heads on Memory's breast, 
 
 Hesperides was in the Past ! 
 We think again of harvest-moons, 
 
 The dead we knew, the kisses sweet : 
 The high endeavor leaves our soul ; 
 
 AVe only long the loved to meet ; 
 Once more the passionate old thrill 
 
 Of yearning to our lives is given ; 
 God, Death, and Truth alone reveal 
 
 The real Hesperides is heaven ! 
 
 AFTER THE TRIUMPH. 
 
 I, Zexobia, queen of the wide East, 
 Even I have swell'd a Roman monarch's march 
 Of triumph through his Rome ! I, that did wear 
 Imperial purple in mine own far land, 
 
120 AFTER THE TRIUMPH. 
 
 Dragg'd royal robes in mockery through the dust, 
 
 Sweeping the way before Aurelian's car, 
 
 My conqueror's herald, who then smiled to see 
 
 His worthiest foe, a woman and unqueen'd. 
 
 Thus stared at by the common crowd, whose shouts 
 
 Would hail his victor with as loud acclaim. 
 
 Gods! how they sneer'd because I rear'd my head, 
 
 Drooping with jewels, regally as he. 
 
 Whilst German amazons wept tears of shame ! 
 
 I, that did come of kingly loins, and bore 
 
 Three princes to their crowned sire, thus walk'd, 
 
 Endiadem'd, the sceptred peasant's slave ! 
 
 I, that had awed Armenia, and sway'd 
 
 The restless Arabs with my white, strong hand, 
 
 That allied with the Persian, and have chain'd 
 
 My own ancestral Egypt to my throne, — 
 
 I bear these fetters ; golden though they be, 
 
 They bind my flesh like tighten'd coils of snakes. 
 
 And crush my heart beneath their splendid weight. 
 
 Tadmor of the desert ! isle of palms ! 
 
 Zenobia lost herself in losing thee, 
 
 And thou art lost in her that had the will 
 
 To make thee rival this proud western state ! 
 
 Soon shalt thou hide the glories of my reign, 
 
 Thy gorgeous beauty, and thy gathered wealth, 
 
 Beneath entombing sands ; no sovereign more 
 
 Shall raise thee to the height from which I fell ! 
 
 Oh, why was I so form'd that clear disdain 
 
 Of female arts destroy'd my power to win ? 
 
 Swart Cleopatra with her eyes and lips 
 
AFTER THE TRIUMPH. 121 
 
 Conquer'd her conqueror, kept her royal name, 
 
 And ruled the serf she purchased with a kiss ! 
 
 I too, perchance, if I had deign'd to sue. 
 
 To smile, and deck myself with tender wiles, 
 
 Mi«;ht thus have gain'd fame's immortality. 
 
 Mistress of the world's one master, whom this Rome 
 
 Will make a god and leave me mortal still ! 
 
 For I do know that I am beautiful, 
 
 And, like dead Antony, Aurelian too 
 
 Is but a man ! But I went forth to meet 
 
 My enemy the emperor like a king. 
 
 Or, as in other times I rode beside 
 
 My noble husband, girded with my sword. 
 
 To strike swift terror through the great king's realm. 
 
 I headed mine own troops, — forgot to be 
 
 A woman, till I should have thought alone 
 
 How it became a vanquish'd queen to die. 
 
 I loathe myself that I did dare to live, 
 
 The Roman scoff, to fill a Roman's pride, 
 
 Whilst my Palmyra shone beneath the sun, 
 
 Dreading no slaughter in the open field. 
 
 Yet trembling mid rude soldiers of the camp 
 
 To face a captive's grim and unchaste death, 
 
 Leaving my name to future ages* scorn. 
 
 Whose history shall record, on living page. 
 
 That in their hours of like and worst despair 
 
 Great Cleopatra died, Zenobia lived ! 
 
122 THE poet's wife. 
 
 THE POET'S WIFE. 
 
 He was so high above the common herd, 
 
 And I so far below his lofty state, 
 How could I deem that he should lift me up 
 To share his fate ? 
 
 He pass'd so many eager watchers by. 
 
 Scorn' d wealth and mighty royalties of grace. 
 To draw me from the dust, and give to me 
 The wifely place ! 
 
 I could have stay'd forever at his feet, 
 
 Unnoticed, learning snatches of his song. 
 That stirr'd the world's deep heart, and made sad 
 souls 
 
 For action strong ! 
 
 I did not seek to come into his life : 
 
 The wide earth worshipp'd him, and so might I. 
 'Twas happiness to stand apart and see 
 His face go by ! 
 
 But when he took me in his folding arms, 
 
 And look'd in mine with loving, mournful eyes, 
 And laid my head upon his human heart. 
 My soul's surprise 
 
THE poet's wife. 123 
 
 So kept me silent that I dared not ask 
 
 Why he from queendoms thus had turn'd away, 
 His laurel crown upon my humble brow 
 Proudly to lay. 
 
 There only thrill'd through my unspoken bliss 
 Remember'd words that long ago were sung, 
 Our bridal omen : — "Whom immortal gods 
 Do love, die young [" 
 
 I stand beside him in his victor's car, 
 
 I hear the shouts for every triumph won, 
 And mark his quiet smile at such reward 
 For labor done. 
 
 And know he looks across the present years 
 
 To coming ages that shall keep his fame, 
 While men shall know me chiefly as the one 
 That bore his name. 
 
 1 minister unto his daily wants ; 
 
 I hold his tired head upon my breast ; 
 I smooth aside all petty things that mar 
 His perfect rest. 
 
 But this is all ! I cannot comprehend 
 
 The wondrous thoughts that make his pale cheeks 
 glow, 
 The new-born dreams that in his teeming brain 
 To giants grow. 
 
124 THE poet's wife. 
 
 I cannot soar with him through rapturous flights, 
 
 Nor share his inspiration's trembling hour, 
 Nor grasp the beautiful with throbbing pulse 
 Of conscious power. 
 
 He never seems to marvel that I move 
 
 Mid household duties as if my sole care 
 Was woman's thrift, and every night to raise 
 My voice in prayer. 
 
 He knows not that I feel aught save content, 
 
 Sitting among the violets alone, 
 Outside the Eden where God's angels talk 
 Around his throne. 
 
 Yet something in my quiet nature calms 
 
 The fever of his ever-yearning life ; 
 And so I hide the secret of my pain, — 
 My inward strife. 
 
 Ah, well ! I shall die soon, and then — and then — 
 
 In heavens of progress I, perhaps, may grow 
 To his mind's stature, — his own truer wife 
 Than here below ! 
 
 That there at last, half strangers through this life. 
 
 Our unveil'd souls may evermore respond. 
 And seal, in mansions of Our Father's house, 
 Our marriage bond. 
 
THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 125 
 
 Onl)'' God love him when my love shall j^ass 
 
 Out of his earthly home, and teach him still, 
 Amid his high aspirings, to bow down 
 To God's good will ! 
 
 It is his poet's fate that he must be 
 
 Within the world with his great soul alone, 
 
 And only meet upon Death's mystic shore 
 
 His very own. 
 1S61. 
 
 THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 
 
 MoRxixG on the lone and silent Pampas, 
 Those dewless plains of long and stirless grass 
 O'erarch'd by skies unshadow'd by a cloud. 
 And all unbroken in their sea-like calm, 
 Except where, here and there, a parching palm 
 Uprears its barren stem, and marks to sight 
 Some space between the mingling earth and heaven, 
 Or musky odors of the arid ground 
 Thicken the air, amid whose torrid heat 
 Kise vapory columns like the smoke of fires ! 
 Solemn and still those vast savannas reach 
 Through level solitudes of countless miles, 
 Unsought by man, and whose untrodden depths 
 No taint, perchance, have borne of human death ! 
 And thus they seem'd upon this fervid morn, 
 When the hot sun, like a great flaming eye, 
 
126 THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 
 
 Saw motion mid those withering waves of green, 
 That onward swell'd from the horizon's verge, 
 And stirr'd to life a myriad hidden things, 
 That fluttering swarm'd from midst the sheltering 
 
 blades 
 Before th' advancing dust that broke their rest, 
 As, panting, snorting in their thirsty haste, 
 A troojD of desert horses rush'd along. 
 Trampling the crackling verdure in their race, 
 Startling the brooding silence of the waste 
 With insect voices and their own wild tones. 
 On, on they dash, creating with their speed 
 And noisy breaths the movement of a wind, 
 And raining foam on long unwater'd soil. 
 They pause ; they wheel ; they circle in a group, — 
 Impatient paw the ground, — take counsel short, — 
 Break, — toss their flowing manes, — and start again. 
 In compact throng, towards their unreach'd goal, 
 Still straining blood-shot eyes in search of streams. 
 And following one that ever leads the way. 
 Chief of the horde in speed, in grace, in choice, — 
 A chestnut mare, with stately, curving neck, 
 And small jDroud head, that on the forehead bore 
 A snowy star, as though to mark command. 
 Whose tajDering limbs had borne her in the van, 
 With silky hair and shining coat unfleck'd. 
 
 No nomad kept the record of her kin, — ■ 
 
 A prouder wealth than his own straight descent 
 
 From Ishmael sire : yet every step and turn 
 
THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 127 
 
 Betray 'cl an Arab ancestry of race, — 
 
 Some noted dam by Spanish conquerors won 
 
 In Moorish raid, and brought across the sea 
 
 To lose a master in some Indian fight 
 
 And find wild freedom in those Western wilds ! 
 
 No Adam her untutor'd gambols check'd, 
 
 And no alluring Eve, with timid hand, 
 
 Tempted that arching neck to curbing rein ; 
 
 No whisper'd spell could quell her flash of rage ; 
 
 No spur or lash had goaded her quick blood. 
 
 She knew not man : her will or wants alone 
 
 Had led her where she would, controll'd the herd, 
 
 And, where no human reason sway'd the sense, 
 
 Her untaught instinct soar'd almost to thought. 
 
 Her home was all the Pampas, and her course 
 Unbounded save by rivers, on whose shores 
 A thousand colors blended in one mass, 
 And song and odor fill'd the forest-shade ; 
 And thitherward she guided now the troop, 
 Till in the burning noon they cease their speed, 
 
 They sleep ; while she, less wearied, stands on 
 
 watch, 
 And casts upon her comrades now and then, 
 That only stir beneath an insect's sting, 
 A glance of mingled pity and contempt, 
 That softens into almost human love. 
 Sudden she lifts her drooping head, and looks 
 
128 THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS, 
 
 With eager gaze across the changeless scene, 
 
 As though to her keen sense some sight or sound 
 
 Gave thrilling warning that she dared not slight, — 
 
 Some token of near water, some faint breeze, 
 
 So faint it scarcely bent the slightest herb, — 
 
 Some breath of perfumed freshness from afar, 
 
 Mingling with hers, and dying as it came. 
 
 She starts ; she moves ; she stops to look again 
 
 Upon her tired mates, as though in doubt 
 
 To stir them to uncertain search once more, 
 
 Or seek herself all peril and reward, 
 
 Then bear, with frame refresh'd, the tidings back, 
 
 And with unerring knowledge lead them on. 
 
 She turns ; she waits ; another scented breeze 
 
 Just lifts the wavy length of her dark mane ; 
 
 She snuffs the passing gale with nostril wide. 
 
 She beats with restless limbs the scorching ground, 
 
 Gives the loud signal that awakes the rest, 
 
 Then forward bounds, and onward, onward flies. 
 
 And now they leave behind the sterile waste. 
 The shorter grasses break not 'neath their tread. 
 And here and there a tree gives welcome shade ; 
 Now groups of palms, now thicker copses, rise, 
 And now entangled arches hidden bear 
 Unnumber'd choristers in leafy homes ; 
 Now falls the volador's ripe, winged fruit. 
 And now the gaumo's silvery stamens shine ; 
 The Saint-Esprits hang snowy in the air. 
 And soon in various and vivid hues 
 
THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 129 
 
 The clustering blossoms cover roots and trunks ; 
 While in the darkening woods a myriad plumes 
 Dash changing rainbows through each oj^en space ; 
 They wind through all, — now leaping some old tree 
 Dragg'd down to earth by weight of twining vines, 
 Now through some path first widen'd by their 
 
 course. 
 Treading out freshness with each fleeting foot ; 
 And now their chests part back the trembling ferns, 
 Uprousing slumbering serpents with their steps ; 
 And more than once their stiffen'd ears upstart 
 At sight of glaring eyes in shadow'd lairs. 
 Now, now the trees grow fewer, and there sw^ells 
 The welcome melody of water's sound ; 
 Yet, struggling on mid sweeping branches still, 
 They see the sparkling beach, and cool, wet sand ; 
 Then from the forest spring o'er jaguar dead. 
 And lave their swollen tongues in waves of life, 
 Who.ie distant falls make music mid the mist ! 
 
 Sudden all gambols cease. The shrinking group 
 
 Together press, with looks of mortal fear, 
 
 As one shrill cry of anguish cleaves the air 
 
 And scares to silence all the woodland tribes. 
 
 And then a muffled sound of cracking bones 
 
 Proclaims the monster coils that quickly make 
 
 Of grace and beauty but a shapeless mass. 
 
 There, quivering, lay their wild, free, stately chief, 
 
 Clasp'd in a mighty boa's dread embrace. 
 
 That, from the nearest tree sw'ift darting, caught 
 
130 THE SOVEREIGN OF THE PAMPAS. 
 
 The richest prize to gorge his tempted watch I 
 Across the glossy neck the black, cold head 
 Droop'd, that the slimy tongue might reach the 
 
 breast, 
 While each entwining fold, more tightly wound, 
 Crushed out the ebbing life in shortening breaths. 
 Her comrades fly, back through the forest-aisles, 
 Back to their prairie home, and leave her there 
 With that great serpent, terror, and her death. 
 But when the Southern Cross began to bend, 
 And moonlight mingled all the hues of earth 
 In one soft radiance of silver sheen. 
 Still mid the placid quiet of the night 
 The sated monster stretch'd his torpid length, 
 Beside the mangled victim of his power. 
 Who, e'en too large for his elastic throat. 
 Was left for that dead jaguar she had spurn'd. 
 A noise disturbs the feasted monster's sleep ; 
 But, ere the languid reptile rears its head, 
 Unnumber'd vengeful hoofs, with eager rage. 
 Stamp out the life and break the striving coil ; 
 And when the condors gather'd in the morn, 
 One fatal foe across the other lay ! 
 
CIIATTERTON. 131 
 
 CIIATTERTON. 
 
 The boy came up to London, high in heart 
 
 And beautiful in face, — a dreamer born. 
 
 With genius for a soul ; earnest hope 
 
 Wing'd his wild thoughts of fame, and lonely pride 
 
 Saw with clear eyes the lowness of the race 
 
 That young ambition long'd to mould and rule. 
 
 OJhe great town lay before him : from that mass 
 
 Of throbbing life his able hand would snatch 
 
 Cool laurel leaves, fresh with the dew of praise, 
 
 To crown his fever'd and work-wearied brain. 
 
 Within himself he felt expanding germs 
 
 Of unshaped visions swelling into song. 
 
 And heard the echoes ringing through the world 
 
 Down all the ages, till the tones sublime 
 
 Met the last trumpet's sound, and mingled then 
 
 With music of Eternity's long hymn ! 
 
 His spirit leap'd to greet the coming minds 
 
 Should stand apart from all the meaner herd, 
 
 Monarchs by right divine, whose grand words 
 
 Would hail him worthy to wear royal robes 
 
 And walk with them in amaranthine fields. 
 
 The sense of power thrill'd the slender frame, 
 
 Fired the soft eye, dash'd from th' aspiring heart 
 
 All stings of memory, poverty's sharp chill, 
 
 "Vague yearnings for the unattain'd, and e'en 
 
 The wild unrest that urged his onward steps 
 
 From home and kindred towards an unknown fate. 
 
132 CHATTERTON. 
 
 The world was wide before him ; he was strong 
 To wrestle till he placed his conquering foot 
 Upon its neck to reach his victor's car ; 
 And then — and then — wliy, let the dim Then come ! 
 
 The boy came up to London. Day by day 
 
 The coils of destiny tighten'd round his life, 
 
 As hard reality strijip'd off all veil, 
 
 And hour by hour the hot, exultant glow 
 
 Of passionate, eager hope died from his dreams. 
 
 The goal receded, and grim, sickening want 
 
 Mock'd his white lips at every hungry moan ! 
 
 The great gift-pearl, crown-jewel for a world. 
 
 Was trod by sightless swine in misery's mire ! 
 
 The golden grain of lofty thought was ground, 
 
 Like common grist, in mills of sneers and sale. 
 
 And eat by hinds that never cared to know 
 
 What laden sheaf had borne such wondrous bread ! 
 
 And on the street the busy, selfish crowd 
 
 Moved to and fro, nor deem'd that midst them stood 
 
 One greater than themselves : so well the gods 
 
 Wear mortal shapes when banish'd from their right! 
 
 And if mid waiting weeks came up a voice 
 
 Of recognition from the throng that hail'd 
 
 An unknown mind, he only smiled to see 
 
 Those bearded men by boyhood so befool'd, 
 
 And work'd a lower vein than this that won 
 
 The wine of praise, but not one taste of meat ! 
 
 Until at last, uprising from his toil, 
 
 Madden'd by living, fetter'd by coarse needs. 
 
CHATTERTON. 133 
 
 He look'd once more into the night, earth's night, 
 And at the distant stars, ghttering and cold 
 And pitiless, and, with his burning eyes 
 Searching the darkness, bade farewell to hope, 
 Drain'd hemlock, and lay j^rayerless down to sleep. 
 
 The boy came up to London, — and died young! 
 The days wore on, and still the sun shone bright ; 
 The peoi)le came and went, and smiled and wept. 
 And all tlie outward show of life changed naught. 
 Though he was not ! Great Nature gives no sign 
 When human creatures drop pain's heavy cross, 
 To rest within her breast ; Greece never shook 
 Because Apollo soar'd from her dull plain, 
 To share divine ambrosia at the feasts 
 Amid Olympus' mists ! Only long years, 
 Slow-sweeping into ages, taught at last 
 To reverent hearts what greatness there died young, 
 And how, perhaps, out of that fever'd youth 
 And restless scorn a something might have come, 
 When mellowing time had ripen'd reason's growth, 
 Could sway the listening ages into awe. 
 And give to England one more mighty name, 
 To lift her royalty its own height higher ! 
 
 Died young ! And when, one morn, they found him 
 
 thus. 
 The war of passion still on that white face, 
 The fragments of his work about him streAvn, 
 The poison at his side, and over all 
 12 
 
134 TIME AND THE SEA. 
 
 The arching sky, was there no lesson writ 
 In that short life, that sad, unhappy death, 
 Of warning unto men, that such as he 
 Are sent unto the earth, as oft of old 
 God's messengers within His city cried, 
 Whose people stoned them ? — and so One did weep 
 To utter o'er the place, " Woe ! woe ! thou 
 That slayest the prophets that are sent to thee !" 
 1862. 
 
 TIME AND THE SEA. 
 
 Up from his mighty deeps old Ocean roll'd, 
 
 To the majestic music of his waves, 
 That swell'd towards the sunlight and soft air, 
 
 Above unnumber'd wrecks and human graves. 
 Upon the shell-strewn shore the steps of Time 
 
 Scarce left their trace, as, counting one by one 
 The billows and the minutes as they came, 
 
 He sigh'd to see his sand so swiftly run ; 
 
 Till suddenly the murmur of the sea 
 
 Grew to the language that all Nature knows, 
 And broke at last upon his listening sense. 
 
 That caught new meanings in its ebbs and flows: 
 " Strong as thou art in thy destroying power, 
 
 To me alone thy shape no terror brings : 
 Thy mowing scythe no impress e'er can leave 
 
 Upon my closing foam or secret springs ! 
 
TIME AND THE SEA. 135 
 
 " Man fears alike my depths and thy sure dart ; 
 
 Within my hidden caves, as on thy path, 
 The ruins of his loftiest works are strewn, 
 
 Himself the noblest wreck that feeds our wrath ! 
 And he, the last created, sovereign mind. 
 
 Trembles to tread in our recorded track, — 
 To trust his dear ones to our treacherous care ; 
 
 For Time and Ocean yield no treasures back ! 
 
 " Thou shakest kingdoms into desert dust, 
 
 And leadest nations, blinded, to their fall; 
 Life's grandest, loveliest, mightiest things 
 
 Own that thy mouldering touch is on them all! 
 But only I in the wide, changing world. 
 
 Thine equal from the first, unalter'd still, 
 Sweep through thy realms, nor show one mark of 
 thine. 
 
 Whilst thou thyself art gray with gathered ill ! 
 
 " Pass on, Time ! Ocean, alone thy peer, 
 
 Can laugh to scorn or wrestle with thy hand ; 
 For Earth is ours, its mysteries and hopes, — 
 
 Mine the vast deep, and thine the crumbling 
 land !" 
 Time turn'd his glass, and answer'd, as he moved 
 
 Beside the limit of the water's space, 
 Just casting, as he spoke, into their tide 
 
 A little stone, that sank and left no trace : 
 
 " Thus thou and I shall sink, boasting waves, 
 Into eternity, on that great day 
 
lo6 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 When o'er the land and sea the angel's voice 
 
 Proclaims that thou and I shall pass away. 
 Both servants of one Master, each must work 
 
 Appointed ways towards the destined end, 
 And when His will, * who doeth all things well,' 
 
 Is fully wrought, to our dead past descend ! 
 Whilst man, whom here we hold within our grasp. 
 
 Forever lives ; for life is God's own breath. 
 The soul, that with the heavenly host and Him 
 
 Shall watch the close of Time, and Ocean's death !" 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so ! 
 
 There's more blood to see than this stain on the 
 snow ! 
 
 There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, 
 
 And fix'd faces all streak'd, and crimson-soak'd hair ! 
 
 Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to- 
 night 
 
 To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight ? 
 
 You're his wife ; you love him, — you think so ; and I 
 Am only his mother : my boy shall not lie 
 In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear 
 His form to a grave that mine own may soon share ! 
 So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth, 
 While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. 
 
AFTER THE BATTLE. 137 
 
 You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, 
 And follow my footsteps ! — my heart will lead right !— 
 An, God ! what is here ? a great heap of the slain, 
 All mangled and gory ! — What horrible pain 
 These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, 
 Ye wee]), oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! 
 
 More ! more ! Ah ! I thought I could nevermore 
 
 know 
 Grief, horror, or pity for aught here below. 
 Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell 
 How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell ! 
 Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 
 Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ? 
 
 Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright. 
 That your red hands turn over towards this dim 
 
 light 
 These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept 
 Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, 
 You had heard that his place was worst of them all — 
 Not mid the stragglers — where he fought he would 
 
 fall ! 
 
 There's the moon tlirough the clouds : Christ, Christ, 
 
 what a scene ! 
 Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean 
 And still call this curst world a footstool of thine ? 
 Hark ! a groan ; there, another, — here in this line 
 Piled close on each other. — Ah, here is the flag. 
 Torn, dripping with gore — Pah ! they died for this rag ! 
 12* 
 
138 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 Here's the voice that we seek. — Poor soul, do not 
 
 start : 
 We're women, not ghosts. — What a gash o'er the 
 
 heart ! 
 Is there aught we can do ? a message to give 
 To any beloved one ? I swear, if I Hve, 
 To take it for sake of the words my boy said, 
 " Home," " mother," " wife" — ere he reel'd down 
 
 'mong the dead ! 
 
 But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? 
 Speak, speak, man, or point I — 'twas the Ninth ! — 
 
 Oh, the blood 
 Is choking his voice ! — what a look of despair ! 
 There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair 
 From eyes so fast glazing — Oh, my darling, my own. 
 My hands were both idle when you died alone ! 
 
 He's dying — he's dead ! — close his lids — let us go. 
 God's peace on his soul ! — If we only could know 
 Where our own dear one lies ! — My soul has turn'd 
 
 sick ! 
 Must we crawl o'er these bodies strewn here so 
 
 thick ? 
 I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
 One might think you were nursed on the red lap of 
 
 War. 
 
 He's not here, — and not here ! — What wild hopes 
 
 flash through 
 My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew 
 
AFTER THE BATTLE. 139 
 
 And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky ! — 
 Was it you, girl, that shriek'd ? Ah ! what face doth 
 
 lie 
 Upturn'd toward me there, so rigid and white ! 
 God, my brain reels ! — 'Tis a dream ! My old siglit 
 
 Is dimm'd with these horrors. — My son ! oh, my son ! 
 Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! 
 There, lift oft' your arms ; let him come to the breast 
 Wliere first he was lull'd, with my soul's hymn, to 
 
 rest I 
 Your heart never thrill'd to your lover's fond kiss 
 As mine to his baby-touch : — was it for Oiis? 
 
 He was yours too; he loved you! Yes, yes, you're right! 
 Forgive me, my daughter: I'm madden'd to-night! 
 Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and your 
 
 years 
 May still hold fair hopes — but the old di-e of tears ! 
 Yes, take him again! ah, — don't lay your face there! 
 See, the blood from his wound has stain'd your loose 
 
 hair. 
 
 How quiet you are ! — Has she fainted? — her cheek 
 Is cold as his own. — Say a word to me, — speak ! 
 Am I crazed ? — Is she dead ? — Has her heart broke 
 
 first? 
 Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst! — 
 I'm afraid! I'm afraid! alone with these dead ! — 
 Those corpses are stirring ! God help my poor head ! 
 
140 A LETTER FOUND IN A TENT. 
 
 I'll sit by my children until the men come 
 To bury the others, and then we'll go home ! 
 Why, the slain are all dancing I — Dearest, don't move ! 
 Keep away from my boy ! he's guarded by love ! — 
 Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet, darling, sleep ! 
 God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep ! 
 
 A LETTER FOUND IN A TENT. 
 
 I THINK you will not cast aside, nor shred 
 With your fair fingers and a scornful smile, 
 This pajDer into strips, when you shall read 
 ^Twas writ upon the night before I died. 
 For I shall die to-morrow — the great fight 
 Comes off at dawn, and my place is in front ; 
 And I am very glad, for I do know 
 You cannot cast your careless eyes adown 
 The long list of the slain, and see my name 
 Without a stir within your heart, a thought 
 Of how you held my life within your hand 
 And cast it unto death ; you cannot meet 
 My widow'd mother's face, my sister's grief, 
 Nor feel your coldness shaken into pain ! 
 And in the solemn silence of the night 
 Your memories will rise up to slay your sleep, 
 And with the sting of sharp remorse avenge 
 My woe upon that woman's soul of yours ! 
 
A LETTER FOUND IN A TENT. 141 
 
 Until at last you see through your own tears 
 How true, how strong, how earnest was the love 
 Your calm, proud eyes just glanced at and look'd o'er, 
 Treading with your slow, imj)erial step 
 A man's best hopes into despair's dark dust, 
 And never listening to the throbbing heart 
 That beat its wild dreams out beneath your feet ! 
 
 Ah, well ! I did not mean to spend this hour 
 The last, rei^roaching you for what is done, 
 But just to use these moments, while my pulse 
 Still leaps to fever-heat at thought of you, 
 To say that I forgive you all the past, — 
 Forgive you that you watch'd my mad love grow 
 From birth to passion, from faint, timid hope 
 To ripe presumption and betraying speech, 
 And never stoop'd from off the icy throne 
 Of your self-sway, to free, by word or look, 
 Your slave from chains of his own high desires, 
 Until he placed the sword within your grasp 
 With which you pierced his quivering being through. 
 Drawing the keen edge of your swerveless will 
 Against his fate, with your untroubled words, 
 And sweet, clear voice, — " I cannot love you, sir V 
 And so the frenzy of that bitter hour 
 Dash'd reason off — and I shall lead the van 
 Upon to-morrow's field, and drown in blood 
 The worthless life your red lips would not save ; 
 And though you weep not, yet you shall not blush 
 To know I loved you even unto death ! 
 
142 A LETTER FOUND IN A TENT. 
 
 I think, perhaps, when you shall read these lines, 
 
 You will accuse me — for you are not vain — 
 
 Of overrating j'our weak power, and think 
 
 That my forgiveness is too overstrain'd 
 
 For your offence : 'tis true, you could not give 
 
 The blossom of your spirit, till the leaves 
 
 Had open'd into bloom ; and mine, alas ! 
 
 Was not the breath its freshness to inhale ! 
 
 Nor is it well for an immortal soul 
 
 To cast the reins of destiny to hands 
 
 That have not learn'd to guide wild passion's course; 
 
 And I had grown not to that height sublime 
 
 Of human victory, — conquest o'er myself! 
 
 But eyes that catch a shadow from the wings 
 
 Of God's great angel win prophetic sight ; 
 
 And I can see among the coming years 
 
 A time when, living with your idols crush'd, 
 
 Your wounded heart, you shall look sadly back 
 
 Upon my sorrow, that you scarce heed now, 
 
 And think your pain a retribution sent 
 
 By justice for your girlhood's deed ; and then 
 
 It may bring comfort to your stricken soul 
 
 To feel that I forgave you ere you died, — 
 
 Forgave and loved you so that when you come 
 
 Into the world beyond, and meet me there. 
 
 Waiting for you alone, with your deep need 
 
 Of love still unfulfill'd in earth or heaven, 
 
 And say, with yearning eyes, " But only thou 
 
 Gave me the spirit's truest love in life, 
 
THE CURSE OF THE GRAPE. 143 
 
 And I am lonely, wanting it, e'en here !" 
 Why, I at last shall take you in my arms 
 And kiss that curving mouth ! Till then, adieu ! 
 
 THE CURSE OF THE GRAPE. 
 
 Over the shadows made by the vine, 
 
 Under the arches of twining green, 
 Pendent and purple the clusters glow. 
 
 With rifts of sunlight sparkling between. 
 The gatherers, poising on graceful heads 
 
 Their laden baskets, pass gayly there, 
 Laughing, singing, till the full-juiced fruit 
 
 Trembles with ripeness on cadenced air. 
 
 The vintage song 'neath the cloudless skies 
 
 Rings free from a tone of woe or pain ; 
 But, alas ! with moans of broken hearts 
 
 It echoes back to those lands again ! 
 The golden and ruby streams of wealth 
 
 Out of the wine-press in rich floods pour, 
 To drown, in their Circean, dancing foam. 
 
 Dearest hojDes and dreams the wide world o'er ! 
 
 Sing, bacchanals, at your noisy feasts ! 
 
 Sing, harvesters, in your vintage bowers ! 
 Crown your god with wreath of freshest leaves ! 
 
 Deck your groaning wains with fairest flowers ! 
 
144 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Through all the music and all the mirth, 
 Yearns up the heavens an nnguisli'd cry, 
 
 From slaves that line the triumphant path 
 As Juggernaut's car is passing by ! 
 
 Accursed ! Those globes of nectarine dew 
 
 Bear mid their beauty the serpent's trail ; 
 The lives that crush them on eager lips 
 
 Must hear in their soul the seraph's wail ! 
 Accursed ! accursed ! the hearth and the hall 
 
 Hurl back on the grape their deepest hate ! 
 Vintners, beware ! in each luscious branch 
 
 The demons for some lost spirit wait. 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE. 
 
 I STOOD one morning, in the soften'd light. 
 
 Before a great man's thought, made clear to mine 
 
 By all the wealth of color and rich art, 
 The harmony of grace and rare design. 
 
 I felt its truth dawn slowly on my brain. 
 Until its fulness swell'd the fount of tears, 
 
 And, looking through the canvas, I beheld 
 Prophetic glimpses of the coming years ; 
 
 And for an instant felt myself allied 
 
 In inspiration to that artist mind 
 That thus, mid daily life, in simple things 
 
 The spell of beauty could forever find. 
 
AN EXrERIENCE. 145 
 
 The exaltation of my spirit grew 
 
 Akin to pain, as overflowing eyes 
 Drew curious stares, half smiling to behold 
 
 Prim custom's screen from uncheck'd feeling rise. 
 
 And so I i3ass'd into the noisy street, 
 
 The brilliant sunshine, and the busy throng, 
 
 As one half waken'd from delicious dream 
 Hears mingling with rude tones an angel's song. 
 
 " How poor," my gathering senses inly said, 
 " How barren all these narrow lives appear ! 
 
 Flow low their means, how little their desires ! 
 How pride and glitter win their reverence here ! 
 
 " While souls like that great painter's stand apart, 
 Sublime by inspiration, and their power 
 
 To sway the higher instincts of the herd, 
 And hold them fetter'd for a passing hour! 
 
 "Surely these few, the sovereigns of the world. 
 Are nearer God, and see His throne more plain. 
 
 Than all these shallow vendors in the mart. 
 
 Whose dearest hopes are those of self and gain V 
 
 Just then another inward voice replied, 
 
 " Be still, judging heart ; for what art thou 
 
 Darest call God's creatures common and unclean, 
 And makest idols where thy soul may bow ? 
 10 
 
146 AN EXPERIENCE. 
 
 " The lowest being in yon restless crowd 
 In Heaven's sight is as the grandest great, 
 
 Their breath a thought of God : the mysteries hid 
 Of birth and death give all an equal state ! 
 
 "And every man holds that within himself 
 No other man may know ! Alas I His not 
 
 The gifted only that do stand alone 
 
 And yearn and weep : it is the common lot ! 
 
 " For though we sit together at the feast, 
 And pledge each other's secret hope or plan, 
 
 And tell the stories of our different fates, 
 
 And think we know at last our neighbor man ; 
 
 " And though we feel the clasp of tender arms, 
 And walk through bitter trials hand in hand. 
 
 And lean on hearts that love has made our own^ 
 And side by side near open graves do stand ; 
 
 *' Yet evermore within each separate soul 
 
 Is that can be interpreted aright 
 By One alone, the everlasting God, 
 
 That weighs our actions by our inner light ! 
 
 " And they, the mighty ones that work apart, 
 Children of Genius, are servants sent. 
 
 Evangels to their brethren, and their gifts 
 Are but the Sender's means a short space lent ! 
 
A Peruvian's address to the sun. 147 
 
 "They are the priests that go behind the veil 
 Of flesh and sense, and, standing face to face 
 
 With God's own glory, bring His word again 
 To listening people from the holy place ! 
 
 " They rouse the Possible in human minds ; 
 
 They lift to heaven low and grovelling dreams ; 
 They bear the truth to earnest, seeking hearts ; 
 
 On darken'd souls let in sweet beauty's gleams ! 
 
 " This is their mission ; let each one take heed 
 To act his own in justice and in faith, 
 
 Lest, it may be, the Nature scorn'd on earth 
 May soar the highest in the hour of death !" 
 
 A PERUVIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN, AFTER 
 THE CONQUEST. 
 
 SUN-, slow sinking in the summer sky, 
 
 Tinging the western clouds to glory's glow. 
 While round about thee purple islands lie, 
 
 And over crimson'd peaks thy last rays flow ! 
 Thy silent radiance recalls those days 
 
 My nation worshipp'd thee ! when temples grand 
 Thine image held, and reverent songs of praise 
 
 Greeted, each dawn, thy rising o'er the land ! 
 When kings the title of thy children bore, 
 
 And all the people knew of good and bright 
 
148 A Peruvian's address to the sun. 
 
 Was deem'd from thee, or shining semblance wore 
 To one great source of beauty, warmth, and light ! 
 
 No longer now, on golden symbols shed, 
 
 Thy beams awaken holy morning hymn ! 
 The virgins from thy sacred halls are fled ! — 
 
 And yet thy dazzling splendor grows not dim ! 
 The cruel stranger treads our conquer'd shore, 
 
 The Inca blood cries out to thee in wrath, 
 And helpless slaves thy mercies loud implore ! — 
 
 Yet calm thy course upon thy lustrous path ! 
 Sun, mighty god ! veil o'er thy face ! 
 
 Shed dreadful darkness o'er this wretched land, 
 To hide the ravage of the white man's trace : 
 
 With vengeful terror strike this fearless band ! 
 
 Their priests do tell us of a God more great, 
 
 That hearken'd to His servants' earnest cry, 
 And bade e'en thee amid the heavens wait 
 
 Until His chosen race saw foemen fly, — 
 The one Pachacamac that rules unseen ! 
 
 The true Creator that form'd thee and me ! 
 Whose only sacrifice is hearts made clean ! 
 
 Who changes not to all eternity ! 
 They preach Him thus ; but evil are their deeds ; 
 
 Nor were we always pure 'neath thy fair beams. 
 Their God is most sublime, though base their needs ! 
 
 Sun, shine on : new truth upon me gleams ! 
 
 1863. 
 
STANZAS. 149 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 Suggested by Miss Cushman's Parewell to the S+ag 
 
 When Siddons left the sadden'd stage, 
 
 And laid the tragic sceptre down ; 
 And Kemble changed for bridal veil 
 
 The lustre of the drama's crown ; 
 Melpomene kept lonely state, 
 
 Or cover'd o'er offended eyes. 
 As new aspirants seized her robes 
 
 And bade reluctant curtains rise. 
 
 But Heaven at last, that will not be 
 
 Without a witness of its power, 
 Jove's mourning daughter saw, and gave 
 
 Another bright, auspicious hour ! 
 For one amid the honor'd scenes 
 
 Of Shakspeare reign'd a queen supreme, 
 Brought life once more to storied shapes, 
 
 A spirit to the poet's dream ! 
 
 The wondering Muse her buskin loosed. 
 
 And bound it on the foot that trod 
 Wide realms of passion with the power 
 
 Of priestess guided by a god. 
 She placed her dagger in this hand, 
 
 And yielded up her regal throne, 
 To wander in Castalia's shades. 
 
 While Cushman ruled o'er Art alone ! 
 
150 THE reapers' return home. 
 
 But now the stage again beholds 
 
 Its sovereign abdicate her sway ! 
 The Muse must weep, the world deplore ; 
 
 Her brow is weary of its bay. 
 Yet still within a happy home 
 
 Dear friends will speak her worshipp'd name, 
 And love shall give her woman heart 
 
 More true content than shouts of fame ! 
 
 THE REAPERS' RETURN HOME. 
 
 (Painted by Becker.) 
 
 Through the golden tints of sunset, 
 
 'Neath the glowing, crimson'd skies, 
 With each smiling face uplifted, 
 
 Where their work's warm flush still lies, 
 All the reapers, homeward going. 
 
 In a happy, cheerful throng, 
 With gay voices sing the chorus 
 
 Of an olden harvest-song. 
 
 They have mow'd the waving glory 
 Of the ripe and bending grain. 
 
 Have knelt down where summer's splendor 
 Mid the aisle of sheaves has lain, 
 
 And have gather'd up the richness 
 Of the small seed sown before, 
 
THE reapers' return HOME. 151 
 
 Then with glad eyes stood rejoicing 
 In the sure and garner'd store. 
 
 Now they onward walk together 
 
 Through the green and pleasant field, 
 And each worker like a sceptre 
 
 His sharp, shining scythe doth wield ; 
 While the matrons toss their infants 
 
 To the measure of the tune. 
 Maidens, wishing o'er their shoulders, 
 
 Watch the dim, new-rising moon. 
 
 There are glances shy and tender 
 
 Under manly, sunburn'd brows ; 
 There are blushings at bold whispers, 
 
 And fresh murmurs of old vows ; 
 There are laughters, free and ringing, 
 
 Plucking flowers by the way. 
 And fond clinging of hands parted 
 
 By their labor all the day. 
 
 Age and youth and careless childhood 
 
 Share the music of the strain, 
 As they wend through clover fragrance 
 
 Towards their waiting homes again, 
 Where the night unto the weary 
 
 Will give slumber without dreams, 
 And bring silence with deep shadows, 
 
 Till another morning beams. 
 
 \ 
 
152 mercy's dream. 
 
 There is reaping, tliere is gathering 
 
 For us all upon the earth, 
 And the sheaves we show at harvest 
 
 Is what jDroves each spirit's worth ! 
 Let us do our work so bravely 
 
 That our hearts shall sing with praise 
 In the glow of heaven's glory 
 
 At the closing of our days ! 
 When we lie down for our resting 
 
 In our last home dark and still, 
 May each tried soul find its waking 
 
 Where Truth's rays the mansions fill ! 
 
 MERCY'S DREAM. 
 
 (Painted by Huntington.) 
 
 A WOMAN sleeping in a "lonely place," 
 
 With lovely brow uplifted for the crown 
 An angel, floating upon rainbow wings, 
 
 In light and glory brings from heaven down. 
 And this is all the picture, yet our souls, 
 
 By marvellous skill en wrapt, see more than this: 
 We watch the seraph take the maiden's hand 
 
 And lead her through the golden doors of bliss ; 
 We follow them, mid brightness like the sun, 
 
 To where, on great white throne, One sits su- 
 preme, 
 
A summer's memory of BERKSHIRE. 153 
 
 And hear the "Welcome, daughter!" caught by 
 strains 
 That thrill through Paradise and Mercy's Dream ! 
 
 We think, perchance, the air about us now 
 
 Is full of these angelic shapes, that wait 
 Till we bemoan the hardness of our hearts 
 
 Ere they can Avhisper " Peace" near Eden's gate ! 
 Their unseen radiance may round us shine 
 
 When we are weary in a lonely place, 
 And in a seeming sleep our souls may go 
 
 Close to God's throne with them, and see his face I 
 And if, like Mercy, with pure love we tread 
 
 Among our fellows this dark earth beneath. 
 Our deeds shall draw down angels from the skies, 
 
 And glow like jewels in our heavenly wreath ! 
 
 A SUMMER'S MEMORY OF BERKSHIRE, MASS. 
 (Painted by Jas. M. Hart.) 
 
 A LOVELY vale, shut in by solemn hills. 
 
 Where purple mists, great Nature's incense, rise 
 
 To meet the fleecy clouds that float o'er fields 
 Where brooding peace mid lengthening shadows 
 lies ; 
 
 A shallow brook that foams o'er brown, bare stones, 
 In whose clear waters laving cattle stand ; 
 
154 ITALIA. 
 
 A waiting wain high heap'd with fragrant hay, 
 And sense of summer spread through all the land ! 
 
 This is an artist's " memory" ! O'er his soul 
 
 The viewless spirit of this silent scene 
 Shed inspiration, that its haunt might win 
 
 Immortal freshness for a season's green ! 
 And so, upon our winter's gloomy verge, 
 
 A fair, warm picture of past glory lives, 
 That mid earth's coldness and white, coming snows 
 
 The very essence of dead summer gives ! 
 
 Keeps not each human heart some vision bright, 
 
 On life's long journey, of a cherish'd place 
 Wherein yet waves hope's golden, unreap'd gram. 
 
 And love still wears its rich, unfaded grace ? 
 Where soar high aspirations unto heaven, 
 
 While barren rocks are veil'd in tinted haze. 
 Youth's sweetest dream, om' being's vale of rest, 
 
 A summer memory of dear, perish'd days ! 
 
 November, 1863. 
 
 ITALIA. 
 
 (Painted by Merle.) 
 
 Amid the ruins of her splendors past, 
 
 On throne of sorrows does Italia sit. 
 While ghosts of glories and grand regal state 
 Before her memory flit. 
 
ITALIA. 155 
 
 She lists no longer shouts of triumphs ring, 
 
 Whose haughty echoes made the nations pale ; 
 But through her vinelands, from the grave of hope, 
 Goes up a people's wail. 
 
 With eyes of yearning, and droop'd, clasping hands, 
 
 She now looks outward, and awaits a fate, 
 Lonely and sadden'd, but more loved and fair 
 
 Than they whom strength makes great. 
 
 Her grapes are purple on her thousand hills ; 
 
 Her skies are cloudless ; and the golden glow 
 Of noon and sunset fills the air with light 
 Where days like dreams do flow. 
 
 Her stones are storied ; heroes form her dust ; 
 
 She holds rare jewels in undying fames; 
 And classic ages call to passing times 
 
 Her soil bears still their names. 
 
 Art's home is with her ; and white, peerless shapes 
 Still bring the wide world's tribute to their grace; 
 While her old painters, with dead, stirless hands. 
 Touch Earth's most distant place. 
 
 Yet mid her treasures does she mournful stay, 
 The tyrant's captive, who was once a queen, 
 While despots quarrel o'er the weeping prize, 
 And Freedom flies the scene. 
 
156 ITALIA. 
 
 crush'd Italia, weak from many ills, 
 
 Thine hour is dawning, thy hard chains shall break ! 
 For strong Opinion, like a Samson bound, 
 Begins from sleep to wake ! 
 
 And men remember what thou wert of yore, 
 
 While Europe's pulses with war's heat are stirr'd : 
 And thou shalt hear, amid the battle-cries. 
 Thy resurrection-word ! 
 
 And, clad in beauty, lift thy head once more 
 Among the crown'd ones, with thine ancient song, 
 
 " lo triumphus ! lo triumphus ! 
 Italia rights her wrong V 
 April, 1864. 
 
LEGENDS OF THE ROUND TABLE. 
 
 157 
 
NOTE. 
 
 Several years before reading a line of Tennyson, I had 
 met with the old romance of " Prince Arthur," translated from 
 the French. Observing then the poetical nature of many of 
 its incidents, I selected for future experiment most of those 
 which afterwards formed the groundwork of these legends; 
 though some — " The First Meeting of Launcelot and Guine- 
 vere," "The King and the Bard," and *'Avilion" — had their 
 origin entirely in my own imagination. The first six of the 
 series were printed in the " Evening Journal" of Philadelphia, 
 in 1857 ; the next two were published in 1859, before the 
 appearance of "Idylls of the King;" the rest were written 
 since, with the exception of " The Best Knight," and " The 
 Last Meeting of Launcelot and Guinevere," which were com- 
 posed more than a year before, though not issued in the " Home 
 Journal" of New York until some time after Tennyson's book 
 came out. 
 
 This explanation is furnished so as to exonerate myself 
 from an anticipated accusation of plagiarism of idea. 
 
 Sallie Bridges. 
 
 158 
 
EXCALIBUR. 159 
 
 EXCALIBUR. 
 
 For months it rested in the stone, 
 
 The sword Excalibur ; 
 The noblest knights of England's realm 
 
 Strove hard the steel to stir : 
 For word had gone through all the land 
 
 That he who drew the blade 
 Should fill the sovereign's empty throne, 
 
 The rightful king be made. 
 
 The flower of island chivalry 
 
 Had come from far and near, 
 To try their skill at tournament 
 
 The first day of the year. 
 Mid the barons went Sir Ector, 
 
 His valiant son. Sir Kaye, 
 And his foster-child, young Arthur, 
 
 Forth to the courtly fray. 
 
 Unknown to all, dead Uther's son 
 
 Mix'd with the noble throng, 
 Who dream'd not that to stripling page 
 
 Could crown and throne belong. 
 " Now, grammercy," quoth Arthur, 
 
 In riding by Sir Kaye, 
 " Good brother mine, how came you out 
 
 Without a sword to-day V 
 
160 EXCALIBUR. 
 
 Sir Kaye look'd down, and paled to see 
 
 No weapon at his side : 
 Then back his comrade spurr'd his steed, 
 
 Across the meadows wide. 
 To where lay idle in its sheath 
 
 The knight's forgotten blade, 
 But found that not a single squire 
 
 Had in the castle stay'd. 
 
 Quoth Arthur then, with sudden wrath, 
 
 " From yonder mystic stone 
 I'll pluck the sword, that good Sir Kaye 
 
 May wield it as his own l" 
 So, lighting down from off his horse, 
 
 Towards the empty tent 
 Tn which was kept Excalibur 
 
 His eager footsteps bent. 
 
 Its golden-letter'd hilt was bright, 
 
 Its knightly guards away ; 
 And so, with brave and fearless heart, 
 
 He made his bold essay. 
 He grasp'd the handle in his hand, 
 
 Its point leap'd sharp and free. 
 " My brother shall not go unarm'd 
 
 To battle now !" cried he. 
 
 When old Sir Ector saw the blade 
 Flash in the morning light, 
 
EXCALIBUR. 161 
 
 He knew it was the Sword of Fate 
 
 That met his wondering sight, 
 And ask'd of Arthur, " Whither came 
 
 The steel thou gavest Sir Kaye ?" 
 " I bore it," was the plain reply, 
 
 " From stone and tent away." 
 
 "Then, by my faith," the gray knight swore, 
 
 •"An' thou canst draw again 
 The sword from out the selfsame place, 
 
 A monarch thou shalt reign !" 
 And back within the marble stone 
 
 Prince Arthur thrust the blade. 
 While long in vain to pluck it thence 
 
 Both high and low essay'd. 
 
 *' Come hither ; strive again, my son !" 
 
 And quick on Ector's sight. 
 In Arthur's hand, the marvellous steel 
 
 Was flashing keen and bright. 
 Then kneel'd Sir Ector and Sir Kaye, 
 
 With every squire and lord. 
 To greet as lawful king the youth 
 
 Who lean'd upon the Sword ! 
 
 Then spoke his aged foster-sire, 
 
 "■ Ye hail no child of mine !" 
 But wist not buried Uther's heir 
 
 Was king by right divine. 
 
 11 
 
162 THE DEATH OF LANCEOR. 
 
 Thus Arthur through Excalibur 
 Eeceived his father's crown ; 
 
 And ever through Excahbur 
 He kept his high renown ! 
 
 THE DEATH OF LANCEOR. 
 
 The fight was over, and one shiver'd spear 
 
 Had dash'd to splinters 'gainst a coat of mail ; 
 
 The other, crushing an opposing shield, 
 
 Had pierced the hauberk of a valiant knight 
 
 And let his brave life through a ghastly rent. 
 
 Upon the green hill-side Sir Lanceor fell, 
 
 No more in tournament or joust to strive ; 
 
 And good Sir Balin gazed upon his foe, 
 
 And sadden 'd that his hand had stretch'd him there, 
 
 Albeit in self-defence each blow was struck : 
 
 Yet well he knew he might not often meet, 
 
 In field or tourney, opponent so bold! 
 
 And while he lean'd upon his unsheathed sword, 
 
 Resting a moment after contest fierce, 
 
 Sudden from out the forest at his side 
 
 A fair, white palfrey, galloping with speed, 
 
 Bore to his feet a damsel full of grace, 
 
 Who, when she saw Sir Lanceor thus slain. 
 
 Alighted down, and made a tearful wail. 
 
 Clasping her arms about the stirless form. 
 
 Casting on Balin each upbraiding look, 
 
THE DEATH OF LANCEOR. 163 
 
 Wounding his soul with frantic words of woe : 
 
 " Ah ! not one life alone hast thou destroy 'd, 
 
 Thou cruel knight that slew this love of mine ! 
 
 Two hearts thy weapon shatter'd when it cast 
 
 This stalwart body on the trampled turf!" 
 
 She took the steel from out the dead man's hand, 
 
 And swoon'd in freeing thence the stifFen'd grasp ; 
 
 And when she lifted up her pallid face, 
 
 All tear-bedew'd and framed in golden curls, 
 
 Sir Balin's thought was grieving passing sore 
 
 That thus his act should make a lady's dole. 
 
 He strove the slender fingers to untwine 
 
 From round the heavy hilt of Lanceor's blade ; 
 
 But, lightly stepping from his careful hold. 
 
 Quickly she set the pommel on the ground, 
 
 And thrust her bosom on the shining point. 
 
 The ruby blood came gushing from her wound. 
 
 Like red wine spill'd from goblet made of pearl ; 
 
 The gentle figure, white-enrobed, sank down, 
 
 Like to a stricken dove upon its nest ; 
 
 The violet eyes rej^roacli'd him for her death, 
 
 Then closed forever on her lover's breast. 
 
 Oh, matchless love of woman ! Sure thou art 
 
 The only flower of Eden left to bloom 
 
 Amid the thorny thistles of real life. 
 
 Scenting the wayside with thy rich perfume, 
 
 Brightening with beauty common spots of earth ! 
 
 " Alas !" said Balin, looking on the pair, 
 
 " Sorely repent I now this brave knight's death, 
 
 Because of her who loved him living so ! 
 
164 THE DEATH OF LANCEOR. 
 
 And yet methinks 'twere happiness to die, 
 In armor clad, doing one's right devoir, 
 With one we love to breathe their last, warm sigh 
 In sorrow out, surviving not our loss !" 
 While thus he mused aloud, on horseback came. 
 Riding apace, a dwarf from Camelot, 
 That wildly grieved above the lifeless twain. 
 Quoth good Sir Balin, " 'Twas a sorry deed ; 
 And yet himself gave challenge for the tilt ! 
 No craven heart is mine to fly from foe, 
 And fate had will'd that one should linger here. 
 The damsel died for love of yon still knight, 
 And evermore I hold, for her sweet sake. 
 All womankind in highest, dear esteem !" 
 As thus they talk'd. King Mark of Cornwall rode 
 On gallant charger by the touching group, 
 And sorrow 'd greatly for such true hearts dead. 
 Swearing with vows he would not stir from thence 
 Till he had raised above their dust a tomb. 
 Then, pitching his pavilion on the spot, 
 His squires sought through all the country round 
 To find a sepulchre would shrine them both ; 
 And ere Sir Balin took his parting leave 
 Of Cornwall's generous sovereign, he had reared, 
 A monument right passing rich and fair. 
 Brought from some distant church, and rarely carved 
 And sculptured on the stone their name and fate : — 
 "Here lieth Lanceor, a valiant knight. 
 Prince Arthur's friend, and son of Ireland's king, 
 Kiird by Sir Balin of the Table Round, 
 
THE TOMB OF THE TWELVE KINGS. 165 
 
 In lawful tilt upon the green hill-side ; 
 And on his breast the ladye of his love 
 Sleepeth till judgment, slain by her own hand, 
 For very sorrow, with her lover's sword ! 
 Pray for the souls, gentle passer-by, 
 Of fair Colombe and brave Sir Lanceor V^ 
 
 THE TOMB OF THE TWELVE KINGS. 
 
 Within St. Steven's holy aisle, 
 Requiems chanting all the while, 
 
 They buried bold King Lot. 
 Right bravely he had fought, and well : 
 Minstrel and harper long could tell 
 How fatally his sharp strokes fell 
 
 Ere his own death w^as got ! 
 
 With dripping sword and shatter'd mail, 
 He shower'd blows without avail 
 
 To turn the battle's tide ; 
 His best knights lay around him, slain ; 
 His wounded steed was mad with pain ; 
 Twelve kings a bloody couch had ta'en. 
 
 And slumber'd side by side ! 
 
 No recreant he, to turn and fly: 
 So, shouting loud his battle-cry, 
 He charged Sir Pellinore ! 
 
166 THE TOMB OF THE TWELVE KINGS. 
 
 The knight heaved once his ruddy blade, 
 One downward stroke the weapon made, 
 That ever still the monarch laid, 
 His life and warfare o'er ! 
 
 And when the hour of strife was done, 
 Prince Arthur bade the knights who won 
 
 Bear forth the gallant dead, 
 And foremost in the funeral train 
 To place that valiant sovereign slain, 
 That first in field by him again 
 
 His comrades might be led ! 
 
 And then within the sacred walls, 
 Their tatter'd banners for their palls, 
 
 And sword in each right hand, 
 They buried them at Camelot; 
 And Arthur built upon the spot 
 Their tomb, to keep still unforgot 
 
 The fame of this brave band ! 
 
 In sepulchre full rich and fair, 
 Of marble stone with carving rare, 
 
 They laid King Lot alone ; 
 And where the other sovereigns lay, 
 Twelve gilded figures, night and day. 
 Held burning tapers bright alway 
 
 Above their tablet stone. 
 
SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 167 
 
 And over all, with unsheathed sword, 
 Stood Arthur as their conquering lord, 
 
 The crown upon his head ! 
 For years before the Sancgreal came, 
 Above each quaintly sculptured name, 
 Like living bursts of golden flame, 
 
 Their light' the tapers shed. 
 
 THE FIRST MEETING OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND 
 QUEEN GUINEVERE. 
 
 The Lady Guinevere Avas crown'd. 
 And all Prince Arthur's Table Round 
 
 Their fealty came to yield. 
 She sat, the very fairest queen . . 
 
 That England's realm had ever seen, 
 Beside the bravest king, I ween, 
 E'er handled weapon sharp and keen 
 
 Or sceptre learn'd to wield. 
 
 The golden circlet jewell'd rare 
 
 Shone through the wealth of braided hair 
 
 That wreathed her perfect head ; 
 With crimson robe and snowy vest, 
 And gems on arms and rounding breast. 
 It seem'd to every knightly guest 
 To be a hope supremely blest 
 
 For her his blood to shed. 
 
168 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 
 
 As one by one their bearded lips 
 Just press'd her slender finger-tips, 
 
 In token of their zeal, 
 She bore her part with regal grace, 
 That show'd the throne was fitting place 
 For blood of Leodegraunce's race ; 
 And who before such peerless face 
 
 Would hesitate to kneel ? 
 
 But when, unhelmeted and tall, 
 Sir Launcelot trode across the hall 
 
 And bow'd before the throne, 
 A sudden meeting of their eyes, 
 Quick caused the eddying blood to rise. 
 To flush her cheek with richer dyes. 
 Each echoing the other's sighs. 
 
 As his hand touch'd her own. 
 
 And thus, an instant, all forgot 
 "Was royal mien and queenly lot 
 
 In joy of passion's birth ; 
 The heart-pulse leapt through all her frame 
 Love's dawning broke in rosy flame 
 Of blushing clouds that went and came 
 As Launcelot vow'd henceforth her name 
 
 Should be his star on earth ! 
 
 A moment, and the spell was o'er : 
 
 The womaii was a queen once more, 
 
 And Launcelot, loyal knight ; ' 
 
merlin's grave. 169 
 
 Bui ever through that festal day, 
 Mid tournament or mock-melee, 
 Their glances caught each other's ray; 
 And Arthur praised her that alway 
 Her blushes were so bright ! 
 
 MERLIN'S GRAVE. 
 
 Mighty wizard was old Merlin, the wisest of his age : 
 But Love all living men subdues, and Love spared 
 
 not the sage : 
 So the gray-beard grew a dotard for one fair woman's 
 
 sake, 
 Ever following and wooing the Ladye of the Lake ; 
 For she chain'd him with her beauty, and ruled him 
 
 with a smile, 
 Till he taught her each enchantment, each magic 
 
 charm and wile ; 
 And on the four Evangelists an oath she made him 
 
 swear 
 That his subtle craft should never her life with 
 
 mysteries snare. 
 
 But she loved no whit the wizard : yet, to learn his 
 
 mystic art, 
 She feign'd a loving passion, and acted well her part ; 
 And he taught her all the wonders of the fire, earth, 
 
 and sea, 
 All the marvels of the genii, all tricks of glamourie. 
 
170 merlin's grave. 
 
 Gave her words of spell and power the spirits to 
 command, 
 
 And gifted her with prophecy, with lore from every 
 land. 
 
 But she wearied of the master when his parables 
 were o'er, 
 
 And ladies laugh at lovers gray-bearded and three- 
 score. 
 
 Thus it happen'd, as they journey'd, he show'd her 
 
 by the way, 
 Mid a rock, a deep-hewn cavern, wherein a wonder 
 
 lay, 
 But that hitherto was hidden beneath a weighty 
 
 stone 
 From the entrance could be shaken by sorcery 
 
 alone ; 
 Then she pray'd the old magician, with many a 
 
 witching word. 
 To venture in and record bear what sights were 
 
 there interr'd : 
 In an evil hour for Merlin he did the Ladye's will. 
 For she quickly wrought her magic, and the rock 
 
 entombs him still. 
 
 Long in court and council-chamber they waited for 
 
 the sage, 
 And marveird what endeavor his absence should 
 
 engage ; 
 
SIR launcelot's slumber. 171 
 
 'Twas whisper'd he had wander'd afar beyond the 
 main 
 
 To countries of the Orient, and yet would come 
 again, 
 
 With more than mortal wisdom, to work for Eng- 
 land's weal, 
 
 From the sepulchre of Solomon bearing home the 
 sacred seal. 
 
 But forever kept the Ladye the secret of the stone, 
 
 As sh-e sat beneath the waters and wrought her 
 spells alone. 
 
 SIR LAUNCELOT'S SLUMBER. 
 
 The golden sunshine gemm'd the stream, 
 
 Where drooping lilies shadows made ; 
 The willow-branches touch'd the wave, 
 
 As though they woo'd their own cool shade 
 A Sabbath stillness fill'd the air ; 
 
 The very insects ceased their tones ; 
 Only the waters rippling by 
 
 Made music round gray, sunken stones. 
 
 The river-road was hot and dry ; 
 
 Beyond, a broad, green meadow lay. 
 Wherein was set a single tree. 
 
 Whose ripening fruit perfumed the way ; 
 
172 SIR launcelot's slumber. 
 
 Its clustering leaves and laden limbs 
 Darken'd below the grassy plain, 
 
 While o'er its gnarl'd and rugged roots 
 Nature a mossy cloak had lain. 
 
 Adown the scorch'd and pebbled road 
 
 Sir Launcelot came this summer morn 
 With glittering hauberk, glaives of steel. 
 
 And lance upon his saddle borne. 
 He left the pathway, cross'd the field, 
 
 And 'neath the spreading apple-tree 
 Unarm'd his weary, mail-clad steed, 
 
 And let him roam the pasture free. 
 
 Unloosing then his visor 'd casque, 
 
 Upon the sward he downward laid, 
 His helm for pillow, and his hand 
 
 Clasping the pommel of his blade. 
 Thus slumber'd he at noontide hour. 
 
 The bravest knight in all the world, 
 With stalwart form and sunburn 'd brow. 
 
 Where, all untrain'd, the brown hair curl'd. 
 
 And as, perchance, in daring dreams, 
 
 He spent the rapture of a kiss 
 On Guinevere's red, dewy lips, 
 
 And felt their softness cling to his. 
 Four lovely queens, on four white mules, 
 
 Kode slowly through the meadow green, 
 O'er whom four knights on lifted spears 
 
 Bore canopy of silken sheen. 
 
SIR launcelot's slumber. 173 
 
 And as they wended on their way, 
 
 Sudden there burst upon their sight, 
 Dreaming beneath the golden fruit, 
 
 This vision of a sleeping knight. 
 And, gathering round his grassy couch. 
 
 In earnest whispers spoke each dame. 
 Disputing which could love him most. 
 
 And which the captive's self should claim. 
 
 Sut Morgan Le Fay, of Gore the Queen, 
 
 A ladye subtle, proud, and wise, 
 Then wrought a spell of glamour old. 
 
 That bound the poppies on his eyes. 
 Until within her castle near 
 
 Their knights had borne him o'er the field. 
 His hand still clasp'd upon his sword. 
 
 And he outstretch'd on his own shield. 
 
 And there she woke him from the spell; 
 
 And, when the morrow's sun was bright. 
 All richly dress'd, the four fair queens 
 
 Assail'd the heart of this brave knight, — 
 King Arthur's sister, false Le Fay, 
 
 The Ladye of the North Countrie, 
 Eastland's proud queen, and she who ruled 
 
 The isles upon a distant sea. 
 
 But still the pleasure of his dream 
 
 Thrill'd through Sir Launcelot's waking hour ; 
 Before the image of his love 
 
 All other charms had lost their power ; 
 
174 
 
 And so he hearken'd not their speech, 
 Or answer'd them with careless tone, 
 
 Till each, enraged, withdrew her suit, 
 And left him with his thoughts alone. 
 
 There is no cause like this on earth 
 
 To rouse a woman's slumbering ire. 
 To turn her fondest love to hate. 
 
 And kindle pride's enduring fire : 
 Crush her, condemn, insult, abuse, 
 
 She ne'er forsakes, and still loves on ; 
 But scorn, neglect, and passion's slave. 
 
 She vengeance seeks, her patience gone ! 
 
 And so they kept Sir Launcelot there, 
 
 A prisoner, many a weary daj'', 
 Eust gathering on his armor bright. 
 
 He chafing at his idle stay. 
 But never once, in word or deed. 
 
 His sworn allegiance shook or swerved ; 
 At Guinevere's fair shrine alone 
 
 He worshipp'd still, and Arthur served. 
 
 But when the queens relax'd a while 
 
 Their constant watch and steadfast guard, 
 Forth to his olden freedom then. 
 
 Through twelve strong locks, twelve gates: 
 close-barr'd, 
 A damsel guided him once more. 
 
 To battle for her father's sake ; 
 And boldly was that promise kept 
 
 By good Sir Launcelot of the Lake. 
 
BEAUMAINS VOW. 1/5 
 
 BEAUMAINS' VOW. 
 
 'TvFAS Whitsunday morn, and King Arthur held 
 
 Round Table at Kenedon Hall, 
 But vowed at Pentecost never to eat 
 
 Till adventure strange should befall. 
 So his hundred and fifty armed knights 
 
 Sat patiently waiting at noon, 
 And only Sir Launcelot murmur'd aloud, 
 
 "God send meat and adventure soon V 
 
 But sudden and curious silence fell, 
 
 As enter'd the door of the hall 
 Two men, on whose shoulders another lean'd, 
 
 Fair-handed, well-visaged, and tall. 
 And spoke to the king, as he rear'd him straight, 
 
 " My monarch, I come here to pray 
 Three gifts of thy grace ; but of only one 
 
 I crave the fulfilment to-day.'^ 
 
 " We grant thy demand," the sovereign said: 
 
 "Sure thine is some lofty desire." 
 " But meat and drink for a year," he replied. 
 
 " Faith !" cried Arthur, " a valiant squire ! 
 So strong as thou seemest, why askest not 
 
 For knighthood, armor, or steed ? 
 Such hand as thine could Excalibur wield; 
 
 And is food thine uttermost need?" 
 
176 BEAUMATNS' vo^y. 
 
 " 'Tis all I now wish : for mine other boons 
 
 I will sue at next Whitsuntide." 
 And the knights all sneer'd, as they broke their fast, 
 
 "More size has the varlet than pride." 
 Sir Kaj^e, the steward, in mocking despite, 
 
 Gave him place where the lackeys ate ; 
 And only Sir Gawaine and Launcelot swore 
 
 That his mien was of nobler state. 
 
 The twain were right ; for when Arthur again 
 
 The Pentecost holyday kept, 
 "When adventure rare claim'd the bravest heart, 
 
 'Twas this Beaumains forward stept, 
 And boldly implored two boons of the king. 
 
 The first was this perilous quest ; 
 And then that Sir Launcelot should dub him knight. 
 
 Quoth Sir Launcelot, " Not without test." 
 
 From the palace forth went the royal chief. 
 
 With his mail'd and warrior train. 
 To witness Sir Launcelot and Beaumains try 
 
 A tilt on the tournament-plain. 
 Short joust did they hold ; for the far-famed knight 
 
 Had sore work to keep him unshamed. 
 " 'Twas right gallantly fought," said the king and 
 lords. 
 
 As the stranger the promise claim'd. 
 
 Then, spurr'd and belted, he mounted his horse. 
 With Sir Launcelot's sword on his thigh ; 
 
THE KING AND THE BARD. 177 
 
 For Sir Launcelot Icarn'd, ere the accolade, 
 
 His name, kin, and lineage high. 
 And little the haughty Sir Gawaine deem'd, 
 
 As Sir Gareth rode proudly away, 
 That his brother had kept a vow unbroke 
 
 At court for a year and a day. 
 
 THE KING AND THE BARD. 
 
 "Come, sing us a lay !" quoth Arthur, 
 
 " My Bard of the Table Bound ! 
 Some ballad of lofty courage, 
 
 That shall make our heart's-blood bound !' 
 And the monarch drain'd his goblet, 
 
 While the minstrel tuned his lyre, 
 And fill'd it again, that the singer 
 
 Might win from wine new fire. 
 
 " Now drink," said the generous sovereign, 
 
 " That, when thy song shall be o'er. 
 We may fill with bright gold pieces 
 
 And hand thee the cup once more." 
 But the minstrel's voice was silent, 
 
 And the ruby wine undrain'd. 
 While Arthur, impatient, wondered 
 
 Why the guerdon was not gain'd". 
 
 12 
 
178 THE KING AND THE BARD. 
 
 Tlie bard from his seat rose slowly, 
 
 And spoke to the waiting king : 
 *' Sire, to-day my soul is tuneless, 
 
 And no worthy lay can sing. 
 Not e'en for your tempting liquor, 
 
 Not e'en for your promised gold, 
 Will my inner voice yield music ; 
 
 For true song cannot be sold I 
 
 " But when fitting words can utter 
 
 Dreams that stir my own deep heart, 
 In thine shall the chords re-echo, 
 
 Till it feels of mine a part. 
 Not till inspiration smiteth 
 
 On the rock of silent Thought, 
 Can be welcome living waters 
 
 To the king or people brought V 
 
 " Thou art right \" the sovereign answer'd 
 
 '* 'Tis a lesson nobly told : 
 Monarchs cannot rule men's spirits 
 
 By the might of law or gold ! 
 Thou art first of all my minstrels, 
 
 Thou art best of Britain's boast ; 
 But take now my brimming goblet. 
 
 And quaif it to Arthur's toast. 
 
 " Drink, gallant knights, to the minstrel 
 Who dreads neither prince nor peer,— 
 
 Who can speak the truth to power, 
 Nor flatters for price or fear, — 
 
TIIK LOVE-DRINK. 179 
 
 To the bard who freely renders 
 
 The gift he has been given, 
 And sings but when his strain exalts 
 
 His hearers nicher heaven !" 
 
 THE LOVE-DRINK. 
 
 King Marke of Cornwall sent Sir Tristan forth, 
 With goodly company in grand array, 
 On embassy to Anguish, Ireland's king ; 
 That there his nephew's eloquence might move 
 The father's heart to give his daughter's hand ; 
 For Marke had heard the minstrels sing of her, 
 La Belle Isonde, until his throne had seem'd 
 Empty without a queen, and listen'd then 
 His people's murmuring that he did not wed ; 
 And so he chose the princess for his bride. 
 
 But on the way Sir Tristan met a lord, 
 With many peers, that in the name of might 
 Truage of Cornwall did demand with swords ! 
 And Tristan slew him, but did get himself 
 Such serious hurt, that those about him pray'd 
 For his soul's rest, and begg'd him but to stay 
 His journey's progress till his wound was heal'd. 
 But the brave knight bound up his gaping side, 
 And bade them onward : — " Duty could not wait 
 
180 THE LOVE-DRINK. 
 
 Because a man should bleed ! He will'd to live 
 
 Until his errand was all done, and then — 
 
 Why, God's good pleasure should hear his Amen !" 
 
 And so he came at last to Ireland's court, 
 And in the audience-hall, before the throne, 
 Stood pale and leaning on his sheathed sword. 
 And told his message to the king and queen, 
 Fainting, in ending, at the princess' feet. 
 Whose tender eyes dropp'd tears amid the blood 
 That gush'd afresh, as trembling she essay'd 
 To quench its flowing with her own warm scarf; 
 And, as she was well skill'd in surgery's art. 
 They gave him to her charge to try his cure. 
 And long she wrestled with the angel Death, 
 Conquering through prayer, and won him back to 
 
 life. 
 And Tristan watch'd her from his couch, and wish'd 
 He might be ill forever, thus to keep 
 So fair a picture always in his sight ! 
 And she would do for him, with quiet grace. 
 All offices that only women can, 
 When, smote by sickness, men will humbly lean 
 On the strong tenderness that never fails ! 
 The little hand smooth'd pillows for his head, 
 Bathed his hot brow, and dress'd his healing wound. 
 And. when he seem'd to slumber mid his pain, 
 Plied silken threads to aid her silent watch. 
 And if sometimes it met his own, ^twas but 
 The leech's touch to learn the fever's height. 
 
THE LOVE-DRINK. 181 
 
 And all about, within her was such sense 
 
 Of maiden purity, that Tristan ne'er. 
 
 Even by thought of passion, would have stirr'd 
 
 Th' unconscious calm of that white, virgin breast! 
 
 So day by day he grew to perfect health, 
 
 And, sitting by her in the summer morns, 
 
 He taught her how to tune the lute, and sang 
 
 Old ditties, mostly battle-songs, or lays 
 
 Of sunny France, the harvest-hymns, or plaints 
 
 Of captive slaves, — but never sang of love ! 
 
 And if her changing cheek did flush and pale, 
 
 And her heart throb, she knew 'twas but the tunes, 
 
 The music shaking all her inner soul ; 
 
 And if she did not laugh as she was wont. 
 
 But from the castle-terrace gazed long hours 
 
 Toward distant Cornwall, all her maids would say, 
 
 " She's sad because she leaves us : this quick change 
 
 From home to husband weighs her spirits down. 
 
 She wonders if he'll love her like her sire ! 
 
 He must be noble, since the knights he sent 
 
 Are gentle, and his herald like a king. 
 
 She's worn with watching. Sure her lord may count 
 
 Upon the goodness that did patient nurse 
 
 The proxy for his sake will call her queen !" 
 
 And so they gossip'd on her alter'd ways. 
 
 And — for they knew her all her girlhood up — 
 
 Did never link her name, by sneer or hint, 
 
 In thought or speech, with aught that was not true. 
 
182 THE LOVE-DRINK. 
 
 And thus, with this fine honor in them both, 
 
 That knew her pledged, they kept them safe through 
 
 all; 
 And if perchance o'er Tristan's soul would come 
 A sudden tempting, when she stept anear, 
 To seize her in his arms, and kiss her eyes, 
 Mouth, hands, once strain Iier to his heart, and then 
 Tear open his old wound, and pitied die. 
 He sternly fought it down, and school'd his thought 
 To say, unshrinkingly, " My uncle's wife !" 
 
 And when their ship was ready, all the court 
 Did bear her company to the water's edge, 
 And the whole country mourn'd to see her go. 
 She wept to know how she was loved, — to leave 
 Her childhood's happy home for stranger roof, — 
 To see no more, perchance, the early friends 
 That fiU'd her memory ; and all sights and sounds 
 Seem'd but to make her sadder as she went, 
 Until she look'd on Tristan, and her heart 
 Took a sweet sense of something undefined. 
 That made her think but of the voj^age with him, 
 Forgetful of the king would crown its end ! 
 And, ere they sail'd, her mother gave in charge 
 Secretly to Governale, Sir Tristan's squire, 
 A golden flask full of enchanted wine, 
 That, on the day when they should wed, King Marke 
 And her Isonde should drink the same, and so 
 Either should other love through all their life, 
 And find expression by its potent spell. 
 
THE LOVE-DllINK. 183 
 
 The August days were languid on the sea ; 
 
 The vessel linger'd on the glassy calm 
 
 Of heaveless waves ; and, as they silent sate, 
 
 Watching from cabin-window a lone bird 
 
 Skimming the surface of the waters blue, 
 
 Then, more to break the stillness than from need, 
 
 Isonde did murmur that she was athirst ; 
 
 And Tristan rose to search for welcome draught. 
 
 And came back, smiling, with a golden flask, 
 
 And told her how lie found it in the case 
 
 Where Governale did keep his master's helm ; 
 
 And so — for such rare liquor fitted not 
 
 For lackey's palate, howsoe'er or why 
 
 He got and kept it — Tristan pour'd the wine. 
 
 And gave the goblet to the ladye's taste, 
 
 Who drank it, saying she would pay instead 
 
 To the sly squire a good broad piece or two. 
 
 And, partly that the odor was so rich, 
 
 And partly that his mouth might touch the rim 
 
 Whereon her dewy lip had press'd, he too 
 
 Drain'd from the goblet love's o'ervvhelming power. 
 
 For, sitting at her feet, with sudden thrill, 
 Their long-averted looks did meet at last, 
 As, scarcely heeding, stole his eager hand 
 Anear to hers, that trembled to his palm. 
 The while his other arm about her form 
 Bow'd down her blushing face towards his own. 
 Love compass'd them with circumstance; for them 
 The sea., the sky, were not, nor aught but love. 
 
184 THE BEST KNIGHT. 
 
 In that enraptured space when scarce time seem'd 
 
 To move, so fast th' unnoted moments flew. 
 
 The world was in the circle of their arms, 
 
 And their souls mingled in the speechless bliss 
 
 That almost grows to pain, and floods the eyes 
 
 With causeless tears that break the lofty spell 
 
 Of love's pure exaltation, lest the breath 
 
 Of the divine in man should waft his soul 
 
 So far towards the source that he should pierce 
 
 The mysteries of God's secret Paradise. 
 
 And, as her bright drops. rain'd upon his brow, 
 
 He snatch 'd her to his heart, and broken words 
 
 Restored them unto life, — " Tristan !" " Isonde V — 
 
 And one long kiss seal'd their eternal troth ! 
 
 THE BEST KNIGHT. 
 
 For a great tilt the lists were all array'd ; 
 And in the gallery, beside the queen, 
 Truncheon in hand, the crown upon his head. 
 King Arthur sat, the umpire of the joust ; 
 And back and forth upon th' allotted sward 
 Arm'd knights upon arm'd steeds rode swift and 
 
 slow. 
 To try their chargers' mettle, or to gain 
 From ladies' eyes some longed-for, envied glance ; 
 For each upon his helmet token wore 
 
THE BEST KNIGHT. 185 
 
 Of favor won or hoped through gallant deeds ; 
 And there were whisj)erings round the throne, from 
 
 lips 
 Dewy and red, that soon might pale with fear. 
 Which made the queen smile slyly to her lord. 
 
 But, while all waited for the signal trump. 
 Mid wondering looks, a litter forward came. 
 Whereon a sick man lay, and at whose side 
 An aged dame walk'd with a weary step, 
 And paused before the king, at whose command 
 The ladye told her story and her quest. 
 " From Hungary, sire, the last of many sons 
 To Spanish tournament went bravely forth. 
 Strong with rare strength and confident with youth, 
 And there opposed the proudest knight of Sj^ain, 
 And, ere he slew him, got these seven wounds. 
 See, sire, how still they bleed I" And Guinevere 
 Shut from her shuddering sight the crimson drops 
 That stain'd the matted hair and broider'd quilt, 
 While Arthur question'd why the wounds were fresh. 
 "The mother of Sir Alphegus that died 
 Was a great sorceress, of subtle craft ; 
 And, for her grief was much — God mend her pain ! 
 I would have done the same had I been she 
 That saw my dear son dead, and had her power ! — 
 She wrought by secret arts her vengeance thus : 
 Sir Urro should ne'er be well of these deep cuts 
 Until the world's best knight had search'd his 
 wounds. 
 
186 THE BEST KNIGHT. 
 
 And so, to have him heal'd, for seven years 
 
 We two have pass'd through all the Christian lands. 
 
 Our last hope is in this : if here we fail, 
 
 We will go home again, and pray for death \" 
 
 And, ere the king could answer, Guinevere — 
 
 Who liked no tilt where Launcelot did not ride. 
 
 And trembled always at the blows and groans — 
 
 Out of her woman's heart, with woman's wit. 
 
 Urged that the joust might be postponed a day, 
 
 And all the knights prove value on this test, — 
 
 A surer trial than with shields and swords. 
 
 And more to England's honor, if perchance 
 
 The best knight in the world graced Arthur's court ! 
 
 And Arthur laid the sceptre in her hand. 
 
 And said, " Well, be it so ! myself the first — 
 
 Not thus presuming on my own poor worth, 
 
 But to encourage others to the same — 
 
 Will touch for this sore evil ; and Grod help 
 
 The patient mother to her son's good weal !" 
 
 And so the king, — the brave king, — high in heart 
 
 And pure in soul, and noble through grand thoughts, 
 
 Gently essay'd to close the gaping wounds. 
 
 That bled the more for handling, and grew worse, 
 
 Till Arthur said, — a sadness in his eyes, — 
 
 " Some flaw is in mine acts : some better man 
 
 Must wear the name not Britain's king can boast \" 
 
 And, rising, took his ermined mantle off 
 
 And laid it on the shoulders of the dame. 
 
 Who shiver' d in the fresh spring air that bore 
 
 The faint, sweet fragrance of some meadow near. 
 
THE BEST KNIGHT. 187 
 
 And one by one they came, princes and dukes, 
 Knights of the Table Bound, all famed and tried : 
 Of the hundred and fifty, ten were gone 
 Upon their own adventures far from court. 
 And all the while, with each attempt that fail'd, 
 The queen had thought of Launcelot, and her heart 
 Had murmur'd o'er, " The best in all the world ! 
 This honor is for him ! Why comes he not V 
 For he had sent her private word that morn, 
 Thougji he could not be back in time to tilt. 
 He would be there ere night, to tread with her' 
 One measure ere he dream'd of her last smile. 
 
 And now the shades were lengthening on the plain ; 
 Sir Urre grew faint with bleeding, and the knights 
 That still remain'd untested were but few. 
 And Guinevere impatient watch'd the scene. 
 Pale with expectance, anxious with one hope, 
 Till the last trial left the wounds agape. 
 And the poor mother bow'd her wither'd face 
 Upon her son's well hand, and sobb'd with grief; 
 While all the men look'd silent on, and felt 
 A sort of pain and shame to see her weep. 
 
 Then, as the queen still strain'd her waiting sight, 
 Her heart's great throb was echoed by a shout, 
 That gladly broke the stillness with one name ; 
 And, as Sir Launcelot rode within the lists. 
 The sceptre roll'd from out her nerveless hand 
 Upon the earth, close to King Arthur's foot. 
 
188 THE BEST KNIGHT. 
 
 Who gently said, — nor meant his words to sting, 
 
 Haply unconscious of her conscious ill, — 
 
 " You hold your royalty but light, my queen ! 
 
 See how my sceptre is dust-sullied now. 
 
 And nigh to blood ! I will take back the charge 
 
 Those white, small hands were all too weak to 
 
 hold. " 
 And, as he knelt in homage, Launcelot deem'd 
 The blush upon her cheek his welcome back. 
 
 And then the sovereign told him of the test. 
 
 Bidding him do as all the rest had done ; 
 
 But the bold knight shrank back, and humbly 
 
 spoke, 
 " My monarch, bid me wield my sword or lance 
 In equal combat, or 'gainst fearful odds. 
 And not one foot of ground my foot will yield. 
 Till bravest prowess wins the battle's end ! 
 But ask me not to try so high a deed 
 Where all these lords have failed ! Though I be 
 
 strong 
 Against my foes, I am but weak 'gainst sin ; 
 For strength is fortune's accident, but worth 
 Lies in a man's own soul ! And what am I, 
 That I should work a miracle like Christ ? 
 I am not worthy, sire !" 
 
 But here there broke 
 Upon his words the mother's weeping voice. 
 That plead, for her dear sake who gave him birth, 
 He yet would grant her hope this one chance more. 
 
THE BEST KNIGHT. 189 
 
 And Launcelot could not bear a woman's tears, 
 
 But knelt beside the couch, and bow'd his head. 
 
 Saying thus secretly in his own heart : 
 
 " Blessed Trinity, I do beseech 
 
 Of Thy great mercy, work this grace through me ; 
 
 Use me for good, that never of myself 
 
 May dare to heal another soul's sore ill, 
 
 But trust in Thy great power and my faith !" 
 
 And here he touch'd the wounds, that sudden 
 
 .closed 
 Beneath his hand to hurtless scars, that seemVl 
 As though they had been well for seven years ! 
 And as the happy mother kiss'd his cheek, 
 And Arthur liaiFd him best knight in the world, 
 iSir Launcelot brush'd aside a sparkling tear. 
 And Urre of Hungary leap'd from off his couch. 
 And wound his arm about his healer's neck. 
 And vow'd to serve him through the life he gave ; 
 While, from the very fulness of her joy. 
 The queen could keep her still no more, but ask'd, 
 In playful tone, " What spell Sir Launcelot used ? 
 What magic unto stouter knights unknown ?" 
 And Launcelot simply said, " I pray'd to Grod 1" 
 
190 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 When Merlin's wisdom for the king ordain'd 
 
 The Table Round in likeness of the world, 
 
 He placed therein the sieges for each knight 
 
 Should sit thereat, and prophesied that one 
 
 Who there broke bread the Sancgreal should achieve, 
 
 Should win the holy vessel that contain'd 
 
 The Saviour's blessed blood, that had been brought 
 
 To this far land, after that Christ had died, 
 
 By Joseph who had given Him his tomb, 
 
 And hid away from common sight of men, 
 
 Till he should come so worthy of this grace 
 
 That all would say but One e'er lived before 
 
 As pure from evil and so brave in deed. 
 
 And Merlin made a siege where he might sit. 
 
 And call'd the name of it " Siege Perilous," 
 
 Marking it next to Launcelot's at the board. 
 
 And giving signs should show fulfilment near. 
 
 So, ever at the feasts King Arthur held. 
 They look'd to see a token of the time ; 
 And more than once, elated by good cheer. 
 Some gallant sir essay'd that empty seat. 
 But none e'er sat therein but got a hurt ; 
 And years went by, but still the mystic siege 
 Waited the coming guest for whom was laid 
 Trencher and goblet as for all the rest. 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 191 
 
 At Pentecost 'twas custom of the king 
 
 To know adventure ere they went to meat ; 
 
 So, as they whiled away the Lagging hours, 
 
 One Whitsuntide, upon the river's bank 
 
 That runs to Camelot, a marvel came. 
 
 For, lo ! a great stone floated down the stream, 
 
 Wherein was upright stuck a fixir, rich sword, 
 
 And golden letters in the marble taught 
 
 The best knight in the world to take it thence. 
 
 Then unto Launcelot spoke the courteous king, 
 
 " Brave sir, the blade is yours !" But Launcelot said, 
 
 " Not so, my liege : the best knight in the world. 
 
 You do forget, is he shall sit unharm'd 
 
 Beside me at the feast ! And he that strives 
 
 To take that sword and fails shall get a wound 
 
 Full sore to heal ; for, see, its name is writ 
 
 In precious stones upon the shining hilt." 
 
 And Arthur read, in rays of diamond light. 
 
 The one word "Justice," while Sir Gawaine strove, 
 
 And then Sir Percivale, to stir the sword ; 
 
 But both their hands upon the weapon slipp'd, 
 
 And stain'd its edge with blood, until the prince 
 
 Forbade endeavor more. '* For thus," he said, 
 
 " My own Excalibur defied all strength. 
 
 Until my destined grasp the handle seized. 
 
 This too is fix'd by Fate, and he shall wield 
 
 Its keenness rightly will be worthy sure 
 
 To have us bow our heads to him. And now 
 
 Let's in to dine, and toast our unknown peer !" 
 
192 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 And, ere each lord was served in his own place, 
 
 Came in an aged man, clothed all in white, 
 
 And with him a young knight in crimson robed, 
 
 Upon whose shoulders hung a mantle furr'd 
 
 With royal ermine, — whose beardless visage bore 
 
 The smile of innocence, uplifted, calm 
 
 With the mild majesty of one who knows 
 
 None greater than his equal, yet who feels 
 
 His own soul humble in the sight of God. 
 
 And silent round the watching forms they walk'd 
 
 Until the elder hfted off the cloth 
 
 Laid o'er " Siege Perilous," wherein was writ, 
 
 In letters bright as stars, that all could see. 
 
 The name of "Galahad ;" and that young knight 
 
 Sat down therein, and show'd no sign of harm, 
 
 The while his comrade bless'd him and went forth. 
 
 Then bow'd the king to him, and all the knights 
 
 Rose up, and gave him welcome with their hands ; 
 
 And, after they had dined, the monarch spoke : 
 
 " Fair sir, I see the scabbard at thy side 
 
 Does lack a sword. Without, a marvel waits: 
 
 Wouldst win a weapon, and thy rare right prove 
 
 To fill that siege ? for prophesy has rank'd 
 
 Him * best knight in the world' should sit therein ; 
 
 And so a stone proclaims that he shall take 
 
 The blade therefrom shall bear the same proud 
 
 fame V 
 Then Galahad and Arthur, side by side, 
 Went from the palace to the river's bank, 
 Where in his hand with ease the stranger held 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 193 
 
 The trial-sword, and slid it in the case 
 
 So smoothly that the good king, wondering, said, 
 
 " Surely those two were for each other made !" 
 
 And after jousting in the meadow's midst, 
 
 Whereat Sir Galahad exceeded all. 
 
 The court rode quiet back to Camelot ; 
 
 And, as they sat at supper in a maze 
 
 Of listening wonder at this young knight's words, 
 
 A sudden thunder crash'd across his speech. 
 
 And shook the pillars of the hall ; and sounds 
 
 Of rushing wings stirr'd through the darkness deep 
 
 That rested there an instant ; when a light 
 
 Six times more clear than beams of noontide sun 
 
 Shone o'er them all, and glorified each face. 
 
 So that they all upon their neighbors look'd. 
 
 Struck dumb with awe, as through the silence rose 
 
 Angelic voices ; then an odor rich 
 
 Fill'd all their senses, and the taste of each 
 
 Knew that was long'd for most and liked the best ; 
 
 While every soul felt such ecstatic joy 
 
 That love's great bliss seem'd but the barren type 
 
 Of this exceeding rapture ; and then came 
 
 Their breath once more, and all things look'd the 
 
 same. 
 Then whisper'd they into each other's ears 
 That there had been the Holy Greal of Christ ; 
 Till Gawaine spoke aloud, and took a vow 
 That, as its blessing came in part to all, 
 Though fate ordain'd but one should full}'' win 
 13 
 
194 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 The dangerous quest, that, just to know again 
 Such rare, high feeling, he would seek himself 
 The Sacred Vessel, which jDerchance if seen, 
 Its power might waft his soul so far from earth 
 That it might float into the gate of heaven, 
 Since but its unseen presence made them seem 
 Like olden gods at their ambrosial feasts !" 
 Then rose they all, and with uplifted hands 
 Echoed Sir Gawaine's oath ; and Arthur said, 
 " This promise smites my heart ; for I do know 
 Such quest will rob me of my dearest friends, 
 And break the knightly fellowship we keep 
 So fair and true that all the world admires. 
 For never king has had such gallant peers ; 
 And never more shall gather at my board 
 All those who leave me to my sorrow here ! 
 For kings must fret on thrones, while crownless 
 
 heads 
 Find Glory's laurel upon danger's field \" 
 
 And when the lords had arm'd themselves, they met 
 
 In the great court-yard, waiting by their steeds 
 
 Until the king had brought the weeping queen 
 
 To give their last farewell ; and as the sun, 
 
 Slow sinking, cast o'er all a golden light, 
 
 They stood upon the palace-steps, both clad 
 
 In sparkling jewels and their royal robes; 
 
 And as, unhelmetted, with gauntlets off. 
 
 The knights came singly by to kiss their hands, 
 
 The quick sobs broke from Guinevere's fair breast, 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 195 
 
 And more than once the sliining drops fell down 
 On some bow'd head ; while Arthur, pale and sad, 
 Would take no homage, but with tender clasp 
 Press'd each to his full heart, and no one spoke. 
 And when at last Sir Launcelot came anear. 
 And held the ladye's palm within his own, 
 She sank, half fainting, on her husband's arm. 
 So Galahad but touch'd his maiden lips 
 To fingers cold as ice, that listless hung, 
 As we<^ried of the weight of their rich rings. 
 At last, when crested helmets were all donn'd 
 And bow'd in parting to the horses' manes. 
 The knights together through the gatewaj^ rode: 
 And Arthur watch'd them as their mail'd array 
 Wound down the path, until on burnish'd shields 
 The sun's last lingering rays no longer glanced, 
 Then with a sigh bore in the drooping queen. 
 And there was weeping of the rich and poor 
 As through the streets of Camelot they rode, 
 Where many a dame, with voice nigh choked with 
 
 tears. 
 Did send her prayers with that gay cavalcade ; 
 While ever and anon would leave the ranks 
 A favor'd sir, to catch upon his lance 
 Some scarf or token of* his lady's grace. 
 Cast off from balconies where fair forms lean'd. 
 And so they journey'd to a castle's gates 
 Wherein the lord made cheer, till in the morn 
 They parted from each other, and all took. 
 In pairs or singly, their own different roads. 
 
196 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 When many days had gone, Sir Gawaine met 
 
 Sir Ector in the way, and both reveal'd 
 
 That, after wandering long in beaten paths, 
 
 Neither had found adventure that had seem'd 
 
 To bring them nearer to the Holy Grreal. 
 
 " In sooth," quoth Gawaine, *' I am weary now 
 
 Of this new quest, and loath to follow it." 
 
 " And so," said Ector, " all the knights I saw 
 
 Upon my travels do complain the same. 
 
 Nor can I hear of Launcelot or Bors, 
 
 Or e'en of Galahad, the three we thought 
 
 Were sure to make the world ring with their deeds ; 
 
 And truly, if they fail, not even we 
 
 Need strive in further search ! Let's stop and rest." 
 
 And so they enter'd in an ancient church 
 
 That stood near by, and laid their bodies down 
 
 Upon the altar-steps, and thus there came 
 
 Into their sleep a marvellous dream to each. 
 
 First, Gawaine thought he saw into a field 
 
 Full strewn with herbs, wherein a rack of bulls 
 
 Stood proud and black, save one, all snowy white, 
 
 That ever kept its head bent down to graze ; 
 
 But soon the rest went from the meadow forth, 
 
 To seek some pasture-ground they deem'd more 
 
 rich. 
 And came back lean and weak, yet would not crop 
 The fresh, green grass their one wise comrade ate 
 And strove to lead them to and fully share ! 
 But Ector dream'd that Launcelot and himself 
 Sprang from one chair upon two saddled steeds ; 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 197 
 
 That one soon met Sir Launcelot on the v/ay, 
 Who boat and spoil'd him, and then clothed him 
 
 o'er 
 In knotted robes, and set him on an ass ; 
 That tlius he rode until he came, athirst, 
 To a fair well, and stoop'd him down to drink ; 
 But always from his lips the waters sank, 
 Until at last he sadly journey'd on. 
 And when the knights awoke, they told their 
 
 . dreams, 
 And, as they talk'd, between them sudden rushM, 
 Vanishing quick away, a hand that held 
 A clear light burning, and upon the wrist 
 A plain, strong bridle hung ; and then they rose 
 To seek some hermit who could meaning give 
 To these their visions. 
 
 Ere they came anigh 
 To the lone cave where dwelt the holiest man 
 In all the realm, they met an armed knight, 
 Who kept the road, and so they drew a lot 
 To joust with him to have their pathway clear; 
 And Gawaine won, and ran his sharp lance through 
 The stranger's breast, and bore him to the ground. 
 And when they raised his visor, Ector groan/d ; 
 " For see," he spoke, "thy hasty hand has slain 
 Our own sworn brother of the Table Eound, 
 That with ourselves set out on this same quest." 
 " 'Tis sad," his comrade said ; " but then- he stood 
 So stubborn in our way : besides, his course 
 Was towards the points we just have left behind ; 
 
198 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 Thus turn'd, he never could have reach'd the goal !" 
 And, as his soul def)arted, they went on. 
 
 Then, as they came unto the mountain rough. 
 
 They tied their coursers to a rock, and strode 
 
 Across the stones afoot, until they reach'd 
 
 A garden-patch, wherein a hermit stoop'd 
 
 To pick the worts that served for his sole food. 
 
 And when he heard the ringing of their mail, 
 
 He turn'd his aged form and ask'd their need. 
 
 So Gawaine told his dream, and counsel ask'd 
 
 Of his great wisdom ; and, without more words, 
 
 He answer'd thus: " The herbs that strew'd the field 
 
 Were Patience and Humility ; the rack 
 
 Was the Round Table, and the bulls its knights ; 
 
 The meadow was the world, and that white steer 
 
 Was he shall keep himself so pure in life 
 
 His eyes shall see the glory of the Lord ! 
 
 Those black were dyed with sins; and, as their heads 
 
 Would stoop not down to taste the precious food, 
 
 They shall on waste lands enter, and find death V 
 
 And as Sir Gawaine ponder'd on this speech, 
 
 The good seer read Sir Ector's vision too : 
 
 " The chair ye left was pride, and, as your steeds 
 
 Were higher, ye were so much prouder there. 
 
 Sir Launcelot has been cast adown, and clothed 
 
 In garments of repentance, and the ass 
 
 Betokeneth meekness ; but that fair well 
 
 Was God's rich grace, that would not touch his soul: 
 
 So now he journeys lonely on his way, 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 109 
 
 Till in due time he shall go back, and quench 
 
 His eager thirst within those waters clear. 
 
 The hand ye saw was charity ; the light 
 
 Was hope ; the bridle, abstinence, which holds 
 
 The heart's desires and leads the will from sin. 
 
 And as ye were not touch'd by charity. 
 
 Nor long time lit by hope, and have not caught 
 
 The reins of passion, and not yet have chew'd 
 
 The cud of Patience, ye shall never meet 
 
 The Holy Greal until ye win all these. 
 
 Now go your ways ! Ye neither yet have done 
 
 True service to your Maker. As ye gave 
 
 To folly all the leaves and fruit of youth. 
 
 See that ye yield the bare rind to the Lord." 
 
 And then he went from them into his cave ; 
 
 And both the knights, with eyes bent low, slow 
 
 paced, 
 Deep musing, down the stony steep, and loosed 
 Their restless horses, and rode swift away. 
 
 And all the peers that started on the quest 
 Met strange adventures, and some got sore falls, 
 Some fainted by the way, and many died. 
 And some went back to Camelot, and lived 
 In sloth and ease with lemans fair and false ; 
 But these King Arthur would not see at court, 
 For, though he grieved at parting with his fr^res, 
 He welcomed none that broke a knightly oath ; 
 Albeit the queen in secret saw them oft, 
 To ask if e'er they heard of Launcelot aught. 
 
200 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 Sir Galahad, the youngest of the knights, 
 
 A stranger, and unproved in gallant feats, 
 
 Eode by himself four days without a shield : 
 
 His heart was tender yet with dreams of youth. 
 
 And, as his life was nearer to his birth, 
 
 His soul was closer to his God than theirs 
 
 Who had forgotten heaven in the heat 
 
 Of earthly conflicts mid the light of fame. 
 
 He look'd on nature with such earnest love 
 
 His rapturous delight to worship soar'd. 
 
 His eyes grew gentler as he turn'd aside 
 
 His courser's hoofs lest they should heedless tread 
 
 To dust and death a daisy in the grass ; 
 
 And when, unarm'd, he slept in some cool grove 
 
 At night beside his weary steed, the stars 
 
 Shed down through stirring leaves a sense of jDeace 
 
 Upon a spirit calm'd by trustful prayer. 
 
 He knew no fear, because his conscience lay 
 
 Like to a lake reflecting cloudless skies : 
 
 Not one dark thing o'ershadow'd its bright rest. 
 
 And if his mind dwelt oft on that high fate 
 
 The seers foretold for him, 'twas with the hope 
 
 That his achievements might advance the cause 
 
 Of Eight and Holiness within the world 
 
 He thought so fair, yet knew was foul'd by sin ! 
 
 Once, after even-song, he came at last 
 To a white abbey, where he met a knight 
 Of Arthur's table, who reveal'd to him 
 That in this place was hung a wondrous shield, 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 201 
 
 Which none e'er bore in fight and kept unscathed. 
 
 "And yet," said Bagdemanus, " I will try, 
 
 Because my arm is strong, and sure can keep 
 
 By its own skill a shield before my breast !" 
 
 So in the morn he took it from its jDlace 
 
 Behind the altar, and his comrade saw 
 
 'Twas all clear white, save in the midst was limn'd 
 
 A shining cross, red as if drawn in blood. 
 
 And then he started on adventure forth. 
 
 But, ere an hour, in haste his squire came back. 
 
 Pale with the tidings that his master lay 
 
 O'erthrown near by, and still beset by foes ! 
 
 And Galahad went out with his bare sword 
 
 To where the wounded knight exhausted fell. 
 
 He seized the buckler from the feeble grasp. 
 
 And straightw^ay was assail'd by countless shapes, 
 
 Giants and dwarfs, and bravely stood his ground, 
 
 Until at last he felt the storied shield 
 
 Slow slipping from his hold, while they who thrust 
 
 Their sj^ears against it but the stronger grew 
 
 When he look'd faint : so his tried soul cried out 
 
 Aloud in anguish for God's gracious help ; 
 
 And at the sacred Name they sudden sank 
 
 From his awed sight away ; and then he saw 
 
 That a great angel, ray'd about with light. 
 
 Upheld his form, who bade him always use 
 
 The shield of Faith, since wielded with true Prayer 
 
 'Twould keep him ever from attacks of Doubts I 
 
 And afterwards, as Galahad went on, 
 
202 THE QUEST OF TPIE SANCGREAL. 
 
 He journey'd in a narrow path o'ergrown 
 With thorns and briers, where he oft was forced 
 To cut a way and lead his restless horse, — 
 Where poisonous vines with noxious smells made 
 
 thick 
 The darken'd air, for branches interlaced 
 Barr'd light and progress, and from hidden lairs 
 Glared fiery eyes at him, and stagnant pools 
 Mock'd eager thirst. Yet still he onward toil'd ; 
 For this, the monks had told him, was the road 
 Alone could forward him upon his quest. 
 Sometimes he long'd to throw aside his arms 
 And rest his weary limbs ; but evermore 
 He saw some work to do, some goal to win 
 That brought him nearer to the end, nor dared 
 To slumber, lest he should be stung to death 
 By creeping creatures, or waste precious hours. 
 And, as he had such patience for himself, 
 He felt deep pity for his faithful steed, 
 And talk'd to him as tenderly as though 
 It were a woman that was hurt and worn, — 
 Oft stopping in his labor to smooth down 
 The ruffled mane, drawing the drooping head 
 Across his shoulder, and with gentle touch 
 Stroking the face, until the startled eyes 
 Grew wistful with a dumb, beseechful love ; 
 And sometimes he would dip his shrinking hand 
 Into the slimy waters of black tarns. 
 To wet the bleeding limbs and panting sides. 
 And so at last they came unto a break 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 203 
 
 In one side of the road, where grandly stood 
 
 A lofty castle with wide-open gates ; 
 
 And, more because his courser was so maim'd 
 
 Than that himself was tempted at the sight, 
 
 He enter'd there, and in the outer court 
 
 A damsel met, who led his tired steed 
 
 To a clean manger stored with straw and food, 
 
 The while across his senses faintly fell 
 
 Soft breezes of perfume, that wafted by 
 
 Delicious melodies, and drew him on 
 
 Through the broad portal to a hall, wherein 
 
 The only Presence was a leaping fount. 
 
 And, as his footsteps waken'd echoes there, 
 
 A hidden door flew wide, through which there 
 
 danced 
 A troop of mirthful girls, with sandall'd feet, 
 To cadences of their own mellow strain. 
 In which their laughter mingled like the tone 
 Of silvery chorus threading all the tune. 
 And, as they forward floated where he stood 
 Entranced an instant by such lustrous eyes, 
 Their gauzy robes and loosen 'd hair flew back, 
 And white, soft arms uncurved their wreathing grace 
 To stretch out rosy palms to meet his own ; 
 He felt e'en through the links of his rough mail 
 The thrills of each light touch, as, group'd around. 
 They sang a song of greeting that ran thus : — 
 
 Enter in from toil and danger ! 
 Ended here thy weary quest! 
 
204 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 Now, no more to ease a stranger, 
 Thou shalt find reward and rest ! 
 
 Love the Sancgreal ! Love the blest ! 
 Love's own heaven ! it is here ! 
 
 Hail ! all hail ! Love's happy guest, 
 Welcome here ! welcome here ! 
 
 Love shall fill thy soul with pleasure ! 
 
 Love the Sancgreal ! Love the dream ! 
 Weaving joys for endless leisure, 
 
 Years will but like moments seem ! 
 Love the Sancgreal ! Love the blest ! 
 
 Love's, own heaven ! it is here ! 
 Hail ! all hail ! Love's happy guest, 
 
 Welcome here ! welcome here ! 
 
 While their bewildering voices fill'd his ear, 
 Their lithe, fair forms his sight, he, heedless then 
 Of aught beside, believed their siren words, 
 And willing follow 'd them to fresh surprise. 
 For, lo ! a chamber flooded with a light 
 Glowing in color without shade or glare, 
 Wherein were downy couches, spread with stuffs 
 Of gorgeous dyes deep fringed about with gold, 
 And poised between rich vases of all flowers 
 Can thrall the sense with fragrance and bright hues : 
 And in their midst a table heap'd with fruits 
 Luscious and ripe, nigh bursting with their juice, 
 'Mong dainty goblets sparkling with rare wine. 
 Whose fumes amid the scent of blossoms rose. 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 205 
 
 Like flames through incense, m<aking warm his 
 
 blood. 
 Athirst and hunger'd, wearied out and worn, 
 Sir Galahad sat not while women stood. 
 But lean'd with one arm on the board, while they 
 Gave ready service to allure his taste : 
 One brought him clusters of the purple grape, 
 One pour'd its amber essence, as a third 
 Stripp'd down the golden orange-rinds, 
 Or peel'd with jewell'd knife the rosy skin 
 Of mellow apples ; while another broke 
 The brown stems from crisp, russet pears; he craved 
 The meat borne in upon its silver dish, 
 And once his hand crept towards the foaming cups ; 
 But something — either instinct in himself, 
 Or whisper of an unseen spirit near — 
 E'er warned him from them all, he knew not why : 
 So, with cool head and even pulse, he touch 'd 
 No food but simple bread ; and as he drain 'd 
 Long draughts of water, while the damsels stared, 
 One quickly enter'd in their midst, who shone 
 Among the rest as might the noonday sun 
 Circled with twinkling stars ; and Galahad 
 Thought for an instant that a minstrel's dream 
 Had taken shape, to thrill his throbbing heart 
 With timid wonder that aught out of heaven 
 Could be so fair. Form, face, voice, movement, dress, 
 Were all in harmony; and as she stood 
 Before him, with her vein'd lids droojo'd adown, 
 Giving him welcome in her low, sweet tones, 
 
206 THE QUEST OP THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 There rush'd across his soul that one wild wave 
 Which whelms a proud man's reason, and makes 
 
 weak 
 Earth's strongest Samsons. Suddenly he felt 
 How lone his life had been, how incomplete, 
 Half lived, divided as a perfect whole, 
 Ne'er to be rounded to entireness more 
 Until his being should absorb and blend 
 With this one woman's. Love, thus born full-grown, 
 The spirit's mystic Sancgreal seem'd indeed 
 That he sought outward sign of! 
 
 Days went by 
 As in a vision ; hour in hour roll'd, 
 Till gliding time like flowing stream swept off 
 Th' unnoted marks of night and morn that show'd 
 Its course, and bore his life on rapid waves ; 
 A helmless bark cast loose on unknown depths. 
 He kept mid luxury his simple ways, 
 Slept not on downy couches, drank no wine, 
 Wore still his sword and shield, as though might 
 
 come 
 Some unexpected foe e'en to those halls ; 
 He would not yield to sloth, or fire his blood, 
 For fear the fallen nature in his flesh 
 Should sully, e'en in thought, the image pure 
 He shrined for worship in his inmost soul. 
 Daily he touch'd her hand, sat at her feet. 
 Watching the changing beauty of her face ; 
 Jlis jealous envy mark'd when perfumed breeze 
 Lifted her golden hair ; and if he felt 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCQREAL. 207 
 
 His breath come quick and fast, his youthful blood 
 
 Itushiug in quicken'd beats, he stole away 
 
 To fight his passion till his lips could touch 
 
 Her garment's hem as if it were a saint's ! 
 
 But once, as wearied of such homage high, 
 
 She threw aside the long restraint was worn 
 
 To win upon his nobleness, and deem'd 
 
 Her art had guided him, by slow degrees. 
 
 To point of her desire. Athwart his heart 
 
 A sharp pain like an arrow shot ; a veil 
 
 Dropp'd from his charm'd sight ; his bright dreams 
 
 died! 
 Gravely and sadly he removed the arms 
 That clung about him, casting one last look 
 Of keen reproach upon the angry face. 
 Then rose and strode away with rapid steps, 
 Lest he should pause, and turn to love and sin and 
 
 shame. 
 He found his waiting steed, and swiftly rode 
 Into the narrow way so full of thorns, 
 Oft hiding mid the briers, holding fast 
 His courser's mouth, lest he should gladly neigh 
 When groups of nymphs pass'd by in fruitless search. 
 He knew the Sancgreal must be farther on, 
 And took no heed of toil and danger now. 
 His soul was heavy with its broken tvust ; 
 And when he saw the idol he had rear'd 
 Upon his fancies of pure womanhood 
 Lie shatter'd by a breath, his sorrow left 
 His life no other aim save his old quest. 
 
208 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 Anon Sir Launcelot, after striving long, 
 
 Did see on shore, while sailing on the sea, 
 
 A stately castle, and across the waves 
 
 A clear voice bade him enter there and find 
 
 Some part of his desire. He left the ship ; 
 
 And, as he near'd the gates, he drew his sword, 
 
 Because of two fierce lions station'd close ; 
 
 But something smote him sore upon the arm. 
 
 So that his weapon dropp'd ; while the same tone 
 
 Accused his little faith, that trusted less 
 
 His Maker than his steel ; then on his brow 
 
 He sign'd the cross, and harmless pass'd the beasts. 
 
 That crouch'd in homage. All the doors were wide 
 
 Of all the rooms, save one, whence music came ; 
 
 And, as he vainly tried to stir its lock. 
 
 There stole across his soul the same deep sense 
 
 Of matchless joy had fill'd his peers that day 
 
 They took their oath to seek for it again. 
 
 Then on the threshold knelt Sir Launcelot down, 
 
 For well he wist the Sancgreal was within, 
 
 Praying, if ever he had pleased the Lord, 
 
 In spite of all his sins, that he might view 
 
 The holy thing he sought ! And, lo ! the door 
 
 Was openM, and so great a light flow'd out 
 
 He scarce could see inside a silver stand, 
 
 That held the sacred vessel, cover'd o'er 
 
 With crimson samite, and bright angels round, 
 
 While hovering over with pierced hands and feet 
 
 The very Christ in glory ray'd ! 
 
 He rose 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 209 
 
 To seize the Greal ; but, ere he came anear, 
 A breath Hke burning smote him, that he fell. 
 And could not move or speak ; when unseen hands 
 Lifted his form and bore him gently out. 
 He lay entranced for days, till time was ripe, 
 When other knights of his own fellowship. 
 Led there from difterent ways, his body found, 
 And tended him until his speech return'd ; 
 And then he warn'd them, as they linger'd round 
 The p.ortal closed they often strove to ope. 
 Lest they too should be smitten like himself 
 For over-boldness. " For now I know," he said, 
 '• No man shall win the Sancgreal but the one 
 Whom Christ shall call ! Alas ! he call'd not me !" 
 
 And so they waited, till Sir Galahad, 
 After long journeys and adventures strange, 
 Came in their midst. They wonder'd much to see 
 His visage greatly changed, for all the youth 
 And bloom had gone from it, although it show'd 
 Rare beauty still, as from a grace within; 
 For he had lived with labor, sorrow, strife, 
 Yet ever meekly, patiently towards God, 
 And in true charity with men ; his love. 
 His trial, and his grief, had only borne 
 His pure soul nigher heaven, and made him see 
 In other hearts the pain was in his own, 
 And kept him tender even when he smote. 
 And when they told him that within those walls 
 The Sancgreal was, he trembled, and his face 
 U 
 
210 THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 
 
 Was rapturous with joy ; when, lo ! a voice 
 
 Caird three times "Galahad," and the closed door, 
 
 Barr'd 'gainst the rest, stood open unto him ! 
 
 His comrades crowded in the hall, while he, 
 
 With timid stejDs, as doubting his own worth, 
 
 Went slowly in, and up the altar-steps, 
 
 Where stood the Holy Greal on silver stand. 
 
 He bow'd his head before it, as a choir 
 
 Of clustering angels sang exquisite strains ; 
 
 While Christ's own self through circling lustre 
 
 stretch'd 
 His wounded hand, when roll'd away the cloth 
 Of samite, and took up the sacred thing 
 And gave to liim ; then in sweet tones, that thrill'd 
 His listeners, bade him bear it o'er the land. 
 That all who saw it might be bless'd like him. 
 And then all vanish'd, save the vessel clasp'd 
 Close to the young knight's breast, who upward 
 
 look'd 
 In praiseful ecstasy, while gather'd round 
 His peers, to gaze on it with solemn eyes. 
 And feel how lovely 'twas to draw so near 
 To aught just come from God ; and Galahad 
 Took oath of them to travel as a guard 
 For their great gift, that all should help proclaim 
 Its power and good, that more might know delight. 
 
 Then journey'd they in company, save one, 
 Launcelot, who took the tidings to the king 
 Or ere he went to tell his own far realm. 
 
THE QUEST OF THE SANCGREAL. 211 
 
 And ever on their way the people flock'd 
 
 About the marvellous prize ; the sick were heal'd, 
 
 The blind received their sight, and sinful lives 
 
 Grew purer, havjng known- in part the bliss 
 
 That reigns in Paradise, and heard it said 
 
 Its joy would stay with them who merit proved ; 
 
 The country's guilt was purged, and hope and 
 
 love 
 Walk'd hand in hand, like seraphs, mid its homes ! 
 Till they who humbly should have thank'd the 
 
 Lord 
 That He had made them servants of His wall, 
 QuarreU'd between themselves which one had done 
 The most to make the mighty Sancgreal known ; 
 And at the last, in sooth, they questioned oft 
 The what it really was ! 
 
 And Galahad, 
 Sore smitten, could not stay their angry tilts, 
 E'en when he went among them with his hands 
 Outholding the bless'd Greal ! And then he pray'd 
 That Clirist would take his spirit to Himself, 
 Where reign'd His j^eace. God's mercy heard his 
 
 cry, 
 And, in full sight of all His angels, bore 
 The holy vessel from his dying arms 
 Up to the highest heaven. And only they 
 Have ever look'd upon the treasure since 
 Who pray and fast, and through repentant tears 
 Catch far-off glimpses of its glory's light. 
 And while he lay upon his couch and watch'd 
 
212 LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE. 
 
 The soaring messengers, the knights stood round, 
 E'en mid their mourning, all disputing still, 
 And asked him, ere he pass'd away, to tell 
 What he had deem'd the Sancgreal really was ! 
 And Galahad uplifted his weak form. 
 And with his white face awed them, as his lips. 
 Quivering with death, sjDoke out his last, grand 
 
 words : 
 " Men ! 'twas Truth ! God's own Eternal Truth !" 
 
 THE LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND 
 GUINEVERE. 
 
 Ch'ER the sea, from Castle Joyous Garde, 
 Once more to England came Sir Launcelot back, 
 Hearing King Arthur was so sore beset 
 By traitor Mordred, who had dared to lift 
 His wistful eyes towards the peerless queen. 
 And with his treacherous sword to shake the throne, 
 As once his troublous tongue had stirr'd the heart — 
 The grand, large heart — of him who sat thereon. 
 By whispering of the love she bore to Launcelot! 
 But when with seven kings he landed there. 
 The people told him of the battle past. 
 And how that Arthur died that fearful day. 
 " Ah, woe is me ! I would a man might weep V 
 The brave knight said, and clutch'd his broad shield 
 close ; 
 
LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE. 213 
 
 *' For ne'er to me such heavy tidings came ! 
 
 Fair lords, I thank ye all for your good will 
 
 That bore ye with me to this country here, 
 
 Wherein we came too late, for both are kill'd, — 
 
 The princely gentleman wo came to save, 
 
 The damn6d traitor that we came to slay ! 
 
 My life will not be long enough to grieve 
 
 In sore repentance for our lacking speed ; 
 
 But Against the death that robb'd my vengeful steel 
 
 No man may dare rebel ! And, sith His so, 
 
 I ride myself to seek my ladye-queen. 
 
 Who, sick and sad, has fled towards the west ; 
 
 1 go alone ; nay, when knew Launcelot fear? 
 
 And if for me the realm be perilous 
 
 That once was my dear home, I wear my sword, 
 
 And still can lift an arm'd man from the ground. 
 
 Await ye here for just a fortnight's space ; 
 
 And if I come not then, take all your ships 
 
 And go again to your own lands ; for I 
 
 Will do as I have told you heretofore. 
 
 Farewell, kind comrades ! tried, true friends, adieu \" 
 
 So Launcelot unto Almesbury came. 
 
 Not knowing Guinevere abided there. 
 
 And rested him in prayer before the shrine ; 
 
 Then, as he walk'd adown the cloister'd aisle, 
 
 Sudden he met the queen, all white and weak. 
 
 For she had seen him doff his casque and kneel. 
 
 And swoon'd three times or ere she trembling rose, 
 
214 LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE. 
 
 And bade the nuns stand far the while she went 
 And talk'd with her old love once more. 
 
 He bow'd, 
 Pallid as she ; for all his heart leap'd up 
 AVith one quick, passionate throb to greet 
 The woman whom he loved ; and yet respect 
 For her great grief, her sacred garb, controU'd 
 To knightly homage his first eager thrill. 
 His strong arms yearn'd to fold her to his breast, 
 His parching lips to kiss that quivering mouth 
 Into the crimson of its former smile. 
 Or close those heavy lids with fond caress ; 
 He was athirst to see that precious face, 
 So wan and changed, yet dearer for the change, 
 Upturn'd to his with one sweet look of yore ! 
 But, check'd, subdued by those sad eyes, that robe, 
 He stoop'd with courtly mien to touch her hand. 
 She held it back beneath her coarse serge sleeve, — ■ 
 The little hand that used to meet his own, 
 Palm close to palm, in such delicious clasp. 
 In those old times at Camelot, when he wore 
 Her silken scarf at tournament or joust! 
 Something that seem'd a tear flash'd o'er his sight ! 
 Was it a dream that she had loved him once ? 
 Was it a dream when the soft voice, kept cold 
 By her stern will, bade him return again 
 To his own land, that nevermore her soul 
 Might be in peril from her sight of him ? 
 Was it a dream that she accused their love 
 Of all the evils that the kingdom mourn'd, 
 
LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE. 215 
 
 And, sighing, told " her life was vowed to prayer" ? 
 
 He listen'd as if one of Merlin's spells 
 
 Had bound his sense in silence, till she said. 
 
 Her hand upon her heart, "That he should wed ; 
 
 That he would soon forget, in his fair realm, 
 
 A fading queen reft of her grace and state ; 
 
 Or if sometimes, when, for a little space. 
 
 He thought of her and all their guilty past. 
 
 He but would pray Grod's peace on her the while 
 
 He had grown happy with a gentle wife. 
 
 She thought that she might die without regret ! 
 
 And if— oh, if '' 
 
 Here sobs broke up her s^^eech, 
 And Launcelot knelt as one that takes an oath. 
 While she, half bending, dropp'd upon his brow 
 Hot tears, that stirr'd his manhood into words ! 
 " My heart's one love ! thou knowest ne'er on earth 
 Shall other love than thine be aught to me ! 
 
 Guinevere, hast thou forgot how oft 
 
 1 promised thee I would be always leal ? 
 Was Launcelot ever false unto his vows ? 
 I am as true as when I told my love. 
 
 And thou didst come into my waiting arms, 
 Blushing and trembling with life's perfect bliss ! 
 Ah, no, — my queen, — no wife for me, — no land, 
 No hope in this world left ! I, too, will give 
 My coming days to prayer ; wilt thou, too, pray 
 That we may meet again beyond the grave? 
 My love will live e'en there, — Guinevere ! 
 own love !" 
 
216 LAST MEETING OF LAUNCELOT AND GUINEVERE. 
 
 And here he stoop'd 
 And kiss'd her sandall'd foot. With one great cry, 
 One look to heaven, she turn'd to flee from him ; 
 And he fell prostrate, moaning with despair ! 
 For one long minute, like an age of strife, 
 She battled with the wild, wild Wish to lift 
 His head upon her bosom as of yore, — 
 To live again, e'en though 'twas deadly sin. 
 One hour of love, and then — then die of joy ! 
 She almost knelt to touch his clustering hair, 
 Her pale cheek flush'd, her panting breath came 
 
 fast,— 
 When, like the voice of God, the vesper-hymn 
 Gave her weak woman's heart to angels' charge. 
 Their love, — the present, — her youth's lover there, — 
 Seem'd to grow dim before the cross of Christ ; 
 Her agony was o'er ; the thorns upon her brow 
 Became a crown of light through passion slain ! 
 She found the Sancgreal in that trial-hour ! 
 A vision of unspoken glory fill'd 
 Her raptured view, and, when it died away, 
 It left her face as 'twere the face of one 
 Who might have talk'd with God ! 
 
 And Launcelot rose, 
 And look'd upon her countenance, and knew 
 He was no more to her ! 
 
 And yet he craved, 
 Ere he should go from her for evermore. 
 That he might kiss her once, but only once. 
 For sake of their old love and his long truth ! 
 
launcelot's vigil. 217 
 
 She waved her hand, as when upon the throne 
 She would dismiss a minstrel or a squire ; 
 Nor did he dare to ask again the boon 
 He long'd to take : " her life was vowed to heaven !" 
 But, fading slowly through the twilight dim, 
 Pass'd from her sight into the outer world ; 
 And mid the stillness sang the solemn choir, 
 "■Kyrie Eleison! Christe, exaudi nos!" 
 
 LAUNCELOT'S VIGIL. 
 
 Launcelot du Lake, that had been bravest knight, 
 Launcelot du Lake, whom Guinevere had loved, 
 Launcelot du Lake, whom all the world had praised, 
 For very sorrow threw aside his sword, 
 And folded o'er his slowly-breaking heart 
 A monk's coarse robe, and in a narrow cell 
 Forgot the world, and learn'd to serve his God ! 
 And thither came to him, to share alike 
 Penance and fasting, seven other lords, 
 Whose armor rusted in the chapel vaults 
 The while they pray'd together at the shrine, — 
 His old-time friends, that in the storied days 
 Had with each other jousted, jested, rode. 
 And pledged their ladies' names at merry feasts, 
 And lived the thoughtless life that scars the soul. 
 19 
 
218 launcelot's vigil. 
 
 Launcelot the monk, changed from the gallant sir 
 That never met his peer in field or hall, 
 Slmnber'd, and saw a vision as he slept, — 
 Saw once again, amid the dreams of night, 
 The woman's face that was his earthly fate, — 
 The queen's, — hut not as she had used to come 
 Into his sleeping thoughts that brought so oft 
 Her tender tones, her clinging kiss, her eyes 
 Looking in his with love's fond, rapturous gaze, 
 But as a man whose deep, repentant zeal 
 Has scourged the flesh, till passion, pride of life, 
 And all base things are banish'd from the soul 
 That sees, through pain, the glory of the Lord ; 
 Or with the spirit, freed from mortal taint, 
 With other spirits holds communion strange. 
 She bent above his worn and pallid cheek. 
 That flush'd not now to feel her mouth so near, 
 And mid the solemn silence call'd his name, 
 And bade him unto Almesbury haste, 
 To find her dead ; from thence to bear her forth 
 And bury her beside her husband, the great king. 
 Who would forgive her when she came once more 
 To rest beside him on his royal couch ; 
 For prayer and penitence had purged her life 
 From her youth's sin, and she could meet him now ! 
 
 So Launcelot rose ere it was day, and went, — 
 The seven others with him, — went once more 
 Journeying together in the open air. 
 Feeble and weak who once were stout and strong, 
 
launcelot's vigil. 219 
 
 And smiled not as of yore to see afar 
 The spires of Camelot glitter in the sun. 
 And when they enter'd at the nunnery gate, 
 The ladies told them that the queen was dead, 
 And murmur'd, ere her voice was hush'd in death, 
 That Launcelot thither came to read her mass. 
 And as they talk'd, his hot tears fell adown, 
 And faltering words ask'd if aught else she spake ; 
 And gentle hearts held back unwelcome truth, 
 Until he urged the answer: — "That she pray'd, 
 Till her last breath, that nevermore her eyes 
 With living sight might see Sir Launcelot's form V 
 And Launcelot turn'd his face towards the wall, 
 That those near by should mark not in his look 
 Of mortal agony the sudden throe. 
 
 They laid her in the broad aisle of the church, 
 Before the altar, and lit all the lights ; 
 And o'er the bier, instead of sable pall, 
 They cast the purple cloak she wore that day 
 She fled from throne and strife for shelter there. 
 And Launcelot kept the midnight watch alone — 
 The last — with her, — with Guinevere, — the dead ! 
 He sang her dirge who erst had whisper'd words 
 Into those willing ears had thrill'd her heart, — 
 That heart whose throbbing pulses then had leap'd 
 In burning blushes when he came anear, 
 And stirr'd the very velvet that now lay 
 So still upon the silent shape ; the while 
 He breathed her name, her dear name, in such tones 
 
220 launcelot's vigil. 
 
 As might have reach'd her in the deepest grave ! 
 He read her mass, and wept between the prayers, 
 Imploring God, for Christ's incarnate sake, 
 To give her peace, to take her to His rest, 
 That so, when Arthur met her a^ she walk'd 
 White-robed, with angels, in the golden street, 
 He might forget her human sin, and know 
 That God's forgiveness seal'd her his true wife ! 
 
 And, when his sacred duty was all done. 
 
 He rose from kneeling 'neath the host, and look'd 
 
 Once more upon her face, — and then — and then 
 
 His full heart broke ! He thought of all the past ; 
 
 He saw her, as at first, a fair, young bride, 
 
 Regal, yet shy of state, and glad to be 
 
 Apart from court, and laughing with her maids, 
 
 Or riding ^neath green boughs with loosen'd hair, 
 
 Or dancing changing measure with rare grace. 
 
 He felt again the thrill that fired his blood 
 
 When first her soft palm, trembling, press'd his 
 
 own ; 
 He saw the drooping lash, the dewy mouth 
 Waiting his proud caress in other times. 
 And lived again each hour of passionate joy, 
 Sweeter for being secret, save that now 
 Each left upon his soul the weight of crime ! 
 He bow'd to kiss her lips, — to clasp again 
 Those marble hands. A sort of fierce delight 
 Flash'd through his frame to think that his should 
 
 be 
 
launcelot's vigil. 221 
 
 The last warm touch should ever linger there ! 
 
 Ah, no ! ah, no ! he dared not ! She had gone 
 
 To be forgiven : it was not meet that she 
 
 Should bear in Eden seal of former shame. 
 
 She had o'erlived her love : he had no right 
 
 Even to look upon her with the olden thoughts, 
 
 Since that was lost had sanctified their guilt I 
 
 Renunciation was his office's oath I 
 
 It was' God's justice he should suffer this ! 
 
 And she slept there, so cold, so pale, so still, — 
 
 And he stood by, so shaken with his grief. 
 
 Memories, remorse, all passions that can war 
 
 In a man's mind, — and over both the cross. 
 
 He deem'd if he had seen her only once, 
 
 Once more before she died, and heard her say 
 
 His love was pardon'd, and the ill it wrought, — 
 
 If her last sigh had only pass'd away 
 
 Upon his breast, — he could have borne to know 
 
 That he must live without her in the world I 
 
 But she had plead to see him nevermore I 
 
 Was it, perchance, because she fear'd to feel 
 
 The old dream wake again in her last hours ? 
 
 He quiver'd with the hope, and eager sought 
 
 To catch upon the stony brow one trace 
 
 Of the dear look that thrall'd him in his youth. 
 
 Not there ! — not there ! — she loved her husband now. 
 
 And in the sight of God she gazed on him 
 
 With those sweet eyes, all purified by death ! 
 
 And Launcelot paced the lonely aisles, and fought 
 
 With his own soul until he tamed his woe, 
 
ILL LAUNCELOT S VIGIL. 
 
 And went not mad with anguish that long night ! 
 
 Then, just at dawn, he knelt beside the corpse, 
 
 And pray'd that, if so be he yet should win 
 
 A place in paradise, it might be where, 
 
 In Christ's wide heaven, she ne'er might see his 
 
 face ! 
 For, as he cast such sorrow on her life, 
 He would not shadow her immortal bliss 
 Even by memories he would cherish still 
 Through all eternity apart from her ! 
 
 And the next day they laid her in the earth 
 
 Beside the king, and in the open tomb 
 
 Sir Launcelot saw them lying side by side, 
 
 And swoon'd to think that he had loved her so, 
 
 And yet should be so faj* away from her 
 
 When at the resurrection-morn they two 
 
 To the last judgment would together rise I 
 
 So, day by day, he came unto the grave. 
 
 And mourn'd and faded, till his strength no more 
 
 Could bear him from his couch, and then he died, — 
 
 Died with a smile upon his lips, like one 
 
 Who takes into his dreams a lingering kiss ! 
 
 And all his seven freres had sworn to him 
 
 That they would bury him at Joyous Garde ; 
 
 And, as he lay in state in his own land. 
 
 With the queen's scarf cross'd on his shrunken 
 
 breast, 
 That he so oft at tournaments had worn, 
 
AVILION. 223 
 
 »Sir Ector spoke his requiem with tears :- 
 
 '* Lie there, Sir Launcelot, head of Christian knights ! 
 
 That never yet was match'd by earthly peer, 
 
 The courtliest lord that ever bore'a shield. 
 
 The noblest friend that ever shared the salt, 
 
 The truest lover ever couch'd a spear ! 
 
 Thou wert the gallantest that ever rode, — 
 
 The goodliest person in the press of knights, — 
 
 The kindest man to ladies in the hall. 
 
 The sternest to thy mortal foe in field ! 
 
 Lie there. Sir Launcelot, and in future days. 
 
 When men shall seek example for their sons, 
 
 They shall but say, ' Be brave as Launcelot was, — 
 
 Launcelot, who was the bravest, gentlest knight 
 
 In all King Arthur's court, — in all the world ! 
 
 Flower of chivalry, servant of his God !' '' 
 
 AVILION. 
 
 "The island valley of Avilion, 
 Where falls not hail, nor rain, nor any snow, 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
 Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
 And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea!" 
 Tennyson's ''3forte d' Arthur." 
 
 ''Arthur should come again !" the prophet said 
 The kingdom waited long, and each great soul 
 That star-like rose upon the nation's sky 
 
224 AVILION. 
 
 Was watch'd for token of expected fate 
 
 That should achieve the change and good desired. 
 
 But never one fulfill'd the perfect dream 
 
 Of stainless character and lofty aim 
 
 That in tradition lived and hoping minds. 
 
 And, reading this, I murmur'd to myself, 
 
 " 'Tis better so : the joeople must be great 
 
 That keep such standard of high excellence 
 
 Their best do never reach ! So let me use 
 
 The gift the fairies gave me at my birth 
 
 To set in common view, with Saxon words, 
 
 A living image of the ideal knight, 
 
 Lest men forget, amid these restless times 
 
 Of hollow shows and worshipping of gold, 
 
 That truth and pureness once were in the world, 
 
 Nor lose their faith that they will come again ! 
 
 And so I sang the songs of other days, — 
 
 Have ta'en to modern homes and modern hearts 
 
 The ghosts of ancient dead that lived their lives 
 
 As grandly or as weakly as their age 
 
 Or natures wrought on them ! with my witch-wand 
 
 I open'd Fancy's portal, and led forth 
 
 In their own shapes, to breathe earth's air again, 
 
 The storied men who had become a name. 
 
 And group'd them all about the British king. 
 
 As once they circled him at Table Round, 
 
 And that fair queen, so frail because she loved, 
 
 That, false herself, kept her one lover true, 
 
 Whom Arthur trusted, blind to his great wrong, 
 
AVILION. 225 
 
 Since his large, royal soul in others saw- 
 Only the good and truth was in his own. 
 
 And then I said, with that vague, quenchless thirst 
 We dreamers know when mingles sorrow's shade 
 With discontent at our own labor done, 
 That seems so poor beside the vivid thought, 
 "And what reward is mine for this my work ? 
 Men will forget it in a little while, 
 And when this brain is dust, how few will care 
 That once it throbb'd with Inspiration's heat ! 
 Would I could go away from all the doubt, 
 The pain and turmoil of this weary life, 
 Into Avilion, where the good king went. 
 And rest me in the Happy Isle, like him !" 
 And so I closed my tired eyes, that press'd 
 Two tears between the lids, that, as they touch'd 
 The level ground, into a wonder grew ; 
 For, lo ! a lake that spread its waters up 
 Nigh to my feet, while through the sunset glow 
 A black barge hove in sight, like one that came 
 For wounded Arthur, only now it bore 
 No fair, crown'd queens, no hooded, weeping dames ! 
 Only a pallid steersman stood at helm. 
 With white garb stirless as a statue's robe. 
 That seem'd to sweep adown o'er folded wings. 
 The boat came slowly to the coast, and paused. 
 I inland turn'd an instant's sight, and saw 
 That darkness gather'd o'er the fields, and light 
 Was all before, then stepp'd into the stern, 
 15 
 
226 AVILION. 
 
 And o'er the rising tide the vessel moved. 
 
 We floated on ; my comrade never spoke, 
 
 And I sat silent, with a lonely sense 
 
 Born from the far-off look in his sad eyes. 
 
 But once, remembering Charon, I arose 
 
 And laid a coin within his idle hand ; 
 
 He gazed at it in wonder, curved his arm. 
 
 And dropp'd it in the waves ; and, half abash'd, 
 
 I turn'd towards the glories of the sky. 
 
 The slanting rays shot up the azure arch 
 
 In silver streaks that waned in motes away, 
 
 Tinging the fleecy clouds with rainbow hues ; 
 
 We sail'd on golden ripples, whose light foam 
 
 Died on th' horizon's verge, where, half in heaven, 
 
 A purple island hung with rosy shores ; 
 
 While stretching off on either side there shone 
 
 White lustrous mountains edged with peaks of fire. 
 
 We came anear at last. Delicious airs 
 
 Play'd o'er my brow, that brought a faint, rare 
 
 sound 
 Of distant harmony ; while through my limbs 
 New vigor ran, that sent the dancing blood 
 Tingling in languid veins, as each heart-throb 
 More quick and eager with expectance grew. 
 In buoyant feelings I had long forgot, 
 My youth and hope came back to me once more ; 
 And, like the slow uprising of a mist, 
 There roll'd away the darkness that was laid 
 Between my mind and things I strove, to solve ; 
 Deep, secret meanings dawn'd upon my brain, 
 
AVILTON. 227 
 
 That had been clull'd with dust, but in this clime 
 Saw clear the hidden truth. Sorrow and pain, 
 That woke such wild, blind prayers, look'd only 
 
 now 
 As ministers to purify desire ; 
 And e'en the earth's great riddle that we beat 
 Eebellious wills 'gainst, — ah ! I may not show 
 What grand significance e'en evil took ! 
 And, as I leap'd upon the shining beach, 
 I cried, "How few in that old world of woe 
 E'er dream'd the Happy Island lay so near !" 
 And such rich rapture stirr'd my grateful soul, 
 I bent my knee in worship's ecstasy, 
 Thanking my God that, after years of toil 
 To know the Truth, and fallings by the way. 
 My Faith in Him had stood the test of Thought ! 
 But most my spirit thank'd Him that He is ! 
 And, as I rose, one that I knew stood by, 
 And look'd in mine with eyes as tender, soft 
 As when we parted — ah ! so long ago ! 
 " I knew that you would come !" he said, when first 
 The bliss of meeting yielded feeling words ; 
 " And I have waited here; for all the joys 
 Of this ffxir home were incomplete and poor 
 Till I had you once more, my life's beloved ! 
 See these green lawns, these shaded, quiet woods. 
 Where we will walk together, as of yore. 
 And never change or part, or weep or yearn ! 
 Was it not worth the tears we shed on earth 
 To love forever in Avilion thus ?" 
 
228 AVILION. 
 
 And so we talk'd a while, until I ask'd, 
 *' I marvel that 'tis light here still ! 'twas dusk 
 Beyond there when I started ! Does the sun 
 Ne'er set on this bless'd land ?" He gently said, 
 "At eventime there shall be light !" and then 
 I knew no night would e'er dispel the glow 
 That rested on this isle from unseen source. 
 And afterwards I question 'd of the prince, 
 If yet he dwelt here while the nations wait ; 
 And my dear comrade took my willing hand, 
 And led me through the shadowy lanes, wherein 
 He said we might meet Arthur and the queen. 
 
 I think mine eyes had glimpses of the views. 
 Through opening glades, that once my dreams be- 
 lieved 
 Were parts of all fair countries far away 
 That I had never seen, — green slopes and swells. 
 And high hills veil'd in floating, silver mists, 
 And countless waterfalls, and limpid streams 
 Where trees droop'd o'er and shaded lotus buds ; 
 And 'neath our feet and all about us bloom'd 
 Rich, unknown blossoms, and the twining leaves 
 A dewy freshness bore ; and in the midst 
 I walk'd in silent rapture, such as comes 
 To human hearts in love's divinest hour. 
 When speechless bliss o'erfloods the tender gaze 
 And lifts th' aspiring soul through joy to God ! 
 And there was nothing of the sadness here 
 That stole through all the Nature I had known, 
 
AVILION. 229 
 
 And made it ever seem like some vain show- 
 In which a spirit grieves ; but flowers and sky, 
 Meadow and stream, were freely, fully bright, 
 As if the soul of happiness inspired 
 Their life and beauty, wdiere no sorrow came; 
 And all the higher pleasures of mere sense 
 Were so etherealized, we could but feel 
 A fine expansion, taintless of all flesh ! 
 And, ds we walk'd together as of yore, 
 Slow pacing mid the avenues of trees, 
 Then through an arching vista I beheld 
 A street of gold that ran 'twixt crystal domes. 
 And two that came adown its sparkling slope ; 
 And, as w^e drew anear, I saw that one 
 Was grand in presence, kingly, and yet wore 
 Such courteous, kindly mien, that one who begg'd 
 Might call him "brother," though he graced a 
 
 throne ! 
 And clinging to his arm, wuth wdiite hands link'd, 
 And small head thrown aback with all its wealth 
 Of flowing hair, that thus the loving eyes 
 Might seek the lofty face, was one that seem'd 
 The very fairest creature e'er I saw. 
 " Ah ! see ! they come \" my dear companion said, 
 " The king and Guinevere \" and, as he ceased, 
 We met them face to face, and Arthur spake 
 To one he knew a stranger, in sweet tones 
 Of simple welcome ; and then, mid our talk, 
 lie ask'd, at last, " Do those you left behind 
 Still keep a thought of me ? Do men still hope 
 
230 AVILION. 
 
 That I will come again, as Merlin told, 
 
 To do my best to win for them the right ?" 
 
 And when I drew a picture of the times. 
 
 And how the nations groan'd because was found 
 
 No strong, true leader pure in life and aim, 
 
 He turn'd aside, as if to muse alone ; 
 
 And one came slowly up between the glades, 
 
 On whose worn face there shone a holy smile, 
 
 That might have been a seraph's, and stood by 
 
 The while the queen ask'd, with a watchful glance 
 
 Towards the prince, " Do men on earth still love 
 
 As in the olden time ? Do ladies keep 
 
 Their faith the same in spite of keen despair,?'' 
 
 I answer'd not, but fondly clasp'd the hand 
 
 That touch'd mine own, and something in our looks 
 
 Spoke more than words unto her woman-sense. 
 
 "Ah, well !" she said, without a sigh, or shade 
 
 On her smooth brow, " we too loved well as you 
 
 In years that are a dream, Isonde and I ! 
 
 But then we loved with wrong, and pray'd to God, 
 
 Long ere we died, to wipe our deep sin out ; 
 
 And when we came here, all our feelings clung 
 
 Whereto they ought, ere led astray by flesh ! 
 
 See, now I stand by Launcelot, and no thrill 
 
 Stirs him or me : I love my lord the king I" 
 
 And I, remembering oft-repeated tales 
 
 Of their great passion, then towards Launcelot 
 
 turn'd, 
 A sudden pity quivering on my mouth ; 
 But he, with glowing brow and shining eyes, 
 
AVILION. 231 
 
 Look'd up as if a vision met his view, 
 
 And murmur'd softly, through his parted lips, 
 
 " My God I my God ! I love but Thee, my God I" 
 
 And just then Arthur came to me, and spoke 
 
 Like one whose mind has measured some resolve 
 
 And mastered it: " The time at last is ripe ! 
 
 I will go back again ! The people need 
 
 A chief whose soul knows glories that will lift 
 
 His de'eds and motives o'er all petty price. 
 
 I wore a crown before, and felt its thorns ; 
 
 And I have known since what it is to live 
 
 In heavens won by duty : so I go 
 
 To lead the way to truth through seas of blood ! 
 
 Come with me, while I sit me down once more 
 
 Among the knights that shared my Table Round ; 
 
 For who may tell if I can keep myself 
 
 Unscath'd by sin, and here return again ? 
 
 My own dear queen ! I never thought to see 
 
 A tear in sweet Avilion ! Pray to God, 
 
 Who sends me on His errand, that His love 
 
 Shall compass me about until the end ; 
 
 'Twill not be long to wait: you know, beloved, 
 
 A thousand years in His sight are a day !" 
 
 And so we went together to a vale 
 Bosom'd in verdant hills, where waters lay. 
 And round about, upon the lilied lawns, 
 A goodly company of noble men. 
 And Arthur sat him on a rising knoll. 
 With Guinevere's bow'd head upon his breast. 
 
232 AVILION. 
 
 And told his high resolve, and ask'd of each 
 Some counsel of their wisdom, that his soul 
 Might carry back into the lives of men 
 The teachings won through death by heavenly 
 
 thought. 
 And as they throng'd about him with deep words, 
 And deeper meanings, answering to his need 
 With wondrous axioms that each one had wrung 
 The pith of from a sharp experience, 
 I soon was 'ware that, mid tlie knightly shades 
 That once for right clash 'd swords at Camelot, 
 Came large-brow'd, lifted heads, light-crown'd like 
 
 kings ; 
 And these with tuneful voices utter'd slow 
 Such music, knowledge, and prophetic sense, 
 I scarce knew which most marvellous seem'd to 
 
 hear. 
 So blended with a simple, quiet ease 
 Was tone melodious and thought sublime. 
 And in a pause my comrade softly said, 
 " These are the poets, dear : before, we knew 
 Their minds by flashes ; but from their own lips, 
 Oft wandering by these everlasting streams, 
 We now shall share the fulness of their growth, 
 And hear old strains completed that were left 
 With something wanting in our other sphere I" 
 
 The poets ! my poets ! how I long'd 
 
 To see your faces once ! How your sweet words 
 
 Have stirr'd the pulses of my hot young heart 
 
AVILION. 233 
 
 Or still'd its fever ! Masters, singers, skalds ! 
 Ye were my friends that never play'd me false, 
 The teachers ever pointing to the True ! 
 Your names lie gather'd in my inmost soul, 
 As cherish' d as the flowers that we keep 
 In token of great happiness and love ! 
 
 souls inspired, through whom amid my woe 
 
 1 stretch'd my hands to God ! I look'd on you. 
 Saw your grand foreheads, heard your voices clear, 
 And could not tell, for gazing in your eyes, 
 
 Tf white shapes hovering round your steps were 
 
 they 
 Whose names your songs made glorious for aye. 
 The women ye had loved, or angels charm'd 
 From other heavens by the music here. 
 I saw ye all, my bards ! ay, mine and earth's, 
 God's and eternity's ! Albeit I saw 
 Where tliorns had pierced your brows, and naked 
 
 feet 
 Were scarr'd from treading ploughshares red with 
 
 My stately Sophocles with Shakspeare walk'd, 
 Two royal natures mated, with a space 
 Betwixt their purple and the next who came ; 
 Yet they were men too grand to look on men, 
 And blinded that they should but see the gods ! 
 One sang to Grecian harp the world's child-faith, 
 And one its manhood's to a loftier lyre i 
 Homer and Milton, with majestic eyes, 
 
234 AVILION. 
 
 That saw us tremble at their awful runes ! 
 Then Sappho, with her hand in Tasso's twined, 
 Her fruitless passion spent in that wild leap 
 When flashing of her robe the ages thrill'd ! 
 And he sublime through sorrow born of love, 
 Without a speck of prison-dust to float 
 'Twixt his fond hope and glories of his dream ! 
 And crush'd Italia's boast, that sets her high 
 Above the thrones that cannot seize at least 
 Her great crown-gems, outshining all their power ! 
 Virgil and Dante, with the sadness fled 
 Their human brows once caught among the lost ! 
 Then Spenser, Chaucer, that had lived so near 
 To Nature's heart, they show'd us how our own 
 Throbb'd pulse to pulse with hers ! While two 
 
 grand forms 
 Came, with a prince between, who loved them well, 
 And made himself a prouder tomb than his 
 Of the same name who slept enthroned at Aix ! 
 For, dropping out the sceptre from his hand, 
 He laid him down at last betwixt the dust 
 That bore eternal fames, and link'd his grave 
 On either side to sacred soil for aye ! 
 The rare completed man of many lives. 
 Whose eager search strove ever towards the truth, 
 And sang the gleams he caught in deathless notes, 
 Great Goethe show'd in meanings of his si:)eech 
 That earth's unquiet quest was found at last ! 
 And that fine nature, brother of his mind, 
 True lover of the beautiful and free, 
 
AVILION. 235 
 
 Schiller, who trod the highest paths of Art, 
 
 With Carl of Weimar looking upon both 
 
 As Saul might once have gazed upon the seer 
 
 That pour'd anointing oil upon his head ! 
 
 Byron and Burns, those passionate, rich souls, 
 
 That here, unfetter'd from all scorn and ill 
 
 And weakness of the flesh, had grown sublime 
 
 By living purely out their higher selves ; 
 
 Inspired of genius still, whose burning words 
 
 Startled a glance of fire to Arthur's eyes. 
 
 That faded into awe as solemn rose 
 
 The voice of one amid the moment's hush 
 
 That might have been a prophet of the Lord 
 
 To shake and gather spirits in the world, 
 
 If time and reason could have cast from life 
 
 The hot dreams of his youth ere death had led 
 
 His seeing mind unto the Fount of Light ! 
 
 And after Shelley, with his trembling lips 
 
 Uttering low music into language breathed, 
 
 Endymion pass'd, who left to mark his rest 
 
 The record of a name in water writ. 
 
 And found his high thoughts known beyond the 
 
 stars ! 
 And as they moved aside, they group'd around 
 A fair, slight form but late come in their midst. 
 That stood within the circle of their tones 
 Calmly as one who long had known each soul. 
 Yet with a gladness shining on her face 
 Like to an exile's who is welcomed home 
 By old familiar voices, answering all 
 
236 AVILTON. 
 
 With some remember'd token of the past ! 
 
 The mighty ancients spoke to her in words 
 
 As musical as choruses they sung ; 
 
 The soul-blind minstrels of dim, distant days 
 
 Stood side by side with martyrs who had mix'd 
 
 The last triumphant strains of holy lives 
 
 With hatred's incense of ascending flames ; 
 
 And all sublime and tender hearts that loved 
 
 And gave love language in their native tongues 
 
 That won new harmony from notes divine ; 
 
 And they who play'd on lutes by sorrow tuned, 
 
 Or lifted nations, in a burst of song. 
 
 From deep despair to heights of conquering faith, — 
 
 These talk'd with her as one whom their blest 
 
 sight 
 Saw worthy evermore to walk with them 
 In amaranthine fields 'neath trees that bear 
 The leaves of knowledge and the fruit of life ! 
 And some there were that breathed in broken 
 
 sounds 
 Such thrilling, earnest thoughts, I could but feel 
 That they had been the voiceless ones of earth, 
 Tf^ng their new-won power with timid lips. 
 As children stammer ere they learn to speak ! 
 Yet, as all cluster'd round the central shape, 
 As in the skies the constellations range 
 About a single star, ofttimes less bright 
 And smaller than the suns that orbit it. 
 She spoke some reverent word that drew reply, 
 Pointing her hands towards the far-ofif world, 
 
AVILION. 237 
 
 Then towards the glowing beams of changeless 
 
 light 
 Wherein the good king sat among his knights ; 
 And all the streams and woods, and hills and vales, 
 Gave solemn echo to the glad refrain, 
 Suiting all time w^hen Avrong bj? right is slain, 
 Of " Pan, Great Pan is dead ! Pan, Pan is dead V 
 
 And, as the last note floated low away, 
 
 Arthur arose, and shoreward turn'd his steps, 
 
 And all the company went with him there ; 
 
 Launcelot and Galahad on either side 
 
 Walk'd, with their lustrous faces, though one show'd 
 
 That pureness had belong'd to it from birth, 
 
 And to the other came through pain and death ; 
 
 Then Bors and Bedivere, Sir Gareth, Kaye, 
 
 Tristan and Pellinore, Gawaine and Urre, 
 
 And all the other proud, familiar names 
 
 That shook the lists with shoutings in old days. 
 
 And the fair queen, after quick rain of tears, 
 
 With head uplifted like to one who sees 
 
 The bow of promise, all the storm forgot 
 
 In listening to the music of the bards. 
 
 And when we came upon the sparkling beach. 
 
 The barge was waiting, but the helmsman now 
 
 Was a great seraph, crown 'd, with wings outspread, 
 
 Whose glory circled him as rays the sun. 
 
 And Arthur enter'd in, and round his form 
 
 The angel's radiance made wondrous light. 
 
 And some would fain have shared with him again 
 
238 AVILION. 
 
 This new adventure ; but he simply said, 
 
 " 'Twas written I should go alone ! my work 
 
 Needs not that more be banish'd from their heaven ! 
 
 Nay, nay, dear friends ! It is the will of God V 
 
 And at the sacred Name all bow'd their heads 
 
 And let him pass, and, as the vessel heaved 
 
 On waves of golden light, the air seem'd full 
 
 Of glorious faces and of snowy plumes. 
 
 And over us unnumber'd voices join'd 
 
 In such sweet harmony, it swell'd the tears 
 
 In speechless ecstasy from my touch'd heart. 
 
 And then — and then — was it the stirring sail 
 
 Or sudden silence broke the marvellous spell ? 
 
 Alas ! I know not ! only, in a flash, 
 
 I found myself once more within this world, 
 
 On which the shades had gathered into night, 
 
 And mid the throng that wait the Coming King ! 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 239 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 A SHIP went forth from nierrie England's shore, 
 
 A stately ship, with sunlight on the sails, 
 
 Freighted by hopes and wafted on by prayers, — 
 
 Went forth to float in distant unknown seas, 
 
 To rest in lonely ports, where ne'er before 
 
 Came English voice to stir the silent air. 
 
 Mothers had bless'd their boys, and sires their sons, 
 
 Sisters had sobb'd farewell, and dearer hearts 
 
 Had broken in their wordlessness of grief 
 
 When all their world pass'd from their straining 
 
 sight ; 
 Each parting kiss, each fond, last yearning look, 
 Had crush'd brave manhood's boasted pride of 
 
 mien, 
 And woke the fount of tears in woman's soul ; 
 And hands had met with tighter strength of grasp 
 To force the tear-drops from too willing eyes 
 Back on the o'ercharged heart, to gush again 
 In faster flow when freed from long restraint, 
 Until the weepers smiled in very scorn 
 To feel themselves grow weaken'd by their woe ; 
 And there were broken accents and low tones, 
 16 241 
 
242 MARBLE ISLE 
 
 And quivering lips below hard, firm-knit brows, 
 Fond, hurried promises, and sad replies, 
 And oft-repeated names, that grew more dear 
 To those that bore them for each loving look 
 And tender lingering o'er the precious sound. 
 Then sudden sunderings of clasping arms, 
 The swiftly hoisted flag unfurling slow, 
 A stir, a shout re-echoed from the land, 
 A booming shot that drown'd each parting shriek, — 
 And all was o'er : a ship had gone to sea ! 
 The land was green as each one look'd farewell ; 
 The breeze was odorous with new-mown hay ; 
 The ripen'd grain waved golden in the sun ; 
 While rippling meadows sparkled with their dew, 
 Like emerald lakes that bore a fleet of flowers ; 
 Each hawthorn hedge was musical with song ; 
 The fruit-trees bow'd beneath their weight of 
 
 ■wealth, 
 And children gather'd acorns in the woods. 
 The land was green. Long after, they who sail'd 
 Look'd longing back upon the home they left, 
 And loved it more that it was fresh and fair; 
 And, as they last beheld it, memory kept 
 Its picture thus : their native land was green ! 
 
 A ship went out to sea, sail'd full of souls, — 
 Went forth, but back again came nevermore ! 
 Mothers grew pale with watching, wept, and died ; 
 And fathers went about their daily work 
 With slower step, oft stopping by the way 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 243 
 
 To muse in silence, sighing towards the sea, 
 
 Or, starting, fancy that a shadow swept 
 
 Across their path in likeness of their son, 
 
 The while dark locks turn'd white, and creeping 
 
 years 
 But made them cling more closely in their age 
 To one, the absent, than all other ties ; 
 And sisters still remember'd in their prayers. 
 Morning and night, the wandering sailor's name, 
 Or, as time sped aj^ace, hush'd baby cries 
 With promises of rare and wondrous things 
 Their unknown kinsman, if he ever came. 
 Would bring from distant lands beyond the main ; 
 While of the dearer hearts, some never ceased 
 To keep alive Hope's flame till quench'd by Death, 
 Cheating suspense with some delusive dream, 
 Or, fading slow with fear, were faithful still. 
 To meet reward at last, when those they loved 
 Gave watcher's w^elcome on th' eternal shore ; 
 And some wore weeds a while, then heard again 
 Love's wooing words, and found another mate, 
 Losing mid newer cares youth's parting pang ; 
 Children were born to them, rear'd up, and sent 
 On sejjarate paths to find their future fate ; 
 And it may be, some younger, daring soul 
 Turn'd seaward, and recall'd her girlhood's grief 
 In anxious weeping for the Outward Bound ! 
 And there were tears to shed o'er little graves, 
 Tears for some footstep that would rove astray. 
 Some erring one to whom the mother-heart 
 
244 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 Clung ever closer as it farther stray'd ; 
 Tears forced by poverty, by loss, by pain. 
 Uncounted tears for countless passing ills. 
 Sorrows that spread, like thickest mourning-veil 
 Between the present and their life's past woe. 
 And some lived long, and, seated by the fire 
 In arm-chair shelter'd in the warmest nook. 
 Their children's children climb'd their willing knee, 
 Coaxing their grand-dame with their lisping lips 
 For fairy legend, tale of olden time. 
 Or, best of all, that history of her youth 
 Of how she travell'd to a far-off town 
 And saw a stately ship go out to sea 
 That never, never more came back again ; 
 Nor noted, in their eager, listening mood, 
 How the old voice was sweeter, low, and sad, 
 Whene'er she spoke of one who sail'd that morn,— 
 Although she told the story as she felt. 
 So long ago the time and scene had been. 
 As if the blooming girl left lone that day 
 Was not herself, but some one she had known. 
 Nor could they deem how through a weary life. 
 While hair, and hope, and all things else wax'd gray. 
 That touch of memory kept her heart still green. 
 
 And there was one, a woman young and fair, 
 Who came that morn to bid her love farewell. 
 Whom she had wounded with the passing scorn 
 Of thoughtless girlhood in her pride of power, 
 Then pined in wonder that he came no more, 
 Until a message bade her meet him there, 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 2J:5 
 
 That, pardoning, he might pray her to forgive 
 Tlie hasty act that banish'd him from her. 
 And so she came. The ship had sail'd an hour, 
 Holding one bitter heart amidst its crew, 
 "NVitli lips that no last kiss kept pure from sin. 
 And she ! the hidden feelings of long days, 
 The speechless anguish of repentant nights, 
 The desolation of her woman's life, 
 Swept up in one great wave of swelling woe 
 Upon her heart, as 'gainst th' horizon's verge 
 Dash'd sapphire billows into deeper depths ! 
 She could not die ; for he was yet alive ! 
 So, moaning in her pride of lonely grief, 
 She turn'd aside to seek a place to weep, 
 And found it in a gray-hair'd seaman's arms, — 
 An old, rough man, who took her to his breast 
 Like a hurt child, and soothed with rude, kind 
 
 words. 
 As if the golden head he shelter'd so 
 Awoke some memory of his far-off youth. 
 Until the vessel that his bosom bore, 
 The tattoo'd token of a distant voyage. 
 Heaved on the brine that wet its aged keel. 
 And the scarr'd hand swept o'er the dim, worn 
 
 eyes. 
 That, unrestrain'd at last, shared tears with hers. — 
 And when th' allotted time had lapsed away, 
 And anxious hearts had said the ship was due, 
 They came again, the old man and the girl, 
 Daily, for months, in sunshine and in storm, 
 To sit together on a jutting crag 
 
246 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 And look across those ever rolling waves ; 
 While harden'd men grew gentle at the sight, 
 And sternest voices whisper'd words of hope, 
 Till Pity dared not bid her longer dream ; 
 And then they silent stood whene'er she pass'd, 
 Bowing before her sorrow with wet eyes. 
 And when she came no more, they call'd the rocic, 
 Whereon her life had wasted slow away, 
 " The Watcher's Wait ;" and so they name it yet. 
 Each morn they came, he patient with her woe, 
 And she half fever'd with her fadeless trust 
 fhat each new day would bless her yearning eyes. 
 Vnd thus, with lips apart and tight-clasp'd hands, 
 ' Uie watch'd each sail that whiten'd o'er the blue. 
 Upstarting, if it homeward near'd the port, 
 To seek with longing gaze for one dear form. 
 Or drooping 'neath sharp disappointment's sting. 
 As, speeding onward, it escaped her view. 
 And sometimes, half unconscious that she wept. 
 Great tears would drop and mingle with the waves 
 O'er which she lean'd, upbraiding with her pain ; 
 And as they fell, the mariner would think, 
 " Perchance in some old sea-cave where he lies, 
 Borne mid yon waters, they may touch the lips 
 She ne'er will press again V And then he grew 
 More careful and more tender of his charge ; 
 And when the twilight shadow'd o'er the sea. 
 He led her home, still turning as she went, — 
 Until, one day, when from the stormy clouds 
 The sun burst sudden out, till all the foam. 
 White-cresting angry deeps that fought the winds, 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 247 
 
 Flash'd with the glory of a victor's crown, 
 All sparkling diamonds on an emerald helm ; 
 There, as she sat upon the bare, brown rock. 
 With long hair loose and heavy with the rain. 
 Her pale face leaning 'gainst her comrade's arm, 
 Slowly there came a change upon her look, 
 A gathering meaning, as the Northern seer's 
 When first his vision marks some phantom-shape, 
 Then, lilting up her head, gazed o'er the sea, 
 Transfix'd and silent, like to one who sees 
 A Gorgon shield ; then brightly, like that burst 
 Of sudden sunlight, shone a happy smile, 
 Chasing all gloom and pallor from her brow, 
 As, starting up and stretching out her arms. 
 She spoke his name, and then sank slowly down, 
 Still looking outward with the same rapt gaze, 
 Till Death and Evening shut the west from view ! 
 
 The long years went ; yet 'gainst the sky's blue edge 
 
 Still beat the waters with unceasing roar. 
 
 Like baffled prisoners 'gainst their dungeon-wall. 
 
 But, inward rolling, brought no tidings back ; 
 
 And when full half a century had pass'd. 
 
 Some heirs of this forgotten venture, roused 
 
 By slight memorial of unknown fates. 
 
 Charged vessels northward-bound to solve tlieir 
 
 doom. 
 And so, one summer morn, a wandering bark 
 Through cracking icebergs' shadows safely steer'd, 
 And moor'd beside an island's barren shore ; 
 In spite of feai% guided by snow-patch'd rock 
 
248 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 Whereon two wliiten'd skeletons were peroh'd, 
 Towards eager search for rehcs, and here found, 
 Mid ruin'd beams, a mildew'd book, that told, 
 Half log, half journal, all the story sad 
 Of that old vessel and her long-lost crew ; 
 Written by one who, as they gather'd there, 
 Was he that died the last on that lone spot. 
 In the world's history 'twas a little page ; 
 But, as all human hearts know human pain, 
 Perchance to read what other lives endure 
 May give some fainting soul the patience meet 
 To share the common lot, and look to God ! 
 And thus, as 'twere in that dead sailor's words, 
 I paint the scenes that happen'd long ago, 
 How other men have suffer' d ere they died. 
 
 We sail'd to seek new fortunes in new lands. 
 Won by our captain's promise of rich mines ; 
 And 'mong our motley crew but two were free 
 From labor and delusive dreams of wealth. 
 The chaplain one, a man so slight of frame, 
 So pure in word and deed, we well might deem 
 That his unceasing prayer, his constant thought 
 Of higher things, had purged his life and flesh 
 Of all of passion, till his body seem'd 
 To be the willing slave of soul sublime. 
 We were not tender ! we, — a boisterous set 
 Of untamed natures. Some had never known, 
 Or would not brook, restraint upon their sin ; 
 And few had ever thought of aught beyond 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 249 
 
 The present, and but named their God in oaths ! 
 
 Yet, when he came anear, the worst would hush 
 
 Their ribaldry, though never once he marr'd, 
 
 By useless preaching, laugh or harmless jest ; 
 
 And when he left, there was a yearning sense 
 
 Of something softer in our inmost hearts. 
 
 That made us talk, e'en mid our reckless selves. 
 
 Of homes and mothers, wives and little babes ; 
 
 For there is that in human creatures still, 
 
 Howe'er obscured by evil, that will bow 
 
 To aught superior, be it strength of limb 
 
 Or mind, and thrills when weakness seems to claim 
 
 Protection from its self-acknowledged power. 
 
 We bent before the goodness we believed, 
 
 And, as we all were hardy, strong, and large, 
 
 We had for him a feeling such as men 
 
 Who are not brutes for helpless women hold. 
 
 The other came on board with springing step 
 
 And lifted head, a sneer upon his lips, 
 
 And searching, sparkling eyes that never smiled. 
 
 We could not guess what country gave him birth, 
 
 So well he spoke the languages of all, 
 
 Knew every land and wave and name of stars, 
 
 Xor what the motive cast his lot with ours ; 
 
 But we, the English of our motley crew. 
 
 Swore that his birthplace must have been the sea. 
 
 And all men foreign, since he show'd no love 
 
 For human thing, but knew each mast and spar. 
 
 And all the rules of sailing, as his home 
 
 Had only been upon a vessel's deck, 
 
250 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 And that he restless roved to 'scape remorse I 
 
 He never gave his hand ; and one who read 
 
 Arabian tales did notice at the mess 
 
 He touch'd no salt, — as if he would not share 
 
 The pledge of friendship with a living soul. 
 
 He seem'd to have strange sense of what was hid 
 
 And worst in all, and with his mocking speech 
 
 Would fright us with such reading of our thoughts 
 
 That something kin to fear comjDeird his scorn. 
 
 And only once a quiver of surprise 
 
 Betoken'd passion 'neath the practised mask, 
 
 At sudden meeting of the chaplain's gaze. 
 
 I stood near by, and saw him grasp the arm 
 
 That shrank as from the touch of searing flame. 
 
 And, with a changed and eager voice, demand, 
 
 " Where is she, priest? — wedded, or mad, or dead?" 
 
 Slowly the white lips answer'd, "She has gone 
 
 To heaven !" and the livid, questioning face 
 
 Turn'd seaward from a look of pitying pain. 
 
 But quick the old tone came: — " You loved her once, 
 
 Or thought you did ; but I, who had her thoughts 
 
 So long in life, am curious to know 
 
 Who kept them at her death : you held, 'tis true, 
 
 Advantage of your garb and circumstance. 
 
 Two potent spells to sway a woman's mind, 
 
 And I — Pshaw ! how, when, died the girl ? Canst 
 
 tell?" 
 I saw the flushing of the thin, worn brow, 
 I saw the flashing of the soft, sweet eye, 
 I saw the clenching of the hand, and heard 
 The hard-drawn sigh that mark'd the end of strife, 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 251 
 
 Wherein true holiness self's instinct slew ! 
 An instant's work, — yet, as for Christ's sole sake 
 I saw Christ's servant conquer nature thus, 
 1 never once have ta'en Christ's name in vain ! 
 Nor e'er forgot the thrilling voice that spoke : — 
 " I buried her, her baby on her breast ; 
 I gave the new-born child its name, — your name, — 
 And closed their eyes together ; she bless'd you 
 With her last, weak breath, dying forgave you. 
 And never thought of me, who watch'd her through 
 The gate of death, regardless of all sneers I" 
 Oh, what a groan tore from the callous heart, 
 As, like a wounded tiger in a cage. 
 He paced a moment's space the narrow deck. 
 Then, pausing full before the troubled face 
 That watch'd his own, hiss'd out his fiery words ! 
 "Forget, or think of her — dost hear? — as mine, 
 Here and hereafter mine, who hates you still, 
 Though now I know desertion, doubt, and death 
 Ne'er gave you what you craved, — one dream of 
 
 hers !" 
 And then he went — and, ere an hour had pass'd, 
 Was taunting a scarr'd Dane in his own tongue. 
 The while the other, leaning o'er the sea. 
 Did only seem to count the curling waves — 
 I knew he pray'd to God, as One before 
 Pray'd from the cross for those that nail'd Him 
 
 there ! 
 
 We sail'd and sail'd. Days grew to weary weeks. 
 The glittering stars were brighter ; floating near, 
 
252 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 The sparkling bergs oft cross'd our timid track, 
 Until one morn we woke to see our ship 
 Wedged in by icy walls, that crack'd and heaved. 
 And wore fantastic shapes that changed each hour, 
 But show'd no crystal door, with rainbows arch'd, 
 Whence we might 'scape into the open sea. 
 The constant fear, the eager, watching hope, 
 To sullen murmuring turn'd, as lack of work 
 Sent each man's musings towards his distant home, — 
 Till mutter'd threats grew loud, and oaths were 
 
 sworn 
 That when the way was clear our course should be 
 No forward move, but back the path we came ! 
 And here our captain died, — stung to his death 
 By cold accusing looks, and his own doubts ; 
 For he did love all glory, but his thought 
 Leap'd ever to the end, nor counted means. 
 And where they slower proved than his desire. 
 Lost heart, nor fought 'gainst circumstance ; and 
 
 now 
 He fretted at the strait his dreams had brought, 
 And in his eyes there sadly gleam'd at times 
 Prophetic pity, till a quick remorse 
 Fed on the life we still were loath to lose. 
 We wrapp'd him in our flag, and let him down 
 In the green waters, where the shadows dark 
 Of those white mountains rested on his heart 
 As heavy as their presence on our own ; 
 And in the drifting of those mighty isles 
 One may have paused above th' unconscious dust, 
 While from the diamond depths its awful voice 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 253 
 
 Proclaim'd to swelling winds, wliicli dash'd the foam 
 Against its gothic carvings, that below 
 Was something far more fearful than itself, 
 Even great, silent Death ! The little child 
 I saw him kiss at parting never knew 
 How grand a monument her father had ! 
 
 Perchance that solemn something in the sea 
 Appall'd those frozen hearts, and stirr'd to flight; 
 For soon we toss'd upon the waves that heaved 
 Responsive to their passing Polar guests. 
 And scarce their snowy peaks escaped our view. 
 When 'neath the deck misrule and riot reign'd, 
 And cursing ruflians swore to turn the ship ; 
 And all that strove the mutiny to quell 
 Were bound and silenced. As easy tame 
 A troop of hungry panthers round their prey ! 
 We surged and roar'd a moment in mad glee, 
 And then, mid frantic shouts, it struck our sense 
 That still the ship moved on ; and, as we deemed, 
 Command was conquer'd, all our weapons dropp'd 
 As up we press'd to gain our certain end ! 
 Yelling with triumph, rush'd the foremost crowd 
 To seize the wheel — when, lo ! undaunted, cool, 
 The stranger stood beside the helm, and eyed 
 Our sheer surprise, our sudden pause, with looks 
 Glittering and calm, the while one steady hand 
 Outheld a pistol, and his belt was stuck 
 Full of strange knives, some jewell'd to the blade. 
 We stood an instant, fallen back, and stunn'd, 
 Subdued by that keen glance that seem'd to chill 
 
254 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 Each man's hot blood. Then one deep howl broke 
 
 out ; 
 We made one bound to tear him limb from limb, — 
 When o'er our raging tones his words rang clear: — 
 " Back, back, ye hounds ! he dies the first who 
 
 stirs ! 
 I hold a dozen of such lives as yours, 
 And take them with me if I go myself! 
 Ye're ripe for Lucifer, ye snarling curs !" 
 What was there in the single figure there, 
 That seem'd to grow a giant in our sight, 
 Standing erect against the cloudless sky, — 
 What was there in that sneering, cutting voice. 
 Or in that fiery glance from which we shrank, — 
 To cow us down like dogs before this man ? 
 Save that he show'd more reckless than ourselves ! 
 Yet scarce we knew our master, ere he touch'd 
 The idle wheel, and quick we forward leap'd. 
 Then quail'd like cowards from that eye and death I 
 And, as we throng'd together in one mass. 
 His words fell in our midst again like shot ! 
 " Look back, ye fools : behind, the icebergs lie, 
 Before, the ojDen sea: there, certain wreck, 
 And here, a chance for life ! Choose hell or earth I" 
 Our startled thoughts took in th' unstudied truth, 
 And, while w^e stood uncertain how to turn, 
 Abash'd, controU'd, a tender voice stole o'er 
 Our hope's despair, "Dear comrades, let us pray!" 
 And there, upon the deck so nearly stain'd 
 With crime and blood, our chaplain knelt alone. 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 255 
 
 Some bow'd their heads ; some turn'd with mutter'd 
 
 oaths ; 
 The stranger wore a scoff upon his Up, 
 And with a dagger play'd, tlie while there rose 
 A mighty cry to God, that must have pierced 
 Througli all the angels' songs and reach'd His 
 
 throne ! 
 I do believe that holy soul itself 
 Went up to His own footstool, and beheld 
 The glory of the highest heaven, so full 
 Of love, of radiance, the pale face shone, 
 Pleading for such as us, "his brethren," — his! 
 And as with earnestness his voice grew low, 
 Guilt seem'd to move us far from him and Christ, 
 Till Christ's own words o'erflooded harden'd minds, 
 And rough men wept in uttering soft " Aniens." 
 And, as his accents died upon the air, 
 Each man went slowly to his olden post. 
 
 And now w^e lived mid dangers. Day and night 
 
 The icebergs pass'd us, and the sea was full 
 
 Of floating hills, and gathering, broken ice ; 
 
 And, worst of all, at last we sprung a leak, 
 
 And saw before us only wreck and death ; 
 
 When, thrilling through our sullen mien, one morn 
 
 A single word fired every hopeless breast, 
 
 And brought upon the deck a motley group 
 
 Of eager faces, as the voice aloft 
 
 Sang out, once more, "Land straight ahead!" and 
 
 then 
 One heartv cheer rani' through the frozen air ! 
 
256 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 Land ! any land. ! a firm, unshaken shore 
 
 A haven ! life ! Some trembled as they watch'd 
 
 Brown, barren rocks loom o'er the dashing waves. 
 
 Crested with snow, or shooting out great spurs 
 
 'Twixt silvery glaciers, while here and thei-e 
 
 A mighty fracture made a shadow'd bay. 
 
 And so at last we came to land again ! 
 
 Not a fair country ! not a tree or shrub 
 
 To wave a welcome e'en with leafless boughs ! 
 
 Only wide fields all white, white cliffs, white coasts, 
 
 Cold, traceless, desolate, and still, as though 
 
 A moment's magic changed the world to stone ! 
 
 We call'd it " Marble Isle," because it spread 
 
 Beneath its gray and overhanging sky 
 
 Like to a sculptured dream. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 The name half-sportive fancy gave it then 
 
 Proved stern reality to after-hojies ! 
 
 Our crippled bark could never sail again ; 
 
 The shore was one bleak desert, and the chance 
 
 Of rescue fainter than we dared to feel ; 
 
 And so we took the timbers for a hut, 
 
 With sea-weed thatch'd, and remnants of our sails ; 
 
 A sort of wooden tent built round the mast, 
 
 That in the centre stood, and bore on high 
 
 Our English flag, — the warmest-tinted thing 
 
 That ever stirr'd amid that dreary waste ! 
 
 And here, throughout the long and weary months. 
 
 We waiting sat around our drift-wood fire. 
 
 Or from the highest rock, with lingering hope, 
 
 Watch'd for a ship across the lonely sea. 
 
MARBLE ISLE. ZO i 
 
 It never came , and yet, with cheerful words, 
 As, daily, turning inland towards the night, 
 Each stifled down the sighs he would not breathe, 
 Lest he should rob his comrade of the trust 
 'Twere worse than death to lose, and kept us brave, 
 We lighten'd tedious evenings with old tales. 
 The stories of our lives, with every thought 
 And memory that could shorten lagging time. 
 Only the chaplain's eyes kept pure our talk. 
 Where each man made a confidant of all. 
 I think while he was with us that we felt 
 The sense of God's own presence ; for he lived 
 So near to Him that all his words and deeds 
 Like inspiration seem'd; and when he told 
 The glories of the City of the King, 
 And pray'd with tearful voice to meet us there, 
 We listen'd with touch'd hearts, and strove to be 
 To one another more like him and Christ. 
 We loved him ; for he kept alive the sparks 
 Of truth and tenderness, of something good 
 Within the worst, and made the hardest feel 
 Our grovelling natures could ascend to heaven. 
 And when we saw him fading day by day. 
 Worn by our hardships, though unmurmuring still, 
 And never thinking of himself, we grew 
 More careful o'er him, as we dimly knew 
 Our link with God would break if he should die. 
 His lip would quiver, and his pale cheek glow, 
 As some rough act of kindness or respect 
 Would prove us men that watch'd upon his face 
 17 
 
258 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 The spirit's light reflected from the Throne ; 
 And we were thank'd in knowing that he saw 
 Our better selves expanding 'neath the touch, 
 E'en mid that solitude, of grateful love. 
 
 Only the stranger, living in our midst, 
 
 And yet apart, scarce noticed this pure soul 
 
 Or heard its teachings. He had shown at first 
 
 Such skill, such varied knowledge of all arts 
 
 Which help'd our comfort, fix'd our awed surprise. 
 
 That he had won a sort of right to mar 
 
 With wayward moods the peace was still in ours. 
 
 For he would break at times his silent mien. 
 
 That never else was shaken, with some tale 
 
 Or legend of far lands that chain'd our sense,— 
 
 Of ghosts and genii, robbers and their deeds, 
 
 And all dread things, save mention of himself! 
 
 But most he liked to paint earth's wildest scenes 
 
 And worst experience ; for he would tell 
 
 Of virgin forests full of savage lairs ; 
 
 Of stiffen'd ships and sailors round the Poles ; 
 
 Or dreary deserts that had once been seas, 
 
 Where phantom vessels sail'd at midnight o'er, 
 
 And ghastly shapes environ'd every step. 
 
 While voices drew the weary traveller on 
 
 To deeper solitudes, to die with thirst 
 
 And mix his bones with those that strew'd the 
 
 waste 
 Of old sea-monsters and forgotten men ; 
 Or left him, else, beneath some mighty rock 
 That bore the likeness of a human face 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 259 
 
 And jabber'd at him with sepulchral tones, 
 
 Till fascinated terror reft his wits ; 
 
 Or he would speak of horrid murders done 
 
 By pirate dirks in secret sea-shore caves, 
 
 That victim spirits might their treasures guard ; 
 
 And count us o'er the ingots and the gems. 
 
 Till avarice forgot the blood and guilt, 
 
 And clutch'd an eager hand on ftincied gain ! 
 
 With air so suited to each startling tale 
 
 As thrill'd us into statues of mute fear ; 
 
 And when he saw us, stalwart men, controU'd 
 
 By spells of his weird power, a scornful laugh 
 
 Sliock'd shuddering consciousness into our frames ; 
 
 And as that sharp, triumphant peal aroused 
 
 Our words still whisper'd with a sense of awe, 
 
 Quickly he'd pass amid the shrinking throng 
 
 To distant corner and to muttering sleep, 
 
 Or, dashing out into the frozen night. 
 
 Be foUow'd by long sighs of glad relief, 
 
 Or looks of fearful hate as might be cast 
 
 By tempted souls on Satan's demon-form 
 
 One day, when, wearied of some hollow sport, 
 We lay in groups, and through our sadness surged 
 The ocean's sound, or human voice of seals. 
 That ever roused new wonder or remorse, 
 When, dying from our shots, their eyes look'd up 
 Re})roachful as a woman's we had wrong'd ; 
 And, while we mused, one bounded in our midst 
 To show a prize, — the blacksmith of our crew. 
 Strong-limbed, with voice harsh as his anvil-strokes, 
 
260 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 He held as tenderly in his hard hand, 
 
 As might a child, a single little flower ; 
 
 Telling, in soften'd, almost reverent, tones, 
 
 How he had found it on the bleak hill-side, 
 
 Just peeping at the sky amid the snow, 
 
 Blue as the far spring violets we knew ; 
 
 And how the sight had almost made him weep, 
 
 That had not wept since his one sister died. 
 
 And he, a boy, pluck'd daisies on her grave! 
 
 And so he could not keep the daily watch. 
 
 Sure that he might not see a ship for tears, 
 
 But gather'd up this precious waif to stir 
 
 Our heavy hearts as it had touch'd his own. 
 
 And while he talk'd, we throng'd with eager looks 
 
 Round that frail blossom, that recall'd to each 
 
 His dearest thing on earth, and days gone by ! 
 
 Its faint, sweet perfume seem'd the breath of home ! 
 
 We saw no more the desolate, cold isle. 
 
 But trod with buoyant steps our native fields, — 
 
 We felt the sun shine on our own green land, — 
 
 No more were exiles, left to die afar. 
 
 But youth that wander'd in the shady lanes. 
 
 Listening soft sighs, or watching changing cheeks. 
 
 Rough as we were, upon our yearning mood 
 
 The gentle beauty of those fragile leaves 
 
 Came like the Switzer's song in foreign lands 
 
 To children of the Alps, and shook our souls 
 
 Till memory's rapture was akin to pain ! — 
 
 At last, by general instinct, we all bore. 
 
 With words subdued, our priceless gift to him 
 
 Who soon would see the flowers bloom in heaven. 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 261 
 
 When first we laid it in his hand, it seem'd 
 
 He ne'er could till his spirit with its grace, 
 
 But gazed and gazed till swell'd liis forehead's 
 
 veins. 
 As glistening drops fell slowly on its stalk ; 
 And then his broken words told naught in life 
 Had moved him like that plant amid the w^aste. 
 
 We placed it near the hearth-stone where we sat, 
 That all might see it ; and it seem'd to lean 
 'I'owards our tones, as, lonely from its birth, 
 It found a comfort there. 'Twas like a babe 
 Laid in our midst, so soft it made our hearts ; 
 We gently spoke, with awkward courtesy moved. 
 And eyes whose looks caress'd it oft were moist. 
 At length we ceased to talk ; each man's own 
 
 thought, 
 Born of sweet fragrance, had become a dream ; 
 When through our silence, from the outer night 
 That crept across the hills, the stranger stepp'd. 
 We stirr'd to let him seek the needed warmth. 
 And, as he stoop'd to see our treasure, watch'd 
 With curious gaze the fitful shadows limn'd 
 Upon his face before the leaping blaze. 
 It moved his nature's hidden depths, and shook 
 Ilis guarded mien ; 'twas as an angel's touch 
 Unseal'd a frozen fount ; as he forgot 
 Our presence and the present, lived again 
 In other scenes akin to that pure thing! 
 Then, lifting up his head, he caught each glance. 
 And, as an angr\'- flush betray'd self-scorn. 
 
262 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 Spurn'd with his foot the flower into flames ! 
 
 An instant we were all aghast ; and then, 
 
 Cursing, we upright sprung, and, ere he turn'd, 
 
 A dozen axes gleam'd amid the glare ! 
 
 He saw them raised, yet shrank not, leaning calm 
 
 With folded arms against the mast, and smiled 
 
 In sheer disdain of death, with that same look 
 
 Within his eyes that ruled us on the ship ; 
 
 For once, he wore no weapons in his belt ; 
 
 And yet we paused before this fearless man 
 
 That stood at bay, defying us and fate ! 
 
 We would have spared him then, in very shame 
 
 Of numbers, and for his bravery's sake, 
 
 Save that he roused our fury with his taunts : 
 
 He joy'd that murder's sin should swell our woes ; 
 
 And, as he pointed to the burning logs, 
 
 And caird us girlish snivellers o'er a weed. 
 
 We rush'd again to drown his sneer in blood, — 
 
 When through the strife the chaplain urged his 
 
 way, 
 And threw himself before the haughty breast. 
 That lieaved in silence as the startling words 
 From quivering lips rang o'er our wrathful tones: — 
 " His life through mine ! if ye must kill, sla}^ me !" 
 Our blades dropp'd slowly; reverence conquer'd 
 
 rage ; 
 While o'er the stranger came a wondrous change. 
 His proud form trembled ; something like a tear 
 Flash'd down his cheek ; a cry, half groan, half sob, 
 Unstifled rose, as, bending on one knee. 
 He press'd a kiss upon the shadowy hand. 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 263 
 
 Thon swifth^ fled into the cold and dark ! 
 
 And o'er the priest's worn brow there sudden broke 
 
 Seraphic glory, such as might have shone 
 
 On Moses' ftice when he had talk'd with God ! 
 
 We gather'd round him with our clamorous tongues, 
 
 And one, the smith, sore from his blossom's loss, 
 
 Ask'd why he robb'd our vengeance of its due. 
 
 And what to him was such a worthless life, 
 
 That mid our anger he should risk his own. 
 
 The glow of rapture faded with a sigh : 
 
 *' lie Avas my enemy !" he humbly said. 
 
 Tlie night waned slowly. Few had cared to sleep ; 
 The rest sat silent, staring at the fire. 
 Outside 'twas bitter cold ; a snow had fall'n 
 And spread the white earth with a thicker veil ; 
 And round our hut the wind shriek'd shrill and 
 
 fierce, 
 Or moan'd and wail'd, as though it shared our fate 
 And could not 'scape beyond these rock-bound 
 
 shores ! 
 And more than once the chaplain rose and look'd 
 Into the darkness with sad, anxious eyes. 
 Whose trouble beat against our sullen wills ; 
 For hours pass'd, nor brought the absent back. 
 At length his heart could bear suspense no more. 
 And, standing in our midst, he made appeal, 
 For mercy's sake and his, that we would seek, 
 While yet was time, our comrade, who perhaps 
 Was lost, or struggling in some drift for life ! 
 That little flower had done its mission well, 
 
264 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 In softening men as rough and hard as we ; 
 
 And all our tender thoughts of home conspired 
 
 To make us listen to that pleading voice. 
 
 We hated him that we were ask'd to save, 
 
 But, then, we loved the other, and, besides, 
 
 Our passion over, some had just been glad 
 
 We had not slain the man that steer'd our ship 
 
 Through awful dangers even to this port ! 
 
 And his one burst of nature wiped away 
 
 The thousand insults of his callous past. 
 
 And so we went, — at first with lagging steps 
 
 And minds reluctant, that were 'shamed to stay, 
 
 Or fear'd their own reproach if one should die 
 
 While we sat housed and warm. But soon the 
 
 hunt 
 Stirr'd eager blood, and towards its end we toil'd 
 Through changing dangers as for dearest friend ! — 
 We search'd and shouted ; but the hills alone 
 Made answer with their echoes, till there broke 
 A tinge of dawn across the eastern heights ; 
 And as we threw aside our torches dim 
 That cast their flickering glare upon the snow. 
 The priest had seized the nearest idle spade, 
 To delve amid a heap shaped like a grave ; 
 We aided him in silence, help'd him draw 
 A stifFen'd form from 'neath its stainless pall, 
 And as we gazed upon the still, white brow, 
 We all forgot the worst in him, and saw 
 Only the calm and sadness that was left 
 By death's last touch upon the scornful face ! 
 And in his hand, tight clasp'd upon his heart, 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 265 
 
 A long, soft lock of woman's golden hair ! — 
 
 That shook us I there scarce was one but thought 
 
 Of some fair head he ne'er would see again ; 
 
 As, bending o'er it, frost and wind unfelt, 
 
 Tears started unawares, and, falling, froze 
 
 Amid our shaggy beards ; while some who held 
 
 No pure remembrances, in wonder stared 
 
 To see such jewel shine on such a breast ! 
 
 And we forgave the dead because he too 
 
 Had loved and lost ! And they were gentle hands 
 
 That laid him in the earth, and reverent brows 
 
 That bow'd as rose upon the rising day 
 
 The priest's grand, earnest prayer that God would 
 
 give 
 The wanderer perfect rest ; the while we felt, 
 With gathering sense of gloom, that this first link 
 Thus sever'd in our brotherhood of pain 
 Foretold the doom of all : we too would sleep 
 In tombs of ice, while the world's life went on ! 
 
 The blossom first, and then the silken tress 
 That we had buried on that pulseless heart, 
 Had stirr'd the deepest feelings of our souls, 
 And made our yearnings grow till I have seen 
 Our strongest steal away to weep alone. 
 And, spite of all our efforts to endure 
 With manly patience for each other's sake, 
 There slowly fell a sort of still despair 
 Upon our lives, and show'd in all our ways, 
 Until we could not bear at last to look 
 Into each other's eyes, lest we should read 
 
266 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 All tliat we felt was written in our own ! 
 
 Then other troubles came ; starvation's dread 
 
 Help'd kill our hope ; and then our pastor died. 
 
 I mark'd him when his startled sight first saw 
 
 That lovely hair, and o'er the pallid face 
 
 A flood of memories swept that broke at last 
 
 His strain'd control in one unstified sigh ; 
 
 And while we dug the grave, he trembling stroked 
 
 With timid fingers its soft, wavy length. 
 
 And since that hour his life had faded fast, 
 
 Like one that sees a spirit, and then pines 
 
 Until he joins it at the gate of death ! — 
 
 We tended him as mothers might a child 
 
 Left orphan'd on their care, or as of old 
 
 The patriarchs had served an angel guest, — 
 
 Grave him our best, and grieved that 'twas so poor ; 
 
 And at the last thank'd God our store held out 
 
 Till he was gone and never knew the worst ! 
 
 The while he pray'd with us, clasp'd each man's 
 
 hand 
 And spoke a word to him none e'er forgot ; 
 And if such souls as ours shall ever walk 
 Amid the shining ones where he will be, 
 And doubt to know him in his glory's change. 
 We shall but speak that word to see his face 
 Glow tender with its human smile again ; 
 And if, perchance, he take our hand once more 
 Before the host of God, why, we shall stand 
 Prouder in heaven than if crown'd on earth ! 
 And near the end he call'd from out our midst 
 A stubborn, silent nature, and laid down 
 
MARBLE ISLE 
 
 267 
 
 His head upon the breast, just touching first 
 With his white lips the coarse and trembling mouth ; 
 And as the broad chest swell'd beneath his brow, 
 Death's shadow fell across his waiting soul, 
 Darkening our day, but making his all light. 
 
 And afterwards we died so fast — God, 
 
 How couldst Thou dwell amid the bliss of heaven, 
 
 Watching our wretchedness, and never send 
 
 A single ship across those barren seas ! 
 
 The dull suns rose and set in low, gray skies ; 
 
 The mocking waters beat on frozen shores ; 
 
 The white hills lean'd against the drooping ck)uds 
 
 In their eternal stillness, — ^while we died ! 
 
 Surely we were not worse than other men 
 
 Who sleep among their kindred, that no place 
 
 Save this was found for us to die upon ! 
 
 Earth is so wide, and full of lovely spots. 
 
 Green, clustering woods, and meadows gold with 
 
 grain, 
 And sunny dells with cots half hid in vines, 
 And rippling streams with flowers on their banks : 
 Yet far from these our lot on this lone isle ! 
 For all our shot gave out, and e'en the seals 
 Forsook at last these desolate, bleak coasts ! 
 And then we died, starved of all food and hope !— 
 The blacksmith first, we found him cold and stiff 
 Upon the chaplain's grave, where he had gone 
 To cut the name upon the stone we rear'd 
 Rough-hewn into a cross,— his task just done! 
 Then he who held our saint within his arms 
 
268 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 And caught his last pure breath : he scarcely spoke 
 Since we had lifted that pale, precious form 
 From 'neath his dropping tears, until he crept 
 Close to the dead man's robes, that still were hung 
 Against our smoke-stain'd wall, and, reaching up, 
 Touch'd with weak hand the garment's hem, and 
 
 pray'd, 
 Gasping and faint, that he might meet again 
 God's blessed angel that had been on earth ! 
 And one died cursing, hurling bitter oaths 
 Against the Maker who could doom His work 
 To cruel torture, deaf to groans and cries ; 
 Or swore there was no God but devilish Fate, 
 That made a sport of human pain and woe, 
 And naught beyond the welcome chill of Death ! 
 And two went mad, and cast them raving down 
 From jutting cliffs into the ice-strewn waves 
 That toss'd their mangled bodies back to land ! 
 And some sat patient, waiting for their hour, 
 Haggard and quiet, brave from sheer despair. 
 With tighten'd belts, and bony hands firm link'd 
 In some old comrade's they had known at home ! 
 And they that kept their strength a while did 
 
 naught 
 But toil at graves till ready for their own ! 
 And there were wolfish looks in sunken eyes. 
 That roused an unnamed fear, when we ourselves, 
 Frantic with want, the savage instinct felt ; 
 For hunger made us murderers in our thought, 
 And each man hid a weapon, lest his life 
 Should aid the rest to live : and so we walk'd 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 269 
 
 Apart in gloom, and ceased to count the deaths. 
 It was a dreadful thing to wake at morn 
 From fitful slumber full of horrid dreams, 
 To find new dead, and wonder 'twas not us, — 
 To lift with feeble arms those rigid frames 
 And bury them from sight in tombs of snow 
 That stood like marble sepulchres in rows, — 
 To live amid the dying, gaunt as they, 
 And keep our senses mid such awful sights. 
 And something still of faith, by saying o'er 
 To our own souls some words our pastor spoke. 
 Or simple teachings from our mothers' lips ! 
 
 At last we were but two ; with wasted limbs 
 
 We bore a third one to his place of rest. 
 
 And, as we stood beside the new-made grave, 
 
 We weary look'd into each other's face ; 
 
 No need for speech, — the sad sea-sound said all ; 
 
 AVe dropp'd our spades, clasp'd hands across the 
 
 mound, 
 And turn'd away together towards the rock 
 Where we were wont to keep our fruitless watch ; 
 Not that we hoped a ship would come to us 
 That never cheer'd the rest ; but habit led 
 Our failing footsteps to our old look-out, 
 And we were not so lonely as when day. 
 Dying with dull, red flush upon the waves. 
 Sent us again to our forsaken hut ; 
 And when the morning came, we sought once more 
 Our seat upon the crag, to find escape 
 From solemn company of ghosts and graves ; 
 
270 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 And as we silent sat there, waiting death, 
 
 My comrade sudden dropp'd his fainting head 
 
 Down on my breast. I call'd his name, I look'd 
 
 With thrills of terror on his pallid lips, 
 
 Had never stirr'd my blood when others died ; 
 
 For, though I knew our hours were number'd, still 
 
 Such keen fear seized me to be left alone, 
 
 That great drops bathed my brow, the while I 
 
 pray'd 
 Aloud in my strong anguish, — and he woke ; 
 And, gazing from my bosom o'er the deep. 
 Said, in a voice that had a dying tone, 
 " One keeps a tryst with me whom I thought false; 
 I saw her even now, on rock like this, 
 She and an old gray sailor who had wound 
 His arm about her as yours thus holds me ; 
 She saw me here, and stretch'd her dear hands out. 
 Think of it, friend, that all this watery waste 
 Kept not our souls apart ! We will meet now. 
 Sweet heart, she waited long ! — to-night my eyes 
 Will look in hers as in the olden time ! — 
 Thanks — you were always kind, — shake hands once 
 
 more: 
 God bless you. Jack — how dark it is ! — good-bye V 
 
 I would not think him dead ; I held him close. 
 
 Rubbing his hands, and saying to myself, 
 
 " 'Tis but another swoon ; he soon will wake !" 
 
 But I, alas ! had seen too many die 
 
 To keep delusion long. And so at last 
 
 1 lean'd him gently up against the rock. 
 
MARBLE ISLE. 271 
 
 Still looking towards our England and his love ! 
 
 I could not bury him : I had no strength. 
 
 I could not weep : I e'en was starved of tears. 
 
 I could not stay there, and go slowly mad. 
 
 So I have come with faltering steps once more 
 
 To this sad shed, to sit beside the mast, 
 
 And underneath our tatter'd, faded flag ! 
 
 Its colors were so bright when first unfurl'd ! 
 
 Ah ! who would then have deem'd 'twould wave 
 
 alone, 
 That fair, frail thing, o'er all our perish'd hopes ! 
 'Tis like a friend, and I can pity feel 
 That it must still float on when I am gone ! — 
 My God, how lonely 'tis here ! I have heard 
 That men have lived thus upon desert isles ; 
 But then they dwelt not in the midst of graves ! — 
 I think I know now how the last man felt 
 In the great Flood, watching the waters rise ! 
 Did Grod seem near him as He does to me ! — 
 Outside, the grand hills lift their heads to heaven ; 
 And years will roll, still the same skies will touch 
 Those snow-crown'd crests, when we will be but 
 
 dust! 
 Ah no ! Ye hills, I shall outlive ye all ! — 
 How white my native cliffs shone in the sun 
 That day we sail'd ! what green fields lay behind ! — 
 I wonder if they think of me sometimes 
 In that dear English farm-house far away ! 
 I wonder if my mother's sitting yet 
 Beside the hearth, and dropping, as she knits, 
 A tear of memory on the home-si^un yarn ! 
 
2i72 MARBLE ISLE. 
 
 And if slie keeps the shells upon her shelf 
 I brought on my first voyage ! How proud she was 
 E'en of my sailor walk ! Thank God, a tear ! 
 And, oh ! what pain ! my dizzy brain reels round ! — 
 I see strange visions : do the dead come back ! — 
 Nay, 'tis but weakness ! I cannot die here ! — 
 I must go back to our look-out, and sit 
 Beside my comrade, with my face towards home ! — 
 Perhaps the tardy ship may come too late. 
 And those aboard may take our exiled bones. 
 For sweet compassion's sake, to our own shores ! — 
 Ah ! hunger's pangs are sharp ! I faint again ! — 
 One more last look, and then I must be gone, 
 Or I shall fail to drag me up the steep. 
 There are the ashes of our last, bright fire, 
 There the rough seats we sat on ; 'gainst the wall 
 Still hangs the chaplain's robe ; and here and there 
 A worn, stain'd jacket, as if just thrown off. 
 Farewell, poor objects that have e'en grown dear ! 
 Farewell, old stunted pen that wrote this log, — 
 The saddest, sure, was ever kept by man ! 
 Farewell, my country's flag ! Life, life, farewell ! 
 
 8 D -S 
 


 
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