A(X^<.^Ljj^i--t>1^i Class J^^^153 Book .^^13^ By bequest of Samuel Hay Kauffmann «; RHYMES JL IsT E ID I T O I^. mCLUDINa "ALMOST." By henry MORFORD, AUTHOK OP "RHYMES OF TWENTY VEABS." LONDON : K. MOXON. SON & Co., DOVEE STREET, AND 1, AMEN CORNER, PATERNOSTER ROW. NEW YORK : SHELDON & Co., (i77, BROADWAY. 1873. [^All rights reserved."] Gcf^' ^ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by HENRY MORFORD, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C. Gift of Sam-iel H:»y Kauffmalll* 26 MA*< 1'90' PRINTED BY TATLOfi AND CO., LITTLE QUBEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. A RHYME PREFATORY. At tifty years 'tis time, calm thought reminds, The bound of youth's produeiug-power to measure, And seek, thenceforth, that joy the old man finds In counting and exhibiting his treasure. Some portion may be counterfeit and base ; Some pieces may be old,'Avorn, clipped, uncurrent ; And yet if they display the n^itqd face. His pride will have at least a show of warrant. And if, in earlier days, a previous hoard,* Thrown out before the world, at dai'ing venture. Has been received as something wisely stored And met few words of even kindly censure, — * " Rhymes of Twenty Years " — New York, 1859. iv A Rhyme Prefatory. Then may the old man, so much labour done, Be not unwise or over-sanguine reckoned, In hazarding the gain already won In his first venture, by a bolder second. So to the kindly world whose first applause Has made all after-labour lighter, sweeter. These Rhymes go out, to plead their humble cause. In truest earnest, if in halting metre. At worst, this thought may soften all the rest : At fifty, the romantic day's completed ; And, meet what fate it may, this second test Is final, and will never be repeated. LOXDON, July 25th, 1873. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Ehyme Pkeiatory. I. Almost II. Rhymes or Liie and Occasion Behind the Organ John Chinaman . The Shadow at the Keys Hearts of Oak and iStone The ChUdron in the Wood Haunted Chambers Golden Days of November Pleading to the Mountains A Chriatmas Hymn Little Bare Feet . The Last Mid-night of Summer The Lady of the Choir Pai;i( 3 43 50 53 56 60 64 67 70 74 77 79 83 VI Table of Contents. Page Words from Hungry Lips 85 Fourteen at the State Prison . 88 My Dirge in Music .... . 92 The Prince of Wales at Washington's ' roml) . 94 At Fortj^ Years ..... . 98 Alone in the House .... . 101 A Parting Sunset .... . 104 A Wreck on the Street . 106 Birdie ...... . 109 lilian Howard .... . 112 Noon at the Blacksmith-shop . 114 The Rhyme of the Slighted Daughter . 117 Early Songs .... . 120 Franky's Bells .... . 121 My Schoolmistress . 124 Fortj'-four Gun.s — A Birthday Salute . 127 A Serenade . 131 Thanksgiving A-la-Mode . 134 The Fiddler at the Gate . 137 Fanny's First Gray Hair . 140 Myself that Was .... . 143 Outside the Window . 146 Forty-five — A Game of Eesignation . 149 Your Poor Old Boy . . 154 The Face on the Wall . . 158 Play-days of Youth . 160 Thirty Years After . 162 Marie Helene .... . 165 Visible Love .... . 167 Bahies by the Sea . 169 Blossom at Five-and-Twenty . . 172 lablc oj L()?i tents Vll P^GB m. Rhymes of Love and Fliutation. Brcnth of Balm 177 Drawing Apart .... . 179 Doubting and W.-indoiing . . 181 An Experiment of Parting . . 183 The Ehyme of Early Love . . 186 Snow-WTiite Dove o' My Heart . . 189 How He Loved Me ! . . . . . 191 Wicked Eyea . 193 My Darling's Hair .... . 196 Two at a Time . 199 A Leisure Hour . 201 Hunger that Never Ceases . . 205 After the Meeting .... . 208 Holding Hands . 210 Blindness in Absence .... . 214 Wistful Glances . 216 One! . 219 ■\\Tiat Will You Do AVhen I Am Going r . 222 An Honest Disclaimer .... . 224 The Lights of Love .... . 225 Love at a Bargain .... . 227 IV. Rhymes of Tkavel. The Old and the New .233 The Blades of England's Glorv . . 237 Over the Brine . 239 The Old Flag Over-Sea .... . 241 The Coming of Mont Blanc .... . 246 Two Queens in Westminster . 2.30 Lake Leman and Chillon . 254 Vlll Table of Contents. Page A Wraith in the Scottish Highlands 258 Horicon . 262 Beyond th' Atlantic- . 265 Italy, Nurst! and aiother ! . . 268 The Crowning Folly . 271 A True Chevalier of the Legion . 275 Apres Le Deluge Fran9ais . . 280 The Two Passes . . 284 At the G-olden Gate . 286 Oirish Glimpses . . 289 ALMOS T ALMOST. L ENYOI. Man's earth-born patent let the record be — The hair's-breadth misses of humanity. Since first the startled words Agrippa spoke Upon the ears of G-od's apostle broke : — " Almost, oh Christian, thou persuadest me A follower of the Nazarene to be ! " — Since Greek Ancseus' overlaboured slave That solemn warning to his tyrant gave : " The wine-cup may be almost at the lips Yet dashed to earth before the holder sips ! " — ' Ay, centuries before — since first the soul Learned that it had a duty and a goal, — O'er all the years of time — half sprite — half ghost — Has loomed that strange, wild, pregnant word- " Almost!" B 2 4 Almost. A drop of gall in every pleasant cup ; A' sword above the head when tyrants sup ; A Mordecai that sits in every gate, When hasty Hamans for their triumph wait ; A sad reminder that, for weal or woe, \ " Thus far, no farther, mortal, shaltthou go !" '. Is both the doom and bliss of all below. J II. Not all a blessing — not alone a ban — This curb and boundary to the fate of man ; — This line, so delicate and yet so broad, Between the attributes and works of God. For while no limit stays the hand Divine, Our mortal energy must own the line ; And while the Eternal wing beats strong and free Through the blue ether of immensity — The feebler pinion that awhile may soar. Sinks, tired at last, upon Time's bounded shore. The action that has motion, power and birth In minds created and in limbs of earth, — Sprung from the noblest hopes of human good, Or fed with hate's unblest and poison food, — Born in a curse or nurtured in a prayer — Be what it will, the mark of time is there ! A year — an hour — may bring the welcome fruit ; A year — an hour — may blight it at the root. Almost, It may le, but it has do power beyond, Though hopes be eager and though hearts be fond : Tlie perfect All spans the great arch of Heaven — The imperfect Almost to man's brow is given ! III. So, though the wish may force, the will may urge,— All our lives long we only tread some verge, — The border of some pleasant promised land, Where eyes may feast, but feet may never stand. Our boyhood's butterflies, whose spangled wings"! Seemed as a type of all alluring things, > Mocking the jewels and the robes of kings — J "We hunted them till foot and heart grew sore ; "We grasped, and missed them by an inch — no more The shape has changed ; and many a weary year Tliat butterfly-pursuit has cost us dear : — The boy no more, his young heart pit-a-pat, Chasing the insect with his ragged hat. Snuffing the fragrance golden summer yields, Hearing the sweet birds singing o'er the fields, — But full-grown man — the master of his will, Proud of his strength and glorying in his skill, — His butterfly a love — a hope — a name, The miser's lucre or the wreath of fame, — A kingly bauble, or a patriot's blow Eight stoutly aimed to lay oppression low : — 6 Almost. "We almost grasp them : ere life's sun has set, "We know — we feel that we shall grasp them yet \ And so we shall ! — grasp them, if not before. In that contentment — needing them no more ! IV. Pictures, like phantoms, drawn from every stage Of life's experience, start upon the page ; Pictures, whose very features, dim and faint, Show the imperfect hand that dares to paint ; Subject and work the dim and uuattained Toward which the world in every age has strained. But once, in centuries' lapse, some master hand. With heaven's own gorgeous colours at command — All time his palette, and his canvas broad The human heart wherever cheered or awed — But once, in every age, some century-ilower Perfuming all creation for an hour — "A little lower than the angels " are, But throned above our nature like a star, — Paints us such pictures, gorgeous, true and rare, It almost seems Omnipotence is there. Alas ! the nearer heaven their glories reach, Still darker spot and blemish show on each ; And we may joy at last — if joy it be — What weak hands draw still weaker eyes may see \ The angels read, but read no vellum scroll; The blots they weep are on the human soul ! Almost. V. Look how they change — one vast kaleidoscope:. Averted evil into broken hope ; — G-ood, almost ripened into golden prime, Just nipped and rotted ere its perfect time ; — Wrong, loss and ruin, ere expended all, In drops of mercy seeming yet to fall. — The proof not only that our finite hands Can neither force uor forge the fettering bands, — But that our dim eyes even fail to see If curse or blessing in the check there be ! Both Janus-faced are happiness and woe — We see one face, and think the whole we know ; We see another — own ourselves deceived. But this — ah ! this at last may be believed ! So each, his partial wisdom fondly nursed, Mistakes the hundredth as he did the first ! Yet, till the trumpet sounds the final call, Vain hopes will rise, and needless tears will fall ; And hands will write what, better than their tales. Will prove how human eflfort faints and fails ! VI. A solemn subject — else the mind might draw Droll humours from the slips of love and law, — See the hot lover, in successful suit. Just ruined by a tightly-fitting boot ; — 8 Almost. Or the pert lawyer, in a pliant court, Balked by a simple witness, caught for sport ; — Or tonuish lady, throned on fashion's height, In one crushed bonnet-box demolished quite ; — Or ripened maiden, all her prospects fair, Kept from a husband by her truant hair ; — Or managing mamma, three lions caged. Losing them all, to have the fourth engaged ; — Or wily jockey, on the racing-course. Kept from his winnings by his winning horse ; — These, and a thousand others, gay and grave, Float by us, like the bubbles on the wave : We fain would catch them, as they glitter past. But they are only bubbles, at the last ! Beneath them, in the sea of sadder thought, The pictures lie that must be deftly caught. VII. Low lies the glow of evening on the sea — Sunshine and swell in dalliance soft and free ; The wind a zephyr, and the sun a smile ; The air one fragrance from some tropic isle. Such seas, beyond our world of storm and ice. Might break upon the shores of paradise : Such breezes may the immortal cheeks have fanned, Beside the rivers of the Perfect Land. The sun is kissing white and spreading sails, Whose broken shadow far to leeward trails : Almost. c It glistens on the stout ship's wave-worn sides That on that sea of liquid glory rides. An hundred anxious hearts that vessel bears — Their fears, their hopes, their curses and their prayers. Exiles for liberty, for pride, or crime, Away from native lands to some new clime ; — Light-hearted voyagers, running travel's race, "Who find no home but in a change of place ; And some there are, returning o'er the waves From years of absence to their fathers' graves — To sunny curls, so often smoothed in vain, And eyes that o'er the deep must watch and strain. The cord that drew them home, through passing years, Has seemed to tighten, wetted with their tears, Till a dull pain at last the thought has grown, And nightly visions have this scope alone, — Till o'er the wave some fate appears to call, And they obey it though they peril all ! VIII. Oh, little worlds — ye speeding, white-winged ships ! What interests bear you on your varied trips ! What changing nations in a little space Find in your narrow walls awhile their place ! How many hearts — a stranger each to each — Hold you at once in anxious thought and speech ! How senseless plank and stolid iron bear A sacred task that wraps them round with prayer ' lo Almost. And how, when wisdom or when skill may fail, Or human might bends low to wave or gale — Tour bleaching ribs, on some deserted coast. May bear the weird, wild horror of a ghost, Or make the eyes, years hence, that o'er them bend. Drop tears, as o'er the body of a friend ! IX. This evening hush — who does not feel its power ? Who does not drink the glory of the hour ? Over the bulwark leaning, there is one Whose eyes have closely scanned the setting sun, — Whose brain seems weaving into pleasant thought The rosy tints in far-off cloud-land wrought. About the westering sun, for many days, Have hung and lingered golden cloud and haze ; And but this morning, like a frightened thing A land-bird passed with frail and faltering wing : To-day a branch whose berries seemed to burn With fresh red lustre, floated by astern : Another day — or life-long omens miss — G-reen waves of home the plunging prow shall kiss. Another day — and, joy beyond command, Shall ring the pleasing cry : " Land ho ! the land ! "— Sound empty as the tropics' echoing shell To those who tread the soil they love so well : Sound full and pregnant with a maddened glee To the tired watchers on a broadening sea. Almost. 1 1 Already hearts beat high, and faces glow, And the small world are all astir below, — As under June's sweet sunshine broad and warm The old hive buzzes ere the young bees swarm. X. What sees the gazer o'er those leagues of tide— The broad high browed — the keen and anxious eyed ? Against the bulwark leaning close he stands, The rail firm gripped within his nervous hands, And all beside him — all behind him — lost In those long lines of waves so slowly crossed. The face once fair and smooth is furrowed deep ; Beneath the eyes dull leaden shadows sleep ; And threads of silver — loomed by years of care — Bind age and youth together in his hair. XI. A life half wasted and a life regained ; A reputation cleared, once dimmed and stained ; A fortune sunken in the sea of wrong. Then rescued by a diver stern and strong ; Exile that dwarfed home's dear and sacred thought ; Home-tortures that a prayer for exile brought ; Pulses made languid by ascetic rule. Then heated by the licence of the fool ; Heat, cold, repletion, hunger, rust and toil ; Mist from all seas and dust from every soil 12 Almost, Beating on brow and thickening in the brain, Till rest and labour grew alike a pain; Hope, torture, pride, ambition and despair — Look on his brow — all have a record there. XII. What sees he ? That home-land which o'er the main Has drawn him ever with an exile's chain ; — That land from which, in search of fame and gold, He parted young and lingered on till old ; — That dear home-land to which, with weary track. His day's-work done, he brings his earnings back. Home — almost home ! At home the gold has need ; The hard-won honours there must bear their meed. Love's chain be linked again before too late. And energy compare accounts with fate. Home — almost home ! A few more leagues of sea. And this dim " almost " shall the perfect be ! — So thinks the watcher, as with one long sigh From the wide waters he withdraws his eye, Feels how the last drop brims the cup of tears — How the last hours of waiting grow to years, — And slow descends, as evening gathers deep. To bridge his gulf of waiting o'er with sleep. — Sleep — that has mines and millions at command — Sleep — that holds heaven within her poppied hand — Hides the rough " now " in graves so dark and 1ow,t Builds up the future's pinnacles of snow, ^ And opes the golden gates of " long ago." J Almost. 13 XIII. But sleep uot long, oli ! watcher for the land ! For clouds no bigger than a human hand May shroud a sky between the dusk and dawn — A fear foreshadowed — then a last hope gone. The sails are reefed at midnight : ere the day Before the gale the scared ship flies away, Her course unknown, unguided, lost and blind — Black sea before her, maddened foam behind. The sleeper wakes — to feel the plunging roll ; — To find his ship a steed, with death the goal ; To bear the loud command, the oath, the shriek ; To feel the warm blood freeze in limb and cheek ; To join the last fierce cry that rings to heaven When spars fall toppling and when planks are riven To lie, as braver men have lain before, A lifeless, drifting sea-weed on the shore. Oh, " almost " of the present ! who shall dare To say what hue the perfect time may wear ? Or who shall wish that painful present, past, Undreaming what may follow, at the last ? Oh, watcher by the gunwale ! in that hour When he who waited fruit despised the flower — Thou hadst the most to boast — the least to mourn : The flower w^as all — the fruit was never borne. Almost at home, with honour, life and gold ; Wrecked, lost and ruined ere the night was told. 14 Almost. XIV. Lost, but not dead ! Almost the fate befell No living tongue the good ship's end should tell ; And glad the wanderer's dear and deadly foe Heads o'er the tale that tells a rival low, Blesses the storm that came in happy time To baflBle innocence and comfort crime : Blesses too soon — what form is standing there "With torn, wet clothing, massed and sanded hair ? With blood-shot eye, with pale and haggard cheek And lips that murmur when they fain would speak ? A ragged beggar, but with bones and nerves That yet may deal the fate which crime deserves. Do the wild seas give up their dead ? Not so ! But lost or living only God may know. The cold, damp sea- weed on the wet beach sands Was warmed to life by tried and trusty hands. Almost his goal of triumph grasped as found, — \ Twice came the Hmit — once with mercy crowned : I Thank Heaven that he was only almost drowned ! j XV. The sea-mist lifts, and shows a battle plain Where armies shrink 'neath storms of iron rain, — Where Death the reaper holds his slaves at call, Ambition mows and human harvests fall. In twenty battles has yon man of blood, Baton or glass in hand, unblenching stood : Almost. 15 In twenty battles — twenty fought and done — That player with human lives has won — still won. The last poor remnant of a falling race Here stand, to meet their tyrant face to face, To look their last on pleasant earth and sky, Strike their last blow for native laud — and die ! Almost the purple wraps his rugged limbs ; Almost in diamond waves his forehead swims : One effort more, and they are at his feet, Begging the mercy conquered nations meet ! Charge, squadrons ! open fire, each serried liue ! And give fresh feasts to Mars, with blood for wine ! XVI. Almost the warrior — couqueror — proudly treads His path of empire paved with human heads ; Almost — ha ! what is this ? One poor old man — Six sons all dead in whom his life-blood ran, — Six sons, who one by one on honour's field Have yielded life for rights they would not yield; — That poor old man, a bare and sapless tree. With bleeding wounds where stout Hmbs used to be, — Has yet that strength the deadly tube to range, — The strength for one last luxury — revenge. Beside a crumbling wall that up the hill Euns its long course, he crouches, close and still. No serpent subtler writhes its sinuous way TV hen mists of glamour gather round its prey ; 1 6 Almost. No evil habit steals with gentler force Along the veins that trust its treacherous course. His white head bare, his body stooping low, The old man steals upon the nation's foe, The gathered lightnings of an outraged land All sleeping in the pellet 'neath his hand. He crouches closer — drops upon his knee — Peers o'er the ruin — shakes his right arm free — Covers the tyrant with his deadly aim, And pours, with prayer half curse, the jetting flame. That moment waves the arm to point the charge. Opening the tender arm-pit as a targe. And there the bullet enters with a thud, Soaking his vestment with the spouting blood. Crashing, as crashed of old Groliath's stone. Through blood and life — through sinew, flesh and bone. One wild, fierce clutch at thin and empty air, One reel — the conqueror's saddle-seat is bare. And stark and stifF, his white face to the sun. His catalogue of victories is done. XVII. Almost a ruined people — see the dawn Of freedom coming when their scourge is gone. That poor, down-trodden nation rise once more "When fades the shadow of the name lie bore \— Fight freedom's weary fight with stubborn will, "With diflferent chance and ever-varying skill, Almost. Sometimes with victory's bauucrs on the air And grateful shouts repaying long despair, Almost enfranchised : then the night comes down, And hostile forces swarm through vale and town. And in the mountain passes, starved and cold, The life of freedom keeps its only hold : Almost enslaved. And so the record goes Of nearly every nation's natal throes — The darkest hour ero light the morning fires ; The brightest flash ere the last hope expires. XVIII. Xarrow the vision from the great wide fields "WTiere War its baton of destruction wields — Where nations stake existence on a blow, And lives are played with, like the dicer's throw. Here, in a narrow room, with cold, bare walls, "WTiere the reflected daylight faintly falls, — Where comfort long has been a mocking name And bare existence feebly makes its claim, — Here toils humanity in noblest guise. To those who see with labour's earnest eyes. It is the inventor's chamber : scattered wide Before, around, and thick on every side, Are dusty wheels and pulleys, straps and screws, That few can name and fewer yet can use. Tools stud the beams, wdiose use we guess in vain,. And diagrams adorn the dusky pane. 17 1 8 Almost. Here, in tlie centre, stands a silent mass — Iron, and leather, copper, wood and brass. All mixed and mingled in mechanic shapes — Retorts, and cranks, and pulleys, and escapes ; A thought in skeleton — a morning dream Grot up in metal shape for air or steam ; Something to bless the world, when quite evolved, "With truths elicited and problems solved, — To show the human mind in form expressed. And give to labour's weary muscles rest; — Or something — who shall say ? — to prove at last An ignis fatuus troublesome and vast, — One costly, long and difficult mistake O'er which the world shall scofE and hearts shall break. But wheels are silent — pinions fail to turn ; Springs, straps nor pulleys share the mind's concern : All dumb — all senseless, save one throbbing brain That labours on, though labour be but vain. Beside his work the inventor sits — his eye Scanning some point his busy hand must try ; His thin face peering through the dusty maze. Stamped with his sleepless nights and weary days ; His face attenuated, cold and thin. Tough bones and muscles ridging through the skin ; G-ray pent-house brows o'er which the forehead pales. And long stiff hair that lies in frosty swales ; Almost. 1 9 Bent at the shoulders — shruuken at the hips — His thread-bare clothing in a sad eclipse ; All the lost pride that man could need to lose Shown in the slouching of his stringless shoes ; His thin hands working with unsteady haste, As if he felt the moments run to waste : Here sits th'inveutor — type of all his kind Who rashly leave the sluggish age behind. XX. Can man be poorer ? — man our pity share More strongly than the bent form hovering there ? Ah ! little knows the mind that dares the thought, That subtle pride with every soul inwrought ! AVhat though amid his tangled rods and wheels His brain grows dizzy and his reason reels ? — "What though for days — for months — for weary years Down a long lane of toil success appears ? — "What though he Tias been cold, and faint, and weak, And hunger thins the life-blood in his cheek ? — What though e'en now, ere those dull pinions start. The wheels of life are clogging in his heart ? — Is not his great work here — his hope — his pride ? — His friend — his sister — daughter — ay ! his bride ! Bride to whose sluggish heart his pulses move With something fonder than a husband's love ? Has he not made it ? Is't not trebly great To feel that power can fashion and create ? c 2 20 Almost. x\ud when 'tis done — ay, wlien 'tis done — how earth. Shall bless that long and painful iron birth ! 'Tis almost done : one little blemish hei'e, And there another, yet awhile appear. But what are they ? spots on a noonday sun ! Mere nothings, in a triumph almost won ! XXI. " Yes ! yes ! I see it ! " speaks the tongue restrained, As some new insight through the mass is gained : " I see it aU ! one touch — but one touch more, And where T stand man never stood before ! Rich — envied — honoured — all my glory won ; — I see the daylight — it is almost done ! " He rises, with a gesture weak and wild, Stretches his arms to clasp his spirit child ; Totters above it ; then the hunger pain G-naws through the heart and stupefies the brain : One short, quick gasp, and there, with closing eyes, Beside the labour of his life he lies. Almost the dull wheels moved — they do no more : Their life, with his, lies ebbing on the floor. That hidden power, by one slight error chained, Must still remain unknown and unattained ! Almost completed — useless now, and lost — Ha ! sure some figure o'er the threshold crossed, Some hand lifts up the fallen man, and plies A cordial draught, unsealing lips and eyes. I Almost. He lives ! His great work yet full fame may shed Through years of glory on his silvered head : Almost successful, and but almost dead ! XXII. 21 / Aijjain the evening woos us to its breast With shadowy promises of peace and rest — With glimpses from that realm of hope and pride That none may force, yet none may be denied — The realm where human love's sweet tendrils cling, Where human love's fresh fountains gush and spring, Where lingers all of Eden ever knoAvn, And no man walks, or tliinks, or breathes alone. The sun slants low the shadows o'er the mead ; The piled clouds glow like domes of kingly deed ; The breeze is softened to a whispering air Just formed to bear a kiss or nurse a prayer ; And earth appears an infant's hush to keep Ere night, the soother, cradles her to sleep. A broad piazza overlooks the vale, Dotting far oft' the green with presence pale. Behind it, half in white, and half in green, A home of country competence is seen ; — Half white, where paint has drawn its cool, pale lines ; Half green, beneath its load of clinging vines. 22 Almost. XXIII. But two there are on those piazza seats Por whom the eye forgets all else it meets : Two girls — and both are young, and both are fair, Both spotless as the snowy robes they wear ; But one has eyes of blue, and hair of gold, — One eyes of black, and hair of raven fold, And well they seem for artist contrast placed, — Head bent to head and arms encircling waist. But one — and she it is with golden curls, The gentlest, softest, fairest of the girls, — Bends down her eyes as if with very shame, "While both the other's mirth and mischief flame. A heart untouched beams through those keen dark eyes, While in the blue, love's faint, dim shadow lies. " Tou hear his horse's hoof, sly girl, I know !" And redder seem the hearer's cheeks to glow. " Tou hear him coming ! fie ! what love and pride ! But one hour more, and you will be a bride !" " Hush ! " and the reddening face finds hidden rest In the white folds that veil the other's breast — " Hush!" and so soft she lies, with pleading will, The red lips kiss her forehead, then are still ; But the low words slie utters flow along Softer than ripples — sweeter far than song : " I thought I heard him coming — yes, 'twas true ; And then a feeling strange, and sweet, and new, Almost. 23 ' Almost a bride ' — came with his love endeared ; I was so happy that I almost /earef?/ " " Feared, little trembler ? " but no more is heard : The sleeping cclioes by a sound are stirred — A cry that seems to speak some mortal throe Comes ringing from the road a mile below, And on the instant, breaking into sight, His horse comes, riderless, in headlong flight, xxiy. Aliitost a bride — Oh, maid with golden hair, Pray, if the heart has strength enough for prayer ; For bruised and mangled from the flinty road They bear him to that desolate abode. Life flickers in his pulses, faint and low ; His thick breath heaves with long, convulsive throe ; The bloody foam between his set teeth creeps, And o'er his glazing eye the sternest weeps. Her white dress stained with blood, beside his bed Kneels, crazed with grief, she of tlie sunny head, Kisses the chilling lips, the stiffening hand. Holding her tears at terrible command, — And as the old clock tolls with cruel might The midnight moment of her bridal night — Sees the last change come o'er the staring eye — Sees lover — husband — heave one breath, and die ! Almost a bride — almost, but never more — She bears all grief that ever woman bore ; 24 Almost. Bears it, till comes that heavier, bitterer blow Which lays a second time her idol low, — Bears it, till through her broken sobs she learns How worthless was the life her memory urns — Already wedded — stained with every crime, And mercifully dead in Heaven's good time ! Almost a bride — see fate bridge o'er the void, And save the victim when almost destroyed. XXV. The key-note Crime is sounded — let the view Dwell on its varying phases, ever new, And mark — with virtue sharing human force — How fall the same restrictions in its course. A hall of old comes glimmering on the sight — A hall Vvdth luxury rich, with beauty bright. Silks from all zones, and velvets deeply piled ; — "Woods on whose fragrance tropic suns have smiled ;— Yessels of crystal and of ruddy gold That maddening draughts from dusky cellars hold ; — These, under arches fretted, proud and high, And ceilings flushed with starlight, like a sky, — These well befit the revellers fair and proud Who round the board in gay disorder crowd. Velvets and satins crusted o'er with gems ; — Laces that frost the silken garment-hems, Each cobwebbed mesh a thing of costly pride That best displays the charms it seems to hide, — Abnost. 25 J All pale before the shapes that round us rise, Tall forms, and I'ounded limbs, and flashing eyes A nation's noblest, in their meri-iest guise. J XXVI. The dance goes twining in a mystic chain, BeA\aldering thought — o'erheating blood and brain, — To sounds that from the balcony on high Seem dropping, liquid, from some troj)ic sky. Cheeks glow, and bosoms flush, and soft hands press In passion's wild, bewildering caress ; And chains are weaving, powerful as light, Shall make all life a very bloom or blight. But two there are — fit theme for tale or song — Two on whose forms the vision lingers long ; — Two, on whose faces beauty, wealth and birth Have set the triple charms that fetter earth. One manly, with his form of glorious mould. Lip, cheek and forehead stern, but never cold ; One womanly, as woman might have been Ere Eden gloomed upon the primal sin. And they are each the other's : lip to ear Seems ever whispering words but one should hear ; And one moves not, but in the other's eyes A wish to follow sweetly seems to rise. On love's wild stream, beyond all line or lure, They float towards each other, fast and sure. 26 Almost. Almost their love, if good or ill its power, Has burst from buddiug bloom to fruit and flower. XXTII. Almost : but one, with sternly flashing eye, Has held the lovers as they circled by, And in the shadow some have marked him stand, With lip compressed and fiercely gripping hand ; Yet none have wondered — none perchance have thought What evil passion, on his features wrought. Anon a change comes o'er him — from his face The clouds have passed and left no outward trace ; And none could dream of either guilt or guile Beneath the calm deception of his smile. The dancers pause, and, gliding towards the board With every wine and every viand stored, — Upon the lover's arm he lays his hand And says — in tone half plea and half command : " One draught with me — we have not drank to-night, And wines may flash, though beauty's eyes be bright." He brims two goblets, but with fingers skilled Drops into one a powder ere 'tis filled. None see the motion, for the lover's gaze Across the hall one fatal moment strays. And all beside have eyes and ears alone For loves or hates that measure with their own. He lifts the poisoned flask, and bowing low Grives to the victim love has made his foe. Ahnost. 27 The lover takes, and raises to his lip — God ! if one draught — one drop he blindly sip, Within an hour death's pang his spirit rives, For in it lies the bane of twenty lives. XXVIII. See ! his white fingers clasp the goblet stem ; His red lips touch its edge of gold and gem ; He breathes th' aroma of th' immortal fields. That ripe old wine before its poison yields ; Almost he sips his death : a moment more, And through his veins the fatal tide shall pour, As, lipping the unpoisoned cup meanwhile. The murderer rays out his deadly smile. Life hangs upon a breath, when — hark ! a cry, A sound that may be moan, or shriek or sigh, — A ciy from woman's lip, and then a pause, As all press forward to discern the cause. Both join the crowd that toward the door have j)oured ; Both goblets drop untasted on the board, But one — the one which holds that fatal pledge Is set too near for safety to the edge. And as he passes by, a careful guest Changes its due position to the rest. 'Tis but a woman fainting from the heat. And with a " Pshaw ! " the crowd relieved retreat. He whose swift work of death is almost done — Whose love and vengeance both are nearly won, — 28 Almost . Cannot endure one hour his project crossed, His opportunity s(j cheaply lost. " The sparkles yet o'erkiss the rosy tide, Nor strength nor flavour in the wine liave died. If yet we loiter all the gems will sink," He says, and hands the goblet — "let us drink ! " XXIX. No interruption now, for hate and crime Will find their opportunity and time. They drink : the red wine overflows the edge. Kisses the lips just silent from the pledge. And thrills the blood through every circling vein "With a new feeling blent of joy and pain. The deed is done ! the deed ? but is it told ? Whose lip and brow grow rigid, dead and cold ? Who falls, when hearts with fear and horror freeze, And terror-shaken smite the trembling knees? The lover stands unharmed, though blanched his cheek. And by him droops the lady, pale and weak ; But he who mixed the potion foul and rank Himself at last the ruin sipped and drank. And dead 'neath flashing lights and staring eyes A ghastly monument of hate he lies. The goblets in that moment's pause were changed ; The poisouer is on himself avenged ! Almost. 29 Almost triumphant in tlie Borgia's guilt ; j Almost a nobler life '\\\ malice spilt ; I Then sent to till the tomb himself has built. J Still turn the glairs. For ceilings flushed with gold, Here have we mouldy rafters, bare and old ; For silken hangings from the Indian looms, And lights, and gems, and music, and perfumes, — Here have we bare, discolored, grimy walls And light that through the broken casement crawls, And smells that come from fever and from want When human life is drying at the font. Starvation holds a dread pre-emption here, And misery has a title doubly clear. Beside the cheap pine table — head on hand, One poor dip caudle by her on its stand, With garments thin, but sadly thinner face Where lingers yet some long-lost girlish grace, — A woman sits — a woman, if that name The lost and hopeless of her sex may claim. No food upon the bare and empty shelf, Unless that half-starved mouse might eat himself ; No ember in the fire-place, though the air Bites with the chill of winter and despair. 30 Almost. Her thin lips move : she mutters broken words With voice that once had shamed the evening birds, — So dissonant and harsh, and feeble now, — 'Twere mockery could it name a lover's vow ; Yet lover's vow lips spoke and ears received, Or she, poor fool ! had been but half bereaved. " 'Tis almost done ! " she says, with moaning speech — " There is but one step more of crime to reach ! My father, with his honored silver hairs, Prom me met death in answer to his prayers ; My soul I murdered — murdered long ago. In guilt's caress and wine's delirious flow ; There but remains one horror strange and new — The body left me I must murder, too ! Cold, hunger, beating, curses, I have borne, My heart by each corroded, gnawed and worn ; The last poor crust, a spaniel's need beneath, I ground this morning 'tween my gnashing teeth ; To-day I saw the last faint spark expire Of that poor solacNof the naked — fire. 'Tis almost done — my penance, with my sin: Let the dread tortures of the lost begin ! " She rises feebly, though she scarce can stand, Into her bosom thrusts her trembling hand ; Quick-flitting agonies o'er her features pass As forth she draws a little globe of glass. Almost. 3 1 " I am not fit to live, then what have I For refuge, but tlie last resource, to die ! They say self -murder's toi'tures never cease : No matter, so it brings me present peace ! " 'Tis almost over: from the vial's jaws The last obstruction her weak hand withdraws ; One poison drop will cool her life-long drouth She thinks, and slowly raises to her mouth. Oh, fatal deed, though long and sorely tried ! Almost- a starvelinir and a suicide ! The poor have little need of bolt or bar The burglar's plan of robbery to mar ; And joy for her, o'erhanging ruin's brink, That one can enter ere she dares to drink. No knock is heard upon the broken door, No footstep sounds upon the naked floor. Yet close behind her steals a human form, Eyes smile upon her, pitiful and warm ; A quick grasp on her wrist — a shrieked surprise — And shattered on the hearth the vial lies. She turns — beside her sees an angel stand, A human angel, life within her hand, — Falls on her knees, and sobs, and weeps, and prays, "With all the fervour of her better days. One moment by the Tempter fast enslaved — Almost destroyed — then fed, and clothed, and saved. 32 Almost. Here sits the slave of wealtli — the man whose mind Through half a century keeps one god enshrined, — One yellow god, with graven, glittering face, "Who holds, as vassals, half the human race. His god is gold — his heaven, that coming hour When he shall hold within his single power Enough of wealth to fill one hungry soul : Oh, desert track, a mirage for the goal ! But now 'tis almost ended, for at last He holds enough of ruddy gold amassed — Enough of house, and land, and bill, and bond. To leave small margin worth his thought, beyond. Small margin ? yes, there is a margin still, — A little corner of the heart to fill, And then his golden happiness is sure ; That makes him rich — its want still leaves him poor. " Almost enough ! " he says, with sleepy yawn, As the last balance-sheet is deftly drawn : " Almost enough — one year of struggle more, Then Fortune may close up her golden door ! All won — none lost — no needless fraction spent — Twelve months of gain, and I shall be content ! " XXXIV. At midnight clash the bells, and all the air Is thick with smoke, and spark, and lurid glare. Almost. 33 "Walls topple — engines clash — and hydrants flow, And ruined men rush useless to and fro. The fire eats through the city's very heart ; It desolates the great commercial mart ; It sweeps the spot where heaviest rental lies j On every fiery wing a fortune flies. Ere morning, blackened bricks and smoking stones Arc all the wealth the ruined merchant owns. One little wreck of all those glorious shapes — His cloud-pUed domes of fortune — still escapes ; Enough to nerve him on his toil anew O'er that long wilderness once wandered through ; Enough — and nothing more — his heart to bear Above starvation and a death-despair. Almost the wide world's wonder of success ; Then famed for loss and ruin not the less. XXXV. Here, by a table strewn with census-books, And lists and rolls that fright us with their looks, — With papers filling every vacant chair, And documents in cubes of ponderous square, — The politician sits. An earnest man WTho thinks that time with politics began, And quick could tell, to serve some party good, How ended every ballot since the flood. He plays with destiny, and chance, and fate, Crazed with the noisy welfare of the State ; 34 Almost. All sounds discordant, save from patriot throats, And figures only good for counting votes. A life-long struggle his for power and place, Fought on through years of failure and disgrace ; The time still coming, when the people's voice Shall crown him with the glory of their choice. And now the race is ending. South and North, East, West — all sections pour their plaudits forth Figures — those stubborn things which never lie. Have shown the very turning of the die ; Another hour, and victory's loud acclaim Shall flout the heavens with one triumphant name. And nought remain except the pleasant toil Of gathering up and portioning the spoil. Almost elected : one more count he waits, To mock at chance, and dare the very fates ! The messenger is coming — give him wings To speed the news of victory that he brings ! XXXVI. The messenger is here : he questions why That lingering step — that dull and troubled eye ? Do figures falsify at last ? not so, But estimates are high, and facts are low ; The gold of bribery perchance has missed, Or taken strength that right could ill resist ; One thoughtless word a deadly foe has made, Or some old foible been anew displayed ; Almost. 35 It matters little what the check we meet, If over it we stumble to defeat. Some other ear must catch the plaudit cries ; Some other hand must portion out the prize. Almost elected — ah ! the bitter tear Drops hotter, failing with the end so near. Another tear in gratitude may fall When after years have filled and ripened all ; When he who trod so near the dizzy height Sees all the issue in a clearer light, — Learns how the brightest fame grows soiled and dark ; Exposed to envious jest and foul I'emark, — Learns how success may mar and failure make ; A grand achievement oft a grand mistake. AVheu this shall come, the politician's eye The truth of human life may yet espy, Almost elected keep its charm no more And almost ruined take the place it bore ! XXXVII. Here stands a prisonei*, with guilty hands, ^^^lose life the creed of " blood for blood " demands ; Bench, bar and jury mustering strength and skill To vindicate the law — " Thou shalt not kill ! " But stiU no eye beheld the deed of blood AVlien the armed hand let out the crimson flood. And only circumstance, that distance dims. Can draw the fetter round the guilty limbs. D 2 36 Almost. Some links are wanting in the cliara of proof ; Some threads are lacking in the legal woof ; One failure more, and all the rest will fail, Nor gallows swing for him, nor open jail. Almost he stands acquitted of his crime And ready for the guilt of after-time. Almost : — but something more may yet be done To free him from the web the law has spun, — To clear that foul suspicion from his head And smooth the brows that speak their shuddering dread. It must be done : he towards his counsel leans, Whispers the subtle question that he means ; The counsel to the witness on the stand Quick puts it, at his client's brief command ; That question all the missing link supplies. The thick woof gathers, and the murderer dies ! Almost escaped : then, by his own bliad deed. Sent to his punishment with headlong speed. XXXVIII. A month goes by, and in those very walls "Where on the guilty swift destruction falls, — An innocent man stands pleading with the law. But vainly as the drowning grasps his straw. Close wedged around him stand the stubborn facts. Admissions, contradictions, looks and acts. He must be guilty ! — §ays the public cry : Almost. 37 He must be guilty ! — he is doomed to die. Almost his dim hope dwindles to a speck ; Almost he feels the rough rope press his neck, — When, shaken by the voices deep and loud, The corniced ceiling falls amid the crowd. A dozen men are injured by the fall, But one sharp shriek of pain rings over all. One victim, by the fragments crushed and maimed, Before an hour the victor death has claimed ; And in his pangs he mutters faint and low That his hand struck the black and guilty blow ! The clouds roll off, that dimmed the other's fame, And yet how near a felon's death he came ! Almost a victim to the law's mistakes ; Then saved and honoured, as the mystery breaks. XXXIX. And here a drunkard staggers towards his end, Incarnate drink his last remaining friend ; Hope, fortune, life, all sunken in the bowl. And phantom demons playing for his soul. Almost the human shape has left his face And the brute beast usurped its sacred place ; Almost he totters down that dark abyss Where through crazed brains ghosts haunt and serpents hiss; Almost he knows, at life's eternal cost, What horrors fill that word of mournins: — lost ! 38 Almost. Almost : thank God that yet such things may he As stumbling feet once more from stumbling free ! Some word of counsel lights his darkened mind — Shows him the doom before — the wreck behind ; And fed and clothed, a sober man once more, "1 "1 Almost destroyed : heaven teach where safety lies ! E'en slight indulgence will not win the prize And its best hope in sure temptation dies. He shows — what seemed a doubtful thing before, — ^ That hope's dim lamp may burn till life is o'er. J XL. There is another boundary — hard to name ; A risk more terrible than life or fame. Two champions — Good and 111 — a soul their stake, Through the long centuries their lances break, — Almost a spirit lost — a spirit won ; And earth will shrivel ere the fight is done. There may be phantoms fierce and shadows pale To fright the hand would stret,ch within the Veil ; And lightning bolts may play around his head Who in the shadow of the Throne would tread. And yet — the word be breathed with reverent awe, As those should breathe who near the Presence draw, And yet — the Eternal Hills are hard to climb, Clothed in the frosts of earth — the mists of time. Thick warning marks are set along the way, Yet some misread, and many go astray ; Almost. 39 And in the silent night sometimes we hear A sound that strikes us with a shuddering fear, — A sound as if some spirit mounting high, Scaling the peaks that pierce the upper sky, — Had lost its footing on the verge of bliss, Hovered a moment o'er the black abyss, Then downward — downward — like some toppled stone, Sunk where no ray of light has ever shone. XLI. There may be those on whom the Spirit's light Has glanced like morning sunbeams, warm and bright, Thawing away the crust of rock and ice, Changing the feet from wrong, the wish from vice ; — There may be those to whom the spirit gives A throb of gladness that th' Eternal lives, — "Who feel some drawing of the marriage bond That links our nature to the God beyond ; — There may be those who upward reach their palms. Asking for good, as beggars plead for alms, — Who struggle onward, toil,- and faint, and wait, And see the Mountains and the Golden Gate, Almost among the number dim revealed — The twelve times twelve of thousands set and sealed ; — There may be those — woe worth some darling sin ! — Who see the goal, and touch, but never win ! Almost a Christian — said the heathen king With whose remembered words this thought took wing : 40 Almost. Be ours, oli bounteous Heaven, as here our theme Fades to the dim proportions of a dream, — Be ours, oh bounteous Heaven, the better way ! "j And light our footsteps with that purer ray > Whose Almost brightens into perfect day ! J II. EHYMES OP LIPE AND OCCASION. BEHIND THE ORGAN. In the golden Sabbath morning, when the sunshine filled the street, And the pleasure-seekers hurried by with quick and eager feet, — Ere the bells clashed out their summons to the house of praise and prayer, — Through the old church door I entered — gray old church across the square. Quaint and old the gray-haired sexton, with his massive iron key ; Quaint and old the house his kindness many a time unlocked to me : Quainter — older far than both, the volumes I had handled oft, — Sleeping in the antique book-case, in the dusty organ- loft. 44 Behind the Organ. Fenelon, Bossuet and Butler — Taylor of the silver tongue, — Old Jerome and Athanasius — lamps above time's mid- night hung, — Cotton Mather — Eoger "Williams — Tennent, of the holy- trance, — All together, oddly jumbled, met the student's anxious glance. Proud was he — the gray old sexton — of the treasures in his trust — Proud of every centuried volume — of their lore and of their dust ; And the key he gave me often trembled with the sudden thought — "What if harm to oak or parchment should some reckless day be wrought ? But the key was never wanting, for I bore a mightier still- Earnest youth in reverence pleading to old age's kindly will ; And mayhap the sexton's musing took this fond, romantic tone: That the visits might be welcome, as the old saints lived alone. Behind tJic Organ. 45 Dowu before the oakcu book-case low I sat me on the floor, Piling round me heavy volumes of devotion's love and lore ; — Sipping one and then another of those olden hearts profound, Till, a very bee polemic, in the golden wealth I drowned. Floating through my drowsy brain I heard St. Simeon Stylites Preaching on his penance pillar, in the pain that brought him ease ; — Heard the sackcloth priests denouncing pride and wealth, in accents bold, — Heard the chants that through the arches o'er the gathered Councils rolled. Floating through my drowsy brain I heard the city's quiet hum, Blended with the Convenanter's preaching on his pulpit- drum ; — Heard some martyr shout exultant as the flames around him played ; — Followed on with mad old Peter, as he preached the First Crusade. 46 Behind the Organ. Then the sounds grew faint and distant, and the type, so fair and large — Taylor's holy "Preparation" to the nobles of his charge — Gl-rew at last a fading glimmer ; then no more the line I kept, And with head on old Chrysostom on the floor I sank and slept. Hark ! what sounds were those that woke me ? — sounds that smote the shuddering air Till the senses in their labyrinth sunk in quiet, lost despair ? — Sounds that overcame my being, like some blinding, rushing tide. Bearing me upon its bosom, till I struggled, sank and died ! Shrill and loud I heard the shrieks that might have filled the upper deep When the Minions of the Shadow took their last eternal leap : Deep and low I heard the thunders, crashing through the vault of heaven — As the wrath of the Eternal, falling on the Unfor- given. Behind the Organ. 47 Benson drowned, and sense lay gasping: I but heard the torrent sweep : If I slept, what phantom voices chased each other through my sleep ! Then they blended — then they mingled — and a swooning child I lay On the sea of sound and fancy floating helplessly away Nuns were chanting in the chapels — friars' voices blending hoarse ; Then broke in the Haarlem organ, with its wild and thundering force ; Then the Minnesingers chanted knightly deed and ladies' praise, When the Feast of Harps was given, in the Wartburg's golden days. Crashed the thunder — mighty armies battered down the walls of doom : "Wailed the dirge — some noble heart went sadly to its honoured tomb : Sounded lute — I heard the whispers in the ears of noble dames : Clashed the bell — I heard the thousands battling with destruction's flames. 48 Behind the Organ. Then a dirge the great sea sang me, and a wail the mountain pines ; And I heard the low wind moaning round old History's broken shrines : Then the Norseman sang his death- song, seated on his barrow-mound, And the Indian shouted gaily o'er his happy hunting- ground. Then the spell grew deeper — deeper: louder, higher swelled the peal And I felt my struggling senses — dizzy senses — faint and reel : All the world — all time — all heaven — filled the chorus loud and long, — Time's farewell and heaven's beginning — the climacteric of song. Then I knew that I was listening — I, so helpless and forlorn — To the G-eneral Assembly and the Church of the First- Born — To the Twelve Times Twelve of Thousands — all whose names are writ in heaven, — To the anthem of the Perfect — to the song of the Forgiven. Behind tJic Organ. 49 Sought my tongue to joiu the chorus, but my lips no utterance gave ; I coukl drown but could not float in all that dense melodic wave ! On my brow the thick beads started : I was struggling for my breath I was fighting with the phantom of the great Eternal Death ! Silence! Peace! a human footstep broke at last the subtle charm, And the gi'ay-haired sexton's hand was kindly laid upon my arm : Head against the organ-casing I had slept the service through : What would buy the long emotions that Behind the Organ grew ? JOHN CHINAMAN. John Chinaman deals in Havana cigars — Those wondrous Havanas of mullein and oak Not often vouchsafed to terrestrial bars, And that need a steam-engiae to light a.nd to smoke. John Chinaman fills up his fumigant stock With those splendid and costly Manilla cheroots, One whifE of which perfumes the whole of a block. And one pufE of which pulls a man out of his boots. John Chinaman sells to you " Solace " and " Gem," " John Anderson," "-.Lilienthal," " Cornish," and Co. ; And he keeps a few pipes with diminutive stem, Some matches for lights, and a " Smoker " or so. Tobacco — John " sabes " of nothing beyond : He thrives not in brushes, or tooth-picks, or combs : And we wonder if Chinaland, over the pond, Has nicotine pap in its crockery homes ? JoliJi ChiiiainaJi. 5 1 John Chinaman floated, there can't be a doubt, Down some Yang-Tse-Ki-ang-Tse of river, to sea ; And still he keeps floating and floating about — A condemned and thrown-overboard chest of green tea. On nothing he sees look his little pig eyes ; — They are gazing with quiet and patient despair Towards that Flowery Land that the circle supplies. While the whole of the world is the rest of the square. John Chinaman sits at the old Park gate — That gate which is useless for want of a fence ; AVith the stoical calm of a saint or a fate He sells his tobacco and gathers his cents. Be it sunshine or storm, it is nothing to John — Cold nor sunshine can harm that rhinoceros hide : If you miss him some day, you may know he is gone "Wliere the rats are not roasted, nor kittens are fried. John Chinaman — type of a far-away race — With your fancy for pig-tail (tobacco or haii-) — I think I can trace on your dusky old face The marks of disease, and of age, and of care. Will you leave us some day, John ? and if this should be, Have you dear little Chinamen, dirty and squat, All ready to share, in this land of the free. The kicks and the coppers that fall to your lot ? E 2 52 John Chinaman. If with you, Johu, the race has a chance to run out, Pray, before you go hence with your awning and box — Do solve me, dear John, this most horrible doubt That so often my faith in humanity shocks : That cigar you are smoking — oh, is it the same As the bundle you offer ? or, deaf to our groans. Have you learned from the butchers that civilized game — To eat all the meat and sell off all the bones ? John Chinaman — type of a far-away race — Little ant of the Orient, dusky and brown — Grod forbid I should sneer at that weather-worn face. Or begrudge you your corner, in country or town ! Your place will be vacant, but so will be mine ! Caucasian — Mongolian — there's little to choose : And the world will not care, when we're over the line, "Whether puppies or oysters have furnished our stews. Neio York, 1860. THE SHADOW AT THE KEYS. "I played the 'Last Eose of Summer' the last thing before I came away, and left the piano full of it. If you want to hear it at any time, you have only to set up my chair and open the iustrument. I will be there to play for you." — [.4 ^^•ord at parting^ The absent fingers toucli no more the keys ; The music in them lies as dead and cold As some great statue of Praxiteles In the unchiselled marble lay of old. The sweet face that o'erbent them with a smile — The soft, warm lips faint echoing every tone — In the dark void of absence rest awhile, And almost seem to leave us each alone. Midnight and silence ! Let me try the charm Soft spoken through a mist of smiles and teai-s ! — Try wizard sj)ells that have no power to harm, And people air without the sorcerer's fears ! Set up the chair that held her rounded form ; "With reverential care unlock the case ; See the white keys where slept her fingers warm — Then start and shudder at the vacant place ! 54 The Shadoiv at the Keys. Vacant ? Not so ! Is't fancy ? Do I dream ? — Through the thin air a soft, dim outline shows ; I see dark hair down dimpled shoulders stream ; A girlish face from out the shadow grows. The rosy fingers into semblance start, And flicker o'er the ivory, doubly white : Remoulded by the magic of the heart. She sits before me — gentle, warm and bright ! But oh, so silent ! Does the omen fail When half accomplished? List, with hushing breath ! Through the still keys there creeps a plaintive wail, Too sad for joy, and yet too sweet for death. It rises like the wind-harp — sinks and dies — Rises again and lingers on the ear, Till the Last Eose its helpless sorrow sighs. And its spent dew-drops gather in a tear. It is the olden touch — I know it well, But mortal touch ne'er moulded sounds like these : Woven in fancy — fashioned by a spell — It is not played but dreamed upon the keys ! From aU the realms of poesy and song — From the pure heaven whose harps it may have kissed — There seems a tenderer pathos borne along. That dims the eye-sight with a loving mist. The Shadow at the Keys. 55 Tears fall — the throat chokes up with silent speech, And the pained heart with sad emotion throbs, As o'er the keys the phantom fingers reach And the low music wastes in broken sobs. It might be wailing o'er some new-made grave Wliere yet life's memory lives on brow and breast ; Or moaning where the grasses nod and wave Above some early love's forgotten rest. No more ! I cannot bear it ! Break the charm ! One longer, deeper wail : — the keys are still ! I see the fading of a fair white arm — A face dissolves like mist upon a hill. I am alone, dear daughter ! — all alone With midnight, silence, and the yearning fear Which clusters ever round a love unknown And makes the loved in absence doubly dear. 1861. HEARTS OF OAK AND STONE. Gray rock ou the rough and rugged shore — By the wild southeaster bruised and beaten, — For ever dinned by the sullen roar, By Time's fierce tooth defaced and eaten, — Thick set on thy scarred and mangled brow The scourging marks of a thousand Winters, And bearing the track of the spoiler's plough In thy yawning seams and jagged splinters ! There's a secret in thy stony heart — A secret hidden away for ages — That I would wring, with a cruel art. To be written and read on human pages : Is there not, beneath that icy chill. Some struggling pulse that the mind may measure ?- Some spark from God's own mind and will. That may writhe in pain and thrill in pleasure ? Hearts of Oak and Stone. 57 Art thou never a-cokl, thou gray old stone, In the Arctic blasts of the bleak December, When the cold creeps in to the blood and bone, And penui'y sobs o'er its dying ember ? Art thou never lonely, and sad, and dread — All night in the desolate darkness lying, — With a starless sky, as if heaven were dead, And the storm-clouds black like spectres ilying ? Dost thou never shrink, when the fiend unlocks The gates of the east wind wild and frantic. And the terrible gales of the equinox Come sweeping in o'er the vexed Atlantic ? — W^hen the angry surge breaks wild and high, A fury of foam over beaches and ledges. And the maddened waves, as they hurry by. Strike cruel and fierce as the Titan sledges P Dost thou never warm in the sun of May, When heaven is aglow and earth is laughing. Till the tingling thrills through thy dull veins play. As ours when the lips old Avine are quaffing ? Dull stone ! — sad stone ! — no answer falls, Through those iron lips, to our human wonder ; And none will be heard till the trumpet calls. And the rocks and the mountains shiver asunder. 58 Hearts of Oak and Stone. Eough oak, with the gnarled and tangled limbs, On the crest o£ the storm-lashed mountain-ridges, — Where the cloud through thy branches heavenward swims, And the peaks seem piers of aer-ial bridges ; — With boughs all twisted, and rent, and torn. Where in springs o£ old the song-birds nestled, — With bark all scaled, and shriveled, and worn, By the gales thy giant-arms have wrestled ; — Hast thou no voice, oh heart of oak ? — No answer the waiting ear to proffer, — Of what, since the clouds thy coming broke. It has been thy lot to joy and to suffer ? — Of the wind of ice and snow, that came And twisted away thy topmost branches ? — Of the levin bolt, whose angry flame At thy body the sultry August launches ? When falls the pelting and pitiless rain. And high on the ridge thou'rt swaying and rocking, — When the lights are gone from the villager's pane. And the shrieks of the blast seem demons mocking, — When thy stoutest branches murmur and creak. And their toughest fibres seem failing and rotten, — Has thy heart no despair, the thought to speak, That thy Maker the work of His hands has forgotten ? Hearts of Oak and Stone. 59 Does the snow of the Winter ne'er chill thy root ? Does the owl never fright thee with horrible raving ? Dost thou envy no tree its golden fruit ? Nor feel the Spring breath that the world is laving ? Is the tale of the Dryads false and vain — The brain-sick dream of a weak romancer ? Old oak of the mountains, loose the chain That binds thee in silence, and hear, and answer ! All dumb — all silent ! Rock and Tree Keep hidden the secret by Heaven confided ! 'Tis enough, oh dreamer ! — enough for thee To be sure of the Hand that formed and guided. Let the ear lie close to old Nature's breast ; Ban the credulous fool, and contemn the despiser ; Then wait, with a spirit calm and at rest. For the lore of the ajres better and wiser ! THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. Tell us — poor gray-haired children that we are — Tell us some story of the days afar, Down shining through the years like sun and star. The stories that when we were very young, Like golden beads on lips of wisdom hung, At fireside told or by the cradle sung. Not Cinderella with the tiny shoe, Nor Hassan's carpet that through distance flew. Nor Jack the Giant-Killer's derring-do. Not even the little lady of the Hood ; But something sadder — easier understood — The ballad of the Children in the Wood. Poor babes ! the cruel uncle lives again, To whom their little voices plead in vain — Who sent them forth to be by ruffians slain. The Child yen in the Wood. 6i The hapless agent of the guilt is here — From whose seared heart their pleadiug brought a tear — Who could uot strike, but fled away iu fear. And hand in hand the wanderers, left alone, Through the dense forest make their feeble moan. Fed on the berries — pillowed on a stone. Still hand in hand, till little feet grow sore, And fails the feeble strength their limbs that bore ; Then they lie down, and feel the pangs no more. The stars shine down in pity from the sky ; The night-bii-d marks their fate with plaintive cry ; The dew-drop wets their parched lips ere they die. There clasped they lie — death's poor, unripened sheaves — Till the red robin through the tree-top grieves, And flutters down and covers them with leaves. 'Tis an old legend, and a touching one : What then ? Methinks beneath to-morrow's sun Some deed as heartless will be planned and done. Children of older years and sadder fate Will wander, outcasts, from the great world's gate. And ne'er return again, though long ther wait. 62 The Children in the Wood. Through wildering labyrinths that round them close. In that heart-hunger disappointment knows, They long may wander ere the night's repose. Their feeble voices through the dusk may call. And on the ears of busy mortals fall ; But who will hear, save Grod above us all ? Will wolfish Hates forego their evil work, Nor Envy's vultures in the branches perk, Nor Slander's snakes within the verdure lurk ? And when at last the torch of life grows dim. Shall sweet birds o'er them chant a burial hymn, Or decent pity veil the stiffening limb ? Thrice happy they, if the old legend stand, And they are left to wander hand in hand — Not driven apart by Eden's blazing brand ! If, long before the lonely night comes on — By tempting berries wildered and withdrawn — One does not look and find the other gone ; — If something more of shame, and grief, and wrong Than that so often told in nursery song, To their sad history does not belong ! Tilt Childycn in tJie Wood. 63 lonely wanderers in the great world's wood, Finding the evil where you seek the good, Often deceived and seldom understood — Lay to your hearts the plaintive tale of old, When skies grow threatening or when love grows cold, Or something dear is hid beneath the mould ! For fates are hard, and hearts are very weak, And roses we have kissed soon leave the cheek. And what we are, we scarcely dare to speak. Father of all the nations formed of men. Thy will be done ! Hold us beneath Thy ken, And bring the wanderers to thyself again ! Pity us all, and give us strength to pray, And lead us gently down our destined way ! And this is all the children's lips can say. HAUNTED CHAMBERS. 'No need liave we of wizards' art — Of fearful charms and spells enclianted- Wliile loves and fears the human heart, — To show us chambers haunted. Por soul and sense have wood and stone, When wed to human recollections : "We round them with a burning zone, Formed of our best affections. Our haunted rooms are everywhere ; — Not only where some mighty sorrow Has girt us with a black despair — A night without a morrow ; — Haunted Chambers. 65 Not only where some dear delight Has set our hearts and pulses bounding, Till eyes euchanted shuuued the sight Of all — our heaven surrounding. These are not all the chambers dear, The nameless, unforgotten places Where linger by us, month and year, The haunting forms and faces. Along the highways of all lands — Among the streets of crowded cities, — In hostels free to all commands, Save penury's and pity's ; — In common rooms, where all have right To tread, with little heed or warning. And where the guests of overnight Are gone at early morning ; — By tables, where we sit at meat — Sit, with our food almost untasted, — Because we find a vacant seat From which some friend has hasted ; — r 66 Haunted Chambers. In parlours where at eve we sit, Among the music and the dancing, And miss some lip of genial wit — Some bright eye kindly glancing. Oh, meetings on the world's highway Are very dear and very pleasant : Why cannot we, for one poor day. Bind down the happy present ? These are the haunted chambers left, That almost choke us as we ponder, And leave us quite as much bereft As dearer ties and fonder. Yet why, in chambers where we part, Grow sad and sorrowful and lonely ?- The haunted chambers of the heart — These — these are hopeless only ! GOLDEN DAYS OF NOVEMBER. The autumn chill creeps over our years ; The autumn frosts on our heads are falling ; And beyond the winter of death and tears "We can hear, sometimes, the snow-birds calling. "White hairs upon the wrinkled brow A truce to time will soon be waving, While the scanty fruit on branch and bough But little fulfils our youth's large craving. Tliank Grod for a late autumnal smile That kindles to flame the dying ember ! Sit down, old heart, and be placid awhile, In these golden days of November. AVho says the best of our lives are past ? Who says that no moi*e the angels love us, — While the heart of nature sSems so vast, And her kiss of peace is bending above us ? f2 68 Golden Days of November. There's a soft, warm mist on field and hill, "WTiere the Indian of this Second Summer His spirit game is chasing still, As he did ere the reign of the white new-comer. Away from the happy hunting-grounds Whose tribes his dusky legions member — He comes, they say, when the echo sounds, In these golden days of November. Once more throw open the window-pane, Ere to winter's blast we bar and close it ; Unfasten the heart for an hour again, While this golden glory overflows it. Sit down in memory by the streams That dabbled our feet in the days so early — When the budding germs of loves and schemes Crept under the locks so brown and curly. Crawl out in the sunshine, cripj^led age. Though a brighter sun you may well remember Oh, happy for you if your closing page Be these golden days of November. Is it Summer ? No ! the branches are bare. And we listen in vain for the song bu'ds' singing ; A calm — but a treacherous c^lm is the air, And forth will the winds like hounds be springing. Golden Days of November. 69 Creep iu, old age, to your hearth again ! Shut down the sash, and bar the shutter ! One autumn comes, but two will remain, If we trust what childhood's heart may utter ! Let the night come down with its chilly haze, — Let the storm beat out the failing ember : We have looked our last on the treacherous days — The golden days of November. PLEADING TO THE MOUNTAINS. The clouds move southward on tlie breeze o£ morniug ; The peaks outpeep their curtains, one by one ; And here one spot of golden haze gives warning Where soon shall flash the clear, unclouded sun. The deep ravines, where, like a white flock folded, All night the fleecy cloud- wreaths sleeping lay, — The bald, scarred cliffs, in mocking snow-drifts moulded, — All — all are veilless from the eye of day. Here rise the mountains in their a^vful splendor, — The dream of childhood, and the hope of youth, — Before whose very thought the heart grew tender "When seeking for the types of trust and truth .- Here rise they — peak on peak stUl skyward springing; — The clouds their playmates, and the stars so near That when the spheres for new-born time were singing The chords of earth and heaven have blended here. Pleading to the Mountains. 71 Gni} mountains — round, whose path the tempest rages A thousand years, but leaves nor mark, nor scar ! — Dread sentinels along the path of ages, Scanning the weak world's conflicts from afar ! — Types of the Infinite — the Everlasting — Above the reach of human hurts and harms ! — The poor, weak wanderers by your bases hasting, To you in suppliance stretch their pleading arms. Look from your awful summits, ye untrodden Save by the foot of reverence and awe — Look on a world in baseness sunk and sodden, — A traitorous world at once to love and law. — Sleek hypocrites, who rob with silken fingers, — Coarse ruffians, who assault with deadly will, — Liars, around whose lips thick poison lingers, — Tempters, whose dearest favours curse and kill. — A world, oh mountains, with its portion sadder That these are not alone the hearts it holds : The dove clings close beside the deadly adder, And white lambs nestle in the wolf- watched folds. Oh, better that the world were wholly perished, All unredeemed and hideous and unclean, — Than battling thus the hated and the cherished, And graves or prisons where loved homes have been. 72 Pleading to the Mountains. Look down upon us, through that purest ether That on your pinnacles the good inhale — That subtle substance rapturing the breather, In which nor foot can tire nor heart can fail. The mists yet shroud us here — the weak eyes falter, Seeking to pierce the smile behind your frown : No light have eyes upturning at the altar. Save that the Godhead beams in looking down. Crive us your nature, oh ye strong and fearful — A nature that can suffer and endure ! Scourged by the northern winds, ye ne'er grow tearful ; Naked and desolate, ye ne'er grow poor. The nights of centuries, with their spectres horrid. Have wrapped around each damp and suffering brow; Yet every morn ye lift the reverent forehead To Him before whose might the ages bow. We falter, here, with every shame and terror ; "We have not strength to keep the onward way ; We are the victims of distrust and error. Or of those trusts our hapless souls betray : We lose the pole-star while the cloud is passing, And follow on some meteor evermore : We die — some heap of idle dross amassing Above the mine where sleeps the golden ore. Pleading to the Mountains. 73 There must be, on your peaks so heavenward lifted, Some spot, beyond the reach of shame and sin, — Where walk, in utter peace, the great and gifted. And heaven's beatitudes on earth begin. Amid your pinnacles, all time abiding, There must be holds, more secret than the tomb, Where weary manhood, from its hunters hiding. May rest in safety till the day of doom. Take us, oh mountains, in your arms eternal ! From all we fear, oh cradle us away ! Or give us glimpses of that future vernal Whose better hope may gild the dark to-day ! Lead us, oh mountains — if no more your blessing, — To follow up your peaks with reverent eyes, Till, throned above the clouds your summits pressing, We see the City of the Just arise. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. To a Livelier Air tJian ustcal. Enough, oh world, of sobs and tears — 0£ sad complaint, and fume, and folly. When Christmas, through returning years. Brings back the mistletoe and holly. O'er long weVe hung our walls with green, While in our hearts we wreathed the sable : 'Tis time, I think, to shift the scene. Ere " Merry Christmas " grows a fable. What though we sit at Chi-istmas tide, And try in vain to caU the faces That made, of old, our links of pride, And filled, of old, some vacant places ? What though — I say — some forms are missed ? Thank Heaven that yet it brings us others ! Though lips are cold we once have kissed — The daughters live — we spare their mothers. A Christmas Hynin. 75 Sweet little Meg, with golden liair That o'er her girlish forehead clustered, — May be her forty^ fat and fair. With olive branches round her mustered. What then? She's nearer mate, I trow, For us — old boys — if hale and hearty ! At twenty years we loved her so ? Then love her twice as well at forty ! Those years — those years — they couie no more ! No spring shall break their icy fetter ! Well, let them rest ! — Time brings us more ; Who knows but he may bring us better ? The far-off hills seem blest and blue ; The hills we tread seem rugged ever : Tet past or future nought can do — To-day's the Archimedean lever ! Tlie past — the past can ne'er return ! We'll bow to fate and take the present ; W^e'll think our coals as brightly burn As once the Tule log crackled pleasant. Speed on, old Time ! — we know your doom More swift — more sure each year approaches : But never heed ! away with gloom ! Steam be it, since we've lost the coaches ! 76 A Christmas Hymn. "We've not outlived — no ! Heaven forfend ! — For all we err, the Christmas sorrow, Nor lost the memory o£ that Friend From whom an hour of life we borrow : But down with dismal look and phrase — The maudlin fancies, vain and hollow, "With sinful passions yet ablaze. The past all wrong — and worse to follow ! All kindly thoughts — repentant deeds — Live tliey — in every bosom burning, Till Time fulfils its latest needs, And Christmas knows no more returning. And then — enough of sobs and tears — Of sad complaints, and melancholy, — "When Christmas, with revolving years, Brings back the mistletoe and holly ! LITTLE BARE FEET. Little bare feet — so chilly aud blue, — On the cold, wet side-walk patting and splashing ; As if no north-wind whistled for you, And you felt not the rain drops pouring and dashing : — Little bare feet — ye may not ache, But our hearts grow cold with a painful shiver, And we wish we could fold, for humanity's sake, Such baby feet from the cold forever. Little bare feet — but a tiny shoe Your tender flesh would span and cover: — One drop of wealth the mercy would do, From the cup of luxury flowing over. But a little would wrap you in snowy fleece. Such as swathes the limbs of our darlings rosy, When, bathed in our heaven of rest and peace. They nestle to slumber loving and cosy. 78 Little Baj^e Feet. Does a cheerful fire your coming await In the home to which you are wearily tripping ? Are there eyes to watch, when you linger late ? Are there hands to wipe the limbs so dripping ? Or creep you away to your nest of rags, In the cold, damp dens where poverty lingers — Where life the long chain of hunger drags, And disease clutches hearts with iron fingers. Little bare feet ! — little tender feet ! — The answer is here, too ready and certain ; And no hand of the wizard we need to meet, To draw from your doom the sorrowful curtain. All pinched and cold from the day of your birth — All pinched and cold to your cofiin ye travel : 'Tis a pitiful lot that, when laid in earth, The Power that made shall sift and unravel ! Nothing we bring from the land unknown, When we spring, in birth, to new existence ; And we take our failing bodies alone When we fade again in death's cold distance : Oh, little bare feet ! the primal curse Te feel in a doom most unforgiving : — Ye have nothing in birth — in death : — ah, worse ! — Te have nothing — notJiing, through all your living ! THE LAST MID-NIGHT OF SUMMER, I START at the door with sudden shock, And shiver, before I turn the lock, As I hear, far off, the mid-night clock. The last mid-night of summer sounds. Like a ghostly watchman crying his rounds Or the baying of Aetfron's phantom hounds. The crickets are singing their sad refrain, Their dirge for the summer's perished reign, In the long grass under the window-pane. The stars are bright in the deep-blue sky — Bright, and many, and oh ! so high ! And each looks at me with a sleepless eye. Summers ago they looked at me Thus sadly and long, and silently, As if there was something hidden to see. 8o The Last Mid-night of Summer. Summers ago, in lialf -affright, I shrank away from tlieir piercing sight. Even as I am shrinking to-night. Summers ago they bade me do Something I missed, if I ever knew ; And they speak the same to-night, in the blue. Summer is gone — the white stars say — "We kissed its dying lips to-day. And scarcely knew it was passing away. Summer is gone : its waves no more Will tremble low music along the shore ; They mvist meet the winter with sullen roar. Summer is gone — its whispering leaves. Its golden wealth of garnered sheaves ; And something within us pines and grieves. G-ood-bye to the hours in woodland haunts — To the sea-side and the lake romance : Kate will flirt no more, nor Isabel dance. Gro in, as growing years require ; Put out the ashes of young desire. And think of sitting down by the fire. Tlic Last Mid-7iight of Su7nmc>. 8i With youth, aud love, and faith, and hope. With all that widened the mental scope, And made us able with fortune to cope ; With Mary's smile and Madge's kiss, And hours full maddened with lawless bliss — Tlie heart's true summer — good-by to this. Look down, white stars ! There is nothing to see But the world may sound with plummet free ; And cricket, chirp on, but not for me. Can you bring me back the summer fair, And give me something of wrong to repair ? No ? Then let the dead lie still as they were. If Margaret's lips can kiss again, By the alchemy of regretful pain. Then sorrow and thought may be not in vain. But if nothing past can ever return, Nor lamps gone out rekindle and burn, There is nothing to hope and little to learn. Not deader when I lie in the mould Shall be my sight and hearing cold. Than in the sleep that to-night shall enfold. o 82 The Last Mid-night of Summer. Good-bye to summer ! Let it go ! Other summers may dawn ere our heads lie low ; And if not, there have been enough, I know. So enter the house and lock the door. Let the stars shine on, and the cricket pour His sad refrain : it is summer no more. THE LADY OF THE CHOIR. She sat within the shadows soft That gloomed above the organ loft, And helped to lead the choral song That swept our souls to Heaven along. She sang — and well I mind the words Low blending with the organ chords, Then swelling — sweeping far and high Until they burst from dome to sky. " Dear Saviour, if these lambs should stray From Thy secure and perfect way. Oh, bring them back from sin and pride — Thou Ever-living Crucified ! " g2 84 The Lady of the Choir. I heard her sing, in days agone ; And stm that sweet strain, ringing on. Far down the dim and darkening years. Brought holy thoughts and sorrowing tears. And then the words no more I heard. That all the good within me stirred : Another voice the anthem led : The lady of the choir was dead ! Oh Thou whose praise her erring tongue So many a year had breathed and sung — Grrant that the voice so silent here In Heaven be rising pure and clear ! Those waves of sound our lives that bore So sweetly toward the thither shore — Oh, let them not have ceased to roll Till home they bore her pleading soul ! If half the lambs within Thy fold Have strayed from out the paths of old. And some yet tread the pastures fair, — Let lievy oh Christ, let her be there ! WORDS FROM HUNGRY LIPS. " HiTMpn ! you think you have felt and known Something o£ poverty — something of pain ! Do you know what it is when the heart is a stone, And the madness of hunger has seized on the brain ?- Wlien you gaze in the baker's window long, And stare at the meat-shops, ghastly and grim, And feel like a wier-wolf, famine-strong, Tearing some traveller limb from limb ? "Meat! — What a succulent, juicy taste It used to have ! That was months ago. If I only could have some kitchen's waste. How greasy and sleek my face would grow ! I had yesterday a crust of bread ; A cold potato the day before : They say that this want and sorrow must spread : When shall I get a mouthful more ? 86 Words from. Hungry Lips. " I met a servant hurrying home, But yesterday, with a daiaty pie : Does she know, I wonder, how near we come To murder, sometimes, and the reason why ? Then out of a basement the fragrance came !From roasting fowls and from broiling meat ; And it went like poison through my frame. Till I gnashed and cursed in the public street. " Tou have never felt the hunger pang ? — Or only its warnings far and faint ? Then think of the sting of the adder's fang, And the torture-rack of the martyr saint ; — Of a fiery worm that moves within, Burning and gnawing the life away ; — Of the doom of hell for human sin : And thank Grod for the mercy while you may ! " It is worst in the morning, when you rise From the door-stone or the lumber-pile : By noon, in faintness the hunger dies, And the worms are still for a little v;hile. Then it comes again — and sharper, and worse — As the dusk night falls and the lamps are lit. And heedless of blow, or kick, or curse. In forbidden places you stagger and sit. Words from Hungry Lips. 87 '■ 1 luivc told enougli. May you never know Whether my words are false or true ! Put up your purse, that is thin and low ! — I would starve outright ere I'd beg from you I Forget my story, and never mind "What a hungry man may do or say ! Who knows but I may happen to find A piece of bread tliis very day !^^ FOURTEEN AT THE STATE PRISON. " There's iron, Tom, on hand and heel ; There's harder iron in my heart : 'Tis long since I have dared to feel — Kept here from all the world apart ; — A night of guilt withia my brain, — A black despair upon my soul, That only changes forms of pain As years and decades roll. " But yesterday — ay, yesterday — Had I not feared a blacker doom — The scaffold with its grim array. The horrid, dark dissecting room — But for the fear of these, I say, I would have dashed my fettering gyves On every head within my way ; So loathed I human lives ! Fourteen at the State Prison. 89 " To-day — it may be but an hour — Who knows how soon the devils black, That o'er us sway infernal power, A moment gone, come crowding back ? To-day the veriest little child — Hi^ child who did me foulest wrong — If it but looked on me and smiled, Could beckon me along ! " To-day — oh Tom, I've wept hot tears ! They shame me, but they soften me, And loves come glimmering through the years That roll above me like a sea ; — To-day I heard a carriage step Clank down, and peering through the grate Came wondering eye and pitying lip — Those things we deepest hate. " I scowled upon them through the bars, I would have cursed them, had I dared : They had fair freedom's sun and stars. While I ten feet of dungeon shared. What right had they my guilt to mock ? Wliat right had they to pity me ? Leave Prometheus on his rock. Unwept — or set him free ! go Fourteen at the State Prison. " But one-^-she passed my duugeou door, The last, and dared not lift her eyes, But kept them downcast on the floor, And trembled with her weight of sighs : She would not give the prisoner pain. By looking where she dared not tread ; But I could see the pitying rain Her heaveii of mercy shed. " Oh Tom ! — the w^ealth of raven curls, Thick glossed by healthful sun and air ; The inch-long lashes, dropping pearls Her sea of pity gave despair ; Her cheek of varying white and red — First red with shame, then white with fear ; Her brow, where love and pride were wed, High-born, and pure, and clear. " Some fourteen summers must have left Their holiest sunshine in her smile. But not a childish grace was reft, Nor planted one deceit the while. And such a warmth of pitying love. Shone from her sweet eyes round the room — I almost thought the sun above Was shining through the gloom. Fourteen at the State Prison. 91 ' They passed — she passed — I saw but her— Passed ou, aud let iny night return ; How long will heaven its call defer, Ere seraph-erowued that brow shall burn ? Heaven ? — what have / to do with heaven ? — Are soul and body under ban ? Who knows ? — a fiend but yester-even, To-day I'm yet a man ! " MY DIRGE IN MUSIC. Feed my sick soul with music ! — do not cease, Though brain grows weary and though fingers tire ; Those waves of sound are very seas of peace Beating on beaches hot with mad desire. The restless fiend within my nature bows His stubborn head, and tortures me no more : And through the mists of care look seraph brows Wearing the smile my lost ones wore. I do not hear the chant of love and grief Some burthened heart wailed centuries ago To winds that quickly strewed the fallen leaf O'er graves where sunny heads were lying low : I hear my own love-angel, folding down Her snowy wings beside a moss-grown tomb, And singing o'er me, when the flowers are brown, Some lay she sung me in their bloom. My Dirge in Music. 93 Her kindly hand has slipped its loving hold : I reach toward her, but I reach in vain : My hair is graying, and my heart grows old; There's doubt and darkness gathering in my braiu. The tliought of what I am stands ever near — A mocking shade of what I was to be ; My angel only whispers when I hear Some song of wailtnc: over me. There's not a plaint but pierces to mj^ heart ; There's not a sob but stabs some darling pride ; Long wasted years from dull oblivion start, And honours live that in dishonour died. The good upbraid me in those pleading tones ; The evil sue for pardon and for rest : A Grod again my atheist heart enthrones, And good in suffering stands confessed. O'er many graves the mossy marbles shine ; O'er many perished lives the sad winds wail ; But who has known a sadness like to mine — Counting the pulses as they faint and fail, — All time an ocean, where I float away Beating with powerless hand the angry surge ; And music's fingers seeming but to play One long, sad, lonely wail — my dirge. THE PRINCE OF WALES AT WASHING- TON'S TOMB. In the golden sun of the eavlj October, By the wild Potomac's yellow flood, At the tomb of the great world's noblest sleeper A group of strangers silent stood. Pull many a foot the path had trodden — And ever with slow and careful tread — The path sweeping down from the house to the river. That passes the tomb of the mighty dead. Pull many an eye through the iron grating Had looked on the marble coffer gray Where a nation, half a century younger, Laid the gem of their pride in dust away. At Washi)igto)i\^ Tomb. 95 All nations, and colours, and habits, and races, Had made it a spot of pilgrim tryst, Paying homage to valour, and wisdom, and goodness, — No blood and no climate can ever resist. But here was a group from the Isle of the Occan- The rocky isle of our fathers' birth — The isle whose drum-beat circles and startles The echoes of morning over the earth. And one was a boy, with the hair of the Saxon, The bright blue eyes of the Grermau land, Who will hold, some day, if the fates are propitious. The sceptre of George the Third in his hand. Behind him were men of the px-oudest title — The feudal princes of English boast, Standing ever around that stripling royal As the great ships guard their native coast. Victoria's sou — hight Albert Edward — He had stood already, in years so few, On many a spot made famous in story — On Nasebv, and Barnet, and Waterloo ; — g6 The Prince of Wales The spots where a dynasty tottered and crumbled, Or a rebel baron in ruin fell, And where, over startled and shuddering Europe, Rang out the great Corsican commoner's knell. But never, I ween, on a spot so pregnant With varying thought, stood the boy before ; And what must have been the mingled colour That his young reflection silently wore ! Before him the dead lay — helpless, but mighty ; Around him was stretching an endless chain Of hills, and plains, and crowded cities, And rivers laughing on to the main. This golden land had once been a jewel That flashed and glittered in Britain's crown, His own great-grandsire had ruled and lorded "Wherever the visitor's foot came down. The man that was dead, in the century faded. Had won a wreath for his manly brow That a hundred years ave but budded and brightened ; Did the royal boy remember how ? At Washington' s Tomb. gy By wresting this land from the grasp of England ; By tearing the New "World's fetters away, And teaching the earth that long-needed lesson — There's no patent for heroes in royal clay. Did the royal boy these things remember ? And if he did, let us hope and believe That he saw far beyond the jealousies narrow That national fools still foster and weave. — That he thanked the Euler of States and of Nations For the issue the dead man's valour gave — The issue his spirit yet mournfully watches, — And preferred a free friend to a sullen slave. Did he do so ? Royal Albert Edward Alone must be called to answer for that ! — Or if he thought more of his last night's partner, — Of Teesdale's moustaches or Newcastle's hat. Mount Vernon, 1860. AT FORTY YEARS. " Wait till you come to forty year ! " — \_ThacJcer((y — " Love at Two Scored PouE decades done. Than Christ at Calvary older, Counting the sea-sand years that ebb away ; — With unseen hands that 'gin to press the shoulder And unseen fingers twining locks with gray. With saucy crows' -feet that will not be chidden — Birds of ill-omen — tracking cheek and eye ; Wrinkles and roughness coming much unbidden And proving friends by never passing by. With much of life's great wealth most sadly wasted, And something better spent than brokers knew ; With nearly all earth's pains and pleasures tasted ; With much proved false, and much — thank God !— proved true. Enough beyond the crest of life's mid-mountain To see the eve much nearer than the morn ; And parched in deserts, so that no cool fountain Shows its oasis, but some joy is born. At Forty Years. 99 Learning to live, perhaps, the truer, better, Because the days of life grow few and brief ; Galled less and less by earthly bond and fetter, Because so soon may come the long relief. Solving the problem of existence, only To leave it ere the true result appears ; Yet blessed, that fate foretells no wandering lonely, Friendless and tottering down the vale of years. Deceived, discouraged, sick and disappointed, AVhen early hopes come back, so unfulfilled. The schemes best laid all scattered and disjointed. The goblets of life's nectar jarred and spilled ; The " might have been " a far-off mocking vision. Too late to reach, now, ere the worn limbs tire ; And that most fearful mockery, self-derision. Sounding at every unfulfilled desire. And yet not wretched — no ! nor dully placid "With that drugged brain that disappointment brings: The tooth yet touches with a pang the acid, Yet revels in the taste of sweeter things. "With so much lost — what then ? — not all is sorrow : Not all is lost while still so much is won ! There are, who would not change for crovms to-morrow, If that which has been must be all undone ! H 2 loo At Forty Years. And old ? Oh no, not old ! The heart of twenty Out-lives the changing flesh that made its bond. Some tingles of the blood still left ! — ay, plenty For all the tempting hours that lie beyond. Keep the heart young, though every sinew falters ! Keep trust in human kind, though faithless half 1 And burn, sometimes, even upon age's altars, That incense of eternal youth — a laugh. 1863. ALONE IN THE HOUSE. It is midnight, solemn and lonely : I stand on the threshold stone And think that without is life only, For within I shall be alone ! The door opens slow on its hinges And shuts Avith a hollow clang ; And the spirit low shudders and cringes As if a death-summons rangr. In study and parlour and hall- way Seems the silence to gather and brood, With the desolate feeling that alway Comes o'er us in solitude. I02 Alone in the House. "Where are they — the feet and the voices That echoed but yesternight ? In what far land mourns or rejoices The Home that has taken flight ? Are they dead ? Not so — for no mourning- Is seen upon window or door, And we look for their home-returning When the carnival summer is o'er. But sad — oh, sad are the places Of our daily loves and cares, When we think upon absent faces And look upon vacant chairs. A lonely seat at the window And lonely the pillow white — Because there is no one to hinder Or torment, or say " Grood-night ! " We may chide sometimes — no matter. Time brings its revenge to all : What would I not give for the patter Of little feet in the hall ? A /one HI the House. 103 All silent — all sad ! — No, listen ! How the (lead the living can mock ' With sad tears my eyeballs glisten, As I catch the tick of the clock. It was wound by the hands that are vanished ; It is something they leave behind : To-morrow that sound will be banished And all will be blank and blind. And so to my rest — I only Of a household happy and bright : Oh Heaven, I am so — so lonely, I have bidden the clock good night ! They will come again ! — Grod save us From losing this blessed thought, And restore the dear ones He gave us, With the roses absence has wrought ! A PARTING SUNSET. The wide world owns the sunset clear, And thousands gaze on its glories bright ; But for once there is something holier, dear ; The sunset belongs to us to-night. Tou in your quiet summer home, I flying away through forest and town, — Though far apart, together will come To see the last Summer sun go down. I look through the pane of the flying car, And over the Highlands, low in the West, I see the bright orb sinking afar Through a sky that glows like the isles of the blest. Tou stand, I know it, baby mine ! — Out by the play-house and the swing. Watching above the tree-tops' line The last good-bye of the summer-king. A Pa^iing Sunset. 105 Tou are thinking of me, and my spirit ear So keener far than the organ of flesh, Tour '' Grood-bye, Papa ! " listens to hear, As it drops from the sweet lips rosy and fresh. I am thinking of you — do you know how much? — \ Strange child who around my heart have twined Till mirth or tears will start at a touch When your elfin face comes back to mind ? How much ? Let the sob in my choking speech — Let the tears that gather, and 'glisten, and fall, — Tell how fondly and far the heart's tendrils reach When it thrones an idol and makes it all I Let this childish burst of bitter grief At the thought : " If I never should see her more And Tier sun should go down in an hour as brief ! " Sound feebly that sea without a shore ! The last clear tremble of molten gold Has gone : far upward the sunset ray Tints the clouds like banners wide unrolled O'er the bier of the summer passed away. Go in, dear child, to your guiltless sleep ; And the angels drop from some happy star, A guardian Avatch o'er your pillow to keep. That my eyes cannot hold in their flight afar ! 1863. A WRECK ON THE STREET. I WAS crossing the street, with my labour not far, And the care of the day hanging yet in my brain, But with night, that was coming, set up like a star In the great weary heaven of travail and pain : And she passed me so close that the fringe of her shawl — Her poor, faded shawl — and the skirt of her gown, — Touched my limbs with their wretched and negligent faU, As they often had swept the worst pave of the town. Long years had gone by siuce I met her before — Tears that faded my hair and set lines on my cheek ; But the change upon her — oh ! the fiends nevermore. If they wail without ceasing, have power to speak ! She was throned on the summit of beauty and pride, "With the world under foot and the stars round her brow : She was something for ribalds to loathe and deride — All lost and degraded and reprobate, now. A Wreck 071 the Street. 107 Nights of wassail, and riot, and blackening sin, Had burnt out the light from her diamond eye ; Days ot" hunger had shrunken and shrivelled her skin. On whose marble the gems used so loving to lie. Who once had not prayed for the touch of her hand, And thought that her breath bore the perfume of lud? Who now would have touched her, at any command, Or dared the thick plague of her breath on the wind? And this was the foot of that ladder of vice Of which once I had seen her on dizziest round ! With a slip of the foot on prosperity's ice. She had fallen so low that no plummet could sound. What agonies — tortures, — what struggles and tears, — What prayers and what curses, both blended in one, — Must have passed, through those bitter and wearisome years. While the asp at her heart its black errand had done! I saw in that glimpse, as if lightning had shown. The silks that had wrapped her, slow fading to rags ; — The hands, base and baser, by which she was thrown To a crust in the gutter — a bed on the flags. Saw the pawnbroker's den — the cold prison — the court Where justice sits striking its blows in the dark, — Where the heartless turn sorrow and squalor to sport, And shame crushes out poor humanity's spark. io8 A Wreck on the Street. I saw these as I saw her : thank Heaven o'er all That her dim, bleary eyes had forgotten my face ! There are some we would drag to the dust when we fall : There are some we would spare in our deepest dis- grace. So she passed on her way — that poor wreck of the past, — And I to the wreck that may easily be : Who knows or can measure the level, at last. To be struck, in the ages, for her or for me ? BIRDIE. Where the sunshine plays above her, Stolen from hev sweet blue eyes, — "Where the oak trees nod and whisper. Little Birdie lies. Though the sods lie thick and heavy O'er her baby lip and brow. Yet they never — never hide her: We can see her now ! — See her, as yestreen we saw her. With the eyelids drooped so low, With the tiny hands soft folded On her burial snow — See her, with the light scarce faded. With the breath scarce wooed away. That while here still kept her—afujel, And that left her — clay. 1 1 o Birdie. Why she came, a thing of beauty ; — Why she fled — so brief enjoyed ; — Why in sweetest mould created Thus to be destroyed ; — These are things that task our wonder ; Things o'er which we weep and sigh : We shall know, in after ages — Know them by-and-by ! But our hearts are sore and saddened, And one little monnd of earth Hides the whole world's seas and mountains- Hides all love and worth. Through the dark we grope and struggle ; She is with us, everywhere ; But the hands we stretch to clasp her Only grasp the air. Tell us not of resignation ; That may come in after years, When our hearts are water-courses Channelled by our tears. We must weep, and sigh, and murmur. While our loss is all we feel, — While the wound is fresh and bleeding, Only time can heal. Birdie. Yet not all is loss and shadow ; Sometlnng from the wreck we save : Earth's broad breast is richer — dearer — That it holds her grave. And, perhaps when years have faded, Faltering towards the Better Land, We may find the clue of Heaven Held in BirdieV' hand. I J I LILIAN HOWAED. I BEAD it, carved on a little white stone, In the grave-yard's shades so holy and deep, Where nestled away lie the children alone — The poor little lambs of the world's lost sheep. It was " Lilian Howard," and nothing more : The grave was only a yard of earth : I had never heard of the name before ; I knew not her age, or her race, or birth. But the name was full of sad, sweet thought — Of Arundel's line and Norfolk's blood, Tour centuries back from the Howard brought "Who with Eichard the Third on Bosworth stood That blood so rich, and clear, and old. That in England's peerage first it stands, And sculptors have found earth's purest mould In the shape of the Howards' fair white hands. Lilian Howard. 113 Beside that surname pure aud proud Was the sweetest word ever mortal breathed, — Some sweet Juue day, that knew uot a cloud, lu a poet's brain from the lily wreathed : A name of purity, beauty, and joy, That like silver streams in music drips, — That like the kiss o£ some ardent boy Lingers long ere it drops from the loving lips. Sweet " Lilian Howard ! " — iu that name, If that name was all of the charm she bore, A shield should have stood from the archer's aim. For beauty and heaven link evermore. "WTiat hearts had ached, when the sweet lids' close Told a love incarnate passing away — When, like folding the lily and shutting the rose. Her young life went out with the dying day ? I know not — perchance I may never know ; For our own griefs choke the pitying heart: And our tears so fall in a selfish flow, We have none for some other's sorrowful part. But " Lilian Howard " — sweet, spotless name, As it stands on that gravestone little aud white. Will often come back like a beautiful dream In the thoughts of day and the visions of night. I NOON AT THE BLACKSMITH-SHOP. I SIT on tlie bench in the sunshine — On the bench by the old shoiD-door, With the country's quiet around me, And forgotten the city's roar ; — On the bench of timber oaken, "With its legs of many a crook, Hewn out from the hickory saplings From the hillside over the brook. The blacksmith has gone to dinner. With a screw-bolt left in the vice. And the shafts of the cart unfinished That he promised to do in a trice. The hammer lies on the anvil That no more with its battering reels ; And a daring chicken is swimming In the trough where he hoops his wheels. N'oon at the BIacks;nit/i-S/iop. 115 Tbe coal-house door is open, And I see that his stock is low : He must soon expect the coal-man With his face of grimy woe, — With his team of half-starved ponies, And their harness mended with strings, And a settlement very careful Of the bushels of coal he brings. There's a plough half over the door-sill, With the coulter crooked to a hump : It has been in a bad collision With a stone-heap or a stump : — A harrow in want of a dentist, A wagon divided by two, And a pile of wheels and asles Grown old before they were new. There are horse-shoes over the window, And hame- sticks over the door, And the names of the different owners Chalked up like a tavern score. O'er the beams there are bars of iron ; Here's the box of tools he will use When he fits, like an iron cobbler, The horny hoofs vdih. shoes. I 2 ii6 Noon at the Blacksmith- Shop, There are nuts, and burrs, and ringbolts Lying here on the trodden ground, — Some half covered up, till I wonder If the tithe will ever be found. And some of these iron fragments That off from the anvil fly, Taken up by inquisitive fingers, Have been suddenly dropped with a cry. The forge is heaped with cinders, "With a little of smouldering coal, And I own to a strong temptation To pull on the bellows-pole. I think I could manage the apron, And I'm not afraid of the tongs ; I've a faint idea of welding. If I knew where that iron belongs. But I've heard of people who meddle. With an iron too much in the fire, — And who manage to make things warmer Than they either expect or desire : I must leave the bench and the sunshine ! — "When the smith comes back, I'm afraid He will roast me over his furnace For learning too much of his trade. THE RHYME OF THE SLIGHTED DAUGHTER. " Never a poem for me — remember it father — While round you scatter the gems of labouringthought! While round the heads of others cluster and gather The pleasant wreaths in the garden of poesy wrought ! " If you have fame, others will treasure aud share it ; If with a name you float on the tide of years, Proudly beside you others will brave and bear it : Never amid your words my name appears ! " My sisters' wreaths are green, beside my mother's ; And even my brother's, years ago in the clay : Say, am I less to you than all the others. That thus my thought from your dreams is hidden away ? " Ah ! is it 80, my daughter ? Tou — you only Have I neglected when the heart-dew fell ? — When my brain was sad or my heart was lonely, And into words the crowding thoughts would swell ? ii8 Rhyme of the Slighted Daughter. Were you ever pushed aside wheu the pool was troubled, With no hand outstretched to lead you tenderly in ? When words from the smitten rock in mercy bubbled Had you no cup the freshening draught to win ? Alas ! it may be so ! How vain and hollow Then, are the names of poesy and song, When the words we write so little our hearts will follow, And our dearest loves are touched with neglect and wrong ! Come nearer, girl ! lay close to my cheek your tresses — Tour clustering tresses that mock the silver of age, And see if the father's heart neglects or blesses, Whatever the words that lie on the printed page. There are poems, girl, the sweetest and the dearest. That the pen ne'er moves to write, nor the page receives : Such poems of prayer, oh, Grod ! — as Thou only hearest When over his children's sorrow the parent grieves ! — When toys flung down from play are gathered and hoarded. And kissed at night when the room is still and lone ; — When the pencil-scrawls by baby fingers afforded Hear over thetn breathed love's softest, fondest tone ! — Rhyme of the Slighted DaugJiter. 1 1 9 When the good-night kiss by the budding lips is given, And treasured always as one more pure delight ; AVhen the anxious thought would measure their road to heaven, Or seek to render their earthly sunshine bright ! All these are poems, my daughter ! — poems unwritten, But ah, how truer than all the pen records ! And how little we know, till the household circle is smitten. How deep was the music that never was set to words ! !Never a poem for you ? Oh yes, ray daughter — The poems of daily life and daily love, Sung low, as the river sings with its rippling water. Unnoticed here, but heard iu the calm above. And see ! — the things we bewail are mocking our sorrow, For they cure themselves as we syllable our fear. Toil even from indolence fresh strength can borrow ! In excusing itself your written poem is here ! EARLY SONGS. The Songs that burned within the breast, And trembled on the tongue When life was all that bright and blest — That dear delusion — young ! The Whisperings of the Olden Heart That has no being now : The glory of Life's better part, In prayer, and song, and vow. The Thoughts recorded in old time Tor gentle eyes to read, That looked upon the poet's rhyme, And never saw his meed. The Hopes that sprung fi-om Heaven first. And, dark with many a stain. Still keep the flowers of Eden nursed. And turn to Heaven again. FRANKY'S BELLS; AS HIS SWEETHEART TOLD THE STOBT. " FiTE moutlis ago, when summer Lay broad upon the land, And we were gathered far away, A joyous summer hand, — There came to me a little boy "Who lisped the words of four — Who crept within my girlish heart, To leave it nevermore. II. " Pure little soft-eyed darling ! So pure, heaven's signet, set Upon his baby brow at birth, "Cudimmed seemed glistening yet ! The idol of a happy home ! The hope of coming years ! How can I speak wee Franky's name, And not grow blind with tears ! 122 ' Fraiikyh Bells. ITT. " How in his hours of fondness He held his little hand So close against my folded dress, And prized my least command, Oh, child of love, and faith, and hope! — Eor fear that we should part, So close you held my changing robe : How close my changeless heart ! IV. " One day, far up the hill- side, I went, by wood and burn, Till long beyond the supper-time Delayed my home-return. Then, calling me, his childish voice Faint sounded o'er the dells ; And lest I should be lost, he rung His chime of little bells. T. " And then he told me, proudly. That when he grew a man And all his ships with wealth came home And strength and life began, — I should be sister, aunt and wife — All loves together rolled — And have a silver chariot. Its horse-hoofs shod with ofold ! Franky's Bells. 123 VI. " Five mouths have passed. White suow-di-ifts O'erlie the summer lawn. The chariot's come, but not for me ! Our dear old boy is gone. One thought alone is with me now, By that sad memory given : Oh, Franky, Frauky ! — ring your bells To call me home to heaven!" CJiristmas, 1864. MY SCHOOLMISTRESS. I AM not a small boy, witli his infant annoy But his bright, happy heart with more happiness swelling : Such a claim should I dare, sure the frost in my hair "Would a different story be painfully telling. Nor an urchin at school, growing just beyond rule Yet needing it more because wilder and older. And seeing love- wings, (those most beautiful things !) Sprouting forth every day from some little girl's shoulder. I am neither of these : I am -stiff in the knees ; I am too old for learning, however I need it ; And a bell of less cheer than the school's I might hear If I was not too busy or careless to heed it. Yet a schoolmistress fair gives me tenderest care And demands close attention to books and my duty : She makes sauciest claim to my house, heart and name, And pays me sweet toll for her youth and her beauty. BLOSSOM AND SUNSHINE. Page 121 My Schoohnisircss. 125 Bright-eyed, eveiy day, goes my Suusliiue away, Broad-shaded from sun or wrapped up from the winter, — To the family hxi'ge she has taken in charge To play awful Nemesis, Athena and Mentor. With her eyes scarce so bright she comes back ere the night. Her queer little brain all set puzzled and Avhirling, Till sometimes we half dread that the weight on her head "Will press out from her dark locks the hyacinth curling. How her warm, cheerful face lends the school-room a grace That it seems to have borrowed from sunshine and roses ! How the culprits look down when she thunders a frown. And kiss her good-night when the penitence closes ! And how bliss seems to fall, -with one ready at call To level the sexes and laugh at the college : — Who could tell, with small task, if I happened to ask, The pomologist name of the old Tree of Knowledge ! But I earnestly hope she'll not shrink to the scope Of dry mathematical problems and sections, Till she goes beyond reach of the figures of speech And fills up all the place of the dearer affections. 126 My Schoohnisti'css. And I specially pray that some possible day When a lover his passion may whisper and stammer, His poor heart she'll not break for his rhetoric's sake, Or reject him because of a flaw in his grammar. My schoolmistress ! — bless every fold of her dress That so daintily sweeps round her trim little figure ! Bless her walk, every day, in that difiB.cult way Which leads to true womanhood's stature and vigour ! Bless her joy and her grief ! — bless her pain and relief ! Her labour and leisure, her tears and her laughter ! What of others she learns, bring them pleasant returns ! What she teaches, yield fruit for a happy hereafter ! 1865. FORTY-FOUR GUNS— A BIRTHDAY SALUTE. On'ce I was " on the stocks," (Like a plauk on the carpenter's trestle), Being shaped, from the rudest of blocks, To the size and the form of a vessel. (Is there any reason therein — I am sometimes forced to wonder. Why my " stocks " ever falling have been, And beggared my wallet of " plunder " ?) Well, as I began to say — My timbers and beams wide-branching, There came, perforce, a day For clearing the " shores " and launching ; And at last unveiled I lay, What the workshops of time deliver, A shallop, afloat and astray, On the tide of the world's wide river. 128 Foi'ty-foiir Guns — A Birthday Salute. I grew (as the novelists say, This part must be hurried, briefly) Through pain, joy, work, study, play, (Though the pain and the idleness, chiefly) ; A gig, a pinnace, a yawl, A long-boat (six feet, very nearly). Broad-beamed, strong and staunch, though through all, I was chiselled and hammered severely. Then at last, as the years went by, I outlived tlie weary non-age ; Manhood's spars went branching high, And the world confessed my tonnage. I was twenty-one, my rate A sloop-of-war, thereafter; And master and master' s-mate, Climbed aboard with significant laughter. O, the many years since then ! O, the voyages begun, not finished ! 0, the stores filled and beggared again, And again and again replenished ! 0, the days on a summer sea ! 0, the nights 'mid the waves of winter ! O, the rocks frowning close under lee. And the wrecks leaving shread and splinter ! Forty-four Guns — A Birthday Salute. 129 And yet, I have kept afloat ; How, He only knows, the Great Captain, AVho the sailors in Galilee's boat His love and his mercy wrapt in ! And still I have grown, and grown, In size, as more old and battered, Till another rate I have known. That I claim ere the title is shattered ! I'm a forty-four, to-day ! That vessel, howe'er you rig it. Lays claim to the place and way And the manning of a frigate. So room for my towering spars, And the torn old sails they are spreading ! Plug leaks, paint over the scars, And away with doubting and dreading ! No higher rate, henceforth. On the books where my place was minor ; For never to me, on earth. Comes the seventy-four of a liner. Nor a sixty — and yet, who knows ? The old ship — God's hand is around her. And there yet may be glorious blows Ere the flag goes down and I founder ! 130 Forty -four Guns — A Birthday Salute. Only this I ask — Stand firm The crew on my deck enlisted ! And my timbers shall dare the worm, And the blows so long borne and resisted, — Till the Great High-Admiral's call, "When the fleet takes its final position, Shall give the last order to all, And put me out of commission ! 1867. A SERENADE. " Come with us, Tom ! — there is beauty, to-night, To be stirred in its warm and rosy nest ; There are eyes, shut soft as the evening light, That must wink and wonder in broken rest. Come with us — I see that you understand : Half won — only half — is my brown-eyed maid ; And I mean to behold her lily-white hand Waving out, to acknowledge our serenade. "What! shivering, Tom ? If I did not know That your heart is pure as your nerves are strong, I should think that the person trembling so Had suddenly thought of some bygone wrong ! What ! paler still, at the very thought Of midnight and music under the moon ? — " " Hush, Ned ! — take a hint, as a dear friend ought ! I shall be calmer, you wuser, soon. E 2 132 A Serenade. " 'Twas a night like this, Ned, soft and calm, With the stars like peeping angels' eyes, And the moonlight seeming to fill with balm The whole wide heaven — earth, air and skies : A moonlight of only six years ago. But so far away that you never heard What changed a whole life at a single blow, And made what you speak a forbidden word. " I loved — the sweetest, tenderest thing That lived, I think : very young, very fair ; And so pure, that if words to my lips would spring To tell of my passion, they perished there. Yet some time I meant to be bolder far. And to win her and wed her if heaven would be So good as to send that one bright star To make light and music and heaven for me ! " That night, the love that I dared not tell In words, I would breathe in an humbler way, With the flute's low notes and the viol's spell And the harp-string making its merry play ; Under her vdndows at midnight moon — Six of us — five all helping me To win what they guessed as so rich a boon — One smile from the lips so fair to see. A Serenade. 133 *' We went — we played. There was light within : "We saw it, and thought we had been betrayed, And that she was awaiting the merrj'- din, And laughing, perhaps, at our serenade. We played — so long, but no signal came : No window opened, no hand would wave : And one suggested — 'twas wrong and shame ! We might play as fitly beside a grave ! " Hark ! yes, there xoas stir ! But opened the door, Not the window, and stood on the shadowed sill The gray old father, whose features wore A soft quiet of age that seemed youthful still, He stood there and spoke. Ah, already you fear What the trembling lips of the old man said : * Gentlemen — surely you would not be here If you knew — that — this hour my daughter is dead.' " Do you wonder that years lack power to change That mem'ry of horror? — that even to-night The thought makes my eyes seem wild and strange. And blanches my cheek to a sudden white ? Would you bid me join your number now, AYith the grief-fiends tugging within my breast — With the charnel paleness on cheek and brow — A dead corpse at the banquet : a Scythian Guest?" THANKSGIVING A-LA-MODE. Another twelvemonths' life is gone — Bring in the twelve-pound turTceij, John ! All thanks we owe to generous heaven For mercies held and blessings given. Be thankful hearts in all our borders — It is the Governor s special orders. Who, when he hears the generous call Laid by the guiding hand on all, — To pause upon life's onward way, And blessings back to Heaven repay, — ■ Who will desert that honoured post ? Meg, put that turkey dow7i to roast. Content with life, and food, and fare. No matter what the lot we share, And realizing, as we should. All things are given for human good, And all — so much from good we swerve — Thanksgiving A- la-mode. 135 Oh, better far than we deserve ! / do hope, Ruth, more nice than loisc, You haven t skimped those ^iumpkin pies ! The lost were — Well, as 1 would say, Let peace aud quiet reign to-day ! Let us forget all others wrongs, Restoring what to each belongs ; — Dry up old quarrels, and restore Peace and good feeling evermore. Sow many are to dine, you say ? I do ivish Jones had stayed away ! You know I cannot hear his sight ! Our country's day is blest and bright. And every season wider spreads The flag of promise o'er our heads, Aud every season dearer waves That ensign o'er our fathers' graves ! "What day shall see their children slaves ? Meg, if you let that turkey hum, I'll skin and roast you to a turn ! Who could — with plenty at their hands — Forget dear pity's sweet commands, Who grudge a morsel to the poor? — Jim, drive that organ from the door ! Now rises from the fragrant dish A savour, bearing every wish Above this dull and darksome vale Where grateful thoughts grow faint and fail. — 136 Thanksgiving A-la-mode. So let our aspirations rise — "But — can I — dare I trust my eyes ? — That wing's a cinder ! — to the skies. Blest day, when round the social board Old ties re-drawn, old friends restored — We shut away the world's rough cares, And trench on heaven unawares. The turlceys ready ? warm the pie ! Now friends, with reverent hearts sit hy ! May years that long above us roll See no ungrateful, thankless soul ! May heaven preserve our freemen's rights, Our morals, and our — appetites ! THE FIDDLER AT THE GATE. There's a gate of iron flung open wide, That a certain thoroughfare ovei'looks, — Through which the law^^ers at high-noon-tide, Stream out to hmch at the pastry-cooks'. And ever beside that gate there rings A musical jingle or plaintive wail, As the old cracked fiddle tinkles or sings And the fiddler's fingers flourish or fail. Poor old fellow ! His coat is shabby and gray ; And the hat that covers his thin gray locks Has been made, in the shape it bears to-day, By a famous artisan known as Knocks. And around his feet we should see, no doubt. Evanishing leather and draggling rag, But that happy invention has wrapped them about, High up to the knees with a canvas bag. 138 The Fiddler at tJie Gate. Poor old fellow ! The phrase has been used before, And yet repetition were little wrong ; For in view of his squalor the heart grows sore And the pitying eye glances often and long. Is there anything sadder, in all the earth, In desert or dungeon, on sea or on land. Than the fiddler, creating music and mirth. With the ache in his heart and the ache in his hand ? "Whence comes he ? I know not. Almost as soon I would ask of the Peri, fluttering down. Where she lost from her forehead that priceless boon- The matchless pearl of her virgin crown, — As harrow the old man's searing heart With a question what downfall brought him here. How far from his land he is living apart. Or where are iliey Avhom he once held dear. From the far Grreen Island ? — It well may be, For the Celtic reels ring merry and lithe ; Prom the Caledonian mountains free ? Perhaps — for the strathspey echoes as blythe, And yet, what matter ? Enough to know — Poor old fellow ! (see how the sad phrase returns !) That his ear keeps the memory of Erin's woe. And he warms with the lilts from the Land of Burns ! TJic Fiddler at the Gate. 139 'Gainst the raiu — I own it — no ai-moiir of proof: Gruanls the last of the minsti-els ; and yet, perhaps, 'Tis the tiddle, not he, is in need of a roof ; And the catgut, instead of the heart-string, snaps. Enough that when Piuvius puddles and pours King Richard might pine in that grim old hall, Appealing for help to the world out-of-doors. And never a Blondel respond to his call. But when the wind blow.s from the sharp north-west. When the ears grow red and the fingers ache, \VTien coats are all buttoned close to the breast And we shudder (not fjive) for Charity's sake ; — • Ah, then the old man is firm at his post ; The harder it blows, the fiercer his play : Stiff and frozen, some morn, I shall see his ghost, With the glass below zero, fiddling away. FANNY^S FIRST GRAY HAIR. Fanttt was thirty, or thereabout ; Perhaps she might half-decline To own, without a most beautiful pout. To a day over twenty-nine. Fanny was handsome — so, at least, Declared that favoured glass "Which drank, in silence, that dainty feast, Seeing her shadow pass. Fanny was handsome — so they said, Despairing lovers, a score. Who kissed at the curls of her gipsy head, But wished nearer kisses, and more. Brown-eyed Fanny came to me, One day, with fingers two ' Holding some object so carefully That its value at once I knew — Fanny's First Gray Hair. 141 Some precious pearl, some diamoud rare, Ou her forehead destined to blaze : Alas ! — it was only a single hair, Held up to my wondering gaze ! A single hair ; but its hue, how far From her dark curls' glossy shine ! For its white might have gleamed, like another star, In the fading dusk of mine. " See here ! " cried Fanny, " a burning shame That work, and worry, and toil. And striving for wealth, and fashion, and fame. And burning the midnight oil — Have made me gray while only a ' miss ; ' Grood looks all taking wing ! Just look at this ! — don't you see it ? — this ! — The untimely, hateful thing ! What shall I do, in a year or two, Wlien more of my youth has fled, And half my hair has the milk-white hue Of this, just dropped from my head ! " " Fanny ! " I said — for a quick-shut door, And a step, had met my ear — " Do you really wish to have no more, Just yet, of the white hairs, dear ? " 142. Fanny's First Gray Hair. " Of course I do !" and the words were quick And a little spiteful, I tliouglit. " Then I'll tell you, girl, an easy trick By which the change may be wrought. If you really wish to look very young, I think you will find it best Not to lay your head too often or long On a gray-haired lover s breast ! " Fanny was angry : she flared like fire ! " What, sirrah ! — you do not dare To hint that this bit of silvery wire Is any one else's hair ! I'll never speak to you again ! " But she flushed such a rosy red ! — And I think that she searched and searched in vain For more snow on the gipsy head. But before a month had gone, somehow The first white hair had grown To some thousands, crowning a manly brow ; And she called the head " her own." MYSELF THAT WAS. Q-o>'E back into the rolling ages, As fades some form iii thickening mist ; Grown dim by slow, unnoticed stages, Till' now no more' its lines exist, — I mind it as a thing once cherished, Thought worthy pride and e'en applause, But mourned full little as it perished : Myself that was. It grew in fields of boyish struggle, More often chUleu than fed and warmed ; Its very source a doubtful juggle, Its shape an angel half-deformed. A Hand, too oft unthanked, upheld it, In spite of broken rules and laws, For still some Godbead memory swelled it — Myself that was. 144 Myself that Was. 'Tis easy borrowing hope from nature That slieds its leaves but still renews ; Though heaven has given its noblest creature No second spring, fresh life to choose : Perhaps 'twas in the waking vernal It found that hope the sanguine draws, And thought its lease of time eternal — Myself that was. Eains on its naked head fell beating ; Suns dowTiward glared from brazen sky ; Cold winds dashed in with cruel greeting ; Waves broke around it, wild and high ; The steps of succour passed unheeding, Nor stopped for pity's tender cause ; It fell, exhausted, broken, bleeding — Myself that was. And so it faded, like a vision. Because it had no room on earth — No duty, object, hope or mission To give existence place and worth. And thus it sought our common mother. Oblivion ; while, from nature's laws, Out the crushed worm sprang forth another That never was. Myself that Was. 145 Another — so unlike the older, And yet so like that none could doubt ; So wiser, sillier, warmer, colder — Agray-beard with a school-boy's shout ; Lover and hater — priest and scoffer ; Traveller, with varied rush and pause : Who knows what this shall be and suffer — That is and was ! Who knows what in the coming ages Shall be the fate of one and each ? — And what set down, on future pages, Wisdom by bygone loss to teach ? But Thou new life canst still awaken — Oh Maker ! Father ! great First Cause !- In that lost hope, misused, mistaken. Myself that was ! 1868. OUTSIDE THE WINDOW. Outside the window she stands — Outside the plate-glass with its glitter, — "Wringing her tiny brown hands In wishings and longings so bitter ; — Wishing that some little toy From that mass of rich, costly temptation, Could be hers — one full moment of joy In a life-time all want and privation. Poor child ! — to the pocket goes down The hand of the pitying gazer ; For so little those wishes would crown And to something near Paradise raise her. And 'tis harder to gaze upon grief — Harder to see than relieve it, To hearts that Grod's bounty hold chief For the " little ones " sent to receive it. Outside the Window. 147 But ah, " little one," know, as you lift Those eyes, with their blessing and wonder, As if such a munificent gift Must be royalty's bounty, or blunder, — Know, as the beaden-eyed doU On your breast finds its first childish slumber, — We are " outside the window " — all — all — At some point of the sad years we number. Toys that bewilder the sight Flash out on the wistfullest faces. Where Ave children push, scramble and fight For the foremost., most dangerous places ; And there in the window they lie — Wealth, honours, fame, fondest love-kisses. And aU that the covetous eye Holds dearest and sweetest of blisses. Seldom — how seldom — he comes — The genie who gives what we covet : The doll we can bear to our homes, Caress it, and show it, and love it. And then — old and sorrowful tale ! — Ere an hour the first radiance flashes. Two faces grow haggard and pale, For the gilding of one covers ashes. L 2 148 Outside the Window. Outside the window, perchance, May be best, if we only cotild know it, For the lover, his heart in his glance. For the patriot — ah me, for the poet ! Only this be the boon, when all's past, Filling up with His mercies life's chalice Stand none of us, wistful, at last, Outside of the Beautiful Palace ! FORTY-FIVE— A GAME OF RESIGNATION. "L'empire c'est la paix." — Napoleon III. 'Tis five-and twenty years ago, This day of March's suow and bluster, Since I, a boy, with brow of snow O'erhung with locks of raven lustre, " My Twentieth Birthday " penned — full crammed With words to whitened hairs belonging, — With wails, half real but partly shammed, O'er cruel fate and human wronging. I said that ere my thirtieth came, The grass would o'er my head be waving. And Julia bent with grief and shame For that most fatal misbehaving ; I said that life had lost its bloom, Rubbed bare by tyrant, idiot, scoffer, — And that an early-closing tomb Would be a rather welcome offer. 150 Forty-five — a Game of Resipiation, Ah me ! — our prophecies prove false So oft, their very name seems folly ! — Our plans of joy the grave assaults, Our dreams lugubrious the jolly. My thirty came, my thirty went. And I was still this side the river ; Though thinning streaks my locks besprent And I grew conscious of my liver. Came " Thirty-five ; " and then I called Old Time, the charioteer who drove me, To check half-way, before appalled Some brink I reached or upset stove me ; But on he dashed, till, one March day. The voyager made his verbal sortie, ' And trolled, in blended pain and play The mournful-mirthful song : " At Forty. Four more : my fancy grew marine. Through summer-saUing trans-Atlantic ; And " Forty-four " might well have been A ward-room youngster's crazy antic. To-day the fancy changes still ; To Forty-five I make oblation ; And I must play, with chastened will. The game best known as " resignation." Forty- five — a Gavic of Resignation. 151 The brow has lost its flakes of snow — They're iu the hair once brown and curly ; That ugly bird they call the crow Has tracked my eyes a trifle early. The young I knew are growing old ; The old I knew have died or faltered ; Tlie years seem short — the winters cold ; My boot-lasts are enlarged and altered. There's something to resign : what is't ? My youth ? — no, that is gone already. Oh, 'tis my standing in the list Of able warriors staunch and steady. Put me henceforth in the " reserves," To be called out when all the younger Have calmed their patriotic nerves And sated all their martial hunger. " 1 do resign my office ! " — So Old Richelieu spoke : / only tender The chances I might have, to kuoAv The field's red glow of blood and splendour. " The empire's peace," henceforth. Grood-bye The draft-wheel and the conscript-ticket ! If e'er the laurel tempt my eye, I shall go privately and pick it. 152 Forty-five — a Game 0/ Resignatio7i. " No cards " — if they must be cartels Inviting hostile speech and meeting. Burst round me no more dangerous shells Than those that join the vinous greeting. My sword hangs stainless on the wall : There let it hang, and not the owner ! And scenes of blood, when not in oil, Will be refused, whoe'er the donor. •" And is this all — gray school-boy ! — all That you resign ? Your hearing passes." A rubber-trumpet's cheap, at call. "Tour sight ? " Who cares, with pebble glasses ? •" Tour vigour ? " I was always slow In mind, despite my body's action ; And now the two will join, you know, In mutual indolent satisfaction. *' Love, hope, will, energy ? " Not one That owns a year as boundary measure ! Till death the race we each may run — All we should ever run, of pleasure. So be content, Old Time, gray elf ! — At forty-five, with my disarming. Tet stay ! I do resign myself — To all that lingers, dear and charming ! Forty-five — a Game of Resignation. 153 Ay, more — myself to chauce and change, To stiffening limbs and slowing pulses, — To age, with omens sad and strange. That effort checks and brain convulses. — And, when there comes the final move. To Him who crowns with loving mercies, And pardons, if He can't approve, "Weak lives — including birth-day verses ! 1868. YOUR POOR OLD BOY. With the midnight revealing his gray, bowed head,- With his swathed breast wearily sighing, — With a weight at his heart like the pressure of lead And his throat choked as if in dying, — Eyes scorclied, not cooled, by the tears they shed, — Your poor old boy is lying. Overworked, overworn, overtasked, overdone, Most truly and thoroughly weary ; The past strewn with triumphs ungrasped, if won ; The future all pathless and dreary ; The one voice unheard, that has power alone To make the dull pulses cheery. Voiir Poor Old Boy. 155 Ah, your poor old boy is a-breaking down With the weight on his bended shoulders. He feels like a motley, bedizened clown Turned sick 'mid the laughing beholders. The sky is a pall, and the sun is a frown, And his life-hope totters and moulders. He sometimes thinks, when the night-wind sighs, And these broken moods come o'er him, — How it might have been — might have been otherwise, When first fate and his mother bore him ; How he might have been honoured, and rich, and wise, And had hope and heaven before him. And he knows not wliij all the world's so dark, Just no\v when the light is so needed ; When he wandered away from the saving ark, Or what angel to save him pleaded, Or what should have been the shining mark Where he might have aimed, and succeeded. He only seems to be conscious, to-night, That your poor old boy is breaking — Thickened the hearing and misted the sight, The fingers weakened and quaking, And nothing beyond of a morning light, Kept in store for a late awaking. 156 Yo2ir Poo J' Old Boy. Ah, in such dark hours — black hours — as these, When both life and hope seem falling, When the years come rolling like whelming seas And the chains of disease are galling, How we learn Faust's story with painful ease And hear Mephistopheles calling ! Oh, to be young and in vigour again ! Oh, to be fearful of no man ! To have grip of finger and tension of brain, For the grapple with fates and foemen ! — To be able to bind, with youth's conquering chain, The love and the faith of woman ! But " no more — no more — oh, never more " Will the tempter's aid be extended ; There's a boat, on a sea with a dim, dark shore, And in it one soul unfriended : Eow swift, row long, and ferry him o'er, Where the fear, with the hope, may be ended ! Your poor old boy has been turning a leaf. Without waiting the light of morning — Has pronounced Old Time but a clumsy thief, Only fit for detection and scorning — Has voted Despair of his enemies chief, And given Mephistopheles warning. Your Poor Old Boy. 157 For the thought has occurred, somewhat late, 'tis true — That a trifling iudispositiou, Au uupaid uote, slightly overdue, Aud an absence outstaying condition, — Should not fill all the air with devils of blue And awake such a maudlin contrition. A cathartic ; breakfast ; a welcome return ; A friend (one to lend, not borrow) ; A few sheets of foolscap, whereon to burn Sacrificial flames to sorrow ; And your poor old boy, you 11 be happy to learn, Will be better — much better — to-moi'row. THE FACE ON THE WALL. Brave old face of my father ! Buried now in the clay, Yet looking down from the pictured wall, In the grave old, kindly way ! — Half a year has past o'er us, Since you quitted mortal guise, — Since the light of the Better Land than this, Made bright your aged eyes. Very lonely the places Have seemed to us since then — The places where your footstep trod. Commanding the love of men ; And lonelier far, and sadder. The echoless silent hearth, Where we seem to hear a footstep yet. But not a step of earth. The Face on the Wall. 159 Brave old face of my father ! That, when I saw it last, The beauty of just-recovered youth Around the coffiu cast : Long before this, if the Blessings Are not fables and nothing more, It has bathed in the light of the Great "White Throne. And the waves of the Shining Shore. And yet I sit before it. Dim sliadow although it be, — And dare not, cannot, will not think That it does not look on tne — That the eyes are dull and moveless. That the cheeks are hard and cold, That the lips will never touch me again With the father's kiss of old ! No — let me think it living. Though thitherward madness stands, — And believe that it marks my quivering li]is And sees my wringing hands ; And I shall not be all, all lonely, Though friends leave me and idols fall, — If they only will let me think that it lives — The Dear Old Face on the Wall ! October 2Uh, 1868. PLAY-DAYS OF YOUTH. Play-days of Youth, ye are gone ! Work-days of Manhood, ye pass ! Pest-days of Age, ye come rapidly on, As I count the thinned sands in my glass ! Not long, as I think, ere the tale Shall be suddenly, silently told — The spirit far cleaving the mist of the Yeil, The body low down in the mould. Play-days of Youth, did ye bring All the happiness due to your speed ? Were the bird-songs all sweet, in the beautiful spring. All the buttercups bright in tbe mead ? Or was it that then, as to-day, The future was charged with the joy, And the burthen of manhood, inherited, lay On the tender young neck of the boy ? Play-days of Youth. l6i AVork-days of Manhood, how well Have the labour and toil been repaid ? Are there ingots and jewels your coffers to swell, And fair groves of your winning, for shade ? Or was it that, just at the end, The finger was weakling or dull, Or that somebody came — foe, or stranger, or friend — The best fruits of youi* labour to cull ? Eest-days of Age, what oi you ? You, that of all yet remain ? Is your promise, at least, to be faithful and true, Or shall I be cheated again ? And yet of what consequence, now, Any more than in manhood or youth — "When the eyes tliat are flashing their light from the brow Are too dull to discover the truth ? The tinsel was bright to the child ; The paste-diamond dazzled the man ; And the grandsire at last will be lured and beguiled In the very same way he began. And what matter, again, when discerned Is that truth which so many has nerved — That, throughout, moi'e is given than honestly earned And less punishment felt than deserved ! M THIRTY YEARS AFTER. (STOET TOLD BY THE VETERAN, OVEE HIS PIPE.) It was thirty years ago, And I was seventeen. Alas, what hints those figures show Of what present numbers mean ! — But my spirits were light, if my funds were low ; And both head and heart were — green ! " We met — 'twas in a crowd :" My jacket was of blue : Its buttons would be voted " loud," In this day of the modest and true ; But they were of pearl, and I was proud. So far as a stripling knew. Thirty Years After. 163 She was very handsome, aud cold ; I was very rough, and warm : I tried to carry her — system of old — In that mode y'clept the " storm ;" And I thought, what a fortune would he enfold, "Who should clasj) her — heart and form ! Tears passed. AVe were husband aud wife — How, I never was quite aware, Except that I had an aimless life Aud fancied my destiuy there, Aud she lacked streugth for resistive strife And married me in despair. Years more. Beside us grew Fair children, who linked our hands As the young first-born, when Eden was uew, "Wove Eve and Adam's bands — As on to the end they will ever do, When the love of our race commands. And then — and then — and then — AVTio sees the dark vapour rise That will float disease to the homes of men And bring Death's sad surprise? Nay, who sees the coming of one in ten Of the thunder-gusts in the skies ? m2 164 Thirty Years After. And then — and then — and then — Two ships on a troubled sea, That had sailed together in sight of men, As consorts sworn to be, — Drifted slowly apart, and never again "Will look for the light alee ! And now it is thirty years ! Ah me, my coat is black. I have something of mirth, and enough of tears ; And I toil, as a willing hack ; And though going ahead may have troubles and fears, I am glad that we never go back ! MARIE HELENE. Yes, she is dead ! — you have guessed it Dead, at the moment of birth : Only begun, and yet rested From all the enslavements of earth. Formed, and cherished, and moulded, At such a dear, measureless cost ; Now like a white bud refolded, — liOve's Labour so wearily Lost ! Formed like the Medician Venus ; Hued of the wax and the snow ; Dead, as she lies there between us — Something undreamed-of we know : Something of birth and of being, Something of dying and death, Something of sight without seeing. Something of life without breath. 1 66 Marie Helhie. Clay — waxen clay : is it only That which an artist could shape ? If not, why thus chilling and lonely, "With the spirit allowed to escape ? Humanity, feebly beginning To break from the chrysalis shell ? Then why, without loving or sinning,- Quenched by some cruellest spell ? Questions, sad questions ! Before us Stretch the)^, unanswered and dim, While the love of the Master is o'er us And the world is not cheated of Him ! Down in the dust lowly kneeling, Perhaps we may hear some reply. When faith has grown stronger than feeling And the Day-star is flushing the sky. Yes, she is dead. Grod defend us From moments that harrow like this ! — In the hours of such darkness befriend us, And make of such agony bliss ! Then, though the why and the wherefore Puzzle the wavering sight, We shall know that Thou livest, and therefore The deed that Thou do est is right ! VISIBLE LOVE. " A. child is a love made visible." — Scandinavian Proverb. " Theee years ago, when the flowers were iu blow, And our hearts to each other their truth revealing. Dear Hermann, you said that when we were wed You would give all the world for a visible feeling. " The tongue might allure with words all pure, When the soul within had a thought unholy ; And the eyes might smile while the heart erewhile With sin's thick currents beat dull and slowly. " You said you would give half the life we live Could the love you bore have bud and blossom, — Could a test more rare than thin words of air Be applied to the truth of a lover's bosom. 1 68 Visible Love. ^' Three years are gone : we have still loved on, And our chain of delight has been still unbroken, And for never an hour has the world had power To change or to hinder the fond words spoken. ■" And often, I trow, when the sun sank low, And we sat at the door as the eve was falling, The same old thought to your mind has brought The wish of a life for fruition calling. ** Now, Hermann, look here where our Amalie dear Blue-eyed — golden-curled — between us is kneeling : Is your wish unfilled ? Has not kind Heaven willed That our child should be love's visible feeling ? " BABIES BY THE SEA. Claba and Anna and Lillian — Three buds of our blossoming tree, Magical ten and nine and seven Playing by the sea. Patting the beach with naked feet, Splashing in the brine, "Writing their names in the white-ribbed sand. To be washed away — like mine ! Very brave are my darlings now "When the wave has rolled away : They will meet the dash when the next comes in They will not stir — not they ! Very weak and timid now, "When it comes with dash and swirl And they turn to run with a little scream And a toss of the flying curl. lyo Babies by the Sea. Poor Lillian ! — fate pursues us all, In many a doubtful shape From seven years up to seven times ten ; And only the lucky escape ! — She stumbles in her sudden flight, The long wave seizes its prey. And the muslins and ribbons of holiday pride Are limp and soiled for the day. The tide comes higher — higher still, Over the beach it breaks, And it forms in the lower sand within Whole rivers and chains of lakes. Look out, small pets ! it is closing you round, As some darker fate may do Before the sleep of an ended life Comes to eyes of brown and blue ! The causeway narrows — fly quick ! — too late, The chance of escape is gone, And over the sand that torrent fierce Of six inches rushes on. Look up the beach — ha ! ha ! — saved ! saved I As the theatre people scream ; And how the curls and the ribbons fly As they dash through the shallower stream ! Babies by the Sea. 171 Now down on the sand, where 'tis solid and smooth, "When the hours of revel close, To put once more on the dainty limbs, Discarded shoes and hose. For shame, old Neptune ! — a wave comes up Where a wave swept not before. And the children's wardrobe is all afloat, G-oing up and down the shore. Oh, wo ! what power, save fire or sun. Can dry those wetted shoes ? And who at home shall dare to break That worst and saddest of news ? — And who shall see, save the porpoise big As he takes his healthy sail, Anna's garters embracing some mermaid's wrist Or decking some fish's tail? Clara and Anna and Lillian — Buds from our blossoming tree. The western sun is sinking low ; Farewell to the beach and the sea. But gather, dear ones, wherever you go. Pleasure as free from alloy As that which to-day has filled my heart — As I looked on your childish joy ! 1863. BLOSSOM AT FIVE-AND-TWBNTY. Mt daughter yet,* as I like to think, Though seen so seldom and briefly ; Though passed beyond sweet womanhood's brink, And another man's darling, chiefly. My daughter : the child of my summer days. Who have lain to my heart the nearest, And found least of upbraiding and most of praise, Of all that were held the dearest. How I see you, to-night, the toddling child. The delight of a country village, Winning kisses wherever you romped or smiled. And devoting all hearts to pillage ! — Grandpapa's pet, under dear old trees That have long lost leaf and blossom. While he hears no more the birds and the bees, Or the winter winds that toss 'em. Blossom at Fivc-aiid-Tiventy. 173 IIow I see you, the sweetest of budding girls, Half each of baby and womau, — With loug tendril wreaths of hanging curls Tliat I thought something more than human ! How I see you — daughter, companion, friend. In the jaunts of pleasant summers, — To places where other footsteps wend And that welcome different comers ! The words you used, — they come back, to-night ; The airs you played — they ne'er leave me ; Though a shade is over their memory bright And e'en while they bless they grieve me. For between us has fallen time and change : The dear old days are departed, And estrangement — no ! they cannot estrange Those who know the shibboleth — true hearted! God bless you, daughter, near or far ! — Though my hands stretch not above you And a thousand veils may fall, to mar The faces of those who love you ! — Though the " King " on whose breast you lean your head Is one who "knows not Joseph," And though the world speak with scorn or dread Of lives it has known not the throes of! 174 Blossom at Five-and- Twenty. God bless you ! Over the wide blue sea The blessing its way enforces, So strongly that never its voyage can be Estopped by the west wind's courses. God keep you ! — loving heart and brain Ever fresh, ever bright, ever vernal, — Till you learn of a love that knows no pain, In the home of the Eather Eternal ! London, October, 1870. Ill RHYMES OF LOVE AND ELIUTATION. BREATH OF BALM. Close — bend close, with your soft, low whisper,- Oh Agnes dear, in our try sting hour; My heart hears you well, love's dearest lisper, And my senses bow to your subtle power. But close — whisper close ! my heart would hear you, As it lies in its gentle and holy calm ! But whisper close, for I drink, when near you, Elysian airs in your breath of balm. Such waves of balm as my soul is drinking — Such gales of fragrant breath as these — When the tropic sun at eve is sinking Float soft and cool o'er the Indian seas. Such breaths come up from the strawberries dyings Or the ripened roses of early June, Or rise from the swaths where the clover is lying \VTien young eyes beam in the harvest moon. N 178 Breath of Balm. I am old no more — nor sick — nor weary, As my t»rain reels high with this glorious wine : The birds of my hope sing blithe and cheery, And the spirit of youth breathes back to mine. I sit under trees that lost loves shaded ; I sing old songs forbidden and still ; I clasp dear forms that are buried and faded ; I bound with my young life's merriest thriU. "Whisper close ! whisper close ! I am mad with plea- sure! That breath of balm seems opening heaven ! !Filled full — running over — oh, bountiful measure, Sometimes to the poor and starving given ! Is it life anew love's prophet is breathing To the pulses so sunken, and faint, and low ? Are there chains of flowers for my senses wreathing Whose witchery only the angels know ? Whisper close ! whisper close ! the world is sinking ; On the incense clouds of the mass I tread : IVom the fount of youth I am mad with drinking, And the clods of my weary life I shed. I am thistle-down ; — in the air I hover ; — I float away on a sigh and a psalm : Oh Agnes dear you have lost a lover ! — T have fainted — died, on that breath of balm ! DRAWING APART. The sages have told us we number two lives, — The saints, that a double existence we bear ; And one from the other unceasingly rives That fate which we welcome, and suffer and dare. Perhaps, merry Florence, the actions we blame — The actions we charge to the errors of heart, — To mercy might lay an all-conquering claim — That the soul and the body were drawing apart. What judge shall arraign us, with forehead of awe. For that which one half of our being has done ? To our poor broken fragments who fitteth the law That belongs to the perfect, all working as one ? Shall not Justice grow tender, and lose, at a breath, The scales from her eyes and the scales from her hands ? Poor, crippled and maimed — are we worthy of death, Though naked and guilty the sufferer stands ? N 2 1 80 Drawing Apart. Two spirits are fighting with fury and fire ; — They scourge me — they rack me — they tear me in twain : Two beings I bear — one hot-winged as desire, And the other a-weary, slow dragging a cham. On the one, dearest Florence, sj)urs Duty away ; At the feet of the other Love lingers and pleads : Alas ! for the promptings we yearn to obey ! Alas ! for the fetters of duties and creeds ! Must I flee ? Shall I linger ? With lip and with eye Give answer, oh Florence ; — this problem work out : But if doubts should arise, as the question goes by Oh, let Love have the benefit, deai', of the doubt. And if both be our lot, let the last be the worst ; Leave the bitterer days to the hardening heart : Draw nearer — love dearer — cling closer at first. So that death — welcome death, comes with drawing apart. DOUBTING AND WANDERING. Imitated from the Spanisli. We sat one evening under the moon : The soft, cool moon, but our pulses were fire. You said : " This is sweet, but soon, ob bow soon Tour love may sicken and pall and tire! " Tben I took your bead on my beaviug breast ; I smootbed your temples, and sootbed your heart ; But I could not still that vague unrest Wliich whispered you ever — " We must part ! " Time passes — the world has older grown, And many moons have risen and set : But my voice has lost no loving tone — At the shrine once kissed I worship yet. 1 82 Doubting and Wandering. And you — ali well, the world is sad ! — You ask no more if/ shall tire : My heart is weary— wy brain is mad, Rekindling in you a faded fire ! Oh, Mary I, and Hazael you, Reversing sex, and place, and day ; For the wandering heart has been tried and true, And the heart that doubted has wandered away I AN EXPERIMENT OF PARTING. Had I uot loved you, with a burning love That has no type or pattern set in words, — A love that with my being blent and wove, And bound my spirit with a thousand cords — Had I not loved you, till the very air Bore but one blessing more than life — your name, We had not been so parted as we were. Nor known the joy that with returning came. I maddened on the sweet breath of your lips ; I fevered in the summer of your eyes ; I touched your hand, and in a soft eclipse My senses swooned away, as music dies. "What I had been, and what I hoped to be, Alike were lost in what the present bore ; — Till love and being seemed one billowy sea, A swimmer I, and you my only shore. 1 84 An Experiment of Parting. Oh, talk of bonds Avith which a slave is held, — 0£ fetters, tyrant-laid on free-born lands, — Of gyves that hold, until his doom is knelled, "With iron grip some prisoner's feet and hands ; — They are as wisps of straw — as brittle reeds Beside the bonds that hold our human will, When love's sweet calm the storm of life succeeds. And we a little struggle and grow still. Alas ! was I so soon a fettered slave. Kissing the very iron of my chain ? Had I no life but that my temptress gave ? No hope but in her shadow to remain ? Had one short absent hour already known A suffering difficult for life to bear ? With what thick tortures must the future groan, When death, or time, or falsehood brought despair ! I saw an hundred spectres grinning stand — Dark spectres, bearing each a human face, And each between us held a threatening hand, And mockingly forbade us love's embrace. They pictured direful shapes on fancy's wall. Of which the one revealed a bridal train And one a closing coffin and a pall ; — And each did coldly separate us twain. An Experiment oj Parting. 185 Oh, then I knew the agony of love ! I could not — could not part with what I must ; And then there grew a mad desire to prove That worst of pangs the future held iu trust. I could not leave you for a moment's time, Nor bear between us but one foot of space So set I weary days and half a clime Between my exile and your heaven of grace. Now, when the parting comes — as come it will — For those who closest cling must surest part — Perchance the blow may neither craze nor kill, For it will fall upon a forewarned heart. Once I have sounded all the depths of pain — Missing awhile your eye — your hand — your breath ; And so benumbed can wait my weary brain Till the last parting brings the blank of death. THE RHYME OF EARLY LOVE. A EHTME I sung 5^ou, darling, years ago — So many that since tlien the wearying world Has half unstrung stout manhood's bended bow, And grayed the thin hair round my temples curled. How many years, no matter ; though for each That date no more can fade with common years, Than dying love forget its last fond speech, Or mourning love choke back the first wild tears. Well, then a rhyme I sung you. 'Twas my heart Turned outward to one dear and earnest gaze ; Concealment spurned as some unholy art ; The fire that warmed me, leaping into blaze. It bore, I know it, no soft breath of Spring, But passion's summer-tide in every line; It soared, I know it, on a reckless wing. As if the condor's strength was mad with wine. The Rhyme of Early Love. 187 Aud then the great gift faded. Never more Have I so melted, in one draught of bliss, Tlie very pearl my heart of manhood wore : There came no second rapture rivalling this. Enjoyment sings its song of sweet content, Or some sad omen brings its plaintive wail ; But that wild burst, of love and madness blent, "Will sound no more till earth and heaven shall fail. \VTiat then ? I think you sit with shrouded eyes, Sometimes when eve is falling, breathing low Those maddened words, and feel sad doubts arise Between the present and the long ago. " He sung me this once ! " so your heart will say : " He cannot, or he will not, mate it now ! " And then some dear hope seems to float away And unseen shadows rest on cheek and brow. And you would give, I think, a year of life, If that mad rhyme of joy had never burst, Or in the love of sweetheart, mistress, wife, There once could spring some cry to match the first. " True love is inspiration " — thus you sigh : " He loved, and was inspired ; there's something lost: He is less true, or far less dear am I ; And bankrupt I must be, at either cost ! " 1 88 The Rhyvie of Early Love. Dear murmurer o'er the treasures of the past That may be dimmed, but cannot lose their worth !- Love's truest song is not a clarion blast That with its maddened joy can startle earth : 'Tis soft and broken ; faltering in its words ; Oft'times so low the heart must aid the ear To catch the sweetest, dearest of its chords : And scarcely ever more than one can hear. What if I sing no more at all ? Meseems The poem of our lives is dearer far Than any rhyme, that, bright with poet's themes, Embodies earth and heaven in flower and star. Are not the trusting glance of eye to eye — The touch of hands that nestle where they creep — The waiting hope when absent hours lag by, — Worth all the songs that shake the upper deep ? Still read our rhyme of early love, my own ! — Still hold it sweetly, as the bud ere fruit ; But never let that one impassioned tone Drown other utterance, dearer, though so mute. Not what we have been — what we are to-day : How mate to-day the birds once loving wild, — Be these the thoughts that keep life's summer May ; And do not make me jealous of my child. SNOW-WHITE DOVE 0' MY HEART. Oh, birdie! birdie ! — from heaven wiuged down! Oh, snow-white dove o' my heart ! — Why when hither you flit must the storm-clouds frown. And why must we nestle apart ? I see the snares of the fowler lie low, And the shafts of the archer that fall : Oh, birdie ! birdie ! — my heart is woe That I cannot shield you from all ! Shall I see your plumage of frosted snow All dabbled with blot and stain ? Shall I see the dear crimson life-blood flow, And stretch my poor hands in vain ? Shall I live for that day — that cruel day — "WTien the hope, with the fear, is o'er ; — "When the wings are broken and down in the clay And my love-mate comes no more ? I go Snow- White Dove o'' My Heart. Gro, birdie, and sing at the gates of the morn A prayer that the Master will hear — ■ That the power may be given, from arrow and thorn To shelter a breast so dear ! Eor where will I turn, and what will I do, Oh, snow-white dove o' my heart ! — When the hope proves false and the fear proves true And for ever we shiver apart? 1864. HOW HE LOVED ME! Some day when the long green grass is wanng O'er a mound beside a burial-stone ; Or when ocean winds are madly raving, 'Tween two parted continents making moan, — " How he loved me ! " Say — thus bridging o'er the vast unknown. " How his quick ear heard my faintest calling ; " How his will, so stern to all beside, " At my feet was ever lowly falling, " Till to me submission seemed his pride ! " How he loved me ! — " Till in me all other wishes died ! " How around my path, with briers entangled, " Ever seemed to move a careful hand, " Heeding not how much 'twas bruised and mangled, " So that I could reach the wished-f or land ! " How he loved me ! — " God ! Thou knowest ! — and / would understand. 192 How He Loved Me! " All the past, to him, seemed loss and sorrow " If its memoi-ies held our lives apart ; " All the future he would lose to-morrow " If it did not bring us heart to heart. " How he loved me ! " Hear, oh absent soul, where'er thou art ! " Sing me this, when our brief day is over, By the sea, or in the churchyard's shade ; And the spirit, round thee taught to hover, Sure will hear the tone, like wind-harps played. " How he loved me ! " Say — and even that love will be repaid. Nay, suppose we change the saddening omen — Let the present bar the future's gloom ; On thy lips, thou best beloved of women ! — These words rippling through the crimson bloom " How he loves me ! " How I love Mm, answer, Day of Doom ! " WICKED EYES. Page VSS. WICKED EYES. 'Trs no matter when I met her, Or where, or why, or how — If the cap of queen or working-girl Was arched upon her brow. Enough, that years have fled me. With hasty foot, since then, And that she was worthy the respect Of angels and of men. And yet those eyes were wicked — Oh, very Wicked Eyes, — Within whose depths a different thought Each moment seemed to rise : !Xow tender love and pity ; Now pride akin to scorn ; And now the dawn of a subtle thought. Like the warming tints of moru. o 194 Wicked Eyes. She looked, and I was vanquished ; She smiled, and I was healed ; She frowned, and a line of daring thoughts Lay helpless on the field. She spoke, and I heard low music ; She sang, and I lost my breath ; And ever since then my life has been What the good find after death ! Oh, how the dear eyes lashed me With whips of stinging rays. When I bent too low before my queen Or trod in devious ways ! Oh, how they came at midnight, In the quiet spell of dreams, And chastened pride, and kindled hope And awakened poet themes ! They have made me madly jealous, Lighting another's face ; They have taken the pang from poverty, The danger from disgrace. They have blotted out the pole-star That had else been singly bright, — As flushed aurora dims the north With one broad flood of light. Wicked Eyes. 195 And can such eyes be wicked ? Alaa, so cavillers tell ; And a thousand friends will point me out That their rays are sent from — Well ! — My predestined purgatory, I think, will wake no sighs, If 'tis that towards which I gladly steer, In the light of "Wicked Eyes ! o2 MY DARLING\S HAIR. 'Tis the Merry Christmas morning, With the sun shining bright on snow : I hear the church-bells ringing And the hoi-us of child-land blow. The sights and sounds of the season Are jubilant everywhere ; Each has something o'er which to be thankful, And I have my darling's hair ! The glossiest, darkest of tresses, From the throbbing temple shorn One day w^hen in coming absence New love and grief were born. Over many a league of travel. To my wearied eyes and heart It has been the dearest companion — Of herself and her love a part. My Darling's. Hair. 197 And to-day, as I take it softly Froul the place where it folded lies, And touch it with thrilling finger. And caress it with lips and eyes, — T(i-day, when the waves are narrow That still lengthen the parted despair — Like the gifts of the worshipping Magi Seem the threads of my darling's hair. There is light in its glossy darkness. As their diamonds flashed from the mine ; There is fragrance of myrrh and frankincense That raptures the soul like wine ; And oh. if the star is less radiant Than that o'er Judaea hung, And the song less heavenly-holy Than that which the angels sung, — Is it not, oh Merciful Master ! A spark from that glory above Which enfolds all the worshipping nations — Ever-born, ever-living Love ! And wilt Thou not hallow and shape it, And give it a name and a place, To be part of Thy birth-day blessing To our struggling and sorrowful race ? 198 My Darlings Hair. What was it I heard ? Did the church-bells New omen the happy time And blend with their Christmas music A still purer and sweeter chime ? Or was it the glamoured senses Shaping thought on the Christmas air, — G-rown wild with the subtle perfume That floats from my darling's hair ? TWO AT A TIME. I WISH I could be — but I cannot, you see ! — Still faithful to one of the bright-eyed and fair -. For they tell me a truth to which all must agree — That one man to one woman gives each but his share. They say it is treason — the verdict is true ! — Doubly worse than a fault, and approaching a crime : But what can I do, when temptations are two ? How can I help worshipping two at a time ? There is Inez, dear maid of the glossiest curls — Sloe-bluck, like her eyes, and with lips at a pout ! — The dearest, the teuderest, sweetest of girls, With fondness and faithfulness no one can doubt : Not faithless to her would I dare to be — no ! To the height of her love it were heaven to climb ! But is it then faithless if only I go To the modest proportion of two at a time ? 200 Two at a Time. For when Isabel comes, with her tresses of gold And eyes that are melting and heavenly blue, — What crime would it be, if I, heartless and cold, Turned away from her smile, as a villain might do ! No ! I float down the stream of her kisses and sighs, Drink her voice like the bird-songs of tropical clime, Nor remember, till thought brings regret and surprise, That my faith is divided by two at a time ! Now what can I do ? give up one ? give up which ? Bear the name of a traitor, to blue eyes, or black ? Starve and shiver, when Love has a treasury rich ? Run away like a coward, Love beckoning back ? All ye powers of true tenderness ! — grant me the prayer To roll up the two in one mixture sublime ! — So that bliss with them both I may render and share. And the rapture of two come with one at a time ! A LEISURE HOUR. In imitation of Sir John Suckling. I HATE a leisure hour ! not many I find amid this maelstrom life. Ah me, I know not if there's any Free from some duty, want or strife. Yet here unbusied I am sitting, While day declines and evening falls, And shadows changing, fading, flitting, Plav on the dull unstoried walls. A leisure hour. How shall I fill it So that some day, when looking back, Sweet memories may, if I so will it. Gild that brief time's evanished track ? Warm heart ! — the answer quick thou givest, Making my pulses bounding stir. True heart, of every hour thou livest, Some part, at least, must be for her ! 202 A Leisure Hour. So I will think how much her presence Has added beauty to the past ; How every path has been a pleasaunee If ou't her foot its shadow cast ; How softer every eve has faded If her eyes saw the glow with mine, How flowers her nimble fingers braided Have almost made me drunk like wine ; How all the sad, and dull, and lonely, Have brightened 'neath her sunny smile 'Till earth has gloomed for others only And Eden's light seemed hers the while ; How e'en the hand with labour weary Grrew nerved again when she upheld, And shadows fearful, black and eerie Shrank back and vanished, shamed and quelled. "What witchery was't that shone about her — That made me slave, yet throned me king ? What had the sad world been without her, But one huge, dismal, blighted thing ? What hard fate held her far in distance While arms outstretched and sad lips moaned ? What blest fate gave her to existence And all the weary past atoned ? A Leisure Hour. 203; See — time has flowu : my hour of leisure Has dwindled to at most a third, While in my heart that sad, sweet pleasure — Her past — the wells of joy has stirred! Present and future yet unspoken ; And ere the spell of each I rede, How can the chain of thought be broken, And the proud, willing captive freed ? Her present ? Ah, 'twere rash betrayal, To other ears, of bliss conferred. If every hour of love's repayal Were shaped and moulded to a word. Her present ? No — see how expression Can grasp a volume in a line — Make of two hearts the one confession — She lives — she loves — her love is mine ! Her future. Only God in heaven, And the dear angels round His throne. May know the ban or blessing given For days that fill the vast unknown. Yet hope may grasp the sacred altar — That He, who guides the sparrow's wing, Will let nor heart nor footstep falter. Till love's last sheaves the reapers bring. 204 A Leisure Hour. So let it be, oh, Evei'-Present ! "Whether the paths that yet remain Be bright with fortune's sunshine pleasant, Or scourged with beating blast and rain. Thou temperest man his bitterest weather, As Thou his sunshine smilest to make ; And hearts that love can bear, together, What each, alone, would crush and break ! And thus my leisure hour is ended — Filled full of lier — hope, love and fear ; All things to one great key-note blended ; One thought, will, purpose, only clear : To own the past of troubled blessing ; To hold the present, true and fond ; And meet, with love, faith, prayer, caressing, The great dim future far beyond. HUNGER THAT NEVER CEASES. Not Ugolino, gnawing away At his shrivelled and shrunken and bony fingers ; Not the starving at sea, dying day by day, Wliile yet bygone food in the memory lingers, — Not either of these have known hunger, I think. As some may know it, through days — weeks — ages- "Who walk the free earth, and eat and drink, And enjoy prosperity's wages. For there is a bound to appetite, And the sharpest may soon be cloyed and sated ; But who has yet filled with love's dear sight The eye that for one pet form has Avaited ? And who has supplied the yearning heart With enough of the presence suflBciug only, So that when once more removed apart There should be no pining lonely ? 2o6 Hunorer that Never Ceases. "i> ■Oh love ! — love ! — love ! — the huugerer's feast, Eicher than quails and sweeter than manna, Where the soul, participant, giver and priest. Dispenses, and feeds, and sings hosanna ! 'Oh, love, why is it that over and o'er As we eat we long — desire ind'eases With its very food — a content no more — A hunger that never ceases ! I ate, last evening, and was filled ; I ate and drank again this morning, Till from food, Olympian-Jove distilled. My physical self would turn with scorning. 'For I saw Jier yestere'en, for hours ; And I shall see her again to-morrow ; Yet my soul is crying, with all its powers. Against separation's sorroiv ! Only an hour from my waiting lips The banquet — and I so sick with hunger ! •Grod ! — what would it be, in death's eclipse. Each starving day growing longer and longer ! Or what would it be if falsehood came And changed her face from its light so pleasant- With the Eden past wrapped in swords of flame But its memory ever present ! Hunger that A^cz'tr Ceases. 207 Oh waiting eyes ! oh famished heart ! There is one — but one — can ever fill you ; But the pang will come if you sever apart, And for each past joy some pain will thrill you. Come, banquet of love, in your tempting shape ! I fast — I am famished — the pang increases ! Give me her, every moment, so I may escape The hunger that never ceases ! AFTER THE MEETING. Imitated from the Spanish. I WAS sad to-day, that the weary hours So loitered on ere they brought our meeting ; But the hopes of your coming scattered flowers, And a musical chime seemed the clock repeating. I am sadder now ; you have come, and gone : The cup has been filled, and crowned, and tasted : The mind has a wearier joui'ney on Till again to our meeting time has hasted. Every meeting makes it harder to part ; Every space between grows longer and longer ; The chain of fire that girdles the heart Grrows ever tighter and ever stronger. Oh, what shall we do when the di'eam is o'er ? — When the gaze is only backward turning ? — When the one to the other comes no more, And the other has lost this hopeful yearning ? After tlie Meeting. 209 Shall we die 't shall we niiuldeu ? shall we smile In bitter scorn at a tie so fated, Aud try to forgot how weary the while Once seemed — when we trusted, loved, and waited ? Ah ! Madre de Dios ! grant us peace ! Give us patient hearts for the doom of the Griver, Whether our lives in their meetings cease, Or we blend in the heaven of love for ever ! HOLDING HANDS. It was in tlie theatre, one night, Amid its blended hush and stir, — When lamps were bright, and hearts were light, And I was sitting alone with her. Alone — for we all have inner rings "Within which only the dear ones come, — Spots round which the peace-dove circles her wings With a privacy like home. We were very near — so very near As only those can understand Who have had fond words and kisses dear Blown towards them in some far-off land. So near as only those can be Who have bartered half of heart and braia, And cast off the boasted will of the free To hug idolatry's chain. Holdino Hands. 211 * Wc saw the players, not as two, But one — one eyesij^ht serving botb. Wc beard tbem speak, but tbe second knew What lieard tbe first, of a perilled troth, I think, over all tbe wide, wide earth No two had existence nearer blent, Or better concentred all love's dear worth In one silent, supreme content. And yet — what was it ? — I seemed to know There was something dearer lying beyond : More tropic warm in the blood's sweet flow, More loving pure, more chastely fond. What was it ? Ah, there's a pippin's fall To guide the Newtons of other lore Than that which holds the stars in thrall And measures the skies we adore. A soft, warm hand fell touching mine ; Then crept within it, finger and palm ; And a thrill in my pulse, like rioting wine, Was soothed to a happy, quiet calm. I was warmed, till no blast of arctic cold Could chill me again, through cycles of years; I was lapped, like a lamb, in fleecy fold ; I forgot pains, troubles and fears. p 2 212 Holdi7ig Hands. I thought, as that touch o'ercame me quite Aud love's electrii- circle and chain Drew round me, filling sense and sight, Enthralling heart aud soothing brain, — I thought, and the thought is with me still, Compelling words, as raptures then, — How thriftless even the loving will, In the sons and daughters of men ! We walk together, side by side, . We sit together, blissfully near, With the fond ones filling hope and pride And beyond all language darling and dear ; And yet the fond hands seldom close, Because we are watching the great world's eye, Or because a dearer rapture grows In the thought of " by- and- by." Long hours, with hands so near — so far : And then life's sun goes down at noon ; The night of love has no ray of a star. Or gravestones glimmer under the moon. The dear hands chill in the cold, damp earth, Or they flee so far that reach is vain. Oh then, heaven, then, what a touch were worth, As a break in that endless pain ! Holding Hands. 213 Tdo late! — too late! — like many things That wo weakly essay when the chance is ])a8t ! For the hands, to me, grow angel's wings. Tender, and pure, and Hitting fast. Clasp close — clasp long — clasp ever! — I said, That night, and she answered. Coiild wc but know AVhat the grasp is worth, till the grasp is fled, — Would we ever, ever let go ? BLINDNESS IN ABSENCE. Imitated from tJie Spanish. Not because thy face is missiug, "With its fond and gentle smile. With the lips that pout for kissing And the eyes that mine beguile ; Not because thy dear form hovers Near my waiting grasp no more, — All my heart its grief discovers "When our parting words are o'er. 'Tis because the mists are closing "When I see thee fade away, And thy life my soul is losing — Losing, wondering, night and day. "Where thou wakest — where thou sleepest- Through what walks thy feet may rove,- Past or vigil — which thou keepest — These are doubts that rack my love. Blindness in Absence. 21 I could bear our sad, long parting, If thy lAttce my soul could see ; I could check these tear-drops starting, If my eyes but moved with thee. Through the halls thy feet are treading Let me glance, and grief will cease : Where thy white couch they are spreading Let me look, and all is peace. Give me power, oh Inez, dearest, But to see thee where thou art, And the sight will bring thee nearest. Though in absence, to my heart. Or if this must be denied us — Still this blindness shroud the eye — Come — come back ere worse divide us ! Come — come back before I die ! WISTFUL GLANCES. Imitated from the Spanish. Those who judge our hearts' devotion Only by the words we speak, Sound alfection's troubled ocean With a plummet poor and weak. Those who by our actions measure What we wish and what we feel, Little know the pain and pleasure That our lives may yet reveal. When we meet, my Inez ! dearest ! — Some are near, to fright the heart ; — Some I hate and some thou fearest ; — Ever holding us apart. One snatched kiss may seal our meeting ; When the number each desires Mocks the sands where ocean's beating Or the sparks from myriad fires. Wistful Glances. 217 Never cau the saints above us "Who, as long years come and go, Yet will join if yet they love iis, — All the hidden mystery know. Till they read those wistful glances That my eyes (they only free !) Steal, in every hour that chances, Towartl some link that binds to thee ! — Toward thyself, when heaven's best blessing. Presence, thou hast timely brought, And those eyes, alone caressing, Do what lips and fingers ought ; — When they follow every motion Griven by foot, or hand, or head, "With the silent, dumb devotion Grey -hounds pay their master's tread. — Toward the window of thy chamber, AVhere, so glad to peep within, AVild vines climb and roses clamber, Never chidden for their sin, / must never lift the cui'tain, AVhen thou stand'st, in snowy white. Half unrobed, and eyes uncertain In the languid drowse of night. 2i8 Wistful Glances. I must never tap the casement, When thou kneel'st in rapture deep, Seeking, low in prayer's abasement, Grod's sweet peace to crown thy sleep ; Yet my wistful glance, returning 'Spite of prudence, 'spite of care, — Bears a power so wild and burning Thou might'st feel it lingers there ! Spots thou treadest, gloves thou wearest, All once blessed by touch or sight. Part of thee, my Inez, dearest ! — Grive my eyes this sad delight. Come to me ! Come nigher — nigher ! — That the wistful glance may die In that feast which drowns desire — Lip to lip, as eye to eye ! ONE! OxE face and form that fill the eye With dear delight or restless yearning ; One smile towards which, 'neath every sky, The gaze is ever fondly turning ; One presence — body, spirit, soul — That, near or absent, seen or missing, Keeps sweet or sad but sure control — Makes light or darkness, ban or blessing. One unit in the world's great sum, That turns to nought a million others ; One voice above the world's wide hum, That space may calm but never smothers ; One light upon a devious way, Near which a thousand flash unheeded — Books, sermons, labour cast away. But one thing known, but one thing needed. 2 20 One! Oh, glorious, almost-fearful One, That so absorbs soul, life and spirit ! — 'Tis no light prize that thou hast won, No tinsel crown thy brows inherit. Thou wearest me for diadem — No single thing, but all belonging ; And woe, to flaw or stain the gem With deed or thought thy queenship wronging ! Oh, One for whom no duplicate Exists in future, past or present ! — To whose white hands so proud a fate Is given, so fettered, tamed, quiescent ! — Know'st thou the duty thus involved — To wait, to strive, enjoy and siiff'er ; Life-problems to be bravely solved. Smooth paths eschewed for highways rougher ; Old wrongs condoned, old sorrows healed ; Wealth sought, in other modes than mining ; Hot words in love's soft flame annealed ; The torch of trust kept clearly shining ; And much, denied to common creeds. Seized with a faith that never falters ; And much, that baser worship needs, Chased, scoffed and scourged from purer altars. One ! 2 2 1 From marble blocks of circumstance Whole lives and fortunes carved and moulded ; With nothing loft to change or chance, But all in loving growth unfolded ; Till through the blue, with course as true As once it bore o'er Jordan's river, The dove of peace shall come anew — In this life, or the far Forever ! So ends the lay, oh peerless One ! — Ends with the thought that gave beginning. Yet pause ! — the task is half undone, No sibyl omen sweetly winning ! No other numeral so recalls What lulls e'en love's keen fears to slumber : One — Won — the dearest word that falls From human lips;, when thine the number ! WHAT WILL YOU DO WHEN I AM GOING ? What will you do when. I am going — Going far away, for weary days, With the tears of a lonely sorrow flowing And the world all blank to the cheated gaze ? Will you only fade and droop and sadden, As droops the flower when sunshine fails ? Or will you go wild, despair and madden, Waiting the glimpse of returning sails ? What will you do when I am going That road which all mortality takes, With the mists of age o'er the keen eyes growing And ttie life-cord strained ere it jars and breaks ? Will you let me go, like a cloudy morrow That has darkened awhile your life's fair field ? — Or clasp me close, with a holy sorrow, Fighting death with love that can never yield ? W/iai Will You Do When I Am Goiji<^? 223 What will you do when I am f?oiu<^ — Going far away, to return no more ? — With the boat at hand that will soon be rowing, Rowing me on to the Silent Shore ? W^ill you quite forget the old days departed ? — Or wait and watch, with tear and prayer, Till you find the heaven of the faithful-hearted And come, unaltered, to love me there ? AN HONEST DISCLAIMER. I DO not love you. Never heed A word would give that false impression, Or think that I shall stop to plead, "With lisping voice and fond confession. I would not do so, for a queen, E'en if I held her ne'er so dearly — But keep my calm, unruffled mien. And shut my heart and lips severely. I love yoii, ? No ! forbid it, all That keeps the strong heart free from fetter ! And yet, lest disappointment fall, I'll do a wiser thing, and better. This frank disclaimer kindly take. And keep its cold words still before you : Yielding one point for pity's sake, I do not love you — I adore yoti ! THE LIGHTS OF LOVE. By sunlight first I saw your smile Fall softeniufj^, healing, warming, A hope of love, so crude erewhile, To life and beauty forming. By moonlight first I took your hand. Beside a lapping river, And wandered with you towards a land Of bliss to both for ever. By starlight I have seen your eyes With hope and pleasure glisten, "When sweet words died in sweeter sighs And only hearts could listen. And oft by lamplight, at your side, So full has run love's chalice That we had more than monarch's pride And trodc some fairy palace. 2 26 The Lights of Love. And yet the dearest ray of all Not one of these has given ; For fonder light may beam and fall Than sun or stars in heaven. Your eyes' sweet spark, seen through the dark In sacred hours and lonely, Has found content a higher mark : Come light me — light me, only ! LOVE AT A BARGAIN. Come with me, dear! We have waited long 'Neath the lash of want and the grip of wrong ! We have sighed, as no raven over the door Of a mad poet's study : " Nevermore ! " — Because 'twas more evident, as they say To the meanest capacity, day by day, That fate held us asunder with cruel sword. For love was a thing that we couldn't afford. Light your purse, love : very light mine ; And light would the weight be, should both combine. Dreadful the pang, to be sundered apart. With tingling in pulses and sorrow at heart ; T^ut what would two pounds a fortnight be, To material people like you and me, With appetites sharpened by country air, And the fatal requirement of something to wear? Q 2 2 28 Love at a Bargain. How should we feed and clothe ourselves r How feed — don't hush me ! — those little elves Who might be expected, in natural course ; To add to the country's numeral force ? Eschewing ice-creams and ignoring stews, Where could we even find hats and shoes ? Leaving out champagne with a cobwebbed cork. What raven would bring us potatoes and pork ? Tou have wept, I know it — so have I — To see the best years of our lives go by, And think how on into white-haired age We might beat the bars of our weary cage, Patiently wait and sullenly mope. Without a prospect and minus a hope, Only sure of one thing — if Love should die, We might buy it a coffin, by-and-by. Come with me, dear ! The riddle is read ! I lift like a monarch my drooping head ! Por I've just conversed with a travelled man Who returns from the far-off land of Japan, And he tells me that in that radiant sphere The palaces rent for twelve shillings a year ; That a penny a day will keep in clover A man and his wife, and leave something over ! Love at a Bm-gain. 229 Servants galore at a pound a year, A horse and a groom for a trifle mere, Aud all the rest that people need On that very moderate scale indeed. Come, we will go — a wedded pair — To that cheap elysium opening there, And you shall wear tappa for robe and veil, And I two swords and a wonderful tail. Come ! for the lieart grows sick with haste Seeing that bright hope over the waste ! Come ! — to that land where nature x'ules Aud they seem to have neither money nor fools ! Come, to the long deferred embrace. As sprung to her lord the first of our race ! Come, to your husband-lover's side. My fond, my beautiful one ! — my bi'ide ! F.S. — One matter there still remains, INIay yet bind, for a little time, our chains. I forgot to ask the travelled man AVhether in far-oft', happy Japan, An industrious couple, working away, Could earn that little "penny a day," Or whether, house-rent and servants clear, We might not still starve by the end of a year! IV. RHYMES OE TRAVEL. THE OLD AND THE NEW. BiUTAiN ! tl\y boast is of the Old And bravely thou liast borne it ! Proud floats thy red flaii;, fold on fold, Though all heaven's winds have torn it. In stately temples, marble-piled, Thou hast a thousand lying, Who in the face of danger smiled And honoured thee in dying. — A thousand more, whose tongue and pen The softer muses courted ; Or statesmen, nearer gods than men, Who thy best weal supported. 234 The Old and the Neiv. No foot can tread thy tougla green 3ward, But seems, where'er 'tis moving, To touch some hero's great reward — Some woman's meed for loving. Thou art the Old — th' incarnate Old, Whom, scathless, few have smitten. Since Caesar's chariots northward rolled And Rome was lord in Britain. And he who at thy shrine can stand, And feel no reverent wonder, Deserves to own no fatherland The broad sun smiling under. And yet there is a sweeter pride, Oh, Britain ! — than the pleasure Of claiming all this glory wide And sharing all this treasure. The New is dearer than the Old Braver, and truer-hearted ! Give me \\\q future, far unrolled, And take the long-departed ! The Old and the New. 235 Thy page is written ; but on ours. Flecked by the starry bauuer, A few brief words have tasked all powers, Dashed in the rudest manner. Yet there is strength in every stroke ; And when that page is ended, Be this the verdict we invoke — " Right served, and man befriended !" And if within our cloistered halls Few marbled heroes cluster, Heaven ! — when the trump of battle calls, How thick and fast they muster ! If poets' fame and sages' prayer Tour history gild and burnish, How can even that long list compare With those we mean to furnish ? The steed, with many races won. Be sure has spent his sinew ; And you, Old Britain, so much done, No longer have it in you ! ■236 The Old and the New. So take the Old ; give me tlae New, The future aud its winning ; And when you make your last adieu, We shall be just beginning ! London, July, 1865. THE BLADES OF ENGLAND'S GLORY. TuEY do uot liaug in Windsor, Nor cluster in the Tower, Ked-flushed with recollections Of battle's shuddering hour ; They have not struck at Acre Or gleamed at "Waterloo : They have only looked up at the noonday sun And drunk the morning dew. The blades of England's glory, Sprung from her generous soil — Not nurtured with the hero's blood, But nursed by manly toil ! — St. George's Cross may waver And lose its scarlet sheen ; But there's nothing can dim the emerald flash Of " England's fadeless green." 238 The Blades of England'' s Glory. A math of deep-piled velvet, I tread that matted sod, And think so rich a carpet No emperor ever trod ; And lonely, faint and weary, Could I but choose my rest — How I'd lay my cheek on the cool, green leaves, As on my mother's breast ! On hill and plain and meadow Still spring they, fresh and strong ! The wealth that feeds her millions — Her worthiest theme of song ! And kiss they the feet of maidens That bend them as they pass : For the blade that will conquer and rule the world Is the tiny blade of grass ! London, August, 1S65. OVER THE BRINE ! Over the brine — over the brine — Youder the white cliffs of Albion shine. Faster, speed faster, to meet our desire, lilack-breasted sea-gull, with pulses of fire ! Heed not the wind that howls angrily past ! Heed not the salt spray that flies to the mast ! Faster, yet faster, good steamer of mine, Bear us and hurry us over the brine! Over the brine — over the brine — Away from the land of the melon and viue ; Away from the land where a conqueror's thread Leaves half of a nation yet helpless and dead ! — Away from the land where God's faith seems a form, Instead of true reverence fervent and warm — "Where traditions too close round the free heart entwine, — Bear us away from it, over the brine I 2,40 Over the Brine. Over the brine — over the brine — Though the sense to its revel may madly incline, And though reason may yield to the 'hest o£ the heart, 'Mid the works of the builder, the triumphs of art ! But an hour, and we stand on the old rugged shore Where the language first lisped shall be spoken once more, "Where the strong Anglo-Saxon makes progress and sign,— Bear us with lightning speed, over the brine ! Over the brine — over the brine — But ah, farther yet lies that dear home of mine — The Land of the West, in which, gallant and young, Fewer anthems, more free songs of labour are sung — Where temples are rarer, and records more few. And the great deeds are yet half remaining to do ; Where the tall mountains peer and the broad rivers shine ; Oh, to be hurried there — over the brine ! Over the brine — over the brine — Grive us quick to each other, oh Father of mine ! Me to the laud that is distant and dear — My country to me, with its destiny clear ! Over my head let the old banner wave. When I seek for a home or sleep low in my grave ! Homeward, quick homeward, oh Father of mine. Speed me and shelter me, over the brine ! On ilie British Channel, Augmt, 1865. THE OLD FLAG OYER-SEA. 1 KNOW not how the absence fell Of that, my eyes so sought with longing — The dear old flag we loved so well When violent hands were wronging. For still, thank God ! — it droops and waves "Where'er the winds of commerce woo it, Or deed of despot, threatening slaves, Demands that we undo it ! — But weeks, for me, since Consul's staff Had shown the striped and starry streamer,. Or it had waved from frigate's gaft" Or peak of sailing steamer. B 242 The Old Flag Over- Sea. The meteor flag o£ England, here ; And there an ensign brighter, fuller. And bruiting victories quite as dear — The Emperor's tri-eolour. It seemed to me, though dim and far And scarce embodied forth in thinking- My own dear land, with stripe and star. To nothingness was sinking ; — That I should know my home no more, However sought, through toils or dangers,- But weary tread some foreign shore And live and die 'mid strangers. And then one morn I wound my way Down Calton Hill of Edinboro', With Holyrood my goal to-day And Stirling Carse to-morrow ; With Arthur's Seat that skyward laughed, And the grim Castle piled defiant ; Till one full cup of eld I quaffed. That made me feel a giant. The Old Flao Over- Sea. 243 "• Who would not stay from native land," I said, " for this, so famed in story — These memories of the Iron Hand, And gleams of kingly glory ! " " Who would not ?" Pause ! — for up a spire. Against the blue void sheer and utter. Azure, and white, and ruddy fire, I saw a banner flutter. It was my own — our own ! Oh, heaven, How the quick throb that love convulses When some dear recognition's given, — Went bounding through my pulses ! How all my native laud at once Sprang back to being in the shimmer, With those whose absence had for months Made every daylight dimmer ! The gra)' old driver, on his box. Saw the quick glance, the tear-drop starting A smile, whose kin the heart unlocks, His sunbrowned lips was parting. R 2 244 The Old Flag Over- Sea. " Hech, mon ! " he said, " I ken the sight That maks the saftenin' mood come o'er ye \ 'T'is a bonuie flag ! I've seen the light In other eyes before ye ! " Ye'r far frae hame, and weel may spare Ane drap to wat ye'r country's honour ; Por sad's the load — aye, sad and sair — The red war's laid upon her ! ^' Ay, I could a'most greet, mysel'. To see a thing so braw and bonnie. And think what faes hae wished it ill — Yet floatin' high as ony I " I reached and grasped the driver's hand ; I choked with grateful, mournful feeling The home-flag in a foreign land Had brought a new revealing : How round a simple bunting strip, In cost a song, in weight a feather- A mere mouchoir for lady's. lip, — A nation's pride can gather ! The Old F/ao- Over- Sea. 245 A father's fondness for his child, A lover's tender, pleading passion, A ])atriot's flame — to form one wild Unreasoning adoration. Ood bless the dear old bannered fold ! God keep the hosts who own and guard it ! — Till plucked its hues, when time is old. By the same Hand that starred it ! So shouted I down Calton Hill, And the old G-ael's pleased murmur follows ; And such the shout I'll echo still, Upon the soil it hallows ! To float it, Western winds blow free ; And blue bend AVestern skies above it; But it needs The Old Flag Over-Sea, To know how much Ave love it ! Perthshire Hii/hlands, Auf/ust, IS Co. THE COMING OF MONT BLANC. Running along tlie high level Of Jura, wild and hard, With the charms of the great Rhone Valley yet lingering in my eyes, — I heard the porter out calling The station-name " Bellegarde ! " And then in a moment later I saw wedded earth and skies. A snow-bank reached to heaven, And the clouds below its crown Seemed shrinking off from its summit in a natural fear and awe ; — Great feathery swales suggesting The lightness of eider-down, And held in that air-solution by nature's chemical law. The Coming of Mont Blanc. 247 And there, but a little eastward, Slim needles, greenly Avhite, Thrust up through the higher strata their points so fatal keen ; Catching and breaking and changing The wonderful play of light, But never losing that radiance denied to the lowlands The great white Alps, and their monarch, Mont Blanc of the royal fame, And the Aiguillettes resplendent, that hem the robesi of a king : These were the long-sought glories That to me that moment came ; And the hour must be far, far distant, au answering thrill to bring. It seemed as if toil and danger. As if absence and pain and grief, In that one supremest moment were a thousand times repaid — Like slaking the drouth of the thirsty. And giving the sick relief, And allowing the tired to slumber in the cool and pleasant shade. 248 The Coming of Mont Blanc. " Mont Blauc ! " I cried ; I remember How calmer companions stared And looked, from the carriage window to see me in- sanely leap : "Mont Blauc ! — Thy throne, Almighty ! — And Thine eye its brow has dared, As we have so often dreamed in our broken prophetic sleep ! " " How far away ? Is it twenty. Is it thirty, or fifty miles ? " And a pleasant voice makes answer, of a Swiss beside us there. While her face is lit with the calmest Of sweet compassionate smiles : — " 'Tis an hundred miles from here, the great moun- tain heaves in air." An hundred miles ! So reach us At a distance beggaring thought, The great deeds that the wise and the mighty have done to exalt our race ! So the might of the art creative, And the marvels it has wrought, Outstrip the thought that is laggard and make vassals of time and space ! TJic Coming of Mont Blanc. 249 Sinco then, by sunlight, by moonlight, At soft eve and radiant morn, I have watched the Alpine monarch and studied his smile and frown ; — Have seen moraine and glacier Where ice-bound rivers are born, And passed the spot where the avalanche comes crashing and thundering down. But he gives mo no hour exultant Like that when I seemed to choke, On the wooded li eights of Jura, with a pleasure akin to pain — When tlie wild white Alpine glory To my w^aiting spirit spoke, And the scone was forever pictured on the nerves of heart and brain. Interlaken, Bernese Oberland, July, 1867. TWO QUEENS IN WESTMINSTER. In the Chapel of Henry the Seventh, Where the sculptured ceilings rare Show the conquered stone-work, hanging Like cobweb films in air, — There are held two shrines in keeping, Whose memories closely press : The tomb of the Eose of Scotland, And that of stout Queen Bess. Each side of the sleeping Tudor They rest ; and over their dust The canopies mould and darken And the gilding gathers rust ; While low on the marble tablet, Each effigied in stoae, They lie, — as they went to judgment — Uncrowned, and cold, and alone. Two Queens i?i Westminster. 251 Beside them pass the thousands, Each day ; and hundreds strive To read the whole of the lesson That knoweth no man alive — Of which was more to be pitied, And which was more to be feared — The strong queen, with the nerve of manhood, Or the woman too close endeared. One weakened her land witli faction, One strengthened with bauds of steel ; One died on the black-draped scaffold, One broke on old age's wheel : And both — oh, sweet heaven, the pity ! — Felt the thorns in the rim of the crown Far more than the sweep of the ermine Or the ease of the reeal down. Was the Stuart of Scotland plotting For her royal sister's all? Was it hatred in crown or in person Drove the Tudor to work her fall ? Was there guilty marriage with Bothwell And black crime at the Kirk of Field ? And what meed had the smothered passion That for Essex stood half-revealed ? 2-52 Tivo Queens in Westminster. Dark questions ! — and who shall solve them ? Not one, till the great assize, When royal secrets and motives Shall be opened to commonest eyes ; — Not even by bookworm students, Who shall dig, and cavil, and grope, And keep to the ear learned promise, While they break it to the hope ! Ah, well — there is one sad lesson Made clear to us all, at the worst : Of two forces made quite incarnate. And that equally blessed and cursed. With the English woman, all-conquering Was Power, and its handmaid, Pride ; With the Scottish walked fierce-eyed Passion, Calling lovers to her side ; And the paths were the paths of ruin. Of disease and of woe, to both, With their guerdon the sleepless pillow, And their weapon the broken troth ; And each, when she died, might have shuddered To know she had failed to find A content, even poorly perfect, As that blessing some landless hind ! Two Queens in Westminster. 253 Ah, well, again — they are sleeping Divided, yet side by side ; And the lesson were far less perfect If their sepulchres severed wide. And well for Bess and (or Marie That the eyes, to judge them at last, "Will be free from the gloss and glamour Blinding ours through present and past ! Westminster Abbey, July, 1870. LAKE LEMAN AND CHILLON. At the old Genevan wliarf slie lay, Where the Jardin An(/lais looks ou the bay — That steamei' small, with a name so regal ; Lake Leman was tempting blue, that day, And as part of her brood we sailed away — Our national totem — " L' Aiglet Has the world of travel a purer joy Than the ramparts grim of old Savoy, As that day we sailed apast and down them ?- Peak upon peak rising high, more high, And some with their heads that reached the sky- With stern Mont Blanc to crown them ? — Lake Lcniau and Chi lion. 255 With Jura's steeps ou the other side Of that lake with the dangerous placid tide ; And below, to the edge, the green hills sloping : On one hand the mother, tender-eyed, On the other the father, high in pride, O'er their blue-eyed darling stooping ! — With Beau Eivage, with sweet Lausanne, With the hostel named for " milord Biron," Where he heard Childe Harold's echoing thunder : One feast to the eye, sailing on and on. Till the cliffs hung dark over old Chillon, With the castle nestling under ! Time has gently dealt with the stern old pile. And few the stones that have dropped erewhile From the architect's featly and graceful shaping ; Though behind it a railway comes to spoil The Past, with a hint of modern toil And a means for romance escaping. Dark rise the old turrets — dark, yet fair. Round tower in graceful blending with square, And here a tall keep over all arisen ; Till the gazer thinks what a fortune rare For a limited space to linger there, Even calling one's home a prison ! 256 Lake Lcman and CJiillon. Aud fair as ever the sun-rays fall On the lapping waters under the wall ; And the view across still keeps its glory — Over the lake to the ramparts tall, And the great snow-mountains crowning all With that presence mighty as hoary. But what dearer view was within embraced, "When over the drawbridge height we paced. Under the archways gray and moulding. And stood in the midst of that stony waste "Where the hand of genius one mark has placed For the ages' long beholding. Savoy's stern Dukes rule here no more : There is silence on that pi*esenee-floor Where herald and king bandied feudal manners ; And the free Swiss Cantons there keep in store Of rusty firelocks many a score And a dozen of red-cross banners. And deej)er withiu comes room on room. Of still deepening infamy and gloom, Beneath and above the waters' level, — Where the victims of old found cruel doom. The prison a scaffold, the lake a tomb, And the headsman a hooded devil. Lake Lcmaii and Cliillon. i^'J And then — the chamber of Bonuivard, Of victims at once the evillest-starred, And the luckiest far, that, one summer morning The English lord saw his place of guard, And the old renown of the castle marred With a glory that came sans warning. For who now visits the dungeons old, But to see those " seven pillars of gothic mould," With the one still bearing the broken fetters, And the window 'neath which the blue lake rolled. And through which the birds of lost freedom told, As if they were wrong's abettors ? And what, when the old pile tumbles down, Will give to its stones their best renown ? Some puzzling and dim historic question ? No ! — the story-in-rhyme, that makes its crown. One day at Veytaux-Chillon set down By a guest with a bad digestion ! Paris, July, 1867. A WRAITH IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS. Up to the North by the Highland Railway ; And down to the South by the Great Mid-Glen- The lake-linked canal of Caledonia, Historic track o£ her hero men ; — By the woods of Dunkeld and sweet Blair Athole,- By Garry's flow and Tummel's side, — By haunted Urrard and Killiecraukie, Wliere Cavalier Claverhouse won and died ;— 'Mid the orchard blooms of sunny Forres, Where a princely fugitive hidden lay, — 'Mong the heather-bells of the Moor of Drummossie, That saw red Culloden's fatal day,. — STARLIGHT. Pa(]e 259. A Wraith in the Scottish Highlands. 259 By the rushing and roaring Fall of Foyers, Ever singing requiems in its flow, — By the lordly ruins of Invergarry, That Duke AVilliam only half laid low,— Nay, even by storied Inverloehy, That is ever bright with Montrose's name, — And through dark Griencoe, forever recalling The deadly assassin's sword and flame, — What was it, through all, that walked beside me, Or sailed, or ran, or paused, or rode. As if some old dim and haunting Presence Had been by my Highland blood bestowed ? So clear, sometimes, was its outlined seeming. That I half -believed she had grown to two — My winsome, brown-eyed Starlight lassie. With her tartan-plaid and 'her bonnet blue. But the face was too pale and dim with sorrow ; Too classic the shape — the form too tall. No — something of old it was, half-godlike. Like some Paladin dimmed by his coming faU. s 2 26o A Wraith hi the Scottish HiMands is Ah, I knew, at last ! It was Charlie Stuart ! — Not as he landed on Moidart's shore, With the memory of exiled years behind him And the hope of a kingdom on before ; But broken, as faithful Flora Macdonald Sheltered him far away in Skye ; Rough-garbed, as when over moor and mountain He was forced alternate to hide and fly. But still, ah stUl, the Scots-people's darling. The Chevalier, with his winsome smile, And the hope of a noble and kingly future Though danger and want might exist the while. What is it — I asked, when I knew the Presence And unbonneted stood to the princely wraith — What is it that holds, through so many ages, A loyalty useless — a hollow faith ? Ah, again came the answer — Beauty and Sorrow ; The smile to win, with no hand to hold ; The miglit have heen, waking endless pity : Given these, and the wondrous secret is told. A Wraith in the Scottish Hiorhlands. 261