Pass r^^Z^jd. Bookj"£2„__ .. ^\ 'Clnitorm witb tbis IDolumc. Longfellow's Poetical Works. Author's Complete Copyright Edition. With Illus- trations by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. With Steel Portrait. The Poetical Works of William Cullen Bryant. With Memoir of the Author by R. H. Stoddard, and Steel Portrait. The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. With Steel Portrait. / /JJJr 3 6^3> POEMS OF NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON -^^^^^^^X^pJ^^'^^^^'T^ '%- " - GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER. P. 28C. Front. f.' POEMS OF ■» NATHANIEL PARKER 1 WILLIS ,L1«= LONDON GEO. ROUTLEDGE & SONS, Lim. RROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL I MP POEMS OF ./ NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited Broadway, Ludgate Hill GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK 1891 Y^^^ v^ 3i 02. • • • • • • • • • • • '»• ••- •• •-• •»• MEMOIR OF NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. This eminent author and distinguished journalist was born in the town of PoHland, in the State of Maine, on the 20th of January 1807. Unlike most persons who have created names for themselves as men of genius, our author fortunately had not to struggle against poverty; nor had he to acquire an education by any unusual means. On the contrary, his father, who was at once a minister and an editor, was in a position to give him the advantages of a first-class education. At an early period of his life he was sent to Yale College. Here he was noted as a diligent student, and early attracted attention. He received a prize for Scriptural Poems, in 1828. Even before Mr. Willis left college, S. G. Goodrich, an eminent and enterprising publisher of Boston (better known as the author of "Peter Parley"), published his first book. In college he was best known as the writer of many pieces of poetry, pub- lished under the signature of "Roy." Like Pope, he "lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." But, unlike Pope, he wrote almost as beautifully and faultlessly in his " lispings " viii MEMOIR. as at the latest period of his life. Willis was a principal writer for the Token — one of the famous "Annuals" which were exceedingly popular in those days. The Token was a mar- vellously elegant appearing book, printed by Samuel N. Dickenson, and illustrated by Cheney. Among its contributors were such writers as Hawthorne, Mrs. Osgood, Pierpont, Sprague, Mrs. Sigourney, and others whose names have since become "household words" wherever "Milton's lanffua^e is the mother tongue." Mr. Willis was savagely attacked— rather than criticised — in his youth. But these bitter de- nunciations were evidently produced by envy at his successes, for he was successful from the beginning. Indeed Mr. Good- rich truly says of him, "that we have no other example of literary success so early, so general, and so flattering." Mr. Willis was a fine, tall, handsome man, with an intellectual face, and refined manners. He also dressed with scrupulous care and exquisite taste. He was, besides, gifted as a conversation- alist. These qualities eminently fitted him to shine in society. Doubtless many of his brother bards thought they were sacri- ficing at the shrine of Truth, whilst they were hurling invec- tives at his style, appearance, and manners. One of his bitterest satirists was William J. Snelling— himself a scholar, and a writer of great caustic power. It may be, perhaps, as well to insert here a few of the savage lines that he addressed to Mr. Willis, in the " New Year's Gift for Scribblers " :— •' Muse, shall we not a few brief lines afford To give poor Natty P. his due reward ? What has he done to be despised of all, Within whose hands his harmless scribblings fall ? " It will be seen that Mr. Willis was gibbeted in "goodlie MEMOIR. ix companie " — and while Snelling is almost forgotten — ('tis true, 'tis pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true) — the writers he so virulently assailed have floated triumphantly down the literary Ganges, with their burning lamps rendering the air bright and odorous to their many admirers. Mr. Willis commenced his active literary life as a publisher very early. For we find him, in conjunction with Gen. George P. Morris, issuing the New York Miiror, in 1829. The next year he visited Europe, and soon the Mirror was enriched by his sprightly *' Pencillings by the Way." Being an attache of our legation at the French Court, he made the acquaintance of most of the men and women then rendering their country famous by their artistic and literary productions. He rambled through Greece and Turkey — then occupying the attention of all civilised people — and delighted readers by his brilliant sketches of persons and places seen on his journeyings. About this time he married a Miss Stace, daughter of a British General of that name. Having rather superciliously alluded to Captain Marryat in some of his writings, the author of "Peter Simple" challenged him — a bloodless duel ensued. He contributed many popular pieces to English magazines at this time, and Colburn, the London publishers, issued his "Inklings of Adventure," in several volumes. Returning to his native land in 1839, he retired to a beautiful country-seat on the Hudson — to which he gave the charming name of Glenmary. He also resumed his avocation as a publisher, issuing a paper called the Corsair — the name evidently sug- gested by Byron's hero of that title. Willis, although from his easy style, and apparently languid way of taking the world, had very few " Hours of Idleness; " for in addition to X MEMOIR. his weekly "Letters from Under a Bridge," he contrived to produce two plays, ''Bianca Visconti" and "Tortesa the Usurer," — brimful of elegant writing. In 1844 we find him engaged with Gen. George P. Morris in editing the Daily Mirror. Here he became acquainted with the poet Edgar Allan Poe — whose genius he greatly admired, and whose mis- fortunes he sought to lessen. Rendered low-spirited by the death of his wife, he paid his second visit to Europe ; and as a result, his "Dashes at Life with a Free Pencil " appeared in 1845. The next year saw him again settled in New York, and in the same year he married his second wife, a Miss Grinnel, of a highly respectable Massachusetts family. Parting with the Mirror^ our author, again in conjunction with Gen. George P. Morris — ^the Castor and Pollux of the Press — began the pub- lication of a weekly paper, The Home Journal — which became a necessary adjunct to every refined drawing-room in the land. Year after year saw new volumes of vivacious and elegant prose appear, with his welcome name on their title-page. But in his latter years he suffered much from a species of decline — to cure, or at least to alleviate which, he cruised through the beautiful seas which lave the picturesque shores of the West Indian Islands. He has left some delightful word- pictures of the ravishingly beautiful appearances of nature in the tropics. Losing his urbane and kindly partner, Morris, in 1864, Willis lived at his attractive highland home, Idlewild, until the 21st day of January 1867, when he closed the eyes which had seen so much and observed so truly. As a poet, Willis has produced many of the finest pieces with which our literature is enriched; as an essayest, he has scarcely a superior ; as a traveller, he ranks with the first. His style MEMOIR. XI both in prose and verses was eminently original, and peculiarly attractive, in that it had an indescribable, but charmingly per- ceptible grace about it, as delicate as the bouquet of the finest wines, or the odour of early violets. Mr. Willis' family all dis- played more than usual literary ability. The famous Ledger author, Fanny Fern, wife of Parton the historian, was his sister; and Richard Storrs Willis, a musical composer and art critic, of fine reputation, is his brother. CONTENTS. Scriptural Poems — PAGK Hagar in the Wilderness 3 The Sacrifice of Abraham 8 The Shunammite 16 Jephthah's Daughter 16 David's Grief for his Child . . . . . . .20 Absalom 25 Rizpah with her Sons 29 Baptism of Christ 33 Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem 35 The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus 38 - The Widow of Nain 42 The Leper 44 Lazarus and Mary 49 Scenes in Gethsemane . 55 Religious Poems — To my Mother from the Appenines ..... ,59 The Mother to her Child . 60 Thirty-Five 61 The Sabbath 62 On the Death of a Missionary ^3 On Witnessing a Baptism 65 xiv CONTENTS. PAGE Contemplation 66 :? The Belfry Pigeon 68 Dedication Hymn . . • 69 Thoughts while making the Grave of a New-Born Child . . 70 A Thought over a Cradle 72 On the Picture of a '' Child Tired of Play " . . . .73 To a City Pigeon 74 A Child's first impression of a Star 76 Lines on leaving Europe 77 On the Departure of Kev. Mr. White from his Parish . . 80 A True Incident 82 Birthday Verses 84 Saturday Afternoon 86 Reverie at Glenmary Sj College Poems — Extract from a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College, in 1827 gi Extracts from a Poem delivered at Brown University in 1830 . . .94 The Elms of New Haven 98 The Burial of the Champion of his Class, at Yale Col- lege 106 The Lady Jane 108 City Poems — The White Chip Hat .176 The Lady in the White Dress, whom I helped into the Omnibus 177 To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons . . .179 You know if it was You 180 Love in a Cottage .181 The Declaration 183 CONTENTS. XV Miscellaneous Poems — PAGE Parrliasius 187 The Scholar of Thebet Ben Khorat 193 "^ The Dying Alchymist 202 To Ermengarde • . . 206 Melanie 207 The Death of Harrison 221 Andrd's Bequest to Washington 223 Lord Ivon and his Daughter 224 The Confessional 239 Florence Gray 242 The Pity of the Park Fountain 245 Chamber Scene . , 246 The Wife's Appeal 247 To a Stolen Ring 254 To Her who has Hopes of Mc 255 She was not there 257 Fail me not Thou 258 To M , from Abroad 259 To a Face Beloved 260 Better Moments 261 Sunrise Thoughts at the Close of a Ball 263 ^ Unseen Spirits 264 The Annoyer 265 '^he Torn Hat 267 Dawn 269 To Laura W , Two Years of Age . . . . . 270 Sonnet . 271 The Soldier's Widow 272 On the Death of a Young Girl 273 Starlight 274 Acrostic Sonnet 275 May 275 Roaring Brook ... ....... 277 The Solitary 278 xvi CONTENTS. PAGE An Apology 279 To Helen in a Huff 280 On the Death of Edward Payson, D. D 281 Idleness 282 January i, 1828 285 On a Ticture of a Girl leading her Blind Mother through the Wood . 286 January i, 1829 287 Psyche, before the Tribunal of Venus 288 On Seeing a Beautiful Boy at play 290 Hero 291 Spirit Whispers 292 Poem delivered at Brown University Sept. 6, 1831 . . . 293 Upon the Portrait of the Hon. Mrs. Stanhope .... 303 SCRIPTURAL POEMS. SCRIPTURAL POEMS. (FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT.) HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. (Genesis xxi.) The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers. And everything that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth Was pouring odours from its spicy pores, And the young birds were singing as if life Were a new thing to them ; but oh ! it came Upon her heart like discord, and she felt How cruelly it tries a broken heart, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent, j Her lips were press'dl Till the blood started ; and th6 wandering veins 3 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. Of her transparent forehead were swelled out, As if her pride would burst them. Her dark eye Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven. Which made its language legible, shot back, From her long lashes, as it had been flame. Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up Into his mother's face until he caught The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling Beneath his dimpled bosom, and his form Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath, As if his light proportions would have swell'd. Had they but match 'd his spirit, to the man. Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now Upon his staff so wearily 1 His beard Is low upon his breast, and his high brow, So written with the converse of his God, Beareth the swollen vein of agony. His lip is quivering, and his wonted step Of vigour is not there ; and, though the morn Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes Its freshness as it were a pestilence. Oh ! man may bear with suffering : his heart Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp Of pain that wrings mortality ; but tear One chord affection clings to — part one tie That binds him to a woman's delicate love — And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed. He gave to her the water and the bread. But spoke no word, and trusted not himself To look upon her face, but laid his hand HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, And left her to her lot of loneliness. Should Ilagar weep? May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her leaning trust again 1, Oh no ! by all her loveliness — by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But oh ! estrange once — it boots not -how — By wrong or silence — anything that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, — And there is not a feeling out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not. She went her way with a strong step and slow — Her press'd lip arch'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, As if it were a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had caught, As I have said, her spirit, and the seed Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. The cattle of the hills were in the shade, And the bright plumage of the Orient lay On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. It was an hour of rest 1 but Hagar found No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips For water ; but she could not give it him. She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — For it was better than the close, hot breath Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know Why God denied him water in the wild. She sat a little longer, and he grew Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. It was too much for her. She lifted him, And bore him further on, and laid his head Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; And, shrouding up her face, she went away, And sat to watch, where he could see her not. Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourn'd " God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! I cannot see thee die. I cannot brook Upon thy brow to look, And see death settle on my cradle joy. How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! And could I see thee die ? " I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; Or wiling the soft hours. By the rich gush of water-sources playing, Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep. So beautiful and deep. HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. " Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How pray'd I that my father's land might be An heritage for thee ! ''And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ! And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press ; And oh ! my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there Upon his clustering hair ! " She stood beside the well her God had given To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed The forehead of her child until he laugh'd In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd His infant thought of gladness at the sight Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. (Genesis xxii.) Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallow'd is the hour of morning ! meet — Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun — He looketh at its pencill'd messengers. Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much -loved son ! THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice ? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child — The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree Booted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd ; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief - Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet subHme. But the young boy— he of the laughing eye And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees. And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met. Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path ; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout. As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine. To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place ; lo THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering ; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells. Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow. And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning ; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon — And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself. And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray ; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh ! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness ; the thousand chords. Woven with every fibre of her heart. Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath ; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. n Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — " Isaac ! my only son ! " — The boy look'd up, And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept. "Where is the lamb, my father?" — Oh the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child ! — How it doth agonise at such an hour ! — It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God — And lo ! God's angel stay'd him — and he fell Upon his face, and wept. THE SHUNAMMITE. (2 Kings viii.) It was a sultry day of summer-time. The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills Stood still, and the divided flock were all Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots, And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd As if the air had fainted, and the pulse Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. " Haste thee, my child ! " the Syrian mother said, " Thy father is athirst " — and, from the depths Of the cool well under the leaning tree, She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart. She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way Committed him. And he went lightly on, With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool Stone vessel, and his little naked feet Lifted with watchful care ; and o'er the hills, And through the light green hollows where the lambs Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts. Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. 12 THE SHUNAMMITE. 13 Childhood is restless ever, and the boy Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, But with a joyous industry went forth Into the reaper's places, and bound up His tiny sheaves, and plaited cunningly The pliant withs out of the shining straw — Cheering their labour on, till they forgot The heat and weariness of their stooping toil In the beguiling of his playful mirth. Presently he was silent, and his eye Closed as with dizzy pain ; and with his hand Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast Heaving with the suppression of a cry, He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back Upon the loosen 'd sheaf, insensible. They bore him to his mother, and he lay Upon her knees till noon — and then he died ! She had w^atch'd every breath, and kept her hand Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon The dreamy languor of his listless eye. And she had laid back all his sunny curls And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong — His beauty was so unlike death ! She lean'd Over him now, that she might catch the low Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd To love when he was slumbering at her side In his unconscious infancy — —'' So still ! 'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies. With his fair forehead, and the rosy veins Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! How could they say that he would die ! God ! I could not lose him ! I have treasured all 14 THE SHUNAMMITE. His childhood in my heart, and even now, As he has slept, my memory has been there. Counting like treasures all his winning ways — His unforgotten sweetness. — —''Yet so still!— How like this breathless slumber is to death ! I could believe that in that bosom now There were no pulse — it beats so languidly ! I cannot see it stir ; but his red lip ! Death would not be so very beautiful ! And that half smile — would death have left that there ? — And should I not have felt that he would die 1 And have I not wept over him ? — and pray'd Morning and night for him ? and could he die 1 — No — God will keep him ! He will be my pride Many long years to come, and his fair hair Will darken like his father's, and his eye Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; And he will be so tall, and I shall look With such a pride upon him ! — He to die ! " And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, And smiled, as if 'twere mockery to think That such fair things could perish — — Suddenly Her hand shrunk from him, and the colour fled From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd His forehead, as she dallied with his hair — And it was cold — like clay ! Slow, very slow. Came the misgiving that her child was dead. She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took His little hand and press'd it earnestly — And put her lip to his — and look'd again Fearfully on him — and, then bending low. THE SHUNAMMITE. 15 She whisper'd in his ear, " My son ! — my son ! " And as the echo died, and not a sound Broke on the stillness, and he lay there still — Motionless on her knee — the truth would come ! And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — As if death had no power to touch him there ! The man of God came forth, and led the child Unto his mother, and went on his way. And he was there — her beautiful — her own — Living and smiling on her — with his arms Folded about her neck, and his warm breath Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear The music of his gentle voice once more ! yEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. (Judges xi.) She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind. Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off. Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd. Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it — a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of ricJi and deep affections. I have thought A brother's and a sister's love were much ; I know a brother's is — for I have been i6 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 17 A sister's idol — and I know how full The heart may be of tenderness to her ! But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing, as it does. With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on, Through all earth's changes, like a river's course — Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure By the world's discipline of light and shade — 'Tis deeper — holier. The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come. With blood and splendour, revelry and woe. The stately horse treads proudly — he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on — Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there — Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down ! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, B i8 JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet were there. His home was near ; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet- distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up. Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach'd his home ; when lo ! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. Oh, how beautiful ! — Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — And her luxuriant hair ! — 'twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still. As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about his neck — he heeded not. She call'd him " Father" — but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth ? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, JEPHTHA H'S DA UGHTER. 19 And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then ; and rush'd Again into his arms ; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her — and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance ; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd ; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — And she would die. The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar ; and the priest Of the high God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have pray'd, but had no words — And she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful — her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper ; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun set — And she was dead — but not by violence. DA VID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. (2 Samuel xii.) 'TwAs daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently The eyelids of the king. And David woke. And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now, Of the vast palace were astir, and feet Glided along the tesselated floors With a pervading murmur, and the fount Whose music had been all the night unheard, Play'd as if light had made it audible ; And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware. The fragrant strife of sunshine with the morn Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy ! and now The king's wont was to lie upon his couch Beneath the sky- roof of the inner court. And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven, Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip ; For, with idolatry confess'd alone To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp. He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when The golden selvedge of his robe was heard Sweeping the marble pavement, from within Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words — Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only — Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy — An infant cherub, leaping as if used 20 DA VID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. To hover with that motion upon wings, And marvellously beautiful ! His brow Had the inspired up-lift of the king's, And kingly was his infantine regard ; But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould Of Bathsheba's — the hue and type of love, Rosy and passionate — and oh ! the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, And drew the heart of the beholder in ! — And this was like his mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes, And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid That but the lifting of his lids might jar His heart's cup from its fulness. Unobserved, A servant of the outer court had knelt Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven ; And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes And frown 'd upon the servant — for that hour Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child. And none might seek him. And the king arose, And with a troubled countenance look'd up To the fast-gathering darkness ; and, behold. The servant bow'd himself to earth, and said, "Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord ! " And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, He drew him to his breast, and cover'd him With the long foldings of his robe, and said, '' I will come forth. Go now ! " And lingeringly. 21 22 DA VID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. With kisses on the fair uplifted brow, And mingled words of tenderness and prayer Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips, He gave them the child, and bow'd his head Upon his breast with agony. And so, To hear the errand of the man of God, He fearfully went forth. • ••••• It was the morning of the seventh day. A hush was in the palace, for all eyes Had woke before the morn ; and they who drew The curtains to let in the welcome light. Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! The servants who kept watch without the door Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades From the low windows had been rolled away. To give the child air ; and the flickering light That all the night, within the spacious court, Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only, Paled with the sunrise and fled in. And hush'd With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'd — So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, She watch'd his breathless slumber. The low moan That from his lips all night broke fitfully Had silenced with the daybreak, and a smile Play'd in his parted mouth ; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, His senses seem'd all peacefully asleep, And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn That brought back hope to her ! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child, DA VID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 23 Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir — But morning there — so welcomeless and still — He groan'd and turned upon his face. The nights Had wasted, and the mornings come, and days Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door, Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain — Listening only to the moans that brought Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress. In loving utterance all broke with tears, Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there. And fill'd his prayer with agony. God ! To Thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on ! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, Kneels at Thy throne, how cold, how distantly The comforting of friends falls on the ear — The anguish they, would speak to, gone to Thee ! But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up, and they who minister'd within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba Held the unmoving child upon her knees. The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whisper'd together. And the king arose, And gazed on them a moment, and with voice Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, " Is the child dead 1 " They answered, '' He is dead ! " But when they look'd to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — For, while the child was sick, his agony 24 DA VID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heartstrings with the tidings must give way — Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe Gather'd together like his kingly wont. He silently went in. And David came. Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house Of God went up to pray. And he return'd. And they set bread before him, and he ate — And when they marvell'd, said, " Wherefore movrn ? The child is dead^ and I shall go to him — But lie will not return to me.'' " ABSALOM. (2 Samuel xix.) The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still. Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashion'd for a happier world ! King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun Hose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 26 ABSALOM. Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy- Are such a very mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — For his estranged, misguided Absalom — The proud, bright being, who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherish'd him — for him he pour'd, In agony that would not be controll'd, Strong supplication ; and forgave him there. Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair w^as yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet : his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, ABSALOM. 27 As if he fear'cl the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade As if a trumpet rang ; biit the bent form Of David enter'd, and he gave command, In a low tone, to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The king stood still rill the last echo died ; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! My proud boy, Absalom ! '' Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill. As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. Like a rich harp-string yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ' if?/ father I ' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! '' But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young ; And life will pass me in the mantling blush. And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! " And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 28 ABSALOM. How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom ! " He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself A moment on his child : then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; And, as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently — and left him there — As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. (The day before they were hanged on GibeaJi.) (2 Samuel xxi.) " Bread for my mother ! " said the voice of one Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up — And lo ! the princely countenance and mien Of dark-brow'd Armo.ii. The eye of Saul — The very voice and presence of the king — Limb, port, and majesty, — were present there, Mock'd like an apparition in her son. Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand With a kind smile, a something of his mother Unben^ ,ae haughty arching of his lip, And, through the darkness of the widow's heart Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. *' Whence comes t thou 1 " said Hizpah. ^' From the house Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — This in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said, ' A king's son takes it for his hungry mother I ' God stay the famine ! " As he spoke, a step. Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd. And like a beam of light into the room 29 30 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven Or creature of the wild — what flower of earth — Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul ? The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like The incarnation of some blessed dream — Its joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye ! Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ; And, but for nostrils of that breathing fire That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe As is the velvet muscle of the pard, Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. As if he were a vision that would fade, Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, Grew his bright form familiar, but, like stars, That seem'd each night new lit in a : _., neaven, He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child. Tenderly, fondly. But for him — the last — What had she done for heaven to be his mother 1 Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; She look'd at him for ever through her tears ; Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, As if the lightest thought of him had lain In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. The morning light was part of him, to her — What broke the day for, but to show his beauty 1 The hours but measured time till he should come : Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the star Back to the mountain top — and bade the sun RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. 31 Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him! Was this a heart gone wild ? — or is the love Of mothers like a madness ? — Such as this Is many a poor one in her humble home, Who silently and sweetly sits alone, Pouring her life all out upon her child. What cares she that he does not feel how close Her heart beats after his — that all unseen Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved By some sore needed Providence, he stops In his wild path and lifts a thought to heaven, What cares the mother that he does not see The link between the blessing and her prayer ? He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing Of what love is in heaven. We may believe That we shall know each other's forms hereafter. And, in the bright fields of the better land. Call the lost dead to us. Oh, conscious heart ! That in the lone paths of this shadowy world Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining. That broke upon the darkness of thy way — Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now. How many canst thou relight at the stars And blush not at their burning ? One — one only, Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time, And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — (Tho' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven,) Steadfast thro' all things — near, when most forgot — And with its finger of unerring truth ^ Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — One lamp — thy mother's love — amid the stars Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before 32 RIZPAH WITH HER SONS. The throne of God, burn through eternity — Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. The hand in salutation gently raised To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said " My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal — Lo ! this — my mother ! As I pass'd the street, I hid ifc in my mantle, for there stand Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, Watching to rob those who, from house to house, Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother ! Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee ! " [unfinished.] SCRIPTURAL POEMS, {FROM THE NEW TESTAMENT.) BAPTISM OF CHRIST. (St. Matthew iii.) It was a green spot in the wilderness, Tonch'd by the River Jordan. The dark pine Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass Of the broad circle stretching evenly To the straight larches, had a heavier foot Than the wild heron s trodden. Softly in Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool. Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, And, hushing as they spread into the light, Circled the edges of the pebbled tank Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild. Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush Of eve, and, with a multitude around. Who from the cities had come out to hear, He stood breast-high amid the running stream. Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. His simple raiment was of camel's hair, A leathern girdle close about his loins, 33 C 34 BAPTISM OP CHRIST. His beard unshorn, and for bis daily meat The locust and wild honey of the wood — But like the face of Moses on the Mount Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye Burn'd the mild fire of love — and as he spoke The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. Silent upon the green and sloping bank The people sat, and while the leaves were shook With the birds dropping early to their nests, And the grey eve came on, within their hearts They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast As he divined their thought. '* I but baptize," He said, " with water ; but there cometh One, The lachet of Whose shoes I may not dare E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire And with the Holy Ghost." And lo ! while yet The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes. And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid His raiment off, and with His loins alone Girt with a mantle, and His perfect limbs. In their angelic slightness, meek and bare, He waited to go in. But John forbade, And hurried to His feet and stayed Him there, And said, " Nay, Master ! I have need of Thine, Not Thou of mine I " And Jesus, with a smile Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks. And answer'd, " Suffer it to be so now ; For thus it doth become Me to fulfil All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, He took around him the Apostle's arm, And drew him gently to the midst. The wood Was thick with the dim twilight as they came CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 35 Up from the water. With his clasped hands Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently Follow'd his Master's steps — when lo ! a light, Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; And as a voice, fearful exceedingly. Broke from the midst, ''This is my much-loved Son, In whom I AM WELL PLEASED," a snow-whito dove. Floating upon its wings, descended through. And shedding a swift music from its plumes. Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. CHRISTS ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. (St. Matthew xi.) He sat upon the " ass's foal " and rode Toward Jerusalem. Beside Him walk'd, Closely and silently, the faithful Twelve, And on before Him went a multitude Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands Strewing their garments thickly in His way. Th' unbroken foal beneath Him gently stepp'd. Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song Of " Welcome to the Son of David " burst Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, And then, subdued by an invisible hand. Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 36 CHRISrS ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone As He rode up Mount Olivet. The woods Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west, And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind Sent o'er the Mount from Jordan. As He reach'd The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem ! Eagerly He bent forward, and beneath His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line Than the wont slighthess of His perfect limbs Betray'd the swelling fulness of His heart. There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — The silver sun on all her palaces. And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires Tending their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream Lacing the meadows with its silver band, And wreathing its mist- mantle on the sky With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — Jerusalem — the city of His love. Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem — That knew Him not — and had rejected Him ; Jerusalem — for whom He came to die ! The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fill'd With odour from the trampled olive-leaves — But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw His Master's tears, and closer to His side He came with yearning looks ; and on his neck The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, And mourn'd — " How oft, Jerusalem ! would I Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not ! " CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 37 He thought not of the death that He should die — He thought not of the thorns He knew must pierce His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! — Gethsemane stood out beneath His eye Clear in the morning sun, and there, He knew, While they who " could not watch with Him one hour " Were sleeping, He should sweat great drops of blood, Praying the "cup might pass." And Golgotha Stood bare and desert by the city wall. And in its midst, to His prophetic eye, Rose the rough cross, and its keen agonies Were number'd all — the nails were in His feet — Th' insulting sponge was pressing on His lips — The blood and water gushing from His side — The dizzy faintness swimming in His brain — And, while His own disciples fled in fear, A world's death-agonies all mix'd in His ! Ay ! — He forgot all this. He only saw Jerusalem, — the chos'n — the loved — the lost ! He only felt that for her sake His life Was vainly giv'n ; and, in His pitying love, The sufferings that would clothe the heavens in black Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love. In earth or heaven, equal unto this ? SS HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF yAIRUS. (St. Makk v.) Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve Stole through the lattice, and the dying gii 1 Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand Of the heart-broken Euler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips. And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes. And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turned upon her pillow. He was there — The same loved, tireless watcher, and she look'd Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name. She gently drew his hand upon her lips. And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, In the dead utter silence, that a breath Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse — and at her mouth He held the li^jrhtest curl that on her neck HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 39 Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness. • • • • • • • It was night — And softly o'er the Sea of Galilee Danced the breeze- ridden ripples to the shore, Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. The bieaking waves play'd low upon the beach Their constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock. With the broad moonlight falling on His brow. He stood and taught the people. At His feet Lay His small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, And staff — for they had waited by the sea Till He came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd For His wont teachings as He came to land. His hair was parted meekly on His brow, And the long curls from off His shoulders fell. As He leaned forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — And in His looks the same mild majesty — And in His mien the sadness mix'd with power — Fill'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly, As on His words entrancedly they hung, The crowd divided, and among them stood Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came. And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; And silently the people shrunk away, And left the haughty Ruler in the midst Alone. A moment longer on the face 40 HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, And, as the Twelve looked on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard ; and, drawing nigh TJnto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem Of His coarse mantle, and with trembling hands Press'd it upon his lips, and murmur'd low, " Master ! my daughter I " • •••••• The same silvery light That shone upon the lone rock by the sea Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and His disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor. Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps He trod the winding stair ; but ere he touch'd The latchet, from within a whisper came, " Trouble the Master not — for she is dead / " And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, ^^ She is not dead — hut sleepeth.'' They pass'd in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds — Not even a tassel stirring in the air — And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 4! And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of His breath As He grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er His calm, sad face ; And, drawing nearer to the bed, He moved The silken curtains silently apart, And look'd upon the maiden. Like a form Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips. And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in His palm, and said, " Maiden I Arise ! " — and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied colour ran ; And the still outline of her graceful form Stirr'd in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on His beaming countenance — arose ! 42 THE WIDOW OF NAIN. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. (St. Luke vii. ii.) The Eoman sentinel stood, helm'd and tall, Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread Of comers to the city mart was done. For it was almost noon, and a dead heat Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream Was broken by the solitary foot Of some poor mendicant, he raised his head To curse him for a tributary Jew, And slumberously dozed on. 'Twas now high noon. The dull, low murmur of a funeral Went through the city — the sad sound of feet Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Up the wide street along whose paved way The silent throng crept slowly. They came on. Bearing a body heavily on its bier. And by the crowd that in the burning sun Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, Bending beneath their burden. There was one — Only one mourner. Close behind the bier. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 43 Crumpling the pall up in lier ^vither'd hands, Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan Fell from her lips, thickened convulsively As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone— A widow with one son. He was her all — The only tie she had in the wide world — And he was dead. They could not comfort her. Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate The funeral came forth. His lips were pale With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat Stood thickly on His brow, and on the worn And simple latchets of His sandals lay Thick the white dust of travel. He had come Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not To wet His lips by green Bethsaida's pool. Nor wash His feet in Kishon's silver springs, Nor turn Him southward- upon Tabor's side To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. Genesareth stood cool upon the east, Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there The weary traveller might bide till eve. And on the alders of Bethuha's plains The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild ; Yet turn'd He not aside, but, gazing on. From every swelling mount. He saw afar, Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, The place of His next errand ; and the patli Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away Upon the east lay pleasant Galilee. Forth from the city gate the pitying crowd Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near 44 THE LEPER. The place of burial, and, with straining hands, Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall, And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's, And an inquiring wildness flashing through The thin grey lashes of her fever'd eyes, She came where Jesus stood beside the way. He look'd upon her, and His heart was moved. " Weep not ! " He said ; and as they stay'd the bier. And at His bidding laid it at His feet, He gently drew the pall from out her grasp. And laid it back in silence from the dead. m With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, And gazed on His calm looks. A minute's space He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand. He said, " Arise ! " And instantly the breast Heaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush Ran through the lines of the divided lips. And, with a murmur of his mother's name, He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, Jesus went calmly on His way to Nain. THE LEPER. (St. Luke xvii.) *' Room for the leper ! room ! " And, as he came, The cry pass'd on — " Room for the leper ! room ! ' Sunrise was slanting on the city gates Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills The early risen poor were coming in, Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum THE LEPER. 45 Of moving wheels and multitudes astir, And all that in a city murmur swells — Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear, Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick Hailing the welcome light and sounds that chase The death-like images of the dark away. '* Eoom for the leper ! " And aside they stood — Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all Who met him on his way — and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A leper with the ashes on his brow, Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip A covering, stepping painfully and slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is like an iron nerve put down. Crying, " Unclean ! unclean ! " 'Twas now the first Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves, WTiose shadows lay so still upon his path. Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young. And eminently beautiful, and life Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip And sparkled in his glance, and in his mien There was a gracious pride that every eye Follow'd with benisons — and this was he ! With the soft airs of summer there had come A torpor on his frame, which not the speed Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs The spirit to its bent, might drive away. The blood beat not as wont within his veins; Dimness crept o'er his eye ; a drowsy sloth Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien. 46 THE LEPER. With all its loftiness, seeni'd struck with eld. Even his voice was changed — a languid moan Taking the place of the clear silver key ; And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, Circled with livid purple, cover'd him. And then his nails grew black, and fell away From the dull flesh about them, and the hues Deepen 'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales, And from their edges grew the rank white hair, — And Helen was a leper ! Day was breaking When at the altar of the Temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helen knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom : — Depart ! depart, child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! THE LEPER. 47 For He has smote thee with His chastening rod ; And to the desert wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. Depart ! and come not near The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; Nor kneel thee do^vn to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well or river's grassy brink ; And pass thou not between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Wbere human tracks are seen ; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain. Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain. And now depart ! and when Thy heart is heavy and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. Depart ! O leper ! and forget not God ! And he went forth — alone ! not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak 48 THE LEPER. Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his vva}'', Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die ! For God had cursed the leper ! It was noon, And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch'd The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, Praying that he might be so blest — to die ! Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee. He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, '' Unclean ! unclean ! " and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face. He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — *' Helon ! " The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; And the dull pulses of disease awoke. And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon ! arise !" and he forgot his curse. And rose and stood before Him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on His brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; No followers at His back, nor in His hand Buckler, or sword, or spear, — yet in His mien Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, A kingly condescension graced His hps. The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. LAZARUS AND MARY, 49 His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; His stature modell'd with a perfect grace ; His countenance the impress of a God, Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child ; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon ; His hair, unshorn , Fell to His shoulders, and His curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile, As if His heart were moved, and stooping down. He took a little water in His hand And laid it on his brow, and said, " Be clean ! " And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins. And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd Him. LAZARUS AND MARY. (St. John xi.) Jesus was there but yesterday. The prints Of His departing feet were at the door ; His " Peace be with you ! " was yet audible In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear ; And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, Hush'd with His going forth, had been the breath Of angels left on watch — so conscious still The place seem'd of His presence ! Yet, within, D so LAZARUS AND MARY. The family by Jesus loved were weeping, For Lazarus lay dead. And Mary sat By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt With His benignant smile — the soft fair lines Breathing of hope — were still all eloquent, Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven. Toned with unearthly sweetness — that the light, Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids, Was veiling before God its timid iire, New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss, Not with this cold clay sleeping — Mary knew. Her heaviness of heart was not for him ! But close had been the tie by Death divided. The intertwining locks of that bright hair That wiped the feet of Jesus — the fair hands Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while He taught- Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison. Than with one soul this sister and her brother Had lock'd their lives together. In this love, Hallow'd from stain, the woman's heart of Mary Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became An office by archangels filVd till now, She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; And while, to the Apostle's eyes, it seem'd She but f uliiird her errand out of heaven — Sharing her low roof with the Son of God — She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; And the deep fervour, lost to passion's fire. Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay, LAZARUS AND MARY. 51 That it was not her brother. He was there — Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave — The same loved one in all his comeliness — And with him to the grave her heart must go. What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay, Hover'd in spirit near her ? — 'twas that arm, Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew ! It was that lip of marble with whose kiss, Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. This was the form by the Judean maids Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walk'd With her by Kedron in the eventide — The dead was Lazarus ! • •••••• The burial was over, and the night Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon ; And comforters and mourners went their way — But Death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this Was more than solitude. The silence now Was void of expectation. Something felt Always before, and loved without a name, — Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, Welcome and life from off the very walls, — Seem'd gone — and in the chamber where he lay There was a fearful and unbreathing hush, Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary The shadows all have known, who, from their hearts. Have released friends to heaven. The parting soul Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun ; And, to the eye strain'd after, ' tis a cloud That bars the light from all things. 52 LAZARUS AND MARY. Now as Christ Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh When He would go again, as He had said, Unto His Father ; and she felt that He, Who loved her brother Lazarus in life. Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death In no unkind forgetfulness. Alone She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, *' Thy will be done, God ! " — but that dear brother Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ ; And ever, at the mom, when she had knelt And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus To bind His sandals on, and follow forth With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair — Intent upon the Master's need alone. Indissolubly link'd were they ! And now. To go to meet Him — Lazarus not there — And to His greeting answer " It is well ! " And, without tears, (since grief would trouble Him Whose soul was always sorrowful,) to kneel And minister alone — her heart gave way ! She cover'd up her face and turn'd again To wait within for Jesus. But once more Came Martha, saying, " Lo ! the Lord is here And calleth for thee, Mary ! " Then arose The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair, And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still, As she made ready to go forth, a calm As in a dream fell on her. At a fount LAZARUS AND MARY. 53 Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near Were the way-worn disciples in the shade ; But, of Himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd Upon His staff, and watch'd where she should come To whose one sorrow — but a sparrow's falling — The pity that redeem'd a world could bleed ! And, as she came, with that uncertain step, — Eager, yet weak, — her hands upon her breast, — And they who follow'd her all fallen back To leave her with her sacred grief alone, — The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near. And the disciples rose up from the fount, Moved by her look of woe, and gathered round; And Mary — for a moment — ere she look'd Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet, — And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; Then, with a vain strife to control her tears. She stagger'd to their midst, and at His feet Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst Thou been here, My brother had not died ! " The Saviour groan'd In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised The mourner from the ground, and in a voice. Broke in its utterance like her own, He said, " Where have ye laid him ? " Then the Jews who came, Following Mary, answer'd through their tears, " Lord ! come and see ! " But lo ! the mighty heart That in Gethsemane sweat drops of blood, Taking for us the cup that might not pass — The heart whose breaking cord upon the cross Made the earth tremble and the sun afraid To look upon His agony — the heart Of a lost world's Redeemer overflovv'd, Touch'd by a mourner's sorrow ! Jesus wept. 54 LAZARUS AND MARY. Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother, Stood Mary there ; but that lost burden now Lay on His heart who pitied her ; and Christ, Following slow, and groaning in Himself, Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, " Take ye away the stone ! " Then lifted He His moisten'd eyes to heaven, and while the Jews And the disciples bent their heads in awe. And trembling Mary sank upon her knees. The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased, And for a minute's space there was a hush, As if th' angelic watchers of the world Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ Shone as He stood, and over Him there came Command, as 'twere the living face of God, And with a loud voice He cried, '' Lazarus ! Come forth ! " And instantly, bound hand and foot. And borne by unseen angels from the cave. He that was dead stood with them. At the word Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed The bands from off the foldings of his shroud ; And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside, Ran to him swiftly, and cried, " Lazarus ! My brother, Lazarus ! " and tore away The napkin she had bound about his head — And touch'd the warm lips with her fearful hand-- And on his neck fell weeping. And while all Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down And worshipp'd Him who loved them. SCENES IN GETHSEMANE. 55 SCENES IN GETHSEMANE. (St. Matthew xxvi. ) The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim ; And the deep silence which subdues the breath Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice, With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear Of His disciples, it vibrated on Like the first whisper in a silent world. They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses Of His deep love were pour'd. He felt the need Of near communion, for His gift of strength Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. He left them there and went a little on. And in the depth of that hush'd silentness. Alone with God, He fell upon His face ; And as His heart was broken with the rush Of His surpassing agony, and death, Wrung to Him from a dying universe. Was mightier than the Son of Man could bear, He gave His sorrows way — and in the deep Prostration of His soul, breathed out the prayer, " Father, if it be possible with Thee, Let this cup pass from ^[e." Oh, how a word, Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks. 56 SCENES IN GETHSEMANE. Still eth the press of human agony ! The Saviour felt its quiet in His soul; And though His strength was weakness, and the light Which led Him on till now was sorely dim, He breathed a new submission — *' Not my will, But Thine be done, Father ! " As He spoke. Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky. As if the stars were swept like instruments. No clouds were visible, but radiant wings Were coming with a silvery rush to earth ; And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one. With an illumined forehead, and the light Whose fountain is the mystery of God, Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to Him, And nerved Him with a ministry of strength. It was enough — and with His Godlike brow Re-written of His Father's messenger. With meekness, whose divinity is more Than power and glory. He return'd again To His disciples, and awaked their sleep. For " he that should betray Him was at hand." RELIGIOUS POEMS. RELIGIOUS POEMS. TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APENNINES. Mother ! dear mother ! the feelings nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 'Tvvas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 'Tis the only one that will long remain : And as year by year, and day by day. Some friend still trusted drops away, Mother ! dear mother! oh, dost thou see How the shortened chain brin'js me nearer thee f —Early Poems. 'Tis midnight the lone mountains on — The East is fleck'd with cloudy bars, And, gUding through them one by one, The moon walks up her path of stars — The light upon her placid brow Keceived from fountains unseen now. And happiness is mine to-night, Thus springing from an unseen fount; And breast and brain are warm with light, With midnight round me on the mount — Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flow From far that Western star below. Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — And, sun-like, thou hast power to give Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! Though wandering, as this moon above, I'm dark without thy constant love. 59 6o THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD, They tell me thou art come from a far world, Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — That through these fringed lids we see the soul Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say. Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, To find thy way through darkness home again 1 Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, The cherub and the angel thou may'st be, A life's probation in this sadder world ? Art thou, with memory of two things only, Music and light, left upon earth astray. And by the watchers at the gate of heaven Look'd for with fear and trembling ? God ! who gavest Into my guiding hand this wanderer. To lead her through a world whose darkling paths I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — The angels who now visit her in dreams ! Bid them be near her pillow till in death The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! And let the light and music, which the world THIRTY-FIVE. 6i Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense Hails with sweet recognition, be to her A voice to call her upward, and a lamp To lead her steps unto Thee THIRTY-FIVE. " The years of a man's life are threescore and ten." Oh, weary heart ! thou'rt half-way home ! We stand on life's meridian height — As far from childhood's morning come, As to the grave's forgetful night. Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — Look onward with a placid brow — Hope promised but to bring us here, And Reason takes the guidance now — One backward look — the last — the last ! One silent tear — for Youth is past I Who goes with Hope and Passion back 1 Who comes with me and Memory on ? Oh, lonely looks the downward track — Joy's music hush'd — Hope's roses gone ! To Pleasure and her giddy troop Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! But heart gives way, and spirits droop. To think that Love may leave us here ! Have we no charm when Youth is flown — Midway to death left sad and lone ! Yet stay ! — as 'twere a twilight star That sends its threads across the wave, I see a brightening light, from far. Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 62 THE SABBATH. And now — bless God ! — its golden line Comes o'er, and lights my shadowy way, And shows the dear hand clasp 'd in mine. But list what those sweet voices say : The better land's in sight, And, by its chastening light, All love from life's midway is driven, Save hers ivhose clasped hand will bring thee on to heaven. THE SABBATH. It was a pleasant morning, in the time When the leaves fall, and the bright sun shone out As when the morning stars first sang together — So quietly and calmly fell his light Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all Was still. The lab'ring herd was grazing Upon the hill-side quietly — uncall'd By the harsh voice of man ; and distant sound. Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, And then another of the morning, calm And still as Eden ere the birth of man. And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells — And the old man and his descendants went Together to the house of God. I join'd The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man Hose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith — And the grey saint, just on the wing for hea,ven — And the fair maid — and the bright-hair'd young man- And child of curling locks, just taught to close The lash of its blue eye the while ; — all knelt ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. 63 In attitude of prayer — and then the hymn, Sincere in its low melody, went up To worship God. The white-hair'd pastor rose And iook'd upon his flock, and with an eye That told his interest, and voice that spoke In tremulous accents eloquence like Paul's, He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths Of revelation, and persuasion came Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. I went my way — but as I went, I thought How holy was the Sabbath-day of God. ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. How beautiful it is for man to die Upon the walls of Zion ! to be call'd, Like a watch- worn and weary sentinel, To put his armour off, and rest — in heaven ! The sun was setting on Jerusalem, The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque Like molten silver. Everything was fair ; And beauty hung upon the painted fanes. Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men Were in the busy streets, and nothing Iook'd Like woe or suffering, save one small train Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by, 64 ON THE DEATH OF A MISSIONARY. And left no trace upon the busy throng. The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout Of joyous revelry, and the low hum Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ! Life look'd as winning ; and the earth and sky, And everything seem'd strangely bent to make A contrast to that comment upon life. How wonderful it is that human pride Can pass that touching moral as it does — Pass it so frequently, in all the force Of mournful and most simple eloquence — And learn no lesson ! They bore on the dead, With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not By the rude multitude, save, here and there, A look of vague inquiry, or a curse Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall. And Israel too pass'd on — the trampled Jew ! Israel ! — who made Jerusalem a throne For the wide world — pass'd on as carelessly, Giving no look of interest to tell The shrouded dead was anything to her. Oh, that they would be gather'd as a brood Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings ! They laid him down with strangers, for his home Was with the setting sun, and they who stood And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave Were not his kindred ; but they found him there. And loved him for his ministry of Christ. He had died young ; but there are silver'd heads Whose race of duty is less nobly run. His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties Religion makes so beautiful at home. ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 65 He flung them from him in his eager race, And sought the broken people of his God, To preach to them of Jesus. There was one Who was his friend and helper — one who went And knelt beside him at the sepulchre Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. They had one spirit, and their hearts were knit With more than human love. God call'd him home, And he of whom I speak stood up alone. And in his broken-heartedness wrought on Until his Master call'd him. Oh, is it not a noble thing to die. As dies the Christian, with his armour on 1 What is the hero's clarion, though its blast Ring with the mastery of a world, to this ? — What are the searching victories of mind — The lore of vanish'd ages ? — What are all The trumpetings of proud humanity. To the short history of him who made His sepulchre beside the King of kings ? ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. She stood up in the meekness of a heart Resting on God, and held her fair young child Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith That it would be, even as he had pray'd. And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold Of Jesus. As the holy words went on, E 66 CO NT EM PL A TION. Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft AVith the baptismal water. Then I thought That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears Would be a deeper covenant — which sin, And the temptations of the world, and death, Would leave unbroken — and that she would know, In the clear light of heaven, how very strong The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been. In leading its young spirit up to God. CONTEMPLATION. *' They are all up — the innumerable stars — And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been Searching the pearly depths through which they spring Like beautiful creations, till I feel As if it were a new and perfect world. Waiting in silence for the word of God To breathe it into motion. There they stand, Shining in order, like a living hymn Written in light, awakening at the breath Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. I would I had an eagle's ear to list That melody. I would that I might float Up in that boundless element, and feel Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse Beating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst For music — rarer music ! I would bathe My soul in a serener atmosphere Than this; I long to mingle with the flock CONTEMPLA TION. 67 Led by the 'living waters,' and to stray In the ' green pastures ' of the better land ! When wilt thou break, dull fetter ? When shall I Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven 1 " Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom Life had been like the witching of a dream, Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born Of a high race, and lay upon the knee, With her soft eyes perusing listlessly The fretted roof, or, on mosaic floors, G-rasped at the tesselated squares inwrought With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd Like a fairy — amid fountains and green haunts — Trying her little feet upon a lawn Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair And pearly altar to crush incense on. Her youth — oh ! that was queenly ! She was like A dream of poetry that may not be Written or told — exceeding beautiful ! And so came worshippers ; and rank bow'd down And breathed upon her heart-strings with the breath Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step A majesty as if she trod the sea. And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her ! And so she grew to woman — her mere look Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand The ambition of a kingdom. From all this Turn'd her high heart away ! She had a mind, Deep and immortal, and it would not feed On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring Of a serener element, and drank Philosophy, and for a little while 68 THE BELFRY PIGEON. She was allay'd — till, presently, it turn'd Bitter within her, and her spirit grew Faint for undying water. Then she came To the pure fount of God, and is athirst No more — save when the fever of the world Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, Out in the starUght quietness, and breathe A holy aspiration after heaven. THE BELFRY PIGEON. On the cross-beam under the Old South bell The nest of a pigeon is builded well. In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air ; I love to see him track the street. With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs. Circling the steeple with easy wings, Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel — He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — Chime of the hour or funeral knell — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- When the sexton cheerily rings for noon — DEDICATION HYMN. 69 When the clock strikes clear at morning light- When the child is waked with " nine at night "^ When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer — Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, Or, rising half in his rounded nest. He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen. Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest. Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. DEDICATION HYMN. [Written to be sung at the consecration of the Hanover Street Church, Boston.] The perfect world by Adam trod Was the first temple — built by God ; His fiat laid the corner-stone, And heaved its pillars, one by one. He hung its starry roof on high — The broad illimitable sky ; 70 THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. He spread its pavement, green and bright, And curtain'd it with morning light. The mountains in their places stood — The sea — the sky — and " all was good ; " And, when its first pure praises rang, The " morning stars together sang." Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea And earth and sky a house for Thee ; But in Thy sight our off 'ring stands — A humbler temple, " made with hands." THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven ! Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! But lo ! while you delay to let her forth. Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss From lips all pale with agony, and tears, Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! O mother ! But not that from this cup of bitterness A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. One look upon thy face ere thou depart i My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears. And turning with strange tenderness to thee — THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. 71 A love — God ! it seems so — that must flow Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows No place to treasure up its loved and lost But the foul grave ! Thou, who so late wast sleeping Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving But it was sent thee with some tender thought, How can I leave thee — Jiere ! Alas for man ! The herb in its humility may fall And waste into the bright and genial air, While we, by hands that minister'd in life Nothing but love to us, are thrust away — The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever ! Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, A bank where I have lain in summer hours. And thought how little it would seem like death To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook. Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; The birds are never silent that build here, Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers. And far below, seen under arching leaves. Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, Pointing the living after thee. And this Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now The flowers that have made room for thee, I go To whisper the same peace to her who lies — Bobb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work n A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, To bring the heart back from an infant gone. Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot The images from all the silent rooms, And every sight and sound familiar to her Undo its sweetest link — and so at last The fountain — that, once struck, must flow for ever- Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, And, standing by thy music-haunted grave. Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — A child that toe have loved is gone to heaven, And by this gate of flowei^s she 'passed away / A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile. Child of my love ! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — A heart that, from its struggle with the world, Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings, Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs. And drink its sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven. May take a blemish from the breath of love, And bear the blight for ever. I have wept With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! My life is bound up in her. But, God ! A ''CHILD TIRED OF PLAY:' 73 Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times Bears its sweet burthen ; and if Thou hast given To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, Take Thou its love, I pray thee ! Give it light — Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light Shining about her, draw me to my child ! And link us close, God, when near to heaven ! ON THE PICTURE OF A ''CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." Tired of play ! Tired of play ! What hast thou done this livelong day ! The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; Twilight gathers, and day is done — How hast thou spent it — restless one ? Playing 1 But what hast thou done beside To tell thy mother at eventide ? What promise of morn is left unbroken 1 What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven "i How with thy faults has duty striven 1 What hast thou learn'd by field and hill. By greenwood path, and by singing rill 1 There will come an eve to a longer day. That will find thee tired— but not of play ! 74 TO A CITY PIGEON. And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, With drooping limbs and aching brow, And wish the shadows would faster creep, And long to go to thy quiet sleep. Well were it then if thine aching brow Were as free from sin and shame as now ! Well for thee if thy lip could tell A tale like this, of a day spent well. If thine open hand hath relieved distress — If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness — If thou hast forgiven the sore offence. And humbled thy heart with penitence — - If Nature's voices have spoken to thee With her holy meanings eloquently — If every creature hath won thy love. From the creeping worm to the brooding dove — If never a sad, low- spoken word Hath pled with thy human heart unheard — Then, when the night steals on, as now. It will bring relief to thine aching brow. And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest. Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. TO A CITY PIGEON. Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove Thy daily visits have touch'd my love ; I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. TO A CITY PIGEON. 75 Why dost thoii sit on the heated eaves, And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves ? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? How canst thou bear This noise of people — this sultry air ] Thou alone of the feather'd race Dost looked unscared on the human face ; Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; And the " gentle dove " Has become a name for trust and love. A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word ! Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild In the prison'd thoughts of the city child ; And thy glossy wings Are its brightest image of moving things. It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, To stir the love for the bright and fair That else were seal'd in this crowded air ; I sometimes dream Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. Come then, ever, when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves, And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low sweet music out ! I hear and see Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! 76 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. She had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world. And this were its first eve. She stood alone By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That look'd so still and delicate above, Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile. As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively — " Father ! dear father ! God has made a star ! " LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. yy LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. Bright flag at yonder tapering mast ! Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars ! Point home, my country's flag of stars ! The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze, And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas ! Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail. In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale, I've seen your semblance in the sky. And long'd with breaking heart to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! Adieu ! lands of fame and eld ! I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line come hurrying back ; My lips are dry with vague desire, My cheek once more is hot with joy — My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! — Oh, what has changed that traveller- boy 1 As leaves the ship this dying foam. His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home Adieu ! soft and southern shore, Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven — ■ yS LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. Those forms of beauty seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! Oh, still th' enamour'd sun delays, And pries through fount and crumbling fane. To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again ! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home for ever ; And could I live for this alone — Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slaves' can be — Held not the West one glorious star, New-born and blazing for the free — Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet — Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget I Adieu ! O fatherland ! I see Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee. My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! As knows the dove the task you give her, When loosed upon a foreign shore — As spreads the raindrop in the river In which it may have flovv'd before — To England, over vale and mountain. My fancy flew from climes more fair — My blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ptan warm and fast in England's air. Dear mother ! in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears ! On long, long darkness breaks the light — Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 79 Sleep safe, wave-worn mariner ! Fear not to-night or storm or sea ! The ear of Heaven bends low to hei' ! He comes to shore who sails with me ! The spider knows the roof unriven, While swings his web, though lightnings blaze — And by a thread still fast on Heaven, I know my mother lives and prays ! Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — When first our tears will let us see — When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had — For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! But there's a change, beloved mother ! To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; I come, but with me comes another To share the heart once only mine ! Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, One star arose in memory's heaven — Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only — Water'd one flower with tears at even — Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left Is darken'd to lend light to ours ! There are bright flowers of care bereft. And hearts that languish more than flowers ! She was their light — their very air — Ptoom, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy pi^yer ! 8o DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE, ON THE DEPARTURE OF REV. MR. WHITE FROM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN PRESIDENT OP WABASH COLLEGE. Leave us not, man o£ prayer ! Like Paul, hast thou *' Served God with all humility of mind," Dwelling among us, and *' with many tears," *' From house to house," " by night and day not ceasing," Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not ! Leave us not now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long Link'd with thy voice — the prelude to thy prayer — The call to us from heaven to come with thee Into the house of God, and, from thy lips, Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart — will sound Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone I Our prayers are in thy words — our hope in Christ Warm'd on thy lips — our darkling thoughts of God Follow'd thy loved call upward — and so knit Is all our worship with those outspread hands. And the imploring voice, which, well we knew, Sank in the ear of Jesus — that, with thee, The angel's ladder seems removed from sight. And we astray in darkness ! Leave us not ! Leave not the dead ! They have lain calmly down — Thy comfort in their ears — believing well That when thine own more holy work was done, Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near When the last trump shall summon, to fold up Thy flock affrighted, and, with that same voice Whose whisper 'd promises could sweeten death. Take up once more the interrupted strain, And wait Christ's coming, saying, *' Here am I, DEPARTURE OF REV. MR, WHITE. 8i And those whom Thou hast given me ! " Leave not The old, who, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling To their accustom'd staff, and know not how To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour ! Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine ! Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth'd — the heart Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not The child thou hast baptized ! another's care May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart. The covenant seal ; the infant's ear has caught Words it has strangely ponder'd from thy Hps, And the remember'd tone may find again, And quicken for the harvest, the first seed Sown for eternity 1 Leave not the child ! Yet, if thou wilt — if, " bound in spirit," thou Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, " The will of God be done ! " We do not say Remember us : thou wilt — in love and prayer ! And thou wilt be remember'd — by the dead, When the last trump awakes them — by the old, When of the *' silver cord," whose strength thou knowest, The last thread fails — by the hereaved and stricken. When the dark cloud, wherein thou found'st a spot Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again — - By the sad mother, pleading for her child, In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone — By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath- bell Brings us together, and the closing hymn Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not Upon our listening ears. Remember'd thus — Remember'd well — in all our holiest hours — 82 A TRUE INCIDENT. Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost ! And ever with one prayer, for which our love Will find the pleading words,— that in the light Of heaven we may behold his face once more I A TRUE INCIDENT. Upon a summer's morn, a Southern mother Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn. She rested from long travel, and, with hand Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, Look'd where the busy travellers went and came ; And, like the shadows of the swallows flying Over the bosom of unruffled water, Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there. As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven — For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro, A nurse walk'd singing with her babe in arms. And many a passer-by look'd on the child And praised its wondrous beauty ; but still on The old nurse troll'd her lullaby, and still. Blest through her depths of soul by light there shining. The mother in her reverie mused on. But lo ! another traveller alighted ! And now, no more indifferent or calm, The mother's breath comes quick, and, with the blood Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, " Now, God be praised ! I am no more alone In knowing I've an angel for my child, — Chance he to look on't only ! " With a smile — The tribute of a beauty-loving heart To things from God new-moulded — would have pass'd The poet, as the infant caught his eye ; A TRUE INCIDENT. 83 But suddenly he turn'd, and, with his hand Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps, And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, Something to waken wonder. Never sky In noontide depth or softly-breaking dawn — Never the dew in new-born violet's cup, Lay so entranced in purity ! Not calm, With the mere hush of infancy at rest, The ample forehead, but serene with thought; And by the rapt expression of the lips, They seemed scarce still from a cherubic hymn : And over all its countenance there breathed Benignity, majestic as we dream Angels wear ever before God. With gaze Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child ; And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd Close to an angel, went upon his way. Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven This cherub was recall'd, and now the mother Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard — (Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart Familiar to the world,) — and wrote to tell him. The angel he had recognised that morn Had fled to bliss again. The poet well Remember'd that child's ministry to him ; And of the only fountain that he knew For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. And thus he wrote : — Mourn not for the child from thy tenderness riven, Ere stain on its purity fell / To thy questioning heart, lo ! an answer from heaven: "Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD ? " " It IS WELL ! " 84 BIRTHDAY VERSES. BIRTHDAY VERSES. " The heart that we have lain near before our birth, is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us." — Philip Slingsby. My birthday ! — beloved mother ! My heart is with thee o'er the seas. I did not think to count another Before I wept upon thy knees — Before this scroll of absent years Was blotted with thy streaming tears. i My own I do not care to check. I weep — albeit here alone — | As if I hung upon thy neck, As if thy lips were on my own, As if this full, sad heart of mine Were beating closely upon thine. Four weary years' ! How looks she now 1 What light is in those tender eyes ? What trace of time has touch'd the brow Whose look is borrow'd of the skies That listen to her nightly prayer ? How is she changed since he was there ? Who sleeps upon her heart alway — Whose name upon her lips is worn — - For whom the night seems made to pray — > For whom she wakes to pray at morn — Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir Who weeps these tears — to think of her/ BIRTHDAY VERSES. 85 I know not if my mother's eyes Would find me changed in slighter things ; I've wander'd beneath many skies, And tasted of some bitter springs ; And many leaves, once fair and gay. From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — But, as these looser leaves depart, The lessen'd flower gets near the core, And, when deserted quite, the heart Takes closer what was dear of yore — And yearns to those who loved it first — The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? Am I remember'd in my home ? When those I love for joy are met. Does some one wish that I would come ? Thou dost — I am beloved of these ! But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er Night after night the Pleiades And finds the stars he found before — As turns the maiden oft her token — As counts the miser aye his gold — So, till life's silver cord is broken, Would I of thy fond love be told. My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — Dear mother! dost thou love thy long- lost wanderer yet? Oh ! when the hour to meet again Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea, My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain, And link by link draws nearer thee — When land is hail'd, and from the shore Comes off the blessed breath of home, 86 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. With fragrance from my mother's door Of flowers forgotten when I come — When port is gain'd, and, slowly now, The old familiar paths are pass'd, And, entering — unconscious how — I gaze upon thy face at last. And run to thee, all faint and weak, And feel thy tears upon my cheek — Oh ! if my heart break not with joy, The light of heaven will fairer seem ; And I shall grow once more a boy : And, mother ! — 'twill be like a dream That we were parted thus for years — And, once that we have dried our tears, How will the days seem long and bright — To meet thee always with the morn. And hear thy blessing every night — Thy " dearest," thy '' first-born ! "— And be no more, as now, in a strange land forlorn ! SATURDAY AFTERNOON. [Written for a Picture.] I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old. And my locks are not yet grey ; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly. To catch the thrill of a happy voice. And the light of a pleasant eye. REVERIE AT GLEN MARY. 87 I have walk'd the world for fourscore years ; And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true — it is very true ; I'm old, and " I bide my time : " But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on, play on ; I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring ; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay. And I whoop the smother'd call. And my feet slip up on the seedy floor. And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come. And I shall be glad to go ; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low ; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way ; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness To see the young so gay. REVERIE AT GLEN MARY. I HAVE enough, God ! My heart to-night Buns over with its fulness of content ; And as I look out on the fragrant stars. And from the beauty of the night take in 88 REVERIE AT GLENMARY. My priceless portion — yet myself no more Than in the universe a grain of sand — I feel His glory who could make a world, Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness Leave not a flower unfinish'd ! Eich, though poor ! My low-roof'd cottage is this hour a heaven. Music is in it — and the song she sings, That sweet- voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear Of my young child awake upon her knee ; And with his calm eye on his master's face, My noble hound lies couchant — and all here — All in this little home, yet boundless heaven — Are, in such love as I have power to give, Blessed to overflowing. Thou, who look'st Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, Knowest its fulness, as Thou dost the dew Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; And, as that flower, from its unseen abode, Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky. Changing its gift to incense, so, God ! May the sweet drops that to my humble cup Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee, Fragrance at Thy throne welcome ! COLLEGE POEMS. COLLEGE POEMS, EXTRACT From a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class of Yale College in 1827. • •••••* We shall go forth together. There will come Alike the day of trial unto all, And the rude world will buffet us alike. Temptation hath a music for all ears ; And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; And the ungovernable thought within Will be in every bosom eloquent ; — But when the silence and the calm come on, And the high seal of character is set, We shall not all be similar. The flow Of lifetime is a graduated scale ; And deeper than the vanities of power, Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ A standard measuring its worth for heaven. The pathway to the grave may be the same, And the proud man shall tread it, and the low, With his bow'd head, shall bear him company. Decay will make no difference, and Death, With his cold hand, shall make no difference ; And there will be no precedence of power In waking at the coming trump of God ; 91 92 COLLEGE POEMS. But in the temper of the invisible mind, The godlike and undying intellect, There are distinctions that will live in heaven, When time is a forgotten circumstance ! The elevated brow of kings will lose The impress of regalia, and the slave Will wear his immortality as free, Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth Of glory in the attributes of God Will measure the capacities of mind ; And as the angels differ, will the ken Of gifted spirits glorify him more. It is life's mystery. The soul of man Createth its own destiny of power ; And, as the trial is intenser here, His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. What is its earthly victory ? Press on ! For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on ! For it shall make you mighty among men ; And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, Ye shall look down on monarchs. Oh, press on For the high ones and powerful shall come To do you reverence, and the beautiful Will know the purer language of your brow. And read it like a talisman of love ! Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose The spirit, and forget yourself in thought ; Bending a pinion for the deeper sky. And, in the very fetters of your flesh. Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! Press on ! — " for in the grave there is no work, And no device." Press on ! while yet ye may ! So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst COLLEGE POEMS. 93 Of his immortal nature ; and he rends The rock for secret fountains, and pursues The path of the illimitable wind For mysteries — and this is human pride ! There is a gentler element, and man May breathe it with a calm, unruffled soul, And drink its living waters till his heart Is pure — and this is human happiness ! Its secret and its evidence are writ In the broad book of Nature. 'Tis to have Attentive and believing faculties ; To go abroad rejoicing in the joy Of beautiful and well-created things ; To love the voice of waters, and the sheen Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; To thrill with the rich melody of birds. Living their life of music ; to be glad In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm ; To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree ; To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world I It is to linger on " the magic face Of human beauty," and from light and shade Alike to draw a lesson ; 'tis to love The cadences of voices that are tuned By majesty and purity of thought ; To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star Whose purity and distance make it fair ; And in the gush of music to be still. And feel that it has purified the heart ! It is to love all virtue for itself. All nature for its breathing evidence ; And, when the eye hath seen, and when the ear Hath drunk the beautiful harmony of the world, 94 COLLEGE POEMS. It is to humble the imperfect mind, And lean the broken spirit upon God ! Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true To the great moral of a passing world. Thus would I — like a just-departing child, Who lingers on the threshold of his home — Remember the best lesson of the lips Whose accents shall be with us now, no more ! And I would press the lesson ; that, when life Hath half become a weariness, and hope Thirsts for serener waters, go abroad Upon the paths of Nature, and, when all Its voices whisper, and its silent things Are breathing the deep beauty of the world, Kneel at its simple altar, and the God Who hath the living waters shall be there ! EXTRACTS From a Poem delivered at Brown University in 1 830. What is amhition ? 'Tis a glorious cheat ! Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly The sapphire walls of heaven. The unsearch'd mine Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones Have not such pomp of purple and of gold. It hath no features. In its face is set A mirror, and the gazer sees his own. It looks a god, but it is like himself / It hath a mien of empery, and smiles Majestically sweet — but how like him/ It follows not with fortune. It is seen Rarely or never in the rich man's hall. COLLEGE POEMS, 95 It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy, And lifts his humble window, and comes in. The narrow walls expand, and spread away Into a kingly palace, and the roof Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write His name in burning letters over all. And ever, as he shuts his wilder'd eyes, The phantom comes and lays upon his lids A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay. He is its slave henceforth ! His days are spent In chaining down his heart, and watching where To rise by human weaknesses. His nights Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours. His kindred are forgotten or estranged. Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye. His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd Half into scorn— till the bright, fiery boy, That was a daily blessing but to see. His spirit was so bird-like and so pure. Is frozen, in the very flush of youth. Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man ! And what is its reward % At best a name ! Praise — when the ear has grown too dull to hear ! Gold — when the senses it should please are dead ! Wreaths— when the hair they cover has grown grey ! Fame— when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb ! All things but love — when love is all we want. And close behind comes Death, and ere we know That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours, He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave ! 96 COLLEGE POEMS. Yet, oh ! what godhke gifts neglected lie Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul ! The finest workmanship of God is there. 'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind ; 'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air ; Fire, and wind, and water do its will ; Earth has no secret from, its delicate eye — The air no alchemy it solveth not ; The star-writ heavens are read and understood, And every sparry mineral hath a name, And truth is recognised, and beauty felt, And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow. How is it so forgotten ? Will it live When the great firmament is roll'd away ? HatJi it a voice, for ever audible, " I AM ETERNAL " ? Can it overcome This mocking passion-fiend, and even here Live like a seraph upon truth and light ? How can we ever be the slaves we are, With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts ! How can we creep so lowly, when our wings Tremble and plead for freedom ! Look at him Who reads aright the image on his soul. And gives it nurture like a child of light. His life is calm and blessed, for his peace, Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken. Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure, For the soul's errands are not done with men. His senses are subdued and serve the soul. He feels no void, for every faculty Is used, and the fine balance of desire Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on. Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed. COLLEGE POEMS. 97 And temperance has driven out unrest. He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more Of anything he needs. The air of heaven Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow ; He has his portion of each silver star Sent to his eye as freely, and the light Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear As on the golden missal of a king. The spicy flowers are free to him ; the sward, And tender moss, and matted forest leaves Are as elastic to his weary feet ; The pictures in the fountains, and beneath The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light, Stay while he gazes on them ; the bright birds Know not that he is poor, and as he comes From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark Mounting and singing to the gate of heaven. And merrily away the little brook Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice Almost articulate, of perfect joy. Air to his forehead, water to his lips. Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully, And his own faculties as freely play. Love fills his voice with music, and the tear Springs at as light a bidding to his eye. And his free limbs obey him, and his sight Flies on its wondrous errands everywhere. What does he need ? Next to the works of God, His friends are the rapt sages of old time. And they impart their wisdom to his soul In lavish fulness, when and where he will. He sits in his mean dwelling, and communes With Socrates and Plato, and the shades Of all great men and holy, and the words Written in fire by Milton, and the king 98 THE ELMS OF NEW HA VEN. Of Israel, and the troop o£ glorious bards, Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky — And what is it to him, if these come in And visit him, that at his humble door There are no pillars with rich capitals, And walls of curious workmanship within ? THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. [Extracts from a Poem delivered before the Linonian Society of Yale College, Neiv Haven.] The leaves we knew Are gone these many summers, and the winds Have scatter'd them all roughly through the world. But still, in calm and venerable strength, The old stems lift their burthens up to heaven. And the young leaves, to the same pleasant tune, Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair. The shadows have the same cool, emerald air ; And prodigal as ever is the breeze, Distributing the verdure's temperate balm. The trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong Of the long-wandering and returning heart, Is for the thing least changed. A stone unturn'd Is sweeter than a strange or alter' d face ; A tree, that flings its shadows as of yore. Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words Of a long-look' d- for lip fall icy cold. Ye, who in this Academy of shade, Dreamt out the scholar's dream, and then away THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 99 On troubled seas went voyaging with Care, But hail to-day the well-remember'd haven — Ye, who at memory's trumpet-call, have stay'd The struggling foot of life, the warring hand, And, weary of the strife, come back to see The green tent where your harness was put on — Say — when you trod the shadowy street this morn, Leapt not your heart up to the glorious trees ? Say — was it only to my sleep they came — The angels, who to these remember'd trees Brought me back, ever ? I have come, in dream, From many a far land, many a brighter sky, And trod these dappled shadows till the morn. From every Gothic aisle my heart fled home, From every groinM roof, and pointed arch. To find its type in emerald beauty here. The moon we worshipp'd thro' this trembling veil. In other heavens seem'd garish and unclad. The stars that burn'd to us thro' whispering leaves, Stood cold and silently in other skies. Stiller seem'd alway here the holy dawn Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees ; And who, that ever, on a Sabbath morn. Sent thro' this leafy roof a prayer to heaven, And when the sweet bells burst upon the air. Saw the leaves quiver, and the flecks of light Leap like caressing angels to the feet Of the church-going multitude, but felt That here, God's day was holier — that the trees, Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing ever " To prayer ! " '' To prayer ! " were but the lofty roof Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs Breezes and storm-winds, and the many birds Join'd in the varied anthem ; and that so. Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs, L.ofC. lOO THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. Closer, and readier to our need they lay — The spirits who keep watch 'twixt ns and heaven. Alas ! not spirits of bright wing alone " Dwell by the oracle of God." The tree That with its bright spray fans the sacred spire, And trembles like a seraph's lyre to prayer, Is peopled with the lying ministers To new-born passions, who, with couchant ear, Follow the lone steps of the musing boy, And ere the wild wish struggles to the light, Mask its dark features, and with silvery voice Promise it wings resistless. Back, to-day, Comes many a foot, all wearily and slow. That went into the world with winged heel ; And many a man, still young, though wisely sad.^, Paces the sweet old shadows with a sigh. The spirits are so mute to manhood's ear That tranced the boy with music. On a night. The fairest of a summer, years ago, There walk'd a youth beneath these arching trees. The moon was in mid-heaven, an orb of gold. The air was rock'd asleep, or, 'mid the leaves Walked without whisper. On the pavement lay The broken moonbeams, like a silver net, Massive and motionless, and, if a bird Sang a half carol as the moon wote on And look'd into his nest, or if the note Of a monotonous insect caught the ear. The silence was but challenged by the sound. And night seem'd stiller after. With his heart Robb'd of its sentinel, the youth paced on. His truant soul lay breathless on his lips, Drowsed with the spell of the voluptuous air ; THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. lor And shut was memory's monitory book ; And mute, alas ! as they will sometimes be, Were heaven's rebuking angels. Then uprose, In the unguarded chamber of his heart, A murmur, inarticulate and wild ; And ere it had a semblance, or a name, A soft voice from the trees said, " Wak'st thou there ? Wak'st thou at last, O nature ? Thou hast slept Far through the morn, and glowing flow^ers of ear. Many and bright ones, hast thou lost for ever ! But life is full of roses — come away ! Shut up those dreary books, and come away ! Why is the night so passionately sweet, If made for study and a brow of care 1 Why are your lips pride, and your eyes soft fire ?— AVhy beautiful in youth, — if cold to joy ? List to the pleading senses, where they lie, Numb and forgotten in the cell of thought ; Yet are they God's gift — precious as the rest. Use what thou hast— turn to the soft path ever, — And, in the garden of this pleasant world, Pluck what seems fairest to thee 1 " A light wind Stole through the trees, and with its airy hand Lifted the leafy veil from off the moon ; And steadfastly Night's solemn eye look'd in Upon the ilush'd face of the troubled boy — And the mysterious voice was heard no more. Again 'twas night. A storm was in the air ; And, by his pale and solitary lamp, A youth of sterner temper than the last. Kept the lone scholar's vigil. He had laid His book upon its face, and with his head Turn'd to the rattling casement, sat erect, And listen'd to the shrill, tempestuous wind. I02 THE ELMS OF NE W HA VEN. Gust after gnst swept by, and as the scream Of the careering tempest fiercer came, The youth's dark brow crouch'd lowering to his eye. And his thin lips press'd bloodlessly together ; And with some muttering words, as if replying To voices that call'd to him from the storm, He rose, and hurriedly strode forth. The air Below the lashing tree-tops was all black. The lofty trunks creak'd staggering in the wind, But all invisibly ; and in the sky Was only so much light as must be there While hope is in the world. Small need had then The spirit who would wile that heart from heaven To lend it mask or utterance. With step Reckless and fast the wanderer sped on, And as the tempest smote upon his breast. And howlingly fled past, he clench'd his hands, And struck his strong arms thro' the air, and rush'd Headlong with flying fury thro' the dark. Breathless and hoarse, at last, against the trunk Of a vast tree he stood ; and to an ear Bending from out the branches as they swung, Unconsciously he mutter'd : — " I am weak, And this wild storm is mighty; but I feel A joy in its career, as if my soul Breathed only thus. I am aroused — unchain'd, Something gives outcry in me that was dumb, Something that pined for weapons is in arms, And set on with a trumpet. Glorious blast ! What is my poor tranquillity of life — My abject study — to thy storming joy ? An intellect is mine — a passive soul Antagonist to nothing — while for thee, A senseless element, are wings and power — Power to dash the stars out from the sky — THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 103 Wings to keep pace with midnight round the world. The lightning's fiery traverse is no bar, The thunder's hush no check, the howling trees Only thy music. Demon, if thou art ! Prince of the powers of air, if such there be ! Darkness and conflict are my element, As they are thine ! " The storm lull'd suddenly, The tortured trees stood silent in the gloom, And all was still — save that amid the leaves Stirr'd a low murmur, which, like airy lips, Whispering close into the scholar's ear, Became articulate : — " Be calm ! be calm ! Return to thy neglected books, and read ! Thou shalt have all thou wilt, but, in thy books. Lie weapons keener than the lightning's edge. And in thy intellect a power of ill To which the storm-wind is an infant's anger. The blast blots out the stars that shine again. The storm- wind and the darkness leave the trees Brighter for morn to smile on ; but the mind Forges from knowledge an archangel's spear, And, with the spirits that compel the world, Conflicts for empire. Call thy hate of day. Thy scorn of men, amhition ! — and, if moved By something in thy heart to wrong and slay — Justice sits careless with a bloody sword ; Religion has remorseless whips ; and gold Brings to thy spurning foot the necks of men. Be tliou the sword — the whip — get thou the gold — And borne triumphant upon human praise, The lightning were too slow to do thy will — The stormy night not black enough." Again Toward the window glimmering thro' the dark The scholar turn'd, and with a pallid brow, But lips of marble, fed his wasting lamp, 104 THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. And patiently read down the morning star. And he was changed thenceforward. • ••>••* "Wave once more The wand athwart the mirror of the past. A summer's eve in June. The sun had shot A golden arrow down yon leafy aisle, And to his tent gone in. The dusty air Paraded in his glory. The bright spires, Like' mourners who still see the lost in heaven, Shone in his smile as if he had not set ; And presently, amid his glowing track. Like one who came reluctant to replace The great light newly fled, the evening star Stood forth with timid and diminish'd ray — But brighten'd as the sun was longer gone. Life was a feast at this delicious hour, And all came forth to it. The bent old man Paced musingly before his open door. The tired child, with hands cross'd droopingly. Sat at the threshold. Slowly pass'd the dame ; Slowly the listless scholar, sauntering back To his shut books unwillingly ; and low — Soften'd and low — as if the chord of love Were struck and harmonised throughout the world. The hum of voices rose upon the air. Hush'd were the trees the while ; and voiceless lay The wakeful spirits in the leaves, till, lo ! A pale youth,* mingling in the throng ! With light And airy step, and mien of such a grace As breathes thro' marble from the sculptor's dream. He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more * James Hillhouse, who had died at New Haven a few months before. THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN, 105 Were the invisible dwellers in the trees ; For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd To " syllable his name ; " and to the ears Of them who met him, whispering music flew, Stealing their hearts away to link to his. " Love him ! " the old man heard as if the leaves Of his own roof- tree murmur'd it ; " Love well The poet who may sow your grave with flowers, The traveller to the far land of the Past, Lost to your feet for ever ! " Sadly lean'd The mourner at her window as he came, And the far-drooping elm- leaf touch'd her brow. And whisper' d, " He has counted all thy tears ! The breaking chord was audible to him ! The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb — He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all ! Love him, for sorrowing with thee ! " The sad child. Sitting alone with his unheeded grief, Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to heai- The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams Speak from the low tree softly ; and it said — ''The stranger who looks on thee loves the child ! He has seen angels like thee ; and thy sorrow Touches his own, as he goes silent by. Love him, fair child ! " The poor man, from his door, Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye. The soft eye of the poet, turn'd to his, A whisper from the tree said, "This is he Who knows thy heart is human as his own. Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world That love dwells with the lowly. He has made The humble roof a burthen in sweet song — Interpreted thy heart to happier men ! Love him ! oh, love him, therefore ! " The stern man. Jo6 THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION. Who, with the tender spirit of a child, Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone ; The maiden with her secret ; the sad mother, Speaking no more of her dishonour'd boy, But bound to him with all her heart-strings yet, — These heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd, "Yours is the mournful poetry of life. And in the sad lines of your silent lips, Reads he with tenderest pity ! Knit to him The hearts he opens like a clasped book, And, in the honey 'd music of his verse. Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent ! " With eye Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way. Unconscious of the love around him springing ; And when from its bent path the evening star Stepp'd silently, and left the lesser fires Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in, Mute with the many sorrows he had seen ; And, with the constancy of starry eyes, The hearts he touch 'd drew to him. THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF FIIS CLASS, AT YALE COLLEGE. Ye've gather'd to your place of prayer With slow and measur'd tread : Your ranks are full, your mates all there — But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye aroiuid his pall? THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION. 107 Ye reckon it in days, since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, And his lip wreathed with a smile. Oh, had it been but told you, then, To mark whose lamp was dim — From out yon rank of fresh-lipp'd men, Would ye have singled him ? Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — Yet not for glorying 1 Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not 1 There lies he — go and look ! On now — his requiem is done. The last deep prayer is said — On to his burial, comrades — on, With the noblest of the dead ! Slow — for it presses heavily — It is a man ye bear ! Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid His dark locks on his brow — Like life — save deeper light and shade : We'll not disturb them now. Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, That bhie-vein'd eyelid's sleep. Hiding the eye death left so dull — Its slumber we will keep. lo8 THE LADY JANE. Rest now ! his journeying is done — Your feet are on his sod — Death's chain is on your champion — He waiteth here his God. Ay, turn and weep ; 'tis manUness To be heart-broken here — For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is water'd by the tear. THE LADY ^ANE. A HUMOROUS NOVEL IN RHYME. There was a lady — fair, and forty too. There was a youth of scarcely two-and-twenty. The story of their loves is strange, yet true. I'll tell it you ! Romances are so plenty In prose, that j^ou'll be glad of something new. And so (in rhyme) for '' what the devil meant he You think he was too young ! — but tell me whether The moth and humming-bird grow old together ! II. Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily, Not of 07ie warp and woof hath made us all ! Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly, And wear and tear makes difference — not small ; THE LADY JANE. 109 And he that hath no money — will-he, nill-he — Is thrust like an old man against the wall ! Grief out of some the very life-blood washes ; Some shed it like ducks' hacks and '' Mackintoshes." III. The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl — Shut from epproach like sea-nymph in her shell, Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl Upon her marble temple, and naught fell XTpon the ear of the patrician girl But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well. Her suitors were her father's and not hers — So were her debts at " Storr and Mortimer's." IV. Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot, Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek, Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet Of one by suffering made sweet and meek. She ate and drank, and probably lived by it. And liked her cup of tea by no means weak ! Untroubled by debt, lovers, or affliction. Her pulse beat with extremely little friction. V. Yet was there fire within her soft grey eye, And room for pressure on her lip of rose ; And few who saw her gracefully move by. Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. no THE LADY JANE. You may have seen the cunning florist tie A thread about a bud, which never blows, But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain, Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady Jane. The old lord had had offers for her hand, The which he answer'd — by his secretary. And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land, The men being old and valetudinary ; But there were others who were all unmann'd, And fell into a life of wild vagary, In their despair. To tell his daughter of it. The cold Earl thought would be but little profit. VII. And so she bloom'd — all fenced around with care ; And none could find a way to win or woo her. When visible at home — the Earl was there ! Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her ! 8he was a sort of nun in open air, Known to but few, and intimate to fewer : And, always used to conversation guarded. She thought all men talked just as her papa did. VIII. Pause while you read, Broadway demoiselle ! And bless your stars that long before you marry, You are a judge of passion pleaded well ! For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry, THE LADY JANE. iii And, if kind Heaven endowed you for a belle, At least your destiny did not miscarry ! "You've had your fling" — and now all wise and steady, For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready ! IX. And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair ! And "ignorance is bliss " in teaching love ! And guarding lips, when others have been there, Is apt uneasy reveries to move ! I really think mammas should have a care ! And though of nunneries I disapprove, 'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason Than to unteach a " Saratoga Season." In France, where, it is said, they wiser are, Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin ; And when she is abroad from bolt and bar, A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen ; And so at last, like a high-priced attar Hermetically seal'd in silk and resin, She is delivered safe to him who loves her ; And then— with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir ! XI. I know this does not work well, and that ours Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses. Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers, For having bloom'd, though not in your greenhouses. 112 THE LADY JANE. 'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers. And where / live, the milking of the cows is Too rude a task for females ! Well. 'Twould hurt you, Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue. XII. " Free-born Americans," they must have freedom ! They'll stay — if they have leave to run away. They're ministering angels when you need 'em. But 'specially want credit in Broadway. French wives are more particular how you feed 'em, The English drag you oftener to the play. But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) — With "heaven-born liberty," and trust — or money ! XII T. Upon her thirtieth birthday, Lady Jane Thought sadly on the twenties ! Even the Heens, That she had said farewell to, without pain — Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means- Seem'd worth regathering to live again ; But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans After the careful Harvester of years : — The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears ! XIV. She glided to her mirror. From the air Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes, A semblance sad, but beautifully fair; And gradually there stole a sweet surprise THE LADY JANE. 113 Under her lids, and as she laid the hair Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise, "Time, after all," she said, " a harmless flirt is ! " And from that hour took kindly to her thirties. XV. And, with his honours not at all unsteady, The Decimal elect stepp'd coolly in ; And having all his nights and mornings ready, He'd very little trouble to begin. And Ttoenty was quite popular, — they said he Went out of office with so little din ! The old Earl did not celebrate (nor ought he) Her birthdays more. And like a dream came Forty. XVI. And on the morn of it she stood to dress, Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before, And lifted with a smile the raven tress. That, darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor. Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness ! "Yet is it time," she said, "that I give o'er — rm an old maid ! — and though I suffer by it, I Must change my style and leave off gay society." XVII. And so she did. Her maid by her desire Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears ; She had her dresses alter'd to come higher, Though it dissolved the dressmaker in tears ! 114 ^^^ LADY JANE. And flung a new French hat into the fire, Which she had bought, " forgetful of her years." This t' anticipate "the world's dread laugh ! " Most persons think too much of it, by half. XVIII. T do not mean to say that generally The " virtuous single " take too soon to tea ; But now and then you find one who could rally At forty, and go back to twenty- three — A handsome, plump, affectionate " Aunt Sally," With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea ! And I would have her, spite of " he or she says," Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases. XIX. Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat — Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare. Some like a lameness. (I have known one that Would go quite far enough for your despair, And halt in time.) Some like them delicate As hlies, and with some " the only wear " Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman. Some only like what pleased another man. XX. I like one that likes me. But there's a kind Of women, very dangerous to poets, Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind — A nature that, though passionate, will show its THE LADY JANE, 115 Devotion by not being rash or blind ; But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome, And never meet a man who understands 'em. XXI. By never, I mean late in life. But ah ! How exquisite their love and friendship then ! Perennial of soul such women are, And readers of the hearts of gifted men ; And as the deep well mourns the hidden star, And mirrors the first ray that beams again, They — be the loved light lost or dimly burning, Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning. XXII. In outward seeming tranquil and subdued. Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast. Time and imprison'd love make not a prude ; And warm the gift we know to be the last ; And pure is the devotion that must brood Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past ! Trust me, " a rising man " rose seldom higher, But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire. XXIII. The Lady Jane, (pray do not think that hers Was quite the character I've drawn above. Old maids, like young, have various calibres, And hers was moderate, though she was ''a love,") ii6 THE LADY JANE. The Lady Jane call'd on the dowagers — Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve, But partly with a docile wish to know What solaces of age were comme il faut. XXIV. They stared at her plain hat and air demure, But answer'd her with some particularity ; And she was edified you may be sure, And added vastly to her popularity. She found a dozen mad on furniture, Five on embroidery, and none on charity ; But her last call — the others were but short ones- Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance. XXV. The door was open'd by a Spanish page — A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons, Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage, And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once, Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age, His eyes, (you would have liked to see them shut once. The fringes were so long) — on Lady Jane. The varlet clearly thought her not so plain, XXVI. And bounding up the flower-laden stair. He waited her ascent, then open flung A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air. Which on its silver hinge with music swung- THE LADY JANE. 117 Contrived that never foot should enter there Unheralded by that melodious tongue. This delicate alarum is worth while More 'specially with carpets of three-pile. XXVII. Beyond a gallery extended, cool, And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor, Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school ; Each " worth a Jew's eye " — very likely more ; And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul, Closed the extremity in lieu of door : This the page lifted, and disclosed to view The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu. XXVIII. It was a small pavilion Kned with pink, — Mirrors and silk all, save the door and skylight, The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think How juvenescent is a rosy high light !) Upon the table were seen pen and ink, (Two things I cannot say have stood in my light,) Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans ; The table in the style of Louis Quinze. XXIX. A singular and fragile little creature Upon the cushions indolently lay. With waning life in each transparent feature, But youth in her bright lips' ethereal play : ii8 THE LADY JANE. In short, the kind of creature that would meet your Conception of a transmigrating fay — The dark eyes, not at all worn-out or weary, Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri ! XXX. The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear ; Though voice is not a thing of flesh and bones. And probably goes up when they stay here. (I do not know how much of Smith and Jones Will bear translating to '' the better sphere,") But ladies, certainly, when they shall climb to't, Will get their dimples back — tho' not the rhyme to't. XXXI. Her person was dress'd very like her soul — In fine material most loosely worn. A cobweb cashmere struggled to control Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn. And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn. You would not guess her age by looking at her, Nor from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that matter. XXXII. " My dear ! " the Countess said, (by this time she Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer — • He gets it in these morning calls, pardie I And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer THE LADY JANE. 119 Her errand — somewhat delicate, you see,) " My dear, how very odd ! I fear I am a Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bonnet 1) Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it ! XXXIII. ''Time has no business in one's house, my dear ! I'm not at home to any of my creditors. They send their nasty bills in, once a year. And Time's are like Mortality's — mere ' dead letters. Besides, what comfort is there living here. If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us 1 (Lend me a pin, dear !) Time at last will stop us : But, come to that — we're free by habeas corpus. XXXIV. (" Fie, what a naughty shawl ! No expose, I trust, love, eh 1 Hold there, thou virtuous pin !) And so you really have come out to-day To look you up some suitable new sin ! " " Oh, Countess ! " " Did you never write a play ? Nor novel 1 Well, you really should begin ! For, (hark, my dear !) the publishers are biters, Not the book's fine title — but the writer's. XXXV. '' You're half an authoress; for, as my maid says, ' Begun's half done,' and you've your title writ. I quote from Colburn, and as what ' the trade ' says Is paid for, it is well consider'd wit. I20 THE LADY JANE. Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is, But as to us, we do not need a bit. ' Three volumes,' says the bargain, ' not too thin.' You don't suppose I'd throw him genius in ! " XXXVI. " ^wt fame, dear Countess ! " At the word there flash'd A colour to her cheek like fever's glow. And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd The fringes of her shawl, and bending low To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd Into her large, dark eyes, she murmur'd " No ! Th' inglorious agony of conquering pain Has drunk that dream up. I have lived in vain ! XXXVII. " Yet have I set my soul upon the string, Tense with the energy of high desire, And trembled with the arrow's quivering spring, To launch upon ambition's flight of fire ! And never lark so hush'd his heart to sing, Or, as he sang, nerved wing to bear it higher As I have striven my wild heart to tame And melt its love, pride, passion — into fame ! XXXVIII. '' Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain, 1 Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wine. Crept through the chambers of a throbbing brain. THE LADY JANE. 121 Worthily, have I never written line ! And when they talk to me oi fame I gain, In very bitterness of soul I mock it, — And put the net proceeds into my pocket ! XXXIX. *' And so, my dear, — let not the market vary, — I bid the critics, pro and con, defiance ; And then I'm fond of being literary, And have a tenderness for ' sucking lions.' My friend the Duchess has a fancy dairy : — Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science — It comes to the same thing. But, truce to mocking- Suppose you try my colour in a stocking ? " XL. I need not state the ratiocination By which the Lady Jane had so decided — Not quite upon the regular vocation — Of course you know she was too rich (or / did) To care with Costard for " remuneration ; " But feeling that her life like Lethe glided, She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara. XLI. " Well, Countess ! what shall be very premier pas ? Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners ? Or would a ' sucking lion ' stoop so far As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse ? 122 THE LADY JANE. I cannot shine — but I can see a star — Are there not worshippers as well as shiners ? I will be ruled implicitly by you : — My stocking's innocent — how dye it blue ? " XLII. The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing : — ■ " I've several that I might make you over, And not be inconsolable at losing ; But, really, as you've neither spouse nor lover, 'Most any of my pets would be amusing, Particularly if you're not above a Discreet flirtation. Are you 1 How's the Earl ? Does he still treat you like a little girl 1 XLIII. " How do you see your visitors ? Alone ? Does the Earl sleep at table after dinner ? Have you had many lovers ? Dear me ! None 1 Was not your father something of a sinner ? Who is the nicest man you've ever known ? Pray, does the butler bring your letters in, or First take them to the Earl 1 Is he not rather A surly dog ? — the butler, not your father." XLTV. To these inquiries the Lady Jane Heplied with nods, or something as laconic. For on the Countess rattled, might and main. With a rapidity IsTapoleonic ; THE LADY JANE. 123 Then mused and said, " 'Twill never do, it's plain — The poet must be warranted Platonic ! But, query — how to find you such an oddity ? My dear, they all make love ! — it's their commodity ! XLV. '' The poet's on the look-out for a scene — The painter for a * novel situation ; ' And either does much business between The little pauses of a declaration — Noting the way in which you sob or lean, Or use your handkerchief in agitation. I've known one — making love like Roderick Random- Get off his knees and make a memorandum ! XLVI. " You see they're always ready for the trade, And have a speech as pat as a town-crier ; And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire. I knew a most respectable old maid A dramatist made love to — just to try her ! She hung herself, of course — but in that way He got some pretty touches for his play. XLVII. " How shall we manage it ? I say, with tears, I've only two that are not rogues at bottom ; And one of those would soon be ' over ears ' In love with you, — but that he hasn't got 'em. 124 THE LADY JANE. They were cut off by the New Zealanders — (As he invariably adds) ' 'od-rot-'em ! ' (Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet, (He wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,) XLVIII. " In his ideas, I mean. (I really am at a Stand-still about you.) Well — this man, one day, Took in his head to own the earth's diameter. From zenith through to nadir / (They do say He kill'd his wife — or threw a ham at her — Or something — so he had to go away — - That's neither here nor there.) His name is Wieland, And under him exactly lies New Zealand. XLIX. " I'm not certain if his ' seat ' 's, or no. In the Low Countries. But the sky above it Of course is his ; and for some way below He has a right to dig and to improve it ; But under him, a million miles or so, Lies land that's not his, — and the law can't move it. It cut poor Wieland's nadir off, no doubt — And so he sail'd to buy the owner out. L. " I never quite made out the calculation — But plump against his cellar floor, bin 2, He found a tribe had built their habitation, Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo. THE LADY JANE. 125 They would sell out — but, to his consternation, They charged him — all the fattest of his crew ! At last they caught and roasted every one — But he escaped by being under-done ! " LI. That such a lion was well worth his feed, Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane ; But, that he answer'd to her present need, (A literary pet,) was not so plain. She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed. Or turn it over and so call again. Plowever, as her friend had mention'd two. Perhaps the other might be made to do. LIT. " I'm looking," said the Countess, ''for a letter From my old playmate, Isabella Gray. 'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her ! She ran away and married one fine day — Poor girl ! She might have done a great deal better The boy that she has sent to me, they say, Is handsome, and has talents very striking : So young, too — you can spoil him to your liking. LIII. " Her letter will amuse you. You must know That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her Securely up in an old French chateau ; Where, with her children and no woman but her. 126 THE LADY JANE. He plays the old-school gentleman ; and so Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter. She thinks I may be changed by time — for, may be, I've lost a tooth or got another baby. LIV. " Heigh-ho ! — 'tis evident we're made of clay, And harden unless kept in tears and shade This fashionable sunshine dries awa}^ Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid ! I wonder what my guardian angels say About the sort of woman I have made ! I wish I could begin my life again ! What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane *? " LV. The Countess, all this while, was running over The pages of a letter, closely cross'd : — "I wish," she said, *'my most devoted lover Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost ! Though some of it is quite a flight above a Sane woman's comprehension. Tut ! Where was't There is a passage here — the name's Beaulevres — His chateau's in the neighbourhood of Sevres. LVI. "The boy's call'd Jules. Ah, here it is ! Mij child Brings you this letter. Fve not much to say More than you know of him, if he has smiled When you have seen him. In his features play J THE LADY JANE. 127 The light from which his soul has been beguiled — The blessed heaven I lose with him to-day. I ash you not to love him — he is there ! And you have loved him — ivithout wish or prayer / LVII. His father sends him forth for fame and go'^d — An angel on this errand/ I have striven Against it — but he is not mine to hold. They say His loovng to wish to stay him, even, And that my ;pride's poor — my ambition cold I Alas I to get him only bach to heaven Is my one passionate prayer I Think me not wild — 'Tis that I have an angel for my child / LVIIT. They say that he has genius. 1 bid see That he gets wisdom as the fioioer gets hue. While others hive it lihe the toiling bee ; That, idth him, all things beautiful heep new. And every morn the first morn seems to be — So freshly looh abroad his eyes of blue ! What he has loritten seems to me no more Than I have thought a thousand times before/ LIX. Yet not upon his gay career to Fame Broods my foreboding tear. I -wish it icon — My prayer speeds on his spirit to its aim — But in his chamber wait I for my son/ 128 THE LADY JANE. When darl-ien^d is amhUion''s star of fame — When the night'' s fever of unrest is on — With, the unhidden sadness, the sharp care. I fly from Ids bright hours, to meet him there/ LX. Forgive me if I prate! Is't much — isH ivUd — To hope — to pray — that you loill sometimes creep To the dream-haunted pillow of my cJtild, Keeping sweet loatch above his fitful sleep ? Blest like Ids mother, if in dream he smiled, Or, if he ivept, still blest with him to loeep ; Rewarded — oh, for hoio much more than this! — By his awaking smile — his morning kiss ! LXI. 1 Iniow not how to stop! He leaves me veil ; Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak ; His foot bounds with the spring of a gazelle ; But tvatch him — stay ! tvell tli ought on ! — therms a dreak Which the first fcdtering of his tongue loill tell. Long ere the bright blood leavers on his cheek — A little bursted vein, that, near his heart, Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart. LXTT. So, trusting not his cheek by morning light, When hope sits mantling on it, seek his bed In the more tranquil watches of the night. And ask this tell-tale how his heart It as sped. THE LADY JANE. 129 If well — Us branching trac&'y sJioivs hright : But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead, Ah, Gertrude! let ijour ministering he As you would ansiver it^ in heaven^ to me! " LXIII. .Enter the page : — " Miladi's maid is waiting ! " — A hint (that it was time to dress for dinner,) Which puts a stop in London to all prating. As far as goes the letter you're a winner, The rest of it to flannel shirts relating — When Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner. The Countess laugh'd at Lady Jane's adieu : She thought the letter touching. Pray, don't you ? LXIV. I have observed that Heaven, in answering prayer, (This is not meant to be a pious stanza — Only a fact that has a pious air.) (We're very sure, I think, to have an answer ;) But I've observed, I would remark, that where Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans are, Kind Providence goes quite another way To bring about the end for which we piay. LXV. In this connection I would also add. That a discreet young angel {bond fide), Accompanied our amiable lad ; And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he, I I30 THE LADY JANE. Nor met \\\t\\ an adventure, good or bad, (Although he enter'd London on a Friday,) Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute, Without this angel's guiding finger in it. LXVI. His mother, as her letter seems to show, Expected him, without delay or bother, — Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all — to go Straight to her old friend's house — forsooth I what other ! The angel, who would seem the world to know. Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rather. He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,) Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane. LXVII. A month in town these gentlemen had been At date of the commencement of my story. The angel's occupations you have seen. If you have read what I have laid before ye. Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen, And girded up his loins for fame and glory, And changed his old integuments for better : x\.nd then he call'd and left his mother's letter. LXVIII. That female hearts grow never old in towns — That taste grows rather young with dissipation — That dowagers dress not in high-neek'd gowns— Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation — THE LADY JANE. 131 That hospitality is left to clowns, Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation — That a " tried friend " should not be tried again — That boys at seventeen are partly men — LXIX. Are truths, as pat as paving- stones, in cities. The contrary is true of country air ; (Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities, While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.) But what I'm trying in this verse to hit is, That Heaven, in answering Jules's mother's prayer, Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities ; As needs must — vide the just-named depravities. LXX. Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going, At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine I always give in poetry, well knowing That, to jump over it in half a line, Looks (let us be sincere, dear muse !) like showing Contempt we do not feel, for meat and wine. Dinner ! Ye Gods ! W^hat is there more respectable ! For eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle ! LXXI. 'Tis ten — say half-past. Lady Jane has dined, And dress'd as simply as a lady may. A card lies on her table "To Ptemind" — 'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day. 132 THE LADY JANE. But she is pleasantly surprised to find 'Tis Friday night, the Countess's soiree. Back rolls the chariot to Berkeley Square. If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there ! LXXII. We're early. In the cloak-room smokes the urn, The housekeeper behind it, fat and solemn : Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn, And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye-call-'em Their nodding cups of perfume overturn ; The page leans idly by a marble column, And stiffly a tall footman stands above, Looking between the fingers of his glove. LXXIII. All bright and silent, like a charmed palace — The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve ; The housekeeper a witch, {cum grano salts ;) The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve Condemn'd to servitude by fairy malice ; (I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve !) Some magic hall, it seems, for revel bright, And Lady Jane the spirit first alight. LXXIV. Alas ! here vanishes the foot of Pleasure ! She — like an early guest — goes in before, And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure ; But is not found upon the crowded floor ; THE LADY JANE. i (Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.) I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista. As large as life — and walk'd straight on, and miss'd her ! LXXV. With a declining taste for making friends. One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past ; And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends- The first hour of a gay night, or the last. (Beginners *' burn the candle at both ends," And find the middle brightest — that is fast !) But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a Mercurial air,) is to come in at supper. LXXVI. I mean that you should go to bed at nine And sleep till twelve — take coffee or green tea. Dress and go out — (this was a way of mine When looking up the world in '^^) — Sup at the ball — (it's not a place for wine) — Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be. You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning. Of growing rather fresher toward morning. LXXVII. But, after thirty, hei^e^s your best " Elixir : " Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while By twelve or one (this makes the blood run quick, sir !) Dine with some man or woman ivho will smile. 134 THE LADY JANE. Have little cause to care liow politics are, " Let not the sun go down upon your " bile ; And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever, I don't see why you shouldn't live for ever. LXXVIII. Short-lived is your *' sad dog " — and yet, we hear, " Whom the gods love die young." Of course the ladies Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear ; And the result, I'm very much afraid, is. That if he '' has his day," it's "neither here Kor there ! " But it is time our hero made his Appearance on the carpet, Lady Jane — (I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.) LXXIX. The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking The glittering silence with her flowing dress, Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making To the fond air ; while, to her loveliness The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking, Acknowledged not one radiant line the less That not on them she look'd before she faded ! Neglected gentlemen don 't do as they did : — LXXX. No ! — for, 'twixt 02ir quicksilver and a woman, Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor, And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor ; THE LADY JANE. 135 For, when beloved, we deify what's human — When piqued, we mock like devils ! But I pluck'd a Digression here. It's no use, my contending — Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending ! LXXXI. A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster If you're impatient,) very softly lit By lamps conceal'd in bells of alabaster, Lipp'd like a lily, and " as white as it," With a sweet statue by a famous master, Just in the centre (but not dress'd a bit !) This dim room drew aside our early comer, Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer LXXXII. And so it was. For, through an opening door, Came the soft breath of a conservatory, And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er, Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory ; And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more. And statues, lamps, and flowers— but, to my story The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan ; And in it — (Heaven preserve ns !) — sat a man ! LXXXIIT. At least, as far as boots and pantaloons Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there — Whatever was the number of his Junes. She look'd again, and started ! In a chair, 136 THE LADY JANE. Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons, Reclined, with Hakes of sunshine in his hair, (Or, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real, But of a beauty like the Greek ideal. LXXXIV. He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken, His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside ; The lip might to a manlier arch awaken — The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride : But now he lay, of all his masks forsaken. And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside ; And his bright lips lay smilingly apart. Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart. LXXXV. Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. — (this was he) — Had never been " put up " to London hours ; And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea. Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers- No doubt extremely pleasant, — but, you see, A great deal of it rather overpowers ; And possibly, that very fine exotic He sat just under, was a slight narcotic. LXXXVI. At any rate, when it was all admired, — As quite his notion of a heaven polite, [Minus the angels,) he felt very tired — As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing might ! THE LADY JANE. 137 And having by the Countess been desired To make himself at home, he did so, quite. He begg'd his early coming might not fetter her, And sli3 went out to dine, the old — etcetera. LXXXVII. And thinking of his mother — and his bill At Mivart's — and of all the sights amazing Of which, the last few days, he had his fill — And choking when he thought of fame — and gazing Upon his varnish 'd boots, (as young men will,) And wond'ring how the shops could pay for glazing, And also (here his thoughts were getting dim,) Whether a certain smile was meant for him — LXXXVIII. And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow, The speech he made the Countess, when he met her, And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how He should describe her in the morrow's letter) — And sighing *' Good-night ! " (he was dreaming now) Jules dropp'd into a world he liked much better ; But left his earthly mansion unprotected : Well, sir ! 'twas robb'd — as might have been expected ! LXXXIX. The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping. And in his lips' rare beauty read his name ; And to his side with breathless wonder creeping, Resistless to her heart the feeling came, THE LADY JANE. That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping, Was given the gem within that fragile frame ; And bending, with almost a mother's bliss. To his bright lips, she seal'd it with a kiss ! xc. Oh, in that kiss how much of heaven united ! What haste to pity — eagerness to bless ! AA'hat thirsting of a heart, long pent and slighted, For something fair, yet human, to caress ! How fathomless the love so briefly plighted ! What kiss thrill'd ever more — sinn'd ever less ! So love the angels, sent with holy mercies ! And so love poets — in their early verses ! xci. If, in well-bred society, (" Hear ! hear ! ") If, in this " wrong and pleasant " world of ours. There beats a pulse that seraphs may revere — If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flovers, Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here — If Time cut ever down, 'mid l)lighted hours, A bliss that will spring up in bliss again — 'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen. XCII. To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn — To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain — To seek him with most love when most forlorn — Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane. THE LADY JANE. 139 And thus, in sinless purity is born, Alway, the love of woman. So, again, I say, that up to kissing — later even — A woman's love may have its feet in heaven. XCITI. Jules open'd (at the kiss) his large blue eyes. And calmly gazed upon the face above him. But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise — Although his situation well might move him. He seem'd so cool, (my lyre shall tell no lies,) That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love him ; When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu Enter'd the room with " Dear me ! how d'ye do ? " xciv. Up sprang the boy — amazement on his brow ! But the next instant, through his lips there crept A just awakening smile, and, with a bow, Calmly he said : '' 'Twas only while I slept The anijels did not vanish — until now." A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept. The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man. xcv. Jules had that precious quality call'd tad ; And having made a very warm beginning. He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd ; As if incapable of further sinning. 'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact. The ladies like, themselves, to do the winning. I40 THE LADY JANE. In female Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine ; And the Othellos " seriously incline." xcvi. So, with a manner quite reserved and plain, Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made Many apologies to Lady Jane For the eccentric part that he had play'd. Regretted he had slept — confess'd with pain He took her for an angel — was afraid He had been rude — abrupt — did he alarm Her much 1 — and might he offer her his arm ? XCVI I. And as they ranged that sweet conservatory, He heeded not the flowers he walk'd amonir : But such an air of earnest listening wore he. That a dumb statue must have found a tongue ; And like a child that hears a fairy story, His parted lips upon her utterance hung. He seem'd to know by instinct, (else how was it ?) That people love the bank where they deposit. XCVIII. And closer, as the moments faster wore, The slender arm within her own she pressed ; And yielding to the magic spell he bore — The earnest truth upon his lips impress'd — She lavishly told out the golden ore Hoarded a lifetime in her guarded breast. And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tender — Although he did not always comprehend her. THE LADY JANE. 141 xcix. And this in him was no deep calculation, But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming, Abandonment complete to admiration — His soul gone from him as it goes in dreaming. I wish'd to make this little explanation, Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming ; I can assure you it was never plann'd ; I have it from his angel (second hand). c. And from the same authentic source I know, That Lady Jane still thought him but a lad ; Though why the deuce she didn't treat him so. Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad ! Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow To take more beard for granted than he had. A funny friend to lend a nice young man to ! I'm glad I've got him safely through one Canto. CANTO II. The Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full. Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball — Only " her Friday night." The air was cool ; And there were people in the house of all Varieties, except the pure John Bull. The number of young ladies, too, was small — You seldom find old John, or his young daughters Swimming in very literary waters. 142 THE LADY JANE. II. Indeed, ^Yith rare exceptions, women given To the society of famous men, Are those who will confess to twenty-seven ; But add to this the next reluctant ten, And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven, For sumptuously beautiful is then The w^oman of proud mien and thoughtful brow ; And one (still bright in her meridian now) III. Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye. A creature of a loftier mould was she Than in his dreams had ever glided by ; And through his veins the blood flew startlingly, And he felt sick at heart — he knew not why — For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see Angels look on us with a cold regard, (Not knowing those who never left their card.) IV. She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below ; And parted on that brow in jetty flakes The raven hair swept back with wavy flow, Rounding a head of such a shape as makes The old Greek marble with the goddess glow. Her nostril's breathing arch might threaten storm — But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm. V. And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek whose red Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest : THE LADY JANE. 143 And neck set on as if to bear a head — May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, — So slightly sprang it from its snow-white bed ! So proudly rode above the swelling breast ! And motion, effortless as stars awaking And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking VI. And voice delicious quite, and smile that came Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled thro' : — These charms I've been particular to name. For they are, like an inventory, true. And of themselves were stuff enough for fame ; But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too, And brilliantly her thread of life is spun — In verse and beauty both, the " Undying One 1 " VII. And song — for in those kindling lips there lay Music to wing all utterance outward breaking, As if upon the ivory teeth did play Angels, who caught the words at their awaking, And sped them with sweet melodies away — The hearts of those who listen 'd with them takin^. Of proof to this last fact there's Kttle lack ; And Jules, poor lad ! ne'er got Ids truant back ! VIII. That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two, (I should premise) — all poets being double. Living in two worlds as of course they do, Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble T' explain in which they're living, as to you ! And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble, 144 THE LADY JANE. For who can fairly write a bard's biography, When, of his fancy-world, there's no geography ? IX. Jules was at perfect liberty in fad To love again, and still be true i?i fancy ; Else were this story at its closing act. Nay, he in fact might wed, and in romance he Might find the qualities his sposa lack'd — (A truth that I could easier make a man see,) And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is The calling such stray fancies " infidelities." X. Byron was man and bard, and Lady B., In wishing to monopolise him wholly, Committed bigamy, you plainly see. She, being v&ry single, Guiccioli Took off the odd one of the wedded three — A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy. The after sin, which still his fame environs. Was giving Guiccioli hofh the Byrons. XI. The stern wife drove him from her. Had she loved With all the woman's tenderness the while, He had not been the wanderer he proved. Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile ; And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved, The heart speeds home with far more light a wile. The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. THE LADY JANE. 145 XII. To poets more than all — for truthful love Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness ; Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove The poet's love when nearest to completeness. Must wed the man and let the fancy rove — Loose to the air that wing of eager fleetness, And smile it home when wearied out — with air, But if you scold him, Madam ! have a care ! XIII. All this time the *' Undying One " was singing. She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a pain While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing ; So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane, Which rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging. He made himself a literary lane — Punching and shoving every kind of writer Till he got out. (He might have been politer.) XIV. Free of " the press," he wander'd through the rooms. Longing for solitude, but studying faces ; And, smitten with the ugliness of Brougham's, He mused upon the cross with monkey races — (Hieroglyphick'd on th' Egyptian tombs And shown in Fi-ance with very striking traces.) *' Bejected " Smith's he thought a head quite glorious j And Hook, all button'd up, he took for " Boreas." XV. He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand, And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye ; K 146 THE LADY JANE. And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand, While a most royal duke went bowing by — Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand — Saw Lady Chatterton take snuff and sigh — Saw graceful Bulwer say ^' Good-night," and vanish — Heard Crofton Crokers brogue, and thought it Spanish XVI. He saw Smith whispering something very queer, And Hayward creep behind to overhear him ; Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear, (Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him. The error — not the mouth — became quite clear ;) He saw " the Duke " and had a mind to cheer him, And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather, And clever Babbage, with his face of leather. XVII. And there was plump and saucy Mrs. Gore, And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie, And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore ; And there was " devilish handsome" D'Israeli ; And not a lion of all these did roar ; But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, — Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery To talk of " porcelain " — 'twas a world of crockery. XVIII. 'Tis half a pity authors should be seen ! Jules thought so, and I think so, too, with Jules. They'd better do the immortal with a screen, And show but mortal in a world of fools ; THE LADY JANE. 147 Men talk of " taste " for thunder— but they mean Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools ; They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade, To know — just how the oracle is made ! XIX. \Yhat we should think of Bulwer's works — without him His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle; What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him, Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal ; What of old Lardner, (gracious ! how they flout him !) Without this broad — (and Heavy-) side of scandal ; What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a " Boz " Like Johnson — would be curious questions, coz ! XX. Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud, (Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,) But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so loud. And no one asks the god to dinner after ; And " Fame's proud temple," build it ne'er so proud, Finds notoriety a useful rafter. And when you've been abused awhile, you learn, All blasts blow fair for you — that Uow asleni ! XXI. No "^ro" without its ''con;'' — i\iQ iwo is fame. Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill ; The con is beef and mutton, sometimes game, Madeira, sherry, claret, what you will ; The ladies' (albums) striving for your name ; All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill ; 148 THE LADY JANE. And "in the gate," an unbelieving Jew, Your " MorclecLii ! " — Why, clearly co7i's your cue ! XXII. I've "reason'd" myself neatly "round the ring," While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more, And supper being but a heavy thing, (To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door, And his first night to a conclusion bring ; Not (with your kind permission, sir) before I tell you what her Ladyship said to him As home to Brook Street her swift horses drew him. XXIII. "You're comfortably lodged, I trust," she said ; "And Mrs. Mivart — is she like a mother ? Have you mosquito curtains to your bed 1 Do you sleep well without your little brother 1 What do you eat for brea.kfast — baker's bread 1 I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather. What do you do to-morrow *? — say at five. Or four — say four — I call for you to drive ! XXIV. " There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum — Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas 1 But there's an armadillo — you must see him ! And those big-eyed giraffes and heavenly lamus ! ^nd — are you fond of music 1 — the Te Deum Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas, At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air ! And you've no hat on ! — let me feel your hair ! THE LADY JANE. 149 XXV. " Poor boy ! " — but Jules's head was on her breast, Rock'd hke a nautihis in calm mid-ocean ; And while its curls within her hands she press'd, The Lady Jane experienced some emotion : For, did he sleep ? or wish to be caress'd ? What meant the child? — she'd not the slisfhtest notion! Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake — Trembling and slightly flush'd — but wide awake. XXVI. Loose rein ! put spur ! and follow, gentle reader ! For I must take a flying leap in rhyme ; And be to you both Jupiter and leader, Annihilating space, (we all kill time,) And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a Delight or two, besides the pleasant clime. The Lady Jane and he (I scorn your cavils — The Earl was with them, sir !) were on their travels. XXVTI. You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic, As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Firth of Forth ; And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic — Too delicate to winter so far north ; The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic, And Lady Jane's condition little worth ; So, through celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,) They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy. XXVIII. O Italy '—but no !— Ill tell its faults- It has them, though the blood so " nim1)ly capers " I50 THE LADY JANE. Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults, That we forget big rooms and little tapers ; Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz ; Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers ; Forget how dully sits, 'mid ancient glory, This rich man's heaven — this poor man's purgatory ! XXIX. Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, he Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's ; And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity To know a land where people are but sticks — Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity, But spend your money, if you like, with kicks — Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility. To welcome golden '' Snooks " with base servility. XXX. Jules was not in the poor man's category — So Kome's condition never spoilt his supper. The deuce (for him) might take the Curtian glory Of riding with a nation on his crupper. He lived upon a Marquis's first storey — The venerable Marquis in the upper — And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,) To do some things at Rome that Romans do. XXXI. The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter, (He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,) The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter — The friend a noble like himself, the girl THE LADY JANE. 151 A diamond of the very purest water ; (Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl ;) And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove, And of a pride their fortunes much above. XXXII. The Marquis had not much besides his palace, The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught ; And, one day, died this very Count Pascalis, Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought ; And, though the Fates had done the thing in malice, The old man took her, without second thought. And married her. " She's freer thus," he said, "And will be young to marry when I'm dead." XXXIII. Meantime, she had a title, house, and carriage. And far from wearing chains, had newly burst 'em — For, as of course you know, before their marriage Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom — Not meaning their discretion to disparage, But just because they're sure they couldn't trust 'em. When wedded, they are free enough — moreover The marriage contract specifies one lover. XXXIV. Not that the Marchioness had one — no, no ! Nor wanted one. It is not my intention To hint it in this tale. Jules lodged below — But his vicinity's not my invention ; And, if it seems to you more apropos Than I have thought it worth my while to mention. Why, you think as the world did — verhum sat — But still it needn't be so — for all that. 152 THE LADY JANE. XXXV. 'Most any female neiglibour, up a stair, Occasions thought in him who lodges under ; And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where (A ^^ flight too high " 's a very common blunder.) He saw a lady whom he thought as fair As " from her shell rose " Mrs. Smith of Thunder, Though Yenus, I would say were Yulcan by. Was no more like the Marchioness than I. XXXVI. For this grave sin there needed much remission ; And t' assure it, oft the offender went. The Marquis had a very famous Titian, And Jules so often came to pay his rent. The old man recommended a physician. Thinking his intellect a little bent ; And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him, Till, finally, he couldn't live without him. XXXVII. And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane, Jules paid him back his love ; and there, all day, The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain, Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gay And the old man lived o'er his youth again, Seeing those grown-up children at their play, His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarce^ more, 'Twas frolic infancy to eighty-four. XXXVIII. There seems less mystery in matrimony. With people living nearer the equator ; THE LADY JANE. 153 And early, like the most familiar crony, Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter, Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, — The MA.rchioness at toast and coffee later ; And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he hid it ; And if her dress required " doing " — did it. XXXIX. Now, though the Marchioness in church did faint once, And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill ; And though the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones — She scarce a woman, and his age octuple — 'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance, To call Jules lover with so little scruple ! He'd a caressing way — but la ! you know it's A sort of manner natural to poets ! XL. God made them prodigal in their bestowing : And, if their smiles were riches, few were poor ! They turn to all the sunshine that is going — Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure — Their love at heart and lips is overflowing — Their motto, " Trust the future — now is sure ! ' Their natural pulse is high intoxication (Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration). XLT. Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion, The symptoms are not read by ''those who run ; " And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion To count them but as children of the sun — Not to be baited like the "bulls of Bashan," Nor liable, like clods, for " one pound one " — 154 THE LADY JANE. But reverenced — as Indians rev'renee fools — Inspired, the' God knows how. Well — such was Jules. XLII. The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window — The window of his heart — and let him in ! The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hindoo, And she thought loving him could be no sin ; And as she loved not yet as those who sin do, 'Twas very well — was't not ? Stick there a pin ! It strikes me that so far — to this last stanza — The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir ! XLIII. I have not bored you much with his " abilities," Though I set out to treat you to a poet, The first course commonly is " puerilities " — (A soup well pepper'd — all the critics know it !) Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is. For " spoons " to stir, and puffy lips to blow it.) Then, poet stuff'd, and by his kidney roasted, And last (with " larjrima^^) "the devil" toasted XLIV. High-scream between the devil and the roast. But no Sham-pain ! Hold there ! the fit is o'er. Ohsta principiis — one pun breeds a host — (Alarmingly prolific for a bore !) But he who never sins can little boast Compared to him who goes and sins no more ! The " sinful Mary ' walks more white in heaven Than some who never "sinn'd and were forgiven ! " THE LADY JANE. 155 XLV. Jules had objections very strong to playing His character of poet — therefore I Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying. But though he'd neither frenzy in his eye, Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying — (A thing he piqued himself on, by the by — ) His conversation frequently arose To what was thought a goodly flight for prose. XLVI. His beau ideal was to sink the attic — (Though not by birth, nor taste, " the salt above " — ) To pitilessly cut the air erratic Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love, And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic — Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove. But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey ! And Jules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny. XLVII. This was one secret of his popularity, Men hate a manner colder than their own. And ladies — bless their hearts ! love chaste hilarity Better than sentiment — if truth were known ! And Jules had one more slight peculiarity — He'd little " approbativeness " — or none — And what the critics said concern'd him little — Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual. XLVIII. Critics, I say — of course he was in print — " Poems," of course — of course " anonymous" — 156 THE LADY JANE. Of course he found a publisher by dint Of search most diligent, and far more fuss Than chemists make in melting you a flint. Since that experiment he reckons plus Better manure than minus for his bays — In short, seeks immortality — "that pays." XLTX. He writes in prose — the public like it better. Well — let the public ! You may take a poet. And he shall write his grandmother a letter, And, if he's anything hut rhyme — he'll show it. Prose may be poetry without its fetter, And be it pun or pathos, high or low wit. The thread will show its gold, however twisted — (I wish the public flatter'd me that this did !) L. No doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels. I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so. Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's — (That is my Sunday reading — so I know,) Yet there's Childe Harold — excellent good travels - And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe ? But though a clever verse-r makes a prose-r, About the vice-versa^ I don't know, sir I LT. Verser^s a better word than versifier^ (Unless 'tis verse on fire, you mean to say,) And Pve long thought there's something to desire In poet's nomenclature, by the way. It sounds but queer to laud " the ■Kell'lmown lyre "-- Call a dog " poet ! " he will run away — THE LADY JANE. 157 And *' songster," "rhymester," "bard," and "poetaster," Are customers they're shy of at the Astor. LTI. A " scribbler's " is a skittish reputation, And weighs a man down Hke a hod of mort;ir. Commend a suitor's wit, imagination — Tlie merchant may think of him for his daughter ; But say that " he writes poetry " n I Her "Pa" would rather throw her in the water ! And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove, Their bills stand all at pa, they much ahove / LIII. Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses ; And sometimes did, " for ever ! " — (for a week \) He found for time so many other uses. His superfluity was his physique ; And exercise, if violent, induces Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek ; And, (though details are neither here nor there,) Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair ; LIV, Particularly that of breaking horses. The rate of circulation in the blood, Best suited to the meditative forces. Is quite as far from mercury as mud — That of the starry, not the racing-courses. No man can trim his style 'mid fire and flood, Nor in a passion, nor just after marriage ; And, as to Caesar's writing in his carriage, 158 THE LADY JANE. LV. Credat Judseus ! Thought is free and easy ; But language, unless wrought with labor limce, Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye ! The bee makes honey, but his toil is thymy, And nothing is well done until it tease ye ; (Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he !) Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking, Though monstrous fun, was not a poet's making. LVI. True — some drhik up to composition's glow ; Some talk up to it — wide Neckar's daughter ! But when the temp'rature's a fourth too low, Of course you make up the deficient quarter ! Like Byron's atmosphere, which, chemists know, Required hydrogen — (more gin and water.) And Jules's sanguine humour was too high, So, of the bottle he had need be shy ! LVII. And of society, which makes him thin With fret and fever, and of sunny sky — Father of idleness, the poet's sin ! (John Bull should be industrious, by the l)y, If clouds ivitJiout concentrate thought within.) In short, the lad could fag — (I mean soar high) — Only by habits, which (if Heaven let her choose) His mother would bequeath as Christian virtues ! LVIIT. Now men have oft been liken'd unto streams : (And, truly, both are prone to run down hill. THE LADY JANE. 159 And seldom brawl when dr}^, or so it seems !) And Jules, when he had brooded, long and still At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams, Felt suddenly his veins with frenzy fill ; And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force, Ruthlessly rode — if he could find a horse. LIX. Yes, sir — he had his freshets like a river. And horses were his passion — so he rode, When he his prison'd spirits would delivei", As if he fled from — some man whom he owed — And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver Of the young steed in terror first bestrode ! Thrilling as inspiration the delay — The arrowy spring — the fiery flight away ! LX. Such riding galls the Muses, (though we know Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,) But I'd a mind by these details to show What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky. This hint to his biographer I throw — In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey ! Though not at all to imitate Apollo ! Horse him as well, he'd beat that dabster hollow ] LXI. 'Tis one of the proprieties of story To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage ; And therefore I have tried to lay before ye The qualities of Jules's second age. It should wind up with some memento mori — But we'll defer that till we draw the sage. i6o THE LADY JANE. The moral's the last thing, (I saj^ with pain,) And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane. LXII. The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy, And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired The summer palace of Ptospigliosi, To get the sun as well as be retired. You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see — That's if you care to have your fancy fired — It's out of Rome — it strikes me on a steep hill — A sort of place to go with nice people. LXIII. It looks affectionate, with all its splendour — As lovable as ever look'd a nest ; A palace, I protest, that makes }ou tender, And long for fol de rol, and all the rest. Guide's Aurora's there — you couldn't mend her : And Samson, by Caracci — not his best ; But pictures I can talk of to the million — To you, I'll just describe one small pavilion LXIV. ]t's in the garden just below the palace; I think, upon the second terrace — no — The first — yes, 'tis the first — the orange alleys Lead from the first flight down — precisely so ! ■\Yell — half-w^ay is a fountain, where, with malice In all his looks, a Cupid — 'hem ! you know You needn't notice that — you hurry by, And lo 1 a fairy structure fills your eye. THE LADY JANE. j^j LXV. A crescent colonnade folds in the sun, To keep it for the wooing South wind only A thing I wonder is not oftener done, (The crescent, not the wooing— that's my oicn lie,) For there are months, and January's one. When winds are chill, and hfe indoors gets lonely, And one quite longs, if wind would keep aw^ay, To sing i' the sunshine, like old King Een^. LXVI. The columns are of marble, white as light : The structure low, yet airy, and the floor A tesselated pavement, curious quite, Of the same fashion in and out of door. The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight, Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) So the pavilion had an air of comfort. LXVII. "The frescoes on the ceiling really breathe," The guide-books say. Of course they really see : And, as I tell you what went on beneath, Of course those naked goddesses told me. They saw two rows of dazzling English teeth, Employ 'd, each morn, on '' English toast and tea ; " And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes. But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise. LXVIII. The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung Low to the soft eye, and so still they lay, i62 THE LADY JANE Jules knew a tear was hid their threads among, And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away. The kindly greeting trembled on her tongue, The hand's faint pressure chill'd his touch like clay, And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing, With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging. LXIX. Oh it is darkness to lose love ! — howe'er We little prize the fond heart — fond no more ! The bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air ! Unrecognized are angels, till they soar ! And few so rich they may not well beware Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore ! Yet — hast thou love too poor for thy possessing ? — Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing ! LXX. You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane Loved Mr. Jules. (He's Mr. now — not Master/) The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain ; And possibly I should have made it last a Whole Canto, more or less — but I'll explain. Lumping the sentiment one gets on faster ! Though it's in narrative an art quite subtle. To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle. LXXI. Good " characters " in tales are " well brought up " — - (Though, by this rule, my Countess Pasibleu Is a bad character — yet, just to sup, I much prefer her house to a church pew—) But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup. — So much a week, — what is a man to do ? THE LADY JANE. 1^3 *' 'Tis wisKd that if a story you hegin, you'd Make se;parate scenes of each ' To he continued: " LXXTI. So writes plain ''Jonathan/' who tills my brains With view to crop— (the seed being ready money—) And if the "small-lot system " bring him gains, He has a right to fence off grave from funny- Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes. And, I must own, where one has room to run, he Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin. So now I'll go to lumping it again ! LXXIIT. " Love grows, by what " it gives to feed another, And not by what " it feeds on." 'Tis divine. If anything's divine besides the mother Whose breast, self- blessing, is its holy sign. Much better than a sister loves a brother The Lady Jane loved Jules, and " line by line. Precept by precept," furnish'd him advice ; Also much other stuff he thought more nice. LXXIV. She got him into sundry pleasant clnbs, By pains that women can take, though but few will She made most of him when he got most rubs ; And once, in an inevitable duel, She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs— But not to hinder ! Faith ! she was a jewel ! I wish the star all manner of festivity That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity ! l64 THE LADY JANE. LXXV. All sorts of enviable invitations, Tickets, and privileges, got she him ; Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience, (Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) — Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations. And found for him in church the psalm and hymn ; Sent to his '' den " some things not found in Daniel's, And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels. > LXXVI. To set him down upon her way chez elley She stay'd unreasonably late at parties ; To introduce him to a waltzing belle She sometimes made a cessio dignitatis ; And one kind office more that I must tell — She sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is If charity like this you find a sin in,) In church-time, privately, to air his linen. LXXVII. Was Jules ungrateful % No ! Was he obtuse ? Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing With tenderness, like water in a sluice, — Like the sun's shining, — like the breeze's blowing,— And fancy thanking them was not much use ? Had he the luck of intimately knowing Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer ? Had he a " friend " sub rosa ? No, sir ! Fie, sir ! LXXVIII. Then why neglect her ? Having said he did, I will explain, as Brutus did his stab, — THE LADY JANE. 165 (Though by my neighbours I m already chid For getting on so very like a crab) — Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid, Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab — A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages, And other ties depend on keeping carriages. LXXIX. Without a carriage men should have no card, Nor " owe a call " at all — except for love. And friends who need that you the " lean earth lard " To give their memories a pasteboard shove, On gentlemen a-foot bear rather hard ! It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove ! To walk next day half way to Massachusett And leave your name — on ladies that won't use it. LXXX. It really should be taught in infant schools That the majority means men, not dollars ; And, therefore, that, to let the rich make rules, Is silly in " poor pretty little scholars." And this you see is aprojoos of Jules, Who call'd as frequently as richer callers While he'd a cab ; — but courtesy's half horse — A secret those who ride keep snug, of course. LXXXI. I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man,) Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane ; And, at the start it was my settled plan, (Though I've lost sight of it, I see with pain,) To show how moderate attentions can. If once she love, a woman's heart retain. i66 THE LADY JANE. True love is weak and humble, though so brittle And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little ! LXXXII. For instance — Jules's every- day routine Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early ; A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green ; (Where, if address'd he was extremely surly ;) Five minutes at the Club, perhaps fifteen ; Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square, Where he walk'd in with quite a household air. LXXXIII. And here he pass'd an hour — or two, or three — Just as it served his purpose, or his whim ; And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim — Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity, Dress'd ever sumptuously there — for him ! With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy, Pampering fondly his reluctant eye. LXXXIV. And on the silken cushions at her feet He daily dream'd these morning hours away, Troubling himself but little to be sweet. Poets are fond of reverie, they say. But not with ladies whom they rarely meet. And if you love one, madam, (as you may ! ) And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer, Be careful of all manner of toujoursf THE LADY JANE. 167 LXXXV. '' Toujours perdrix,'" snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit Offends the simplest palate, it appears, And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to blab it,) It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, tears. The fancy mortally abhors a habit I (Not that which Seraphina's bust inspheres ! ) E'en one-tuned music-boxes breed satiety, Unless you keep of them a great variety. LXXXVI. Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East, And brought new milk and morning paper daily ; The "yield" of both the Editor and beast, Great mysteries, unsolved by Brown or Paley ; But Jules — not plagued about it in the least — Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily ; And Lady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow Grew to be like the Editor and cow. LXXXVII. I see you understand it. One may dash on A colour here — stroke there — and lo ! the story ! And, speaking morally, this outline fashion Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory. I've sketch'd for you a deep and tranquil passion Kindled while nursing up a bard for glory ; And, having whisk'd you for that end to London, Let's back to Italy, and see it undone. LXXXVIII. Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi — Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall — ' i6S THE LADY JANE. The day delicious and the room quite cozy — And yet there were two bosoms full of gall ! So lurks the thorn in paths long soft and rosy ! Jules was not one whom trifles could appal, But few things will make creep the lion's mane Like ladies in a miff who won't explain ! LXXXIX. Now I have seen a hadji and a cadi — ■ Have sojourn'd among strangers, oft and long — Have known most sorts of women, fair and shady, And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng — But, in my life, I never saw a lady Who had, ihe least, the air of being wrong ! The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil We never caught — 'twas she who saw the devil ! xc. In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners — For what was Adam to the " morning star " ? She would take precedence — if sins were dinners, And hence that self-assured "c7e ha7it en has" So unattainable by men, as sinners. Of course, she plays the devil in a, fracas — Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster, And argues like her grandmother's old master ! xci. And in proportion as the angel fades — As lov^e departs — the crest of woman rises — • Even in passion's softer, lighter shades, With aristocracy's well-bred disguises ; For, with no tragic fury, no tirades, A lady looks a man into a crisis ! THE LADY JANE. 169 And, to 'most any animal carnivorous Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us ! XCII. Jules had one thing particular to say, The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there. With twenty times the mind to be away. Uncomfortable seem'd the stuff'd arm-chair In which the Earl would sometimes pass the day ; And there was something Roman in the air ; For every effort to express his errand Ended in " Um ! " as 'twere a Latin gerund. XCIIT. He had received a little billet-doux The night before — as plain as A B — (I mean, it would appear as plain to you. Though very full of meaning, you'll agree)— Informing him that by advice quite new The Earl was going now to try the sea ; And begging him to have his passport vised For Venice, by Bologna — if he pleased ! xciv. Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's The gentle missive elegantly ran — A sort of note the writer don't care who sees, For you may pick a flaw in't if you can — But yet a stern experimentum criccis, Quite in the style of Metternich, or Van, — - And meant — without more flummery or fuss— Stay with your Marchioness — or come loith us! I70 THE LADY JANE. xcv. Here was to be "a parting such as wrings The blood from out young hearts " — for Jules would stay! The bird she took unfledged had got its wings, And, though its cage be gold, it must away ! But this, and similar high-colour'd things, Refinement makes it diflacult to say ; For, higher ''high life" is, (this side an attic,) The more it shrinks from all that looks dramatic. xcvi. Hence, words grow cold as agony grows hot, 'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades ; And though the truth but coldly end the plot, (There really is no pathos for you, ladies !) Jules cast the die with simple " I think not ! " And her few words were guarded as he made his. For rank has one cold law of Moloch's making — Death, before outcry, while the heart is hrealdng / XCVII. She could not tell that boy how hot the tear That seem'd within her eyeball to have died — She could not tell him her exalted sphere Had not a hope his boyish love beside : The grave of anguish is a human ear — Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride ! And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonel}', With her heart lock'd on that dumb sorrow only ! XCVTII. Calm, in her "pride of place," moves Lady Jane — Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold — THE LADY JANE. 171 So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd. She loved too late to dream of love again, And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old ! A star, on which a spirit had alighted Once, in all time, were like a life so blighted ! xcix. So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread Which we have follow'd in its rosy weaving ! Yet merrily, still on, the shuttle sped. Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving ; But, that an angel from his path had fled, He was not long in mournfully believing. And *' angel watch and ward " had fled with her — For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err ! c. Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings, Or so some pleasant allegory goes,) And Jules at many a bright light burnt his wings. His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows ; But, while one passion best in metre rings, Another is best told in lucid prose. As to the Marchioness, I've half a plan, sir ! To limn her in the quaint Spenserian stanza, THE END. • 15^2 THE LADY JANE. TO THE READER. And now, dear reader ! as a brick may be A sample of a house — a bit of glass Of a broad mirror — it has seem'd to me These fragments for a tale may shift to pass. (I am a poet much cut ujJ, pardie !) But '• shorts " is poor "to running loose to grass." Where there's a meadow to range freely over, You pick to please you — timothy or clover. Without the slightest hint at transmigration, I wish hereafter we may meet i7i calf ! That you may read me with some variation — Tills when you're moody — that when you would laugh. In that case, I may swell this true narration. And blow off here and there a speech of chaff. I trust you think, that, were there more 'twere better, or If cetera desunt, decent were the cetera ! P. S. — I really had forgotten quite To say to you, from Countess Pasibleu — (Dying, 'tis thought, but quite too ill to write) — Her Ladyship's best compliments to you, And she's toujours cliez elle on Friday night, (Buckingham Crescent, May Fair, No. 2.) This, (as her written missive would have said,) Always in case her Ladyship's not dead. LORD IVON ANP HIS DAUGHTER. CITY POEMS. CITY POExMS. Argument. — The poet starts from the Bowling Green,* to take his sweet- heart up to Thompson's + for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment. Come out, love — the night is enchanting ! The moon hangs just over Broadway ; The stars are all lighted and panting — (Hot weather up there, I dare say !) 'Tis seldom that " coolness" entices, And love is no better for chilling — But come up to Thompson's for ices, And cool your warm heart for a shilling ! What perfume comes balmily o'er us ? Mint juleps from City Hotel ! A loafer is smoking before us — (A nasty cigar, by the smell !) O Woman ! thou secret past knowing ! Like lilacs that grow by the wall, You breathe every air that is going, Yet gather but sweetness from all ! On, on ! by St. Paul's, and the Astor ! Religion seems very ill-plann'd ! For one day we list to the pastor, For six days we list to the band ! * At the time, 1830-40, surrounded by fashionable residences, t A famous restaurant. 175 176 THE WHITE CHIP HAT. The sermon may dwell on the future, The organ your pulses may calm — When — pest ! — that remember'd cachucha Upsets both the sermon and psalm ! Oh, pity the love that must utter While goes a swift omnibus by ! (Though sweet is / scream * when the flutter Of fans shows thermometers high) — But if what I bawl, or I mutter. Falls into your ear but to die, Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter Is not more unhappy than I ! THE WHITE CHIP HAT. I pass'd her one day in a hurry. When late for the post with a letter — I think near the corner of Murray — And up rose my heart as I met her ! I ne'er saw a parasol handled So like to a duchess's doing — I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd, Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing — Lovely thing ! Surprising ! — one woman can dish us So many rare sweets up together ! Tournure absolutely delicious — Chip hat without flower or feather — Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced, Her waist like the cup of a lily — Query. — Should this be Ice cream, or I scream? — Printers Devil. LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS. 177 And an air, that, while daintily modest, Repell'd both the saucy and silly — Quite the thing ! For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir, There's reason in straining one's tether — And, to see her again in Broadway, sir, Who would not be lavish of leather ! I met her again, and as 7jou know I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney — But I said a bad word — for my Juno Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney — Horrid thing ! Away flies the dream I had nourish'd — My castles like mockery fall, sir ! And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd Seem varnish and crockery all, sir ! The bright cup which angels might handle Turns earthy when finger'd by asses — And the star that " swaps " light with a candle Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes ! — Not the thing ! LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS, I HELPED INTO THE OMNIBUS. I KNOW her not ! Her hand has been in mine, And the warm pressure of her taper arm Has thrill'd upon my fingers, and the hem Of her white dress has lain upon my feet, Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds. 178 LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS. Was kindled to a fever ! I, to her, Am but the undistinguishable leaf Blown by upon the breeze — yet I have sat, And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes, (Close as a lover in his hour of bliss, And steadfastly as look the twin stars down Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed ! And I have felt from out its gate of pearl Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat Dreaming away the moments, I have tried To count the long dark lashes in the fringe Of her bewildering eyes ! The kerchief sweet That enviably visits her red lip Has slumbered, while she held it, on my knee, — And her small foot has crept between mine own — And yet, she knows me not ! Now, thanks to Heaven For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping — Wealth that the miser cannot hide away ! Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower — They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze ! Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind — It pours its light on every passing eye ! And he who on this beauty sets his name — Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone Such loveliness was first of angels born — Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear, That I, too, in her beauty, sun my eye, And, unrebuked, may worship her in song — Tell him that Heaven, along our darkling way, Hath set bright lamps with loveliness alight — And all may in their guiding beams rejoice ; But he — as 'twere a watcher by a lamp — Guards but this bright one's shining. TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE. 179 TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS. I KNOW not who thou art, oh lovely one ! Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful, Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me While handing up thy sixpence through the hole Of that o'er-freighted omnibus ! Ah me ! The world is full of meetings such as this — A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply — And sudden partings after ! We may pass, And know not of each other's nearness now — Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I, Lone, in the Waverley ! Oh, life of pain ! And even should I pass where thou dost dwell — Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea — So cold is this inexorable world, I must glide on ! I dare not feast mine eye ! I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in Venture to fling to thee my innocent card — Not knowing thy papa ! Hast thou papa 1 Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl 1 And what doth he for lucre ? Lo again ! A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream ! For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love Can make thee, and the ministering hands Of milliners, incapable of more. Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly. May rise a wall of adamant. My breath Upon my pale lip freezes as I name i8o YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU. Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west In its far down extremity. Thy sire May be the signer of a temperance pledge, And clad all decently may walk the earth — Nay — may be number'd with that blessed few Who never ask for discount — yet, alas ! If, homeward wending from his daily cares. He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending- Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, — My vision is departed ! Harshly falls The doom upon the ear, " She's not genteel ! " - And pitiless is woman who doth keep Of "good society" the golden key ! And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, To stoop not after rising ! But farewell, And I shall look for thee in streets wh3re dwell The passengers by Broadway Lines alone ! And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, Art only not more lovely than genteel — Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain — And, with up- town devotedness and truth, My love shall hover round thee ! YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU, As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying The air-track of a snipe most passing fair — • Yet colder in her blood than she is fair — LOVE IN A COTTAGE. igj And as that robin lingers on the wing, And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air, And loves her for her coldness not the less— ' But fain would win her to that warmer sky Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars— So I — a languisher for sunnier climes, Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees for ever Image the tropic deathlessness of love- Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady, To a more genial clime than cold Broadway ! Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on, As doth the swan upon the yielding water, And with a cheek like alabaster cold ! But as thou didst divide the amorous air Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift That veil of languid lashes to look in At Leary's tempting window— lady ! then My heart sprang in beneath that fringdd veil, Like an adventurous bird that would escape To some warm chamber from the outer cold ! And there would I delightedly remain. And close that fringed window with a kiss. And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast, Be prisoner for ever ! LOVE IN A COTTAGE. Tpiey may talk of love in a cottage. And bowers of trellised vine— Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine ; i82 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree, And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free ! But give me a sly flirtation By the light of a chandelier — AVith music to play in the pauses. And nobody very near ; Or a seat on a silken sofa, With a glass of pure old wine. And mamma too blind to discover The small white hand in mine. Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies — Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies ! You lie down to your shady slumber, And wake with a bug in your ear. And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer. True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease — And true love has an eye for a dinner, And starves beneath shady trees. His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing. And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel. And shot from a silver string. THE DECLARATION. 1S3 THE DECLARATION, 'TwAS late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air, And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel, Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervour of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden — and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart. Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she w ithdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me — She had been aslee]) ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. PARRHASIUS. "Parrhasius, a painter of Athen5=, among those Olynthian captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and tor- ment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paint." — Burton's Anat. of Mel. There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A grey-hair'd and majestical old man, Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from his place had gone, And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung. As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer Pass'd on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent. He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep, Th' inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summon'd back The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 187 1 88 PARRHASIUS. 'Twas evening, and tlie half- descended sun Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he lean'd Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him, Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs, Stain'd with the oozing blood, were laced with veins Swollen to purple fulness ; the grey hair. Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes ; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. The golden light into the painter's room Stream'd richly, and the hidden colours stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. The walls were hung with armour, and about In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, And, like a veil of filmy mellowness, The lint-spects floated in the twilight air. PARRHASWS. iSg Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, Chain'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus— The vulture at his vitals, and the links Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh : And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth With its far-reaching fancy, and with form And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye, Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the wing'd god's, breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens— around me play Colours of such divinity to-day. " Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! Quick— or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! Now — bend him to the rack ! Press down the poison'd links into his flesh ; And tear agape that healing wound afresh 1 '^ So — let him writhe ! How lon