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PREFACE. 
 
 Many years ago it was the desire of George 
 Wilson that verses written by his Cousin, 
 James Russell, should be printed along with 
 some by himself, and that the volume should 
 bear the title given to this one ; but the un- 
 finished state of the poem " The Sleep of the 
 Hyacinth " induced delay. The long cherished 
 project has now been carried out, and it is 
 believed that this memorial of love will prove 
 acceptable to the friends of both the Cousins 
 who speak in its pages. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 To the Stethoscope t i 
 
 The Wings of the Dove and the Eagle 21 
 
 A Sabbath Morning in the Country ...... 25 
 
 The Sleep of the Hyacinth 29 
 
 1 Corinthians xiii. .«,**..,.... 97 
 
 Origin of the Snowdrop . . < 101 
 
 The Trance < 106 
 
 The Skerry vore Lighthouse 134 
 
 The Great Shepherd 141 
 
 The Christian Soldier putting off his Armour at the 
 
 Gates of Hades 147 
 
 The Dead and the Living 151 
 
 There shall be no Night there 154 
 
 On some beautiful little Shells arranged in Groups . , 157 
 
 Athanasius contra Mundum 161 
 
 Angels 163 
 
 The Christian's Three Burdens . . 166 
 
 Lines on Dr. John Reid 1 73 
 
 Lines on Professor Edward Forbes 177 
 
 The Christian Warfare 183 
 
 Camera Obscura 186 
 
 A Hymn for the Sick-Room 189 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines to a Young Lady named Mary (No. I.) . . . 192 
 
 Ditto (No. II.) 195 
 
 There shall be no Night there 196 
 
 Christmas Wishes 200 
 
 To a Fly enclosed in Amber 203 
 
 Mermaids' Tears 206 
 
 The Dew Drop 20S 
 
 To a Polyanthus 210 
 
 To a Soap Bubble 212 
 
 Music the best Chronometer 214 
 
 A Fragment 21S 
 
 On the East Wind 221 
 
 Musings 224 
 
 The yEolian Harp 228 
 
 Fairy Rings 229 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 
 
 " Tuba minim spargens sonum." — Dies Irce. 
 
 The Stethoscope, as most, probably, of our readers are aware, 
 is a short, straight, wooden tube, shaped like a small post- 
 horn. By means of it, the medical man can listen to the sounds 
 which accompany the movements of the lungs and heart ; and 
 as certain mtirmurs accompany the healthy action of these 
 organs, and certain others mark their diseased condition, an 
 experienced physician can readily discover not only the extent, 
 but also the nature of the distemper which afflicts his patient, 
 a?id foretell more or less accurately the fate of the latter. 
 
 The Stethoscope has long ceased to excite merely professional 
 interest. There are few families to whom it has not proved an 
 object of horror and the saddest remembrance, as connected with . 
 the loss of dear relatives, though it is but a revealer, not a pro- 
 ducer, of physical suffering. 
 
 As an instrument on which the hopes and fears, and one 
 may also say the destinies of mankind, so largely hang, it 
 appears to present a fit subject for poetic treatment. How far 
 the present attempt to carry out this idea is successful, the reader 
 must determine. 
 
 B 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Stethoscope ! thou simple tube, 
 Clarion of the yawning tomb, 
 
 Unto me thou seem'st to be 
 A very trump of doom. 
 
 Wielding thee, the grave physician 
 
 By the trembling patient stands, 
 Like some deftly skilled musician ; 
 
 Strange ! the trumpet in his hands. 
 Whilst the sufferer's eyeball glistens 
 
 Full of hope and full of fear, 
 Quietly he bends and listens 
 
 With his quick, accustomed ear — 
 Waiteth until thou shalt tell 
 
 Tidings of the war within : 
 In the battle and the strife, 
 Is it death, or is it life, 
 
 That the fought-for prize shall win ? 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 
 
 Then thou whisperest in his ear 
 Words which only he can hear — 
 Words of wo and words of cheer. 
 Jubilates thou hast sounded, 
 
 Wild exulting songs of gladness ; 
 Misereres have abounded 
 Of unutterable sadness. 
 Sometimes may thy tones impart 
 Comfort to the sad at heart ; 
 Oftener, when thy lips have spoken, 
 Eyes have w r ept, and hearts have broken. 
 
 Calm and grave physician, thou 
 
 Art like a crowned King ; 
 Though there is not round thy brow 
 
 A bauble golden ring, 
 As a Czar of many lands, 
 Life and Death are in thy hands. 
 Sceptre-like, that Stethoscope 
 
 Seemeth in thy hands to wave ; 
 B 2 
 
POEMS. 
 
 As it points, thy subject goeth 
 Downwards to the silent grave ; 
 Or thy kingly power to save 
 Lifts him from a bed of pain, 
 Breaks his weary bondage-chain, 
 And bids him be a man again. 
 
 Like a PRIEST beside the altar 
 Bleeding victims sacrificing, 
 
 Thou dost stand, and dost not falter 
 Whatsoe'er their agonising : 
 
 Death lifts up his dooming finger, 
 
 And the Flamen may not linger ! 
 
 Prophet art thou, wise physician, 
 Down the future calmly gazing, 
 Heeding not the strange amazing 
 
 Features of the ghastly vision. 
 
 Ploat around thee shadowy crowds, 
 
 Living shapes in coming shrouds ; — 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 5 
 
 Brides with babes, in dark graves sleeping 
 
 That still sleep which knows no waking ; 
 Eyes all bright, grown dim with weeping ; 
 
 Hearts all joy, with anguish breaking ; 
 Stalwart men to dust degraded ; 
 Maiden charms by worms invaded ; 
 Cradle songs as funeral hymns ; 
 Mould'ring bones for living limbs ; 
 Stately looks, and angel faces, 
 Loving smiles, and winning graces, 
 Turned to skulls with dead grimaces. 
 All the future, like a scroll, 
 
 Opening out, that it may show, 
 Like the ancient Prophet's roll, 
 
 Mourning, lamentation, anguish, 
 
 Grief, and every form of wo. 
 
 On a couch with kind gifts laden, 
 
 Flowers around her, books beside her, 
 Knowing not what shall betide her, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Languishes a gentle maiden. 
 Cold and glassy is her bright eye, 
 
 Hectic red her hollow cheek, 
 Tangled the neglected ringlets, 
 
 Wan the body, thin and weak ; 
 Like thick cords, the swelling blue veins 
 
 Shine through the transparent skin ; 
 Day by day some fiercer new pains 
 
 Vex without, or war within : 
 Yet she counts it but a passing, 
 
 Transient, accidental thing ; 
 Were the summer only here, 
 
 It would healing bring ! 
 And with many a fond deceit 
 
 Tries she thus her fears to cheat : 
 " When the cowslip's early bloom 
 Quite hath lost its rich perfume ; 
 When the violet's fragrant breath 
 Tasted have the lips of death ; 
 When the snowdrop long hath died, 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 7 
 
 And the primrose at its side 
 
 In its grave is sleeping ; 
 When the lilies all are over, 
 And amongst the scented clover 
 
 Merry lambs are leaping ; 
 When the swallow's voice is ringing 
 
 Through the echoing azure dome, 
 
 Saying, ' From my far-off home 
 I have come, my wild way winging 
 O'er the waves, that I might tell, 
 As of old, I love ye well. 
 Hark ! I sound my silver bell ; 
 All the happy birds are singing 
 From each throat 
 A merry note, 
 Welcome to my coming bringing.' 
 When that happy time shall be, 
 From all pain and anguish free, 
 I shall join you, full of life and full of glee." 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Then, thou fearful Stethoscope ! 
 Thou dost seem thy lips to ope, 
 Saying, " Bid farewell to hope : 
 I foretell thee days of gloom, 
 I pronounce thy note of doom — 
 Make thee ready for the tomb ! 
 Cease thy weeping, tears avail not, 
 Pray to God thy courage fail not. 
 He who knoweth no repenting, 
 Sympathy or sad relenting, 
 Will not heed thy sore lamenting — 
 Death, who soon will be thy guide 
 To his couch, will hold thee fast ; 
 As a lover at thy side 
 Will be with thee to the last, 
 Longing for thy latest gasp, 
 When within his iron grasp 
 As his bride he will thee clasp." 
 
 Shifts the scene. The Earth is sleeping. 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 
 
 With her weary eyelids closed, 
 
 Hushed by darkness into slumber ; 
 Whilst in burning ranks disposed, 
 High above, in countless number, 
 All the heavens in radiance steeping, 
 Watch and ward 
 And loving guard 
 O'er her rest the stars are keeping. 
 
 Often has the turret-chime 
 Of the hasty flight of time 
 
 Warning utterance given ; 
 And the stars are growing dim 
 On the grey horizon's rim, 
 
 In the dawning light of heaven. 
 But there sits, the Bear out-tiring, 
 As if no repose requiring, 
 One pale youth, all unattending 
 To the hour; with bright eye bending 
 O'er the loved and honoured pages, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Where are writ the words of sages, 
 And the heroic deeds and thoughts of far 
 distant ages. 
 
 Closed the book, 
 With gladsome look 
 Still he sits and visions weaveth. 
 Fancy with her wiles deceiveth ; 
 Days to come with glory gildeth ; 
 
 And though all is bleak and bare, 
 With perversest labour buildeth 
 
 Wondrous castles in the air. 
 He who shall possess each palace, 
 Fortune has for him no malice, 
 
 Only countless joys in store : 
 Over rim, 
 And mantling brim, 
 
 His full cup of life shall pour. 
 Whilst he dreams, 
 The future seems 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. n 
 
 Like the present spread before him : 
 Nought to fear him, 
 All to cheer him, 
 
 Coming greatness gathers o'er him ; 
 And into the ear of Night 
 Thus he tells his visions bright : — 
 
 " I shall be a glorious Poet ! 
 All the wond'ring world shall know it, 
 Listening to melodious hymning ; 
 I shall write immortal songs. 
 
 " I shall be a Painter limning 
 Pictures that shall never fade ; 
 Round the scenes I have portrayed 
 
 Shall be gathered gazing throngs : 
 Mine shall be a Titian's palette ! 
 
 " I shall wield a Phidias' mallet ! 
 Stone shall grow to life before me, 
 
i POEMS. 
 
 Looks of love shall hover o'er me, 
 Beauty shall in heart adore me 
 
 That I make her charms immortal. 
 
 Now my foot is on the portal 
 Of the house of Fame : 
 Soon her trumpet shall proclaim 
 Even this now unhonoured name, 
 
 And the doings of this hand 
 
 Shall be known in every land. 
 
 " Music ! my bewitching pen 
 
 Shall enchant the souls of men. 
 
 Aria, fugue, and strange sonata, 
 
 Opera, and gay cantata, 
 
 Through my brain, 
 
 In linked train, 
 
 Hark ! I hear them winding go, 
 
 Now with half-hushed whisper stealing, 
 
 Now in full-voiced accent pealing, 
 
 Ringing loud, and murmuring low. 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 13 
 
 Scarcely can I now refrain, 
 Whilst these blessed notes remain, 
 From pouring forth one undying angel- 
 strain. 
 
 " Eloquence ! my lips shall speak 
 As no living lips have spoken — 
 
 Advocate the poor and weak, 
 
 Plead the cause of the heart-broken ; 
 
 Listening senates shall be still, 
 
 I shall wield them at my will, 
 
 And this little tongue, the earth 
 
 With its burning words shall fill. 
 
 u Ye stars which bloom like flowers on high, 
 Ye flowers which are the stars of earth, 
 
 Ye rocks that deep in darkness lie, 
 
 Ye seas that with a loving eye 
 
 Gaze upwards on the azure sky, 
 Ye waves that leap with mirth ; 
 
H POEMS. 
 
 Ye elements in constant strife, 
 
 Ye creatures full of bounding life : 
 
 I shall unfold the hidden laws, 
 
 And each unthought-of wondrous cause, 
 
 That waked ye into birth. 
 A high-priest I, by Nature taught 
 
 Her mysteries to reveal : 
 The secrets that she long hath sought 
 
 In darkness to conceal 
 Shall have their mantle rent away, 
 And stand uncovered to the light of day. 
 O Newton ! thou and I shall be 
 
 Twin brothers then ! 
 Together linked, our names shall sound 
 
 Upon the lips of men." 
 
 Like the sullen heavy boom 
 
 Of a signal gun at sea, 
 When athwart the gathering gloom, 
 Awful rocks are seen to loom 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 15 
 
 Frowning on the lee ; 
 Like the muffled kettle-drum, 
 
 With the measured tread, 
 And the wailing trumpet's hum, 
 Telling that a soldier's dead ; 
 Like the deep cathedral bell 
 Tolling forth its doleful knell, 
 Saying, " Now the strife is o'er, 
 Death hath won a victim more " — 
 So, thou doleful Stethoscope ! 
 
 Thou dost seem to say, 
 " Hope thou on against all hope, 
 
 Dream thy life away : 
 
 Little is there now to spend ; 
 
 And that little's near an end. 
 
 Saddest sign of thy condition 
 
 Is thy bounding wild ambition ; 
 
 Only dying eyes can gaze on so bright 
 a vision. 
 
 Ere the spring again is here. 
 
1 6 POEMS. 
 
 Low shall be thy head, 
 Vainly shall thy mother dear, 
 Strive her breaking heart to cheer, 
 Vainly strive to hide the tear 
 
 Oft in silence shed. 
 Pangs and pains are drawing near, 
 To plant with thorns thy bed : 
 Lo ! they come, a ghastly troop, 
 
 Like fierce vultures from afar ; 
 Where the bleeding quarry is, 
 
 There the eagles gathered are ! 
 Ague chill, and fever burning, 
 Soon away, but swift returning, 
 In unceasing alternation ; 
 
 Cold and clammy perspiration, 
 Heart with sickening palpitation, 
 
 Panting, heaving respiration ; 
 Aching brow, and wasted limb, 
 Troubled brain, and vision dim, 
 Hollow cough like dooming knell, 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 17 
 
 Saying, ' Bid the world farewell ! ' 
 Parched lips, and quenchless thirst, 
 Everything as if accurst ; 
 Nothing to the senses grateful ; 
 All things to the eye grown hateful ; 
 Flowers without the least perfume ; 
 Gone from everything its bloom ; 
 Music but an idle jangling ; 
 Sweetest tongues but weary wrangling ; 
 Books, which were most dearly cherished ?1 
 Come to be, each one, disrelished ; 
 Clearest plans grown all confusion ;. 
 Kindest friends but an intrusion : 
 
 Weary day, and weary night — 
 Weary night, and weary day ; 
 
 Would God it were the morning light ! 
 Would God the light were passed away ! 
 And when all is dark and dreary, 
 And thou art all worn and weary, 
 When thy heart is sad and cheerless, 
 c 
 
18 POEMS. 
 
 And thine eyes are seldom tearless, 
 When thy very soul is weak, 
 Satan shall his victim seek. 
 Day by day he will be by thee, 
 Night by night will hover nigh thee, 
 With accursed wiles will try thee, 
 Soul and spirit seek to buy thee. 
 Faithfully he'll keep his tryst, 
 Tell thee that there is no Christ, 
 No long-suffering gracious Father, 
 But an angry tyrant rather ; 
 No benignant Holy Spirit, 
 Nor a heaven to inherit, 
 Only darkness, desolation, 
 Hopelessness of thy salvation, 
 And at best annihilation. 
 
 " God with His great power defend thee ! 
 Christ with His great love attend thee ! 
 May the blessed Spirit lend thee 
 
TO THE STETHOSCOPE. 19 
 
 Strength to bear, and all needful succour 
 send thee ! " 
 
 Close we here. My eyes behold, 
 As upon a sculpture old, 
 Life all warm and Death all cold 
 Struggling which alone shall hold — 
 Sign of woe, or sign of hope ! — 
 To his lips the Stethoscope. 
 
 But the strife at length is past, 
 They have made a truce at last, 
 And the settling die is cast. 
 Life shall sometimes sound a blast, 
 But it shall be but " Tantivy," 
 Like a hurrying war reveillie, 
 
 Or the hasty notes that levy 
 Eager horse, and man, and hound, 
 
 On an autumn morn, 
 When the sheaves are off the ground, 
 C 2 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 And the echoing bugle-horn 
 Sends them racing o'er the scanty stubble 
 
 corn. 
 But when I a-hunting go, 
 
 I, King Death, 
 I that funeral trump shall blow 
 
 With no bated breath. 
 Long drawn out, and deep and slow 
 Shall the wailing music go ; 
 Winding horn shall presage meet 
 Be of coming winding-sheet, 
 And all living men shall know 
 That beyond the gates of gloom, 
 In my mansions of the tomb, 
 I for every one keep room, 
 And shall hold and house them all, till 
 the very Day of Doom. 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE WINGS OF THE DOVE AND 
 THE EAGLE. 
 
 " Oh that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly 
 away, and be at rest!'''' — Psalm lv. 6. 
 
 " They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength : 
 they shall mount up with wings as eagles ; they shall run, and 
 not be weary ; and they shall walk, and not -faint? — Isa. xl. 31. 
 
 As I lay upon my bed, 
 
 Weeping and complaining, 
 Turning oft my weary head, 
 
 Hope and help disdaining ; 
 Lo ! before mine eyes there stood, 
 Vision of an ancient wood 
 Full of happy birds pursuing 
 
 Each the other with keenest zest, 
 And I heard the plaintive cooing 
 
 Issuing from the turtle's nest, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Till I murmured at the sight, 
 And forgot God's high behest ; 
 
 " Had I but your wings, I might 
 Fly away and be at rest." 
 
 Then the low, sweet plaintive cooing 
 Of the fond maternal birds, 
 
 Seemed itself with thoughts imbuing, 
 And at length flowed forth in words. 
 
 " Plumes of doves and fluttering wings 
 Are but vain and feeble things, 
 
 Timidly the air they fan ; 
 Scarcely would they serve to raise thee, 
 Need the truth at all amaze thee, 
 
 O'er this earth a little span. 
 Look thou there : " and lo ! an eagle, 
 
 From his nest amidst the stars, 
 Stood before me, with his regal 
 
 Front, and venerable scars. 
 
THE DOVE AND THE EAGLE, 23 
 
 In a moment, wide extending 
 
 His great wings, (so seemed my dream,) 
 He was in the air ascending 
 
 With a wild, exulting scream. 
 Fiercest winds, and rude blasts blowing, 
 
 Could not stop his bold careering, 
 Higher still and higher going 
 
 He kept ever upwards steering, 
 Till I lost him in the zenith, 
 
 Far above the mid-day sun, 
 Where he seemed like one that winneth 
 
 Rest in heaven when work is done. 
 
 " Judge thou then," the voice said, "whether 
 This or that's the better thing — 
 
 Rainbow-tinted dove's soft feather, 
 Or the eagle's ruffled wing ? " 
 
 " That's the better ! "— " Rest then still ; 
 In thy heart of hearts abase thee ; 
 
 Lose thy will in God's great will, 
 
2 4 POEMS, 
 
 By-and-by He will upraise thee, 
 In His own good time and season, 
 
 When 'tis meet that thou shouldst go, 
 And will show thee fullest reason 
 
 Why He kept thee here below. 
 Wings of doves shall not be given ; 
 But to lift thee up to heaven 
 Thou shalt have entire dominion 
 O'er the eagle's soaring pinion, 
 Thou shalt mount to God's own eyrie 
 
 And become a crowned saint, 
 Thou shalt run and not be weary, 
 
 Walk, and never faint ; 
 Therefore, utter no complaint." 
 
 Now I lie upon my bed, 
 
 Saying, " Be it even so, 
 I will wait in faith and hope 
 
 Till the eagle's wings shall grow." 
 
 G. W. 
 
A SABBATH MORNING; 
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 How manifold, oh Lord our God, 
 
 Thy works of wisdom be ! 
 How wonderful, how merciful, 
 
 Thy doings which we see ! 
 With one acclaim they praise Thy name- 
 
 A large rejoicing band, 
 The things in air, and sea, and sky, 
 
 The creatures on the land. 
 The birds join hymns amid the leaves 
 
 (One up beside the sun) ; 
 With pleasant lay no less than they 
 
 The lightsome brooks do run ; 
 A gentle breeze amid the trees 
 
 Just sounds above the calm, 
 
26 POEMS. 
 
 And waves astir upon the main 
 
 Roll up a distant psalm. 
 Yea, things around that have no sound 
 
 Do also language raise, 
 They shine, they thrill with deep delight, 
 
 They cannot choose but praise : 
 The holy hush of sky above, 
 
 The sunny light, the hills, 
 The little crowd of calm white cloud, 
 
 The flowers beside the rills. 
 'Tis nature that before her King 
 
 Both fears and doth rejoice, 
 She partly holds her breath in awe, 
 
 And partly utters voice. 
 Thus in this wide and arched scene — 
 
 As in a church — to-day 
 I hear the creatures of the Lord 
 
 Together praise and pray. 
 Lord, why should this not ever be ? 
 
 Why should a tempest wake, 
 
A SABBA TH MORNING. 27 
 
 JZ 
 
 \ A cloud, a night, a death, a pain, 
 This choir and brightness break ? 
 And why in us should sinful thought 
 
 Disturb our adoration — 
 Why should not Thou have glory meet 
 From all Thy fair creation ? 
 
 Yet let us cease all pining thought 
 
 Amid this placid hour, 
 Our spirits shall receive in joy 
 
 Its sweet and serious power ; 
 A holy Presence all about 
 
 Amid the light doth dwell, 
 As if the glory stole from Heaven 
 
 To commune visible. 
 The shadow of the Almighty wing 
 
 Is hung all nature o'er, 
 It needs must be such souls as we 
 
 Shall tremble and adore. 
 Within my depths of soul I kneel, 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 God standeth me so near ; 
 He looketh nigh upon my eye, 
 He soundeth in my ear. 
 
 And lo ! my spirit all elate, 
 
 All nerved and winged with love, 
 In buoyance irresistible 
 
 Is carried up above ; 
 From this, the lower, outer court, 
 
 It pierces to the Place 
 Where God in everlasting beams 
 
 Doth cover up His face ; 
 Before the Throne, before the Throne, 
 
 It shuts its throbbing gaze ; 
 It falls, with heart weighed down in bliss, 
 
 And tongue o'erwhelmed in praise ! 
 / soar into the Heaven above, 
 
 His glory here doth fall ; 
 To the earth and me, He, only He 
 
 Is God and All in All ! 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 
 
 AN EGYPTIAN POEM. 
 
 The following poem, written by George Wilson at inter- 
 vals of leisure, had its origin, as his papers inform us, in the 
 fact that a bulbous root, found on the breast of the mummy of an 
 Egyptian princess, grezv again when planted. Pondering this 
 fact, interesting to him as a man of science, and permitting it 
 to develop itself in his imaginative mind in all the range of its 
 suggestions, he constructed the poem. ic I call the rhyme]' he 
 says in one of his letters, u i The Sleep of the Hyacinth : ' it is 
 a ?nosaic on life, death, and resurrection, natural arid spiri- 
 tual." Had it been finished according to the author's plan, it 
 was to have consisted of six poi'tions, entitled respectively as 
 follows : — 
 
 I. The Garden. 
 II. The Queen and the Flowers. 
 
 III. The Death of the Queen. 
 
 IV. The Entombment of the Queen and the 
 
 Flower. 
 V. The Sleep. 
 VI. The Awakening. 
 
 Of those intended portions the sixth is totally wanting; of the 
 second only a few lines exist, suggesting the subject which 
 the author meant to expand ; and both the fourth and fifth 
 portions are incomplete, a gap, here and there, showing where 
 the atcthor purposed to insert stanzas of connexion. Allowiiig 
 for this incompleteness , and for the absence of corrections 
 for which there are suggestions in the MS,, the Poem will, it 
 is believed, be welco??ied as a characteristic production of the 
 writers mind. 
 
3<> POEMS. 
 
 I. THE GARDEN. 
 
 The ancient Egyptian garden wherein the Hyacinth grew. 
 
 THREE thousand years ! three thousand years ! 
 Three thousand long and weary years 
 Have ceased to be oppressed with fears; 
 Have wept their latest, bitter tears ; 
 Have drowned the echo of the cheers 
 
 That stirred their life awhile : 
 Have hushed to stillest rest their noise ; 
 Have left to other years their toys ; 
 Have lost the memory of their joys, 
 
 And long forgot to smile ; 
 Have cast away their wings, and fled 
 To join the ghosts of centuries dead 
 
 That track the steps of Time, 
 Since, watered by the abounding Nile 
 
 In Egypt's favoured clime, 
 A Garden stretched where now the sand 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 
 
 Has ruined that delightful land — 
 A Garden such as mortal eye 
 
 Has never seen on Northern shore ; 
 
 So plenteous were the flowers it bore, 
 So proudly did its trees on high 
 Lift their crowned foreheads to the sky, 
 
 And dare the burning sun 
 To blast them with his fiery eye, 
 
 To bid them his caresses shun, 
 Or make them wither, droop, or die. 
 Their glorious beauty could defy 
 
 The fervour of his ardent gaze ; 
 
 Their tints were borrowed from his rays ; 
 
 They loved to meet his noontide blaze ; 
 He could not do them ill ; 
 For round about their feet were swathed 
 Thick, mossy, verdant carpets, bathed 
 In moisture spread by many a rill 
 Which, winding from the teeming river, 
 Flowed in refreshing streams for ever. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 The palm was there with fluttering leaves 
 
 The warm air fanning ; 
 The sycamore with outspread boughs, 
 
 Like arches overspanning ; 
 And all between, 
 Enrobed in green, 
 Myrtles and fragrant shrubs adorned the 
 
 scene. 
 Among their leaves was many a nest, 
 From which, as from its night of rest 
 
 Each happy bird awoke, 
 
 A hymn of gladness broke, 
 And midst the sound of rustling wings, 
 
 Rose their Hosannah 
 
 To the King of kings. 
 High over these the tall banana 
 Lifted its head, like some Sultana 
 
 With glory crowned : 
 And through its leafy screen, 
 Tinting the light of green, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 33 
 
 Spread a refreshing coolness all around, 
 And with its grateful shadow curtained o'er 
 the ground. 
 
 The pomegranate upon the grass 
 Showered down its blood-red petals, 
 Like fluttering chips of burnished metals. 
 With armour bright of glowing brass, 
 And wings of gauze in colours shining, 
 Like ores which have through much refining, 
 And many a process come, 
 Hovered around the citron tree, 
 
 Filling the air with drowsy hum, 
 The broad-winged butterfly, the busy bee, 
 And mailed beetles many a one, 
 Idling the hours, 
 Among the flowers, 
 From dawn of day, till set the evening sun. 
 Round the thick boughs and gnarled stems, 
 Where'er its clasping tendrils could entwine, 
 D 
 
34 POEMS. 
 
 Laden with clusters like dark ruby gems, 
 Wound like a serpent the embracing vine, 
 
 And climbing to the topmost spray, 
 
 Out of the cunning fox's way, 
 Let its ripe bunches peep, out from among 
 
 the leaves, 
 Like birds nestled in nooks of shady cottage- 
 eaves. 
 The golden spheres of the orange-trees 
 Were tossed about by the playful breeze, 
 
 And bowled along the lawn : 
 The blossoms pale of the almond shed 
 Their hoary honours around the head 
 Of the parent stem when all else was dead, 
 
 And like flakes of snow on the ground were 
 strawn. 
 The lemon flowers grew dim of sight, 
 And closed their drowsy eyes at night, 
 
 But opened them wide at the dawn. 
 The burly gourd, and the melon round, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 35 
 
 Lazily rolled upon the ground ; 
 And beneath their leaves the cucumber wound,. 
 Like a snake about on a bird to bound. 
 The plum-trees laden with many years, 
 Mourned their old age in trickling tears 
 
 Of balsam and of gum ; 
 
 And noisy chatter and happy hum 
 Showed how the busy birds made merry 
 On the nectarine's cheek, and each juicy berry, 
 And drank the blood of the crimson cherry. 
 
 And many another tree was there : 
 The acacia with its yellow hair, 
 
 The fig-tree and the lime ; 
 The fairest things appeared more fair 
 In that delightful clime, 
 
 Where piercing north-blasts never blow, 
 
 Nor chills the bleak east wind, 
 Where falleth never hail or snow 
 To leave its blight behind, 
 D 2 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 But an eternal summer breathes 
 
 And from a horn of plenty fills, 
 And with a crown of beauty wreathes 
 The Everlasting Hills. 
 From every clime and every shore, 
 Whatever choicest plant it bore, 
 By tributary nation sent, 
 Gave to that Garden ornament. 1 
 A thousand stately flowers stood up, 
 With chiselled stem and carved cup, 
 With sculptured urns ; with hanging bells ; 
 With trumpet-tubes ; with honey-cells 
 Wherein the bee found endless wells 
 
 Of nectar to be sipped, 
 And even the wasp forgot his malice, 
 When quaffing at each brimming chalice, 
 
 And sheathed his sword, with poison tipped. 
 Some bore their heads like butterflies, 
 
 J Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians (two vol. ed.), vol. i. 
 p. 57 ; also, vol. ii. p. 36, 
 
7 HE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 37 
 
 With plumes and fluttering wings, 
 And others wore rare ornaments, 
 
 Like crowns of queens and kings. 
 And some spread out like banners 
 
 Hung o'er a dungeon-keep, 
 And others were all hollowed out 
 
 And chased like goblets deep, 
 In which the drunken gnat could sleep 
 
 His day's debauch away, 
 And many a stealthy worm would creep 
 
 And make the buds his prey. 
 The bulrush grew at the water's edge, 
 With the paper-reed and the sword-leaved 
 
 sedge, 
 Each with its root stuck down like a wedge 
 
 In the bed of the marshy pool ; 
 
 And wherever the waters were clear and 
 cool, 
 They were fringed by the oleander, 
 
 Whose rosy petals love to be 
 
3& POEMS. 
 
 Where they can their own beauty see. 
 And blow where rills meander : 
 
 Or at the side of some still lake, 
 Where sea and sky 
 Gaze eye to eye, 
 
 And of each other's charms partake. 
 The rainbow-tinted iris, 
 
 And the slender asphodels, 
 Nodded gaily to each other 
 
 With a graceful, easy motion ; 
 And pouted out their lips, 
 
 Like those curious Eastern shells 
 That have palaces to dwell in 
 
 At the bottom of the ocean. 
 The narcissus gazed with wonder 
 
 On his beauty in the stream ; 
 And between his leaves and under 
 
 Glowed the crocus' golden gleam : 
 And the tulip's deep-mouthed pitcher 
 
 Stood erect upon her stem, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 39 
 
 For she knew her flowers were richer, 
 
 Though no fragrance rose from them, 
 Than the petals of the wild thyme 
 
 That nestled at her feet, 
 And the marjoram or lavender, 
 
 Though their breath is very sweet. 
 The poppy with his scarlet plumes 
 
 Was like a soldier tall, 
 But the tallest was the hollyhock, 
 
 For he rose above them all ; 
 And with trumpets stood the columbine, 
 
 As if to sound a call 
 At which the flowers should wake from rest, 
 
 And into ranks should fall, 
 As the bugle makes the soldier start, 
 
 And the steed neigh in his stall. 
 The floating white cups of the lotus lilies 
 
 With all their bravery of leaves, were 
 there ; 
 The yellow petals of the daffodillies 
 
40 POEMS. 
 
 Breathed forth their perfume to the passing 
 air; 
 And clustered chalices of amaryllis, 
 
 Some delicately fair, 
 
 Stood robed in white, 
 
 And others rosy bright, 
 
 Crowned on the summit of their stately 
 stems 
 
 With crimson flowers like queenly diadems. 
 The dark-eyed violet, sending 
 
 Forth its fragrance, when the wind blows, 
 The lowly lily of the valley bending 
 
 At the feet of the rose. 
 The rose herself, stately and tall 
 Over them all 
 As a queen reigning, 
 
 Lowlier things and their homage disdaining ; 
 The heliotrope for ever turning 
 With eager eye to meet the burning 
 Glances of the god of day : 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 41 
 
 The towering forms, the long array 
 
 Of sunflowers with their starry faces ; 
 
 The cistus with its fleeting graces ; 
 
 And other bright flowers 
 
 Fanned by the winds, and unharmed by the 
 
 showers, 
 Filled with their beauty the far-spreading 
 
 bowers. 
 
 II. THE QUEEN AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 A young Egyptian princess, daughter of one of the Pharaohs, 
 the Queen of the Garden, walks in it, in the fulness of life. 
 The vision is but a glimpse, for this part of the poem is un- 
 finished. 
 
 WITHIN the garden lived a maid, 
 
 Of noble figure as became a Queen ; 
 A gentle, graceful and majestic creature 
 With beauty written on each noble feature, 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 And wearing such a regal mien 
 That they who watched it, said, 
 
 " This is no queen whom man has crowned, 
 But one whom God has made." 
 
 III. THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN, 
 
 Death visits the Egyptian Eden; the Princess feels his 
 approach, shrinks despairingly, invokes help from gods and 
 men, and dies. 
 
 Within the earliest Eden 
 
 The tempter sought his prey : 
 From every later scene of bliss 
 He tries to steal the bliss away, 
 And oftentimes prevails. 
 For doubt, and woe, and want, and fear, 
 
 And grief, and guilt, and sin 
 Are ever ready, standing near 
 
 To tempt the tempter in. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 43 
 
 And neither youth, nor love, nor hope, 
 
 Nor beauty's fading flower, 
 Nor childhood's joy, nor manhood's strength, 
 Its purpose or its power, 
 Can keep away 
 The evil day, 
 Or long avert the hour 
 When grief must come. 
 The smiter striketh home : 
 The cup of sorrow circleth round, 
 And though we quail and shrink, 
 To pass it by 
 No one may try, 
 But all must bend and drink. 
 For Christ's dear flock 
 There doth remain, 
 A place of rest 
 
 From toil and pain, 
 And God himself on high, 
 Away from every eye, 
 
44 POEMS, 
 
 Shall wipe off every tear ; 
 
 But we have no abiding city here. 
 
 A morning came : all looked serenely bright, 
 As the Queen walked forth in the early air ; 
 The sun unrisen to his mid-day height, 
 
 Showed but the forelocks of his golden 
 hair. 
 Unearthly beauty spread on all around 
 
 A glory she had never seen before ; 
 Death, who keeps treading an impartial round, 
 Seemed to have passed the happy garden 
 o'er. 
 All was so full of life, of love, of God, 
 
 All sang so joyously His kindly care, 
 From the small mosses nestling in the sod, 
 To the great eagles winging through the 
 air. 
 " Oh God ! they praise thee," sang her happy 
 voice, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 45 
 
 * I cannot hear them, Thou dost hear them 
 
 all, 
 We all are Thine ; in Thee we all rejoice, 
 
 Giver of good gifts, on Thy name we call." 
 So prayed the Queen, and countless happy 
 
 days 
 Their long perspective spread before her 
 
 gaze, 
 Like sculptured sphinxes, daughters of one 
 
 mother, 
 With sister-faces, each one like the other, 
 Serenely stretched, with sweet looks glancing 
 
 o'er 
 The long space leading to the temple-door, 
 Who seem unending, and who only cease 
 Where the gate opens, and the soul finds 
 
 peace : 
 So gazed the Queen. But lo ! a little cloud 
 Rose from the sea, shaped like a mummy 
 
 shroud. 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 The mid-day came ; the sun was red as blood ; 
 
 A dreary horror filled the air ; 
 The birds sought covert in the thickest wood, 
 
 And the fierce lion crouched within his lair. 
 Death had bethought him of the happy spot, 
 
 That smiled so sweetly to the morning sun ; 
 " It mocketh me: its beauty I will blot, 
 
 Its crown of glory shall be all undone." 
 He spared the flowers ; he spared the leafy 
 trees ; 
 
 His mark was on them pointing to their 
 prime ; 
 The merry birds, the murmuring bees, 
 
 They could be his at any time. 
 He left a footmark here and there, 
 But knowing all was his, he could afford to 
 spare. 
 
 With shadowless and soundless tread 
 
 He sought the bower where sat the Queen ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 47 
 
 Her heart oppressed with nameless dread, 
 And wondering at the changed scene : 
 
 " I come for thee. Doff all thy pride, 
 I have no time for seeking or for suing ; 
 
 Thy place is ready, thou must be my 
 bride ; 
 This is my way of winning and of wooing ; 
 
 The sun bends downwards ; when the stars 
 arise 
 
 Prepare to meet me ; thou must be my 
 
 prize." 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Oh ! thou that sleep'st in Phife's Holy 
 Isle, 
 
 Oh ! great Osiris with the gentle heart, 
 May I behold thy gracious smile! 
 
 Oh ! give me with thyself a part 
 In those delightful regions of the blest, 
 Where thou to sinless spirits grantest rest. 
 
48 POEMS. 
 
 Ah me ! but who shall, sinless, say 
 
 " I come to claim the meed of good works 
 done ? 
 Search me and try me ; in the balance weigh; 
 Blot of transgression on my soul is none." 
 Or who shall, disembodied, throw 
 Himself on certain bliss where all perhaps 
 is woe ? 
 
 " Oh, God of gods ! if such there be, 
 And that there is my conscience tells, 
 
 How shall I justify myself to Thee, 
 Being in whom perfection dwells ? 
 
 " I see the stern, relentless judges seated 
 
 In solemn circle in the halls below ; 
 The summons dread the herald has repeated, 
 And my distracted spirit fears to go 
 Where, in my utmost need, 
 No one for me will plead, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 49 
 
 Or intercessor use prevailing prayer ; 
 Where altars do not stand, 
 Or victims bleed, 
 Or smoke of incense fill the grateful air ; 
 But in the gloomy land 
 Is kept the record of each sinful deed. 
 
 " The impartial balance on its axis moving ; 
 The needle quivering on the swaying 
 beam ; 
 The scale, swift rising, and as swift descend- 
 ing 
 All as if here before me seem : 
 The avengers, waiting for the heart's last 
 proving, 
 The awful guardian with his eye of hate, 
 The observing God his body bending 
 
 To watch the action of the shifting weight, 
 And the despairing spirit's cry ' Too late ! ' 
 As the great judge, his voice extending, 
 E 
 
So POEMS. 
 
 Speaks till the vaults reverberate the 
 
 sound, — 
 % Heaven on thee closes her unwilling gate, 
 Thou hast been weighed, and wanting 
 
 found/ l 
 
 " Oh, God of gods ! if such there be, 
 And that there is my conscience tells, 
 
 How shall I justify myself to Thee, 
 Being in whom perfection dwells ? 
 
 " Each long-forgotten crime, 
 
 That seemed 
 
 Like something dreamed, 
 All blotted out by time ; 
 
 So that I deemed 
 It was no part of me ; 
 Like hieroglyphic flashing in the sun 
 Proclaims, ' From evil thou hast done 
 
 Thou never canst be free.' 
 
 1 Wilkinson, vol. ii. p. 381. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 51 
 
 Legions of sins around my bed, 
 In fierce, vindictive, terrible array, 
 Gnash with their teeth, and scoff, and say, 
 * Sin hath its hour 
 Of might and power : 
 Long have we waited : now is no delay. 
 They call for thee ! the impatient dead, 
 And we shall guide thee on the way : 
 No one shall fail when God will call, 
 Thou shalt be marshalled by us all, 
 And we will win thee on the Judgment 
 Day/ " 
 
 She started up, and half arose, 
 
 As if to battle with her foes, 
 
 And wildly round the air she struck 
 
 Like one who fights when sore beset, 
 Then gazed with an imploring look, 
 
 Which they who saw could ne'er forget, 
 So plainly seemed that glance to say, 
 E 2 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 " In this, my hour of dark dismay, 
 Can ye not render other help than only weep 
 and pray ? " 
 
 " Oh, God of gods ! if such there be, 
 And that there is my conscience tells, 
 
 How shall I justify myself to Thee, 
 Being in whom perfection dwells ? 
 
 " No Past rolls back behind Thy throne, 
 
 No Future spreads before, 
 A Present, like a boundless sea, 
 
 On no side finds a shore. 
 The universe would rock and reel, 
 
 If change should pass on Thee, 
 What Thou hast been in eldest time, 
 
 Thou must through endless ages be. 
 The holiness that once was Thine 
 
 Cannot in Eons pass away ; 
 With guilt it never can combine ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 53 
 
 " As yesterday Thou art to-day. 
 But is there not some wondrous way, 
 
 Some all unthought of, glorious plan, 
 By which, though holy, Thou may'st say 
 
 1 I can be just, yet pardon man ? • 
 
 " ' Have I not heard a legend wild 1 
 Of one who, when the years roll on, 
 
 Shall come to earth — a woman's child — 
 And yet thine only Son ; 
 
 Who shall to Thee a ransom pay, 
 
 And wash the guilt of man away ? ' ' 
 
 She glanced around, and as she ceased, 
 Quick beckoned to a thoughtful priest : 
 " Tell me," she said, " this wondrous tale, 
 Tell me, ye priests, if it ye knew, — 
 My strength and courage faint and fail, — 
 I swear you, speak me true 
 
 1 Wilkinson, vol. i. p. 331. 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 As ye are priests of Him on high, 
 And as ye shall on deathbeds lie, 
 
 Be done with secret things ; 
 
 The daughter of a race of kings 
 Lays her commands on you." 
 
 The priests looked grave, but nothing said ; 
 They deemed it a delirious dream, 
 
 Where strangest thoughts together wed, 
 And phantasies and things that are 
 No longer with each other war, 
 But all as real seem. 
 
 She read their looks, and bowed her head ; 
 She crossed her hands, and lowly said, — 
 " I kneel before Thee in the dust, 
 
 Dread God of gods, and King of kings ; 
 Slay me, if Justice say thou must, 
 
 But I will hide beneath Thy wings, 
 And Thou shalt be my only trust." 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 55 
 
 All hushed she then, as if to hear 
 Some message whispered in her ear, 
 All still she lay, as if to see 
 Some vision of Divinity. 
 
 But Death was fiercely beating 
 
 At life's shattered gate, 
 And scoffed at all entreating 
 
 That he awhile should wait. 
 And senselessness was stealing 
 
 O'er the wearied, aching brain, 
 And every pulse and feeling 
 
 Were numbed by cruel pain. 
 The ear was dull, and dim the eye, 
 Nor message seemed from Him on high. 
 
 Then rose upon the startled air 
 
 An awful cry of wild despair, 
 
 Which made the trembling hearers start, 
 
 And chilled the life-blood in each heart. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 But whilst they stood with tortured ear, 
 Prepared again that sound to hear, 
 Lo ! on the queenly face a change 
 Had passed, unutterably strange : 
 The look of pain and woe was gone, 
 The brow like polished marble shone, 
 The gleaming eyes were fixed above, 
 With a fond look of awe and love. 
 The hands were raised as if to clasp 
 Something beloved in their grasp ; 
 The quivering lips essayed awhile 
 To speak, but only reached a smile ; 
 Then all was still : upon the breast 
 The folded arms sank down to rest ; 
 The dark eyelashes, like portcullis spears, 
 Closed fast for ever o'er the gate of tears. 
 And by their looks the watchers knew 
 That each the same conclusion drew ; 
 But no one spake, for all amazed 
 Upon the wondrous vision gazed. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 57 
 
 Silence came down on Pharaoh's pile, 
 Save in that chamber you might hear 
 Low stifled sobbing and the dropping tear, 
 i\nd far-off ripple of the murmuring Nile. 
 
 IV. THE ENTOMBMENT OF THE QUEEN AND THE FLOWER. 
 
 There is mourning in the land of Pharaoh over the dead 
 Princess, whose swathing and entombment, Egyptian-wise, 
 with the Hyacinth-bulb on her breast, are described — the 
 description leading to a glimpse of the Royal Necropolis, or 
 Burying-place, with its rows of the dead who had preceded 
 her, and, then, by transition, to an address of the Mummy to 
 its departed soul. 
 
 Woe was in the land of Egypt, 
 
 Grief was on the monarch's throne ; 
 Aged Pharaoh, sad and childless, 
 
 Uttered sob and uttered groan ; 
 Death had won his dearest treasure, 
 
 Desolate he stood alone. 
 From his hand he thrust the sceptre, 
 
 From his brow he plucked the crown ; 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 Royal robe and priestly vesture, 
 
 Warrior sword, he flung them down ; 
 
 Sackcloth round his loins was girt, 
 Ashes on his head were strown. 
 
 Woe was in the land of Egypt, 
 
 On the loftiest and the least ; 
 Woe on king and woe on people, 
 
 Bond and freeman, prince and priest ; 
 Day and night they uttered wailings, 
 
 Lamentations never ceased. 
 
 At length the king rose, and he lifted his 
 
 head, 
 And he spake but three words, " Bury my 
 
 dead." 
 Her delicate body with water they bathed, 
 
 And they combed the long locks of her hair, 
 And her marble-like limbs with linen they 
 
 swathed, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 59 
 
 Imbued with rich spices, and unguents rare 
 To keep off the breath of the envious air. 
 
 They folded her hands for their age-long 
 prayer ; 
 They laid on her breast, 
 For its age-long rest, 
 The bulb of the hyacinth root ; 
 And, with pious intent and reverend care, 
 They wound from the head to the foot 
 The long linen bandages, crossing them round, 
 Till each motionless limb in its vestment was 
 bound, 
 And she lay folded up, 
 Like a flower in its cup 
 Which has never awakened, and knows but 
 
 repose, 
 Like the bud never blown of the sleeping 
 
 white rose. 
 So they embalmed that lovely form, 
 
60 POEMS. 
 
 And made that queenly face immortal, 
 Shutting from his prey the worm, 
 And barring close the admitting portal ; 
 And Decay could not enter. 
 
 The sycamore-tree in the garden fell, 
 
 She would love it they thought in the 
 
 tomb; 
 They hollowed it out, a gloomy deep cell, 
 A dark, dreary lodge where no queen would 
 
 dwell, 
 But she made no complaint, it suited her 
 
 well ; 
 There was small enough space, and yet 
 
 wide enough room ; 
 
 The dead are content with a narrow freehold, 
 
 And they are not afraid of the gloom. 
 ***** 
 
 There were no tossing arms 
 And no aching heads ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 61 
 
 All their pillows were soft 
 
 And downy their beds. 
 None weary and wakeful lay 
 
 Counting each hour, 
 Missing the drowsy juice 
 
 Wrung from the poppy-flower. 
 None looked for the light ; 
 
 None longed for the day, 
 Grew tired of their couches, 
 
 Or wished them away. 
 
 The babe lay hushed to a calmer rest 
 
 Than ever mother's loving breast 
 
 Or fondling arms in life had given, 
 
 Or lullaby that rose to heaven 
 
 And brought the angels down to guard the 
 
 cradle-nest. 
 The husband and the wife, 
 As once in life, 
 Slept side by side, 
 
62 POEMS. 
 
 Undreaming of the cares the morning might 
 
 betide. 
 The bridegroom and the bride 
 Their fill of love might take ; 
 None kept the lovers now apart ; 
 Yet neither to the other spake, 
 And heart leapt not to heart : 
 Death had wooed both, 
 
 And come in room 
 To him of loving bride, 
 
 To her of fond bridegroom ; 
 Yet they slept sweetly 
 
 With closed eyes, 
 And knew not Death had cheated both, 
 And won the prize. 
 
 None knelt to the king, yet none were ashamed ; 
 None prayed unto God, yet no one blamed ; 
 None weighed out silver or counted gold ; 
 Nothing was bought, and nothing sold ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 63 
 
 None would give, and none would take, 
 No one answered, and no one spake. 
 There were crowds on crowds, and yet no din, 
 Sinner on sinner, and yet no sin ; 
 Poverty was not, nor any wealth, 
 None knew sickness, and none knew health ; 
 None felt blindness, and none saw light, 
 There were millions of eyes and yet no sight ; 
 Millions of ears and yet no hearing, 
 Millions of hearts, and yet no fearing ; 
 None knew joy, and none knew sorrow, 
 Yesterday was the same as to-day and to- 
 morrow. 
 None felt hunger, none felt thirst, 
 No one blessed, and no one cursed, 
 None wasted the hours, and none saved time, 
 None did any good, or committed crime ; 
 Grief and woe, and guilt and care, 
 Fiery passion and sullen despair, 
 Were all unknown and unthought of there : 
 
64 POEMS. 
 
 Joy and love, and peace and bliss, 
 Holy affection and kindly kiss, 
 Were strangers there to all, I wiss. 
 The soldier laid aside his spear, 
 
 And was a man of peace ; 
 The slave forgot to fear, 
 
 And sighed not for release ; 
 The widow dried her tear 
 
 And thought not of her lord's decease. 
 The subtle brain 
 
 Of the curious priest, 
 To strive and strain 
 
 With thought had ceased. 
 Lips that like angels' sung 
 
 Moved not the air, 
 And the eloquent tongue 
 
 Lay dumb in its lair, 
 Behind the closed gate of the teeth : 
 
 The flute-like throat 
 
 Uttered no note, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 65 
 
 And the bosom swelled not with the 
 breath. 
 No mourning nor crying, 
 No sobbing nor sighing, 
 None weeping over the dead or the dying 
 
 Were heard on the way : 
 No singing, no laughing, 
 No joying, no daffing, 
 
 No reveller's glee when carousing and quaff- 
 ing, 
 Nor children at play : 
 None shouted, none whispered ; there rose not 
 
 a hum 
 In that great city of the deaf and dumb. 
 They left her there among the rows 
 Of royal dead to find repose, 
 Where Silence with her soundless wings 
 Hovers o'er sleeping queens and kings, 
 
 And each in dumbness steeps : 
 And Darkness with her sightless eye, 
 F 
 
66 POEMS. 
 
 Gazes down through a starless sky. 
 And all from waking keeps. 
 
 Soul, I loved thee ; 
 
 Thou wert beautiful : 
 Soul, I served thee ; 
 
 I was dutiful : 
 We had been so long together, 
 In the fair and the foul weather ; 
 We had known such joys and tears 
 That my love grew with the years. 
 
 I was not an enemy 
 
 Unto thy salvation ; 
 If I sinned, I sinned with thee. 
 
 Yielding to temptation ; 
 Thou wert wiser, 
 
 Thou wert stronger ; 
 I was never thy despiser ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 67 
 
 Wilfully I was no wronger — 
 Wronging thee I wronged myself. 
 
 I am but a broken cage, 
 
 And the eagle's fled ; 
 Think you he will quell his rage, 
 
 Bend his high and haughty head, 
 Leave the air at one fell swoop, 
 And with folded pinions stoop 
 Underneath these bars ; to droop 
 Once again, with sullen eye 
 Gazing at the far-off sky ? 
 He has gone his way, and I 
 Grudge him not his liberty. 
 
 Does the wanton butterfly 
 
 Long for her aurelia sleep, 
 Sicken of the sunlit sky, 
 
 Shrivel up her wings and creep 
 From the untasted rose's chalice, 
 F 2 
 
68 POEMS. 
 
 Back into her chrysalis ? 
 Does she on the wing deplore 
 She can be a worm no more ? 
 
 The melodious, happy bee, 
 
 Will she backward ring her bell, 
 
 Grieving for a life so free, 
 
 Wishing back the narrow cell 
 
 Where a cloistered nun she lay, 
 
 Knowing not the night from day ? 
 
 Lithe and subtle serpents turning 
 
 Wheresoe'er they will, 
 Are they full of sad repining 
 
 That they cannot now be still, 
 Coiled in the maternal prison 
 Out of which they have arisen ? 
 
 Earth to earth, and dust to dust, 
 Ashes unto ashes must ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 
 
 Death precedeth birth. 
 Infant gladness 
 Ends in madness, 
 And from blackest roots of sadness 
 
 Rise the brightest flowers of mirth. 
 
 I am but the quiver, useless 
 
 When the bolts are shot ; 
 But the dangling mocking scabbard 
 
 Where the sword is not 
 I am like a shattered bark 
 
 Flung high up upon the shore ; 
 Gone are streamers, sails, and mast, 
 
 Steering helm and labouring oar. 
 River-joys, ye all are past ; 
 
 I shall breast the Nile no more, 
 
 I was once a lamp of life, 
 Shining in upon the soul ; 
 But I was a lamp of clay : 
 
70 POEMS. 
 
 Death and I had bitter strife ; 
 He hath pierced the golden bowl. 
 And he sent my soul astray. 
 It is an immortal thing, 
 Far beyond his venomed sting, 
 But my life was his to win, 
 
 And I must the forfeit pay ; 
 So he poured the precious oil 
 Of my very life away. 
 
 If my soul should seek for me, 
 
 It would find me dark ; 
 In my leaking cup would see 
 
 Death the quencher's mark ; 
 Angels could not light in me 
 
 Now the feeblest spark : 
 I am broken, empty, cold ; 
 Oil of life I could not hold. 
 
 Soul and body cannot mate. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 71 
 
 Unless Life doth join their hands ; 
 And the fell divorcer sweareth 
 By the royal crown he weareth 
 And the awful sword he beareth, 
 
 That a king's are his commands. 
 " Soul and body, Life shall never, 
 u When my smiting sword doth sever, 
 
 " Join again in wedlock's bands." 
 
 I was once the trusted casket 
 Of a priceless, wondrous gem : 
 With closed lid 
 I kept it hid, 
 Till God wanted 
 It for his own diadem. 
 Unto Death he gave the key, 
 
 But he stayed not to unlock it : 
 If the jewel were but free, 
 He, the fierce one, what cared he 
 For the casket, though he broke it ? 
 
72 POEMS. 
 
 Mortal throes and cruel pangs 
 Tore me open with their fangs, 
 And God took the gem to set : 
 
 But to put his mark on me 
 Death did not forget. 
 With his crushing, cruel heel, 
 He impressed on me his seal, 
 And on it these words were cut, 
 H When I open, none may shut 
 " Save the King, whose key I bear/ 
 
 If that gem again from heaven 
 Were entrusted to my care, 
 I could not enfold and keep it 
 
 From the chill, corrupting air ; 
 Could not hide it out of sight 
 Of the peering prying light : — 
 Crushed and shattered, mean and vile, 
 I am fit only for the funeral pile. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 73 
 
 I am not a harp whose strings 
 
 Wait but for the quivering wings 
 
 Of the breathing Spirit-wind 
 
 Over them its way to find, 
 
 Thrilling them with its fond greeting 
 
 Till they answer back — repeating 
 
 Tone for tone ; 
 
 Adding others of their own. 
 
 All my chords are tangled, broken, 
 
 And their breaking is a token 
 
 That, if now the wind-like spirit 
 
 Should come longing back to me, 
 It would vainly try to elicit 
 
 Note or any melody. 
 
 Life once by me stood and wound 
 Each string to its sweetest sound, 
 
 But Death stole the winding key 
 And it would be woe to me 
 If my soul from heaven should come 
 
74 POEMS. 
 
 But to find me hushed and mute, 
 Soundless as a shattered drum, 
 Voiceless as an unblown flute, 
 
 Speechless as a tongueless bell, 
 Silent as an unstrung lute, 
 
 Dumber than a dead sea shell : 
 I could not even as a lisper, 
 Utter back the faintest whisper, 
 Were it but to say farewell. 
 
 Archangelic trumpet sounding, 
 
 Thou shalt wake us all ; 
 On the startled universe 
 
 Shall thy summons fall ; 
 And the sympathising planets 
 
 Shall obey thy call, 
 Weeping o'er their sinful sister, 
 
 Stretched beneath her funeral pall. 
 Earth thou wert baptized in light, 
 
 When the Spirit brooded o'er thee ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 75 
 
 Fair thou wert in God's own sight, 
 
 And a life of joy before thee ; 
 But thy day was turned to night, 
 
 And an awful change came o'er thee. 
 Then thou wert baptized again ; 
 
 In the avenging, cleansing flood, 
 Afterward for guilty men 
 
 Christ baptized thee with his blood ; 
 Yet to efface the stain of crime 
 
 God shall light thy funeral pyre, 
 And the fourth and final time 
 
 Thou shalt be baptized with fire. 
 
 V. THE SLEEP. 
 
 Over the Necropolis and the land of Egypt the seasons 
 and the centuries pass, producing their changes in Nature, 
 celestial and terrestrial, and in all human history ; everywhere 
 there is the same unvarying alternation of Life and Death ; 
 and through all this monotony of change the Dead sleep, 
 awaiting with irrepressible yearnings their Resurrection. 
 
 The shadow of the pyramids 
 Fled round before the sun : 
 
76 POEMS. 
 
 By day it fled, 
 
 It onward sped ; 
 And when its daily task was done 
 The moon arose, and round the plain 
 The weary shadow fled again. 
 
 The sphinx looked east, 
 
 The sphinx looked west, 
 And north and south her shadow fell ; 
 
 How many times she sought for rest 
 And found it not, no tongue may tell. 
 
 But much it vexed the heart of greedy Time 
 That neither rain nor snow, nor frost nor 
 hail, 
 Trouble the calm of the Egyptian clime ; 
 For these for him, like heavy iron flail, 
 And wedge and saw, and biting tooth and 
 file, 
 Against the palaces of kings prevail, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 11 
 
 And crumble down the loftiest pile, 
 And eat the ancient hills away, 
 And make the very mountains know decay. 
 
 And sorely he would grudge, and much would 
 carp, 
 That he could never keep his polished blade, 
 His mowing sickle keen and sharp, 
 
 For all the din and all the dust he made. 
 He cursed the mummies that they would not 
 
 rot, 
 He cursed the paintings that they faded not, 
 And swore to tumble Memnon from his seat ; 
 But, foiled awhile, to hide his great defeat, 
 With his wide wings he blew the Libyan sand, 
 And hid from mortal eyes the glories of the 
 land. 
 
 Then he would hie away 
 With many a frown, 
 
78 POEMS. 
 
 And whet his scythe 
 
 By grinding Babylons down j 1 
 And chuckle blithe, 
 As, with his hands 
 Sifting the sands, 
 He meted in his glass 
 How centuries pass, 
 And say, " I think this dust doth tell 
 Whoever faileth, I work well." 
 
 Round the great dial of the year 
 The seasons went and struck the quarters. 
 Whilst the swift months, like circling hours, 
 Told the twelve changes by their changing 
 
 flowers ; 
 And the great glaciers from the mountain 
 
 tops, 
 Where the bold chamois dare not climb. 
 
 1 Similar reference in Hoocfs poems. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 79 
 
 Silently sliding down the slopes, 
 
 Marked the slow years upon the clock of 
 Time. 
 
 The burst of revelry was heard no more 
 Along the Nile ; nor near its reedy shore 
 The pleasant plashing of the dipping oar : 
 Nor cry of sailor unto sailor calling, 
 Nor music of the hammer on the anvil falling, 
 Nor song of women singing in the sun, 
 Nor craftsmen merry when their work is done : 
 The trumpet all was hushed, the harp was 
 
 still, 
 And ceased the hum of the revolving mill : 
 The sound of solitude alone was there, 
 And solemn silence reigning everywhere. 
 
 The sun, the mighty alchymist, 
 With burning ardour daily kissed 
 Earth's dusky bosom into gold : 
 
8o POEMS. 
 
 And when at eve 
 
 He took his leave, 
 Again his eager lips grew bold, 
 And on her dark'ning brow and breast 
 His strange transmuting kiss impressed. 
 
 The moon ! she hath hermetic skill, 
 As nightly every shadow told ; 
 She cannot change all things to gold, 
 But she hath skill, and she hath will, 
 To turn to silver blackest hill 
 
 And deepest shade and darkest pile ; 
 And night by night, 
 The gloomy Nile, 
 A sea of light, 
 
 Smiled to her smile. 
 
 A million times, by days of men, 
 The earth her silver robes put off, 
 Only her golden train to doff 
 
 In shortest time again. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. Si 
 
 Link by link, and ring by ring, 
 Each day and night a link would bring : 
 The sun ! a ring, all golden-bright, 
 The moon ! a link, all silver-white ; 
 
 And so the twain 
 
 Wove at the chain 
 Which they have woven all the way, 
 Since first was night, and first was day. 
 It girdleth round the earth, and then, 
 Swift passing from the abodes of men, 
 It all transcendeth human ken 
 To trace it back, it goes so far, 
 Up to the dawn of time, 
 Beyond the farthest star. 
 
 In the lost past 
 
 It hangeth fast, 
 Held by the hand of God ; 
 And angels, when they wish to know 
 How time is moving here below, 
 Come floating down on half-spread wings, 
 
82 POEMS. 
 
 And see the steps our earth has trod, 
 By counting the alternate rings 
 That mark the day 
 
 And mark the night, 
 Since God said " Be " 
 And there was light. 
 The azure sky a garden lay, 
 
 In which at mid-day seed was sown ; 
 It peeped at eve, at twilight budded, 
 And, when the day had passed away, 
 
 The buds were burst, the leaves were blown. 
 And starry flowers the midnight 
 studded : 
 
 Quick bloomed they there, 
 Too bright and fair 
 Not to be taken soon away : 
 Thick through the air 
 Rained they, 
 In blazing showers, 
 Their meteor-flowers, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 8. 
 
 And withered at the dawn of day. 
 They were not blotted from the sky i 
 They faded, but they did not die : 
 Each in its azure-curtained bed 
 In stillest slumber slept ; 
 Whilst, glancing far, 
 The evening star 
 A wakeful vigil kept, 
 Till, when the setting sun withdrew, 
 
 The appointed sign was given, 
 And each grew up and bloomed anew, 
 And glorified the face of heaven. 
 
 Swift comets fled across the sky, 
 
 Like murderers from the wrath of God, 
 
 With frenzied look, and fiery eye 
 (For swift behind the avenger trod), 
 
 And long, dishevelled, trailing hair, 
 
 Seeking in vain to find a lair, 
 
 Where they could hide their great despair. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 POEMS. 
 
 They sought the very bounds of space, 
 Bui dared not for a moment stay ; 
 
 The dread Avenger's awful fa 
 Waited before them on the way: 
 
 They turned, their footsteps to retrace; 
 
 They thought they flagged not in the race, 
 
 Bui shuddered as a mighty for< :e, 
 Wl)i(.l) none could see, bul all could ' 
 
 ( hecking their wild eccentric course, 
 
 Bade them in lesser circles wheel : 
 The judgment had gone forth that they 
 Should feed the burning sun : 
 They felt thai vengeance had begun 
 Which, though ii suffered long delay, 
 
 Would sternly smite and surely slay 
 When their appointed race was run. 
 
 And some there were of gentler sort, 
 
 With slower step, of lowlier port, 
 
 With smoother lochs and calmer eye, 
 Who, shooting by the startled sky, 
 
THE SLEEP OE 7Y/E HYACINTH. 85 
 
 Or gleaming through the midday blue, 
 On errands sent which no one knew, 
 Came — none knew whence, went — none knew 
 where, 
 
 The gipsies of the upper air. 
 
 So whirled those stars, whilst worlds of men 
 
 Died ere the time of their returning ; 
 Yet they failed not to come again, 
 
 With unquenched tresses fiercely burning, 
 And, round a smaller area turning, 
 
 Flew like doomed things to meet the ire 
 That gave them to eternal fire. 
 
 And, as they left the sleeping pair, 
 
 They found them still at each returning 
 
 Down in the darkness, keeping there 
 An everlasting mourning. 
 They would have thought the baleful light 
 
86 POEMS. 
 
 Of comets a delightful sight, 
 
 And joyed to gaze up at their hair, 
 
 Waving malignant in the air. 
 
 But not the faintest flickering gleam 
 
 Of all their blinding glare, 
 Not one adventurous errant beam, 
 
 Could grope its way adown the stair 
 That led to their sepulchral room, 
 Or find a chink within their tomb, 
 By which to show to spell-bound eyes 
 The terrors of the midnight skies. 
 
 The ibis gravely stalking 
 
 As a self-appointed warden, 
 Through every valley walking, 
 
 Went through and through the garden ; 
 And with his curved bill, 
 
 Like a reaper's sickle hook, 
 On every noxious thing 
 
 A speedy vengeance took. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 87 
 
 White pelicans came sailing 
 
 Like galleys down the stream ; 
 And the Peacock raised the wailing 
 
 Of his melancholy scream, 
 From the lofty temple-summits 
 
 Where he loved to take his stand, 
 As if to catch a glimpse 
 
 Of his far-distant land. 
 And the sober matron geese, 
 
 Now swimming and now wading, 
 Now paddling in the mud, 
 
 And now on shore parading, 
 Moved, discoursing to each other 
 
 With their mellow trumpet-voices, 
 Each with native music telling 
 
 Of a creature that rejoices ; 
 Till some leader's shrillest signal, 
 
 As of sudden foe invading, 
 Stopped the babble of their tongues, 
 
 And their careless promenading, 
 
88 POEMS. 
 
 As they rose in steady phalanx 
 
 Unfurling in the air, 
 Like the banners of an army 
 
 When they hear the trumpet's blare ; 
 And now they kept together 
 
 Like a fleet of ships at sea, 
 When they fear not stormy weather 
 
 Or foe from whom to flee ; 
 And then they scattered far and wide, 
 
 Like ships before a gale, 
 When naked masts stand up on deck 
 
 With scarce a single sail ; 
 And now their phalanx like a wedge 
 
 Went cleaving through the air, 
 And then it was a hollow ring, 
 
 And then a hollow square. 
 So ! free through sea, and earth, and sky, 
 
 With web, and foot, and wing, 
 They lowly walked, or soared on high, 
 
 And none disturbed their travelling. 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. S 9 
 
 They wandered at their own wild will 
 Till daylight died and all was still, 
 And then a summons clear and shrill 
 Led them all back with weary wing, 
 To rest in peace 
 Till night should cease, 
 Lulled by the Nile's low murmuring ; 
 And in the garden's ample ground 
 They each a welcome haven found. 
 
 The garden was all full of life, 
 
 All filled with living things ; 
 Life in the earth and air, 
 
 On bird and insect wings ; 
 Life swimming in the river, 
 
 Life walking on the land, 
 The life of eye and ear, 
 
 And heart, and brain, and hand. 
 Life ! in the lichen sleeping, 
 
 Life ! in the moss half- waking, 
 
90 POEMS. 
 
 A drowsy vigil keeping ; 
 
 Life ! in the green tree taking 
 Its free course as a river ; 
 Life, making each nerve quiver 
 In the eagle upward soaring : 
 
 Life, flowing on for ever, 
 Its waters ever pouring 
 Into that grave of death, which we 
 Count as an all-devouring sea ; 
 
 Dark are its depths, but they cannot 
 
 retain 
 Aught that was living ; it will not remain : 
 Down in the darkness it hateth to stay ; 
 Upward it riseth, and cleaveth its way 
 Out of Death's midnight into Life's day. 
 Fire from God's altar rekindleth its flame, 
 Effaceth Death's mark and removeth his 
 
 stain, 
 Clothes it afresh and changeth its name, 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH. 91 
 
 Nerves it anew to pleasure and pain, 
 And sendeth it back to the place whence it 
 came : 
 Thither it speeds and returneth again, 
 Like the wave of the lake 
 
 And the foam of the river. 
 Which as clouds from the sea 
 
 The sun doth dissever. 
 He bathes them in glory, 
 He clothes them in light, 
 He weaves for them garments of every hue : 
 They tire of the glory, 
 They steal from his sight, 
 They drop on the earth as invisible dew. 
 They return to the lake, 
 They revisit the river, 
 Like arrows shot up 
 
 Which come back to their quiver. 
 As the cloud was the sea, 
 And the sea was the cloud, 
 
92 POEMS. 
 
 So the cradle of Life 
 
 Is wrapped in Death's shroud. 
 The Life cometh down 
 
 As the rain comes from heaven ; 
 To flow is its law ; 
 
 To Death it is given. 
 The Life riseth up 
 
 As a cloud from Death's sea ; 
 It changeth its robe, 
 
 From decay it is free ; 
 It mocketh at Death, 
 
 It breaketh his chain ; 
 And the clouds in the sky 
 
 Come after the rain. 
 
 Life's a spender, 
 Death's a keeper ; 
 
 Life's a watcher, 
 Death's a sleeper ; 
 
 Life's a sower, 
 Death's a reaper ; 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 93 
 
 Life's a laugher, 
 
 Death's a weeper ; 
 Life's an ever-flowing river, 
 
 Death's an ever-filling sea ; 
 Death is shackled, 
 
 Life is free ; 
 Death is darkness, 
 
 Life is light ; 
 Death is blindness, 
 
 Life is sight ; 
 Life is fragrant, 
 
 Death is noisome ; 
 Death is woeful, 
 
 Life is joy some; 
 Life is music, 
 
 Death is soundless ; 
 Death is bounded, 
 
 Life is boundless ; 
 Death is lowly, 
 
 Life hath pride , 
 
94 POEMS. 
 
 Death's a bridegroom, 
 
 Life's the bride ; 
 Death's the winter, 
 
 Life's the spring ; 
 Life's a queen, 
 
 But Death's a king ; 
 Life's a blossom, 
 
 Death's its root ; 
 Death's a seed, 
 
 And life's its fruit ; 
 Death is sown, 
 
 And life upsprings ; 
 Death hath fetters, 
 
 Life hath wings. 
 
 So in endless iteration, 
 
 Through the long protracted ages 
 Rose their wailing alternation ; 
 
 Like the murmur that presages 
 
THE SLEEP OF THE HYACINTH 95 
 
 Rising tempests, ere their fullest fury 
 rages, 
 Rose and fell 
 Its plaintive swell, 
 Like the mourning one doth hear, 
 Listening with attentive ear 
 To the sighing of a shell, 
 
 Orphaned from its mother sea, 
 Where it longs again to dwell, 
 Weary of its liberty. 
 
 So they panted for the light ; 
 
 Yearned for the living day, 
 Sick of silence, tired of darkness, 
 
 Chafing at the long delay ; 
 Till, when thrice a thousand years 
 
 Drearily had passed away, 
 Hope and faith fled with them too, 
 
 And they ceased to pray. 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 No one seemed to love or heed them, 
 And in dull despair they waited, 
 To a hopeless bondage fated, 
 
 Till the Archangel's voice should bid them 
 
 Rise upon the Judgment Day. 
 
 [Here the MS. ends — the intended final part, to be called 
 the " Awaking," never having been written.] 
 
I CORINTHIANS, XIII. 
 
 Here, as through a glass, we darkly, 
 
 Doubtfully, and dimly gaze ; 
 Even the brightest things have shadows, 
 
 Round the clearest hangs a haze. 
 
 They who bask within the blaze 
 
 Of the pure, unshaded rays, 
 In the realms of bliss, 
 
 Changed have for doubtful vision, 
 
 Perfect sight and full fruition. 
 
 They know there, as they are known, 
 Christ doth claim them as his own, 
 Where they stand, 
 
 H 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Round about the throne of grace, 
 Gazing on him, face to face, 
 
 In the land of light, 
 The bright immortal land. 
 
 Faith hath there become conviction : 
 Happiness hath no restriction ; 
 Christ proclaims the benediction, 
 16 Be with me, ye blest, alway." 
 
 Wand'rers once, through many mazes, 
 Clothed with His imputed graces, 
 Tears all wiped from off all faces, 
 They adore Him night and day. 
 
 No one there in darkness gropeth, 
 No one half-despairing hopeth, 
 No one with the great Foe copeth, 
 Christ hath taken sin away. 
 
/ CORINTHIANS, XIII. 99 
 
 Tempter never there assaileth, 
 Charity there never faileth ; 
 Christ's great love for all availeth : 
 And the weakest cannot stray. 
 
 Sobbing is not there, nor sighing, 
 Grief is all unknown, and crying, 
 Pain is never seen, nor dying ; 
 Former things have passed away. 
 
 No one knoweth care, nor sorrow, 
 No one feareth for the morrow ; 
 Each eternal joy doth borrow 
 
 From the Lamb, his strength and stay. 
 
 May He whom — the sympathising 
 High Priest, for us agonising, 
 Knowing not 'twas God's devising, — . 
 Traitors did to death betray, 
 H 2 
 
ioo POEMS. 
 
 He who of our inmost hearts every hidden 
 thought divineth, 
 
 And His people from their sins, like a precious 
 
 ore refineth, 
 
 Give us grace that we may say, 
 
 " Darkness now hath passed away, 
 
 And the true light shineth." 
 
 G. W. 
 
ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 No fading flowers in Eden grew, 
 
 Nor Autumn's withering spread 
 Among the trees a browner hue, 
 To show the leaves were dead ; 
 But through the groves and shady dells, 
 Waving their bright immortal bells, 
 Were amaranths and asphodels, 
 Undying in a place that knew 
 A golden age the whole year through. 
 
 But when the angels' fiery brands, 
 
 Guarding the eastern gate, 
 Told of a broken law's commands, 
 
 And agonies that came too late ; 
 
D2 POEMS. 
 
 With longing, lingering wish to stay, 
 And many a fond but vain delay 
 That could not wile her grief away, 
 Eve wandered aimless o'er a world 
 On which the wrath of God was hurled. 
 
 Then came the Spring's capricious smile. 
 And Summer sunlight warmed the air, 
 And Autumn's riches served a while 
 
 To hide the curse that lingered there ; 
 Till o'er the once untroubled sky 
 Quick driven clouds began to fly, 
 And moaning zephyrs ceased to sigh, 
 When Winter's storms in fury burst 
 Upon a world indeed accurst. 
 
 And when at last the driving snow, — 
 A strange, ill-omened sight, — 
 
 Came whitening all the plains below, 
 To trembling- Eve it seemed — affright 
 
ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP. 103 
 
 With shivering cold and terror bowed — 
 As if each fleecy vapour cloud 
 Were falling as a snowy shroud, 
 To form a close enwrapping pall 
 For Earth's untimeous funeral. 
 
 Then all her faith and gladness fled, 
 And, nothing left but black despair, 
 
 Eve madly wished she had been dead, 
 Or never born a pilgrim there. 
 
 But, as she wept, an angel bent 
 
 His way adown the firmament, 
 
 And, on a task of mercy sent, 
 
 He raised her up, and bade her cheer 
 
 Her drooping heart, and banish fear: 
 
 And catching, as he gently spake, 
 
 A flake of falling snow, 
 He breathed on it, and bade it take 
 
 A form and bud and blow ; 
 
xo4 POEMS. 
 
 And ere the flake had reached the earth. 
 Eve smiled upon the beauteous birth, 
 That seemed, amid the general dearth 
 Of living things, a greater prize 
 Than all her flowers in Paradise. 
 
 " This is an earnest, Eve, to thee," 
 
 The glorious angel said, 
 " That sun and Summer soon shall be ; 
 And though the leaves seem dead, 
 Yet once again the smiling Spring, 
 With wooing winds, shall swiftly bring 
 New life to every sleeping thing ; 
 Until they wake, and make the scene 
 Look fresh again, and gaily green." 
 
 The angel's mission being ended, 
 
 Up to Heaven he flew ; 
 But where he first descended, 
 
 And where he bade the earth adieu, 
 
ORIGIN OF THE SNOWDROP, 105 
 
 A ring of snowdrops formed a posy 
 Of pallid flowers, whose leaves, unrosy, 
 Waved like a winged argosy, 
 Whose climbing masts above the sea, 
 Spread fluttering sail and streamer free, 
 
 And thus the snowdrop, like the bow 
 
 That spans the cloudy sky, 
 Becomes a symbol whence we know 
 
 That brighter days are nigh ; 
 That circling seasons, in a race 
 That knows no lagging, lingering pace, 
 Shall each the other nimbly chase, 
 Till Time's departing final day 
 Sweep snowdrops and the world away. 
 
 G. W. 
 
the trance. 
 
 Founded on a story, told in one of the Fathers ', of a monk 
 who was bewailed over as dead, a?id aftenvards arose in life. 
 
 A FIERCE and heavy pang then shot into my 
 
 swooning brain, 
 That sickened in the crushing gripe of that 
 
 almighty pain ; 
 My body quivered awfully, as if the blast of 
 
 death 
 Ran wild amid the shivering nerves, like wind 
 
 on withered heath ; 
 And through my veins the tide of blood ran 
 
 back with sullen sobbing, 
 And lay a cold and heavy weight upon my 
 
 heart's thick throbbing ; 
 
THE TRANCE. 107 
 
 The fiercely struggling breath beneath my 
 
 stiffened chest was drowned, 
 Nor aught save strangled moans there came, 
 
 of human voice or sound ; 
 And faded from my freezing sense the holy 
 
 brethren nigh, 
 And the solemn prayer of faith they spake, to 
 
 our Lord Christ on high, 
 That He would be my strength and stay, 
 
 when flesh did fail and faint, 
 And so it was, for in that hour the Lord was 
 
 near His saint. 
 
 I felt this solemn agony was come to bid me 
 
 die, 
 Wrestling with Time, my soul was panting 
 
 for Eternity, — 
 I felt that it was o'er with earth, and human 
 
 will and sin — 
 
io8 POEMS. 
 
 A strong pang shudders through my frame, 
 and swiftly from within, 
 
 The spirit leaps into the light, of fair majestic 
 feature, 
 
 With radiant form of purity, a glorious, god- 
 like creature. 
 
 But ah ! it was a fearful thing, from ancient 
 
 dwelling flown, 
 To feel myself all desolate, all naked and 
 
 alone ; 
 I looked most wistfully that some kind spirit 
 
 from above, 
 On happy wings of light, should come to 
 
 cheer me with his love, 
 To quell my heart of crowding fears, and lead 
 
 me to the rest, 
 Where I might dwell for evermore with God's 
 
 dear children blest 
 
THE TRANCE. 109 
 
 I looked, but ah ! no bright one came, my 
 
 panting ardour meeting, 
 No cheerful sound of hastening wings, no 
 
 gentle voice of greeting. 
 And then, woe's me ! with sick despair and 
 
 drowning heart, I thought 
 The Lord His sinful servant had amid His 
 
 works forgot, 
 That I was fallen from His care who died 
 
 upon the tree, 
 And that for aye no dwelling place was meted 
 
 out for me. 
 
 And so I went upon my way, with sad and 
 
 doubting motion, 
 A dreary wanderer drifting forth upon a 
 
 shoreless ocean ! 
 
 I know not where or how I went, when — past 
 the furthest star 
 
no POEMS. 
 
 That beacons from the utmost nook, where 
 
 matter's limits are — 
 In timid quest, I swiftly pressed into the awful 
 
 realm, 
 Whose very name is all we think, in thoughts, 
 
 that overwhelm, 
 Where shadows piled on shadows dwell in 
 
 twilight dim and drear, 
 And shroud within their shuddering depths, 
 
 the Majesty of Fear ! 
 
 I know not where or how I went, where going 
 
 left no trace, 
 And stillness circled everywhere through the 
 
 untrodden space ; 
 No echo, waking to my flight, gave semblance 
 
 of a voice, 
 To speak in kindly fellowship, and bid my 
 
 heart rejoice, 
 
THE TRAXCE. Hi 
 
 Xo shadows followed flickeringly upon my 
 
 fleeting wing, 
 To break the fearsome loneliness, and seem a 
 
 living thing ; 
 But now that God Himself no more, drew near 
 
 unto my call, 
 I seemed myself a solitude — an awful AI1- 
 
 in-All ! 
 
 And so my heart was folded up in black 
 dismav, like night, 
 
 And grim Despair ate greedily into my mov- 
 ing might, 
 
 So that I drooped and sickened there ; yet 
 with a gloomy gliding, 
 
 I go — Jehovah's banished one — for whom is no 
 abiding ! 
 
 But lo ! all soon, with quickening joy, I inly 
 laughed and leapt, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 At the great sight that suddenly athwart my 
 vision swept. 
 
 And yet it had no pleasant view, but, like a 
 
 builded Dome, 
 It towered, a formless giant pile, a very sun of 
 
 gloom, 
 Raying intensest darkness forth in shadow- 
 shapes around 
 Which, on the void unwilling space, no place 
 
 of resting found, 
 But aye they trembled troublously, a wild 
 
 uplifted sea, 
 Whose waves, like heaving midnight skies, 
 
 shot terror into me. 
 — The place wherein that fearful twain, old 
 
 Night and Death, abode, 
 Infinity itself meseemed to faint' beneath 
 
 the load. 
 
THE TRANCE. 113 
 
 But yet I joyed, because I deemed a quiet 
 
 place to find, 
 Where I might couch within the ken of 
 
 blessed human kind ; 
 And be they gentle, loving friends, or fierce 
 
 and foul of might, 
 Yet loneliness would flee away — Oh God ! a 
 
 wild delight ! 
 But as I trembled on the verge, came creeping 
 
 to my ear 
 A sound all thin and bodiless, as only spirits 
 
 hear, 
 That seemed to tell the tingling tale of agony 
 
 immortal — 
 Yet still I swiftly sped my way to win the 
 
 looming portal. 
 
 Then stretched a sight before my gaze, that 
 thrust me through with woe, 
 I 
 
114 POEMS. 
 
 I shuddered with a shrinking fear, but back- 
 ward could not go ; 
 
 I saw a hall that stretched afar in sick and 
 yellow light, 
 
 Whose walls were reared, whose dome was 
 hung, in chaoses of night, 
 
 And then I saw a wailing troop, a myriad 
 crowd of ghosts, 
 
 Who sat all through its joyless length, in wan 
 and glimmering hosts. 
 
 A stark and stony glare did aye upon their 
 
 eyes remain, 
 And dwelt upon their frozen light a stern 
 
 unmoving pain, 
 That vainly struggled forth to sound, but lip 
 
 and voice were sealed, 
 So that it found no rushing vent of agony 
 
 revealed ; 
 
THE TRANCE. 115 
 
 Dully, as drunk with heavy grief, they crooned 
 
 a wail of sadness, 
 Not w r ords, but as it were a pang that wrung 
 
 itself to madness, — 
 On through the stricken twilight gloom, with 
 
 shuddering wings it rolls, 
 Sounding the dreary muffled dirge of wrecked 
 
 and ruined souls. 
 
 All friends were there of dearest kin, — son, 
 
 sister, sire, and brother — 
 Yet no one sought, with yearning love, to 
 
 commune with another, 
 That he might take or lose a grief—empty a 
 
 soul of woe, — 
 For here the swelling fount of love was frozen 
 
 in its flow ; 
 All sympathies, all charities, the unutterable 
 
 store 
 
 I 2 
 
u6 POEMS. 
 
 Of dearest joys in earthly homes, were 
 
 quenched for evermore, 
 And here the spirit, cramped and pinched 
 
 with fears, like iron chains, 
 Brooded its own unhappy case, in sore and 
 
 ghastly pains. 
 
 On through the place there moved a stream, 
 
 with waters smooth and pale ; — 
 With slow and sullen pace it crawled, like 
 
 snake w T ith wounded trail, — 
 So slothfully, it seemed like Sleep just waning 
 
 into Death — 
 Heaving from its mysterious depths a fitful 
 
 whispered breath. 
 I wist not whether 'twas this breath, that wove 
 
 my sense around, 
 And clung to life, uncertainly, shaping itself 
 
 to sound ; 
 
THE TRANCE. 117 
 
 Or whether 'twas from faces foul, that glided 
 
 oft along, 
 Lifting their gaze above the flood, and sung a 
 
 passing song — 
 I could not tell from whence it came, but 
 
 heavily and dull, 
 This chant rose like a drowsy cloud with 
 
 killing poison full : 
 " Salvation is life's speedy work, and God its 
 
 cheerful giver, 
 But lo ! the judgment draweth on, and it 
 
 abides for ever ! " 
 
 But, dreadest spectacle of all, I saw afar in 
 
 height 
 A Dial-Plate whereon there stood a Shadow 
 
 and a Light, 
 The shadow clear like starry gloom, — the 
 
 brightness like the sun, 
 
u8 POEMS. 
 
 And it moved on all evenly, its course was 
 
 nearly run y 
 For now its track had travelled on, in mute, 
 
 resistless power, 
 And now it told the fearful tale, 'twas Times 
 
 eleventh Hour ! 
 The day of suffrance fleeting past, the hour 
 
 of mercy gone, 
 It told the doom of God's red wrath was 
 
 darkening swiftly on. 
 Then as I looked I wept full sore, — Ah me ! 
 
 their piteous case ! 
 Poor souls condemned for aye to bide without 
 
 the Lord His grace ! 
 Ah pangs of dumb expressive woe ! Ah that 
 
 so doleful song ! 
 Ah cold and naked solitude amid a crowding 
 
 throng ! 
 
 My heart was withered like a leaf, when 
 sudden on my ear 
 
THE TRANCE. 119 
 
 There dins the crush, the rapid rush, of wings 
 
 that hurtled near : 
 Two grisly fiends drew nigh apace, upon the 
 
 lowering path — 
 Fell brow, and eye of cruel fire, and scowl of 
 
 darkening wrath ; 
 Within their gloating grasp was clenched a 
 
 cowering, shrinking soul, 
 That they were hailing gleefully to dree its 
 
 dismal dole. 
 
 A ghost it was of lofty look, a high immortal 
 
 mien, 
 Telling of thought that aye had wrought 
 
 where deathless deeds had been ; 
 But vainly dwelt that majesty like flame on 
 
 eye and brow — 
 Vainly, a bound, discrowned king, it wrestled 
 
 on with woe ; 
 
120 POEMS. 
 
 The battle and the victor's might were yielded 
 
 to Despair, 
 Who like to any conqueror outspread his 
 
 banner there. 
 They glided through the gate, each eye was 
 
 raised in mournful hailing — 
 One moment and no more, — they sank and 
 
 saddened back to wailing. 
 The soul was fixed and fettered down, — I 
 
 looked, — too sore opprest, 
 A swoon around me spread its arm, and 
 
 cradled me to rest. 
 
 Again I woke and looked ; my soul was wafted 
 
 far away, 
 Like summer boat on sea afloat, forth into 
 
 light like day ; 
 I scarce could trace that distant place of 
 
 woeful sound and sight, 
 
THE TRANCE. 121 
 
 Sure some sweet angel of the Lord had done 
 
 me this delight. 
 The load was off my weariness ; like happy 
 
 birds in spring 
 I fain would break in joyfulness, — I fain 
 
 would leap and sing ! 
 
 But who is this that standeth near, and gazeth 
 
 down on me ? 
 Who standeth near, and gazeth down, a form 
 
 most bright to see ; 
 A winged shape of majesty that makes my 
 
 spirit bow, 
 The splendour of a heaven is girt around his 
 
 shining brow. 
 I know him by his smile of love, his robed 
 
 form of glory, 
 A calm and silver radiance, like sunlight 
 
 now grown hoary; 
 
r22 POEMS. 
 
 I know it is an angel's eye that looketh down 
 
 on me ! 
 I know it is an angel's form, that form so 
 
 bright to see ! 
 
 " Ah Sir," said I, with tearful eye, " doth God 
 
 forget His grace ? 
 Forgetteth He my weary soul ? Allotteth me 
 
 no place 
 Amid the many-mansioned House, where 
 
 saints with Christ are blessed ? 
 Or comest thou to guide me home unto that 
 
 quiet rest ? " 
 
 Then, with a face of tender grace, he soothed 
 
 my sad estate, 
 God's mercy was not minished, His arm was 
 
 still as great, 
 He told me that my place should yet amid 
 
 the righteous be, 
 
THE TRANCE. 123 
 
 When that the Lord's appointed time should 
 
 set me ever free, 
 But now, 'twas only for a space the soul had 
 
 left its prison, 
 The body yearned e'en now again to win the 
 
 life uprisen. 
 
 No more alone ! no more to roam ! But God 
 my Father is ! 
 
 My Elder Brother Jesus Christ ! The saints my 
 kin, I wis ! 
 
 Just men made perfect wait for me, and shin- 
 ing angels stand 
 
 To hail me to the happiness of the Immortal 
 Land ! 
 
 But ah ! not yet ! no present sight, — a while 
 of faith and prayer, 
 
 A while of toiling on in gloom, a while of 
 weary care, — 
 
124 POEMS. 
 
 I grieved to miss the holy bliss, to turn me 
 
 back to pain, 
 So near the rich inheritance of everlasting 
 
 gain. 
 
 Then said I to the Seraph blest, a fearful eye 
 upraising, 
 
 " Oh, might the Lord vouchsafe to me but 
 one brief space of gazing 
 
 Upon the great and many joys that ne'er 
 grow sere with oldness, 
 
 To warm my heart, in life again, from faint- 
 ing in its coldness ! " 
 
 I trembled for the bold desire, but he in grace 
 
 approveth, 
 " Come thou and see His good decree for all 
 
 the souls He loveth ! " 
 And so I rose and followed him, on wings of 
 
 blissful buoyance, 
 
THE TRANCE. 125 
 
 He in his smooth celestialness, my heart 
 
 disturbed with joyance, 
 Until apace, we reached the place, and stood 
 
 amidst its calm, 
 And I could feed my yearning need upon its 
 
 bliss and balm. 
 
 A meek and pleasant air there hung around 
 it and above, 
 
 Like zephyrs that had fallen asleep with over- 
 much of love, 
 
 And ever softly through this air floats, like a 
 dreamed delight, 
 
 A linked joy of fragrances, and breathed 
 sounds, and sight : — 
 
 Ah ! young and feeble ectasies, like orphaned 
 babes they go 
 
 Forth to the charmed solitude, with trembling 
 steps and low. 
 
126 POEMS. 
 
 For 'tis a spring's first quietness, — these are 
 
 her budding life, 
 The flowers are in their vernal bloom, 'tis they 
 
 make odours rife, 
 Small notes are stirred from every bird amid 
 
 its hidden nook, 
 And tremulous with infant fear singeth each 
 
 little brook. 
 Thus all was very peacefulness : — but yet the 
 
 quiet told 
 Of hoping for a summertime of life more free 
 
 and bold. 
 
 There was another stillness there, — Morn with 
 
 a gentle tread 
 Walked like an awed living one who goes 
 
 among the dead ; 
 It was a dawn most beautiful, — no dank and 
 
 misty gloom, 
 
THE TRANCE. 127 
 
 But fair and pearly radiance ywove with 
 
 golden bloom. 
 No tumult here of gushing life, no noise of 
 
 stirring might, 
 But all are swaddled in the calm that dwells 
 
 amid the light. 
 
 Yet wait, in silent patientness, these tender 
 
 lines each one, 
 For days so great upguided strength, its glory, 
 
 and its sun. 
 And lo ! afar, a morning star, gemming the 
 
 upper air, 
 As if it saw the coming joy, now it is very 
 
 fair, — 
 With invoiced look, like Gospel book, preacheth 
 
 what it doth see, 
 The bliss, the bliss, the happiness of what is 
 
 yet to be ! 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 'Twas here the chosen people dwelt — 'twas 
 
 here I saw them stay, 
 Starring the place, whose far embrace circled 
 
 their great array, 
 Amid its fair beatitude, in raiments meekly 
 
 white, 
 And looks that wore a blessedness beneath 
 
 the gentle light. 
 Some walked in twined companies, of mild 
 
 and musing rest, 
 And thoughts of kindred pleasantness were 
 
 nursed in every breast, 
 Some dwelt apart, and fed their heart on bliss 
 
 in mute employ, 
 Like waters, which by winds unkissed, lapt in 
 
 a lonely joy. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! a man of 
 lips unclean, 
 
THE TRANCE. 129 
 
 How shall I tell of God's delights in that 
 
 most quiet scene ? 
 How speak of that dear myriad throng, how 
 
 of the glory tell ? 
 How of the holy happiness, which is ineffable ? 
 
 But yet their joy did not ascend to high 
 
 triumphant swells, 
 Nor soared in clear uplifted voice like holy 
 
 Sabbath bells, 
 Yea, it was not the confidence of loud ecstatic 
 
 faith, 
 As one who in the full reward his high re- 
 joicing saith, 
 But seemed a hushed and trembling thought 
 
 to make it calm and mild, 
 Like bliss that Christ in heaven sends down 
 
 upon a sleeping child, 
 And still they bore a silent depth of dumb 
 
 unuttered feeling, 
 K 
 
130 POEMS. 
 
 That steeped their looks in quietude, which 
 
 was its sole revealing. 
 I saw the dear regained joy of some, whose 
 
 love had birth 
 And cradling in the changefulness of ancient 
 
 times on earth, 
 I saw how it was hallowed here to an im- 
 mortal strength, 
 Amid the yearning fellowship of souls re-knit 
 
 at length, 
 But it was love which mutely strong upon their 
 
 spirits wrought, 
 That lay in undecaying rest beneath eternal 
 
 thought. 
 
 But as I gazed in earnestness, came, through 
 
 the breathless air, 
 Some low and wafted echoings of music very 
 
 fair, 
 
THE TRANCE, 131 
 
 As if they strayed from heaven, exiled from 
 
 the incessant choirs, 
 Who sing the songs they deftly sing unto 
 
 their chiming lyres ; 
 It was a tone of love and praise, and glided 
 
 upon all, 
 Until they seemed to wake and stir from out 
 
 their silent thrall. 
 And if I wis aright, this song they sent in 
 
 roused accord, 
 Hymning unto the blessed grace of their 
 
 redeeming Lord. 
 
 u Oh world ! Oh world ! and sin that was thine 
 
 Like a cloud of black thunder it neared, 
 And Hell lowering on, red and dark, to our doom, 
 Gave the banner to Death he upreared ; 
 Oh ! where shall we go, 
 In the hour of the woe, 
 Till the thunder is past, and the gloom ? 
 K 2 
 
POEMS. 
 
 " Oh the grace ! Oh the grace ! and the love 
 of the Lamb ! 
 It had vanquished the journeying wrath, 
 The blue light of Hope, it is shining above, 
 And the Terror is stayed on its path ; 
 Oh the grace that hath sought us, 
 And led us, and brought us, 
 And shielded us round with its love ! 
 
 " Oh heaven ! Oh heaven ! and glory to come ! 
 
 Oh how shall we stand at the bar ? 
 And how shall we join the immortal repose, 
 Whose pleasures ineffable are ? 
 Fear, in us and round us, 
 Hath pierced us and bound us, 
 Encircled with sin and its woes ! 
 
 " Oh the grace ! Oh the grace ! and the love of 
 the Lamb, 
 It is with us and for us again, 
 
THE TRANCE. 133 
 
 He will watch for our souls in Jehovah's full 
 gaze, 
 And with them we ever remain ; 
 Our story, our story, 
 Shall echo in glory, 
 The love of the Lamb, and His praise ! " 
 
 -if >t» «!/ atj jfe 
 
 7f ^ yfc ^ 7? 
 
 ***** 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
THE SKERRYVORE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The Skerry vore is a very dangerous reef of rocks, chiefly 
 under water, situated about eleven miles west of Tyree, and 
 twenty of Iona. The name is from the Gaelic, and signifies 
 " The Great Rock." It lies so low that* it is not visible from 
 any great distance, and it is surrounded by an almost perpetual 
 surf, so that it has been the cause of many shipwrecks. A 
 lighthouse was completed upon it in 1843, and the light exhi- 
 bited for the first time on February 1, 1844. Its erection 
 occupied six seasons, during which, as the engineer, Mr. Alan 
 Stevenson, observes in the preface to his delightful accoii?it of 
 the lighthouse, in spite of almost daily perils, 710 loss of either 
 life or limb occurred. The allusion in verse xii. is to the fact 
 that a temporary barrack erected in the summer of 1838 
 totally swept away the next winter. 
 
 I. 
 
 A GOODLY band of stalwart men 
 Pushed off from Scotland's shore, 
 
THE SKERRYVORE LIGHTHOUSE. 135 
 
 Their path was o'er the stormy sea, 
 They rowed for Skerryvore. 
 
 II. 
 
 They went not forth on vengeance bound, 
 
 Man against brother-man, 
 To say, " Our Might shall pass for Right, 
 
 We will because we can." 
 
 III. 
 They went not forth to dig for gold, 
 
 For gems or precious ore — 
 The very seaweed scarce can cling 
 
 To wave-worn Skerryvore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 An awful rock, it veils its head 
 
 Beneath the stormy waves, 
 And shatters ships, and scatters wrecks, 
 
 And hides from men their graves. 
 
136 POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 That goodly band, they reached its strand, 
 
 They climbed upon that tomb ; 
 Each took his stand, and raised his hand — 
 
 They spoke across the gloom. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Our brothers' cries have reached the skies, 
 Their blood stains all the deep ; 
 
 Thou hast made many a mother mourn, 
 And lonely orphan weep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Thou shalt not kill, or do more ill, 
 Thou shalt be marked like Cain, 
 
 That men may see, and flee from thee 
 Far off upon the main." 
 
 VIII. 
 Then rose the Sea in fearful wrath, 
 And spoke with sullen roar, 
 
THE SKERRYVORE LIGHTHOUSE. 137 
 
 " This rock is mine, I love the dead, 
 I will keep Skerryvore." 
 
 IX. 
 " Name not the dead, O Sea !" they said, 
 
 Of drowned thou hast full store ; 
 Thou well canst spare to us this rock — 
 
 We will have Skerryvore. 
 
 x. 
 
 Then spake the Sea, " God gave to me, 
 
 His child, — the land to win." 
 " But God gave us both land and sea, 
 
 We are His next of kin. 
 
 XL 
 " And we shall fight, to try our right, 
 
 We men, and thou, the Sea, 
 And if thy might can quench our light, 
 
 Thou shalt the victor be." 
 
138 POEMS. 
 
 XII. 
 Six years went past, from first to last ; 
 
 They struggled with the Sea, 
 And when at first its fury burst, 
 
 It won the victory. 
 
 XIII. 
 But when the summer lull had come, 
 
 And hushed the Sea to sleep, 
 They watched their time, they won the rock, 
 
 And triumphed o'er the Deep. 
 
 XIV. 
 Day after day they toiled away, 
 
 Little at night they slept ; 
 With anxious eye they scanned the sky, 
 
 And careful watch they kept. 
 
 XV. 
 
 God's guiding hand was with that band, 
 His eye was o'er them all, 
 
THE SKERRYVORE LIGHTHOUSE. 139 
 
 His mighty arm kept each from harm, 
 Not one did faint or fall. 
 
 XVI. 
 Tier upon tier they raised the pier ; 
 
 Slowly they built the tower, 
 Until at last, it mocked the blast, 
 
 And the Sea owned their power. 
 
 XVII. 
 And now it stands, to bless all lands, 
 
 And with its beaming eye, 
 It watches for the mariner, 
 
 And warns him whence to fly. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And sometimes on a summer eve 
 The Sea looks up and smiles, 
 
 And on its bosom fondly lays 
 The Lighthouse of the Isles a 
 
140 POEMS. 
 
 XIX. 
 All free from fears, the sailor steers, 
 
 And dreads the rock no more, 
 The blessed light makes day of night, 
 The light of Skerryvore. 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE GREAT SHEPHERD. 
 
 Shepherd of the Host of Heaven ! 
 
 Who the glorious stars 
 Sendest through the morn and even, 
 
 Jupiter and ruddy Mars; 
 Sun and moon, and planet uttering 
 
 Speech to sun and star again : 
 Whilst the doomed earth is muttering 
 
 Wailings o'er the woes of men : 
 Listen to their peaceful bleating, 
 Praises of Thy name repeating. 
 
 Starry flock that climb the height 
 Of the zodiac and the sky, 
 
 Robed in brightness, fed on light : 
 By the ever-watchful Eye 
 
i^2 POEMS. 
 
 Ye are seen, and ye are tended 
 
 As ye sweep, 
 By your fleecy clouds defended, 
 
 Through the ether's deep : 
 And for every lamb-like moon 
 
 There is covert where to hide 
 From the sultry glare of noon 
 
 By the mother-planet's side. 
 
 Dark infernal wolf may never 
 Pluck you from the fold of God ; 
 
 His Almighty hand shall ever 
 
 Guide you with His staff and rod, 
 
 And teach you when you roam 
 
 Through the pastures of your boundless 
 home. 
 
 II. 
 Shepherd ! who, the sea dividing, 
 Didst Thine ancient people lead ; 
 
 /■ 
 
THE GREA T SHEPHERD. 143 
 
 By Thy glorious right arm guiding 
 
 Israel and thy chosen seed. 
 Thou wert ever in their sight 
 
 All the long and toilsome way : 
 Fiery pillar shone by night, 
 
 Cloudy pillar rose by day : 
 Till thou brought'st them by the hand 
 Of Moses to the Promised Land. 
 
 To wandering ways they were addicted, 
 
 But God forgave their strange behaviour ; 
 In all their ways He was afflicted, 
 
 And of Himself became their Saviour; 
 His heart with deep compassion teemed 
 
 To them, although their hearts were 
 cold ; 
 In love and pity He redeemed, 
 
 And bore them all the days of old, 
 And filled the nations with the fame 
 Of His everlasting Name. 
 
144 POEMS. 
 
 Teach, O Lord ! each blind adorer 
 
 Of Moses' law and priestly Aaron, 
 Who is Jacob's great Restorer, 
 
 The despised Rose of Sharon ; 
 May they see Messiah reigning, 
 
 Him of whom the prophets spoke, 
 And no longer Christ disdaining, 
 
 Bow beneath His heavy yoke : 
 Send them, as Thou didst of old, 
 To the only Shepherd, and the only fold. 
 
 III. 
 
 Shepherd ! who at God's great altar, 
 
 Wert the Lamb, and wert the Priest, 
 Who did not at suffering falter, 
 
 Till God's indignation ceased. 
 Thou wert not by Earth's things hired 
 
 From the wolf to take his prey, 
 By Thine own great love inspired 
 
 Thou didst give Thy life away : 
 
THE GREAT SHEPHERD. 145 
 
 Things more precious than of gold 
 Bought for us the heavenly fold. 
 
 Grant that guided by our Master 
 
 We may all go out and in, 
 And find green refreshing pasture, 
 
 Justified by faith from sin. 
 When the fearful valley, darkening 
 
 With the shadow of Death's wings, 
 Gapes for us, may we keep hearkening 
 
 To the cheering voice that rings 
 Through each dim and gloomy vaulting, 
 
 Saying, " Halt not in the race, 
 This must needs precede exalting ; 
 
 Let this thought each fear efface : 
 Not one billow shall go o'er thee, 
 I am on the way before thee." 
 
 Great Forerunner! Man of Sorrow ! 
 Priest and Prince upon Thy throne ! 
 L 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 May we, walking in the narrow 
 Way provided for Thine own, 
 
 By the Spirit's blessing granted, 
 Fear not man nor devil's hate, 
 
 But upheld and all undaunted, 
 Read on the eternal gate : 
 
 " Come within : nought can us sever, 
 
 Ye shall go out no more for ever." 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER PUTTING 
 
 OFF HIS ARMOUR AT THE 
 
 GATES OF HADES. 
 
 Eph. vi. 13 — 17. 
 A SONG OF THE NIGHT DURING SICKNESS, 
 
 Helmet of the hope of rest ! 
 
 Helmet of salvation ! 
 Nobly has thy towering crest 
 Pointed to this exaltation. 
 Yet I will not thee resume, 
 Helmet of the nodding plume ; 
 Where I go no foeman fighteth, 
 Sword or other weapon smiteth ; 
 All content, I lay thee down, 
 shall gird my brows with an immortal crown. 
 L 2 
 
148 POEMS. 
 
 Sword at my side ! Sword of the Spirit ! 
 
 Word of God ! Thou goodly blade ! 
 Often have I tried thy merit ; 
 
 Never hast thou me betrayed. 
 Yet I will no further use thee, 
 Here for ever I unloose thee ; 
 Branch of peaceful palm shall be 
 Sword sufficient now for me ; 
 " Fought the fight, the victory won," 
 Rest thou here, thy work is done. 
 
 Shield of faith ! my trembling heart 
 
 Well thy battered front has guarded ; 
 Many a fierce and fiery dart 
 
 From my bosom thou hast warded. 
 But I shall no longer need thee, 
 Never more will hold or heed thee. 
 Fare-the-well ! the foe's defeated, 
 Of his wished-for victim cheated : 
 In the realms of peace and light 
 Faith shall be exchanged for sight. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 149 
 
 Girdle of the truth of God ! 
 
 Breastplate of His righteousness ! 
 By the Lord Himself bestowed 
 
 On his faithful witnesses, 
 Never have I dared unclasp thee, 
 Lest the subtle foe should grasp me ; 
 Now I may at length unbind ye, 
 Leave you here at rest behind me ; 
 Nought shall harm my soul, equipped 
 In a robe in Christ's blood dipped. 
 
 Sandals of the preparation 
 
 Of the news of peace ! 
 There must now be separation, 
 
 Here your uses cease. 
 Gladly shall my naked feet 
 Go my blessed Lord to meet ; 
 I shall wander at His side 
 Where the living waters glide ; 
 And these feet shall need no guard 
 On the unbroken heavenly sward. 
 
150 POEMS. 
 
 Here I stand of all unclothed, 
 
 Waiting to be clothed upon 
 By the Church's great Betrothed, 
 
 By the everlasting One. 
 Hark ! He turns the admitting key, 
 Smiles in love and welcomes me ; 
 Glorious forms of angels bright 
 Clothe me in the raiment white ; 
 Whilst their sweet-toned voices say, 
 " For the rest, wait thou till the Judgment 
 
 Day." 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. 
 
 We make them a hidden quiet room 
 
 Far in the depth of our spirit's gloom, 
 
 There, oh there, do the loved abide, 
 
 Shadowy, silent, sanctified ! 
 
 Thither, oh thither, wrung with woe, 
 
 In yearning love we often go ! 
 
 We see their face in its living grace, 
 
 And the dear old look of its kindness trace, 
 
 We hear the words of their tender breath, 
 
 (Are they in life or we in death ?) 
 
 But the beauty bright they were wont to have, 
 
 Is damp and dim as with the grave, 
 
 And each form a funeral garment wears, 
 
 And our eye is blind with a mist of tears. 
 
152 POEMS. 
 
 There is piteous wail amid our meeting, 
 
 We sigh and sob our words of greeting, 
 
 We feel their arms around our heart, 
 
 In a fond and heavy twining, 
 And clinging so they may ne'er depart 
 From the gaze of our tearful pining ; 
 And so by night and through the day 
 Wailing and death are ours alway. — 
 
 And is it so ? is it God's decree, 
 That we can have only misery ? 
 We thank Thee, O Lord ! for the mercy 
 
 given, 
 In the hopes of the better life of heaven. 
 We praise and bless Thy lowly grace, 
 Our dead are alive in a pleasant place ; 
 That while our hearts are sore with weeping 
 They are safe in Thy kindly keeping, 
 That Thou hast told us how blest they be 
 In the fold of Thy great felicity. 
 
THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. 153 
 
 Do we weep for them ? Do our spirits mourn 
 They shall ne'er to our eye, to our arms return ? 
 It is they who live, those souls alone, 
 Holy and happy around the Throne, 
 It is they should lament for us that are 
 From the Eternal Life so far ; 
 With souls of sin and a feeble breath, 
 It is we, it is we who pine in death. 
 
 Let us then no more muse sadly back, 
 To the ancient times of our earthly track, 
 As if death like a deep and dreary river 
 Had drowned the joy from our hearts for ever ; 
 Let our souls reflect — and if eyes are wet, 
 Be it not the tear of a vain regret — 
 On the blissful words which the Scripture saith 
 Of the excellent joys that crown the head 
 Of every one of the Faithful Dead ! 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
"THERE SHALL BE NO NIGHT THERE." 
 
 Revelation, xxi. 25.' 
 
 No Night ! when Toil's demands, 
 Finished or not, must cease, 
 
 And Labours iron hands 
 Be folded up in peace. 
 
 No Night ! no night at land, 
 
 No starless night at sea, 
 When help is none at hand, 
 
 To windward, or to lea. 
 
 No Night ! of rain and cold, 
 
 Of hunger and of thirst, 
 Of woes and pangs untold, 
 
 By want and famine nursed. 
 
THERE SHALL BE NO NLGHT THERE. 155 
 
 No Night ! no life all night 
 
 By blindness suffered here, 
 With eyes bereft of sight, 
 
 And steps beset with fear. 
 
 No Night ! no waking night ; 
 
 When slumbers flee away, 
 And watchers long for light, 
 
 And wait the wished-for day. 
 
 No Night ! when moments know 
 
 An age's weary span ; 
 As if the sun would show 
 
 His face no more to man. 
 
 No Night ! when pain to bear 
 Through daylight heart we keep, 
 
 Till Darkness from his lair 
 Rises and murders sleep. 
 
156 POEMS, 
 
 No Night ! when fearful dreams 
 The troubled soul oppress, 
 
 Till waking anguish seems 
 By far the less distress. 
 
 No Night ! when memory's cells 
 Open with all their woes ; 
 
 And vain are subtlest spells, 
 Their open doors to close. 
 
 No Night ! when pale Remorse 
 
 Beckons to grim Despair, 
 And vengeful noises hoarse 
 
 Accusing fill the air. 
 
 No Night ! no earthly night, 
 
 All shadows done away, 
 The Lamb Himself the light, 
 
 And an eternal day ! 
 
 G. W. 
 
ON SOME BEAUTIFUL LITTLE SHELLS 
 ARRANGED IN GROUPS. 
 
 Ye pearly shells, 
 
 That from the deep sea wells, 
 
 Where brooding darkness ever dwells, 
 
 Have risen to the light of day, 
 Who fear no more 
 
 The breakers dashing on the angry shore, 
 Or the first tempest's fiercest roar 
 
 Or the wild wintry spray, 
 
 To me ye seem, 
 Whilst thus a Sabbath ye for ever keep, 
 Like infants, whose soft-breathing sleep 
 
 Is only broken by some pleasing dream, 
 
158 POEMS, 
 
 In which a bending angel sips 
 A kiss from those small smiling lips, 
 And leaves behind an added grace 
 To rest upon the fair young face. 
 Or rather are ye like a band 
 Of saints in the immortal land, 
 Who through deep waters long had passed 
 On whom dark waves their wrath had cast, 
 Who in the whirlpools of despair, 
 Had bidden farewell to God's bright air, 
 And yet are safe in heaven at last. 
 Ye fair bright things ! 
 
 It seems to me 
 That ye must listen 
 To the far-off sea, 
 Then wake a moment, and with keen* 
 
 zest 
 Sink back again to graceful rest ; 
 Like sailors sleeping on the shore. 
 Who sleep the sounder 
 
ON SOME BEAUTIFUL LITTLE SHELLS. 159 
 
 Because at times awaking, 
 
 They catch the rolling of the distant 
 thunder, 
 And the hoarse billows on the high cliff 
 breaking, 
 And hear them say, above their sullen roar, 
 " Sleep on, ye are at sea no more." 
 
 Rest is more restful that we ran before ; 
 Sleep is more sleepful for long tortures 
 
 sore ; 
 Night can make brighter even the brightest 
 
 light : 
 Blindness makes clearer even the clearest 
 
 sight ; 
 Peace is more peaceful after bitter strife ; 
 And death the only gate of endless life. 
 
 May she whose graceful hand 
 Hath given you bright repose, 
 
160 POEMS. 
 
 In God's good time be joined to those 
 Who from all change are free, 
 And rest all safe within that land 
 
 Which never can be vexed by storms, 
 Because it hath no sea ! 
 
 G. W. 
 
ATHANASIUS CONTRA MUNDUM. 
 
 O ATHANASIUS ! thy too subtle creed 
 
 Makes my heart tremble when I hear it read, 
 
 And my flesh quivers when the priest proclaims 
 God's doom on every unbeliever's head. 
 
 Yet I do honour thee for those brave words 
 Against the heretic so boldly hurled, 
 
 " Though no one else believe, I'll hold my faith, 
 I, Athanasius, against the world." 
 
 It was not well to judge thy fellow men, 
 Thou wert a simple mortal like us ail ; 
 Vengeance is God's ; none but Himself doth 
 know 
 On whom the terrors of His wrath will fall. 
 M 
 
1 62 POEMS. 
 
 But it was well, believing as thou didst, 
 Like standard-bearer with thy flag unfurled, 
 
 To blazon on thy banner those brave words, 
 " I, Athanasius, against the world." 
 
 Thy faith is mine ; but that is not my theme ; 
 
 'Tis thine example I would preach to all ; 
 Whatever each believes, and counts for true, 
 
 Of things in heaven or earth, or great or 
 small, — 
 
 If he believe it, let him stand and say, 
 
 Although in scorn a thousand lips are curled ; 
 
 " Though no one else believe, I'll hold my faith, 
 Like Athanasius, against the world." 
 
 G. W. 
 
ANGELS. 
 
 DROOP not thus, O feeble saint, 
 Lift thy head, and be of cheer, 
 
 Thou of spirit sad and faint, 
 
 Calm thy sighing, stop thy tear ; 
 
 Blessed angels, round abiding, 
 
 Give thee light, and love, and guiding. 
 
 Glorious from the bliss above, 
 
 Oh, those legions armed and strong ! 
 
 Stout in valour, great in love, 
 
 They shall keep thy soul from wrong : 
 
 Them thy God and theirs hath given, 
 
 To protect thee into heaven. 
 M 2 
 
1 64 POEMS. 
 
 They, too, once were tried and proved, 
 Thus they sorrow in thy grief, 
 
 Now in power and grace unmoved, 
 They shall bring thee blest relief; 
 
 Shield thy soul from foes infernal, 
 
 Till thou reach the life eternal. 
 
 'Mid thy goings by the light, 
 They are with thee by the way ; 
 
 O'er thy slumbers through the night 
 Still they stoop in whive array ; 
 
 With a watch and ward unsleeping, 
 
 All the Lord's beloved keeping. 
 
 When the floods are loud and high, 
 And thy soul is like to drown, 
 
 Hark ! they say, " Thou shalt not die ! " 
 Lo ! they point thee to the crown, 
 
 Then in this thy tribulation 
 
 Work for thee a great salvation. 
 
ANGELS. 165 
 
 When the time of death is near, 
 Angels shall be round thy head, 
 
 Stay thy soul amid its fear, 
 Give thee songs upon thy bed ; 
 
 Thou shalt hear their tones of blessing, 
 
 Feel their arms of kind caressing. 
 
 When thou comest from thy clay, 
 They shall soothe thy trembling eye, 
 
 Teach thy foot the heavenward way, 
 Help thy wing unto the sky, 
 
 Bring thee to the blissful vision, 
 
 Perfect praise and full fruition. 
 
 Through the unceasing years above, 
 Thou shalt with the angels be, 
 
 'Mid the glory and the love, 
 Join immortal jubilee ; 
 
 With them loving, with them gazing, 
 
 Mingle tones of endless praising. 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S THREE BURDENS. 
 
 2 Cor. v. 4 ; Matt. x. 38 ; 2 Cor. iv. 17. 
 
 Burdens three to bear have we ; 
 
 Two in time, 
 And the third when we shall climb 
 
 Upwards to eternity. 
 
 First there is that load of sin, 
 
 Which the cross has taken away ; 
 
 But which we at once begin 
 On our arms again to lay. 
 
 Holy Spirit ! leave us not, 
 Though we have Thee sore offended, 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S THREE BURDENS. 167 
 
 We had never hated sin, 
 
 Hadst Thou not on us descended ; 
 Through Thee we began, 
 Through Thee may our course be ended. 
 
 God ! Thou mightst in justice say 
 That Thou wilt in wrath forget us ; 
 
 Cast us not, O Lord ! away, 
 
 Thou that didst in Christ beget us ; 
 
 Daily do we weep and pray 
 O'er the sins that sore beset us. 
 
 May we as we onward go, 
 Feel their weary burden grow 
 Each day smaller, each day lighter, 
 As the dawn grows bright and brighter, 
 And on each dark hill and hollow, 
 Clearer footprints bid us follow — 
 Him whose bleeding feet have trod 
 
i6S POEMS, 
 
 Such a wondrous path to God, 
 That the lowliest strange wayfarer, 
 If in His great love a sharer, 
 Though he be a fool and blind, 
 Will not fail that path to find. 
 
 II. 
 
 Blessed art thou ! second burden ; 
 
 Cross of sorrow ! load of woe ! 
 Steadier walks he with thee laden, 
 
 Though perhaps he walketh slow. 
 
 We will not on bosom ivcar thee, 
 As a symbol pain expressing, 
 
 But will lift thee up and bear thee, 
 On our shoulder heavy pressing 
 
 With thy sharp edge ; sore distressing 
 
 Flinching flesh, and heart oppressing. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S THREE BURDENS. 169 
 
 Steep the hill is : none would dare it. 
 Great the load is : none would bear it, 
 Were it not that He doth share it, 
 Who once bore a cross all weighted, 
 With each hateful thing and hated ; 
 With the sins of all men freighted. 
 Unto us He seems to say : 
 " Dark the road is, long the way, 
 
 And thou knowest not the length, 
 But forget not, as thy day 
 
 So shall be thy strength." 
 
 Is there aught more by us needed ? 
 
 Is there anything deficient ? 
 Christ's own strength in us made perfect, 
 
 And His grace for us sufficient 
 
 III. 
 Load of sin ! the Jordan river, 
 Shall from us thy burden sever ; 
 
170 POEMS. 
 
 Cross of sorrow ! thou shalt break, 
 When our heavenward flight we take. 
 
 Guided by our Saviour's leading 
 Through the happy gate ; 
 
 Lo ! of glory " an exceeding 
 And eternal weight," 
 
 Shall on us from God descending, 
 
 Be the sign of joy unending. 
 
 None shall faint beneath that load ; 
 
 None shall wish it taken away : 
 Each shall joy that it grows heavier 
 
 Through the eternal, nightless day. 
 
 As an infant hushed to rest, 
 By its soft and gentle pressure 
 
 On its mothers loving breast, 
 
 Gives to her the greatest pleasure, 
 
 Telling her each hour how she 
 
 Is blessed in her maternity. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S THREE BURDENS. 171 
 
 So the saints weighed down with glory 
 
 In the happy land, 
 Shall the more erect and firmly 
 
 Round the throne of glory stand. 
 It shall be a weight assuring 
 Them alike of joy that is, 
 Of the deepest present bliss, 
 And of bliss through all enduring. 
 
 " Light afflictions " once thought heavy 
 
 In the darkened earthly state, 
 Shall not then seem worth the heeding, 
 Overwhelmed by the exceeding 
 
 And eternal glorious weight, 
 Which shall sink them out of sight, 
 
 Out of memory, out of thought ; 
 So that none shall know to find them 
 
 Wheresoe'r they may be sought. 
 
 Even so ! resigned and still, 
 Let us lowly wait ; 
 
172 POEMS. 
 
 Come to all our Saviour will, 
 
 Come He quickly, come He late ; 
 
 And exchange their weary burdens, 
 For the eternal glorious weight. 
 
 G. W. 
 
LINES ON DR. JOHN REID.* 
 
 Death has at length released thee, 
 Thou brave and patient one ! 
 
 The unutterable pangs are past, 
 And all thy work is done. 
 
 Thou wert a Daily Lesson 
 
 Of Courage, Hope, and Faith ; 
 
 We wondered at thee living, 
 And envy thee thy death. 
 
 Thou hast gone up to Heaven 
 
 All glad and painless now, 
 The long-worn look of anguish 
 
 Has left thy noble brow. 
 
 * Late Chandos Professor of Medicine in the University of 
 St. Andrews. 
 
174 POEMS. 
 
 Thou wert so meek and reverent, 
 
 So resolute of will, 
 So bold to bear the uttermost, 
 
 And yet so calm and still, — 
 
 We think of thee with sorrow, 
 
 Thy sad untimely end ; 
 We speak of thee with pity, 
 
 Our sore-tried suffering friend. 
 
 We cheat ourselves with idle words, 
 We are the poor ones here ; 
 
 Sorrow and Sin and Suffering still 
 Surround our steps with fear 
 
 Our life is yet before us, — 
 
 The bitter cup of woe, 
 How deep it is, which each must drink, 
 
 No one of us doth know. 
 
LINES ON DR. JOHN RE ID. 175 
 
 The Shadow of the Valley, 
 
 Whose gateway is the tomb, 
 Spreads backwards over all of us 
 
 Its curtain cloud of gloom. 
 
 Some stand but at the inlet, 
 And some have passed within, 
 
 O'er all the shadow hourly creeps, 
 And we move further in. 
 
 Thou art beyond the shadow ; 
 
 Why should we weep for thee ? 
 That thou from Care, and Pain, and Death, 
 
 Art set for ever free. 
 
 Well may we cease to sorrow ; 
 
 Or, if we weep at all, 
 Not for thy fate, but for our own, 
 
 Our bitter tears should fall. 
 
176 POEMS. 
 
 'Twere better still to follow on 
 The path that thou hast trod, 
 
 The path thy Saviour trod before, 
 That led thee up to God. 
 
 G. W. 
 
LINES ON PROFESSOR EDWARD FORBES. 
 
 Edward Forbes was born in the Isle of Man in February, 
 1 815, and died near Edinburgh on the iSth of 'November ; 1854, 
 in his 4.0th year, six months after his appointment to the Regius 
 Chair of Natural History in the University of that city. His 
 great and varied gifts and accomplishments, his remarkable 
 discoveries, a:id his singularly lovable, generous, and catholic 
 spirit, vtade him an object of esteem and affection to a very 
 wide circle of friends, and a still wider circle of acquaintances. 
 All were exulting in the prospect of the long and honourable 
 career which awaited him, when, in the height of his glory and 
 usefulness, he was suddenly stricken by a fatal disease, and died 
 after a brief illness . 
 
 The following lines seek to apply, mutatis mutandis, to the 
 mystery of the great Naturalises death, certain canons which 
 he enforced in reference to the existence of living things, both 
 plants and animals. Their purport was, to teach that an 
 individual plant or animal cannot be understood, so far as the 
 full significance of its life and death is concerned, by a study 
 merely of itself; but that it requires to be considered in con- 
 nexion with the variations in form, structure, character, and 
 deportment, exhibited by the contemporary members of its species 
 
 N 
 
178 POEMS. 
 
 spread to a greater or less extent over the entire globe, and by 
 the ancestors of itself a?zd of those contemporary individuals 
 throughout the whole period which has elapsed since the species 
 was created. 
 
 He further held, that the many animal and vegetable tribes 
 or races (species) which once flourished, but have now totally 
 perished, did not die because a "germ of death " had from the 
 first been present in each, but suffered extinction in conseque7ice 
 of the great geologic changes which the earth had 'undergone, 
 such as have changed tropical into arctic climates, land into sea, 
 and sea into land, rendering their existence impossible. Each 
 species, itself an aggregate of mortal individuals, came thus from 
 the hands of God, inherently immortal ; and when he saw fit to 
 remove it, it was slain through the intervention of such changes, 
 and replaced by another. The lo?igevity, accordingly, of the 
 existing races can, according to his view, be determined (in so 
 far as it admits of human determination at all) only by a study 
 of the physical alterations which await the globe ; and every 
 organism has thus, through its connexion with the brethren of 
 its species, a retrospective and prospective history, which must 
 be studied by the naturalist who seeks fully to account even for 
 its present condition and fate. 
 
 Those canons were applied by Edward Forbes to the humbler 
 creatures ; he was unfailing in urging that the destinies of man 
 are guided by other laws, having reference to his possession 
 individually of an immaterial and immortal spirit. 
 
 The following lines, embodying these ideas, contemplate his 
 death, solely as it was a loss to his fellow-worhers left behind 
 him : their aim is to whisper patience, not to enforce consolation \ 
 
ON PROFESSOR EDWARD FORBES. 179 
 
 THOU Child of Genius ! None who saw 
 
 The beauty of thy kindly face, 
 Or watched those wondrous fingers draw 
 Unending forms of life and grace, 
 Or heard thine earnest utterance trace 
 The links of some majestic law, 
 But felt that thou by God wert sent 
 Amongst us for our betterment. 
 
 And yet He called thee in thy prime, 
 
 Summoned thee in the very hour 
 When unto us it seemed that Time 
 Had ripened every manly pow T er : 
 And thou, who hadst through sun and 
 shower, 
 On many a shore, in many a clime, 
 Gathered from ocean, earth, and sky, 
 Their hidden truths, wert called to die. 
 
 N 2 
 
i b POEMS. 
 
 We went about in blank dismay, 
 
 We murmured at God's sovereign will ; 
 We asked why thou wert taken away, 
 Whose place no one of us could fill : 
 Our throbbing hearts would not be still ; 
 Our bitter tears we could not stay : 
 We asked, but could no answer find ; 
 And strove in vain to be resigned. 
 
 When lo ! from out the Silent Land, 
 Our faithless murmurs to rebuke, 
 In answer to our vain demand 
 
 Thy solemn Spirit seemed to look ; 
 And pointing to a shining book, 
 That opened in thy shadowy hand, 
 Bade us regard those words, which light 
 Not of this world, made clear and bright : — 
 
 " If, as on earth I learned full well, 
 Thou canst not tell the reason why 
 
ON PROFESSOR EDWARD FORBES. 
 
 The lowliest moss or smallest shell 
 Is called to live, or called to die, 
 Till thou with searching, patient eye, 
 Through ages more than man can tell, 
 Hast traced its history back in Time, 
 And over Space, from clime to clime ; 
 
 " If all the shells the tempests send, 
 
 As I have ever loved to teach : 
 And all the creeping things that wend 
 Their way along the sandy beach, 
 Have pedigrees that backward reach 
 Till in forgotten Time they end ; 
 And may as tribes for ages more, 
 As if immortal strew the shore ; 
 
 " If all its Present, all its Past, 
 And all its Future thou canst see, 
 
 Must be deciphered, ere at last 
 
 Thou, even in part, canst hope to be 
 
1 82 POEMS. 
 
 Able to solve the mystery- 
 Why one sea-worm to death hath passed : 
 How must it be, when God doth call, 
 Him whom He placed above them all ? " 
 
 Ah, yes ! we must in patience wait, 
 
 Thou dearly loved, departed friend ! 
 Till we have followed through the gate, 
 Where Life in Time doth end ; 
 And Present, Past, and Future lend 
 Their light to solve thy fate ; 
 When all the ages that shall be, 
 Have flowed into the Timeless Sea. 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 
 
 HIGH and glorious is the station, 
 Christian soul, on thee bestowed, 
 
 Champion of the great salvation, 
 Soldier of the Eternal God — 
 
 Fronting, on this earth of ours, 
 
 Principalities and powers. 
 
 Trustful in thy great alliance, 
 
 Take thy helmet, sword, and shield- 
 Fill thy soul with stout defiance, 
 Go, approve thee in the field ; 
 Summon all thy bravest might, 
 Play the man amid the fight. 
 
8 4 POEMS. 
 
 He who sitteth in the Heaven 
 
 On thy combat's course doth look, 
 
 Howthou'st fought, and bled, and striven, 
 Writes a record in His book ; 
 
 Show thyself by deeds of fame 
 
 Worthy warrior for His name. 
 
 Through thy time of much endurance 
 Thou mayst hold a fearless front, 
 
 Since thy spirit hath assurance 
 God is with thee in the brunt ; 
 
 Helpful angels, standing near, 
 
 Nerve thine arm and quell thy fear. 
 
 Fierce though be thy tribulation, 
 Thou shalt tread upon the foe ; 
 
 Christ doth make His chosen nation 
 Conquering and to conquer go : 
 
 With that Captain of renown, 
 
 Thou shalt surely win the crown. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 185 
 
 Though thy foes make fierce assailing, 
 Keep thou calm and faithful breast ; 
 
 Though thy heart and flesh are failing, 
 Yet thou must not dream of rest : 
 
 God shall bring thine hour of peace — 
 
 He shall give thee swift release. 
 
 Lo ! the pearly gates of brightness, 
 They are open — they are near ! 
 
 Thou mayst catch the robes of whiteness — 
 Mayst the song of glory hear ! 
 
 Go, thou victor of the Lord, 
 
 To the exceeding great reward ! 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
CAMERA OBSCURA. 
 
 SILENT, dimly-lighted chamber 
 Where the sick man lies, 
 
 Death and Life are keenly fighting 
 For the doubtful prize, 
 
 While strange visions pass before 
 His unslumbering eyes. 
 
 Few of free will cross thy threshold ; 
 
 No one longs to linger there ; 
 Gloomy are thy walls and portal ; 
 
 Dreariness is in the air ; 
 Pain is holding there high revel, 
 
 Waited on by Fear and Care, 
 
CAMERA OBSCURA. 187 
 
 Yet, thou dimly-lighted chamber, 
 
 From thy depths, I ween 
 Things on earth, and things in heaven, 
 
 Better far are seen 
 Than in brightest broad daylight 
 
 They have often been. 
 
 Thou art like a mine deep sunken 
 Far beneath the earth and sky, 
 
 From the shaft of which, upgazing, 
 Weary workers can descry, 
 
 E'en when those on earth see nothing, 
 Great stars shining bright on high. 
 
 So within thy dark recesses, 
 Clothed in his robes of white, 
 
 To the sufferer Christ appeareth 
 In a new and blessed light, 
 
 Which the glare of day outshining 
 Hid from his unshaded sight, 
 
1 88 POEMS. 
 
 Silent, dimly-lighted chamber, 
 
 Like the living eye, 
 If thou wert not dark, no vision 
 
 Could be had of things on high ; 
 By the untempered daylight blinded, 
 
 With closed eyelids we should lie. 
 
 Oh my God ! light up each chamber 
 
 Where a sufferer lies, 
 By Thine own eternal glory, 
 
 Tempered for those tearful eyes, 
 As it comes from Him reflected 
 
 Who was once the sacrifice. 
 
 G. W. 
 
A HYMN FOR THE SICK-ROOM. 
 
 Sufferer ! lift thy weary eye, 
 Help is with thee, Christ is nigh ; 
 God regards thee from on high. 
 
 All thy groans go up as prayers, 
 Through the Spirit's interceding ; 
 
 Each unworded murmur wears 
 
 At God's throne, the air of pleading : 
 
 And in all thy woes He shares, 
 
 Who was once the Victim bleeding. 
 
 Though He is, and was, all sinless, 
 He remembers. mortal pain ; 
 
 Holy though He is, and stainless, 
 On His form the scars remain, 
 
190 POEMS. 
 
 And He looketh now, though painless, 
 Like a Lamb that hath been slain. 
 
 He is not a great High Priest 
 
 In all sympathy deficient ; 
 From all human things released, 
 
 For Himself in all sufficient, 
 To be man He hath not ceased, 
 
 Though He is, as God, omniscient. 
 
 All thy bed, in all thy sickness, 
 
 He will make with His kind hands ; 
 
 All thy fainting, fears, and weakness, 
 Anxious thoughts, and fond demands, 
 
 All thy patience, faith, and meekness, 
 Reach Him where on high He stands. 
 
 Faint not, then ! God ever listeneth, 
 Answereth ere the cry is sent ; 
 
A HYMN FOR THE SICK-ROOM. 191 
 
 Whom He loveth, those He chasteneth, 
 
 Taketh what He only lent ; 
 For Himself our ripening hasteneth 
 
 By His sorest punishment. 
 
 Need of patience have we all : 
 Only through much tribulation 
 
 Shall the holiest God doth call 
 
 Pass through their ordained probation, 
 
 And no longer dread to fall, 
 Certain of their soul's salvation. 
 
 G. W. 
 
LINES TO A YOUNG LADY NAMED MARY. 
 
 John xi. 28. — Luke x. 41, 42. 
 I. 
 
 MARY ! as thou hast the name, 
 Mayst thou have the temper holy 
 
 Of that kind and gentle Mary, 
 Who in spirit meek and lowly, 
 
 Knew no more delightful seat, 
 
 Than she found at Jesus' feet. 
 
 Costly oil with spices sweet, 
 Poured she on those blessed feet, 
 Knowing not 'twas preparation 
 For their cruel laceration 
 By each bloody nail : 
 
LINES TO A YOUNG LADY. 193 
 
 Thinking not of separation, 
 Looking not for desolation, 
 Calvary's cross and lamentation. 
 And the mocking Jews' u All Hail I" 
 
 Thou canst not, like her, be honoured 
 Thus upon the Lord to wait, 
 
 Clothed in awful majesty, 
 
 Now he sits, a Kino; in state ; 
 He has died, and lives and reigns 
 High exalted, over death and all its pains. 
 
 But if thou wilt listen calmly, 
 
 Thou mayst hear a sweet voice saying, 
 " Mary, rise, the Master calleth, 
 
 Wondering at thv long delaying :" 
 
 Wilt not thou, with willing feet, 
 Run thy loving Lord to meet ? 
 
 
i 9 4 I OEMS. 
 
 Pray to God, and He will guide thee, 
 Let no evil thing betide thee, 
 Soothe thy sorrow, say, " Be cheerful, 
 Be not anxious ; be not fearful, 
 
 Troubled about many things." 
 E'en where all was desolation, 
 Grief and deepest tribulation, 
 Sweetest peace and consolation 
 
 His good Spirit brings. 
 
 Be not of this world's joys heedful ; 
 There is but one good thing needful — 
 
 Pray and watch, and watch and pray, 
 Pray by night, and pray by day, 
 Pray for a believing heart, 
 
 Till the Holy Spirit say, 
 " Mary hath chosen that good part, 
 
 Which shall not be taken away." 
 
LINES TO A YOUNG LADY, 195 
 
 II. 
 
 TO MARY WEEPING. 
 WHEN within the sacred garden, 
 
 Where the Lord of Life had lain, 
 Mary, weeping at the tomb, 
 
 Sought her risen Lord in vain ; 
 Though He stood Himself before her, 
 
 Dark her eyes were, dim with tears, 
 And she did not know the object 
 
 Of her deepest hopes and fears. 
 But when once that kind word, " Mary," 
 
 Fell upon her startled ears, 
 Sorrow was exchanged for gladness, 
 
 And she wiped away her tears. 
 
 So in all thy times of sorrow 
 Listen, and His lips will say, 
 
 " Mary ! Am I not sufficient ? 
 I will wipe thy tears away." 
 
 G. W. 
 
 O 2 
 
THERE SHALL BE NO NIGHT THERE." 
 
 Rev. xxi. 25. 
 
 In sweetest time of summer prime, 
 
 How swift the hours decay ! 
 With what a fast and ruthless march 
 
 Gloom tramples o'er the day ! 
 Puts out the light in heaven's height, 
 
 Mantles the gleaming sea, 
 Stoppeth the life that was so rife, 
 
 Makes dumb the voice of glee! 
 
 Come, oh my soul ! and wing thy way 
 
 Up from these dying days, 
 In glad surprise, with loving eyes 
 
 On a better land to gaze ; 
 
" THERE SHALL BE NO NIGHT THERE:' 197 
 
 No dreary shroud of nightly cloud 
 Spoils sweet and shining noon ; 
 
 Needeth no sun that sky to run, 
 No pale and changeful moon. 
 
 Jehovah God in midst thereof 
 
 Sits on the throne for aye, 
 Pouring through the unbounded place 
 
 Incessant streams of day. 
 The blissful throng of saintly souls 
 
 Walk in that radiance fine, 
 It spreads a glory o'er their brow, 
 
 Makes all their raiments shine. 
 
 Oh earthly mind ! oh lips of clay ! 
 
 Oh heart so cold and slow ! 
 Ye cannot reach such thought or speech 
 
 As can their glory show. 
 No weariness doth clog the limb, 
 
 No eyelid weighs with sleep, 
 
198 POEMS. 
 
 Singing and serving in God's house, 
 They happy vigil keep. 
 
 No pleasures past with yesterday ; 
 
 For morrow's morn no fears : 
 But one long drawn beatitude, 
 
 Unchanging through the years. 
 
 Because their souls all naked are, 
 
 Amid the unveiled light, 
 Most pure are they from earth's decay, 
 
 Shining all clear and white ; 
 They stand amid the eternal Love, 
 
 Most sweet their portion is ! 
 Forth from God's face cometh such grace, 
 
 Making their joys like His. 
 
 No clouds, no twilight any more 
 Bring gloom around their ways, 
 
 They live in light, they walk by sight, 
 On the very Lord they gaze ; 
 
" THERE SHALL BE NO NLGHT THERE:" 199 
 
 They once had care, had toil and prayer, 
 Lo ! now they rest — they praise. 
 
 Amid this dim and dreary scene, 
 
 Our spirits pant and pray 
 Unto that band — unto that land — 
 
 Unto that ceaseless day. 
 
 Through vale of tears, 'mid night of fears, 
 Our footsteps long have gone; 
 
 Because of weeping much and sore 
 Our hearts are sick and wan : — 
 
 Oh Light ! Oh holy Day of God, 
 Make haste, make haste to dawn ! 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
CHRISTMAS WISHES, 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK OF CHRISTMAS 
 CAROLS, BELONGING TO A LADY WHO WAS CALLED 
 BY SOME OF HER FRIENDS "THE QUEEN," IN ALLU- 
 SION TO HER GRACEFULNESS. 
 
 May all fond blessings of the Christmas time, 
 
 And merry wishes of the gay New Year, 
 Each kindly thought that can find place in 
 rhyme, 
 
 Be as a prayer for good about thee here : 
 And, best of all," may He, the King, 
 
 Who unto us a child was born, 
 Of whose birth-time these carols sing, 
 
 Be with thee at the early morn ; 
 Be with thee through the night and day, 
 
 Where'er thy footsteps bend ; 
 
CHRISTMAS WISHES. 201 
 
 Bless thee and be with thee " alway 
 
 Even unto the end ;" 
 Till, when the lapse of far-off years 
 
 Hath brought life to a peaceful even, 
 These words shall fall on willing ears, 
 " They wait for thee in heaven." 
 And if perhaps there be, 
 
 As some there are, I ween, 
 Who wonder when they hear 
 Thee called "a Queen ;" 
 They will not wonder when they see thee stand 
 Close to the pierced Side and pierced Hand, 
 Among the foremost in the Royal Land 
 Where Death hath lost his sting, 
 
 And sin has ceased, 
 And each is crowned king, 
 Or queen, or priest. 
 
 The robes with which our queens are graced, 
 The dust doth mar, and moth doth waste, 
 
202 POEMS. 
 
 But on thy robes Decay's dull finger 
 Shall not, for even a moment, linger; 
 The crowns which mortal princes wear, 
 Are fading crowns, and crowns of care, 
 But thou shalt bind upon thy forehead 
 An all -unfading circlet borrowed 
 From His who is the King of kings ; 
 And as the rolling centuries pass 
 
 On silent, soundless, silken wings ; 
 When Time hath broken scythe and glass, 
 
 And change of season never brings, 
 Or gay New Year, or Christmas chime ; 
 Thou shalt, in that immortal clime, 
 See day by day thy crown grow brighter, 
 And day by day thy robes grow whiter, 
 Thyself grow old, and yet grow younger, 
 
 As thou dost reign 
 In the land that knows no hunger, 
 
 No thirst, nor any pain. 
 
 G. W. 
 
TO A FLY ENCLOSED IN AMBER.* 
 
 "A fly entombed in amber is more nobly sepulchred than any 
 Egyptian monarch ever was." 
 
 Bacon, Advancement of Learning. 
 
 BURIED within so rich a tomb, 
 
 Thy sepulchre is such a thing 
 Of glorious brightness, that the gloom 
 
 Which thoughts sepulchral always fling- 
 Like cypress shadows, o'er the scene 
 Where the destroying hand hath been — 
 
 Are all forgotten when we gaze 
 On thee enshrined in such a gem, 
 
 Whose golden edges tinge the rays 
 Of sunlight, as it shines through them, 
 
 With tints- that have a redder dye 
 
 Than ever decks the evening sky. 
 
 * These lines, and those immediately following, were written 
 in early youth. 
 
204 POEMS. 
 
 As the dwarf tiger casts a wistful gaze, 
 
 And fain would dip her whiskered head 
 within, 
 
 Where golden fishes, gliding in a vase, 
 
 Flash on her greedy eye each glistening fin ; 
 
 But the sphered crystal, and the icy wave 
 
 Are potent from her claws the tiny fish to save ; 
 
 As the huge iceberg of the polar seas 
 
 Engulfs the mountain of a mammoth's 
 bones, 
 And binds together, as the waters freeze, 
 
 A rudely mingled mass of tusks and stones, 
 Till hungry bears that prowl about their prey 
 Can only hope that summer's sun will melt 
 the ice away; 
 
 So the grim spider, with his greedy eyes, 
 Shall gloat and peer, and think the form 
 within — 
 
TO A FLY ENCLOSED LN AMBER. 205 
 
 Thy lifeless form — a living, breathing prize, 
 Which wiles and thickly woven net may 
 win : 
 But thy dead stillness and unmoving feet 
 Match his tried cunning with unwilled deceit. 
 
 Immortal insect ! thou hast such a shrine — 
 So gay, so beautiful, and bright a cell — 
 
 That I could part with this w r arm life of mine, 
 If it were given in death to dwell 
 
 Embalmed in brightness — buried in the blaze 
 
 Of such a lustrous gem, as that on which I 
 
 gaze ! 
 
 G. W. 
 
MERMAIDS' TEARS. 
 
 PEARLS are the tears that Mermaids weep, 
 When they their midnight vigils keep ; 
 For Mermaids sigh, and sorrow too, 
 And weep, as well as I or you. 
 
 Perhaps you've thought, perhaps believed, 
 That Mermaids, when their hearts were grieved, 
 Wept briny tears ; 'tis even true : 
 'Tis they with salt the waves imbue. 
 
 But tears more precious must be shed 
 When those whom they have loved are dead — 
 The Mermen of the deep, whose charms 
 Have wiled the Mermaids to their arms. 
 
MERMAIDS' TEARS, 207 
 
 And Nereids catch them in their shells, 
 And hide them where the sea-fish dwells, 
 Till years revolving tint them o'er 
 With hues they did not know before. 
 
 Then from the depths of eastern seas, 
 Where dive the swarthy Ceylonese, 
 The tiny shell-fish from the rude rock torn, 
 Through waves unwelcome to the light is 
 borne. 
 
 The unconcious casket of a gem 
 
 Dies to adorn a diadem ; 
 
 And tears that trembled in a Mermaid's eyes 
 
 Become an English lady's prize. 
 
 G. W. 
 
THE DEWDROP. 
 
 The thoughtful soul doth in the dewdrop read 
 
 The image of a high and holy thing. 
 
 Shrined within the bright recess 
 
 Of some young flower's loveliness, 
 
 It doth live in quiet delight 
 
 Through the stillness of the night, 
 
 Gazing aye into the sky 
 
 With a calm and earnest eye, 
 
 Prisoning, in quivering rest. 
 
 One bright gleam upon its breast 
 
 Of the radiance that is sent 
 
 From the starlit firmament. 
 
 But when morning's gladsome birth 
 Pours its glory on the earth, 
 
THE DEWDROP. 209 
 
 Then, amid the glare and splendour 
 Which the mounting sun doth render, 
 It is caught from earth away 
 To the blaze of cloudless day. 
 And though grieves the flower it left, 
 Of the thing it loved bereft, 
 With its chalice faintly stooping, 
 As in voiceless sorrow drooping, 
 Yet from each awaking bird 
 Blithesome notes of song are heard ; 
 And the lark, to whom 'tis given 
 Most to know of that bright heaven, 
 Pours his paean, sweetly wild, 
 Like an embodied song, exiled 
 From the place where seraphs' lyres 
 Swell the notes of hymning choirs. 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
TO A POLYANTHUS 
 
 WHICH GREW IN MY MOTHER'S WINDOW. 
 
 How the rich cups of that so lovely flower 
 Lift to the heavens their purple velvet 
 leaves ! 
 That every petal, freshened by the shower 
 Which falls in dewdrops from the slanting 
 eaves, 
 May feel the warm sap through its vessels run, 
 In glad obedience to the glowing sun. 
 
 Each fragrant chalice breathes upon the air 
 A scent more sweet than censer ever flung 
 
 In clouds of incense, blinding all the glare 
 Of garish candles, when the mass was sung : 
 
TO A POLYANTHUS. 211 
 
 cf The long-drawn aisle " and the cathedraPs 
 
 gloom 
 Ne'er felt the richness of such rare perfume. 
 
 With forms more graceful, and with vestments 
 clad 
 Such as the haughty prelate never wore, 
 They give to God an adoration glad, 
 
 That well might teach us, all our souls to 
 pour 
 In high-souled, earnest, heaven-uplifted prayer, 
 To Him who doth alike for all His children 
 care. 
 
 G. W. 
 
 P2 
 
TO A SOAP BUBBLE. 
 
 BRIGHT little world of my own creating, 
 
 Blown with a breath of the viewless air, 
 Thy fragile form, in circles dilating, 
 
 Seems destined each hue of the rainbow to 
 wear; 
 The amethyst's purple is given to thee, 
 
 And the emerald's green, like the sparkling 
 sea, 
 Mingles its tints with the sapphire's blue. 
 Thou art a sun, rich in thy brightness, 
 Thou art a moon, silvered with whiteness, 
 Thou art a planet, begirt with a glow 
 Of colours enamelled above and below, 
 As only the pencil of light can bestow. 
 
TO A SOAP BUBBLE. 213 
 
 Who knoweth now, but that each starry 
 sphere 
 That silently floats in the heavens on high 
 Was once a gay bubble, pellucid and clear, 
 
 Before it was given a place in the sky, 
 And blown by the lips of some young angel, 
 trying, 
 While his close feathered wings were yet 
 tiny and frail, 
 By other bright things and their fashion of 
 flying, 
 To learn on his own gilded pinions to sail. 
 For this one by one, the planets were blown, 
 And the bright milky way with starry gems 
 
 sown; 
 In the ether above no storms ever blow 
 To crush their frail forms, or toss to and fro 
 Those delicate worlds, so round in their orbits 
 they ever shall go. 
 
 G. W. 
 
MUSIC THE BEST CHRONOMETER. 
 
 'TlS said, the planets in their circles wheeling 
 Keep up a symphony, and changeful chime 
 Of moving melody, that onwards stealing 
 Metes out Eternity, and makes it Time. 
 
 This solemn music is the voice of heaven, 
 Some wandering pulses only earthward steal ; 
 Through love and mercy are their lapse for- 
 given, 
 That Time may have a guiding balance-wheel. 
 
 The silent shadow which the sun is chasing 
 Hath for the waiting ear nor voice nor tone 
 
MUSIC THE BEST CHRONOMETER. 215 
 
 The noiseless image round the dial pacing, 
 Tells of Time's passage to the eye alone. 
 
 The shaken hour-glass, and the sands in shift- 
 ing, 
 
 Fall with as light a step, as faint a sound 
 
 As feathery snow-flakes, which the wind is 
 drifting 
 
 In ceaseless heaps upon the frozen ground. 
 
 We need not these to keep for aye repeating 
 What sum of time makes up an earthly day, 
 We know too well, and feel that no entreating 
 Will bind the hours that fleet too fast away. 
 
 The lapse of moments we in numbering 
 Should mark, like heaven, by the voice of 
 
 songs, 
 For silence suits alone the slumbering, 
 And dumbness only to the dead belongs. 
 
216 POEMS. 
 
 We are living ! when the hours move sadly, 
 Sorrow's fetters cumbering their wings, 
 Wake the melody that moveth gladly 
 Let a cheerful finger strike the strings. 
 
 Time will mend his pace and catch the mea- 
 sure, 
 Break the bonds that made his pinions flag : 
 Life is short, but if it wanteth pleasure, 
 Who could bear its weary weight to drag ? 
 
 If the moments heedlessly are rushing, 
 Solemn music, as of anthems holy, 
 Softly will, the storm of passion hushing, 
 Make their tiny winglets move more slowly. 
 
 Calmly thus the hours, by music guiding, 
 Taught to wing a stately measured flight, 
 Peace will bring us, and a calm abiding 
 Sense of chastened innocent delight: 
 
MUSIC THE BEST CHRONOMETER, 217 
 
 Till Death's cold fingers, from our shoulders 
 taking 
 
 The cloak of care so wrapped about us here, 
 
 Shall send our spirits — earthly fetters break- 
 ing— 
 
 To learn the music of a higher sphere. 
 
 G. W. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 WHAT do I out in the dull and silent night, 
 
 Thus faring on my way ? 
 As when Nature, stirred in her strong delight 
 'Mid the broad and flooding day — 
 When the gladly-conscious earth pulsed from 
 
 her leaping heart 
 The glowing tide of strength and mirth, forth 
 
 into every part, 
 And the force, that is the life of all the things 
 
 that live, 
 To do the work it needs must do, did mani- 
 festly strive ; 
 And my eye could catch the numerous stir, 
 
 and my ear the chiming glee 
 Of a thousand happy creatures on earth and 
 air and sea ; 
 
A FRAGMENT. 219 
 
 And man with busy hum, and the voice of 
 
 things though dumb — 
 Bird, flower, and beam, and wave, tumultuously 
 
 did come. 
 
 Then it was well that the living tread 
 
 Should go 'mid the living scene, 
 And 'twas well that I should not be as the 
 dead, 
 Or as those who have never been ; 
 But when, as a weeded one who hangs o'er 
 
 the dead in silent sadness, 
 Pale Night doth brood o'er the stirless earth, 
 
 that breathes no more of gladness, 
 No laughter and no voices, no hum of many 
 noises, 
 That who so rife and bold, 
 Save when a dim low tone, flitteth around like 
 the whispered moan 
 Of that melancholy mourner old, 
 
220 POEMS, 
 
 Or the echo of Life which Death gives back 
 
 from his chambers cold ; 
 When the banner of brave bright hues which 
 
 the sun of the day unfurled, 
 With the host of all moving things hath past 
 
 to the nether world ; 
 And the tall, calm cliff with the wan light 
 
 spread, 
 Stand like the sheeted unsepulchred dead ; 
 And the gay young flower, and the flashing 
 
 beam, 
 And the singing bird, and the flowing stream 
 Have been quenched in living bloom 
 By the dull and chilling gloom, 
 Then, why doth the step of life go forth on 
 
 the earth — a tomb ? 
 
 J. M. R. 
 
ON THE EAST WIND. 
 
 Oh East Wind, the accursed ! 
 At the pole thou wert nursed, 
 
 An iceberg was thy cradle ; 
 Thou wert swaddled in snow, 
 All stuck to and fro, 
 
 With icicles sharp as a needle; 
 With hail-shot thou wert christened, 
 And he thought no one listened, 
 
 The white-bearded, shivering priest ; 
 So he called thee not North, 
 But he sent thee forth, 
 
 Baptized with a lie as the East. 
 
222 POEMS. 
 
 A deceiver thou art ! 
 
 In the East without part, 
 
 In Asia or Ind, 
 Thou breathest not of cinnamon, 
 Thou smellest not of Lebanon, 
 
 Thou detestable wind. 
 
 I hate thee and scoff at thee, 
 But I fear to laugh at thee, 
 
 Thou cruel betrayer ! 
 Thou tosser of waves, 
 And digger of graves, 
 
 And killer and slayer, 
 Be honest at least, 
 And come not from the East 
 
 But blow from the Pole ; 
 And if I cannot cure thee, 
 At least Til endure thee, 
 
 And say on the whole, 
 
ON THE EAST WIND. 223 
 
 That though cutting and cold, 
 Thou art open and bold, 
 
 A deliberate smiter; 
 And in patience I'll rest 
 Till the wind from the west 
 
 Come forth as thy fighter, 
 And pommels and pelts thee, 
 And thaws thee and melts thee, 
 
 And chokes out thy breath ; 
 And I and the flowers, 
 Brought out by the showers, 
 
 Will rejoice in thy death. 
 
 G. W. 
 
MUSINGS. 
 
 I AM filled with wonder great ; 
 Musing of thy high estate, 
 Of the name unto thee given, 
 Child of God and Heir of heaven ! 
 What then mean those sounds I hear, 
 Tones of weeping, words of fear ? 
 Thou by holy voice art told 
 Truths and glories manifold, 
 But thou art so weak and blind 
 In thy heart and soul and mind, 
 Thou art slow to understand 
 Of the high and better land, — 
 Hearing faintly dost believe, 
 Knowing darkly dost conceive — 
 
MUSINGS. : 
 
 Through thy shades of gross decay 
 Dim the heavenly radiance gleameth ; 
 
 Through thy prison-walls of clay 
 Dull the song of glory seemeth. 
 
 Couldst thou but make pure thy sense 
 From the fleshly influence, 
 Thou shouldst see in vision clear 
 How thy Father standeth near, 
 Hears and pities thine alarms, 
 Holds thee in the eternal arms ; 
 See how He who for thee died 
 
 Living keeps thee by His care, 
 Doth thy lot on earth provide, 
 
 Doth thy place in heaven prepare ; 
 Know the Spirit's gracious leading, 
 Hear His groanful interceding ; 
 Shining clear amid the sky, 
 Zion's blissful city spy, 
 Q 
 
226 POEMS. 
 
 And the unnumbered goodly throng, 
 Standing round the Master's feet, 
 
 Singing the incessant song, 
 Harping ever loud and sweet ; 
 
 And refrain to sigh and moan, 
 
 That the road is long and lone. 
 
 What, the way thou hast to go, 
 Thou poor doubter, dost not know ? 
 In the twinkling of an eye, 
 
 Thou mayst stand the bliss among, 
 Very breath indrawn to sigh 
 
 May be rendered back in song ; 
 Swift thy soul may start and flee, 
 Eye to eye the glory see, — 
 Know how bright the unshadowed Face : 
 Feel how sweet the unmingled grace ; 
 See those spirits good and true, 
 And the angels' shining crew : 
 
MUSINGS. 1 
 
 Then thy heart with theirs employ, 
 Swell the triumph, share the joy. 
 
 Of that bliss no longer deem 
 
 As a fable fond and vain ; 
 As one dealeth with a dream 
 
 Hold not thine eternal gain. 
 Is not that alone the real 
 
 Land of pure immortal forms ? 
 Is not this the dark ideal 
 
 Place of night, and clay, and worms ? 
 
 j. M, R. 
 
 O 2 
 
THE EOLIAN HARP, 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE AIR "THE LAST LINKS ARE BROKEN." 
 
 The deep tones are dying, that haunted mine 
 
 ear, 
 Like the summer wind sighing when autumn 
 
 is near, 
 When the Fairies are singing along the green 
 
 lea, 
 And bright birds are winging their way o'er 
 
 the sea ; 
 
 That music, revealing awhile to my heart 
 
 Each heaven-born feeling, too soon to depart, 
 
 But awakes the desire, that so witching a strain 
 
 Should steal from the lyre, o'er my senses 
 
 again. 
 
 r T W 
 
FAIRY RINGS. 
 
 Fairy rings have airy wings, 
 And the fays are chary things. 
 Once when I by Stonehenge haunted 
 
 I could all the fairies see ; 
 All delighted, all undaunted, 
 
 Both from fear and wonder free. 
 I was sitting in the centre 
 
 Of the widest fairy ring, 
 When I saw the " good folk " enter, 
 
 Lover each his lassie bring ; 
 Upwards at me each one gazed, 
 But they were not one amazed. 
 " That strange face," said they, " we know it, 
 Harm him not, he is a poet." 
 
230 POEMS. 
 
 Whirled they round like mad ones dancing, 
 Wheeled they round like horses prancing, 
 Dew-drop beads like jewels glancing, 
 
 As they footed all the round ; 
 Very strange were the vagaries 
 Of these waltzing little fairies, 
 Musical, like blithe canaries, 
 
 Piping clear with mellow sound, 
 
 And they whispered in my ear, 
 That they widened every year 
 That good circle, as their dear 
 
 Children came to dancing days. 
 Now I cannot see a single 
 Fairy with his merry jingle : 
 Hidden in darkest den or dingle 
 
 Are my well-beloved fays. 
 
 G. W 
 

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