***- FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY MINOR CHORDS: AND OTHER POEMS. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2013 http://archive.org/details/minorchoOOeckl 1933 / MINOR CHCKRDS: BY // SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY. LONDON : BELL AND DALDY. YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1869- cijiswick press: PRINTED by whittingham and WILKINS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. A DEDICATION. :^j^^jRIENDSHIP oft weaves a garland fresh and fair, & And loves to twine it round some fav'rite shrine, §1^353 ^ or dreams of aught to blight, or e r en impair New buds that with the roses may entwine. You, Dear, have wander'd with me in these hours, And many a wild bloom pluck'd from nettle's snare, Untangling oft a rose from thorns in bowers. Growing, alas, where all the fairest were. Unfading may it prove, as friendship's light Serene, as tender every leaf and spray, To breathe of many a foreign land and sight, And many a woodland blossom pass'd away : Entwine it round the bells that memory chimes, Cadences ringing of the sunshine, rain, Keep it to 'mind thee, too, of seasons, climes, Life passages in desert, tent, and plain, Endear'd to both by every claim beloved, Years could not wither, but perennial proved. London, November, 186£. CONTENTS. Mrs'OR Chord: RELUDE Chateaulaudrin The Vesper Hymn Outside the Church The Stained Church Window Euterpe My Lyre . My Lute, or Compensation A Soldier's Grave Another Spring Grave-Roses Dreams Two Children Where ? . Year after Year A Dream -Rose Flowers the Dead wear Vouee au Blanc In Memoriam Octav Whispers at Fontainebleau Real . Ideal . " Golden Hours" Page 3 7 13 15 17 19 20 25 28 30 31 32 34 36 38 40 42 44 46 51 54 57 viii CONTENTS. Page Two Landscapes ....... 60 A Fragment of History 62 Silver Acres ........ 64 My Winter Garden 66 The Statue by the Sea 68 The Song of the Wind 76 "She's gone" . 77 Semper Eadem 79 Found 81 Extremes 82 Barbara 92 " The Last Supper " ....... 95 The Song of the Reapers ...... 98 Faith versus Philosophy 100 Bubbles 102 Wave-footsteps in the Sand . . . . . 105 Memory's Bells 106 Intervals, Handel Ill Sonnet 112 An Invocation . . . . . . . . 113 The Song of the Sea 114 The Anthem 115 Adrift 116 A Word-Picture 118 A New Gondola Song for Venice, in 1866 . . . 120 The " Night and Morning," of Michael Angel o . . 122 The Call 123 A Portrait ....'... 1 24 Flowers for Paradise 126 A Song for the Critics 127 The Dance 129 The Sequel 134 An unannounced Visitor at the Tuileries . . . 136 Christmas Roses . . . . . . . 141 Footsteps left" in an Egyptian Tomb three thousand Years 142 The Arno at Night 147 To 148 CONTENTS. IX The Deserted Chateau ...... A Legend .......... The Lighthouse of Ailly The Legend of the Church of Varengeville, ( Normandy) Page 149 153 157 159 Alpine Echoes. Echo An Alpine Excursion " Even there also" Under the Glacier The Shadow on the Mist A Xew Moon An Ascent The Organ of the Pines Alpen Flora Cloud-Sculptures The An gel us The Maid of Savoy . The Shadow of Chastellard The Ave .... Sunset at the " Porte du Soleil'" A Frost Picture on a Window Moonlight The Flower Chorus . Choral Phra. The Ship .... The Holy Catholic Church By the Sea of Galilee . The Martyr Ages Trust .... A Hymn for Confirmation . " A Pilgrim and a Sojourner ; Guardian Angels A Hymn for Whitsuntide . " Light of the World" A Hymn for the Holy Communion Via Crucis .... 165 168 172 175 176 178 180 182 183 185 187 188 191 197 199 201 202 203 221 222 224 226 228 229 230 232 234 236 238 239 CONTEXTS. Mater Dolorosa .... A Funeral Hymn .... An Easter Hymn .... " At evening time it shall be light " . Perfect Day ..... An earh 7 Christian Martyr Flowers on the Altar A Hymn for All Saints — The Song At Jacqueline Pascal's Grave Time's Sea ..... A Paraphrase on the Thirteenth Chapter ofCorinthians " He Leadeth Them "...... 241 242 243 24T) 247 248 249 251 254 256 259 263 Transpositions. Sonnet of Michelangelo Sonnet of Laura Battiferro Sonnet of Corilla Olimpica . Sonnet attributed to Petrarch From Heine ..... Prayer of Mary Queen of Scots . " O quot Undis Lacrymarum" . A Vesper Hymn to St. Monica . A Paraphrase on St. Augustine Hymn to the Saints in Heaven. " Mis Desios" . St. Augustine 267 268 269 270 271 271 272 273 275 276 iS'£M^M^. ; MIX OR CHORDS PART I. PRELUDE. HE swallow wings her southward way. Deserted nests on tree-tops sway, Autumnal winds blow sharp and drear, Through aspen, beech, and willow near ; Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. May minstrel Autumn's echoes stir, From windy courts each chorister, Or are we too obtuse to hear The prelude of a dying year ? Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. PRELUDE. Can music only wing anew, From instruments we hear and view, In worldly crowds, in heat and stir, Where Fashion flaunts interpreter? Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. Ay, organ, viol, harp, may lure To melodies far more obscure Than those we find in Nature's spell, Which only poets love to tell ; Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. Then pause, and listen to a strain That ne'er repeats itself again, Comes new and glorious year by year, This prelude of the Autumn's cheer; Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. Seek Nature in her regal hall, With artists weird and mystical, PRELUDE. Her orchestra so witching, deep, Her concords that in all things sleep ; Summer's symphony is done, Autumn's prelude has begun. PART II. ^^pATUEE'S orchestra is huslrd. §|g Life is by the frost-king crush* d. Mark the leaves' wan carpet meet, Crumbling underneath our feet. Winter's ice, and frost, and rain, Lock the rivulets again ; Autumn's prelude now is done, Winter's requiem has begun. November winds are crying loud, The brittle leaves weave Autumn's shroud Grave Autumn's prelude now is done, And Winter's requiem has begun. PRELUDE. Low wistful winds that moan the fair, Wake dying echoes in the ah 1 ; Hark, the cadence sadder grows, Minor in its weary close. Are our hearts in tune with this ? Or palsied by the world's death-kiss ? Buried in cares, those worldly burrs, And deaf to God's interpreters ? For Autumn's prelude now is done, And Whiter' s requiem has begun. CHATEAULAUDRIN. TO E. L. G. " A town in Brittany submerged by the bursting of a lake above it in 1773." — Les Derniers Bretons, par Emtle SOUVESTKE. f^/Y^§ HY muse we here, since life has flown, fe£jX>j And death's faint footstep haunts alone Silent Piazza, vacant street ? — Like rain-drops fall his ghostly feet, Through Chateaulaudrin dead ! Muffled the breeze, and dead the air, And desolate the weed-grown square, No voice is heard, no human tread, No light is from the windows shed On Chateaulaudrin dead ! Above the city hangs her lake, Like some dark cloud at point to break On tile and housetop — so she stood That morn, ere death's resistless flood Left Chateaulaudrin dead. CHA TEA ULA UDRIN. Thus Naples lies, though not jet cold, Vesuvius his red torrent roll'd Up to her gate but yesterday, Yet Naples sleeps and dreams alway, Like Chateaulaudrin dead ! A hundred years have roll'd Time's wheel, Since life strode here with echoing heel, And busy traffic drove in haste, Ere God's hand struck the vineyard waste, By Chateaulaudrin dead ! A hundred years, almost, since Fate Wrote here the city's term and date — August thirteenth — the numbers see, Of fatal Seventeen-seventy-three, For Chateaulaudrin dead ! The square that night was all alight, Dancing and beauty charm' d the sight. Brilliant the grand house in the square, Zelie the beautiful was there — JSTow, Chateaulaudrin — dead ! CHA TEA ULA UDRIN. Music's soft spell entranced the ear, Gallery, terrace, far and near, Flutter' d with beauty's life and breath, Ere young and old went down to death, With Chateaulaudrin dead ! Sweet Zelie, in her beauty rare, Stood, softly shadow'd by her hair, Her face just lit with tearful gleam, As though the sad eyes, in a dream, Saw Chateaulaudrin dead ! Her girlish robes of holy white — We seem to see her virgin plight ; She stands before us at this hour, As if e'en now her beauty's flower Lit Chateaulaudrin dead ! And when she cross'd the crowded square, To seek the shrine to breathe one prayer, Old women bless' d her, hands upraised, Nor dream' d, as on her face they gazed, Of Chateaulaudrin dead ! CHA TEA ULA UDRIN. That night her cheek paled in the dance, Her eye flash'd restless, and a glance Stole to the door — her partner sigh'd, For Zelie was that night a bride, Nor Chateaulaudrin dead. The thunder mutter' d of her fall, The lightning fill'd the dazzling hall ; The deep lake in the distance groan' d, The hoarse pine at the window moan'd — " Dead, Chateaulaudrin dead !" The rattling sleet upon the blind, The crazy shrieking of the wind, The deeper voice that rose and fell With every gust, seern'd this to knell — " Dead, Chateaulaudrin dead !" The dancers paused, their laughter hush'd, Fresh cheeks grew wan, then wildly flush'd, And bold hearts falter' d, terror-tamed, And white prophetic lips proclaim' d — " Dead, Chateaulaudrin dead !" CHATEAULAUDRIX. u A nearer crash ! a louder roar ! The lake had burst from shore to shore, O'erwhelm'd the town, which in a breath Grave np its all of life to death, Gave Chateaulaudrin — dead ! Chaplets and gauds, and gold brocade, Corpses and chattels, monk and maid, Grotesque cadaverous brotherhood, Floated upon the ghastly flood, O'er Chateaulaudrin dead ! But morning broke, the tempest spent, The sun from out his chamber went, JS"o funeral face of grief he wore, Xor veil'd his light, as to deplore Old Chateaulaudrin dead ! But here's the church ! is this too dead ? The shrine-lamp lights sweet Mary's head, Yet Death even here, with mocking sign, Points outward, points from cross to shrine, O'er Chateaulaudrin dead ! CHA TEA ULA UDEIN. In honour of the dead burns bright This vigil flame by day and night ; Frail sunshine sleeps within the choir, Deserted, like some silent lyre, For CMteaulaudrin dead ! And calmly in the chapel's shade Is carved in stone a sleeping maid, Her arm flung upward from her pillow, As if to ward the whelming billow From Chateaulaudrin dead ! A rose falls loosely from her hair, Zelie the beautiful is there, Her lover kneels beside in stone, The bride and bridegroom now are one, And Chateaulau drin's dead ! The lake still moans their funeral dirge, And death still haunts the treacherous verge, Fear on the place its evil spell Has cast — 'tis y»|j;, none will dwell In Chfiteaulaudrm dead ! I 13 THE VESPER HY3IX. CHUECH OF AEQUES. &I 51^5 OFTLT steals the -wandering sunlight Through the stained oriel pane, Down npon the altar falling Like a soft celestial rain ; Solemn breathes the strain of organ, Swelling in those arches dim, Till I fancy angels singing In the panses of the hymn. Softer, softer "breathes the organ, And those voices on the air, When the silence of devotion Clasps so many souls in prayer ; Calm of ages softly veiling All that venerable fane, Calm of saints long, long departed, Seems to rest on us again. 14 THE VESPER HYMN. Tapers glow upon the altar, Summer lilies waft their prayer 'Mid the clouds of incense floating, Trembling in the painted air, — Upward wreathing, upward mounting, Breathing gardens, how fair ! Garlands dropt from Heaven's own bowers, Down upon the perfumed air; Where the Virgin-Mother, sculptured, With the sweet and holy Child, Stands, hands droop' d in benediction, As through ages long she smiled — Smiled upon the sad and weary, Smiled upon the young and fair, Waiting ever at that altar, Hailing thus the suppliant's prayer. Hark ! the choir so softly singing, Sweet, the Virgin-Mother's song, Now the words of deep thanksgiving Rise and swell the roof along ; OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. 15 Die away the prayerful voices, Dies the organ's cadence then, And the solemn benediction Seems to breathe a vast Amen ! OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. ABQUES. ^^^TJMMEK twilight wraps the churchyard, M^%& Where the sleeping are at rest, With the flowers o'er them breathing- Of the gardens of the blest. Ruin'd windows rise majestic, Broken corbels mount the door, Tufted with the weed and flow'ret — Xature beauty doth restore. Here in shadows of the turret, On this old and sunken grave, Find I time this brief half-hour Of the busy twelve to save — 1 6 OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. Save for tliouglit to turn life's pages, Mystic pages lent to nie, Where in claustral shadows holy, I may tnrn them, o'er with Thee. Here among the dead safe shelter' d In the turf the winds have swept, Where profanes no heedless footstep, Dust of those once loved, long wept. Summer's story in the churchyard, Life and death's perpetual theme, Where the transept's stained windows Lure the sunlight's transient gleam. Here I muse on ages vanish'd, Here I read life's mystic scroll, And, 'mid shadows of the churchyard, Dream of the undying soul. These once lived whose graves record them, These once loved, but now they rest, On their graves I sit and ponder, " Dust to dust," earth's sole bequest. THE STAINED CHURCH WINDOW. Then how brief seems life's short story, Yet who knows what joys these knew ? Ages' sleep in hours I ponder, On a grave beneath a yew. THE STAINED CHURCH WINDOW. ®fcs? 7s OW brightly glow'd the Autumn sun, Through that great window pane, Streaming down on the altar like A rainbow-rill of rain. The Apostles in their niches, And martyr' d saints grew bright, As radiant shone each garment In that celestial light. I look'd up to the window, as The choir softly sang, And a flood of rainbow colours Stream'd through the panes along ; C iS THE STAINED CHURCH WINDOW. And hosts of angels bright and fair, Crown ? d martyrs robed in white, Were looking throngh those window-panes "With rapture infinite. Down look'd they all so tenderly, Into the transept dim, And softly join'd the choristers In the sweet evening hymn. Nor did they float from earth away As visions always fade, Leaving a blank reality Where Heaven's Light earth array'd. But fix'd upon the window there, Stahrd on the lozenged pane, Were all these saints and angels fair, In that dim hallow' d fane ; — I wonder sometimes, as I look, If they will float away From that old cathedral window In the chapel where I pray. *9 EUTERPE. f^p^N" the witching of the gloaming, g^ggg When the Spirit Infinite Drops his solemn benediction On the list'ning ear of night ; Whispering through primeval forests, Heard above the torrent's din, Pleading from the silent flowers, Comes the list'ning heart to win — Sweet Euterpe. Throws her dreamy mantle round me, Drapes me with her fancies fine, Mocks Thalia and her Idyls, Bids me court her muse divine ; Breathes her wary flute so coyly, Sings a verse which I repeat, If one lyric she has taught me, That alone is true and sweet — From Euterpe. MY LYRE. TE day a lyre was given to me By an angel I met across the sea ; I had heard no mnsic for many a day, So I took it gladly, and went my way. Yes, the lyre came from an angel's hand, 'Twas light and fragile, conld I withstand Snch a gentle gift on my pilgrim-way ? No, I took it gladly, and dared to play. I studied it well, and dream'd o'er it much, Its strings were of gold — how it answer' d my touch! Its mountings were costly, and chaste as the dew, There was music within it my heart well knew. But one day pausing to study it well, A blemish I saw in the brittle shell, A crack had been fill'd, though with passing skill, Yet it answer'd not quite to the finger's will. 31 Y LYRE. But I sat on the grass and tuned the wires,- How proud I was of my queen of lyres ! It gave such answers in music to me, Such marvellous strains of rich melody. We never were parted, my lyre and I, It swung on my shoulder, or lay close by, On sweet Tuscan nights when the nightingale sang, We answer' d each other the dark pines among. Sometimes my angel then touch'd it for me, When summer's storm smote the great cypress tree, Drowning the notes of its cadences faint, With tones like the voice of some pleading saint. And often the lyre vibrated at will, When no earthly touches the gold strings might thrill, Wak'ning the chords to a soft reprimand For my veiled sense of the near spirit-land. MY LYRE. And oft came the moon with her silvery wings, Jewell' d the mountings, and finger' d the strings, Kindled strange music, gave words to the breeze, And waken'd my lyre to voices like these. The fountain dripp'd down to its soft minor chord, And the river too whisper' d his low chiding word, The nightingale trill' d from the darks of the pine, And answered my lyre in echoes divine ! But alas ! every lyre will fall out of tune, E'en gold strings will snap, either later or soon ; Alas ! every song must come to an end, And Time, that robs blossoms, earth's music may rend. Thus even my lyre proved faithless at last, In facing a Roman autumnal blast ; Though even an angel had brought it to me, All at once it lost sweetness, tone and melody. MY LYRE. 23 The crack I saw widen, the music impair, Nor could earthly fingers the evil repair ; From each full vibration of tone, true and clear, Came harshness and discord to jar on mine ear. To the garden I took it all broken, unstrung, And down 'mong the roses my lyre I flung, No longer I loved it as once close by me, Though I wept for the Past and its rich melody. I pick'd some green laurel all dripping with dew, On the dear lyre I threw it, yet too well I knew, Like my tears, even this would but rust the gold strings, Nor recal the flown Past with its merciless wings. well I remember how dawning crept on, When first I was sure that my day-dream was gone Like mist on the mountain, like dew on the flowers — what have we here that we dare to call ours ? 24 MY LYRE. Once more though I lifted it wet from the ground, With horror I started, the mystery found — In the heart of my lyre, which had once seem'd divine, A snake was coil'd up' in the treacherous shrine. Yes, there coil'd the snake in the lyre that I loved, With its venomous sting, its motive I proved — It had gnaw'd all the strings, it had widen'd the seam, Had ruin'd my instrument, shatter'd my dream. But ! when the storm of my passion was spent, At night through the dark to the garden I went, I lifted my lyre and the broken strings kiss'd, Then left it in darkness, in rain, and in mist. MY LUTE, OR COMPENSATION. ^£ES|g)ROM the river I came, my hands fall of Of beautiful pebbles, moss, fern, willow seeds, I long had been trying to catch, its low song, And the prelude it whisper' d, the long reeds among. I pull'd up the reeds, but the god was not there To teach me to play, so I took them with care, And carried them home, but no music I found Would come from my reeds, not an echo of sound. But one day I miss'd them, those dear silent reeds, The moss and bright pebbles, and long willow-seeds, And close to the shelf where their shadows they threw, Hung a fairy-like lute on a ribbon of blue. 26 MY LUTE. My first thought was sorrow — to leave it and go, Could I care for this lute, or life's music renew ? Yet I saw with surprise that the lute had no strings, So no music could come on melody's wings. But under the ribbon the strings were low laid, And ere I could mount them, a soft serenade Breathed from the lute all unstrung as it lay, A faint prelude first, then a sweet roundelay. What matter' d the strings then if such strains could come Without even touches, and wing to their home Unbidden, unpray'd for, this heart for a shrine ? music, heart-music ! and yet to be mine. Not from earth's reeds then life's music I found, Nor from my own seeking the wide world around, But infinite love and compassion had given Compensation for loss, in music from Heaven. MY LUTE. 27 When summer noon glows, how sweet are its strains, Through hoar-frost of winter, and wild beating rains, It is always in tune, and no discord nor jar Ever comes from my lute, the soul's music to mar. It plays in the morning soft hymns before light, Serenades me at evening, brings " songs in the night," Its notes but grow mellower as earth's hours fly, And ! will be sweeter in Heaven by and by. But my lyre ! my poor lyre ! it now sleeps in the dust — How often I muse o'er that day-dream of trust ! And the tears will fall now, as thought brings back past hours, Which memory uproots with a scent of dead flowers. «8 A SOLDIER'S GRAVE. In memory of Lieut. H. M. B. who died serving his country in the Battle of the Wilderness, May, 1864. To M. D. and C. A. M. ~ IGH in the ranks of the Lord of Hosts. 4 March the soldiers of the Right, Heroes transplanted by death's stern call, From rebellion, warfare, night. High in the ranks, not dead are they, Though they fell in the battle morn ; We call them dead, and with martial tread Their bodies to dnst are borne. But safe from the warfare, fury, death, Released from the foe's hot fire, Safe in the armies of the Lord , They still march higher and higher. A SOLDIER'S GRAVE 29 In the shroud of his country's stainless flag, With flowers that May has given, Lay a wreath of bay on this soldier's grave, Then follow his steps to Heaven. And write on the marble that hides his face, " He died for his country's glory," And leave it to History's page to embalm The deeds of this week's sad story. Though still in the ranks, not dead are they, These braves to their country given, They've but laid down their arms at the gate of the King, And are taking their rest in Heaven. 3 o ANOTHER SPRING. NOTHER Spring, — the robins sing, While leaves are wakening to the light, Morn treads upon night's dusky robes, And Spring upon the frosty blight Of Winter's long campaign. Hark ! carols loud from leafy shroud, — early Spring and tenderest leaves, In all your greenery so bright ! Silence in us the sigh that grieves For what could not remain. hide the bier, — another year Sings new-born life to bud and leaf- Shall robins sing another Spring, And we grow sceptic in belief, Or lose our faith in Life ? GRAVE ROSES. 31 Life treads upon the robes of death ; Death's angel comes, but only wins, Till dawns the Resurrection morn The day when that new life begins, The deathless life of love. Another Spring the angels sing, While souls awaken to the light, Morn treads upon night's dusky robes, Eternal Spring on Winter's blight, And glorious Day on Xight ! GRAVE-ROSES. HUXDRED years have swept this grave, And only roses left in trust ! But loving hands that planted them Have long since crumbled into dust. 32 BREA3IS. None are left this grave to garnish, Nor bid fair Summer's roses blow ; Only this lone one drops her petals Over the grave, like Memory's snow. Rosy snow-flakes ! Death's December, May Heaven's perennial SjDring be theirs ! Only to ns a wintry churchyard, A lingering rose, and half-breathed prayers. DREAMS. EARLY dreams ! sweet spring-tide dreams Of childhood's fleeting hours, When through youth's wizard glass we gazed, And trod her niyrtlc bowers. DREAMS. 33 Slimmer dreams, sweet Summer dreams ! hope ! trust ! jo y ! The faded gleams, the broken links Leave gold — but with alloy. later days, grey Autumn days ! Bring riper fruits for wine, And as earth's dreams prove only dreams. Clear Faith begins to shine. golden days ! eternal days ! The days that are to come, When glorified we see His face, And call His Presence Home ! II. One half our lives we dream away, Another half we sleep, Night-dreams and day-dreams interweave- From sleep we wake to weep — D 34 TWO CHILDREN. Day-dreams so subtle, vague, and wild — How oft we kiss the chains ! Those chains of slavery fondly link'd, So sadly link'd to pains. But if in dreams we wear away The gold of life's best hours, let us guard the bloom, at least, Of holier, heavenlier flowers. Some bloom of Heaven kept in the soul, Though faint the blossoms seem, Safe in that shrine where Christ should be The soul's one only dream ! TWO CHILDREN. KNOW a child most wondrous fair, With tender eyes and sun-kiss' d hair, The loving clasp of whose little hand Seems a new link to the spirit-land. TWO CHILDREN. 35 But I think of another child as fair, Fairer than this earth's fairest fair, And one whom an angel came to kiss, That he might awake in endless bliss, Where the fadeless days are long and clear, And blight and frost cannot draw near, Where even the flowers may never die In the breath of Immortality. And I love the child, so wondrous fair, With his tender eyes, and sun-kiss' d hair, That dream of Italy that round him clings — Like a Northern bird on Southern wings. Then I watch my own as years sweep by, Growing in grace under God's own eye, And I marvel to think how I could mourn When the angel came on that weary morn, And press'd on his lips that kiss full thrice, That he might awaken in Paradise, Whispering, " The angels are calling thee, To play with them by the crystal sea." 36 WHERE? And often I've wiped the tears away, And tried to fancy him there at play ; But sure I am he is happier far Than the happiest children round me are. But I love the child so wondrous fair, With those gentle eyes, and sun-kiss'd hair, The dream of Italy that round him clings — This Northern bird on Southern wings. And I pray that the angels may guard this flower, Shield him and train him for that same bower, So when the angel kisses him thrice, He too may awa,ken in Paradise. WHERE ? WHERE will the Singers be, In the great Beyond, where ? They who have dropt their lyres crown'd With immortal laurels here. WHERE? 37 The Singers of every clime, The Singers in every key, The Poets, where then will they meet On the banks of Eternity ? Say, will it be nnder Palms, Palms such, as they loved to sing, In scenes more grand, entrancing, fair, Than a poet's dream can bring ? And are they now still singing Without each whispering lyre ? For they dropt them in the shadows here, When they were call'd still higher. The stately march of Milton, His rhythm grave and grand, Great singer of "Lost Paradise," King of the minstrel band. And weird, majestic Dante, Great Tuscan Poet, he Who sang of glorious Paradise, In marvellous imagery. 38 YEAR AFTER YEAR. And Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, mystical array ! Have ye all found that Pierian spring Which rippled to your lay ? And have ye bathed your lyres In that celestial stream, To sing your immortality, As ye were wont to dream ? YEAR AFTER YEAR. SUMMER days ! O summer days ! And are ye really flown ? Yonr bloom still lingers on the soul, Though autumn winds will moan — Will moan as thrill the dying leaves To music as they go, Whirling and eddying as they reach The Avon's silent flow, Year after year. YEAR AFTER YEAR. 39 Autumn winds ! Autumn winds ! silent Avon's flow ! willows weeping on jour brink ! Autumn winds that blow ! Year after year, the same refrain, Though varied be the key, Is sung, and no discordant notes Mar the sad symphony, — Year after year. Year after year, to greet, to part, Summer days too short! Autumn winds ! Avon's stream ! Of what then your report ? The loaded wains, the harvest ripe, The sobbing winds but tell Of Summer flowers, of Summer fruits, That die in each farewell, — Year after year. Summer days ! sweet Summer days ! Ye are not truly flown, Your bloom still lingers on the Past, Though Autumn winds will moan ; 40 A DREAM-ROSE. The bloom of Summer in the soul, Of holy sweet content, Immortal bloom — immortal calm, In this our banishment, — Tear after year. A DREAM-EOSE. PLUCK' D a rose, all wet with dew, It grew in a garden wild, And many a nettle wounded me, Ere I caught my flower-child. But I put it in my bosom then, And wore it night and day, And sweet it perfumed all life's hours, Ere it wilted quite away. But one day from the stalk it fell, From my bosom to the ground, Where anyone who chanced to pass, Might find the rose I own'd ; A DREAM-ROSE. 41 But the leaves from which it broke away, Still clung to their resting place, Alas ! 'twas a thorn that lurking there, Had caught them in the lace. But when it dropt, some petals fell, I pick'd them up all dry, And press' d them in my heart's lock-book, 'Tween leaves of Memory ; And when I chance to ope that book, And turn the pages o'er, Faint scent of wither'd petals brings Earth's requiem, " Never more ! " Then all earth's roses seem to bear The bloom of the sepulchre, Vague spectres of those on fadeless shores, The perennial " Forever" there ! Dream-roses, all of earth, farewell ! Ye proved the dreams ye were, I've long been tired of grasping you, — Tired of castles of air. 42 FLOWERS THE DEAD WEAR. 0, let them rest, for ever rest In the coffin round the head — See ! they have scarcely wilted here In the winter of the dead. But softly lift the winding-sheet, And in the waxen hand, Leave this pale Autumn rose to die In death's dim frozen land. He went to sleep thus holding it Still tight in his dying grasp, This rose of life he clung to here, Till Death said, " 'Tis my clasp," This rose, it seems, was only born To trim a shroud of death, For long it is since Summer kiss'd Its petals into breath. FLOWERS THE DEAD WEAR. 43 And leave the portrait hanging round The shrunken marble neck, With mocking tress of faded hair, A grave- shroud now to deck ! But on the frozen, silent heart Which ne'er will beat again, Lay this heart's-ease so sadly stain'd With olden tears of pain. With flowers dead, with riven vows Together let them sleep, And best of all the love that's dead — See, Dear, I do not weep ; For he was false I thought so true — For truth I loved him, Dear — But stay, I have no bitterness, He lies too helpless there. So still and cold, he cannot feel How weary life goes on — So false — cast to the winds are leaves On which glad Summer shone ; 44 YOUEE AU BLANC. For on he danced as dead leaves dance, Through life's bewildering plot, But like dead leaves, his heart at length Got trodden underfoot. And then he sought this dead rose here, All wither' d, faded, dry, And blighted as the flowers once press'd 'Tween leaves of Memory. So wrap the winding-sheet close round Love's statue, frozen, dead, Then take me from the coffin, Sweet, I'm ready now to wed. VOUEE AU BLANC. ND they vow'd her to the Virgin, And they clothed her all in white, The little Blanche, the lily fair, A blossom of earth's night. - VOUEE AU BLAXC. 45 They vow'd her to the Virgin's love, On that cold and wintry day, When Death drew near the cradle-side To steal onr Blanche away. And all in white they robed her, And then to the Virgin's care Consign' d the little lily Blanche, The fairest of the fair. And she never wears a colour, Save the violet in her eyes, And rosy hands like little shells Jnst dropp'd from Paradise, And in the flood of golden hair That ripples from her brow, As if just spun from Heaven's own cloud, To consecrate that vow. Thus they vow'd her to the Virgin, That sweet and sunny child- — When grim Death forsook the cradle, And sweet Mary on her smiled. 4 6 IN MEMORIAM. I. (HE vase is shatter'd, and the lamp is spent, The flame burnt out — darkness, tears, lament, Ye can avail not ! In those silent halls, Cold winds her requiem wail, sad Echo calls — Calls for the song that evermore is hush'd, Calls for the spirit-flower that death has crush' d, Calls for one strain of that immortal lyre, For one more spark of that Promethean fire ; — But Silence weeps her rhythm, voiceless, grand ! And Memory, with her funeral torch, will stand Lighting the labyrinth of a vanish' d Past, As Love, her eyes still shading, casts one last Long look, to catch e'en one unfinish'd bar, One strain of music from lier home afar. Florence, June 29, 1861. SONNET. 47 II. Though mute lier ljra in those haunted halls, Though Silence weeps, and Echo wildly calls ; Though all Italia's tears dropp'd on those strings, When came the angel Death and gave her wings — Dark'ning the windows of a ruin'd home, The tireless hearth, the vacant chair and room, Where once had breathed that gentle spirit-flower, With all its wealth of tenderness and power — Though dropt her lyra in the shadows here, It fell not dumb on a forgotten bier ; Immortal laurel blooms round each gold string, Her music's strains the soft south winds shall sing, And Love, that counts no change, nor blight, nor death, Shall sing her deathless fame to latest breath. OCTAVES. WHISPERS AT FONTAINEBLEAU. To C. C. and F. D. P. USH ! hush ! for the silence is pleading In whispers wherever we go, E'en the leaves have their burden to sing ns, While dying at sweet Fontainebleau. As chords in a symphony plaintive, Will awaken some sad long-ago, So the leaves and the silence are laden With the secrets of old Fontaineblean. And the rain too is falling, soft falling On the leaves of this mystical score, With the wind-harp's sad interlude breathing Soft cadences faint to. restore. 52 WHISPERS AT FONTAINEBLEAU. But what are these whispers that follow, And haunt us wherever we go ? Are they hid in the rain-drops, and wind-harp, To echo of past Fontainebleau ? no ! other phantoms pursue us Through the aisles of this forest so vast, Bid us follow their mournful procession, Sing their dirge of the wonderful Past ! Sing of kings, whose Bright sceptres are shattered, And of crowns, now corroded by rust, Of queens, whose state pageants and sorrows Found at length but a pillow of dust ! In the calm of this grand Mausoleum Let us wait till the shadows appear, And watch them so subtly transforming The whole to a sepulchre drear. Gates ope to the spirit of Even, Shrines light from the great western fire, Emblazon'd by jewels of sunset, Which flash through the traceried choir. WHISPERS AT FOXTAIXEBLEAU. 5 From this sepulchre phantoms are gliding, They are bearing a mystical bier, While the hearse at a distance is waiting, And the death-chant croons low on mine ear. 'Tis the burial of Summer's brief glory, 'Tis the death of a wonderful year, A ghostly procession doth follow, Strewing wreaths of dead leaves o'er the bier. And such are the Fontainebleau whispers While that bier through the forest is borne, Fern plumelets from far wave their farewells, Dim, rusty, wind-broken, and torn. But turn we from pageants of glory, From Emperors, monarchs, and pride, To follow the footstejDS less fleeting, Which are waiting our wanderings to guide Through the forests of life, though perplexing, Through the mazes and copses most deep, And forget not the endless awaking, After Time in his chasm shall sleep ; 54 REAL. To find earth's last forest is skirted, The maze of all mazes pass'd through, Where the poets are wak'ning their lyres To a song which for ever is "new." Then hnsh ! for the silence has pleaded Her whispers while onward we go ; — 0, we will not forget yon, wild echoes Of Autumn at sweet Fontainebleau ! September, 1866. REAL. SLUGGISH stream, With treacherous brink, And slippery hold For steps that sink. Long ragged grass, With coarse weeds rank, Fringing the brink And crumbling bank. IDEAL, 55 And slothful fish, That rarely rise For a floating meal Of water-flies. The peasant hums, Her garment wrings In the eddying tide, And careless sings. To her a stream, Or thick or clear, As floods may swell Or drought may sear. IDEAL. POET is musing Beside the same stream, Yet different far Is the light of his dream. IDEAL. The snn has bewitch'd it, And wrought a gold link To chain brim to margin — Of what does he think ? That weeds change to flowers. And rongh pebbles to gems, And the grass and the dew-drops Weave diadems. There's a moral for verse, As each lone grassy spire Grows npward and onward., Still higher and higher* Is it not then our fault If we blindfold will rove On the banks of Life's river, And see not the Love Which turns night into day, Even weeds into flowers, And from discords brings concords, And makes all Nature ours ? 57 " GOLDEX HOURS." A Picture at the Great Paris Exposition by F. Leighton, A.B.A. B^LS?N an old Venetian palace Sil^gg That standeth in the sea, Whose steps are wash'd by tuneful chords Of wavy minstrelsy ; In a chamber, ghostly, solemn, With arras hung, and quaint With Albert Durer's carved oak, And shrine of patron saint, And oriels looking to the blue, The blue of wave and sky, Like sapphires set with opals, dropt By sun-light's fiery eye. In this dim, deserted chamber, The spider swings her loom, And knots her subtle meshes, Sole tenant of the oioom, 58 GOLDEN HOURS. In tapestries, all tatter'd, stain'd With mildew, damp, and mould, She spins in th' faded satin, mocks The needle-wo'rk of gold ; Stringing the broken lyre too, And faded ribbon bine, And the branch of wither' d willow Tied on the silver screw. Here in its shadowy alcove hangs Among the lost and dead, A wonderful, sweet picture, long To dim tradition wed ; Only a shrunken canvas, which, Two hundred years and more, Has told the same old story, and Will tell it o'er and o'er. The tale of Love, of Faith, of Hope, When golden seasons shone, Ere mocking echoes whisper' d sad — Where has the gold all gone ? GOLD EX HOURS. 59 Xo more it shines untarnish'd, bright, As in that picture's gleam, That wizard-picture of those two In love's first golden dreain. His hands are wand'ring o'er the keys — Unmindful now of all Save him, she turns her back on life, Nor heeds what may befall ; %i Golden hours,'' by music wing'd, Your gold is deftly caught, He was a poet-painter, who This golden vision wrought. Alas ! I wake from Southern dreams, From dreams of Venice bright, Far from Venetian phantasies, And myths of Venice light ; The palace and the classic sea, The haunted chamber lone, Where might have hung this picture fair, In golden seasons cone. 6o TWO LANDSCAPES. My dream grows pale, and in a crowd My fancy wings away, In a modern gallery I stand, This fair Parisian day ; But the gold that lights that picture, This fancy lit for me, Of that old Venetian palace That standeth in the sea. TWO LANDSCAPES. ^•iigij LOOK abroad on this gay, thoughtless !>EIeS5 scene, The Tuileries' garden, with its wealth of green, The youth of new-born Summer on the trees, As if no blight could ever fall, or breeze Bring aught but health upon th' elastic air — This Spring Parisian, transient as 'tis fair ; The children, too, now mellowing the scene, Life-flowers of every hue, of every sheen, TWO LANDSCAPES. 61 And all this life as giddy as if sin Had never stain' d the world where Christ hath been. trace the picture now of inner sight, Another landscape rises in Faith's light ;— The world is still as fair, the children in As sweet unconsciousness of grief or sin, Responsibility to them unknown, They only follow where the way is shown ; But this, the soul's rare picture, seems to me Imbued with more abiding purity, For here I mark a landscape swift unroll, With atmosphere and colours of the soul ! No garish glitter of Parisian day, No rosy bubbles vanishing away ; Not like the pageant of a feverish dream, That, even while discern' d, can only seem, While pleasure's cup, ambrosial to the sip, A nectar holds that cloys upon the lip ; But this, the inner landscape of the soul, Is calm, serene, God-held — a happier whole ! Here pearly tints of morning, cool and grey, Invite the angels in their white array ; And we can sit and wait for them to come, And feel their shadowy presence in our home ! 62 A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY. Paris, June 7th, 1867 S^kS?N the shadows of the gloaming, ^I^SS Ere the spirit of the night Dropt the dew from Eve's gold chalice On the Ely sees fading light, Swept a cortege grand, imposing, Life-exciting, near and far, With the Emperors of two nations — Napoleon and the Czar. Onward moved the brilliant cortege, Shielded by the glittering steel, Waved the plumes of bright battalic Warriors arm'd from head to heel ; 'Mid the pomp and dazzling glory, Splendours of a gala day, Few were dreaming 'mid those thousands Death was crouching in the way. A FRAGMEyT OF HISTORY. 63 'Mid the strains of martial music, Cymbal's clang and clarion's breath, Came, on shadow- wings of evening, Thoughts of Poland, boding death ; Cries from Poland in her anguish, Smote upon an exile's ear, One of thousands there assembled Caught the word, the word so dear : — Poland moaning in her anguish, Orphan'd, widow'd, dead, and drear — 'Twas rash, but yet it was for Poland That pistol loaded, ball so near ; As the assassin's hand was lifted. And the air the bullet cleaved, The arms of France the deed prevented, And the murderer's hope deceived. Then died the day in clouds and showers, In festive scenes, night's masquerades, Though Poland's tears bedimm'd the banner Floating o'er the Elysees' shades. 6 4 SILVER ACRES. STOOD at my window watching the night, The night that hnng over the sea, I shall never forget that picture so fair, Nor the vision that cheated me. It was no more a sea I was gazing on, But acres of glittering grain, Which were waving and tossing their jewell'd heads, Or bent low by the summer's rain. And the reapers were wand'ring here and there, With sickles of burnish' d gold ; And children were playing,- — moon-gems lit their hair, Moon-flowers they cull'd in this wold. And ever and oft their voices came Like the rippling of parted waves, Then clear and ringing, as pebbles sing When the last billow over them laves. SILVER ACRES. 65 Thus deep into night at ray window I stood, Near those acres of glittering grain, Still waving and tossing their spangled heads, Amid sheaves in the high loaded wain. At length from my moonlight dream I awoke — But where were those acres of grain ? The reapers and children, where then, where ? Shaljj I never behold them again ? For the moon, night's illusive magician had been, Had planted this wonderful field, In her glittering path these acres had sown, This harvest of fancy to yield. Yet often again from that window I've look'd For those dream-land acres of grain ; But they're gone — like the fading dreams of our youth, To return, alas ! never again. 66 MY WINTER GARDEN. TO F. A. E. ^RESH roses, and lilies, and pink im- mortelles, And branches of holly with bright scarlet bells, Here in their beauty so fresh and so green, All winter my own living garden have been. Though not in stiff parterres befringed with the grass, Nor in the green fields where the cool shadows pass, Nor there where the honey-bee seeks her rare bliss In the 'wildering spell of a sweet blossom-kiss ; But in a Parisian bright drawing-room, hung With draperies, pictures, and mirrors among, In a shadowy nook by the warm fireside, My books and my garden, my joy are and pride. MY WINTER GARDEN. 67 The little French sparrow sometimes ventures in, To pick at my greenery from the street din, For the crumbs that I drop on the broad window sill Oft the dingy pets lure to their shy breakfast still. But my garden is blooming all fragrant and fair, And my books seem the happier when her flowers are there ; My poets ! life's silver wheat amid the rank tares, Poor poets ! how little the world for them cares. They pipe their brief carols, they sing their sad lays On the bough nearest heaven, and they court not earth's praise, As the nightingales sing because carol they must, Though the world grovels on in her turmoil and dust. But my garden perennial is blooming and fair, In spite of the outer world's chill frosty air, And Love is still dreaming among her thought- flowers, TTnguess'd at her joys in calm solitude's hours. 68 THE STATUE BY THE SEA. And the gay world below, now in snnshine, now mist, May call ns life- dreamers and count ns less blest, While we with onr books, and a few wint'ry flowers, Can find an Arcadia in life's darkest honrs. THE STATUE BY THE SEA. THE LOVER. A^JlTH hair unkempt, with tearful eyes, With kreel npon his shoulder slung, Low on the golden sands he lies, His arms upon the sea- weed flung, — Watching. Wave over wave, each feathery crest Nets its foam-meshes on the shore; How vain, alas ! to dream of rest Where ocean murmurs " nevermore,"— Watching. THE STATUE BY THE SEA. 69 The sea-mew swoops above the ledge That half conceals her lonely nest Of white- wing' d broodlings in the sedge ; Her startled cry invades his rest. — Watching. He wakes bewilder' d from his dream, The burden from his shoulders thrown, The stars from out the wind- cloud gleam, And he stands, dazed with cold — alone — Watching. Watching for what ? some boon to gain ? Perchance his ladye-love to see ? He long an exile, — the pain ! To find her false, or coldly free, — Not watching. Or haply find her dead and gone, Or, worse than death, from him estranged, Hope, flattering whisper' d, Marion, And love like her's has never changed ; — She's watching. 7 o THE STATUE BY THE SEA. The Castle. High on a bold and rocky steep, Where beats the proud rebellions sea, Raking the pebbles from the deep To hurl them upward scornfully, A castle stands, now ruin-sear d, The vines exhausted, and the soil, Nor corn, nor olive more will yield Their increase to the hireling's toil. Only the aloes' wrinkled cheek Betrays the scars of centuries fled, And only one is left to seek For life where Love itself seems dead. A maiden in that castle dreams, Her faded hair in moonlight gleams, The battlements she haunts at night, And gossips whisper of a knight — Waiting. THE STATUE BY THE SEA, -i An armed knight, with sword and shield, And clanging spurs, as from some field Of death and victory, who had come, Triumphantly to lead her home, — Waiting. One night, — thus I the legend read, — The absent lover came indeed; Long she had plighted troth to him, Till heart had fail'd and eve grown dim. — "Waiting. They said he never would come back, Her only answer was, "Alack ! Then can this heart but find its rest On one more faithful, and be blest, — Waiting. " At length the youth came back to find Another suitor, one more kind, To th' terrace swift he follow'd on, Where maid and armed knight stood lone — Wait inc. 72 THE STATUE BY THE SEA. Nor turn'd she e'en one glance on him, — Her eyes were fix'd, all glazed and dim, On that strange knight who press'd her hand, And whisper' d of another land, — Waiting. The thunder rumbled in the sky, The sea-surge roar'd tumultuously, Her mantle flutter' d in the wind, Her hand within the knight's was shrined,- — Waiting. The youth look'd on with evil eye, Crept through the shadows stealthily, At least he'd hear their whispers low, At least her broken vows would know, — Waiting. He saw her head droop low, and lean On the knight's breast; — fierce grew his mien,- E'en heard her plead with him to bear His bride to purer, holier air, — Waiting. THE STATUE BY THE SEA. 73 Then stoop' d the knight, her slight form bore With stalwart arm to the castle door, Cross 'd the dark draw-bridge with the fair, Mounted his charger standing there, — "Waiting. The charger champ' d his bit and paw'd, And flung the foam-flecks on the sword And corslet of the armed knight, Which glitter'd in the ghastly light, — Waiting". Then fleet as wind the courser flew With winged feet, nor bridle knew, Swift to the forest, out of sight, Sped ladye-love and spectral knight, — Waiting-. Xow vanish'd hope, love's summer day, To wint'ry frosts and shivering gray, Loud swore the youth to avenge th' wrong, With sword in deadly combat swung, — Waiting. 74 THE STATUE BT THE SEA. Pale sun-rise broke the shadows gray, On the cold flags the lover lay, Like some enchanted sleeper kept His vigil there, nor moan'd, nor wept — Waiting 1 . But lo ! a foot-fall and a clang Of sword and spear through silence rang, He started to his feet — one blow — He would the treacherous knight lay low For ever. He drew his sword its blade to feel, Then brandish'd high the glittering steel, The knight drew his — his vizor raised, Speechless the lover stood, and gazed For ever. There stands he still, trans fix' d in stone, A statue, by rank weeds o'ergrown, — Such is the legend told to me, Of that weird statue by the sea, For ever. THE STATUE BY THE SEA. 75 The wild storms beat it night and day, And ocean breakers toss their spray, And eagles swoop and round it fly, And lonely sea-gulls scream and cry For ever. Pitiless gusts athwart it sweep, Remorseless rains upon it weep, And salt waves dash their plumed crests, Then back retreat with mocking jests For ever. But still the statue stands unmoved, As hearts should stand when love be proved. This is the legend's secret pure Of faithful love that should endure For ever. And this the legend old and weird, Of that haunted castle lone and fear'd, Where seven wither'd chestnut trees now loom O'er that wild sea-strand's dreary gloom — For ever. 7 6 THE SONG OF THE WI1STD. S^B^T croons within the chimney, •^JMSS In wild gusts shakes the pane, And wails a low accompaniment To the fitful, rushing rain. It whistles through the keyhole, On housetop lifts the slate, And wrestles with the crazy blind, And grips the ill-swung gate. Humming through the door-chink, Now rattling at the latch, Moaning at the lattice-pane, Laughing through the thatch. Is this all the wind has done To-night ? cruel wind ! Ask the madden' d ocean then, In mocking fury blind ! « SHE'S GONE." 77 What says the surging deep, With wrecks and ruins strown ? The billows mock us as they drive — See what this wind has done ! Night of the loss of the " London/' 1866. <&mjf^£> " SHE'S GOXE." tMSt^M O young to die, so young — (|||=^> Life's day-dreams o'er, Hast sewn the last stitch in her shroud, Or are there more ? So young to die, so young — Life's spells, joys o'er, Has dimm'd the gold, has died the rose, Waiting for more ? 78 « SHITS GONE: 1 So young to die, so young — Life's warfare o'er, Has leaf d the willow o'er her grave, Through winters hoar ? So young to die, so young — Life's friendships o'er, Has bloom'd her amaranthine wreath On Heaven's own shore ? So young to die, so young — Death's victory o'er, A white rose in her coffin lay, And grieve no more. 79 SEMPER EADEM. ^wHE moonlight waver' d in my dream, It crept within my curtains' gloom ; I said, Are all things as they seem In this secluded moon-tryst room ? tell me ! I lured the moonlight, as it crept From floor to ceiling as it sped, I tried to court it ere I slept, It laugh' d back on a golden head Beside me. It glanced too on the shadowy wall, On a loved portrait, on a book, But no where linger' d — dark grew all Around me as the moon forsook, Faint, trembling. 80 SEMPER EADEA1. Are all things as they seem ? I said. On the gold hair pass'd that gold glow, Then softly kiss'd the hands and head — Yes ! one will be the same, I know, For ever. The book may drop in dnst away, The portrait fade, its colours die, In vain the moon may smile some day, On these blank walls, when none are nigh- Earth's changes ! But love's light in the soul shall stay, And one thing will be e'er the same. The head beside me tiirn'd — 'twas day, The night was gone, the moon, my dream The same. L^ ^A^ 3i FOUND. §Mil!Sff WAS sitting one eve bv the shore of the J^SSS sea, As lazy it rippled, retreated, and left The print of its footsteps in sandals of foam, With some weeds it had dropp'd, from sea-caverns reft. There a jewel I found hid away by the wave, A treasure once wreck'd from a casket long lost, Where from groves of bright coral, few mysteries e'er Come to breathe their lost secrets in whispers spray-tost, I pick'd up the jewel all wet with the wave, Thus trampled by ocean's swift sandals that roam. On a gold thread I strung it, it hangs round my neck, This gem from life's ocean, this star from its foam. G 82 EXTREMES. ROM the Madeleine came slowly A stately funeral hearse, With its trappings and its velvet, And its plumes to nod averse, As if pluck' d from Death's wings sable ;- I paused and held my breath, For I saw it was a pageant From the solemn court of Death. " Another from the court of Death," So spake a passer-by, And I but smiled a bitter smile, And do you ask me why ? — " The court of Death," I answer' d him, The king then — where is he ? Though true, the whole procession wore His royal livery. EXTREMES. 83 The heavy pall of velvet black, Its fringe with silver deck'd, The manes of ebon horses tied In plaits with silver fleck'd, All pomp of woe, all grave-parade, This link of death to life, This pride, alas ! so pitiful, After life's ended strife. Half buried 'midst this pomp of woe, Of ermine and of cloth, Upon the coffin's shrouded lid, Death thus to woo not loth, A wreath of winter roses lay, Exhaling frosty breath, To make less insupportable This catafalque of Death. Slowly the pageant moved along That crowded thoroughfare, Now side by side with liveries, The rich, the gay, the fair, 84 EXTREMES. A solemn moral pointing, as It wended slow along ; Like the solution of a discord In some impassion'd song. But as I follow'd musingly The cortege on its way, My ears were rudely startled by A coarse and vagrant lay, Which from a ragged poor child came, Who sate at the palace gate, And the burden of her distich sad I could not here repeat. Hush, hush, poor child ! I softly said, This is no place nor time For ribald songs, for careless jests, With funeral bells to chime ; She raised a wondering face to mine, With look of mute surprise, And the tears came quick, and clouded all The summer in her eyes. I EXTREMES. Quaint were her childish answers, as My questions gently came, She was born, she said, in misery, A very heir of shame ; How young she was, thus drifting down The rapids of life's stream, No hand of love to guard her feet Or sway life's treaeh rous dream. Upon the sparrows then I mused, The ravens too, that call To th' ear that never closed is, But open y d wide to all ; And that Voice that once spake plainly On the shores of Galilee, " Suffer the little children then To love and come to me." Thus do extremes for ever meet On these highways of life, Death leers sarcastic, as he points To Love with folly rife ; 86 EXTREMES. To funeral honours paid by gold, To coffins fall of dust, To living souls still cheated here Of birthright and of trust. Death's cortege still kept moving on, Life's pageants giving place, A.nd heads were now uncover'd as It enter' d Pere la Chaise ; A.nd up the sombre avenue, To the grave's mysterious door, Which, in mould'ring blackness gaping. Waited one trophy more. They lower'd down the coffin slow, To oblivion and to dust, Curtain'd in Death's pavilion drear, With mildew, worm, and rust ; And now, too late for earth's regrets, For tears in anguish shed, Too late for mourners then to long They'd been kinder to their dead. EXTREMES. 87 Then home ! And Fancy drew the sketch — The empty hearse, despoil'd Of tenant, trappings, flowers, all — Its feathers wet and moil'd ; For cloud-tears that down kept dripping Beneath the veiled sun, Seem'd to mock this passing pageant For the dear and buried one. Thick and fast the rain- drops fell On the living — on the dead, But the child drew closer to me, To shelter her bare head ; Under an archway long we stood, More trustful grew the child, And clung as if awaken' d from Some vision sad and wild. have we pass'd from death to life, From darkness into light, From folly into wisdom's school, From faith to actual sight ? EXTREMES. Such great extremes of life dismay, Bring questions to peruse, Problems too intricate by far For me and my faint muse. Death's sable terrors oft impose Dark mysteries on the mind, While moral death of living souls "We leave in thought behind ; We use life as a carnival, And wear a painted mask, In self-approving consciousness, Till death for it must ask ! But carnivals must cease at length, And painted masks must fall, And truth shall drive her chariot wheel s r Triumphant, over all ; And falsehood, crime, oppression, sin, Shall reap the dues of dust, When comes the judge to mark for aye The evil and the just. EXTREMES. How I yearn'd towards this orphan, Adrift upon the world, Like a blossom from some lonely tree To swift destruction hurl'd, Blown to some wretched corner lone. Neglected, starving, lost, Trampled in dust by careless feet, Or nipp'd by death's swift frost. Could I pluck this flower, I wonder' d then r Thrown vagTant on life's stream, Defiled with vice and misery, Ere sunk in sin's mad dream ? For the petals of this wild weed were Still tender, young, and fair, Although ragged were her garments. And matted was her hair. Then I spoke of death, of Heaven, To this abandon' d child, Of the goodness of our Father, Who on all who trust has smiled ; 90 EXTREMES. Of His patience and long-suffering With the evil and the good, Of our Master's deep compassion, His death upon the rood ! Yea, the wondrous tale I told her, Never tiring, ever new, How Jesus, once a little child, In Bethlehem's garden grew; And all through His tender childhood Was sinless and Divine, And now in Heaven was waiting for Her soul as well as mine. Had I pluck'd, then, this poor wild weed From pestilence of sin, To lead her to the gates of pearl, And crj — Lord, let her in ? Ere her garments were more niired and torn, On paths perplex' d and base, Could I teach, and hope to win her To see her Father's face ? EXTREMES. 91 To listen to this story, as Slow pass'd that funeral car, Oh yes ! But since she's left me for A brighter world afar ; Death came, and loving took her, on One sweet, calm summer's night, This flower I plnck'd from earth's dark paths, And fields of Sin and blight. Not as the terror-king came he, No courtly pride he wore, But as a peaceful messenger He enter'd at the door ; He took her, and he laid her down At the gates of endless day, The face of Jesus to behold, The Refuge and the Way* 9 2 BARBARA. HE night- wind raveth, The rain- drop grievetli Athwart the lattice — Barbara, Barbara. Within the old Tower, Alas ! for the bower Where weepeth and watcheth Barbara, Barbara. Grim warriors look down, And darkly they frown From the gallery walls — Barbara, Barbara. J BARBARA. 93 The turret clock bell Tolls its sad knell On the wearying ear of Barbara, Barbara. To the chapel she hieth, Near her chamber it lieth, Now passeth the corridor, Barbara, Barbara. She kneels at the Altar, Her fainting prayers falter, She kneels not alone, Barbara, Barbara. But one kneels beside her, It is the black rider, The false-hearted knight of Barbara, Barbara. He sprang from the deep sea, Swore ever to love thee, For ever and ever, Barbara, Barbara. 94 BARBARA. He lifts the black casque, Death hides in the mask, He clasps to, his bosom Barbara, Barbara. That clasp stole the breath, That kiss it was death, Now frozen — a statue stands Barbara, Barbara. In the castell'd Erbrein, That frowns on the Rhine, Is this story in sculpture — Barbara, Barbara. The legend is old, The story is told, Alas for the lady ! Barbara, Barbara. 95 "THE LAST SUPPER." LEONARDO DA VINCI* S^II^ND still that silent Supper shines, shines on, From those dim walls, though convent walls no more, As shone it on that brotherhood of monks, Many a winged century sung before, When at their silent board they gazed as we, Upon those painted shadows on the wall, The last mysterious Supper of the Twelve, Their pious love and reverence to recall. It was a holy custom in those days, For Art to clasp commemorative each scene Of Him who lowly lived, wept, — died for all, That we through pictures might feel what had been. 96 "THE LAST SUPPERS So when long ages in their solemn flight Should brush these records down with reckless wing, And wipe their memories from the hearts of men, Their shadows still might live to comfort bring ; Of scenes all hallow'd by a Saviour's cross, And in Time's mazy halls for ever shine From age to age the light of inspiration's touch, Which holy Art immortal shall enshrine. So, they who on these trophies look to-day, And those, now dust, who've gazed before, ay, all! E'en those to come who'll stand and gaze as we, Spell-bound, before a picture on a wall — A crack'd and faded fresco, dim and old, Reflected shadows from a banish'd sun Long since gone down with earlier Christian Art, Which modern schools must ever leave UDWon. « THE LAST SUPPERS 97 Yet while we stand and gaze, we're minded of The " gray Gerolomite," the last of all That brotherhood, whose touching words we quote, Which doth the " Spanish anecdote " recall — How once a painter from a distant strand Did cross the wave, this picture great to see ; The friar mark'd his wondering look, and thus Reply did make in speech austere but free — - " Stranger, thou gazest on a picture there, To me no picture e'en for many a year, Though I am old, and my last sands near run, And soon these bones will rest upon the bier. " When I review my youth, what I was then. What I am now, and ye beloved ones all, I feel as if these were the living men, And we the colour'd shadows on the wall.''* Vide " Spanish Anecdote." THE SONG OF THE REAPERS. ^J^MHEY sow to tlie wind, Lord, who sow not ^iSl? to Thee, For sowers and reapers we only are here, Each hath his own acre in Grod's world to till, Ere the husbandman cometh his harvest to bear. We each have onr acre alone here to till, And nmst toil, if we hope some harvest to reap ; Be faithful and labour through sun and through rain, Ere night shall o'ertake us, and death's silent sleep. If we sow to the wind, then the whirlwind we reap — " Do thistles bear figs, or grapes grow on the thorn?" If our wheat then we'd garner unsown by the tares, We must labour at noon-day, as well as at morn. THE SOXG OF THE REAPERS. 99 \Te have only our own prescribed acre to till. Not those of our neighbours, — only help rlieni in need, If the thunder-drops fall, or the heavy rains sweep, And their sheaves lie ungarner'd in paths where we tread, 'Tis then we must help them, and garner the sheaves, Safe housed from the tempest, or stored in the wain ; While our plot will grow riper, nor lose e'en one sheaf, For a kindness love-render'd, not asking again. They sow to the wind then who sow not to Him, The Lord of the harvest, who asketh no more But that we pay back all our " talents" at last. And the sheaves we have bound, when He knocks at our door. FAITH VERSUS PHILOSOPHY. ^IUST weave me a garment of fine thistle- down, And a hat from the cobweb's sheer loom, With a mantle fine spun from the gray mountain mist, And then through the wide world I will roam In search of Earth's reasons, God's truths to maintain, And life's intricate problems thus prove, Though 'twere better bj far pride's ice- depths to break, And accept what God hides in His love. For can we perceive how the wild thistle grows, And the grass that we tread under foot, Or how the fruit bursts from the blossom so sweet, Or the tree from its deep buried root ? FAITH VERSUS PHILOSOPHY. 101 Xo, Nature's too coy her deep secrets to tell The most patient who sit at her feet ; We are shrouded in mystery without and within, And man's wisdom's a life-long defeat. Philosophy proves but the sheer thistle-down, Swiftly trapp'd in a cobweb's fine snare, Unbelief but a treacherous spider which waits To allure faithless souls to her lair. Not required are we by our reason to prove Aught that Infinite Reason controls ; I know 'tis a wound to all self-love and pride, But beware of the infidel's shoals. " We are bought with a price" by Him, who, forsooth, Makes conditions to level our pride, We must sit in Faith's childhood, lie low at His feet, If we hope in His peace to abide — All lowly and guileless by Calvary's cross, And apart from the world and its strife, Is it hard to be children through earth's fleeting day, When if children, we're " heirs" of that life ? io2 BUBBLES. Not the life that now is, with its sorrows and cares, Contradictions, discrepancies, sin ; But behind that great veil which o'er Calvary hung, When the Savionr for ns enter'd in. BUBBLES. E drift like bubbles down life's stream — Bubbles that sport with light, Only reflect life's treacherous hues, Nor dream of sunless night. When steals some breeze or flitting leaf, These bubbles break in air, So exquisite they are, too frail A leaf-kiss e'en to bear. With sails of silk we trim life's barque, With anchors silver- wrought, Mann'd with bright hopes, our helmsman Self Gives sunken shoals no thought. BUBBLES. 103 Alas ! we drift on Life's rough sea, Lash'cl to a broken raft, If Christ be not our pilot here, Heaven's breezes do not waft. We hang our hopes on threads of gold, At least we think we do, Spun from the loom of what we wish, Rather than what is true. Alas ! these hang on cobwebs frail, Frailer than thistle-down, Without our God cements the threads, And weaves them in a crown. We tread Life's bridge of shadows, which Out of the mist is built, Frail as the mirage in the sky That fades in sunset gilt. Bubbles we are, on bubbles tread, Bubbles we court and grasp, All, all so shadowy save that Love We might, but do not clasp. io4 BUBBLES. If bubbles then, if shadows we, Who must in shadows grope, There's comfort still in Christ's great Love, The Love which brings us hope. ]NTo more like bubbles then we swim O'er waves of life's deep stream, No more o'er shadows do we brood, Dark as life's saddest dream. Shall we the lesson learn call'd Life ? Ere jet this life is spun, In shadows even find a key To pass Doubt's rubieon ? That light may then upon us flash, Life from our heart's-depths call, Love's chrism rest upon our lips. His Love be all in all 1 io 5 WAVE-FOOTSTEPS IX THE SAXDS. : r M KIPPLIXG strings, soft touch'd fc^Z&i By breezes light, Break ye in measures full, Sing day and niglit. Hark ! the soft whisper — " hush !" Steals o'er the strand, And footprints of each wave Indent the sand. E'en steps of wandering waves, That softly sweep, Leave footprints in the sands Where ripples creep. While down the stately nave, And transepts dim Of ocean's wave-paved church, Wc hear the hvmn : — io6 MEMORY'S BELLS. " Thus leave jour impress in Earth's fleeting sand, That others, following on, May earnest stand In the bright track you leave On earth's pale shore, When you have enter' d in The golden door." MEMORY'S BELLS. kSIIIx OFTLY ringing, softly chiming, \0£i^% Faintly tinkling, Memory's bells, Chiming clear of vanish' d hours, Golden hours, silvery peals, When the hum of twilight trembles, Ere soft clasp'd in dewy night, When the flowers fold their petals, Kiss'd to sleep by dying light. MEMORY'S BELLS. 107 When the night-breeze shakes the cypress, Moaning through each waving bough, Chanting many a minor cadence — iEolian strings, that bode no woe ! When the Angelns, quick pealing. Calls the faithful ones to prayer, Through the claustral shadows stealing, Alice, art thou with me there ? INTERVALS. ^0*0^ HAXDEL. '^jFvHEX Handel's stately measured tread I mm heard Marching adown Tinie's corridors revered ; Immortal Handel, round whose score divine, Enduring mysteries of Faith entwine Their mazes. IMany seek to match thy power, As torches mock the moon for some brief hour ; Yea, scores of Imitators rise and swell The ranks where thou, great master, lone shalt dwell ; Thy genius leads where true art only reigns, Binding the music-world in subtlest chains. Awake ! great prophet of the solemn chords, In song and chorus, make the inspired words ! While lesser lights shall nicker, waste, and die, But leave to Handel Immortality ! SONNET. 'igi|R||jHEN Music wove in dreams her wizard IB spell, From viol, harp- string, organ's flow and swell, Unearthly concords lured my soul away To lose herself in trance and ecstasy ; Beethoven pleaded, plaintive Weber sigh'd, And Palestrina's solemn rhythm died, Striking wild chords in memory's octaves deep, Leaving me in my music- dream to weep ; Then wordless songs came floating on the hours, Filling the air with gorgeous music-flowers — Entranced within my dream, so rich and rare, I lost the sense of sorrow, need, or care. Alas ! 'twas but a dream that so beguiled, But I awoke again life-reconciled. "3 AN INVOCATION. rapvOME ! nightly whisperer, come ! though scarce divined, Come, white-wing'd messenger, and gracious bring Tour words afloat upon the midnight wind : In the night-watches hover round, and sing Thoughts which e'en poets dare not call their own, Yet fain would catch the echoes till the soul Dares utterance in language rhythm-thrown. Come then, bright spirit, in your light patrol, Encamp and guard the threshold pure, serene — Imagination's visionary sphere, Whose star-lit chambers, hung with fancy's sheen, Are peopled too. Be thou interpreter ! Chambers of imagery ! may each threshold grow Meet for an angel's feet to come and sro ! ii 4 THE SONG OF THE SEA. ^AVE on then, rave on then, desolate sea! Rave on in your romance of dark mystery, Fling up your spectral arms high from the deep, Ay, fling them and toss them with passionate sweep. And menace the rocks too that mock at your power, As baffled, ye bound from the obstinate shore ; And rave on, ay, rave on, desolate sea ! Rave on in your wild world of strange mystery. Nor tell but of those who have sunk to their rest Deep down your green fathoms below the foam crest, Nor of the bright gems in your dark coffers hid, In grottos of coral that never shall fade ; THE ANTHEM, 115 But tell me, ay, tell me, desolate sea ! The burthen, the plaint, of your grand symphony ; For not to lost treasures, or the dead that there sleep, Is your burden sung ever in cadence thus deep. For, at morn the waves sing it, desolate sea ! And at night they repeat it, the same symphony, For evermore chaunting the grand jubilee, " Te Deum Laudamus," the song of the sea ! THE ANTHEM. WEEP the grand wave- chords full, wind, With rippling fingers light, Strike the rich keys which rise and fall To th' psalmody of night ! Ye glistening pebbles on the strand, Dragg'd backward by the sea, Lend your clear treble, softly sweet, To this grand symphony. u6 ADRIFT. Crash ! waves, upon the hoary rocks. And whirl jour plumes of spray, Flung from the chariot of the foam Death drives in reckless sway. And ye, proud billows, rise to break Defiant in your might, Swell the great anthem of the sea, The anthem of the night. Come, Silence, on your dreamy wings, And fold them — let no flush Of worldly care, or idle mirth Disturb this anthem — hush ! ADRIFT. |EAVE the helm, let go the oars, i^^l^I Fret no more the reckless wave, Onward, seaward, let us float — Adrift! ADRIFT. 117 Break the bubbles on the foam — See the land in distance die ; Onward, seaward let us float, — Adrift! Toss we on the boiling surge, Passed the buoy, now out of sight — Ocean, be thou antetype ! Adrift! Passion on thy bosom sleep, Laugh, pale sun-beams, o'er the waste ; One word more, ay, one more clasp, — Adrift ! Deep the soundings, yet how clear ! Mark the stones, the rocks, the weed — You smile — dost read my meaning now, Adrift? iiS A WORD-PICTURE. Rg|/ HE room was draped in shadows sombre, cool, That trifled with the arras, as it fiapp'd Its heavy folds in idle Tuscan breeze, That through the lattice pane came wandering in. Here a great painter at his easel sat, Limning the tender features of a face That shyly look'd from ont a modest veil, Like some sweet exile from yon clouded sphere, Or distant planet gazing down on us Poor mortals, who in dreams can only find (Not always then) such faces peerless quite, As sculptured from an alabaster rock, Yet sensitive and varying as the harp JEolian, trembling to the summer breeze ; And eyes — .wondrous eyes ! like looking down Those soundless depths of Leman's quivering blue, A WORD-PICTURE. n 9 Which lure in vain the soul to sound those deeps ; The hair, too, — where the sunset laid her palm, Has tangled in its tresses skeins of gold. Xow dream the minstrels o'er their golden chords, Stirring the air to hush of music's thralls ; The rebeck and the lute breathe music-words, As fast the painter weaves his colours in, Essays his best to counterfeit that face Upon the canvas wakening to his touch. The lady's eyes are never fix'd on him, Her head is half- averted, turn'd to mark A figure standing by the painter's side, With finger raised, as if he said, — Take care. With reverence touch the shadows even mine. She sits, the lady, on the dais raised — From the oak screen, with cornice richly carved, Hangs soft folds of drapery round her head, Like a mosaic background wrought in air By checker' d rays of sunlight's prisms bright, Her hound in glossy coat lies at her feet, And upward gazes at his mistress' face. 'Tis Laura, Petrarch's Laura, as she sits, 'Tis Petrarch by the painter's chair who stands, 'Tis Simon Zvlemmi, he alone who dares izo A NEW GONDOLA SONG. Upon that shred, that perishable shred Of canvas there to lay creative tints, And bid them connterfeit fair Laura's face — This is the picture, swe'et, commemorate, Of Petrarch's Laura and of Petrarch's love. A NEW GONDOLA SONG FOR VENICE, IN 1866. |UT the Queen has come back, The Queen of the Sea, No longer an exile Nor widow is she. They stole her regalia, They trampled her power, Usurp' d her dominion, And pilfer 'd her dower. A NEW GONDOLA SOXG. They emptied her coffers, The j mock'd at her pride, Wore even the jewels Of Italy's bride ! But the Queen has come back. The Queen of the Sea, Her crown is redeem'd, and Our Venice is free ! Xo more the oppressor Shall plant his proud heel On th' grave of San Marco, Or bid Venice kneel. Xo — the Queen has come back, Unfetter' d and free, She has dropt all her weeds In th' grave of her sea. Her gems and her pictures Are now all her own, And the fair Queen, Venetia, Sits high on her throne. THE "NIGHT AND MORNING," OF MICHAEL ANGELO. J RE AT Angelo ! His sinewy arm has hew'd From living rock the block from which he strikes The sparks from hammer wielded in his might ; And then the finer work begins, and now The chisel in its office keen and sharp, Cuts, shapes, proportions in th' incongruous mass — The file the task completes with cunning skill, And lo ! the statues " Night and Morning" live ! O in that chapel where the shadows steal, To hang their draperies o'er sepulchral urns, There pause they, reverently kneel and fold Their hands before this grand unfinished thought, Veiling the silent faces, till we dream Of beauty ideal as that Poet dream'd, Who left this work for shadows to complete With their weird fingers, pencilling each face, Till e'en far grander is this rough-hewn thought, Than if express'd, and that great dream dream'd out. 123 THE CALL. ^Ml^HE fountain drips echoless her low minor llSfey phrase, And the willow droops wooingly down through the maze, She droops till she half blends her life with the stream Whose bubbles she breaks, like the thread of a dream. And the nightingale calls from the darks of the pine, To her mate to come back to his own leafy shrine, Then she waits for the answer, borne back on the breeze, Low whisper' d by flowers, and repeated by trees. list to the pining chord, ever and oft, Hark ! hark ! comes the cadence so plaintive and soft, 124 A PORTRAIT, " Take the thorn from my breast," this all sadly she sings, " Then hide me, safe hide me, love, under thy wings." The red shield of Mars seems to guard the sweet grove, In the silence of night and the silence of love, All is dark save the glimmer of Autumn's red star, With the link of two hearts that united now are. A PORTRAIT. " "ROUND her neck Love's corals hang, Truth's pearl shines in her heart, An aureole halo girts her head With Wisdom's better part. A PORTRAIT. 125 About her wrists Strength's sapphires cling, Her hands with rabies flame, Faith's winged sandals bind her feet — Wow, canst thou guess her name ? The law of Kindness gilds her tongue — Forbearing to the weak, She patiently forgives the wrong, In wrath is slow to speak. Forgetting self in others' weal, In Love and Truth complete, Meekly she bears her cross through life, And waits at Jesu's feet. 126 FLOWERS FOR PARADISE. S^^MHAT plants are these ? what flowers sweet ivJaJM*K and rare, That skirt earth's paths of sorrow, sin, and care, That meekly hide 'mid shadows cool and shy ? Save for their fragrance we should pass them by, Yet careless footsteps often on them tread, Though bend they not, nor break, nor e'en are dead, But from each bruised stalk faint perfume flies, Of resignation to the bending skies. Life's forest, with her endless, devious ways, Her pathless copses lead to 'wildering maze, Her dizzy heights, abysses black and deep, To crags, dark ravines, and to chasms steep ; Her evanescent rainbows, where the sun Out of a cloud a fleeting dream has spun, Gorgeous as fleeting, beautiful as bright, Yet while we gaze quick swooning on the sight ; But these fair flowers not everywhere are seen, A SOXG FOR THE CRITICS. 127 In paths of earth, so pure in shape and mien. But such the souls — the meek, the chaste, the true, Life-flowers that light the path our steps pursue On earth, celestial plants for ever fair, Which scent life's wastes, perfume earth's desert air, And God is watching, waiting in His skies For them to bloom with Him in Paradise ! o&x A SOXG FOR THE CRITICS. ^^^ES, indeed we must sing, dear Critics, J^g^) although You over our cages a handkerchief throw, If one streak of pale sunshine should steal through a chink, I'm afraid we shall chirp still, whatever you think I 128 A SONG FOR THE CRITICS. But the best way to manage us seems, after all, Not to clip our wings utterly, lest we should fall — Put a lump of white sugar, at times, in the cage, We shall sing all the sweeter, or try, we'll engage, Till at length we half win you to say we aspire. We are not all nightingales, — would that we were ! — There are larks, and to sing e'en the chaffinches dare, For all have a voice in Dame Nature's bowers, And all have their part in life's passing hours ; For not only the lark pours rhythms of sound, But we're told not a sparrow falls aye to the ground Without the sure knowledge of Him who hath made The bird for the sunshine, the bird for the shade. So be patient, dear Critic, with all that must sing, If their notes are not false, no mocking-bird's wing; We are not like the rest of the world, as you know, We are fanciful, sensitive — breezes may blow THE DANCE 129 Our song-notes away, so have patience with all, And if you can't praise us, what will befall ? Shall we chirp, warble still, in the shades of life's bowers, If not in the noontide, through twilight's sad hours ? Some pilgrim may hear us in travel-stained dust, And lay down his staff, and sandals adjust, Refresh' d by some carol, go forth on his way. And bless some small wood-bird who sang such a day. THE DANCE. A BALLAD. y$xXLY another dance, he urged — The king's son, it was he, And Beatrix stood in her shining robes, As the lady of minstrelsy. K 130 THE DANCE. Only another dance — he cried, Sounding the depths of her eyes — To the wars I go ere to-morrow's sun Over the East shall arise. But Beatrix raised those wonderful eyes, Half doubtful, then she sprang — As if throwing away some memory Of a song she once had sung — So into that dance she flings herself, So giddy, reckless seems, While her peerless face and her wondrous eyes, Woo gazers to fond love-dreams. Half-awed, the king's son led her on, As if 'twere profanity To lead such a lady to a dance In a night of revelry. Though reverent he clasp'd the proffer'd hand, As she dropt it in his own — 'Twas clasp'd In the warrior's bronzed palm. As a pearl in some dark shell thrown. THE DANCE. The music dream' d, the dance began. Her hand the warrior press 'd — How beat her heart 'neath clouds of lace. Upon that warrior's breast ! A rose fell from the wreath she wore, Encircling the wavy gold, He caught it — but little she reck'd or knew Of this his theft so bold. A strange repose stole o'er her soul, Unlike the fever-gleam Which once had blazed within her heart, But proved a waking dream. She could have died that hour in peace. He could have died with her — what a dance for life was that Which hearts to their depths could stir ! At length she breathed her answer to His deep, impassion'd sigh, Too long she had listen' d for her peace On that nia'ht of revelry. 132 THE DANCE. Slow came her words : " I may not wed, Betrothed I long have been, Though he is false,, and a faithless knight, I keep my heart's vows clean. " Nor can this promise be forgot, It was heard in holy heaven ; I mnst be true, thongh he be not, For my troth before God was given/' Then the king's son bent down on her A look of speechless love ; Was this a partner for a dance, Or an angel from above ? He mused, he sigh'd, and then he knelt As praying at a shrine, — " Beatrix, guardian of my soul, one day thou'lt be mine !" She heard, she wept, and whisper' d — " Go, Till some sweet summer's day, When June shall bring her roses back, And break all thralls away." THE DAXCE. 133 It was a death to either heart, Xo troth could then be given, ]So cup of love might either taste, Since old chains were not riven. To war he went, the king's own son, With one rose on his breast — One faded, wither'd ball-room rose, Close to his heart was press'd ; Caught from the fluttering laee that veil'd A fluttering heart beneath, And I trow the warrior who caught it then, Will wear it through life and death. 134 THE SEQUEL. bring me niy lute — it hangs on the jew, In the bower by the clematis spread ; Then cut me some roses all dripping with dew, Half open — the white and the red. Thus Beatrix spoke, that sweet desolate maid, As out to the terrace she stole, Where the moon ghastly smiled over bower and glade, And the nightingale warbled her dole. Now bring me my casket, e'en here where the moon .May look on my treasures and gems, For under night's spell I would count them o'er soon, While they rival the stars' diadems. THE SEQUEL. 135 Thus Beatrix stole to her bower all hid In clematis, myrtle and rose. And with a deep sigh she uplifted the lid, And mused long in silent repose. Then out of its cell a small locket she drew. 'Twas a heart with red rubies a-glow, And a name there was set in the deep sapphires blue. Like a flame lit on drifts of the snow. Then trembled her hand, and though light was the press On the fine subtle magical spring, It brought out the gold of a marvellous tress, And one black as the raven's own wing. Down, down in the leaves this locket she press'd, Deep down in a dark silent grave : Thus she buried the love which once glow'd in her breast, With the gift that her false lover gave. 136 AN UNANNOUNCED VISITOR Then back to the castle sweet Beatrix steals, When the moon has forsaken her bower, With her kite, and her casket, but nought that reveals The tale of that strange midnight hour. But the rose that the king's son wore on his breast, And the king's son, whither is he ? For the false knight sleeps with a lance in his breast — And Beatrix's soul now is free. AN UNANNOUNCED VISITOR AT THE TUILEBIES. j%|§|N^ SAW ye not the shadow |§g^| That pass'd through the palace gate, Up the broad steps, and through the door, And enter' d the halls of state ? AT THE T CILERIES. 137 Passing each wary sentinel, Not as a stranger might, Who for the first time feels her way Where new scenes meet her sight ; Bnt as one long familiar With those galleries and halls, The crystal lamps, the gilded bronze, And frescoes on the walls. On, on the shadow glided swift, Enter'd the Hall of Peace : Before an equestrian statue paused, And whisper'd i; Blest release." The statue of an exiled king, From throne and country driven, 'Twas broken, defaced, this ef^gy To ruin's empire given. A deep sigh from the shadow came. That gazed upon the king, A sigh that rent th' historic air, As memories round it cling. [38 AN UNANNOUNCED VISITOR Then onward, slow, the shadow moved, Enter' d the banquet hall ; Glory and splendour fill'd that space, With music's syren thrall. Imperial splendour dazed the eye, And pomp and pageant shone ; Yet jewell'd cups and ruby wine Hid not the " skeleton." For close to the imperial chair The shadow stole, and leant Upon the velvet and the gold, With eye and ear intent. They spoke of one now queen no more, But exiled, banish' d, dead, Who in these regal halls had once Mild radiance on them shed. Some said, " A pity dire it was That once a random shot Had not released one martyr's woes, And saved one weary lot." AT THE TUILERIES. 139 And others spoke, but uone could urge One harsh word of the dead ; But all concurred that virtues rare Were on this princess shed. That true as mother, chaste as wife, By sorrow bent, not broken, Meekly she bore her cross on earth, And left her griefs unspoken. Calm in her dignity had braved The exile's lonely part In the adopted home she found, In England's noble heart. At this the shadow slowly moved Toward the draperied door, Pausing an instant as it pass'd Before the Emperor. Then came a voice upon the ah 1 , Xot weird, not harsh, not dreary, But soft and low as river's flow, On summer nights so eerie — i 4 o AN UNANNOUNCED VISITOR. " Earthly crowns to dust mnst turn, Sceptres to broken reeds ; Kingdoms will shake, thrones be usurped, And queens wear widows'-weeds." Then came a cold blast through the hall, Lights to their sconces quiver'd; Beauty and flattery dropp'd their masks, And Pleasure's phantoms shiver' d. Then down the glittering stairs she stole, Guards, muskets, all unheeding, Close by the sentries on she went, No earthly summons heeding. " Je suis mieux," * the last words fell Slow on the midnight air, And the ghost that haunted the Tuileries, Vanish 'd through mist and glare. * Last words of Queen Amalie. v^-S^—- I 4 I CHRISTMAS ROSES. BUBBLE of glass, frail Venice glass, These Christmas roses to hold — So graceful the pedestal of my vase Tight clasp 'd in these claws of gold. While here and there sparkles a ruby red, And Orient jewel bright, To mirror my roses and softly shed A holy celestial light. Roses in winter ! thus sweet and rare, This Christmas morning shall bring The thought of one Rose more radiant far, Dropt to-day from the crown of the king. ALPEX FLORA. fplstQULD'ST thou have a garland of flowers, ^ih0l ^"°t f° rce( l under tropical glass, Not pluck'd from the belt of the green sward, Xor from gardens through which ye may pass ? Then go to that high Alpine chalet, And I'll show you the flowers more fair Than e'er bloom' d or in grove or in garden, Or stifled in close hot-house air. i8 4 ALP EN FLORA. I'll not fret you with technical titles For these children of Alp-land so dear, With the baptismal dew of God's bounty On each leaf, and each petal so clear ; Here are gentians, and orchis, and pinks too, With campanula elf- cups that fill, •Rhododendron and violets regal, Meadow-sweet and the rich daffodil. Such a garland I'll weave for your tresses, Which all others shall cast into shade, Neither crystal nor Sevres shall ensnare them, These smiles on the steep grassy glade ; All wet with the untrampled dew, With an odour so sweet and so faint, Like the memory of loved ones departed, Or the prayers of a glorified saint. It was worth all our climb to the chalet, These rare Alpine children to find, For they dropt from the hands of the Angels, Then were sown in the night by the wind. \pK I8 5 CLOUD-SCULPTURES. LAKE LEMAN. INE evening we sat together, Under the great lime-tree, As the shadow-king stole softly From his court of mystery. The mist had shrouded the mountain, Only their outlines dim, In the spectral light were looming, Fantastic in shape and limb. But the thunder that roLTd above us, And trembled within the clouds, Fill'd those chambers of imagery With ghostly shapes and shrouds. Stretch' d on a couch funereal, On a pillow of silver fleece, A monumental figure grand, Form'd a wonderful frontispiece. 1 86 CLOUD-SCULPTURES. It wore the shape of a poet, Like Dante stiff and cold, The grand, stern face in death transfix'd, And draped in a shroud of gold. While round him roll'd black thunder clouds, Fantastically piled, Domes and minarets, strangely mix'd, Cloud-sculptures weird and wild ! Primeval birds, and elfin sprites, And ghosts in winding-sheets, With outstretch' d arms, in vapour draped, And monks in still retreats. Gnomes and demons, sprites and fays, Whirl' d in a giddy dance — A waltz of shadows quaint, bizarre, Finish' d th' extravagance. Then came dark Night in widow's weeds, Broke up the spectral dance, Buried from sight the poet grand, And ended the eve's romance. i8 7 THE AXGELUS. y^fp^HE rain is filling the valley, IfSfei Dripping from crag and from chalet, The chimes for the "Angelas" ringing, The angels are calling and singing To prayer ! Yes, the angels call ns to prayer, On Jesn to lay all our care, Oh list to the " Angelus " ringing, Oh list to the angels soft singing To prayer ! THE MAID OF SAYOY. ijglS|2<0 girlish and fair, with her golden hair, ()i|||§§5 And a step as light as the noiseless air, With a voice as soft as the wooing leaves, Kiss'd fondly at night when the zephyr grieves, Was the Maid of Savoy. Like pictures we see by that holy friar, Whose pencil he dipp'd in devotion's fire, When angels, and saints, and Christ's martyrs dead, Started back into life on. his canvas' thread — This the Maid of Savoy. As saintly as ever " Fra Beato" drew, And purer than snow, or the harebell's dew, Ay, calmer than moon-kiss'd Leman was she. This daughter of Chillon of noble degree, And Maid of Savoy. THE MAID OF SAVOY. 189 Whether in minuet stately she moved, How sad was her mien, — or careless she roved Around the old castle and battlements drear, Weaving pale violets in her gold hair — Sweet Maid of Savoy. Or tuning her rebeck to sad even-song. Luring the linnets from shadows among, Or on the high terrace, where lonely she sat Watching the nightfall, and gloom- whirling bat- Sad Maid of Savoy. Or musing on Alp-kings that round her home frown' d, In their mantles of snow by pine forests crown' d ; Or climbing in fancy those gall'ries of ice, So recklessly hung on the sheer precipice — Dream' d the Maid of Savoy, Or on crags where the chamois, cunning as fleet, Can scarce find a foothold or path for her feet ; Or lower down still, where the vine grapes of Vaucl, On sun-loving slopes, bud, blossom, and grow For the Maid of Savoy. 190 THE 31 AID OF SAVOY. Her thought was of him in his dungeon so deep, Under the castle's black, fortified keep — A martyr for freedom, who paced his stone square, Once priest, now Reformer, the stern Bonnivard — Sighed Maid of Savoy. Six summers he had to that ring been enchain'd, Till youth, hope, and life had utterly waned ; Like a warrior in death-wound Europe then quiver'd, The cry was, " The faith to the saints once de- livered ! " It reach'd the Maid of Savoy. But he was the sorrow that shrouded her youth, The thorn in her peace, the doubt in all truth ; And each mountain breeze that o'er her Alps came, Bore sighs from that prisoner, and Bonnivard's name To the Maid of Savoy. i9i THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLARD. Part I. Clarens. ^^S 00MS the Castle on the height, S^^M Whistling winds in wayward flight, Sweep the turret with their might — Proud Chastellard. High above the stormy lake, Whose waves on Chillon's fortress break- — None e'er again shall cheer partake In Chastellard. Grim old portraits deck the wall, And threadbare tapestries down fall, In banquet rooms, and silent hall Of Chastellard. Voices whisper of the dead, The dance, the song, the loved, the wed, Black coffin palls, and last tears shed At Chastellard. j 192 THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLARD. Sad symphony of other days, Quaint minstrelsy of ancient lays, The wizard touch of Time betrays — Grim Cha stellar d. A turret on the western flank, With ivy grown, and weeds too rank To prate of sunshine, falls a-blank On Chastellard. It scowls down on a rocky ledge, Where hawks hide sullen in the sedge, And scream upon the ragged hedge, Round Chastellard. There silence speaks of days gone by, Of maiden fair, of history, Hinting some tale of mystery Of Chastellard. For in that turret grim and old, Wrapt in her mantle's woof of gold, Once sat, long sat in shivering cold, A bride at Chastellard. THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLARJ). 193 Long watch' d she, waited, only said, •• Why tarrieth he, so lately wed ?" Ah, well-a-day ! the dead, the dead Haunt Chastellard. Say a mass for the wanderer's soul- Mutter'd a monk beneath his cowl, Nor heeded she that dismal dole, At Chastellard. Ah, well-a-day ! ah, well-a-day ! The tarnish' d gold and silver grey Of bridal shreds and youth's decay, At Chastellard. Part II. The hawk skims through the frosty air, Like some dark demon of despair, Nor fixes e'en his startled stare On bride of Chastellard. 1 9 4 THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLABD. For down below that turret's base, A deep black shadow sinks apace, Even the violets will not grace The shadow of Chastellard. For ever it stains the sickly grass, The sunlight never that way doth pass, For ever, for ever, the shadow, alas ! That haunts old Chastellard. The shadow of a bride just wed, Yet never a wife, and every shred Of nuptial robe to winds long sped — From tower of Chastellard. Two hundred years the tower has swept, Two hundred years the rains have wept Over that shadow, and sun has crept In vain round Chastellard. But now a baron glooms alone, Here with his daughter still unwon, Her beauty now like southern sun I\c-lights old Chastellard. THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLARD. 195 Now wandereth she at sunny noon, Now loitereth she by fickle moon, Now waits to watch the shadows swoon Around grim Chastellard ; Xow lures the ivy o'er this spot, And fosters rosemary in that plot, Now twines the wall-fruit, apricot, O'er th' shadow of Chastellard. In vain, in vain, — 'tis ever there, — Distraught the dress, and wind-toss'd hair, Ah, well-a-day ! forsaken Fair, That maid of Chastellard ! For while the shadow there doth lie, The curse of Chastellard must vie With maid unwed that there must die. Who blooms at Chastellard. Her songs the echoes deaf may wake, Her tears her harp-strings rust, and break, While still she vainly prays, " Oh take This curse from Chastellard!" 196 THE SHADOW OF CHASTELLARD. May plant the rosemary and thyme, And strive in fortitude sublime, To coax that shadow ere her prime Shall wane on Chastellard. The rose from off her cheek must fade, And gold grow dim in tress and braid, Her eyes lose light from tears long shed, Long shed at Chastellard. Let tears drop o'er the clambering rose, And the last broken lattice close In that doom'd turret's drear repose — Lone Chastellard. This is the legend of the tower, Of th' maid who ne'er forsook her bower, But watch' d and waited hour to hour At Chastellard. *97 THE AYE. WEXT to my church one evening, S?2S3§ As Tne ^ ve was rm ging clear, To my forest- church, my favourite shrine. Under firs, by the torrent near. Sublime was that grand interior ! So far from earth's noise and din, With that aureate dome cerulean, Where the angels enter in. And those living columns round me, Of the stately spruce and pine, Rearing masses of Gothic arches, Leaf-traceries to entwine. I fancied windows round me, All brilliant with stained glass, And saints here in glory shining, As waiting for us to pass. 198 THE AVE. Then came the peal from the torrent, With the chanting of voices rare, And the tracery thrill' d above me To the swell of the heavenly air. It was Nature's own " Te Deum," All join'd that Paean true, As it rose and swell' d on the mystic air, Then died in the dreamy bine. I look'd around — was I dreaming ? For underneath my feet Bright flowers, and pine-cones were mingled, And the odour was damp and sweet. But my church was only a forest, Each column a stately pine, My seat but a stump all moss-grown, The windows of Heaven's design ! For through the tracery broken, Came the sun with his pencil keen, And here and there with his magic touch, Left pictures where he had been. SUNSET AT THE "PORTE DU SOLEIL." 199 At length my reverie ended, In my church in a grove of pine, For this had been my cathedral, And this my forest shrine. SUNSET AT THE « PORTE DU SOLEIL." Morgens. 1|||HE Painter of the sky threw down His palette rich and rare ; It canght upon this lower world, And made it passing fair ! With pencil dipp'd in rainbow tints, He pencill'd leaf and stem Of spruce, and fir, and giant oaks, In hues that mock'cl the gem. 2oo SUNSET AT THE "PORTE DU SOLEIL. y He touch'd the rocks and shelving cliffs, And in the wimpling stream, He drew in gold his image fair, Bewitching as a dream. He lit the spire, and gilt the cross, Then dash'd a flood of tint On the church windows' dusty panes, Till they were all a-glint. An artist at his easel sat, To sketch this picture fair ; But ere his palette tints were mix'd, He dropp'd it in despair. For the stealthy form of Night drew near, And that fair picture stole, Nor left the grand original, Art's conquests to enroll. But I fancy 'twas the last attempt This artist ever made, To copy from that picture grand — That sun-lit pallisade. A FROST PICTURE ON A WINDOW. Montanvert. ^viN tlie window's frosty pane, The fickle moon is shining ; Silv'ring groves of fir and pine, The Frost-king's own designing. Wandering rillets lock'd in ice, And woodland footpaths winding, Into mysteries fancy wove, The Frost-king's own reminding. Distant hills in frozen mist, And spangled shrubs low bending, Caves befringed with icicles, And stars their lanterns lending ; Cheating us on a window pane With pictures brightly gleaming ; Till the sun shall swift dispel, And find us only dreaming. MOON-LIGHT. ^UEEJST of the Alpine night ! Smile from thy cloudy height, Fling down thy jewels bright On forest and stream. Blossoms of silver drop Down on this icy slope, Light up the crags to hope, As gloomy they frown. Jewel the cascades foam, Light the cathedral dome, Lift from its shadow-tomb, The death-precipice. Filigree moonlight woo, Chalets and valleys too, Bright in thy silver glow, To Him lift our hearts ! 203 THE FLOWER CHORUS. TO MBS. P. C. ^KROM the crowns of the angels we dropp'd, ^J^ Our gems in earth's valleys to sow, And where their faint footsteps have stopp'd, We awake, and our chorus bestow. With the saints too we lie down to sleep, And weave o'er the shrouds of the blest ; Sing plaintive — their memories weep, As we wander and bloom o'er their rest. Our prelude at dawn we renew, Our chorus, full chorus at morn, Fold our hands when the twilight's soft dew Drips o'er the sun's gold-shatter' d urn. From the crowns of the angels we dropp'd, And were sown in the night by the wind, And where each faint footstep has stopp'd, We hallow each track thus enshrined. 204 THE FLOWER CHORUS. Still softly our chorus we sing, And mingle our voices where'er Sharp discords of earth harshly ring, And fill all eartn's wastes with our prayer. Just fancy your world without flowers ! Can you guess what a bier it would prove, And how much joy you owe in life's hours To our day-dream of beauty and love ? What thoughts, unexpress'd and half-ripe, What yearnings in love's golden hours, That could ne'er ripple up to the lip, Pleaded softly in language of flowers. E'en our ghosts too are often enshrined, All faded and scentless and dead, With some vow or some day-dream entwined With a love-song as quick away sped. Round the cross, and the shrine too, we cling, And love to breathe life away there, Round the altar to bud and to wing Our perfume with incense of prayer. THE FLOWER CHORUS. 205 Thus list to the chorus we sing, So varied each voice is, so sweet, Xor scorn e'en one lesson we bring, Though thrown by a rose at your feet. For we spring from earth's dust to aspire, Our chorus we sing as we rise, Till, caught by the angels, still higher It mounts to the blue of the skies, Interrupted by a Rouxeelay of Roses. Boex in June, Deck'd a bride, Wreathed her brow, Girdle tied. Loop'd her robe, Caught her veil, Clasp 'd her hand At altar rail. 2o6 THE FLOWER CHORUS. Sing we then, Roses reign, Glory brief, Short campaign. Roses, roses, Summer's story, Shadows lighting Summer's glory. Petals opening, Petals flying, Petals shutting, Petals dying. Roses blowing, Roses falling, Roses fading, Roses calling. Roses old, Roses new, Often twining With the rue. THE FLOWER CHORUS. 207 Bridal roses, Briefest glory, Summer roses, Sad their story. Autumn roses, Winter roses, Thus our chorus Plaintive closes. The Wild-Flowers sixg. We breathe our lay, our mystic hymn, Sweet octaves from untrodden bowers, From shady haunts, from fissures dim, We sing our reign, the woodland flowers. When stands the veiled bride so fair At altar- step, for blessing given Upon a life she hopes may wear Some flower-hues of happier heaven ; 2o8 THE FLOWER CHORUS. We sometimes mingle in her veil, . And woodland blossoms bind her wreath, While tenderly onr lives exhale In transient but impassion' d breath. Or sleeps in coffin'd night the dead, All still, we hallow earth's loved dnst, And grow nnbidden where ye tread, We wild-flowers ling'ring there in trnst. Thus smile we on life's saddest hours, Exiled from heaven we light earth's dream, We woodland flowers, wild woodland flowers, Breathe Nature in her holiest gleam. When music's spell in silence dies, When pleasure's phantoms count but hours, When wreathed smiles but fade in sighs, And dancing feet crush wither'd flowers, Then waft we still our sweetest breath, Though cuird at morn, to die at eve, Nor vain our life, nor vain our death, If one sweet lesson we may leave. THE FLOWER CHORUS. 209 A Rose Geranium sings. You may crush us and break us at will, But forgiveness may hide in a grief; Forgiveness ! sweet unction of fragrance, Bruised from a geranium leaf. You may cherish us too when we're dead, All wither'd, forgot, in some book, Yet we'll waft you the scent of old bye-gones, If you ever by chance on us look. We'll bring back that long- vanish' d day-dream- Xow don't look so grave and severe If Time's finger points to a wrinkle, Or a silver lock hides there or here ! Alas ! what a long agone season — Almost a tradition — you smile ! When this spray was once freshly blooming, And cherish 'd in happy exile ! p 210 THE FLOWER CHORUS. The record of one moon-tryst glory, Once worn next yonr heart in a leaf All folded in rose-tinted paper, That breathed bnt a Nightingale's grief. Alas ! 'tis a very old story, We are dead — and e'en love will estrange ; But hark to the chorus of insects — The burthen is evermore — Change ! Insect Choir. We hum in the day when the sunbeams play Among laughing leaves and the flowers' brief sway, Down dipping our wings in the rills of gold, Which flow with the sunbeams down on the wold. All arm'd too we are in our bright array, With swords and with darts for the wood affray, E'en beetles wear cuirasses bronzed bright, And the dragon-fly, stately as armour' d knight ; THE FLOWER CHORUS. 211 We court the bright sunbeams, but hide in the night, We have nothing to do with the cold starlight, But rest in leaf-palaces, hid in the bowers, To be folded to sleep in the hearts of the flowers. You think we've no mission perhaps to perform. We legion of insects that round you oft swarm : But we've not lived in vain, I know you will say, If we've praised our Creator but one summer- day. But hark to the sunbeams ! their carol they sing, So much we owe them for the gold on each wing, For bronzing our cuirasses, burnish' d so bright. To niirror the roses that clasp us at night. Carol of Sunbeams. At, glance we, dance we, True artists we are, Gilding the pictures That shadows ensnare, THE FLOWER CHORUS. Mingling our colours On palettes of light Caught from the rainbow, Or cloud of the night. Painting at evening, When the vase of the sun Lies shatter' d, broken, With day's glory gone. Catching each fragment, To gild leaf and flower, Grold-fringing the shadows That drape the night-hour. Ay, spin we, weave we, True artists we are, Carrying our pencils Gold-tipp'd in the air. So frail are we sunbeams To vie with the flowers, Or sing in their chorus The song of the hours. THE FLOWER CHORUS. Though we paint every petal, And gild every spray, Thus aiding their chorus Our own sunny way. But hark now to the hours ! They sing as they fly, Though our carol of sunbeams With twilight must die. The Song oi the Houes. A shadowy band are we, Sing flying, flying ! One brush of our robes astray. Hear roses sighing ! A shadowy band are we, Sing passing, passing ! A touch of our light array, Zephyrs surpassing. 214 THE FLOWER CHORUS. Roses blow, roses go, Sing fading, fading, If the last of the floating band Comes rudely shading. Roses drop, roses die, Sing dying, dying, Only the flowers count by hours, Sing flying, flying ! A shadowy band are we, Sing changing, ranging; There is only one sun-dial true, One lyre rings unchanging. Willows weeping. Willows weeping, willows weeping O'er the streamlet, bubbles reaping ; Only bubbles for their keeping, Giddy bubbles, bubbles sweeping. THE FLOWER CHORUS. 115 Willows drooping, willows stooping Over nrns where bays are grouping, Funeral urns bnt ashes cooping, Willows, willows, drooping, drooping ! Willows weep o'er streamlets brawling, Nature's mourners, — gTief enthralling ; Willows weeping — leaf-tears falling O'er the grave where we stand calling. The Lay of the Gladiolus. Gladioli ! Gladidli ! Sing jour lay, all sweet and holy, Sheathe your daggers in the glade, 'Mid the daisies hide each blade, Matchless hilts of glowing lilies, Brighter than the daffodillies, Upward from each blade thus climbing, To our chorus lend your rhyming. Gladioli! Gladioli! Summer's pride, and summer's wholly, 2i 6 THE FLOWER CHORUS. For the shadow-king's own warfare, With spectral armies of the night air ; Dewy copse and glade thus haunting, And the day-king ever daunting, Sing your lay all sweet and holy, Gladioli! Gladioli! Gladioli! Gladioli! Point your allegory holy, Sheathe your daggers in the belt Of the green- sward — ye have dealt Your moral, that forgiveness may Sheathe a dagger in a fray; Thus to breathe your lay all holy, Gladioli! Gladioli! Gladioli! Gladioli! One more word to point more fully, — Daggers of detraction never, Nor envy's tongue can really sever Truth from falsehood, for I ween The motive oft is clearly seen ; Such daggers may be flower-hilted, With Heav'n's bright blossoms never wilted, THE FLOWER CHORUS. 217 If Christ's sweet patience — that meek flower — Blooms fragrant in the heart's cold hour, And such lessons make ns lowly, Gladioli! Gladioli! The Lily. Virgin Lily, silver gleaming, Lift thy veil, reveal thy dreaming ; Emblem of the Holy Virgin, In thy stately grace, iromerge in Rippling dew-drops, thy white splendour, Wash'd so pure, thou sweet Defender ! From the nettles round thee growing, From the hemlock round thee blowing, Thus towering upward, queenly flower, In thy stately grace and power, Upward from thy flaunting compeers, Wand'ring 'mid the weeds and wild tares, Emblem in thy holy splendour Of the pure life we should render Back to Him who proved your glory Greater than a king's life story — 2i 8 THE FLOWER CHORUS. " E'en Solomon who in his pride, And glory too, was not arrayed Like one of these." — Lily fair ! O Qneen of flowers, hear our prayer ! * * * * Thus the chorus of flowers And the roses' brief lay, With the song of the hours, Float softly away. The insects' soft humming, And geraniums' grief, The plaint of the willow, And wild flowers brief, All carol the story So sadly and sweet ; Sing on then, chorus ! Your day-dream complete. # * # # For from crowns of the angels ye fell, And were sown by the wind in the sod, Your mission is ended, ye've sung Your chorus, flowers ! to God. CHOEAL PHEASES. 1 The Holy Church throughout all the world doth acknowledge Thee." Te Deum. ^h^ THE SHIP. lESIDE the ocean's shelving lip I stood, t\ Watching the billows in the distance break ; How idly flapp'd the sails in anchored crafts, How bright the beacon's tongue lick'd up the surf ! There standing on a drift of weed I mused, — So crisp it was from sun and wand'ring wave Which raked the heaps, and sprinkled them with shells, And limpets clinging to the Alga? fast. Thus stands the Christian pilgrim by the shore — That mystic shore which bounds the future life — Where like Christ's watchman list'ning to the night, 222 THE SHIP. He marks the Church, the battle ship of Faith, Riding majestic through the surging deep ; Though splintered be her masts, and bulwarks wreck 'd, And sails in tatters torn before the gale, Yet on she floats, her rudder safely mann'd By Him the Captain of Salvation's hosts ; Through the dim mists one beacon ever shines, And distant on the far horizon looms Its steadfast and unfailing star of hope. Come persecution, bitterness, and woe, Still floats she on — Christ's Apostolic ship, Her destiny the port of Heaven to reach, Her anchor dropp'd in Heaven's eternal calms. 223 THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH. TO S. F. A. C. ^OOK on thy Bride, Lord, Thy Bride, the Church in her captivity ; Each fetter snap, each golden link restore, That mars her unity. Thy spotless Bride, the Church, As in the early Apostolic day, When glow'd the light upon her altars, e'en Through persecution's sway. That Light that never waned, When all was darkest then the brighter shone, That cheer' d each steadfast heart, and led the way Where shines th' Eternal Throne. Look on thy Bride, Lord, Thy Bride the Church, in her captivity ; Lift up her veil, that all the world may see Her truth and majesty. 224 BY THE SEA OF GALILEE. [EACE !" whisper o'er these sacred shores, Sad waves of Galilee ; Naught save the wild birds' plaintive cry Profanes the melody. An ancient convent shelves the brink — sea ! where breezes moan — Weaving dim shadows o'er those waves, Of Him who walk'd here lone. Sad echoes of the world's great Light, That Light which once here shone, That dawn'd upon a guilty world, In sin's dark night o'erthrown. Mount Hermon's glittering shield of ice, Breastplate of virgin snow, Bears its proud height in majesty O'er solemn wastes below. BY THE SEA OF GALILEE. 225 Divinely sweet, though sadly sad, To wander here alone, To feel the withering blight that rests On hill, on plain, on stone ; Where He once taught " the Way, the Truth," Here whisper'd, " Peace, be still," Here calm'd the tempest by His voice, Subdued the heart's proud will ; When all was beautiful and fair, The olive and the vine Luxuriant girdling hill and vale Of sacred Palestine ! But now the Bedouin haunts the shores, His black tent stains the sward, Fierce sons of Isniael dwell here now, A lawless, barbarous horde. But " lilies of the field" still bloom, And breathe faint odours sweet O'er scenes once hallow'd by His love, Trod by His sacred feet. Q 226 THE MARTYR AGES. But not alone I paced thy shores, Galilean Lake ! Hearing the wild-fowls' plaintive cry The holy silence break. A pilgrim though, but not alone Was I beside that sea, When came the whisper, " Peace be still," " My peace I give to thee." I heard that voice, I felt that touch 1 ask'd for nothing more, But kiss'd my pilgrim's staff, and wept Beside that rippling shore. Tiberias. THE MARTYR AGES. "The noble army of Martyrs praise Thee." pjfDOWN" the shadowy Past they float, lyJfygk Procession calm and grand, With shining robes, with crowns of gold, Palms in each outstretch'd hand. THE MARTYR AGES. 227 Thus walk they now with Him in white. That great and ransom' d throng, Christ's martyr'd saints, whose voices swell The everlasting song. Adown Time's shadowy cloisters dim. These saints of earth's renown Still bear to us the words of hope, " Thy cross must win Thy crown." Each holy face looks down on us As if in pity bent, Each branch of palm, each crown of gold. Speak words so eloquent ! That burning stake, nor torturing rack, Xor persecution's sword, Are now the tests in this our day Of service to our Lord. But patience, gentleness, and love, In works of mercy shown, Renunciation of the will For His true Will alone. TRUST. Thus Faith, and Hope, and Charity, From Him now heavenward come, To teach us here to win the palm And crown' of martyrdom. TRUST. God I lift my heart in praise, To God I wing my prayer, No hour is sad, no day is dark, If Thou, my Christ, art there. No cup too bitter then to drain, No loneliness too lone, No pain too wearisome to bear, Since all by Him is known. No doubting plaint, no anxious dread, No murmuring question " Why ?" " The Lord hath done it," rest my soul On Him eternally. 229 A HYMN FOR CONFIRMATION. ^fjJ^AKE Thou my heart, my Saviour, all be SBB Thine, My every thought I consecrate to Thee ; What are life's joys and fading dreams at best. Compared with perfect bliss eternally ? That restful rest, in life's perplexing cares. That peaceful peace, which but in Thee is found. That trust triumphant anchored on the Cross Once borne when Night and Death on Calvary frown' d. How shadowy seem life's fading dreams at best. How brief her trials, disappointments, woes, How lightly tread we earth's bewildering maze. With heaven before us, and her long repose. Take then my heart, my Saviour, all be Thine, My life, my death, I consecrate to Thee ; Only one prayer I breathe, that in return Thou wilt, my Saviour, give Thyself to me. 230 ' A Pilgrim and a Sojourner as all my Fathers were. ? ERE then I have no country, SsrtSllv No fix'd, no steady gleam, Here I am a pilgrim still, A wanderer in a dream. Here then I tread on shadows, Life's bridge from shadows spun, From floating mists that vanish swift Before the race is won. Here all is fleeting, transient, Vague as a feverish dream, The brightest joys, like rainbow hues, Fade in a sickly gleam. A PILGRIM AXD A SOJOURNER. 231 There only is my country, Where I shall no more roam When Death shall take my pilgrim's staff, And call the wanderer home. And there where life's dark shadows Shall fade in eternal sun, And where sweet rest shall come at last, When life's brief race is won. Thus to the world then dying, To its phantoms and its cares, Through Faith I see the silver wheat Shine now amid the tares. There then I have my country, Where I shall no more roam When death shall take my pilgrim's staff, And call the wanderer home. *$%&* 232 GUARDIAN ANGELS. " He giveth His angels charge concerning thee." H, ye who watch us night and day, And round about our pathway glide, Help us to love, to watch, to pray, Lest our frail footsteps swerve or slide. Oh, ye celestial spirits bright, Who watch beside us night and day, Guard us from our eternal foe, And guide us lest we go astray. Spread your bright wings, and shelter give, With noiseless footfall linger near, Shield us from foes without, within, And keep us safe from year to year. How oft weVe wander'd, turn'd aside, Nor heard the gentle footfall near, Nor the sweet voice, " With Him abide, With Him, your Saviour, ever here. GUARDIAN ANGELS. 233 " He gives us charge concerning thee, To keep thee from dark evil's snare, Abide in faith, and lowly wait, Guarded by faith's best corselet — prayer. " Unseen, unheard, we patient wait, Our Master sends us, we are His, He gives us charge concerning thee, To help thee heavenward where He is. " We screen thee oft from danger's fear, We draw thee oft to secret prayer, Though still unconscious ye may be, Your guardian angel sojourns near." Oh ye who watch us night and day ! Blest spirits rest where'er we stray, If dark the path, if sharp the stones, Then lead us in the happier way, And softly sing celestial hymns, To Christ we love tune all your wires, And let us join our feeble strains To anthems of celestial choirs. 234 FOR WHITSUNTIDE. " Awake North wir»4 and come thou South, blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. 55 Canticles. ^^&WAKE JN T orthwind ! come thou South, rj^|@l Blow on this garden fair, That Love's sweet spices may exhale And wake the lifeless air. Revive the dying flowers, that still About her borders live, Breathe on their petals in the dust, Love's dew in mercy give. Come to Thy garden, Lord of Light ! Thy Church's bowers so fair, Dispel each cloud that hides the sight Of Thy great Presence there. Come Thou dear Sunlight of the soul, Each drooping spirit raise From shadows of earth's twilight dim, From frosts of faithless days. FOR WHITSUNTIDE. 235 That every path may reach that shrine, The altar of Thy grace, Where faith's undying flame ne'er wanes, But lights the sacred place. That every flower may turn to Thee, From error's cold and night, Shoot forth its feeble tendrils, clasp, And live ao-ain in light. In Saoramental light and life, mystery unspoken ! Come to Thy garden, Lord of Light, Revive the flowers broken. Each countless blade of grass, ay, weeds, Rank in neglected bowers, Revive to life through Thy great love, And change these weeds to flowers. " Awake then, North wind, come thou South,"' Come from those bowers of spice, Come to the Church Christ planted here To bloom in Paradise. 236 "LIGHT OF THE WORLD." FOR HOLT COMMUNION. ®IlGHT of the World !" we bow to Thee, And at Thine Altar bend the knee, To seek Communion, calm, and blest, In perfect union, perfect rest. The Angel- guardians linger here, While softly float their garments near, And visions of celestial bowers Steal o'er these Sacramental hours. The tapers' glow, symbolic light Of Him, the sun of earth's sad night, Bid darkness at His presence flee — " Light of the World," we worship Thee ! '• LIGHT OF THE WORLD" -\~ And breathe your mystic hymn, sweet flowers, ;.gh silent as these lips of ours. When at the Altar of His grs.ce. He lifts the veil, reveals His face. Bread of Angels ! Feast of Heaven ! Wine of Life, by Jesn given ! Here on the Altar of His grace, Behold the solemn Sacrifice. manna in life's wilderness ! The food of angels, kiss of peace. Visions of Home, yet earth's rare gem. Jerusalem. Jerusalem ! /^•s-* ^O^s*. ^cyi_-*\ l?l a ht::\ fob the holy MMimioir Ft ^- T; _ _ EE:SI • r.= . tout ~y "..ijr'O A^i e:ise:: - these roral h It - : ixi sense, upward : "~ r ■ ers ~ the skk ; . Son of id eet C m bearfa nm _ The* h _:-:r:. "one Li. TLt £ ftly near, R.evt .7 S d : 11 i "i B avicnir mine ! Eh " d frl I ■ In:::: ■ e aL : L — Throe. VIA CRUCIS. 239 Xot wholly dead, if sear'd and dry, blessed vast reality ! Still are we branches of that " Vine," Through Sacramental feast divine. beatific vision blest ! wondrous love ! peaceful rest ! Thou the Life, the Truth, the •• Vine," Revive these wither* d branches — Thine. VIA CRUCIS. FOE GOOD FRIDAY. v\X that lonely dreary wav, Where the shades of darkness stray, Meek beneath a traitor's sting, "Bow'd before an earthly kino- — Qui' Jesus Lord. 240 VIA CRUCIS. Mock'd, reviled, and thrice denied, With the guilty crucified, Son of Mary, thus for me The crucified on Calvary — Our Jesus Lord. Let my tears in anguish flow, Let my head dejected bow, Oh, let me find Thy Cross but bliss, And whisper — what love was this, Our Jesus Lord ! And for all Thy love and grace, Calvary's cross and Death's embrace, And that plaint of agony — My God, hast Thou forsaken me ? Jesus Lord ! Jesu ! on this solemn day We follow Thee ! mournful way ! Ours the shame, the Cross to bear, Ours the crown of thorns to wear, Blest Jesus Lord. 241 MATER DOLOROSA. Sj Eg/if Y the Cross her watch still keeping, glggt^ In those vigils nought could stir, When night's dews were o'er Him weeping, In the lonely sepulchre, Stood sweet Mary sad, forsaken, Pale with weeping, watching, woe. Now her Dearest from her taken, Laid in Joseph's garden low. Faint with anguish, grief unspoken, that drear tremendous night, When o'erhung the heights of Calvary, The wrath of God, the Infinite ! Lone upon that rocky summit Stood the Cross, the sacred Sign, Streaming with the sacred blood-dr Where He hung, the Lord divine. B 242 FUNERAL HY3IN. Holy Virgin, lonely, weeping, — See her tears bedew the sod, Monrning for a dying nation, A world that would not know its God ; Till cold dawn o'er Calvary breaking, Through the clouds pale sunlight crept, Pierced the blackness, breathed faint comfort- Still the Virgin-mother wept. A FUNERAL HYMN. " Planted in His likeness." OWN in weakness, — raised in power, Sown in dust, in sorrow, sin, Sown the mortal, raised immortal, Incorruption thus to win. , " Dust to dust," — to ashes render'd, Inglorious seed in ruin sown, But from the germ a heav'nly flower Now in Paradise hath blown. V-i EASTER HY3IX. 243 And the earthly vase, though broken, Scattered in the mould must lie, Yet it held a germ immortal, Blossoming now beyond the sky. Thus death only sows these blossoms Where the little children tread, And the stately yew perennial, Solemn guards the peaceful dead. AN EASTER HYMN. WAKE ! awake ! put on thy strength- Thy strength Zion, sing ! The Lord is risen, rise with Him, And hail our Easter King. Mark how the Light on Judah's hills Lifts the death glooms of night ; Behold your Sun of Righteousness, Behold your Lord of Light ! 244 EASTER HYMN. Our Lenten fasting, mourning o'er, Onr world without her King — Grave, where is thy victory now ? O Death, where is thy sting ? The Sun has dawned upon our night — Ring, chimes of Easter, ring ! And praiseful anthems rise and swell, To hail our risen King. Let sorrow's voice be soothed to rest, Pale mourners, blossoms bring, And deck the grave, 'tis now the shrine Where rose our Easter King ! Beside that grave, beneath His Cross, Earth's sufferings meekly lay, Triumphant sing our risen King, And welcome Easter Day. 245 ' At evening time it shall be light." — Zee. ziv. 7. ;)0T day, nor night, " not clear, nor dark" — Thus sang the Prophet in fore- shadow' d night, Sang of the Light to fall on Judah's hills, " At evening time it shall be light." Then came the Light ! and darkness fled, As ages lapsed, and wheel'd their reckless flight, The Prophet slept in death, but not his words, " At evening time it shall be light." Oft as life's shadows gather round, And clouds adrift obscure the moonless night, He softly whispers to the faintest heart, " At evening time it shall be light." Thus evening falls when death draws near, When life is ebbing, softly folds the night, The dying hear when all to us is dark, " At evening time it shall be light." 246 Apostles, ministers of Christ, Can only lead souls to that mystic Grate, There leave them, for the paradise beyond, When even- tide brings them " the light." For not at glow of noon-tide sun, Nor yet in blaze of giddy honrs most bright, No, not till all of earth wanes dim and pale, Shall " evening time " bring ns " the light." Love then must fold her drooping wings, And veil her face, for mark how wondrous bright, How passing radiant is that room of death, Which brings the dying Christian " light." Dim shadows of the Great Beyond Shroud us — for him, no more the feud, the fight ; Christ's warrior sleeps ! while angels round him sing — " At evening time it shall be light." glorious prospect, thus to wait, As glooms earth's waning shadows on the sight, Faith's taper light ! live, the promise wait — " At evening time it shall be light." . 247 PERFECT DAY. " And there shall be no night there." HEN days are dark, and nights are drear, Forlorn and cold, no haven near, Guide Thou my feet, make Thou my way, And turn my darkest night to day. Guide me, guide me to that shore Where sin and pain are known no more, Where no dark days, and no more night, Shall hide Thy presence from my sight. If days are dark, and nights are drear, Forlorn and cold, no haven near, Trust thou in God, be sure His way Shall lead thee to the perfect day. 24S AN EARLY CHRISTIAN MARTYR. (A Picture by Paul de la Roche.) DOWN Death's weary river lone she drifts, The night glooms black, the tide runs swift and deep, Faintly the glimm'ring stars above her shine, And o'er her watery couch their vigils keep. The martyr's crown lights np the silv'ry wake, Peaceful and happy, on death's wave she lies, The night will wane, and early morning break For her, and she will wake in paradise. Serene she sleeps on death's remorseless flood, Nought now to her the night, the cold, the tides, Her arms are folded on her peaceful breast, As onward to the haven calm she glides. FLOWERS ON THE ALTAR. 249 Hark ! angels singing, hovering in her wake, Softly the j whisper, " Sister spirit blest, Thy martyr's cross at length has won thy crown, And thon hast enter'd into perfect rest." For her no darkness now, where all is light, For her no torturing rack, no prison bars, Death's tide has only borne her swiftly home, And now " she lives in peace beyond the stars."* FLOWERS ON THE ALTAR. To E. T. H. I HE blossoms, Lord, more sweetly grow, That round thine Altar bud and blow, In this great calm, this heavenly air Breathing devotion, love and prayer. * Inscription on a martyr's tomb in the Basilica of St. Agnese. Rome. 250 FLOWERS ON THE ALTAR. Dim is the light by shadows spun — Here, think you, pine they for the sun, Or rains of heaven, or dews of night, Or earth's sad sod to bloom more bright ? no — for angels tend them here, They love the church's atmosphere, Blossoms so fragrant, earth's true gems, Just dropt from seraph's diadems. So let the flowers live and grow, And round His Altar bud and blow, . The incense of their bloom to rise With our faint prayers to Paradise. 25i £, A HYMN FOR ALL SAINTS. INSCRIBED TO THE KEY. ARCHER GURXEY. EAL we the anthem grand ! §§" Through the arches, hark ! it rolls, The tide of praise, from heart and voice, Till it breaks on the shore of souls, — Alleluia ! On Heaven's transplendent shore, Where the great and mystic throng Of crowned saints now tune their harps To the everlasting son or, — Alleluia ! That song no man may learn, Save earth's redeem'd and crown'd, With " Harpers harping with their harps,'"' And silver trumpets' sound, — Alleluia ! 252 THE SONG. Before the Lamb they kneel, By the "great white throne" they stand In shining robes of righteousness, With palms in each outstretch' cl hand — Alleluia ! The Song. Rev. xv. 3. REAT and marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty — just and true In all thy ways, King of Saints, Morning and evening, ever new ! Who shall not fear Thee, mighty Lord, And glorify Thy wondrous name ? Holy, Holy, Lord of Hosts, Through all eternity the same — Alleluia, Amen ! Alleluia grand ! " Let earth keep silence," when The courts of Heaven hush their praise To that sublime " Amen." THE SOXG. 253 For silver trumpets call And myriad golden strings ; While seraphs veil their faces in The silence of their wings. wave of vrondrous might ! sonndless depths of praise ! earthly anthems ! faint your type Of those the ransomed raise ! Let Alleluias ring ! Faint echoes from that shore May teach us here that song to sing In Heaven for evermore. Amen. 254 AT JACQUELINE PASCAL'S GRAVE. LEEP on, sweet Saint, and take your rest In this green hallow' d shade, Beneath the cross, the sacred sign, Among the blossoms laid. Beneath the cross, so meekly borne, So lowly at His feet ; Till life thou didst not count too dear, To make thy death complete. Faithful, so faithful to the last, Meek servant of the cross ; Who for one well beloved Name, Counted all Earth's gain loss. Plant laurel then, with lilies white, And " Sisters," here entwine Sweet summer roses to adorn This gentle Saint's low shrine. AT JACQUELIXE PASCAL'S GRAVE. 25: For now she lives beyond the stars. Life's battle boldly won ; Above the cross she saw her crown Which "mid all darkness shone. gh cloister shades her upward } Led peaceful, calm, and blest, 'Twas through her cross she reach'd her crow: . And enter* d into rest. And this sweet burden all her lrf The Cross, the Cross. > Till sinking from its weight at la She reach'd the Golden Door. 256 TIME'S SEA. ^^WlME'S sea rolls on o'er life's wild ebbing lliyiliff shore, Where wrecks and broken spars bestrew the strand ; Far, far we gaze beyond earth's misty main, Where Time's sea breaks npon another land. Celestial waves ! methinks I hear ye break In hnshful whispers on that tuneful shore ; Chiming to one grand rhythm, one great verse — Eternity's full anthem, " Evermore ! " Here, wither' d hopes and broken shrines sleep low, Here faded garlands untwined, bloom to die, Here buried in the drifts of shale and weed, The lone shell breathes her hollow minstrelsy. TIME'S SEA. 257 There, crystal wavelets murmur peaceful rest, j Immortal garlands breathe no more decay ; There, footsteps in the golden sands but track Earth's happy wanderers in their new array. Now spirits glorified, redeemed, and freed From sorrow, sickness, and temptation's power ; Who've wash'd their spotless robes in blood of Him Whose lives were bought by His in earth's brief hour. Where walls of jasper shut the holy in, And chrysolite and beryl flash their light ; Where every gate a single pearl doth shine, And where the nations saved now " walk in white." There wander they in robes of spotless white, Among the many mansions of the blest, There walk they in those " golden streets " of Life, There live they on, in love and changeless rest. Where neither sun nor moon nor planet's rays Shall ever needed be in that great light ; And where the night shall no more dim the clay, And where the gates are never shut at night, s 258 TIME'S SEA. And where the sun shall never more go down, And Christ shall wipe all tears of earth away ; And sin no more shall weave her death-shroud o'er The one eternal and transplendent day. Beside that mighty " River's" crystal depths, Beneath the fragrant shade of that great tree ; The " tree of life" whose bending branches bear The glowing fruits of Immortality, Calm rest they with their golden harps re-strung, And little children too of earth's brief day, Who never knew our schools of error, guilt, But in their sinless season pass'd away. There play they now with roses, lilies fair, And pluck sweet fruits that know no worm at core ; Where no remember' d sins can ever blight Their perfect happiness for evermore. And there the loving and the loved at length Shall never know one pang, one doubt, one pain, But hand in hand shall wander evermore And parting never, never know again. 259 A PARAPHRASE ON THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF CORINTHIANS. HOTJGH I speak with the tongues of men, §|> Of angels pure and great ; And have not the gift of charity, My words evaporate. Like the clanging sound of brass, Or the cymbal's tinkling ire, All eloquence of earth is mute, Save charity inspire. Yet if the gift of prophecy Were e'en vouchsafed to me, With power to solve and analyse All knowledge — mystery ; And though I had all steadfast faith, The mountains to remove ; And had not the gift of charity, The Heavenly gift of Love ; z6o PARAPHRASE ON THIRTEENTH And though my goods I all bestow, To feed and clothe the poor ; And give my body to be burn'd, It profiteth no more, If love within my heart be dead, There hard, nnkind, and cold, Severe, detracting, envions, And slow to praise or hold The good I in my neighbour see, The good in him I know — All my best works drop down to dust, And I for darkness sow. Ay ! though I seem a saint in white, And have not charity, Like a dead corpse without the life, My master judgeth me. For charity doth suffer long, For charity is kind, For charity to failings, faults Of others, must be blind. CHAPTER OF CORINTHIANS. 261 sweetest grace of charity ! Godlike gift of love ! Transforming e'en the features to The angel-type above. Nor envieth she, nor vaunteth e'er Herself to other's eyes, Xor in her intercourse is harsh, But gentle, loving, wise ; As hides the ragged rents, and crowns The ivy evergreen, So charity must grow from roots In Paradise, I ween. Xot easily provoked is she, And evil thinketh none, Suspicion clouds not her sweet face. But love is stamp'd thereon. She mourneth o'er iniquity, Bejoiceth in the truth ; Beareth all things patiently, And keeps the grace of youth. 262 A PARAPHRASE. This love then never faileth ns, But prophecies shall fail, And tongues shall lose their eloquence, When death shall life assail. But here abideth Faith and Hope, Love — godlike Trinity ; But the greatest gift and grace of all, My child, is Charity. 263 "HE LEADETH THEM." To A. B. L. G. " And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep, Or think on Him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep." William Blake, E leadeth them, He leadeth theni Beside still waters' flow, He resteth thera, and feedeth them Where greenest pastures grow. O'er stony steeps, o'er grassless plains, O'er 'wildering crags, through heat, And cold, and storm, and beating rains, He finds paths for their feet. The lambs He in His bosom bears, In shelter safe and warm, And gently leads the wanderers Back to the fold from harm. 264 "HE LEADETH THEM:' Thus, dearest Shepherd of Thy fold, Lead us to waters still ; Nor let our wayward fancies bold, Seek self without, or will. From Thine own Shrine to sheltering palms, O guide our wandering feet, Till, folded in the eternal calms, We rest from earth's short beat. How faithless we who bear Thy name, How faltering each step, Although Thine own — the path the same We follow, Lord, but weep. TRANSPOSITIONS. c ui3i&-' SOXXET OF MICHELANGELO. ^J^!B;OR hath the mighty artist one conceit, gl^ilig That is not in the marble block en- shrined, And only he may hope success to meet, Who makes his work obedient to his mind. The ill I flee, the good that I would fain Centre in thee, fair lady, goddess proud, There hides itself, and whilst I live, in vain My art would war on longings, trebly vow'd ; Love here has wrought not e'en thy beauty great. Nor fortune, coldness, nor supreme disdain, For my great fault, or destiny, or fate, But if within thy heart lives pity's strain. Although but powerless to win thy love, There still remains but Death's faint sweet.- to prove. 263 SONNET. OF LAURA BATTIFERRO. (1560). v^S^/HIJS as a pitying father sees his son, §iiyig$ Wandering afar in error's fatal snares, And turning from the right path unawares, In which so long he train 'd his feet to run, And still with face benign, and spirit mild, He threatens not, nor blames, but hourly prays For the return to truth and happier ways, Of this his wayward and rebellious child. So, O great God, more partial far than he, Art Thou to this thy erring daughter, though Stamp'd in Thy image but a wanderer too, Yet now mj soul returns all lovingly, In sweet repentance yearning yet to be Drawn by Thy love e'en closer still to Thee. Y^^ :6 9 SOXXET. Of MM. Moeelli Fermndez (fea gli Abcadi) COEILLA OlIMPICA. Poetessa Laueeata ix Campidoglio. (1775). ^SftTfeO fond conceit nor false ambition vain. fllipgS Allured me here — Imperial Rome, I come To muse npon thy trophies' countless sum. In guardianship of Time's edacious reign. And as a torch illumes the sacred cave, Spinning from dense and blackest night the light, So is my silent soul subdued at sight Of thee, grows eloquent, and strong, and brave ; Arcadia's forests long beguiled my feet, Sacred to Phoebus, muses, sylvan gods. To worship wisdom in the silent woods ; Xow fortune smiles on me with honours great. If her rewards I've toil'd for honestly, Let none my laurel crown usurp from me. 270 SONNET. ATTRIBUTED TO PETRARCH, (FOUND IN THE TOMB OF MADONNA LAURA IN AVIGNON.) 1558. } ERE lie the chaste remains and cherish'd bones Of that sweet spirit, rarest sonl on earth, Buried beneath these cold remorseless stones, Are honour, fame, and beauty's matchless worth, Death the green laurel now hath cut and torn, Each tender root, and my poor warfare's o'er ; Four " lustres " once beamed o'er me ; now forlorn The spectral glooms descend ; to rise no more ! happy plant in shades of Avignon, That bloom'd and died ! Alas ! with thee must lie The poet's pen and pencil — Genius gone. lovely body, living torch ! why Hast still no power to warm ? I bend my knee, And pray to God His love hath welcomed thee. 271 A PARAPHRASE ON HEINE. LAY thy hand, Dear, on my heart, Dost hear it in its chamber beat ? For there a secret carpenter Is making me my coffin neat. There hammers he all night and day, From happy sleep my eyes to keep. Make haste then, master carpenter, For I am ready now to sleep. LATIN PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. ^(sf^s'^" ^ J0T ^ m J God? I hope in Thee ! <4^si Jesu mine, deliver me ! In heavy chains, in weary pains, Tims longing I desire bnt Thee. 272 « QUOT UNDIS LACRYMARU3V Fainting ever, groaning ever, Lord, to Thee I bend the knee, While adoring, while imploring, That Thou wouldst deliver me. " QUOT TJKDIS LACRYMARUM." mfiPc ^-^-^^ w aves of tears are rolling ! 5^§|fs| what anguish never known ! Lo ! the Virgin, and reposing In her arms her bleeding One — From the blood-stain'd cross descended, See the Blessed Virgin's son. that face, that form so lovely ! that sweetest side where beat Once the sacred heart of Jesus ! Wash, tears, those bloodstain'd feet ! those hands, transfix'd and bleeding, Blessed hands, so pale and sweet ! A VESPER HYMN TO ST. MONICA. 273 Countless times she clasps the body, Countless kisses press each wound, All her soul is steep' d in anguish, Here love's faithfulness is found — Till that tender form exhausted, Drooping faints in woe profound. Blessed Mary, we invoke thee By those tears o'er Jesus wept, By those purple wounds all bleeding, By the grief thou didst accept, May we share thy grief and sorrow, May we weep as thou hast wept ! A VESPER HYMN TO ST. MONICA. " Ave dies lastitiae." rk fp ^i AIL ! bright day of joy and gladness, jg-g^^ Day of days, refulgent, great ; Which the Church appoints, rejoicing, And loving, we commemorate. T 274 A VESPER HYMN TO ST. MONICA. Brightly glows the Altar's splendour On the Faithful lowly bent, Who swell with joy th' exultant chorus To Monica the holy saint. Of virgins chaste this saint was chastest, Of marriage too, a mirror fair ; Of widows was the purest widow, Of each three an example rare. O saintly one in thy sad weeping, A seed didst sow in every tear, To exultant spring — returning On the Church new every year. Holy Saint ! we thus invoke thee, Thy maternal heart to move, By the " Holy Three" protect us, Intercede for us above. 275 A PARAPHRASE ON ST. AUGUSTINE. )||UT dust and ashes are we, Lord, -§lgi> Yet Thou hast deign'd to throw Thine eyes of pity on this dust, Thus endless love to show. Ay, on this dust Thine eyes have look'd, The clay in mould then laid With tenderest pity, — Lo ! a vase, For glory Thou hast made ; And gilded it with dropping rays From Thine own fingers bright ; And in this golden vase hast hid Thine own immortal light. Charging Thine Angels from above, To keep it safe below ; Bidding them e'er defend Thy vase, From sin's sad overthrow. 276 A HYMN TO THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN. (A Paraphrase on St. Augustine.) |/pM ! stars of glory, lights of Heaven ! £§^i&3 Shed down on me yonr mystic light ; Illume the storms that round me threaten, Reveal the perils of the night Through which my barque of life is steering, So frail — to pirates oft exposed ; Guard it from rocks and reefs of peril, Till in the eternal port enclosed, The little freight is moor'd in safety, Which I have tried to garner here In commerce spiritual, hoping It yet may reach the haven dear. Then stars of glory, lights of Heaven, Shed down on me your mystic light, Guide me, guide me to the haven Where Faith is swallow' d up in Sight. 277 " MIS DESIOS." (From the Spanish of D. Juan Bautista de Arriaza.) " : -?J^F God should on me one great gift confer, !-JrMtJ§ Of all I might receive, and He bestow, Nor gold, nor silver, would I then prefer, Nor empires, crowns, nor earthly fame below. Or if one talent were vouchsafed to me, 'Twere happiness I would elect as chief; For e'en the sages proved all vanity, All science incomplete for life so brief. Thus only one great boon I'd ask from Heaven, One gift of happiness conceded here, And which would crown my earthly peace if given — Namely, one faithful friend for life, for e'er, One true and noble heart, and only one — I have that friend — that friend hath led me on ! CHISWIOK PRESS! PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. POEMS BY SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY. FIRST VOLUME. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " Quaint, delicate, mystical. We could quote several, in- deed, that might have been written by Uhland, so minute are they in expression, so fantastically subtle in idea, In short, we have here revealed a mind rich in poetic fancy. . . . Still, considering the mystical school to which these poems belong, their suggestive vagueness is not extreme : it is in- deed an essential part of their effect. Sometimes indeed the writer is content to paint real scenes, and she does so with a touch so fine, that the merits of her work will escape all who do not look into it closely- As examples of this kind we may name two pictures of interiors— the one called, ;i Christmas Night," the other, the " House of Shadows.*' Both scenes have sufficient nicety of detail to give them distinctness ; and in both the reality so produced is touched and raised by emo- tion. If we do not err, the picture last named refers to a void still recent in our company of singers, and will thus have an added interest for all to whom the memory of our first poetess is dear — we have not space for either of these poems. As a brief but characteristic instance of the writer we quote the following (" A Memory.") There is fancy in this, soft as the moonlight of which it tells, and a sigh of memory gentle as that of the breeze through the roses." — Athenaeum. i: Mrs. Eckley writes with much sweetness and power, and all her poems bear the stamp of a devotional spirit.''" Churchman's Shilling Magazine. u These are poems which come home to us men, and read us a lesson which we are too apt at forgetting. A Christian Heine seems a contradiction in terms, and yet our authoress comes very near the right to claim such a title." — John Bull. " These poems give signs of a great deal of thought and feeling." — Church and State Review. " Un charmant volume de Mrs. Sophia May Eckley, qui prefere le chant du rossignol d'Europe a celui de l'oiseau moqueur de sa terre natale. Quoique tres-varies de sujets, presque tous les poemes de Mrs. Sophia May Eckley ont une note melancolique. Les ames reveuses y trouveront une dou- ceur toute particuliere, en s'identifiant a des regrets dont la per- sonnalite est tres-delicatement deguisee. J'ignore a quelle croyance appartient Pauteur, mais sa poesie est plus Catholique que protestante a en juger par les impressions que Mrs. Eckley a rapportees de son voyage en Italic Mais elle n'a pas sejourne seulement en Italie;'Mrs. Eckley a vuPOrient, cette autre source de poesie, et elle a vu la Suisse, dont les montagnes et les forets lui apparaissent comme le temple la plus sublime du Createur Les critiques Anglais ont dit de Mrs. Eckley qu'elle rappelait tour a tour Uhland et Heine. Je ne la comparerai a aucun de nos poetes, de peur de paraitre douter de son originalite. Elle n'imite personne ne s'inspirant que de ses propres sentiments et de cette melancolie un peu mystique qui voile ses douleurs d'une pudique discretion." — Revue Britannique. (i There is great originality throughout the whole collection. These poems display a great amount of tender feeling, and at the same time possess strength and poetical power." Jersey Times. Ct Mrs. Eckley's gift of song is genuine." Victoria Magazine. ^^ 4a