( •■( i': I ! I m t' i |!lil ■;,' iHg :.'r.'7T« ■■'■ wj ■'••■■*■■■■■ >yi^-'%H:al ^^wi^. ggcQaaa3;aasg^ > r^acgcgac;as § LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. | -PSj.s:_fi:^ ^ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. \ V-'h<&L '^m .>^.^^.v^' f-,-v.s ^1 > -w' v>r. .^SS^Si^ .^ /6/ €M%'m 3iiaf. (B13«l n%f. 1 POEMS BY EDITH MAY. ,-* A NEW EDITION, WITH MANY ADDITIO^fcOVy; ■ PHILADELPHIA: PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 185G. ^^\ Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by E. H. BUTLER & Co., in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ^refiue. Much and often as the threshold of fame is profaned by "wilful or mistaken intruders, there is something inexpres- sibly sacred and touching in the first timid footsteps toward its shining altar, taken by the young and pure aspir- ant who is obeying a beckoning hand which the world can- not yet see. The feeling of deference and honour with which one recognises the mien and utterance of true genius, is mingled irresistibly with the thought of its counterba- lancing ills — the thirsts for which common life has no water, and the keener sensibilities, for "which human allotment has neither protection nor allowance. At the same threshold, too, stand the crowds of rejected and dis- (5) vi PREFACE. appointed, who vindictively dispute the claim and dis- courage the hesitating footsteps of the new comer ; and, for these ills — tracking genius as they do to the grave — neither the viewless lips which give words to what no other mortal could have uttered, nor the " second sight" which reveals what no other mortal could have seen, nor the con- sciousness of a higher nature when alone, nor the whispers of spirits and angels which are never found not to have been human thoughts till envy and malice have poisoned all else, seem to be a sufficient compensation. One looks upon youthful genius, thus double-laden with gifts and ills, as one sees the victim prepared with bright flowers for the knife. It is not one of the least of the conventional disregards of genius, that the recognition and welcome at the thresh- old of fame's temple are chance-given, if at all ; and that, in place of a responsible and respectful warden at this gate, where enters what the world should most honour, there is likelier to be found only the base crowd of hinder- ers and detractors, by whom the timid knock of the young pilgrim is treated as a crime. It is by his chance vicinity to the place where should stand a higher and better autho- PREFACE. vii rized discharger of the office, that the editor of a public journal may sometimes be the first to see that a fine spirit stands waiting without, and for kck of better usher, ho may advance to claim entrance for the stranger. The introducer of the present work to the public is in that position. If it seem that his task might be done with better grace by one* having more authoi'Ity, his apology has been made in what he has just written. Of the poems in this volume, and of the powers of the fair poetess, the writer has expressed his opinions very fully in the journal of which he is editor, and to which some of them were originally contributed. Beautiful as these early productions are, however, he looks upon them mainly as promises. They have been written upon the leaf of life first turned over after girlhood — in the lap of luxury and seclusion, with no inspiration save what coiues from the instincts of the heart and conversance with the romantic scenery around her home. They are literally the fore-reachings of genius which anticipate the teachings of experience. How Edith May would sing of the realities of life, hav- viii PREFACE. ing thus hymned her chant from the far shadows it throws upon her imagination, those who have watched the tuning of inspiration by sorrow and struggle will easily conceive. The single poem of " Te Deum Lauda7nus," which will be found on a succeeding page, shows the port and mien of one whose walk in the highest fields of poetry would be that of inborn stateliness and fitness. The rhythm has an instinctive power and dignity, showing the key to which the mind is habitually toned, and the conception and man- agement of the subject are full of originality and beauty. Those who read this and the other poems will have had a star named to them, for whose future place and shining they will look ; and, in this first announcing of a light that is to be recognised and brighten hereafter, is to be found the main errand which the introducer would claim for the present volume. N. P. Willis. CouteEti Pkan MADDALEXA'S CONFESSION 37 OCTOBER TWILIGHT 57 GUIDO SAVELLA 61 A TRUE STORY OF A FAWN 79 THE TOWER OF LAIINECK 83 THE CIIAl'LET OF BRONZE 93 JULIETTE 98 PRAYER 107 THEODORA 113 EOLIE 117 SUMMER 120 LADY CLARE 12 1 STORM AT TWILIGHT 127 THE COLOURING OF HAPPINESS 129 THE PALACE OF ECHOES 132 THE BROWN MANTLE 136 A SONG FOR AUTUMN 139 UNREST 1^1 A WINTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT . , Ill COUNT JULIO l-i" DAME MARGARET 160 FOREST SCENE 162 TWILIGHT 166 (9) X CO iN T E N T S. PAGU THE SEASONS 1^8 THE LOVE QUARREL 170 REST 174 DECEMBER 177 A POET'S LOVE 179 ALINE'S CHOICE 182 FROST PICTURES 185 FROM A TRUE WIFE TO ONE OVER BOLDE 189 LINES WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE -.101 INCONSTANCY li'S THE WINGED HORSEMAN 19j TWO CHANTS 199 A FRAGMENT 202 LINES 204 GUENDOLEN , 2u7 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD 219 CHRISTMAS 262 "WOULDST THOU PERSUADE" 258 AMINA 259 SONG 2G4 KATHLEEN 206 BALLAD 203 MARGARET 270 ROSABELLE 280 A GRAY DAY IN APRIL •JS4 THE DEATH OF THE LILY 287 WINDS 280 SORROW VOICES 293 MAY, 1853 298 TO GOO EARLY WALKS 302 PUSH THE BOTTLE AROUND, TOM ! 304 A PORTRAIT 307 SCENE FROM DUMAS'S " STOCKHOLM, FONTAINEDLEAU, ET ROMK," . . . .308 SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE" OF MOLIERE 311 FROM THE "MISANTHROPE" 323 ^5(D(Emi. MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. The Bride of Christ! oli, at those words there swept Bright glories through my spirit! I was deaf To the deep anthem. Prelate and stoled priest, The dim cathedral walls, the kneeling crowd, The lattice where the hlack-robed nuns looked through All passed away from mine enraptured eyes. I saw no more thy bowed form, oh, my mother! Nor his who stood far down the aisle of columns Hiding his bent brow with his mantle's fold. It seems not long since I, a little child, Trod yon cathedral floors, and in deep awe, First crossed my forehead with the holy water. 40 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. St. Lawrence in the flames, his lifted face Full of sublime forgetfulness of pain, Or Stephen stoned and prone ; perchance to mark Pale hermits watching in their forest caves With lamp and book, the inner darkness shapen Into black fiends ; or sometimes, oh, my soul ! An Ecce Homo with dim eyes upraised, And red drops trickling from the crown of thorns ! All these Giuseppa scanned with reverent face ; I, in her arms held level with the canvas. Looked on in childish fear. There came a message That said Ginevra, weary of the court, Returned to us alone. 'Twas early noon. I, over-wearied, dreamed upon my couch; And when I woke my sister stood beside me. Ginevra ? no ! — ah heaven ! was that Ginevra Who quivered at my fear, and in the sunlight Stood shivering ere she bent and faintly pressed Her lips upon my brow ! I never knew MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 41 What sorrow like a tearful angel rent The veil between mj sister's heart and God. Her brow was as the forehead of a saint, Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face None looked except to breathe a sigh that tracked Some upwinged thought to Heaven. Oh, to my sense. Her beauty was unreal : whether she prayed Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory Tremulous in her hair, whether we tAvain Paced the long galleries where ranged silver sconces, Studding the walls, cast down before our feet Black shades like chasms, whether to her voice I listened while the stealthy-footed night Passed by unchallenged ! As a captive stands Vacantly gazing at the world without Through his barred prison windows, all his heart Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul Through her blue holy e^^es. I loved her well ! I stopped my play to look if she passed by. Or if she mused beside the gallery windows As was her wont, I, stealing to her side. Stood tiptoe that my arms might clasp her waist, 42 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. And sometimes cloistered in her chamber, there We read and talked till purj)le twilight stains Sank through the marble pavement. In that room There hung a copy of a rare old picture, The marriage of St. Catherine. I remember That she grew farther from me, day by day, I guessed not wherefore. Over her blue eyes The lids drooped heavily, as lilies loll Against the swell of waves. No echo tracked Her footstep through the vanity corridors, And often in the night I saw her rise To gaze upon St. Catherine's blessed face, Or prone before the crucifix, lie there Praying till dawn. Once more Ginevra stood Flower-crowned and jewelled, but beneath the liglit Of tall cathedral tapers. From the crowd Quick sobs burst audibly ; the very priests Looked with sad eyes; nuns to the lattice pressed And blenched away, but she unconscious stood With folded hands, and looks upcast as though MADDALENAS COxNFESSION. 43 The vacant space were legible to her gazing. Then my fair haughty mother cowered for fear, My father's gay lips whitened. There are some Still in these cloisters who remember well An angel on whose lip meek mortal prayer Had changed to saintly praise. For week on week, The searching lamp of the confessional Shining athwart the fair page of her soul Showed blot nor blur. They say her llcaven-linked voice Chanting, the Gloria outspcd the choir So far, the calm-browed nuns, uplifting eyes Dim with the haze of rcvery, made her notes A golden ladder where their souls went up Into God's presence ; and 'tAvas whispered low, That when, all through the midnight, from the toll Of the last Angelus to the hour of prime, She knelt before the Sacrament, a sound Of voices pierced the silence. Then, perchance, The wakeful guardian stationed at her side Revealed himself. 44 MAD DA LENA'S CONFESSION. Joyful, and sorrowful, And glorious mysteries meekly she had told Upon her rosary of years, when death Garnered her sweet soul. Mass nor prayer was said ; For those there be who swear a hovering crow^n Rained on her brow faint glory, and around Crept music and rich odours, wdiile awed priest And kneeling abbess with rapt upraised looks Sang the Te Deum Laudamus ! So she passed ! I bear upon my breast the cross that wore Its outline upon hers. Thou, camest, Jacopo, Playmate and friend ! Do you remember now How, while you twined the vine leaves in my hair, I told you saintly legends? When we saw Fair pictures in the clouds, you made them limn Chariots and battling horsemen, but to me Came trooping angels. Still my sister's chamber Seemed hallowed by her presence. Crumbling wreaths MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 45 Dropped from the crucifix. Her favourite books, Their pages blistered by her frequent tears, Lay open as she left them, marked with flowers. Or pencilled down the margin bj her hand. But most I loved the picture of St. Catherine. She kneeling, while the holy child whose touch The Virgin guided, on her finger placed The marriage ring, his face in lovely wonder Raised questioning to his mother's. To that place I crept at noonday. There I treasured all Linked with Ginevra's memory. 'Twas now A garland we had woven, now a kerchief That kept the faint rose odour she had loved. I vexed my childish brain with pondering o'er The books she prized ; these, histories of Saints, Temptations, miracles, and martyrdoms. I peopled all the dark nooks of the palace With phantoms of their raising. There, concealed All through the slumberous noontide, first I read Of Augustine, w^ho heard the voice of God Speak to him in the garden ; and of her. 46 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. Holy Teresa, who stood face to face With Mary's Son, and carried to the tomb Remembrance of the vision. When I read How, laying down love, wealth, the pride of birth, Bowing her shoulders for the cross, this one Frail Nun obtained a Saint's repute, becoming Pounder of monasteries, and of a host The spiritual mother, all my soul Thrilled with the rapturous history. I could dream Only of mysteries ; or, if light shapes Beckoned me to the world, there slid between Visions of her who o'er an open book Hung pondering steadfastly; one pale, fair hand Outspread upon the page, and one that held Her brow within its hollow. Womanhood Came, and my heart's betraying echoes scarce Answered her loitering footfall. Life grew vague. Nothing approached me nearly. The first star Was a true prophet of thy step, Jacopo ! My visions fled when up the flinty paths His courser's hoof struck flashes. With a smile MADDALENA'3 CONFESSION. 47 My father greeted him; my mother gave Her white hand freely, while her laughter mixed With their gay talk; and I, a space apart, Smiled him glad welcome, with my every pulse Answering the cordial music of his voice. Oh, he was changed ! I dared no longer chide If his bold mirth trod heedlessly too close To holy things. I stood with eyes abased ; Rebuke awed into silence. He had sprung Suddenly to full manhood. In his words There was an athlete's sinew, though they played With great things carelessly, as a fresh wind Provokes the sea to laughter, and his pride Ever seemed well placed, like a castle set Upon a mountain. All my womanhood Did homage to his strength. The life that coiled Lazily at my heart, leapt through my veins With crest uplift, if mid the halls I heard His footfall ring. Oh, father, when he left. Gone was the smile from sweet St. Catherine's lip ! And the grave saints frowned on me ; and my thoughts, Shapen to prayer, put on unholy guise, 48 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. Mocking my vain devotion! Marvel not! I was a child. Ginevra fled tte world, lite a chased dove that calms its panting heart Under green forest boughs. Life stood unmasked, And pleasure mocked her, like a garland twined Bound a drained wine cup. As a vine that grows Over some marble urn, a bird that builds Under the cornice of some shattered temple. Making its ruin echo with delight, So to her heart, rent, filled with bitter dust Came one bright hope. Alas! my thrilling' soul Still quivered in the bended bow of life! Youth was too mighty. I grew faint. My heart I-eapt at a quick word, and light tremors ran Painfully through my limbs. My brain waxed dizzy Over ^y books, and I would ponder hours Ere I could wrest its meaning from the page I strove to read. Or, if I knelt to pray, My aimless thoughts went wandering blindly on. The prayer I said suspended. Outward things ' Unchallenged touched my senses, that dull stupor Muffled like sleep. MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 40 I stood -within St. Peter's, And hoard the Miserere. Through the twilight Burned thirteen starry tapers. One by one, Amid the chanting of the Lamentations, These vanished, till the last and brightest, Christ, Sank into darkness. With that Hope's extinction. Like a retreating wave, the chant withdrew Beneath the cave-like shadows. Bippling echoes Tracked it to silence. Father, on my lips The stillness pressed as a remorseless hand ! Above, the gray-winged twilight, like a moth Clung to the arches. I did strive to pray. And through my soul the slow-paced, cloistered thoughts Trod, saying " Miserere !" Deep the pause That from the shores of that hushed music stretched Like a black-throated chasm. I grew sick Hearing the echoes sound it ! AVhile I gasped. As 'twere a bird borne over an abyss On one bruised wing, athwart the chapel roof Fluttered a voice so sad, my panting heart Breathed in one gush of tears. I doubt not. Priest ! White angels standing in God's presence then 50 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. Leant on their harps and wept ! The low notes failed Exhaustedly. But as they ceased, oh Heaven ! As 'twere a scimitar quick bared, a shaft Hurled by a giant, a prolonged, loud shriek Leapt through the gloom, and like a dart rebounding Fell, shivered into echoes ! Holy Mary ! My every pulse thrilled with a separate pain ! All through the crowd a light electric shiver Passed like a link. All dimly from mine eyes Pled the dark forms of priest and cardinal And Heaven's vicegerent in his pontiff robes ! I must have fallen, but for one steadfast arm Girding my waist like iron. Scarce I marked How the whole choir, with thick, sore sobs, bewailed Christ's death. I know not what of sudden brightness Rushed o'er my dazzled sense. Dispute it not ! I saw the darkness cloven by wings that took Light like a prism, and when the rifted gloom Closed on their upward flight, my senses, prone, Met its returning pressure. This was April, And ere my dumb soul spoke again, the grape MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 51 Was purple on the liills. Oli, I was weak As a young child! Jacopo in his arms, Would bear me to the sea-shore, where I sat Long, vacant hours, numbering the waves, Counting the drifting clouds. They sang me songs. The music pleased me, but the married words My dull ear noted not. Yet every day Lifted my prostrate faculties. At last The old life came to me again, and I Lived with my books and memories. Yet, oh heaven I The dense gloom of the Roman chapel seemed Stifling my soul. A horror brooded o'er me. To my weak brain most dark forebodings came. As night-birds haunt a ruin. As one left Li a dense labyrinth seeks in vain the outlet As a lost bird that beats its wings against The black roof of a cavern, so my thought. Conscious of light, pursued it. Pleasure came, And Fear uplifting with unsteady hand Her wan lamp, by its shifting rays transformed Tlic siren to a spectre. Did I stoop 52 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. To pluck a joy that seemed to common eyes Dewy with innocence, lo, underneath, There coiled some black temptation ! The wide world Was all a paradise where every tree Held fruit forbidden. Whither could I fly? Into dim solitudes, through trooping crowds, Horror pursued me with extended arms. Trembling I lingered in Ginevra's chamber, There forcibly impelled, there paralyzed By the cold, haunting presence of the dead. Oh, God ! I heard her footsteps track the floor ! Oh, God ! I wakened from my sleep to feel That I had scared away some brooding thing! And once — believe it, father ! — in the moonlight I saAV her in her death-robes stand and point Her white, still finger to the pictured bridal ! They said that I grew like her, like the novice Some still remembered ; she who smiled farewell. Thrusting her white hands through the convent grating ! Like the pale saint who, with the crucifix Betwixt her palms, spake softly as she trod MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 53 The solitary chambers, with her prayers Coupling the moments ; not like her, the bright Aurora of my childhood, on whose knee I have lain listless, through my fingers slipping Pearl chains for rosaries ! Still if I walked One step kept pace with mine ; or if reclining Mid the cleft rocks, I heard the sea rehearse Its ancient song of chaos, every wave Rhyming its fellow, still my heart took note Of a timed footfall on the upper shore Advancing and retreating. If I read. And from my book glanced suddenly, I thrilled, Knowing who stood apart, and on my face Looked with a strange intentness. Oh, thou world ! Thy warm arms clave to me, thy painted lips Cheated my senses ! To my sleep came fiends That mocked me with Ms smile, put on his shape, Spake with his voice, till, starting from my couch, TJiy name, Jacopo, first upon my lip, I feared to speak God's after ! Then came prayers, 54 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. Fasts, and harsh penances. There was a chamber Ginevra loved; a dmi, square, lofty room. Crossed and re-crossed bj arches, paven with marbles Stained in sea hues. One silver shining lamp That burned behind a column, brake the night "With its still radiance. There, when midnight came. Crept I as stealthily, with naked feet Treading the corridors. There my faint soul Staggered beneath its cross ! The niched saints, only, Might hear my heart shriek as I walled it in ! The marble where my forehead lay kept not Count of my tears ; — and there, when fasts prolonged Vanquished my sense, while life, the jailor, slept, Came angels that unlocked the prison doors And bade my soul go free. Athwart my brain Flash and withdraw into the cloud of sense That holds them captive, memories too bright For human keeping, dumb, sweet dreams that passed With finger laid on lip. Oh, gracious father, Great is my faith in penance, that chains down The senses in their cells, scourges the passions Into meek virtues, and converts the house JMADDALENA'S CONFESSION. 55 Where worldly guests held revel, to a cloister Trod by pure visions and up-glancing prayers ! There came release. 'Twas midnight, and I seemed In dreams to kneel as kneels the Bride of Christ. Yet, not Madonna, but my sister guided The hand that placed the marriage ring on mine. While yet I slept, a sound of many wings Filled all the air, and at my ear a voice Chanted a cradle-hymn. Then I awoke And heard the echoes keep one lingering note ! They told me 'twas a dream, but felt I not The constant pressure of the bridal ring? And knew I not, though dim to human eyes, IIow bright 'twould shine hereafter ? Up to God I sped my fresh hopes, that, wing-wearied, turned To earth's most blessed shelter. Priest, as pure As Catherine, the first nun, I wedded Heaven ! The tresses they have shorn were ne'er unbound By love's light hand ; the beauty that I laid, 56 MADDALENA'S CONFESSION. As 'twere a blossom, on His holy shrine, Kept sacred, all, from love's profaning touch ! Last fled I here. With many tears, my mother, Wouldst thou have stayed me, and Jacopo, — nay, I was appalled to look on his white lips ! Once, I remember, in my brief novitiate When by the convent wall, I paused to mark The singing of a bird, and from above There dropped a written scroll. Oh saints, what wild. Idolatrous words defaced its blotted page ! I dared not look upon the writer's name. 'Twas sin to read, I know, for all the morn There was that ringing through my unquiet soul That outvoiced organ, chorister, and priest ! OCTOBER TWILIGHT. On mute among the months, October, thou, Like a hot reaper when the sun goes down Reposing in the twilight of the year! Is yon the silver glitter of thy scythe Drawn thread-like on the west? September comes Humming those waifs of song June's choral days Left in the forest, but thy tuneless lips Breathe only a pervading haze that seems Visible silence, and thy Sabbath face Scares swart November, from yon northern hills Foreboding like a raven. Yellow ferns Make thee a couch ; thou sittest listless there, Plucking red leaves for idleness ; full streams 58 OCTOBER TWILIGHT. Coil to thy feet where fawns that come at noon Drink with npglancing eyes. Upon this knoll, Studded with long-stemmed maples, ever first To take the breeze, I have lain summer hours. Seeing the blue sky only, and the light Shifting from leaf to leaf. Tree-top and trunk Now lift so steadily, the airiest spray Seems painted on the azure. Evening comes Up from the valley; over-lapping hills, •Tipped by the sunset, burn like funeral lamps For the dead day; no pomp of tinsel clouds Breaks the pure hyaline the mountains gird — A gem without a flaw — but sharply drawn On its transparent edge, a single tree That has cast down its drapery of leaves. Stands like an athlete with broad arms outstretched, As if to keep November's winds at bay. Below, on poised wings, a hovering mist Follows the course of streams ; the air grows thick Over the dells. Mark how the wind, like one That gathers simples, flits from herb to herb, OCTOBER TWILIGHT. 59 Through the damp valley, muttering the while Low incantations ! From the wooded lanes Loiters a bell's dull tinkle, keeping time To the slow tread of kine ; and I can see By the rude trough the waters overbrim The unyoked oxen gathered ; some, athirst. Stoop drinking steadily, and some have linked Their horns in playful war. E-oads climb the hills. Divide the forests, and break off, abrupt, At the horizon ; hither, from below There comes a sound of lumbering, jarring wheels. The sound just struggles up the steep ascent, Then drones off in the distance. Nearer still, A rifle's rattling charge starts up the echoes. That flutter like scared birds, and pause awhile As on suspended wdngs, ere sinking slow To their low nests. I can distinguish now The labourer returning from his toil With shouldered spade, and weary, laggard foot ; The cattle straying down the dusty road ; The sportsman, balancing his idle gun. Whistling a light refrain, whib close leside (K) OCTOBER TWILIGHT. His hound with trailing ears, and muzzle dropt, Follows some winding scent. From the gray east, Twilight, up-glancing with dim fearful eyes, Warns me away. The dusk sits like a bird Up in the tree-tops, and swart, elvish shadows Dart from the wooded pathways. Wraith of day ! Through thy transparent robes the stars are plain; Along those swelling mounds that look like graves. Where flowers grow thick in June, thy step falls soft As the dropt leaves ; amid the faded brakes The wind, retreating, hides, and cowering there, Whines at thy coming like a hound afraid. GUIDO SAVELLA. "Oh! to Ilia fancy Heated and overwrought, its beauty grew Warm, living, human ! And he loved a picture, Following the wanderings of an erring brain, His heart went from him, blindly and astray.' Save that with early morn a funeral train Wound through the gateway, there had reigned all day Silence unbroken in Savella's house. The close-drawn curtains hung in motionless folds, The fountain in the court had ceased to play, And when eve came, a single lonely taper C2 GUIDO SAVELLA. Burning through midnight, marked the chamber where Savella mourned his fair-haired English bride. There had been marks of fetters on her wrists As thej lay crossed in death, and from her brow Long tresses had been shaven. At her side There wept a child that from its infancy Had never known a mother's fostering love ; And they who robed her body for the tomb. Whispered together of a fatal curse Entailed upon her high-born race for crimes Now unrecorded. 'Twas the vintage time. Winter passed on, and early March outbloomed The June of colder climes. Savella's halls Still curtained out the sunshine, though a shade Seemed fallen from their gloom. For if a breeze Swept through the vaulted chambers, it would bring Soft laughter, and a sound of children's steps, And sometimes through the muffling drapery peered A boy's small face, and now a baby girl Half balancing, half guarded by his arm, GUIDO SAYELLA. 63 Leaned from the deep-cut windows, and for sport, Shook down the rings of her gold-coloured hair. Change followed change ; the delicate shades of grief Blend imperceptibly, and he who watched His sorrow as a secret trust, felt not How every day took something from its keenness. He scarce remembered when he first had paused To listen to Francesca's pleading tones, Or smile when Guido with superior wisdom Schooled his child sister. He would linger now With a pleased eye before the glowing pictures Lining his galleries, and now the boy Rode forth at even by his father's side, And when Savella paced the palace gardens Francesca lay upon his breast, her arms Clasped on his neck, and her ungathered hair Sweeping the shoulder where her check lay pillowed. She had an English face, but, oh, not hers Whose memory yet upon Savella's heart Lay, a receding shadow ! In her glance 64 GUIDO SAVELLA. There was no changeful light, and her sweet mouth Smiled even in repose. But Guido seemed To visibly link the present with the past. For if he had his father's Roman eye, His lips were like his mother's, and his voice Had tones, like hers, unnaturally sweet. They told how he would steal, when sunset came To the deep western windows, and there sit, Leaning his brow upon his outspread palm. Even as she had done. His smile, his glance. The wandering gaze that seemed to fathom distance, The strange, deep reveries that made his life Shadowy like a dream, his sudden tears Flowing uncalled, and his unquiet gladness, — All this resembled her. His very step. Sounding along the galleries, and pausing Before the pictures she had loved, became A dread to those who listened, and Savella Hearing its echoes, turned away to sigh. Save for each other lone, surrounded ever By shapes of antique beauty, cherishing Hare birds and blossoms, with the eager care GUIDO SAVELLA. (15 Of those who have few human things to love, The orphans grew together. And their childhood Passed, but yet slowly, for they, lingered long In its sweet Eden, and when driven forth Still dwelt beneath the shadow of its trees. They bore their childish hearts far into youth ; They were alone ; and if to Guido's spirit Came sometimes wild hopes and ambitious thoughts, They left no withering traces, but sped on. Even as the shadow of an eagle's wing Darkens a sunbright valley. Lapse of years Wrought little change, save that Francesca's brow "Wore the bright seal of girlhood; that she stepped With its half-conscious grace, and that she curbed To womanly pride, the laughter that her eyes Betrayed, how sweetly ! Save that from his dreams The boy was half awaked, and as the breeze Is tremulous in the tree, life at his heart Made music. Oh, the calm of earlier days. To his refining senses, seemed the rest Of one who sleeps into an April morning 66 GUIDO SAVELLA. And is awaked by melody and light ! Yet still as the unfolding of a flower His being's growth; and to the passing eye, Still Guido w\as unchanged. For even now, Under the shadow of the ilex trees. He would lie dreaming through a summer morn, Freighting the slow clouds with his indolent fancies. Or if Francesca with her broidery frame Stole to his side, would idly mark the grouping Of leaves and flowers beneath her hand, or listen, An arm flung o'er his closed lids, while she sang Love-songs and ballads, else from some old book Read quaint romances, scraps of passionate verse, That brought the fire to his lip and eye. And even now, although no hand reined in A steed more gallantly, he better loved Some lone, wild path, where other steps came not, Than the gay Corso. Now his early dreams Lay closer to his soul, and he had striven To give their loveliness a tangible shape ; But youth still held in leash his fiery spirit, And with the will to do came not the power. GUIDOSAVELLA. 67 The first faint efforts of awakening strength llevealed in fragments of imperfect song, Rude shapes, and outlined scenery, on the canvass Left incomplete by an irresolute hand. All loved the boy; the contadina turned To smile her salutation as he passed ; The beggar lounging on the palace stair Bade Mary bless the glorious, gifted child. As he went by. These loved him for his beauty, His pride ; for pride becomes a noble spirit Even as a regal port doth royalty. Pass we their dawn of youth. Savella's place "Was empty at the board. The orphans dwelt Alone in the old palace. The rapt boy Had made his manhood as an arch of triumph Spanning a conqueror's path. There was no lip But named him reverently ; for his songs Had stirred all Italy, and to his canvass The gods descended. He was changed by time, Not less by care and toil. His step had left Its early pride for the calm, conscious power 68 GUIDO SAVELLA. Of riper years; and there remained no trace, In tlie man's grand proportions, of the slight And flexible outlines of the unformed child. Men said his brain was overcharged with thought ; The blue veins branched distinctly on his temples, His lips had lost their fulness, and the blood Fled with hot haste unsummoned to his brow. He had grown captious, difficult, unlike His former self. The daylight parched him now. The twilight chilled, and sleep to him was fever; Eor. he would wake half shrieking, and aroused. Steal mantled forth into the quiet streets. Shunning the moonbeams, starting in white fear From the dim, cowering midnight at the base Of pedestal and column. Early morn Found him before his easel. From without. Through the looped curtains of his studio came Faintly the stir of life, and far beneath, The garden with its fountains, and dark groves. And winding paths, stretched westward. The high walls Were white and unadorned; the vaulted ceiling GUIDO SAVELLA. 69 Kept step and voice with a deep roll like thunder. There were no draperies save those that hung Over the windows, and before the door Of a small inner room, and there, low bending, A statue caught back on her lifted arm The gathered folds, and finger laid on lip, Gazed in upon the artist. A Madonna, Over whose brow a dark blue mantle fell, Ilung in a deep recess. There was a magic About the face — a picture may have such — For on its down-cast lids the gazer's heart DAvelt earnestly, and with a passionate wish To sec them rise. Hour after hour, 'twas told, Guido stood rapt before it, and 'twas whispered Throughout the household, that vrhen even came, And he awoke from those strange reveries To steal forth to the gardens, his faint step Scarce left its impress on the moistened sod Girding his favourite fountain. As a cloud That captures the retreating light of day. His eye still kept its lustre ; but quick pulses 70 GUIDO SAVELLA. Glanced wavering o'er His temples, and the dew Came readily to his brow. He would speak low. Pacing alone, and sometimes in his glance There crouched an indistinct terror, or awhile He seemed to sleep, and but remembered, waking, A light hand in his own, soft lips that touched His hot veins and they cooled. But this was dreaming ; And when ere long Francesca came, he wound His arm about her waist, and with a smile Talked as she loved to hear him, playfully, Yet mingling wisdom with his sportive words ; Sending athwart the current of deep thought Fleets of grotesque, capricious fantasies. As boys float mimic barks across a river. Yet even then the delicate chain of fancy Would seem to snap asunder, and he sought Bewildered the lost links. But knowing not Their mother's history, she who listened deemed Only that constant toil had vexed his brain. And smiled, and soothed him, and with earnest wiles Chased back the gathering gloom. If now they named Savella's wife, his very lips turned white. GUIDO SAVELLA. 7i The chamber where her portrait hung was closed, The key had rusted in the lock. A vail Hung, like a pall, before the pictured face. 'Twas sunset, and the mellowed sound of bells. The lowing of worn cattle driven to drink. Came from the vineyards and the far Campagna. 'Twas still in Guido's studio; not a sound Rose from below, but loitered as it came. The echoes caged within the dome-like ceiling Slept upon folded wings. A picture stood Half finished on the easel, but the artist Grown weary had gone forth. Light steps ascended The marble stair, the drapery looped back Upon the nymph's white arm, waved, and Francesca Lifting its folds, passed through. .The polished floor Imaged her feet like water as she passed ; She paused before the easel. On the canvass. New-limned, a woman in the Roman garb Sat by a fount and watched gray oxen drinking. Her hands lay clasped upon the marble rim. 72 GUIDO SAVELLA. Her veiled eyes were cast down, and at her feet A contadino, stretched upon the grass, Pillowed his head upon his folded arms. With ripe lips dropped apart, Francesca gazed Smiling upon her beauty's counterpart ; Then with a sudden impulse, from the peasant Whose lids were darkly outlined on her cheek. Turned to the pictured Virgin, and first saw How like her own Madonna's features were ! She started, and with finger laid on lip, Pondered a space; then, pausing not to question If there were aught irreverent in her thought. Stepped upon tiptoe through the room, and vanished The curtains were dravm close when Guido entered. Through their large flutes the tempered light came in As through a wave. Arch, wall, and glassy column Stood like translucent amber. Guido paused. Resting upon the threshold. He had risen. That morn to a new being ; to the sound Of rhythms sweeter than the mirth of brooks ; To the low voice of songs that thrilled for flight, GUIDO SAVELLA. 73 To the light trip of dreams, like trooping zephyrs. And every thought sang, jubilant, as it rose, And every dream its gossamer wings unfolding, Warmed in his spirit's sunshine. Like a band Of nymphs that dance to music, all his fancies Came with a twin-born melody. For rhythm Seemed his soul's natural language, and it flowed Effortless as the harmonies of a bird. And so the poet's day passed vision-like. Filled with the bright confusion of a dream. Now worn and fever-flushed, he w^ould have called His wild thoughts to their nests, and bade sweet peace Descend like dew at evening. But in vain. AYearily crept the sunshine to his eye ; The fall of footsteps down the narrow street. Each varied tone in the great city's voice. Fell like a pang on nerves the lightest touch Now thrilled to painfulness. The windless air Pressed on his forehead like a steadfast hand) And still resolving rest, he still thought on. Wearied to pain. The cool, half-mystical light 74 GUIDO SAVELLA. Was pleasant to his senses. With bent head He paced the room. He looked not towards Madonna, With eyes cast downward steadfastly, he seemed To wrestle with wild thoughts. Thus for a space. He paused, turned suddenly, and looked up. A cry At his heart's threshold died. He stood transfixed, With lips blanched white "syith terror. What stood there, Within the columned niche? Madonna's picture Was gone, an empty frame hung in its place ! What stood with folded hands ? A mantle fell Squarely across the brow, and dark blue folds Trailed to the pavement ! Softly ! so ! the echoes Are listening from above ! His step scarce roused them. Nearer, with hushed heart ! In the uncertain light He thought to see it vanish, but, unchanged. The veiled shape stood like marble. O'er his eyes He passed his burning hand. Another step ! One more. Ah, heaven, the robe stirred on her bosom ! Now could he mark the rosy line dividing GUIDO SAVELLA. 75 The palms together laid. His breath came fast. TJiiLS stood she in his dreams ! Lo, the fringed lids Rose slowlj, and ejcs filled with love and laughter Turned to his own ! He bent, with outstretched arms. A smile mocked from the lip, then rapid blushes Burned, and grew pale, as if in terror sprang The veiled shape to his side, and flinging back The mantle, clinging to his breast, cried '' Guide ! Dear Guide I" and in hollow echoes died Over the vaulted ceiling, "Guide! Guide!" He bent her light form backward o'er his arm. And looked into her face. Like a crushed serpent, Under his firm teeth writhed the nether lip. His grasp was iron. "With her pleading eyes She watched him silently. He flung her off", And, tossing a wild hand to heaven, rushed forth. She heard his fleet step echo through the halls, And shrieking followed. Still Savella's house Stands in the seven-hilled city. There, together. 76 GUIDO SAVELLA. .Dwell twain alone, a brother and a sister. These hold no revels and receive no guest. One is a man with vacant, wandering eyes, "Whose face is like a boy's ; his hair's linked rings Fall to his bosom ; one, calm-browed and pale, A woman on whose laughter-moulded lip Joy lies asleep. Her life seems blent with his. She hath no thought but for her mute companion. And if he walks, her shoulder is his prop ; If he would sleep, she charms his weary lids With singing, or, reclining at his side. Under the ilex boughs, reads scraps of song Whose musical rhymes are pleasant to his ear. Their sense, alas, unheeded ! And, the while, He will beat slow time with his hand, or echo Her low words softly, as a child repeats Its teacher's accents. His ig not the gloom That blinds a common mind. His soul shines forth Like starlight o'er the ruins of a Rome; Like a pale moon through tempests, sending gleams Over the waste of madness, and still feebly Ruling its tides. Still, nature hath a charm GUI DO SAVELLA. 77 For his dim sense, and still unconsciously He freights the bird's song and the blossom's fragrance With his heart's rich thanksgiving. Flower and herb He cherishes with strange love. He will not crush The meanest weed that flings its pendulous spray Over his path — and all things gentle love him, From the grave hound that guards him, to the birds That, from low boughs, the while he flings them bounty, Eye him askance. His pencil still beguiles Long hours, grotesquely on the canvass blending Weird, goblin fancies with half-grasped conceptions, Gloriously fair. The very words he speaks Are chosen for their beauty, and the rhythms He loved, seem ever lingering on his lips. Thought gleams in faint Auroras, and hope calls Their light day's luminous herald. Oh ! the flame Burns low upon the altar, JNIemory clasps Her blazoned missal, and the priest-like voice Of Reason dies in silence ! There are heard No more amid her aisles fast-crowdinsi: thou^^hts. No more the noble anthems of her worship ; And Guide's soul is like some dim cathedral ^S GUI DO SAVELLA. That keeps with faint, sweet light the hush of prayer After the prayer hath ceased; the breath of incense Burned upon shrines, the solemn, deep vibrations Of music that falls trembling into stillness ! A TRUE STORY OF A FAAVN. Down from a mountain's craggy brow His homeward way a hunter took, By a path that wound to the vales below At the side of a leaping brook. Long and sore hud his journey been, By the dust that clung to his forest green. By the stains on his. broidered moccasin ; And over his shoulder his rifle hung. And pouch and horn at his girdle swung. The eve crept westward ; soft and pale The sunset poured its rosy flood A TRUE STORY OF A FAWN. Slanting over the wooded vale ; And the weary hunter stood Looking down on his cot below, Watching his children there at play, Watching the swing on the chestnut bough Flit to and fro through the twilight gray, Till the dove's nest rocked on its quivering spray. Faint and far through the forest wide Came a hunter's voice, and a hound's deep cry; Silence, that slept in the rocky dell. Scarcely waked as her sentinel Challenged the sound from the mountain side. Over the valleys the echo died. And a doe sprang lightly by And cleared the path, and panting stood With her trembling fawn by the leaping flood. She spanned the torrent at a bound, And swiftly onward, winged by fear, Fled as the cry of the deep-mouthed hound Fell louder on her ear; A TRUE STORY OF A FAWN. 81 And pausing bj the waters deep, Too slight to stem their rapid flow, Too weak to dare the perilous leap, The fawn sprang wildly to and fro, Watching the flight of her lithe-limbed doc. Now she hung o'er the torrent's edge And sobbed and wept as the waves shot by, Now she paused on the rocky ledge With head erect, and steadfast eye, Listening to the stag-hound's cry. Close from the forest the deep bay rang. Close in the forest the echoes died. And over the pathway the brown fawn sprang And crouched at the hunter's side. Deep in the thickets the boughs unclasped Leapt apart with a crashing sound. Under the lithe vines, sure and fast, Came on the exulting hound ; S2 ATRUESTOllYOFAFAWN. Yet baffled, stopped to bay and glare Far from the torrent's bound ; For the weeping fawn still crouching there Shrank not nor fled, but closer pressed And laid her head on the hunter's breast. THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. A PARAPHRASE. Perched on a rock, a river at its base, Stands Castle Lahneck. 'Twas a robber's keep In tlie old time. An outlawed baron lodged His train of knights, and hostages grew gray, And victims plead and died, where limp grass waves Like signals from the windows, or grows rank Around a horrible pit digged deep beneath The one tall tower. One fair May afternoon, 84 THE TOWER OF L AH NECK. An English stranger with her German guide Trod breathlessly the difBcult path that winds Up to the ruined walls. The two were friends, And with light laughter and familiar jests Made the way pleasant, till they paused at last Under the castle's shadow, to look down On the blue Lahn that widens to the Rhine, The Rhine itself beyond, the broad, fair scene Outspread below. The English girl spoke first After long silence ; with clasped hands, and head Thrown back, retreating slow, and with her eye Measuring the lone high tower. " Oh, Margaret ! Eagles by daylight, and gray owls that blink Under the o'er-bright moon, on yon great height Blindly possess the wealth that would enrich A human soul for ever!" Through a maze Of matted shrubbery they forced a path Close to the ruin. A projecting wall Sheltered a low-arched door, that, cloaked by vines. And half way blocked with slippery stones, framed in Intensest darkness. "With light, fearless tread. THE TOWER OF LA II NECK. 85 Ida, the blue-eyed stranger, leading through, Crossed the rude threshold. Lo 1 a massy stair, Far as the eye could follow, up the wall "Wound to the summit I They were young and gay, And never thought of danger. Ida first. They scaled the steep flight, singing as they trod Snatches of song. Their sweet notes filled the tower, Making faint tinkling echoes as they dropt Through its dim well of silence. Safe at last. They stood upon the turret roof, and looked Over the low broad parapet. While one With tears of joyous pride and outstretched hand, Hamlet and river, vale and distant mount Named rapidly, the other wept, oppressed By the vague, restless sadness that to some Comes linked with beauty. Warning shadows grew Long on the meadows while they talked of home, Minding each other of the tedious path, 86 THE TOWER OF L All NECK. And yet they lingered. Margaret had crept Close to the edge, and Ida, on her shoulder Resting a light hand, forward leant Tvith looks Piercing the distance downward. A strange dread Thrilled each alike. Both from the parapet Shrank with one impulse. From the vaults beneath Crept a light, silent shudder. Was it time For the roused earth to jostle from her breast This sepulchre of crime? The turret rocked Under their feet, and a loud thunderous roar Rushed upward like the swift flame shot to heaven Out of a crater ! When it died away In a deep trembling, all the ruin seemed Alive with swarming echoes, but these dropped Into their nooks, and from below again Welled the deep silence. Then the German rose. And, tottering to the stairway, shrieked to see Its last rude vestige, loosened by her tread. Plunge through the void, and Ida, at the cry. THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. 87 Lifting her wan face, to the chasm's edge Stole fearfully. A black, fixed gloom half way Filled the deep, w^ell-like tower ; gray threads of light Drawn through the ragged crevices, or caught On the vine branches, seemed the gossamer skein The spider wove from wall to wall, or spread Over the ivy. They who from its depths Withdrew their looks, each in the other's eyes Searching for comfort, read the sharp dismay Neither had spoken. Hiding in her soul One hope that like a precious perfume might Exhale in the disclosing, Ida crept Back to the turret's verge, and steadfastly Screening her eyes from the descending sun, Looked o'er the parapet. The wooded hills Sprinkled with sunshine, and the vales between Lapped in dim lovely shade, seemed overspread With a faint ghastliness. Except the crow Flapping above the forest, or the wings Of the fierce eagles, or the bird that flew Dipping along the river, nothing stirred 88 THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. Over the landscape, and her straining gaze Dropped listless downward. Nay ! upon the path Tracking the mountain, some one stirred beneath, Slowly approaching! Both together leant Over the parapet, and called aloud. Alas ! the thin, light air refused to keep The burden of their voices. He, below. Never looked up. But could their frantic cries Have fathomed the deep distance, it had then Availed them not. For it was only Kranz, The' deaf and dumb from Lahnstein, seeking flowers, To sell them at the inn. They watched the twilight As 'twere a deluge, while its flowing tides Flooded the valleys, and crept up the front Of the tall turret. Barge on barge had gone Down the calm river ; from the mill above Forth came the miller, and walked loitering home Under the mountain's shadow ; peasants drove Their cattle from the pasture; children played In the near fields, and once a fisherman THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. 89 Rowed througli the castle's bright reflection cast Over the Lahn. And no one paused for them. The steersman had been busy at his helm, The miller thought of home. They had strayed far That sunny day; none in the distant town They left behind, knew whither, or would think To seek them here. • The stars shone thick above. The gloom below was studded here and there By clustered village lights ; the firefly lit His lamp among the osiers. Ida still Crouched by the parapet, her folded arms Pillowing her head. She had awhile exchanged Iler sorrow for another's, and in thought Mourned for her own lost self, and wearied time With questions of her fate. Once Margaret spoke Words of faint comfort, but she, looking up, Answered with dreary smiling, " Hope thou not. Unless we make, like rosy Ganymede, Steeds of the eagles!" Now bright floods of light Streamed from the windows of the Lahnstcin inn 90 THE TOWER OF LA II NECK. Over the waters. There the merry guests Sat quaffing Rheinwein. Midnight from the skies Swept like a solemn vision. Ere the dawn, A low white mist had settled on the vales, And all that day no traveller came to look At the lone ruin. They w^ere wild with thirst, Faint* for the lack of food, when, still as dew. Another eve dropt round them. Since the noon Margaret had stirred not, but with blank cold eyes Turned to the misty river, and hands locked Over her knee, sat patient, though aloud Ida wailed out, or, leaning from the tower, Stretched forth her arms towards the distant home Whence they had stra3^ed, or, frozen by despair, Prostrate lay silent till dismay again Struck at her cowering soul. But now she rose, And close upon its brink, looked steadily Down the black chasm. From the vaults stole up An odour of damp earth, against the walls Beat the blind bats, and startled by her tread An owl rushed upward with its boding scream, THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. 91 And wheeling round the tower, fled fast and far Toward the Black Forest. Whether she had leant Over the gulf too hardily, and, scared By the near flight of that unholy bird, Swerved and stepped falsely, whether desperate fear Then fixed the wavering purpose in her soul God saw, but Ida, starting at a shriek That drowned the owl's hoot, only looked to know She was alone. What desolate hours were hers, Who knelt down in the starlight, stretching forth. Her shuddering arms to Heaven, and from that time Patiently suffered ! Was she saved at last ? What say the bargemen floating down the Lahn, The boatmen at the Ferry, to and fro Hourly plying, or the rustic groups That loiter as they pass ? To their belief. Since from its heights the robber baron swept With his hawk's eye the valleys, never foot Has trod the ruined summit. Only, once, Albert, the fisher, resting on his oar 92 THE TOWER OF LAHNECK. After tlie day's toil, marvelled to discern A wild she-eagle, wheeling from the clouds, Sit screaming to her mate with outspread wings Where the red sunset crowns the Tower of Lahncck ! THE CHAPLET OF BRONZE. '' On, could I melt my spirit into song And dying triumph !" The slow silvery notes Rose from her lips as smoke rings from a censer. Gay dames and gallants whispered, the young nobles Stood with averted eyes, and the rude crowd Aped their indiifFerence. Holding with her looks The scorn that coiled to spring, she sang, and drave Melody to the utmost bounds of sound, Marcia, the Florentine. The orchestra Pealed forth its loudest, but triumphantly As the white sea-bird skims the waves, her voice Outrode the storm of music. Suddenly, 94 THE CHAPLET OF BllONZE. A note shot upward, and suspended hung As if on poised wings. A single voice Cried ''Bravo !" as slow dropped from that great height It seemed to fathom silence. Then upborne By music, like a bird that's swung to rest By the lulled waves, the singer's voice kept on Swelling and falling with the sound that bare it. Low bent the lover to his lady's ear, And she sat trifling with her gilded fan. All through the indifferent crowd, above, below, Only averted faces met her eye Who had been wont to hold the multitude By her sweet voice as in a silver leash. With scarce a bend of her white neck she turned And passed out from their sight. The painted curtain Swept to the footlamps, and the orchestra Thundered again. But to and fro the crowd Swayed with mute restlessness. Some one cried out " Amalia !" and a thousand voices joined, "Amalia!" to the gilded ceiling, slow, Crept back the screen of drapery. THE CHAPLET OF B 11 N Z E. 95 There were fountains. Green groves, and arbours, in the scene before them, With what seemed moonlight shimmering over all. And through one avenue that pierced the distance A single note came floating. 'TSvas a child That, up the aisle advancing, to the footlamps Drew near, and with her hands locked carelessly Sang with a fearless joyfulness. Her voice Was fresh as May-winds, wilder than the lark That swoops and circles in its upward flight, Delirious with music. Scarce the ear Marked how through labyrinths of song it held One clue of melody; its notes like pearls Strung on the silken thread they half concealed. Her voice was but the sail her happy spirit Urged to its utmost through the waves of song ; When Marcia sang, each silver arrow sped True to the mark, but these seemed flung at random ; No bird that sings amid the summer leaves E'er voiced his spirit with such deep deliglit ; And when she ceased, and the loud orchestra 96 THE CHAPLET OF BRONZE. Took up the strain, the multitude o'erwhelmed it With a continuous thunder. Soft, a voice ! And through the distant scenery came a form That paused midway, and with white, lifted arms Held up what seemed a crown of woven leaves. Then "Marcia! Marcia !" fled from lip to lip. And with the tempest of her shouted name The high walls trembled. Her magnificent head Bent to the crowd's applauses, as the prow Of some grand vessel sinks to meet the waves; And lifting high the wreath, she cried, " Come hither ! Hither, Amalia !" With meek folded arms, Low bent the singer. Yet suspended hung Over her brow the fatal type of fame. The laurel crown, till Marcia smiled. It fell, — Not fluttering slow, but with a sudden quickness, And as it dropped, loud thunders of applause Blent with the crash of music. Some stood still; For through the tumult a prolonged wild shriek THE CHAPLET OF BRONZE. 97 Rose, faintly audible. 'Twas but a fancy ! Still Marcia smiled, and still Amalia bent. The smile seemed graven upon Marcia's lip. And now Amalia, sinking to her knee, Bent lower, lower, lower, till her brow Pressed down the border of the robes that swept Prom Marcia's zone, and Marcia had no rival ! JULIETTE. Where the rough crags lift, and the sea-mews call, Yet frowns Earl Hubert's castle tall. Close at the base of its western wall The chafed waves stand at bay ; And the May-rose twined in its banquet hall Dips to the showering spray. Eor the May-rose springs, and the ivy clings. And the wall-floY>Tr flaunts in the ruined bower. And the sea-bird foldeth her weary wings Up in the stone-gray tow^er ; Scaling an arch of the postern rude A wild vine drops to the water's flow, JULIETTE. 99 Deep in the niches the blind owls brood, And the fringing moss hangs low, Where stout Earl Hubert's banner stood Five hundred years ago ! Out from the castle's western wall Jutteth a tower round and tall, And leading up to the parapet By a winding turret stair. Over the sea there looketh yet A chamber small and square. Where the faint daylight comes in alone Through a narrow slit in the solid stone ; And here, old records say. Earl Hubert bore his wayward child From courts and gallants gay ; That, guarded by the breakers wild. And cloistered from her lover's arms. Here might she mourn her wasted charms, Here weep her youth away. ^' One ! two !" said the sentinel. Watching the night from the eastern tower. 100 JULIETTE. Up in the turret- a solemn knell Tolled for the parting hour; Over the ocean its echo fell, One ! two ! — like a silver bell Chiming afar in the sea-nymph's bower. Shrill and loud was the sea-bird's cry, The watch-dog bayed as the moon rose high, The great waves swelled below ; And the measured plash of a dipping oar Broke softly through their constant roar. And paused beneath the shade Flung westward by that turret hoar Where slept the prisoned maid. The sentinel paced to and fro Under the castle parapet, But, in her chamber, Juliette Heard not the tramp of his clanging foot, Nor the watch-dog baying near : Only the sound of a low-toned lute Stole to her dreaming ear. JULIETTE. 101 The moon rode up as the night wore on, Looking down with a blinding glaie Into that chamber still and lone, Touching the rough-hewn cross of stone. And the prayer beads glittering there; The loosened waves of the sleeper's hair. And the curve of her shoulder, white and bare. She dreamed ! she dreamed ! that dreary keep Melted away in the calm moonbeams ; The sea-bird's call and the wave's hoarse sweep, Changed for the lull of a forest deep. And the pleasant voice of streams. She seemed, at rest by a mossy stone. To watch the blood-red sun go down. And hang on the verge of the horizon Like a ruby set in a golden ring; To hear the wild birds sing Up in the larch boughs, loud and sweet, Over a turf where the soft waves beat With a sound like a naiad's dancing feet. 102 JULIETTE. For here and there on its winding way Down bj dingle and shady nook, Under the white thorn's dropping spray Glittered the thread of a slender brook, And scarce a roebuck's leap beyond. Close to the brink of its grassy bound. She heard her lover's chiding hound. His bugle's merry play. Oh, it was sweet again to be Under the free blue skies ! She turned on her pillow restlessly. And the tears to her sleeping eyes Came welling up, as the full drops start At spring's first smile from a fountain's heart. Up rose the maid in her dreamy rest. And flung a robe o'er her shoulders bare. And gathered the threads of her floating hair. Ere, with a foot on the turret stair She paused, then onward pressed. As the tones of a soft lute broke again Through the deeper chords of the voiceful main. JULIETTE. . 103 Steep and rude was the perilous way, Through loopholes square and small The night looked into the turret gray, And over the massive wall In blocks of light the moonbeams lay, But the changeful ghosts of the showering spray. And the measured play of the waters dim Rippled and glanced on the ceiling grim. The moon looked into her sleeping eyes, The night wind stirred her hair ; And wandering blindly, Juliette, Close on the verge of the parapet. Stood without in the open air. Under the blue arch of the skies. Save for the pacing sentinel. Save for the ocean's constant swell, There seemed astir no earthly thing. Below, the great waves rose and fell. Scaling ever their craggy bound. But scarce a zephyr's dipping wing Broke the silver crust of the sea beyond ; 1(14 JULIETTE. And in her life-like dream, The maiden now had wandered on To the brink of a slender stream, Then pausing, stayed her eager foot, For with the brook's sweet monotone Mingled the soft voice of a lute. And where the level sunbeams played Over the lap of a lawny glade, A hound lay sleeping in the shade. Kocked by the light -waves to and fro. Scarcely an arrow's flight from shore. Her lover in his bark below Paused, resting on the oar. Watching the foam wreaths dash and fall Like shattered stars from the castle wall. As higher yet he raised his eyes, Jesu ! he started with affright ; For, painted on the midnight skies, Seemed hovering in the tremulous light A fin-ure small, and angel white ! JULIETTE. 105 Against the cast lay far and dim, Touched by the moon's uncertain ray, The airy form, the turret grim. Doubtful he paused a minute's space ; Then rowed towards the castle's base, But checked his oar midway, And gazing up at the parapet. Shouted the one word, '^ Juliette!" Lute, baying hound, and restless deep, Each gave the clue bewildered thought Had followed through the maze of sleep, And, by her lulled ear faintly caught, Her lover's voice its echo wrought. She heard him call, she saw him stand With smiling lip and beckoning hand. And closer pressed, and, dreaming yet. From the green margin of the stream, From the steep verge of the parapet. Sprang forward with a scream ! Then once again the deep bell tolled Up in the turret gray and old. lOG JULIETTE. And mingled with its lingering knell, The echoed crj, half-heard, half-lost. Startled the weary sentinel Now slumbering at his post. But wakened from his dreamful rest. He deemed the sound some wandering ghost Haunting the shades of sleep ; For like a bird upon its nest The hushed air brooded o'er the deep. And to his drowsy ear there crept Only the voice of the choral waves, Only the drip of the spray that wept. And the ripples that sang through the weedy caves. Nor marked he, ere again he slept, The muffled dip of a hasty oar, A steed's quick tramp along the shore. When morning came, a shallop's keel Grated the edge of the pebbly strand; A maid's small foot, and a knight's armed heel Were traced upon the sand. PRAYER. I HAVE a thought of one who dra-wing close Over her brow the sackloth, in its folds Crouched, shutting out from her refusing eyes God's gift of sunshine. While the all-pitying skies Wooed her with light she would not look upon, While earth entreated her, and passing winds Plucked at her garments, and around her flung Invisible arms, light, urgent, clasping arms. Her heart made answer : — I have lain so long On thy cold breast. Despair, did I arise I should reel wildly, staggering with cramped limbs 108 PRAYER. Through the white, glaring sunshine. Hide me, night ! Lest the full glories of the universe Smite me with blindness, and exulting earth Under the blue triumphal arch of heaven Victoriously passing, blast my sense With her insulting gladness. Once I prayed; Once when dismay, want, death, pressed me so close, I faced them in mere madness, and beholding, From mine appalled soul sent up a shriek That must have pierced the hollow ear of space, Startling the angels, holding in suspense Awhile the eternal harmonies. Vain heart ! Could the mute prayer that on its fiery track Followed in trembling haste, prevail so far? Amid the roll of twice ten thousand harps Struck by white-handed seraphim, the voice Of that unfathomed sea of human woe Making perpetual moan about His throne. And surging to His footstool, dost thou dream That its weak cry rose audibly ? Did sleep On her imploring senses lightly rest P R A Y E R. 109 His hand in benediction ? The still air To her astonished gaze grew all instinct, Moted with airy forms for ever drawn Up, by some genial influence. "With bent heads, With hands clasped mutely, and looks downward dropt, Else searching space, onward they pressed, and drew Her rapt soul with them. Tears and sighs fell thick, Mixed with low broken murmurs, and a sound. Distinct, of music that flowed clearly on. Like a glad singing stream that lifts its voice Amid the mourning of sere autumn boughs Bent with wet leaves and rain. The dense, dull air, As 'twere a vail, they parted, and it lay Above the earth like the dusk cloud that hanixs Over some populous mart. And upward still Through that black space, of which the hue of night Is a pale mock ! And she who fled with them. Whither, she questioned not, from that great height Back glancing, saw the universe as one Who, looking from a mountain top, beholds Faint clustering lights, that, twinkling through the gloom, Mark where a city stands. And upward still ! no PRAYER. Till through the cloaking dark a sword of light Flashed suddenly. Then over and around, There shined the brightness of ten thousand suns All concentrate, and her scared spirit stood In the full courts of heaven ! She might not look On its great glory, but the Seraphim That leant upon their harps, forever there Turned with bright solemn faces, lost, transfused Into one rapturous thought. She only saw How all the assembled prayers of all the worlds Entreated, silent. Various their guise ; Some with pure eyes uplift, that dared to look Straight on Divinity, and some with dust On their pale foreheads. There were infant prayers Crowned with faint halos; saintly prayers, that might. But for some traces of forgotten tears. Have swelled the ranks of Heaven. While yet she looked. On the pale shore of light there stood a Form Forlorn, close mantled, that with tottering steps Drew nearer. Hers ! she knew it well ! her heart Shrank with a deadly fear. Oh God! the prayer PRAYER. Ill That on the steps of the mad shriek that bore Woe, horror, and defiance up to Heaven, Followed with faint entreaty ! That weak cry, That mute despairing thing that from her heart Scarce struggled to her lips, and there fell prone As one across a threshold ! Staggering on With its pale hands uplift, closer it drew; And, while she looked to see it thrust without Into surrounding darkness, rapt and calm Stood the ranked angels. Near, oh God, it came ! Then with the mien of her who touched His robe When the crowd pressed Him, springing to the throne, With a low cry fell prostrate ! In their sheaths Why slept the keen swords of the cherubim? Lo, every knee was bowed ! round every brow There bloomed fresh amaranth, from every lip Burst such transcendent melody, the stars Grew musical with its echoes, and dull earth Dreamed of it in her slumber. Last of all Rose that pale Form, and cast the mantle back, 112 PRAYER. And drank in the pure light with steadfast eyes, And sho^Yed God's seal, that, stamped upon its brow. Burned like a star. There was great joy in Heaven. THEODORA. Since we know her for an angel Bearing meek the common load, Let us call her, Theodora, Gift of God ! Still so young that every summer Is a rose upon her brow, All her days are blooms detaching From a bough. 114 THEODORA. She is very slight, and graceful As the bending of a fern, As the marble figure drooping O'er an urn. In her eyes are tranquil shadows Lofty thoughts alone can make, Like the darkness thrown by mountains O'er a lake. If you speak, the slow returning Of her spirit from afar To their depths, is like the advent Of a star. No one marvels at her beauty ; Blended with a perfect whole, Beauty seems the just expression Of her soul. THEODORA. 115 For her lightest word or fancy, Unarrayed for human ear, Might be echoed by an angel Watching near. Be a theme however homely, It is glorious at her will, Like a common air transfigured By a master's skill. And her words, severely simple As a drapery Grecian-wrought, Show the clear symmetric outline Of her thouo:ht. To disguise her limbs with grandeur Would seem strange as to dispose Gold and velvet round a statue's Pale repose. 116 THEODORA. But a robe of simplest texture Should be gathered to her throat, And her rippled locks part braided, Part afloat. While a pendent spray of lilies In their folds should be arrayed, Or a waxen white camelia Lamp their shade. EOLIE. On, you are welcome as the dew To the worn feet of pilgrmi clay ; And wild and fresh, as flowers that keep The virgin bloom and breath of May. Yet wilful as a hawk set free Ere whistle lure, or huntsman tame her. Capricious as the bridal smile Spring half denies the skies that claim her, You've slept since morning, unbetrayed By waving grass or whispering tree. You're loitering now through grove and glade ; Wild Eolie ! 119 EOLIE. Oh, we were playmates long ago ! And then I chased your flying feet Over the brave rock-terraced hills, Over the valleys, green and sweet. Your kisses woke me if I slept Where boughs unclasp, and shadows play, And, starting from my childish dreams, I heard your low laugh far away. Most gentle in your wily mirth. Yet elfin, half, you seemed to me, T loved you more than I can tell, Wild Eolie 1 I love you still ; when even comes I hear you tread my chamber floor ; You sweep aside my curtain's fold, And turn the page I linger o'er. For sunset is our trysting time ; Our tryst we keep till stars convene, Till, Thetis-like, from deeps of blue UpAvends the silver-footed queen. EOLIE. 119 Breaking the crystal calm of night, As light wings break a glassy sea, Your low voice hymns me to my rest, Wild Eolie! When through the heaven's serenest blue Move car-like clouds w^ith lingering flight, I image you a nymph like those That urge the shell of Amphitrite. At morn you are a huntress fleet, And, cloistered from the heats of noon, You seem at night a sister pale, Low chanting to the haloed moon. By morn, and noon, and saintly night, I image what I cannot see ; And give your elfin tones a soul. Wild Eolie ! SUMMER. The early spring hath gone ; I see her stand Afar off on the hills, white clouds, like doves. Yoked by the south wind to her opal ear. And at her feet a lion and a lamb Couched, side by side. Irresolute spring hath gone ! And summer comes like Psyche, zephyr-borne To her sweet land of pleasures. She is here ! Amid the distant vales she tarried lono^. But she hath come, oh joy ! — for I have heard Her many-chorded harp the livelong day S U xM M E R. 121 Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late, Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came The wild north wind careering like a steed Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth Into the forest, and its poised leaves Are platformed for the zephyr's dancing feet. Under its green pavilions she hath reared Most beautiful things ; the spring's pale orphans lie Sheltered upon her breast ; the bird's loud song At morn outsoars his pinion, and when waves Put on night's silver harness, the still air Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven, And all that hail its smile. Her ministry Is typical of love. She hath disdained No gentle office, but doth bend to twine The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children Faint by the way-side like worn passengers, 122 SUMMER. She is a gentle mother, all night long Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews. The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth ; the days Are dowered with her beauty. Priestess ! queen ! Amid the ruined temples of the wood, She hath rebuilt her altars, and called back The scattered choristers, and over aisles Where the slant sunshine like a curious stranger Glided through arches and bare choirs, hath spread A roof magnificent. She hath awaked Her oracle, that, dumb and paralyzed, Slept with the torpid serpents of the lightning. Bidding his dread voice, nature's mightiest, Speak mystically of all hidden things To the attentive spirit* There is laid No knife upon her sacrificial altar. And from her lips there comes no pealing triumph ; But to those crystal halls where silence sits SUMMER. 123 Enchanted, liath arisen a mingled strain Of music, delicate as the breath of buds, And on her shrines the virgin hours lay Odours and exquisite dyes, like gifts that kings Send from the spicy gardens of the East. LADY CLARE. I'll drink a blithe bridal to you, Lady Clare, Ere the priest dons his gown and the marriage-bells call ; While the bridemaidens ravel the snood from your hair, And the bridegroom stands waiting your step in the hall ! I scorn you nor mourn you, nor praise nor reprove, I drink to the lips that first wiled me to love ; But the lute of your love-tones no dearer shall be Than the bound of the stag down the craggy ravine. The cry of my sleuth hound, my horn winded free, Upstarting the doe from her covert of green The hawk you've unhooded plumes wing for the air : I drink a blithe bridal to you, Lady Clare ! LADY CLARE. 125 Gray clings the mist to the river ; the cloud That trails from the mountain is black as despair ; Your bird keeps its perch, and your hound whines aloud, And the ravens croak out from the wood, Lady Clare I Faint o'er the pavement the daylight is thrown 'Mid columns and arches, through doorways of stone ; Faint on the walls, and the hunting-knives laid On antlers suspended, scarce shown through the gloom ; On the staghounds that crouch in the caverns of shade. And the bridegroom that plays with the fringe of his plume, And the guests that stand grouped at the foot of the stair, While I drink a blithe bridal to you. Lady Clare ! Your glance may be warm, and your lips may be sweet. But I'd rather be out where the doe makes her lair. With my gun on my arm, and my dog at my feet, Than stand at the altar with you. Lady Clare ! My heart you unleashed as your snood you unwound. But I'll keep for a love-link one ringlet it bound. 126 LADY CLARE. I'll keep, for a love-link of days when I blessed The breeze that your tresses had chased as it fanned, The hawk on your glove, or the steed you caressed, Or tlie greyhound that fawned at the touch of your hand — I'll keep for a love-link one lock of your hair, And I'll drink a blithe bridal to you. Lady Clare ! I'll mind me no more how we wandered till ni^ht Where the rowan tree rocks in the wild mountain air ; When your words fell as soft, and your foot fell as light As a leaf that is loosed from the bough, Lady Clare ! And you smiled, and you wept, while we lingered alone, As a flower keeps waving from shadow to sun. Oh ! dear were the love-words you whispered the while. And your weeping, if sad, and your smiling, if gay ! Oh! false were your love-words, and false was your smile. And false are the vows you must utter to-day ! As a dame casts her hawk, I will rid me of care, While I drink a blithe bridal to you, Lady Clare ! STORM AT TWILIGHT. The roar of a chafed lion in his lair Begirt by levelled spears ! A sudden flash, Intense, yet wavering, like a beast's fierce eye Searching the darkness. The wild bay of winds Sweeps the burnt plains of heaven, and from afiir. Linked clouds arc riding up like eager horsemen. Javelin in hand. From the moth wings of twilight There falls unwonted shadow, and strange gloom Cloisters the unwilling stars. The sky is roofed With tempest, and the moon's scant rays fall through Like light let dimly through the fissured rock Vaulting a cavern. To the horizon, 128 STORM AT TWILIGHT. The green sea of the forest has rolled back Its levelled billows, and where mast-like trees Sway to its bosom, here and there, a vine Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings, rocked aloft Like a bold mariner ! There is no bough But lifteth an appealing arm to heaven. The scudding grass is shivering as it flies. And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother earth Like frightened children. 'Tis more terrible. When the near thunder speaks, and the fleet wind Stops like a steed that knows his rider's voice ; For, oh, the hush that follows is the calm Of a despairing heart, and, as a maniac Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm. Weeping fast tears, awakens with a sob From its blank desolation, and shrieks on ! THE COLOURING OF HAPPINESS. My heart is full of prayer and praise to-day, So beautiful the whole world seeins to me ! I know the morn has dawned as is its wont, I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing, I know the brook chimed yesterday that same Melodious call to my unanswering thought ; But I look forth with new created eyes, And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike, And things familiar have unusual grown. Taking my spirit with a fair surprise ! i;30 THE COLOUUING OF HAPPINESS. But yesterday, and life seemed tented round With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out But with a mournful meaning ; not a cloud, And there were many, but in flitting past Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart. And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all, Went by the Heaven-bound hours. But oh ! to-day Lie all harmonious and lovely things Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven ! My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music At a chance breath ; a thousand delicate hands Are harping on my soul ! no sight, no sound But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure — Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread. The swaying of a shadow, or a bough. Or a dove's flight across the silent sky. Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart. How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought, An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet, THE COLOURING OF HAPPINESS. 131 That leave no print on memory's sands, tread not Less surely their bright path than choral hymns And litanies. I know the praise of worlds, And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise Distinctly to Ilis ear who holds all nature Pavilioned by His presence ; who has fashioned With an impartial care, alike the star That keeps unpiloted its airy circle, And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss The building swallow plucks to line her nest. THE PALACE OF ECHOES. So tall the cloud-hung turrets rise, They seem to pierce the secret skies, And they who tread their heights declare That angel forms are sentries there. And rippling to the palace door, A dull, deep wave flows evermore. For they who pass, and they who come, Must leap or swim those waters dumb. THE PALACE OF ECHOES. 133 Within the portals dark and grand, Stands silence witli uplifted hand, And "vvakeful echoes, biding there. Keep watch beside the palace stair. Strange fancies paint the ceilings dim ; A lamb, a stag, a lion grim. Are by a blindfold maiden led, Held in a chain of poppies red. Above, through chambers vast and high Tread lightly still, for echoes shy Wheel fluttering at the rash footfall, Like bird and bat from roof and wall. There where the deep-browed windows rise, The masquing light of noonday skies Through many a stained and clouded pane Drops in a faint prismatic rain. 134 THE PALACE OF ECHOES. Mantled and dumb, a ghostly rout Wheels through the chambers, in and out; Now in the cumbrous robes of sadness. Now crowned, and flushed with festal madness. Tread light above the sounding floors. Along the dark, still corridors. For they whose look is death, 'tis said. Lie chained below in dungeons dread. No daybeam breaks the purple gloom That shrouds and fills yon inner room. Dropt from the lintel to the floor, Thick draperies cloak the low-arched door. With veiled brows, a spectral band, Within, a few pale masquers stand; Echoes that haunt the palace halls Beat with faint wings the outer walls. THE TALACE OF ECHOES. 135 Paler than stars that front the day, One silver cresset wastes aAvaj ; A marble naiad, fair and dim, Keeps watch beside a fountain's brim. THE BROWN MANTLE. Write thee her history ? why, dear friend, I weave Always a new one. That of yesterday To-day seems trite. Some varying of my mood, Some chance-thrown light upon the picture caught. Still makes me question if I read aright The limner's meaning. I can only guess That not in grief or guilt her soul is drawn Through her raised eyes towards Heaven. Too ripe a hue Crimsons the passionate fulness of her lip ; The black profusion of her rippled hair Caught backward from a cheek too rosy clear. THE BROWN MANTLE. 137 She hath been leaning o'er the samtly book Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock Hath parted from the mass, across her brow Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess Her state from her arraying, at her throat The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes ; I'd have no change in them. I would not see Even the angel presence of a smile Troubling their darkness. Was she good as f\iir ? How thinkest thou? are not her very looks Teachers of purity ? was she high-born ? Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God The blossom of her nature ? She hath dwelt Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields. Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont To kneel at Romish altars, and I know Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen. 138 THE CROWN MANTLE. I'll think of her as one whose lightest Avord Angels heard unrebuking; whose pure heart Turned from impurity like a flower that shuts At the approach of night. Ah, be content ! I would not know her history if I could. A SONG FOR AUTUMN. Frighten the bird from the tasselled pine, Where he sings like a hope in a gloomy breast ; Tread down the blossoms that cling to the vine, Winnow the blooms from the mountain's crest ! Let the balm-flower sleep where the small brooks twine, And the golden-rod treasure the yellow sunshine. Muffle the bells of the faint-lipped waves. Let the red leaves fall. Let the brown fawn leap Through the golden fern. In the weedy caves Let the snake coil up for his winter sleep ; Let the ringed-snake coil where the earth is drear. Like a grief that grows cold as the heart grows sere ! 110 A SONG FOR AUTUMN. Pluck down the rainbow; make steadfast the throne Of the star that was faint in the summer night ! Let the white daughters of wave and sun Weep as they cloister the pale, pale light. Let the mist-wreaths brood o'er the valley-bound rills, And the sky trail its mantle far over the hills. Plunder the wrecks of the forest, and blind The waters that picture its ruinous dome ! Wildly, oh, wildly, most sorrowful wind, Chant, like a prophet, of terror to come ! Like a Niobe stricken with infinite dread. Leave the spirit of beauty alone with her dead. Throne the pale Naiad that filleth her urn At the fount of the sun ; on the curtain of night, Paint wild Auroras like visions that burn. Rosy Auroras like dreams of delight ! Mantle the earth, fold the robe o'er her breast. While the sky, like a seraph, bends over her rest! UNREST. Rest for awhile ! I'm tempest-tost to-day. Bar out the sunshine. Let importunate life Beating for ever "with impatient hand My soul's closed portals, only rouse within Dull, dreamy echoes ! In a forest calm Builds sleep, the white dove. As a bird she rides The lulled waves of the soul. To-day, my thoughts Hunt me like hounds ; the very prayer for peace Scares peace away ; my senses, wide awake. Watch for the touch that thrills them ; every sound Falls through the listening air unscabhardcd; And if sleep comes, 'tis but a transient dream 142 UNREST. That flits betwixt me and the light of life, Alighting never. Oh, sweet chrism of God ! Oh, balm and oil by Heaven's white ministers Laid with a blessing on the gates of sense ! Baptismal font from whence our bodies rise Regenerate ! cool, way-side shadow flung Over the paths of toil ! I am athirst. Fevered and weary of my own worn self; Strengthen me with thy strength ! Lo, where she stands, Sleep, the beloved, and mocks me with her beauty ! Her hands lie clasped around a lamp alight Burning faint incense ; from her zone unbound Dark folds trail silently; the poppies wreathed Above her temples, bursting, over-ripe. Drop with her motion. She is fair and calm, And dreams, like cherubs, with bright restless wings Cling to her sweeping robes. Let her draw near. Laying her dewy lips upon my brow, Twining me with soft movement in her arms. And there shall pass a fluttering through my sense. UNREST. 113 Leaf-like vibration, and my soul, as one Who drifts out seaward, seeing the dim shore Receding slow, hearing the voice of waves Call to him fainter, shall float guideless on, Rocked into slumber; dream effacing dream, Tliought widening around thought, till all grows vague. A AVINTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT. Hark to the wind ! The snow falls fast to-nio-ht. Ej morn, all cloAvn the road-sides 'twill lie bloAvn In beautiful shapes and curves. Against the panes It has lodged heavily. How many suns Since last, at dawn, I heard the gay south-v>xst Come piping up the vales, one little cloud Borne on its bosom as a shepherd bears The youngling of the flock ? From out this mad Contending of blent voices, Fancy calls Shapes of a ruder mould. To-night, believe. A AY INTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT. 145 Some wild-eyed maniac, Avitli uncertain steps, Paces these barren bill-sides. Now, her cry Comes stifled from the hollows. Now, she shrieks On the bare rising ground, while high-pitched tones Make answer, far and shrill, as if the fiends, Mocking her sense, grew audible to us ; And now — Heaven guard us ! — her approaching steps Sound close beneath the walls, while, each in turn. The barred doors shake as if some skeleton hand Rattled against the locks, the windows thrill; So human grows the moaning voice without, That, glancing sidelong where the curtains part. One looks to see some blood-forsaken face Pressed to the pane. Anon blank silence falls. And you believe this wandering thing stands still, Held by a thread of reason ; till, far off, Along the dells there runs an undertone Of low, melodious laughter, like soft keys Linked by a flying hand, and forest pines. Crossed by the harsh chords of the bare, brown boughs, Prelude their stormy music with a thrill Like that deep trembling when the organ first 146 A WINTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT. Stirs in a vast cathedral. Oh then, roused, Struck by some ambushed thought, she shrieks again Sudden and sharp, this tenant of the night ! And hurries through the storm with broken cries, Or, crouching to the walls, finds shelter there, Or, in a sore dismay, upon the earth Dashed headlong, sobs complaining, or in vain Seeks refuge for her madness and her woe In the white crumbling sepulchres she treads ! COUNT JULIO. Mid halls beneath whose fretted cornices Echo still babbles of a glorious past, Dwelt Julio the miser. Nobly born, Reared among palaces, and trained from youth To the gay vices of a liberal age. How came it now that year by year sped on To leave the proud count in his silent halls Hoarding the gold once lavished ? Young and fair. The haughtiest noble of the Roman court, The stateliest of the high-born throng that graced 148 COUNT JULIO. Its princely revels, he had left the feast. Bidding the bright wine that he quaffed in parting Be to him thence accursed. Kever more Checked he his courser by the Tiber's banks, Nor struck the sweet chords of his lute, nor trod Glad measures with the bright-lipped Roman dames. And from the lintels of his banquet hall The spider balanced on her gossamer thread; Dust heaped the silken couches ; and where swept Golden fringed curtains to the chequered floor, The rat gnawed silently, and gray moths fed On the rich produce of the Indian loom. Men shunned his threshold, and his palace doors Creaked on their rusty hinges. Prince and peasant Alike turned coldly at his coming step. The very beggar that at noontide lay Basking 'neath sunlight in the quiet street. Stretched not his hand forth as the miser passed. He cared not for their scorn ; man's breath to him Was as the wind that sweeps a blasted oak And finds no leaf to flutter. Fate had left COUNT JULIO. 149 Only two things on earth for him to love — Tlie gokl he heaped, and the fair motherless child Who, by his side, grew up to womanhood — And these he worshipped, loathing all things else. His couch was meager as a cloistered monk's ; Bianca's head was pillowed upon down; Ilis fare was scanty, and his garments coarse, But she was clad like prmces, and her board Heaped with the costliest viands. From the world lie shrank abhorrent, but Bianca shone Proudest and fairest in a brilliant court. Her youth had been most lonely. At his side To watch the piling of the golden heaps He told so greedily ; to play alone In gardens where no hand had put aside The flowers and weeds that in one tangled woof Hung o'er the fountain's dusty bed, and crept Round the tall porticoes : perchance to sit Hour after hour all silent at his feet. Twining her small arms and her baby throat With the rare treasures that his caskets held ; Rubies, and pearls, and flashing carcanets. 150 COUNT JULIO. Her costly playthings ; all companionless, These were her childish pastimes. Years wore on, Till the close dawn of perfect womanhood Flushed in her cheek and brightened in her eye. And the girl learned to know how fair the face Those dingy walls had cloistered from the sun ; To bear her head more proudly, and to step. If not so lightly, w^ith a queenlier tread. Love-songs were framed for her, her midnight sleep Was broken by the sound of silver lutes, And the young gallants caracoled their steeds Gayly, at eve, beneath her balcony. She went forth to the world, and careless lips Told her the shame that was her heritage. And scornful fingers pointed, as she passed, To the rare jewels, and the broidered robes. That decked the miser's daughter. Envious tongues Gilded anew the half-forgotten tale. And it became the marvel of all Rome. Thus till the diadem of gems and gold Burned on her white brow like a circling flame. COUNT JULIO. 151 Anil slie went writhing home, to weep, to loathe The sordid parent who had brought this blight Upon the joyous promise of her youth. It wa^ the still noon of a summer night, When the young countess from her fLither's roof Fled, with a noble of the Roman court ! Morn came, and through the empty corridors, The balconies, the gardens, the wide halls. In vain they sought her. Noon passed by, and then The truth was guessed, not spoken. Silently Count Julio trod the marble staircases. And pausing by the door that once was hers, Stood a brief moment, and then, pressing on. Stepped through the quiet chamber. All was still, Bearino; no traces of her recent flio-ht. Here lay a slipper, here a silken robe, And here a lute thrown down, with a Avhite glove Flung carelessly beside it. Still the air Breathed of the delicate perfumes she had loved! He glanced but once around the silent room, Then from the mirrored and silk-draperied walls 152 COUNT JULIO. Cast his eye dowmvard o'er his shrunken form, His meager garments. Few the words he spake, And muttered low; but in them came a curse So blasphemous, so hideous in its depth Of impotent rage, that they who at his side Yet stood in lingering pity, with blanched lips Turned to the threshold, and crept shuddering forth. lie breathed his sorrow to no human ear, But left it charnelled in his heart, to breed Corruption there. None knew how wearily The hours passed on beneath those lonely walls ; None saw him when, by midnight still a watcher, Starting and trembling as, inconstantly, The night winds swayed the curtains to and fro; Fancying the rustle of her silken robe. Her footfall on the staircase! Time sped on. To strike the dulled bloom from his cheek, and sca]-e The soul that once had queened it on his brow : A bent and worn old man, upon whose breast Hung the neglected masses of his beard, With meager hands habitually clenched, COUNT JULIO. 153 Till the sharp nails wore furrows in the palms. Thus stole he forth at even, and, with eyes Lost in the golden future of his dreams, Sped through the busy crowd, unmarked, unheeding. Once had he looked upon Bianca's face — Once had she knelt before him, with her child Gasping upon her breast, and prayed for succour. The unwept victim of a drunken brawl Her lord had fallen, and the palace halls That ovfned her mistress, were deserted now. She had braved fear and hunger, till her child Wailed dying on her bosom ; and so urged. Pride, shame, forgotten in a mother's love, Clung to his knees for pardon. But in vain. He cursed her as she knelt, bade her go forth. And 'mid the loathsome suppliants that unveil Disease and suffering to the eye of wealth. Bare, too, her anguish to the glance of pity. Then as she lingered, spurned her from his feet With words that chilled her agony to dread. And drove her thence in horror. From that day 151 COUNT JULIO. From that day His very blood seemed charged with bitterness. Miser and usurer both, upon the wrecks Of others' happiness he built his own. Ilis name became accursed in the land, And with his withering soul his body grew Scarce human in its ghastly hideousness. The bulb enshrouds the lily, and within The most unsightly form may folded lie The white w^inois of an angel. But in him Seemed all the sweet humanities of life Coldly encharnelled, and no hand divine Rolled from his breast the weary weight of sin, To bid them go forth unto suffering man Like gracious ministers. And she, alas ! Whom he had madly driven forth to ruin ? Earth hath no words to tell how dark the change That clothed her fallen spirit. O'er the waste Of want and ruin that engulfed her fortunes, She had sent forth the white dove, purity. COUNT JULIO. 155 And it returned no more. The Roman dames Took not her name upon their scornful lips. Her form became a model for the artist, And her rare face went do^\^l to future ages Limned on his canvass. Ye may mark it yet In the long galleries of the Vatican, Varied, yet still the same. Now robed in pride, As monarchs in their garb of Tyrian purple; Now with a Magdalen's blue mantle draAvn Over the bending forehead. As the marble Sleeps in unsullied whiteness on the tomb. Taking no taint from the foul thing it covers, Her beauty bore no blight from guilt, but lived A monument that made her name immortal. Night had uprisen, clothed with storms and gloom. No taper lit the solitary hall, But to and fro with feeble steps its lord Paced through the darkness. Midnight came, and then Pausing beside the groaning door that weighed Its rusty hinge. Count Julio, crouching, peered Into the gloom without ; for stealthy feet 156 COUNT JULIO. Whose cclio struck upon his wary ear, Had crossed the lower hall, and slowly how Trod the great stau'case. 'Twas no robber's step, Faint, slow, and halting ever and anon As though in weariness. His sharpened sense Caught, 'mid the fitful pauses of the wind. The headlong dashing of the driven rain, A sound of painful breathing, nay, of sobs. Bursting, and then as suddenly suppressed. Shuddering he stood, and, as the storm's, red bolt Leapt through the Vv^indows, lighting, as it passed, A dusky shape that cowered at the flash. He shrank within the chamber, and again Listened in silence. Nearer came the sound, — A tall form crossed the threshold, and threw back What seemed a heavy mantle. Then again Glanced the pale lightning, and Count Julio knevf. By the long hair that swept her garments' hem, Bianca ! COUNT JULIO. 157 They who through that night of fear Kept watch with storm and terror till the morn, Bore its dark memories even to the tomb. For shrieks and cries seemed mingled with the wind, And voices, as of warring fiends, prevailed O'er its low mutterings ! Morn awoke at last. And w^ith its earliest gleam Count Julio crept Forth through his palace gardens. Swollen drops Hung on the curved roofs of the porticoes ; His footsteps dashed them from the earth-bowed leaves, And the long tangles of the matted grass. But, over head, the day broke gloriously. "Where once a fountain to the sunlight leapt, A marble Naiad by its weedy bed Stood on her pedestal. With hand outstretched She grasped a hollowed shell, now brimming o'er. While a green vine that round her arm had crept, Rose, serpent-like, and in the chalice dipt Its curling tendrils. Thither turned his eye, Just as the red uprising of the sun 158 COUNT JULIO. Smote the pale statue, and crept brightening down Even to its mossy base. Mantled and prone, A heap that scarcely seemed a human form Crouched in the shadow, and with tottering feet The old man hurried onward. Motionless, It stirred not at his coming. Nearer still He marked a white face upward turned, clenched hands Locked in the hair that swept its ghastly brow. Shading his weak eyes from the blinding sun. Cowering in trembling horror to the earth. Still on he crept, then, bending softly down. Spake in a smothered voice, "Hist, hist, Bianca !" Oh, mockery ! the ear that he had filled With curses, woke not to the tones of love ! The breast that he had spurned from him, heaved not At his wild anguish. Death had done its work. The tempest had been merciless as the parent Who drove her forth to meet it, and the flash Of its red eye more withering than his scorn. Shunned both in penitence and guilt, forsaken By those who only prized her for the beauty COUNT JULIO. 159 Time, and perchance remorse, had touched with blight, Drenched by the rain, all breathless Avith the storm, Homeless and hopeless, she had crept to him Once more a suppliant, and, spurned rudely forth, Here had lain down despairing, and so perished. DAME MARGARET. With mettled steed, and hawk on hand, Gay ride ye forth at morn's arise. While light with shade, as dreams with sleep, Strives battling o'er the skies. Fair floats your plume athwart the breeze. And, loosed from band and golden net, Your ringlets chase the summer wind, Dame Margaret! Your steed stands checked within the gate. With upreared hoofs, and crest of pride ; Your coupled hounds bay down in ire The echoes as they chide ; DAME MARGARET. 161 The page holds slack the silken leash, The steed that checks his light curvette Bears hotly on the golden bit, Dame Margaret ! Ride forth, nor read the heart would lose Life, sense, and soul, all these save love, To be the breeze your ringlets kiss, The hawk upon your glove ; Ride forth your bonny earl beside. Nor deign to think how once ye met At morning's blush a lowlier love, Dame Margaret I FOREST SCENE. I KNOW a forest vast and ' old, A shade so deep, so darkly green, That morning sends her shaft of gold In vain to pierce its leafy screen. I know a brake where sleeps the fawn, The soft-eyed fawn, through noon's repose, For noon with all the calm of dawn Lies hushed beneath those dewy boughs. Oh ! proudly there the forest kings Their banners lift on vale and mount; And cool and fresh the wild grass springs By lonely path, by sylvan fount; FOREST SCENE. IG.'J There o'er the fair leaf-laden rill The laurel sheds its clustered bloom, And throned upon the rock-wreathed hill, The ro^Yan waves his scarlet plume. No huntsman's call, no baying hound, Scares from his rest the lif]rht-limbed sta^::, But following faint his airy bound Glad echo leaps from crag to crag ; From morn till eve the wood-birds sing, And, by the wild wave's glittering play. The pheasant plumes her glossy wing, The doc lies couched at close of day. From slippery ledge, from moss-grown rock, Dash the swift waters at a bound. And from the foam that veils the shock Floats every wavelet sparkle-crowned. By brake, and dell, and lawny glade. O'er gnarled root, o'er mossy stone. Beneath the forest's emerald shade The brook winds murmuring, chiding on. Ifi4 FOREST SCENE. Par floating o'er its limpid breast The lily sends her petals fair, And couched beside her regal crest The balm-flower scents the drowsy air. From spray and vine, o'er rocky ledge Hang blossoms wild of scarlet dye, And on the curved and sanded edge The pink-lined shells, wave-polished, lie. There wakes no tone of idle mirth Amid those shadows vast and dim, But from the gentle lips of earth. How soft and low her forest hymn ! How soft and low where stirs the wind Through the dark arches of the wood, "VVTiere, mass on mass, the boughs entwined, Hang whispering o'er the chiming flood ! When twilight skies look faintly down. When noon lies hushed on leaf and spray, When midnight casts her silver crown Before the throne of god-like day. FOREST SCENE. 163 There still to earth's perpetual choir The same sweet harmony is given : For angels wake her sacred lyre. And every chord is strung by Heaven. TWILIGHT. With one large planet, like a chalice prest In her twin shadowy hands, comes Twilight, slow^ Advancing with dropt eyes, and bending low Where day reclining pillows on the West, Laves his worn feet "with tears, and with her hair Mantles their whiteness; while arising faint As the thought-prayer of some exhausted saint, Throng the fresh evening perfumes through the air And when the night with trailing steps draws nigh. Sealing the Orient with its cumbrous gloom. Muffling her brow with darkness, sits she then, TWILIGHT. 167 Till, -when the dawn keeps angel ward on high, Behold her kneeling at the vacant tomb, Clad in the dark blue of a Magdalen I THE SEASONS. Spring is the sweet soul of the sliroudcd year; Psyche, the butterfly, with painted wings, Forth issuing from the stony lips of death. Summer's a queen, that to the sun's pavilion Comes with rich gifts and odours, and a train Of rainbow-girdled showers, like eastern almas, With tinkling feet all musical with soft bells. Autumn's a stag, that, hunted through the hills By the keen hound-like winds, flies, dropping blood, Or stands at bay in the full pride of beauty. And Winter minds me of some lone, wild bird. That, wandering from the Arctic, makes its nest THE SEASONS. • 169 In solitary fens, seeking for food The red marsh berry, and the mailed buds Of the young, tender branches ; or, athirst, Driving its sharp bill through the polished ice Into the wave below. It hath no song, Only a few weird notes; and when the sun Melts into lucid pools the snow that lies In the rock crevices, it will go north With the w^hite water-fowl, that trooping fly, In ranked battalions, through the gates of March. THE LOVE QUARREL. Nay, I'm sure you've not forgotten, though you fain would have it so; I know you've not forgotten: shall I tell you why I know ? For all Maud lingers at your side, and Blanche is bending low, To listen to your whispers, till her breath is on your brow, For all you smile when Lilia smiles, your smiling mocks at glee. And by that token, I believe, you're thinking now of me. THE LOVE QUARREL. 171 As you lie there in the shadow, "with the sunlight on your hair, With the misty floating curtains looped around you drooping fair, The velvet sinking to your limbs, the only murmur near. The music of a woman's voice, low-tuned to meet your ear. You're thinking how, one summer noon, when summer suns were warm, I watched beside your half-repose, and your head lay on my arm. Then I sang you quaint love-ballads, sang you rhymed and measured words. But your own were ever sweeter, and the singing of the birds From the garden chimed in softly, but I thought your voice was best, And wished the ballad ended, and the little birds at rest, 172 THE LOVE QUARREL. So I might hear you speak again. You're thinking of it still- Let Blanche's golden tresses sweep your forehead at their will ! And how we jested softly, while your breath upon my brow Fell warmer than another's kiss ; and your lightest word sank low, Low through the full tides of my soul, as a jewel that is thrown 'Mid the waters, still lies hoarded when the ripple is all gone. Without, a willow trailed its wands along the mossy eaves, And your heart was full of love-words as the tree was full of leaves. The leaves are fallen from the tree to bud i' the April rain. And your lips are very silent now, but their music THE LOVE QUARREL. 173 And we'll marvel in our summer' love, why thus with cold delay We kept the sunshine from our lips when our hearts were warm as May. Yet give your pride free rein the while, all wilful though it be, For I'd rather ten times bend to you than you should bend to me. Though Maud still kneels beside you, with her white hands glancing where The cushion's silken tassels swing beneath your floating hair. And though Blanche is bending lower, while with smiling, upturned eyes You have wooed her head still nearer by your indistinct replies, I can look the while securely, I can smile the while to know That you have not yet forgotten, though you fain would make it so. REST. FliEsn from the tents, a soul, bright-mailed, Stood numbered in the ranks of life. But with the first rude tumult failed And fled, a recreant, from the strife. Then sad, ashamed, and desolate. Put off her armour's heavy weight. And wandering, clad in hermit guise. Through paths waylaid by ghastly fears. Implored, with wet, uplifted eyes, A gift that's won by blood not tears. Till with her own grief coldly blent, Rose other words, austerely sent To chide her graceless discontent. " Truce to thy clamour, vain and fond, Rest is not here, it lies beyond." REST. 175 Beyond? where noontide shadows stand Under the boughs, deep down the vales ? Where silence lifts a calming hand O'er leaf that stirs, and cloud that sails? With earnest eyes, but looks resigned, She wanders now and thinks to find Within some green, leaf-shaded glen, God's open page beside her shining. Noon, like a blue-robed Magdalen, Close to the wooded wave reclining. With hopes that took the garb of fear, Her watch she kept, and noon drew near ; Then said that strange voice, cold and clear, " Truce to thy hoping, vain and fond, Rest is not here, it lies beyond." Ah me, poor soul ! not yet she droops. With hands meek crossed, and mournful eyes, Till eve lets loose her shadowy troops. Till night's black turrets paint the skies. While weary hours seem weary years. She counts the time by falling tears. 176 REST. At even there came a cold wind, sent To drift her poor hopes, crushed and sere. And on night's cloudy battlement There stalked, oh God, what spectral Fear! When the last shadow, dim and gray, Sank hovering to the brow of day, She heard that strange voice, pitying, say, " Truce to thy lingering, vain and fond, Rest is not here, it lies beyond." DECEMBER. Now through the distant vales the fawn's light foot Leaveth its cloven impress on the snow ; The w^oocl's soft echoes mock the baying hound; The hunter builds his watch-fire on the hills ; The school-boj, from his morning task released, Shoulders the rifle, and goes blithely forth To start the dusky pheasant from her nest, Down in the ferny hollows. All day long There is a sound of muffled hoofs, half drowned By the quick sleigh-bell that rejoicingly Rings in the new-born monarch. All day long, The woodsman plies his sharp and sudden axe Under the crashing branches. 178 DECEMBER. Yale and mead, And steadfast wave lie stretched beneatli my eye, Clad in one uniform livery. O'er the lake The skaters flit like shadows, and afar The wagoner plods beside his smoking team ; The sportsman, followed by his frolic hound. Springs up the breezy hill-side. Save for these. All breathinor life alike seems motionless. A POET'S LOVE. The stag leaps free in the forest's heart. But thy step is lighter, my love, my bride ! Light as the quick-footed breezes that part The plumy ferns on the mountain's side ; Swift as the zephyrs that come and pass O'er the waveless lake, and the billoAvy grass. I hear thy voice where the wliite wave gleams, In the one-toned bells of the rippled streams, In the silvery boughs of the aspen tree, In the wind that stirreth the shadowy pine. In the shell that moans for the distant sea, Never was voice so sweet as thine ! ISd A POET'S LOVE. Never a sound through the even dim Came half so soft as thj vesper hjmn. I have followed fast, from the lark's low nest, Thy breezy step to the mountain crest. The livelong day I have wandered on, Till the stars were up, and the twilight gone, Ever unwearied where thou hast roved. Fairest, and purest, and best beloved ! I have felt thy kiss in the leafy aisle. And thy breath astir in my floating hair; I have met the light of thy haunting smile In the deep still woods, and the sunny air ; For thou lookcst down from the bending skies. And the earth is glad with thy laughing eyes. When my heart is sad, and my pulse beats low, Whose touch so light on my aching brow? Who Cometh in dreams to my midnight sleep? Who bendcth over my noonday rest ? Who singeth me songs in the forest deep. Laying my head to her gentle breast ? A POET'S LOVE. 181 Wlicn life grows dim to mj weary eye, When joy departeth, and sorrow is nigh, Who, 'neath the track of the stars, save thee, Speaketh or singeth of hope to me ? There comes a time when the morn shall rise, Yet charm no smile to thy filmed eyes. There comes a time when thou liest low With the roses dead on thy frozen brow, With a pall hung over thy tranced rest, And the pulse asleep in thy silent breast. There shall come a dirge through the valleys drear. And a white-robed priest to thine icy bier. His lips are cold, but his dim eyes weep, And he maketh thy grave wdiere the snow falls deep. Woe is me, w^hen I w^atch and pray For the lightest sound of thy coming foot, For the softest note of thy summer lay, For the faintest chord of thy vine-strung lute ! Woe is me, when the storms sweep by, And the mocking winds are my sole reply ! ALINE'S CHOICE. KuDOLPH is a baron, He dreams till noon on a pillow fine; From tlie dusk of eve to the dusk of dawn, Drinking deep of the amber wine. But Ludovic, the peasant. Lies like a deer in the dewy brake ; With his broad palm for a drinking cup, Stoops to a breezy lake. Rudolph rides to the knightly chase With hawk, and pack, and a mounted train; Ludovic, with a single hound. Wanders afoot o'er the windy plain. A LINE'S CHOICE. 183 The one will rest in a silken tent When the quarry has dropped, and the mort is played, The other lies in a cleft of rock Under a hemlock's shade. Rudolph will give me a palfrey white, With silken saddle, and stirrup of gold, Ludovic in his arms of steel Has borne me far through the heat and cold. The noble has promised a chain of gems, Broidered kerchief, and mantle gay ; The peasant will shear me a fleece to spin A gown for my wedding day. What should I do with jewels On my neck that is brown with the sun and rain ? How should I fasten my long, loose hair With a comb of pearl, or a golden chain ? I'll crown it fair with a myrtle wreath, I'll gather it back with a riband gay. And I'll wrap myself in my peasant's cloak To keep the cold away. 184 ALINE'S CHOICE. I hold my breath in jon lone old halls ; Echoes that lurk in the niches there Say over my words with a hollow laugh, Stealthily follow from stair to stair ; Knights and dames on the pictured wall, Look, as I pass, with a steadfast frown, And the mastiff that's chained in the castle court Barks at my peasant gown. I know a roof where the wild grass hangs From the moss and mould to the cabin door ; I know a hound that will crouch and fawn At the sound of my step on the rush-strewn floor! Keep your gifts, oh Rudolph, The chain of pearls, and the golden band, To match the pride of a fairer neck, To shine on a whiter hand. FROST PICTURES. When, like a sullen exile driven forth, Southward, December drags his icj chain, He graves fair pictures of his native North On the crisp window pane. So some pale captive blurs, with lips unshorn, The latticed glass, and shapes rude outlines there, With listless finger, and a look forlorn, Cheating his dull despair. 186 FROST riCTURES. The fairj fragments of some Arctic scene, I see to-night; blank wastes of Polar snow, Ice-laden boughs, and feathery pines that lean Over ravines below. Black, frozen lakes, and icy peaks blown bare. Break the white surface of the crusted pane, And spear-like leaves, long ferns, and blossoms fair, Linked in a silvery chain. Draw me, I pray thee, by this slender thread, Fancy, thou sorceress, bending, vision-wrought, O'er that dim well, perpetually fed By the clear springs of thought ! Northward I turn, and tread those dreary strands, Lakes Avhere the wild-fowl breed, the swan abides ; Shores where the white fox, burrowing in the sands, Harks to the droning tides. FROST PICTURES. Ib7 And seas where, drifting on a raft of ice, The she-bear rears her young ; and cliffs so high, The dark-winged birds that emulate their rise Melt through the pale blue sky. There, all night long, with far-diverging ra^^s And stalking shades, the red Auroras glow ; From the keen heaven, mock suns with pallid blaze Light up the Arctic snow. Guide me, I pray, along those waves remote, That deep unstartled from its primal rest ; Some errant sail, the fisher's lone, light boat. Borne waif-like o'er its breast ! Lead me, I pray, where never shallop's keel Brake the dull ripples throbbing to their caves ; Where the mailed glacier with his armed heel Spurs the resisting waves ! 188 FROST PICTURES. Paint me, I pray, the phantom hosts that hold Celestial tourneys when the midnight calls, On airy steeds, with lances bright and bold, Storming her ancient halls ! Yet, while I look, the magic picture fades. Melts the bright tracery from the frosted pane; Trees, vales, and cliffs, in sparkling snows arrayed. Dissolve in silvery rain. Without, the day's pale glories sink and swell Over the black rise of yon wooded height ; The moon's thin crescent, like a stranded shell Left on the shores of night. Hark hoAV the north wdnd, with a hasty hand Rattling my casement, frames his mystic rhyme ; House thee, rude minstrel, chanting through the land Runes of the olden time ! FROM A TRUE WIFE TO ONE OVER BOLDE. Be not amazed that scornfulle I reprove The boldenesso did mj modestie misprize, Nor thinke it strange that gentle seemingc lippes Shoidd arm their softnesse with a sterne disguise. Roses may harbour bees, and serpents wilde Under sweet summer's flowerie zone abide, And shame-faced Love wears, hooded at her will, On her fajre wriste the brighte-eyed merlin, pride. As reedes bende lowe before a cominge storme, "Well mote your boldnesse shrinke before my frowne ; Well my disdaynful glance mote quelle your owne, As hawkes do strike the coward quarrie downe. lUO A TllUE WIFE TO ONE OVER BOLDE. Yet holde me not of temper cold and strange, That so I keepe my matron armour briglite ; If my deare Lorde had claymed his lawfulle due, How readie were these lippes to yielde his righto ! LINES WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE. Sing me to-night some gay refrain, Sweet rhymes that ring out peals of gladness, Nor let thy jesting lips profane Even the name of sadness. Put from thine eye its vague unrest. And chide the darkness from thy brow, That we, who met with smile and jest, May part as lightly now. We've scoffed at love, we've laughed at faith, (Ah, woe the while for you and me !) No pledge that's breathed by human breath Were pledge to such as we. 192 LINES WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE. Oh, we've trifled away the sweetest dreams Ever let loose from the courts above, And linked our jests to the noblest themes God and the angels love ! Shame me no more with mimic sighs — Poor cheat of love ! poor mock of woe I But show me in thy lifted eyes The scorn I look thee now. INCONSTANCY. They told me lie'd forsake me; that the words With which he charmed my very soul away, Were like the hollow music of a shell That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice. For he had listened to love's tones until His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown Familiar with their melody. Nay, more. They said his very boyhood had been marked By worse than a boy's follies, that in youth, The season of high hopes, when lesser men Put on their manhood as a monarch's heir Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition Asked but new charms and pleasures, newer loves, 194 INCONSTANCY. New lips to smile until their sweetness palled, And softer hands to clasp his own, until He wearied even of so light a fetter. Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain ; For when did warning stay a woman's heart? I hnew all this, and yet I trusted him. Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate Into his hands, content that he should know How absolute his power and my weakness. Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash ; There is no place for fallen Lucifer In the pure heaven of a sinless love ; And Avhen he left me, as they said he would, My spirit had no room for aught save grief: Giving the lie to my own conscious heart, I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last. But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce, Even from my credulous eyes the scales had fallen, What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds To the one thought that for a counterfeit I'd staked my woman's all of love — and lost ! THE WINGED HORSEMAN. Down the green distance of cathedral woods, Methought a youth sat mounted for a journey, Reining a steed within whose cloudy eyes Slumber and flame contended. I could see How sullenly he hung upon the bit, And trod all greenness from the place beneath With ponderous, restless hoofs. Light sat the rider, As one who feels his strength. The early dawn Lit the pale semblance of an angel's glory Over his brow. Nor sword nor shield bare he. Many I saw on fretting, fiery steeds, 19G THE WINGED HORSEMAN. Some armoured, and some masked, but few, like him, Winged with soft plumes. His right hand grasped a wand, That, like a prism, showed the plain white light A mine of jewels. Pendent from his neck. Hung to his breast a mirror clear, wherein All life made pictures. Else those mystical shapes That walk as ghosts the troubled house of sleep, Or the unhallowed breath of that dark steed, Dimmed it awhile. His eyes were full of thought. Deep and dream-haunted, but their upward glance Was like the free sweep of an eagle's wing. He rode forth on his journey, the black steed Moving with cumbrous pace, save when, incensed By the firm curb, he tried his master's strength. And with wide fiery eyes and trembling nostrils Reared and leapt forward. As the noon drew near. The rider's arm grew weary of restraining, And many passed by with reins flying loose, Urging him on. Some laughed aloud for scorn, To see him play the laggard. But ofttimes THE WINGED HORSEMAN. 197 Bright forms came shaping through the dim blue air, And voices spake to him thej wist not of, And while he looked and listened, the black steed Laj down and slumbered. Farther on, I saw A river with alternate light and shade, Hinged like a serpent. Some of those who passed, Waked only by the cold lap of its waves. Slept on their flying coursers. Woven leaves Replaced the halo. Those afar, beheld The air all rainbowed o'er the youth. A veil Betwixt his vision and the outer world Lay like a vapour that, dissolving, spreads Into wild phantoms, as the mists of sleep Wreathe into those strange shapes that men call dreams. Methought they paused upon the river bank. Rider and horse. The steed, with planted hoofs, Stood resolute, and once the rider reeled As giddy with the flowing of the waves. And once he turned, with lingering, loving looks 198 THE WINGED HORSEMAN. SjDed to the land whose lengthened shadows fell Deep on the waters. All his laurels dropped Upon the shore he left. His bright wand lay Adrift upon the river. The black steed Swam in its wake, and with his rein left loose Played the swift ripples ; and they drew a veil Over his sight, and sang into his ears Where the contending strains of heaven and earth Met and made discord. When I looked again, Lo, the pale rider, who with outstretched arms, Trod the fast-sliding currents, till ashore Plucked by extended hands ! Thenceforth I saw Only the glorified outlines of a form Cast on the waters brokenly. Beyond, In my faint soul excessive light made darkness. TWO CHANTS. "Te Deum Laudamus !" through green river meadows, Where noon, pacing slow, holds in leash the fleet shadows, Blown like a cloud from St. Agatha's altar, Drifts down the south wind the loud chanted psalter; Under the light of the tapers lies sleeping One whose fair soul was not whitened by weeping. Sorrow stood far from her — love, in mute reverence, Knelt to the shrine of her starry intelligence — Charmed by her music of being, dull cavil Lay coiled in her presence ; and lion-like evil. Lying in wait for her soul frail and tender. Crouched at the blaze of its virginal splendour. 200 TWO CHANTS. Over her calm face a radiance immortal Flows from the smile at her mouth's silent portal — They who kneel round her from matins till even, As they kneel at the tombs of the blessed in Heaven, Think not to question that presence resplendent Where fled the soul that is shining ascendant. Down from the gray clouds the March winds are swooping, Out of the low soil pale phantoms are trooping ; Lift on the wings of St. Agatha's choir The great "De Profundis" rolls solemnly higher— Under the light of the tapers is lying One whom keen anguish made ready for dying. Sorrow, that writes with the pen of an angel God's burning thoughts through her mystic evangel; Passion, that, laden with memories tender. Crowns himself king with their tropical splendour ; Weeping repentance with hands lifted palely — These were the spirits that walked with her daily. Death, creeping near while she knelt in devotion, Froze on her features their mournful emotion. TWO CHANTS. 201 They, who reluctant draw nearer to falter "Ave" or vow at the steps of the altar, Marking it thence, ask, in fear, if the sorrow Lying slain on her lips will not quicken to-morrow ? A FRAGMENT. Faith is seraph born, And mindful of her origin, most wise, For she has listened at the feet of Christ ; Calm-hearted as an angel, for she keeps The trustfulness of childhood, as a sabbath Keej)s the dawn's stillness. At her shining feet, Ah, then, be mute and listen, while she tells The chastened spirit what its pride of strength In vain petitions. All her words are pleasant As shadows by the way-side, and we bear Their memory with us as we pluck a branch A FRyVGMENT. 203 From some green sheltering tree. And, through thera fall, Like light through leaves, faint glimpses of a glory Yet unrevealed; some rays of that far sun That sends its shining to our distant hearts ; Gleams of the time when man, that grand conception Unworthily embodied, shall stand forth As God pronounced him first, ere, like an echo, Through each reverberating age, he grew With repetition feebler and unlike .The great original. LINES. Up, up, thou sluggard, ere the noon reposing ! Don th J bright armour — breast-plate, casque, and spear ; Thou that went forth so glad to meet the morning, Tarriest thou here? Oh, go thy "way ! steep winds the path before me ; There mourns the cypress, there pale willows nod. Standing for waymarks o'er their graves, who, toiling, Fell as they trod. Too early didst thou call me from my slumber. From my sweet morning rest, and I am fain. Unduly tasked, to dream away unheeded Fever and pain. LINES. 205 Hear'st thou their songs who rock and rift surmounting Shout to their brethren in the vales beneath? Seest thou the foremost on his spear point lifting Trophy and wreath? I hear sharp cries, a sound, of stifled moaning Blent with brave music, and a din of strife. Discordant tones to dove-eyed peace, proclaiming War to the knife. I see coiled adders, by the roadside lurking. Watch for the failing step, the foot astray, While overhead the keen-eyed eagles circling Wait for their prey. Look right nor left ; stand firm, and dauntless meeting Death by the open stroke, the secret spring, Gathering thy proud fame as a robe around thee, Fall like a king ! Oh hence, I pray ! my soul, athirst for slumber. Close to her fount lies fainting on the brim ; Hears the sweet trilling of her waves, grass-muffled, Low-toned and dim. 206 LINES. Let the old yews beside my pillow standing Spread wide their arms, surround me with their gloom ; And let the few pale blooms that I have gathered Fade on my tomb. Not so, not so ! unsheath a trenchant purpose, Press on with firm lip and uplifted eye, And hew out even from the rocks that daunt thee A fair white e^gj* GUENDOLEK Old Ralph, the gray-haired serving man, Is nodding asleep by his pipe and can ; And Ursula, where the firelight falls, Tossing the shadows about the walls. Hears a death-watch tick in the beams above her, Keeping time to a tune she is thinking over. A bird within a silver ring Sits swinging softly to and fro. Shading his eyes with a crimson wing; Across the rafters all a-glow His shadow flits with a motion slow. 208 G U E N D L E N. Carven goblets from the wall Cast red flecks about the floor; From over window and bolted door Antlers vast fling round the hall Shadowy arms that rise and fall Whenever the flames spring up to make The fresh-heaped fagots curl and break. The hound sleeps fast on the warm hearth stone, And, with dropt ears and muzzle thrown Over his slender outstretched limbs. Dreams deeper as the firelight dims: But Guendolen is wide awake; Vassal and lord to the chase have gone; Ralph and the dame and the drowsy crone Watch in Sir Ethel's hall alone. Wide awake was Guendolen ; Sometimes she paced the oaken floor. Or, pausing at the barred door. Hearkened a space, and turning then Hung musing o'er the flames again. Sometimes she teased the bird, that still. Hiding under its painted wing, OUF.NDOLEN. 209 Answered lier call and -whet its bill Against tlie rim of its silver swing. And once from turrets twain, enshrined Deep in the heart of a wooded dell, A sound came coupled with the wind Like a slow counted knell. "How goes the night by the abbey bell?" Cried Ursula, aAvaking then ; " 'Tis twelve o' the clock," said Guendolen; ** Get thee to rest," said Guendolen; *' For me, good mother, I may not sleep, So wild a wind comes up the glen, So wild a moan the forests keep." Now to her rest the crone hath gone ; Ralph asleep in the warder's chair. Is sitting without by the postern" stair ; And Guendolen watches alone. Swart shadows seemed to peer and float Deep in the corners and niches dim ; Over and under the rafters grim fc) Flitted the bat; and an owl without, 210 GUENDOLEN. In the fitful pauses of wind and rain, Tapped his beak at the -window pane. The wind is high and the clouds flj fast, But the stars shine out and the rain is past- *'0h, for the first gray glance of morn ! Oh, for a blast of Sir Ethel's horn! Chill is my heart, I know not why. Haunting the night with its boding eye, With crest erect, and ruffled wing. My bird sits watchful on its swing ; In his sleep the hound whines soft, The bat drops down from his flight aloft;" She pauses with a fearful start. With eyes upraised, and lips apart. And locked hands ' clasped across her heart. Shrill through the wind, far up the glen. What voice had shrieked "Help, Guendolen!' Glancing up at the casement high, She catches a glimpse of the western sky, But nothing sees save the stars that stand At anchor in its dark lagoon, GUENDOLEN. 211 And the night, with a cloud like a snovr-white hand, Shading the moon. Unmantled, alone, Beneath portals of stone Fringed around with Avet mosses, Low-arched, damp, and green. The threshold she crosses Unseen ! There were paths to the left, and paths to the right, And one that struck through a frowning wood ; This w^as gloomy, and narrow, and rude; Boughs above shut in the night ; On either side an aspen stood Turning its leaves to the silver light ; And Guendolen here paused and paled. For on that tree our Lord was nailed ; Thence, from that day to this, 'tis said. Stirs every leaf with separate dread. Runlets that hide in the meadow grass. Moan in the distance and sobbing pass ; 212 GUENDOLEN. The clouds drift whiter, the flagging wind Lies down in the brake like a wearied hind. She hears the rain-drops gliding soft To the leaf below from the leaf aloft; She hears the breeze in its distant flight Skimming over the marshy river, And from the wood to the open night Starts with a keen electric shiver. Over the postern a loophole bright Searches the dark with a lurid glare, Ursula there with lamp alight Sajeth her matin prayer. What tempted her hither ? What o'erstrained chord, Struck in her heart by an elvish fear, Knelled the voice of her absent lord Into her wakeful ear? It is the wind that round her lingers, Plucking her back with its chilly fingers; 'Tis only a brook that yonder passes, Stifling its sobs in the limp marsh grasses; Those are pines in their funeral vesture. Waving her on with a solemn gesture ! G U E N D L E N. 213 Out of the heart of the Tvooded dell Three times tolls the abbey bell ; And, in the wake of its echoed knell Follows a softer, weirder tone ; Her heart npleaping at the sound. Under the clasp of her broidered zone Grows eager as a leashed hound. Not breathed into her straining ear. But in her spirit, silver clear. Spoken far, yet sounding near, She hears Sir Ethel's voice again, And the words " Help, Guendolen !" She does not waken the hound asleep Dreaming within, by the glimmering light, But treads alone through the forest deep. Trusting herself to the lawless night. From drenched boughs the rain is shed At every step on her shrinking head: Deep in the hollows, the stealthy vine Catches her feet in its secret twine. There are dancing lights in the marshes damp Where the firefly kindles his fitful lamp, 214 GUENDOLEN. All a-flame, like a burning gem Dropped from a fiend's red diadem ; Through the tufted moss, where the fern lies dead, The glow-worm shimmers, and, over head, A star betwixt the branches high Looks down through the leaves like a panther's eje. The path is lost, and Guendolen, Grown doubtful of her midnight fear, Stands on the skirt of a hollow glen And sees the dawn appear. But, ere the leaves wax green with day, She knows the chase has passed that way. The turf is broken and trampled sore. The low boughs hung with branches torn ; Here lies the plume Sir Ethel v»'ore. And here his silver hunting horn. A steed that feeds at a fountain's edge, Scared by her step, through the matted sedge Drags his bruised limbs with pain, Catching his hoof in the trailing rein. G U E N D L E N. 215 The hills crowd close, and the vale between Narrows to a deep ravine. Here the sombre woods divide ; Clutching the rocks w^ith roots outspread, Trees that lean from either side Make midnight overhead ; And only small bright blossoms grow On the lawny turf that lies below. But Guendolen, grown sudden pale, Sinks fainting nigh the shadowy pass, Seeing through a leafy veil One pillowed on the grass. With still arms tossed apart he lies, Dark twilight waxing in his eyes. Under the shade of a leaning crag Hung with a scarlet parasite, Two hounds that guard a w^ounded stag Crouch at its left and right; Old Victor, chiefest of the pack. Gladdest at the bugle note, Keenest on the mazy track Ripped lengthwise from the throat, 21« GUENDOLEN. Holds back his moans in savage pride ; And Elf is panting on liis side. But Sylvia, wont to take her stand, Daily, by the castle board, Feeding from her master's hand ; Sylvia, that only loves her lord ; That, heedless of another's word Doeth gladly his behest, Hath dragged herself across his breast. And lies with limbs stretched out at rest. Turning slowly his weary head, " Sweet Guendolen !" the hunter said ; "What, Sylvia, ho!" the panting hound Only whimpered at the sound, Answering with dim upturned glance ; But she who slept a space beyond. Starting from her trance. With light feet muffled by the sward Drew nearer to her fainting lord. Over his wounds and his weary brows She laid wet leaves from the weeping boughs; G U E N D L E N. 217 Silent, till a glad surprise Dawned through the darkness in his eyes ; Then from the bugle's ringing throat Sped so long and wild a note, Over the dells and the vales remote A flight of arrowy echoes sprang, From hill to hill the signal rang, And echoing horns and hounds that cried Out of the hollow glens replied. They who beside the watch-fire's flame Sought rest and food when even came. And, heedless of the midnight storm. Slept pillowed on the reeking earth, Believed their lord found shelter warm Beside some cottage hearth; Nor guessed how, parted from his train, He crossed the broken scent again, And cheering with a hunter's zeal His flagging hounds upon the way, With planted foot and brandished steel Held the brown stag at bay. 218 GUENDOLEN. Now, startled by his bugle blast, Quitting their lairs in the scented grass, Blythe hunters up the valley, fast, Came riding towards the lonely pass. THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. Down sunny hill-sides sloping to the west, Erom RookAvood's towers the morning shadows full In long-drawn lines. A wooded eminence Lifts o'er the walls and from its shoulders drops A mantle of close tree-tops, right and left Far trailing through the valleys. To the brink Of a broad willowy stream the lawn descends, Halved by an avenue of elms that winds Up to gray Rookwood^s portals. Here the roofs Are thatched with moss, the massive stones worn smooth. The windows blind with parasites. Whole miles — Hill, vale, and river — are fenced in around. 2i0 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. We call it Rookwood, for the rooks all day Caw from its dim old forests. Bluff Sir Hugh, The people named my father. Carven from life, In Rookwood's chapel lies an effigy That seems a giant's, with a couchant hound Laid at its feet, and on the monument. Writ in strange letters, framed to imitate Some uncouth ancient character, a name, Hugh Perceval. As one who kept old things With such a reverent love, that in his house Not even the fashion of a cup was changed ; As a bold hunter and a loyal knight, The county knew him. So they shaped his tomb After the custom of his ancestors, And placed thereon a likeness of the hound That whined beside his death-bed. I had scarce Told eighteen summers when my father died. My mother was unlike him, marble calm As he was boisterous, and her daughters all Grew to be youthful copies of herself. THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. 221 Save that Maud sat within the oriel window Broidering in gold ; that Marian with her mother On the old oaken settle, wrought for ever The self-same tapestries — or so it seemed — That Ernestine liked best the little footstool, And sat there winding many-coloured ayooIs, Or weaving them through canvas : to my eye They ever looked alike. They were all fair, Grave, gentle, unimpassioned. I did weary To see them at their broideries day on day. For me — I had no pulse that, fast or slow, Kept time with theirs. My sadness and my joy Alike outstrode them. At my wilder moods My father stared and swore ; my mother's eyes Filled with calm wonder, and my sisters three Copied her, life-like. Was it strange I grew Petulant, rude, morose — my urgent need Of love, caresses and sustaining words Left unsupplied ? For I, fair Rookwood's heir, Could scarcely drag my shapeless limbs the length Of her broad halls. 2b 222 THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. I filled the weary days Creeping from room to room, like some wild thing Crippled and caged. My nature was athirst. I had Sir Hugh's deep love of space and freedom, His passion for brute beauty. Him I feared And worshipped. From the oriels, sometimes, I watched him with his dogs. One stood upright. Steadying his paws upon his master's breast ; One crouched against his feet, and one had thrust His muzzle through the hollowed hand. Ere long. My cousin Arthur with his gun and pointers Came up the lawn. Away together went The uncle and boy nephew, leaving me All passionate sorrow. Then I stole to watch Ernestine at her broidery ; else I heard My sister Marian reading from those bards Who flung the glittering lance of prophecy Down the long future. When Sir Hugh returned, Perhaps he bore me through the lawns awhile On his broad breast ; perhaps, when twilight came, I nestled to his feet and heard him tell His field exploits — and Arthur's — then break off THE HEIR OF llOOKWOOD. 223 ^Yitll a short sigh. His eye was like a hound's, Earnest and steady, and for ever seemed Hunting my maimed form. But with chiklhood went Part of my sickness. I might wander free Through the green valleys, lawns and woods that graced My fair inheritance. The garden chair That had been wont to draw me, day by day, Through dull familiar paths, reserved its aid For weary moments, till my halting step On the firm sod grew firmer, till my lips Drank the bright air like wine. The love that found No peers to share its wealth, looked lower now. A full heart asks not if the cup it crowns Ee gold or clay. I turned to brutes, to birds, Even to flowers. The high-bred hound that paced Grave at my side, the merlin that I tamed, The dove I carried in my breast, the rose With white wax buds, that from my window sill Swung outward to the light — all these I kept With a girl's care. 224 THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. Through Rookwood's fair domain Wanders a stream whose silent course is led By mead and grove until its thread, abrupt, Breaks on the sharp edge of a precipice. Betwixt two hill-sides, o'er a deep ravine. There with white shuddering feet, the waters seem Fearfully pausing. But with one bold leap They clear the rent rocks, shouting as they fall Into a round clear pool, whose crystal sheen Only the lilies break. Hither I came. The timed Avaves harping to my sullen moods. The banks my couch, my hound stretched near, a book Of rhymes or romance in my listless hand. No curious eyes, no cold looks following here Jarred on my secret thoughts. The blossoms grcAV No paler for my loving, the fresh turf Pillowed most gently my uncourtly form. I had gone forth one mellow autumn morn Earlier than my wont. The night had passed Rent by fierce storms. Torn boughs and drifted leaves Cumbered the path I trod. The sun shone warm. THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 225 I lingered bj the way until my hound, That had gone first and reached the lilicd pool, Set up a sharp cry. Through the opening wood, I saw him crouch, as if in pain or fear. And with quick step pressed on. My first keen glance Took in the mantling lilies, with a web Of white wet film meshed in them, and the next. Brown shreds of curled hair and a face the waves Flowed over. Grasping at the floating robes That drifted shoreward, steadying my feet Upon the smooth sloped rocks, I drew her forth, A woman fair and young. Her long loose hair Curled round the lily stems, and held them fast In its wet tangles. Jutting from the shore, A rock whose sharp points caught her fluttering dress, Upheld her. as she lay. From this, 'tis like. She sprang, and staid perforce, all night had borne Tempest and beating rain. A scarlet wreath Crowned her cold temples, and around her throat Hung rows of coral buds. Strangest of all, Bound to her bosom by a silken scarf, 2C6 THE HEIR OF llOOKWOOD. And sheltered in its folds, an infant lay, Faint but yet breathing. When some days had passed And no one claimed her, nigh the chapel grounds We laid the mother, guessing at the wrongs That had bewildered her. To me, the child, As 'twere a toy, was given when I asked. 'Twas a strange whim, but on my birth-day morn, And to my favourite shores, some fate had brought What seemed a gift, and I, accepting it^ Thought to please Heaven. A nature to be trained Which way I would, or twined round any prop — Even my own rude self — a page whereon To write the latent poem of my life. These thoughts were merely audible, as the notes Of birds that stir betimes upon the nest. Wild stories were afloat — 'twas said that she Who slept in the green vale had cast a spell Over the heir of Rook wood ; that her babe Was elf or water-sprite ; and whispering gossips THE HEIR OF no OK WOOD. 227 Told how tlio infant at her baptism Made the oUl chapel ring with saucy laughter, While that which answered from the niches dim, Was wilder than an echo. Be it so. She was Christ's child, signed with His holy cross, On brow and breast. It was 7ny fanciful thought To call her Lilia ; she whom we had plucked Out of the lily leaves. Oh pleasant times ! Only a patron's golden alms, at first, I gave my pensioner, in boyish pride Masking my heart ; but as the child grew strong, The little seed of tenderness that lay Hid in my bosom, thrust into the light The embryo of a tree v»dth buds and blooms Shut in its folded being. Infancy Lay like a wreath of spring flowers on her brow ; But the rude breast whereon I grafted her, Shot through the pale veins of my elfin charge Its own abounding life. 'Twas I who trained 228 THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. Iler feet upon the level lawns, and taught Her lips their blossom language. Then, betimes. Lest the coarse peasant earth should clog its roots, For gentler nurture my fair foreign plant To Rookwood I conveyed. To those dim halls, Where the blithe common sunshine of the fields Put on grave splendour ; to those druid shades, Came the fresh nature of the untrained child Like an opposing element. Her voice Broke the long silence of the morning hours. Either she went forth through the lawns with me. Or at my mother's footstool strewed her playthings, Prattling aloud, and at the rare rebuke, Reading her face with unabashed grave eyes. Till Maud glanced sidelong with a stately smile, And fair calm Marian, with a woman's impulse. Bent down and took the lone child to her heart. Even Ernestine, who o'er her broidery needle Secretly dreamed of tournaments and masques, And cavaliers be-plumed, whose very dolls Had been court ladies in brocade and velvet, THE HEIR OF ROOKVvOOD. 229 Put by her rainbow paroquets and roses To fashion garments for the elf child Lilia ; And even my lady mother deigned to smile, Hearing her tiny step along the halls, Watching the slow toil of her baby feet Labouring from stair to stair. . Her restless life Was never still. She laughed out in her sleep. Living the glad day over, and sometimes. Blindfold with slumber, to the halls below Crept from her turret chamber. 'Twas in vain That when bright girlhood came, I tried to yoke Her errant thoughts to mine. My elf charge paled Over her books. She sighed for the pure air Of crags and glens, her greyhound and her pony, And for the free use of her glorious limbs. She was lithe like a vine, and she could scale The rocks as lightly. The long summer day Was short to her if she might wander on P'rom hill-side to ravine, or ford the streams, Or, resting on some island rock, her feet Bare glancing through the waves, twine pallid wreaths 2c 2o0 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. Of lilies, ferns, and dripping water weeds For her brown hair. Yet to my side she stole, If seated near the lilied pool I read Romance or poem, and when winter nights Drew us around the hearth, she came to plead For wilder fables, listening at my feet. With ear attentive and chained lips, until Her blue eyes with excess of terror grew Darker, like fair lakes frozen. If she played. The crags were royal palaces, her doll A captive princess, and herself a knight Who, armed with spear and shield, came to the rescue. She was a child still when my sister Maud Passed from our halls, a willing bride, with love Ruffling her inborn calmness just so much As a dove, drinking at a marble fount. Troubles the water. Marian followed soon. And Ernestine, left lonely, to my side. Stole for companionship. We three together Would wander through the woodlands, till the path THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOU. 2S1 We loitering followed broke against a hedge That parted Rookwood from the broad domain Nursed for my cousin Arthur, who, abroad, Studied the graces of a foreign court. The idle tales linked to my Lilia's birth Were not forgotten. Peasants, round their hearths. Told how they'd seen her upon giddy boughs Rocked like a bird to slumber; how she sat On the wet rocks and crowned her hair with flowers. Singing witch melodies. Some even swore They'd met her spirit in the fields at night. White-robed and talking softly. I had made No secret of the past, but led my charge. When her small feet could tread the unequal path, Down to the lilied pool, and told her there Of the pale lady crowned with scarlet blooms. Whose hair curled round the lily stems, whose arms Sheltered an infant ; and I think this gave A colour to her nature. Did I note 232 THE HEIR OF II K W D. As the months passed, her beauty's quick perfecting? I only knew that she had stood between Me and mj boyhood's peril ; that the love She lighted in my soul, was like a flame That, kindled in some close unwholesome cave, Burns out mephitic vapours. I was happy — Armed with strong thoughts, aspiring every day To nobler wisdom ; and as fountains, falling, Do pluck down rainbows, even by bafiled eifort Made hopeful; health to my misshapen limbs With manhood come ; and strength, if discontent Held up her mirror, or ambition flashed His blazing sword athwart its path, to curb My startled spirit— tranquil with my books, Save when sweet Lilia lured me from their sway, Breaking the calm of thought with her light jests, As one flings down on some unsparkling lake Handfuls of blossoms. Rumours of the world, Flying o'er Rookwood, dropped to Ernestine Seeds that put forth. She hungered for the life Of courts and cities. She was born for these. And Lilia's wild ways only served to warn THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 233 And chide her into stateliness. A flower That grows beside a cataract imbibes Not less the nature of its restless neighbour. Fronting the sunset, Rookwood's library Looks down the lawn ; and up that gradual slope, The west wind, loitering, hums a song it learned Down by the tuneful river. River-scents Blow through the oriels ; shade and quiet fill The book-lined room. 'Twixt rows of oaken shelves Are hung two dusky pictures — St. Jerome, Framed in the dark mouth of his desert cave ; A brindled lion couchant at his feet ; Pondering the gospels — and, a space beyond, White companies of angels flock to thee, Lily of heaven, Cecilia ! One recess O'ervaults an organ's gilded pipes, and here Many an evening, Ernestine and Lilia Sang to my stormy playing. Lilia's voice Was like the gay dance of a bayadere, Aerially light, but Ernestine's Stately as gondolas that glide between 224 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. Ranked palaces, and -with slow keels plough up Their glassy pictures. On my sister's lip The round notes dwelt, till each in full completeness Seemed fallen for mellowness, like dropping fruit ; But Lilia's bright-winged song capricious flew From flower to flower of sound. Here came my mother. Aged and bent, the windows of her mind Opaque with wintry frost. With folded hands And drooping head she sat, while on its wings The music bore her through a twilight past — Over the stagnant waters of a lake Up whose dead waves a phantom city gleamed. Gleamed up in swaying downward. Lilia's chamber Was over mine. I could not see its windows — But on the turret facing hers, sometimes, A shadow gliding gently to and fro. And once when it fell darkly, I could mark How she had shaken her long tresses down To braid them for the night coif. Through my sleep Even, her light laugh and her elfin tread n THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 235 Constantly wandered. Nay, once fully roused By the near sound of steps, I could have sworn That where the Avinding stair abruptly turned Close by my door, the hem of a white robe Ruffled the darkness. On my mother's lips Lay the recording marble. I had set Betwixt the world's reproach and Liha's name The bulwark of my love. Wooed ever yet Lover so coldly ? With my blighted manhood I weighed her fairest youth, counted the years Dividing us, and warned her if one thought Recoiled from me 'twere wisdom to invoke Death, sickness, beggary, torment in all shapes, Rather than chain to her offended soul The cieep disgust of an unwelcome love. Lilia, the child, shy pressing to my heart, Lilia, the girl, just taught the trick of blushes, Answered me without words. And from that hour Lilia was mine, however wooed or won ; My plighted wife, though Ernestine might wear 2CG THE HEIR OF 110 OK WOOD. A triple scorn upon her brow ; my bride, Though all my haughty peers cried fie upon me ; Who should lay down the law to Rookwood's heir ? I'd rain bright gold o'er Lilia's shameful birth, Express the stigma on her name in diamonds. The groaning coffers that my pride had slighted, Opened their mouths in praise of her betrothal. My life was little changed ; 'twas nothing new If when I walked, hung Lilia on my path Talking her wayward fancies ; nothing new If when I read, stole Lilia to my side, And o'er the page I pondered open laid A volume of the idle rhymes she loved ; That I must quit my garland of rare thoughts To twine her wreath of bluets ; nothing new That her light steps kept ever count of mine, That she beset me with her wilful ways, That she was ever near me. I was all Her world. She had no other. From the day Her baby feet first tottered o'er the lawns, Lilia had been my shadow. In my heart 1 THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. 237 Love lay too deep. 'Twas buried from my sight. The spoils of sixteen summers rose above it. Life's reddest flower unfolded like a lily For want of light. I needed sterner teaching — • Unapt to read the riddle of past days, To twist in one their many-coloured threads, To see the scattered brightness of my life Concentred to a star. 'Tw^as early May. Across the lawns, to woods and waves beyond We had been loitering. Ernestine and I Looked from its high banks to the stream below, Part veiled w^ith drooping boughs — and, ankle deep In grass and yielding moss — from rock to rock Dropped our sure-footed Lilia, till at last. Safe on the pebbly shore, she turning, threw Her long locks back, and lifting eyes brimful Of elvish laughter, called, " Hark, Ernestine ! My father is a water sprite, and see. The vine, my mother, leans to his embrace From the rough rocks he scales. Therefore I twine Wet water weeds and scarlet pendent blooms 238 THE HE 1 11 OF ROOK WOOD. In my curled hair !" The echoes shook her laugh To silvery fragments, as the rocks below Brake the melodious waters. Ere she paused, A white hound and a youth that chid him back Came up the hollow. When his lifted face Questioned my own, I knew my cousin Arthur. Tne boy my father loved was now a man Cast in his mould, but round whose manhood hung A studied courtliness, unlike Sir Hugh's Rough royalty. Disdain on Arthur's lip, Tamed by disgust, sat like a wearied falcon. There burned no fire within his listless eye. No eager impulse leaping from his heart Waved the red colours on his cheek, his voice Was sweet and even as a stream that has Never a rock to break against. To lie Out on the green sward, pillowing his head Upon the sleek neck of some favourite hound, Follow the watercourses, rod and line Swung idly o'er his shoulder, walk his horse THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 239 Along the bridle-paths — reins dropped and arms Folded in thought — or in a voice whose cadence Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French ; That quaint old French once married to our English, Rude spelt, and garnished with ''Ma foys" and "Pardjs;" Perchance to dream, — an arm flung o'er his eyelids While Lilia touched the organ, and without Twilight grew dark and rose the evening star, Adding her silver splendours to the night — AVas life enough for Arthur. June was over. When did I first miss Lilia from my side ? Thoughts she was w^ont to scatter wandered now As wildly in her absence. Everywhere, Within doors and without, a vague discomfort Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia ? Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side, Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn. Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes At Arthur's side in the deep library window. So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head 240 THE HEIR OF EOOKWOOD. Sideways to hide a smile. I could not stoop To doubt my plighted wife. 'Twas natural — Strangers were rare at Rookwood. Arthur told Gay tales of foreign courts — had wandered far. His traveller's magic held her in its spell. Well might she weary of my side, and long, Poor child, for wider ranging — thus I reasoned. But as the weeks wore on, my pride spoke louder, And every morn flung back the coiled suspicion I nightly tore, indignant, from my breast. , Ernestine's cold smile and attentive glance, Lilia's dropt eyes, flushed cheek, and faltering tongue, Arthur's calm gaze for ever following Lilia, Angered me all alike. 'Twas after midnight. Too bright the moon across my pillow shone — I rose to drop the curtain and looked forth. 'Twas after midnight. Lilia's lamp still burning ? Her shadow flitted o'er the turret wall, Returned and paused. She stood before her mirror. There she was gathering up her hair and buckling THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 241 A riband round her waist, and at her throat [Fastening the open folds of her thin robe. Then all was dark. All silent too, I heard not A step upon the stairs. Suddenly issued From the low tower door a figure clad In filmy white. Across the lawns it fled. Whither ? The stars were paling in the east When my afiianced wife came hurrying back. I heard her pause beside my chamber door That stood ajar, then, up the Avinding stair Pass to her own. I questioned her that morn With keen, cold eyes. Her flashing glance braved mine, Wavered and fell — a glittering blade struck down By heavier steel. Thenceforth she fled me. Came Our bridal day and passed. I would not note it. And Lilia — had forgot. I'd fallen asleep One day at noon — my slumber so transparent, That through its painted curtain of swift dreams, Shone, visible, the steadfast things beyond. 242 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. Vision extinguished vision, yet I knew — Held by the light imperious touch of sleep — I did but dream in the deep library chair. Dreamed I that faltering step across the threshold ? The sob, the kiss quick dropped upon my hand? I grappled with my sleep and flung it from me. No one ! — yet Arthur's spaniel, lying near. Beat on the carpet with his feathery tail. I had been trained in sorrow's hardy school, No raw recruit in suffering. Fate might pluck At my life's core. I smiled as one who sees War's mailed hand snatch off" the silken favour Bound to his helm, but has no mind for that To drop his sword's point. While my bleeding heart Craved leave to count its wounds, while every thought Concealed a knife, while to all earth and heaven Seemed half divulged the story of my grief, So curiously did all things hint at it — I walked beneath the vigilant eye of sorrow, As walk her darlings. Not enough to hide My hurt from prying looks — this pride will do, THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. 243 And take her pay in heart throes — from myself I hid my grief that was my inmost self! The poisonous fruit that life let fall for me I held in cautious hands, and wary thought Did only graze the outer rind of sorrow, Knowing there was a bitter core within She must not feed upon. The sob, the tear, Albeit but visions, did their angel errand, And my roused heart made answer. All that night I watched beside my casement. So the next. And so the next. No Lilia ! Through the day I hung upon her footsteps. Arthur, too. He ever at her side, and I, apart, A careless loiterer whom chance had thrown Into their company. 'Twas then I marked Lilia's white cheek, faint step, and hollow laugh That made mirth pitiful. Alas, poor child — An infant to this worldling ! Had my pride SulTered her erring feet unchid to wander 244 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. Into his net ? 'Twas thus my heart arraigned me Unfaithful to my trust. A crescent moon Waxed into golden fulness. Came a night Of blended light and storm. High craggy clouds, Along whose clefts the constant lightning played, Rose toppling o'er the hills, and, half-way hung, Betwixt the zenith and pale horizon. The moon was struggling upward. Midnight near, I, seated at my window, heard again Footsteps above, and marked her lamp's pale ray Paint Lilia's semblance on the turret wall. I heard her pass my door and saw her stand Upon the lawn beneath, ere, shrouding close My figure in a mantle's dark disguise, I followed. Nay, how light across the turf She trod — across the turf where I had guided Her infant steps ! Not down the lane that led To Arthur's boundaries. Soon the swollen wave Was audible. She stood and listened then With lifted hand. Did Arthur meet her there ? THE HEIR OF ROOK WOOD. 245 The blood leaped through my heart, a pale mist swejt Over my eyes, the very earth was thrilling, Reeling beneath my feet. Lilia fled on. She trod the brink of the ravine. Broad oaks Embraced her with their shadows. While I scarce Discerned her flowing draperies, the moon Withdrew its light. I followed through the darkness^ A perilous path ! I tracked her by the sound Of crashing brush and slippery stones displaced Tumbling into the hollow. Outstretched boughs Forbade me with their firm extended arms. Vines caught my feet, far-reaching brambles held My garments. In the river's lifted voice There was a fearful cadence, and the wind Rose shrill and sudden. Then the cataract Grew hoarser, louder, till all sounds were trampled Under its eager feet. The boughs o'erhead Were instantly divided. Breathless, faint, I stood above the waterfall and felt Its white waves leap beneath me. Where was Lilia ? 2e 246 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. I pried into the gloom. I shouted " Lilia !" My tongue was palsied by the rushing waters. They tore the sweet name from my lips and fled. Down the rough brake, along this dizzy path, How had she kept her way ? Frantic, I cast My mantle back, and springing to the edge Of the sheer rock, made ready for a leap "Wild as the cataract's. Just then, the moon. As one who bears a lamp from stair to stair Clambering a ruin, through the crevices Of the black cloud obscurely shone, and stood On its torn battlements. The deep ravine Was flooded with its light. Beneath my feet Lay the round pool to which the waters leapt. The air was heavy with a languid perfume. For white unfolding to the moonlight gleamed The web of lilies, whence I'd plucked my Lilia. But where the child ? Up from the leafy pool I raised my eyes and glanced along the rocks That overhung it. From my heart, a cry Sprang to my lips and paused. THE HEIR OF R K AV D. 247 Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge, Steadying the hollow of her daring foot, Stood Lilia. Who but Lilia so could venture? What did she there ? and what a trysting-place ! And where was Arthur ? In my eagerness, Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white. In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot, She stood, how like a form I well remembered ! My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged My memory. Of a maniac mother born — So strange in all her ways — alone, at night. To wander hither ? Lilia ! oh the child ! The girl ! the woman worth all life to me ! And I had wronged her by the crudest thought ! Live, Lilia, live — be his — be anything — Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns Held the moon's glitter. To my form they turned. Yet spake no wonder. Vacant, cold, they wandered 248 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. To my form they turned, Yet spake no wonder. Vacant, cold, they wandered Over the wiUl bright firmament. Sweet angels ! Where had I seen that look in Lilia's eyes? Betwixt the dreamer and my soul there glided A picture strange yet fair — Rookwood's old hall Half gloom, half firelight; by the chimney corner A crowd of wondering varlets ; at the door My mother with a smile upon her lip ; And on the oaken stair, her chamber taper Lit in her hand, and her unconscious eyes Fast held by sleep, a child in flowing night-robes ! The vision faded from me — then- — 'twas done Ere I could breathe — her white arms tossed aloft, Lilia sprang forward. Through the moonlight flitted That lightest form. The parted waves laudied out Embracing her — the lilies closed above. 'Twas then I woke — from rock to rock mad leaping, A lion's strength was raging in my limbs. The smiling waves received me. In their arms, Oh what a fight with death ! Down those cool depths THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 249 What frantic wrestling! Did the weeds below Entangle her? I rose and dived again, It seemed a thousand times. Then, spent and blind, Sprang to the surface. From beneath the lilies Gleamed out a face. I caught her from their net, And flung mj burden on the shore. HoAV long Ere through her eyes' blue depths my Lilia's soul Bloomed up again as lilies through the wave ? All wonder, shame, and joy, was in the face That questioned mine. There, where my arms had twice Plucked her from death's cold bosom, in that spot Thick sown with lovely memories, as its banks In spring with violets, she could not hide Her heart from mine. 'Twas Ernestine had struck The jarring chord. 'Twas Ernestine, whose pride Let fall the hint that turned my Lilia's love For one who had but gold to offer her, Into deep shame ; who whispered that she sold Her loveliness to one who paid its price Only for pity. 'Twas so slight a net Had meshed our Cupid's feet. If Arthur, heir 250 THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. To Rookwood, next to me, with Ernestine, Had plotted for himself, or did but wing Some idle hours, unthoughtful of the future My marriage was to mar, at Lilia's side, I never knew. 'Tis many years since then; And while I write in Rookwood's library, The velvet shadows of an August eveninor Slant down the lawn, and on a grassy bank Beneath the window where I sit, is Lilia. Her braided hair lies smooth upon her brow. Her blue eyes have grown thoughtful, though her lips Have the same passionate life. The babe she rocks Upon her bosom has a brow no calmer. All her wild ways have fallen from my Lilia, As its superfluous blossoms from the tree. My boy, who lies beside her on the lawn. Plays with his brace of pointers. Ernestine Is Arthur's wife, and mistress of his home And heart. Her beauty has been praised by kings. Her face is welcome at our English court. THE HEIR OF ROOKWOOD. 251 The dream of all her childhood is fulfilled. Her boys and girls are lovely as their mother; Arthur has heirs enow to bear his name Adown through coming years ; but Arthur's children Will scarcely play the lord in bonny Rookwood. CHRISTMAS. Why do the bells keep ringing ? — It is Christmas. Without, in the snowy street, Thou mayest hear a sound of feet; The noise of people who pass On their way to hear midnight mass At the church around the corner. Holy Christmas ! Why dost thou call it holy, Holy Christmas ? — Child, upon a Christmas night. Rose the wondrous star whose light C II Tv I S T M A S. 253 Led three magi to the manger Where reposed a royal stranger Once discrowned for thy salvation. Blessed Christmas ! How discrowned for my salvation On a Christmas ? — God loved the world so well — The mystic Gospels tell — That He sent His Son divine, For the world's sake — thine and mine — To be born of a pure virgin On a Christmas. Born of the Virgin Mary On a Christmas — Ay, the mother undefiled. But he loves us both, my child, Quite as dearly as his mother. If we serve him and none other, If we take his cross upon us. Precious Christmas ! 2 F 254 CHRISTMAS. Do we take His cross upon us Now, this Christmas ? It is deadly dark and damp, The palest ray of a lamp Were a comfort in this place; And snow and hail, apace. Without, came down together. Stormy Christmas ! How the snow and hail come down When 'tis Christmas ! — Yes, the nights wax long and cold. And the winds wax rough and bold; Neither snow, nor hail, nor rain. Shall provoke us to complain, For we bear His cross, sweet Jesu; On this Christmas. We will bear His cross, sweet Jesu, On this Christmas ! — Child, how deadly cold thou art — Creep closer to my heart. CHRISTMAS. 255 I will stretch myself part over thee, These thin rags scarcely cover thee. Oh the night, the night is fearful ! Bitter Christmas ! Yes, the nights are very fearful, Now 'tis Christmas. — I keep thinking of other days. Of our Christmas hearth in a blaze, Of the sweetest time in my life. When I'd been one year a wife, And thou wert a baby, dearest! Happy Christmas ! I was only a baby then. On that Christmas — Thou wert only a babe at the breast, But the sweetest, dearest, best ! Thy father might weary of me. But how could he stray from thee ? Boy, he has left us to perish! What a Christmas ! 256 CHRISTMAS. Yes, we must surely perish On this Christmas — Oh darling, creep closer to me ; Strange are the faces I see, Lights flash about in the room. As though up through the desolate gloom Sprang the angels proclaiming Messiah- Wondrous Christmas I If they sing to us of Messiah, Happy Christmas ! — Adrift on the stormy weather, Come the organ notes fitfully hither. I could sleep awhile if I tried; Creep close, close to my side. Lay thy head on my shoulder. Icy Christmas ! Wake, neighbour, noon is over. Merry Christmas ! — No one answers call or knock ; And they shatter the crazy lock. CHRISTMAS. 257 Tlien the Christmas sun, cold shining, Lights the twain in sleep reclining. Strange to sleep so late in the morning On a Christmas. WouLDST thou persuade my bitter mood to gladness^ Hush thy light laugh, withhold thy merry jest ; Mirth only spurs to grief my present sadness, Vexing my heart, an ill-timed busy guest. While fast and full the sullen tides roll o'er me, Seek not to charm me with thy lovely song. And stay thy hand, be silent, I implore thee ; Touch not the chords that deeper chords prolong. Oh look without — arrayed in calmest splendour. The hills stand rapt, the vales are swathed in gloom. Speak to me now, but words austere yet tender. High as the stars and humble as the tomb. That drawing near life's low-arched narroAv portal, We catch faint glimpses as of heights sublime ; And looking up, behold how hopes immortal Shine through some fissures in the walls of time. A M I N A. She was the Sun's bride — such mock majesty Her vagrant fancy took. His chosen bride ; For he had won her with one burning kiss Pressed on her forehead, as an August noon Stooped to the reeling vineyards. Mad Amina ! But hers was lovely madness. Pity's self Withheld its meed. Eyes brimful of sweet laughter, Black hair bound up with flowers, limbs light as breezes- Behold Amina ! Flying from her kind, She haunted rocks and caves; gentlest of all The gentle things she dwelt among. The fawns 'Z60 A M I N A. That rested in the valleys, knew her step And fled not. From the oaks' broad canopy The birds sang ever louder as she passed. All her glad life was poetry. She hymned The Sun at morn and wept for him at eve. She climbed the mountain precipice to give The eagles messages, what time they beat Their wings against the brazen dome of noon. The waves her bridegroom kissed baptized her brow, The flowers he warmed were hid within her breast. Noon had lain down among the harvest fields, The reapers were gone home. Amina there. Prone amid flowers, her clasped hands on her brow. Talked to the cumbrous shadows. Cloud on cloud Rolled to the west and melted at its verge, And left a dome of dusky azure, where Evening seemed busy spinning her thin web. Though it was noon. "Whence fell the shadowy sadness ? Over the pools the trees hung motionless, A M I N A. 261 And watched their fading pictures. In the thicket, No insect chirrupped, and no tuneful bee Sang in the rose. But from the distant grange, A cock crowed shrill and ghostly as the blue Distilled a stealthy twilight. Darker yet, The owl was hooting, and the giddy bat Wheeled on his drunken flight. The wood-birds fled Unwearied to their nests. Along the hollows, The cattle in their pastures seemed asleep. Amina, crouching in the harvest blooms, Upraised her questioning eyes. Oh, wonder thus To see the great Sun like a flower fade Out of the fields of heaven ! oh, worse than wonder ! Shrieking she rose. Into the valley strayed A mountain path. Up this, Amina sprang. Plucking the gaudy chaplets from her hair. Mid-way betwixt bleak crest and wooded base She halted, wild and breathless. At her feet, A jutting crag burst from the forest boughs And overhung the valley. Downward gazing, 2g 202 A INI I N A. She saw the ghastly upturned face of earth, Then dared to look above. A lurid rmg Half circled the dim chalice of the sun That overflowed with darkness. Was he dying ? — The royal lover to her madness wedded — Slain in his chariot as a king in battle — Or only veiling in capricious anger The long love-look that woke his bride at morn, And dwelt on her at noon, and lingered brightly Kound her at eve ? She knelt with outstretched arms Till, shorn of every beam, she saw her monarch Discrowned, a blind and beggared outcast, grope His way across the blasted plains of heaven. The wondrous shadow faded — cheerful day Lit the blithe reapers to their work again. When sunset came, one, leaning on his scythe. And following with his eye a hawk's flight upward, Marked on the moss-capped overhanging rock, A white prone form, and said, "It is Amina. She sleeps, and does not wake to say farewell. A M I N A. 263 Kneeling with clasped hands, to the late Sun That flares his crimson torch across her eyelids." But on the morrow, as a hunter bears The quarry home — some white-limbed tender doe — He came down from the mountain through the valleys, Amina's light form hanging o'er his shoulder. For she was dead for sorrow, mad Amina I SONG. Dawn paints thj lattice ; The virginal hours Fold in thy sweet soul Its night-blooming flowers; Lakes in the hollows, And clouds in the skies, Drink in the light Like thy beautiful eyes, — Sunbeams betraying Where bright waters be — Morn of my heaven, Oh smile thou for me ! SONG. 265 Lo ! from the peak Where the red rowan clings, Softly the day descends, Trying her wings ; - Hares shake the copses, And larks brush the leaves, And swallows stir lightly Beneath the broad eaves ; The bird is awakening His song on the tree ; Bird of my morning. Wake music for me I KATHLEEN. What moans with the cast wind ? Ah, listen, Aileen ! Through the dull mist and rain I hear it complain. — 'Tis only the shriek of the curlew, Kathleen ! I look to the sea-side, The pale shore, Aileen ! There is something adrift That the waves toss and lift — A boat, tempest-torn from its moorings, Kathleen ! K A T H L E E N. Under the day-dawn She steals forth, Aileen. What lies nigh the door, Bj the waves sent ashore ? Oh deep be thy slumbers this morning, Kathleen ! BALLAD. Come, Giulia, braid my hair ; smooth let it be ; Some other time I'll do my best for thee. Thine is so rippled ! Mine one even flow, Nor wave, nor curl — 'tis well — Alesso likes it so. Look how Helena shakes. Is't so much colder ? Too cold for clouds. I would the moon were older ! 'Twill light him, though. Oh put thy work away, Sister ! come near the fire. It is no longer day. We'll have no flowers but sea-flowers, wreaths, spray-fair, Alesso's self shall crown my braided hair. Sister, come help ! Forget thine old, old sorrow. I cannot think of grief. A bride I'll be to-morrow ! BALLAD. 269 Is the moon up ? Methinks the wind gets loud. See'st thou the boat ? Is yon dark speck a cloud, Helena, look ! (Once I too, had a lover, Waited his sail, his step — sweet days for ever over !) Yes, 'tis the boat. What was Helena saying ? The boat, the boat ! Hist, how the hound keeps baying ! Smooth down my braids. Let's r.iake the fire burn faster. Let Beppo loose — witnout ! — Go welcome back thy master. MARGARET. Hills that roll bacK to mcimtams, close The holy vale that shrines St. Ro?ti : The mountain tops let down their snows Into a river that southward flows. The hills that crowd to the water's edge, Sink into the wave through the slimy sedge. When the chapel bell aloft is swinging Ten thousand airy peals keep ringing; Echoes from forest and bluff and dell, Follow the lead of the chapel bell, Along the lonely river sighing, M A R G A R E T. 271 Out of the blue air failing, dying, Like birds down dropped from over flying, Lost in the chiming of waves that flow To a city that's built on the banks below. When the last glory of day has paled, Out of the valley a mist, exhaled From river and dingle and marish moss, Rises up to the chapel cross, Over the lap of the vale adrift With the chapel cross in the midst uplift. Nigh to the altar in bride's array. Is one who died on her marriage day. With marble palms together prest She lies in breathless stone exprest ; A ripe rose, bursting on her breast. Strews with its blooms her flowing vest. In sculptured lilies fairly set. Is writ the sweet name, Margaret ; And at her feet an angel stands Praying, with uplifted hands. )72 MARGARET. When yesternoon at the altar rail, A bride drew back her shining veil, And through the door and up the aisle, The daylight followed like a smile, Methought yon marble — pallid now Under the moon's upcreeping tide — From swelling breast to cheek and brow, Blushed crimson with indignant pride. As if the dead that lay below Angered to hear the bridal vow, Iler lips grew pale repeating, After the lapse of a single year Breathed in her lord's forgetful car. But when I looked again. Above, the August sun kept beating Against the chancel pane. And striking through a martyr's crown, Showered a blood-red glory down. She, that was heir to a lordly pride. Leant from the arms of her high-born mother To the low fount of a peasant's breast ; I was her foster brother. U A R G A Pv E T. 273 And on one bosom, side by side, Lulled by the same rude song to rest, Our hearts grew early to each other. No scion of a race out-worn By gilded vice or lordly sloth, By peasants nursed, of warriors born. She drew her glowing life from both. No gentle bower maiden, she, — Trained at her lady-mother's knee, Into the slow-wrought tapestry Weaving her youth, — but w^ild and free. The shrill cliff-building echoes knew Her voice by height and holt remote, Following fast its silver clue Like birds that mock another's note. And light the mountain paths she trode, And light her blooded palfrey rode, Gladdest when gay winds at sport. Set the green branches all astir. Bowing and bending over her; The bloodhounds chained in the castle court. 274 I\l A R G A R E T. Welcomed her leaping and harmlessly playing, And her steed in the stable answered by neighing. Rode she forth — I had leave to follow Close at her bridle ; to loiter free Bj hill-side and wave-side and lone wood hollow, Their high-flown pride would not swoop to me. The slow spring-wind might, passing, bear My peasant's breath across her hair. Nor bid the rose-buds swelling there Put forth one dewy leaf betimes, And so I wooed her but in rhymes. And praised her but as minstrels praise — Spending my soul in courteous lays — I might tilt with keen despaii Wooing her all my aimless days. Thus, till drawn nigh to womanhood, Her girlhood, like a Scottish snood. Loose in her dark locks, Margaret stood. 'Twas then my love found voice and breath ; Not faint with hope, not meek in prayer, MARGARET. 275 But cold as pride, and stern as death, Defiant in its strong despair. Even was darkening down the day, And soft the vesper call came, blown, Under the arched oaks, vast and gray; We trod the chapel path alone. I faced her on the narrow way. How to my lips my spirit leaped, xisk not — it was so long ago ! If burning heart and brain have kept True record of that time, or no, I will not question. Tears of rage And grief once marred the crowded page ; And hourly to my weary soul. Did my sick heart recite it over. 'Twould move me little now — a faded scroll Writ by pale hands that paler marbles cover. If Margaret met me now at morn In paths where once we wandered free, Her dark eyes, lit at sight of me. Scarce held in leash their cao;er scorn. 276 M A II G A R E T. Her cheek grew pale at mj approach, Grew sudden pale and flushed again. Nor might she longer bide my touch Upon her flowing bridle rein. Where woods are dark and waters chime, Another's step with hers kept time ; And where along the valley glooms My hand had checked her palfrey's pride, Gay cavaliers with floating plumes Came lightly riding at her side. I waited in the chapel aisle, 'Twixt morning-mass, and noon : The organist in the organ loft Played a sweet piping tune. The noon-lights, crimson-stoled and soft. Went gliding up the sacred pile. From nave to altar solemnly. And the golden cups on the chapel shrine. Seemed brimmed with sacramental wine; And I could almost see 1 MARGARET. 277 God's silence from the blue above, Descending like His holy Dove. I knew her lightest step, before The bride's train reached the chapel door; Upon their flowing garments wearing Sunshine that flecked the chapel floor. And she passed on with queenly bearing, Yet, kneeling by the altar rail, Closer drew her bridal veil ; Yet, crowding to the altar's foot, Part rose, like one irresolute. And from her lips the marriage vow Slid like a snow wreath, cold and slow. This scarcely spoken, De I'Orme pressed smiling near, but she Motioned him back, and full on me Turned for a moment's flying space The unveiled meaning of her face, Where love had broken Away from pride, with swift auroral bloom Flushing my night of life ere lost in coldest gloom. 278 MARGARET. Then anger, shame, and cold disdain, Warred on those paling lips again, Till slowly, like a sullen rain. The life-drops, tortured from her heart, Spotted the marble altar stair As if some red rose, burst ai3art, Had strewed its petals there. And she fell headlong, white and mute, Striking her brow at the altar's foot. They said she died from mere excess Of life and love and happiness ! Be yours the bridal kiss, De I'Orme, That's proffered half, and half denied. But leave to me yon silent form Veiled closely in its marble pride. E-everent as he who guards a shrine, I may not call its beauty mine. All passive though the slumberer be, St. Mary, crowned with charms divine, Is not more safe from love and me. MARGARET. 270 For passion pales to sorrow where Yon sculptured angel kneels in prayer, And passion's lightest breath would scare The holy calm that watches there ; For all love's wealth I may not dare To touch lip, brow, or curled hair. But when slow Even disappears Out of the west, and over all, Twilight is hanging like a pall Thick dropped with silver tears ; When from lone river and wet marsh moss, The mist climbs up to the chapel cross And over the vale, a spectral sea, Closes its waves on mine and me. In the shadowy aisles, by the marble white I watch till dawn blooms out of night. Not yours yon passive bride, De I'Orme, With pallid cheek and sealed eye ; You never loved her living form As I her snow-cold effigy. KOSABELLE. *' The night is blind with a double dark, And rain and hail come down together — 'Tis well to sit by the fire and hark To the stormy weather. " The beggar lies down in the misty dell, And the peasant faces the eddying storm; But you that weep, fair Rosabelle, Sit housed and warm." " Better be out on the barren hills With the wild night blowing my sorrow blind. Than listening here to my heart that thrills Like a bell that's tolled by the passing wind." R S A B E L L E. 281 " You may wander all day with a page at your rein, Greyhounds to follow, and hawks for your wrist. East and west, through your lord's domain. Whither you list. *' When you ride through the town in the even light, Pacing your steed 'neath the elms tall and shady, Each village girl all the summer night Dreams she's a lady." "Would I were hearing the evening hymn My mother sings to the babe on her knee, Or floating by dawn o'er the waters dim Koland, my brother, alone with thee ! My step is faint in your bannered halls. Where the bright armour flashes, the windows high — Slit through the rock of the massive walls — Frame in a strip of the fair blue sky. By the long lance windows, the deep arched door Shadows stand fighting the golden light, 282 ROSABELLE. And the leap of a hound on the oaken floor Rings like the tread of an armed knight. In the niches arched over pale figures of stone, There are voices that mimic my bursting sighs ; And the jewels that tremble around my zone Mock me with scorn in their flashing eyes. My sleek greyhound and my merlin bold Chafe at restraining ; the steed I rein Wantonly bears on the curb of gold — Slighting my will with a high disdain. How goes the night in the fisher's cot? Is the boat safe moored? Does the hearth shine clear? Are they jesting together while I, forgot, Link every thought to a falling tear ? If Roland is out in his fisher's bark. My mother sings low to the child on her knee, My father stops mending his nets to mark How the wind with the sea-birds is skimmina^ the sea. ROSABELLE. 283 With ray sad eyes and my rich attire, Lifting the latch, should I enter there. Old Raoul, the bloodhound, that dreams by the fire, Would rouse him to threaten my pale despair. Early in March, ere the spring winds blow, Ere the hill-snows melt or the skies look bland, On the lone white shore where the tide is low They shall hollow my grave in the sloping sand. A GRAY DAY IN APRIL. O'erflowed by April mists, the April sun Stands like a spot of silver on the sky, And my pale shadow gliding at my side, Scarce paints the ground. A doubtful radiance dwells Over broad fields and round back-rolling hills ; The heaven is uniform gray, and from its edge The bold firm pencilling of blue mountain tops Is almost blurred away. The wind's long sigh, Like the sea-Ariel's in his prison shell, Stirs through the light-clad wood, and thither leads. Edging the marsh, and loitering up the slope. The footpath trodden through the grassy fields. A GRAY DAY IN APRIL. 285 Spring flowers are up — the numb life that hath Lain Under the brown leaves like a chrysalis, Is suddenly free. The long wood aisles are bright With the anemone, that sylvan star Hung in the dawn of Spring. The fern leaves still Curl to their stalk, but in the open fields The violet buds are blue. Later will come The alder, hedging with its summer snow Roadside and runlet; by the meadow marsh High banks of reddening laurel. Last of all The tall field flower that at the door of Autumn Knocks with its golden wand. All still— how still I Along the hollows float slow waifs of sound, Echoes of echoes ! For the careless wind Drops half his freight of melody, and brings Of the bird's song a note, and leaves behind The brook's full music, and imperfectly Conveys the laughter and linked voices blown This way across the fields, from noisy groups Bound to their hill-side school. My dog lies near, 2k 28G A GRAY DAY IN APRIL. Limbs crossed and head uplift — and steady eyes Searching the gleamy distance. It is good, Good for the languid frame and restless spirit, A day like this. Thought fades into a dream ; The jubilant music of creation's hymn, Yearly renewed, sounds faint as if withdrawn Into the skies, and the irregular pulses Beat slow true time. Life, the wild wounded bird, From circling sky-ward, earth-ward, sinks at last Into the bloomy grass, so glad to rest It scarcely feels the arrow in its side. THE DEATH OF THE LILY. "I SHALL lie no more where the v/inds bend low The reeds that mock when the forests roar; Where the crowding waves with a measured flow Come rippling up to the mossy shore." Woe for the lily! her sisters gone, She bent to her mirror of crystal alone, " I shall sleep no more when the bright wave comes To woo my head to its heaving breast ; And smile no more when the white swan plumes His ruffled wing by my tossing crest." Woe for the lily ! the winds came rude, And her wan lips bowed to the mantling flood. 288 T II E D E A T II F T II E L I L Y. "I shall watch no more when by midnight's ray The wave-sprites garland their yellow hair ; Nor see them leap through the frolic spray To wreath my buds with the star-beam there." Woe for the lily ! her head drooped low, And her sweet breath mixed with the water's flow. "I shall lift, oh never, my chalice of pearl To the rosy lips of the morn again; To the blush of the day when her pinions furl, To the silent dew or the gentle rain." Woe for the lily ! her reign was past, And her white leaves whirled to the angry blast. WINDS. Came on the "winter twiliglit — homeward steps Were hasty in the streets, the panes were blind With sudden frost, and curtains closely dropt. Shut out the bitter aspect of the storm, But not its voice. 'Twas said, " Oh desolate wind ! What's like the wind for sadness ?" Answered then One who, reclining by the fireside, basked With shaded eyelids in its ruddy light, " 'Tis never sad to me — I love the winds, Free Arabs of the air, that have no home. But pitch their cloudy tents upon the brink Of Arctic azure, or throu2;h midnight skies 290 AVINDS. Fantastic with auroras, side by side, With winged wild legions screaming sweep the poles, Tuning their hoarse throats to the bruit of waves. Were it my own to give or keep, at death, I would bequeath my soul to such a wind." Light-spoken words, dropped in the storm's full pause, Forgotten ere its rise. Commit thy soul To the wild keeping of those vagrant winds ? Those melancholy winds that gird the earth With sadness ? Not the summer winds that lie Rocked bird-like in high branches, that fly fast Down the moist morning shadows, that tread soft Through the dim woods at even, that precede The silver columns of the marching rain Along the parched pale meadows. Summer winds 'Gainst whom no door is shut, that may come in. Refresh the sleeper, or with angels bear The soul from dead lips up into the blue Deep calm above. Light winds that may tread close WIND S. i:9l Upon light footsteps, pluck the robe that shrines A form beloved, lift the bright floating hair, Touch brow and lip and cheek with love's full freedom, Fearless and unreproved. But, oh, to fly Bound to the flanks of such a desert steed. Its wolf pack howling after ! Desolate nights, To he the restless thing that moaning pleads Under the windows, tampers with the locks, Breathes hard along the door-sill, like a hound That's shut out from his master, weeps, entreats, Shrieks, curses. By the fireside or the board. They would not know thy voice. Laughter and jests And sweet songs, faintly would come out to thee For answer. While the star-like tapers glanced From stair to stair, then stationary, limned Light flitting shapes upon the curtains drawn In the familiar chambers, then went out One by one, sudden, thou, lamenting still, Wouldst linger near, but wdien the last bright point Dropped into gloom, as one who crowds despair Close, like a robe, to his complaining lips, 292 WINDS. Into the churchyard stealing, thou wouldst seek Thy new-heaped grave, noAV difficult to find Under the thick white universal snow, And humbly pray the dead shape lying there For shelter in its heart and leave to drink Of that mysterious cup so freely given To brutes and the brute senses, but denied To the bright lordly spirit. SORROW VOICES. I'll wrap me in my sorrow's ample folds, As in a winding-sheet ; and, doomed to life, I'll counterfeit the grave. Nor song of bird, Nor touch of sunbeam, shall call up again Mj forehead from the dust. Prone, lying thus, I hear my dreary years come moaning in Like cold, slow waves — let them break over me ! Here will I lie, as one in lethargy. My dumb grief stretched beside me. Peace ! art thou The first to suffer ? Measure with great ills Thy small adversities ! Dispose thyself To learn life's common and distasteful lesson. 2l C94 SORROW VOICES. To weigh my anguish with another's pain Will make it none the lighter, and, distinct 'Tis shapen from the common mass of sorrow ; Nor can I lose it in a crowd of griefs. Be sure that it is large enough to fill My aching heart. As mothers clasp their babes, Thou hold'st it there. As mothers chide their offspring, Thou dost complain of it, yet snatch it back. If part withdrawn ; and, when its fretful life Is quite extinct, no doubt thou wilt enfold it As mothers clasp dead infants to their bosoms. How terrible must be the countenance Of a dead grief! Ay, grief untimely dead. Slain in its prime, struck down by violent hands — Say shame or scorn. Its desolate white shape, Uncofiined, lies in some still separate chamber That thought goes by, a-tiptoe, that's a bugbear To the sweet infant, joy. Not so the grief Led down the years and tended by the soft. SORROW VOICES. i:<}5 Sweet, unobtrusive charities of time. But these are rare. Nine-tenths of all the woes Petted to death, love-stinted of their growth. Die pigmies. Is it precious to thj soul ? Make not a tender darling of thy sorrow, Bat school it roughly in the ways of life. Till from a vexing tyrant it shall grow To be thy chiefest friend and counsellor. Griefs rightly nurtured die not till they flower; So keep thy trouble — we have leave to suffer. Thy words are like the braying of the trumpets To one who bleeds upon a battle field. There is no heart in me for noble doing. If the old fiery impulse prompt again, 'Tis but an impulse. Who so wise in sorrow As they Vvho pay lip service at her shrines ? Who, standing safe beside her awful gulfs, Guess at their depths, and measure with cold glances What souls have fathomed! Wouldst thou counsel nie? Let grief expound the meaning of those words Thou sayest so well. Earth v.'ith her bars sun ounds mc, 298 SORROW VOICES. Her weeds are wrapped about my head, and all Her billows and her waves pass over me ! Take not in vain the sacred name of hope, Nor j^lague my soul with any show of comfort. Oh hope ! oh joy ! sweet words how blank to me ! Cold as the faces of estranged friends ! Familiar words, but foreign as are sounds Of common life to one who weeps apart, AYith death for company. Behold ! beho'.d ! A desert Avithout cleft or cave to hide in I cross alone; nor dare to look beyond. Where looms the phantom of a shoreless sea ; And o'er its waste, sore wounded and pursued, A bird that flutters on — but never finds Refuge or rest. How shall I comfort thee. Possessed with anguish ? Weep beside thee here ? Stretch to the measure of thy fro ward griefs My gift of pity ? Count my tears by thine ? Give sigh for sigh ? Oh, magnify thy hurt ! Ee vain of thy affliction ! I distrust The grief that knows so well its own proportions. SORROW VOICES. 297 Great sorrows rule like Jove upon Olympus, And though sometimes the lightnings issue thence, And full-toned voices intimate his presence, Be sure the god will never quit his cloud. They come on missions, lifted cross in hand, To preach us from our idols. They draw near Our tranced souls, and, weeping tears divine, Call till they rise and stagger to the light, Eound hand and foot with grave-clothes. Mighty trials Are sent to mighty spirits that have sinew To grapple with them. Oh ! we dress our puppets In the full robes of sorrow, and adore them ; We bring our foolish and unchastened hearts Into Heaven's very presence; there count o'er The baubles it has broken, and bewail them. Mothers do pity in their weeping charges The baby griefs they smile at. It is well That we are children in the sight of God ! MAY, 1853. To one whose wine of life Blushed under lilies, Death victorious spake, Proving the temper of his keen-edged sword On that light feather, hope. "Thou infidel! Knowing my touch in every flower that falls, Yet by the tenor of thine unawed life Ever denying me. Once was it thus ? As one who dwells in valle^^s, yet looks up From flowers and sun-barred paths to bid his thoughts Light on the circling snow-peaks, thou didst lift Early, thy soul to me. If now thou fearest, Yet when the wasting of thy life began, Strange pleasure mixed with awe. MAY, 185 3. 1C< As one who sings Aloud to deafen sorrow, thou niayst drown Awhile my solemn warning. Yet thine ejes Read me in all things. All things offer thee Only my gifts. To thee the sunshine brings Fever and faintness. By fresh summer winds, Grave damps are blown. A little while, poor fool. Life shall make sport of thee. There shall be times When she will breathe new vigour through thy limbs, Smile through thine eyes, lend to thy heavy step Deceitful lightness. I, that stand so near, "Will seem afar. Spring hopes will bloom again Like those November violets the gaunt frost Takes in his shrivelled fingers. Then, some day, While thou dost shudder and grow pale to cross December's snowy threshold — some dull day When winter, through the early April woods, Gathering his tatters round him, stalks and scares The blossoms back, thou'lt meet me face to face Upon that narrow path, not wide enough For me and thee." TO Shadows had fluttered and nested Under the boughs and the low-hanging eaves, Soft fell the darkness around us, The dew through the leaves. As one who at twilight left lonely, Lit by the stars and the slow-rising moon. Touching the silver keys lightly. Plays tune after tune ; Not knowing a spirit more gifted. Still though it listen and far though it seems. Is sending adrift on the music Beautiful dreams; TO . 301 So, in my twiliglit of sadness. Careless I struck from the swift keys of thought, Fancies, like snatches of music, Idle, unsought. Nor guessed that a note of my playing. Passing the gates where thy song, angel bright, Lay asleep like a princess enchanted, Would guide it to light. EARLY WALKS. Who talks of the pleasure of treading the fields, When morning is fresh in the skies ? Be sure that he walked with poetical feet And saw with poetical eyes. Be sure that all people who rave Of the beauty of day at its break, Of the dawn that comes radiant in purple and gold, Are the last to arise for its sake. 'Tis charming to wake with the blush of the morn, 'Tis charming, so poets may sing. To wander when day o'er the diamond-dropped earth Just flutters her delicate wing ; EARLY WALKS. 303 I'll give you a piece of advice ; When the dawning is mantling the star, You'll find that to quietly look from your couch. Through a window, is better by far. The breath of the morning brings shivers and chills. The fields are bespattered Avith deW', And the drop that's so bright in the violet's eye, Can be vastly unpleasant to you. And if you're a lady, alas ! Your drapery's much in the way, And a terrible foe to the graces you'll find In the beautiful herald of day. I'll give you the proper receipt for a walk : — Dont stir from your pillow till nine. Then quietly take your hot coffee and rolls. And give the sun leisure to shine. When the dew is quite off of the grass. And the woods are just pleasantly w^arm. With a book in your hand, or a pencil, perhaps, You'll own my receipt is a charm. PUSH THE BOTTLE AROUND, TOM! Push the bottle around, Tom, Eill your goblet quite up to the brim, And when Care in its nectar is drowned, Tom, Sing a paean for Time and for him ! Sing a p^ean o'er Time as he dies, Tom, Let's hurry him on with a glee. For the faster the old fellow flies, Tom, The better for you and for me. 'Tis a terrible thing to grow old, Tom, 'Tis a terrible thing to perceive Old Time with his visage so cold, Tom, Encroaching without asking leave. PUSH THE BOTTLE AROUND, TOM. £05 And to see the sweet bloom on the lip, Tom, And the pleasant light in the eje, Take flight with the years as they slip, Tom, So noiselessly, rapidly by. There's a deepening line on your brow, Tom, There's one at the side of your nose, And a touch of the rebel snow, Tom, Much thicker than you may suppose. There's a graceless rotund in your back, Tom, There's a wintriness, too, on your cheek. And your voice has a kind of a crack, Tom, Whether you sing or you speak. 'Tis a terrible thing to be slighted, Tom, 'Tis a terrible thing to know That though you may still be invited, Tom, You're no longer asked as a beau. To be sentenced to talk with papa, Tom, Though longing the while to take wing. And to feel that the kindest mamma, Tom, Considers you not just — ''the thing." g06 PUSH THE BOTTLE AROUND, TOM! I wish, now and then, I had married, Tom, For mine is a lonely life. But he who for time has tarried, Tom, May whistle, we know, for a wife. Oh ho ! for the hours of youth, Tom, The bloom of the earlier day. Could we have it all over in truth, Tom, We'd manage it some other way. But push the bright bottle around, Tom, And fill up your glass to the brim. And when Care in its nectar is drowned, Tom, A p«ian for Time and for him ! Sing a poean o'er Time as he dies, Tom, Let's hurry him on with a glee, For the faster the old fellow flies, Tom, The better for you and for me ! A PORTRAIT. Ills small arched neck looks fiery like a steed's, Ilis eyes are dark and glancing. Antelopes Are limbed as lightly. Knee-deep in bright tan He stands — bright tan across his sloping chest, And o'er his throat, that's graceful as a lady's, Save this all glossy blackness. Like most brutes lie proves his breeding by his fine positions ; Now, stretched without my window, on the roof That slopes into the sunshine, light limbs crossed And muzzle laid athwart them ; now, distinct. Painted against the sky, one slender foot Lift, and bent inward ; now, upon my couch He lies with crest erect, and tawny paws Dropt o'er the cushion's edge. SCENE FROM THE " STOCKHOLM, FONTAINE- BLEAU, ET ROME," OF ALEX. DUMAS. Christina, Ex-Queen of Sweden. Envoys. CHRISTINA. Good-morrow, gentlemen ! You seek me — I guess wherefore. Sweden's queen How gladly I would be again, God knows Whose hand withholds me from the throne. Yon sceptre, So fair to look upon, must grace my tomb. You come too late. "STOCKHOLM, FONT AINE BLE AU, ET ROME." 309 AN EXVOV. Madame, for the Powers Supreme It never is too late. God's self, when kings, Empires, and nations in the balance tremble. Looks twice before he strikes ; and sometimes, when The death-hour's ready, beckons up the sun From the horizon, and signs back the night. His power can do as much for you. ANOTHER, Ah, Madame ! Heaven grant ere long Ave see you on that throne Where faithful Sweden looks for you ! CHRISTINA. Christina Ilath ever lived for Sweden's happiness. But to us all there comes an hour that knows No happiness save that beyond the tomb. Ay, but upon your brow suffer, at least MO "STOCKHOLM, FON T AIN E BLE A U, ET ROME." This crown, that so, when Death prepares to strike The woman, seeing on your front its circle, lie may confounded wing him back to Heaven, To question if the polished dart he grasps Were sharpened for the queen. CHRI8TIJJA. There's need of courage For that. Oh, heavy is the diadem To dying brows ! When drop the palsied head And the relaxing hand, sceptres and crowns Are weary w^eights to carry to the tomb ; And when seven times the voice of God shall echo Along the sepulchres, and the scared dead Make answer, kings shall be the palest of them ! And more than one, arising, shall express. Forgetting crown and sceptre, leave them hid In the remotest shadows of his prison. SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE" OF MOLIERE. PlIILINTE. Alceste. What is't ? What ails you ? ALCESTE. Pray you, leave me. Nay, Tell me what new extravagance- 312 SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." ALCESTE. Go hence — Go hide yourself! PHILINTE. But while I speak, at least. Suspend your anger. ALCESTE. I ? I will be angry, And will not listen. PHILINTE. In so rude a humour I am at loss to read you. Though we're friends, I still am first — ALCESTE. What, I your friend ? No longer Count on't. Till now I have professed you friendship. But having learned your worth, withdraw my love. Wishing no place in a corrupted heart. PHILINTE. You hold me then so much to blame, Alceste ? SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." 313 ALCESTE. Go, you should die of shame. So vile an action Baffles excuse. All honourable souls Should count themselves offended. What I o'erwhelm A man with your caresses, testify Esteem, and back with protestations, offers. And oaths your warm embraces, and when I Would question you, you scarce recall his name, Let fall your full-blown love in parting from him, And bare to me your real indifference ! Death ! 'tis unworthy, base, and infamous Thus to betray the honour of your soul. And if, by ill hap, I had done as much, I'd hang myself for grief. I do not find Myself fair cause for hanging, and I pray you. Forgive me if I soften your decision. Nor for this matter hang myself at all. A poor jest. 314 SCENE FROM *'LE MIS AN T II ROTE." PHILINTE. Nay, then, jesting put aside, What would you have ? ALCESTE. Each spokesman of his heart. But when a man embraces you for joy, Must you not do the like ? Make to his zeal Fitting reply, and offer pay by offer, And oath by oath ? I cannot tolerate The ways affected by your vain-tongued courtiers. There's nothing that's so hateful to my soul As the grimaces of these false protesters, Bestowers of frivolous embraces, sayers Of useless words, whose dull civilities Tilt with the world, and know not to discern The true man from the coxcomb. Where's the honour SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." 315 If he that now caresses you, that swears Friendship, good faith, zeal, tenderness, esteem, That lifts heaven-high your praises, turns to give As much to any rogue ? There is no soul Not wholly base, that does not scorn esteem Thus prostitute. The richest banquet grows A common feast, if all the world be there. Esteem is built on preference. Who esteems All esteems none. Since you approve and practise These vices of the time, you shall no more Walk in my fellowship, and I decline The courtesy of him who cannot reckon The shades of merit. I would be preferred, And, to speak plain, the friend of all mankind Is not a friend for me. Being of the world, We pay the world that tribute which is due. I say it should be chastised without mercy. 316 SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." This shameful trade of seeming friendships. Would That men were men, and that at every season Our words were still the plummets of our hearts, No matter who should speak, and that our thoughts Had put aside their masks of painted flatteries ! There are occasions when sincerity Would be ridiculous, nay, barely suffered. And, sometimes, no oiTence to your quick honour, 'Tis well to hide the heart. Would it be fit Or civil, think you, to a thousand people, To say one's thoughts of them ? To him I hate Or who displeases me, shall I declare The truth as it is ? Yes. What, to Emily Say it is unbecoming at her age SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." ::,17 To play the belle, and that her false complexion Is shocking to her neighbours ? Certainly. PHILIXTE. To Dorilas that he is tiresome, And that he -wearies every ear at court Telling of his valour and ancestral glories ? ALCESTE. 'Tis well. PIIILINTE. You jest ! ALCESTE. I do not jest. Henceforth Will I spare none. Mine eyes too deep are Avounded. Both court and city feed my growing spleen. Grief occupies my soul and deep disgust, When I behold the untruthful ways of men. Flattery, injustice, treachery, and deceit Are universal. Out ! I'm weary of it ; 318 SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." Patience forsakes me, and my mettled anger AYould fight mankind ! Nay, in good sooth, I pray you Put by these whims. You cannot mend the ^vorhl. And, since you love the truth, I'll tell you plainly This folly draws great ridicule upon you ; This battling 'gainst the fashions of the times Makes you the common laughing-stock. ALCESTE. By Heaven, So much the better ! Still, so much the better ! 'Tis all I ask ! My heart rejoices at it. 'Tis a good sign. So hateful is mankind, That I should weep were men to count me wise. Yours is a bitter grudge 'gainst human nature ! I have conceived for it an utter hatred. SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." 319 PHIUXTK. And all poor mortals, every one, included ? Not one beneath the sky — I tell you, no — 'Tis universal, and I hate all men. These for ill doing, those for falsely winking On evil-doers, not regarding vice With the deep hate of virtuous souls. Thou seest The full extent of this mean complaisance Shown for the arrant knave at law with me. AVho does not know the traitor through his mask ? Who knows him not for what he is ? His eyes Devoutly rolling, and his sleekened voice. Impose on strangers to his name and ways. 'Tis known this scoundrel by the basest means Has pushed his fortunes, and their bright success Makes worth complain and virtue blush. Howe'er You pelt him with foul words, no man disputes. Call him cheat, villain, rascal, all agree. Yet all do welcome, smile on him ; no door 3.30 SCENE FROM "LE M I S AN T H HOPE." Shuts out his baseness. Nay, if men contend For any dignity, he triumphs ever Over the worthiest. I'm sore at heart To see vice honoured thus, and there are times When sudden promptings of my inmost soul Would counsel me to put the desert's breadth Betwixt mankind and me. Oh, in God's name, Let not the times' offences sink so deep, But judge humanity and scan its errors With milder zeal. The virtue of this world Must be discreet, and we may err by pushing Goodness too far. Wisdom avoids extremes ; Bids us be virtuous with sobriety. Your code of sterner days would be a yoke Too heavy for tlie morals of the age. And asks too much of human imperfection. Bend to the times, and hold no folly greater Than that of wishing to reform the world. Like you, I see a hundred things a day SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE." 321 That call for mending, but wliate'er they be, Like you I am not angry, rather willing To take men as they are. To soft forbearance I school my soul, and hold, in court and city, My phlegm as philosophic as your bile. Ay, but this phlegm, so good at argument, Can nothing ruffle ? If, perchance, a friend Betray you ; if a skilful net entrap Your gold, or if some busy-body scatter For you, the quick seed of prolific slander,— Will it not move you ? PniLIMTE. I do count these evils You fret against, as vices that are part Of human nature. It no more offends me To see a man unjust, deceitful, selfish. Than to behold vultures that scent the battle. Malicious apes, or wolves that howl for rage. 322 SCENE FROM "LE MISANTHROPE. What ! see myself betrayed, robbed, torn to pieces. Without — by Heaven, I'll talk no more ! Such reasoning Is mere extravagance. FROM THE -^MISANTHROPE." Love knows not rules like these — the lover still Exalts his choice, and passion sees no flaw In that it craves, esteeming great defects Eminent virtues, and with love's adroitness, As such recording them. The pale outvies Jasmines in whiteness, she of swarthy hue Out-glows a colder beauty ; she that's spare Has height and grace, and she that's gross, a port Majestic; slatterns, poorly dowered with charms, Are negligently fair ; the over-tall Tower to divinity, and dwarfs abridge 324 FROM THE "MIS AxNT II RO PE.' Heaven's wonders ; pride is worthy of a crown, Cunning is wit, stupidity's pure goodness, The babbler 's pleasant company, the silent Mute from becoming modesty — 'tis thus A lover, in his ardour's blind excess, Adores the very faults of her he loves. THE END. K. B. MKARS, STF.nrOTYrF.U. C. SHERMAN, PUIXTER. 1 ::-^:^'W^ illrililllilllllliiilliil LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ljlllllil|ll|jlllllljllll|llll lllllllllliltllllllllllllllllll: 018 597 090 5 %