^ -r, vf^,^ oV <>> -f^ <^^- -^" " o • r* fi ^•^ -^^ •' ''^ \ -= }^°<. -^\o'^ % ■> ^^. - •>, "^J^ -^^ : ^y V-^^' ^;. .^- ., /v*5^ ''7: V *■' • -^• ji. y c - ^ .; ^ .*<^- - •<.. A •> - . . " -7-' . ^^ ''^.. I •^., ..-^ -^^ .A' S^^<:., •^.c"^ .••^ >iy^ c ° "• '■ « ^.> .^X Ci-, '/ -c-, -^^ ^ ,'^ c^. \v ,s'^^. V ^ ■^^•: <• ' , ;. ■* .A ^■i^" .* **'%. .'J^^ c o^' \ O .^^^ ^y' ^^^ ^^- A' ?0^ .. V^^ ,0> ^..-.^ \ -v o , •/> .'\ ' "^-^. ■J.' -\<^ J' % ^^ V ^0^^. oo -^^^ .#^ .-N' .-"^^i,' ^o. . *> ^Z* NO TENNYSON ,S^ft^" AUTHOR AND CHARACTERS OF THE " IDYI.S OF THE KING."-By Gustave Dor* WORKS ALFRliD TENNYSON.— From Ihe pliotogrnph by Mrs. Cameron / THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON rOET LAUREATE S5''t «§! V '^^j'^". af'jift.i.^g^gv TENNYSON'S BIRTH-PLACE, LINCOLNSHIRE WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SKETCH BY ANNE THACKERA Y RITCHIE Jlliistratcb J- / ■-D NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS FRANKLIN SQUARE 1884 -cr^ T^^.eV^ Copyright, 1S84, by Harpf.r & Brothers. ALFRED TFNNYSON. BY ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE. [Reprinted from Harper's Magazine for December, 1SS3.] There is a place called SomersLy in Liii- colushire, where an old white rectory stands on the slope of a hill, and the winding lanes are shadowed by tall ashes and elm-trees, j and where two brooks meet at the bottom of the glebe field. It is a place far away from us iu silence' aud in distance, lying npou the " ridged wolds." They bonnd the liorizon of the'rectory garden, whence they are to be seen flowing to meet the sky. I have never known Somersby, bnt I have often heard it described, aud the pastoral country all about, and the quiet, scattered homes. One can picture the rectory to oue's self with something of a monastic sweetness and quiet ; an ancient Norman cross is stand- ing in the churchyard, ami perhaps there is still a sound in the air of the bleating of flocks. It all comes before one as one reads the sketch of Tennyson's uative place iu the Homes and Haunts of the British Poets : the village not far from the fens, "in a pretty pastoral district of softly sloping hills and large ash-trees, . . . the little glen iu the neighborhood, called by tbe olil monkish name of Holywell." Mr. Teuuyson some- times speaks of this glen, which he remem- bers white with snowdrops iu the season; and who will uot recall the exiiuisite invo- cation : " Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven ehns, the pophirs four Tli:>t stand be!^ide my father's door, And chiefly from the brooli that loves To pnrl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the darli of rushy coves. . . . O ! hither lead tby feet 1 Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, Upon the ridged wolds." The wind that goes blowing where it listeth, once, in the early beginning of this century, came sweeping throtigh the gar- den of this old Lincolnshire rectcny, aud, as the wind blew, a sturdy child of five years old with shining locks stood opening his arms upon the bhist and letting himself be blown along, and as he travelled on he made his first line of jtoetry and said, " I hear a voice that's speaking iu the wind," and he tossed his arms, and the gust whirled ou, SAveeping into the great abyss of winds. One might, perhaps, still trace in the noble familiar face of our Poet Laureate the feat- ures of this child, one of many deep-eyed sons and daughters born iu the quiet rec- tory among the elm-trees. Alfred Tennyson was born on the 6th of August, 1809. He has heard many aud many a voice calling to him since the time when he listened to the wind as he played alone iu his father's garden, or joined the other children at their games aud jousts. They were a noble little clan of poets and of knights, coming of a knightly race, with castles to defend, with mimic tournaments to fight. Somersby was so far away from the world, so behindhand iu its echoes ( which must have come there softened through all manner of green and tranquil things, and, as it were, hushed into pastoral silence), that though the early part of the century was stirring with the clang of le- gions, jfew of its rumors seem to have reached the children. They never heard, at the time, of the battle of Waterloo. Tliey grew up together, playing their own games, liviug their own life ; aud where is such life to be fonnd as that of a happy, eager family of 1 boys and girls, before Doubt, the steps of Time, the shocks of Chance, tlie blows of Death, have come to shake their creed? I These haudsome children had beyond most children that wondrous toy at their commaiul which some people call imagina- tion. The boys played great games like Arthur's knights ; they were champions and warriors defending a stone heap, or again they would set up opposing camps with a king in the midst of each. The king was a willow wand stuck into the ground, with an outer circle of innnortals to defend him of firmer, stifier sticks. Then each party would come with stones, hurling at each other's king, and trying to overthrow him. Per- haps as the day wore ou they became ro- maucers, leaving the jousts deserted. When dinner-time came, aud they all .sat round / .ALFRED TENNYSON. I.ADY TENNYSON.- After the pnintinc at AkhvoiUi the tablo, each in turn put a chapter of his history underneath the potato-bowl — h)nut into his hand one Sun- day at Jjouth, when all the elders of the party were going into church, and the child was left alone. Cliarlesgave him a subject — the llowers in the gardenv-aud when Ik; came back from churcli little Alfred biouglit the slate to his brotii»>r, all covered with written lines of blank verse. They were made on the nujdels of Thomson's Seasons, the only poetry he had ever read. One can picture it all to one's self, the flowers in the garden, the verses, the little poet with wait- ing eyes, and the young brother scanning the lines. " Yes, you can write," said Charles, and he gave Alfred back the slate. I have also heard another story of his grandfather, later on, asking him to write ail elegy ou his grandmother, who had re- cently died, and, when it was written, put- ting ten siiillings into his hands and saying, "There, that is the tiist, money you have ever earned by your poetry, and, take my word for it, it will be the last." The Tennysons are a striking example of the theory of family inheritanee. Alfred was one of twelve children, of whom the eldest, Frederick, who was educated at Eton, is known as the autlior of a very imagina- tive volume of poems. Charles was the sec- ond son, and Alfred, whose name is more widely known, was t\w third. lie and Cliarles were sent for a few years to the Glranunar School at Louth, where the Lau- reate still remembers walking, adorned with blue ribbons in a procession for the proc- ALFRED TEN^'YSO^'. liiiuation of the coronation of George the Fourth. The okl wives said at the time that the boys made the prettiest part of the show. Charles Tennyson — Charles Turner he was afterward called, for he took the name with a property which he inherited — was little Alfred's special friend. and brother. In his own most sweet degree, Charles Ten- Mr. Spedding (jnotes the picture of a sum- mer's daybreak : "But one sole .«tar, none other anywhere; A wild-rose odor from ihe lields was borne: The lark's mysierions joy tilled earth and uir, And from the wind's lop met the hnnter's horn; The aspen trembled wildly; and the morn Breathed np in rosy clonds divinely fair." Charles Tennyson was in looks not unlike his younger brother. He was statelj^ too, TENNYSON'S CHILDREN. -After the paintins at Aldworth by G. F. W.itts, R.A. nysou too was a true poet. Who that has ever read his sonnets will cease to love them? His brother loves and quotes them withatfection. Coleridge loved them ; James Spedding, wise critic, life-long friend, read them with unaltered delight from his youth to his much-honored age. In an introduc- tory essay to a volume of the collected son- nets, published after Charles Turner's death. though shorter in stature, gentle, spiritual, very noble, simple. I once saw him kneel- ing in a church, and only^ once again. He was like something out of another world, more holy, more silent than that in which most of us are living; there is a picture in the National Gallery of St. Jerome which always recalls him to me. The .sons must have inherited their poetic gifts from their ALFRED TENNYSON. father, George Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., a tall, striking, ami impressive man, full of acc'omplishmeuts and parts, a strong nat- ure, higli-souled, high -tempered. He was the head of the old family ; but his own elder-brother share of its good things had passed by will into the hands of another branch, which is still represented bj' the Tennysons d'Eyucourt.. Perhaps before he died he may have realized that to one of his hail come possessions greater than any ever yet entailed by lawyer's deeds — an inheri- tance, a i)riceless Benjamin's portion, not to be measured or defined. II. Alfred Tennyson, as he grew up toward manhood, found other and stronger inspira- tions than Thomson's gentle Seasons. By- ron's spell had fallen on his generation, and for a boy of genius it must have been abso- lute and overmastering. Tennyson was soon to find his own voice, but meanwhile he began to write like Byron. He produced poems and verses in profusion and endless abnndance : trying his wings, as people say, before starting on his own strong flight. One day the news came to the village — the dire news which spread across the land, fill- ing men's hearts AviHi consternation — that Byron was dead. Alfred was then a boy about fifteen. " Byron was dead ! I thonght the whole world was at an eiul," he once said, speaking of these bygone days. "I thought every- thing was over and finished for every one — that nothing else mattered. I remember I walked out alone, and carved ' Byron is dead' into the sandstone." I have spoken of Tennyson from the ac- count of an old friend, whose recollections go back to those days, which seem perhaps more distant to us than others of earlier date and later fashion. Mrs. Tennyson, the mother of the family, so this same friend tells me, was a sweet and gentle and most imaginative woman ; so kind-hearted that it had passed into a proverVj, and the wicked inhabitants of a neigliboring village used to bring their dogs to her windows and beat them in ord(,'r to be bribed to leave off l)y th(i gentle lady, or to make advantageons bargains by selling her the worthless curs. She was intensely, fervently religious, as a poet's mother sliould be. After her hus- band's death (he had added to the rectory, and n)ade it suitable for his large family) slie still lived on at Somersby with her chil- dren and their friends. The daughters were growing i\\), the elder sons were going to college. Frederick, the eldest, wont first to Trinity, Cambridge, and his brothers fol- lowed him there in turn. Life was opening for them, they were seeing new asjjects and places, making new friends, and bringing them home to their Lincolnshire rectory. "In Memoriam" gives many a glimpse of the old home, of wliich the echoes still reach, us across half a century. "O ponucl to loiU the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust thnt, round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! "0 bliss, wlien all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poet on the lawn: "Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung. Or here she bionght the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon." Dean Garden was one of those IViends sometimes spoken of who, with Arthur Hal- lam, the reader of the Tuscan poet, and James Spedding and others, used to gather upon the lawn at Somersby — the young men and women in the light of their yonth and high spirits, the widowed mother leading her quiet life within the rectory walls. Was it not a happy sister herself who in after- days once described how, on a lovely stam- mer night, they had all sat up so late talk- ing in the starlight that the dawn came shining unawares; but the yoitng men, in- stead of going to bed, then and there set ofl' for a long walk across the hills in the sun- rise, "And, suck'd from out the distant gloom, A l)reeze began to tremble o'er The large leaves of the sj'camore,* And fluctuate all the still perfume, " And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock'd the full-lbliaged elms, and swung The heavj'-folded rose, and Bung The lilies to and fro, and said " ' The dawn, the dawn,' and died away ; And East and ^\■est, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day." III. One thing which cannot fail to strike us when we are looking over the records of these earlier days is the remarkable influ- ence which Alfred Tennyson seems to have had from the very first upon his contem- poraries, even before his genius had been recognized by the rest of the world. Not only those of his own generation, but his elders and masters seem to have felt some- thing of this. I remember long ago hear- ing one of Tennyson's oldest friends, who has the best right of any to recall tlie fact, say that " Whewell, who was a num himself, and who knew a man when ho saw him," used to pass over in Alfred Tennyson certain informalities and forgetfulness of combina- tions ;is to gowns, ami ])laces, ;ind times, which in another he would never htive over- looked. Whewell ruled a noble giMieration — a race of men born in the beginning of the century, whose i)riiise and loyid friendship were in- deed worth hiiving, ami whose good oi)iui()n * The sycamore has been cut down, and the lawn is altered to another shajje. ALFRED TENNYSON. Tennyson himself may have been proud to possess. Wise, sincere, and witty, tliese con- temporaries of his spolve with authority, with the modesty of conscious strength. Those of this race whom I have known iu later days — for they were many of them my father's friends also — have all been men of unmistakable stamp, of great culture, of a certain dignified bearing, and of indepen- dence of mind and of character. Most of them have succeeded iu life as men do who are possessed of intellect and high character. Some have iu)t made the less mark upon their time because their names are less widely known ; but each name is a memorable chapter in life to one and another of us who have known them from our youth. One of those old friends, Avho also loved my father, and whom he loved, who has himself just passed away, one who saw^ life with his own eyes, de- scribed Alfred iu his youth, in a pamphlet or book w^hich has been privately printed, and which is a remembrance, a sort of wak- ing dream, of some bygone days and talks. How many of us might have been glad to listen to our poet, and to the poet who has made the philosophy of Omar Khayam known to the world, as they discoursed to- gether ; of life, of boyish memories, of books, and again more books, of chivalry — mainly but another name for youth — of a possible old age, so thoroughly seasoned with its spirit that all the experience of the Avorld should serve not to freeze but to direct the genial current of the soul! and who that has known them both will not recognize the truth of this description of Alfred in those early days — "A man at all points, of grand proportion aud feat- ure, siguirtcant of that inward chivalry becoming his ancient and honorable race; when himself a 'Yonge Squire,' like him in Chaucer, 'of grete strength,' that could hurl the crowbar farther than any of the neigh- boring clowns, whose humors, as well as of their bet- ters —knight, squire, landlord, aud lieutenant — he took quiet note of, like Chaucer himself; like Words- worth on the mountain, he too when a lad abroad on the world, sometimes of a night with the shepherd, watching not only the flock on the greeusward, but also ' the fleecy star that bears Andromeda far off' Atlantic seas,' along witli those other Zodiacal constellations which Aries, I think, leads over the field of heaven." Arthur Hallam has also written iu some lines to E. J. Teunant of "a friend, a rare one, A noble being full of clearest insight, . . . whose fame Is couching now with pantherized intent, As who shall say, I'll spring to him anon, Aud have him for my own." All these men could understand each other, although they had not then told the world their seci-ets. Poets, critics, men of learn- ing — such names as Trench and Monckton Milues, George Stovin Venables, the Lush- ingtons and Kinglake, need no comment; many more there are, and deans and canons, and the Master of Trinity himself — "a band Of youthful friends, on mind aud art, Aud labor, aud the changing mart, Aud all the framework of the laud ; " When one would aim an arrow fair. But send it slackly from the string ; And one would pierce an outer ring, Aud one au inner, here aud there ; "Aud last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark." The lines to J. S. were written to one of these earlier associates ; "And gently comes the world to those That are cast iu gentle mould." It was the prophecy of a whole lifetime. There were but few signs of age in James Spedding's looks, none in his charming com- panionshij), when the accident befell him wliich took him away from those who loved him. To another old companion, the Rev. W. H. Brookfield, is dedicated that sonnet which flows like an echo of Cambridge chimes on a Sabbath morning. It is in this sonnet that Tennyson speaks of "him the lost light of those dawn-goldeu times," who was himself one of that generation of which I have been writiug. IV. Arthur Hallam was the same age as my own father, and born in 1811. When he died ho was but twenty-three ; but he had lived long enough to show what his life might have been. In the preface to a little volume of his collected poems and essays, published some time after his death, there is a pathetic in- troduction. "He seemed to tread the earth as a spirit from some better world," writes his fiither ; aud a correspondent, who, I have been told, is Arthur Hallam's aud Tenny- son's common friend, Mr. Gladstone, and whose letter is quoted, says, with true feel- ing : " It has pleased God that in his death, as well as in his life and nature, he should be marked beyond ordinary men. When nuich time has elapsed, when most bereave- ments will be forgotten, he will still be re- membered, aud his place, I fear, Avill be felt to be still vacant; singularly as his mind was calculated by its native tendencies to work powerfully aud for gootl, in an age full of import to the nature and destinies of man." How completely these words have been carried out must strike us all now. The father lived to see the youug man's uncon- scious influence working through his friend's geuius, and reachiug a whole generation un- born as yet on the day when he died. A lady, speaking of Arthur Hallam after his death, said to Mr. Tenuysou, "I think he was perfect." "And so he was," said Mr. Tenuysou, " as near perfection as a mortal ALFRED TENNYSON. THE MEETING OF THE SEVERN AND WYK. mail can bo." Aitliiu- Hallam was a rnau of leniaikalile intellect. He could take in the most (lifflcult and abstruse ideas with an ex- traordinary rapidity and insight. On one occasion he began to work one afternoon, and mastered a ditiicnlt book of Descartes at one single sitting. In the preface to the Me- morials Mr. Hallam speaks of this peculiar clearness of perception and facility for ac- quiring knowledge ; but, above all, the fa- ther dwells on his son's undeviating sweet- uess of disposition and adhereuc(^ to his sense of what was right. In the quarterlies and reviews of the time his opinion is (inoted here and there with a respect wiiich shows in what esteem it was already held. At the time Arthur Hallam died, he was engaged to he married to a sister of the poet's. She was scarcely seventeen at the tinu3. One of the sonnets, addres.sed by Arthur Hallam to his betrothed, was written when he began to teach her Italian. " Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome, Ringing witti echoes of Italian song; Henceforth to thee these magic hnlls belong, And all the pleasant place is like a home. Hark, on the right, with full piano tone. Old Dante's voice encircles all the air; Hark yet again, like Hute-tones mingling rare Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca's moan. Pass thou the lintel freely ; without fear Feast on the music. I do better know thee Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear That element whence thou must draw thy life— An English maiden and an Knglish wife.'' As we read the pages of this little book, we come upon more than one happy moment saved out of the i)ast, hours of delight and peaceful friendship, saddened by no forebod- ing, and comjilete in themselves. "Alfred, T would that yon beheld me now, Sitting beneath an ivieil, mossy wall. .... Above my head Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves, Seeming received into the blue expanse That vaults the summer noon." There is something touching in the tran- quil ring of the voice calling out in the sum- ALFRED TENNYSON. mir noontide with all a young man's ex^mn- sion. It seemed to be but the beginning of a beautiful happj' life, when suddenly the end came. Arthur Hallani was travelling with his father in Austria when he died very sud- denly, with scarce a warning sign of illness. Mr. ilallam had come home and found his son, as he supposed, sleejjiug upon a couch ; but it was death, not sleep. "Those whose eyes must long be dim with tears" — so writes the heart-stricken father — "brought him home to rest among his kindred and in his own country." They chose his resting- place in a tranquil spot on a lone hill that overhangs the Bristol Channel. He was buried in the chancel of Clevedon Church, in Somerset, by Clevedon Court, which had been his mother's early home. "The Danube to the Severn gave The darken 'd heart that beat no more : They laid him by the |)leasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. "There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills." In all England there was not a sweeter place than the sunny old Court upon the hill, with its wide i)roHpects and grassy terraces, where Arthur Hallam must have played in his childhood, whence others of his kiudred, touched with his own bright and beautiful spirit, have come forth. His brother Harry, a gentle and delightful person, used to be constantly at the house of their cousin, Mrs. Brookfield. He too was carried off in his youth of fullest promise. When Mr. Hallam, after a life of repeated sorrows, at last went to his rest with his wife and his children, it was Alfred Tenuj'sou who wrote his epitaph, which may still be read in the chancel of the old church. Tlie lovely old house was burned in 1883. V. Once in their early youth we hear of the two friends, Tennyson and Hallam, travel- ling in the Pyrenees. This was at the time of the war of early Spanish independence, when man}' generous young men went over with funds and good energies to help the cause of liberty. These two were taking money, and letters written in invisible ink, to certain conspirators who were then revolt- ing against the intolerable tyranny of Fer- dinand, and who were chiefly hiding in the Pyrenees. The young men met, among others, a Senor Ojeda, who confided to Alfred his intentions, which were to conpcr la {/ovffe a tons Ics curl's. Senor Ojeda could not talk P^nglish or fully explain all his aspirations. " Mais vons connaissez vioii coeur," said he, effusively ; and a pretty black one it is, thought the poet. I have heard Alfred de- scribed in those days as "straight and with a broad breast," and when he had crossed over from the Continent and was coming back, walking through Wales, he went one day into a little way-side inn, where an old man sat by the tire, who looked up, and asked many questions. "Are you from the army ? Not from the ai'my ? Then where do you come from ?" said the old man. " I am just come from the Pyi'enees," said Alfred. " Ah, I knew there was a sometliing," said the wise old nntn. John Kemble was among those who had gone over to Spain, and one day a rumor came to distant Somersby that he was to be tried for his life by the Spanish aiithorities. No one else knew much about him except Alfred Tennyson, who started before dawn to drive across the country in search of some person of authority who knew the consul at Cadiz, and who could send letters of protec- tion to the poor pi'isoner. ( CLEVEDON COURT.— After an unpuWisIiel sketch by W. M.Thackeray. ALFRED TENNYSON. BURLEIGH HOUSE, BY STAMFORD TOWN. It was a false alarm. John Keinlile came home to make a name for himself iu other fields. Meanwhile Alfred Tenuysou's owu rei)utation was growiug, and wheu the first two vokimes of his collected poems were published in 1842, followed by The Frincess in 1847, his fame spread throughout the land. Some of the reviews were violent and antagonistic at first. One iu particular had tasted blood, and the " Hang, draw, and (Juurterly," as it has beeu called, of those days, having lately cut up Endymion, now |)roceeded to demolish Tennyson. But this was a passing phase. It is curi- ous to note the sudden change iu the toue of the criticisms — the absolute surrender of these knights of the pen to the irresistible and brilliant advance of the unknown and visored warrior. The visor is raised now, the face is familiar to us all, but the arms, though tested in a hundred fights, are shin- ing and uncoiiquered still. William Howitt, whom we have already quoted, has written an article upon the Ten- nyson of these earlier days. It is fanciful, suggestive, full of interest, with a gentle mysterious play and tender appreciation. Si)eaking of the poet himself, he asks, with the rest of the world of that time: "You may hear his voice, but where is the man? He is wandering iu some dream-laud, beneath the shade of old and charmed forests, by far- off shores, where 'all night The plinigiufr seas thaw backwaril from the land Their nioon-lert waters while;' by the old mill-dam, tiiinkiug of the merry miller and his pretty daughter; or wander- ing over the open wolds where 'Norland whirhviiids blow.' From .all these places — from the silent coi'- ridor of an ancient convent, from some shrine wliere a devoted knight x'ecites his vows, from the drear monotony of ' the moated grange,' or the forest beneath the ' talking oak' — comes the voice of Tennyson, rich, I dreamy, passionate, yet not impatient, musi- cal with the airs of chivalrous ages, yet uungling in his song the theme and the spirit of those that are yet to come." This article was written many years ago, when but the first chords had sounded, be- fore the glorious Muse, passing beyond her morning joy, had met with the soitow of life. j But it is well that as we travel on through later, sadder scenes we should still carry in our hearts this joyous and romantic music. j One must be English born, I think, to know ' how English is the spell which this great j enchanter casts over us ; the very spirit of the land falls upon us as the visions he evokes come closing round. Whether it is j the moated grange that he shows us, or I Locksley Hall that iu the distance overlooks ; the sandy tracts, or Dora standing in the corn, or the sight of the brimming wave that , swings through quiet meadows round the mill, it is all home in its broadest, sweetest I aspect. Take the gallant wooing of the , Lord of Burleigh : "So she goes bj' him attended, 1 Hears him lovingly converse, I Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and cheslnut shady, j Parks and order'd gardens greai, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. I All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze i On that, cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. I O but she will love him truly I I lie shall have a cheerful liome ; She will order all things duly, Wlieii beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices gi-eatly. Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, 1 And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic Thau all those she saw before." ' But one might go on (pioting forever. ALFRED TENNYSON. Another critic, writing even before this time, bad said of Tennyson, " He imitates nobody ; in him we recognize the spirit of his age." It would not be easy for a gener- \ ation that lias grown up to the music of j Tennyson, that has in a manner beaten time : to it with the pulse of its life, to imagine i what the world would be without it. Even the most original amongst us ninst needs ! think of things more or less in the shape in which they come before us. The mystery of the charm of words is as great as that by which a wonder of natural beauty comes Jironnd us, and lays hold of our imagination. It may be fancy, but I for one feel as if sum- mer-time could scarcely be summer without the song of the familiar green books. VI. In Memoriam, with music in its cantos, be- longing to the school of all men's sad hearts, rings the awful Be Profundis of death, faced and realized as far as may be by a human soul. It came striking suddenly into all the sweet ideal beauty and lovely wealth which had gone before, with a revelation of that secret of life which is told to each of us in turn by the sorrow of its own soul. Nothing can be more simple than the form of the poem as it flows. " Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings iu tears, aucl skim away," the poet says himself, bnt it is something else which we can all acknowledge — some- thing which has given words and ease to many of those who in their lonely frozen grief perhaps felt that they are no longer quite alone, when such a voice as this can reach them : " Peace : come away : the song of woe Is after all au earthly song": Peace ; come away : we do him wrong To sing 80 wildly: let us go." And as the cry passes away, come signs of peace and dawning light: " Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens iu the lucid east " Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; Kuu out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good." And the teacher who can read the great book of nature interprets for us as he turns the page. With In Memoriam, which was not pub- lished till 1850, Alfred Tennyson's fame was firmly estaljlished; and when Wordsworth died, April 23, its author was appointed by the Queen Poet Laureate. There is a story that at the time Sir Robert Peel was con- sulted he had never read any Tennyson, but he read " Ulysses " and warmed up, and ac- knowledged the right of this new-come poet to be England's Laureate. The home at Somersbj^ was broken up by this time, by mai-riages and other family events. Alfred Tennyson had come to live in London. He was poor ; he had iu turn to meet that struggle with wholesome pov- erty which brings the vagueness of genius into contact with reality, and teaches, bet- ter, perhaps, than any other science, the pa- tience, the forbearance, and knowledge of life which belong to it. CAERLEON UPON USK. ALFRED TENNYSON. The Princess, with all her lovely court and glowing harmonies, was born iu London, among the fogs and smuts of Lincoln's Inn, although, like all works of true art, this poem had grown by degrees in other times and i)]aces. The poet came and went, free, unshackled, meditating, inditing. One of my family remembers hearing TiMinyson say that " Tears, idle Tears," was suggested by Tintern Abbey ; who shall say by what mys- terious wonder of beauty and regret, by what seuse of the "transient with the abiding" ? In Memoriam was followed by the tirst part of the JdiiUs, and the record of the court King Arthur held at Camelot, and at " old Caerleon upon Usk " on that event- ful Whitsuntide when Prince Geraint came quickly flashing through the shallow ford to the little knoll where the queen stood with her maiden, and .... "listen'd for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall." If /*) Memoriam is the record of a human soul, the Idjilh mean the history, not of one man or of one generation, but of a whole cycle, of the faith of a nation failing and falliug away into darkness. "It is the dream of man coming into practical life, and ruined by one sin." Birth is a mystery, and death is a mystery, and iu the midst lies the table-land of life, and its struggle and performance. The first " Idyll " and the last, I have he.iid Mi Tlnn^'^()n sa^,alc intentionally moH aichiK tliaii the otlui^ H( once told us that the song of the knights nuirching past the king at the marriage of Arthur was made one spring afternoon on Clapham Common as he walked along. " Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; Blow trumpet, the loii^ uioht hatti roll'd away ! Blow through the living world — 'Let the King reign.'" So sang the young knights in the first bright days of early chivalry. "Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reitrn . The King will follow Christ, and we the King." And then when the doom of evil spread, bringing not sorrow alone, but destruction in its train, not death only, but hoi)elessuess and consternation, the song is finally changed into an echo of strange woe ; we hear no shout of triumph, but the dim shocks of battle, "the crash Of battle-axe on shatter'd helms, and shrieks Afier the Christ, of those who falling down Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist." All is over with the fair court; Guine- vere's golden head is low ; she has fled to Almesbury — " Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : And in herself she moan'd, 'Too late, too late !' Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Eaveu, flying high, Cioak'd, and she thought, 'He spies a field of death.'" And finally comes the conclusion, and the "Passing of Arthur," and he vanishes as he came, in mystery, silently floating away AL.MIisUUKV. ALFRED TENNYSON. upon the barge toward the East, whence all religions are said to come. I have heard them all speak of these Lon- don days when Alfred Tennyson lived in poverty with his friends and his golden . dieams. He lived in the Temple, at 58 Lincoln's Inn Fields, and elsewhere. It was about this time that Carlyle in- trodnced Sir John Simeon to Tennyson one night at Bath Honse, and made the often- quoted speech, "There he sits upon a dung- heap snrroimded by innnmerable dead dogs ;" by which dead dogs he meant " Qinone " and other Greek versions and adaptations. He had said the same thing of Landor and his Hellenics. " I was told of this," said Mr. Tennyson, "and some time afterward I re- lieated it to Carlyle: 'I'm told that is what you say of me.' He gave a kind of gntt'aw. 'Eh, that wasn't a very Innunons descrip- tion of you,' he answered." The story is well worth retelling, so com- pletely does it illnstrate the grim humor and unaifected caudor of a dyspeptic man of ge- nins, who Hung words and epithets without malice, who neither realized the pain liis chance sallies might give, nor the indelible flash which branded them upon people's memories. The world has pointed its moral finger of late at the old man in Iiis great old age, ac- cusing himself in the face of all, and con- fessing the overpowering irritations which the suffering of a lifetime had laid upon him and upon her he loved. That old caus- tic man of deepest feeling, with an ill tem- per and a tender heart and a racking imagi- nation, speaking from the grave, and bearing unto it that cross of passionate remorse whicli few among us dare to face, seems to some of us now a figure nobler and truer, a teacher greater far, than in the days when all his pain and love and remorse were still hidden from us all. Carlyle and Mr. Fitzgerald used to be often with Tennyson at that time. They used to dine together at the " Cock" tavern in the Strand among other places ; some- times Tennyson and Carlyle took long soli- tary walks late into the night. The other day a lady was describing a bygone feast given about this time by tlie poet to Lady Duff Gordon, and to another young and beautiful, lady, a niece of Mr. Hallam's. Harry Hallam was also asked. Mr. Tennyson, in his hosiiitality, had sent for a carpenter to change the whole furni- ture of his bedroom in order to prepare a proper drawing-room for the ladies. Mr. Brookfield, coming in, was in time to sug- gest some compromise, to which the host reluctantly agreed. One cau imagine that it was a delightful feast, but indeed it is always a feast-daj- Avhen one breaks bread with those one loves, and the writer is glad to think that she too has been among those to sit at the kind board where the salt has not lost its savor in the years that have passed, and where the guests can say their grace not for bread and wine alou(!. May she add that the first occasion of her having ALFRED TENNYSON. the liouor of breaking bread in company ■nitb Mr. Tenuyson was in her father's house, ■when she was propped up in a tail chair be- tween her parents. VII. Some of the writer's earliest recollections are of days now long gone by, when many of these young men of whom she has been speaking, grown to be middle-aged, used to come from time to time to her father's house, and smoke with him, and talk and laugh quietly, taking life seriously, but hu- morously too, with a certain loyalty to oth- ers aud self-respect which was their charac- teristic. They were somewhat melancholy men at soul, but for that very reason, per- haps, the hnmors of life may have struck them more especially. It is no less possible that our children will think of us as cheer- ful folks upon the whole, with no little af- fectation of melancholy and all the graces. I can remember on one occasion looking across a darkening room through a cloud of smoke at the noble, grave head of the Poet Lanreate. He was sitting with my father in the twilight after some family meal in the old house in Kensington. It is Mr. Tennyson himself who has reminded me how upon this occasion, while my father was speaking to mc, mj^ little sister looked up suddenly from the book over whicii she had been absorbed, saying, in her sweet childish voice, " Papa, why do you not write books like Nicholas Nicllebji ?" Then again I seem to hear, across that same famil- iar table, voices without shape or name, talking and telling each other that Mr. Tennyson was married — that he and his ■wife had been met walking on the terrace at Clevedon Court ; and then the clouds de- scend again, except, indeed, that I still see my father riding oif on his brown cob to Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson's house at Twicken- ham to attend the christening of Hallam, their eldest son. In after-years we were shown the old ivy-grown church aud the rectory at Shiplake, by the deep bend of the Thames, where their marriage took place. One can not but believe that which one has seen and heard, and yet it is hard to realize that some homes were not always there, created in one breath, complete in themselves and in their blessings. It was at Somersby that Alfred Tennyson first became acquainted with his wife. She was eldest daughter of Henry Sellwood, the last but one of a family of country gentle- men settled in Berkshire in the time of Charles I., and before that, in Saxon times, as it is said, more important people in the forest of their name. Her mother was a sister of Sir John Franklin. Not many years after their marriage Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson settled at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight. There is a photograph I have always liked, in Avhich it seems to me the history of this homo is written, as such histories should be written, in sun- light, in the flashing of a bright beam, iu an instant, and forever. It was taken in the green glade at Farringford. Hallam and Lionel Tennyson stand on either side of their parents, the sun is shining, and no doubt the thrushes and robins are singing and fluttering in the wind-blown branches of the trees, as the father and mother and the children come advancing towards us. Who does not know the beautiful lines of the xjoet : FARKINGFORU IJEACOX.— From an unimbliahed sketch by Frederick Walker. ALFRED TENNYSON. IN THE NEW lUUEdT. "Dear, near, and trne — no tniei- Time himself Can piuve you, tliougti he make you evermore Dearer and nearer." And though years have passed, and the chil- dren with their wind-blown locks are now men, and it is another generation — little golden-haired Ally and liis brother Charlie babbling of life's new wine— who are now picking the daffodils under the Farriugford hedge, yet the old i^icture remains, and shines through to the present. As the writer notes down these various fragments of remembrance, and compiles this sketch of present things, she cau not but feel how much of the past it all means to her, and how very much her own feeling- is an inheritance which has gathered intei'- est during a lifetime, so that the chief claim of her words to be regarded is that they are those of au old friend. Her father's warmth of admiration comes back vividlj' as she writes, all his pleasure when lie se- cured " Tithonus " for one of the early num- bers of the Cornhill Magazine, his immense and outspoken admiration for the Idylls of the King. VIII. One autumn, when everything seemed bright at home, Mrs. Cameron took me with her to Freshwater for a few happy weeks, and then, for the first time, I lived with them all, and with kind Mrs. Cameron, in the ivy-grown house near the gates of Far- riugford. For the first time I stayed in the island, and with the people who were dwell- ing there, and walked with Tennyson along 1* High Down, treading tlie turf, li^itening to his talk, while the gulls came sideways, flashing their white breasts against the edge of the cliffs, and the poet's cloak beat time to the gusts of the west wind. The house at Farriugford itself seemed like a charmed palace, with green walls without, and speaking walls withili. There hung Dante with his solemn nose and wreath ; Italy gleamed over the doorways ; friends' faces lined the way ; books filled the shelves, and a glow of crimson was everywhere ; the great oriel drawing-room window was full of green and golden leaves, of the sound of birds and of the distant sea. The very names of the people who have stood upon the lawn at Farriugford would be an interesting study for some future biographer: Longfellow, Maurice, Kingsley, the Duke of Argyll, Locker, Dean Stanley, the Prince Consort. Good Garibaldi once planted a tree there, off which some too ar- dent republican broke a branch before twenty-four hours had passed. Here came Clough in tlie last year of his life. Here Mrs. Cameron fixed her lens, marking the well-known faces as they passed : Darwin and Henry Taylor, Watts and Aubrey de Vere, Lecky and Jowett, and a score of others. I first knew the place in the autumn, but perhaps it is even more beautiful in spring- time, when all day the lark trills high over- head, and then when the lark has flown oat of our hearing the thrushes begin, and the air is sweet with scents from the many fra- ALFRED TENNYSON. ^^iW" TENNYSON READING " MAUD."— From a sketch by Daute Gabriel Rossetti, 1856, grant shrubs. The woods are full of aue- mones aud primroses; uarcissus grows wild in the lower fields ; a lovely creamy stream of flowers flows along the lanes, and lies hidden in the levels; hyacinth pools of blue shine in the woods ; and then with a later burst of glory comes the gorse, liglit- ing up the country round about, and blazing round aljout the beacon hill. Tlie little sketch here given was made early one morn- ing by Frederick Walker, who had come over to see us at Freshwater. The beacon hill stands behind Farringford. If you cross the little wood of nightingales and thrushes, and follow the lane where the blackthorn hedg(^s shine in spring-time (lovely dials that illuminate to show the hour), you come to the downs, and climbing their smooth steeps you reach " Mr. Tennyson's Down," where the beacon-staff stands firm upon the mound. Theu, following the line of the coast, you come at last to the Needles, aud may look down upon the ridge of rocks that rises, crisp, shar}», shining, out of the blue wash of fierce delicious waters. The lovely places and sweet conutiy all about Farringford are not among the least of its charms. Beyond the Primrose Island itself and the blue Solent, the New Forest spreads its shades, and the green depths reach to the very shores. Have we not all read of the forest where Merlin was be- charmed, where the winds were still in the wild woods of Broceliande ? The forest of ALFRED TENNYSON. Brockeuhnrst, iu Hampshire, waves no less green, its ferns and depths are no less sweet and sylvan, than those of Brittany. " Before an o:ik, so hollow, huire, and old It loolv'd a tower of niin'd mason-work, At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay." I have heard of Mr. Tennyson wandering for days together iu the glades round about Lyndhurst. Some people ouce told me of meeting a mysterious figure in a cloak com- ing out of a deep glade, passing straight on, looking neither to the right nor the left. "It was either a ghost or it was Mr. Tenny- son," said they. In Sir John Simeon's lifetime there was a constant intercourse between Farriugford and Swaiuston. Sir John was one of Ten- nyson's most coustantcompanions — a knight of courtesy he calls him in the sad liues writ- ten iu the garden at Swaiuston. Maud grew out of a remark of Sir John Simeon's, to whom Mr. Tennyson had read the lines, "O that 'twere possible *■ After long grief and pain," ivhich lines were, so to speak, the lieart of Maud. Sir John said that it seemed to him as if something were wanting to explain the story of this poem, and so by degrees it all grew. One little story was told me on the authority of Mr. Henry Sidgwick, who was perliaps present on that occasion. Mr. Ten- nyson was reading the poem to a silent com- pany assembled in the twilight, and when he got to the birds in the high hall garden calling Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, he stopped short, and asked an authoress who happened to be present what birds these were. The authoress, much alarmed, and feeling that she must speak, and that the eyes of the wliole company were upon her, faltered out, "Nightingales, sir." "Pooh," said Tenny- son, "what a cockney you are! Nightin- gales don't say Maud. Rooks do, or some- tliing like it. Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw". Then he went on reading. Reading, is it ? Oue can hardly describe it. It is a sort of mystical incantation, a chant in which every note rises and falls and reverberates again. As we sit around the twilight room at Farriugford, with its great oriel-window looking to the garden, across fields of hyacinth and self-sowed daf- fodils toward the sea, where the waves wash against tlie rock, we seem carried by a tide not unlike the ocean's sound ; it fills the room, it ebbs and flows away ; and when we leave, it is with a strange music in our ears, feeling that we have for the first time, per- haps, heard what we may have read a hun- dred times before. More than once after a reading I can re- member the whole party starting forth into the night to listen to the song of the night- ingale coming across the field or the quiet park. The nightingales in the island do not sing with passion, but calmly and delight- fully, to their mates as they sit upon their nests, singing and stopping, and singing agaiu. Once when Mr. Tennyson was in Yorkshire, so he told me, as he was walking at night in a friend's garden, he heard a nightingale singing with such a frenzy of passion that it was unconscious of every- thing else, and not frightened though he came and stood quite close beside it ; he could see its eye flashing, and feel the air bubble in his ear through the vibration. Our poet, with his short-sighted eyes, can see farther than most people. Almost the first time I ever walked out with hiiu, he told me to look and tell him if the field-lark did not come down sideways upon its wing. Like his friend Mr. Browning, he instinc- tively knows everything that is going on round about him, though at the time he THE EDGE OF BLACKDOWN, SHOWING TENNYSON'S HOUSE, ALFRED TENNYSON. may not always stop to note it. There is a tribnte to (his peculiar gift in Mrs. Gaskell's story of Craxford ; it is from the old farmer who had lived so long before the young poet came who taught him that asli buds ■were black in May. Nature in its various aspects makes up a larger part of this man's life than it does for other peoi>le. He goes liis way unconsciously absorbing life, and its lights and sounds, and teaching us to do the same as far as may be. There is an in- stance of this given in the pamphlet already boatman, "When I last was here I lieard eight echoes, and now I only hear one." To which the man, who had heard people quot- ing the Bugle Song, replied, "Why, you must be the gentleman that brought all the mon- ey to the place." People have different ideas of poets. Mrs. B ,of Totland's Bay, once asked a Fresh- water boy, who was driving her, if he knew Mr. Tennyson. " He makes poets for the Qneen," said the boy. "What do you mean V said the lady, ainused. " I don't THK OAK LAWM, ALD WORTH. quoted from, where the two friends talk on of one theme and another from Kenelm Dig- by to Aristophanes, and the poet is described as saying, among other things, that he knows of no human outlook so solemn as that from an infant's eyes, and that it was from those of his own he learned that those of the Di- vine Child in Kaffaello's Sistine Madonna were not overcharged Avith expression. Here is a rennniscence ofTennyson's about the echo at Killaruey, where he said to the know what they means," said the boy, " but p'liceman often seen him walking about a-making of 'em under the stars." The au- thor oi Enphranor has his own definition of a poet : "The only living — and like to live— poet I have known, when he found himself beside llie 'bonnie Doon,' whether it weie from recollection of poor Bnrns, or of ' the daj's that are no more ' which liaunt us all, I know not — I think he did not know — 'broke into a passion of tears' (as he told me). Of tears, which during a pretty long and intimate intercourse ALFRED TENNYSON. I hadnevei seen glisten- iag in his eyes but once, when leidiug Viigil— ' deai old \iigil, as. he called him— together, and then- oh, not of Qneeii Dido, uoi of joiiiig Mai- cellus even, but of the btiiniug of Tioj, m the second ^ueid — whethei moved by the catastro- phe itself, or the majesty of the verse it ,, . is told ill, or as before, scarce knowing "" why. For as King Arthur shall bear witness no young Edwin he, though, as a great poet, comprehending all the softer stops of human emotion in that diapason where the intellec- tual, no less than what is called the poetical, faculty predominated." " Yon will last," Douglas Jeri'okl said. Ami there was Carlyle's " Eh ! he has got the grip of it," when Teiiuysou read him the Revenge. But perhaps the best compliment Mr. Tennyson ever received was one day when walking in Coveut Garden, when he was (stopped by a rongh-looking man, vrho held out his hand, and said: " Yon're Mr. Tennyson. Look here, sir, here am I. I've been drunk for six days ont of the sevou, but if you will shake me by the hand, I'm d d if I ever get drunk again." IX. Aldworth was built some dozen years ago, when Mrs. Tennyson had been ordered change, and Freshwater was found to be un- bearable and overcrowded during the sum- mer months. It must be borne in mind that to hospitable people there are dangers from friendly inroads as well as from the attacks of enemies. The new house, where for many years past the family has spent its summers, stands on the sumiuit of a high lonely hill in Surrey, and j'et it is uot quite out of reach of London life. It is a white stone house with many broad windows facing a great view and a long terrace, like some one of those at Siena or Perugia, with alow paraiiet of stone, where ivies and roses are trained, making a foreground to the lovely haze of the distance. Sometimes at Aldworth, when the summer days are at their brightest, and _ ^__ , ■■ ■ f l<'''-cii-;fjj;!^,;'i.' ■•; ; ■ ■ ■• V;','' J ' 'i^'f^^l') '^ ^ • '" Auw<^^rM Oct. itsi., r TENNYSON'S HOME AT ALDWORTH, SURREY. high Blackdown top has been well warmed and sunned, I have seen a little procession coming along the terrace walk, and proceed- ing by its green boundary into a garden, where the sun shines its hottest upon a sheltered lawn, and where standard rose- trees burn their flames. Mr. Tennyson in his broad hat goes first, dragging the garden chair in which Mrs. Tennyson lies ; perhaps one son is pushing from behind, while an- other follows with rugs and cushions for the rest of the party. If the little grandsons and their young mother are there, the fami- ly group is complete. One special day I re- member when we all sat for an hour round about the homely chair and its gentle occu- jiant. It seemed uot unlike a realization of some Italian picture that I had somewhere seen, the tranquil eyes, tiie peaceful heights, the glorious summer day, some sense of lasting calm, of beauty beyond the present honr. No impression of this life at Aldworth aud Farringford would be complete if, beside the parents, the sons were not seen, adding each in his own measure to the grateful sight of a united household. Hallam, the eldest son, has been for years past the adviser, the friend, aiid companion of his fiither aud mother at home; and Lionel, the younger, although living away in Loudou in his own home, all the same holds fast to the family tradition of parents and children closely united through the chances aud changes of ALFRED TENNYSON. life, and trusting and supporting one an- other. Mr. Tennyson works alone in tlie early liours of the morning, and comes down long after his own frugal meal is over to find his guests assembling round the social breakfast- table. He generally goes out for a walk be- fore luncheon, with a son and a friend, per- haps, and followed by a couple of dogs. All Londoners know the look of the stalwart fig- ure and the fine face and broad-brimmed felt hat as he advances. There is one little ceremony peculiar to the Tennyson family, and reminding one of some college custom, which is, that when dinner is over the guests are brought away into a second room, where stands a white table, upou which fruit and wine are set, and a fire burns bright, and a pleasant hour passes, while the master of the house sits in his carved chair and discourses upon any topic suggested by his guests, or brings forth reminiscences of early Lincolnshire days, or from the facts he remembers out of the lives of past men who have been his friends. Tliere was Rogers, among the rest, for whom he had a great affection, with whom he constantly lived during that lonely time in London. "I have dined alone with him," I heard Mr. Tennyson say, " and we have talked about death till the tears rolled down his face." Tennyson met Tom Moore at Rogers's, and there, too, he first met Mr. Gladstone. John Forster, Leigh Hunt, and Landor were also frieuds of that time. One of Tennyson's often companions in those days was Mr. Hallam, whose opinion he once asked of Carlyle's French Revolution. Mr. Hallam re- plied, in his quick, rapid way, " Upon my word, I once opened the book, and read four or five pages. The style is so abominable I could not get on with it." Whereas Carlyle's own criticism upon the History of the Middle Ages was, " Eh ! the poor, miserable skeleton of a book !" Was it not Charles Lamb who wanted to return grace after reading Shakspeare, little deeming in humble simplicity that many of us yet to come would be glad to return thanks for a jest of Charles Lamb's ? The difference between those who speak with natural reality, and those who go through life fitting their second-hand ideas to other people's words, is one so marked that even a child may tell the difference. When the Laureate speaks, every word comes wise, racy, absolutely natural, and sincere ; and how gladly do we listen to his delightful stories, full of odd humors and knowledge of men and women, or to his graver talk ! When a man has read so much and thought so much, it is an epitome of the knowledge of to-day we find in him, touched by the solemn strain of the poet's own gift. I once heard Mr. Tennyson talking to some actors, to no less a person indeed than to Hamlet himself, for after the curtain fell the whole play seemed to flow from off the stage into the box where we had been sitting, and I could scarcely tell at last where reality be- gan and Shakspeare ended. The play was over, and we ourselves seemed a part of it still ; here were the players, and our own prince poet, in that familiar simple voice we all know, explaining the art, goiug straight to the point in his own downright fashion, criticising with delicate appreciation, by the simple force of truth and conviction carry- ing all before him. " You are a good actor lost," one of these real actors said to him. It is a gain to the world when people are content to be themselves, not chipped to the smooth pattern of the times, but simple, original, and unaffected in ways and words. Here is a poet leading a jjoet's life ; where he goes there goes the spirit of his home, whether iu London among the crowds, or at Aid worth on the lonely height, or at Farring- ford in that beautiful bay. The last time I went to see him he was smoking in a top room in Eaton Square. It may interest an American public to be told that it was Dur- ham tobacco from North Carolina, which Mr. Lowell had given him. I could not but feel how little even circumstance itself can contribute to that mysterious essence of in- dividuality which we all recognize and love. In this commonplace London room, with all the stucco of Belgravia round about, I found the old dream realized, the old charm of youthful impression. There sat my friend as I had first seen him years ago among the clouds. CONTENTS. The present edition includes " Timbuctoo,'' the author's Cambridje University Prize Poem; Poems published in the London editions of 1S30 and 1833, and omitted in later editions; " Poems by Two Brothers " (Charles and Al- fred Tennyson) ; and a number of hiihertu uncollected Poems from various sources. Page PoKMS (Published 1S30) :— To the Queen 9 Claribel 9 Lilian 9 Isabel 10 Mariana 10 To , "Clear-headed friend " 11 Madeline 11 Song.— The Owl 12 Second Song. — To the same 12 Recollections of the Arabian Nights 12 Ode to Memory 13 Song. —"A spirit haunts the year's last hours " 14 — Adeline 14 A Character 15 The Poet 15 ^The Poet's Mind 15 The Sea-Fairies 16 The Deserted House IG The Dying Swan 17 A Dirge 17 Love and Death 17 The Ballad of Oriana IS Circumstance IS The Merman IS The Mermaid 19 Sonnet to J. M. K. 19 Poems (Published 1832) :_ The Lady of Shalott 19 Mariana iu the South 21 .- Eleanore 22 The Miller's Daughter 23 Fatima 25 (Enone 25 The Sisters 27 To , with the following poem 27 The Palace of Art 27 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 30 The May Queen 81 New-Year's Eve 32 Conclusion 33 The Lotos-Eaters 35 Choric Song 35 A Dream of Fair Women 36 -^"Margaret 39 The Blackbird 39 The Death of the Old Year 39 To J. S 40 " You ask me why, the' ill at ease " 41 " Of old sat Freedom on the heights " 41 "Love thou thy land, with love far-brought" 41 The Goose 42 English Idtls and otheb Poems (Published 1842) :— The Epic 43 Morte d'Arthur 44 Pape The Gardener's Daughter; or, the Pictures. 47 Dora 49 Audley Court 50 Walking to the Mail 50 Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake 51 St. Simeon Stylites 52 The Talking Oak 54 Love and Duty 56 The Golden Year 57 Ulysses 57 Locksley Hall 59 Godiva 63 The Two Voices 64 The Day-Dream 68 Amiihion 70 Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue 71 To , after reading a Life and Letters . 73 Lady Clare 73 St. Agnes 74 Sir Galahad 75 To E. L. on his Travels in Greece 76 The Lord of Burleigh 76 Edward Gray 77 Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 77 A Farewell 78 The Vision of Sin 78 " Come not, when I am dead " SO The Eagle 80 "Move eastward, happy Earth, and leave ". . 80 " Break, break, break " SO The Beggar Maid 81 The Poet's Song si The Pkinoess : A Medley (Published 1847) 82 In Memokiam (Published 1850) 105 Maud, and otheu Poems (Published 1S55) :— Maud 129 The Brook : an Idyl 142 The Letters 143 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 144 The Daisy 146 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 147 Will 147 The Charge of the Light Brigade 147 Idyls op the King (Published 1S59-1872) :— Dedication 148 The Coming of Arthur 148 Gareth and Lynette 162 Geraint and Enid 162 Merlin and Vivien 175 ^^ancelot and Elaine 182 The Holy Grail 192 Pelleas and Ettarre 198 The Last Tournament 202 Guinevere 202 The Passing of Artliur 215 To the Queen 218 CONTENTS. Enoch Arden (Published 1864) 220 Additional Poems: — Aylmei-'s Field 227 Sea Dreams 232 The Grandmother 235 Northern Farmer 237 Tithonus 238 The Voyage 239 In the Valley of Cauteretz 240 The Flower 240 The Islet 240 Requiescat 240 The Sailor-boy 240 The Riuglet 240 A Welcome to Alexandra 241 Ode Buug at the Opening of the Inteina- tional Exhibition 241 A Dedication 241 The Captain : a Legend of the Navy 242 Three Sonnets to a Coquette 242 On a Mourner 242 Song. — " Lady, let the rolling drums " 243 Song. — " Home they brought him slain with spears " 243 Experiments : — Boiidicea 243 In Quantity 244 Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse 245 On Translations of Homer 246 MlBOKLI. ANEOUB : — The Northern Farmer. New Style 246 The Victim 247 Wages 248 The Higher Pantheism 248 "Flower in the Crannied Wall " 248 Lucretius 243 The Voice and the Peak 250 The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh 251 In the Garden at Swainston 251 Child-songs 251 The City Child 251 Minnie and Winnie 251 The Window ; or, Thu Sono of tuk Wrens (Pub- lished 1867) :— On the Hill 262 At the Window 252 Gone ! 252 Winter 252 Spring 252 The Letter 252 No Answer 252 No Answer 252 The Answer 252 Ay! 252 When ? 252 Marriage Morning 252 DISCARDED POEMS. TiMBUOToo (Cambridge Prize Poem, 1829) 254 PoRMS (Published in the Edition of 1830, and omit- ted in later editions) :— Elegiacs 266 The " How " and the " Why " 256 Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sen- sitive Mind not in Unity with Itself 25C The Burial of Love 258 To , "Sainted Juliet" 25S Song — " I' the glooming light " 258 Song. —"The liutwhite and the throstlecock" 258 Song.— "Every day hath its night" 2.5S Nothing will Die 2.')9 All things will Die 259 Hero to Leander 259 Page - The Mystic 260 The Grasshopper 260 Love, Pride, and Forgetfulness 260 Chorus in an Unpublished Drama, written very early 260 Lost Hope 261 The Tears of Heaven 261 Love and Sorrow 261 To a Lady Sleeping 261 Sonnet. — " Could I outwear " 261 Sonnet.— "Though Night hath climbed".. 261 Sonnet.—" Shall the hag Evil " 261 Sonnet. — "The pallid thunderstrickeu " 261 Love 262 ^ The Kraken 262 English War-song 262 National Song 262 Dualisms 263 We are Free 263 o; peovTCf 263 Por.MS (Published in the Edition of 1833, and omit- ted in later Editions) : — Sonnet. — "Mine be the strength of spirit". 263 To , "All good things" 263 Buonaparte 264 Sonnets 264 "O beauty, passing lieauty " 264 "But were I loved " 264 The Hesperides 264 Rosalind 265 Note to Rosalind 265 Song. — "Who can say " 265 Kate 265 Sonnet on the Polish Insurrection 266 Sonnet on the Russian Invasion of Poland.. 266 Sonnet. — "As when with downcast eyes ". 266 England and America in 1782 266 O Darling Room 266 To Christopher North 266 OocASioNAL Poems: — No More 267 Anacreontics 267 A Fragment 267 Sonnet "Me my own fate " 267 Sonnet " Check every outflash " 267 The Skipping-rope , 267 The New Timon and the Poets 267 Literary Squabbles 268 Stanzas. —" What time I wasted" 208 Sonnet to W. C. Macready 268 Britons, Guard Your Own 263 The Third of February, 1852 269 Hands All Round 269 The War 270 1865-1806 270 On a Spiteful Letter 270 Sonnet. — Alexander 270 Sonnet.— The Bridesmaid 270 " My life is full of weary days " 270 Additional verses to " God save the Queen " 271 Sonnet. — "There are three things" 271 Sonnet on Cambridge University 271 Lines. — " Here often, when a child " 271 QuEKN Mary (Published 1875) 273 Harold (Published 1877) 308 Show-day at Battle Abbey 308 Poems, by Two Brotuicrs (Published 1827) : — Introductory Lines 329 Stanzas 330 " In early youth I lost my sire " 330 Memory 330 "Yes— there be some gay souls who never weep " 331 CONTENTS. " Have ye not seeu the buoyiiut orb ?" 331 The Exile's Harp 331 " Why should we weep for those who die ?" 832 "Religion I tho' we seem to spurn" 332 Remorse 332 " Ou golden evenings, when the sun " 333 The Dell of E 333 My Brother 333 Antony to Cleopatra 334 " I wander in darkness and sorrow " 334 "To one whose hope reposed on thee ". . . . 334 The Old Sword 335 The Gondola 335 " We meet no more '" 335 Written by an Exile of Bassorah, while sail- ing down the Euphrates 335 Maria to her Lute, the Gift of her Dying Lover 336 The Vale of Bones 336 To Fancy 33T Boyhood 337 " Did not thy roseate lips outvie " 337 Huntsman's Song 33S Persia 338 Egypt 339 The Druid's Prophecies 339 Lines to one who entertained a light opin- ion of an eminent character 340 Swiss Song 340 Expedition of Nadir Shah into Hindostau.. 340 Greece 341 The Maid of Savoy 341 Ignorance of Modern Egypt 341 Midnight 341 " In summer, when all nature glows " 342 Scotch Song 342 "Borne on light wings of buoyant down". 342 Song 342 " The stars of yon blue placid sky " 343 Friendship 343 On the Death of my Grandmother " 343 "And ask ye why these s^ad tears stream?" 343 On Sublimity 343 The Deity 344 The Reign of Love 345 " 'Tis the voice of the dead " 345 Time : an Ode 345 God's Denunciations against Pharaoh-Ho- phra, or Apries 346 "All joyous in the realms of day" 346 The Battle-field 340 The Thunder-storm 346 The Grave of a Suicide 347 On the Death of Lord Byron 347 The Walk at Midnight 347 Mithridates presenting Berenice with the Cup of Poison 348 The Bard's Farewell 348 Epigram 348 Ou being asked for a simile, to illustrate the advantage of keeping the passions sub- servient to reason 348 Epigram on a Musician 349 The Old Chieftain 349 ApoUonius Rhodius's Complaint 349 The Fall of Jerusalem 349 Lamentation of the Peruvians 350 Short Eulogium on Homer 350 " A sister, sweet endearing name I" 350 " The sun goes down in the dark blue main " 351 "Still, mute, and motionless she lies" 351 "Oh! never may frowns and dissension molest" 351 On a Dead Enemy 351 Lines on hearing a description of the scen- ery of Southern America 351 The Duke of Alva's Observation on Kings. 352 Page " Ah ! yes, the lip may faintly smile " 352 "Thou camest to thy bower, my love " 352 To 352 The Passions 352 The High-priest to Alexander 353 " The dew, with which the eaily mead is drest" 353 On the Moonlight shining upon a Friend's Grave 353 A Contrast 353 Epigram 353 The Dying Christian 353 "Those worldly goods that, distant, seem " 354 " How gayly sinks the gorgeous sun within his golden bed " 354 " Oh I ye wild winds, that roar and rave ". . 354 Switzerland 354 A Glance 355 Babylon 355 " Oh ! were this heart of hardest steel "... 365 The Slighted Lover 356 " Cease, railer, cease ! unthinking man ".. . 356 Anacreontic 356 " In winter's dull and cheerless reign " 356 Sunday Mobs 356 Phrenology 357 Love 357 To 358 Song 358 Imagination 3.58 The Oak of the North .^. 358 Exhortation to the Greeks 360 King Charles's Vision 360 TuE Lover's Tale (Published 1833, 1879) 362 The Golden Supper 369 Ballads and othru Poems (Published 1880) : — To Alfred Tennyson, my Grandson 373 The Charge of the Heavy Brigade 373 "The Revenge" 374 The Defence of Lucknow 375 Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice. . . 375 De Profundis 377 Two Greetings 377 The Human Cry 377 The First Quarrel 377 Rizpah 379 The Northern Cobbler 380 The Sisters 382 The Village Wife ; or, The Entail 384 Sonnet to the Rev. W. H. Brooktield 386 In the Children's Hospital 386 Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobhani 387 Columbus ... 388 The Voyage of Maeldune 390 To Virgil 392 Translations, etc. Battle of Brunauburh 392 To the Princess Frederica of Hanover on her Marriage 393 Sir John Franklin 393 To Dante 393 Achilles over the Trench 394 Prefatory Sonnet to the Nineteenth Century 394 Sonnet. — Montenegro 394 Sonnet to Victor Hugo 394 TuE Cup (Published 1884) 896 TuE Faloon (Published 1884) 403 Latkst Poems (uncollected) : — Despair 409 Midnight, June 30, 1879 411 Early Spring 411 " Frater ave atque vale " 411 POEMS. (published 1830.) TO THE QUEEN. Rf,verei>, beloved — O yon that hold A uobler office upou earth Than arms, or power of brain or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria,— since yonr Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that uttered nothing base; And should your greatness, and the cure That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there ; Then— while a swee'er music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, • Where all about your palace-walls The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say, "She wrought her people lasting good; "Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, ■ and Queen ; " And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet " By shaping some august decree. Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad based upon her people's will, And compassed by the inviolate sea." March, 1851. CLARIBEL. A MELODY. Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die. Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony. Where Claribel low-lieth. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone : At midnight the moon cometh, And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth. The callow throstle lispeth, The slumberous wave outwelleth^ The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. LILIAN. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Clasps her tiny hands above me. Laughing all she can ; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Liliau. 2. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs She, looking thro' and thro' me Thoroughly to undo me. Smiling, never speaks: So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple From beneath her gather'd wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies. Prythee weep. May Lilian ! Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth: Prythee weep. May Liliau. 10 ISABEL.— MARIANA. A courage to eudure and to obey : A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, C'rown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 3. The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. Till iu its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wny ward brother ; A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite. With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — Shadow forth thee ; — the world hath not auothei (Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a fluish'd chasten'd purity. MARIANA. ** Mariana in the moated frrangje." Measure for Miasurt. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one aud all : The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange; Uulifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary. He Cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead!" Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. 1. EvEB not down-dropped nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, ^ Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts iu the translucent fane Of her still spirit ; locks not wide dispread, Madonua-wise on either side her head ; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. Revered Isabel, the crown and head. The stately flower of female fortitude. Of perfect wifehood, and pure lowlihead. 2. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws ; au accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel iu distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicions pride; ' Her tears fell with the dews at even , Her tears fell ere ihe dews were dried." TO -.—MADELINE. H Her tears fell with the dews at even • Her tears fell ere the clews were dr'.ecl ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by. And glanced athwart the glooming flats, siie only said, "The night is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" Upon the middle of the uight. Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light : From the dark fen the oxen's low- Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 1 would that I were dead 1" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackeu'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small. The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway. All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the roimdiug gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro. She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low. And wild wiuds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" All day within the dreamy house. The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd. Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper flocrs, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She sa'.d, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof Tne poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day \V^as sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead !" TO Ct.EAR-HEAT)Ei> friend, whose joyful scorn. Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwaiu The knots that tangle human creeds. The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine: If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou wilt not live in vain. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit. Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Sh»)t thro' and thro' with cunning words. 3. Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 'Thy kingly intellect shall feed. Until she be an athlete bold. And weary with a Auger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speei ; Like that strange angel which of old. Until the breaking of the light. Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night. And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Peuuel. MADELINE. Tuoc art not steeped in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine. Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers. And airy forms of flitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Revealings deep and clear are thiue Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know Whether smile or f^'own be fleeter? Whether smile or frown he sweeter. Who may know? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine. Like little clouds, sun-fringed, are thine. Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thiue ; Smiling, frowning, evermore. Thou art perfect in love-lore. Ever varying Madeline. 3. A subtle, sudden flame. By veering passion fann'd. About thee breaks and dances When I would kiss thy hand, 12 SONGS.— RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown, But when I turn away. Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wrauglest •, But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entauglest In a goldeu-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss. If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously. Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG.— THE OWL. WuEN cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl iu the belfry site- When merry milkmaids click the latcb, And rarely smells the new-mowu hay. And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay. Twice or thrice his roundelay : Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. SECOND SONG. TO THE SAMIi. 1. Thy tuwhits are luli'd I wot. Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight, That her voice untuneful grown, Wears all day a fainter tone. I would mock thy chaunt anew , But I Gaunot mimic it ; Kot a whit of thy tuwhoo. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. Thee to woo to thy tiiwhit. With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. When the breeze of a joyful dawu blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me. The forward-flowing tide of time : And many a sheeny summer morn, Adowu the Tigris I was boime, By Biigdat's shrines of fretted gold, High-walled t,'ardeus green and old; True Mussulman was I and sworn. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue ; By garden porches on the brim. The costly doors flung open wide. Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, And broider'd sofas on each side: In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid, Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guarA The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms uumowu, which crept Adown to where the water slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, beariug on My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, Until another night iu night I enter'd, from the clearer light, Imbower'd vanits of pillar'd palm. Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome Of hollow boughs.— A goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical. Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-color'd shells Wander'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazeu urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far off, and where the lemon-grove In closest coverture upsprung. The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he snug ; Not he: but something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love. Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd: the solemn palm.'* were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : A sudden splendor from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, And, flowing rapidly between ODE TO MEMORY. 13 Their interspaces, counterchanged Tlie level laite with diamoud-plots Of darli and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that uuder-flame: So, leaping lightly from the boat. With silver anchor left afloat, In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — A realm of pleasance, many a mound. And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound. And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks. Thick rosaries of scented thorn. Tall orient shrubs, and obeli^;ht against thy face, Wliile his locks a-dropping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays, And ye talk together still, lu the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, "The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things." Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty: that the dull Saw no divinity in grass. Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; Tlien looking as 't were in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by: And with a sweeping of the arm. And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolred his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by hour He canvassed human mysteries, And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depressed as he were meek. Himself unto himself he sold: Upon himself himself did feed: Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. And other than his form of creed. With chisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET. Tar. poet in a golden clime was born. With golden stars above ; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will. An open scroll, Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame. Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue. And of so fierce a flight. From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. Filling with light 2 And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower. The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew, Where'er they fell, behold. Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold. And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing sprint Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd ujion the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark ujicurl'd. Rare sunrise flow'd. And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her I)eautiful bold brow. When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies : But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred namci And when she spake. Her words did gather thunder as they ran. And as the lightning to the thunder Wliich follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder. So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world. THE POET'S MIND. Vex not thon the poet's mind With thy shallow wit : Vex not thou the poet's mind ; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever. Flowing like a crystal river ; Bright as light, and clear as wind. 2. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; All the place is holy ground ; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of tho hiurel-slirubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel checr. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. THE SEA-FAIRIES.— THE DESERTED HOUSE. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder ; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love ; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull ; .So keep where you are : you are foul v^'ith sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE SEA-FAIRIES. Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Betwiyt the green briuk and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in lear, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the l)illow the fountain calls ; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls Prom wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: () hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; Here it is only the mew that wails ; We will sing to you all the day: Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily merrily carol the gales. And the spangle dances in bight and bay. And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free ; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; Hither, come hither and see ; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the color of cove and cave, And sweet shall your welcome be: O hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words = O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twaug of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. ]. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side. Leaving door and windows wide. Careless tenants they ! 2. All within is dark as night: In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door. So frequent on its hinge before. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. '* Life and Thought have gone away Side bv aide." THE DYING SWAN.— A DIRGE.— LOVE AND DEATH. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was buikled of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away: for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious — A great and distant city— have bought A mansion incori'uptible. Would they could have sta3'ed with us 1 THE DYING SWAN. The plain was gi'assy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan. And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on. And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose. And white against the cold-white sky. Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; Above in the wind was the swallow. Chasing itself at its own wild will. And far thro' the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept. Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 3. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole ; Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear. But anon her awfii'. Jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people rejoice. With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among. Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE. 1. Now is done thy long day's work ; Fold thy palms across thy breast. Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Lei them rave. Thee nor carketh care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chanteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Crocodiles wept tears for thee; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rav€. Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, Bramble-roses, faint and pale. And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 6. The gold-eyed kingcups fine; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch a? thiro, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. r. Wild words wander here and there; God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH. What time the mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; When, turning round a cassia, full in view Death, walking all alone beneath a yew. And talking to himself, first met his sight: "You must begone," said Death, "these walks are mine." Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; Yet ere he parted said, "This hour is thine: Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shadow pnsseth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reigu forever over alL" 18 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA.— CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE MERMAN. THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriaua. There is no rest for me below, Oriaua. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, OriaTia. Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriaua : Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriaua. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriaua, While blissl'ul tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriaua, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriaua. She stood upon the castle wall, Oriaua : She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana : She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foemau tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriaua : The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriaua. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh ! deathfnl stabs were dealt apace. The battle deepeu'd in its place, Oriaua ; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. They shonld have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriaua ! How could I rise aud come away, Oriana ? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — They should have trod me into clay, Oriaua. O breaking heart that will not break, Oriaua ! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana : What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, Oriana? I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skias, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriaua. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriaua. O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! Oriaua ! happy thou that liest low, Oriaua ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. When Norland wiuds pipe down the sea, Oriana, 1 walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die aud come to thee, Oriaua. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas ; Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower Wash'd with still rains aud daisy-blossomed : Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE MERMAN. 1. Who would be A merman bold. Sitting alone. Singing alone Under the sea. With a crown of gold. On a throne? 2. I would be a merman bold ; I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; I M'ould fill the sea-halls with a voice of power But at night I would roam abroad aud play With the mermaids in aud out of the rocks. Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; Aud holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, Aud kiss them again till thoy kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly ; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight aud high, Chasing each other merrily. 3. There wotild be neither moon nor star- But the wave would make music above us afar- Low thunder and light in the magic night— Neither moon nor star. THE MERMAID.— SONNET TO J. M. K.— THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 1!) We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop aud cry All uight, merrily, merrily ; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All uight, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea. And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oil ' what a happy lil'e were mine Under the hoDow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MERMAID. 1. Wno would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea. In a golden curl With a comb of pearl. On a throne ? 2. I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" I would comb my hair till my ringlets would foil. Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, Aud I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound. Over the throne In the midst of the hall : Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the ball where I sate, aud look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die iu their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, Aud lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen iu and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek. And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list. Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me. Woo me, and win me, and marry me. In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently. All looking up for the love of me. Aud if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the soa. All looking down for the love of me. SONNET TO J. M. K. Mt hope and heart is with thee— thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast: Our dusted velvets have much need of thee ; Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; But spurr'd at heart with fleriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. POEMS. (Published 1832.) [This division of this volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the poems ha added, which, with one exception, were written in 1833.] ! been considerahlv altered. Others have been THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART I. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye. That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the fleld the road runs by To many-towered Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below. The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver. Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd. Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses ; aud unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand i Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the laud. The Lady of Shalott? 20 THE LADY OF SIIALOTT. 13 come upon me, The Lady of Sbalott.' Only reapers, reapiiij? early In among the bearded barley. Hear a song that, echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary. Piling sheaves In uplands airy. Listening, whispers, "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the enrse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year. Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls. And there the surly village-chnrls, And the red cloaks of market girls,- Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad. Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two; She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead. Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half-sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. PART III. A BOW-8UOT from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A redcross knight forever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field. Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Gala.xy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung. Beside remote Shalott. All in the bine unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shoue the saddle-leather. MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. A? often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, borne bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; Prom underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, " Tirru lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom. She saw the helmet aud the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide .- The mirror crack'd from side to side ; " The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning. The broad stream in his banks complaiuiuj Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote T.'ie Ladij of Hhalult. And down the river's dim expanse- Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away. The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noi:?es of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willow hills and fields among. They heard her singing her last song. The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mouniful, holy. Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot ; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Uuder tower and balcony. By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, A corse between the houses high. Silent into Camelot, Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight aud burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name. The. Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the, sound of royal cheer: And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space. He said, " She has a lovely face : God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. WtTii one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines. Close-latticed to the brooding heat, Aud silent in its dusty vines: A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before. And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But "Ave Mary," made she moan, And " Ave Mary," night and morn. And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. To live forgotten, aud love forlorn," She, as her carol sadder grew. From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left aud right, and made appear. Still-lighted in a secret shriue. Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And "Ave Mary," was her moan, "Madonna, sad is night and morn ;" And " Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn." Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orauge o'er the sea. Low on her kuees herself she cast. Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; Complaining, "Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load," And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. "Is this the form," she made her mean, "That won his praises night and moru : And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." Nor bird would sing, nor lamb wonld bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault. But day increased from heat to heat. On stony drought and steatning salt ; Till now at noon she slept again. And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass. And runlets babbling down the gleu. She breathed in sleep a lower moan. And murmuring, as at night and morn. She thought, "My spirit is here aloue, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. She woke : the babble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white ; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, " Sweet Mother, let me not here aloue Live forgotten and die forlorn." 22 ELEANORE, And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door. To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone forevermore." "O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn. Is this the end to be left alone. To live forgotten, and die forlorn !" But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door, To look iuto her eyes and say, " But thou Shalt be aloue no more." And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased. And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. " The day to night," she made her moau, "The day to night, the night to morn. And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn." At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea ; Backward the latticed-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. And deepening through the silent spheres. Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, " The night comes on that knows not morn. When I shall cease to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn." ELEANORE. 1. Thy dark eyes open'd not. Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air. For there is nothing here. Which, from the outward to the inward brought, IVIoulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighborhood, Thou wert born, ou a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades. But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought. At the moment of thy birth. From old well-heads of haunted rills. And the hearts of purple hills. And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. The choicest wealth of all the earth. Jewel or shell, or starry ore. To deck thy cradle, Elefmore. Or the yellow-banded bees. Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze. Fed thee, a child, lying alone. With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd- A glorious child, dreaming alone. In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, IVith the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. Who may minister to thee ? iJummer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded Ou golden salvers, or it may be. Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and bliuded With many a deep-hued bell-like flowev Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleiiuore ! 4. How may full-sail'd verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleiinore ? The luxuriant, symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleiinore ? Every turn and glance of thine. Every lineament divine, Eleiinore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single. Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, Thonght and motion mingle. Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as the' They were modulated so To an unheard melody. Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; Who may express thee, Eleiinore? I stand before thee, Eleanore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold. Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee forevermore. Serene, imperial Eleiiuore ! 6, Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep; Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light: .\s tho' a star, in iumost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd— -then as slowly fade again. And draw itself to what it was before, So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleiinore. 7. As thunder-clouds, that, hung on high, Roofd the world with doubt and fear. THE MILLERS DAUGHTER. 23 Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his lire and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight. And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the self-same intlnence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand. Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore. Serene, imperial Eleiiuorc. 8. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconflned, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; Or, in a shadowy saloon. On silken curtains half reclined ; I watch thy grace; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face; And a languid tire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly : soon From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife. My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my color, 1 lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I wotdd be dying evermore. So dying ever, Eleiinore. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size. And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three lingers round the old silver cup- I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest — gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad. So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by-and-by. There's somewhat flows to us in life. But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth f I least siiould breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire. Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so lorig. Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin-song. And oft I heard the tender dove In flrry woodlands making moan ; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream— Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise. The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones. Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that. When after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their bads Were glistening to the breezy blue; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you. But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read. An echo from a measured strain. Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes. The phantom of a silent song. That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles die ; They past into the level flood. And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, yon had set, That morning, on the casement's edge A long green box of mignonette. And you were leaning from the ledge ; And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright- Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should d'e an early death ; For love possess'd the atmosphere, And mi'd the breast with purer breath My mother thought. What ails the boy? For I was alter'd, and began 24 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beueath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. The dark round of the dripping wheel. The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights began to blow. And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away. And full at heart of trembling hope. From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill: And "by that lamp," I thought, "she sits!" The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleamed to the flying moon by flts. "O that I were beside her now! will she answer if I call ? would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all ?" Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; Aud, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing with'n ; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night. And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak. The lanes, you know, were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day ; And so it was— half-sly, half-shy. You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought 1 might have look'd a little higher; And I was young — too young to wed : "Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; Tliis dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. 1 loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well : And dews, that would have fall'u in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flntterings. The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. Ah, well— but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter. And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And 1 would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist; Aud her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs, Aud 1 would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be uuclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love siiells — True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth. You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth. And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone. Like mine owu life to me thou art, Where Past- and Present, wound in one. Do make a garland for the heart : So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot. The day, when in the chestnut-shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. Love that hath us i'. the net. Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love ? for we forget : Ah, no ! no ! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife; Round my true heart thine arms entwine : My other dearer life in life. Look thro' my very soul with thine ! Untouch'd with any shade of years. May those kind eyes forever dwell 1 They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I kuew them well Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, The still aftcction of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again. And left a want unknown before ; Although the loss that brought us pain. That loss but made us love the mort, FATIMA.— CENONE. With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee : But that God bless thee, dear— who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which uo words can tiud. Arise, and let us wander forth. To yon old mill across the wolds ; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And tires your narrow casement giass, Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA. O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sght, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers : 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : I roll'd among the tender flovvers- I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name. From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. Love, O fire I once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro* My lips, as sunlight driuketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know ^ He Cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. Ill my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon. Faints like a dazzled morning moou. The wind sounds like a silver wire. And from beyond the noon a tire Is pour'd upon the hills, and uigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight. Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently. All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I will possess him or will die. 1 will grow round him in his place, GroYif, live, die looking on his face. Die, Jying clasp'd in his embrace. CENONE. Thkre lies a vale in Ina, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich In flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in frout The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's columu'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noou Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sing to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat in the upper cliflf. "O mother Ida, manj'-fonntain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. The purple flowers droop: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. "O mother Ida, many-fouutain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold-crown'd snake ! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may bft That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills. Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hoovefl, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far-oflf the torrent call'd me from the cleft : Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone : white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's : And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens W^hen the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listeii'd, the full flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. " 'My own CEnone, Beautiful-brow'd ffinone, my own soul. Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engrav'n " For the most fair," would seem to award it thina As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' ' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He prest the blossom of hie lips to mine, 26 (ENONE. And added, 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon Rose feud, with question uuto whom 'twere due : But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : cue silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piny sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. And at their feet the crocus brake like liie, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro.' "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I beard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn. Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll. From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel lu glassy bays among her tallest towers.' "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all : Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom— from all neighbor crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Pail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me. From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attaiu'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. " 'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. These three aloue lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law. Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou flud me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' "Here she ceased, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, Give it to Pallas !' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! "O mother Ida, many-fountaiu'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laughed : I shut my sight for fear But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. As she withdrew into the golden cloud. And I was lei't alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be aloue until I die. • "Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest— why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told, me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-filling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines. My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Poster'd the callow eaglet— from beneath Whose thick mysterious bows in the dark morn The panther's roar came mufiled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, ■Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. The Abominable, that uninvited came THE SISTERS.— TO -THE PALACE OF ART. luto the fair Pelei'an bauquet-hall, Aud cast the goldeu fruit upou the board, Aud bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods aud men. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. In this green valley, under this greeu hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Seal'd it .with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on*this earth. Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. "O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for tiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more. Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upou wool. I dimly see My far-oif doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born : her child ! a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! "O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest then- shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise aud go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A lire dauces before her, aud a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know Thai, wneresoe'er I am by night aud day. All earth and air seem only burning fire." THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, aud she fell ; Therefore i-evenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see ! She died : she went to burning flame : She mi.iv'd her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weekB and mouths, aud early and late. To win his love I lay in wait : O the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast ; I bade him come ; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring iu turret aud tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see ! I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: HIb ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret aud tree. I hated him with the hate of hell. But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see I I rose up in the silent night : I made my dagger sharp aud bright. The wind is raving iu turret and tree. As half-asleep his breath he drew. Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. O the Earl was fair to see ! I curl'd and comb'd his comely head. He look'd so grand when he was dead. Tlie wind is blowiug in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet. And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to see I TO WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I SKND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large iu heart aud brain, That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind,) Aud Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters That doat upon each other, friends to man. Living together under the same roof, Aud never can be sunder'd without tears, Aud he that shuts Love out, iu turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I jiriT.T my soul a lordly pleasure-house. Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse. Dear soul, for all is well." A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright Prom level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And "while the world runs round and round,"! said, " Reigu thou apart, a quiet king. Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which ray soul made answer readily: "Trust me, iu bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me. So royal-rich and wide." Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fouutaiu-foam. And round the cool greeu courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. 28 THE PALACE OF ART. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea aud sands. From those four jets four cm-rents in one swell Across the mountain stream'd below lu misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torreut-bow. , And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon My palace with unbliuded eyes. While this great bow will waver in the sun, Aud that sweet iuceuse rise ?" For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, And, while day sank or mounted higher. The light aiirial gallery, goldeu-rail'd, Burut like a fringe of Are. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd aud traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, Aud tipt with frost-like spires. Full of long-sounding corridors it was. That over-vaulted grateful gloom. Thro' which the live-long day my soul did pass Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood. All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood Aud change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue. Showing a gaudy summer-morn, J Where with puft"'d cheek the belted huuter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One geem'd all dark and red,— a tract of sand. And some one pacing there alone, Who paced forever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb aud fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowiug caves, Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain. The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. And hoary to the wind. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher /jU barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags. And highest, snow aud fire. And one, an English home,— gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees. Softer than sleep,— all things in order stored, A haunt of aucieut Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. As fit for every mood of mind. Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiliug, babe iu arm. Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea. Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel looked at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, with hands aud eyes That said. We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a footfall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausooiau king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice. The thnnie of Indian Cama slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, From off' her shoulder backward borne : From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town. Nor these alone: but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there. Not less thau life, design'd. Then in the towers I placed great bells that swunj . Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong. Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million w-rinkles carved his skin; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast. From cheek and throat aud chiu. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift, And anirels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale THE PALACE OF ART. " Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queena.*' Of this wide world, tfie times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd on'vard, prick'd with goads and stings; Uerc play'd a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings ; Here rose an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure. And here once more like some sick man decliu'd. And trusted any cure. But over these she trod: and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne : She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame Two godlike faces gazed below; Phato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, The first of those who know. And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change. Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes. And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone. More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth. Joying to feel herself alive. Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five ; Communing with herself: "All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me." She— when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils — Lit light in wreaths and anadems. And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems, To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, " I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. " O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! shapes and hues that please me well! silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dw.ell ! "O God-like isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain. What time I watch the darkening droves of swino That range on yonder plain. "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; And oft some brainless devil enters in. And drives them to the deep." Then of the moral instinct would she prate. And of the rising from the dead. Asters by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; And at the last she said: "I take possessiA of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. 1 sit as God holding no form of creed. But contemplating all." 30 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years Slie prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote "JVIene, raeue," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. "What ! is not this my place of strength," she said, "My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?" But iu dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes ; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; Left on the shore ; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orl) of moving Circumstance Roll'd round by one fix'd law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. "No voice," she shriek'd iu that lone hall, " No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all !" She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally. And nothing saw, for her despair. But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere ; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime: Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound Of humaji footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walking In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea ; slow, And knows not if it be thunder or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found A new land, but I die." She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?" So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away, " Make me a cottage iu the vale," she said, " Where I may mourn and pray. "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt." LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere yon went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name. Your pride is yet no mate for mine. Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden iu her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara "Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind. She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. THE MAY QUEEN. 31 You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you lix'd a vacant stare, Aud slew him with your uoble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, Prom yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener aud his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease. You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as thsse Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the ori)han-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. THE ]\f A Y QUEEN. ' You must wikb an i all i e earlj, call me early, mother dear." Yotr must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Ma-garet and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of (lowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : "They say his heart is breaking, mother— what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 3 32 NEW- YEAR'S EVE. Little Eftie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wnv'n its wavy bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like tire in swamps aud hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, Aud the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May^ All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' th& May. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For 1 would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould aud think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, aud all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills ; the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. " Last May we inaile a crown of (lowers, we hart n merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May.' CONCLUSION. 38 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light ■you'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pooiu You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when yon pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look rpon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green. She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor ; Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born, All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass away before, and }'et alive I am ; And m the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year i To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there » blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in ; Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meets But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And E&e on the other side, and 1 will tell the sigu. All in the wild March-morning I heard the ansrels call : It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees bejian to whisper, and the wind began to roll. And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 34 CONCLUSION. Me, and I i in.t v.uir hill 11 tell the For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effle dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. And then did something speak to me— I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping: and 1 said, "It's not for them: it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once a^ain it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now 1 think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But Effle, you must comfort her when I am past away. * And say to Robin a ki There's nianv worthier thuu I. nd tell him not t.i fret ; uld make him huppy yet." THE LOTOS-EATERS. 35 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move uo longer now, and there his light may shine- Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan f why make we such ado i For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effle come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATERS. " Courage !" he said, and pointed toward the laud, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soou." In the afternoon they came unto a land. In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far oft", three mountain-tops. Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. Stood sunset-flushed : and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd Vifith palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale: A land where all things always seem'd the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale. Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far ftir away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand. Between the sun and mo(m upon the shore ; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more;" And all at once they sang, " Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." CHORIC SONG. 1. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Thau tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes: Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- ful skies. Here are cool mosses deep. And thro' the moss the ivies creep. And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness. And utterly consumed with sharp distress. While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan. Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings. And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows iu slumber's holy balm : Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, " There is no joy but calm !" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown oi things ? Lo ! in the middle of the wood. The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud W^ith winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place. Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 4. Hateful is the dark-blue sky. Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life ; ah, why Should life all labor be ? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace ■M A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. In ever climbiug up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, diuk death, or dreamful ease. 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day. To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again iu memory. With those old faces of our infancy Heap'cl over with a mound of grass. Two haudfuls of white dust, shut in au uru of brass ! C. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath sufter'd change ; For surely now our household hearths are cold : Our sous inherit us: our looks arc strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, paiu on pain. Long labor unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 7. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still. Beneath a heaven dark and holy. To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald-color'd water falling Thro' mauy a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! Only to hear and see the fiir-oflf sparkling brine. Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free. Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of man- kind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts aie hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- ing world : Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and tiery sands, Clanging lights, and flaming towns, and sinking skips, aud praying hands. But they smile, they And a music centred in a dole- ful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient talc of wrong. Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil. Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, aud oil ; Till they perish and they suffer— some, 'tis whis- pered—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysiau valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor iu the deep mid-ocean, wind aud wave and oar ; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I KEAD, before my eyelids dropt their shade, " The Legend of Good Women," long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below ; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breatt Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every laud I saw, wherever light illumineth. Beauty and anguish walking hand iu hand The downward slope to death. Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, Aud I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars; And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoof«5 And I saw crowds in colnmn'd sanctuaries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on roolb Of marble palaces; Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; Lances in ambush set ; And high shrine -doors burst thro' with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire -• White surf wind-scatter' d over sails ana masis, And ever climbing higher ; A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 37 Squadrons aud squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults witli iron grates, Aud hush'd seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds aud tides the self-same way. Crisp foam-flakes scud aloug the level saud, Toru from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak. As when a great thought strikes aloug the brain, And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; And then, I know uot how, All those sharp fancies by down-lapsing thought Stream'd onward, lost their edges, aud did creep Koll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. At last methought that I had wandered far In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew. The maiden splendors of the morning star Shook iu the steadfast blue. Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean Up(m the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green. New from its silken sheath. The dim red morn had died, her journey done, Aud with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air. Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine tnrn'd Their humid arms festooning tree to tree. And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks dreuch'd in dew, Leadiug from lawn to lawn. The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear under-tone Thriird thro' mine ears iu that unblissful clime, "Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time." At length I saw a lady within call. Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech ; she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes. Spoke slowly in her place. " I had great beauty ; ask thon not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." "No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died." I answer'd free; aud turning I appeal'd To one that stood beside. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. To her full height her stately stature draws ; "My youth," she said, "was blasted with a curse: This woman was the cause. "I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears ' My father held his hand upon his face : I, blinded with my tears, " Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kiugs with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die. "The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore; The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat; Touch'd ; and I knew no more." Whereto the other with a downward brow : "I would the white cold heavy-pluuging foam, Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, Then when I left my home." Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : Sadden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here, That I may look on thee." I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; A queen, Avith swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burniug gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : "I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man Once, like the moon, I made "The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humor ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood: That makes my only woe. "Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend. Where is Mark Antony? "The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by God: The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. "We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn'd Canopns. O my life In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife, "And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die! "Aud there he died: and when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my I'car Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left ? look here !" 38 A DKEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a hxugh, Showing the aspic's bite.) "I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name forever !— lying robed and crown'd. Worthy a Roman spouse." Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight- Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and flll'd with light The interval of sound. Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn. And singing clearer than the crested bird, That claps his wings at dawn. " The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. "The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams di- vine : All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine." As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn of some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow ; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : " Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times I would be born and die. "Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. "My God, my land, my father, — these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. "And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy Leaving the dance and song, " Leaving the olive-gardens far below. Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. " The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den ; We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken'd glen, "Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. " When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! "It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. Sweetens the spirit still. "Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her. She lock'd her lips ; she left me where I stood : "Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively. As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. And the old year is dead. "Alas ! alas '." a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me: "Turn and look on me; I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair. If what I was I be. " Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night." She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'u to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark. Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France ; Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again 1 But no two dreams are like. MARGAllET.— THE BLACKBIRD.— THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 39 As wheu a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears ; Because all words, tho' cnll'd with choicest art. Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faiiits, faded by its heat. MARGARET. 1. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale. Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek. Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound. Like the tender amber round. Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night. You love, remaining peacefully. To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea. Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright : Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plautagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the fallen axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well ? A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, And less aerially blue But ever trembling thro' the dew Of daiuty-woful sympathies. 5. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady. And faint, rainy lights are seen. Moving in the leafy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves. Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. THE BLACKBIRD. O Blackbird ! sing me something; well : While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine : the range of lawn and park : The uuuetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still. With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the Summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarsi I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue. Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die : You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily. Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true, true-lovt, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us. Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. 40 TO J. S. " Toll ye the church-bell sml and And tread softly and apeak low, For the old year Ilea a-dyin^." Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with yon, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes 1 over the snow 1 heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Sriake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you; What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack 1 our friend is gone. Close tip his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on tiie floor, my frieud, And a new face at the door, my frieud, A new face at the door. TO J. S. Tun wind, that beats the mountain. Wows Moie softly round the open wold. And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made. Or else I had not dare to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are uurted. Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off", and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile— nor speak to me Ouce more. Two years his chair is seea Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer ; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc YOU ASK ME WHY.— LOVE THOU THY LAND. 41 or heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust 1 honor and his livin;? worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than 1 : I will not tell you not to weej). And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit tliro' the biain, I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward paiu." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done — to weep or not to weep. I will not say " God's ordinance Of death is blown in every wind ;" For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun. And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat. Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth. How should I soothe you anyway. Who miss the brother of your youth ? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both : yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better 1 should cease ; Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace ; Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. YotT ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist. Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas? It is the land that freemen till. That sober-suited Freedom chose. The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown. Where fi«edom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent; Where faction seldom gathers head. But by degrees to fulness wrought. The strength of some dift'usive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime. And individual freedom mute ; Tho' Power should make from land to laud The name of Britain tiebly great — Tho' every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand- Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. Wild wind '. I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before 1 die The palms and temples of the South. Of old sat Freedom on the heights. The tliunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry liglits: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-niiud. But fragments of her mighty voice Come rolling on the wind. Then slept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race. And part by part to men reveal'd The fulness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down. Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown : Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine. Make bright our days and light our dreams Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes 1 Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought Trne love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends. For English natures, freemen, friends. Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time. Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for dny. Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 42 THE GOOSE. Make knowledge circle with the wiuds: But let her herald, Revereuce, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of meu aud growth of minds. Watch what main-currents draw the years: Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words over-much ; Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master'd by some modern term ; Not swift or slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds — Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature, also, cold aud warm, Aud moist and dry, devising long. Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. Meet is It changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, Aud work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, h.ard to shape in act ; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now v/e hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom — The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school ; Phantoms of other forms of rule. New Majesties of mighty States — The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join'd. Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind ; A wind to puff" your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. O yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war— If New and Old, disastrous feud. Must ever shock, like armed foes, Aud this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame aud guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled laud, like Peace Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay. Would serve his kind in deed and word. Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away— Would love the gleams of good that brokt Prom either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, aud firmly, and one stroke To-morrow yet would reap to-daj', As we bear blossom of the dead ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. THE GOOSE. I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm. He utter'd rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. It is a stormy season." She caught the white goose by the leg. A goose — 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pcl^ Aud rau to tell her neighbors ; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labors. And feeding high, and living soft. Grew plump and able-bodied ; Lentil the grave churchwarden dofiTd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder. It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, Aud hurl'd the pan and kettle. " A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer." Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat-, Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer, The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamor. As head and heels upon the floor They floundered all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather : He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning ; " So keep yon cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning." THE EPIC. 43 ' Aa head and heel8 upon the floor They floundered all together, There strode a stranger to the door.*' The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder; And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger !" ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. (Published 1842.) f A few poems in thia division were inserted later.] THE EPIC. At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — The game of forfeits done— the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat rouud the wassail-bowl. Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, How all the old honor had from Christmas gone. Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump'd the ice into three several stars. Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism ; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, "at home was little left. And n(me abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." "And I," quoth Everard, "by tne wassail-bowl." "Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way At college : but another which you had — I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, " he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books"— And then to me demanding why? " O, sir. He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing— that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, " Why take the style of those heroic times ? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times ; and why should any man Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I." Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth. And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; 44 MOKTE D'ARTHUK. For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Fieshmeu : then at my request He brought it; and the poet, little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result. MORTE DARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man. Had falTu in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. And bore him to a chapel nigh the lield, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren laud. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: " The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep— the nieu I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — "^~ Tiio' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. Clothed in while samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword — and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy best will all perform at full. Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. FoBP up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white eamite." MORTE D'AETHUR. 4r, nid kuights, and over them the sea-wind sung Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down tiy zig-zag paths, and jnts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled wi'.h diamond studs, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: 'but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur couceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags. That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded king. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : "Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen or what 'hast heard?" .\nd answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ■" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wHd water lapping on tee iirag." To whom replied King Arthur, faiut and pale : "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. Not rendering true answer, as beseeiu'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hautl, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thin? I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me w>rd." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the nioro, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd 'n thought. ; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud. "And if indeed I oast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost forever from the earth. Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,' Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprotitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept. Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms. Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honor and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. And hid Excalibur the second time. And so strode back slow to the w(mnded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : " What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying Icing, Laid widow'd of the power in his eve That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest left of all my knights. In whom should meet the offices of all. Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. And the third time may prosper, get thee heuce : But, if thou spaie to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay tliee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brai.d Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in au arch. Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful. And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my pui-pose, for I never saw. Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I look'd again, behold an arm. Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in tlie mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : " My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone, Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew t'r.e languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place ot tombs. But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard. Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick ' I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. Beneath them : and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately form.* Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these itlhree Queeus with crowns of gold— and from thciii rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 4(! MORTE D'ARTHUR. All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colorless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light hath led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole rouni) taisle is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world ; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge; "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, " Laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And called him by his name." And fill his greaves and enlsses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne— were parch'd with dust; <0r, clotted into points and hanging loose, Wix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to piumc a star of tournament. Shot thro' the Jists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of iadies and of kings. Uheu joudiy cried the bold Sir Bedivere, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have dons May He within himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again. Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Pise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain. If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. ft Both for themselves and those who call them frieud? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am gointi; a long way With these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To ttie island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer .sea. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan — That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkuess, flared and fell : At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound. And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we Sat rapt : it was the toue with which he read — Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; I know not : but we sitting, as I said. The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, " There now — that's nothiug !" drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log. That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores. Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again: he cannot die." Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated— " Come again, and thrice as fair;" And, further inland, voices echoed — " Come With all good things, and war shall be uo more." At this a hundred bells began to peal. That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. Tuis morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he. Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ;— Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit— oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons. The summer pilot of an ejnpty heart Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 4 Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sittiug with us then, "When will i/uu paint like this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) "'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceiveO, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March." And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go and see The. Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, hlooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it la sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; And, sitting mufHed iu dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minstei- clock; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream. That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lives Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he^ So blunt in memory, so old at heart. At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress ol the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is aiso true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged sieeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds Forever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward; but all else of Heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. And May with me from head to heel. And now. As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood Leaning his horns into the neighbor field. And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy. But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right. The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; The redcap whistled; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me. 48 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER " Hear how the bushes echo ! by mj' life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Tbiuk you they slug Like poets, from the van'ty of song? Or have they auy sense of why they sing f And would they praise the heavens for what they have ?" And I made answer, " Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love. That only love were cause enough for praise." Lightly he langh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd. We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; And one warm gust, fuli-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. "Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house." He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, " Look ! look !" Before he ceased I turu'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught. And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly li>wer, trembled on her waist — Ah, happy shade— and still went wavering down. But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt. And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and suuu'd Her violei eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade. She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turu'd Into the world without; till close at hand. And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her: " Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thir.e." She look'd : but all Suffused wlih blushes — neither self-possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that. Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. And moved away, and left me, statue-like. In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Siw her no more, altho' I linu;er'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken' d cedar in the du^k. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. "Now," said he, "will yon climb the top of Art. Yon cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,— the Master, Love, k more ideal Artist he than all." So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom. Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving— such a noise of life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon riram'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchmen peal The sliding season : all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odors on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the Bast. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor stornj Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light ijretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk. To grace my city-rooms: or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the color to my cheek ; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year. One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade: And each in passing touch'd with some new grace Or seeni'd to touch her, so that day by day. Like one that never can be wholly known. Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds ; but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both ; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash d The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd; We spoke cf other things ; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; And in that time and place she answer'd me, And in the compass of three little words. More musical than ever came in one. The silver fragments of a broken voice. Made me most happy, faltering "I am thine." Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes. By its own energy fulfill'd itself, Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed I had not stayed so long to tell you all. But while I mused came Memory with sad eyee, Holding the folded annals of my youth: And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips. And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven .\re those, who, setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chaml)ers of the heart. Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. Y'et might I tell of meetings, of farewells — DORA. 49 Of that which came between, more sweet than each, lu whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of diflereuce, reconcilement, pledges given. And vows, where there was never need of vows, And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit. Spread the light haze along the river-shores, And in the hol'.ows ; or as once we met Unheedfiil, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind. And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes ; t!ie time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My tirst, last love ; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! Now the most blessed memory of mine age. DORA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. lie often look'd at them, And often thought "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house. Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My sou: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a nuxtch. Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 3n foreign lauds; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short : " I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man ^ Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus 1 But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it: Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house. And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer s aaughter, Mary Morrison. Then when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said : " My girl, 1 love you well : But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, " It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change !" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William ; then distresses came on him ; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not, But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon hsr boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: " I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have siun'd, for it was all thro' me Tills evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you : Vou know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest : let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far oft" the farmer came into the field And spied her not; but ncme of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him. But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied It round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday! Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid jou, Dora?" Dora said again, " Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone !" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy: But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field. More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd. And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you; He says that he will never see me more " Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be. That them shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go And I will have my boy, and bring him home And I will beg of him to take thee back • 50 AUDLEY COUliT.— WALiaNG TO THE M.ITL. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one hoase, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees. Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And Dabbled for the golden seal, that hung ' From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the lire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried oat to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father — if yon let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself Or William, or this child : but now I come For Dira: take her back: she loves you well. Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. He could not ever rue his marrying me — 1 had been a patient wife: but. Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: ' God bless him '.' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' '.' Then he tum'd His face and pass'd— unhappy that I am '. But now. Sir, let me have my boy. for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory: and take Dora back. And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst in sobs : "I have been to blame— to blame. I have Mll'd my son. I have kill'd him— but I loved him — my dear son. May God forgive me '. — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse: And all his love came back a hundred fold : And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child. Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together: and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AUDLEY COURT. "Tht Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let ns picnic there At Andley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Hnmm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay. To Francis, with a basket on his arm. To Francis just alighted from the boat. And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart" Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm. And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite : so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There on a slopye of orchard. Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound. Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made. Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay. Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied : last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over: who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall. Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm. The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split. And came again together on the king With heated faces : till he langh'd aloud : And, while the blackbird on the pippin hting To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang: " O, who woiUd flght and march and counter- march. Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. And shovell'd up into a bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. "O, who wouid cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are fall of chalk? but let me live my life. '•Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my nam« Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands ; The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. "O, who would love? I woo'd a woman once. But she was sharper than an eastern wind. And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea : but let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride. His books — the more the pity, so I said — Came to the hammer here in March — and this — I set the words, and added names I knew. " Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm. And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. " Sleep, Ellen, folded in EmOia's arm ; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou an fairer than all else that is. " Sleep, breathing health and peace upon hej breast. Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : I so to-night : I come to-morrow mom. "I go, but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Anbrey, love, and dream of me." So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son who lived across the bay. My friend : and I, that having wherewithal, Xud in the fallow leisure of my life. Did what I would : but ere tte night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a mn, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd j The limit of the hills : and as we sank I From rock to rock upon the glooming qnay, I The town was hush'd beneath ns : lower down ■ The bay was oily-calm : the harbor-bnoy • With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the mead ows look Above the river, and. but a month ago. The whole hillside was redder than a fox. I Is yon plantation where this byway joiiis , The turnpike ? James. Tes. EDWIN MORRIS. Jonn. And when does this come by ? JamcK. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see ? No, not the Comity Member's with the vane : Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables. JameK That? Sir Edward Head's: But he 's abroad : the place is to be sold. John. O, his. He was not broken. James. No, sir, he, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life — That keeps us all in order more or less — And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither ? James. Xay, who knows? he's here and there. But let him go : his devil goes with him. As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. Joh)i. What's that? James. You saw the roan — on Monday, was it ?— There by the hnmpback'd willow ; half stands up And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; And there he caught the younker tickling trout — Caught ia flagrante — what's the Latin word? — Delicto: bnt his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat : no servants stay'd : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs. And all his household stuff : and with this boy Detvixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt. Pets out, and meets a friend who hails him, "What ! You 're flitting I" " Yes. we 're flitting," says the ghost, fFor they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) "O well," says he, "'you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. O yet but I remember, ten years back — T is now at least ten years — and then she was — Yon could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is: a nature never kind! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. Kind nature is the best: those manners next That fit us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. Bnt I had heard it was this bill that past. And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in his cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff" brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing; he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world — Of those that want, and those that have: and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school— a college in the South : There lived a flayfliut near: we stole his fruit, His hens, his eggs; but there was law for ns; We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much content. Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud- By night we dragg'd her to the college tower From her warm bed, aud up the corkscrew stair With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow. And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. Large range of prospect had the mother sow, And but for daily loss of one she loved, As one by one we took them — but for this — As never sow was higher in this world — Might have been happy: but what lot is pure? We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And so returu'd unfarrow'd to her sty. John. They found you out? .fames. Not they. Joh7i. Well— after all-. What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts ns all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm. As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity— more from ignorance than will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes With five at top : as quaint a four-iu-haud As you shall see— three piebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life ; I was a sketcher then : See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge. Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to bui'.d, upon a rock. With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. New-comers from the Mersey, millionnaires. Here lived the Hills — a Tndor-chimnej'ed bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate; he was fatter than his cnre. Bnt Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss, and fern. Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks. Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good. His own— I call'd him Cricht