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POEMS: 
 
 LYRICAL, DRAMATIC, AND ROMANTIC. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN SAYAOE. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JAMES B. KIRKER, PUBLISHER, 
 
 599 BROADWAY. 
 1867. 
 
 1J& 
 
P5X779 
 ^ ■ 
 
 Entered accordini: to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, 
 
 P.Y JAMES B. KIRKER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for .he 
 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 Army And Navy Olnb 
 Of Washiiifftoa £>,o. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In acceding to the Pnl)lislicr's desire to embrace in 
 one volume the works which form this collection, tlie 
 author deems it a fitting opportunity to acknowledge 
 that a paramount inducement to his doing so was found 
 in a perusal of the reviews and criticisms called forth by 
 these productions on their original appearance. 
 
 Of the thirty-seven pieces comprised in Faith and 
 Fancy, thirty-two have been variously distinguished 
 by "honorable mention'^ and commendatory criticism. 
 Sybil has met a favorable hearing in the study as well 
 as upon the stage ; and Eva, the latest published, if not 
 so well known, is said by suflSciently high authority to 
 be worthy of extended acquaintance. In a second edi- 
 tion of the first named (1864) some changes and correc- 
 tions were introduced. In the present collection several 
 verbal revisions are made. 
 
 The author will be pardoned for alluding with pride to 
 the fact that the character of the criticisms referred to 
 was in the ratio of the capacity of the writers. The 
 most capable minds who noticed him were naturally the 
 
b PREFACE. 
 
 most discriminating and liberal in their remarks, while 
 the few specimens of illiberality he met were portrayed 
 with congenial flippancy and pretension. 
 
 It is an elevating consolation to the conscientious 
 student — on whatever path — to know that while friendly 
 criticism may not create lasting reputation, neither can un- 
 friendly criticism prevent its achievement when deserved. 
 If these pages contain the elements of poetic fire, truth, 
 or beauty, they will live ; if not, nothing can procure 
 them a desirable longevity. 
 
 FoRDHAM, November 21st, ISftC. 
 
MRS. ELIZABETH A. SAVAGE, 
 
 WHOSE FORTITUDE UNDER SEVERE TRIALS, 
 
 aiMPLICITT OF CHARACTER AND STRENGTH OF AFFECTION, 
 
 HAVE MADE HER A GOOD MOTHER AND A CHEERING COMPANION, 
 
 (injis CoUcctroit 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 BY HER SON, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 1. FAITH AND FANCY. 
 II. SYBIL: A TRAGEDY. 
 III. EVA: A GOBLIN ROMANCE. 
 
FAITH AND FANCY, 
 
TO THE 
 
 HON. CHARLES P. DALY, LL.D., 
 
 FIliST JUDGE OF THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS, NEW YORK, 
 ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 My dear Friend: 
 
 With great esteem for your many virtues and 
 accomplisliments, I dedicate this book of " Faith and Fancy" to 
 you, and sincerely regret my inability to make it more worthy 
 of your acceptance. While, however, I am thus proudly eager 
 to let my readers know how I value private worth and public 
 mtegrity ; how in your person I honor purity of feeling, up- 
 rightness of character, and steadfast devotion to principle ; and 
 admire the variety of talent and intellectual resources which 
 illustrate the unceasing promptings of your heart to generous 
 eftbrts in behalf of Letters, Science, Humanity, and Justice ; — 
 while I thus take advantage of this Publication to boast sincere 
 aftection and respect for one so widely useful and so generally 
 beloved, let me, under cover of the indulgence your public 
 services will command, add a very few words touching the vol- 
 ume I oifer you. 
 
 Prefaces, it would seem, are not so much the fashion now as 
 in days gone by, though I am glad to see that some of our best 
 and most powerful writers do not ignore the good old sociable 
 custom. I confess to a feeling of self-respect which would com- 
 pel me to raise my hat, by way of prefatory courtesy, to the 
 person who, either at his own or my desire, was going to be 
 the confidant of my hopes, woes, experiences, or sensations. 
 Every person who writes poetry, is in such a position of self- 
 ex^posure. If he aspire at all to transcribe or embody the feel- 
 ings which evoke or prompt human action, he cannot help 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 writing- largely from his own heart's blood, and in the hues it 
 has taken by contact with Men, Faith, and Nature. Hence, 1 
 desire to appropriate a paragraph of this dedicatory epistle to 
 briefly convey to my kind readers what otherwise might be 
 stated in a Preface. 
 
 With few exceptions, the pieces herein collected have been 
 published — some anonymously and a few as translations — in 
 various periodicals, during the past thirteen years ; and in 
 many instances received a degree of popular, and in some cases 
 critical attention. I did not anticipate. After reproduction in 
 various presses, some have found their way into collections ; 
 others have been read by professional readers to large and ap- 
 proving audiences ; and others again — in the earlier portion of 
 the volume — have been quoted by eminent and popular speakers 
 on both sides of the Atlantic. The song at the opening of the 
 Book, is ])]aced there out of respect, not only to the subject 
 which should be first in our hearts, but also to the galliint 
 soldiers wlio gave it its first eclat on the historical occasion de- 
 scribed in the note. However undue and unmerited the kind 
 approbation referred to, I cannot overlook it ; and in deeply 
 appreciating it, feel some justification in collecting the scattered 
 links of years between the Press, the Public, and myself ; ajid — 
 with the addition of a few others — welding all into a chain 
 which, I trust, will bind me still more pleasantly and serviceably 
 to them. 
 
 Begging you to receive this dedication as an humble thougli 
 earnest tribute to good nature and great services, 
 I have the honor to be 
 
 Your friend and servant, 
 
 John Savage. 
 December 13, ISPc, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOK 
 
 The Stp.rry Flasr 'J 
 
 The Muster of the North 12 
 
 The Patriot Mother 22 
 
 Soldier's Song 23 
 
 God preserve the Union 2r> 
 
 A Battle Pniyer 29 
 
 Requiem for the Dead of the Irish Brigade 31 
 
 Redemption 33 
 
 Flowers on my Desk 34 
 
 A Phantasy 38 
 
 Mina -^0 
 
 " Remember we are Friends" 42 
 
 To an Artist 44 
 
 Lilla 47 
 
 Haunted 49 
 
 Love's Imagination 51 
 
 " May God bless us" 53 
 
 Celia's Tea 53 
 
 A New Life 54 
 
 The God-Child of July 57 
 
 Breasting the World 60 
 
 At Niagara : 
 
 The Rapids 61 
 
 The Falls 62 
 
 Shane's Head 04 
 
f CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQR 
 
 St. Anne's Well fi8 
 
 Winter Thoughts : 
 
 I. The Dead Year 72 
 
 II. A Frosty Night 73 
 
 III. Snow on the Ground 74 
 
 IV. Summer always 7.1 
 
 V. Faces in the Fire 76 
 
 Washington 77 
 
 The Plaint of the Wild-flower SO 
 
 Game Laws SG 
 
 Dreaming by Moonlight 85 
 
 Eifle Gray 107 
 
 The Parting of the iSun 109 
 
 He Writes for Lrbbei 112 
 
 Notes ,...,, 115 
 
FAITH AKD FANCY. 
 
 THE STARRY FS^M^' 
 
 Air — " Dixie's Land."" — Recitativo. 
 I. 
 
 Oh, the starry flag is the flag for me I 
 'Tis the flag of life ! the flag of the free I 
 Then hurrah 1 hurrah ! 
 
 For the flag of the Union I 
 Oh, the starry flag, k--. 
 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 Where no power in wrath can face i. . 
 
 On town and field. 
 
 The people's shield, 
 No treason can erase it I 
 
 O'er all the land 
 
 That flag must stand, 
 Where the people's naight shall place it. 
 
10 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 II. 
 
 That flag was won through gloom and woe I 
 It has blessed the brave and awed the foe ! 
 
 Then hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 For the flau: of the Union ! 
 That flag was won, t^f . 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 Where the stripes no hand can ser-r ! 
 
 On fort and mast, 
 
 We'll nail it fast, 
 To balk all base endeavor! 
 
 O'er roof and spire 
 
 A living fire 
 Tlie Stars shall blaze forever I 
 
 III. 
 'Tis the people's will, both o-i-ppt and small, 
 The riglits of the States, ine union of all I 
 
 Then hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 For the flag of the Union ! 
 'Tis the people's will, &c. 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys. 
 
 Hurrah I hurr/*!: I 
 We'll raise that starry banner, ooys. 
 Till it is the world's wonder ! 
 
 On fort and crag 
 
 We'll plant that flag 
 With the people's voice of thunder ! 
 
 We'll plant that flag 
 
 Where none can drag 
 Its immortal folds asunder ! 
 
THE STARRY FLAG. 11 
 
 IV. 
 
 We must keep that flag where it e'er has stood, 
 In front of the free, the wise, and the good I 
 Then hurrah I hurrah 1 
 
 For the flag of the Union ! 
 
 We must keep that flag, &c. 
 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 
 Hurrah I hurrah I 
 We'll raise that starry banner, boys, 
 On field, fort, mast, and steeple ! 
 
 And fight and fall 
 
 At our country's call. 
 By the glorious flag of the people I 
 
 In God, the just, 
 
 We place our trust, 
 To defend the flag of the people ! 
 
 On board U. S. Trannport " J/aWon," Monday, Mav 13, 1861. 
 
12 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH 
 
 A Ballad of '61. 
 I. 
 
 " Oh, mothw, have you heard tne news ?" 
 
 " Oh, father, is it true V 
 "Oh, brother, were I but a n;a?i" — 
 
 " Oh, husband, they shall rue I" 
 Thus, passionately, asked tlie boy, 
 
 An(^ »iH)s thfi sister stm>]s»}. 
 And thus the dear wife to tier mate, 
 
 The words they could not choke. 
 "The news! what news?" " Oh, bitter news— they've 
 
 fired upon the flag — 
 The flag no foreign foe could blast, the traitors down 
 would drag." 
 
 II. 
 " The truest flag of liberty 
 
 The world lias ever seen — 
 The stars that shone o'er Washington 
 
 And guided ga.llant Greene ! 
 The white and crimson stripes which bode 
 
 Success in peace and war, 
 Are draggled, shorn, disgraced, and torn — 
 
 Insulted star by star ; 
 
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 13 
 
 That flag which struggling men point to, rebuking kingly 
 
 codes, 
 The flag of Jones at Whitehaven, of Reid at Fayal 
 Roads.'' 
 
 III. 
 " Eh, neighbor, can'st believe this thing ?" 
 
 The neighbor's eyes grew wild ; 
 Then o'er them crept a haze of shame, 
 
 As o'er a sad, proud child ; 
 His face grew pale, he bit his Up, 
 
 Until the hardy skin, 
 By passion tightened, could not hold 
 The boiUng blood within ; 
 He quivered for a moment, the indignant stupor broke, 
 And the duties of the soldier in the citizen awoke. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On every side the crimson tide 
 
 Ebbs quickly to and fro ; 
 On maiden clieeks the horror speaks 
 
 With fitful gloom and glow ; 
 In matrons' eyes their feehngs rise, 
 
 As when a danger, near. 
 Awakes the soul to full control 
 Of all that causes fear ; 
 The subtle sense, the faith intense, of woman's heart and 
 
 brain, 
 Give her a prophet's power to see, to suffer, and main- 
 tain. 
 
 Through city streets the fever beats — 
 O'er highways byways, borne — 
 
 9 
 
14 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 The boys grow men with madness, 
 
 And the old grow young in scorn ; 
 The forest boughs record the vows 
 
 Of men, heart-sore, though strong ; 
 Th' electric wire, with words of fire, 
 The passion speeds along. 
 Of traitor hordes and traitor swords from Natchez to 
 
 Manassas, 
 And like a mighty harp flings out the war-chant to the 
 masses. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And into caverned mining pits 
 
 The insult bellows down ; 
 And up through the hoary gorges, 
 
 Till it shouts on the mountain's crown : 
 Then foaming o'er the table-lands, 
 
 Like a widening rapid, heads ; 
 And rolling along the prairies. 
 Like a quenchless fire it spreads ; 
 From workman's shop to mountain top there's mingled 
 
 wrath and wonder. 
 It appalls them like the lightning, and awakes them like 
 the thunder. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The woodman flings his axe aside ; 
 
 The farmer leaves his plough ; 
 The merchant slams his ledger lids 
 
 For other business now ; 
 The artisan puts up his tools, 
 
 The artist drops his brush, 
 
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 15 
 
 And joiiiing hands for Liberty, 
 To Freedom's standard rush ; 
 I'he doctor folds his suit of black, to fight as best he 
 
 may. 
 And e'en the flirting exquisite is " eager for the fray." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The students leave their college rooms, 
 
 Full deep in Greece and Rome, 
 To make a rival glory 
 
 For a better cause near home : 
 The lawyer quits nis suits and writ?. 
 
 The laborer liis hire. 
 And in the thrilling rivalry 
 The rich and poor aspire ! 
 And party lines are lost amid the patriot commotion. 
 As wanton streams grow strong and pure within the 
 heart of ocean. 
 
 IX. 
 
 *.The city marts are echoless ; 
 
 The city parks are thronged ; 
 In country stores there roars and pours 
 
 The means to riglit the wronged ; 
 The town halls ring with mustering ; 
 
 From holy pulpits, too. 
 Good priests and preachers volunteer 
 To show what men should do — 
 To show that they who preach the truth and God above 
 
 revere. 
 Can die to save for man the blessings God has sent down 
 here. 
 
16 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 And gentle fingers everywhere 
 
 The busy needles ply, 
 To deck the manly sinews 
 
 That go out to do or die ; 
 And maids and mothers, sisters dear, 
 
 And dearer wives, outvie 
 Each other in the duty sad. 
 
 That makes all say " Good-by'^ — 
 The while in every throbbing heart that's pressed in fare- 
 well kiss 
 Arises pangs of hate on those who brought them all to 
 this. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The mustering men are entering 
 For near and distant tramps ; 
 The clustering crowds are centering 
 
 In barrack-rooms and camps ; 
 There is riveting and pivoting. 
 
 And furbishing of arms, 
 And the willing marching, drilling, 
 With their quick exciting charms, 
 Half dispel the subtle sorrow that the women needs must 
 
 feel, 
 When e'en for Right their dear ones fight the Wrong with 
 steel to steel. 
 
 XII. 
 
 With hammerings and clamorings. 
 
 The armories are loud ; 
 Toilsome clangor, joy, and anger. 
 
 Like a cloud enwrap „..rV crowd 
 
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 17 
 
 Beltiug, buckling, cursing, clmckling, 
 
 Sorting out their " traps" in throngs ; 
 Some are packing, some knapsacking, 
 Singing snatches of old songs ; 
 Fifers finger, lovers linger to adjust a badge or feather. 
 And groups of drummers vainly strive to reveille to- 
 gether. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And into many a haversack 
 
 The prayer-book's mutely borne — 
 Its well-thumbed leaves in faithfulness 
 
 By wives and mothers worn — 
 And round full many a pillared neck. 
 
 O'er many a stalwart breast, 
 The sweetheart wife's — the maiden love's 
 Dear effigy's caressed. 
 God knows by what far camp-fire may these tokens 
 
 courage give, 
 To fearless die for truth and home, if not for them tc 
 live. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And men who've passed their threescore years. 
 
 Press on the ranks in flocks. 
 Their eyes, like fire from Hecla's brow, 
 
 Burn through their snowy locks *, 
 And maimed ones, with stout hearts, persist 
 
 To mount the belt and gun. 
 And crave, with tears — while forced away — 
 
 To march to Washington. 
 2* 
 
18 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 " Why should we not ? We love that flag ! Great 
 
 God !" — they chokmg cry — 
 " We're strong enough I We're not too old for oui 
 
 dear land to die 1" 
 
 XV. 
 
 And in the mighty mustering, 
 
 No petty hate intrudes, 
 No rival discords mar the strength 
 
 Of rising multitudes ; 
 The jealousies of faith and clime 
 
 Which fester in succes?, 
 Give place to sturdy friendships 
 Based on mutual distress ; 
 For every thinking citizen who draws the sword, knows 
 
 well 
 The battle's for Humanity — for Freedom's citadel I 
 
 XVI. 
 
 0, Heaven ! how the trodden hearts, 
 
 In Europe's tyrant world, 
 Leaped up with new-born energy 
 When that flag was unfurled I 
 How those who suffered, fought, and died. 
 
 In fields, or dungeon-chained. 
 Prayed that the flag of Washington 
 Might float while earth remained ! 
 And weary eyes in foreign skies, still flash with fire anew. 
 When some good blast by peak and mast unfolds that 
 flag to view. 
 
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 19 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And they who, guided by its stars, 
 
 Sought here the hopes they gave, 
 Are all aglow with pilgrim fire 
 
 Their happy shrines to save. 
 Here — Scots and Poles, Italians, Gauls, 
 
 With native emblems trickt ; 
 There — Teuton corps, who fought before 
 
 Fur Freiheit undfur Licht ;^ 
 While round the flag the Irish like a human rampart go 1 
 They found Gead mille failthe^ here — they'll give it to 
 the foe. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 From the vine-land, from the Rhine-land, 
 From the Shannon, from the Scheldt, 
 From tjie ancient homes of genius. 
 From the sainted home of Celt, 
 From Italy, from Hungary, 
 
 All as brothers join and come. 
 To the sinew-bracing bugle. 
 And the foot-propelling drum : 
 Too proud beneath the starry flag to die, and keep secure 
 The Liberty they dreamed of by the Danube, Elbe, and 
 Suii-. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 From every hearth bounds up a heart. 
 
 As spring from hill-side leaps, 
 To give itself to those joroud streams 
 
 That make resistless deeps I 
 No book-rapt sage, for age on age, 
 
 Can point to such a sight 
 
20 FAITH AND ?\NCY. 
 
 As this deep throb, which woke from rest 
 A people armed for fight. 
 Peal out, ye bells, the tocsin peal, for never since the 
 
 day 
 When Peter roused the Christian world has earth seen 
 such array. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Which way we turn, the eyeballs burn 
 
 With joy upon the throng ; 
 Mid cheers and prayers, and martial airs, 
 
 The soldiers press along ; 
 The masses swell and wildly yell, 
 
 On pavement, tree, and roof. 
 And sun-bright showers of smiles and flowers 
 Of woman's love give proof. 
 Peal out, ye bells, from church and dome, in rivalrous 
 
 communion 
 With the wild, upheaving masses, for the army of the 
 Union ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Onward trending, crowds attending, 
 
 Still the army moves — and still : 
 Arms are clashing, wagons crashing 
 In the roads and streets they fill ; 
 O'er them banners wave in thousands, 
 
 Round them human surges roar, 
 Like the restless-bosomed ocean. 
 Heaving on an iron shore : 
 Cannons thunder, people wonder whence the endless river 
 
 comes, 
 With its foam of bristling bay'nets, and its cataracts of 
 drums. 
 
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH, 21 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " God bless the Union army !" 
 
 That holy thought appears 
 To symbolize the trustful eyes 
 
 That speak more loud than cheers 
 " God bless the Union army, 
 
 And the flag by which it stands, 
 May it preserve, with freeman's nerve, 
 What freedom's God demands 1" 
 Peal out, ye bells — ye women, pray ; for never yet went 
 
 forth 
 So grand a band, for law and land, as the muster of the 
 North. 
 
22 FAITH AND FANCY 
 
 THE PATRIOT MOTHER. 
 
 When o'er the land the battle brcr>.d 
 
 In freedom's cause was gleaming, 
 And everywhere upon the air 
 
 The starry flag was streaming, 
 The widow cried unto her pride, 
 
 " Go forth and join the muster ; 
 Thank God, my son can bear a gun 
 
 To crown his race with lustre ! 
 Go forth I and come again not home, 
 
 If by disgrace o'erpowered ; 
 My heart can pray o'er hero's clay, 
 
 But never clasp a coward I" 
 
 II. 
 
 "God bless thee, boy, my pride, my joy, 
 
 My old eyes' light and treasure — 
 Thy father stood 'mid flame and blood 
 
 To fill the freeman's measure. 
 His name thy name — the cause the same, 
 
 Go join thy soldier brothers ! 
 Thy blow, alone, protects not one, 
 
 But thousands, wives and mothers. 
 May every blessing Heaven can yield 
 
 Upon thy arms be showered ! 
 Come back a hero from the field, 
 
 But never come a coward." 
 
soldier's song. SJ3 
 
 SOLDIER'S SONG. 
 
 Pd rather be a soldier 
 
 In a gallant, glorious cause, 
 To uphold a people's honor, 
 
 Their liberty and laws, 
 Than wearily and drearily 
 
 To pass my life away, 
 Living but for living's sake, 
 
 And dying ev'ry da,y. 
 
 Ghorus. — I'd rather be a soldier ! 
 
 A tramping, camping soldier I 
 A soldier away to the field 
 Where the God of right above, 
 Smiles upon the flag we love, 
 
 As we fight, fall, but never yield. 
 
 II. 
 
 Pd rather be a soldier 
 
 In the watchful bivouac, 
 'Mid night alarms, and calls to arms, 
 
 To meet the dawn's attack. 
 Than slumber in the city's heart. 
 
 In callous, blank repose. 
 
24 FAITH AKD FANCY 
 
 When every man should be awake 
 To face the nation's foes. 
 
 I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 
 
 III. 
 
 I'd rather be a soldier, 
 
 In the flashing, crashing van, 
 And win the love of mankind. 
 
 By the blow I strike for man, 
 Than mope in subtle selfishness. 
 
 With empty pleas for " Peace,'' 
 While each delay to win the right 
 
 But makes the wrong increase. 
 
 I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I'd rather be a soldier, 
 
 'Mid the battle's rage and ire. 
 With heart that mocks the sabre thrust, 
 
 And soul that scoffs the fire. 
 Than live to feel no glory 
 
 In my nation, flag, and race — 
 Oh, better fall to crown them all, 
 
 Than live to their disgrace I 
 
 I'd rather be a soldier, etc. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then forward, gallant comrades I 
 Welcome any fate that comes ; 
 
 We rise to freedom's bugle-blast, 
 We step to freedom's drums : 
 
soldier's song. 25 
 
 The God that gave us liberty, 
 
 Will see us through the foam 
 Of battle, while we bravely fight 
 
 For our dear ones at home, 
 
 rd rather be a soldier, etc. 
 2 
 
FAITH AND FANCY 
 
 GOD PRESERVE THE UNIOK 
 
 I. 
 
 Brothers, there are times when nations 
 
 Must, like battle-worn men, 
 Leave their proud, self-builded quiet 
 
 To do service once again : 
 When the banners blessed by fortune, 
 
 And by blood and brain embalmed, 
 Must re-throb the soul with feelings 
 
 That long happiness hath calmed. 
 Thus the Democratic faith that won 
 
 The nation, now hath need 
 To raise its ever stalwart arm, 
 
 And save what twice it freed. 
 
 So friends fill up 
 
 The brimming cup 
 In brotherly communion — 
 
 Here's blood and blow 
 
 For a foreign foe, 
 And God preserve the Union, 
 
 II. 
 
 There are factions passion-goaded, 
 There are turbulence and wrath, 
 
 And swarthy dogmas bellowing 
 Around the people's path ; 
 
GOD PRESERVE THE UNION 21 
 
 There are false lights in the darkness, 
 
 There are black hearts in the light, 
 And hollow heads are mimicking 
 
 The Jove-like people's might. 
 But, ah ! the Democratic strength 
 
 That smote an empire's brow, 
 Can with its regnant virtues tame 
 
 Mere home-made factions now. 
 
 So friends let's band 
 
 For fatherland — 
 In brotherly communion, 
 
 Let every mouth 
 
 Cry " North and South,-' 
 And God preserve the Union. 
 
 III. 
 
 While the young Repubhc's bosom 
 
 Seems with rival passions torn — 
 Growing from the very freedom 
 
 Of the speech within it born ; 
 Europe, in its haggard frenzy 
 
 To behold no earthly sod, 
 Where its white slaves may unbend them, 
 
 Or bend but to Freedom's God — 
 Europe madly hails the omen — 
 
 Strains its bloodshot eyes to view 
 A native treason toiling at 
 
 The work it strove to do. 
 
 So, friends, let's all 
 Like a rampart wall — 
 In granite-built communion. 
 
2S FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Stand firmly proud, 
 'Gainst the kingly crowd — 
 And God preserve tbe Union. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Since that day, when frantic people 
 
 Round the State House rose and fell, 
 Like an angry ocean surging 
 
 Round some rock-reared citadel — 
 When the Quaker City trembled 
 
 'Neath the arming people's tramp, 
 And the bell proclaimed to iron men 
 
 Each house in the land a camp — 
 Democracy has kept that bell 
 
 Still pealing sound on sound, 
 Until its potent energy 
 
 Has throbbed the wide earth round. 
 
 So let it ring. 
 
 So let it bring 
 Us brotherly communion ; 
 
 Here's heart and hand, 
 
 For life and laud ! 
 And God preserve the Union ! 
 
A BATTLE PRAYER. 29 
 
 A BATTLE PRAYER. 
 
 God of the righteous, God of the brave ! 
 Strengthen our arms our country to save ; 
 Lead us to victory's peace-giving charms : 
 God of the righteous, strengthen our arms ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 God of the people's cause, God of the free ! 
 From hearth and hill-side we look up to Thee ; 
 Make us, when battle-clouds thunder and roll, 
 Titans in body, and true men in soul. 
 
 HI. 
 
 God of our hopefulness, God of the right ! 
 Be to us armor and courage in fight ! 
 Lift us on valorous fervor to be 
 Terror and wrath to the foes of the free I 
 
 IV. 
 
 God of humanity, God of the heart ! 
 Let not the man in the soldier depart ; 
 And when beneath us the ruthless foe reels, 
 Teach us the mercy the true hero feels. 
 3* 
 
30 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Gird up our loins then, Lord I for the truth, 
 The safety of age, and the freedom of youth ; 
 Leads us to victory's peace-giving charms : 
 God of the righteous strengthen our arms 1 
 
REQUIEM FOR THE DEAD OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 31 
 
 REQUIEM FOR THE DEAD OF THE IRISH 
 BRIGADE. 
 
 Come, let the solemn, soothing Mass be said, 
 For the soldier souls of the patriot dead. 
 
 Let the organ swell, and the incense burn. 
 For the hero men who will ne'er return. 
 
 Men who had pledged to this land their troth, 
 And died to defend her, ere break their oath. 
 
 But if high the praise, be as deep the, wail 
 O'er the exiled sons of the warlike Q-ael. 
 
 From their acts true men may eiamples reap ; 
 And women bless them, and glorying, weep. 
 
 Proud beats the heart while it sorrowing melts 
 O'er the death-won fame of these truthful Celts. 
 
 For the scattered graves over which we pray 
 Will shine like stars on their race alway. 
 
 Oh, what doth ennoble the Christian man. 
 If not dying for truth in freedom's van ! 
 
 What takes from Death all its terrors and gloom ? 
 Conscience to feel Justice blesses the tomb ! 
 
32 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 And oh! what doth build up a nation's weal 
 But courage to fight for the truths we feel ! 
 
 And thus did these braves, on whose graves we wait, 
 Do all that make nations and races great. 
 
 OREMUS. 
 
 Ye living, your hearts combine 
 In praise and prayer, to the heavenly shrine : 
 
 Ye widowed and stricken, 
 
 Your trustfulness quicken 
 With faith in the Almighty Giver ; 
 
 And may blessed repose 
 
 Be the guerdon of those 
 Who fell at Antietam and James's river, 
 By the Rappahannock and Chickahominy ; 
 Requiem ceternam dona eis, Domine ! 
 
 May their souls on the Judgment-day arise ; 
 
 Et lux perpetua luceat eis. 
 
REDEMPTION. 33 
 
 REDEMPTION. 
 
 ' A sound heart is the life of the flesh."— Procerfea. 
 
 Miser, see that hoard of gold — 
 
 Mistress, view that dower — 
 
 Artist, look at yon fair mould — 
 
 Beauty, wealth, and power : 
 
 There they are— but what are these ? 
 
 False leaves decking sapless trees. 
 
 Honesty for him hath naught — 
 
 Truth for her no use — 
 Yon fair shape no virtue brought — 
 All are life's abuse : 
 But like Christ, one pure heart's birth 
 Brings redemption to an earth I 
 
34 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 
 
 Ye tiny queens, lift up your pensive heads, 
 
 And fear not that a magic feeUng weds 
 The air about the student's chamber ; 
 
 'Tis true these books inoculate the air 
 
 With their intense divinity, 
 
 And men sure in the rhythm of each mystic prayer 
 
 The hopes and blessings of infinity : 
 But ye may into all their secrets clamber, 
 
 As little stars may wander through the skies, 
 
 And find out all the bhss of Paradise. 
 
 The poet and the plant are near allied ; 
 
 Nature's best offspring, she of both the pride : 
 
 So, fear thee not, nor fail to number, 
 
 Amongst thy friends those stately quartos which — • 
 Some standing upright to their proudest height. 
 And some reclining in a tired plight, 
 
 Like drows-eyed sentinels who laz'ly hitch 
 
 Their sides to wakeful slumber — 
 
 Gather around as if to guard the prize. 
 
 That dainty hands and brightest eyes 
 
 Had culled for me. Ye conjure up 
 
 Like the swift shadow of a welcome comer. 
 Or early buds that whisper us of summer — 
 
 You fragrant rose and rustic buttercup, 
 
FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 35 
 
 The pleasant presence of the picturesque, 
 
 And light and artless, 
 
 But dare I say the heartless 
 Maid, who gave you to my musty desk. 
 
 Like her, you're fair. 
 
 And like her, too, you're tender, 
 
 Light as May air, 
 
 Commingled with June splendor, 
 Joyous as Morning when he freshly gives 
 
 A like rich mirth 
 To all around that in his radiance lives 
 
 In air or earth ; 
 And which we love to foster as we stray, 
 
 While yet the town 
 Winks doubtful welcome to the god of day. 
 
 In midnight's gown. 
 
 Ah I I can picture how she tripped amid 
 
 The little fay-ground where she tends her flowers, 
 To woo ye, as ye childishly all hid 
 
 Each others' smile, love-chained to natal bowers ; 
 Yes, I can picture how she tripped along, 
 
 Her clear laugh car'lling on the jealous air, 
 Which, though unquiet, calmed to catch her song, 
 
 And test its fragrance with her wild breath there. 
 
 And then she, heedless of the list'ning vapors, 
 Footed around to cull the richest stems. 
 
 Here eyes a plant, then onward gayly capers. 
 And here again, and there, for perfume gems ; 
 
 Now choosing one, and now discarding ten. 
 
 The while thoseten grow ripe her love-light quaffing. 
 
36 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 And now she plucks a dainty pair, and then 
 Her young and happy heart is wildly laughing. 
 
 My dainty flowers, dwell ye on my desk. 
 
 Among my choicest friends, and dear good-fellow books 
 Dwell there to memorize the picturesque. 
 And laughing, bright-eyed, fairy-tinted looks 
 Of her who culled you from your fragrant nooks 
 In her self-tended Eden : 
 In your glee — 
 Dwell, tender queens, to picture forth the maideu 
 Who gave you unto me. 
 
 How rich a thing becomes the merest leaf, 
 When memories — that give the mind relief— 
 Of love, of hope, ay even, or of grief, 
 Are twined in fragrant bondage to it ! 
 What various raptures whirl us as we view it ? 
 Each rapture leaping up from thought's horizon, 
 Like the rich clouds that fleck the ambient skies on 
 Summer days between the noon and even- 
 Golden and fantasque, sailing through bright heaven 
 As richest thoughts through god-like poet's brain ; 
 The music of whose full-toned purple strain 
 Will be cast back from every cone of thought 
 Th-at leaps delighted with the soul thus brought 
 Into its lesser being, lighting some lesser still, 
 Until wide prairies of reflected will 
 Send up, like exhalations from the vernal 
 
 Sun-besmitten and inspired sod, 
 Their thanks which make the poet's dreams eternal. 
 
 The poet does not dream — he lives with God, 
 Who is the essence of all right and beauty — 
 
FLOWERS ON MY DESK. 37 
 
 He does not dream, but lives a life of duty, 
 So far above " realities" of Earth, that Earth 
 
 With mind, like dagger to a point grown thin 
 In peculation, will not see his worth, 
 
 But calls his life a dream to shield its lifelong sin. 
 And as I gaze on yon sweet leafy links 
 Of thought, my too unguarded Fancy drinks 
 Whole stoups of Hope, that frolic through my brain 
 Like summer clouds in Evening's calm domain ; 
 And they too like the poet's thoughts send back 
 Reflected glory on their founder's track. 
 
 While ye remain there I shall think it Night, 
 
 Night calmly eloquent and grand ; 
 And ye the lamps that shed their vesper light 
 
 In the dim cloisters of the poet's land ; 
 And when ye fade, I'll feel the silence parted, 
 
 And Day, hot-headed, panting in my face, 
 With words too broken for the gloomy-hearted 
 
 To hang a hope on for his spirit's grace. 
 
 4 
 
38 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 A PHANTASY. 
 
 I WAS dreaming, the other night, over my desk, 
 
 All alone, 
 And my thoughts held me still in a net arabesque 
 
 Of my own ; 
 And, as Joy at its height held in silence, I sat, 
 
 When a chord 
 My soul's yearning portals there came ringing at, 
 
 And I heard 
 A peal of sweet maid-laughing tones : and I listened 
 
 And gazed ; 
 When out from the silence a pair of eyes glistened I 
 
 I raised 
 My hands to my eyes, which felt doubtful of vision. 
 
 Forbear, 
 Ye Gods of the Fancy ! what features elysian 
 
 Were there ! 
 An eye, bright as Spring after kissing the rain, 
 
 And a voice, 
 With the richness of Psyche's and Flora's wild strain, 
 
 Did rejoice ! 
 And leaped its sweet carols my poor heart a-through. 
 
 From a mouth 
 Rich as strawberry juice, or the rose 'neath the dew 
 
 In the South ! 
 And her form bright as hope, seemed to beckon me on. 
 
A PHANTASY. 39 
 
 And the power 
 Of my own language came, and I spoke ... all was gone 
 Save afloioer. 
 
 Why Fancy — why Beauty — whatever thou art, 
 
 Dost thou chain, 
 Promethean like, to the rock of my heart 
 
 My wild brain ? 
 Oh, tender soul, tell me what likeness thou'lt rear. 
 
 In thy power, 
 ^Tween a Jove-laughing sprite of a maiden so fair 
 
 And a flower ? 
 
40 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 MINA. 
 
 Mina's eyes are dark as sorrow, 
 Mina's eyes are bright as morrow — 
 Morrow symbols Hope alway ; 
 And a soul-lit radiance flashes 
 Out between their silken lashes, 
 As from out the sable fringes of the midnight leaps the 
 
 Mina's hair is black as madness, 
 Mina's hair is soft as gladness — 
 
 Gladness true is soft and low ; 
 And its heavy richness ponders 
 O'er her brow, as student wanders 
 By some bardic temple, wordless with the homage he'd 
 bestow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Mina's brow is clear as amber, 
 Mina's brow is calm as chamber 
 
 Where God lives in what seems dead ; 
 And its gentleness is giving 
 E'er a mute excuse for living 
 On in passive grandeur, careless of the fame its thoughts 
 might spread. 
 
MINA. 41 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mina's mouth is ripe as study, 
 Mina's mouth is full and ruddy — 
 
 Tempting as the August peach ; 
 And its sweet contentment routing 
 Off a melancholy pouting, 
 Welcomes laughter to the portals where the trivial ne'er 
 can reach. 
 
 V. 
 
 Mina's heart is pure as childhood, 
 Mina's heart is fresh as wildwood, 
 
 Where each tendril dials God ; 
 And its radiant blessings centred 
 On her face, have ever entered 
 Through her eyes those happy mortals who within their 
 mission trod. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mina's hand is sure to capture ! 
 Mina's touch is weird — its rapture 
 
 Is electric, seeming numb ; 
 And her spirit on the minute 
 Thrills you with the calm joy in it. 
 And vibrating you to eloquence, compels you to be dumb. 
 4* 
 
42 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 "REMEMBER WE ARE FRIENDS." 
 
 " No matter what comes about, our friendship must in)t be severed." 
 I. 
 
 Remejiber we are friends, dear girl, though far apart and 
 
 lonely. 
 And though the sunlight of your smile is now a mem'ry 
 
 only— 
 And though the love I dreamed my own is tombed 
 
 where sorrow blends 
 The hopings of the stormy past — remember we are 
 
 friends I 
 
 II. 
 
 Mayhap you'll feel the ocean world too chill, your life- 
 shore beating — 
 
 Mayhap your heart, like mine, may see its darhng hope 
 retreating — 
 
 God grant you joy ! — but who may know what comes 
 when daylight ends ? 
 
 And should e'er morrow bring you gloom — remember 
 we are friends. 
 
 III. 
 And though I'd prize your love beyond all womanly 
 
 affection. 
 And though a hope will linger yet to feed my heart's 
 
 dejection. 
 
REMEMBER WE ARE FRIENDS. 43 
 
 I'd rather l^.ave thy young heart blessed, in blessing 
 
 where it bends — 
 Forget me as a lover, but — remember we are friends ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 I'll meet thee yet beside the hearth — that hearth that i 
 
 another's, 
 And my still young gray hairs shall joy o'er faces like 
 
 their mother's ! 
 Mayhap he'll twit my loneliness, and boast what marriage 
 
 sends. 
 Unknowing how I once thought, but — remember we are 
 
 friends. 
 
44 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 The old man's drifted to the soundless sea — 
 Gone back to earth and heaven : as a perfume, he 
 Warmed mto life by light rose into sky's immensity. 
 
 Blondell, I have to thank thee, and thy art 
 For every tremor that awakes my heart 
 From gloom, when gazing on his pictured counterpart. 
 
 Your pencil's magic drew up to his face 
 His innate radiances, as the sunlight's grace 
 Makes voluble the innate seed in flowers on earth's placid 
 space. 
 
 His fair round forehead, like a concave glass, 
 Enlarged all good it witnessed to a mass. 
 The convex lessening ill, so that none ever saw it pass. 
 
 His kind, love-typifying face is here 
 With all its fond intensity ; it would appear 
 The great old man himself had just but ceased to rear 
 
 The vocal solace of his thoughts around. 
 And dropped off into silence, while the sound 
 Of his own blessed words yet o'er his features wound : 
 
TO AN ARTIST. 45 
 
 Ay, in the lustre of their purity, 
 As noiseless mists about a fountain's glee 
 Hover on the air, and then in wavy sun-bows flee. 
 
 Like some great diver, you have made a bound 
 Into his nature, loving, vast, profound. 
 And scattered o'er the canvas the gems profuse you 
 found. 
 
 He was the sun that Kt my childhood on. 
 And smiled upon me as on earth the sun ; 
 But now your canvas, like a moon, reflects the light that's 
 
 But on my morn no Sun shall say to Earth 
 " God bless you !" as oft he : his song, his mirth 
 Have gone with evening and the birds — all here is voice- 
 less dearth. 
 
 I cannot weep, I have such stupor drank ; 
 Enough, like sunless day I am all blank ; 
 He left me drunk with Love, and guideless have I sank. 
 
 All his quaint humors, all his cheering sense, 
 Ghost through my brain, that, vague with wild intents 
 Grasps at them all, and finds but shadowy cerements. 
 
 A thousand questions crowd upon my tongue. 
 With thousand answers springing them among ; 
 For he was of me, and his thoughts like mantles o'er me 
 hung. 
 
46 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Mankind lost more than I did wlien he plied 
 His soul's white wings for heaven — though my pride 
 And guide left me and mine unsolaced when he died. 
 
 God's noblest work evanished when he fled, 
 This great world missed an honest man's meek tread 
 The hour it opened to receive my father's body — dead. 
 
 Sept. 23, 1853. x 
 
LILLA. 
 
 LILLA. 
 
 Lovely Lilla, why keep smiling ? 
 All my path to gloom beguiling ; 
 As your mouth its bright joy flashes, 
 Every ripple o'er me dashes — 
 Makes me helpless while I gaze ou 
 Nature's acted diapason ; 
 But the bhss a bane instills — 
 Lilla smiles while Lilla kills. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! those eyes with rapture thrill me- 
 Take them off, or else they'll kill me ; 
 But not yet, for there's about them 
 That to make me die without them I 
 Dear, remember what you're doing, 
 You are killing while I'm wooing — 
 If you close those eyes of blue, 
 Don't you know you close mine too ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Such an earthly, heavenly, human, 
 Lovely, wicked, artless woman 
 
48 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 As you, Lilla, lights our blindness 
 Rarely here, to kill with kindness ! 
 Every glance both wins and wounds me- 
 Life or Death in you surrounds me — 
 While one word all life would give, 
 Had you the heart to make me Uve. 
 
HAUNTED. 49 
 
 HAUNTED. 
 
 I AM haunted by a spirit, 
 
 Everywhere I go ; 
 That I'm near it, yet not near it, 
 
 I too sadly know. 
 
 When I'm hushed and sorrow-laden, 
 
 'Tis a solace there ; 
 When my heart would clasp its maideu 
 
 Figure — it is air. 
 Now deluded, now hope-nurtured — 
 
 I am cursed and blessed, 
 Till I crave for this o'er-tortured 
 
 Frame, eternal rest. 
 
 Yet the spirit looms about me. 
 
 Like a thought decreeing. 
 
 As I from it — it without me — 
 Cannot have a being. 
 
 I am in the city's mazes, 
 
 'Mid ten thousand men — 
 
 There the spirit's sweet, sad face is 
 Smiling, just as when, 
 
 In the midnight, it from study 
 All my soul has drawn ; 
 5 
 
50 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Or when it, at morning ruddy, 
 Smiles a rival dawn. 
 
 Sometimes it is sad and lonely — 
 
 Sometimes like a psalm, 
 A sacred, solemn joy — this only 
 
 When /'m very calm ; 
 Sometimes 'tis as bright as dew, that 
 
 Pushed from opening bud, 
 Steals the light it first falls through, that 
 
 Gilds it ere it kiss the sod ; 
 
 Sometimes 'tis a gloomy grandeur — 
 Sorrow unconfessed — 
 
 Whose loud silence would command your 
 Life to calm its breast ; 
 
 Sometimes smiling as a dreaming 
 
 Child — the thoughts, alas. 
 Of the soul on lips are beaming 
 
 That they cannot pass ; 
 Sometimes — but, heart, some feature 
 
 Bless in silent prayer I 
 All times seeming — 'tis some creature 
 
 Rare, exceeding fair I 
 
 So, two shadows' dim distraction 
 Dial every motion ; — 
 
 One, which guides my body's action, 
 One, my soul's devotion. 
 
love's imagination. 51 
 
 LOVE'S IMAGINATION. 
 
 Where the mist is list'ning 
 
 To the stoic hills, 
 Where the spray is glist'ning 
 
 O'er the joyous rills, 
 Where the budding flowers 
 
 Nodding by the streams, 
 Look like infants waking 
 
 From their rosy dreams; 
 There may hearts grow fonder, 
 There may poet ponder. 
 There may fancy squander. 
 
 All its jewels rare, 
 But there I may not wander 
 
 If my love's not there. 
 
 Where the tall pines shiver, 
 When the winter's breath 
 
 Wraps the once glad river 
 Into icy death ; 
 
 Where the caverns labor 
 With a restless pray'r, 
 
62 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 When the hunted ocean 
 Seeks a shelter there; 
 There, though desolation, 
 Mocks all contemplation. 
 Love's imagination 
 
 Mellows place and time, 
 And in its own creation 
 Makes the gloom sublime 
 
celia's tea. 53 
 
 MAY GOD BLESS US.' 
 
 Lady mine/ say it ever, pray it ever, it hath meaning, 
 For the lowly, for the holy, and to all on virtue leaning. 
 But from thy lips to me it hath a hope all else above. 
 For God is love, and truly blesses those who truly love. 
 
 II. 
 
 Love's the secret of existence ! What are vineyards — 
 
 spacious portals — 
 To one happy tear, one honest blush, that blends two 
 
 trusting mortals ? 
 Oh, he's infidel, who loves not, to himself and God above, 
 For God is love, and truly blesses those who truly love. 
 
 CELIA'S TEj^. 
 
 Celia makes such brain-enlivening tea, 
 
 That when one's ta'en the draught celestial up, 
 
 He feels so happy, that it oft struck me, 
 
 She must have poured her heart into the cup. 
 
6t FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 A NEW LIFE. 
 
 Is it fancy, am I dreaming, 
 
 Do I tread the realms of faery — 
 Do my hopings mock my wild heart with the echoes of 
 itself ; 
 Is my soul lit by the beaming 
 Of your radiant face, fair Lilla ? 
 Or, am I witched, like pilgrim, by the lagoon's midnight 
 elf? 
 
 II. 
 
 Sweet words are singing o'er me. 
 
 And beside me and before me, 
 Yet I fear to think them truthful, lest I wake to find me 
 wrong; 
 
 And the bliss of the first minute. 
 
 When my heart caught them within it, 
 Would woo me to eternal sleep, to ever dream such song. 
 
 God is loving — God is jealous. 
 And we're every mortal fashioned 
 In the likeness of the Moulder I and our sympathies so 
 bent, 
 
A NEW LIFE. 65 
 
 Can my words be over zealous, 
 Or my love be too impassioned ? 
 Xo, I cannot outstrip nature, though I fail to be content 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have had my dreams of glory, 
 
 And have quaffed my youthful chalice — 
 What bitter dregs lay thickening underneath its starry 
 foam ? 
 And my hfe broke, like the story 
 Of that oriental palace, 
 Whose magic marble fabric sank, and left no trace of 
 home. 
 
 V. 
 
 In my thoughts' dim, lonely prison, 
 Where I dwelt, a voice has risen. 
 As the angel's unto Peter, giving comfort, hope, and 
 cheer ; 
 And so full of hght's the tremor. 
 It now pulses through the dreamer, 
 He'd bless the thought that chains him to have that 
 angel near. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Was your heart so sympathetic 
 That it caught my words unspoken, 
 
 As they welled up, seeking utterance love-confused to 
 very fear ? 
 Was it you that said " I love thee" — 
 Was it I that said " I love thee ;" 
 
 Or, did we each the other's heart unburden to the ear ? 
 
56 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When you twined your arms about me 
 Saying life was dark without me — 
 
 Tliat 7 was the one comforter you prayed of God to 
 give- 
 That among the thousands fleeing 
 Past, you knew me as that being ; 
 
 My heart, beneath the revelation, paused to say " I live !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There's a strange new life upon me, 
 With a clarion-toned suffusion 
 Of joy, that cannot sound itself with words of mortal 
 speech ; 
 But it is no fancy won me, 
 
 No mere student-bred delusion ; 
 'Tis thy vatic words that make a dual future in my reach. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What a bounteously decreeing 
 Gift hath love, when it receiving 
 Love for love, transfigures us to things undreamed be- 
 fore ? 
 Now I've two lives in my being. 
 You have two lives in your living. 
 And yet we have but one dear life between us evermore. 
 
THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY. 51 
 
 THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY 
 
 A Birth-day Ope. 
 
 On the middle day of the middle month 
 
 Of the heavenly-fashioned summer, 
 When vines were scaling the antique eaves, 
 And earth lay in shade under motionless leaves. 
 And the sap of the sod. 
 By the blessing of God, 
 Ran leaping and romping through branch-woven bowers, 
 Was tittering in tendrils and laughing in flowers : 
 Like young happy children love-linked to each other. 
 Who spring from to brighten, 
 And clinging to lighten. 
 With ever fresh pride, the rich breast of their mother. 
 
 In such a midday of the middle month 
 
 Of the golden-dowered summer, 
 My better angel was sent from above, 
 Born to the Earth with her mission of love ; 
 And Earth, with the favors of rich July, 
 
 Arrayed the gentle comer. 
 
 The mingled radiance of the illumined space 
 Centred on her face. 
 With the blue of the skies 
 Were tinct her eyes, 
 
58 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 And the staid and holy air 
 Filled her with prayer ; 
 The fruitage of the Earth 
 Gave her ripe mirth, 
 And the myriad floral dyes 
 Numberless shades of pleasantries ; 
 The mighty oak outstretched its arms at length, 
 Standmg strong sponsor for her strength, 
 And the trustful vine 
 Taught her to entwine 
 Her soul around the strong to beautify it : 
 The conscious heat of noon lent her full power to defy it 
 
 The freshened dawn, in night-escaped security. 
 Thrilled her fresh heart with clarion tones of purity : 
 The evening breeze 
 Brought her revivifying ease ; 
 The half-parched streams, with mutual assistance, 
 Made a flush river to teach her mind persistence ; 
 And crowds of wealthy humble bushes quaint 
 Gave her their unambitious birthright — self-restraint. 
 The ash upon the mountain's rugged side 
 Told her in life and liberty to pride ; 
 And the yew, bending its melancholy head, 
 Taught her to weep the dead. 
 The wild plants of the wood 
 Showed her the weal of solitude. 
 And preached of modesty in their fresh enamels ; 
 The lightning, leaping from its ebon trammels. 
 Showed her, as it unfurled, 
 The electric lord and servant of the world. 
 The rapid thunder, that in hot July 
 Strikes earth with all the ordnance of the sky, 
 
THE GOD-CHILD OF JULY. 59 
 
 Rolled its unseen artilleries 
 Through the black gorges of those weird Cordilleras 
 
 Of cloud which mock imagination — 
 Poured its mysterious majesty of sound 
 The god-child of its favored month around, 
 
 And woke the drowsy day to hearty acclamation 
 
 Ah me, so tended was this tender creature 
 
 Within by heavenly, without by earthly nature. 
 
 She grew a being strong without alloy. 
 
 To bless in sorrow, to sustain in joy — 
 
 In wealth be calm, in poverty be rich, 
 
 Until one questioned with her w^hich was which. 
 
 Within the world, she is so much above it 
 
 She lessens not herself, nor it to love it ; 
 
 With faith surrounding, leading all things human, 
 
 At once a loving wife and trustful woman. 
 
 The anniversary of her natal day 
 
 Is rung, by the chimes, to the times passed away. 
 
 I pray of Heaven, which has vouchsafed to me 
 The guardianship of such condensed variety 
 As the dear Past, to let the Future be 
 SuflFused with Love, sublimed by Piety 
 
 July 15th. 
 
60 FAITH Ax\D FANCr. 
 
 BREASTING THE WORLD. 
 
 Many years have burst upon my forehead, 
 Years of gloom and heavy freighted grief ; 
 
 And I have stood them as against the horrid 
 Angry gales, the Peak of Teneriflfe. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet if all the world had storm and sorrow, 
 You had none, my better self, Lenore, 
 
 My toil was as the midnight seeking morrow, 
 You moon-like lit the way I struggled o'er. 
 
 III. 
 Though as a cataract my soul went lashing 
 
 Itself through ravines desolate and gray. 
 You made me see a beauty in the flashing, 
 
 And with your presence diamonded the spray. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then, Lenore, though we have grown much older- 
 Though our eyes were brighter when we met, 
 
 Still let us feel, shoulder unto shoulder 
 And heart to heart, above the world yet I 
 
AT NIAGARA. 61 
 
 AT NIAGARA 
 
 THE EAPLDS. 
 
 In broken lines, like ghosts of buried nations, 
 Struggling beneath their white and tangled palls, 
 
 They leap and roar to Earth their exaltations, 
 And Earth e'en trembles as each spectre falls. 
 
 II. 
 
 With strength that gives solemnity to clangour. 
 With quaint immensity that strangles mirth, 
 
 Like mortal things they roar to time then* angjr, 
 Like things immortal they disdain the Earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 They bound — as dallying in their gorgeous West, 
 In forest cradles and in parent mountains. 
 
 They heard old Ocean throb his regal breast 
 
 And call his vassals — the cascades and fountains. 
 
 IV. 
 
 From crag to crag they leap and spread the sound, 
 Through gorge and wood their flashing banners motion, 
 
 Till here in frantic rivalry they bound, 
 
 These mighty white-plumed cohorts, for the ocean. 
 C 
 
G2 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 V. 
 
 Surging along the pale battalions muster, 
 
 Crowding each other, till the strongest springs 
 
 A-top his fellows, with heroic lustre, 
 
 And dares the deeds, like Yiking, that he sings. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Like men, the Rapids, born amid restless valor, 
 Flash o'er their foes with many a frothened spasm, 
 
 And linking all in pomp's majestic pallor, 
 
 Leap like ten thousand Romans down the chasm I 
 
 THE FALLS. 
 
 There is an awful eloquence around — 
 
 Like earthquake underneatli the dreamful pillows 
 Of some great town, that deemed its strength profound 
 
 And wakes on worse than frantic Ocean's billows. 
 
 The mists, like shadowy cathedrals rise, 
 
 And through the vapory cloisters prayers are pouring 
 Such as ne'er sprang to the eternal skies. 
 
 From old Earth's passionate and proud adoring. 
 
 III. 
 
 There is a voice of Scripture in the flood, 
 With solemn monotone of glory bounding, 
 
AT NIAGARA. 6S 
 
 Making all else an awe-hushed solitude 
 To hear its everlasting faith resounding. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is a quiet on my heart like death, 
 
 My eyes are gifted with a strange expansion, 
 
 As if they closed upon my life's last breath, 
 And oped to measure the eternal mansion. 
 
 I see so much I fear to trust my vision, 
 I hear so much I doubt my mortal ear, 
 
 I feel so much, my soul in strong submission 
 Bends in a silent, death-like rapture here. 
 
64 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 SHANE'S HEAD. 
 
 ScRtiR— Before Dublin CanUe. Night. A clansman of Shane O'AViir.'i dis- 
 covers his chief's head upon a pole. 
 
 God's wrath upon the Saxou! may they never know the 
 
 pride, 
 Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spears beside ; 
 When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave. 
 Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his 
 
 grave. 
 May every light from Cross of Christ that saves the heart 
 
 of man, 
 Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon 
 
 clan ; 
 For sure, O God ! — and you know all whose thought for 
 
 all sufficed, — 
 To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another Christ. 
 
 Is it thus, Shane the haughty ! Shane the vahant ! that 
 we meet — 
 
 Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to 
 defeat ; 
 
 Have I no chief — or you no clan, to give us both de- 
 fence. 
 
 Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence ? 
 
65 
 
 Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle- 
 tower, 
 
 Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, aud thy brow seems rough 
 with power ; 
 
 Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treach'ry 
 stung, 
 
 Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery 
 
 III. 
 
 That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of 
 
 Columbkill, 
 Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks 
 
 of Derry Hill ; 
 Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and 
 
 to knaves, 
 And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. 
 The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met 
 
 their ears. 
 And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his 
 
 stormy cheers. 
 Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out-ciianting it 
 
 your tongue. 
 Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court 
 
 among. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Just think, Shane ! the same moon shines on Liflfey 
 
 as on Foyle, 
 And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to 
 
 despoil ; 
 
 6* 
 
66 FAITH AND FANCY, 
 
 And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and 
 ours, 
 
 A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dub- 
 lin towers. 
 
 Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still — 
 
 My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours, Hwas yours ! 
 to keep or kill. 
 
 And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief, — your life, your 
 soul, your pride, — 
 
 But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane — with proud 
 O'Neill it died. 
 
 V. 
 
 You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as 
 
 Spanish steel. 
 But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief — 
 
 O'Neill ? 
 Who reared aloft the "Bloody Hand" until it paled the 
 
 sun. 
 And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done. 
 He was " turbulent" with traitors — he was " haughty" 
 ^ with the foe — 
 
 He was " cruel," say ye Saxons ? Ay ! he^ dealt ye blow 
 
 for blow I 
 He was " rough" and " wild," and who's not wild, to see 
 
 his hearthstone razed ? 
 He was " merciless as fire" — ah, ye kindled him, — he 
 
 blazed I 
 He was ''proud:" yes, proud of birthright, and because 
 
 he flung away 
 Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mock- 
 ing spray. 
 
Shane's head. 67 
 
 He was wild, insane for vengeance, — ay ! and preached 
 
 it till Tyrone 
 Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Red hands" to clutch 
 
 their own. 
 
 VI. 
 
 *'The Scots are on the border, Shane" — ye saints, he 
 
 makes no breath — 
 I remember when that cry would wake him up almost 
 
 from death : 
 Art truly dead and cold ? O Chief I art thou to Ulster 
 
 lost? 
 "Dost hear, dost hear ? By Randolph led, the troops 
 
 the Foyle have crossed I" 
 He's truly dead I he must be dead! nor is his ghost 
 
 about — 
 And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a 
 
 shout : 
 The pale face droopeth northward — ahl his soul must 
 
 loom up there, 
 By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or 
 
 Bann the Fair ! 
 I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, 
 
 proud Shane, 
 In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its 
 
 hate again I 
 
(■)8 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 SAINT ANNE'S WELL.' 
 
 A DOWN the loved valley of sweet Glan-nis-mole, 
 The Dodder's wild waters in bright rapture roll ; 
 And woo the brown heath in its winding career, 
 Like a young lover stealthily pressing his dear : 
 Or yet, like the red Indian tracing the spot, 
 Where the white man has ravished his primeval cot ; 
 And it steals and it foams, half in fear, half in joy. 
 Like a girl all beauty, all pride like a boy. 
 Looming over this valley, where Solitude reigns, 
 In all the wild stillness that Nature enchains, 
 Kippure has his throne, — where defying the gale, 
 Castle-Kelly enwraps with weird shadows the vale, — 
 His head in the clouds, as though bound with a crown, 
 His sceptre the rays of the sun streaming down. 
 His courtiers, Bal-mannoch, Cornaun, See-Finane, 
 From the Brakes to green Tallaght he boasts his domain : 
 And the Golden Spears, glistening like sentinels, stand 
 Near the throne of the chief of this bright valley-land 
 With his face to the Liffey, his back to Glancree, 
 Echo sings, as bard should, of his proud chieftaincy ; 
 And the wind sw^eeping down — like the gray wizard 
 
 powers 
 Of Homer, or OssiaUj that Homer of ours — 
 
SAINT ANNE's well. ()9 
 
 Tlirills the heather, like harp-strings, that vibrating loud, 
 
 Makes invisible chorus between cliff and cloud, 
 
 And hovers with many a mystical rann 
 
 O'er the fountain of goodness — the Well of St. Anne. 
 
 II. 
 
 The well calmly springs on the wild brocken side. 
 Like a tear on the cheek of a soul sanctified — 
 A sister of charity, given by bliss 
 To cure with its virtues, and cool with its kiss I 
 And dear is this valley ! — ah, yes, ever dear 
 Are the scenes that are linked with a smile or a tear — 
 Tliat thrilled us with pleasure, or filled us with pain, 
 In the noonday of life, and youth's royal domain ! 
 Wliat can be more dear than that one lonely place. 
 Where youth met its reflex in some young loved face ? 
 Saw the tremors, and wooings, the kissings, and then 
 Saw the quarrels and sobs, yea, and kissing again ; 
 Where the vale was our study — our music the brooks — • 
 The graveyard our library — tombstones our books ; 
 4nd the Ruin, a monitor graybeard profound. 
 Full of pride in his charge of the records around. 
 And our Wells — holy Wells I that our loved legends link- 
 Making sinew and soul of our past glory drink — 
 To the heroes that fought, and the lances that sprung 
 As the sage counselled battle, or poet war sung ! 
 They are dear to our hearts : and remind dreaming man 
 Of the Action he's heir to ! — loved Well of St. Anne. 
 
 III. 
 
 Its waters are clear, and as pure as the soul 
 
 Of the saint that endowed it. Beneath a green knoll 
 
70 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 It peacefully slumbers in hallowed repose, 
 
 Aud though always brimming, it never o'erflows ; 
 
 For a sidelong trickle leads off the blest flow, 
 
 When its breast is too full, to the Dodder below ; 
 
 And skirts by the little church Kilmosantan, 
 
 Where the green ivy close the old ruin doth span, 
 
 And clings hke a lover, whose constancy wages 
 
 A war with old Time — growing fonder through ages I 
 
 On these lonely waters the saint left a spell, 
 
 Which faith have the people, and thence to the well 
 
 They fly for its draughts ; for the power Saint Anne 
 
 Bestowed on the spring was, that if mortal man 
 
 Was maimed, ill, but faith had, he'd surely get ease 
 
 If he creep from the church to the well on his knees. 
 
 Methinks few e'er try — for devious the path 
 
 To the sickling or sage ; and the maimed one who hath 
 
 Strength eno' to proceed, needs less the spell, than 
 
 Stout patience he'd want to suit goodly Saint Anne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sweet Yale I Holy Well I shall this heart e'er forget, 
 This mind to thee die, or my sun of thought set 
 On the days I have lingered beside thy clear tide. 
 Or with those my heart clung to, clomb thy hill side ? 
 Pointing out the old raths, where the sage peasant told 
 Me, the fairies and spreethauns their wild revels hold ; 
 When I merrily laughed, and he solemnly chid. 
 Adjuring me gravely, to " mind what I did," 
 Lest the ** wee folk" in vengeance should give me a stroke. 
 Then I danced on the rath, half in doubt, half in joke, 
 And he, shaking his head, strolled away, chiding still, 
 And praying, " Heaven help my irreverent will." 
 Shall those scenes pass away, when afar I am gone ? 
 
SAINT ANNE'S WELL. 
 
 No ! as steel to the magnet, I ever cling on ! 
 No ! my heart never shall let that picture decay ; 
 Though I float the St. Lawrence, the famed thrush's lay 
 Of Glan-nis-mole's valley shall still charm mine ear, 
 And the wild Dodder's carol yet louder I'll hear 
 Than Niagara's chorus : the ivy's fresh love, 
 To my heart, as its temple, wherever I rove. 
 Will cling like a mantle to warm its veins. 
 With love for its youth's home, while feeling remains : 
 The church where I've dreamed all the summer days fair, 
 The cascades that burst like some wild Irish air — 
 Which flashing and fading, its force is scarce felt. 
 The passions so quick into low murmurs melt — 
 The furze-gilded uplands — the brier-bound brooks. 
 The moss-mottled crags, where the sun his last looks — 
 The Brakes, where the hills, shutting Wicklow out, stand, 
 Like the bulwarks and guards of some Bard's promised 
 
 land — 
 And each hill, whose gray brow, bound with heath pur- 
 ple-brown. 
 Seems a king with his iron but silken-cased crown — 
 Ah 1 where'er I may roam, these in fancy I'll scan. 
 And my mouth shall be still cool with drauo^hts froii 
 Saint Anue. 
 
FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 WINTER THOUGHTS. 
 
 I.— THE DEAD YEAR. 
 
 I. 
 Yet another chief is carried 
 
 From life's battle on his spears, 
 To the great Yalhalla cloisters 
 
 Of the ever-living years. 
 
 Yet another year — the mummy 
 Of a warlike giant, vast — 
 
 Is niched within the pyramid 
 Of the ever-growing past. 
 
 III. 
 Years roll through the palm of Ages, 
 
 As the dropping ros'ry speeds 
 Through the cold and passive fingers 
 
 Of a hermit at his beads. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One year falls and ends its penance, 
 
 One arises with its needs, 
 And 'tis ever thus prays Nature, 
 
 Only telling years for beads. 
 
WINTER THOUGHTS. 73 
 
 V. 
 
 Years, like acorns from the branches 
 
 Of the giant oak of Time, 
 Fill the earth with healthy seedlings 
 
 For a future more sublime. 
 
 II.— A FROSTY NIGHT. 
 
 As one that worketh miracles, the moon 
 Transfigures all the silence into light ; 
 And filagreed with frost the hill-sides white. 
 And sloping uplands flecked with drifted snow, 
 Seem, through their statued chill, to whine a lo\^ 
 
 And plaintive croon. 
 
 II. 
 
 The groves that were in summer-time all song. 
 Profuse in clear soprano tones of glee, 
 Now hoarsely dull, hke voice-cracked choirs dree 
 Their shivering existences, and make 
 Night mournful, as the dirges slowly take 
 
 Their woes along. 
 
 III. 
 
 The mountain gorges, that like arteries ran 
 
 With June-breath, hot as blood, are weirdly numb, 
 And here and there the trickling streamlets come 
 And break the frost in many a wild device. 
 Struggling a-through thin barricades of ice 
 
 That all the gullies span. 
 
 •7 
 
FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 The lonely trees, scant-robed in crispy snow, 
 Stretching their bare arms upward to the sky, 
 Seem like poor buried souls, who did not die, 
 That waking, burst their sepulchres, and strive. 
 With piteous plaints, to prove themselves alive 
 
 To their mad woe. 
 
 V. 
 
 As o'er the ghostly landscape peers the sight, 
 The moonlight teaming an unbroken flood — 
 The stars that in their planet coteries brood 
 Over earth's solitude — the distant trackless sea — 
 Roll to Thought's shore the ebbless tide — Eternity 
 
 This vast, pale night. 
 
 III.— SNOW ON THE GROUND. 
 
 Like a corpse the stark earth lieth. 
 Free from toiling Life's deceits ; 
 
 And the Air, grown pale from watching, 
 Swathes her round with snowy sheets. 
 
 II. 
 Fold on fold wraps mutely round her. 
 
 Her calm breast no life-hope rears. 
 And she seems from heaven's weeping, 
 
 To be tombed in frozen tears. 
 
WINTER THOUGHTS. 75 
 
 III. 
 
 But though rigid cold her bosom, 
 Gone her music — fled her bloom ; 
 
 Still the shrouded Earth, like Juliet, 
 Is but tranced within the tomb. 
 
 IV.— SUMMER ALWAYS. 
 
 While the wind is fiercely howling, 
 
 Lilla dear, come anear — 
 While the wolf-like wind is howling. 
 Round the cottage gables prowlmg, 
 And the wintry clouds are scowling 
 
 On the mere : 
 Let us, waking up the embers, 
 
 Love and youth and books revere, 
 Feel that howling bleak Decembers 
 Cannot make a winter here, 
 Lilla dear. 
 
 II. 
 
 While the outside world is shivering, 
 
 Lilla dear, come anear — 
 While the beggar Earth is shivering, 
 Like a miser, old and quivering. 
 Unto Time his debt delivering 
 
 Of the year : 
 Let us, clinging close together, 
 Though perchance we drop a tear 
 
16 FAITH AXD FANCY. 
 
 O'er the past, find summer weather 
 E'er in living, loving here, 
 Lilla dear. 
 
 v.— FACES IN THE FIEK 
 
 I AM gazing all the night-time, 
 
 At the faces in the fire — 
 Whilst the roaring rain-storm dashes 
 On the shaking window-sashes, 
 And the wakeful aerial ocean 
 Wracks the forest that it wrestles ; 
 And the sea, with wrathful motion, 
 Shakes and breaks the lab'ring vessels, 
 Till the crowded limbers, surging. 
 Send the people, wildl}^ splurging, 
 
 In the waves, till they expire. 
 
 II. 
 
 And I think how like the life-flame 
 
 Are those red shapes I admire : — 
 First, they're merely indicated. 
 Then, like childhood, grow elated 
 With the fresh heat that imbues them, 
 Then like youth hot flames infuse them. 
 Then, like men, a steady burning 
 Glows a-through them, till the turning 
 Point of being, makes gray gashes, 
 And they crumble into ashes 
 Like mere faces in the fire. 
 
WASHIXGTOX. 77 
 
 WASHINGTON." 
 
 Art in its mighty privilege receives 
 
 Painter and painted in its bonds forever ; 
 
 A girl by Raphael in his glory lives — 
 
 A Washington unto his Hmner gives 
 
 The Ages' love to crown his best endeavor 
 
 II. 
 
 The German Emperor, with whose counterpart 
 The gorgeous Titian made the world acquainted, 
 
 Boasted himself immortal by the art ; 
 
 But he who on thi/ features cast his heart. 
 Was made immortal by the head he painted ! 
 
 III. 
 
 For thou before whose tinted shade I bow, 
 
 Wert sent to show the wise of every nation 
 How a young world might leave the axe and plough 
 To die for Truth ! So great, so loved wert thou. 
 That he who touched thee won a reputation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The steady fire that battled in thy breast. 
 
 Lit up our gloom with radiance, good though gory ; 
 
78 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Like some red sun which the dull earth caressed 
 Into a wealthy adoration blest 
 
 To be its glory's great reflected glory. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thou — when the earthly heaven of man's soul — 
 
 The heaven of home, of liberty, of honor — 
 Shuddered with darkness — didst the clouds uproll 
 And burst such light upon the nation's dole 
 That every State still feels thy breath upon her. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Could I have seen thee in the Council — bland, 
 
 Firm as a rock, but as deep stream thy manner ; 
 Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, 
 Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand. 
 
 And squadrons rolling round thee like a banner ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Could I have been with thee on Princeton's morn ! 
 
 Or swelled with silence in the midnight muster ; 
 Beheld thee ever, every fate adorn — 
 Or on retreat, or winged victory borne — 
 
 The warrior throbbing with the sage's lustre : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Could I have shouted in the wild acclaim 
 
 That rent the sky o'er Germantown asunder ; 
 Or when, like cataract, 'gainst the sheeted flame 
 You dashed, and chill'd the victor-shout to shame, 
 On Monmouth's day of palsy-giving thunder : 
 
WASHINGTON. *?9 
 
 IX. 
 
 Could I have followed thee through town and camp ! 
 
 Fought where you led, and heard the same drums rattle ; 
 Charged with a wild biit passion-steadied tramp, 
 And witnessed, rising o'er death's ghastly damp. 
 
 The stars of empire through the clouds of battle ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh ! to have died thus 'neath thy hero gaze. 
 
 And won a smile, my bursting youth would rather 
 
 Thau to have lived with every other praise, 
 
 having the blessing of those epic days 
 
 When you blest all, and were the nation's father. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The autumn sun caresses Yernon's tomb, 
 
 Whose presence doth the country's honor leaven : 
 
 Two suns they are, that dissipate man's gloom ; 
 
 For one's the index to Earth's free-born bloom, 
 The other to our burning hope in Heaven I 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thy dust may moulder in the hollow rock ; 
 
 But every day thy soul makes some new capture ! 
 Nations unborn will swell thy thankful flock, 
 And Fancy tremble that she cannot mock 
 
 Thy history's Truth that will enchant with rapture. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 How vain the daring to compute in words 
 
 The height of homage that the heart would render I 
 
 And yet how proud — to feel no speech affords 
 
 Harmonious measure to the subtle chords 
 
 That fill the soul beneath thy placid splendor ! 
 
Sti FAITH AND FANCY 
 
 THE PLAINT OF THE WILD-FLOWER 
 
 I WAS not born for the town, 
 Where all that^s pure and humble's trodden down 
 
 My home is in the woods — 
 The over-arching, cloistered solitudes ; 
 
 Where the full-toned psalm 
 Of Nature at her matin broke the calm 
 
 Of cloudy pillowed Night, 
 With calmness made more voluble by light : 
 
 And where the Minstrel Noon, 
 Made every young stem spring, as to a tune ; 
 
 Ay, where our joys were led 
 To suit the fluted measures of the orb o'erliead. 
 
 I am forlorn 
 Here 'mid the waking jargon of the day ; 
 Noon brings no light, no song of birds at play ; 
 My plume is in the dust : I pine and pray 
 For the old woods, the grand old woods away 
 
 Where I was born. 
 
 Here I am dying : I want room — 
 Koom for the air of heaven, for the bloom 
 
THE PLAINT OF THE WILD-FLOWER. 81 
 
 Of never-tiring nature ; room 
 For the verdure-freighted clouds, and thunder-boom 
 
 That sounds relief to drouthy earth ; 
 Room for the sunlight and th' exhaustless mirth 
 
 Of laughing July's breeze, 
 Untangling the meshes of the branching trees ; 
 
 Room for cool night and ruddy day, 
 For peace, for health — aught naturally gay ; 
 
 Room to take vital breath 
 x\nd look on any thing not painted death I 
 
 I am forlorn — 
 I, who from my earliest golden age, 
 Sat by the regal Oak's foot, like a page, 
 And, mantled in moss, at the close of day 
 Slept by my prince, in the woods far away 
 
 Where I was born. 
 
 III. 
 
 Here is no room — no room 
 For e'en a flower's life ; nothing but a tomb. 
 
 forest gods ! look down, 
 
 And shield your other offspring from the town. 
 
 Ah ! would that I could die 
 Where o'er my wreck the forest flowers might sigh, 
 
 And clustering shrubs a-near 
 Weave dirges low, like leaves above my bier ; 
 
 Where kindly chestnut-leaves 
 Would shade the woe of every plant that grieves, 
 
 And e'en the great Oak's head 
 Let fall the tears of dew when his poor page is dead 
 
 1 am forlorn : 
 
 Night brings no darkness, and the day no light ; 
 
82 
 
 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Noon brings but noise, to vary mj affright ; 
 I'm dying 'neath the city's loathsome blight, 
 Far, my mother Nature I from thy sight. 
 Far from thy earth, thy heaven, and the woodland 
 bright 
 Where I was born. 
 
GAME LAWS. 80 
 
 GAME LAWS/ 
 
 I. 
 
 A-THROUGH the crunching underwood the wild boar madly 
 
 came, 
 With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, stiff mane and eyes 
 
 of flame. 
 
 II. 
 Through golden crops, through tangled copse, he fiercely 
 
 plunging tore, 
 All seemed but withered fibres to the rage-expanding 
 
 boar. 
 
 III. 
 Through leafy screen and rough ravine, through lane and 
 
 plain the brute 
 Makes head, and in the cotter's field at last eludes 
 
 pursuit. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Ho ! Hans, be quick ; take in the child — bring out my 
 
 trusty gun.'' 
 Hans fled and came, the cotter fired — the wild boar's 
 
 race was run. 
 
 V. 
 
 But woe ! alas, what came to pass, the forest-ranger saw 
 The deed, and shot the cotter down — to make him " keep 
 the law." 
 
84 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 VI. 
 
 HeiT Graff and staff, feast, laugh, and quaff that night 
 
 with beakers red : 
 The cotter's home is desolate — its head, its heart lies 
 
 dead. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis royal sport for king and court to hunt the grizzly 
 
 boar, 
 But woe unto the poor man who dares hunt him from 
 
 his door. 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 85 
 
 DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Scene— ^ Public Park in the City. 
 Persons— TVoo Students. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Look at the pale Moon pacing up the skies, 
 Like a frayed maiden who had seen her sire, 
 The martial Sun, the monarch of the day, 
 Hunted before the red and spearlike clouds. 
 Whose only glory is the blood he shed : 
 See her, all pale and beautifully wan, 
 O'erlooking where her overpowered sire. 
 Ennobling the foes he crimsoned with his gore, 
 Sank ; but, in sinking, died the victor's death, 
 And dragged them with him from all eartlily gaze. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 She looks divine ! 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 She is divine ! but see how white she grows, 
 
 As though her regnant spirit was congeaPd 
 With thinking on her sire's red sacrifice — 
 Or though the horror of the mighty death 
 Frightened away her outraged blood, and sent 
 Her woman's milken feeling through her frame ; 
 8 
 
86 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 As on she hurries panting from the East— 
 And up th' uncertain bhie with steady pace, 
 Made regular in weakness, she persists— 
 To preach her vengeance to tlie starry hosts, 
 And trv to win them to her filial cause. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Oh ! would we could her frenzied pleading hear— 
 For see, yon stars seem gaining greater light 
 From the infusion of her earnest speech ; 
 She stirs their souls ; they glimmer with her thought, 
 And nod, as to each other, their applause ! 
 Oh ! how her orphaned virginhood must rise 
 Into the woman's proud, full-statured force, 
 Making her importunities, commands I — 
 How she must picture the old hero's death, 
 And make the roused heavens think he lives again, 
 Pleading his own cause with accustomed fire ! 
 She grows with her desire — expands in agony, 
 And reaches with her light the furthest star. 
 
 PIGTOR. 
 
 But they are motionless — they seem so rapt 
 With her enthusiasm, they bestir them not ; 
 Her eloquence has fixed them where they stand. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Ay doth she kill the cause by the effect 
 She makes. Her bright, divine intelligence 
 Run loose upon the sky — the stars are vague 
 To aught but listening : / blame them not, 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 87 
 
 For who could stir while yet her voice enchants, 
 And flings its spells of eloquence around. 
 
 PICTOR, 
 
 Would I were Venus, and I'd win them all, 
 As she did Paris, to my suit ; I'd make 
 Their test of vassalage and price of court 
 An unconditioned service to the Moon. 
 I would, by all the beauty of her crest ! 
 I would, or if they lacked the val'rous soul, 
 Or paced in stolid ease whOe yet she prayed 
 I'd change them, as the Cyprian fair she did,^ 
 To moody oxen, and confer them horns 
 Less hard than their own hearts. — But look I 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Mars reddens : hke a man, his face suffused 
 
 With all the gory passion of his heart 
 
 That prompts his brain to bloodier deeds 
 
 Than crimsoning his own cheeks : yet see the Moon 
 
 Untired, with luminous distention praying 
 
 Aid from the tranced orbs — wasting her soul 
 
 Upon the statued crowd, who give no sign 
 
 They hearken to her speech, save that their fronts 
 
 Beam in the light her radiant sorrow sheds. 
 
 Would I were Mars ! Pictor ! would I were, 
 
 And by the heavens I'd hold in my own right, 
 
 I'd leap from out my hero couch of clouds. 
 
 And marshalling the Scythian hordes in air, 
 
 I'd drive these laggard constellations hence. 
 
 And pale them in the visage of the Sun 
 
 Avenged ! (Muses for a feiv momenta.) 
 
88 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 A hero's name can conquer worlds ; 
 
 The action dies not, though the body rots : 
 
 And I would shout " The Sun" through every space 
 
 Till all the echoes wrangled into one — 
 
 Like foes towards a well-fought battle's close. 
 
 Then like a Joshua I'd command it — stand — 
 
 Making that day eternity in Heaven ! 
 
 So that these stars might have devouring rest 
 
 As stagnant waters grow beneath the Sun 
 
 To eat themselves up with the things they bieed. 
 
 Ah ! yonder stars — these ancient godships feel 
 
 Their former deeds ill-qualify the seats 
 
 They now usurp throughout the modern Heaven, 
 
 And fear to move, lest moving they're unthroned ; 
 
 As though the sitting on a throne made kings 
 
 Or gods, or transfused souls in slimy men. 
 
 A king is he whose regnant soul acts king ! 
 
 Men can be gods 'mong men who ajct the god, 
 
 And every dastard is himself the mark 
 
 Showing how far below his knavish heart 
 
 The tide of virtue flings the weeds of vice. 
 
 Look at the Moon, so passionately pure — 
 
 See how she knocks uupitied at their hearts, 
 
 Like outcast Virtue at a city's gates 
 
 Where "merchant princes" star commercial skies. 
 
 And now — expanding in her strength of woe, 
 
 She rises o'er the senseless myriads there 
 
 To shield her virgin pride from heartless gaze. 
 
 See — with eyes turned for comfort to her heart, 
 
 As plant that closes to the vulgar touch. 
 
 And pale determination on her brow. 
 
 And sobs unuttered, making her bare breast 
 
 In expectation rigid, as they wait 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 89 
 
 Upon her mouth, as prisoner upon 
 
 The gates, to heave his presence to the air — 
 
 She paces queenhke to yon murky cloud, 
 
 And seeks a refusje in the weighty ffloom : 
 
 As virgin martyrs her god-ripened years 
 
 In solemn, solitary, cloister dim, 
 
 Seeking within the empire of her faith 
 
 Amends for that cold, senseless world she fled — 
 
 And lo ! the people who had passed her by. 
 
 Or gazed at her for beauty's sake alone, 
 
 Proclaim in gossip all the worth gone with her. 
 
 So, all the stars seem whispering of the Moon ; 
 
 They actually brighten, as inspired, 
 
 Now she is gone, in pity for her fate. 
 
 Poor Moon — thou art the type of intellect, 
 
 And all mankind but imitate the stars. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 'Tis true — too true : but, Leon, let us on. 
 Like Rembrandt's shadows is the atmosphere, 
 Darkly and deeply clear, to night. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Ay, good ! 
 And through it brood yon clouds, as ponderous as 
 The prophet brow of Angelo's Isaiah. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Leon, let us on — the air refreshes like a bath : 
 It turns quaint fancies in my dreaming brain. 
 Like a Kaleidoscope : all the shiftless thoughts. 
 On which the humid noon lay like muffed glass, 
 
 8* 
 
90 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Now deftly turn, and tumble into pictures. 
 This night air's like iced wine, it cools the brain 
 And warms the fancy. Bah, these August days, 
 When the red noon like a huge blanket folds 
 The summer, hushing up the city's energy 
 Into a sluggish, dreamless heat, arc horrible — 
 I can only breathe o'nights. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 The day's hot jargon, with its clamors rude, 
 Clangs on my ear as doth the discord mean 
 When miser huckster rings a poor man's coin. 
 It speaks of traffic, doubts, and selfish ends ; 
 The whole sensation of the day is Cash. 
 You can't enjoy it save you quit the town ; 
 And seek sweet nature on the broad highways ; 
 In crooked lanes where vine-clad banks are fanned, 
 By lithe witch-hazel and young maple boughs ; 
 In yellow woods with nuts incrusted o'er ; 
 Or, by the margins of the elfin streams, 
 That dance in white-capped groups a-through the 
 
 rocks, 
 And then join hands to rush o'er level sands. 
 You leave the city to enjoy the day : 
 But in this park, within the city's heart. 
 With fabrics dim, like battlements around, 
 We can enjoy the calm and placid night. 
 Night speaks a language known to every tongue ; 
 When I unfold my heart to her, I feel 
 As though I spoke to every troubled soul. 
 Her starry syllables each land translates 
 Into the universal blessing — rest. 
 In every clime the lover trusts in her ; 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 91 
 
 From her the sorrow-laden find response : 
 
 She is munificence itself to grief. 
 
 On her pale breast the wretched outlaw rests ; 
 
 The beggar views the starlight as a king, 
 
 Yea, like a monarch he in moonlight walks, 
 
 When day, like monarch, walks upon his rags. 
 
 And to the student's vague and longing breast 
 
 Is not the vast impenetrable night 
 
 A fit companion ? And to those 
 
 Thrice happy hearts, who at the Throne of thrones, 
 
 Seek upon bended knee sweet recompense, 
 
 And all-supplying dues for the defaults 
 
 Of life, what time so prayerful as night 
 
 To make their peace with Heaven ere they sink 
 
 Into that temporary death called sleep. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Truly thou art enraptured with the night, 
 And break thy fantasies upon her grace. 
 As lovers do upon their first love's love. 
 Think her thy mistress, and but woo her thus, 
 She'll doubtless graft upon thy ardent brain 
 The various benefits you crown her with. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 The Moon-souled midnight is the Poet's love. 
 
 Pale with reflection of the sunny world 
 
 Of books and thought : her placid forehead bound 
 
 With strands of lustrous stars, but brilliant less 
 
 Than all the teeming radiances within. 
 
 Her wavy locks in pale effulgence hang 
 
 Around them with prophetic dreaminess, 
 
92 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 As doth the Revelations of Saint Johu^ 
 Around the light on his enthusiast brain. 
 Her eyes are blue, as blue as Huron's lake ; 
 And like it clear, in which the gazer sees, 
 Through magic vistas of refracted light, 
 Her pure soul bathing in their azure depths 
 And flinging gems out as a nymph from cave. 
 As Huron's lake her eyes ; their lashes dark 
 Like the tall fir-trees, black against the sky. 
 Which are reflected in the moon-lit lake, 
 And let the light flood through their lashy web 
 As water teems out from a fisher's net, 
 And leaves the silver-fish within it caught, 
 Yet leaping brilliance in the silken jail. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Bravo I Perchance in presence of the fau" 
 You have described, you would outline the bard. 
 Who hath so great a passion for her I 
 
 LEON. 
 
 You can no more describe the Poet, than 
 You can make rules to judge of poetry. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Yet critics have at both I why not ? 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Because 
 True poetry, is truthful thought made plain ; 
 Deep love of Nature, Man, and God ! that brings 
 To each heart's empire, humbly, howsoe'er, 
 
DREAMING BY M00NLK5HT. 93 
 
 The greatest good, and lifts its feelings up 
 To man and God with pure dependent faith I 
 Can we make rules to measure each heart's need ? 
 Only the Poet in his prophet vein 
 Comes near that power. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Yet we have rules — 
 
 LEON. 
 
 True, which but prove they're useless to true song. 
 Whence come these rules by captious critics made ? 
 From great bard's works to frighten lesser ones. 
 All poets are not Shaksperes, yet they're judged 
 By rules which Shakspere's excellence suggests. 
 One might as well o'errule the tender stars 
 Because they're not like the creating sun. 
 You would not crush th' aspiring creeping rose, 
 Because it cannot be a centuried oak I 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 No, truly ; 'twere too bad our sweethearts wore 
 Nor rose nor violet on their breast or hair 
 Because forsooth the oak's thy king of plants. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 No. Let the blessed ones be decked with flowers I 
 Those blooming gems were sent for woman's care. 
 They are the fragrant wealth of innocence — 
 The silent courtiers that in gardens bow 
 In thankful blossoms to the gentle queens 
 
94 FAITH AND FANCY, 
 
 By whose sweet leave and favor they are there. 
 Oh, bless the girls ! especially bless those 
 Who honor Nature in the love of flowers. 
 So should we have a blessing for the bard 
 Who, though he grasps not the quick changing hues 
 Of life's great scenes, in all their epic shifts, 
 Cultures the flowers and harmonies of life : 
 His heart is right. 
 
 PIGTOR. 
 
 We cannot give too much 
 Of honest recompense to those who live 
 Alone to tend the beautiful. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Recompense ? 
 How can you recompense the Poet's heart. 
 Which hath more wealth than lurid placers yield ? 
 The Poet's heart encompasses the world, . 
 And throbs great futures into fancied life. 
 He knows all past, and as a cloud o'er moon 
 Passes the present, stealing all its light. 
 And floats up farther heavens unknown to us 
 Where other moons make night to other worlds, 
 And other suns, like fiery burnished bits, 
 Rein in their charging satellites as steeds. 
 He thinks vast futures, which, if born aright, 
 Shall hold his image as the son his sire's. 
 He flies through futures as a seed through stonn, 
 That falls to rise a cedar. Ay, he hews 
 Out from that mine of mist, to-morrow. 
 Deep echoing temples for his soul's repose, 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 95 
 
 And dwells in them to-day : — as Shakspere loosed 
 
 The gusty currents of his Boreal soul 
 
 Through the tone-fashioning valleys of his brain, 
 
 Which sprang such sounds two centuries ago 
 
 As have not ended yet ; so that no ear 
 
 Can know the echo from the voice itself. 
 
 Where shall its gathering echoes end ? Oh where ! 
 
 If 'twill not hve this third-rate world out, 
 
 This minor fragment of the Godhead's work, 
 
 And float it full of song and sense along 
 
 The turbulent and greedy sea of Time, 
 
 Dash it to chaos as a sacrifice. 
 
 And harmonize the crash of crumbUng worlds I 
 
 [A pause. 
 The Poet's recompense is in being a Poet ! 
 The most Earth can do is not let him starve. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 I pray you, Leon, let's not talk o' that. 
 The Beautiful will drive us into earth. 
 Like moles, if she but hear us mutter " bread." 
 Come, let us feed upon the stars. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Heavenly night ! 
 Night such as this is truly Poet's food. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 And Painter's also my exclusive friend. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 And are not Painters Poets with the brush ? 
 It is their Prosiiero-wand — it is the rod 
 
96 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 By which, as Franklhi drew the heavenly fire, 
 
 They draw all nature's brilliance to their will I 
 
 The canvas is his world, o'er which supreme, 
 
 The artist looks creation like a god. 
 
 Seeing vast nature's there while yet 'tis blank. 
 
 He smiles, 'tis peopled ; mountains lap the skies, 
 
 Thick plaided woods hang robe-like round their loins ; 
 
 Rivers leap forth with glad primeval chants ; 
 
 Streamlets run babbling, laughing in his face, 
 
 Like little children who may smile at God ; — 
 
 Valleys yawn open at his peaceful nod ; 
 
 Oceans are raging when he thinks in thunder ; 
 
 Ships riven sink beneath his light'ning eye ; 
 
 Flowers chant perfume to his summer thought ; 
 
 And he surrounds all, as the air his earth I 
 
 Is not this poetry ? The very thought 
 
 Matins my own aspiring dawn for verse. 
 
 And drags up all my wild desires and love, 
 
 Like ghosts from out the sultry tomb of noon. 
 
 Where they were sepultured, not dead, but tranced 
 
 Thine is a marvellous art, my friend, 
 
 And thou hast genius, too — genius, like a sun, 
 
 To richen your ambition, send a pulse. 
 
 And life, and bright transfusion into all 
 
 It smiles upon : but you must labor, too. 
 
 Like that great orb, and heat the canvas into action 
 
 So that when you, with honor doubled, sink, 
 
 Your locks grown golden, as in infant age. 
 
 With all the sun-tinct trophies of your art, 
 
 Your every picture, like a starry world. 
 
 Shall hold a fixed, mysterious wealth to earth. 
 
 And, all combined, be galaxy of stars — 
 
 An orbed and systemed heaven in which, unseen 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 9T 
 
 Saving through them, as their creator, you 
 Shall look and live eternal ! 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Fling not, Leon, the lasso of thy tongue 
 
 So wildly around my brain : you make me mad, 
 
 And only weaken me with passion, dumb. 
 
 The golden net you weave around my heart 
 
 Is blood-stained, as it swells to its capacity 
 
 And bursts. I plunge in your great fantasy. 
 
 Like a man at sea, mocked at each plunge, 
 
 Yet plunging still to overleap the waves, 
 
 Those liquid gods, that, white-lipped, sneer me down. 
 
 As well might valley-huddled stream leap up 
 
 And kiss the hill-tops, which alone kiss heaven, 
 
 As I attempt the laurel that you shake : 
 
 You place the destiny too infinite, 
 
 The crown too high. 
 
 [The Students walk on in silence. After a 
 long pause, and suddenly, Pictor resumes, 
 musingly ;] 
 Yet I have been no orphan to such thoughts. 
 Bat they were in less vivid frenzies draped. 
 [Enthusiastically.] Ay, I have oft before my 
 
 easel stood 
 Watching my soul take sliapes o' the canvas — 
 Flinging my color-laden palette there. 
 As Jove cast Saturn's blood into the sea, 
 And saw it rise a goddess ! I have stood 
 Facing this new heaven like a continent, 
 And felt my ambitious thoughts, like rivers, 
 Glut the deep secret ravines of my heart, 
 Cataract over obstacles, and spread 
 9 
 
98 FAITH AXD FANCY. 
 
 On, growing stronger for an ocean bound ; 
 
 That ocean, like all seas, immortal I [^A pause 
 
 Are we not equal to our dreams ? 
 
 LEON. 
 
 We are. 
 The dreams of poets are their lives' programmes. 
 Even their acts are dreams to lesser men, 
 And they themselves alone can act their dreams. 
 Dreams to such men are beacons where to go ; 
 They rest the body, but ne'er calm the brain ; 
 And while flesh sleeps the soul allots its work. 
 When eyelids kiss eyelids, like a fondling pair, 
 And say " Good-night" before they lock in sleep, 
 Then to the outward world the poet rests ; 
 The while his body, like a listless cloud 
 Scarce motioning in summer noon, is free, 
 And warmed to quiet by his soul's loud songs, 
 As is the cloud by sunlight. 
 A brilliant future is before you friend : 
 As lantern looks right on the shadows down ; 
 Fling out your soul, and make your own path clear. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 If I could undream all my dreams in acts, 
 Baptize in colors all my waking thoughts. 
 Drag them like culprits to the face of day, 
 And sentence them to service, I might be. 
 As oft I vainly hoped, a people's love. 
 The worshipped of a race ! the painter, who 
 Shed lustrous tribute greater far thaw gold 
 Upon the State I dwelt in, and was reared, 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 99 
 
 As on a monument of human hearts, 
 
 Above the taxes of oflQcial seal, 
 
 As Titian was in Yenice !^ A wise 
 
 And most uncommon prince was Charles the Fifth, 
 
 Who boasted triple immortality. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Ha ! monarchs not seldom lie ! 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 But he spoke truth, 
 For Titiano painted him three times. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 By all the gods, such glory makes one shake, 
 As though the gray, rapt antiquaries were 
 Fing'ring one's skeleton, and muttering 
 Low in reverence — " the<?e are Pictor's bones, 
 The wondrous Artist he, and these Leon's 
 The Poet." If we are sepultured a-close 
 I'll nudge thee then — you laugh, but I'm for fame ; 
 For I shall link my verses with your works. 
 Ay, like name upon your tomb, to live there, 
 And become immortal ; coaxing the ages' 
 Praise, for that like them, I knew you famous. 
 As Giovanni Strozzi for all time 
 Stands on an epigram, he wrote on him 
 The Arts' Arch-angel Michael, Angelo I 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Your sarcasm is winning in its fancy 
 And only proves how prone you poets are 
 
100 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 To make mankiud your debtors. Yet Leon 
 In rich Johannisberg I'd drink to you 
 And your imagination, if I could. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 Bah I rich wine makes not honest wishes riche*", 
 It only floats the loose straws of the wits 
 Into a bundle on the praise-choked ear. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Well, here's may you as great a Poet be, 
 As you would fain so make an Artist me 1 
 
 LEON, 
 
 So you fling back my measure of your worth 
 
 On me as the daguerreotypist does — 
 
 A likeness only without natural hues. 
 
 Ah I Flattery — thou'rt used to coloring ; 
 
 I need it not as most your sitters do, 
 
 For I have wed my heart unto my brain. 
 
 My heart, like woman, full of pure desires 
 
 Warms the wild current of her husband's will, 
 
 And by uniting with his purpose, hers, 
 
 Keeps all his forces disciplined by love : 
 
 So they are one, reliant, strong, and pure. 
 
 As two young streams that fled their parent hills, 
 
 Conscious of beauty, reckless in their strength, 
 
 Ambitioning to travel through an earth. 
 
 Are madly bounding to'ards a chasm unseen. 
 
 Haply they meet, and gallant by the way. 
 
 Soon they expand, like lovers' thought, and kiss 
 
 In one foam-passionate, convincing love ; 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 101 
 
 « 
 
 And clinging closer in the shadowy gorge, — 
 As wife and husband in misfortune's gloom, — 
 In one great span, — as rainbow in the skies 
 Aug'ring of good, or sunbeams o'er the cloud 
 Leap to the earth, — they near the brink, and then, 
 In one wild throb — ^love's sacrificial spasm, 
 They clear the rock, fling off their doubt in mist, 
 Heave in joy's agony at the danger past. 
 And, more than ever in each other twined. 
 Pace broadly onward through a wondering world. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 'Tis a bold metaphor, and an apt. 
 According well with your fine, frenzied, 
 Rapturous decision* 
 
 LEON. 
 
 As those wed streams, 
 So of my heart and brain. Wild, riotous, 
 Unknown to each, as stars of various meu 
 After rough speculation they have met. 
 Thank Heaven, not too late, and shudder o'er 
 The whispered stories of their reckless past. 
 My head and heart, like Moses' arms, are up 
 Tor victory ! Goliath-browed Despair, 
 That giant evil falls, — my will the David ! 
 You need not stare — I am not crazed, but love, 
 Passionately love the beautiful I 
 The wise, the great, the pure, soul-worthy great ; 
 The trees, the rocks, the rivers, and the wind ; 
 Earth, all its prized and unknown places ; ay, 
 For here I learn, what no man knew before, 
 The heavens and all its vast locaHties 
 
 9* 
 
102 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Of stars, I love with trembling vibrant soul, 
 In one heart-easing word — love God. 
 
 [A silence of some time : Leon resumes 
 with enthusiastic calmness. 
 Pictor, what I aspire to, I will be, 
 O^ swallow up myself, as the ocean 
 Swallows the rain it once sent to the skies. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 With such a courage you deserve to win ; 
 'Tis honor, friend, with courage such to fail ; 
 I have the heart, but not the head to win, 
 While you seem born to fill up some great space : 
 Your brain is like a ball of silken thread, 
 Which may be woven into vast extent 
 As great in texture as in lustre rare. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 The Campanero in the southern woods. 
 With its white-bosomed, resonant appeal, 
 Makes all the silence-shrouded forest-trees 
 Start from thi'ir rest, for many miles around, 
 As convent-bell its votaries to prayer. 
 So when I sing, all distance shall be near. 
 In the wide universal echo. 
 I'll break upon men's reveries my song. 
 As Campanero on the dreaming leaves ; 
 Or, like the Tinamou, that lonely bird,^° 
 I'll utter one shrill cry — and men shall drop 
 The axe, or stay their rumbling teams — 
 Maids shall lean closer to the swarthy arms 
 And bend their heads to hear whence comes that 
 sound 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 103 
 
 Half melancholy, half defiant shriek, 
 
 Which they shall never hear again. 
 
 I shall sing loud at intervals, or but once, 
 
 And then no more. I quail not to go on ; 
 
 My only fear is to recede in thought. 
 
 Behind me, like a ship, there is a billowy surge, 
 
 Before, expansive wastes to be ploughed up ; 
 
 Prophetic Heaven, as one vast choir, sings *' go on," 
 
 And earthly nature in its fruits and flowers 
 
 Like chanting acolytes respond. 
 
 Why, when I lift my forehead to the Sun 
 
 Does he not make my onward pathway clear. 
 
 And that I've trod gloom with my own shadow. 
 
 [Clock strikes. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 One — two — three — four — ah I bless me, it is dawn I 
 
 How fast the hours speed in talking. — 
 
 Four o'clock — let us for home : but where's the 
 
 Moon? 
 Oh ! see how haggard and out-tired she looks, 
 As lonely now she wanders broken-souled. 
 Scarcely the shadow of her beauteous self. 
 And all the stars are well-nigh fled away. 
 To dream of her unhappiness and fate ; 
 Save here and there, some tender-hearted one, 
 Lingers who is not resolute to go 
 His way, or either follow her with cheer. 
 Mayhap the dead fire of her eloquence 
 Still spurts in embers on his soul's chilled hearth — 
 Who pales in sorrow for his acts to her, 
 And riven in consternation for her fate. 
 Sinks purposeless in silence where he stands. 
 
104 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 So meu who're cowards and of bloodless hearts, 
 
 Or cold and stagnant ones, but brains enough 
 
 In silent flights, to dare a future think, 
 
 Yet lack the courage to construct upon 
 
 The certain present coming ages claim. 
 
 The fools know not that those who live when dead, 
 
 Are never dead when living. 
 
 Here, Pictor, 
 Here is a picture for your brush, — see where, 
 Just over the horizon, undulate 
 Those pale, flushed clouds, as though the yestreen's 
 
 Sun, 
 That sank, like dying hero, in his gore — 
 Was stirring in the shroud that swathed him round, 
 And sent his luminous action through the folds, 
 As though he felt he was not dead, but slept. 
 And struggled through his cerements to prove 
 The conscious glory to the weeping earth. 
 See too, like her whose son the Saviour raised, 
 The mute, dun Heaven, like a widow stands — - 
 An awed-hope slightly ruddying her weeds. 
 Her ashen pallor daring not to flee. 
 Until she sees — oh mystery ! — her son 
 Unshrouded, living, breathing, panting, move 
 Up from the couch, she dreamt alone, of death. 
 
 PICTOR. 
 
 Now may the heartless planets tremble ever, 
 And wailing Moon rejoice. 
 
 LEON. 
 
 But no — she flies 
 Frightened unto death's shadowy texture. 
 
DREAMING BY MOONLIGHT. 105 
 
 Stricken in the presence of the rising Sun. 
 Her woman's terror giving fright full speed, 
 She vanishes before what seems to her 
 The gory spirit of her murdered sire. 
 And on through vast eternities she runs, 
 Distracted, plaining, superstitious, frayed ; 
 Loving the night, as sorrow loves the gloom, 
 For then her heart may gush a daughter's love 
 In orphaned abnegation of all bliss ; 
 Save of her stately purity thus loving. 
 Weak with her wail, distraught with fancies wild, 
 Haunted with loving memories, she beholds 
 Her glorious sire's lurid ghost appear 
 With every dawn, and barely able, flies ; 
 While he hot-hearted, not less loving, lights 
 The heavens all day to tell her, he is there. 
 
 So the eternal chase goes ever on ; 
 The Sun, hke reason, with his broadcast light 
 Rising forever to explain the doubts. 
 The fear-suggested notbings ui ihe dark. 
 The mist-made mountains, sombre shadowed groups 
 And filmy pageants of the moon-struck hours. 
 While she, the Moon, pale superstition's queen, 
 The monarch of the realms of fay 
 And elf and goblin, witch and boneless ghost ; 
 Reflections of her wail, as she of Sun, 
 For fanatics e'er throug gaunt Reason's wake 
 Until he, goaded with their insane shouts. 
 Turns on the mob with bright, determined eyes ; 
 And disconnects them in the face of day. 
 And wakeful men, from Truth's unhowled calm 
 Faith :— 
 
106 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Ay she, the Moon, pale superstition's queen, 
 The prophetess of most devoted slaves. 
 Loud Ignorance and tongueless Fear, dreads Light, 
 For which grave Error ever says she seeks. 
 Most doubting men fear most to be convinced, 
 Yet preach most piously they thirst for fact. 
 The moon-brained on their own diseases feed : 
 And some who, sunless in a dungeon's vault, 
 Have lived like moles, — die when they see the light. 
 And then for some, black error hath such bliss. 
 From long experience, that a virtuous life 
 Brings them a solitude — a quiet hell, 
 A spirit-maddening calm, like calm at sea 
 To storm-tost craft, whose hold but echoes hath. 
 So of the frayed Moon, and the rising Sun. 
 Thus the eternal chase goes ever on. 
 Chill Superstition wailing through the gloom, 
 Till Nature, flattered that she pains for truth, 
 Sends up refulgent Reason on her path ; 
 But Superstition, knowing not the day. 
 Affrighted, flies off at the name of Light. 
 
EFFIE GRAY. lOT 
 
 EFFIE GRAY. 
 
 We may watch, aud we may wait — 
 
 Hope, till hoping bringeth pain, 
 But she ne'er will pass the gate — 
 
 Effie cannot come again. 
 
 She was like some flower of Spring, 
 
 Seeking Summer but to die. 
 When the very graves can bring 
 Beauty to the heart and eye ; 
 When each mound, like throbbing breast, 
 
 Seems to heave with less of pain 
 Thau of conscious pleasure, pressed 
 By June's loving arms and brain : 
 Arms that press with soothing sway. 
 Brain enwreathed with flowers, 
 These are meet for the night that ne'er finds day 
 Meet for the rest of Effie Gray, 
 
 Though fraught with gloom for ours. 
 
 We may dream she's coming soon, 
 
 But we dupe our hopes in vain : 
 She is off — the Bride of June I 
 
 Effie will not come ao-ain. 
 
108 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 She is gone with the lordly June 
 
 Of the fragrant blood and brow, 
 And the flowers croon a bridal tune, 
 
 Though to us 'tis a death-chant now. 
 Oh ! her face was bright as morn, 
 
 And her eyes were dark as night, 
 And her lips had a sunny scorn. 
 
 Defending the weak or the right ; 
 And her locks, like the loosened tresses 
 
 On some ripe Bacchante's head. 
 Wove sibylline caresses 
 
 Round the eyes that thither sped ! 
 
 Fit Queen, I ween, for June the proud 
 With his leaf- woven caves and bowers — 
 Though her laugh be hushed, and her robe a shroud, 
 'l^ake pride in thy bride, O June, ine proud, 
 She is fairest among thy flowers. 
 
 Hope we may, if hope we must, 
 
 To allay our brooding pain ; 
 But the hinge be rust, and the gate be dust, 
 
 Ere fair Effie comes again. 
 
 She passed through this tearful earth. 
 
 Like a sun-ray through the rain, 
 Making diamonds in the dearth, 
 
 With her woman's heart and brain. 
 For her heart was like the shower 
 
 In July with bliss replete ; 
 And her brain, the mystic power 
 
 Of the Indian Summer's heat. 
 Oh ! of rich and sparkling vintage 
 
 Was her nature bubbling up, 
 
THE PARITNG OF THE SUX. 109 
 
 Till Death, the reckless drunkard, 
 
 Drank the draught, and crushed the cup. 
 No human hand may deck the grave 
 Of Effie Gray with flowers ; 
 For the sun through the noon, and at night the moon 
 Whispers life into many a rare festoon, 
 
 As never might spring from hand like ours. 
 
 THE PARTING OF THE SUN. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was evening by the Hudson, and the Sun in conscience 
 
 blest 
 With all the joy he gave that day, went nobly down to rest ; 
 Like some great benefactor, gliding off with happy mien, 
 O'erjoyed with his power to bless, yet blushing because 
 
 seen. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet he lingered for a moment, as to crown his silent mirth, 
 By witnessing in one last glance, the comfort he gave 
 
 Earth, 
 And seemed to say, " God bless you," while all nature 
 
 unto him 
 Sent back the prayer a thousand-fold from stream and 
 
 leafy lunb. 
 
 III. 
 
 The humble shrub that hugged the Earth doth homage 
 humbly bring — 
 
110 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Like all good loving offspring who around their mother 
 
 cling, 
 And repaying back her kindness, flower a-near the aged 
 
 sod — 
 And thrill with low-born eloquence of thanks to Nature's 
 
 God. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Like other earthly children who have mental strength 
 
 and growth. 
 The Poet Oak, the Elm Sage, and thoughtful Willow, 
 
 loth 
 To cramp the rich exuberances that throb their pulses, 
 
 dare 
 Possess the mist like minstrels and make music with the 
 
 air. 
 
 V. 
 
 And the Kaatskills, bleak as sorrow, with their gray heads 
 
 to the sky, 
 Seemed mute in contemplation, loth to bid the Sun good- 
 
 by: 
 With their broad backs turned westward, as though grief 
 
 would not allow 
 Them face their friend, and feel his smile grow weak 
 
 upon their brow. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They fain would live in memories of the noon, like sage 
 
 who cheers 
 In gossiping of long lost joys that sunned his manhood's 
 
 years — 
 
THE PARTING OF THE SUN. Ill 
 
 But the anxious mist, like gathering tears, creep deftly 
 
 o'er their breast, 
 Aud circling thence, like blood, rush up the sorrow to 
 
 their crest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And the Hudson, like a courier, doth with serious fury 
 
 run, 
 To bear old hoary Ocean the last message of the Sun ; 
 Where the Congress of the river-gods in coral halls hold 
 
 feast, 
 And bid the waves go welcome in his dawning in the 
 
 East. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And the tall trees weep in shadows, for happily know 
 they 
 
 The Sun can't see the gloom he casts around when forced 
 away, 
 
 And kindly show their brightest sides to soothe the part- 
 ing pain, 
 
 While Day and Night's weird offspring. Eve, speeds up the 
 eastern plain. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There's a silence, like that moment when the drear fact 
 
 feeds the blast. 
 That the golden sands of some great god of earth have 
 
 run their last. 
 And noiseless round his couch the world, the nurse, Night, 
 
 one by one, 
 Drapes the dun curtains of the clouds, and mutters pale — 
 
 " He's gone." 
 
112 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 HE WRITES FOR BREAD. 
 
 Time — 'tis midnight : Scene — a Garret : 
 
 Dramatis Personoe — two : 
 One, with wintry locks of silver — 
 
 One, with locks of dark-brown hue. 
 And the old man sits him calmly, 
 
 Speaking nothing, while his face, 
 TVith its quiet depth of meekness, 
 
 Sheds a radiance on the place. 
 But, God ! could we unfold his soul, 
 
 And read the epic there, 
 We would not wonder at his thought, 
 
 Nor whiteness of his hair. 
 Anon, he strangles to a sigh, 
 
 Some heart-ache upward led ; 
 Lest by a word 
 He'd break the chord 
 
 Of song that's wildly flitting 
 
 Through the brain of him that's sitting, 
 Gushing out his very heart's blood 
 
 On the page before him spread — 
 For through the night the young man kneads 
 
 His brain for their daily bread. 
 
HE WRITES FOR BREAD. 113 
 
 II. 
 
 See, his pen toils slower, slower ; 
 
 Now he talks his dreams aloud ; 
 And — he hastes to wrap his fancy 
 
 In the pale expectant shroud : 
 For every sheet his brain-thoughts fill, 
 
 Each line his keen wants crave. 
 But wrap and bind by piecemeal down 
 
 The youth to an early grave. 
 Those little characters he inks, 
 
 Are all grim Death's abetters ; 
 He does not nobly die at once, 
 
 But sinks to his grave by letters. 
 And now his jaded thought would lag 
 To soothe his aching head ; 
 But he cannot wait, 
 For the empty plate 
 Reflects back his stare 
 For the loaf not there : 
 But the old man is there — God ! must he starve 
 
 While legions of other men's fathers are fed ? 
 The pang's inspiration ! The madhouse and love 
 Are gambling for hun who is writing for bread. 
 
 III. 
 
 He writes to make the readers laugh, 
 When his heart's full with tears, 
 
 And all the Town seem happy when 
 His prose or verse appears. 
 
 They little know the loving heart 
 That beats in garret dim. 
 
114 FAITH AND FANCY. 
 
 Or while they daily go to 'Change, 
 What change would be to him ! 
 The Printer's paid — the Paper's paid — 
 
 The Pressman's pressing, too ; 
 And while the Author's left to starve, 
 
 The " Devil," gets his due ; 
 The Publisher in carriage rolls, 
 And sleeps on feather bed. 
 While he that gives 
 Them all life, lives 
 In a prison of thought and sorrow. 
 Never daring to think on the morrow ; 
 For the Bookseller's note, which put off the pay, 
 
 Will not lighten a creditor's tread. 
 Nor save from the landlord the few darling books 
 Of the Bondman who writes for his bread. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 ' Reminiscence of Fort Corcoran. — Henry Watterson, 
 Esq., whose striking articles on " Thomas de Qiiincey," and 
 " American Song, as illustrated by George P. Morris," in the 
 National Democratic Quarterly, have attracted such deserved 
 notice, has been writing some graphic sketches of camp and 
 camp-life about Washington, for the Philadelphia Press, over 
 the nom de plume of " Asa Trenchard." In one of his lengthiest 
 sketches he gives a most earnest and picturesque description of 
 " the first flag-raising over Federal battlements in the Old Do- 
 minion" in the war, and which, as an exciting and interesting 
 historical episode in the career of the gallant Sixty-ninth, can- 
 not be omitted from the chronicle which will record the strength 
 and patriotism which constructed Fort Corcoran. Arriving just 
 in time for " the grand, imposing spectacle," he says : 
 
 " As I stood and surveyed the hastily summoned regiment — 
 thirteen hundred of them — some in red flannel shirts, with 
 sleeves rolled up, exposing the grand sinews of brawny arms ; 
 some in blue jackets, soiled with the toil of the trenches; some 
 in white flowing havelocks ; some in cocked hats, and some 
 bareheaded, it was impossible to repress an audible expression 
 of admiration at the splendid material represented for the work 
 or the glory of war. There the dark brows, lowering from 
 massive foreheads over flashing eyes ; there, pale but bleachless 
 cheeks to fear, knit closely to impregnable lips, the craters of 
 flaming and invincible breath, the pride and prowess of repre- 
 sentative Ireland, the issue of that spreading Celtic seed which 
 has sown the world with power, stood before me. 
 
 " The troops were drawn up in a semicircle, gradually rising 
 within the amphitheatre formed by the mounds of earth-erected 
 batteries, the front flies sitting, the next grade stooping, and 
 the rear ranks standing upon the declivity, as it sloped upward 
 toward the ' outer walls,' the whole presenting the spectacle 
 of a circus audience, seen from the centre-post in the ring ; this 
 centre-post being a noble shaft from which the banner noiv 
 waves. 
 
1 1 6 NOTES. 
 
 " The group around this ' pillar of light' were Colonel Corcoran 
 (now general), Colonel Hunter (now major-general), of the regu- 
 lar 8,rmy, Captain Meagher (now brigadier-general), John Sav- 
 age, volunteer aid to Corcoran, and, of course, * Asa Trenchard.' 
 
 " Now for the ceremony. 
 
 "First, Colonel Corcoran introduced Colonel Hunter, who 
 had just been assigned the command of the brigade of the 
 Aqueduct, consisting of the Fifth, Twenty-eighth, and Sixty- 
 ninth New York regiments, making some patriotic allusion to 
 the flag. Colonel Hunter was, of course, received with loud 
 acclaim, when Meagher was called out by the throng. He 
 stei)ped forward, and made a brief but high-toned and patriotic 
 address, showing the devotion Irishmen should bear to that 
 flag wliich brought succor to them in Ireland, and to which, 
 upon landing in this country, they swore undivided allegiance. 
 He was heartily applauded throughout. 
 
 " John Savage, at the desire of Colonel Corcoran, simg the 
 following song to the air of ' Dixie's Land.' It was written by 
 himself, and is entitled ' The Starry Flag,' which is now iden- 
 tified with the Sixty-ninth. 
 
 " The enthusiasm which this peculiarly stirring song, with 
 its splendid refrain chorused by thirteen hundred brave voices, 
 aroused, while the Stars and Stripes floated proudly forth from 
 the mast-head in the melting sunset on the sweet breeze from 
 the river, cannot be described. It was electrical. There stood 
 the author himself by the side of Meagher, both symbols of 
 Irish patriotism ; there stood those dauntless men, their broth- 
 ers in arms and exile ; and there, above all — the stripes vying 
 with the red streaks of the west, and its stars with the silver 
 globes that already began to break through the sky — waved 
 the banner which had come to them when starving, which had 
 protected them when flying, and for whose preservation and 
 per] )et nation they now marched to the roll of the national re- 
 veille ! Well might it awaken those grateful hearts ; and no 
 wonder that when the last thunders of the final verse, roaring 
 like distant artillery, were rising up like vigils around the flag, 
 they broke from their places and surrounded their chief, their 
 orator, their priest, and their poet in a general Irish ' hullabaloo,' 
 as inspiring as a camp-meeting. I must say that it was very hard, 
 between the comic, grotesque scene now presented to the eye, 
 and the earnest, heartfelt associations imaged to the heart, it 
 was dilficult to refrain from mingled convulsions of laughter 
 and crying. 
 
 " A word or two apropos of this song, which I cannot but be- 
 lieve has a future in it. Its origin is not less dramatic than its 
 poetry, and its brief story as interesting as the history of the 
 
NOTES. in 
 
 'Marseillaise' or the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' It was first writ- 
 ten and sung on the war transport ' Marion,' on her perilous 
 route up the Potomac through the masked batteries of the 
 enemy's country. . . . .... " — From 
 
 Morris & Willis's Home Journal. 
 
 " " Ich sterbe gern fiir Freiheit und fiir Licht, 
 Getreu der Fahne dor ich zugeschworen." 
 
 Oerman Song. 
 
 ' " A hundred thousand welcomes." 
 
 * Shane O'Neill, the most powerful Ulster chief of his day, 
 had so harassed the English, and scoffed at all their arts of 
 diplomacy, their offers of nobility and reformatory patronage, 
 that the " government seems to have determined, either by 
 force or otherwise, the northern prince must be destroyed." 
 After living for some years the proud, ferocious, and feared 
 ruler of Ulster, he was at last murdered at a feast given to him 
 by the Scotch Macdonnells, of Antrim, whose sept he had for- 
 merly ravaged. The instigator of this foul treachery and 
 slaughter was one Piers, an English officer and agent of the 
 Lord Deputy. He appropriated O'NeiU's head, and received for 
 it one thousand marks from his master. " This gliastly head 
 was gibbeted high upon a pole, and long grinned upon the 
 towers of Dublin Castle." For an account of Shane, vide Mitch- 
 el's Life of Hugh O'Ntill. 
 
 * Kippure, Castle-Kelly, Bal-mannoch, Cornaun (better known 
 as the old hill of Rollinstown, and at present called Montpelier), 
 See-Finane, &c., are the names of hills which form part of the 
 range of Dublin mountains, and look down into Glan-nis-mole, 
 or " the Vale of Thrushes." Kij^pure is at the remote end of the 
 valley. The Dodder rises in this hill from three springs, which 
 join a short way down, and thence united, spring into the vale. 
 Kilmosantan is the ruin of a primitive Christian church, situate 
 between the river and the well, and about two hundred yards 
 from the latter. The " Golden Spears" are the two conical 
 mountains of Wicklow, known as the " Sugar Loaves." 
 
 The above was originally published in 1848 ; and afterwards 
 collected into the "Lays of the Fatherland," by the author, 
 in 1850. The kind mention of it by several American critics 
 writing on Irish poetry since, has induced the author to free 
 it as much as possible from the inaccuracies consequent upon a 
 hasty publication originally, and without a glance even at the 
 proof-sheets. It has been altered, and somewhat rewritten — it 
 is to be hoped for the better. 
 
118 NOTES. 
 
 ® Written upon contemplating Stuart's portrait in the Boston 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 ' Suggested by Hiihner's picture " The Death of the Poach- 
 er." See "Gems from the Diisseldorf Gallery," edited by 
 B. Frodsham, and published by the Appletons. 
 
 ^ " I'll change them as the Cyprian fair, she did 
 To moody oxen," &c. 
 Amongst the instances recorded by the mythologists of the 
 severity of Venus against such as came under her dislike is, 
 that she transformed the women of Amathus, in Cyprus, into 
 oxen, for their cruelty. 
 
 ^ " Above the taxes of official seal. 
 As Titian was in Venice," &c. 
 
 On an occasion of general impost upon the inhabitants of 
 Venice, t'le Senate, in estimation of the genius of Titian, de- 
 clared him, and one other alone, exempt from the tax. The 
 other was Sansovino, the statuary and architect. 
 
 Apropos of the allusion in the text to Titian's portraits of 
 Charles v., I may quote C. P. Carpani (Notes to Benvenuto Cellini h 
 Memmrs) : " Charles V. particularly declared himself indebted 
 to him three times for immortality, since he had as often drawn 
 his portrait ;" and seeing that his courtiers envied the public 
 favors bestowed on one whose only title was painter, he ob- 
 served to them that " he himself could create dukes, counts, 
 and nobles by hundreds, but that God alone could form a Tiziano." 
 Great homage this of monarchy to mind, and not without a 
 reason it would seem, from the attention drawn to these famous 
 portraits. " It is pretended," says Quatremere de Quincy, allud- 
 ing, in his ■' Life of Raffaello," to the statement in the Lettere 
 Pittoriche, " that the illusion of the likeness was such that the 
 picture, having been placed near a table, the son of the emperor 
 approached it, in order, as he supposed, to talk with his father 
 on business." 
 
 '" " The Campanero in the southern woods," &c. 
 " Or like the Tinamou, that lonely bird," &c. 
 " The Campanero never fails to attract the attention of the 
 passenger ; at a distance of nearly three miles you may hear 
 the snow-white bird tolling every four or five minutes, like the 
 distant convent-bell." 
 
 " Every now and then, the Maam or Tinamou sends forth 
 one long and plaintive whistle from the depths of the forest, 
 and then stops." — Waterton's Wanderings in South America 
 
SYBIL: A TRAGEDY. 
 
Entered according to Act of Conarress, in the year 1863, 
 
 By JAMES B. KIRKER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United St«te^ for .he 
 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
TO 
 
 THOMAS SEATON DONOHO, 
 
 Author of "■ Ivywall," "Cromwell, a Tragedy," etc. 
 
 My Dear Friend- 
 It is now eight years since " Sybil" was written, and six 
 since it was put upon the stage. In committing it to the press 
 I desire to dedicate it to you to mark my regard for you as a 
 poet — though you will persist in keeping your light under a 
 bushel — and my aflfection for you as the almost daily com- 
 panion of over four years' residence in Washington. On whom 
 could I more becomingly inflict the dedication of the dranxa ? 
 You were the first to mention it in the public press, even be- 
 fore its production ; and the sympathetic sharer in its earlier 
 successes, when the newspapers brought us accounts of the en- 
 thusiasm created by the young and brilliant tragic actress — 
 Miss Avonia Jones — then representing the heroine. 
 
 I have never seen Miss Jones in the part, but can well 
 imagine how greatly her powerful acting, superadded to her 
 admirable presence, tended to kindle the public to a generous 
 reception of the piece. 
 
 It is needless now to recall in detail the too flattering recog- 
 nition of a majority of the critics — inspired, doubtless, more by 
 enthusiasm for the actress than any knowledge of the author 
 —or the equally unmerited severity of a minor branch of the 
 fraternity. Leaving the latter in the hands of the audiences, I 
 ofler sincere acknowledgments to the former. In this connec- 
 tion my thanks are especially due to that fine poet and wit, 
 George D. Prentice, who, unknown to me save by reputation, 
 
6 DEDICATION. 
 
 acted as mediator on behalf of Authors' Rights, on an exciting- 
 occasion, to which the following letter, addressed to a New 
 York journal, refers : — 
 
 " Washington, Oct. 31, 1858. 
 " In your paper of yesterday's date the article on the drama 
 contained the following : 
 
 "'John Savage's play of "Sybil," after running with great 
 enthusiasm, has been withdrawn in consequence of the remon- 
 strances of the family where the chief incident occurred. It is 
 not, perhaps, known that it is founded on an event which hap- 
 pened in Kentucky. Its dramatic success, however, will, no 
 doubt, induce Mr. Savage to try again on a less dangerous 
 subject.' 
 
 '■ Permit me to say that ' Sybil' has not been withdrawn. 
 The acting of it was postponed one night in Louisville, out of 
 respect to the request of the Governor of Kentucky, and for 
 reasons which the leading journals of Louisville then thought 
 sufficient. Owing to. certain criticisms having preceded the 
 play, and to the probably injudicious announcement of it by the 
 manager in Louis%ille, it was thought by some persons to re- 
 flect upon a respectable family in that State, some incidents of 
 the play having been suggested by a notable passage in the 
 criminal and domestic history of Kentucky. Upon this Suppo- 
 sition the play was. after some negotiation, sup})ressed on the 
 night for which it was first announced in Louisville. Ujx)n its 
 re|)resentation, however, ' Sybil' was declared to be a fiction. 
 The Lf)uisville Courier, while paying it such compliments as I 
 would blush to reproduce, repudiated the idea that it was a 
 representation of facts, and said : * Let it rather be called 
 " Sybil," with no attempt to invest it with the terrors of a 
 local incident, which it does not attempt to portray according 
 to history or tradition.' I willingly accept the proposition of 
 the Courier, for as Mr. G. D. Prentice i)reviously said in his 
 
 Journal, 'The author, , knew nothing, and sought to 
 
 know nothing, as to the life and death of , except from 
 
 tradition, and he relied partly upon these, but far more upon 
 his own fancy and invention, in the composition of the piece, 
 his whole purpose being to render the play, both in incident 
 and in language, as effective as he possibly could.' 
 
 " The representation of ' Sybil' was attended by a most re- 
 markable success (as the papers testify). Miss Avonia Jones 
 was re-engaged for three nights, and performed it each night 
 with great enthusiasm on the part of the audience, and in- 
 creased honor to herself as an actress of wonderful original 
 powers. The details of the ' excitement' I omii, but submit 
 
DEDICATION. T 
 
 the above facts in explanation and correction of your para- 
 graph, which was, no doubt, based upon the articles announc- 
 ing the temporary postponement of ' Sybil' in Louisviile. 
 
 " Yours respectfully, 
 
 "John Savage." 
 
 This letter is reprinted in justice to myself, especially aa 
 lengthy " Statements" were put forth suggesting an imputation 
 on my motives in using the material which furnished the key 
 note of the drama. William (lilmore Simms wrote two novels 
 on the subject ; Charles Fenno Hoffman, I learn, also made it 
 the theme of a novel. Our friend, Clifton W. Tayleure, drew 
 a melodrama from it, and the excitement jointly produced 
 by the representation of " Sybil" and the Statements against it 
 made me acquainted with the fact that other dramas and sto- 
 ries had been founded upon it. With much more justice 
 might the motives of these authors be impugned, if any such 
 imputation be warranted by the use of facts which have gone 
 into history. The late distinguished author of the " Blithedale 
 Romance," in his preface to that work — fearful lest readers 
 might confound his romance with the persons and scenes of a 
 certain community — stated, that while availing himself of act- 
 ual reminiscences to give a more life-like tint to the creation 
 of his fancy, he so used scenes, incidents, and persons, that 
 " the creatures of his brain might play their phantasmagorical 
 antics without exposing them to too close a comparison with 
 the actual events of real lives." The same, in a still greater 
 degree, is true of the use of material in " Sybil." 
 
 I would not willingly wound the feelings of any one, much 
 less those already seared by tender connection with the victim 
 of a foul deed. It does not follow, that because a dramatist, or 
 other writer, takes certain incidents as the basis of a work, he 
 may not produce them by the means of characters totally dif- 
 ferent from those concerned in their actual perpetration. Na- 
 tures of a directly opposite stamp may, for all dramatic, poetic, 
 and moral purposes, be most suitable to heighten the effect of 
 such acts or incidents. It is so in the present instance. Be 
 tween the chief Statement, by its own showing, and the story aa 
 
8 DEDICATION. 
 
 conveyed in this piece, there is but one point of similarity — the 
 fact of an assassination. There is no resemblance between the 
 contrivers and perpetrators, as respectively drawn ; the charac- 
 ter of the victim in the one, is as opposite to that of the other 
 as noonday and midnight : and the attempt to create an iden- 
 tity between them is as unjust to the memory of the actual, as 
 to the dramatist who now presents the acted, character. The 
 imfortunate use of a name found in a stray newspaper article, 
 which first suggested the theme, and retained in Simms' 
 novel — the only one on the subject I was then aware of — and 
 to which I was further indebted, gave a clue to a supposed 
 identity not to be found on even a casual examination. 
 This name has been changed ; and I would not now allude to 
 the matter at all, but that when represented, the critics, other- 
 Avise but too kind, taking their cue from the original " excite- 
 ment," as menti'oned above, constantly refer to it; and on giv- 
 ing it to the press, I could not run the risk of having my 
 silence construed into even a remote acquiescence in the injus- 
 tice of the Statements, so far as they refer to " Sybil" or its 
 author. 
 
 After such an unpleasant, though necessary digression, I 
 may be permitted to refresh myself A^ith memories more suit- 
 able to my nature — thoughts conjured up by reminiscences of 
 our homes in Washington, and of days spent with you on the 
 hills of Maryland and Virginia and along the then delightful 
 banks of the Potomac. The mention of Wasliington evokes 
 memories of an eventful and instructive, even if laborious 
 l)eriod of my life, and the social and generous companionship 
 of many dear friends : it calls up the hospitable and brilliant 
 board of John F. Coyle ; the serene enjoyment and unflagging 
 interest of the statesmen-groups gathered around our benign 
 host of Strawberry Knoll, Mr. Kingman ; the trusty good na- 
 ture of my friend of many years. Dr. Thomas Antisell ; the 
 pleasant hours in the artistic salon of J. C. McGuire ; besides, 
 a host, out of which it would be ungracious to individualize, 
 many of whom have since gone forth from rival camps, and 
 found a resting-place, once again, side by side — in death. You 
 know my sense of duty to my country — and I will not dwell 
 on that theme here lest the passions, which mortality cannot 
 
DEDICATION. 9 
 
 aliake off, miglit arise to crush out the beauty of the past. In 
 dedicating this little book to you, I could not repress a tribute 
 to days past, and to the friends who contributed so much to 
 make them joyous and happy. 
 With great esteem, 
 
 I beg to subscribe myself. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 John Savage. 
 New Orleans, Sept. 14, 1864. 
 
DRAMATIS PEKSONJi. 
 
 Eustace Clifden. 
 
 RuFus Wolfe. 
 
 Old Acton. 
 
 William Acton. 
 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Barnabas. 
 
 Landlord of the Rkd Hkifer 
 
 Gentlemen. 
 
 Sybil Hardy. 
 Mrs. Hardy. 
 Maude Clifden. 
 Janette. 
 
 ScKNR — /// the State of Kentucky. 
 
 Time. — B^rd decade of the Nmeteeuth Century. 
 
SYBIL. 
 
 4 » » 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Club-room, handsomely furnished. 
 
 RuFUS Wolfe, Barnabas, Mr. Lowe, and several gen- 
 tlemen, reading papers, &c. 
 
 Wolfe. Our new member is not stirring yet. 
 
 \st Gent. No — thanks to your sleight of hand last 
 night. I should not be surprised if he didn't stir for a 
 month. 
 
 2d Gent. I never saw a jollier initiation I 
 
 Bar. He may not be so jolly when he's sober. 
 
 Wolfe. Oh, he won't remember his assaults on our 
 friend Lowe : eh, Cardinal ? 
 
 Lowe. But I'll take care he shall. 
 
 Wolfe. He's young and inexperienced ; and the deeds 
 of wine evaporate with its effects. 
 
 Bar. I never saw a wilder fellow in his cups. 
 
 Wolfe, /thought him rather serious. Did not you, 
 Cardinal? {To Lowe.) 
 
 Lowe. I tell you what, gentlemen, I'll resign my 
 presidency of this club, if I'm not protected against 
 every dare-devil, who, inspired by Wolfe's mad humors, 
 plays off his drunken jokes on me — I will. 
 
 3 
 
14 SYBIL, [ACT I. 
 
 All. No — no. Ha I ha ! 
 
 Lowe. I will, gentlemen, — I do protest I will, — if it 
 even shatters the unity of the society — I will. 
 Several. Oh, no. 
 
 Enter Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Is^ Gent. Our new member ! 
 
 Wolfe. Good morning, Clifden. 
 
 Several. Good morning. {Salute him.) 
 
 Glif. Good mornings gentlemen. (Goes to Lowe.) Mr. 
 Lowe, I am very glad to see you here ; it saves me the 
 necessity of calling upon you. 
 
 Wolfe. Brnvo, Clifden ! 
 
 Lowe. Calling upon me, sir I for what, Mr. Clifden ? 
 
 Wolfe. For what ? Oh, innocent Cardinal — for satis- 
 faction, to be sure. 
 
 Lowe. Sir, 1^11 resign this moment. 
 
 Clif. Allow me, Mr. Lowe, to apologize for my rude- 
 ness to you last night. I was not conscious of it, I as- 
 sure you ; and I am indebted to the kindness of some 
 friends for the information this morning. 
 
 Loive. You were rude, sir, that you were. 
 
 Glif. I am sorry for it, Mr. Lowe ; sorry that J 
 should, without cause, affront any man, but more espe- 
 cially one whose position should be sufficient protection 
 against insult. I sincerely apologize. 
 
 \st Gent. I should think an apology from any membei 
 of the club, for any reason, decidedly inexcusable. 
 
 Several. Decidedly — decidedly. 
 
 Clif. [calmly.) It was, sir, thoroughly unwarrantable 
 on my part to offer a rudeness to you ; and I say again, 
 I apologize. 
 
 Lowe. It was unwarrantable • but, sir, since you have 
 
SCENE t] sybil. 15 
 
 the manliness to apologize, I give you my hand (Lowe 
 and Glifden shake hands), and I hope you have safely 
 survived the pains of initiation. 
 
 Wolfe. Does the head ache still ? 
 Bar. Are the nerves disordered ? 
 
 1st Gent. Hand shaky ? 
 
 Lowe. In a word, my good sir, are you washed out ? 
 Ha! ha I 
 
 Clif. No, but to say truth, I feel inexpressibly 
 ashamed. 
 
 Bar. and 1st and 2d Gent. Ha ! ha ! he ! 
 
 Wolfe. Nonsense, man. 
 
 Glif. I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your 
 club. 
 
 Wolfe. Persuade I 'Twas scarcely possible to avoid 
 it. Every young lawyer, to be recognized, must go 
 through it. 
 
 Bar. Your regrets are treasonable. 
 
 Glif. I feel them, nevertheless. I must have been 
 wild, if what I hear be true. 
 
 1st Gent. Slightly elevated, that's all. 
 
 Glif. I never was slightly elevated before, and, club 
 or no club, I never will be again. 
 
 Wolfe. We have all said the same thing once. 
 
 Glif I cannot, even now, understand it. I drank but 
 little wine. 
 
 Lowe. Precious little. Ha ! ha I But you may thank 
 Wolfe's adroitness in mingling the liquors. 
 
 Glif What I 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw, Clifden, you were never born for a 
 Puritan. You are a fellow for fun, high frolic, and the 
 enjoyment of the earth. 
 
 Ist Gent. Certainly, and if a man may forget himself 
 
U SYBIL. [ACT. I. 
 
 and be mad for a night, it is that night when he is ad- 
 mitted to the Temple of Anacreon. Don't take it so 
 seriously. 
 
 Bar. All over now, you know. 
 
 Lowe. You are young, sir, and likely to be abused ; 
 take the advice of an older man — these gay fellows are 
 making fun of you, Mr. Clifden. 
 
 Several. Ha ! ha ! Good I 
 
 \d Gent. Very good, your reverence I 
 
 Lowe. He ! he I he ! you puppies, I shall leave you 
 to your politics. {Going.) I see young Acton is in the 
 field against you {to Wolfe) ; take care lest you force me 
 into the opposition. {Exit, followed by the gents.) 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, Acton is in the field against me, and I 
 need the services of all my friends. I count on you, 
 Clifden. 
 
 Clif Whatever I can, I will do ; but — 
 
 Wolfe. No huts. You are already popular, and the 
 time is auspicious. The life of a man almost depends on 
 his first marked effort. You are just admitted to the 
 bar, and with your reputation as a speaker here, some- 
 thing is expected of you. There could not be a better 
 opportunity to distinguish yourself. You must meet 
 Acton in discussion. 
 
 Clif Me f He will need a stronger opponent. Why 
 not do this yourself? 
 
 Wolfe. I long for nothing better, but I cannot be 
 everywhere. I'll seek him in time. When do you leave 
 town ? 
 
 Clif To-day ; within the hour. 
 
 Bar. So soon? 
 
 Wolfe. Why, I expected you to dinner ; Mrs. Wolfe 
 will be disappointed. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. H 
 
 Clif. I am sorry to deny myself the }3leasure, but 
 urgent matters — very urgent indeed — demand my pres- 
 ence. 
 
 Ba7\ But a day or two ? 
 
 GHf. I wrote to — to — my sister — 
 
 Wolfe. What of that. A Httle delay will make you 
 the more welcome. Let the girls wait ; don't be a boy 
 always. You will meet some excellent fellows, see how 
 we commence the campaign, and so forth. 
 
 Bar. Strong temptations. 
 
 Clif. Yes, but I confess to my boyhood, and will 
 prove my manhood by resisting your temptations. 
 
 Wolfe. Stubborn. Well, I will write to you then. 
 I have a strong desire — apart from my own interests — to 
 see you in the field. 
 
 Clif. Thank you, I shall hear from you. Adieu. 
 
 Wolfe. 
 
 o \ Adieu. [Shake hands.) [Exit Clif. 
 
 Wolfe. He does not know his own powers. We must 
 bring him fully out. 
 
 Bar. 'Tis not so easy to meet Acton. What is there 
 against him ? 
 
 Wolfe. His pamphlet. Every line a man writes is 
 political capital for his enemies. Then, he is obscure, 
 that's certain. Little known among the masses, and for 
 a good reason — he does not mix with them ; he is a 
 haughty aristocrat, a man who only knows the people 
 when he wants their votes. 
 
 Bar. Is that actually the case ? 
 
 Wolfe. Simpleton ! We must make it so. 
 
 Bar. Oh — ah — yes. 
 
 Wolfe. It may be, or may not be, what is the differ- 
 ence to us. That he is shy and reserved is, I understand, 
 2* 
 
18 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 a fact. Well, it is just as likely he is so from pride as 
 any thing else, do you see ? Perhaps he's a fellow of 
 delicate feelings I So much the better. People don't 
 like fellows of delicate feelings. Ha I ha ! Delicate 
 feelings are very unpopular things. They alone would 
 go hard against him. If we could have him persuaded 
 to wear kid gloves it would save us a few thousand. 
 Kid gloves are not popular ; if any thing, they are more 
 ruinous than the feelings aforesaid. Then he is cautious 
 of taverns. Couldn't the popular eye discover a demi- 
 john in his study — ay, could it ! Ha ! ha ! Pride, ten- 
 der feelings, kid gloves, private demijohn — political 
 death, certain. Come along, Barnabas, old boy, we 
 must let the people know of these things. 
 
 [Exit Wolfe and Bar. 
 
 Scene II. — On the skirt of a wood overlooking the ruined Ullage 
 of Eaglemont. 
 
 Enter Old Acton and William Acton. 
 
 Old A. {contemplating the scene). We are here 
 again, William ; here, without a single companion of all 
 those old ones who were associated with that once dear 
 village ; and yet we are not without some of the old 
 friends — the old trees and rocks and hills are about us. 
 Bless me, I feel the former life, if not the old feelings ; 
 yet, what a change. Five years have done it all. Five 
 years only, yet what an eternity it seems. 
 
 Acton. I see no sign of human life. 
 
 Old A. Indeed, it looks as if there were none. Shall 
 we descend into the valley and inquire further ? 
 
 Acton. Why, sir, further? Here, it seems to me, we 
 can 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. IP 
 
 Behold enough for melancholy thought. 
 See — yonder ruins of* my father's home ; 
 There I first wak'd to this now weary world ; 
 There was a child ; there sprang from youth to man, 
 Beneath the touch of Love's delicious hopes — 
 Hopes which, alas, that same old roof saw blasted. 
 
 Old A. And there my school-house stands, as years 
 ago. 
 Save that it glooms with age and loneliness. 
 I could embrace my dear old fav'rite oaks ! 
 They seem to w^elcome me with outstretched arms ; 
 Or, it may be, they wave me from the scene. 
 How much do they recall ! Their shapes have grown 
 Into my heart with the old books I've read 
 Beneath their patriarchal shelter. 
 
 Acton (musing). How brief a term makes life deso- 
 lation ? 
 Why shall we wonder that no vestige marks 
 The spots where stood the cities of the past ; 
 When here, what was, a few short years ago, 
 A thriving, robust village, is but now 
 A bundle of old gables ? 
 
 Old A. Discontent 
 
 Between a couple of families, my son, 
 Has sundered towns more populous than this. 
 This very cause made you the first to leave. 
 
 Acton. Yes, but not willingly I left my home — 
 A loving heart, a cruel, brutal fate 
 Drove me from out my native sanctuary. 
 
 Old A. Well, I rc^'oice that it was so. The necessity 
 which expelled you was the mother of a glorious future. 
 It brought out the manhood that was in you, and will 
 crown vour name with honor. 
 
20 SYBIL. [ACT I. 
 
 Acton, Yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all — 
 All that I am, all that I hope to be, 
 For the dear dreams that fill'd my boyhood's home. 
 
 Old A. No, no. To-morrow, when you return to the 
 political action you have entered upon, you will feel 
 how idle was the sentiment, seeming so natural to you 
 now. What ? If this was the scene of your sports and 
 love, was it not also the theatre of your denial, your 
 strife, and bitter humiliation : would you feel those pangs 
 anew ? 
 
 Acton. No, no ; do not remind me. See there — see ! 
 (Catching Old Acton^s arm.) Dost not descry a female 
 
 figure ? There — 
 Below the copse : 'Tis lost now. There, again, 
 Auear the margin of the lake it stands. 
 It looks like her I Could it be Margaret ! 
 
 Old A, I see. 
 
 Acton. Stay, father — I would speak with her. (Going, 
 Old A. detains him.) 
 
 Old A. Why should ye speak — have you any thing 
 pleasant to communicate to each other ? You are un- 
 reasonable, my son. ( William subdued.) And tell me, 
 William, is it still in your mind to marry Margaret 
 Cooper. 
 
 Acton. Oh no, sir — no ! How could you suppose it ! 
 
 Old ^. I do not suppose it ; therefore I say you are 
 unkind, cruel, my son, in your attempt to see that woman 
 you believed to be her. You have no business with her. 
 
 Acton. Father — my more than father, you are right. I 
 deserve reproof. 'Twas a blind impulse. I am a boy 
 still. Let us leave this place. 
 
 Old A. Forget these dreams. All your thoughts 
 need other direction now. Your antagonist if less able; 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 21 
 
 is a more practised politician, and works upon a very 
 perfect organization. 
 
 Acton. I was not made for political strife. 
 
 Old A. It is the very sphere of action that will at- 
 tract you from the chimeras of fancy and boyhood. 
 When you have a seat in Congress you will, in the ex- 
 pansive field before you, forget that such a little village 
 as this beneath us has ever been on a map. Come, Wil- 
 liam, to-morrow will see us harnessed for the fight. 
 [Exit Old Acton, leading William Acton. 
 
 Scene III. — A Boom in Clifden's Country Cottage, neatly 
 furnished. 
 
 Maude Clifden, Janette, seated. 
 
 Maude. Brother Eustace is outstaying his time. I 
 am the more anxious for his return, because I thought 
 he left us in rather a melancholy mood. Did you not 
 think so ? 
 
 Jan. Do not fear but he will keep his appointment. 
 Even if he would disappoint us, there are other attrac- 
 tions in this neighborhood from which he would not wil- 
 lingly remain distant. ( Taking a book from the table.) 
 See there, Maude. 
 
 Maude {reading from fly-leaf). "Sybil Hardy." 
 Why, what a rogue — he never mentioned he had met her. 
 
 Jan. Which only proves the truth of what I say. 
 
 Maude. Where did you find this ? 
 
 Jan. On his dressing-table. 
 
 Maude. Ah, Eustace, we have found you out. Well, 
 I'm glad of it — am't you ? There will be some reason 
 for his staying with us now — we have scarcely seen him 
 since he went studying that stupid law. 
 
22 SYBIL [act I. 
 
 Jan. I would it were some other than our melancholy 
 neighbor. 
 
 Maude. Why, Janette, I do believe you are jealous. 
 
 Jan. If I were I would not show it, Maude. 
 
 Maude. Ha ! ha ! why 'twas but yesterday you said 
 jealousy was the only thing a woman could not hide. 
 
 Jan. Well — yes, a woman who was in love. 
 
 Maude. Of course, a woman could not be jealous 
 without being in love. 
 
 Jan. But she might love without being jealous, 
 
 Maude. And that is what my cousin could not do. 
 
 Jan. (ivho has 7'etired towards the iui?idoic.) Here 
 he is. Look how he steals along, as though he were 
 going to a friend's funeral ; and now he stops, and dal- 
 lies, and looks behind hun, as if expecting some one. 
 
 Maude. Does he not look handsome — so tall and 
 graceful. 
 
 Jan. There's a cloud upon his brow. 
 
 Maude. We will dispel it. Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Welcome, brother. {Embraces him.) 
 
 Glif. Ah — dear Maude. Has Cousin Janette no wel- 
 come for me ? She forgets the customs of our childhood, 
 when she would cling to me as a vine round the trellis. 
 
 Jan. And Eustace then told all his secrets to his lit- 
 tle cousin. 
 
 Maude. Yes, indeed. Ah, ha I brother, we have 
 found you out. [Glif den puzzled.) 
 
 Jan. {Showing the book.) Eh, Master Cunning ! 
 
 Clif. So, Miss Pry-about. Well, Coz, kiss me and I'll 
 tell you all about it. 
 
 Maude. There now, make up. {Pulling them togeth- 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 23 
 
 e.r, Glifden kisses Janette, who offers coy resistance — 
 they all sit.) 
 
 Jan. You did not tell us of your visits to Miss Hardy. 
 
 Clif. You did not tell me that such a beauty adorued 
 the vicinity. 
 
 Jan. Do you think her a beauty? 
 
 Maude. Of course he does. {To him.) Well, how 
 did you meet her ? 
 
 Clif. Well, when home last week I went out snoo: 
 ing— 
 
 Jan. And was struck yourself. 
 
 Maude. Now, Janette. 
 
 Clif. I went out shooting, or to shoot ; and, toiling 
 after game in the wood, started, by a lucky shot, a 
 young lady from the thicket : common courtesy com- 
 manded me to apologize — 
 
 Maude. Of course. 
 
 Clif. And see that the frighted creature was not hurt — 
 
 Jan. Or pierced through the heart. 
 
 Clif. She, however, avoided me. 
 
 Jan. Of course, to drag you after her. 
 
 Maude. Oh, Janette, how can you. 
 
 Clif. She hastened, with becoming delicacy, to the 
 open path. I followed, and though she declined my ser- 
 vice as escort, I continued, gently insisting, until she 
 came within sight of her cottage. 
 
 Jan. Did you not go home with her ? 
 Clif. No ; but on my return through the wood I 
 found — fortunate discovery — ^her veil, which I restored 
 next day ; and made bold to borrow that book — and 
 that's all. 
 
 Maude. Quite an adventure ; how could you keep it 
 from us ? 
 
24 SYBIL. [ACTl. 
 
 Jan. It was too charming for expression. Why, he^s 
 blushing, as I live. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Glif. Tut, tut, Janette^nonsense !— just heated with 
 walking. 
 
 Jan. Heated, indeed, at a snail's pace. You saunter* 
 ed along, and looked from side to side, as though think- 
 ing whether you'd go over to Miss Hardy's or come here ; 
 and sighed — oh, dear ! you could be heard half a mile 
 away. 
 
 CAif. Sigh — oh, ridiculous. (Sighs.) What do you 
 know of the lady — eh, Maude ? Janette, who is she ? 
 
 Jan. She's a mystery of some sort or another. May- 
 be an exiled queen, good lack, or she wants to be thought 
 one. 
 
 Maude. Oh, Janette I 
 
 Jan. Well, is it not true ? Does she not carry herself 
 like a queen, and is she not as proud and stately as if 
 she would remind us all we were beneath her. 
 
 Glif. She certainly does look queenly. 
 
 Jan. A tragedy-queen! 
 
 Maude. I'm sure she is unhappy. 
 
 Jan. I don't believe in her unhappiaess at all. She 
 is too proud to be so unhappy as you think. 
 
 Glif. Might not pride itself be the very cause or the 
 effect of unhappiness ? 
 
 Jan. But are we to sympathize with it ? 
 
 Glif. {to Maude). How long has she resided here- 
 about ? 
 
 Maude. She and her mother came some two yeafsi 
 ago— just after you left us to study law. They bought 
 the Widow Davis's cottage, and fixed themselves and a 
 few servants very comfortably. Mrs. Hardy is a good- 
 natured body. 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 25 
 
 Jan. And very silly. I don't believe she is the mother 
 of our queen at all. 
 
 Glif. {to Maude). And the daughter ? — 
 
 Ilaude. She is not very sociable. She is seldom seen 
 by casual visitors ; and, indeed, has not been here more 
 than four or five times. Janette thinks her proud, but I 
 do not. Her manners are dignified ; but there is such a 
 look of sadness in her eyes, that I cannot help thinking 
 her unhappy. Probably she has been disappointed in 
 love. 
 
 Jan. Maude is making a heroine of her. One day 
 she is a recluse ; another, she has been engaged, and her 
 lover played false and deserted her — 
 
 Maude. No, I said he might have been killed in a 
 duel, as any man might be for such a woman. 
 
 Glif. Bravo— bravo — Maude ! 
 
 Jan. 'Tis well you're not a man, Maude, or our trage- 
 dy-queen would help to kill our cousin. 
 
 Maude, Is she not beautiful ? Is she not, brother ? 
 They say, too, that she is intellectual and learned. 
 
 Glif. Who says ? 
 
 Jan. Who, but old Mrs. Fisher, and solely because 
 she saw her fixing a basketful of books on her shelves. 
 
 3Iaude. Why, Judge Weldon told me he spoke with 
 her, and that he never believed a woman could be so 
 sensible before. 
 
 Jan. That only shows what a poor judge he is. 
 
 Maude. But Miss Hardy is sensible. I have spoken 
 with her myself. 
 
 Jan. Well, she's old enough to have the sense of two 
 young women at least. 
 
 Glif. Old ? the lady I mean is certainly not old. 
 
 Maude. Cousin Janette is only teazing, thinking that 
 3 
 
26 SYBIL. [actt. 
 
 our lovely, but melancholy friend, has bewitched you. 
 She is not old, cannot be more than one or two and 
 twenty. 
 
 Jan. And is not that old? you are but sixteen, 
 Maude, and I'm not eighteen — I'm sure Miss Hardy is 
 twenty-five if she^s a day. 
 
 Maude. Come, come, Janette, if you stay another 
 minute you'll have Miss Hardy a gaunt old lady, with a 
 few teeth and a pair of spectacles. 
 
 [_Exit Maude and Janette, laughing. 
 
 Glif. Maude is right— Sybil's truly beautiful I 
 Oh, why have I not known her before now. 
 The moment I but glanced into her eyes 
 I read my destiny. I look'd and loved. 
 From the creative heaven of her face 
 A whole new world leaped into my heart ; 
 A world teeming with a thousand hopes, 
 Each taking inspiration from tliat face. 
 I've heard, but never felt its truth till now, 
 That persons of congenial souls exchange 
 Themselves on first collision of their eyes. 
 She has my being, and to win her not 
 Is to abandon and forsake myself. 
 How much I've lived within a week, and yet, 
 My very strength of feeling calls up fears 
 That goad me with a reckless speed to know, 
 If I may not in her heart's empire dwell. 
 As she fills up the whole domain of mine. 
 
 \_MusiG as act drop falls 
 
SiCENEi] SYBIL. 27 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScENS I. — A wood. A 'paper mark on trunk of a tree. Sybil 
 Hardy discovered in the foreground firing at the mark with 
 a pistol. After firing, Sybil looks with calm eagerness at tJie 
 
 Sybil. Thank heaven, I fail not ; each unerring- shot 
 Is certain intimation of revenge, 
 And daily gives me courage to live on. {3Iov('s.) 
 Without this all-sustaining, grateful hope, 
 The solitude I breathe were death : and death 
 That might have been a heav'nly gift, ere fled 
 Mj happy childhood trembling from my heart 
 (As though affrighted by its haughty blood). 
 Would now be that most unforgiving curse 
 This wilful, woful, wretched brain could bear. 
 Five years, like monumental marbles rise 
 Above my girlish beauty, and record 
 The gnawing consciousness of coarse deceit, 
 The bitter anguish of defrauded hopes. 
 Mocked aims ; the loss of name, position, love ; 
 The loss of all those dear amenities 
 That should have been the guerdon and the guide. 
 The life itself of the proud, withered youth beneath, 
 
 (Weeps.) 
 'Tis strange these maddening, these blighting years 
 Have left untouched one corner of my brain : 
 That here, far distant from the village where 
 I ruled, already in my youth a queen ; 
 Far from my friends' condole, my foes' contempt, 
 That here unknown, unfriended — save by one. 
 
28 SYBIL. [ACTTi. 
 
 A doting mother, whose unwavering heart 
 Still dulls her ears to censure, and whose eyes 
 Still fling a tearful glory round her child — 
 I teach the woman in her pallid prime 
 T' avenge my girlhood's blushing trustfulness. 
 (Starts.) Here is my neighbor whom I fear to meet, 
 And yet there is a restless sympathy. 
 Some dread, electric chain that brings us close. 
 I would avoid him : would that he would me. 
 Oh heaven ! that I were younger by five years. {Con- 
 ceals the pistol.) 
 
 Enter Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Clifden, Ah, Miss Hardy, pardon my intrusion. It 
 was unintentional. 
 
 Sybil. Your presence is pardonable, Mr. Clifden, but 
 scarcely your excuse. 
 
 Glif. I feared my presence would but awaken a dis- 
 dain, that one of us, at least, should bear unanswered. 
 
 Sybil. Sir, I fear you understand yourself less than 
 you even understand me. I shall relieve your feelings 
 by withdrawing. {Going.) 
 
 Glif. Stay, Miss Hardy. {Goes after her.) 
 Sybil, dear Sybil, do not leave me thus : 
 Hear me but for a moment. Well I know, 
 After what has transpired, that I am 
 Bound to your pity, mercy, or contempt. 
 But an absorbing love like mine fears not 
 The self-reproaches of a callous pride. 
 That tames the blood of those who think they love. 
 Love is a slave, yet those who think they have 
 Timely control of all its dang'rous ecstasies 
 
SCENE L] SYBIL. 29 
 
 Have never loved — or have no power to love. 
 You bid me go, but I dare not depart. 
 
 Sybil. Clifden, 'twere wrong to listen yet again, 
 To what 'twere better I had never heard. 
 I must not — better for us both I should not. 
 You found me here in solitude. To me 
 You were a stranger. Strangers each to each. 
 You nothing know of me : — of you, I nothing. 
 Let us be friends as neighbors : — seek no more : 
 If not, then let us part. 
 
 Clif. Know nothing of you ! 
 
 Sybil, ask your heart. 
 
 Sybil (energetically). Ha! sir! what mean you ? 
 What can you know of me ? 
 
 Glif. (Sybil betrays much anxiety,) Much ! 
 These solemn cloistered woods are witnesses — 
 These oaks that eloquently stretch their arms 
 To heaven, and bless you in their sheltering calm — 
 These my loved rivals for affection, feel 
 In thy dear presence what I proudly know ; 
 That you among earth's fairest are alone — 
 Alone in beauty, in intellect alone I 
 This do I know and feel ; and is not this 
 All that I ever wish to know. 
 
 Sybil (staggering and faint). Thank heaven ! (Aside.) 
 
 Glif. (supporting her). You are ill — 
 
 Sybil. Do not be alarmed, I (regains her position) — 
 I am better now (disengages herself) ; I am subject to 
 such attacks, and they form a sufficient reason, Mr. Clif- 
 den, why I should not distress strangers with them. 
 
 Clif. Strangers ! but 1 to whom love makes you all — 
 To whom the hope — 
 
 3* 
 
30 SYBIL. [act II. 
 
 Sybil. Hope ! — hope nothing from me. 
 
 T would not have you hope in vain. 
 
 CUf. That kind desire assures me that I may not. 
 
 Sybil. You deceive yourself Do not question me 
 
 This meeting has awakened in my brain 
 Many a dreary thought. Again I say, 
 As, Eustace Clifden, I before have said, 
 I am divided, cut off from the world. 
 How or why it matters not : it is so. 
 
 Glif. Your destiny, dim as you paint its path, 
 But throbs my heart with willingness to share 
 And soothe it. 
 
 Sybil. That can never be. 
 
 Glif. If you but knew my heart — 
 
 Sybil. Enough that I do know my own ; and it 
 Has but one prayer, for peace ; one passion, and that — 
 
 CUf. Is — relieve me, Sybil — but say not you love 
 Another. 
 
 Sybil {scornfully). Love I no sir, I do not love. 
 Happily I am free from such a weakness. 
 
 Glif Is that a weakness which inspires all strength, 
 And gives the only purpose life possesses ? 
 
 Sybil. When we met I hoped I had met a friend. 
 And now I grieve that we have ever met. 
 
 Glif I pray, thee, Sybil, do not wrong me in this 
 decision. 
 
 Sybil. I do not. Your worth, your generous soul 
 And loving nature well I know. 
 You've offered me far more than I deserve ; 
 More than I dare accept — 
 
 Glif Then you would — 
 
 Sybil. Ay : 
 
 Were it possible I could ever wed. 
 
SYBIL. ' 31 
 
 I do not know a mortal unto whom 
 I could so well my best affections trust, 
 As to you, Eustace : but that cannot be. 
 There is between us a broad barrier — 
 
 Glif. What barrier can come between us 
 That we ourselves will not ! Here face to face, 
 Before the smiling face of heaven, what 
 Can separate us. This barrier, Sybil, 
 Is but some gloomy mountain of the mind, 
 Which I can speedily surmount. Whate'er 
 Stout heart and willing hand can do, I'll do. 
 What is it ? 
 
 Sybil. The very question deeper makes the gulf 
 And lifts the barrier higher : it opes 
 A breach that might an angry ocean bed. 
 Reveal it ! Powers of Innocence and Truth (adde) 
 I cannot, dare not. 'Tis enough I ne'er 
 Can listen to your prayer — or be your wife. 
 
 Glif. Sybil— 
 
 Sybil. Nor the wife of any man. 
 I entreat thee ask no more : — you'll drive me mad. 
 Farewell, Eustace, farewell. {Going, hefoUoim.) Do 
 
 not follow 
 If you love me. We must not meet again. 
 [He droops and kisses her hand.) Farewell. 
 
 [Exit Sybii . 
 
 Scene II. — Street. 
 Enter- RvFus Wolfe, Barnabas, and Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Wolfe. But, Lowe, my dear friend, you do not mean 
 to come out for Acton, eh ? I really cannot do without 
 }our services. 
 
 3 
 
32 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 Lowe. Well, the fact is, I have no settled political 
 opinions : I have not made up my mind on the one 
 hand, and on the other I believe young Mr. Acton, 
 whom I have met sometimes, to be a very good and 
 clever fellow. Indeed, I think he would be a very seri- 
 ous addition to our club. 
 
 Bar. A very serious addition, no doubt. 
 
 Loice. Well, I've been thinking, Wolfe, if I had two 
 votes I would give you one each ; but as I have only 
 one, I have almost determined not to hurt either of my 
 friends by using it. 
 
 Wolfe. A most unpatriotic speech — 
 
 Bar. And opposed to the best interests of the com- 
 munity ; for if you are not wholly with us, you are 
 against us. Besides, every one should know the right 
 side and use the privilege of citizenship. 
 
 Lowe. But, my gay fellows, I really do not know the 
 })oints at issue, if any, between the parties. 
 
 Bar. Pshaw ! go for your friends, and hang the 
 points at issue. You know our friend Wolfe. Every- 
 body knows him ; while Acton, on the contrary, is but 
 of a few years' growth amongst us. It is nothing but 
 personal ambition with him. 
 
 Lowe. I think you mistake the young man, or I do. 
 
 Wolfe (motioning to Barnabas). Our worthy presi- 
 dent is right, but he will pledge us his silence ; for next 
 to his aid for us, is his silence for our antagonist. 
 
 Lowe. Ah, Colonel, very graceful, I assure you, but 
 you overrate me as much as Barnabas underrates Acton. 
 Wolfe. Acton's address is written well and artfully. 
 
 Bar. Rather puritanical. 
 
 Wolfe. You must admit. Cardinal, my good friend, 
 that he comes rather disadvantageously into the field 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 33 
 
 just now. A few years hence and he might have an 
 opening. 
 
 Lowe. Well, well, to be sure ; but a man may as well 
 commence some time, you know. By the way, have you 
 any objection to meet him ? 
 
 Wolfe. Not at all, but quite the contrary. It is no 
 reason, because we are political rivals, why we should 
 not be personal friends. 
 
 Lowe. I meet the old gentleman this evening, at his 
 lodgings at the Red Heifer. If you agree to call for 
 me, I will be happy to prepare him for an introduction. 
 
 Wofe. Certainly — what say you, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. I am agreed. 
 
 Lowe. At eight {going). 
 
 Both. Eight. \_Exit Lowe. 
 
 Wolfe. Then we can the better see the mettle of this 
 stripling, and judge what strength we must put forth. 
 
 Bar. His friends are enthusiastic, and busy every- 
 Vvhere. 
 
 Wolfe. And mine are nearly asleep. We must arouse 
 them. Come. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Boom in the Bed Heifer Inn. 
 
 William Acton seated thoughtfully at a table. 
 
 Acton. Five years of what the world calls success 
 Have passed ; yet still my rustic memories cling 
 About my honors with a saddening gloom. 
 'Tis only action makes the present light ; 
 Each resting moment brings the weighty past. 
 Her image ever pleads before my thought 
 With strange prophetic feeling — now bright as dawn, 
 Pure in the opening bounty of its light ; 
 
34 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 And then, as dismal as a shadow cast 
 Across some ravine where a hidden stream 
 Gurgles and moans with wretched energy. 
 Two images of one, and how unlike each other. 
 One, like the eagle soaring in the sun. 
 Its brave soul bounding with the air of heaven ; 
 And proud eye looking down a scorn on earth. 
 The other, gloomy as the great bird, caged, 
 Tattered in plumage and with broken wing, 
 Fettered in spirit, and its eyes grown weak 
 With madly gazing at obscurity. 
 
 Enter Old Acton. 
 
 Old A. {aside). Pondering still, ever on the sad old 
 theme — 
 (Slaps him on the bach) Dreaming of fame and fortune 
 in your grasp ? 
 
 Acton. {Sighs.) The scene we witnessed yesterday has 
 dragg'd 
 All the old associations up. 
 They crowd the glories of the present out. 
 
 Old A. But you must leave the past where it left you 
 I tell thee, William, that your loss in youth 
 Was the most fortunate of all your gains. 
 Great as they have been. 
 
 Acton, My gain was great, indeed. 
 
 In having you adopt me as your son. 
 
 Old A. Your own strong character has been your 
 crown. 
 Had your wild passions won a tame success 
 You'd soon have sunk into the dull routine 
 And healthy torpor of the farmer's life. 
 The subtle knowledge of yourself were lost, 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 35 
 
 Which only disappoiutmeut made you find. 
 The raging troubles of a blighted heart 
 Comfort themselves in the disguise of pride, 
 Which with the insight into life love breeds, 
 Gives talent concentration, and makes man 
 Strong to bear up 'gainst nature's keen delusions. 
 The time will come you'll wonder this girl e'er 
 Could have been dear to you. 
 
 Acton. Never, never. 
 
 Old. A. The passion of the boy, is but a boy passion. 
 
 Acton. My mind had not then reached the easy width 
 Which yields an entrance to the grosser thoughts 
 Of years. My heart alone was living then ; 
 And lived but in the thought of her. 
 
 Old A. Years bring grossness only to the gross. 
 Had you your rival's knowledge of the world 
 You might have been successful. Simply he 
 Held up the mirror to her vanity 
 And pleased her with herself. He fed lier with 
 Her own ambition ; little troubling him 
 With her affections, which he soon found were 
 All bonded to her brain. This made her bold 
 And confident in fancied strength that proved 
 Her total weakness. He knew her nature. 
 
 Acton. It maddens me to hear the villain's name. 
 I'd freely give up all — all I have won. 
 All that you fondly hope I'll win, to know. 
 Where at this moment I could place my hand 
 Upon his throat. 
 
 Old A. Would that restore her 
 
 To her peace of mind, or obliterate 
 Your memories ? 
 
 Acton, No, but it would drag 
 
36 SYBIL. [act II 
 
 The libertine from bold obscurity, 
 To public retribution and disgrace. 
 
 Old A. Which would with equal scandal fall upon 
 His wretched victim. See what you would do. 
 
 Acton. 'Tis true. Father, I yield to you, my best. 
 My wisest, and most loving counsellor. 
 
 Old A. 'Tis sad, and false in spirit as in deed. 
 To know and feel society's so formed, 
 That we must often chain the tongue to save 
 That very one, whose wrongs the loudest call 
 For honest vindication. 
 
 Enter Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Welcome, Mr. Lowe, welcome. 
 
 Acton. I feared you had forgotten us. 
 
 Lowe. Not so ; indeed, my dear sir, I remembered 
 you so well that I refused to take any side in politics lest 
 I might injure your prospects. 
 
 Acton. How so ? 
 
 Lowe. Well, by taking part with Wolfe, or by adopt- 
 ing your side, in not being able to expound it. 
 
 Old A. Could you expound the opposition ? 
 
 Lowe. By my word, I did not think of that : but 
 you can have an opportunity of hearing an authority on 
 that head if you so desire. 
 
 Acton. The more we know of it the better shall we be 
 able to refute it. 
 
 Lowe. You have never met your opponent Colonel 
 Wolfe ? 
 
 Acton. Not to my knowledge. 
 
 Lowe. He knows your reputation ; and as you are 
 both lawyers, and understand the courtesy due to rivalry, 
 [ asked him to stop here for me as he was passing. 
 
BCENEiii.] SYBIL. 37 
 
 Old A. You did well, friend Lowe, to initiate the con- 
 test with a friendly feeling. 
 
 Enter Landlord of Red Heifer. 
 
 Landlord {uneasily). Squire-^ 
 
 Old A. What's the matter ? 
 
 Land. The place is a' most besieged with a gang of 
 fellows belonging to the t'other side. They'll ruin me 
 'fore election day comes on. There won't be left a tod- 
 dy in the town. {Hun^ahs outside.) There they go, and 
 Colonel Wolfe himself's at the head of them. 
 
 Old A. Colonel Wolfe — Mr. Lowe's friend — show 
 him up. 
 
 Land. Wolfe ! {in amazement) up here ! 
 
 Old A. Yes, up here ; and give his friends good wel- 
 come down below. [^Exit Landlord.] Ha ! ha ! the 
 landlord, who's an ardent partisan of ours, can scarcely 
 reconcile Wolfe's presence in the enemy's headquarters. 
 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe and Barnabas. 
 
 Lowe [meeting them). Up to time, sirs. (Addressing 
 all parties.) Now, gentlemen, introduce yoursdves as 
 fearless rivals ought. 
 
 Barnabas smirkingly approaches Old Acton, who ex- 
 tends his hand. 
 
 Old A, Welcome, gentlemen. 
 
 Wolfe [advancing to Wm. Acton). Mr. William Ac- 
 ton, I believe ; I am Colonel Wolfe. 
 
 Acton, [suddenly withdrawing his extended hand 
 and peering steadfastly at Wolfe). You, sir, Rufus 
 Wolfe ? — You ? [General surprise.) 
 
 Wolfe. What is this ? 
 
 4 
 
38 SYBIL. [ACT 11. 
 
 I am Colonel Wolfe ; and you, sir — 
 Are you not Mr. William Acton ? 
 
 Acton. Ay, sir, 
 
 And Acton cannot know Colonel Wolfe. 
 
 Old A. (coming to Acton, aside). What do yon 
 mean, my son — why this strange anger ? 
 
 Acton (to old A.). Do you not see? Do you not 
 recognize ? (Pj^esses his forehead. Wolfe and Barna- 
 bas confer aside,) 
 
 Lowe. What the deuce is this ? I surely am not in 
 the club. 
 
 Wolfe (to Loive). I demand an explanation. 
 
 Bar. (to Acton). Yes, sir, you must explain why you 
 cannot 
 Know my friend. 
 
 Acton. For the simple reason that 
 
 I know him far too well already. 
 
 Wolfe. Know me ? 
 
 Acton. As a villain — a base, consummate villaiiK 
 ( Wolf efuriousli; grapples mih Acton, who flings 
 him off. The parties present interfere.) 
 
 Wolfe. Unhand me, Barnabas : shall I submit 
 To a blow — 
 
 Bar. No ; but this is not the way — 
 
 Wolfe. You ai*e right — there must be blood : see 
 to it. 
 
 Bar. (to Wolfe). Stand back. We must have an 
 apology, or a meeting. Sir, an ample apology. 
 
 Acton. Apology ! To that worthless scoundrel ? 
 You much mistake me, gir. 'Twould seem, likewise. 
 You equally mistake your friend. He will 
 Scarcely demand one when he knows me. 
 
 (Wolfe tries to distinguish Acton.) 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL. 39 
 
 Lowe. "What does all this mean ! 
 
 Bar. Who, then, are you, sir ? 
 
 Acton. Nay, sir, speak for your friend ; who has I 
 deem, 
 As many aliases as any rogue 
 Of London. Let Colonel Wolfe, if such be 
 In truth his name — 
 
 Lowe. It is his name. 
 
 Bar. Why do you doubt it ? 
 
 Acton. I have known him by 
 
 Another — one associated with 
 The foulest infamy. 
 
 Wolfe (aside). Ha ! 
 
 Acton (looting full at Wolfe). Look at me, Alfred 
 Stevens, 
 For such I still must call you : — look on me. 
 Behold one who is ready to avenge 
 Margaret Cooper's bold and deep betrayal. 
 Ha I villain, do you start ! Do you shrink ? 
 Do you remember the smooth-spoken knave 
 Who, thus to doubly foul all moral law, 
 In the staid garment of a preacher sought 
 The home of innocence to wreck its peace. 
 And its young inmate ruin. Once before 
 We met in strife. Your hellish purpose then 
 Had not been consummated. Would to heaven 
 I had slain you on the spot. 'Tis not too late 
 For vengeance. ( Wolfe recovers his self-possession.) 
 
 Wolfe. The man is mad. I know not what he means 
 
 Acton. Liar ! This will not serve you. You shall not 
 'scape me. 
 You can't deceive the eye of honesty. 
 The trembling eddies of your secret soul, 
 
40 SYBIL. [actil 
 
 If such dark conscience hath a Uving soul, 
 Break on your face and accent, and aloud 
 Proclaim the wretch I have pronounced you. 
 
 Bar. This is very strange {aside), 
 
 Wolfe. Sheer madness : 
 
 Or 'tis a low, political design. 
 To undermine by an unmanly fraud. 
 The reputation you can't fairly shake : 
 A poor, base trick — but let the sland'rer know 
 The people understand these things too well. 
 
 Acton. They shall know thee better. Alfred Stevens, 
 The charge I utter you dare not deny. 
 
 Wolfe. It is as false as hell I 
 
 Acton. 'Tis true as heav'n ; 
 
 And atonement craves — blood only will suffice. 
 
 Lowe. Dear me! My dear friend, you are a young 
 man ; 
 Perchance you are mistaken : let me beg. 
 Just for your own sake, you admit so much, — 
 And shake hands on it. 
 
 Acton. Sir ! 
 
 Bar. I am son-y you persist in this unhappy business. 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw I The fellow is a madman or a fool ; 
 Why trouble yourself further. Let him have 
 Whate'er he wishes. 
 
 Bar. My friend will withdraw. 
 
 I shall wait on you immediately. 
 
 (Bar. and Wolfe retire up.) 
 
 Acton. I shall await you {going). 
 
 Lowe. My dear friends, I regret — {to Acton.) 
 
 Acton {going). No apology : 
 
 You have, sir, unintentionally done 
 The greatest favor you could have conferred 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 41. 
 
 Upon me — placing that bad man within 
 My grasp. 
 
 Lowe. I am a most unfortunate man, to be a cause of 
 bloodshed. 
 
 Acton. Fortunate rather, 
 
 In being even the unknowing means 
 Of avenging a woman's honor. [^Exit Acton. 
 
 Old A. Let me request a pledge of secrecy, Mr. Lowe, 
 as to what you have witnessed. 
 
 Lowe. Certainly, my good sir, I have no desire to 
 make myself responsible for any thing not belonging to 
 me. I'm as secret as the grave. 
 
 \_Exit Old A. and Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Bar. I saw at once the fellow's tale was true. It was 
 so like you. 
 
 Wolfe. How if I deny it ? 
 
 Bar. I wouldn't believe you. Where's the girl now ? 
 
 Wolfe. That is a mystery I should not mind 
 Paying to find out. A splendid creature I 
 
 Bar. I reckon this fellow loved her. 
 
 Wolfe. He did. 
 
 A rude, half-witted sort of rustic he, 
 At Eaglemont. Margaret despised him. » 
 
 'Tis true, we almost fought for her before. 
 Ashley, if I remember, was his name. 
 Could I have dreamt, that in him I'd behold 
 The now quite noted Acton. Barnabas, 
 Look you ! We did not think the pistol might 
 Aid us to level our young orator. 
 Ha I ha I 
 
 Bar. And will you do it ? 
 
 Wolfe. There's no alternative. He will have none : 
 And should he blab — 
 
 4* 
 
42 SYBIL. [ACT II. 
 
 Bar. Wing him ! that will be enough 
 
 Wolfe. Curse him ! Who made him Margaret's cham- 
 pion ? 
 Were he her husband I might let him o£f 
 With moderate chastisement, but he must pay 
 The penalty of upstart insolence. 
 I owe him an old grudge, too. He struck me 
 On that day at Eaglemont. 
 
 Bar. He did ! 
 
 Wolfe. I feel it now. I will kill him. 
 Ev'n if I had not ground most personal, 
 Think what a stroke of policy it were 
 To get him from the field. 
 
 Bar. But what if he shoots ? 
 
 Wolfe. Ah ! {thinking) secure my distance, a little 
 adroitness will give me the advantage. 
 
 Bar. And you will commission the bullet — 
 You will kill him ? 
 
 Wolfe. I must. [Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Old Acton and William Acton. 
 
 Old A. Do not be downcast. I know not how you 
 could have acted otherwise ; and yet the affair is very 
 shocking. 
 
 Acton. It is ; but crime is shocking, and so are 
 The thousand deeds that hourly rack man's life. 
 Though hourly, death admonishes to good. 
 Therefore the best philosophy is that 
 Which girds us up with resolution 
 To meet what seems as unavoidable, 
 As though we were prepared for death. 
 
 Old A. It may be death, my son. 
 
 Acton. And if it were, 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 43 
 
 And brought a sigbt of vengeance with it, then 
 
 I could feel happy. When I thhik of her — 
 
 So beautiful, so proud, so bright, so dear 
 
 Then to this heart — so dear to me, ev'n now 
 
 I feel the worthlessness of ray life's laurels. ( Weeps.) 
 
 Old A. Give way not thus, my son. Be a man. 
 
 Acto7i. Am I not ? What have I not endured — what 
 Have I not o'ercome. Will you not suffer 
 A little moment's weakness, in exchange 
 T'or those dread years' convulsive silence. 
 
 Old A. It is worse than useless to brood, my son, 
 Upon those days. 
 
 Acton. What might they not have been. 
 
 And now, I see her as an angel falPn ; 
 And in this wretch the arch-fiend. Oh ! surely, 
 To slay him cannot be an endless crime. 
 
 E^iter Barnabas. 
 
 Bar. Yery awkward business, Mr. Acton — no adjust- 
 ing it now. May I have the pleasure of knowing your 
 friend ? {Acton bows and hands him a card.) 
 
 Bar. {Beads aloud.) Major Randolph. 
 
 Old A. {coming forward takes the card from Bar.^s 
 hand), /will act for you, William. 
 
 Acton. You, sir? 
 
 Bar. You, old gentleman ? 
 
 Old A. Yes. Shall I be more reluctant than you to 
 serve a friend. This, sir, is my adopted son. I love him 
 as if he were my own. I love him better than life. 
 Shall I leave him at the very time his life is perilled I 
 No, sir. I am sorry for this affair, but will stand by 
 him to the last. Let us see to the arrangements. 
 
 Bar. You have seen service before, old gentleman. 
 
U SYBIL [acth. 
 
 Old A. I have been young. 
 
 Bar True blue, still. Though I regret equally witli 
 yourself the sad duty, yet it gives me pleasure to deal 
 with a gentleman of the right spirit. I trust your son 
 is a shot. 
 
 Old A. He has nerve and eye. 
 
 Bar. Good things enough— very necessary — but a 
 spice of practice does no harm. Now, Wolfe has a 
 knack with a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if 
 you be only a looker on. 
 
 Old A. Let me stop you, sir. When I was a young 
 man, sucli a remark would have been held an imperti- 
 nent intimidation. 
 
 Bar. Egad, you have me ! Are we agreed on the 
 weapons — shall it be pistols ? 
 
 Old A. Yes — at sunrise to-morrow. 
 
 Bar. Good. 
 
 Old A. Place— Red Grange. Distance — 
 
 Bar. Twelve, I suppose — usual thing. 
 
 Old A. {after a momentary pause). We will settle 
 that on the ground. 
 
 Bar. {Bites his lip.) Well, to-morrow morning — 
 Red Grange — 
 
 Old A. At sunrise. 
 
 {Picture. Barnabas in the doorway.) 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 45 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Extenor of the Red Heifer Inn. 
 
 Enter Mr. JjOwe from Inn. 
 
 Lowe. Bad business, by Jove ! and may be a sad 
 business, too. Acton is too wild and Wolfe too wary 
 for good to come of it. So much for my leaving the 
 town, and becoming political mediator in the heat of a 
 raging election. But my conscience is clear as to my 
 good intentions. How could I tell that Wolfe was such 
 a scapegrace, and Acton such a perfect wildcat. I gave 
 sound advice, too, but it was well I was not eaten up 
 alive, I'll make back to town as expeditiously as possi- 
 ble, and if any of these fire-eaters get me in their trail, 
 under any pretence whatsoever, again, my name is not 
 Lafayette Hancock Lowe. Something is done by this, 
 for here comes Barnabas, and alone. What if Wolfe is 
 killed ? 
 
 Enter Barnabas. 
 
 What news, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. Good news. 
 
 Lowe. Is Wolfe killed ? 
 
 Bar. Would that be good news ? 
 
 Loive. Well, there might be worse and there might 
 be better. What is your good news ? 
 
 Bar. Here it is — [TJiey stand axide. 
 
 Enter Old Acton and Surgeon supporting William 
 Acton, loho is pale and feeble. 
 
 Acton. I am better — the cloud has gone from my 
 
46 SYBIL. [act lit. 
 
 eyes. Forgive me, father, if in this I have gone against 
 your will. I deeply deplore the pain I inflict on you, 
 which I know is more acute than what I feel — forgive 
 me. 
 
 Old A. Bless yon, my son ; you have acted as became 
 a man. ( With great affection.) Let us go in. 
 
 Surgeon. The sooner he is completely at ease the bet- 
 ter. The wound, though not mortal, is of a delicate and 
 perhaps tedious nature. 
 
 [Exit Old A., Acton, and Surgeon, into Inn, 
 
 Lowe. Is that your good news ? 
 
 Bar. It is better than I expected to have. But for 
 the old fellow's pluck the young one would have been a 
 dead man. 
 
 Lowe. Ha ! How so ? 
 
 Bar. Why, at ten paces Wolfe is sudden death ; but 
 Old Acton had the choice of distance, and insisted on 
 five paces, back to back, wheel and fire. 
 
 Loive. Oh, the old blunderbuss — a most murderous 
 affair. 
 
 Bar. The suddenness of the proposition rather irri- 
 tated Wolfe, who counted on ten ; but for that the 
 news might have been much worse. 
 
 Lowe. And Wolfe ? 
 
 Bar. Had a very narrow escape — Acton's ball took 
 the brim off his hat, just over the ear — he's gone across 
 the country to Clifden's. 
 
 Loioe. I'm off in the other direction — to town — after 
 I congratulate my friends. 
 
 Bar. If this affair is mentioned, just stop all conjec- 
 tures on the matter, by alluding to it as a political dif- 
 ference. 
 
 Lowe. I assure you I will not make the slightest allu- 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 41 . 
 
 sion to it — none at all, whatever. I will not make my- 
 self responsible to either party by telling any of their 
 stories. Just think of my meeting Old Acton, at five 
 paces, with double-shotted howitzers. No, no — good- 
 day — adieu. 
 
 [Exit into Inn. Exit Barnabas opposite side. 
 
 Scene n. — Boom in Eustace GUfderCs Jioicse. 
 
 Clifden, seated. 
 
 Vlif. If she could marry, she would marry me : 
 She will not — cannot — yet she would. 
 She loves no other : I love her alone— 
 And yet between us as between two banks 
 Of some wide stream, the throbbing tide of hfe 
 Rolls on, and fretfully on either shore 
 Splashes fond discord, that in echoes mock 
 The restless pleadings at the distant side. 
 Must it be thus ? It cannot. I must solve 
 The mystery in which she is enwrapped. 
 To go, a prey to mad conjecture, were 
 A living death, less torturous only 
 Than this undying love. 
 The clouds must part, and I the barrier see 
 That dims my path, and keeps my sun from me. (Going.) 
 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe, Maude, and Janette. 
 
 Maude. Whither, brother? We have been seeking 
 
 you. 
 Clif. (disconcerted). Why, my friend, I did not dream 
 
 you were 
 Within a dozen miles of us. 
 
 Wolfe. While you 
 
4S SYBIL. [act III. 
 
 Were rusticating I have been at work ; 
 And just rode over to confer upon 
 Our prospects ; but, instead of finding you 
 In mood for council, strong with healthy wit, 
 Such as these glorious country scenes inspire, 
 I meet you m.oody and weighed down as 'twere 
 With premonitions of defeat. Cheer up, 
 Clifden, the prospect brightens day by day. 
 
 Cllf. (musingly). Indeed. 
 
 Jan. {mimicking him). Indeed— why yes — and so 
 it is. 
 (To Wolfe.) Ah, Colonel, Love and Politics cannot dwell 
 With harmony in that frail tenement. 
 Love is sweet music, full of pettish airs, 
 And thoughtful pain, and pleasures without thought ; 
 While Politics is selfishness grown bold. 
 And for its ends confusing all things else. 
 Love is the heart, and Politics the head, 
 And when there's strife between them, I well know 
 Which side good Cousin Eustace takes. 
 
 Maude. Ah, he has seen his goddess of the Wood — 
 ( To Clifden, j^layfully) — Have you not, brother ? 
 
 Jan. To be sure he has ; 
 
 Naught else could make him look so cheerful. 
 
 Maude. Janette, you vex Eustace. 
 
 Wolfe. I did not dream such sweet allurement 'twas 
 That held our brilliant Clifden from the town. 
 Who, may I ask, is she that hath this magic wrought ? 
 
 Maude. Had you but seen her you would wonder not 
 That he's possess'd with sudden passion for 
 The air she breathes — indeed, she's beautiful I 
 
 Ciif (abstractedly). Yery beautiful, Maude I 
 
 Jan. Yes, a thunder-storm sort of beauty ; 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 49 
 
 A dark and dismal grandeur, that outflashes, 
 Dazzling and terrifying one's poor heart. 
 
 Clif. Ha ! neither over nor under drawn. 
 
 Jan. To be sure not. Why, Colonel, when we first 
 Were left together, I felt crumpled up 
 With very fear. 
 
 Maude. Now, cousin, 'tis unkind 
 
 To harrow thus the mind of our dear Eustace. 
 A different likeness of fair Sybil, I 
 Can show. True, she is sad, and grave betimes, 
 And wrapt in volumes that we can but name. 
 But then she's kind, and from her gloomiest moods 
 Wakes into gentle radiance, like the moon, 
 Dispelling doubt that only came when we 
 Were in the dark. 
 
 Clif. {aside) Dear sister ! 
 
 Wolfe. Can we not see the fair one ? You have roused 
 My curiosity almost to envy. 
 Is the fair soUtary's grot remote ? 
 
 Jan. About a mile — a tassle as it were 
 Ui)on the fringe of the forest. 
 
 a'f. The lady 
 
 Is engaged to-day, and — 
 
 Wofe. So am I : 
 
 Nor would I mar the sweet seclusion which 
 Hath the chief eloquence when lovers meet. 
 But, Clifden, I would speak to you of what 
 Our merry-hearted friends take little heed. 
 
 Ja7i. What's that ? 
 
 Wolfe. Myself. 
 
 Ja7i. Had you said one of us, we both might feel 
 A cause of quarrel o'er the pleasant doubt : 
 But as you made our heedlessness all one — 
 5 
 
50 . SYBIL. [ACT III. 
 
 Maude. Why, then, we'll take notes quietly to solve 
 Whose careless tongue has most distracted 
 His to such a speech. Ha ! ha I Come, cousin, 
 Come. 
 
 Wolfe. And may I hear the court's decision ? 
 
 Jan. If we can decide. Ha I ha I 
 
 \Exit Maude and Janette. 
 
 Clif. You will excuse my bluntness, if I pray 
 That you postpone — 
 
 Wolfe. I see impatience writ 
 
 On every movement, Clif den. I will not 
 Waste a word ; but, as I leave within the hour. 
 Would fain impress you with the duty which 
 We owe — not to ourselves, for that were base 
 In its selfish ends — but to our country. 
 We much depend on you : your gift of speech. 
 Your crowd-controlling phrases, ready wit ; 
 Your mastery of passion, that great drug 
 Which gives the secrets of the populace 
 A flavor of the heart ; and makes each man 
 Of all the wondering multitude believe 
 The speaker spoke for him alone ; — with you 
 To fling these quick'ning seeds broadcast into 
 The ready hotbed of the people's hearts. 
 Success is certain. Acton now is powerless. 
 
 Clif. You've never heard him speak, or you would feel 
 What baseless praises you have heaped on me. 
 
 Wolfe. I have heard him once, and had Fate been 
 kind 
 As she has been, he never would be heard again. 
 
 Clif. I do not understand you — 
 
 Wolfe. Simply this : 
 
 We met last night, and he» in violation 
 
BCENEII.] SYBIL. . 51 
 
 Of even plebeian hospitality, 
 
 Hung a base fabrication to my name : 
 
 We met this morning, and I shot him. 
 
 Glif. Unfortunate I 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, that I did not kill him. 
 
 Glif. Thank heaven, he is not dead ! — 
 
 Wolfe. He is, however, beyond all usefulness ; 
 And if you but leave your forest beauty — 
 Pardon me — for a few days, the game is ours. 
 
 Glif. As I promised, I shall do : but I grieve 
 This early bloodshed on our side. 
 
 Wolfe. Pshaw I 
 
 All you lovers grow so tame in cooing 
 Dehcate fantasies to maiden ears, 
 That oft I wonder how the maiden bends 
 To such unmanly chirpings. 
 
 Glif {satirically). To-morrow 
 
 I shall feel stronger of voice : strong enough. 
 Mayhap, to drug the crowd, as you infer. 
 To-day, you see I have a fantasy 
 Most delicate for other ears. Adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 Wolfe. Touchy and stubborn, as all lovers are ; 
 Or, as they think they must be unto all 
 Who will not mount with them the airy stilts 
 On which they poise unsteady phrases 
 Of devotion and what not ; all of which 
 But tempt the exercise of woman's power : 
 These women, who, like all great victors, live 
 On the weak homage of their pris'ner's praise. 
 Who can she be that holds his heart ? Methinks 
 Its heat will burn her fingers and exhaust 
 Itself. His nature runs into extremes. 
 Frantic a day — a month melancholia — 
 
52 SYBIL. [ACTHi, 
 
 An hour's passion, and a season's pain. 
 His passion's up to-day, but, too ripe fruit, 
 To-morrow's sun will melt it to the earth. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — Aplain,hut neatly furnished room in Mrs. Hardy s 
 cottage. Book-case, table, &c. 
 
 Sybil seated, her head buried in her hands. 
 
 Sybil (rising). Why do I weep ? Have I not said the 
 
 word 
 That should dry up these fountains of the eye 
 Which are the tender emblems of affection I 
 Tears ! What right have I with tears ? I whose lone 
 
 hope 
 Feeds on the sparks that iron destiny 
 Strikes from the heart that's hardened into flhit. 
 
 woman ! image of all feebleness 
 
 Art thou. These garments are its badges. How long 
 
 Must I still crave for retribution ? 
 
 A day, an hour would have given to a man 
 
 That prompt revenge which I have sought for years. 
 
 (Muses.) Fool that I was to have denied his suit. 
 
 Why did I not, at least, accept his hand — 
 
 The hand of man ! He is an avenger 
 
 Sent from heaven, and I have cast him off. 
 
 What is love, life, or fear, or joy to me, 
 
 That I should weigh distinctions ? 
 
 What is his love to me, that I should fear 
 
 To use it for my hate ? He still is mine 
 
 If I but say it ; and not to say it. 
 
 Is to fling away the weapon heaven sent. 
 
 1 cannot doubt his love ! His love — ha ! ha ! ha I 
 Man's love ! that brilliant shroud for infamy. 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL. 53 
 
 (Pauses.) Eustace Clifden, thou art mine : I take thy 
 
 hand 
 And place within it all my woes, my wrongs, 
 My pent-up, silent-growing rage of years. 
 I take thy hand as Judith took the sword 
 That freed her from the libertine. 
 Oh, how near losing, by a word, was I, 
 The means of making vengeance perfect. 
 Yet while I plan perchance he flies the place. 
 And leaveth nothing but his heart behind. 
 I claim his hand — his hand is all I need. 
 
 {Bushes to the door, opens it quickly, andfaltei^s 
 on the threshold. Her arm drops. She re- 
 turns, wearing an exj^ression of remorse.) 
 Oh Sybil, Sybil, thou'rt indeed debased. 
 What ? Would'st thou send to shame, perdition, deatli. 
 This youth, whose only crime is loving thee ; 
 And who, if he had never seen thy face, 
 Would mount to honor in the face of earth. 
 What ? Would'st thou fling thme arms about his heart, 
 And dupe his ardent nature to thy hate 
 With wanton kisses, weighty in deceit ; 
 Decoy his soul from out himself, and guage it 
 To the dim path where moans thy wrathful fate ? 
 Oh, no — no — no — I must not wrong him thus : 
 So young, so generous, so full of truth. 
 And lovingness, and manly speech. Away 
 Ye fiends that wait on woman's doubts, to make 
 Her less than woman. [Falls, weeping.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Hardy. Goes to Sybil and raises her. 
 
 3Irs. Har. Why, daughter, will you drive yourself into 
 These paroxysms. Why waste your strength upon 
 5* 
 
54 SYBIL. [ACTiir. 
 
 The arid past, when it is needed for 
 The present and the future. 
 
 Sybil. The present ? 
 
 I have no present ; and with such a past, 
 Can have no future. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Oh, must we ne'er, 
 
 Ne'er rid us of that past. Must you still cry — 
 Shame, shame, aloud, at thy poor self, now that 
 You have not the loud world to do it ? Shame I 
 The past ! Have you not expiated it ? 
 Have you not made me suffer for it ? Oh, 
 There are other things to live for now. 
 
 Stjhil. True, 
 
 There are ; and if there were not, then, indeed, 
 Should I be desperate. 
 
 Mrs. Har. You have, my child. 
 
 Much, I hope, to live for yet ; new life of joy : 
 With our long solitude and altered name 
 The girl of Eaglemont's forgotten quite. 
 Ay, you will yet as good a husband have 
 As any girl in the land. 
 
 Sybil Oh, mother. 
 
 Mother ! for the sake of heaven, none of this. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Why not ? Should brain and beauty, such 
 as yours. 
 Be buried here for ever ? 
 
 Sybil. Peace, mother I 
 
 Peace — you will drive me mad. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Well, daughter, well, 
 
 I know not how to please you, but I'm sure 
 I only want to cheer and lift your heart ; 
 Your hopes are not so bad as you would think — 
 (Sybil waves her hand impatiently.) 
 
3CENEni.] SYBIL. 55 
 
 No, indeed, not near so bad. Is there not 
 
 Young Clifden fairly dying for your love ? 
 
 Why will you not wed him ? A better mate 
 
 No woman need desire — handsome, young, and good. 
 
 Sybil. Mother, you have deeply suffer' d for your child — 
 Torn from the homestead that was sacred made 
 By my dear father's love — torn from the scenes 
 Of your bright wedded days — scenes that hold thouglits 
 Which are the dearest solace of old age. 
 For in such scenes we live our love anew. 
 Torn you have been from those tried hearts and eyes 
 That weave a glory round deserved success ; 
 You have forsaken every thing to prop 
 The tottering youth of your once haughty child. 
 These wrongs, which have upon your waning years, 
 In their chill weight anticipated age, 
 Not less than those I've suffer'd, make me quake 
 To hear you talk as you have done. Marry ? 
 Clifden ? 
 
 Mrs. Har. Yes, daughter : think not of my wrongs • 
 I cannot long be with you on the earth, 
 And ere I go 'twould glad my heart to see 
 You wed to one who in his noble love 
 Would crown with joy the trials you've endur'd. 
 
 Sybil. In ev'ry quality of sense and heart 
 Is Clifden nobly gifted ; but could I 
 So sacrilegious be as link his fate 
 And spotless gifts with my unsettled soul ! 
 
 Mrs. Har. If you were married unto such a man, 
 Your life would have a purpose in his life. 
 Domestic duties would exalt your mind 
 Above the wilful dreams of horror, which 
 You cherish now. Life would have purpose then. 
 
50 SYBIL. [Acxnr 
 
 Sybil. And lias it not a purpose now ! A great, 
 A holy, soul-absorbing- purpose. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Daughter, do not look so wild {pnU her 
 arm around her). 
 
 Sybil. Purpose — 
 
 Have I not that oath to fulfil — 
 
 i//-.s. Har. Margaret — 
 
 Oh Sybil, dear, — you fright me with these oaths. 
 What's done cannot be helped. You frighten me. 
 Be calm — there's some one at the wicket. See, 
 Clifden's coming up the path. 
 
 Sybil. I cannot 
 
 Meet him. {Going.) 
 
 Mrs. Har. For my sake I 
 
 Sybil. Mother, mother — place 
 
 On my affection some more worthy test — 
 I cannot, cannot marry. 
 
 Enter Clifden. 
 
 Mrs. Har. Good day, Mr. Clifden. 
 
 GUf. Ladies, good day : 
 
 Pardon, I pray, this lack of ceremony. 
 Finding the wicket open, I thus far 
 Intruded, on a neighbor's privilege, 
 As to enter — 
 
 Mrs. Har, Your bright face brings its welcome, 
 The sunshine comes unbidden in, and why 
 Should you not — 
 
 Glif. Madam, you are kind, but while 
 
 Your daughter's here, there is, Pd say, no need 
 Of other light. 
 
 Sybil. Ah, Clifden, you are more 
 
 Polite than usual 
 
SCENE m.] SYBIL f^i 
 
 Clif. A just rebuke 
 
 For previous want of manners. 
 
 3Irs. Ear. Sybil is not quite well ; you must not pit 
 your ready wit against her. Be seated, Mr. Clifden ; I 
 will leave you to enliven her, if you are not otherwise 
 engaged {Clifden hows), while I make my domestic 
 rounds. (Sybil exhibits uneasiness and anger at her 
 mother^s leaving.) [Exit Mrs. Hardy. 
 
 Clif. (approaching). Miss Hardy — 
 
 Sybil [rising, and raising her hands as if to com- 
 mand silence). Chfden, I supplicate you — 
 Speak not I For your own sake and mine do not. 
 
 Clif But— 
 
 Sybil (bitterly). Why will you, sir, pursue me thus? 
 
 Clif No rest I'll find 'till I the barrier know, 
 That either in thy self-denying brain, 
 Or, in the actual fact, divides us. 
 I love you deeply, passionately I 
 As I ne'er fancied man could mortal love. 
 This passion rends my frame, distracts my mind. 
 And doubtful makes the tenure e'en of life. 
 I have seen you only to worship you. 
 Lost to me, I lose my divinities. 
 My faith. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, Clifden, spare me, and preserve yourself i 
 You woo destruction. 
 
 Clif. I can see there is 
 
 A deepening mystery about you. 
 
 Sybil. Ay, the mystery of a passion which 
 Controls all others. 
 
 Clif Then but a pretext 
 
 Was your wide, bhghting, though deceiving scorn, 
 For th' all-controlling passion — Love. 
 
58 SYBIL. [ACT III. 
 
 Sybil. A pretext ? Would it were. Love makes no 
 part 
 Of my existence, which now feeds alone 
 On the heart-hard'ning rival passion — Hate I 
 
 Clif. Foiehate? 
 
 Sybil, Ay, sir. Hate is my passion, 
 
 And dwells not here alone, since it commands 
 A slave of its own likeness — 
 
 Clif. And that ? 
 
 Sybil. Is Revenge. 
 Ask thyself, then, with these within my breast, 
 Whether there can be room for aught else there. 
 
 Clif. {pacing to and fro, muttering). Revenge, Sybil, 
 revenge {ntops) I Something of this 
 I understand {cogitates). Your culture, loveliness, 
 This solitude. These do not balance well. 
 {To her.) Some ruthless knave, perchance, in usury 
 
 steeped. 
 Taking advantage of thy mother's weeds. 
 Thy orphanage, has levelPd all your gods. 
 Has torn the splendor from your household heav'n, 
 And revels in the starry wealth once yours* 
 Mayhap the plunderer would barter it 
 For that bright beauty he could not enslave. 
 Your dignity and learning are cramp' d here, 
 They are not natural to this house or sphere. 
 You have an enemy— Sybil, I will be 
 Your greedy champion 'gainst the world* Give me 
 Your hate, and I will crush what bred it. 
 
 Sybil {with eager for getfuhiess). Will you indeed do 
 this ! But what do I say. 
 No, no — you cannot, must not avenge me. 
 No, no. 
 
ecENEHiJ SYBIL. 59 
 
 Glif. I will — I can. Your enemy shall be mine — 
 I will pursue him to the ends of earth. 
 
 Sybil (aside). Sustain me, heaven. (To G.) No, no — 
 you shall not — 
 I will not wrong your generosity, 
 Your daring love, by yielding to your pray'r. 
 Deeply, sincerely, do I feel for thee — 
 But {aside) — Oh, my brain — my heart will burst {weeps 
 aside). 
 
 Glif. Tears ! 
 
 The words that vainly struggle to the tongue, 
 Break from the eye in liquid eloquence. 
 Sybil, I must and shall be your life's shield. 
 My own heart, in its lack of comfort, prompts 
 What's due to one, like thine, in agony. 
 I cannot leave you here alone, a prey 
 To this revenge, which worketh 'gainst thyself 
 More than its object, whatsoe'er it be. 
 
 Sybil, You rush upon a fate I'd give my life 
 To save you from. 
 
 Glif. Then why not link our lives 
 
 Upon it I It is all I crave, 
 
 Sybil. Heaven is witness how I've striven for you, 
 And against myself. You seek to fathom 
 The thoughts that hang Uke night about my heart. 
 You love me, Chfden I I believe you. 
 You love me, but the secret of my soul 
 Will be the death-blow to that love. 
 
 Glif. Speak, dearest, speak I Your anxious fears but 
 prove 
 The tender majesty of woman's soul. 
 Speak I I am your bondman. 
 
 Sybil. But the world's mock — 
 
60 SYBIL. [act. Ill 
 
 To see it, in the inner vision, point 
 Its skinny finger at my tale of woe. 
 
 Glif. Declare my service. Your possession 
 Will give me deeper purpose on the earth. 
 You have been wronged, I care not to know more. 
 My eyes but see you to adore, my ears 
 But hear your words of virgin purity ; 
 And in this faith I claim thy hand, thy cause, 
 Thy wrongs, thy vengeance. Make them mine alone, 
 That I a bright memorial may raise 
 Of virtuous revenge, which in the minds 
 Of men will live when we are in the dust. 
 
 Sybil (aside). How I could love this man. [Aloud) 1 
 beg thee — go. 
 The fountains of my life are welling up — 
 My heart, Kke some weak swimmer, vainly breasts 
 The tide — it struggles, but it will not save 
 Itself to risk thy heart a sacrifice. 
 
 Clif. Oh, noblest hearted — let my strength bear thee. 
 Let our young hearts rest on the other's strength. 
 And like the 'butments of a bridge, bear up 
 The single arch of our existence. 
 
 Sybil {abstractedly). What fate is driving me to this 
 Can it be 
 My mind at last has fallen from its throne ! 
 Do I dream ? Oh, Clifden, wilt thou not go — 
 
 Glif. And leave thee victim to thy fantasies, 
 Or the grim echoes solitude evokes 
 From old misfortune's crabbed voice ? 
 
 Sybil (looking imploringly to heaven). Give aid, that 
 I may drive my heart away ; 
 For sure no love of man — the man of all I love — 
 Can stand the ordeal I conjure up. 
 
SCENE III] SYBIL. 61 
 
 {To Clifden.) The hand you woo was by another won — 
 
 Peace — you shall know all. 'Twas in life's early spring. 
 
 He found me sparkling in my native hills, 
 
 As pure, if wayward, as the young cascades, 
 
 That pant to spring out from the yawning glooms. 
 
 He found me proudly innocent, and vain 
 
 Of gh'lish triumphs, that not envy's tongue 
 
 Could lessen in our happy village. 
 
 He reached above my rustic haughtiness 
 
 With all the city's legacy of ease, 
 
 With bright audacity and subtle force, 
 
 With ardor passionately robed in words 
 
 Stolen from The Book of Everlasting Love ; 
 
 And thus, as 'twere with wizard energy, 
 
 My pride, my vanities, my hopes, my life 
 
 Of life, under the magic spell-word — marriage — 
 
 Were surrounded ; and — 
 
 Clif. You loved ! — ay, love him yet. 
 
 (Sybil goes to the book'Case and returns with a pistol.) 
 
 Sybil. Daily, for five long years, I've practised with 
 This instrument of death. Here, in these woods, 
 I've daily held a calm devotion, where 
 Hate is the deity and vengeance dark 
 The officiating votaress. Love yet ! — ha ! 
 For years I've toiled with this delusive dream — 
 Retribution ! But what can woman do — 
 Where seek — how find her victim ? Ah, think you, 
 Eustace Clifden, could I have met my foe 
 I would divide the glory of this work 
 Of gnawing vengeance ! — No I this eye and hand 
 Are strangers to a woman's fears. 
 
 Clif. ( Taking hold of the hand with pistol). Give me 
 the hand — 
 
 6 
 
(S2 SYBIL. [ACT 111. 
 
 Sybil. Stay — be warned — 
 
 Never was man to such conditions brought, 
 As you to those by which you claim my love. 
 
 Clif. Hear me, thou just, impartial heaven I 
 To stand between this woman and her wrongs — 
 To take her heart and shrive it of its hate — 
 To make her woes my own — 
 
 Sybil. Do not mock me. 
 
 The barrier cannot, must not be overstepped. 
 
 Clif* I swear by this fair hand — 
 
 Sybil. Swear not, and be free : 
 
 The hand you clasp is a dishonored hand ! 
 
 Clif den {recoils and drops her hand). 
 
 Sybil {with calm passion). Who takes my hand must 
 take the weapon from it. 
 My husband must avenge his wife^s dishonor. 
 
 Clif. (clasping her hand). Thy hand, thy hate is mhie. 
 
 Sybil. The oath I 
 
 Clif. I swear I 
 
 {Sybil, overcome, hysterically falls into Glifden^s 
 arms.) 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Boom in CUfden's House. 
 Eustace Clifden. Rufus Wolfe. Barnabas. 
 
 Wolfe. Truly, Clifden, I congratulate you. 
 Your wife's a noble woman : and her mind 
 As richly gifted as her beauty's rare. 
 
 Glif. I'm proud to think my best friends all agree, 
 I'm right in love as sound in politics. 
 
 Wolfe. Fortunate fellow ! I should say no man 
 Was ever more so. But your happiness 
 Will quickly end the reign of bachelors — ■ 
 They'll want to rival your good fortune. 
 Shall we not give him a certificate. 
 On the unusual wisdom of his choice, 
 Making him free of all Club penalties 
 Made against those who wed without its leave ? 
 
 Bar. I suppose so, if you say it. I judge 
 Only of Mistress Clifden's lovely mien, 
 For you her conversation all engross'd. 
 I'll certify she's noble to the eye, 
 And take your measure of her mental worth. 
 
 Wolfe, You will be safe in doing so. 
 
 Clif. My friends, she's noble and as eloquent 
 Ev'n as she looks. Could I say more — 
 
 Wolfe. Or less ! 
 
 Glif. But come, had we not best be on the road. 
 
 Wolfe. I fear my horse will not carry me. The brute 
 is snagged, or has a nail in his foot ; the quick is touch- 
 ed ; and indeed, but for the brute's sake, I'm not sorry. 
 
64 SYBIL. [ACT IT, 
 
 We roused too late last night, and I have — a slight 
 headache. I'll nurse myself this morning. 
 
 Glif. Shall we break up our excursion, Barnabas ? 
 
 Bar. No, by Jove ! I need fresh air after exhausting 
 all my breath in taverns for the public good. 
 
 Clif. Come, then : make yourself at home {to Wolfe)j 
 you will find 
 Some books about the house. 
 
 Wolfe. Thanks, my dear boy I — I feel myself at home. 
 {Detains Barnabas.) 
 
 Glif. {to Bar.). I shall await you at the stables. [Exit. 
 
 Bar. What's the matter ? 
 
 Wolfe. The strangest in the world. 
 Would you believe it, that girl, about whom 
 I fought with Acton, and young Clifden's wife. 
 Are one and the same person I 
 
 Bar. {gives a long whistle). The devil they are ! 
 
 Wolfe. True I I have spoken with her as Margaret : 
 The recognition is complete. 
 
 Bar. Heavens I 
 
 How awkward. 
 
 Wolfe. Awkward ! On the contrary, 
 
 This meeting I regard as fortunate. 
 Most fortunate : I ne'er was satisfied 
 With having lost her as I did ; and now 
 To find her, is like finding a rich prize 
 I thought forever lost. 
 
 Bar. Do you not fear — 
 
 Might she not hint it to her husband ? 
 
 Wolfe. She's not the fool you show yourself to be. 
 What wife would do it ? or what woman ? No — 
 She kept her secret when she married him, 
 And will not blab it now. 
 
SCENE!.] SYBIL. 65 
 
 Bar. But the affair 
 
 With Acton has from Clifden's ears been kept, 
 Only because he had no ear for aught 
 Save love. He soon must hear of it. 
 
 Wolfe. No mischief can it work. Did you not hear 
 Me ask him on our last night's rouse the name — 
 The maiden name of Mistress Clifden. Ha ! 
 Forsooth the maiden name — ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Bar. Yes ; her name, he said, was Hardy. 
 
 Wolfe. Sybil Hardy— /iis Sybil ! Ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Bar. Do not laugh so loud — 
 
 Wofe. You are as timid 
 
 As a hare in December. Don't you see 
 She has imposed upon him a false name. 
 What matters it to him, then, should he hear 
 Of Margaret Cooper and myself from this 
 Till doomsday. Clifden's safe in ignorance, - 
 As in its knowledge are his wife and I. 
 At the same time, however, 'twill seem well 
 You give him true account of Acton's brawl — 
 All politics, all politics — you know : 
 High words, and, to sum up the argument. 
 When reason failed and passion was supreme, 
 Exchange of shots, and so forth — do you see? 
 
 Bar. That may be very well — but, Jupiter I 
 I'd rather we were safely from this house. 
 Yes, yes — I will be off to-morrow. 
 
 Wolfe. Then, by Yenus ! you will start alone 
 Having beheld her, I'm convulsed with joy I 
 I see her now I 
 
 Those wild, bright, almost fierce, dilating eyes ; 
 Those lips, that brow, that full and heaving breast — 
 
 Bar. Hush, you are mad. You say you spoke with her ; 
 6* 
 
66 SYBIL. [act IV. 
 
 And did she calmly listen, nor abuse 
 Your wild audacity. 
 
 Wolfe. Pah ! Simpleton, 
 
 You ne'er could understand her. You must not 
 Think of this glorious creature as you would 
 Of ordinary and weak-souPd women. 
 Abuse ? She is too proudly built for that — 
 She threatened me. Ha ! ha I ha I 
 
 Bar. And you— 
 
 Wolfe. I laughed, of course ; and but your cursed return 
 With her boy-husband baulked me, should have met, 
 And silenced her brave threats with kisses. 
 
 Ba7\ You'll have your throat cut one day or other 
 By some husband. 
 
 Wolfe. Ah ! Barnabas, you know 
 
 Little of husbands as you do of wives. 
 But in her love I've good security ; 
 Better even than in your stupidity. 
 
 Ba7\ Take care ! 
 
 Wolfe. She loves me — 
 
 Bar. The deuce she does ! 
 
 You're a conceited fellow. 
 
 Wolfe. I know she does. 
 
 The strongest passion is youth's mem'ried love : 
 Its freshness, bloom, and fragrance, never fades. 
 Think you a woman like her can forget 
 The hps that first within her bosom blew 
 The spark of love into a passionate flame ? 
 
 Bar. Under the circumstances, she'd be less 
 Than woman if she could forget you ; but 
 She seems so proud and cold : at times almost 
 So fiendish, I should not care to jog 
 Her memory about such days. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 67 
 
 Wolfe. Masks, glorious masks — indignant virtue, ha I 
 Now, in the morning neither of us leave. 
 Fortune favors me — you'll not be less kind. 
 You to my aid must come, good Barnabas. 
 
 Bar, What ? to carry off our hostess I May I be — 
 
 Wolfe. Don't — indeed, you will. 
 
 Bar, To have that fellow, 
 
 Who is a perfect Mohawk when aroused — 
 What ? Clifden in my war-path — on my trail — 
 To slit my carotid — not I — never. 
 
 Wolfe. I say there is no cause of fear to you : 
 Keep out of sight, by keeping him away. 
 You wish to ramble, I do not. He knows 
 I've no great relish for horse-exercise. 
 For you he'll start an elk-hunt, any thing : 
 To go, I naturally will decline ; 
 And if you both could only break your necks, 
 It would be all the better. She won't miss 
 Either of you, I'll wager on't. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 But, seriously, you're not in danger's way. 
 I'm the offender — if offence there be ; 
 And surely, you'll oblige a friend. 
 
 Bar, I don't 
 
 Half like such test of friendship. 
 
 Wolfe. Paltry test- 
 
 There was a time you would not e'en have dared 
 To refuse me. 
 
 Bar. Ahem — Clifden awaits me (going). 
 
 Wolfe. Remember, while you're in his company 
 Keep out of mine and Margaret's. 
 Pleasant sport to you. Adieu I 
 
 [Exit at opposite sides. 
 
68 SYBIL. [ACTiA'. 
 
 Scene II. — Another room in Clifden's house. 
 Sybil Hardy. Maude. Janette. 
 
 Maude. Why sad, sister Sybil ? But three days ago 
 and you were so bright and lively, that even Cousin 
 Janette was dull in comparison. 
 
 Jan. Heigho I Eustace is away, and young wives are 
 jealous of the magnets that draw husbands from their 
 eyes ; but, pet, he will be back soon. He is tearing 
 over the hills, thinking only of his enjoyment. Ha ! ha I 
 Heigho ! / never will get married if I am to feel as 
 you do. 
 
 Sybil. You never will feel as I do. 
 
 Jan. What — have you a monopoly of affection ? 
 
 Maude. Do not mind the teaze. Cousin can return to 
 mother, and I will stay with you. 
 
 Sybil. Dear Maude, I will be well presently. I am 
 so unused to society — I live and love so much in soli- 
 tude — my household is so simple, that the very attention 
 due to our guests has excited me more than one might 
 dream of. 
 
 Jan. Ah, ha I Maude. Our lovers love to be alone. 
 You could not comfort her more than by leaving. 
 
 Maude. But Eustace's sister — 
 
 Jan. Is a poor apology for Eustace himself. Come, 
 child, come. (To Sybil.) Am I not, Sybil, the best 
 comforter. {Sybil smiles.) Ah, I knew it. See that tell- 
 tale smile. Come, Maude. 
 
 Maude. I have a great mind to stay. But — 
 
 Jan. Come, coz, come. {Maude going, but returns 
 and kisses Sybil.) [Exit Maude and Jan. 
 
 Sybil (after a pause) . Oh, what a fate this thirsting 
 for revenue 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. G9 
 
 Has brought upon us, Eustace. Bitterly 
 
 I feel my utter degradation. 
 
 But I was mad. When I swore thee, Clifden, 
 
 To slay this wretch, the woman I was not 
 
 Tliat now I am. I did not know how much 
 
 I loved thee ; or what love thy love begot. 
 
 The secret I must keep— this bloodshed stop : 
 
 My husband's life is dearer than revenge. 
 
 Oh, had the years since last I saw this fiend 
 
 Been filled with prayers of penitence, not pride ; 
 
 Prayers for grace from heav'n, not for hate on earth, 
 
 Thy hand {kneels), great Father, were less heavy now. 
 
 Spare me, spare me I Let the trial be light. 
 
 Oh, grant thy mercy on my husband's head. 
 
 And give me strength, composure, and resolve. 
 
 To meet this issue, as it must be met, 
 
 Once and forever. {Starts to her feet as she hears a noise.) 
 
 Enter Rufus Wolfe. 
 
 Wolfe {approaching ivith eagerness). Oh, for this 
 meeting how I've wept and pray'd — 
 With one so loved, so dearly loved — so long 
 And bitterly lamented. Margaret — 
 
 Sybil. Sir, you see the wife of Eustace Clifden. 
 
 Wolfe. It is my sad misfortune that you are 
 His wife, or wife of any heart but mine. 
 Turn not away — you think I have wrong'd you. 
 
 Sybil. Think, sir, think — it matters Httle unto you 
 What I may think. Remember you're a guest 
 Beneath my husband's roof. Remember, too, 
 Thy life is forfeit, as thy love was sworn 
 To me and mine ; — that in his ignorance 
 
70 SYBIL. [ACTi\. 
 
 Of your black crime, your safety only lies. 
 One word from me — 
 
 Wolfe. You will not speak that word. 
 
 Margaret — 
 
 Sybil {with satiric scorn). Will I not I 
 
 Wolfe. For the sake of the dear past you will not. 
 
 Sybil. The past 1 Ah, were the past alone my guide, 
 I should not for my vengeance think of him. 
 An injured woman has a twofold strength. 
 Proud in the memory that she once was pure. 
 She holds the woman's nature still ; besides 
 The fallen angel that informs her hate, 
 A never absent Lucifer : both strong 
 To nerve the arm and unsex the brain, 
 If the dread past alone did beckon me. 
 
 Wolfe. If you the cruel necessity but knew 
 That kept me from you. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, false, false — and not more false than foolish. 
 I heard all — I know all. I know that I 
 The credulous victim of your subtle arts 
 Have been ; and you, successful coward, boasted 
 Over the conquest of a trustful girl. 
 
 Wolfe. The villain lied who told you this. 
 
 Sybil. Then, your own acts that lying villain prove. 
 If you were true, you had no need to shroud 
 Your purposes within a name as false. 
 AVhy fly ? Why not have kept the word to which 
 I fell a sacrifice ? Why for long years 
 Leave me the miserable mock of those 
 Who once were even proud of my contempt — 
 Living, desperately weak, insanely sane, 
 Verging on madness, that from day to day 
 Kept in my hand an instant means of death, 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL, 71 
 
 Which I did only not use on myself, 
 
 In the wild hope that I should meet with you. 
 
 Wolfe. I am here now. If needful be my death 
 To your sweet peace, command it, in love's name. 
 
 Sybil. A month ago I needed no such offer — 
 That time has changed me. Nature has succumbed 
 To the great bliss of being truly loved. 
 Go — live ! Let not the morrow find you here : 
 Forget that you have ever known me ; 
 Forget, if possible, you Clifden know, 
 For whose dear sake, alone, I spare you. Go ! (Moves.) 
 
 Wolfe. For his sake, Margaret (smiling) — his sake 1 
 No, no (offers to take her hand) — 
 It is impossible this young man could 
 Fill up the radiant hopes of such a soul. 
 Or any thing to such a woman be, 
 As you, who must remember that first love — 
 
 Sybil. Man or devil, remind me not of crime 
 That still demands my sworn vengeance. 
 Hark ye, Alfred Stevens (almost in a whisper)^ you are 
 
 not wise — 
 You are in the very den of danger, 
 I tell thee, Stevens, that I spare your fife. 
 Though the weapon is shotted ; though the knife 
 Is whetted. I spare you, even though I feel 
 The thirst to slay you rising in my soul, 
 On one condition — that you do depart. 
 Wake not my slumbering fury. Linger 
 Longer, and you may ne'er depart again. 
 
 Wolfe. Why, this is madness. 
 
 Sybil. I am mad I 
 
 And otherwise than mad I cannot be 
 While you are here. 
 
72 SYBIL. [act IT. 
 
 Wolfe. I cannot think you hate me. 
 
 Sybil. Can I thmk ijou ever loved me ? No, no. 
 Do not deceive yourself (Wolfe looks fawninghj at 
 
 Sybil) ; provoke me not 
 With your defiling glances, and still less 
 With your dishonest tongue. Be warned in time ; 
 Another day, and the command I hold 
 Upon myself, may die through sheer excess 
 Of agony that keeps it strong to-day. 
 To destroy you would gratify the hate 
 I've lived for, but 'twould also overthrow 
 The peace of him I prize beyond my life. 
 I strive not 'gainst my vows, in your behalf ; 
 Not e'en in my own behalf the effort springs : 
 It is for him, who gave me love, new life, 
 A holy purpose with that name of names — 
 That name which, truly worn, is the richest gem 
 All earth can place on woman — name of wife. 
 It is for him alone, from out whose brain 
 I have regrown — for my husband, Clifdeu, 
 That I avert my vision from the past. 
 Beware — he comes ! [Sybil takes a seat at table. Wolfe, 
 snatching a bookj reclines in an arm-chair, ajMrt 
 from her.) 
 Wolfe (rather loudly). My dear madam, you are right ; 
 I wonder not you have a preference 
 For country life : such scenery around. 
 Such air, the body to invigorate, 
 Such books to bring the mind perennial strength ; 
 And, above all, with a companion such 
 As Chfden, my young, noble friend. Indeed, 
 I know not which to most congratulate, 
 You each have made such admirable choice. 
 
SCENE Ti.] SYBIL. 7a 
 
 Suhil (aside). Yillaiii ! 
 
 Enter Clifden. 
 
 Wolfe. I perceive, madam, by these underscorings, you 
 are an appreciative student of the great moralist and 
 man. Ah ! Clifden, so soon returned, or is it that the 
 time sped quicker than I thought ? 
 
 Glif. Your doubt informs me you were not dull hi 
 my absence. 
 
 Wolfe. Oh, not at all, thanks to Mrs. Clifden. I 
 took your advice, my dear boy, and made myself quite 
 at home. Did I not, my dear madam ? The sight of 
 these books reminded me of home. We have discussed 
 the poets and all kinds of poetry, from the Paradise 
 Lost to the Loves of the Angels. [Sybil eorpr esses sur- 
 prise, disgust, and scorn, during this speech.) 
 
 CI if. And which have you decided for ? 
 
 Wolfe. Well, strange to say, Mrs. Clifden thinks 
 Paradise Regained preferable to either, which, you are 
 aware, is opposed to all critical opinion, 
 
 Sybil (aside). Audacious villain ! 
 
 Clif (eviderdly uneasy). Well, you know ladies will 
 differ with critics ; but you must have talked faster than 
 we galloped, to get over so much ground in the space of 
 time. 
 
 Wolfe. Then I was right — you hurried back. Ha ! 
 you rogue, I thought you would not extend your excur- 
 sion. Ha ! ha ! I was a young married man once myself. 
 
 Sybil (to Clif), You are with us for the evening, 
 dear? 
 
 Clif. IS'ot yet, Sybil. Our friend Barnabas is dull to- 
 day, and dumb. I strove in vain to rouse him. Two 
 miles I jogged beside him for a word — 
 
 7 
 
74 SYBIL. [ACT IV 
 
 Wolfe. The timid blockhead (aside). 
 
 Glif. And then bethought me I'd return, run over to 
 Cottageville, bring back Maude and Janette, and thus do 
 all our country life affords to make our city fricnas in 
 pleasant humor. Here comes dull Barnabas — 
 
 Elder Barxabas. 
 
 Bar. At your service. 
 
 Sybil, I'll strive and wear his dullness off till you re- 
 turn. 
 
 Clif. That were a difficult task, Sybil, 
 
 Wolfe. Not so to an enchantress — see her eflect on 
 me. You are not jealous, Olifden ? 
 
 Sybil, Clifden has no need to be. 
 
 Glif. Ha ! ha I Colonel, you had best take care how 
 you break the wand of your enchantress. Come, Bar- 
 nabas. 
 
 Sybil. Perhaps,. Eustace, Mr. Barnabas would rather 
 keep us company — he is tired ; are you not {to Bar.) 't 
 You have failed to cheer him (to Glif.) — let us try. 
 (Wolfe motions to Barnabas, unobserved.) 
 
 Bar. I fear, madam, I could ill sustain the gallant 
 Colonel's banter. 
 
 Wolfe. Well, with permission of good madam, I will 
 accompany Clifden (moving), and you shall discuss the 
 poets. 
 
 Glif Ah, ha 1 If so, instead of one dull person now, 
 we'd have two on our return. No, Barnabas shall come 
 with me (exit Sybil) ; Maude and our witty Janette will 
 teaze him into gay humor on the way back, and then 
 we'll all be ready for a pleasant evening. Is not that 
 best, Sybil (looks round) ? 
 
 Wolfe. Your wife has an excellently organized mind. 
 
SCENE n.J SYBIL. 75 
 
 very fine — original and well informed, and gentle too, but 
 a little melancholy, I should say — I will strive to enter- 
 tain her in your absence. 
 
 Glif. Do, Colonel, do. Nothing so pleases her as tlie 
 dear old books, and talks about them. 
 
 Wolfe. Had I your eloquence — 
 
 Clif. You are determined to be complimentary. (To 
 Bar'.) I will wait on you in a moment. [Eojit. 
 
 Wolfe. How near ruining all my hopes you were, by 
 your infernal dullness. 
 
 Bar. I tell you, Wolfe, this recklessness won't do. It 
 is tempting fortune too far. Besides, you owe your 
 election chiefly to Clifden. If he was idle before he 
 married, he certainly exerted himself greatly in your 
 cause since. 
 
 Wolfe. How can I repay him better than by confer- 
 ring all my love upon his wife. I'll get him a good 
 office, too, in the State. You are a dolt. Hear me — 
 take care that you do not betray me by your fears. 
 Could you not get sick at the cottage, and delay, or 
 maybe stay all night, and need his assistance, eh ? Do 
 any thing — but keep him out of my way. 
 
 Re-enter Clifden. 
 
 Clif. Come, Barnabas. 
 
 Wolfe. He feels already much better at the prospect 
 of flirting with the girls. He is a great rogue, this Bar- 
 nabas. 
 
 CUf. I must see that he does not steal both their 
 hearts at once. [Exit Clif. and Bar. 
 
 Wolfe {seating himself). The game goes well. A 
 woman fallen once 
 Has no retreat. She was mine. She must be mine : 
 
liy SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 A breath can drive her from her husband's arms. 
 Little he recks how she once worshipped me — 
 More wildly e'en than he now worships her. 
 Little he dreams the secrets that oppress 
 The pillow next his own. Little he knows 
 The bosom that he presses, such adepts 
 In smiles and strategy these women are. 
 She comes — with passion for her fear's defence, 
 But when threats end beseechings will commence. 
 She's here (rises to receive her). 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Sybil (repulsing him). Colonel Wolfe, I come to 
 warn you once more } 
 Again to implore you, leave this dwelling. 
 You are trifling with your fate I 
 
 Wolfe. Not trifling : 
 
 Say it not, my Margaret, you are my fate ; 
 But after such a painful separation 
 Your greeting's cruel and unnatural. 
 
 Sybil. I am your fate. That is the only truth 
 You utter. 
 
 Wolfe. Why should recrimination 
 Coldly invade the precious present. 
 For the past let my unceasing love atone. 
 If you e'er loved me as you said you did, 
 With all the burning fervor of your soul, 
 Hear me — 
 
 Sybil. I have no wish to let you add 
 A second perjury to the first. 
 
 Wolfe. It is not perjury : you must hear me 
 In justification. 
 
 Sybil. Justify yourself to heaven, not to me : 
 
8CE^•EIl.] SYBIL. tT 
 
 I will not hear you doubly curse your soul. 
 
 If you have yet a spark of manhood left^ 
 
 The boon I ask has claims upon you now. 
 
 Having trampled me to the dust in shame, 
 
 Robbed my bright youth of pride and blissful peace. 
 
 Why should you persecute the homely joys 
 
 My broken life requires ? 
 
 Wolfe. Persecution ? 
 
 It is love ! You were my first love ; you shall be 
 My last. We were destined for each other. 
 
 Sybil. Peace I I'm no longer blind and vain as when 
 My ears were flattered to dishonor. 
 
 Wolfe, Oh that the tongue, whose power you still ad- 
 mit, 
 Could plead its truth to that same ear that once 
 Delighted in its love. If you have grown 
 Insensible to admiration, 
 Your nature ne'er can grow insensible 
 To love. 
 
 Sybil. Love — your love I 
 
 Wolfe. Yes, Margaret, my love. It conjures up 
 Moments that were too precious to forget. 
 Where'er I've been, the memory of that time 
 Was with me. 'Tis impossible that you, 
 So full of wealthy nature, and who shared 
 With me your bosom's first emotions. 
 Can be so cold. Your tongue's hot passion proves 
 The struggle in your heart for its old love — 
 The sweeping down the trammels of the new. 
 Do I not know the duties, my beloved. 
 This new-linked chain imposes ? Have no fear 
 My sudden joy grim prudence will offend. 
 No, dearest, no, that self-same prudence will 
 7* 
 
I 
 
 78 SYBIL. [ACT IV. 
 
 Weave round our lovingness a secret bliss, 
 Which made the gods of old immortal. Ay, 
 The kiss that is not trammelled by men's laws 
 Hath a wild power no legal banns can grant. 
 Let us, dear Margaret, as when first we loved. 
 Feed on the stolen rapture of two hearts (attempts to 
 embrace /ier — she repulses him). 
 
 Sybil. I have heard you, hellish fiend, to the close : 
 Oh, would to heaven you had declared yourself 
 Five years ago as now. Could I have seen, 
 As now I see, the cloven foot, the tongue 
 Of serpent, I had been as pure as you 
 Were base ; nor would my palsied ear confront 
 These words accursed — this blasphemy 'gainst God 
 And man. 
 
 Wolfe. Margaret — 
 
 Sybil. Sir, I have heard you patiently. Once 
 
 more — 
 I hate you with the bitterest loathing ; 
 With scorn, behold you as the foulest fruit 
 Hell could bear in black contrast to heaven ; 
 Whose depth of blackness thwarts the daring scope 
 Of your atrocious schemes ; abhor you 
 As a coward below contempt — traitor 
 To your own sex, and infidel to mine. 
 Judge, then, the prospect you pursue. 
 
 Wolfe. Beware I Margaret, beware, lest you rouse 
 The unearthly terror that you picture. 
 'Tis you that trifle with your fate. Despise 
 My love — you cannot fly my power. 
 
 Sybil. Your power ? Do I rightly hear — Power ? 
 
 Wolfe. Ay, my power : but I entreat you, believe me 
 your friend. 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 19 
 
 Sybil. You are my enemy — my first, my worst ; 
 Heaven forbid that I could think you friend again. 
 
 Wolfe. Yet still I am. I love you better far 
 Than I have ever loved a woman. 
 
 Sybil. You have a wife, Rufus Wolfe ? 
 
 Wolfe. Yes ; but— 
 
 Sybil. And children ? 
 
 Wolfe. Well— 
 
 Sybil. For their sakes if not for mine — for her sake, 
 Whose dreams are bless'd because she b'lieves you true ; 
 For the pure babes, who're fed to health or woe 
 By her sweet peace of mind they mother call : 
 For their sakes, I implore you to forbear. 
 
 [Wolfe seizes Sybil ; she e sea 'pes, and eatchiny up a 
 
 pistol from the bookcase^ turns qnickly round and 
 
 presents it at him.ja.st as he reaches -within ann^s 
 
 lenyth of her : pause and jjicture.) 
 
 Go (faltering, her arm drops to her side) — go ! I spare 
 
 you for the sake of that 
 Wife and mother you would disgrace. Go, go — 
 For you 'tis well that I remembered her. 
 
 Wolfe (aside). To be thus baited by a frantic woman. 
 (Aloud.) Margaret, this mockery must end. You talk 
 Of fear, of fate, of honor, and forget 
 The greater theme of apprehension, which 
 To a woman, wife, — and most of all to you — 
 Your husband — 
 
 Sybil. What of my husband ? 
 
 Wolfe. Take care — 
 
 A word from me, and where is all your peace I 
 Ha ! am I understood ? Do you not feel 
 That I have power with one word to give 
 That living death a proud soul most abhors. 
 
1 
 
 80 SYBIL. [act IT. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, worthy thought, with baseness all com- 
 plete, 
 What a brave treachery, my friend ! 
 
 Wolfe. Nay, I do uot threaten, but remind. ' 
 
 Hyhil. Oh, you are moderate — very moderate I 
 But know, that ere I wedded Eustace Clifden 
 I told the shame of this poor hand he wooed. 
 
 Wolfe. You did not — could not — dare not I 
 
 Sybil. By Him who knows 
 
 The secrets of all hearts, I did ; nor held 
 Aught from him, save the name, the public name 
 As now it doth appear, of my deceiver. 
 
 Wolfe. He would uot have married you ! 
 
 Sybil. He did, and yet before he did, he swore 
 On Alfred Stevens to avenge my shame. 
 'Twas the condition of my hand, dowry. 
 Fortune, all I brought him — ay, it is true I 
 
 Wolfe. Ha I ha ! this tale lacks probability. 
 I am a lawyer, Margaret, and detect 
 Its inconsistencies. {Noise without.) 
 
 Sybil. They have returned. 
 Hear me — you're doomed, unless you leave at once. 
 
 Wolfe. I am no child — [aside) and you a woman 
 are. 
 
 Sybil. Your blood, then, be on your own head. (Sits 
 at table and conceals the pistol in her dress.) 
 
 Wolfe (seating himself). Nothing by assault to be 
 done here ; however, 
 Doom, or no doom, to be affrighted I 
 Am not, fair Mistress Clifden (aside). 
 
 Enter Clifden, Barnabas, Maude, and Janette. 
 Wolfe. A welcome back. Good day, ladies, I hope 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 81 
 
 you have frightened Mr. Barnabas into something hke 
 pleasantry. 
 
 Jan. Oh, yes, he^s merry as a sexton during healthy 
 weather. 
 
 Clif. I fear he'll need that functionary soon. 
 What think you, Sybil ; pining for his Club, 
 And vowing to be gone ere morrow's noon. 
 
 Wolfe, What a compliment to our fair hostess. 
 
 Maude and Janette. Oh, Mr. Barnabas ! 
 
 Bar. Really, ladies, two days out of town undoes my 
 constitution. The country is well enough for a day or 
 so, but — excuse me, ladies — to one like me it is a — a — a 
 bore. Yes, really, I must be off to-morrow. 
 
 Wolfe, To morrow ! Will you not wait for me ? 
 
 Clif Of course he will — {Sybil watching with great 
 anxiety.) 
 
 Bar. How long ? 
 
 Wolfe. I intended to have stayed but a day or two ; 
 but, bless me, it is so refreshing after our late excite- 
 ment — besides, the pleasant nature of the topics [to 
 Sybil) we have been discussing — that I am induced to 
 make a week of it with Clifden. 
 
 Maude and Janette. Bravo, Colonel ! 
 
 Sybil (with calm energy). Colonel Wolfe, that cannot 
 be. It is 
 Needful you keep unto your first resolve — 
 At once. No longer can my husband be 
 Your host, or in this dwelling wish you grace. (Astoniah- 
 ment of all.) 
 
 Clif. How, Mistress Clifden I What does this mean — 
 to my friend, Sybil ? 
 
 Sybil. He is not your friend, 
 
82 SYBIL. [act IV. 
 
 Clifden, nor thine or mine : but let me pass — 
 I cannot speak here. {Bushes out.) 
 
 Clif. Sybil ? {Exit after her.) 
 
 [Exit Maude and Janette in consternation 
 
 Bar. What's this, in the devil's name ? 
 
 Wolfe. In your name, coward. Can you not see it ? 
 Have you any weapons ? 
 
 Bar. My pistols are in the saddle-bags. 
 
 Wolfe. Curse the woman — who could have believed it I 
 Barnabas, should it come unto the worst, 
 We can but fly. Look you to the horses, 
 While I my coolness keep. 
 
 Bar. You wouldn't take my advice ; if — 
 
 Wolfe. This is no time for lecturing. 
 Your wisdom's always at the eleventh hour. 
 Your base ingratitude 'tis brings all this. 
 But hence, if thou would'st not o'erpower'd be, 
 And slain remorseless in the trap you've made ; 
 Prepare thyself in haste. See to the steeds — 
 If she explain, our start can't be too quick, 
 
 [Exit hurriedly. 
 
 Be-enter Clifden, Sybil clinging to him, both having 
 hold of the pistol. 
 
 Sybil. The wrong is mine. Oh, go not, Eustace, 
 My hand shall avenge it. I am sworn to it. 
 If still the victim, let me victor be. 
 Your life is precious to me, husband dear, 
 More precious than the past — or hope, or name. 
 
 Clif. No, Sybil, you are mine, your wrongs are mine : 
 Before just heaven I renew my oath. 
 
 Sybil. Leave me to shame, despair, to any thing ; 
 But, Eustace, for the love you bear me, hear ; 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 83 
 
 For the dear sake of that new-bora blessino* 
 Your love has given ray nature, hear me. 
 In the name of every tie that heaven 
 Welds in the undistinguishable flames 
 That leap from mutually enkindled souls — 
 In the name of all such union can inspire, 
 I here revoke the oath. When I proposed it 
 I was not thy wife, but a mad, heartless. 
 Vengeance-seeking slave. Nor wife, nor woman 
 Was I, but am both through thee, and as both, 
 Revoke that withering and peace-crushing oath. 
 
 Cllf. Sybil, you're my life : but tlionirh you and J 
 Could in the narrowest corner of the earth 
 Find untold regions for our happy loyK^.^ 
 All land and sea, the huge round globe itself 
 Hath not extent and verge enough to hold 
 Thy husband's hand and thy betrayer's heart 
 Together on it. While he's upon it 
 Earth's too confined for me. While he doth breathe, 
 I suffocate ; ay, though I stood upon 
 The healthy heights o' tno Aiiegnanies, 
 And he on Himalaya's frozen roof, 
 With toiling nations and big seas between. 
 While his heart beats, congestion crushes mine. 
 I must have air. Which may usurp the earth ? 
 Either must perish that the other live. 
 
 Sybil. Oh, husband. 
 
 Clif, It must be so ; but, Sybil, 
 
 Whatever happens, to the last thou'rt mine. (Kisses her 
 and dashes out.) 
 
 Sybil. Thine, Clifden, thine — only thine, ever thine — 
 To the last — the last — the last. (Pause, Sybil looks 
 about, screams.) 
 
84 SYBIL. [act IV. 
 
 He is gone, gone — gone for what ? 
 
 Ha ! I have sent him on this bloody work. 
 
 Surely it is a madness that doth move me. 
 
 Why should he slay Alfred Stevens ? Why ? {Finesses 
 
 her head.) 
 What good will come of it ? What safety ? What ? 
 {Pause) But why should he not 1 Miserable fate. 
 Are we never to be free ? Must he e'er 
 Thrust his fiend's visage in our happy homes ; 
 And blast our hopes, our peace, our love for ever ? 
 No, no — ha ! ha I ha I Better he should die I 
 Better we sliould all die. Strike him, Clifden — 
 Strike, and fear nothing ! Strike for dear virtue 
 And immortal love I Husband, strike deep — 
 Strike to the very heart 1 Strike ! Strike I Strike I 
 
 (Fails overcome.) 
 
SCENE 1.1 SYBIL. 85 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Dungeon. 
 Clifden. Sybil. Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Sybil. There can be no cause for fear — I have none. 
 You did not strike for me alone. The wives, 
 The mothers, daughters of the State, are all 
 Your debtors for the deed. And who that bears 
 The lordly title, man, will honor risk 
 To slay a brother for defending woman ? 
 No, I fear not. If law o'er justice vaunts 
 I'll go myself into the open court, 
 And, as 'fore heaven, will the story tell, 
 In all its plain and foul deformity ; 
 No fear, no shame, shall pale or tinge my cheek, 
 Or wither, by a fluctuating doubt. 
 The fact's full force upon the jury's ear. 
 They must believe me when they hear. 
 
 Cilf. My life- 
 
 It cannot be. 
 
 Loive. Will you not be persuaded, my good sir, even 
 now, at almost the last day, to employ the services of 
 Acton ? Young though he be, he's skilled, as well you 
 know, in law ; has no superior with a jury, is popular, 
 and strange to say, likewise pure. Let me entreat — 
 
 Clif. Did you not say last night he fought with Wolfe 
 On my account ? What was't? My senses grow 
 Dull as these granite walls. 
 
 Lowe. It is well known they quarrelled and fought at 
 their first meeting, upon pohtical grounds 'twas given 
 out — 
 
 8 
 
86 SYBIL. [ACTV 
 
 Cl'tf, Yes, I remember — I heard that from Barnabas. 
 
 Lowe. But Barnabas, who was present, told me they 
 quarrelled on account of Mrs. Clifden {looking round), 
 whose name he said was Margaret. 
 
 Clif. Mrs. Clifden ! (Sybil looks up. Clifden motions 
 he)* to retire. Exit Sybil.) 
 
 Lowe. Pardon me, my young friend, I did not mean to 
 hurt your feelings ; but — 
 
 Clif. It was some natural lie of Wolfe's. 
 It could not be. Some foul invention 
 To aid his black designs. I never heard 
 Of Acton from my wife. 
 
 Lowe. A rumor is abroad which seems to back the as- 
 sertion. [Clifden listens eagerly.) However, whether true 
 or not, Acton must be the man for your defence. Wolfe's 
 friends are very powerful, and will strain every nerve to 
 effect your ruin. 
 
 Clif Well, let them triumph ; they but mimic me : 
 I've had my triumph. Of a truth, I feel 
 That I have done the great deed of my life. 
 Death to me now brings no such agony 
 As it would bring had I not done this deed. 
 And yet — to live for Sybil's sake ? Oh heart I 
 The thought of losing her brings many deaths, 
 With deeper pangs than the mere loss of life. 
 
 Lowe. Allow me to see Acton. 
 
 Clif.{eayerly). Should I defend myself? Declare the 
 act 
 And justify it ? [Pause) No : to my own soul — 
 To God 'tis justified ; but men who judge. 
 Must know my secret ere 'tis so to them. 
 The damned tale of Sybil's overthrow. 
 The serpent progress of the venomous head 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. 81 
 
 IVe crushed forever, they must hear. How — how 
 Can I teW that ? It is impossible. 
 
 Lowe. If you do not decide quickly your friends must 
 act for you. Be advised now — do, Clifden, do. His 
 friends muat act for him (aside, and going), 
 
 Clif. I thank you sincerely, indeed I do. 
 I will think of what you say. I will — I will. \_Exit Lowe. 
 
 Re-enter Sybil. 
 
 Sybil (she comes to him and puts her arm about him), 
 You never told me your acquaintance with Acton. 
 
 Sybil. Acton — 
 
 Clif. Whom we defeated. 
 
 Sybil. Dear, I know him not. Let me see — Acton ? 
 'Tis like a waif from my dream-haunted youth. 
 (Thinks) I once did know a person of that name — 
 An old man — schoolmaster at Eaglemont ; 
 I have nor seen nor heard of him for years. 
 
 Clif, An old man — how old ? 
 
 Sybil. Some five-and-sixty years. 
 
 Clif. It is not the same. Perhaps he had a son ? 
 
 Sybil. He had no son : was never married. 
 
 Clif It is strange. 
 
 Sybil. What, Eustace — what is strange ? 
 
 Clif Nothing, — nothing. 
 
 Sybil (aside), I fear he wanders. (He gazes fondly on 
 and kisses her.) Eustace, will you not 
 Advised be, and give your holy cause 
 To Acton's hands ? To him your friends all point 
 As one above the jealousies that rise 
 In selfish minds from zeal-distempered politics. 
 I've heard you laud his talents to the skies. 
 
88 SYBIL. [ACTT 
 
 CUf. I have. All true ! but, Sybil, my blood chills 
 To thiuk of making a defence. 
 
 Sybil. Why this strange callousness. 
 
 CUf. I killed him ; and evasion would not seek 
 From the confronted dangers of an act 
 Deliberate ; and one I'd do again. 
 Evasion or suggestion cannot come 
 From me, or any interested in me. 
 It must not come. Truth will condemn me, and 
 I knew it with the weapon in my grasp. 
 
 Sybil. What — the v)hole truth condemn us ? 
 
 CUf. Perhaps not ; but how to get the whole truth 
 out : 
 And if it could be done, / could not do it. 
 
 Sybil. Why not, my husband? Shame now's gone 
 from us ; 
 We are above the world or beneath it. 
 It gives our hearts no sustenance. It may 
 Scorn me, the miserable victim of its ways, 
 But can it, dare it, call me harlot ? No ! 
 I did not plunge, but fell into the gulf — 
 Fell through vain weakness which relied on man : 
 And, oh, if spirit ever felt remorse 
 That doth denote wronged virtue's penitence, 
 Believe me, Clifden, it was mine. 
 
 CUf Do I not know it, dearest (fondling her) I 
 
 Sybil. I believe you feel it, which conviction gives 
 Strength to my soul to face a world. Let it 
 Know all, if all will any thing avail. 
 With my own tongue would I declare the facts 
 Before I'd see thee dragged unto the gallows. 
 
 CUf And I would mount the scaffold a thousand 
 timss. 
 
SCENE I.] SYBIL. m 
 
 Had I a thousand lives, than suffer you 
 To work such cruel wrong against thyself. 
 Live, dearest, live ; and living, daily read 
 The boast I carve upon my tomb — I died 
 For thee ! I wed thee for that purpose : 
 I am true to it. 
 
 Sybil. You said you loved me ! 
 
 Clif. And do I not ? 
 
 Sybil. Eustace, the more one loves 
 
 The more he loves to live. 'Tis easier 
 To die than live ; which makes life beautiful 
 And grand to those who love ; for love's true tests 
 Are not so much in overmast'ring hearts, 
 As that grim world which makes the bright heart black. 
 Let us o'ercome this world with the truth I 
 It may frown, but that will only roughen 
 Its own face, and never ruffle ours. 
 
 Clif. You make me chide myself. 
 
 Sybil. Have we no resource but sorrow, husband ? 
 Who will meet these judges if not you or I ? 
 Your friends all point to Acton — why delay ? 
 Oh, Clifden, husband, let no coward shame 
 Hide from all ears the tale of your brave blow. 
 If you or I can't speak, let us heap up 
 Our two hearts' histories on Acton's soul, 
 Until he, heated with the treble fires 
 Of wrong, death, eloquence, — hate, love, and fame. 
 Shall drive the doubtful demon from men's hearts, 
 And make them strong for deeds of mercy. 
 They say he's brave, well-versed, high-minded, pure — 
 Your lesser self I — What would you more ? 
 
 Clif. No more may be expected of a man. 
 But wait, wife — wait — to-morrow — 
 8* 
 
90 SYBIL. [actv. 
 
 Sybil. To-morrow ! 
 
 {Aside) To-morrow, and the chance is lost ; yet I 
 Stand here as though unwed to my avenger, 
 Seeing him fade before my very eyes, 
 Dragging love, life, all hopes of earth and heaven 
 With him. I'll see this Acton. [Takes a basket and is 
 
 going — looks at Clifden — returns. 
 Kiss me, Eustace {kisses). Be cheerful as the day 
 That saw us wedded {going). 'Twas for life and death. 
 [Uxit, Clifden looking fond I g after her. 
 
 Scene II. — Boom in Acton's liouse. 
 Enter Old Acton and William Acton. 
 
 Acton. How little could I think that Olifden, he 
 To whom I owe so much of my defeat. 
 Was married to this girl. What a wild fate 
 At once has prompted and waylaid her life — 
 More wretched ev'n in her triumphal hour 
 Of vengeance, than in all her days of shame. 
 
 Old A. As dreadful, too, the retribution on 
 Alfred Stevens. Little could you have thought 
 Your boyhood's rival for the village girl 
 Would be your victor on the wider field 
 Of politics : Or that his fastest friend 
 And ablest advocate, in slaying him. 
 Would by the blow avenge thy youthful wrongs. 
 This woman's mission has been one of woe ; 
 My son, 'twas well ye parted in your youth. 
 
 Acton. Had she been mine, this dreadfulest of tales 
 Would never chill men's veins. 
 
 Old A. It is a tale 
 
 Which future mothers will rehearse, to teach 
 
SCENE II.] SYBIL. 91 
 
 The beads, if not to touch the hearts, of proud 
 Aud wilful daughters. 
 
 Acton. Can we not aid them ? 
 
 Clifden's devotion, if not Margaret^s wrongs, 
 Should fire with eloquence some honest voice. 
 Can we not aid them, father ? 
 
 Old A. How, my son ? 
 
 Clifden hath all resources of the law ; 
 He hath, besides, a worthy pride of brain. 
 Our interference might be misconstrued, 
 If not by him, at least by tetchy friends, 
 So high the flame of party spirit runs, 
 As an assumption of superior skill : 
 And then your duel for the woman's sake. 
 When her identity is fully known. 
 Perhaps might only, 'stead of mercy, build 
 In the censorious such conjecture as 
 Would act against her. 
 
 Acton. I loved her — she refused me. That is all — 
 Is easily told ; and I am not the man, 
 Nor you to teach me, to allow my pride 
 Rise in rebellion 'gainst a mortal's life. 
 I loved her — she refused me. {Muses — turns aside ivid 
 leans his head on his hand.) 
 
 Enter Sybil. 
 
 Old A. [recogniziny her as she approaches). Miss 
 Cooper I 
 Can it be {in a loio voice) ? 
 
 Sybil It is. {Aside.) Old Acton of Eaglemont. 
 Go where I will, some ghost of that dread spot 
 Haunts me in human form. 
 
92 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 There's some mistake, sir, I seek the lawyer, 
 Mr. William Acton. 
 
 Old A. My son — no mistake. 
 
 li^yh'il. Your son, sir ! 
 
 Old A. Yes, my son, and your old friend. 
 He is here — William. 
 
 [Sybil approaches a few steps towards William 
 Acton, he turns round — they recognize.) 
 
 Sybil {aside). William Ashley I [To him) You know 
 me, Mr. Acton, 
 I see you know me. 
 
 Acton. Could I forget you ! 
 
 Sybil. Not forget, perhaps : but — but — 
 Of course you know my person ; — who I was, 
 But — not who I am. 
 
 Acton. Yes, that I know. 
 
 Sybil. Thank heaven ! Something then is spared 
 me ! 
 
 Acton. I know the whole sad story, Margaret — 
 Mistress Chfden. Can /do thee service [with emotion) ? 
 Is it for this you seek me ! 
 
 Sybil. It is. 
 
 Acton. I'm ready. All that lies within my power 
 You can command. Most necessary His 
 That I immediately your husband see. 
 
 Sybil. Cannot that be avoided — I know all. 
 
 Acton. Your husband's danger I'll not hide from you. 
 Society is sick of deeds of blood, 
 And will, I fear, exact law's coldest rigor. 
 
 Sybil [eagerly). But the provocation of the villain 
 Whom he slew — what have I said ! 
 
 Acton. What you have said, you have in secret said ; 
 Your husband well doth know the lawyer's need; 
 
SCENE n.] SYBIL. 93 
 
 To do liim justice I must see himself : 
 
 To meet the worst, his friends must know the worst. 
 
 And I will see him — I'm thy friend and his. 
 
 Sybil {aside). Eustace cannot refuse me when he's 
 there. 
 'Tis best. I thank thee deeply, William Ashley — 
 I feel I don't deserve this at thy hands. 
 Thou art avenged for all the past. ( Weeps.) 
 
 Acton. Margaret, 
 
 I need no such atonement. To see thee thus 
 Brings me no feelings but of stubborn pain, 
 Which cannot in thy misery be tamed. 
 Oh, such a youth — such pride of promise. 
 
 Sybil. Ay, indeed, such pride ! — Such pride, and such 
 a fall. 
 
 Acton. But is there not hope still — 
 
 Sybil. For him ? You will save him ? 
 
 Acton. I will try. 
 
 Syhil. I know you will — you must I But even then 
 I sometimes think there is no hope on earth. 
 I am a wreck. If I outlive this storm, 
 'Twill be as a craft hereafter useless. 
 These storms have shattered me. I fear my brain 
 Will, like the hurricane, sweep wildly out. 
 And leave my head as empty as the space 
 'Twixt earth and sky, to either not allied — 
 Or filled with fathomless wild clouds, that give 
 Terror to earth below, in shutting out 
 All hopeful specks of heaven above. 
 
 [^Old Actoriy who has been a quiet spectator, wipes 
 away a teavy and exits silently, 
 
 Acton. Hope is the sustenance of youth, and you 
 Are young. 
 
94 SYBIL. [ACTV. 
 
 Sybil. I've faith in you. I always had 
 Reliance on your truth. 
 
 Acton. Had you believed so then — 
 
 Sybil. I did believe so. 
 
 Acton. Could you have thought — 
 
 Sybil [trembling). No more — say no more. 
 
 Acton [half musing). Could it have been, there had 
 been now no wreck. 
 
 Sybil {with stern frenzy). Speak not thus. The past 
 is past. 
 It could not have been otherwise. There was 
 A fate to humble me, and I am humbled. 
 I am here to sue, to beg your succor. 
 'Tis best so. You have nothing to deplore. 
 Oh, William — William {seizes him) ! forget the past — 
 Or, if you still will cling unto those days, 
 Remember them to save him, for my sake. 
 Save him — my hfe, my husband. Come — come — come — 
 Each moment from him is a lifetime now. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — Dungeon, as before. 
 
 Enter Clifden, Sybil, and Jailer. Jailer exit, and 
 closes the door upon them. Noise of bolts. 
 
 Clif. {embraces Sybil). The ordeal's past that I most 
 feared to meet. 
 The trial than the sentence has more dread. 
 To one who fears death less than scrutiny. 
 To be the gaze of every sottish boor 
 Who hiccoughs jeers and damns me for a fool ; 
 The criticised of cold and upright knaves 
 Who knit their brows in reverence of laws 
 They daily break, and say " how bold he looks — 
 
SCENE III. J SYBIL. 95 
 
 The murderer ;" the fashionable chat 
 
 Of fellows whose weak lives are lust, whose dreams 
 
 Are drunken echoes of their days, and who 
 
 In self-defence must say " he looks a villain ;" 
 
 The topic for those philanthropic dogs 
 
 Who bark at every thing, and never bite, 
 
 "Who'd let the vilest progeny of hell 
 
 Loose on the earth that they might rail against them ; — 
 
 To be this ; hemmed in a dock, the bars of which 
 
 Have propp'd up every crime that law and gold, 
 
 Thirst, madness, tainted blood, foul head, black heart, 
 
 Or tortured nature e'er invented ; — this 
 
 Gives a shock to make a pure man quake. 
 
 But it is over — the dread trial's past. 
 
 And I'm prepared. The verdict cannot bring 
 
 Aught but rehef. 
 
 Sybil {doubtfully). Does not the defence bring hope? 
 With all my actuality of wrong 
 I never knew how great the villain was. 
 My own infirmity, or your great soul. 
 Till Acton set in dreadfulest display 
 The picture 'fore my eyes. 
 
 Clif. A brave, bright soul ! 
 
 Upon whose brow great nature's mark is good. 
 As nobly balanced as the poles, as wide 
 Of heart, and fathomless in honesty 
 As the deep sea, whose currents, ever fresh, 
 Play with the leaded line that seeks its depth. 
 
 Sijhil. And when with such calm emphasis he rose 
 To the laws venue, and declared that he. 
 Knowing the vulture passions of the dead. 
 Would not have held your weapon from the act 
 That sent a lifers debts to be paid above, 
 
96 SYBIL. [actv. 
 
 I could have worshipped him before all eyes 
 But that his speech did choke all words for mine. 
 Oh, Clifden, how his words drag down my brain 
 With thoughts which taunt me with my selfish ends. 
 Have mercy on me — pardon my hot blood 
 That fused your genius to my vengeance. 
 Forgive me, husband, for nor earth nor heaven 
 Will come between me and the odious sin. 
 
 Clif. (putting his arm about her). Sybil, my own — my 
 
 beautiful — my bride — 
 Look in my face, and see if there's a line 
 By which you may not trace my heart's proud boast — 
 That you're my wife I [JVoise of bolts. They watch the 
 
 door.) 
 
 Enter William Acton. 
 
 Sybil [rushes towards Acton and falls on her knets). If 
 the full prayers of one like me can reach 
 The throne, they are there pleading for you now. 
 
 Acton. Rise, Margaret [raisinr/ Iter) — rise : 'tis not for 
 you to kneel 
 To me. 
 
 Clif How can I measure my poor thanks 
 To fill your measureless exertions ! 
 Acton. Were the deed mine, 1 know you would have 
 stood 
 In my defence where I have stood in yours, — 
 That is thanks enough for me. But the court 
 Waits ; the jury have returned. 
 Sybil. So soon! (Startled.) 
 Clif I am ready. 
 
 Sybil (to Acton). What prospect ! — Did they bear 
 Acquittal on their faces ? Did they seem 
 
SCENE III.] SYBIL 9t 
 
 As though their hearts throbbed with a good deed ? 
 Or did their eyes see corpses in the air ? 
 Say, say. Did they breathe freely, or held up, 
 Lest they might lack enough of breath to float 
 That grave-stone sentence — " Guilty !" Ah, I feel 
 My life is slipping through their hands. 
 
 Clif. We attend the court [going). 
 
 Acton. 'Tis better that your wife remain. {Sghil listens.) 
 
 Sybil (screams). Then all is lost ! 
 
 [Clif den kisses her j she struggles to go with liwn ; 
 he gently disengages her., and hurries out ajtei 
 Acton. Sybil falls on her knees in auony^ 
 
 Sybil {after a pause., gazing up wildly). What say 
 you — Guilty, or Not Guilty ? 
 Stay, stay — hear me ! Old man, your looks are kind — 
 You have a daughter ; ah ! I knew you had. 
 There is such tender comfort in your eye. 
 I had a father once : take care, old man, 
 Your comfort may not wither 'neath the touch 
 Of the destroyer. Ha I you shake your head : 
 But look at me — who thought that I could fall ? 
 Old man, beware ! Your heartlessness makes way 
 For such as dragg'd me down. Go, go ! 
 You have a sister, sir ; protect the man 
 Who has protected her ! You smile to think 
 She needs protection ; — Fool ! all women do. 
 You will not speak to me — go to, coward. 
 And you ;^-but no, there's earth about your eyes — 
 They're clay : debauch has settled on your cheek ; 
 Time's very precious, I cannot speak with you. 
 Nor you, thou low-brbwed homily on man. 
 But here, 1 have a man, and married too ? 
 'Tis well ! He'll feel for me ! What think you now— 
 
98 SYBIL. [actv. 
 
 Your bosom friend comes gloziug round your wife 
 
 And seeks to raise such hellish flames in her 
 
 As leave you but in ashes — Eh — eh ? 
 
 Kill him you would ? Brave husband ! Then say which — 
 
 " Guilty," or " Not Guilty ?" Speak it loud— loud— 
 
 That your good presence may inspire these knaves. 
 
 Gone — where is my good friend gone ? All are going ! 
 
 Stay — look at this youth, my husband : think you 
 
 He committed murder — ha ! ha ! He ? No ! 
 
 He did ? I say he did not I What a world 
 
 Of men, fathers, brothers, husbands — all gone. 
 
 Where is my Clifden ? Gone too (screa?ns) — they've 
 
 taken him 
 To death — the gallows! {Cheering; outside.) Hear how 
 
 the rabble shout 
 To see a brave man die. Oh Clifden ! — husband ! 
 
 Unter Clifden, Acton, Maude, Janette, Mr. Lowe, 
 Mrs. Hardy. 
 
 Voices outside. Not guilty ! 
 
 Sj/bil {rushing to Clifden). Not guilty [falls into his 
 
 arms) — not guilty ! Did I hear aright ? 
 Clif Yes, dearest Sybil — yes. I am here — free ! 
 Sybil. Free ! Oh [a long sigh), this great joy has 
 ta'en the little life 
 My sorrow left. Forgive me, William : 
 Kiss me, dear mother — sisters, fare ye well. 
 O'l. do not leave me, Eustace ; — Let me feel you near — 
 Close to my heart, my husband : — Come, — come. 
 I cannot see you now — there is a film 
 Hovering o'er my sight. Eustace, good-by ! 
 Have mercy, heaven ! — " Not — Guilty." (Sinks.) 
 
 (Slow music as curtain descends.) 
 
SYBIL — Cast op Characters. 
 
 ST. LOUIS THEATRE. 
 September 6, 1858. 
 
 Eustace Cli/den Mr. Charles Pope. 
 
 Riif us Wolfe " Hamblin. 
 
 Old Acton " Griffiths. 
 
 William Acton " Wright. 
 
 Mr. Lowe " Hind. 
 
 Barnabas " F. Paige. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer . " Klone. 
 
 Gentlemen " Pennoyer. 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 
 
 Maude Clifden " Pennoyer. 
 
 Janetle 
 
 ST. CHARLES. 
 New Orleans, 1859. 
 
 Eustace Clifden Mr. Chas. Pope. 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " Hamblin. 
 
 Old Acton " Griffiths, 
 
 William Acton " Wright. 
 
 Mr. Lowe 
 
 Barnabas " F.Paige. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. " Krone. 
 
 Gentlemen 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy Mrs. F. S. Buxton. 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss Pennoyer. 
 
 Janette " Fanny Denham. 
 
 OPERA HOUSE. 
 San Francisco. 
 
 Eustace Clifden Mr. Lewis Baker. 
 
 RufusWolfe " KiNGSLAND. 
 
 Old Acton " Mortimer. 
 
 William Acton " Coad. 
 
 Mr. Lowe " ThO-van. 
 
 Barnabas " Dumphries. 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. " McCabe. 
 
 Gentlemen " Thayer. 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Avonia Jones. 
 
 3Irs. Hardy Mrs. Judah. 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss Cogswell. 
 
 Janette " Jennie Mandeville. 
 
 LOUISVILLE, KY. 
 
 Mr. Keeble. 
 '• Riley. 
 " Townsend. 
 " Dickson. 
 " Lorton. 
 
 " Wm. SCALtA*' 
 
 Miss Avonia Jones. 
 Mrs. Gilbert. 
 Miss Irene Walker. 
 " Ida Vernon. 
 
 MOBILE, ALA. 
 
 Mr. Hanley. 
 " Ralton. 
 
 " CURRAN. 
 
 " Ashmed. 
 " Raymond. 
 
 Miss Avonia Jones. 
 
 " Berrel. 
 Mrs. Lingard. 
 
 " H. Bernard. 
 
 METROPOLITAN. 
 Sacramento, Cal. 
 
 Mr. Lewis Baker. 
 
 " Kingsland. 
 
 " Mortimer. 
 
 " Coad. 
 
 " Thoman. 
 
 " Glover. 
 
 " Macklin. 
 
 Miss Avonia Jones. 
 " Nellie Brown. 
 " Cogswell. 
 " J. Mandeville. 
 
100 
 
 SYBIL— CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 WINTER GARDEN. 
 New York. 
 
 Eustace Clifdeii Mr. Barton Hill. 
 
 Rufas Wolfe " J.J. Prior. 
 
 Old Acton " Jeffries. 
 
 William Acton " A. H. Davenport. 
 
 Mr. Lowe " W. Davidge. 
 
 Barnabas " C Walcot, Jr. 
 
 Landlord of the Bed Heifer. ' ' Styles. 
 
 r " J. H. Evans. 
 
 Gentlemen ^ u clarke. 
 
 Sybil Hardy Miss Matilda Heron. 
 
 3Irs. Hardy Mrs. Walcot. 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss Annie Wilks. 
 
 Janette " Fanny Browne, 
 
 HOWARD ATHEN.^UM. 
 Boston. 
 
 Eustace CRifden Mr. James Doff. 
 
 Rufus Wolfe " F. E. AiKEN. 
 
 Old Acton 
 
 William Acton 
 
 Mr. Lowe 
 
 Barnabas 
 
 Landlord of the Red Heifer. 
 Gentlemen 
 
 Sybil Hardy Mrs. Emma Waller. 
 
 Mrs. Hardy 
 
 Maude Clifden Miss M. Newton. 
 
 Janette 
 
 WALNUT STREET, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence P.Barrett 
 
 " E. L. Tilton. 
 
 " G. Johnson 
 
 " Wright. 
 
 " B. Young. 
 
 " Bascombe. 
 
 " Porter. 
 
 " Raymond. 
 
 " Matthews. 
 
 Mrs. Emma Waller. 
 Miss Wood. 
 
 " Josephine Tyson. 
 
 " Johnson. 
 
 The casts at many prominent city theatres— such as those 
 at Richmond, Cincinnati, Chicago, Memphis, Nashville, Provi- 
 dence, and other minor places in the United States, and Mel- 
 bourne, Australia, were unattainable. 
 
 COPYRIGHT PRIVILEGE. 
 
 Managers or actors desirous of producing this drama will commu- 
 nicate with the author, care of the Publislier, New York. 
 
EVA: A GOBLIN ROMANCE 
 
 IN FIVE PARTS. 
 
EntereC accordlnj^ to Act of Congress, in ttie year 1864, 
 
 By JOHN SAVAGE, 
 
 lu the Clerk's OHice of tiie District Court for the Southern District of 
 New York. 
 
TO 
 
 ROBERT SHELTON MACKENZIE, D. C. L. 
 
 My Dear Doctor: — 
 
 I feel a pardonable pride in offering you this little book. 
 Were its merits but equal to tlie gratification experienced in 
 dedicating it to you, its reputation would be a foregone conclu- 
 sion, and only make me more happy that it was in some de- 
 gree worthy of your acceptance. I pray you, however, to take 
 it, such as it is, as a small token of my appreciaf-on of your in- 
 defatigable labors in the cultivation and dissemination of a 
 healthy and hearty Polite Literature, of your high sense of 
 professional independence, and of your generosity to profes- 
 sional juniors — a generosity the more gladly recorded here be- 
 cause I have been a partaker of its fruits. 
 
 Among contemporary writers, I am not aware of any more 
 ready to welcome and endorse what your judgment recognizes 
 as deserving ; or who, being forced into an opj)Osite course, 
 justifies his disapproval out of resources more complete, or by 
 standards more compatible with common sense and the dig- 
 nity of letters. These characteristics, so widely valued and 
 respected, fortify the desire of personal regard to inscribe this 
 romance with your name. 
 
 A word as to the work itself. While illustrating the plot — 
 if I may call it such— by the resources Fancy and Imagination 
 conjure up as lying within the supernatural and fairy realms, 
 and by the reflection of the scenery, occasion, and moods of the 
 actors upon each other, I have attempted — like an old-fashioned 
 etory-teller — more than once to point a moral ; and in the con- 
 1* 
 
6 DEDICATION. 
 
 eluding part, to lead the mind to dwell on the still higher, 
 more enduring, and more consoling teaching of Christianity, 
 that, amid the vicissitudes which rack man — not the least 
 crusliing of which is a transition from the egotistic rapture of 
 a passionate young love to the humiliating consciousness ot 
 moody despair — his only comfort and lasting reward is to he 
 found in the self-sacrifice, the resignation — in a word — the 
 humble, but heroic virtues symbolized by The Cross. 
 
 Accept, my dear Doctor, this dedication, with the affectionate 
 esteem of 
 
 Your Friend, 
 
 John Savage. 
 
 FoRDHAM, Septemher 25, 1865. 
 
EVA. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 The evening Sun was setting fair 
 
 Beneath a sky of bine, 
 And Nature's charms on earth, in air, 
 
 Were fading into dew : 
 
 n. 
 
 The sun's broad beams athwart did lie 
 The crimson-mantled West, 
 
 As a golden Cross of Chivalry 
 Charged on a purple vest : 
 
EVA. 
 
 m. 
 
 The evening star, with tender freight 
 
 Of charitable mirth, 
 Did seem to cheer and gratulate 
 
 The daj-tired sons of earth. 
 
 IV 
 
 A gentle breath the shrubs among- 
 
 A gentle si^h of air. 
 As though a gentle maiden's song 
 
 Was lilting here and there ; 
 
 V. 
 
 The busy bushes keeping time, 
 The tendrils join each note, 
 
 And all is soft as silv'rj rhyme 
 From out a silv'rv throat : 
 
 VI. 
 
 The grass assumes a whimpering thrill 
 
 As throuD^h it wino-s the wind. 
 So gently though, it scarcely speeds 
 To coax a chorus from yon weeds, 
 Ere all is still behind : 
 
EVA. 
 
 vn. 
 The dry steins wlieeze a tiny pipe 
 
 To show they wakeful lie, 
 
 As urchins mumble unknown type 
 
 When pedagogue struts by : 
 
 vin. 
 
 The wild rose blushes on the eve 
 
 Of going to its rest, 
 And bends its crimson cheek to grievt 
 
 On mother Earth's calm breast. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The dew steals o'er primroses pale 
 
 Which deck yon shady place ; 
 And clustering in a shy delight, 
 Help to shake the tears of night 
 From off each others' face : 
 
 X. 
 
 And hawthorn blossoms titter low, 
 
 For fear their joyannce reach 
 The matron-like and crabbed boughs, 
 While am'rons Air essays its vows 
 And steals a kiss from each : 
 
10 EVA. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The mountain Ash, gaj lithe and young. 
 
 With knowledge of its grace, 
 Unheedful hears the gallant's song, 
 'Nor cares be won by secret tongue, 
 
 It bends to bolder face. 
 
 xn. 
 
 The evening calm as the smile of Him, 
 Who said, " Thy Will be done," 
 
 And the pious air seemed hushed in prayei 
 Like a seraphic nun. 
 
 xm. 
 
 The scene was wild, yet Fancy made 
 
 Its features full of balm 
 As though it joined the lengthening shade 
 
 To make the day's death calm. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In truth it was a placid scene 
 
 Where awe did wonder woo : 
 Yea, such as men full seldom ken 
 
 The coming: twilischt tliroug-h. 
 
EVA. 11 
 
 XV, 
 
 It is a brocken valley wild, 
 
 The Dodder streaming down 
 Its centre, and the mountain heath 
 Envelops with a purple wreath 
 
 Kippure's age-mottled crown. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 O valley ! consecrate to song, 
 
 In poet-warrior's soul, 
 Where memories of Ossian throng — 
 
 Delightful Glan-nis-mole ! ^ 
 
 xyh, 
 
 O valley ! famed in Ancient days 
 
 Not more by Ossian's voice, 
 Than thrushes', whose bewildering maze 
 Of melody made all thy braes 
 
 And hundred dells rejoice. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 Komantic, rugged, sombre, grand, 
 
 The hills jut out and fall 
 Into the devious vale, as thous^h 
 To stay the Dodder's reckless How . 
 
 Which, foams, and frets, through all. 
 
12 EVA. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Tliej drive the stream from shore to shore ; 
 
 It shakes with rage, then sweeps 
 Around the base, with lengthening pace. 
 With sullen surge, breaks through the gorge, 
 
 And frothing, onward leaps. 
 
 XX. 
 
 By Aljagower, clear as glass 
 
 The pools glide smoothly free. 
 Till further down, a group of rocks, 
 Like bathing dwarfs, jumps up and mocks 
 
 Their placid ecstasy. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Then like branch-broken rays from sun — 
 Or sparks from the blacksmith's blow — 
 
 Or, shattered gems, they flash and run 
 To frothen the angry flow. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 And now they chant a boisterous song, 
 
 United, now they hymn. 
 And anon they murmuring lilt along 
 
 In the shade of yon brocken, dim. 
 
EVA. 13 
 
 xxin. 
 
 The brave ship many leagues must tack 
 
 As air and ocean wills : 
 So strove the river, making track 
 
 Athrough tliis sea of hills. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 An ivj-quilted scanty ruin 
 
 Lies hugged i' the valley wild ; 
 And tombs there tell, of all save hell 
 
 To martyr, man, and child. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 In the shade of the lonely pile, 
 
 Like life within a dream. 
 In the shade of the holy aisle 
 
 A listening to the stream — 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A listening to the Dodder's woes 
 
 A-neath the ivy green, 
 A damsel and youth, the like in sooth 
 
 I'm sure you ne'er have seen. 
 2 
 
14 KVA. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Ye sprites, it was a dreamy scene 
 And a witching wild one, too, 
 
 Sucli as we but seldom see. 
 The elfin twilight through. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 The youthful maid an angel's face- 
 And angel's form, I ween, 
 
 A mingling grace lit up her face 
 Of blooming ripe sixteen. 
 
 xxix. 
 
 Tresses like an autumn night • 
 Hang o'er her forehead's day. 
 
 Darkly rich — a pearly light 
 Outlines each curling spray 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Eyes of such unearthly light. 
 Though dark as ever wrought ; 
 
 By Heaven ! they twist me as a sprite, 
 Though I but see in thought. 
 
EVA. 15 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Much more they twisted yon poor soul, 
 
 The brave youth by her side, 
 Whose pupils rise to the maid's dark eyes 
 And in the wild glance dies, and dies 
 To live in hopeful pride. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 He sighs, that wily nature should 
 Play freaks to show her might. 
 
 And make in witching maidenhood 
 The darkest eyes most bright. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Her forehead, as white marble, pale, 
 
 The veins an azure river. 
 Where tints of Ireland's skies prevail 
 
 In softness, softening ever. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Her cheeks, the dainty tenderness 
 
 As when at morning's dawn. 
 The sun-beam is shed, tlirough a rose-leaf, red, 
 
 On a neighboring ceanavaun.^ 
 
16 EVA. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Her lips ! a liealtliy pure repast — 
 A sylpli's or mortal's, which ? 
 
 The upper like the bright spring cast. 
 The under autumn rich : 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And both control a fragrant breath 
 Like breeze o'er summer flowers, 
 
 When jocund morn enliveneth 
 Earth's re-awakened powers. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Her voice was like a happy thought 
 AYhose speaking smile did sun you, 
 
 And ere you heard the opening word 
 The movement had undone you. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 A raiment white with girdle green 
 Her dainty waist about, 
 
 For as her heart was pure within, 
 Her garb was pure without. 
 
EVA. 17 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 So take tlie fair for all in all ; 
 
 Such a pure thougli tempting smile, 
 ^e'er shone from maid 
 As on him who strayed 
 
 Through that old monastic aisle. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Comely shaped the youth, and slender ; 
 With four summers o'er her own : 
 And ever since they gambolled 
 On the hill-paths over-brambled, 
 In sunny childhood's days, the tender 
 Passion, with their growth had grown. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Never slept it : for their sleeping 
 Ne'er was by its dreams forsaken — 
 Sleep, our Nature's El Dorado, 
 Only held it by a shadow — 
 
 While they gathered golden dream-tales 
 
 To be told when they'd, awaken. 
 2* 
 
18 EVA. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Thus tlieir nights were but as segments 
 
 Of the circle of their days ; 
 And their young hearts, sunny centres, 
 
 Rich with Love's converging rays. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Young Kevin Dhu, so was he hight, 
 
 For ay, was youth as good 
 As e'er bent bow on Saxon foe. 
 Or boasted the commingling flow 
 
 Of Celto-Korman blood. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 His voice is full and freshly clear 
 
 As the breeze on Cc\nm'ragh's crown ; 
 
 His hand can harp to a maiden's ear 
 Or strike a foeman down. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 The brown locks cluster on his brow, 
 Like grapes on the brow of Pan, 
 
 And you see a man in the youth though now 
 The youth is scarcely man. 
 
EVA. 19 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Lonely looks tlie ancient pile ; 
 
 But love is lonely never, 
 When loving eyes exchange the while 
 
 The arrows from Love's quiver. 
 
 xLvn. 
 
 Solemn the weird and lonely scene, 
 Solemn the tombs arraigned — 
 
 It looks as Life had all buried been. 
 And they alone remained. 
 
 xLvin. 
 
 In truth, it was a holy scene, 
 And a lonely wild one too, 
 
 Such as men full seldom ken 
 The dusky twilight through. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 A harp, Love's vibrant symbol, rude 
 In shape, but sweet in tone. 
 
 Lay o'er a tomb, as though its mood 
 Was dirging the dead alone. 
 
20 EVA. 
 
 L. 
 
 She sate her down upon a tomb, 
 
 A cross rose high before, 
 With mossy shapes from Time's gray womb, 
 
 Emboss'd and stained o'er. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " What hopes !" he cried, '' what love, what trutli, 
 These ancient crosses speak ! 
 What chastening thoughts for strength and 
 youth, 
 What sinews for the weak ! 
 
 LH. 
 
 " With Yandal Time, their Sculptures rude 
 But sacred combat well ; 
 Like trusty friends, they have outstood 
 The wealth that from us fell. 
 
 Lin. 
 
 " ' Twould seem the centuried bones beneat 
 With strength of faith had grown 
 To mark the true soul's hope in death, 
 And rose iu sculptured stone. 
 
EVA. 21 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " Ye granite graybeards of the past 
 Who watch our kindred o'er, 
 With us may e'er thy teachings last, 
 That we the Cross adore. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " These crosses, like great note-marks, stand 
 O'er all the Celtic sod, 
 Grown gray in agony of love 
 Eeferrinc: us to God !" ^ 
 
 LVI. 
 
 And then, as dropping in the tide 
 Of thought his fervor sprung, 
 
 The youth in Celtic anguish sighed 
 Its mysty waves among. 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 'Twas but a moment, though it seemed, 
 
 In retrospection, years. 
 And waking from the life he dreamed — 
 
 Ancestral blood and tears — 
 
22 EVA. 
 
 Lvm. 
 
 He leaned against the carven cross, 
 
 That rood of liolj stone, 
 In love's weird tremors both at loss, 
 
 To claim each heart their own. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 He brushed his brow, he snatched his harp, 
 
 A prelude wildly rang ; 
 Then melting to a plaintive width 
 
 Of soul, he to her sang : 
 
 A love-lorn minstrel once there dwelt, 
 
 In a valley fair to view, 
 Whose young rapt soul and senses knelt, 
 
 A heavenly maid to woo. 
 His love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate,'' 
 
 Pure as yon spring of Saint Ann, — 
 He loved with the fervor soul doth create. 
 
 As a minstrel only can. 
 
 (n.) 
 
 He roamed like spirit called from earth, 
 Chimed from its grave -of rest. 
 
EVA. 23 
 
 Penance to eke for some worldlie mirth, 
 
 Or for some act nnblest : 
 For his love was fierce as Saint Kevin's hate, 
 
 Killing as e'en the Saint's ban : 
 Oft voiceless, his was an ideal state 
 
 Of loving, as minstrel can. 
 
 (m.) 
 
 He tracked her steps, o'er vale and hiU, 
 
 True as the shadow she made ; 
 He blessed the sod whereon she trod, 
 
 And the breeze that romid her played. 
 For never to him had the sense of sound 
 
 So lovingly tender grown, 
 As when the air, caressing the fair, 
 
 Partook of her dulcet tone. 
 
 (IV.) 
 
 The Holy Well at which she drank 
 
 To him more holy grew 
 Each tree that gave her shade, each bank 
 
 She rested on, he knew ! 
 For he gazed on his love as Martyr would 
 
 On the hope that raised his soul, 
 And his eyes to her rolled as the halo should 
 
 Bound the head of the Yirgin roll. 
 
'M ETA. 
 
 (V.) 
 
 Oh, this maid was his sole didnity 1 
 
 A model for aye far above 
 Aught his brain, in its minstrel affinity 
 
 To heaven, could weave for his love ! 
 And he loved her as Kate loved Saint Kevin, 
 
 And he traced her as dial tlie sun ; 
 For at morning, at noon, or at even. 
 
 By either you'd find t'other one. 
 
 (VI.) 
 
 And though they had gambolled in youthhood. 
 
 From childhood to each other clung. 
 Yet neither had strength in their truthhood, 
 
 !N^or perfectly freedom of tongue : 
 For love, when it grows up from childhood, 
 
 l!Te'er thijiks to seek deeper the clue. 
 But looks on each face as the wildwood, 
 
 Where unconscious their heart-flowers grew. 
 
 (vn.) 
 
 And though he had laughed forth his fancies, 
 And though she reechoed his tale. 
 
 Yet for one word each heart inward glances — 
 That one word of blessing or bale. 
 
EVA. 25 
 
 LX. 
 
 " All, sad is the time !" spake Eva, 
 " When hearts are unconsciouslj tost ; 
 'Twere better that one should have spoken 
 Than voiceless that both should be lost. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 '^ Ah," sighed she, " I pain for the maiden !" 
 " And I," quoth he, " wail for the youth !" 
 "And did neither make them an Aiden, 
 By shriving the other from ruth ? 
 
 Lxn. 
 
 " And did neither think of presuming 
 
 On friendship that from their birth grew ?" 
 
 " Ah, no !" said the young bard resuming 
 His harp, and its love-burdened clue ; 
 
 " Though the youth but in her saw his heaven, 
 Still spake not, or heard not the word / 
 For," he faltered, " the youth's name was Kevin, 
 And — Eva, the maid he adored !" 
 
2(» EVA. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Witli modest, not unconscious air, 
 
 Dear Eva heard him close : — 
 And looked, but spoke not, worlds of prayer, 
 
 That only true love knows. 
 
 Lxrv. 
 
 She felt — she knew, she had his heart, 
 And that it spake through her, 
 
 And waited her responsive part 
 From him^ — nor dared to stir, — 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Nor dared to stir, lest she displace 
 The accents she well knew 
 
 Her heart must make ; but woke apace 
 To her own maiden view. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Ah, Kevin ! in my maiden soul 
 Is the heart that I bereft 
 Thee of — that I, unconscious, stole, — 
 Yet, willing for the theft : 
 
EVA. 27 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " Ay, willing for the theft ! O youth, 
 O Kevin dear ! 'tis frail 
 That Eva's tongue should tell ; but truth 
 And love's a sad tell-tale." 
 
 Lxvrn. 
 
 " Angel of Eva ! let me hear 
 
 Those kindling thoughts again ; 
 That Hope's clear light may shame the bier 
 Where chilling Doubt lies slain !" 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " My Kevin dear, fain would I tell, — 
 My tongue but shames its place, 
 My lips but mock the inward spell 
 That needs w^ould outward trace. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " My heart is throbbing like a sea. 
 
 And could sea span the skies above, 
 I feel its vast immensity 
 
 Could not cradle half my love." 
 
28 EVA. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Entranced in her speech, lie gazed 
 As thoiigli a statue still — 
 
 Or like a breathless sculptor, dazed 
 At his creative skill. 
 
 Lxxn. 
 
 But suddenly he started, — bright, 
 His thankful gestures spoke. 
 
 As vocal as a host of light. 
 In cave dawn never woke. 
 
 Lxxin. 
 
 His harp fell on the tufted moss, 
 His tongue seemed in his fingers,'^ 
 
 That motion all his words, — at loss 
 
 While speech on his dumb mouth lingers 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 He wrapt her to his burning breast, 
 That love should fear no cheating ; 
 
 He prest her, that each pledging test 
 Should feel each other beating. 
 
EVA. 29 
 
 LXXT. 
 
 Exchanged troths of love were given, 
 And Echo sealed each tone, 
 
 Before the Cross, and the holy heaven, 
 In the ivied ruin lone. 
 
EVA. 31 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 As thus the pair entranced were, 
 Each with the other's love ; 
 
 Unseen, unheard, about them there 
 A horrid pageant wove. 
 
 n. 
 
 Old name-lost tombs 'gan start to life — 
 The dead 'gan hobbling out. 
 
 Martyrs and monks, and man and wife, 
 To witness what they're about. 
 
 m. 
 
 As lumberinglj moved the mounds 
 That did the ground encumber. 
 
 The headstones cracked their lichen skins, 
 And yawn'd, like sots in slumber. 
 
32 EVA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Old battered memories on the walls, 
 Took shape and left their places ; 
 
 Crushed effigies in crumbling stalls, 
 Eesumed their forms and faces. 
 
 V. 
 
 And skeletons helped with rattling noise 
 To empty each other's graves, 
 
 To witness the troth and hear the voice 
 Of love that daintily raves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The oldest trees did shake and quake 
 Up to their farthest shoots, 
 As each skeleton pulls 
 Might and main for the skulls, 
 Meshed in the tangled roots. 
 
 vn. 
 
 You'd think it was a lashing hail 
 Upon the branching eaves ; 
 
 Or wild despoiling autumn gale 
 A throttling all the leaves. 
 
EVA. 33 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And while the groups are gathering round 
 
 From out their dim abodes, 
 The woes and state of some create 
 
 Grrim ghastly episodes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A horrid shape from the path to hell 
 Escaped to quench his thirst, 
 
 For his inside scorch'd as flames do dwell 
 In house pent ere they burst. 
 
 He came to drink of the mystic Well 
 Blessed by the good Saint Ann, 
 
 Whose waters boast the purest spell 
 From Tallaght to Lough Dan.^ 
 
 XI. 
 
 And deftly to the holy pool 
 This ghastly shape forsooth 
 
 Did speed, with shrined wave to cool 
 His hellish scorching drouth. 
 
34 EVA. 
 
 xn. 
 
 He snatched tlie bowl from the holy stone, 
 And dived it in the Well ; 
 But yet while there flew 
 His parched frame through 
 A bliss from the hoped-for spell, 
 A hurrying sprite 
 Dashed the cup from his sight. 
 And he felt o'er again pangs of hell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oh could he but drink of the shriving wave, 
 
 'Twould give him the freedom of soul 
 To think of a heav'n ; his body 'twould save 
 From the torturing pangs of a hell-bound grave 
 He snatches again at the bowl. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Is it Saint Ann ? or a guarding band i 
 Or hath he a soul conscience-barred ? 
 
 Again the cup from his flaming hand 
 Is dashed by some unseen guard — 
 
EVA. 35 
 
 XV. 
 
 And a voice, like the rending of great forest oaks, 
 
 Begat on his ear, with a yell. 
 The sentence of Fate — "Hence slave to your 
 state 
 
 And your purgatorial cell." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He shrunk aback, as his head had been 
 Clove with Saint Peter's key, 
 
 And he durst not look, for bell and book 
 Had told him where he would be. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 And a group kept watching a tomb in the aisle. 
 And they grinned a wrathful, vengeful smile. 
 In wait for its inmate's skull ; 
 For he was a lord, 
 Whose only word 
 Was of hate to the poor, 
 And death to the boor 
 Who made not his door 
 And halls with venison full ; 
 
36 
 
 xvm. 
 
 And oft had this baron been known to brag, 
 The number of vassals he clove with his mace ; 
 
 And he took less delight racing after the stag, 
 Than he did in staying the human race. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And one yelled forth a merry stave, 
 A hundred choruss'd the verse ; 
 And from under a cowl, 
 A relentless jowl 
 Mumbled a hopeful curse. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And one whose flesh was half decayed 
 Poured forth a troublous groan, 
 
 Which shook the slime from his wormy side, 
 And bared it to the bone. 
 
 . XXI. 
 
 Some had on cerements gray, which flapped 
 As loose sails on the spars of a ship ; 
 
 And some, half-rotted on what they wrapped, 
 Were as cobwebs caught on a chip. 
 
EVA. 37 
 
 xxn. 
 
 One looked at her tomb as at her glass, 
 Ne'er doubting herself 'twould bear, 
 
 But she yelled her joj 
 
 At the fond foul lie 
 Her husband had sculptured there. 
 
 xxm. 
 
 And calling a troupe of like wild wives, 
 
 She bade them see themselves — 
 All scampered away as they did in their lives — 
 
 A pack of mad vain elves. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And they laughed, did this brood of wanton 
 wives. 
 At their sculptured acts, and cried — 
 " Ho ! ho ! for those who have led good lives. 
 They'll have no surprise when they've died." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And as the "Yes" from Eva's mouth 
 
 Proclaimed young Kevin's bride, 
 All swirled as though the grapes of the South 
 
 Were gurgling their skulls inside. 
 
38 EVA. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And a jolly mob around the pair 
 
 Prankt madly in a reel, 
 And chattered, and bowed, and flattered aloud, 
 
 The lovers with devilish zeal. 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 But lovers' eyes, though ope are blind. 
 
 And lovers' ears are deaf; 
 'Tis but in loving lovers find 
 
 Love's grief or love's relief. 
 
 xxvrn. 
 
 Young Kevin clasped the maid again, 
 The embrace was soft and sweet ; 
 
 The bubbling love of the wooers twain, 
 At parting was as they'd meet. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And as love'-s tender stupor sheds 
 Its filmy mask, they thought 
 
 The air was dotted with strange heads, 
 And with strange noises fraught. 
 
EVA. 39 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Their skinny digits clasping fast, 
 The mouldy dancers spin 
 
 Swiftly past — their skulls are cast 
 Into one circling grin. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The fluttering Eva nestled close 
 
 Unto her Kevin's breast, — 
 They soothed the sudden fears that rose, 
 
 By being both caressed. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " The noise" — it was the weary breeze, 
 
 Or Dodder's plaining tones : 
 ^* The faces" — moonshine through the trees 
 
 Upon the quaint old stones. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And wilder, swifter speed the wraiths, 
 
 As on a whirlpool leaves, 
 Until they fade, and the speering maid 
 
 Feels she herself deceives. 
 
40 EVA. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The moon breaks from her camp of clouds, 
 And roams the clear expanse ; 
 
 The ghosts glide into their slimy shrouds, 
 Tired \\'ith the trysting dance. 
 
EVA. 41 
 
 PART THIRD 
 
 The moon was taking her highest roll, 
 And the light from her regnant head, 
 
 Enwrapped the stars, like a mighty scroll, 
 With eternity's language spread. 
 
 n. 
 
 The crystal blue of the ambient sky, 
 The crystal light of the moon. 
 
 The crystal note of the black-bird nigh, 
 Makes echo a crystal tune. 
 
 m. 
 
 The stars like strings of a heavenly lyre, 
 
 Swept by the hands of Night, 
 
 Fill with joy the cathedral choir; 
 
 And echo is turned to light. 
 4* 
 
42 EVA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And down the moonlight flutes the air, 
 Each beam a choral column ; 
 
 And earth's calm but responsive prayer 
 Blends in the midnio;ht solemn. 
 
 And heavenly smiles and earthly thanks 
 In their descent and upward flight, 
 
 Pass in joyed and bowed ranks 
 Through night's corridors of light. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The wakeful crags, Kippure's broad brow 
 
 Stand out in bright relief, 
 Attendant on the moon ; and throw 
 
 The glens in shadowed grief. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Scarce a stir was up in the air, 
 Scarce a stir on the earth, 
 
 Save lyrical rills from the elfin hills 
 Gamb'llino; in wildsome mirth. 
 
EVA. 43 
 
 vin. 
 They staved and raved ad own tlie stones, 
 
 A stop-note every pebble, 
 To quiver the chant into tinkling tones 
 
 Of a dulcet treble. 
 
 IX. 
 
 At the time of fair Eva's vows 
 
 To Kevin's love-lit power. 
 The elfin queen her courtiers did rouse 
 
 To meet over Alyagower. 
 
 X. 
 
 Bustling, yet noiseless, came along 
 
 The elves from midnight sprees, 
 Lowly but sweet as ever was song 
 
 They lilted their gathering glees : 
 So genial the flow, so num'rous the throng, 
 
 It was as a perfumed breeze — 
 Or, like a forethought of Zephyr's song, 
 
 Balmy, without the breeze. 
 
 XI. 
 
 As diamond thoughts in quaint bard's brain. 
 
 This aeriel world 'gan float ; 
 And linked, as the gems of a fountain rain 
 
 By the mist with a dewy note. 
 
44 EVA. 
 
 xn. 
 
 A haze of sound enwrapped the elves 
 As the mist o'er a wayward stream ; 
 
 They must have thought, the imps themselves. 
 They were in an elfin dream. 
 
 xm. 
 
 And hither they come, so various dight- 
 So brilliant their guises were, 
 
 It was as a sudden May that night. 
 And they the flow'rs o' the air. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Spirit of Heath and Daisy-dew, 
 
 And tiny Blue-bell first. 
 Bounding came, with the elfin crew, 
 
 That followed in a bm-st. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Roney-suckle and Primrose-tip, 
 
 Arm in arm, I wist — 
 And Evening-sigh and Tulip-lip, 
 
 And the Fog-sprite, Dodder-mist : 
 
EVA. 45 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Jessamine-breath and Woodbine-brow, 
 
 Blessing each other's way. 
 And Honey-tongue and Folks-gloveJ now, 
 
 And many a valley fay : 
 
 xvn. 
 
 The scarlet Dragon's-head came up, 
 
 And Morning-glory too, 
 Bearing a monstrous purple cup 
 
 Gleamiug with nectrous dew : 
 
 xvin. 
 
 And Apple-bloom so lustrous white, 
 
 Like little bride of old ; 
 And Dandelion, like ancient king, 
 
 With collar of yellow gold : 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And from the Dodder's coolest vale 
 The Brook-elf, braw and stout, 
 
 In armor made of a silver scale 
 Dropped from a river trout : 
 
46 EVA. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The imp of glens, wild Thatchet-tliom, 
 Eeckless, rollicking sprite, 
 
 Came puffing, like a November morn 
 Hunted by autumn night : 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The Moon-elf with a bright'ning eye, 
 And never a wink, came in ; 
 
 He trimm'd the starry lamps on high, 
 And shaded the w^ays of sin. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And Poppy-stem with night-cap red, 
 
 A drowsy pace did take ; 
 But Moon-elf kicked and Thatchet pricked 
 
 The imp to keep him awake. 
 
 xxin. 
 
 And hosts of elfin chiefs appeared 
 
 Of marvellous renown. 
 And fairy seannachies^with beards 
 
 Of silver thistle-down. 
 
EVA. 47 
 
 XX TV. 
 
 Oh, myriads came, of goblin fame, 
 
 From glen-embower'd ways. 
 Where cascades keep the hills from sleep, 
 
 In witching Wicklow's praise ; 
 From Dodder's nooks, and brawling brooks. 
 
 And Liifey's fairy braes. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 They came to a tower, 'tween heav'n and earth, 
 
 Built in the dewy air ; 
 The dreamliest space that fanciful mirth 
 
 Could deem for a court so rare. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 They carried a cloud away up to the moon 
 
 And trailed it across the light. 
 So the beam from beiow, and the beam from aboon, 
 
 Made a floor and a ceiling bright. 
 
 xxvn. 
 And they sprent the floor with gathered dews 
 Which shone like a pavement of gems, 
 And arch'd columns made 
 Of the clear cascade. 
 Caught ere it broke in diadems. 
 
48 EVA. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 From quarried mines of perfume, the walls 
 The casement of spider's web, quaint, 
 And the toiling stars 
 Snatch a peep through the bars. 
 And pale at their own restraint. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And o'er the throne of Cleena the queen, 
 In the nave of this fairj pile, 
 A tulip leaf rained 
 Its hues, like the stained 
 Glass saints in cathedral aisle. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus met, the queen with an airy tongue. 
 Like a sweet voice heard in a dream, 
 
 Half cadenced her will, half liltinglj sung. 
 Yet singing it only did seem. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Oh, her's was the sweetest. 
 Richest, completest, 
 Most musical, magic, and dearest, 
 M}'stic and lowly. 
 Swelling but slowly, 
 The warmest of voices, and clearest ! 
 
EVA. 49 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers — subjects all, 
 
 From Tallaght to Kippiire, 
 From tbe dusky valleys, 
 "Where the sunset rallies. 
 All our gallant armies to my evening call— 
 From the heathy hill-side, 
 From the dreamy rill-side, 
 From the spray entrancing. 
 In the star-light glancing. 
 O'er the rocky barriers in the Dodder's way,^ 
 Ye, my loved and loving. 
 Ye, the spry and roving, 
 Ye, that know a living dead to things of clay, 
 Ye, from Tallaght's meadows. 
 
 To the bleak Kippure, 
 Ye, I want — my shadows ! 
 
 A maiden to secure. 
 
 xxxm. 
 
 " Cluricauns from haunted Brake, 
 
 Fays of Alyagower, 
 
 IVe a maid from earth to take 
 
 "Worthy fairy power. 
 5 
 
50 EVA. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Wild elves from the witch'd Comaun, 
 Whose broad brow the thunder mocks, 
 And all ye that wraithe Glancree, 
 
 Or guard the lonely haunted Louglis, — ^ 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Where the eagle mountain stands 
 O'er the dismal wave below ; 
 Like man's suicidal thought 
 
 Brooding flight from earthly wo : 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " There is a maid of mildest mien, 
 But radiant in its mildness ! 
 Loving and loved in the bounds atween, 
 Where we hold our wildness." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 "I saw — I spied (and laughed in pride), 
 As I skipt o'er yon ruin," 
 Said Thatchet-thorn, holding his side, 
 " Twain Gaffers there a wooin'." 
 
EVA. 51 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Oh Berry," Thatchet scritched, 
 " An elf with hum-drum twisting 
 The other dainty hojden witched, 
 And she said, ' No resisting !' 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " I feth it was a mouthful speck, 
 I wiss to see them" — 
 
 "Hold sir, 
 Chain thy tongue or I'll instant wreck 
 Thy chine, for being bold, sir." 
 
 XL. 
 
 Thatchet sneak'd off in the crowd 
 
 Under the wing of a fly. 
 And he tickled the fly's kind shroud, 
 
 For tears came in laughter's eye. 
 
 XLT. 
 
 " As I gamboll'd and caught the dew," 
 Quo' the Queen, — " to deck our halls, 
 The prancing gnats my chariot drew 
 Above yon ivied walls. 
 
52 EVA. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " oil, Lilj-tint ! Oh, Honey-tongue ! 
 Such a face and form — so airy, 
 As were those ruins old among ! 
 She should have been a fairy. 
 
 XLTII. 
 
 " And by her side was a hend youth, who 
 Was pleading love distressing. 
 And with harmonious plaining, too. 
 He charmed the maid's caressing. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 She is too fair for mortal man. 
 Too bright for earthly life. 
 
 More formed for elfin joyaunce than 
 Queen of a heart-ache strife." 
 
 XLV. 
 
 (" An' ay, besides," cried Thatchet-thorn, 
 " 'Twill wrath the youth most drearily, 
 For which I'd spree ten moons to see — 
 An' that I would most cheerily !") 
 
EVA. 53 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 '' We must save her ! we must have her, 
 Ere tlie dews of evening fall, 
 On to-morrow, and I'll borrow 
 All jour freaks to aid my call." 
 
 "Ho! ho!" yell'd, merrily, Thatehet. 
 
 XLvn. 
 " We must save her ! we must have her. 
 Ere the lovers meet again. 
 And we'll bring her, and we'll sing her 
 Fairy songs of soothing strain." 
 
 " I fecks we will !" quo' Thatehet. 
 
 XLvin. 
 " And we'll charm her, but not harm her. 
 To forget all ties of earth ; 
 For we'll spell-bind, ay, and well bind 
 All our arts to cause her mirth." 
 
 "An' I'm your man !" quo' Thatehet. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 "We, you Thatchet-thorn commission— 
 
 Thatehet list, you wayward wight — 
 
 To bethink and twist our wish on 
 
 Witching this young maiden bright. 
 5* 
 
EVA. 
 L. 
 
 Good lack, ah me ! ho, ho ! — What now ?" ' 
 Laughed Thatchet — ''Thafs your measure !" 
 
 And he smoothed a wrinkle on old Time's brow 
 With a loud smack of pleasure. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The wily, revelling devil, Thorn, 
 (Swung wild in a cobweb's loop ; 
 
 A rakish imp as ever was born, 
 On the spider he sat with a " Whoop 1" 
 
 Ln. 
 
 " All the spreethogue- elves ye ken. 
 From Lough Bray to Kill-tipper, 
 Shall follow Thatchet, through fen and glen, 
 To aid the imp to clip her." 
 
 Lm. 
 
 Thatchet in glee, was tumbling round, 
 
 The cap of a queen-bee's knee ; 
 So joyous was he to be crown'd, 
 Leading a prank in fairy ground, 
 And scritched right gleefully ! 
 
EVA. 55 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " Hip, do dun ! 
 'Tis said — slie's won ! 
 I'll smother mj feet in the tliistle-down, 
 
 Or skate on the snail's bright track, 
 Or, I'll hide in the pond'rous skin-cloak, brown. 
 
 Flayed from the wood-mouse' back ! 
 Or, I'll straddle on spider's crup, as he weaves 
 
 In the nave of yon ruin his thread — 
 Or, I'll lie in amidst of two wild mint leaves, 
 And roll to a noon-eyed bed. 
 
 I'll watch her — I'll catch her — 
 
 I will ! I will ! 
 Through alley or valley, 
 In bower or hill ! 
 I see her ! I feel her ! I have her ! ha, ha !" 
 And he sprang at his joyous note. 
 And he laughed, till all doubt 
 Such a loud elfin's shout 
 Leaped from an elfin throat. 
 
 LV. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" — laughed he, as he woke the liglit 
 Of a star that slept on the pavement, 
 And he tumbled him round 
 To a jocular sound, 
 Regardless of court behavement. 
 
56 EVA. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 " Hej, in the ruin, 
 Lovers will be wooing, 
 Little guessing, 
 In caressing. 
 What the elves are doing. 
 
 " Hey, in the even, 
 Lovers will be grieving. 
 
 Little knowing 
 
 What is growing 
 For their hearts' deceiving. 
 
 " Bj the set of sun 
 To-morrow, she's won ! 
 
 " For o'er the bog. 
 Or through the fog. 
 Under the hill, 
 Over the rill, 
 In the moonlight, 
 Or the noonlight, 
 Bat's wing riding, 
 Owl's beak chiding. 
 On Pooka prancing. 
 Or star-light dancing. 
 
EVA. 67 
 
 Whatever je wot 
 On earth, or be not, 
 Eft-soon that it is^ 
 For Thatchet, I wis, 
 Is the sprite that is here 
 To eke whatever ye ken ! 
 For aught be it murky, or yea be it clear— 
 
 I'm slave to the Queen o' the glen ! 
 Be it done in a moon's or sun's career, 
 I'm slave to the Queen o' the glen !" 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 " Hail to our Cleena, Queen o' the glen," 
 Shouted the elves and fairy land then, 
 Up took the echo, and out-sped again — 
 
 " Hail to our Cleena, Queen o' the glen." 
 
 I 
 
EVA. 59 
 
 PART FOURTH 
 
 The night is gone, the morning past, 
 And that noon dead forever ; 
 
 And evening comes, like a shadow cast, 
 Time's brighter tints to sever. 
 
 n. 
 
 An evening like the jester one, 
 A calm and balmy eve. 
 
 Like nmi, afraid that sighing tone 
 Would make her bosom heave. 
 
 in. 
 
 All was still as a sleeping fair, 
 Placid with heav'nly dreaming, 
 
 Whose visions of bliss to her fancy were 
 Double their actual seeming. 
 
60 EVA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The gentle Eva fortli had sped, 
 To meet her idoU'd lover ; 
 
 The daisy bent not beneath her tread, 
 As Innocence did above her. 
 
 Two genial faces-under-a-hood, 
 Drinking the welcome dew, 
 
 Seemed, in a joy of brotherhood, 
 Toasting her beauty too. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Cowslip and the Buttercup, 
 
 They bowed a silent bliss, 
 And Forget-me-not, in the lonely spot, 
 
 Stole from the sod a kiss. 
 
 vn. 
 
 Fond memory's emblatic elf. 
 
 He noted the passing one. 
 And kissed, in lieu the charmer's self, 
 
 The ground she trod upon. 
 
EVA. 61 
 
 vm. 
 
 And thus the plants, in each other's joy, 
 
 Show how they felt for hers, 
 And kissed once more, as she tript o'er, 
 
 With the zeal of worshippers ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 The meadow-sweet waved like a bridal plume ; 
 And the streamlet by the path 
 
 Kept on a wild pace. 
 
 To be sunn'd by her face. 
 Such radiance its beauty hath. 
 
 Now was her heart a brimful cup, 
 With Love's delicious presence. 
 
 And thoughts of Kevin bubbled up 
 To the top of the sparkling essence. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Her bearing bright, her footstep light 
 
 As a May-wafted feather; 
 She seemed a humanized delight, 
 
 As skipt she o'er the heather. 
 
62 EVA. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And oh, why should she not present 
 
 Incarnate love and rapture ? 
 Loving and loved — with two joys sprent, 
 
 Yielding, and making a capture ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 'Tis only thus that true Love's years 
 
 Roll free of pain and sin — 
 The sin of doubt : who happy wears 
 
 Love's crown, must yield to win. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And oh ! Heaven help the loving heart 
 That meets no love in turn, 
 
 And send its light, to save from blight 
 That passion-bursting um. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The heart that links unto a heart, 
 
 Unknowing if it beats. 
 May never find, its once clear mind, 
 
 And peace it never meets — 
 Earth has no future for its kind ; 
 
 Ko past, but killing sweets. 
 
EVA. 63 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But Eva, blessing in her love, 
 
 Was bless'd in her adorer ; 
 The present seem'd but as Peter's gate 
 
 To the heavenly fate before her. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 As moved she down the hilly side. 
 Like blossom weather-wafted, 
 
 Crowning the air with double pride 
 Of fragrance then engrafted — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A charming strain falls on her ear, 
 
 A thrilling measure 'tis, 
 And tender, too. She stay'd to hear- 
 
 " Ah ! yes, 'tis surely his ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Ah, yes— it must be Kevin's harp ! 
 It is that love-lorn strain 
 He often plays." She eager stays 
 To catch the loved refrain. 
 
64 EVA. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And yet she stays : adown her head 
 Low bent, as joyed she grew, 
 
 And hands upraised, as though they said- 
 " Hush, birds, and listen too !" 
 
 xxr. 
 
 The strain swept on — sweet harmony- 
 The maiden soul held still. 
 
 As though each magic symphony 
 Could chain or free at will. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " [Row shall I give my love surprise !" 
 And round she sprang in glee ; 
 But nothing there stood proof her eyes. 
 And wonder-struck was she. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "Wonder struck was the maiden young. 
 
 At her deceit of ee ; 
 But a voice yet sung, and a harp still rung, 
 
 And stil] the strain hears she. 
 
EVA. 05 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yea, still its ripples lave her ears, 
 More dulcet than before, 
 
 And every wave of sound she hears 
 Is met by an eager shore. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Now plaintive rose the witching lay, 
 And now a subdued splendor 
 
 Trids the dulcet anguish through, 
 So passionately tender : 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And now a voice of sadness ponrs 
 
 Its soul upon the air ; 
 While the maiden stays as one delays 
 
 On last words of a prayer. 
 
 (.1.) 
 
 Where is my darling — 
 Oh, where is her shadow? 
 Is she in the meadow, 
 
 Singing with the starhng? 
 
66 EVA. 
 
 Is she by the river ? — 
 Is she mid the trees ? — 
 
 Ah ! my heart is ever 
 Searching her and ease. 
 
 (n.) 
 
 I've heard the starling, 
 I've been in the meadow, 
 But saw not the shadow 
 Of Eva my darling. 
 She's not by the water — 
 
 She's not in the wood — 
 Thro' the trees I've sought her, 
 And down by the flood. 
 
 (m.) 
 
 I told the starling 
 
 To sing out my maiden ; 
 Robin, too, is laden. 
 With news for my darling; 
 And the little sparrow 
 
 That chirps in the thatch, 
 And swallow, fleet as arrow, 
 Go my love to catch. 
 
EVA. 67 
 
 (IV.) 
 
 I told tlie starling, 
 
 Sparrow, and the swallow, 
 Ere they went to follow. 
 Where Td meet my darling : 
 E'ot in fields of clover, 
 ^Neither in the bower, 
 !N'or by rushing rover, 
 But here^ at this hour. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " I^ow shall I give my love surprise !" 
 And round she tript in glee ; 
 But nothing there stood proof her eyes. 
 And wonder struck was she. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But still the air with song is fraught, 
 
 Making sweet the gloaming ; 
 'Tis plain the singer's anxious thought 
 
 But echoes to his roaming. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ^^Not infields of clover, 
 Neither in the tower, 
 Nor hy rushing rover, 
 But here, at this hourP 
 
68 EVA. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Now Eva deftly stole along — 
 Softly crept the maiden — 
 
 Aside the brake, tlie shrubs among, 
 Her breath love-ful laden. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Scarcely breathing crept she, listening — 
 Catching whence the sounds arose ; 
 
 Her love-laughing eyes were glistening. 
 At the sight they will disclose. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 Her thoughts were laughing amongst them- 
 selves — 
 
 To steal so — such a treat ! 
 Little thought she, the airy elves . 
 
 Were laughing at Love's defeat. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Little she dreamt that an elfin harp, 
 Tuned to a mortal ear, 
 Was pilf 'ring the store. 
 At the sill of Love's door, 
 And making the door a bier. 
 
EVA. 09 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 ^^Not infields of clover^ 
 Neither in the hower^ 
 Nor hy rushing rover ^ 
 But here, at this hou/r,''^ 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 More sorrowful the voice became. 
 In grief at her not coming ; 
 
 Now near it wails, in a tone of blame, 
 Now at a distance humming. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Behind her once it moaned in pain, 
 And then it crooned before her ; 
 
 By her side, anon, as though the strain 
 Would weave a madness o'er her. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 On she sprang, with Hope's wild strength — 
 
 Bound she trod the strain : 
 To right trod she — to left trod she, 
 
 And trod all o'er again. 
 
70 EVA. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Till wearied out, her tender frame, 
 
 Bj longing hope deferred, 
 She sank down on the spot — the same 
 
 Where first the tune she heard. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 As though her mother Earth would bear 
 
 Some comfort to her dearth, 
 As Indian catches in his ear. 
 The presence of some mortal near, 
 Bj listening to the earth. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And thoughts rose up within her lips, 
 To tell what anguish wrung 
 
 Her heart, but fell, as fountain drips, 
 Back to whence thej sprung. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 For beat her heart so piteously, 
 No word could dare essay, 
 
 To fill its grief, or sorrow dree. 
 Or soothe its woes awaj. 
 
EVA. tl 
 
 XLH. 
 
 And as she lay, the song once more 
 Burst in upon her swoon, 
 
 As the mystic fire that revels o'er 
 The dismal-faced lagoon : 
 
 xLm. 
 
 "ir<?^ infields of clover^ 
 
 Neither in the hower^ 
 Nor hy rushing rover, 
 But here^ at this hourP 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And as bright morning bursts from night, 
 Sweet words escaped her gloom — 
 
 "And I am here, my Kevin dear, 
 I'm thine unto the tomb." 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Her thought so spread her lifeless form. 
 
 It shook her till she wake ; 
 And lo ! as sun o'er March cloud dun, 
 
 Her love bounds o'er the brake. 
 
72 EVA. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 And quickly raised was Eva fair, 
 
 Unto his sheltering heart ; 
 And nestling there, as thought in speech- 
 The heaven she had pined to reach — 
 
 She prayed they'd "never part." 
 
 XLvn. 
 
 " And are you mine ?" 
 
 " Thine, only thine I 
 Ay, darling youth, forever ! 
 The earth holds not, so fair a lot. 
 That couJd me from thee sever !" 
 
 XLvm. 
 
 " Oh, speak on yet — ^my Eva, yet — 
 
 Why should such sun-thoughts dally :" 
 " I am thine," she cried, " while the sky is blue, 
 Or the Dodder its Glan-nis-mole sings through ; 
 While the seasons roll, and the loving birds 
 Warble to each their aerial words ! 
 Though death should come, my love still true. 
 As the tree to the sod from which it grew — 
 While those darling hills — those elf-bound hills. 
 Embrace with calm shadows their offspring rills. 
 
EVA. 73 
 
 Or Kippure, like an aged parent fills 
 The throne of state. 
 With pride elate, 
 And fatherly views the valley I" 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Mine — onhj mine ?" 
 
 " Forever thine !" 
 
 And she clung around the youth 
 With the fervor which betrays itself, 
 
 Supporting a woman's truth. 
 
 L. 
 
 He kissed her, and excess of joy 
 
 So wrought, when strength had gone, 
 
 She felt that dizziness which doubts 
 The fact one gazes on. 
 
 LI. 
 
 She felt as lifted from the sod 
 Into his dear embrace — 
 
 But were it clouds her Kevin trod. 
 She'd tread the self-same place. 
 
74 TIVA. 
 
 Ln. 
 
 Half waking from her swoon of heart, 
 
 She feels her in the air, 
 Mid myrial crowds that nimbly part, 
 
 To make her pathway there. 
 
 LHI. 
 
 Around, the sky — ^below, dim void — 
 
 And np she's onward driven : 
 'Tis a dream, like those her childhood enjoyed- 
 
 Dreaming of going to heaven. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But round quaint little spectres flit. 
 Like motes in her bright splendor ; 
 
 With jocund songs and gleeful wit. 
 And fragile shapes so tender. 
 
 LV. 
 
 And hither they run, and thither they run, 
 In vain their glee to smother ; 
 
 And air looked a moving mine of gems. 
 As they pelt dew at each other. 
 
EVA. 75 
 
 LVI. 
 
 She clasped her arms about the youth, 
 
 To feel had she been sleeping, 
 Full pure in confidence and truth, 
 
 Of safety in his keeping. 
 
 Lvn. 
 'Tis surely all some witching dream. 
 
 Else her eyes need heart's upbraiding, 
 For Kevin, like tlie mist on stream. 
 
 From her wild clasp is fading : 
 
 Lvin. 
 
 As shadow deftly fades away, 
 
 When light approaches clearer, 
 Her opening gaze the maid betrays — 
 
 'No youthful Kevin's near her. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 The shape she prest to her maiden breast 
 
 Has dwindled like a flower. 
 And left but a wizened, withered stem — 
 She sees the elves — she has heard of them. 
 Her whole life crowds in a frantic thought, 
 And crushes her as the truth is caught : 
 
Y6 EVA. 
 
 " Oh, liope belied — oh, Love," she cried, 
 " I have madly leased my soul from you, 
 "While the Dodder runs and the sky is blue !" 
 And swooned in the elfin power. 
 
 LX. 
 
 And wildly laughed imp Thatchet then — 
 
 He roaring and running by fits. 
 Till e'en the elf-train, thought again and again 
 
 He'd lose his elfin wits. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Still alluring, still she follows 
 In the love-struck elfin trance. 
 
 Far beyond the cloudy hollows, 
 To where vagrant planets dance. 
 
 Lxn. 
 
 Once they rested high in the blue, 
 To school their wondering care ; 
 
 And Time a lengthy cobweb threw, 
 To teach her to walk the air. 
 
EVA. 77 
 
 Lxni. 
 
 In vast circles gathering round her, 
 As the systems round the sun, 
 
 Endless splendors hold, astound her — 
 Still beginning, never done. 
 
 Lxrs^ 
 
 Moving like vast seas of brilliants, 
 Each contributing its light 
 
 To the forming of a circle. 
 That shuts out forever ISTight. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Still revolving, glittering onward, 
 High thej chant a fairy glee. 
 
 As they pass, the echo, gone-ward, 
 Answers to her — " Who are ye ?" 
 
 We are Faeries — ^gleesome Faeries ! 
 
 From the 'haunted raths below ; 
 We are Faeries — tricksy Faeries, 
 
 From the glistening peaks of snow, 
 
 7* 
 
78 EVA. 
 
 From tlie far hills to the valley, 
 From the valley to the shore, 
 And from shore to shore we rally, 
 IsTever less, and evermore ! 
 From the far light 
 
 Of Aurora, 
 From the star-light 
 
 To the earth — 
 From the sprye-lands 
 
 Of rich Flora, 
 To the sky-lands, 
 We hold mirth ! 
 
 (n.) 
 We may caper on the sunbeam. 
 
 Or rest behind the moon. 
 When the pleasaunce of our night-dream 
 
 Ushers in a lazy noon ; 
 We raise a monument of dew. 
 Distilled from aerial flowers, 
 And joys like these are waiting you, 
 And every charm that's ours. 
 From the icebergs 
 
 Of the Yikings — 
 From the spice-bergs 
 Of the East— 
 
EVA. 79 
 
 To the Prairies, 
 
 Are the likings, 
 For the Faeries' 
 
 Glorious feast ! 
 
 (m.) 
 
 We may stretch a bridge from pole to pole, 
 
 Wing earth, and all that's in it. 
 Over the spheres, or round we can roll. 
 
 Or pass through in a minute. 
 We are Faeries — happy Faeries ! 
 
 Giddy, tinted shades of dew : 
 Whose ever-bursting joy ne'er varies, 
 But to double — so shall you ! 
 From the prismal 
 Sun-light glory, 
 To the dismal 
 
 Caves of earth — 
 From the Flood-god's 
 
 Saga's hoary. 
 To the Wood-gods, 
 Give us mirth ! 
 We are Faeries — happy Faeries, 
 
 Kings of earth and sea and blue ; 
 Whose ever-bursting joy ne'er varies, 
 But to double — so shall you ! 
 
80 EVA. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " I fecks jou will," quo' Tbatchet. " True ! 
 And if you best have a mate 
 Like me," and he kissed young Daisy-dew, 
 Who dealt him a box on the pate. 
 
 Lxvn. 
 
 Eva was listless of all earth, 
 
 Enchanting her promised dower ; 
 
 And her eyes are tinct with elfin dew, 
 To give her sight elfin power. 
 
 Lxvin. 
 
 And soon with the rites of Elfin Land 
 They shrive the maid from clay ; 
 
 And she, in the joy of the fairy band, 
 Is not less gay than they. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 She revels along as though she ne'er 
 
 Was born out o' the blue. 
 And floats athrough the loving air. 
 
 Scarce knowing she passes through. 
 
EVA. 81 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And joyously down the azure space, 
 They sweep like a stellar shower, 
 
 To meet the Queen at the gathering place, 
 By the Brocken o'er Alyagower. 
 
EVA. 83 
 
 PART FIFTH. 
 
 Young Kevin went to tlie ruin gray. 
 
 Quilted in ivy green, 
 Where yestere'en his love did pray, 
 
 And Eva's had plighted been. 
 
 n. 
 
 The young oak branches sighing, bow'd, 
 The weird yew wept aghast, , 
 
 And the ivy leaves, a clustering crowd. 
 Shivered as he passed. 
 
 in. 
 
 The sad old ruin lonely stood, 
 
 A solemn sight to see, 
 Like one who suffering for his love, 
 
 Longs from the earth to flee. 
 
84 EVA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet there it stood mid the solitude, 
 And the wave-like graves so dim, 
 
 A beacon rock midst the ghostlj flock, 
 Beloved imto him. 
 
 V. 
 
 For to him it brought thoughts of love, 
 
 Of purpose high and pure : 
 He thankful felt to heaven above, 
 
 And on the earth secure. 
 
 VL 
 
 Beneath its calm and holy shade, 
 His kindling heart had burned. 
 
 And blazed, and spread, until the maid 
 Its every glow returned. 
 
 vn. 
 
 And who, though frosted o'er by Time, 
 
 Or varied fortune, can 
 Forget the place, where woman's grace 
 
 First made him feel a man. 
 
EVA. 85 
 
 VIII. 
 
 What heart that does not hold the scene, 
 
 As heaven's foretaste here ; 
 The purest, best, that eyes caressed ! 
 
 Beyond all others, dear ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 God pity him whose peevish fate. 
 Or thoughtless, callous ways. 
 
 Cannot with such remembrance mate 
 Sweet comfort, bliss, and praise. 
 
 And can we wonder Kevin thrilled 
 With feelings strangely new. 
 
 Where Eva's yearning bounty filled 
 The hopes that burned him through. 
 
 xi. 
 
 The echoes of her blessed voice 
 In spreading sounds still seethed 
 
 Around the spot, and the youth's heart caught 
 So tightly, he scarce breathed : 
 
86 EVA. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Lest with the breathing hcj might fail 
 
 To catch each fancied tone, 
 That bade him a life-pathway hew, 
 Wide and bright enough for two, 
 JN^or henceforth be alone. 
 
 xni. 
 
 The scene, the sounds, the hopes did span 
 
 The youth ; till past control 
 Their mingling pleasures over-ran, 
 
 The chalice of his soul ; 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And burst forth into frenzied speech 
 Which he could not suppress : 
 
 But what are words to teach, or reach 
 The wants of happiness ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Ah, happy me ! O chosen one, 
 Thy fasting eyes prepare. 
 To feast their hungry glances on 
 Thy life-absorbing fair ! 
 
EVA. 87 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Ah, liappy me ! O proudest one ! 
 Eestrain thy throbbing side : 
 It swells amain with radiant pain 
 Till comes thy radiant bride." 
 
 xvn. 
 
 Ah, well-a-daj, and wo is me, 
 That hath this tale to tell : 
 
 Would that the elves had left me free 
 To break the fairy spell. 
 
 xvrn. 
 
 The while young Kevin Dhu devoured 
 
 His brain with hopeful bliss ; 
 The gloaming fled, by night o'erj)owered, 
 And the long grass on the dim graves cowered 
 
 Beneath the dew's cold kiss. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A shaking off love's lethargy, 
 That captive held each Hmb, 
 
 The doubts and tears, of passion's fears, 
 In a torrent burst o'er him. 
 
88 EVA. 
 
 XX. 
 
 He wandered up, lie wandered down, 
 
 He counted every tomb ; 
 They seemed with a ghoulish pith 
 
 But mimicking his doom. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Which way he turned — each tomb he read, 
 
 Held nothing to his eye. 
 Save these huge hopeless words of dread — 
 
 " Sacred to Memory." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 With startling apathy he took. 
 His eyes from death and clay, 
 
 And up into the heavens did look, 
 For some heart-easing ray. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 But as to chill his fibres through. 
 And warn his aching sight, 
 
 A black cloud, like a hand, came o'er 
 And hid the eye of night. 
 
EVA. 89 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The wearj, sad, suggestive tombs, 
 The black and dreary cloud. 
 
 The trees like beck'ning funeral plumes, 
 The ivy like a shroud ; 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Dodder's cloud-affrighted waves, 
 
 A moaning, stealthily past. 
 The winds that wail down the crooked vale 
 
 And biarst into gusts at last : 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Conveyed to him a weakening sense 
 
 Of desolation near, 
 Till he scarce could gasp 'neath the icy grasp 
 
 That crushed his heart with fear. 
 
 XX vn. 
 
 He thought he heard upon the air, 
 
 Around the ruin dim, 
 Strange voices mutter as in prayer, 
 
 And say — " God pity him." 
 
90 EVA. 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 His ejes were fraught with helplc'Ss power, 
 
 Into the dark saw he ; 
 And he read as plain as at noonday hour — 
 
 " Sacred to Memory." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The Cross, as oae with outstretched arms 
 And head to heaven, did seem 
 
 To tell him that 'gainst charms and harms 
 Of earth it was supreme. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Upon the youth's bleak ashen heart 
 This holy thought did move 
 
 The embers, till there leapt apart 
 The flames of Faith and Love. 
 
 The dark distempers of his brain 
 Before his Faith rushed out — 
 " Oh, dearest love, she'll come again. 
 Why — why should I e'er doubt." 
 
EVA. 91 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 " To-morrow I will clasp my fair 
 More bright than mountain fay !" 
 The sky became more overcast, 
 He shivering Saint Anne's Well past, 
 The winds grew wild, more black the sky, 
 And the shaggy trees, as he went by. 
 In mournful dirges called him back ; 
 But he held on his lonely track, 
 Sighing, saying, '' Fairest fair, 
 More bright than mountain fay !" 
 And he took himself, though loth to part. 
 From the spot so dear to his hopes and heart. 
 And homeward bent his way. 
 
 xxxm. 
 Days, and weeks, and months, and years, 
 
 Passed over, and the youth 
 Still paced the place of love and tears. 
 
 Where he had pledged his troth. 
 
 xxxrv. 
 He there might pace till Judgment-day, 
 
 Pace he might for ever, 
 For her he sought in the ruin gray, 
 
 Again on earth stood never. 
 
92 EVA. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Beneath the Cross in that ruin gray, 
 The tombs right fronting where 
 
 His Eva sat, his manhood's day 
 Passed, talking to the air. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And oft he played his harp and sung 
 The rhymes he used to sing, 
 
 And oft her name was on his tongue 
 In senseless wandering. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And when at deep sun-set he played 
 
 Some plaintive air she loved, 
 He thought the rocks and woods betrayed 
 
 A feeling, and were moved. 
 
 xxxvni. 
 
 The hills seemed leaving the dreary posts 
 
 They had sentinelled for ages. 
 And the ravines aroused their minstrel hosts 
 
 To march with their chiefs and sages. 
 
EVA. 93 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 To liim the vales more wide did gape, 
 Tlie Dodder dull had grown, 
 
 All things seemed longing to escape 
 From him, save the Cross alone. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And Kevin at its base grown old, 
 A life of calm wo passed, 
 
 To it he clung, his silent, strong, 
 And true friend to the last. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Of years threescore, and more, liad fled 
 Since he with jov nigh dumb, 
 
 Went forth to meet his Eva sweet 
 And still, he thinks, she'll come. 
 
 XLII 
 
 It is a glorious close of day : 
 In light and shade the rills 
 
 Gleam fondly in the ruddy ray, 
 That nears the western hills. 
 
94 EVA. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 In smiles of light, tlie heath, the rocks, 
 Slantwise the sun-heam kissed. 
 
 And rested on old Kevin's locks 
 Of tangled silver mist. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Anticipating twilight's frown, 
 It came hy Mercy led, 
 
 And wove a siipra-mortal crown 
 Around old Kevin's head. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 His spectral fingers o'er the strings 
 
 In trembling labor went ; 
 The minstrel and the minstrel's wings 
 
 Of song, are nearly spent. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Beneath the friendly Cross his soul's 
 Dear cause he whisp'ring pour'd ; 
 
 But sighs like his are organ rolls 
 To the ear of Mercy's Lord ! 
 
EVA. 95 
 
 xLvn. 
 
 As one who yearns to live alwaj, 
 Eastward he turned his ejes, 
 
 With hopes to see from the night of clay 
 Eternal dawn arise ! 
 
 XLvm. 
 
 His night fell on him as he gazed, 
 
 Ere the sun had wholly fled, 
 And the sun-crown shone — Oh, God be praised ! 
 
 O'er the lover- minstrel — dead. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 On the spot where he love's passion di»ank, 
 
 On the gray and wiry moss, 
 And leaning on his harp, he sank 
 
 In the shadow of the Cross. 
 
NOTES, 
 
 1. "Delightful Glan-nis-mole." 
 
 — Part I., verse xvi., p. 11. 
 Glan-nis-inole, or the Vale of Thrushes, a peculiarly wild, ro- 
 mantic, and picturesque valley in the Dublin mountains. Kippure, 
 the highest of this range, lifts its brown head over all the neigh- 
 boring hills, at the remote end of the valley. On ifc the river 
 Dodder takes its rise from three springs, which join a short way 
 down, and thence united, springs into the vale, and commences its 
 wild and devious course. The writer tracked the river to its 
 source, and explored the surrounding hills and glens twenty 
 years ago. The 
 
 " Ivy-quilted scanty ruin" 
 
 (stanza xxiv.) then standing, was the remains of a primitive 
 Christian church, on the right bank of the Dodder. On the op- 
 posite bank the rugged liills and table-lands of Alyagower, Kil- 
 tipper, Ball}Tiianock, and the yet more wild Castlekelly, are 
 variously prominent. The " Witched Cornaun," one of the 
 Dublin range, better known as the old hill of Rollinstown, and 
 at present called Montpelier, lies to the northeast of Kippure 
 As suggested by the name, Glan-nis-mole was famous for thrushes, 
 and has been distinguished as the scene of some poems attributed 
 to Ossian. The title of one of these is, " The Lay of the Tall 
 \Voman from beyond the Sea, or the Hunt of Glan-nis-mole." 
 
 9 
 
98 NOTES. 
 
 2. " The sunbeam is shed, through a rose-leaf, red 
 On a neighboring ceanavaun." 
 
 — Part I., verse xxxiv., p. lo. 
 The ceanavaun, a wild plant, the top of which bears a sub- 
 stance somewhat resembling cotton, and as white as snow. 
 
 3. " These crosses, like great note-marks, stand 
 * * « * * 
 
 Referring us to God." 
 
 This metaphor was suggested by J. [De Jean] Eraser's lines — 
 
 "Tlie stars are asterisks in Ileuveii, 
 Keferrij)g us to God." 
 
 4. " His love was fierce as St. Kevin's hate." 
 
 —Part I., p. 22. 
 The legend of the persistent passion of the fair Kathleen for 
 St. Kevin, and liis equally persistent abhorrence of her attention, 
 even to hurling the lovely votaress into the waters of Glenda- 
 lough, will be remembered by readers of Moore's Melody — " By 
 that Lake whose gloomy shore," and Gerald Griffin's ballad, 
 " The Fate of Cathleen." 
 
 5. " His tongue seemed in his fingers." 
 
 — Part I., verse Ixxiii. 
 The expression of the hands, in either delight, hate, agony, or 
 scorn, is most powerful. In Raphael's cartoons, especially in 
 Paul Preaching at Athens, The Death of Ananias, The Sorcerer 
 Struck Blind, we can see the wonderful effect of the expression 
 of the fingers. They are all speaking, and in the words oi 
 Shakspeare one may exclaim — 
 
 " I see a voice !" 
 The subject is too suggestive to be more than indicated in a note 
 
NOTES. 
 
 99 
 
 6. *' the mystic Well, 
 
 Blessed by the good Saint Anne." 
 
 — ^Part II., verse x., p. 33. 
 
 J n a previous ballad by the writer " Saint Anne's Well" has 
 h>^Mi described. A brief extract will be sufficiently explanator-, 
 of the allusion in the text ; 
 
 " The waters are clear and as pure as the soul 
 Of the Saint that endowed it. Beneath a green knoll 
 It peacefully slumbers in hallowed repose, 
 And though always brimming, it never o'erflows ; 
 For a side-long trickle leads off the blest flow, 
 When its breast is too full, to the Dodder below ; 
 And skirts by the little church Kilmosantan, 
 Where the green ivy close the old ruin doth span, 
 And clings like a lover whose constancy wages 
 A war with old Time — growing fonder through ages I 
 On these lonely waters the Saint left a spell ; 
 Which faith have the people, and thence to the well 
 They fly for its draughts ; for the power Saint Anne 
 Bestowed on the spring was, that if mortal man 
 Was maimed, ill, but faith had, he'd surely get ease, 
 K he creep from the well to the church on his knees." 
 
 — " Faith and Fancy," pp. 69-70. 
 
 Its waters are deemed not less efficacious if they can be partaken 
 of by a purgatorial sufferer. 
 
 7. " Honey-tongue and Folks-glove." 
 
 — Part III., verse xvi., p. 4o. 
 
 Folks-glove, the fairy, or wee folk's glove. The flower c/ma 
 monly called fox-glove. 
 
100 NOTES. 
 
 8. " And fairy seannacliies with beards 
 Of silver thistle-down." 
 
 — Part III. verse xxiii., p. 40. 
 
 Seannachie, an ancient historian or story-teller. 
 
 9 " And all ve that wraithe Glancree, 
 
 Or guard the lonely haunted Loughs." 
 
 — Part III., verse xxxiv., p. 50. 
 
 (tlancree, a wild and eminently romantic locality. The loughw 
 alluded to are the contiguous lakes, but which are known as 
 " Louirh Bray." There are two, the upper and lower. The latter 
 is the more picturesque. It is wild and solitary, situated up in 
 the mountains, and presents evidence warranting the belief that 
 it is the crater of an extinct volcano. The fairies have great 
 repute hereabouts 
 
A Handsome 12mo Volume, $1.00. 
 
 Second Edition of Savage's Poems. 
 
 FAITH AND FANCY, 
 
 BY JOHN SAYAGE, 
 
 AUTlIOli OF "SYBIL," A TRAGEDY. 
 
 Notices of the Press. 
 
 Mr. Savage betrays the workings of an ardent, poetical tempera- 
 ment. He ic always in earnest, often enthusiastic, and is never at a 
 lo.ss for language or imagery to express his feelings. ... He makes 
 a successful appeal to the lovo of nature aiul the love of country, 
 and kindles sympathy with his expression of manly and generous 
 sentiment.— iV'. F. Tribune. 
 
 Will add to Mr. Savage's reputation for brilliancy of imagination, 
 
 sweetness of fancy, and force of diction "To an Artist" is a 
 
 beautiful and solemn lyric, full of delicate and profound thought. 
 . . . The " Washington" is the grandest and most exhaustive poem 
 Tet devoted to the Father of his Country. — X. Y. Courier. 
 
 Vigorous, patriotic, rliythmical, and many of them are nuirked 
 with imaginative power. " Tiie Muster of the North" is a bold and 
 striking poem, — Continental Monthly. 
 
 There is one poem that, above all the rest, possesses a charm for 
 us— that for its merits alone should insure immortality to the name 
 of its author, and which we give in full, because it is intensely, en- 
 tirely, and truthfully Irish in sentiment and inspiration. It is 
 "Shane's Head," published many years since in the Citizen. There 
 is a peculiar power and pathos observable in all the Irish poetry of 
 this character, as all will remark who read such examples as the 
 "Lament for O'SuUivan Beare," the "Lament for Patrick Sars- 
 tield," and Davis's beautiful " Lament for Owen Koe O'Neil." All 
 the best features of these are to be found in "Shane's Head," while 
 9* 
 
102 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 in dramatic power and faithful portrayal of the stormiest gusts of 
 human passion — grief, despair, hate, and desire for revenge — it tran- 
 scends them all. — Irish American. 
 
 It does not contain a tithe of Mr. Savage's heart- utte rings in song, 
 but there is sufficient here to stamp him as a poet. He has that 
 eager abundance of expression, that rich affluence of language, that 
 passionate sv^^elling of thought, determined to find melodious utter- 
 ance, v^^hich, in union, make the poet. The grand lyric, " The 
 Starry Flag," and that other spirit-swelling ballad of '61, entitled 
 "The Muster of the North," which have found echoes in thousands 
 of quick bosoms, lead off this collection. There are several other 
 war lyrics, a magnificent Irish ballad ("Shane's Head"), and the 
 poem upon Washington's portrait, which, originally published in 
 Harper's Magazine^ obtained great praise at the time. The charac- 
 teristics of Mr. Savage's poems are earnestness, fire, melody, truth. 
 His is not a cold, phlegmatic nature, which can calmly set itself 
 down to the mere making of verses — it is impulsive, eager, produc- 
 tive, and will utter what it thinks. — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 Marked by a vein of tenderness and humane cliarity that speaks 
 well for the heart of the writer, and unites him at once in sympa- 
 thy with his reader. We quote an instance (A Battle Prayer) which 
 
 breathes of the Christian as well as the Soldier 
 
 The two strongest poems in the volume are " The Starry 
 
 Flag," and " The Muster of the North." The latter is a spirit-stir- 
 ring, earnest, and admirably descriptive poem. It is a ballad of '61, 
 and describes with wonderful vivacity and faithfulness, the " hurry," 
 the indignation, the wild enthusiastic rush to arms, which followed 
 the rebel firing upon. Fort Sumter. It is a poetical history of one 
 of the most exciting incidents in the most eventful period of the na- 
 tion's existence. — Watson's WeeTcly Art Journal. 
 
 " The Dead Year" is replete with poetic imagery ; " Snow on the 
 
 Ground" is an exquisite gem " At Niagara" is another poem 
 
 of strength and beauty. Mr. Savage's writings pftrtake of his spirit ; 
 he is an ardent lover of nature — the tiniest flower that blooms in the 
 forest, or the grandest and most impressive of her monuments, 
 alike inspire his poetic soul. He has a liberal nature, that blossoms 
 into all human generosities at the sight of the Master's handiwork. 
 Such natures make poets; they will be remembered, "growing 
 fonder through ages," long after the poet's dust has mingled with 
 its mother earth. — Troy Daily Times. 
 
 Eeplete with sentiment and pregnant with that sweet philosophy 
 which seems to pervade all John Savage's rhythmical productiona 
 —K Y. Dispatch. 
 
NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 103 
 
 Vigorous in conception, often strikingly original both in thought 
 and diction, and in versification varied, but always melodious. Mr. 
 Savage is indisputably a true poet. — N. Y. Atlas. 
 
 The author exhibits a signal imaginative and verbal power — em- 
 bodying the fancy in the most apposite diction " Flowers on 
 
 my Desk," "Mina," and "Dreaming by Moonlight," are perhaps 
 the three gems of the book, and invite a repeated and grateful study. 
 — New Orleans Times. 
 
 Mr. Savage inscribes his volume to the Hon. Charles P. Daly, in 
 commendatory and affectionate appreciation of that gentleman's 
 "generous efibrts in behalf of Letters, Science, Humanity, and Jus- 
 tice"— and in the dedication lets us into the secret, doubtless, of 
 the influences which inspire himself. He says that every person 
 who writes poetry makes his reader the confidant of his hopes, 
 woes, experiences, or sensations; for, he adds, "if he aspire at all 
 to transcribe or embody the feelings which evoke or prompt human 
 action, he cannot help writing largely from his own heart's blood, 
 and in the hues it has taken by contact with Men, Faith, and Na- 
 ture." This accounts for the subtle, sensitive, picturesque, and 
 passionate character of many of the principal pieces in the work. 
 They bear distinctive marks of being studious and philosophical 
 observations of life and landscape, of art, men, and books, guided 
 and illuminated by that insight which amounts almost to intuition, 
 and gives the poetical mind its power over lesser organizations. 
 
 The " Muster of the North" has been widely copied and quoted. 
 Taking it, not as an expression of political faith, but as an historical 
 photograph of what the Count De Gasparin calls the great uprising, 
 it has all the characteristics of the thrilling epoch. It throbs with 
 emotion and commotion from the first line to the last, and sweeps 
 you breathlessly along on its bounding measure. It is difficult to 
 make an extract from it, the atmosphere of concentrated action so 
 surrounds the whole. It is full of scenes for a Darley to illustrate 
 or an Eastman Johnson to paint. — Merchants'' Magazine. 
 
 John Savage's book of Poems, "Faith and Fancy," which is now 
 far advanced in the second edition, has met a most favorable recep- 
 tion from the leading press of Ireland. The Dublin Nation devotes 
 nearly a whole page to a review and many quotations. In the 
 course of the article the critic says : " Of Mr. Savage's powers as a 
 writer no one could doubt who had read the graphic pages of his 
 "98 and '48.' The breadth and freedom of those sketches, the 
 close perception of character, and the dramatic force of the whole, 
 gave promise for the author, which since then he has continued to 
 realize. His recent work, ' Sybil, a Tragedy,' we know only through 
 
104 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 the critiques of the American press, which give it high meed of 
 prai.se, and describe it as having proved a remarkable success on 
 the stage. The little volume now before us consists of a number of 
 poems contributed by the author to various American periodicals. 
 Some of them have long been flitting about, in an anonymous, va- 
 grant way, from journal to journal, brightening the ' Poet's Corners,' 
 where they lit, like those gay-colored birds that give a flower pro 
 tern, to every tree and shrub on which they rest; others, written 
 since the outbreak of the war, and glowing with the patriotic ex- 
 citement of the occasion, have received even a wider circulutinu." 
 The Nation, strange to say, is lukewarm on the Union side of the 
 American question, and thinks that however well Mr. Savage's Na- 
 tional American lyrics " may reflect the popular enthusiasm, how- 
 ever eifective they may be by the camp-fires or from the lips of re- 
 cruiting-sergeants," they are of less beauty than those other com- 
 positions, in which *' Ave get the more original ideas and the finer 
 expressions of a 'poet born, not made.'" "The War Songs," it 
 says, ''may be the more popular now in America — the others will 
 live longer in the literature of the country," Among the specimens 
 quoted are the " Kequiem for the Dead of the Irish Brigade," 
 ''Game Laws," which has also been translated in Germany with 
 honorable mention, "Breasting the World," some of the " Win- 
 ter Thoughts," "Niagara," in which, says the Nation, "there are 
 some fine thoughts, and such a measured march of rhythm and 
 gravity of expression as well befit the subject ;" " Mina, a pretty 
 sketch, touched easily and brilliantly," and the stormy emotional 
 ballad of " Shane's Head ;" the critic concluding with this sugges- 
 tive paragraph : 
 
 " The collection from which we have taken the foregoing pieces 
 is not a large one, but poetry is not to be measured by bulk. Mr. 
 Savage's writings show that he has preferred to be the author of a 
 few pieces, with his own thinking in them, ratiier than give to the 
 public a mass of common thoughts and common phrases, jumbled 
 into rhyme. His "Faith and Fancy" will find favor with all ad- 
 mirers of genuine poetry." 
 
 The Irisliman, of the same city, gives the book a hearty welcome, 
 and singles out "The Muster of the North," "God Preserve the 
 Union" — " a splendid poem, now heard by many a camp fire ;" " A 
 Battle Prayer" — " for its profound feeling and piety" (we gave it in 
 the Art Journal) ; " The God-cliild of July"—" a beautiful birth- 
 day ode;" "At Niagara" — "opening grandly and well sustained 
 throughout;" and "Shane's Head," which it thinks "too popular 
 to need quotation," for special mention. The Irishman is enthusi- 
 
NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 105 
 
 astically on the side of the Union as against the rebellion of the 
 South, and in these hearty words generalizes its appreciation of 
 Mr. Savaire's literary character : 
 
 " John Savage is already well known as an author. His ' Ninety- 
 Eight and Forty-Eight' obtained considerable popularity; while 
 his tragedy of Sybil acquired a degree of success that attracted the 
 eulogiums not only of American but of English journals. Indeed, 
 his genius seems chiefly adapted to dramatic writing, even more 
 than to the lighter class of poetic productions. Into the lyrics con- 
 tained in this volume the author has put his heart and soul, and 
 made them instinct with vehement life. Many of them have al- 
 ready become classical ; those, especially, which treat of the great 
 crisis now convulsing America, have obtained popularity extensive 
 as the poet's imagination. The poet sings the cause of liberty in 
 America with the same sacred fervor which inspired him in Ire- 
 land."— ^Fdfeo/i's Weekly Art Journal, July 23, 1864. 
 
In Press, Library Edition^ 
 
 SYBIL, 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS, 
 
 AS REPKE8ENTED AT 
 
 THE PRINCIPAL THEATRES OF THE UNITED STATES, BY AVONIA J0NE8, 
 MATILDA HERON, AND MRS. EMMA WALLESL 
 
 CRITICAL OPINIONS. 
 
 "This piece was originally produced at St Louis, with Miss Avonfa Jones as 
 the heroine, and successfully played by her for over sixty nights during that 
 season, in Louisville, Chicago, Cincinnati, Richmond. New Orleans, and tbtTother 
 principal cities in tlio South and West. Slie afterwards appeared in Ci».;fornia 
 and Australia, and was everywhere received in this character with enthusiasm. 
 Slie WIS almost invariably called before the curtain after the third, fourth, and 
 fifth acts of the play, and on one occasion the excited audience followed her to 
 her hotel, and would not disperse until she made her appearance on the bal- 
 cony." — nome Journal. 
 
 "The play is well written — the language good, the dialogue easy, and the 
 
 situations effective It is of that domestic kind vliich is 
 
 always popular, and is one of the best American productions we have seen." — 
 George D. Pkkntice, Louisville Journal. 
 
 "The play of Sybil is one of no ordinary merit. With the excepti?'; of the 
 introductory act, which seems to us to be tedious, and not suitably preparatory 
 for the thrilling drama which follows, it is a tragedy which ranks with the im- 
 mortal works of the best writers for the stage. There is nothing in the plays of 
 Shakspere more beautiful and affecting than the scene in which S;^bi','t&ks an 
 oath tor the destruction of her seducer, and her lover kneels by her side, and 
 looks to lieaven and takes the terrible oath." — Louisville Courier. 
 
 "The story is of well-sustained interest throughout, and the plot well han- 
 dled by the dramatist. The three last acts will well compare with any dramatic 
 product on the modern stage " — Richmond Enquirer. 
 
 "Mr. John Savage's play, 'Sybil,' was produced at the St. Charles last night 
 before a large auditory, from whom it received a triumphant reception. As an 
 acting drama it has points of effect which will keep it upon the stase when the 
 actress for whom it was written shall walk the boards no more. Though often 
 trembling on the very brink of the blood and thunder abyss of the melodrama, 
 it is constantly rescued and assured to respectability by the purity and loftiness 
 of expression, and by the unexpected denouements of the minor complications. 
 The staple of the plot is of a nature so delicate as to require the most gingerly 
 handling, and we confess that we were surprised and pleased by the skilful 
 manner in which the dramatist has managed it. The minor scenes are dis- 
 creetly made only so long as is necessary to the continuity of the plot. The 
 part oi Sybil is a study, for it is the m.o?,tnatural unnatural character that we 
 can recall in the range of the drama. As to its performance, we never saw 
 Miss Jones in any other part approach to the tragic power she displayed in 
 this." — New Orleans Daily Crescent. 
 
CRITICAL OPINIONS. 
 
 "This production, having created quite a sensation in the several cities in 
 wliicli it, lias been put ni)()n the stage, excited more curious interest among 
 our playgoers tlian any otiier dramatic piece that lias yet appeared npon the 
 bills As a i)roduction of high literary merit tiiere is no ques- 
 tion of its claims. It is. perhaps, unequalled among the more modern pro- 
 ductions." — 3Iemphifi Avalanche. 
 
 " The genius of the author rises in grandeur with tiie stirring incidents of the 
 scenes that rapidly succeed each other, from the commencement of the third 
 act to the close of this thrilling drama of domestic life." — San Francisco 
 National. 
 
 "The Play of 'Sybil' is beautifully written. Many of its passages are poetic 
 gems. It is replete with elegant diction, exquisite pathos, and soul-ennobling 
 thoughts and expressions. It is almost too brilliant."— <S'rtcraTO^7i^o Dern. 
 Standard. 
 
 " Mr. John Savage's drama of ' Sybil,' which has acquired an historic interest, 
 not only from the tvasic episode on which it is founded, but from the circum- 
 stances attending its first production at the Louisville tlieatre, was brought out 
 at this establishment (Winter Garden) last night. With such materials as 
 Mr. Savage had to deal with, he could not well write a piece that would fail 
 in interest; but there was for this very reason a fear that he would fall into 
 the error to which all young playwriirlits are exposed in dealing with such a 
 subject — that of investing it with a melodramatic character. 
 
 "That danger he has happily avoided. From the commencement to the 
 close the effects are letritimate and owe but little to dramatic artifices. The 
 language. thoUirh what might be expected from an accompli.-^hed writer, is 
 never stilted or high flown, as first efi'orts of this sort are liatde to be. The in- 
 tensely absorbing interest of the main incidents might, it is true, have been 
 relieved by a few broader dashes of humor in the characters of the inferior per- 
 sonages of the piece, and a little more local color might have been given to 
 it; but, perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Savage exercised a wise discretion in con- 
 fining himself ti) eflfects of which he was sure, and which, as the result proved, 
 were amply sufficient for success. 
 
 "There is much to criticise, much to find fault with, in Miss Heron's im- 
 personation of the cliaracter; but, with all thi-s, it must be admitted that it 
 
 was a remarkable performance In the interview Avith 
 
 she was really fine, reminding one at times, in the concentration of 
 
 iiatred and loathing which she exhibited towards him, of Rachel." — New York 
 Herald. 
 
 " Last evening, she — Matilda Heron as S7/l>il—\vas in her highest form, and 
 in the surge of sentiinent and pomp of passion which swells around the char- 
 acter, she surpassed herself. " — New York Daily Times. 
 
 " Grand as she undoubtedly is in Camillp. in the Syiil she quite eclipsed 
 that character. The author has surrounded her with every variety of tender 
 passion, revenge, and remorse, and each aspect of these varied feelings was 
 
 rendered by Miss Heron in a manner not artistic, but life-like 
 
 The play may be set down as a great success." — New York Express. 
 
 " Upon these incidents, fresh and terrible as they are. Mr. John Savage 
 has constructed a tragic drama. The author, albeit unused to the boards, has 
 not fallen into turgidity. He has maintained a rare moderation of tone, look 
 ing to the fierce fMCts to sustain him. All that he portrays, and more, act 
 iially happened. When the villain meets the heroine in the play, she re- 
 lents from her determination, and, while spurning his audacious advances 
 begs him to fly, to escape her husband's wrath were he to find ouL his real 
 name and character. This, as we have shown, is not in the real story. But it 
 improves and varies the characteristics of the jeiUMJrfgure: portrays feminine 
 tenderness, which is tli^llJireiiAt of allUoH^H or off the stage." — New 
 York Tribune. g %/9 " 
 
 " She— Mrs. Waller a,^SyW.^yf&?, honored by being called before the cur- 
 ain four times." — P?iiladelphia Evening Bulletin. 
 

 
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