ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
 
 From painting by Emma G. Richards, 
 National Portrait Gallery 
 
The Complete 
 
 Poetical Works 
 
 OF 
 
 $toelatoe ®nnt Procter 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 By 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 New York 
 
 Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 
 
 Publishers 
 
THE LIBRARY OF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Copies Receives 
 
 JUL 25 1903 
 
 Hngnt Entiy 
 
 copy e. 
 
 Til 
 
 Copyright, igoj, by 
 Thomas T. Crowell & Co. 
 
THE 
 
 COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 * 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
©erjicaterj 
 
 TO 
 
 MATILDA M. HAYS 
 
 " Our tokens of love are for the most part barbarous. Cold and lifeless, 
 because they do not represent our life. The only gift is a portion of thy- 
 self. Therefore let the farmer give his corn ; the miner, a gem ; the 
 sailor, coral and shells ; the painter, his picture ; and the poet, his poem." 
 — Emerson's Essays. 
 
 A. A. P. 
 
 Mat, 1868. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction xi 
 
 LEGENDS AND LYRICS. A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 First Series. 
 
 The Angel's Stort 1 
 
 Echoes 7 
 
 A False Genius 8 
 
 My Picture 9 
 
 Judge not 11 
 
 Friend Sorrow 12 
 
 One by One 13 
 
 True Honors 14 
 
 A Woman's Question 22 
 
 The Three Rulers 23 
 
 A Dead Past 24 
 
 A Doubting Heart 25 
 
 A Student 26 
 
 A Knight-errant 27 
 
 Linger, O Gentle Time 29 
 
 Homeward Bound 30 
 
 Life and Death 37 
 
 Now 38 
 
 Cleansing Fires ....... 39 
 
 The Voice of the Wind 40 
 
 Treasures 42 
 
 Shining Stars 43 
 
 Waiting 44 
 
 The Cradle-song of the Poor .... 46 
 
 Be Strong 47 
 
 v 
 
Vl CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 God's Gifts 48 
 
 A Tomb in Ghent 50 
 
 The Angel of Death 59 
 
 A Dream 60 
 
 The Present 61 
 
 Changes 62 
 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray 63 
 
 A Lament for the Summer 64 
 
 The Unknown Grave 65 
 
 Give me thy Heart 66 
 
 The Wayside Inn 68 
 
 Voices of the Past 74 
 
 The Dark Side 75 
 
 A First Sorrow 77 
 
 Murmurs 78 
 
 Give 79 
 
 My Journal 80 
 
 A Chain 83 
 
 The Pilgrims 84 
 
 Incompleteness 85 
 
 A Legend of Bregenz 86 
 
 A Farewell 92 
 
 Sowing and Reaping 93 
 
 The Storm 94 
 
 Words .95 
 
 A Love Token 97 
 
 A Tryst with Death ...... 97 
 
 Fidelis 99 
 
 A Shadow 100 
 
 The Sailor Boy 101 
 
 A Crown of Sorrow 114 
 
 The Lesson of the War 114 
 
 The Two Spirits 116 
 
 A Little Longer 120 
 
 Grief 122 
 
 The Triumph of Time 125 
 
 A Parting . . 126 
 
 The Golden Gate 128 
 
 Phantoms 129 
 
CONTENTS. vii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thankfulness 130 
 
 Home-sickness 131 
 
 Wishes 133 
 
 The Peace of God 135 
 
 Life in Death and Death in Life .... 136 
 
 Recollections 139 
 
 Illusion 141 
 
 A Vision 142 
 
 Pictures in the Fire 144 
 
 The Settlers 146 
 
 Hush! 148 
 
 Hours 149 
 
 The Two Interpreters 151 
 
 Comfort 153 
 
 Home at Last 155 
 
 Unexpressed . . . . . . . .156 
 
 Because 157 
 
 Rest at Evening 158 
 
 A Retrospect ........ 159 
 
 True or False 161 
 
 Golden Words 163 
 
 LEGENDS AND LYRICS. A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 Second Series. 
 
 A Legend of Provence 169 
 
 Envy 179 
 
 Over the Mountain 180 
 
 Beyond 181 
 
 A Warning 183 
 
 Maximus 185 
 
 Optimus 186 
 
 A Lost Chord 188 
 
 Too Late 189 
 
 The Reqdital 191 
 
 Returned — "Missing" . . . . . 193 
 
 In the Wood 195 
 
 Two Worlds 195 
 
 A New Mother 108 
 
Vlii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Give Place 206 
 
 My Will 207 
 
 King and Slave 209 
 
 A Chant 210 
 
 Dream-life 212 
 
 Rest 213 
 
 The Tyrant and the Captive 215 
 
 The Carver's Lesson 217 
 
 Three Roses 218 
 
 My Picture Gallery 219 
 
 Sent to Heaven 222 
 
 Never Again 224 
 
 Listening Angels 225 
 
 Golden Days 226 
 
 Philip and Mildred ....... 228 
 
 Borrowed Thoughts. 
 
 I. From "Lavater" 240 
 
 II. From "Phantastes" 240 
 
 III. From "Lost Alice" 241 
 
 IV. From * * * 242 
 
 Light and Shade 243 
 
 A Changeling ........ 246 
 
 Discouraged 247 
 
 If thou couldst know 249 
 
 The Warrior to his Dead Bride .... 250 
 
 A Letter ......... 251 
 
 A Comforter 253 
 
 Unseen 256 
 
 A Remembrance of Autumn 257 
 
 Three Evenings in a Life 258 
 
 The Wind 272 
 
 Expectation ........ 273 
 
 An Ideal 274 
 
 Our Dead ......... 276 
 
 A Woman's Answer 277 
 
 The Story of the Faithful Soul .... 279 
 
 A Contrast 282 
 
 The Bride's Dream 285 
 
 The Angel's Bidding ...... 287 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PACE 
 
 Spring 289 
 
 Evening Hymn 290 
 
 The Inner Chamber 292 
 
 Hearts 293 
 
 Two Loves 295 
 
 A Woman's Last Word 297 
 
 Past and Present ....... 208 
 
 For the Future 2', <J 
 
 A CHAPLET OF VERSES. 
 
 Introduction 303 
 
 The Army of the Lord 309 
 
 The Star of the Sea 313 
 
 The Sacred Heart 315 
 
 The Names of Our Lady 318 
 
 A Chaplet of Flowers 320 
 
 Kyrie Eleison 323 
 
 The Annunciation ....... 325 
 
 An Appeal 327 
 
 The Jubilee of 1850 330 
 
 Christmas Flowers . . . . . . .331 
 
 A Desire 333 
 
 Our Daily Bread 335 
 
 Threefold ......... 337 
 
 Confido et Conquiesco 338 
 
 Ora pro Me 339 
 
 The Church in 1849 340 
 
 Fishers of Men 340 
 
 The Old Year's Blessing . . . . 342 
 
 Evening Chant 344 
 
 A Christmas Carol 345 
 
 Our Titles 347 
 
 Ministering Angels ....... 348 
 
 The Shrines of Mary 349 
 
 The Homeless Poor 355 
 
 Milly's Expiation 3G1 
 
 A Castle in the Am 375 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem 377 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Legend 378 
 
 Birthday Gifts 379 
 
 A Beggar 384 
 
 Links with Heaven 386 
 
 Homeless 387 
 
 Index op First Lines ...... 389 
 
 Index of Titles 395 
 
AN INTRODUCTION. 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1853, I observed, as 
 conductor of the weekly journal, Household Words, 
 a short poem among the proffered contributions, 
 very different, as I thought, from the shoal of 
 verses perpetually setting through the office of such 
 a periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its 
 authoress was quite unknown to me. She was one 
 Miss Mary Berwick, whom I had never heard of ; 
 and she was to be addressed by letter, if addressed 
 at all, at a circulating library in the western dis- 
 trict of London. Through this channel, Miss Ber- 
 wick was informed that her poem was accepted, 
 and was invited to send another. She complied, 
 and became a regular and frequent contributor. 
 Many letters passed between the journal and Miss 
 Berwick, but Miss Berwick herself was never seen. 
 
 How we came gradually to establish, at the office 
 of Household Words, that we knew all about Miss 
 Berwick, I have never discovered. But, we settled 
 somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was 
 governess in a family; that she went to Italy in 
 that capacity, and returned ; and that she had long 
 been in the same family. We really knew nothing 
 whatever of her, except that she was remarkably 
 business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and reliable : so 
 3d 
 
Xll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For 
 myself, my mother was not a more real personage 
 to me than Miss Berwick the governess became. 
 
 This went on until December, 1854, when the 
 Christmas number, entitled " The Seven Poor 
 Travellers," was sent to press. Happening to be 
 going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, 
 distinguished in literature as Barky Cornwall, I 
 took with me an early proof of that number, and 
 remarked, as I laid it on the drawing-room table, 
 that it contained a very pretty poem, written by a 
 certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the 
 disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the 
 mother of its writer, in its writer's presence ; that 
 I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss 
 Berwick ; and that the name had been assumed by 
 Barry Cornwall's eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide 
 Anne Procter. 
 
 The anecdote I have here noted down, besides 
 serving to explain why the parents of the late Miss 
 Procter have looked to me for these poor words 
 of remembrance of their lamented child, strikingly 
 illustrates the honesty, independence, and quiet dig- 
 nity of the lady's character. I had known her when 
 she was very young ; I had been honored with her 
 father's friendship when I was myself a young 
 aspirant; and she had said at home, "If I send 
 him, in my own name, verses that he does not hon- 
 estly like, either it will be very painful to him to 
 return them, or he will print them for papa's sake, 
 and not for their own. So I have made up my 
 mind to take my chance fairly with the unknown 
 volunteers." 
 
 Perhaps it requires an editor's experience of the 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 profoundly unreasonable grounds on which he is 
 often urged to accept unsuitable articles — such as 
 having been to school with the writer's husband's 
 brother-in-law, or having lent an alpenstock in 
 Switzerland to the writer's wife's nephew, when 
 that interesting stranger had broken his own — 
 fully to appreciate the delicacy and the self-respect 
 of this resolution. 
 
 Some verses by Miss Procter had been published 
 in the "Book of Beauty" ten years before she 
 became Miss Berwick. With the exception of two 
 poems in the Cornhill Magazine, two in Good Words, 
 and others in a little book called "A Chaplet of 
 Verses " (issued in 1862 for the benefit of a Night 
 Befuge), her published writings first appeared in 
 Household Words, or All the Tear Round. The 
 present edition contains the whole of her Legends 
 and Lyrics, and originates in the great favor with 
 which they have been received by the public. 
 
 Miss Procter was born in Bedford Square, Lon- 
 don, on the 30th of October, 1825. Her love of 
 poetry was conspicuous at so early an age that I 
 have before me a tiny album, made of small note- 
 paper, into which her favorite passages were copied 
 for her by her mother's hand before she herself 
 could write. It looks as if she had carried it about 
 as another little girl might have carried a doll. 
 She soon displayed a remarkable memory, and 
 great quickness of apprehension. When she was 
 quite a young child, she learnt with facility several 
 of the problems of Euclid. As she grew older she 
 acquired the French, Italian, and German languages, 
 became a clever piano-forte player, and showed a 
 true taste and sentiment in drawing. But, as soon 
 
XIV INTE OB UCTION. 
 
 as she had completely vanquished the difficulties 
 of any one branch of study, it was her way to lose 
 interest in it and pass to another. While her men- 
 tal resources were being trained, it was not at all 
 suspected in her family that she had any gift of 
 authorship, or any ambition to become a writer. 
 Her father had no idea of her having ever at- 
 tempted to turn a rhyme until her first little poem 
 saw the light in print. 
 
 When she attained to womanhood, she had read 
 an extraordinary number of books, and throughout 
 her life she was always largely adding to the num- 
 ber. In 1853 she went to Turin and its neighbor- 
 hood on a visit to her aunt, a Roman Catholic lady. 
 As Miss Procter had herself professed the Roman 
 Catholic faith two years before, she entered with 
 the greater ardor on the study of the Piedmontese 
 dialect and the observation of the habits and man- 
 ners of the peasantry. In the former she soon 
 became a proficient. On the latter head I extract 
 from her familiar letters, written home to England 
 at the time, two pleasant pieces of description. 
 
 A BETROTHAL. 
 
 " We have been to a ball, of which I must give 
 you a description. Last Tuesday we had just done 
 dinner at about seven, and stepped out into the 
 balcony to look at the remains of the sunset behind 
 the mountains, when we heard very distinctly a 
 band of music, which rather excited my astonish- 
 ment, as a solitary organ is the utmost that toils 
 up here. I went out of the room for a few min- 
 utes, and, on my returning, Emily said, ' Oh ! that 
 
INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 band is playing at the farmer's near here. The 
 daughter is fiancee to-day, and they have a ball.' 
 I said, ' I wish I was going ! ' ' Well,' replied she, 
 'the farmer's wife did call to invite us.' 'Then 
 I shall certainly go,' I exclaimed. I applied to 
 Madame B., who said she would like it very much, 
 and we had better go, children and all. Some of 
 the servants were already gone. We rushed away 
 to put on some shawls, and put off any shred of 
 black we might have about us (as the people would 
 have been quite annoyed if we had appeared on 
 such an occasion with any black), and we started. 
 When we reached the farmer's, which is a stone's 
 throw above our house, we were received with great 
 enthusiasm ; the only drawback being that no one 
 spoke French, and we did not yet speak Piedmon- 
 tese. We were placed on a bench against the wall, 
 and the people went on dancing. The room was a 
 large white-washed kitchen (I suppose), with several 
 large pictures in black frames, and very smoky. I 
 distinguished the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 
 and the others appeared equally lively and appro- 
 priate subjects. Whether they were Old Masters 
 or not, and if so, by whom, I could not ascertain. 
 The band were seated opposite us. Five men, with 
 wind-instruments, part of the band of the National 
 Guard, to which the farmer's sons belong. They 
 played really admirably, and I began to be afraid 
 that some idea of our dignity would prevent my 
 getting a partner; so, by Madame B.'s advice, I 
 went up to the bride, and offered to dance with her. 
 Such a handsome young woman ! Like one of 
 Uwins's pictures. Very dark, with a quantity of 
 black hair, and on an immense scale. The chil- 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 dren were already dancing, as well as the maids. 
 After we came to an end of our dance, which was 
 what they call a Polka-Mazourka, I saw the bride 
 trying to screw up the courage of her fiance to ask 
 me to dance, which after a little hesitation he did. 
 And admirably he danced, as indeed they all did, 
 — in excellent time, and with a little more spirit 
 than one sees in a ball-room. In fact, they were 
 very like one's ordinary partners, except that they 
 wore earrings, and were in their shirt-sleeves, and 
 truth compels me to state that they decidedly smelt 
 of garlic. Some of them had been smoking, but 
 threw away their cigars when we came in. The 
 only thing that did not look cheerful was that the 
 room was only lighted by two or three oil-lamps, 
 and that there seemed to be no preparation for 
 refreshments. Madame B., seeing this, whispered 
 to her maid, who disengaged herself from her part- 
 ner and ran off to the house ; she and the kitchen- 
 maid presently returning with a large tray covered 
 with all kinds of cakes (of which we are great con- 
 sumers and always have a stock) and a large hamper 
 full of bottles of wine, with coffee and sugar. This 
 seemed all very acceptable. The fiancee was re- 
 quested to distribute the eatables, and a bucket of 
 water being produced to wash the glasses in, the 
 wine disappeared very quickly, — as fast as they 
 could open the bottles. But, elated I suppose by 
 this, the floor was sprinkled with water, and the 
 musicians played a Monferrino, which is a Piedmon- 
 tese dance. Madame B. danced with the farmer's 
 son, and Emily with another distinguished member 
 of the company. It was very fatiguing, — some- 
 thing like a Scotch reel. My partner was a little 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 man, like Perrot, and very proud of his dancing. 
 He cut in the air and twisted about until I was out 
 of breath, though ray attempts to imitate him were 
 feeble in the extreme. At last, after seven or eight 
 dances, I was obliged to sit down. We stayed till 
 nine, and I was so dead beat with the heat that I 
 could hardly crawl about the house, and in an 
 agony with the cramp, it is so long since I have 
 danced." 
 
 A MARRIAGE. 
 
 " The wedding of the farmer's daughter has taken 
 place. We had hoped it would have been in the 
 little chapel of our house, but it seems some special 
 permission was necessary, and they applied for it 
 too late. They all said, 'This is the Constitution. 
 There would have been no difficulty before ! ' the 
 lower classes making the poor Constitution the 
 scape-goat for everything they don't like. So, as 
 it was impossible for us to climb up to the church 
 where the wedding was to be, we contented our- 
 selves with seeing the procession pass. It was not 
 a very large one, for, it requiring some activity to 
 go up, all the old people remained at home. It is 
 not the etiquette for the bride's mother to go, and 
 no unmarried woman can go to a wedding, — I sup- 
 pose for fear of its making her discontented with 
 her own position. The procession stopped at our 
 door, for the bride to receive our congratulations. 
 She was dressed in a shot silk, with a yellow hand- 
 kerchief and rows of a large gold chain. In the 
 afternoon they sent to request us to go there. On 
 our arrival we found them dancing out of doors, 
 and a most melancholy affair it was. All the 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 bride's sisters were not to be recognized, they bad 
 cried so. The mother sat in the house and could 
 not appear. And the bride was sobbing so she 
 could hardly stand ! The most melancholy spec- 
 tacle of all, to my mind, was that the bridegroom 
 was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather affronted 
 at all the distress. We danced a Monferrino; I 
 with the bridegroom, and the bride crying the 
 whole time. The company did their utmost to 
 enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, 
 and at last they began a series of yells which 
 reminded me of a set of savages. But even this 
 delicate method of consolation failed, and the wish- 
 ing good-by began. It was altogether so melan- 
 choly an affair that Madame B. dropped a few 
 tears, and I was very near it, particularly when 
 the poor mother came out to see the last of her 
 daughter, who was finally dragged off between her 
 brother and uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. 
 As she lives quite near, makes an excellent match, 
 and is one of nine children, it really was a most 
 desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of dis- 
 tress. Albert was so discomfited by it, that he 
 forgot to kiss the bride as he had intended to do, 
 and therefore went to call upon her yesterday, and 
 found her very smiling in her new house, and sup- 
 plied the omission. The cook came home from the 
 wedding, declaring she was cured of any wish to 
 marry; but I would not recommend any man to 
 act upon that threat and make her an offer. In a 
 couple of days we had some rolls of the bride's 
 first baking, which they call Madonna's. The mu- 
 sicians, it seems, were in the same state as the 
 bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all 
 
INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 fell down in the mud. My wrath against the 
 bridegroom is somewhat calmed by finding that it 
 is considered bad luck if he does not get tipsy at 
 his wedding." 
 
 Those readers of Miss Procter's poems who 
 should suppose from their tone that her mind 
 was of a gloomy or despondent cast would be curi- 
 ously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, 
 and had a great delight in humor. Cheerfulness 
 was habitual with her, she was very ready at a 
 sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember 
 well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, 
 and sense of drollery. She was perfectly uncon- 
 strained and unaffected : as modestly silent about 
 her productions as she was generous with their 
 pecuniary results. She was a friend who inspired 
 the strongest attachments; she was a finely sym- 
 pathetic woman, with a great accordant heart and 
 a sterling noble nature. No claim can be set up 
 for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the 
 conventional poetical qualities. She never^by any 
 means held the opinion that she was among the 
 greatest of human beings ; she never suspected the 
 existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind 
 against her ; she never recognized in her best friends 
 her worst enemies ; she never cultivated the luxury 
 of being misunderstood and unappreciated; she 
 would far rather have died without seeing a line 
 of her composition in print, than that I should 
 have maundered about her here as "the Poet," or 
 " the Poetess." 
 
 With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere 
 child and as a woman fresh upon me, it is natural 
 
XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 that I should linger on my way to the close of this 
 brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as the 
 close came upon her, so must it come here. 
 
 Always impelled by an intense conviction that 
 her life must not be dreamed away, and that her 
 indulgence in her favorite pursuits must be bal- 
 anced by action in the real world around her, she 
 was indefatigable in her endeavors to do some 
 good. Naturally enthusiastic, and conscientiously 
 impressed with a deep sense of her Christian duty 
 to her neighbor, she devoted herself to a variety of 
 benevolent objects. Now, it was the visitation of 
 the sick that had possession of her; now, it was 
 the sheltering of the houseless; now, it was the 
 elementary teaching of the densely ignorant ; now, 
 it was the raising up of those who had wandered 
 and got trodden under foot ; now, it was the wider 
 employment of her own sex in the general business 
 of life ; now, it was all these things at once. Per- 
 fectly unselfish, swift to sympathize and eager to 
 relieve, she wrought at such designs with a flushed 
 earnestness that disregarded season, weather, time 
 of day or night, food, rest. Under such a hurry 
 of the spirits, and such incessant occupation, the 
 strongest constitution will commonly go down. 
 Hers, neither of the strongest nor the weakest, 
 yielded to the burden, and began to sink. 
 
 To have saved her life then, by taking action on 
 the warning that shone in her eyes and sounded 
 in her voice, would have been impossible without 
 changing her nature. As long as the power of 
 moving about in the old way was left to her, she 
 must exercise it, or be killed by the restraint. And 
 
INTB OD UCTION. XXI 
 
 so the time came when she could move about no 
 longer, and took to her bed. 
 
 All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet 
 patience of her natural disposition purified by the 
 resignation of her soul, she lay upon her bed through 
 the whole round of changes of the seasons. She 
 lay upon her bed through fifteen months. In all 
 that time her old cheerfulness never quitted her. 
 In all that time not an impatient or a querulous 
 minute can be remembered. 
 
 At length, at midnight on the 2d of February, 
 1864, she turned down a leaf of a little book she 
 was reading, and shut it up. 
 
 The ministering hand that had copied the verses 
 into the tiny album was soon around her neck, and 
 she quietly asked, as the clock was on the stroke 
 of one, " Do you think I am dying, mamma ? " 
 
 "I think you are very, very ill to-night, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift 
 me up ! " 
 
 Her sister entering as they raised her, she said, 
 " It has come at last ! " And with a bright and 
 happy smile looked upward, and departed. 
 
 Well had she written : — 
 
 Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, 
 Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, 
 
 Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, 
 Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes ? 
 
 Oh, what were life, if life were all ? Thine eyes 
 Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see 
 
 Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, 
 And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee. 
 
LEGENDS AND LYRICS. 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 — * — 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
LEGENDS AND LYRICS. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens 
 Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
 
 Glistening lamps throughout the City 
 Almost matched their gleaming light; 
 
 While the winter snow was lying, 
 
 And the winter winds were sighing, 
 Long ago, one Christmas night. 
 
 While, from every tower and steeple, 
 Pealing bells were sounding clear, 
 
 (Never with such tones of gladness, 
 Save when Christmas time is near,) 
 
 Many a one that night was merry 
 Who had toiled through all the year. 
 
 That night saw old wrongs forgiven, 
 Friends, long parted, reconciled ; 
 
 Voices all unused to laughter, 
 
 Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, 
 
 Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, 
 From their anxious thoughts beguiled. 
 
 Rich and poor felt love and blessing 
 
 From the gracious season fall ; 
 Joy and plenty in the cottage, 
 
 1 
 
THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Peace and feasting in the hall ; 
 And the voices of the children 
 Ringing clear above it all ! 
 
 Yet one house was dim and darkened; 
 
 Gloom, and sickness, and despair, 
 Dwelling in the gilded chambers, 
 
 Creeping up the marble stair, 
 Even stilled the voice of mourning, — 
 
 For a child lay dying there. 
 
 Silken curtains fell around him, 
 Velvet carpets hushed the tread, 
 
 Many costly toys were lying, 
 All unheeded, by his bed ; 
 
 And his tangled golden ringlets 
 Were on downy pillows spread. 
 
 The skill of that mighty City 
 
 To save one little life was vain, — 
 
 One little thread from being broken, 
 
 One fatal word from being spoken; 
 Nay, his very mother's pain, 
 
 And the mighty love within her, 
 Could not give him health again. 
 
 So she knelt there still beside him, 
 She alone with strength to smile, 
 
 Promising that he should suffer 
 No more in a little while, 
 
 Murmuring tender song and story 
 Weary hours to beguile. 
 
 Suddenly an unseen Presence 
 
 Checked those constant moaning cries, 
 Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, 
 
THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Kaised those blue and wondering eyes, 
 Fixed on some mysterious vision, 
 With a startled sweet surprise. 
 
 For a radiant angel hovered, 
 
 Smiling, o'er the little bed ; 
 White his raiment, from his shoulders 
 
 Snowy dove-like pinions spread, 
 And a starlike light was shining 
 
 In a Glory round his head. 
 
 While, with tender love, the angel, 
 
 Leaning o'er the little nest, 
 In his arms the sick child folding, 
 
 Laid him gently on his breast, 
 Sobs and wailings told the mother 
 
 That her darling was at rest. 
 
 So the angel, slowly rising, 
 
 Spread his wings, and through the air 
 Bore the child, and, while he held him 
 
 To his heart with loving care, 
 Placed a branch of crimson roses 
 
 Tenderly beside him there. 
 
 While the child, thus clinging, floated 
 Towards the mansions of the Blest, 
 
 Gazing from his shining guardian 
 To the flowers upon his breast, 
 
 Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
 On the little heavenly guest : 
 
 " Know, dear little one, that Heaven 
 Does no earthly thing disdain, 
 
 Man's poor joys find there an echo 
 Just as surely as his pain ; 
 
THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Love, on earth so feebly striving, 
 Lives divine in Heaven again ! 
 
 " Once in that great town below us, 
 
 In a poor and narrow street, 
 Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; 
 
 Gentle aid, or pity sweet, 
 Never in life's rugged pathway 
 
 Guided his poor tottering feet. 
 
 "All the striving anxious forethought 
 That should only come with age 
 
 Weighed upon his baby spirit, 
 
 Showed him soon life's sternest page ; 
 
 Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow 
 Was his only heritage. 
 
 "All too weak for childish pastimes, 
 
 Drearily the hours sped ; 
 On his hands so small and trembling 
 
 Leaning his poor aching head, 
 Or, through dark and painful hours, 
 
 Lying sleepless on his bed. 
 
 " Dreaming strange and longing fancies 
 
 Of cool forests far away ; 
 And of rosy, happy children, 
 
 Laughing merrily at play, 
 Coming home through green lanes, bearing 
 
 Trailing boughs of blooming May. 
 
 " Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven 
 Gleamed above that narrow street, 
 
 And the sultry air of summer 
 
 (That you call so warm and sweet) 
 
 Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling 
 In the crowded alley's heat. 
 
THE ANGEL S STORY. 
 
 " One bright day, with feeble footsteps 
 Slowly forth he tried to crawl, 
 
 Through the crowded city's pathways, 
 Till he reached a garden-wall, 
 
 Where 'in id princely halls and mansions 
 Stood the lordliest of all. 
 
 " There were trees with giant branches, 
 Velvet glades where shadows hide ; 
 
 There were sparkling fountains glancing, 
 Flowers, which in luxuriant pride 
 
 Even wafted breaths of perfume 
 To the child who stood outside. 
 
 " He against the gate of iron 
 Pressed his wan and wistful face, 
 
 Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure 
 At the glories of the place ; 
 
 Never had his brightest day-dream 
 Shown with half such wondrous grace. 
 
 " You were playing in that garden, 
 Throwing blossoms in the air, 
 
 Laughing when the petals floated 
 Downwards on your golden hair; 
 
 And the fond eyes watching o'er you, 
 
 And the splendor spread before you, 
 Told a House's Hope was there. 
 
 " When your servants, tired of seeing 
 Such a face of want and woe, 
 
 Turning to the ragged orphan, 
 Gave him coin, and bade him go, 
 
 Down his cheeks so thin and wasted 
 Bitter tears began to flow. 
 
THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 " But that look of childish sorrow 
 On your tender child-heart fell, 
 
 And you plucked the reddest roses 
 From the tree you loved so well ; 
 
 Passed them through the stern cold grating, 
 Gently bidding him ' Farewell ! ' 
 
 " Dazzled by the fragrant treasure 
 
 And the gentle voice he heard, 
 In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, 
 
 Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred; 
 In his hand he took the flowers, 
 
 In his heart the loving word. 
 
 " So he crept to his poor garret ; 
 
 Poor no more, but rich and bright, 
 For the holy dreams of childhood — 
 
 Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — 
 Floated round the orphan's pillow 
 
 Through the starry summer night. 
 
 " Day dawned, yet the visions lasted ; 
 
 All too weak to rise he lay ; 
 Did he dream that none spake harshly, — 
 
 All were strangely kind that day ? 
 Surely then his treasured roses 
 
 Must have charmed all ills away. 
 
 " And he smiled, though they were fading ; 
 
 One by one their leaves were shed ; 
 1 Such bright things could never perish, 
 
 They would bloom again/ he said. 
 When the next day's sun had risen 
 
 Child and flowers both were dead. 
 
ECHOES. 
 
 " Know, dear little one ! our Father 
 Will no gentle deed disdain : 
 
 Love on the cold earth beginning 
 Lives divine in Heaven again, 
 
 While the angel hearts that beat there 
 Still all tender thoughts retain." 
 
 So the angel ceased, and gently 
 O'er his little burden leant ; 
 
 While the child gazed from the shining, 
 Loving eyes that o'er him bent, 
 
 To the blooming roses by him, 
 
 Wondering what that mystery meant. 
 
 Thus the radiant angel answered, 
 And with tender meaning smiled: 
 
 " Ere your childlike, loving spirit, 
 Sin and the hard world defiled, 
 
 God has given me leave to seek you, — 
 I was once that little child ! " 
 
 In the churchyard of that city 
 
 Rose a tomb of marble rare, 
 Decked, as soon as Spring awakened, 
 
 With her buds and blossoms fair, — 
 And a humble grave beside it, — 
 
 No one knew who rested there. 
 
 ECHOES. 
 
 Still the angel stars are shining, 
 Still the rippling waters flow, 
 
 But the angel-voice is silent 
 That I heard so long ago. 
 Hark ! the echoes murmur low, 
 
 Long ago ! 
 
A FALSE GENIUS. 
 
 Still the wood is dim and lonely, 
 Still the plashing fountains play, 
 
 But the past and all its beauty, 
 Whither has it fled away ? 
 Hark ! the mournful echoes say, 
 
 Fled away ! 
 
 Still the bird of night complaineth, 
 (Now, indeed, her song is pain,) 
 
 Visions of my happy hours, 
 Do I call and call in vain ? 
 Hark ! the echoes cry again, 
 
 All in vain ! 
 
 Cease, echoes, mournful echoes ! 
 
 Once I loved your voices well ; 
 Now my heart is sick and weary — 
 
 Days of old, a long farewell ! 
 
 Hark ! the echoes sad and dreary 
 Cry farewell, farewell ! 
 
 A FALSE GENIUS. 
 
 I see a Spirit by thy side, 
 Purple-winged and eagle-eyed, 
 Looking like a heavenly guide. 
 
 Though he seem so bright and fair, 
 Ere thou trust his proffered care, 
 Pause a little, and beware ! 
 
 If he bid thee dwell apart, 
 Tending some ideal smart 
 In a sick and coward heart ; 
 
MY PICTURE. 
 
 In self-worship wrapped alone, 
 Dreaming thy poor griefs are grown 
 More than other men have known ; 
 
 Dwelling in some cloudy sphere, 
 Though God's work is waiting here, 
 And God deigneth to be near ; 
 
 If his torch's crimson glare 
 Show the evil everywhere, 
 Tainting all the wholesome air ; 
 
 While with strange distorted choice, 
 Still disdaining to rejoice, 
 Thou tcilt hear a wailing voice ; 
 
 If a simple, humble heart 
 Seem to thee a meaner part 
 Than thy noblest aim and art ; 
 
 If he bid thee bow before 
 Crowned Mind and nothing more, 
 The great idol men adore ; 
 
 And with starry veil enfold 
 Sin, the trailing serpent old, 
 Till his scales shine out like gold ; 
 
 Though his words seem true and wise, 
 Soul, I say to thee, Arise, 
 He is a Demon in disguise ! 
 
 MY PICTURE. 
 
 Stand this way — more near the window — 
 By my desk — you see the light 
 
 Falling on my picture better — 
 Thus I see it while I write ! 
 
10 MY PICTURE. 
 
 Who the head may be I know not, 
 
 But it has a student air ; 
 With a look half sad, half stately, 
 
 Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair. 
 
 Little care I who the painter, 
 How obscure a name he bore ; 
 
 Nor, when some have named Velasquez, 
 Did I value it the more. 
 
 As it is, I would not give it 
 
 For the rarest piece of art ; 
 It has dwelt with me, and listened 
 
 To the secrets of my heart. 
 
 Many a time, when to my garret, 
 
 Weary, I returned at night, 
 It has seemed to look a welcome 
 
 That has made my poor room bright. 
 
 Many a time, when ill and sleepless, 
 I have watched the quivering gleam 
 
 Of my lamp upon that picture, 
 Till it faded in my dream. 
 
 When dark days have come, and friendship 
 Worthless seemed, and life in vain, 
 
 That bright friendly smile has sent me 
 Boldly to my task again. 
 
 Sometimes when hard need has pressed me 
 To bow down where I despise, 
 
 I have read stern words of counsel 
 In those sad, reproachful eyes. 
 
JUDGE NOT. 11 
 
 Nothing that my brain imagined, 
 
 Or my weary hand has wrought, 
 But it watched the dim Idea 
 
 Spring forth into armed Thought. 
 
 It has smiled on my successes, 
 
 Kaised me when my hopes were low, 
 
 And by turns has looked upon me 
 With all the loving eyes I know. 
 
 Do you wonder that my picture 
 
 Has become so like a friend ? — 
 It has seen my life's beginnings, 
 
 It shall stay and cheer the end ! 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
 And of his heart thou canst not see ; 
 
 What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 
 In God's pure light may only be 
 
 A scar, brought from some well-won field, 
 
 Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. 
 
 The look, the air, that frets thy sight, 
 
 May be a token, that below 
 The soul has closed in deadly fight 
 
 With some infernal fiery foe, 
 Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, 
 And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise — 
 Maybe the angel's slackened hand 
 
 Has suffered it, that he may rise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things, 
 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings. 
 
12 FRIEND SORROW. 
 
 And judge none lost ; but wait and see, 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 
 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain 
 
 And love and glory that may raise 
 
 This soul to God in after days ! 
 
 FRIEND SORROW. 
 
 Do not cheat thy Heart and tell her, 
 
 " Grief will pass away, 
 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 
 And forget to-day." — 
 Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 
 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 Tell her that the lesson taught her 
 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 Cheat her not with the old comfort, 
 
 " Soon she will forget," — 
 Bitter truth, alas ! but matter 
 
 Rather for regret ; 
 Bid her not " Seek other pleasures, 
 
 Turn to other things " ; — 
 Rather nurse her caged sorrow 
 
 Till the captive sings. 
 
 Rather bid her go forth bravely, 
 
 And the stranger greet; 
 Not as foe, with spear and buckler, 
 
 But as dear friends meet : 
 Bid her with a strong clasp hold her, 
 
 By her dusky wings, 
 Listening for the murmured blessing 
 
 Sorrow always brings. 
 
ONE BY ONE. 13 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing, 
 One by one the moments fall ; 
 
 Some are coming, some are going ; 
 Do not strive to grasp them all. 
 
 One by one thy duties wait thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to each, 
 
 Let no future dreams elate thee, 
 
 Learn thou first what these can teach. 
 
 One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) 
 Joys are sent thee here below ; 
 
 Take them readily when given, 
 Beady too to let them go. 
 
 One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 
 
 Do not fear an armed band ; 
 One will fade as others greet thee ; 
 
 Shadows passing through the land. 
 
 Do not look at life's long sorrow ; 
 
 See how small each moment's pain, 
 God will help thee for to-morrow, 
 
 So each day begin again. 
 
 Every hour that fleets so slowly 
 
 Has its task to do or bear ; 
 Luminous the crown, and holy, 
 
 When each gem is set with care. 
 
 Do not linger with regretting, 
 Or for passing hours despond ; 
 
 Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
 Look too eagerly beyond. 
 
14 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's token, 
 Reaching heaven ; but one by one 
 
 Take them, lest the chain be broken 
 Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Is my darling tired already, 
 
 Tired of her day of play ? 
 Draw your little stool beside me, 
 
 Smooth this tangled hair away. 
 Can she put the logs together, 
 
 Till they make a cheerful blaze ? 
 Shall her blind old Uncle tell her 
 
 Something of his youthful days ? 
 
 Hark ! The wind among the cedars 
 
 Waves their white arms to and fro ; 
 I remember how I watched them 
 
 Sixty Christmas Days ago : 
 Then I dreamt a glorious vision 
 
 Of great deeds to crown each year ; 
 Sixty Christmas Days have found me 
 
 Useless, helpless, blind — and here! 
 
 Yes, I feel my darling stealing 
 
 Warm soft fingers into mine : 
 Shall I tell her what I fancied 
 
 In that strange old dream of mine ? 
 I was kneeling by the window, 
 
 Reading how a noble band, 
 With the red cross on their breastplates, 
 
 Went to gain the Holy Land. 
 
TRUE HONORS. 15 
 
 While with eager eyes of wonder 
 
 Over the dark page I bent, 
 Slowly twilight shadows gathered 
 
 Till the letters came and went ; 
 Slowly, till the night was round me ; 
 
 Then my heart beat loud and fast, 
 For I felt before I saw it 
 
 That a spirit near me passed. 
 
 Then I raised my eyes, and, shining 
 
 Where the moon's first ray was bright, 
 Stood a winged Angel-warrior 
 
 Clothed and panoplied in light : 
 So, with Heaven's love upon him, 
 
 Stern in calm and resolute will, 
 Looked St. Michael, — does the picture 
 
 Hang in the old cloister still ? 
 
 Threefold were the dreams of honor 
 
 That absorbed my heart ancl brain ; 
 Threefold crowns the Angel promised, 
 
 Each one to be bought by pain : 
 While he spoke, a threefold blessing 
 
 Fell upon my soul like rain. 
 Helper of the poor and suffering; 
 
 Victor in a glorious strife; 
 Singer of a noble poem: 
 
 Such the honors of my life. 
 
 Ah, that dream ! Long years that gave me 
 
 Joy and grief as real things 
 Never touched the tender memory 
 
 Sweet and solemn that it brings, — 
 Never quite effaced the feeling 
 
 Of those white and shadowing wings. 
 
16 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Do those blue eyes open wider ? 
 
 Does my faith too foolish seem ? 
 Yes, my darling, years have taught me 
 
 It was nothing but a dream. 
 Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge 
 
 Of a fearful trial rose, 
 Rose to crush my heart, and sternly 
 
 Bade my young ambition close. 
 
 More and more my eyes were clouded, 
 
 Till at last God's glorious light 
 Passed away from me forever, 
 
 And I lived and live in night. 
 Dear, I will not dim your pleasure, 
 
 Christmas should be only gay : — 
 In my night the stars have risen, 
 
 And I wait the dawn of day. 
 
 Spite of all I could be happy ; 
 
 For my brothers' tender care 
 In their boyish pastimes ever 
 
 Made me take, or feel a share. 
 Philip, even then so thoughtful, 
 
 Max so noble, brave, and tall, 
 And your father, little Godfrey, 
 
 The most loving of them all. 
 
 Philip reasoned down my sorrow, 
 
 Max would laugh my gloom away, 
 Godfrey's little arms put round me 
 
 Helped me through my dreariest day ; 
 While the promise of my Angel, 
 
 Like a star, now bright, now pale, 
 Hung in blackest night above me, 
 
 And I felt it could not fail. 
 
TRUE HONORS. 17 
 
 Years passed on, my brothers left rne, 
 
 Each went out to take his share 
 In the struggle of life ; my portion 
 
 Was a humble one — to bear. 
 Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander 
 
 Through the woods and fields alone, 
 Every cottage in the village 
 
 Had a corner called my own. 
 
 Old and young, all brought their troubles, 
 
 Great or small, for me to hear ; 
 I have often blessed my sorrow 
 
 That drew others' grief so near. 
 Ah, the people needed helping — 
 
 Needed love — (for Love and Heaven 
 Are the only gifts not bartered, 
 
 They alone are freely given) — 
 
 And I gave it. Philip's bounty 
 
 (We were orphans, dear) made toil 
 Prosper, and want never fastened 
 
 On the tenants of the soil. 
 Philip's name (0, how I gloried, 
 
 He so young, to see it rise !) 
 Soon grew noted among statesmen 
 
 As a patriot true and wise. 
 
 And his people all felt honored 
 
 To be ruled by such a name ; 
 I was proud too that they loved me ; 
 
 Through their pride in him it came. 
 He had gained what I had longed for, 
 
 I meanwhile grew glad and gay, 
 'Mid his people, to be serving 
 
 Him and them, in some poor way. 
 
18 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 How his noble earnest speeches 
 
 With untiring fervor came ! 
 Helper of the poor and Suffering; 
 
 Truly he deserved the name ! 
 Had my Angel's promise failed me ? 
 
 Had that word of hope grown dim ? 
 Why, my Philip had fulfilled it, 
 
 And I loved it best in him ! 
 
 Max meanwhile — ah, you, my darling, 
 
 Can his loving words recall — 
 'Mid the bravest and the noblest, 
 
 Braver, nobler, than them all. 
 How I loved him ! how my heart thrilled 
 
 When his sword clanked by his side, 
 When I touched his gold embroidery, 
 
 Almost saw him in his pride ! 
 
 So we parted ; he all eager 
 
 To uphold the name he bore, 
 Leaving in my charge — he loved me — 
 
 Some one whom he loved still more : 
 I must tend this gentle flower, 
 
 I must speak to her of him, 
 For he feared — Love still is fearful — 
 
 That his memory might grow dim. 
 
 I must guard her from all sorrow, 
 
 I must play a brother's part, 
 Shield all grief and trial from her, 
 
 If it need be, with my heart. 
 Years passed, and his name grew famous ; 
 
 We were proud, both she and I ; 
 And we lived upon his letters, 
 
 While the slow days fleeted by. 
 
TRUE HONORS. 19 
 
 Then at last — you know the story, 
 
 How a fearful rumor spread, 
 Till all hope had slowly faded, 
 
 And we heard that he was dead. 
 Dead ! 0, those were bitter hours ; 
 
 Yet within my soul there dwelt 
 A warning, and while others mourned him, 
 
 Something like a hope I felt. 
 
 His was no weak life as mine was, 
 
 But a life, so full and strong — 
 No, I could not think he perished 
 
 Nameless, 'mid a conquered throng. * 
 
 How she drooped ! Years passed; no tidings 
 
 Came, and yet that little flame 
 Of strange hope within my spirit 
 
 Still burnt on, and lived the same. 
 
 Ah ! my child, our hearts will fail us, 
 
 When to us they strongest seem : 
 I can look back on those hours 
 
 As a fearful, evil dream. 
 She had long despaired ; what wonder 
 
 That her heart had turned to mine ? 
 Earthly loves are deep and tender, 
 
 Not eternal and divine ! 
 
 Can I say how bright a future 
 
 Rose before my soul that day ? 
 0, so strange, so sweet, so tender ! 
 
 And I had to turn away. 
 Hard and terrible the struggle, 
 
 For the pain not mine alone ; 
 I called back my Brother's spirit, 
 
 And I bade him claim his own. 
 
 / 
 
20 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Told her — now I dared to do it — 
 
 That I felt the day would rise 
 When he would return to gladden 
 
 My weak heart and her bright eyes. 
 And I pleaded — pleaded sternly — 
 
 In his name, and for his sake : 
 Now, I can speak calmly of it, 
 
 Then, I thought my heart would break. 
 
 Soon — ah, Love had not deceived me, 
 
 (Love's true instincts never err,) 
 Wounded, weak, escaped from prison, 
 
 He returned to me, — to her. 
 I could thank God that bright morning, 
 
 When I felt my Brother's gaze, 
 That my heart was true and loyal, 
 
 As in our old boyish days. 
 
 Bought by wounds and deeds of daring, 
 
 Honors he had brought away ; 
 Glory crowned his name — my Brother's ; 
 
 Mine too ! — we were one that day. 
 Since the crown on him had fallen, 
 
 "Victor in a noble strife," 
 I could live and die contented 
 
 With my poor ignoble life. 
 
 Well, my darling, almost weary 
 
 Of my story ? Wait awhile ; 
 For the rest is only joyful ; 
 
 I can tell it with a smile. 
 One bright promise still was left me, 
 
 Wound so close about my soul, 
 That, as one by one had failed me, 
 
 This dream now absorbed the whole. 
 
TRUE HONORS. 21 
 
 " Singer of a noble Poem," — 
 
 Ah, my darling, few and rare 
 Burn the glorious names of Poets, 
 
 Like stars in the purple air. 
 That too, and I glory in it, 
 
 That great gift my Godfrey won ; 
 I have my dear share of honor, 
 
 Gained by that beloved one. 
 
 One day shall my darling read it ; 
 
 Now she cannot understand 
 All the noble thoughts that lighten 
 
 Through the genius of the land. 
 I am proud to be his brother, 
 
 Proud to think that hope was true ; 
 Though I longed and strove so vainly, 
 
 What I failed in, he could do. 
 
 I was long before I knew it, 
 
 Longer ere I felt it so ; 
 Then I strung my rhymes together 
 
 Only for the poor and low. 
 And, it pleases me to know it, 
 
 (For I love them well indeed,) 
 They care for my humble verses, 
 
 Pitted for their humble need. 
 
 And, it cheers my heart to hear it, 
 
 Where the far-off settlers roam, 
 My poor words are sung and cherished, 
 
 Just because they speak of Home. 
 And the little children sing them, 
 
 (That, I think, has pleased me best,) 
 Often, too, the dying love them, 
 
 For they tell of Heaven and rest. 
 
22 A woman's question. 
 
 So my last vain dream has faded ; 
 
 (Such as I to think of fame !) 
 Yet I will not say it failed me, 
 
 For it crowned my Godfrey's name. 
 No ; my Angel did not cheat me, 
 
 For my long life Jias been blest ; 
 He did give me Love and Sorrow, 
 
 He will bring me Light and Rest. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 Before I trust my Fate to thee, 
 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 Before I let thy Future give 
 
 Color and form to mine, 
 Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to- 
 night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret : 
 Is there one link within the Past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which I 
 can pledge to thee ? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine, 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
 
 Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 0, tell me before all is lost. 
 
 Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
 
 Within my inmost soul, 
 That thou hast kept a portion back, 
 
 While I have staked the whole ; 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy 
 tell me so. 
 
THE THREE RULERS. 23 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfil ? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life 
 wither and decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 
 The demon-spirit Change, 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 
 On all things new and strange ? — 
 It may not be thy fault alone — but shield my 
 heart against thy own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 
 And answer to my claim, 
 That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
 
 Not thou — had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt 
 surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay answer not, — I dare not hear, 
 
 The words would come too late ; 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 
 So, comfort thee, my Fate — 
 Whatever on my heart may fall — remember, I 
 would risk it all ! 
 
 THE THREE RULERS. 
 
 I saw a Ruler take his stand, 
 
 And trample on a mighty land; 
 
 The People crouched before his beck,< 
 
 His iron heel was on their neck, 
 
 His name shone bright through blood and pain, 
 
 His sword flashed back their praise again. 
 
24 A DEAD PAST. 
 
 I saw another Ruler rise : 
 
 His words were noble, good, and wise ; 
 
 With the calm sceptre of his pen 
 
 He ruled the minds and thoughts of men : 
 
 Some scoffed, some praised, — while many heard, 
 
 Only a few obeyed his word. 
 
 Another Ruler then I saw : 
 
 Love and sweet Pity were his law; 
 
 The greatest and the least had part 
 
 (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart : 
 
 The People, in a mighty band, 
 
 Rose up, and drove him from the land ! 
 
 A DEAD PAST. 
 
 Spare her at least : look, you have taken from me 
 The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan ; 
 The Future too, with all her glorious promise ; 
 But do not leave me utterly alone. 
 
 Spare me the Past : for, see, she cannot harm you, 
 She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud ; 
 All, all my own ! and, trust me, I will hide her 
 Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud. 
 
 I folded her soft hands upon her bosom, 
 And strewed my flowers upon her, — they still live : 
 Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eyelids, 
 And think of all the joy she used to give. 
 
 Cruel indeed it were to take her from me ; 
 She sleeps, she will not wake — no fear — again: 
 And so I laid her, such a gentle burden, 
 Quietly on my heart to still its pain. 
 
A DOUBTING HEART. 25 
 
 I do not think that any smiling Present, 
 Any vague Future, spite of all her charms, 
 Could ever rival her. You know you laid her, 
 Long years ago, then living, in my arms. 
 
 Leave her at least : while my tears fall upon her, 
 I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore ; 
 As dear as ever to rne, — nay, it may be, 
 Even dearer still, — since I have nothing more. 
 
 A DOUBTING HEART. 
 
 Where are the swallows fled ? 
 
 Frozen and dead, 
 Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
 doubting heart ! 
 Far over purple seas, 
 They wait, in sunny ease, 
 The balmy southern breeze, 
 To bring them to their northern homes once more. 
 
 Why must the flowers die ? 
 
 Prisoned they lie 
 In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
 doubting heart ! 
 They only sleep below 
 The soft white ermine snow, 
 While winter winds shall blow, 
 To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 
 
 The sun has hid its rays 
 
 These many days ; 
 Will dreary hours never leave the earth ? 
 
 doubting heart ! 
 The stormy clouds on high 
 
26 A STUDENT. 
 
 Veil the same sunny sky, 
 That soon (for spring is nigh) 
 Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. 
 
 Fair hope is dead, and light 
 
 Is quenched in night. 
 What sound can break the silence of despair ? 
 doubting heart ! 
 Thy sky is overcast, 
 Yet stars shall rise at last, 
 Brighter for darkness past, 
 And angels' silver voices stir the air. 
 
 A STUDENT. 
 
 Over an ancient scroll I bent, 
 Steeping my soul in wise content, 
 Nor paused a moment, save to chide 
 A low voice whispering at my side. 
 
 I wove beneath the stars' pale shine 
 A dream, half human, half divine ; 
 And shook off (not to break the charm) 
 A little hand laid on my arm. 
 
 I read ; until my heart would glow 
 With the great deeds of long ago ; 
 Nor heard, while with those mighty dead, 
 Pass to and fro a faltering tread. 
 
 On the old theme I pondered long, — 
 The struggle between right and wrong ; 
 I could not check such visions high, 
 To soothe a little quivering sigh. 
 
A KNIGHT-EBRANT. 27 
 
 I tried to solve the problem — Life ; 
 Dreaming of that mysterious strife, 
 How could I leave such reasonings wise, 
 To answer two blue pleading eyes ? 
 
 I strove how best to give, and when, 
 My blood to save my fellow-men, — 
 How could I turn aside, to look 
 At snowdrops laid upon my book ? 
 
 Now Time has fled — the world is strange, 
 Something there is of pain and change ; 
 My books lie closed upon the shelf ; 
 I miss the old heart in myself. 
 
 I miss the sunbeams in my room, — 
 It was not always wrapped in gloom : 
 I miss my dreams, — they fade so fast, 
 Or flit into some trivial past. 
 
 The great stream of the world goes by ; 
 None care, or heed, or question, why 
 I, the lone student, cannot raise 
 My voice or hand as in old days. 
 
 No echo seems to wake again 
 My heart to anything but pain, 
 Save when a dream of twilight brings 
 The fluttering of an angel's wings ! 
 
 A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 
 
 Though he lived and died among us, 
 
 Yet his name may be enrolled 
 With the knights whose deeds of daring 
 
 Ancient chronicles have told. 
 
28 A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 
 
 Still a stripling, he encountered 
 Poverty, and struggled long, 
 
 Gathering force from every effort, 
 Till he knew his arm was strong. 
 
 Then his heart and life he offered 
 To his radiant mistress, — Truth ; 
 
 Never thought, or dream, or faltering, 
 Marred the promise of his youth. 
 
 So he rode forth to defend her, 
 And her peerless worth proclaim ; 
 
 Challenging each recreant doubter 
 Who aspersed her spotless name. 
 
 First upon his path stood Ignorance, 
 Hideous in his brutal might ; 
 
 Hard the blows and long the battle 
 Ere the monster took to flight. 
 
 Then, with light and fearless spirit, 
 Prejudice he dared to brave ; 
 
 Hunting back the lying craven 
 To her black sulphureous cave. 
 
 Followed by his servile minions, 
 Custom, the old Giant, rose ; 
 
 Yet he, too, at last was conquered 
 By the good Knight's weighty blows. 
 
 Then he turned, and, flushed with victory, 
 Struck upon the brazen shield 
 
 Of the world's great king, Opinion, 
 And defied him to the field. 
 
LINGER, O GENTLE TIME. 29 
 
 Once again he rose a conqueror, 
 And, though wounded in the fight, 
 
 With a dying smile of triumph 
 
 Saw that Truth had gained her right. 
 
 On his failing ear re-echoing 
 
 Came the shouting round her throne ; 
 
 Little cared he that no future 
 
 With her name would link his own. 
 
 Spent with many a hard-fought battle, 
 
 Slowly ebbed his life away, 
 And the crowd that flocked to greet her 
 
 Trampled on him where he lay. 
 
 Gathering all his strength, he saw her 
 Crowned and reigning in her pride ; 
 
 Looked his last upon her beauty, 
 Raised his eyes to God, and died. 
 
 LINGER, GENTLE TIME. 
 
 Linger, gentle Time, 
 Linger, radiant grace of bright To-day ! 
 
 Let not the hours' chime 
 Call thee away, 
 But linger near me still with fond delay. 
 
 Linger, for thou art mine ! 
 What dearer treasures can the future hold ? 
 What sweeter flowers than thine 
 Can she unfold ? 
 What secrets tell my heart thou hast not told ? 
 
30 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 0, linger in thy flight ! 
 For shadows gather round, and should we part, 
 
 A dreary, starless night 
 
 May fill my heart, — 
 Then pause and linger yet ere thou depart. 
 
 Linger, I ask no more, — 
 Thou art enough forever — thou alone ; 
 
 What future can restore, 
 
 When thou art flown, 
 All that I hold from thee and call my own ? 
 
 HOMEWAED BOUND. 
 
 I have seen a fiercer tempest, 
 
 Known a louder whirlwind blow ; 
 I was wrecked off red Algiers, 
 
 Six-and-thirty years ago. 
 Young I was, and yet old seamen 
 
 Were not strong or calm as I ; 
 While life held such treasures for me, 
 
 I felt sure I could not die. 
 
 Life I struggled for, — and saved it ; 
 
 Life alone, — and nothing more ; 
 Bruised, half dead, alone and helpless 
 
 I was cast upon the shore. 
 I feared the pitiless rocks of Ocean ; 
 
 So the great sea rose, — and then 
 Cast me from her friendly bosom, 
 
 On the pitiless hearts of men. 
 
 Gaunt and dreary ran the mountains, 
 With black gorges, up the land ; 
 
 Up to where the lonely Desert 
 Spreads her burning, dreary sand : 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 31 
 
 In the gorges of the mountains, 
 
 On the plain beside the sea, 
 Dwelt my stern and cruel masters, 
 
 The black Moors of Barbary. 
 
 Ten long years I toiled among them, 
 
 Hopeless — as I used to say ; 
 Now I know Hope burnt within me 
 
 Fiercer, stronger, day by day : 
 Those dim years of toil and sorrow 
 
 Like one long, dark dream appear ; 
 One long day of weary waiting, — 
 
 Then each day was like a year. 
 
 How I cursed the land, — my prison ; 
 
 How I cursed the serpent sea, 
 And the Demon Fate that showered 
 
 All her curses upon me ; 
 I was mad, I think — God pardon 
 
 Words so terrible and wild — 
 This voyage would have been my last one. 
 
 Tor I left a wife and child. 
 
 Never did one tender vision 
 
 Fade away before my sight, 
 Never once through all my slavery, 
 
 Burning day or dreary night ; 
 In my soul it lived, and kept me, 
 
 Now I feel, from black despair, 
 And my heart was not quite broken, 
 
 While they lived and blest me there. 
 
 When at night my task was over, 
 
 I would hasten to the shore ; 
 (All was strange and foreign inland, 
 
 Nothing I had known before ; ) 
 
32 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 Strange looked the bleak mountain passes, 
 Strange the red glare and black shade, 
 
 And the Oleanders, waving 
 
 To the sound the fountains made. 
 
 Then I gazed at the great Ocean, 
 
 Till she grew a friend again ; 
 And because she knew old England, 
 
 I forgave her all my pain: 
 So the bine still sky above me, 
 
 With its white clouds' fleecy fold, 
 And the glimmering stars (though brighter), 
 
 Looked like home and days of old. 
 
 And a calm would fall upon me, 
 
 Worn perhaps with work and pain, 
 The wild, hungry longing left me, 
 
 And I was myself again : 
 Looking at the silver waters, 
 
 Looking up at the far sky, 
 Dreams of home and all I left there 
 
 Floated sorrowfully by. 
 
 A fair face, but pale with sorrow, 
 
 With blue eyes, brimful of tears, 
 And the little red mouth, quivering 
 
 With a smile, to hide its fears ; 
 Holding out her baby towards me, 
 
 From the sky she looked on me ; 
 So it was that last I saw her, 
 
 As the ship put out to sea. 
 
 Sometimes (and a pang would seize me 
 That the years were floating on) 
 
 I would strive to paint her, altered, 
 And the little baby gone : 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 33 
 
 She no longer young and girlish, 
 The child standing by her knee, 
 
 And her face more pale and saddened 
 With the weariness for me. 
 
 Then I saw, as night grew darker, 
 
 How she taught my child to pray, 
 Holding its small hands together, 
 
 For its father, far away ; 
 And I felt her sorrow, weighing 
 
 Heavier on me than my own, 
 Pitying her blighted spring-time, 
 
 And her joy so early flown. 
 
 Till upon my hands (now hardened 
 
 With the rough, harsh toil of years) 
 Bitter drops of anguish falling, 
 
 Woke me from my dream, to tears ; 
 Woke me as a slave, an outcast, 
 
 Leagues from home, across the deep ; 
 So — though you may call it childish — 
 
 So I sobbed myself to sleep. 
 
 Well, the years sped on, — my Sorrow, 
 
 Calmer, and yet stronger grown, 
 Was my shield against all suffering, 
 
 Poorer, meaner than her own. 
 Thus my cruel master's harshness 
 
 Fell upon me all in vain, 
 Yet the tale of what we suffered 
 
 Echoed back from main to main. 
 
 You have heard in a far country 
 
 Of a self-devoted band, 
 Vowed to rescue Christian captives 
 
 Pining in a foreign land. 
 
34 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 And these gentle-hearted strangers 
 Year by year go forth from Rome, 
 
 In their hands the hard-earned ransom, 
 To restore some exiles home. 
 
 I was freed : they broke the tidings 
 
 Gently to me : but indeed 
 Hour by hour sped on, I knew not 
 
 What the words meant — I was freed ! 
 Better so, perhaps ; while sorrow 
 
 (More akin to earthly things) 
 Only strains the sad heart's fibres, 
 
 Joy, bright stranger, breaks the strings. 
 
 Yet at last it rushed upon me, 
 
 And my heart beat full and fast ; 
 What were now my years of waiting, 
 
 What was all the dreary past ? 
 Nothing — to the impatient throbbing 
 
 I must bear across the sea : 
 Nothing — to the eternal hours 
 
 Still between my home and me ! 
 
 How the voyage passed, I know not ; 
 
 Strange it was once more to stand 
 With my countrymen around me, 
 
 And to clasp an English hand. 
 But, through all, my heart was dreaming 
 
 Of the first words I should hear, 
 In the gentle voice that echoed, 
 
 Fresh as ever, on my ear. 
 
 Should I see her start of wonder, 
 
 And the sudden truth arise, 
 Flushing all her face and lightening 
 
 The dimmed splendor of her eyes ? 
 
HOMEWARD BOUND. 35 
 
 Oh ! to watch the fear and doubting 
 
 Stir the silent depths of pain, 
 And the rush of joy — then melting 
 
 Into perfect peace again. 
 
 And the child ! — but why remember 
 
 Foolish fancies that I thought ? 
 Every tree and every hedge-row 
 
 From the well-known past I brought ; 
 I would picture my dear cottage, 
 
 See the crackling wood-fire burn, 
 And the two beside it seated, 
 
 Watching, waiting, my return. 
 
 So, at last we reached the harbor. 
 
 I remember nothing more 
 Till I stood, my sick heart throbbing, 
 
 With my hand upon the door. 
 There I paused — I heard her speaking ; 
 
 Low, soft, murmuring words she said ; 
 Then I first knew the dumb terror 
 
 I had had lest she were dead. 
 
 It was evening in late autumn, 
 
 And the gusty wind blew chill ; 
 Autumn leaves were falling round me, 
 
 And the red sun lit the hill. 
 Six-and-twenty years are vanished 
 
 Since then, — I am old and gray, — 
 But I never told to mortal 
 
 What I saw, until this day. 
 
 She was seated by the fire, 
 
 In her arms she held a child, 
 Whispering baby-words caressing, 
 
 And then, looking up, she smiled ; 
 
36 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 Smiled on him who stood beside her — 
 Oh ! the bitter truth was told, 
 
 In her look of trusting fondness — 
 I had seen the look of old ! 
 
 But she rose and turned towards me 
 
 (Cold and dumb I waited there) 
 With a shriek of fear and terror, 
 
 And a white face of despair. 
 He had been an ancient comrade, — 
 
 Not a single word we said, 
 While we gazed upon each other, 
 
 He the living : I the dead ! 
 
 I drew nearer, nearer to her, 
 
 And I took her trembling hand, 
 Looking on her white face, looking 
 
 That her heart might understand 
 All the love and all the pity 
 
 That my lips refused to say, — 
 I thank God no thought save sorrow 
 
 Rose in our crushed hearts that day. 
 
 Bitter tears that desolate moment, 
 
 Bitter, bitter tears we wept, 
 We three broken hearts together, 
 
 While the baby smiled and slept. 
 Tears alone — no words were spoken, 
 
 Till he — till her husband said 
 That my boy, (I had forgotten 
 
 The poor child,) that he was dead. 
 
 Then at last I rose, and, turning, 
 Wrung his hand, but made no sign ; 
 
 And I stooped and kissed her forehead 
 Once more, as if she were mine. 
 
LIFE AND DEATH. 37 
 
 Nothing of farewell I uttered, 
 
 Save in broken words to pray 
 That God would ever guard and bless her, — 
 
 Then in silence passed away. 
 
 Over the great restless ocean 
 
 Six-and-twenty years I roam ; 
 All my comrades, old and weary, 
 
 Have gone back to die at home. 
 Home ! yes, I shall reach a haven, 
 
 I, too, shall reach home and rest ; 
 I shall find her waiting for me 
 
 With our baby on her breast. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 " What is Life, father ? " 
 
 " A Battle, my child, 
 Where the strongest lance may fail, 
 Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled, 
 
 And the stoutest heart may quail. 
 Where the foes are gathered on every hand, 
 
 And rest not day or night, 
 And the feeble little ones must stand 
 In the thickest of the fight." 
 
 " What is Death, father ? " 
 
 " The rest, my child, 
 When the strife and the toil are o'er ; 
 The angel of God, who, calm and mild, 
 
 Says we need fight no more ; 
 Who, driving away the demon band, 
 Bids the din of the battle cease ; 
 
38 now. 
 
 Takes banner and spear from our failing hand, 
 And proclaims an eternal peace." 
 
 " Let me die, father ! I tremble, and fear 
 To yield in that terrible strife ! " 
 
 " The crown must be won for Heaven, dear, 
 
 In the battle-field of life : 
 My child, though thy foes are strong and tried, 
 
 He loveth the weak and small ; 
 The angels of heaven are on thy side, 
 
 And God is over all ! " 
 
 NOW. 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing, 
 
 And you lie dreaming on ; 
 The others have buckled their armor, 
 
 And forth to the fight are gone : 
 A place in the ranks awaits you, 
 
 Each man has some part to play ; 
 The Past and the Future are nothing, 
 
 In the face of the stern To-day. 
 
 Rise from your dreams of the Future, — 
 
 Of gaining some hard-fought field ; 
 Of storming some airy fortress, 
 
 Or bidding some giant yield ; 
 Your Future has deeds of glory, 
 
 Of honor (God grant it may !) 
 But your arm will never be stronger, 
 
 Or the need so great as To-day. 
 
 Rise ! if the Past detains you, 
 Her sunshine and storms forget; 
 
 No chains so unworthy to hold you 
 As those of a vain regret : 
 
CLEANSING FIRES. 39 
 
 Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever ; 
 
 Cast her phantom arms away, 
 Nor look back, save to learn the lesson 
 
 Of a nobler strife To-day. 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing; 
 
 The sound that you scarcely hear 
 Is the enemy marching to battle : — 
 
 Arise ! for the foe is here ! 
 Stay not to sharpen your weapons, 
 
 Or the hour will strike at last, 
 When, from dreams of a coming battle, 
 
 You may wake to find it past ! 
 
 CLEANSING FIRES. 
 
 Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 
 
 Thy red gold, precious and bright ; 
 Do not fear the hungry fire, 
 
 With its caverns of burning light ; 
 And thy gold shall return more precious, 
 
 Eree from every spot and stain ; 
 For gold must be tried by fire, 
 
 As a heart must be tried by pain ! 
 
 In the cruel fire of Sorrow 
 
 Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail ; 
 Let thy hand be firm and steady, 
 
 Do not let thy spirit quail : 
 But wait till the trial is over, 
 
 And take thy heart again ; 
 For as gold is tried by fire, 
 
 So a heart must be tried by pain ! 
 
40 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 
 I shall know by the gleam and glitter 
 
 Of the golden chain you wear, 
 By your heart's cairn strength in loving, 
 
 Of the fire they have had to bear. 
 Beat on, true heart, forever ; 
 
 Shine bright, strong golden chain ; 
 And bless the cleansing fire, 
 
 And the furnace of living pain ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
 
 Let us throw more logs on the fire ! 
 
 We have need of a cheerful light, 
 And close round the hearth to gather, 
 
 For the wind has risen to-night. 
 With the mournful sound of its wailing 
 
 It has checked the children's glee, 
 And it calls with a louder clamor 
 
 Than the clamor of the sea. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the wind! 
 
 Let us listen to what it is saying, 
 
 Let us hearken to where it has been ; 
 For it tells, in its terrible crying, 
 
 The fearful sights it has seen. 
 It clatters loud at the casements, 
 
 Bound the house it hurries on, 
 And shrieks with redoubled fury 
 
 When we say, " The blast is gone ! " 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
 It has been on the field of battle, 
 Where the dying and wounded lie ; 
 
 And it brings the last groan they uttered, 
 And the ravenous vulture's cry. 
 
THE VOICE OF TUE WIND. 41 
 
 It has been where the icebergs were meeting, 
 
 And closed with a fearful crash : 
 On shores where no foot has wandered 
 
 It has heard the waters dash. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
 It has been on the desolate ocean 
 
 When the lightning struck the mast ; 
 It has heard the cry of the drowning, 
 
 Who sank as it hurried past ; 
 The words of despair and anguish, 
 
 That were heard by no living ear, 
 The gun that no signal answered, 
 
 It brings them all to us here. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
 It has been on the lonely moorland, 
 
 Where the treacherous snowdrift lies, 
 Where the traveller, spent and weary, 
 
 Gasped fainter and fainter cries; 
 It has heard the bay of the blood-hounds 
 
 On the track of the hunted slave, 
 The lash and the curse of the master, 
 
 And the groan that the captive gave. 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
 It has swept through the gloomy forest, 
 
 Where the sledge was urged to its speed, 
 Where the howling wolves were rushing 
 
 On the track of the panting steed. 
 Where the pool was black and lonely, 
 
 It caught up a splash and a cry, — 
 Only the bleak sky heard it, 
 
 And the wind as it hurried by. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
42 TREASURES. 
 
 Then throw more logs on the fire, 
 
 Since the air is bleak and cold, 
 And the children are drawing nigher, 
 
 For the tales that the wind has told. 
 So closer and closer gather 
 
 Round the red and crackling light ; 
 And rejoice (while the wind is blowing) 
 
 We are safe and warm to-night. 
 Hark to the voice of the wind ! 
 
 TREASURES. 
 
 Let me count my treasures, 
 All my soul holds dear, 
 
 Given me by dark spirits 
 Whom I used to fear. 
 
 Through long days of anguish, 
 And sad nights, did Pain 
 
 Forge my shield, Endurance, 
 Bright and free from stain ! 
 
 Doubt, in misty caverns, 
 'Mid dark horrors sought, 
 
 Till my peerless jewel, 
 Faith, to me she brought. 
 
 Sorrow, that I wearied 
 Should remain so long, 
 
 Wreathed my starry glory, 
 The bright Crown of Song. 
 
 Strife, that racked my spirit 
 Without hope or rest, 
 
 Left the blooming flower, 
 Patience, on my breast. 
 
SHINING STABS. 43 
 
 Suffering, that I dreaded, 
 
 Ignorant of her charms, 
 Laid the fair child, Pity, 
 
 Smiling, in my arms. 
 
 So I count my treasures, 
 
 Stored in days long past, — 
 
 And I thank the givers, 
 Whom I know at last ! 
 
 SHINING STARS. 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On a world of pain ! 
 See old Time destroying 
 
 All our hoarded gain ; 
 All our sweetest flowers, 
 
 Every stately shrine, 
 All our hard-earned glory, 
 
 Every dream divine ! 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On the rolling years ! 
 See how Time, consoling, 
 
 Dries the saddest tears, 
 Bids the darkest storm-clouds 
 
 Pass in gentle rain, 
 While upspring in glory 
 
 Elowers and dreams again ! 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On a world of fear ! 
 See how Time, avenging, 
 
 Bringeth judgment here : 
 
44 WAITING. 
 
 Weaving ill- won honors 
 
 To a fiery crown ; 
 Bidding hard hearts perish ; 
 
 Casting proud hearts down. 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On the hours' slow flight ! 
 See how Time, rewarding, 
 
 Gilds good deeds with light ; 
 Pays with kingly measure ; 
 
 Brings earth's dearest prize ; 
 Or, crowned with rays diviner, 
 
 Bids the end arise ! 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 " Wherefore dwell so sad and lonely 
 
 By the desolate sea-shore, 
 With the melancholy surges 
 
 Beating at your cottage door ? 
 
 " You shall dwell beside the castle 
 Shadowed by our ancient trees ; 
 
 And your life shall pass on gently, 
 Cared for, and in rest and ease." 
 
 " Lady, one who loved me dearly 
 Sailed for distant lands away ; 
 
 And I wait here his returning 
 Hopefully from day to day. 
 
 " To my door I bring my spinning, 
 Watching every ship I see ; 
 
 Waiting, hoping, till the sunset 
 Fades into the western sea. 
 
WAITING. 45 
 
 " After sunset, at my casement, 
 
 Still I place a signal light ; 
 He will see its well-known shining 
 
 Should his ship return at night. 
 
 " Lady, see your infant smiling, 
 
 With its flaxen curling hair, — 
 I remember when your mother 
 
 Was a baby just as fair. 
 
 " I was watching then, and hoping : 
 
 Years have brought great change to all ; 
 
 To my neighbors in their cottage, 
 To you nobles at the hall. 
 
 " Not to me, — for I am waiting, 
 And the years have fled so fast, 
 
 I must look at you to tell me 
 That a weary time has past ! 
 
 "When I hear a footstep coming 
 On the shingle — years have fled — 
 
 Yet amid a thousand others, 
 
 I shall know his quick, light tread. 
 
 " When I hear (to-night it may be) 
 
 Some one pausing at my door, 
 I shall know the gay, soft accents, 
 
 Heard and welcomed oft before ! 
 
 " So each day I am more hopeful, 
 He may come before the night; 
 
 Every sunset I feel surer 
 
 He must come ere morning light. 
 
46 THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR. 
 
 " Then I thank you, noble lady, 
 
 But I cannot do your will : 
 Where he left me he must find me, 
 
 Waiting, watching, hoping, still ! " 
 
 THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR. 
 
 Hush ! I cannot bear to see thee 
 
 Stretch thy tiny hands in vain ; 
 Dear, I have no bread to give thee, 
 
 Nothing, child, to ease thy pain ! 
 When God sent thee first to bless me, 
 
 Proud, and thankful too, was I ; 
 Now, my darling, I, thy mother, 
 
 Almost long to see thee die. 
 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary ; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 I have watched thy beauty fading, 
 
 And thy strength sink day by day, 
 Soon, I know, will Want and Fever 
 
 Take thy little life away. 
 Famine makes thy father reckless, 
 
 Hope has left both him and me ; 
 We could suffer all, my baby, 
 
 Had we but a crust for thee. 
 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary ; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 Better thou shouldst perish early, 
 Starve so soon, my darling one, 
 
 Than in helpless sin and sorrow 
 Vainly live, as I have done. 
 
 Better that thy angel spirit 
 
 With my joy, my peace, were flown, 
 
BE STRONG. 47 
 
 Than thy heart grew cold and careless, 
 Keckless, hopeless, like my own. 
 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary ; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 I am wasted, dear, with hunger, 
 
 And my brain is all opprest, 
 I have scarcely strength to press thee, 
 
 Wan and feeble, to my breast. 
 Patience, baby, God will help us, 
 
 Death will come to thee and me, 
 He will take us to his heaven, 
 
 Where no want or pain can be. 
 
 Sleep, my darling, thou art weary ; 
 God is good, but life is dreary. 
 
 Such the plaint that, late and early, 
 
 Did we listen, we might hear 
 Close beside us, — but the thunder 
 
 Of a city dulls our ear. 
 Every heart, as God's bright Angel, 
 
 Can bid one such sorrow cease ; 
 God has glory when his children 
 
 Bring his poor ones joy and peace ! 
 Listen, nearer while she sings 
 Sounds the fluttering of wings ! 
 
 BE STEONG. 
 
 Be strong to hope, Heart ! 
 
 Though day is bright, 
 The stars can only shine 
 
 In the dark night. 
 Be strong, Heart of mine, 
 
 Look towards the light ! 
 
48 GOD'S GIFTS. 
 
 Be strong to bear, Heart ! 
 
 Nothing is vain : 
 Strive not, for life is care, 
 
 And God sends pain ; 
 Heaven is above, and there 
 
 Rest will remain ! 
 
 Be strong to love, Heart ! 
 
 Love knows not wrong ; 
 Didst thou love — creatures even, 
 
 Life were not long; 
 Didst thou love God in heaven, 
 
 Thou wouldst be strong ! 
 
 GOD'S GIFTS. 
 
 God gave a gift to Earth : a child, 
 Weak, innocent, and undefiled, 
 Opened its ignorant eyes and smiled. 
 
 It lay so helpless, so forlorn, 
 Earth took it coldly and in scorn, 
 Cursing the day when it was born. 
 
 She gave it first a tarnished name, 
 For heritage, a tainted fame, 
 Then cradled it in want and shame. 
 
 All influence of Good or Eight, 
 All ray of God's most holy light, 
 She curtained closely from its sight. 
 
 Then turned her heart, her eyes away, 
 Ready to look again, the day 
 Its little feet began to stray. 
 
god's gifts. 49 
 
 In dens of guilt the baby played, 
 Where sin, and sin alone, was made 
 The law that all around obeyed. 
 
 With ready and obedient care, 
 
 He learnt the tasks they taught him there ; 
 
 Black sin for lesson, — oaths for prayer. 
 
 Then Earth arose, and, in her might, 
 To vindicate her injured right, 
 Thrust him in deeper depths of night ; 
 
 Branding him with a deeper brand 
 Of shame, he could not understand, 
 The felon outcast of the land. 
 
 God gave a gift to Earth : a child, 
 Weak, innocent, and undefiled, 
 Opened its ignorant eyes and smiled. 
 
 And Earth received the gift, and cried 
 Her joy and triumph far and wide, 
 Till echo answered to her pride. 
 
 She blessed the hour when first he came 
 To take the crown of pride and fame, 
 Wreathed through long ages for his name. 
 
 Then bent her utmost art and skill 
 To train the supple mind and will, 
 And guard it from a breath of ill. 
 
 She strewed his morning path with flowers, 
 And Love, in tender dropping showers, 
 Nourished the blue and dawning hours. 
 
50 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 She shed, in rainbow hues of light, 
 A halo round the Good and Right, 
 To tempt and charm the baby's sight. 
 
 And every step, of work or play, 
 Was lit by some such dazzling ray, 
 Till morning brightened into day. 
 
 And then the World arose, and said, 
 Let added honors now be shed 
 On such a noble heart and head ! 
 
 World, both gifts were pure and bright, 
 Holy and sacred in God's sight : — 
 God will judge them and thee aright! 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 A smiling look she had, a figure slight, 
 
 With cheerful air, and step both quick and light ; 
 
 A strange and foreign look the maiden bore, 
 
 That suited the quaint Belgian dress she wore ; 
 
 Yet the blue, fearless eyes in her fair face, 
 
 And her soft voice, told her of English race ; 
 
 And ever, as she flitted to and fro, 
 
 She sang, (or murmured, rather,) soft and low, 
 
 Snatches of song, as if she did not know 
 
 That she was singing, but the happy load 
 
 Of dream and thought thus from her heart o'er- 
 
 flowed : 
 And while on household cares she passed along, 
 The air would bear me fragments of her song ; 
 Not such as village maidens sing, and few 
 The framers of her changing music knew ; 
 Chants such as heaven and earth first heard of when 
 
A TOMB IN GHENT. 51 
 
 The master Palestrina held the pen. 
 
 But I with awe had often turned the page, 
 
 Yellow with time, and half defaced by age, 
 
 And listened, with an ear not quite unskilled, 
 
 While heart and soul to the grand echo thrilled ; 
 
 And much I marvelled, as her cadence fell 
 
 From the Laudate, that I knew so well, 
 
 Into Scarlatti's minor fugue, how she 
 
 Had learned such deep and solemn harmony. 
 
 But what she told I set in rhyme, as meet 
 
 To chronicle the influence, dim and sweet, 
 
 'Neath which her young and innocent life had 
 
 grown : 
 Would that my words were simple as her own. 
 
 Many years since, an English workman went 
 Over the seas, to seek a home in Ghent, 
 Where English skill was prized; nor toiled in vain; 
 Small, yet enough, his hard-earned daily gain. 
 He dwelt alone, — in sorrow, or in pride. 
 He mixed not with the workers by his side ; 
 He seemed to care but for one present joy, — 
 To tend, to watch, to teach his sickly boy. 
 Severe to all beside, yet for the child 
 He softened his rough speech to soothings mild ; 
 For him he smiled, with him each day he walked 
 Through the dark, gloomy streets; to him he talked 
 Of home, of England, and strange stories told 
 Of English heroes in the days of old ; 
 And (when the sunset gilded roof and spire) 
 The marvellous tale which never seemed to tire : 
 How the gilt dragon, glaring fiercely down 
 Erom the great belfry, watching all the town, 
 Was brought, a trophy of the wars divine, 
 
52 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 By a Crusader from far Palestine, 
 And given to Bruges ; and how Ghent arose, 
 And how they struggled long as deadly foes, 
 Till Ghent, one night, by a brave soldier's skill, 
 Stole the great dragon ; and she keeps it still. 
 One day the dragon — so 't is said — will rise, 
 Spread his bright wings, and glitter in the skies, 
 And over desert lands and azure seas 
 Will seek his home 'mid palm and cedar trees. 
 So, as he passed the belfry every day, 
 The boy would look if it were flown away ; 
 Each day surprised to find it watching there, 
 Above him, as he crossed the ancient square, 
 To seek the great cathedral, that had grown 
 A home for him — mysterious and his own. 
 
 Dim with dark shadows of the ages past, 
 St. Bavon stands, solemn and rich and vast ; 
 The slender pillars, in long vistas spread, 
 Like forest arches meet and close o'erhead ; 
 So high that, like a weak and doubting prayer, 
 Ere it can float to the carved angels there, 
 The silver clouded incense faints in air : 
 Only the organ's voice, with peal on peal, 
 Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel. 
 Here the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch, 
 Would listen to its solemn chant or march ; 
 Folding his little hands, his simple prayer 
 Melted in childish dreams, and both in air : 
 While the great organ over all would roll, 
 Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul, 
 Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire 
 Of all the kneeling throng, and piercing higher 
 Than aught but love and prayer can reach, until 
 
A TOMB IN GHENT. 53 
 
 Only the silence seemed to listen still ; 
 Or gathering like a sea still more and more, 
 Break in melodious waves at heaven's door, 
 And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain, 
 Upon the pleading, longing hearts again. 
 
 Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow, 
 That crept along the marble floor below, 
 Passing, as life does, with the passing hours, 
 Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers, 
 Now on the brazen letters of a tomb, 
 Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom, 
 And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint, 
 The kneeling figure of some marble saint: 
 Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare, 
 That told of patient toil, and reverent care ; 
 Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears 
 Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears, 
 And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow 
 In summer, where the silver rivers flow ; 
 And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glare 
 In impotent wrath on all the beauty there : 
 Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb, 
 And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time. 
 And deeper silence, darker shadows flowed 
 On all around, only the windows glowed 
 With blazoned glory, like the shields of light 
 Archangels bear, who, armed with love and might, 
 Watch upon heaven's battlements at night. 
 Then all was shade ; the silver lamps that gleamed, 
 Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemed 
 Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine, 
 Or trembling stars before each separate shrine. 
 Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there, 
 
54 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 And come out, blinded by the noisy glare 
 That burst upon him from the busy square. 
 
 The church was thus his home for rest or play ; 
 And as he came and went again each day, 
 The pictured faces that he knew so well 
 Seemed to smile on him welcome and farewell. 
 But holier, and dearer far than all, 
 One sacred spot his own he loved to call ; 
 Save at mid-day, half hidden by the gloom ; 
 The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb : 
 For there she stands ; her folded hands are pressed 
 Together, and laid softly on her breast, 
 As if she waited but a word to rise 
 Prom the dull earth, and pass to the blue shies ; 
 Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath, 
 As listening for the angel voice of death. 
 None know how many years have seen her so, 
 Or what the name of her who sleeps below. 
 And here the child would come, and strive to 
 
 trace, 
 Through the dim twilight, the pure, gentle face 
 He loved so well, and here he oft would bring 
 Some violet-blossom of the early spring, 
 And, climbing softly by the fretted stand, 
 Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand ; 
 Or, whispering a soft, loving message sweet, 
 "Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet. 
 So, when the organ's pealing music rang, 
 He thought amid the gloom the Maiden sang ; 
 With reverent, simple faith by her he knelt, 
 And fancied what she thought, and what she felt ; 
 " Glory to God," re-echoed from her voice, 
 And then his little spirit would rejoice ; 
 
A TOMB IN GHENT. 55 
 
 Or when the Requiem sobbed upon the air, 
 
 His baby tears dropped with her mournful prayer. 
 
 So years fled on, while childish fancies past, 
 The childish love and simple faith could last. 
 The artist-soul awoke in him, the flame 
 Of genius, like the light of Heaven, came 
 Upon his brain, and (as it will, if true) 
 It touched his heart and lit his spirit, too. 
 His father saw, and with a proud content 
 Let him forsake the toil where he had spent 
 His youth's first years, and on one happy day 
 Of pride, before the old man passed away, 
 He stood with quivering lips, and the big tears 
 Upon his cheek, and heard the dream of years 
 Living and speaking to his very heart, — 
 The low, hushed murmur at the wondrous art 
 Of him who with young, trembling fingers made 
 The great church-organ answer as he played ; 
 And, as the uncertain sound grew full and strong, 
 Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along, 
 And thrill with master-power the breathless throng. 
 
 The old man died, and years passed on, and still 
 The young musician bent his heart and will 
 To his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grown 
 More dear to him, and even more his own ; 
 And as he left it every night he prayed 
 A moment by the archway in the shade, 
 Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom 
 Where the White Maiden watched upon her tomb. 
 His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame, 
 Cold Time had sobered, and his fragile frame ; 
 Content at last only in dreams to roam, 
 
56 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 Away from the tranquillity of home ; 
 Content that the poor dwellers by his side 
 Saw in him but the gentle friend and guide, 
 The patient counsellor in the poor strife 
 And petty details of their common life, 
 Who comforted where woe and grief might fall, 
 Nor slighted any pain or want as small, 
 But whose great heart took in and felt for all. 
 
 Still he grew famous ; — many came to be 
 His pupils in the art of harmony. 
 One day a voice floated so pure and free 
 Above his music, that he turned to see 
 What angel sang, and saw before his eyes, 
 What made his heart leap with a strange surprise, 
 His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild, 
 As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled ; 
 Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart, 
 And music overflowing from her heart. 
 But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betrayed 
 No marble statue, but a living maid ; 
 Perplexed and startled at his wondering look, 
 Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook ; 
 The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare, 
 Fluttered and died upon the trembling air. 
 
 Days passed; each morning saw the maiden 
 stand, 
 Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand, 
 Eager to study, never weary, while 
 Repaid by the approving word or smile 
 Of her kind master ; days and months fled on ; 
 One day the pupil from the choir was gone ; 
 Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more 
 
A TOMB IN GHENT. 57 
 
 Within the poor musician's humble door ; 
 And to repay, with gentle, happy art, 
 The debt so many owed his generous heart. 
 And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt 
 That a great gift of God within him dwelt ; 
 One who could listen, who could understand, 
 Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand, 
 While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew 
 How the melodious winged hours flew ; 
 Who loved his art as none had loved before, 
 Yet prized the noble, tender spirit more. 
 While the great organ brought from far and near 
 Lovers of harmony to praise and hear, 
 Unmarked by aught save what filled every day, 
 Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away : 
 And now by the low archway in the shade 
 Beside her mother knelt a little maid, 
 Who through the great cathedral learned to roam, 
 Climb to the choir, and bring her father home ; 
 And stand, demure and solemn by his side, 
 Patient till the last echo softly died ; 
 Then place her little hand in his, and go 
 Down the dark winding stair to where below 
 The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom 
 Waiting and praying by the Maiden's Tomb. 
 
 So their life went, until, one winter's day, 
 Father and child came there alone to pray, — 
 The mother, gentle soul, had fled away ! 
 Their life was altered now, and yet the child 
 Forgot her passionate grief in time, and smiled, 
 Half wondering why, when spring's fresh breezes 
 
 came, 
 To see her father was no more the same. 
 
58 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 Half guessing at the shadow of his pain, 
 
 And then contented if he smiled again, 
 
 A sad, cold smile, that passed in tears away, 
 
 As reassured she ran once more to play. 
 
 And now each year that added grace to grace, 
 
 Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl's face, 
 
 Brought a strange light in the musician's eyes, 
 
 As if he saw some starry hope arise, 
 
 Breaking upon the midnight of sad skies. 
 
 It might be so : more feeble year by year, 
 
 The wanderer to his resting-place drew near. 
 
 One day the Gloria he could play no more, 
 
 Echoed its grand rejoicing as of yore ; 
 
 His hands were clasped, his weary head was laid, 
 
 Upon the tomb where the White Maiden prayed ; 
 
 Where the child's love first dawned, his soul first 
 
 spoke, 
 The old man's heart there throbbed its last and 
 
 broke. 
 The grave cathedral that had nursed his youth, 
 Had helped his dreaming, and had taught him 
 
 truth, 
 Had seen his boyish grief and baby tears, 
 And watched the sorrows and the joys of years, 
 Had lit his fame and hope with sacred rays, 
 And consecrated sad and happy days, 
 Had blessed his happiness, and soothed his pain, 
 Now took her faithful servant home again. 
 
 He rests in peace : some travellers mention yet 
 An organist whose name they all forget. 
 He has a holier and a nobler fame 
 By poor men's hearths, who love and bless the name 
 Of a kind friend; and in low tones to-day 
 
THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 59 
 
 Speak tenderly of him who passed away. 
 Too poor to help the daughter of their friend, 
 They grieved to see the little pittance end ; 
 To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart, 
 To bear the lonely orphan's struggling part ; 
 They grieved to see her go at last alone 
 To English kinsmen she had never known : 
 And here she came ; the foreign girl soon found 
 Welcome, and love, and plenty all around, 
 And here she pays it back with earnest will, 
 By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill ; 
 Deep in her heart she holds her father's name, 
 And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame ; 
 And while she works with thrifty Belgian care, 
 Past dreams of childhood float upon the air; 
 Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn, 
 That echoed through the old cathedral dim, 
 When as a little child each day she went 
 To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 
 
 Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, 
 Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, 
 
 Keady to kiss away thy struggling breath, 
 Eeady with gentle hand to close thine eyes ? 
 
 How many a tranquil soul has passed away, 
 
 Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim, 
 
 To the eternal splendor of the day ; 
 And many a troubled heart still calls for him. 
 
 Spirits too tender for the battle here 
 Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its 
 charms ; 
 
60 A DREAM. 
 
 And children, shuddering at a world so drear, 
 Have smiling passed away into his arms. 
 
 He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain, 
 Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart : 
 
 Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain, 
 And bid the shadow of earth's grief depart. 
 
 He will give back what neither time, nor might, 
 Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore, 
 
 (Dear as to long-blind eyes recovered sight,) 
 He will give back those who are gone before. 
 
 0, what were life, if life were all ? Thine eyes 
 Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see 
 
 Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, 
 
 And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee. 
 
 A DEEAM. 
 
 All yesterday I was spinning, 
 
 Sitting alone in the sun ; 
 And the dream that I spun was so lengthy, 
 
 It lasted till day was done. 
 
 I heeded not cloud or shadow 
 
 That flitted over the hill, 
 Or the humming-bees, or the swallows, 
 
 Or the trickling of the rill. 
 
 I took the threads for my spinning, 
 
 All of blue summer air, 
 And a nickering ray of sunlight 
 
 Was woven in here and there. 
 
THE PRESENT. 61 
 
 The shadows grew longer and longer, 
 
 The evening wind passed by, 
 And the purple splendor of sunset 
 
 Was flooding the western sky. 
 
 But I could not leave my spinning, 
 For so fair nay dream had grown, 
 
 I heeded not, hour by hour, 
 How the silent day had flown. 
 
 At last the gray shadows fell round me, 
 And the night came dark and chill, 
 
 And I rose and ran down the valley, 
 And left it all on the hill. 
 
 I went up the hill this morning 
 
 To the place where my spinning lay, — 
 
 There was nothing but glistening dew-drops 
 Remained of my dream to-day. 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 Do not crouch to-day, and worship 
 
 The old Past, whose life is fled ; 
 Hush your voice to tender reverence ; 
 
 Crowned he lies, but cold and dead : 
 Eor the Present reigns our monarch, 
 
 With an added weight of hours ; 
 Honor her, for she is mighty ! 
 
 Honor her, for she is ours ! 
 
 See the shadows of his heroes 
 Girt around her cloudy throne ; 
 
 Every day the ranks are strengthened 
 By great hearts to him unknown ; 
 
62 CHANGES. 
 
 Noble things the great Past promised, 
 Holy dreams, both strange and new ; 
 
 But the Present shall fulfil them, 
 What he promised she shall do. 
 
 She inherits all his treasures, 
 
 She is heir to all his fame, 
 And the light that lightens round her 
 
 Is the lustre of his name ; 
 She is wise with all his wisdom, 
 
 Living on his grave she stands, 
 On her brow she bears his laurels, 
 
 And his harvest in her hands. 
 
 Coward, can she reign and conquer 
 
 If we thus her glory dim ? 
 Let us fight for her as nobly 
 
 As our fathers fought for him. 
 God, who crowns the dying ages, 
 
 Bids her rule, and us obey, — 
 Bids us cast our lives before her, 
 
 Bids us serve the great To-day. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 Mourn, rejoicing heart ! 
 
 The hours are flying ; 
 Each one some treasure takes, 
 Each one some blossom breaks, 
 
 And leaves it dying ; 
 The chill dark night draws near, 
 
 Thy sun will soon depart, 
 
 And leave thee sighing ; 
 Then mourn, rejoicing heart, 
 
 The hours are flying ! 
 
STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAT. 63 
 
 Rejoice, grieving heart ! 
 
 The hours fly fast ; 
 With each some sorrow dies, 
 With each some shadow flies, 
 
 Until at last 
 The red dawn in the east 
 
 Bids weary night depart, 
 
 And pain is past. 
 Rejoice then, grieving heart, 
 
 The hours fly fast ! 
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. 
 
 Strive ; yet I do not promise 
 
 The prize you dream of to-day 
 Will not fade when you think to grasp it, 
 
 And melt in your hand away ; 
 But another and holier treasure, 
 
 You would now perchance disdain, 
 Will come when your toil is over, 
 
 And pay you for all your pain. 
 
 Wait ; yet I do not tell you 
 
 The hour you long for now 
 Will not come with its radiance vanished, 
 
 And a shadow upon its brow ; 
 Yet far through the misty future, 
 
 With a crown of starry light, 
 An hour of joy you know not 
 
 Is winging her silent flight. 
 
 Pray ; though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears, 
 May never repay your pleading, 
 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful tears ; 
 
64 A LAMENT FOB THE SUMMER. 
 
 An answer, not that you long for, 
 But diviner, will come one clay ; 
 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it, 
 Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 
 
 A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER. 
 
 Moan, ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 Summer has fled, 
 The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die ; 
 
 The lily's gracious head 
 All low must lie, 
 
 Because the gentle Summer now is dead. 
 
 Grieve, ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 Summer lies low ; 
 The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, 
 
 For she that loved her so, 
 Alas ! is dead, 
 
 And one by one her loving children go. 
 
 Wail, ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 She lives no more, 
 The gentle Summer, with her balmy breath, 
 
 Still sweeter than before 
 When nearer death, 
 
 And brighter every day the smile she wore ! 
 
 Mourn, mourn, Autumn Winds, 
 
 Lament and mourn ; 
 How many half-blown buds must close and die ; 
 
 Hopes with the Summer born 
 All faded lie, 
 
 And leave us desolate and Earth forlorn ! 
 
THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. G5 
 
 THE UNKNOWN" GKAVE. 
 
 No name to bid us know 
 
 Who rests below, 
 No word of death or birth, 
 
 Only the grass's wave, 
 Over a mound of earth, 
 
 Over a nameless grave. 
 
 Did this poor wandering heart 
 
 In pain depart ? 
 Longing, but all too late, 
 
 For the calm home again, 
 Where patient watchers wait, 
 
 And still will wait in vain. 
 
 Did mourners come in scorn, 
 
 And thus forlorn 
 Leave him, with grief and shame, 
 
 To silence and decay, 
 And hide the tarnished name 
 
 Of the unconscious clay ? 
 
 It may be from his side 
 
 His loved ones died, 
 And, last of some bright band, 
 
 (Together now once more,) 
 He sought his home, the land 
 
 Where they had gone before. 
 
 No matter, — limes have made 
 
 As cool a shade, 
 And lingering breezes pass 
 
 As tenderly and slow, 
 As if beneath the grass 
 
 A monarch slept below. 
 
66 GIVE ME THY HEART. 
 
 No grief, though loud aud deep, 
 
 Could stir that sleep ; 
 And earth and heaven tell 
 
 Of rest that shall not cease, 
 Where the cold world's farewell 
 
 Fades into endless peace. 
 
 GIVE ME THY HEART. 
 
 With echoing steps the worshippers 
 
 Departed one by one ; 
 The organ's pealing voice was stilled, 
 
 The vesper hymn was done ; 
 The shadows fell from roof and arch, 
 
 Dim was the incensed air, 
 One lamp alone, with trembling ray, 
 
 Told of the Presence there ! 
 
 In the dark church she knelt alone ; 
 
 Her tears were falling fast ; 
 " Help, Lord," she cried, " the shades of death 
 
 Upon my soul are cast ! 
 Have I not shunned the path of sin, 
 
 And chosen the better part ?" — 
 What voice came through the sacred air ? — 
 
 " My child, give me thy Heart I " 
 
 " Have I not laid before Thy shrine 
 
 My wealth, Lord ? " she cried ; 
 " Have I kept aught of gems or gold, 
 
 To minister to pride ? 
 Have I not bade youth's joys retire, 
 
 And vain delights depart ? " — 
 But sad and tender was the voice, — 
 
 " My child, give me thy Heart ! " 
 
GIVE ME THY HEART. 67 
 
 " Have I not, Lord, gone day by day 
 
 Where Thy poor children dwell ; 
 And carried help, and gold, and food ? 
 
 Lord, Thou knowest it well ! 
 From many a house, from many a soul, 
 
 My hand bids care depart " : — 
 More sad, more tender was the voice, — 
 
 " My child, give me thy Heart ! " 
 
 " Have I not worn my strength away 
 
 With fast and penance sore ? 
 Have I not watched and wept ? " she cried ; 
 
 " Did Thy dear Saints do more ? 
 Have I not gained Thy grace, Lord, 
 
 And won in Heaven my part ? " — 
 It echoed louder in her soul, — 
 
 " My child, give me thy Heart I 
 
 " For I have loved thee with a love 
 
 No mortal heart can show ; 
 A love so deep, my Saints in heaven 
 
 Its depths can never know : 
 When pierced and wounded on the Cross, 
 
 Man's sin and doom were mine, 
 I loved thee with undying love, 
 
 Immortal and divine ! 
 
 " I loved thee ere the skies were spread ; 
 
 My soul bears all thy pains ; 
 To gain thy love my sacred Heart 
 
 In earthly shrines remains : 
 Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, 
 
 Without one gift divine ; 
 Give it, my child, thy Heart to me, 
 
 And it shall rest in mine ! " 
 
68 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 In awe she listened, and the shade 
 
 Passed from her soul away ; 
 In low and trembling voice she cried, — 
 
 " Lord, help me to obey! 
 Break Thou the chains of earth, Lord, 
 
 That bind and hold my heart; 
 Let it be Thine, and Thine alone, 
 
 Let none with Thee have part. 
 
 " Send down, Lord, Thy sacred fire ! 
 
 Consume and cleanse the sin 
 That lingers still within its depths : 
 
 Let heavenly love begin. 
 That sacred flame Thy Saints have known, 
 
 Kindle, Lord, in me, 
 Thou above all the rest forever, 
 
 And all the rest in Thee." 
 
 The blessing fell upon her soul ; 
 
 Her angel by her side 
 Knew that the hour of peace was come ; 
 
 Her soul was purified : 
 The shadows fell from roof and arch, 
 
 Dim was the incensed air, — 
 But Peace went with her as she left 
 
 The sacred Presence there ! 
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 A little past the village 
 
 The inn stood, low and white ; 
 
 Green shady trees behind it, 
 And an orchard on the right ; 
 
THE WAYSIDE INN. 69 
 
 Where over the green paling 
 The reel-cheeked apples hung, 
 
 As if to watch how wearily 
 
 The sign-board creaked and swung. 
 
 The heavy-laden branches, 
 
 Over the road hung low, 
 Reflected fruit or blossom 
 
 From the wayside well below ; 
 Where children, drawing water, 
 
 Looked up and paused to see, 
 Amid the apple-branches, 
 
 A purple Judas-Tree. 
 
 The road stretched winding onward 
 
 For many a weary mile, — 
 So dusty, foot-sore wanderers 
 
 Would pause and rest awhile ; 
 And panting horses halted, 
 
 And travellers loved to tell 
 The quiet of the wayside inn, 
 
 The orchard, and the well. 
 
 Here Maurice dwelt ; and often 
 
 The sunburnt boy would stand 
 Gazing upon the distance, 
 
 And shading with his hand 
 His eyes, while watching vainly 
 
 For travellers, who might need 
 His aid to loose the bridle, 
 
 And tend the weary steed. 
 
 And once (the boy remembered 
 That morning many a day, — 
 
 The dew lay on the hawthorn, 
 The bird sang on the spray) 
 
70 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 A train of horsemen, nobler 
 Than he had seen before, 
 
 Up from the distance galloped, 
 And halted at the door. 
 
 Upon a milk-white pony, 
 
 Fit for a faery queen, 
 Was the loveliest little damsel 
 
 His eyes had ever seen : 
 A serving-man was holding 
 
 The leading rein, to guide 
 The pony and its mistress, 
 
 Who cantered by his side. 
 
 Her sunny ringlets round her 
 
 A golden cloud had made, 
 While her large hat was keeping 
 
 Her calm blue eyes in shade ; 
 One hand held fast the silken reins 
 
 To keep her steed in check, 
 The other pulled his tangled mane, 
 
 Or stroked his glossy neck. 
 
 And as the boy brought water, 
 
 And loosed the rein, he heard 
 The sweetest voice that thanked him 
 
 In one low gentle word ; 
 She turned her blue eyes from him, 
 
 Looked up, and smiled to see 
 The hanging purple blossoms 
 
 Upon the Judas-Tree ; 
 
 And showed it with a gesture, 
 Half pleading, half command, 
 
 Till he broke the fairest blossom, 
 And laid it in her hand : 
 
THE WAYSIDE INN. 71 
 
 And she tied it to her saddle 
 
 With a ribbon from her hair, 
 While her happy laugh rang gayly, 
 
 Like silver on the air. 
 
 But the champing steeds were rested, — 
 
 The horsemen now spurred on, 
 And down the dusty highway 
 
 They vanished and were gone. 
 Years passed, and many a traveller 
 
 Paused at the old inn-door, 
 But the little milk-white pony 
 
 And the child returned no more. 
 
 Years passed, the apple-branches 
 
 A deeper shadow shed ; 
 And many a time the Judas-Tree, 
 
 Blossom and leaf, lay dead ; 
 When on the loitering western breeze 
 
 Came the bells' merry sound, 
 And flowery arches rose, and flags 
 
 And banners waved around. 
 
 Maurice stood there expectant : 
 
 The bridal train would stay 
 Some moments at the inn-door, 
 
 The eager watchers say ; 
 They come, — the cloud of dust draws near, — 
 
 'Mid all the state and pride, 
 He only sees the golden hair 
 
 And blue eyes of the bride. 
 
 The same, yet, ah, still fairer ; 
 
 He knew the face once more 
 That bent above the pony's neck 
 
 Years past at that inn-door : 
 
72 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 Her shy and smiling eyes looked round, 
 
 Unconscious of the place, 
 Unconscious of the eager gaze 
 
 He fixed upon her face. 
 
 He plucked a blossom from the tree, — 
 
 The Judas-Tree, — and cast 
 Its purple fragrance towards the Bride, 
 
 A message from the Past. 
 The signal came, the horses plunged, — 
 
 Once more she smiled around : 
 The purple blossom in the dust 
 
 Lay trampled on the ground. 
 
 Again the slow years fleeted, 
 
 Their passage only known 
 By the height the Passion-flower 
 
 Around the porch had grown ; 
 And many a passing traveller 
 
 Paused at the old inn-door, 
 But the bride, so fair and blooming, 
 
 The bride returned no more. 
 
 One winter morning, Maurice, 
 
 Watching the branches bare, 
 Rustling and waving dimly 
 
 In the gray and misty air, 
 Saw blazoned on a carriage 
 
 Once more the well-known shield, 
 The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis 
 
 Upon a silver field. 
 
 He looked — was that pale woman, 
 
 So grave, so worn, so sad, 
 The child, once young and smiling, 
 
 The bride, once fair and glad? 
 
THE WAYSIDE INN. 73 
 
 What grief had dimmed that glory, 
 And brought that dark eclipse 
 
 Upon her blue eyes' radiance, 
 And paled those trembling lips ? 
 
 What memory of past sorrow, 
 
 What stab of present pain, 
 Brought that deep look of anguish, 
 
 That watched the dismal rain, 
 That watched (with the absent spirit 
 
 That looks, yet does not see) 
 The dead and leafless branches 
 
 Upon the Judas-Tree ? 
 
 The slow dark months crept onward 
 
 Upon their icy way, 
 Till April broke in showers, 
 
 And Spring smiled forth in May ; 
 Upon the apple-blossoms 
 
 The sun shone bright again, 
 When slowly up the highway 
 
 Came a long funeral train. 
 
 The bells tolled slowly, sadly, 
 
 For a noble spirit fled ; 
 Slowly, in pomp and honor, 
 
 They bore the quiet dead. 
 Upon a black-plumed charger 
 
 One rode, who held a shield, 
 Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis 
 
 Shone on a silver field. 
 
 'Mid all that homage given 
 
 To a fluttering heart at rest, 
 Perhaps an honest sorrow 
 
 Dwelt only in one breast. 
 
74 VOICES OF THE PAST. 
 
 One by the inn-door standing 
 Watched with fast-dropping tears 
 
 The long procession passing, 
 And thought of bygone years. 
 
 The boyish, silent homage 
 
 To child and bride unknown, 
 The pitying, tender sorrow 
 
 Kept in his heart alone, 
 Now laid upon the coffin 
 
 With a purple flower, might be 
 Told to the cold, dead sleeper ; — 
 
 The rest could only see 
 A fragrant purple blossom, 
 
 Plucked from a Judas-Tree. 
 
 VOICES OF THE PAST. 
 
 You wonder that my tears should flow 
 In listening to that simple strain; 
 
 That those unskilful sounds should fill 
 My soul with joy and pain : 
 
 How can you tell what thoughts it stirs 
 Within my heart again ? 
 
 You wonder why that common phrase, 
 So all unmeaning to your ear, 
 
 Should stay me in my merriest mood, 
 And thrill my soul to hear : 
 
 How can you tell what ancient charm 
 Has made me hold it dear ? 
 
 You marvel that I turn away 
 
 Erom all those flowers so fair and bright, 
 And gaze at this poor herb, till tears 
 
THE DARK SIDE. 15 
 
 Arise and dim my sight : 
 You cannot tell how every leaf 
 Breathes of a past delight. 
 
 You smile to see me turn and speak 
 With one whose converse you despise ; 
 
 You do not see the dreams of old 
 That with his voice arise : 
 
 How can you tell what links have made 
 Him sacred in my eyes ? 
 
 O, these are Voices of the Past, 
 
 Links of a broken chain, 
 Wings that can bear me back to Times 
 
 Which cannot come again ; 
 Yet God forbid that I should lose 
 
 The echoes that remain ! 
 
 THE DARK SIDE. 
 
 Thou hast done well, perhaps, 
 
 To lift the bright disguise, 
 And lay the bitter truth 
 
 Before our shrinking eyes ; 
 When evil crawls below 
 
 What seems so pure and fair, 
 Thine eyes are keen and true 
 
 To find the serpent there : 
 And yet — I turn away ; 
 
 Thy task is not divine, — 
 The evil angels look 
 
 On earth with eyes like thine. 
 
 Thou hast done well, perhaps, 
 To show how closely wound 
 
76 THE BARK SIDE. 
 
 Dark threads of sin and self 
 
 With our best deeds are found, 
 How great and noble hearts, 
 
 Striving for lofty aims, 
 Have still some earthly chord 
 
 A meaner spirit claims ; 
 And yet — although thy task 
 
 Is well and fairly done — 
 Methinks for such as thou 
 
 There is a holier one. 
 
 Shadows there are, who dwell 
 
 Among us, yet apart, 
 Deaf to the claim of God, 
 
 Or kindly human heart ; 
 Voices of earth and heaven 
 
 Call, but they turn away, 
 And Love, through such black night 
 
 Can see no hope of day ; 
 And yet — our eyes are dim, 
 
 And thine are keener far : 
 Then gaze till thou canst see 
 
 The glimmer of some star. 
 
 The black stream flows along 
 
 Whose waters we despise, — 
 Show us reflected there 
 
 Some fragment of the skies ; 
 'Neath tangled thorns and briers, 
 
 (The task is fit for thee,) 
 Seek for the hidden flowers, 
 
 We are too blind to see ; 
 Then will I thy great gift 
 
 A crown and blessing call ; 
 Angels look thus on men, 
 
 And God sees good in all ! 
 
A FIRST SORROW. 77 
 
 A FIRST SORROW. 
 
 Arise ! this day shall shine, 
 
 Forevermore, 
 To thee a star divine, 
 
 On Time's dark shore. 
 
 Till now thy soul has been 
 
 All glad and gay : 
 Bid it awake and look 
 
 At grief to-day ! 
 
 No shade has come between 
 
 Thee and the sun ; 
 Like some long childish dream 
 
 Thy life has run : 
 
 But now the stream has reached 
 
 A dark, deep sea, 
 And Sorrow, dim and crowned, 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 
 Each of God's soldiers bears 
 
 A sword divine : 
 Stretch out thy trembling hands 
 
 To-day for thine ! 
 
 To each anointed Priest 
 God's summons came : 
 
 Soul, he speaks to-day, 
 And calls thy name. 
 
 Then, with slow reverent step, 
 
 And beating heart, 
 From out thy joyous days 
 
 Thou must depart. 
 
MURMURS. 
 
 And, leaving all behind, 
 
 Come forth alone, 
 To join the chosen band 
 
 Around the throne. 
 
 Raise up thine eyes — be strong, 
 
 Nor cast away 
 The crown that God has given 
 
 Thy soul to-day ! 
 
 MURMURS. 
 
 Why wilt thou make bright music 
 
 Give forth a sound of pain ? 
 Why wilt thou weave fair flowers 
 
 Into a weary chain ? 
 
 Why turn each cool gray shadow 
 
 Into a world of fears ? 
 Why say the winds are wailing ? 
 
 Why call the dew-drops tears ? 
 
 The voices of happy nature, 
 And the Heaven's sunny gleam, 
 
 Reprove thy sick heart's fancies, 
 Upbraid thy foolish dream. 
 
 Listen, and I will tell thee 
 
 The song Creation sings, 
 From the humming of bees in the heather, 
 
 To the flutter of angels' wings. 
 
 An echo rings forever, 
 
 The sound can never cease ; 
 It speaks to God of glory, 
 
 It speaks to Earth of peace. 
 
GIVE. 79 
 
 Not alone did angels sing it 
 
 To the poor shepherds' ear ; 
 But the sphered Heavens chant it, 
 
 While listening ages hear. 
 
 Above thy peevish wailing 
 
 Eises that holy song; 
 Above Earth's foolish clamor, 
 
 Above the voice of wrong. 
 
 No creature of God 's too lowly 
 To murmur peace and praise : 
 
 When the starry nights grow silent, 
 Then speak the sunny days. 
 
 So leave thy sick heart's fancies, 
 
 And lend thy little voice 
 To the silver song of glory 
 
 That bids the world rejoice. 
 
 GIVE. 
 
 See the rivers flowing 
 
 Downwards to the sea, 
 Pouring all their treasures 
 
 Bountiful and free : 
 Yet to help their giving 
 
 Hidden springs arise ; 
 Or, if need be, showers 
 
 Feed them from the skies ! 
 
 Watch the princely flowers 
 Their rich fragrance spread, 
 
 Load the air with perfumes, 
 Erom their beauty shed : 
 
80 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 Yet their lavish spending 
 Leaves them not in dearth, 
 
 With fresh life replenished 
 By their mother earth I 
 
 Give thy heart's best treasures, — 
 
 From fair Nature learn ; 
 Give thy love — and ask not, 
 
 Wait not a return ! 
 And the more thou spendest 
 
 From thy little store, 
 With a double bounty 
 
 God will give thee more. 
 
 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 It is a dreary evening ; 
 
 The shadows rise and fall : 
 With strange and ghostly changes, 
 
 They flicker on the wall. 
 
 Make the charred logs burn brighter 
 I will show you, by their blaze, 
 
 The half-forgotten record 
 Of bygone things and days. 
 
 Bring here the ancient volume; 
 
 The clasp is old and worn, 
 The gold is dim and tarnished, 
 
 And the faded leaves are torn. 
 
 The dust has gathered on it, — 
 There are so few who care 
 
 To read what Time has written 
 Of joy and sorrow there. 
 
MY JOURNAL. 81 
 
 Look at the first fair pages ; 
 
 Yes, I remember all : 
 The joys now seem so trivial, 
 
 The griefs so poor and small. 
 
 Let ns read the dreams of glory- 
 That childish fancy made ; 
 
 Turn to the next few pages, 
 And see how soon they fade. 
 
 Here, where still waiting, dreaming, 
 
 For some ideal Life, 
 The young heart all unconscious 
 
 Had entered on the strife. 
 
 See how this page is blotted : 
 What, could those tears be mine ? 
 
 How coolly I can read you 
 
 Each blurred and trembling line ! 
 
 Now I can reason calmly, 
 
 And, looking back again, 
 Can see divinest meaning 
 
 Threading each separate pain. 
 
 Here strong resolve — how broken ; 
 
 Eash hope, and foolish fear, 
 And prayers, which God in pity 
 
 Kefused to grant or hear. 
 
 Nay, I will turn the pages 
 
 To where the tale is told 
 Of how a dawn diviner 
 
 Flushed the dark clouds with gold. 
 
82 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 And see, that light has gilded 
 The story, — nor shall set ; 
 
 And, though in mist and shadow, 
 You know I see it yet. 
 
 Here — well, it does not matter, 
 I promised to read all ; 
 
 I know not why I falter, 
 
 Or why my tears should fall ; 
 
 You see each grief is noted ; 
 
 Yet it was better so — 
 I can rejoice to-day — the pain 
 
 Was over, long ago. 
 
 I read — my voice is failing, 
 But you can understand 
 
 How the heart beat that guided 
 This weak and trembling hand. 
 
 Pass over that long struggle, 
 Eead where the comfort came, 
 
 Where the first time is written 
 Within the book your name. 
 
 Again it comes, and oftener, 
 Linked, as it now must be, 
 
 With all the joy or sorrow 
 That Life may bring to me. 
 
 So all the rest — you know it: 
 Now shut the clasp again, 
 
 And put aside the record 
 Of bygone hours of pain. 
 
A CHAIN. 83 
 
 The dust shall gather on it, 
 
 I will not read it more : 
 Give me your hand — what was it 
 
 We were talking of before ? 
 
 I know not why — but tell me 
 Of something gay and bright. 
 
 It is strange — my heart is heavy, 
 And my eyes are dim to-night. 
 
 A CHAIN. 
 
 The bond that links our souls together; 
 
 Will it last through stormy weather ? 
 
 Will it moulder and decay 
 
 As the long hours pass away ? 
 
 Will it stretch if Fate divide us, 
 
 When dark and weary hours have tried us ? 
 
 0, if it look too poor and slight, 
 
 Let us break the links to-night ! 
 
 It was not forged by mortal hands, 
 
 Or clasped with golden bars and bands ; 
 
 Save thine and mine, no other eyes 
 
 The slender link can recognize : 
 
 In the bright light it seems to fade — 
 
 And it is hidden in the shade ; 
 
 While Heaven nor Earth have never heard, 
 
 Or solemn vow, or plighted word. 
 
 Yet what no mortal hand could make, 
 No mortal power can ever break ; 
 What words or vows could never do, 
 No words or vows can make untrue ; 
 And if to other hearts unknown 
 The dearer and the more our own, 
 
84 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 Because too sacred and divine 
 
 For other eyes, save thine and mine. 
 
 And see, though slender, it is made 
 Of Love and Trust, and can they fade ? 
 While, if too slight it seem, to bear 
 The breathings of the summer air, 
 We know that it could bear the weight 
 Of a most heavy heart of late, 
 And as each day and hour flew 
 The stronger for its burden grew. 
 
 And, too, we know and feel again 
 It has been sanctified by pain, 
 For what God deigns to try with sorrow 
 He means not to decay to-morrow ; 
 But through that fiery trial last 
 When earthly ties and bonds are past; 
 What slighter things dare not endure 
 Will make our Love more safe and pure. 
 
 Love shall be purified by Pain, 
 And Pain be soothed by Love again : 
 So let us now take heart and go 
 Cheerfully on, through joy and woe; 
 No change the summer sun can bring, 
 Or the inconstant skies of spring, 
 Or the bleak winter's stormy weather, 
 For we shall meet them, Love, together ! 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 The way is long and dreary, 
 The path is bleak and bare ; 
 Our feet are worn and weary, 
 But we will not despair. 
 
INCOMPLETENESS. 85 
 
 More heavy was Thy burden, 
 More desolate Thy way ; — 
 O Lamb of God who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Have mercy on us. 
 
 The snows lie thick around us 
 In the dark and gloomy night ; 
 And the tempest wails above us, 
 And the stars have hid their light ; 
 But blacker was the darkness 
 Round Calvary's Cross that day ; — 
 O Lamb of God who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Have mercy on us. 
 
 Our hearts are faint with sorrow, 
 Heavy and hard to bear ; 
 For we dread the bitter morrow, 
 But we will not despair : 
 Thou knowest all our anguish, 
 And Thou wilt bid it cease, — 
 Lamb of God who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Give us TJiy Peace I 
 
 INCOMPLETENESS. 
 
 Nothing resting in its own completeness 
 Can have worth or beauty : but alone 
 Because it leads and tends to further sweetness, 
 Euller, higher, deeper than its own. 
 
 Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, 
 Gracious though it be, of her blue hours ; 
 But is hidden in her tender leaning 
 To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers. 
 
86 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly 
 Into Day, which floods the world with light; 
 Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy 
 Just because it ends in starry Night. 
 
 Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow 
 From Strife, that in a far-off future lies ; 
 And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) 
 Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. 
 
 Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
 Towards a truer, deeper Life above ; 
 Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth 
 To a more divine and perfect Love. 
 
 Learn the mystery of Progression duly : 
 Do not call each glorious change, Decay ; 
 But know we only hold our treasures truly, 
 When it seems as if they passed away. 
 
 Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness ; 
 In that want their beauty lies : they roll 
 Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, 
 Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BEEGENZ. 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains 
 
 The fair Lake Constance lies ; 
 In her blue heart reflected 
 
 Shine back the starry skies ; 
 And, watching each white cloudlet 
 
 Float silently and slow, 
 You think a piece of Heaven 
 
 Lies on our earth below ! 
 
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 87 
 
 Midnight is there : and Silence, 
 
 Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, 
 
 Upon a sleeping town : 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city 
 
 Upon the Tyrol shore, 
 Has stood above Lake Constance 
 
 A thousand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers, 
 
 From off their rocky steep, 
 Have cast their trembling shadow 
 
 For ages on the deep : 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, 
 
 A sacred legend know, 
 Of how the town was saved, one night, 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred, 
 
 A Tyrol maid had fled, 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, 
 
 And toil for daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted 
 
 So silently and fast, 
 Seemed to bear farther from her 
 
 The memory of the Past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters, 
 
 Nor asked for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones, 
 
 Their speech seemed no more strange ; 
 And when she led her cattle 
 
 To pasture every day, 
 She ceased to look and wonder 
 
 On which side Bregenz lay. 
 
88 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, 
 
 With longing and with tears ; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
 
 In a deep mist of years ; 
 She heeded not the rumors 
 
 Of Austrian war and strife ; 
 Each day she rose, contented, 
 
 To the calm toils of life. 
 
 Yet, when her master's children 
 
 Would clustering round her stand, 
 She sang them ancient ballads 
 
 Of her own native land ; 
 And when at morn and evening 
 
 She knelt before God's throne, 
 The accents of her childhood 
 
 Rose to her lips alone. 
 
 And so she dwelt : the valley 
 
 More peaceful year by year; 
 When suddenly strange portents 
 
 Of some great deed seemed near. 
 The golden corn was bending 
 
 Upon its fragile stock, 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields, 
 
 Paced up and down in talk. 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered, 
 
 With looks cast on the ground ; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, 
 
 The women gathered round ; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, 
 
 Or work, was put away ; 
 The very children seemed afraid 
 
 To go alone to play. 
 
A LEGEND OF BBEGENZ. 89 
 
 One day, out in the meadow 
 
 With strangers from the town, 
 Some secret plan discussing, 
 
 The men walked up and down. 
 Yet now and then seemed watching 
 
 A strange uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees, 
 
 That stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled, 
 
 Then care and doubt were fled ; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted ; 
 
 The board was nobly spread. 
 The elder of the village 
 
 Rose up, his glass in hand, 
 And cried, " We drink the downfall 
 
 Of an accursed land ! 
 
 " The night is growing darker, 
 
 Ere one more day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, 
 
 Bregenz shall be our own ! " 
 The women shrank in terror, 
 
 (Yet Pride, too, had her part,) 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden 
 
 Felt death within her heart. 
 
 Before her stood fair Bregenz ; 
 
 Once more her towers arose ; 
 What were the friends beside her ? 
 
 Only her country's foes ! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk, 
 
 The days of childhood flown, 
 The echoes of her mountains, 
 
 Reclaimed her as their own ! 
 
90 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 Nothing she heard around her, 
 
 (Though shouts rang forth again,) 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys, 
 
 The pasture, and the plain ; 
 Before her eyes one vision, 
 
 And in her heart one cry, 
 That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, 
 
 And then, if need be, die ! " 
 
 With trembling haste and breathless, 
 
 With noiseless step, she sped ; 
 Horses and weary cattle 
 
 Were standing in the shed ; 
 She loosed the strong, white charger, 
 
 That fed from out her hand, 
 She mounted, and she turned his head 
 
 Towards her native land. 
 
 Out — out into the darkness — 
 
 Faster, and still more fast ; 
 The smooth grass flies behind her, 
 
 The chestnut wood is past ; 
 She looks up ; clouds are heavy : 
 
 Why is her steed so slow ? — 
 Scarcely the wind beside them 
 
 Can pass them as they go. 
 
 " Faster ! " she cries, " faster ! " 
 
 Eleven the church-bells chime : 
 " God," she cries, " help Bregenz, 
 
 And bring me there in time ! " 
 But louder than bells' ringing, 
 
 Or lowing of the kine, 
 Grows nearer in the midnight 
 
 The rushing of the Rhine. 
 
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 91 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters 
 
 Their headlong gallop check ? 
 The steed draws back in terror, 
 
 She leans upon his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness ; 
 
 The bank is high and steep ; 
 One pause — he staggers forward, 
 
 And plunges in the deep. 
 
 She strives to pierce the blackness, 
 
 And looser throws the rein ; 
 Her steed must breast the waters ■ 
 
 That dash above his mane. 
 How gallantly, how nobly, 
 
 He struggles through the foam, 
 And see — in the far distance 
 
 Shine out the lights of home ! 
 
 Up the steep banks he bears her, 
 
 And now, they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz 
 
 That tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz, 
 
 Just as the midnight rings, 
 And out comes serf and soldier 
 
 To meet the news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight 
 
 Her battlements are manned ; 
 Defiance greets the army 
 
 That marches on the land. 
 And if to deeds heroic 
 
 Should endless fame be paid, 
 Bregenz does well to honor 
 
 The noble Tyrol maid. 
 
92 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished, 
 
 And yet upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises, 
 
 To do her honor still. 
 And there, when Bregenz women 
 
 Sit spinning in the shade, 
 They see in quaint old carving 
 
 The Charger and the Maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, 
 
 By gateway, street, and tower, 
 The warder paces all night long 
 
 And calls each passing hour ; 
 " Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud, 
 
 And then (0 crown of Fame !) 
 When midnight pauses in the skies, 
 
 He calls the maiden's name ! 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, dream of mine I 
 
 I dare not stay ; 
 The hour is come, and time 
 
 Will not delay : 
 Pleasant and dear to me 
 
 Wilt thou remain ; 
 No future hour 
 
 Brings thee again. 
 
 She stands, the Future dim, 
 
 And draws me on, 
 And shows me dearer joys, — 
 
 But thou art gone ! 
 
SOWING AND BE APING. 93 
 
 Treasures and Hopes more fair 
 
 Bears she for me, 
 And yet I linger, 
 
 dream, with thee ! 
 
 Other and brighter days 
 
 Perhaps she brings ; 
 Deeper and holier songs 
 
 Perchance she sings ; 
 But thou and I, fair time, 
 
 We too must sever : — 
 dream of mine, 
 
 Farewell forever ! 
 
 SOWING AND KEAPING. 
 
 Sow with a generous hand ; 
 
 Pause not for toil or pain ; 
 Weary not through the heat of summer, 
 
 Weary not through the cold spring rain ; 
 But wait till the autumn comes 
 
 For the sheaves of golden grain. 
 
 Scatter the seed, and fear not, 
 
 A table will be spread ; 
 What matter if you are too weary 
 
 To eat your hard-earned bread ! 
 Sow, while the earth is broken, 
 
 For the hungry must be fed. 
 
 Sow ; — while the seeds are lying 
 In the warm earth's bosom deep, 
 
 And your warm tears fall upon it, — 
 They will stir in their quiet sleep ; 
 
 And the green blades rise the quicker, 
 Perchance, for the tears you weep. 
 
94 THE STORM. 
 
 Then sow ; — for the hours are fleeting, 
 And the seed must fall to-day ; 
 
 And care not what hands shall reap it, 
 Or if you shall have passed away 
 
 Before the waving cornfields 
 Shall gladden the sunny day. 
 
 Sow ; and look onward, upward, 
 Where the starry light appears, — 
 
 Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, 
 Or your own heart's trembling fears, 
 
 You shall reap in joy the harvest 
 You have sown to-day in tears. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 The tempest rages wild and high, 
 The waves lift up their voice and cry 
 Tierce answers to the angry sky, — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Through the black night and driving rain 
 A ship is struggling, all in vain, 
 To live upon the stormy main ; — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, 
 Vain is it now to strive or dare ; 
 A cry goes up of great despair, — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The stormy voices of the main, 
 The moaning wind and pelting rain 
 Beat on the nursery window-pane : — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
WORDS. 95 
 
 Warm curtained was the little bed, 
 Soft pillowed was the little head ; 
 "The storm will wake the child," they said: — 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Cowering among his pillows white 
 He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, 
 " Father, save those at sea to-night ! " — 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The morning shone all clear and gay, 
 On a ship at anchor in the bay, 
 And on a little child at play, — 
 
 Gloria tibi Domine ! 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 Words are lighter than the cloud-foam 
 Of the restless ocean spray ; 
 
 Vainer than the trembling shadow 
 That the next hour steals away. 
 
 By the fall of summer rain-drops 
 Is the air as deeply stirred ; 
 
 And the rose-leaf that we tread on 
 Will outlive a word. 
 
 Yet, on the dull silence breaking 
 With a lightning flash, a Word, 
 
 Bearing endless desolation 
 
 On its blighting wings, I heard : 
 
 Earth can forge no keener weapon, 
 Dealing surer death and pain, 
 
 And the cruel echo answered 
 Through long years again. 
 
96 WORDS. 
 
 I have known one word hang starlike 
 O'er a dreary waste of years, 
 
 And it only shone the brighter 
 
 Looked at through a mist of tears ; 
 
 While a weary wanderer gathered 
 Hope and heart on Life's dark way, 
 
 By its faithful promise, shining 
 Clearer day by day. 
 
 I have known a spirit, calmer 
 Than the calmest lake, and clear 
 
 As the heavens that gazed upon it, 
 With no wave of hope or fear ; 
 
 But a storm had swept across it, 
 And its deepest depths were stirred, 
 
 (Never, never more to slumber,) 
 Only by a word. 
 
 I have known a word more gentle 
 Than the breath of summer air ; 
 In a listening heart it nestled, 
 
 And it lived forever there. 
 Not the beating of its prison 
 
 Stirred it ever, night or day ; 
 Only with the heart's last throbbing 
 Could it fade away. 
 
 Words are mighty, words are living : 
 Serpents with their venomous stings, 
 
 Or bright angels, crowding round us, 
 With heaven's light upon their wings 
 
 Every word has its own spirit, 
 True or false, that never dies ; 
 
 Every word man's lips have uttered 
 Echoes in God's skies. 
 
A TRYST WITH DEATH. 97 
 
 A LOVE T0KE3T. 
 
 Do you grieve no costly offering 
 
 To the Lady you can make ? 
 One there is, and gifts less worthy 
 
 Queens have stooped to take. 
 
 Take a Heart of virgin silver, 
 
 Fashion it with heavy blows, 
 Cast it into Love's hot furnace 
 
 When it fiercest glows. 
 
 With Pain's sharpest point transfix it, 
 
 And then carve, in letters fair, 
 Tender dreams and quaint devices, 
 
 Fancies sweet and rare. 
 
 Set within it Hope's blue sapphire, 
 
 Many-changing opal fears, 
 Blood-red ruby-stones of daring, 
 
 Mixed with pearly tears. 
 
 And when you have wrought and labored 
 
 Till the gift is all complete, 
 You may humbly lay your offering 
 
 At the Lady's feet. 
 
 Should her mood perchance be gracious, 
 
 With disdainful, smiling pride, 
 She will place it with the trinkets 
 
 Glittering at her side. 
 
 A TRYST WITH DEATH. 
 
 I am footsore and very weary, 
 
 But I travel to meet a Friend : 
 The way is long and dreary, 
 
 But I know that it soon must end. 
 
98 A TRYST WITH DEATH. 
 
 He is travelling fast like the whirlwind, 
 And though I creep slowly on, 
 
 We are drawing nearer, nearer, 
 And the journey is almost done. 
 
 Through the heat of many summers, 
 Through many a springtime rain, 
 
 Through long autumns and weary winters, 
 I have hoped to meet him, in vain. 
 
 I know that he will not fail me, 
 So I count every hour chime, 
 
 Every throb of my own heart's beating, 
 That tells of the flight of Time. 
 
 On the day of my birth he plighted 
 
 His kingly word to me : — 
 I have seen him in dreams so often, 
 
 That I know what his smile must be. 
 
 I have toiled through the sunny woodland, 
 Through fields that basked in the light ; 
 
 And through the lone paths in the forest 
 I crept in the dead of night. 
 
 I will not fear at his coming, 
 
 Although I must meet him alone ; 
 
 He will look in my eyes so gently, 
 And take my hand in his own. 
 
 Like a dream all my toil will vanish, 
 When I lay my head on his breast : 
 
 But the journey is very weary, 
 And he only can give me rest ! 
 
FIDELIS. 99 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 You have taken back the promise 
 
 That you spoke so long ago ; 
 Taken back the heart you gave me, — 
 
 I must even let it go. 
 Where Love once has breathed, Pride dieth i 
 
 So I struggled, but in vain, 
 First to keep the links together, 
 
 Then to piece the broken chain. 
 
 But it might not be — so freely 
 
 All your friendship I restore, 
 And the heart that I had taken 
 
 As my own forevermore. 
 No shade of reproach shall touch you, 
 
 Dread no more a claim from me: 
 But I will not have you fancy 
 
 That I count myself as free. 
 
 I am bound by the old promise ; 
 
 What can break that golden chain ? 
 Not even the words that you have spoken, 
 
 Or the sharpness of my pain : 
 Do you think, because you fail me 
 
 And draw back your hand to-day, 
 That from out the heart I gave you 
 
 My strong love can fade away ? 
 
 It will live. No eyes may see it ; 
 
 In my soul it will lie deep, 
 Hidden from all ; but I shall feel it 
 
 Often stirring in its sleep. 
 
 LofC. 
 
100 A SHADOW. 
 
 So remember, that the friendship, 
 Which you now think poor and vain, 
 
 Will endure in hope and patience, 
 Till you ask for it again. 
 
 Perhaps in some long twilight hour, 
 
 Like those we have known of old, 
 When past shadows gather round you, 
 
 And your present friends grow cold, 
 You may stretch your hands out towards me, 
 
 Ah ! you will — I know not when — 
 I shall nurse my love and keep it 
 
 Faithfully, for you, till then. 
 
 A SHADOW. 
 
 What lack the valleys and mountains 
 
 That once were green and gay ? 
 What lack the babbling fountains ? 
 Their voice is sad to-day. 
 Only the sound of a voice, 
 Tender and sweet and low, 
 That made the earth rejoice, 
 A year ago ! 
 
 What lack the tender flowers ? 
 
 A shadow is on the sun : 
 What lack the merry hours, 
 
 That I long that they were done ? 
 Only two smiling eyes, 
 That told of joy and mirth; 
 They are shining in the skies, 
 I mourn on earth ! 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. 101 
 
 What lacks my heart, that makes it 
 
 So weary and full of pain, 
 That trembling Hope forsakes it, 
 Never to come again ? 
 Only another heart, 
 Tender and all mine own, 
 In the still grave it lies ; 
 I weep alone ! 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 My Life you ask of ? why, you know 
 
 Full soon my little Life is told ; 
 
 It has had no great joy or woe, 
 
 For I am only twelve years old. 
 
 Erelong I hope I shall have been 
 
 On my first voyage, and wonders seen. 
 
 Some princess I may help to free 
 
 From pirates on a far-off sea ; 
 
 Or, on some desert isle be left, 
 
 Of friends and shipmates all bereft. 
 
 For the first time I venture forth 
 From our blue mountains of the north. 
 My kinsman kept the lodge that stood 
 Guarding the entrance near the wood, 
 By the stone gateway gray and old, 
 With quaint devices carved about, 
 And broken shields ; while dragons bold 
 Glared on the common world without : 
 And the long trembling ivy spray 
 Half hid the centuries' decay. 
 In solitude and silence grand 
 The castle towered above the land : 
 
102 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 The castle of the Earl, whose name 
 
 (Wrapped in old bloody legends) came 
 
 Down through the times when Truth and Right 
 
 Bent down to armed Pride and Might. 
 
 He owned the country far and near ; 
 
 And, for some weeks in every year, 
 
 (When the brown leaves were falling fast 
 
 And the long, lingering autumn past,) 
 
 He would come down to hunt the deer, 
 
 With hound and horse in splendid pride. 
 
 The story lasts the live-long year, 
 
 The peasant's winter evening fills, 
 
 When he is gone and they abide 
 
 In the lone quiet of their hills. 
 
 I longed, too, for the happy night, 
 When, all with torches flaring bright, 
 The crowding villagers would stand, 
 A patient, eager, waiting band, 
 Until the signal ran like flame, 
 " They come ! " and, slackening speed, they came. 
 Outriders first, in pomp and state, 
 Pranced on their horses through the gate ; 
 Then the four steeds as black as night, 
 All decked with trappings blue and white, 
 Drew through the crowd that opened wide, 
 The Earl and Countess side by side. 
 The stern grave Earl, with formal smile 
 And glisteoing eyes and stately pride, 
 Could ne'er my childish gaze beguile 
 From the fair presence by his side. 
 The lady's soft sad glance, her eyes, 
 (Like stars that shone in summer skies,) 
 Her pure white face so calmly bent, 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. 103 
 
 With gentle greetings round her sent ; 
 Her look, that always seemed to gaze 
 Where the blue past had closed again 
 Over some happy shipwrecked days, 
 With all their freight of love and pain : 
 She did not even seem to see 
 The little lord upon her knee. 
 And yet he was like angel fair, 
 With rosy cheeks and golden hair, 
 That fell on shoulders white as snow : 
 But the blue eyes that shone below 
 His clustering rings of auburn curls 
 Were not his mother's, but the Earl's. 
 
 I feared the Earl, so cold and grim, 
 I never dared be seen by him. 
 When through our gate he used to ride, 
 My kinsman Walter bade me hide ; 
 He said he was so stern. 
 So, when the hunt came past our way, 
 I always hastened to obey, 
 Until I heard the bugles play 
 The notes of their return. 
 But she, — my very heart-strings stir 
 Whene'er I speak or think of her, — 
 The whole wide world could never see 
 A noble lady such as she, 
 So full of angel charity. 
 
 Strange things of her our neighbors told 
 In the long winter evenings cold, 
 Around the fire. They would draw near 
 And speak half-whispering, as in fear ; 
 As if they thought the Earl could hear 
 
104 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 Their treason 'gainst his name. 
 
 They thought the story that his pride 
 
 Had stooped to wed a low-born bride, 
 
 A stain upon his fame. 
 
 Some said 't was false ; there could not be 
 
 Such blot on his nobility : 
 
 But others vowed that they had heard 
 
 The actual story word for word, 
 
 From one who well my lady knew, 
 
 And had declared the story true. 
 
 In a far village, little known 
 She dwelt — so ran the tale — alone. 
 A widowed bride, yet, oh ! so bright, 
 Shone through the mist of grief, her charms ; 
 They said it was the loveliest sight — 
 She with her bab}' in her arms. 
 The Earl, one summer morning, rode 
 By the sea-shore where she abode ; 
 Again he came — that vision sweet 
 Drew him reluctant to her feet. 
 Fierce must the struggle in his heart 
 Have been, between his love and pride, 
 Until he chose that wondrous part, 
 To ask her to become his bride. 
 Yet, ere his noble name she bore, 
 He made her vow that nevermore 
 She would behold her child again, 
 But hide his name and hers from men. 
 The trembling promise duly spoken, 
 All links of the low past were broken ; 
 And she arose to take her stand 
 Amid the nobles of the land. 
 Then all would wonder — could it be 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. 105 
 
 That one so lowly born as she, 
 Kaised to such height of bliss, should seem 
 Still living in some weary dream ? 
 'T is true she bore with calmest grace 
 The honors of her lofty place, 
 Yet never smiled, in peace or joy, 
 Not even to greet her princely boy. 
 She heard, with face of white despair, 
 The cannon thunder through the air, 
 That she had given the Earl an heir. 
 Nay, even more, (they whispered low, 
 As if they scarce durst fancy so,) 
 That, through her lofty wedded life, 
 No word, no tone, betrayed the wife. 
 Her look seemed ever in the past ; 
 Never to him it grew more sweet ; 
 The self-same weary glance she cast 
 Upon the greyhound at her feet, 
 As upon him, who bade her claim 
 The crowning honor of his name. 
 
 This gossip, if old Walter heard, 
 He checked it with a scornful word : 
 I never durst such tales repeat ; 
 He was too serious and discreet 
 To speak of what his lord might do ; 
 Besides, he loved my lady too. 
 And many a time, I recollect, 
 They were together in the wood ; 
 He, with an air of grave respect, 
 And earnest look, uncovered stood. 
 And though their speech I never heard, 
 (Save now and then a louder word,) 
 I saw he spake as none but one 
 
106 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 She loved and trusted durst have done ; 
 
 For oft I watched them in the shade 
 
 That the close forest branches made, 
 
 Till slanting golden sunbeams came 
 
 And smote the fir-trees into flame, 
 
 A radiant glory round her lit, 
 
 Then down her white robes seemed to flit, 
 
 Gilding the brown leaves on the ground, 
 
 And all the waving ferns around. 
 
 While by some gloomy pine she leant 
 
 And he in earnest talk would stand, 
 
 I saw the tear-drops, as she bent, 
 
 Fall on the flowers in her hand. — 
 
 Strange as it seemed and seems to be, 
 
 That one so sad, so cold as she, 
 
 Could love a little child like me, 
 
 Yet so it was. I never heard 
 
 Such tender words as she would say, 
 
 And murmurs, sweeter than a word, 
 
 "Would breathe upon me as I lay. 
 
 While I, in smiling joy, would rest, 
 
 For hours, my head upon her breast. 
 
 Our neighbors said that none could see 
 
 In me the common childish charms, 
 
 (So grave and still I used to be,) 
 
 And yet she held me in her arms, 
 
 In a fond clasp, so close, so tight, 
 
 I often dream of it at night. 
 
 She bade me tell her all, — no other 
 
 My childish thoughts e'er cared to know : 
 
 For I — I never knew my mother ; 
 
 I was an orphan long ago. 
 
 And I could all my fancies pour, 
 
 That gentle, loving face before. 
 
TEE SAILOR BOY. 107 
 
 She liked to hear me tell her all ; 
 How that day I had climbed the tree, 
 To make the largest fir-cones fall ; 
 And how one day I hoped to be 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea, — 
 She loved to hear it all ! 
 
 Then wondrous things she used to tell, 
 Of the strange dreams that she had known. 
 I used to love to hear them well, 
 If only for her sweet low tone, 
 Sometimes so sad, although I knew 
 That such things never could be true. 
 One day she told me such a tale 
 It made me grow all cold and pale, 
 The fearful thing she told ! 
 Of a poor woman mad and wild 
 Who coined the life-blood of her child, 
 And, tempted by a fiend, had sold 
 The heart out of her breast for gold. 
 But when she saw me frightened seem, 
 She smiled, and said it was a dream. 
 When I look back and think of her, 
 My very heart-strings seem to stir; 
 How kind, how fair she was, how good, 
 I cannot tell you. If I could, 
 You, too, would love her. The mere thought 
 Of her great love for me has brought 
 Tears in my eyes : though far away, 
 It seems as it were yesterday. 
 And just as when I look on high, 
 Through the blue silence of the sky, 
 Fresh stars shine out, and more and more, 
 Where I could see so few before ; 
 
108 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 So, the more steadily I gaze 
 
 Upon those far-off misty days, 
 
 Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh memories start 
 
 Before my eyes and in my heart. 
 
 I can remember how one day 
 
 (Talking in silly childish way) 
 
 I said how happy I should be 
 
 If I were like her son, — as fair, 
 
 With just such bright blue eyes as he, 
 
 And such long locks of golden hair. 
 
 A strange smile on her pale face broke, 
 
 And in strange, solemn words she spoke : 
 
 " My own, my darling one, — no, no ! 
 I love you, far, far better so. 
 I would not change the look you bear, 
 Or one wave of your dark brown hair. 
 The mere glance of your sunny eyes, 
 Deep in my deepest soul I prize 
 Above that baby fair ! 
 Not one of all the Earl's proud line 
 In beauty ever matched with thine ; 
 And, 't is by thy dark locks thou art 
 Bound even faster round my heart, 
 And made more wholly mine ! " 
 And then she paused, and weeping said, 
 " You are like one who now is dead, — 
 Who sleeps in a far-distant grave. 
 0, may God grant that you may be 
 As noble and as good as he, 
 As gentle and as brave ! " 
 Then in my childish way I cried, 
 " The one you tell me of who died, 
 Was he as noble as the Earl ? " 
 I see her red lips scornful curl, 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. 109 
 
 I feel her hold my hand again, 
 
 So tightly, that I shrink in pain, — 
 
 I seem to hear her say, 
 
 " He whom I tell you of, who died, 
 
 He was so noble and so gay, 
 
 So generous and so brave, 
 
 That the proud Earl by his dear side 
 
 Would look a craven slave." 
 
 She paused ; then, with a quivering sigh, 
 
 She laid her hand upon my brow : 
 
 " Live like him, darling, and so die. 
 
 Kemember that he tells you now, 
 
 True peace, real honor, and content, 
 
 In cheerful, pious toil abide ; 
 
 That gold and splendor are but sent 
 
 To curse our vanity and pride." 
 
 One day some childish fever pain 
 Burnt in my veins and fired my brain. 
 Moaning, I turned from side to side ; 
 And, sobbing in my bed, I cried, 
 Till night in calm and darkness crept 
 Around me, and at last I slept. 
 When suddenly I woke to see 
 The Lady bending over me. 
 The drops of cold November rain 
 Were falling from her long, damp hair; 
 Her anxious eyes were dim with pain ; 
 Yet she looked wondrous fair. 
 Arrayed for some great feast she came, 
 With stones that shone and burnt like flame ; 
 Wound round her neck, like some bright snake, 
 And set like stars within her hair, 
 They sparkled so, they seemed to make 
 
110 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 A glory everywhere. 
 
 I felt her tears upon my face, 
 
 Her kisses on my eyes ; 
 
 And a strange thought I could not trace 
 
 I felt within my heart arise ; 
 
 And, half in feverish pain, I said : 
 
 " if my mother were not dead ! " 
 
 And Walter bade me sleep ; but she 
 
 Said, " Is it not the same to thee 
 
 That / watch by thy bed ? " 
 
 I answered her, " I love you, too ; 
 
 But it can never be the same ; 
 
 She was no Countess like to you, 
 
 Nor wore such sparkling stones of flame." 
 
 the wild look of fear and dread ! 
 The cry she gave of bitter woe ! 
 
 1 often wonder what I said 
 
 To make her moan and shudder so. 
 Through the long night she tended me 
 With such sweet care and charity. 
 But I should weary you to tell 
 All that I know and love so well : 
 Yet one night more stands out alone 
 With a sad sweetness all its own. 
 
 The wind blew loud that dreary night : 
 Its wailing voice I well remember ; 
 The stars shone out so large and bright 
 Upon the frosty fir-boughs white, 
 That dreary night of cold December. 
 I saw old Walter silent stand, 
 Watching the soft, white flakes of snow 
 With looks I could not understand, 
 Of strange perplexity and woe. 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. Ill 
 
 At last he turned and took my hand, 
 
 And said the Countess just had sent 
 
 To bid us come ; for she would fain 
 
 See me once more, before she went 
 
 Away — never to come again. 
 
 We came in silence through the wood 
 
 (Our footfall was the only sound) 
 
 To where the great white castle stood, 
 
 With darkness shadowing it around. 
 
 Breathless, we trod with cautious care 
 
 Up the great echoing marble stair ; 
 
 Trembling, by Walter's hand I held, 
 
 Scared by the splendors I beheld : 
 
 Now thinking, " Should the Earl appear ! " 
 
 Now looking up with giddy fear 
 
 To the dim, vaulted roof that spread 
 
 Its gloomy arches overhead. 
 
 Long corridors we softly passed, 
 
 (My heart was beating loud and fast,) 
 
 And reached the Lady's room at last : 
 
 A strange, faint odor seemed to weigh 
 
 Upon the dim and darkened air ; 
 
 One shaded lamp, with softened ray, 
 
 Scarce showed the gloomy splendor there. 
 
 The dull red brands were burning low, 
 
 And yet a fitful gleam of light 
 
 Would now and then, with sudden glow, 
 
 Start forth, then sink again in night. 
 
 I gazed around, yet half in fear, 
 
 Till Walter told me to draw near : 
 
 And in the strange and flickering light, 
 
 Towards the Lady's bed I crept ; 
 
 All folded round with snowy white, 
 
 She lay ; (one would have said she slept ;) 
 
112 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 So still the look of that white face, 
 
 It seemed as it were carved in stone, 
 
 I paused before I dared to place 
 
 Within her cold white hand my own. 
 
 But, with a smile of sweet surprise, 
 
 She turned to me her dreamy eyes ; 
 
 And slowly, as if life were pain, 
 
 She drew me in her arms to lie : 
 
 She strove to speak, and strove in vain ; 
 
 Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh. 
 
 The throbs that seemed to shake her breast, 
 
 The trembling clasp, so loose and weak, 
 
 At last grew calmer, and at rest ; 
 
 And then she strove once more to speak : 
 
 " My God, I thank thee, that my pain 
 
 Of day by day, and year by year, 
 
 Has not been suffered all in vain, 
 
 And I may die while he is near. 
 
 I will not fear but that Thy grace 
 
 Has swept away my sin and woe, 
 
 And sent this little angel face, 
 
 In my last hour, to tell me so." 
 
 (And here her voice grew faint and low,) 
 
 "My child, where'er thy life may go, 
 
 To know that thou art brave and true, 
 
 Will pierce the highest heavens through, 
 
 And even there my soul shall be 
 
 More joyful for this thought of thee." 
 
 She folded her white hands, and stayed ; 
 
 All cold and silently she lay : 
 
 I knelt beside the bed, and prayed 
 
 The prayer she used to make me say. 
 
 I said it many times, and then 
 
 She did not move, but seemed to be 
 
 In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. 
 
THE SAILOR BOY. 113 
 
 No sound woke in the silent room, 
 Or broke the dim and solemn gloom, 
 Save when the brands that burnt so low, 
 With noisy, fitful gleam of light, 
 Would spread around a sudden glow, 
 Then sink in silence and in night. 
 How long I stood I do not know : 
 At last poor Walter came, and said 
 (So sadly) that we now must go, 
 And whispered, she we loved was dead. 
 He bade me kiss her face once more, 
 Then led me sobbing to the door. 
 I scarcely knew what dying meant, 
 Yet a strange grief, before unknown, 
 Weighed on my spirit as we went 
 And left her lying all alone. 
 
 We went to the far North once more, 
 To seek the well-remembered home 
 Where my poor kinsman dwelt before, 
 Whence now he was too old to roam ; 
 And there six happy years we past, 
 Happy and peaceful till the last ; 
 When poor old Walter died, and he 
 Blessed me and said I now might be 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea. 
 And so I go ; and yet in spite 
 Of all the joys I long to know, 
 Though I look onward with delight, 
 With something of regret I go ; 
 And young or old, on land or sea, 
 One guiding memory I shall take, — 
 Of what She prayed that I might be, 
 And what I will be for her sake ! 
 
114 THE LESSON OF THE WAR. 
 
 A CROWN OF SORROW. 
 
 A sorrow, wet with early tears 
 
 Yet bitter, had been long with me ; 
 I wearied of this weight of years, 
 And would be free. 
 
 I tore my Sorrow from my heart, 
 
 I cast it far away in scorn ; 
 Right joyful that we two could part, 
 Yet most forlorn. 
 
 I sought (to take my Sorrow's place) 
 Over the world for flower or gem ; 
 But she had had an ancient grace 
 Unknown to them. 
 
 I took once more with strange delight 
 
 My slighted Sorrow ; proudly now 
 I wear it, set with stars of light, 
 Upon my brow. 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE WAR. 
 1855. 
 
 The feast is spread through England 
 
 For rich and poor to-day ; 
 Greetings and laughter may be there, 
 
 But thoughts are far away ; 
 Over the stormy ocean, 
 
 Over the dreary track, 
 Where some are gone, whom England 
 
 Will never welcome back. 
 
THE LESSON OF THE WAR. 115 
 
 Breathless she waits, and listens 
 
 Eor every eastern breeze 
 That bears upon its bloody wings 
 
 News from beyond the seas. 
 The leafless branches stirring 
 
 Make many a watcher start ; 
 The distant tramp of steed may send 
 
 A throb from heart to heart. 
 
 The rulers of the nation, 
 
 The poor ones at their gate, 
 With the same eager wonder 
 
 The same great news await. 
 The poor man's stay and comfort, 
 
 The rich man's joy and pride, 
 Upon the bleak Crimean shore 
 
 Are fighting side by side. 
 
 The bullet comes — and either 
 
 A desolate hearth may see ; 
 And God alone to-night knows where 
 
 The vacant place may be ! 
 The dread that stirs the peasant 
 
 Thrills nobles' hearts with fear ; 
 Yet above selfish sorrow 
 
 Both hold their country dear. 
 
 The rich man who reposes 
 
 In his ancestral shade, 
 The peasant at his ploughshare, 
 
 The worker at his trade, 
 Each one his all has perilled, 
 
 Each has the same great stake, 
 Each soul can but have patience, 
 
 Each heart can only break ! 
 
116 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 Hushed is all party clamor ; 
 
 One thought in every heart, 
 One dread in every household, 
 
 Has bid such strife depart. 
 England has called her children ; 
 
 Long silent — the word came 
 That lit the smouldering ashes 
 
 Through all the land to flame. 
 
 you who toil and suffer, 
 
 You gladly heard the call ; 
 But those you sometimes envy, 
 
 Have they not given their all ? 
 you who rule the nation, 
 
 Take now the toil-worn hand : 
 Brothers you are in sorrow, 
 
 In duty to your land. 
 Learn but this noble lesson 
 
 Ere Peace returns again, 
 And the life-blood of Old England 
 
 Will not be shed in vain. 
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 1855. 
 
 Last night, when weary silence fell on all, 
 And starless skies arose so dim and vast, 
 
 I heard the Spirit of the Present call 
 Upon the sleeping Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Ear off and near, I saw their radiance shine, 
 
 And listened while they spoke of deeds divine. 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 My deeds are writ in iron ; 
 My glory stands alone ; 
 
THE TWO SPIRITS. 117 
 
 A veil of shadowy honor 
 
 Upon my tombs is thrown ; 
 The great names of my heroes 
 
 Like gems in history lie ; 
 To live they deemed ignoble, 
 
 Had they the chance to die ! 
 
 TJie Spirit of the Present. 
 
 My children, too, are honored ; 
 
 Dear shall their memory be 
 To the proud lands that own them ; 
 
 Dearer than thine to thee ; 
 For, though they hold that sacred, 
 
 Is God's great gift of life, 
 At the first call of duty 
 
 They rush into the strife ! 
 
 TJie Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Then, with all valiant precepts 
 
 Woman's soft heart was fraught ; 
 " Death, not dishonor," echoed 
 
 The war-cry she had taught. 
 Fearless and glad, those mothers, 
 
 At bloody deaths elate, 
 Cried out they bore their children 
 
 Only for such a fate ! 
 
 The Spirit of the Present. 
 
 Though such stern laws of honor 
 
 Are faded now away, 
 Yet many a mourning mother, 
 
 With nobler grief than they, 
 
118 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 Bows down in sad submission : 
 
 The heroes of the fight 
 Learnt at her knee the lesson, 
 
 " For God and for the Eight ! " 
 
 The S2)irit of the Past. 
 No voice there spake of sorrow : 
 
 They saw the noblest fall 
 With no repining murmur ; 
 
 Stern Fate was lord of all. 
 And when the loved ones perished, 
 
 One cry alone arose, 
 Waking the startled echoes, 
 
 " Vengeance upon our foes ! " 
 
 TJie Spirit of the Present. 
 
 Grief dwells in France and England 
 
 For many a noble son ; 
 Yet louder than the sorrow, 
 
 " Thy will, God, be done ! " 
 From desolate homes is rising 
 
 One prayer, — " Let carnage cease ! 
 On friends and foes have mercy, 
 
 Lord, and give us peace ! " 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Then, every hearth was honored 
 
 That sent its children forth, 
 To spread their country's glory, 
 
 And gain her south or north. 
 Then, little recked they numbers, 
 
 No band would ever fly, 
 But stern and resolute they stood 
 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
TEE TWO SPIRITS. 119 
 
 Tlie Spirit of the Present. 
 
 And now from France and England 
 
 Their dearest and their best 
 Go forth to succor freedom, 
 
 To help the much oppressed ; 
 Now, let the far-off Future 
 
 And Past bow down to-day, 
 Before the few young hearts that hold 
 
 Whole armaments at bay. 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Then, each one strove for honor, 
 
 Each for a deathless name ; 
 Love, home, rest, joy, were offered 
 
 As sacrifice to Fame. 
 They longed that in far ages 
 
 Their deeds might still be told, 
 And distant times and nations 
 
 Their names in honor hold. 
 
 TJie Spirit of the Present. 
 
 Though nursed by such old legends, 
 
 Our heroes of to-day 
 Go cheerfully to battle 
 
 As children go to play ; 
 They gaze with awe and wonder 
 
 On your great names of pride, 
 Unconscious that their own will shine 
 
 In glory side by side ! 
 
 Day dawned ; and as the Spirits passed away, 
 Methought I saw, in the dim morning gray, 
 The Past's bright diadem had paled before 
 The starry crown the glorious Present wore. 
 
120 A LITTLE LONGER. 
 
 A LITTLE LONGER. 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 
 Shall violets bloom for thee, and sweet birds sing ; 
 
 And the lime-branches, where soft winds are 
 
 blowing, 
 Shall murmur the sweet promise of the Spring ! 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 Thou shalt behold the quiet of the morn ; 
 While tender grasses and awakening flowers 
 Send up a golden mist to greet the dawn ! 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 The tenderness of twilight shall be thine, 
 The rosy clouds that float o'er dying daylight, 
 Nor fade till trembling stars begin to shine. 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 
 Shall starry night be beautiful for thee ; 
 
 And the cold moon shall look through the blue 
 
 silence, 
 Flooding her silver path upon the sea. 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 Life shall be thine ; life with its power to will ; 
 Life with its strength to bear, to love, to conquer, 
 Bringing its thousand joys thy heart to fill. 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 
 
 The voices thou hast loved shall charm thine ear ; 
 
 And thy true heart, that now beats quick to hear 
 
 them, 
 A little longer yet shall hold them dear. 
 
A LITTLE LONGER. 121 
 
 A little longer yet — joy while thou mayest; 
 Love and rejoice ! for time has naught in store: 
 And soon the darkness of the grave shall bid thee 
 Love and rejoice and feel and know no more. 
 
 A little longer still — Patience, Beloved: 
 
 A little longer still, ere Heaven unroll 
 
 The Glory, and the Brightness, and the Wonder, 
 
 Eternal, and divine, that waits thy Soul ! 
 
 A little longer ere Life true, immortal, 
 
 (Not this our shadowy Life,) will be thine own ; 
 
 And thou shalt stand where winged Archangels 
 
 worship, 
 And trembling bow before the Great White 
 
 Throne. 
 
 A little longer still, and Heaven awaits thee, 
 And fills thy spirit with a great delight ; 
 Then our pale joys will seem a dream forgotten, 
 Our Sun a darkness, and our Day a Night. 
 
 A little longer, and thy Heart, Beloved, 
 
 Shall beat forever with a Love divine ; 
 
 And joy so pure, so mighty, so eternal, 
 
 No creature knows and lives, will then be thine. 
 
 A little longer yet — and angel voices 
 Shall ring in heavenly chant upon thine ear; 
 Angels and Saints await thee, and God needs 
 
 thee: 
 Beloved, can we bid thee linger here ! 
 
122 GRIEF. 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 An ancient enemy have I, 
 And either he or I must die ; 
 For he never leaveth me, 
 Never gives my soul relief, 
 Never lets my sorrow cease, 
 Never gives my spirit peace, — 
 For mine enemy is Grief ! 
 Pale he is, and sad and stern ; 
 And whene'er he cometh nigh, 
 Blue and dim the torches burn, 
 Pale and shrunk the roses turn ; 
 While my heart that he has pierced 
 Many a time with fiery lance, 
 Beats and trembles at his glance ; 
 Clad in burning steel is he, 
 All my strength he can defy ; 
 For he never leaveth me — 
 And one of us must die ! 
 
 I have said, " Let ancient sages 
 Charm me from my thoughts of pain ! " 
 So I read their deepest pages, 
 And I strove to think — in vain ! 
 Wisdom's cold, calm words I tried, 
 But he was seated by my side ; — 
 Learning I have won in vain ; 
 She cannot rid me of my pain. 
 
 When at last soft sleep comes o'er me, 
 A cold hand is on my heart ; 
 Stern sad eyes are there before me ; 
 Not in dreams will he depart : 
 
GRIEF. 123 
 
 And when the same dreary vision 
 From my weary brain has fled, 
 Daylight brings the living phantom, 
 He is seated by my bed, 
 Bending o'er me all the while, 
 With his cruel, bitter smile, 
 Ever with me, ever nigh ; — 
 And either he or I must die ! 
 
 Then I said, long time ago, 
 " I will flee to other climes, 
 I will leave mine ancient foe ! " 
 Though I wandered far and wide — 
 Still he followed at my side. 
 
 And I fled where the blue waters 
 Bathe the sunny isles of Greece ; 
 Where Thessalian mountains rise 
 Up against the purple skies ; 
 Where a haunting memory liveth 
 In each wood and cave and rill ; 
 But no dream of gods could help me, — 
 He went with me still ! 
 
 I have been where Nile's broad river 
 Flows upon the burning sand ; 
 Where the desert monster broodeth, 
 Where the Eastern palm-trees stand; 
 I have been where pathless forests 
 Spread a black eternal shade ; 
 Where the lurking panther hiding 
 Glares from every tangled glade ; 
 But in vain I wandered wide, 
 He was always by my side ! 
 
124 GRIEF. 
 
 Then I fled where snows eternal 
 Cold and dreary ever lie ; 
 Where the rosy lightnings gleam, 
 Flashing through the northern sky ; 
 Where the red sun turns again 
 Back upon his path of pain ; — 
 But a shadowy form was with me, — 
 I had fled in vain ! 
 
 I have thought, " If I can gaze 
 Sternly on him he will fade, 
 For I know that he is nothing 
 But a dim ideal shade." 
 As I gazed at him the more, 
 He grew stronger than before ! 
 
 Then I said, " Mine arm is strong, 
 I will make him turn and flee " ; 
 I have struggled with him long — 
 But that could never be ! 
 
 Once I battled with him so 
 That I thought I laid him low ; 
 Then in trembling joy I fled, 
 While again and still again 
 Murmuring to myself I said, 
 " Mine old enemy is dead ! " 
 And I stood beneath the stars, 
 When a chill came on my frame, 
 And a fear I could not name, 
 And a sense of quick despair, 
 And, lo ! — mine enemy was there ! 
 
 Listen, for my soul is weary, 
 Weary of its endless woe ; 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 125 
 
 I have called on one to aid me 
 Mightier even than my foe. 
 Strength and hope fail day by day ; 
 I shall cheat him of his prey ; 
 Some day soon, I know not when, 
 He will stab me through and through ; 
 He has wounded me before, 
 But my heart can bear no more ; 
 Pray that hour may come to me, 
 Only then shall I be free ; 
 Death alone has strength to take me 
 Where my foe can never be ; 
 Death, and Death alone, has power 
 To conquer mine old enemy ! 
 
 THE TEIUMPH OF TIME. 
 
 The tender, delicate Flowers, 
 I saw them fanned by a warm western wind, 
 
 Fed by soft summer showers, 
 Shielded by care, and yet, (0 Fate unkind !) 
 Fade in a few short hours. 
 
 The gentle and the gay, 
 Rich in a glorious Future of bright deeds, 
 
 Rejoicing in the day, 
 Are met by Death, who sternly, sadly leads 
 Them far away. 
 
 And Hopes, perfumed and bright, 
 So lately shining, wet with dew and tears, 
 
 Trembling in morning light ; 
 I saw them change to dark and anxious fears 
 Before the night ! 
 
126 A PARTING. 
 
 I wept that all must die 
 " Yet Love," I cried, " doth live, and conquer 
 death—" 
 And time passed by, 
 And breathed on Love, and killed it with his 
 breath 
 Ere Death was nigh. 
 
 More bitter far than all 
 It was to know that Love could change and die ! — 
 
 Hush ! for the ages call, 
 " The Love of God lives through eternity, 
 And conquers all ! " 
 
 A PARTING. 
 
 Without one bitter feeling let us part, — 
 
 And for the years in which your love has shed 
 A radiance like a glory round my head, 
 
 I thank you, yes, I thank you from my heart. 
 
 I thank you for the cherished hope of years, 
 A starry future, dim and yet divine, 
 Winging its way from Heaven to be mine, 
 
 Laden with joy, and ignorant of tears. 
 
 I thank you, yes, I thank you even more 
 
 That my heart learnt not without love to live, 
 But gave and gave, and still had more to give, 
 
 From an abundant and exhaustless store. 
 
 I thank you, and no grief is in these tears ; 
 I thank you, not in bitterness but truth, 
 For the fair vision that adorned my youth 
 
 And glorified so many happy years. 
 
A PARTING. 127 
 
 Yet how much more I thank you that you tore 
 At length the veil your hand had woven away, 
 Which hid my idol was a thing of clay, 
 
 And false the altar I had knelt before. 
 
 I thank you that you taught me the stern truth, 
 (None other could have told and I believed,) 
 That vain had been my life, and I deceived, 
 
 And wasted all the purpose of my youth. 
 
 I thank you that your hand dashed down the 
 § shrine, 
 
 Wherein my idol worship I had paid ; 
 
 Else had I never known a soul was made 
 To serve and worship only the Divine. 
 
 I thank you that the heart I cast away 
 
 On such as you, though broken, bruised, and 
 
 crushed, 
 Now that its fiery throbbing is all hushed, 
 
 Upon a worthier altar I can lay. 
 
 I thank you for the lesson that such love 
 
 Is a perverting of God's royal right, 
 
 That it is made but for the Infinite, 
 And all too great to live except above. 
 
 I thank you for a terrible awaking, 
 
 And if reproach seemed hidden in my pain, 
 And sorrow seemed to cry on your disdain, 
 
 Know that my blessing lay in your forsaking. 
 
 Farewell forever now : in peace we part ; 
 
 And should an idle vision of my tears 
 
 Arise before your soul in after years, 
 Remember that I thank you from my heart ! 
 
128 THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 Dim shadows gather thickly round, and up the 
 
 misty stair they climb, 
 The cloudy stair that upward leads to where the 
 
 closed portals shine, 
 Round which the kneeling spirits wait the opening 
 
 of the Golden Gate. 
 
 And some with eager longing go, still pressing 
 
 forward, hand in hand, 
 And some, with weary step and slow^ look back* 
 
 where their Beloved stand : 
 Yet up the misty stair they climb, led onward by 
 
 the Angel Time. 
 
 As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that 
 
 floods the very air 
 Is but the shadow from within, of the great glory 
 
 hidden there: 
 And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows 
 
 pass within the gate. 
 
 As one by one they enter in, and the stern portals 
 
 close once more, 
 The halo seems to linger round those kneeling 
 
 closest to the door : 
 The joy that lightened from that place shines still 
 
 upon the watcher's face. 
 
 The faint low echo that we hear of far-off music 
 
 seems to fill 
 The silent air with love and fear, and the world's 
 
 clamors all grow still, 
 Until the portals close again, and leave us toiling 
 
 on in pain. 
 
PHANTOMS. 129 
 
 Complain not that the way is long : what road is 
 
 weary that leads there ? 
 But let the Angel take thy hand, and lead thee up 
 
 the misty stair, 
 And then with beating heart await the opening of 
 
 the Golden Gate. 
 
 PHANTOMS. 
 
 Back, ye Phantoms of the Past ; 
 
 In your dreary caves remain : 
 What have I to do with memories 
 
 Of a long-forgotten pain ? 
 
 For my Present is all peaceful, 
 And my Future nobly planned : 
 
 Long ago Time's mighty billows 
 Swept your footsteps from the sand. 
 
 Back into your caves ; nor haunt me 
 With your voices full of woe ; 
 
 I have buried grief and sorrow 
 In the depths of Long-ago. 
 
 See the glorious clouds of morning 
 Roll away, and clear and bright 
 
 Shine the rays of cloudless daylight : - 
 Wherefore will ye moan of night ? 
 
 Never shall my heart be burdened 
 With its ancient woe and fears ; 
 
 I can drive them from my presence, 
 I can check these foolish tears. 
 
130 THANKFULNESS. 
 
 Back, ye Phantoms ; leave, leave me, 
 
 To a new and happy lot ; 
 Speak no more of things departed ; 
 
 Leave me — for I know ye not. 
 
 Can it be that 'mid my gladness 
 
 I must ever hear you wail, 
 Of the grief that wrung my spirit, 
 And that made my cheek so pale ? 
 
 Joy is mine; but your sad voices 
 Murmur ever in mine ear : 
 
 Vain is all the Future's promise, 
 While the dreary Past is here. 
 
 Vain, worse than vain, the Visions 
 That my heart, my life, would fill, 
 
 If the past's relentless phantoms 
 Call upon me still ! 
 
 THANKFULNESS. 
 
 My God, I thank Thee who hast made 
 
 The Earth so bright ; 
 So full of splendor and of joy, 
 
 Beauty and light ; 
 So many glorious things are here, 
 
 Noble and right ! 
 
 I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made 
 
 Joy to abound ; 
 So many gentle thoughts and deeds 
 
 Circling us round, 
 That in the darkest spot of Earth 
 
 Some love is found. 
 
HOMESICKNESS. 131 
 
 I thank Thee more that all our joy- 
 Is touched with pain ; 
 
 That shadows fall on brightest hours ; 
 That thorns remain ; 
 
 So that Earth's bliss may be our guide, 
 And not our chain. 
 
 For Thou who knowest, Lord, how soon 
 
 Our weak heart clings, 
 Hast given us joys, tender and true, 
 
 Yet all with wings, 
 So that we see, gleaming on high, 
 
 Diviner things ! 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept 
 
 The best in store ; 
 We have enough, yet not too much 
 
 To long for more : 
 A yearning for a deeper peace, 
 
 Not known before. 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls, 
 
 Though amply blest, 
 Can never find, although they seek, 
 
 A perfect rest, — 
 Nor ever shall, until they lean 
 
 On Jesus' breast ! 
 
 HOME-SICKNESS. 
 
 Where I am, the halls are gilded, 
 Stored with pictures bright and rare ; 
 
 Strains of deep melodious music 
 Float upon the perfumed air : — 
 
132 HOMESICKNESS. 
 
 Nothing stirs the dreary silence 
 
 Save the melancholy sea, 
 Near the poor and humble cottage, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, the sun is shining, 
 
 And the purple windows glow, 
 Till their rich armorial shadows 
 
 Stain the marble floor below : — 
 Faded autumn leaves are trembling 
 
 On the withered jasmine-tree, 
 Creeping round the little casement, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, the days are passing 
 
 O'er a pathway strewn with flowers ; 
 Song and joy and starry pleasures 
 
 Crown the happy, smiling hours : — 
 Slowly, heavily, and sadly, 
 
 Time with weary wings must flee, 
 Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, the great and noble 
 
 Tell me of renown and fame, 
 And the red wine sparkles highest, 
 
 To do honor to my name : — 
 Far away a place is vacant, 
 
 By a humble hearth, for me, 
 Dying embers dimly show it, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am are glorious dreamings, 
 Science, genius, art divine ; 
 
 And the great minds whom all honor 
 Interchange their thoughts with mine : 
 
WISHES. 133 
 
 A few simple hearts are waiting, 
 
 Longing, wearying, for rne, 
 Far away where tears are falling, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, all think me happy, 
 
 For so well I play my part, 
 None can guess, who smile around me, 
 
 How far distant is my heart, — 
 Par away, in a poor cottage, 
 
 Listening to the dreary sea, 
 Where the treasures of my life are, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 All the fluttering wishes 
 
 Caged within thy heart 
 Beat their wings against it, 
 
 Longing to depart, 
 Till they shake their prison 
 
 With their wounded cry ; 
 Open wide thy heart to-day, 
 
 And let the captives fly. 
 
 Let them first fly upward 
 
 Through the starry air, 
 Till you almost lose them, 
 
 For their home is there ; 
 Then, with outspread pinions, 
 
 Circling round and round, 
 Wing their way wherever 
 
 Want and woe are found. 
 
134 WISHES. 
 
 Where the weary stitcher 
 
 Toils for daily bread ; 
 Where the lonely watcher 
 
 Watches by her dead ; 
 Where, with thin, weak fingers, 
 
 Toiling at the loom, 
 Stand the little children, 
 
 Blighted ere they bloom ; — 
 
 Where, by darkness blinded, 
 
 Groping for the light, 
 With distorted conscience, 
 
 Men do wrong for right ; 
 Where, in the cold shadow, 
 
 By smooth pleasure thrown, 
 Human hearts by hundreds 
 
 Harden into stone ; — 
 
 Where on dusty highways, 
 
 With faint heart and slow, 
 Cursing the glad sunlight, 
 
 Hungry outcasts go ; 
 Where all mirth is silenced, 
 
 And the hearth is chill, 
 For one place is empty, 
 
 And one voice is still. 
 
 Some hearts will be lighter 
 
 While your captives roam 
 For their tender singing, 
 
 Then recall them home ; 
 When the sunny hours 
 
 Into night depart, 
 Softly they will nestle 
 
 In a quiet heart. 
 
THE PEACE OF GOD. 135 
 
 THE PEACE OF GOD. 
 
 We ask for Peace, Lord ! 
 
 Thy children ask Thy Peace ; 
 Not what the world calls rest, 
 
 That toil and care should cease, 
 That through bright sunny hours 
 
 Cairn Life should fleet away, 
 And tranquil night should fade 
 
 In smiling day ; — 
 It is not for such Peace that we would pray. 
 
 We ask for Peace, Lord ! 
 
 Yet not to stand secure, 
 Girt round with iron Pride, 
 
 Contented to endure : 
 Crushing the gentle strings 
 
 That human hearts should know, 
 Untouched by others' joy 
 
 Or others' woe ; — 
 Thou, dear Lord, wilt never teach us so. 
 
 We ask Thy Peace, Lord ! 
 
 Through storm, and fear, and strife, 
 To light and guide us on, 
 
 Through a long, struggling life : 
 While no success or gain 
 
 Shall cheer the desperate fight, 
 Or nerve, what the world calls 
 
 Our wasted might : — 
 Yet pressing through the darkness to the light. 
 
 It is Thine own, O Lord, 
 Who toil while others sleep ; 
 
136 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 Who sow with, loving care 
 
 What other hands shall reap. 
 They lean on Thee entranced, 
 
 In calm and perfect rest : 
 Give us that Peace, Lord, 
 
 Divine and blest, 
 Thou keepest for those hearts who love Thee 
 best. 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 If the dread day that calls thee hence 
 Through a red mist of fear should loom, 
 (Closing in deadliest night and gloom 
 
 Long hours of aching, dumb suspense,) 
 And leave me to my lonely doom, — 
 
 I think, beloved, I could see 
 
 In thy dear eyes the loving light 
 Glaze into vacancy and night, 
 
 And still say, " God is good to me, 
 And all that He decrees is right." 
 
 That, watching thy slow struggling breath, 
 And answering each imperfect sign, 
 I still could pray thy prayer and mine, 
 
 And tell thee, dear, though this was death, 
 That God was love, and love divine. 
 
 Could hold thee in my arms, and lay 
 Upon my heart thy weary head, 
 And meet thy last smile ere it fled ; 
 
 Then hear, as in a dream, one say, 
 " Now all is over, — she is dead." 
 
LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 137 
 
 Could smooth thy garments with fond care, 
 And cross thy hands upon thy breast, 
 And kiss thine eyelids down to rest, 
 
 And yet say no word of despair, 
 
 But, through my sobbing, " It is best." 
 
 Could stifle down the gnawing pain, 
 And say, " We still divide our life, 
 She has the rest, and I the strife, 
 
 And mine the loss, and hers the gain: 
 My ill with bliss for her is rife." 
 
 Then turn, and the old duties take — 
 Alone now — yet with earnest will 
 Gathering sweet, sacred traces still- 
 To help me on, and, for thy sake, 
 My heart and life and soul to fill. 
 
 I think I could check vain, weak tears, 
 
 And toil, — although the world's great space 
 Held nothing but one vacant place, 
 
 And see the dark and weary years 
 Lit only by a vanished grace. 
 
 And sometimes, when the day was o'er, 
 
 Call up the tender past again : 
 
 Its painful joy, its happy pain, 
 And live it over yet once more, 
 
 And say, " But few more years remain." 
 
 And then, when I had striven my best, 
 And all around would smiling say, 
 " See how Time makes all grief decay," 
 
 Would lie down thankfully to rest, 
 And seek thee in eternal day. 
 
138 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 II. 
 
 But if the day should ever rise — 
 It could not and it cannot be — 
 Yet, if the sun should ever see, 
 
 Looking upon us from his skies, 
 
 A day that took thy heart from me ; 
 
 If loving thee still more and more, 
 And still so willing to be blind, 
 I should the bitter knowledge find, 
 
 That Time had eaten out the core 
 Of love, and left the empty rind ; 
 
 If the poor lifeless words, at last, 
 
 (The soul gone, that was once so sweet,) 
 Should cease my eager heart to cheat, 
 
 And crumble back into the past, 
 And show the whole a vain deceit ; 
 
 If I should see thee turn away, 
 
 And know that prayer, and time, and pain, 
 Could no more thy lost love regain, 
 
 Than bid the hours of dying day 
 Gleam in their mid-day noon again ; 
 
 If I should loose thy hand, and know 
 That henceforth we must dwell apart, 
 Since I had seen thy love depart, 
 
 And only count the hours flow 
 
 By the dull throbbing of my heart ; 
 
 If I should gaze and gaze in vain 
 Into thine eyes so deep and clear, 
 And read the truth of all my fear 
 
 Half mixed with pity for my pain, 
 And sorrow for the vanished year ; 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 139 
 
 If, not to grieve thee overmuch, 
 
 I strove to counterfeit disdain, 
 
 And weave me a new life again, 
 Which thy life could not mar, or touch, 
 
 And so smile down my bitter pain ; — 
 
 The ghost of my dead Past would rise 
 And mock me, and I could not dare 
 Look to a future of despair, 
 
 Or even to the eternal skies, 
 
 For I should still be lonely there. 
 
 All Truth, all Honor, then would seem 
 
 Vain clouds, which the first wind blew by ; 
 All Trust, a folly doomed to die ; 
 
 All Life, a useless, empty dream ; 
 
 All Love — since thine had failed — a lie. 
 
 But see, thy tender smile has cast 
 My fear away : this thought of mine 
 Is treason to my Love and thine ; 
 
 Eor Love is Life, and Death at last 
 Crowns it eternal and divine ! 
 
 KECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 As strangers, you and I are here ; 
 
 We both as aliens stand 
 Where once, in years gone by, I dwelt 
 
 No stranger in the land. 
 Then while you gaze on park and stream, 
 
 Let me remain apart, 
 And listen to the awakened sound 
 
 Of voices in my heart. 
 
140 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Here, where upon the velvet lawn 
 
 The cedar spreads its shade, 
 And by the flower-beds all around 
 
 Bright roses bloom and fade, 
 Shrill merry childish laughter rings, 
 
 And baby voices sweet, 
 And by me, on the path, I hear 
 
 The tread of little feet. 
 
 Down the dark avenue of limes, 
 
 Whose perfume loads the air, 
 Whose boughs are rustling overhead, 
 
 (For the west-wind is there,) 
 I hear the sound of earnest talk, 
 
 Warnings and counsels wise, 
 And the quick questioning that brought 
 
 Such gentle, calm replies. 
 
 Still the light bridge hangs o'er the lake, 
 
 Where broad-leaved lilies lie, 
 And the cool water shows again 
 
 The cloud that moves on high ; — 
 And one voice speaks, in tones I thought 
 
 The past forever kept ; 
 But now I know, deep in my heart 
 
 Its echoes only slept. 
 
 I hear, within the shady porch, 
 
 Once more, the measured sound 
 Of the old ballads that were read, 
 
 While we sat listening round ; 
 The starry passion-flower still 
 
 Up the green trellis climbs ; 
 The tendrils waving seem to keep 
 
 The cadence of the rhymes. 
 
ILLUSION. 141 
 
 I might have striven, and striven in vain, 
 
 Such visions to recall, 
 Well known and yet forgotten ; now 
 
 I see, I hear, them all ! 
 The Present pales before the Past, 
 
 Who comes with angel wings ; 
 As in a dream I stand, amidst 
 
 Strange yet familiar things ! 
 
 Enough ; so let us go, mine eyes 
 
 Are blinded by their tears ; 
 A voice speaks to my soul to-day 
 
 Of long-forgotten years. 
 And yet the vision in my heart, 
 
 In a few hours more, 
 Will fade into the silent past, 
 
 Silently as before. 
 
 ILLUSION. 
 
 Where the golden corn is bending, 
 
 And the singing reapers pass, 
 Where the chestnut woods are sending 
 
 Leafy showers upon the grass, 
 
 The blue river onward flowing 
 
 Mingles with its noisy strife, 
 The murmur of the flowers growing, 
 
 And the hum of insect life. 
 
 I from that rich plain was gazing 
 Towards the snowy mountains high, 
 
 Who their gleaming peaks were raising 
 Up against the purple sky. 
 
142 A VISION. 
 
 And the glory of their shining, 
 Bathed in clouds of rosy light, 
 
 Set my weary spirit pining 
 
 For a home so pure and bright ! 
 
 So I left the plain, and weary, 
 Fainting, yet with hope sustained, 
 
 Toiled through pathways long and dreary 
 Till the mountain-top was gained. 
 
 Lo ! the height that I had taken, 
 
 As so shining from below, 
 Was a desolate, forsaken 
 
 Region of perpetual snow. 
 
 I am faint, my feet are bleeding, 
 All my feeble strength is worn, 
 
 In the plain no soul is heeding, 
 I am here alone, forlorn. 
 
 Lights are shining, bells are tolling, 
 
 In the busy vale below ; 
 Near me night's black clouds are rolling, 
 
 Gathering o'er a waste of snow. 
 
 So I watch the river winding 
 Through the misty fading plain, 
 
 Bitter are the tear-drops blinding, 
 Bitter, useless toil and pain, — 
 
 Bitterest of all the finding 
 
 That my dream was false and vain ! 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees, 
 Drearily waileth the chill night breeze. 
 The long grass waveth, the tombs are white, 
 And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight. 
 
A VISION. 143 
 
 Silent is all save the dropping rain, 
 When slowly there cometh a mourning train ; 
 The lone churchyard is dark and dim, 
 And the mourners raise a funeral hymn. 
 
 " Open, dark grave, and take her ; 
 
 Though we have loved her so, 
 Yet we must now forsake her, 
 Love will no more awake her : 
 
 (0 bitter woe !) 
 Open thine arms and take her 
 To rest below ! 
 
 "Vain is our mournful weeping, 
 
 Her gentle life is o'er ; 
 Only the worm is creeping, 
 Where she will soon be sleeping 
 
 Fore verm ore : 
 Nor joy nor love is keeping 
 
 For her in store ! " 
 
 Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees, 
 And drearily wave in the chill night breeze. 
 The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue, 
 Where the trembling stars are shining through. 
 
 Slowly across the gleaming sky, 
 
 A crowd of white angels are passing by. 
 
 Like a fleet of swans they float along, 
 
 Or the silver notes of a dying song. 
 
 Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, 
 
 Fading away up the purple skies. 
 
 But hush ! for the silent glory is stirred 
 
 By a strain such as earth has never heard : 
 
144 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 " Open, Heaven ! we bear her, 
 
 This gentle maiden mild, 
 Earth's griefs Ave gladly spare her, 
 From earthly joys we tear her, 
 
 Still undented ; 
 And to thine arms we bear her, 
 
 Thine own, thy child. 
 
 " Open, Heaven ! no morrow 
 
 Will see this joy o'ereast, 
 No pain, no tears, no sorrow, 
 Her gentle heart will borrow; 
 
 Sad life is past ; 
 Shielded and safe from sorrow, 
 
 At home at last." 
 
 But the vision faded and all was still, 
 On the purple valley and distant hill. 
 No sound was there save the waving breeze, 
 The rain, and the rustling cypress-trees. 
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 What is it you ask me, darling ? 
 
 All my stories, child, you know ; 
 I have no strange dreams to tell you, 
 
 Pictures I have none to show. 
 
 Tell you glorious scenes of travel ? 
 
 Nay, my child, that cannot be, 
 I have seen no foreign countries, 
 
 Marvels none on land or sea. 
 
 Yet strange sights in truth I witness, 
 
 And I gaze until I tire ; 
 Wondrous pictures, changing ever, 
 
 As I look into the fire. 
 
PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 145 
 
 There, last night, I saw a cavern, 
 Black as pitch ; within it lay, 
 
 Coiled in many folds, a dragon, 
 Glaring as if turned at bay. 
 
 And a knight in dismal armor 
 
 On a winged eagle came, 
 To do battle with this dragon : 
 
 And his crest was all of flame. 
 
 As I gazed the dragon faded, 
 And, instead, sat Pluto crowned 
 
 By a lake of burning fire ; 
 
 Spirits dark were crouching round. 
 
 That was gone, and lo ! before me, 
 
 A cathedral vast and grim ; 
 I could almost hear the organ 
 
 Peal along the arches dim. 
 
 As I watched the wreathed pillars, 
 Groves of stately palms arose, 
 
 And a group of swarthy Indians 
 Stealing on some sleeping foes. 
 
 Stay : a cataract glancing brightly 
 Dashed and sparkled ; and beside 
 
 Lay a broken marble monster, 
 
 Mouth and eyes were staring wide. 
 
 Then I saw a maiden wreathing 
 Starry flowers in garlands sweet; 
 
 Did she see the fiery serpent 
 
 That was wrapped about her feet ? 
 
146 THE SETTLERS. 
 
 That fell crashing all and vanished ; 
 
 And I saw two armies close, — 
 I could almost hear the clarions, 
 
 And the shouting of the foes. 
 
 They were gone ; and lo ! bright angels, 
 
 On a barren mountain wild, 
 Raised appealing arms to Heaven, 
 
 Bearing up a little child. 
 
 And I gazed, and gazed, and slowly- 
 Gathered in my eyes sad tears, 
 
 And the fiery pictures bore me 
 
 Back through distant dreams of years. 
 
 Once again I tasted sorrow, 
 
 With past joy was once more gay, 
 
 Till the shade had gathered round me — 
 And the fire had died away. 
 
 THE SETTLERS. 
 
 Two stranger youths in the Far West, 
 
 Beneath the ancient forest trees, 
 Pausing, amid their toil to rest, 
 
 Spake of their home beyond the seas ; 
 Spake of the hearts that beat so warmly, 
 
 Of the hearts they loved so well, 
 In their chilly Northern country. 
 
 " Would," they cried, " some voice could tell 
 Where they are, our own beloved ones ! " 
 
 They looked up to the evening sky 
 Half hidden by the giant branches, 
 
 But heard no angel-voice reply. 
 All silent was the quiet evening ; 
 
 Silent were the ancient trees : 
 
THE SETTLERS. 147 
 
 They only heard the murmuring song 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 That gently played among 
 The acacia-trees. 
 
 And did no warning spirit answer, 
 
 Amid the silence all around : 
 " Before the lowly village altar 
 
 She thou lovest may be found, 
 Thou, who trustest still so blindly, 
 
 Know she stands a smiling bride ! 
 Forgetting thee, she turneth kindly 
 
 To the stranger at her side. 
 Yes, this day thou art forgotten, 
 
 Forgotten, too, thy last farewell, 
 All the vows that she has spoken, 
 
 And thy heart has kept so well. 
 Dream no more of a starry future, 
 
 In thy home beyond the seas ! " 
 But he only heard the gentle sigh 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 
 So softly passing by 
 The acacia-trees. 
 
 And vainly, too, the other, looking 
 
 Smiling up through hopeful tears, 
 Asked in his heart of hearts, 
 " Where is she, 
 
 She I love these many years ? " 
 He heard no echo calling faintly : 
 
 " Lo, she lieth cold and pale, 
 And her smile so calm and saintly 
 
 Heeds not grieving sob or wail, — 
 Heeds not the lilies strewn upon her, 
 
 Pure as she is, and as white, 
 
148 HUSH! 
 
 Or the solemn chanting voices, 
 Or the taper's ghastly light." 
 But silent still was the ancient forest, 
 
 Silent were the gloomy trees ; 
 He only heard the wailing sound 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 That sadly played around 
 The acacia-trees ! 
 
 HUSH! 
 
 " I can scarcely hear," she murmured, 
 " For my heart beats loud and fast, 
 But surely, in the far, far distance, 
 I can hear a sound at last." 
 
 " It is only the reapers singing, 
 
 As they carry home their sheaves ; 
 And the evening breeze has risen, 
 And rustles the dying leaves." 
 
 " Listen ! there are voices talking." 
 Calmly still she strove to speak, 
 Yet her voice grew faint and trembling, 
 And the red flushed in her cheek. 
 " It is only the children playing 
 
 Below, now their work is done, 
 And they laugh that their eyes are dazzled 
 By the rays of the setting sun." 
 
 Fainter grew her voice, and weaker, 
 
 As with anxious eyes she cried, 
 "Down the avenue of chestnuts, 
 
 I can hear a horseman ride." 
 
HOURS. 149 
 
 " It was only the deer that were feeding 
 
 In a herd on the clover grass, 
 They were startled, and fled to the thicket, 
 
 As they saw the reapers pass." 
 
 Now the night arose in silence, 
 Birds lay in their leafy nest, 
 And the deer couched in the forest, 
 And the children were at rest : 
 
 There was only a sound of weeping 
 
 From watchers around a bed, 
 But Rest to the weary spirit, 
 Peace to the quiet Dead ! 
 
 HOURS. 
 
 When the bright stars came out last night, 
 
 And the dew lay on the flowers, 
 I had a vision of delight, — 
 
 A dream of bygone hours. 
 
 Those hours that came and fled so fast, 
 
 Of pleasure or of pain, 
 As phantoms rose from out the past 
 
 Before my eyes again. 
 
 With beating heart did I behold 
 
 A train of joyous hours, 
 Lit with the radiant light of old, 
 
 And, smiling, crowned with flowers. 
 
 And some were hours of childish sorrow, 
 
 A mimicry of pain, 
 That through their tears looked for a morrow 
 
 They knew must smile again. 
 
150 HOURS. 
 
 Those hours of hope that longed for life, 
 And wished their part begun, 
 
 And ere the summons to the strife 
 Dreamed that the field was won. 
 
 I knew the echo of their voice, 
 The starry crowns they wore ; 
 
 The vision made my soul rejoice 
 With the old thrill of yore. 
 
 I knew the perfume of their flowers ; 
 
 The glorious shining rays 
 Around these happy, smiling hours 
 
 Were lit in bygone days. 
 
 O stay, I cried, — bright visions, stay, 
 And leave me not forlorn ! 
 
 But, smiling still, they passed away, 
 Like shadows of the morn. 
 
 One spirit still remained, and cried, 
 "Thy soul shall ne'er forget !" 
 
 He standeth ever by my side, — 
 The phantom called Regret! 
 
 But still the spirits rose, and there 
 Were weary hours of pain, 
 
 And anxious hours of fear and care 
 Bound by an iron chain. 
 
 Dim shadows came of lonely hours, 
 That shunned the light of day, 
 
 And in the opening smile of flowers 
 Saw only quick decay. 
 
THE TWO INTERPRETERS. 151 
 
 Calm hours that sought the starry skies 
 
 For heavenly lore were there ; 
 With folded hands and earnest eyes, 
 
 I knew the hours of prayer. 
 
 Stern hours that darkened the sun's light, 
 
 Heralds of coming woes, 
 With trailing wings, before my sight 
 
 From the dim past arose. 
 
 As each dark vision passed and spoke, 
 
 I prayed it to depart : 
 At each some buried sorrow woke 
 
 And stirred within my heart. 
 
 Until these hours of pain and care 
 
 Lifted their tearful eyes, 
 Spread their dark pinions in the air, 
 
 And passed into the skies. 
 
 THE TWO INTERPKETERS. 
 
 " The clouds are fleeting by, father ; 
 
 Look, in the shining west, 
 The great white clouds sail onward 
 
 Upon the sky's blue breast. 
 Look at a snowy eagle, 
 
 His wings are tinged with red, 
 And a giant dolphin follows him, 
 
 With a crown upon his head ! " 
 
 The father spake no word, but watched 
 
 The drifting clouds roll by ; 
 He traced a misty vision too 
 
 Upon the shining sky : 
 
152 THE TWO INTERPBETERS. 
 
 A shadowy form, with well-known grace 
 
 Of weary love and care, 
 Above the smiling child she held, 
 
 Shook down her floating hair. 
 
 " The clouds are changing now, father, 
 
 Mountains rise higher and higher ! 
 And see where red and purple ships 
 
 Sail in a sea of fire ! " 
 The father pressed the little hand 
 
 More closely in his own, 
 And watched a cloud-dream in the sky 
 
 That he could see alone : 
 Bright angels carrying far away 
 
 A white form, cold and dead, 
 Two held the feet, and two bore up 
 
 The flower-crowned, drooping head. 
 
 " See, father, see ! a glory floods 
 
 The sky, and all is bright, 
 And clouds of every hue and shade 
 
 Burn in the golden light. 
 And now, above an azure lake, 
 
 Rise battlements and towers, 
 Where knights and ladies climb the heights, 
 
 All bearing purple flowers." 
 
 The father looked, and, with a pang 
 
 Of love and strange alarm, 
 Drew close the little eager child 
 
 Within his sheltering arm ; 
 From out the clouds the mother looks 
 
 With wistful glance below, 
 She seems to seek the treasure left 
 
 On earth so long ago ; 
 
COMFORT. 153 
 
 She holds her arms out to her child, 
 
 His cradle-song she sings : 
 The last rays of the sunset gleam 
 
 Upon her outspread wings. 
 
 Calm twilight veils the summer sky, 
 
 The shining clouds are gone ; 
 In vain the merry laughing child 
 
 Still gayly prattles on ; 
 In vain the bright stars, one by one, 
 
 On the blue silence start, 
 A dreary shadow rests to-night 
 
 Upon the father's heart. 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 Hast thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul 
 
 Seen tempests roll ? 
 Hast thou watched all the hopes thou wouldst have 
 won 
 
 Fade, one by one ? 
 Wait till the clouds are past, then raise thine eyes 
 
 To bluer skies. 
 
 Hast thou gone sadly through a dreary night, 
 
 And found no light, 
 No guide, no star, to cheer thee through the plain, 
 
 No friend, save pain ? 
 Wait, and thy soul shall see, when most forlorn, 
 
 Rise a new morn. 
 
 Hast thou beneath another's stern control 
 Bent thy sad soul, 
 
154 COMFORT. 
 
 And wasted sacred hopes and precious tears ? 
 
 Yet calm thy fears, 
 For thou canst gain, even from the bitterest part, 
 
 A stronger heart. 
 
 Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with some sudden blow ? 
 
 Let thy tears flow ; 
 But know when storms are past, the heavens appear 
 
 More pure, more clear; 
 And hope, when farthest from their shining rays, 
 
 For brighter days. 
 
 Hast thou found life a cheat, and worn in vain 
 
 Its iron chain? 
 Has thy soul bent beneath earth's heavy bond ? 
 
 Look thou beyond ; 
 If life is bitter — there forever shine 
 
 Hopes more divine. 
 
 Art thou alone, and does thy soul complain 
 
 It lives in vain ? 
 Not vainly does he live who can endure. 
 
 O be thou sure, 
 That he who hopes and suffers here, can earn 
 
 A sure return. 
 
 Hast thou found naught within thy troubled life 
 
 Save inward strife ? 
 Hast thou found all she promised thee, Deceit, 
 
 And Hope a cheat ? 
 Endure, and there shall dawn within thy breast 
 
 Eternal rest ! 
 
HOME AT LAST. 155 
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 Child, do not fear ; 
 We shall reach our home to-night, 
 For the sky is clear, 
 
 And the waters bright ; 
 And the breezes have scarcely strength 
 To unfold that little cloud, 
 
 That like a shroud 
 Spreads out its fleecy length ; 
 
 Then have no fear, 
 As we cleave our silver way 
 
 Through the waters clear. 
 
 Fear not, my child ! 
 Though the waves are white and high, 
 And the storm blows wild 
 
 Through the gloomy sky; 
 On the edge of the western sea, 
 See that line of golden light, 
 
 Is the haven bright 
 Where home is awaiting thee ; 
 
 Where, this peril past, 
 We shall rest from our stormy voyage 
 
 In peace at last. 
 
 Be not afraid ; 
 But give me thy hand, and see 
 How the waves have made 
 A cradle for thee. 
 Night is come, dear, and we shall rest; 
 So turn from the angry skies, 
 And close thine eyes, 
 
156 UNEXPRESSED. 
 
 And lay thy head on my breast : 
 Child, do not weep ; 
 
 In the calm, cold, purple depths 
 There we shall sleep. 
 
 UNEXPRESSED. 
 
 Dwells within the soul of every Artist 
 More than all his effort can express ; 
 And he knows the best remains unuttered ; 
 Sighing at what we call his success. 
 
 Vainly he may strive ; he dare not tell us 
 All the sacred mysteries of the skies ; 
 Vainly he may strive, the deepest beauty 
 Cannot be unveiled to mortal eyes. 
 
 And the more devoutly that he listens, 
 And the holier message that is sent, 
 Still the more his soul must struggle vainly, 
 Bowed beneath a noble discontent. 
 
 No great Thinker ever lived and taught you 
 All the wonder that his soul received ; 
 No true Painter ever set on canvas 
 All the glorious vision he conceived. 
 
 No Musician ever held your spirit 
 Charmed and bound in his melodious chains, 
 But be sure he heard, and strove to render, 
 Feeble echoes of celestial strains. 
 
 No real Poet ever wove in numbers 
 All his dream ; but the diviner part, 
 Hidden from all the world, spake to him only 
 In the voiceless silence of his heart. 
 
BECAUSE. 157 
 
 So with Love : for Love and Art united 
 Are twin mysteries ; different, yet the same : 
 Poor indeed would be the love of any 
 Who could find its full and perfect name. 
 
 Love may strive, but vain is the endeavor 
 All its boundless riches to unfold ; 
 Still its tenderest, truest secret lingers 
 Ever in its deepest depths untold. 
 
 Things of Time have voices : speak and perish. 
 Art and Love speak ; but their words must be 
 Like sighings of illimitable forests, 
 And waves of an unfathomable sea. 
 
 BECAUSE. 
 
 It is not because your heart is mine — mine only — 
 
 Mine alone ; 
 It is not because you chose me, weak and lonely, 
 
 Eor your own ; 
 Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies 
 
 Spread above you 
 Are more radiant for the shining of your eyes — 
 
 That I love you ! 
 
 It is not because the world's perplexed meaning 
 
 Grows more clear; 
 And the Parapets of Heaven, with angels leaning, 
 
 Seem more near ; 
 And Nature sings of praise with all her voices 
 
 Since yours spoke, 
 Since within my silent heart, that now rejoices, 
 
 Love awoke ! 
 
158 BEST AT EVENING. 
 
 Nay, not even because your hand holds heart and 
 life; 
 
 At your will 
 Soothing, hushing all its discord, making strife 
 
 Calm and still; 
 Teaching Trust to fold her wings, nor ever roam 
 
 From her nest ; 
 Teaching Love that her securest, safest home 
 
 Must be Rest. 
 
 But because this human Love, though true and 
 sweet — 
 
 Yours and mine — 
 Has been sent by Love more tender, more complete, 
 
 More divine ; 
 That it leads our hearts to rest at last in Heaven, 
 
 Far above you ; 
 Do I take you as a gift that God has given — 
 
 — And I love you ! 
 
 REST AT EVENING. 
 
 When the weariness of Life is ended, 
 
 And the task of our long day is done, 
 
 And the props, on which our hearts depended, 
 
 All have failed or broken, one by one ; 
 
 Evening and our Sorrow's shadow blended, 
 
 Telling us that peace is now begun. 
 
 How far back will seem the sun's first dawning, 
 
 And those early mists so cold and gray ! 
 
 Half forgotten even the toil of morning, 
 
 And the heat and burden of the day : 
 
 Flowers that we were tending, and weeds scorning, 
 
 All alike withered and cast away. 
 
A RETROSPECT. 159 
 
 Vain will seem the impatient heart, which waited 
 
 Toils that gathered but too quickly round ; 
 
 And the childish joy, so soon elated 
 
 At the path we thought none else had found ; 
 
 And the foolish ardor, soon abated 
 
 By the storm which cast us to the ground. 
 
 Vain those pauses on the road, each seeming 
 
 As our final home and resting-place ; 
 
 And the leaving them, while tears were streaming; 
 
 Of eternal sorrow down our face ; 
 
 And the hands we held, fond folly dreaming 
 
 That no future could their touch efface. 
 
 All will then be faded : — night will borrow 
 Stars of light to crown our perfect rest ; 
 And the dim vague memory of faint sorrow 
 Just remain to show us all was best, 
 Then melt into a divine to-morrow : — 
 how poor a day to be so blest ! 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 From this fair point of present bliss, 
 
 Where we together stand, 
 Let me look back once more, and trace 
 
 That long and desert land, 
 Wherein till now was cast my lot, and I could live, 
 and thou wert not. 
 
 Strange that my heart could beat, and know 
 
 Alternate joy and pain, 
 That suns could roll from east to west, 
 
 And clouds could pass in rain, 
 And the slow hours without thee fleet, nor stay their 
 noiseless silver feet. 
 
160 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 What had I then ? a Hope, that grew 
 
 Each hour more bright and dear, 
 The flush upon the eastern skies 
 
 That showed the sun was near : — 
 Now night has faded far away, my sun has risen, 
 and it is day. 
 
 A dim Ideal of tender grace 
 
 In my soul reigned supreme ; 
 Too noble and too sweet I thought 
 
 To live, save in a dream ; — 
 Within thy heart to-day it lies, and looks on me 
 from thy dear eyes. 
 
 Some gentle spirit — Love I thought — 
 
 Built many a shrine of pain ; 
 Though each false Idol fell to dust, 
 
 The worship was not vain, 
 But a faint, radiant shadow cast back from our Love 
 upon the Past. 
 
 And Grief, too, held her vigil there ; 
 
 With unrelenting sway 
 Breaking my cloudy visions down, 
 
 Throwing my flowers away : — 
 I owe to her fond care alone that I may now be all 
 thine own. 
 
 Fair Joy was there, — her fluttering wings 
 
 At times she strove to raise ; 
 Watching through long and patient nights, 
 
 Listening long eager days : 
 I know now that her heart and mine were waiting, 
 Love, to welcome thine. 
 
TRUE OR FALSE. 161 
 
 Thus I can read thy name throughout, 
 
 And, now her task is done, 
 Can see that even that faded Past 
 
 Was thine, beloved one, 
 And so rejoice my Life may be all consecrated, 
 dear, to thee. 
 
 TRUE OR FALSE. 
 
 So you think you love me, do you ? 
 
 Well, it may be so ; 
 But there are many ways of loving 
 
 I have learnt to know. 
 Many ways, and but one true way, 
 
 Which is very rare ; 
 And the counterfeits look brightest, 
 
 Though they will not wear. 
 
 Yet they ring, almost, quite truly, 
 
 Last (with care) for long ; 
 But in time must break, may shiver 
 
 At a touch of wrong : 
 Having seen what looked most real 
 
 Crumble into dust; 
 Now I chose that test and trial 
 
 Should precede my trust. 
 
 I have seen a love demanding 
 
 Time and hope and tears, 
 Chaining all the past, exacting 
 
 Bonds from future years ; 
 Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow, 
 
 Claiming as its fee : 
 That was Love of Self, and never, 
 
 Never Love of me ! 
 
162 TRUE OR FALSE. 
 
 I have seen a love forgetting 
 
 All above, beyond, 
 Linking every dream and fancy 
 
 In a sweeter bond ; 
 Counting every hour worthless, 
 
 Which was cold or free : — 
 That, perhaps, was — Love of Pleasure, 
 
 But not Love of me ! 
 
 I have seen a love whose patience 
 
 Never turned aside, 
 Full of tender, fond devices ; 
 
 Constant, even when tried ; 
 Smallest boons were held as victories, 
 
 Drops that swelled the sea : 
 That I think was — Love of Power, 
 
 But not Love of me ! 
 
 I have seen a love disdaining 
 
 Ease and pride and fame, 
 Burning even its own white pinions 
 
 Just to feed its flame ; 
 Beigning thus, supreme, triumphant, 
 
 By the soul's decree ; 
 That was — Love of Love, I fancy, 
 
 But not Love of me ! 
 
 I have heard — or dreamt, it may be — 
 
 What Love is when true ; 
 How to test and how to try it, 
 
 Is the gift of few : 
 These few say (or did I dream it ?) 
 
 That true Love abides 
 In these very things, but always 
 
 Has a soul besides. 
 
GOLDEN WORDS. 163 
 
 Lives among the false loves, knowing 
 
 Just their peace and strife ; 
 Bears the self-same look, but always 
 
 Has an inner life. 
 Only a true heart can find it, 
 
 True as it is true, 
 Only eyes as clear and tender 
 
 Look it through and through. 
 
 If it dies, it will not perish 
 
 By Time's slow decay, 
 True Love only grows (they tell me) 
 
 Stronger, day by day : 
 Pain — has been its friend and comrade ; 
 
 Fate — it can defy ; 
 Only by its own sword, sometimes 
 
 Love can choose to die. 
 
 And its grave shall be more noble 
 
 And more sacred still, 
 Than a throne, where one less worthy 
 
 Reigns and rules at will. 
 Tell me then, do you dare offer 
 
 This true Love to me ? . . . 
 Neither you nor I can answer ; 
 
 We will — wait and see ! 
 
 GOLDEN WORDS. 
 
 Some words are played on golden strings, 
 
 Which I so highly rate, 
 I cannot bear for meaner things 
 
 Their sound to desecrate. 
 
164 GOLDEN WORDS. 
 
 For every day they are not meet, 
 
 Or for a careless tone ; 
 They are for rarest, and. most sweet, 
 
 And noblest use alone. 
 
 One word is Poet : which is flung 
 
 So carelessly away, 
 When such as you and I have sung, 
 
 We hear it, day by day. 
 
 Men pay it for a tender phrase 
 
 Set in a cadenced rhyme : 
 I keep it as a crown of praise 
 
 To crown the kings of time. 
 
 And Love : the slightest feelings, stirred 
 
 By trivial fancy, seek 
 Expression in that golden word 
 
 They tarnish while they speak. 
 
 Nay, let the heart's slow, rare decree, 
 That word in reverence keep ; 
 
 Silence herself should only be 
 More sacred and more deep. 
 
 Forever : men have grown at length 
 
 To use that word, to raise 
 Some feeble protest into strength, 
 
 Or turn some tender phrase. 
 
 It should be said in awe and fear 
 By true heart and strong will, 
 
 And burn more brightly year by year, 
 A starry witness still. 
 
GOLDEN WORDS. 165 
 
 Honor : all trifling hearts are fond 
 
 Of that divine appeal, 
 And men, upon the slightest bond, 
 
 Set it as slighter seal. 
 
 That word should meet a noble foe 
 
 Upon a noble field, 
 And echo — like a deadly blow 
 
 Turned by a silver shield. 
 
 Trust me, the worth of words is such 
 
 They guard all noble things, 
 And that this rash irreverent touch 
 
 Has jarred some golden strings. 
 
 For what the lips have lightly said 
 
 The heart will lightly hold, 
 And things on which we daily tread 
 
 Are lightly bought and sold. 
 
 The sun of every day will bleach 
 
 The costliest purple hue, 
 And so our common daily speech 
 
 Discolors what was true. 
 
 But as you keep some thoughts apart 
 
 In sacred honored care, 
 If in the silence of your heart, 
 
 Their utterance too be rare ; 
 
 Then, while a thousand words repeat 
 
 Unmeaning clamors all, 
 Melodious golden echoes sweet 
 
 Shall answer when you call. 
 
LEGENDS AND LYRICS 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, 
 Half weary with a listless discontent. 
 The nickering giant-shadows, gathering near, 
 Closed round me with a dim and silent fear. 
 All dull, all dark ; save when the leaping flame, 
 Glancing, lit up a Picture's ancient frame. 
 Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night, 
 My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light, 
 Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint, — 
 A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint, — 
 The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace 
 A world of sorrow in the patient face, 
 In the thin hands folded across her breast : — 
 Its own and the room's shadow hid the rest. 
 I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers stirred, 
 Till an old legend that I once had heard 
 Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom 
 Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room. 
 
 In the far south, where clustering vines are hung; 
 Where first the old chivalric lays were sung ; 
 Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France, 
 Angel and knight and fairy, called Romance, 
 I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread 
 Upon the earth ; blue summer overhead, 
 Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare, 
 Without a breath to stir its sultry air. 
 All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush 
 Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush 
 1G9 
 
170 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Upon the beach ; where, glittering towards the strand, 
 The purple Mediterranean kissed the land. 
 
 All still, all peaceful ; when a convent chime 
 
 Broke on the mid-day silence for a time, 
 
 Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, 
 
 In deeper silence and more utter peace. 
 
 So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white, 
 
 Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight, 
 
 The Convent lay, one who had dwelt for long 
 
 In that fair home of ancient tale and song, 
 
 Who knew the story of each cave and hill, 
 
 And every haunting fancy lingering still 
 
 Within the land, spake thus to me, and told 
 
 The Convent's treasured Legend, quaint and old: — 
 
 Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood 
 Still more concealed where the white convent stood, 
 Borne on its perfumed wings the title came: 
 " Our Lady of the Hawthorns " is its name. 
 Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day, 
 Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray. 
 Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight 
 Passed the lone vigil of his perilous flight; 
 For humbler cottage strife or village brawl, 
 The Abbess listened, prayed, and settled all. 
 Young hearts that came, weighed down by love or 
 
 wrong, 
 Left her kind presence comforted and strong. 
 Each passing pilgrim, and each beggar's right 
 Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night. 
 But, more than this, the Nuns could well impart 
 The deepest mysteries of the healing art ; 
 Their store of herbs and simples was renowned, 
 And held in wondering faith for miles around. 
 
A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 171 
 
 Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate, 
 Found help and blessing at the convent gate. 
 
 Of all the nuns, no heart was half so light, 
 
 No eyelids veiling glances half as bright, 
 
 No step that glided with such noiseless feet, 
 
 No face that looked so tender or so sweet, 
 
 No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear, 
 
 No heart to all the others half so dear, 
 
 So surely touched by others' pain or woe, 
 
 (Guessing the grief her young life could not know,) 
 
 No soul in childlike faith so undefiled, 
 
 As Sister Angela's, the " Convent Child." 
 
 For thus they loved to call her. She had known 
 
 No home, no love, no kindred, save their own. 
 
 An orphan, to their tender nursing given, 
 
 Child, plaything, pupil, now the Bride of Heaven. 
 
 And she it was who trimmed the lamp's red light 
 
 That swung before the altar, day and night ; 
 
 Her hands it was whose patient skill could trace 
 
 The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace ; 
 
 But most of all, her first and dearest care, 
 
 The office she would never miss or share, 
 
 Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet, 
 
 To place before the shrine at Mary's feet. 
 
 Nature is bounteous in that region fair, 
 
 For even winter has her blossoms there. 
 
 Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best, 
 
 By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed. 
 
 In pomp supreme the countless Koses passed, 
 
 Battalion on battalion thronging fast, 
 
 Each with a different banner, flaming bright, 
 
 Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white, 
 
 Until they bowed before a newborn queen, 
 
 And the pure virgin Lily rose serene. 
 
172 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Though Angela always thought the Mother blest 
 Must love the time of her own hawthorn best, 
 Each evening through the year, with equal care, 
 She placed her flowers ; then kneeling down in prayer, 
 As their faint perfume rose before the shrine, 
 So rose her thoughts, as pure and as divine. 
 She knelt until the shades grew dim without, 
 Till one by one the altar lights shone out, 
 Till one by one the Nuns, like shadows dim, 
 Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn ; 
 Her voice then led the music's winged flight, 
 And " Ave, Maris Stella " filled the night. 
 But wherefore linger on those days of peace ? 
 When storms draw near, then quiet hours must cease. 
 War, cruel war, defaced the land, and came 
 So near the convent with its breath of flame, 
 That, seeking shelter, frightened peasants fled, 
 Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread. 
 Till after a fierce skirmish, down the road, 
 One night came straggling soldiers, with their load 
 Of wounded, dying comrades ; and the band, 
 Half pleading, yet as if they could command, 
 Summoned the trembling Sisters, craved their care, 
 Then rode away, and left the wounded there. 
 But soon compassion bade all fear depart, 
 And bidding every Sister do her part, 
 Some prepare simples, healing salves, or bands. 
 The Abbess chose the more experienced hands, 
 To dress the wounds needing most skilful care ; 
 Yet even the youngest Novice took her share. 
 To Angela, who had but ready will 
 And tender pity, yet no special skill, 
 Was given the charge of a young foreign knight, 
 Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger slight. 
 
A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 173 
 
 Day after day she watched beside his bed, 
 
 And first in hushed repose the hours fled : 
 
 His feverish moans alone the silence stirred, 
 
 Or her soft voice, uttering some pious word. 
 
 At last the fever left him ; day by day 
 
 The hours, no longer silent, passed away. 
 
 What could she speak of ? First, to still his plaints, 
 
 She told him legends of the martyred Saints ; 
 
 Described the pangs, which, through God's plenteous 
 
 grace, 
 Had gained their souls so high and bright a place. 
 This pious artifice soon found success — 
 Or so she fancied — for he murmured less. 
 So she described the glorious pomp sublime, 
 In which the chapel shone at Easter time, 
 The Banners, Vestments, gold, and colors bright, 
 Counted how many tapers gave their light; 
 Then in minute detail went on to say, 
 How the High Altar looked on Christmas-day : 
 The kings and shepherds, all in green and red, 
 And a bright star of jewels overhead. 
 Then told the sign by which they all had seen 
 How even nature loved to greet her Queen, 
 For, when Our Lady's last procession went 
 Down the long garden, every head was bent, 
 And, rosary in hand, each Sister prayed ; 
 As the long floating banners were displayed, 
 They struck the hawthorn boughs, and showers and 
 
 showers 
 Of buds and blossoms strewed her way with flowers. 
 The knight unwearied listened ; till at last, 
 He too described the glories of his past ; 
 Tourney, and joust, and pageant bright and fair, 
 And all the lovely ladies who were there. 
 
174 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 But half incredulous she heard. Could this — 
 This be the world ? this place of love and bliss ! 
 Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm, 
 That never failed to bring the gazer harm ? 
 She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened still, 
 And still the knight described with all his skill 
 The glorious world of joy, all joys above, 
 Transfigured in the golden mist of love. 
 Spread, spread your wings, ye angel guardians bright, 
 And shield these dazzling phantoms from her sight ! 
 But no ; days passed, matins and vespers rang, 
 And still the quiet Nuns toiled, prayed, and sang, 
 And never guessed the fatal, coiling net 
 Which every day drew near, and nearer yet, 
 Around their darling ; for she went and came 
 About her duties, outwardly the same. 
 The same ? ah, no ! even when she knelt to pray, 
 Some charmed dream kept all her heart away. 
 So days went on, until the convent gate 
 Opened one night. Who durst go forth so late ? 
 Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread, 
 Two silent, shrouded figures passed and fled. 
 And all was silent, save the moaning seas, 
 That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze 
 That sighed among the perfumed hawthorn-trees. 
 What need to tell that dream so bright and brief, 
 Of joy uncheckered by a dread of grief? 
 What need to tell how all such dreams must fade, 
 Before the slow, foreboding, dreaded shade, 
 That floated nearer, until pomp and pride, 
 Pleasure and wealth, were summoned to her side, 
 To bid, at least, the noisy hours forget, 
 And clamor down the whispers of regret. 
 Still Angela strove to dream, and strove in vain ; 
 
A LEGEND OF PEOVENCE. 175 
 
 Awakened once, she could not sleep again. 
 She saw, each day and hour, more worthless grown 
 The heart for which she cast away her own ; 
 And her soul learnt, through bitterest inward strife, 
 The slight, frail love for which she wrecked her life, 
 The phantom for which all her hope was given, 
 The cold bleak earth for which she bartered heaven ! 
 But all in vain ; would even the tenderest heart 
 Now stoop to take so poor an outcast's part ? 
 
 Years fled, and she grew reckless more and more, 
 Until the humblest peasant closed his door, 
 And where she passed, fair dames, in scorn and pride, 
 Shuddered, and drew their rustling robes aside. 
 At last a yearning seemed to fill her soul, 
 A longing that was stronger than control : 
 Once more, just once again, to see the place 
 That knew her young and innocent ; to retrace 
 The long and weary southern path ; to gaze 
 Upon the haven of her childish clays ; 
 Once more beneath the convent roof to lie ; 
 Once more to look upon her home — and die ! 
 Weary and worn — her comrades, chill remorse 
 And black despair, yet a strange silent force 
 Within her heart, that drew her more and more — 
 Onward she crawled, and begged from door to door. 
 Weighed down with weary clays, her failing strength 
 Grew less each hour, till one day's dawn at length, 
 As first its rays flooded the world with light, 
 Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright, 
 And where, amid the leafy hawthorn wood, 
 Just as of old the quiet cloister stood. 
 Would any know her ? Nay, no fear. Her face 
 Had lost all trace of youth, of joy, of grace, 
 
176 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Of the pure, happy soul they used to know — 
 The novice Angela — so long ago. 
 She rang the convent bell. The well-known sound 
 Smote on her heart, and bowed her to the ground. 
 And she, who had not wept for long, dry years, 
 Felt the strange rush of unaccustomed tears ; 
 Terror and anguish seemed to check her breath, 
 And stop her heart. God ! could this be death? 
 Crouching against the iron gate, she laid 
 Her weary head against the bars, and prayed: 
 But nearer footsteps drew, then seemed to wait ; 
 And then she heard the opening of the grate, 
 And saw the withered face, on which awoke 
 Pity and sorrow, as the portress spoke, 
 And asked the stranger's bidding : " Take me in," 
 She faltered, " Sister Monica, from sin, 
 And sorrow, and despair, that will not cease ; 
 O, take me in, and let me die in peace ! " 
 With soothing words the Sister bade her wait, 
 Until she brought the key to unbar the gate. 
 The beggar tried to thank her as she lay, 
 And heard the echoing footsteps die away. 
 But what soft voice was that which sounded near, 
 And stirred strange trouble in her heart to hear ? 
 She raised her head; she saw — she 'seemed to 
 
 know — 
 A face that came from long, long years ago: 
 Herself; yet not as when she fled away, 
 The young and blooming novice, fair and gay, 
 But a grave woman, gentle and serene : 
 The outcast knew it, — what she might have been. 
 But, as she gazed and gazed, a radiance bright 
 Filled all the place with strange and sudden light ; 
 The Nun was there no longer, but instead, 
 
A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 177 
 
 A figure with a circle round its head, 
 
 A ring of glory ; and a face, so meek, 
 
 So soft, so tender. . . . Angela strove to speak, 
 
 And stretched her hands out, crying, " Mary mild, 
 
 Mother of mercy, help me ! — help your child ! " 
 
 And Mary answered, " From thy bitter past, 
 
 Welcome, my child ! 0, welcome home at last ! 
 
 I filled thy place. Thy flight is known to none, 
 
 For all thy daily duties I have done ; 
 
 Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung, and 
 
 slept ; 
 Didst thou not know, poor child, thy place was 7cej)t ? 
 Kind hearts are here ; yet would the tenderest one 
 Have limits to its mercy : God has none. 
 And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet, 
 But yet he stoops to give it. More complete 
 Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet, 
 And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven 
 Means crowned, not vanquished, when it says, ' For- 
 given ! ' " 
 Back hurried Sister Monica; but where 
 Was the poor beggar she left lying there ? 
 Gone ; and she searched in vain, and sought the place 
 For that wan woman, with the piteous face : 
 But only Angela at the gateway stood, 
 Laden with hawthorn blossoms from the wood. 
 And never did a day pass by again, 
 But the old portress, with a sigh of pain, 
 Would sorrow for her loitering : with a prayer 
 That the poor beggar, in her wild despair, 
 Might not have come to any ill ; and when 
 She ended, " God forgive her ! " humbly then 
 Did Angela bow her head, and say, " Amen ! " 
 How pitiful her heart was ! all could trace 
 
178 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Something that dimmed the brightness of her face 
 After that day, which none had seen before ; 
 Not trouble — but a shadow — nothing more. 
 
 Years passed away. Then, one dark day of dread 
 Saw all the Sisters kneeling round a bed, 
 Where Angela lay dying ; every breath 
 Struggling beneath the heavy hand of death. 
 But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek, 
 She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak. 
 In sorrowing love they listened ; not a sound 
 Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round. 
 The very tapers' flames were scarcely stirred, 
 In such hushed awe the Sisters knelt and heard. 
 And through that silence Angela told her life : 
 Her sin, her flight ; the sorrow and the strife, 
 And the return ; and then clear, low, and calm, 
 " Praise God for me, my sisters " ; and the psalm 
 Kang up to heaven, far and clear and wide, 
 Again, and yet again, then sank and died ; 
 While her white face had such a smile of peace, 
 They saw she never heard the music cease ; 
 And weeping Sisters laid her in her tomb, 
 Crowned with a wreath of perfumed hawthorn bloom. 
 
 And thus the Legend ended. It may be 
 Something is hidden in the mystery, 
 Besides the lesson of God's pardon shown, 
 Never enough believed, or asked, or known. 
 Have we not all, amid life's petty strife, 
 Some pure ideal of a noble life 
 That once seemed possible ? Did we not hear 
 The flutter of its wings, and feel it near, 
 And just within our reach ? It was. And yet 
 
ENVY. 179 
 
 We lost it in this daily jar and fret, 
 
 And now live idle in a vague regret. 
 
 But still our place is kept, and it will wait, 
 
 Ready for us to till it, soon or late : 
 
 No star is ever lost we once have seen, 
 
 We always may be what we might have been. 
 
 Since Good, though only thought, has life and breath, 
 
 God's life — can always be redeemed from death ; 
 
 And evil, in its nature, is decay, 
 
 And any hour can blot it all away ; 
 
 The hopes that lost in some far distance seem, 
 
 May be the truer life, and this the dream. 
 
 ENVY. 
 
 He was the first always : Fortune 
 
 Shone bright in his face. 
 I fought for years ; with no effort 
 
 He conquered the place : 
 We ran ; my feet were all bleeding, 
 
 But he won the race. 
 
 Spite of his many successes, 
 
 Men loved him the same ; 
 My one pale ray of good fortune 
 
 Met scoffing and blame. 
 When we erred, they gave him pity, 
 
 But me — only shame. 
 
 My home was still in the shadow, 
 
 His lay in the sun : 
 I longed in vain : what he asked for 
 
 It straightway was done. 
 Once I staked all my heart's treasure, 
 
 We played — and he won. 
 
 
180 OVER THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Yes, and just now I have seen hiin, 
 Cold, smiling, and blest, 
 
 Laid in his coffin. God help me ! 
 While he is at rest, 
 
 I am cursed still to live : — even 
 Death loved him the best. 
 
 OVER THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Like dreary prison walls 
 
 The stern, gray mountains rise, 
 Until their topmost crags 
 
 Touch the far gloomy skies : 
 One steep and narrow path 
 
 Winds up the mountain's crest, 
 And from our valley leads 
 
 Out to the golden West. 
 
 I dwell here in content, 
 
 Thankful for tranquil days ; 
 And yet my eyes grow dim, 
 
 As still I gaze and gaze 
 Upon that mountain pass, 
 
 That leads — or so it seems — 
 To some far happy land, 
 
 Known in a world of dreams. 
 
 And as I watch that path 
 
 Over the distant hill, 
 A foolish longing comes 
 
 My heart and soul to fill, 
 A painful, strange desire 
 
 To break some weary bond ; 
 A vague unuttered wish 
 
 For what might lie beyond ! 
 
BEYOND. 181 
 
 In that far world unknown, 
 
 Over that distant hill, 
 May dwell the loved and lost, 
 
 Lost — yet beloved still ; 
 I have a yearning hope, 
 
 Half longing, and half pain, 
 That by that mountain pass 
 
 They may return again. 
 
 Space may keep friends apart, 
 
 Death has a might} 1- thrall ; 
 There is another gulf 
 
 Harder to cross than all ; 
 Yet watching that far road, 
 
 My heart beats full and fast : 
 If they should come once more, 
 
 If they should come at last ! 
 
 See, down the mountain-side 
 
 The silver vapors creep ; 
 They hide the rocky cliffs, 
 
 They hide the craggy steep, 
 They hide the narrow path 
 
 That comes across the hill : — 
 foolish longing, cease, 
 
 beating Heart, be still ! 
 
 BEYOND. 
 
 We must not doubt, or fear, or dread, that love for 
 life is only given, 
 
 And that the calm and sainted dead will meet es- 
 tranged and cold in heaven : — 
 
 0, Love were poor and vain indeed, based on so 
 harsh and stern a creed. 
 
182 BEYOND. 
 
 True that this earth must pass away, with all the 
 starry worlds of light, 
 
 With all the glory of the day, and calmer tender- 
 ness of night ; 
 
 For in that radiant home can shine alone the im- 
 mortal and divine. 
 
 Earth's lower things — her pride, her fame, her 
 science, learning, wealth, and power — 
 
 Slow growths that through long ages came, or fruits 
 of some convulsive hour, 
 
 Whose very memory must decay — Heaven is too 
 pure for such as they. 
 
 They are complete : their work is done. So let 
 
 them sleep in endless rest. 
 Love's life is only here begun, nor is, nor can be, 
 
 fully blest ; 
 It has no room to spread its wings, amid this 
 
 crowd of meaner things. 
 
 Just for the very shadow thrown upon its sweet- 
 ness here below, 
 
 The cross that it must bear alone, and bloody bap- 
 tism of woe, 
 
 Crowned and completed through its pain, we know 
 that it shall rise again. 
 
 So if its flame burn pure and bright, here, where 
 
 our air is dark and dense, 
 And nothing in this world of night lives with a 
 
 living so intense ; 
 When it shall reach its home at length — how 
 
 bright its light ! how strong its strength ! 
 
A WARNING. 183 
 
 And while the vain weak loves of earth (for such 
 
 base counterfeits abound) 
 Shall perish with what gave thein birth — their 
 
 graves are green and fresh around, 
 No funeral song shall need to rise for the true 
 
 Love that never dies. 
 
 If in my heart I now could fear that, risen again, 
 
 we should not know 
 What was our Life of Life when here, — the hearts 
 
 we loved so much below, — 
 I would arise this very day, and cast so poor a 
 
 thing away. 
 
 But Love is no such soulless clod : living, perfected 
 
 it shall rise 
 Transfigured in the light of God, and giving glory 
 
 to the skies : 
 And that which makes this life so sweet shall 
 
 render Heaven's joy complete. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 Place your hands in mine, dear, 
 With their rose-leaf touch : 
 
 If you heed my warning, 
 It will spare you much. 
 
 Ah! with just such smiling 
 
 Unbelieving eyes, 
 Years ago I heard it : — 
 
 You shall be more wise. 
 
 You have one great treasure, 
 
 Joy for all your life ; 
 Do not let it perish 
 
 In one reckless strife. 
 
184 A WARNING. 
 
 Do not venture all, child, 
 In one frail, weak heart ; 
 
 So, through an} 7 shipwreck, 
 You may save a part. 
 
 "Where your soul is tempted 
 Most to trust your fate, 
 
 There, with double caution, 
 Liuger, fear, and wait. 
 
 Measure all you give, still 
 Counting what you take ; 
 
 Love for love, so placing 
 Each an equal stake. 
 
 Treasure love ; though ready 
 Still to live without. 
 
 In your fondest trust, keep 
 Just one thread of doubt. 
 
 Build on no to-morrow ; 
 
 Love has but to-day : 
 If the links seem slackening, 
 
 Cut the bond away. 
 
 Trust no prayer nor promise ; 
 
 Words are grains of sand : 
 To keep your heart unbroken, 
 
 Hold it in your hand. 
 
 That your love may finish 
 Calm as it begun, 
 
 Learn this lesson better, 
 Dear, than I have done. 
 
MAX1MUS. 185 
 
 Years hence, perhaps, this -warning 
 
 You shall give again, 
 In just the self-sarne words, dear, 
 
 And — just as much — in vain. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 Many, if God should make them kings, 
 Might not disgrace the throne He gave ; 
 
 How few who could as well fulfil 
 The holier office of a slave ! 
 
 I hold him great who, for Love's sake, 
 Can give, with generous, earnest will, — 
 
 Yet he who takes for Love's sweet sake, 
 I think I hold more generous still. 
 
 I prize the instinct that can turn 
 
 From vain pretence with proud disdain ; 
 
 Yet more I prize a simple heart 
 Paying credulity with pain. 
 
 I bow before the noble mind 
 
 That freely some great wrong forgives ; 
 Yet nobler is the one forgiven, 
 
 Who bears that burden well, and lives. 
 
 It may be hard to gain, and still 
 To keep a lowly steadfast heart ; 
 
 Yet he who loses has to fill 
 A harder and a truer part. 
 
 Glorious it is to wear the crown 
 Of a deserved and pure success ; — 
 
 He who knows how to fail has won 
 A Crown whose lustre is not less. 
 
186 OPTIMUS. 
 
 Great may lie be who can command 
 And rule with just and tender sway ; 
 
 Yet is diviner wisdom taught 
 Better by him who can obey. 
 
 Blessed are those who die for God, 
 And earn the Martyr's crown of light ; 
 
 Yet he who lives for God may be 
 A greater Conqueror in His sight. 
 
 OPTIMUS. 
 
 There is a deep and subtle snare 
 Whose sure temptation hardly fails, 
 Which, just because it looks so fair, 
 Only a noble heart assails. 
 
 So all the more we need be strong 
 Against this false and seeming Right ; 
 Which none the less is deadly wrong, 
 Because it glitters clothed in light. 
 
 When duties unfulfilled remain, 
 Or noble works are left unplanned, 
 Or when great deeds cry out in vain 
 On coward heart and trembling hand, — 
 
 Then will a seeming Angel speak : — 
 " The hours are fleeting — great the need ■ 
 If thou art strong and others weak, 
 Thiue be the effort and the deed. 
 
 "Deaf are their ears who ought to hear; 
 Idle their hands, and dull their soul ; 
 While sloth, or ignorance, or fear, 
 Fetters them with a blind control. 
 
OPTIMUS. 187 
 
 " Sort thou the tangled web aright ; 
 Take thou the toil, take thou the pain : 
 For fear the hour begin its flight, 
 While Right and Duty plead in vain." 
 
 And now it is I bid thee pause, 
 Nor let this Tempter bend thy will ; 
 There are diviner, truer laws 
 That teach a nobler lesson still. 
 
 Learn that each duty makes its claim 
 Upon one soul : not each on all. 
 How, if God speaks thy Brother's name, 
 Dare thou make answer to the call ? 
 
 The greater peril in the strife, 
 The less this evil should be done ; 
 For as in battle, so in life, 
 Danger and honor still are one. 
 
 Arouse him then : — this is thy part : 
 Show him the claim ; point out the need ; 
 And nerve his arm, and cheer his heart ; 
 Then stand aside, and say, " God speed ! " 
 
 Smooth thou his path ere it is trod ; 
 Burnish the arms that he must wield ; 
 And pray, with all thy strength, that God 
 May crown him Victor of the field. 
 
 And then, I think, thy soul shall feel 
 A nobler thrill of true content, 
 Than if presumptuous, eager zeal 
 Had seized a crown for others meant. 
 
188 A LOST CHORD. 
 
 And even that very deed shall shine 
 In mystic sense, divine and true, 
 More wholly and more purely thine — 
 Because it is another's too. 
 
 A LOST CHORD. 
 
 Seated one day at the Organ, 
 I was weary and ill at ease, 
 
 And my fingers wandered idly 
 Over the noisy keys. 
 
 I do not know what I was playing, 
 Or what I was dreaming then ; 
 
 But I struck one chord of music, 
 Like the sound of a great Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight, 
 Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, 
 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit 
 With a touch of infinite calm. 
 
 It quieted pain and sorrow, 
 Like love overcoming strife ; 
 
 It seemed the harmonious echo 
 From our discordant life. 
 
 It linked all perplexed meanings 
 
 Into one perfect peace, 
 And trembled away into silence 
 
 As if it were loth to cease. 
 
 I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
 That one lost chord divine, 
 
 Which came from the soul of the Organ, 
 And entered into mine. 
 
TOO LATE. 189 
 
 It may be that Death's bright angel 
 Will speak in that chord again, 
 
 It may be that only in Heaven 
 I shall hear that grand Amen. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Hush ! speak low ; tread softly ; 
 
 Draw the sheet aside ; — 
 Yes, she does look peaceful ; 
 
 With that smile she died. 
 
 Yet stern want and sorrow 
 
 Even now you trace 
 On the wan, worn features 
 
 Of the still white face. 
 
 Eestless, helpless, hopeless, 
 
 Was her bitter part ; — 
 Now — how still the Violets 
 
 Lie upon her Heart ! 
 
 She who toiled and labored 
 
 For her daily bread ; 
 See the velvet hangings 
 
 Of this stately bed. 
 
 Yes, they did forgive her ; 
 
 Brought her home at last ; 
 Strove to cover over 
 
 Their relentless past. 
 
 Ah, they would have given 
 Wealth, and home, and pride, 
 
 To see her just look happy 
 Once before she died! 
 
190 TOO LATE. 
 
 They strove hard to please her, 
 But, when death is near, 
 
 All you know is deadened, 
 Hope, and joy, and fear. 
 
 And besides, one sorrow 
 Deeper still — one pain 
 
 Was beyond them : healing 
 Came to-day — in vain I 
 
 If she had but lingered 
 Just a few hours more ; 
 
 Or had this letter reached her 
 Just one day before ! 
 
 I can almost pity 
 
 Even him to-day ; 
 Though he let this anguish 
 
 Eat her heart away. 
 
 Yet she never blamed him ; — 
 One day you shall know 
 
 How this sorrow happened ; 
 It was long ago. 
 
 I have read the letter ; 
 
 Many a weary year, 
 For one word she hungered, — 
 
 There are thousands here. 
 
 If she could but hear it, 
 Could but understand ; 
 
 See, — I put the letter 
 In her cold white hand. 
 
THE REQUITAL. 191 
 
 Even these words, so longed for, 
 
 Do not stir her rest ; 
 "Well, I should not murmur, 
 
 For God judges best. 
 
 She needs no more pity, — 
 
 But I mourn his fate, 
 When he hears his letter 
 
 Came a day too late. 
 
 THE EEQUITAL. 
 
 Loud roared the Tempest, 
 
 Fast fell the sleet ; 
 A little Child Angel 
 
 Passed down the street, 
 With trailing pinions, 
 
 And weary feet. 
 
 The moon was hidden ; 
 
 No stars were bright ; 
 So she could not shelter 
 
 In heaven that night, 
 For the Angels' ladders 
 
 Are rays of light. 
 
 She beat her wings 
 At each window-pane, 
 
 And pleaded for shelter, 
 But all in vain ; — 
 
 " Listen," they said, 
 " To the pelting rain ! " 
 
 She sobbed, as the laughter 
 And mirth grew higher, 
 
192 THE REQUITAL. 
 
 " Give me rest and shelter 
 
 Beside your fire, 
 And I will give you 
 
 Your heart's desire." 
 
 The dreamer sat watching 
 His embers gleam, 
 
 While his heart was floating 
 Down hope's bright stream ; 
 
 ... So he wove her wailing 
 Into his dream. 
 
 The worker toiled on, 
 For his time was brief ; 
 
 The mourner was nursing 
 Her own pale grief ; 
 
 They heard not the promise 
 That brought relief. 
 
 But fiercer the Tempest 
 Rose than before, 
 
 When the Angel paused 
 At a humble door, 
 
 And asked for shelter 
 And help once more. 
 
 A weary woman, 
 
 Pale, worn, and thin, 
 
 With the brand upon her 
 Of want and sin, 
 
 Heard the Child Angel 
 And took her in. 
 
 Took her in gently, 
 And did her best 
 
RETURNED — " MISSING. " 193 
 
 To dry her pinions ; 
 
 And made her rest 
 With tender pity 
 
 Upon her breast. 
 
 When the eastern morning 
 
 Grew bright and red, 
 Up the first sunbeam 
 
 The Angel fled ; 
 Having kissed the woman 
 
 And left her — dead. 
 
 KETURNED — " MISSING." 
 (five years after.) 
 
 Yes, I was sad and anxious, 
 
 But now, dear, I am gay ; 
 I know that it is wisest 
 
 To put all hope away : — 
 Thank God that I have done so, 
 
 And can be calm to-day ! 
 
 For hope deferred — you know it — 
 
 Once made my heart so sick : 
 Now, I expect no longer ; 
 
 It is but the old trick 
 Of hope, that makes me tremble, 
 
 And makes my heart beat quick. 
 
 All day I sit here calmly ; 
 
 Not as I did before, 
 Watching for one whose footstep 
 
 Comes never, never more. . . . 
 Hush ! was that some one passing, 
 
 Who paused beside the door ? 
 
194 RETURNED — " MISSING. " 
 
 For years I hung on chances, 
 Longing for just one word; 
 
 At last I feel it : — silence 
 
 Will never more be stirred. . . . 
 
 Tell me once more that rumor 
 You fancied you had heard. 
 
 Life has more things to dwell on 
 Than just one useless pain, 
 
 Useless and past forever ; 
 But noble things remain, 
 
 And wait us all : . . . you too, dear, 
 Do you think hope quite vain ? 
 
 All others have forgotten, 
 'T is right I should forget, 
 
 Nor live on a keen longing 
 
 Which shadows forth regret : . . . 
 
 Are not the letters coming ? 
 The sun is almost set. 
 
 Now that my restless legion 
 Of hopes and fears is fled, 
 
 Reading is joy and comfort . . . 
 . . . This very day I read, 
 
 O, such a strange returning 
 
 Of one whom all thought dead ! 
 
 Not that I dream or fancy, 
 You know all that is past ; 
 
 Earth has no hope to give me, 
 And yet — Time flies so fast 
 
 That all but the impossible 
 Might be brought back at last. 
 
TWO WORLDS. 195 
 
 IN THE WOOD. 
 
 In the wood where shadows are deepest 
 
 From the branches overhead, 
 Where the wild wood-strawberries cluster, 
 
 And the softest moss is spread, 
 I met to-day with a fairy, 
 
 And I followed her where she led. 
 
 Some magical words she uttered, 
 
 I alone could understand, 
 For the sky grew bluer and brighter ; 
 
 While there rose on either hand 
 The cloudy walls of a palace 
 
 That was built in Fairy-land. 
 
 And I stood in a strange enchantment ; 
 
 I had known it all before : 
 In my heart of hearts was the magic 
 
 Of days that will come no more, 
 The magic of joy departed, 
 
 That Time can never restore. 
 
 That never, ah, never, never, 
 
 Never again can be : — 
 Shall I tell you what powerful fairy 
 
 Built up this palace for me ? 
 It was only a little white Violet 
 
 I found at the root of a tree. 
 
 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 God's world is bathed in beauty, 
 God's world is steeped in light ; 
 
196 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 It is the self-same glory- 
 That makes the day so bright, 
 
 Which thrills the earth with music, 
 Or hangs the stars in night. 
 
 Hid in earth's mines of silver, 
 Floating on clouds above, — 
 
 Ringing in Autumn's tempest, 
 Murmured by every dove, — 
 
 One thought fills God's creation, 
 His own great name of Love! 
 
 In God's world Strength is lovely, 
 
 And so is Beauty strong, 
 And Light — God's glorious shadow — 
 
 To both great gifts belong ; 
 And they all melt into sweetness, 
 
 And fill the earth with Song. 
 
 Above God's world bends Heaven, 
 With day's kiss piire and bright, 
 
 Or folds her still more fondly 
 In the tender shade of night ; 
 
 And she casts back Heaven's sweetness, 
 In fragrant love and light. 
 
 God's world has one great echo ; 
 
 Whether calm blue mists are curled, 
 Or lingering dew-drops quiver, 
 
 Or red storms are unfurled; 
 The same deep love is throbbing 
 
 Through the great heart of God's world. 
 
 Man's world is black and blighted, 
 Steeped through with self and sin ; 
 
TWO WORLDS. 197 
 
 And should his feeble purpose 
 
 Some feeble good begin, 
 The work is marred and tainted 
 
 By Leprosy within. 
 
 Man's world is bleak and bitter ; 
 
 Wherever he has trod 
 He spoils the tender beauty 
 
 That blossoms on the sod, 
 And blasts the loving Heaven 
 
 Of the great, good world of God. 
 
 There Strength on coward weakness 
 
 In cruel might will roll; 
 Beauty and Joy are cankers 
 
 That eat away the soul ; 
 And love — God, avenge it — 
 
 The plague-spot of the whole. 
 
 Man's world is Pain and Terror; 
 
 He found it pure and fair, 
 And wove in nets of sorrow 
 
 The golden summer air. 
 Black, hideous, cold, and dreary, 
 
 Man's curse, not God's, is there. 
 
 And yet God's world is speaking: 
 
 Man will not hear it call ; 
 But listens where the echoes 
 
 Of his own discords fall, 
 Then clamors back to Heaven 
 
 That God has done it all. 
 
 God, man's heart is darkened, 
 He will not understand ! 
 
198 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 Show him Thy cloud and fire ; 
 
 And, with Thine own right hand, 
 Then lead him through his desert, 
 
 Back to Thy Holy Land ! 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 I was with my lady when she died : 
 I it was who guided her weak hand 
 
 For a blessing on each little head, 
 
 Laid her baby by her on the bed, 
 Heard the words they could not understand. 
 
 And I drew them round my knee that night, 
 Hushed their childish glee, and made them say 
 They would keep her words with loving tears, 
 They would not forget her dying fears 
 Lest the thought of her should fade away. 
 
 I, who guessed what her last dread had been, 
 Made a promise to that still, cold face, 
 That her children's hearts, at any cost, 
 Should be with the mother they had lost, 
 When a stranger came to take her place. 
 
 And I knew so much ! for I had lived 
 With my lady since her childhood : known 
 What her young and happy days had been, 
 And the grief no other eyes had seen 
 I had watched and sorrowed for alone. 
 
 Ah ! she once had such a happy smile ! 
 
 I had known how sorely she was tried : 
 
 Six short years before, her eyes were bright 
 As her little blue-eyed May's that night, 
 
 When she stood by her dead mother's side. 
 
A NEW MOTHER. 199 
 
 No, I will not say he was unkind ; 
 
 But she had been used to love and praise. 
 
 He was somewhat grave, — perhaps, in truth, 
 Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth 
 
 Into all his stern and serious ways. 
 
 She, who should have reigned a blooming flower, 
 First in pride and honor, as in grace, — 
 She, whose will had once ruled all around, 
 Queen and darling of us all, — she found 
 Change indeed in that cold, stately place. 
 
 Yet she would not blame him, even to me, 
 Though she often sat and wept alone ; 
 But she could not hide it near her death, 
 When she said with her last struggling breath, 
 " Let my babies still remain my own ! " 
 
 I it was who drew the sheet aside, 
 When he saw his dead wife's face. That test 
 Seemed to strike right to his heart. He said, 
 In a strange, low whisper, to the dead, 
 " God knows, love, I did it for the best ! " 
 
 And he wept — yes, I will be just — 
 When I brought the children to him there, 
 
 Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes ; 
 
 And he soothed them with his fond replies, 
 Bidding me give double love and care. 
 
 Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake : 
 
 Little Arthur, with his serious air ; 
 
 May, with all her mother's pretty ways, 
 Blushing, and at any word of praise 
 
 Shaking out her sunny golden hair. 
 
200 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 And the little one of all — poor child ! 
 
 She had cost that dear and precious life. 
 Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady's name, 
 When the baby's gloomy christening came, 
 
 And he called her " Olga — like my wife ! " 
 
 Save that time, he never spoke of her : 
 
 He grew graver, sterner, every day ; 
 
 And the children felt it, for they dropped 
 Low their voices, and their laughter stopped, 
 
 While he stood and watched them at their play. 
 
 No, he never named their mother's name. 
 But I told them of her : told them all 
 
 She had been ; so gentle, good, and bright ; 
 
 And I always took them every night 
 Where her picture hung in the great hall. 
 
 There she stood : white daisies in her hand, 
 
 And her red lips parted as to speak 
 With a smile ; the blue and sunny air 
 Seemed to stir her floating golden hair, 
 
 And to bring a faint blush on her cheek. 
 
 W r ell, so time passed on ; a year was gone, 
 And Sir Arthur had been much away. 
 
 Then the news came ! I shed many tears 
 W T hen I saw the truth of all my fears 
 Rise before me on that bitter day. 
 
 Any one but her I could have borne ! 
 
 But my lady loved her as her friend. 
 
 Through their childhood and their early youth, 
 How she used to count upon the truth 
 
 Of this friendship that would never end ! 
 
A NEW MOTHER. 201 
 
 Older, graver than my lady was, 
 Whose young, gentle heart on her relied, 
 
 She would give advice, and praise, and blame, 
 And my lady leant on Margaret's name, 
 As her dearest comfort, help, and guide. 
 
 I had never liked her, and I think 
 That my lady grew to doubt her too, 
 
 Since her marriage ; for she named her less,. 
 
 Never saw her, and I used to guess 
 At some secret wrong I never knew. 
 
 That might be or not. But now, to hear 
 She would come and reign here in her stead, 
 With the pomp and splendor of a bride : 
 Would no thought reproach her in her pride 
 With the silent memory of the dead ? 
 
 So, the day came, and the bells rang out, 
 
 And I laid the children's black aside ; 
 And I held each little trembling hand, 
 As I strove to make them understand 
 
 They must greet their father's new-made bride. 
 
 Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern, 
 And his lady's eyes might well grow dim, 
 
 When the children shrank in fear away, — 
 
 Little Arthur hid his face, and May 
 Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him. 
 
 When Sir Arthur bade them greet their " mother," 
 I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear 
 How my little loving May replied, 
 With her mother's pretty air of pride, — 
 " Our dear mother has been dead a year ! " 
 
202 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 Ah, the lady's tears might well fall fast, 
 As she kissed them, and then turned away. 
 
 She might strive to smile or to forget, 
 
 But I think some shadow of regret 
 Must have risen to blight her wedding-day. 
 
 She had some strange touch of self-reproach ; 
 
 For she used to linger day by day, 
 By the nursery door, or garden gate, 
 With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait, 
 
 Watching the three children at their play. 
 
 But they always shrank away from her 
 When she strove to comfort their alarms, 
 
 And their grave, cold silence to beguile : 
 
 Even little Olga's baby-smile 
 Quivered into tears when in her arms. 
 
 I could never chicle them : for I saw 
 How their mother's memory grew more deep 
 In their hearts. Each night I had to tell 
 Stories of her whom I loved so well 
 When a child, to send them off to sleep. 
 
 But Sir Arthur — 0, this was too hard ! — 
 He, who had been always stern and sad 
 In my lady's time, seemed to rejoice 
 Each day more ; and I could hear his voice 
 Even, sounding younger and more glad. 
 
 He might perhaps have blamed them, but his wife 
 Never failed to take the children's part : 
 She would stay him with her pleading tone, 
 Saying she would strive, and strive alone, 
 Till she gained each little wayward heart. 
 
A NEW MOTHER. 203 
 
 And she strove indeed, and seemed to be 
 Always waiting for their love, in vain ; 
 
 Yet, when May had most her mother's look, 
 Then the lady's calm, cold accents shook 
 With some memory of reproachful pain. 
 
 Little May would never call her mother: 
 
 So, one day, the lady, bending low, 
 
 Kissed her golden curls, and softly said, 
 " Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead, — 
 
 Your dear mother used to call me so." 
 
 She was gentle, kind, and patient too, 
 Yet in vain : the children held apart. 
 Ah, their mother's gentle memory dwelt 
 Near them, and her little orphans felt 
 She had the first claim upon their heart. 
 
 So three years passed; then the war broke out; 
 
 And a rumor seemed to spread and rise ; 
 First we guessed what sorrow must befall, 
 Then all doubt fled, for we read it all 
 
 In the depths of her despairing eyes. 
 
 Yes ; Sir Arthur had been called away 
 To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife, — 
 Now he seemed to know with double pain 
 The cold, bitter gulf that must remain 
 To divide his children from his wife. 
 
 Nearer came the day he was to sail, 
 Deeper grew the coming woe and fear, 
 When, one night, the children at my knee 
 Knelt to say their evening prayer to me, 
 I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near. 
 
204 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 There they knelt with folded hands, and said 
 Low, soft words in stammering accents sweet ; 
 In the firelight shone their golden hair 
 And white robes : my darlings looked so fair, 
 With their little bare and rosy feet ! 
 
 There he waited till their low " Amen ! " 
 Stopped the rosy lips raised for " Good night ! " — 
 Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near, 
 As he bade them stay with him, and hear 
 Something that would make his heart more light. 
 
 Little Olga crept into his arms ; 
 
 Arthur leant upon his shoulder ; May 
 Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes 
 Lifted up in patient, calm surprise, — 
 
 I can almost hear his words to-day. 
 
 " Years ago, my children, years ago, 
 When your mother was a child, she came 
 From her Northern home, and here she met 
 Love for love, and comfort for regret, 
 In one early friend, — you know her name. 
 
 " And this friend — a few years older — gave 
 Such fond care, such love, that day by day 
 The new home grew happy, joy complete, 
 Studies easier, and play more sweet, 
 While all childish sorrows passed away. 
 
 " And your mother — fragile, like my May — 
 Leant on this deep love, — nor leant in vain. 
 For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart !) 
 Gave the sweet, and took the bitter part, — 
 Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain. 
 
A NEW MOTHER. 205 
 
 " Years passed on, and then I saw them first : 
 It was hard to say which was most fair, 
 
 Your sweet mother's bright and blushing face, 
 Or the graver Margaret's stately grace ; 
 Golden locks, or braided raven hair. 
 
 " Then it happened, by a strange, sad fate, 
 One thought entered into each young soul : 
 
 Joy for one — if for the other pain ; 
 
 Loss for one — if for the other gain : 
 One must lose, and one possess the whole. 
 
 " And so this — this — what they cared for — came 
 And belonged to Margaret : was her own. 
 But she laid the gift aside, to take 
 Pain and sorrow for your mother's sake, 
 And none knew it but herself alone. 
 
 " Then she travelled far away, and none 
 The strange mystery of her absence knew. 
 Margaret's secret thought was never told : 
 Even your mother thought her changed and cold, 
 And for many years I thought so too. 
 
 " She was gone ; and then your mother took 
 That poor gift which Margaret laid aside : 
 Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not : 
 What it was had better be forgot . . . 
 It was just then she became my bride. 
 
 " Now, I think May knows the hope I have. 
 
 Arthur, darling, can you guess the rest ? 
 Even my little Olga understands 
 Great gifts can be given by little hands, 
 
 Since of all gifts Love is still the best. 
 
206 GIVE PLACE. 
 
 " Margaret is my dear and honored wife, 
 And I hold her so. But she can claim 
 From your hearts, dear ones, a loving debt 
 I can neither pay, nor yet forget : 
 You can give it in your mother's name. 
 
 " Earth spoils even Love, and here a shade 
 On the purest, noblest heart may fall : 
 Now your mother dwells in perfect light, 
 She will bless us, I believe, to-night, — 
 She is happy now, and she knows all." 
 
 Next day was farewell, — a day of tears ; 
 
 Yet Sir Arthur, as he rode away, 
 
 And turned back to see his lady stand 
 With the children clinging to her hand, 
 
 Looked as if it were a happy day. 
 
 Ah, they loved her soon ! The little one 
 Crept into her arms as to a nest; 
 
 Arthur always with her now ; and May 
 Growing nearer to her every day : — 
 — Well, I loved my own dear lady best. 
 
 GIVE PLACE. 
 
 Stakry Crowns of Heaven 
 
 Set in azure night ! 
 Linger yet a little 
 
 Ere you hide your light : — 
 
 — Nay ; let Starlight fade away, 
 Heralding the day ! 
 
MY WILL. 207 
 
 Snow-flakes pure and spotless, 
 
 Still, 0, still remain, 
 Binding dreary winter, 
 
 In your silver chain : — 
 
 — Nay ; but melt at once and bring 
 Radiant sunny Spring ! 
 
 Blossoms, gentle blossoms, 
 
 Do not wither yet ; 
 Still for you the sun shines, 
 
 Still the dews are wet : — 
 
 — Nay ; but fade and wither fast, 
 Fruit must come at last ! 
 
 Joy, so true and tender, 
 Dare you not abide ? 
 Will you spread your pinions, 
 Must you leave our side ? 
 
 — Nay ; an Angel's shining grace 
 Waits to fill your place ! 
 
 MY WILL. 
 
 Since I have no lands or houses, 
 
 And no hoarded golden store, 
 What can I leave those who love me 
 
 When they see my face no more ? 
 Do not smile ; I am not jesting, 
 
 Thougli my words sound gay and light, 
 Listen to me, dearest Alice, 
 
 I will make my Will to-night. 
 
 First for Mabel, — who will never 
 
 Let the dust of future years 
 Dim the thought of me, but keep it 
 
 Brighter still : perhaps with tears. 
 
208 MY WILL. 
 
 In whose eyes, whate'er I glance at, 
 
 Touch, or praise, will always shine, 
 Through a strange and sacred radiance, 
 
 By Love's Charter, wholly mine; 
 She will never lend to others 
 
 Slenderest link of thought I claim, 
 I will, therefore, to her keeping 
 
 Leave my memory and my name. 
 
 Bertha will do truer service 
 
 To her kind than I have done, 
 So I leave to her young spirit 
 
 The long Work I have begun. 
 Well ! the threads are tangled, broken, 
 
 And the colors do not blend, 
 She will bend her earnest striving 
 
 Both to finish and amend : 
 And, when it is all completed, 
 
 Strong with care and rich with skill, 
 Just because my hands began it, 
 
 She will love it better still. 
 
 Buth shall have my dearest token, 
 
 The one link I dread to break, 
 The one duty that I live for, 
 
 She, when I am gone, will take. 
 Sacred is the trust I leave her, 
 
 Needing patience, prayer, and tears ; 
 I have striven to fulfil it, 
 
 As she knows, these many years. 
 Sometimes hopeless, faint, and weary, 
 
 Yet a blessing shall remain 
 With the task, and Buth will prize it, 
 
 For my many hours of pain. 
 
KING AND SLAVE. 209 
 
 What must I leave you, my Alice ? 
 
 Nothing, Love, to do or bear, 
 Nothing that can dim your blue eyes 
 
 With the slightest cloud of care. 
 I will leave my heart to love you, 
 
 With the tender faith of old ; 
 Still to comfort, warm, and light you, 
 
 Should your life grow dark or cold. 
 No one else, my child, can claim it ; 
 
 Though you find old scars of pain, 
 They were only wounds, my darling, 
 
 There is not, I trust, one stain. 
 
 Are my gifts indeed so worthless 
 
 Now the slender sum is told ? 
 Well, I know not : years may bless them 
 
 With a nobler price than gold. 
 Am I poor ? ah no, most wealthy, 
 
 Not in these poor gifts you take, 
 But in the true hearts that tell me 
 
 You will keep them for my sake. 
 
 KING AND SLAVE. 
 
 If in my soul, dear, 
 
 An omen should dwell, 
 Bidding me pause, ere 
 
 I love thee too well ; 
 If the whole circle 
 
 Of noble and wise, 
 With stern forebodings, 
 
 Between us should rise ; — 
 
 I will tell them, dear, 
 
 That Love reigns — a King, 
 
210 A CHANT. 
 
 Where storms cannot reach him, 
 And words cannot sting ; 
 
 He counts it dishonor 
 His faith to recall ; 
 
 He trusts ; — and forever 
 He gives — and gives all ! 
 
 I will tell thee, dear, 
 
 That Love is — a Slave, 
 Who dreads thought of freedom, 
 
 As life dreads the grave ; 
 And if doubt or peril 
 
 Of change there may be, 
 Such fear would but drive him 
 
 Still nearer to thee ! 
 
 A CHANT. 
 
 " Benedictas qui venit in nomine Domini." 
 I. 
 Who is the Angel that cometh ? 
 
 Life! 
 Let us not question what he brings, 
 
 Peace or Strife ; 
 Under the shade of his mighty wings, 
 One by one, 
 Are his secrets told ; 
 One by one, 
 Lit by the rays of each morning sun, 
 Shall a new flower its petals unfold, 
 With the mystery hid in its heart of gold. 
 We will arise and go forth to greet him, 
 
 Singly, gladly, with one accord ; — 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
A CHANT. 211 
 
 II. 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh? 
 
 Joy! 
 Look at his glittering rainbow wings, — 
 
 No alloy 
 Lies in the radiant gifts he brings ; 
 Tender and sweet, 
 He is come to-day, 
 Tender and sweet : 
 While chains of love on his silver feet 
 Will hold him in lingering fond delay. 
 But greet him quickly, he will not stay, 
 Soon he will leave us ; but though for others 
 
 All his brightest treasures are stored, — 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
 in. 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh ? 
 
 Pain! 
 Let us arise and go forth to greet him ; 
 
 Not in vain 
 Is the summons come for us to meet him ; 
 He will stay, 
 And darken our sun ; 
 He will stay 
 A desolate night, a weary day. 
 
 Since in that shadow our work is done, 
 And in that shadow our crowns are won, 
 Let us say still, while his bitter chalice 
 
 Slowly into our hearts is poured, — 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
212 BREAM-LIFE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh ? 
 
 Death ! 
 But do not shudder and do not fear ; 
 
 Hold your breath, 
 For a kingly presence is drawing near, 
 Cold and bright 
 Is his flashing steel, 
 Cold and bright 
 The smile that comes like a starry light 
 To calm the terror and grief we feel ; 
 He comes to help and to save and heal : 
 Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling, 
 Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword, — 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
 DREAM-LIFE. 
 
 Listen, friend, and I will tell you 
 Why I sometimes seem so glad, 
 
 Then, without a reason, changing, 
 Soon become so grave and sad. 
 
 Half my life I live a beggar, 
 Ragged, helpless, and alone ; 
 
 But the other half a monarch, 
 
 With my courtiers round my throne. 
 
 Half my life is full of sorrow, 
 Half of joy, still fresh and new; 
 
 One of these lives is a fancy, 
 But the other one is true. 
 
BEST. 213 
 
 While I live and feast on gladness, 
 Still I feel the thought remain, 
 
 This must soon end, — nearer, nearer, 
 Comes the life of grief and pain. 
 
 While I live a wretched beggar, 
 One bright hope my lot can cheer ; 
 
 Soon, soon thou shalt have thy kingdom, 
 Brighter hours are drawing near. 
 
 So you see my life is twofold, 
 
 Half a pleasure, half a grief ; 
 Thus all joy is somewhat tempered, 
 
 And all sorrow finds relief. 
 
 Which, you ask me, is the real life, 
 Which the dream, — the joy, or woe? 
 
 Hush, friend ! it is little matter, 
 And, indeed — I never know. 
 
 EEST. 
 
 Spread, spread thy silver wings, Dove ! 
 And seek for rest by land and sea, 
 And bring the tidings back to me 
 For thee and me and those I love. 
 
 Look how my Dove soars far away ; 
 
 Go with her, heart of mine, I pray ; 
 
 Go where her fluttering silver pinions 
 
 Follow the track of the crimson day. 
 
 Is rest where cloudlets slowly creep, 
 And sobbing winds forget to grieve, 
 And quiet waters gently heave, 
 As if they rocked the ship to sleep ? 
 
214 BEST. 
 
 Ah no ! that southern vapor white 
 Will bring a tempest ere the night, 
 And thunder through the quiet heaven, 
 Lashing the sea in its angry might. 
 
 The battle-field lies still and cold, 
 While stars that watch in silent light 
 Gleam here and there on weapons bright, 
 In weary sleepers' slackened hold ; 
 Nay, though they dream of no alarm, 
 One bugle sound will stir that calm, 
 And all the strength of two great nations, 
 Eager for battle, will rise and arm. 
 
 Pause where the Pilgrims' day is done, 
 Where scrip and staff aside are laid, 
 And, resting in the silent shade, 
 They watch the slowly sinking sun. 
 Ah no ! that worn and weary band 
 Must journey long before they stand, 
 With bleeding feet, and hearts rejoicing, 
 Kissing the dust of the Holy Land. 
 
 Then find a soul who meets at last 
 
 A noble prize but hard to gain, 
 
 Or joy long pleaded for in vain, 
 
 Now sweeter for a bitter past. 
 Ah no ! for Time can rob her yet, 
 And even should cruel Time forget, 
 Then Death will come, and, unrelenting, 
 Brand her with sorrowful long regret. 
 
 Seek farther, farther yet, O Dove ! 
 Beyond the Land, beyond the Sea, 
 There shall be rest for thee and me, 
 Por thee and me and those I love. 
 
THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE. 215 
 
 I heard a promise gently fall, 
 I heard a far-off Shepherd call 
 The weary and the broken-hearted, 
 Promising rest unto each and all. 
 
 It is not marred by outward strife, 
 It is not lost in calm repose, 
 It heedeth neither joys nor woes, 
 Is not disturbed by death or life ; 
 
 Through, and beyond them, lies our Eest : 
 
 Then cease, Heart, thy longing quest ! 
 
 And thou, my Dove, with silver pinions 
 
 Flutter again to thy quiet nest ! 
 
 THE TYKANT AND THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 It was midnight when I listened, 
 
 And I heard two Voices speak ; 
 One was harsh, and stern, and cruel, 
 
 And the other soft and weak : 
 Yet I saw no Vision enter, 
 
 And I heard no steps depart, 
 Of this Tyrant and his Captive, . . . 
 
 Fate it might be and a Heart. 
 
 Thus the stern Voice spake in triumph : 
 
 " I have shut your life away 
 From the radiant world of nature, 
 
 And the perfumed light of day. 
 You, who loved to steep your spirit 
 
 In the charm of Earth's delight, 
 See no glory of the daytime, 
 
 And no sweetness of the night." 
 
216 THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 But the soft Voice answered calmly : — 
 
 " Nay, for when the March winds bring 
 Just a whisper to my window, 
 
 I can dream the rest of Spring ; 
 And to-day I saw a swallow 
 
 Flitting past my prison bars, 
 And my cell has just one corner 
 
 Whence at night I see the stars." 
 
 But its bitter taunt repeating, 
 
 Cried the harsh Voice : — " Where are they, 
 All the friends of former hours, 
 
 Who forget your name to-day ? 
 All the links of love are shattered, 
 
 Which you thought so strong before ; 
 And your very heart is lonely, 
 
 And alone since loved no more." 
 
 But the low Voice spoke still lower : — 
 
 " Nay, I know the golden chain 
 Of my love is purer, stronger, 
 
 For the cruel fire of pain : 
 They remember me no longer, 
 
 But I, grieving here alone, 
 Bind their souls to me forever 
 
 By the love within my own." 
 
 But the Voice cried : — " Once remember 
 
 You devoted soul and mind 
 To the welfare of your brethren, 
 
 And the service of your kind. 
 Now, what sorrow can you comfort ? 
 
 You, who lie in helpless pain, 
 With an impotent compassion 
 
 Fretting out your life in vain." 
 
THE CARVER'S LESSON. 217 
 
 " Nay " ; and then the gentle answer 
 
 Eose more loud, and full, and clear : 
 "For the sake of all my brethren 
 
 I thank God that I am here ! 
 Poor had been my Life's best efforts, 
 
 Now I waste no thought or breath, — 
 For the prayer of those who suffer 
 
 Has the strength of Love and Death." 
 
 THE CARVEE'S LESSON. 
 
 Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, 
 No mere practice of a dexterous hand, 
 
 Will suffice, without a hidden spirit, 
 That we may, or may not, understand. 
 
 And those quaint old fragments that are left us 
 Have their power in this, — the Carver brought 
 
 Earnest care, and reverent patience, only 
 Worthily to clothe some noble thought. 
 
 Shut then in the petals of the flowers, 
 Round the stems of all the lilies twine, 
 
 Hide beneath each bird's or angel's pinion, 
 Some wise meaning or some thought divine. 
 
 Place in stony hands that pray forever 
 Tender words of peace, and strive to wind 
 
 Eound the leafy scrolls and fretted niches 
 Some true, loving message to your kind. 
 
 Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting, 
 Come and go, nor even pause to gaze ; 
 
 Only now and then a passing stranger 
 Just may loiter with a word of praise. 
 
218 THREE ROSES. 
 
 But I think, when years have floated onward, 
 And the stone is gray, and dim, and old, 
 
 And the hand forgotten that has carved it, 
 And the heart that dreamt it still and cold; 
 
 There may come some weary soul, o'erladen 
 With perplexed struggle in his brain, 
 
 Or, it may be, fretted with life's turmoil, 
 Or made sore with some perpetual pain. 
 
 Then, I think those stony hands will open, 
 
 And the gentle lilies overflow, 
 With the blessing and the loving token 
 
 That you hid there many years ago. 
 
 And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him 
 How to solve the problem of his pain ; 
 
 And the birds' and angels' wings shake downward 
 On his heart a sweet and tender rain. 
 
 While he marvels at his fancy, reading 
 Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll, 
 
 Little guessing that the loving Carver 
 Left a message for his weary soul. 
 
 THREE ROSES. 
 
 Just when the red June Roses blow 
 She gave me one, — a year ago. 
 A Rose whose crimson breath revealed 
 The secret that its heart concealed, 
 And whose half -shy, half -tender grace 
 Blushed back upon the giver's face. 
 
 A year ago — a year ago — 
 
 To hope was not to know. 
 
MY PICTURE GALLERY. 219 
 
 Just when the red June Koses blow 
 I plucked her one, — a month ago : 
 Its half-blown crimson to eclipse, 
 I laid it on her smiling lips ; 
 The balmy fragrance of the south 
 Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth. 
 
 Swiftly do golden hours creep, — 
 
 To hold is not to keep. 
 
 The red June Eoses now are past, 
 This very day I broke the last, — 
 And now its perfumed breath is hid, 
 With her, beneath a coffin-lid ; 
 There will its petals fall apart, 
 And wither on her icy heart : — 
 At three red Eoses' cost 
 My world was gained and lost. 
 
 MY PICTUEE GALLEEY. 
 i. 
 You write and think of me, my friend, with pity ; 
 While you are basking in the light of Eome, 
 Shut up within the heart of this great city, 
 Too busy and too poor to leave my home. 
 
 ii. 
 
 You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure, 
 Chained all day to my ledger and my pen ; 
 Too sickly even to use my little leisure 
 To bear me from the strife and din of men. 
 
 in. 
 
 Well, it is true ; yet, now the days are longer, 
 At sunset I can lay my writing down, 
 
220 MY PICTURE GALLERY. 
 
 And slowly crawl (summer has made me stronger) 
 Just to the nearest outskirt of the town. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There a wide Common, blackened though and dreary 
 With factory smoke, spreads outward to the West ; 
 I lie down on the parched-up grass, if weary, 
 Or lean against a broken wall to rest. 
 
 So might a King, turning to Art's rich treasure, 
 At evening, when the cares of state were done, 
 Enter his royal gallery, drinking pleasure 
 Slowly from each great picture, one by one. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Towards the West I turn my weary spirit, 
 And watch my pictures : one each night is mine. 
 Earth and my soul, sick of day's toil, inherit 
 A portion of that luminous peace divine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There I have seen a sunset's crimson glory, 
 Burn as if earth were one great Altar's blaze ; 
 Or, like the closing of a piteous story, 
 Light up the misty world with dying rays. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There I have seen the clouds, in pomp and splendor, 
 Their gold and purple banners all unfurl ; 
 There I have watched colors, more faint and tender 
 Than pure and delicate tints upon a pearl. 
 
MY PICTURE GALLERY. 221 
 
 IX. 
 
 Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly, 
 "While one star trembling watched the daylight die ; 
 Or deep in gloom a sunset, hidden wholly, 
 Save through gold rents torn in a violet sky. 
 
 Or parted clouds, as if asunder riven 
 By some great angel, and beyond a space 
 Of far-off tranquil light ; the gates of Heaven 
 Will lead as grandly to as calm a place. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Or stern dark walls of cloudy mountain ranges 
 Hid all the wonders that we knew must be ; 
 While, far on high, some little white clouds' changes 
 Revealed the glory they alone could see. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Or in wild wrath the affrighted clouds lay shattered, 
 Like treasures of the lost Hesperides, 
 All in a wealth of ruined splendor scattered, 
 Save one strange light on distant silver seas. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What land or time can claim the Master Painter, 
 Whose art could teach him half such gorgeous 
 
 dyes? 
 Or skill so rare, but purer hues and fainter 
 Melt every evening in my western skies. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 So there I wait, until the shade has lengthened, 
 And night's blue misty curtain floated down ; 
 
222 SENT TO HEAVEN. 
 
 Then, with my heart calmed, and my spirit strength- 
 ened, 
 I crawl once more back to the sultry town. 
 
 xv. 
 What Monarch, then, has nobler recreations 
 Than mine ? Or where the great and classic Land 
 Whose wealth of Art delights the gathered nations 
 That owns a Picture Gallery half as grand ? 
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN. 
 
 I had a Message to send her, 
 
 To her whom my soul loved best ; 
 
 But I had my task to finish, 
 And she was gone home to rest. 
 
 To rest in the far bright heaven : 
 
 0, so far away from here, 
 It was vain to speak to my darling, 
 
 Eor I knew she could not hear ! 
 
 I had a message to send her, 
 So tender, and true, and sweet, 
 
 I longed for an Angel to bear it, 
 And lay it down at her feet. 
 
 I placed it, one summer evening, 
 
 On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; 
 But it faded in golden splendor, 
 
 And died in the crimson west. 
 
 I gave it the Lark, next morning, 
 And I watched it soar and soar; 
 
 But its pinions grew faint and weary, 
 And it fluttered to earth once more. 
 
SENT TO HEAVEN. 223 
 
 To the heart of a Eose I told it ; 
 
 And the perfume, sweet and rare, 
 Growing faint on the blue bright ether, 
 
 Was lost in the balmy air. 
 
 I laid it upon a Censer, 
 
 And I saw the incense rise ; 
 But its clouds of rolling silver 
 
 Could not reach the far blue skies. 
 
 I cried, in my passionate longing : — 
 " Has the earth no Angel-friend 
 
 Who will carry my love the message 
 That my heart desires to send ? " 
 
 Then I heard a strain of music, 
 
 So mighty, so pure, so clear, 
 That my very sorrow was silent, 
 
 And my heart stood still to hear. 
 
 And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning, 
 At last the sure answer stir : — 
 
 " The music will go up to Heaven, 
 And carry my thought to her." 
 
 It rose in harmonious rushing 
 
 Of mingled voices and strings, 
 And I tenderly laid my message 
 
 On the Music's outspread wings. 
 
 I heard it float farther and farther, 
 In sound more perfect than speech; 
 
 Farther than sight can follow, 
 Farther than soul can reach. 
 
224 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 And I know that at last my message 
 Has passed through the golden gate : 
 
 So my heart is no longer restless, 
 And I am content to wait. 
 
 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 " Never again ! " vow hearts when reunited, 
 " Never again shall Love be cast aside ; 
 
 Forever now the shadow has departed ; 
 Nor bitter sorrow, veiled in scornful pride, 
 
 Shall feign indifference, or affect disdain, — 
 
 Never, Love, again, never again ! " 
 
 " Never again ! " so sobs, in broken accents, 
 A soul laid prostrate at a holy shrine, — 
 
 " Once more, once more forgive, Lord, and pardon, 
 My wayward life shall bend to love divine ; 
 
 And nevermore shall sin its whiteness stain, — 
 
 Never, God, again, never again ! " 
 
 " Never again ! " so speaketh one forsaken, 
 In the blank desolate passion of despair, — 
 
 "Never again shall the bright dream I cherished 
 Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there, — 
 
 The angel, Hope, shall still thy cruel pain 
 
 Never again, my heart, never again ! " 
 
 " Never again ! " so speaks the sudden silence, 
 When round the hearth gathers each well-known 
 face, 
 
 But one is missing, and no future presence, 
 However dear, can fill that vacant place ; 
 
 Forever shall the burning thought remain, — 
 
 " Never, beloved, again ! never again ! " 
 
LISTENING ANGELS. 225 
 
 " Never again ! " so — but beyond our hearing — 
 Ring out far voices fading up the sky ; 
 
 Never again shall earthly care and sorrow 
 
 Weigh down the wings that bear those souls on 
 high ; 
 
 " Listen, earth, and hear that glorious strain, — 
 
 Never, never again ! never again ! " 
 
 LISTENING ANGELS. 
 
 Blue against the bluer heavens 
 Stood the mountain, calm and still, 
 
 Two white Angels, bending earthward, 
 Leant upon the hill. 
 
 Listening leant those silent Angels, 
 
 And I also longed to hear 
 What sweet strain of earthly music 
 
 Thus could charm their ear. 
 
 I heard the sound of many trumpets 
 In a warlike inarch draw nigh ; 
 
 Solemnly a mighty army 
 Passed in order by. 
 
 But the clang had ceased ; the echoes 
 Soon had faded from the hill ; 
 
 While the Angels, calm and earnest, 
 Leant and listened still. 
 
 Then I heard a fainter clamor, 
 
 Forge and wheel were clashing near, 
 
 And the Reapers in the meadow 
 Singing loud and clear. 
 
226 GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 When the sunset came in glory, 
 And the toil of day was o'er, 
 
 Still the Angels leant in silence, 
 Listening as before. 
 
 Then, as daylight slowly vanished, 
 And the evening mists grew dim, 
 
 Solemnly from distant voices 
 Rose a vesper hymn. 
 
 When the chant was done, and lingering 
 Died upon the evening air, 
 
 From the hill the radiant Angels 
 Still were listening there. 
 
 Silent came the gathering darkness, 
 Bringing with it sleep and rest ; 
 
 Save a little bird was singing 
 Near her leafy nest. 
 
 Through the sounds of war and labor 
 She had warbled all day long, 
 
 While the Angels leant and listened 
 Only to her song. 
 
 But the starry night was coming ; 
 
 When she ceased her little lay, 
 From the mountain-top the Angels 
 
 Slowly passed away. 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Golden days — where are they ? 
 
 Pilgrims east and west 
 Cry ; if we could find them 
 
 We would pause and rest : 
 
GOLDEN DAYS. 227 
 
 We would pause and rest a little 
 
 From our long and weary ways : — 
 Where are they, then, where are they — 
 Golden days ? 
 
 Golden days — where are they ? 
 
 Ask of childhood's years, 
 Still untouched by sorrow, 
 
 Still undimmed by tears: 
 Ah, they seek a phantom Future, 
 
 Crowned with brighter, starry rays ; — 
 Where are they, then, where are they — 
 Golden days ? 
 
 Golden days — where are they ? 
 
 Has Love learnt the spell 
 That will charm them hither, 
 
 Near our hearth to dwell ? 
 Insecure are all her treasures, 
 
 Restless is her anxious gaze : — 
 Where are they, then, where are they — 
 Golden Days ? 
 
 Golden days — where are they ? 
 
 Farther up the hill 
 I can hear the echo 
 
 Faintly calling still : 
 Faintly calling, faintly dying, 
 
 In a far-off misty haze : — 
 Where are they, then, where are they — 
 Golden days? 
 
228 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Lingering fade the rays of daylight, and the lis- 
 tening air is chilly ; 
 Voice of bird and forest murmur, insect hum aud 
 quivering spray, 
 Stir not in that quiet hour : through the valley, calm 
 and stilly, 
 All in hushed and loving silence watch the slow 
 departing Day. 
 
 Till the last faint western cloudlet, faint and rosy, 
 ceases blushing, 
 And the blue grows deep and deeper where one 
 trembling planet shines, 
 And the day has gone forever — then, like some great 
 ocean rushing, 
 The sad night wind wails lamenting, sobbing 
 through the moaning pines. 
 
 Such, of all day's changing hours, is the fittest and 
 the meetest 
 For a farewell hour — and parting looks less bitter 
 and more blest ; 
 Earth seems like a shrine for sorrow, Nature's mother 
 voice is sweetest, 
 And her hand seems laid in chiding on the unquiet 
 throbbing breast. 
 
 Words are lower, for the twilight seems rebuking 
 sad repining, 
 And wild murmur and rebellion, as all childish 
 and in vain ; 
 
PHILIP AND MILDBED. 229 
 
 Breaking through dark future hours clustering starry- 
 hopes seem shining, 
 Then the calm and tender midnight folds her 
 shadow round the pain. 
 
 So they paced the shady lime-walk in that twilight 
 dim and holy, 
 Still the last farewell deferring, she could hear or 
 he should say ; 
 Every word, weighed down by sorrow, fell more 
 tenderly and slowly — 
 This, which now beheld their parting, should have 
 been their wedding-day. 
 
 Should have been : her dreams of childhood, never 
 straying, never faltering, 
 Still had needed Philip's image to make future 
 life complete ; 
 Philip's young hopes of ambition, ever changing, 
 ever altering, 
 Needed Mildred's gentle presence even to make 
 successes sweet. 
 
 This day should have seen their marriage; the 
 calm crowning and assurance 
 Of two hearts, fulfilling rather, and not chang- 
 ing, either life: 
 Now they must be rent asunder, and her heart 
 must learn endurance, 
 Por he leaves their home, and enters on a world 
 of work and strife. 
 
 But her gentle spirit long had learnt, unquestion- 
 ing, submitting, 
 To revere his youthful longings, and to marvel 
 at the fate 
 
230 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 That gave such a humble office, all unworthy and 
 unfitting, 
 To the genius of the village, who was born for 
 something great. 
 
 When the learned Traveller came there who had 
 gained renown at college, 
 Whose abstruse research had won him even 
 European fame, 
 Questioned Philip, praised his genius, marvelled 
 at his self-taught knowledge, 
 Could she murmur if he called him up to London 
 and to fame ? 
 
 Could she waver when he bade her take the burden 
 of decision, 
 Since his troth to her was plighted, and his life 
 was now her own ? 
 Could she doom him to inaction ? could she, when 
 a new-born vision 
 Rose in glory for his future, check it for her 
 sake alone ? 
 
 So her little trembling fingers, that had toiled 
 with such fond pleasure, 
 Paused, and laid aside, and folded the unfinished 
 wedding gown ; 
 Paltering earnestly assurance, that she too could, 
 in her measure, 
 Prize for him the present honor, and the future's 
 sure renown. 
 
 Now they pace the shady lime-walk, now the last 
 words must be spoken, 
 Words of trust, for neither dreaded more than 
 waiting and delay; 
 
PHILIP AND MILDRED. 231 
 
 Was not love still called eternal, — could a plighted 
 vow be broken ? — 
 See the crimson light of sunset fades in purple 
 mist away. 
 
 " Yes, my Mildred," Philip told her, " one calm 
 thought of joy and blessing, 
 Like a guardian spirit by me, through the 
 world's tumultuous stir, 
 Still will spread its wings above me, and now urg- 
 ing, now repressing, 
 With my Mildred's voice will murmur thoughts 
 of home, and love, and her. 
 
 "It will charm my peaceful leisure, sanctify my 
 daily toiling, 
 With a right none else possesses, touching my 
 heart's inmost string ; 
 And to keep its pure wings spotless I shall fly the 
 world's touch, soiling 
 Even in thought this Angel Guardian of my 
 Mildred's Wedding King. 
 
 " Take it, dear ; this little circlet is the first link, 
 strong and holy, 
 Of a life-long chain, and holds me from all other 
 love apart ; 
 Till the day when you may wear it as my wife — 
 my own — mine wholly — 
 Let me know it rests forever near the beating 
 of your heart." 
 
 Dawn of day saw Philip speeding on his road to 
 the Great City, 
 Thinking how the stars gazed downward just 
 with Mildred's patient eyes; 
 
232 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Dreams of work, and fame, and honor struggling 
 with a tender pity, 
 Till the loving Past receding saw the conquering 
 Future rise. 
 
 Daybreak still found Mildred watching, with the 
 wonder of first sorrow, 
 How the outward world unaltered shone the 
 same this very day ; 
 How unpitying and relentless busy life met this 
 new morrow, 
 Earth, and sky, and man unheeding that her joy 
 had passed away. 
 
 Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, 
 came to meet her, 
 With the life within departed that had given 
 them each a soul ; 
 And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that 
 came to greet her ; 
 For Grief spread its shadowy pinions, like a 
 blight upon the whole. 
 
 Jar one chord, the harp is silent ; move one stone, 
 the arch is shattered ; 
 One small clarion-cry of sorrow bids an arme'd 
 host awake; 
 One dark cloud can hide the sunlight; loose one 
 string, the pearls are scattered; 
 Think one thought, a soul may perish ; say one 
 word, a heart may break ! 
 
 Life went on, he two lives running side by side ; 
 the outward seeming, 
 And the' truer and diviner hidden in the heart 
 and brain; 
 
PHILIP AND MILDRED. 233 
 
 Dreams grow holy, put in action ; work grows fair 
 through starry dreaming ; 
 But where each flows on un mingling, both are 
 fruitless and in vain. 
 
 Such was Mildred's life ; her dreaming lay in some 
 far-distant region, 
 All the fairer, all the brighter, that its glories 
 were but guessed ; 
 And the daily round of duties seemed an unreal, 
 airy legion, — 
 Nothing true save Philip's letters and the ring 
 upon her breast. 
 
 Letters telling how he struggled, for some plan or 
 vision aiming, 
 And at last how he just grasped it as a fresh 
 one spread its wings ; 
 How the honor or the learning, once the climax, 
 now were claiming, 
 Only more and more, becoming merely steps to 
 higher things. 
 
 Telling her of foreign countries: little store had 
 she of learning, 
 So her earnest, simple spirit answered as he 
 touched the string; 
 Day by day, to these bright fancies all her silent 
 thoughts were turning, 
 Seeing every radiant picture framed within her 
 golden Ring. 
 
 poor heart ! love, if thou wiliest ; but, thine own 
 soul still possessing, 
 Live thy life : not a reflection or a shadow of his 
 own: 
 
234 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Lean as fondly, as completely, as thou wiliest, — 
 but confessing 
 That thy strength is God's, and therefore can, 
 if need be, stand alone. 
 
 Little means were there around her to make far- 
 ther, wider ranges, 
 Where her loving gentle spirit could try any 
 stronger flight; 
 And she turned aside, half fearing that fresh 
 thoughts were fickle changes, — 
 That she must stay as he left her on that fare- 
 well summer night. 
 
 Love should still be guide and leader, like a herald 
 should have risen, 
 Lighting up the long dark vistas, conquering all 
 opposing fates ; 
 But new claims, new thoughts, new duties found 
 her heart a silent prison, 
 And found Love, with folded pinions, like a 
 jailer by the gates. 
 
 Yet why blame her? it had needed greater strength 
 than she was given 
 To have gone against the current that so calmly 
 flowed along ; 
 Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain 
 and dew of heaven, 
 And her nature was too passive, and her love 
 perhaps too strong. 
 
 The great world of thought, that rushes down the 
 years, and onward sweeping 
 Bears upon its mighty billows in its progress 
 each and all, 
 
PHILIP AND MILDRED. 235 
 
 Flowed so far away, its murmur did not rouse 
 them from their sleeping; 
 Life and Time and Truth were speaking, but 
 they did not hear their call. 
 
 Years flowed on; and every morning heard her 
 prayer grow lower, deeper, 
 As she called all blessings on him, and bade 
 every ill depart, 
 And each night when the cold moonlight shone 
 upon that quiet sleeper, 
 It would show her ring that glittered with each 
 throbbing of her heart. 
 
 Years passed on. Fame came for Philip in a full, 
 o'erflowing measure ; 
 He was spoken of and honored through the 
 breadth of many lands, 
 And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were 
 only pleasure, 
 As if fame were only honor, when he laid them 
 in her hands. 
 
 Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result 
 expected, 
 For how could it fail, since merit and renown 
 go side by side ? 
 And the neighbors, who first fancied genius ought 
 to be suspected, 
 Might at last give up their caution, and could 
 own him now with pride. 
 
 Years flowed on. These empty honors led to 
 others they called better, 
 He had saved some slender fortune, and might 
 claim his bride at last ; 
 
236 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled 
 by the letter 
 That now made her future certain, and would 
 consecrate her past. 
 
 And he came: grown sterner, older — changed in- 
 deed : a grave reliance 
 Hud replaced his eager manner, and the quick 
 short speech of old : 
 He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and 
 half defiance ; 
 He returned with proud assurance half disdainful 
 and half cold. 
 
 Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood 
 sometimes, and listened 
 To her calm, soft voice, relating all the thoughts 
 of these long years ; 
 And if Mildred's heart was heavy, and at times her 
 blue eyes glistened, 
 Still in thought she would not whisper aught of 
 sorrow or of fears. 
 
 Autumn with its golden cornfields, autumn with its 
 storms and showers, 
 Had been there to greet his coming with its for- 
 ests gold and brown ; 
 And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the 
 year's last flowers, 
 When he left the quiet village, and took back his 
 bride to town. 
 
 Home, — the home that she had pictured many a 
 time in twilight, dwelling 
 On that tender, gentle fancy, folded round with 
 loving care ; 
 
PHILIP AND MILDRED. 237 
 
 Here was home, — the end, the haven; and what 
 spirit voice seemed telling, 
 That she only held the casket, with the gem no 
 longer there ? 
 
 Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint 
 and weary, 
 For a hope deferred, — and sadder still to see it 
 fade and fall ; 
 Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow 
 sick and dreary, 
 TJien to find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain 
 of all. 
 
 What was wanting ? He was gentle, kind, and gen- 
 erous still, deferring 
 To her wishes always ; nothing seemed to mar 
 their tranquil life : 
 There are skies so calm and leaden that we long for 
 storm-winds stirring, 
 There is peace so cold and bitter, that we almost 
 welcome strife. 
 
 Darker grew the clouds above her, and the slow 
 conviction clearer 
 That he gave her home and pity, but that heart 
 and soul and mind 
 Were beyond her now ; he loved her, and in youth 
 he had been near her, 
 But he now had gone far onward, and had left her 
 there behind. 
 
 Yes, beyond her : yes, quick-hearted, her Love helped 
 her in revealing 
 It was worthless, while so mighty ; was too weak, 
 although so strong; 
 
238 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 There were courts she could not enter, depths she 
 could not sound ; yet feeling 
 It was vain to strive or struggle, vainer still to 
 mourn or long. 
 
 He would give her words of kindness, he would 
 talk of home, but seeming 
 With an absent look, forgetting if he held or 
 dropped her hand ; 
 And then turn with eager pleasure to his writing, 
 reading, dreaming, 
 Or to speak of things with others that she could 
 not understand. 
 
 He had paid, and paid most nobly, all he owed ; 
 no need of blaming ; 
 It had cost him something, maybe, that no future 
 could restore : 
 In her heart of hearts she knew it ; Love and Sor- 
 row, not complaining, 
 Only suffered all the deeper, only loved him all 
 the more. 
 
 Sometimes then a stronger anguish, and more cruel, 
 weighed upon her, 
 That, through all those years of waiting, he had 
 slowly learnt the truth ; 
 He had known himself mistaken, but that, bound to 
 her in honor, 
 He renounced his life, to pay her for the patience 
 of her youth. 
 
 But a star was slowly rising from that mist of grief, 
 and brighter 
 Grew her eyes, for each slow hour surer comfort 
 seemed to bring ; 
 
PHILIP AND MILDBED. 239 
 
 And she watched with strange sad smiling how her 
 trembling hands grew slighter, 
 And how thin her slender finger, and how large 
 her wedding-ring. 
 
 And the tears dropped slowly on it, as she kissed 
 that golden token 
 With a deeper love, it may be, than was in the 
 far-off past ; 
 And remembering Philip's fancy, that so long ago 
 was spoken, 
 Thought her Ring's bright angel guardian had 
 stayed near her to the last. 
 
 Grieving sorely, grieving truly, with a tender care 
 and sorrow, 
 Philip watched the slow, sure fading of his gentle, 
 patient wife ; 
 Could he guess with what a yearning she was long- 
 ing for the morrow, 
 Could he guess the bitter knowledge that had 
 wearied her of life ? 
 
 Now with violets strewn upon her, Mildred lies in 
 peaceful sleeping; 
 All unbound her long, bright tresses, and her 
 throbbing heart at rest, 
 And the cold, blue rays of moonlight, through the 
 open casement creeping, 
 Show the ring upon her finger, and her hands 
 crossed on her breast. 
 
 Peace at last. Of peace eternal is her calm, sweet 
 smile a token. 
 Has some angel lingering near her let a radiant 
 promise fall ? 
 
240 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 Has he told her Heaven unites again the links that 
 Earth has broken ? 
 For on Earth so much is needed, but in Heaven 
 Love is all ! 
 
 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 I. FROM "LAVATER." 
 
 Trust him little who doth raise 
 To one height both great and small, 
 
 And sets the sacred crown of praise, 
 Smiling, on the head of all. 
 
 Trust him less who looks around 
 To censure all with scornful eyes, 
 
 And in everything has found 
 Something that he dare despise. 
 
 But for one who stands apart, 
 Stirred by naught that can befall, 
 
 With a cold, indifferent heart, — 
 Trust him least and last of all. 
 
 II. FROM " PHANTASTES." 
 
 I have a bitter Thought, a Snake 
 That used to sting my life to pain. 
 
 I strove to cast it far away, 
 
 But every night and every day 
 
 It crawled back to my heart again ! 
 
 It was in vain to live or strive, 
 
 To think or sleep, to work or pray ; 
 At last I bade this thing accursed 
 Gnaw at my heart, and do its worst, 
 And so I let it have its way. 
 
BORROWED THOUGHTS. 241 
 
 Thus said I, " I shall never fall 
 Into a false and dreaming peace, 
 
 And then awake, with sudden start, 
 
 To feel it biting at my heart, 
 
 For now the pain can never cease." 
 
 But I gained more ; for I have found 
 That such a snake's envenomed charm 
 
 Must always, always find a part, 
 
 Deep in the centre of my heart, 
 
 Which it can never wound or harm. 
 
 It is coiled round my heart to-day. 
 
 It sleeps at times, this cruel snake, 
 And while it sleeps it never stings : — 
 Hush ! let us talk of other things, 
 
 Lest it should hear me and awake. 
 
 III. FKOM " LOST ALICE." 
 
 Yes, dear, our Love is slain; 
 In the cold grave forevermore it lies, 
 
 Never to wake again, 
 Or light our sorrow with its starry eyes : 
 
 And so — regret is vain. 
 
 One hour of pain and dread, 
 We killed our Love, we took its life away 
 
 With the false words we said ; 
 And so we watch it, since that cruel day, 
 
 Silent, and cold, and dead. 
 
 We should have seen it shine 
 Long years beside us. Time and Death might try 
 
 To touch that life divine, 
 Whose strength could every other stroke defy 
 
 Save only thine and mine. 
 
242 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 No longing can restore 
 Our dead again. Vain are the tears we weep, 
 
 And vainly we deplore 
 Our buried Love : its grave lies dark and deep 
 
 Between us evermore. 
 
 IV. from * * *. 
 
 Within the kingdom of my Soul 
 I bid you enter, Love, to-day ; 
 Submit my life to your control, 
 And give my Heart up to your sway. 
 
 My Past, whose light and life is flown, 
 Shall live through memory for you still ; 
 Take all my Present for your own, 
 And mould my Future to your will. 
 
 One only thought remains apart, 
 And will forever so remain ; 
 There is one Chamber in my heart 
 Where even you might knock in vain. 
 
 A haunted Chamber : — long ago 
 I closed it, and I cast the key 
 Where deep and bitter waters flow, 
 Into a vast and silent sea. 
 
 Dear, it is haunted. All the rest 
 Is yours ; but I have shut that door 
 Forever now. 'T is even best 
 That I should enter it no more. 
 
 No more. It is not well to stay 
 With ghosts ; their very look would scare 
 Your joyous, loving smile away ; — 
 So never try to enter there. 
 
LIGHT AND SHADE. 243 
 
 Check, if you love me, all regret 
 That this one thought remains apart : — 
 Now let us smile, dear, and forget 
 The haunted Chamber in my Heart. 
 
 LICHT AND SHADE. 
 
 Thou hast done well to kneel and say, 
 " Since He who gave can take away, 
 And bid me suffer, I obey." 
 
 And also well to tell thy heart, 
 That good lies in the bitterest part, 
 And thou wilt profit by her smart. 
 
 But bitter hours come to all : 
 
 When even truths like these will pall, 
 
 Sick hearts for humbler comfort call. 
 
 Then I would have thee strive to see 
 That good and evil come to thee, 
 As one of a great family. 
 
 And as material life is planned, 
 
 That even the loneliest one must stand 
 
 Dependent on his brother's hand ; 
 
 So links more subtle and more fine 
 Bind every other soul to thine 
 In one great brotherhood divine. 
 
 Nor with thy share of work be vexed; 
 Though incomplete, and even perplext, 
 It fits exactly to the next. 
 
244 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 What seems so dark to thy dim sight 
 May be a shadow, seen aright, 
 Making some brightness doubly bright. 
 
 The flash that struck thy tree — no more 
 To shelter thee — lets Heaven's blue floor 
 Shine where it never shone before. 
 
 Thy life that has been dropped aside 
 Into Time's stream, may stir the tide 
 In rippled circles spreading wide. 
 
 The cry wrung from thy spirit's pain 
 May echo on some far-off plain, 
 And guide a wanderer home again. 
 
 Fail — yet rejoice; because no less 
 The failure that makes thy distress 
 May teach another full success. 
 
 It may be that in some great need 
 Thy life's poor fragments are decreed 
 To help build up a lofty deed. 
 
 Thy heart should throb in vast content, 
 Thus knowing that it was but meant 
 As chord in one great instrument ; 
 
 That even the discord in thy soul 
 May make completer music roll 
 From out the great harmonious whole. 
 
 It may be, that when all is light, 
 Deep set within that deep delight 
 Will be to know why all was right ; 
 
LIGHT AND SHADE. 245 
 
 To hear life's perfect music rise, 
 And, while it floods the happy skies, 
 Thy feeble voice to recognize. 
 
 Then strive more gladly to fulfil 
 Thy little part. This darkness still 
 Is light to every loving will. 
 
 And trust, as if already plain 
 How just thy share of loss and pain 
 Is for another fuller gain. 
 
 I dare not limit time or place 
 Touched by thy life : nor dare I trace 
 Its far vibrations into space. 
 
 One only knows. Yet if the fret 
 Of thy weak heart, in weak regret 
 Needs a more tender comfort yet : 
 
 Then thou mayst take thy loneliest fears, 
 The bitterest drops of all thy tears, 
 The dreariest hours of all thy years ; 
 
 And through thy anguish there outspread, 
 May ask that God's great love would shed 
 Blessings on one beloved head. 
 
 And thus thy soul shall learn to draw 
 Sweetness from out that loving law 
 That sees no failure and no flaw, 
 
 Where all is good. And life is good, 
 Were the one lesson understood 
 Of its most sacred brotherhood. 
 
246 A CHANGELING. 
 
 A CHANGELING. 
 
 A little changeling spirit 
 Crept to my arms one day : 
 
 I had no heart or courage 
 To drive the child away. 
 
 So all day long I soothed her, 
 And hushed her on my breast ; 
 
 And all night long her wailing 
 Would never let me rest. 
 
 I dug a grave to hold her, 
 A grave both dark and deep ; 
 
 I covered her with violets, 
 And laid her there to sleep. 
 
 I used to go and watch there, 
 Both night and morning too : — 
 
 It was my tears, I fancy, 
 That kept the violets blue. 
 
 I took her up : and once more 
 I felt the clinging hold, 
 
 And heard the ceaseless wailing 
 That wearied me of old. 
 
 I wandered, and I wandered, 
 With my burden on my breast, 
 
 Till I saw a church-door open, 
 And entered in to rest. 
 
 In the dim, dying daylight, 
 Set in a flowery shrine, 
 
 I saw the Virgin Mother 
 Holding her Child divine. 
 
DISCOURAGED. 247 
 
 I knelt down there in silence, 
 
 And on the altar-stone 
 I laid my wailing burden, 
 
 And came away — alone. 
 
 And now that little spirit, 
 
 That sobbed so all day long, 
 Is grown a shining Angel, 
 
 With wings both wide and strong. 
 
 She watches me from Heaven 
 
 With loving, tender care, 
 And one day she has promised 
 
 That I shall find her there. 
 
 DISCOURAGED. 
 
 Where the little babbling streamlet 
 
 First brings forth to light, 
 Trickling through soft velvet mosses, 
 
 Almost hid from sight; 
 
 Vowed I with delight, — 
 " River, I will follow thee, 
 Through thy wanderings to the Sea ! " 
 
 Gleaming 'mid the purple heather, 
 
 Downward then it sped, 
 Glancing through the mountain gorges, 
 
 Like a silver thread, 
 
 As it quicker fled, 
 Louder music in its flow, 
 Dashing to the vale below. 
 
 Then its voice grew lower, gentler, 
 And its pace less fleet, 
 
248 DISCOURAGED. 
 
 Just as though it loved to linger 
 Round the rushes' feet, 
 As they stooped to meet 
 Their clear images below, 
 Broken by the ripples' flow. 
 
 Purple Willow-herb bent over 
 
 To her shadow fair ; 
 Meadow-sweet, in feathery clusters, 
 
 Perfumed all the air ; 
 
 Silver-weed was there, 
 And in one calm, grassy spot, 
 Starry, blue Forget-me-not. 
 
 Tangled weeds, below the waters, 
 Still seemed drawn away ; 
 
 Yet the current, floating onward, 
 Was less strong than they ; — 
 Sunbeams watched their play, 
 
 With a flickering light and shade, 
 
 Through the screen the Alders made. 
 
 Broader grew the flowing River ; 
 
 To its grassy brink 
 Slowly, in the slanting sun-rays, 
 
 Cattle trooped to drink; 
 
 The blue sky, I think, 
 Was no bluer than that stream, 
 Slipping onward, like a dream. 
 
 Quicker, deeper then it hurried, 
 Rushing fierce and free ; 
 
 But I said, " It should grow calmer 
 Ere it meets the Sea, 
 The wide purple Sea, 
 
IF THOU COULD ST KNOW. 249 
 
 Which I weary for in vain, 
 Wasting all my toil and pain." 
 
 But it rushed still quicker, fiercer, 
 
 In its rocky bed, 
 Hard and stony was the pathway 
 
 To my tired tread ; 
 
 " I despair," I said, 
 " Of that wide and glorious Sea 
 That was promised unto me." 
 
 So I turned aside, and wandered 
 
 Through green meadows near, 
 Far away, among the daisies, 
 
 Far away, for fear 
 
 Lest I still should hear 
 The loud murmur of its song, 
 As the Eiver flowed along. 
 
 Now I hear it not : — I loiter 
 
 Gayly as before ; 
 Yet I sometimes think, — and thinking 
 
 Makes my heart so sore, — 
 
 Just a few steps more, 
 And there might have shone for me, 
 Blue and infinite, the Sea. 
 
 IF THOU COULDST KNOW. 
 
 I think if thou couldst know, 
 
 sonl that will complain, 
 What lies concealed below 
 
 Our burden and our pain ; 
 How just our anguish brings 
 Nearer those longed-for things 
 We seek for now in vain, — 
 think thou wouldst rejoice, and not complain 
 
250 THE WARRIOR TO HIS DEAD BRIDE. 
 
 I think if thou couldst see, 
 
 With thy dim mortal sight, 
 How meanings, dark to thee, 
 Are shadows hiding light ; 
 Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, 
 Life's purpose all perplexed, — 
 If thou couldst see them right, 
 I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, 
 and bright. 
 
 And yet thou canst not know, 
 
 And yet thou canst not see ; 
 Wisdom and sight are slow 
 
 In poor humanity. 
 If thou couldst trust, poor soul, 
 In Him who rules the whole, 
 Thou wouldst find peace and rest : 
 Wisdom and sight are well, but Trust is best. 
 
 THE WARRIOR TO HIS DEAD BRIDE. 
 
 If in the fight my arm was strong, 
 And forced my foes to yield, — 
 
 If conquering and unhurt I came 
 Back from the battle-field, — 
 
 It is because thy prayers have been 
 My safeguard and my shield. 
 
 My comrades smile to see my arm 
 
 Spare or protect a foe, 
 They think thy gentle pleading voice 
 
 Was silenced long ago ; 
 But pity and compassion, love, 
 
 Were taught me first by woe. 
 
A LETTER. 251 
 
 Thy heart, my own, still beats in Heaven 
 
 With the same love divine 
 That made thee stoop to such a soul, 
 
 So hard, so stern as mine, — 
 My eyes have learnt to weep, beloved, 
 
 Since last they looked on thine. 
 
 I hear thee murmur words of peace 
 
 Through the dim midnight air, 
 And a calm falls from the angel stars 
 
 And soothes my great despair, — 
 The heavens themselves look brighter, love, 
 
 Since thy sweet soul is there. 
 
 And if my heart is once more calm, 
 
 My step is once more free, 
 It is because each hour I feel 
 
 Thou prayest still for me ; 
 Because no fate or change can come 
 
 Between my soul and thee. 
 
 It is because my heart is stilled, 
 
 Nor broken by despair, 
 Because I see the grave is bright, 
 
 And death itself is fair : — 
 I dread no more the wrath of Heaven, — 
 
 I have an angel there ! 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 Dear, I tried to write you such a letter 
 As would tell you all my heart to-day. 
 Written Love is poor ; one word were better : 
 Easier, too, a thousand times, to say. 
 
252 A LETTER. 
 
 I can tell you all : fears, doubts unheeding, 
 While I can be near you, hold your hand, 
 Looking right into your eyes, and reading 
 Keassurance that you understand. 
 
 Yet I wrote it through, then lingered, thinking 
 Of its reaching you, — what hour, what day ; 
 Till I felt nry heart and courage sinking 
 With a strange, new, wondering dismay. 
 
 " Will my letter fall," I wondered sadly, 
 " On her mood like some discordant tone, 
 Or be welcomed tenderly and gladly ? 
 Will she be with others, or alone ? 
 
 " It may find her too absorbed to read it, 
 Save with hurried glance and careless air : 
 Sad and weary, she may scarcely heed it ; 
 Gay and happy, she may hardly care. 
 
 " Shall I — dare I — risk the chances ?" slowly 
 Something — was it shyness, love, or pride? — 
 Chilled my heart, and checked my courage wholly ; 
 So I laid it wistfully aside. 
 
 Then I leant against the casement, turning 
 Tearful eyes towards the far-off west, 
 Where the golden evening light was burning, 
 Till my heart throbbed back again to rest. 
 
 And I thought: "Love's soul is not in fetters, 
 Neither space nor time keeps souls apart ; 
 Since I cannot — dare not — send my letters, 
 Through the silence I will send my heart. 
 
A COMFORTER. 253 
 
 " If, perhaps now, while my tears are falling, 
 She is dreaming quietly alone, 
 She will hear my Love's far echo calling, 
 Feel my spirit drawing near her own. 
 
 " She will hear, while twilight shades enfold her, 
 All the gathered Love she knows so well, — 
 Deepest Love my words have ever told her, 
 Deeper still — all I could never tell. 
 
 "Wondering at the strange, mysterious power 
 That has touched her heart, then she will say; 
 1 Some one whom I love, this very hour, 
 Thinks of me, and loves me, far away.' 
 
 "If, as well may be, to-night has found her 
 Pull of other thoughts, with others by, 
 Through the words and claims that gather round her 
 She will hear just one half-smothered sigh ; 
 
 " Or will marvel why, without her seeking, 
 Suddenly the thought of me recurs ; 
 Or, while listening to another speaking, 
 Fancy that my hand is holding hers." 
 
 So I dreamed, and watched the stars' far splendor 
 Glimmering on the azure darkness, start, — 
 While the star of trust rose bright and tender, 
 Through the twilight shadows of my heart. 
 
 A COMFORTER, 
 i. 
 
 " Will she come to me, little Effie, 
 Will she come in my arms to rest, 
 
 And nestle her head on my shoulder, 
 While the sun goes down in the west ? 
 
254 A COMFORTER. 
 
 II. 
 
 "I and Effie will sit together, 
 
 All alone, in this great armchair: — 
 
 Is it silly to mind it, darling, 
 When Life is so hard to bear ? 
 
 in. 
 
 " No one comforts me like my Effie, 
 Just I think that she does not try, — 
 
 Only looks with a wistful wonder 
 Why grown people should ever cry ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 " While her little soft arms close tighter 
 Bound my neck in their clinging hold: 
 
 Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear, 
 For my tears might tarnish the gold. 
 
 v. 
 " I am tired of trying to read, dear ; 
 
 It is worse to talk and seem gay : 
 There are some kinds of sorrow, Effie, 
 
 It is useless to thrust away. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Ah, advice may be wise, my darling, 
 But one always knows it before ; 
 
 And the reasoning down one's sorrow 
 Seems to make one suffer the more. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " But my Effie won't reason, will she ? 
 
 Or endeavor to understand ; 
 Only holds up her mouth to kiss me, 
 
 As she strokes my face with her hand. 
 
A COMFORTER. 255 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " If you break your plaything yourself, dear, 
 Don't you cry for it all the same ? 
 
 I don't think it is such a comfort, 
 One has only one's self to blame. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " People say things cannot be helped, dear, 
 But then that is the reason why ; 
 
 For if things could be helped or altered, 
 One would never sit down to cry : 
 
 x. 
 
 " They say, too, that tears are quite useless 
 
 To undo, amend, or restore, — 
 When I think how useless, my Erne, 
 
 Then my tears only fall the more. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " All to-day I struggled against it ; 
 
 But that does not make sorrow cease ; 
 And now, dear, it is such a comfort 
 
 To be able to cry in peace. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Though wise people would call that folly, 
 And remonstrate with grave surprise ; 
 
 We won't mind what they say, my Erne j — 
 We never professed to be wise. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " But my comforter knows a lesson 
 Wiser, truer than all the rest : — 
 
 That to help and to heal a sorrow, 
 Love and silence are always best. 
 
256 UNSEEN. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Well, who is my comforter, — tell me ? 
 
 Effie smiles, but she will not speak : 
 Or look up through the long curled lashes 
 
 That are shading her rosy cheek. 
 
 "Is she thinking of talking fishes, 
 The bluebird, or magical tree ? 
 
 Perhaps I am thinking, my darling, 
 Of something that never can be. 
 
 " You long — don't you, dear ? — for the Genii, 
 Who were slaves of lamps and of rings ; 
 
 And, I — I am sometimes afraid, dear, 
 I want as impossible things. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " But hark ! there is Nurse calling Effie ! 
 
 It is bedtime, so run away ; 
 And I must go back, or the others 
 
 Will be wondering why I stay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " So good night to my darling Effie ; 
 
 Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise : — 
 There's one kiss for her golden tresses, 
 
 And two for her sleepy eyes." 
 
 UNSEEN. 
 
 There are more things in Heaven and Earth than we 
 Can dream of, or than nature understands ; 
 We learn not through our poor philosophy 
 What hidden chords are touched by unseen hands. 
 
A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN. 257 
 
 The present hour repeats upon its strings 
 Echoes of some vague dream we have forgot ; 
 Dim voices whisper half-remembered things, 
 And when we pause to listen — answer not. 
 
 Forebodings come : we know not how, or whence, 
 Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul, 
 And stir within our hearts a subtler sense 
 Than light may read, or wisdom may control. 
 
 And who can tell what secret links of thought 
 Bind heart to heart ? Unspoken things are heard, 
 As if within our deepest selves was brought 
 The soul, perhaps, of some unuttered word. 
 
 But, though a veil of shadow hangs between 
 That hidden life and what we see and hear, 
 Let us revere the power of the Unseen, 
 And know a world of mystery is near. 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE OF AUTUMN. 
 
 Nothing stirs the sunny silence, — 
 Save the drowsy humming of the bees 
 
 Round the rich ripe peaches on the wall, 
 And the south-wind sighing in the trees, 
 
 And the dead leaves rustling as they fall : 
 While the swallows, one by one, are gathering, 
 
 All impatient to be on the wing, 
 And to wander from us, seeking 
 Their beloved Spring ! 
 
 Cloudless rise the azure heavens ! 
 
 Only vaporous wreaths of snowy white 
 
 Nestle in the gray hill's rugged side ; 
 And the golden woods are bathed in light, 
 
 Dying, if they must, with kingly pride : 
 
258 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 While the swallows, in the blue air wheeling, 
 
 Circle now an eager, fluttering band, 
 Ready to depart and leave us 
 For a brighter land ! 
 
 But a voice is sounding sadly, 
 Telling of a glory that has been ; 
 
 Of a day that faded all too fast : — 
 See afar through the blue air serene, 
 
 Where the swallows wing their way at last, 
 And our hearts perchance as sadly wandering, 
 
 Vainly seeking for a long-lost day, 
 While we watched the far-off swallows, 
 Flee with them away ! 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 i. 
 
 Yes, it looked dark and dreary, 
 
 That long and narrow street : 
 Only the sound of the rain, 
 
 And the tramp of passing feet, 
 The duller glow of the fire, 
 
 And gathering mists of night, 
 To mark how slow and weary 
 
 The long day's cheerless flight ! 
 
 ii. 
 Watching the sullen fire, 
 
 Hearing the dismal rain, 
 Drop after drop, run down 
 
 On the darkening window pane : 
 Chill was the heart of Alice, 
 
 Chill as that winter day, — 
 For the star of her life had risen 
 
 0:ily to fade away. 
 
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 259 
 
 in. 
 
 The voice that had been so strong 
 
 To bid the snare depart, 
 The true and earnest will, 
 
 The calm and steadfast heart, 
 Were now weighed down by sorrow, 
 
 Were quivering now with pain ; 
 The clear path now seemed clouded, 
 
 And all her grief in vain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Duty, Eight, Truth, who promised 
 
 To help and save their own, 
 Seemed spreading wide their pinions 
 
 To leave her there alone. 
 So, turning from the Present 
 
 To well-known days of yore, 
 She called on them to strengthen 
 
 And guard her soul once more. 
 
 v. 
 She thought how in her girlhood 
 
 Her life was given away, 
 The solemn promise spoken 
 
 She kept so well to-day ; 
 How to her brother Herbert 
 
 She had been help and guide, 
 And how his artist nature 
 
 On her calm strength relied. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How through life's fret and turmoil 
 
 The passion and fire of art 
 In him was soothed and quickened 
 
 By her true sister heart ; 
 
260 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 How future hopes had always 
 
 Been for his sake alone ; 
 And now — what strange new feeling 
 
 Possessed her as its own ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Her home — each flower that breathed there, 
 
 The wind's sigh, soft and low, 
 Each trembling spray of ivy, 
 
 The river's murmuring flow, 
 The shadow of the forest, 
 
 Sunset, or twilight dim, — 
 Dear as they were, were dearer 
 
 By leaving them for him. 
 
 vnr. 
 And each year as it found her 
 
 In the dull, feverish town, 
 Saw self still more forgotten, 
 
 And selfish care kept down 
 By the calm joy of evening 
 
 That brought him to her side, 
 To warn him with wise counsel, 
 
 Or praise with tender pride. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Her heart, her life, her future, 
 
 Her genius, only meant 
 Another thing to give him, 
 
 And be therewith content. 
 To-day, what words had stirred her, 
 
 Her soul could not forget ? 
 "What dream had filled her spirit 
 
 With strange and wild regret ? 
 
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 261 
 
 To leave him for another, — 
 
 Could it indeed be so ? 
 Could it have cost such anguish 
 
 To bid this vision go ? 
 Was this her faith ? Was Herbert 
 
 The second in her heart ? 
 Did it need all this struggle 
 
 To bid a dream depart ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 And yet, within her spirit 
 
 A far-off land was seen, 
 A home which might have held her, 
 
 A love which might have been. 
 And Life — not the mere being 
 
 Of daily ebb and flow, 
 But Life itself — had claimed her, 
 
 And she had let it go ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Within her heart there echoed 
 
 Again the well-known tone 
 That promised this bright future, 
 
 And asked her for her own : 
 Then words of sorrow, broken 
 
 By half -reproachful pain : 
 And then a farewell, spoken 
 
 In words of cold disdain. 
 
 XIII, 
 
 Where now was the stern purpose 
 That nerved her soul so long ? 
 
262 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 Whence came the words she uttered, 
 So hard, so cold, so strong ? 
 
 What right had she to banish 
 A hope that God had given ? 
 
 Why must she choose earth's portion, 
 And turn aside from Heaven ? 
 
 To-day ! Was it this morning ? 
 
 If this long, fearful strife 
 Was but the work of hours, 
 
 What would be years of life ? 
 Why did a cruel Heaven 
 
 For such great suffering call ? 
 And why — still more cruel ! — 
 
 Must her own words do all ? 
 
 xv. 
 
 Did she repent ? Sorrow ! 
 
 Why do we linger still 
 To take thy loving message, 
 
 And do thy gentle will ? 
 See, her tears fall more slowly, 
 
 The passionate murmurs cease, 
 And back upon her spirit 
 
 Flow strength, and love, and peace. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The fire burns more brightly, 
 The rain has passed away, 
 
 Herbert will see no shadow 
 Upon his home to-day : 
 
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 263 
 
 Only that Alice greets hira 
 
 With doubly tender care, 
 Kissing a fonder blessing 
 
 Down on his golden hair. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Studio is deserted, 
 
 Palette and brush laid by, 
 The sketch rests on the easel, 
 
 The paint is scarcely dry ; 
 And Silence — who seems always 
 
 Within her depths to bear 
 The next sound that will utter — 
 
 Now holds a dumb despair. 
 
 ii. 
 
 So Alice feels it : listening 
 
 With breathless, stony fear, 
 Waiting the dreadful summons 
 
 Each minute brings more near : 
 When the young life, now ebbing, 
 
 Shall fail, and pass away 
 Into that mighty shadow 
 
 Who shrouds the house to-day. 
 
 in. 
 
 But why — when the sick-chamber 
 
 Is on the upper floor — 
 Why dares not Alice enter 
 
 Within the close-shut door ? 
 
264 TIIREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 If he — her all — her Brother, 
 Lies dying in that gloom, 
 
 What strange mysterious power 
 Has sent her from the room ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 It is not one week's anguish 
 
 That can have changed her so ; 
 Joy has not died here lately, 
 
 Struck down by one quick blow ; 
 But cruel months have needed 
 
 Their long relentless chain, 
 To teach that shrinking manner 
 
 Of helpless, hopeless pain. 
 
 v. 
 The struggle was scarce over 
 
 Last Christmas eve had brought ; 
 The fibres still were quivering 
 
 Of the one wounded thought, 
 When Herbert — who, unconscious, 
 
 Had guessed no inward strife — 
 Bade her, in pride and pleasure, 
 
 Welcome his fair young wife. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Bade her rejoice, and smiling, 
 
 Although his eyes were dim, 
 Thanked God he thus could pay her 
 
 The care she gave to him. 
 This fresh bright life would bring her 
 
 A new and joyous fate — 
 O Alice, check the murmur 
 
 That cries, " Too late ! too late ! " 
 
TEHEE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 265 
 
 VII. 
 
 Too late ! Could she have known it 
 
 A few short weeks before, 
 That his life was completed, 
 
 And needing hers no more, 
 She might — sad repining ! 
 
 What " might have been " forget ; 
 " It was not " should suffice us 
 
 To stifle vain regret. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He needed her no longer, 
 
 Each day it grew more plain ; 
 First with a startled wonder, 
 
 Then with a wondering pain. 
 Love : why, his wife best gave it ; 
 
 Comfort : durst Alice speak 
 Or counsel, when resentment 
 
 Flushed on the young wife's cheek ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 No more long talks by firelight 
 
 Of childish times long past, 
 And dreams of future greatness 
 
 Which he must reach at last ; 
 Dreams, where her purer instinct 
 
 With truth unerring told, 
 Where was the worthless gilding, 
 
 And where refined gold. 
 
 x. 
 
 Slowly, but surely ever, 
 Dora's poor jealous pride, 
 
266 TIIREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 Which she called love for Herbert, 
 Drove Alice from his side ; 
 
 And, spite of nervous effort 
 To share their altered life, 
 
 She felt a check to Herbert, 
 A burden to his wife. 
 
 This was the least; for Alice 
 
 Feared, dreaded, knew at length 
 How much his nature owed her 
 
 Of truth, and power, and strength ; 
 And watched the daily failing 
 
 Of all his nobler part : 
 Low aims, weak purpose, telling 
 
 In lower, weaker art. 
 
 And now, when he is dying, 
 
 The last words she could hear 
 Must not be hers, but given 
 
 The bride of one short year. 
 The last care is another's ; 
 
 The last prayer must not be 
 The one they learnt together 
 
 Beside their mother's knee. 
 
 Summoned at last : she kisses 
 The clay-cold stiffening hand, 
 
 And, reading pleading efforts 
 To make her understand, 
 
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 267 
 
 Answers, -with solemn promise, 
 
 In clear but trembling tone, 
 To Dora's life henceforward 
 
 She will devote her own. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now all is over. Alice 
 
 Dares not remain to weep, 
 But soothes the frightened Dora 
 
 Into a sobbing sleep. 
 The poor weak child will need her : . . . 
 
 O, who can dare complain, 
 When God sends a new Duty 
 
 To comfort each new Pain ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The House is all deserted 
 
 In the dim evening gloom, 
 Only one figure passes 
 
 Slowly from room to room ; 
 And, pausing at each doorway, 
 
 Seems gathering up again 
 Within her heart the relics 
 
 Of bygone joy and pain. 
 
 There is an earnest longing 
 In those who onward gaze, 
 
 Looking with weary patience 
 Towards the coming days. 
 
268 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 There is a deeper longing, 
 
 More sad, more strong, more keen : 
 
 Those know it who look backward, 
 And yearn for what has been. 
 
 in. 
 
 At every hearth she pauses, 
 
 Touches each well-known chair ; 
 Gazes from every window, 
 
 Lingers on every stair. 
 What have these months brought Alice 
 
 Now one more year is past ? 
 This Christmas eve shall tell us, 
 
 The third one and the last. 
 
 The wilful, wayward Dora, 
 
 In those first weeks of grief, 
 Could seek and find in Alice 
 
 Strength, soothing, and relief. 
 And Alice — last sad comfort 
 
 True woman-heart can take — 
 Had something still to suffer 
 
 And bear for Herbert's sake. 
 
 v. 
 Spring, with her western breezes, 
 
 From Indian islands bore 
 To Alice news that Leonard 
 
 Would seek his home once more. 
 What was it, — joy, or sorrow ? 
 
 What were they, — hopes, or fears ? 
 That flushed her cheeks with crimson, 
 
 And filled her eyes with tears ? 
 
THBEE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 269 
 
 VI. 
 He came. And who so kindly 
 
 Could ask and hear her tell 
 Herbert's last hours ; for Leonard 
 
 Had known and loved him well. 
 Daily he came ; and Alice, 
 
 Poor weary heart, at length, 
 Weighed down by others' weakness, 
 
 Could lean upon his strength. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet not the voice of Leonard 
 
 Could her true care beguile, 
 That turned to watch, rejoicing, 
 
 Dora's reviving smile. 
 So, from that little household 
 
 The worst gloom passed away, 
 The one bright hour of evening 
 
 Lit up the livelong day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Days passed. The golden summer 
 
 In sudden heat bore down 
 Its blue, bright, glowing sweetness 
 
 Upon the scorching town. 
 And sights and sounds of country 
 
 Came in the warm soft tune 
 Sung by the honeyed breezes 
 
 Borne on the wings of June. 
 
 IX. 
 
 One twilight hour, but earlier 
 
 Than usual, Alice thought 
 She knew the fresh sweet fragrance 
 
 Of flowers that Leonard brought ; 
 
270 THBEE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 Through opened doors and windows 
 It stole up through the gloom, 
 
 And with appealing sweetness 
 Drew Alice from her room. 
 
 x. 
 
 Yes, he was there ; and, pausing 
 
 Just near the opened door, 
 To check her heart's quick beating, 
 
 She heard — and paused still more — 
 His low voice — Dora's answers — 
 
 His pleading — Yes, she knew 
 The tone — the words — the accents ; 
 
 She once had heard them too. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Would Alice blame her ? " Leonard's 
 
 Low, tender answer came : 
 " Alice was far too noble 
 
 To think or dream of blame." 
 " And was he sure he loved her ? " 
 
 " Yes, with the one love given 
 Once in a lifetime only, 
 
 With one soul and one heaven ! " 
 
 Then came a plaintive murmur, - 
 
 " Dora had once been told 
 That he and Alice — " " Dearest, 
 
 Alice is far too cold 
 To love ; and I, my Dora, 
 
 If once I fancied so, 
 It was a brief delusion, 
 
 And over — long aero." 
 
THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 271 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Between the Past and Present, 
 
 On that bleak moment's height, 
 She stood. As some lost traveller, 
 
 By a quick flash of light 
 Seeing a gulf before him, 
 
 With dizzy, sick despair, 
 Peels backward, but to find it 
 
 A deeper chasm there. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The twilight grew still darker, 
 
 The fragrant flowers more sweet, 
 The stars shone out in heaven, 
 
 The lamps gleamed down the street ; 
 And hours passed in dreaming 
 
 Over their new-found fate, 
 Ere they could think of wondering 
 
 Why Alice was so late. 
 
 xv. 
 
 She came, and calmly listened ; 
 
 In vain they strove to trace 
 If Herbert's memory shadowed 
 
 In grief upon her face. 
 No blame, no wonder showed there, 
 
 No feeling could be told ; , 
 Her voice was not less steady, 
 
 Her manner not more cold. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 They could not hear the anguish 
 
 That broke in words of pain 
 Through the calm summer midnight, — 
 
 " My Herbert — mine again ! " 
 
272 THE WIND. 
 
 Yes, they have once been parted, 
 
 But this day shall restore 
 The long-lost one : she claims him ; 
 
 "My Herbert — mine once more!" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Now Christmas eve returning 
 
 Saw Alice stand beside 
 The altar, greeting Dora, 
 
 Again a smiling bride ; 
 And now the gloomy evening 
 
 Sees Alice pale and worn, 
 Leaving the house forever, 
 
 To wander out forlorn. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Forlorn — nay, not so. Anguish 
 
 Shall do its work at length ; 
 Her soul, passed through the fire, 
 
 Shall gain still purer strength. 
 Somewhere there waits for Alice 
 
 An earnest, noble part ; 
 And meanwhile God is with her, — 
 
 God, and her own true heart ! 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 The wind went forth o'er land and sea, 
 Loud and free ; 
 Foaming waves leapt up to meet it, 
 Stately pines bowed down to greet it ; 
 
 While the wailing sea 
 And the forest's murmured sigh 
 Joined the cry 
 Of the wind that swept o'er land and sea. 
 
EXPECTATION. 273 
 
 The wind that blew upon the sea 
 Fierce and free, 
 Cast the bark upon the shore, 
 Whence it sailed the night before 
 
 Full of hope and glee ; 
 And the cry of pain and death 
 Was but a breath, 
 Through the wind that roared upon the sea. 
 
 The wind was whispering on the lea 
 Tenderly ; 
 But the white rose felt it pass, 
 And the fragile stalks of grass 
 
 Shook with fear to see 
 All her trembling petals shed, 
 As it fled 
 So gently by, — the wind upon the lea. 
 
 Blow, thou wind, upon the sea 
 Fierce and free, 
 And a gentler message send, 
 Where frail flowers and grasses bend, 
 
 On the sunny lea ; 
 For thy bidding still is one, 
 Be it done 
 In tenderness or wrath, on land or sea ! 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 The King's three daughters stood on the terrace, 
 The hanging terrace, so broad and green, 
 Which keeps the sea from the marble Palace : 
 There was Princess May, and Princess Alice, 
 And the youngest Princess, Gwendoline. 
 
274 AN IDEAL. 
 
 Sighed Princess May, " Will it last much longer, 
 
 Time throbs so slow and my Heart so quick ; 
 
 And 0, how long is the day in dying ! 
 
 Weary am I of waiting and sighing, 
 
 For Hope deferred makes the spirit sick." 
 
 But Princess Gwendoline smiled and kissed her : 
 " Am I not sadder than you, my Sister ? 
 Expecting joy is a happy pain. 
 The Future's fathomless mine of treasures, 
 All countless hordes of possible pleasures, 
 Might bring their store to my feet in vain." 
 
 Sighed Princess Alice as night grew nearer : — ■ 
 " So soon, so soon, is the daylight fled ! 
 And 0, how fast comes the dark to-morrow, 
 Who hides, perhaps, in her veil of sorrow 
 The terrible hour I wait and dread ! " 
 
 But Princess Gwendoline kissed her, sighing : — 
 
 " It is only Life that can fear dying ; 
 
 Possible loss means possible gain. 
 
 Those who still dread are not quite forsaken ; 
 
 But not to fear, because all is taken, 
 
 Is the loneliest depth of human pain." 
 
 AN IDEAL. 
 
 While the gray mists of early dawn 
 Were lingering round the hill, 
 
 And the dew was still upon the flowers, 
 And the earth lay calm and still, 
 
 A winged Spirit came to me, 
 
 Noble, and radiant, and free. 
 
AN IDEAL. 275 
 
 Folding his blue and shining -wings, 
 
 He laid his hand on mine. 
 I know not if I felt, or heard 
 
 The mystic word divine, 
 Which woke the trembling air to sighs, 
 And shone from out his starry eyes. 
 
 The word he spoke within my heart 
 
 Stirred life unknown before, 
 And cast a spell upon my soul 
 
 To chain it evermore ; 
 Making the cold, dull earth look bright, 
 And skies flame out in sapphire light. 
 
 When noon ruled from the heavens, and man 
 
 Through busy day toiled on, 
 My Spirit drooped his shining wings ; 
 
 His radiant smile was gone ; 
 His voice had ceased, his grace had flown, 
 His hand grew cold within my own. 
 
 Bitter, bitter tears I wept, 
 
 Yet still I held his hand, 
 Hoping with vague unreasoning hope : 
 
 I would not understand 
 That this pale Spirit nevermore 
 Could be what he had been before. 
 
 Could it be so ? My heart stood still. 
 
 Yet he was by my side. 
 I strove ; but my despair was vain ; 
 
 Vain too was love and pride. 
 Could he have changed to me so soon ? 
 My day was only at its noon. 
 
276 OUR BEAD. 
 
 Now stars are rising one by one, 
 Through the dim evening air ; 
 
 Near me a household Spirit waits, 
 With tender loving care ; 
 
 He speaks and smiles, but never sings, 
 
 Long since he lost his shining wings. 
 
 With thankful, true content, I know 
 
 This is the better way ; 
 Is not a faithful spirit mine — 
 
 Mine still — at close of day ? . . . 
 Yet will my foolish heart repine 
 For that bright morning dream of mine. 
 
 OUR DEAD. 
 
 Nothing is our own : we hold our pleasures 
 Just a little while, ere they are fled : 
 One by one life robs us of our treasures ; 
 Nothing is our own except our Dead. 
 
 They are ours, and hold in faithful keeping, 
 Safe forever, all they took away. 
 Cruel life can never stir that sleeping, 
 Cruel time can never seize that prey. 
 
 Justice pales ; truth fades ; stars fall from heaven ; 
 Human are the great whom we revere : 
 No true crown of honor can be given, 
 Till we place it on a funeral bier. 
 
 How the Children leave us : and no traces 
 Linger of that smiling angel band; 
 Gone, forever gone ; and in their places 
 Weary men and anxious women stand. 
 
A woman's answer. 277 
 
 Yet we have some little ones, still ours ; 
 They have kept the baby smile we know, 
 Which we kissed one day, and hid with flowers, 
 On their dead white faces, long ago. 
 
 When our Joy is lost — and life will take it — 
 Then no memory of the past remains; 
 Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make it 
 Bitterness beyond all present pains. 
 
 Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrow 
 Still the radiant shadow, fond regret : 
 We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow, 
 Joy that he has taken, living yet. 
 
 Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it, 
 Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own ? 
 Any cold and cruel dawn may show it, 
 Shattered, desecrated, overthrown. 
 
 Only the dead Hearts forsake us never ; 
 Death's last kiss has been the mystic sign 
 Consecrating Love our own forever, 
 Crowning it eternal and divine. 
 
 So when Fate would fain besiege our city, 
 Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall, 
 Death, the Angel, comes in love and pity, 
 And, to save our treasures, claims them all, 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 
 
 I will not let you say a Woman's part 
 Must be to give exclusive love alone ; 
 
 Dearest, although I love you so, my heart 
 Answers a thousand claims besides your own. 
 
278 a woman's answer. 
 
 I love — what do I not love ? earth, and air 
 
 Find space within my heart, and myriad things 
 
 You would not deign to heed are cherished there, 
 And vibrate on its very inmost strings. 
 
 I love the Summer with her ebb and flow 
 
 Of light, and warmth, and music, that have nurst 
 
 Her tender buds to blossoms . . . and you know 
 It was in summer that I saw you first. 
 
 I love the Winter dearly, too, . . . but then 
 I owe it so much ; on a winter's day, 
 
 Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again, 
 When you had been those weary months away. 
 
 I love the Stars like friends ; so many nights 
 I gazed at them, when you were far from me, 
 
 Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lights 
 Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see. 
 
 I love the Flowers ; happy hours lie 
 
 Shut up within their petals close and fast : 
 
 You have forgotten, dear ; but they and I 
 Keep every fragment of the golden Past. 
 
 I love, too, to be loved ; all loving praise 
 
 Seems like a crown upon my Life, — to make 
 
 It better worth the giving, and to raise 
 
 Still nearer to your own the heart you take. 
 
 I love all good and noble souls ; — I heard 
 One speak of you but lately, and for days, 
 
 Only to think of it, my soul was stirred 
 In tender memory of such generous praise. 
 
THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 279 
 
 I love all those who love you ; all who owe 
 Comfort to you : and I can find regret 
 
 Even for those poorer hearts who once could know 
 And once could love you, and can now forget. 
 
 Well, is my heart so narrow, — I, who spare 
 Love for all these ? Do I not even hold 
 
 My favorite books in special tender care, 
 And prize them as a miser does his gold ? 
 
 The Poets that you used to read to me 
 "While summer twilights faded in the sky ; 
 
 But most of all I think Aurora Leigh, 
 
 Because — because — do you remember why ? 
 
 Will you be jealous ? Did you guess before 
 
 I loved so many things ? — Still you the best : — - 
 
 Dearest, remember that I love you more, 
 0, more, a thousand times, than all the rest ! 
 
 THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 
 
 FOUNDED ON" AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND. 
 
 The fettered Spirits linger 
 
 In purgatorial pain, 
 With penal fires effacing 
 
 Their last faint earthly stain, 
 Which Life's imperfect sorrow 
 
 Had tried to cleanse in vain. 
 
 Yet, on each feast of Mary 
 
 Their sorrow finds release, 
 For the Great Archangel Michael 
 
 Comes down and bids it cease ; 
 And the name of these brief respites 
 
 Is called " Our Lady's Peace." 
 
280 THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 
 
 Yet once — so runs the Legend — 
 When the Archangel came, 
 
 And all these holy spirits 
 Rejoiced at Mary's name, 
 
 One voice alone was wailing, 
 Still wailing on the same. 
 
 And though a great Te Deum 
 
 The happy echoes woke, 
 This one discordant wailing 
 
 Through the sweet voices broke : 
 So when St. Michael questioned, 
 
 Thus the poor spirit spoke : — 
 
 " I am not cold or thankless, 
 Although I still complain ; 
 
 I prize our Lady's blessing, 
 Although it comes in vain 
 
 To still my bitter anguish, 
 Or quench my ceaseless pain. 
 
 " On earth a heart that loved me 
 Still lives and mourns me there, 
 
 And the shadow of his anguish 
 Is more than I can bear ; 
 
 All the torment that I suffer 
 Is the thought of his despair. 
 
 " The evening of my bridal 
 Death took my Life away ; 
 
 Not all Love's passionate pleading 
 Could gain an hour's delay. 
 
 And he I left has suffered 
 A whole year since that day. 
 
THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 281 
 
 " If I could only see him, — 
 
 If I could only go 
 And speak one word of comfort 
 
 And solace, — then I know 
 He would endure with patience, 
 
 And strive against his woe." 
 
 Thus the Archangel answered : — 
 " Your time of pain is brief, 
 
 And soon the peace of Heaven 
 Will give you full relief ; 
 
 Yet if his earthly comfort 
 
 So much outweighs your grief, 
 
 " Then through a special mercy 
 
 I offer you this grace, — 
 You may seek him who mourns you, 
 
 And look upon his face, 
 And speak to him of comfort 
 
 For one short minute's space ; 
 
 " But when that time is ended, 
 
 Return here, and remain 
 A thousand years in torment, 
 
 A thousand years in pain : 
 Thus dearly must you purchase 
 
 The comfort he will gain." 
 
 The Lime-trees' shade at evening 
 Is spreading broad and wide ; 
 
 Beneath their fragrant arches, 
 Pace slowly, side by side, 
 
 In low and tender converse, 
 A Bridegroom and his Bride. 
 
282 A CONTRAST. 
 
 The night is calm and stilly, 
 
 No other sound is there 
 Except their happy voices : 
 
 What is that cold bleak air 
 That passes through the Lime-trees, 
 
 And stirs the Bridegroom's hair ? 
 
 While one low cry of anguish, 
 
 Like the last dying wail 
 Of some dumb, hunted creature, 
 
 Is borne upon the gale: — 
 Why does the Bridegroom shudder 
 
 And turn so deathly pale ? 
 
 # # * * * * 
 
 Near Purgatory's entrance 
 
 The radiant Angels wait; 
 It was the great St. Michael 
 
 Who closed that gloomy gate, 
 When the poor wandering spirit 
 
 Came back to meet her fate. 
 
 "Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: 
 " Heaven's joy is deep and vast ; 
 
 Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, 
 For Heaven is yours at last; 
 
 In that one minute's anguish 
 
 Your thousand years have passed." 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 Can you open that ebony Casket ? 
 
 Look, this is the key : but stay, 
 Those are only a few old letters 
 
 Which I keep, — to burn some day. 
 
A CONTRAST. 283 
 
 Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient ; 
 
 But leave it, dear, with the ring, 
 And give me the little Portrait 
 
 Which hangs by a crimson string. 
 
 I have never opened that Casket 
 
 Since, many long years ago, 
 It was sent me back in anger 
 
 By one whom I used to know. 
 
 But I want you to see the Portrait : 
 
 I wonder if you can trace 
 A look of that smiling creature 
 
 Left now in my faded face. 
 
 It was like me once ; but remember 
 
 The weary, relentless years, 
 And Life, with its fierce brief tempests, 
 
 And its long, long rain of tears. 
 
 Is it strange to call it my Portrait ? 
 
 Nay, smile, dear, for well you may, 
 To think of that radiant Vision 
 
 And of what I am to-day. 
 
 With restless, yet confident longing, 
 How those blue eyes seem to gaze 
 
 Into deep and exhaustless treasures, 
 All hid in the coming days. 
 
 With that trust which leans on the Future, 
 And counts on her promised store, 
 
 Until she has taught us to tremble 
 And hope, — but to trust no more. 
 
284 A CONTRAST. 
 
 How that young, light heart would have pitied 
 Me now — if her dreams had shown 
 
 A quiet and weary woman 
 With all her illusions flown. 
 
 Yet I — who shall soon be resting, 
 And have passed the hardest part — 
 
 Can look back with a deeper pity 
 On that young, unconscious heart. 
 
 It is strange ; but Life's currents drift us 
 
 So surely and swiftly on, 
 That we scarcely notice the changes, 
 
 And how many things are gone : 
 
 And forget, while to-day absorbs us, 
 How old mysteries are unsealed ; 
 
 How the old, old ties are loosened, 
 And the old, old wounds are healed. 
 
 And we say that our Life is fleeting 
 Like a story that Time has told ; 
 
 But we fancy that we — we only — 
 Are just what we were of old. 
 
 So now and then it is wisdom 
 
 To gaze, as I do to-day, 
 At a half-forgotten relic 
 
 Of a Time that is passed away. 
 
 The very look of that Portrait, 
 The perfume that seems to cling 
 
 To those fragile and faded letters, 
 And the Locket, and the Ring, 
 
TEE bribe's BREAM. 285 
 
 If they only stirred in my spirit 
 Forgotten pleasure and pain, — 
 
 Why, memory is often bitter, 
 And almost always in vain ; 
 
 But the contrast of bygone hours 
 Comes to rend a veil away, — 
 
 And I marvel to see the stranger 
 Who is living in me to-day. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S DREAM. 
 
 The stars are gleaming ; 
 
 The maiden sleeps, — 
 What is she dreaming ? 
 
 For see — she weeps. 
 By her side is an Angel 
 
 With folded wings ; 
 While the Maiden slumbers, 
 
 The Angel sings : 
 He sings of a Bridal, 
 
 Of Love, of Pain, 
 Of a heart to be given, — 
 
 And all in vain ; 
 (See, her cheek is flushing, 
 
 As if with pain ;) 
 He telleth of sorrow, 
 
 Regrets and fears, 
 And the few vain pleasures 
 
 We buy with tears ; 
 And the bitter lesson 
 
 We learn from years. 
 
 The stars are gleaming 
 Upon her brow : 
 
286 THE bride's bream. 
 
 What is she dreaming 
 
 So calmly now ? 
 By her side is the Angel 
 
 With folded wings ; 
 She smiles in her slumber 
 
 The while he sings. 
 He sings of a Bridal, 
 
 Of Love divine ; 
 Of a heart to be laid 
 
 On a sacred shrine ; 
 Of a crown of glory, 
 
 Where seraphs shine ; 
 Of the deep, long rapture 
 
 The chosen know 
 Who forsake for Heaven 
 
 Vain joys below, 
 Who desire no pleasure, 
 
 And fear no woe. 
 
 The Bells are ringing, 
 
 The sun shines clear, 
 The Choir is singing, 
 
 The guests are here. 
 Before the High Altar 
 
 Behold the Bride ; 
 And a mournful Angel 
 
 Is by her side. 
 She smiles, all content 
 
 With her choson lot, — 
 (Is her last night's dreaming 
 
 So soon forgot ?) 
 And oh, may the Angel 
 
 Forsake her not ! 
 For on her small hand 
 
TUE ANGEL'S bidding. 287 
 
 There glitters plain 
 The first sad link 
 
 Of a life-long chain ; — 
 And she needs his guiding 
 
 Through paths of pain. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BIDDING. 
 
 Not a sound is heard in the Convent; 
 The Vesper Chant is sung, 
 
 The sick have all been tended, 
 
 The poor nun's toils are ended 
 
 Till the Matin bell has rung. 
 
 All is still, save the Clock, that is ticking 
 
 So loud in the frosty air, 
 
 And the soft snow, falling as gently 
 
 As an answer to a prayer. 
 
 But an Angel whispers, " Sister, 
 You must rise from your bed to pray ; 
 In the silent, deserted chapel, 
 You must kneel till the dawn of day ; 
 For, far on the desolate moorland, 
 So dreary, and bleak, and white, 
 There is one, all alone and helpless, 
 In peril of death to-night. 
 
 " No sound on the moorland to guide him, 
 
 No star in the murky air ; 
 And he thinks of his home and his loved ones 
 
 With the tenderness of despair ; 
 He has wandered for hours in the snow-drift, 
 
 And he strives to stand in vain, 
 And so lies down to dream of his children, 
 
 And never to rise acrain. 
 
288 THE angel's bibbing. 
 
 Then kneel in the silent chapel 
 
 Till the dawn of to-morrow's sun, 
 
 And ask of the Lord you worship 
 
 For the life of that desolate one ; 
 
 And the smiling eyes of his children 
 
 Will gladden his heart again, 
 
 And the grateful tears of God's poor ones 
 
 Will fall on your soul like rain ! 
 
 " Yet, leave him alone to perish, 
 
 And the grace of your God implore, 
 With all the strength of your spirit, 
 
 For one who needs it more. 
 Far away, in the gleaming city, 
 
 Amid perfume, and song, and light, 
 A soul that Jesus has ransomed 
 
 Is in peril of sin to-night. 
 
 " The Tempter is close beside him, 
 
 And his danger is all forgot, 
 And the far-off voices of childhood 
 
 Call aloud, but he hears them not ; 
 He sayeth no prayer, and his mother — 
 
 He thinks not of her to-day, 
 And he will not look up to heaven, 
 
 And his Angel is turning away. 
 
 " Then pray for a soul in peril, 
 
 A soul for which Jesus died; 
 Ask, by the cross that bore Him, 
 
 And by her who stood beside ; 
 And the Angels of God will thank you, 
 
 And bend from their thrones of light, 
 To tell you that Heaven rejoices 
 
 At the deed you have done to-night." 
 
SPRING. 289 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Hark ! the hours are softly calling, 
 
 Bidding Spring arise, 
 To listen to the rain-drops falling 
 
 From the cloudy skies, 
 To listen to Earth's weary voices, 
 
 Louder every day, 
 Bidding her no longer linger 
 
 On her charmed way ; 
 But hasten to her task of beauty 
 
 Scarcely yet begun ; 
 By the first bright day of Summer 
 
 It should all be done. 
 She has yet to loose the fountain 
 
 From its iron chain ; 
 And to make the barren mountain 
 
 Green and bright again ; 
 She must clear the snow that lingers 
 
 Bound the stalks away, 
 And let the snow-drop's trembling whiteness 
 
 See the light of day. 
 She must watch, and warm, and cherish 
 
 Every blade of green, 
 Till the tender grass appearing 
 
 From the earth is seen ; 
 She must bring the golden crocus 
 
 From her hidden store ; 
 She must spread broad showers of daisies 
 
 Each day more and more. 
 In each hedge-row she must hasten 
 
 Cowslips sweet to set ; 
 Primroses in rich profusion, 
 
 With bright dew-drops wet, 
 
290 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 And under every leaf, in shadow 
 
 Hide a violet ! 
 Every tree within the forest 
 
 Must be decked anew ; 
 And the tender buds of promise 
 
 Should be peeping through, 
 Folded deep, and almost hidden, 
 
 Leaf by leaf beside, 
 What will make the Summer's glory, 
 
 And the Autumn's pride. 
 She must weave the loveliest carpets, 
 
 Checkered sun and shade, 
 Every wood must have such pathways, 
 
 Laid in every glade ; 
 She must hang laburnum branches 
 
 On each arched bow ; — 
 And the white and purple lilac 
 
 Should be waving now ; 
 She must breathe, and cold winds vanish 
 
 At her breath away ; 
 And then load the air around her 
 
 With the scent of May ! 
 Listen then, Spring ! nor linger 
 
 On thy charmed way ; 
 Have pity on thy prisoned flowers 
 
 Wearying for the day. 
 Listen to the rain-drops falling 
 
 From the cloudy skies ; 
 Listen to the hours calling, 
 
 Bidding thee arise. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 The shadows of the evening hours 
 Fall from the darkening sky; 
 
EVENING HYMN. 291 
 
 Upon the fragrance of the flowers 
 
 The dews of evening lie ; 
 Before thy throne, Lord of heaven, 
 
 We kneel at close of day ; 
 Look on thy children from on high, 
 
 And hear us while we pray. 
 
 The sorrows of thy servants, Lord, 
 
 do not thou despise ; 
 But let the incense of our prayers 
 
 Before thy mercy rise ; 
 The brightness of the coming night 
 
 Upon the darkness rolls : 
 With hopes of future glory chase 
 
 The shadows on our souls. 
 
 Slowly the rays of daylight fade ; 
 
 So fade within our heart 
 The hopes in earthly love and joy, 
 
 That one by one depart : 
 Slowly the bright stars, one by one, 
 
 Within the heavens shine ; — 
 Give us, Lord, fresh hopes in Heaven, 
 
 And trust in things divine. 
 
 Let peace, Lord, thy peace, God, 
 
 Upon our souls descend ; 
 From midnight fears and perils, thou 
 
 Our trembling hearts defend ; 
 Give us a respite from our toil, 
 
 Calm and subdue our woes ; 
 Through the long day we suffer, Lord, 
 
 give us now repose ! 
 
292 THE INNER CHAMBER. 
 
 THE INNER CHAMBER. 
 
 In the outer Court I was singiug, 
 Was singing the whole day long ; 
 
 Eroni the inner chamber were ringing 
 Echoes repeating my song. 
 
 And I sang till it grew immortal ; 
 
 For that very song of mine, 
 When re-echoed behind the Portal, 
 
 Was filled with a life divine. 
 
 Was the Chamber a silver round 
 
 Of arches, whose magical art 
 Drew in coils of musical sound, 
 
 And cast them back on my heart ? 
 
 Was there hidden within a lyre 
 
 Which, as air breathed over its strings, 
 
 Filled my song with a soul of fire, 
 
 And sent back my words with wings ? 
 
 Was some seraph imprisoned there, 
 Whose Voice made my song complete, 
 
 And whose lingering, soft despair 
 Made the echo so faint and sweet ? 
 
 Long I trembled and paused, — then parted 
 The curtains with heavy fringe ; 
 
 And, half fearing, yet eager-hearted, 
 Turned the door on its golden hinge. 
 
 Now I sing in the court once more, 
 
 I sing and I weep all day, 
 As I kneel by the close-shut door, 
 
 For I know what the echoes say. 
 
HEABTS. 293 
 
 Yet I sing not the song of old, 
 Ere I knew whence the echo came, 
 
 Ere I opened the door of gold ; 
 
 But the music sounds just the same. 
 
 Then take warning, and turn away ; 
 
 Do not ask of that hidden thing, 
 Do not guess what the echoes say, 
 
 Or the meaning of what I sing. 
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 A trinket made like a Heart, dear, 
 Of red gold, bright and fine, 
 
 Was given to me for a keepsake, 
 Given to me for mine. 
 
 And another heart, warm and tender, 
 As true as a heart could be ; 
 
 And every throb that stirred it 
 Was always and all for me. 
 
 Sailing over the waters, 
 
 Watching the far blue land, 
 
 I dropped my golden heart, dear, 
 Dropped it out of my hand ! 
 
 It lies in the cold, blue waters, 
 Fathoms and fathoms deep, 
 
 The golden heart which I promised, 
 Promised to prize and keep. 
 
294 HEARTS. 
 
 Gazing at Life's bright visions, 
 So false, and fair, and new, 
 
 I forgot the other heart, dear, 
 Forgot it and lost it too ! 
 
 I might seek that heart forever, 
 I might seek and seek in vain ; • 
 
 And for one short, careless hour. 
 I pay with a life of pain. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Heart ? — Yes, I wore it 
 
 As sign and as token 
 Of a love that once gave it, 
 
 A vow that was spoken ; 
 But a love, and a vow, and a heart 
 
 Can be broken. 
 
 The Love? —Life and Death 
 
 Are crushed into a day, 
 So what wonder that Love 
 
 Should as soon pass away, — 
 What wonder I saw it 
 
 Fade, fail, and decay ? 
 
 The Vow ? — why, what was it ? 
 
 It snapped like a thread ; 
 Who cares for the corpse 
 
 When the spirit is fled ? 
 Then I said, " Let the Dead rise 
 
 And bury its dead, 
 
TWO LOVES. 295 
 
 " While the true, living future 
 Grows pure, wise, and strong." 
 
 So I cast the gold heart 
 I had worn for so long 
 
 In the Lake, and bound on it 
 A Stone — and a Wrong ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Look, this little golden Heart 
 
 Was a true-love shrine 
 For a tress of hair ; I held them, 
 
 Heart and tress, as mine, 
 Like the Love which gave the token : 
 See, to-day the Heart is broken! 
 
 Broken is the golden heart, 
 
 Lost the tress of hair ; 
 Ah, the shrine is empty, vacant, 
 
 Desolate and bare ! 
 So the token should depart, 
 When Love dies within the heart. 
 
 Fast and deep the river floweth, 
 
 Floweth to the west ; 
 I will cast the golden trinket 
 
 In its cold dark breast : — 
 Flow, river, deep and fast, 
 Over all the buried past ! 
 
 TWO LOVES. 
 Deep within my heart of hearts, dear, 
 
 Bound with all its strings, 
 Two Loves are together reigning, 
 
 Both are crowned like Kings ; 
 
296 TWO LOVES. 
 
 While my life, still uncomplaining, 
 Rests beneath their wings. 
 
 So they both will rule my heart, dear, 
 
 Till it cease to beat ; 
 No sway can be deeper, stronger, 
 
 Truer, more complete ; 
 Growing, as it lasts the longer, 
 
 Sweeter, and more sweet. 
 
 One all life and time transfigures ; 
 
 Piercing through and through 
 Meaner things with magic splendor, 
 
 Old, yet ever new : 
 This — so strong and yet so tender — 
 
 Is . . . my Love for you. 
 
 Should it fail,— forgive my doubting 
 
 In this world of pain, — 
 Yet my other Love would ever 
 
 Steadfastly remain ; 
 And I know that I could never 
 
 Turn to that in vain. 
 
 Though its radiance may be fainter, 
 
 Yet its task is wide ; 
 For it lives to comfort sorrows, 
 
 Strengthen, calm, and guide, 
 And from Trust and Honor borrows 
 
 All its peace and pride. 
 
 Will you blame my dreaming, even 
 
 If the first were flown ? 
 Ah, I would not live without it, 
 
 It is all your own : 
 And the other — can you doubt it ? — 
 
 Yours, and yours alone. 
 
A WOMAN'S LAST WOBD. 297 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 Well — the links are broken, 
 
 All is past ; 
 This farewell, when spoken, 
 
 Is the last. 
 I have tried and striven 
 
 All in vain ; 
 Such bonds must be riven, 
 
 Spite of pain, 
 And never, never, never 
 
 Knit again. 
 
 So I tell you plainly, 
 
 It must be : 
 I shall try, not vainly, 
 
 To be free ; 
 Truer, happier chances 
 
 Wait me yet, 
 While you, through fresh fancies, 
 
 Can forget ; — 
 And life has nobler uses 
 
 Than Eegret. 
 
 All past words retracing, 
 
 One by one, 
 Does not help effacing 
 
 What is done. 
 Let it be. O, stronger 
 
 Links can break ! 
 Had we dreamed still longer 
 
 We could wake, — 
 Yet let us part in kindness 
 
 For Love's sake. 
 
298 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 Bitterness and sorrow 
 
 Will at last, 
 In some bright to-morrow, 
 
 Heal their past ; 
 But future hearts will never 
 
 Be as true 
 As mine was — is ever, 
 
 Dear, for you . . . 
 • • • Then must we part, when loving 
 
 As we do ? 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 " Linger," I cried, " radiant Time ! thy power 
 Has nothing more to give ; life is complete : 
 Let but the perfect Present, hour by hour, 
 Itself remember and itself repeat. 
 
 " And Love, — the future can but mar its splendor, 
 Change can but dim the glory of its youth ; 
 Time has no star more faithful or more tender 
 To crown its constancy or light its truth." 
 
 But Time passed on in spite of prayer or pleading, 
 Through storm and peril ; but that life might gain 
 A Peace through strife all other peace exceeding, 
 Presh joy from sorrow, and new hope from pain. 
 
 And since Love lived when all save Love was dying, 
 And, passed through fire, grew stronger than be- 
 fore : — 
 Dear, you know why, in double faith relying, 
 I prize the Past much, but the Present more. 
 
FOR THE FUTURE. 299 
 
 FOR THE FUTURE. 
 
 I "wonder did you ever count 
 The value of one human fate ; 
 Or sum the infinite amount 
 Of one heart's treasures, and the weight 
 Of Life's one venture, and the whole concentrate 
 purpose of a soul. 
 
 And if you ever paused to think 
 That all this in your hands I laid 
 Without a fear : — did you not shrink 
 From such a burden ? half afraid, 
 Half wishing that you could divide the risk, or east 
 it all aside. 
 
 While Love has daily perils, such 
 As none foresee and none control ; 
 And hearts are strung so that one touch, 
 Careless or rough, may jar the whole, 
 You well might feel afraid to reign with absolute 
 power of joy and pain. 
 
 You well might fear — if Love's sole claim 
 Were to be happy : but true Love 
 Takes joy as solace, not as aim, 
 And looks beyond, and looks above ; 
 And sometimes through the bitterest strife first 
 learns to live her highest life. 
 
 Earth forges joy into a chain 
 Till fettered Love forgets its strength, 
 Its purpose, and its end ; — but Pain 
 Restores its heritage at length, 
 And bids Love rise again and be eternal, mighty, 
 pure, and free. 
 
300 FOR THE FUTURE. 
 
 If then your future life should need 
 A strength my Love can only gain 
 Through suffering, or my heart be freed 
 Only by sorrow from some stain, 
 Then you shall give, and I will take, this Crown of 
 fire for Love's dear sake. 
 September 8, 1860. 
 
A CHAPLET OF VERSES. 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE BENEFIT OF 
 
 THE PKOVIDENCE EOW NIGHT KEFUGE 
 
 HOMELESS WOMEN AND CHILDREN. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There is scarcely any charitable institution 
 which should excite such universal, such unhesi- 
 tating sympathy, as a Night Eefuge for the Home- 
 less Poor. 
 
 A shelter through the bleak winter nights, leave 
 to rest in some poor shed instead of wandering 
 through the pitiless streets, is a boon we could 
 hardly deny to a starving dog. And yet we have 
 all known that in this country, in this town, many 
 of our miserable fellow-creatures were pacing the 
 streets through the long weary nights, without a 
 roof to shelter them, without food to eat, with their 
 poor rags soaked in rain, and only the bitter winds 
 of Heaven for companions; women and children 
 utterly forlorn and helpless, either wandering about 
 all night, or crouching under a miserable archway, 
 or, worst of all, seeking in death or sin the refuge 
 denied them elsewhere. It is a marvel that we 
 could sleep in peace in our warm, comfortable 
 homes with this horror at our very door. 
 
 But at last some efforts were made to efface this 
 stain upon our country, public sympathy was ap- 
 pealed to, and a few " Refuges " were opened, to 
 shelter our homeless poor through the winter nights. 
 
 In the autumn of 1860 there was no Catholic 
 Refuge in the kingdom; and excellent as were 
 the Protestant Refuges, their resources were quite 
 inadequate to meet the claims upon them. 
 303 
 
304 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In this country, as we all know, the very poorest 
 and most destitute are in many cases Catholics ; and 
 doubtless our Priests, to whom no form of sin or 
 sorrow is strange, must see in a special manner, 
 and in innumerable results, the sufferings, dangers, 
 and temptations of the homeless. The Rev. Dr. 
 Gilbert therefore resolved to open a Catholic Night 
 Eefuge in his parish, and to his zealous charity and 
 unwearied efforts are due the foundation and success 
 of the Providence Row Night Refuge for Home- 
 less Women and Children; the first Catholic 
 Refuge in England or Ireland, and still the only 
 one in England. 
 
 The Sisters of Mercy had long been aiding their 
 pastors in the schools of the parish, and when this 
 new opening for their charity was suggested to 
 them, they unhesitatingly accepted a task, worthy 
 indeed of the holy name they bear. They were 
 seeking for some house more suitable for a Convent 
 than the one they had hitherto occupied in Broad 
 Street ; and when Dr. Gilbert saw the large stable 
 at the back of 14 Finsbury Square, he felt that 
 here was a suitable place for his long-cherished 
 plan of a Night Refuge. It was separated from 
 the house by a yard, and opened on a narrow street 
 at the back, already called, with a happy appropri- 
 ateness, Providence Row. To Finsbury Square 
 therefore the community removed, and it was not 
 long before the stable was fitted up with wooden 
 beds and benches, the few preparations were com- 
 pleted, and on the 7th of October, 1860, the Refuge 
 was opened. At first there were but fourteen beds, 
 but contributions flowed in from Protestants as well 
 as Catholics, and in February, 18G1, thirty-one more 
 
INTRODUCTION. 305 
 
 beds were added, making in all forty-five. But as 
 many of the poor women have children with them, 
 rarely less than sixty persons are each night ad- 
 mitted. Up to the present time, fourteen thousand 
 seven hundred and eighty-five nights' lodgings have 
 been given, with the same number of suppers and 
 breakfasts. 
 
 From six to eight are the hours of admission ; but 
 this is indeed a needless rule, for a crowd of ragged 
 women, with pale, weary children clinging to them, 
 are waiting patiently long before the doors are 
 opened, and the place is filled at once. 
 
 Means for washing are given them, they rest 
 themselves in warmth, light, and peace, and at 
 eight o'clock each person receives half a pound 
 of bread and a large basin of excellent gruel. 
 Night prayers are said by one of the Sisters, and 
 then the poor wanderers lie down in their rude but 
 clean and comfortable beds. They have the same 
 meal in the morning. 
 
 Those who come on Saturday evening remain till 
 Monday, receiving on Sunday, besides the usual 
 breakfast and supper, an extra half-pound of bread, 
 and a good supply of meat soup. There is no dis- 
 tinction of creed ; Protestants and Catholics are 
 alike admitted. There are but two conditions of 
 admittance, — that the applicants be homeless and 
 of good character. This is the only Refuge which 
 makes character a condition ; and it is found that, 
 in spite of all precautions, much harm arises in the 
 other Refuges to the young and innocent, from the 
 bad language and evil example of the degraded class 
 with whom they are brought in contact. 
 
 Each evening (and on Sundays more fully) simple 
 
306 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 instructions on the Catechism are given by one of 
 the Sisters ; but this the Protestants do not attend ; 
 they frequently ask leave to be present, but it is not 
 permitted, (without the special permission of one of 
 the clergy,) as the instructions on the practice of our 
 faith would be to them comparatively useless and 
 unmeaning. 
 
 The temporary shelter and food which is given in 
 Providence Row is not the only, perhaps often not 
 the greatest, benefit bestowed upon the poor forlorn 
 inmates. They find advice, sympathy, and help 
 from the kind Sisters ; and the very telling their 
 troubles to one who is there to serve and tend them, 
 not for any earthly reward, but from Christian love 
 and pity, must be a rest to their weary hearts, a com- 
 fort in their sore want and distress. It is touching 
 to see their eager desire to be allowed to help the 
 Sister in the cleaning, cooking, etc., and the half- 
 ashamed thankfulness with which they watch her 
 busied in their service. 
 
 One of the Nuns sleeps every night in the Refuge, 
 and no unruly sound, no whisper of murmur or dis- 
 respect, ever rises against her gentle sway. Nay, 
 even more, when she has the sad task of selecting 
 among the waiting crowd the number who may 
 enter, choosing generally those with children and 
 those who have not applied before, the rest submit 
 without a murmur. Though the little ones are 
 hardly counted, but creep in by their mothers' sides, 
 there are still many — sometimes thirty or forty 
 nightly — turned away for want of space. They 
 have had a glimpse of warmth and light, and then 
 it is the cruel office of the kind Nun to bar the door 
 against them; but no angry word, no remonstrance, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 307 
 
 meets her sorrowful refusal ; they turn once more 
 to their weary wanderings in the dark, bleak streets. 
 And so will many have to do, night after night, un- 
 til the Kefuge is enlarged. The present space will 
 hold no more beds, but to build an additional dor- 
 mitory is the earnest desire and intention of Dr. 
 Gilbert. 
 
 No salaries are received by any who have charge of 
 the Refuge. Among the many causes for gratitude 
 we have to our good Keligious, surely it is not one 
 of the least, that what we can spare in the cause 
 of charity goes solely and directly to its object ; the 
 more difficult and more perfect share of the good 
 work being taken by them out of love to God and 
 his poor. 
 
 The Refuge is open from the month of October to 
 April. 
 
 It is placed under the special patronage of Our 
 Blessed Lady, and Blessed Benedict Labre. 
 
 May the Mother who wandered homeless through 
 inhospitable Bethlehem, and the Saint who was a 
 beggar and an outcast upon the face of the earth, 
 watch over this Refuge for the poor and desolate, 
 and obtain from the charity of the faithful the aid 
 which it so sorely needs. 
 
 I may add that donations for the Refuge will be 
 thankfully received by the Rev. Dr. Gilbert, 22 
 Finsbury Circus, or by the Rev. Mother, at the 
 Convent, 14 Finsbury Square, E. C. 
 
 We all meditate long and often on the many kinds 
 of sufferings borne for us by our Blessed Redeemer ; 
 but perhaps, if we consider a moment, we shall most 
 of us confess, that the one we think of least often, 
 the one we compassionate least of all, is the only 
 
308 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 one of which he deigned to tell us himself, and for 
 which he himself appealed to our pity in the Divine 
 complaint, " The foxes have holes, and the birds of 
 the air have nests, but the Son of Man has not where 
 to lay his head." 
 
 A. A. P. 
 May, 1802. 
 
THE ARMY OF THE LOED. 
 
 To fight the battle of the Cross, Christ's chosen ones 
 are sent, — 
 
 Good soldiers and great victors, — a noble arma- 
 ment. 
 
 They use no earthly weapon, they know not spear 
 or sword, 
 
 Yet right and true and valiant is the army of the 
 Lord. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fear them, ye mighty ones of earth ; fear them, ye 
 
 demon foes ; 
 Slay them and think to conquer, but the ranks will 
 
 always close : 
 In vain do Earth and Hell unite their power and skill 
 
 to try, 
 They fight better for their wounds, and they conquer 
 
 when they die. 
 
 in. 
 
 The soul of every sinner is the victory they would 
 
 gain; 
 They would bind each rebel heart in their Master's 
 
 golden chain : 
 Faith is the shield they carry, and the two-edged 
 
 sword they bear 
 Is God's strongest, mightiest weapon, and they call 
 
 it Love and Prayer. 
 
 309 
 
310 THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Where the savage hordes are dwelling by the Ganges' 
 
 sacred tide, 
 Through the trackless Indian forests, St. Francis is 
 
 their guide ; 
 Where crime and sin are raging, to conquer they 
 
 are gone ; — 
 They do conquer as they go, for St. Philip leads 
 
 them on. 
 
 v. 
 
 They are come where all are kneeling at the shrines 
 
 of wealth and pride, 
 And an old and martyred Bishop is their comrade 
 
 and their guide : 
 To tell the toil-worn negro of freedom and repose, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic's bosom they are called by 
 
 sweet St. Kose. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They are gone where Love is frozen, and Faith 
 
 grown calm and cold, 
 Where the world is all triumphant, and the sheep 
 
 have left the fold, 
 Where His children scorn His blessings, and His 
 
 sacred Shrines despise, — 
 And the beacon of the warriors is the light in Mary's 
 
 eyes. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The bugle for their battle is the matin bell for 
 
 prayer ; 
 And for their noble standard Christ's holy Cross 
 
 they bear ; 
 
THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 311 
 
 His sacred name their war-cry, 't is in vain what ye 
 
 can do, 
 They must conquer, for your Angels are leaguing 
 
 with them too. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Would you know, World, these warriors ? Go 
 
 where the poor, the old, 
 Ask for pardon and for heaven, and you offer food 
 
 and gold ; 
 With healing and with comfort, with words of peace 
 
 and prayer, 
 Bearing His greatest gift to man, — Christ's chosen 
 
 priests are there. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Where sin and crime are dwelling, hid from the 
 
 light of day, 
 And life and hope are fading at Death's cold touch 
 
 away, 
 Where dying eyes in horror see the long-forgotten 
 
 past, 
 Christ's servants claim the sinner, and gain his soul 
 
 at last. 
 
 Where the rich and proud and mighty God's mes- 
 sage would defy, 
 
 In warning and reproof His anointed ones stand by : 
 
 Bright are the crowns of glory God keepeth for His 
 own, 
 
 Their life one sigh for heaven, and their aim His 
 will alone. 
 
312 THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And see sweet Mercy's sister, where the poor and 
 
 wretched dwell, 
 In gentle accents telling of Him she loves so well ; 
 Training young hearts to serve their Lord, and place 
 
 their hope in Heaven, 
 Bidding her erring sisters love much and be forgiven. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And where in cloistered silence dim the Brides of 
 
 Jesus dwell, 
 Where purest incense rises up from every lowly cell, 
 They plead not vainly, — they have chosen and 
 
 gained the better part, 
 And given their gentle life away to Him who has 
 
 their heart. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And some there are among us — the path which 
 
 they have trod 
 Of sin and pain and anguish has led at last to God : 
 They plead, and Christ will hear them, that the poor 
 
 slaves who pine 
 In the bleak dungeon they have left, may see His 
 
 truth divine. 
 
 0, who can tell how many hearts are altars to His 
 praise, 
 
 From which the silent prayer ascends through pa- 
 tient nights and days : 
 
 The sacrifice is offered still in secret and alone, 
 
 World, ye do not know them, but He can help 
 His own. 
 
THE STAR OF THE SEA. 313 
 
 xv. 
 
 They are with us, His true soldiers, they come in 
 
 power and might ; 
 Glorious the crown which they shall gain after the 
 
 heavenly fight ; 
 And you, perchance, who scoff, may yet their rest 
 
 and glory share, 
 As the rich spoil of their battle and the captives of 
 
 their prayer. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 0, who shall tell the wonder of that great day of 
 
 rest, 
 When even in this place of strife His soldiers are 
 
 so blest : 
 World, Earth, why strive ye? join the low 
 
 chant they sing, — 
 " Grave, where is thy victory ! Death, where 
 
 is thy sting ! " 
 
 THE STAR OF THE SEA. 
 
 How many a mighty ship 
 
 The stormy waves o'erwhelm ; 
 
 Yet our frail bark floats on, 
 Our Angel holds the helm : 
 
 Dark storms are gathering round, 
 And dangerous winds arise, 
 
 Yet see ! one trembling stal- 
 ls shining in the skies ; — 
 
 And we are safe who trust in thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
314 TEE STAR OF THE SEA. 
 
 A long and weary voyage 
 
 Have we to reach our home, 
 And dark and sunken rocks 
 
 Are hid in silver foam ; 
 Each moment we may sink 
 
 But steadily we sail, 
 Our winged Pilot smiles, 
 
 And says we shall not fail : — 
 And so we kneel and call on thee. 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 Yes, for those shining rays 
 
 Shall beam upon the main, 
 Shall guide us safely on, 
 
 Through fear and doubt and pain : 
 And see — the stormy wind 
 
 Our little sail has caught, 
 The tempest others fear 
 
 Shall drive us into port : — 
 Through Life's dark voyage we trust in 
 thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 The shore now looms in sight, 
 
 The far-off golden strand, 
 Yet many a freight is wrecked 
 
 And lost in sight of land ; 
 Then guide us safely home, 
 
 Through that last hour of strife, 
 And welcome us to land, 
 
 From the long voyage of life : — 
 In death and life we call on thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
THE SACRED HEART. 315 
 
 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 What wouldst thou have, soul, 
 
 Thou weary soul ? 
 Lo ! I have sought for rest 
 On the Earth's heaving breast, 
 
 From pole to pole. 
 Sleep — I have been with her, 
 
 But she gave dreams ; 
 Death — nay, the rest he gives 
 
 Rest only seems. 
 Fair nature knows it not — 
 
 The grass is growing; 
 The blue air knows it not — 
 
 The winds are blowing : 
 Not in the changing sky, 
 
 The stormy sea, 
 Yet somewhere in God's wide world 
 
 Rest there must be. 
 Within thy Saviour's Heart 
 
 Place all thy care, 
 And learn, weary soul, 
 
 Thy Rest is there. 
 
 What wouldst thou, trembling soul ? 
 
 Strength for the strife, — 
 Strength for this fiery war 
 
 That we call Life. 
 Fears gather thickly round ; 
 
 Shadowy foes, 
 Like unto armed men, 
 
 Around me close. 
 What am I, frail and poor, 
 
 When griefs arise ? 
 
316 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 No help from the weak earth, 
 
 Or the cold skies. 
 Lo ! I can find no guards, 
 
 No weapons borrow ; 
 Shrinking, alone I stand, 
 
 With mighty sorrow. 
 Courage, thou trembling soul, 
 
 Grief thou must bear, 
 Yet thou canst find a strength 
 
 Will match despair; 
 Within thy Saviour's Heart — 
 
 Seek for it there. 
 
 What wouldst thou have, sad soul, 
 
 Oppressed with grief ? — 
 Comfort : I seek in vain, 
 
 Nor find relief. 
 Nature, all pitiless, 
 
 Smiles on my pain ; 
 I ask my fellow-men, 
 
 They give disdain. 
 I asked the babbling streams, 
 
 But they flowed on ; 
 I asked the wise and good, 
 
 But they gave none. 
 Though I have asked the stars, 
 
 Coldly they shine. 
 They are too bright to know 
 
 Grief such as mine. 
 I asked for comfort still, 
 
 And I found tears, 
 And I have sought in vain 
 
 Long, weary years. 
 
THE SACRED HEART. 317 
 
 Listen, thou mournful soul, 
 
 Thy pain shall cease ; 
 Deep in His sacred Heart 
 
 Dwells joy and peace. 
 
 Yes, in that Heart divine 
 
 The Angels bright 
 Find, through eternal years, 
 
 Still new delight. 
 From thence his constancy 
 
 The martyr drew, 
 And there the virgin band 
 
 Their refuge knew. 
 There, racked by pain without, 
 
 And dread within, 
 How many souls have found 
 
 Heaven's bliss begin. 
 Then leave thy vain attempts 
 
 To seek for peace ; 
 The world can never give 
 
 One soul release : 
 But in thy Saviour's Heart 
 
 Securely dwell, 
 No pain can harm thee, hid 
 
 In that sweet cell. 
 Then fly, coward soul, 
 
 Delay no more: 
 What words can speak the joy 
 
 For thee in store ? 
 What smiles of earth can tell 
 
 Of peace like thine ? 
 Silence and tears are best 
 
 For things divine. 
 
318 THE NAMES OF OUR LADY. 
 
 THE NAMES OF OUR LADY. 
 
 Through the wide world thy children raise 
 
 Their prayers, and still we see 
 Calm are the nights and bright the days 
 
 Of those who trust in thee. 
 
 Around thy starry crown are wreathed 
 
 So many names divine : 
 Which is the dearest to my heart, 
 
 And the most worthy thine ? 
 
 Star of the Sea : we kneel and pray 
 When tempests raise their voice ; 
 
 Star of the Sea ! the haven reached, 
 We call thee and rejoice. 
 
 Help of the Christian : in our need 
 
 Thy mighty aid we claim ; 
 If we are faint and weary, then 
 
 We trust in that dear name. 
 
 Our Lady of the Rosary : 
 
 What name can be so sweet 
 As what we call thee when we place 
 
 Our chaplets at thy feet. 
 
 Bright Queen of Heaven : when we are sad, 
 
 Best solace of our pains ; — 
 It tells us, though on earth we toil, 
 
 Our Mother lives and reigns. 
 
 Our Lady of Mount Carmel: thus 
 Sometimes thy name is known ; 
 
 It tells us of the badge we wear, 
 To live or die thine own. 
 
THE NAMES OF OUR LADY. 319 
 
 Our Lady dear of Victories : 
 
 We see our faith oppressed, 
 And, praying for our erring land, 
 
 We love that name the best. 
 
 Refuge of Sinners : many a soul, 
 
 By guilt cast down, and sin, 
 Has learned through this dear name of thine 
 
 Pardon and peace to 'win. 
 
 Health of the Sick : when anxious hearts 
 
 Watch by the sufferer's bed, 
 On this sweet name of thine they lean, 
 
 Consoled and comforted. 
 
 Mother of Sorroios : many a heart 
 
 Half broken by despair 
 Has laid its burden by the cross, 
 
 And found a mother there. 
 
 Queen of all Saints : the Church appeals 
 
 For her loved dead to thee ; 
 She knows they wait in patient pain 
 
 A bright eternity. 
 
 Fair Queen of Virgins : thy pure band, 
 
 The lilies round thy throne, 
 Love the dear title which they bear 
 
 Most that it is thine own. 
 
 Trice Queen of Martyrs : if we shrink 
 
 From want, or pain, or woe, 
 We think of the sharp sword that pierced 
 
 Thy heart, and call thee so. 
 
320 A CIIAPLET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Mary : the dearest name of all, 
 
 The holiest and the best ; 
 The first low word that Jesus lisped 
 
 Laid on His mother's breast. 
 
 Mary, the name that Gabriel spoke, 
 The name that conquers hell : 
 
 Mary, the name that through high heaven 
 The angels love so well. 
 
 Mary, — our comfort and our hope, — 
 
 may that word be given 
 To be the last we sigh on earth, — 
 
 The first we breathe in heaven. 
 
 A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Dear, set the casement open, 
 The evening breezes blow 
 
 Sweet perfumes from the flowers 
 I cannot see below. 
 
 I can but catch the waving 
 Of chestnut boughs that pass, 
 
 Their shadow must have covered 
 The sun-dial on the grass. 
 
 So go and bring the flowers 
 I love best to my room, 
 
 My failing strength no longer 
 Can bear me where they bloom. 
 
 You know I used to love them, 
 But ah ! they come too late, — 
 
 For see, my hands are trembling 
 Beneath their dewy weight. 
 
A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS. 321 
 
 So I will watch you weaving 
 
 A chaplet for me, dear, 
 Of all niy favorite flowers, 
 
 As I could do last year. 
 
 First, take those crimson roses, — 
 
 How red their petals glow ! 
 Red as the blood of Jesus, 
 
 Which heals our sin and woe. 
 
 See in each heart of crimson 
 
 A deeper crimson shine : 
 So in the foldings of our hearts 
 
 Should glow a love divine. 
 
 Next place those tender violets, 
 
 Look how they still regret 
 The cell where they were hidden, — 
 
 The tears are on them yet. 
 
 How many souls — His loved ones — 
 
 Dwell lonely and apart, 
 Hiding from all but One above 
 
 The fragrance of their heart. 
 
 Then take that virgin lily, 
 
 How holily she stands ! 
 You know the gentle angels 
 
 Bear lilies in their hands. 
 
 Yet crowned with purer radiance 
 
 A deeper love they claim, 
 Because their queen-like whiteness 
 
 Is linked with Mary's name. 
 
322 A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And now this spray of ivy : 
 You know its gradual clasp 
 
 Uproots strong trees, and towers 
 Fall crumbling in its grasp. 
 
 So God's dear grace around us 
 With, secret patience clings, 
 
 And slow, sure power, that loosens 
 Strong holds on human things. 
 
 Then heliotrope, that turneth 
 Towards her lord the sun, — 
 
 "Would that our thoughts as fondly 
 Sought our beloved One. 
 
 Nay, if that branch be fading, 
 
 Cast not one blossom by, 
 Its little task is ended 
 
 And it does well to die. 
 
 And let some field flowers even 
 Be wreathed among the rest, 
 
 I think the infant Jesus 
 
 Would love such ones the best. 
 
 These flowers are all too brilliant, 
 So place calm heart's-ease there, 
 
 God's last and sacred treasure 
 For all who wait and bear. 
 
 Then lemon-leaves, whose sweetness 
 Grows sweeter than before 
 
 When bruised, and crushed, and broken, 
 — Hearts need that lesson more. 
 
KYRIE ELEISON. 323 
 
 Yet stay, — one crowning glory, 
 
 All His, and yet all ours ; 
 The dearest, tenderest thought of all, 
 
 Is still the Passion-flower's. 
 
 So take it now, — nay, heed not 
 
 My tears that on it fall; 
 I thank Him for the flowers, 
 
 As I can do for all. 
 
 And place it on the altar, 
 
 Where oft, in days long flown, 
 
 I knelt by His dear Mother, 
 And knew she was my own. 
 
 The bells ring out her praises, 
 The evening shades grow dim ; 
 
 Go there and say a prayer for me, 
 And sing Our Lady's hymn. 
 
 While I lie here, and ask her help 
 In that last, longed-for day — 
 
 When the Beloved of my heart 
 Will call my soul away. 
 
 KYEIE ELEISON. 
 
 In joy, in pain, in sorrow, 
 
 Father, Thy hand we see ; 
 But some among Thy children 
 
 Deny this faith and Thee. 
 They will not ask Thy mercy, 
 
 But we kneel for them in prayer ; 
 Are they not still Thy children ? 
 
 Pity, God ! and spare. 
 
324 KTRIE ELEISON. 
 
 Thy peace, Lord, has never 
 On their desolate pathway shone, 
 
 Darkness is all around them : 
 Kyrie Eleison ! 
 
 For them the starry heavens 
 
 No hymn of worship raise ; 
 For them, earth's innocent dowers 
 
 Breathe not Thy silent praise ; 
 In heaven they know no Saviour, 
 
 No Father, and no Friend, 
 And life is all they hope for, 
 
 And Death they call the end ; 
 Their eyes, Lord ! are blinded 
 
 To the glories of the sun, 
 To the shining of the sea-star — 
 
 Kyrie Eleison ! 
 
 By the love Thy saints have shown Thee, 
 
 And the sorrows they have borne, 
 Leave not these erring creatures 
 
 To wander thus forlorn. 
 By Thy tender name of Saviour, — 
 
 The name they have denied ; 
 By Thy bitter death and passion, 
 
 And the Cross which they deride ; 
 By the anguish Thou hast suffered, 
 
 And the glory Thou hast won ; 
 By Thy love and by Thy pity — 
 
 Christe Eleison ! 
 
 Pray for them, glorious seraphs, 
 And ye, bright angel band, 
 
 Who chant His praises ever, 
 And in His presence stand ; 
 
THE ANNUNCIATION. 325 
 
 And thou, gentle Mother, 
 
 Queen of the starry sky ; 
 Ye Saints whose toils are over, 
 
 Join your voices to our cry, — 
 In Thy terror or Thy mercy, 
 
 Call them ere life is done, 
 For His sake who died to save them, 
 
 Kyrie Eleison ! 
 
 THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 How pure, and frail, and white, 
 The snowdrops shine ! 
 
 Gather a garland bright 
 For Mary's shrine. 
 
 For, born of winter snows, 
 
 These fragile flowers 
 Are gifts to our fair Queen 
 
 From Spring's first hours. 
 
 For on this blessed day 
 
 She knelt at prayer ; 
 When, lo ! before her shone 
 
 An Angel fair. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " thus he cried, 
 
 With reverent fear : 
 She, with sweet wondering eyes, 
 
 Marvelled to hear. 
 
 Be still, ye clouds of Heaven ! 
 
 Be silent, Earth ! 
 And hear an Angel tell 
 
 Of Jesus' birth, 
 
326 THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 While she, whom Gabriel hails 
 
 As full of grace, 
 Listens with humble faith 
 
 In her sweet face. 
 
 Be still, Pride, War, and Pomp, 
 Vain Hopes, vain Fears, 
 
 Por now an Angel speaks, 
 And Mary hears. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " lo, it rings 
 
 Through ages on ; 
 " Hail, Mary ! " it shall sound, 
 
 Till Time is done. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " infant lips 
 
 Lisp it to-day ; 
 " Hail, Mary ! " with faint smile 
 
 The dying say. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " many a heart 
 
 Broken with grief, 
 In that angelic prayer 
 
 Has found relief. 
 
 And many a half -lost soul, 
 When turned at bay, 
 
 With those triumphant words 
 Has won the day. 
 
 " Hail, Mary, Queen of Heaven ! " 
 
 Let us repeat, 
 And place our snowdrop wreath 
 
 Here at her feet. 
 
AN APPEAL. 327 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 THE IRISH CHURCH MISSION FOR CONVERTING 
 
 THE CATHOLICS 
 
 » 
 
 Spare her, O cruel England ! 
 
 Thy Sister lieth low ; 
 Chained and oppressed she lieth, 
 
 Spare her that cruel blow. 
 We ask not for the freedom 
 
 Heaven has vouchsafed to thee, 
 Nor bid thee share with Ireland 
 
 The empire of the sea ; 
 Her children ask no shelter, — 
 
 Leave them the stormy sky ; 
 They ask not for thy harvests, 
 
 For they know how to die : 
 Deny them, if it please thee, 
 
 A grave beneath the sod : — 
 But we do cry, England, 
 
 Leave them their faith in God ! 
 
 Take, if thou wilt, the earnings 
 
 Of the poor peasant's toil, 
 Take all the scanty produce 
 
 That grows on Irish soil, 
 To pay the alien preachers 
 
 Whom Ireland will not hear, 
 To pay the scoffers at a Creed 
 
 Which Irish hearts hold dear : 
 But leave them, cruel England, 
 
 The gift their God has given, 
 
328 AN APPEAL. 
 
 Leave them their ancient worship, 
 Leave them their faith in Heaven. 
 
 You come and offer Learning, — 
 
 A mighty gift, 't is true ; 
 Perchance the greatest blessing 
 
 That now is known to you. 
 But not to see the wonders 
 
 Sages of old beheld 
 Can they peril a priceless treasure, 
 
 The Faith their Fathers held ; 
 For in learning and in science 
 
 They may forget to pray, — 
 God will not ask for knowledge 
 
 On the great judgment day. 
 
 When, in their wretched cabins, 
 
 Racked by the fever pain, 
 And the weak cries of their children 
 
 Who ask for food in vain ; 
 When starving, naked, helpless, 
 
 From the shed that keeps them warm 
 Man has driven them forth to perish, 
 
 In a less cruel storm ; — 
 Then, then, we plead for mercy, 
 
 Then, Sister, hear our cry ! 
 For all we ask, England, 
 
 Is — leave them there to die ! 
 Cursed is the food and raiment 
 
 For which a soul is sold ; 
 Tempt not another Judas 
 
 To barter God for gold. 
 You offer food and shelter 
 
 If they their faith deny : — 
 
AN APPEAL. 329 
 
 What do you gain, England, 
 
 By such a shallow lie ? . . . 
 We will not judge the tempted, — 
 
 May God blot out their shame, — 
 He sees the misery round them, 
 
 He knows man's feeble frame ; 
 His pity still may save them, 
 
 In His strength they must trust 
 Who calls us all His children, 
 
 Yet knows we are but dust. 
 
 Then leave them the kind tending 
 
 Which helped their childish years ; 
 Leave them the gracious comfort 
 
 Which dries the mourner's tears ; 
 Leave them to that great mother 
 
 In whose bosom they were born ; 
 Leave them the holy mysteries 
 
 That comfort the forlorn : 
 And, amid all their trials, 
 
 Let the Great Gift abide, 
 Which you, prosperous England, 
 
 Have dared to cast aside. 
 Leave them the pitying Angels 
 
 And Mary's gentle aid, 
 For which earth's dearest treasures 
 
 Were not too dearly paid. 
 Take back your bribes, then, England, 
 
 Your gold is black and dim, 
 And if God sends plague and famine, 
 
 They can die and go to Him. 
 
330 THE JUBILEE OF 1850. 
 
 THE JUBILEE OF 1850. 
 
 [The titles of the " Island of Saints " and the " Dower of our 
 Lady," though more frequently applied to Ireland, were often 
 given to England in former times.] 
 
 Bless God, ye happy Lands, 
 For your more favored lot : 
 Our England dwells apart, 
 
 Yet forget her not. 
 While, with united joy, 
 
 This day you all adore, 
 Remember what she was, 
 
 Though her voice is heard no more. 
 Pray for our desolate land, 
 Left in her pride and power : — 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower. 
 
 Look on her ruined Altars ; 
 
 He dwelleth there no more : 
 Think what her empty churches 
 
 Have been in times of yore ; 
 She knows the names no longer 
 
 Of her own sainted dead, 
 Denies the faith they held, 
 
 And the cause for which they bled. 
 Then pray for our desolate land, 
 Left in her pride and power : — 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower ! 
 
 Pray that her vast Cathedrals, 
 
 Deserted, empty, bare, 
 May once more echo accents 
 
 Of Love, and Faith, and Prayer ; 
 
CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 331 
 
 That the holy sign may bless us, 
 On wood, and field, and plain, 
 And Jesus, Mary, Joseph, 
 May dwell with us again. 
 
 Pray, ye more faithful nations, 
 In this most happy hour : — 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower. 
 
 Beg of our Lord to give her 
 
 The gift she cast aside, 
 And in His mercy pardon 
 
 Her faithlessness and pride : 
 Pray to her Saints, who worship 
 
 Before God's mercy Throne ; 
 Look where our Queen is dwelling, 
 Ask her to claim her own, 
 To give her the proud titles 
 Lost in an evil hour : — 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower. 
 
 CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 
 
 The Earth is so bleak and deserted, 
 
 So cold the winds blow, 
 That no bud or no blossom will venture 
 
 To peep from below ; 
 But, longing for springtime, they nestle 
 
 Deep under the snow. 
 
 0, in May how we honored Our Lady, 
 
 Her own month of flowers ! 
 How happy we were with our garlands 
 
 Through all the spring hours ! 
 
332 CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 
 
 All her shrines, in the church or the wayside, 
 Were made into bowers. 
 
 And in August — her glorious Assumption ; 
 
 What feast was so bright ! 
 What clusters of virginal lilies, 
 
 So pure and so white ! 
 Why, the incense could scarce overpower 
 
 Their perfume that night. 
 
 And through her dear feasts of October 
 
 The roses bloomed still ; 
 Our baskets were laden with flowers, 
 
 Her vases to fill : 
 Oleanders, geraniums, and myrtles, 
 
 We chose at our will. 
 
 And we know when the Purification, 
 
 Her first feast, comes round, 
 The early spring flowers, to greet it, 
 
 Just opening are found ; 
 And pure, white, and spotless, the snowdrop 
 
 Will pierce the dark ground. 
 
 And now, in this dreary December, 
 
 Our glad hearts are fain 
 To see if Earth comes not to help us ; 
 
 We seek all in vain : 
 Not the tiniest blossom is coming 
 
 Till Spring breathes again. 
 
 And the bright feast of Christmas is dawning, 
 
 And Mary is blest ; 
 For now she will give us her Jesus, 
 
 Our dearest, our best, 
 And see where she stands, the Maid-Mother, 
 
 Her Babe on her breast ! 
 
A DESIRE. 333 
 
 And not one poor garland to give her, 
 
 And yet now, behold, 
 How the Kings bring their gifts, — myrrh, and in- 
 cense, 
 
 And bars of pure gold : 
 And the Shepherds have brought for the Baby 
 
 Some lambs from their folds. 
 
 He stretches His tiny hands towards us, 
 
 He brings us all grace ; 
 And look at His Mother who holds Him, — 
 
 The smile on her face 
 Says they welcome the humblest gifts 
 
 In the manger we place. 
 
 Where love takes, let love give ; and so doubt not : 
 
 Love counts but the will, 
 And the heart has its flowers of devotion 
 
 No Winter can chill ; 
 They who cared for " good-will " that first Christ- 
 mas 
 
 Will care for it still. 
 
 In the Chaplet on Jesus and Mary, 
 
 From our hearts let us call, 
 At each Ave Maria we whisper 
 
 A rosebud shall fall, 
 And at each Gloria Patri a lily, 
 
 The crown of them all ! 
 
 A DESIEE. 
 
 0, to have dwelt in Bethlehem 
 
 When the star of the Lord shone bright ! 
 To have sheltered the holy wanderers 
 
 On that blessed Christmas night ; 
 
334 A DESIRE. 
 
 To have kissed the tender wayworn feet 
 
 Of the Mother undefiled, 
 And, with reverent wonder and deep delight, 
 
 To have tended the Holy Child ! 
 
 Hush ! such a glory was not for thee ; 
 
 But that care may still be thine ; 
 For are there not little ones still to aid 
 
 For the sake of the Child divine ? 
 Are there no wandering Pilgrims now, 
 
 To thy heart and thy home to take ? 
 And are there no mothers whose weary hearts 
 
 You can comfort for Mary's sake ? 
 
 to have knelt at Jesus' feet, 
 
 And to have learnt His heavenly lore ! 
 To have listened the gentle lessons He taught 
 
 On mountain, and sea, and shore ! 
 While the rich and the mighty knew Him not, 
 
 To have meekly done His will : — 
 Hush ! for the worldly reject Him yet, 
 
 You can serve and love Him still. 
 Time cannot silence His mighty words, 
 
 And though ages have fled away, 
 His gentle accents of love divine 
 
 Speak to your soul to-day. 
 
 to have solaced that weeping one 
 
 Whom the righteous dared despise ! 
 To have tenderly bound up her scattered hair, 
 
 And have dried her tearful eyes ! 
 Hush ! there are broken hearts to soothe, 
 
 And penitent tears to dry, 
 While Magdalen prays for you and them, 
 
 From her home in the starry sky. 
 
OUR DAILY BREAD. 335 
 
 to have followed the mournful way 
 
 Of those faithful few forlorn ! 
 And grace, beyond even an angel's hope, 
 
 The Cross for our Lord have borne ! 
 To have shared in His tender mother's grief, 
 
 To have wept at Mary's side, 
 To have lived as a child in her home, and then 
 
 In her loving care have died ! 
 
 Hush ! and with reverent sorrow still, 
 
 Mary's great anguish share ; 
 And learn, for the sake of her Son divine, 
 
 Thy cross, like His, to bear. 
 The sorrows that weigh on thy soul unite 
 
 With those which thy Lord has borne, 
 And Mary will comfort thy dying hour, 
 
 Nor leave thy soul forlorn. 
 
 to have seen what we now adore, 
 
 And, though veiled to faithless sight, 
 To have known, in the form that Jesus wore, 
 
 The Lord of Life and Light ! 
 Hush ! for He dwells among us still, 
 
 And a grace can yet be thine, 
 Which the scoffer and doubter can never know, — 
 
 The Presence of the Divine. 
 Jesus is with His children yet, 
 
 For His word can never deceive ; 
 Go where His lowly Altars rise, 
 
 And worship, and believe. 
 
 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread, 
 
 God, the bread of strength ! 
 
336 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 For we have learnt to know 
 How weak we are at length. 
 
 As children we are weak, 
 As children must be fed ; — 
 
 Give lis Thy Grace, Lord, 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread, — 
 
 The bitter bread of grief. 
 We sought earth's poisoned feasts 
 
 For pleasure and relief ; 
 We sought her deadly fruits, 
 
 But now, God, instead, 
 We ask Thy healing grief 
 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread 
 
 To cheer our fainting soul ; 
 The feast of comfort, Lord, 
 
 And peace, to make us whole : 
 For we are sick of tears, 
 
 The useless tears we shed ; — 
 Now give us comfort, Lord, 
 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread, 
 
 The Bread of Angels, Lord, 
 By us, so many times, 
 
 Broken, betrayed, adored : 
 His Body and His Blood ; — 
 
 The feast that Jesus spread: 
 Give Him — our life, our all — 
 
 To be our daily Bread ! 
 
THREEFOLD. 337 
 
 THREEFOLD. 
 
 Mother of grace and mercy, 
 
 Behold how burdens three 
 Weigh down my weary spirit, 
 
 And drive me here — to Thee. 
 Three gifts I place forever 
 
 Before thy shrine : 
 The threefold offering of my love, 
 
 Mary, to thine ! 
 
 The Past: with all its memories, 
 
 Of pain — that stings me yet; 
 Of sin — that brought repentance; 
 
 Of joy — that brought regret. 
 That which has been : — forever 
 
 So bitter-sweet — 
 I lay in humblest offering 
 
 Before thy feet. 
 
 The Present : that dark shadow 
 
 Through which we toil to-day ; 
 The slow drops of the chalice 
 
 That must not pass away. 
 Mother ! I dare not struggle, 
 
 Still less despair : 
 I place my Present in thy hands, 
 
 And leave it there. 
 
 The Future : holding all things 
 Which I can hope or fear, 
 
 Brings sin and pain, it may be, 
 Nearer and yet more near. 
 
338 CONFIDO ET CONQUIESCO. 
 
 Mother ! this doubt and shrinking 
 
 Will not depart, 
 Unless I trust my Future 
 
 To thy dear Heart. 
 
 Making the Past my lesson, 
 
 Guiding the Present right, 
 Puling the misty Future, — 
 
 Bless them and me to-night. 
 What may be, and what must be, 
 
 And what has been, 
 In thy dear care forever 
 
 I leave, my Queen ! 
 
 CONFIDO ET CONQUIESCO. 
 
 " Scit ; potest ; vult : quid est quod timeamus ? " 
 
 — S. Ignatius. 
 
 Fret not, poor soul : while doubt and fear 
 
 Disturb thy breast, 
 The pitying angels, who can see 
 How vain thy wild regret must be, 
 
 Say, Trust and Rest. 
 
 Plan not, nor scheme, — but calmly wait ; 
 
 His choice is best. 
 While blind and erring is thy sight, 
 His wisdom sees and judges right, 
 
 So Trust and Pest. 
 
 Strive not, nor struggle : thy poor might 
 
 Can never wrest 
 The meanest thing to serve thy will ; 
 All power is His alone : Be still, 
 
 And Trust and Rest. 
 
ORA PRO ME. 339 
 
 Desire not : self-love is strong 
 
 Within thy breast ; 
 And yet He loves thee better still, 
 So let Him do His loving will, 
 
 And Trust and Rest. 
 
 What dost thou fear ? His wisdom reigns 
 
 Supreme confessed ; 
 His power is infinite ; his love 
 Thy deepest, fondest dreams above ; — 
 
 So Trust and Rest. 
 
 ORA PRO ME. 
 
 Ave Maria ! bright and pure, 
 Hear, hear me when I pray ! 
 
 Pains and pleasures try the pilgrim 
 On his long and weary way ; 
 
 Fears and perils are around me, — 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 Mary, see my heart is burdened, 
 Take, O take the weight away, 
 
 Or help me, that I may not murmur 
 If it is a cross you lay 
 
 On my weak and trembling heart, — but 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 Mary, Mary, Queen of Heaven ! 
 
 Teach, teach me to obey : 
 Lead me on, though fierce temptations 
 
 Stand and meet me in the way ; 
 When I fail and faint, my mother, 
 Ora pro me. 
 
340 FISHERS OF MEN. 
 
 Then shall I — if thou, Mary, 
 Art my strong support and stay — 
 
 Fear nor feel the threefold danger 
 Standing forth in dread array ; 
 
 Now and ever shield and guard me, 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 When my eyes are slowly closing, 
 
 And I fade from earth away, 
 And when Death, the stern destroyer, 
 
 Claims my body as his prey, — 
 Claim my soul, and then, sweet Mary, 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 THE CHURCH IN 1849. 
 
 mighty Mother, hearken ! for thy foes 
 Gather around thee, and exulting cry 
 That thine old strength is gone and thou must die, 
 
 Pointing with fierce rejoicing to thy woes. 
 
 And is it so ? The raging whirlwind blows 
 No stronger now than it has done of yore : 
 Rebellion, strife, and sin have been before ; 
 
 The same companions whom thy Master chose. 
 
 We too rejoice : we know thy might is more 
 When to the world thy glory seemeth dim ; 
 
 Nor can Hell's gates prevail to conquer Thee, 
 Who hearest over all the voice of Him 
 
 Who chose thy first and greatest Prince should be 
 
 A fisher on the Lake of Galilee. 
 
 FISHERS OF MEN. 
 
 The boats are out, and the storm is high ; 
 We kneel on the shore and pray : 
 
FISHERS OF MEN. 341 
 
 The Star of the Sea shines still in the sky, 
 And God is our help and stay. 
 
 The fishers are weak, and the tide is strong, 
 And their boat seems slight and frail ; 
 
 But St. Peter has steered it for them so long, 
 It would weather a rougher gale. 
 
 St. John the Beloved sails with them too, 
 
 And his loving words they hear ; 
 So with tender trust the boat's brave crew 
 
 Neither doubt, or pause, or fear. 
 
 He who sent them fishing is with them still, 
 
 And He bids them cast their net ; 
 And He has the power their boat to fill, 
 
 So we know He will do it yet. 
 
 They have cast their nets again and again, 
 
 And now call to us on shore ; 
 If our feeble prayers seem only in vain, 
 
 We will pray and pray the more. 
 
 Though the storm is loud, and our voice is drowned 
 
 By the roar of the wind and sea, 
 We know that more terrible tempests found 
 
 Their Buler, Lord, in Thee ! 
 
 See, they do not pause, they are toiling on, 
 
 Yet they cast a loving glance 
 On the star above, and ever anon 
 
 Look up through the blue expanse. 
 
 Mary, listen ! for danger is nigh, 
 And we know thou art near us then ; 
 
 For thy Son's dear servants to thee we cry, 
 Sent out as fishers of men. 
 
342 TEE OLD TEAR'S BLESSING. 
 
 0, watch, — as of old thou didst watch the boat 
 
 On the Galilean lake, — 
 And grant that the fishers may keep afloat 
 
 Till the nets, o'ercharged, shall break. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR'S BLESSING. 
 
 I am fading from you, 
 But one draweth near, 
 
 Called the Angel-guardian 
 Of the coming year. 
 
 If my gifts and graces 
 
 Coldly you forget, 
 Let the New- Year's Angel 
 
 Bless and crown them yet. 
 
 For we work together ; 
 
 He and I are one : 
 Let him end and perfect 
 
 All I leave undone. 
 
 I brought Good Desires, 
 Though as yet but seeds ; 
 
 Let the New- Year make them 
 Blossom into Deeds. 
 
 I brought Joy to brighten 
 
 Many happy days ; 
 Let the New- Year's Angel 
 
 Turn it into Praise. 
 
 If I gave you Sickness, 
 If I brought you Care, 
 
 Let him make one Patience, 
 And the other Prayer. 
 
THE OLD YEAR'S BLESSING. 343 
 
 Where I brought you Sorrow, 
 Through his care, at length, 
 
 It may rise triumphant 
 Into future Strength. 
 
 If I brought you Plenty, 
 
 All wealth's bounteous charms, 
 
 Shall not the New Angel 
 Turn them into Alms ? 
 
 I gave Health and Leisure, 
 
 Skill to dream and plan ; 
 Let him make them nobler ; — 
 
 Work for God and Man. 
 
 If I broke your Idols, 
 
 Showed you they were dust, 
 
 Let him turn the Knowledge 
 Into heavenly Trust. 
 
 If I brought temptation, 
 
 Let sin die away 
 Into boundless Pity 
 
 Por all hearts that stray. 
 
 If your list of Errors 
 
 Dark and long appears, 
 Let this new-born Monarch 
 
 Melt them into Tears. 
 
 May you hold this Angel 
 
 Dearer than the last, — 
 So I bless his Future, 
 
 While he crowns my Past. 
 
344 EVENING CHANT. 
 
 EVENING CHANT. 
 
 Strew before our Lady's Picture 
 Roses, — flushing like the sky 
 
 Where the lingering western cloudlets 
 Watch the daylight die. 
 
 Violets steeped in dreamy odors, 
 Humble as the Mother mild, 
 
 Blue as were her eyes when watching 
 O'er her sleeping Child. 
 
 Strew white Lilies, pure and spotless, 
 Bending on their stalks of green, 
 
 Bending down with tender pity, — 
 Like our Holy Queen. 
 
 Let the flowers spend their fragrance 
 On our Lady's own dear shrine, 
 
 While we claim her gracious helping 
 Near her Son divine. 
 
 Strew before our Lady's picture 
 Gentle flowers, fair and sweet ; 
 
 Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Sorrow, 
 Place, too, at her feet. 
 
 Hark ! the Angelus is ringing, — 
 Ringing through the fading light, 
 
 In the heart of every Blossom 
 Leave a prayer to-night. 
 
 All night long will Mary listen, 
 While our pleadings fond and deep 
 
 On their scented breath are rising 
 For us — while we sleep. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 345 
 
 Scarcely through the starry silence 
 
 Shall one trembling petal stir, 
 While they breathe their own sweet fragrance 
 
 And our prayers — to Her. 
 
 Peace to every heart that loves her ! 
 
 All her children shall be blest : 
 While She prays and watches for us, 
 
 We will trust and rest. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 The moon that now is shining 
 
 In skies so blue and bright, 
 Shone ages since on Shepherds 
 
 Who watched their flocks by night. 
 There was no sound upon the earth, 
 
 The azure air was still, 
 The sheep in quiet clusters lay 
 
 Upon the grassy hill. 
 
 When lo ! a white-winged Angel 
 
 The watchers stood before, 
 And told how Christ was born on earth, 
 
 For mortals to adore ; 
 He bade the trembling Shepherds 
 
 Listen, nor be afraid, 
 And told how in a manger 
 
 The glorious Child was laid. 
 
 When suddenly in the Heavens 
 
 Appeared an Angel band, 
 (The while in reverent wonder 
 
 The Syrian Shepherds stand.) 
 
346 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 And all the bright host chanted 
 Words that shall never cease, — 
 
 Glory to God in the highest, 
 On earth good-will and peace ! 
 
 The vision in the heavens 
 
 Faded, and all was still, 
 And the wondering shepherds left their flocks, 
 
 To feed upon the hill : 
 Towards the blessed city 
 
 Quickly their course they held, 
 And in a lowly stable 
 
 Virgin and Child beheld. 
 
 Beside a humble manger 
 
 Was the Maiden Mother mild. 
 And in her arms her Son divine, 
 
 A new-born Infant, smiled. 
 No shade of future sorrow 
 
 From Calvary then was cast ; 
 Only the glory was revealed, 
 
 The suffering was not passed. 
 
 The Eastern kings before him knelt, 
 
 And rarest offerings brought ; 
 The shepherds worshipped and adored 
 
 The wonders God had wrought : 
 They saw the crown for Israel's King, 
 
 The future's glorious part : — 
 But all these things the Mother kept 
 
 And pondered in her heart. 
 
 Now we that Maiden Mother 
 
 The Queen of Heaven call ; 
 And the Child we call our Jesus, 
 
 Saviour and Judge of all. 
 
OUR TITLES. 347 
 
 But the star that shone in Bethlehem 
 Shines still, and shall not cease, 
 
 And we listen still to the tidings, 
 Of Glory and of Peace. 
 
 OUR TITLES. 
 
 Are we not Nobles ? we who trace 
 
 Our pedigree so high 
 That God for us and for our race 
 
 Created Earth and Sky, 
 And Light and Air and Time and Space, 
 
 To serve us and then die. 
 
 Are we not Princes ? we who stand 
 
 As heirs beside the Throne ; 
 We who can call the promised Land 
 
 Our Heritage, our own ; 
 And answer to no less command 
 
 Than God's and His alone. 
 
 Are we not Kings ? both night and day, 
 
 From early until late, 
 About our bed, about our way, 
 
 A guard of Angels wait ; 
 And so we watch and work and pray 
 
 In more than royal state. 
 
 Are we not holy ? Do not start : 
 
 It is God's sacred will 
 To call us Temples set apart 
 
 His Holy Ghost may fill : 
 Our very food ... hush, my Heart, 
 
 Adore IT and be still ! 
 
348 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 Are we not more ? our Life shall be 
 
 Immortal and divine. 
 The nature Mary gave to Thee, 
 
 Dear Jesus, still is Thine ; 
 Adoring in Thy Heart, I see 
 
 Such blood as beats in mine. 
 
 God, that we can dare to fail, 
 And dare to say we must ! 
 
 God, that we can ever trail 
 Such banners in the dust, 
 
 Can let such starry honors pale, 
 And such a Blazon rust ! 
 
 Shall we upon such Titles bring 
 The taint of sin and shame ? 
 
 Shall we, the children of the King 
 Who hold so grand a claim, 
 
 Tarnish by any meaner thing 
 The glory of our name ? 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep 
 
 Near me at morn : 
 Nor in the starry eve, nor midnight deep, 
 
 Leave me forlorn. 
 
 Erom all dark spirits of unholy power 
 
 Guard my weak heart, 
 Circle around me in each perilous hour, 
 
 And take my part. 
 
THE SERINES OF MARY. 349 
 
 From all foreboding thoughts and dangerous fears, 
 
 Keep me secure ; 
 Teach me to hope, and through the bitterest tears 
 
 Still to endure. 
 
 If lonely in the road so fair and wide 
 
 My feet should stray, 
 Then through a rougher, safer pathway guide 
 
 Me day by day. 
 
 Should my heart faint at its unequal strife, 
 
 still be near ! 
 Shadow the perilous sweetness of this life 
 With holy fear. 
 
 Then leave me not alone in this bleak world, 
 
 Where'er I roam, 
 And at the end, with your bright wings unfurled, 
 
 take me home ! 
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 There are many shrines of Our Lady, 
 
 In different lands and climes, 
 Where I can remember kneeling 
 
 In old and beloved times. 
 
 They arise now like stars before me, 
 Through the long, long night of years ; 
 
 Some are bright with a heavenly radiance, 
 And others shine out through tears. 
 
 They arise too like mystical flowers, 
 All different, and all the same, — 
 
 As they lie in my heart like a garland 
 That is wreathed round Mary's name. 
 
350 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 Thus each shrine has two consecrations ; 
 
 One all the faithful can trace, 
 But one is for me and me only, 
 
 Holding my soul with its grace. 
 
 I. 
 
 A shrine in a quaint old Chapel 
 Defaced and broken with years, 
 
 Where the pavement is worn with kneeling, 
 And the step with kisses and tears. 
 
 She is there in the dawn of morning, 
 When the day is blue and bright, 
 
 In the shadowy evening twilight 
 And the silent, starry night. 
 
 Through the dim old painted window 
 The Hours look down, and shed 
 
 A different glory upon her, 
 Violet, purple, and red. 
 
 And there — in that quaint old Chapel 
 
 As I stood one day alone — 
 Came a royal message from Mary, 
 
 That claimed my life as her own. 
 
 II. 
 
 I remember a vast Cathedral 
 Which holds the struggle and strife 
 
 Of a grand and powerful city, 
 
 As the heart holds the throb of a life. 
 
 Where the ebb and the flow of passion, 
 
 And sin in its rushing tide, 
 Have dashed on that worn stone chapel, 
 
 Dashed, and broken, and died. 
 
THE SERINES OF MARY. 351 
 
 And above the voices of sorrow 
 And the tempter's clamorous din, 
 
 The voice of Mary has spoken 
 
 And conquered the pain and the sin : 
 
 For long ages and generations 
 
 Have come there to strive and to pray ; 
 
 She watched and guided them living, 
 And does not forget them to-day. 
 
 And once, in that strange, vast City 
 
 I stood in its great stone square, 
 Alone in the crowd and the turmoil 
 
 Of the pitiless Southern glare ; 
 
 And a grief was upon my spirit, 
 
 Which I could not cast away, 
 It weighed on my heart all the night-time, 
 
 And it fretted my life all day. 
 
 So then to that calm, cool refuge 
 
 I turned from the noisy street, 
 And I carried my burden of sorrow — 
 
 And left it at Mary's feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 I remember a lonely Chapel 
 
 With a tender claim upon me ; 
 It was built for the sailors only, 
 
 And they call it the Star of the Sea. 
 
 And the murmuring chant of the Vespers 
 Seems caught up by the wailing breeze, 
 
 And the throb of the organ is echoed 
 By the rush of the silver seas. 
 
352 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 And the votive hearts and the anchors 
 
 Tell of danger and peril past ; 
 Of the hope deferred and the waiting, 
 
 And the comfort that came at last. 
 
 I too had a perilous venture 
 
 On a stormy and treacherous main, 
 
 And I too was pleading to Mary 
 From the depths of a heart in pain. 
 
 It was not a life in peril, — 
 
 O God, it was far, far more ! 
 And the whirlpool of Hell's temptations 
 
 Lay between the wreck and the shore. 
 
 Thick mists hid the light of the beacon, 
 And the voices of warning were dumb ; 
 
 So I knelt by the Altar of Mary, 
 And told her Her hour was come. 
 
 For she waits till Earth's aid forsakes us, 
 Till we know our own efforts are vain ; 
 
 And we wait, in our faithless blindness, 
 Till no chance but her prayers remain. 
 
 And now in that seaside chapel 
 
 By that humble village shrine 
 Hangs a heart of silver, that tells her 
 
 Of the love and the gladness of mine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is one far shrine I remember 
 
 In the years that are fled away, 
 Where the grand old mountains are guarding 
 
 The glories of night and day. 
 
THE SHRINES OF MARY. 353 
 
 Where the earth in her rich, glad beauty 
 Seems made for our Lady's throne, 
 
 And the stars in their radiant clusters 
 Seem fit for her crown alone. 
 
 Where the balmy breezes of summer 
 
 On their odorous pinions bear 
 The fragrance of orange-blossoms, 
 
 And the chimes of the Convent prayer. 
 
 There I used to ask for Her blessing 
 As each summer twilight was gray ; 
 
 There I used to kneel at her Altar 
 At each blue, calm dawn of day. 
 
 There in silence was Victory granted, 
 
 And the terrible strife begun, 
 That only with Her protection 
 
 Could be dared, or suffered, or won. 
 
 If I love the name of that Altar, 
 
 And the thought of those days gone by, 
 
 It is only the Heart of Mary 
 
 And my own that remember why. 
 
 V. 
 
 Where long ages of toil and of sorrow, 
 
 And Poverty's weary doom, 
 Have clustered together so closely 
 
 That life seems shadowed with gloom, 
 
 Where crime that lurks in the darkness 
 
 And vice that glares at the day 
 Make the spirit of hope grow weary, 
 
 And the spirit of love decay, 
 
354 TEE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 Where the feet of the wretched and sinful 
 
 Have closest and oftenest trod, 
 Is a house, as humble as any, 
 
 Yet we call it the House of God. 
 
 It is one of our Lady's Chapels ; 
 
 And though poorer than all the rest, 
 Just because of the sin and the sorrow, 
 
 I think she loves it the best. 
 
 There are no rich gifts on the Altar, 
 
 The shrine is humble and bare, 
 Yet the poor and the sick and the tempted 
 
 Think their home and their heaven is there. 
 
 And before that humble Altar 
 
 Where Our Lady of Sorrow stands, 
 
 I knelt with a weary longing, 
 And I laid a vow in her hands. 
 
 And I know, when I enter softly 
 And pause at that shrine to pray, 
 
 That the fret and the strife and the burden 
 Will be softened and laid away. 
 
 And the Prayer and the Vow that sealed it 
 Have bound my soul to that shrine, 
 
 For the Mother of Sorrows remembers 
 Her promise, and waits for mine. 
 
 It is one long chaplet of memories 
 
 Tender and true and sweet, 
 That gleam in the Past and the Distance 
 
 Like lamps that burn at her feet. 
 
THE HOMELESS POOR. 355 
 
 Like stars that will shine forever, 
 
 For time cannot touch or stir 
 The graces that Mary has given, 
 
 Or the trust that we give to her. 
 
 Past griefs are perished and over, 
 Past joys have vanished and died, 
 
 Past loves are fled and forgotten, 
 Past hopes have been laid aside. 
 
 Past fears have faded in daylight, 
 Past sins have melted in tears ; — 
 
 One Love and Remembrance only 
 Seems alive in those dead old years. 
 
 So wherever I look in the distance, 
 And whenever I turn to the Past, 
 
 There is always a shrine of Mary 
 Each brighter still than the last. 
 
 I will ask for one grace, Mother ! 
 
 And will leave the rest to thy will : 
 From one shrine of thine to another, 
 
 Let my Life be a Pilgrimage still ! 
 
 At each one, Mother of Mercy ! 
 
 Let still more of thy love be given, 
 Till I kneel at the last and brightest, — 
 
 The Throne of the Queen of Heaven. 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 Calm the city lay in midnight silence, 
 
 Deep on streets and roofs the snow lay white ; 
 
 Then I saw an Angel spread his pinions 
 Rising up to Heaven to meet the night. 
 
356 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 In his hands he bore two crowns of lilies, 
 Sweet with sweetness not of earthly flowers, 
 
 But a coronal of prayers for Heaven 
 
 He had gathered through the evening hours ; — 
 
 He had gathered in that mighty city 
 
 Through whose streets and pathways he had trod, 
 Till he wove into a winter garland 
 
 Prayers that faithful hearts had sent to God. 
 
 Through the azure midnight he was rising ; 
 
 As I watched, I saw his upward flight 
 Checked by a mighty Angel, whose stern challenge, 
 
 Like a silver blast, rang through the night. 
 
 Then strange words upon the silence broke, 
 And I listened as the Angels spoke. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PRAYERS. 
 
 "I have come from wandering through the city, 
 
 I have been to seek a garland meet 
 To be placed before His throne in Heaven, 
 
 To be laid at His dear Mother's feet. 
 
 " I have been to one of England's Havens, — 
 To a Home for peace and honor planned, 
 
 Where the kindly lights of joy and duty 
 Meet and make the glory of the land. 
 
 " There I heard the ring of children's laughter 
 Hushed to eager silence ; I could see 
 
 How the father stroked their golden tresses 
 As they clustered closer round his knee. 
 
THE HOMELESS POOR. 357 
 
 "And I heard him tell, with loving honor, 
 How the wanderers to Bethlehem came, 
 
 And I saw each head in reverence bowing 
 When he named the Holy Child's dear name. 
 
 " Then he told how houseless, homeless, friendless, 
 They had wandered wearily and long, — 
 
 Of the manger where our Lord was cradled, 
 Of the Shepherds listening to our song. 
 
 " As he spoke, I heard his accents falter, 
 And I saw each childish heart was stirred 
 
 With a loving throb of tender pity 
 
 At the sorrowful, sweet tale they heard. 
 
 " As the children sang their Christmas carol 
 I could see the mother's eyes grow dim, 
 
 And she held her baby closer, — feeling 
 Most for Mary through her love for him. 
 
 "So I gathered from that home, as flowers, 
 
 All the tender, loving words I heard 
 Given this night to Jesus and to Mary, — 
 
 Look at them, and say if I have erred." 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEEDS. 
 
 " In that very street, at that same hour, 
 
 In the bitter air and drifting sleet, 
 Crouching in a doorway was a mother, 
 
 With her children shuddering at her feet. 
 
 " She was silent; — who Avould hear her pleading? 
 
 Men and beasts were housed ; but she must stay 
 Houseless in the great and pitiless city, i 
 
 Till the dawning of the winter day. 
 
358 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 " Homeless — while her f ellowmen are resting 
 Calm and blest : their very dogs are fed, 
 
 Warm and sheltered, and their sleeping children 
 Safely nestled in each little bed. 
 
 " She can only draw her poor rags closer 
 Round her wailing baby, — closer hold 
 
 One, the least and sickliest, — while the others 
 Creep together, tired, hungry, cold. 
 
 " What are these poor flowers thou hast gathered ? 
 
 Cast such fragile, worthless tokens by : 
 Will He prize mere words of love and honor 
 
 While His Homeless Poor are left to die ? 
 
 " He has said — His truths are all eternal -*- 
 What He said both has been and shall be, — 
 
 What ye have not done to these my poor ones, 
 Lo ! ye have not done it unto Me." 
 
 Then I saw the Angel with the Flowers 
 Bow his head and answer, " It is well," 
 
 As he cast a wreath of lilies earthward, 
 And I saw them wither as they fell. 
 
 Once again the Angel raised his head, 
 
 Smiled and showed the other wreath and said : — 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PRAYERS. 
 
 " I have been where, kneeling at the Altar, 
 Hushed in reverent awe, a faithful throng 
 
 Have this night adored the Holy Presence, 
 Worshipping with incense, prayer, and song. 
 
THE HOMELESS POOR. 359 
 
 " Every head was bowed in loving honor, 
 Every heart with loving awe was thrilled ; 
 
 Earth and things of earth seemed all forgotten ; 
 He was there — and meaner thoughts were stilled. 
 
 " There on many souls in strait and peril 
 
 Did that gracious Benediction fall, 
 "With the strength or peace or joy or warning 
 
 He could give, who loved and knew them all. 
 
 " There was silence, but all hearts were speaking : 
 When the deepest hush of silence fell, 
 
 On the fragrant air and breathless longing 
 Came the echo of one silver bell. 
 
 " On each spirit such a flood of sweetness 
 Broke — as we who dwell in Heaven feel, 
 
 Then the Adoremus in eternum, 
 
 Jubilant and strong, rolled peal on peal. 
 
 " They had given holy adoration, 
 
 Tender words of love and praise ; all bright 
 With the dew of contrite tears — such blossoms 
 
 I am bearing to His throne to-night." 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEEDS. 
 
 " Pause again : these flowers are fair and lovely, 
 Radiant in their perfume and their bloom ; 
 
 But not far from where you plucked this garland 
 Is a squalid place in ghastly gloom. 
 
 " There black waters in their luring silence 
 Under loathsome arches crawl and creep, 
 
 There the rats and vermin herd together. . . . 
 TJiere God's poor ones sometimes come to sleep. 
 
360 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 " There the weary come, who through the daylight 
 Pace the town, and crave for work in vain ; 
 
 There they crouch in cold and rain and hunger, 
 Waiting for another day of pain. 
 
 " In slow darkness creeps the dismal river ; 
 
 From its depths looks up a sinful rest ; 
 Many a weary, baffled, hopeless wanderer 
 
 Has it drawn into its treacherous breast. 
 
 " There is near another River flowing, 
 
 Black with guilt, and deep as hell and sin ; 
 
 On its brink even sinners stand and shudder, — 
 Cold and hunger goad the homeless in. 
 
 " Yet these poor ones to His heart are dearer 
 For their grief and peril : dear indeed 
 
 Would have been the love that sought and fed them, 
 Gave them warmth and shelter in their need. 
 
 " For His sake those tears and prayers are offered 
 Which you bear as flowers to His throne ; 
 
 Better still would be the food and shelter, 
 Given for Him and given to His own. 
 
 " Praise with loving deeds is dear and holy, 
 Words of praise will never serve instead : 
 
 Lo ! you offer music, hymn, and incense — 
 When He has not ivhere to lay His head." 
 
 Then once more the Angel with the Flowers 
 Bowed his head, and answered, " It is well," 
 
 As he cast a wreath of lilies earthwards, 
 And I saw them wither as they fell. 
 
milly's expiation. 361 
 
 So the Vision faded, and the Angels 
 
 Melted far into the starry sky ; 
 By the light upon the eastern Heaven 
 
 I could see another day was nigh. 
 
 Was it quite a dream ? God ! we love Him ; 
 
 All our love, though weak, is given to Him ; — 
 Why is it our hearts have been so hardened ? 
 
 Why is it our eyes have been so dim ? 
 
 Still as for Himself the Infant Jesus 
 In His little ones asks food and rest, — 
 
 Still as for His Mother He is pleading 
 Just as when He lay upon her breast. 
 
 Jesus, then, and Mary still are with us, — 
 Night will find the Child and Mother near, 
 
 Waiting for the shelter we deny them, 
 While we tell them that we hold them dear. 
 
 Help us, Lord ! not these Thy poor ones only, 
 They are with us always, and shall be : — 
 
 Help the blindness of our hearts, and teach us 
 In Thy homeless ones to succor Thee. 
 
 MILLY'S EXPIATION. 
 
 THE PRIEST'S STORY. 
 I. 
 
 There are times when all these terrors 
 Seem to fade, and fade away, 
 
 Like a nightmare's ghastly presence 
 In the truthful dawn of day. 
 
362 milly's expiation. 
 
 There are times, too, when before me 
 They arise, and seem to hold 
 
 In their grasp my very being 
 With the deadly strength of old, 
 
 Till my spirit quails within me, 
 And my very heart grows cold. 
 
 ii. 
 
 For I watched when Cold and Hunger, 
 
 Like wild beasts that sought for prey, 
 With a savage glare crept onward 
 
 Until men were turned at bay. 
 You have never seen those hunters, 
 
 Who have never known that fear, 
 When life costs a crust, and costing 
 
 Even that is still too dear : 
 But, you know, I lived in Ireland 
 
 In the fatal famine year. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yes, those days are now forgotten ; 
 
 God be thanked ! men can forget ; 
 Time's great gift can heal the fevers 
 
 Called Remembrance and Regret. 
 Man despises such forgetting ; 
 
 But I think the Angels know, 
 Since each hour brings new burdens, 
 
 We must let the old ones go, — 
 Very weak or very noble 
 
 Are the few who cling to woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As a child, I lived in Connaught, 
 And from dawn till set of sun 
 
MILLT'S EXPIATION. 363 
 
 Played with all the peasant-children, 
 
 So I knew them every one. 
 There was not a cabin near us, 
 
 But I had my welcome there ; 
 Though of money-help in those days 
 
 We had none ourselves to spare, 
 Yet the neighbors had no trouble 
 
 That I did not know and share. 
 
 v. 
 
 O that great estate ! the Landlord 
 
 Was abroad, a good man too ; 
 And the agent was not cruel, 
 
 But he had hard things to do. 
 As a child I saw great suffering 
 
 Which I could not understand, 
 So I went back as a man there 
 
 With redress and helping planned ; 
 But I found, on reaching Connaught, 
 
 There was famine in the land. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Well, I worked, I toiled, I labored ; 
 
 So, thank God, did many more ; 
 But I had a special pity 
 
 For the place I knew before. 
 It was changed ; the old were vanished ; 
 
 Those who had been workers there 
 Were grown old now ; and the children, 
 
 With their sunny eyes and hair, 
 Were a ragged army, fighting 
 
 Hand to hand with black despair. 
 
364 . MILLT'S EXPIATION. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There were some I sought out, longing 
 
 For the old familiar face, 
 For the hearty Irish welcome 
 
 To the well-known corner place ; 
 So I saw them, and I found it. 
 
 But of all whom I had known, 
 I cared most to see the Connors. 
 
 Their poor cabin stood alone 
 In the deep heart of the valley, 
 
 By the old gray fairy stone. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They were decent people, holding, 
 
 Though no richer than the rest, 
 Still a place beyond their neighbors, 
 
 With a tacit, unconfessed 
 Pride — it may have been — that held them 
 
 From complaint when things went ill : 
 I might guess when work was slacker, 
 
 But no shadow seemed to chill 
 The warm welcome which they offered ; 
 
 It was warm and cheerful still. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet their home was changed : the father 
 
 And the mother were no more ; 
 And the brothers, Phil and Patrick, 
 
 Kept starvation from the door. 
 There were many little faces 
 
 Gathered round the old hearth-stone ; 
 But the children I had played with 
 
 Were the men and women grown ; 
 
MILLY' S EXPIATION. 365 
 
 Phil and Patrick, Kate and Milly, 
 Were the ones whom I had known. 
 
 x. 
 
 Kate was grown, but little altered, 
 
 Just the sunburnt, rosy face, 
 With its merry smile, whose shining 
 
 Seemed to light the darkest place. 
 But all, young and old, held Milly 
 
 As their dearest and their best, 
 Prom the baby orphan-sisters 
 
 Whom she hushed upon her breast, — 
 She it was who bore the burdens, 
 
 Love and sorrow, for the rest. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yes, I knew the tall slight figure, 
 
 And the face so pale and fair, 
 Crowned with long, long plaited tresses 
 
 Of her shining yellow hair ; 
 She was very calm and tender, 
 
 Warm and brave, yet just and wise, 
 Meeting grief with tender pity, 
 
 Sin with sorrowful surprise : 
 I have fancied Angels watch us 
 
 With such sad and loving eyes. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Well, I questioned past and future, 
 Heard of plans and hopes and fears ; 
 
 How all prospects grew still darker 
 With the shade of coming years. 
 
 Milly still deferred her marriage ; 
 But the brothers urged of late 
 
366 MILLY' S EXPIATION. 
 
 She would leave them and old Ireland, 
 And at least secure her fate ; 
 
 Michael pleaded too, — but vainly ; 
 Milly chose to wait and wait. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Though all liked her cousin Michael, — 
 
 He was steady, a good son, — 
 Yet we wondered at the treasure 
 
 Which his careless heart had won. 
 Ah, he was not worth her ! Milly 
 
 Must have guessed our thought in part, 
 For she feigned such special deference 
 
 For his judgment and his heart : 
 The defiance and the answer 
 
 Of instinctive woman's art. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But my duties would not let me 
 
 Stay in one place ; I must go 
 Where the want and need were greatest ; 
 
 So I travelled to and fro. 
 And I could not give the bounty 
 
 Which was meant for all to share, 
 Save in scanty portions, counting 
 
 What each hamlet had to bear ; 
 So my old home and old comrades 
 
 Had to struggle with despair. 
 
 xv. 
 
 I could note at every visit 
 
 How all suffered more and more ; 
 
 How the rich were growing poorer, 
 The poor, poorer than before. 
 
MILLY'S EXPIATION. 367 
 
 And each time that I returned there, 
 
 I could see the famine spread ; 
 Till I heard of each fresh horror, 
 
 Each new tale of fear and dread, 
 With more pity for the living, 
 
 More rejoicing for the dead. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yet through all the bitter trials 
 
 Of that long and fearful time, 
 Still the suffering came untended 
 
 By its hideous sister, Crime. 
 Earthly things seem grown less potent, 
 
 Fellow-sufferers grown more dear, 
 Murmurs even hushed in silence, 
 
 Just as if, in listening fear, 
 While God spoke so loud in sorrow, 
 
 They all felt He must be near. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But one day — I well remember 
 
 How the warm soft autumn breeze, 
 And the gladness of the sunshine, 
 
 And the calmness of the seas, 
 Seemed in strange unnatural contrast 
 
 To the tale of woe and dread 
 Which I heard with painful wonder, — 
 
 That the agent — I have said 
 That he was not harsh or cruel — 
 
 Had been shot at, and was dead. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For I felt in that small hamlet 
 More or less I knew them all, 
 
368 MILLY'S EXPIATION. 
 
 And on some I cared for, surely, 
 
 Must this bitter vengeance fall ; 
 But I little dreamed how bitter, 
 
 And the grief how great and wide, 
 Till I heard that Michael Connor 
 
 Was accused, and would be tried 
 For this base and bloody murder ; 
 
 Then I cried out that they lied ! 
 
 He, who might be weak and reckless, 
 
 Yet was gentle and humane ; 
 He who scarcely had the courage 
 
 To inflict a needful pain, — 
 Why, it could not be ! And Milly, 
 
 With her honest, noble pride, 
 And her faith and love, God help her ! 
 
 It were better she had died. 
 So I thought, and thought, and pondered, 
 
 Till I knew they must have lied. 
 
 xx. 
 
 There was want and death and hunger 
 
 Near me then ; but this great crime 
 Seemed to haunt me with its terror, 
 
 And grow worse and worse with time, 
 Till I could not bear it longer, 
 
 And I turned my steps once more 
 To the hamlet ; did not slacken 
 
 Till I reached the cabin-door : 
 Then I paused ; I never dreaded 
 
 The kind welcome there before. 
 
MILLY* S EXPIATION. 369 
 
 XXI. 
 
 So I entered. Kate was sitting 
 
 "By the empty hearth ; around 
 Were the children, ragged, hungry, 
 
 Crouching silent on the ground. 
 But a wail of grief and sorrow 
 
 Rose, and Katie hid her face, 
 Sobbing out she had no welcome, 
 
 For a curse was on the place, 
 And their honest name was covered 
 
 With another's black disgrace. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then I soothed her ; asked for Milly ; 
 
 And was told she was away ; 
 Gone as witness to the trial, 
 
 And the trial was that day. 
 But all knew, so Katie told me, 
 
 Hope or comfort there was none ; 
 They were sure to find him guilty, 
 
 And before to-morrow's sun 
 He must die. I dared not loiter, 
 
 For the trial had begun. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Yet I asked how Milly bore it ; 
 
 And Kate told me some strange gleam 
 Of wild hope seemed living in her, 
 
 But all knew it was a dream. 
 Then I mounted ; rode on faster, 
 
 Faster still ; the way was long ; 
 Hope and anger, fear and pity, 
 
 Each by turns were loud and strong, 
 
370 MILLT'S EXPIATION. 
 
 And above all, infinite pity 
 For the sorrow and the wrong. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 So I rode and rode, and entered 
 
 On the crowded market-place. 
 There was wonder, too, and pity 
 
 Upon many a hungry face ; 
 But I pushed on quicker, quicker. 
 
 Every moment held a fate. 
 As the great town-clock struck mid-day, 
 
 I alighted at the gate : 
 No, the trial was not over ; 
 
 I was not, thank God, too late, 
 
 For I hoped — the chance was meagre 
 
 That my true and earnest word 
 Might avail him, if the question 
 
 Of his former life was stirred ; 
 So the crowd believed : they parted, 
 
 Let me take a foremost place, 
 Till I saw a shaking figure 
 
 And a terror-stricken face : 
 Was it guilt, or only terror ? 
 
 Fear of death, or of disgrace ? 
 
 But a sudden breathless silence 
 Hushed the lowest whisper there, 
 
 And I saw a slight young figure 
 Crowned with yellow plaited hair, 
 
 Kise, and answer as they called her ; 
 Rise before them all, and stand 
 
MILLY'S EXPIATION. 371 
 
 With no quiver in her accent, 
 
 And no trembling in her hand, 
 Just a flush upon her forehead 
 
 Like a burning crimson brand. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Slowly, steadily, and calmly, 
 
 Then the awful words were said, 
 Calling God in Heaven to witness 
 
 To the truth of what she said. 
 As the oath in solemn order 
 
 On the reverent silence broke, 
 Some strange terror and misgiving 
 
 With a sudden start awoke : 
 What fear was it seized upon me 
 
 As I heard the words she spoke ? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 As she stood there, looking onward, 
 
 Onward, neither left nor right, 
 Did she see some deadly purpose 
 
 Buried, hidden out of sight ? 
 Did she see a blighting shadow 
 
 From the cloudy future cast ? 
 Or reluctant fading from her 
 
 Eight and honor, — fading fast 
 All her youth's remembered lessons, 
 
 All the honest, noble past ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But her accents never faltered, 
 As she swore the day and time, 
 
 At the hour of the murder, 
 At the moment of the crime, 
 
372 willy's expiation. 
 
 She had spoken with the prisoner. . . . 
 
 Then a gasping joyful sigh 
 Ran through all the court ; they knew it, — 
 
 Now the prisoner would not die. . . . 
 And I knew that God in Heaven 
 
 Had been witness to a lie ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then I turned and looked at Michael ; 
 
 Saw a rush of wonder stir 
 Through his soul ; perplexed, bewildered, 
 
 He looked strangely up at her. 
 Would he speak ? could he have courage ? 
 
 Where she fell, could he be strong ? 
 Where she sinned, and sinned to save him, 
 
 Could he thrust away the wrong? 
 That one moment's strange revulsion 
 
 Seemed to me an hour long. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And I saw the sudden shrinking 
 
 In her brothers ; wondering scorn 
 In the glance they cast upon her 
 
 Showed they knew she was forsworn. 
 They were stern, by want made sterner ; 
 
 But the spot where Milly came 
 In their hearts was soft and tender 
 
 For her dear and honored name : 
 Now the very love was hardened, 
 
 And the honor turned to shame. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 So I left the place, nor lingered 
 To see Michael, or to feign 
 
MILLY'S EXPIATION. 373 
 
 Joy where joy was mixed so strangely 
 
 Both with pity and with pain. 
 Many weeks I toiled and labored 
 
 Far from there, but night and day 
 One sad memory dwelt beside me, 
 
 On my heart one shadow lay ; — 
 Light was faded, glory tarnished, 
 
 And a soul was cast away. 
 ###### 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It was evening ; and the sunset 
 
 Glowed and glittered on the seas, 
 When a great ship heaved its anchor, 
 
 Loosed its sails to meet the breeze, 
 Sailing, sailing to the westward. 
 
 Eyes were wet and hearts were sore ; 
 Many a heart that left its country, 
 
 Many a heart upon the shore, 
 Knew that parting was forever, 
 
 Said farewell forevermore. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 In that sad and silent evening, 
 
 On the sunny, quiet beach, 
 Lingered little groups of watchers, 
 
 But with hearts too full for speech. 
 As I passed, I knew so many, 
 
 That my heart ached too that night, 
 For the yearning love, that, gazing, 
 
 Strained to see the last faint sight 
 Of the great ship, sailing westward, 
 
 Down the track of evening light. 
 
374 HILLY' S EXPIATION. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 None were lonely though, — one sorrow 
 
 Drew that evening heart to heart ; 
 Only far from all the others 
 
 One lone woman stood apart. 
 There was something in the figure, 
 
 Tall and slender, standing there, 
 That I knew — yet no, I doubted — 
 
 That forlorn and helpless air ; 
 When a gleam of sunset glory 
 
 Showed her yellow braided hair. 
 
 It was Milly : ere I sought her, 
 
 One who knew her, standing by, 
 Said, " Her people sailed from Ireland, 
 
 And she stayed, but none knew why. 
 They were strong ; in that far country 
 
 Work such men were sure to find ; 
 They had offered to take Milly, 
 
 Pressed her often, and been kind ; 
 They had taken the young children, 
 
 Only she was left behind. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " Michael, too, was with them ; doubly 
 
 Had his fame been cleared by time ; 
 For the murderer, lately dying, 
 
 Had confessed and owned the crime : 
 And yet Milly, none knew wherefore, 
 
 Broke her plighted troth to him ; 
 Parted, too, with all her loved ones 
 
 For some strange and selfish whim." 
 
A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 375 
 
 0, my heart was sore for Milly, 
 And I felt my eyes grow dim. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 She is still in Ireland ; dwelling 
 
 Near the old place, and alone ; 
 Just the same kind, loving spirit, 
 
 But the old light heart is flown. 
 When the humble toil is over 
 
 For her scanty daily bread, 
 Then she turns to nurse the suffering, 
 
 Or to pray beside the dead : 
 Many, many thankful blessings 
 
 Fall each day upon her head. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 There is no distress or sorrow 
 
 Milly does not try to cheer ; 
 There is never fever raging 
 
 But you always find her near ; 
 And she knows — at least I think so — 
 
 That I guess her secret pain, 
 Why her Love and why her Sorrow 
 
 Need be purified from stain, 
 Need in special consecration 
 
 Be restored to God again. 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 I built myself a castle, 
 
 So noble, grand, and fair ; 
 I built myself a castle, 
 
 A castle — in the air. 
 
376 A CASTLE IN TUE AIR. 
 
 The fancies of my twilights 
 That fade in sober truth, 
 
 The longing of my sorrow, 
 And the vision of my youth ; 
 
 The plans of joyful futures ; 
 
 So dear they used to seem ; 
 The prayer that rose unbidden, 
 
 Half prayer — and half a dream ; 
 
 The hopes that died unuttered 
 Within this heart of mine ; — 
 
 For all these tender treasures 
 My castle was the shrine. 
 
 I looked at all the castles 
 That rise to grace the land, ' 
 
 But I never saw another 
 So stately or so grand. 
 
 And now you see it shattered, 
 
 My castle in the air ; 
 It lies, a dreary ruin, 
 
 All desolate and bare. 
 
 I cannot build another, 
 
 I saw that one decay ; 
 And strength and heart and courage 
 
 Died out the self-same day. 
 
 Yet still, beside that ruin, 
 
 With hopes as deep and fond, 
 
 I waited with an infinite longing, 
 Only — I look beyond. 
 
PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 377 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 
 
 I do not ask, Lord, that life may be 
 
 A pleasant road ; 
 I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me 
 
 Aught of its load ; 
 
 I do not ask that flowers should always spring 
 
 Beneath my feet ; 
 I know too well the poison and the sting 
 
 Of things too sweet. 
 
 For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 
 
 Lead me aright — 
 Though strength should falter, and though heart 
 should bleed — 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 I do not ask, Lord, that Thou shouldst shed 
 
 Pull radiance here ; 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 
 
 Without a fear. 
 
 I do not ask my cross to understand, 
 
 My way to see ; 
 Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand 
 
 And follow Thee. 
 
 Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine 
 
 Like quiet night : 
 Lead me, Lord, — till perfect Day shall shine, 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
378 A LEGEND. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 The Monk was preaching : strong his earnest word, 
 
 From the abundance of his heart he spoke, 
 And the flame spread, — in every soul that heard 
 
 Sorrow and love and good resolve awoke : — 
 The poor lay Brother, ignorant and old, 
 
 Thanked God that he had heard such words of 
 gold. 
 
 ii. 
 
 " Still let the glory, Lord, be thine alone," — 
 
 So prayed the Monk, his heart absorbed in praise : 
 
 " Thine be the glory : if my hands have sown 
 The harvest ripened in Thy mercy's rays, 
 
 It was Thy blessing, Lord, that made my word 
 Bring light and love to every soul that heard. 
 
 in. 
 " Lord, I thank Thee that my feeble strength 
 
 Has been so blest ; that sinful hearts and cold 
 Were melted at my pleading, — knew at length 
 
 How sweet Thy service and how safe Thy fold : 
 While souls that loved Thee saw before them rise 
 
 Still holier heights of lovincr sacrifice." 
 
 So prayed the Monk : when suddenly he heard 
 An angel speaking thus : " Know, my Son, 
 
 Thy words had all been vain, but hearts were 
 stirred, 
 And saints were edified, and sinners won, 
 
 By his, the poor lay Brother's humble aid 
 Who sat upon the pulpit stair and prayed." 
 
BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 379 
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 FOR A CHILD. 
 
 Why do you look sad, my Minnie ? 
 
 Tell me, darling, — for to-day 
 Is the birthday of Our Lady, 
 
 And Her children should be gay. 
 
 What ? — You say that all the others, 
 
 Alice, Cyril, Erne, Paul, 
 All had got a gift to give Her, 
 
 Only you had none at all. 
 
 Well, dear, that does seem a pity : 
 
 Tell me how it came about 
 That the others bring a present, 
 
 And my Minnie comes without. 
 
 Alice has a lovely Banner, 
 
 All embroidered blue and gold : — 
 
 Then you know that sister Alice 
 Is so clever and so old. 
 
 Cyril has his two camellias ; 
 
 One deep red, and one pure white : 
 They will stand at Benediction 
 
 On the Altar steps to-night. 
 
 Effie, steady little Erne, 
 
 Stitching many an hour away, 
 
 She has clothed a little orphan 
 All in honor of to-day. 
 
380 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 With the skill the good Nuns taught her 
 
 Angela herself has made 
 Two tall stems of such real lilies, 
 
 They do all but smell — and fade. 
 
 Then with look of grave importance 
 Comes our quiet little Paul, 
 
 With the myrtle from his garden : — 
 He himself is not as tall. 
 
 Even Baby Agnes, kneeling 
 With half-shy, half-solemn air, 
 
 Held up one sweet rose to Mary, 
 Lisping out her tiny prayer. 
 
 Well, my Minnie, say, how was it ? 
 
 Shall I guess ? I think I know 
 All the griefs. Well, I will count them : - 
 
 First, your rose-tree would not blow : 
 
 Then the fines have been so many 
 All the pennies melt away ; 
 
 Then for work — I know my Minnie 
 Cares so very much for play, 
 
 That these little clumsy fingers 
 Scarcely yet have learnt to sew, 
 
 Still less all the skilful fancies 
 Angela and Alice know. 
 
 Yet my Minnie can't be treated 
 
 Quite as Baby was to-day, 
 When Mamma or Alice gave her 
 
 Something just to give away. 
 
BIRTUDAY GIFTS. 381 
 
 Well, my darling, there are many 
 Who have neither time nor skill, 
 
 Gold nor silver, yet they offer 
 Gifts to Mary if they will. 
 
 There are ways — Our Lady knows them, 
 And Her children all should know 
 
 How to find a flower for Mary 
 Underneath the deepest snow ; 
 
 How to make a lovely garland, 
 
 Winter though it be and cold ; 
 How to buy the rarest offering, 
 
 Costing — something — but not gold ; 
 
 How to buy, and buy it dearly, 
 Gifts that She will love to take ; 
 
 Nor to grudge the cost, but give it 
 Cheerfully for Mary's sake. 
 
 Does that seem so strange, my darling ? 
 
 Nay, dear, it is nothing new ; 
 All can give Her noble presents, — 
 
 Shall I tell you of a few ? 
 
 What were those the Magi offered, 
 Frankincense and gold and myrrh : — 
 
 Minnie thinks that Saints and Monarchs 
 Are quite different from her ! 
 
 . . . Sometimes it is hard to listen 
 
 To a word unkind or cold 
 And to smile a loving answer ; 
 
 Do it — and you give Her Gold. 
 
382 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 Thoughts of Her in work or playtime, 
 Those small grains of incense rare, 
 
 Cast upon a burning censer, 
 
 Rise in perfumed clouds of prayer. 
 
 There are sometimes bitter fancies, 
 Little murmurs that will stir 
 
 Even a loving heart; — but crush them 
 And you give Our Lady myrrh. 
 
 Give your little crosses to Her, 
 Which each day, each hour befall ; 
 
 They remind Her of Her Jesus, 
 So She loves them best of all. 
 
 Some seem very poor and worthless, 
 Yet however small and slight, 
 
 Given to Her by one who loves Her, 
 They are precious in Her sight. 
 
 One may be so hard to carry 
 
 That your hands will bleed and smart : 
 Go and take it to Her Altar, 
 
 Go and place it in Her heart ; 
 
 Check your tears and try to love it, 
 
 Love it as His sacred will : 
 So you set the cross with jewels, 
 
 Make your gift more precious still. 
 
 There are souls — alas ! too many — 
 Who forget that Jesus died, 
 
 Who forget that sin forever 
 Is the lance to pierce His side. 
 
BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 383 
 
 Hearts that turn away from Jesus ; 
 
 Sins that scourge Him and betray ; 
 Cold and cruel souls that even 
 
 Crucify Him day by day. 
 
 Ah ! poor sinners ! Mary loves them, 
 
 And She knows no royal gem 
 Half so noble or so precious 
 
 As the prayer you say for them ; 
 
 Or resign some little pleasure ; 
 
 Give it Her instead, to win 
 Help for some poor soul in peril, 
 
 Grace for some poor heart in sin, 
 
 Mercy for poor sinners, — pleading 
 For their souls as for your own ; — 
 
 So you make a crown of jewels 
 Fit to lay before Her throne. 
 
 Flowers, — why I should never finish. 
 
 If I tried to count them too, — 
 If I told you how to know them, 
 
 In what garden-plot they grew. 
 
 Yet I think my darling guesses 
 They are emblems, and we trace 
 
 In the rarest and the loveliest 
 Acts of love and gifts of grace. 
 
 Modest violets, meek snow-drops, 
 
 Holy lilies white and pure, 
 Faithful tendrils — herbs for healing — 
 
 If they only would endure ! 
 
381 A BEGGAR. 
 
 And they will, — such flowers fade not ; 
 
 They are not of mortal birth ; 
 And such garlands given to Mary 
 
 Die not like the gifts of Earth. 
 
 Well, my Minnie, can you tell me 
 You have still no gift to lay 
 
 At the feet of your dear Mother, 
 Any hour, any day ? 
 
 Give Her now — to-day — forever, 
 
 One great gift, — the first, the best, — 
 
 Give your heart to Her, and ask Her 
 How to give Her all the rest. 
 
 A BEGGAR. 
 
 1 beg of you, I beg of you, my brothers, 
 
 For my need is very sore ; 
 Not for gold and not for silver do I ask you, 
 
 But for something even more : 
 From the depths of your hearts pity let it be — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you whose robes of radiant whiteness 
 
 Have been kept without a stain ; 
 Of you who, stung to death by serpent Pleasure, 
 
 Found the healing Angel Pain : 
 Whether holy or forgiven you may be — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you calm souls whose wondering pity 
 Looks at paths you never trod : 
 
A BEGGAR. 385 
 
 I beg of you who suffer — for all sorrow- 
 Must be very near to God — 
 And the need is even greater than you see — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you, children, for He loves you, 
 And He loves your prayers the best : 
 
 Fold your little hands together, and ask Jesus 
 That the weary may have rest, 
 
 That a bird caught in a net may be set free — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you who stand before the Altar, 
 
 Whose anointed hands upraise 
 All the sin and all the sorrow of the Ages, 
 
 All the love and all the praise, 
 And the glory which was always and shall be — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you — of you who through Life's battle 
 
 Our dear Lord has set apart, 
 That while we who love the peril are made captives, 
 
 Still the Church may have its Heart 
 Which is fettered that our souls may be set free — 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you, I beg of you, my brothers, 
 
 For an alms this very day ; 
 I am standing on your doorstep as a Beggar 
 
 Who will not be turned away, 
 And the Charity you give my soul shall be — 
 Pray for me ! 
 
386 LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 
 
 LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 
 
 Our God in Heaven, from that holy place, 
 To each of us an Angel guide has given ; 
 
 But Mothers of dead children have more grace, — 
 For they give Angels to their God and Heaven. 
 
 How can a mother's heart feel cold or weary 
 Knowing her dearer self safe, happy, warm ? 
 
 How can she feel her road too dark or dreary, 
 Who knows her treasure sheltered from the storm ? 
 
 How can she sin ? Our hearts may be unheeding, 
 Our God forgot, our holy Saints defied ; 
 
 But can a mother hear her dead child pleading, 
 And thrust those little angel hands aside ? 
 
 Those little hands stretched down to draw her ever 
 Nearer to God by mother love : — we all 
 
 Are blind and weak, yet surely she can never, 
 With such a stake in Heaven, fail or fall. 
 
 She knows that when the mighty Angels raise 
 Chorus in Heaven, one little silver tone 
 
 Is he^rs forever, that one little praise, 
 One little happy voice, is all her own. 
 
 We may not see her sacred crown of honor, 
 But all the Angels flitting to and fro 
 
 Pause smiling as they pass, — they look upon her 
 As mother of an angel whom they know, 
 
 One whom they left nestled at Mary's feet, — 
 The children's place in Heaven, — who softly 
 sings 
 
HOMELESS. 387 
 
 A little chant to please them, slow and sweet, 
 Or smiling strokes their little folded wings ; 
 
 Or gives them Her white lilies or Her beads 
 To play with : — yet, in spite of flower or song, 
 
 They often lift a wistful look that pleads 
 
 And asks Her why their mother stays so long. 
 
 Then our dear Queen makes answer She will call 
 Her very soon : meanwhile they are beguiled 
 
 To wait and listen while She tells them all 
 A story of Her Jesus as a child. 
 
 Ah, Saints in Heaven may pray with earnest will 
 And pity for their weak and erring brothers : 
 
 Yet there is prayer in Heaven more tender still, — 
 The little Children pleading for their Mothers. 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 It is cold, dark midnight, yet listen 
 
 To that patter of tiny feet ! 
 Is it one of your dogs, fair lady, 
 
 Who whines in the bleak cold street ? 
 Is it one of your silken spaniels 
 
 Shut out in the snow and the sleet ? 
 
 My dogs sleep warm in their baskets, 
 Safe from the darkness and snow ; 
 
 All the beasts in our Christian England, 
 Find pity wherever they go — 
 
 (Those are only the homeless children 
 Who are wandering to and fro). 
 
388 HOMELESS. 
 
 Look out in the gusty darkness, — 
 I have seen it again and again, 
 
 That shadow, that flits so slowly 
 
 Up and down past the window-pane : — 
 
 It is surely some criminal lurking 
 Out there in the frozen rain ? 
 
 Nay, our criminals all are sheltered, 
 They are pitied and taught and fed : 
 
 That is only a sister-woman 
 
 Who has got neither food nor bed, — 
 
 And the Night cries, " Sin to be living," 
 And the River cries, " Sin to be dead." 
 
 Look out at that farthest corner 
 
 Where the wall stands blank and bare : — 
 Can that be a pack which a pedler 
 
 Has left and forgotten there ? 
 His goods lying out unsheltered 
 
 Will be spoilt by the damp night-air. 
 
 Nay ; — goods in our thrifty England 
 Are not left to lie and grow rotten, 
 
 For each man knows the market value 
 Of silk or woollen or cotton. . . . 
 
 But in counting the riches of England 
 I think our Poor are forgotten. 
 
 Our Beasts and our Thieves and our Chattels 
 Have weight for good or for ill ; 
 
 But the Poor are only His image, 
 His presence, His word, His will ; — 
 
 And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep 
 And Dives neglects him still. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 A little changeling spirit, 246. 
 
 A little longer yet — a little longer, 120. 
 
 A little past the village, 68. 
 
 A smiling look she had, a figure slight, 50. 
 
 A sorrow, wet with early tears, 114. 
 
 A trinket made like a Heart, dear, 293. 
 
 All the fluttering wishes, 133. 
 
 All yesterday I was spinning, 60. 
 
 An ancient enemy have I, 122. 
 
 Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep, 348. 
 
 Are we not Nobles ? we who trace, 347. 
 
 Arise ! this day shall shine, 77. 
 
 As strangers, you and I are here, 139. 
 
 Ave Maria ! bright and pure, 339. 
 
 Back, ye Phantoms of the Past, 129. 
 Be strong to hope, O Heart, 47. 
 Before I trust my fate to thee, 22. 
 Bless God, ye happy Lands, 330. 
 Blue against the bluer heavens, 225. 
 
 Calm the city lay in midnight silence, 355. 
 Can you open that ebony Casket, 282. 
 Child, do not fear, 155. 
 
 Dear, I tried to write you such a letter, 251. 
 
 Dear, set the casement open, 320. 
 
 Deep within my heart of hearts, dear, 295. 
 
 Dim shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty stair they 
 
 climb, 128. 
 Do not cheat thy Heart and tell her, 12. . 
 Do not crouch to-day, and worship, 61. 
 Do you grieve no costly offering, 97. 
 Dwells within the soul of every Artist, 156. 
 389 
 
390 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Farewell, dream of mine, 92. 
 
 Fret not, poor soul : while doubt and fear, 338. 
 
 From this fair point of present bliss, 159. 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains, 86. 
 Give us our daily Bread, 335. 
 Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees, 142. 
 God gave a gift to Earth : a child, 48. 
 God's world is bathed in beauty, 195. 
 Golden days — where are they, 226. 
 
 Hark ! the hours are softly calling, 289. 
 
 Hast thou o'er the clear heaven of thy soul, 153. 
 
 He was the first always : Fortune, 179. 
 
 How many a mighty ship, 313. 
 
 How pure, and frail, and white, 325. 
 
 Hush ! I cannot bear to see thee, 46. 
 
 Hush ! speak low ; tread softly, 189. 
 
 I am fading from you, 342. 
 
 I am footsore and very weary, 97. 
 
 I beg of you, I beg of you, my brothers, 384. 
 
 I built myself a castle, 375. 
 
 I can scarcely hear, she murmured, 148. 
 
 I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be, 377. 
 
 I had a Message to send her, 222. 
 
 I have a bitter Thought, a Snake, 240. 
 
 I have seen a fiercer tempest, 30. 
 
 I saw a Ruler take his stand, 23. 
 
 I see a spirit by my side, 8. 
 
 I think if thou couldst know, 249. 
 
 I was with my lady when she died, 198. 
 
 I will not let you say a Woman's part, 277. 
 
 I wonder did you ever count, 299. 
 
 If in my soul, dear, 209. 
 
 If in the fight my arm was strong, 250. 
 
 If the dread day that calls thee hence, 136. 
 
 In joy, in pain, in sorrow, 323. 
 
 In the outer Court 1 was singing, 292. 
 
 In the wood where shadows are deepest, 195. 
 
 Is my darling tired already, 14. 
 
 It is a dreary evening, 80. 
 
 It is cold, dark midnight, yet listen, 387. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 391 
 
 It is not because your heart is mine — mine only, 157. 
 It was midnight when I listened, 215. 
 
 Judge not; the workings of his brain, 11. 
 Just when the red June Roses blow, 218. 
 
 Last night, when weary silence fell on all, 116. 
 
 Let me count my treasures, 42. 
 
 Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 39. 
 
 Let us throw more logs on the fire, 40. 
 
 Like dreary prison walls, 180. 
 
 Linger, I cried, O radiant Time ! thy power, 298. 
 
 Linger, O gentle Time, 29. 
 
 Lingering fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly, 
 
 228. 
 Listen, friend, and I will tell you, 212. 
 Look, this little golden Heart, 295. 
 Loud roared the Tempest, 191. 
 
 Many, if God should make them kings, 185. 
 
 Moan, O ye Autumn Winds, 64. 
 
 Mother of grace and mercy, 337. 
 
 Mourn, O rejoicing heart, G2. 
 
 My God, I thank Thee who hast made, 130. 
 
 My Life you ask of? why, you know, 101. 
 
 " Never again! " vow hearts when reunited, 224. 
 No name to bid us know, 65. 
 Not a sound is heard in the Convent, 287. 
 Nothing is our own : we hold our pleasures, 276. 
 Nothing resting in its own completeness, 85. 
 Nothing stirs the sunny silence, 257. 
 
 O mighty Mother, hearken ! for thy foes, 340. 
 
 O, to have dwelt in Bethlehem, 333. 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing, 13. 
 
 Our God in Heaven, from that holy place, 386. 
 
 Over an ancient scroll I bent, 26. 
 
 Place your hands in mine, dear, 183. 
 Rise ! for the day is passing, 38. 
 
392 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Seated one day at the Organ, 188. 
 
 See the rivers flowing, 79. 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 43. 
 
 Since I have no lands or houses, 207. 
 
 So you think you love me, do you, 161. 
 
 Some words are played on golden strings, 163. 
 
 Sow with a generous hand, 93. 
 
 Spare her at least: look, you have taken from me, 21. 
 
 Spare her, O cruel England, 327. 
 
 Spread, spread thy silver wings, O Dove, 213. 
 
 Stand this way — move near the window, 9. 
 
 Starry Crowns of Heaven, 206. 
 
 Still the angel stars are shining, 7. 
 
 Strew before our Lady's Picture, 344. 
 
 Strive ; yet I do not promise, 63. 
 
 The boats are out, and the storm is high, 340. 
 
 The bond that links our souls together, 83. 
 
 The clouds are fleeting by, father, 151. 
 
 The Earth is so bleak and deserted, 331. 
 
 The feast is spread through England, 114. 
 
 The fettered Spirits linger, 279. 
 
 The Heart? — Yes, I wore it, 294. 
 
 The House is all deserted, 267. 
 
 The King's three daughters stood on the terrace, 273. 
 
 The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, 169. 
 
 The Monk was preaching ; strong his earnest word, 378. 
 
 The moon that now is shining, 345. 
 
 The shadows of the evening hours, 290. 
 
 The stars are gleaming, 285. 
 
 The Studio is deserted, 263. 
 
 The tempest rages wild and high, 94. 
 
 The tender, delicate Flowers, 125. 
 
 The way is long and dreary, 84. 
 
 The wind went forth o'er land and sea, 272. 
 
 There are many shrines of Our Lady, 349. 
 
 There are more things in Heaven and Earth than we, 256. 
 
 There are times when all these terrors, 361. 
 
 There is a deep and subtle snare, 186. 
 
 Thou hast done well, perhaps, 75. 
 
 Thou hast done well to kneel and say, 243. 
 
 Though he lived and died among us, 27. 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens, 1. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 393 
 
 Through the wide world thy children raise, 318. 
 
 To fight the battle of the Cross, Christ's choseu ones are sent, 309. 
 
 Trust him little who cloth raise, 240. 
 
 Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, 217. 
 
 Two stranger youths in the Far West, 146. 
 
 We ask for Peace, O Lord, 135. 
 
 We must not doubt, or fear, or dread, that love for life is only 
 
 given, 181. 
 Well — the links are broken, 297. 
 What is it you ask me, darling, 144. 
 What is Life, father? A Battle, my child, 37. 
 What lack the valleys and mountains, 100. 
 What wouldst thou have, O soul, 315. 
 When the bright stars came out last night, 149. 
 When the weariness of Life is ended, 158. 
 Where are the swallows fled, 25. 
 Where I am, the halls are gilded, 131. 
 Where the golden corn is bending, 141. 
 Where the little babbling streamlet, 247. 
 Wherefore dwell so sad and lonely, 44. 
 While the gray mists of early dawn, 274. 
 Who is the Angel that cometh, 210. 
 Why do you look sad, my Minnie, 379. 
 Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, 59. 
 Why wilt thou make bright music, 78. 
 Will she come to me, little Effie, 253. 
 With echoing steps the worshippers, 66. 
 Within the kingdom of ray Soul, 242. 
 Without one bitter feeling let us part, 126. 
 Words are lighter than the cloud-foam, 95. 
 
 Yes, dear, our Love is slain, 241. 
 
 Yes, I was sad and anxious, 193. 
 
 Yes, it looked dark and dreary, 258. 
 
 You have taken back the promise, 99. 
 
 You wonder that my tears should flow, 74. 
 
 You write and think of me, my friend, with pity, 219. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 A Little Longer, 120. 
 Angel of Death, The, 59. 
 Angel's Bidding, The, 287. 
 Angel's Story, The, 1. 
 Angels, Listening, 225. 
 Angels, Ministering, 348. 
 Annunciation, The, 325. 
 Appeal, An, 327. 
 Army of the Lord, The, 309. 
 
 Be Strong, 47. 
 Because, 157. 
 Beggar, A, 384. 
 Beyond, 181. 
 Birthday Gifts, 379. 
 Borrowed Thoughts, 240. 
 Bride's Dream, The, 285. 
 
 Carver's Lesson, The, 217. 
 Castle in the Air, A, 375. 
 Chain, A, 83. 
 Changeling, A, 246. 
 Changes, 62. 
 Chant, A, 210. 
 Chaplet of Flowers, A, 320. 
 Chaplet of Verses, A, 301. 
 Christmas Carol, A, 345. 
 Christmas Flowers, 331. 
 Church in 1849, The, 340. 
 Cleansing Fires, 39. 
 Comfort, 153. 
 Comforter, A, 253. 
 Confido et Conquiesco, 338. 
 Contrast, A, 282. 
 Cradle-song of the Poor, The, 
 
 46. 
 Crown of Sorrow, A, 114. 
 
 Dark Side, The, 75. 
 Dead Past, A, 24. 
 Desire, A, 333. 
 Discouraged, 247. 
 Doubting Heart, A, 25. 
 Dream, A, 60. 
 Dream-life, 212. 
 
 Echoes, 7. 
 Envy, 179. 
 Evening Chant, 344. 
 Evening Hymn, 290. 
 Expectation, 273. 
 
 False Genius, A, 8. 
 Farewell, A, 92. 
 Fidelis, 99. 
 First Sorrow, A, 77. 
 Fishers of Men, 340. 
 For the Future, 299. 
 Friend Sorrow, 12. 
 From . . . 242. 
 From " Lavater," 240. 
 From " Lost Alice," 241. 
 From "Phantastes," 240. 
 
 Give, 79. 
 
 Give me thy Heart, 66. 
 Give Place, 206. 
 God's Gifts, 48. 
 Golden Days, 226. 
 Golden Gate, The, 128. 
 Golden Words, 163. 
 Grief, 122. 
 
 Hearts, 293. 
 Home at Last, 155. 
 
 395 
 
396 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 Homeless, 387. 
 Homeless Poor, The, 355. 
 Home-sickness, 131. 
 Homeward Bound, 30. 
 Hours, 149. 
 Hush! 148. 
 
 Ideal, An, 274. 
 
 If thou couldst Know, 249. 
 
 Illusion, 141. 
 
 In the Wood, 195. 
 
 Incompleteness, 85. 
 
 Inner Chamber, The, 292. 
 
 Jubilee of 1850, The, 330. 
 Judge not, 11. 
 
 King and Slave, 209. 
 Knight-errant, A, 27. 
 Kyrie Eleison, 323. 
 
 Lament for the Summer, A, 64. 
 
 Legend, A, 378. 
 
 Legend of Bregenz, A, 86. 
 
 Legend of Provence, A, 169. 
 
 Legends and Lyrics, 1, 167. 
 
 Lesson of the War, The, 114. 
 
 Letter, A, 251. 
 
 Life and Death, 37. 
 
 Life in Death and Death in 
 
 Life, 136. 
 Light and Shade, 243. 
 Linger, O Gentle Time, 29. 
 Links with Heaven, 386. 
 Listening Angels, 225. 
 Little Longer, A, 120. 
 Lost Chord, A, 188. 
 Love Token, A, 97. 
 
 Maximus, 185. 
 Milly's Expiation, 361. 
 Ministering Angels, 348. 
 Murmurs, 78. 
 My Journal, 80. 
 My Picture, 9. 
 My Picture Gallery, 219. 
 My Will, 207. 
 
 Names of our Lady, The, 
 
 318. 
 Never again, 224. 
 New Mother, A, 198. 
 Now, 38. 
 
 Old Year's Blessing, The, 342. 
 
 One by One, 13. 
 
 Optimus, 186. 
 
 Ora pro Me, 339. 
 
 Our Daily Bread, 335. 
 
 Our Dead, 276. 
 
 Our Titles, 347. 
 
 Over the Mountain, 180. 
 
 Parting, A, 126. 
 
 Past and Present, 298. 
 
 Peace of God, The, 135. 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem, 377. 
 
 Phantoms, 129. 
 
 Philip and Mildred, 228. 
 
 Pictures in the Fire, 144. 
 
 Pilgrims, The, 84. 
 
 Present, The, 61. 
 
 Recollections, 139. 
 Remembrance of Autumn, A, 
 
 257. 
 Requital, The, 191. 
 Rest, 213. 
 
 Rest at Evening, 158. 
 Retrospect, A, 159. 
 Returned — " Missing," 193. 
 
 Sacred Heart, The, 315. 
 Sailor Boy, The, 101. 
 Sent to Heaven, 222. 
 Settlers, The, 146. 
 Shadow, A, 100. 
 Shining Stars, 43. 
 Shrines of Mary, The, 349. 
 Sowing and Reaping, 93. 
 Spring, 289. 
 
 Star of the Sea, The, 313. 
 Storm, The, 94. 
 
 Story of the Faithful Soul, The, 
 279. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 397 
 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray, 63. 
 Student, A, 26. 
 
 Thankfulness, 130. 
 Three Evenings in a Life, 258. 
 Three Roses, 218. 
 Three Rulers, The, 23. 
 Threefold, 337. 
 Tomb in Ghent, A, 50. 
 Too Late, 189. 
 Treasures, 42. 
 Triumph of Time, The, 125. 
 True Honors, 14. 
 True or False, 161. 
 Tryst with Death, A, 97. 
 Two Interpreters, The, 151. 
 Two Loves, 295. 
 Two Spirits, The, 116. 
 Two Worlds, 195. 
 Tyrant and the Captive, The, 
 215. 
 
 Unexpressed, 156. 
 Unknown Grave, The, 65. 
 Unseen, 256. 
 
 Vision, A, 142. 
 
 Voice of the Wind, The, 40. 
 
 Voices of the Past, 74. 
 
 Waiting, 44. 
 
 Warning, A, 183. 
 
 Warrior to his Dead Bride, The, 
 
 250. 
 Wayside Inn, The, 68. 
 Wind, The, 272. 
 Wishes, 133. 
 
 Woman's Answer, A, 277. 
 Woman's Last Word, A, 297. 
 Woman's Question, A, 22. 
 Words, 95. 
 
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