pP7 1 , i 4 I Mulock's Poems NEW AND OLD. BY THE AUTHOR OP "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." ETC C^rtouLV- J)/^>^A "S*WU*u P NEW YORK: HURST & CO., PUBLISHERS, 122 NASSAU STREET. 1883. *A DEDICATION TO MY HUSBAND. This under voice, for twenty years Still running on, a brook unheard, With sound half laughter and half tears, - Is hushed at last, like autumn bird ; Carol or quiet, which is best ? The singer or the song, preferred ? In sacred silence unconfessed Take both ; — and not another word. CONTENTS. Pag* IhILIP my King 13 Thoughts in a Wheat -Field .... 14 Immutable % 16 Four Years 17 The Dead Czar 18 The Wind at Night 20 A Fable 22 Labor is Prayer 23 A Silly Song ........ 24 In Meinoriani . . . . ■ - . . . 25 An Honest Valentine . 26 Looking Death in the Face 28 By the Alma River * 31 Rothesay Bay 33 Living : after a Death 34 In our Boat 35 The River Shore 36 A Flower of a Day 37 The Night before the Mowing 38 Passion Past : 39 October 40 Moon-Struck. A Fantasy 41 A Stream's Singing 43 A Rejected Lover . . . . . . . 45 A Living Picture 46 Leonora 47 Plighted 49 Mortality 50 VI. CONTESTS. Life Returning. After War-Time My Friend A Valentine Grace of Clydeside . To a Beautiful Woman Mary's Wedding Between Two Worlds Cousin Robert At Last The Aurora on the Clyde An Aurora Borealis. Roslin Castle At the Linn-Side. Roslin A Hymn for Christmas Mornings A Psalm for New Year's Eve Faithful in Vanity Fair. I. and II. Her Likeness .... Only a Dream To my Godchild Alice NINETEEN SONNETS. Resigning Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia. I. and II. A Marriage-Table Michael the Archangel. I. and II. Beatrice to Dante Dante to Beatrice A Question. I. and II. Angei Faces. I. and II. Sunday Morning Bells Cceur de Lion. I. and II. Guns of Peace David's Child . A Word in Season . August the Sixth The Path through the Snow The Path through the Corn The Good of it. A Cynic's Song Mine 51 52 54 55 56 58 59 61 63 64 66 67 68 69 71 72 73 74 76 76 77 78 79 79 80 81 82 82 83 84 84 85 85 87 88 89 CONTEXTS. vn. A Ghost at the Dancing My Christian Name A Dead Baby For Music The Canary in his Cage Constancy in Inconstancy Buried To-day The Mill North Wind Now and Afterwards A Sketch The Unknown Country A Child's Smile Violets Edenland The House of Clay "Winter Moonlight The Planting . Sitting on the Shore Eudoxia. First Picture Eudoxia. Second Picture Eudoxia. Third Picture Benedetta MinelhV — The Novic Benedetta Minelli. The Sister of Mercy A Dream of Death A Dream of Resurrection On the Cliff-Top Evening Guests After Sunset The Garden-Chair. Two Portraits An Old Idea Parables Lettice A Spirit Present A Winter Walk .. "Will Sail To-morrow At Even-tide A Dead Sea-Gull. Near Liverpool 90 91 92 93 94 95 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 108 107 108 110 111 112 113 114 115 117 118 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 131 182 viii. COXTEXTS. Looking East. In January, 1858 . . . . 133 Over the Hills and Far Away 134 Too Late 135 Lost in the Mist 136 Semper Fidelis 139 One Summer Morning . . . ♦ . 140 My Love Annie 141 Summer Gone . . • . . . . . 141 The Voice Calling 143 The Wren's Nest 145 A Christmas Carol 146 The Mother's Visits. From the French . . . 147 A German Student's Funeral Hymn .... 147 Westward ho ! 148 Our Father's Business 150 An Autumn Psalm for 1860 . . . . . . 152 In the June Twilight .153 A Man's Wooing 155 The Cathedral Tombs 158 When Green Leaves come again . . . . . 160 The First Waits . ' 161 Day by Day 162 Only a Woman 163 A "Mercenary" Marriage 165 Over the Hillside . 166 The Unfinished Book 168 Twilight in the North 169 Cathair Fhargus 170 A True Hero . 173, At the Seaside . 174 ' Fishermen — not of Galilee 175 The Golden Island : Arran from Ayr .... 176 Fallen in the Night ! . 178 A Lancashire Doxology 179 Year after Year 180 14 Until Her Death " 181 The Lost Piece of Silver 182 Outward Bound . . 183 COXTEXTS. ix. A Picture Covered * 183 A Dream-child 185 The Flying Cloud 186 Sleep on till Day 187 To Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . . . 188 Into Mary's Bosom 189 At a Tabernacle 192 Requiem 194 The Human Temple 195 The Moon in the Morning 197 Green Things Growing 198 Jessie 199 The Coming of the Spring 200 The Morning World 201 Coming Home 202 The Dead 203 A Mariner's Bride 204 Mountains in Snow . . . ... . . 206 A Rhyme about Birds . . . . . . . 207 At the Window 209 Jupiter, an Evening Star 210 On His Ninetieth Birthday . . . . . . 211 In Expectation of Death. Constantia .... 212 Strayed from the Flock 214 Three Meetings . 216 April . . . 217 Laying a Foundation-stone 219 Headings of Chapters 220 The Golden Gate 224 A Farewell . • 225 Highland Cattle , 225 The Fisher-Maid 227 Young and Old 229 The Mulberry-tree 229 Lebewohl . 231 The Passing Fear 231 Among the Tombs 233 Retrospection 234 CONTENTS. The High Mountain A Christmas Blessing 235 235 POEMS FOE CHILDREN. Violets 238 Young Dandelion 239 Running after the Rainbow 240 The Blackbird and the Rooks 242 Jack-in-the-Green . 244 Waterloo-Dav 247 The Moon-Daisy 251 The Shaking of the Pear-tree 252 In Swanage Bay 255 The Wonderful Apple-tree 259 A Hare Hunt 261 The Two Rain-Drops 265 The Year's End 266 The Jealous Boy . 267 St. George and the Dragon 268 A Dying Child 270 Birds in the Snow 271 The Story of the " Birkenhead " 272 Magnus and Morna — A Shetland Fairy Tale 277 TWENTY POEMS FOR CHILDREN. A Little Dead Prince 298 Indian Children . , 300 The Little Comforter ....... 301 Don't be Afraid .302 Girl and Boy 303 Agnes at Prayer 304 Going to Work 304 My Little Lady 305 Dick and I ......... 307 My Little Boy that Died ...... 308 Our Black Brother 309 CONTENTS. XI, Kissing through the Chair Grandpapa Monsieur et Mademoiselle A French Nun The Young Governess . The Last Look of England Blind . Three Companions The Motherless Child Born at Jerusalem The Arctic Expedition, from the Woman's S: At St. Andrew's On a Silver Wedding Brother and Sister Under the Stars The Boat of my Lover The Boat of my Brothers— Parody Deep in the Yale The Elect Knight . Beside a Tomb Her Birthday An Every Day Story Found Drowned An Honest Man Died Happy . The Shadow of the Cross St. Christopher Dead, yet Speaking The Noble Coward Respect the Burthen Passing By A Possibility A Winter Wedding All Saints' Day A September Robin Blue Gentian Forsaken de 310 311 311 312 313 315 315 317 318 320 321 323 323 324 325 326 326 327 327 328 330 331 332 334 334 335 337 338 339 340 341 343 344 345 346 347 348* xii. CONTENTS. Mother and Son 349 Indian Summer 350 For an Andante of Mendelssohn's .... 350 Six Sisters 351 FIVE IRISH SONGS. To His Mary 354 The Emigrant ........ 355 The Hay 355 A Lullaby 356 Lost Kathleen 357 The Great Loch Lomond Scheme .... 358 Missed 361 POEMS. PHILIP MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." OOK at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip my king, Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities: Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, With love's invisible sceptre laden ; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip my king. O the day when thou goest a wooing, Philip my king ! When those beautiful lips are suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Pule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, Philip my king. 14 THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT-FIELD. Up from thy sweet mouth, — up to thy brow, Philip my king ! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers ; My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years ; — Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip my king. — A wreath not of gold but palm. One day, Philip my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch ; till angels shout As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, " Philip the king!" THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT-FIELD. « Crave nor gift nor donor, 28 LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. Old days ne'er regret, Seek no friend save Honor, Dread no foe but Debt ; Meet ill-fortune steady, Hand to hand with mine, Like a gallant lady, — Will you, Valentine ? Then, whatever weather Come, or shine, or shade, We'll set out together, Not a whit afraid. Age is ne'er alarming, — I shall find, I ween, You at sixty charming As at sweet sixteen : Let's pray, nothing loath, dear, That our funeral may Make one date serve both, dear, As our marriage day. Then, come joy or sorrow, Thou art mine, — I thine. So we'll wed to-morrow, Dearest Yalentine. LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. Y, in thy face, old fellow ! Now's the time. The Black sea wind flaps my tent-roof, nor wakes These lads of mine, who take of sleep their fill, As if they'd thought they'd never sleep again. Instead of — Pitiless Crimean blast, How many a howling lullaby thou'lt raise To-morrow night, all nights till the world's end ? Over some sleepers here I LOOKING DEATE IK TEE FACE 29 Some ?—who t Dumb Fate Whispers in no man's ear his coming doom ; Each thinks— " not I— not I." But thou, grim Death, I hear thee on the night-wind flying abroad, I feel thee here, squatted at our tent-door, Invisible and incommunicable, Pointing : " Hurrah!" Why yell so in your sleep, Comrade ? Did you see aught ? Well — let him dream : Who knows, to-morrow such a shout as this He'll die with. A brave lad, and very like His sister. * * * * * So ! just two hours have I lain Freezing. That pale white star, which came and peered Through the tent-opening, has passed on, to smile Elsewhere, or lost herself i' the dark — God knows. Two hours nearer to dawn. The very hour, The very hour and day, a year ago, When we light-hearted and light-footed fools Went jingling idle swords in waltz and reel, And smiling in fair faces. How they'd start, Those dainty red and white soft faces kind, If they could but behold my visage now, Or his — or his— or some poor faces cold We covered up with earth last noon. — There sits The laidly Thing I felt on our tent-door Two hours back. It has sat and never stirred. I cannot challenge it, or shoot it down, Or grapple with it, as with that young Russ Whom I killed yesterday. (What eyes he had ! — Great limpid eyes, and curling dark-red hair, — A woman's pictnire hidden in his breast, — 30 LOOKING DEATH IN THE FAC& I never liked this fighting hand to hand), No, it will not be met like flesh and blood, This shapeless, voiceless, immaterial Thing. Yet I will meet it. Here I sit alone, — Show me thy face, O Death ! There, there. I think I did not tremble. I am a young man , Have done full many an ill deed, left undone Many a good one : lived unto the flesh, Not to the spirit : I would rather live A few years more, and try if things might change. Yet, yet I hope I do not tremble, Death ; And that thy finger pointed at my heart But calms the tumult there. What small account The All-living seems to take of this thin flame Which we call life. He sends a moment's blast Out of war's nostrils, and a myriad Of these our puny tapers are blown out Forever. Yet we shrink not, — we, such frail Poor knaves, whom a spent ball can "instant strike Into eternity, — we helpless fools, Whom a serf's clumsy hand and clumsier sword Smiting — shall sudden into nothingness Let out that something rare which could conceive A universe and its God. Free, open-eyed, We rush like bridegrooms to Death's grisly arms. Surely the very longing for that clasp, Proves us immortal. Immortality Alone could teach this mortal how to die. Perhaps war is but Heaven's great ploughshare, driven Over the barren, fallow earthly fields, Preparing them for harvest ; rooting up BY THE ALMA illVtU, 31 Grass, weeds, and flowers, which necessary fall, That in these furrows the wise Husbandman May drop celestial seed. So let us die ; Yield up our little lives, as the flowers do ; Believing He'll not lose one single soul, — One germ of His immortal. Naught of His Or Him can perish ; therefore let us die. I half remember, something like to this She says in her dear letters. So — let's die. What, dawn ? The faint hum in the trenches fails. Is that a bell i' the mist ? My faith, they go Early to matins in Sebastopol ! — A gun ! — Lads, stand to your arms ; the Russ is here. Agnes. Kind Heaven, I have looked Death in the face, Help me to die. BY THE ALMA RIVER. ILLIE, fold your little hands ; Let it drop, that " soldier" toy Look where father's picture stands, - Father, who here kissed his boy Not two months since, — father kind, Who this night may — ■ Never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear, Call aloud that He may hear Who is God of battles, say, " O, keep father safe this day By the Alma river." Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk, 32 BY THE ALMA RIVER. Eight of nations or of creed. Chance-poised victory's bloody work. Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sebastopol ; Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, where'er it be Where he stands — no other word ! Stands— God sure the child's prayer heard- By the Alma river. Willie, listen to the bells Ringing through the town to-day. That's for victory. Ah, no knells For the many swept away, — Hundreds — thousands ! Let us weep, We who need not, — just to keep Reason steady in my brain Till the morning comes again, Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and fell By the Alma river. Come, we'll lay us down, my child, Poor the bed is, poor and hard ; Yet thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home : Or beneath the starry dome Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries — Willie, mark — Where he buries those who died Fighting bravely at his side By the Alma river. Willie, Willie, go to sleep, God will keep us, O my boy ; He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy, When I need not shrink to meet KOTILESAY BAY. " 33 Those dread placards in the street, Which for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes — Child, say thy prayer Once again, a different one : Say, "O God, Thy will be done By the Alma river." ROTHESAY BAY. U' yellow lie the corn-rigs Far doun the braid hillside ; It is the brawest harst field Alang the shores o' Clyde, — And I'm a puir harst -lassie Wha Stan's the lee-lang day Shearing the corn-rigs of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. I had ance a true-love, — Xow, I hae nane ava ; And I had three braw brithers, But I hae tint them a'; My father and my mither Sleep i' the mools this day. 1 sit my lane amang the rigs* Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. It's a bonnie bay at morning, And bonnier at the noon. But it's bonniest when the sun draps And red comes up the moon : When the mist creeps o'er the Cumbrays, And Arran peaks are gray, And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings, Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay, Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, And a wee tear blin's my e'e,— 34 LIVING. And I think o' that far Countrie What I wad like to be ! But I rise content i' the morning To wark while wark I may r the yellow harst field of Ardbeg Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay LIVING : AFTER A DEATH. " That friend of mine who lives in God." LIVE ! (Thus seems it we should say to our beloved, — Each held by such slight links, so oft removed ;) And I can let thee go to the world's end, All precious names, companion, love, spouse, friend, Seal up in an eternal silence gray, Like a closed grave till resurrection- day : All sweet remembrances, hopes, dreams, desires. Heap, as one heaps up sacrificial fires : Then, turning, consecrate by loss; and proud Of penury — go back into the loud Tumultuous world again with never a moan — Save that which whispers still, " My own, my own * Unto the same broad sky whose arch immense Enfolds us both like the arm of Providence : And thus, contented, I could live or die, With never clasp of hand or meeting eye On this side Paradise. — While thee I see Living to God, thou art alive to me. O live ! And I, methinks, can let all dear rights go, Fond duties melt away like April snow, And sweet, sweet hopes, that took a life to weave, IN OUR BOAT. ~ 35 Vanish like gossamers of autumn eve. Nay, sometimes seems it I could even bear To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear, Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, And see another queen it at the door, — If only that the king had done no wrong, If this my palace, where I dwelt so long, Were not denied by falsehood entering in: — There is no loss but change, no death but sin, No parting, save the slow corrupting pain Of murdered faith that never lives again. O live ! (So endeth faint the low pathetic cry Of love, whom death has taught love cannot die,) And I can stand above the daisy bed, The only pillow for thy dearest head, There cover up forever from my sight My own, my earthly all of earth delight ; And enter the sea cave of widowed years, Where far, far off the trembling gleam appears Through which thy heavenly image slipped away, And waits to meet me at the open day. Only to me, my love, only to me. This cavern underneath the moaning sea ; This long, long life that I alone must tread, To whom the living seem most like the dead, — Thou wilt be safe out on the happy shore : He who in God lives, liveth evermore. IN OUR BOAT. TAES trembling o'er us and sunset before us, Mountains in shadow and forests asleep ; Down the dim river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not, — there's peace on the deep. 3b THE EIVER SHORE, Come not, pale Sorrow, flee till to-morrow, Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep ; While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not, — there's peace on the deep. As the waves cover the depths we glide over, So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, While down the river we float on forever, S^eak not, ah, breathe not, — there's peace on the deep. Heaven shine above us, bless all that love us, All whom we love in thy tenderness keep ! While down the river we float on forever, Speak not, ah, breathe not, — there's peace on the deep, THE RIVER SHORE. For an old tune of Dowland's, ALKING by the quiet river Where the slow tide seaward goes, All the cares of life fall from us, All our troubles find repose : Naught forgetting, naught regretting, Lovely ghosts from days no more Glide with white feet o'er the river, Smiling towards the silent shore. So we pi ay in His good pleasure When this world we've safely trod. We may walk beside the river Flowing from the throne of God : All forgiving, all believing, Not one lost we loved before, Looking towards the hills of heaven Calmly from the eternal shore. A FLOWER OF A DAY. ~ 37 A FLOWER OF A DAY. LD friend, that with a pale and pensile grace Cliinbest the lnsh hedgerows, art thou back again, Marking the slow round of the wond'rous years ? Didst beckon rue a moment, silent flower? Silent ? As silent is the archangel's pen That day by day writes our life chronicle, And turns the page, — the half-forgotten page, Which all eternity will never blot. Forgotten ? No, we never do forget : We let the years go : wash them clean with tear&, Leave them to bleach, out in the open day, Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, Till we shall dare unfold them without pain, — But we forget not, never can forget. Flower, thou and I a moment face to face — My face as clear as thine, this July noon Shining on both, on bee and butterfly And golden beetle creeping in the sun — Will pause, and, lifting up, page after page, The many-colored history of life, Look backwards, backwards. So, the volume close ! This July day, with the sun high in heaven, And the whole earth rejoicing, — let it close. I think we need not sigh, complain, nor rave ; Nor blush, — our doings and misdoing all Being more 'gainst heaven than man, heaven them does keep With all its doings and undoings strange 33 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING, Concerning us. — Ah, let the volume close: I would not alter in it one poor line. My dainty flower, my innocent white flower With such a pure smile looking up to heaven, With such a bright smile looking down on me — (Nothing but smiles, — as if in all the world Were no such things as thunder-storms or frosts, Or broken petals trampled on the ground, Or shivering leaves whirled in the wintry air Like ghosts of last year's joys :) — my pretty flower, I'll pluck thee — smiling too. Not one salt drop Shall stain thee : — if these foolish eyes are dim, 'T is only with a wondering thankfulness That they behold such beauty and such peace, Such wisdom and such sweetness, in God's world, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING. LL shimmering in the morning shine And diamonded with the, dew, And quivering in the scented wind That thrills its green heart through, — The little field, the smiling field, With all its flowers a-blowing, How happy looks the golden field The day before the mowing ! Outspread 'neath the departing light, Twilight, still void of stars, Save where, low westering, Yenus hides From the red eye of Mars ; How quiet lies the silent field With all its beauties glowing ; Just stirring,— like a child asleep, — The night before the mowing. PASSION PJST. . 39 Sharp steel, inevitable band, Cut keen, cut kind 1 Our field We know full well must be laid low Before its wealth it yield : Labor and mirth and plenty blest Its blameless death bestowing : And yet we weep, and yet we weep, The night before the mowing. PASSION PAST. ERE I a boy, with a boy's heart -beat At glimpse of her passing adown the street, Of a room where she had entered and gone, Or a page her hand had written on, — Would all be with me as it was before ? no, never ! no, no, never ! Never any more. Were I a man, with a man's pulse-throb, Breath hard and fierce, held down like a sob, Dumb, yet hearing her lightest word. Blind, until only her garment stirred : Would I pour my life like wine on her floor ? No, no, never : never, never ! Never any more. Gray and withered, wrinkled and marred. 1 have gone through the fire and come out unscarred, With the image of manhood upon me yet, No shame to remember, no wish to forget : But could she rekindle the pangs I bore ? — no, never! thank God, never! Never any more. Old and wrinkled, withered and gray, — And yet if her light step passed to-day, 1 should see her face all faces among. 40 OCTOBER. And say,-—" Heaven love thee, whom I loved long! Thou hast lost the key of my heart's door, Lost it ever, and forever, Ay, forevermore." OCTOBER. ||T is no joy to me to sit On dreamy summer eves, When silently the timid moon Kisses the sleeping leaves And all things through the fair hushed earth Love, rest — but nothing grieves. Better I like old Autumn With his hair tossed to and fro, Firm striding o'er the stubble fields When the equinoctials blow. When shrinkingly the sun creeps up Through misty mornings cold, And Robin on the orchard hedge Sings cheerily and bold, While heavily the frosted plum Drops downward on the mould; — And as he passes, Autumn Into earth's lap does throw Brown apples gay in a game of play, As the equinoctials blow. When the spent year its carol sinks Into a humble psalm, Asks no more for the pleasure draught, But for the cup of balm, And all its storms and sunshine bursts Controls to one brave calm, — Then step by step walks Autumn, With steady eyes that show Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year. While the equinoctials blow. MOON-STRUCK, _ 41 MOON-STRUCK. A FANTASY. T is a inoor Barren and treeless ; lying high and bare Beneath the arched sky. The rushing winds Fly over it, each with his strong bow bent And quiver full of whistling arrows keen. I am a woman, lonely, old, and poor. If there be any one who watches me (But there is none) adown the long blank wold, My figure painted on the level sky Would startle him as if it were a ghost, — And like a ghost, a weary wandering ghost, I roam and roam, and shiver through the dark, That will not hide me. O for but one hour, One blessed hour of warm and dewy night, To wrap me like a pall — with not an eye In earth or heaven to pierce the black serene. Night, call ye this ? No night ; no dark — no rest — A moon-ray sweeps down sudden from the sky, And smites the moor — Is't thou, accursed Thing, Broad, pallid, like a great woe looming out — Out of its long-sealed grave, to fill all earth With its dead, ghastly smile ? Art there again, Round, perfect, large, as when we buried thee, I and the kindly clouds that heard my prayers ? I'll sit me down and meet thee face to face, Mine enemy ? — Why didst thou rise upon My world — my innocent world, to make me mad ? Wherefore shine forth, a tiny tremulous curve Hung out in the gray sunset beauteously, To tempt mine eyes — then nightly to increase Slow orbing, till thy full, blank, pitiless stare Hunts me across the w T orld ? 42 MOON-STRUCK. No rest — no dark. Hour after hour that passionless bright face Climbs up the desolate blue. I will press down The lids on my tired eyeballs — crouch in dust And pray. — Thank God, thank God ! — a cloud has hid My torturer. The night at last is free : Forth peep in crowds the merry twinkling stars. Ah, we'll shine out, the little silly stars And I ; we'll dance together across the moor, They up aloft — I here. At last, at last We are avenged of our adversary ! The freshening of the night air feels like dawn. Who said that I was mad ? I will arise, Throw off my burthen, march across the wold Airily — Ha ! what, stumbling ? Nay, no fear — I am used unto the dark, for many a year Steering companionless athwart the waste To where, deep hid in valleys of white mist, The pleasant home-lights shine. I w r ill but pause, Turn round and gaze — O miserable me ! The cloud-bank overflows : sudden outpour The bright white moon-rays — ah ! I drown, I drown, And o'er the flood, with steady motion, slow It walketh — my inexorable Doom. No more : I shall not struggle any more : I will lie down as quiet as a child, — I can but die. There, I have hid my face : Stray travelers passing o'er the silent wold Would only say, "She sleeps." Glare on, my Doom; I will not Iook at thee : and if at times I shiver, still I neither weep nor moan : Angels may see, I neither weep nor moan, A STREAM'S SINGING. 43 Was that sharp whistling wind the morning breeze That calls the stars back to the fold of heaven ? I am very cold. — And yet there is a change. Less fiercely the sharp moonbeams smite my brain, My heart beats slower, duller ; soothing rest Like a soft garment binds my shuddering limbs. — If I looked up now, should I see it still Gibbeted ghastly in the hopeless sky ? — No! It is very strange : all things seem strange : Pale spectral face, I do not fear thee now : Was't this mere shadow which did haunt me once Like an avenging fiend ? — Well, we fade out Together : I'll nor dread nor curse thee more. How calm the earth seems ! and I know the moor Glistens with dew-stars. I will try and turn My poor face eastward. Close not, eyes! That light Fringing the far hills, all so fair — so fair, Is it not dawn ? I am dying, but 'tis dawn. "Upon, the mountains I behold the feet Of my Beloved: let us forth to meet" — Death. This is death. I see the light no more ; I sleep. But like a morning bird my soul Springs singing upward, into the deeps of heaven Through world on world to follow Infinite Day. A STREAM'S SINGING. HOW beautiful is Morning ! How the sunbeams strike the daisies, And the kingcups fill the meadow Like a golden-shielded army Marching to the uplands fair;— {- 44 A STREAM'S SINGING. I am going forth to battle, And life's uplands rise before me, And my golden shield is ready, And I pause a moment, timing My heart's poean to the waters, As with cheerful song incessant Onwards runs the little stream ; Singing ever, onward ever, Boldly runs the merry stream. how glorious is Noon-day ! With the cool large shadows lying Underneath the giant forest, The far hill-tops towering dimly O'er the conquered plains below ; — 1 am conquering— I shall conquer In life's battle-field impetuous : And I lie and listen dreamy To a double-voiced, low music, — Tender beech trees sheeny shiver Mingled with the diapason Of the strong, deep, joyful stream, Like a man's love and a woman's ; So it runs — the happy stream ! how grandly cometh Even, Sitting on the mountain summit, Purple-vestured, grave, and silent, Watching o'er the dewy valleys, Like a good king near his end :— - 1 have labored, I have governed ; Now I feel the gathering shadows Of the night that closes all things : And the fair earth fades before me, And the stars leap out in heaven, While into the infinite darkness Solemn runs the steadfast stream — Onward, onward, ceaseless, fearless, Ringing runs the eternal stream, A REJECTED LOVER 45 A REJECTED LOVER OU "never loved me," Ada. These slow words, Dropped softly from your gentle woman-tongue Out of your true and kindly woman-heart, Fell, piercing into mine like very swords The sharper for their kindness. Yet no wrong Lies to your charge, nor cruelty, nor art, — Ev'n while you spoke, I saw the tender tear-drop start. You "never loved me." No, you never knew, You, with youth's morning fresh upon your soul, What 't is to love: slow, drop by drop, to pour Our life's whole essence, perfumed through and through With all the best we have or can control For the libation — cast it down before Your feet — then lift the goblet, dry for evermore. I shall not die as foolish lovers do : A man's heart beats beneath this breast of mine, The breast where — Curse on that fiend-whispering " It might have been ! " — Ada, I will be true Unto myself — the self that worshipped thine : May all life's pain, like these few tears that spring For me, glance off as rain-drops from my white dove's .wing ! May }^ou live long, some good man's bosom-flower And gather children round your matron knees : So, when all this is past, and you and I Remember each our youth-days as an hour Of joy — or anguish, one, serene, at ease, May come to meet the other's steadfast eye, Thinking, "He loved me well !" clasp hands, and so pass by. ' 46 A LIVING PICTURE. A LIVING PICTURE. 0, I'll not say your name. I have said it now, As you mine, first in childish treble, then Up through a score and more familiar years Till baby-voices mock us. Time may come When your tall sons look down on our white hair, Amused to hear us call each other thus, And question us about the old, old days, The far-off days, the days when we were young. How distant do they seem, and yet how near ! Now, as I lie and watch you come and go, With garden basket in your hand ; in gown Just girdled, and brown curls that girl-like fall, And straw hat napping in the April breeze, I could forget this lapse of years— start up Laughing — " Come, let's go play ! " Well-a-day, friend Our play-days are all done. Still, let us smile : For as you flit about jour garden here You look like this spring morning ; on your lips An unseen bird sings snatches of gay tuoes, While, an embodied music, moves your step, Your free, wild, springy step, like Atala, Or Pocahontas, careless child o' the sun — Those Indian beauties I compare you to — I, still your praiser, — Nay, nay, I'll not praise, Fair seemeth fairest, ignorant 'tis fair : That light incredulous laugh is worth a world ! That laugh, with childish echoes. So then, fade, Mere dream. Come, true and sweet reality : LEONORA. 47 Come, dawn of happy wifehood, motherhood, Ripening to perfect noon ! Come, peaceful round Of simple joys, fond duties, gladsome cares, When each full hour drops bliss with liberal hand, Yet leaves to-morrow richer than to-day. "Will you sit here ? the grass is summer- warm. Look at those children making daisy-chains, So did we too, do you mind ? That eldest lad, He has your very mouth. Yet, you will have 't His eyes are like his father's ? Perhaps so : They could not be more dark and deep and kind. Do you know, this hour I have been fancying you A poet's dream, and almost sighed to think There was no poet to praise you — Why, you're flown After those mad elves in the flower-beds there, Ha — ha —you're no dream now. Well, well— so best ! My eyelids droop content o'er moistened eyes : I would not have you other than you are. LEOXORA. EONORA, Leonora, How the word rolls — Leonora — Lion-like, in full-mouthed sound ? Marching o'er the metric ground With a tawny tread sublime — So your name moves, Leonora, Down my desert rhyme. So you pace, young Leonora, Through the alleys of the wood, Head erect, majestic, tall, The fit daughter of the Hall : Yet with hazel eyes declined, 48 LFjyyokA. And a voice like summer wind, And a meek mouth, sweet and good, Dimpling ever, Leonora, In fair womanhood. How those smiles dance, Leonora, As you meet the pleasant breeze Under your ancestral trees : For your heart is free and pure As this blue March sky o'erhead, And in the life-path you tread, All the trees are budding, sure, All the primroses are springing, All the birds begin their singing — 'T is your spring-time, Leonora, May it long endure. But it will pass, Leonora : And the silent days must fall When a change comes over all : When the last leaf downward flitters, And the last, last sunbeam glitters On the terraced hillside cool, On the peacocks by the pool :, When you'll walk along these alleys With no lightsome foot that dallies With the violets and the moss, — But with quiet steps and slow, And grave eyes that earthward grow, And a matron-heart inured To all women have endured, — Must endure and ever will, All the joy and all the ill, All the gain and all the loss, — Can you cheerfully lay down Careless girlhood's flowery crown, And thus take up, Leonora, Womanhood's meek cross ? 40 Ay ! your eyes shine, Leonora, Warm, and true, and brave, and kind : And although I nothing know Of the maiden heart below, I in them good omens find. Go, enjoy your present horns Like the birds and bees and flowers And may summer days bestow On you just so much of rain, Blessed baptism of pain ! As will make your blossoms grow. May you walk, as through life's road Every noble woman can, — With a pure heart before God, And a true heart unto man : Till with this same smile you wait For the opening of the Gate That shuts earth from mortal eyes ; Till at last, with peaceful heart, All contented to depart, Leaving children's children playing In these woods you used to stray in, You may enter, Leonora Into Paradise. PLIGHTED. INE to the core of the heart, my beauty ! Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty : Love given willingly, full and free, Love for love's sake— as mine to thee. Duty's a slave that keeps the keys, But Love, the master, goes in and out Of his goodly chambers with song and shout, Just as he please — just as he please. 50 MORTALITY. Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden, To the silken foot that's scarce beholden ; Give to a few friends baud or smile, Like a generous lady, now and awhile, But the sanctuary heart, that none dare win Keep holiest of holiest evermore : The crowd in the aisles may watch the door The high-priest only enters in. Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors, With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors, Unto me and to me alone revealed, "A spring shut up, a fountain sealed." Many may praise thee — praise mine as thine, Many may love thee — I'll love them too ; But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true, Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine. Mine !— God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given Something all mine on this side heaven : Something as much myself to be As this my soul which I lift to Thee : Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, Life of my life, whom Thou dost make Two to the world for the world's work's sake — But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one. MORTALITY. "And we shall be changed." E dainty mosses, lichens gray, Pressed each to each in tender fold, And peacefully thus, day by day, Returning to their mould ; LIFE RETVRNim. 51 Brown leaves, that with aerial grace Slip from your branch like birds a- wing, Each leaving in the appointed place Its bud of future spring ; — If we, God's conscious creatures, knew But half your faith in our decay, We should not tremble as we do When summoned clay to clay. But with an equal patience sweet We should put off this mortal gear, In whatsoe'er new form is meet Content to reappear.' Knowing each germ of life He gives Must have in Him its source and rise, Being that of His being lives May change, but never dies. Ye dead leaves, dropping soft and slow, Ye mosses green and lichens fair, Go to your graves, as I will go, For God is also there. LIFE RETURNING. After war-time. LIFE, dear life, with sunbeam finger touching This poor damp brow, or flying freshly by On wings of mountain wind, or tenderly In links of visionary embraces clutching Me from the yawning grave — Can I believe thou yet hast power to save ? I see thee, my life, like phantom giant Stand on the hill-top, large against the dawn, 54 MY FMEKD. Upon the night-black clouds a picture drawn Of aspect wonderful, with hope defiant, And so majestic grown I scarce discern the image as my own. Those mists furl off, and through the vale resplendent I see the pathway of my years prolong : Not without labor, yet for labor strong : Not without pain, but pain whose touch transcendent By love's divinest laws Heart unto heart, and all hearts upwards, draws. life, O love, your diverse tones bewildering Make silence, like two meeting waves of sound ; All cruel echoes of the past are drowned : 1 dream of wifely white arms, lisp of children— Never of ended wars, Save kisses sealing honorable scars. No more of battles ! save the combat glorious To which all earth and heaven may witness stand; The sword of the Spirit taking in my hand I shall go forth, since in new fields victorious The King yet grants that I His servant live, or His good soldier die. MY FRIEND. Y Friend wears a cheerful smile of his own, And a musical tongue has he ; We sit and look in each other's fuce, And are very good company. A heart he has, full warm and red As ever a heart I see ; And as long as I keep true to him, Why, he'll keep true o me. When the wind blows high air 1 the snow falls fast And we hea^ ■ *>e wassailers 1 roar — MT FRIEXD. 53 My Friend and I, with a right good- will We bolt the chamber door ■: I smile at him and he smiles at me In a dreamy calm profound, Till his heart leaps up in the midst of him With a comfortable sound. His warm breath kisses my thin gray hair And reddens my ashen cheeks ; He knows me better than you all know, Though never a word he speaks : — ■ Knows me as well as some had known Were things — not as things be. But hey, what matters ? my Friend and I Are capital company. At dead of night, when the house is still. He opens his pictures fair : Faces that are, that used to be, And faces that never were : M} r wife sits sewing beside my hearth, My little ones frolic wild,. Though — Lillian's married these twenty years, And I never had a child. But hejr, what matters ? when those who laugh May weep to-morrow, and they Who weep be as those that w T ept not — all Their tears long wiped awajr. I shall 'burn out, like you, my Friend, With a bright warm heart and bold, That flickers up to the last — then drops Into quiet ashes cold. ilnd when you flicker your last on me, In the old man's elbow-chair, Or— something easier still, where we Lie down, to arise up fair 54 A VALENTINE And young, and happy— why then, my Friend, Should other friends ask of me, Tell them I lived and loved and died In the best of all company. A VALENTINE. E are twa laddies unco gleg, An' blithe an' bonnie : As licht o' heel as Anster's Meg ; — Gin ye 'd a lassie's favor beg, I' faith she couldna stir a peg Ance lookin' on ye ! He 's a douce wiselike callant— Jim, Of wit aye ready. Cuts aff ane's sentence, 't ither's limb, An' whiles he 's daft and whiles he 's grim, But brains ? — wha's got the like o' him In 's wee bit heidie ? Dear laddie wi' the curlin' hair, Gentlest of ony : That gies kind looks an' speeches fair To dour auld wives as lassies rare, — I ken a score o' lads an' mair, But nane like Johnnie ! And gin ye learn the way to woo, Hae sweethearts mony, O laddie, never say ye loe An' gie fause coin for siller true ; A lassie's sair heart 's naething new,- Mind ye that, Johnnie. An' dinna change your luve too fast For ilk face bonnie, GRACE OF CLYDESIDE. 55 Lest waefu' want track wilfu' waste, And a' your youthfu' years lang past, Ye get the crookit stick at last, Ochone, puir Johnnie ! But callants baith, tak tent, and when Bright e'en hae won ye, Tak each your jo — and keep her— then Be faithfu' as ye 're fond, ye ken, Or — gang your gate like honest men, Young Jim and Johnnie. Sae when auld Time his crookit claw Sail lay upon ye, And, Jim, your feet that dance like snaw Are no the lightest in the ha', An' a' your curly haffets fa', My winsome Johnnie, — May each his ain warm ingle view, Cosie as ouy : A gudewife sonsie, leal and true, O' bonnie dochters not a few, An' lads — sic lads as ye 're the noo— Dear Jim and Johnnie ! GRACE OF CLYDESIDE. | H, little Grace of the golden locks, The hills rise fair on the shores of Clyde. As the merry waves wear out these rocks She wears my heart out, glides past and mocks : But heaven's gate ever stands open wide. The boat goes softly along, along, Like a river of life glows the amber Clyde ; Her voice floats near me like angels' song, — 56 TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Ah, sweet love-death, but thy pangs are strong ! Though heaven's gate ever stands open wide. We walk by the shore and the stars shine bright, But coldly, above the solemn Clyde : Her arm touches mine — her laugh rings light — One hears my silence : His merciful night Hides me — Can heaven be open wide ? I ever was but a dreamer, Grace : As the gray hills watch o'er the sunny Clyde, Standing afar, each in his place, I watch your young life's beautiful race, Apart — until heaven be opened wide. And sometimes when in the twilight balm The hills grow purple along the Clyde, The waves flow softly and very cairn, I hear all nature sing this one psalm, That "heaven's gate ever stands open wide." So, happy Grace, with your spirit free, Laugh on ! life is sweet on the banks of Clyde ; This is no blame unto thee or me ; Only God saw it could not be, Therefore His heaven stands open wide. TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. "A daughter of the gods : divinely tall, And most divinely fair." JJURELY, dame Nature made you in some dream Of old-world women— Chriemhild, or bright Aslauga, or Boadicea fierce and fair, Or Berengaria as she rose, her lips Yet ruddy from the poison that anoints Her memory still, the queen of queenly wives. TO A BEAUTIFUL JVC) MAX. 57 I marvel, who will crown you wife, you grand And goodly creature ! who will mount supreme The empty chariot of your maiden heart, Curb the strong will that leaps and foams and chafes Still masterless, and guide you safely home Unto the golden gate, where quiet sits Grave Matronhood, with gracious, loving eyes. What eyes you have, you wild gazelle o' the plain, You fierce hind of the forest ! now they flash, Now glow, now in their own dark down-dropt shade Conceal themselves a moment, as some thought, Too brief to be a feeling, flits across The April cloudland of your careless soul — There — that light laugh — and 't is full sun — full day. "Would I could paint you, line by line, ere Time Touches the gorgeous picture ! your ripe mouth, Your white arched throat, your stature like to Saul's Among his brethren, yet so fitly framed In such harmonious symmetry, we say As of a cedar among common trees Never " How tall !" but only "O how fair !" Who made } r ou fair ? ivoulded you in the shape That poets dream of ; sent you forth to men, His caligraph inscribed on ^very curve Of your brave form ? Is ft written on your soul ? — I know not. Woman, upon whom is laid Heaven's own sign-manual, Beauty, mock heaven rr y -- 1 Reverence thy loveliness — the outward type Of things we understand not, nor behold But as in a glass, darkly ; wear it thoa With awful gladness, grave humility, That not contemns, nor boasts, nor is ashamed, But lifts its face up prayerfully to heaven, — "Thou who hast made me, make me worthy The* > % x - 68 MARY'S WEDDING, MARY'S WEDDING. February 25th, 1851. I OU are to be married, Mary ; Tbis hour as I wakeful lie In the dreamy dawn of the morning, Your wedding hour draws nigh ; Miles off you are rising, dressing, Your bridemaidens gay among, In the same old house we played in, — You and I, when we were young. Your bridemaids — they were our playmates : Those known rooms, every wall, Could speak of our childish frolics, Loves, jealousies, great and small : Do you mind how pansies changed we And smiled at the word ■ i forget " ?— 'T was a girl's romance : }^et somehow I have kept my pansy yet. Do you mind our poems written Together ? our dreams of fame — And of ]ove — how we 'd share all secrets When, that sweet mystery came ? It is no mystery, now, Mary ; It was unveiled, year by year, Till — this is your marriage morning ; And I rest quiet here. I cannot call up your face, Mary, The face of the bride to-day : You have outgrown my knowledge, The years have so slipped away. I see but your girlish likeness, Brown eyes and brown falling hair; — God knows, I did love you dearly, Aad was proud that you were fair. BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 59 Many speak my name, Mary, While yours in home's silence lies : The future I read in toil's guerdon, You will read in your children's eyes: The past — the same past with either — Is to you a delightsome scene, But T cannot trace it clearly For the graves that rise between. I am glad you are happy, Mary ! These tears, could you see them fall, Would show, though you have forgotten^ I have remembered all. And though my cup may be empty While yours is all running o'er, Heaven keep you its sweetness, Mary, Brimming for evermore. BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. Parting for Australia. ERE sitting by the fire I aspire, love, I aspire — Not to that "other world" of your fond dreams, But one as nigh and nigher, Compared to which your real, unreal seems. Together as to-night In our light, love, in our light Of reunited joy appears no shade : From this our hope's reached height All things are possible and level made. Therefore we sit and view — I and you, love, I and you — That wondrous valley o'er southern seac, 60 BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. Where in a country new You will make for me a sweet nest of ease ; Where I, your poor tired bird, (Nothing stirred ? Love, nothing stirred ?) May fold her wings and be no more distrest : Where troubles may be heard Like outside winds at night which deepen rest. Where in green pastures wido We'll abide, love, we'll abide, And keep content our patriarchal flocks, Till at our aged side Leap our young brown-faced shepherds of the rocks. Ah, tale that's easy told ! (Hold my hand, love, tighter hold.) What if this face of mine, which you think fair — If it should ne'er grow old, Nor matron cap cover this maiden hair ? What if this silver ring (Loose it clings, love, yet does cling :) Should ne'er be changed for any other ? nay, This very hand I fling About your neck should — Hush ! to-day's to-day : To-morrow is — ah, whose ? You'll not lose, love, you'll not lose This hand I pledged, if never a wife's hand For tender household use Led by yours fearless into a far, far land. Kiss me and do not grieve ; I believe, love, I believe That he who holds the measure of our days, And did thus strangely weave Our opposite lives together, to His praise — 61 He never will divide Us so wide, love, us so wide ; But will, what'er befalls us, clearly snow That those in Him allied In life or death are nearer than they know. COUSIN ROBERT. COUSIN ROBERT, far away Among the lands of gold, How many years since we two met ?— You would not like it told. cousin Robert, buried deep Amid your bags of gold — 1 thought I saw you yesternight Just as you were of old. You own whole leagues — I half a rood Behind my cottage door ; You have your lacs of gold rupees, And I my children four ; Your tall barques dot the dangerous seas, My " ship's come home " — to rest Safe anchored from the storms of life Upon one faithful breast. And it would cause no start or sigh, Nor thought of doubt or blame, If I should teach our little son His cousin Robert's name. — That name, however wide it rings, I oft think, when alone, I rather would have seen it graved Upon a churchyard stone — ESS COUSIN ROBERT. Upon the white sunshining stone Where cousin Alick lies : Ah, sometimes, woe to him that lives ! Happy is he that dies ! Eobert, Robert, many a tear — Though not like tears of old — "Drops, thinking of your face so loved, Your hand's remembered fold ; A young man's face, so like our two Dead mothers' faces fair : A young man's hand, so firm to clasp, So resolute to dare. 1 thought you good — I wished you great ; You were my hope, my pride : To know you good, to make you great I once had happy died. To tear the plague-spot from your heart, Place honor on your brow, See old age come in crowned peace — I almost would die now ! Would give — all that's now mine to give — To have you sitting there, The cousin Robert of my youth— Though beggar'd, with gray hair O Robert, Robert, some that live Are dead, long ere they are old ; Better the pure heart of our youth Than palaces of gold ; Better the blind faith of our youth Than doubt, which all truth braves ; Better to mourn, God's children dear, Than laugh, the Devil's slaves. AT LASH ' 63 Robert, Robert, life is sweet, And love is boundless gain : Yet if I mind of you, my heart Is stabbed with sudden pain : And as in peace this Christmas eve I close our quiet doors, And kiss " good-night " on sleeping heads — Such bonnie curls, — like yours : 1 fall upon my bended knees With sobs that choke each word ; — li On those who err and are deceived Rave mercy, Ogood Lord ! " AT LAST. OWN, down like a pale leaf dropping, Under an autumn sky, My love dropped into my bosom Quietly, quietly. There was not a ray of sunshine And not a sound in the air, As she trembled into my bosom — My love, no longer fair. All year round in her beauty She dwelt on the tree-top high : She danced in the summer breezes, She laughed to the summer sky. I lay so low in the grass-dews, She sat so high above, She never wist of mx longing, She never dreamed of my love. U TffS J OROUA ON TJBE CL Tt>& But when winds laid bare her dwelling, And her heart could find no rest, I called— and she fluttered downward Into my faithful breast. I know that ray love is fading • I know I cannot fold Her fragrance from the frost-blight, Her beauty from the mould : But a little, little longer She shall contented lie, And wither away in the sunshine Silently, silently. Come when thou wilt, grim Winter, My year is crowned and blest If when my love is dying She die upon my breast. THE AURORA ON THE CLYDE September, 1850. H me, how heavily the night comes down, Heavily, heavily: Fade the curved shores, the blue hills' serried throng, The darkening waves we oared in light and song ; Joy melts from us as sunshine from the sky ; And Patience with sad eye Takes up her staff and -drops her withered crown. Our small boat heaves upon the heaving river, Wearily, wearily : The flickering shore-lights come and go by fits ; Towering 'twixt earth and heaven dusk silence sits, Death at her feet ; above, infinity ; Between, slow drifting by, Our tiny boat, like life, floats onward ever. THE AURORA ON TEE CLYDE. Go Pale, mournful hour, — too early night that falls Drearily, drearily, Dome not so soon ! Return, return, bright day, Kind voices, smiles, blue mountains, sunny bay ! In vain I Life's dial cannot backward fly : The dark time comes. Low lie, And listen, soul. Oft in the night, God calls. ****** Light, light on the black river ! How it gleams, Solemnly, solemnly! Like troops of pale ghosts on their pensive march, Treading the far heavens in a luminous arch, Each after each : phantasms serene and high From that eternity Where all earth's sharpest woes grow dim as dreains. Let us drink in the 'glory, full and whole, Silently, silently : Gaze, till it lulls all pain, all vain desires : — See now, that radiant bow of pillared fires Spanning the hills like dawn, until they lie In soft tranquility, And all night's ghastly glooms asunder roll. Look, look again ! the vision changes fast, Gloriously, gloriously : That was heaven's gate with its illumined road, But this is heaven ; the very throne of God Huug with flame curtains of celestial dye Waving perpetually, While to and fro innumerous angels haste. I see no more the stream, the boat that moves Mournfully, mournfully : And we who sit, poor prisoners of clay . It is not night, it is immortal day, Where the One Presence fills eternity, And each, His servant high, Forever praises and forever loves. T5B"~ AN A UROJIA BOBEALIS. O soul, forget the weight that drags thee down, Deathf ully, deathf ully : Know thyself. As this glory wraps thee round, Let it melt off the chains that long have bound Thy strength. Stand free before thy God and cry- " My Father, here am I: Give to me as Thou wilt— first cross, then crown." AN AURORA BOREALIS. Roslin Castle. STRANGE soft gleam, O ghostly dawn That never brightens unto day ; Ere earth's mirk pale once more be drawn Let us look out beyond the gray. It is just midnight by the clock — There is no sound on glen or hill, The moaning linn adown its rock Leaps, but the woods lie dark and still. Austere against the kindling sky Yon broken turret blacker grows ; Harsh light, to show remorselessly Ruins night hid in kind repose ! Nay, beauteous light, nay, light that fills The whole heaven like a dream of morn, As waking upon northern hills She smiles to find herself new-born, — Strange light, I know thou wilt not stay, That many an hour must come and go Before the pale November day Break in the east, forlorn and slow. AT THE LINN-SIDE. 67 Yet blest one gleam — one gleam like this, When all heaven brightens in our sight, And the long night that was and is And shall be, vanishes in light : O blest one hour like this ! to rise And see grief's shadows backward roll ; While bursts on unaccustomed eyes The glad Aurora of the soul. AT THE LINN-SIDE. Roslin. LIVING, living water, So busy and so bright, Aye flashing in the morning beams, And sounding through the night ; O golden-shining water — Would God that I might be A vocal message from His mouth Into the world, like thee ! O merry, merry water, Which nothing e'er affrays ; And as it pours from rock to rock Nothing e'er stops or stays ; But past cool heathery hollows And gloomy pools it flows ; Past crags that fain would shut it in Leaps through — and on it goes. O freshening, sparkling water, O voice that's never still, Though winter lays her dead-white hand On brae and glen and hill ; OS A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING. Though no leaf's left to flutter In woods all mute and hoar, Yet thou, O river, night and day Thou runnest evermore. No foul thing can pollute thee ; Thy swiftness casts aside All ill, like a good heart and true, However sorely tried. O living, living water, So fresh and bright and free- God lead us through this changeful world Forever pure, like thee ! A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING. 1855. T is the Christmas time : And up and down 'twixt heaven and earth, In glorious grief and solemn mirth, The shining angels climb. And unto everything That lives and moves, for heaven, on earth, With equal share of grief and mirth, The shining angels sing : — " Babes new-born, underlled, In lowly hut, or mansion wide- Sleep safely through this Christmas-tide When Jesus was a child. " O young men, bold and free, In peopled town, or desert grim, When ye are tempted like to Him, l The man Christ Jesus' see. A PSALM FOE NEW YEAR'S EVE. 69 • ' Poor mothers, with your hoard Of endless love and countless pain- Remember all her grief, her gain, The Mother of the Lord. ' ' Mourners, half blind with woe, Look up ! One standeth in this place. And by the pity of His face The Man of Sorrows know. ' 'Wanderers in far countrie, O think of Him who came, forgot, To His own. and they received Him not- Jesus of Galilee. " O all ye who have trod The wine-press of affliction, lay Your hearts before His heart this day — Behold the Christ of God ! " A PSALM FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE. 1855. FRIEND stands at the door : In either tight-closed hand Hiding rich gifts, three hundred and three score : Waiting to strew them daily o'er the land Even as seed the sower. Each drops he, treads it in and passes by : It cannot be made fruitful till it die. good New Year, we clasp This warm, shut hand of thine, Loosing forever, with half sigh, half gasp, A PSALM FOE NEW YEAR'S EVE. That which from ours falls like dead fingers' twine : A}^, whether fierce its grasp Has been, or gentle, having been, we know That it was blessed : let the Old Year go. O New Year, teach us faith ! The road of life is hard : * When our feet bleed and scourging winds us scathe, Point thou to Him whose visage was more marred Than any man's ; who saith "Make straight paths for your feet" — and to the op- prest— " Come ye to Me, and I will give you rest." Yet hang some lamp-like hope Above this unknown way, Kind year, to give our spirits freer scope And our hands strength to work while it is day. But if that way must slope Tombward, O bring before our fading eyes The lamp of life, the Hope that never dies. Comfort our souls with love, — Love of all human kind ; Love special, close — in which like sheltered dove Each weary heart its own safe nest may find ; And love that turns above i Adoringly ; contented to resign All loves, if need be, for the Love Divine. Friend, come thou like a friend, And whether bright thy face, Or dim with clouds we cannot comprehend, — We'll hold out patient hands, each in his place, And trust thee to the end. Knowing thou leadest onwards to those spheres Where there are neither days nor months nor years* FAITHFUL IN VANITY- FAIB. 71 FAITHFUL IN VANITY-FAIR. Suggested by one of David Scott's illustrations of " Pilgrim's Progress." I. HE great human whirlpool — 't is seething and seeth- ing: On! No time for shrieking out — scarcely for breathing : All toiling and moiling, some feebler, some bolder, But each sees a fiend-face grim over his shoulder : Thus merrily live they in Vanity-fair. The great human caldron — it boils ever higher : Some drowning, some sinking ; while some, stealing Higher Athirst, come and lean o'er its outermost verges, Or touch, as a child's feet touch, timorous, the surges — One plunge — lo ! more souls swamped in Vanity-fair. Let's live while we live ; for to-morrow all's over : Drink deep, drunkard bold ; and kiss close, maddened lover ; Smile, hypocrite, smile ; it is no such hard labor, While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor — Faugh ! Fear not : we've no hearts in Vanity-fair. The mad crowd divides and then soon closes after : Afar towers* the pyre. Through the shouting and laughter 4i What new sport is this ? " gasps a reveller, half turning. — '• One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning, He cumbered us sorely in Vanity-fair. * ' A dreamer, who held every man for a brother ; A coward, who, smit on one cheek, gave the other ; A fool, whose blind soul took as truth all our lying, Too simple to live, so best fitted for dying : . > §ure 8 guch are best gwept out of Yaulty»fair," 72 HER LIKENESS. II. Silence ! though the flames arise aud quiver : Silence ! though the crowd howls on forever : Silence ! Through this fiery purgatory God is leading up a soul to glory. See, the white lips with no moans are trembling, Hate of foes or plaint of friends' dissembling ; If sighs come — his patient prayers outlive them, ' 'Lord — these know not what they do. Forgive them ! " Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing ; Fainter in his ear the laughter growing ; Brief will last the fierce and fiery trial, Angel welcomes drowm the earth denial. Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy, Clasp him close. Down drops the quivering body, While through harmless flames ecstatic flying Shoots the beauteous soul. This, this is dying. Lo, the opening sky with splendor rifted, Lo, the palm-branch for his hands uplifted : Lo, the immortal chariot, cloud-descending, And its legioned angels close attending. Let his poor dust mingle with the embers While the crowds sweep on and none remembers : Saints unnumbered through the Infinite Glory, Praising God, recount the martyr's story. HER LIKENESS. GIRL, who has so many wilful ways She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him ; Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 4 little better she would surely make him, ONLY A DEE AM. 73 Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, And very far from angel yet, I trow. Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; Yet she's more lovable as simple woman Than any one diviner that I know. Therefore I wish that she may safely keep This womanhede, and change not, only grow ; From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, And in perennial blessedness, still reap On every hand of that which she doth sow. ONLY A DREAM. 1 1 waked— she fled : and day brought back my night," ^THOUGHT I saw thee yesternight, Sit by me in the olden guise, The white robes and the palm foregone. Weaving instead of amaranth crown, A web of mortal dyes. I cried, " Where hast thou been so long ? " (The mild eyes turned and mutely smiled :) II Why dwellest thou in far-off lands ? What is that web within thy hands ? " — "I work for thee, my child." I clasped thee in my arms and wept ; I kissed thee oft with passion wild : I poured fond questions, tender blame ; Still thy sole answer was the same, — "I work for thee, my child." " Come and walk with me as of old." Then earnest thou, silent as before ; We passed along that churchyard way We used to tread each Sabbath day. Tin one trod earth, no more. 74 TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. I felt thy hand upon my arm, Beside rue thy meek face I saw, Yet through the sweet familiar grace A something spiritual could trace That left a nameless awe. Trembling I said " Long years have passed Since thou wert from my side beguiled ; Now thou 'rt returned and all shall be As was before." — Half -pensively Thou answered' st— " Nay, my child." I pleaded sore ■ " Hadst thou forgot The love wherewith we loved of old, — The long sweet days of converse blest, — The nights of slumber on thy breast; — Wert thou to me grown cold ? " There beamed on me those eyes of heaven That wept no more, but ever smiled ; " Love only is love in that Home Where I abide— where, till thou come, I work for thee, my child." If from my sight thou passedst then, Or if my sobs the dream exiled, I know not : but in memory clear I seem these strange words still to hear, "I work for thee, my child.'" TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. LICE, Alice, little Alice, My new-christened baby Alice, Can there ever rhymes be founcl To express my wishes for thee In a, silvery flowing) worthy TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. 75 Of that silvery sound ? Bonnie Alice, Lady Alice, Sure, this sweetest name must be A true omen to thee, Alice, Of a life's long melody. Alice, Alice, little Alice, Mayst thou prove a golden chalice, Filled with holiness like wine : With rich blessings running o'er Yet replenished evermore From a fount divine : Alice, Alice, little Alice, When this future comes to thee, In thy young life's brimming chalice Keep some drops of balm for me ! Alice, Alice, little Alice, Mayst thou grow a goodly palace, Fitly framed from roof to floor, Pure unto the inmost centre, While high thoughts like angels enter At the open door : Alice, Alice, little Alice, When this beauteous sight I see, In thy w r oman-heart's wide palace Keep one nook of love for me. Alice, Alice, little Alice, — Sure the verse halts out of malice To the thoughts it feebly bears, And thy name's soft echoes, ranging From quaint rhyme to rhyme, are changing Into silent prayers. God be with thee, little Alice, Of His bounteousness may He Fill the chalice, build the palace, - {Jere, unto eternity | NINETEEN SONNETS. RESIGNING. "Poor heart, what bitter words we speak, When God speaks of resigning ! " EIILDREN, that lay their pretty garlands by So piteously, yet with a humble mind ; . Sailors, who, when their ship rocks in the wind, Cast out her freight with half -a verted eye, Riches for life exchanging solemnly, Lest they should never gain the wished-for shore ; — Thus we, O Father, standing Thee before, Do lay down at Thy feet without a sigh Each after each our precious things and rare, Our dear heart-jewels and our garlands fair. Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die, And the long-voyaged hoards be found but dust : So took'st them, while unchanged. To Thee we trust For incorruptible treasure : Thou art just. SAINT ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA. "Would that we two were lying Beneath the churchyard sod, With our limbs at rest in the green earth's breast, And our souls at home with God." Kingsley'S Saint's Tragedy. I. NEVER lay me down to sleep at night But in my heart I sing that little song : The angels hear it as, a pitying throng, They touch my burning lids with fingers bright SONXETS. 77 As moonbeams, pale, impalpable, and light : And when my daily pious tasks are done, And all my patient prayers said one by one, God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight That round my slow burnt-offering of quenched will One quivering human sigh creeps wind-like still ? That when my orisons celestial fail Rises one note of natural human wail ? Dear lord, spouse, hero, martyr, saint ! erelong, I trust, God will forgive my singing that poor song. II. A year ago I bade my little son Bear upon pilgrimage a heavy load Of alms ; he cried, half -fainting on the road, " Mother, O mother, would the day were done ! " Him I reproved with tears, and said, ' ' Go on ! Nor pause nor murmur till thy task be o'er." — Would not God say to me the same, and more ? I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one, Husband— no, brother! — stretch thy steadfast hand And let mine grasp it. Now, I also stand, My woman weakness nerved to strength like thine ; We'll quaff life's aloe- cup as if 't were wine Each to the other ; journeying on apart, Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart to heart. A MARRIAGE-TABLE. W. H. L. and F. R. | HERE was a marriage-table where One sate Haply, unnoticed, till they craved His aid : Thenceforward does it seem that He has made All virtuous marriage-tables consecrate : And so, at this, where without pomp or state 78 SONNETS. We sit, and only say, or mute, are fain To wish the simple words "God bless these twain ! n I think that he who " in the midst " doth wait Oft-times, would not abjure our prayerful cheer, But, as at Cana, list with gracious ear To us, beseeching, that the Love divine May ever at their household table sit, Make all His servants who encompass it, And change life's bitterest waters into wine. MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL. A Statuette. I. Y white archangel, with thy steadfast eyes Beholding all this empty ghost-filled room, Thy clasped hands resting on the sword of doom, Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs Or smiles, or kisses sweet, or bitter cries, But for divine exhorting, holy song And righteous counsel, bold from seraph tongue. Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise, Would that thy sight could make me wise and strong ! Would that this sheathed sword of thine, which lies Stonily idle, could gleam out among The spiritual hosts of enemies That tempting shriek — "Requite thou wrong with wrong." Lama Sabachthani,— How long, how long. IL Michael, the leader of the hosts of God, Who warred with Satan for the body of him Whom, living, God had loved— If cherubim With cherubim contended for one clod SONKET& 79 Of human dust, for forty years that trod The gloomy desert of Heaven's chastisement, Are there not ministering angels sent To battle with the devils that roam abroad, Clutching our living souls ? "The living, still The living, they shall praise Thee !" — Let some great Invisible spirit enter in and fill The howling chambers of hearts desolate ; With looks like thine, Michael, strong and wise, My white archangel with the steadfast eyes. I. BEATRICE TO DAOTE. " Guardami ben. Ben son, ben son."* EGARD me well : I am thy love, thy love ; Thy blessing, thy delight thy hope, thy peace Thy joy above all joys that break and cease When their full waves in widest circles move : Thy bird of comfort, thine eternal dove, Whom thou didst send out of thy mournful breast To flutter back and point thee to thy rest : Thine angel, who forgets her crown star- wove To come to thee with folded woman-hands Pleading,—" Look on me, Beatrice stands . Before thee ; by the Triune Light divine Undazzled, still beholds thy human face, And is more happy in this happy place That thou alone art hers and she is thine.'' II. DANTE TO BEATRICE. I see thee, gliding towards me with slow pace Across the azure fields of Paradise, - Suggested by a statue of Beatrice, bearing this motto. 80 j$6tfNMT& Where thine each footstep makes a star arise. So from this heart's once void but infinite space Each strange sweet touch of thy celestial grace In the old mortal life, struck out some spark To light the world, though all my heaven lay dark. Beatrice, cypresses enlace My laurels : none have grown save tear-bedewed— Salt tears that sank into the earth unviewed, And sprang up green to form a crown of bays. Take it ! At thy dear feet I lay my all, What men my honors, virtues, glories, call : 1 lived, loved, suffered, sung— for thy sole praise. A QUESTION. OUL, spirit, genius— which thou art— that whence I know not, rose upon this mortal frame Like the sun o'er the mountains, all aflame, Seen large through mists of childish innocence, And year by year with me uptravelling thence, As hour by hour the day-star, madest aspire My nature, interpenetrate with fire It felt but understood not — strong, intense, Wisdom with folly mixed, and gold with clay ; — Soul, thou hast journeyed with me all this way. Oft hidden and o'erclouded, oft arrayed In scorching splendors that my earth-life burned, Yet ever unto thee my true life turned, For, dim, or clear, 'twas thou my daylight made. II. Soul, dwelling oft in God's infinitude, And sometimes seeming no more part of me — This me, worms' heritage — than that sun can be Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued, — SOXWIS. 81 Whence earnest thou? whither goest thou? I, sub- dued With awe of mine own being — thus sit still, Dumb, on the summit of this lonely hill, Whose dry November-grasses dew-bestrewed Mirror a million suns — That sun, so bright, Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night : Art thou afraid, who solitary hast trod A path I know not, from a source to a bourne, Both which I know not ? fear'st thou to return Alone, even as thou earnest, alone, to God ? ANGEL FACES. "And witb the dawn those angel faces smile That I have loved long since, and lost awhile." I. SHALL not paint them. God them sees, and I ; No other can, nor need. They have no form, I may not close with human kisses warm Their eyes which shine afar or from on high, But never will shine nearer till I die. How long, how long ! See, I am growing old ; I have quite ceased to note in my hair's fold The silver threads that there in ambush lie ; Some angel faces bent from heaven would pine To trace the sharp lines graven upon mine ; What matter ? in the wrinkles ploughed by care Let age tread after, sowing immortal seeds ; All this life's harvest yielded, wheat or weeds, Is reaped, methinks ! at last my little field lies bare. II. But in the night time, 'twixt me and the stars, The angel faces still come glimmering by ; No death-pale shadow, no averted eye Marking the inevitable doom that bars 82 somnsTS. Me from them. Not a cloud their aspect mars ; And my sick spirit walks with them hand in hand By the cool waters of a pleasant land : Sings with them o'er again, without its jars, The psalm of life, that ceased, as one by one Their voices, dropping off, left mine alone With dull monotonous wail to grieve the air. solitary love, thou art so strong, 1 think God will have pity on thee erelong, And take thee where thou'lt find those angel faces fa;: SUNDAY MORNING BELLS. ROM the near city comes the clang of bells : Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine In one faint misty harmony, as fine As the soft note yon winter robin swells. — What if to Thee in Thine Infinity These multiform and many colored creeds Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds Round the one living truth Thou givest him — Thee ? What if these varied forms that worship prove, Being heart-worship, reach Thy perfect ear But as a monotone, complete and clear, Of which the music is, through Christ's name, Love ? Forever rising in sublime increase To "Glory in the Highest, — on earth peace ? " CCEUR DE LION: Marochetti's Statue in the Great Exhibition of 1851. I. ICHARD the Lion-hearted, crowned serene With the true royalty of noble man ; Seated in stone above the praise or ban Of these mixed crowds who come and gaping lean SONNETS. I As if to see what the word "king " might mean In those old times. Behold ! what need that rim Of crown 'gainst this blue sky, to signal him A monarch, of the monarchs that have been, And, perhaps, are not ? — Read his destinies In the full brow o'er-arching kingly eyes, In the strong hands, grasping both rein and sword, In the close mouth, so sternly beautiful ; — Surely, a man who his own spirit can rule ; Lord of himself, therefore his brethren's lord. II. " ORichard, Omon roi." So minstrels sighed. The many-centuried voice dies faint away Amidst the turnioil of our modern day. How know we but these green-wreathed legends hide An ugly truth that never could abide In this our living world's far purer air ? — Nevertheless, O statue, rest thou there, Our Richard, of all chivalry the pride; Or if not the true Richard, still a type Of the old regal glory, fallen, o'er-ripe, And giving place to better blossoming : Stand— imaging the grand heroic days ; And let our little children come and gaze, Whispering with innocent awe — "This was a King." GUNS OF PEACE. Sunday Night, March 30th, 1856. HOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain, Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far, In the long patience of inglorious war, Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain, — All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain — This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue 64 SONNETS. Do ye look down the trembling stars among Viewing our peace and war with like disdain ? Or wiser grown since reaching your new spheres, Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed For this our harvest, nor regret the deed ? — Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears — " Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled, And make all wars to cease throughout the world. '' DAVID'S CHILD. —"Is the child dead ? "—And they answered, " He is dead." N face of a great sorrow like to death How do we wrestle night and day with tears ; How do we fast and pray ; how small appears The outside world, while, hanging on some breath Of fragile hope, the chamber where we lie Includes all space.— But if sudden at last The blow falls ; or by incredulity Fond led, we — never having one thought cast Towards years where " the child" was not— see it die, And with it all our future, all our past, — We just look round us with a dull surprise : For lesser pangs we had filled earth with cries Of wild and angry grief that would be heard : — But when the heart is broken — not a word. A WOED IN SEASON. HIS is a day the Lord hath made."— Thus spake The good religious heart, unstained, unworn, Watching the golden glory of the morn.— Since, on each happy day that came to break Like sunlight o'er this silent life of mine, Yea, on each beauteous morning I saw shine, SONNETS. 85 I have remembered these your words, rejoiced And been glad in it. So, o'er many -voiced Tumultuous harmonies of tropic seas, Which chant an everlasting farewell grand Between ourselves and you and the old land, Receive this token : many words chance-sown May oftentimes have taken root and grown, To bear good fruit perennially, like these. AUGUST THE SIXTH. H. G. de W. HIS day when upon French soil you were born, My baby feet were trampling English daisies : The world had neither said a word of praises Nor turned a frowning face on us, that morn : Now, we know both. Our summer's half out-worn, And the next change will be to autumn mild. But yet I read in your soft eyes "the child," And feel it in my own heart without scorn Even as if you and I, who ail these years Lived unknown each to the other, with clasp'd hands And girlish voices innocent of tears, Went singing in our tongue of diverse lands The song of life together. So may we Sing it — unsilenced — to eternity. THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. ARE and sunshiny, bright and bleak, Rounded cold as a dead maid's cheek, Folded white as a sinner's shroud, Or wandering angel's robes of cloud.- 86 THE PATH THBOUGH THE SNOW. Well I know, well I know Over the fields the path through the snow. Narrow and rough it lies between Wastes where the wind sweeps, biting keen Every step of the slippery road Marks where some weary foot has trod ; Who '11 go, who '11 go After the rest on the path through the snow ? They who would tread it must walk alone, Silent and steadfast — one by one : Dearest to dearest can only say, "'My heart ! I'll follow thee all the way, As we go, as we go, Each after each on this path through the snow." It may be under that western haze Lurks the omen of brighter days ; That each sentinel tree is quivering Deep at its core with the sap of spring, And while we go, while we go, Green grass-blades pierce thro' the glittering snow. It may be the unknown path will tend Never to any earthly end, Die with the dying day obscure, And never lead to a human door : That none know who did go Patiently once on this path through the snow. No matter, no matter ! the path shines plain ; These pure snow-crystals will deaden pain ; Above, like stars in the deep blue dark, Eyes that love us look down and mark. Let us go, let us go, Whither heaven leads in the path thro 7 the snow. THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. 87 THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. AVY and bright in the summer air, Like a pleasant sea when the wind blows fair, And its roughest breath has scarcely curled The green highway to a distant world, — Soft whispers passing from shore to shore, As from hearts content, yet desiring more — Who feels forlorn, Wandering thus down the path through the corn A short space since, and the dead leaves lay Mouldering under the hedgerow gray, Nor hum of insect, nor voice of bird, O'er the desolate field was ever heard Only at eve the pallid snow Blushed rose-red in the red sun-glow ; Till, one blest morn, Shot up into life the young green corn. Small and feeble, slender and pale, It bent its head to the winter gale, Harkened the wren's soft note of cheer, Hardly believing spring was near : Saw chestnuts bud out and campions blow, And daisies mimic the vanished snow Where it was born, On either side of the path through the corn. The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn, Rising wonderful, morn by morn : First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand, Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand , Then growing, growing, tall, brave and strong : With the voice of new harvests in its song ; While in fond scorn The lark out-carols the whispering corn. 83 THE GOOD OF IT. A strange, sweet path, formed day by day, How, when, and wherefore, we cannot say, No more than of our life-paths we know, Whither they lead us, why we go ; Or whether our eyes shall ever see The wheat in the ear or the fruit on the tree ; Yet, who's forlorn ? — He who watered the furrows can ripen the corn. THE GOOD OF IT. A Cynic's Song. OME men strut proudly, all purple and gold, Hiding queer deeds 'neath a cloak of good fame ; I creep along, braving hunger and cold, To keep my heart stainless as well as my name ; So, so, where is the good of it ? Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words, Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state : With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards, " I love " means I love, and " I hate " means I hate, But, but, where is the good of it ? Some have rich dainties and costi}^ attire, Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door : I crouch alone at my plain board and fire, Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more. Yet, yet, where is the good of it ? Some gather round them a phalanx of friends, Scattering affection like coin in a crowd ; I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends, Where they'll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud. Still, still, where is the good of it ? J£tXSL< 89 Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go, A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost : — I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw, A life 'gainst an hour's sport. We played ; and I — lost. Ha, ha, such was the good of it ! MORAL : ADDED ON HIS DEATH-BED. Turn the Past's mirror backward. Its shadows removed, The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime : I have worked — I have felt — I have lived — I have loved, And each was a step towards the goal I now climb : Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it. MINE. For a German Air. HOW my heart is beating as her name I keep re peating, And I drink up joy like wine : O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeat - ino' AiJ o? For the lovely girl is mine ! She's rich, she's fair, beyond compare, Of noble mind, serene and kind— And .how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeat- ing, For the lovely girl is mine O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeat- ing, In a music soft and fine ; O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating, For the girl I love is mine, . * 90 A GHOST AT THE DANCING. She owns no lands, lias no white hands, Her lot is poor, her life obscure ; — Yet how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeat- ing, For the girl I love is mine ! A GHOST AT THE DANCING. WIND-SWEPT tulip-bed— a colored cloud Of butterflies careening in the air — A many-figured arras stirred to life, And merry unto midnight music dumb — So the dance whirls. Do any think of thee Amiel, Amiel? Friends greet each other— countless rills of talk Meander round, scattering a spray of smiles. Surely — the news was false. One minute more And thou wilt stand here, tall and quiet-eyed, Shakespearian beauty in thy pensive face, Amiel, Amiel. Many here knew and loved thee — I nor loved, Scarce knew — yet in thy place a shadow glides, And a face shapes itself from empty air, Watching the dancers, grave and quiet-eyed — Eyes that now see the angels evermore, Amiel, Amiel. On just such night as this, 'midst dance and song, I bade thee carelessly a light good by — "Good-by" — saidst thou; "A happy journey home ! " Was the unseen death-angel at thy side, Mocking those words — "A happy journey home, 11 Amiel, Amiel? MY CHRISTIAN NAME. 91 Ay, we play fool's play still ; thou hast gone home. While these dance here, a mile hence o'er thy grave Drifts the deep New Year snow. The wondrous gate We spoke of, thou hast entered ; I without Grope ignorant still — thou dost its secrets know, Amiel, Amiel. What if, thus sitting where we sat last year, Thou earnest, took'st up our broken thread of talk, And told'st of that new Home, which far I view, As children, wandering on through wintr}^ fields, Mark on the hill the father's window shine, Amiel, Amiel? No. We shall see thy pleasant face no more ; Thy words on earth are ended. Yet thou livest ; 'Tis we who die. — I too, one day shall come, And, unseen, watch these shadows, quiet-eyed — Then flit back to thy land, the living land, Amiel, Amiel. MY CHRISTIAN NAME. Y Christian name, my Christian name, I never hear it now : None have the right to utter it, 'Tis lost, I scarce know how. My worldly name the world speaks loud ; Thank God for well-earned fame ! But silence sits at my cold hearth, — I have no household name. My Christian name, my Christian name, It has an uncouth sound ; My mother chose it out of those In Bible pages found : Mother, whose accents made half sweet What else I held in shame, 92 A DEAD BABY. Dost thou remember up in heaven My poor lost Christian name ? Brothers and sisters, mockers oft Of the quaint name I bore, Would I could leap back years, to hear Ye shout it out once more ! One speaks it still in written lines, The last fraternal claim : But the wide seas between us drown Its sound— my Christian name. I had a long dream once. Her voice Might breathe the homely word, And make it music — as love makes Any name, said or heard. O, dumb, dumb lips! — O, silent heart 1 Though it is no one's blame : Now while I live I'll never hear Her speak my Christian name. God send her bliss, and send me rest ! If her white footsteps calm Should track my bleeding feet, God make To them each blood -drop balm ! Peace — peace. O mother, put thou forth Thine elder, holier claim, And the first word I hear in heaven May be my Christian name. A DEAD BABY. ITTLE soul, for such brief space that entered In this little body straight and chilly, Little life that fluttered and departed, Like a moth from out a budding lily, Little being, without name or nation, Where is now thy place among creation ? Pan Mtfsia n Little dark-lashed eyes, that never opened, Little mouth, by earthly food ne'er tainted, Little breast, that just once heaved, and settled To eternal slumber, white and sainted, — Child, shall I in future children's faces See some pretty look that thine retraces ? Is this thrill that strikes across my heart-strings And in dew beneath my eyelid gathers, Token of the bliss thou might'st have brought me, Dawning of the love they call a father's ? Do I hear through this still room a sighing Like thy spirit to me its author crying ? Whence didst come and whither take thy journey, Little soul, of me and mine created ? Must thou lose us, and we thee, forever, O strange life, by minutes only dated ? Or new flesh assuming, just to prove us, In some other babe return and love us ? Idle questions all : yet our beginning Like our ending, rests with the Life-sender, With whom naught is lost, and naught spent vainly : Unto Him this little one I render. Hide the face—the tiny coffin cover : So, our first dream, our first hope — is over. FOR MUSIC. LONG the shore, along the shore I see the wavelets meeting : But thee I see— ah, nevermore, For all my wild heart's beating. The little wavelets come and go, The tide of life ebbs to and fro, Advancing and retreating : 94 TEE CANA11Y l2f MtS CAGE. But from the shore, the steadfast shore, The sea is parted never : And mine I hold thee evermore, Forever and forever. Along the shore, along the shore, I hear the waves resounding, But thou wilt cross them nevermore For all my wild heart's bounding : The moon comes out above the tide And quiets all the waters wide Her pathway bright surrounding ; While on the shore, the dreary shore, I walk with weak endeavor ; I have thy love's light evermore, Forever and forever. THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE. ING away, ay, sing away, Merry little bird, Always gayest of the gay, Though a woodland roundelay You ne'er sung nor heard ; Though your life from youth to age Passes in a narrow cage. Near the window wild birds fly, Trees are waving round : Fair things everywhere you spy Through the glass pane's mystery, Your small life's small bound : Nothing hinders your desire But a little gilded wire. Like a human soul you seem Shut in golden bars : OONSTANCr m mcomTAKCT. 95 Placed amidst earth's sunshine-stream, Singing to the morning beam, Dreaming 'neath the stars ; Seeing all life's pleasures clear, — But they never can come near. Never ! Sing, bird-poet mine, As most poets do ; — Guessing by an instinct fine At some happiness divine Which they never knew. Lonely in a prison bright Hymning for the world's delight, Yet, my birdie, you're content In your tiny cage : Not a carol thence is sent But for happiness is meant — "Wisdom pure as sage : Teaching, the true poet's part Is to sing with merry heart. So, lie down, thou peevish pen, Eyes, shake off all tears ; And my wee bird, sing again : I'll translate your song to men In these future years. " Howso'er thy lofs assigned, Meet it with a cheerful mind." CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. AN OLD MAN'S CONFESSION. | HE has a large still heart — this lady of mine, (Not mine, i' faith ! nor would I that she were:) She walks this world of ours like Grecian nymph, CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. Pure with a marble pureness, moving on Among the herd of men, environed round With native airs of deep Olympian calm. I have a great love for that lady*of mine : I like to watch her motions, trick of face, And turn of thought, when speaking high and wise The tengue of gods, not men. Ay, every day, And twenty times a day, I start to catch Some look or gesture of familiar mould, And then my panting soul leans forth to her Like some sick traveller who astonied sees Gliding across the distant twilight fields — His lovely, lost, beloved memory-fields — The shadowy people of an earlier world. I have a friend, how dearly liked, heart-warm, Did I confess, sure she and all would smile : I watch her as she steals in some dull room That brightens at her entrance — slow lets fall A word or two of wise simplicity, Then goes, and at her going all seems dark. Little she knows this : little thinks each brow Lightens, each heart grows purer 'neath her eyes, Good, honest eyes— clear, upward, righteous eyes, That look as if they saw the dim unseen, And learnt from thence their deep compassionate calm. Why do I precious hold this friend of mine ? Why in our talks, our quiet fireside talks, When we, two earnest travellers through the dark. Grasp at the guiding threads that homeward lead, Seems it another soul than hers looks out From these her eyes ? — until I of ttimes start And quiver, as when some soft ignorant hand Touches the barb hid in a long-healed wound. Yet still no blame, but thanks to thee, dear friend. Ay, even when we wander back at eve, Thy careless arm loose linked within my own — The same height as I gaze down— nay, the hair BURIED TO-DAY. 97 Her very color — fluttering 'neath the stars — The same large stars which lit that earlier world. I have another love— whose dewy looks Are fresh with life's young dawn. I prophesy The streak of light now trembling on the hills Will broaden out into a glorious day. Thou sweet one, meek as good, and good as fair, Wise as a woman, harmless as a child, I love thee well ! And yet not thee, not thee, God knows— they know who sit among the stars. As one whose sun was darkened before noon, Creeps patiently along the twilight lands, Sees glow-worms, meteors, or tapers kind Of an hour's burning, stops awhile to mark, Thanks heaven for them, but never calls them day — So love I these, and more. Yet thou, my sun, Who rose, leaped to thy zenith, sat there throned, And made the whole earth day— look, if thou canst, Out of thy veiled glory, and behold How all these lesser lights but come and go, Mere reflexes of thee. Be it so ! I keep My face unto the eastward, where thou stand'st— I know thou stand'st— behind the purpling hills. And I shall wake and find morn in the world. BURIED TO-DAY. February 23, 1858. URIED to-day. When the soft green buds are bursting out, And up on the south wind comes a shout Of village boys and girls at play In the mild spring evening gray. 98 THE MILL. Taken away- Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, From eyes that drew half their light from him, And put low, low, underneath the clay, In his spring — on this spring day. Passes away All the pride of boy-life begun, All the hope of life yet to run ; Who dares to question when One saith ' ' Nay Murmur not — only pray. Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod, Another soul on the life in God. His Christ was buried — yet lives alway : Trust Him, and go your way, THE MILL. For an Irish Tune. j INDING and grinding Round goes the mill : Winding and grinding Should never stand still. Ask not if neighbor Grind great or small : Spare not your labor, Grind your wheat all. Winding and grinding round goes the mill : Winding and grinding should never stand still. Winding and grinding Work through the day, Grief never minding— Grind it away ! NORTH WIND. 99 What though tears dropping Rust as they fall ? Have no wheel stopping — Work comforts all. Winding and grinding round goes the mill : Winding and grinding should never stand still. NORTH WIND. J OUD wind, strong wind, sweeping o'er the moun- tains, Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea, Pour forth thy vials liks streams from airy fountains, Draughts of life to me. Clear wind, cold wind, like a Northern giant, Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair, Thrilling the blank night with thy voice defiant, Lo ! I meet thee there. Wild wind, bold wind, like a strong-armed angel, Clasp me and kiss me with thy kisses divine ; Breathe in this dulled ear thy secret sweet evangel — Mine — and only mine. Fierce wind, mad wind, howling o'er the nations, . Knew' st thou how leapeth my heart as thou goest by; Ah, thou wouldst pause awhile in a sudden patience Like a human sigh. Sharp wind, keen wind, cutting as word-arrows, Empty thy quiverful ! pass by ! What is 't to thee, That in some mortal eyes life's whole bright circle nar- rows, To one misery ! 100 NOW AND AFTERWARDS. Loud wind, strong wind, stay thou in the mountains, Fresh wind, free wind, trouble not the sea. Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm foun- tains, That I hear not thee. ;now and afterwards. " Two hands upon the breast and labor is past." —Russian Proverb. WO hands upon the breast, And labor 's done ; Two pale feet crossed in rest — The race is won ; Two eyes with coin- weights shut, And all tears cease ; Two lips where grief is mute, Anger at peace " ; — So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot God in his kindness answereth not. " Two hands to work addrest Aye for His praise ; Two feet that never rest Walking His ways ; Two eyes that look above Through all their tears ; Two lips still breathing love, Not wrath, nor fears ; " So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! A SKETCH. 1°1 A SKETCH. " Emelie, that f ayrer was to seene Than is the lilye on hys stalke grene. . . . Uprose the sun and uprose Emelie." OST thou thus love me, O thou beautiful ? So beautiful, that by thy side I seem Like a great dusky cloud beside a star : Yet thou creep' st e'er its edges, and it rests On its lone path, the slow deep-hearted cloud — That opes a rift and lets thee enter in : And with thy beauty shining on its breast, Feels no more its own blackness — thou art fair. Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved, In whose large store the very meanest coin Would out-buy my whole wealth ? Yet here thou comest Like a kind heiress from her purple and down Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep, But goes forth to the stranger at her gate — The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate — And clothes and feeds ; scarce blest till she has blest. Dost thou thus love me, O thou pure of heart, Whose very looks are prayers ? What could st thou see In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood's side, To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand, Saying, " It is so clear ! " — And lo, erelong Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings, Its slirnes slid downward from thy stainless palm, Its depths grew still that there thy form might rise. O beautiful ! O well-beloved ! rich In all that makes my need ! I lay me down I' the shadow of thy love, and feel no pain. The clo\i All wondering forth to His eternity. Below, the sea's sound, faint As dying saint Telling of gone-by sorrows long at rest : Above, the fearless sea-gull's shimmering breast Painted a moment on the dark blue skies— A hovering joy, that while I watch it flies. Alike unheeded now Old griefs, and thou Quick-winged Joy, that like a bird at play Pleasest thyself to visit me to-day . On the cliff-top, earth dim and heaven clear, My soul lies calmly, above hope—or fear. But not — (do Thou forbid Whose stainless lid Wept tears at Lazarus' grave, and looking down Afar off, upon Solyma's doomed town.) Ah, not above love — human yet divine — Which, Thee seen first, in Thee sees all of Thine ! Is 't sunset ? The keen breeze Blows from the seas : And at my side a pleasant vision stands With her brown eyes and kind extended hands. Mary? — Come, Dear, we'll go down full fain From the cliff -top to the busy world again. EVENING GUESTS. 121 EVENING GUESTS. i 1 in the silence of this lonely eve With the street-lamps faint flickering on the wall An angel were to say to me — "Believe ! It shall be granted. Call ! " — whom should I ca?l ? And then I were to see thee gliding in With thy pale robe that in long empty fold Lies in my keeping ; and my fingers, thin As thine were once, to feel in thy safe hold : I should fall weeping on thy neck, and sa}^ "I have so suffered since — since" — But my tears Would cease, remembering how thou count' st thy day : A day of God that is a thousand years 'iThen what are these long weeks, months, years of mine Measured by thy sublime infinitude ? What my whole life, when myriad lives divine May wait us, leading each to a higher good ! I lose myself — I faint — Beloved — best — Sit in thy older dear humanity Near me awhile, my head upon thy breast — And then, ! take me back to heaven with thee* Should I call thee ? Ah no, I would not call : But if, by some invisible spirit led, I heard outside the door thy footstep's fall, Entering— Ah 't would be life unto the dead ! And then I, smiling with a deep content, Would give thee the old welcome, long unknown r And 'stead of friends' kind accent? daily sent To cheer me, I should hear thine c^n — th J 'ue Cwp 122 AFTER SUNSET. Thou, too, like the beloved guest late gone Wouldst sit aud clasp my feeble hand in thine: 'T would grieve thee to know why it grew so wan, Therefore I would smile on and make no sign. And thou, soft speaking in that pleasant voice, Perchance with a compassionate tremble stirred Wouldst change my dull grief into full rejoice, Healing my hurts with each balm-dropping word. So, talking of things meet for thee and me ; Affection, strong as life, serene as death : Solemn as that desired eternity Where I shall find thee, who wert my soul's breath, — Upon this crowned eve of many eves Thou knowest, — one half my life and all its lore Would climax like a breaking wave. Who grieves Though it should break, and cease, and be no more ? AFTER SUNSET. ||EST — rest — four little letters, one short word, Enfolding an infinitude of bliss — Best is upon the earth. The heavy clouds Hang poised in silent ether, motionless, Seeking nor sun nor breeze. No restless star Thrills the sky's gray -robed breast with pulsing rays, The night's heart has throbbed out. No grass blade stirs, No downy-winged moth comes flittering by Caught by the light— Thank God, there is no light, No open-eyed, loud-voiced, quick-motioned light, Nothing but gloom and rest. A row of trees Along the hill horizon, westward, stands All black and still, as if it were a rank Of fallen angels, melancholy met TEE GARDEN-CHAIR. 123 Before the amber gate of Paradise — The bright shut gate, whose everlasting smile Deadens despair to calm. O, better far Better than bliss is rest ! If suddenly Those burnished doors of molten gold, steel-barred, Which the sun closed behind him as he went Into his bridal chamber — were to burst Asunder with a clang, and in a breath God's mysteries were revealed — His kingdom came— The multitudes of heavenly messengers Hastening throughout all space — the thunder quire Of praise — the obedient lightnings' lambent gleam Around the unseen Throne — should I not sink Crushed by the weight of such beatitudes, Crying. ' ' Eest, give me only rest, thou God ! Hide me within the hollow of Thy hand In some dark corner of the universe, Thy bright, full, busy universe, that blinds, Deafens, and racks, and tortures — Give but rest ! ,5 O for a soul-sleep, long and deep and still ! To lie down quiet after the sad day, Dropping all pleasant flowers from the numbed hands, Bidding good-night to all companions dear, Drawing the curtains on this darkened world, Closing the eyes, and with a patient sigh Murmuring " Our Father "—fall on sleep, till dawn! THE GARDEN-CHAIR. TWO POETEAITS. PLEASANT picture, full of meanings deep, Old age, calm sitting in the July sun, On withered hands half leaning — feeble hands, That after their life-labors, light or hard, Their girlish broideries, their marriage-ringed 124 AN OLD IDEA. Domestic duties, their sweet cradle cares, Have dropped into the quiet-folded ease Of fourscore years. How peacefully the eyes Face us ! Contented, unregretf ul eyes, That carry in them the whole tale of life With its one moral — " Thus all was— thus best." Eyes now so near unto their closing mild They seem to pierce direct through all that maze, As eyes immortal do. Here— Youth. She stands Under the roses with elastic foot Poised to step forward; eager-eyed, yet grave Beneath the mystery of the unknown To-come, Though longing for its coming. Firm prepared (So say the lifted head and close, sweet mouth) For any future : though the dreamy hope . Throned on her girlish forehead, whispers fond, " Surely they err who say that life is hard ; Surely it shall not be with me as these." God knows : He only. And so best, dear child, Thou woman-statured, sixteen-year-old child, Meet bravely the impenetrable Dark Under thy roses. Bud and blossom thou Fearless as they — if thou art planted safe, Whether for gathering or for withering, safe In the King's garden. AN OLD IDEA. REAM of my life, dull, placid river, flow! I have no fear of the ingulfing seas : Neither I look before me nor behind, But, lying mute with wave-dipped hand, float on. It was not always so. My brethren, see This oar-stained, trembling palm. It keeps the sign PABABLES. 125 Of youth's mad wrestling with the waves that drift Immutably, eternally along. I would have had them flow through fields and flowers, Giving and taking freshness, perfume, joy ; It winds through — here. Be silent, O my soul ! — The finger of God's wisdom drew its line. So I lean back and look up to the stars, And count the ripples circling to the shore, And watch the solemn river rolling on Until it widen to the open seas. PAKABLES. " Hold every mortal joy "With a loose hand." E clutch our joys as children do their flowers ; We look at them, but scarce believe them ours, Till our hot palms have smirched their colors rare And crushed their dewy beauty unaware. But the wise Gardener, whose they were, comes by At hours when we expect not, and with eye Mournful yet sweet, compassionate though stern, Takes them. Then in a moment we discern By loss, what was possession, and, half- wild With misery, cry out like .angry child : ' ' O cruel ! thus to snatch my posy fine ! " He answers tenderly, " Not thine, but mine," And points to those stained fingers which do prove Our fatal cherishing, our dangerous love ; At which we, chidden, a pale silence keep ; Yet evermore must weep, and weep, and weep. 126 LETTICE. So on through gloomy ways and thorny brakes, Quiet and slow, our shrinking feet he takes Led by the soiled hand, which, laved in tears, More and more clean beneath his sight appears. At length the heavy eyes with patience shine — "Iain content. Thou took'st but what was thine. " And then he us his beauteous garden shows, Where bountiful the Rose of Sharon grows: Where in the breezes opening spice-buds swell, And the pomegranates yield a pleasant smell : While to and fro peace-sandalled angels move In the pure air that they — not we — call Love : An air so rare and fine, our grosser breath Cannot inhale till purified by death. And thus we, struck with longing joy, adore, And, satisfied, wait mute without the door, Until the gracious Gardener maketh sign, " Enter in peace. All this is mine — and thine." LETTICE. SAID to Lettice, our sister Lettice, While drooped and glistened her eye-lash brown, "Your man's a poor man, a cold and dour man, There's many a better about our town." She smiled securely—" He loves me purely : A true heart's safe, both in smile or frown ; And nothing harms me while his love warms me, Whether the world go up or down." 1 ' He comes of strangers, and they are rangers, And ill to trust, girl, when out of sight : Fremd folk may blame ye, and e'en defame ye,— A gown oft handled looks seldom white." She raised serenely her eyelids queenly,— A SPIRIT PRESENT. VII "My innocence is my whitest gown ; No harsh tongue grieves me while he believes me, Whether the world go up or down." "Your man's a frail man, was ne'er a hale man, And sickness knocketh at every door, And death comes making bold hearts cower, break- ing—" Our Lettice trembled ; — but once, no more : "If death should enter, smite to the centre Our poor home palace, all crumbling down, He cannot fright us, nor disunite us, Life bears Love's cross, death brings Love's crown." A SPIRIT PRESENT. coming from that unknown sphere Where I believe thou art, — The world unseen which girds our world So close, yet so apart, — Thy soul's soft call unto my soul Electrical could reach, And mortal and immortal blend In one familiar speech, — What wouldst thou say to me ? wouldst ask Of things which did befall ? Or close this chasm of cruel years Between us— knowing all ? Wouldst love me— thy pure eyes seeing what God only saw beside ? O, love me ! 'T was so hard to live, So easy to have died. If, while the dizzy whirl of life A moment pausing stayed, I face to face with thee could stand, 128 A WINTER WALK. I would not be afraid i Not though from heaven to heaven thy feet In glad ascent have trod, While mine took through earth's miry ways Their solitary road. We could not lose each other. World On world piled ever higher Would part like banked clouds, lightning-cleft By our two souls' desire. Life ne'er divided us ; death tried, But could not ; Love's voice fine Called luring through the dark — then ceased, And I am wholly thine. A WINTER WALK. E never had believed, I wis, At primrose time when west winds stole Like thoughts of youth across the soul, In such an altered time as this, When if one little flower did peep Up through the brown and sullen grass, We should just look on it, and pass As if we saw it in our sleep. Feeling as sure as that this ray Which cottage children call the sun, Colors the pale clouds one by one, — Our touch would make it drop to clay. We never could have looked, in prime Of April, or when July trees Shook full-leaved in the evening breeze, Upon the face of this pale time, "WILL SAIL TOMORROW." 12& Still, soft, familiar ; shining bleak On naked branches, sodden ground, Yet shining — as if one had found A smile upon a dead friend's cheek, Or old friend, lost for years, had strange In altered mien come sudden back, Confronting us with our great lack — Till loss seemed far less sad than change. Yet though, alas ! Hope did not see This winter skeleton through full leaves, Out of all bareness Faith perceives Possible life in field and tree. In bough and trunk the sap will move, And the mould break o'er springing flowers ? Nature revives with all her powers, But only nature ; — never love. So, listlessly with linked hands Both Faith and Hope glide soft away ; While in long shadows, cool and gray, The sun sets o'er the barren lands. 'WILL SAIL TO-MORROW." | irlE good ship lies in the crowded dock, Fair as a statue, firm as a rock : Her tall masts piercing the still blue air, Her funnel glittering white and bare, Whence the long soft line of vapory smoke Betwixt sky and sea like a vision broke, Or slowly o'er the horizon curled Like a lost hope fled to the other world : She sails to-morrow, — Sails to-morrow. ift>. ' ■ will sail To-Monno /J? Out steps the captain, busy and grave, With his sailor's footfall, quick and brave, His hundred thoughts and his thousand cares, And his steady e}^e that all things dares : Though a little smile o'er the kind face dawns On the loving brute that leaps and fawns, And a little shadow comes and goes, As if heart or fancy fled — where, who knows? He sails to-morrow : Sails to-morrow. To-morrow the serried line of ships Will quick close after her as she slips Into the unknown deep once more : To-morrow, to-morrow, some on shore With straining eyes shall desperate yearn — "This is not parting? return — return !" Peace, wild-wrung hands ! hush, sobbing breath ! Love keepeth its own through life and death : Though she sails to-morrow — Sails to-morrow. Sail, stately ship ; down Southampton water Gliding fair as old Kereus' daughter : Christian ship that for burthen bears Christians, speeded by Christian prayers ; All kind angels follow her track ! Pitiful God, bring the good ship back ! All the souls in her forever keep Thine, living or dying, awake or asleep % Then sail to-morrow ! Ship, sail to-morrow ! AT EVEN-TIDE. 131 AT EVEN-TIDE. C. N.— Died April, 1857. HAT spirit is it that doth pervade The silence of this empty room ? And as I lift my eyes, what shade Glides off and vanishes in gloom ? I could believe this moment gone, A known form filled that vacant chair, That those kind eyes upon me shone I never shall see anywhere ! The living are so far away : But thou — thou seemest strangely near | Knowest all my silent heart would say, Its peace, its pain, its hope, its fear. And from thy calm supernal height, And wondrous wisdom newly w r on, Smilest upon our poor delight, And petty woe beneath the sun. From all this coil thou hast slipped away, As softly as a cloud departs Along the hillside purple gray — Into the heaven of patient hearts. Nothing here suffered, nothing missed, Will ever stir from its repose The death-smile on her lips unkissed, Who all things loves and all things knows. And I, who, ignorant and weak, Of love so helpless — quick to pam, With restless longing ever seek The unattainable in vain, Find it strange comfort thus to sit While the loud world unheeded rolls, And clasp, ere yet the fancy flit, A friend's hand from the land of souls. 132 A DEAD SEA-GULL A DEAD SEA-GULL. Near Liverpool. ACK-LUSTRE eye, and idle wing, And smirched breast that skims no more, White as the foam itself, the wave — Hast thou not even a grave Upon the dreary shore, Forlorn, forsaken thing ? Thou whom the deep seas could not drown, Nor all the elements affright, Flashing like thought across the main, Mocking the hurricane, Screaming with shrill delight When the great ship went down. Thee not thy beauty saved, nor mirth, Nor daring, nor thy humble lot, One among thousands — in quick haste Fate clutched thee as she passed ; Dead — how, it matters not : ' Corrupting, earth to earth. And not a league from where it lies Lie bodies once as free from stain, And hearts as gay as this sea-bird's, Whom all the preachers' words Will ne'er make white again, Or from the dead to rise. Rot, pretty bird, in harmless clay :— We sing too much poetic woes ; Lee us be doing while we can : Blessed the Christian man Who on life's shore seeks those Dying of soul decay. LOOKISG EAST. 133 LOOKING EAST. In January, 1858. ITTLE white clouds, why are you flying Over the sky so blue and cold ? Fair faint hopes, why are you lying Over my heart like a white cloud's fold ? Slender green leaves, why are you peeping Out of the ground where the snow yet lies ? Toying west wind, why are you creeping Like a child's breath across my eyes ? Hope and terror by turns consuming, Lover and friend put far from me, — What should I do with the bright spring, coming Like an angel over the sea ? Over the cruel sea that parted Me from mine own, and rolls between ; — Out of the woful east, whence darted Heaven's full quiver of vengeance keen. Day teaches day, night whispers morning — " Hundreds are weeping their dead, while thou Weeping thy living— Rise, be adorning Thy brows, unwidowed, with smiles." — But how? 'O, had he married me ! — unto anguish, Hardship, sickness, peril, and pain ; That on my breast his head might languish In lonely jungle or scorching plain ; O, had we stood on some rampart gory, Till he — ere Horror behind us trod — Kissed me, and killed me — so, with his glory My soul went happy and pure to God ! 1 ,1 OYER THE HILLS AXD FAR AWAY, Nay, nay, Heaven pardon me ! me, sick-hearted, Living this long, long life-in-death : Many there are far wider parted Who under one roof -tree breathe one breath. But we that loved — whom one word half broken Had drawn together close soul to soul As lip to lip — and it was not spoken, Nor may be while the world's ages roll. I sit me down with my tears all frozen : I drink my cup, be it gall or wine : For I know, if he lives, I am his chosen — I know, if he dies, that he is mine. If love in its silence be greater, stronger Than million promises, sighs, or tears— I will wait upon Him a little longer Who holdeth the balance of our years. Little white clouds, like angels ftying, Bring the spring with you across the sea — Loving or losing, living or dying, Lord, remember, remember me ! OYER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. LITTLE bird flew my window by, 'Twixt the level street and the level sky, The level rows of houses tall, The long low sun on the level wall ; And all that the little bird did say Was, "Over the hills and far away." A little bird sang behind my chair, From the level line of corn-fields fair, The smooth green hedgerow's level bound TOO LATE. Uo Not a furlong off — the horizon's bound, And the level lawn where the sun all day Burns : — " Over the hills and far away." A little bird sings above my bed, And I know if I could but lift my head I would see the sun set, round and grand, Upon level sea and level sand, While beyond the misty distance gray Is " Over the hills and far away." I think that a little bird will sing Over a grassy mound, next spring, Where something that once w r as me, ye '11 leave In the level sunshine, morn and eve : But I shall be gone, past night, past day, Over the hills and far away. TOO LATE. " Douglas, Douglas, tendir and treu." )ULD ye comeback to me Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ;— Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. O to call back the days that are not ! My eyes were blinded, your words were few Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 138 LOST IX THE MIST. I never was worthy of } r ou, Douglas ; Not half worthy the like of you : Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — I love you, Douglas, tender and true. Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. LOST IN THE MIST. HE thin white snow-streaks pencilling That mountain's shoulder gray, While in the west the pale green sky Smiled back the dawning day, Till from the misty east the sun Was of a sudden born Like a new soul in Paradise — How long it seems since morn ! One little hour, O round red sun, And thou and I shall come - Unto the golden gate of rest, The open door of home : Oue little hour, O weary sun, Delay the threatened eve Till my tired feet that pleasant door Enter and never leave. Ye rooks that fly in slender file Into the thick' ning gloom, Ye'll scarce have reached your grim gray tower Ere I have reached my home j Plover, that thrills the solitude With such an eerie cry, Seek you your nest ere night-fall comes. As my heart's nest seek L LOST IN THE MIST. 137 D light, light heart and heavy feet, Patience a little while ! Keep the warm love-light in these eyes, And on those lips the smile : Out-speed the mist, the gathering mist That follows o'er the moor ! — The darker grows the world without The brighter seems that door. O door, so close yet so far off ; O mist that nears and nears !. What, shall I faint in sight of home ? Blinded— L ^ not with tears — >T is but the mist, the cruel mist, Which chills this heart of mine : These eyes, too weak to see that light- It has not ceased to shine. A little further, further yet : The white mist crawls and crawls ; It hems me round, it shuts me in Its great sepulchral walls : No earth — no sky — no path — no light — A silence like the tomb : O me, it is too soon to die — And I was going home ! A little further, further yet : My limbs are young, — my heart — heart, it is not only life That feels it hard to part : Poor lips, slow freezing into calm, Numbed hands that helpless fall, And, a mile off, warm lips, fond hands. Waiting to welcome all ! 1 see the pictures in the room, The figures moving round, The very flicker of the fire - - IJpon the patterned groimd : 136 LOST IN THE MIST. O that I were the shepherd-dog That guards their happy door ! Or even the silly household cat That basks upon the floor ! O that I sat one minute's space Where I have sat so long ! O that I heard one little word Sweeter than angel's song ! A pause— and then the table fills, The harmless mirth brims o'er ; While I— O can it be God's will ?— I die, outside the door. My body fails — my desperate soul Struggles before it go : The bleak air 's full of voices wild, But not the voice I know ; Dim shapes come wandering through the dark : With mocking, curious stares, Faces long strange peer glimmering by — But not one face of theirs. Lost, lost, and such a little way From that dear sheltering door ! Lost, lost, out of the loving arms Left empty evermore ! His will be done. O, gate of heaven, Fairer than earthly door, Receive me ! Everlasting arms, Enfold me evermore ! And so, farewell * * * * What is this touch Upon my closing eyes ? My name, too, that I thought to hear Next time in Paradise ? Warm arms — close lips — O, saved, saved, saved.' Across the deathly moor Sought, found — and yonder through the night Shineth the blessed door, SEMPER FIDELIS 139 SEMPER FIDELIS. "Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted." HINK you, had we two lost fealty, something would not as I sit With this book upon my lap here, come and over- shadow it ? Hide with spectral mists the pages, under each familiar leaf Lurk, and clutch my hand that turns it with the icy clutch of grief ? Think you, were we twain divided, not by distance, time, or aught That the world calls separation, but we smile at, better taught, That I should not feel the dropping of each link you did un- twine vlear as if you sat before me with your true eyes fixed on mine ? That I should not, did you crumble as the other false friends do To the dust of broken idols, know it without sight of you, By some shadow darkening daylight in the fickle skies of spring, By foul fears from household corners crawling over everything ? If that awful gulf were opening which makes two, however near, Parted more than we were parted, dwelt we in each hemis- phere, — Could I sit here, smiling quiet on this book within my hand, And while earth was cloven beneath me, feel no shock nor un- derstand ? No, you cannot, could not alter. No, my faith builds safe- on yours, 140 ONE SUMMER MORNING. Rock-like ; though the winds and waves howl, its foundation still endures : By a man's will— "See, I hold thee: mine thou art, and mine shalt be." By a woman's patience— " Sooner doubt I my own soul than thee." So, Heaven mend us! we'll together once again take counsel sweet ; Though this hand of mine drops empty, that blank wall my blank eyes meet : Life may flow on : men be faithless, — ay, forsooth, and women too! One is true ; and as He.liveth, I believe in truth— and you. ONE SUMMER MORNING. || T is but a little while ago : The elm-leaves have scarcely begun to drop away ; The sunbeams strike the elm-trunk just where they struck that day — Yet all seems to have happened long ago. And the year rolls round, slow, slow: Autumn will fade to winter and winter melt in spring. New life return again to every living thing. Soon, this will have happened long ago. The bonnie wee flowers will blow ; The trees will re-clothe themselves, the birds sing out amain, — But never, never, never will the world look again £s it looked before this happened— long ago ! SUMMER GONE, 141 MY LOVE ANNIE. OFT of voice and light of hand As the fairest in the land — Who can rightly understand My love Annie ? Simple in her thoughts and ways, True in every word she says, — Who shall even dare to praise My love Annie ? Midst a naughty world and rude Never in ungentle rnood ; Never tired of being good — My love Annie. Hundreds of the wise and great Might o'erlook her meek estate ; But on her good angels wait, My love Annie. Many or few the loves that may Shine upon her silent way, — God will love her night and day, My love Annie. SUMMER GONE. I MALL wren, mute pecking at the last red plum Or twittering idly at the yellow boughs Fruit-emptied, over thy forsaken, house, — Birdie, that seems to come Telling, we too have spent our little store, Our summer 's o'er : 142 SUMMER GONE. Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wilt To lie submissive under household hands With beating heart that no love understands, And scared eye, like a child Who only knows that he is all alone And summer 's gone ; Pale leaves, sent flying wide, a frightened flock On which the wolfish wind bursts out, and tears Those tender forms that lived in summer airs Till, taken at this shock, They, like weak hearts when sudden grief sweeps by, Whirl, drop, and die : — All these things, earthy, of the earth — do tell This earth's perpetual story ; we belong Unto another country, and our song Shall be no mortal knell ; Though all the year's tale, as oar years run fast Mourns, " summer 's past." O love immortal, O perpetual youth, Whether in budding nooks it sits and sings As hundred poets in a hundred springs, Or, slaking passion's drouth, In wine-press of affliction, ever goes Heavenward, through woes : O youth immortal —O undying love ! With these by winter fireside we'll sit down Wearing our snows of honor like a crown ; And sing as in a grove, Where the full nests ring out with happy cheer, " Summer is here." Roll round, strange years ; swift seasons, come and go • Ye leave upon us but an outward sign ; Ye cannot touch the inward and divine, Which God alone does know ; TEE VOICE CJLLING. 143 There sealed till summers, winters, all shall cease In His deep peace. Therefore up rouse ye winds and howl your will ; Beat, beat, ye sobbing rains on pane and door ; Enter, slow-footed age, and thou, obscure, Grand Angel — not of ill ; Healer of every wound, where'er thou come, Glad, we'll go home. THE VOICE CALLING. | N the hush of April weather, With the bees in budding heather, And the white clouds floating, floating, and the sunshine falling broad While my children down the hill Run and leap, and I sit still, — Through the silence, through the silence art Thou call- ing, O my God ? Through my husband's voice that prayeth, Though he knows not what he sayeth, I? it Thou who in Thy Holy Word hast solemn words for me ? And when he clasps me fast, And smiles fondly o'er the past, And talks, hopeful, of the future— Lord, do I hear only Thee? Not in terror nor in thunder Comes Thy voice, although it sunder Flesh from spirit, soul from body, human bliss from human pain : All the work that was to do, All the joys so sweet and new Which Thou shewed'st me in a vision— Moses-like — and hid'st again. 144 TEE Voice call1\ 6 , From this Pisgah, lying humbled, The long desert where I stumbled, And the fair plains I shall never reach, look equal, clear and far : On this mountain-top of ease Thou wilt bury me in peace ; While my tribes march onward, onward, unto Canaan * and war. In my boy's loud laughter ringing, In the sigh more soft than singing Of my baby girl that nestles up unto this mortal breast, After every voice most dear Comes a whisper — " Rest not here." And the rest Thou art preparing, is it best, Lord, is it best? " Lord, a little, little longer ! " Sobs the earth-love, growing stronger : He will miss me, and go mourning through his sol- itary days. And heaven were scarcely heaven If these lambs which Thou hast given Were to slip out of our keeping and be lost in the world's ways. Lord, it is not fear of dying Nor an impious denying Of Thy will, which forevermore on earth, in heaven, be done : But the love that desperate clings Unto these my precious things In the beauty of the daylight, and the glory of the sun. .Ah, Thou still art calling, cading, Wi f h a soft voice unappalling ; cirxA 1 THE WllEN'S NMSf. J 4b And it vibrates in far circles through the everlasting years ; When Thou knockest, even so ! I will arise and go. — What, my little ones, more violets ? — Nay, be patient — mother hears. THE WREN'S NEST. TOOK the wren's nest ;— Heaven forgive me ! Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall, That, empty still, and neat and fair, Hung idly in the summer air. The mossy walls, the dainty door, Where Love should enter and explore, And Love sit carrolling outside, And Love within chirp multiplied ; — I took the wren's nest ; — 'Heaven forgive me ! How many hours of happy pains Through early frosts and April rains, How many songs at eve and morn O'er springing grass and greening corn, What labors hard through sun and shade Before the pretty house was made ! One little minute, only one, And she '11 fly back, and find it — gone ! I took the wren's nest : Bird, forgive me ! Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before you all the year, And every wood holds nooks for you, 146 A CBRTSTMAS CAROL. In which to sing and build and woo « One piteous cry of birdish pain — And ye '11 begin your life again, Forgetting quite the lost, lost home In many a busy home to come. — But I? — Your wee house keep I must Until it crumble into dust. I took the wren's nest : God forgive me ! A CHRISTMAS CAROL, Tune— " God rest ye, merry gentlemen." )D rest ye, merry gentlemen : let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas- day. The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray, When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas- day. God rest ye, little children • let nothing you affright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night ; Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, When Christ, the Child of Nazareth, was born on Christ- mas-day. God rest ye, all good Christians ; upon this blessed morn The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born : Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins He takes away ; For Jesus Christ, our Saviour was born on Christmas-day. J GERMAN STUDENTS FVXERAL HYAttf. W THE MOTHER'S VISITS. From the French. ONG years ago she visited my chamber, Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand ; Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids, Fair as an angel from the unknown land : Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? Mother, mother, watching over me. And yesternight I saw her cross my chamber, Soundless as light, a palm-branch in her hand : Her mild eyes she bent upon my anguish, Calm as an angel from the blessed land ; Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? Mother, mother, art thou come for me ? A GERMAN STUDENT'S FUNERAL HYMN. "Thou shalt call, and I will answer Thee : Thou wilt have a desire to the work of Thine hands." ITH steady march across the daisy meadow, And by the churchyard wall we go ; But leave behind, beneath the linden shadow, One, who no more will rise and go : Farewell, our brother, here sleeping in dust, Till thou shalt wake again, wake with the just. Along the street where neighbor nods to neighbor, Along the busy street we throng, Once more to laugh, to live and love and labor, — But he will be remembered long : 148 WESTWARD HO! Sleep well, our brother, though sleeping in dust ; Shalt thou not rise again— rise with the just ? Farewell, true heart and kindly hand, left lying Where wave the linden branches calm ; 'Tis his to live, and ours to wait for dying, We win, while he has won, the palm ; Farewell, our brother ! But one day, we trust, Call— he will answer Thee, God of the just. WESTWARD HO! E should not sit us down and sigh, My girl, whose brow undimmed appears, Whose steadfast eyes look royally Backwards and forwards o'er the years — The long, long years of conquered time, The possible years unwon, that slope Before us in the pale sublime Of lives that have more faith than hope. We dare not sit us down and dream Fond dreams, as idle children do : My forehead owns too many a seam, And tears have worn their channels through Your poor thin cheeks, which now I take 'Twixt my two hands, caressing. Dear, A little sunshine for my sake ! Although we 're far on in the year. Though all our violets long are dead, The primrose lost from fields we knew, Who knows what harvests may be spread For reapers brave like me and you ? OUR FATHER'S BUSINESS • U9 Who knows what bright October suns May light up distant valleys mild, Where as our pathway downward runs We see Joy meet us like a child Who, sudden, by the roadside stands, To kiss the travellers' weary brows, And lead them through the twilight lands Safely unto their Father's house. So, we'll not dream, nor look back, dear I But march right on, content and bold, To where our life sets, heavenly clear, Westward, behind the hills of gold. OUR FATHER'S BUSINESS. HOLMAN HUNT'S PICTUEE OF " CHRIST IN THE TEMPLE." CHRIST-CHILD, Everlasting, Holy One, Sufferer of all the sorrow of this world, Redeemer of the sin of all this world, Who by Thy death brought'st life into this world, — O Christ, hear us ! This, this is Thou. No idle painter's dream Of aureoled, imaginary Christ, Laden with attributes that make not God ; But Jesus, son of Mary ; lowly, wise, Obedient, subject unto parents, mild, Meek — as the meek that shall inherit earth, Pure — as the pure in heart that shall see God. O infinitely human, yet divine ! Half clinging childlike to the mother found, Yet half repelling — as the soft eyes say, "How is it that ye sought me ? Wist ye not That I must be about my Father's business? ' As in the Temple's splendors mystical, Earth's wisdom hearkening to the all- wise One, Earth's closest love clasping the all-loving One, He sees far off the vision of the cross, The Christ-like glory and the Christ-like doom. Messiah ! Elder Brother, Priest and King, The Son of God, and yet the woman's seed ; Enterer within the veil ; Victor of death, And made to us first fruits of them that sleep ; OUE FATHER'S BUSINESS: 151 Saviour and Intercessor, Judge and Lord, — All that we know of Thee, or knowing not Love only, waiting till the perfect time When we shall know even as we are known — O Thou Child Jesus, Thou dost seem to say By the soft silence of these heavenly eyes (That rose out of the depths of nothingness Upon this limner's reverent soul and hand) We too should be about our Father's business — O Christ, hear us ! Have mercy on us, Jesus Christ, our Lord! The cross Thou borest still is hard to bear ; And awful even to humblest follower The little that Thou givest each to do Of this Thy Father's business : whether it be Temptation by the devil of the flesh, Or long-linked years of lingering toil obscure, Uncomforted, save by the solemn rests On mountain-tops of solitary prayer ; Oft ending in the supreme sacrifice, The putting off all garments of delight, And taking sorrow's kingly crown of thorn, In crucifixion of all self to Thee, Who offeredst up Thyself for all the world. O Christ, hear us ! Our Father's business : — unto us, as Thee, The whole which this earth-life, this hand-breadth sp«n Out of our everlasting life that lies Hidden with Thee in God, can ask or need. Outweighing all that heap of petty woes — To us a measure huge — which angels blow Out of the balance of our total lot, As zephyrs blow the winged dust away. O Thou who wert the Child of Nazareth, . * Make us see only this, and only Thee, 152 AN A UTUMN PSALM FOB 1860, Who earnest but to do thy Father's will, And didst delight to do it. Take Thou then Our bitterness of loss, — aspirings vain, And anguishes of unfulfilled desire, Our joys imperfect, our sublimed despairs, Our hopes, our dreams, our wills, our loves, our all, And cast them into the great crucible In which the whole earth, slowly purified, Runs molten, and shall run — the Will of God. O Christ, hear us ! AN AUTUMN PSALM FOR 1860. In Largo Bay. " He that goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." shadow o'er the silver sea, That as in slumber heaves, No cloud on the September sky, No blight on any leaves, As the reaper comes rejoicing, Bringing in his sheaves. Long, long and late the spring delayed, And summer, dank with rain, Hung, trembling o'er her sunless fruit, And her unripened grain ; And, like a weary, hopeless life, Sobbed herself out in pain. So the year laid her child to sleep, Her beauty half expressed ; Then slowly, slowly cleared the skies, IN TEE JU2?E TW1L11RT. And smoothed the seas to rest, And raised the fields of yellowing corn O'er Summer's buried breast ; Till Autumn counterfeited Spring With such a flush of flowers, His fl ery -tinctured garlands more Than mocked the April bowers, And airs as sweet as airs of June Brought on the twilight hours. O holy twilight, tender, calm ! O star above the sea ! O golden harvest, gathered in With late solemnity, And thankful joy for gifts nigh lost Which yet so plenteous be ;— Although the rain-cloud wraps the hill, And sudden swoop the leaves, And the year nears his sacred end, No eye weeps — no heart grieves : For the reaper came rejoicing, Bringing in his sheaves. 153 IN THE JUNE TWILIGHT. Suggested by Noel Paton's Picture of " The Silver Cord Loosed," N" the June twilight, in the soft gray twilight, The yellow sun-glow trembling through the rainy eve, As my love lay quiet, came the solemn fiat, "All these things forever— forever — thou must leave." My love she sank down quivering, like a. pine in tempest shiver- ing— 154 IN THE JUN2 TWILIGHT. "I have had so little happiness as yet beneath the sun : I have called the shadow sunshine, and the merest frosty moon shine I have, weeping, blessed the Lord for, as if daylight had be- gun; " Till He sent a sudden angel, with a glorious sweet evangel, Who turned all my tears to pearl-gems, and crowned meso little worth ; He ! — and through the rainy even changed my poor earth into heaven, Or, by wondrous revelation, brought the heavens down to earth. " O the strangeness of the feeling! — O the infinite revealing— To think how God must love me to have made me so content ! Though I would have served Him humbly, and patiently, and dumbly, Without any angel standing in the pathway that I went. ' ' In the June twilight — in the lessening twilight — My love cried from my bosom an exceeding bitter cry : "Lord, wait a little longer, until my soul is stronger, — O, wait till Thou hast taught me to be content to die." Then the tender face, all woman, took a glory superhuman, And she seemed to watch for something, or see some I could not see : ■ * From my arms she rose full statured, all transfigured, queenly featured — "As Thy will is done in heaven, so on earth still let it be." ****** * * I go lonely, I go lonely, and I feel that earth is only The vestibule of palaces w T hose courts we never win : Yet I see my palace shining, where my love sits, amaranths twining, And I know the gates stand open, and I shall enter in, A MAN'S WOOING. 155 A MAN'S WOOING. OU said, last night, you did not think In all the world of men Was one true lover— true alike In deed and word and pen : — One knightly lover, constant as The old knights, who sleep sound : Some women said you, there might be- Not one man faithful found : Not one man, resolute to win, Or, winning, firm to hold The woman, among women — sought With steadfast lcve and bold. Not one whose noble life and pure Had power so to control To tender humblest loyalty Her free, but reverent soul, That she beside him took her place Both sovereign and slave ; In faith unfettered, homage true, Each claiming what each gave. And then you dropped your eyelids white, And stood in maiden bloom Proud, calm : — unloving and unloved Descending to the tomb. I let you speak and ne'er replied ; I watched you for a space, Until that passionate glow, like youth, Had faded from your face. 156 A MAN'S WOOIXG. No anger showed I— nor complaint : My heart's beats shook no breath, Although I knew that I had found Her, who brings life or death ; The woman, true as life or death ; The love, strong as these twain, Against which seas of mortal fate Beat harmlessly in vain. " Not one true man : " I hear it still, Your voice's clear cold sound, Upholding all your constant swains And good knights underground. "Not one true lover ; "—Woman, turn ; • I love you. Words are small ; 'T is life speaks plain : In twenty years Perhaps you may know all. I seek you. You alone I seek : All other women, fair, Or wise, or good, may go their way, Without my thought or care. But you I follow day by day, And night by night I keep My heart's chaste mansion lighted, where Your image lies asleep. Asleep ! If e'er to wake, He knows Who Eve to Adam brought, As you to me : the embodiment Of boyhood's dear sweet thought, And youth's fond dream, and manhood's hope, That still half hopeless shone ; Till every rootless vain ideal Commingled into one, — A MAWS WOOING. 1st You; who are so diverse from me, And yet as much my own As this my soul, which, formed apart, Dwells in its bodily throne ; — Or rather, for that perishes, As these our two lives are So strangely, marvellously drawn Together from afar ; Till week by week and month by month We closer seem to grow, As two hill streams, flushed with rich rain, Each into the other flow. I swear no oaths, I tell no lies, Nor boast I never knew A love-dream — we all dream in youth — But waking, I found you, The real woman, whose first touch Aroused to highest life My real manhood. Crown it then, Good angel, friend, love, wife ! Imperfect as I am, and you, Perchance, not all you seem, We two together shall bind up Our past's bright, broken dream. We two together shall dare look Upon the years to come, As travelers, met in far countrie, Together look towards home. Come home ! The old tales were not false, Yet the new faith is true ; Those saintly souls who made men knights, Were women such as you, 158 TEE CATHEDRAL TOMBS. For the great love that teaches love Deceived not, ne'er deceives : And she who most believes in man Makes him what she believes. Come ! If you come not, I can wait ; My faith, like life, is long ; My will — not little ; my hope much : The patient are the strong. Yet come, ah come ! The years run fa And hearths grow swiftly cold — Hearts too : but while blood beats in mine It holds you and will hold. And so before you it lies bare, — Take it or let it lie, It is an honest heart ; and yours To all eternity. THE CATHEDRAL TOMBS. " Post tempestatem tranquillitas." Epitaph in Ely Cathedral. HEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet Stretched like dead feet that walk no more, And stony masks oft human sweet, As if the olden look each wore, Familiar curves of lip and eye, Were copied by some fond memory. All waiting : the new-coffined dead, The handful of mere dust that lies Sarcophagused in stone and lead Under the weight of centuries : Knight, cardinal, bishop, abbess mild, With last week's buried year-old child. I THE CATHEDRAL TOMBS. 159 After the tempest cometh peace, After long travail sweet repose ; These folded palms, these feet that cease From any motion, are but shows Of —what ? What rest ? How rest they ? Where ? The generations naught declare. Dark grave, unto whose brink we come, Drawn nearer by all nights and days ; Each after each, thy solemn gloom We pierce with momentary gaze, Then go, unwilling or content, The way that all our fathers went. Is there no voice or guiding hand Arising from the awful void, To say, " Fear not the silent land ; " Would He make aught to be destroyed ? Would He ? or can He ? What know we Of Him who is Infinity? Strong Love, which taught us human love, Helped us to follow through all spheres Some soul that did sweet dead lips move, Lived in dear eyes in smiles and tears, Love — once so near our flesh allied, That "Jesus wept " when Lazarus died ; — ■ , Eagle-eyed Faith that can see God, In worlds without and heart within ; In sorrow by the smart o' the rod, In guilt by the anguish of the sin : In everything pure, holy, fair, God saying to man's soul, " I am there ;" — ■ These only, twin-archangels, stand Above the abyss of common doom, These only stretch the tender hand To us descending to the tomb, 160 WHEN GREEN LEA VES COME AGAIN. Thus making it a bed of rest, With spices and with odors drest. So, like one weary and worn, who sinks To sleep beneath long faithful eyes, Who asks no word of love, but drinks The silence which is paradise — We only cry — " Keep tender ward, And give us good rest, good Lord ! " WHEN GREEN LEAVES COME AGAIN. SONG. HEN green leaves come again, my love, -When green leaves come again, — Why put on such a cloudy face, When green leaves come again ? * 'Ah, this spring will be like the last, Of promise false and vain ;, And summer die in winter's arms Ere green leaves come again. " So slip the seasons— and our lives: 'T is idle to complain : But yet I sigh, I scarce know why, When green leaves come again." Nay, lift up thankful eyes, my sweet ! Count equal, loss and gain : Because, as long as the world lasts, Green leaves will come again. For, sure as earth lives under snows, And Love lives under pain, *T is good to sing with everything, "When green leaves come again. " r I THE FIRST WAITS. 161 4 THE FIRST WAITS. A MEDITATION FOR ALL. 0, Christmas is here again ! — While the house sleeps, quiet as death, 'Neath the midnight moon comes the Waits'' shrill tune, And we listen and hold our breath. The Christmas that never was — On this foggy November air, With clear pale gleam, like the ghost of a dream, It is painted everywhere. The Christmas that might have been — It is borne in the far-off sound, Down the empty street, with the tread of feet That lie silent underground. The Christmas that yet may be — Like the Bethlehem star, leads kind : Yet our life slips past, hour by hour, fast, fast, Few before — and many behind. The Christmas we have and hold, With a tremulous tender strain, Half joy, half fears — Be the psalm of the years, • " Grief passes, blessings remain ! " The Christmas that sure will come, Let us think of, at fireside fair ; — When church bells sound o'er one small green mound, Which the neighbors pass to prayer. The Christmas that God will give, — Long after all these are o'er, When is day nor night, for the Lamb is our Light, And we live forevermore. m DAY BT DAT. DAY BY DAY. \^EBY day has its dawn, Its soft and silent eve, Its noontide hours of bliss or bale;- Why should we grieve ? Why do we heap huge mounds of years Before us and behind, And scorn the little days that pass Like angels on the wind ? Each turning round a small sweet face As beautiful as near ; Because it is so small a face We will not see it clear : We will not clasp it as it flies, And kiss its lips and brow : We will not bathe our wearied souls In its delicious Now. And so it turns from us, and goes Away in sad disdain : Though we would give our lives for it, It never comes again. Yet, every day has its dawn, Its noontide and its eve : Live while we live, giving God thanks — He will not let us grieve. ONLY A WOMAN. 163 ONLY A WOMAN. " She loves with love that cannot tire : And if, ah, woe ! she loves alone, Through passionate duty love names higher, As grass grows taller round a stone." Coventry Patmore, 0, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake, — It will not slay me. My heart shall not break Awhile, if only for the children's sake. For his too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed ; None say, he gave me less than honor claimed, Except — one trifle scarcely worth being named — The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be As easily raised up, breathing — fair to see, As he could bring his whole heart back to me. I never sought him in coquettish sport, Or courted him as silly maidens court, And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. I only loved him— any woman would : But shut my love up till he came and sued, Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. I was so happy I could make him blest ! So happy that I was his first and best, As he mine — when he took me to his breast. Ah me ! if only then he had been true ! If for one little year, a month or two, He had given me love for love, as was my due ! Or had he told me, ere the deed was done, He only raised me to his heart's dear throne — Poor substitute— because the queen was gone ! 164 ONLY A WOMAN. 0, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss. He had kissed another woman even as this, — It were less bitter ! Sometimes I could weep To be thus cheated, like a child asleep : — Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. So I built my house upon another's ground ; Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound — A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. And when that heart grew colder— colder still, 1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil, Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, All— anything but him. It was to be : The full draught others drink up carelessly Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. I say again— he gives me all I claimed, I and my childnn never shall be shamed : He is a just man — he will live unblamed. Only— O God, O God, to cry for bread, And get a stone ! Daily to lay my head Upon a bosom where the. old love's dead ! Dead ? — Fool ! It never lived. It only stirred Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard : So let me bury it without a word. He'll keep that other woman from my sight. 1 know not if her face be foul or bright ; I only know that it was his delight — As his was mine : I only know he stands Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands, Then to a flickering smile his lips commands. A "MERCENARY'' MARRIAGE. 165 Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow, We little reck whatever wind may blow. And so my silent moan begins and ends. No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends Or sneer of foes with this my torment blends. None knows — none heeds. I have a little pride ; Enough to stand up, wife-like, by his side, With the same smile as when I was a bride. And I shall take his children to my arms ; They will not miss these fading, worthless charms ; Their kiss — ah ! unlike his— all pain disarms. And haply, as the solemn years go by, He will think sometimes with regretful sigh, The other woman was less true than I. A " MERCENARY" MARRIAGE. HE moves as light across the grass As moves my shadow large and tall ; And like my shadow, close yet free, The thought of her aye follows me, My little maid of More ton Hall. No matter how or where we loved, Or when we'll wed, or what befall ; I only feel she's mine at last, I only know I'll hold her fast, Though to dust crumbles Moreton Hall. Her pedigree — good sooth, 'tis long! Her grim sires stare from every wall ; And centuries of ancestral grace Revive in her sweet girlish face, As meek she glides through Moreton Hall. 106 OVER THE HILLSIDE. Whilst I have — nothing ; save, perhaps, Some worthless heaps of idle gold, And a true heart — the which her eye Through glittering dross spied, womanly, Therefore they say Tier heart was sold ! I laugh — she laughs— the hills and vales Laugh as we ride 'neath chestnuts tall, Or start the deer that silent graze. And look up, large-eyed, with soft gaze, At the fair maid of Moreton Hall ; — We let the neighbors talk their fill, For life is sweet, and love is strong, And two, close knit in marriage ties, The whole world's shams may well despise- Its folly, madness, shame, and wrong. We are not proud, with a fool's pride, Nor cowards — to be held in thrall By pelf or lineage, rank or lands : — One honest heart, two honest hands, Are worth far more than Moreton Hall. Therefore, we laugh to scorn — we two — The bars that weaker souls appal : I take her hand and hold it fast — Knowing she'll love me to the last — My dearest maid of Moreton Hall. OVER THE HILLSIDE. Keichip. 1864. ARE WELL. In dimmer distance I watch your figures glide, Across the sunny moorland, The brown Wllside \ OVER THE HILLSIDE. 167 Each momently up rising Large, dark against the sky, Then — in the vacant moorland, Alone sit I. Within the unknown country Where some lost footsteps pass, What beauty decks the heavens And clothes the grass ! Over the mountain shoulder What glories may unfold ! Though I see but the mountain Bleak, bare and cold, — And the pale road, slow winding To where, each after each, They slipped away — ah, whither ? I cannot reach. And if I call, what answers ? Only 'twixt earth and sky, Like wail of parting spirit, The curlew's cry. * * * Yet, sunny is the moorland, And soft the pleasant air, And little flowers like blessings, Grow everywhere. While, over all, the mountain Stands sombre, calm, and still, Immutable and steadfast, As the One Will. Which, done on earth, in heaven Eternally confessed By men and saints and angels, Be ever blest ! 168 THE UNFINISHED BOOK. Under its infinite shadow (Safer than light of ours !) I'll sit rne down a little, And gather flowers. Then I will rise and follow After the setting day, Without one wish to linger, — The appointed way. THE UNFINISHED BOOK. AKE it, reader, idly passing, This, like other idle lines ; Take it, critic, great at classing Subtle genius and its signs : But, O reader, be thou dumb ; Critic, let no sharp wit come ; For the hand that wrote and blurred Will not write another word ; And the soul you scorn or prize, Now than angels is more wise. Take it, heart of man or woman, This unfinished broken strain, Whether it be poor and common Or the noblest work of brain ; Let that good heart only sit Now in judgment over it Tenderly, as we would read, — Anyone, of any creed, Any churchyard passing by, — "Sacred to the Memory." Wholly sacred : even as lingers Final word, or last look cast. TWILIGHT IN THE NORTH 169 Or last clasp of life-warm fingers, Which we knew not was the last. Or, as we apart do lay, The day after funeral-day, Their dear relics, great and small, Who need nothing — yet win all : All the best we had and have, Buried in one silent grave. All our highest aspirations, And our closest love of loves ; Our most secret resignations, Our best work that man approves, Yet which jealously we keep, In our mute heart's deepest deep. So of this poor broken song Let no echoes here prolong : For the singer's voice is known In the heaven of heavens alone. TWILIGHT IK THE NORTH. 1864. 61 Until the day break and the shadows flee away." THE long northern twilight between the day and the night, When the heat and the weariness of the world are ended quite : When the hills grow dim as dreams, and the crystal river seems Like that River of Life from out the Throne where the blessed walk in white. O the weird northern twilight, which is neither night nor day, When the amber wake of the long-set sun still marks his west- ern way; 170 CA TEAIB FHABG US. And but one great golden star in the deep blue east afar Warns of sleep, and dark, and midnight — of oblivion and de- cay. O the calm northern twilight, when labor is all done, And the birds in drowsy twitter have dropped silent one by one: And nothing stirs or sighs in mountains, waters, skies, — Earth sleeps — but her heart waketh, till the rising of the sun. the sweet, sweet twilight, just before the time of rest, When the black clouds are driven away, and the stormy winds suppressed : And the dead day smiles so bright, filling earth and heaven with light, — You would think 't was dawn come back again— but the light is in the west. the grand solemn twilight, spreading peace from pole to pole! — Ere the rains sweeps o'er the hillsides, and the waters rise and roll, In the lull and the calm, come, O angel with the palm — In the still northern twilight, Azrael, take my soul. CATHAIR FHARGUS. \ (Fergus's seat.) A mountain in the Island of Arran, the summit of which resembles a gigantic human profile. ITH face turned upward to the changeful sky, I, Fergus, lie, supine in frozen rest ; The maiden morning clouds slip rosily Unclasped, unclasping, down my granite breast The lightning strikes my brow and passes by. CAT HAIR FHAEGUS. &\ There 's nothing new beneath the sun, I wot : I, " Fergus " called,— the great pre- Adamite, Who for my mortal body blindly sought Rash immortality, and on this height Stone-bound, forever am and yet am not, — There 's nothing new beneath the sun, I say. Ye pigmies of a later race, who come And play out your brief generation 's play Below me, know, I too spent my life's sum, And revelled through my short tumultuous day. O, what is man that he should mouth so grand Through his poor thousand as his seventy years ? Whether as king I ruled a trembling land, Or swayed by tongue or pen my meaner peers, Or earth's whole learning once did understand, — What matter ? The star-angels know it all. They who came sweeping through the silen night And stood before me, yet did not appal : Till, fighting 'gainst me in their courses bright,* Celestial smote terrestrial. — Hence my fall. Hence, Heaven cursed me with a granted prayer ; Made my hill-seat eternal : bade me keep My pageant of majestic lone despair, While one by one into the infinite deep Sank kindred, realm, throne, world : yet I lay there. There still I lie. Where are my glories fled ? My wisdom that I boasted as divine ? My grand primeval women fair, who shed Their whole life's joy to crown one hour of mine, An J lived to curse the love they coveted ? Gone — gone. Uncounted aeons have rolled by, And still my ghost sits by its corpse of stone, And change this dirge into a happy chime, That to His footstool may arise sublime. 193 GBEEN THINGS GBOWING. I look up into heaven. Art thou still there, Dim, waning moon ! watched, a bright thread, at eve : Then fuller, till one night thy beams did weave A magic light o'er hill and castle fair. Back, thou pale ghost ! haunt not the morning air I Blank thing, would I could blot thee from the sky ! Why troublest thou the brightness of the morn ? " I do but as all things create or born Serve my appointed course, and then — I die," — This answer falleth downwards like a sigh. I have said ill. Hail, pallid crescent, hail ! Let me look on thee, where thou sitt'st for aye Like memory — ghastly in the glare of day, But in the evening, light. Grow yet more pale, Till from the face of heaven thine image fail. Then rise from out earth's gloom of midnight tears A new-born glory. So I know 't will be When that pale shade now ever following me — The unexorcised phantom of dead years — Grows an orbed angel, singing in the spheres. GEEEN THINGS GROWING. THE green things growing, the green things grow ing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing ! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing ! How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing ; JESSIE. 199 In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crow- ing. I love, I love them so — my green things growing ; And I think that they love me, without false show- ing ; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, With the soft mute comfort of green things grow- ing. And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing Ten for one I take they 're on me bestowing : . Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be, Many, many a summer of my green things grow- ing! But if I must be gathered for the angels's sowing, Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing, Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn, If I may change into green tilings growing. JESSIE. HE little white moon goes climbing Over the dusky cloud, Kissing its rugged fringes, With a love-light, pale as a shroud — Where walks this moon to-night, Jessie ? Over the waters bright, Jessie ? Does she smile on your face as you lift it, proud ? Let her look on thee — look on thee, Jessie ! For I shall look never more ! 200 TEE COMING OF THE SPRING. , One steady white star stands watching Ever beside the moon ; Hid by the mists that veil her, And hid by her light's mid-noon : Yet the star follows all heaven through, Jessie, As my soul follows after you, Jessie, At moon-rise and moon-set, late and soon : Let it watch thee, watch thee, my Jessie, For I shall watch never more ! The purple-black vault folds softly, Over far sea, far land ; The thunder-clouds, swept down eastward, Like a chain of mountains stand, Under this July sky, Jessie, Do you hear waves lapping by, Jessie ? Do you walk, with the hills on either hand ? Farewell, O farewell, my Jessie, Farewell for evermore ! THE COMING OF THE SPRING. 1 HE coming of the Spring- Oh, the coming of the Spring ! Now the Winter wears away, And we thirst, and yearn, and pray, As a sick man prays for day, For the coming of the Spring. How we dream, 'twill surely bring Some new delightsome thing ; Some wondrous bliss that nears Comet-like, from unknown spheres, Crowning this year of all years With the promise of the Spring. THE MORNING WOULD. 201 But it comes not, or does wear A strange horror in its hair ; Or goes on its meteor way Till it fades in ether gray, And its glories all decay, Like the glories of the Spring. Then, our May-buds drop o'erhead, And our primroses lie dead ; And our violets on the moor Bloom unplucked, in nooks obscure, And the dull heart shuts its door On the beauty of the Spring. O vain and selfish grief ! O sullen unbelief ! When each bird on each hedge-side, Where snow lay all winter-tide, Sings aloud, ' ' God will provide, He has sent us back the Spring ! " When each flower the children hold Smiles — " This life-germ I enfold, See how safely I can keep ! For I die not — only sleep ; And, through all the Winter deep, Wait the coming of the Spring." THE MORNING WORLD. E comes down from Youth's mountain-top : Before him Manhood's glittering plain Lies stretched ; — vales, hamlets, towers, and towns, Huge cities,* dim and silent downs, "Wide unreaped fields of shining grain, 202 COMING HOME. All seems a landscape fair as near ; So easy to be crossed and won ! No mist the distant ocean hides, And overhead majestic rides The wondrous, never-setting sun. Gaze on, gaze on, thou eager boy, For earth is lovely, life is grand ; Yet from the boundary of the plain Thy faded eyes may turn again Wistfully to the morning-land. How lovely then o'er wastes of toil That long-left mountain height appears ! How soft the lights and shadows glide ! How the rough places, glorified, Transcend whole leagues of level years ! And standing by the sea of Death, With anchor weighed and sails unfurled, Blessed the man before whose eyes The very hills of Paradise Glow, colored like his morning world. COMING HOME. | HE lift is high and blue, And the new moon glints through The bonnie corn-stooks o' Strathairly : My ship 's in Largo Bay, And I ken it weel— the way Up the steep, steep brae o' Strathairly. When I sailed ower the sea, A laddie bold and free, — The corn sprang green on Strathairly ; When I come back again, THE DEAD. 203 'T is an auld man walks his lane. Slow and sad through the fields o' Strathairly. Of the shearers that I see, Ne'er a body kens me, Though I kent them a' at Strathairly ; And this fisher- wife I pass, Can she be the braw lass That I kissed at the back of Strathairly ? the land 's fine, fine ! 1 could buy it a' for mine, My gowd 's yellow as the stooks o' Strathairly ? But I fain yon lad wad be, That sailed ower the salt sea As the dawn rose gray on Strathairly. THE DEAD. NDERNEATH the nodding plumes. Black in dolorous pride, All along the busy streets Curiously eyed ; While anon the mourners follow In feigned calmness, grief as hollow, Some few idly glancing wide — How quietly they ride ! Underneath the artillery's tramp Charging, fiend-possest, Storms of rattling fiery hail Sweeping each safe breast, Till the kind moon — battle over — Kiss their faces like a lover, Calm boy-faces; earthward prest— How quietly they rest ! 204 A MARINER'S BRIDE. Underneath the pitiless roar Of the hungry deep, Crossed the gulf from life to— life, In a single leap ; Hundreds in a moment knowing The one secret none is shewing, Though the whole world rave and weep- How quietly they sleep ! Life, this hard and painful Life, With a yearning tongue Calls unto her brother Death : ' ' Brother, dear, how long ? " Lays her head upon his shoulder — Softer than all clasps, scarce colder! — In his close arms, safe and strong, Slips with him from the throng. A MARINER'S BRIDE. H me, my dream ! " pale Helen cried, With hectic cheeks aglow : 1 'Why wake me ? Hide that cruel beam ! I'll not have such another dream On this side heaven, I know. * ' I almost feel the leaping waves, The wet spray on my hair, The salt breeze singing in the sail, The kind arms, strong as iron-mail, That held me safely there. ' ' I'll tell thee : On some shore I stood, Or sea, or inland bay, Or river broad, I know not — save There seemed no boundary to the wave That chafed and moaned alway. A MARINER'S BRIDE. £05 "The shore was lone — the wave was lone — The horizon lone ; no sail Broke the dim line 'twixt sea and sky, Till slowly, slowly one came by Half ghostlike, gray and pale. " It was a veiy little boat, Had neither oars nor crew ; But as it shoreward bounded fast, One form seemed leaning by the mast — And Norman's face I knew ! 1 ' He never looked nor smiled at me, Though I stood all alone ; His brow was very grave and high Lit with a glory from the sky — The vessel bounded on. " I shrieked : ' O take me with thee, love ! # The night falls dark and dread.' — * My boat may come no nearer shore ; And, hark ! how mad the billows roar ! Art thou afraid ? ' he said. " ' Afraid ! with thee ? ' — ' The wind sweeps fierce The foamy rocks among : A perilous voyage waiteth me.' — ' Then, then, indeed, I go with thee,' I cried, and forward sprung. "All drenched with brine, all pale with fear — Ah no, not fear ; 't was bliss ! — I felt his strong arms draw me in : U after death to heaven I win, T will be such joy as this ! "No kiss, no smile, but aye that clasp — Tender, and close, and brave ; — While, like a tortured thing, upleapfc 206 MOUNTAINS IN SNOW. The boat, and o'er her deck there swept, Wave thundering after wave. " I looked not to the stormy deep, Nor to the angry sky Whether for life or death we wrought, My whole world dwindled to one thought — Where he is, there am I! "On — on — through leaping waves, slow calmed, With salt spray on our hair, And breezes singing in the sail, Before a safe and pleasant gale, The boat went bounding fair : "But whether to a shore we came, Or seaward sailed away, Alas ! to me is all nnknown : happy dream, too quickly flown! O cruel, cruel day ! " Pale Helen lived— or died : dull time O'er all that history rolls ; Sailed they or sunk they on life's waves ? — 1 only know earth holds two graves, And heaven two blessed souls. MOUNTAINS IN SNOW. [OLD— O deathly cold— and silent, lie the white hills 'neath the sky, Like a soul whom fate has covered with thy snow, Adversity ! Not a sough of wind comes moaning; the same outline, high and bare, As in pleasant days of summer, rises in the murky air. * A UBYME ABOUT BIRDS. 207 Very quiet — very silent — whether shines the mocking sun Through the wintry blue, or lowering drift the feathery snow- clouds dun : Always quiet, always silent, be it night or be it day, With that pale shroud coldly lying where the heather-blossoms lay. Can they be the very mountains that we looked at, you and I ? O.ie long wavy line of purple painted on the sunset sky ; With the new moon's edge just touching that dark rim, like dancer's foot, Or young Dian's, on the hill-side for Endymion waiting mute. O how golden was that evening ! — O how soft the summer air ! How the bridegroom sky bent loving o'er its earth so virgin fair! How the earth looked up to heaven like a bride with joy op- pressed, In her thankfulness half- weeping that she was thus over blest ! Ghostly mountains! " Silence— silence ! " now is aye your soundless voice, Lifted in an awful patience o'er the world's uproarious noise ; O'er its jarring and its greetings — o'er its loving and its hate — 44 Silence! Bare thy brows submissive to the snows of heaven, and wait ! " A RHYME ABOUT BIRDS. SAID to the little Swallow : "Who '11 follow? Out of thy nest in the eaves Under the ivy leaves ; Yet my thought flies swifter than thou i My thought has a softer nest, Where it fold its wings to rest, In a pure- hearted woman's breast \ 208 A BHYME ABOUT BIRDS. While its sky is her cloudless brow." Swallow — swallow, Who '11 follow? I said to the brown, brown Thrush : 4 'Hush— hush! Through the wood's full strains I hear Thy monotone deep and clear. Like a sound amid sounds most fine ; And so, though the whole world sung To my love with eloquent tongue, However their voices rung, She would pause and listen to mine." Brown, brown thrush, Hush— hush ! I said to the Nightingale : < < Hail, all hail! Pierce with thy trill the dark, Like a glitteiing music-spark, When the earth grows pale and dumb ; But mine be a song more rare, To startle the sleeping air, And to the dull world declare Love sings amid darkest gloom." Nightingale, Hail, all hail ! I said to the sky poised Lark : " Hark— hark! Thy note is more loud and free, Because there lies safe for thee A little nest on the ground. And I, when strong-winged I rise To chant out sweet melodies, Shall know there are home- lit eyes Watching me soar, sun-crowned." Poet-lark, Hark— hark ! AT TEE WINDOW. 21$ AT THE WINDOW. NLY to listen, listen and wait, For his slow firm step down the gravel walk: To hear the click-click of his hand on the gate And feel every heart-beat thro' careless talk : For love is sweet when life is young ; And life and love are both so long. i l Only to watch him about the room : Lighting it up with his quiet smile, That seems to lift the world out of gloom And bring heaven nearer me, for awhile A little while, since love is young, And life seems beautiful as long. 1 ' Only to love him : nothing more : Never a thought of his loving me. Proud of him, glad in him, though he bore My heart to shipwreck on the smooth sea. Love's faith sees only grief, not wrong, And life is daring when 't is young. "But yet, what matter ! The world goes round And bliss and bale are but outside things ! I never can lose what in him I found, Tnough love be sorrow with half -grown wings, And should love fly when we are young, Why, life is still not long — not long. "And heaven is kind to the faithful heart And if we are patient and brave and calm Our fruits will last when our flowers depart. — Some day, when I sleep with folded palm No longer fair, no longer young, Life may not seem so bitter long." 2i0 JUPITER, A2f MVEmNa STAB, The tears dried up in her shining eyes, Her parted lips took a saintly peace ; Then, his shadow across the doorway lies; — Will her doubts gather, darken, or — cease ? When hearts are pure, and bold, and strong, True love as life itself is long. JUPITER, AN EVENING STAR. ] ULER and hero, shining in the west With great bright eye, Rain down thy luminous arrows in this breast With influence calm and high, And speak to me of many things gone by. Rememberest thou — 't is years since, wandering star — Those eves in June, When thou hung'st quivering o'er the tree-tops far, Where, with discordant tune, Many-tongued rooks hailed the red-rising moon ? Some watched thee then with human eyes like mine, Whose boundless gaze May now pierce on from orb to orb divine Up to the Triune blaze Of glory — nor be dazzled by its rays. All things they know, whose wisdom seemed obscure ; They, sometime blamed, Hold our best purities as things impure ; Their star-glance downward aimed, Makes our most lamp-like deeds grow pale and shamed Their star-glance ? — what if through thy rays there gleam Immortal eyes OK BIS NINETIETH BIETBDAT. Sli Down to this dark? What if these thoughts, that seem Unbidden to arise, Be souls with my soul talking from the skies ? I know not. Yet awhile, and I shall know ! — Thou to thy place Slow journeying back, there startlingly to show Thy orb in liquid space, Like a familiar death-lost angel face. — O planet ! thou hast blotted out whole years Of life's dull round : The Abel- voice of heart's blood and of tears Sinks dumb into the ground And the green grass waves on with lulling sound. ON HIS NINETIETH BIRTHDAY. W. L.— Oct. 20, 1866. INETY years, ay, ninety years ! We, smooth travelling 'inongst our peers With a level onward tread Look at you, so far ahead, And wonder how life's road appears At ninety years, at ninety years. If the journey has seemed long, — If the days when you were young, — Near a century ago — Ever come in silent show With their forgotton smiles and tears To the still heart of ninety years. Little the young mother knew On the day she welcomed you 212 IN EXPECTATION OF DEATff. To our new, old, wondrous world, That your pretty ringlets curled Would whiten 'neath the joys and fears Of ninety years, full ninety years ! Yet that long dead lady sweet Who once guided your small feet, Watched the dawning soul arise In your laughing infant eyes, Might smile content from happier spheres Upon her " child" of ninety years. Gentle spirit, brave as true, Freshened still with youth's best dew ; Merry heart, that can enjoy, Simply, fully, as a boy, — Fear not, though close the shadow nears, At ninety years, at ninety years. For when he at last shall come, — The good Friend who whispers "Home!" May he come as peacefully As babe's sleep on mother's knee ! And after (so prays Love with tears) Not ninety but a hundred years ! IN EXPECTATION OF DEATH. CONSTANTIA. HEN I was young, my lover stole One of my ringlets fair : I wept — " Ah no ! Tiiose always part, Who having once changed heart for heart, Change also locks of hair. IN EXPECTATION OF DEATH. 213 "And mystic eyes, they say, have seen The spirits of the dead, Gather like motes in silent bands Round hair once reft by tender hands From some now shrouded head. "If" — Here he closed my quivering mouth, And where the curl had lain, Laid payment rich for what he stole : — Could I to one hour crush life's whole, I'd live that hour again ! My golden curls are silvering o'er — Who heeds ? The seas roll wide ; When one I know their bounds shall pass, There '11 be no tresses— only grass — For Ms hands to divide ; Where I shall lie, low, deep, a-cold, And never hear his tread : Whether he weep, or sigh, or moan, I shall be passive as a stone, He living, and I — dead ! And then he will rise up and go, With slow steps, looking back, Still — going : leaving me to keep My frozen and eternal sleep, Beneath the earth so black. Pale brow — oft leant against his brow : Poor hand — where his lips lay ; Dim eyes, that knew not they were fair, Till his praise made them half they were — Must all these pass away ? Must nought of mine be left for him Except the curl he stole ? Round which this wildly-loving me Will float unseen continually, A disembodied soul. 214 STRAY LD FROM THE FLOCK. A soul ! Glad thought, that lightning-like Leaps from this cloud of doom : If, living, all its load of clay- Keeps not my spirit from his away, Thou canst not, cruel tomb ! The moment that these earth-chains burst, Like an enfranchised dove O'er seas and lands to him I fly, Whom only, whether I live or die, I loved, love, and shall love. I'll float around him— he shall breathe My life instead of air ; In glowing sunbeams o'er his head My visionary hands I'll spread, And kiss his forehead fair. I'll stand, an angel bold and strong, Between his soul and sin ; If grief lie stone-like on his heart, I'll beat its marble doors apart, To let peace enter in. He never more shall part from me, Nor I from him divide ; Let these poor limbs in earth find rest 1 I'll live like Love within his breast, Rejoicing that I died. STRAYED FROM THE FLOCK. " Strayed from the Flock.— B. Riviere." Royal Academy Catalogue. 1867. I HE wind goes sobbing Over the moor : Far is the fold and shut its door : But white and safe, beyond terror or shock STRAYED FROM THE FLOCK, 210 Lies the silly lamb that strayed from the flock ; And overhead from a frozen branch With a tender pity, true and staunch, Carols the Robin. "The blast comes heavy With death and sorrow : To-day it is thee — may be me to-morrow : Yet I '11 sing one song o'er the silent wold, For the poor little lamb that never grew old, Never lived long winters to see Chanting from empty trees like me, Trees once so leafy. "The snow-flakes cover The moorland dun ; My song trills feebly, but I'll sing on. Why did God make me a brave bird soul Under warm feathers, red as a coal, To keep my life nieny, cheery and bright, To the very last twinkle of wintry light, While thine is all over ? M Why was I given Bold strong wings To bear me away from hurtful things ? While thy poor feet were so tender and weakly And thy faint heart yielded all so meekly, Till it bent at last 'neath the silent hand That bade thee lie down, nor try to stand — Was it hand of heaven ? " The wind goes sobbing," (Thus sang the bird, Or else in a dream its voice I heard,) "Nothing I know and nothing can, Wisdom is not with birds but man : Yet some, snow-white, snow-soft, not snow-cold, May be singing o'er the lamb strayed from the fold, Besides poof "Robin." 216 THREE MEETINGS. THREE MEETINGS. THE happy meeting from over the sea, When I love my friend and my friend loves me: And we stand face to face, and for letters read There are endless words to be heard and said : With a glance between whiles, shy, anxious, half strange, As if asking — " Say now, is there any change ?" Till we settle down just as we used to be, For I love my friend and my friend loves me. O the blessed meeting of lovers true Against whom Fate has done all that Fate could do, And then dropped vanquished; while over those slain Dead weeks, months, years, of parting and pain, Hope lifts her banner, gay, gallant and fair, Untainted, untorn, in the balmy air : And the heaven of the future, golden and bright, Arches above them — God guards the right. But O for the meeting to come one day, When the spirit slips out of its house of clay : When the standers-by with a gentle sign Shall kindly cover this face of mine, And I leap — whither ? — ah who can know ? But outward, onward, as spirits must go, Till eye to eye without fear I see God— and my lost— as they see me. APRIL, 217 APRIL. " And He that sat upon the throne said : Behold, I make all things new," GO forth in the fields to meet thee, Spring. By hanging larch- woods, through whose brown there runs A trembling under-gush of faintest green, As daily sun-bursts strike adown the hills ; By hedgerows, budding slow in nested nooks, Where primroses look up with childish smile From Mother Earth's rich breast ; she laughs aloud "Iain young again ! It is the April-time. " Sweet April-time— O cruel April-time ! Year after year returning, with a brow Of promise, and red lips with longing paled, And backward-hidden hands that clutch the joys Of vanished springs, like flowers. Cast them not down ; Let them not root again ! Go by — go by, Young April ; thou art not of us nor ours. Yet April-time, O golden April-time, Stay but a little ! Hast thou not some spell In the fresh youth o' the year to make us young ? Thou, at whose touch the rich sap leaps i' the veins Of dead brown boughs that moaned all winter long, Roll back the shroud from this our life's lost day, Setting in showers— and in thy glowing arms Lift dead morn out o' the west, and bid her walk Like a returned ghost through upper air ; Canst thou do this ? wilt answer ? 213 APRIL. "Vain, all vain." The larch wood sighs unto the darkening sky, The silent sky replies in pitying tears As the slow rain-cloud trails adown the hills. " There is a time to be born, a time to die," For all things. The irrevocable Hand That opes the year's fair gate, doth ope and shut The portals of our earthly destinies ; We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless doors ^lose after us, for ever. Pause, my soul, On these strange words—; for ever — whose large sound Breaks flood-like, drowning all the petty noise Our human moans make on the shores of Time. O Thou that openest, and no man shuts ; That shut'st, and no man opens — Thee we wait ! More longingly than the black frost-bound lands Desire the budding green. Awakener, come ! Fling wide the gate of an eternal year, The April of that glad new heavens and earth Which shall grow out of these, as spring- tide grows Slow out of winter's breast. Let Thy wide hand Gather us all— with none left out (O God ! Leave Thou out none!) from the east and from the west. Loose Thou our burdens : heal our sicknesses ; Give us one heart, one tongue, one faith, one love. In Thy great Oneness made complete and strong — To do Thy work throughout the happy world — Thy world, All-merciful — Thy perfect world. LAYING A FOUXDAUOX-SIONE. 219 LAYING A FOUNDATION-STONE. St. Mary's ; Shortlands.— Oct. 5, 1867. ! The Holy Church throughout all the world doth acknowledge Thee/ FTER harvest dews and harvest moonshine Lay the stone beneath this autumn sunshine : Ere the winter frosts the leaves are thinning, Let the workmen see the work's beginning. Let the slender windows rising higher Catch new glimpses of the sunset fire, And the sheltering walls, fresh beauty shewing, Day by day be strengthening and growing : Though full many a daily task be meted Ere the perfect fabric is completed. Work in faith, good neighbor beside neighbor, Work, and trust heaven's smile upon your labor : Ay, though we who in the sunshine stand here, Joining voice to voice and hand to hand here, Ere the moss has grown o'er wall and column Shall be sleeping in a silence solemn, Or in clearer light and purer air Busy about His business— other-where. Ay, though in that mystery of mysteries Lying underneath our sad life-histories, Midst of labor, earnest, brave, and fervent, The good Master may call on many a servant, Sudden rest may fall on wearied sinews, Though the workers cease— the work continues. God names differently what we judge failing, In a glory-mist His purpose veiling, One by one He moves us, hands anointed By His hands, to do our task appointed. 220 HEADINGS OF CHAPTERS. But the dimness of our earthly prison Hides the total splendor of the vision. Grant us, Lord, behind that veil to feel Thee ; In our humble labors to reveal thee, j Doing what we can do — well believing One, with Thee, are giving and receiving. So, this happy sunshine the act gilding, Lay the stone— and may heaven bless the building. HEADINGS OF CHAPTERS. (From ' Christian's Mistake. ") HEN ye 're my ain gudewife, lassie, What '11 ye bring to me ? A hantle o' siller, a stockin' o' gowd ?- "I haena ae bawbee." When ye are my ain gudewife, lassie, And sit at my fireside, Will the red and white meet in your face ? — " Na ! ye '11 no get a bonnie bride !" But gin ye 're my ain gudewife, lassie, Mine for gude and ill, Will ye bring me three things, lassie, My toom, toom house to fill ? A temper sweet, a silent tongue, A heart baith warm and free ? Then I '11 marry ye the morn, lassie, And loe ye till I dee. BEADIXGS OF CHAPTEM &2l The little griefs— the petty wounds, The stabs of daily care, — " Crackling of thorns beneath the pot,"— As life's fire burns — now cold, now hot, How hard they are to bear ! But on the fire burns, clear and still ; The cankering sorrow dies : The small wounds heal ; the clouds are rent, And through this shattered mortal tent Shine down the eternal skies. He stands a-sudden at the door, And no one hears his soundless tread, And no one sees his veiled head, Or silent hand, put forth so sure, To snatch us from all mortal sight, Or else benignly turn away, And let us live our little day, And tremble back into the light. But though thus awful to our eyes He is an Angel in disguise. Love that asketh love again, Finds the barter nought but pain ; Love that giveth in full store, Aye receives as much, and more. Love, exacting nothing back, Never knoweth any lack ; Love, compelling love to pay, Sees him bankrupt every day. 222 HEADINGS OF CHAPTERS. 1 'And do the hours slip fast or slow, And are ye sad or gay ? And is your heart with your liege lord, lady, Or is it far away ? " The lady raised her cairn, proud head, Though her tears fell one by one : "Life counts not hours by joys or pangs, But just by duties done. ' 'And when I lie in the green kirkyard, With the mould upon my breast, Say not that ' She did well— or ill,' Only, ' She did her best ! ' j )» A waem hearth, and a bright hearth, and a hearth swept clean Where the tongs don't raise a dust, and the broom is n't seen ; Where the coals never fly abroad, and the soot does n't fall, O that 's the fire for a man like me, in cottage or in hall. A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well, Though the waves leap around it and the winds blow snell : A full boat and a merry boat, we '11 meet any weather, Willi a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether. Foegive us- each his daily sins, If few or many, great or small ; And those that sin against us, Lord, Good Lord, forgive them all. Judge us not as we others judge ; Condemn us not as we condemn ; They who are merciless to us — Be merciful to them. HEADINGS OP C8APTEUS. 223 And if the cruel storm should pass, And let Thy heaven of peace appear ; Make not our right the right — or might, But make Thy right shine clear. " Peace on earth and mercy mild," Sing the angels, reconciled ; Over each sad warfare done, Each soul-battle lost and won. He that has a victory lost, May discomfit yet a host ; And, it often doth befal, He who conquers loses all. It may be under palace roof, Princely and wide ; No pomp foregone, no pleasure lost, No wish denied ; But if beneath the diamonds' flash Sweet, kind eyes hide, A pleasant place, a happy place, Is our fireside. It may be 'twixt four lowly wails, No show, no pride ; Where sorrows ofttimes enter in, But ne'er abide. Yet, if she sits beside the hearth, Help, comfort, guide, A blessed place, a heavenly place, Is our fireside. 224 THE GOLDEN GATH. THE GOLDEN GATE. LADY stood at the golden gate, — The golden gate shut close and lorn ; The little spring-birds chirped merry and sweet, The little spring-flowers grew up at her feet ; She smiled back a spring- smile, gay and young — " 'T will open, open to me, ere long ! Wait," said the lady — " wait, wait : There never was night that had no morn." The lady sat at the golden gate ; The May had withered from off the thorn : Warm July roses crushed cheek to cheek In a rapturous stillness, faint and weak ; And a languid love-air filled the breeze, And birds ceased singing in nest-hung trees "Wait," said the lady — "wait, wait : There never was night that had no morn." The lady knelt at the golden gate, — The fast-barred gate— forlorn, forlorn ; The sun laid on her his burning hand, The reapers' song came over the land, And the same round moon that lighted the sheaves, Shewed at her feet dead, drifted leaves : u Alas !" sighed the lady. " Yet, wait, wait : There never was night that had no morn." The lady crouched at the golden gate, With steadfast watch — but so lorn, so lorn! The earth lay whitening in one shroud, The wind in the woods howled long and loud ; Till the frosty stars shot arrowy rays ; A FAREWELL. HIGHLAND CATTLE. 225 And fixed forever her death-strong gaze. A soul rose singing : ' ' No more I wait : On earth was night — in heaven is morn." A FAREWELL. For a Swedish Air. I OOK in my face, dear, Openly and free : Hold out your hand, dear, Have no fear of me ! Thus as friends old loves should part ; Each one with a quiet heart — O my Mary— my lost Mary, Say farewell — and go ! Never to meet more, While day follows day : Never to kiss more, Till our lips are clay. Angry hearts grieve loud awhile ; Broken hearts are dumb — or smile. O my Mary — my lost Mary, Say farewell — and go ! HIGHLAND CATTLE. i^ZHL OWN the wintry mountain Like a cloud they come, Not like a cloud in its silent shroud When the sky is leaden and the earth all- dumb, But tramp, tramp, tramp, 226 HIGHLAND CATTLE. With a roar and a shock, And stamp, stamp, stamp, Down the hard granite rock, With the snow-flakes following fair Like an army in the air, Of white-winged angels leaving Their heavenly homes, half-grieving, And half glad to drop down kindly upon earth so bare : With a snort and a bellow Tossing manes dun and yellow, Red and roan, black and gray, In their fierce merry play, Though the sky is all leaden and the earth all dumb- Down the noisy cattle come ! Throned on the mountain Winter sits at ease : Hidden under mist are those peaks of amethyst That rose like hills of heaven above the amber seas. While crash, crash, crash, Through the frozen heather brown, And dash, dash, dash, Where the ptarmigan drops down And the curlew stops her cry And the deer sinks, like to die — And the waterfall's loud noise In the only living voice — With a plunge and a roar Like mad waves upon the shore, Or the wind through the pass Howling o'er the reedy grass- In a wild battalion pouring from the heights unto the plain. Down the cattie come again f TEE FISHEB-MAID. 227 silent peaks : golden Isle : That still I see in its last smile, Dear as dead face, yet unforbid By the slow-closing coffin lid : And lovely as the dreams that come To exiled men of distant home ; Shine on — though I behold not ; bear To happy hearts all thoughts most fair — To the young, of hope and sweet desire Bright as your morning crown of fire, — To the old, of settled peace, hard-won, But perfect as at set of sun Ye sit — enrobed in purple light — Before ye vanish into night. O sacred glens — gray rocks — dear hills — Whose very thought my full heart stills — Whose very name works like a spell, My Golden Isle, farewell, farewell ! THE FISHER-MAID. F I were a noble lady, And he a peasant born, With nothing but his good right hand 'Twixt him and the world's scorn — O I would speak so humble, And I would smile so meek, And cool with tears this fierce, hot flush He left upon my cheek. Sing heigh, sing ho, my bonnie, bonnie boat, Let's watch the anchor weighed : For he is a great sea-captain, And I a fisher-maid. 228 THE F1SBE11-MAID. *' If I were a royal princess, And he a captive poor, I would cast down these steadfast eyes, Under this bolted door, And walking brave in all men's sight Low at his feet would fall : Sceptre and crown and womanhood, My love should take them all ! Sing heigh, sing ho, my bonnie, bonnie boat, Alone with sea and sky, For he is a bold sea-captain, A fisher-maiden I. " If I were a saint in heaven And he a sinner pale, Whom good men passed with face avert, And left him to his bale, Mine eyes they should weep rivers, My voice reach that great Throne, Beseeching — ' O be merciful ! Make Thou mine own Thine own ! ' Sing heigh, sing ho, my bonnie, bonnie boat, Love only cannot fade : Though he is a bold sea-captain, And I a fisher-maid." Close stood the young sea-captain, His tears fell fast as rain, "If I have sinned, I'll sin no more — God judge between us twain ! " The gold ring flashed in sunshine, The small waves laughing curled- " Our ship rocks at the harbor bar, Away to the under world." — " Farewell, farewell, my bonnie, bonnie boat! Now Heaven us bless and aid, For my lord is a great sea-captain, And I was a fisher-maid." THE MULBERRY TREE. 229 YOUNG AND OLD. I E were but foolish, dear, When we were young ; Hasty and ignorant, Daring and strong ; Clutching the red grapes Of passion or power — Ah, they were wild grapes, Cankered and sour ! Would we call back those years, Strange, ghostly throng ? No. Yet be tender, love, We were but young ! Now, growing wiser, dear, While growing old, No pure thought perished yet, No warm hope cold, We'll reap, who sowed in tears ; Scattering abroad ; Living for all mankind, Living to God : Holding each other safe In a firm fold : — We shall be happy, love, Now we are old. THE MULBERRY TREE. HEN the long hot days are nearly gone, And the fields lie misty in early dawn, And the spider-webs hang from blade to blade, Heavy with rain and dun with shade, 230 THE MV LB EBB Y TBEE. Till the lazy sun rises late from his bed, Large and solemn and round and red, And changes them all into diamonds bright, Like common things, glorified in love's light, — O then is the prime, the golden prime, Of the patient mulberry-tree. O the mulberry-tree is of trees the queen ! Bare long after the rest are green : But as time steals onwards, while none perceives Slowly she clothes herself with leaves — Hides her fruit under them, hard to find, And, being a tree of steadfast mind, Makes no show of blossom or berry Lures not a bird to come and make merry Under her boughs, her dark rough boughs — The prudent mulberry-tree. But by and by, when the flowers grow few And the fruits are dwindling and small to view — Out she comes in her matron grace With the purple myriads of her race : Full of plenty from root to crown, Showering plenty her feet adown. While far overhead hang gorgeously Large luscious berries of sanguine dye, For the best grows highest, always highest, Upon the mulberry-tree ! And so she lives through her fruitful season, Fairest tree that blows summer breeze on ; — Till the breeze sharpens to fierce wind cold, And the sun himself sickens, worn and old, And sudden frosts the green lawn cover And the day of the mulberry -tree is over. Her half -ripe treasures strew all the grass Or wither greenly aloft. We pass Like summer friends when her beauty ends. Not a sigh for the mulberry-tree I LEBEWOHL THE PASSING FEAR. 231 Yet stands she in the October sun Her 'fruits departed— her joys all done, And lets the wind rave through her emptied boughs, Like a mother left lone in a childless house ; Till, some still night under frosty skies She drops her green clothing off— and dies : Without a blight, or mildew, to taint, Uncomplaining as some sweet saint Who, her full life past, dies, calm to the last — The grand old mulberry-tree ! LEBEWOHL. UT into the wilderness We apart are going ; Loosed the joined hands' caress, Quenched the fond eyes' glowing ; Gone our happy dream of life Like a dried up river ; I no husband, thou no wife, Thus we part — for ever ! But the desert quickly ends, Whether journeyed over Sad and slow, as parted friends, Or as maid and lover. Those whom God made spouse and wife Let no man dare sever ! In the eternal land of life Thou art mine — for ever ! THE PASSING FEAR. OTHER, I shall not die," she said, Calm lying, open-eyed, Still smiling when the morning rose, Smiling at even-tide, 232 THE PASSING FEAR. "Mother it was not Death whose hand, Above my eyelids drawn, Put back my seventeen childish years And made a new world dawn. " O golden world ! O wondrous world ! My heart looks in amaze Back on those gone-by years, and forth Into the future days. "O mother, mother ! was it thus, That when my father came You hid your burning face, and cowered Blushing, but not with shame ? "And, mother, was it thus, ay, thus, That when my father said Those words — it seemed an angel's voice Wakening the newly dead ? " No death— sweet life ! Shall I arise, And walk, serene and strong, My mother's household ways, and sing My mother's household song ? " Shall I stand by him, as you stand By my dear father's side, And hear, as you heard yesternight, 1 Dearer the wife than bride ? ' "And — strange — O passing strange, to think, If ever there should be For me, grown old, a young arm's clasp, Mother, as mine clasps thee ? "O mother, mother, hold me close, Until these tears run dry, God, Thou wert very merciful, Who wouldst not let me die!" AMONG THE TOMBS. 233 AMONG THE TOMBS. " Ci rivedremo ! " THINK I never saw this place so fair ; — For, entering, a sea of sunshine pale Rolled over us, and breaking on the edge Of an October rain-cloud, wide outspread In a great flood o'er all the land of graves. "Look — those far headstones ! How they seem to rest Like lambs upon June meadows ; or snow-sails Each dropped upon the black sea like a smile ; Or groups of white-clad children, suddenly- Upstarting in a sunny moor at play : You would not think this was a field of graves ? " Ah no ! for with our footsteps entered Life — Life, staggering underneath her burden sore ; Life, thrilling with strange touches at her heart ; Life, with her sad eyes looking up to God ; Life, with her warm hands clinging still to man ; Life, blindfold, wondering, gay, despairing, glad, Gazing at Death with a soft ignorant smile, That said : "What doest thou here ? " Ay, what doest here Thou Terror — thou Divider ? We P the sun Walk meekly, saying unto Care, "Go by ! Thou art but one — we two ; " and unto Pain, " God loves all those who suffer, doing no wrong : And Time, the equal-handed, levels all." Therefore, O Life, that laugh'st beside these tombs Hiding behind the splendors grim of Death, 234 RETROSPECTION. As a child hides behind a murderer's robe ; Therefore, O Death, that throwest thy garment cool And wide over this Life, who maniac wild Buns to and fro, and wrings her bleeding hands, O Life, the healer, sanctifier of Death, O Death, which art Life's end, and aim, and crown, Here be ye reconciled, like parted friends, Who, shrinking, feared to meet each other's brows, And read "foe"' written there. Gaze long and calm, Like these who, gazing, know no possible hand Save that which looses all things, e'er can bind Them closer. And gaze tenderly, as those Who through all chance, all change of place or time, All glory, all dishonor, all delight, And all despair, walk constant night and day Each in the other's shadow— face to face — Waiting the supreme hour that makes of both (Life merged in Death, and Death in Life divine) An indivisible and perfect one, Married for ever. RETROSPECTION. For a Swedish Air. BINDS in the trees Chant a glad song ; O'er fields the bees Hum all day long : Night lulls the breezes, the bees' hum is o'er- Nature, like thee, changes ever more. But sunshine bright Wakens the bees : Airs warm and light A CHRISTMAS BLESSLXG 235 Stir the young trees : Morn is returning with joy-laden store — Thou wilt return to me— never more ! THE HIGH MOUNTAIN. For a Welsh Air. N yonder high mountain the dawn rested first, On yonder high mountain the risen sun burst, To yonder high mountain I turned thro' the day, Though o'er it mists hovered and rain-clouds hung gray. The rain fell impetuous, the stormy winds blew, The mists slow descended and hid it from view, No foot of man trod on its summit dew-pearled, Yet the dream of it followed me over the world. Still yonder high mountain sits silent aud g-and, And looks like a king over ocean and land, And when evening purples its heathery breast* In sight of yon mountain I '11 go to my rest. A CHRISTMAS BLESSING. 186T. EAREST friends of all the rest ! Let my heart, in peace possessed, With its quivering wings safe furled. No more beat about the world, — This strange world, so sad, so wide, — Fly to you this Christmas tide, 236 A CHRISTMAS BLESSING, Fly — or call you each and all With the low mysterious call Of sweet fancy, steadfast love, Faith that mountains can remove, Memory that backward turns Smiling o'er her green wreathed urns ; Hope, uprising like a sun In child-faces one by one, Glad to fare as we once fared, Strong to do what we but dared : By these spells of magic awe You unto my heart I draw. Shepherd of the household flock, Righteous father, husband fond Honor-based as on a rock, Seeing the right — and nought beyond : Veering not with fortune's breath, By no selfish currents driven ; — As we sail through life towards death Bound unto the same port — heaven, — Friend, what years could us divide ? God thee bless this Christmas tide ' Mother— made for motherhood, Wife most fit, most true, most rare — Busy after others' good, For herself the last to care, Chosen Mary not more pure, Like her, brave and strong of heart, Bright to enjoy, brave to endure, As is wife's and mother's part, — God guide thee, the home's best guide— This — and every Christmas tide. Then, the little nest of doves ; The delight of heart and eyes ; —-My girl-queen of coming loves, A CHMISTMAS BLESSING. &37 Childish sweet and woman- wise, — Boys— to all the future heir, Statesmen, soldiers yet — who knows ? Opening petals fresh and fair Of the glowing household rose ; — Proud I wear you in my breast, — Dear I hold you, every one, Treasure of the years possessed — Comfort of the years unknown ; Whatsoe'er those years may hide — God bless all this Christmas tide. POEMS FOR CHILDEEN. VIOLETS. IOLETS, violets, sweet March violets Sure as March comes, they'll come too, First the white and then the blue- Pretty violets ! White, with just a pinky dye ; Blue, as little baby's eye,— So like violets. Though the rough wind shakes the house, Knocks about the budding boughs, There are violets. Though the passing snow-storms come, Frightening all the birdies dumb, Up spring violets : One by one among the grass, Saying " Pluck me ! " as we pass, - Scented violets. By and by there '11 be so many, We'll pluck dozens nor miss any : Sweet, sweet violets ! Children, when you go to play, Look beneath the hedge to-day : - Mamma likes violets. ?oung Dandelion. %& YOUNG DANDELION. [OUNG Dandelion On a hedge-side, Said young Dandelion, 44 Who'll be my bride? 1 ' I'm a bold fellow As ever was seen, With my shield of yellow, In the grass green. 4 ' You may uproot me From field and from lane, Trample me, cut me, — I spring up again. "J never flinch, Sir, Wherever I dwell ; Give me an inch, Sir, I'll soon take an ell. 1 ' Drive me from garden In anger and pride, I'll thrive and harden By the road-side. 1 ' Not a bit fearful, Showing my face, Always so cheerful In every place." Said young Dandelion, With a sweet air. 240 ItVNNiNG AFTER TEH EAIXBOW. "I have my eye on Miss Daisy fair. " Though we may tarry Till past the cold, Her I will marry Ere I grow old. "I will protect her From all kinds of harm, Feed her with nectar, > Shelter her warm. " What'er the weather, Let it go by ; We'll hold together, Daisy and I. " I'll ne'er give in, — no ! Nothing I fear : All that I win, O ! I'll keep for my dear." Said young Dandelion On his hedge-side, ' * Who'll me rely on ? Who'll be my bride?" RUNNING AFTER THE RAINBOW. HY thus aside your playthings throw, Over the wet lawn hurrying so ? Where are you going, I want to know ? " " Pm running after the rainbow." BUNKING AE1ER TEE RAINBOW. 24i " Little boy, with your bright brown eyes Full of an innocent surprise, Stop a minute, my Arthur wise, What do you want with the rainbow ? " Arthur paused in his headlong race, Turned to his mother his hot, young face, " Mother, I want to reach the place At either end of the rainbow. " Nurse says, wherever it meets the ground, Such beautiful things may oft be found Buried below, or scattered round, If one can but catch the rainbow. "O, please don't hinder me, mother dear, It will all be gone while I stay here ; " So with many a hope and not one fear, The child ran after the rainbow. Over the damp grass, ankle deep, Clambering up the hilly steep, And the wood where the birds were going to sleep, But he could n't catch the rainbow. And when he came out at the wood's far side, The sun was setting in golden pride, There were plenty of clouds all rainbow dyed, But not a sign of the rainbow. Said Arthur, sobbing, as home he went, "I wish I had thought what mother meant ; I wish I had only been content, And not ran after the rainbow." And as he came sadly down the hill, Stood mother scolding— but smiling still, And hugged him up close, as mothers will ; So he quite forgot the rainbow, 242 THE BLACKBIRD AND THE &OQK& THE BLACKBIRD AND THE ROOKS. SLENDER young Blackbird built in a thorn-tree : A spruce little fellow as ever could be ; His bill was so yellow, his feathers so black, So long was his tail, and so glossy his back, That good Mrs. B., who sat hatching her eggs, And only just left thern to stretch her poor legs, And pick for a minute the worm she preferred, Thought there never was seen such a beautiful bird. And such a kind husband ! how early and late He would sit at the top of the old garden gate, And sing, just as merry as if it were June, Being ne'er out of patience, or temper, or tune. " So unlike those Rooks, dear; from morning till night They seem to do nothing but quarrel and fight, And wrangle and jangle, and plunder— while we Sit, honest and safe, in our pretty thorn-tree." Just while she was speaking, a lively young Rook Alit with a flap that the thorn -bush quite shook, And seizing a stick from the nest — "Come, I say, That will just suit me, neighbor " — flew with it away. The lady loud twittered — her husband soon heard : Though peaceful, he was not a cowardly bird : And with arguments angry enough to o'erwhelm A whole Rookery — flew to the top of the elm. " How dare you, you — " (thief he was going to say ; But a civiller sentiment came in the way : For he knew 't is no good, and it anyhow shames A gentleman, calling strange gentlemen names:) " Pray what is your motive, Sir Rook, for such tricks, As building your mansion with other folks' sticks ? I request you '11 restore them, in justice and law.' 7 At which the whole colony set up a— caw ! THE BLAcRBhiB AND TBM llUOKS. 243 But Blackbird, not silenced, then spoke out again ; " I've built rny small nest with much labor and pain. I'm a poor singing gentleman, Sirs, it is true, Though cockneys do often mistake me for you ; But I keep Mrs. Blackbird, and four little eggs, And neither e'er pilfers, or borrows, or begs. Now have I not right on my side, do you see ? " But they flew at and pecked him all down the elm- tree. Ah ! wickedness prospers sometimes, I much fear ; And virtue's not always victorious, that 's clear : At least, not at first : for it must be confessed Poor Blackbird lost many a stick from his nest ; And his unkind grand neighbors with scoffing caw- caws, In his voice and his character found many flaws, And jeered him and mocked him ; but when they 'd all done, He flew to his tree and sang cheerily on. At length May arrived with her garlands of leaves ; The swallows were building beneath the farm-eaves, Wrens, linnets, and sparrows, on every hedge-side, Were bringing their families out with great pride ; While far above all, on the tallest tree-top, With a flutter and clamor that never did stop, The haughty old Rooks held their heads up so high, And' dreamed not of trouble — until it drew nigh ! One morning at seven, as he came with delight To his wife's pretty parlor of may-blossoms white, Having fed all his family ere rise of sun, — Mr. Blackbird perceived — a big man with a gun ; Who also perceived him : " See, Charlie, among That may, sits the Blackbird we 've heard for so long : Most likely his nest 's there — how frightened he looks ! Nay, Blackie, we 're not come for you, but the Rooks." 244 JACKIXTRE-G11EEN. I don't say 't was cruel— I can't say 't was kind— On the subject I have n't quite made up my mind : But those guns went pop-popping all niorning, alas ! And young Rooks kept dropping among the long grass, Till good Mr. Blackbird, who watched the whole thing, For pity could scarcely a single note sing, And in the May sunset he hardly could bear To hear the returning Rooks' caw of despair. "O, dear Mrs. Blackbird," at last warbled he, " How happy we are in our humble thorn-tree ; How gaily we live, living honest and poor, How sweet are the may-blossoms over our door." "And then our dear children," the mother replied, And she nestled them close to her warm feathered side, And with a soft twitter of drowsy content, In the quiet May moonlight to sleep they all went. JACK-IN-THE-GREEN. H what a miserable May ! Too cold to ride or walk or play, You children stayed in doors all day, Not too good, that's soon seen ! Well, well, what 's past we 'd best forget ; Papa 's come home out of the wet, And, children, what do you think he met ? — Jack-in-the-green. Jack-in-the-green 's a moving bower Decked with green bough and paper flower ; Within it walks for many an hour Under his leafy screen, Some poor sweep lad, while others, gay In tattered finery, round him play ; For 't is the sweep's one holiday, Jack-in-the-green. J A CK-IX- THE- GREEK 245 And after Jack there always goes A tawdry lass with pinched-up toes, Bright painted cheeks like cabbage-rose> And frock of spangled sheen, Who dances, dances as she can, And half -pence begs from boy or man ; And her they call "Maid Marian " To Jack-in-the-green. As o'er the fire we cheerful sit, And, our warm feet encircling it, Though the rain pelts, care not a bit That May like March has been, — Children, shall father tell to you A little tale, perhaps as true As many a book-tale, and as new, Of what to-day he has seen ? He stopped to watch the sweeps advance f Maid Marian began her dance ('T was by Snow Hill, where horses prance. And cabs drive headlong down). A child she was, thin, small of size, With an old face, too sharp and wise For any child, and heavy eyes, And long curls hanging brown. Across the full street moves the show, Jack-in-the-green first, staggering slow, The fife and Pan's-pipes after go, Maid Marian skips between : Up comes policeman with a frown ; Away flies Marian's flaunting gown, The horses rear — ah ! they 've knocked down Poor Jack-in-the-green. 24G JA CK-IN- THE-GREEN. My little children, snug and warm, And sheltered from all kinds of harm, I 'm glad you did not see that form Papa picked up to-day Out of the street, and carried where Kind people of sick folk take care, — A hospital, they call it,— there At last the poor lad lay, Quiet, upon his tidy bed, With pale Maid Marian at his head, In yellow gauze and tassels red, And white frock drenched with rain ; Hardly a word she said, until The doctors went away, and still He never stirred ; then ' ' Brother Will ! " She whispered ; but in vain. Half doubtfully my face she scanned, And touched me with a timorous hand — "Sir, you're a doctor — understand So much — please will you tell A poor girl who 's no father got, To whom no creature gives a' thought ; I mean no harm, sir — whether or not Poor Will may soon be well ? " There 's only brother Will and me, And he sweeps chimneys, sir, do you see ? And very, very kind is he ; Does all that lad can do : By being Jack-in-the-green this May, He thought he 'd get " — she stopped to lay Her hand on his — and drew it away — "O Will, this can 't be you ! " But Will (perhaps he heard the child, Though he was dying, children) smiled, WATERLOO-DAY. 24? As dying people do— so mild H|s face, so bright and clear. " Bessy ! " — it sounded far away — Like voices heard in evening gray : " Tell Bessy "—What he meant to say, Bessy must wait to hear. Must wait, my children, till God call Both rich and poor, and great and small, Into His presence one and all : Ending both death and pain ; Where, howe'er old on earth she grow, And he in heaven be changed also, I think, poor Bessy sure will know Her brother Will again. And so, my children, do not weep, For Will is only gone to sleep ; And Bess} r — why we '11 Bessy keep To sweep our nursery clean : And after all her tears are dried, Learn good things at mamma's dear side ; Till he 'd be almost glad he died — Poor Jack-in-the-green ! WATERLOO-DAY. )W what is all this ? " cried Sir "Richard bold,- Little Sir Richard, twelve years old, As he stood by his grandmother's easy chair, His hand on his hip with a manly air : " What is all this I hear them say, No bells to be rung on Waterloo-day ? " Grandmother turned and fondly eyed The sword that hnng on the wall beside. 248 WATERLOO-DAY. And the bright June sunshine lay full and fair On her widow's cap and her smooth gray hair : " Grandfather wished ere he went away That we should no longer keep Waterloo-day." " What ? "—and Sir Richard grew hot and red, And tossed Indignant his curly head — " Forget the day when we beat the French, We— grandfather brave and uncle Trench ? Forget the battle — what will folks say ! Grandfather's own great Waterloo-day ? "And I, who shall be a soldier too, And all that he did may some time do, Killing the French by the dozen or score, Getting a peerage perhaps, and more ; When I am a man whom all must obey, I will have the bells rung on Waterloo-day." Grandmother smiled a soft, sad smile, You could see a tear in her eye the while ; "Richard, my boy, when you are a man, If Sir Richard does all Sir Richard can To be like Sir Robert— the folk will say And think but little of Waterloo-day. " Shall I tell you a story — it is not long — About Sir Robert when he was young : His fame in all mouths ; — and I liked to hear, For I was a soldier's wife, my dear ; And my heart leaped up with pride alway At the very mention of Waterloo-day. "But once, when people began to forget The battle, the peace, and the island set In the far-away sea where that Emperor died, Whom nobody feared now — I beside Your father's cradle sat singing gay : It was five full years after Waterloo-day. WATERLOO-DAY. 249 " Your grandfather, for he liked to be Somewhere not far from the child and me, Sat writing his letters ; when sudden came A change in his face I could hardly name, I The Frenchman ! ' he said, and no more would say : Till he told me what happened on Waterloo-day. <; It was a Frenchman— of many more Whom you say we killed by the dozen or score, Who dropped like the ranks of standing corn That our troops gallopped thro', that fresh June morn ; By Hougoumont farm, as they passed that way On the glorious charge of Waterloo-day. " Only a Frenchman — dead, or showed Like dead ; so on your grandfather rode, Bode oner Mm — as troops must ride then Over dead or dying or wounded men, When a field 's to be won. ' Strike, charge and obey,' Were the only words upon Waterloo-day. II The horse trod heavy — the man shrieked. — Dear, Your grandfather said he still could hear The shrill, sharp cry, as the Frenchman prayed, That he who Ms children had orphans made Might never have living child to say, ' My father fought upon Waterloo-day.' " " But he had ! " cried Richard with eager eyes. " Ay, because God answers not prayers that rise Out of mad despair or ferocious wrong ; But your grandfather said he was haunted long By the dying curse of this Jean Grosset, Who was trampled to death on Waterloo-day." Grandmother's voice sank faint and weak ; Little Sir Richard tried to speak — " Jean Grosset ! Is it " — " Hush, and hear ! Grandfather buried him. Many a year 250 WATERLOO-DAY. Grandfather sought with vain essay For his children, orphaned on Waterloo-day. " But when dear grandfather was quite old, And our son lay sleeping in churchyard mold, And a tiny grandchild — Richard his name- Was all that was left unto us, there came A queer old lady called Ma 'mselle Grosset, To teach the boy French, one Waterloo-day. " As Ma 'mselle told her sorrowful tale, I watched your grandfather's cheek turn pale, As if— although forty years had fled — The white, wan face of the soldier dead Rose up before him, and seemed to say, This was the end of your Waterloo-day.' " +- "Ma 'mselle Grosset— dear Ma 'mselle Grosset, I will never more vex her in work or play ; But am I not grandfather's sword to get, And fight for my queen and country yet ? Is all his glory to rust and decay ? Are we not to remember Waterloo-day ? * * And what if the French grow proud and grand, And threaten us over sea and land, Are we English lads to stay meek at home, And wait at our doors till the foe shall come ; Then take to our heels and run away As if there had never been Waterloo-day ? " Grandmother's eyes flashed bright and bold ; " No — Fight, boy, fight ! not for glory or gold, For Honor ! Let every hill and glen Bristle with rifles, and shoot like men. But until then, let us all of us pray There may ne'er be another Waterloo-day , w TEE MOOJ DAISY. K-l THE MOON-DAISY.* HO is his auntie's joy ? Who loves her bonnie boy Week-day and Sunday ? Thinks of him night and morn Ever since he was born — He '11 love her one day ? Come now, my wee, wee man ! Clutch as a baby can At the moon-daisy : Pluck of! the petals white One by one — such delight : Laugh till you 're crazy. " He loves me — he loves me not." — (Poor auntie's quite forgot ! ) " Loves me not — loves me." Ay, that's the real thing ! Clinib up, my little king : Kiss, for that moves me, Eyes, brow, and sunny hair — /think my boy all fair ; — Beauty or no beauty, I'd love my winsome lad From the top curl he had Down to his shoe-tie ! Bright iiair, and eyes, and brow, What — do you trust me now ? That my best praise is. " He loves me — he loves me not — He loves me!" unasked, unbought- Throw down the daisies ! 'Children pluck this flower petal by petal, saying, " You love me— you ! love me not." alternately : the last petal being supposed to tell the truth. 252 THE SHAKING OF THE PEAR-TREE. THE SHAKING OF THE PEAR-TREE. F all days I remember, In summers passed away, Was " the shaking of the pear- tree," In grandma's orchard gay. A large old-fashioned orchard, With long grass under foot, And blackberry-brambles crawling In many a tangled shoot. From cherry time, till damsons Dropped from the branches sere, That wonderful old orchard Was full of fruit all year ; We pick'd it up in baskets, Or pluck'd it from the wall ; But the shaking of the pear-tree Was the grandest treat of all. Long, long the days we counted Until that day drew nigh ; Then, how we watched the sun set, And criticised the sky ! If rain — " 'T will clear at midnight ; " If dawn broke chill and gray, " O many a cloudy morning Turns out a lovely day." So off we started gaily. Heedless of jolt or jar; Through town, and lane, and hamlet, In old Llewellyn's car. IEE SMAKlNG OP THE PEAE-TREE. 253 He'S'dead and gone — Llewellyn, These twenty years, I doubt : If I put him in this poem, He'll never find it out , The patient, kind Llewellyn — Whose broad face smiled all o'er, As he lifted out us children At grandma's very door. And there stood Grandma's Betty, With cheeks like apples red ; And Dash, the spaniel, waddled Out of his cosy bed. With silky ears down drooping, And coat of chestnut pale ; He was so fat and lazy He scarce could wag his tail. Poor Dash is dead, and buried Under the lilac-tree ; And Betty's old, — as, children, We all may one day be. I hope no child will vex us, As we vexed Betty then, With winding up the draw-well, Or hunting the old hen. And teasing, teasing, teasing, Till afternoon wore round, And shaken pears came tumbling In showers upon the ground. O how we jumped and shouted ! O how we plunged amid The long grass, where the treasures, Dropped down and deftly hid ; 2M THE SHAKING OP THE PEkU-TBEE. Long, slender-shaped, red-russet, Or yellow just like gold ; Ah ! never pears have tasted Like those sweet pears of old ! We ate— I 'd best not mention How many : paused to fill Big basket after basket ; Working with right good-will ; Then hunted round the orchard For half -ripe plums — in vain ; So, back unto the pear-tree, To eat, and eat again. I 'm not on my confession, And therefore need not say How tired, and cross, and sleepy, Some were ere close of day ; For pleasure has its ending, And eke its troubles too ; Which you '11 find out, my children, As well as we could do. But yet this very minute, I seem to see it all — The pear-tree's empty branches, The gray of evening-fall ; The children's homeward silence, The furnace fires that glowed, Each mile or so, out streaming Across the lonely road ; And high, high set in heaven, One large, bright, beauteous star, That shone between the curtains Of old Llewellyn's car. IK &WANAGE B£k\ IN SWANAGE BAY. j WAS five and forty year ago, Just such another morn, HI The fishermen were on the beach, The reapers in the corn ; My tale is true, young gentlemen, As sure as you were born. '* My tale 's all true, young gentlemen," The good old boatman cried Unto the sullen, angry lads, Who vain obedience tried ; " Mind what your father says to you, And don't go out this tide. " Just such a shiny sea as this, Smooth as a pond, you'd say, And white gulls flying, and the crafts Down Channel making way ; And Isle of Wight, all glittering bright, Seen clear from Swanage Bay. "The Battery point, the Race beyond, Just as to-day you see : This was, I think, the very stone Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me ; She was our little sister, sirs, A small child, just turned three. "And Dick was mighty fond of her ; Though a big lad and bold, He 'd carry her like any nurse, Almost from birth, I 'm told ; For mother sickened soon, and died When Doll was eight months old. &6 IN SWAN AGE &AY. "We sat and watched a little boat, Her name the Tricksy Jane, A queer old tub laid up ashore ; But we could see her plain ; To see her and not haul her up Cost us a deal of pain. " Said Dick to me, 'Let 's have a pull ; Father will never know, He 's busy in his wheat up there, And cannot see us go : These landsmen are such cowards, if A puff of wind does blow. "'I've been to France and back three times- Who knows best, Dad or me, Whether a craft's seaworthy or not ? — Dolly, wilt go to sea? ' And Dolly laughed, and hugged him tight, As pleased as she could be. " I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick : What he did, sure I 'd do : And many a sail in Tricksy Jane We 'd had when she was new. Father was always sharp ; and what He said, he meant it too. "But now the sky had not a cloud, The bay looked smooth as glass ; Our Dick could manage any boat, As neat as ever was ; And Dolly crowed, ' Me go to sea ! ' The jolly little lass ! " Well, sirs, we went ; a pair of oars, My jacket for a sail ; Just round ' Old Harry and his Wife'- IN SWANAGE BA Y. 257 Those rocks there, within hail — And we came back. — D 'ye want to hear, The end o' the old man's tale ? "Ay, ay, we came back, past that point, But then a breeze up-sprung ; Dick shouted, 'Hoy! down sail!' and pulled With all his might among The white sea-horses that uprear'd So terrible and strong. "I pulled too ; I was blind with fear, — But I could hear Dick's breath Coming and going, as he told Dolly to creep beneath His jacket, and not hold him so : We rowed for life or death. "We almost reached the sheltered bay, We could see father stand Upon the little jetty here, His sickle in his hand — The houses white, the yellow fields, The safe and pleasant land. "And Dick, though pale as any ghost, Had only said to me, * We 're all right now, old lad !' when up A wave rolled — drenched us three — One lurch— and then I felt the chill And roar of blinding sea. "I don't remember much but that — You see, I 'm safe and sound ; I have been wrecked four times since then, Seen queer sights, I '11 be bound : I think folks sleep beneath the deep, As calm as under ground." £S8 IN SWANA&E BAf. 1 * But Dick and Dolly t " * < Well, poor Dick ! I saw him rise and cling Unto the gunwale of the boat — Floating keel up — and sing Out loud, ' Where 's Doll ? ' — I hear him yet, As clear as any thing. " * Where 's Dolly ? ' I no answer made : For she dropped like a stone Down through the deep sea— and it closed : The little thing was gone. 1 Where 's Doll ? " three times— then Dick loosed hold And left me there alone." " It 's five and forty year since then," Muttered the boatman gray And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes, And stared across the bay ; " Just five and forty year ! " — And not Another word did say. 11 But Dolly ? " ask the children all, As they about him stand ; — ' ' Poor Doll ! she floated back next tide With seaweed in her hand. She 's buried o'er that hill you see, In a churchyard on land. " But where Dick lies, God knows ! He '11 find Our Dick at judgment day." — The boatman fell to mending nets, The boys ran off to play ; And the sun shone and the waves danced In quiet Swanage Bay. THE WONDERFUL APPLE-TREE. 259 THE WONDERFUL APPLE-TREE.* OME here, my dear boys, and I '11 tell you a fable, Which you may believe as much as you 're able ; It is 'nt all true, nor all false, I '11 be bound — Of the tree that bears apples all the year round. There was a Dean Tucker of Gloster city, Who may have been wise, or worthy, or witty ; But I know nothing of him, the more 's the pity, Save that he was Dean Tucker of Gloster city. And walking one day with a musing air In his Deanery garden, close by where The great cathedral's west window's seen. — " I '11 plant an apple," said Tucker the Dean. The apple was planted, the apple grew, A stout young tree, full of leaves not few ; The apple was grafted, the apple bore Of goodly apples, one, two, three, four. The old Dean walked in his garden fair, " I 'm glad I planted that young tree there, Though it was but a shoot, or some old tree's sucker ; I'll taste it to-morrow," said good Dean Tucker. But lo, in the night when (they say) trees talk, And some of the liveliest get up and walk, With fairies abroad for watch and warden, — There was such a commotion in the Dean's garden ! * This tree, known among gardeners by the name of "Winter-hanger" or " Forbidden Fruit," was planted by Dean TuGker in 1760. It, or an off shoot ^-om it, still exists in the city of Gloucester. 260 TEE WONDERFUL APPLE-WEE. " I will not be gathered," the apple-tree said " Was it for this I blossomed so red ? Hung out my fruit all the summer days, Got so much sunshine, and pleasure and praise ? " " Ah! " interrupted a solemn red plum, " This is the end to which all of us come ; Last month I was laden with hundreds— but now " — And he sighed the last little plum off from his bough. "Nay, friend, take it easy," the pear-tree replied (A lady-like person against the wall-side), "Man guards, nurtures, trains us from top down to root: I think 'tis but fair we should give him our fruit." "No, I'll not be gathered," the apple resumed, And shook his young branches, and fluttered and f umod ; "And I '11 not drop neither, as some of you drop, Over-ripe : I'm determined to keep my whole crop. "And I with"— O'er his branches just then some- thing flew ; It seemed like moth, large and grayish of hue, . • But it was a Fairy. Her voice soft did sound, "Be the tree that bears apples all the year round." The Dean to his apple-tree, came, full of hope, But tough was the fruit-stalk as double-twist rope, And when he had cut it with patience and pain, He bit just one mouthful— and never again. "An apple so tasteless, so juiceless, so hard, Is, sure, good for nought but to bowl in the yard ; The choir-boys may have it." But choir-boys soon found It was worthless — the tree that bore all the year round. A HABE HUNT. 261 And Gloster lads climbing the Deanery wall Were punished, as well might all young thieves appal, For, clutching the booty for which they did sin, They bit at the apples— and left their teeth in ! And thus all the year from October till May, From May till October, the apples shone gay ; But 't was just outside glitter, for no hand was found To pluck at the fruit which hung all the year round. And so till they rotted, those queer apples hung, The bare boughs and blossoms and ripe fruit among ; And in Gloster city it still may be found — The tree that bears apples all the year round. A HAEE-HUNT. (From the Hare's side of the question.) WAS an October evening So still and clear and cold : All red and gray the frosty sun Went down behind the wold ; And far off church-bells faintly pealed. Across the lonely stubble field. The rabbits darted in and out, The corn-crake hoarsely cried, The tiny field-mouse came and peered And picked a grain beside The creature that lay panting there? Only a solitary hare. 262 A RARE HUNT. Four hours since, and along the brook She watched the huntsmen pass, And the dogs follow — the scent lost In the tall reedy grass, And still she lay and trembled there, This little, helpless, tired-out hare. But when the staring sun had set, And earth in shadow grew, While just one twinkling friendly star Peeped at her through the blue, And fast asleep was every bird — The little hare her weak limbs stirred. And creeping, creeping, slow she came Unto the furze-bush old, 'Neath which her half -grown leverets Had huddled from the cold, Close by the spot where safe and warm She reared them in her summer "form." And what the leverets said to her, And what the hare said too, A little bird has told to me, And I '11 tell part to you — Just "make-oelieve," of creatures weak Who feel, although they cannot speak. "My children," sighed the mother hare, With short and sobbing breath, "I have not many words to say, I 'm hunted unto death — What can great two-legged creatures see, In chasing a small thing like me ? " Your father — Ah, he was a hare ! I 've thought so, oft and oft : His ears so long, his fur so gray, A HARE HUNT. 263 His breast so white and soft : They coursed him, miles and miles— and then Killed him— those cruel dogs and men. "Why did they ? I, a silly hare, Could never understand : So I stole home alone across The wood and the ploughed land, And in our furze-bush mournfully Brought up my leverets, one, two, three. " But as the summer time went past, You grew so big and strong, And frisked so merrily, that I Almost forgot my wrong, And nibbled with a fresh delight Each dewy morn and moonlight night. " I did my best to keep you off The wire-fenced garden ground, And bade you never lettuce eat While clover might be found ; But fly from guns, and gins, and snared Like wise and careful little hares. " We never did them any harm, (At least, not that I know), Those creatures who walk upright and Make crick-cracks as they go. Which if they point at a hare's side, He dies — even as your father died. " Well, after that we lived forlorn.* But we lived peacefully ; Had, on the whole, a pleasant year, My leverets and I ; And fed and played together, gay, Until that sad, sad yesterday, 264 A HARE HUNT. " I lay within my cosy ' form,* As still as sitting bird ; The dread approach of hounds or men, I never even heard, Till the pack neared me in full cry, Then — off like lightning started I. "I thought but how far I could run From where my leverets played, And then I should not fear so much The cruel noise they made, Those dogs ; — I skimmed on like the wind, Until I left them far behind. "I stopped to breathe— my heart beat fast — But up again they came ; I doubled — crossed — went on again, But it was all the same ; And nearer, louder, fiercer grew The yelping of the horrid crew. " The fields and hedges flew along, The cows stood strange and still : And I was torn with briers, and bruised Adown the quarried hill ; I almost felt the hounds' sharp teeth, When lo ! — that brook the wood beneath. " It ran so quiet, dark, and deep : I thought — ' I can but die : It will not hurt me quite so much As dropping dreadfully Into those foamy wide-mouthed jaws ; — So, in I plunged without one pause. " Safe— safe ! Pack— hunters— all went by c I'm here my babes among " — And while she spoke, up through the air THE TWO RAIN-DROPS. 265 Went the first bird's first song ; The gray dawn reddened on the hill ; The hare turned— shivered— and was still. Her pretty limbs grew stiff and stark, Her glazed eyes opened wide : Under the furze-bush many a week She lay where she had died : Until the drifting leaves and snow Buried her safe that none might know. But how her little leverets throve, How long they lived, and well : — Were coursed or hunted, shot or snared, In truth I cannot tell. Still, many gentlemen declare It is grand sport to hunt a hare. THE TWO RAIN-DROPS. ATT) a drop to a drop, " Just look at me ! I'm the finest rain-drop you ever did see : I have lived ten seconds at least on my pane ; Swelling and filling and swelling again. "All the little rain-drops unto me run, I watch them and catch them and suck them up each one: All the pretty children stand and at me stare ; Pointing with their fingers — ' That's the biggest drop there.'" " Yet you are but a drop," the small drop replied ; " I don't myself see much cause for pride : The bigger you swell up, — we know well, my friend, - The faster you run down, the sooner you '11 end. 266 THE YEAR'S END. 11 For me, I 'in contented outside on my ledge, Hearing the patter of rain in the hedge ; Looking at the firelight and the children fair, — Whether they look at me, I'm sure I don't care.'* " Sir," cried the first drop, " your talk is but dull ; I can't wait to listen, for I 'm almost full ; You '11 run a race with me ? — No ? — Then 't is plain I am the largest drop in the whole pane." Off ran the big drop, at first rather slow ; Then faster and faster, as drops will, you know : Raced down the window-pane, like hundreds before, Just reached the window-sill — one splash — and was o'er. THE YEAR'S END. j grows the rising year, and so declines By months, weeks, days, unto its peaceful end ; Even as by ^low and ever varying signs Through childhood, youth, our solemn steps we bend Up to the crown of life, and thence descend. Great Father, who of every one takest care, From him on whom full ninety years are piled To the young babe, just taught to lisp a prayer About the "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," "Who children loves, being once Himself a child, — O make us day by day like Him to grow ; More pure and good, more dutiful and meek ; Because He loves those who obey Him so ; Because His love is the best thing to seek, Because without His love, all loves are weak, — THE JEALOUS BOY. 267 All earthly joys are miserable and poor, All earthly goodness quickly droops and dies, Like rootless flowers you plant in gardens— sure That they will flourish — till in mid-day skies The sun burns, and they fade before your eyes. O God, who art alone the life and light Of this strange world to which as babes we come, Keep Thou us always children in Thy sight : Guide us from year to year, thro' shine and gloom And at our year's end, Father, take us home. THE JEALOUS BOY. HAT, my little foolish Ned, Think you mother's eyes are IKnd, That her heart has grown unki?4, And she will not turn her head, Cannot see, for all her joy, Her poor jealous little boy ? What though sister be the pet — Laughs, and leaps, and clings, and lo*T\s. With her eyes as soft as dove's — Why should yours with tears be wet ? Why such angry tears let fall ? Mother's heart has room for all. Mother's heart is very wide, And its doors all open stand : Lightest touch of tiniest hand She will never put aside. Why her happiness destroy, Foolish, naughty, jealous boy? Come within the circle bright, Where we laugh, and dance, and sing, Full of love to everything ; 268 ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. As God loves us, day and night, And forgives us. Come — with joy Mother too forgives her boy. ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON. •'Dieu et mon droit." | HAT, weeping, weeping, my little son, Angry tears like that great commander Alexander — Because of dragons is left not one To be a new Cappadocian scourge For your bold slaying In grand arraying, Mounted alone, eh ? On Shetland pony A knight all perfect, a young St. George ? Come sit at my knee, my little son : Sit at my knee and mend your wagon : — Full many a dragon You '11 have to fight with ere life be done. Come, shall I tell you of three or four — Villainous cattle ! For you to battle, When mother 's sleeping Where all your weeping Will not awaken her any more ? First, there 's a creature whose name is Sloth, Looks like a lizard, creeping on sleekly Simple and weakly, Powerless to injure however wroth : But slay him, my lad, or he '11 slay you ! ST. GEORGE AND TEE DRAGON. 269 Crawling and winding, Twisting and binding : Break from him, tramp on him And as you stamp on him You '11 be St. George and the dragon anew. Then there 's a monster— so fair at first, Called Ease, or Comfort, or harmless Pleasure •, Born of smooth Leisure — On Luxury's lap delicious nurst ; Who 'd buy your soul if you 'd sell it— just To catch one minute . With joyance on it Or ward off sorrow Until to-morrow — Trample him, trample, him into dust ! One more — the reptile yclept False Shame, That silently drags its f eltered length on, And tries its strength on Many a spirit else pure from blame ; But up and at him your courser urge ! Smite hard, I trow, hard The moral coward, At throne or altar, Nor once, once falter — And be my own son, my brave St. George ! St. George and the dragon — ah, my boy, There are many old dragons left, world-scourges, And few St. Georges — There 's much of labor and little of joy ! But on with you — on to the endless fight — Your sword firm buckle, To no man truckle, Wave your bold flag on And slay your dragon. St. George for ever ! God and my right ! 270 A DYING CHUB* A DYING CHILD. j OW the trembling children gather round, Startled out of sleep, and scared and cry- ing: 1 ' Is our merry little sister dying ? Will men come and put her underground "As they did poor baby, last May-day? Or will shining angels stoop and take her On their snow-white wings to heaven, and make her Sit among the stars as fair as they ? " But she '11 have no mother there to kiss ! We are sorely frightened," say the children Thinking of this death, so strange, bewildering — " Tell us, only tell us, what death is? " Ah, we cannot, any more than you ! We are also children — of one Father ; And we only know that He will gather All His own, and keep them safely too. So this death as sweet as sleep is made ; For where'er we go, we go togetlier. Father, mother, children : He knows whither. Since He takes us we are not afraid. Whether little sister lives or dies, She is quite, quite safe. Hush— cease all weeping : Christ, who once said "Lazarus is sleeping" Will awake us all in Paradise. BIRDS m TEE SKO W> 271 BIRDS IN THE SNOW. WISH I were a little bird When the sun shines And the wind whispers low, Through the tall pines, I 'd rock in the elm tops, Rifle the pear-tree, Hide in the cherry boughs, O such a rare tree ! I wish I were a little bird ; All summer long I 'd fly so merrily Sing such a song ! Song that should never cease While daylight lasted, Wings that should never tire Howe'er they hasted. MOTHEE. But if you were a little bird — My baby-blossom. Nestling so cosily In mother's bosom, — A bird, as we see them now, When the snows harden, And the wind's blighting breath Howls round the garden : What would you do, poor bird, In winter drear ? No nest to creep into, No mother near ; 272 THE STORY OF TEE BIRKENHEAD. Hungry and desolate Weary and woeful, All the earth bound with frost, All the sky snow-full ? child (thoughtfully). That would be sad, and yet Hear what I 'd do — Mother, in winter time I 'd come to you I If you can like the birds Spite of their thieving, Give them your trees to build, Garden to live in, I think if I were a bird When winter comes I 'd trust you, mother dear, For a few crumbs, Whether I sang or not, Were lark, thrush, or starling. — mothek (aside). Then— Father— I trust Thee With this my darling. THE STORY OF THE BIRKENHEAD, Told to two children. ND so you want a fairy tale, My little maidens twain ? Well, sit beside the waterfall, Noisy with last night's rain ; THE STORY OF THE BRINKENHEAD. 273 On couch of moss, with elfin spears Bristling, all fierce to see, When from the yet brown moor down drops The lonely April bee. AH the wide valley blushes green, While, in far depths below, Wharfe flashes out a great bright eye, Then hides his shining flow ; — Wharfe, busy, restless, rapid Wharfe, The glory of our dale ; O I could of the River Wharfe Tell such a fairy tale ! "The Boy of Egremond," you cry,— " And all the ' bootless bene : ' We know that poem, every word, And we the Strid have seen." No, clever damsels : though the tale Seems still to bear a part, In every lave of Wharfe' s bright wave, The broken mother's heart — Little you know of broken hearts, My Kitty, blithe and wise, Grave Mary, with the woman soul Dawning through childish eyes. And long, long distant may God keep The day when each shall know The entrance to His kingdom through His baptism of woe ! But yet 't is good to hear of grief Which He permits to be ; Even as in our green inland home . * We talk of wrecks at sea. #4 ?Hfi STOBY OF TEE BBiNKENtiEAB. So on this lovely day, when spring Wakes soft o'er moor and dale, I'll tell — not quite your wish— but yet A noble " fairy " tale. 'T was six o'clock in the morning, The sea like crystal lay, When the good troop-ship Birkenhead Set sail from Simon's Bay. The Cape of Good Hope on her right Gloomed at her through the noon : Brief tropic twilight fled, and night Fell suddenly and soon. At eight o'clock in the evening Dim grew the pleasant land ; O'er smoothest seas the southern heaven Its starry arch out-spanned. The soldiers on the bulwarks leaned, Smoked, chatted ; and below The soldiers' wives sang babes to sleep, While on the ship sailed slow. Six hundred and thirty souls held she, Good, bad, old, young, rich, poor; Six hundred and thirty living souls — God knew them all. —Secure He counted them in His right hand, That held the hungering seas ; And to four hundred came a voice — " The Master hath need of these." THE STORY OP THE BIRKENHEAD. 275 On, onward still the vessel went, Till, with a sudden shock, Like one that 's clutched by unseen Death, She struck upon a rock. She filled. Not hours, not minutes left ; Each second a life 's gone : Drowned in their berths, washed overboard, Lost, swimming, one by one ; Till, o'er this chaos of despair Eose, like celestial breath, The law of order, discipline, Obedience unto death. The soldiers mustered upon deck, As mute as on parade ; " Women and children to the boats ! " And not a man gainsayed. Without a murmur or a moan They stood, formed rank and file, Between the dreadful crystal seas And the sky's dreadful smile. In face of death they did their work As they in life would do, Embarking at a quiet quay — A quiet, silent crew. " Now each man for himself. To the boats ! " Arose a passing cry. The soldier-captain answered, ' ' Swamp The women and babes ? — No, die ! " And so they died. Each in his place, Obedient to command, They went down with the sinking ship, Went down in sight of land. 276 THE STORY OF TEE BIRKENHEAD. The great sea oped her mouth, and closed O'er thern. Awhile they trod The valley of the shadow of death, And then were safe with God. My little girlies — What ! your tears Are dropping on the grass, Over my more than " fairy" tale, A tale that " really was ! " Nay, dry them. If we could but see The joy in angels' eyes O'er good lives, or heroic deaths Of pure self-sacrifice, — We should not weep o'er these that sleep - Their short, sharp struggle o'er — Under the rolling waves that break Upon the Afric shore. God works not as man works, nor sees As man sees : though we mark Ofttimes the moving of His hands Beneath the eternal Dark. But yet we know that all is well That He, who loved all these, Loves children laughing on the moor, Birds singing in the trees ; That He who made both life and death, He knoweth which is best : We live to Him, we die to Him, And leave Him all the rest. MAGNUS AND MORNA. A Shetland Fairy Tale. IN FOUR SCENES. WITH MUSIC. CHARACTERS. Magnus . . A Fisherman . . (Tenor.) Fea . . His Mother . . (Contralto.) Morna . . . . . . . . . (Soprano.) Two Children. Six Sea- Maids (Morna's Sisters), Fishermen, and Girls, as Chorus. Scene I. Overture. — During which the curtain rises upon a wild sea-shore in the Shetland Isles. Stormy night. Moon comes out and makes a pathway across the water, along which are seen gliding seven figures— sea-maids — to elfin music. They disappear le- hind a rock and the music ceases. Then enter Magnus, dejectedly. He sits down on a stone and A broken-hearted fisherman I wander to and fro, My sail flaps idle in the wind, rny nets hang loose below, There is no quiet in the night, no sunshine in the day, For my love she is married and gone far away — O iero— My love she is married and gone far away. 278 MAGNUS AND MOBNA : Her lips were red as coral, her hair was soft and brown ; Her voice was like the birds' songs before the sun goes down. I hear it through the silence of heavy night and day, Though my love she is married and gone far away — O iero — My love she is married and gone far away. [The elfin music is heard beginning again ; Magnus starts and listens. MAGNUS. Is it the song of winds and waters, Or the voice of the ocean-daughters That once a year upon Midsummer-night Come to dance on the sea-sand white, Clad in their sealskins soft and fair ? Which if they lose— O deep despair ! They can never return to the sea. — Hush ! — I behold them. How fair they be ! He hides behind a rock. Enter seven sea-maids ; one (Moena) being distinguished by very long yellow hair. They take off their sealskin robes, lay them in a heap, and join hand-in- hand singing — Dance we, dance we over the strand, Half on ocean and half on land. Dance we merrily as we go, Mimicking mortals— O iero. Sing we, sing we, all through the night, Under the dreamy moonshine white, Till morning glimmers and then we go — Plunge into ocean — O iero. A SHETLAND FAIRY TALE. 279 The last musical phrase is an echo of Magnus's song. He re- peats it from his hiding-place, on which the music stops con- fusedly, and the sea-maids begin searching for their sealskins. The youngest sister, Moena, who cannot find Iters, goes about wringing Tier hands and singing the same tune, with sorrow- ful expression. MOENA. I search for rny sealskin over the sand, Half on ocean and half on land, Singing monrnfully as I go — Where is my sealskin ? — O iero ! Magnus again echoes "Oiero" — upon which the seven sea-maid, vanish— and six seals are seen swimming away from behind the rock into the far-away sea. Magnus (advancing with a bewildered air). Dream of the night, if a dream it be — Stay, O stay, lovely maids of the sea! — My eyes are dazzled, my heart beats fast : [He kicks his foot against something, which he picks up and examines carefully. What is this that the wave has cast At my very feet ? A sealskin fair ? moena (behind the scenes). Where is my sealskin, where, O where ? [Magnus hastily hides the sealskin in his breasts and crouches dozen again beside the rock, watch- ing. Enter Moena, weeping and icringing her hands. 280 MAGNUS AND MORNA ; Lost! lost! lost! O the dance on the fatal coast ! O my father and O my mother ! O my dearest sisters and brother ! O my palace beneath the sea ! O my life so merry and free ! Lost! lost! lost! [Magnus comes forward. She tries to escape, but Tie gently intercepts her. She sinks down on tht sand, hiding her face in her hair. MAGNUS. Who art thou ? MORNA. No one. MAGNUS. Nay, declare Thy name and race, O thou fairest fair ! I bow before thee on humble knee, I will not harm — I will worship thee. [She puts back her hair, and looks steadily at him ; then stretches out a hand, which Tie kisses passion- ately. MAGNUS. The sea is wild, the night is cold, Come with me to my mother old — Old and feeble, but kind and dear ; Come to my mother : have no fear. [She looks up comforted. A SHETLAND FA1EY TALE. 281 magnus {impetuously). I have a cottage small and poor ; Como like sunshine in at the door ! I have a heart most true and warm ; Hide thou in it from every storm ! [Morn a hesitates; then allows him to lead her for- ward. Duet. MAGNUS. Lovely lady from over the sea, Come to me, O come to me ; Beautiful lady, have no fear ; I am here. I will serve thee, I will defend thee. I will work for thee, I will tend thee ; Lovely lady from over the sea, Come to me. MOENA. Fisherman with the gentle eyes, Do not despise me, do not despise, I have lost my father and mother, Sisters and brother ; I am lonely, sad, and forsaken, My heart is broken, my sealskin taken I can never return to the sea ; Woe is me ! BOTH. I will serve thee, I will defend thee, I will work for thee, I will tend thee ; He will serve me, he will defend me, He will work for me, he will tend me. MAGNUS AND MOENA ; MAGNUS. Beautiful lady from over the sea, come to me. MOENA. I can never return to the sea — 1 come to thee. Scene II. [Scene closes. Interior of a fisherman's cottage. Fea, an old woman, sits knit- ting. Morna, dressed like a fisherman's wife, rocks the cradle with one child in it : an elder boy lies asleep on the floor beside her. MOENA. Sleep, my baby, beside the fire, Sleep, child, sleep ; Winds are wailing, nigher and nigher, Waves are rising, higher and higher, Sleep, child, sleep ; While thy father, out on the sea, Toils all night for thee and me. FEA. While thy father, out on the sea, Toils all night for her and thee. MOENA. Sleep, my baby, content and blest. Sleep, child, sleep; Whether the heart in thy mother's breast Is light or heavy— so best ! so best ! A SHETLAND FAIRY TALE. 2P3 Sleep, child, sleep : While thy father, out on the sea, Toils all night for thee and me. FEA. While thy father out on the sea, Toils all night for her and thee. Interlude of soft music, during which Fea drops asleep, heard the same mysterious elfin tune as in Scene I. springs up and listens. Then is MOENA MORNA. Seven long years have I left my home, Down in the depth of the ocean foam - Still, O still, come my sisters sweet, Across the waves on their silvery feet. Once a year, upon Midsummer-night, I see them all in the moonshine white ; I hear them dance unto music low— t I hear, I hear, but I cannot go. [She listens. Is it the wail of the wind I hear 9 Or is it your voices, sisters dear ? [A gust of wind suddenly hursts the door open and six white figures are seen in the moonlight OHOEUS. Sister, sister, here we stand ; We have left the bright sea for the dreary land ; We have come from the deep to our sister sweet, And we gaze and gaze, but cannot meet, [Morna rushes to the doorway, and makes desperate efforts to induce them to cross it, out they always shrink lack, 284 MAGNUS AND MORN A : CHORUS. Sister, sister, here we stand j Only an innocent mortal hand Can lead us over thy threshold stone. Sister, give us thy little one. After some hesitation Morna fetches the elder child, who leads the first sea-maid across the door-stone. The rest follow, and burst into a wild dance, with mysterious elfin lights fflitting about on the cottage floor. Fea wakes up, and looks on horrified; then drops on her knees with a simek. Immediately the six sea-maids fly through the door, which closes with a blast of wind, and the cottage is left in darknesp. FEA. Where art thou, witch-wife ? MORNA. Mother, dear, Be patient — there is nought to fear. Gone — all are gone ! and I left here. [She sobs and sinks into an attitude of deep despair, Fea stands over her, with a threatening aspect. FEA. Accursed be the fatal day When Magnus found thee in the bay. Cursed the hour throughout his life, When thee he took for wedded wife. Cursed thy children twain — and thee, For thou didst lure ray child from me. morna ! Pity and pardon ! A SHETLAND FAIRY TALE. 285 FEA. Never ! Go — Back to thy sea-depths. MOKNA. Would 't were so ! Would I could take my babes and fly ! Would I could die !— but we cannot die ; We live as long as the rocks and stones ! Ah, hush, my little one, hush thy moans ! [She takes the child out of the cradle and sits rocking it on her breast, Fea watching her, fea {song). When we are young our boys are sweet, They climb our knees and lie at our feet ; When we are old they are hard to please, Cold as the rock and wild as the breeze They kiss us kindly and speak us fair, But we know their hearts are otherwhere. O my son 's my son till he gets him a wife, But my daughter 's my daughter all her life. When we are young our days are bright, And full of hope from morn till night ; When we are old we sit alone, And think of pleasant days long gone, When the house was full of the children's noise, The wilful girls and the naughty boys. O my son 's my son till he gets him a wife, But my daughter 's my daughter all her life. Morna {advancing timidly ) And all my life I'll try to be, Mother, a daughter unto thee. g$ MA GNtJS AND MOltNA : [Fea turns angrily away. Magnus is heard without, singing, MAGNUS. • ! O the fisherman's life is the life for a king, Yeo ho, my jolly boys, pull together ! When thro' the taut ropes the winds whistle and sing, The moon is up and we '11 get good weather. [2Ze enters, out stops suddenly in dismay at sight of the two women. MAGNUS. So sad ? So fierce ? My darling wife ? Mother — the comfort of my life ? Song (Magnus.) When a man comes home Don't begin to wrangle ; Better far to sleep In the hungry deep, Neath white sheets of foam, And of sea- weed tangle. Peace, peace, peace, Cease, cease, cease, When a man comes home Don't begin to wrangle. MOENA. When a man comes home Let him enter smiling ; Take the children sweet, Playing round his feet : Throw off grief and gloom And the world's beguiling Peace, peace, peace, A SHETLAND FAIR? TALE. %